Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ilya Rozanov in Russia, Ilya Rozanov Gets Outed, bad combo rip ilya, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Rating is for swearing and fade to black sex, idk the logistics of actually fleeing the russian government please suspend your disbelief, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, BAMF Shane Hollander, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), this might be the beginning of a verse bc I have ideas but no promises lol

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of the only way out is through.

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-10 Completed: 2026-06-12 Words: 14,981 Chapters: 5/5

home is a person, not a place

Summary

“Sveta - ”

“Ilya, there are photos. Of you. Ilya, you - you need to run.”

“Photos?” he asks, a bit stupidly. He knows what she means. Of course he does. He’s had nightmares about what she means. But - well. No. Surely not.

Right?

“They’re old, I think,” she says, sniffling. “I just saw them on some gossip rag, but they’re - Ilya, they’re definitely you. With a man. They just got published on this stupid, shitty blog, but they’re going to get picked up the moment people wake up.”

Well, at least Ilya has a shirt on. Now, he just needs to find pants before his life ends.

Notes

HIHIIIIIIII WELCOME IN
So this fic came to live in my bones.
I wrote the majority of it in 2 weeks.
I have edited and fiddled and angsted over it for like a month.
And now I'm forcing myself to post it.
I hope you enjoy :D

Chapter 1

Ilya’s phone is ringing.

Ilya’s phone is ringing, and it’s still dark outside his hotel.

Ilya does not pick up his phone. Obviously.

Ilya’s phone rings again.

It rings again and again and again. It rings for long enough that Ilya groans, flops onto his stomach, and snatches it off his nightstand, ready to chuck it across the room.

But it’s Svetlana, so he pauses. The call ends again, for the 4th time.

He calls her back, and she picks up only a beat into the first ring.

“Ilya?!”

“What?!” he groans, falling face first into his pillow. “What, Sveta, wha-”

Only then does he realize she’s crying.

Sveta doesn’t cry the same way Ilya doesn’t cry - they don’t, obviously, but if they ever do, it’s awful. Her voice is hiccuping, gasping, heaving, and Ilya sits up so fast his head spins. He almost drops his phone.

“I thought - ” She heaves in a breath, and Ilya holds his own, terrified to say a word which could set her off again. “I - Ilya.”

“I’m here, I’m here,” he says, throwing himself out of bed and hunting for a decent shirt. “Where are you? I’ll come get you.” She’d come to Moscow with him, which is the only thing that had made it bearable. Following his outburst at his father’s wake - and the following spiral about what the fuck he thought he was doing, cutting off his only immediate living relative - Svetlana had talked him through it. Repeatedly. For multiple days. Until he’d finally, finally, accepted it. He owed her a lot, for that.

By then, there wasn’t enough time to make arrangements before he went back to the Raiders. And, of course, he couldn’t come after the season, since he’d decided to go to Shane’s cottage instead. So, he’d booked this trip in secret - just five days, just long enough to set up his niece’s trust and to transfer his apartment’s lease to Alexei. Svetlana had agreed to come.

Now, Ilya was regretting it, because clearly, something had gone wrong.

“Sveta - ”

“Ilya, there are photos. Of you. Ilya, you - you need to run.”

…Okay.

So something had gone wrong.

Just…not for Svetlana.

“Photos?” he asks, a bit stupidly. He knows what she means. Of course he does. He’s had nightmares about what she means. But - well. No. Surely not. 

Right?

“They’re old, I think,” she says, sniffling. “I just saw them on some gossip rag, but they’re - Ilya, they’re definitely you. With a man. They just got published on this stupid, shitty blog, but they’re going to get picked up the moment people wake up.”

Well, at least Ilya has a shirt on. Now, he just needs to find pants before his life ends.

“Fuck.”

“You’re going to leave, you have to leave,” Svetlana chants. Ilya can hear her driving, now that he’s focusing. “I’m coming to your hotel. By the time I get there, you will have your bag packed, and a new ticket booked.”

“I - okay,” he says, because he’s hardly going to argue, but that’s a lot to do one handed. He puts the phone on speaker and puts it down. He succeeds at tugging his pants on. His bag is half packed - he and Svetlana were supposed to leave in 2 days. They were supposed to get to the airport, breeze through security, wander Moscow’s fancy airport that was a second home to them both, and then enjoy their transcontinental first-class plane tickets.

Then, apparently, Ilya got outed. Great.

(Fuck, he got outed.)

“Ilya?”

“Mm.” His duffel bag is black, nondescript, small enough to be a carry on. He doesn’t bother packing the clothes strewn around the room. He roots through the bag until he finds his passport. His Russian passport. He sets it gingerly on top of everything else, like it’s a live bomb. It is, now. He has no keys; he turned in the ones to his old apartment. He throws his phone charger and laptop into his bag.

“Tickets, Ilya. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

“Yeah.”

 He zips up his bag and grabs his phone. He tries to ignore how badly his hands are shaking. His United Airlines app cheerfully reminds him that he has a flight in 2 days, 5 hours, and 12 minutes.

Fuck.

On a whim, he switches to the Air Canada app and looks up the quickest flights from Moscow to Ottawa.

Shane’s in Ottawa. He’s visiting his parents. Ilya should not go to Shane right after getting outed. He scrolls through flights anyways.

“Ilya?”

“I’m looking,” he says. “I - the drive is an hour? To the airport.”

“No. 45 minutes. 30 minutes. The roads are still empty. I can make it.”

“Jesus, Sveta.”

“Do not dare complain to me right now.” He hears skidding over the line as she takes a turn.

“There’s a flight from Moscow to Paris in 90 minutes. S7.” They can’t get to the airport that fast. He can’t clear security that fast. He can’t clear security at all if the police are hunting him.

“Book it,” Svetlana says, and he does. He throws on shoes, a hoodie, a baseball cap, and sunglasses.

He grabs his bag, and he runs.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Svetlana gets them to the airport in 38 minutes. Somehow, she still manages to argue about going with him. He refuses to let her - the paperwork for the trust still hasn’t gone through. Svetlana, with her well-known friendship with Ilya, and her father’s status, can probably finish the transaction for him.

And, if he does get arrested, he isn’t going to implicate her. He isn’t going to make her watch.

“You will text me every fucking minute, every fucking move you make, and you will get on that plane, and you will keep your head so fucking far down people will think it’s up your fucking ass,” she snarls as she pulls up to Drop Offs. Ilya nods, mute, his bag in a white-knuckled grip.

“Okay.”

“Get out of my car, then.”

They don’t hug. It’s not like they never hug, but it would be awkward and awful over the car’s divider, and to try would mean admitting they may never get another chance, so they don’t. Svetlana squeezes Ilya’s arm, and Ilya slams her car door shut, and she watches Ilya until he’s inside the airport and out of sight.

Ilya’s never been so aware of the policemen stationed inside the airport before. They’re everywhere. There are 2 stationed near the check in counter, but Ilya runs past them. He checked in online - in-between clinging to Svetlana’s car for dear life - and he has no bags to declare. It’s 3:37AM, which is early even by airport standards, so security isn’t crowded, but it’s crawling with police. Ilya watches them out of the corner of his eyes as he hands his passport to the lady at the security desk, and he takes off his glasses. She scans his passport and he waits, bracing for a flash of red, for the chirp of a walkie-talkie. She’ll tell him he’s on a no-fly list, there’s a warrant out for his arrest, he’s a dead man walking - 

“You’re all set, Mr. Rozanov,” she says in Russian, handing his passport back. “Have a good trip back. Keep beating the Canadians for us, yes?”

“Ha, yes,” he answers weakly, before moving forward. The line shuffles. He’s recognized twice more, similar sentiments murmured with admiration. His bag is scanned. He removes his shoes. He signs an autograph. His bag is pulled for secondary inspection - he had a half-empty water bottle tucked in the side. He throws it away.

Ilya can feel his heartbeat in his teeth the entire time. They will all hate him in a few hours. They will burn his autograph. They will kick themselves for letting him through security.

He would be dead if the photos had hit TMZ. ESPN. Sportsnet. No, he looked them up in the car and it was only on the second page of results. Their first appearance was on a blog, it seems, then picked up by a tiny, local sports reporter. But the pictures are damning, clear, real in a way that will survive fact checking, that stands to ruin him. He can only be grateful that it isn’t a picture with Shane - they were too careful for that. No, this is a set of photos outside a random nightclub in Boston, Ilya unceremoniously blowing a man in an alleyway. He thinks they went back to the guy’s apartment after that. It had been a good night. 

It was not worth all this.

His plane will start boarding in ten minutes, his phone helpfully chirps at him. Proceed to gate. Proceed to gate. Proceed to fucking gate.

Ilya runs. 

He runs with everything he has. He can’t believe he can count the remaining number of steps he will ever make on Russian soil. He came back knowing it would be for the last time. It was why he made sure there was nothing left for him here. His share of his father’s meagre estate was transferred to Alexei’s name. Ilya’s apartment was in Alexei’s name. He set up the trust and funds for his niece’s schooling. Any assets Ilya held here have been liquified and transferred to his US accounts. Not that there were many.

Ilya visited his mama’s grave for the last time. He spent the whole day with her. He sat by her tombstone. He told her everything he’d never told everyone, living or dead, for over a decade. He told her about Shane. He told her about their plan, their foundation, their lives that Ilya thinks now exists, even if it’s still shrouded in fog.

I will be okay, Mama, he remembers promising her, and himself, over and over again. I promise, I will finally be okay.

He is a liar. One of the last things he ever told his mother was a lie. Her cross bounces against his chest as he sprints, as if in reprimand.

He makes it to his gate with 2 minutes to spare. They’re about to start boarding. Waiting is worse. He tucks himself into a corner with his sunglasses on, his hat on, his hood up. He texts Svetlana that he’s waiting to board. He’s done everything he can. He just has to wait 5 minutes, then board. 

He can practically taste bile in the back of his throat. He will not be able to wait for 5 minutes. 

He has to.

Then his phone rings.

Knowing Ilya’s luck, it’ll be Alexei, hearing the news and calling to brag, or threaten, or trace his phone like Ilya’s life is a bad cop show. The news reported on Ilya’s trip the moment he landed, so everyone - including the police, he supposes - knows he’s in Moscow. They know they can get him. They know they can punish him.

Fuck.

So he pulls out his phone gingerly, prepared to chuck it in the trash if he thinks it could give away his location in the slightest, even if Svetlana would kill him for giving her no way to contact him.

But it’s not Alexei. Jane flashes on the screen. Jane’s called twice already. It misses a third time. 

When the fourth call comes through, Ilya picks up immediately.

“Ilya?”

Oh, Shane sounds awful. He sounds congested and teary and awful, and for the thousandth time this trip, Ilya wishes he was home, that he was back at the cottage, that he was with Shane.

Though, now he’s wishing it for much more dire reasons.

“Hi,” Ilya says, forcing his voice to be light. At least the bile is gone. He shuts his eyes and pretends he’s at the cottage, Shane tucked against his side, in a country where their existence is only vaguely frowned upon, not completely illegal.

“Ilya, what the fuck.”

“Well, I didn’t do it.”

“You saw it, then?” he asks. “The TMZ article?”

“Fuck,” Ilya snaps. “TMZ has it now?”

“Mhm.”

That’s mainstream. That’s very mainstream. Even if Russia is not awake to burn its hockey prodigy, the police never sleep. They’re boarding group 4. Ilya is group 6. It had felt like too much time, too vain, too flashy, to try and buy a premium seat, but fuck, Ilya wishes he was already on the plane.

“Ilya, are you - um. I. Are you - ” 

Ilya’s never heard Shane stutter like that. A shiver races down his spine.

“I’m at the airport,” he says, horrified that he didn't say that the moment he answered the phone. “I - my plane is about to board. I - I, yes, I’m leaving, Shane.”

Shane’s voice hitches on a sob, but Ilya has no idea how to comfort him, not about this, not when his feet are still on Russian soil. Thankfully, Shane doesn’t need him to, not yet.

“Oh, fuck, thank you,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “Shit. Fuck. What flight?”

“I - ”

Group 6 is called and Ilya scrambles to his feet, almost forgetting his bag. He grabs it and gets in line painfully far back. He keeps his head down.

“Ilya,” Shane says, dangerously low. “What flight?”

“Do not worry about it,” he says lightly, trying to sound very normal to the other passengers pressed around him. “Layover in Paris, I will text when I land.”

“Ilya!”

Shane will pull up the flight tracker, and he will stare at it until his eyes bleed, and he will be able to do nothing, nothing, if the plane is delayed. If it is grounded. If it is rerouted.

Ilya doesn’t wish that on him. Ilya can’t do that to him.

“Ilya, I swear to god, if you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you myself,” Shane snaps. “I will figure out every single flight that could conceivably be taking you to Boston, and I will track every single fucking one. Tell me.”

He adores Shane, and that includes his stubbornness, but fuck, it’s inconvenient right now.

“S7 Airlines, flight 227, Moscow to Paris,” Ilya recites dully. “Air Canada, flight 352, Paris to Ottawa. Is it…okay to come to Ottawa? Right now?”

“I may have killed you if you had actually gone anywhere else,” Shane mutters. 

Ilya chuckles as he tries to pull up his ticket on his phone. “All this talk of killing me, Hollander, are you sure you don’t want me to get thrown in a gulag?”

Shane makes a sound like he’s been punched. 

“Sorry. Too soon?”

“Fuck you.”

“Later.” Hopefully, he does not say aloud.

“Are you on the plane yet?” Shane asks. 

“Almost.”

“You have to text me when you land. And me and my parents will come get you from the airport, okay?”

Ilya doesn’t have the wherewithal to fight it. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Shane echoes. “Okay, it’ll be okay. It’ll be fine.”

What wishful thinking, Ilya thinks when he hears the frantic shuffle of steps behind him, as a woman yelps, as the line ahead of Ilya stops.

“Ilya!”

Ilya’s blood slows to a crawl in his veins. Shane’s breath catches. Ilya shouldn’t have picked up this call.

Why him, Ilya thinks to a god that does not exist, that must not be watching, that must be watching with fucking popcorn. Of all people, why did it have to be him?

“Ilya?” Shane whispers. Ilya’s head spins. His heart aches. 

“I love you, Shane,” he murmurs. He waits for a beat too long, waiting for a response Shane can’t give him, under the circumstances.

In the end, he doesn’t hear what he wanted to, and he doesn’t hang up fast enough. Ilya couldn’t spare either of them.

Instead, Alexei grabs his arm and yanks him out of line. Ilya drops his phone, and it smashes onto the floor. The call drops.

Childhood instinct takes over and Ilya wrenches his arm back, stumbling away from Alexei. He opens his mouth to shout - what he can possibly say, he doesn’t know - but Alexei lunges forward, grabbing his wrist and pressing a trembling finger to his own lips. 

“Don’t,” he warns. Ilya looks around; people quickly look away, and Ilya wrenches himself away from Alexei again, but stays quiet.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. For once, Alexei's in his officer's uniform. His hair is still askew, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. Ilya had told him that they’d never speak again. That was before Alexei had the ability to arrest him.

“Ilya,” he snaps, and he doesn’t have a trace of warmth, of anger, of anything that implies they know each other, let alone that they are blood.

“Are you really going to delay this plane for everyone, Alexei?” Ilya asks as Group 7 is called. There are 8 total. His heart hammers, waiting for Alexei to realize that he could beat Ilya half to death right here and now, just like he’s always wanted, and the people would cheer. He thinks of Shane, Svetlana, Yuna, David; these four people who care for him now. Only four. He supposes it’s better that that number isn’t any higher.

Alexei stares at him. He wanted to be a policeman for as long as Ilya can remember. He played hockey, sure, but only as a hobby, one he dropped the moment Ilya was better at it. But becoming a policeman? Their father was so proud. Wherever he is now, he is probably still proud, as Alexei opens his mouth to condemn Ilya, to wipe their father’s second and final mistake from the face of the earth.

Mama, Ilya thinks, is there anything I can do? Please. Anything?

“Give me your wallet.”

Ilya - who's still not convinced he isn't dreaming or dying - says, “What?”

“Your wallet. Give it to me.” Alexei holds his hand out, palm up.

Ilya stares at him. 

Group 8 is called to board.

Ilya fishes out his wallet. He pulls his driver’s license out - Russian, useless now, the only identifying mark on the wallet. He places it in Alexei's waiting palm.

Alexei - the bastard - pulls out the money and starts counting it.

Ilya almost laughs. Of course. His brother is determining if Ilya has enough money in his wallet to let him live. 

“I won't even cancel the credit cards, if you prefer,” he can't help but snark.

“Don't make me lose count.”

Alexei actually starts recounting, which makes Ilya snap his mouth shut. He glances back at the counter, the door to freedom. Blocked by his brother. Of course.

“Where are you going?”

Ilya whips back around. Alexei pockets his wallet and folds his hands in front of himself.

“I am not telling you that!” Ilya spits.

“The police are searching flights with connecting flights to America,” Alexei says. “To Boston. Are you going to Boston?”

Ilya’s breath trembles. He hadn’t thought of that when he’d bought his ticket. He wasn’t thinking about much of anything besides get out get out get out, but it makes sense. Who would ever guess that he would go to Canada? To Ottawa?

He shakes his head.

Alexei nods. “Then you might make it.”

“Final boarding announcement for flight 227 to Paris, France,” echoes over the loudspeaker. The line behind them is gone. 

“What?” Ilya demands. No, he won’t. Not if Alexei knows what flight he’s getting on. No, of course not. His one bid for freedom - the one he made at 17 when he moved to the US, the one he made at 12 when he decided to get out of this godforsaken country before it killed him too, the one he made when he was 4 and put on skates and held a hockey stick for the first time - has completely, utterly, failed.

“Go. Go on,” Alexei says, “go, and never come back.”

Ilya stares at Alexei in complete disbelief. No, he will turn his back, and Alexei will fucking tackle him, or shoot him, or ground the damn plane. No, for whatever reason, Alexei is just giving him false hope before he kills Ilya.

Right?

“Run, Ilyusha,” Alexei murmurs. His eyes are dead when they meet Ilya’s. “You’ve always been good at that.”

Ilya’s shaking. He doesn’t know when he started, and he doesn’t know if he can stop. But he doesn’t have to.

Instead, he turns around, scoops his phone off the floor, and runs onto the plane.

Ilya is the last person to board. The hostesses glare at him, and he nearly trips over someone's foot in the aisle, and he helps a woman get her bag into the overhead compartment just so he can get by. He shuffles to his seat - a middle seat near the very back of the plane. He sits next to a woman in a pencil skirt who seems very annoyed that she has to put her tray table up for Ilya to get by, and a man in a hoodie who’s already asleep with his seatbelt unfastened. Ilya sits down. He keeps his hoodie up, his hat on, his glasses on. He grips the armrests and tries very hard to relax.

He pulls out his phone. The screen is webbed in cracks, but it still turns on, even if Ilya has to be careful not to cut his fingers on the glass.

Svetlana:

I’m on the plane

About time

Comfy?

No

But ok

She hearts his last message. Ilya calls Shane. It rings and rings.

“Hello?” Yuna answers, which throws Ilya off for long enough that she starts saying, “Sorry, now isn’t a good time, Shane will call you ba-”

“Yuna, is me,” Ilya manages. “I - it’s Ilya.”

“Oh, oh! Shane!” she calls. “Ilya, wait, are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” Ilya says. “I’m on the plane.”

There’s a faint rustling sound, before Shane’s shaking breaths can be heard over the line. “Ilya?”

“I’m fine, I’m on the plane,” he repeats. “I - I mean. We’re taxiing. At least.”

“...Oh. But I - I thought - ”

“It was fine,” Ilya says, too snappish, too short, “was nothing.”

“...Oh.”

“I’m okay,” Ilya says. This is, of course, a lie, since he’s still on Russian ground, and he will still be in Russian airspace. Not for long. But maybe it’ll be long enough for them to find him.

“Okay,” Shane still murmurs. “Okay, I - you have to tell me when you land, okay? Please?”

“Of course I will.”

“Okay.” Shane breathes out slowly. Ilya can picture the way his mouth moves in silent counts. “Okay.”

There is nothing Ilya can say or do until he touches down in Paris, but he itches to offer platitudes, empty promises, about his safety. He wishes fruitlessly that this was a normal phone call, like they’ve done every night since Ilya left the cottage.

“My, uh, my parents are here,” Shane says. “They, um, they’re glad you’re on the plane, they’ll be tracking the flight with me. And, um, they’ll tag along to the airport. My dad’ll probably meet you inside, he’s the least recognizable. We can, um, we can take my car, or theirs. They’re both equally boring, you’ll be happy to hear.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “Yeah? Impossible.”

“No, really, I got it for them after our rookie season,” Shane continues, his voice shaking but a little lighter. “My first paycheck. The car they had before that was as old as I was at the time, they always talked about how that car brought me home from the hospital, or whatever, so I figured it was time for a change.”

Ilya hopes that car is still around. That car probably took Shane to hockey practice, to school, to vacation spots. Ilya would like to see it.

“You have let your parents drive the same car for over a decade?” Ilya teases. “Really?”

“It’s a good car!”

Ilya laughs, something cracking open deep in his chest as he does, and he faintly hears laughter on the other end of the line. Oh, he wants to be home. He wants to be home so bad. He wants to be home all the fucking time.

“Sir? You need to put your seatbelt on,” an air hostess says. Ilya looks down at his own lap instinctually, but the hostess is looking at the guy next to him. She sends him a pleading look, and Ilya really, desperately does not want this plane to be delayed for any reason whatsoever, so he nudges the guy next to him.

“And ma'am, you will need to put your tray table up until the seatbelt sign turns off,” she continues. The corporate lady grumbles but folds the table up, and the guy next to Ilya fumbles to fasten his seatbelt and almost immediately falls asleep again.

Ilya sighs. 

“You okay?” Shane asks. Then, “Sorry, that’s a stupid question.”

“Is okay,” Ilya murmurs. “I am fine. I will be better when we take off.”

“You should probably put your phone on airplane mode.”

“What does that even do?” Ilya snarks, if only so he doesn’t have to hang up yet. “Really, the plane will cease to function if I don’t press little button? Truly?”

Shane just huffs a laugh. “Maybe if everyone didn’t do it.”

Ilya sighs. “Fine. I will be good citizen.”

By definition, he is now considered a very terrible citizen of Russia, but he decides not to voice that.

“Ilya?” Shane asks.

“Hm?”

Shane’s breathing is still shaking. Ilya, more than anything, wants it to stop. “I know - I know you’re not, you’re not really safe yet, but I just - ”

“Shane - ”

“I’m glad you saw it when you did,” Shane whispers. “I’m glad you’re on the fucking plane, Ilya.”

Ilya can’t afford to break yet. He is still in Russia. He is still surrounded by a majority of Russians who could recognize him. He is still thousands of miles away from home.

His eyes well up anyway. It doesn’t matter. He’s wearing sunglasses.

“Sleep, or at least rest for a bit, yeah?” Shane murmurs. “If…if you can.”

“I will try,” Ilya says, and means it, because Shane is bothering to tell him to try and take care of himself in the midst of this hellscape of circumstances.

“And you have to text me or call me until I respond the moment you land.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Ilya’s done a lot of hard things in his life. He has found his mother dead in her bedroom. He has attended her funeral. He has moved across the world to a country whose language he barely spoke. He has won the Raiders the Stanley Cup.

Somehow, ending this call with Shane is harder.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” Shane murmurs, “okay?”

Ilya swallows hard, his throat clicking. The plane is speeding up underneath them now, and if the call drops suddenly, Shane will assume the worst.

“Okay.”

“See you soon, Ilya.” Not bye, Shane is never once saying bye, and Ilya doesn’t want to say bye either, but - 

“I love you,” he says. Just in case.

Shane pauses.

Then, “I love you, too.”

Ilya nods, and hangs up.

Chapter End Notes

(Mostly) up from here!
Ilya and Alexei's relationship (for better or worse) FASCINATES ME and I had a great time with it in this fic.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Against all odds, Ilya falls asleep. 

He wakes up when the plane jolts as it lands, tarmac and buildings rushing past the open window, and for a heartstopping moment, Ilya doesn’t know how much time has passed. Ilya doesn’t know what country he’s in.

Please, he thinks, please.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just arrived in Paris, France, where the local time is 7:57AM,” the loudspeaker booms. “Please remain seated until the seatbelt sign has turned off, and please be cautious while retrieving bags from the overhead compartments, as they may have shifted during your flight. Thank you for choosing S7 Airlines, and we hope you fly with us again soon!”

Ilya sinks in his seat. It’s highly unlikely he’ll ever use S7 again, considering they’re a Russian airline. And he had so many miles built up too.

…Probably for the best.

 He pulls out his phone, which is still playing music through his headphones, and takes it off airplane mode. The notifications flood in so fast, Ilya almost regrets it. There are news articles, text messages, Twitter mentions, thousands upon thousands of people suddenly, furiously, debating the sexuality of the best hockey player in a generation.

Great.

Ilya deletes Twitter and Instagram off his phone entirely, and dismisses every single notification about an article with his name in it. He has hundreds of text messages and a flood of missed calls.

He dials Shane’s number while texting Svetlana.

Svetlana:

In paris

Not dead

Or arrested

Fucking good

Never scare me like that again

Or the police will be the least of your problems

🫡💃🫡💃

🖕🖕🖕

Shane picks up on the second ring.

“Ilya?”

“I’m in Paris,” he says, shuffling to stand and yank his bag down from the overhead compartment. “And France is not friendly enough with Russia to deport me, so I think I am…okay.”

The words roll over Ilya’s tongue and his body in equal measure. He shudders as he follows the other passengers off the plane.

“Shane?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s - fuck, Ilya,” Shane says, and Ilya’s heart squeezes as Shane’s breath stutters. He must have been panicking, he must have been panicking throughout Ilya’s four hour flight, but he held it together long enough to say goodbye before the plane took off, and despite everything, Ilya is still not close enough to hold him through shit.

“Breathe,” he has to say instead, stepping into the terminal and freezing like a lost child before following the throngs of disembarking passengers. “Shane. I am fine now, I really am. Is okay.”

“I…I know,” Shane murmurs. “I know, I know.”

“Breathe, moya lyubov,” Ilya says. “Please.”

He hears Shane try, his breaths noisy and forceful, if still short.

“When’s your next flight?” Shane asks.

“Um.” Ilya honestly hadn’t dared to believe he’d actually get here. He looks over his ticket. “I have 2 hours. We take off at 10AM here. Ish.”

“Good,” Shane says. “Good. You should - did you sleep on the plane?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Get…breakfast. Or something. Eat. My parents say hi, by the way. They wanna talk to you if you…feel like it.”

“Tell them thank you, please,” Ilya says, warmth warring with a fierce ache in his chest. He hears Shane tell them, ever dutiful, ever literal, but he stifles a yawn halfway through. Ilya frowns.

“Fuck, wait, what time is it there?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Shane.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Shane says, even as Ilya’s phone helpfully informs him that it’s 1 AM for Ottawa, Canada. He groans.

“Jesus, Shane, go to sleep.”

“No. My parents might though.”

“Fuck, yes, please, tell them to,” Ilya mutters. He plops down on a random seat in front of an empty gate. “Shane, malysh, I am fine, go to sleep.”

“Fuck you.”

“I just fled my whole fucking country and you are saying ‘fuck you’ to me, unbelievable,” Ilya teases. Shane laughs.

“I’ll sleep once you get on the plane. ‘S fine. Find your gate,” Shane murmurs. “Then get some food. Or at least water, or coffee, or something.”

Admittedly, Ilya’s mouth is quite dry, and he’s been awake since about three in the morning, which is more than enough time to get hungry for…breakfast? Lunch? Whatever sounds good.

Ilya stands up and makes it about three steps before he realizes he can’t buy anything. His wallet for the US and Canada - his real wallet, with a tiny picture of him and his mother, his trading card from his rookie season, his driver’s license, and his US credit cards - is on his dresser in Boston.

His sparse wallet for Russia, with its rubles and 2 credit cards, is in Alexei’s pocket.

Fuck.

“Ilya?”

Shane’s still on the line, and can probably hear Ilya’s panic. Well. Great. It’s hardly like Ilya’s going to die - his next flight is 8 hours, more than enough for the plane to issue him a meal - but now he’s aware that he’s hungry, and that’s still hours away. And Shane is still waiting over the line - caring, sweet, stubborn Shane, who probably won’t let it go until he can hear Ilya eating something.

“Yes?”

“You okay?” Shane asks as Ilya steps to the side of the wide walkways and opens his half-empty bag. He finds an empty protein bar wrapper. He rolls his eyes.

“Yes, fine.” It’s silly, isn’t it? Ilya can’t imagine Shane handing over his entire wallet to anyone, ever, for anything. Maybe in a mugging? Was Ilya mugged? In a way, he supposes he was. It still doesn’t feel like a good enough excuse for complaining now. He picks his bag up and keeps walking.

“I’m looking for my gate,” he says. “My flight is on time?”

“All green and on time,” Shane reports. “Starts boarding in 1 hour and 43 minutes.”

“Great.”

“Enough time to grab some food.” Shane’s tone really invites no argument.

“I have a protein bar,” Ilya says, crunching the wrapper against the speaker of his phone before chucking it into a trash can. “Very healthy.”

“That’s not a meal.”

“I don’t know anything about French food, I am fine,” Ilya says. His eyes are itchy, his head is pounding, and he still has a transatlantic flight ahead of him that adrenaline can’t carry him through. His excuses aren’t materializing properly in his brain.

“I know you don’t think an airport only contains French food, Ilya,” Shane says, lightly chiding but still enough to make Ilya wilt. “What’s wrong?”

Ilya buys himself some time by stopping at a water fountain, taking noisy sips until Shane sighs.

“Ilya.”

“Hm?”

“What is it?” Shane asks, the note of a whine in his voice. Ilya winces. “Please just tell me.”

“I just - I don’t…have my wallet, so I am going to wait until I get on the plane, okay?” Ilya says shortly, shoving his phone in his pocket and walking, his earbuds warm in his ears. He glances around. He doesn’t think anyone will recognize him. France isn’t big on hockey. But it’s an airport, so by definition, lots of types of people are passing in and out, and lots of the EU does like hockey. But his disguise does a decent job, he thinks. 

“You don’t have your wallet?” Shane asks. Ilya braces for judgement, for laughter. It does sound like he forgot one of the most important things to have when traveling. In his defense, he was fleeing the country. Also, he didn’t forget it, but confessing that he just handed it to Alexei might be worse. 

“Oh. Hm.

Ilya finds his gate and sits down, tipping his head back and sighing. He shuts his eyes. He could probably fall asleep again if he tried.

“Well, do you have Apple Pay?”

Ilya blinks his eyes back open. The ceiling of the airport is dotted with windows, sunlight spilling in.

“What?”

“Apple Pay. You can, like, pay from your phone - ”

“I know what Apple Pay is,” Ilya says. “I - is not set up, I think, on my phone.” His phone, which is definitely about to die. He moves closer to a bunch of outlets set up on a table and plugs his phone in.

“Okay. Set it up.”

“Don’t I need the card for that?” Ilya asks. “I don’t have the numbers memorized.”

“Is it saved on your phone?”

Ilya sighs. “I don’t know, Shane.”

“Hm.”

Ilya can hear Shane thinking. He’d prefer it if he stopped, but no one has ever been able to stop Shane from thinking, and it’s not like Ilya’s going to figure it out now, of all times. He could genuinely fall asleep like this, lounging on an uncomfortable chair with Shane’s tinny breathing in his ears. They fall asleep on calls all the time, now; it’s become second nature. 

“Ilya?”

Ilya grunts.

“Ilya, open the Apple Pay app. It’s automatically on your phone.”

“‘S still not set up, malysh.”

“I know, I’m gonna tell you how to sign into mine.”

Ilya sighs. “I am really not hungry, Shane, please.”

“You’re a liar and I know it and I would feel much, much better if you ate something. Ilya, please?”

Ilya has never been particularly kind to himself, so he imagines the exact pleading face he knows Shane is making all the way in Canada right now. Fuck.

“Ilya?”

Ilya groans. He’s like, almost asleep again. Shane sighs.

“Okay. Can you at least eat your stupid protein bar, and then fall asleep? I can, like, yell in your ear when it’s time for you to get up. Actually, set an alarm, please, in case I fall asleep. Actually, I can do it, nevermind.”

Ilya winces, his eyes popping open. “Um.”

“What?” Shane asks.

“Uh. I don’t think I actually. Have the protein bar. So…” Ilya murmurs.

Ilya can practically hear Shane frowning. Usually, he likes being attuned to Shane’s emotions, but it’s really biting him in the ass now.

“You just said - ”

“Yes, I had - empty wrapper. Then I, um, threw it away,” Ilya confesses, scratching the back of his head. “I think I ate it on the way to Moscow.”

The silence over the line is terrible. At least Ilya feels wide awake now.

“So you lied to me,” Shane says.

Ilya’s very empty stomach drops. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t want you to worry - ”

“Open Apple Pay on your phone, Ilya.”

And, well, at that point, Ilya just has to do it.

Shane murmurs instructions to him as Ilya signs into Apple Pay with Shane’s iCloud account, Shane hunting down passwords and one of his credit cards. It is unexpectedly, stupidly thrilling when it works, Ilya’s profile reading “S. Hollander” and his empty profile picture having the initials SH.

“Your bank will think you are in France,” Ilya says as he levers himself out of his seat with more difficulty than he wants to admit.

“I doubt you’ll spend enough for them to get suspicious,” Shane says. 

“I don’t know, Hollander, they have all the…the thing. What’s it called?” Ilya asks. He starts looking over the available food, now that he can actually buy it.

“What thing?” Shane asks.

“The stuff in the airports that costs less.”

“Duty-free?”

“Yes, that!” Ilya says, snapping his fingers. “I don’t know, Hollander, what if I blow past your credit card limit on duty-free designer goods?”

“Do you honestly think I’d care?” Shane asks. “Please try, if you like something.”

He sounds strangely eager. Ilya pauses in between a McDonalds and a tavern-ish looking bar. “Do you want me to spend your money, Hollander?” he teases. “Is this getting you off? Making me sign into your dumb Apple account with no photo?” Seriously, Ilya can tell this is an account Shane’s had for a long time, how does he not have a profile picture?

Shane scoffs. “If you’re implying I’m happy you’re stranded in another country with no money, no, Ilya, I’m not.”

“That is not what I am saying!” Ilya says. “I am saying I’m using the circumstances to figure out if you have a sugar daddy kink.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov, order some fucking food.”

That, of course, devolves into an argument about what food Ilya should buy. Ilya would like to eat his weight in McDonalds. Shane wants him to eat food for rabbits that won’t make Ilya “lethargic” and “sick.” They compromise on a large iced coffee from McDonalds and 2 breakfast wraps from a random chain restaurant. Ilya’s headache recedes as he eats, and the caffeine makes him feel marginally more like a human being.

“You’re gonna be awake for an entire 8 hour flight,” Shane mutters, though his tone is too fond, too pleased, his mission clearly accomplished.

“Oh well,” Ilya says. “I am very used to jet lag. I will sleep whenever. Especially in your bed.”

Shane hums. “Is it awful to be excited you’ll be here soon when it’s under these circumstances?”

“No,” Ilya says, shrugging. “I am excited. Why not you?”

Shane doesn’t have a good answer to that. Ilya finishes one burrito and starts eating the other.

“What are people saying?” Ilya asks eventually. “About the photos?”

“Um…”

“You can tell me, is fine,” Ilya mutters. “As long as NHL is not trying to fire me and deport me back to Russia. That would be funny, actually.”

“Ilya.”

“No, I just - you know, after all this,” Ilya says, waving his hand even though Shane can’t see him. “Would be funny if I did all that, and then I went back and my visa was canceled.”

“Can you please stop?”

“Sorry,” Ilya says. “Will not happen. Is not how visas work. I don’t think.”

“Ilya.”

“Okay, sorry,” he relents. He really doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. He's too focussed on the burrito, which is actually decently good, considering it satisfied Shane’s requests of “vaguely healthy.” 

Shane yawns. 

Ilya frowns. “My flight-”

“I’m awake, Ilya, shut up.”

Ilya snaps his mouth shut.

“Do you remember the photos?” Shane asks softly.

“What?”

“I mean, you’ve - please stay off the internet, right now, but, like, you…saw them, right?”

Ilya nods, sipping his iced coffee, before he remembers Shane can’t see him and says, “Yes.”

“So, do you remember when it’s from?” Shane asks. “Or, like, who you’re with?”

Ilya leans back in his chair, tucking his legs against the table to curl up a bit, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket, turning his phone around and around and around, its surface hot to the touch. He wishes they could videocall. He wishes he was home.

He grins.

“Are you asking for a reason, Hollander?” he asks, pitching his voice lower. “Or are you just curious?”

Shane - lovely, lovely, Shane - takes the bait immediately.

“I - just, it would be good to figure out how someone got the photos, that’s all!” he exclaims.

“Photos are from across the street,” Ilya says. “Just unlucky. Random pedestrian.”

“Well, it would be good to know how that happened so no one else gets random photos of you giving someone a blow job!” Shane snaps. “Just saying.”

“Why, so I can avoid being outed a second time?” Ilya asks.

“Fuck, Ilya, fine, get caught fucking random people in the street, see if I care.”

“Shane,” Ilya says softly, practically crooning. “Shaaane.”

“Fucking what, asshole?”

“It cannot happen again. Would you like to know why?”

“Oh, please enlighten me.” 

God, but Ilya does love snarky, bitchy, possessive Shane Hollander. He’s grinning for the first time in hours, days.

“Because my boyfriend would not let me blow him in an alley outside of a club,” Ilya says. “He would be too concerned about being in a loud, bright club in the first place, and of me kneeling in a dirty alley.” And of being seen, but that’s probably an issue they don’t want to address today, of all days.

“Well, alleys are usually fucking dirty-”

“-which means that no one will get photos of me like that again because my boyfriend would insist we go to the privacy of one of our homes together before I fold him in half. And my boyfriend is the only person I want to fuck ever again, so, is solved. The photos are from around 2011.”

Ilya must look like a lunatic, wearing a hoodie and a hat and sunglasses indoors, grinning at nothing as Shane’s uneven breaths fill his ears.

“Shane?”

“Mm?”

“What do you want from the duty free?” he asks, grabbing his half-full cup of coffee and throwing away the burrito wrappers. “My treat.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov.”

But Ilya can hear him smiling again, and for now, that’s enough.

Chapter End Notes

Seeeeeeeee they're so cute everything is so fine Ilya's not going through it while stranded overseassssssssss Shane isn't stressing tf out that he can't help Ilya in person (just like always) nooooo they're just bickering over duty free items.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Ilya’s flight from Paris to Ottawa is marginally better, though that’s mostly because he’s not actively fearing for his life. He’s still in a cramped economy seat, though this time he was assigned the one next to the aisle. He’s definitely getting a few more glances and whispers than he did before.

Right. Most people on this flight are probably Canadian. He’s slightly more significant to them. He keeps his glasses on and wishes he had the window seat, tucked against the privacy of the body of the plane. He wishes he had a cigarette. Or that he was not in a plane, so he could actually smoke the cigarette.

He’s issued one of the little free packets of items for a transatlantic flight, including an eye mask, mints, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. He actually does go to the bathroom and brush his teeth, considering he didn’t do that when he woke up in Russia. His toothbrush is still in Russia. He sort of feels bad for whatever housekeeper has to clean up that hotel room. He should’ve left a tip. It wasn’t really on his list of priorities at the time.

He tries to relax. He passes the time with movies and listening to music, though his attention wanders too often to keep up with any of it. He dozes off and is woken up for a meal service that makes him glad he ate well on the ground. Still, he eats the fruit cup and puts the bread roll on top of the aluminum-wrapped frittata so it can warm up a little. It is no one’s business but Ilya’s if he asks for a ginger ale. The hostess definitely stares at him, eyes squinty like she’s trying to remember where she knows him from. 

The adrenaline still hasn’t left his body, and his leg taps restlessly against the ground. He can’t help but think, and think, and think. He had missed calls from teammates, his coach, his GM. What are they going to say? What is Ilya supposed to say? The pictures are damning. They’re also old. Maybe Ilya was just…experimenting. Could he say that? Should he say that?

What response will not get him dropped from the Raiders? What response will not get him sent back to Russia?

Is there one?

He’s not going to figure it out jet lagged on a plane. His coffee is long gone and has left behind jitters, and he’s much more tired than he usually is after - or, he supposes, during - trips like this. He can figure it out later. Shane might help him. Or maybe Yuna. That…would be nice. Maybe.

Ilya falls asleep again. He falls in and out. He starts and stops two more movies. He blasts music on his headphones until his head hurts.

He wakes up at the announcement that they’re starting their descent. The plane is over Canada, and he stares listlessly out the window with its fluffy white clouds and rolling greenery and thinks, go faster.

He’s never been so happy to land in his life.

He takes his phone off airplane mode and texts Svetlana.

Svetlana:

Landed 🫡

Then, he calls Shane.

Her response comes through just as Shane picks up.

Svetlana:

You did not tell me you were going to Ottawa

I’m glad

I thought it was “Montreal Jane” tho 👀

“Ilya?”

“Hi,” Ilya says, frowning at Svetlana’s message. How did she know that? He specifically did not mention it, not wanting to hear that it would be a bad idea to go visit his gay boyfriend right after the news leaked. Maybe she guessed. Maybe she guessed he would not want to visit a city that hates him right after the release of news about more reasons they could hate him.

“Hi,” Shane says. “You landed.”

He really keeps tracking the plane. Ilya ignores the ridiculous joy that makes his chest squeeze. “Please tell me you went to sleep.”

“I did for a bit, don’t worry.”

“‘A bit,’” Ilya echoes. 

“Yes, a bit, deal with it.”

Ilya grins. He’s going to see Shane in 15 minutes. Maybe 10 if he runs. The thought makes him giddy.

So, of course, Shane has to say, “Um, so, Ilya,” in his worried voice. For fuck’s sake. What the fuck else is there to worry about?

“Is something wrong?” Ilya asks.

“Your flight information kind of…leaked overnight,” Shane says softly.

Ilya freezes. “It what?”

“I don’t know how, my mom is trying some stuff, and so is your agent, from what she’s heard,” Shane says. Ilya switched recently after asking her for a recommendation, eager to hire someone who was not his father’s friend and who Yuna could talk to if it was ever needed. Her name is Sabrina. Ilya has really thrown her into the deep end. He should probably call her back.

“So…people know what airport I’m in?” he asks. “The flight? The gate?”

“Yes.”

Well, no one ever accused Shane of sugar coating anything. Suddenly, Ilya really does not want to leave this plane.

“Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Shane says. “My dad’s waiting in the terminal, and he doesn’t notice any crowds, or anything. A few reporters you’ll have to dodge, but it’s not so bad.”

Well, at least there are no homophobic hockey fans trying to burn Ilya at the metaphorical stake. He still frowns.

“Your dad?”

“Yeah, you should probably call him, let him know how to find you once you get off the plane,” Shane says. Ilya shakes his head, as much as it pains him.

“I - he can’t still pick me up. You can’t pick me up. Someone’s going to see.”

“You’re hilarious if you think we’re not already here despite that.”

Ilya’s heart drops. “Please.” He can't string together an argument beyond pleasepleaseplease in either English or Russian. He can’t do this to Shane. Not this. Not on top of everything. “Please. I’ll get an Uber. Please get him and leave.”

“No.”

“You are not picking me up from airport with paparazzi after I got outed!” Ilya hisses firmly, less steady than he would like. He’s still surrounded by people and fights to lower his voice. “Please. Please. You know it - you know it will be bad, you know people will talk, I - ”

“Ilya.”

Shane sounds remarkably steady, which is not usually how these things go for them. Ilya takes a deep breath as he steps off the plane, keeping his head ducked as he slings his bag on his shoulders and walks quickly.

“I can get an Uber,” he repeats. It’s true; that’s mostly a viable option. He will have to wait in an airport where reporters are actively looking for him, and Shane’s parents’ home is two hours away from the airport, which means more waiting before he can finally fucking relax, but. But it’s doable. Ilya can do it. Ilya could lift a fucking mountain if it means the media storm actively battering him to pieces doesn’t touch Shane. Shane, who’s not ready. Shane, whose plan for coming out involved founding a charity and waiting until they both retire. 

Shane, who’s bolted before when he was pushed into something he wasn’t ready for.

Ilya refuses to push. Not now, not about this, not because some idiot leaked photos of him from 2011.

“Ilya. Ilya, breathe.”

“Fuck you, I am breathing,” Ilya snaps. The terminal opens up in front of him, and Ilya looks around. There are no reporters; he’s still in the part of the airport that requires a ticket to access, but he wouldn’t put it past a go-getter reporter to buy one just to stand outside his gate. But when he doesn’t see anyone, he keeps his head down and follows the other disembarking passengers.

“Ilya,” Shane says, and his voice is a little shaky, but he says, “if you - if you want me to leave, I - we can. If it would…make it easier for you, right now, we can.”

Ilya doesn’t think anything’s easier without Shane next to him anymore. And considering they’re rivals in the same sport, that’s saying a fucking lot.

“But - but this is okay. With me. Because - well, honestly, seeing those headlines and knowing you were in Russia, it…puts a lot in perspective.”

“Just because we will not be arrested here doesn’t make it that much better, Shane,” Ilya hisses. “That is not a fair comparison.”

“I thought you were dead,” Shane says, his voice flat, as if that’s not going to stab Ilya in the heart the way it does. “Or - I thought you would be, soon. So I just - I know it won’t be great, but I don’t care. Let them talk. We’ll handle it.”

Ilya’s not convinced. They’ve never been very good at handling it. Leave it to Ilya to blow up a very simple, very long-term plan. Maybe he’s not built for long-term plans. 

“Please?” Shane says softly.

But. Well. Ilya’s not very good at denying Shane anything. 

He shoves his trembling hands in his pocket. His phone is overheating again. “Okay,” he whispers, and tries really hard not to feel like he’s condemning Shane, too.

“Okay,” Shane says, and he does sound happier, at the very least, for whatever that’s worth versus the stakes they’ll be up against soon. 

“See you soon,” Ilya says, and finally, thrillingly, means it.

“See you soon,” Shane echoes, and hangs up.

Ilya just keeps his head down, watching his feet and following everyone else, so it takes him completely off guard when people start splitting into lines.

Ilya looks up at the sign that reads IMMIGRATION, and his heart rate spikes again. Maybe one of the calls he’s been ignoring was from the Canadian government that his visa was canceled. He has to remove his various layers of paparazzi disguise. Fuck. Fuck.

Someone knocks into Ilya’s shoulder as they pass him, and he joins a line. He fishes out his passport, his American and Canadian work visas attached to pages inside. The emblem of Russia sits stamped on the front like always, but it really feels mocking this time.

He thinks about what it would be like to travel with Shane. On a vacation, or for work, or for anything like that. He supposes they would both be out, in those circumstances. Shane would probably handle getting their travel documents. He would make sure they both had visas and tickets when they needed them, or he would coordinate with the NHL if it was for hockey. Ilya would probably handle everything in the airport itself, handing over tickets and documents and chatting with immigration officers with the confidence that Shane’s attention to detail would ensure all their papers were accurate. And no one’s visas would be canceled. That would be nice. That would be really nice.

“Next?”

But today, Ilya only has himself, so he steps up to the empty counter. The immigration officer’s name is Lisa. Her brows furrow when he meets her eyes, but he just removes his hat and sunglasses and hands over his passport. Her eyes widen, and her gaze darts between Ilya and his passport for a beat too long. Ilya is very tired.

“Hello, Mr. Rozanov,” she says. “Where are you traveling from today?”

“Moscow.”

“Um, and what is the purpose of your entry to Canada today?”

“I work here. Sort of,” he says. Clearly, she understands what he means. She nods.

“Do you have any items to declare that are valued at or above 100 Canadian dollars?”

“No.”

“Great,” she says. He watches her scan things.

“And how long will you be in Canada, sir?” she asks. Ilya has no idea. Ilya would like to say forever. Ilya has no idea how long Shane and his parents are willing to host him, he has no idea if or when the Raiders want him to be back in Boston for pre-season, he doesn’t know anything.

“I will go to the US soon,” he says. “I, um, am not sure exactly when. Less than 2 weeks.”

“Sounds good, thank you.”

Ilya’s shoulders loosen when she stamps his passport and hands it back. “Have a good time, Mr. Rozanov,” she says. “I’m - well, I’m glad you made it.”

So she has seen the news. Ilya’s relieved he couldn’t really tell. He gives her a wry grin and a two-fingered salute, making her chuckle.

He walks past the desk and sighs in relief. He keeps following other passengers while dialing David’s number. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hi, Ilya,” he says warmly. “How are you doing, kiddo?”

“You know, been better,” he murmurs. He spots a pair of paparazzi facing each other, a camera hanging from around one of their necks. He puts his sunglasses back on.

“Don’t worry, kiddo, we’re gonna get you out of here, yeah?” David says. Ilya steps onto an escalator, ignoring the call of, “Mr. Rozanov!” behind him. He refuses to run from paparazzi - he hasn’t fallen that far - but he does walk pretty fast.

“Quickly, yes?” he asks, climbing down the steps.

“Yeah, I’m right outside the double doors where all the passengers exit,” he says. “Just a heads up, there are reporters here, but police are trying to move them along, so maybe you can slip by.”

Ilya thinks that’s highly optimistic. The throngs of passengers begin to filter into two lines, shuffling through sets of double doors. Attention: you will not be permitted to reenter beyond this point, a sign reads above them. No one needs a ticket beyond these doors. This is where most of the reporters must’ve camped out, besides the one Ilya can hear chasing him down. He really doesn’t want to walk through these doors.

But he will see Shane, and Yuna, and David, and that’s enough to bolster him to do it anyways. Maybe he wouldn’t have made it onto an Uber after all.

He waits for the doors to swing open, and immediately registers raised voices and David, standing just under a sign for Gate 5. He keeps his head down, but the reporter that’s been chasing him calls his name again, causing the reporters arguing with the police to scan the room.

David meets him halfway, though, and it shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is to see him smiling without a care in the world, deftly ignoring the increasingly urgent shouts of Ilya’s name.

“Hey, kiddo, good to see you,” he says, clasping Ilya’s shoulder. 

Ilya smiles shakily.

“Mr. Rozanov, do you have any comment on the photos that were released this morning?”

“Ignore them,” David says, still with a pleasant smile, walking slightly behind Ilya, his hand on Ilya’s back, guiding him along. “We’re aiming for Gate 7, okay? Yuna and Shane are parked just across the street.”

“Mr. Rozanov, how did you escape Russia?”

“Did you feel like you were in danger?”

“What is your opinion on the laws about queer people in your country?”

“Mr. Hollander, why are you picking up your son’s arch-rival from the airport?”

The number of reporters outside is much, much worse than inside.

Gate 7 slides open and there’s throngs of normal people with bags shoving their way through the crowd of reporters, as well as two vans marked with news channels.

Shit.

They must’ve called each other, or maybe all paparazzi share an evil, evil hive-mind like a bad horror film, because Ilya and David are surrounded instantly. Camera flashes blind them even with Ilya’s sunglasses on in the midday sun. He bites his tongue to keep from lashing out; he hasn’t talked to anyone yet, not his manager or his coach or his team, and even with his reputation as an asshole, he can’t risk making this worse.

“Ilya, have you spoken to your team?”

“Who was the other man in the photos?”

“Mr. Rozanov, why did you come to Canada?”

Ilya is an internationally renowned hockey player who’s made a career out of a violent sport. However, he cannot legally shoulder check people out of the way, so he settles for pushing them, David right beside him.

Someone grabs his arm, making him curse and wrench it back. Panic makes his chest seize. He really can’t see where he’s going, and he doesn’t even know what car he’s looking for. Cars honk at the throngs of people in the middle of the road, but there’s no space to even take a fucking step.

An engine revs, and Ilya briefly entertains the idea of someone running them over - maybe including him - and a car door slams.

Then, Ilya hears a voice he’s only heard through his headphones all day, all week, all month, ever since he left the cottage.

“I don’t suppose anyone here has any questions that are actually about hockey?”

Ilya meets Shane’s eyes over the crowd. Shane has the audacity to fucking wave.

…What.

The reporters stare, and then, of course, the onslaught restarts.

“Mr. Hollander, what are you doing here?”

“Are you here on behalf of the NHL?”

“Were you aware of Mr. Rozanov’s sexuality before this morning?”

The crowd shifts toward Shane, thins, and Ilya pushes his way forward to a big, black car which is coming dangerously close to hitting people, with Yuna in the driver’s seat. David throws open the passenger door; Ilya climbs into the back.

“How is this better?” he demands, far ruder than he meant.

“Shane hasn’t been on 2 international flights,” Yuna says. “See, he’s coming.”

Shane’s shoving people, really, nearly tripping two reporters into each other as he breaks out of the crowd and runs to the car, narrowly avoiding a car that’s trying to navigate around the crowd.

Ilya - with the same recklessness, stupidity, and desire that’s been getting him and Shane in trouble since 2008 - reaches his hand out of the car door.

Shane - with the same recklessness, stupidity, and desire that’s been getting him and Ilya in trouble since 2008 - grabs his hand, and Ilya yanks him into the car.

The door bounces on its hinge as Shane tries to slam it closed, but he manages and then Ilya smacks his head on the seat as Yuna slams the accelerator, fully pulling away from the crowd of reporters.

“Jesus,” she hisses in a tone alarmingly similar to Svetlana from that morning, “fucking vultures. You should consider suing the airline, Ilya - ”

“Mom - ”

“Can you both please put your seatbelts on before your mother makes it to the highway?” David asks calmly.

Shane doesn’t do that; Shane doesn’t even try.

Instead, Shane throws himself on top of Ilya in a slightly violent hug.

Oh, thank god.

Shane lets go of Ilya’s hand to wrap his arms around Ilya’s neck, and Ilya is on the verge of falling into the gap between the backseat and the back of Yuna’s seat, but he just braces his leg as best as he can and wraps both his arms around Shane’s back.

“Or not,” David relents, chuckling.

Ilya’s focus narrows after that, only registering Shane’s ragged breaths in his ear, the solid weight of him over Ilya’s body, the way his nails dig into Ilya’s back through his hoodie. Achingly familiar, terribly missed, home-home-home.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane breathes, his voice wet. “Oh, fuck.”

“I’m okay,” Ilya murmurs, rubbing his hand up and down Shane’s back. “I’m okay, I’m here, I’m okay.”

Ilya thinks of what it would be like if he had booked a flight to Boston. If he had needed to book a flight to Boston. If he had needed to get an Uber. If he had needed to go back to an empty apartment. He clutches Shane a little tighter. He presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Shane murmurs, tucking his face against the side of Ilya’s neck like he can hide from the events of the day there. Ilya hopes he can.

“Me too.”

He expects Shane to pull back then, but he just settles more fully on top of Ilya in a sprawling hug, tension leaving his body. Ilya’s eyes almost drift shut. Shane starts fidgeting with Ilya’s hair, his curls flattened by his hood.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks quietly. “I mean, uh, do you…we have water. And snacks. And we have AC if you’re too warm.”

Ilya grins, hiding it against Shane’s shoulder. “I’m okay,” he murmurs.

“Okay.”

Ilya squeezes Shane until he grunts. He accidentally makes eye contact with Yuna in the rearview mirror. He flushes, but offers her a tiny wave. She huffs a laugh.

“For the record, David and I are also very glad you’re safe, Ilya,” she says softly. Shane presses his face against Ilya’s neck even harder. 

Ilya chuckles. “Thank you.”

She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “It would also be very good for you both to put on your seatbelts,” she says.

Shane makes a wounded noise. “Mom.”

“We’re on the highway, Shane, he's not going anywhere.”

“Oh my god.”

Ilya rubs his hand over Shane’s back, both to soothe him and to keep him there.

“Yuna, they’re grown men, it’ll be fine,” David says. 

“So being grown men will protect them if there’s a car crash?” Yuna asks. Shane groans. “Or from getting us pulled over? At this rate the policeman would probably leak Ilya’s location to the press.”

“Yes, I’m very popular today,” Ilya snarks. “And every day.”

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

“Shane, seatbelt.”

When Shane does sit up, he’s so red in the face that Ilya bursts out laughing, which earns him a half-hearted whack on the arm. Shane sits in the middle seat, pointedly buckling his seatbelt and earning a slightly exasperated “thank you,” from Yuna. Ilya buckles his seatbelt and flashes Yuna another grin when she glances in the rearview.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Shane asks quietly. “Do you want anything?”

“I am fine, Shane, relax now,” Ilya says. “Really.”

Shane sighs, looping his arm over Ilya’s shoulders and pulling him down to press a kiss to his hair. He’s warm, but it’s a good warm, with the AC softly blowing. David turns on music and lowers the volume, something too soft to make out but enough to cushion the car in something nice. There is something thrilling and lovely about Shane, private by force and by choice, keeping his arm over Ilya’s shoulders, kissing his head, even laying on him, where someone else can see them. Something even more thrilling, tipping into terrifying, about Shane Hollander willingly being seen picking up Ilya Rozanov from the airport.

Shane laces their hands together, resting them on his knee. He tugs on Ilya’s hoodie strings, tightening it over his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Go to sleep,” Shane says, pushing Ilya’s head onto his shoulder. “You must be tired. Go to sleep.”

“I slept on plane.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“What do you mean ‘that doesn’t count?’”

“‘S not restful.”

“How is sleep not ‘restful’-”

“Go to sleep, Ilya.”

Ilya tilts his head to look up at Shane, who looks far too serious for the conversation they’re having. His expression softens the more Ilya smiles though, and he rolls his eyes before pressing another kiss to Ilya’s forehead, and then - slightly shockingly - to his lips. It’s just a tiny peck, barely a press of lips, but it makes Ilya so giddy he accidentally kicks the back of Yuna’s seat.

“I will fully close your hoodie,” Shane mutters, as if that’s a threat at all. “Sleep.”

And, well, Ilya is warm and comfortable, and he is safe, and it is easy to relax into Shane’s side with a sigh.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment.

“For what?” Shane asks.

“...Coming to get me,” Ilya settles on saying, even though it is so, so much more than that.

Shane squeezes him. “Always, Ilya.”

Isn’t that a lovely promise? Isn’t it too good to be true? But he’s tucked into the backseat of Shane’s parents’ boring, dependable car, and his hoodie is still pulled over his eyes, blocking out all the threats of the real world.

Ilya can at least believe it is true today.

Chapter End Notes

The actual comments I left myself in my google doc bc I think I'm funny sometimes:

“Were you aware of Mr. Rozanov’s sexuality before this morning?” - boyyyy was he

“We’re on the highway, Shane, he's not going anywhere.” - diabolical thing for yuna to say actually

“So being grown men will protect them if there’s a car crash?” Yuna asks. Shane groans. “Or from getting us pulled over? At this rate the policeman would probably leak Ilya’s location to the press.” - and they're shocked that shane has anxiety. the call is coming from inside the house.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

When Ilya wakes up, the car isn’t moving. He’s tucked into Shane’s side, his head on Shane’s shoulder and his arm over his shoulders.

“Hey, baby,” Shane murmurs. “We’re home.”

Shane smells good. Ilya wants to bite him, but he refrains, focusing on blinking his eyes open. God, how is it still light outside? He has no idea what time it’s supposed to be.

The car is also empty, in what Ilya recognizes as Shane’s parents’ driveway.

“My parents went in already,” Shane says. His fingers are tracing lazy patterns on Ilya’s arm, and his other hand is holding Ilya’s. “They said to wake you up slowly.”

They’re still sitting outside, in Shane’s parents’ car in Shane’s parents’ driveway, which means when Ilya sits up enough to look Shane in the eyes, he cannot kiss him the way he wants to. Instead, he just looks at him, at the t-shirt and shorts he’s wearing, at the faint dark circles under his eyes, at the gentle smile he’s aiming at Ilya, like he would wait in this car for however long it took for Ilya to wake up.

“Do you want to go inside?” he asks. “I would really like to get you inside.”

Ilya huffs a laugh. “Okay.”

So Shane opens the car door, and he helps Ilya out of the car even though Ilya really doesn’t need help, and he grabs Ilya’s bag before Ilya can even try. They go inside through the front door, and Shane grabs a keyfob off the little hook next to the door and locks the car while Ilya slips off his shoes. He can hear Yuna and David moving around inside, and slips into the kitchen. He finds Yuna first.

“Hi,” she says, like today is a normal day. “It’s about 2 now, are you hungry for lunch?”

“Not now, but thank you,” Ilya murmurs. “And, um, thank you for picking me up. I am sorry it was…chaotic.”

She shakes her head. “That’s hardly your fault, honey,” she says. “We were happy to.”

Shane comes up behind him and grabs his hand. “Do you need any help?” he asks Yuna.

“No, no, your dad and I are gonna eat lunch,” she says. “You wanna join us?”

“I can get Ilya settled first. Do you want a nap? A shower?” Shane asks him quietly. “I can set you up in the guest bedroom. Or, um, in mine, I guess.”

“‘You guess,’” Ilya teases, earning him a little whack on the arm. “Um, I can try to stay awake. Get over jet lag.”

“You have lots of time to get over the jet lag,” Shane says. “Relax, ‘s fine.”

“Though you should probably call your agent at some point,” Yuna says. “And your coach.”

“Mom.”

“No, is okay, she’s right,” Ilya says, trying not to wince. “I will. In a bit.”

“Shane, you should nap,” Yuna says. “I know you haven’t slept, go relax for a bit.”

Ilya frowns at Shane, who’s trying to look away. “You told me you slept.”

“I did!”

“You are liar.”

“I can only sleep so well when my boyfriend is fleeing a fucking country!” Shane exclaims.

“That’s something you don’t hear everyday,” David says, entering the kitchen. “Table’s set. How about both of you boys go and take a nap? That sounds like it would solve the problem.”

“Perfect, come on, I don’t even know why I asked you,” Shane mutters, tugging Ilya along and ignoring his spluttering.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you just took two international flights and it’s currently 9PM in Russia, you’re jet lagged, and there was no point in asking you whether you want a nap when you can just have one.”

“What about autonomy?” Ilya asks, as if he isn’t getting yanked up the stairs by his boyfriend, right where he wants to be. “What about freedom? I thought this was - ”

“If you say America, I swear to fucking god, Ilya - ”

“Oh, what, so Canada has no freedom now?” Ilya demands. Shane groans, stomping up the rest of the stairs. “Wow, Hollander, maybe I should’ve gone to Boston afterall.”

“Shut up, Rozanov.”

Shane - obviously, Ilya doesn’t understand why he suggested anything else - does lead him into Shane’s bedroom. The moment the door closes behind Ilya, and Shane turns around, Ilya yanks him into a kiss.

Shane, as always, melts into it immediately, and Ilya pulls him as close as they can get by looping both his arms around Shane’s back. Shane cups Ilya’s face in both his hands, stroking Ilya’s cheek like he is something, someone, precious.

The kiss deepens, Shane letting out a breathy sigh before abruptly, tragically, pulling himself back. Ilya drinks in the view anyway; Shane flushed red, his lips shiny, his expression pissed off. Ilya really thought he may never have this again, but somehow, some way, managed to keep his feet moving, one step at a time, one flight at a time. He has spent the last decade fighting for a sliver of a night with Shane, for a sliver of Shane’s heart; Ilya is used to low chances, but Ilya keeps winning anyway. The pattern just had to hold.

“We are not,” Shane says, oh so serious, oh so sweet, his finger poking Ilya in the chest as if to emphasize the point Ilya’s going to ignore, “I repeat, we are not doing anything in my parents’ house, do you understand?”

“Mhm,” Ilya hums, and then kisses him again. He sneaks his hands under Shane’s shirt, seeking warm skin. Shane grabs Ilya’s hair hard enough to hurt.

“Ilya!”

“Hm?”

“Ilya, I swear to fucking god, I already laid on top of you in the car, you can’t - ”

Ilya chuckles, wraps his arms more firmly around Shane’s waist, and then lifts him up. Shane barely leaves the ground, but he still yelps. Ilya considers throwing Shane onto the bed, but Shane isn’t wrong in trying to consider his parents, who have done quite a lot for Ilya today already.

Instead, he carries Shane into his small, childhood, walk-in closet. He shuts the door behind them and presses kisses to the side of Shane’s neck, reveling in the hitch of his breath.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now there’s two doors and a floor between us and your parents. Surely you can be quiet enough for that, kotenok?”

“Ilya.”

Ilya thinks it was meant to be scolding, but Shane sighs his name and Ilya can’t help but kiss him again. He thinks about Russia, about Moscow, about how the streets and culture and people who raised him think this is awful, perverse, illegal, when it is one of the truest things Ilya has ever known.

He has known since he was 15 that one day, Russia would shun him. The day has come and Ilya has landed softly, securely, safely, anyways. He is still here. Still accepted. He is even still loved.

Shane kisses him back and Ilya feels his resistance weakening, letting Ilya push him against a shelf mounted to the wall. He spares a moment to look around; while he’s seen Shane’s childhood bedroom, he didn’t bother looking in the closet. The clothes are already boring, sized for a child, mostly athletic gear. Ilya’s intrigued by the neatly laundered row of jerseys, each printed with Shane’s name for different little leagues and club teams, hung in a row Ilya would bet money is chronologically ordered.

He grins, and Shane pulls back to look at him. “What?” he asks.

“Oh, you know,” Ilya murmurs, “just happy to be back in the closet.”

He tries very hard to stop grinning as Shane’s eyebrows furrow, but he can’t help but laugh as the joke lands, and Shane sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Really?” Shane asks as Ilya giggles, hiding his face against Shane’s chest. “Really?”

“Is true!”

Shane breaks then, laughing as he gathers Ilya close, both of them laughing hysterically as more of the day’s stress falls away. They clutch at each other like they’re afraid the other will disappear.

“I love you,” Shane murmurs as their giggles subside, “I love you, I love you, ya tebya lyublyu - ”

“I love you, too,” Ilya says, a shiver running through him as he kisses Shane again, and again, and again. He’s tired and stressed and despite everything, he knows he has calls to make and consequences to reckon with, but maybe, he can not think about it a little longer.

So he presses a kiss to the side of Shane’s head, and whispers, “So? Do you think you can be quiet, kotenok?”

Shane’s breath hitches, but he’s grinning against the side of Ilya’ neck, and Ilya knows he’s going to nod before he does.

So Ilya drops to his knees and lets the closet hide them away for a little while longer.

Shane makes him shower, afterwards. Apparently, Ilya still has “airport” on him, whatever the hell that means. Ilya doesn’t think airport germs are that big of an issue if Shane was still willing to blow him. Shane does not agree. 

Well, Ilya wanted a shower anyway. Also, he uses Shane’s body wash, something-something-eucalyptus that makes him smell a lot like Shane usually does. Unfortunately, about a third of his clothes are still in his hotel room in Russia, but that’s a small price to pay. Shane lends him pajamas: baggy shorts and a tank top with a worn out Nike checkmark stamped on the front. 

He will also never admit it, but he understands what Shane meant when he said Ilya’s sleep has not been restful, because the moment he lays down in Shane’s bed, he groans in relief and resolves to stay there for the foreseeable future. This decision is reaffirmed when Shane joins him, curling his entire body around Ilya’s and tucking Ilya’s head under his chin. It is dark under the blanket, and Shane is still warm from their shower.

“Good?” Shane asks.

Ilya hums.

“Good.”

Ilya throws his leg over Shane’s, tangling them together even further.

“You will sleep?” Ilya murmurs. 

“Mhm.”

Good enough for Ilya; his eyes sink shut almost immediately. His breathing evens out. Shane’s heart beats out a steady rhythm, da-dum da-dum da-dum acting like the sweetest lullaby Ilya could ask for.

Which is why it’s so fucking disappointing when Ilya jolts awake, just as he’s falling asleep.

“Blyat.”

“Mm?”

Half-sleep as he is, Shane resists when Ilya twists halfway out of his grasp as he gropes for his phone.

“One second.”

Shane grumbles, smushing his face into Ilya’s hair even as Ilya flips onto his back, phone in hand. God, he’s so tired he nearly drops it on his face, but he opens МИР and navigates to his credit card information. He’s never, in his life, been stupid enough to just hand Alexei a credit card; he’s only ever given him cash, or wired his account directly.

This.

This proves why.

Ilya bolts upright, making an incoherent sound in the back of his throat. Shane groans out a curse, but Ilya can hardly hear him.

No, not when his card balance is 530,371.21 rubles. It was maybe 100,000 yesterday, to cover Ilya’s hotel, a rental car, and food for his entire trip.

“Holy shit.”

Ilya flinches when Shane stares at him, the traitor reading over his shoulder. Ilya curses and turns away, blocking Shane’s view with his body as he opens a calculator. The conversion rate is around 70 rubles on the US dollar. He throws the numbers in.

Fuck.

Alexei spent over 5,000 dollars in less than 24 hours.

Shit. Shit. Ilya had always made his manager handle transferring money back home - a very bad financial move on his part, considering his old manager was a friend of his father’s. He probably robbed Ilya blind. Nevertheless, this feels worse. This is supposed to be Ilya’s account. His. More importantly, this wasn’t supposed to be happening again. He made a big fucking deal about it, actually. How dramatic. How delusional.

“God, Ilya, did you get fucking robbed?”

Shane holds up his own phone which also has a calculator open, with a number eerily similar to the one on Ilya’s phone, which he’s hunched over protectively. He remembered the number then, and plugged in the ruble conversion rate, accurate out to 3 decimal places. Of course he did.

“I know you weren’t shopping in Russia, what the hell happened?” Shane asks.

“Nothing,” Ilya mutters, turning back to his phone. He navigates the app until he finds the option to cancel a card.

What is the reason for cancelling your card?

• Lost
• Stolen
• Damaged
• Other: _________________

Oh, if only Ilya’s life were simple enough to fit in one of the first three boxes. He selects ‘other’ and doesn’t elaborate in the given field.

“Ilya, if it was stolen, the bank can reimburse you - ”

“I know, Shane, fuck, stop watching me!” Ilya snaps, throwing himself out of the bed entirely and checking UnionPay. Thankfully, there are no charges on that card. Of course; that card works outside of Russia. Ilya mostly uses it in airports during layovers. Alexei probably wouldn’t recognize it.

Is that a tragedy? Is it supposed to be? Ilya cancels the damn thing. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter now. What’s another five thousand dollars? Pennies, in the grand scheme of things. Ilya will earn it back. He always does. He’s blessed to even have the opportunity.

“Ilya?”

Shane’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at Ilya like he’s some starving animal he's trying not to spook. And Ilya can’t help it. He imagines Shane - and Yuna, why the hell not - looking over his finances. At his massive paycheck sitting idle in a bank, at his abysmally low net worth compared to other NHL players, at his “investments” in depreciating cars and quality liquor and concert tickets. What would they think? That Ilya’s stupid? Irresponsible? That he doesn’t plan for the future? 

(The future he’d never thought he’d get to? That future?)

It doesn’t matter. Ilya doesn’t expect them to understand. He’s very, very glad they don’t understand. Because Ilya knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that when Shane bought his parents a new car with his first NHL paycheck, it was his choice to do so. Maybe it was a nice surprise, or a subject for debate across a shared dining table, but it was always Shane’s decision, completely, entirely. His parents probably even thanked him. Shane probably told them they didn’t need to thank him. He probably even meant it.

“Ilya, hey.”

Shane wraps Ilya in his arms, and only then does he realize Shane even moved. Shane pushes Ilya’s face into the crook of his neck, and remains undeterred when Ilya’s arms are too heavy to even think about hugging him back. Ilya’s breath stutters. God, why can’t this room be all that exists? Why can’t the full expanse of the universe be Ilya and the love of his life, in a shoebox of a bedroom saturated in childhood joy? They shouldn’t even be able to step outside. Outside should be nothing. Outside should be less than nothing. Outside is less than nothing. Ilya doesn’t want to think about the outside.

Shane’s talking.

“Baby, baby, sh, it’s gonna be okay. I promise it’ll be okay, we’ll figure it out, it’ll be okay.”

Then, deep breath, then, “You don’t have to tell me, baby. I won’t ask, I promise. Just come sleep for a bit, okay? You might feel better, if you sleep. Please?”

Ilya drops to the ground, his knees giving out. Shane falls with him, as if there’s no other option. 

But there are. There are so many. 

But Ilya can’t deny Shane’s on the ground with him anyway. 

He keeps cooing soft nonsense and maneuvering Ilya into a position a lot like Tampa but reversed, Shane holding Ilya in his lap as Ilya flies into pieces a second time.

Pathetic.

But Shane holds him tight like he did then, and Ilya gets to hide in the crook of his neck, and Shane keeps up a steady stream of, “I love you, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push, it’ll be okay, baby, Ilya, sh, I’ve got you, I promise, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou - ”

And at least Ilya has that, for now. Shane’s love is a balm on wounds Ilya had no idea he had - it has been even before the word ‘love’ entered either of their minds. But it is also Shane’s acceptance, Shane’s ease of withdrawing his beloved questions, just because Ilya isn’t handling it well right now. How silly, this accommodation. How unnecessary. 

How loving.

It gives Ilya the strength to draw in a ragged breath, to blink the tears from his eyes, and to say, “It was Alexei.”

Shane stiffens, falling silent, his breath held like the world will break if he breathes out wrong. Like Ilya will stop talking if he breathes out wrong.

“He found me at airport,” Ilya says. “Asked for my wallet. I gave, he let me go. It had cash. I…forgot about cards.”

Because really, if Ilya was smart, if he'd just thought about it, he could've canceled both cards before the plane even took off. Alexei probably wouldn't have known before Ilya was far out of Russia's grasp. Instead, he sat on the plane and panicked. A fair response, he supposes, but an expensive one.

“Is…he who I heard?” Shane asks softly. “Someone called your name? And you…”

Shane squeezes him tighter. Shane can't say the words ‘said goodbye,’ but Ilya knows Shane knows, that he knew. He can feel it in the way Shane grabs at him now even though the threat has passed.

“Yes.”

“...Oh.”

Ilya finally manages to wrap his arms around Shane again, pulling himself closer with a sigh.

“...Why?” Shane asks.

He says it like he’s still afraid of saying the wrong thing, but Shane hates to not understand. And, perhaps after their history, they shouldn't risk misunderstanding. So Shane asks his questions.

It’s still hard. 

“Wanted money,” Ilya says, shrugging. It always comes down to that. Every single time, even on one of the scariest days of Ilya’s life. Alexei’s greed is as reliable as the stars, now. “He always wants money. Who doesn’t want money from - ”

Ilya cuts himself off, biting his lip. He sniffles, gasps, tries to pull himself back together so they can get off the fucking floor.

“Is fine,” he says, trying to be clear, decisive, but it really comes out more like a plea. “I - you know. It is not like I can’t afford it. I just - I had promised not to do this, anymore. But, well, running strips away pride. I probably would’ve given him shirt off my back just to make sure he didn’t use his stupid walkie-talkie. Awful name, by the way. My father and brother both used one. After I learned translation, I used to laugh at them.”

“Yeah?” Shane asks, quiet but amused, maybe. 

Ilya hums, smiling a little. “They didn’t like it. Didn’t know what I was laughing about.”

Shane huffs. Shane rocks them a little, and Ilya sinks into his hold a little more, tension bleeding away.

“So you…you used to send money?” Shane asks carefully.

Ilya shuts his eyes. He nods.

“And now, you don’t?”

Maybe Shane will think he’s heartless. That he’s a traitor, that he abandoned his family long before Russia ever abandoned him. That he’s a brainwashed little Westerner who thinks he’s too good for the place and people that raised him.

Maybe he knows Alexei has a little girl. Maybe Shane can see it in his eyes that Ilya has abandoned his niece to live in a volatile house. The same way Mama left Ilya in that house. Ilya is not dead, not quite, but he must be dead to little Valerie. He died the moment he canceled those cards.

Ilya shakes his head, and holds his breath.

“Okay, baby,” Shane murmurs, kissing the top of his head. “Thank you for telling me.”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut and digs his fingers into the meat of Shane’s shoulders, letting out a shaky breath. He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want to think. He wants to scream, but he swallows down the urge.

“Let’s go to bed, Ilya,” Shane murmurs. “Sleep for a bit. There’s nothing else to do, okay? We’ll handle it all together after a nap. Hm?”

Together, together, together. It’s a good word. Soothing in a different way than ‘I love you,’ but intertwined with it. We’re together, and I love you. I love you, so we’re together. What would he do without that, after having a taste of it?

So Ilya nods, and he cooperates as Shane hauls them both up and onto the bed. Ilya sinks back into the pillow and lets Shane pull the blanket over them both. It’s an impressive feat, considering Ilya clings to him like a monkey. He makes Shane laugh when Ilya wrestles him into lying down instead of making sure Ilya’s feet are covered. He just pulls his feet up and throws his legs back over Shane’s. He lets out a slow, steadying breath. Shane wraps both of his arms around Ilya, pressing his head into the crook of his elbow, and it is the most comfortable Ilya has ever been in his life. Except at the cottage. It’s a close thing.

“Your arm will fall asleep,” Ilya murmurs, the words heavy on his tongue like the sweetest honey.

“Mhm,” Shane agrees, and doesn’t move.

Ilya snuggles into Shane’s chest, letting the darkness wrap him up again. His breaths are still a little wet, a bit shaky, but he isn’t going to cry. If he does, he may not stop, and he’d like to sleep first.

“I’ve got you, okay?” Shane murmurs. “We can deal with it all later.”

We, we, we. It’s like a promise. A promise in disguise. Ilya locks their pinkies together under the blanket.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and finally, finally, falls into restful sleep.

Chapter End Notes

THE ENDDDDDDDDDDDD SEEEEE NOT SO BAD BAHAHA
I hope you enjoyed <3