Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov Needs Therapy, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, NOT ilya, These Boys Will Talk And If It Kills Me, I swear to God, Tuna Meltdown, Therapy, bros bonding, Getting Together, Feelings Realization, Marleau the Emotional Support Himbo, Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is Trying His Best, Ilya Rozanov is a Mess, Ilya Rozanov is Loved, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Depressed Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Hockey dudes and the dudes in their lives

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-27 Updated: 2026-10-15 Words: 33,819 Chapters: 6/12

Store-bought is fine

Summary

Ilya Rozanov does not come pre-installed with good communication or healthy coping skills. Is he going to seek out help on his own? Hell no! But when a family member kills himself, fellow Boston Raider and friend Cliff Marleau decides that Ilya is going to therapy come hell or high water. And Ilya... well, Ilya is just playing along to keep the peace. Right? He doesn't need therapy. But if it helps his friend be less worried, so be it.

OR

Therapy helps Ilya upskill enough to diffuse the tuna meltdown. Things get better after that. And then they get worse, because mental health is a bitch not linear.

Notes

This fic touches on themes like depression, suicide, and suicidal ideation. Typical Ilya Rozanov content warnings apply. I wouldn't say it's heavy, but you know best. There are individual, somewhat detailed content warnings in the chapter end notes, should you want to check beforehand. Stay safe!

Also: You may notice that this fic is now not completed anymore. Surprise! For months, it has bothered me that I basically called it "it's fine if you need to take antidepressants" and then DIDN'T have Ilya take antidepressants because the story ended before it made sense for him to start. Well, not anymore! I'll aim to update every third Friday and have some lovely betas to help hold me accountable. I have it all plotted out - the only question now is if all of the things that need to happen fit into the chapter count I set for myself. That's been a theme for this story :D

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

When Ilya steps off the plane from Russia ahead of his very first season with the Boston Raiders, Cliff Marleau is already waiting for him. He’s wearing a bright green baseball cap and holding a handmade cardboard sign that says #1. No name, no logo, no fanfare. It’s nothing like the official welcome committee Ilya had imagined when management told him someone would come get him from the airport. The vise around his lungs loosens a bit.

Hidden in the stream of people rushing to get to connecting flights, to work, or home to their loved ones, Ilya takes a moment to observe. Why did they send a player, he wonders. Marleau isn’t the captain. He doesn’t even have the A, so it’s not like collecting rookies from the airport would be his responsibility. And he doesn’t look excited to be here. But he’s paying attention, at least. His eyes are roving over the passengers. Searching. He misses Ilya the first two times. The third time, his eyes catch on the curls before they skip to Ilya’s eyes. It feels a bit like a trap snapping shut. No going back now.

“Hey, rook!”

Ilya forces his feet to travel the last few steps, even though they feel like lead now. The smile comes on its own, broad and easy. Even though his head is in overdrive, his body still remembers that he’s excited. That this is a good thing that he wants. 

“Hey, man! Nice to meet you!” Ilya says, already halfway enveloped in a very backslap-y bro hug that slightly muffles his words. Then, hands seize his shoulders.

“Ilya Rozanov, in the flesh. Look at you! Been working out even more since the draft, huh? You’re massive. Your mom feed you well before she had to let you go into the land of fries and sugar?”

Ilya’s smile freezes on his face, but he takes a deep breath. “Russian food best food. But America such a big country, can’t be all bad.”

For just a tiny moment, Marleau's brows knit together and Ilya worries he’s said the wrong thing. But then, something brightens his new teammate's expression. “Soul food! Soul food is amazing, we gotta get you some of that at some point. New Orleans doesn’t have a team right now, but that’s what off days are for. Right?”

New Orleans. What is it with Americans and just naming their cities for cities that already exist? New York and New Orleans are bad enough. But there are cities in this godforsaken country that just have the same name as their original counterparts. They have a Paris. They even have a Moscow. It’s tiny. Ilya's never been there, is determined never to visit out of principle. They probably don't even have snow. Pathetic.

“New Orleans? Where is this? Is close?”

Marleau laughs. “Depends what you think is close. The flight is about four hours. But Russia is pretty big, too, right? Our distances probably won’t confuse you as much as they do the Europeans.”

There’s a joke in there somewhere, Ilya can tell. But he can’t tell what it is. Thankfully, Marleau only lets him flounder for a moment. “Right. Did they tell you you’d be living with me for the first few months?”

Years of dealing with an unpredictable father have taught Ilya to control his facial expressions. He’s suddenly intensely grateful for that. “No, they didn't.”

“Oh well.” Marleau shrugs. “They always do that when rookies come from far away, even across the country. That way, you don’t need to worry about getting situated first. You can just meet the team and start playing hockey. The rest comes later, when you’ve already got a social life and know the city a bit better.”

Always. Okay. Ilya can deal with this. Always is good. It doesn’t mean they don’t trust him. Still, he has to push down the frustration that wells up in him. Frustration at himself, for not having asked. They had told him there was a room waiting for him. A room. Just one. He’d assumed they meant a hotel room. Clearly, that was wrong. 

“I just move into your guest room?” he asks.

Marleau nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! It’s a nice big room, so you can spread out a bit. My flat’s pretty big too. And I don't have a wife or girlfriend, that’s why they put you with me. No one else in there you need to worry about, as long as you keep your mess out of the living room and clean your dishes. It’ll be just like college roommates!”

He says it like it’s supposed to be a good thing. But the idea is too new for Ilya to tell if it is. He’d been looking forward to being on his own for the first time in his life. No one to monitor his comings and goings, to judge him for skipping a single workout, to call him a lazy failure on the days when he can barely manage to feed himself. But there’s something else.

“Put me? You have no choice?”

“Oh no, not like that. They asked me. I could’ve said no and they would’ve asked someone else. But I’m finally at a place where I felt I could say yes, you know? The dude who took me in when I got first drafted was great. I’m still really thankful it worked out that well. And now I want to pay it forward.”

Pay it forward. Ilya lets the words circle in his head a few times before he decides that, no, he definitely doesn't know what that means. He knows what the individual words mean, but together... must be an idiom. Stupid English.

“Okay,” he says.

“If it doesn’t work out, you don't have to stay,” Marleau hurries to add. “Some people just need to live alone, I get that. Think of it as a launching pad. Just a place to get your feet under you so you can focus on hockey from the start. And then, when you’re ready, you can move out.”

About a third of that is absolute gibberish to Ilya. Fuck. He’ll have to take them up on their offer of remedial English classes, won’t he? His father was right, he was too lazy with it in school.

“Okay,” he says again.

“Alright, Rozanov.” Marleau pats Ilya’s shoulder with a massive hand. “Want some freedom fries for the road?”

Ilya laughs because he feels like he’s expected to, but he doesn’t answer and instead starts walking in the directions the signs say the parking lot is. What the hell are freedom fries? It’s probably something stupid obvious, and Marleau will laugh when he finds out Ilya doesn’t know. No, thank you. He’s already going to have enough language difficulties where it counts - in the locker room and on the ice. He’s not going to admit weakness this early, for something that’s probably inconsequential. Even if he’s really fucking hungry.

Marleau has a dozen cousins. Not in the way where people use that word to mean too many. No, a literal dozen. Twelve. At least one of them is always around. Ilya quickly gains the impression that is at least part of the reason Marleau offered up his guest room. He doesn’t like being alone.

These cousins are nothing like Alexei. Ilya has to remind himself of that frequently, when they make him flinch with their boisterous presence and put his teeth on edge with their teasing. They mean well. They’re happy people who were raised by other happy people who don’t expect anything bad to ever happen to anyone. That’s why they touch so freely. It’s why they laugh when they call each other names and don’t get mad. When Alexei says cocksucker it means if you don’t do what I say, bad things will happen to you. When they say it, it means ask before you take the last donut. 

There’s another way in which they aren’t like Alexei: They aren’t asking for money. When Alexei had heard that Ilya wouldn’t need to pay rent the first few months, he’d immediately assumed Ilya would send more. After all, he’s getting married. He needs to buy an apartment now, for him and his wife to live in. Big enough for children, once they arrive. When Marleau’s cousins visit, they sleep in one of the other two guest bedrooms not occupied by Ilya. That’s free. But they pay for their own gas to make their way to Boston, and they insist on paying for the food half of the time.

Every time one of them leaves, Marleau thanks them for the visit. Like, actually says thank you. Like they’re doing him a favor. The cousins think this is as weird as Ilya does, at least. 

“Some of them live on the other side of the country,” Marleau explains when Ilya finally dares to ask. “And even if they don’t, they live hours away. They take time out of their lives to visit me here, specifically because they know I love it when they do that. That’s not something I take for granted, and I want them to know that. It’s important to me.”

Ilya leaves for his room pretty quickly after that. Can’t have Marleau see him cry. By now, Ilya is sure his teammate wouldn’t react badly, but the thought still makes his skin crawl. He does his best to appear normal in all the ways he can. Once a week, he tidies his room so it can’t get too bad. Once a day, he washes all of the dishes he used. He covers his flinches at sudden touches with laughter and leaves when he unexpectedly finds himself tearing up at something that Marleau seems to think is completely normal. 

That still leaves his moods, but Marleau seems to be happy to accept that those are just because Ilya is still a teenager. It feels weird, but whatever. If it means he can just stare into empty air for a few days after a loss, he’ll take it. And if it means Marleau isn’t too suspicious when Ilya returns from the CCM shoot practically buoyant, all the better. Marleau doesn’t even ask about Hollander. Still, Ilya finds a girl to fuck the next time they all go out together as a team. Just in case.

One of the cousins is named Vincent, but Marleau only ever calls him Vinnie. This, apparently, is reason for much hilarity. 

“This is my cousin Vinnie,” Marleau said the day they met, already giggling before he even got to the name. Ilya has no idea what was so funny. But Vinnie just rolled his eyes and shook Ilya’s hand, so maybe it’s another one of those American inside jokes.

Vinnie lives in Boston too, so he’s over much more often than all of the other cousins. He also likes to cook. Fancy stuff, like filets and gratins and mussels and vegetables Ilya has never heard of. But he says he doesn’t have the right kitchen for it, and so he does it at Marleau’s place.

“Plus, there’s someone here to share,” Vinnie confides once. They’re watching a hockey game while he waits for some dough to rise in the kitchen. “It’s not just cooking. It’s cooking for people. I love doing that, but I don’t really have many other people to cook for. And Cliff eats anything, right? Works out.”

Cliff is giddy anytime Vinnie comes over to cook, which is usually once a month. He always asks for the recipes in advance so he can have all the ingredients ready. Once, Vinnie asked to make sure he had a big enough dutch oven. Marleau didn’t have any dutch oven at all, and so that evening saw him and Ilya bumbling their way through a conversation with a sales representative in a kitchen store. The one they left with was purple, Vinnie’s favorite color.

Vinnie is a bit different from the other cousins. He’s much quieter. The first time he comes over to cook after Ilya moves in, he apologizes. Talks like he’s expecting Ilya to find it weird that he likes to cook. The name calling makes him uncomfortable, too. They never call him names, but once, Ilya watches him flinch violently at his brother calling their cousin Jeff a sissy for not wanting to tell their mother he broke one of her vases. Ilya knows what that means even before he looks up the word.

The way Marleau talks about Vinnie makes Ilya suspect he knows too. He’s careful about it, but stern. Explains that Vinnie is sensitive and that Ilya can’t just treat him like one of their teammates. Says that things might be different in Russia, and that he respects differences in opinion, but that under his roof, everyone will be treated with respect. Ilya isn’t allowed to say any words if he’s even unsure whether they might be bleeped out on television. Except fuck. He’s allowed to say that. 

It takes Vinnie two dinners to get accustomed to Ilya. Or, well. It takes him until Ilya has enough of Vinnie assuming the worst of him and does something about it. It’s reckless - completely stupid when considering that he's still living in Marleau’s apartment and expects to do so for at least a few more months. He doesn’t think it through nearly well enough. But somehow, it still turns out okay.

“Why you never date?” Ilya asks Marleau after Vinnie has served them some delicious mousse au chocolat for dessert. “I’m here more than two months, not one date.”

It’s true. They’ve had the talk about bringing people over when they want to hook up - it’s fine, but always with a heads-up and no being loud on purpose - but Marleau has spent most of his free time with Ilya. He’s not even seen the man make out with anyone at a bar or in a club. And they’ve been in a few of those by this point.

“Two months is hardly a long time. I’ve got other things to focus on.” Like the dessert, apparently. Marleau moans around his spoon like he’d deepthroat it if he could.

“Ah.” Ilya nods sagely. “You are getting old.”

The spoon clanks against Marleau's bowl. “I’m twenty-three! That’s not old.”

Next to him, Vinnie snorts. That emboldens Ilya. “So then what? You’re a young guy, still got all of your teeth. Almost handsome. But no dates? No girlfriend, no boyfriend? Is sad, Marleau. You should get out more.”

“Boyfriend?” Marleau’s sharp tone makes everyone at the table tense up. And it’s in this moment that Ilya realizes he may have miscalculated. Maybe Marleau is one of those guys where it’s okay as long as it’s anyone else. Maybe other guys can be gay, but it’s an insult if anyone thinks he might be. Or if they hit on him. Fuck. Well, too late now.

“Boyfriend. Is legal in this country, yes? No big deal. I see posters. You Can Play.”

It’s tempting to maintain eye contact, but Ilya looks back down to his mousse. Drags his spoon around the bowl as much to affect nonchalance as to get the last remnants of chocolate-y goodness. This really is delicious. Vinnie is good.

“Of course it’s legal,” Marleau blusters. Like it's a given. “I was just surprised. But no, no girlfriend or boyfriend. I... I’ve never been on a date with a man.”

Now that’s interesting. Ilya has to bite down on the grin that forms on his mouth. Never been on a date with a man is not the same as would never date a man. Vinnie’s wide eyes show Ilya that he’s not the only one who caught that. The question is just... why? Why is Marleau saying it like this? Is it because Vinnie is sitting right next to him and he doesn’t want to say anything that might sound like he wouldn’t accept his cousin? Or is this genuinely a distinction that is important to Marleau himself?

Either way, Ilya has no right to ask. So he just grunts. “Better that way, maybe. You’re so old, better to disappoint woman. Other man could tell you don’t know what to do with your dick, no? Embarrassing at your age.”

The laughter that follows feels cathartic. And afterwards, Vinnie is much more relaxed. He doesn’t apologize as much, doesn’t seem as scared to push Ilya around if he’s in the way in the kitchen. Doesn’t even hesitate when Ilya asks him to teach him the basics of cooking, because he’s never done it on his own before.

He does ask if he can cook Ilya borscht one day. His lips are tight and there’s a furrow between his brows, but he doesn't look scared. Just... nervous, maybe? Ilya is a bit too distracted by the question to look more closely. Borscht. It’s been half a year since he had it. And he desperately wants some, but can it even taste the same with ingredients from this continent? He’s scared to say yes and then not like it. Not just because of Vinnie but also because just the thought of it is heartbreaking.

Saying yes is the right decision. It doesn’t taste quite right, but it’s still borscht. Beets are beets and dill is dill. The soup warms something deep in Ilya’s bones. And the fact that someone even wanted to try... This one time, Ilya doesn’t hide the tears glinting in his eyes. He tries his best to say thank you to Vinnie the same way Marleau says thank you to his cousins. And he sees the flush high on Vinnie’s cheek bones and thinks oh no.

Ilya moves out after half a year, but still has a standing invitation to Vinnie’s dinners. The very next one after the move would have coincided with the All Star Game, but Marleau pushes it back without even a second thought. Which means he has to sit at a table with him and Vinnie not even a week after his second hookup with Shane Hollander.

It shouldn’t be a big thing. It’s just sex. Ilya has plenty of it, with plenty of people. And it wasn’t even... On paper, it wasn’t anything spectacular. Hollander is clumsy, clearly not much more experienced than the first time. Judging purely by technique, he doesn’t give the best blowjobs. But what happened still feels monumental. The way Hollander just went to his knees when Ilya asked. The enthusiasm. Even the hesitation over taking it further, clearly based in inexperience. It’s one of the hottest things Ilya has ever experienced.

And now, he has to sit at a table next to his two best friends outside of Russia and pretend like it didn’t happen. He knows they can’t tell just by looking at him. But it still feels like any little thing might give him away.

Like when Vinnie says: “That Hollander guy is really something. You absolutely nailed the accuracy competition, and then he comes along and one-ups you, just like that. You must’ve been so mad.”

Just the mention of the name has Ilya’s mouth dry out. Opposite him, Marleau leans forward. “You watched that? I thought you didn’t like hockey.”

Vinnie flushes. “It’s the All Star Game, not an entire hockey season. I can watch one game.”

“And the competitions, apparently.”

“Yeah, well... if it’s all the best guys, then it’s more interesting, right? I figured it would be a good time to figure out what it was all about.”

“What, you’ll watch Rozy but not me?”

“I…” Helplessly, Vinnie’s eyes trail over to Ilya. Fuck.

“Hollander is very good player. Boring little church mouse, but interesting to watch on the ice. Good choice for game to watch. Entertaining, when he is up against me. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

It feels both far too true and like a complete lie. Hollander knows exactly what to do with himself in any way that isn't social. He’s focused on the ice. He’s focused in bed. As long as he doesn’t need to talk. That’s when things can go sideways for him, when he gets insecure. But he can handle a stick. And he can handle Ilya’s stick. Zero complaints.

“He’s also kinda handsome,” Vinnie says. “I mean, if you’re into that look.”

The silence that elapses is so loud that Ilya wants to plug his ears. Handsome. If Vinnie weren’t so clearly panicked at having said it, he’d think this was targeted. But no. 

“What look is this?” he asks. “Pretty boy who apologizes to door for bumping into it?”

Calling another guy pretty, Ilya has learned in the months since he came here, generally doesn’t sound queer so much as it sounds like an insult. It’s convenient now. Even though Ilya means it. Hollander is very pretty. Especially pretty spread out on his back and panting. He hopes that, if he ever says it again, Hollander will understand him.

Vinnie snorts. “He does look like he’d do that. Is he very polite?”

“Very. Is Canadian stereotype, but is also Shane Hollander. Say please and thank you. Never call you worse than asshole, even on the ice.”

“I think we should all be a little more like him when it comes to that last part,” Marleau says. “All of the slurs get really tiring. Like, really? You have nothing better to you than to insult things people can’t help? Maybe play better hockey and then you won’t feel like you have to distract your opponents.”

Ilya blinks at him. “Maybe you should say this to your cousins also.”

“What?”

Ah, fuck. Here he goes speaking without thinking again. Ilya shakes his head at himself. “Your cousins say slurs all the time. Cocksucker, faggot, retard. Like is fun. They say it and they laugh. You tell me I cannot say such words, but not them. You never say stop. If you don’t like, maybe you should.”

Marleau looks genuinely baffled. “When do they say that?”

“Here. All the time. To each other, to refs and players on TV. Not Vinnie, Vinnie does not say this. But all the others.”

“I've never noticed that. Vinnie?”

Vinnie looks uncomfortable to be included in this conversation, and the look he throws Ilya is indecipherable. But he nods. “Maybe you don’t notice because it’s always been that way? I mean, it’s how we grew up. You just stopped at some point, but they didn’t. I guess they just never grew out of it.”

Marleau swallows. His throat must be dry, Ilya can hear it make a slight clicking sound. It’s hard to tell what he's thinking. But his brows are furrowed, so it can’t be good. “I’m sorry. That’s not... if I’d noticed, I would have stopped it.”

“I’m sure they don’t mean anything by it.” Vinnie’s looking down now, hands clutched together in his lap. “It’s not like on the ice. They don’t mean harm, they’re just ribbing each other.”

“No one should ever say those words,” Marleau says, his voice husky. “That’s not okay. I don’t want that in my home.”

Fewer cousins come over after that. But Vinnie still visits every month, like clockwork.

Ilya has his first serious downswing after losing the rookie of the year award to Hollander in Las Vegas. The prospect of having to go home again to be criticized and picked apart after the peace he’s felt in Boston is nothing short of horrible. So he drinks to forget. And then he doesn’t get out of bed the next day, because why should he? The season is over for him. Two more weeks and he'll have to cope with being around his father again. 

If he’s going to be called lazy for the minor things in two weeks, he may as well be lazy about the big things now. At least that way, it’ll be true. So he stays in bed for three days, doesn’t shower, and only gets up to pee once his bladder hurts. When the delivery drivers arrive with his take out, twice a day, he simply puts on his silky robe. Everyone always thinks he has his life together when they see it. It's like the shininess blinds people to the dark patches in his soul.

It would be okay, except for the fact that his third day of wallowing is a Vinnie dinner. Ilya has never missed a Vinnie dinner before because Marleau and Vinny don’t let him. They schedule around away games and sponsorships and appointments. This time, Ilya doesn’t give them the chance. He cancels the day of. At noon, when Vinnie has probably already started preparing things. Marleau immediately calls him.

“What gives? Our boy’s making beef wellington this time. You don’t like that?”

“I’m not good company right now, Marleau. Leave it.”

“I’m not asking you to entertain us,” Marleau says. “We just want your company. Come and eat. You don’t even have to say anything. We’ll miss you if you’re not here.”

“I’m not coming.”

Immediately after hanging up, Ilya turns off his phone. Wishes for the days where you could still take the battery out because that would feel more complete. Safer. Fucking iphone. It’s sleek, and Ilya enjoys all the extra features and funny apps, but it makes him nervous sometimes. Everything is so fragile. When he dropped the first one, he tried to get it repaired, but that wasn’t possible. He had to get a new one. It was the most American thing that happened to him since that one time his health insurance fucked up and he was sent a massive bill that he had to dispute.

He gets to wallow one more day. When his alarm clock shows the time he should've arrived at his friend’s place, he turns the other way and tells himself they’re off better without him. The sun goes down, but Ilya doesn’t sleep for a long time. He’s tired and everything feels heavy, but he can’t sleep. His mind is churning. Vinnie probably hates him now. They had way too much food. Or did they invite someone else? Someone who’ll be more considerate in the future?

Between one blink and the next, it’s light outside. He must have slept, then. But he doesn’t feel like it. His thoughts are slow and sticky like syrup. The big bottle of water he put on his nightstand yesterday is empty, but it feels impossible to get up and refill it. Ilya knows he should drink. But if he can’t make himself get out of bed, maybe it’s not bad enough yet. Fittingly, he’s not hungry either. It’s fine.

What’s not fine is how shrill his doorbell sounds. The very first ring hits Ilya like a screwdriver to the eardrum, and the second one isn't much better. Fuck. That has to be Marleau. No one else would just show up without announcing themselves. Although - huh. His phone is off. No one would be able to announce themselves. 

Smothering himself with a pillow doesn’t help. Ilya can still hear the doorbell. After some time, it stops. But not in the way Ilya wants it to stop. Marleau simply escalates to knocking and shouting.

“Hey, asshole, I know you’re in there! Open the door!”

His booming voice cuts through the emptiness in Ilya’s head, leaving behind a budding irritation. It’s not much, but Ilya clings to it. Because it’s something, at least. Irritation is better than nothing. He’ll take it. The problem is just... what does he do now? He can’t just let Marleau keep making a racket, he’s got neighbors. Neighbors who have previously called the police on him for parties. Marleau’s not gonna stop unless Ilya stops him. Well, fuck.

Even just sitting up in bed makes his head spin. All of a sudden, there’s something hurting in his left temple. Like someone’s pushing their thumb directly into his brain. Delightful. But Marleau still hasn’t stopped making noise, so Ilya gets on his unsteady feet and uses the walls to guide himself to his front door. Which isn’t even locked.

“What?”

Ilya means for it to come out sharp, but it’s more of a croak. Pitiful and weak, even comical when pitted against the fury on Marleau’s face. Fury that is very quickly replaced by surprise and then something else, something that puts little creases next to his wide eyes and between his eyebrows.

“Fuck, man. When was the last time you showered?”

Ilya’s mind, already whirring to try to come up with a good excuse for why he had to miss the dinner, stalls. “Um. Tuesday?”

Marleau blinks. “Right. Tuesday. And what day is it today?”

“Fuck off. I know is Saturday. What do you want?” The fog in his head, Ilya notes with almost detached amusement, sharpens his Ws until they’re almost Vs. Now, he sounds more aggressive. Just what he needs.

“I want to see how you’re doing, asshole. Are you gonna let me in?”

No, Ilya wants to say. But he knows it would be useless. Marleau is already here. He’s already seen him. May as well show him what a horrible slob Ilya really is. Complete the picture so Marleau feels better about leaving him behind. He can at least do that for his friend.

Except the look on Marleau’s face when he sees the chaos, the piles of dishes everywhere and all the other messes, isn’t disgust. Ilya isn’t sure what it is, exactly, but it isn’t nearly ugly enough. He just stands there with his hands hanging by his side as Marleau takes it all in.

“You really aren’t doing well right now, are you?” is what he finally says.

Ilya has to swallow around a lump in his throat, but he can’t make himself say anything. So he just nods. Marleau bites his lip.

“Is this normal? That it’s this bad? I don’t think I saw anything like this when you lived with me.”

“No,” Ilya croaks. “I tidy a lot when I live with you. Good roommate.”

“I know you were, bud. I meant for living alone. Is this normal?”

Ilya shakes his head.

“Right. And you’re not doing too good? With, like, your head?”

Another head shake.

Marleau takes a deep breath. “Do you want help?”

Everything gets blurry all of a sudden. Ilya closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it. How humiliating. “Help with what?”

“Well, with the mess. I'm not so good at the other stuff. But I can help you clean. That way, you don’t have to do it alone. How does that sound?”

It sounds like an absolute nightmare. Marleau hasn’t been in his bedroom yet. Hasn’t seen the half-eaten take out containers pile up, or the empty vodka bottles. Hasn’t smelled it. The sweat and vomit and sad farts from eating cheese when he shouldn’t. Every time Ilya resurfaces after one of these phases, he's disgusted with himself. 

But it also sounds like a lifeline. It sounds like getting out of this hole a little earlier, like being able to compose himself before he has to face his father and his taunts. So Ilya nods a third time, tears tracking heat down his face. Marleau stays quiet until he manages to look at him again.

“Okay. We can do this. I’ll help you. Why don’t you hop in the shower first? You smell rank.”

Ilya can only imagine. But he does as he’s told. The water is punishingly hot against his skin, scalding sweat and sadness in equal measure. When he gets out, he feels marginally more human. By that time, Marleau has ripped all the windows wide open and put everything even mildly suspect into a garbage bag by the front door. Even the bin Ilya vaguely remembers having thrown up in at some point. It’s brutal, but it’s efficient.

They work slowly, but not quietly, always in the same room. Marleau refuses to let Ilya alone with his thoughts. Not physically, and not mentally. He’s constantly babbling. Apparently, their captain is expecting another baby. There’s a betting pool. Marleau has twenty bucks riding on it being a boy, and another twenty on said boy being named Tanner. A reasonable assumption, given that the first two boys are called Hunter and Mason.

Marleau won’t leave until every last little task is dealt with. By the end of it, they’re just sitting there waiting for Ilya’s dryer to be done with the sheets.Well, Ilya is waiting. Marleau is trying to come up with a way to start a conversation that won’t make Ilya want to run away. Ilya can hear the gears turning.

“I won’t make you talk about it,” Marleau finally says. “I know these things are difficult, but I trust that you know what you’re doing. I haven’t seen you let it affect your game, so I’m sure it’s mostly fine. But I want you to promise me you’ll reach out if it gets to this point again. Yeah? I don’t like the idea of you being alone when you’re like this.”

Like this. Marleau doesn’t even know what he’s talking about. What does he mean, like this? Untidy? Dirty? The things he can see? By the time it got that bad, Ilya had already been feeling like shit for weeks. But okay. That’s a promise he can make. 

“I promise,” he says. His voice is hoarse like he’s the one who’s been chatting away all afternoon.

“Thank you,” Marleau says. “And I promise that if you reach out, I’ll come. I’ll sit with you, I’ll listen if you need to talk, I’l clean if you need to clean. I’ll be there, okay? You’re not alone. I love you.”

Ilya hasn’t had anyone say those words to him since his mother died. The only reason he doesn’t break down crying is that he’s still kind of numb.

Things are better after that. Then, they’re horrible in Russia. When Ilya gets back to Boston after the summer, he loses himself in women and booze. He hooks up with so many women that Marleau asks him what he’s running from. Ilya doesn’t have a good answer for him. But he goes to get tested. That’s something, right?

He’s been writing back and forth with Hollander even in Russia. Nothing much, just little messages. The day he realizes his heart skips a beat anytime he sees Hollander sent him a text, he goes out and has a threesome. Simply because he’s young and horny and that’s what people do when they’re young and horny. No other reason at all. 

Looking at their text thread, it would be easy to think that Hollander is trying to back out of their agreement to fuck. He’s noncommittal, vague. Makes small talk and sometimes flat out refuses to respond to innuendo. But Ilya knows that’s not it. He knows Hollander wants this as much as he does, could feel it in the line of his back at the All Star Game. He’s unsure about the details, maybe. But he wants. And fuck does Ilya want to give him what he needs.

He thinks about it a lot. Thinks about it to a point that he doesn’t even go out to hook up some weeks. And when they finally have a date they both agree to meet up again, he makes a plan. What he’ll say, how he’ll ask. How long he’ll take to open him up, to make extra sure that he has a good time. Because he has one chance. One chance to ruin Hollander for other men right from the start. And fuck it if he’s not going to take it.

They take it slow until Hollander has enough of slow. Lots of kissing before, during and after. Ilya normally doesn’t kiss people this much during a hookup, but Hollander’s mouth must be magnetic or something. He’s always drawn back to it. Or to any other part of his body, if his mouth happens to be out of reach currently.

It’s the best sex Ilya has ever had. So good that it feels like he must be making it up. It can’t have been that good, right? It’s ridiculous, but he has to ask.

“Was worth the wait?”

His hair is still dripping wet, and he’s making an utter fool of himself, but the way Hollander looks at him makes something inside him just break open and oh. Oh fuck. He can barely keep his cool as Hollander kisses him - gently, like they have all the time in the world. It’s an asshole move to leave so quickly after that, but Ilya has to. There’s no other way. If he stays, he’s going to be too honest. He can’t afford that.

So he goes home to his apartment where he has a normal amount of pillows on the bed and just sleeps for an entire day. Almost misses practice the next morning. Marleau looks concerned, but at least has the good sense not to say anything in the locker room. 

It’s time for a Vinnie dinner again and Ilya really doesn’t want to go, but he psychs himself up anyways. It’ll be good for him to leave his apartment and to talk to people he’s not trying to fuck. Even though he’d really prefer to go out and fuck someone right now. Loose himself in a woman so he can forget about Hollander for half an hour. 

In the end, he gets to do that anyway. Vinnie is sick, says Marleau. Influenza. For a ridiculous moment, Ilya asks himself if that means they should cook something for Vinnie for once. Chicken noodle soup seems to be an American favorite for sick days. The recipes online don’t look difficult. But that would be weird, right? That’s not what their relationship is like. Vinnie wants to cook for other people. Ilya is other people. Simple.

The next day, Ilya comes to practice with hickeys on his neck and scratches all down his back. Some of the guys whistle at him in the shower. Marleau is still worried. Catches him in the parking lot.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem… different.”

“I’m fine.”

“Rozy, you can’t possibly expect me to believe that.”

Ilya takes a deep breath. “Is not bad like before. Just… a bit sad. Okay?”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Ilya frowns. “You said you wouldn’t make me.”

He says it with such force that Marleau raises his hands and takes a step back. “Okay, okay. Relax. I won’t. I just want you to know I’m here for you, yeah? You’re a big boy, I know you can handle yourself.”

He leaves him alone after that, and Ilya pretends to himself that he’s relieved. It’s better this way. If he doesn’t talk, Marleau doesn’t have to listen. Not that Ilya could be honest about his problems anyway. What’s he going to say? I fucked Shane Hollander in the ass and now I can’t stop thinking about him? Yeah, fucking likely.

It’s okay. Life goes on. Ilya goes to the next practice. And the next one. Sometimes, he’s even on time. He doesn’t talk, but he doesn’t need to. No one makes him. And then, the week after that, Vinnie kills himself.

Chapter End Notes

Content warnings:

Suicide of an original character (mentioned, off the page)
Depression (Ilya doesn't manage to get out of bed for a few days)

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

'tis me again. I'm back. Oops?

Unfortunately for me, I've discovered that it'll take me three chapters to get to the scenes I *actually* wanted to write. Character development, I swear to God. It'll eat you alive if you let it.

More detailed content warnings for depression and suicide in the end note. Take care of yourselves!

Marleau gets the call in the locker room when they’re just done with practice, freshly showered and bickering about how sexually frustrated Ilya must be because he accidentally broke a stick trying to make a goal. Which... he isn’t. The stick was obviously faulty. He definitely didn’t hit too hard because one of his teammates told him to fuck off in a way that reminded him too much of Shane Hollander.

“Hi, mom!” Marleau says. Someone wolf whistles and is immediately slapped with a towel. “No, we just finished practice. I’m still with the boys. What is it?”

Ilya watches as the smile that was spreading on his friend’s face freezes and then wilts. 

“What? What happened? Is dad okay? Grandma?”

Dead silence spreads around them. People are staring. Ilya turns away and tugs his t-shirt over his head. Seriously, do these guys have no manners? His stomach tightens as he hears Marleau take a shaky breath. Something is seriously wrong.

“Yeah, I can call Vinnie and then... But why - okay, yeah. Yeah, call you when I get home.”

After he hangs up, the silence expands. Ilya can’t even hear anyone breathing anymore. When he turns around, Marleau is staring down at his phone with a vacant expression. Ilya bites his lip. He wants to ask if everything is okay, even if the answer is obvious. It’s what you do, right? It’s how you show you care. He takes too long thinking about it, because Marleau is already shaking himself out of his stupor and looking at him.

“She won’t tell me what’s going on until I’m home with a friend. You coming with me?”

The question takes Ilya’s breath away. There are people on this team that Marleau has known for far longer than him. Should be better friends with. But he’s asking Ilya. His first instinct is to say no, to tell him to ask someone else. Someone who is better equipped to handle difficult situations, handle emotions. His own and other people’s. But they’re friends, right? And Marleau wants him. This is what friends do. They’re there for each other, even when it’s scary.

“Of course,” Ilya says.

It’s not difficult to convince Marleau not to drive, more tricky to convince him to let Ilya drive his car. Pretty much impossible for Ilya to talk around the fact that he wants to do it this way in case Marleau needs his car to get somewhere soon. Like the airport. To get to the hospital. Or a funeral. Maybe Marleau understands, or maybe he’s just distracted. Either way, he gives up his keys.

“I think my grandma’s dead,” he says when they’re halfway to his flat, stopped in front of a traffic light. “Mom said my dad was fine, but she wouldn’t answer the question about my grandma. It’s... she’s fallen before. Didn’t want me to pay for in-home care. She’s stubborn like that.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything. It feels dangerous, before they know. He just reaches over to squeeze Marleau’s shoulder until he needs to put his hand on the stick shift again. Because of course Marleau drives stick. He’s almost as much of a car snob as Ilya.

When they sit down on the massive sectional couch that Marleau bought to fit as much of his family as possible, Ilya presses his sweaty palms to his knees. Marleau doesn’t look good. Numb, maybe. He’s never seen him like that before. And it’s probably going to get worse before this is over. Fuck. Ilya isn’t prepared for this.

“Can I put the call on speaker so I don’t have to explain later?” Marleau asks quietly.

“Sure.”

“Okay.” He stares at the phone on the couch table in front of him, screen still dark. “You know, I’m scared. Whatever happened already happened. It’s done. But I don’t wanna call and find out. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Is not pathetic,” Ilya says around the lump in his throat. “Is family. You love family, is good thing. Should I make call?”

Without a word, Marleau unlocks his phone and hands it over. The call log is still open. Mom called 43 minutes ago. Ilya taps on the name, and then on the little loudspeaker symbol. Takes a breath and sends up a prayer to the god his mother believed in, asking for strength. For the right words.

“Mom,” Marleau says shakily when the call connects. “I’m home with Rozy. You’re on speaker.”

“Hello, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I don’t know how to do this. We never talked about - I don’t know what you-“

“Just say it, please.”

“Vinnie killed himself yesterday.”

All the air leaves Ilya’s lungs at once. Vinnie. Vinnie - what? That doesn’t make sense. He must have misheard. Marleau seems to be in the same boat.

“What?”

“He killed himself, honey. The police broke down his door a few hours ago. There was a note.”

“No,” Marleau breathes. “No, he’s just sick. He’s got the flu, I talked to him a few days ago.”

“He died last evening, they said. Called them before he did it so there wouldn’t be any problems later. He’s always been considerate, hasn’t he?”

“Considerate? Mom! He wouldn’t... Vinnie wouldn’t do something like that. He’s a happy guy. Are you sure they don’t have the wrong person?” Marleau’s hands are shaking so badly Ilya wants to grab them to steady him. But he doesn’t. Would he want someone to touch him right now? Probably not. He also doesn’t want to attract any attention to himself. The sooner Marleau remembers he’s here, the sooner he’s going to have to react appropriately. Right now, all he can think is I didn’t bring Vinnie chicken noodle soup and then he killed himself.

“I am,” Marleau’s mother says. “Your uncle went and identified him. It’s definitely Vinnie.”

Fuck. Ilya wants to hit something. Someone. Wants to hit Vinnie, for the snap second before he realizes how fucked up that is. He wants to just take him by the shoulders and shake him, ask him what the fuck he was thinking. Doing something so permanent when he has someone right there who loves him so much, who would do anything to help him. Who helped Ilya without even being asked, as soon as he noticed something was wrong. You would’ve been fine, he wants to say. You would’ve been fine if you’d just told him.

Then, Marleau starts hyperventilating and distracts Ilya from his own thoughts.

Ilya learns in bits and pieces over the next two weeks. Not because he wants to but because he has to. He soaks up every morsel of information he can, just in case he ever needs to know to help Marleau. So he knows now because he never knew when Vinnie was alive. He feels like he owes it to them both.

Vinnie’s note said he’d always been depressed. He’d just had enough of fighting. He was tired and it was nobody’s fault. He thanked people, Marleau said and his voice sounded like it was splintering. Thanked them for being there for him while he was there. Thanked them for their company. Said it made his life better, but he had to move on. For himself.

“It was pills,” Marleau said three days after the fateful call. “He took pills. I looked it up, that’s not always as peaceful as it sounds.”

The image of a still hand flashes in Ilya’s head. Sallow skin against crumpled sheets. A crucifix necklace carefully coiled up next to an empty bottle of medication. Not always as peaceful as it sounds. He’s never looked it up, hasn’t wanted to. But he files it away now. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The funeral is a week after Vinnie dies. Quick, because Vinnie already had everything arranged. Marleau asks Ilya to come along and Ilya almost throws up. But he goes. He buys a black shirt and tie to go along with his blackest suit, makes extra sure he has his sunglasses in his pocket and stands next to Marleau as they lower the urn into the ground. There are little rainbow flags marking the grave as a stopover before the real marker is carved. Ilya is terrified that someone will take a picture with both him and the flags in it. And then, he’s disgusted with himself.

“You know he never told me?” Marleau says when Ilya drives them home after the wake, his hands tightly gripping the steering wheel to keep them from shaking. “I mean, I knew, but he never told me. I tried really hard to make sure he knew it was okay. But I must’ve done something wrong. I must’ve failed him somehow.”

Ilya blinks against the tears. “Maybe he didn’t think he needed to say. Maybe he knew you knew. But you’re not only person in the world. Other people here too, being assholes. One supportive person is not always enough.”

They go back to the subject all the time. Marleau just can’t help picking at the scab. 

“But if he didn’t feel like he could ask me for help, then he must have thought I wouldn’t help. Jesus Christ, Rozy, where did I go wrong? He’s my cousin, I love him so much. I’d do anything for him!” he says when they’re sitting in his kitchen after Marleau’s first practice back.

Ilya drops the wooden spoon he’s using to stir the borscht because they’re trying a thing where they still eat homemade food together without Vinnie. “Fuck, Marleau, not everything is about you! People need more than one person to love them. Other circumstances around them also important, like rest of family and society and job and brain. Was his decision, was not because of you. I love my mother very much, and she still kill herself. Was my fault now, too?”

The words ring out way too loudly in Marleau’s stupid open concept kitchen. No walls in American homes, the whole living room also smells like borscht. Ilya would rather think about that than about the way Marleau’s breath just stalled.

“Your mother killed herself? You never told me that.”

“I never tell anyone. Is private, yes?”

“Yeah, sure, but...” Marleau is already running the calculations in his head. Ilya knows because a few days ago, Marleau had asked him if he knew suicide was contagious. If someone close to you kills themselves, that increases your own risk of a suicide attempt by four times, did you know that? I wonder if the people who kill themselves know that. “How old were you?”

“Twelve. I found her.”

“Jesus Christ. How?”

“Pills.” Ilya has no idea why he’s saying any of this. He shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself. “She was always very sad. Love me just as much as I love her, but wasn’t enough. She had to leave.”

That’s not what his father said. Accident, he explained in hushed tones to his friends and colleagues. Weakness, he snarls at home to this day if Ilya gives him any opening at all. The same weakness you have in you, boy. At least you’re good at hockey. Focus on that. It’s been almost ten years now. Soon, Ilya will have lived more than half his life without his mother. And still, his father can’t let her rest in peace.

“Sad like you get sad?”

The question hits Ilya like an unexpected check right to the solar plexus. Fuck. He balls his fists as he tries to catch his breath. “Fuck off, Marleau. You ask too many questions.”

“Hey, no. Rozy, this is important. You-”

When Ilya turns around to face him, Marleau is already way too close. “I don’t owe you answers. Is my head, my feelings. My business. Not what we were talking about. Let’s get back to the subject, yes?”

He’s trying, he really is. This is difficult for Marleau too. It’s a new subject he’s not familiar with, and the person who should have been answering his questions isn’t here to do it. So Ilya is doing his best. He listens more than he talks. He says more than he ordinarily would, makes himself vulnerable to help his friend understand. Too vulnerable, apparently. His chest is tight.

“We can do that if you want to,” Marleau says. His eyes are big in his face, tracking Ilya’s every move. “But can I just... It’s important to me that you’re happy, right? You know that? You know I’m here for you?”

Ilya laughs before he’s even finished speaking. It’s an unhappy sound, spiky in his throat and grating on the ears. “Happy? Marleau, this is your problem. You don’t understand. Not everyone is happy.”

“Well, not everyday. But generally. You know, like a baseline.”

“Fuck your baseline! You think I remember a day when I was happy? Moments, yes. I get drafted, is amazing. Means I can finally get away from my father. I fuck someone, it feels good, I forget. I drive fast car, is fun, I forget. But what then? What about next day? You think I would choose to wake up if I could? Fuck no!”

Even with his tan, Marleau looks pale now. “Ilya, that’s...”

“The truth.” Ilya slams the lid onto the pot. “Happy is for happy people. Not everyone so lucky. Is fine, we get through. Day by day, and some good moments. But you want me to be happy, I can only fail.” He runs a hand through his curls, curses when he hits a snag. “Fuck this. I’m leaving. Borscht needs to cook for five more minutes.”

“Ilya, no.”

There’s a hand on his biceps now, and Ilya’s entire body freezes, muscles tense. 

“Marleau,” he snarls. “Is not good. I’m very angry. Let me leave and we talk another day when I am calm. You make me stay, I think I hit you. I don’t want this.”

The hand disappears, but Ilya can still feel Marleau behind him, warm and steady. “I don’t want that either. But I’ll only let you leave if you promise me two things.”

“Fucking what, Marleau.”

“One: That you won’t hurt yourself. Promise me that you’re just angry, that you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

“Yes, I promise. Is easy.” 

“Thank God,” Marleau breathes. “Okay. And I want you to promise that we’ll talk this week. You can calm down, that’s fine. I’ll give you some space. But I’ve had my share of not talking about important stuff, yeah? I’m not gonna do that anymore. I’m done with people suffering in silence. So you better man up and talk about your feelings with me. I’m not gonna forget about it.”

“Fuck you,” Ilya spits. 

“Yeah,” Marleau says. “I can be real annoying, you’ll see. Just promise. And then keep that promise. It’s the path of least resistance.”

Tears burn hot in Ilya’s eyes, but he refuses to blink. If they don’t fall, then he isn’t crying. He hates this. He hates this so much. Why does it feel like his chest is breaking open?

“I promise we talk. But you come to practice tomorrow and you mention to no one. At least one day before questions, yes? I will punch someone.”

There’s a vague sound of agreement behind him, and Ilya doesn’t wait to hear if Marleau says anything else. He has to move before something bad happens. He takes two laps around the building before he even dares to look at his car. Then he takes two more. Can’t get behind the wheel like this. That’s how accidents happen. He promised not to do anything stupid.

Ilya has a punching bag in his home gym. Marleau doesn’t. That’s why, as much as Ilya would like the option to run away again, he asks his friend to have the big talk at his own place. If it gets too much, at least he can punch something that’s not a person or a wall. 

But when the time comes, Ilya feels ridiculous about the idea. So he prepares a few snacks for the couch table like a good host, and waits on the sofa for the doorbell to ring. It’s agony, but so is seeing the careful look on Marleau’s face when he opens the door for him. He put that there. And he’s gonna have to do some work to make it go away again. Fucking fuck.

“Alright,” Marleau says when he’s sitting down with a cup of coffee in his hand. “How do you wanna do this? If you just wanna talk, I’m happy to listen. But if you don’t, I could get us started.”

Get us started. Ilya snorts. Like they’re in a meeting. He’s had contract negotiations for sponsorships that were more casual than this. But okay. He motions for Marleau to begin.

“Okay.” Marleau squares his shoulders. “First, I wanna... I want to acknowledge that I’m asking a lot from you. This is a difficult topic in general, and you’re clearly very private about it. So thank you for being willing to talk to me.”

Ilya bites his tongue against the question whether he has any choice. It occurred to him, in the days between their fight and today, that he could just refuse to talk. But he also knows he said too much. And to the wrong person. If Marleau takes his concerns to the Raiders’ medical staff, they’ll take this seriously. No matter what Ilya says or how much he denies it. Talking to them would be even worse than talking to Marleau. Even if he has the dawning notion that this isn’t gonna stop at just Marleau.

“I want to have this talk because I’m worried about you. I was worried about you even before Vinnie... before Vinnie died. Before you said what you said. I just - I thought you’d say something? If it was really bad? But it sounds like it is bad, and you haven’t said anything and I just... I can’t deal with that. You know I couldn’t sleep, that night after you left? I’m really worried about you. So I’m doing this for you, but I’m also doing it for me. Just, full disclosure.”

“Is because of Vinnie,” Ilya says. Not as a complaint, just so it’s out there. It’ll drive him insane if they leave it unsaid. Sure, this is about him. But it probably wouldn’t be happening if Vinnie was still here.

“A bit, yeah.” Marleau blinks away the sheen in his eyes. “I’m sure he’s watching. I hope he’d approve.”

Ilya has no idea what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Just raises his coffee mug in a little toast towards the ceiling. It gets him a watery smile. Then, there is a sheaf of crumpled printouts under his nose.

“I wanna try it this way first because you said it wasn’t my business and you’re technically right. You don’t owe me answers. But I think you need therapy. So I’m just gonna start this by saying you need to go. You need to find a therapist and take it seriously, genuinely talk to them. You can’t keep all of this inside, it’s not healthy. But if you don't wanna talk to me, I get it. Your life is very different from mine. I can try to understand and I want to,” Marleau says with an emphasizing nod. “But helping me understand is not your job. It would probably be easier and more helpful if you told a professional. Please. It would help me sleep at night.“

“Is nothing special, the way I feel,” Ilya hurries to explain. “Nothing bad you need to worry about. Always been this way, I deal with it. I never tried to hurt myself. A therapist won’t find anything.”

“Well, then you don’t have anything to lose, do you?” Marleau asks. “If you’re honest with a therapist and explain everything that’s been going on and that you’ve been feeling and they tell you there’s nothing wrong, you can just leave and forget about it. You don’t have to go again.”

Fuck. Ilya sets his mug on the table and gets to his feet, walks over to the window. Fucking hell. It’s almost like Marleau planned it like this. And Ilya walked right into his trap. 

“Okay,” he says, because he’s not a coward. “So I go once. You have deadline?”

Triumph shoots through him when he sees Marleau’s eyes widen. But his friend has himself back under control quite quickly. “No deadline, no. But I asked around a bit. You know, about therapists who have worked with athletes before? Not for you, don’t worry. For me. Everyone knows about Vinnie, so no one’ll ask questions.”

He holds out a sheet of paper. Ilya has to lean to reach the corner, but as soon as he sees what’s on there, he knows Marleau’s work was in vain. The names tell him everything he needs to know. Dr. Jonah Swift. Camille Shoemaker. Titus Brown. Dr. Maria Esteban. Yeah, no.

“None of those,” he says.

“Oh, come on! They come highly recommended, I promise. Can’t you just-“

“I need someone who speaks Russian. Big feelings already difficult to talk about, yes? Even more difficult in stupid language that wants to trick you. I go to therapist, therapist speaks Russian. Understands culture I come from. Doesn’t need to understand hockey, hockey is good thing in my life.”

“Oh.” Marleau notably perks up at that. “Yeah, that makes sense. I can research Russian-speaking therapists. You okay speaking to them over the phone or do they need to be in Boston?”

Ilya shrugs.

“Alright. Anything else? Do you have any other criteria I didn’t think of?”

“I...”

Maybe Ilya should just do this himself. It’ll be fine. He can do some research on the internet and make some calls until he has an appointment. Marleau said Ilya didn’t need to tell him, and he was right. This is Ilya’s business. Except he remembers their conversation on the way back from the funeral. How hurt Marleau was because Vinnie didn’t feel safe telling him. If he’s already doing this shit, he might as well do it right. It’ll be fine. 

“Therapist needs to, um...” He stalls there, heart pounding in his chest like crazy. This is madness. He’s never told anyone. The only people who know are people who have touched his cock. Like he told Hollander that very first time - same secret. He’s never told anyone who could just ruin him without being afraid of being dragged under as well. “Therapist needs to like the gays.“

As soon as he’s said it, he wants to bash his head against the window. Fucking hell. That is just about the stupidest way he could have phrased that, even he can tell. Ilya can see how the corner of Marleau’s mouth twitches.

“The gays.”

“LGT-“

“LGBTQ. You want the therapist to be... queer-friendly?”

“Yes.” Ilya nods vigorously. “You need to ask before. Is difficult with Russians.”

“Right. I can do that. Ask, I mean.” Marleau hesitates. “Can I ask you...”

“One question,” Ilya says. 

“Are you gay?”

“Only half. I think word is bisexual.” Ilya bites his lip. “You tell no one. Is very important.”

“Of course not! I won’t even mention your name when I ask around.”

“Also not teammates. No one can know. You hear them on the ice.”

It’s gotten better since Marleau has started pushing back on the slurs. But he’s been tentative about it, and their teammates don’t care very much. Don’t have a reason to care. Ilya’s not going to give them one. Let them call each other cocksucker like being able to deep throat Shane fucking Hollander makes you any less of a man. He doesn’t care. Not about them. The problem is that they could tell other people.

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Rozy.” Marleau says. “Thank you for trusting me. I hope I didn’t, like... guilt you into this.”

“Guilt me? What you talking about, Marleau?”

Marleau laughs. It sounds slightly breathless. “Nothing, never mind. Alright. I’ll research some Russian-speaking therapists who like the gays. And you’ll have at least one appointment with one of them. Great. Anything else? Do you wanna talk some more?”

The possibility of it makes something catch in Ilya’s chest. Talking. With someone who knows, someone who won’t tell. Just being able to say these things out loud. But the longer he thinks about it, the faster his heart is beating. So fast it’s uncomfortable. Maybe, he thinks, he should try this on one of the therapists first. Someone he wouldn’t mind losing. Someone who’s sworn an oath to not tell the world if Ilya accidentally says the name Hollander in a non-hockey context.

“No, thank you,” he says. “But you sit with me? When I call therapists for appointment?”

Marleau’s face lights up. “Of course!”

Of course, Ilya thinks. How did he get this lucky?

Chapter End Notes

Content warnings:

Mild discussion of a suicide and suicide note (Vinnie, off the page.)
Passive suicidal ideation (mention, Ilya says that if given the choice, he would choose not to wake up in the mornings.) But it'll be fine, Ilya is being aggressively cared for by his friend Cliff and agrees to speak with a therapist.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Meet Zoya. I love her so much.

Dialogue that's completely in italics is Russian. That's why our boy Rozy suddenly uses proper grammar!

The therapist Ilya chooses is named Zoya Morozova. She’s young, barely out of school. But she was born in Russia and came across with her parents when she was ten, so Ilya hopes she has a good grasp of Russian culture. At least some of it.

On Zoya’s website, for all the world to see, she says she is a lesbian. Ilya discovers this by accident, clicking through all of the different pages while he procrastinates choosing a therapist from the list Marleau has prepared for him. It takes his breath away. Lesbian. He hadn’t expected that. Tepid allyship, yes. Someone who doesn’t think a man wanting to suck cock automatically has a mental illness. But this? He stares at the word for minutes, so close to the screen that he can see the pixels that form the word.

The first call is so relaxed that Ilya gets suspicious. It feels wrong. He says “I was twelve ears old when I found my mother after she committed suicide” and “sometimes I can’t get out of bed, not even to drink water” and Zoya just says “that sounds difficult. I see why you’d want to talk about it.” No judgement. No diagnosis. Just the question of when to schedule their first appointment.

Ilya decides to wait until after the Olympic Games. Talking once or twice and then taking a break doesn’t seem like the most efficient way to go about this. And he knows he’s not going to get away with just the one session he agreed to. Strangely, he doesn’t mind. Even if he still puts up a front around Marleau, talks like he thinks he can win therapy and be told not to come back because he’s already so good at it. He doesn’t know why he even says any of that shit. It’s automatic, like chirping opposing players about their mothers.

And then, Sochi happens and Ilya fucks up. Fucks up in several ways. On the ice, so badly that his father tells him he’s not ashamed enough. With Hollander, until he’s genuinely mad at him for the first time. He wants to take it back immediately, wants to ask for grace and say how difficult it all is. But he can’t risk that. And it astounds him that Hollander doesn’t understand. That things can be so different for them. Even if Hollander is terrified of people finding out, he’s not afraid for his physical safety. For all his awkwardness and occasional insecurity, he moves through the world like he knows he has a right to exist. 

As soon as he enters the banquet with his father, it’s like he’s stepped into a bubble. Nothing feels real anymore. Sound is muted. It’s difficult to understand people because they’re on land and Ilya’s underwater. Drowning. He keeps thinking about what his father said right before they left. “Who tied this for you? Your mother?” Cold dread envelops his heart at the thought that there might be yet another thing he’ll have to take care of.

When he gets back to the hotel, he calls Marleau without even looking at the time.

“Ilya, what the-”

“I need help. Please.”

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you still in Russia?”

“When I come back, I need you to get me from airport,” Ilya says. “I sleep in your guestroom a few nights. Head is not good, I should not be alone.”

“Yes, of course.” The answer is immediate. “Are you safe right now? Do I need to, like, call someone else?”

Ilya wants to laugh. “Will be safe when I am back in Boston. You give me no opportunity to say no, okay? I come with you. Even if I say okay now.”

“Alright. We can do that. When does your flight land?”

After hanging up, Ilya wonders what it means that he’s not ashamed of himself for asking this of Marleau. Is it a good thing, is it progress? Is he learning to depend on a friend? Or is this an extension of the numbness that has packed his brain in cotton wool?

Zoya, when he asks her during their first session still in Marleau’s guest bedroom, tells him it doesn’t matter right now.

“What matters is that you sought help. And that you know that it’s a good thing you shouldn’t feel ashamed of. I’m very glad you were able to do that. It sounds like you’re having a difficult time. Do you know what caused it this time?”

He doesn’t tell her about Hollander, not yet. Even within the bounds of therapy, with someone who would lose their license if they told, even the thought feels like a betrayal. So he says nothing of queerness and too much about his father. Relishes in Zoya’s pinched expression on the screen when he relays the things his father said to him and in front of him.

“You know he’s wrong, right?” she says when he’s finished recounting the evening.

Ilya purses his lips. “Mostly. I did lose. It was a horrible game.”

“But did you do the best you could do in that moment?”

“Of course!”

“Then there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t know much about hockey, but I know you weren’t the only player on that team. Sometimes teams don’t work. Sometimes others are better. It happens.”

Ilya bites his lip. He wants to point out that he wasn’t just a player on that team, he was the captain. The ultimate responsibility for the loss lies with him, no matter how hard he tried. But he understands that’s not what she means.

The session is drawing to a close before Ilya can even talk about his mother. It feels wrong, but Ilya feels lighter once they’ve agreed to twice-weekly appointments for the next month. Not that the feeling stays for long. Zoya wants him to talk to a psychiatrist, to see if he can get on medication to stabilize him. Apparently, she thinks he’s depressed and his symptoms are “alarming.”

“I still go back to Russia regularly. Can I just stop taking antidepressants when I'm over there?”

“You don’t have to. There is paperwork to take it across borders. Or you could find an option that exists in Russia and have a Russian doctor prescribe it to you once you're there. We’re not talking about illegal drugs here, they’re just medications that help you with your brain chemistry. Other people have this stuff in their brains naturally. But if you don’t, store-bought is fine.”

“If I can’t stop taking them in Russia, I can’t take them at all. My family can’t find out.”

Zoya’s eyes glint with the knowledge that there are things he’s holding back. But she concedes. For now. Apparently, going on and off medication would be a very bad idea. Never mind the fact that he would probably have to involve his team doctors - which he is definitely not going to do.

Later that evening, Marleau asks if he’s won therapy yet. Ilya looks at him for a long time.

“No,” he says. “Is not good. I need help.”

Marleau hugs him within an inch of his life.

Even once Ilya is back to a normal he recognizes, he ignores Hollander. He tells himself it’s better this way. Hollander doesn’t need to deal with his issues. The last time they talked, Ilya was mean, even cruel to him. That can’t be good for anyone. Add to that the fact that his stomach churns every time Ilya thinks about his rival... Yeah, no. Some things are best left alone.

“I want you to stay away from people who stress you out this much,” Zoya had told Ilya after he relayed a particularly difficult phone call from Alexei. “Just for a few weeks. Give yourself time to find your equilibrium before you deal with people you know mess with your head.”

So it’s sanctioned, is what Ilya is saying. For the first few weeks. And then after that, he doesn’t really know what to say. Hollander’s messages after Sochi got increasingly irritated and came with decreasing frequency. He’s probably losing interest. Ilya has always been more trouble than he’s worth. It’s for the best.

The Boston Raiders win the playoffs, and for all of twelve hours, Ilya feels great. Tells his mama, out loud and on television, that he did it for her. Goes out to party and barely even gets drunk because he doesn’t feel like he needs it. Doesn’t want to forget. Goes home with a beautiful woman who puts her hand around his throat as she rides him with seemingly no regard for his pleasure. Comes harder than he has in months.

Alexei calls him the next morning to laugh at him, asking why he thinks their mother would have cared. She didn’t even care enough to stay, why would she give a shit about some hockey game in America? Is there prize money? If so, Ilya better give him some of that. He’s going to have a niece soon, and doesn’t he know that babies are fucking expensive?

It’s a good thing he has a session the next day. They’re still twice weekly, because Zoya somehow manages to make him feel less pathetic. And he’s going out less, now, so. Might as well spend the money on something. Therapy is definitely better for him than booze.

With Zoya’s help, Ilya has gotten much better at coping strategies. Routines that he follows no matter what. He spends more attention on his food, because much to his chagrin, he actually feels better when he cuts down on the burgers and fries. He finds things to occupy his free time that aren’t working out, drinking alcohol and fucking strangers. Tries really hard to actively seek out connection with the people in his life. Not just Marleau, but the rest of his teammates. His old friend Svetlana who recently moved to Boston.

It changes how much his mood fluctuates. The lows get less low and less frequent. He’s moved out of the deep sea into the shallows, where he can still technically drown but would have to make an effort to do so on a normal day. What it doesn’t change is what Marleau calls the baseline. Life is easier to bear this way, and Ilya is grateful for that. But when he nearly gets a skate to the throat during a game gone wrong and Zoya asks how he feels about how close he could have come to dying, he shrugs. Doesn’t have to tell her he might have preferred just going out that way. She can see it on his face. He doesn’t even roll his eyes when she suggests medication again, even though he still says no.

Then, he wins the cup. The next day, Alexei calls. And the day after that, Zoya says: “If you absolutely have to send him money, which I don’t think you should do, I want you to do something for yourself too. What do you want most right now?”

“Hollander,” Ilya says without thinking.

“Pardon?”

“I want to fuck Shane Hollander.”

“Well, maybe something more attainable.”

“Oh no, we’ve done it before. That’s why I want to do it again. I never feel the way that I do with him, it’s... special. A treat.” He fixes her with a stern look. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“No one would believe me,” Zoya says faintly. She’s started watching hockey in the last few months. Ilya is incredibly proud of himself for converting her. “Do you think that’s a good idea, though? I wasn’t talking about doing something that’s emotionally intense. I meant more along the lines of I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii or something like that.”

Ilya shrugs. “Hawaii is boring. I want to make Shane Hollander lose his mind. That’s not emotional, it’s just sex.”

Zoya’s pursed mouth tells him she has opinions on that, but she keeps them to herself. They formulate a plan for how to best ask Hollander if he'd be up for it. 

“Not over text,” Zoya says. “Not when you’ve been ignoring him for months. And be prepared for him to say no. Remember that he doesn’t have to do this just because you want to.”

“He’ll want to if I make it a competition.” Ilya’s head is already running away with possibilities. There’s an awards show in Vegas in under a month that they’ve been asked to present together. It’s perfect.

Three days. That’s how long it takes Ilya to realize he’s essentially come out to his therapist. Without warning and in the crudest way possible. And she’d barely even blinked. He smiles to himself. Zoya was the right choice.

Hollander is pissed at him, but that just makes it better. The little thrill of fear as Ilya goads him, wondering if maybe this is the time he finally took it too far. It’s not, though. That’s clear right from the start.

Hollander pushes back almost immediately. Doesn’t go to his knees like he would have any other time, but demands Ilya blow him instead. And yet, he tilts into Ilya’s kisses like he’s already drunk with it. Like he just can’t help it. Is so beautifully pliant that Ilya wants to throw caution to the wind, hoist him up on the counter and beg to eat him out. He barely restrains himself.

At first, Ilya’s plan unfolds beautifully. Despite his clear reservations, Hollander undresses and gets on the bed for Ilya to watch him. Touches himself even though he’s clearly nervous. Throws his underwear at Ilya when he teases him. It takes a lot of restraint for Ilya to keep from touching himself. And then, Hollander says it.

“I need you.”

The worst thing about it is that Ilya knows it’s the absolute truth. Hollander is guileless, couldn’t lie to save his life. And he doesn’t do dirty talk, not really. Not in the way that Ilya is used to, where his partners say things to deliberately turn him on. Or to turn themselves on. Hollander just tells the truth because he needs to say it, and Ilya almost comes on the spot.

Ilya was meant to watch Hollander make himself come and then fuck him after. Stay in control, the way Hollander clearly likes even if it would be a phenomenally bad idea to say it out loud within earshot. But when he hears those three little words, it’s all he can do to keep his face from breaking open. Has to drain his vodka to fortify himself.

He’s never fucked anyone as hard as he fucks Hollander on that Vegas hotel bed. He shouldn’t, they’re both athletes, and it’s completely reckless to do it this way when one wrong move could injure them both. But Hollander gives himself over so completely that Ilya just can’t help it. He loses control. It stops feeling like dominance and starts feeling like service. Like he’s doing this for Hollander, and just for him. Like he can’t help himself. It’s a wonder he manages to stave off his orgasm until Hollander has come.

Even as they lie on the same bed afterwards, Ilya creates distance between them. Scoots to the edge of the mattress and lights a cigarette, praying it’ll stop Hollander from reaching out to him. Because if Hollander touches him, tries to trade soft kisses with him like they did after the last two times, he’ll crumple. He doesn’t know exactly what will happen, but it won’t be good.

Does Hollander know? Could he tell from the way Ilya looked at him, gave him what he wanted as soon as he asked for it? Could he feel the desperation in his movements? He can clearly tell something is wrong, based on the way he tries to make small talk. About Russia and Ilya’s family. Fuck. Ilya shuts down the rest of the way. He can't deal with this in a way that’ll end with Hollander still wanting to fuck him the next time.

He drives himself to Marleau’s flat straight from the airport without even announcing himself. It’s okay, though. His friend only looks confused for a second when he opens the door, immediately opens it wider to let Ilya in.

“I have a fuck buddy,” he says once they’re sitting down on the sofa, Ilya’s stuff already stored in the room he still secretly thinks of as his. “Messed it up with him, maybe. I am a mess.”

Marleau blinks, but shows no other outward reaction. “Okay. What makes you think that?”

“I feel like meat being put through grinder to make sausages. Little tiny ones in chains that you smoke in cupboard and hang from pantry ceiling like birthday garland. Good for snack but look ridiculous.”

“That’s... descriptive. What do you mean? He say something to you?”

“No,” Ilya says. “That is problem.”

“He ignored you?” Marleau sounds upset on his behalf.

“No. I think I embarrass myself. But I don’t ask, because if I ask, he definitely knows.”

“Okay.” Marleau frowns. “But if you’re just fuck buddies, then what does it matter? Either he gets over it or you move on. Simple.”

Ilya wants to scream, but he doesn’t. He’s not brave enough to say the rest. Instead, he just asks his friend for a hug and helps him make chicken noodle soup in the purple pot that Vinnie can no longer use. 

“I think it’s not just sex with Hollander,” Ilya tells Zoya during their last session before he flies back to Russia.

“Alright. And how does that make you feel?”

“Fucking terrified, what do you think?”

She smiles. “Because you don’t think he feels the same?”

“It doesn’t matter what he feels,” Ilya says, his eyes resting on way too many pieces of luggage packed with Levi’s and kit kat flavors that don’t exist in Russia. “It can never be anything more than it is right now. If I feel more than that, all that means is that I get hurt. Do you think I can afford that?”

Zoya hums. She never answers direct questions like that. This time, at least, she doesn’t try to turn it around on him. Maybe she feels the tension from the looming home visit as much as he does. She’d tried to get him to cancel it. When that hadn’t worked, she convinced him to take a sponsorship deal that meant he had a good excuse to return two weeks early. Now, he only has to stay for a month. It’ll still be too long.

“I think that being hurt is part of life. If you’re not careful and protect yourself too much, it’ll be like an injury that heals wrong. If you break your leg, you get a cast and rest it for a while so it can mend. But you don’t stay off it for the rest of your life. And you don’t limp for the rest of your life, either, because that hurts the rest of your body. Right?”

Reluctantly, Ilya nods.

“I’m not telling you to go after him right now,” Zoya says. “But maybe you should think about what you would want to have if you let yourself. Just as an exercise over the summer.”

“And what if I want Hollander?”

“Then we’ll figure out how you can ask for what you want. And how to deal with it if you can’t have it. It would be difficult, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. You would move on. And maybe what comes after that will make you happier.”

Four miserable weeks in Russia make Ilya come to three conclusions. One: He hates his family. Two: His father definitely has some kind of memory problem that he needs to go to the doctor with. And three: He wants Shane Hollander for more than just sex.

Hollander, who keeps chirping him over text. Who sends him a paper on lung cancer from a medical journal three hours after Ilya posts a picture of himself smoking on Instagram, even though it’s in the middle of the night for him. Who asks how Ilya is doing and, when Ilya doesn’t answer because he doesn’t want to lie, sends the next message two hours later, telling him about how he watched Hayden Pike hold his hand out so one of his twins would shit in it instead of on the couch. Because apparently, Pike thought it would be a good idea to change a baby on a couch. Hollander says he has a changing table in his apartment now.

His actual apartment. The emphasis isn’t Hollander’s, it’s Ilya’s. Pike visits Hollander’s actual apartment that Ilya still hasn’t seen. They’re always fucking in hotel rooms. Or in the apartment with the creepy fucking parking lot.

Once Ilya is back from Russia and their schedules align, Hollander invites him back. There’s a lot more kissing this time. Laughter, even. Ilya lets himself get pressed against walls and kissed so thoroughly he’s dizzy. The sex is as good as always, but it doesn't feel so desperate this time. It’s warmer, more relaxed. Almost jubilant at the fact that they’re back together so soon, not even tour months later. Even if Ilya still doesn't belong in his real life.

“Hold up,” Zoya says when he recounts this. “He bought an apartment just for you to have sex in?”

“No. It’s an investment property.”

“That he uses exclusively for the two of you to have sex in?”

“I feel like you’re focusing on that a bit too much,” Ilya points out. “He’s rich. He can do that.”

“I feel like you’re not focusing enough on the fact that he did it in the first place, Ilya. That’s a lot.”

Ilya shrugs helplessly. “I think he just doesn’t like hotel rooms. And if he lives in an apartment where the neighbors know him, we can’t exactly fuck there.”

“Yes, but the obvious solution to that problem would be to just stop hooking up with you,” Zoya says.

The words hit him before the implication does, like ice lancing between his ribs and right into his heart. Then, he pauses. “You think?”

Zoya sighs. “Obviously, I don’t know what it means. I don’t know him. But I think if this was just sex to him, and he really doesn’t like hotels, then he’d either stop having sex with you in hotel rooms and only agree to meet up in Montreal, or he’d just stop having sex with you altogether.”

“I don’t know.” Ilya shifts in place in his chair, uncomfortable with the hope he feels nestling into his ribcage. “Hollander is very particular. Maybe he just heard somewhere that you buy a separate apartment to have your affairs in and took it as a rule.”

It’s a joke, but something sparks in Zoya’s eyes. “Would he do that? Something this inconvenient, just because it’s a rule?”

“Maybe.” Ilya can’t fight the fond smile that crosses his face. “He can be very intense about the rules. His first words to me were I don’t think you're supposed to smoke here. Before he even said hello.”

“Okay,” Zoya says. “What I’d like you to do is imagine how you’d want to be with Shane. What you’d want it to be like. Not what’s realistic, just what you want. And what scares you about that. No scary outside things for now. Just scary inside things.”

As if the inside things aren’t scary enough.

Ilya wants to be with Shane for real. Not in a relationship, necessarily. That’s pie-in-the-sky stuff, deeply unrealistic. But he wants it to feel like they’re honest with each other. Like they’re not doing anything wrong. Along with that comes a curdling unease at the thought of more hotel room hookups. Even Shane’s investment property feels wrong.

Unfortunately, Shane is probably correct that it's not a good idea for him to invite Ilya anywhere the neighbors could see or hear. The same as it would be too risky for Ilya to invite Shane over to his apartment. Shane has his secluded cottage that he had built, but Ilya knows better than to just invite himself over without warning. No, he needs to do something different. More subtle.

He buys a house. Not immediately, of course. It takes a lot of searching, because he needs it to fit a whole host of parameters. Close to Boston, for one. But also secluded enough that neighbors wouldn’t even be able to tell who’s visiting. And he wants Shane to like it. He watches the feature on the cottage many more times than is healthy, to tease out all of the little things that he mentions, that might be important to him in a home. Big windows that let in a lot of light. Natural materials, preferably wood. No clutter, which extends to the way he spaces out his furniture.

Somewhere along the process, before the ink has dried on the deed, Ilya starts thinking of him as Shane. Probably because Zoya refuses to call him by his last name, but also just because Hollander doesn't feel right anymore. It’s too impersonal, too distant. Ilya wants more.

He knows it's dangerous. They hook up several times during the year Ilya buys his home and starts moving in. Each time, Ilya has to make more of an effort not to call him Shane. It wouldn’t be wrong, he knows that, but he’s scared of revealing too much too early. Zoya thinks that’s silly when he’s willing to buy a four million dollar house on the off-chance that Shane wants the same thing he does. But Zoya clearly also thinks that Shane does want the same thing, so Ilya doesn’t mind her gentle teasing too much.

“Remember when I told you about that guy I was hooking up with?” he asks Marleau in late summer of 2016. “I will do something scary and I’m excited.”

“The guy you said made you feel like tiny sausages?” Marleau answers. “What’s so scary about him?”

“He’s not scary. My feelings are scary. Big strong Russian not so good at feelings, only at drinking enough vodka to survive the winter and hugging bears.”

Marleau snorts. “Sure you are. You’ve become a lot better since you started with Zoya. Barely even tell me to fuck off anymore.”

“Fuck off,” Ilya says.

Marleau’s smile is almost blinding, illuminated as it is by the ever-changing lights of the hockey game on the TV in front of them. When he turns to look at Ilya fully, there’s a sheen in his eyes.

“So you’re planning on getting your guy, is that what you’re telling me?”

Ilya bites his lip. “I’ll try. Is scary, but I think chances are good. Zoya agrees.”

“Right. Zoya. Because Zoya likes the gays.”

He deserves to get punched in the shoulder for that. And also the rest of the play fight that ensues. Fuck, Ilya’s never going to live that down, is he? Somehow, it doesn’t feel like the worst thing that could happen.

“So Zoya knows who he is? Your mystery man?” Marleau asks once they’ve returned to normal. “I mean, I assume she must. If she’s been helping you plan this.”

“Yes, she knows.”

“Do I at least get to know his name?”

That should be scarier than it is. There’s so much in a name. If Ilya does this wrong, he’s outing someone who might not even be out to his friends. That’s the impression Ilya gets, at least. Any time they get too close to the topic, Shane becomes very uncomfortable. But the man Ilya wants to be with is no longer Shane Hollander. He’s just Shane to him, now. Lots of people with that name out there.

“He is called Shane,” Ilya says. “I will give you one more detail: Very good in bed. He gives incredible blowjobs. There is this thing he does with his tongue-”

Marleau doesn’t let him continue after that.

The Metros play the Raiders in October. It’s surprisingly frictionless to ask Shane to meet up before and give him the new address. There’s almost no back and forth this time, no teasing. Like Shane also wants this and has given up the pretense at resistance.

Ilya stocks his kitchen with ginger ale and healthy foods so that Shane will be more comfortable staying. He even looks up Shane’s ridiculous macrobiotic diet, but decides against accommodating it to a T. That feels like a bit much. And also sad. Ilya prefers it when his food tastes like food.

He rehearses scenarios with Zoya. Writes down in clear language, in English and in Russian, what it is that he wants specifically. Makes pro and con lists so that he’s prepared for most of the things Shane might say. Lays out a plan for what he’ll do if Shane says no. That one only has two bullet points: 1) get to Marleau's apartment before he starts crying 2) if he starts crying before he can leave the house, call Marleau over.

This means he has to alert Marleau to what’s happening and endure the very reasonable criticism that it’s a horrible idea to do this the day before a big game. And against the Metros, no less. Doesn’t he want to be in good shape when he goes up against Hollander? Ilya can’t say that if Shane rejects him, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to manage to give a single shit about the game.

A week before, the thing that makes him the most nervous isn’t the prospect of Shane saying no. It’s the fact that there’s clearly something Zoya isn’t saying. When he asks her, she’s evasive.

“It’s really not my place, Ilya. I don’t think it would be very ethical of me to say.”

“Fuck ethics!” Ilya says. “I don’t give a shit. Say whatever it is that worries you, I don’t care if you think it’s crossing a boundary with me. What is it? Is it sex?”

“No. Ilya-”

“Because if you’re worried that I’m always the one who fucks Shane and never the other way around, then let me tell you-”

“Ilya!” Zoya shouts. “Give me a moment to gather my thoughts, please.”

It takes her two minutes to start speaking. Ilya stares at his alarm clock the entire time and watches the seconds tick down.

“Okay, I want to start by saying that I obviously don’t know Shane. I can’t diagnose him, so this is not a diagnosis. And I’m not an expert on the subject. Please don’t take this as a given.”

She waits until Ilya nods to continue. “I’ve watched a few of the interviews Shane has done. And obviously I listen to the things you tell me about him. And that just has me a tiny bit worried about your plan. It’s a good plan, but it’s a big change and I don’t know if he’s noticed anything changing between you up to now. So I’m concerned if Shane will take it well.”

Oh. The words tumble into Ilya’s stomach like cobble stones. “Concerned? Why?”

“You say Shane is very focused on rules and routines. That he can get agitated when things don’t turn out the way he anticipated or when plans are disrupted.” Zoya takes a deep breath. “You’ve mentioned he has sensory difficulties and sometimes loses himself in thought spirals when he gets nervous. All of that could - hm. Have you heard of the autism spectrum?”

“The what?” The term rings a bell. Ilya watched Rainman with Marleau in his first month in Boston. But what does that have to do with Shane? He’s nothing like the guy in that movie.

“It’s just a different way of processing the world. Again, I don’t know if Shane autistic. But if he is, any change, even a good change, might be a lot for him. No matter how much he might want it once he’s thought it through, it could be too much in the moment. That can lead to distress, and I just want to-”

“What are you saying?” Ilya interrupts her.

Zoya sighs. “The first reaction might not be the final reaction. He might need a bit of time to get used to the idea. So, if you can, don’t put him on the spot too much. Let him sit with it a bit, okay? This is a big change. And don’t demand an answer right away. Give him time. And read up on the subject, maybe.”

Well, shit. She couldn’t have said that earlier? But okay, Ilya can work with this. The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks Zoya is right. Autism or not, Shane is very particular and not so good with change. Most of Ilya’s lists include a lot of up-front, complete honesty. Because he wants his cards on the table. But it might be a good idea to not all put them there at once. Ilya can be a bit slower. He can play it cool.

Chapter End Notes

Content warnings:

Depression (duh)
Derealization (mild description)

Am I happy with the autism conversation? No. Did I think it needed to happen? Yes. Feedback? I might need your help.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

You know what today is? Today is the day I was finally able to watch the first episode of Heated Rivalry. Because it's now available in Germany. In completely unrelated news, this chapter is unedited for now. It's the middle of the night and I just needed to get it out of my head.

Not once in his life has Ilya agonized over what to wear as much as he does when Shane comes over that day. Some combination of t-shirt and sweatpants feels too sloppy. Like he’s not putting in the effort. But a shirt? Even a simple button-down feels like too much. Not that Ilya owns a button down. His clothes can generally be sorted into one of two categories. Either fuck me or fuck this.

The first one would be the better option, but it would be a dead giveaway. If Ilya opens the front door in one of the shirts he wears to go clubbing, Shane will immediately know that something is up. That feels risky. Ilya doesn’t want to spook him.

Instead, he decides to just put himself on display by wearing sweatpants and nothing else. To remind Shane why they’re doing this. And maybe to remind himself, a little bit. No matter what else Shane feels - and Ilya will try to find out, he really will, no matter how much he’s shitting himself - this all started because Shane thought Ilya was hot. So hot that he couldn’t take his eyes off him in the communal showers, despite being terrified and never even having touched a man. If nothing else, they have amazing sexual chemistry. That has to be worth something.

By the time Shane rings the doorbell, Ilya is starting to regret his choices. With his hands in his pockets and his eyes skipping all over the place, Shane is clearly nervous. He barely even looks at Ilya and instead starts babbling about the house. Asking Ilya if he had it built. It’s adorable. Ilya could drop to his knees right there.

Instead, he backs Shane up against the kitchen counter and kisses him. That always seems to shut him up nicely. There’s a hazy look that Shane gets when Ilya has kissed him a few times that makes him think all thoughts not immediately concerning their current situation have left his head. But Shane doesn’t let him get that far this time.

“Do you think we should talk?”, he asks.

Fuck. For a moment, Ilya’s hands freeze at Shane’s sides. Talk? What does Shane want to talk about? Maybe he gave something away. Maybe inviting him to the house was too much too fast. He should’ve just - he should take a deep breath, is what he should.

“I’d love to talk. Later,” he murmurs against Shane’s mouth. “Want you first. I missed you.”

This is part of the strategy he worked out. To say a bit more than he usually would, before he says what he really want to say. Soften the blow a bit. Help it not be so unexpected. Now, he stands there with his heart hammering in his chest as he watches the words land, sees Shane’s eyebrows scrunch together.

“You missed me, really?”

His eyes are so big Ilya could drown himself in them. Part of him wants to, because really? It’s that unexpected that Ilya would miss him? They write to each other every day except for the days that Shane doesn’t reply.

“M-hm.” Ilya tries to dampen his smile, but not entirely. It’s just a lazy curl of his lips. “Last time I see you was two months ago, Hollander. Bad to go that long. What if I’m in withdrawals?”

I haven’t fucked anyone since I last fucked you, Ilya doesn’t say. That would be too much all at once. But it’s clouding his head now. The closeness and the want. Between the last time and the time before that, Ilya had sex with exactly one person. A woman, because he’s long since given up on having sex with men that’s anywhere near as good as what he experiences with Shane. And it was... meh. It’s never been like that before, not for Ilya. The woman was clearly enjoying herself, but all he could think about was that she didn’t look at him right, didn’t clutch his hair in the way that he likes, wasn’t trying to insult him even a little. 

He stopped sleeping around after that. Zoya tried her best to talk him through the resulting identity crisis without laughing at him. Failed when he called himself a retired slut. But he doesn’t mind. It’s funny. Someone should laugh, even if he can’t. Yet.

“Oh,” Shane says. He’s smiling now, small but oh so bright. “Well, in that case, I missed you too.”

There’s no way to stop himself from kissing Shane after that, so Ilya doesn’t try. He just lets the wave carry him, swoops in to take Shane’s mouth. Lifts Shane to sit on the counter so he can bask in leaning up towards him for a short while. And if there’s some moisture clinging to his lashes, so what? No one will see it. Ilya’s eyes are squeezed shut anyways.

Shane squawks into his mouth when Ilya lifts him off the counter to carry him to bed. Says something about professional athletes and muscle mass and if you pull something in your back, you’re the one who has to explain it to your coach, Rozanov. But curiously, he doesn’t fight Ilya. Just lets himself be carried like a slightly irritated kitten.

His eyes are fixed on Ilya the entire time, wide and dark. Twitching all over his face like he’s searching for something. There’s a brief interruption when Ilya throws him onto the bed and Shane again puts up his token resistance. But as soon as Ilya has crawled over him, they’re back. It's a lot. Too much for the moment. Ilya follows his nose to the hinge of Shane’s jaw, kisses him and gently sets his teeth against the soft skin behind his ear.

“I would like to watch you again,” he says and puts a bit of extra breath behind it so he can see the gooseflesh pebble. “You want to ride me, Hollander?”

It’s a shame, really, that he can’t see the shocked look on Shane’s face when he freezes. But Ilya is close enough to feel the following full-body shudder, so he’s not too mad. He bites his lip as he waits out the internal fight in Shane that happens every time he proposes something new. The conditioned no of the professional athlete who doesn’t even let himself eat tasty food against the instinctive oh, fuck yes of the blossoming hedonist Ilya is trying to cultivate. It doesn’t even take that long this time.

 “Okay,” Shane says. It’s not a whisper, but it’s close. His voice is low and hushed, deliciously croaky in a way it only gets in bed. Ilya wonders how many other people know that voice. Immediately regrets asking himself that question when envy buries itself in his lungs like a knife.

Today, Shane is less impatient about being opened up than he is normally. So instead of thinking about things that hurt, Ilya asks himself why that is. Is it because he's not sure he’ll like riding Ilya quite as much as he loves getting fucked? Does he just want to be careful because of the new position? Or is there something else going on, something connected to Shane asking to talk earlier?

There’s nothing hesitant in the way Shane lifts himself over Ilya’s cock and sinks down on it. But there is in how slowly Shane lifts his head to look at Ilya. If Ilya’s chest didn’t already feel like a yawning chasm, he would probably be more affected by the depth in Shane’s eyes. Fuck. Maybe this was a mistake. He’s been so focused on not freaking Shane out that he didn’t stop to think he might freak himself out. This feels intimate. Vulnerable. More intimate and vulnerable than even their first night. Maybe because it's happening in broad daylight. Nothing about this feels like a secret. It’s terrifying. Ilya wants it more than anything. But he also wants to run.

Unfortunately - or maybe fortunately - for him, there are currently around two hundred pounds of well-muscled hockey player in his lap, anchoring him to the bed and clenching around his cock. There is no running away. There’s only helplessly staring up at Shane as he slowly gains confidence in his movements. There’s wishing they would’ve started this while Ilya was sat up against the headboard so they could be even closer. And there’s wrapping his hand around Shane’s cock to help him along and immediately following him over the edge when the first splash of come hits his chest.

Of course, Shane quickly gets antsy to leave. But not antsy enough to follow through. When Ilya beckons him back to bed, he comes. When Ilya goads him into staying, he barely even tries to argue. And when Ilya, as nonchalantly as he can, wraps an arm around him, he falls asleep. It’s beautiful. Shane’s anxiety, Ilya knows, wouldn’t allow him to do that if he were uncomfortable. That means something. Ilya’s heart has never been so full. He watches Shane doze for half an hour. It’s so beautifully hypnotizing that he doesn’t even have to pretend to be dazed when Shane wakes up again.

It’s in the kitchen that Ilya has to admit to himself that this maybe isn’t going the way that he hoped. The ginger ale, apparently, is already a lot. And then, he offers to cook something and can practically see how alarms start blaring in Shane’s head.

“You wanna make me a tuna melt?”

“I’m gonna make one for myself, I can make one for you,” Ilya says. Easy. No extra effort. See, I’m cool. 

“Oh, okay.”

When Ilya imagined this scenario, he thought there were a few ways this could go. One, most probably: Shane might refuse anything Ilya prepared outright because it didn’t fit his diet. Wouldn’t have felt great, but Ilya would have understood. Shane is very strict with himself. Two: Shane would interrogate him about the ingredients within an inch of his life and demand at least one adjustment before he agreed. That would have been fun. Ilya prepared for that. And three: Shane might have started chirping him, questioning if he was sure he could cook and whether he wanted to give Shane food poisoning right before the game. That was the outcome he hoped for.

This is nothing like that. This is poker-faced astonishment that Ilya would want to do something for Shane. It's dread sinking stone-heavy into his stomach and thinking I had no idea I messed up this badly.

Ilya is what his mother liked to call a giver. It doesn’t really matter what it is that he gives, just that he feels most comfortable when he’s providing for people. Inviting his team out for celebrations after big wins and for commiseration after big losses. Lavish dinners and spa days for recurring hookups. Pictures with fans. Signed sticks and game-day jerseys. It fills that yawning emptiness inside him, the feeling that someone somewhere has a better day because Ilya did something for them.

Svetlana was the first person to draw his attention to the fact that he’s like this in bed, too. At first, she giggled about it. None of the other boys ever want to eat me out, Ilya, why are you so obsessed with it? The actual realization came later, after she joined him in Boston. I really missed that about you. You’re so focused on making me come. It’s like you can’t pay attention to yourself until you’ve taken care of me. With detached amusement, Ilya thought she was right.

It was a bit of a problem with Shane. Ilya wants him so much, always, that he sometimes gets selfish. Or something close to it, at least. At times, they race each other to the finish line. Shane always comes first, but sometimes only by seconds. Now, standing in his kitchen, Ilya wonders if that’s part of it. If Shane has felt it, this selfishness, and decided that it means Ilya wants him for nothing more than sex. As if Ilya wouldn’t take any little morsel he threw his way, at this point.

But Ilya isn’t stupid. He knows it’s not just that. Because in his attempts to protect himself and his own feelings, he keeps leaving when he wants to stay. There’s a saying the Americans have for that. Actions speak louder than words. The problem is that, right now, Shane looks ready to bolt. If Ilya doesn’t find the right words, he might not make it to the actions. Fuck.

“I want to eat and watch game with you. Buffalo today, should be interesting. Always wanted to watch with you. Is different from playing.” With unsteady hands, he lays out the ingredients for the sandwich on the counter. “I ask myself: Is he a screamer here too?”

It’s a gamble, but the innuendo brings them back on more familiar ground and Shane snorts. “Always? What, like you watch games and wonder what would Hollander say?”

His fake accent is atrocious and so precious that Ilya wants to pinch his cheeks. Such a little asshole. All those people calling Shane their unproblematic fave have no idea. Sure, he might be a genuinely nice guy most of the time. He’s a much better person than even most players Ilya knows personally. But he’s also one of the bitchiest motherfuckers Ilya has ever met. He loves it so much it hurts.

“Ah, what can I say?” He makes big cow eyes and clutches his chest. “I pine. Is problem.”

The little laugh Shane huffs makes Ilya’s stomach twinge, but it also makes him grin. Just you wait, he thinks. You have no idea.

Even though they end up in front of the TV, they don’t pay much attention to the game. Shane tries. And then, he tries to pretend when he doesn’t quite manage. He’s absent. When Ilya carefully tries to start up a conversation to figure out if Shane is sleeping with other people, just so he knows where they’re standing, Shane doesn’t understand at first. Then, he looks furious. Then, he gets defensive.

“It’s private,” he says. Ilya’s gut churns at the realization that, as physically intimate as they are with each other, Shane doesn’t want to tell him. It’s meaningless information, and still Ilya isn’t worthy of being told. That’s how it feels, at least. Zoya would be mad at him for thinking that. But she would also tell him to try to figure out what else it might mean. And Ilya can’t come up with anything.

His father’s call, at first, is a welcome distraction. At least until Ilya picks up and realizes his useless brother has been derelict in his duties once again. Calling Alexei with Shane in the next room feels impossible. Already, he can’t shout at his brother in the way that he wants. But he also doesn’t want Shane overhearing a tense conversation and asking too many questions. He might not speak Russian, but he’s curious. And he has this way of talking about family, of always assuming the best, that makes Ilya feel stripped naked and afraid in a way that really isn’t conducive to the conversation he wants to have here.

Of course, Shane asks questions. But not too many of them. Especially not after Ilya scoots over right next to him. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to draw Shane into his arms. To wind his fingers into his inky hair and kiss his head. And Shane just... goes. Follows Ilya’s direction like he always does, even though this is a wholly different kind of intimacy. 

Ilya tries to look out for signs of tension. Because while he knows Shane will say no when he really doesn’t want something - like he did the night of the All Star Game with Scott Hunter next door - he doesn’t want to risk discomfort. Can’t be the one to cause it, not right now. This is too important. But even as Ilya starts petting his hair, Shane doesn’t tense up. He’s still loose-limbed, exactly like he had been right before he fell asleep.

It’s peaceful. So peaceful that Ilya has to breathe very carefully against the pressure in his chest when he realizes just how much he wants this. How much he never wants this to stop. This is why he never let himself stay. He was right to avoid it. Because now, his eyes are stinging and his chest feels weird. Nothing about sex with anyone except for Shane has ever made him feel anything close to this. Even sex with Shane... he thinks this may be more powerful. If he got to keep only one, this or fucking, he'd choose this in a heartbeat.

Shane chooses for him. Kisses his way down Ilya’s chest and rubs his thigh. Ilya immediately feels himself reacting, but he still considers stopping it. Pulling Shane up for a few chaste kisses and just holding him some more. Just a few minutes more, before he has to open his mouth and potentially ruins this fragile thing they have. Then, Shane climbs in his lap again with his eyes all hazy and wanting, and the thought of denying him anything hurts. So Ilya doesn’t.

Instead, he basks. They’re closer now than they were earlier. Sure, Ilya had been inside of Shane then, but their faces had been much further apart. They’re plastered up right against each other right now. Shane is looking him right in the eyes as he strokes their cocks. Ilya can’t stop touching him. Can’t stop taunting Shane when he asks: “Are you gonna come for me, Rozanov?”

Can’t stop himself from saying Shane’s first name as he comes with their faces right next to each other. Doesn’t even really notice he does it, at first. Because he’s busy coming.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes.

For a second, Ilya’s world narrows to Shane’s breath on his face and the ringing in his ears. And then, a third thing registers. Ilya. Shane said his first name. Even as all of the air vanishes out of the room, Ilya can feel the smile light up his face. Shane said my name. That’s a good sign, right? The most encouraging thing to have happened all evening.

Tilting up for a kiss is the most natural thing he's ever done. There’s a little sun burning behind his sternum now, fueling him with energy. Ilya feels like he could do anything. Shane said my name. He can’t stop smiling. Even smiles into the kiss, which is incredibly chaste for the circumstances. His entire body is buzzing. If he had to do bag skates for the entire day, he probably could. That’s not even a joke.

He kisses Shane a second time. Marvels at how light he feels. How hopeful. God, this is better than anything he could have dreamed up. An admission on both their parts. Not quite obvious, but clear enough. And he didn’t even have to stammer around it. It just happened organically. No awkwardness, no language missteps. Pure feeling. 

And then, Shane doesn’t meet him for a third kiss. At first, Ilya doesn’t even notice. He has his eyes closed, and can still feel the tip of Shane’s nose rubbing up right next to his. So he assumes he’s being teased, and just leans in a bit further. If Shane wants to be playful, Ilya is absolutely down to play.

Except then, Shane climbs out of his lap, taking away his warmth and letting the cold air rush in. When Ilya opens his eyes, Shane has already pulled his sweatpants back over his cock and is mumbling something about having to leave. 

The look on his face makes Ilya’s entire body go cold. Eyes wide, mouth straight, completely smooth. Not a line in sight. There are a few drops of come glistening on his rapidly expanding chest. Expanding, and then collapsing on itself. And again, and again. The breaths aren’t just too quick, they’re also extremely deep. Like Shane is trying to get himself under control again. Trying and failing.

Shane says something about a meeting that he forgot about, and it’s so clearly a lie that it catches Ilya off guard. Puts him on the defensive. He responds sarcastically before he can stop himself and then watches in horror as Shane takes another step back. Looks in the direction of the front door.

“I can’t…”

Fuck. The joy Ilya felt earlier has coagulated now, congealed into a choking phlegm in the back of his throat and a heavy clump in his stomach.

“Hollander,” he tries. Maybe that will help. Restoring a bit of the distance that has always kept them safe. That must be the problem, right? The names? Goddamn it, Ilya knew the name would be a problem. He should have been more careful. Not let himself get carried away like this.

Shane shakes his head. “I can’t…”

But he can’t even say what it is that he can’t do. Like saying it would be too much. Dimly, Ilya is aware that this is probably what Zoya had been trying to warn him about. Except Ilya couldn’t even get to the part where he asked for more. No, he had to be greedy and fuck it up. 

Ilya’s heart is racing, but not nearly as quickly as his mind. What is happening? What can he do to make this better? Zoya said something about letting Shane get used to the idea. But Shane is looking at the door again, heaving big breaths like a horse about to bolt. Clearly, he’s afraid and looking for a way out. Ilya doesn’t think he has any time for getting used to. If he wants to salvage the situation, he has to act quickly. So he tries a tactic that has worked on him before.

“Hollander, you are panicking. Sit down.” Naming the emotion, so Shane knows trying to hide it is useless. And giving an instruction to draw him out of whatever death spiral his thoughts are currently in. He gentles his voice as much as he can, but Shane still flinches.

“No, I’m not-”

“Yes, you are. You’re panicking.” Slowly, Ilya stands. Tugs his waistband back up so he doesn’t have his dick out anymore. “I can see you’re panicking. But is fine. Will be okay. Just sit down, yes? More comfortable.”

“I don’t…” Still, Shane's eyes are flicking between Ilya and the exit. One of his hands is clutching Ilya’s black shirt, the other one hangs uselessly by his side. When Ilya takes a careful step forward, he lifts his chin, almost like he’s squaring up. Ilya wants to scream.

“Hollander. Sit.” He points to the part of the couch closest to Shane and is relieved to see his eyes follow, at least. If he looks at the couch, then he’s at least considering it, right? Just the thought of Shane actually trying to leave makes Ilya sick to his stomach. If that happens, what does he do? He can’t very well grab Shane and force him to stay. Not only would that be bad in any situation, but it would probably make him panic harder. Maybe he’d try to fight. And that’s not... that’s not acceptable. Ilya doesn’t want to risk ever putting his hands on Shane like that. Making him think he has to defend himself. If he did, he’d be no better than his own father.

Even though his entire body is tight as a bowstring, Shane isn’t moving. He’s still staring at the couch. There’s a frown on his face now, like he doesn’t know what to do. Slowly, Ilya steps between him and the door, motions again.

“Sit. Is okay.”

Shane takes one step before his knees buckle and he falls like a puppet with its strings cut. Just falls to his knees in front of the couch and then smushes his face into it like not seeing Ilya will mean Ilya doesn’t see him. His shoulders are rising and falling even faster now, so Ilya doesn’t have time to be relieved he didn’t run. He bites his lip and desperately tries to remember the one session him and Zoya talked about panic attacks.

“Hollander, you need to slow your breathing,” he says. Goes to his knees as well to get them both on the same level, but stays back, careful not to crowd him. “Is scary, I know. But you are safe. Everything is alright. I am only scary on ice - you know this, yes? I don’t know what is so bad right now, but I promise I don’t hurt you. I promise I don’t laugh. You just need to breathe and we can figure it out, yes? Together, we are smart enough.”

Shane makes a wounded noise. It’s muffled by the couch, as is his breathing. Jesus, how is he even getting air like this? Fear of Shane leaving is joined by a niggling worry for his physical safety. This isn’t good. He needs to fucking breathe.

“Hollander,” Ilya says. “Is okay if I touch you? Just on shoulder. I want to turn you around, make sure you breathe.”

There’s another low sound. But before Ilya can wonder if that was supposed to be an answer, Shane starts to turn. He takes up as little space as possible, presses himself up against the couch until it’s in his back. Ilya barely catches a glimpse of how red his face is before he buries it in his knees and folds his hands over his head. He’s still breathing far too quickly. But at least he’s listening.

Ilya swallows against his own panic, still sticky in the back of his throat. Shuffles the tiniest bit closer. Says: “Hollander, I need you to listen to me, alright? You need to listen to me breathe and copy me so you can calm down a bit. Okay? We do in for four, out for four.”

Shane’s shoulders tighten. But when Ilya not only demonstrates but keeps going, they slowly relax. The first few attempts are big gasps of air, but it gets better after that. Shane tries. Ilya can see him tapping along to the rhythm of the breaths. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. It calms him, as well. But it’s not quite enough to stop his stomach from turning when, after one very deliberate breath out, he hears Shane’s breath hitch. Sees him press his face into his knees even harder for just a moment, before he raises his head and blinks blearily. He’s crying. 

Fuck. That might be even worse. Sure, Shane is getting air now. But crying? That can’t be good. And Ilya doesn’t even feel like he should address it, because what if that sets him off again? Certainty, he tells himself. He needs to just talk and give Shane all the information that he can, so at least he’s freaking out about things that are actually happening. So he reminds himself that Marleau is waiting and will be there for him if this doesn’t end well, like it probably won’t, takes a deep breath and opens his mouth.

“I will not call you your first name again if you don’t want,” he says. “Clearly was wrong. I apologize. But will be hard. These last months, I have thought of you as Shane. Is difficult to call you Hollander. Very... unpersonal. Like colleague. Like we just play hockey and nothing else.”

Shane doesn’t move a muscle, just keeps staring ahead. Ilya doesn’t know what that means.

“Is fine if that is what you want. I respect your wishes. But I just... I want to say clearly, just once, that I want more. You don’t want more, that’s fine. I never say again.”

A sharp breath. “More?”

“More,” Ilya croaks. He watches, with bated breath, as Shane squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head back.

“That’s not clear,” Shane says. 

Right, of course it isn’t. But there’s another teardrop making its way down Shane’s cheek, so he hopes he can be forgiven for being a tiny bit distracted. Fuck, how is he pretty even when he cries? The list he made of the things he wants is hard to recall in these circumstances. Ilya tries anyway. 

“I want not just sex. Be part of your life, even if it’s secret. You come to my house, I come to your real flat. We don’t leave immediately. Is nice, yes? I really liked spending time with you today. Would like to more often. Make fun of bad hockey teams in front of TV, eat together.” He clears his throat. “Not have sex with other people, just us.”

That’s the thing that finally gets Shane to look at him. The sunlight catches in his irises, making them gleam a bright amber. His voice, when he finds it, is toneless. “You want to be in a relationship with me?”

“No!” Ilya hurries to say. “No, I know relationship is unrealistic. No one can know. I’m Russian, could never go back if people find out. I don’t ask to meet parents and friends, go eat dinner in restaurant. Just… also friendship.”

Zoya had vehemently disagreed with his definition when he told her. The way Shane rears back makes Ilya regret not listening to her.

“And exclusivity! You don’t fuck people and sleep in their beds and hang out with them just as friends. That’s a relationship, Rozanov! What the fuck?”

Ilya’s first instinct is to push back, say no. A relationship is a thing that counts, a thing that can be public. But fighting over definitions is rarely productive, his sessions with Zoya have taught him that. And also… “Listen to what he’s actually saying,” he hears Zoya say in his head. “Communicate what you’re hearing. Make sure you’re on the same page.”

“You don’t want this,” he says with a pit in his stomach. Mentally, he’s already composing his text to Marleau. “Is okay, I understand.”

“No, you don’t!” Shane puts so much vehemence behind his words that Ilya almost shrinks back. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Jesus Christ. You can’t just spring this on me and then not let me ask questions.”

His eyebrows are furrowed now, but he’s looking directly at Ilya. Holding eye contact. It looks like a challenge. In case it’s also a question, Ilya nods to show he understands. Immediately, the eye contact breaks. Shane lays his forehead against his knees again, takes a deep breath.

“Okay. So you want all of those things you just said. If I say wanting those things means wanting a relationship, do you still want them?”

“Relationship is too risky,” Ilya says.

And there are the eyes again, wide and furious. Shane’s nostrils are flaring. “Literally how? We already do all the things we would get in the most trouble for.”

Ilya thinks about this for a moment. “If you are my boyfriend, I want to tell people. But I can’t tell people. So.”

“So,” Shane parrots. “Man, you are something else.” 

But there’s something soft dancing in his eyes. A tiny little flame, flickering defiantly in his otherwise flat expression. Ilya observes this for a while, tries to calm his own rapidly beating heart and just let Shane think. Bites his tongue to keep himself from asking questions. Like what it was that freaked Shane out so much. He thinks he knows, but he’d like to be certain. It would help him feel calmer.

“Why do you want that?” Shane finally asks.

Now, it’s Ilya’s turn to squeeze his eyes shut. Of course. It makes sense to ask that. It’s the obvious question, right after “But Ilya, why did you insist on doing this in person when you knew it would freak me out?” Still, his mouth runs dry. 

“Because I like you. You are not around, and I miss you. Something happens, I want to tell you. You look at me, I want to kiss you. Even if we are on the ice and you just won the faceoff.” He pauses, corrects himself. “Especially then.”

 Next to him, Shane shuffles. Ilya doesn’t look. Focuses on his heartbeat. It’ll be okay, he tells himself. Shane is nice. Ilya just has to give him the time to come up with the most polite rejection possible and then keep himself together long enough to get somewhere in his friend’s vicinity. He feels stupid for hoping, earlier. Of course, Shane panicked. This is a lot. Zoya keeps telling him he isn’t too much for people and that he deserves real connection, but maybe he was right to never completely believe her.

“You like me?” Shane croaks. “Like, actually? But you always… You leave, or you tell me to go away. That doesn’t… why would you do that if you like me?”

It’s the tone more than the words that makes Ilya look over at him. The disbelief. What’s that? Doesn’t he believe him? Or is it simply that inconceivable that Ilya would be capable of deeper feeling? Did he mess up so badly that Shane didn’t know he could feel things like this?

“I was scared. I’m still scared. But my therapist, she say you need to be honest, Ilya. Is not fair to not let people in. So I try.”

“You have a therapist.” Shane blinks at him.

Ilya wants to scream. How is that what Shane takes away from what he said? “Yes. Marleau’s cousin kill himself because of depression, so he get worried about me. And maybe I also get a little bit worried. But I meet Zoya, and is better now. She’s very helpful. Many strategies.”

He can see the moment it hits Shane. His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth opens slightly. But he quickly wrangles his expression into something more neutral. Something that doesn’t scream questions at Ilya, even though he can still see them whirring in Shane’s eyes.

“Oh,” Shane says. “That’s good. I’m happy it’s working for you.”

Fuck, this is like pulling teeth. Ilya takes a deep breath and tries to steer the conversation back on track. “Zoya, she says if you want to be with him, then you have to ask. Not good to just pine. Do something about it.”

Pearly white teeth dig into Shane’s lower lip. “Be with sounds like a relationship.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Zoya also says this. So okay. We call it relationship. I want relationship. What do you want?” He feels breathless now. It’s stupid, really. He knows this. Shane doesn’t want this. He panicked at the very thought of it. And yet… There’s hope galloping in his chest.

“Even if you can’t tell people?”

Ilya throws his head back. “I don’t give a fuck about people, Hollander. I want you. I know I can’t tell people. I just want as much of you as I can get. So I ask for more. As much as you’re willing to give.”

“Fuck,” Shane says. “Fuck. I can’t believe-”

And suddenly, there’s movement. Shane levers himself to his feet so quickly that the couch creaks. Turns, turns again so he’s looking down at Ilya. Sees something on his face that makes him curse a third time.

“Do you know why I freaked out like that?” he asks.

Ilya blinks. Where’s this agitation coming from? Is there something else he’s doing wrong? “I cross a line, I think. Say your name. You don’t want this, and it scares you.”

Shane laughs. It sounds harsh in Ilya’s ears, but to his eyes, it’s beautiful. A relief, even with how red Shane’s eyes still are. He’s so pretty that Ilya almost misses it when he says: “No, it scares me because I want it. And because I didn’t think you wanted it.”

“I want it.” They’re the most important words Ilya has ever said in his entire life. And he’s sitting on his living room floor as he does it, butt cold from the slightly ostentatious marble tiles, looking up at Shane with his heart pounding out of his chest. 

Shane, who visibly hesitates. “I hear you.”

Oh, fuck. Fuck, he should have considered this. Shane barely eats steak. How did Ilya not take into account that Shane wanting this too may not be enough for a happy ending? That he could decide to just deny himself something he wants because he does it all the time?

Ilya’s knees twinge when he gets up. Staying sat down would probably make him look less threatening, if that’s even a concern in the first place. But fuck that. Ilya needs to move. Or at least the option to, as soon as he gets rejected. Ironic, isn’t it, how afraid he was of Shane running just a few minutes ago. And now he’s the one that’s the flight risk.

“Fuck.” Shane rubs at his eyes aggressively. “Okay, so can I think about this? Can I have time to think? Because this is a lot, and I… I’m not so good with decisions off the ice.”

“Of course,” Ilya says, like Zoya had made him practice a hundred times. If she hadn’t, the words would probably have gotten stuck in his throat. It’s not a no, Ilya knows that. But it feels like one. It feels like an excuse to say no later, when Shane doesn’t have to see his face crumple.

Shane just looks at him like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. He’s still not breathing normally. By his sides, Ilya’s hands twitch with the urge to reach out to him. To just grab a hold of his arms and pull him into a hug. Even that feels like it would be too much, now. Ilya isn’t sure it would be welcome.

“Sorry for… stress,” Ilya says.

Shane winces. “No. Please don’t… Don’t apologize. I - thank you for asking. Thank you, okay? I really need to leave so I can freak out about this properly, but thank you. I don’t think I could ‘ve asked.”

“Shane, if it freaks you out-”

Shane takes a step forward. “I freak out about everything. All the big personal decisions. Freaked out before the first dinner at Hayden’s, too. I just… I need the space to do it, and then I’m over it. It’s fine. That’s not your problem, you didn’t cause this.”

Well, that feels like a fucking lie. But Ilya can’t say that, not when Shane takes another step closer and trails a hand down one of his arms until he can intertwine their fingers. When he looks up to meet Ilya’s eyes, his lips are twitching like they’re trying to form words his head hasn’t come up with yet.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Here’s what we’ll do: I leave now, and we play the game tonight. We don’t meet again after that, but we’ll text. And we’ll find a date to meet again soon. You text me every option you come across, I do the same. I don’t care if I have to fly in for a day, we’ll see each other soon, okay?”

Now, Ilya is the one who has difficulty breathing. It takes him a while just to remember how to nod. I don’t care if I have to fly in is not no. What is happening here? Is Shane really-

“And up until then, we see how texting more works, okay? If there’s something you wanna tell me, just do that. And we can…” Shane clears his throat. “If you want to, we can agree not to sleep with other people. Even without a decision. I mean, I’d understand-”

“Eight months,” Ilya interrupts him. Fuck, his hands are clammy.

“What?”

“I only slept with you for eight months. Not interested in other people anymore.” His eyes are wet, but Ilya blinks through it. Not now. Just a bit longer, then he can have his breakdown. No matter how light he feels at the relief, this isn’t the time to cry.

“Oh.” Shane’s hand tightens around Ilya’s. “Fuck, Ilya. Can I kiss you?”

Such a ridiculous question doesn’t deserve an answer. And why give one, when Ilya can just fall into Shane? This he can’t quite keep the desperation out of. Can’t quite make himself soften his fingers when he grips Shane’s face. Can’t gentle his lips. But he doesn’t need to. Shane kisses him back just as hungrily. Again, and again, and then once more for good measure.

“Fuck,” he says when he’s retreated a bit and rolls his forehead against Ilya. “I really want this. Just… let me get over myself, okay?”

As if Ilya can do anything but agree. Shane disappears into his bedroom to change back into his own clothes. When he reemerges in his stupid brown leather jacket, Ilya is still standing there uselessly. But he gets a kiss for his efforts, at least. 

The tears come as soon as the door closes. That activates the emergency protocol. Only, when he has Marleau on the other end of the phone call cautiously asking how bad it was, he has to laugh. Because it wasn’t bad. Was it?

Let me get over myself.

“I don’t know, Marleau. He didn’t say yes. I think he say I say yes when we next meet.”

Marleau makes an indignant sound. “What? Who does that? Who the fuck does that guy think he is?”

Ilya grins. Shane fucking Hollander. God, he loves him.

Chapter End Notes

No content warnings for this chapter :)

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

The sun came back and I was feeling happy again, and then my brain wanted me to write about Ilya being happy. Ta-daa?

When Shane asked for time to think, Ilya assumed there would be waiting. A lot of it, probably, while Shane carefully made lists of pros and cons. Nail biting while Shane tried to figure out how Ilya could fit into his five year plan. Silence while every little detail was mulled over until Shane was sure he’d accounted for all eventualities and made his decision. 

Sure, Shane had also agreed to text. And he always answers Ilya’s texts, but it's perfunctory. What he doesn’t do is reach out. For every time Shane initiates contact, Ilya does it six times. Zoya made him go back through their chat logs and check, while they were trying to figure out if it was a good idea for Ilya to ask for more. She didn’t look happy about the numbers, but said they might not mean much. That maybe Shane was just bad at texting.

All that to say Ilya certainly isn’t expecting to find a text waiting for him when he’s sitting on Marleau’s couch after the game and checks his phone.

You know I hate it when you win, but you were on fire today. I loved watching you.

He stares at his phone for so long that Marleau shakes his shoulder. “Hey, you alright, man?”

Ilya shakes himself out of his stupor. “Yes.” His heart is beating like crazy, but he thinks that might actually be a good thing. Shows he’s alive, right? Shows that this is real. Shane Hollander is checking in with him after a game even though they’re not planning to meet up right now. Shane Hollander, who is probably still freaked out by the potential of more, and who Ilya figured would go dark for at least a week, has texted him not even a day after they last saw each other.

Next to him, Marleau clearly isn’t convinced. His dark eyes flick from Ilya’s face to the phone in his hand and back again. Thank God Ilya has set his screen to go dark automatically. That text, while not obvious, is certainly incriminating. And in the state he’s in, he doesn’t think he’d be a very convincing liar if Marleau starts asking the right questions.

“You sure? I mean, I get not wanting to go out after yesterday. But you seem kinda... spacey.”

Right. Ilya takes a deep breath. Next to Svetlana, Marleau is his best friend. Even if he could, he doesn’t want to lie to him. So he tries to be as honest as he can. “My... friend, he watched the game. He wrote to me. I wasn’t expecting him to.”

Marleau blinks. “Not expecting him to? Rozy, that doesn’t sound good. First, he can’t say yes and now you didn’t even think he’d text you?”

Fuck. That’s... perfectly reasonable, actually. Inconvenient as all hell, but a reasonable reaction to what Ilya just said. He pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s no going back now, is there? Once Marleau is worried about something, he doesn’t just let it go. That’s why Ilya has Zoya now. But how can he explain without giving too much away? Even if Marleau never finds out that Shane is Shane Hollander, most of the other things he'd need to say as part of a proper explanation are still sensitive. Shane is such an intensely private person that Ilya doesn’t think he’d want anyone to know about his anxiety. Although maybe the anxiety is the least of all evils. Given that it’s probably the best explanation.

“He is very anxious. New things scare him, and he needs to think about them first. Zoya said this when we prepared, and then he said it when we talked. When he says he needs time, I think it mean more time than this. But is not decision yet. Maybe just decision needs time.”

Marleau purses his lips. “Zoya expected this?”

“Yes.” Ilya bites his tongue to keep himself from saying the word autism. It still feels big in his mind. He’s read about it, and it fits. But he doesn’t even know if Shane knows. So should he be talking about it? Probably not. Zoya certainly didn’t seem like she thought it was a good idea to do so behind Shane’s back. Even if Ilya is grateful that she did it.

“Alright.” Marleau nods. His expression is less scrunchy than before, which Ilya hopes means good things. “And you’re happy? Or, like, you feel good about all of this?”

“I feel very good. Is... I’m not good at hoping. But this feels like a good thing, yes? I think he just needs time to be sure about answer. He thinks a lot, needs to go through all scenarios first.” The words are neutral because Ilya wants to show that he’s thought this through. That he’s not just saying things to get Marleau off his back. But he can’t help the smile on his face as he says them. There’s no fighting it. Even when he tries pressing his lips together, they still curve up. 

Ilya’s first instinct is to hide. This emotion is so big, and to have it written on his face so clearly feels dangerous. “Feelings are useless,” his father always says. “They make you weak. Don’t let your guard down , boy. Focus.” But his father isn’t here, and Zoya has made it very clear that she doesn’t want Ilya to listen to anything he’s ever said. So he takes his stupidly wide eyes and uses them to look at Marleau, who’s making a face like someone’s just handed him a baby that he doesn’t know what to do with. Precious and oh so fragile.

“And you think the answer is going to be a yes?”

Ilya buries his teeth in his lip and nods. He really does. Shane is good at no. Very good. He says no to everything. Tasty food. Colors. Alcohol and dancing. He says no instinctively. Quickly. Immediately tried to do it once Ilya scared him. Yes is much more difficult, because he has to fight himself. Ilya hopes to God that he's right. Hopes that, for once, Shane wanting can be enough. That Shane lets himself want, and then lets himself have.

“Okay.” Marleau nods to himself, then scrunches his eyebrows together. “Okay, do you need anything?”

“I need witty answer to text message,” Ilya says.

Marleau’s guffaw is balm to his soul. “Not what I meant, but cool. What did he say?”

Ilya reads the text out loud, but omits the part where Shane says he hates seeing him win. “Problem is all witty answers I come up with are sexy. I don’t know if sexy is good thing right now. Might be too much.”

“But he knows, you, right? So he must know how much you are. And he’s not put off by it. Just like me.”

“Ah, Marly,” Ilya tuts. “Is different. Much with you means dancing on tables and doing the macarena on the ice. Much with him means saying I can jerk off for him next time if he likes watching so much.”

Marleau’s eyes almost bug out of his head.

Zoya is in a different room this time. Usually, when they skype for therapy, her background is a very sad beige. Today, it’s magenta. 

“My sister needed an emergency babysitter, so I’m in my niece’s bedroom. You might hear her playing in the background, I’m sorry. But she can’t hear you.” She taps on her headphones. “Ordinarily, I would’ve canceled. But I thought this session might be especially important for you.”

And the thing is, she’s right. It would have been much more important if Shane had said no, there’s no question of that. But Ilya still feels unmoored. Whether that’s because of the missing yes or because of all the hope he’s feeling, he doesn't know. Yet. Zoya will probably force more introspection on him. She usually does.

“Thank you,” he says. And then, he relays what happened. Probably in more detail than is appropriate, but he doesn’t want to miss anything important. It feels relevant that he said Shane’s first name while Shane had his hand around both their cocks. Isn’t that, like, additional vulnerability? That should be mentioned. 

“Sounds like you had an intense few days,” Zoya says. “How are you feeling now?”

“Exhausted.” And still so energized that he could bounce off the ceiling. It’s a strange combination. Is that just what hope feels like? Ilya isn’t used to strong emotions being positive, so all of this is just a lot. It doesn’t feel normal. But does that mean it’s abnormal or does it just mean it’s not normal for him?

“I can imagine.” She rubs her chin. “Did you need your contingency plan? We didn’t plan for no answer. I apologize, maybe I should have seen that coming.”

Ilya smiles down at his hands. “I called Marley. And I talked to him after the game. I didn’t want to be alone, but I think I would have been okay if I had to be. Does that make sense?”

“Of course!” Zoya hurries to say. “We’re social creatures. Most of us want company most of the time. It’s good that you asked for it. Wanting things that are good for you is a good thing. We talked about this.”

“But isn’t it a crutch?” Ilya asks. He’s been wondering about this. It feels like Marleau indulges him a lot these days, and he can never tell how much of that is normal. “There won’t always be someone there for me to talk to.”

Zoya gives him a stern look. “Friendship is not a crutch. It’s an essential part of life. It would be different if you were constantly demanding the attention of your friends without giving anything back, but it doesn’t sound like that’s what you’re doing. Does Cliff ask you for things?”

“He asked me to go shopping last weekend.” Because apparently, the great Cliff Marleau has had enough of perpetual singledom. And that means he needs outfits for first dates. Which he’s already assuming there are going to be a lot of because the last time he was serious about dating, it was an unmitigated disaster. Ilya was fighting hard to keep a straight face through the entire nervous explanation. 

“And did you go with him?”

“Of course!” Seeing Marley in animal print had been one of the great highlights of his life. Almost as good as realizing Shane Hollander was perving on him in the showers. Even if Ilya hadn’t managed to get him to buy any.

“See, that’s good. It’s always going to be a give and take. Right now, maybe you need a bit more support. Just like you were giving a bit more support back when Vinnie died. That’s okay. As long as you listen to your friends when they tell you what they need. And if you try to pay attention, in case there is something they can’t say yet.”

That makes Ilya feel a bit better about himself, actually. He’s never done any dating that wasn’t essentially just hooking up, so he doesn’t know how much help he’ll be. But he’s already excited to hype him up for dates. They’ve loosely discussed trying recipes so Marley can cook nice food to impress a woman who lasts more than just one date. This is going to be great.

“I want to be a good friend,” Ilya says. It feels important to say out loud.

“I think you are. That’s probably why Cliff is so ready to change his plans for you. Because he knows you’d do the same.” She smiles at him, then is distracted by something slightly off-screen. “Excuse me for a moment. Nastya, do you want to draw? There’s paper over there, sweetheart, the wallpaper is-”

The camera shakes as she gets up to wrangle her niece. Sounds of a scuffle and indignant toddler squawks emanate from the speakers of Ilya’s laptop. He bites his lip against the warmth in his chest. Affection is maybe not the most appropriate thing to feel for your therapist, but Ilya lets himself just this once. This is nice. He’s glad to have Zoya. And that other people have Zoya, like her niece. He just hopes that Zoya’s sister would similarly upend her plans if Zoya needed her help.

Zoya emerges victorious from the battle for the sanctity of the wallpaper, if a little worse for wear. She returns to the webcam with her hair tousled and a purple smudge on her cheek that she rubs away. 

“Okay. So how do you feel about not having an answer yet?”

“Hopeful,” Ilya says.

“That sounds exciting. So you think he’ll say yes?”

“I think I know it.”

There’s a glint in her eyes. “Well, okay then. And how do you think the wait is going to go?”

“Oh, it’s going to be fucking awful.”

On paper, this is one of the worst things that could’ve happened to him. Ilya isn’t a patient man. He’s also not very good at giving up control. But in reality...

It takes him a few days to realize that the constant current of energy coursing through him isn’t stress. After the first excitement has subsided, he thinks that might be it. It’s stressful not to know, so he’s stressed. Except, on second thought, he does know. At least he thinks so. So can he be stressed? It would fit with the constant need for movement and with how distracted he is all the time. 

But Shane keeps texting. Just little things, bright points of contact through Ilya’s days. And then, Shane calls him. Out of the blue and completely without warning, two weeks after their talk. It’s Thursday evening, and Ilya has just made it out to the parking lot after practice. Marleau is right there, because they were going to make an attempt at lasagna today. Ilya doesn’t even think about that, just panics when he sees the name Jane on his phone screen. Shane never calls.

“What is wrong?” he asks as soon as the call connects.

On the other end of the line, Shane laughs. “Well, hello to you too, Ilya. So nice to hear your voice. Usually, you ask people how their day was. Where are your manners?”

“Manners? Don’t talk to me about manners, asshole. How was I supposed to know was normal call? You never call.”

“Oh.” Immediately, the amusement drains out of Shane’s voice. Ilya wants to kick himself. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to talk to you. I know we’ve been texting, but I just... I know I’m not good at it. And I wanted to hear your voice. Is that alright?”

“Very alright.” A quick look at Marleau shows Ilya a delighted expression. He’s going to be chirped to hell and back over this. Or at the very least interrogated. Oh, well. “Is now important? I’m on the way home with Marley. We’re gonna make him lasagna so he gets laid. Needs lots of help impressing women who don’t exist yet. I am very generous.”

“He knows my name?” Marleau asks. “Put him on speaker, I wanna talk to him!”

“Oh, I can call back later,” Shane says at the same time.

“Marley wants you on speaker so he can do FSB-level interrogation,” Ilya dutifully reports. His chest feels ready to burst.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He might recognize my voice.”

Ilya takes a moment to think about that. “He might. And I understand no. But he knows about me for years and he never says anything. So.”

“Years?”

It appears that Shane has shot right past anxious to arrive at astonished. Ilya breathes a sigh of relief. “Years. I come out to him when he found me therapist.”

“He said his therapist had to like the gays,” Marleau shouts. His voice booms in the enclosed space of Ilya’s car. “Even though he's bi. Ten out of ten! Best coming out ever. I’m going to tell that story at his wedding.”

Shane chuckles. “Wow. I knew he was loud on the ice, but that was crystal clear. Are your ears okay?”

“My ears have survived Russian techno club. Marley is nothing against man-sized speakers in underground air raid bunker." Marleau tries to flick him in the nose for that, but he withdraws his hand quickly enough once he discovers that Ilya’s defense technique is attempting to chomp down on his fingers.

“Are you sure that was an actual club and not an illegal rave?”

“Obviously. Speakers were way too big for illegal rave. You cannot run with them.”

“I feel like we’re getting distracted,” Shane says. His voice is warm like the sun. “You were saying something about lasagna. Do you think I could call at nine? I’d like to be in bed by ten, but if that-”

“Nine is good,” Ilya interrupts him. “Nine is perfect. If lasagna is horrible, I just leave Marley alone to clean it up. So he knows not to fuck it up again the next time he tries, yes?”

Shane laughs and agrees and oh. Why are Ilya’s eyes wet all of a sudden? They hang up and Ilya slowly lowers his arm from his ear. Stares at his own face reflected back at him in the dark screen of his phone. Hears Shane’s talk to you later, asshole echoing in his head. Oh.

“I think I am happy,” he tells Marleau. Then, he starts to cry.

There are two more calls over the course of the week. Ilya doesn’t know what to make of them. They’re so... aimless. Shane talks about everything and nothing in particular. He asks Ilya about the cooking and about how therapy is going, but if Ilya gives detailed answers, he gets quiet for a while. Like he doesn’t know what to do with that. All Ilya can do in those moments is breathe and try his best not to make a joke to distract from the palpable tension.

Like when he explains that a lot of therapy is just Zoya asking questions and Ilya answering and then Zoya going “no, you're not being fair to yourself, try again” until she’s satisfied that Ilya has given her an accurate assessment of whatever situation they’re talking about. For almost a minute, there’s just silence on the other end of the line.

“That sounds really useful,” Shane finally says. “I get... lost in my thoughts sometimes. It’s good that you have someone to help you sort through all of that. I hope - I hope she helps.”

“Zoya helps me very much. She was great help in preparing to talk to you. She encouraged me to figure out what I really want.”

“Which is me.” It almost sounds like Shane is smiling. Ilya’s heart is beating overtime.

“Which is you,” he affirms. “And then, she help me make plan for how to ask. And what to do if you say no.”

There’s a sharp intake on the other end of the line. “You were prepared for that?”

Ilya almost laughs. “Prepared? No. Scared? Yes. I was terrified. But I also had hope. So I asked.”

And that’s where Shane becomes overwhelmed with that particular line of conversation, so they move on to easier things. Like the fact that Marleau didn’t give his size in his dating profile and apparently didn’t look to see that the woman he chose for his first first date said she was four foot eleven. At the end of the date, she looked up at Marley and said that he was very nice, but she wanted children soon, and it just didn’t seem smart to pick someone as massive as him. Marleau had been surprisingly blasé about it. Ilya knows what that word means now.

When the call ends, it feels incomplete. Like there’s something Ilya forgot. Only he didn’t, because he’s not the one who planned or even asked for the call. He relays this to Zoya in their next session, and she hums.

“Well, maybe he’s just trying to get to know you better. You know, in this different context? You said you didn’t really talk before. Usually, all of this talking comes at the start of dating, or maybe even before. He could be trying to catch up with how well he thinks he should know you before entering into a relationship.”

That makes a lot of sense, because of course it does. It came out of Zoya’s mouth. Except...

“You don’t sound convinced. What’s the other option?”

Zoya levels him with one of her looks. “One other option amongst many that I don’t all know about because I’m not omniscient is that he’s trying to work up to something.”

“Work up to what?”

“Telling you his answer. Maybe he’s trying to gather his courage.”

Right. That’s a good thing. There’s no way Shane asking him questions about therapy in an attempt to gather his courage to say if he wants more is anything but a good thing. But also... they still haven’t talked about dates. Ilya hasn’t been brave enough to bring it up, even though he answered Shane’s scariest questions, like why Marleau was worried about Ilya after Vinnie killed himself. He hasn’t brought it up because Shane hasn’t brought it up, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. Shane had been so firm on it. I don’t care if I have to fly in for a day. Text me every option you come across. But Ilya doesn’t want to ask, in case it’s too much too soon. Doesn’t want to risk putting pressure on Shane.

“Oh,” he says. “Then what do I do to show him it’s okay?”

Because maybe that’s it. Maybe he could be doing more to put Shane at ease. He’s never been good at that outside of sex. That’s probably why normal people do all of the talking before they start with the fucking. Or at least some of the talking. Zoya keeps saying it’s different for everyone. Ilya has to work very hard to keep himself from asking how it is for her. Because she’s his therapist, not his friend. One of these days, he’s going to get that in his head and make it stick.

“Just be there. Listen to him. Don’t change anything. Show him who you are and that his thoughts and opinions are safe with you, the same way you’ve been doing.”

So that’s what Ilya is prepared to do. He makes a list of safe topics that they can talk about when Shane gets overwhelmed. He tries to come up with things Shane might say, and of ways to answer those without spooking him. And he settles in for it to take a little while longer until Shane grows comfortable enough.

Before he can even say hello, after he accepts the next call, Shane says: “ have Tuesday and Wednesday off next week. Are you available? I really want to see you.”

In the end, Shane doesn’t fly in to see Ilya. It’s Ilya who gets on the plane.

“You said you wanted to see my home,” Shane said. “I figured, you know... it’d be a good start.”

Spontaneous combustion was a real possibility in that moment. Ilya was so incandescently happy that water wouldn’t have been enough to put him out. When he goes to bed that evening, ticket booked for the next week, he realizes he would be quite mad if he somehow found out he died during the night. It’s another thing to cry confused, half-happy tears about. He makes a note to tell Zoya in their next session.

If Shane thought he was on fire during the game directly after their talk, there now must be some sort of illegal accelerant involved. They play against New York and he gets a hat trick. He could’ve sworn they played against Ottawa at some point, but he doesn’t even remember any opponents on the ice.

His memory of the flight is similarly spotty. By the time his taxi pulls up to the address Shane gave him, he doesn’t remember the boarding process, and the rest of it is patchy. Like Ilya was just winking in and out of existence, here and then gone again. If he didn’t know exactly why this is happening, he’d probably be on the phone to Zoya right now. Even with the knowledge that he’s just losing his mind over Shane, it still feels alarming.

There’s still a back entrance to this building. Shane had sounded scared to even bring it up, but Ilya doesn’t care. This feels different. It’s not being asked to walk up to the door to a lifeless investment property through a creepy parking lot. It’s protecting the sanctity of Shane’s home by walking across a nicely maintained lawn. In daylight. Because it’s not even noon yet.

Shane has given him a code so he can let himself in. As Ilya enters it and hears the keypad chirp happily, he wonders if that was intentional. If this is a permanent code that he now has and will be able to use anytime he wants. If Shane has basically given him a key. It feels like he might have. 

Even though the elevator would take him to Shane faster, Ilya takes the stairs to work off some of the nervous energy. It seems like a good idea until he catches sight of Shane standing in the open door to his flat and gets light-headed with a few steps left to go. Fuck. Blindly, he finds the handrail and has to squeeze his eyes shut even as Shane makes an alarmed noise. He’s really here.

He rallies for the last four steps and doesn’t fight when Shane drags him in by the shoulder to immediately start fussing over him. Ilya gets deposited onto a little padded bench right by the front door, cheeks slightly squished as Shane grips them to turn his face this way and that. It doesn’t seem like he finds anything too alarming.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes.” Ilya would like to close his eyes. But he can’t, because for that, he’d have to stop looking at Shane. Oh, well. Maybe braving the embarrassment now will be good practice. “Just very relieved. I see you and it… how you say feel too much? Overwhelmed? I see your pretty freckles and then I have all emotions at same time.”

“Oh.” Shane blinks. “And that’s… a good thing?”

He’s still hovering over Ilya, hunched over to negate the difference in height while Ilya is sitting. His fingers are twitching on Ilya’s cheeks, like he thinks he should move them but doesn’t quite know where.

“Is good thing if you say yes. Otherwise is just very embarrassing.”

Ilya can’t even find it in himself to worry about how incredibly clumsy he’s being about this. Can’t be considerate of the tidy plan Shane surely has for how he wants this conversation to go. If he doesn’t get a definitive clue within the next few business seconds, he’s going to lose his fucking mind. Fuck. He thought he was above this, he seriously did. He’s so sure. But not sure enough, apparently. All that’s left is to be thankful that his certainty carried him up to Shane’s doorstep.

This close, he gets to watch Shane’s pupils dilate in surprise, temperate brown swallowed by eternal black. “Of course, I’m saying yes. Fuck, was that… were you worried about that? I thought you could tell.”

Maybe it’s the words, or maybe it’s the adorable scrunch between Shane’s eyebrows. One of these things brings tears to Ilya’s eyes. “I thought I could. But… If I don’t know for sure, then I can still be wrong, yes? Would make sense to say no. Many good reasons.”

“Not a single one good enough,” Shane says, and then viciously denies Ilya the opportunity to hide his tears by hanging his head. “Hey, no. None of that, okay? It’s gonna be difficult, we both know this. But I think it’s gonna be worth it. I really want this. I want you.”

Ilya can’t help the sob that rips itself out of his throat at those words. Tears are hot on his cheeks now. He wrenches his chin out of Shane’s grasp and tries to bury his face in his sweater, but Shane is already sinking to his knees. He’s refusing to break eye contact for long.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was stressing you out this much. If I had, I wouldn’t have made you wait like this. I just wanted to do it right, you know? In person.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya croaks. “For messing up plan. I did not mean to-”

“No, oh my God!” Strong hands grip Ilya’s shoulders. “My stupid plan doesn’t matter if it makes you feel like this. I don’t ever want you to be in pain over me, okay?”

“But plan is important to you.”

“Ilya, listen to me.” Shane raises both eyebrows and leans in further to emphasize his point. “Fuck the plan. Whatever my plans are, you’re more important than that. That’s what relationships are about, right? You’re my priority now. Obviously, if I really need something to feel okay, that’s different. But this was more about… doing things properly and thinking it would be nice to be able to have you in my own bed, you know? That’s just windowdressing.” 

Ilya’s heart is thundering in his ears. “Relationships?”

“Relationships,” Shane says. He looks determined. “You’re not getting out of that one. If we’re doing this, we’re gonna call it a relationship and you’re gonna be my boyfriend.”

Aaaand there goes the next round of tears. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Sorry I’m such a mess. Is good tears, I promise.”

It only takes one of Shane’s hands migrating to press into a shoulder blade, and Ilya throws himself forward into a hug. Shane’s arms wrap around him immediately, tight and safe. Later, Ilya will tour the apartment and learn about all of the little ways Shane has decorated his everyday life. He’ll see the changing table and laugh at the resurfacing image of Hayden Pike with a hand full of baby poop. He’ll see the bed with its white satin sheets and the washcloths already folded in a neat stack on the bedside table and stop himself from immediately tumbling Shane into it, way before they’ve said everything they need to say. He’ll cry again when Shane says the words “it sounds stupid, but I think I’ve maybe been falling in love with you for a while."

None of that matters yet. Because right here, next to the front door, in possibly the least romantic place in the apartment, Ilya is being held together by the man he loves. And he finds he doesn’t much care about later. Now is already pretty good.

Chapter End Notes

No content warnings for this chapter :)

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

SURPRISE!

I've decided this story isn't done yet. You're in for further struggle, earnest attempts at open communication and people caring more about Ilya than he ever expected.

As always, dialogue in italics is Russian.

Please all say thank you to my awesome Betas Caighlee, lonecayt and BebeGoose who hold me accountable, provide excellent encouragement and feedback and tell me when I'm mixing up who said what.

Ilya had no idea that life could be this... bright. It’s like those instagram filters Svetlana loves to complain about that make everything more colorful. She says they’re tacky.

Now, Ilya’s not going to complain. Life feels so much more vibrant now. He talks to Shane all the time. On the phone, over skype, in bitchy little text messages. One time, he complained that the sight of Shane’s green smoothie made him want to wash his mouth with soap, so now he gets a picture of a green smoothie every day. And he knows it’s a new one every day, because he accused Shane of re-sending pictures, so now he holds up his smoothie in front of the morning news.

Every day, before he even wakes up, Shane has already taken a picture for him. There are rarely accompanying messages or emojis - Shane is not a man of many words - but Ilya has never had more solid and regular proof that someone is thinking of him.

They’re in love. Ilya knows this. They’ve said it out loud. But they’ve only said it once. Haven’t been brave enough a second time, maybe. This, though, is almost the same. And it’s pictures that Ilya doesn’t have to delete. Pictures, gifted to him by Shane, that he can keep right there in their message thread. Pictures that he can squirrel away into a separate folder, just to look at them and count them sometimes.

Nineteen. It’s been nineteen days since Shane started sending smoothie pictures, and Ilya still hasn’t fucked it up.

So, no, Ilya won’t complain. But, like instagram filters, this new vibrancy in his life feels a little fake. Like it’s maybe too good to be true. He is, as Marley likes to put it, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Which is bullshit,” Marley says when Ilya brings it up during one of their cooking nights after they’ve both eaten their weight in pelmeni. “Like, why the hell’s your head doing that to you? The way you talk, your man’s very straightforward. I’m sure he would tell you if something was bothering him.”

Your man. Those words crack something open deep in Ilya’s chest every time he hears them, and Marleau knows it. Strategically deploys them to get Ilya out of thought spirals, the fucker.

“I don’t know,” Ilya grumbles.

“Then maybe you should talk to him? I dunno how it works with two dudes, man, but I think that’s always a good idea. And maybe talk to Zoya about feeling like this. I’m sure she could help.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You want me to talk? Last woman you date broke up with you because you talk too much.”

“Man, that wasn’t a break up. We went on, like, two dates and then she said I was being whiny when I said I was worried about my grandma. She was being a bitch. And so are you, if you don't talk to your therapist.”

Ilya groans and throws his head back against Marleau’s sofa. “Fine. I will talk to Zoya.”

“Tight. Hey, have you seen the new Star Trek movie yet? It's on Amazon.”

Marleau is just as right as he is annoying, unfortunately, so Ilya talks to Zoya. Who nods and listens and reminds him of his strategies to keep himself from catastrophizing. And then, she tells him to talk to Shane.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to worry like this,” she says. “If you openly communicate right from the start, you’ll give yourselves the best chance at success.”

Motherfucker. Alright.

So Ilya makes a plan for an open conversation where neither of them can run away. Conveniently, All Star Weekend is just around the corner.

“We’ll need to be careful,” Shane says over the phone a few days before. “But I fucking love that we get to play together this year. That’ll be amazing.”

“Yes.” Ilya is picking at his cuticles. Should he clarify what Shane means by careful? What’s allowed and what isn’t? It would probably be a good idea, but he doesn’t think he could stand it today if Shane decided being careful meant they can’t speak in public.

“Who else is coming from your team?”

In the quiet of his room, Ilya rolls his eyes. But he can’t keep the smile off his face. Shane knows exactly who is coming.

“Marleau won the fan vote this year. Good d-man, good team player. Solid choice. No one like that on your team because they all depend on you to win.”

Shane scoffs. “Oh, come on. As if Comeau has a chance if he has to compete against Scott Hunter.”

Because of course geriatric Scott Hunter absolutely cannot miss even one All Star Game. The Admiral sent by the league this year is Carter Vaughn, whose numbers speak for themselves. Scott Hunter, on the other hand, will only be there because the fans voted for it. Possibly because they know it’s the last All Star Game he’s going to be alive for.

“Comeau wouldn’t have a chance even if Hunter had never been born,” Ilya charitably points out. The man is an asshole on the ice, and not in the fun way that Ilya is. The fans can see that. They talk about it on twitter, in conversations that Ilya sometimes interacts with for shits and giggles.

“Hey, he’s put up a lot of points this season!”

“Even Pike would’ve been better,” Ilya interrupts. “At least he passes.”

They get sidetracked after that, debating the merits of egotism on the ice and whether Pike’s experience in herding children translates into good leadership skills. (Shane says it only does when he gets enough sleep. Apparently, he told one of their teammates to catch a bubble last week and nearly got decked for it.)

(Ilya later googles what catching a bubble means, which only makes the situation more hilarious.)

They don’t get into anything deeper, but that’s for the best. Ilya is saving it for the weekend, when they’ll see each other in person, and he’ll be able to see Shane’s reaction, and keep him from leaving, should he try again. 

He doesn’t think Shane will, though. That feels good.

The first thing Ilya does upon walking into his hotel room in Tampa is get in a fight with Svetlana. Or, well. The second one, really, after he makes the mistake of first picking up her call.

“How’s Florida treating you, Ilyusha?” is the first question she asks after they’ve exchanged greetings. Her voice is light, but Ilya knows her well enough to hear the edge to it.

“They’ve given me very fancy sheets. I think there are palm trees on them ?”

“Ew.” Svetlana laughs. “And have you already found someone to mess them up with?”

Something solidifies in the pit of his stomach. “No.”

“Great! So I can come visit?”

“Sveta -”

“Because we haven’t seen each other in months, and the dealership is closed tomorrow. Pretty perfect, right?”

Only two months ago, he would’ve agreed without question, even if he wouldn’t have wanted to have sex with her. It still sounds tempting to steal away and see her for just a few hours. If it weren’t for the fact that Shane probably wouldn’t like it. Shane, whom he hasn’t held close in almost a month now.

“Sveta. I don't -”

He doesn't even know how he wants to continue that sentence. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea? True, but she’ll ask why. He doesn’t have time for her? She’d just tell him to go fuck himself and make the schedule fit. He doesn’t want to see her? That one’s such a lie it would hurt him more to say it than it would hurt her to hear.

Not that it matters, because it seems like Svetlana saw this coming.

“You know, you’re not slick. Don’t think that I didn’t notice we’ve been talking less after we stopped fucking. I’m getting worried about you.”

“Sveta -”

“That’s why this isn’t a text,” Svetlana says, still nonchalant. “Because you’d just give me a three word answer and then ghost me for the week. Are you okay?”

Goddamn it. With a grunt, Ilya throws himself right on top of the ridiculous sheets. This… fuck. What is he supposed to say? He can’t very well tell her the truth. Hey, remember the massive crush you have on Shane Hollander? Well, I have one too, and it turns out he likes me back! So I’ve had my head in the clouds the past few weeks because I’ve been thinking about my boyfriend.

Just the thought of saying those words to her makes Ilya’s chest hurt. Svetlana is his oldest friend, and she’s always accepted him without question. Telling her is the closest he will ever get to telling his mother. But it’s not just his story to tell.

“I’m fine,” he says instead of all of the other things he wants to say. Just two words. Still, his voice cracks.

“Bullshit,” Svetlana fires back. “Let me come and see you, convince myself.”

“That wouldn’t be a good idea. I have… other plans.”

“What plans? You’ve already told me you don’t have anyone to fuck, last year you decided you wouldn’t go drinking with random hockey players again because too many of them are bigots, and you’re stuck in fucking Florida!”

“Maybe I want to spend time with Hollander, have you ever thought of that? Build team cohesion. Draw straws to see which one of us has to play wing.”

“And have you ever thought of the fact that I can always tell when you lie?” Svetlana demands. “Fucking hell, Ilya. If you don’t want to talk, that’s one thing. But don’t try to pull this shit with me. It hurts. I’m worried about you.”

Fuck. Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose, but the pain doesn’t focus him. Deep breathing isn’t working either. He can feel his heart beating quickly in his chest, can sense just how wrong this could all go.

“I’m sorry, Sveta. I really… I’ve been preoccupied. I should’ve made more time for you. I just can’t talk about it yet. There’s a few things I need to handle first.”

There. That’s good, right? He’s acknowledging his mistake, promising improvement and explaining why it can’t happen right away. Except Svetlana makes a noise like an overheating pressure cooker.

“Can’t? What do you mean, can’t? You know you can always tell me anything. Is it drugs?”

“No, what the fuck? I’m not taking drugs, Sveta!”

The last time he touched cocaine was years ago. And even weed… If he’s in the wrong headspace when he smokes, it can really affect him, so he’s become careful with that, too.

“Well, how am I supposed to know that if you don’t talk to me?”

It hurts that she’s right. He did this to himself when he cut her out because he didn’t know how to explain that he didn‘t want to have sex with her anymore. Zoya had told him it was stupid, just like she told him asking Shane for more without asking for a relationship was stupid. He really needs to listen to her better.

Right now, she would tell him not to get angry at Svetlana because of his own failings. And to communicate all of the necessary information he reasonably can. So he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath to get the irritation out of his voice.

“If you’re worried about drugs, I can give you Marley’s number. You know he wouldn’t lie to you, because you terrify him,“ he says. “For the rest… I am seeing someone. But it’s still new, and it’s not just my decision to tell you. Please be patient for details.”

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. He can see Svetlana in front of his inner eye, opening her mouth and closing it again, brow deeply furrowed.

“Is it Jane?” she finally asks.

“Sveta…”

“I’m not asking who it is. I just want to know if it’s new new, or something else.”

“I’ve never been in a relationship before.” The words tumble out of him, burn on his lips even after they leave. Terrifying. “So that’s new. But I’ve known Jane since we were seventeen.”

“So he’s your age. That’s good.”

If he were Shane, Ilya thinks, he would be panicking right now. But he isn‘t. He’s Ilya fucking Rozanov, and his friend Svetlana Vetrova knows him like the back of her hand. Knows the truth of him so completely that he doesn’t even need to speak it out loud. Could tell Jane was a man even though Ilya was keeping his mouth shut. Maybe especially because he was.

He. That’s good.

His throat is tight, and there’s a burning feeling behind his eyes. It is, he wants to say. It is so good. Shane Hollander thinks I’m worthy of him. It almost hurts not to say. But they haven’t talked about it yet.

Svetlana can tell his thoughts are straying. Worries appeased, she lets him go with a reminder to call her of his own volition if he doesn’t want her to send out a search party. Which, fair. When she hangs up, he just sits on his bed and stares at the beige wallpaper.

By the time Shane arrives, Ilya has at least managed to unpack his suitcase. Or - well. He’s put his toiletries in the bathroom, the lube and condoms in the nightstand and his clothes in a heap in the closet. Except for the atrocious linen Hawaii shirt he bought specifically for this occasion. Shane, apparently, has hit up his new best friend Rose Landry for stylist recommendations. It’s only right, then, that Ilya uses his free will to test his knowledge on this new passion.

Marley texts him just as Shane knocks, but Ilya just thumbs the notifications away. Much more important things to do right now. Like opening the door as quickly as he can so his boyfriend doesn‘t get antsy about standing in the hallway. What if Scott Hunter was right next door?

As soon as the door is open, he takes two steps back. All he can see are Shane’s eyes, warm and brown. All he wants to do is touch, touch, climb inside him. It feels so much. Too much for a greeting, surely. Shane is a man of restraint. If Ilya doesn’t at least keep his distance while the door is still open, Shane will be mad.

Except the door closes behind Shane with a click, and Ilya is still just looking. At the creases in Shane’s capris, the little sauce stain on his t-shirt, the way his hair slightly sticks out on one side of his head.

He came right here, Ilya thinks. Didn‘t change, didn‘t even comb his hair. He wanted to see me first.

“Hi,” Shane says. His eyes are huge and unblinking.

“Hi.”

“Can I…”

Shane makes a vague hand motion that Ilya doesn't understand, but he doesn’t hesitate to say yes. There aren’t many things that Shane might conceivably want to do to him that Ilya doesn’t want as well. Today and yesterday and possibly every other day for the rest of his life.

One thing he definitely wasn‘t expecting, though, is a hug. As soon as he’s nodded, Shane launches himself across the distance between them, wraps his strong arms around Ilya’s shoulders and draws them together as tightly as possible. For a moment, as Shane’s fingers snake into his curls and Shane’s breath tickles his skin, Ilya just stands there.

“I missed you.” 

Shane presses the words into his neck. Grumpy, like Ilya has personally inconvenienced him. Ilya has to close his eyes to keep in the tears that well up in them.

“I missed you too,” he says.

Shane makes a disgruntled noise. “Phone calls aren‘t enough. Video is nice, but I need to touch you.”

The urge to diffuse that statement with a joke is strong, but so is Ilya’s resolve not to do that. He’s been working on that with Zoya. Being vulnerable. Like, intentionally. It fucking sucks, but he’s getting better at it. 

Specifically for moments like this. Shane is still clinging to him. The heat of his body is seeping through Ilya‘s clothes and right into his soul. But even with them all pressed up against each other, there‘s nothing sexual about this. So Ilya‘s not going to make a joke. He just wraps his arms around Shane in return and says the most honest thing he can think of.

“I want to sleep next to you again.”

Shane makes a wounded noise and Ilya feels a twitch against his neck that might be the formation of a frown. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

It’s probably the best idea Ilya has ever had, short of getting his shit together and actually talking to Shane. A month ago they woke up entangled, one side of Ilya’s body cold from Shane stealing the blanket and the other one furnace hot from Shane laying half on top of him, and he’d immediately known he wanted as much of this as humanly possible. But he tries to humor the question Shane is actually asking.

“I think no one cares where you sleep, because golden boy Shane Hollander doesn’t hook up. I think no one will miss me this evening, because they all think I find someone to fuck. And if they see us together in the morning, I say: Oh, Hollander, he wants to review game tape with me, make sure we have strategy for getting along on the ice. If they have trouble believing, we distract them by saying I play wing for you.” He shrugs. “They will be so distracted by my selflessness they forget.”

He generously allows Shane to halfway extricate himself from the hug. Brown doe eyes blink up at him.

“You’ll be on my wing?”

“Mh. Left. We’ll wipe the ice with them.”

“Fuck.”

Within the blink of an eye, Ilya has both of Shane’s hands on his face and they’re kissing.

They’re not going to have sex before the game. Just in case. They talked about it ahead of time, and Shane was very clear that he doesn’t want any kind of mark on him in the All Stars changing rooms. Especially because they're going to be in there together. It’s a shame, but Ilya agrees that it’s for the best. There isn’t a reason good enough to make showering together even more of a minefield than it already will be, considering their past. Considering they basically started off in a shower.

Now, Shane did also say that no marks didn’t need to equal no sex. Just that Ilya would have to be careful. It’s just that... no matter how careful he wants to be, he’s not entirely confident that he would have the restraint. So he said no. Agreed to wait until after. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now, Shane is touching him and Ilya feels like he’s going to go out of his mind. It’s only been a little over three weeks since he had Shane’s hands on his skin. But they’re leaving a burning trace like warm water on cold feet after a long winter walk. It’s almost painful, and so Ilya moans a noise of complaint into Shane’s mouth. Opens his own mouth wider to entangle their tongues, to nip at Shane’s lips, to consume.

Distantly, he’s aware of how tight his grip is, how hard he clings even as he backs Shane into the nearest wall. But he can’t find it in himself to do anything about it, because if he doesn’t touch Shane, he’s going to wilt and die. He wants to climb inside of him and stay. To just fold himself up small enough that Shane can tuck him between his ribs and carry him forever.

With an amused huff, Shane disconnects their lips. “What’s up with you today? You miss me that much?”

“Yes.” 

The answer is out like a shot. Ilya has to blink through the humiliation burning across his face as Shane’s eyebrows twitch. But not hiding is worth it, because he also gets to see a brilliant smile forming.

“Really?”

Ilya takes a fortifying breath. “I say this already. I miss you very much. Always.”

The corners of Shane’s dark eyes crinkle. He strokes a thumb across Ilya’s cheek. “I miss you too. And it’s only been a month, isn’t that crazy? We’ve been talking the entire time.”

“I think I need to touch you,” Ilya says, echoing what Shane said earlier. “When I don’t touch you, you don’t feel real. Like, too good to be true? I could be imagining you. Difficult to trust myself.”

Shane tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Uh-oh. Ilya tries to swallow the knot that his throat ties itself into. He’s said too much. That was weird, and Shane doesn’t feel the same, so now he has to explain. At least Shane doesn’t look disturbed by it. Yet.

“Just, I want you so much. And it makes me so happy you want me too. But is difficult to believe because not many good things happen to me, you know? So it’s easier to believe when you’re there with me.” He unclenches one of his hands from where it’s still grasping Shane’s hip and boops the tip of his nose. “I know you are real when I can touch you. Does this make sense?”

“Kinda,” Shane says. There’s a furrow between his brows and his eyes are skipping all over the place, like they usually do when he’s figuring out what to say. Ilya tries his best to stay still as he waits him out.

“Is this, like - is this your head being mean to you? Like you talked about with your therapist helping you?” Shane purses his lips. “I just wanna make sure this isn’t anything that I’m doing wrong. Because I definitely want you and I want to be your boyfriend, and if you need me to say that more often, I can try. It just... I’ve been holding back because I don’t wanna be too clingy. I know I can annoy people sometimes.”

First is the hot fury in Ilya’s veins. I know I can annoy people sometimes. How dare they. How dare they make Shane feel unwanted and think he has to hide himself? Ilya wants to know who these people are and wash their eyes with soap so they can see how wrong they are. And then, slowly, the rest comes trickling in. The joy of being understood like this. Overwhelmed, Ilya closes his eyes and drops his head to rest on Shane’s shoulder.

“I like you so much.” It’s like the words are ripped out of him, but he would still want to say them if he had a choice. They feel important. “Is my brain being mean, yes. But hearing you say these things would help. And if you want to say them, I want you to say them too.”

He sniffs, then raises his head again to make eye contact. He doesn’t want any part of this message to get lost. “Don’t hide yourself. I want you. I want to know the parts I don’t know yet. It can be difficult, I know, and I understand this. But is difficult for me too. And I promise to always try very hard to say the truth. Even if it scares me.”

Shane’s eyes drift off to the side. “You have nothing to be scared of, though.”

And oh, how grateful Ilya is for Zoya. A few years ago, he wouldn’t even have known how to start this conversation. Wouldn’t have wanted to. Would have run away and hidden at the vulnerability required - or scoffed and rolled his eyes at it. But he’s had this conversation before, so if Shane needs him to lead by example, he will.

“I was twelve years old when my mother killed herself because of depression. And I have depression too. It’s good now, but it won’t always be. That is scary. And not everyone will like this in a boyfriend. You might find out is too much for you, and that is also scary.”

As he speaks, Shane’s eyes go wider and wider. Ilya can’t look away, no matter how much he wants to hide himself. So he just watches Shane process. The wheels turn and turn and-

“Jesus, man, I'm so sorry.”

It catches Ilya so off guard that he cackles. “Man? Your boyfriend is being extra vulnerable with you, and you call him man?”

“I’m sorry-”

“No, no, is fine. Very you. Shane Hollander hears story about my tragic childhood and says sorry bro. One day, I will be able to tell people.”

“Fuck off, I’m being serious.” Ilya gets a gentle shove to the chest. But Shane is smiling, so it’s all good. “I know I’m not good with words, but I’m sorry that happened to you. And I just... it won’t be too much. It might be a lot, I don’t know, I don’t have any experience with this. But it won’t be too much. I want this, Ilya. I want you.”

It’s nice to hear. So nice, in fact, that Ilya has to drag Shane to bed so that he can wrap himself around him. They don’t fuck. No one leaves any marks. Nothing happens that should make being in a communal shower together any more difficult than it’s already going to be. They just hold each other, waiting for Shane’s alarm to tell them it’s time to rejoin the outside world.

Except then, the outside world decides to do some joining of its own. A loud bang on the door rips Ilya out of his pleasant haze.

“Ey, Rozy! Couple of the guys wanna head to the pool. You coming with?” Marleau shouts through the wood.

In Ilya’s arms, Shane turns to stone. Ilya squeezes him. 

“Not right now,” he says, loud enough to still be heard outside. 

It’s not enough. “Oh, come on, man. The kids’ll be there. You love kids!”

Ilya does love kids, but not nearly as much as he loves other things. Or people. Possibly people currently in bed with him who are still doing their best to imitate a marble statue.

“I conserve my energy. If I can’t beat Hollander in the game, I at least beat him in the skills competition!”

Marleau chuckles. “Attaboy. Alright, later!”

And with that, he’s gone. But the tension stays. Shane is barely breathing, doesn’t even react when Ilya presses his nose into the side of his neck. He only makes a tiny noise when Ilya kisses him there.

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “Was just Marley. He doesn’t know you are in here. And even if he did, would be fine.”

Shane scoffs. “It definitely would not be fine. Jesus, we really need to be more careful. Did you even lock the door? What if-”

“Door is locked. He could not have come in.” There’s a pit in Ilya’s stomach now. He wants to protest, tell Shane he’s wrong. Marleau is a good friend. He loves Ilya like a brother, so of course he would be good about Shane. Good to Shane, if Shane gave him the chance.

“We are not sleeping in the same room tonight,” Shane says. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’d be able to relax. This could’ve gone so wrong…”

Ilya doesn’t protest, because he doesn’t think there’s anything he can say to make this better. He’ll just have to try again tomorrow. Or at some other point, to get Shane used to the idea that Marley knowing wouldn’t be the end of the world.

But the idea was nice while it lasted.

On the ice, Ilya feels like he’s flying. All Stars is always fun, as is every game where he goes up against Shane. But competing against each other and working together for a common goal are two very different things. Even in a position he hasn't played in years, Ilya feels like it’s the most natural thing in the world to play with Shane.

His awareness of Shane extends to knowing where he is on the ice without even having to look. All of the years spent studying him on tape and in bed mean he knows exactly what Shane is planning to do. And now, on the same team, he can help him make that happen. It’s so much easier than fighting it.

Together, they put up three goals. Beautiful, beautiful goals - two of which Ilya assists on and only one of which he makes himself. It still feels like he’s winning. Because why wouldn’t it? He gets to play with Shane. He gets to show people that, despite how much they all like to talk about this fucking rivalry, Shane and him can be a team. Also: Scott Hunter’s line only manages one goal. Boo.

It takes way too long for people to leave them alone after that. Scott Hunter needs to congratulate them on burying the hatchet like the old man he is. Which is inconvenient, because Ilya would really rather bury himself in Shane’s ass right about now, and he can’t even say it out loud. Scott Hunter might die of shock. And there are other people around. Straight people.

Like Carter fucking Vaughn, who seems to think he and Shane are buddies. He keeps coming up to them over the course of the evening and makes grating little jokes about cats and dogs and oil and water that really fucking confuse Ilya. Is he just naming words that he knows? Is this an association game? Ilya’s saving grace is that Shane seems similarly irritated, so at least he isn’t alone.

When they finally manage to leave - within ten minutes of each other and very carefully not giving the same reason - it’s almost nine PM. Dangerously close to Shane’s bedtime. Not that it seems to matter. Shane arrives in Ilya’s room not long after, and is immediately on him.

It’s strange. When Ilya imagined this, he thought he would want to take things a bit slower. So that it doesn’t feel like one of their hook-ups. They have time now, and they’ve both stopped pretending it’s just about sex. But Ilya just can’t help himself. Things get heavy in the blink of an eye; they’re not even in the room for two minutes and already, they’re both naked.

But it’s different, too. More eye contact, for one. More kissing. More contact all kinds. Ilya has never been shy about touching his partners, but now he makes sure to always have at least one hand on Shane’s body at all times. 

And Shane... Shane has always been beautifully pliant. He takes orders, even suggestions, like a dream. For a long time, Ilya thought that was part of what makes Shane so hot. Today, he learns it’s even hotter when Shane asks for things. And not just slower in the beginning or harder, like he’s done before. 

“Can you hold my hands?” he asks when Ilya lets go of where he pinned them in order to grip Shane’s hips to fuck him harder.

“What?”

“My hands. Hold them over my head, but also... hold them. With, like our fingers intertwined?”

Ilya blinks down at Shane. His cock is nice and snug in its current location, so he’s way too far gone for words like intertwined, but he thinks he gets the idea and does as he’s asked.

“Thank you,” Shane says. “Now fuck me.”

Ilya just about dies. It’s more difficult like this, more physically demanding to be stretched out like this with so little purchase and still fuck Shane with the force he prefers. He doesn’t quite manage it. But he doesn’t need to. Shane is still drunk on it, moaning into his mouth and saying his name over and over again.

“Ilya.”

Ilya comes first. Only by a few seconds, thank fuck, but still. He can only hear his name said like that so many times. Said with such wonder and... love? Maybe? It feels like too much to hope for. They still haven’t said it again. But Ilya feels it, so maybe Shane feels it too. Shane definitely feels Ilya shaking apart on top of him and immediately comes as well, so at least there’s that. It can’t have been too bad.

As they lay together in the afterglow and catch their breath in the few precious minutes they have before Shane starts to feel icky and needs a shower, Ilya cuddles close and traces lines across Shane’s chest. Under his ear, Shane’s satisfied hum is loud and deep. He smiles to himself. They can do this. They fit so well and work together so efficiently that there is no way this isn’t going to work out. Sure, there are still problems. But Ilya just needs to be a bit careful. At some point, he’ll have someone who he can tell about his boyfriend, Shane Hollander.

Chapter End Notes

No warnings for this chapter :)