Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Magical Realism, Protective Yuna Hollander, the mundanity of the world is only worsened by the use of magic, asking the question: when does a crown become a cage, cursed shane hollander, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, they love shane so much it hurts, Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby", he has recognized that he is in love with ilya and he is diving headfirst into it, love (i fear) is not a strong enough word for what they have, Anxious Shane Hollander, he is not doing well but he is trying his best

Language:

English

Series:

Part 38 of heated rivalry masterlist, Part 8 of ghostly ghouls get game

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-02 Words: 12,386 Chapters: 1/1

made off, don't stray

Summary

Shane inhales, the air stinging as it scores down his throat. He can hear the rattle of his balcony door as his dad reenters the room, his parents' hushed conversation, muffled by the frantic prey-animal thunder of his heart.

He's so fucking stupid.

Even now, as he tries to figure out what to say, words pool on his tongue, ones that he knows he won't actually be able to voice. The familiar, flat-toned voice from the monthly DOMU videos rings through his ear, perfectly neutral as his brain reminds him that the longer time arcana has to work in the body, the less of a chance you have resisting it.

OR: The Might of Montreal lingers in the gaps as Shane struggles to come to terms with everything he's discovered.

Notes

There is, Shane thinks, something uniquely humiliating about having to invoke his mom's name three times before he curls over and slides right into a panic attack.

It's not even the weight of knowing that his stupid little bind will have nothing against the full Might of Montreal, but saying it had felt right and good, up until the final invocation of mom had curdled in his mouth, lemon-sour with regret.

He knows it's important regardless, because she's clearly tapping into the fact that something is seriously, terribly, insidiously wrong, but he's too focused on not shaking apart.

He has no idea how he made it out of Boston, no clue how he left the warm circle of Ilya's arms, how he pressed a final, lingering kiss to his mouth and let himself settle back into some shrouded version of Captain Shane Hollander. They'd barely even had time to say anything but goodbye—because both of them had slept too deep and too long in each other's arms, something that Shane couldn't regret, for all that it cost them—and the sour taste of leaving had filled his mouth, (not unlike the bitterness of truthrot), the entire time he'd headed back to the hotel.

And, once there, he'd faded into the circle of men, on edge and wary at the thought of just how much he didn't know. He'd kept himself away from his phone, uneasiness rising at the thought of what could come if anyone were to figure out just how many secrets he was leaving Boston with. He could hardly meet anyone's eyes, sticking close to Hayden and JJ as he tried to figure out just who knew what.

It was an impossible task.

He couldn't tell what was bleeding through from genuine dislike and what was the Contract and where his own feelings began.

He couldn't figure out if the sharp look Theriault nailed him with was a standard look of disdain, or a new, knowing one. He spent the whole time at Logan trying to shift through every interaction to see if he could pinpoint any sort of change, only to remember that the Contract had been the start; it was futile to search for anything else when nothing had ever been within the usual binds of an NHL Contract.

Well. Nothing had been before, except for Ilya.

In the airport and on the flight, Hayden and JJ had clearly known something was up, but they hadn't pushed, also knowing that trapping Shane into a conversation was one way to make him never want to speak again. They'd worked together to keep the team from bothering him, sweeping everyone up in conversation, though Lugs and Winnie had been sitting across from him, both of their faces tight with faint anxiety.

Neither had bothered him, softly discussing the game, their plans for after they landed; it had been a welcome change, to be gentled into easy, quiet acceptance, with no expectation of actually making a conversation work. He'd managed to spare them both smiles, and had promptly added a reminder to his calendar to talk to them soon.

And then, it had been a blur, once they landed, Shane running on autopilot to make it home, his parents arriving only a few hours later; planned, for all that it felt surprising to Shane, that the world could continue on as normal after being so irrevocably changed.

And now, he's falling to pieces, his dream a mouth that has devoured him, rending him down to nothing more than a puppet on Montreal's strings.

"Honey," Yuna murmurs, pressing her fingers into the top of his spine. "Shanebug, darling. You have to breathe, okay?" She presses in harder, as Shane gasps, air filling up his lungs. "Good, okay. Again."

"I—"

"Again," she orders, pressing her palm flat. He can hear the crackle of worry in her voice over the wheeze of his lungs. "Once more, Shane. And then—"

Shane inhales, the air stinging as it scores down his throat. He can hear the rattle of his balcony door as his dad reenters the room, his parents' hushed conversation, muffled by the frantic prey-animal thunder of his heart.

He's so fucking stupid.

Even now, as he tries to figure out what to say, words pool on his tongue, ones that he knows he won't actually be able to voice. The familiar, flat-toned voice from the monthly DOMU videos rings through his ear, perfectly neutral as his brain reminds him that the longer time arcana has to work in the body, the less of a chance you have resisting it.

All contracts—non-magical and magical alike—tend to have an arcanic component, but most of the time, that magic is held within the bounds of the Contract. Locking up someone's tongue when they try to speak about something under a MNDA, is a far more specific circumstance that only triggers when the Contract is nearly breached. The magic sits innately in the body, coming to life once its safeguards have been tripped. Signing his life away to an organization that holds him to different levels of expectation at every turn while trying to actively change who he is as a person, and keeping him on a razor-thin pathway of foresight—

Yeah. Shane's totally fucked.

His dad's hands settle on the top of his head, gentle and easy, and Shane wants to weep at the touch of them, wants to shrink down, back into a child, wants to be able to lift up his head and say, please fix it, I'm scared, and hide away in the familiar circle of their arms. He hasn't longed for their shelter in years, but the riptide of worry makes it easy enough to regress.

"We know something's wrong, kiddo," David murmurs. "But your mom and I have very different ideas of what wrong and magic mean—though, we have jumped the gun about assuming magic is involved. If she isn't, you can shake your head, now, okay?"

Shane carefully freezes, the room full of the sound of his ragged breathing, even as he stays hunched over, held fast between the palms of his parents.

At his side, Yuna inhales, no doubt ready to start launching herself at the Metros, only to settle back into stillness; distantly, the amusement that always comes at his dad easing his mom's immediacy simmers, but the vastness of his fear swallows it up before it can help him settle.

"Okay," David says. His tone hasn't shifted, and Shane breathes easier, just for a moment, trying to absorb his placidness. "So. Magic. And your—you've only ever been involved with it at your… place of employment. If this is outside of that, can you shake your head?"

Shane remains still, his head pressed against his knees, the hot tide of shame rising fast within him.

"David," Yuna says, a warning clear in her voice. "David."

"I know," David says, the calmness faltering for a beat before he reels it back in to his usual even-keeled tone.

Shane keeps his eyes closed.

He wants Ilya. He wants magic gone. He wants the Metros to have believed in him without stealing autonomy from him, and he wishes that he knew who—outside of Theriault and upper management—was involved.

Fuck, he thinks, wrinkling his nose, a furrow in his brow, his thoughts splintering apart. There's only so many goddamn threads he can attempt to chase down, but this one sings with new awareness. The fucking charmbag.

That's shoddy spellcraft work, he knows, and given the givens, he thinks he can rule out at least the coaches and Montreal's legal team, and probably all of the Metros' upper management. Or, at least, they can be backburnered. His head hurts, tight pinpricks of stress drilling through his temple as he thinks it over. Which means—fuck, staff or teammates. Neither are good. Shit. He doesn't have time for this; all he wants is to fucking pull the Metros to victory again, but instead, he has this fucking bullshit.

How the hell am I supposed to focus on hockey now, Montreal? He wants to scream, or do something stupid, like go to the rink and open his connection to the Might of Montreal up. Maybe, if he lights himself up from the inside out, the worst will burn through him and leave him empty of their rotten, underfed promises. When now I need to split my goddamn attention, because, otherwise, I'm going to die under your thumb?

"Honey," Yuna murmurs, dragging his attention back to his living room, both of them ignoring the faint sound of discontent from David. "What's—can you—"

He shakes his head, rolling his forehead over the edge of his kneecap, her hand squeezing tightly at his nape.

"Okay, that's fine, that's—"

"We don't want to make things worse," David murmurs. "I know it's all tangled strings, kiddo. Can you tell us anything other than the fact that something's wrong?"

Shane hesitates, before he shakes his head again. He shrugs too, for good measure. He's pretty sure the additions to his original Contract will be hidden—some more fucking bloodmagic worked into it—but he wiggles his phone out of his pocket regardless.

The room is quiet as he methodically taps at his phone, tugging up the Contract, scrolling down to the section, still doubled over. The weight of both of their hands soothes the fraying edges of his fear that drags at his limbs, even as he spirals.

He forgets, sometimes, how careful his parents are around magic. His mom fucking hates it, a disdain that has only grown the older she gets—although, to her credit, she doesn't mind the hearthside of magic, the tiny bits of sparks that are natural and simple, that don't cost more than the sheer act of care. She hates the polished brass weight of it, the way that people turn to it without asking the question of who is going to pay.

His dad, on the other hand, regularly forgets the odder bits of magic that he wanders through; he forgets that not everyone can name the birds that curve across the sky with a mere glance, that the plants he walks past don't have the same baseline pulse of wonder and life. They're just plants to most people.

Shane knows, that between the two of them, he is more like his mom, wary of the heaviness that drags at his limbs with magic. But he likes the gentleness of his patriarchal line, those fresh shoots that bloom under his dad's hands. He likes the way it feels to walk in his grandmother's greenhouse and feel the hum of happiness that comes from warm and easy growth.

He's grown up enveloped in hearth-magic and also encouraged away from all of it, two sides of a coin that is still flipping through the air, the balance of it changing day by day.

Or, to be more accurate, was changing day by day.

Once he had been pinned down by the brutality of Montreal's power, he'd had to give up on the idea of not being touched by it all; instead, he'd been remade. He just hadn't understood how deeply thaumaturgy had been sent to settle in the dirt of his soul.

He grits his teeth, and holds up his phone, offering the barest truth he can.

Someone slides it out of his grip, and for a moment, the room is quiet, just his own exhales filling the space. He presses his head harder against the soft touch of his sweatpants, wishing, again, for the encompassing touch of Ilya against his skin.

"Honey," Yuna says carefully. He doesn't like the way her tone sounds, cautious with a kernel of anger sliding though. "This is all—the words don't sit still on the page. And this is—" Her voice cuts out, and he can feel the flex of her fingers against his spine. "This is part of your Contract?" He nods, and can feel the tremble of her fingers against his nape, as his distant hope starts collapsing in on itself. He hadn't wanted to think about what it would mean if his mom couldn't read the Contract; it had felt too much like tempting fate. "This is—this is illegal. This is—they have violated—we—you can't—"

"Yuna," David says, and Shane can feel one of his hands lift off of his head, settling, Shane's sure, on his mom's hand, a familiar move from whenever his mom works herself up. "You can't break a sealed Contract bind—especially not one signed in blood that's over five years old." Shane can feel the pause in his dad's voice, but knows he's still going to say the truth of the matter. "It could kill him."

The words fall through the air, settling deep in the pit of Shane's stomach. He hadn't let himself think those words, hadn't let himself wander that path of potential since his initial realization. There's too much waiting for him; he can't—he doesn't want to leave.

There's a click as Yuna sets his phone down decisively on the coffee table.

"No," she says, sharp and pointed, and so fucking brave that Shane wants to weep. His eyes burn in the darkness he's folded himself into. "I won't let it."

"Honey," David says.

"No," she says again, and for a moment, Shane can't stop the stupid grin that emerges; Ilya, he knows, would be delighted to take up arms alongside her. It disappears as quickly as it arrives as she continues. "I'm not sitting idle and waiting for the repercussions to just happen, David."

"That's not what—"

"I know," she snaps, before the rooms falls silent again.

Shane's lucky, he knows. He grew up in a home where his parents fighting was uncommon, where their love for each other and him was the base on which everything else grew. They argued and bickered, but by the end of it his mom was always laughing, and his dad was fondly grinning, and neither of them ever wanted the fight; no, they saved that energy for the world at large.

But Shane has always, also, been aware that their biggest fights behind closed doors have been about him. About the world. About where he fits. About how he fits. Media and sponsors, representation and image; they've fought over the lines for as long as Shane's been gaining traction in hockey.

Magic, however, has never been one of those lines. They've always been united in that front; the arcane is the arcane is the arcane. To argue about it just proves that you've already tripped up, already faltered in the face of magic, or so his mom's saying goes.

Shane knows, more than ever now, just how that feels.

"You can't do anything," Shane blurts out, before he's even figured out what he's going to say. The words roll through the air gracelessly, a tepid showing of direction. He doesn't let himself falter, though, and straightens, peeling himself out of the crunch he's settled into; he pretends it doesn't feel awful to have both their palms slip from him, biting back the urge to ask for them to smush him between them, like they used to when he was an overwhelmed kid. "I—I mean. This is all mine to carry, right?"

His gaze darts to his mom's steely-eyed glare first, before meeting his dad's. Neither of them look pleased with what he's saying, but he can't pause now. And, more than that, he has to cut this off at the quick. He's raw enough to run the risk that he might blurt out other secrets that aren't his to share—or, at least, aren't his yet.

"It's my blood on the dotted line," he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm the one who signed it, even if it was under a false understanding. And I think—I mean. Okay." He inhales shakily. "This is a bunch of, um, guesswork, and feelings, and a little bit of actually knowing. And I don't know what I can say without it cutting out, but I think that since, uh, Mom reviewed the original, pre-changed document, that there's a little bit of—it's not important."

"Of course it is," Yuna says, the edges of her face he can see looking stricken out of the corner of his eye. "Everything is important here. We don't—or, you—fuck—okay. No, I'm being—I'm listening. Okay, honey? I'm not going to—I'll be quiet and listen, I promise, okay? I just—"

"Sweetheart, part of listening is being quiet," David murmurs, a wry twist to his mouth, as he offers the phone back to him. Shane takes it, clicking the screen off; he doesn't want to read those terrible words again. "Why don't you take notes and jot down questions, and then, we'll see if Shanebug can answer them at the end."

It's the exact sort of thing he doesn't want, but he can't find it within himself to argue at the relieved expression that flashes across his mom's face.

"Let me go get a notebook," she says, rising up from the couch. "And I'll make tea. Earl Grey, you two?"

"Jasmine green?" Shane asks, craving the familiar comfort, even though it's later than he likes to have any caffeine. He closes his eyes as she brushes a hand over his cheek. "Thanks, Mom."

She leans in to press a kiss against the crown of his head, soundless words whispered against his scalp, before she heads off to his kitchen, rifling through his cupboards with ease.

His gaze slides across his carefully curated walls to settle on his dad, still standing beside the coffee table. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment, before David drops his, his lips thinning into a parody of a smile.

"We love you, kiddo," he mutters, rolling his shoulders back. He rocks back on his heels, and Shane can feel his own mouth twitch at the echo of his own awkwardness he's learned from him; a comforting, indistinct feeling of home, before it fades, swept away by the flush of apprehension. He hates the way it sings in his marrow, that smarting; it never sits well, especially under the weight of Montreal, to be so discombobulated at his own sense of self, but it's an ache he's gotten used to, pressed into the hinges of his joints. Though, unfortunately for him now, this new discovery craters through him, making him feel wildly out of control. He hates that he can't tell which pieces are his, and which pieces he's been molded into. It doesn't help that he can't stop himself from smoothing over the screen of his phone with his thumb—even though he knows it's entirely because he's desperate for any lingering sense of connection to Ilya. "Even when maybe it feels like we're all at odds."

"I know," Shane croaks out. "I don't—I just—it's a lot, I don't know. And I feel—" He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes skating across the empty doorway, before he turns back. "I feel fucking stupid. And I don't, fuck, Dad—it—I don't—" His ears burn as he picks at the pilling on his sweatpants. "Maybe this makes me sound like an asshole, but I don't normally feel like this about hockey. I don't—the Metros were supposed to be my—god, this is dumb—my safe space. And it just—it's—I mean, pieces of it were real—are, real, I mean. And I don't—I've always tried my best, and so, it stings, I think to know that—" His jaw locks up, and he pinches at the bridge of his nose, pivoting, "And I trust, like, Hayd, and JJ, and some of the younger guys to, I don't know, have my back, but, like—" He groans, all his words useless and malformed, unwieldy in his mouth as he tries to figure out how to say everything without whining about how this isn't what he wanted. "I want to play hockey. And that's been—not ruined, not really, but it's not why—fuck—"

"Hey, hey, hey," David murmurs, settling in next to him on the couch. His hand curves across the nape of his neck, and Shane slumps into him, letting his dad hold his weight as he fights the urge to cry. "Shanebug, buddy, you're okay. Here, at least, you're safe and you're home, and you're going to try your best, just like you always have, and your mom and I will—well, I mean, let's be honest with ourselves—your mom is going to whip up a plan, even if it's just us listening to you, even if you can't tell us anything distinct." He squeezes, warmth sinking straight down into Shane's heart, and he's unable to stop himself from tearing up, the damp weight of them leaking out of the corners of his eyes. "You've been carrying this weight for a long time, kiddo, even if you didn't know it. And I know it's probably scary, and we've—I've—said some frightening shit this afternoon, but I've never bet against you, and I never will." He chuckles, a dry, raspy sound. "And I sure as hell have never bet against your mother, okay?"

Shane hiccups on a laugh, the sound cracking open into a quiet sob that he tries to stifle.

"We're going to figure it out," David murmurs, kindly ignoring his muffled crying as he presses his hot face into the curve of his shoulder. Shane forgets, sometimes, in the mess of everything, how much he misses his parents. How even when he doesn't fit right, even when he's annoyed with them or they're upset at his decisions, they've always made space for him. They hold that soft, warm spot open for him, always ready for him to return. "And, you've done something hard, already, haven't you? I mean, kiddo, asking for help is hard. And, besides, I'd bet on you having more support in your corner than you can even imagine."

Involuntary, Shane's mouth curls into a smile, flickers of last night spilling through his mind. "Yeah," he mutters, sniffling, pulling away just enough so that he's not tucked under his dad's arm anymore. "I think so, too."

His dad doesn't say anything, instead, offering him a tissue, only faint curiosity lining his face as Shane roughly dabs at his eyes. He can see the question of just who Shane is thinking of growing, but, as usual, he doesn't ask, trusting that he'll tell them when he wants to.

Starchy relief clogs Shane's throat for a beat, before he swallows it down.

They sit in silence together, the faint noises of his mom in the kitchen spilling through the air like dust notes. The spout of the teapot whistles, the clatter of mugs pulled down from cupboards, the muffle clink of the ceramic lid coming off from from his loose leaf tea canisters, the lilt of her voice as she murmurs to herself—it sinks through him, tugging at him and making him drowsy. It's almost too easy, as he closes his eyes and drifts; he can pretend nothing's wrong, that there isn't a looming specter of malice inhabiting one of his greatest loves.

Soft footsteps precede the arrival of his mom, the click of her tongue, a quiet tch as something rattles against the coffee table. More quick footsteps pad through the space as she clearly darts back for something else, the curling scent of jasmine and bergamot filling the air.

Shane cracks his eyes open, unsurprised to find a tray with their three mugs, a bowl full of bright green grapes, and six pens tucked into the side.

"Sorry," she murmurs as she strides back into the room, holding a notebook up, sliding her glasses on her face, the case for them clenched tight in her hand. "I almost forgot the notebook."

David snorts, squeezing the back of his neck once more, before dropping his hand. Cold prickles over Shane's skin, and he reaches out for his usual mug, the rounded, worn Ottawa Centaurs one he's had since he was six. His mom didn't grab her usual mug to use—the Metros-branded one—and the little show of clearly pointed support warms him just as much as cupping his mug of tea does.

"Alright," she says, settling in on his other side. He's really too broad to be between them, but he's not going to complain; this is the exact sort of squeeze he wants. She reaches out to select a pen, decisively clicking it once. "Tell us what you can, honey. And I know you get… I know it can be hard to fill in the gaps, but we'll try our best, okay?"

Shane nods, and drops his gaze down to stare at the tray.

"I need to leave the Metros," he starts with, biting his bottom lip as his mom freezes beside him. "Or, fuck, I guess something insane would have to happen, and I know—I know—it's not what you wanted, Mom—I know that you—and I don't want to let you down but I can't stay without—" His jaw locks up, every ending of the sentence true enough to be dangerous. It hurts, to peel apart his messy feelings like this, to try to figure out just what he wants when the bruise of it is still raw, lurid with betrayal. He's spent all this time thinking about it, and he doesn't even know what the fuck he wants. "I don't—" He blinks at the coffee table, ignoring the ache throbbing in his throat. "It will—I'm sorry. I just—I thought—and maybe there's a solution that I don't—because I don't want to go but—" He shrugs, his palms stinging at the heat of the tea, and relishes in the deserved burn. "I'm sorry."

"Honey," Yuna says, soft enough that every hair on Shane's arms stand up. He's never heard her sound so devastated. "Shane."

"I tried, Mom. And I would try even more, if I could, but I don't want to—" He falters, shaking his head. I tried seems hollow in the face of the truth. How could he have tried when he didn't know how empty it was making him? He feels, at once, terrifyingly old, staring down the results of his own half-shadowed choices, and bewilderingly young, bowled over by the force of everything he can't say and everything he wants to. When did everything get so fucking messy? "And I'm scared to say too much, because I don't want to tempt—" He shudders at the mere thought, even as he continues, "But it would be… bad, for me, I think. To, uh, stay," he fumbles through, keeping his eyes fixed on the bowl of grapes. He hates disappointing his mom, hates it just as much as he hates getting a stern look from his dad, and he doesn't—he shudders under the force of his own stupidity, and forces himself to take a too-large sip of his tea, welcoming the burn as it rolls down his throat, stinging far more than he expects.

"Shane," his mom says again, plaintive enough that he peeks at her out of the corner of his eye. Her lips are pressed together, her mouth thin and trembling, and Shane snaps his gaze back towards the table, his shoulders hiking up, shame trickling down his spine. "I don't—I don't care if you leave the Metros, not if it keeps you safe."

The statement sounds… odd, to Shane, as if filtered through water, the burble of words nonsense in his ears. The room is spinning a little, he thinks abruptly. He can't quite get his eyes to focus either. She had been wavering, in his side view.

"Honey," she says, as a buzzing fills his veins. "Nothing matters more to me than keeping you safe."

"I just don't want you to be mad at me," Shane blurts out, blinking rapidly. "Because it's—I don't want—" He tries to get his thoughts together, but everything keeps slipping from his tongue, a sharp, acrid bitterness rising from the back of his throat. "The Metros—" He cuts himself off, gagging on the words, gasping for breath, as both of them lean in, their worried words slipping through his understanding as he tries to keep talking.

It was nowhere near this bad, he thinks, even as he tries again and again to say what needs to be said. He can feel their hands on his shoulders, someone's palm firm against his spine, patting him as if that will get him to breathe smoother. I wasn't—this didn't—why can I tell Ilya and Boston and I can't even mention my own—I could tell Dad, but not—what the fuck is happening to me?

"Stop," his dad says, loud enough to cut through the ringing in his ears, and he slams his mouth shut, cutting off the whining gasps that have been leaking from his throat. "Breathe."

The words are infused with the gentle ember of magic that he rarely employs, the one that he'd only use when Shane was a kid and caught in the throws of a panic attack, or an overload of his system, when he'd scratch himself to blood, or shiver on the floor, gasping for air.

It sinks through him, the smoldering warmth, and the next breath of air he sucks in actually gets to his lungs, making him realize how little he was taking in before. For a long, long moment, the three of them sit, Shane shivering between them, breathing raggedly.

"I'm going to kill them," his mom says abruptly, her voice infused with a rage Shane has rarely heard. She presses her whole hand against his spine, right between his shoulder blades, cutting off all the questions Shane wants to ask. "I'm going to—hm. You might need plausible deniability, won't you? I don't want to add a weight to what you're already carrying. Is there an honesty component in your Contract? You won't be able to answer that, never mind. Okay. Okay. No, this is—I'm going to speak with Farah, and then I am going to build a case that is so airtight, they are going to obsolete by the time I am done with them." A pen clicks twice, a decisive, firm sound, and Shane doesn't fight the swell of fondness that rises within him as she writes furiously, still keeping herself tethered to him.

She's terrible at stillness, even more terrible at letting a problem be. It's how she shows care, fiercely and solidly, and he loves her for it, even when it exhausts him.

He doesn't bother arguing with her, too worn down from everything that has happened over the past twenty-four hours. It's comforting, really, how she dissolves into murmurs, clearly unwilling to push him again, half-bitten off questions that are only for herself as she scribbles, as his dad gently knocks their knees together. It feels like it did back when he lived at their house, the gentle susurration of her voice sliding through the eaves, filling the empty pockets of air.

"See, kiddo," he says, as Shane glances up at him. He looks completely at ease again, all agitation tucked away. "Your mom's already on the case."

Shane cracks a smile, and lets himself be held, soaking in their easy affection, even as a part of him longs for a third. He keeps dropping his gaze down, half-expecting to find Ilya by his knees, tucked in close.

He feels ruined by expectation, already, something that he, logically, thinks should be impossible. But that's how Ilya's always been, a slow erosion of all his sensibility.

"You should send Farah and I the Contract," Yuna says, still writing furiously. "Even if we can't read it, it'll help."

"Uh huh," Shane says, letting himself drift forward enough to snag a handful of grapes. The tart burst of sweetness rushes through him, settling him even more, a firm crunch between his molars. He makes no mention of the fact that it's already available to her in their shared folders; it feels better to have a task. "I can do that."

She hums, muttering more to herself, before her hand pauses, and she tilts her head back, eyeing him carefully.

He doesn't go prey still, not exactly, but he's intimately familiar with her all too perceptive gaze. She hasn't always been able to understand why he has tender spots where he does, but, for the most part, she's at least mostly been aware of them.

He still braces himself for the sting; everything is too bruised now for her questions not to hurt.

"And, for that matter, I've been meaning to ask for months—why haven't you warded your apartment, Shane? What could possibly be more important than your home?"

Unwittingly, his mind slides to his condo. Wards were one of the first things that he had asked to be laid into the foundation when they were fixing some old pipes in the basement.

He had only bothered because Ilya was there; a gesture he'd told himself was just smart, rather than protective. It had made sense, he'd told himself, when he'd gotten back up to the top floor and was staring out at the skyline of Montreal. If Ilya somehow got cursed while they were fucking; Shane couldn't be the one who broke the news. He couldn't risk any magical backlash sinking in between them, and, even as he pretended otherwise, he couldn't bear to let the possibility of them rupture in anyway.

And besides, he'd assured himself, this was Montreal. He didn't need them here, not really, but Ilya would.

He'd thought it unneeded in his actual home. He'd thought of himself as safe; Montreal was supposed to be his, the wards laid at the Bell Centre and at the practice facility should've been enough to ambiently protect him. And any of the minor hexes and limited curses had slid off of him relatively easily; there was no need to worry. After all, why else was he woven in so tightly to the team?

"I—" he starts, before pausing, staring at the coffee table. "It didn't seem necessary."

"It didn't seem necessary," she repeats, sounding just like she did when he'd snuck out of his high school freshman year to trek to Ottawa's Censplex to see an afternoon game. (He'd been very proud of his sneakiness—he'd practiced forging his dad's signature for three weeks, and it had, really, only been a short bus ride away on a late February afternoon.) The Cens had lost, in a merciless, brutal game, but Shane had been thrilled. He'd been less thrilled to discover how upset both his parents were when he'd made it home. "You're magically entrapped and it didn't seem necessary."

"I didn't know," he says, meeting her eyes for a beat before letting his gaze drift away. He crunches down on a grape and adds, "I just—Jesus, Mom, I found out yesterday."

The silence that settles between them sits oddly, thick with all the things Shane can't and won't say.

He needs to talk to Ilya. He needs to talk to JJ and Hayden. He needs to somehow cut this thread that binds, and he needs to do it quick, or else Montreal is going to swallow him whole.

Four years hangs over his head—he doesn't know what he can do, but he doesn't think he can afford to wait, especially not now.

He knows how these things fester; it doesn't help that acknowledgment of a problem can swing one of two ways. It can give him grace, give him breathing room, or, it can speed things up, ruin the neat and tidy lines he's been unknowingly dancing down and drag him into the depths of whatever suffocating magic has been worked on him.

He has a feeling he knows just how this is going to go. Arcana, when worked through the slats of Montreal's winnowing, has never given him a break. Surely, this will be no different.

"Okay," Yuna murmurs, exhaling. "Alright. You just found out, I believe you." Shane manages a nod, glancing at her. She's staring at him, her lips thin, a wrinkle in her brow, worry lining the curve of her cheeks. "How?"

"What?"

"How did you find out?"

Shane blinks at her, his cheeks flushing. "I—I can't tell you." Both of her eyebrows fly up, and he scrambles to correct himself, fumbling for words as best he can. "I can't tell you, yet, Mom, okay? I just have to check on some, uh, some things."

"Check on some things," she repeats, dubiousness laced through her tone. "And I'm guessing you can't tell me what these things are?"

Shane shakes his head, his brows pinching together. "It's nothing bad, and I don't think it's like a lockjaw curse, or anything like what—" he gestures around, trying to encapsulate the whole of the mess from this afternoon. "I just—I don't—there's a lot at stake, even more than just me, and I don't—I don't want to betray anyone's trust, okay?" By the end of his words, his tone has sharpened, lashed tight with misdirected ire, and he clears his throat, shaking his head, wincing as the room swims. "Sorry. I didn't mean to sound so… but please, Mom, just—I'll tell you everything when I can, okay?" He glares at the coffee table. "And I thought I'd be able to tell you more about my shit since you've been so directly involved—" He cuts himself off as his dad clears his throat, frowning at the expression on his face. "What?"

David shifts, his fingers knotting together. "They probably included a clause explicitly about your mom, bug," he says, as the floor drops out from beneath Shane's feet, disgust coiling in his stomach. "Everyone knows she's whip-smart, and since they clearly wanted to bind you to something dangerous, there's probably some definition of just who is allowed to know about it inked into some long-filed exhibit that's labeled as known entities approved, or knowledge-forbidden entities, or some other legal bullshit." He frowns, the lines of his face deepening. "It's pretty common, in a field with Contracts like yours, to expressly limit known 'dangerous eyes' like that, and since you are, unfortunately, right about your blood being inked into the paperwork, it would be fairly easy for the legal team at Montreal to make a case that only you should know the full details of your Contract, especially due to the arcana baked into it all." He clears his throat again. "I wouldn't be surprised if there was another piece layered in about Farah also being limited in what she can know. Other people can probably get by with a little bit more information, if they weren't explicitly named, and I, since everyone knows your mom is actually your manager, probably wasn't written out quite as literally; I've probably been noted as 'staff' or 'family'. The general aura of mystique definitely helps their terms too, since no one outside the team supposedly should know what is happening, magically, at least."

Shane blinks at him. "And this is just public knowledge?" he asks, his voice faint. All those years of DOMU videos, of the carefully taken in pieces of information about how to protect yourself from magic, and still, none of it has been fucking helpful. Not like this awful, stuttering conversation. "I should've—I should know this?"

"It's not broadly public," David says. "But it's not… I expect that you've been deliberately kept from some of the better known legal tricks, since it would, uh, enable you to better hold your own against them."

Yuna half-snarls, ire painted across the curl of her lips. "I am going to kill them," she repeats, her hand flexing against the top of his spine. "This is—it's an—I know I, we, don't know the specifics, honey, but I don't need to know them, to trust you, okay?" She twists, setting her notebook down to the side, and faces him head on. "I know you're caught in tangled strings, and I know that you have four years left on the Contract, but, we're going to figure this out, okay?" She glances up, her eyes dark and focused. "You are not going to pay the price for the Montreal Metros," she says, her voice clear and ringing as it bounces off the walls. Underneath her words, Shane can hear another woman's voice, the definition lost, but the tone much the same. "I'm going to—we're going to figure this out, okay?"

"Okay," Shane says, dull and exhausted, and he doesn't fight it, when both of them wrap their arms around him, squeezing him until the vast pressure of their blanketing love and warm arms is all he can feel. It's like he's a little kid again, as his dad tugs a blanket off the back of the couch, the soft fuzziness tucked under his chin as he blinks blearily at nothing.

Neither of them pressure him for anything else, letting him sit, tucked in between them, as his mom scribbles away some more, still muttering to herself, his dad humming every so often and adding a murmured word, or bit of advice. He can't remember the last time he got to just exist with them both, no demands for his time, no questions he needs to think through. It's nicer than he expects.

He hadn't realized how much he missed his mom as his actual mom, in the midst of everything else, and he bites back the surge of pain at the thought that this is what the Metros tried to take from him.

"Oh, honey," Yuna murmurs, as the golden light streams in through the windows. He blinks, and realizes that he's been crying silently, tiny droplets of salty tears spilling down his cheeks. "I'm sorry you were so alone with this for so long, even if you didn't know about it."

Shane sniffles, flushing faintly. "I'm sorry I keep crying," he mutters, even as he slumps back against the couch. For all that he's embarrassed about it, it also feels like it's happening to someone else's body, as if he's just haunting his own. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you," David says firmly. "You're going through the stages of grieving a team you thought was yours, of grieving a home you put your trust in. It's perfectly expected for you to be crying about it, to be upset. I'd be more worried if you weren't so torn up about it." He shakes his head, the most drawn he's been all day, his eyes murky with a fear Shane's never really seen before. "If you start to feel numb, Shane, you need to tell someone."

"Okay," Shane says, filing it away. He shifts between them, a faint itch for space growing. "I have to—I have to talk to Hayd and JJ. I can let them know, too, if that's—if it's important to you."

"It is," his dad says firmly, and Shane frowns at him, opening his mouth to ask, only for his mom to cut his question off.

"Do you want us to stay tonight?" she asks, dragging his attention away as she sets her empty mug down with a click. Normally once the tea is finished, his parents will make their goodbyes, but they're both watching him as if they don't want to go. "I know we didn't plan on it—"

Shane shakes his head, tugging the blanket off his body and pushing himself up from his slump. Goosebumps break out over his skin immediately as he registers the loss of warmth, but he ignores it, staggering up, and pointedly doesn't meet either of their eyes, vaguely irked at the way they both look concerned. As nice as it's been, to just sit with them, he abruptly feels anxious for them to get a move on, for him to have a moment of solitude. He wants his routine back; he wants to shower again, wants to eat a salmon bowl and maybe call Ilya at some point, before heading up to bed. He wants to be done with being questioned and coddled and looked after. "No, I think—I mean. I have to think this through, still, you know? I haven't had a moment alone since I found out, really."

"You weren't alone, when you found out?" Yuna says, her tone sharpening for a beat, before she clears her throat. "Not that it matters," she adds, in the most unconvincing tone ever. Fuck, if that's how Shane sounds when he lies, no wonder Ilya can always fucking tell. "When you can tell me, just, please, honey, tell me."

Shane nods, still keeping his eyes dropped as he gathers up the tray, carting it back to the kitchen. He takes a moment, bent at the waist, forehead pressed against the cool marble edge, to just breathe, listening to the quiet rustle of his parents, the soft murmur of his dad's voice, the tight clicks of his mom's pen, before he forces himself up.

"I'll figure out what I can tell you tonight," he says, stepping back over to stand in the doorway, watching them. They've slid back into each other, their hands tangled, warm, easy affection on his dad's face as he rubs his thumb in circles on the back of his mom's hand. Her brows are still furrowed, unease clear, but she packs it away as she rises, tugging David up as well. "I—I wasn't thinking it through, when I mentioned, uh, needing help."

"Bug," his dad says, as calm as ever. "You need to stop apologizing about needing help—we're here for you, kiddo. We'll always be here. And with us, you don't have to have the answers when you come home, okay? I know it makes both you and your mom feel better when you've got a neat and tidy plan laid out—"

"Because it is better," Yuna grumbles, rolling her eyes.

"—but life's messy, and things, often, don't go the way we want them to. It's okay to duck down and ask for some shelter, every once in a while. That's the whole point of parenthood—being that easy, safe place to return to when the rest of it is getting too loud."

Shane fidgets with his hands for a beat before he nods. "I—" he starts, before pausing. At this point he's keeping so many secrets they're bleeding into each other. Ilya, Boston, the Might of Montreal, the whole gay piece of it all, the love—it's impossible to do anything but just exist in the miasma of everything, drinking in all of his mistakes that have led him here.

But that discounts the goodness too—Ilya's bright blue eyes soft with joy, the sweet song of delight that comes when he laces up his skates, the sight of ginger ale stocked at both Hayd's and JJ's, the easy, welcoming laughter of the Bears—even the weight of the magic is comforting, because he's shouldered it for so long.

"I know—I wish I could tell you more," he finally offers, staring over their shoulders, dusk sweeping over the room. His lights click on automatically with a tiny tick, and the umber glow swathes the room in warmth. For a moment, it's as if nothing has happened, just the three of them regrouping like his mom likes them to, when she hasn't seem him in a while. "I just—I won't—I don't want to betray anyone else, by, by speaking without knowing. God, I sound like—it's not important. I just—I don't—I didn't realize how bad it had gotten," he says carefully. Broad strokes clearly do the best, at least in here. He's still fucking confused about why he could get so much more detailed with Ilya, though, his suspicions prickle in the back of his mind.

If he's right—if what he avoided mentioning to Carmichael is true—

He has to cut those thoughts off immediately, or else the hope is going to bleed across his face. And there's a lot he feels ill-equipped to deal with when it comes to having hard conversations with his mom, but the potential of soulmates is a huge one. Maybe the biggest, simply because of how many secrets it's enshrouded in.

"I don't like—I didn't want to lie," he says, shoving down the sharp, throbbing hope and the bitter fear. He can't think about it, because if he's wrong, he's going to—it's going to carve out more than he can handle. "I don't want to lie."

"We don't want you to lie either," Yuna murmurs, pulling her glasses off and setting them in her case. It snaps shut with a loud click, sharp in the quiet room. "Honey, we get it. There clearly aren't just magical bonds active here, but interpersonal things at play. I—if I can be candid—I, obviously, don't like it, if only because I want to know. But you do have your right to privacy, honey. And some things, I can admit, are not mine to own, despite me wanting to."

David snorts, his mouth curling into a fond smile. "You know how your mom likes to always know all the things, kiddo," he says, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. They exchange a look, an emotion Shane's not privy to passing between them, before they both glance back at him. "You'll tell us when you can, and we both know that, despite your mom's impatience."

He smiles, even as she drives a gentle elbow into his ribs, the motion smooth from years of doing it, a familiar song and dance between them.

For half a beat, Shane is so full of longing that he doesn't know what to do with himself. He's positive it's clear in the lines of his body, the desperate want that he can feel coiling in his marrow. He knows himself, knows the gluttony that clings to him; he wants, near always, to have, whether it be more points, more ice time, more kisses, more touch, more conversation, more laughter, more Ilya.

And he knows his own pitfalls well enough to be sure that it's shattered clearly across his face, the envy, the hunger. But neither of them ask, as blistering greed swells in his sternum, before he regains sense and shoves it down, burying it as deep as he can bear.

"We love you, honey," Yuna says, her gaze flickering across his face. "And that's not something that can ever be taken from you."

He nods, vaguely agreeable, and doesn't fight it as Yuna crosses the room to tug him into a hug. His arms come up slowly, to wrap around her as David follows, easily hugging them both.

He can't remember the last time they had such a serious conversation that had so much reassuring touch. Normally, he's realizing, he keeps a careful distance from both of them, refusing the comfort offered. Normally, he's realizing, he takes deliberate steps to stay away from them.

It burns in his chest, another potential piece of the terrible puzzle he's putting together.

"Alright," Yuna says, drawing back. "I'm going to do some research into other Contracts, and figure out what the precedence is for something like this. I'm sure there's some trial that's happened between Canada and America that we can use as a baseline." She reaches out, cupping a hand over the edge of his jaw and holding his gaze as he glances at her. "We'll have a plan by the end of the season," she says. "It might not be the most elegant, honey, but we'll figure this out." Her brows draw together, wrath shivering across her face. "You're not alone, sweetheart. And if I have to tear the Montreal Metros apart brick by brick to find the ward anchor and destroy it, I will."

Shane blinks at her, but all she does is smile grimly at him, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I love you, Shanebug," she says, before she repeats, "We're going to figure this out."

"I know," he says, because what else can he do? Arguing is only going to hurt her, and if he dies, well—everything will unravel for sure. "I love you, too."

David pulls them both back into another warm, aching hug, and Shane blinks back another rush of tears.

Shame creeps over him, seeping in through the cracks; he's a grown fucking man, a Captain of an NHL team. It doesn't matter what fucking news he's gotten, he shouldn't be so stupidly emotional about it, but here he is, weepy for the umpteenth time today, burrowing into the shelter of his parents arms.

This time, when he pulls back, neither of them reach of him, both of them easily sliding apart as be tugs himself out of their grasp.

"We've got to get on the road," Yuna says, wiping at her eyes. "Shane, if you have any meetings with Theriault, record them, okay? Especially if it's just you. Send them to Farah and I, and we'll start working out to see if we can piece together what you can't say—aside from the fact that you've been magically ensorcelled."

"Will do," Shane croaks out. He's not sure how it's really going to help—and he, honestly, probably shouldn't send any of it to her, given the way Theriault likes to make everything so fucking personal, but he's too exhausted to fight now. If he really needs to, he can argue with her about it later—though, he will be recording each conversation. It's a brilliant idea.

Fuck, he should've figured this out ages ago. He should've known that something was wrong at the first needling of arcana. He should've been more aware. God, the indignity of his own ignorance burns.

"We'll get out of your hair, kiddo," David murmurs, as they drift past him down the hall towards the front door. "It's been a long day, and we know we've screwed up your routine by being here."

Shane shifts on his feet, padding after them. "It's no prob—" he starts, before cutting himself off at the looks they both send him. He'd forgotten, too, in the mess of everything, of how well they both know him. He hadn't realized how out of place he'd felt before tonight, and it sears against his insides. Fuck, he has no idea how much he's missed. How much of his life has disappeared under the crush of the Might of Montreal? Every time he thinks about it, he feels the sputtering rush of worried-understanding again, as if he's discovering the reality of it all for the first time, and he can't figure out why. "I mean, yeah. Just a little."

Yuna cracks a smile, before all the humor slides off her face again. "I love you, honey," she says, stepping back towards him to press another kiss across his cheek. "I'm not going to let this swallow you up."

Shane nods, and doesn't fight it when his dad swoops in for another hug, all three of them tangled for a beat, before both of his parents pull back again.

"Okay," his mom says. "We're going. We'll text you when we're home, Shanebug. Love you."

"Love you, son," David echoes, as they both pause in his entranceway, watching him. The lights from his kitchen have crept down the hall, only their faint amber glow illuminating the space. But even in the murk of the shadows, Shane can see the love and worry and fear slathered over their faces, the sharp anger in the set of Yuna's shoulder, the tremor of tension visible even in David's placid stance.

"Love you," Shane says, and watches steadily as they both head out the door, his mom's notebook in hand.

Inside his chest, fear writhes, sharp and unrelenting and despite everything Shane's told himself over the course of the afternoon, about only maybe calling Ilya, as soon as he hears the elevator chime shut, he's yanking his phone out, shoving his earbuds in, and dialing a long memorized number.

"I told my mom, or tried to, about the, uh, stuff we found out last night," Shane blurts out as soon as Ilya picks up the phone after a single ring. He skirts around the exact details, because he has a feeling that Ilya won't be chill if he finds out that Shane's body sort of starts to shut down if he runs up against the sharper edges of the Contract, or that he didn't really manage to tell her anything. "And she tried to ask me how I figured it out, and I just sounded like a total dumbass, because I couldn't figure out a way to say it without revealing the fact that I was at yours, and with your team, and I didn't know what to say, aside from that I'd tell her eventually, and she sort of accepted that, but I know she's going to be—never mind. Uh. How was your day?"

For a moment, silence greets him, anxiety pulling tight in his chest, before low, gentle laughter spills down the line.

"Sweetheart," Ilya says, as all of Shane's tension begins to unwind. He steps forward to flip the lock on the door, and twists on his heel, heading back to the living room and sinking onto his empty couch. "Wow. You have said so much so quickly. It is a miracle that I can follow along your sweet voice with so many words."

"Oh shit," Shane says, flushing. He lets his head sag back against the couch cushions, staring up at his ceiling. He's dazed with everything that's happened, only half paying attention to his own words. "Sorry, baby."

Ilya inhales, and Shake freezes.

"Uh."

"Baby," Ilya repeats, a tinge of wonder in the rasps of his voice. "Wow."

"Sorry," Shane offers again, shrinking down, nerves licking down his spine. Fuck, can he even have one normal conversation today without immediately making a mess of it? "I wasn't—we haven't—all this, and we still haven't actually, really, talked about like, definitions and rules and shit, huh? I didn't—it's just—fuck."

Ilya hums, and Shane's lashes flutter closed. "I like this very much, Hollander," he murmurs, soft and lilting, the rumble of his accent washing across Shane's skin. "You are very sweet, to worry, but I think there is enough to worry about without adding this to your plate."

Shane exhales, and can feel his lips curling into a smile. "Asshole," he says, warm with fuzzy delight. He feels human again, like his soul has reconnected with his marrow, with the pump of blood in his veins; gloriously and agonizingly alive, but he wouldn't have it any other way. "But seriously, how was your day?"

Ilya sighs, a note of frustration in his voice. "Long," he says. "We will tell Coach LeClaire tomorrow, about what has… happened." There's a clink, on the other end, as if he's set down his phone. A faint note comes through at the end of it, a wavering voice that barely catches the edges of Shane's hearing. "I understand why we must, but I am not—it does not feel good, to bring this to Coach, to say, the team has been endangered under my care, or, even worse, to admit that I was not paying attention to things close enough."

"That's not fair to you," Shane murmurs, a swell of protective annoyance rising. "You haven't been seeing ghosts."

"Mmm," Ilya says, pain thick in his tone abruptly. "No, you are right. I am not."

Shane pauses, listening to him breathe on the other side, and can feel his brows furrow. "Did I—did I say something wrong?"

Ilya clears his throat. "No, malysh, you did not. I am—there is much we will need to talk about, but it—not over the phone, yes? I think you will not like, being so far, and I will not—it will not be—I am explaining this all wrong—"

"You don't have to explain anything to me," Shane says, before he can stop himself. It feels like a lie, almost, even in its truth. Of course, Ilya doesn’t have to tell him everything, but Shane still wants him to. He wants to know the dark spots of shadow, the mottled shades of gray in his soul. He could listen to Ilya recite the Cyrillic alphabet and he would be captivated. "I mean, I'd like you to, because I like listening to you, but I just—I get it. I couldn't have—we couldn't have had last night's conversation over the phone. There was too much nuance for it to be—I want to see your face, you know? Uh, be—fuck, this is embarrassing—but, be close to you, you know? I don't—I get it, that's all."

Ilya hums, a faint note of laughter returning. "You are obsessed with me, Hollander," he says gleefully, before some of the humor flees. "But, yes, I know exactly—you get what I am saying, Shanya, just as you can. I am—it is easier even now, to allude to it."

"I mean," Shane mutters, flushing as he fumbles for his words, before admitting in a rush, "I like talking to you. It makes my day better."

"Ah, sweetheart," Ilya says, and Shane can hear the smile curving across his face. "This is true for me too, you know? There have been so many tiny moments I have wanted you to text, or for me to be, hm, brave enough to text too." He exhales. "I am just glad that we are finally brave enough now, yes? That we have… maybe not defined the exactness of it, but we have not—"

"Run away?" Shane offers, because he can imagine it. It almost stings, how easily he thinks it could have been, to have read that text from Ilya and tried to bolt. Part of him is amazed that he hasn't fled, but the larger part of him knows that Ilya has always felt inevitable. Since they first shook hands, all those years ago—maybe even since Shane caught sight of him in that terribly grainy footage of up-and-coming hockey players from Russia. "Even though some of us might have wanted to, because this feels like a lot, and is a lot, and there's a huge, gigantic extra secret hanging over our head now, that is super fucking dangerous?"

"Yes," Ilya says, warm and fondly amused. "Exactly." There is a pause, before he adds. "I see you have been thinking about it?"

"Oh, fuck off," Shane says, but his tone is all wrong, gooey and open with emotion. He sounds like a fool, he's sure, all his masks cracked in half, the truth of the matter laid bare in his voice. "Ugh, whatever. Sorry for worrying, asshole."

"No, no, no," Ilya says immediately, and Shane can hear the grin in his voice. "Do not be sorry for caring, Shanya. I have thought about it many times too. How strange this has all turned out, yes, of course, but also, how lucky I am to still have you, here. Listening."

"Yeah," Shane says, blinking his eyes open. "Me too."

Ilya hums in response, the call falling quiet for a beat. He pushes himself up, glancing around the living room, and biting back a sigh.

It just feels so empty, abruptly, and he knows it's his own fault, for having kicked his parents out, but it doesn't stop the loneliness from creeping in. Even listening to Ilya breathe on the other end of the line only exacerbates it, because now all he can think of is how much better he would feel of Ilya was here, filling his apartment.

"I—" Ilya starts, and then stops. Shane furrows his brows, listening intently as he seems to set the phone down again, before he scoops it back up. He waits patiently, wandering back out into his kitchen to begin putting the few used dishes in his dishwasher. It feels almost a little crazy, to be able to wait for him to say what needs to be said. For so much of their relationship, Shane has been wishing for this; waiting for Ilya's honesty. To have it now, feels like a miracle amidst the wreckage of everything else. "There is something I am wondering," he finally says. Shane hums, waiting, listening again as Ilya fiddles with something on his end, before he sighs. "Shanya, you have said you have to leave the Metros," he says slowly as Shane's stomach starts to churn. "But that does not ask if you want to. Outside of this—hm, I will call it a mess, yes?—outside of this mess, you, as far as I can tell, have love Montreal. You have given it your whole heart, and yes, maybe that is part of the problem. But, outside of the organization, Montreal loves you back, and I—I think I am saying this all wrong. I know I am—I know I do not understand, because I cannot, the binds you are under. But I do not—it's not fair to have you ousted like this. I have looked forward to playing the Metros because of you for what feels like an eternity. And I cannot—" He pauses, clearing his throat. "I don't—I only wish they had been kinder to you," he murmurs. "I wish they had seen the shock and awe and the honor and pride you carry at the rink. I wish that they understood that playing you is like playing a comet as it crests across the sky, the hot-fast burn of something unyieldingly beautiful and uncannily eerie with perfection. I am—I only wish to say this, because I am sorry, Shane Hollander, for all that has been taken from you."

Shane inhales shakily, pressing his hot face against the cool marble of his kitchen counter. He can feel pinpricks of embarrassing tears building in his eyes, the slow simmer of the day brought to another boil.

"Fuck, baby," Shane croaks. "I—it's like that for me too, okay? Playing against you—it feels like I've come alive, as if every sense has dialed up to an eleven." He shivers, the distant feeling washing through him. It's as if he can hear the roar of the crowd, the scrape of skates over the ice, the shivering line of threaded connection that has always been strung between them. "I can find you on the rink immediately. It's like you're gravity, this constant force I'm pulled towards. You're like—shit, like the sun rising. I just know that if I look for you, you'll be there, this impossible, glowing force. Fuck, Ilya. Playing against you is fucking nirvana." He catches the rest of his embarrassing words in his teeth and sighs, grateful for the lack of a tease from Ilya as he tries to figure out how to say what he needs to.

He presses rolls his head to the side, his cheek flattened against the marble. "I don't want to go," he confesses, after a moment of silence. "I just—I love this team. I love being a Metro. But I can't—I won't—I won't let myself—" He exhales raggedly. "It hurts," he confesses. "All of it. To know. To hold. To think about. I don't think—I won't know what to do with myself, I think, if I'm not a Metro."

But I won't survive being one for another four years, Shane thinks and doesn't say. There is a clock ticking in the background with my life on the line, because the only thing a curse does is grow bloated with power the more time it has. The more blood and life-force and marrow it can suck up.

"This is maybe another in person conversation," Ilya says, his voice shifting into something soft and coaxing. "I do not like the sound of you crying alone, malysh."

"I'm not crying," Shane says, flushing hot. It's not quite a lie—if the tears don't fall, he's not really crying, he's just a little damp. "I'm just—I'm just sad. I don't know. It's stupid."

"Not stupid," Ilya corrects. "Never stupid to be upset that you, in all your perfection, were forced to wear a crown made of thorns, and stripped of all agency, yes? You have carried the team, and now, I think we both know just how much, but it must ache to know that you were capable of doing it without the crown, and still forced to bear it."

"Yeah," Shane says, exhausted and so seen that it stings. "Yeah."

Ilya hums after another beat of silence. "Sweetheart, can you take me through your nighttime routine? I do not want—I will confess. I do not want to be alone, either. I kicked out Marley and Sainty, and the babies, though, because I also did not want them." He sighs, long-suffering affection in his voice. "They are good friends, yes, but they do not even come close to you."

Shane snorts, even as he peels himself off the counter, glancing around his kitchen. The three mugs are already in the dishwasher, the grapes returned to their packaging. His stomach churns again, but not with hunger, as another wave of anxiety swamps him.

Fuck, he has so much to do, and all he wants to actually do is listen to Ilya and go the fuck to bed.

"Yeah, okay," he agrees, and fights the small smile that wants to unfurl at Ilya's pleased hum. He scowls at the instinct, before letting himself smile, even though it feels a little stupid to be grinning at nothing in the room. "It feels insane to do this when we have so much to talk about," he mutters, as he makes his way back into the living room, flipping off the lights as he goes. "Like, fuck, irresponsible, I guess?"

"Shane," Ilya says, his voice so saturated in fondness that Shane stops completely, bowled over by the force of it. "You have already had a hard conversation today, no? It does not always have to be so between us, I think."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh," Ilya repeats, as Shane picks his feet back up and begins to walk up the stairs, the call of his bed a siren song. "But this is okay, malysh," he murmurs, and Shane can feel the prickle of tears again, even as he pinches them away from his eyes. "You do not have to worry. I will remember the weight you carry for both of us."

"You don't have—"

"I don't have to do anything," Ilya says, a strange arrogance in his words. "But this is not—that does not mean I do not want to." He pauses, the edge leaving his voice. "It is a privilege to care for you, sweetheart. Do not take it away."

Warmth curls through Shane as he makes his way into his bathroom, the hallway a dim stretch of gray. He's the most settled he has been, the bite of failure—because what has he done all day, aside from whine and cry—slowly sliding away at Ilya's word.

"Okay," he mutters, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror, sure he'll find a lovestruck expression smeared across his face, the glitter of want sparkling in his eyes. "Alright, fine. You win."

Ilya laughs. "A familiar place for me to be, I think. Winning over you."

"You wish, asshole," Shane snaps back, but he can hear the delight at the tease in his voice. Futile, he knows, to pretend he could feel otherwise, even as he tries. He rolls his eyes as Ilya snickers. "Ugh, whatever. Do you want to FaceTime for this, or not?"

"Is that even a question?" Ilya says, sounding scandalized. "You think you can taunt me with seeing your freckles and then not show me?"

Shane rolls his eyes again, but pulls his phone out, accepting the video call as swiftly as he can.

Ilya's face fills his screen, his eyes bright but exhausted, his curls mussed across the pillow he's laying on. For a second, he's so gorgeous Shane wants to scream, before the urge fades as Ilya's mouth curls into a smile that he's pretty sure is only for him.

"Hi," Shane says, stupid with affection. He flushes a bright red as Ilya's smile grows even wider. "Shut up, asshole, I was just being polite."

"Oh, I am sure," Ilya says, before he arches a brow imperiously. "Now, show me this million step skincare routine, yes? The babies have already asked me how you are so beautiful, and I have promised them your secrets for only thousands of dollars."

Shane groans, even as he fights a smile. "Do not scam your rookies out of money, Rozanov. You know the first year is critical for investing when you get a crazy salary—if you don't learn how to manage your money sooner rather than later, it takes way longer in the grand scheme of things to build a good little retirement fund."

"Oh, yes, lecture me more, Shane Hollander," he chirps, his smile turning a little filthy. "I'm close."

"Fuck off," Shane snaps, even as he laughs, his voice bouncing through the room. Distantly, he can hear someone else laughing, the sound wavering and thin, before it fades, an odd echo from Ilya's phone. "You're so annoying."

"No, you—"

"No, you—"

The argument devolves, Shane's voice rising every so often, wound up as he always is in the face of Ilya's unrelenting need to win, and in the background, between the hum of his voice and the rush of the water and the laughter from both of them, so soft that Shane misses it, the sound of scissors, snipping away at threads begins.