Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, BAMF Shane Hollander, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), POV Shane Hollander, this is home is a person not a place from Shane's POV!, i once again don't know if this fic is doing everything i want it to but. i'm really tired of looking at it., a comment I left to myself in my google doc is "if the prev fic is tense this shit is just heartbreaking" so uh. have fun!

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of the only way out is through.

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-26 Completed: 2026-08-10 Words: 11,964 Chapters: 4/4

please come home.

Summary

They’ve been struggling a lot with time zones recently.

They’ve always texted each other no matter where either of them are, or what time it is. It used to just be sexts and hotel room numbers and deleted messages. Now, it’s also funny videos and articles about hockey and long, rambling threads, only messages with their names deleted. They video call nearly every night. Nothing is really specific to the time.

Except.

“Good morning,” “goodnight,” sappy and saccharine, sent as soon as they wake up and right before they go to bed. That’s been a thing since the cottage, especially on nights they can’t call. Good morning, goodnight, easy when they’re both on the same continent, easy when there’s no time difference versus a 7 hour one, but Shane keeps sending the wrong one by accident lately, and Ilya teases him because -

“Shane?”

“He’s in Russia,” Shane rasps.
-
or: home is a person, not a place, from Shane's POV

(This fic will not make sense without reading the first part in the series!)

Notes

Hi!!!
So.
I had a vision of Shane's journey throughout the events of the previous fic, and I figured I would write it :)
The love home is a person, not a place has gotten has ASTOUNDED me, thank you all so much, and I hope you enjoy this fic too! The actual "aftermath" fic is in progress as well, but I hope this is still satisfying in the meantime :)

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

It starts, like many things in Shane’s life, with the soft, default, ping of his mother’s phone. These days, that ping usually signals a new contract or brand deal for Shane to review with her. When he was a kid, it was college scouts and club team staff, until finally, finally, it was the NHL itself. 

Today, Shane’s phone is charging on the kitchen counter, and he’s focussed on trying to remember what color cards his dad definitely doesn’t have, so he can play his change color card correctly. He only has 2 cards left and has been smiling to himself for the past ten minutes, like someone who’s going to win. Shane is going to make sure that does not happen.

“Green,” he says, putting his card down. 

Dad sighs and hangs his head. “Goddamn it, kiddo,” he says as he draws a card.

Mom, who’s been watching the Uno game with a similar look of focus, still glances at her phone, tapping its screen so it’ll wake up. Dad draws two cards before he gets a green and sets it down. 

“Your turn, Mom,” Shane prompts when she doesn’t play, still staring at his own cards. He has three left; not the best, not the worst. 

“Yuna?”

Shane looks up and frowns when Mom drops her hand face-up, grabbing her phone instead. 

“Mom? What happened?”

“I don’t - ” Mom covers her mouth with her hand, still reading something on her phone that makes Shane jump up from his seat and step behind her so he can see.

Does NHL Boston Raider’s Star Ilya Rozanov “Play For Both Teams?” Rumors Swirl After New Photos Are Revealed

Shane’s whole body goes cold. He grabs the back of Mom’s seat so he doesn’t fall.

“Photos?” he asks numbly, his mouth barely moving, Dad suddenly holding his arm and helping support his weight while cursing under his breath.

Mom clicks into the article, the slideshow, and Shane snatches her phone out of her hands to just - to see - to check - 

It’s not Shane.

That’s not Shane, not Montreal, not Ilya’s apartment in Boston, not a hotel. That is another man, and that is Ilya, but it’s not Shane.

A miniscule flare of relief lights up in Shane’s chest. It’s quickly extinguished by terrible fucking guilt, by rage, because that is undeniably Ilya, Ilya blowing a man in an alley outside a bar, which means - 

Which means Ilya’s getting outed. 

Ilya got outed. Past tense. Done deal. Completely irreversible.

Fuck.

“Shane, it’s gonna be okay,” Mom says gently, taking her phone out of his hands. “I’ll call his agent, okay, she’s a new one, remember, a friend of mine, I’ll help her deal with-”

“No.”

“No?”

Mom asks a question, says something, but Shane isn’t listening. Shane may not be breathing.

It’s just - 

They’ve been struggling a lot with time zones recently.

They’ve always texted each other no matter where either of them are, or what time it is. It used to just be sexts and hotel room numbers and deleted messages. Now, it’s also funny videos and articles about hockey and long, rambling threads, only messages with their names deleted. They video call nearly every night. Nothing is really specific to the time.

Except.

“Good morning,” “goodnight,” sappy and saccharine, sent as soon as they wake up and right before they go to bed. That’s been a thing since the cottage, especially on nights they can’t call. Good morning, goodnight, easy when they’re both on the same continent, easy when there’s no time difference versus a 7 hour one, but Shane keeps sending the wrong one by accident lately, and Ilya teases him because - 

“Shane?”

“He’s in Russia,” Shane rasps. “Ilya’s - he’s - ”

He turns around and sprints into the kitchen. He snatches his phone off the counter, taking the charger with it, fumbling to unlock his phone and place the only call that can possibly help him breathe again. His parents stay with him, hovering, understanding the severity of the situation but unable to do anything to help.

They can’t help. No one can help.

The call cuts. 

No answer.

“Fuck!” Shane snaps. He calls again. Ilya has to pick up. He has to. There is no fucking universe in which Ilya doesn’t pick up the phone. He will. He will.

“Shane, breathe.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking breathe, Mom!” he snaps, wrenching his arm away from her before she can hold him, momentarily drawing the phone away from his ear. Shane can’t stand it. 

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

“‘Hello, this is Ilya, and I will never listen to your voicemail.’”

Tears spring to Shane’s eyes so fast, he can’t even fight it. He can’t even end the call; the tone beeps just as Shane sobs, holding the phone tight enough to hurt, not fighting when Mom yanks it from his grasp and ends the call herself.

“Shane. Shane. Focus.”

“They’ll arrest him,” he manages, shaking his head but accepting the press of his dad’s shoulder to his. “I - they’ll - ”

“The article just released,” Mom says, smoothing her hands up and down his arms, his phone still clutched in her hand. “That’s why my phone pinged, right? He has some time. He can still get out.”

“Time to get to the airport?” Shane demands. “To get a new flight?”

“Shane - ”

“Just - ” Shane holds his hand out for his phone. Mom hands it over, and he dials again. Dad grabs Mom’s elbow and gently pulls her back as Shane starts pacing, listening to the ringing.

“Come on, come on,” he murmurs. “Come on, Ilya, please.”

“‘Hello, this is Ilya, and I will-’”

Shane nearly chucks his phone against the wall. He presses his back to the kitchen island and tries to focus on anything, anything - the painful press of the drawers’ handles to his back, his hand shaking and gripping the edge of the countertop, the pattern of the floor tiles - anything which will make him forget that Ilya’s not going to pick up.

Then, he calls Ilya again.

The line connects. Shane snaps to attention.

“Ilya?” he demands.

“Hi.”

Hi? Fucking hi?! Shane would yell at him if he wasn’t busy controlling his fall to the floor, his knees buckling and making him sink to the ground.

“Ilya, what the fuck.” 

Mom presses her hands to her chest and blows out a long breath, accepting the hug Dad gives her. He doesn’t take his eyes off Shane though, first to offer him a weak smile. Shane leans his head back and tries his best to return it, even if he aches with its falseness.

“Well, I didn’t do it,” Ilya says. He’s speaking quietly, the speaker crackling.

“You saw it then?” Shane says. “The TMZ article?”

“Fuck,” Ilya says, and Shane’s stomach drops. “TMZ has it now?”

Shane hums. He’s shaking again. Because - well - Ilya didn’t know. And Shane can’t fault him for that. Shane himself didn’t know 5 minutes ago. How could he expect Ilya to - 

But -

So - 

Shane swallows hard against the buzz of panic. He nearly sobs again when Dad sits down next to him, Mom on his other side. Fuck. Fuck. He has to keep it together. He’s not the one in danger here.

“Ilya, are you - ”

That sentence was going somewhere, somewhere logical and logistical, focused on the next step, next play, next move. It dies somewhere along the way and turns into stuttering, fracturing into questions like are you getting out and can you get out and are you safe and are you going to come back to me or am I. are we. is it.

The words don’t make it out.

“I’m at the airport,” Ilya blurts out, and Shane’s breath unlocks, and he shudders, free, “I - my plane is about to board. I - I, yes, I’m leaving, Shane.”

Oh. 

Right. Yes. Stay calm. Plan. Ilya is already doing what he has to, which means Shane just has to keep up. He can do that.

“Oh, fuck, thank you,” he says. “Shit. Fuck. What flight?”

Mom pulls out her phone. Ilya doesn’t say anything. There is shuffling, moving.

“Ilya,” he says. “What flight?”

“Do not worry about it,” Ilya has the fucking nerve to say. Shane scoffs, momentarily blessed with rage and not fear. “Layover in Paris, I will text when I land.”

Shane’s frayed nerves snap. “Ilya!” he yells, leaping to his feet and narrowly avoiding hitting his own dad in the face, but he really needs to pace again before he does something stupid like actually yell at Ilya. “Ilya, I swear to god, if you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you myself. 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.”

Shane pants; there’s no fucking air in this room, and he’s scaring his parents, and he needs Ilya to work with him, to stop wasting their very limited time.

Ilya sighs. “S7 Airlines, flight 227, Moscow to Paris,” he says, and Shane mouths it to his mom, whose fingers fly over her keyboard. “Air Canada, flight 352, Paris to Ottawa. Is it…okay to come to Ottawa right now?”

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

“Got it,” Mom says quietly, showing the tracker. On time, it reads, boarding, it reads. Good, good. That tab is going to be his new best friend, for the next - fuck, 4 hours, 16 minutes. How much of that is still over Russia, in Russian airspace? Could they call the plane back? Force it to land?

“All this talk of killing me, Hollander, are you sure you don’t want me to get thrown in a gulag?”

Shane winces. Could he figure out how much time Ilya will spend in Russian airspace? Surely, that’s searchable. Calculable.

“Sorry. Too soon?”

God, Shane loves him. Hates him.  “Fuck you.” 

“Later.” 

Honestly, predictable. He’s glad he stood up, so his parents can’t hear Ilya through the tinny speakers.

“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?”

Dad flashes him a thumbs up. 

“Okay,” Ilya says softly. He sounds so tired. Shane wants - well, he wants lots of things, but most of all, he wants Ilya safe, here, able to rest. He won’t get what he wants for a while yet, but - 

“Ilya!”

It’s faint through the phone, but the anger carries that yell over thousands of kilometers. Shane freezes, his stomach dropping again. Ilya’s next inhale is shaky.

“Ilya?” Shane whispers. 

“I…I love you, Shane,” Ilya whispers, and Shane recognizes it for what it - what it might be. Might. Right? 

Goodbye?

Shane opens his mouth to say it back. If he must. He’d never forgive himself for risking anything else.

The line crackles, glass breaks, and the call cuts.

“Ilya? Ilya?!”

Shane drops his phone.

He doesn’t throw it, but it’s a close thing. Instead, it just…slips away, as whatever shred of control Shane had over himself disintegrates.

“Shane? Shane!”

There are hands on him, and they might be steadying him, but he doesn’t care to check. There are voices speaking, and they might be trying to help him, but it doesn’t matter.

All he thinks is that - is that no one knows it should be both of them. That Shane asked to go to Russia with Ilya, after Ilya told him it would most likely be his last trip there. Ilya had told him no, hell no, that the press would pick it up, that there was no excuse to explain it away.

And Shane had nodded, accepted that, let Ilya leave him here when it should’ve been both of them getting caught, arrested, thrown into a sham trial and harsh conditions and-

And no one knows that. No one, not in North America or Eastern Europe, no one, no one knows. Shane and Ilya spent so long making sure no one else knew, so that they could not be punished for it.

But isn’t this punishment? 

Isn’t this worse?

Shane could do it now. After Ilya’s sham trial, on the minute chance Russia lets him go. Shane could - come out. Out them both. Reveal a relationship that has existed since their rookie season. Make it such a massive news story that eyes stay on the Kremlin, that the US government - maybe Canadian too, if Shane’s so deeply involved - riots for Ilya’s fucking return. Shane could do that. Shane would do that. The price would be so small, if it meant Ilya could come home. 

“Shane, Shane, honey, he’s gonna be okay - ”

Shane shakes his head, a futile attempt to make them understand. They don’t know. They didn’t hear. They don’t know that Shane just listened to Ilya get arrested, that he was completely useless, that he couldn’t make it stop.

Fuck, he just needs it to stop. He needs everything to stop.

He makes a sound and curls up tighter, and the hands on him ease away. His head hits the cabinet doors behind him, once, twice, before something soft slips in between and catches his head.

“Easy, kiddo, let’s not,” Dad murmurs. Shane may still be crying. He might be on the floor again. Shane grabs Dad’s arm, still looped over Shane’s chest, digging his fingers in painfully hard and hiding his face in his shoulder.

“Dad,” he sobs, completely useless, stupid, because what is he asking for? For his dad to make it better? He can’t. No one can. Shane’s asking anyway.

Dad holds him tight, and says, “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Shane thought he knew what the worst case scenarios were. He’s certainly thought about them enough. He’s thought about coming out, revealing his relationship, and having it invalidate his whole career. Getting kicked out of the Metros, the NHL. Never getting to play hockey again. Being shunned by his friends, his teammates, the franchise, the whole fucking world.

He supposes Ilya’s worst case scenario was…this. 

How did Shane not realize it was his, too?

Too late now.

“Shane!”

Mom’s stayed close, but not suffocatingly so, and he doesn’t know what exactly makes him look at her this time, but he does.

She’s holding his phone to her ear and saying, “Wait, Ilya, are you okay?”

What?

“Oh, thank fuck,” Dad murmurs, rubbing his hand over his face.

“What?” Shane asks. Mom holds out his phone, and he scrambles to take it. He’s never been this uncoordinated in his life, practically crawling over his dad to grab the phone out of his mom’s hands.

“Ilya?” he demands.

“I’m fine, I’m on the plane,” Ilya says. Shane claps his hand over his mouth so Ilya can’t hear him sob. “I - I mean. We’re taxiing. At least.”

Shit. Shit. “...Oh. But I - I thought - ”

“It was fine,” Ilya mutters, “was nothing.”

Nothing? Really? It didn't sound like nothing. Maybe Shane overreacted. “...Oh.” He drags in a brutal breath and slowly lets it out, ignoring the squeeze of his protesting lungs, ignoring the desperation to hyperventilate again. He can’t. He can’t. He has to stay calm, he has to, just until Ilya can’t hear him anymore. Shane can do that for him.

“I’m okay,” Ilya says.

Shane nods, squeezing his eyes shut, scrubbing at his face and the evidence of tears. “Okay. Okay.”

The phone faintly hums with the sounds of a full airplane, and Shane peels his eyes open. His stomach flips with mortification when Mom takes his hand, but she just presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, and Shane feels even worse when he realizes she’s crying, and she doesn’t cry, of course she doesn’t, Yuna Hollander doesn’t cry, what the fuck has Shane done - 

But she shakes her head. “It’s okay, honey,” she says softly. “Talk to him, keep talking. It’s okay.”

Talk? Talk. That’s a good idea because Ilya’s breaths are still shallow and Shane can practically hear him shifting around, switching his phone between his hands, tapping his feet.

So he starts talking, logistics leading to their boring cars, to easy bickering that makes Dad laugh at the same time as Ilya. Someone talks to Ilya, and Shane has to squash the overwhelming urge to yell at them to shut the fuck up, which would do precisely no good. But. Just. Leave Ilya alone. Don’t ask a damn thing of him, no matter how small. They go away soon enough.

They bicker about airplane mode, of all things, which leads Shane to the realization that Ilya might never use airplane mode despite traveling all the time for hockey and to visit his family. Shane bites his tongue about it though. Later. There will be time later. There will.

But - 

“Ilya?”

“Hm?”

How can he say this? How can he possibly frame this right?

“I know - I know you’re not, you’re not really safe yet, but I just - I’m glad you saw it when you did,” Shane whispers. “I’m glad you’re on the fucking plane, Ilya.”

Shane knows it’s obvious. Stating the obvious is probably bringing the mood back down more than anything. But - he just - he has to say it. He needs Ilya to know that Shane is so, so grateful that he stands a chance. That he is so glad Ilya has done everything right thus far to get himself on a plane and on the phone and heading toward safety.

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

Ilya sighs. “I will try.”

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

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Shane takes a deep breath. He can hear the plane getting louder, speeding up, and Ilya’s breathing.

“Are they taking off?” Mom asks. She still has the tracker pulled up on her phone.

Shane nods.

She rubs his knee. “You - Shane. Can you hang up for him?”

Shane’s first instinct is childish, petulant. He wants to stamp his feet and cry and resist, to keep Ilya on the phone as long as he can. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, but Mom keeps rubbing his knee.

And…she is right. He doesn’t want Ilya to have to summon the will. Not right now.

So he says, “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

Ilya sighs, breaths shaky, a little wet, and Shane, once again, uselessly, wishes Ilya was here already.

“Okay,” Ilya says.

“See you soon, Ilya.” It’s as close to goodbye as he’s willing to get.

“I love you,” Ilya blurts out again, and Shane hates this. Shane hates that I love you keeps sounding like goodbye, just in case.

But this time, at least he gets to say, “I love you, too.”

Ilya hangs up. Surprisingly, the breath in Shane’s lungs eases, the burden split between them. Still, now Shane can’t hear Ilya breathe, and it gets painful again very, very quickly. He tosses his phone to his feet and flinches when it clatters against the kitchen’s hardwood floors. Mom gathers him up in her arms, hugging but not squeezing, guiding him to slump against her.

“Sorry,” Shane chokes out, his eyes slipping shut, grainy and aching. “I - sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Mom says. “It’s okay. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I just - I thought - ”

“I know, honey,” she soothes, running her hand over his hair. “Sh, I know, it’s okay.”

Dad presses in on Shane’s other side, sandwiching him against Mom, and it’s…nice. He doesn’t remember the last time he ever felt so small around them. He feels it now, safe, protected.

(This is how Ilya makes him feel. Ilya will not feel this type of comfort, this safety, for at least the next 4 hours and 16 minutes. Shane tries not to think about it.)

(Why doesn’t Shane live in France? He could live in France. Why doesn’t he live in France?)

“He’s on the plane now, honey,” Mom murmurs, kissing the top of his head. “He’s gonna call you really soon, okay? He’s gonna be just fine.”

Dad squeezes Shane’s hand. Shane sniffles.

“Can I have your phone?” he asks softly. Mom hands it over. Shane puts her password in and the white light of the tab makes him squint, but the flight tracker is simple to read.

Green. On time. Departed.

“Come on,” Mom says softly, tapping Shane’s shoulder. “C’mon, couch, all of us. We can stay up with you.”

Guilt twists in Shane’s chest, making him curl up tighter. “I - you don’t have to,” he murmurs. They’ve only met Ilya three times - that first awful meeting, dinner that night, dinner one more time before Ilya left the cottage. They’ve said hi over Shane’s shoulder the few times he’s been on a call with Ilya in the living room while visiting. It still makes Shane strangely uncomfortable, the fact that he can be on a call with Ilya in the open without hiding his phone. He does keep headphones on though.

So. They like him. Well enough, at least, all things considered. But they don’t know him. Their fear doesn’t sit bone-deep like Shane’s does.

“Don’t be silly, of course we will,” Dad says. Dad’s the morning person, the one who’s always out like a light by 10 at the latest even if Mom is awake on her laptop next to him well into the night.

“It’s okay,” Shane tries again. He scrubs his hands over his eyes, the idea of his blotchy, red face and bloodshot eyes coming to him like a fucking vision. God, he’s a mess. He freaked them out. Since when does he have meltdowns like a toddler?

“Couch,” Mom says. “C’mon. Late night for all of us. I’ll make cocoa.”

Shane might throw up if he tries to drink cocoa. He still tries to help as his parents get up and haul him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he manages, shrugging them off to stand on his own, to control his breathing.

“Couch,” Mom insists, nudging him along. “C’mon, I’ll get your laptop, you can keep this open.”

She taps the open tab on her phone. Green. On time. Departed.

Shane nods, and follows them.

The next 4 hours and 16 minutes of Shane’s life are the worst 4 hours and 16 minutes he’s ever experienced.

He keeps refreshing the page tracking the plane and panics the moment it takes longer than 2 seconds to load. His parents put on a movie in the background that Shane doesn’t know the name of, but which hums with inoffensive background noise. Mom makes hot cocoa. She finishes her drink, and then makes tea for Shane when she realizes he hasn’t touched his own mug.

“Here,” she says, handing him a steaming cup he remembers refusing. “It’s warm,” she says, sitting next to him and pulling part of his blanket over her own lap.

“Thanks,” Shane murmurs. It’s warm; he wraps both of his hands around it. It does feel nice.

He nudges the mousepad only a moment later. Green. On time. Departed. 2 hours, 41 minutes left. There’s a little cartoon sketch of a plane flying along a dotted line. It looks like it’s outside of Russia. How reliable is a cartoon sketch of a plane, though?

“How are you feeling?” Mom asks. 

Shane frowns.

“Yeah, okay, bad question,” she says. “I just - I don’t know what to say, honey.”

“It’s okay,” Shane says.

“I mean - about earlier,” she says, and Shane winces. He looks for Dad, but he went upstairs to get something. Maybe a sweater? Shane doesn’t know much about anything that exists outside of this computer tab.

“I just - I didn’t expect that,” she says. She isn’t scolding him, but Shane’s stomach clenches anyway. He sinks down against the back of the couch.

“Well, how would you react if you thought Dad - I don’t know, died?” he mutters, only shrugging when Mom frowns. “It’s like that. Right?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, standing up and stepping close enough to press a kiss to the top of Shane’s head. “Or - well. I’m learning it’s like that.”

Shane sighs, accepting the hug she surrounds him in. Accepting her acknowledgement that Shane has this part of his life that was only ever growing and only ever existed behind locked doors. That it is important, it is life changing, it’s one of the only things that matters to him. She and Dad have been working on it. On remembering. On understanding.

Shane’s parents have been married for 32 years. The comparisons exist, have been used before. Do you let Dad cheat at cards? Don’t you make plans for the future when you know you’re going to spend it together?

Wouldn’t you break if you thought Dad was in danger?

They could have that. 32 years. They could. They will. If the universe could be kind for the next 2 hours and 37 minutes.

Shane reloads the page. 

“He’s gonna make it,” Mom says, voice steely like Shane’s about to step onto the ice. “He will, honey.”

Shane swallows hard, and nods. She steps away, and Shane holds his laptop closer.

Green. On time. Departed.

Chapter End Notes

Ngl this chapter really got me Shaneeeeeeee I'm so sorry 🥲
But also what was I *only* supposed to put Ilya in the torture nexus??? I don't think so.

Chapter 2

Green. 

On time. 

Landed.

Shane’s breath catches, though he tries to be quiet. Dad is asleep on Mom’s shoulder, snoring under a blanket. Mom is awake, but just barely, her eyelids drooping even though she’s lit by the blue light of her phone. 

“I think it landed,” he says softly.

“Hm?” Mom asks.

“The plane,” Shane says. “I think it landed. It…it says it landed.” He wishes he felt relief. He doesn’t quite yet.

“Oh!” Mom says. “Oh, David, wake up!”

“Mom - ”

But Dad wakes up with a soft grunt, pulling himself upright. Shane has been trying to send them to bed for around 2 hours, but they both resisted with about as much stubbornness as he expected.

“Hm?” Dad mumbles, yawning. “Is he here?”

“Not here,” Shane says. “Maybe France. Hopefully France.” He grabs his phone, waiting for it to ring. Ilya promised. He promised. So he’s going to call.

Any moment now.

“You both should head to bed,” Shane says softly. Again. “I’ll probably stay on the call until his next plane. If he wants me to. So you two should head up.”

Mom waves him off and covers her mouth as she yawns. “Let him call first,” she murmurs, rubbing her face and displacing her glasses. “Then…yeah. Do you need anything? Do you want more tea? A snack?”

Despite everything, Shane manages a meagre smile. “I’m okay, Mom,” he says softly. 

“How are you doing, kiddo?” Dad asks. 

“Okay,” Shane says again, his eyes skipping between his phone and computer. “Really. I - it’ll be fine now. In a minute.”

It will not. Shane won’t be able to rest easy until Ilya’s alive and whole in front of him, in his arms, in his home. 

But a call is better than the alternative, so yeah, Shane supposes he has to be okay with the low, low bar that his boyfriend is alive and no longer in danger of being arrested.

Dad hums, his eyes half-closed again. Shane is glad he was here when this happened; it would’ve been worse if he’d been alone in Montreal, hours away from the only two people who could even begin to understand how terrible this was for Shane. 

Mom curls back up on the couch, a blanket tucked around her shoulders. Dad adjusts it around her shoulders. Shane taps the screen of his phone. His battery is full. He has service.

Ilya just has to fucking call -

Shane’s phone rings in his hand. His breath catches as Lily flashes on the screen, as both his parents snap awake to stare.

He picks up. There’s soft rustling, the hum of a plane.

“Ilya?” Shane demands. He just - he has to hear him. If he can’t see him, can’t touch him, can’t keep him safe or do much of anything, anything at all, Shane has to hear him.

“I’m in Paris,” Ilya says. “And France is not friendly enough with Russia to deport me, so I think I am…okay.”

The relief is somehow more overwhelming than the panic. Shane’s whole body unwinds just a fraction, his eyes slipping shut as the words bounce around his head. Ilya’s in Paris. He’s okay. He’s gonna be okay, until he can get home and Shane himself can make sure he’s alright.

He still has to cross the entire fucking Atlantic Ocean. 

In a plane, but. Still.

He’s okay.

“Shane?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, dragging himself out of his head, focussing on his parents’ twin grins, on the continuous rustling restlessness of Ilya getting off the plane. Right. Freak out later. “Yeah, that’s - fuck, Ilya.” It’s just - it’s hard to simply shelve it. And that’s saying a lot, since Shane is decent at compartmentalizing. 

“Breathe,” Ilya says, and Mom rubs Shane’s arm - when she sat next to him, Shane doesn’t know - and yeah, that is something Shane should do. Shit. Shit. 

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

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

Shane tries, and he fucking succeeds, thank you very much. He doesn’t have the right to panic right now. The last thing he wants to make Ilya do is comfort him. He accepts his mom’s gentle squeeze, drags his breaths in and out, and thinks, what next?

“When’s your next flight?”

“Um…I have 2 hours. We take off at 10AM here. Ish.”

“Good,” Shane says. “Good. You should - did you sleep on the plane?” He hasn’t asked how Ilya heard the news in the middle of the night in Russia. He doesn’t really want to know. He doesn’t have to ask to know that Ilya must be exhausted.

“Yes.”

“Okay. Get…breakfast. Or something. Eat. My parents say hi, by the way. They wanna talk to you if you…feel like it.” Shane personally thinks neither of his parents are awake enough to carry a conversation, but if he finds it nice to have their support, Ilya might too.

“Tell them thank you, please,” Ilya says softly. 

“He says thank you,” Shane murmurs, trying not to yawn, and it is so strange, that he feels so fucking glad when both his parents flash him grins as they fold blankets and put the living room back in order. Their support has been so instrumental in Shane not snapping into pieces. He almost didn’t have it.

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

“Hm?”

“You’re good here?” Mom asks. Shane nods and waves them away. 

“Goodnight,” he tells them both. He’ll have to thank them properly when everything calms down, but for tonight, he accepts the kiss Dad drops to his head and Mom’s squeeze of his shoulder before they head upstairs.

“Shane,” Ilya says.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Shane says.

Ilya groans. “Jesus, Shane, go to sleep.”

“No. My parents might though.” They’re already all the way upstairs, but Shane figures Ilya will be alright with that.

“Fuck, yes, please, tell them to,” Ilya mutters. Shane smiles.  “Shane, malysh, I am fine, go to sleep.”

Not happening. Shane would literally rather die than hang up right now. As it is, his phone is pressed so hard to his head that the shell of his ear hurts.

“Fuck you,” he says, spiteful and teasing, perfectly ordinary, rather than any of that.

“I just fled my whole fucking country and you are saying ‘fuck you’ to me, unbelievable,” Ilya grumbles. Shane laughs, delighted to joke, even if they’re still trapped in a nightmare.

“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.”

Ilya huffs a laugh even though Shane hasn’t said anything funny. Shane hears shuffling, a muffled airport announcement, like Ilya and the world he’s in is a dream away. Shane yawns, holding his phone away from his mouth.

It’s faint, but Ilya groans, sighing as Shane presumes he walks, and Shane’s heart pangs in sympathy. As much as he wants Ilya to eat something, he’s probably still running on Russian time, where it’s barely 8am. Breakfast time, sort of, but also early. And he’s exhausted.

(It wouldn’t be a problem if Shane was with him, if Shane could get him food and find the gate and let Ilya take a nap on his shoulder. None of it would be a problem at all.)

“Ilya?”

Ilya pauses for too long, and maybe Shane is overreacting, but something’s wrong again. He can feel it in his fucking gut.

“Yes?” Ilya responds.

“You okay?” Shane asks.

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

Shane frowns. He sounds upset. Snippy. “All green and on time,” he still says. “Starts boarding in 1 hour and 43 minutes.”

“Great.”

“Enough time to grab some food,” Shane reminds him. Ilya will tell him what’s wrong if he pushes a little, if Shane reminds him that he wants to help as much as he possibly can from over a thousand kilometers away.

“I have a protein bar,” Ilya says, the wrapper rustling over the line. “Very healthy.”

“That’s not a meal,” Shane still retorts, the conversation quickly devolving into bickering more than getting Ilya to actually tell him what’s wrong. 

“I don’t know anything about French food, I am fine,” Ilya says.

Shane huffs a laugh.  “I know you don’t think an airport only contains French food, Ilya. What’s wrong?”

Ilya, with a smirk Shane can picture in perfect clarity, starts noisily drinking water. Shane tips his head back against the armrest of the couch, staring at the ceiling. Getting Ilya to tell him anything is like pulling fucking teeth.

“Ilya.”

“Hm?”

“What is it?” Shane asks, letting his worry bleed into his voice. “Please just tell me.” If he doesn’t, Shane is simply going to have to think of every possibility himself, and that’s not something he wants to do at all.

Ilya sighs. “I just - I don’t…have my wallet, so I am going to wait until I get on the plane, okay?” he says.

Shane blinks, frowning up at the ceiling. His wallet? He’s not getting food because he doesn’t have the means to? Never mind that he’s a multimillionaire. Shane’s heart cracks just a bit, at another obstacle apparently in Ilya’s path home.

“You don’t have your wallet?”

But, well, it’s a problem, and one thing that Shane has been wanting to do this entire time is help fix the problem. He can’t un-leak the photos, he can’t change Russia’s laws on queerness, but he can certainly find some way to get Ilya some money.  

“Oh. Hm. Well, do you have Apple Pay?” Shane asks.

“What?” Ilya asks, his voice heavy like Shane is the only thing in the way of him falling asleep in the middle of the Charles de Gaulle airport.

“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.”

“Okay. Set it up,” Shane says.

“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, and it’s enough to make Shane pause. “I don’t know, Shane.”

“Hm.”

The last thing Shane wants to do is make everything harder. That’s the exact opposite of what he wants to do for Ilya right now. It’s a fine line to walk. But at the end of the day, Shane needs Ilya to be cared for, no matter what. If he was in a position to do it himself, he would, without a hint of hesitation. But right now, only Ilya can, and if Shane has to motivate him, then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Whether Ilya likes it or not.

“Ilya?”

Ilya groans.

“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.” Then, because this worked a lot more than he ever thought it would at the cottage, Shane adds, “Ilya, please?”

The line is quiet. Shane’s stomach turns a little. The last thing he wants to do is make Ilya hang up on him. And there’s a small part of him that reminds Shane that Ilya’s an adult, an adult who’s traveling overseas by himself, and maybe Shane should lay off before he tips fully into nagging territory.

(It’s just. It’s a good solution. Shane has his own Apple Pay app, rarely used but still set up, pulled up on his phone, ready to rattle off a username and password if Ilya would just work with him here. Then he wouldn’t be hungry. Then Shane wouldn’t have to think about Ilya being hungry.)

“Ilya?”

Ilya groans. It’s a very exasperated groan, in Shane’s opinion. Guilt ignites in Shane’s stomach, like a low-burning candle. He sighs.

“Okay. Can you at least eat your stupid protein bar, and then fall asleep?” he concedes. “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.” God, Shane’s really losing it, as he sets an alarm for 10 minutes before Ilya’s boarding time begins. He knows Ilya’s already at his gate, but better safe than sorry. And if anything delays this flight, Shane may actually lose his shit and book the quickest flight to Paris.

“Um,” Ilya says, in a tone that Shane really, really doesn’t want to hear right now. It’s the same tone Ilya used when he broke a dumb little glass figurine at the cottage and was cleaning up the mess while actively fucking bleeding. Um, is nothing, I cleaned it, I’ll pay you back, all while the glass in the dustpan was red, red, red.

“What?” Shane asks.

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

And, well, that shouldn’t matter much. A protein bar wouldn’t do a lot in the grand scheme of things. 

It’s more so the fact that Ilya lied about it for Shane, when he wasn’t supposed to be doing anything for Shane right now, idle in an airport waiting for yet another flight after fleeing his homeland for the last time.

“You just said - ”

“Yes, I had - empty wrapper. Then I, um, threw it away,” Ilya confesses, and something tucked in Shane’s ribs expands like a balloon, pushing and scraping against the inside of his body, trying to split Shane’s skin. “I think I ate it on the way to Moscow.”

Shane takes a deep, deep breath. “So you lied to me,” he says.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t want you to worry - ”

And isn’t that the crux of it? Aren’t they both more similar than anyone gives them credit for, themselves included?

“Open Apple Pay on your phone, Ilya,” Shane says, and Ilya does.

“Do you remember the photos?” Shane asks softly. It’s not what he means to ask, once Ilya is finally settled with food and a drink, but Ilya keeps talking about his visa getting suspended and being deported back to Russia, so for Shane’s own sanity, he had to change the topic somehow.

Still. He should’ve picked something else.

“What?” Ilya asks

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

“Yes.”

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

His stomach twists the longer Ilya doesn’t respond. Even though it obviously doesn’t matter now. It’s just - well - Shane knows Ilya used to get around. A lot. He read the tabloids and the Twitter posts, and it’s not something he holds against Ilya, not anymore, not since the cottage.

But it was a man, and they’ve both always avoided that because they didn’t want to risk this exact situation, and they both decided that the other was worth the risk. That since they both had similar secrets to hide for the exact same reasons, they were worth the risk.

And apparently, Ilya thought this fucking guy was worth the exact same risk, and Shane wants to know why. He doesn’t need to, per se, since it’s irrelevant now, because he and Ilya are dating and this guy is hopefully barely a blip in Ilya’s memory, but Shane…would like to know. Anyways. 

He can never say all that though, so he has no good retort when Ilya asks, “Are you asking for a reason, Hollander? Or are you just curious?”

He still has to try, though.

“I - just, it would be good to figure out how someone got the photos, that’s all!” he exclaims. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?

“Photos are from across the street,” Ilya says. “Just unlucky. Random pedestrian.” He’s so fucking casual about it. These photos just ruined his life! He could be a little fucking mad! He could regret it a little! Was the guy so fucking good that Ilya still doesn’t fucking regret it?!

“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. 

Asshole.

“Fuck, Ilya, fine, get caught fucking random people in the street, see if I care,” Shane says, rolling his eyes and sinking further into the couch, as if he can hide from the conversation he started.

“Shane,” Ilya mocks. “Shaaane.”

“Fucking what, asshole?” Shane demands. 

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

He still sounds so…unbothered. Of course he does, he’s Ilya Rozanov, cocky shit that he is. Shane rolls his eyes again and mutters, “Oh, please enlighten me.” 

“Because my boyfriend would not let me blow him in an alley outside of a club,” Ilya says. Shane freezes. “He would be too concerned about being in a loud, bright club in the first place, and of me kneeling in a dirty alley - ” 

“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 ever fuck again, so, is solved. The photos are from around 2011.”

Shane blinks. Oh. Well. Good. Ilya doesn’t even sound bothered by it. He sounds like he likes it. Likes that they’re boyfriends.

(They’re boyfriends, and this guy is from 2011. 2011 was forever ago. The definition of irrelevant.)

“Shane?” Ilya asks.

“Mm?”

“What do you want from the duty free?” he asks. Shane grins. “My treat.”

Shane laughs. “Fuck off, Rozanov,” he mutters.

“No, really,” Ilya insists. “You want perfume? Flowers? Oh, maybe a designer purse.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Well, you know, my gym bag is starting to fall apart, you could look for something like that.”

“Versace gym bag, got it,” Ilya says. “At least that’ll keep me busy. Though that will be very bulky to try and carry home.”

Home. It clearly just slips from Ilya’s mouth, but Shane likes it. Likes that Ilya believes he’s coming home. Likes that Shane gets to welcome Ilya home.

“I believe in you,” Shane teases. “It better be Metros blue, too.”

“You’re impossible.”

Shane laughs, too loud for the otherwise silent house, and is really glad he still can.

Chapter 3

This time, Shane’s phone is the one to tip him off. It blares directly in his ear and gets knocked off the couch’s arm rest when he jolts awake. He has a terrible crick in his neck, but when Ilya’s flight took off at 3:28AM, Shane didn’t have the energy to do much of anything besides curl up on the couch and go to sleep.

Now, it’s 7:05, and Shane’s phone is blowing up again. He’s silenced every text and call notification besides his parents and Ilya, blatantly ignoring his team’s group chat and 2 missed calls from Hayden, as well as most of his social media.

The only thing he’s left on is news alerts for Ilya.

Shane’s phone chimes again, and he scoops it off the floor. He opens the notification.

A terribly timely leak: unknown source within Air Canada leaks NHL Star Ilya Rozanov’s Flight Information

A City Scorned: Boston Raider’s Star Center Ilya Rozanov NOT Returning to Boston

O’ Canada: Why is Hockey Phenom Ilya Rozanov Heading to Ottawa Post-Outing?

“What?” Shane asks aloud to the empty room. He clicks into the articles - they all feature the same photo. A screengrab of a Twitter post, the username a nonsensical string of letters and numbers. The post itself is just a photo of a computer screen.

And on it - 

“No, no, no, are you fucking kidding me.”

Shane tosses his phone aside, but the photo feels like it’s burned on the back of his eyelids. A big, blocky desktop computer, Air Canada’s logo stamped in the corner, clearly a computer at the airport that a flight attendant or airline employee snapped a photo of. Rozanov, Ilya; flight 352 from Paris to Ottawa; landing at 11:42 AM; gate 11.

Fuck. Fuck. Can they not catch a break?

“Shane?”

He startles, breath catching when he opens his eyes and Dad is looming over him, his eyes bleary. “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

Shane grunts, putting his arm back over his eyes to block out the light leaking into the living room.

“Shane?”

“His ticket leaked,” Shane murmurs, despair rising higher, higher, higher in his chest like he’s going to drown from the inside. “I - they know. Everyone knows. The plane he’s on. The time it lands. That he’s gonna land in Canada.”

Shane swallows hard, sinking further down into the couch. His back and neck protest thoroughly.

Then, Dad succinctly says, “Shit.”

The couch sinks near the end by Shane’s feet as Dad sits down. Shane looks at him, letting his arm drop back to his side. 

“So…so everyone’s gonna be there,” Shane continues, sitting up. Dad gently places his hand on Shane’s ankle, absentmindedly rubbing it. “Everyone will know, the press will be there, they’ll try to - to pry a fucking statement out of him the moment he steps off the plane, and ‘fans’ might create some kind of fucking mob, and it - and I - ”

Shane’s breath catches and he rubs his face, willing it all to be a bad dream.

“And people are going to see me,” Shane says. “They might - they’re going to see me, or they’ll see Mom, or they’ll see you, and - and people will know that he. He picked. To come here. And that it - that it was for a reason.”

God, he can’t even say it out loud. To his dad. Who already knows. How is he going to handle the tabloids and sports commenters and his team, his fucking team, whose messages he’s watched roll in even if he refused to open the chat. Of course he read them. How could he not read them. He wishes, futilely, that he’d never read them.

And now they’re going to say all of that about him, about Shane, and that - that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet, not now, not even soon, really. 

Dad keeps rubbing his ankle in small, measured circles.

“And I don’t - I don’t know what to do,” Shane whispers. “I don’t - know what to do.”

Shane can’t help but look to his dad, hoping he can - say something, anything, that’ll make it all clear, easy, simple, something that means that Shane and Ilya get something to go right today.

In a way, he does, and that makes it worse.

“If you want,” Dad says, “I could pick him up. Or me and your mom. It’s a lot less likely we’ll get recognized, than you.”

Ottawa International Airport is around 90 minutes away. The rare times Shane has flown directly to Ottawa, rather than driving up from Montreal, his parents would pick him up. His dad still helped Shane with his bags for years, and his mom always offered him water and a snack, usually fruit, or almonds, something that fit his diet. 

There is no way Shane can wait an extra 90 minutes more than he has to. There is no way that he can possibly sit around and wait for his parents to bring Ilya home. He’d lose his shit. He’d crawl out of his fucking skin.

And they’ve already blown past the worst case scenario, right? That momentary, heart-stopping loss completely reshaped the course of Shane’s life, before Ilya called him back, and Shane’s life snapped back into place.

People will talk. Ilya’s scandal will spread to him.

(That could reshape the course of his life, too).

Let them both hold it, then. Together, at least.

“So, that’s a no, then.”

When Shane refocuses, his dad is gently smiling at him, rubbing his ankle again. “I figured not,” he says. “It’ll be fine, Shane.”

Shane nods, mute but strangely settled in his conviction.

“Did you sleep at all?” Dad asks, patting his foot and standing up. “Do you want something for breakfast? Eggs?”

“I slept around 3,” Shane says, rubbing his eyes. “Eggs would be great.”

Dad hums and starts heading for the kitchen. “How’s Ilya’s flight?”

Shane’s eyes pop back open. He snatches his computer off the coffee table. The tab is still open, and he refreshes it.

“Around four hours left,” Shane says. “Still on time.”

“I’m glad,” Dad says.

Shane tries not to think of how many other people might be tracking this flight now. “Yeah, me too,” he still says.

“See you soon.”

Shane hangs up the phone and looks up at the airport’s side, practically pressing his face to the glass of the passenger side door like a kid staring into a candy store. They got a pretty good parking spot, directly across from a crosswalk and a door and decently close to where passengers exit.

It took circling for about thirty minutes, but they were there early anyway.

“All good?” Mom asks. Shane nods. He can’t help but tap his feet, fidget with his phone, eye innocuous reporters with cameras and press badges with undying hatred. He’s wearing sunglasses, and he has a hat sitting in his lap, long displaced by him pressing his face against the window. No one’s seen him yet though. They might get away with it. If no one recognizes Dad, and Shane slumps down far enough, the reporters may miss that it’s him, or they won’t get a good photo.

He can hope, can’t he?

“He’s almost here,” Mom says, gently rubbing his knee. “And then we’ll all go home, rest a while, and then deal with it. Help him deal with it. Yeah?”

Shane nods, but it doesn’t soothe the anxiety sitting low in his gut. There’s so many steps between now and then, this and that. Peace feels so far off. 

But Mom’s steadfast support is helpful. He manages a soft, “Yeah.”

She withdraws her hand. Shane checks his phone. No calls, no messages. Ilya has to clear immigration and make his way out of the airport to Dad. That’s it.

Mom taps her fingers against the wheel. She looks like she wants to say something, but thankfully for both of them, she refrains. The minutes tick by. Shane taps his foot in time with Mom’s tapping. Shane leans on the window and presses so close the glass fogs up, but Mom doesn’t scold him, and he stares at the doors of the airport and wills one of them to just fucking open already.

None do.

Instead, there’s a flurry of movement that makes Shane sit up straight, straining to see over the crowd of people - reporters, that’s definitely mostly reporters, some on the phone and some simply following - converging on one door.

“Mom,” Shane starts, but she’s already starting the car and pulling out of the parking spot.

Shane’s phone pings. Simply a 7, from his dad.

7. Door 7, the one closest to the crosswalk and their car. And the one every reporter is flocking to.

Shane doesn’t manage a warning fast enough. Instead, the doors slide open, and his heart leaps when he recognizes Ilya, tucked into a hoodie and shaded by sunglasses and a hat, but still a head taller than most of the crowd and painfully distinct. Traffic slows to a crawl as reporters stand in the middle of the road, and honking fills the air.

Including Mom’s.

“Jesus, do they all have a death wish?” she hisses. “Goddamnit.”

They slam to a stop, and, well, Shane’s focus narrows in a familiar sort of way. He looks for lanes, for chances, slivers of space that shouldn’t be open that he can slide a puck through anyway.

Ilya could too, but the crowd flows with him, watches him and only him, anticipating his every move, and he hardly knows what the goal is. The game’s simply unfair.

Shane unbuckles his seatbelt and jumps out of the car. It is easy. He’s no enforcer, but this is a strategy too, to use his sheer starpower to draw a goalie’s eyes for simply a second too long, so a winger can slam the puck home.

So he shuts the door behind him, and says, “I don’t suppose anyone here has any questions that are actually about hockey?”

Reporters turn to him and cameras start flashing, but Shane only sees Ilya, his mouth dropping open in shock as Shane simply waves and points to his mother’s car. Dad pulls him along. The crowd thins around them and swells around Shane, who, for the first time since those first photos leaked, indulges in his rage.

“Do you know why Mr. Rozanov came to Canada rather than Boston?”

“No, and I don’t care.”

“Did Mr. Rozanov contact you before he landed, Shane?”

“We all saw the leaked ticket.”

“What is your opinion on queer players in the NHL?”

“I think they shouldn’t get outed.”

Shane is really grateful his mom can drive; she’s made her way around most of the crowd, and Shane’s dad and Ilya are clambering into the car. The crowd shifts with him as he makes his way over, slipping through openings and occasionally making them himself with a shove. He sees an opening and darts across the street, wincing when a car honks furiously.

Ilya holds his hand out from the back. Cameras click at Shane’s back.

There is no force - not fear or anger or shame - that could stop him from taking it anyways.

He slams the door shut. The car jolts forward. Mom says something that Shane only clocks as a future concern, as something other than the fact that Ilya’s right here. Thousands of kilometers have shrunk down to mere centimeters, and it’s still too far.

Shane hugs him.

Well, Shane collapses on top of him and then shapes it into a hug by sheer force of will, scooping Ilya into his arms and pressing down until there’s no space between them, until he can feel Ilya’s thundering heartbeat against his own.

He’s alive. He’s here. He’s home.

Ilya squeezes him tight and snaps Shane’s shields into brittle little pieces. Tears prick his eyes, and his breath hitches against Ilya’s soft hoodie. The relief hasn’t reached him yet. Neither has the joy, or the ache. For a strange, blissful moment, all he can feel is Ilya’s puffs of breath against his ear, his large palm smoothing up and down Shane’s back, Ilya pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” he says.

“Me too.” 

Shane should get up, but it’s a futile effort. He sinks more completely into Ilya’s hold, digging his fingers into Ilya’s hoodie as if he can anchor Ilya to Ottawa through sheer determination. Russia cannot have him, nor can his family, or even the Boston Raiders, or hockey fans, or the NHL. He is Shane’s, and Shane’s alone.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks, and winces because that’s a terribly fucking stupid question. “I mean, uh, do you…we have water. And snacks. And we have AC if you’re too warm.”

Ilya grins, pressed into the juncture between Shane’s neck and shoulders, breathing slow and warm. “I’m okay,” he says, teasing Shane’s attempt at decent hosting.

“Okay,” he murmurs back, trying not to flush or draw attention to the fact that he’s using Ilya as a fucking body pillow in the backseat of his parents’ car. He got excited, okay?! Excited and fucking relived, tension unwinding into energy that has nowhere to go.

Ilya squeezes Shane so tight that he has no choice but to go limp. And, well, he can’t regret it, can he?

“For the record, David and I are also very glad you’re safe, Ilya,” Mom says.

Nope, no, he definitely still can. Oh god. Oh shit.

“Thank you,” Ilya says, clearly amused. Now Shane really can’t get up. Ilya’s never gonna let him live this down. He tackled Ilya into the fucking car seat. His parents’ car seat. Shane’s own subconscious won’t let him live this down.

“It would also be very good for you both to put on your seatbelts,” she says.

Oh, this can’t be happening. Mom can’t be telling two 26 year olds to - to put on their seatbelts. That simply cannot be something that is happening right now.  “Mom.”

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

“Oh my god,” Shane groans, because of course it’s happening. And it’s stupid, but Shane can’t help but think that is supremely uncool, like he’s a teenager with a crush and his mom is embarrassing him, as moms so often do.

But Ilya rubs his hand over Shane’s back, and, well, at least it’s not a hopeless teenage crush. 

“Yuna, they’re grown men, it’ll be fine,” Dad tries. 

“So being grown men will protect them if there’s a car crash?” Mom asks. “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 everyday.”

“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane says, at least attempting to sound stern, which is immediately undercut by his mother insisting on a fucking seatbelt, and the last thing Shane has the energy to do is argue with her.

So he sits up, and bears it when Ilya laughs, and buckles his seatbelt as quickly as he can so he can put his arms back around Ilya’s shoulders.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want anything?” he asks, tucking his question against the shell of Ilya’s ear, because even if Ilya is laughing (and here, and alive, and okay), he’s still so clearly exhausted in a way Shane can feel in the slump of his shoulders against Shane’s side, see in the bags under his eyes and the way his foot keeps tapping against the floor of the car.

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

Shane doesn’t want to relax though. He wants to take care of Ilya, if he would stop making it so difficult.

So Shane does what he knows will work; he tugs Ilya into his side, urging him to lay his head on Shane’s shoulder. He laces their fingers together and tugs Ilya’s hoodie down over his eyes, blocking out the sun.

“What are you doing?” Ilya asks, his voice already slurred and soft.

“Go to sleep. You must be tired. Go to sleep,” Shane says, kissing the top of Ilya’s head.

“I slept on plane,” Ilya says. 

Shane rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t count.”

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

“‘S not restful.”8

“How is sleep not ‘restful’-”

“Go to sleep, Ilya.”

Ilya - fucking asshole, how hard is it to do this one simple thing - picks his head up off of Shane’s shoulder to grin at him, and he’s alive and he’s here and he’s whole and he’s safe, and Shane leans down to kiss him just the feel the startled puff of Ilya’s breath, just to make sure that all of that is true.

“I will fully close your hoodie,” Shane mutters, as he readjusts Ilya’s hoodie to block out the light. “Sleep.”

Ilya does seem to settle at that. He keeps tracing his thumb over the back of Shane’s hand though.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment.

Shane blinks. Shane hasn’t done anything. Not yet, at least. He doesn’t even know what he can do, really. So he asks, “For what?”

“...Coming to get me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice heavy, but still soft, still slipping into sleep. Shane decides not to push the point now.

He squeezes him instead. “Always, Ilya,” he murmurs. Ilya sighs. His thumb stills. His breaths turn even, and deep, and Shane takes a deep, painful breath, squeezing Ilya’s hand. He stares at the back of Mom’s seat, and flinches when Dad twists to look at him.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

Shane nods.

“You should take a nap,” Dad says.

Shane shakes his head before the thought forms about why. It’s ridiculous, and irrational, but - he just - he wants to be awake. In case Ilya wakes up, or he needs something, or something else happens. Nothing will happen, of course, not in the backseat of Shane’s parents’ car, but that knowledge hasn’t settled in to stay, just yet.

But this is good. Ilya pressed into his side, Shane’s arm over his shoulders, together and safe and just for each other, at least for the car ride.

Shane sits back, lets his shoulders sink, and tries to enjoy it.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

In the house, in Shane’s bedroom, showered and settled and phones put away, Shane doesn’t fall asleep when Ilya does.

Instead, he watches Ilya fall asleep, watches the lines in his forehead smooth out and his mouth fall open with little breaths that puff against Shane’s chest. He may be holding Ilya too tightly for him to be comfortable, but Ilya won’t mind. He’s asleep, after all.

Shane is not.

Shane would like to be - he really is tired, considering he was awake until 3AM - but when he shuts his eyes they bounce open again, seeking out Ilya even though he’s literally in Shane’s arms.

Yeah. Shane may be panicking. But he can’t panic now because that might wake up Ilya by accident.

So when Shane cries, he is silent. He holds Ilya a little tighter, pressing his cheek to the top of Ilya’s head, both his arms wrapped around Ilya’s back, their legs tangled together. Ilya is asleep, and Shane will be careful not to wake him as he falls apart.

Shane just - he doesn’t know what to do. His mind turns brutally to next steps, the steps that will require them to leave this bed, this safe haven. Ilya has to call his team, his coach. Will they help him? Can they help him? How much will they try? How hard will they fight for him?

Will they abandon him?

Shane can’t control that. Shane can’t do a damn thing to influence the outcome of that.

Ilya has to talk to his agent, figure out a public statement. Will he come out? He could dismiss it. He could say it was nothing. But it’ll make it much harder if he comes out after he retires. But by then, he’ll have a different citizenship. American. Canadian. It’ll be safer then. And he’ll be retired. The hockey world can only punish him so much if he isn’t playing anymore.

Does Shane want him to wait?

Well, it’s hardly his decision. But what if Ilya asks? Shane should have an answer. A good answer. A thought out one. One crafted with Ilya’s wellbeing at the forefront.

So Shane will tell him to wait. It doesn’t help him, or them, for Ilya to come out, to accept being outed. Wait for the foundation, wait for citizenship, wait for retirement. Wait, wait, wait.

(They’ve waited for so long already.)

(They haven’t. They started dating a few weeks ago.)

(But it’s been so long.)

The NHL will be a problem, probably. They’ve been fine to Hunter, but Hunter’s coming out was much more palatable than whatever the fuck happened here. Also, Hunter is American, and Hunter had just won a Stanley Cup. His team has been publicly supportive. 

Okay, but there are discrimination laws, as Shane’s mother was so quick to reassure him. Ilya can’t be easily fired from the NHL for this, especially with the threat the suspension of his visa would pose to him. Queer rights activists would help, whether they’re hockey fans or not. Ilya, admirably considering his reputation, hasn’t said a word to the press despite their pressure.

Shane has, but that’s beside the point.

He takes a deep breath and watches the way it ruffles Ilya’s damp curls as he breathes out. He doesn’t have any of the products Ilya uses here, so his hair doesn’t smell the same as it usually does after a shower. He hates it. Maybe he can buy them for him.

How long is he staying here?

Shane instinctually clutches Ilya a little tighter, wincing when his eyes flutter but ultimately stay shut. Fuck. Fuck. Shane didn’t think about that. Ilya being here at all was so surreal that he forgot to start the clock. Ilya should probably go back to Boston soon. He should meet with his coach and team and management in person, smooth things over, get settled before the season starts.

But.

Shane sighs. He consciously loosens his grip, shifting a little so he can see Ilya’s face and not the top of his head. He seems deeply asleep, but his expression twitches when Shane brushes his hair away from his face. Ilya’s such a light sleeper; Shane first noticed it at the cottage. Shane would wake up in the middle of the night when Ilya got up to use the bathroom, or left the bedroom entirely, or - occasionally - when Ilya rubbed patterns onto Shane’s arms or shoulders or hips, too deliberate to be done asleep, or when he heard a steady, sleepy stream of Russian mumbling. Ilya wakes up later than Shane most of the time, but Shane sleeps better. He’s never really thought about why.

Maybe he should think more about why.

He thinks through what he knows about Ilya’s family. The first person who comes to mind is Ilya’s mother, Irina. Ilya’s cross. That night at the cottage, Ilya’s voice so stilted for someone who throws out chirps and quips so quickly, even in his second language. Irina was kind, and smart, and beautiful, and sad. She was probably the best part of Ilya’s childhood, and she died when he was twelve.

Ilya’s father, Grigori. Shane had to google his name, easy to find amongst Russian obituaries. It’s also how he found out Ilya’s middle name, Grigoryevich. Shane tries not to think about how he didn’t know that until less than a year ago. Instead, Shane thinks about how he thinks he hates this man. This dead man, who had dementia in his final years. There’s nuance there that Shane finds easy to ignore, with Ilya in his arms.

He remembers the phone call Ilya took the day he had Shane over at his apartment, the distress in Ilya’s voice practically bouncing off the walls, how tense he was when he came back into the room. Shane hadn’t understood the conversation, but it was obvious that it hadn’t been good. And Ilya had shut down when Shane asked about it.

But Alexei.

Shane doesn’t know a damn thing about Alexei.

That isn’t true. He knows he’s a policeman in Russia, which doesn’t do anything to help Shane’s nerves. He read in Grigori’s obituaries that he’s four years older than Ilya, with a wife and a young daughter.

Now, Shane knows Ilya used to send them money. And now he doesn’t. And that Alexei found Ilya at the airport in Russia, and rather than simply letting Ilya - his brother, his little brother - go free, he demanded a fucking bribe, demanded all the cash and resources Ilya had on his fucking person, before letting him run.

“Who doesn’t want money from - ”

From what. From who. Ilya? Like he’s a fucking bank?

Someone knocks softly on the door. Shane’s eyes fly back open, staring as the door gently clicks open to reveal his mom. Her eyes widen when she sees him and Shane tucks his face further down against the pillows, trying to hide the tear tracks on his face. He knows it’s silly. He knows the danger has long passed, that Ilya’s fine, that he wouldn’t want Shane to be worrying the way he is, but it’s easier to know that than it is to feel it.

She steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. Shane holds Ilya a little tighter, praying he won’t wake up even as Mom makes her way around to him.

“Shane?”

“Sh,” Shane says, and winces when Mom raises her eyebrows. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey,” she says softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“I’m fine,” Shane says. And he is, of course he is, he’s infinitely better than he was last night. He really is.

“I know,” she says. “It’s okay. I just - just remember that he’s gonna be fine. That we’re all gonna help him. I promise.”

She can’t promise that, not really. She can’t promise that the Raiders or the NHL will treat Ilya fairly. She can’t even promise that they’ll be able to help the way they want to, since everyone on the goddamn planet thinks they hate each other.

But Mom smoothes her hand over his hair and presses a kiss to his temple, and he sighs.

“We’ll deal with all of it once you both get some rest,” she says. “You’ll be able to help him if you rest, Shane.”

“Yeah,” Shane admits. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

She pats him on the shoulder before leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind her. Shane sighs again, trying to get himself to relax, to go to sleep like his body so clearly wants to.

“You should listen to her.”

Shane jumps - again - when Ilya’s slurred voice mumbles into his chest. He huffs a laugh.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “Sorry for waking you.”

Ilya grunts and pulls Shane down instead, resting their foreheads together and lacing one of his hands through Shane’s hair. His eyes are just barely open, fluttering as he fights to stay awake, a sweet smile on his face.

“No sorry,” he mumbles. “Sleep.”

It’s easier to fall asleep like that, Ilya’s thumb stroking the back of Shane’s neck, Shane tucked down far enough that the blankets and pillows block the sliver of midday light making its way through the curtains.

But he still tugs Ilya close and kisses his forehead, and watches the door, and thinks. Hopes. 

He hopes for it all to be okay when they wake up. Let Ilya stay. Let him keep playing. For Ilya, of course for Ilya, but for Shane too. For both of them.

Then, and only then, does Shane manage to fall asleep.

Chapter End Notes

And that's that!
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