Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Original Male Character(s), Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Mistaken Identity, Identity Porn, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Twins, Phone Sex, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Shane Hollander and crippling self-doubt, The universal struggle of having a brother who is better than you at everything, Hurt/Comfort, Cat Owner Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander gag reflex truther, POV Multiple, Yuna Hollander is a complex woman

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-06 Updated: 2026-08-28 Words: 87,662 Chapters: 15/?

Just Enough of You

Summary

“Look it’s not that hard, just go be cool for a few hours and if you get stuck just ask yourself: WWHD–-what would Henry do?”

They used to swap places all the time as kids. At school, at the playground, at practice. For fun. It had been easy then—like a quick changing of jerseys between periods. That was before the invisible fork in the road that had inexplicably parted them in their teens. It's been over a decade since they’ve done this bit. And Shane doesn’t want to do it. Not because he can’t do it but because he is so, so tired of playing clean-up crew for Henry’s fuckups.

Shane hesitates, jaw tightening. Then he slowly exhales through his nose.
“Do you. Still have. The clip-ons.” Shane grits out.

---
Or: Shane is a good brother and fills in for his identical twin, Henry, during a photoshoot. Enter: Ilya Rozanov. One case of mistaken identity leads to disastrous outcomes.

Notes

There's this interview where Hudson Williams talks about how someone commented on the drastic difference between him and Shane. Which made me laugh, and then I imagined how hard Shane's life would have been if he'd had a brother who shared the exact same face as him but with a hundred percent more rizz and chaos. And oh, boy, the rabbit hole I went down.

My OC, Henry, is only loosely based on Hudson. They are different in most ways. So take it with a grain of salt, etc. etc. Title is from Twin Skeletons by Fall Out Boy.

[EDIT] Thank you to my amazing beta, princessoftheworlds !!

Chapter 1: Clip-ons

When Shane Hollander was number two after Ilya Rozanov in the draft, you’d think he would’ve been used to the feeling considering he’d been number two since the day he was born. And yet, it still stung.

It wasn’t the ranking itself. Second overall was nothing to be ashamed of. It was the echo of it. The way it slid neatly into a familiar groove carved years ago, polished smooth by repetition. Close, but not first. Exceptional, but not quite enough.

It’s not easy being an identical twin to Henry Hollander. Henry had always worn confidence effortlessly. Innately. He laughed loud, smiled wide, took up space without asking for permission. When Henry walked into a room, he made it feel warmer, brighter, louder—like something exciting was just about to start.

Shane had never had that kind of sparkle. Shane was steady. Dependable. The kind of person coaches trusted and teachers praised with phrases like solid and reliable. Where Shane prepared, Henry improvised. Where Shane was clean, cultivated skill, Henry was wild talent. He was patchy—brilliant in bursts, careless in the in-between.

It felt absurd that they’d both been drafted to the Montreal Metros. It was a cosmic joke, really. Same jersey. Same city. Same last name stitched across their backs in identical block letters. Shane sometimes wondered if the universe had done it on purpose, just to see how long Shane could stand it.

So yeah, being drafted after Rozanov should have felt different. Ilya wasn’t his brother. Ilya wasn’t the person Shane had been measured against since birth. But the hurt didn’t care about logic. It settled in anyway, familiar and aching.

***

September 2016

Six seasons with the Metros and not once has the press room changed in all that time. 

Someone has cranked the AC too high, and Shane can feel it through the thin fabric of his Reebok jacket, goosebumps pebbling up his forearms. The clicker banner behind him says METROS WIN 4–2 in flashing letters.

Shane takes a sip of water and sets the bottle down carefully. He crosses his ankles under the table and waits for the first question.

“How did it feel getting that goal in third period?” someone from the back asks. 

And then it starts. The questions, like the room itself, remain the same. 

“Take us through that power play in the first— what was going through your mind?”

Shane’s good at this part. He’s always been good at it, which is why he keeps being the one stuck with it despite not being team captain. The script is simple: Keep it polite. Keep it boring. Say “we” instead of “me”; there’s no “I” in “team.” Don’t say anything that can get pulled out of context and slapped onto Twitter with a side-eye emoji.

A woman in the second row lifts her hand. She doesn’t wait to be called on.

“Shane, you’ve had a pretty consistent season so far. Does it ever get frustrating watching other players let off-ice distractions affect their game?”

Off-ice distractions? His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“I’m focused on the Metros,” Shane says easily. “We had a solid win tonight, and that’s what matters.”

She smiles indulgently, like she’s agreeing with him, and then speaks over another journalist.

“Right, but I meant something a little more close to home. Your brother, Henry, has been in the news a lot lately. Parties, late nights, social media. Do you worry about how that reflects on him, and by extension, the team? Especially given that he is captain?”

The room changes temperature. Phones tilt up. Pens stop scratching.

Shane tightens his lips. He rolls his shoulders back, posture perfect. “Henry’s an adult. He can make his own choices. Tonight was about the Ottawa Centaurs.”

Another reporter jumps in, eager to join in. “Have you talked to him?”

Shane shifts in his seat, clears his throat. 

“Brothers talk.”

“What did you tell him?” someone else asks.

“That I appreciated the assist in the third,” Shane says, and hears how thin the redirect sounds.

There’s a ripple of movement; the press scent blood in the water.

“People have always compared you two,” a guy near the aisle says. “You’re known as the steady one. Why do you think Henry struggles with that?”

Shane bites the inside of his cheek. He imagines the locker room. The ice. The way the puck felt coming off his stick tonight. The puddle of back-slapping teammates after his goal in the third. He imagines literally anything besides being fifteen years old again, watching Henry charm an entire party while Shane stands quietly by the wall.

“Everybody has strengths and areas where they can still grow,” Shane says. “That’s why I enjoy playing a team sport. You have other people around who can support you.”

There’s a pause. Someone coughs.

Then the first woman speaks again, her voice sharp, “Does it bother you that he gets more attention?”

Shane exhales through his nose. “I don’t play for attention. I play because I love this sport.”

Shane twitches the corners of his mouth into the politest smile he can manage. When he was little, he’d practice this exact smile in front of a mirror.

A Metro staffer shifts in the wings. “Last question,” he calls out quickly to the crowd.

“Yeah—are you worried Henry’s lifestyle could hurt the Hollander brand?”

Shane stands before he realizes he’s doing it. The chair legs scrape jarringly against the floor.

He leans into the mic just enough to be heard.

“If you want to know about Henry’s lifestyle,” Shane says quietly, “you should probably ask him.”

Silence.

“Thanks, everyone.”

He steps away before anyone can stop him. Shane hopes that the speed of his retreat looks normal. 

The hallway outside feels dim after the lights of the press room. Shane’s shoulders drop like someone cut his strings. He presses a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes until he sees sparks.

The win against the Centaurs already feels far away.

*

Afterwards, Henry snags Shane by the elbow just inside the locker room.

Shane is genuinely startled. Henry hasn’t spoken to him directly in weeks. Not since his first bender of the season—the one that had ended in blurry Instagram stories and a call from Yuna at three in the morning. Shane had tried to talk to Henry about it then. Tried to say something helpful, something brotherly and supportive. But Shane has never been good with words, and Henry has never been good at hearing them. Whatever Shane said had landed wrong, sharp instead of soft, and Henry had clammed up tight.

So this—Henry grabbing him now, eyes bright, energy too loud for the quiet of the locker room—feels almost unreal.

“What’re you doing?” Henry asks.

“I’m hitting the showers, and then I’m going home.” Shane shrugs out of his shirt and jacket, irritation simmering under his skin. Of course Henry picks now. After the reporters. After the comparisons. After Shane has already been dragged sideways through Henry’s mess. But still—there’s a traitorous flicker of relief in being noticed at all.

“Actually, we’re going somewhere.”

“No, we’re not,” Shane says firmly, shucking out of his shoes and pants and heading toward the showers.

“Yes, we are—” Henry follows him straight in, leather boots slapping against tile, hopping from foot to foot to avoid the worst puddles.

“No—”

“Yes. Your hair is getting long, and I called Janelle to squeeze you into her schedule today. C’mon, she misses you!”

“You’re using her against me?” Shane says, pausing despite himself. Janelle has cut their hair since they were little. Since peewee tournaments and missing baby teeth. She’s friends with Yuna, remembers all their childhood disasters, and at this point is basically family.

“Yes, I am. C’mooooon, as a good brother, I simply cannot let you get that same damn haircut one more time.” Henry’s lips tighten, and he flattens his voice in a slightly insulting impression of Shane: “Uhhh yeahhh, kinda short on the sides and keep the top long.” Then he makes a pshh noise with his mouth and says, “Not again! We have to get you laid before the playoffs. And you’re not getting laid with that fuckass haircut.”

Water hisses to life around them. Steam curls up, fogging the air, blurring their identical outlines until they are indistinguishable from each other. 

Shane frowns, lifting a hand to touch the hair above his ears. It’s true—it’s grown past neat now, shaggy enough to annoy him when he pulls his helmet on. Shane could dig his heels in. He could tell Henry to mind his own business. He could remind him about the press conference, about the headlines, about how tired Shane is of cleaning up Henry-shaped messes.

But that’s the thing about brothers. The anger is never simple; it's a sailor’s knot of affection and love and jealousy tied up into it. 

Henry’s watching him now, pretending not to. Pretending this is about hair when really it’s about dragging Shane somewhere, anywhere, instead of letting him disappear into his routines and silence. It’s the same move Henry’s always had: act careless, but orbit close.

Shane exhales through his nose.

He runs the calculations. How long Henry will sulk. How many texts he’ll send. How many passive-aggressive jokes will get lobbed across the locker room if Shane refuses. How many days until Shane caves anyway.

Not worth the fight.

Shane drops his hand, shoulders sagging just a little, and sighs.

Henry grins like he’s just won something.

*

“And… we are done!” Janelle says, whirling Shane around in the chair with a flourish.

The cape swishes loudly at the movement, and suddenly, Shane is face to face with a reflection that is familiar in the wrong way.

Shane studies the cut, the gentle taper, the artful mess of it. He lifts a hand and grabs the chunk of hair hanging across his forehead, testing the weight of it between his fingers.

It’s not that it looks… bad. Janelle is too good at her job for that. The cut is fashionable; it’s the kind that’ll look great under club lights but terrible after two hours of sweaty helmet. 

“I just look like Henry,” he says, flatly.

Henry doesn’t look up from his phone. His thumbs are flying, screen glowing blue against his face. “A vast improvement, dude.”

Shane looks at his reflection again and feels that quiet, off-kilter sensation—like wearing borrowed skates: right size, wrong balance. 

Janelle is beaming, circling him like she just finished sculpting The David. She runs her fingers through his hair, fluffing it, nodding to herself with maternal satisfaction. There’s pride there, tender and familial.

It’s that more than anything that does it; Shane just doesn’t have the heart to tell her he already misses his old cut.

So he just shrugs, thanks her, promises he’ll come by more often even though both of them know he won’t. 

Outside, the air hits cold and bitter after the warmth of Janelle’s salon.

Shane and Henry step onto the sidewalk and stop.

Shane searches for something to say to the person who used to be the other half of him. He can’t think of anything.

Henry tucks his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket, shoulders loose, restless energy barely contained. 

“You wanna get a beer?”

“Can’t.” Shane grimaces. “Performance diet, remember?”

“Right,” Henry says.

There’s a second where it feels like he might say something else. Then he just shrugs. “Okay. See you at practice on Thursday.”

He turns and walks off without looking back, bulky headphones already over his ears.

Shane stays where he is.

He watches Henry go until he blends into the crowd, until the gap between them feels wider than the sidewalk should allow.

Then Shane exhales, touches his unfamiliar hair once more, and heads the opposite way.

***

And the thing is—really, truly, all of this starts because of the stupid fucking haircut. 

Because Shane keeps getting mistaken for Henry.

On the street. In coffee shops. In the locker room. A shoulder clap meant for Henry, a grin that slides into confusion when he turns around. It hasn’t happened in a while, not since Henry pierced his ears and started dressing like he belonged on the red carpet. For a few years, their images had untangled.

Then Janelle happened, and their angles are starting to match again.

Every time someone clocks him as Henry, a cylinder misfires in Shane’s brain. It reminds him of when they were interchangeable–when being a twin meant safety. When he could borrow Henry’s confidence and Henry could borrow Shane’s steadiness, and neither of them felt like they were stealing. 

It’s only a few weeks after the haircut that Yuna calls Shane, and the frantic tone in her voice is the one that’s always been tied inextricably to discussions of Henry. “Shane. I hate to ask you to do this, but your brother is not picking up his phone. A car is meant to pick him up from his place in a few hours. Can you please go over there and check on him?”

There is a fear that goes unspoken. So Shane goes without complaint, as he always does.

He drives across town with his jaw set, mentally preparing himself for the possible scenarios he might find inside when he lets himself in with the spare key.

He enters into Henry’s apartment and calls out, the empty space answering back with silence and the sour smell of vomit, the unmistakable ghost of last night.

Shane finds Henry in his en-suite upstairs, shaking and pale and puking his guts out.

The sight hits harder than Shane expects. Relief and worry and fury crash together in Shane’s chest.

“For fuck’s sake, dude! You seriously cannot be this hungover right now! Did you forget the Armani shoot is today?”

“Fuck off,” Henry says, voice wrecked.

“You fuck off! I’m not the one with my head in the toilet!” Shane bursts.

Henry wretches again, and Shane gags too, sympathetic nervous system lighting up. 

“I can’t go,” Henry says miserably.

“You have to go. It’s the fucking— bad-boy ad campaign or whatever the fuck!” Shane had only been listening vaguely when Yuna had brought it up months ago. Something about Armani wanting to go for an edgy angle, and that’s why they had only wanted Henry, not Shane. 

It had honestly sounded stupid to Shane… but most of this sort of thing sounded stupid to Shane.

They lock eyes. Henry’s are red-rimmed, a blood vessel burst in one from puking all morning, lashes clumped, skin gone slightly gray. The moment stretches.

“Shane.” Henry looks him up and down.

Then it suddenly clicks, what Henry is silently asking—

Oh.

Oh no.

“No,” Shane says, already turning on his heel and leaving the bathroom.

He hears the toilet flush as Henry scrambles after him.

“Wait!”

“No!” Shane calls over his shoulder.

He marches downstairs and pulls a red Gatorade out of the fridge. It’s step one of crisis protocol. When he turns, Henry is at his heels, sweating, bare-chested, looking two seconds from passing out on the very expensive Venetian marble he’d had installed in his kitchen.

Shane shoves the Gatorade into his chest.

“Not. Happening,” Shane says with as much steel as he can muster.

“C’mon.”

Henry cradles the bottle but doesn’t drink.

“No!”

“Look, it’s not that hard, just go be cool for a few hours, and if you get stuck just ask yourself: WWHD—What Would Henry Do?”

They used to swap places all the time as kids. At school, at the playground, at practice. For fun. It had been easy then—like a quick changing of jerseys between periods. That was before the invisible fork in the road that had inexplicably parted them in their teens. It's been over a decade since they’ve done this bit. And Shane doesn’t want to do it. Not because he can’t do it, but because he is so, so tired of playing clean-up crew for Henry’s fuckups.

They snipe back and forth, a familiar pattern, until Henry finally pulls out the big guns, voice quiet and lethal.

“Think of all of the people who are working hard to make this happen. You’re going to be the one denying them this opportunity. And Mom and Dad will be disappointed.”

That last one still works. It always has.

Shane hesitates, jaw tightening. Then he slowly exhales through his nose.

“Do you. Still have. The clip-ons?” Shane grits out.

Henry’s shoulders sag in instant relief. He leaves the room and comes back with earrings in his palm.

Shane stands perfectly still as Henry fastens them to his ears. Henry draws back and gives him an appraising once-over. 

Shane scowls. “Dipshit.” 

“Asshole,” Henry says, eyes sparkling now, though still red-rimmed. “You’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen?”

*

It’s certainly not how Shane wanted to spend his rare precious day off. But it’s not horrible either, pretending to be cool and more confident than he really is. It doesn’t exactly fit well, but it does fit—like jeans he’s shrunk in the wash. He can manage it for a few hours. 

It’s like taking a vacation from himself. Almost. 

Shane greets the crew, smiling until his cheeks ache, shaking hands like he belongs here for real. He steps onto the soundstage, posture loose instead of careful, and then turns too fast and collides directly into someone solid.

“Oh sorry, I—” he says as he glances up. “Rozanov?”

Rozanov cocks his head, blond curls shining like a halo under the intense photoshoot lights. “Hollander. You were not expecting me?”

No, he wasn’t. Mainly because this isn’t his shoot, so no one briefed him on anything beyond where to stand and how to scowl at the camera. Shane recovers the way Henry always does—by smiling first and thinking second. He grins, runs a hand through his hair, lets his weight settle cocky on one hip.

“No, I was, I just didn’t see you there.”

Rozanov clicks his tongue. “Right. Okay,” he says, sauntering off to his mark.

And honestly fuck Henry for not telling Shane that Rozanov would be here. 

If Shane wanted to be fair to Henry—he doesn’t, for the record—it’s not as if Henry could have known that Shane had had… thoughts about Ilya Rozanov since they were first drafted together. It’s something that Shane has only recently reconciled with himself. And it’s only a kernel of attraction really. 

Just that Shane has eyes and a professional respect for athleticism. 

He’s suspected since he was a teen that he was at least a little bit gay—there’d been a moment with another boy when he was in high school—It had been agony coming to terms with himself that he might not be, in the strictest sense of the meaning, the most straight. 

Rozanov is here, and it’s fine. Shane is determined that this is fine. 

They run the shoot over and over and over.

Armani wants drama. Danger that feels a little sexy. The cameras creep close as the director shouts for more swagger, more attitude, more Henry. So Shane gives it to them. He smirks, slouches against the backdrop, flips his hair back carelessly.

At one point, they stage them like a duel: Shane—Henry—posititioned close together, rolling shoulders, fists aloft. He and Rozanov stare each other down, say nothing, just simmer there. It feels absurd. Shane thinks Rozanov might feel the same, if the smirks and the choked-back laughs are any indication. 

But something strange happens to Shane the more he does this shoot as Henry.

It feels… good.

Because pretending to be Henry means shedding the expectations of Shane Hollander. Shane, who is well-mannered and contained and always just a touch out of sync with everyone else. And Shane realizes, with a quiet, unsettled twist in his chest, that part of him likes how invisible he can become while wearing this guise. He likes that the part of his brain that is always asking if he is enough is, for once, quiet.

He flashes the crooked, dangerous almost-smile of Henry’s, and it feels like armor. The crew murmurs approval. Someone says, That’s it. That’s our Henry Hollander.

Photoshoots like this are usually intensely uncomfortable for Shane, but something about lounging around the set with Ilya is easy in a way Shane isn’t used to. Henry and Ilya aren’t pitted against each other the way Shane and Ilya had been early in their careers, so the air between them is less tense. It’s looser. This version of Rozanov laughs more, dances around in lazy circles in between takes. 

He looks less like an adversary and more like a real person. It’s a good look on him. 

They take five, and Shane drops onto a chair beside him, shoulders bumping lightly.

“How do you like Boston?”

Rozanov leans back, arms spread wide across the top of the chairs, fingers splayed, the tips drifting perilously close to the back of Shane’s neck. Close enough that Shane feels it without being touched, a phantom heat. 

“Ehh, is okay. People are crazy but mostly nice.” He pauses, then adds, “They have a love of bad coffee. Tastes like coming out of a toilet. I have done commercials for them many times now. Dunkin Donuts, it is called.”

Shane snorts before he can stop himself and has to smother the sound behind his palm. “I’m— I’m familiar with the brand, yes.”

Rozanov’s mouth tugs into a small, private smile, like he’s pleased to have made Shane laugh. “Is disgusting, but I respect this level of loyalty. It is…” He chews his thumb, eyes tipping up toward the ceiling while he searches his memory. Then he pulls out his phone, taps quickly, nods at the screen. “Endearing.”

Shane leans in without thinking, shoulder brushing Rozanov’s arm. The phone glows between them. Google Translate, letters curling in Cyrillic he can’t make sense of. “How do you say that in Russian?”

Rozanov turns his head to look at him fully, like Shane just surprised him. “Ocharovatel'nyy.”

“Ochero-va-tingly?”

Rozanov repeats himself slower, careful, almost gently.

Shane concentrates too hard, mouth shaping around unfamiliar sounds. His brow furrows as he tries again, tripping less this time, closer to the mark.

Rozanov doesn’t look away.

There’s something different in his expression now—less joking, more focused. Like he’s looking at Shane more closely. “You are not what I expected, Hollander.”

Shane stills. The easy posture drains out of him all at once. For the last few minutes, he’d forgotten he was supposed to be acting, forgotten whose skin he was wearing. He’d been laughing like himself. Listening like himself. Sitting too close.

He opens his mouth, unsure whether Henry would joke or deflect or fight in response to such a comment.

Before he can choose, a PA claps their hands, and the crew calls them back from break.

The moment fractures.

Rozanov pushes to his feet, smooth as ever. Shane follows half a beat later, heart thumping strangely against his ribs, mask sliding back into place just a little crooked.

*

The shoot is finally over. 

It had been fun to be Henry, but Shane is grateful it’s done. He ducks into their shared greenroom to take off the absurdly expensive clothing they’d been dressed in for the ad. With each item of clothing removed, Shane feels his muscles unclench.

When Rozanov joins him, he doesn’t think anything of it. It’s a shared greenroom, after all, and Shane has shared a locker room for most of his life at this point. Rozanov starts by ripping his tie off and unbuttoning his shirt, revealing an inch of skin at a time. He slips out of it, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Shane lets his eyes linger on Rozanov longer than what could be considered strictly platonic—which would have been fine if Rozanov hadn’t just caught him looking.

Fuck! 

Shane quickly averts his eyes to the wall, pulling on his own shirt in jerky movements. When he chances a look back, Rozanov is still staring at him. Only this time, he quirks an eyebrow and smirks.

Shane would probably react to something like this by saying, “fuck off” or “are you out of your fucking mind?” But Henry probably wouldn’t. He’d probably play it off.

So Shane swallows around his panic and forces an eyeroll. “You wish, Rozanov.” 

There’s a hard grip at his shoulder, and suddenly, Shane is being spun around, pushed back into the wall, Rozanov crowding close. Shane can feel the warmth of Rozanov’s body pressed against his, can smell the heavy musk of cologne he must have dabbed on this morning. 

“What the fu–?” 

“–I think, you wish, Hollander.” Rozanov’s eyes are burning as they bore into Shane’s. They're suspended there for a moment. Shane licks his lips nervously and regrets it when he sees Rozanov’s gaze snap to them at the motion. 

For one hysterical moment, Shane cannot believe this is happening. 

But then it hits him. 

Rozanov thinks he’s Henry. 

Of course this insanely hot man wants to come onto Henry— the Hollander twin famous for sleeping around, thinking of fun first and consequences second. Sure, Henry has only ever been out with women, but maybe it’s not that huge a leap to assume thrill-seeking Henry might be up to experiment a little. Why not?

Rozanov might well interpret the raging boner Shane has pressed against his thigh as a confirmation of such an assumption. Shane’s entire face turns a splotchy red. He has literally never been so hard so quick in his life. 

But Shane absolutely cannot do this. Shit, Shane can’t sleep with Rozanov as himself—can’t even imagine what would happen if they were caught at it—and definitely can’t as Henry. That would be. Unethical. For so many reasons.

Shane ducks under Rozanov’s arms and skitters to the other side of the room, reaching clumsily for the rest of his clothes. With single-minded determination, Shane grapples with laces of Henry’s stupid Gucci boots and wills with all of his might for the throb in his dick to subside. 

Rozanov saunters up to him. He’s put a shirt back on (thank fuck) but it doesn’t do anything to disguise the strength corded through his arms. Or the intensity of his eyes. Or the quite obvious bulge in his pants.

Shane sniffs, returning his gaze firmly to the boots. Why do they have so many fucking laces?!

“U-um. We can totally forget that just happened, man, it’s uh. It’s cool.” 

“Why?” Rozanov asks simply, tucking a gold chain back under his shirt. 

Shane’s fingers fumble around the knot he’s tying. “Because…? It’s a bad idea…?” Shane says, incredulous that he needs to say it out loud. 

“Oh?” Rozanov’s smile turns wicked. “I thought maybe you liked bad ideas.” 

Henry likes bad ideas. Shane likes routines. Likes safety. 

But Shane can’t deny that there's a thrumming in his veins that is asking, what would Henry do here? 

Fuck it, Shane thinks suddenly. Henry would say fuck it and do what he wants. That’s what he always does.

And something wild deep inside Shane wants to try it. Just once. Wants to say fuck it just once and do something not because he has weighed all the pros and cons or because it’s the right thing to do. He wants to do one thing just because he wants it.   

So Shane finishes lacing up Henry’s boots, finally looks Rozanov directly in the eyes and asks, “What hotel are you staying at?”

*

On the elevator ride up to the sixteenth floor, Shane’s doubts start to creep in. The higher they go, the heavier his stomach feels. By the time he is knocking on the door, Shane already has rehearsed several excuses as to why they can’t do this.

Rozanov swings the door open wide, and he is beautiful in his black singlet and sweatpants, curls combed neatly back. 

Shane hesitates. “M-maybe we should talk about—?”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish the thought.

Suddenly, he’s being tugged inside, the door slamming shut behind him. His back hits the wood, Rozanov’s knee sliding up against his dick, the pressure of it enough to steal the air from his lungs. It’s an echo of their position in the Armani greenroom.

“I don’t feel like talking.” Rozanov’s massive hand spans Shane’s jaw, tilting his face up. He leans in and gives him a filthy kiss that leaves Shane breathless, heat coiling low in his stomach. “Do you?”

No.

He really, really doesn’t.

Rozanov hikes his leg even higher, the pressure firm against Shane’s cock.

“Move,” Rozanov orders. 

Shane cants his hips back and forth, rubbing himself along the hard line of Rozanov’s muscular thigh. He can’t stop the thin, high-pitched whine that slips out of the back of his throat.

Rozanov’s gaze sharpens at the sound. He leans in, teeth catching at the hinge of Shane’s jaw.

“Yes, like that, Hollander.” 

God. Shane can feel where he’s getting wet in his briefs. 

“Fuck. I can feel how hard you are. Could you get off like this? Fucking against my leg like a dog?” 

Shane whimpers, cheeks burning. Yes. Yes, he probably could—just from this. The thought spikes arousal and embarrassment in equal measure. He tucks his face into Rozanov’s shoulder, and startles when that firm hand finds his jaw again.

Rozanov roughly tips his head back up, forcing Shane to look him in the eye. 

“Don’t hide. Is fucking hot.” 

Shane doesn’t think. He just takes Rozanov’s thumb into his mouth and sucks hard. 

“Hollander.” 

Shane thinks he must have made a mistake because suddenly Rozanov is withdrawing his thigh. “Stop. I will come in my pants if we keep going. And I want—” Rozanov’s eyes search his— for what, Shane isn’t sure. 

“I want your mouth. Can I have your mouth?” 

Shane doesn’t trust himself to speak. He just nods, pretending his cock doesn’t throb at the mere idea of getting his mouth on Rozanov. Rozanov’s thumb pops out of his mouth, drawing a thin line of drool. 

Rozanov’s grin turns wolfish. He grips Shane by the forearms and steers him back to the bed, pushing him down and crawling over him. His shirt comes off, then Shane’s, fast and clumsy, neither of them willing to separate long enough to make it smooth. The rest of their clothes follow in awkward, tangled motions.

Rozanov flings everything into a heap beside the bed.

Shane can’t stop the small frown that crosses his face. At the look, Rozanov stills.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Shane says, reaching for Rozanov. 

“No.” Rozanov leans back out of range. “Why do you make that face.” 

“It’s nothing,” Shane repeats through gritted teeth. 

“Hollander.” 

“Oh my god, fine!” Shane drops his head in his hands. “It’s just— if you leave them like that they’ll wrinkle.” 

The silence that follows feels damning. Shane screws up his courage and peeks through his fingers. Rozanov is grinning at him. 

“Shut up,” Shane warns. 

Rozanov’s smile only widens. “I said nothing.” 

“You were thinking loudly.” 

Rozanov clicks his tongue and crawls off the bed. He makes a production of bending over to retrieve their clothes, tossing a playful look over his shoulder. Rozanov makes a show of neatly and precisely folding each of Shane’s pieces of clothing, approaching each movement as if he was doing a striptease, and then stacking them on the TV stand. 

Shane knows he’s being mocked. Knows that Rozanov is playing; parodying seduction with his dramatic show of tidying Shane’s clothes. But Shane can’t help but be a little bit… charmed by the whole act. Rozanov didn’t have to fold those clothes; he could have laughed. Could have told Shane to grow up. He didn’t. 

Rozanov leaves his own clothes in a careless heap and pads back to the bed. “Did that do it for you? Do you have housekeeper kink?”

“Shut up,” Shane says, already reaching for the warm skin of Rozanov’s chest. He isn’t going to admit that he stayed hard through the entire performance—he doesn’t have to. The evidence is there for Rozanov to see. 

Rozanov’s eyes are bright with it. Shane tilts his head up, and Rozanov obliges, leaning in. The kiss lands softer than Shane expects. Sweet in a way that makes his chest ache.

Something in the folding had taken some of the heat out of this encounter. Made it softer. 

Rozanov pulls back, breath ghosting across Shane’s lips. “No, Hollander, I want to know. Should I get a little maid outfit?” 

“Has anyone ever told you you talk too much?” 

Shane expects Rozanov to laugh, or to fire back an insult. Instead Rozanov winces, then seems to try to cover it up by kissing Shane hard and pinching his nipple. 

Shane groans, but he pushes Rozanov back. Rozanov tilts his head, confused. Shane shakes his head and nudges him again, firmer this time, until Rozanov finally gets it and sinks back into the pillows.

Shane pushes Rozanov’s knees apart, dragging his hands down his calves, feeling Rozanov’s leg hair tickling his fingertips. 

And there it is. Standing proud. Looking him in the eyes. And sure, Shane isn’t small. But. Rozanov’s dick is… a lot. Intimidating in a way that makes his stomach flip with want and fear. 

“Hollander. Your face is scaring me. You look like you’re going to bite it off,” Rozanov says, reaching out to smooth a hand through Shane’s shaggy hair. 

Shane realizes he’s been scowling at Rozanov’s cock. He quickly attempts to school his features into something less ferocious. 

He’s not sure he succeeds, because Rozanov says: “Is just cock, Hollander.” 

“I am aware, thank you,” Shane says primly. 

And if Shane had known this was how his day would end, he would’ve prepared. Read something. Watched something. Taken notes. But when Shane had woken this morning, none of this had been anywhere remotely on his schedule.

Well. People say the best way to learn is by doing. And no matter how bad he is at it, surely Rozanov will at least appreciate the effort. 

He hopes, at least.

“Hollander. Is okay. You don’t have t—oh!” Rozanov makes a punched-out noise when Shane’s lips meet the head of his dick. 

Shane takes that as encouragement. He presses a little closer, tonguing the slit, tasting the bead of precum waiting there.

Shane tries to sink all the way down Rozanov’s cock and gags halfway. He pulls off, eyes watering, coughing into his hand. Okay. So that probably hadn’t been very sexy.

“S-sorry.” 

Rozanov reaches up and wipes away the tears that leaked from the corners of Shane’s eyes, thumb gentle against his cheek.

“Is okay. Go slow. Is not a competition.” Rozanov quirks a small smile. 

Shane nods and leans back in, shallower this time, careful with the angle. He focuses on the head instead of trying to conquer the whole thing at once. Quality over quantity, Shane thinks absurdly. 

“Good. So good for me, Hollander.” 

Shane’s entire body shudders at the praise, heat rolling low in his groin.

“You like it when I say that?”

Shane pulls off with a wet pop and furrows his brow. 

“Yeah?” Shane says, surprised he has to say it. “Direct feedback leads to better future outcomes.” 

Rozanov’s answering grin is blinding. “Hollander. You—” He cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand down his face before shaking his head. “Let’s focus on this ‘outcome’.” 

Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes and reapplies himself. He bobs his head, slow and deliberate, swirling his tongue where he’s learned it matters. Before long, Rozanov’s breath starts to hitch.

“Fuck fuck fuck, Hollander, I’m going to—” 

Shane pulls off and slides up Rozanov’s body instead. Rozanov’s huge hand reaches down, wrapping around both of their lengths and working them together, quick and urgent.

Rozanov grunts and spills; Shane follows seconds after. 

They collapse against each other, sticky and sweaty and sated.

“Fuck,” Shane says, with feeling.

Rozanov laughs, breathless.

They lie there for a moment, the room quiet except for their panting, before Rozanov slips out from under Shane and pads to the bathroom. He comes back with a wet washcloth and gently wipes at Shane’s stomach.

The small, practical tenderness of it catches Shane off guard.

“This was your first time with a man?” Rozanov asks, wiping at his own mess on his abs. 

“Yes.” Shane says. He pauses and then says, “No.” Another pause. “Yes.”

Rozanov snorts. “Which is it, Hollander? Is yes or no question.”

“Shut up.” Shane grabs at his clothes. “I mean yes, it was my first time, like, properly. I kissed my buddy Chad once when we were in high school?” Shane anxiously tugs his hair at the memory. “He drove me home from a house party, and I’d never been drunk before. He’s not… like that, but he was super nice about it.”

Rozanov snakes his arms around Shane and places his lips to the shell of his ear. “Oh okay. So this… Chad did not make you come so hard you see Christ?” 

“Nobody has ever made me come so hard I saw Christ,” Shane says, omitting the fact that no one has ever made him come before today.

“Okay, so I have goal for next time.” Rozanov shrugs. 

“This can’t happen again,” Shane says as he pulls his socks back on 

“Why not?”

“You mean besides the obvious?”

“Boring.” Ilya blows a raspberry. “Try a different excuse.” 

Because I’m not the man you think I am. Literally. Shane thinks hysterically. But he can’t think of a lie quick enough. He must have been silent too long because Rozanov smirks triumphantly. 

“Give me your phone, Hollander.”

Shane’s is handing it over before the thought has fully processed. 

Rozanov is tapping away. 

“What are you putting yourself in as?” 

Rozanov chucks the phone back to Shane. 

Shane catches it deftly and glances down to see a text: 

Hi Holly this is Rosie ;)

Rozanov is dressed now, efficient and unbothered, like the last hour hadn’t rewired something fundamental in his brain like it had in Shane’s. He steps in for one last lingering kiss before gently—but firmly—steering Shane toward the door.

Later that night, as Shane mixes up a syringe of cat medicine, he tells himself this was a one-time thing. He carefully draws up the prescribed three milliliters, tapping the barrel, pushing the air out. He plunges it down his cat’s throat and watches her make the same highly offended, goofy face she always does.

Shane tells himself he’s smiling just because he’s in a good mood. Not at the memory of Rozanov’s hot breath, calling him good. 

Sex is sex. He’s done it once, and now he’s gotten it out of his system. Shane can stop now, before anyone can truly get hurt. 

By the time Shane crawls into bed, his two cats soft lumps on either side of him, he’s almost convinced himself it meant nothing.

Almost.

Chapter 2: Ruth 1:16

Chapter Notes

January 2015. One Year Earlier. 

Grigori Rozanov was laid to rest beside his second—and most beloved wife Irina, and now that it is all over, Ilya finds himself alone.

You would think Ilya Rozanov would be used to this feeling. He’s been alone since twelve, after all. But he’s not. Because no matter how many practice drills or reps in the gym or nutrition plans and the various other ways Ilya breaks his body to build it back stronger, he somehow cannot train the longing out of himself. 

His heart has never learned how to be satisfied with what it has been given.

Ilya weaves through the dark streets of Moscow at random. He keeps his head down, not wanting to catch anyone’s attention. He needn’t have bothered; Ilya is alone on the sidewalks too. 

It has all been too much. The pressure to perform, to get everything just right. Perfect, because even in death, Ilya knew his father would not tolerate anything less. So Ilya had barely slept, hour after hour dedicated to arrangements and signing documents and shaking hands with aunts and uncles and cousins and anonymous, faceless well-wishers. 

And his brother. 

Alexei. 

How he’d shaken the entire day—and whether that was grief or rage or withdrawal, Ilya would never know. There was a time when Ilya would have cared to know but not anymore. Not after—

“Rich faggot who abandoned his family!”

Thank God for Svetlana. If she hadn’t been there… 

She was, though, and Ilya doesn’t let himself think of the various ways that Ilya and Alexei would have physically and emotionally torn each other apart had she not been.

So, after telling Alexei to never speak to him again, Ilya had taken himself for a walk. He needed the air, the cold, biting air of Moscow to fill his lungs, freeze him from the inside out. Something to dull the flames that are still billowing just beneath the surface of his skin. 

It’s early evening. The city has settled into that in-between quiet after dinner but before the late-night revelers come out. Streetlights glow amber against the dark, halos blurred by the steady fall of snow. Fat flakes drift down, slow and heavy, catching in his hair, melting against his scalp. Ilya’d remembered his coat, at least, but not a hat. The cold nips at his ears, sharp and insistent like an impatient lover, until they start to sting.

Cars pass in the distance, tires hissing softly over wet pavement. Somewhere far off, an ambulance siren wails and then fades. The whole city feels muffled, wrapped in snow.

Ilya walks without direction. His breath ghosts out in front of him, white and fleeting.

Eventually, he spots an underpass and ducks inside.

The wind cuts off in here, reduced to a low, intermittent rush that sweeps through in sudden bursts before dying down again. The walls are painted a faded pink, half-buried under layers of graffiti. Names, tags, crude drawings layered over each other in thick, overlapping strokes.

Ilya stops walking, trails his fingers along them. The paint is uneven beneath his skin—raised in places, chipped in others. 

Fuck the police. 

Smile! God is watching you! 

Maria loves Ivan

Ilya’s fingertips linger on this last one. Would anyone care if he was gone? Truly gone? Certainly there are people who are… glad of Ilya’s continued existence. The family who rely on his income. Fans of Boston who are happy for their Cup wins. Cliffie and Connors like him well enough. But there’s no one who would write something like this for Ilya. No one except maybe—

“Ilyushka.” 

Ilya turns, and there is Svetlana, bundled up tight in a sleek, dark wool coat. The shitty lights of the underpass throw her cheekbones into shadow. Her nose is a little pink with the cold. Even so, she is still beautiful. She has something black in her hands. She steps into his space and tugs the toque onto Ilya’s curls. 

Sveta slides next to him, bumping shoulders. She lights herself a cigarette and then hands another one to Ilya. 

They both inhale at the same time, hold, exhale, their smoke entwining midair. 

They smoke in silence, until their cigarettes burn down to the filter. 

“You left without me,” Svetlana accuses. 

“I didn’t know you wanted to come.” Ilya flicks his butt onto the ground, eyes tracking its arch through the air. 

“Yes, you did.” 

He did. 

“Svetlana…” He doesn’t know what to say. He loves her. She’s funny and smart and quick. Father had always said that they were attached at the hip. Never accused of being too queer with beautiful Svetlana dragging him around (“look at my boy, already a womanizer!”). 

It would have been perfect. They would have been perfect. 

If Ilya could just control his unruly heart.

“You don’t have to say it. It’s okay.” Svetlana doesn’t look at him. She lights up a second cigarette, brings it to her lips, blows the smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Really.” 

Ilya’s fingers itch for another cigarette too, but a second one on top of the heavy food and alcohol from the pominki is more likely to make him throw up than calm him down. Even so, he still feels a little bit nauseous. His hands are shaking. 

The last time he saw his father was in August. At the time, Grigori had kept asking when Irina would be back from church. Today, he was laid in his coffin in his dress uniform, colonel’s medals polished to a pristine shine. The embalmers had pinned the corners of his mouth into something like a peaceful smile. It was surreal—almost uncanny. Ilya couldn’t remember the last time his father had smiled like that while alive. Even in sleep, Grigori had always seemed to frown.

His father’s passing had been a long time coming. He’d been sick for years.

Still, Ilya doesn’t quite know how to feel about it.

His father had not always been kind—that was putting it mildly—and in those final months, as his mind and body failed him, his temper had only sharpened. The cruelty flowed even easier then.

And yet, there had been moments, unexpected ones, like when he pleaded for Irina to come home, where he seemed small. Frightened. Almost childlike.

Grigori had been a difficult man. Temperamental. Tall. Proud. But he was not evil. His father had been capable of real affection. The same hands that could sting across Ilya’s cheek could just as easily grip his shoulders with pride.

He was Ilya’s father. 

And now, he’s gone. 

Ilya realizes that Svetlana has been smoking in silence while Ilya’s thoughts were running this whole time. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Ilya says.

Svetlana reaches out and adjusts the collar of Ilya’s coat. 

“That’s not for you to decide. My judgment has always been better than yours.” 

Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose. He will not cry. If he starts, he will not be able to stop, and he’s managed to hold it together this long. From the initial call from Alexei. The fifteen-hour flight to Moscow. The arrangements, the viewing, the service. Sitting in the same pew as when he was a child—only this time his mother’s warm arm is not pressed up against his side. The fight with Alexei had nearly brought it out of him, but he’d held on, bit down on the weakness with his teeth and locked his jaw tight around it. 

He will not let Svetlana’s kindness be what undoes him now. 

“Ilya. Will you look at me?” 

Ilya takes several deep breaths through his nose before turning his gaze, finally meeting Svetlana’s dappled green eyes. 

They’re dry. Determined. Svetlana has always been the stronger one, a rock to cling to when the rip current threatens to drag Ilya out to sea. 

“Listen carefully. There is nothing you can say or do that would make me want to leave you.” 

Ilya wants to lean in, ask Svetlana to hug him, wrap her arms around him, tether him to the dock so that he doesn’t float away. But there is a hurt lodged deep inside him that is saying that sooner or later Sveta will realize her error and will leave him like everyone always does. Wouldn’t it be better to have it all done with? Rip the bandage off once and for all?

“Not even if I am a whiny faggot?” It comes out harsh and ragged. 

Svetlana’s eyes flash. “You are mine. I am yours. That’s all there is.” 

Ilya swallows hard around the lump in his throat. It’s out in the open now, but she doesn’t look at him any different than before.

(“You should be ashamed, Ilya.” “I am ashamed, Father.”)

“You could eat all the pussy and suck all of the cocks between Moscow and Boston. You are the same Ilya Rozanov,” she adds simply, “whither thou goest.”  

Ilya hears the lines in his head. 

Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. 

Ilya has long since given up the religion he was raised in; he thought Svetlana had too. It turns out there are some things from childhood that are too stubborn to let go. 

Svetlana tosses her spent butt to the ground to join its fallen brothers. “My hands are cold, Ilya.” 

I love you, he hears. 

Ilya slips his gloves off his hands and grabs Svetlana’s smaller ones. They really are freezing. He chafes them in his palms and presses a kiss to the top of her right hand. I love you too. Ilya hopes she can hear it. 

“I-I feel—” he starts, not realizing he meant to speak until he’s already begun. “I’m lonely. In Boston. I’m… I want— I wish—” He frowns at her hands. “I wish things could be different.” 

He hadn't realized he’d felt this way until he said it. But that’s the truth of it. He is lonely in Boston. Until recently the alcohol and the partying and the nameless hookups had been fun. Ilya thrives on attention, loves walking into a club and watching people of every gender turn to take notice. 

But recently… it has felt different. The jaws of Ilya’s heart are open wide and ravenous, gnashing teeth that no matter how many times Ilya fucks someone into the mattress still it is not enough. 

Ilya wants something real. Someone he can rest his head on at the end of the day. Someone he wants and, impossibly, wants him back. 

“Okay,” Svetlana says, squeezing Ilya’s palms. “When you return home, you will make things different.” 

“Oh, it is that easy?” Ilya snarks back. 

“No, idiot, but you are a grown man, you can do hard things, can’t you?” 

Ilya can. He will try. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to everyone who has already kudos'd, and a special big thank you to everyone who commented on chapter 1 offering me encouragement to finish this story. I PROMISE that this story WILL be finished. It's 90% completed but it's taking a bit longer than I expected because, well, the narrative controls me I do not control the narrative. And, as such, the word count has only increased.

Thank you to my beta, princessoftheworlds :)

Chapter 3: Rookies

Chapter Notes

Thank you to my beta! Find her here on Ao3 as @Princessoftheworlds. They recently published an ilya/shane/rose story that is spectacular.

World Juniors 2008 (eight years earlier)

It’s in between games that Shane takes the opportunity to introduce himself to Ilya Rozanov, the whiz kid from Moscow. He’d seen him wandering out the side entrance of the arena a few minutes ago. Shane had dithered for a while before following. 

There are a handful of players lingering in the parking lot where the wind whips against the concrete and carries the acrid scent of car exhaust and tobacco.

He spots him leaning against the wall a ways back. 

“Ilya Rozanov? Hi, I’m—” Shane steps forward, hand awkwardly extended. “I’m Shane. Hollander. Um. It’s nice to meet you?” He winces at the way he inflects that last word as if it's a question. 

Rozanov frowns at him for a long moment, before firmly grasping his hand. It’s cold. No wonder, since Rozanov hasn’t bothered with any gloves. 

“Yeah, I thought I shou—oh!” Shane cuts himself off as Rozanov pulls out a cigarette and promptly lights it. “You aren’t supposed to smoke here. The— the smoking area is over there.” Shane mimes smoking a cigarette. 

Rozanov blows out a long stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Shane looks at his lips for a second before locking eyes with Rozanov again. Shane thinks the other man hasn’t understood until he at last speaks. 

“Okay.” 

Shane tries again.

“You’re a great player to watch.” 

“Yes.” 

Shane huffs a laugh, not quite sure if it's the language barrier or if Rozanov really is as arrogant as everyone says he is. 

“Okay. Well. I just wanted to introduce myself. But. I should go, they’re waiting for me.” Absurdly, Shane holds his hand out again.

The first handshake had been perfunctory. The second lingers half a beat longer than necessary. Skin against skin. A deliberate squeeze. Rozanov’s palm is warmer now. The touch sends a zap up Shane’s arm that makes him acutely aware of his own body. His limbs all suddenly feel too big.

It doesn’t help that Rozanov is looking at him with a Cheshire smile—lazy, assessing, faintly amused. Like he’s spotted a mouse he intends to toy with.

Rozanov takes the cigarette from his lips. “You wo—”

There’s a high-pitched whoop, and suddenly, somebody launches themself onto Shane’s back, nearly knocking the breath out of him.

“Fucking hell, Henry!”

Henry plants a smacking kiss to the top of Shane’s head and then peels off him just as quickly, laughing, slapping Rozanov’s hand in greeting like they’ve known each other for years. “Hey man, I’m Henry. You got a spare one of those?” He nods at Rozanov’s cigarette.

The air shifts.

Rozanov studies the two of them hard. His gaze flicks between their identical faces, cataloguing the differences. The similarities. The way Henry stands half a step forward, already occupying the space.

He shrugs eventually. Pulls a battered pack from his coat pocket and slips a cigarette free.

Henry leans in close to Rozanov without invitation. Rozanov cups his zippo against the wind and lights it for him.

For a second, they stand shoulder to shoulder, dual streams of smoke curling into the afternoon breeze.

“The smoking area is on the other side of the parking lot. As I literally just told Rozanov. Plus, Mom will strangle you when she smells the smoke on you.”

The words come out angrier than Shane intends.

He’s not entirely sure why he’s suddenly so irritated. Henry’s done worse. Henry always does worse. But something about the timing—about the way Rozanov had been looking at him before Henry crashed into the moment—that makes his teeth hurt.

Henry shrugs carelessly. “When she asks, I’ll just say it came from Rozanov. That won’t even be a lie.” He smirks and elbows Rozanov in the ribs.

The look Rozanov gives him could cut glass. He steps pointedly out of Henry’s reach. 

The cold wind whips through Shane’s jacket, biting at the back of his neck. 

“We should probably get back inside anyway, Henry.”

Henry takes another long drag, exhaling slowly like he’s got all the time in the world. “Whatever.”

He drops the stub to the ground and crushes it under his heel. Then he turns and saunters back toward the arena doors, not checking to see if Shane is following.

Shane lingers because Rozanov’s eyes are still on him.

Not on Henry. On him.

There’s something in that gaze. Something curious.

“You let him do that often?” Rozanov asks mildly.

“He’s like that with everyone.”

It’s not an answer.

Rozanov tilts his head slightly, as if he knows it isn’t.

The door to the arena swings open as Henry pokes his head back out and shouts, “Hey! Paging Doctor Dipshit! Let’s go.” 

Shane feels his cheeks heat up. And for a brief moment, it feels like Shane has to choose which orbit he needs to step back into.

He turns and follows his brother in.

***

Ottawa, 2009

Her sons are nineteen and huge and sprawled across the living room couch the same way they had when their legs were still too short to hang over the cushions.

For a moment—just a flicker—Yuna sees them at eight. All elbows and noise and scraped knees. Back when their world was small. 

Henry has his socked feet propped on the glass coffee table, arm thrown lazily over the back of the couch as he recounts, in dramatic detail, the plot of some show he watched the night before. Shane sits beside him, half-listening, half-scrolling on his phone. His hair is still a little damp from his post-practice shower. He looks sleepy. He looks young.

They both look young.

Yuna stands by the window with her arms crossed, watching their reflections in the darkened glass. She has rehearsed this conversation twice in the car and once while washing dishes in the kitchen sink.

She still doesn’t know how to begin.

Because if she begins it as their manager, they will roll their eyes.

And if she begins it as their mother, she might not be able to keep her voice steady.

Henry notices her silence first. “Why’s it feel like we’re about to get grounded?”

Shane drops his phone into his lap, looking up at Yuna questioningly. 

Yuna doesn’t smile. “Feet off the table, Henry.”

Henry rolls his eyes but complies.

She walks forward and sets the thin folder down on the coffee table between them. Brand decks. Social media projections. Endorsement mockups. Their faces photoshopped onto sleek cologne campaigns, teeth white, skin even, eyes manufactured bright.

Henry flips through the pages, impressed despite himself, holding up a few for Shane to see. “Woah. Our faces look like plastic—not a pore in sight.”

“You boys did so well at World Juniors,” she says slowly. She keeps her voice measured, professional. “The press are still trying to work out their story angle—I think they wanted to try something pitting you both against Rozanov, but I don’t think it’s working. But… either way, they’re calling you boys a ‘breath of fresh air.’”

Henry grins. “I am, indeed, but they left out stunningly handsome as well.” 

She doesn’t indulge him.

“You’re going to have kids watching you. Kids who have never seen themselves in this sport before. Kids whose parents are going to point at the television and say, ‘Look. He looks like you.’”

Henry shifts; his grin fades just slightly. Shane’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He makes the connection faster.

Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t let it show. “I didn't have that growing up,” she adds quietly. 

She remembers being the only Asian in her high school. The only one in her college business program. The only one in boardrooms for years after that. The way she learned to modulate her voice. The way she learned to smile without showing teeth.

It is not a secret what hockey culture is like. Her boys have heard the locker room talk since they were barely out of diapers. They have learned when to laugh. When to stay quiet. When to pretend not to hear.

It guts her that they had to learn that so young.

Yuna looks between them now. Her beloved sons.

“You can’t afford to be sloppy,” she says. “You don’t get to just fuck around.”

Henry bristles immediately. “Mom, seriously? We work our asses off.”

“I know you do,” she snaps back, frustration sharpening her words into something that sounds like anger. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

She steps closer.

“But when you make a mistake, it’s not just yours, is it?” she asks. “You think when you lose your temper in an interview or get too sloppy at an afterparty, it’s just you who looks bad?”

Shane swallows. The twins exchange one of their silent looks that speaks volumes. The kind that used to infuriate their teachers.

“There are men in this league who will fuck up ten times worse than you and it will be written off as a funny quirk.” Yuna crouches so she is eye level with them both. “You will mess up once and you will be called a problem.”

But Yuna won’t let that happen to her sons. She understands optics and leverage. 

Shane looks down at the mockup of himself in a national campaign. So carefully palatable for mass consumption. Poreless.

Silence stretches.

“Mom. What I’m going to say next will probably shock you,” Henry says, widening his eyes theatrically, “But we’ve been Asian our whole lives. This is not new to us.”

Shane smacks him upside the head.

Henry’s hand lifts to retaliate.

“Boys!” Yuna snaps.

This is what she had feared. That Henry would deflect. That he would hide behind humor the way he always does when something threatens to become too deep. The way he always does when life gets too serious or hard. 

Shane, she knows, absorbs things. Carries them. Works it over in the quiet of his mind. Shane has always taken after her. 

But Henry—Henry will sprint straight into a storm and laugh when the wind knocks him flat.

“Because it needs to be said,” she says more quietly now. “Out loud. Just once.”

Shane places a steadying hand on Henry’s leg. “We understand, Mom. We get it.”

The sincerity in his voice almost undoes her.

“I am your manager,” she says, forcing herself to stay composed. “Yes. So I am thinking about brand alignment and long-term partnerships and your futures.”

She inhales.

Her vision blurs slightly, and she is startled by it. She hadn’t planned for this. She blinks and blinks and blinks until the tears recede. 

“But I am also your mother,” she finishes, her voice softer now. “And I just want you both to have the world. And for the world to have you both.”

The twins exchange another look, then they stand in unison and pull her into a hug.

They are taller than her now. Broader. They smell like sweat and laundry detergent. She thinks about the nurse placing two impossible bundles into her arms in a hospital bed nineteen years ago. About tucking her nose onto the tops of their velvet soft heads and smelling their fresh baby scents.

“I love you, boys.” 

“We love you too, Mom,” Shane says. 

For a brief moment, with their arms wrapped around her, she allows herself to believe she has prepared them well enough for what’s ahead. 

Chapter End Notes

An explanation as to why the rivalry between our beloveds isn't so heated in this universe...! :)

Thank you soooo much as always to everyone who takes the time to kudos, especially those who comment. I read every single one, although I am often too overwhelmed to adequately respond.

Chapter 4: Family Ties

Chapter Notes

If you were following along and are suddenly surprised at that brand new scott/kip tag. Well. Me too. But as I was writing the story they decided they wanted to be a part of it. It's definitely secondary and will only come up in later chapters...!

(EDIT: sorry if you get a notif again for this chapter. I noticed a timeline error that I have now corrected!)

October 2016 (present day)

Rozanov and Shane have been sexting for the past month. 

Or, rather, Rozanov has been sexting, and Shane had only put up a cursory protest before playing along.

Which is, objectively, a terrible idea. A morally dubious, identity-theft-adjacent, career-ending-if-discovered kind of terrible idea. Shane knows this. And yet—nobody has ever made him feel like this before. Loose and bright and stupidly wanted.

And worse: it’s fun. 

Shane is having fun.

The Metros are in Detroit, packed into another hotel. Shane is sharing a room with Henry, which means zero privacy and maximum psychological warfare. Henry had spent most of the afternoon practicing his bird calls, trying to tempt Shane into breaking the laser focus he has on his phone. He’d mercifully given up some time ago. 

Now, Shane is stretched out on his bed, sneakers kicked off, phone glowing in his hands as he texts Rozanov.

Henry is pacing the room, narrating his entire existence like he’s the host of a podcast nobody asked for. “—Of course, he ordered too much, he always does that—”

Shane hums at what he hopes are correct intervals, thumbs flying over the keyboard.

[From Rosie:]

How do you feel about the number 9?

Henry has never needed much incentive to keep talking.

“—which is when I said, there’s no fucking way you can fit that entire cheesecake in your mouth! And do you know what Fournier says back? He says—”

[From Holly:]

Indifferent I guess? Why?

[From Rosie:]

Because I have 9 inches that are very interested in you. 

Shane fights back a smile. Henry flops dramatically onto Shane’s bed, still mid-rant.

“—and I was like, dude, I will literally strip naked and jump in the hotel pool if you can do that. And he was all like ‘you want to do that anyway and you’re just looking for an excuse.’ Which, like, it’s true, but it’s fuckin’ rude to say, you know?”

Shane exhales through his nose, thinking through his potential options for a reply.

And then—

The phone is snatched from his hands.

Henry rolls onto his feet with it, already squinting at the screen. He must only see the name because he breaks into a grin.

“Who is Rosie? You got a girlfriend finally?”

Shane’s stomach drops into his shoes.

He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, keeps his voice even by sheer force of will. “Give it back.”

Henry lifts the phone higher. “No.” He grins wider. “Come take it if you want it.”

Shane swings his legs off the bed.

“I’m going to fucking kill you. Right now.”

Henry laughs, easy and open, a gazelle at the watering hole that hasn’t yet realized a tiger is poised to strike.

Shane tackles him.

Henry makes a goofy little “oof” noise on impact, the kind they used to make when they were kids and wrestling in their parents’ living room, knocking over furniture and getting yelled at by two parents in three different languages.

Only this time Shane isn’t playing.

They hit the carpet hard. “What the fu—” Henry’s laughter cuts off when Shane drives a punch into his gut.

Henry’s air leaves him all at once. 

It devolves into the two of them literally wrestling on the ground, limbs tangling, Henry scrambling for leverage, Shane running on adrenaline and the sheer panic of being discovered. Henry lands a couple of decent hits to Shane’s shoulder and ribs—

Until Shane bites Henry’s hand.

Henry yelps. “Shit!”

The phone clatters to the floor.

Shane snatches it up, breath heaving, chest tight with something between fury and terror.

“I cannot believe you just bit me! Asshole!”

“Dipshit!” Shane shouts back.

They freeze, kneeling across from each other on the carpet, breathing hard. 

Henry flexes his hand, staring at the bite mark. Then he looks at Shane properly. Henry finally scrubs a hand over his face. “You bit me, man.”

“You stole my phone.”

A beat.

“What the fuck is this really about?” Henry’s voice flattens. “You don’t get that mad over nothing.”

Shane stiffens again. He looks away.

“Fine.” Henry stands, running a smoothing hand through his hair. “Fine. I don’t care.” He grabs his leather jacket and slams the door behind him. 

***

A few weeks later finds Shane at the monthly Hollander family lunch; Shane has read the menu twice by the time he finally registers Yuna calling his name.

“Shane!”

“Sorry?”

“I said MLH is having its annual charity banquet fundraiser event in a few months. You’re still okay with giving the keynote speech, right?”

“Right.” Shane glances back down at the menu, lips pursed like the answer to life’s questions might live somewhere between the appetizers and the entrées. The MLH banquet isn’t his idea of a fun evening, but that’s never really been the metric. If something needs doing, Shane does it. “They don’t want Henry? He gives better speeches.” 

“I think they wanted someone… dependable.” Yuna smiles. “And don’t sell yourself short! You know how to give a good speech.” 

Shane knows how to read cue cards without stumbling, more like. Henry is well-known to go off script. Henry’s MLH speech from 2011 has 7 million views on YouTube—and it’s not because he stuck to the teleprompter, but because halfway through he dove into a rousing soliloquy from Hamlet. Or Macbeth. Shane isn’t sure, but it was definitely Shakespeare.

“This year, they’re raising money for some sort of adult center for people on the autism spectrum.” Yuna pauses. “I swear I never understand how they choose these places.”

“Mom!” Shane says, surprised.

“No, not like that! There’s nothing wrong with the organization they’ve chosen,” she explains, “I think adults with autism are great. It’s just, it feels arbitrary you know? Like, what are the criteria they’re using to pick? Last year was something unexpected, too, right?”

“Senior center,” David supplies helpfully, sinking a fry into ketchup. 

The waiter drifts up, glancing at the empty fourth place setting.

“Are we expecting one more?”

Shane’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He slides it out under the table and sees the text.

[From King Henry:]
Cnt make it 2day. Cover 4 me?

Shane’s stomach tightens, irritation flaring hot and fast. Of course. Typical Henry.

He keeps his face carefully neutral, like he’s smoothing a fitted sheet.

Shane shakes his head at the waiter. “No, uh, just us.”

After the man leaves, Shane turns back to his parents. “Um. Henry isn’t feeling well and says he can’t make it.”

David and Yuna exchange a look.

Shane races to take that expression off their faces. He’s been running interference in this family since he was old enough to notice the tension. “Yes, I'm going to the banquet. Happy to do the speech. It’s no trouble. I already have it blocked in my calendar.” 

Don’t worry. Don’t argue. Don’t be upset. I’ve got it handled, Shane thinks.

Yuna softens immediately. She reaches across the table and pats Shane’s hand twice where it rests near the silverware.

“That’s good. Thank god for you, Shane.”

The praise sticks in his throat, hard to swallow.

Shane smiles anyway, the practiced kind, and orders a salad with grilled chicken—a safe and unremarkable meal that’s cleared by his performance diet. 

“Anything new going on in your life, kid?” David asks, sipping his beer.

“Uh,” Shane says, searching for something to say. “Well. I started an online Russian course?”

David and Yuna look at him with matching expressions of surprise. Shane rushes to cover his mistake. 

“Well– I just thought. You know. So many guys in the league are from Russia—and it’s always nice when people speak your own language… right?”

David scratches his chin. “Yeah, that’s true. Good for you for looking out for your teammates. Plus, you’re a dab hand at languages.” 

And for the rest of lunch, Shane nods in the right places, responds in measured tones, manages silences, and ensures no conversational thread is left unsnipped. 

By the time the plates arrive, Shane has already covered for Henry, reassured his parents, committed to the MLH speech, and swallowed the small, familiar truth: Shane is holding this family together with his bare hands.

***

November 2016

The first time Shane sees Henry outside of hockey since their fight in the hotel room is a few weeks later at one of the most tedious events of the year: the MLH Holiday Classic. 

Shane doesn’t like playing outside, in unpredictable weather, in addition to the regular season games. But the Twins tend to get booked for it every year and so here they are, after playing a few lackluster periods on too-wet ice. 

The afterparty finds Shane nursing a ginger ale at the bar. He’s at least not alone for once. Hayden is hanging out with him. (“Solidarity with Jackie, dude. If she can’t drink for nine months, then I won’t either.” Shane had dutifully praised him for his bravery and dedication. Hayden had preened.) 

Shane is unspeakably grateful that he could just sit back for this afterparty. In their rookie year, MLH made Shane and Rozanov do a speech together to an already half-drunk crowd. It had been awkward then. He can only imagine how much harder it would have been now. 

Shane bites his straw and is startled when he spots Rozanov slinking in from a side entrance. Had he dipped out for a cigarette? Shane’s throat tightens when he accidentally catches Rozanov’s eyes—he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to himself. Instantly, the other’s gaze seems to sharpen, his lips quirking into a smirk before he’s halfway across the room.   

“Uh. Hi,” Shane says when Rozanov slouches on the bar next to him. He’s not sure how to speak to Rozanov. Not as himself, at least. 

“I wanted to say congratulations on your hat trick,” he says, though he can’t help but tease, “even though your team didn’t win.” Rozanov looks incredible. He’s shed his jacket and draped it across his back, hooked from one careless finger. His hair is slicked into place, though a few errant curls are already staging a jailbreak from gel prison. He looks like he belongs here in a way Shane never quite does—easy, luminous, magnetic.

Shane opens his mouth. Closes it. The silence stretches, thin and awkward, like a rubber band about to snap. Shane’s brain races for something clever to say, something charming. It finds nothing.

Hayden laughs overly-loud and slings an arm across Shane’s shoulders.

“Ha! You found the wrong Wonder-Twin. This one is Shane. The one you’re thinking of is over there” 

Hayden points across the room, and they all swivel their heads. Henry catches them looking and flashes that familiar, magazine-ready grin, and flips them the double bird.

“What a charmer,” Hayden says fondly. 

Rozanov’s gaze moves between them—Shane, then Henry. His brow furrows, recalibrating. “...Right. Okay.” 

He wanders off without another word, already falling into the slipstream that follows Henry.

Hayden rolls his eyes. “Great people skills, that guy.” 

Shane watches Rozanov cross the room. Watches the way bodies part for him. Watches Henry turn toward Rozanov like a flower instinctively bending toward the sun. Shane can’t hear what they’re saying, and Rozanov’s back blocks most of the view, but he can see Henry’s face—can see him tilt his head, flash that winsome smile Shane has only been able to replicate with studious practice in front of a mirror. 

“Right.” Shane turns to the bar. “Shot of tequila, please”

Which immediately makes Hayden squawk indignantly.

The phone in Shane’s pocket feels like a blade pressed against his thigh. “Rosie’s” texts are in there, like crime-scene evidence. And yet, Rozanov wouldn’t have even paused in front of him if he hadn’t mistaken him for his brother.

Shane tips the shot back.

He can’t decide which burns more—the tequila, the guilt, or the complete certainty that he is the lesser Hollander twin.

*

By the time the night finally collapses, the brothers are weaving back toward the hotel.

Weaving is the operative word; Shane has Henry’s arm hooked over his shoulders, half-carrying him down the sidewalk. Henry is solid even when he’s sober, and every few steps, he wriggles like he’s testing the pavement for weaknesses.

“Rage! Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles, murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses!” Henry straightens, chest puffed, voice grandiose—almost convincing, if it weren’t for the slur dragging every syllable sideways.

“Let’s go, Achilles.”

Shane reaches for him.

Henry immediately bats his hands away, almost two hundred pounds of offended man-child.

Shane exhales through his nose, grabbing Henry in a bruising grip.

For all Henry’s brilliance, for all his charm and magnetism and gravitational pull, it’s still Shane doing the hauling. Still Shane making sure they both get home.

Shane wonders if Ajax ever had to carry Achilles back from the bar.

***

December 2016

Henry is exactly twenty-seven minutes late to this month’s family lunch.

Shane and his parents are already long seated when the front door of the restaurant swings open and lets in both a waft of cold air and Henry Hollander. He’s wearing a strange combination of clothes: his signature leather bomber jacket, a pair of khaki shorts, knee high white socks, and luridly pink Crocs. The outfit is made complete by a huge pair of sunglasses, black and glossy and outrageously expensive. They do absolutely nothing to disguise the fact that Henry looks desperately hungover.

His hair is greasy, his lips chapped. The muscle in his jaw keeps jumping in the way it does when Henry is trying to keep himself from throwing up. He pauses just inside the doorway like the restaurant lights are attacking him.

Yuna spots him immediately.

“Henry.”

Henry lifts a hand in what might be a greeting or might be a muscle spasm. “Ma.”

David taps his watch, says loudly, “We said noon.”

“It is noon,” Henry says. Then, after a beat: “More or less.”

Shane winces.

Henry shuffles over and drops into the empty chair beside Shane, moving like every joint in his body has been rusted over. He keeps the sunglasses on.

Yuna’s mouth tightens. “Take those off.”

“No.”

“Henry.”

“These Armani sunglasses are helping me build my brand image. Isn’t that what you’re all about, Mom? Plus, they give me an aura of mystique,” Henry says hoarsely. 

“You’re hungover.”

“I’m mysterious.”

David sniffs harshly and frowns. “You smell like whiskey.”

“You’re mistaken; that’s just what Armani cologne smells like.”

Shane clears his throat. “Okay. Look. Everyone’s here now. That’s good. We can just—”

Yuna folds her hands on the table. Very calmly. Too calmly. “You promised last month you were going to start taking these lunches seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously,” Henry says. “I even wore shoes this time.” He lifts his leg so that everyone can see his fuschia Crocs. Up close, Shane can see he has a few charms stuck through the holes. One is a large green marijuana leaf. 

Incredible.

Shane forces a huff of laughter and reaches for the water pitcher, pouring Henry a large glass. “Yup, you sure did. They’re very… pink.”

Yuna ignores him. “You look like you crawled out of a dumpster.”

“Oh? I didn’t know that Jean-Paul Gaultier is what you find in dumpsters now,” Henry drawls carelessly, flipping idly through the menu. 

David leans forward. “Kiddo, your mom and I aren’t asking for the moon. Just some basic respect. And for us that means arriving on time, having had a decent night’s sleep before.”

David nods approvingly in Shane’s direction, as if to say: See? Your brother did that!

Shane shrinks a little in his seat, not liking the direction the conversation has turned. 

Henry finally pushes the sunglasses down just enough to glare over the top of them, first at Shane, then at his parents. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed pink, still a little bit glassy.

“I’m here, aren’t I? I showed up,” Henry grits out.

“Do not act as if the bare minimum is an accomplishment, Henry,” Yuna says. She looks worn out, and she’s tearing her paper napkin into tiny little pieces.

Shane puts his hands up slightly, like he’s separating fighters on the rink. “Okay, okay. Let’s maybe cool off a bit until the appetizers arrive.”

The young waitress appears; she’s smiling, and her blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail that bounces while she walks. She takes one glance around the table at the tense faces and she instantly freezes. “Can I… get you all something to drink?”

“More water,” Yuna says, forcing a tight smile at the woman.

“Beer,” Henry says at the exact same time.

“No.”

Henry rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

David says, “Absolutely not.”

Shane blurts, “Ginger ale?”

All three Hollanders look at him. So does the waitress.

“…Ginger helps settle nausea,” Shane offers lamely.

The waitress coughs into her fist. “I’ll— put that right in. Give you folks a bit more time to look at the menu.”

She doesn’t leave so much as she makes a hasty retreat. 

Yuna exhales, long and controlled. “Henry, you can’t keep living like this.”

Henry’s jaw tightens. “Like what.”

“Like you’re Mick Jagger,” she says. “Like you don’t care about your body, your family, your future—”

“Here we go.”

“You think this is funny,” Yuna continues. “Showing up hungover, acting like a clown, pretending everything is fine—”

“I am fine.”

“No, you’re not,” David says. “You’re reckless and you’re going to burn out. And we’re scared you’re going to end up on a TMZ dead-under-twenty-seven list.”

The restaurant doors open again, and there’s another gust of freezing air as a couple staggers in, giggling. 

Every Hollander is holding their breath. Shane can’t quite believe his father said it outright. This thing that has been hovering over the head of the Hollanders for years.

Henry laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Oh, that’s rich. Don’t pretend like you give a shit beyond how my behavior ‘affects the Hollander brand’.”

Shane’s stomach drops. “Henry.”

Yuna stiffens; for a flash, she looks truly wounded. Then she forces her face smooth. “We’re worried about you.”

There’s a beat where the table feels too small for all four of them.

Shane leans in, voice softer. “Look, nobody’s saying you can’t have fun. I think Mom and Dad are just asking you to… y’know. Take care of yourself. That’s all.”

Henry slides the sunglasses off completely, placing them on the table with a quiet, plasticy click.

Henry finally looks at him, and the expression there is hollow. Henry’s eyes look empty in a way that sends a shiver up Shane’s spine. 

“Okay, you know what? I am not going to listen to a sermon from the guy who literally doesn’t do anything but play hockey,” Henry says. His voice is low. “Maybe that’s fine for you, Shane, but it’s not for me. I’m not a robot.” 

“I’m not a robot,” Shane says, hoping Henry can’t hear the hurt in his voice. 

“And yet you act like this shit is as easy as flipping a switch.”

Yuna’s voice wavers despite herself. “We just want you happy and healthy.”

“Do you?” Henry’s mouth twists. “Or do you want me controllable?”

“That’s not fair,” David says.

Henry stands so fast his chair scrapes loudly across the floor.

Shane reaches for him. “Henry, wait—”

Heads turn from other tables. Shane’s heart rate speeds up as he sees a woman across the restaurant pull out her phone and angle it towards them.

“I came,” Henry says. “I tried. And yet, somehow, I’m always still the problem in this family.”

Yuna rises halfway from her seat. “Henry, don’t do this.”

“Hey. Hey. We can reset. We can just—eat. Talk about— I don’t know! Talk about last week’s game or something.” Shane stands too. “Look, we’ll even order loaded fries,” Shane adds with hysterical desperation. He angles himself so that his broad shoulders are blocking the woman’s camera angle.

Henry looks at him for a long second. There’s something tired under the anger now. He grabs his bomber from the back of the chair. 

“Enjoy your family lunch.”

“Henry,” Yuna says, sharper now. “Just sit down.”

Henry doesn’t. He stalks across the room, shoulders the door open, and disappears into the afternoon light.

The bell over the door rings once.

Then the restaurant breaks into a soft muttering. “Was that Henry Hollander?” “Oh my god, did the Hollanders just get into a fight?” 

Shane sinks back into his chair slowly, heart pounding.

David rubs his face.

Yuna stares at the empty seat like glaring at it will somehow bring Henry back.

And Shane reaches for the menu and says quietly,

“…So. Soup?”

As the Hollanders sit in a tense cloud, Shane gets a ping on his phone. 

He checks it discretely, but he needn’t have bothered; Yuna and David are too busy murmuring to each other, dissecting what just happened, to notice what Shane is doing.

[From Rosie:]

The team has a layover in Montreal for the weekend. Know anywhere a girl can have some fun? 

Shane bites his lip. He shouldn’t. If he were a good person, he’d end this now. 

[From Holly:] 

My door code is 2451

*

Despite how poorly the afternoon had been, the night had gone very well so far, Shane thought proudly. Rozanov had come through the building's back entrance and let himself into Shane’s condo with the supplied code. And, after bullying Shane about his real estate choices, Rozanov had kissed him all the way up the stairs to the bedroom. Each kiss had sent sparks up Shane’s spine, made his lips tingle.

And now Rozanov is buried deep inside him, and on each thrust of his hips, he hits that spot inside Shane that makes him see stars. 

But just when Shane feels the wave of pleasure begin to crest, Rozanov suddenly lets out a blood-curdling scream. Shane bolts upright and knocks his skull into Rozanov’s. They both swear; Rozanov cradles his head and rolls off of Shane. 

“What the fuck—!” 

Shane rubs at his forehead. At the foot of his bed, batting her tail curiously, is Shane’s fluffy black cat.

“You can’t seriously be scared of my cat.” Shane huffs a laugh. 

“It fucking—!” Rozanov’s chest is flushing red. “It licked my toe! I was— surprised, that is all.” 

“Don’t call her an ‘it.’” Shane reaches out a hand, and sure enough, she saunters up the bed to butt her head into his palm. “She’s a she.” 

“She is a toe-licking pervert.” Rozanov frowns but reaches a hand out too. She sniffs it before rubbing her cheek against it. “What is her name?”

Shane refuses to look at Rozanov. “Um…” 

“Yes?” Rozanov prompts after Shane has gone silent for too long. 

The more the cat butts into Rozanov the more he seems to warm up to her. 

“Her name is Puck.” 

Rozanov looks at Shane incredulously for a moment before he is grinning wide. Shane notices that his teeth are a little crooked, his canines just a touch pointed. 

“Her name is—?” 

“Don’t you fucking say a thing,” Shane says severely. “If you insult my cat, I will kick you out of here right now and you’ll have to jerk it in your hotel room all by yourself.” Shane strokes Puck, running a soothing hand through her thick black fur. 

Rozanov’s eyes search his. Shane averts his gaze down to Puck, who is purring happily. 

“You really mean that. You would really tell me to fuck off,” Rozanov says. “Leave us both hard and unsatisfied. Because of your cat.”

“Yes.” 

Rozanov is silent for a long moment. When Shane finally can’t resist anymore and looks up, there’s a complicated expression on Rozanov’s face. 

“Put Puck outside. I am about to do something to her father that no daughter should witness.” 

Shane flushes and hoists Puck, who is still vibrating with pleasure in his arms. He places her outside the bedroom door and whispers, “Sorry, girl,” before closing it behind her. Shane turns around, and Rozanov is lounging on Shane’s many pillows, hands behind his head and grinning smugly.

“What,” Shane says, eyes narrowed. 

“Nothing. I am just enjoying the view.” 

“Shut up,” Shane says, kneeling onto the bed and shuffling on top of Rozanov. 

Rozanov smiles. His eyes are shining, but his hands are wandering. His fingers are tracing the stretch marks that stripe Shane’s ass. 

*

Shane passes a cold can of Coke to Rozanov and sits down on the couch with him. They’re both in sweatpants, having forgone putting their shirts back on. Rozanov is already seated, with Puck in his lap.

Rozanov takes the can and gestures to Puck. “I think I understand how she got her name.” Puck is tightly curled into a perfect black disk, chest gently rising and falling. 

Shane smiles and reaches over to rub her cheek, hand grazing the soft skin of Rozanov’s stomach. 

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t have an imagination or whatever. But. You can’t deny the similarities.” 

“I didn’t think you were a cat person,” Rozanov says. 

“I didn’t think I was either but.” Shane inches closer, leg pressing against Rozanov’s. “One day, I went to take the garbage out to the building’s dumpster, and I found her underneath.” Shane had lifted the lid of the trash and heard the saddest little mewls. He’d peered into the darkness and seen two enormous green eyes blinking back at him. She’d been impossibly small and skeletal, her black fur matted. With a little coaxing he’d managed to scoop her into his arms. Before this moment, Shane had never held a cat before—he was struck by how light she was; what an enormous amount of trust it must have taken for her to allow herself to be held by him. 

After that, it was an easy matter of finding a twenty-four hour emergency vet in the area. No microchip. Just like that, Puck had become his. She’d needed drops in her eyes every morning and evening. Shane had dutifully followed the doctor's orders, and watched, day-by-day, as Puck had filled out, her eyes clearing, her fur turning shiny.

Rozanov casually rests his arm across the back of the couch. Shane leans in as Rozanov’s palm slowly comes to rest on his shoulder, tucking Shane in close to his body. Shane carefully rests against Rozanov's chest, feels it when Rozanov’s lips find the crown of his head. 

“Anyway. That’s how I got Puck. I got Crunchwrap Supreme a few weeks later.” 

“Excuse me?” The hand in Shane’s hair stills.

Shane purses his lips. “Well, I’d never had a cat before so I bought some books. And apparently cats are pack animals so they really need at least one friend. So I went to the shelter and got another one so she wouldn’t be lonely.” 

Shane can feel Rozanov’s smile where his mouth is resting in his hair. “That is very sweet, Hollander. But, no, that I get. It’s the name I don’t.” 

“Oh.” Shane wiggles a little bit in Rozanov’s arms, trying to get more comfortable. “That’s because I let my brother pick her name.” 

Henry had come to the shelter with him, in fact. They’d gone through the rooms lined with cages, and Shane simply hadn’t been able to choose which one to take. Every single one of these cats needed a home. It paralyzed him. Eventually, Henry had grabbed one of the volunteers and asked, casually, “Which one has been here longest?” The volunteer had led them to a cage in the corner and said, “She’s been here a while. Not because she’s a bad cat. She just looks a little strange and has a lot of medical needs. Plus, she likes her own space. Most people want a cat who will snuggle with them. That’s just not her.” 

Henry and Shane had locked eyes. 

“We’ll take her,” Henry had said. And, well. Henry had chosen the cat, so Shane figured he should get to pick her name.

“I um…” Rozanov trails off. He swallows and says, “I saw a headline from earlier today. Seems like maybe you and him had a fight?” 

Shane tenses up. “Uh.” 

Rozanov’s mouth twists. “Do you. Want to. Talk. About it?” 

Shane’s thoughts are racing, scrambling to think of an answer that isn’t “fuck no!” because that would be rude when Rozanov rushes to say: “Ah. Is just. My family sucks a lot. So. I guess I just mean. I would understand.” 

“My family doesn’t suck,” Shane says dumbly.

Rozanov looks like he’s about to ask something, then clicks his mouth closed. When he opens it again, it’s clear he’s redirected against something in his own mind. 

“Is she hiding? The other cat?” Rozanov asks. 

Shane shakes his head, unspeakably grateful for the change of subject, and points to the bookcase on the far side of the room. At the very top cradled in a plush blanket is the body of a very squash-faced, one-eyed cat. Crunchwrap Supreme is permanently missing patches of fur across her body, her tawny hair pebbled with bald pink skin. An infection had taken her eye as a kitten, and a genetic defect had foreshortened her muzzle and bent her spine. Taken together, she cuts a strange figure. From her princely tower, she’d been watching them the whole time. 

“I would point out how freaky that is, but I fear you would threaten to kick me out again,” Rozanov says. 

Shane just pinches his leg. A playful warning, but a warning all the same.

There is a special place in his heart for Crunchwrap Supreme. Maybe because she’s had such a hard life. Or maybe because Shane also knows what it’s like to be the one constantly overlooked.

“Hollander.” 

“Mm?”

“I like you,” Rozanov says. It sounds like an offering.

Shane swallows hard. “No, you don’t.” 

“Hollander—“ 

“Don’t.” Shane swallows, voice pleading. “Please, don’t.” 

If Shane weren’t a coward, he would confess this second. He would explain to Rozanov that the person he thinks he likes is actually just a reflection in a mirror: an image in the shape of a person but utterly insubstantial. 

But Shane doesn't confess. More proof that Shane is a selfish person at his core. 

Rozanov falls silent, frowning hard. Shane puts his head back down to Rozanov’s chest so he doesn’t have to keep looking at the confused furrow between Rozanov’s brows. They both lay there for a time, Shane’s ear pressed against the cage of Rozanov’s ribs. He listens to Rozanov’s heartbeat drum, matching his breathing to the steady pattern.

They must have both fallen asleep, wrapped up in each other and Puck, because they are both startled when Shane’s phone alarm goes off. 

“Fuck!” Shane yelps. 

There’s a flurry as they scramble, gathering Rozanov’s things from where they’ve quietly spread out in Shane’s apartment—socks by the couch, his phone on the counter, a tank top on the banister. 

At the door, they kiss, soft and automatic. 

And then they both feel it at once: the strange, simple intimacy of it. The kind of goodbye that belongs to real people in real relationships. They hesitate, searching each other’s faces like there’s a conversation hovering just out of reach. Something about staying. About door codes. About next time. But the moment collapses when Shane’s backup alarm goes off. The moment snaps. Ilya has to get back to his hotel before his absence becomes noticeable, and Shane lets him go without either of them naming what just happened.

Shane stares at the door long after Ilya has left. In a daze, he wanders around his house, setting it to rights, folding the throw blanket that got tangled on the floor, recycling the empty Coke can. 

When he’s finished, he scoops up Crunchwrap Supreme and kisses her between the ears. She deigns to let him hold her for a full fifteen seconds before she starts squirming to be released. 

She lands awkwardly—with her bent back, all of her landings are awkward—and stalks off towards the kitchen. 

That’s the best part of cats, Shane thinks, as he pulls the cans of wet food from the pantry. They are relentless in their needs. They don’t care about your quiet unraveling. They don’t care that you’ve fallen in love with someone who doesn’t truly know you and so cannot love you back. They want dinner and medicine and hands on their fur—all of those small, intricate rituals that go into being kept alive. 

So Shane doesn’t get the luxury of a meltdown. There are bowls to fill, syringes to draw, warm furry bodies sitting impatiently on the kitchen floor. So instead of collapsing, he keeps moving.

Chapter End Notes

Puck and Crunchwrap Supreme are the best and most important characters I've ever crafted. I hope you like them.

Chapter 5: Marvel Presents - Venom: Lethal Protector, Vol. 1

Chapter Notes

Just a small content warning up top for accidental child injury!

May 1996 (twenty years earlier)

Henry would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he likes Thursday afternoons with the Headers much more than he does Mondays and Wednesdays at hockey practice.

That’s not to say he doesn’t like hockey practice. He does. He likes skating with his brother, slapping the puck back and forth, the loud crack it makes when it hits the boards. He likes the smell of the rink—something cold and sour and sweaty all at once, like old skates and metallic air conditioning units. He likes drilling up and down and up and down the ice until his legs feel like jelly, until his eyes get heavy in the backseat of their Jeep on the way home, the rumble of the engine and the bumps in the road floating him into a sleepy bubble.

He likes that.

He just likes Thursdays better.

On Thursdays, Yuna and David both work late, which means Henry and Shane get to go home with Chad and his mom. Just the long stretch of afternoon opening up in front of them.

The twins had met Chad Header in under-tens and became friends almost immediately. Chad was loud and funny and always ready to laugh, even when he wiped out hard on the ice. He didn’t look like most of the kids at hockey either; Henry liked that Chad never acted like it was a big deal, never treated the twins differently because of it. It made Henry feel like maybe Chad understood how hard it could be sometimes not fitting the mold.

So after school on Thursdays, they get a few glorious hours in Chad’s backyard while Mrs. Header cooks dinner inside. The backyard is big and uneven, with a fence that leans a little and a tree with a rope swing tied to one of its branches. They play all kinds of games out there, but the best ones are heroes and villains.

Henry loves heroes and villains. He loves making them up, giving them powers, deciding if he  can fly or shoot webs or lasers or toxic goo out of their hands. Shane usually gets stuck trying to  think of one, which means Henry gets to invent one for him too. Shane is just the best like that. 

This particular Thursday in May is especially good. The sun has been slow-baking everything all day, warming the dirt and bark and skin alike; the air hums with the promise of summer.

Chad is hanging upside down from the rope swing, drifting lazily back and forth, one foot hooked secure while the other dangles loose. The tips of his curls brush the ground with each slow arc, catching bits of dust and leaves. Every so often he twists slightly, like he might right himself, but then doesn’t—just lets himself sway there, languid and unbothered.

At the base of the tree, Shane isn’t doing much of anything at all. Not climbing, not talking. Just standing there, one shoulder tipped against the trunk, eyes fixed on the other boy. Tracking the rhythm of Chad’s movement as if transfixed. There’s a faint crease between his brows, the kind he gets when he’s concentrating very hard. 

Henry, meanwhile, has monkeyed himself onto a lower branch and crouches there, gripping the limb with both hands. From his vantage point, the world feels far below him. It’s dangerous and thrilling and entirely under his control. He is the dark villain that prowls New York City at night, waiting to enact his evil schemes. 

“Okay, Shane!” he calls down.

Shane doesn’t answer right away. His gaze lingers a beat longer on Chad before it shifts, like it takes effort to pull it free. When he finally looks up at Henry, he squints into the sunlight, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

“Now you gotta say something like: ‘You’ll never get away with this!’”

Shane nods. “You’ll never get away with your evil plan, Venom.” He still sounds flat and Shane-like because Shane isn’t as good at voices as Henry is, but that’s okay. 

Henry cackles diabolically. It sounds pretty evil to him. “Just try and stop me, Spiderman!” And with that, Henry launches himself from his branch down at Shane. 

Henry knows that Yuna asked them to stop wrestling, but this doesn’t count, because Shane knew he was going to jump, and honestly, the branch isn’t that high up. They hit the grass together in a tangled heap—but as they land, Henry’s elbow slams into something hard. A sharp pain shoots up his arm, and at the same time, Shane goes completely stiff underneath him.

That’s how Henry knows something is wrong.

Shane makes a small, broken sound. He’s whimpering, eyes squeezed shut, both hands clamped over his mouth like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Shane!” Henry yells, scrambling off him so fast he nearly trips. Chad flips off the swing and runs over, his face serious now. The two of them share a look.

“What happened? Can you talk?” Henry asks, panic buzzing in his chest.

Shane shakes his head, still covering his mouth.

Chad crouches down. “Did you hurt your lip? Move your hand so we can see.”

Shane opens his eyes and looks at Henry, scared and watery. Henry nods hard. “Move your hand so we can see.”

The second Shane does, Henry’s heart feels like it stops working.

There is so much blood. It’s spilling out of Shane’s mouth, running down his chin, dripping onto the dirt.

“FUCK!” Henry shouts. He knows he’s not supposed to say that word, but there isn’t another one big enough to match the situation. Shane whimpers and slaps his hands back over his mouth.

“It’s okay, Shane,” Chad says quickly. “Manman will know what to do. It’s going to be fine.” He takes off toward the house, shoes pounding against the porch steps.

“I’m really sorry, Shane,” Henry says, kneeling beside him, helping him sit up. His hands feel clumsy on the back of Shane’s shirt. “I didn’t mean to hit you like that, I think I caught you with my elbow.”

“S’ogey,” Shane says, blood thickening his words. 

“It’s not okay,” Henry counters fiercely, even though his throat feels tight. Shane isn’t supposed to get hurt. Henry is the tough twin. If someone has to bleed, it should be him.

It feels like forever before Chad comes back with his mom, but it’s probably only a minute. Mrs. Header moves fast for a grown-up, her sandals slapping softly against the grass. She’s a wide-set dark-skinned woman with soft hands and soft eyes. 

She drops to her knees in front of Shane and makes a soft sound. “Montre mwen, ti chéri—it cannot be so bad, hmm?” Her voice is warm, her accent rounding the sounds of the words in her mouth. It’s a relief to have her here. Henry is pretty sure that if Shane was going to die, she wouldn’t be so calm about it. 

Shane hesitates, then slowly lowers his hands. Mrs. Header sucks in a sharp breath and mutters something in Haitian that Henry doesn’t understand but is pretty sure it’s a bad word.

“Souri pou mwen—smile, Shane? It will hurt. But I need to see.”

Shane pulls his lips back from his teeth, and his mouth looks wrong immediately—a wet, gory red slash across his face. Henry yells before he can stop himself, the sound ripping out of his chest, because—

Shane’s front teeth are gone.

There’s a dark, empty space where it should be, blood bubbling up around it, and Henry’s stomach drops like he’s missed a step going downstairs. Shane’s eyes flick to their faces, to Henry’s, to Chad’s, to his mom’s, and whatever he sees there makes them go huge. He makes a small, frightened noise and slaps his hand back over his mouth, like if he hides it, it might undo itself.

Everything after that happens very fast and also very slow.

Mrs. Header moves first, herding them all back into the house. She presses a clean dish towel from the kitchen—white with little blue flowers—into Shane’s hands and tells him to hold it tight against his mouth. Her voice is calm but firm, the kind that makes your feet move even if your brain is still panicking. “Sak lekòl. Quickly, now.” And suddenly, Henry is grabbing their backpacks with shaking hands.

Chad rides shotgun. Henry and Shane get bundled into the backseat, Shane pressed up against the door, Henry squished close beside him. Henry keeps his arm wrapped around Shane’s shoulders, holding him like that might keep the blood in. The car smells like sunscreen and lemon wipes and something fried from dinner that never got finished. Mrs. Header drives fast but smooth, one hand on the wheel, eyes glancing in the rearview every few minutes.

“It’s okay, ti chéri,” she keeps saying. “Almost there. You’re doing good.”

Henry stares straight ahead, counting the red traffic lights, feeling each one like a punishment. He wants to say sorry again. He wants to say it a hundred times. But every time he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

They sit in plastic chairs in the hospital waiting room while Mrs. Header talks to the lady at the desk. Shane’s towel is soaked through now, red painting the flowers purple, and Henry can’t stop staring at it. The hospital is bright and loud and cold. Too many people. Too many noises.  Shane’s eyes get pinched so Henry says, “I’m gonna cover your ears, kay?” 

Henry clamps his hands over Shane’s ears. He can tell that it's working when Shane’s shoulders relax just a little bit. 

Yuna arrives like a spring storm—suddenly and without warning.

One second, Henry is staring at the floor tiles, and the next his mom is there, kneeling in front of Shane, hands gentle but quick as she checks his face, his jaw, the towel. Her voice is low and tight when she speaks to him, soft in the way that means she’s scared. Mrs. Header must have called her at some point, but Henry doesn’t remember it. 

“Oh, baby,” she says. “It’s okay. Mama’s here.”

She looks up at Mrs. Header then, and something in her face changes completely. She stands and takes Mrs. Header’s hands in both of hers. “Estherline. Thank you. Thank you so much.” Her voice wobbles, just a little. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

Mrs. Header squeezes back. “Not at all. With this one, I am no stranger to the emergency rooms. Raising boys, eh?” Mrs. Header throws an arm around Chad, who ducks his head. 

Yuna nods. They exchange a few more words before the Headers depart. As they leave, Chad throws an encouraging look at Henry over his shoulder, and shoots him a double thumbs up. Henry grimaces and shrugs. 

Once the Headers are gone, Yuna then turns her attention to Henry.

Henry straightens without meaning to. His stomach twists. He knows this look. 

“What happened?” Yuna asks tightly.

Henry swallows. His mouth feels dry and hot. “We were just playing,” he says. “I jumped on him. I— I hit him. By accident.”

Yuna closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, she’s calm, but it’s the kind of calm you see out in deep waters, something big swimming just under the surface. It makes Henry feel even smaller. “Henry,” she says. “We have talked about roughhousing.”

“I know,” Henry whispers. His eyes burn. “But we weren’t actually fighting! I didn’t mean to. I swear.”

“I know you didn’t,” Yuna says. But her hand lands on his shoulder, firm and heavy. “That doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

Henry frowns hard at the floor. 

A nurse calls Shane’s name. Yuna stands and takes Shane’s hand, steady and sure, then looks back at Henry. Her eyes soften just a fraction.

“Henry,” she says. “You’re coming too.”

The room is too bright and smells sharp and clean in a way that makes Henry’s nose itch. A nurse comes in with a cheerful smile and a rolling cart, speaks gently to Shane, and takes his vitals. Shane doesn’t say anything. He keeps the tea towel pressed to his mouth with both hands, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed somewhere just past the nurse’s elbow. Henry watches the numbers flash on the machine and doesn’t understand what any of them mean, only that Shane looks miserable on the paper-covered bed.

They wait. Time stretches and warps the way it always does in places like this.

When the doctor finally breezes in, it’s like he’s late for something more important. He doesn’t introduce himself. He talks fast, mostly to Yuna, words tumbling out in grown-up phrases Henry can’t quite follow. Then, without warning, he reaches out and grabs Shane’s wrists, clearly intending to pull the towel away from his face.

Shane startles violently. He jerks back with a sharp, broken sound, pain cutting through him as the movement jostles his mouth.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to touch people without asking! Especially people you don’t know! You’re a bad doctor if you don’t know that.”

The words burst out of Henry before he could stop them, hot and fierce and shaking.

The doctor freezes, clearly startled. The room goes very quiet.

Yuna immediately runs a hand through Henry’s hair, a grounding, familiar gesture. Henry can feel the warmth of it, the weight of her palm, and even without looking he knows—she’s proud of him. Even if she usually tells him not to yell at people.

The doctor clears his throat and straightens himself, voice noticeably gentler this time. He tells Shane that he needs to see the injury, that he’s going to move his wrists out of the way now. Shane nods tightly, jaw trembling, and lowers the tea towel.

It looks like Shane has dyed the bottom half of his face red. Blood is smeared across his chin, his lips, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Henry’s stomach flips unpleasantly.

The doctor telegraphs his movements, slowly hooking his fingers into Shane’s lips and pulling them back to get a better look.

“Do you know where your teeth went, kid?”

Shane makes a small, miserable sound.

“Come again?”

“Swlldum.”

“Sorry, you—?”

“He says he swallowed them.” Henry twists the strings of his sweatshirt around his fingers, nerves buzzing. 

There’s a pause. The kind where grown-ups silently talk to each other with their faces. The doctor and Yuna exchange a look, and then the doctor is already moving, heading for the door. He pulls it open and calls out to a nurse passing by in light-up shoes. “X-ray. Possible aspiration.”

Henry doesn’t know what that means yet, but the way Yuna’s mouth tightens tells him it’s bad.

The rest of the afternoon happens in pieces, like someone keeps cutting it up and putting it back together wrong. Shane gets wheeled away to another department for a chest X-ray. Henry is excited until the nurse explains that it’s another machine and nothing like what Superman does. He’s also extremely displeased that he’s not allowed to go with Shane and says so—loudly—until Yuna gives him The Look.

While they wait, Henry learns that asp-peer-ray-shun means breathing something in. Which, in this case, would be very bad. He imagines Shane’s teeth rattling around loose in his chest like marbles in a tin can and feels a little sick.

When Shane finally comes back—looking pale and tired and still not allowed to talk—they have to wait again for the results. Henry starts to get twitchy. He pokes at everything within reach: a box of gloves, a stack of tongue depressors, a rolling stool that squeaks when he spins it. Yuna tells him to stop. Twice.

He sits back down in the hard plastic chair and tries tapping his feet instead. That works for about thirty seconds before Yuna puts both hands firmly on his knees and tells him, very quietly, to sit still.

Shane can’t even help distract him like he normally would. He just sits there, crunched into a tight ball, mouth aching, eyes glassy with pain.

By the time Henry feels like he might actually explode out of his own skin, the doctor finally comes back. He tells them that Shane didn’t aspirate, that the teeth aren’t in his lungs, and luckily, since they’re baby teeth, they just have to wait for his adult set to come; they can all finally go home now.

Henry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, relief crashing through him so hard his knees feel wobbly.

The drive home is tense and quiet, the kind of quiet that hums in Henry’s ears. The three Hollanders are exhausted beyond words. Stoplights slide over the windshield in jewelled streaks. 

At least the hospital gave Shane something for the pain; he doesn’t look quite so pinched anymore, his body slumped instead of rigid.

Henry shifts in the middle seat and slowly snakes his hand across the vinyl. He taps it against the seat. Shane turns his head, blinking away from the dark window where he’d been staring at nothing. Shane looks down at Henry’s open palm, then slowly reaches out too. Henry laces their fingers together like he’s afraid of letting go ever again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ax-thi-dent,” Shane lisps, careful, patient—like he’s reminding Henry of something obvious.

“I know,” Henry says anyway, voice tight. “But accident or not, it was still my fault you got hurt.” He bites his lip, guilt sitting heavy in his chest.

Shane just shrugs, loose and forgiving. He’s quiet for a moment before he frowns. “D’you think…” he starts, pauses, then starts again lisping slowly around the gap in his mouth, “D’you think Chad think’sth that I'm a baby?”

“No.” Henry blinks. “Why would he think that?”

The vinyl seats creak as Shane squirms in his seat. “Cuz I almothst cried when my teeth came out?” 

“No.” Henry says again, more firmly. “If anything he probably thinks you’re cooler because you took the hit like a man.” 

Taking it like a man is something that the announcers say a lot when players get into bloody scrapes on the ice. That’s how Henry knows it is a badge of honor. 

Then a thought hits Henry so suddenly he almost laughs. He squeezes Shane’s hand, excitement buzzing through him. “Hey, you know what? Without your teeth you kinda look like a real hockey player now!”

Shane’s whole face lights up. His smile is wide enough that it properly shows off the new gap in his mouth. “Really? You think’stho?”

“Yeah! Like Bobby Clarke!”

“That’s awthum,” Shane says, tongue clumsy around the words, smile stretching even wider.

In the backseat of their mother’s Jeep, the brothers grin at each other for a long time, hands still tightly clasped, the tension bursting at last as the road hums softly beneath them.

Henry stares at the side of Shane’s head, at the way his hair sticks up funny near the crown, at the window-reflection of his brother’s face as Shane turns back to watching the dark roll by. Shane is his best friend. Henry knows that the way he knows his own name. And that makes today worse than anything he can remember. Shane got hurt because of him. Shane almost died because of him. 

Henry won’t let anything like this happen ever again. 

He swears it. 

Chapter End Notes

I hope you enjoyed little boy POV for this short chapter. Next time we are back to full-grown Shane POV!!

Thank you so so much everyone who has commented and kudos'd on this WIP!! I read every comment and it really is so heartening and encouraging <3 thank you.

Chapter 6: Butt Dial

Chapter Notes

January 2017 (present day)

“—and tonight, l’opportunité c’est fucking énorme. Avez-vous faim? Avez-vous envie de fucking win? Mon tabarnak, les affaires vont brasser!” Coach finishes at last, clapping his hands together for emphasis. Coach’s pre-game speeches tend to be long winded and not terribly coherent, even disregarding the Franglais. The team responds with polite applause; only J.J. has to turn his head away to discreetly wipe a single, manly tear from the corner of his eye.  

“Okay, capitaine.” Coach waves up Henry. Henry drags a hand through his hair and hops onto the bench in the middle of the room. 

The room stills, a collective holding of breath, as they wait for Henry to start. Shane watches him square his shoulders. Watches him roll tension out of his neck.

Henry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “This day is called the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when the day is named. And rouse him at the name of Crispian.” 

A few guys exchange glances. Someone in the back quietly mouths, what?

With Henry, you never quite know what you’re going to get. Sometimes it’s a basic, motivational, sporty pep talk about effort and heart. Other times, it’s a very serious recitation of Henry’s grocery list. And sometimes, it’s one of these: Henry the Magnificent, all impassioned speech and burning eyes. The locker room is his proscenium stage. 

Shane is only half-listening until Henry reaches his crescendo. Henry’s voice starts to rise, rolling through the room like summer thunder.

“But we in it shall be remembered! We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.” 

Guys straighten without realizing they’re doing it. Hands pause mid-taping. Henry’s voice has always carried power.

Henry bows his head, kingly and resplendent. “We’ll rain such fury on the Admirals’ heads.

Their mothers’ wombs shall quake with second shame.”

Shane thinks perhaps the rest of the room is just as lost as he is, but they can all sense that this is the climax, so they all give a cheer and stomp their sticks into the ground. 

Henry collapses onto the bench next to Shane. 

“Nice work. Shakespeare?” Shane asks. 

“Henry the Fifth.” His smile is all boyish glee, cheeks flushed. “A monologue from the eponymous hero, but I improvised the last lines. What do you think?” 

It seems like Henry’s tactic is going to be to act like the fight at the restaurant never happened. Fine. Shane can work with that. 

“I think he’s probably rolling in his grave at his works being used against the New York Admirals.” 

Henry gives a delicate sniff. “‘Tis my fate, it appears, to be surrounded at all times by boorish pedestrians.” 

“Huh?” 

Hayden wanders by, kitted up in his bulky pads only from the waist down, making him look like a deeply fucked up satyr. 

“I think he’s calling you stupid, bro.” 

Henry grins, pulling Shane into a rough noogie, knuckles grinding painfully into his scalp.

“Alright, Metros, let’s do this!” 

*

They do. No matter what missteps or misunderstandings over the years between Shane-and-Henry, it never comes out with 24-and-51. On the ice, they just innately know what the other needs. It’s what has always made them dangerous. But when Henry swerves Hunter to chip the puck backwards to Shane—who snaps it between the legs of the goalie to win the game—it’s a hollow sort of victory. 

Henry is on him immediately, tackling him into the boards, screaming something incoherent into his helmet. The rest of the team piles on. Gloves thump against his head. Someone yanks at his jersey.

It should feel electric.

Instead, it feels… incomplete. 

Shane grins for the cameras anyway.

They skate through the closing rituals—gloves off, helmets tucked, shake hands and nod and move on. Later, when he thinks back on this moment, Shane will be able to see how his words to Hunter could be interpreted as inciting. But in that moment, Shane had just genuinely meant them. 

When Shane reaches Scott Hunter, he squeezes his hand and says simply, “The game is better when you show up, Hunter.”

He means it. When Hunter is on, he’s on. Frustratingly hard to keep up with. The league is much more fun when he’s dialled in.

Hunter’s eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into his sweaty fringe.

Then his face goes deep red.

“Seriously, Hollander?”

They both slow to a stop without meaning to. The line bunches awkwardly behind them. Curious Admirals and Metros drift closer, automatically drawn to the hint of tension like flies to honey.

Shane blinks. “Huh?”

Hunter huffs a humorless laugh. “It’s just crazy that I’m getting chirped from a guy who can’t ever be separated from his emotional support dog.”

Oh. 

Oops.

Of course Henry chooses that moment to pop up behind Shane and grin, a manic glow in his eyes. “Who? Little ol’ me?” 

And then he just— he just starts fucking barking at Hunter. 

Full-volume, high-pitched, furious little-dog yaps that echo off the ice like a possessed chihuahua guarding a purse.

“What the fuck, dude?” Hunter shoves at Henry, who just keeps barking. 

Shane immediately wedges himself between them, palms out. “Okay, okay, let’s not— we’re done here, let’s just go home.”

Henry lets out one last deranged little yip over Shane’s shoulder.

Hunter looks like he might actually commit a felony on live television. His nostrils flare. His stick taps dangerously against the ice.

That’s when Vaughn skates in, muttering something under his breath, and physically starts steering Hunter backward by the elbow.

“Not worth it,” Vaughn says, shoving Hunter toward the tunnel.

Henry bumps his shoulder. “Totally worth it. I wish you had let him hit me. Can you imagine? Finally getting to go at it with His Royal Highness?”

Shane purses his lips and doesn’t answer. The crowd noise has shifted from celebratory to confused buzz. Henry is still grinning like he’s just delivered the punchline of the century.

He’s already imagining the headlines that are going to come from this. The voicemails they’re going to get from Mom.  Shane exhales slowly, heart still hammering from adrenaline. 

He watches Hunter disappear down his own tunnel, jaw tight, and that hollow feeling creeps back in around the edges of the win.

Back inside, the locker room pulses with the frenetic energy that comes with every win. 

Everybody moves through their post-game rituals; denuding themselves, tossing sweaty kit into bags, shower steam hissing. Someone’s already talking about drinks, about a favorite club two blocks from the arena, about celebrating victory. Henry’s back in his element instantly—grinning, loud, completely wet and naked, using his towel to whip his teammates and send them into peals of laughter.

“That was crazy—I didn’t know Hunter had it in him, that old fuck! First round’s on me,” Henry announces. A cheer goes up. Pads hit the floor, bags zip.

Hayden hesitates by Shane’s cubby, running a hand through his sandy-brown hair. “Hey, dude. Me n’ some of the boys are heading out. You should come.”

Shane looks up, surprised by the invitation, and forces a small smile. “I think I’m gonna pass. Early morning tomorrow.”

Hayden nods, accepting it easily. “Rain check, then.”

All freshly showered and dressed in their street clothes, they funnel toward the door in a loud, laughing pack. Henry’s voice disappears down the hall with the rest of them.

Shane keeps packing up his gear.

Just before the door swings shut, he hears J.J.’s voice carry back, careless and unfiltered:

“Early morning? When does he not have an early morning? Please. I swear, it’s like all he knows how to do is play hockey.”

The door clicks shut, and the quiet that follows should feel peaceful. 

It doesn’t.

Shane methodically laces up his Reeboks. 

*

Shane breezes through the postgame interview the way he always does; at this point it’s less a task and more a reflex. He can feel himself slipping into it now, that practiced neutrality settling over his face, smoothing everything out. 

“Can you tell us a little bit about what went down on the ice there at the end?”

The worst part is that Shane hadn’t even meant to be provoking. It’s just that, sometimes, words come out of Shane wrong. 

Shane reaches up, adjusts the brim of his cap. Breathes through his nose. Finds his center.

“Well, when the boys get a little hot it can be hard to reign in tempers, but no harm done; all in good fun.”

That feels neutral enough. 

“Can you tell us what was said?”

Why does everything have to be dissected? Why can’t it just be, for once, about the hockey that was played?

“Oh— I don’t even know if I remember. Just a minor misunderstanding, I think.”

That’s not a total untruth. Easier to say than trying to explain how one small comment spiralled out of control.

He can’t wait for this interview to be over. Shane is already imagining going home. Dropping his bag by the door. The solid, familiar weight of it hitting the floor. His cats winding around his legs, insistent and warm, demanding his attention. He runs through what’s in his fridge—eggs, greens, something simple he can throw together without worrying about his diet. No room for overthinking. 

“Thanks, Shane. One last thing— anything to say to welcome in Chinese New Year?”

The reporter is smiling in a vaguely disinterested way. Shane feels a flash of anger low in his belly. It’s not enough to provoke Shane into saying the words he wants to say, but it's enough to irritate, to scrape against patience already worn thin.

He pushes it down just as quickly. He’s not doing this here. Not tonight. Not on top of everything else. Shane and Henry have disappointed his mother enough for one evening; he’s not going to add mouthing off to a reporter to that list. 

So he doesn’t let his expression shift. He doesn’t give anything away. 

He just keeps smiling blandly. 

(“Is Shane Hollander the most calm player the MLH has ever seen?”)

“I guess… happy Chinese New Year to folks who celebrate.”

There. That sounded polite.

Shane nods once—at the reporter, at the cameraman—and steps away before anything else can test him, already shutting it all down, packing it away neatly with everything else he’s not dealing with tonight.

*

Shane doesn’t need to go out to have a good night. That’s not a crime. He’d come home after the game and watched a bird documentary with his cats. Puck and Crunchwrap Supreme had both enjoyed watching the Hawaiian birds swoop across the screen. 

Shane is just popping the lids off of cans of wet food when his phone rings. He hastily wipes his hands on a tea towel before pulling it out of his pocket, expecting it to be a drunk dial from one of the boys. 

[Incoming call from Rosie.] 

Shane’s pulse quickens. Ilya has never called him before. 

He taps the screen. 

“Um. Hi?” Shane can hear rustling on the other side of the call. “Hey?” 

There’s some thumping before there’s a confused “Hello? Hollander?” 

“Yes…?” Shane trails off. 

“Did you need something?” Ilya sounds as confused as he is.

“You called me, Rozanov.” 

Ilya mutters something in Russian that Shane assumes is an expletive and says, “Ah. Accident. Phone was in my pocket and I… what is the phrase? Booty called?” 

Shane laughs, scooping out some wet food onto plates while Puck and Crunchwrap Supreme swim about his ankles like sharks circling blood in the water. 

“I think what you mean is butt dial.” 

“Is there a difference?” Shane can hear Ilya clinking something in the background. 

“Pretty big one. Butt dial is when you accidentally call someone. A booty call is when you hit someone up for sex.” 

“Oh.” There’s a rustling on Ilya’s end. Shane wonders what he was in the middle of. A late afternoon workout? Coming back from dinner out with friends?

“Yeah.” Shane lets himself smile. Only the cats can see it after all. He bends and places the dishes in front of the cats, who begin tearing into the food. He wrinkles his nose at the stench of fish that wafts from their frenzied attacks. 

“English is stupid.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, running his hand through Puck’s downy black fur. 

“So. What are you wearing?” 

Shane can’t help it, a laugh huffing out of him before he can think to stop it. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes. I am serious. I said I booty called, didn’t I? What. Are. You. Wearing.” Ilya overannunciates each word.

“I’m um. I’m wearing…” Shane looks down at his clothes and frowns. He’s wearing a Metros shirt, a holey, threadbare thing he got when he was first drafted. It’s been washed so many times that it is the softest thing he owns. The sweatpants are even older. Maybe from high school? 

Ilya laughs at the pause. “Wait. Let me guess. T-shirt and shorts?”

“Fuck you, they’re sweatpants!” Shane snaps back before he realizes what he’s just admitted.

Ilya just keeps laughing. Bastard. 

“What are you wearing?” Shane says, desperate to turn this back onto Ilya. 

“Nothing.” 

“You— what?” Shane grips the phone harder, wandering over to his couch.

“Well. I was wearing suit before, but—” There’s a rustling sound, soft and intimate, and it takes Shane a second to realize what it is. Fabric against skin. Bedsheets shifting. “But I took them off while we were talking.” 

 A zing of arousal shoots Shane’s spine. “Oh.” 

“Yes. Oh.” 

Shane exhales and collapses onto his couch, phone clutched to his ear, staring up at the swooping wood beams of his ceiling.

“Do you want to touch yourself?” Ilya says casually, the same tone someone might use to wonder if it is going to rain later.

“Yes,” Shane breathes, hand already creeping towards his waistband. 

“Don’t,” Ilya says. 

Shane whines, jerking his hand away from his pants like he’s been scalded. “Rozanov—” 

“Run your hand up your thigh instead. Slowly.” 

Shane obeys, fingers trailing over the muscle of his leg. The touch feels exaggerated, every nerve ending suddenly on fire. 

“Good. Now spread your legs.” 

“Rozanov,” Shane grunts, kicking his knees out wide.

Ilya hums, low and pleased, and there’s a wet, unmistakable sound from his end of the line that makes Shane’s stomach flip alongside a stab of indignation.

“Hey! What the fuck, are you already touching yourself? How is that fair?” 

“You think I play fair? Since when?” Shane can practically hear the smirk in Ilya’s voice. “Maybe I am just waiting to hear you ask nicely.” 

“No.” 

“No? I thought you wanted something but, oh well. This is my mistake. I will just hang u—”

“Wait! Don’t!” 

It’s not happening. Shane isn’t going to do it. He is not going to say it. And yet. 

And yet he can hear Ilya’s soft breaths, as if the other man is right here next to him on the couch, lips pressed directly to the shell of his ear. 

“Hollander.” 

There’s a rasp in it, a curling of his name on Ilya’s tongue like a cherry stem. It breaks Shane’s resolve. 

“Please,” Shane whispers. “Please, please let me touch my dick.” 

There’s a pause before Shane finally hears a soft, “Okay.” 

Relief rushes through him. Shane sighs and unceremoniously pulls himself free, breath hitching at the contact. He’s barely given himself a couple of strokes when—

“Stop.” 

Shane growls in frustration. “Roza—” 

“I want to know. After a game, when you’ve gone home and you’re alone late at night. Who do you picture is there with you?” 

Shane bites his lip and glares at the ceiling again. Those dark beams feel miles away. Shane doesn’t want to say who he pictures. He doesn’t want Ilya to know, even though he suspects he already does.

“Is okay. Tell me.” 

“You,” Shane grits out. “I picture you.” 

“Good,” Ilya says. “Now, play with your balls.” 

Shane’s hand drops instantly, like he’s afraid Ilya might revoke permission. He cups himself, breath spilling out of him. Relief. Then, softer, more honest than he meant to be he says: “I think about you, all the time. What it feels like to have you inside me.”

He hears Ilya’s breathing change on the line.

“Sometimes, I finger myself and pretend it’s you doing th-that thing you do. I picture how it feels to have your weight on top of me. Feels so good.” 

“Fuck, Hollander—” 

“I have a toy,” Shane says, unable to stop talking now that he’s started, moving his hand to the base of his cock and squeezing. “It’s smaller than you, though. Doesn’t feel the same. Nothing feels the same when you’re not here.” 

“Fuck!” Ilya says, and for a while, they both stop speaking; nothing but pants and gasps and wet slapping heard on either line. 

Then unexpectedly: “You played well tonight.” 

Shane’s eyes pop open—he hadn’t realized he’d shut them. “What?” 

“You heard me. You played well.” 

The praise hits him sideways and off-balance. Shane’s answering moan is helpless, wrecked, too-loud in his empty apartment; he’s shaking, spilling into his own hand.

Shane hears Ilya’s grunts in his ear as he follows quickly after. 

Shane breathes hard, Ilya’s matching his own. For a long time, they pant into the phone without speaking. 

The silence settles, and the guilt begins to rattle around Shane’s ribcage.

“Listen, Rozanov—“ 

“—That was good,” Ilya quickly cuts in. “See you at my place next week?” 

“Rozanov—“ 

“Okay. Great. Bye.” 

And suddenly, the line beeps dead. Shane is left to ache alone in his quiet apartment. Puck jumps onto the couch and startles Shane badly. She must have finished eating some time ago. 

“Fuck! Sorry, girl.” 

Puck is the forgiving sort, though, much more than her sister. She purrs happily and goes to butt her head into Shane’s hand. Unfortunately, it’s the one that is covered in Shane’s spunk. 

“Oh no, no, ew. Not that one.” Shane holds it aloft and uses the other one to rub her cheek. He imagines how stupid he must look in this pose.

“I may have gotten in over my head.” 

Puck doesn’t answer, she just keeps on purring. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you everyone for reading :') I am giggling and kicking my feet every time I get a new comment.

Chapter 7: The Long Weekend

Chapter Notes

Just a tiny tw at the top here for some oblique references to Shane's canonical strict, bordering-on-disordered eating. I brush up against it very lightly, but I'd rather forewarn just in case this is potentially activating for anyone.

January 2017 (present day)

Shane is seriously disturbed in the head. There’s no other explanation for why he agreed to spend the last three days of his bye week with Ilya Rozanov in his Boston home. No other explanation for why he’s nearing the end of the five-hour-and-thirteen-minute drive from Montreal with the very clear intention of letting himself into Ilya’s house. Using the code he’d been given four days ago, paired with a winky emoji. A text Ilya had sent like this was a normal thing they were doing; like it was a normal thing to ask your hookup buddy to stay two nights and three days. Like this was nothing. 

Just a normal, casual, sex-filled long-weekend with your situationship.

Everything inside Shane is screaming that this is a terrible idea. That he is walking, eyes wide open, into a pit full of snakes. That this is going to end messily, painfully, with venom in his veins that he will not be able to suck out.

The internal screaming keeps him company for the entire drive, layered on top of the backing vocals of a CBC podcast on the economy.

He doesn’t retain a single word of it.

Now he’s pulling up to Ilya’s sprawling home—tall glass windows, clean lines, a frame that leans brutalist with a flirtation toward modernism. Shane would usually prefer the latter, but. He doesn’t hate this. There’s something about the place that feels very… stark. Exposed. Like it’s daring him to bring his mess inside.

He punches the supplied code into the keypad and drives through the gate. Shane carefully parks his Jeep between two sports cars that cost more than the yearly salary of the average Bostonian. He lets himself into the house and tries not to feel like a burglar. Tries not to feel like he’s stealing into Ilya’s home the same way he stole into his bed.

Ilya had asked him to come down as soon as he could. The Raiders had a game against the Centaurs tonight, but he wanted to maximize their time together; Shane’s bye week ending just as Ilya’s was beginning was serendipitous. As usual, he had deflected. Demurred. Flat-out said no.

And yet.

Here he is. Standing in the concrete foyer of Ilya’s house, the space cool and echoing around him, waiting for Ilya to finish his game and come home.

Despite the queasy, anxious churn in his stomach, Shane can’t help being curious. He pokes around. The place really is beautiful—one floor, high ceilings, a central fireplace anchoring the space. It’s perfectly clean, too, bordering on sterile. Shane itches to ask who Ilya’s builder is and makes a mental note to do so later.

He drifts through the hallway, stumbling across into Ilya’s home gym: a compact room with a few machines, a weight rack, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall.

Peacock, Shane thinks fondly, and immediately imagines Ilya in here, shirtless, staring at his own rippling muscles like he’s his own thirst-trap.

After a circuit of two guest bedrooms, a sauna, and a home theater, Shane gives up any remaining pretense of restraint and heads for the room he’s been avoiding since he arrived.

Ilya’s bedroom.

The house is nice—Shane can’t deny that—but there’s something about it that feels… off. Abstract paintings. Carefully placed lamps casting warm, flattering light. Everything tasteful, everything in its place. And yet there isn’t much that feels like Ilya. It all feels a little curated. Like it came straight out of a catalogue. 

Which is why, when Shane peeks into the bedroom, it feels like stepping into an entirely different house.

The bed is covered in a deep blue comforter that looks impossibly comfortable. Shane runs his fingers across it, slow, savoring the soft fabric beneath his fingertips. There’s a book on the nightstand, a bookmark shoved hastily about a quarter of the way through. Shane picks it up and flips through the pages. Entirely Russian. His online courses absolutely did not prepare him for this. He catches a stray word here and there, nothing he can make sense of. 

On the far side of the room sits Ilya’s dresser, and Shane sees something that feels completely out of place. It’s a birdhouse, navy paint peeling to reveal raw pine. It looks like maybe it spent a few rough seasons outside, before it made its home on Ilya’s dresser. 

Flanking it on either side are two framed photographs. 

One is of Ilya as a teenager—serious-faced, acne-riddled, a cigarette dangling from his lips like he’s the second coming of James Dean. Tucked under his arm is a stunningly beautiful girl with her chestnut brown curls pulled into a high ponytail. She’s looking directly at the camera, eyes bright and fearless, smirking like she knows that she’s exactly where she belongs.

The second photo is older. A tiny, chubby-handed Ilya sits in the lap of a woman who shares his dirty-blonde curls. She’s bouncing him gently, smiling down at him with an expression of pure, unguarded adoration.

Something about that look—so intimate, so openly loving—makes Shane’s chest tighten. He backs out of the room quietly, as if the woman in the photo might notice him lingering too long.

Shane settles onto the couch in the living room and immediately regrets sitting. He checks his Rolex. Jiggles his knee. Checks it again. Ilya should have been back by now—he’s over an hour late, which feels pointed, somehow, even though Shane knows that’s unfair. He gives it another five minutes, knee bouncing hard enough to make the coffee table rattle, before the restlessness wins.

He pushes up and wanders into the kitchen, opening the fridge out of pure boredom. His eyes skim over the contents: a lot of protein, a lot of vegetables, all tucked into neat little tupperwares. Nothing out of character for a professional athlete. Then he spots a six-pack of that terrible hipster IPA Henry loves.

The queasy feeling in Shane’s stomach returns.

Of course. Another thing Henry and Ilya Rozanov have in common. He shuts the fridge a little harder than necessary and drifts back into the living room, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands.

He’s standing there, stranded in the middle of the space, when he hears keys jingle at the door.

Shane’s heart vaults straight into his throat. Should he go meet Ilya? Would that be normal? Or would it look too eager? Definitely too eager. Okay. He’ll stay put. He’ll wait in the living room like a normal person.

Or—would that be rude?

The decision is taken out of his hands by a clatter at the door, followed by a harsh, unmistakable, “Blyat!”

Shane peers around the wall into the entryway—and freezes.

Ilya is wrestling with his backpack and—

Crutches.

What.

“Rozanov! What the fuck!”

Ilya’s head snaps up, guilt written all over his face. He looks, absurdly, like a kid caught sneaking cookies rather than a grown man entering his own house.

“Hollander!” His shock melts into a grin. He does a small, awkward hop, trying to wrangle the crutches back under control. His right knee is wrapped in a heavy brace. “You came!”

“I did. You asked me to.” Shane approaches carefully, reaching for Ilya’s bag and pointedly ignoring the small sound of protest he makes. “What the fuck, Rozanov. Did this happen just today?”

Ilya shrugs, like the whole thing is barely worth mentioning. “Yes. Was stupid—not even a hard hit from Cardi, but I fell badly. Is just sprained so I will only be out a few weeks. That should give you Hollanders a better chance at the playoffs. You’re welcome.”

“Fuck off, we’re only behind by five,” Shane says without thinking.

Ilya laughs, the sound easy and familiar, but it cuts awkwardly when he shifts his weight, a wince flashing across his face before he schools it away.

Shit. James Lucardi is a massive human being, built like he was engineered in a lab specifically to ruin other people’s kneecaps. A hit from him followed by a bad fall must have hurt like a bitch. It must have been particularly shitty if Ilya was actually willing to leave the ice for it. That alone causes Shane to frown. He rubs a finger across his lips and says, “You should really sit and elevate that.”

It truly is a testament to the pain that Ilya is feeling that he doesn’t argue. No teasing, no flirting, no performative bravado—he just turns and carefully crutches his way over to the couch. He even lets Shane help guide him down, trusting his weight to him, though he does cock an eyebrow.

Shane straightens and looks around the room, hands settling on his hips as his brain clicks into problem-solving mode. “D’you have any throw pillows?”

Ilya blinks at him. “Throw… pillows?”

“Yeah, like. Decorative.”

“Oh. No, I don’t. Unlike some people, I do not decorate with pillows.” Ilya grins, clearly pleased with himself.

“Fuck off, six is a normal amount of pillows. Robin said so.”

“Who is Robin?” Ilya asks, the grin dimming just a notch.

“She’s my decorator.”

Ilya’s smile snaps back into place, brighter than before. “Of course this Robin would say so. She is trying to sell you more pillows. That’s more money in her pocket.”

Shane huffs out a laugh and turns on his heel, padding down the hall to Ilya’s guest bedroom. 

He seizes the two—only two!—pillows there before heading back to the living room where he’s left Ilya marooned. 

“Lift,” Shane orders. 

Ilya lifts his leg, grunts in pain. Shane helps him gently rest it on the scavenged pillows. 

“Thank you,” Ilya mumbles, but there’s something in his expression that looks uncomfortable.

“Is that okay? Do you want me to move it?” Shane asks. 

“No! No, it is good. It—” Ilya scratches at the side of his nose, a nervous little tell Shane is starting to recognize. “I just. I know that this is not what you wanted. From this weekend.” He sets his jaw, then adds, “But if you propped me up in bed, you could sit on my face.”

“No!” Shane says, startled, the word popping out of him on instinct.

Ilya’s mouth twists, disappointment flickering across his face. “No never to sit on my face? Or no not now?”

Shane can feel the heat rush up his neck, his ears going hot. “Th-the second one. Listen—” He barrels forward before his courage can fail him. “It’s fine. You didn’t ask to be laid out by Cardi. I am a big boy, I can handle looking after you for a few days.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up into his curly bangs. “You— you would still stay whole weekend?” 

Now, it’s Shane’s turn to squirm. He shifts his weight, jams his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie like they might anchor him in place. “Uh. Yeah? Unless you don’t want me to? I mean. I drove all the way here. And. I don’t know anyone else in Boston. So…”

Ilya reaches down and absently scratches at the edge of the gauze on his knee, eyes fixed anywhere but Shane. “Of course. Right.”

“Right,” Shane echoes. He clears his throat, desperate for safer ground. “Um. I saw you had stuff in your fridge for a stir fry. Did they feed you at the hospital?”

Ilya stares at him. The intensity of it makes Shane want to crawl out of his own skin.

“You want to make me stir fry?”

Shane shrugs, shoulders lifting under the oversized hoodie, hands still stubbornly hidden. “Yeah. I— I can cook, you know. Stir fry is hard to fuck up, and it hits the macros you need,” Shane says, remembering too late that nobody likes hearing about his performance diet. 

Instead of mocking him, Ilya’s face lights up.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Shane echoes, immediately suspicious at the lack of ribbing.

“Yes. Okay.”

“Alright.” Shane narrows his eyes at him, waiting for the punchline that never comes.

Ilya just blinks back.

“Hm.” Shane turns away stiffly and heads for the kitchen, suddenly very invested in chopping vegetables.

The stir fry doesn’t take long. It’s the kind of meal Shane makes on autopilot, muscle memory and routine carrying him through the chopping and sizzling. He brings the plates back to the living room and hands one to Ilya, who balances it carefully on his lap and murmurs his thanks.

They eat in silence, forks scraping softly against ceramic. The quiet stretches, grows legs. It’s awkward in a way Shane can’t quite name.

He swallows a too-big mouthful and finally blurts, “It’s… not bad is it? The food?”

Ilya looks at him, expression blank. “No?”

“Oh.” Shane shifts on the couch. “It’s just… you haven’t said anything.” When he’d handed over the plate, he’d braced himself for it—some chirp, some comment about being a pretty housemaid, something flirty and familiar. Instead, Ilya had just thanked him and started eating.

“Yes, Hollander. It is horrible to have home-cooked meal handed to me.” Ilya rolls his eyes. “So terrible I eat the whole thing.”

Shane’s mouth quirks despite himself.

“There he is.”

Ilya frowns at him. “What?”

“I just meant— it’s unnatural for you to be quiet for so long.”

“I thought that was good thing, no? Didn’t you tell me once I talk too much?” Ilya says lightly, tapping his fork against the edge of his plate.

Shane is zapped back to that first meeting in the hotel in Montreal. He can recall each moment of that encounter in technicolor. He can remember saying something along those lines to Ilya to tease him. He wonders if it had stuck with him this whole time. 

“I don’t actually mind it.” Shane frowns. “You know that right?” 

“Ah—you like it when I say things like you are subpar hockey player?”

“Yeah,” Shane says honestly. “I do. ‘Cause I get that you’re playing. I’m also not made of glass, I can handle it.” Shane smiles softly. “Plus, it’s good for your ego to be wrong.” Shane pats Ilya’s good knee condescendingly and scoops up his empty plate. 

He’s halfway to the kitchen when Ilya calls after him, “Just throw them in the sink. I deal with it later.”

“Sure,” Shane says easily—and then immediately washes everything, methodical and thorough, ignoring the offended noises drifting in from the living room.

When he comes back, Ilya is pouting shamelessly.

Shane drops back onto the couch with a heavy thump and slaps the back of his hand against Ilya’s chest. “Stop complaining.”

“But you were so far away for so long.”

“I’m back,” Shane says. “What should we do now?”

They look at each other for a beat too long.

“We can’t do that,” Shane says quickly, already protesting. “You’re injured.”

“Hollander.” 

“I mean it, Rozanov.” 

*

“Oh my god! Hollander… Hollander!”

“I can’t believe you’re— fuck!”

“You are so bad at this! How are you so bad at this?” Ilya crows as Shane scores a goal on his own team for the fourth time in a row. 

The little virtual Metros launch into an over-the-top goal celebration, the arena lights flashing while pixelated fans lose their minds. Shane stares at the screen in horror, then rubs at his temple with the hand not strangling his controller.

“It really kicks me when I’m down to see my own team celebrating against me.” 

He had won their earlier battle of wills. When Ilya finally caved and suggested a videogame, Shane had latched onto it. Of course, he’d been immediately indignant when Ilya chose to play as the Metros in MLH All-Stars for the Xbox. A betrayal of the highest order.

“Hollander. I mean with respect— you are professional athlete. You should have— what is it called? Hands and eyes coordination?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“No, seriously! It’s impressive how terrible you are at this. It’s cute. It is nice to know that you are bad at something.” 

“I’m not that bad!”

The game chooses that moment to flash the score on the screen.

Thirteen goals from the Metros to Boston’s single goal, which had come from Ilya sneezing at a crucial moment, giving Shane the opportunity to make his move.

For a long second, Shane just stares at it. Thirteen. To one.

He tosses the controller aside like it’s burned him and curls into himself on the couch, dragging his hoodie over his head as if that might shield him from the harsh statistical reality on the TV.

“No, no is okay. It’s… endearing.” Ilya says it pointedly, as if inviting Shane to remember where he learned that particular word. 

Shane peeks out despite himself. Ilya’s smile is wide and unrepentant, cheeks creasing, those sharp little teeth on display—a minor miracle they’re all still intact after years in the MLH.

Heat crawls up Shane’s neck. He drags his hoodie back down and straightens, trying to recover whatever dignity he has left.

“Yeah, I’m a professional athlete, which means I don’t have time to practice video games all day.” 

“I am also professional athlete, and I am amazing at this too. Hockey, video games, fucking. I am good at it all.” Ilya smirks.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll beak your other knee cap.”

Ilya’s eyes flicker at that, something bright and dangerous sparking behind them.

The reaction startles a laugh out of Shane before he can stop it. “Are you seriously turned on by me threatening to cripple you?”

“Kiss me,” Ilya demands. 

Shane doesn’t hesitate. He shifts across the couch and glues himself to Ilya’s side, catching his mouth in a hard, hungry kiss that knocks the smirk right off his face. Ilya’s hand fists in the front of Shane’s hoodie, pulling him closer.

They make out like that for a while, the earlier teasing bleeding into something warmer, heavier. He loves the way that kissing Ilya like this melts his brain like an ice-pop left out in summer heat, how his racing mind turns slow and syrupy. Shane edges closer on instinct, pressing in—then freezes when a sharp, involuntary grunt breaks against his mouth.

He pulls back immediately. Ilya’s eyes are squeezed shut, jaw tight as the movement jostles his injured knee.

“Sorry,” Shane whispers into Ilya’s mouth.

“Is okay.”

It clearly isn’t. Shane leans in anyway, gentler this time, brushing a soft apology kiss across Ilya’s lips. Shane rests his forehead against his for a beat, recalibrating.

“Maybe we should just… call it an early night?”

Ilya drags a thumb slowly across Shane’s cheek, the touch warm and grounding. “Alright.”

*

Shane wakes just as dawn is dabbing her rosy blush across the sky, the room washed in that fragile, in-between light that makes everything look softer than it really is. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just lies there, listening to the quiet rhythm of Ilya’s breathing beneath his ear.

Ilya’s face is slack with sleep, all the sharpness smoothed out. Just the faint crease between his brows and the slow rise and fall of his chest. Shane has never woken up like this before—tangled up with someone, entirely unguarded. Unarmored. There is something forming behind his ribs like a soap bubble, iridescent and fragile, that could burst at any moment. 

He can’t help himself. He brushes a careful finger along the hair at Ilya’s temple, light enough not to wake him.

Settling into bed the night before had been… stilted.

They’d danced around each other’s routines, bumping hips and elbows in the small bathroom, Ilya’s crutches knocking into the sink twice. They’d brushed their teeth side by side in a silence that was just shy of comfortable, both of them pretending not to watch the other in the mirror.

It had struck Shane, absurdly, how weird it was to be completely comfortable with someone’s dick in your mouth but suddenly feel shy about him seeing you with an electric toothbrush buzzing between your lips.

Then, there’d been the bed.

Shane had hovered awkwardly near the foot of it while Ilya maneuvered himself onto the right side with slow, calculated movements, jaw tight with concentration.

“What are you, vampire? You need invitation, Hollander?” Ilya had grumbled, eyes already heavy with fatigue.

Shane had almost said: Yes. Very much. I prefer an explicit invitation. But it had tasted too much like truth on his tongue. He’d swallowed it down instead and climbed in, leaving a polite hands-length of space between them.

Shane managed to fall asleep like that—rigid, careful, aware of every inch.

Sometime during the night, though, gravity or instinct had done its work. Now Shane is half-draped over Ilya’s chest, cheek tucked near his collarbone, one arm slung cautiously across his stomach. Ilya is still on his back, his subconscious clearly having chosen the position that would hurt his knee the least. 

Shane studies his face intently, committing it to memory in this early light. He doesn’t miss the moment those pale lashes begin to flutter.

There’s a flash of blue before Ilya squints his eyes closed again against the dawn.

“Morning,” Shane whispers.

“Mm.” Ilya scrubs a hand down his face, blinking hard like he’s trying to manually reboot himself. “Am I in heaven?”

“What?” 

“Because I woke up next to an angel.” 

Shane huffs a little breath of laughter. “That’s—that’s truly terrible, Rozanov.” 

The grin he gets in response is equal parts sleepy and shameless. Self-satisfied, like he’s proud of himself for landing the worst line imaginable before six a.m.

Shane has to get out of the bed before he does something reckless. Before he leans back down and kisses Ilya quiet. Before he says something soft and irreversible like: let me stay.

He rolls away instead, planting his feet on the cool floor and stretches his arms overhead until his shoulders pop. He finds his shorts and tugs them back on, pretending he isn’t acutely aware of Ilya watching him.

There’s the soft rustle of sheets and then the glow of a phone screen as Ilya blearily checks the time. “Fuck—how are you so awake right now, is barely sunrise.” 

“The early bird catches the worm,” Shane says.

Ilya stares at him.

Blinks once.

Blinks harder a second time, like maybe that will translate it.

“What.”

Shane scrubs a hand through his shaggy hair and immediately catches it in a tangle. He winces as he yanks it free. “The early b—it means,” he gestures vaguely, “like, the people who show up first get more opportunities?”

“That is fucking stupid. English so fucking stupid.” 

“Yeah.” 

“What, you eat worms now? You are worm eater?”

Shane laughs quietly, reaching down to grab Ilya’s discarded tanktop from the night before. He pulls it on, noticing the way it stretches tight across his broad stomach and ribcage. Ilya looks more awake now, blue eyes keen as they drag slowly over Shane’s body in open appraisal. It makes something warm unfurl low in Shane’s stomach.

Ilya shifts, trying to prop himself up against the headboard with a dignity he can’t quite manage. The movement results in immediate regret. Ilya’s jaw tightens, a grimace flashing across his face as pain shoots through his leg, and the bravado drains just a little around the edges.

“Hollander, could you—?”

“Already on it,” Shane calls over his shoulder before Ilya can even finish the sentence.

He moves quickly. When he returns a minute later, he’s got a glass of water balanced carefully in one hand, in the other: a banana tucked against his wrist, and the little orange prescription bottle pinched between his fingers. 

He hands Ilya the banana first. “I read the instructions last night. It says to take with food.” 

For a split second, something shifts across Ilya’s face. His mouth presses thin. He tips his head back to stare at the ceiling, blinking rapidly like the plaster up there has suddenly become fascinating.

Shane’s stomach tightens. He’s about to ask if he’s okay—if he overstepped, if this is weird—when Ilya’s expression smooths out again.

Ilya clears his throat, peels the banana with quick, efficient movements, and eats it in three enormous bites. He washes the pill down with a long swallow of water, throat bobbing.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The room goes quiet again, but it’s a different kind of quiet than last night’s. This one feels denser. 

They look at each other for a beat too long.

Shane clears his throat, rocking back on his heels. “I’m going to go run in your gym. You okay if I leave you here for a bit?”

His head is stuffed full with Ilya and if he doesn’t run, doesn’t purge it somehow, it’s all going to come leaking out of his ears. There’s a creeping sense, too, a calling from within that is telling him that it’s imperative that he move his body so he can earn his daily calories. It's not a voice, more like an intrinsic knowledge, the way that birds know they need to fly south for winter, that if they don’t they’ll die. 

“Yes, Hollander. I have knee injury, not brain injury.” Ilya’s eyelids flutter closed as if he is already halfway back to sleep.

Shane rolls his eyes, but there’s relief threaded through the gesture. The normal teasing helps. It makes everything feel less loaded.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, grabbing the empty glass. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He pauses at the doorway anyway, glancing back once more before he leaves.

*

Shane had run until his lungs burned, pounding out restless energy on the treadmill in Ilya’s ridiculously mirrored gym. The relief of it had been a balm. He’d showered quickly after—used his own shampoo instead of the fruity one Ilya has in a huge bottle labeled in cyrillic—and then taken over the kitchen while Ilya still dozed. Two quick omelettes. Nothing fancy. Protein, vegetables… clean calories that Shane has dutifully earned. After a moment’s hesitation he sprinkles a little cheese on Ilya’s.

After gratefully eating his meal in bed (“I am like a king, having his meals brought to him by a beautiful maiden.” “Who taught you the word ‘maiden’?”) Ilya had limped back to the living room, rebuilding his pillow tower to prop up his knee. Now they’re both stretched out together, the curtains half-drawn against the powerful midday sun. 

The New York Admirals are fighting for their lives against the Detroit Cruisers on Ilya’s absurdly large television—it’s the high definition kind where you can see every little bead of sweat on the players’ faces.

Shane sits forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, plate abandoned on the coffee table. “My mom thinks it’s Scott Hunter’s year.” 

“Mm. Maybe.” 

“That’s what I said too, but she’s adamant.” 

On screen, Hunter makes a play for the net and gets bodied off the puck by the small but scrappy Kyle Murphy. Shane watches the replay, eyes narrowing in where Hunter backhanded the puck to Vaughn in a deft move.

“Svetlana also thinks Hunter looks strong but he is so inconsistent I do not know why she thinks so.” 

“Svetlana?”

“My best friend,” Ilya says, the corner of his lips quirking up. “We have known each other since we were children. She is incredible. She also knows everything about hockey.” 

Something in Shane’s chest tightens in a way he doesn’t love.

Oh.

He doesn’t know what he’d expected. That Ilya materialized fully-formed into the league at eighteen with no past? No one who knew him before he was the smirking number one draft pick? This must be the woman from the photo in Ilya’s bedroom.

“You are not jealous, are you, Hollander?” Ilya cuts a sideways look at Shane before snapping his gaze back to the game.

“No,” Shane says automatically, even as his hands clench together in his lap, fingers digging into his own palms. He keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, where the Cruisers’ goalie makes an easy save.

He tells himself he’s being ridiculous. It’s normal. People have best friends. Childhood best friends, even. Childhood best friends you don’t want to sleep with. 

Of course, Shane had wanted to sleep with his own childhood best friend. So. Maybe this wasn’t the best line of thinking. 

“Good. You would not have to be. She is family. I love her, but I am not in love with her. You see?” Ilya says. 

“Okay.” Shane reaches for his phone automatically, thumbs moving over the screen without purpose. He isn’t actually texting anyone. He just needs something to look at besides Ilya’s face.

The crowd roars, and the announcers call out that Murphy and Vaughn have dropped their gloves and are circling. Shane doesn’t look up.

Ilya sniffs a little, then asks, “You?”

“Me?”

“Is there… are there…?” Ilya’s voice loses some of its easy arrogance. Shane risks a glance over.

Ilya isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at a spot just below Shane’s elbow, one hand scrubbing at the short blonde hairs at the nape of his neck.

The question hangs there, unfinished but obvious.

“No,” Shane says firmly.

No one waiting back home. No secret softness reserved for someone else. Just a large condo, two cats, and the yawning silence. 

“Hm,” Ilya says, a small smile tugging on his lips. “Okay.” 

On the television, Hunter scores on a rebound right as the clock ticks down, and the arena explodes. Admirals win one to zero. 

Neither of them comments on it.

Ilya rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to work out a knot, and Shane’s attention tracks the movement before he can stop it. The slow shift of muscle under skin. The flex and settle. Ilya hadn’t bothered with a shirt this morning, just a pair of low-slung sweats and the faintest scowl at the world. The afternoon light from the windows catches on the pale line of an old scar near his collarbone.

Shane drags his eyes back to the television before he gets caught staring.

“Hollander, can you give me the—” Ilya stops abruptly and frowns. “The fucking—”

He gestures vaguely at the coffee table like the word might materialize if he waves hard enough.

Ilya stares at Shane. Shane stares back, brows furrowing as if this is a puzzle he’s expected to solve.

“I want you to hand me the— fucking thing. What is it fucking called?” Ilya slaps a hand to his forehead. “Fucking English. It’s the— stick for the television.”

Shane tilts his head, lips twitching at Ilya’s dramatic frustration.

“I can’t remember word for fucking thing. Pult!”

“Oh!”

A little firework goes off in the back of his brain. He knows that word. He’s so caught up in the ridiculous euphoria of recognizing vocabulary from his class that he grabs the remote without thinking and slaps it into Ilya’s hand.

Ilya grabs Shane’s wrist before he can retract it. The remote falls onto the couch. 

“Hollander. You know this word? How do you know this word,” he demands eagerly.

“I—” 

Fuck! Lie! Just lie! 

“I just— recognized it. From. Petrov.” He hears how thin it sounds and suppresses a grimace.

“Your Russian teammate is using ‘pult’ in locker room often?” Ilya’s thumb presses slightly against the inside of Shane’s wrist, not painful, but firm. Shane swallows hard.

“I…” He could deny it. Laugh it off. But the way Ilya is looking at him—intent, searching—makes something in his chest refuse to shrink.

Okay. Not the whole truth. Just enough.

“Have an app. I use sometimes. To learn some basics. To be a better teammate to Petrov.”

The lie is small enough to pass cleanly. Close enough to reality that it doesn’t scrape against his soft palate on the way out of his mouth.

He cannot stop staring at the size of Ilya’s hand around his wrist. At the way his skin looks tan under those fingers. At the pulse hammering there, betraying him.

Ilya inhales sharply.

Shane’s gaze snaps up.

“You are learning my language?” There’s something unreadable in Ilya’s eyes Shane can’t immediately categorize. 

“It’s the language of over two hundred and fifty million people globally,” Shane says quickly, defensively

“It’s my language,” Ilya insists. He lifts Shane’s wrist slowly, deliberately, giving him every opportunity to pull away.

Shane doesn’t.

Ilya presses his mouth to the delicate skin there, just above the veins that carry blood straight back to Shane’s heart. The kiss is warm and lingering and far more intimate than it has any right to be.

Heat rushes up Shane’s neck. His mouth goes dry.

“Okay.” His voice comes out weaker than he intended. “It’s yours.”

*

The sun has long since set by the time Shane props his hip against the kitchen counter and listens to his mom’s voicemail for the second time, speakerphone echoing on the granite. Ilya has been showering for a long time. If he doesn’t come out soon, Shane is going to have to go in there and make sure he hasn’t drowned. 

Yuna’s voice fills the quiet—cheery, rapid-fire, indomitable.

The first three minutes are a passionate breakdown of a potential brand deal with a cereal company, complete with projected numbers, vague threats about leverage, and at least one dramatic sigh about condescending white men in boardrooms. The next five are about the game against the Admirals. Yuna outlines where he and Henry had done well (“good handling!” and “very clean shot on goal in the second period”) and what could be improved on (“you boys need to tighten up your passes, Vaughn was able to intercept at a crucial moment” and “don’t think I didn’t see your performance at the end. I know your brother is great at starting shit, but you shouldn’t join in too, honey”) 

And then, like she always does, she softens.

She reminds him to eat enough. To sleep. To call her back. She tells him she’s proud of him in an offhand way. Because at the end of the day, he is her baby. 

Shane smiles despite himself.

He doesn’t hear the shower shut off.

He doesn’t hear the crutches.

“She seems nice.” Shane nearly jumps out of his skin, yelping as he whips around so fast he almost drops his phone.

His heart slams against his ribs.

For one catastrophic second, he’s sure Yuna must have called him by his name. A casually dropped “Shane-baby” that would finally expose him for the changeling that he is. 

But Ilya just nods toward the phone. “Sorry I scared you. I just wanted to say. Your mom sounds nice. Intense but nice. Like her son.” 

Shane lets out something that might be a laugh but mostly sounds like air escaping a tire. “Yeah… yeah.”

The relief is dizzying.

And then, just as quickly, guilt coils in his stomach. He doesn’t deserve to feel relieved; the more he stays in this house with Ilya, the more he regrets ever lying. Regrets going to that fucking Armani shoot in the first place. 

But that’s not quite true, a vicious little voice says in the back of his mind. There’s a part of you that would do this all over again, just to get to have this. 

Ilya is watching him with that quiet, assessing look again. He swallows hard. His jaw works once. Twice.

“My mom was nice too.”

Shane stills. His thoughts go blank.

“Was?”

Ilya shrugs, but it’s stiff, almost mechanical. “She died when I was twelve.”

Oh. 

Shane doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He lets it breathe. He thinks about who he was at twelve. Shane and Henry like two small moons, orbiting their mother’s gravity. He thinks about what would have happened if their mother suddenly wasn’t there, the black void in space that would have sucked up stars like a vacuum. 

“What was her name?”

“Irina.”

Ilya looks at Shane expectantly. 

Shane wets his lips, thinking. “In your bedroom. There’s a— Did that— was that hers?”

Ilya’s eyebrows lift. Then, suddenly he turns his face completely away, toward the fireplace. The movement is abrupt enough that Shane’s first thought is that he must be holding back a sneeze.

When he turns his face back around, his voice is playful, though his face is carved from stone. “Yes. Is a birdhouse. You have birds in Canada, yes?” 

“There are over 450 distinct species living in Canada. Our money is literally named after a bird,” Shane replies automatically. 

Ilya blinks at him.

“I’m not weird about it!” Shane protests immediately, heat creeping up his neck. He tugs on a lock of his shaggy hair. “My brother had a phase where he really liked birds. We both got pretty good at… bird calls, actually…” Shane trails off, feeling profoundly stupid. He can feel himself shrinking under the weight of his own overshare.

“Okay.” Ilya sniffs, adjusting his crutches where they rest against the counter. “Yes. Was hers. She also had— ‘a thing for birds.’”

Shane can practically see the air quotes.

“It can be relaxing. Bird-watching.”

“Yes.” Ilya scratches at the side of his nose, eyes flicking somewhere past Shane’s shoulder. “Most people— most people, first question they ask is how did she die.”

Shane frowns, suddenly aware of how carefully he’s been stepping around this entire conversation without realizing it.

“Um. Well, I figured— if you wanted me to know, you would have said it. I’m not like. Entitled to know, I guess? Does that make sense?”

He feels off-balance saying it. But he means it.

He’s not owed Irina. He’s not owed one of the worst days of Ilya’s life just because he’s standing in his kitchen. The tea kettle begins to hiss behind him. Shane flips the burner off, and the kettle’s whistle hums low before puttering out.

“You are not… entitled,” he repeats slowly. “But you are curious.”

“She was your mother. Of course I am curious.” 

Ilya exhales, something easing. “She was very sad. For a very long time,” he says, and although his tone is light, his eyes are chips of ice. “I found her.”

Shane nods. Doesn’t push, though his arms ache to pull Ilya into a hug, cradle his head into the dip of his shoulder and just. Hold him there. 

After a second, he says, “If you ever want to tell me about her. Just— her. I’d listen.”

Ilya watches him carefully.

“Maybe I will tell you about how she once chased our neighbor with a broom because he insulted her birdhouse collection.”

Shane blinks. “Incredible.” 

“Yes. She could be terrifying.”

He can see it now—the slight woman from Ilya’s photograph, brandishing a broom like a bat. The absurdity of it loosens something tight in the room. The grief doesn’t disappear, but it shifts shape. 

Ilya’s mouth curves faintly, and for a second, he looks younger. Just a boy remembering his mother.

At length, Ilya clears his throat. “You were making tea?”

“Oh! Yeah. Ginseng. It’s supposed to help the healing process. Well—” Shane turns back to the stove a little too quickly, grateful for something practical to do.

He pours the water carefully into two sleek mugs he’d found in a cabinet earlier. There had been at least twenty identical black mugs in there. This man owns nothing colorful. It’s unsettling. 

“That’s what my grandma used to say. I don’t know if the science checks out, but at this point I think the placebo effect works just as well. If you’re force-fed ginseng enough times when you’re sick or injured, you find that you can’t really separate the two.”

He dunks the tea bags, watching the water darken.

There’s a pause behind him. Not empty— almost like Ilya is waiting for something.

Shane barrels right past it. He pulls the bags out and balances both mugs in his hands. “Sit,” he commands, nudging one of the stools out with his knee.

Ilya limps over and lowers himself down carefully. Shane sets the mug in front of him like an offering.

“This is your mother’s mother, yes?”

“Yeah.” Shane smiles automatically, the memory arriving easy and uncomplicated. She was four foot nine, but an absolute tyrant about both cough syrup and knitwear. If you even looked like you were about to catch a cold, she’d already have the kettle on. 

Hanako had never quite come to trust Canadian doctors. They spoke too fast, they were dismissive. You were hardly in the office before you were shunted back out the door. Hanako had always firmly believed that no matter what ailed you, the right cup of tea could fix you. (“Ginseng for sickness and muscle fatigue. Tanpopo for…” she paused, tapping her nose “...women’s issues. Green for the heart and for headaches. And biwa, to help clear those unsightly freckles from your cheeks.”) 

He leans back against the counter, warming his hands on his own mug, smiling faintly at the memory of being wrapped in blankets on his grandparents’ couch, drinking endless cups of tea. Usually curled up and miserable, with his brother right next to him, because if Shane was sick, Henry was too. 

Ilya watches him closely over the rim of his cup. Not smiling. Not speaking. Almost like he’s… waiting for something. 

Shane frowns. He nudges the sugar bowl across the counter. “You might hate this, actually. It’s kind of… earthy.”

Ilya’s gaze lingers on him for a beat too long before he looks down into his cup. “It is fine,” he says quietly.

Shane nods, satisfied, and takes a sip.

The kitchen fills with the faint, bitter smell of ginseng and something unspoken settling quietly between them.

*

Tonight, they don’t dance around each other.

They brush their teeth side by side again, but the silence is easier. Shane doesn’t flinch when their shoulders bump. Ilya doesn’t apologize when he spits and reaches across Shane for a washcloth. At one point, Shane catches their reflections in the mirror—foam at the corners of their mouths, hair messy, eyes tired—and feels a strange flicker of something dangerously close to domestic.

It startles him.

Back in the bedroom, the crutches are already leaning neatly against the wall. The pillows are arranged without discussion—two stacked beneath Ilya’s injured leg. Shane notices and adjusts the top one without being asked.

Ilya watches him do it.

“What,” Shane mutters, defensive out of habit.

“Nothing,” Ilya says. But he’s smiling faintly.

Tonight, Shane doesn’t hover like a ghost haunting the edge of Ilya’s bed. He pulls off his shirt and shorts and slides into the left side like he’s done it a hundred times. The sheets are cool against his skin. He settles on his side automatically, facing in.

There’s no careful hands-length of space between them this time.

For a second, they just lie there in the dark. Shane can hear the steady rhythm of Ilya’s breathing.

It’s Ilya who moves first. He turns his head slightly. “You are staring.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Shane exhales through his nose but doesn’t deny it again.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Ilya’s hand slides across the mattress, slow and deliberate, until it finds the waistband of Shane’s briefs. His fingers curl lightly into the fabric—not pulling, just anchoring.

Shane shifts closer without thinking. This time, when he drapes himself partly over Ilya’s chest, he does it carefully, mindful of the leg but not hesitant about the rest of him. Ilya adjusts automatically, one arm coming up around Shane’s back.

It’s not awkward.

It’s not even particularly dramatic.

It just fits better.

Shane presses his face into the warm space below Ilya’s collarbone. He can feel the steady double-thud of his heart there.

“You snore,” Shane murmurs.

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

A soft huff of laughter vibrates under Shane’s cheek.

*

Their final morning together unfolds almost identically to the one before it.

Shane wakes with the sun bleeding pale pink through the curtains, lies there for a moment listening to Ilya breathe, then silently slips out of bed. 

He nudges Ilya awake and bullies him into his medicine with efficiency—banana, water, orange pill bottle. When Ilya almost immediately drifts back asleep, Shane does not run his fingers through those dirty-blonde curls. Instead, he turns on his heel, disappears into the gym and runs until his legs ache and his lungs feel scraped clean.

He keeps his head down on his feet the whole time, unwilling to look at his reflection in the mirrors lining the walls. Shane isn’t sure he will like what he will see there if he does. Still, there’s something grounding about the repetition of sprinting. The burn. The steady pounding of it. It keeps his mind from wandering too far ahead to the five-hour-and-thirteen-minute drive ahead of him this afternoon.

When he finishes showering, he makes the same omelettes as yesterday. Same ingredients. Then, he lines up the same black mugs on the counter. Shane likes routine, finds comfort in a steady, predictable rhythm. 

This is not a routine you get to have, Shane Hollander, a voice whispers from the back of his head. Shane bites his lip and forces the thought back down. 

Ilya limps out eventually, rubbing his eyes like a toddler. Shane hopes desperately that he can’t smell the mango passionfruit shampoo in his hair. Shane couldn’t resist during his shower. It was silly. It was stupid. But, Shane is leaving today, and he wanted his hair to smell like Ilya’s. 

Ilya takes his omelette with a sleepy, grateful smile. They eat at the island, knees knocking occasionally. The television hums quietly in the background, too low to make out whatever the analysts are saying about Scott Hunter’s performance yesterday.

They’ve been arguing for a solid five minutes.

Ilya sets his fork down with exaggerated finality. “Mascots should be animal. Everyone knows this. It is… traditional.”

Shane shrugs. “Maybe, but the creatures are more fun, I think. My brother loves Mango the Metro. Probably ‘cause they’re kindred spirits.” 

Mango—the beloved red-and-blue furry monster of the Metros—is infamous for chaotic halftime antics and, frankly, obscene twerking skills. Henry had loved him from the day of his inception five years ago. If they weren’t identical twins, he’d suspect that Henry and Mango shared DNA. Both were unpredictable. Loud. Too much.

Both fan favorites. 

“Shane? Really? I find that hard to believe.” Ilya chews thoughtfully. 

Shane’s heart stops in his chest before his brain catches up.

Oh.

Of course. Shane had said my brother without thinking about it. Entirely too unguarded and open about it. 

Ilya swallows and continues, “He always struck me as quiet. But then, not everybody is as they seem on the outside.” His gaze flicks up, settles on Shane with unsettling precision. “You are not much like your media persona.”

Shane’s mouth goes dry. 

He reaches for his water, takes too big of a gulp, and immediately swallows wrong. It burns. He coughs hard, eyes watering, humiliation creeping hot under his skin.

Ilya is instantly there, palm landing solidly between Shane’s shoulder blades. He rubs firmly, brows pulled tight with concern.

“I— sorry. If you do not want to talk about him. I know you are… not in best place with him right now, maybe.”

Shane straightens slowly, still coughing once more for good measure. His voice comes out rough. “Who says that?”

Ilya shrugs, but his eyes are careful. Watching. “I saw headline, remember. It seemed like maybe you fought with whole family?”

Shane drags both hands over his face like he can physically erase the conversation if he just covers himself up long enough.

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want this version of the morning. He doesn’t want Ilya saying his name—Shane—like it belongs to someone else.

He has let this go on too long.

He’s known it since Ilya first put his hands on him in that Armani greenroom. Since the first time Ilya looked at him like he was seeing something real.

He is a terrible person.

“Hollander.” 

Shane takes a shuddering breath, hands still locked firmly over his face. He can feel his pulse in his palms. His heartbeat is frantic and sweat begins to prickle his scalp.

“Hollander.” 

Then those hands—those huge, steady hands—wrap around both of Shane’s wrists. Warm. Firm without forcing. Ilya tugs gently, not prying, not commanding. Just asking.

Giving Shane the chance to resist.

He doesn’t.

He lets his hands be guided down. 

“Is okay. I did not mean—” Ilya stops when Shane finally looks at him. Their eyes lock. Ilya’s expression shifts—steadies all at once. He chooses his next words slowly, like they matter. “I just meant… that… if you wanted to talk about him. I would listen.”

I don’t deserve this. Shane has known it the whole time, and yet it strikes him anew. 

Shane swallows. “There uh. There isn’t much to say about him. What you see is what you get.” 

Ilya holds Shane’s gaze, not pushing, just waiting. When it’s finally clear Shane isn’t going to say any more, he nods. He releases Shane’s wrists and reaches for his fork again. 

The scrape of metal against ceramic is harsh in Shane’s ears. 

They finish the rest of the meal in silence. And when Shane washes the dishes—rinse, soap, scrub, wipe, stack—he carefully doesn’t think of anything at all. 

*

By the time Shane has to leave a few hours later, they’ve managed to sand down the sharp edges of the morning. The air feels lighter again. Safe in the way that all patterns are safe.

Teasing. Eye rolls. Half-smiles.

Shane zips up his duffle on the edge of the bed and immediately unzips it again because he forgot his charger. Ilya hovers in the doorway offering entirely unhelpful commentary about how long Canadians take to pack.

Shane flips him off without looking up.

By the time they make it to the entryway, Shane is already running thirty minutes behind schedule. Ilya moves confidently on his crutches now, the gait smoother than it had been two days ago. 

They stop by the door.

Neither of them reaches for it.

They shuffle slightly. Shane adjusts the strap of his duffle. Ilya shifts his weight. There’s something unfinished in the space between them, something neither of them seems willing to breach.

Ilya does anyway. Of course he does. He is the brave one.

“You will text when you get home, yes?”

Shane’s mouth curves up automatically, even as something tightens in his chest. Before he can answer, Ilya adds quickly, “I will miss having a servant around.”

“Oh, will you?” Shane adjusts his grip on the duffel, feigning offense.

Ilya closes the distance in a sudden, decisive movement, backing Shane against the door with a solid thud. The kiss is immediate and consuming—no hesitation, no softness. His hand fists into Shane’s hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head, and then his tongue is in his mouth.

The world narrows to heat and pressure and the firm line of Ilya’s body pressing him into the door. Just as it begins to tip into something truly filthy, Ilya pulls back. Not far. Their foreheads touch. His breath is warm against Shane’s mouth.

“Yes,” he says, voice rougher now. “It is a big house. It gets quiet.”

Shane’s eyes drop helplessly to Ilya’s lips—wet, slightly swollen.

He hears himself say, “Maybe you should get a cat, then.”

“Two, you mean.” 

“Hm?” 

Shane’s brain is still several steps behind his body. He’s calculating stupid things—like whether two days is enough healing for Ilya’s leg for a quick, reckless blowjob against this door.

He is going to end this when he gets back to Montreal. He knows that. But, one more time won’t hurt. At least, no more than this already does.

“Two cats,” Ilya says, “You said cats are—what, pack? They need a partner, you said. Or they get lonely.” 

Ilya’s hand fits against the side of his jaw, holding his head steady, forcing Shane to hold his gaze. 

Ilya’s eyes were blazing. Shane holds it for as long as he can before he clears his throat and looks down. It feels like standing in direct sunlight; tender flesh left out in the sun for too long begins to burn. 

He clears his throat first. Drops his gaze to the space between them. To the floor. Anywhere but those eyes.

“I’ll text you,” Shane says, directing it at their feet.

“Good.”

When Ilya’s palm falls away from his face, the absence is immediate and searing. The door handle presses hard against Shane’s back.

For a moment neither of them moves.

Then Shane reaches for the knob.

He doesn’t look back when he steps into the freezing Boston air.

* 

Ilya watches Henry do a careful U-turn out of his driveway in his ugly little Jeep and stares until the tail lights disappear down the road. 

He rubs his face and crutches back to the couch. He remakes his pillow tower, grunts as he positions his leg on it. 

Ilya settles in. No sound in his apartment except the gentle swish-swish of his washing machine. Henry had insisted on it before he left (“Rozanov, you should be changing your sheets once a week. That’s just basic hygiene. What the fuck—you will literally break out if you don’t!”). He was fastidious about certain things like that. Changing sheets. Washing dishes. 

And yet… loose about other things. Shoes on in the house. Cat hair on all of his clothes. Ilya’s tongue in his ass. 

Okay, so there were incongruities in Henry Hollander. It made him complex. And that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But it did make him hard to read.  

Ilya wiggles his phone out from his butt pocket and taps Sveta’s name. He sticks a pencil under his brace as it rings out, relishing the scratch of it against his injured knee.  

“Ilyushka!” Her voice is warm in his ear. “How’d it go?” 

“Good. I think. Maybe.” Henry was hard to crack. There were moments—like the one at the door—where he felt certain Henry wanted more from this too.

“Did you ask him?” 

“I—” Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut tightly. “No. I didn’t.” 

Svetlana makes an indignant squawk. “Why not! I thought we had it all planned out, no?” 

“Being injured fucked it up,” Ilya fires back defensively. 

“Right, because nobody can have a conversation when their knee is sprained. C’mon. Tell me what really happened with your mystery man.” 

“H-He just—” Ilya grunts, dropping his phone into his lap as he thinks hard about how to explain this to Svetlana. He’s never been good at words. 

The last time he’d been in Montreal, Ilya had watched Henry’s crippled cat hunker over and wheeze and wheeze and wheeze for what felt like an hour before she had finally coughed up the tiniest hairball. 

That’s sort of how he feels now. 

He puts his phone back to his ear and says flatly, “He is not easy. I don’t— I don’t know.”

Svetlana hums. “Explain it to me?”

He appreciates Svetlana so much in this moment. He knows that being vulnerable comes as unnaturally to her as it does to him. Talking about what they really think and feel always feels a little strange. Like trying to follow someone else’s footprints through deep snow—each step careful, awkward, slightly off-balance.

Ilya shifts against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s like… he drove a long way to come and see me, yes? And okay, I told him it would be sex all weekend, so, I get that. Sex for three days with me? Of course he is going to come.” 

Svetlana makes an immediate, loyal noise of agreement. “Obviously.” 

“But I got hurt and he still stayed. And then he is doing things like making me food and reading the side effects of my pills…” 

There’s a part of Ilya that wants to tell Svetlana how that had felt, having Henry hand him that little orange bottle. How for a split second it had felt like vertigo, like seeing himself and his father, before the image realigned in his brain. He swallows the impulse and says instead, “And—he’s learning Russian.” 

There’s a thoughtful pause on the other end of the line. “Hm.”

He hears rustling through the phone—fabric shifting, the faint creak of a mattress. It sounds like Svetlana is settling into bed, the way she does when she knows a conversation might take a while.

“That is not nothing,” she says finally. “I think if it were just a hook-up to him, he probably wouldn’t be trying to learn, no?”

Ilya swallows.

Hard.

He doesn’t want to let himself believe that. He knows how quickly hope can turn around quick as a scorpion and sting you.

And yet.

It’s already there, sitting quietly in his chest. The hope.

“Yes. I think so. He also asked about—about my mother. About her.” And fuck if the memory of that conversation in the kitchen doesn’t bring a traitorous lump to his throat. 

Ilya has had a dead mother for fourteen years. A dead father for almost one. And if there is something Ilya has learned from this experience it is this: as soon as people hear that your parents are dead, they want to know one thing—how did they die?

People ask because they want to file it away somewhere in their brain. They want to know exactly how they should feel about it. If your father was old and ailing for a long time—well. His death was to be expected. Sad, but not too sad. But your mother was young? It was sudden? Very, very sad. Put this one in the tremendous loss category.

So yes, people always want to know how his mother died.

Nobody ever asks how she lived.

But there was Henry asking about Irina’s birdhouse, standing in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his wrists, hair floppy, every inch of him screaming: if you jump, I am a soft landing. 

“But he doesn’t open up to me,” Ilya finally says, after the silence gets overwhelming. “It’s easier with sex. He doesn’t like when I try— if I try to be serious.” 

Henry had practically crawled out of his own skin when Ilya had tried to gently broach the topic of his twin. He looked a few breaths short of a full panic attack. So yes, Ilya gets the sense that Henry is holding back something. He just doesn’t know what it is. 

“But you are trying,” Svetlana says simply. “I think you should keep trying.” 

Ilya chews that thought around in his mouth, tucks it into his cheek like tobacco. He has no reason to go back to Russia now that his father is dead and things have blown up with his brother. He still has his hockey career to think about but. 

But. 

The risk of it might be worth it to have something real. 

“Still not going to tell me his name, are you?” 

“No,” Ilya says firmly, not willing to reopen that line of discussion. Henry has been cagey about this whole thing. He thinks he would not appreciate it if Ilya told Sveta who he was.

“Mm.” Svetlana clicks her tongue. “We got in a new Jag this week. Do you want to hear about it?” 

Ilya hears her words for what they are: I love you. 

“You know I do.” I love you too. 

*

Five hours and thirteen minutes later Ilya gets a text. 

[From Holly:]

Made it back ok. 

Then another immediately following:

[From Holly:]

If you’re not ready for cats you could get a plant. It’s something to look after and it will oxygenate the room. I’ve read that plants are good for stress and anxiety. 

Ilya bites at the cuticle on his thumb, watching the three dots wiggle, disappear, wiggle, disappear for several minutes before the last text comes through.

[From Holly:]

Thanks for making me come this weekend. I’m glad I did.

Ilya smiles and taps out: But you did not even come once

The response is quick.

[From Holly:]

Dick. You know what I meant.

[From Rosie:]

I know 

A little thumbs up appears next to that message. 

Ilya plugs his phone in and moves silently through his nightly routine. Face washed, teeth brushed, mouthwash spit. Not once does he knock elbows with anyone. Not once does he laugh while his mouth is foamy with toothpaste, spraying the mirror with flecks of spearmint. 

If the next day Ilya drives to the closest garden center and purchases an enormous peace lily, well… there’s no one in his house to see it. 

Chapter End Notes

EEEE!!! It's finally posted!! Everyone who bet that Ilya DOESN'T KNOW can now collect their money from the bookies.

I've had this chapter written since--no joke--February. A special thank you to my group chat, who answered my random text for "generic hockey player names" and gave me James Lucardi (defensive on the Ottawa Centaurs) and Kyle Murphy (right winger on the Detroit Cruisers).

Big shout out to them as well name for the Detroit team name since Ms. Rachel Reid did not bother to make one according to the Wiki. "What's gay OR car themed, since its Detroit" I asked my girlies. And they came up with The Cruisers, WHICH IS BOTH GAY AND CAR THEMED. ChatGPT wishes it had the same level of ball as a group chat of mentally unstable women.

Thank you Princessoftheworlds as always, and thank YOU gentle reader for your encouragement. Please know I read every comment and am truly so grateful when you take the time to do so :')

Chapter 8: End of First Period - Intermission

Chapter Notes

Just a friendly reminder that I haven't read any of the Scott/Kip book(s)! I took one look at Kip and decided, oh yeah, I can get my gay little hands on this man.

Consider this your warning: Reader, I have taken liberties.

February 2017 (present day)

It’s been two years, one month, and three days since Kip broke up with Scott Hunter, so you’d think he’d be used to being without him. 

But he’s not. 

Not a single day has passed where Kip hasn’t thought about Scott. 

Two years since Kip got his acceptance to Boston University’s Art History program—full fucking ride plus a small stipend, better than what NYU had offered and therefore impossible to refuse. Taking classes full time while also TA’ing and working for a local catering company had seemed doable at the outset. After all, in New York, Kip had practically been working eighty-hour weeks when you added all his jobs together.

But Kip hadn’t accounted for the kind of work this would be. The outside reading. The constant mental load. Students emailing at all hours. The endless, soul-sucking grading. There had been research. Papers. More research. More papers. The scramble to find a thesis advisor. Not to mention all the various slings and arrows of adjusting to life in a new city. 

No Dad a subway ride away. No Elena dropping in just to hug him. 

And, of course, a freshly broken heart courtesy of New York’s finest hockey captain.

There hadn’t been a single week that first semester where Kip didn’t cry at least once. By the time December drew her icy fingers along the bay, it had felt like he was dragging himself broken and bleeding across the finish line.

So when the cohort WhatsApp blew up, Kip had jumped at the chance to celebrate finally making it through. And, well, palmam qui meruit ferat—Kip deserved to celebrate his victory. 

What started as a few drinks at a local pub spiraled, as these things tend to do, until the six of them ended up crammed into a tiny tattoo parlor. After that, things got hazy. Pieces of his memory scattered like so many shards of amphora in the dirt. 

All Kip knew was that he woke up the next morning with a fresh ring through his nose.

“The girls all match!” the WhatsApp message had read, accompanied by a photo of all six of them, grinning and bleary-eyed, each sporting a simple gold hoop in their faces.

It had been tender for weeks. 

His dad had loved it the first time he saw it over FaceTime—right up until Kip absentmindedly started touching it.

(“Don’t fiddle with it, kid, you look like you’re picking your nose when you do. Nobody wants a professor who’s into booger mining.”)

Solid advice from Dad, as always. 

Kip had ended up liking it too. After a while it felt like it was always meant to be there. And after a little bit longer, he’d gotten another one, a barbell through his left eyebrow. And then another one, an industrial through his right ear. 

…and then another one, through the middle of his bottom lip. 

It had all just felt right. Kip hadn’t let himself dwell on it too long.

Of course, there was also the weight. 

In New York, Kip had always found time for the gym between jobs. Between regular workouts and constantly running around the city, he’d managed to stay in shape without thinking too hard about it.

His life now is mostly sedentary, contained within a ten-mile radius of campus.

When they’d first hooked up, all those years ago, Scott had spent a long time with his mouth on Kip’s body—licking slow stripes up his abs, pressing searing hot kisses into the dip of his obliques like he was memorizing their shape. 

“You’re so fucking hot, Kip,” Scott had breathed into Kip’s sweaty skin.

So yes—the new softness around his waist had terrified him at first.

Would he still like me? was the thought that kept turning in Kip’s mind, vultures circling the corpse of their dead relationship. Would he even like this fatter, weirder, more visibly queer version of me? This version that’s even less palatable than the last?

Kip had tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter. That Scott hadn’t hidden their relationship because he was ashamed of Kip. And even if he had—it was over.

It was over. 

Kip draws in a shaking breath and pushes open the door to his building. 

When Scott had texted him out of the blue two weeks ago, Kip should have just deleted it immediately. It’s what Elena would have told him to do. (“Protect your heart, Kip, protect your peace.”) 

He’d opened it. 

[From S.H.]

Hey. I’m going to be in Boston in a few weeks. Would be great to catch up if you’re free. 

[From S.H.]

No worries if you’re not, I totally understand. You’re probably really busy doing art history things.

[From S.H.]

Would love to see you though.

A smarter version of Kip would have taken the out Scott had offered. 

But Kip isn’t smart; he’s an idiot.

An idiot who is now standing on the landing, catching his breath, pretending it’s from the two flights of stairs he just climbed, not from the figure leaning casually against his doorframe.

Scott. 

Scott in sunglasses and a baseball cap though he’s inside and there’s nobody around this time of day except Mrs. Stravinsky who is older than dirt and probably wouldn’t know a hockey player if one kissed her square on the mouth. 

“Hi,” Scott says. He’s smiling tremulously, and Kip hears his voice catch on the single syllable. 

Kip never stood a chance. 

He’d known it the minute he texted Scott his address. And now that Scott is here, real, solid, in front of him, the knowledge is immutable. Scott is inside Kip in a way that cannot be extracted. Past the flesh and the sinew, sunk deep into the marrow of Kip’s bones. 

“Hi,” Kip says. He pushes past Scott and fumbles his keys into the lock, the little Admirals pompom keychain bouncing against his wrist with each jerky movement. It's stupid and sentimental, and Kip is scared of what it says about him that he’s kept it on his keys this long. He should have taken it off the ring this morning. 

But he hadn’t been thinking about anything except making it to his lecture on time. He’d barely remembered his glasses—had made it halfway down the stairs before realizing the world was fuzzy around the edges.

Scott doesn’t comment on it though. His hands make an abortive gesture as Kip passes. It’s only a moment, though, and then he’s shoving them deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders tight as he waits for Kip to get the door open. 

The lock sticks.

Of course it does.

Stupid thing. You have to turn the key just right—forty-five degrees—then give the door a bump with your hip or it won’t catch.

“I could h—?”

“I’ve got it.”

The door gives with a reluctant creak, and Kip hip-checks it open, immediately reaching inside to flick on the light.

The apartment is small.

Shabby, if he’s being honest. Most of it pieced together secondhand—mismatched furniture, scuffed surfaces; thank you, Boston University freecycle Facebook group. There are a handful of mysterious stains on the floor, lingering evidence of previous owners. 

The couch, especially, is a disaster. Floral in a way that’s both dated and aggressively pastel. Gustav—the enormously tall, pink-haired post-doc from Berlin—had helped him wrestle it up the stairs, serious-faced and determined.

He’d also, later that night, fucked Kip into it.

The sex had been… fine.

The pillow talk had not.

It had been a new experience, lying there half-naked while Gustav launched into what was essentially his dissertation defense on Soviet nonconformist art and the arts of Eurasia through the lens of didacticism. All while his come dried uncomfortably in Kip’s chest hair.

Kip had tried to pay attention at first.

He really had.

But the more Gustav went on, the more Kip’s mind drifted to another couch, in another time, in another place, in another life. Dappled sunlight through sixteenth floor windows, draped on top of Scott like a weighted blanket, fingertips gently running across the nape of his neck. 

“ —and that’s when the penalty gets called,” Scott had said into the crown of Kip’s head. 

“It just doesn’t make any sense. Why is that penalty called icing? By rights, every penalty should be called icing. The whole rink is ice!” Kip had protested, placing a kiss to Scott’s sternum. 

Scott’s laugh made his whole body shake under Kip. 

When Kip had snapped back to the present, Gustav hadn’t noticed a thing; he was still slowly describing the ways in which the use of green in several works represented a cultural thaw and preindicated the fall of the USSR. 

Later, Kip had declined a second round as politely as possible.

Gustav had taken it well.

It had still made department meetings awkward.

Now, watching Scott step into the apartment—designer glasses, designer jacket, designer boots tracking in ribbons of melted brown slush—something uneasy flips low in Kip’s stomach.

He can’t help but wonder what this all looks like to him.

What he’s thinking.

Kip will never forget the first time he stepped into Scott’s place in New York. All sleek marble and glass, open-concept and impossibly clean. More money had gone into Scott’s kitchen alone than Kip would probably see in his lifetime. 

And he's proud of what he’s done, really, proud of the space he’s carved out for himself in Boston. But something still trembles inside him watching Scott take it all in. 

Kip drops his bag by the door and toes off his Converse, tucking them neatly against the wall.

“Would you please take your shoes off?” 

“Huh?” Scott glances over his shoulder from where he’s been studying the cluster of prints and papers Kip has sticky-tacked to the wall. “Oh! Sorry. I— I’ll just…” 

Kip folds his arms protectively over his soft stomach as he watches Scott carefully untie his chunky brown boots, the laces whispering against the leather. Scott sets the boots beside Kip’s Converse with an almost military neatness.

Kip keeps his gaze pinned to the floor. Anywhere but Scott’s face. The size difference between their shoes is ridiculous—Scott’s boots hulking, solid; Kip’s sneakers looking dirty and worn beside them.

Scott is wearing white socks with a little hole in the pinky toe. They’re unremarkable, far from the blue and yellow banana pair Kip had gifted him. And of course he is. It’s not like Kip would expect Scott to hold onto his silly little present from two years ago, let alone wear them around. 

It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t. 

“Kip.” 

Kip’s gaze snaps up to meet Scott’s, the reaction to his name from Scott's lips instant and humiliating. Heat rises in Kip’s cheeks. 

He’s taken off his glasses and cap, Kip realizes, because now he can see Scott’s face. Those hazel eyes. There’s an expression blooming across those dear features. Regret, maybe. Sadness? Whatever it is, Kip isn’t ready to think about it yet. 

“Kip, I—”

“—That’s my rainbow wall.” 

Scott’s mouth clicks shut. 

Kip tugs the cuff of his hoodie over his wrists, and nods his head towards the wall Scott had been studying earlier. 

It’s a cluttered mosaic: ticket stubs from a Red Sox game he and Elena went to when she visited months ago, their edges curling. Grainy printouts of grotesque Renaissance babies, all swollen cheeks and beetle black eyes. Postcards from his dad, each one a different New York tourist trap—Times Square at night, the Statue of Liberty at dusk, Central Park in autumn.

There are printed course reviews too, thumbtacked in uneven rows. Some make him laugh every time he reads them. 

(“Professor Grady, you’re lit as fuck dude.”)
(“You tried really hard but I simply will never care about chiaroscuro before 9am.”)
(“Best eyebrows in the entire department.”)

Others still manage to make him tear up sometimes. 

(“I didn’t care about art history before this class and now I do. Thanks, Professor Grady.”)
(“He taught like he cared. He’s the first professor I’ve had who’s done that.”)

Scott is examining it all intensely, lips in a tight line. 

Kip sighs. “For when it rains. To remind me what I’m doing it all for.” 

“It’s… nice.” Scott’s voice is hoarse. “You seem like you’re really… loved. Here.”

I was loved in New York too, Kip aches to say. Don’t you remember? He doesn’t, though. He sucks the words back deep into his lungs and holds them there.

When he exhales, the words have transformed. 

“What do you want, Scott?” he asks softly. It’d be easier if Kip could be angry. Elena wanted him to be angry. (“He tried to make you his dirty little secret Kip. You deserve better than that.”)

But Kip just can’t do it.

How can Kip be angry with this man who once loved him so sweetly? Scott, with his terrible serial killer jokes and the absentminded way he’d twirl Kip’s curls around his finger. Scott, who touched Kip like he was someone worthy of being handled with care.

Kip knows too much of Scott. Knows what his face looks like after a win, flushed and bright with triumph. Knows how his brows draw together when he tips into his climax. Knows the way his eyelids redden when he cries amid confessions murmured in the phthalo blue hours before dawn—about parents who would never see the life he was building, the dreams he’s been chasing alone for so long.

In the two years, one month, and three days since their breakup, Kip has layered his life thick with distractions—painted over the canvas, over and over until the colors blurred and the texture rose. One night stands with men whose names he sometimes forgets by morning. Work, teaching, research, repeated ad infinitum. But no matter how many layers he adds, the underdrawing remains. Deep within but still viewable under infrared; underneath it all, Scott Hunter, sketched in shaky strokes at the very foundation of him. 

So, no. Kip can’t do it. He just can’t be angry. Not even with all the jagged edges of his broken heart stabbing his ribs from the inside. 

“I’m here because…” Scott trails off. “Because I’ve been in Boston exactly fourteen times since you’ve moved here, and I couldn’t be in this fucking city one more time without seeing you.” 

Kip looks at him—really looks. Takes in his hair just grown to the edge of too-long, curling around the shell of his ears. There’s stubble along his jaw, uneven, neglected. His eyes are shadowed, his shoulders subtly rounded.

Even as his words warm Kip, it is a fleeting thing; the first beam of sun in March before the bitter New England winter reasserts her claim. 

Because Scott does not look like he’s here to say he’s ready to take Kip back, to say that he’s changed his mind, to say damn them all and love Kip out loud. 

And yet, he’s not sure who tips forward first, just that before he knows it, he’s in Scott’s arms.

They hug, and it’d be so easy for Kip to melt, to pool himself again into the shadows of Scott’s life. Scott might be a revenant, but Kip has already put his shame to rest, he cannot, will not let it be resurrected. 

So when Scott leans in, intent clear, Kip lifts his fingers and presses them gently to Scott’s lips, stopping him. 

“I want the next time you kiss me to be because you’re ready for me,” Kip says, voice steady despite the aching. “All of me. And everything that comes with that.”

Scott stills. 

Kip can see Scott absorb it, sees the shades of it in those olive brown eyes. 

It doesn’t do anything to stop the hurting. 

The apartment is silent, save for the sounds of Boston that filter in through the window. Cars driving by, people talking loudly on their phones. They don’t know, Kip thinks dimly, they have no idea Scott Hunter is breaking my heart for a second time. 

Because they both know that Scott isn’t ready. That he might never be ready. 

“I’ll be back,” Scott says after a moment. “In a few weeks. They’re hosting the MLH gala in Boston.”

“I know.” Kip lets out a short, humorless laugh. “I’m working it. My friend Sean’s catering company has a branch up here. I still sometimes pick up shifts when I—”

He cuts himself off. The rest of the sentence—when I need the money—lingers between them anyway. 

“Do you—” 

“No,” Kip says firmly. He doesn’t want Scott's money. He wants Scott or nothing at all. 

Scott nods, then asks quietly, “When I’m here for the gala… would it be alright if I came to see you again?”

Kip hesitates.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Scott.”

Scott looks as shattered as Kip feels, fine fractures in the marble of his expression. It’s there in the way his mouth pinches, in the way his eyes keep searching Kip’s face.

PhD students low in the pecking order get saddled with teaching the intro courses, the broad surveys meant to corral first-years into something approaching a holistic appreciation of the field. Kip’s never minded. There’s a freedom in it, in the sweep of time and geography, in moving from one style to another. Still, he always finds himself letting the chapter on classical antiquity linger a while. 

Chalk that up to personal bias.

“What’s the difference between Classical and Hellenistic? It’s not cut and dry—there’s always overlap. But sculptures from this period tend to focus on the scenes of highest emotional intensity. It’s the moment of apogee,” Kip had explained, turning to write the word on the blackboard.

He’d underlined it once.

Laocoön, his body twisted in impossible agony, muscles straining as the serpents coil tighter, his sons caught in the same merciless grip. The Dying Gaul, slumped and bleeding, studying the wound that will end him with a quiet, almost noble acceptance. Figures caught at the exact instant feeling crests—pain, ecstasy, despair.

Frozen there.

That’s what this is.

That’s what Kip and Scott are now. There’s no resolution, no gentle descent—just this unbearable, impossible height. They’re figures trapped in the apogee of their longing; their story will never progress past this point. 

“I’m so—” Scott’s throat catches around the word. 

Kip shakes his head, smiling even as his eyes fill. “Don’t be.” Because he truly doesn’t want Scott to be sorry. He wants Scott to live, unburdened by every part of himself he keeps hidden. 

Scott curls himself in, presses his face into the curve of Kip’s neck, breath warm and unsteady against his skin. Kip feels the inhale, a deep heaving of bellows, like Scott is trying to stoke something aflame inside himself.

Kip’s hands hover for a moment before settling, featherlight against Scott’s broad back.

Time stretches. 

Eventually, Scott pulls back. He clears his throat, scrubbing a hand down his face before shoving both hands deep into his jacket pockets, like if he leaves them free, they’ll betray him by reaching out again.

“If— no, when the Admirals make the playoffs, I’ll set aside some tickets for you and your family.” Scott sniffs, aiming for casual. “If you want that. Cool, uh, cool if you don’t, though. That’d be fine.” 

“Scott…” Kip starts. Stops. He bites down on the inside of his lip, grounding himself in the sharpness of it.

It’s not a good idea. None of this is. Not the tickets, not the banquet, not keeping Scott’s number saved in the first place.

It’s only going to end in more sadness. 

“It’s fine, no, uh. Really, it’s cool. I’m um. I’m going to set them aside anyway. Just in case you, like, change your mind or whatever. No worries, bro.” 

They both flinch, just slightly.

Bro—a knee-jerk locker room defense, something easy and safe, something Scott could usually say without consequence. One shade lighter than no homo. It’s painfully out of place here, in this apartment, in the lingering warmth of their embrace, in the echo of everything they once were to each other.

“Do you want something to eat? I could make you…” Kip frantically goes through his pantry in his mind and to his dismay discovers that it’s empty. He’s been putting off a grocery run for days. “Butter noodles…?”

He folds his arms around his stomach again, a nervous reflex he can’t quite shake, fingers pressing into his squishy sides like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Scott is already shaking his head before Kip even finishes. “No. Thank you. I’ll just. I should probably get going.”

“Yeah. Okay. Yup.” Kip nods too fast, too eager. He doesn’t want Scott to go, but the sooner he does, the sooner the wound can scab. 

Theoretically.

“Yup.” Scott echoes, popping the ‘p’ too hard, the way he does when he’s nervous. 

(“If it's okay to order off-menu, Kip-p.”)

Watching Scott shove his too-big feet into his boots is profoundly awkward. Kip doesn’t know what to do, what to say. 

Scott eventually straightens, turns, stares hard at Kip. His face does a curious dance of micro-expressions, too quick for Kip to read, before he finally blurts out, “I like the piercings.” 

He immediately looks mortified. 

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t give Kip time to react, or laugh, or say anything at all. He yanks the door open and bolts. 

The door swings out wide behind him. 

Kip just stands there for a beat, staring at the empty doorway.

Right then, as if on cue, Mrs. Stravinsky’s door creaks open down the hall. She shuffles out in her preferred habiliments of faded robe and pink house slippers. There’s a small trash bag dangling from her hand. When she spots Kip, her whole face softens, smile deepening the wrinkles around her mouth.

“Oh! Good timing, buttons. Would you mind taking my garbage to the dumpster?”

“Of course.” Kip steps into the hallway, grateful for something to do, something to make himself useful if only for a moment. He takes the bag from her, their fingers brushing for a moment.

“Who was your gentleman caller, buttons?”

Kip hesitates, brain catching on your gentleman. “Just… a friend. Someone I used to know, really,” he says, shrugging pathetically.

Mrs. Stravinsky pauses, staring down the hallway where Scott retreated moments ago. She taps a finger thoughtfully against her lips, eyes narrowing just a touch.

“Anyone ever told him he looks a lot like Scott Hunter?”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you SO much everyone who commented last chapter!! My heart is so full!!

I hope you all enjoy this version of grad student freak Kip Grady. :)

Chapter 9: Sea Glass

Chapter Notes

Just a quick tw at the top here for Shane's incredibly strict, bordering on disordered eating habits.

Florida, February 2017 (present day)

It had been strange to do the All-Star weekend without Ilya.

Strange in a way Shane hadn’t anticipated. He’d told himself it would be easier. Less complicated without Ilya’s heavy gaze tugging at him across hotel pools and the media junkets. He thought he would be relieved not to have to pretend. 

In a way, he is relieved. He’s not sure how he would have made it through without Ilya realizing his secret. 

Still, every time he looks over his shoulder and Ilya isn’t there, it feels like Shane has missed a step. 

Ilya, on the other hand, was probably secretly thrilled. An extra week off. No press. No forced smiles. Just more time to rehab his knee before the playoffs.

And they’ve been texting.

Shane is going to end things with him soon. He just—hasn’t found the right moment. It would be better to do it in person. That’s what decent people do. Probably.

So yes. Texting. And not just sexting this time. 

Ilya chirping about something idiotic Marleau said at practice (“He kept insisting that Mongolia was in America. It took us three hours to realize he meant Montana”). A blurry picture of their drill whiteboard covered in dry-erase dicks. 

Shane sending a photo of an impossibly large Canadian goose he’d spotted earlier. 

Ilya responding: Do you know him? Is he a cousin of yours? 

Normal.

Normal stuff. 

He’s tapping out a reply now, sprawled on a towel in the sand since Henry and Hayden insisted on dragging him to the beach during their stay in Tampa. The Florida sun is aggressive; Shane can already feel his skin beginning to prickle, the way it does when it's about to begin burning.

“Fast ball!” 

Shane's instincts have him moving before he’s conscious of it, snatching a small bottle from the air before it can clock him between the eyes. He frowns at it. 

“Donginbi…matte…face sunscreen?” 

Henry grins. “Aw. Nice to know you can still read after all those concussions.” 

“You’ve had more than me!” Shane protests immediately.

“Irrelevant.” Henry waves his hand dismissively. “Put that on.” 

Shane’s frown deepens. 

“Oh my god—it’s the good Korean kind! You don’t want to know how much three fluid ounces cost me. It dries quickly and is matte, you’ll barely feel it.” 

“Hm,” Shane says. 

“Christ!” Henry says, rolling his eyes. “You’re such a baby. You know what texture also doesn’t feel good? Burned skin! Put the lotion on or else.” 

Shane and Henry stare at each other for a long moment before Shane sighs and squirts some of the lotion into his hand. 

It smells lightly of ginseng, which makes him think of making tea for Ilya. He ducks his head, hiding a smile. 

Henry was right. Shane can still feel the lotion on his face, it’s impossible not to, but this kind is not suffocating like the greasier, Western versions. 

Shane opens his mouth to tell Henry so until he catches the smug grin on his face that says Henry already knows. 

“Asshole,” Shane mutters. 

Henry’s stupid grin only widens. 

Hayden frowns down at his swim trunks, shaking his leg. A waterfall of sand spills out. “Christ, it really gets all up in your crack, doesn’t it?”

Shane doesn’t even hesitate. He knows what Henry is about to say before Henry inhales.

“That’s what she said,” they both reply in perfect unison.

Henry’s grin is instant and childish. Shane joined in mostly for that—because a stupid joke is always worth lighting Henry up like that. 

Hayden rolls his eyes. “I hate it when you guys do the whole Shining thing. That twin telepathy type shit. It’s bad enough that I get it at home with Jade and Ruby.”

“That’s a myth,” Henry says immediately. “Watch. Shane, what am I thinking about right now?”

“Porn,” Shane answers flatly, not even looking up from his phone.

Henry snorts. “Okay, yeah, you got me good.”

“What am I thinking about?” Shane asks, finally glancing up.

“Hockey,” Henry shoots back without missing a beat.

Hayden laughs.

Shane frowns. “I’m not always thinking about hockey.”

“Oh, yeah? What else do you think about?”

Shane pauses, eyes flicking briefly to the screen in his hand. A text thread pinned to the top. Sandy blonde hair that darkens into amber when wet from the shower. He swallows and pushes the image away.

“Porn.” He delivers it with the same deadpan tone, lips quirked into a tiny smile.

Henry and Hayden dissolve into laughter, collapsing back into the sand.

Hayden recovers first. “Alright, alright, my turn. What am I thinking about?”

“Jackie,” the twins say in unison, then fist-bump without looking.

“Yeah,” Hayden says, voice softening in a way that makes Shane’s chest warm. “She’s pretty pregnant now. Did I tell you guys we’re having a girl?”

Henry whoops, loud enough that a couple nearby glance over. “Perfect. You’re naming this one after me right? Henrietta Pike really has a certain je ne sais quois.”

Hayden rolls his eyes. “No, actually, this one we’re naming after Shane.”

Henry pouts dramatically. “But Shane is so hard to girl-ify. What are you going to call her? Shania?”

“Holly?” Shane offers.

They both turn to look at him.

“Oh uh. Like our last name? You know what, never mind.”

The moment stretches half a beat too long. Shane looks back down at his phone.

[From Rosie:]

How is that Florida heat? I hope you are wearing sunscreen.

[From Rosie:]

Or maybe not. More freckles that way.

Henry and Shane both have freckles. It’s genetic. But Henry’s have always been a touch lighter than Shane’s—Henry has always been the one more diligent with his skincare. 

When they were very little, their grandma used to tut about it when she thought they were out of earshot. (“So handsome, Yuna! But those spots…!”). Then, when they were older and her memory had begun to slip, she would come up to the twins brandishing a wet wipe and scrub at their faces until they were pink. (“Yuna! You let these boys play outside too much. They come inside with dirt on their cheeks!”)

If Shane closes his eyes, he can still feel her strong fingers on his jaw and the sting of the wipe on his cheeks as he protests that it isn’t dirt, bāchan, they are attached! 

Shane starts tapping out a response to Ilya. 

Do you really like my fr—

Henry flops onto his back beside him with an exaggerated sigh. “Ignore him, Hayds, he’s got a secret girlfriend that he won’t stop texting.”

Shane doesn’t look up, but he sees Henry’s shadow inch closer. “If you so much as look at my phone, I will break every finger on your right hand. Then what will you do?”

Henry cackles wildly. Shane is rarely aggressive; it delights him every time. “Joke’s on you ‘cause I jerk it with my left hand.”

“Dude, we didn’t need to know that.” Hayden wrinkles his nose.

“I simply will not countenance a lecture on chastity from Mr. Twenty-Kids-And-Counting,” Henry fires back.

Shane huffs. “I didn’t mean jerking it. Idiot. I was thinking it would make it pretty hard to play hockey without your right hand.”

“Oh right,” Henry says slowly. “Hockey.” He stares out toward the horizon for a moment then asks slyly: “So, how’s Rosie? How does she feel about your right hand?”

Something about that name in Henry’s mouth doesn’t feel right. Even just Ilya’s nickname. 

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he scoops up a fistful of hot sand and shoves it straight down the back of Henry’s swim trunks.

Henry shrieks like a dying seagull.

They’re on each other instantly, wrestling in the sand like they’re twelve again. Hayden joins whichever side appears to be winning at any given moment, which means alliances shift every thirty seconds.

Shane laughs—real and loud and unguarded—as Henry retaliates with his own handful of revenge.

The shower later will be excruciating. The sand will be everywhere, the texture abrasive, and it’ll feel like Shane is covered in thousands of little fire ants. 

But right now, it’s worth it. 

***

February 2017 

“—I’m glad you boys had a good time at the All-Star game. Your dad and I were sad to miss it. But we’re glad that you and Henry seem to be getting along well.” 

“Mm.” Shane tucks his phone between his shoulder and ear as he unloads groceries onto the counter. 

“By the way, I just wanted to remind you that the Orange Cream Crush commercial is coming up. You all set for that?” 

What Shane’s teammates get wrong about him is that he’s not actually as unmoved by food as they think he is. Shane is strict because he has to maximize the longevity of his career; he doesn’t delight in running exclusively on grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. He can do it, though, because Shane has both of his hands tightly wrapped around the throat of his impulses. 

But there are things outside his diet he genuinely likes eating. Fries, for example. He loves the really crispy ones fried in peanut oil. The kind that are just shy of blisteringly hot and perfectly salted and taste incredible.

Sure, afterwards, he usually spends the next several hours spiraling quietly while his heartbeat kicks up and a nasty little voice in the back of his brain starts hissing that he’s lazy now, soft now, undisciplined, that one indulgence starts the slippery slope of total bodily ruin.

But. 

That’s not the point. 

The point is that there are foods outside of his diet that he likes.

Orange Cream Crush soda is decidedly not one of them. 

Of all the contracts Shane has, that one is his absolute least favorite. The last commercial had been a nightmare: thirty seconds of him describing “the bold taste of Florida oranges” before taking a dramatic sip of soda as he stared directly into camera. All while being inexplicably wet. 

One of the camera lenses kept acting up, so they had to keep resetting. 

Take after take after take.

Every reset meant another mouthful of syrupy orange vanilla soda. Another violent burst of sweetness coating his tongue, carbonation burning in his nose. 

All while his brain flashed signs in neon red: Warning! Unearned processed sugar and calories! Warning! Failure to hold onto control! Warning! The beginning of the end of your career!

He’d tried to breathe through it. Smile through it. All the while calculating how much longer he’ll need to spend in the gym to pay off this tab. Artificial citrus and cream curdle together unpleasantly in his stomach. By the end of filming, he’d barely made it into a bathroom stall before vomiting hard enough his ribs hurt afterward.

Shane really, really does not want to shoot another Orange Cream Crush commercial.

“Yup, all set. It’s in my calendar.”

He’s proud of how even his voice sounds despite the way just hearing the name of the soda makes his stomach turn faintly sour.

“And you’re ready for the MLH banquet in a few weeks? You’re the keynote, remember?” 

Shane sighs through his nose, making sure it is quiet enough that his mother’s fox-like hearing won’t pick it up. 

“Yes. I have the speech you wrote printed out and in a PDF on my phone, just in case.” 

“Good, good,” Yuna hums absently, then says brightly, “Oh! I forgot to ask earlier, how is Jackie doing? Everything going okay with them?”

“Yeah, all good so far. Hayden says she’s pretty anxious, since everything that happened with Arthur, you know?”

Yuna hums a sympathetic noise. “Yes, I know. I remembered being worried about you two. I think every expectant mom is a little bit petrified, no matter what they say. Of course the technology has come a long way since then. I’m sure everything will go okay,” She sighs over the phone. “Plus, that little Arthur is too cute. When are you going to make us some grandbabies, Shane?”

Shane’s stomach clenches like he’s just swallowed a gallon of Orange Cream Crush. It’s the awful sensation that he’s failing his mother. He’s not fulfilling his obligations, not meeting his end of the filial contract by denying his parents the opportunity of being grandparents.

“Is it not enough that I gave you two already?” Shane says, forcing a small laugh.

“For the millionth time, no, Puck and Crunchie don’t count.”

Shane glances over at his couch, where Puck is aggressively licking Crunchwrap Supreme’s face, leaving behind streaks of damp fur. Crunchwrap Supreme is squinting, which makes her look angry, but Shane knows it means she’s delighted by the attention. 

“Henry could make you some too, you know.”

“Oh god, that doesn’t seem likely.” Yuna laughs lightly. “Your brother doesn’t seem like he’s going to settle down any time this decade. Sorry, baby. You’re my only hope.” 

She’s joking. 

Or, well, she says it with the cadence of a joke but both she and Shane know that she really, really isn’t. 

For one reckless second, he imagines telling her everything

I’m seeing someone. A man, Shane imagines himself saying. He’s funny and clever and a little bit of an asshole in the best way possible. He pushes me to play better. He makes me laugh. He was sweet to my cats, even though I could tell he was kinda scared of them. I’m not sure I’m ever going to find someone else who makes me feel the way that he does. I think about him constantly. He likes a version of me that doesn’t exist, and it is slowly killing me. 

But of course he doesn’t say that. Shane can’t even begin to imagine how Yuna would even react. He swallows hard. 

“Sorry, Mom. I, um— yeah, I haven’t met the right girl yet.” 

***

March 2017 

The Metros lost to the Raiders. It was a tight game, but the Raiders had just barely gotten the edge over them. 

The Raiders’ new rookie, Colton Brooks, is a bit of a shit. He’s racking up fouls this season the same way he’s racking up points; quick to dirty check and equally quick to mouth off. It would remind Shane of Ilya as a rookie if not for the way that Brooks' taunts always had a nasty edge to it. Ilya tended to find whatever it was that got under your skin and pick at it. (“Everyone is counting on you, Shane Hollander, will you disappoint them? Will they realize their faith is misplaced?”) 

Whereas Brooks… 

Well. 

Shane has been playing hockey practically since he could walk; there isn’t a slur or snide comment Shane hasn’t heard a million times before. If he really wants to knock Shane off balance, Brooks will simply have to try harder. 

Still, Shane always feels a little bit on the backfoot after he loses. It hadn’t helped that Ilya had scored the game winning goal with an absurd scoop and flick of the puck into the net. 

Backwards. 

Without looking. 

In his first match since returning from medical.

It had been infuriating. It had been glorious. 

But I can’t keep doing this, Shane thinks, stepping out of his Uber onto Ilya’s street. He is fully intent on breaking things off with the other man. This has gone on too long. He can’t keep telling himself just once more over and over again. 

Shane shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waits for Ilya to answer his knock. Rozanov, this has been great, but I don’t think we are a good fit. No. That sounds too much like they share equal blame. Rozanov, I have really enjoyed our time together, but I don’t think I can keep doing this. 

Shane’s interrupted from his rehearsing by the door opening. And suddenly, there Ilya is, black tank tight across his chest and sweatpants hung low on his hips.

All coherent thought leaves Shane as he immediately attaches himself to Ilya’s mouth. Ilya is kissing back just as fiercely, groping behind him to shut the door without breaking contact. 

Shane moves to drop to his knees, but startles when Ilya grabs him by the forearms. He shoots Ilya a questioning look.

“Ah…” Ilya says, voice tinged with embarrassment. “It has been a while for me and I want—” He traces Shane’s lips with his thumb. “—I want to do this on the bed.” 

Shane carefully ignores the way that admission makes him feel, what that could mean. He isn’t fucking anyone but you! You’re the only one he wants! He’s saving himself for you! 

Instead, he nods eagerly, grabbing Ilya’s hand and leading them towards the master bedroom. 

“Never have I ever been led around my own house,” Ilya teases, smiling. “How do you know your way around, I wonder?” 

Ilya’s hand is slightly clammy in his. 

“Some jerk invited me for a sex vacation and then didn’t even fuck me once. Can you believe that?” 

“No. I cannot believe that.” Shane glances over his shoulder and catches the flash behind Ilya’s eyes. “We will have to fix that.” 

Once they’re in the bedroom, Ilya changes his grip on Shane’s hand, tugging him backwards so that he does an awkward little spin, letting out a soft oof as their chests collide. 

Shane’s breath catches at the sudden confrontation, the immediate locking of brown eyes to blue. They’re of a height; it’s impossible to avoid. He quickly looks down. 

“Hi,” Shane says to Ilya’s feet. 

“Hello.” There are those fingers on his jaw, forcing Shane’s gaze back up. 

The expression on Ilya’s face sends electricity up Shane’s spine. There’s something about the way Ilya looks when he is focused, like he is attuned with his entire body, that makes Shane's heart race. It’s the same face Ilya makes when he is getting serious on the ice; when he stops teasing and sniping and really locks in. It usually means trouble for his opponent.

Ilya tips forward, and despite the lightning in his eyes, the meeting of their mouths is gentle. It's the feeling of a boat gently nudging against the dock, returning where it belongs. 

“I missed—” you “—this.” Shane murmurs against Ilya’s lips. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, then pushes at Shane’s shoulders, shoving him backwards until suddenly the backs of his knees are hitting the side of the bed. Shane lands hard, a little breathless, registering the softness of that deep blue comforter underneath his palms. 

Ilya kicks his legs apart, stands between them, leans down to press his lips to Shane’s again. They kiss for a long time. Every time Shane feels himself begin to get worked up, tries to move things along, Ilya pulls back, forces him to slow down. Their hookups have always been tinged with something frantic, an oppressive sense that if they slowed down even a fraction something would break. 

There’s none of that tonight. There is molten lava pooling in the base of Shane’s gut as Ilya presses sensual kisses down Shane’s throat. Those long fingers move to unbutton his shirt, and with every inch of skin revealed Ilya places another open-mouthed kiss. Once he eases the fabric off of Shane, he folds it, sets it aside on the dresser. Ilya makes the same slow show of unbuckling Shane’s belt, easing his jeans off, kissing the soft flesh of Shane’s inner thigh. The jeans, too, are carefully folded and neatly stacked on top of Shane’s button down. 

This is torture. Shane is aching, cock beginning to leak in his briefs. Shane opens his mouth to complain but before the words can get past his lips, Ilya strips the briefs off and sinks his mouth down Shane’s length. 

“Oh!” comes out instead. 

Shane’s hands fly out to grip Ilya’s curls. It’s a little bit ridiculous, Ilya kneeling on the carpet, fully clothed, while Shane is completely naked. Shane tugs at Ilya’s hair. “S-stop!” 

Ilya pulls off of Shane with a pop, frowns up at him. “Not good?” 

“No! It’s good, of course it’s good!” Shane reaches down, fingertips just beginning to brush the hem of Ilya’s tanktop. “You’re just completely dressed and—” 

“Ah.” Ilya shakes his head, grabbing Shane’s wrists and holding them tight. “No. This is about you. I make you feel good. I want you to keep these here,” he says, placing Shane’s hands back in his hair. “And don’t move them until I tell you to. You can do that, can’t you, Hollander?” 

He can’t. He absolutely cannot. He’s two seconds from losing it completely, and Ilya has barely had his mouth on him. 

Shane must be taking too long to answer because suddenly there are teeth biting his thigh. “Ow! Hey!” 

“You can,” Ilya insists, eyes flaming. “You will. Say it.” 

Shane ignores the pulse of heat that surges at that. His mouth is suddenly dry. “I…I can. I will.” 

“Good.” 

Ilya doesn’t wait any longer, he lowers himself back down onto Shane, tongue circling his sensitive tip. 

“Fuck, Ily—” Shane’s fingers tighten in Ilya’s hair, quickly correcting himself. “Rozanov!” 

Ilya hums, the vibration shooting straight through Shane’s cock. This is embarrassing, he’s absolutely not going to last. It’s humiliating how quickly Ilya can do this to him, the way Shane’s body is so, so easy for this man.

“If you don’t— if you don’t stop, I’m gonna—” Shane lets out a pathetic whimper as Ilya takes him all the way down to the base and slowly drags himself up. Shane doesn’t know how much longer he can hold off. He doesn’t want to come. He still wants Ilya to fuck him. 

Shane Hollander is known around the world for his incredible discipline. Shane Hollander has an iron grip on his control. Shane Hollander can hold out for his reward; he has always been good at playing the long game. He will not fail. He will not. 

He reaches for the least sexy image possible. Imagine you’re in the locker room, Shane thinks absurdly, the stench of almost two dozen grown men’s hockey kit after a long practice. 

That works for a little bit until Ilya seems to sense Shane’s wandering thoughts and speeds up, head bobbing furiously. Against his will, Shane can feel it begin to build; the wave surges and crests and there is absolutely nothing Shane can do to prevent it from happening.

No! 

It’s instinct, his hindbrain trying to stop his climax, but it’s just a split second too late—the hands in Ilya’s hair yank, dragging him off Shane’s cock just in time for him to spill, striping Ilya’s face with his come. 

“F-fuck!” Shane pants, trying to get his breathing back under control. “Oh my god— fuck! I’m sorry!” 

Shane can’t look at Ilya, covered in Shane’s come, probably disappointed. He’s been waiting for this, had said so when Shane arrived, and Shane ruined it by coming too soon. Shane reaches wildly for the box of tissues Ilya has by the bed. He immediately begins to wipe at Ilya’s cheeks. 

“Sorrysorrysorry,” Shane mutters over and over. 

What kind of asshole shoots all over someone’s face without asking or even warning them it’s going to happen? What kind of asshole finds that incredibly hot? he thinks, blush rising in his face and ears. He’s startled out of his thoughts—hands stilled by Ilya grabbing his wrists again, this time with a grip hard enough to bruise. 

“Why do you apologize for giving me what I want,” Ilya demands sharply. His face is fierce, cheeks pink from exertion. “When I want you to fucking come, you will come. Do you understand?” 

Shane can’t look away from the small stripe next to Ilya’s right eye that he’s missed.

“But I thought…?” Shane swallows. Ilya’s eyes track the movement in Shane’s throat. “I thought you wanted to fuck me?” 

“I do.” 

“But—” 

Ilya releases Shane’s wrists. Shane’s hands hover suspended in the air, unsure of what to do with them, where to put them now. 

“You will come twice.” Ilya lifts up the hem of his tank top, swiping the rest of Shane’s come off his face with efficiency. Then he strips the tank off altogether. Shane’s hands find the curve of Ilya’s pecs without Shane ever having the conscious thought to move them. 

“I…” 

“What? You can’t do it?” 

Shane has never tried. He doesn’t know. He thinks he could. Maybe. Probably. 

Ilya’s body is all sinuous curves, he’s holding himself so, so still, but in the way a snake is frozen before it strikes; energy restrained, coiled and powerful. 

He is beautiful.  

“Say it. I want to hear you say: I am going to come a second time while Ilya Rozanov fucks me.” 

Shane absolutely cannot say that out loud. His cheeks burn at the thought of it. Ilya’s eyes narrow. His hand finds the hair at the base of Shane’s scalp and curls in there, gently angling Shane’s head up, forcing Shane to look him in the eyes. 

Something hot squirms in Shane’s gut. 

“I… I am going to come a second time while you fuck me.” 

“Sorry?” Ilya cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy. “I didn’t hear. Who is it that is going to fuck you? Is it James Lucardi…? Scott Hunter, maybe?”

Shane cannot say it. He doesn’t think he can make the sounds move past his lips. Suddenly there is a palm slowly stroking his too-sensitive cock. He gasps, eyes slipping shut at the good good no no too much sensation. 

“I’m gonna—” Shane starts, breaks off with a moan. “I’m gonna…come a second time while Ilya Rozanov fucks me.” 

The hand mercifully disappears from his dick.

“Oh? Is that so?” Ilya presses a filthy kiss to Shane’s lips, tongue easing along the seam until Shane lets him in. When he finally eases back, Shane’s lips are spit-slick, his eyelids feel heavy. “I hear that Ilya Rozanov is a good lover. You’re very lucky.” 

“I know I am,” Shane murmurs, honesty dripping like honey from his tongue. He wants more of that mouth. Shane’s tips forward, chasing those lips. Ilya cruelly moves out of reach. 

Shane forces himself to look Ilya in the eyes and tries to decipher the complicated expression he finds there. 

Ilya’s thumb circles his wet mouth, smearing the spit around his lips. He pushes his thumb inside and Shane’s lips close around it automatically, sucking. 

“He is lucky, too.” 

Shane has lost the thread of the conversation entirely now, his world narrowing to the finger in his mouth. He gives a shallow bob of his head, attention collapsing down to this one thing.

Ilya drags his thumb slowly from Shane’s mouth, eyes fixed on the motion. Then he surges forward suddenly, kissing Shane hard enough to push him backward onto the mattress. The weight of him settles heavy and solid between Shane’s thighs, all warm skin and wandering hands and the rough scrape of stubble against Shane’s jaw.

The kiss turns messy quickly. Hungry. Shane can feel himself becoming undone, every coherent thought dissolving as Ilya sucks a bruise at his throat, muttering something low against his skin. 

Ilya opens him up quickly, though it is still somehow too slow for Shane, who is growing impatient. He can’t believe he ever questioned whether he could come again. His cock is already fattening up. More proof that when it comes to this man, Shane’s body is easy.  

When he can’t take it anymore, Shane takes matters into his own hands. He pushes Ilya back into the pillows, straddling his hips. He reaches behind, lines himself up and sinks down, down, down until the entirety of Ilya’s hot length is inside him.

Shane has to take a second to just breathe. There’s no way Ilya is nine inches, but he’s still big, and there’s something about the angle that makes Shane feel more full than ever before. 

Ilya’s hands find the dip between Shane’s hips and ass, fingers fitting against his stretch marks like the frets of a guitar. Ilya has known how to make music with Shane’s body from the start. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks, searching Shane’s face. 

Shane gives a sharp nod, then rocks his hips experimentally. He’s rewarded with a small hitch of breath from Ilya. He rocks himself again. And again. 

He can’t look away from Ilya’s face, from his pinched eyebrows and the way his mouth is open, as if wrapped around a silent oh. 

It doesn’t take long for Shane to lose himself, to begin mindlessly chasing his pleasure. Ilya seems content to let him set the pace, to let Shane do the work. There’s something wild galloping inside of Shane watching Ilya just lie back and take it. See how good I am, a voice is howling, see how good I make it for you. Shane has honed his body for years, strength corded in his thighs; they flex and strain as he raises himself up and down, up and down. It fills Shane with a perverse pride that these muscles he’s built for his sport double for this purpose. That in a way, without realizing it, he’s been training himself for this too. 

Shane starts to reach that place inside himself where the knots begin to untangle and threads of truth begin to unspool. 

“Want this, want you all the time,” he pants. It takes him by surprise when Ilya matches him on the next thrust, snapping his hips up hard. The pleasure that rockets up his body makes Shane gasp. 

His hand finds Ilya’s chest, landing on top of his crucifix. 

“Want you to fuck me so hard I can feel it for days, so I can keep some part of you with me even after you’re gone.” Shane likes the reminders that Ilya chose him, even briefly, even under false pretense. That in this moment, even if it is fleeting, Shane can be someone’s number one pick. 

Ilya makes a guttural noise at that, hooking a leg around Shane’s and flipping them in a single smooth motion. One hand reaches up to grip the headboard as he sets a brutal pace with his hips, the other finds its place on Shane’s chin, tipping him into a hungry kiss. 

Ilya says something against his lips in Russian that Shane can’t translate. 

He knows what he wants it to mean, though. 

“Please,” Shane begs, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of Ilya’s back. Shane can’t keep looking at Ilya’s eyes, can’t withstand their burning heat. He moves his gaze to Ilya’s cross, which swings between them like a pendulum. Back and forth, back and forth, from Shane to Ilya, Ilya to Shane. 

From me to you, Shane thinks wildly, you to me. 

He never wants this to stop. He wants to stay here, in this place where they are both connected.  He wants to spend the rest of his life in this moment, wrapped in the blinding heat and the rhythm of Ilya between his legs. But he can feel it beginning again, the desperation squeezing his lungs tight, the need pooling molten in the base of his gut. 

“Want to,” Shane moans, already reaching for his weeping cock. “Need to. Please?” 

Ilya’s hands move from the headboard, pressing Shane’s wrists above his head. 

“Not yet. You can hold a little longer, can’t you?” 

Ilya’s hips are still pounding into him, and Shane can’t help the low whine that escapes his throat. He’s too far gone to be embarrassed by it. 

“Look at me.” 

Shane hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. They snap open and find Ilya’s. 

“You can do it. I know you can. Just a little longer,” Ilya says, adding something in Russian that Shane doesn’t recognize. 

“Yes, okay, okay.” Shane pants. 

Ilya hitches Shane’s leg up and the change in angle is delicious. Shane is so glad he had the foresight to run through some stretches before he came over, loosening his notoriously tight hip flexors. 

“Fuck!” 

The leverage allows him to fuck into Shane harder. Shane doesn’t know how much longer he holds on for. It could be a minute. It could be an hour. He loses track of himself and time altogether. Everything narrows to the urgent need building in him. 

“Now? Please, now?” 

“Now.” 

Shane tips over the edge, cock untouched. His eyes squeeze shut hard enough he’s seeing spots behind his eyelids. He can feel his entire body seize and suddenly he is coming all over his own chest with a strangled shout.

“Fuck, Ilya!”. 

Ilya fucks him through it, Shane’s entire body shaking helplessly beneath him. He pushes in a few more stuttering thrusts before he goes still, a rough sound torn from deep in his chest. 

Shane struggles to catch his breath. His lungs feel weak, suddenly, watching Ilya’s red mouth part and his eyes slip closed. His pale eyelashes flutter as he spills deep inside of Shane. 

It’s too much.

Shane’s body is still twitching with aftershocks when Ilya sags forward slightly, breathing hard. 

It doesn’t matter. Shane hooks one leg around Ilya’s ass and anchors him tightly, rocking them together in tiny little motions. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever come that hard in his life.

Ilya gradually comes back online. His breathing steadies first. Then his hands find Shane’s shaggy hair, fingers sliding gently through the sweat-damp strands in a way that feels unbearably tender. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to Shane’s lips. 

“I pull out now, okay?” Ilya’s voice sounds ruined. Low and rough around the edges.

Not okay!

The answer rises immediate and desperate to the tip of Shane’s tongue.

He forces himself to stay silent and make one sharp nod.

Ilya withdraws carefully, his expression pinching just a moment at the movement. Then the condom is tied off and tossed vaguely somewhere toward the bin.

The second Ilya’s warmth leaves him, Shane is startled by the sudden hollowness that opens up inside his body.

He feels…strangely bereft.

A few minutes later, the mattress shifts again.

Ilya reappears at the side of the bed, curls tumbling every which way. 

“Come,” he says, nudging Shane’s knee. “Shower.”

Shane frowns up at him. 

Ilya holds a hand out impatiently.

Shane takes it.

The bathroom fills quickly with steam, fogging the mirrors. Shane stands under the spray while Ilya works fruity-scented shampoo through his hair, long fingers massaging slowly against his scalp. The water runs warm down Shane’s spine, easing him further into boneless exhaustion.

Neither of them talks.

But every so often Ilya’s hand drifts back to Shane’s waist like he is reassuring himself of something.

*

After, they’re lying together in a tangled heap. Shane is drawing his fingertips across Ilya’s chest and stomach, mapping lines between each of the moles peppered across his skin.

“My father passed away last year,” Ilya says, quietly. 

Shane’s fingers pause their cartography. “I… saw the news when that happened. I’m. Sorry.” 

Ilya waves his hand, as if shooing away Shane’s apology. 

“He was sick for a long time,” Ilya says simply. Shane thinks he is aiming for unaffected, but he misses it by a mile. “Not my point. My point is— my mother is dead. My father is dead. My brother—” Ilya stops. Then continues after the briefest pause. “I was thinking. Maybe I don’t go back to Russia. Maybe I become American citizen.” 

Shane taps his fingers against Ilya’s chest. 

“Or…” Ilya runs a hand through Shane’s hair. “Next season, I am free agent. Maybe I choose Canadian team.” 

The gears in Shane’s head are clicking slowly. “Oh?”

Ilya looks at Shane expectantly. 

Shane looks at Ilya. 

Ilya shifts underneath Shane, jostling him up and down. “Was just a thought I had.” 

Shane smiles. “It’s a good thought.”

“It is?” Ilya seems to brighten. 

“The Centaurs need a center, and they could afford you.” Shane pointedly does not mention that the distance between them would be a scant two hours. Shane is going to break things off with Ilya before this trade could ever become a reality. Before things can really truly fall apart. Shane is going to do it. Soon. Before he leaves tonight.

Shane leans down and licks a mole right above Ilya’s left nipple. A thought occurs to him. “Hey, when was the last time you went to a dermatologist?”

Ilya blinks. “A… what.”

“Dermatologist,” Shane repeats. “Skin doctor. You have a lot of moles.”

“You think I need to go to the skin doctor?”

Ilya rolls them over, smooth and heavy, pinning Shane to the mattress by his wrists. The move is familiar now. It settles something inside Shane that he hadn’t realized was fluttering. He lets his eyes slip shut. 

Ilya kisses down Shane’s chest and then back up, slowly, as if he has nowhere else he’d rather be. He plants a kiss to the dip of Shane’s neck, then one behind his ear. Then two kisses, soft as butter, to the skin right below both eyes, where Shane knows his freckles spatter.

“You have spots too. More since Tampa. Do you need to see dermo-tologist? Should we go together?”

Shane’s eyes flutter open and find Ilya’s. Not quite green, not quite blue—sea glass, catching the light. He really is beautiful. 

Shane’s not sure what expression he’s making, but whatever it is it makes Ilya smile. Shane leans in and kisses him, warm and unthinking. He wants to taste that smile.

Ilya pulls back enough to ghost a single devastating sentence across Shane’s lips:

“I like you, Henry.” 

The world drops out from under him.

Shane’s body locks, every muscle seizing at once. He pushes uselessly at where Ilya has him by the wrists, but Ilya keeps him pinned, still smiling, still assuming this is part of whatever game they’re playing.

Ilya smirks.

Shane can’t breathe. His chest refuses to work. The air gets caught halfway in. “Off— get off, Ilya.”

His panic must finally register to Ilya. He rolls away immediately, sitting up, hands lifted like he’s crossed some invisible line.

“What’s wrong?” Ilya says nervously.

“Wrong? Nothing! Nothing’s wrong. I just um. I have to go. Right now. Because I have— a team meeting.”

Ilya frowns, watching Shane pull his shirt on inside out with shaking hands. 

“You are a bad liar.” 

A broken laugh bubbles out of Shane’s chest before he can stop it, bordering close to hysterical. If Ilya knew what kind of liar Shane actually was, he wouldn’t be standing there so calmly.

Until now, Ilya has only ever called him “Hollander,” and Shane could let himself fantasize that Ilya meant him, Shane, not his golden brother. But now there's no hiding from what he's done. Shane has slept with this man over and over again under false pretenses. Lied to him about who he is; tricked him into fucking nothing more than a mirage. 

It has finally, finally landed. A truth inexorable. What Shane has done isn’t just stupid. It isn’t just messy.

It’s cruel.

“Henry,” Ilya says, mouth pinched. His arms are reaching for him. 

“I’m— I’m so sorry, but I can’t. I cannot do this anymore.” Shane ducks out of his grasp, heart hammering against his ribs, and bolts for the door.

He doesn’t look back.

Chapter End Notes

This universe's Tuna Meltdown!! Just in time to ring in Pride month <3

Thank you as always to everyone who takes the time to comment, I have been enjoying everyone's predictions... many of you have been close. A handful have been right on the money!!

Chapter 10: Teenagers

Chapter Notes

Thank you to my beta, Princessoftheworlds!! <3

April, 2001 (sixteen years earlier)

It feels like Henry and Shane have been sitting outside Mrs. Wagner’s office for hours.

The chairs lined up against the hallway wall are bright yellow and made of outrageously hard plastic that digs straight into Shane’s spine. He keeps trying to adjust himself without actually moving too much, sitting ramrod straight so the edge won’t press in worse. His back still aches anyway.

The twins sit in silence.

Henry has been tapping his foot nonstop, drumming out the rhythm to that Backstreet Boys song Mrs. Header keeps playing in her car lately. After a while, he begins to slip down his chair, melting into a puddle onto the dirty floor. 

Shane glances anxiously at the door. It’s firmly shut. Still, it’s a risk. “Sit up, Henry. If they come out and you’re on the floor, you’re going to be in even more trouble.”

Henry shoots him a deeply offended look but drags himself upright again. His foot immediately resumes tapping. His tongue flicks out to worry at the split in his lip, reopening the cut for what has to be the fiftieth time today. 

Shane knows what Henry looks like when he’s getting The Itch. Shane can help with that.

“Let’s play slaps,” Shane suggests. Henry perks up immediately and settles opposite of Shane. 

“Top or bottom first?” he asks. 

“Bottom,” Shane decides after a short deliberation. 

“‘Kay.” 

Henry places his hands over Shane’s palms and waits. Shane wiggles his fingers once—then snaps upward lightning-fast, smacking Henry across the knuckles.

“Ugh! Can’t believe you got me so quick,” Henry grumbles.

They switch positions.

The game settles Henry almost immediately. Slap, dodge, slap again. Their hands redden little by little. The hallway fills with the sharp crack of skin hitting skin.

After a few rounds, Shane narrows his eyes.

“You’re not focusing, it’s making you play like ass.” 

Henry grins. “You’re not supposed to say ass.”  

“If you stopped playing like ass, then I wouldn’t have to say that you’re playing like ass,” Shane snarks.

Henry laughs at that—quick and real—and something in Shane loosens a little. They keep playing quietly for another minute before Henry asks, softer this time, “How come you didn’t back me up earlier?”

Shane hesitates.

That’s enough distraction for Henry to land a sharp slap across the tops of his hands.

The answer is that Shane hadn’t wanted to get yelled at. 

He hadn’t wanted to endure the stomach ache that would result from being scolded by every adult involved, including their parents. Especially their parents. It was bad enough when Shane had to endure it second-hand sitting next to his brother on the couch, listening to Yuna and David argue with Henry about whatever scrape he’d gotten into this time. 

“I—” he starts, but the door opens suddenly and their principal is there. 

Mrs. Wagner stands there, tall and severe, her pale blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Her eyes are such a light blue they almost don’t look real. There’s a rumor among the upper elementary kids that she wears fake contacts just to scare students. Shane doesn’t believe it exactly, but he still avoids looking directly at her eyes whenever possible.

He’s staring hard at his sneakers when she says, “Why don’t you come in now? We can finish up this conversation together, okay?”

Henry scowls immediately and shoves himself to his feet. His red Converse smack loudly against the tile as he stomps toward the office. Shane starts automatically after him—

—and startles when a hand lands gently on his shoulder.

“Just Henry. Why don’t you wait out here, Shane? We will be back in a few minutes.” 

Shane freezes.

Henry glances back over his shoulder at him.

And for the first time in his entire life, Shane can’t tell what Henry’s expression means.

That frightens him more than Mrs. Wagner ever has.

Shane sits back down slowly, pressing himself stiffly against the hard plastic chair. Through the office door he can hear voices again, low and blurred together.

And okay, maybe, technically, Henry shouldn’t have punched Matt Corner in the stomach.

But Matt had spent the entire math period flicking the back of Sidney Green’s head even after she tearfully asked him to stop. Over and over and over again. Mr. Q kept warning him, but every time he turned back toward the blackboard, Matt started right back up.

So Henry had taken justice into his own hands. 

It had taken three teachers to pry Matt Corner and Henry apart. Matt had been crying profusely, clutching his stomach while Henry stood there with blood on his teeth and a wild grin on his face—right until he realized Shane was still frozen in his seat instead of helping. 

So yeah, you’re not supposed to fight in school—save that for the hockey rink—but you’re also not supposed to pick on girls and make them cry. Matt Corner had gotten off with a warning. He hadn’t had his parents called and been dragged down to the principals office. 

The voices inside stay muffled until suddenly, Henry’s cuts through the door loud enough to rattle Shane right out of his thoughts: “I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO APOLOGIZE! I WAS RIGHT!”

Shane’s heart starts hammering. He wipes his sweaty palms against his khakis.

The meeting ends not long after that.

Yuna and David come out first looking exhausted, and Henry trails behind them flushed red and furious-looking. Shane tries to catch his eye, but Henry refuses to look at him.

The car ride home is horrible.

Nobody talks.

The whole car feels swollen with tension, thick and suffocating. Henry stares fixedly at his shoes the entire drive, jaw tight.

After a while, Shane carefully inches his hand across the vinyl seat between them.

He taps the back of Henry’s hand lightly. The skin there is still faintly pink from their game earlier.

Henry finally looks at him.

His expression is flat enough that Shane’s stomach drops. He hates this. Hates not knowing what Henry’s thinking. They’ve never needed words before. Usually, Shane just knows.

For one awful second, Shane thinks Henry might pull away.

Instead, after a long pause, Henry lets out a tired sigh. His shoulders slump. Slowly, he threads their fingers together and squeezes once.

Relief crashes through Shane so hard it almost hurts.

That’s a good sign, he thinks desperately. We are still in this together. 

We will always be in this together. 

***

June, 2004 (thirteen years earlier)

Shane has been thirteen for a month, and honestly, it has fucking sucked so far. 

Henry has been acting weird for months. Not regular Henry weird either. Slipping out of the house at random hours. Disappearing without explanation. He knows Henry gets pissed that Shane usually won’t go along with whatever dumbass scheme he’s cooked up. Sneaking out, stealing shit from convenience stores, skinny dipping in the creek behind the baseball field.

Henry thinks Shane is being lame. No, worse—that he’s choosing to be boring. 

But Shane can’t. He can’t. 

Not because he’s scared of getting caught—okay, maybe a little because of that—but mostly because of what comes after. Their parents’ faces. The disappointment. Mom going all quiet. Dad rubbing at his temples like his sons have personally subtracted ten years of his life.

The one time Shane had snuck out with Henry, they’d been caught barely two hours later. The look on his parents’ faces had been unbearable. Shane had spent the entire aftermath feeling like he was dying slowly from guilt poisoning. He will never forget sitting at the kitchen table with his stomach twisted into knots so hard he thought he might puke.

He honestly doesn’t know how Henry stands it.

So yeah, Shane understands why Henry’s irritated with him sometimes. But that doesn’t explain all of it. Doesn’t explain the meanness that’s crept into the way Henry talks to him lately. The nasty little comments that seem genuinely designed to hurt. Now Henry leaves Shane behind like it doesn’t even occur to him to ask. Sometimes Henry goes days barely speaking to him at all. 

Which stings. 

More than Shane wants to admit.

It's supposed to be the two of them versus everyone else.

Lately, it doesn’t feel like that anymore.

And Chad’s been weird too. Or—not weird exactly. Just… gone, in his own way. He’d quit hockey a few years ago. Shane misses spending whole afternoons at the Headers’ place. Misses Mrs. Header cooking and the constant smell of spices hanging in the air. Misses playing in their backyard until well after the sun has set and Mrs. Header is hollering at them to come in for dinner. 

Mostly, though, he misses Chad.

But they barely have anything in common anymore, and on top of that, Chad has a girlfriend. Sidney Green, with her bright red braids wrapped around her head like a crown. She has freckles, too, Shane had noticed. Only hers weren’t splotchy like his; hers fanned out delicately across her nose and cheeks. 

Sometimes Shane sees them sitting together on the swings during recess, kissing each other right out in the open. In front of everyone. 

The first time he’d seen them, he’d been inexplicably furious. 

Then he’d had a thought, startling and forceful and damningly clear: I wish he was kissing me. 

He’d immediately tried to push that away, fury turning to ice water in his veins. Shane had been afraid everyone could read the thought on his face. 

If he doesn’t think about it, then it’s not real. So now Shane avoids the jungle gym and his jealousy altogether.

For a while, he played four-square on the blacktop instead, which worked out great until the other kids got sick of constantly losing to him and banned him from playing altogether. Apparently, people don’t appreciate it when you never rotate out.

So now, mostly, Shane just jogs by himself during recess. Big loops around the perimeter fence. Over and over until the bell chimes for the end of the period. 

It’s fine. 

Shane is fine with it. 

It’s good endurance training, at least. 

This particular Thursday, Shane is midway through a lap when he hears laughter coming from the bushes near the far edge of the playground. He slows to a walk, curiosity prickling at him. Then he recognizes Henry’s voice.

Shane hops the fence without thinking and pushes through the bushes—

—and nearly has a heart attack.

Because there is Henry, crouched low with a bunch of the fifteen-year-olds from the lower high school. And they’re smoking cigarettes. Actual, real cigarettes. 

“Are you fucking crazy!” Shane snaps. 

“Keep your voice down, idiot!” Henry hisses back. 

One of the big kids looks from Henry to Shane. “Hollander, woah! You have a twin, dude?”

“I don’t know this guy,” Henry says at the same time Shane shouts, “You can’t smoke! Athletes do not smoke!” 

One of the girls snorts loudly, tossing her red hair over her shoulder. “Hen,” she says, looking Shane up and down, “does your brother always act like your mom?” 

A couple of the others laugh.

Shane’s face burns instantly. He opens his mouth, already ready to yell something back, but Henry beats him to it.

“Shut the fuck up, Molly,” Henry snaps.

The laughter dies quicker than Shane expects.

Henry steps forward, shoulders squared in that twitchy, aggressive way he gets when he’s gearing up for a fight. “At least my brother isn’t a complete mouthbreather like your brother. How many times has he repeated senior year?”

Molly rolls her eyes. “Relax, Hollander. I was just joking around.”

“No, seriously,” Henry says, voice like daggers. “Eat shit.”

There’s a weird beat where everyone just sort of stares at each other. Then one of the kids mutters, “Whatever,” and the group starts drifting apart, attention already moving on.

Henry rips the cigarette from his mouth and throws it onto the dirt, grinding it hard beneath his sneaker.

“Come on,” he mutters to Shane.

Shane follows him back over the fence in silence.

The sounds of recess rush back in around them immediately—kids screaming on the swings, basketballs thudding against pavement, teachers blowing whistles no one listens to. The blacktop shimmers faintly in the late-spring sun.

For a while, neither of them says anything. Henry walks a little ahead, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched.

Shane stares at the scuffed toes of his sneakers.

“Uh.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Thanks.”

Henry shrugs. “Molly Green is a dumbass. Everyone says so.”

“Yeah.”

Silence again.

“You’re also a dumbass,” Henry adds, a touch fondly. 

He wants to ask why Henry’s been acting so weird lately. Wants to make things between them easy again, normal. But Shane doesn’t know how. So he keeps silent. 

And Henry keeps silent too. 

*

That night, Yuna appears in the doorway of their bedroom just as Shane is burrowing under the covers. The look on her face makes both boys stiffen. 

Yuna folds her arms across her chest. “I just got a phone call.”

Henry doesn’t even look up from his comic book, legs crossed in front of him. “That’s nice. You must be a very popular lady.” 

“Janet Green called to say that Molly and some other boys had been caught smoking today.” 

“Wow! What delinquency! What dishonor she has brought upon her family lineage!” Henry flips a page of his comic. “Good thing your sons are much too well-behaved to do such a thing.” 

“Henry.” 

“What?” He finally glances up, expression perfectly placid. “Is there a question you want to ask me, Mom?”

Yuna’s eyes narrow slightly. Then she turns toward Shane. 

And there it is.

The problem.

What will always be the problem. 

Because Shane is physically incapable of lying to his mother for extended periods of time.

“Shane?”

Shane swallows hard. “I-I run during recess. Usually, I don’t know what Henry does.”

“Usually,” Yuna repeats. “So you know what he did today.” 

“No?”

“Shane!” Henry shoots Shane a scandalized look. 

“The truth, Shane. I’m not asking again.” 

Oh god. It’s building in his stomach again. The fear, the guilt. Shane feels nauseous. 

“Well—okay, he had, like, one cigarette, but I don’t think he smoked the whole thing and also the older kids were probably making him do it and—”

“Judas!” Henry hisses.

“Henry Hollander.” Yuna points sharply toward the hallway. “Kitchen. Now.”

Henry throws his comic aside dramatically and stomps out of the room.

Yuna sighs deeply before following him.

The second she disappears downstairs, silence crashes into the bedroom. A moment later the sound of Yuna yelling downstairs rattles faintly through the vents.

Shane lies staring at the ceiling long after the shouting stops. Then Henry’s footsteps return. He lingers in the doorway just long enough to glare at Shane. “You’re a fucking goody two-shoes,” he says. “And a snitch.”

Shane’s stomach twists painfully.

Henry shuts the lights off and crawls into his bed. 

“I tried not to tell her,” Shane whispers to the darkness.

“You folded after three seconds.” The sheets rustle on Henry’s bed as he twists. “If you can’t learn how to lie, here’s some advice: you should at least learn how to keep your fucking mouth shut. I think that’ll be an important life skill for you going forward.”

Shane feels a traitorous stinging in behind his eyelids. But he refuses to let the tears fall. Thirteen is too old to be crying. It’ll just give him a headache, and, god, if Henry sees and teases him about it, Shane isn’t sure he’ll be able to handle it. 

So he keeps his mouth shut. 

***

February 2006 (eleven years earlier)

This winter has been dark and cold and long, and Shane had only agreed to come to this fucking party because Henry had all but begged him.

It’s Angélique’s 17th birthday! he’d whined. We have to go!

So Shane had come. And the bastard had almost immediately abandoned him.

Angélique’s house was already full when the twins arrived—windows fogged from too many bodies, bass rattling the picture frames, coats left piled by the front door like corpses. The air smelled like body odor, beer, and the unmistakable bitterness of weed wafting from under a closed door. 

Henry had disappeared the second they stepped inside. He melted into the party like second nature, laughter following him, his shoulders pounded with aggressive friendliness, girls squealing his name. Shane had watched him get swallowed by the living room crowd while Shane himself had stalled awkwardly by the coat pile, holding his own jacket like it might tell him what to do next.

Now, it’s been hours.

Hours of Shane bumping into people, apologizing too much, wandering from room to room pretending he’s looking for something important. The basement is too loud. The upstairs is full of couples making out on borrowed beds. 

Everyone here seems to know where to stand. How to move. When to laugh.

Shane doesn’t.

At one point, he ends up marooned in the kitchen. There are people dancing on the counters here. Shane spares a second to think how gross it is that their shoes are touching where Angélique’s family prepares their meals. 

Shane hasn’t ever had more than a few sips of beer in his life, but he’s standing next to a dented cooler full of jungle juice glowing a fluorescent green.

Well.

Why the fuck not, right?

He spoons some of the bright green liquid into a solo cup, hesitates, then downs it in three big, punishing gulps. His tongue lights up with sugar, artificial lime, and what Shane has to assume is not lighter fluid but certainly tastes like it. 

His throat burns.

He coughs once, eyes watering, and sets the cup down victoriously.

*

By midnight the house feels like it's closing in around him.

The music is louder, the air swampier, and Shane realizes he doesn’t actually love the sensation of being wobbly. His limbs feel borrowed. His brain is half a beat behind everything. 

He just needs a task, Shane decides. That’s when Shane starts picking up empty bottles that are being abandoned everywhere. He gathers them from windowsills, from behind the couch, from beside the stairs where someone’s kicked them over without noticing. He stacks them carefully in his arms like fragile trophies.

In the hallway, he taps a pretty girl on the shoulder. She turns, glossy black hair braided perfectly down her back.

“Angélique, where’s your recycling?”

She blinks at him like he’s speaking another language. She looks between the bottles in his hand and his face. “Uh? Garage?” she says tentatively.

Shane nods seriously.

On his way through the living room he overhears laughter—bright, and familiar.

Henry is leaning back against the couch, drink in hand, surrounded by girls. He looks relaxed in a way Shane never manages. His grin is loose, charming, effortless.

One of the girls tilts her head, squinting at him.

“You’re identical twins, right? Because— it’s crazy. I don’t know how else to say this. Henry, you’re so hot. But Shane is, like, unfuckable.”

The sentiment doesn’t exactly surprise Shane. He knows that of the two of them, Henry is the preferred twin, quick to laugh and easy to talk to. He just has never heard anyone say it out loud before, so blatantly. 

Shane bites his lip.

He waits for Henry to say something. Anything. To shut it down. To defend him the way they used to when they were kids and someone singled Shane out to tease.

But Henry just—

Laughs.

He laughs. And it isn’t cruel, but it isn’t kind either. It’s just. Easy. 

Something inside Shane snaps loose.

He shoves his way through the crowd, bottles clinking, out the front door and into the cold. The music is blessedly muffled behind him now. Snow blankets the lawn, dotted pale blue from the porch fairy lights.

He realizes he’s still holding the bottles.

With a jerky, angry motion, Shane launches them across the snow-covered yard.

Glass scatters. Buries itself. Makes small, fwumping sounds as they land in the snow.

It feels good for about half a second.

Then, it feels awful.

Shane exhales, shaky, and stalks out into the cold yard, crunching through snow to gather them back up. One by one. He lines them neatly on the front porch where someone will find them in the morning and wonder who the hell did that.

His hands are trembling now—part cold, part adrenaline, part heartbreak he doesn’t have words for yet.

He pulls out his flip phone. Scrolls through his contacts. It doesn’t take long because he only has five. His family. His Coach. And his only friend, Chad Header. 

Thursday playdates at the Header’s feels like a million years ago. Now, Shane only gets to see him in third period chemistry, where Chad walks him through conversion formulas with the patience and kindness usually reserved for canonized saints.

He presses call. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

Chad picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hey dude, can you give me a ride?” Shane is proud of the way his voice only wobbles a little.

*

Shane is pretty sure it’s only twenty minutes between the call and Chad chugging up in his mom’s busted-ass Honda Civic, but to his drunken brain, it feels like forever. 

Chad looks worried as he pops out of the car where he'd left it idling in the road, blinkers clicking on and off. On and off. 

He has dark circles under his eyes, and he’s got a puffer coat thrown over his pajamas, silk bonnet large on his head. He must have been asleep when Shane had called. Shane’s heart thumps at the idea that Chad would drag himself out of his warm blankets into the freezing darkness just to come get him. 

Then, he feels a stab of guilt. 

“Bro,” Chad says with feeling. He slings his coat around Shane’s shoulders and hustles him to the car. Shane lets himself be shepherded into the passenger seat, breathes in deeply when Chad pushes in close to pull the seatbelt across Shane’s lap. He smells like cheap laundry detergent and sweat. 

“Where’s Shithead McGee? He need a ride too?”

Shane shakes his head no. He got the sense that Henry already made plans to stay with Angélique tonight. Possibly in Angélique’s bed. 

“Okay,” Chad says, biting his lip. “Fuck. You’re like, really, really drunk.” 

“You’re drunk,” Shane mumbles back petulantly. 

Chad huffs. “I see being shwasted hasn’t improved your comeback game.” He closes Shane’s door, careful that Shane’s arms and legs are tucked in and out of the way. Chad slips into the driver’s seat and turns the radio on low. They drive without speaking, the low pounding of the Justin Timberlake bass-line making a steady rhythm. Shane traces Chad’s profile as it flashes vivid in each streetlight they pass. The height of his cheekbones, the evenness of his dark skin, the swell of his lips.

At last, Chad pulls the car to a stop. He cranks the emergency break and switches off the ignition. Without the radio and the rumble of the engine, the world suddenly feels too silent. 

Chad doesn’t make any moves to leave the car. He just turns his body towards Shane, eyes traveling over Shane’s face. “Dude. What happened?” 

Shane doesn’t even know where to begin. I can’t go to one single party and be normal. My brother hates me. I think I might have been born wrong. 

He doesn’t want to say any of that. Chad has always been uncommonly nice to Shane. And in the past year or so, with Henry pulling away, Shane is so desperately grateful to Chad. Shane’s head is pounding, and his heart is hurting, and his stomach is still sloshing around jungle juice. It’s what he blames his next actions on. Shane unclips his seatbelt and lurches forward, mashing his lips into Chad’s. 

It’s sloppy yet altogether not unpleasant, but after a split second, Chad is forcefully pushing him back into the passenger seat. 

“Dude!” 

Shane closes his eyes and grimaces, hunching down to protect his head and neck from the punch he’s sure is about to land. Chad had been their goalie for years before he quit when they’d started high school. Shane is no stranger to the particular fury of a hockey player who has had his masculinity impugned. 

After a long pause where no blow lands, Shane cracks his eyes open. Chad is staring at Shane, eyes wide and… wet?

“Are you— fucking crying!” Shane blurts, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. 

“No, fuck off!” Chad sniffs hard. To his credit, the tears stay lodged in his eyes and don’t fall. Thank god, because Shane doesn’t know what he’d do if Chad really started crying. How do you comfort someone who is crying over your gay crisis? “You’re such a dick, Hollander! Did you seriously think I would punch you for that?” 

“Yes! No. Maybe?” Shane winces. “I don’t— I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve…” 

Chad crosses his arms over the steering wheel and crumples over it. “No, no. I’m sorry. I’m not going to hit you, for the record. What the fuck.” 

Possibly the jungle juice gave Shane brain damage. He didn't know what he was thinking kissing Chad like that. Chad isn’t gay, and even if he was. Well. The un-fuckable Hollander twin wouldn’t likely be high on his list of preferences, would he?

Chad peeks an eye through the crack in his hands. “It’s. Um. Shit, it’s okay if you’re like. Gay or whatever. I don’t care.” He pauses. “I’m just—?”

“Right,” Shane says, nodding too vigorously. 

“Yeah, no, I’m—” 

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I sorta feel like I do?” Chad pinches his eyes. “I love you, bro, but I’m not—” 

“—God, please don’t—”

“—I’m not. In love with you?” Chad finishes despite Shane’s interruption. 

They stare at each other, profoundly uncomfortable in a way that feels bone-deep. Shane has ruined everything. Shane only had two friends in his life: his brother and Chad. His brother already hates him, and now, Chad is never going to speak to him again. He’s going to go to school on Monday and tell everyone that Shane isn’t just terminally awkward but a fucking queer on top of that. 

Something must show on his face because Chad’s own expression twists into horror. “Outside, Hollzy!” 

Shane manages to wrench open the passenger door just fast enough. He’s hunched over, puking a vivid green into the pristine white snow. He pretends that the tears in his eyes are just from the force of the retching. 

Chad’s purple rainboots swim into vision. 

“Let’s go, bro. It’s cold as tits out here. We can figure everything out inside.”

Shane spits one last time and looks up, only just realizing where Chad has driven them. They’re at Chad's place. 

Chad follows his gaze. “Oh. Yeah, you’re totally staying here tonight. I figure it’d be better to think up a lie for Mrs. Hollander tomorrow than to try to sneak you in tonight.” 

Shane is too tired to respond. He lets himself be dragged into the Header’s bungalow, interior heavily wood paneled and aggressively homey. Chad shoves him onto his bed and tells him to wait. A few seconds later, he comes in and pushes a red Gatorade into his hands. 

“Drink that, slowly. You’ll feel better.” He pauses. “I hope you’ll feel better. I’m legit scared what color your puke will be if you throw up again after drinking that.” 

Shane takes a small sip of the Gatorade and squints at Chad. “You’re not freaking out about this.” 

“I am. Sorta,” Chad says, rubbing his forehead. “But, like, not because you’re… y’know. Gay or whatever. You know that doesn’t make much of a difference to me, right?” 

Shane stares at him. 

“Right, Shane?”

Shane takes another sip of his drink and says nothing. 

Chad throws his hands up. “Dude! We’ve been friends since we were in kiddy-skates! You cannot be serious right now.” He sits on the bed next to Shane and bumps his shoulder into Shane’s. It’s a little too hard, but Shane appreciates that Chad is even willing to touch him after what he did in the car. Most guys, he thinks, would treat him like he was diseased after a performance like that. “I know we haven’t been, like, close lately but… you’re my bro.” He holds his fist out. “You’re always going to be my bro.” 

Shane bumps it lamely. 

In the morning, Chad and Shane will sit next to each other at the kitchen table while Mrs. Header makes them eggs and toast. Chad will rub his knuckles into Shane’s skull affectionately. Shane will smack him away. Mrs. Header will tut and say it's been too long since Shane has been by and he should come around more often. They’ll go to school on Monday, and Chad won’t say a thing to anyone. Over the coming months, Shane will ignore Chad’s texts and duck his side hugs in the hallways and slowly, slowly, the two will drift out of touch. Shane will go onto the MLH, Chad to medical school. The world will continue to rotate. 

But for now, Shane will lay on Chad’s bed and stare at the star stickers on the ceiling and wish he was somebody, anybody else. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you everyone SO MUCH who commented on last chapter!! I am still working my way through replies :') I'm always so blown away when people take the time to share their thoughts with me. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you!!

Just a heads up that some of the future chapters might be delayed. I am unfortunately returning to my 60+ hour work weeks this semester and it is kicking my ass most bastardly.

Chapter 11: The Banquet

Chapter Notes

This was one of the first chapters I wrote way back in FEBRUARY. I am vibrating that I finally get to post it.

March 2017 (present day)

[Thursday 4:13PM

From Rosie:]

Banquet is in a few weeks

[Thursday 4:13PM

From Rosie:] 

Will I see you there? 

[Sunday 12:53PM

From Rosie:] 

IMG_568.jpeg

Another cousin of yours?

[Monday 8:24PM

From Rosie:] 

Did you see Murphy take that puck to the face? You can see his tooth come out in replay 

[Tuesday 3:42 AM

From Rosie:]

If you told me what I did wrong I would try to fix it. 

[Tuesday 3:45AM

From Holly:] 

I’m sorry. It’s not you, it's me. 

[Tuesday 3:45AM

From Rosie:] 

Bullshit

[Tuesday 3:46AM

From Rosie:] 

Just tell me

[Tuesday 5:32AM

From Rosie:] 

I did not think you were a coward

*

In a hotel in Boston, Shane wakes on the morning of the annual MLH Charity Banquet and immediately knows something is wrong. His sheets are damp with sweat, and every few seconds his body seizes with a chill that rattles his teeth. 

Fuck! Not today. This can’t be happening today. He cannot be sick today; he has to be at the banquet. He has to deliver the keynote speech. He promised this months ago.

Shane fumbles for his phone on the nightstand, horrified by the number nine that flashes back at him. He cannot remember the last time he slept this late.  

Shane peers across the room at the lump in the double bed next to his. “Hn’ry,” Shane chokes out, throat full of knives. “Henry!” he calls out, louder, and immediately regrets it. 

The lump shifts a little. “Fuck off, Shane, seriously. We’ve talked about this. No speaking before dawn.” 

Shane grabs a pillow and hurls it. The grunt that follows tells him he hit his target.

“Henry. Seriously.” 

Henry rolls out of bed and toddles over. He squints at Shane. “Oh man, you look like death warmed up.” He presses the back of his hand to Shane’s forehead. “Yeah. Yeah, no, this is serious.”

“It is?” Shane croaks. 

Henry nods gravely. “Yeah, you might be dying. I hope you left me some good stuff in your will.” 

“Dipshit.” 

Henry flicks Shane’s ear affectionately. “Asshole.” 

Shane opens his mouth to say another curse when his stomach roils. He snaps it closed for fear of puking. From his pillow sepulchre, he watches Henry wander the room, tripping through his morning skincare routine, humming something tuneless and unrecognizable.

When Henry returns, clad in a black bathrobe, he perches on the edge of Shane’s bed. His hair is shoved back with a fuzzy cat-ear headband, his face slathered in white cream, making him look like a pasty, hungover grim reaper. Shane feels bad enough to briefly wish he actually were one and could offer Shane the sweet release of death.

Shane purses his lips. “Have to go. M’supposed to give a speech.” 

“Right. Okay. Except you look like a Victorian orphan delicately dying of consumption.” Henry rolls his eyes so hard Shane is surprised they didn’t pop out of his skull. “You definitely can’t go.” 

Henry doesn’t understand that Shane can’t skip out on this; People are counting on him.

And suddenly, as if struck by divine lighting, Shane has an idea. 

It’s a terrible idea. 

“I can’t go. But you can go. And so I can go.” 

“I’m not following.” 

Shane grabs Henry’s wrists and squeezes. “Me. You. You as me.” 

Henry blinks. “You’re not serious.” 

“I’m always serious.” 

Henry still looks dubious. Shane feels it like a weight on his chest. Desperation crawls up his spine, tightening his throat, and when he speaks, his voice pitches up into something thin and pleading—he can hear it happening and hates himself for it, but he can’t stop. This has to work. It has to.

“Weren’t you the one who said imitating me is easy? Plus, you fucking owe me one. Or did you forget Armani?”

Henry holds his stare for a long, unreadable beat. Shane barely breathes. Finally, Henry exhales and reaches up, popping his earrings out one by one and setting them carefully on the nightstand. The small, ordinary sound of metal against wood feels absurdly loud.

“Okay?” Shane asks tentatively.

“Yeah. Okay.” Henry disappears into the bathroom and comes back a minute later with his hair combed and his face scrubbed clean of goop. He shimmies out of his bathrobe without ceremony and reaches for Shane’s suit.

“Underwear first. I like that suit, and I don’t want to have to think about your ball sweat on it in the future.”

Henry tuts. “Awfully demanding for someone who is begging me for a favor. I’ll do what I want with my ball sweat,” he says, but he’s already digging into his bag and pulling out a pair of red briefs.

“Henry,” Shane says anxiously.

Henry hums, stepping into Shane’s trousers.

“Henry. Please take this seriously.” Shane hears the edge in his own voice, too close to whining, too close to panic. He doesn’t care. He needs Henry not to turn this into a joke. Not today.

Henry exhales and crosses back over, patting Shane on the head. “Shane. Listen. I get it. I promise I will be on my best behavior.” He pats Shane’s head a little harder. “And if I get stuck, I’ll ask myself: what would a wood carving of a boy do in this situation?”

The words land with a quiet sting. Shane swallows it down. If Henry notices, he doesn’t show it—he’s already turning away, scooping up his wallet and phone.

“They’re going to give me an Oscar for this performance, I swear, Shane.”

The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the room into sudden silence. Shane’s stomach bubbles again. He squeezes his eyes closed, curls slightly into the mattress, and—miraculously—sleep pulls him under once more.

Shane thinks it must be some hours later when he wakes, groggy, disoriented, groping wildly for his phone. 

Nine pm. He’s slept an entire twelve hours. Shane feels miserable, mouth furry, throat dry and painful. He squints at the notifications on his phone. 

Six missed calls from Henry. Two texts. 

Oh fuck. 

His phone feels too heavy in his hands. Fever makes everything swim—light too bright, air too thin, thoughts slippery. He opens the texts first, fingers trembling.

[From King Henry:] 

Pick up ur phone!! Wuz in the bthrm 2 piss n ILYA ROZANOV just grabbed my COCK nd BALLS!! 

The second text is time-stamped exactly eight minutes later.

[From King Henry:]

I think I might be bisexual. CALL ME BACK!!! 

Shane feels like throwing up. 

The room tilts.

Shane swallows once, twice, and then—

Nope. No. Shane is definitely going to throw up. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s on his knees, puking his guts out, hands braced on the cold tile, fever shaking straight through him. His head is full of Henry’s words. Of Ilya’s hands. Of Ilya’s hands on Henry in Shane’s body. 

It could be minutes or hours before the whirr of the card reader cuts through the haze. The hotel door clicks and swings open.

“Shane?” Henry calls out. Shane hears his footfalls on the plush carpet until he lands in the bathroom doorway. 

He looks happy and flushed. Alive in a way Shane feels very much not. “Dude! You are not going to believe the day I had.” He’s twiddling something in his hands, but Shane is busy looking at his face. His eyes are glossy, the way they get when he’s had a few drinks. 

“The speech went great, by the way. My delivery was flawless. They’ll probably post a video of it to their YouTube channel if you want to watch it. What’s crazy is that— Dude! Ilya Rozanov propositioned me— you?— me in the bathroom. Did you get my texts?” 

Shane gags, stomach bile pushing its way back up his throat.

Henry frowns. He stumbles over and pushes a cold can of ginger ale into Shane’s hands. “Drink that. Settles nausea,” Henry grunts and sits down hard on the side of the tub. “—anyway! Like I said, I was in the toilet, and I had just finished having a piss and was washing up when Rozanov comes in. Holy shit, Shane, his eyes were like—” 

Henry’s own eyes go hazy as he travels through the memory. 

“Nobody has ever looked at me like that. He looked like he wanted to unhinge his jaw like an alligator and swallow me whole. And then all of a sudden, he was pushing me against the wall of the bathroom, and his hand was, like, in my pants. His hand is huge, by the way.” 

There’s a small, private smile on Henry’s mouth that awakens something ugly and primordial in Shane’s chest.

“And then he bit my ear and asked me if I wanted to ride him like the little slut that I was.” Henry’s voice is gleeful, but there is an edge of reverence that Shane distinctly does not care for. “By god, Shane. No man has ever made me see stars like that.” 

Shane’s blood turns cold. “You didn’t— you didn’t actually—” 

Henry stares at Shane incredulously. “No! I didn’t! I shoved him off me.” 

Relief should come at that. It doesn’t. Henry misreads the look of horror on his face. “Well, it wasn’t like I was going to be able to suck him off on the dirty bathroom floor, Shane! He thought I was you. I promised I wouldn’t do anything to ruin your reputation or whatever.” 

That’s when the full force of it truly hits him.

Henry knows what it feels like now. What Shane alone has gotten to have these past months. Henry knows now what it’s like to have Ilya’s attention, his hands, his heat aimed at him.

Anger coils, a poisonous snake in Shane’s gut. A few months ago, Henry had been obsessed with the Iliad, howling portions of it at random intervals: “Rage! Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles, murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses!”

Shane understands it now.

“You are such. A fucking bastard.” Shane’s voice shakes even as he fights for control. 

Henry reels back as if struck. “What?”

“You fucking heard me.”

Henry blinks owlishly at Shane. It’s a stupid expression, Shane thinks viciously. 

“Why are you mad? I literally reacted how you would have! Like, all repressed and shit—what the fuck, Shane? Are you seriously mad at me for turning down a proposition for gay sex as you?”

The fever in Shane’s skull won’t let him be fair about this. He knows Henry can’t possibly understand why this hurts, why it feels like something precious has been stolen from him.

But he’s mad about Henry speedrunning a sexuality crisis that took Shane years to come to terms with. He’s mad about Henry getting within ten feet of Ilya’s hands. Mad about Henry always getting what he wants. Mad that Henry can wear Shane’s life like a costume, come back glowing, and then enjoy the satisfaction of taking it off at the end of the day. 

He’s mad because Shane can never, never, take off his own fucking costume.

“Because I ask you for one thing and you fuck it up! You are un-fucking-believable!!”

The words tear out of him.

Decades of swallowed resentment swell back up his throat like bile, and Shane realizes with distant horror that this fight isn’t really about today at all.

Henry goes very still. The air between them crackles. But all at once, whatever he’d been ready to throw back at Shane seems to drain out of him, leaving something flat and shut down behind his eyes.

“Fuck. You,” Henry says quietly.

He turns without another word, grabs his bag off the chair, and yanks it over his shoulder. The door slams hard enough to rattle the mirror.

Shane doesn’t follow. His fever-weak limbs wouldn’t let him even if he wanted to.

He sinks down onto the cold bathroom tile instead, spine sliding against the tub, and stares up at the ceiling like it might explain how everything Shane loves shatters in his grip. 

*

Once his fever breaks the next day, Shane forces himself to watch the video the MLH puts on their YouTube channel. 

It’s an act of penance.

Henry did a good job. He’s ashamed to admit it, but Shane doubts even their parents could tell that it wasn’t him up there giving the speech. Henry’s cadence is perfect, pauses in the right places, does the same unconscious lip-rubbing thing Shane does when he’s nervous.

His chest aches. For once, Henry had delivered, and it was Shane who cocked everything up. 

He’s hovering over the close button when a text notification slides down the screen.

Shane manages not to click on it for a full minute. 

[From Rosie: 

For the record I am sorry about the banquet. I thought it was you in bathroom. I just wanted to fix things. I would never do something like that to hurt you on purpose.] 

[From Rosie: 

Not that you would do the same I guess]

And there’s a link to a TMZ article. The headline reads: Henry Hollander’s Harley Quinn Hookup? Below it is a blurry photograph of Henry out the night before, stumbling out of a club with a beautiful woman. Her auburn hair is in perfect coils, red lipstick flawless, and her dress very, very short. Shane squints and thinks that he recognizes her as the actress from the new comic book movie coming out in the summer. Rose Landry, his brain helpfully supplies.

It’s not what you think 

Shane taps out. Then deletes.

That isn’t fucking me

Delete, delete, delete. 

[From Holly: 

I think you deserve better than me.] 

Some truth at last. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all for reading and especially folks who take the time to comment. I am always delighted to read your thoughts and particularly thrilled to read your predictions!! <3 Especially when you're right on the money can I get to laugh diabolically to myself.

Chapter 12: Shark

Chapter Notes

*Slaps the side of my tag* They weren't kidding when they said this identity can be mistaken.

Just a quick TW up here at the top that there are some racially and sexually related hate comments that happen near the end of this chapter.

March 2017 (Yesterday)

Ilya is too hot. 

He tugs at the collar of his shirt, loosening the sleek black necktie and sighing at the relief of it. The annual MLH fundraiser banquet is usually an exercise in dissociation for Ilya. It’s boring, and sycophantic, and it is usually a bunch of stuffed-shirts from the MLH administration patting themselves on the back and simpering at their philanthropy. 

But. The money goes to a good cause. So Ilya sucks it up and attends and disappears into his own imagination for an hour while person after person gets up and drones on about how great the MLH is. Ilya has perfected the art of nodding along, gaze fixed just slightly above the head of the person at the podium, while he imagines himself thousands of miles away. 

Ilya had had half a mind to skip this year. But he had grit his teeth, put on one of his nice suits, and called a cab. He’d like to say it’s because he’s thinking about the adults with autism that the MLH is fundraising for. But it’s not because of them. 

It’s because Henry was going to be here. And Ilya was going to fix this thing with Henry.

Ilya Rozanov is many things, but he isn’t a fucking quitter. 

When asked, Ilya would say he is a dog person. Dogs are simple. Straightforward. Their wants and needs are easily communicated and understood. Plus, there has always been a secret part of him that is impressed by their courage; what other creature shows their love by flipping and showing their underbelly? What other creature says so blatantly: Here. Here are my soft parts. You could hurt me, but I trust that you won’t.

His grandmother had owned a cat when Ilya was little.

Oskar was a placid, heavy-lidded creature that seemed almost as ancient as the antique Fabergé eggs Grandmama collected. Ilya had spent entire afternoons curled up on the rug beneath the piano, the low notes of her playing vibrating through the floorboards, while he ran slow, careful fingers down the length of Oskar’s spine.

He had thought he understood the rules.

Except one afternoon, sunlight pooling in soft patches across the ornate rug, Ilya pressed his palm just a little too firmly along the cat’s back. 

Oskar reacted like a trap snapping shut.

He reared up with startling speed for something so old, twisting to rake his sharp claws across the back of Ilya’s hand. By the time Ilya registered the sting—registered the sudden, bright line of blood welling up—Oskar was already across the room, on the back of Grandmama’s couch grooming his paws intently.

Gone.

It wasn’t until much later that his grandmother explained.

Oskar had arthritis. Bad in the hips. The wrong touch, even a gentle one, could hurt. (“He’s not mean, Ilyushenka, or spiteful. Just sensitive.”) Fragile in places you couldn’t see unless you knew where to look. He needed to be handled with care.

Cats might seem soft. Predictable. Content.

Until suddenly they’re not.

Until suddenly they’re all teeth and claws, slashing you open for a mistake you didn’t even know you were making—before scampering away like nothing happened, already halfway to somewhere warm and quiet, licking themselves clean.

It was only when he was much, much older, that he’d learned that cats do signal their discomfort. Their cues are more subtle, their little bodies harder to read than dogs, but they’re there. 

He’d run the incident in his bedroom over and over again in his mind, trying to figure out his misstep. Somewhere between grabbing Henry’s wrists and saying his name, he’d shattered the fragile glass balloon between them. 

I like you, Henry. 

Stupid. So fucking stupid. He’d tried it once before, hadn’t he? Months ago. Curled up together in that beautiful Montreal apartment, Henry’s own deranged, fluffy cats watching them like sentries. And Henry had gone quiet then too. Hadn’t pulled away, exactly—but had closed something off. Had practically warned him, in his own way.

Don’t. Please don’t, Henry had said. 

Henry had been clear from the beginning. This was just sex. Nothing more.

So was it really a surprise when Henry had reared back and scratched, just like Oskar had that afternoon on his grandmother’s rug?

The signs had been there: the lashing tail, ears flattened out sideways; the refusals to open up, the clear shut downs when Ilya tried to broach anything meaningful. 

Yes, the signs were all there. Ilya had just been too stubborn to read them.

Ilya takes a glass of champagne from a short, heavily pierced waiter, the cool drink a balm in the heat of this overcrowded room. When Ilya thanks the guy, he practically stumbles, cartoonishly shocked over Ilya’s simple gratitude. 

“Y-you’re welcome, Mr. Rozanov.” 

The waiter is sweating too, beads of perspiration dotting above his thick brows. Ilya can’t imagine having to run around in this crowded venue, all tight bodies and heat, all while wearing a full polyester uniform. 

Ilya cocks an eyebrow. “Despite what you may have heard, I do have some manners…” Ilya squints at the kid’s nametag. “Kip.” 

“Oh! I actually— no, I mean, I haven’t heard anything about— about you! Why would I know anything about you? I’m just a waiter. Who would’ve told me you’re a dick?” Kip laughs too loudly. 

Ilya stares at this strange rabbit of a man and decides that whatever is going on with him is absolutely none of Ilya’s concern. He tips his head back and necks the entire glass, sets it empty onto Kip’s tray, and takes two more. 

“Right. Okay. Thank you, Kip.” 

Kip mercifully takes the hint and weaves away into the crowd. 

Ilya circles the room. Forces himself through some idle conversations. 

This is excruciating. And so far, Ilya has only seen Shane, Henry’s brother, who had stood up earlier at the podium and delivered a flat, highly polished speech about the way the hockey community can come together to support a common goal. There wasn’t a buzzword that didn’t go without being strangled by Shane’s colorless cadence; it was all very predictable, artless, and boring.

He’d eventually tuned out the words in favor of tracking the details.

The tone. The gestures. The way Shane held himself.

It was so close to the version he’s longing for.

Close enough that it kept catching in Ilya’s throat, like a word on the tip of his tongue. Just slightly off. Just to the left of Henry-at-home. Not for the first time, Ilya finds himself thinking about the gap between the two versions of him—the too-loud, overbearing persona Henry wears out in the world, and the quieter, contained version he becomes when the cameras are gone.

The one only Ilya knows.

Knew. 

Because who can say if Henry will ever let him back in to see that version of him?

He drains the last of his second drink, then another one after it, and sets both empty glasses down on the nearest passing surface without really looking. This room is too fucking hot. Where is that infamous air conditioning Americans love? 

Ilya needs a cigarette.

His fingers go automatically to his breast pocket, reaching for his pack of Winstons—and come up empty.

Fuck.

He’d agreed to cut back months ago when Henry had wrinkled his nose and turned those big, earnest brown eyes at him and simply… asked. 

“Would you ever consider quitting? Or at least cutting back?”

Ilya’s impulse had, of course, been to tease. 

“I can’t. Girls love men who smoke. It is very sexy, you see.” 

Henry had smacked his chest, and Ilya had felt triumphant that Henry didn’t deny it was sexy. That sense of victory was brief because Henry had replied: “Yeah, but they’re bad for you. Cancer. Pulmonary disease. Diminished lung capacity. Obviously, none of that is good for a professional athlete. And I need you playing hockey for as long as possible.” 

That tiny, private smile of Henry’s had cut straight through him, the way it always did.

Ilya had swallowed hard. “You like having me wipe the ice with you? You like punishment? Very kinky, Hollander.” 

Henry had flushed, those freckles popping even more against his reddened cheeks. “You wish you wiped the ice with me, Rozanov. I just like—” He’d cut himself off before saying tightly, “I just like playing with you. I want to play with you for as long as we can.” 

Ilya had gone quiet then. Safer that way. He hadn’t trusted what might come out if he opened his mouth. 

(“You listen, don’t speak, Ilya.”)

After a long moment, Henry had wrinkled his nose again. “Also, your tongue tastes like ash afterwards, and it's kinda gross.” 

“What, this tongue?” Ilya had said—and then put it to very effective use, until Henry was gasping and writhing beneath him. It had been a nice afternoon. 

It had been a nice couple of months right up until Ilya had fucked it all up.

Ilya palms his breast pocket one last time as if that might make his Winstons appear. He’s considering trying to bum one off of their new rookie when he spots Cliff at the bar—a solid, familiar presence—hunched over like he’s settling in for a long night.

Ilya drifts over.

Cliff glances up and lifts his beer in a lazy salute. “Hey, chief, you wanna join me? I’m playing a drinking game.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Every time someone says ‘community’, 'gratitude,’ or ‘partnership,’ I take a drink. Every time someone says ‘make a difference’ or ‘autism,’ I do a shot.” 

Ilya studies Cliff more closely.

It takes a lot to put a dent in a man that size, but Cliff’s cheeks are already flushed a noticeable pink, his posture just a little looser than usual.

“I do not think you should be doing a shot every time someone says ‘autism’ at autism fundraiser. That is a lot of shots. Also… it is problematic, yes?” 

The word still feels slightly unfamiliar in his mouth.

Prob-lem-mat–tick.

He’d picked it up recently—after an incident with the new rookie. 

Colton Brooks was a left winger with a cracking slap shot and a mouth to match. 

Apparently. 

Ilya hadn’t been there for whatever had been said on the ice, but he’d skated past just in time to hear Cliff and Connors laying into the kid for being “problematic.”

Brooks had looked bored through the whole thing—right up until he spotted Ilya and lit up, waving like they were old friends. Little prick. If Ilya was a better captain, he would have figured out what the hell was going on and given Brooks a talking to himself. But Ilya was too tired and too heartsore to get involved.

Cliff laughs now, easy and unbothered, just as the bartender slides a fresh beer in front of him. “The money I’m spending on each drink is going directly to support them, so if anything, I’m actually being super philanthropic.”

Ilya exhales through his nose, not entirely convinced.

But. It’s been over an hour, and there’s still no sign of Henry. He’d probably bailed, knowing Ilya would be here. And why shouldn’t he? It's not like Henry is beholden to Ilya.

Fine.

Fuck it.

The vodka, at least, will make the next hour of speeches bearable.

“I can be phee-lan-trop-pick too.” Ilya waves his hand at the bartender while Cliffie claps his back with the hand the size of a plate. 

“Hell yeah, brother!” 

*

By the time the speeches are over and the glad-handing has truly begun, Ilya is the drunkest he has been since his father’s funeral. The world has taken on that pleasant fuzz, like everything is happening with the same urgency of waves gently lapping on the shore. 

Ilya is alone at the bar now; Cliff had abandoned him at least twenty minutes ago in pursuit of a leggy brunette with a laugh loud enough to carry over the speeches. Ilya can’t even fault him for it. In another life—another, simpler version of himself—he would be doing the exact same thing. Attaching himself into the side of a beautiful woman and letting her soft curves press into him. And that version of Ilya would wake up the next morning and the woman would be gone, but the loneliness would still be lingering like her perfume on his pillow. 

But instead he’s here, nursing a vodka that is warming in the oppressive heat, his thoughts circling on the same person in a tight spiral: a freckled winger with inconsistent play who does shit like read his medication side effects and study Russian but who also doesn’t actually seem to want him beyond his body.

Hot, cold. Open, closed. Complicated, easy. Impossible to pin down. Henry Hollander. 

It’s… exhausting.

Ilya is exhausted. 

He exhales, long and slow, and pushes the glass away from him. Enough. He’s done. He’s just about ready to call it—to go home to his cars and his pool and the stupid fucking peace lily Henry convinced him to buy. To the kind of silence that presses in on all sides—when he sees him.

Henry.

Finally!

All the way across the room, gracefully cutting through the crowd, heading toward the bathrooms.

Ilya’s already moving before the decision fully forms, slipping through clusters of people, offering distracted nods to anyone who tries to catch his attention. Someone calls his name—he ignores it. Another claps him on the shoulder—he barely registers it.

His focus narrows to a single point.

Ilya pushes the bathroom door open with his shoulder.

Inside, the fluorescent lights are harsh, but the air is weirdly cooler. Henry stands at the sink, sleeves pushed up, humming something under his breath—something familiar and poppy. Ariana Grande, a helpful voice supplies from the recesses of Ilya’s brain.  

Henry is washing his hands and there is a healthy pink flush to his cheeks; there isn’t a hint that the last month has been agony for him like it has been for Ilya. And yet, just the sight of Henry sends tingling relief under Ilya’s skin.

Henry looks up.

Their eyes lock in the mirror.

For a second, his face is that bombastic media persona, all cocksure and mischievous before it switches into the softer version that Ilya loves.

Ilya has waited for this moment. A chance to speak to Henry in person.

But the vodka’s waves are still gently lapping in the back of his brain and there is that same little voice from earlier saying overthinking is what got you into trouble in the first place. No more thinking, it is time for instinct. 

Sex is how they found each other originally. The sex is how they connected, the place where Henry lets himself be most honest. If Ilya just reminds Henry that he can do this, then maybe, maybe, Henry will let Ilya back in. Henry will finally understand that Ilya will take what he is given and thank him for it. 

So Ilya does what he knows has worked before.

He moves.

Crosses the bathroom in a few quick strides, grips Henry’s shoulder, and turns him—presses him back against the wall in one smooth, practiced motion.

Henry blinks at him with those brown eyes, wide and startled but yes—a spark of desire there. Unmistakable. 

Good. Ilya still has a chance to make this right. 

“Rozanov,” Henry says carefully, warily. Back to last names again. Ilya understands. He might be stupid, but he rarely makes the same mistake twice.

“Hollander.” 

Cliff once told the team that if sharks stopped swimming, they would drown. The Raiders had bullied him mercilessly until someone had Googled it and discovered that it was more or less true. Now, Ilya understands; he can’t stop.

Ilya snakes his hand down, fingers curling at Henry’s waistband before slipping lower, cupping him through the thin fabric of his briefs. Ilya is pleased when he feels a small, involuntary twitch of Henry’s cock beneath his palm. At least Henry’s body is on his side. It’s enough to make something small bloom hopeful in his chest. 

He leans in, presses his mouth just below Henry’s ear, drags his teeth lightly over the lobe.

Henry shivers.

This is working! 

Ilya moves his hand again, deliberately slower this time, as he murmurs against Henry’s skin, “Do you want me to bring you off with my hand? Come in your pants like a teenager and try to make it out of here without anyone seeing the wet spot? Or do you want to come back to my house and ride me like the little slut you are?”

For a second, Henry melts. It’s subtle—his forehead tipping forward until it rests briefly against Ilya’s shoulder, the faintest press of his hips into Ilya’s palm.

Yes, yes, yes!

And then—the trap snaps shut.

Henry shoves him back, hard.

Ilya stumbles, his feet catching awkwardly beneath him, and the next thing he knows, he’s hitting the tile, the impact jarring up through his spine. He’s just been dumped on his ass onto the cold, grimy bathroom floor.

For a second, he just… sits there. Not quite understanding what has just happened.

Ilya blinks up at Henry—blinks again.  And the vodka must be starting to ebb a little from his system, the tide finally withdrawing from the shore, because he is noticing things he hadn’t before. 

Henry is breathing hard, eyes wild like a spooked horse. 

Henry is looking at Ilya like he has never seen him like this before. 

Henry is wearing the same dark navy suit that Shane was wearing for his speech earlier. 

Henry is—

Oh god. Henry is Shane. 

Ilya has come onto Shane. Shoved his hand down the pants of Shane. Shane, who looks a little like he is about to puke. 

“What the actual fuck, Rozanov!” Shane drags a hand through his shaggy hair, and the motion is so eerily familiar—so close to the man Ilya loves—that for a split second it feels like his vision has doubled. “Why would you—” 

The bathroom door bursts open.

Scott Hunter stumbles inside, then stops short, his gaze snapping between Ilya sprawled on the floor and Shane, who has flattened himself against the wall like a startled tropical lizard.

“Uh. Hi?” Scott huffs an awkward laugh, flashing his insanely white teeth. They’re all the exact same shape and size and color, stupidly perfect rows of squares. Ilya hates them. “Everybody okay in here?” 

“Yup! Yes! Actually, woah, that’s crazy!” Shane fumbles his phone out of his pocket. “My brother is calling me. So I have to leave. Immediately. Right now!” He brings the phone to his ear and bolts, pivoting around both of them with the same deft, effortless agility he uses on the ice. It would be impressive if it weren’t for the fact that he is very obviously faking the call. “Oh, yeah, hey, Sh– HENRY! I’m coming home right now! Yeah, totally!”

The door swings shut behind him.

Hunter stares at Ilya, as if trying to ask with his eyes: what the fuck was that! 

The thing is that Ilya has always felt too much. When he was a child, he laughed loudly, played hard, cried even harder. Until he got too old for that to be tolerated (“boys your age don’t act like this, what is wrong with you? You are ten, Ilya, act like it!”), and Ilya had learned to hold onto his feelings with a vice grip. He’d had to. There was no other choice. He’d had to learn how to dam the waters or risk a flood washing away everything he’d ever worked for.

Now, when Ilya probes at that space inside his heart, there’s…

Nothing. 

Just… nothing.

Numb.

It’s like throwing a coin down a well and waiting, waiting, waiting for a splash that just simply does not come. 

“You okay, man?” Hunter asks, quieter now. There’s something shifting behind his eyes—concern, maybe—but Ilya is too tired, too drunk, too hollowed out to try and parse it.

He just needs to keep moving. If sharks stop moving, they drown. 

Ilya pushes himself to his feet. He wobbles slightly, then steadies, spreading his hands out as if to say: ta-da!

Hunter does not seem to be impressed by this particular feat of athleticism. 

“Yes. I fell down. You should be familiar with this, no? Old men fall down a lot, break their hips,” Ilya snarks. 

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, clearly you’re fine if you’re mouthing off. Can you fuck off now? I’ve actually had a pretty shitty night, and I don’t need to cap it off with Ilya fucking Rozanov watching me piss.” 

“Do you need me to hold it for you?”

“Fuck! Off! Rozanov!” 

Chased out of a dirty bathroom by known-fossil Scott Hunter. 

This night has been a low point for Ilya. Not the lowest, mind. 

But it comes pretty damn close.

*

Ilya wakes the next morning with a pounding head, a furry mouth, and the certainty that this thing with Henry is broken beyond repair.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stretches, wincing as his back cracks loudly. When he stands, his knee—his newly healed knee—pops in protest too. He grimaces.

He’s not as young as he used to be.

Almost a decade of professional hockey has started to show in small, irritating ways. Little reminders, tucked discretely into joints and tendons.

Ilya glances down at himself and feels a flicker of disgust; he’s still wearing the Armani suit from last night, rumpled and creased, the collar askew. At some point he’d managed to kick off his shoes, but that’s as far as he’d gotten before collapsing face-first onto the duvet.

Ilya stares at the sleek black fabric for a long moment, runs his finger around the silver buttons. Yeah… he might have to burn this particular three-piece. He’s not sure he can ever look at this thing again without recalling every inch of last night’s debacle. 

Ilya strips it off piece by piece and heads for the shower, turning the water as cold as he can tolerate. He steps under the spray and just stands there.

Water pounding against his skin.

He makes a deliberate effort not to think. Not about the banquet. Not about the bathroom. Not about—anything.

Shampoo. Scrub. Rinse. 

His flesh is beginning to goosepebble, and his teeth chatter. At least Ilya is more awake now. 

Afterward, as he towels himself dry, something surfaces through the fog in his head. A memory, blurry and disjointed, like a message in a bottle washing up from some far away shore.

The cab ride home… He remembers pulling out his phone. The glow of the screen had bounced with every bump in the road, turning his stomach. He’d still been drunk. Miserable. Raw and heartsick.

He’d typed something.

Christ!

What was it that he’d sent?

A faint wave of nausea rolls through him as he grabs his phone and opens the thread with Henry. There’s a tightness in his chest now—anticipation, dread. 

I am so sorryy I thought was you in ballroom. Pleas do not hate me. Ple a se let me try agaim

It’s unsent.

Still sitting there in the text box.

Ilya exhales slowly.

Well, that’s a small mercy. He can’t imagine how Henry would react to such a pathetic message.

There’s nothing new from Henry either. Not since his shitty little: ‘I’m sorry. It’s not you, it's me.’

And hadn’t that been a kick in the teeth to get that. What a stupid phrase. English was a profoundly stupid language. 

He shuts his eyes and tries to think. There’s a voice that sounds suspiciously like Svetlana telling him not to do anything rash. So he grits his teeth and shoves his phone into his pocket. 

The morning stretches out in long, empty hours.

Ilya fills them the only way he knows how—with movement. With tasks. With anything that keeps his hands busy and his mind from circling too tightly around the same point.

He starts with the peace lily.

It sits by the east-facing window, glossy leaves drooping just slightly. He waters it carefully, watching the soil darken as the water soaks in. He adjusts the angle of the pot, wipes a stray drop from one of the leaves with his thumb.

It’s absurd how much attention he gives this stupid plant. Even so, it’s slowly been losing its verdancy over the past weeks. Ilya has tried moving it around the house several times, watering it more, watering it less. Nothing has worked. Ilya lingers there a second too long, then forces himself away.

*

The gym is maybe a bad idea.

Too many mirrors.

Too many angles.

Too many versions of himself reflected back at him, none of them particularly appealing.

He keeps his eyes down as much as possible, focusing on the rhythm instead. Loading the plates. Settling his stance. Lift. Drop. Rest. Repeat.

His knee holds, but his ribs twinge. Sweat drips down his spine.

He pushes harder than he should, chasing the burn, chasing the blankness that comes with it. This place where there is no thinking, only movement.

The emptiness is a relief.

It doesn’t last long.

At some point, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror anyway—flushed, damp, jaw tight—and looks away so quickly he almost drops the weight on his foot.

By early afternoon, he runs out of ways to distract himself.

Which leaves him alone with it. With the thought he’s been carefully avoiding all day.

Shane Hollander. 

There’s no version of this where Shane doesn’t tell Henry what Ilya has done.

Ilya turns that over, again and again, like picking a scab. 

Maybe not immediately. Maybe not in detail. But eventually? Of course he will. Why wouldn’t he? They might be fighting, but they are twin brothers. 

Hey, shame you missed the banquet, Henry! Funny thing actually, Ilya Rozanov assaulted me in the bathroom! Anyway, how was your evening?

Now he’s imagining the look on Henry’s face when Shane tells him that Ilya is the kind of bastard who forces himself on someone’s twin brother on the rebound. 

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose and presses his fingers against his temples. Things have been bad before. Ilya has fucked up so many times in his life he’s lost count. 

But this is—

He doesn’t even have a word for it.

He replays the scene in his head: the look on Shane’s face. The confusion. The disgust. How that will be mirrored when Henry finds out. 

If he hadn’t had so much to drink, he would have realized his mistake immediately, would have realized he was chasing the wrong twin. 

(“You should be ashamed, Ilya.”) 

Ilya drags a hand down his face.

He wants to call Svetlana. The longing for it hits him suddenly. He wants her to come over and cradle his head in her lap and tell him it’s all going to be fine. She’d do it, too. She would come over, would push her way into his house without a word, card her fingers through his hair, and tell him in her no-nonsense way that he’s going to be fucking fine. 

But he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s already burdened Sveta enough. 

Cliffie is easy. Cliffie doesn’t ask too many questions. He’s all noise and bluster and bad jokes. A perfect, uncomplicated distraction. 

The phone rings out so long he isn’t sure Cliff is going to answer until—click. 

“You okay, chief?”

Cliff’s voice is rough, a little hoarse. There’s a soft, unmistakable peal of giggles in the background, and Ilya closes his eyes briefly.

Of course.

Cliff had left with the brunette.

Ilya pushes past the flicker of embarrassment at forgetting this, tries to sound casual.

“Yes. I am okay. Was butt dial.”

Bad choice. The soft animal in his brain latches onto the phrase, where he’d learned it, drags it somewhere else entirely in its jaws—somewhere warm and breathless and dangerous. The memory of Henry’s voice, soft and broken through the phone, little gasps caught between words.

Ilya swallows hard.

“Okay, dude,” Cliff says with a note of distraction. “See you at practice in a few days.”

The line goes dead before Ilya can respond.

He lowers the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen.

Alone again with his thoughts.

Intolerable.

The silence presses in around him, thick and suffocating. He’s just starting to consider who else he could call—who else might pick up, might pull him out of this spiral—when his phone buzzes in his hand.

A notification.

Google alert.

His stomach drops before he even opens it.

He’d set it months ago, back when this—whatever this was—with Henry had first started. To stay connected in some small, distant way. Ilya’d just wanted to keep up with him. 

Ilya had honestly forgotten he’d set it. It seems like after the fight with his family, Henry had taken a break from his media antics. Had retreated into quietude for a while. 

But now. Now there’s a photo of Henry, hand in hand with Rose Landry, what must have been mere hours after the banquet. 

Perfect, beautiful, effortless Rose fucking Landry. The kind of woman any man would be proud to have beside him. Someone Henry could show off without shame, without hesitation. A rising star to Ilya’s black hole. 

Looking at this photo makes Ilya’s eyes hurt. 

Ilya has been deluding himself these past few months. Everything he thought he felt from Henry—every tender look, every careful touch, every quiet moment—nothing more than an illusion he’d been chasing in his own head. 

Ilya thinks distantly of a documentary he’d watched about those awful psychological experiments from decades ago. Monkeys separated from their mothers, clinging to wire frames covered in cloth, desperate for anything even approximating comfort. 

That’s Ilya. 

So fucking starved for affection he was willing to take it from anywhere, willing to hallucinate it.

It was simple to Henry: Ilya was just an easy fuck to pass the time. 

The text he composes to Henry is polite, despite the way his hand shakes. 

[To Holly:]

For the record I am sorry about the banquet. I thought it was you in bathroom. I just wanted to fix things. I would never do something like that to hurt you on purpose. Not that you would do the same. 

He links the article, so there can be no mistake to what he is referring.

Ilya hits send. 

Then, with a kind of deliberate calm that feels almost detached, he stands.

The peace lily sits where he left it earlier, leaves a little lank in the weak afternoon light. He crosses the room and picks it up, fingers curling around the cold ceramic pot.

A bit of soil spills over the rim, dusting his knuckles.

He doesn’t brush it off.

For a moment, he just stands there, holding it. Looking at it like it might mean something.

Like it ever did.

Then he turns, walks it straight to the trash, and drops it in.

Ilya slams the lid shut.

The sound cracks through the apartment, echoing faintly off the walls.

His hand stays there, pressed flat against the top of the bin, breath coming a little too fast now, the calm already splintering at the edges.

Fuck this.

Fuck this. 

***

Montreal April 2017 (present day)

Ilya has been a beast this game—all of the Raiders have.

From the first drop of the puck, there’s been an edge to them, something mean and unrelenting. Every hit crashes a little harder. Every pass snaps a little faster. They’re playing like a team with something to prove, even if most of them couldn’t quite name what that something is.

They could feel it, though.

Ilya had made sure of that.

(“—and we are going to destroy Montreal in their own home! We will fuck them so hard they are going to feel it in their throats!”)

The pre-game speech hadn’t exactly been elegant; elocution has never been Ilya’s strength.

But the locker room had erupted—all whoops and laughter and frenzied energy. Cliff had slapped his back and Brooks' ice-blue eyes had taken on a manic glint. No, it wasn’t a pretty speech, but it didn’t need to be. It got the job done.

The Cruisers and the Admirals have been inexplicably strong this season, climbing higher in the rankings than anyone expected, and the Raiders need this win. Badly. A game like this should be tight. The Raiders and the Metros have always been nearly equally matched.

Instead, it’s tipping hard in their favor, almost to the point of absurdity.

There’s more chirping than usual. More borderline fouling. The kind of play that toes the line between competitive and vindictive.

And everyone can feel it; something is off.

It’s not just the Raiders.

The Wonder Twins are out of sync in a way that’s almost surreal to watch. Whatever the headlines have said in the past about the Hollander brothers being at odds, it has never looked like this on the ice.

They’re missing easy passes. They’re taking reckless shots on goal that are immediately scooped up by the Raiders. At one point, Henry skates into Pike and sends them both sprawling on the ice, leaving an opening for Brooks to snap in a clean goal through the legs of Miitka.

So fucking pathetic. Ilya lets his anger take the lead, smashing into both twins at every opportunity, shoving them hard into the boards. But no matter how many times he does it, neither twin will fucking make eye contact with him. 

At the starting faceoff Henry wouldn’t take his eyes off the puck for a second. Not even when Ilya shot him a smile that was all sharp teeth and asked how things were going with Rose Landry. Henry had merely squinted, his hands tightening around his stick. But he hadn’t taken his eyes off the puck. 

Look at me! he wants to shout at them. Fucking look at me!

When Ilya isn’t checking Shane or Henry into the boards, Colton Brooks is. Ilya gets the sense that Brooks is trying to prove something to someone. Any time they play, he’s looking to start a fight, get the most goals. Ilya remembers feeling that way once. 

These days all he feels is a tiredness that is bones deep. 

Henry has always been easy to provoke. After a few dirty hits and the right words, Henry gets worked up and loses his precision. It’s almost too easy to get him going tonight.

But Shane rarely lets himself be prodded into true anger on the ice. It’s not unheard of—Ilya knows, he’s tried his hand at it many times—but usually Shane will just turn red, set his jaw, and funnel his rage into playing even better. It’s infuriating and delightful in equal measure.

Tonight, though, Ilya can see the cracks in Shane’s armor grow bigger with every hit. Especially after Brooks has landed a couple solid ones. There’s something off in the way Shane recovers. A fraction more sloppy.

At one point, Brooks skates in close, says something to Shane, voice low and quick. They’re moving too fast for Ilya to catch the words, but he sees the effect. Sees the way Shane’s posture shifts, tension snapping through him like a live wire.

The game limps toward the end.

It almost finishes as a shutout—almost—until Pike manages to tap the puck in through a messy scramble at the net right before the clock runs out. Bodies piled on bodies, sticks tangled. But, a goal is a goal, no matter how ugly.

Still, it’s pretty pathetic when your only point of the night comes from Hayden fucking Pike.

The sweetness of the victory is already receding for Ilya and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The Metros had barely put up a fight. There’s no glory in killing an animal that’s already wounded.

The boys take their time getting up off the ice; it’s always a slow untangle after a heap like this. 

Brooks peels himself off Shane last. He leans in as he does, says something else—something again too soft for Ilya to hear—but this time the reaction is immediate.

Shane’s face goes red. Not flushed. 

Furious.

He’s on his feet in a second, shoving Brooks back hard.

“Enough! Shut the fuck up about her, Brooks.”

Ilya is already moving.

He closes the distance quickly, shoving himself between the two, one hand braced against Shane’s chest, the other angled toward Brooks. It’s rare that Ilya finds himself in the position of peace maker. But the game is over. The score is what it is. There is nothing to gain from Brooks attacking Shane. 

Brooks doesn’t seem to get the message from his captain, though, because he’s tipping his chin up. His eyes are bright with the kind of cruel satisfaction of getting exactly the reaction you wanted. 

Shane surges forward again, his face pulled tight and gloves already discarded. But Ilya is ready for it this time. He catches him around the chest, widens his stance, holds him back.

Shane struggles against him immediately—he twists hard in Ilya’s grip, trying to break free, anything to get at Brooks again.

“Move, Ilya!”

Ilya.

It echoes.

(“Fuck, Ilya!” “Off! Get off, Ilya!”)

He knows the shape of his name in that mouth. 

Ilya! 

It hits him like a gunshot to the chest. For a second—just a second—the rink tilts.

Because it’s suddenly all coming together. The inconsistencies that never quite made sense. The way Henry was so different around everyone else except Ilya. The way that Henry’s eyes would gloss over him at events like he didn’t recognize Ilya—he’d thought that was just to maintain their cover, but it would make sense if… if…

If Henry was Shane. 

Ilya’s grip falters for half a second as the realization crashes through him, fast and overwhelming, pieces snapping into place so violently it almost makes him dizzy.

Before he can even begin to process what it means—what he could possibly say—Brooks opens his mouth again. He looks over, as if to confirm to himself that Ilya is watching him, before he goes for the throat. 

“Actually, while we’re on the topic of your mom—I heard she likes sucking white cock, Hollander. You can let her know that she can suck mine any time.”

Shane stills.

Not freezes—stills. Like something in him locks into place. 

Then he breaks.

He rips himself out of Ilya’s slackened hold and swings.

The crack of his fist connecting with Brooks’ face is loud enough to cut through the buzzing noise in Ilya’s skull. 

Brooks goes down hard, blood spurting from his nose. 

And then, it’s chaos.

Everyone piles in at once, teammates on the bench hopping over and swarming—it turns into a pitched battle in seconds, bodies crashing together, referees shouting, trying and failing to get between players, getting punched in the face themselves. 

Ilya barely has time to react before someone’s stick slams into him from the side.

His helmet goes flying as he’s driven backward, balance shot, vision jolting—

Henry.

Of course it’s Henry. He can see the number on his jersey, the Hollander twins can’t fake this on the ice even though their faces are the same in rage—that crease between the brows, lips pulled back in a snarl. 

They hit the ice with Ilya underneath, and Henry doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause, just starts throwing punches. Solid, furious hits that snap Ilya’s head back against the ice.

One.

Two.

Three.

White flashes across his vision.

There’s shouting somewhere—his name, Henry’s name—but it all sounds distant, muffled under the roar in his ears.

(“What, are you a pussy? Fight back, Ilya!”)

Something in Ilya finally snaps. 

His hand shoots up, fisting in the front of Henry’s jersey, yanking him off balance just enough to leave an opening. Ilya hooks his leg around Henry’s knee and yanks, twisting them. Ilya rolls with it, drives forward, and his fist connects clean with Henry’s jaw, the impact shooting all the way up his arm.

Ilya feels a savage satisfaction when Henry’s head snaps to the side.  

Ilya tastes blood.

Sees it too, dropping from his split lip, landing in bright red dots on top of Henry’s—light, too light, Ilya should have realized—freckles. 

“Tell me, Hollander—” Ilya snarls, voice rough, something wild and unraveling underneath it, “—was it funny? Did you and Shane fucking laugh about it?”

Henry freezes, eyes clouding with confusion. 

Something inside Ilya snarls, enraged that Henry is still playing dumb. 

Ilya doesn’t see him move, but suddenly, Shane’s there—hauling Ilya up and away from his brother with impressive strength. There’s something frantic in it, something urgent.

“Hey! Enough—break it the fuck up! It’s over.”

Ilya lets out something low and vicious, half-laugh, half-something else entirely.

“I hope you got what you wanted, Shane Hollander.”

The rage drains out of Shane all at once, like someone’s cut the power to his motor. The color drops from his face so fast it’s almost violent. For a split second, he just stares at Ilya—eyes wide, unguarded, something raw and unmistakably horrified breaking through every practiced layer he usually hides behind. 

It’s recognition.

It’s oh God, he knows.

His mouth parts like he might say something—what could he possibly say in this moment?—but nothing comes out. Not a single word.

And if Ilya needed any more proof—there it is, spelled out in the naked panic on Shane’s face.

The refs finally manage to get real grips on them then—arms pinned, jerseys gripped tight, skates scraping uselessly against the ice as they’re dragged bodily apart.

Metros hauled one way. Raiders the other.

Ilya doesn’t take his eyes off Shane as they’re separated, even as the distance stretches, even as bodies slot in between them. And then Shane is gone too—pulled into the tunnel with his team.

Ilya lets himself be herded with the rest of the Raiders. 

Brooks is babbling something, garbled thick with blood, as the med team attempts to shepherd him away. 

“He’th so fucking sensitive! How was I thupposed to know? Pussy can’t take a fucking joke.” 

Ilya’s not really processing it though. 

He’s going through the post-game rituals detached from his body, something fractured and stunned lodged deep in his chest as everything finally, irreparably, comes apart.

Chapter End Notes

For the folks who were yearning for Ilya POV in the comments last chapter, I hope you were satisfied!!

I hate to leave you on this little cliffhanger. I mentioned previously that my work hours have increased-- I am doing my best to write when I can (and I do have a fair amount written, just not necessarily in order) but it's possible that my once a week updates will become biweekly. Thank you for your patience <3

Chapter 13: Lion

Chapter Notes

A tw at the top for racial and sexual hate comments that happen towards the beginning of this chapter.

Montreal April 2017 

Ilya has been an unholy terror, smashing into both Hollander twins with a quiet fury that is uncharacteristic of his usual play. Ilya has always been an aggressive player, but it typically has a boyish tinge. A feeling of having your pigtails tugged just to piss you off. Not this game. Every check lands harder than necessary. Every smash of shoulders feels intensely personal. Shane can’t look him in the eye. He knows he’ll be lost if he does. 

And of course, Henry has gone back to not speaking to Shane—his default when he’s furious.

Normally, the twins don’t need words to stay in sync on the ice, but something between them has been broken. Shane and Henry can’t slip into their old rhythm. Passes miss their sticks by inches. They’re each a half-step out of place.

The air in the arena is toxic. Even the crowd can feel it—that wrongness on the ice. The sense that the Metros’ most dangerous pair are misaligned. There are unmistakable cracks in the mirror that are warping the image.

It’s an unmitigated disaster.

It doesn’t help that the Raider’s little rookie has been a bastard the entire game. Foul after foul that goes unchecked, and each time something vile spit into Shane’s ear. It seems to be the kid’s signature move.  

Shane has heard it all before—the only thing matched by some people’s hate is their complete lack of imagination. It doesn’t bounce off of him per se, but he is adept at brushing it aside in pursuit of the bigger picture. 

Brooks keeps ramping it up, though. 

Almost like he’s testing Shane to see what sticks. 

During a changeover, Brooks skates in close, too close, breath hot and voice low. “I don’t see Tiger Mommy in the stands today—she sick of watching you and your brother fuck up?”

Yuna and David aren’t here. They’re across the country at a wedding, something planned months in advance. Brooks shouldn’t have noticed, though. Shouldn’t be paying attention to the Metro’s box, to who shows up for Shane, to who matters. And there is something that sticks uncomfortably in Shane’s throat because he knows, he knows, that when Yuna watches the game footage from tonight, she really will be disappointed. 

That’s what throws him. Not the insult itself—cheap, lazy, reductive—but the aim of it. 

Shane shuts the thought down, straightens his back, squares his shoulders. He will not let Brooks know that this jab hit. Even so, he misses his next shot on goal. 

The home crowd hisses their fury at the zero-to-four score in favor of the Raiders. Shane feels their disappointment in his bones. 

There’s a pile up at the Raider’s goal just as the clock is about to run down. Somehow, through the intervention of god maybe, Hayden manages to thrash his stick at precisely the right moment to scoot the puck into the net. The horn blares. Their single score of the night. 

The Metros have lost. Badly. By the biggest margin in years. But at least the game is fucking over. The bodies heaped in the net are still buzzing with leftover violence.

Brooks takes his time lifting himself off of Shane. Of course he does. He shifts his weight like he’s savoring it, then leans in close, cooing into Shane’s ear, “Hollander, your mom is kinda hot. Is it true what they say that Asian women are secretly super kinky?” 

Shane leaps up, shoving the flat of his palms into Brooks’ chest. Not even a real hit—just enough to create space—but Brooks rocks back like he’s been handed exactly what he wanted. His grin widens, toothy and ugly. Asshole.

“Enough!” Shane can feel the heat rising fast, flooding his face, his pulse hammering behind his eyes.  “Shut the fuck up about her, Brooks.” 

The grin stretches further, victorious now. Shane knows it the second it happens—knows he’s just handed Brooks confirmation, a target with a bullseye dead center. A tactical error. But the heat building in his body is pushing him rapidly past boiling point. 

He’s going to wipe that smug look off Brooks’ face if it’s the last thing he does—

But then suddenly Ilya is there, forcing himself between them, a solid wall of muscle.

Blocking him.

Shane tries to push past, but Ilya doesn’t budge. His skates are planted, his grip firm, unyielding. Shane stumbles against him, frustration spiking sharp and immediate.

Oh, for fuck’s sake—

“Move, Ilya!” 

Nothing else matters right now. Not the game, not the loss, not the officials shouting somewhere in the distance. Just Brooks and that stupid fucking grin.

“Actually, while we’re on the topic of your mom—I heard she likes sucking white cock, Hollander. You can let her know that she can suck mine any time.”

Everything stops. 

The Hollanders are used to a certain level of ugliness, know to expect it in a way. The looks. The assumptions. The quiet dismissals dressed up as politeness. His mother most of all—sponsorship meetings where she’s talked over, written off, underestimated before she even opens her mouth. Wives and girlfriends who assume she doesn’t understand the game. People try to fold her like origami into a smaller shape, one they find more pleasing. Shane watches them do it and watches his mother smile and bear it. 

And here is Brooks, dragging her through the mud just for the pleasure of seeing how Shane will react. It’s crude. It’s vulgar. 

It’s his mom.

It’s that alone that makes it penetrate somewhere deeper than anger inside Shane, to the very primal center of him. It makes him want to snap his jaws around Brooks’ throat and rip. 

Lions spend up to eighty percent of their lives sleeping, and yet nobody mistakes them for docile. As harmless. 

But people do make that mistake with Shane Hollander. 

Henry is like one of those brightly-colored poison snakes of the Amazon. People can see the danger plainly spelled in his colors. When the two of them are together, people get distracted by Henry’s fluorescence. They don’t notice Shane poised in the tall brush until it’s too late.

There’s almost a calmness that takes hold of Shane in this moment, a clarity of thought that feels almost zen.  And it’s as if the universe itself decides to step aside because in that moment, Ilya’s grip slackens.

Shane doesn’t hesitate.

The delicate bones of Brooks’ nose crack under his knuckles with a satisfying crunch. 

Brooks goes down in a heap, and suddenly, it’s pandemonium. Sticks drop. Gloves fly. Everyone is shouting, grabbing, crashing together in a roiling, directionless storm.

The blood from Brooks’ nose begins to paint crimson ribbons on the white ice. Shane feels a savage satisfaction at the sight. He leans over him and spits, “You’re really tough now, huh? Hey, while you’re down there, why don’t you suck my cock?” 

Brooks rolls himself over, trying to shake off the dizziness and push himself to his feet. 

“I was winning tournaments before you even learned how to tie your skates, motherfucker. I don’t have anything to prove. My record speaks for itself.” The blood is pounding in his temple. “And as for my mom—” 

He cuts himself off, because out of the corner of his eye he sees it. 

Like a bird of prey diving from above—Henry launching himself at Ilya.

He cracks Ilya hard enough with his stick to send the Russian’s helmet skittering across the ice. They go down together in a violent tangle of limbs, Henry landing on top of him hard. Henry pins him there and lands three brutal punches in quick succession, splitting Ilya’s lip wide open. 

“Henry, stop! Ilya!” 

Shane stumbles sideways, barely avoiding Marleau and J.J. as they crash into each other, swinging with blind fury. The ice has dissolved into chaos around them—gloves and helmets scattered everywhere, refs shouting, the crowd roaring loud enough to rattle Shane’s eardrums. 

When Shane looks back, Ilya has managed to reverse them.

Henry is flat on his back now, eyes wide with surprise as Ilya snarls something furious down at him. His face is bloodied and wild, hair plastered damply to his forehead. Shane has seen Ilya in fights before. Seen him violent. They play hockey, for fuck’s sake. 

But he’s never seen Ilya like this.

Never looking so wildly out of control.

He lunges forward and grabs a fistful of the back of Ilya’s jersey, wrenching backward with all his strength.

“Hey! Enough—break it the fuck up! It’s over!”

Ilya stumbles upright, then whirls around breathing hard. For a second, Shane thinks he’s going to take a swing at him too.

Instead, he barks out a laugh, but it sounds wrong—low and strangled around the blood in his mouth.

“I hope you got what you wanted, Shane Hollander.”

For so long, that’s what Shane has wanted. For Ilya to finally say his name. 

He has it now. 

And it’s horrible. 

Blood runs down from the split in his lip in a dark, steady line. Ilya’s eyes are furious, but there’s a hurt there too. 

He knows. 

The game really is over. Ilya knows Shane’s terrible secret. For a moment, Shane thinks he might be sick on the ice, right here and now. 

He knows he knows he knows! 

Shane’s mind goes pure white—just a sudden, sterile absence, like some internal failsafe has flipped on to keep him from splintering apart in front of twenty thousand people.

He opens his mouth to explain, to fix this somehow. To say: I’m sorry I never meant it to get this far or I never wanted you to find out like this or please, please don’t look at me like that. 

Nothing comes. How can he possibly make this right?

Ilya makes a broken, disbelieving sound in the back of his throat just as the refs finally get hold of both of them, dragging bodies apart and forcing players back toward their respective tunnels. 

The second they’re inside, he wheels on Henry before anyone else can open their mouth. The white space in his brain held long enough to make it to the locker room. Now that they’re here, it feels like a tidal wave is cresting between his ears. 

“You’re fucking insane! Why would you do that? Why would you go in stick-first?!”

Henry stomps to his cubby, jaw clenched, saying nothing.

“Henry Hollander always has something to fucking say but not now?” Shane laughs, short and incredulous. “You know what the sanction is for something like that—suspended for the rest of the reason! Fucking suspended! You’ve fucked us, you get that, right? You have fucked every single one of us out of the playoffs.”

There it is again—Rage, Achilles!—this overwhelming sense of fury against Henry. Against himself. Shane has never, never been a violent person, and yet for the second time in one night, he feels like hitting someone. 

The rest of the team shuffles in around them, watching the pair of them fight like wary animals around the watering hole. 

Shane forces himself to take three huge breaths, hiding his shaking hands by clenching them in the front of his jersey, distorting the block-font twenty-four. 

“Say something! Jesus, fuck! What were you thinking, Henry? You could have seriously hurt Ilya—permanently. Why the fuck did you do that?” Shane’s voice sounds high in his own ear, like a dog whistle. 

“I don’t know why you’re yelling at me. Rozanov and Brooks were fucking with you, and you started it. I’m not the bad guy for trying to finish it.” 

Henry’s face is carefully blank. It pisses Shane off all over again. 

“So what if I did! I punched him. You think you should attack someone like a fucking raptor? Stick first? You could have blinded him! What the hell is wrong with you?

It’s true—there is a reason why intentional high-sticking holds such a steep penalty. The thought of the irreparable damage Henry could have done to Ilya makes his stomach flip. One of those sea-glass eyes permanently milky. All because Henry can’t fucking control himself. 

The team watches on awkwardly.

“Well, what the fuck was I supposed to think! Whatever Rozanov said must have been monumentally shitty if it made you drop gloves. You gave his protégé a broken nose and probably a concussion, even though you’re supposed to be mister calm-and-fucking-collected. I was just following your goddamn lead.” Henry breaks eye contact, ripping his jersey over his head, then yanking at his shoulder pads. 

“First of all, it wasn’t even Ily—” Shane’s throat clicks. “—Rozanov, it was Brooks, you stupid fuck. Rozanov was trying to stop him.” Shane feels his lip curl. “Second, it is truly fucking rich that you think I need you protecting me.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Henry throws his pads across the room, forcing Luc Fournier to curse and duck. “No, seriously, what the fuck is your damage lately?” Henry snaps. “All I’ve done is to help you and you’ve been acting like I ruined your life.”

Shane’s pulse is still crashing in his ears. “Maybe you did,” he says before he can stop himself.

“Bullshit!”

“Is it?” Shane laughs, brittle and shrill. “Because it seems like you get to do whatever you want, whenever you want, and everyone just shrugs and says ‘that’s Henry.’ And I have to clean up for you. Cover for you. Lie for you.”

Henry grabs up his stick again, knuckles white around it. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“Yes, you did,” Shane snaps. “Every time you don’t show up. Every time Mom calls me instead of you. When I have to wear your stupid life for a day because you can’t get your head out of the toilet.”

Silence stretches.

Henry’s jaw tightens. “Christ, it must be exhausting carrying around that enormous victim complex. You think it’s easy being me?”

They’re face to face now, a mirror warped by age and rust.

“I think you move through life not caring who gets hurt,” Shane says.

Henry flinches.

“That’s not true.”

“Then why do you keep acting like this?”

Henry’s laugh is hollow. “Because the game is rigged—why should I bother playing? Everybody looks at us and they see what they want to see. They make their own narratives. Mom warned us, don’t you remember? Look at what it’s done to you. So scared of making the wrong move you don’t make any moves at all. Nah, I’m good.” 

Shane shakes his head. The fury is still there, but it has reduced to a simmer now, rolling bubbles disturbing the surface ready to boil over again at any moment. He looks around the room at the tight faces of his teammates. Hayden fidgets with his gloves, looking between the twins ashen faced. 

Shane doesn’t want to think about the implications of what Henry has just said. So he swerves. 

“You have fucked everyone in this room because of your behavior, you realise that, right? You’ve been ejected from the rest of the reason. Why would you jeopardize our dream like that?”

Everyone flinches when Henry swings his stick violently at the lockers, snapping the thing clean in half.

“Fuck this! You think this was our dream? It was never our dream. It was always your dream. You think I want to be here? I don’t. I fucking hate it here. Every day is a fucking nightmare I can’t wake up from.” Henry is breathing hard and shallow, like he’s just finished bag drills.

The sound echoes. Metal ringing. A shard of wood skids across the concrete floor.

Then—

Nothing.

The air feels sucked out, like the room itself is holding its breath. A pin-drop silence descends in the locker room, nothing beyond Henry’s ragged inhalations.

Shane can hear his own pulse in his ears, loud and thundering. Henry’s chest is heaving, eyes too bright, jaw clenched like if he loosens it even a fraction, something worse might come out.

“Okay. Everybody get the fuck out,” Shane says calmly.

No one moves.

The guys stare between them like kids caught watching their parents fight.

Shane’s hands curl into fists.

“Get the fuck! Out!” he roars.

It’s the first time most of them have ever heard him raise his voice. It cuts clean through the room. Pads scrape. Skates clatter. Someone mutters a quiet shit. One by one, they shuffle out into the hallway, pretending not to look back, pretending like they didn’t just see something split in half right in front of them.

The door swings shut, the click small and impotent.

Shane exhales, anger twisting into something messy. The way it always does when he fights with his brother. 

They stand there, identical and not, staring at each other like they’re trying to recognize the kid they used to share a bedroom with. Like they’re both searching for the version of the other that still lines up.

“What are you talking about,” Shane demands flatly.

Henry doesn’t answer right away.

He stoops, gaze fixed on unlacing his skates. His hands are shaking just enough to notice. The laces rasp through the eyelets. His shoulders look smaller like that, less badboy-womanizer-hockey star and more… thirteen year-old boy.

“Middle school.”

Shane’s mind jumps backward without permission.

Middle school: that’s when things really started to tilt sideways. Henry getting endless detentions. Skipping classes. Talking back. David and Yuna called in every other week for parent-teacher conferences. Shane remembers sitting quietly in the plastic office chairs while Henry stared holes into the carpet. Listening to the almost imperceptible susurrus of their parents and their principal attempting to come up with a solution to the Henry Problem.

Henry exhales a humorless breath.

“I wanted to quit hockey then.”

Shane’s stomach tightens.

“I hated it. I hated the non-stop practices. The pressure. Everyone already talking about how to make it to the drafts.” Henry finally looks up. His eyes are glassy but furious, like he refuses to let the tears win. “I told Mom I was done. I wanted—” Henry’s throat clicks and he swallows hard. “It’s stupid. I know. But I wanted to do theater.” 

Shane doesn’t remember that part. Henry had always had a flair for the dramatic. Had always loved memorizing his favorite movie lines.

“She said if I quit, she’d pull you too.”

“What.” Shane is so startled the word is out before he’s registered it. 

“She said it wasn’t fair for one Hollander to keep playing if the other one walked away.” Henry’s mouth twists. “So I stayed. Not because I wanted to—”

The locker room feels smaller.

“Because you did,” Henry continues. “Because you loved hockey. Because you were good at it. Because it was the only thing you ever looked happy doing.” His voice cracks just slightly. “And I wasn’t going to be the one who took that from you.”

Icy fingers grip Shane’s heart. 

All those years suddenly rearrange themselves.

Henry: wild at school. Henry: drinking most nights. Henry: sneaking out at night. Henry: reckless, reckless, reckless.

But not on the rink. Never on the rink. Henry on the ice was always disciplined and contained. 

Henry had been rebelling everywhere except the one place Shane needed him not to. On the rink, Henry became manageable. The two brothers came together again like twin blades. 

All these years he’d misattributed the source of that dedication to love of the game, like it was for Shane. And now Shane understands. It was love. Not for the sport, though, but love for him. His brother. Henry was an animal, and the only cage he had ever accepted was the one that protected his brother’s dream.

He thinks of their parents—desperate, scared, trying to control Henry’s chaos with ultimatums because they didn’t know what else to do. How hard it must have been to watch one son spiral and feel completely powerless to stop it. It made a sort of sense; if Henry had gone off and done theater Yuna and David would have had to split their attention. It would have meant even less supervision than before. More possibility for Henry to slip out of control. 

Hockey had always been stabilizing with its structure and routine. It also had Shane. And, he realizes with horror, that’s probably why they had thrown down the double-or-nothing ultimatum. 

They needed Shane to be there. To look after Henry. To keep him held together. 

It really was control—all that fuss from Henry about being manipulated—it was true. Mom and Dad had done that. And yet, Shane isn’t sure what he would’ve done in their place. A kid like Henry must have terrified them. And a kid like Shane—dependable, reliable, stable—must have felt like a life raft.

For the first time, Shane sees the whole picture instead of just his corner of it.

“Oh my god,” Shane says faintly. “I’m Puck, and you’re Crunchwrap Supreme.”

It’s so stupid, but it comes out before he can stop it.

But the tension snaps. Henry huffs a laugh and scrubs a hand down his face. “What you are is a fucking idiot, and I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You love me.”

Henry freezes.

Shane doesn’t give him time to respond. He crosses the room and pulls Henry into a rib-crushing hug. It’s awkward at first—pads in the way, limbs not quite remembering how to do this—but Shane tightens his arms anyway.

He can’t remember the last time they embraced like this. Not politely. Not for cameras. Not for any other reason than just because.

“I love you too,” Shane repeats into Henry’s shoulder. “And. I’m sorry.”

Henry plants a few long-suffering pats on Shane’s back. “Ew.”

Shane frowns into Henry’s sweaty undershirt and squeezes harder. “Say it back, dipshit.”

Henry exhales, a long drawn-out sound that’s pure drama. Shane can feel him finally give in, the resistance melting out of his frame. It’s like the gears of a long-broken clock slipping back into place. Time starts again.

“Love you too. And I’m sorry,” Henry mutters. Then, because he’s Henry: “Asshole.”

Shane clears his throat and pulls away.

They stand there, both pretending very hard not to notice the other wiping discreetly at wet eyes. 

“There’s something I have to tell you,” Shane says after they’ve collected themselves. 

“Is it better or worse than admitting I fucking hate hockey?” 

Shane bites his lip. “Worse.” 

Henry nods. “Okay. Let’s take this home though, unless you want the entire team to know. I’m pretty sure they’ve all got their ears pressed to the door.” 

*

Shane pushes a can of ginger ale across the kitchen island. Henry catches it, pops the tab, and immediately starts chugging like he’s just crawled out of a desert.

Today has already been so fucking strange that, even though this truth has been rotting behind his tonsils for years, it barely feels like anything to say the next words. 

“About the banquet… I guess I was unreasonably mad at you for taking eight minutes to figure out you were bisexual when it took me almost ten years to come to terms with the fact that I’m gay.” 

Soda explodes back out of Henry’s mouth, spraying across Shane’s pristine counter.

“What!” Henry coughs as he tries to recover from waterboarding himself with ginger ale. “Fuck! It’s burning my nose.” 

Shane waits patiently. He’d had ten years to let this settle after all; he can give Henry a few minutes. He pats Henry’s back awkwardly as his brother catches his breath. 

“Okay. You’re gay. I mean.” Henry frowns, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and then immediately starting to fidget with the rings on his right hand. “That makes sense. I guess. Okay. Hm. Okay.” 

Henry stares into his can like there might be something more than just fizz inside. Crunchwrap Supreme chooses that moment to grace Henry’s lap, a benevolent and vibrating weight. Henry absently strokes her back.

“Are you, like, seeing anyone?” Henry asks. 

Shane winces. “No. Yes. Sorta? I mean. Listen. You can’t tell anyone because it wouldn’t just be a risk to my career but his too.” 

“Oh shit! Is it another player?”

“Henry.” 

“Okay, okay, yes, I solemnly vow to secrecy. May my ghost never find the halls of my ancestors should I reveal the truth, etcetera, etcetera.” 

He has to do this. Lying and obfuscating is what got him to this point. Something has to give. Shane drags in a slow, fortifying breath. 

“Oh fuck, I got it!” Henry snaps his fingers before Shane can open his mouth. “Scott Hunter!” 

“What?!” 

Henry’s face is smug, he must take Shane’s shock as confirmation because he continues, “I mean, there was some sexual tension at our last game. The dog comment was kinda hot, right?” 

“No, dude! What the fuck, Henry—does Scott Hunter really seem like someone I’d go out with?” 

“Well…!” Henry throws his hands up, jostling Crunchwrap Supreme, who meows her displeasure at her throne being disturbed. “How the hell should I know? He’s like. Not completely hideous.” Shane does not care for the way Henry’s face has gone thoughtful now. “He’s actually kinda sexy? Sort of like… a stoic patriarch who is poised to lose the family farm during the Great Depression so he’s got this, like, incredibly horny sadness about him.” 

Shane stares. He doesn’t know how to reply to that mental image so he just tries to steer the conversation back on track. 

“It’s Ilya Rozanov.” 

Henry blinks, attention focusing again from where he’d drifted into his Dust Bowl fantasy. “What about him?”

Shane slaps a palm to his forehead. “Rozanov’s the guy I was sorta seeing. Idiot.” 

“Oh!” Henry exclaims. “Oh,” he says again, slower, as the idea settles into his brain. Then his face drains of color. “Oh no.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. 

“Oh no.” Henry puts his head in his hands and moans. “The bathroom! My cock… and balls…!” 

Shane pops open his own ginger ale and collapses onto the stool beside him. “And that’s not the worst part.” 

“I don’t see how it could get worse.” 

“It all kinda started with Armani…?” Shane swallows and starts talking. Not smoothly. In fits and starts. He sketches the last few months in rough lines—Armani, hotel rooms, texts, Shane fleeing, the banquet, the Harley Quinn headline. Ilya saying his name today like he knew, like he’d figured it out. The sum of its parts equaling Shane being a true coward. 

There is something in the verbalizing of it—speaking it aloud into the universe that makes it suddenly realer than before. The shock of the game is beginning to wear off, the adrenaline dissipating, that leaves nothing behind but a wrung-out queasy feeling. It’s hard to accept the knowledge that he fucked up so utterly and completely. 

Shane hasn’t had to sit in a feeling like this before; he’d always lived his life between the lines until this point. 

He doesn’t like it. 

“Fucking shit, Shane.” 

Henry strokes Crunchwrap Supreme’s cheek as he processes Shane’s story. To his credit, he doesn’t freak out. Doesn’t say anything judgmental. He just sits there quietly and takes it in. Shane loves his brother for this little mercy. 

“Yeah,” Shane says again, trying to hold back the floodwaters of his misery. 

Henry taps his hand nervously on the countertop, silver rings making rhythmic metallic sounds. “You got anything stronger than ginger ale?” 

Shane shoots him a dirty look. 

“Joking! I’m joking. Mostly.” Henry throws his hands up in defeat. “Ugh, Shane. You fucking asshole you—you literally had your own Shakespeare play, you know that right?”

“Huh?”

“Mistaken identity,” Henry says through gritted teeth. “It’s like. A cornerstone of the Bard’s work. I am so jealous, you bastard.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. Of course Henry would focus on the wrong parts of his story. “I’m so sorry, Romeo.”

Henry huffs. “Nope, wrong—you picked one of the few ones that doesn't have that in it. Try something like Twelfth Night or The Comedy of Errors.”

Shane throws his head back, searching the ceiling for patience. “I don’t care which play it is as long as it isn’t one that ends with a mutual stabbing or suicide.” He’s glad that Henry is taking this so well, but he’s not sure he’s ready for Henry’s usual love language of gentle ribbing. 

For once, he seems to get the message because Henry sits there quietly, thinking. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat for a moment then blurts out, “Ithoughtitwasaprank.” 

“What?”

“I thought… I thought the thing in the bathroom with Rozanov was some sort of prank! Or like, a really weird hazing thing. I don’t know. I couldn’t make any sense of it. I couldn’t make sense of why Rozanov would do it in the first place or your fucking blow up. None of it added up. I thought maybe—” 

Henry’s teeth click with how hard he clamps his jaw shut. 

“You thought maybe…?” Shane prompts encouragingly. 

“I thought maybe that…” Henry sighs, pinching his eyes shut. “I thought maybe he’d texted you about my reaction. To like, goad you about it, you know? And that’s why you were such a massive fucking cock to me about being bisexual. Because of how it would reflect on your sparkling reputation.”

Shane’s stomach clenches. “Your… reaction? I thought you said you pushed him off you?”

“I did! But… but there was a moment—and like, we are talking about a real split second where—” Henry trails off, color high on his cheeks. 

“Oh.” 

Henry had been tempted. It makes sense. He’d come back to the hotel flush with his bisexual revelation. Of course he’d been tempted. Of course he had. 

His brother groans and places his head face down on the marble countertop. 

“I thought maybe that’s what this was all about,” He mumbles. “I felt— you should know I felt terrible, Shane. I thought I ruined your unimpeachable straight-edge image with one tiny moment.” 

“Did you think that’s what Brooks was saying to me tonight? That’s why you went totally fucking mental. Isn’t it,” Shane accuses flatly.

“I thought it was my fault you were catching homophobic chirps. Because of me.” Henry is still speaking directly to the counter top. It’s easier this way, Shane realizes. To be honest without having to look each other in the eyes while they do it. 

“It wasn’t about that.” 

“Oh.” Henry finally turns sideways just enough to peer at Shane with one eye. “What was it about, then? You looked fucking feral. It was truly awesome to behold, for the record.”

“Brooks said some shit about Mom.” Shane is never going to repeat what Brooks said. 

He doesn’t have to, though. The way Henry's face tightens tells Shane he understands well enough. He watches his brother absorb it, tuck it away somewhere deep and dangerous for later. 

“Shit.” 

“Shit,” Shane agrees. 

“What are we going to do, Shane? About Rozanov, I mean.” 

“I don’t know.” 

“It’s better to be hated for what you are than loved for what you’re not,” Henry says decisively, with the cadence of a quotation. He finally lifts his head from the countertop. 

To his horror, Shane feels a heat behind his eyes. It’s easy for him to say—Henry, charismatic and confident, has never had to worry about being hated—but he’s right in the end. Living this lie has only proved that a thousand times over.

“That’s— yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Is that Shakespeare again?” 

Henry places his hand on Shane’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “It’s… Marina and the Diamonds, dude.” 

“Oh.” 

There’s a long silence as Shane contemplates every choice that has brought him here. “Shit,” Shane mutters, burying his face in his hands.

“Shit,” Henry agrees, hooking an arm over Shane’s shoulder. The weight of it is a comfort. “Okay… so, he knows. Actually—huh. That… makes sense?”

“What does?”

“Something he said to me while we were scrumming. He said something like—” Henry dips his voice into a deep and cartoonish Russian accent, “—‘vas eet funny? Deed you and Shane laugh?’ or something like that. I thought it was weird if he was talking about the bathroom because, uh, it was pretty obvious I wasn’t laughing.” 

“He doesn't sound like that,” Shane says defensively. 

“He totally sounds like that, my accent work is impeccable.” 

Shane ignores that comment. He’s had twenty seven years to perfect the skill. 

Instead, he stares down at his hands and tries to work backwards through the disaster. He still isn’t entirely sure what gave him away. The moments after he broke Brooks’ nose exist in his memory as flashes of color and noise. Blood on the ice. Henry shouting. Ilya’s face.

What had he done? What had he said? Was there some tiny tell he'd missed? Some unconscious habit? Some expression that had slipped across his face and revealed everything? What was it that had finally made Ilya realize that the man he’d invited into his home, trusted with his secrets, let into his heart, wasn't Henry Hollander at all?

The thought makes Shane feel sick.

And yet as horrible as it feels, there is a tiny corner of his heart that is just… 

Relieved. 

Desperately relieved not to have to lie anymore.

“Something I did or said during the fight… that’s when he realized it was me. I think.” 

“Shit,” Henry repeats. “Hey, do you have anything to eat that isn’t just vegetables?”

Shane frowns, but he is already standing up. He crosses to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. Rows of neatly stacked meal-prep containers stare back at him. He grabs two at random. Yes, there are vegetables. There are always vegetables. But there's also protein and quinoa.

Henry can survive.

He slides them into the microwave and starts it.

The machine hums softly.

“You’re um…” Shane twists the cuff of his hoodie around his fingers, gaze fixed on the rotating containers. “You’re taking it remarkably well that I stole your identity to have sex with a rival team captain.” 

It sounds absurd to say out loud. 

When Shane finally gathers his courage and looks over he finds that Puck has silently crept into Henry’s lap too. The two cats are curled up together in such a tight ball that they look like one lumpy animal.

“You could have done a lot worse while borrowing my identity.” Henry shrugs with a wince. 

Shane snorts. “Like what?” 

“Like, you could have fucked Miitka.” 

Both twins shudder at the thought. 

“And seriously…” Henry bites the inside of his cheek, then turns his attention back to the cats in his lap. His hand drifts down to scratch Puck beneath the chin. She squeezes her eyes shut and melts into it. 

“My image was probably in better custody with you.” 

And isn’t that a thought. Because Henry has been different lately. Quieter. 

Henry had cooled off the past few months. The explosion at the restaurant with their parents should have triggered one of his usual spirals. Shane knows the pattern by heart: disappear for days, party too hard, post increasingly questionable things online until someone intervenes. 

He hadn’t this time. 

There are dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin is pale, almost grayish under the apartment lights. It lacks the glow that usually comes from the absurd twelve-step skincare routine Henry has convinced himself is essential to survival. 

Henry looks… tired. 

For so long, his brother has been a tornado, loud and dramatic and destructive, sweeping everything and everyone close by into his gale. Shane’s never really stopped to wonder what happens when a tornado finally runs out of wind. 

“You're not happy playing professional hockey.” He means to ask it as a question but it comes out more as a statement. 

Henry’s mouth pinches at the corners. He shakes his head sharply. 

A question has been bothering him since earlier, ever since Henry admitted he wanted something else. He needs to ask it carefully. Every time Shane tries to pry at something tender, he somehow ends up putting his foot in his mouth and driving Henry right back behind his walls.

“Why…” he starts, licks his dry lips, starts again, “Why haven’t you quit yet…?”

“Well, at first, it was to keep looking after you, and then…” Henry trails off.  

“And then?” 

“And then I thought. Well. I am pretty fucking good at hockey. What if, like, I quit hockey and throw it all away and it turns out I am completely shit at acting?” 

Shane snorts. Henry has his faults, but a lack of confidence has never been one of them. “Bullshit.”

“No, seriously,” Henry says, voice raspy. “What if I try and I’m terrible at it? What if I crash and burn?” 

Shane pauses, thinking it over. “Then you crash and burn. But at least you can say you gave it your best effort. Plus, you don’t really need the money. You can fuck it up completely and still live a comfortable life. 

The microwave chooses that moment to beep.

Shane retrieves their dinners and hands one over.

For a few minutes, they eat in silence.

“Okay. What else?” Shane prompts, pointing his fork at him.  

Henry swallows a huge bite of quinoa. He shifts in his seat, careful not to dislodge the cats piled in his lap. Puck just burrows in deeper. Crunchwrap Supreme doesn’t even crack an eyelid.  “There’s nothing else. Why would you assume there’s something else?” 

Shane waits patiently while Henry takes three more massive bites of food before caving to the oppressive silence. 

“Okay. Well. I guess I don’t want to play the part of Kung Fu Master Two.” There’s a bitter twist to Henry’s mouth that Shane recognizes.

“That’s crazy talk. You’d be Kung Fu Master One, at least.” Shane widens his eyes innocently. 

“Oh, he’s funny? Oh, he’s got jokes?” Henry wiggles his legs and speaks directly to the cats. “Your dad thinks he’s hilarious. He’s not.” 

Shane just smiles. 

They eat quietly for another few minutes before Shane speaks again. 

“I do get it, though. You want good parts. You want to show everybody what you’re capable of. You can’t do that if you’re relegated to a beer league.” 

Henry's eyes crinkle. “Only you would put in terms like that. But. Yeah, I guess about the long and short of it.” 

It makes sense. Hollanders are built a certain way; they set impossible goals and then dedicate their lives to throwing themselves at it until they succeed. 

Hollywood has gotten better about casting Asian actors than it used to be, but not by much. Shane spends enough time trapped on airplanes watching movies to know that.

He tries to think of the last blockbuster he'd seen with an Asian lead.

Nothing comes to mind.

“What does Rose think?” 

“Oh.” Henry stares very intently at his quinoa. “Well... I haven’t really talked to her about it.”

Interesting.

Shane files that away without comment.

Henry and Shane’s phones buzz at the same time. 

A notification: New Message from Mom in Hollanderback Girlz. 

“Don’t open that.” Henry says, but it’s too late. Shane already clicked it. 

[From Mom: 

Just what the hell happened out there?]

Three dots appear and suddenly there's a text from their dad too. 

[From Dad: 

Looked pretty serious. You both okay?] 

“Fuuuuuuck.” Henry moans. “I thought we’d at least make it twenty-four hours before they found out. Aren’t they supposed to be busy at a wedding right now?” 

Both twins jump when Shane’s phone rings. Shane’s heart kicks into a gallop immediately.

“Oh fuck! Fuck, shit, what the fuck do I say? What the fuck do I tell her?” Shane’s throat is starting to constrict. 

“Gimme that!” Henry snatches Shane’s phone out of his limp hand. “I got this,” he says, sending the call directly to voicemail. 

Henry narrates aloud as he carefully taps into the group chat: [Let’s talk about it in person when you guys get back from your trip.] 

“There. A stay of execution.” 

It’s a brief respite from what is sure to be a firestorm later. Shane is intensely grateful for it anyway. Henry slides his phone back across the counter with a small smile. 

They drift onto other topics after that. Jackie and the baby due any day now. Henry's summer plans—which appear to consist primarily of fucking around the city. Shane's summer plans—which consist primarily of fucking around at the cottage.

Shane can’t remember the last time they’ve had this. Just the two of them hanging out for the fun of it, trading stories without it devolving into an argument. 

Their dinners disappear. The cats rotate once, flipping sides and easing back to sleep again in Henry’s warm lap. 

Much later, when Henry finally decides it's time to go, he slips on his shoes by the front door. One hand braces against the open door as he finishes jamming his heel into the back of a ridiculously laced Gucci boot. 

“You know, before I go. I did want to ask you something...” He pauses, a shit-eating grin slowly stretching across his face. “In the bathroom, Rozanov asked me if I wanted to ride him like a little slut. So, do you—”

“Okay, get the fuck out,” Shane says hotly, color rushing into his cheeks.

“—it’s fine! ‘To each their own’, that’s my motto, I just need to know—”

“Fuck off!” Shane starts to slam the door closed but Henry manages to wedge a boot in the way before it can latch.

“—Cowgirl? Reverse cowgirl? A sex swing, maybe?—”

“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.” 

“Shane, wait, please!” Henry is shoving his hands through the narrow crack in the door like a low budget zombie thriller. “Is Rozanov huge?! Is it true that there’s a curve in it? Murphy said that he saw it at All-Stars one year and there was a curve in it! Shane! Shane!”

Shane yanks the door back open, grabs Henry by the shoulders, and gives him a hard push into the hallway. Henry stumbles backward, laughing too hard to put up any real fight. 

“Get fucked, Henry.”

Shane regrets immediately his poor choice of words. It only makes Henry laugh harder, grabbing his ribs as he wheezes. It’s not the kind that Shane has grown used to either, the brittle one at his expense; this laugh is warm and echoey in the hallway. 

“Maybe I will! Since you seem to like it so much, I bet I will too.” 

Something squirms low and uncomfortable in Shane’s gut that Henry now knows this about him. But he’s not using it as a weapon against him. Doesn’t seem to care at all. It’s a relief. Such a relief. 

“Actually,” Henry says, wiping at his wet eyes. He’s got that thoughtful look on his face again that Shane is really starting to hate the sight of. “Hm. Do you think Rose would—”

“Get out of my house, Henry.” Shane says politely.

“I’m not in your house, I'm in the hallway,” Henry says petulantly, but he’s already moving towards the stairwell. “This is not the end of this conversation. Mark my words.” 

Shane stands there in the sudden quiet, listening to Henry’s footsteps fade down the hall, and is glad that no matter how badly he has fucked up his life, he has his brother on his side again. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you everyone who took the time to comment on last chapter!

I hope you all liked getting a bit of insight into Henry...!

The bad working hours continue, alas. Thanks for your patience with my sporadic updates. I promise I will finish this story; it just might take me longer than I would like.

Chapter 14: End of Second Period - Intermission

Chapter Notes

a huge thank you to everyone who commented last chapter (I am still working through them all!) and thank you to my beta, @Princessoftheworlds, who has to deal with rogue commas and spelling so bad my spellchecker has given up on me.

October, 2013 

After eight straight losing seasons, you’d think Scott Hunter would be used to it. But he’s not. He’s never quite learned how not to take losses personally. 

Subscribing himself to the Man in the Crease podcast was a mistake. The hosts have an uncanny way of making him fully feel the inexorable march of time on his body. He’s not old. Not really. Not by any normal metric. But in hockey years? Yeah. He’s starting to get there. 

It’s beginning to feel a little bit like the clock is counting down on the third period of his life and what has Scott got to show for it? A minor knee tear that never quite healed right and no Cups to his name. It makes Scott vaguely ill, thinking of all of the people he’s let down in his more-than-a-decade long career. 

The feeling had chased him as he sprinted full-tilt down the streets of Brooklyn. It was all he could think about. The lactic acid built in his quads and his lungs heaved and his head spun—when he spotted a random smoothie place, all he was really thinking about was replacing everything he’d burned through in the last hour. Protein, electrolytes. Fuck. Whatever. He was dripping sweat, and he needed a goddamn break. 

Scott couldn't say exactly what it was that had drawn him to Kip that first meeting in the smoothie shop. Maybe it had been the way his face had looked so sweet and at peace in his sleep. Maybe it was the textbook clutched like a toddler’s favorite stuffie. 

Whatever it was, Scott had been drawn in. 

And once Kip had started talking—well. That was it, wasn’t it?

There was something about him that was disarming. Kip was just… himself. It really felt like there was no front. He was a little shy, a little awkward. Goofy. His openness felt almost radical; unapologetically queer in a way that Scott clocked immediately and then tried very hard not to visibly react to. 

It just seemed like, maybe, Kip wasn’t hiding behind any walls. And for Scott, whose own mind often felt like a fortress, that had been refreshing. 

A revelation, really. 

So, he kept coming back.

It helped that Scott somehow figured out the exact dead zone in Straw+Berry’s hours—the lull where no one else was around. Which, honestly, said more about the overpriced, subpar smoothies than Scott’s covert detective work; the place is on a busy street in Brooklyn and still half-empty most of the time. 

The point is, he kept showing up. Keeps showing up. And he keeps talking to Kip. Flirting, too, because for the first time in Scott’s life, he cannot stop himself. And when Kip flirts back—tentative, a little unsure, but definitely flirting—Scott finds himself grinning about it for the rest of the day.

On this particular day in early October, Scott notices the textbook is back, thick and worn, corners softened from use. It’s sitting near the register ready to be picked up at a moment’s notice. 

“Uh, so… you like…art?” 

“Yeah! I mean, I like art, but art history is more my jam. Yep.” 

Kip’s hat is slightly askew, like maybe he had barely remembered to put it on before he left his apartment this morning. 

“Is it stupid if I ask what the difference is?” 

“Do you really want to know?” 

Scott hopes that Kip’s tone is because he’s surprised to be asked, and not that he thinks Scott is too much of a dumb jock to care. Because Scott finds that he does. Care, that is. About this. Because it seems important to Kip. 

“Yeah.” Scott laughs.

Kip’s eyebrows lift—those expressive, dark eyebrows— and something shifts in his expression. “Okay. Well. I mean, it goes beyond aesthetics; art history is about people. What we immortalize in art—the stories, the emotions, the values we choose to keep, hold dear, pass on—that matters. Art history tells the fundamental story of who we are as a species. It’s done so from the very first moment early humans slapped their paint-covered hands on a cave wall.” 

Kip seems to be hitting his stride now, pacing back and forth behind the counter. His hands come alive as he talks, gestures wild and emphatic. 

“Art cannot be seen without its context. Do you know Newton's law of motion? An object at rest stays at rest unless acted upon? It’s like that with art. An object isn’t art unless it’s acted upon. You can see an object completely differently based on its context. It's about seeing more than what’s in front of you. You know what I mean?

Scott does know. Or, rather, he thinks he might be beginning to grasp it. The way that Kip is looking at him right now, like he isn’t just Scott Hunter: Hockey Player.... Kip’s gaze doesn’t slide off the surface. It lingers, thoughtful, curious, like he’s already trying to place Scott into some larger context. Past the team, the fame, the deliberately constructed version of himself Scott presents to the world. Past all of it. It feels like he’s being seen—really seen—in a way that makes something in Scott’s chest go tight.

It’s unsettling.

And a little addictive.

Scott swallows. His mouth has gone dry. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” 

“Sorry, I— I know I can get a bit worked up. My friends are constantly roasting me about it.” Kip smiles then, shy and slightly self-conscious. Scott feels warm at the sight of it. “I did ask if you really wanted to know, so you only have yourself to blame.” 

“Are you a student?”

“Yes! Well, not exactly. Not right now. I’m um? Sort of in a gap year? W-well.” Kip scratches at the stubble on his chin. “It’s more like… a gap couple-of-years. When Mom died, my dad wanted me back home, and honestly, we really needed the second income. Sorry if that’s— yeah, sorry if that’s kind of an overshare.” His nervous laugh rings loud in the empty shop. “But. Uh. Yeah I’m applying for PhDs now.”

As Kip’s cheeks flush, color spreading in uneven splotches across his face, Scott feels something unfamiliar dip low in his gut. He has the sudden, disorienting urge to lean across the counter and press his mouth to those pretty, pinked cheeks. Just to see if they feel as soft as they look. 

Scott knows what lust feels like. He’s slept with men before. Neat, quiet, discreet one night stands that meant nothing. 

This is decidedly, terrifyingly, not lust.

This is bad. 

This is very bad. 

Scott clears his throat noisily. “That’s cool. Not— sorry, I meant applying to school, not your mom dying, that sucks. Mine died too actually. And my dad. Both my parents. When I was twelve. Drunk driver outta nowhere. Just suddenly, boom, I was the weird orphan kid on a hockey scholarship.”

Oh god, he’s word-vomiting. Kip’s eyes widen a fraction more with every sentence, and still Scott barrels on. 

“I just meant, like, I know how it feels. Sorta! Not to say that it’s the same, it’s not.” He winces internally at how that sounds, and then, from muscle memory a phrase lodged far back in Scott’s brain drops from his mouth: “Everyone’s grief manifests differently, and is totally their own. There’s no wrong way to grieve.” 

Somewhere, Scott hopes Maggie, his youth grief counselor, felt a shiver go up her spine. 

Scott drops his gaze immediately, suddenly hyper-aware of himself in a way that makes his skin feel too tight. He stirs his straw through his banana Blue Moon smoothie, examining an unmixed swirl of deep purple. 

Jesus. He’s being weird. He must be absolutely freaking Kip out.

And yet—

He looks up anyway. He can’t not.

Kip’s mouth is twitching, like he’s trying very hard not to smile.

“Yeah, totally.”

Scott can’t help his own grin that is building in response. 

“Are you smiling about my dead parents, Kip?”

“No! I just didn’t expect to get free therapy from Scott Hunter today.”

That startles a laugh out of him, which he quickly schools into a mock-frown. “Wait, free? Who said anything about free?” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you charged a co-pay. And how much is it going to cost me?” Kip leans forward over the counter, clearly committing to the bit—and immediately misses where he meant to plant his elbow. There’s a brief, clumsy wobble before he recovers, smoothing it over like nothing happened. 

Scott has to cover his mouth to hide his smile. Before he can come up with something to say back, the bell jingles as the door swings open wide. 

A cluster of girls spills into the shop, loud and laughing, bringing a rush of noise and a waft of crisp October air with them. The moment snaps clean in half.

He’d been about to say something incredibly obvious and damning that could have easily been overheard by one of these girls. Scott cannot believe he almost made that risk in broad daylight. 

Scott mutters a quick goodbye to a frowning Kip and makes his escape. 

He’s not coming back to this smoothie shop. Scott clearly cannot trust himself around Kip. 

*

Scott makes it three days before he breaks.

The next time Scott sees Kip, he manages to invite Kip to watch one of his games. 

Kip says yes.

*

The next time Scott sees Kip, he manages to invite him to have dinner with him. 

Then he invites him to stay the night. 

Then he invites him to stay forever. And Kip… 

Kip says yes. 

Again, and again, and again. 

***

Scott has never felt like this before. Ever. With anyone. He didn’t know he could even feel this way. Before now, Scott was fairly convinced he didn’t have the receptors in his brain for this kind of happiness. For the first time in his life, Scott is asking for what he wants and is getting it in return.

Scott understands now. He gets why people spend their whole lives chasing this. And, God, he knows that he is being horribly cliché, but he is too in love to give a shit. 

He’s giddy with it. He keeps looking over his shoulder in his apartment and is met with startled happiness every time he sees Kip. There he is, Scott finds himself thinking at least five times a day, wondrously. It’s like his brain can’t fully process that this is happening to him. 

Scott had looked it up after Kip had mentioned it a few weeks ago. Cueva de las Manos, it was called— the name of the cave with all the red handprints. Prehistoric people marking their existence onto the walls for all to see long after their bones had turned to dust. There is a part of Scott that wishes Kip’s hands could be coated in the same red paint as those ancient cavemen. Every time he touched something in the apartment, it would tell the same story: Kip was here. 

“Scott,” Kip says against Scott's mouth. Scott has him pressed into the front door, his knee inching up between Kip’s legs. He can feel Kip beginning to harden. 

“Hm?”

They were in the middle of something. Scott can’t remember what though. His world has narrowed to the bottom-third of Kip’s face and to the heat building in Kip’s groin. Why is Kip talking? He shouldn’t be talking. 

“Scott!” Kip giggles pushing gently at Scott’s chest. “Baby, I have to go.” 

And doesn’t that one word just send warmth throughout Scott’s body down to his toes. 

Baby.

Scott has hooked up with guys in the past, so it’s not that he’s never been called a petname. The ones he usually gets, sexy, handsome, hotstuff, are… fine. They’re whatever. 

He’d been called “sir” a few times by a few of the more adventurous men. (One had tried to call him “daddy,” and it had immediately put a damper on the evening. Nobody wants to have sex after their hookup has described their father’s traumatic and untimely death.)

It’s just that Scott has never been anyone’s ‘baby’ before. He finds that he really, really likes it. 

“Mmm… remind me why you have to go, again?” Scott leans in, eyes zeroed in on Kip’s kiss-swollen lips. Kip ducks, cruelly blocking Scott’s play on goal. 

“Because I have to show proof of life to my dad or he’s going to think I’ve been kidnapped and held for ransom. Because Ellie and I have been planning to go to the Met’s special exhibition for weeks now. Because, crucially, I’m out of clean clothes.”

“You can borrow mine.” 

“I’m sick of borrowing yours. I adore you, but all you own is Adidas athleisure.” 

“Not true,” Scott objects, rubbing his thumb across Kip’s jaw. 

“Name one other item of clothing you own—”

Scott opens his mouth. 

“—that isn’t formal wear for MLH events.” 

His jaw clicks shut. Kip’s grin turns smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” 

Scott steps back, putting a little space between them. He shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets.  “Well. Um. Maybe you should pack a bigger bag when you come back. I’ll clear out a few drawers for you.” His heart is racing, but he forces himself to shrug his shoulders. Tries to make this sound less of a big deal than it is. “You know, if you want, I mean.” 

Kip’s eyes soften. He goes up on his toes and presses a lingering kiss to Scott’s lips. 

“I’d like that.” 

“Okay,” Scott says quietly, smile splitting his face. 

***

Scott comes home one day and, without thinking, glances toward what’s quickly becoming Kip’s spot on the couch. The empty cushion startles him. He pads in a little farther and spots Kip at the island, hunched over, shuffling a stack of index cards with intense focus. He’s wearing one of Scott’s old Admiral’s t-shirts and a pair of chunky black-rimmed glasses. 

“What are you doing?”

Kip yelps, nearly dropping them before clutching the cards tight to his chest. “Nothing! God, you scared me. You’re home early.” 

A single kernel of fear pops in his chest at how squirrelly Kip is being.

Scott crosses the room, closing the distance, wraps his arms around Kip from behind and buries his face into those dark curls. “Show me? Whatever it is, I promise I won’t be mad.” Scott will not overreact. It’s fine. Whatever it is, Scott is determined to be fine about it. 

Kip sinks back into the heat of Scott’s chest. Scott longs to keep him like this—right here, held close, tucked into him. This is where Kip belongs: tangled up in his boyfriend. 

“It’s nothing bad.” Kip promises. “It’s only— god, it’s just kinda embarrassing. Promise you won’t make fun of me…?” 

“More or less embarrassing than my sneaker collection?” When Scott had shown Kip his rows and rows of sneakers, Kip had absolutely lost it—laughing so hard he’d had to sit down, wiping tears from his eyes. Scott had immediately protested. Lots of guys he knows collect sneakers. It’s normal. It’s a normal guy collection. And yet, Kip had insisted that this was the proof that Scott really was a serial killer. 

Kip sighs, defeated, and slips the cards into Scott’s hand. Scott has to loosen his hold to look at them, which he resents immediately—but that feeling disappears the second he actually reads one. 

Offside: A penalty that occurs when a player on the attacking team precedes the puck into the attacking zone. A player is offside when both skates are completely over the leading edge of the blue line involved in the play.

“Are you— did you— did you make hockey flashcards?” 

“Oh my god!” Kip snatches them from Scott and slaps them face down on the countertop. “I said don’t make fun of me!” His cheeks flare bright pink, color spreading fast. Scott loves how easily Kip’s face shows what he’s feeling, every emotion right there, unfiltered, always right on the surface.

“Wait, no, that’s so cute.” Kip has done this for him. Spent time carefully writing out flashcards, practicing them so that he could learn the rules of the sport Scott has dedicated his life to. 

Scott’s stomach feels a little fluttery. He loves the way that Kip shows love. 

“Stop,” Kip moans, hiding his face in his hands. Over the past few weeks, Scott has discovered that Kip doesn’t know what to do with himself when complimented. 

Scott is determined to help him; practice makes perfect, after all. 

“It is,” Scott insists, pulling Kip’s hands away from his blushing face. Scott can’t help pressing a kiss to Kip’s lips. He means for it to be quick, reassuring—but the second their mouths meet, he lingers. Deepens it without really consciously deciding to.

Kip exhales softly against him.

When they pull apart, Kip looks a little dazed, a little breathless.

“You think a grown man having to make flashcards to understand one of the world’s most popular sports is cute?” 

“Well. First of all, you’re cute. That means everything you do is cute.” Scott cups Kip’s face in his palm, thumb brushing warm skin. “But yeah— this is particularly adorable.” 

He doesn’t quite know how to say what this actually means to him. That Kip would put in this kind of effort. That he’d want to understand Scott’s world badly enough to study.

“Okay.” Kip leans into his palm. “But you’re going to have to explain ‘icing’ to me again because the definition Google gives leaves something to be desired.”

“Deal.”

***

Kip gets sick. Not anything dire, nothing particularly noteworthy; just a nasty little headcold. 

It starts slow. Kip rubbing his throat a little absently during dinner. Falling asleep midday on top of his open book, mouth wide and pooling drool. 

A day later, Scott wakes to Kip coughing. Scott props himself up on one elbow, eyes slowly adjusting to the gray morning light filtering through the blinds. Kip’s nose is pink and his eyes are watery.  

“Baby?” Scott murmurs, rubbing Kip’s shoulder gently. 

Kip opens one bloodshot eye. “M’okay. Just gimme a minute and I’ll rally.”

“Kip. Just take the day to rest. Nobody wants smoothies from someone who sounds like you.”

Kip hadn't had the strength to fight. He’d called out, voice hoarse and pathetic. Scott lets him sleep a few more hours, then forces him up and out of the bedroom. After repeated threats, entreaties, and borderline begging, Scott manages to get most of a bowl of soup into Kip. 

Afterwards, Scott bundles Kip into approximately fourteen blankets and plants him on the couch. Kip keeps sniffling miserably, a wad of tissues clutched in one hand. 

Scott is so far out of his wheelhouse right now. He’s never had to play caretaker like this before. Still, he’s going to try his best. Scott grabs the remote and starts scrolling for something comforting.

Kip loves ancient Greece and Rome—practically lives and breathes it (“it’s called classical antiquity, Scott!”)—so Scott settles on the Disney Hercules movie.

Scott is made aware of his mistake almost immediately; Kip can’t even make it through the opening credits before lifting his head from beneath the blanket cocoon to complain, “It’s a bastardization of an entire culture’s mythos.”

“Mmhmm…”

“They sand down every uncomfortable aspect of Hera, because they have to make her the pinnacle of a good, loving, proto-typical Christian, American wife.” Kip blows his nose hard, then tosses the tissue halfheartedly toward the trash can beside the couch.

He misses by at least two feet.

“The music is good, though,” Scott counters.

Kip glares at Scott. Then, after a moment, he shuffles closer until he’s folded into Scott’s side, resting his head against Scott’s chest with a congested sigh.

Scott immediately tucks an arm around him and pulls the blankets tighter.

“…The music is good,” Kip reluctantly agrees.

Scott smiles to himself.

He does not admit that Hercules had been one of his favorite movies growing up. There was something about Hercules not quite fitting in that was familiar to Scott. Hercules was too different from everyone around him to ever feel fully human, but never quite godly enough to belong in Olympus either. 

And… well. 

Hercules wins in the end. He works hard, suffers for it, keeps trying anyway. Eventually, he finds the belonging he craves. 

As an awkward kid, Scott had always found comfort in that. 

Scott leans his cheek against the top of Kip’s head. There is something about how soft Kip is right now, how vulnerable, that touches a protective nerve deep inside him. It makes him want to bang on his chest like a gorilla. Mine, keep safe, Scott wants to roar, mine! 

Kip shifts slightly against him, sniffling again. “Y’shouldn’t be cuddling me. I am a bastion of contagion.” But even as Kip is protesting, he’s burrowing deeper into Scott’s warm side. 

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Scott murmurs, pressing a kiss into his dark hair. 

Kip falls asleep quickly, his breaths evening into steady, congested puffs. One of Scott’s hands stays buried in his curls, lazily carding through them while the movie plays on. Kip only wakes as Hercules pulls Meg from the underworld. 

“That’s not how the story goes, y’know?” he grumbles, squinting at the brightness of the TV. 

Scott smiles automatically, already knowing exactly where this is headed. “You wanna tell me how the story actually goes?”

Kip does.

He spends the next half hour giving Scott a lesson on the various iterations of Heracles myths, punctuated by sneezes, coughing fits, and frequent pauses to blow his nose.

“At one point,” Kip says thickly, voice muffled behind a tissue, “he literally has to clean the Augean stables in one day. Which is, objectively, the funniest labor. Imagine being this hero of epic proportions and one of your divine tasks is essentially—” he gestures weakly, “custodial. Like, yes, it was clearly designed to demean him, but it is still hilarious to picture.”

The credits have long since ended and the next movie—Aladdin—has autoqueued and started playing. 

“Anyway,” Kip continues, “The whole point of the labors is that they’re penance. When Hera drives him into a madness, he kills his wife and children, so the labors are supposed to—” Kip breaks off to sneeze violently into the blanket. Scott doesn’t even care how gross that is. “—supposed to purify him afterward. Make him worthy.”

“Bless you.” Scott winces sympathetically.

“Thanks,” Kip says hoarsely, before immediately continuing, “Also, Megara is wildly different depending on which source you’re consulting. Take Apollodorus for example, he—”

Scott watches him fondly while he talks. He’s catching maybe eight-five percent of what is said. He’s trying to pay attention—this Greek stuff is actually pretty interesting—but he keeps getting distracted by the way his boyfriend looks. The sparkle in his eyes. The bow of his lips. 

Kip is congested and miserable, but the second he starts explaining something he loves, he lights up from the inside out. His hands start moving when he talks, emphatic despite his exhaustion, dark eyes bright behind his thick glasses.

Scott loves it when Kip gets like this—when his voice slips into that soft, animated teacher cadence. Kip has this way of breaking enormous, complex concepts into their individual pieces, laying them down one by one until suddenly you realize they’ve linked together to form a complete puzzle. Scott never feels stupid around him. Never feels like he’s being lectured at. Just guided along gently, like Kip genuinely believes Scott is clever enough to understand anything so long as it’s explained properly.

“—and that doesn’t even touch on—” Kip breaks off with a jaw-cracking yawn. “—the apotheosis.”

“What’s that?”

Kip blinks slowly at him, visibly fighting sleep’s tender embrace. 

“S’when, like, someone becomes divine. It’s that ultimate ascension to godhood.”

“Mm?” Scott encourages, scooping Kip up in his arms and carrying him to bed. He likes to think he is putting his hockey muscles to good use. Transferable skills, he thinks they’re called. “Well, that’s a happy ending at least.” 

“I don’t know…” Kip’s eyes are drifting shut. “...he had to suffer a fuck-ton first. Doesn’t seem fair. None of it was his choice in the first place.” 

Scott carefully deposits Kip onto the bed, tucking him in before curling up beside him. 

“When I wake up… remind me to tell you about… Hades and Persephone.” 

“Okay, baby.” 

And Scott will. And Kip will smile in that way that makes his eyes crinkle. And Scott’s heart will skip a beat with the knowledge that he gets to have this small miracle all to himself. 

***

“What would winning the Cup mean to you?” Kip asks out of the blue one day. 

They’re seated at the island sharing a sandwich, knees bumping occasionally beneath the overhang. October has breezed by in cool gusts. The sun has begun setting earlier now, the late afternoon light spills gold across the countertops, catching on the little crumbs Kip keeps absentmindedly brushing into a pile with the edge of his thumb. 

Scott barks out a short laugh before he can stop himself, then immediately winces when he catches Kip’s expectant expression. 

“Oh! Sorry. It’s just— I’m around the guys so often that I’ve never had to really ever put it into words.” 

“Could you please try to describe it to this neophyte?” Kips asks playfully, propping his chin into his hand.

Scott frowns. “The… fossil?”

Kip pauses. Scott can practically see the gears turning in his boyfriend’s head, then watches as something clicks. “No, not trilobite, neophyte.”

“Admit you’re a little impressed I knew trilobite.”

“I’m very impressed by my boyfriend who is both hot and smart,” Kip says dutifully.

It’s teasing, but Scott can hear the sincerity threaded underneath it. It settles warm beneath his ribs.

“Neophyte means someone who is a newcomer to something. For example, your hot and smart boyfriend who is new to hockey. Now— get back on topic, jock. Tell me about the Cup. I want to understand.” 

He really does. It’s something Scott loves most about Kip, the way that he approaches new topics with the same curiosity of an explorer in the wild, fearless and attentive. 

Scott takes a big bite of his sandwich and chews it slowly, trying to put his thoughts into some sort of order. Ninety percent of his life is spent around men who already understand this feeling instinctively. Men who have also built their entire lives around it.

Scott has felt separate from them many times. Othered by his queerness. By the empty seats in the family box at the stadium. By his intensity and his blunt honesty. 

But in this, they have been, and always will be, united. 

The turkey and cheese sticks in his throat a little. Scott washes it down with a long swallow of water while Kip watches him steadily from across the island, dark eyes fixed patiently on his face. 

“It… it’s hard to put into words. I never really tried to before. I don’t know…” 

Because it does feel bigger than language somehow. How does Scott begin to put this into perspective for Kip? How can he begin to explain that hockey is to Scott what ligaments are to bones? That it’s the connection that links everything inside him together?

“When you’re on the ice… and it’s an important game… it’s just. Wow.” Scott shakes his head softly. “I can’t describe how it feels to have thousands of people on all sides just fucking screaming. It’s electric. I can’t even imagine how it would multiply on that final win.” 

But he does let himself picture it. Just for a second. The arena vibrating beneath his skates. The deafening roar of the crowd until it stops sounding like individual voices and becomes one massive living thing. The etching of his name onto the cup and into history the same way those cave people did with their handprints: I was here and I mattered. 

“And… I guess beyond that one single moment… the Cup… it represents a lot. Like. That it was all worth it.” 

“What?” Kip asks gently, “what all goes into it?” 

Scott exhales through his nose. 

“The endless hours in the gym. The practices. The work that you put in. The… sacrifices.” 

Scott carefully does not elaborate on the sacrifices. 

Kip knows already. 

“But also…” Scott bites his lip, “it’s about the people who believed in you, took a chance on you. Gave you their time and their money and their attention. That you were worth it, in the end.” 

Kip’s eyes are shiny, like he can hear a portion of what Scott isn’t saying, cannot quite say. Scott has spoken in blues and reds; Kip knows his color theory, he can mix them into purple in his head. 

Scott clears his throat. It is way too loud in the quiet of the apartment. “You know. I guess. I’ve never won it, so…” 

He takes a huge bite of his sandwich to stop himself from saying anything else. 

Kip watches Scott chew, eyes soft. Then he reaches across the island and wipes a smear of mustard from the corner of Scott’s mouth with his thumb.

“Well,” Kip says quietly, “for what it’s worth, I think you already are.”

Scott frowns. “Already what?”

“Worth it.”

Scott looks down immediately after that, suddenly unable to hold Kip’s gaze.

Outside the apartment windows, the city is settling into evening, New York slipping into a muted cobalt, dappled with yellow city lights. They’re high enough up that the traffic noise barely penetrates, dampened horns and sirens in the distance. 

Kip hums thoughtfully and then says very seriously, “So when you win this thing, do I get to touch it? Or are there rules? I feel like there’s always a rule or superstition in hockey.”

Scott huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “There are rules for players but, yeah, you could touch it.”

“Oh? I could?” 

Before Scott can even process the dangerous glint in Kip’s eyes, he has a lapful of boy. Scott’s hands come up automatically to steady Kip at the waist as he settles across his broad thighs, all warm limbs and soft sweater and hot breath. Scott takes a moment to appreciate the way Kip’s dark hair curls at the nape of his neck.

“Do you know what the proper etiquette is?” Kip asks, “I’d hate to look ignorant. Any particular places that I should touch the cup, do you think?”

There’s a hand snaking down the waistband of Scott’s athletic pants. 

“Mm. It requires unhh… careful handling.” 

Kip’s palm rubs maddeningly slow circles over the bulge in Scott’s briefs. He’s wearing his chunky black-rimmed glasses and they slide slightly down his nose as he peers haughtily down at Scott. 

“I’ll have you know that as an undergrad, I was a collections intern at the Grey Art Museum. I know a little something about the careful handling of artifacts.” 

Even Kip’s dirty talk is dorky. Scott loves it. 

A helpless laugh escapes him as he hooks his arms beneath Kip’s knees and hauls him up properly. Kip makes a startled little noise, yanking his hand free from Scott’s shorts so he can loop both arms around Scott’s neck instead.

The movement jostles his glasses. Scott nudges them straight with his nose as Kip grins down at him, flushed and victorious.

“Fascinating. I think I’d like to hear more about your careful handling techniques, Kip.” 

The apartment lights glow soft and amber around them as he carries Kip down the hallway toward the bedroom.

***

November 2013

Scott has been told, more than once, that he’s too intense, too strange. Kip, somehow, takes all of that in stride. Accepts it. Seems—bafflingly—to enjoy it.

What Scott hadn’t realized, at least not at first, was that actually it was a case of like calling to like.

The night Kip mails in his last grad school application, Scott shoulders his way into the apartment after training, still keyed up, body buzzing from exertion. He expects the usual—Kip on the couch, maybe half-asleep, something low playing on the TV.

Instead, he finds Kip circling the coffee table, deeply focused, carefully arranging what looks like a full charcuterie spread. Cheese, crackers, grapes placed with almost surgical precision, and a glass of red wine set just so. He’s lit a handful of candles in a semi-circle.

“Babe, that’s so sweet.”

Kip is always thinking ahead, always finding small, quiet ways to show he cares. A pasta salad in the fridge, a warm bath already drawn for Scott’s aching muscles. They’re not flashy or loud, but they are constant.

Kip glances up at him, eyes a little wild, a little tired, and not at all pleased. He adjusts a cluster of grapes by a fraction of an inch, angling them with unnecessary exactness.

“They’re not for us.”

Scott pauses. “Then… who… are they for…?”

There’s a brief, unpleasant twist in his gut. A flicker of terror. Has Kip invited someone over? Told someone? About this—whatever this is between them? 

“I’m leaving out oblations for my divine patroness,” Kip says, a tad absently.

Scott barks a laugh, which he quickly turns into a cough at Kip’s bitter glare. 

Oh. He’s quite serious about this.

“What, for real? God, you’re fucking weird,” Scott says affectionately. 

“Me?” Kip presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Oh, me? I’m weird? The guy who believes in magic stick-tape, and playoff celibacy, and garlic in his underwear drawer thinks I’m weird?”

“...Point,” Scott concedes. The hand that had been reaching for a wedge of brie is smacked away. 

“Hey!”

“Those are for Glaukopis Athena, for her divine intercession on behalf of my applications.” 

Scott blinks. “...Why does Glaucoma Athena need the expensive brie?”

Kip tips his head back, eyes to the ceiling like he’s asking the heavens for patience. “Because gods don’t like it if you purposefully leave out inferior offerings. The offerings for Agonius Scott are on the island.” 

“Nice!” Scott brightens immediately, already turning away. He pads over to the island and starts shoving crackers into his mouth. “You’re going to get in though, with or without Athena’s help.”

Behind him, Kip makes a small noise of outrage.

Scott glances back just in time to see him lean in and whisper to his cheese and grapes, “He didn’t mean that, please ignore his disrespect, Goddess. Please bless my applications. I beg you in your infinite wisdom to grant me acceptance amongst my top choices and not to leave me saddled with Rutgers. I only applied there in a fit of late-night hysteria, please, Goddess, do not make me spend the next seven years commuting to New Jersey.” 

Scott laughs around his mouthful of crackers. “...You done?”

“I’m done.” 

Scott steps back into the living room, still chewing, still grinning.

The way Kip fits into his arms feels like something that should be commemorated with poetry. Something with rhymes and big words and gravitas. If Scott had even the tiniest writing skills, he would try. 

Instead, he just pulls Kip in, wraps his arms around him and holds on. Like he can keep him there if his grip is solid enough. He presses his face into the curve of Kip’s neck, breathing in that clean, piney deodorant scent he’s come to associate with home.

I love you, he thinks, and says, “Rutgers wouldn’t be so bad.” 

“Please be silent.” 

“You wouldn’t have to move out of the city, at least.”

“You’re ruining this hug, Scott.” 

***

The front door slams shut with a bang. Kip must be home from his shift. 

“I’m back!” 

“Bedroom!” 

Scott can hear the thunk-thunk of Kip kicking off his Converse, the thump of his bag hitting the floor. 

“I really hate away games. I’m starting to think I’ve been cursed,” Scott calls out from the bedroom, rolling up a pair of socks and shoving it into his duffle.

“What, like someone cast a hex on you?” Kip hollers from somewhere in the kitchen. 

“It’s got to be the absence of smoothies,” Scott says. “How would you feel about opening up our relationship? Just the smoothie part, I mean. Would you be jealous if I was getting it from another guy?” 

Road trip packing is a simple science at this point. Five shirts. Five shorts. Five briefs. Five pairs of socks. 

“I swear by the gods if you cheat on me with another smoothie man, I will place a hex upon you myself.” 

A laugh bubbles out of Scott. He would not put it past Kip to make some sort of altar or push-pin doll. 

“Noted. No smoothie-cheating. I really don’t think I could handle being double cursed.”

When Kip finally appears in the doorway, he’s practically vibrating with pent-up energy, like he’s trying and failing to contain himself. His cheeks are pink from the early November chill outside, curls in disarray from the wind. One hand is tucked suspiciously behind his back as he crosses the room toward Scott.

He tips his face up expectantly.

It’s automatic for Scott to lean in, one hand settling at Kip’s waist as he presses a quick kiss to his lips. Scott is more than happy to abandon packing in favor of kissing his beautiful boyfriend.

“You’re in a good mood,” Scott murmurs against his mouth. “Did you get a letter?”

Kip’s expression flickers.

It’s tiny. But Scott catches it anyway—that brief faltering around the edges before Kip fixes a smile back into place.

“No—um. No, it’s just that—okay. Like, I know it’s stupid, but it’s our three month anniversary. And I got you something.” 

Scott’s heart stops for a moment. 

Shit. Shit! 

He hadn’t realized three months was a milestone people celebrated. Was this a thing? Was this common knowledge? Scott scrambles frantically through every relationship example he has available to him: teammates with girlfriends, teammates with wives, stories overheard in locker rooms. Nothing. Nobody had ever mentioned a three month anniversary before. 

Fuck! Maybe this was a ‘queer community’ thing? There is so much he just doesn’t know about gay culture. It seemed like every day that Kip was introducing him to some new word or phrase or facet of the gay scene. It often made Scott feel like he was a half-step behind. The one time Scott had referred to Lady Gaga as “meat-dress lady,” Kip had grown ashen-faced and had to sit down. 

(That had at least ended well, though. After Kip had delivered a short historiography of Lady Gaga’s career, they’d fucked on the couch while Artpop played over the bluetooth speakers.)

But the other day Kip had tried to explain the differences between bears and otters and cubs and twinks, and honestly, it had made Scott’s head spin a bit. Maybe he needed to take a leaf out of Kip’s book and start making flashcards: Kiki, a term for when you and the girls get together and have a silly little hang sesh. 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t get anything for you,” Scott says, guilty. 

Kip really shouldn’t be spending his limited funds on Scott, either. 

Not when Scott knows—well, suspects, because Kip never says it outright—that things are tight. Scott sees the way Kip’s shoulders tense anytime finances come up. Sees how often he’s picking up extra shifts lately, leaving exhausted and coming home even more exhausted. Scott notices all of it. 

“That’s okay! You know I’m not much of a material girl. Anyway, it’s just a little something, I-I didn’t even wrap it.” The smile on Kip’s face takes on a self-conscious shade. “It’s probably silly, I know, but still... I saw it and it made me think of you.”

Kip hands Scott a pair of socks. They’re blue, with cheerful little yellow bananas. 

“Socks! They’re a Blue Moon Over Brooklyn that you can always have with you, even on those dreaded road games.” 

And Scott is kissing Kip before he consciously realizes he’s moved, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other pulling him flush against his chest.

The socks get squashed awkwardly between them.

“They’re perfect. I love them,” Scott says fervently against Kip’s lips. The words spill out of him instinctively, pulled up from somewhere deep and terrifying and true. “I love you.”

Kip goes very still in Scott’s arms.

Scott feels it immediately—that tiny freeze, the sharp inhale against his mouth.

Oh god.

Had that been too much? Too soon? Scott is always too intense, too quick to feel. 

Scott starts pulling back, heart thudding hard enough to hurt his ribs, but Kip grabs fistfuls of his shirt before he can retreat far.

“Wait! Don’t go! I was surprised. Just— just give me a second,” Kip says, voice thin and wrecked.

Scott wraps his hands around Kip’s fists. “Sorry, it’s um… it’s okay if you don—”

But suddenly Kip is kissing Scott again—desperate and a little clumsy, like he’s been starving for it. Scott can feel the smile tugging at the corners of Kip’s mouth even as he kisses him hard enough to steal the breath from his lungs. 

When they finally pull apart, both of them breathing unevenly, Kip rests his forehead against Scott’s and whispers, “I love you too, Scott Hunter.” 

Scott cannot believe this is happening. That he gets to have this. 

“I want—” Scott cuts himself off. His throat works around the words. Suddenly he feels absurdly nervous, like he’s about to step onto the ice for a playoff game. He forces himself to finish his thought, “would you fuck me, please?”

Kip blinks at him.

Heat begins to creep up the back of his neck. 

“If that’s something you’d want, I mean,” Scott rushes to add. 

In hookups of the past, men always assumed things about Scott. They took one look at his size, his body, the way he carried himself through the world. Big. Broad. Athlete. Most hookups assessed Scott and immediately decided what role he must want to play in the bedroom before he’d even opened his mouth. 

He’d bottomed before—a handful of times—but it had always felt strange to ask for it. Like he was stepping outside an acceptable version of himself. So yes, he’s done it before, but rarely with someone he trusted. 

Never with someone who loved him.  

“Want.” Kip nods frantically, staring at him with wide dark eyes and flushed cheeks and a look so openly affectionate it makes Scott’s pulse trip over itself. “It’s definitely something I want.” 

Without another word, Kip starts shepherding Scott backward with surprising determination, palms pressing insistently at his chest. Scott lands awkwardly on top of his half-packed clothes and duffle bag.

Kip immediately climbs into his lap and reattaches himself to Scott’s mouth before Scott can even regain his balance.

Scott shoves uselessly at a pile of clothes with one hand while kissing Kip back hard enough to make his own head spin. Somewhere beneath him a zipper digs painfully into his spine.

“Hang on—fuck—” Scott huffs a laugh against Kip’s mouth as he blindly sweeps the rest of his packing onto the floor.

Kip makes a triumphant little noise and kisses him deeper for it.

They strip each other quickly, hands fumbling in their haste. Kip nearly topples sideways trying to kick his jeans off, one pant leg getting helplessly tangled around his ankle.

Scott actually laughs this time, full-bodied and helpless.

Kip finally frees himself from the death trap of his own skinny jeans and tosses them somewhere behind him with unnecessary aggression. His hair is sticking up in three different directions now, cheeks an attractive pink.

His hands find Kip’s ass, dragging him fully flush against his lap, still grinning like an idiot.

Scott thinks, not for the first time, that he has never seen anyone more beautiful.

The thought hits him with enough force that his breath catches in his throat.

Kip notices the way Scott’s staring and immediately gets shy about it, ducking his head. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Scott says.

“Tell me anyway?” Kip asks softly.

Scott slides a hand along the curve of Kip’s waist, thumb brushing the sharp cut of it. Scott loves it. Loves all of him. The warmth of him. The reality of him.

“You’re just…” Scott exhales shakily. “Really fucking pretty.”

Kip goes scarlet.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You can’t say that kind of stuff while looking at me like that.”

“Why not?”

“Be-because!” Kip ducks to hide his burning face. Kip reaches for the side drawer, pulls out the bottle of lube and a condom. It seems like he’s going to try to leave it there, but Scott won’t let it go. 

“Surely your previous boyfriends have told you that?” 

Kip tenses, his ears go up around his shoulders. 

There’s a small spark of fury under Scott’s skin.

“Seriously?!” 

Kip bites his lip. He keeps his eyes down, smoothing the sheets unnecessarily. 

Scott takes a deep breath, forces himself calm. He can be furious with Kip’s shitty exes later. Their loss is his gain. 

“Baby…” Scott presses a kiss to Kip’s lips, his nose, the corner of his left eye. “Look at me.” 

Those dark eyes find Scott’s. 

“You are beautiful, and I love you so much. I can’t wait to see what you feel like inside me.” 

This time when Kip’s hands find their way to Scott’s hair, they’re trembling. 

“Okay?” Scott asks, searching Kip’s face. He can’t quite fathom it. The idea of these faceless men having Kip in their lives and not getting on their knees and telling him he’s beautiful every god damn day. 

That’s alright. Scott can do it. He will do it every day. Any athlete can tell you that repetition is the key to success. 

“...Okay.” Kip whispers back. 

They go slowly. 

By the time Kip is adding a third finger, Scott’s already flushed all over and gasping. Kip’s fingers, like his mind, are quick and clever; they’re doing an excellent job finding that spot inside him that sends pulses of pleasure through his body. 

But Scott has other plans for tonight. 

“M’ready. C’mon if you wait too much longer, I’ll just come on your fingers.” 

Kip rolls on the condom and lines himself up. He waits for Scott’s quick nod before he presses in. Glowing embers sputter to life inside Scott; what had been a low steady heat is suddenly aflame. 

“F-fuck!” 

They rest their foreheads together; breathing in unison. Kip gives Scott’s body a chance to catch up. It’s been a while since Scott has done this, but it’s not exactly a new sensation. It doesn’t take too long for Scott’s body to remember, to let Kip settle in. 

Scott wiggles his hips encouragingly. “M’good. Ready,” he insists, voice hoarse. 

Kip carefully slides back, then in, then back, in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You…” Scott’s hands find their way to Kip’s hair, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to have those curls in his fists. “…feel s’good, baby. Just like that.” 

The world disappears to just this bed. They are a raft adrift at sea, and Scott is being rocked by the gentle waves. 

Kip’s hips stutter and he muffles his groan against Scott's neck, biting down hard at the juncture of his shoulder. Scott grips Kip’s curls in a tight fist as he quickly follows after him. 

By the time the tide finally recedes from the shoreline, Scott feels boneless.

For a while neither of them moves. The apartment hums softly with the sounds of Scott’s spaceship-like airconditioning system. Scott traces lazy patterns across the bare skin of Kip’s shoulder. His heartbeat is still gradually slowing beneath his ribs. Every now and then Kip's thumb brushes against his side, absentminded and affectionate and slightly ticklish.

This is one of his favorite versions of Kip. The sleepy, contented version with his curls in absolute disarray. Looking at Scott in that soft way that makes Scott’s whole chest ache. 

Once they’ve both caught their breaths, Kip looks deeply in Scott's eyes and says, “If the socks don’t work to break the hex, we can try a purification ritual next. You know the idea of catharsis? Well, it comes from the Greek word, katharsis, and long before it meant an emotional purging, it was the term the Greeks used to describe the ritual for purging curses. Now, if you go to the primary sources, you’ll see—”

***

December 2013

There’s a restless, twitchy energy beneath Scott’s skin. He keeps pacing the apartment, patting different pockets, checking things that do not need to be rechecked. Wallet. Phone. Keys. Wallet again.

Keys! Where the fuck are his keys?! He just had them, he swears he just had them—-

Oh, they’re in his hand. 

Kip watches him pinball around for a full five minutes before finally saying, “Baby.”

Scott barely pauses in his frantic circuit. “Yeah?”

“It’s okay to be stressed out.”

“I’m not stressed.”

Kip raises one eyebrow.

Scott exhales sharply through his nose. “Okay, maybe just a little.”

“A little,” Kip repeats incredulously.

Scott drags both hands down his face. The fundraiser is important. Important sponsors. Important donors. There is always the fear that he’ll say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, somehow disappoint people who have invested so much into him. Into the Admirals. Into Scott Hunter: Distinguished Captain of Great Promise. What if Scott is the reason the St. Thomas scholarships don’t get funded this year? 

Kip crosses the apartment before Scott can start pacing again and gently takes him by the wrist.

“Come sit? Please?”

Scott allows Kip to lead him. Kip settles him into one of the kitchen chairs and plants himself between Scott’s knees with practiced ease.

“Take a deep breath through your nose,” Kip instructs, taking one himself as if to demonstrate. 

Scott fidgets for a moment, then takes a big heaving breath through his nose. 

“Good. Out through your mouth now.” 

It comes out in a slow steady gust. Kip nods his head approvingly. 

“Do three more of those. I’ll be right back.” 

He does. He’s just finishing when Kip returns, he slots himself between Scott’s legs again. He has a little black jar of pomade in his hands. 

Kip hums and threads his fingers into Scott’s hair.

Instantly, some taut cord inside Scott begins to loosen.

Kip eases his fingers carefully through the strands, working a little product through them with patient concentration. His touch is gentle but assured, fingertips dragging against Scott’s scalp in slow, soothing strokes.

“My mom was a hairdresser. I don’t remember if I told you that.”

“Mm.” Scott’s eyes slip half-shut automatically. The feeling of Kip’s nails lightly scratching his scalp is almost embarrassingly good. He loves this. He doesn’t remember the last time someone had done this for him. When was the last time someone who loved Scott ran their fingers through his hair? 

“That’s how my parents met. My dad had a big meeting coming up. His barber unexpectedly closed. He went to my mom’s salon and, well, the rest is history.” 

His voice is low, and soothing, the words flowing smoothly.  

“How did your parents meet?” Kip asks, pausing his ministrations. 

The question punctures the soft cocoon around Scott almost immediately. 

Scott frowns faintly.

He thinks hard about it and realizes—with a tight, horrible pang—that he genuinely doesn’t know.

He’d only been twelve when his parents had passed. Not old enough to have been asking these questions. Not old enough to even care about the answers. Why would he? You were supposed to have a lifetime with your parents to learn these things. 

“They were both… junior hockey coaches. So maybe they met there? I’m not sure I know the whole story.” 

God, it hurts. 

He misses them. He misses all the versions of them that he will never get to know because he didn’t know he’d never have the chance to ask.

There's no one left who can tell him now.

Kip’s fingers start up again. Sweeping strokes along Scott’s scalp. “There’s a story in Plato’s Symposium, about the creation of humans. Do you want to hear it?” 

“Mm?” Scott hums, encouraging. Kip has slipped into his teacher voice. Combined with the hands in his hair, it’s all deeply hypnotic. 

“It says that humans originally had two sets of everything: arms, legs, heads. This was the perfect form, and because of it, humans grew powerful and mighty. They dared to attack Olympus.” 

Scott is starting to suspect that Kip is not actually fixing his hair anymore, is now just petting him for therapeutic purposes.  

“Zeus wanted to punish the humans for their impunity, for thinking they could challenge his authority. To kill them would be too swift a punishment, too immediate and finite. So the king of the gods thought of a fate worse than death for the humans. One that would cause eternal pain. He struck them with lighting and tore them asunder, dividing them permanently in half. Now each human would be born with just two arms, two legs, and one head.” 

A shiver shoots up Scott’s spine as Kip’s nails lightly scrape over the back of his scalp. 

“And that is why we humans are filled with a nameless longing. We all feel it, that innate absence. It is both a grief and an ancient yearning for that person who is our other half. Only in the embrace of their arms can we ever be made one again. Plato says what we call love is actually nothing short of the reunification of our souls.” 

Scott’s heart starts beating faster.

Kip eases back, smiling at Scott. He must misread Scott’s dumbstruck expression because his smile turns anxious. 

“O-of course it’s Plato so he also had some weird shit to say about gender and— well. I cut out some pretty big chunks. Um. And took some liberties in the retelling for the sake of clarity.” 

He’s babbling, Scott realizes. He’s trying to defend himself as if Scott was a professor about to ask Kip to support his thesis. He does this sometimes, when he’s nervous. Kip retreats into jargon. 

“And, of course, naturally, this is an invented dialogue, meant as a philosophical examination on the nature of humanity, and therefore, it would be erroneous to draw any sort of conclusions as to whether this was truly Plato’s own personal belief system…” 

Kip's cheeks are turning red. He’s physically retreating too, inch by inch.

Scott cannot bear it.

He surges out of the chair and kisses Kip hard enough to stop the words entirely.

Kip makes a startled noise against his mouth before immediately melting into him. Scott’s hands slide up the back of Kip’s tuxedo, pulling him flush against his chest. He can feel Kip’s fingers tangle helplessly back into his hair, undoing all the careful styling work.

Scott doesn’t care.

When they finally break apart, both breathing unevenly, Scott says fiercely, “You are.”

Kip blinks at him, dazed. 

“The other half of my soul,” Scott clarifies. That’s definitely too much, but he can’t bring himself to feel regret saying it. It is how Scott feels and it feels good to say. 

Kip’s expression softens.

“Plato called them children of the sun.” Kip smiles, eyes creasing. “A man whose broken soul called out to another man’s to be whole again. I always liked that.” 

Scott stares at him and feels a surge of gratitude to the world. He doesn’t know how this happened. Doesn’t know what force in the universe put Kip in a smoothie shop in Brooklyn at the very same moment Scott needed a break from sprinting. 

Kip leans up and kisses Scott gently. “Youre the other half of mine, too.” 

There’s an overwhelming fullness in his chest. He clears his throat. Clears it a second time then says, “Remind me, which Greek god is in charge of love?” 

“Aphrodite.” 

“I know who we are making our next charcuterie board for.” 

Kip giggles, a high pitched, delighted noise. Scott thinks he could spend the rest of his life chasing that sound. 

They breathe in each other's air for another long moment before Kip makes a low fretting sound. “Oh shit, I fucked up your hair!” 

Scott immediately drops back into the chair and tilts his head up expectantly.

“Oh no,” he intones solemnly. “You’ll have to fix it again. A tragedy.”

Scott’s eyes are already easing closed before Kip’s hands have even found his temples. 

*

It’s crazy how fast life can move. One moment you’re driving down a dark road at night, and the next a drunk driver is running a red light. 

One moment Scott is flying high, and then the next he is crashing into the sea. 

They go to the St. Thomas fundraiser in separate cars. 

It begins much the same as it always does. Scott pushes down the nervous worms wiggling in his stomach and gladhands, circling the room and gripping palms in firm, manly handshakes, thank you for being here, sir; yes sir, we appreciate your support; your backing means everything to us, ma’am.  

Carter Vaughn only joined the Admirals a few years ago, but he and Scott had immediately clicked. It’s hard not to with someone like Carter, who is all boyish charm and charisma. Carter is someone who is just as at ease at the team’s barbeque as he is at a black-tie fundraiser. His smile always comes quickly, humor dancing in his dark brown eyes. 

He’d shown up in that locker room that first day, had taken one look at Scott, and decided then and there that they were going to be friends. He links up with Carter, and he heaves a relieved breath to have an ally at his side until—

(“Your parents would have been so, so proud, Scott." )

It almost feels like they’re here, lingering in the air. The second time in one night Scott has had to confront their absence. Scott spots Kip and his friend. His legs are already moving when he offers his excuses to Carter and the Chairman.

Everything happens quickly after that. Meeting Kip’s best friend, discovering he told her. It makes his stomach clench, but Kip promises she can be discreet. 

Elena demands he dance with her so he does. She makes it clear that it is happening no matter how he feels. 

Her hand settles on one shoulder as the other grips his palm. Scott’s right hand politely grips the exact center of her waist. 

The second they begin, she’s taking probing shots at his defense. Asking him about his intentions. Grilling him about his plans. She’s smiling the entire time, but her eyes could cut diamonds. He is lured in by her pleasantries (“He’s crazy about you”). He’s not expecting it when she digs her red manicured nails straight through his ribcage into the tender flesh of his heart. 

(“He’s also miserable. Are you miserable too?”)

He doesn’t understand.

At least, not at first. 

But when she says that Kip is his secret, Scott catches the brave look on Kip’s face as he watches them dance. The barely disguised longing in his eyes. 

Scott had been incandescently happy these past few months. He’d thought maybe they were flourishing together, two plants flowering side by side. It hits him suddenly that maybe that’s not what is happening here. That maybe, instead, Scott had been a weed; roots sunk deep into the earth, sprawling wider and wider, stealing water and light and dirt until it was all Kip could do to try to bloom in the tiny space Scott had left him. 

Scott was wilting Kip, and he hadn’t even noticed. 

It makes him a little sick. 

Still, he says: I’m doing my best, says: I love him, says: I can’t do better right now. 

And that is the truth. Scott can’t do better. So many people are relying on him. The St. Thomas scholarship depends on his ability to gain donors. His teammates depend on him to take them to the cup. 

You are either openly gay or you play hockey. There is no reality where both are possible. How can he choose between the two things he loves most in the world? It’s an impossible choice. These past months he’s somehow managed to cheat reality and have both, but it seems like reality has finally caught up with him. 

Elena’s words are still ringing in his ears as he delivers his speech. As he and Kip take a cab home in silence. As he pours himself a glass of whiskey and then one for Kip. 

A few weeks ago, after Kip had woken up from his nap, eyes crusty and nose stuffed, he’d followed up on his promise to talk about Hades. About how Hades fell in love with Persephone and dragged her down to the underworld with him. In some versions of the story she loved Hades too—Kip had been quick to point that out—but that didn’t change the fact that she was trapped there, that she would spend the rest of her days in darkness with only rare visits to the surface. 

(“You know the Kingfisher? A couple of my friends are throwing me a little party there…” 

“I can’t.”) 

Kip packs up a bag and leaves. 

The apartment is dark, only the dimmer lights on in the kitchen. Scott pours himself another whiskey. And then another. And then another. 

No one is here to gently tell him to go easy, big boy. 

It’s just Scott, alone.

Alone. 

***

January 2014

That’s how Scott fucked everything up. Of course he did. Isn’t that the story of his god damn life? He rides high only to choke in the end? 

(“Can the New York Captain keep up his red-hot pace or will he—” “—crash and burn, like always does halfway through every season?”)

Kip leaving after the fundraiser was the just beginning of the end. 

It had taken a few days for Kip to make his decision. 

The worst part is that he’d done it in such a Kip way; he’d been sweet about it. Kip had taken his hockey-rough hands and held them as he whispered, I love you… but… I can’t keep this up. I can’t keep lying and hiding from my family. I’m sorry. 

He’d actually apologized. 

It was absurd. 

Those beautiful dark eyes had teared up. Kip had kissed his knuckles, then packed up the rest of his belongings, and left. The click of the door behind him had been quiet.

Scott wishes he had slammed it. Would have preferred it if Kip had screamed at him. Told him he was a fucking prick and a coward for treating him like a dirty little secret. Scott knew he deserved it all and more. 

In a twisted way, Kip's fury would have been a relief. 

Instead, he’d just looked broken and resigned.

Scott still isn't sure which part hurt more: watching Kip leave, or knowing that even after everything, Kip had been trying to spare him the pain of it. 

Elena had said that Kip deserves sunshine. She was right, of course. Scott had been deluding himself the whole time. Lying to himself about it. Scott has carefully cultivated his ability to deny hard truths. 

And the hard truth was that Kip was a golden yellow sun to Scott’s black night. 

Kip had told him what the art history word for that was; a term for the close positioning of hard lights and darks in a painting, but Scott can’t fucking remember. He closes his eyes and tries desperately to turn the wheels of his brain. What the fuck was it. It started with a “c” he thinks. 

The only word coming to mind is charizard, but Scott is pretty sure that’s a pokemon and not something about art. 

Kip is out there now, at the Kingfisher, with his friends, celebrating his twenty-sixth birthday. 

And here is Scott, sitting in Kip’s spot on the couch, one bottle deep into the wine from Athena’s grad school application altar, painstakingly typing into Google: “a rt worde for light and dark not char Izard” 

The results are not helpful. 

Kip had spent entire afternoons making and studying flashcards so he could understand Scott’s life. Scott can’t even remember this one fucking word. 

What a shitty boyfriend. 

He takes another long pull from Athena’s Pinot Noir. 

Scott has no one to call, no one to talk to midwife him through the pain. Just Scott and his open concept apartment and left over god-offerings. 

Scott can’t help it. Without consciously choosing it, his feet somehow take him outside the Kingfisher. He leans against a street lamp, half hooded in shadow where he can see through the striated glass windows. It’s an inconspicuous spot; anyone looking out would gloss over him. It’s been a strangely warm winter so far, the air only just beginning to phase from temperate to just barely too-cold. 

New York at night can’t actually get properly dark, too many lights, too many people coming out in the evenings to get their days started. It’s never truly a pitch-black in the city, instead the night sky is deep purple. ‘Dusty mauve,’ Kip had described it once. He had always had this uncanny way of imbuing the most average shit with poetry. 

Someone nearby is smoking a cigarette. Scott doesn’t smoke, but he’s always loved the smell of it. His mother had been a chain smoker, he remembers. Scott can clearly picture her with a cig between two fingers, baby-blue corded phone in the other. She usually went through at least two cigarettes while on the phone with Grandma.

Scott closes his eyes and pretends that the smoke wrapping itself around him are actually the arms of his mother. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine he smells her musky perfume mingling with tobacco. She would hug him after every game, no matter how he played, and say, “good job, kid.” 

She always did it. Even when he was too old for it and all of the other boys sniggered about it behind their gloves. Even when he was just starting to hit puberty and would stink like crazy after a game. 

Always a hug and a quick good job, kid. 

Would his mother be okay with having a gay son?

Scott doesn’t know. He’d been so young when his parents died. He couldn’t remember them ever talking about politics. Mostly, he remembers them anxiously going back and forth about bills over the rickety kitchen table. 

Hockey is not a cheap sport. 

Scott rubs at his chest, like maybe if he just pressed hard enough it would ease the ache there. 

He doesn’t know if his parents would be proud of him. 

He will never, ever know.

Inside the Kingfisher, the birthday song warbles to an off-key finish. Kip bends slightly, blowing out the one little candle that’s stuck crookedly into the cupcake. 

Scott wonders what he wished for and then feels faintly sick. 

A taxi whizzes by, spraying slush onto the sidewalk. It soaks through Scott’s sneakers, into the blue-and-yellow pattern of the socks. The cold creeps in, slowly disconnecting Scott’s toes from his foot.

Scott flips his collar up against the wind and heads home. 

*

Scott Hunter loses the 2014 season. 

*

Scott Hunter loses the 2015 season.

*

Scott Hunter loses the 2016 season. 

*

After eleven straight losing seasons, you’d think Scott Hunter would be used to it. 

But he’s not. 

He’s never quite learned how not to take losses personally. 

Chapter End Notes

Things I'm willing to do for this story: re-read Plato's Symposium
Things I am absolutely unwilling to do: learn more than 5 rules of hockey

Let me know if you enjoyed this intermission. Back to the main game in the next chapter...!

Chapter 15: Better Make It Fast

Chapter Notes

Reader, did you think you'd seen the last of me? Think again. This story WILL be finished even if it takes a hundred years. This I swear to you.

Minor TW at the top for canon-typical references to depression and suicide.

April 2017 

Ilya couldn’t fully remember the ride back to the hotel after the game in Montreal. The flight to Boston the next morning was no better. He’d moved through it all in a fog, responding when spoken to, picking up his bags when they needed to go, but otherwise barely present.

The moment he got home, he collapsed face-first onto his bed, only waking when twilight cast her hazy purples across his bedroom. 

The next three days went much the same. Ilya barely went through the motions of keeping himself alive. Shower. Food. Piss. Sleep. Repeat.

His mind circled like a boat caught in a whirlpool, around, and around, and around it went. Every conversation. Every touch. Every look. 

The signs had been there. They had been fucking everywhere.

And Ilya had blazed right past every single one of them.

(“Crunchwrap Supreme? My brother named her.”) 

(“My brother loves Mango the Metro.”) 

(“If you don’t fold them, they'll wrinkle…”)

The brand of IPAs that Ilya had purchased for their long weekend, after Googling Henry’s favorite drink, left untouched the entire time in his fridge. The way Henry seemed so weird at the Holiday Classic while Shane had stared bullets into the back of his head. 

Shane, listening intently to what Ilya had to say about Irina, his eyes squinted in concentration, something Henry Hollander never, ever would have done. 

The way he would bounce between confident and playful to skittish and guarded as an alley cat. 

There’d been physical signs too. Shane’s freckles are darker than Henry’s. Shane has a small pimple scar on one cheek. 

(“I’m Shane? Hollander? Um. It’s nice to meet you.”) 

That day at World Juniors is fixed in Ilya’s mind. Ilya remembers it vividly, the way that Shane had introduced himself, tone lilting up at the end, as if he hadn’t quite been sure if he was, in fact, Shane Hollander. 

How could Ilya have ever mistaken Shane for Henry?

If he’d just been paying closer attention, he would have seen all of this. Ilya Rozanov prides himself on his power of perception, his ability to read minute details. 

God, he’d been so caught up in hope he’d willfully put blinders over his eyes. 

Ilya rouses himself from his torpor just enough to play the Admirals. His body feels stiff, like he’d been left out overnight to freeze in the cool April night. He is able to shake the frost from his eyes just enough to stumble his way through a pre-game speech. The team looks disappointed by his lack of fire. 

All except Brooks. 

Brooks gives him a thumbs up at the end that makes Ilya want to claw the little fucker’s eyes out. The Raiders all begin to shuffle out towards the tunnel, Brooks bringing up the rear. He’s not playing— his nose fracture is still healing—but he’ll warm the bench. 

Ilya grabs him by the collar as he passes, swings him around violently until they’re chest to chest 

“Rookie. I hear one word from your mouth tonight, you will regret it. Children should be seen, not heard.” Even as he says it, the words sound foreign to his ears. It’s another voice coming from his mouth. Deeper, throatier. 

(“Be silent, Ilya, you only make it worse when you speak.”)

Brooks’ eyes flicker, surprised, confused, settling on disappointed, quick as flash. What? Had he expected Ilya to clap him on the back? To say: nice job on being a fucking scumbag, I’m so proud of you?

The rookie’s jaw tightens; the bruises around his nose are a mottled purple. There is something furious behind his ice-blue eyes.

“I mean it. One word from you tonight, and you will have to eat your meals from a straw. Nod if you understand.” 

There’s something ugly inside Ilya that makes him want to add to what Shane had done, break Brook’s nose a second time, just to feel it crunch under his knuckles. 

He breathes and breathes and breathes until the fury subsides. 

Brooks swallows hard, grinding his teeth before he nods jerkily. 

Ilya shakes Brooks one more time before releasing him. “Good. Now, fuck off and let the adults go to work.”

All told, it’s probably some of the worst hockey Ilya has ever played. It’s like he’s not in his body, like he’s hovering above watching himself, observing a one-foot-tall Ilya miss easy shots and bumble simple passes. It’s not horrible; Ilya Rozanov on a bad day is still better than half of the league, but it is noticeable. 

After the first period, Cliff claps a massive hand around the back of Ilya’s neck and knocks their helmeted foreheads together. 

“Whatever is going on in that head of yours—you gotta let it go, chief.”

Ilya throws another coin down the well in his mind, waits for the splash; to feel something. Anything. Cliffie trying hard to show him affection like this normally would trigger something. Fondness, at the very least. 

Nothing.

It's as if the Hollander twins reached into the center of Ilya and scraped him clean, scooped out every vital part of him, until all that remained of Ilya was a fragile collection of limbs.

There’s no rallying from this. 

The Raiders lose. 

Goodbye playoffs. 

The teams line up to shake hands, and when Ilya reaches Hunter, the man gives him a look. It's a pitying, sad thing. There’s a flicker in his expression, a knowing shade to Hunter’s eyes that makes Ilya want to snarl and bear fangs. 

Whatever you think you know, you don’t! 

So Ilya forces a smirk and says, “Good luck in playoffs. I look forward to watching you make your failures into an even dozen.” 

It wipes the pity clean off Hunter’s face. 

Before Hunter’s slow old man brain can scrounge up a comeback, Ilya is already moving down the line, shepherding his flock back toward the locker room. 

The younger players avoid eye contact as they shuffle in. None of them want to be caught with tears in their eyes. 

Hockey is a sport of high passions, and those passions are encouraged right up until they start taking the wrong shape. Anger is fine. Bloodlust is fine. Obsession, competitiveness, the relentless drive to win at any cost is fine. Celebrated, even. 

But anguish?

Pain?

That kind of vulnerability gets clipped into a thirty-second video and uploaded to Twitter. The comments fill up with crybaby and soft and worse.

So the boys stare at the floor and at their skates and at the tape on their sticks. But they don’t look at each other. 

Cliff falls into step beside him and wraps an arm around Ilya's shoulders, murmurs low into his ear, “Anything you wanna say to the troops? Boost morale?”

A few of the Raiders look over, faces openly hopeful. 

They’re used to Ilya’s exuberant displays of affection. 

Even after a tough loss, Ilya can usually find a quip or a joke to relieve the pressure, even if internally he wants to scream. 

“I want you all to hold onto this feeling. What you are feeling now. I want you to channel it into summer training. I want you to bring it with you into next season. I want you to remember this shitty fucking feeling and hold onto it; tell yourself you will never fucking let yourself feel this way again. Never again.” 

When his mom died and Ilya was left all alone, anger became Ilya’s best friend. When he fell and scraped his knee, anger helped him to his feet again. When his father called him a worthless pussy, it was anger that whispered Ilya could succeed in spite of him. Anger ran her gentle fingers through Ilya’s hair and told him he could win and fuck everyone who told him otherwise. Like poorly mixed mortar, anger filled in the gaps that his mother left in his soul. 

As he got older, more established in the MLH, thousands of miles away from Moscow, Ilya had begun to let anger go. Let them drift apart, answering fewer and fewer calls until anger had barely phoned at all. 

But anger is back now, thundering behind Ilya’s ribs, powering the bellows of Ilya’s lungs. The kind of fury that burns humiliation like coal. 

How could Ilya have let this happen? How could Ilya have let himself believe that he was wanted? Truly wanted? More than just a quick fuck. The thought of the Hollander twins laughing about him behind his back fills him with a white hot rage. 

God, he’d been so fucking stupid. 

But Ilya has always been a stupid boy. 

“Is that it?”

Brooks’ voice slashes through the silence like a dull blade. He’s leaning against the doorframe, one hip cocked. He’s powerfully built for an eighteen-year-old, but there’s still puppy fat softening his cheeks. 

“What the fuck did I say to you, rookie?” Ilya snaps.

“Sorry, sorry, I just couldn’t help myself because it didn't seem like anybody else was going to step up. I was wondering if you had anything to say for yourself as our captain. I mean, if I had been the one to fuck up so royally tonight, I would have at least apologized. I would have at least offered an explanation.” Brooks shrugs, running a hand through his brassy blond hair.

Around them, the Raiders go painfully still. Eyes drop to the floor. To skates. To tape peeling from the ends of their sticks. Anywhere but the two men standing in the middle of the room.

English is a profoundly stupid language. Even after nearly a decade in America, it still clogs in Ilya's throat when he needs it most. The right words refuse to come, tangling together until all he can do is stand there, jaw clenched.

He searches for them for too long.

It gives Brooks exactly the opening he needs.

“No? Nothing? Well, I guess Latvia makes a lot more sense now.” When Brooks smiles, it's more of a curl of the lip than anything else.

(“What an embarrassing end to a promising year!”)

Ilya finds his English.

“You want to die?” he snarls. “You want to fucking die?”

Brooks' smile widens.

Ilya is halfway across the room before he’s stopped.

In the end, it takes three Raiders to hold him back, Cliff wrapping both arms around Ilya's chest and neck in a crushing sleeper hold while Connors and Smith catch his wrists. Even then Ilya keeps straining against them, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort of reaching Brooks.

Brooks laughs. “You told us to never forget this feeling? Trust me, I won’t.” 

***

Svetlana knows to expect Ilya’s call after a loss. It’s not always immediate, but it always comes eventually. Svetlana thinks that there is a part of him that is still waiting—will always be waiting—for a call from his father. Like he can’t quite settle back into his skin until he’s speaking Russian again, low and rough and familiar. And in the absence of his father, he substitutes Sveta. 

She watched the game, had seen the way Ilya had played. The missed reads, the sloppy coverage, a minute hesitation in his play that doesn’t belong to her confident Ilya. The last time Svetlana had seen him play this poorly, he’d been running a fever, too stubborn to stay home even with the flu. 

There’s a nameless something that nags at Svetlana—a sense that all is not right with him. And she doesn’t think it is the flu this time. When his name flashes across her iPhone screen, she clicks accept quickly.

“Ilyushka.” 

“Svetlana.” 

“Svetlana?” she teases, laughing softly, trying to cut the tension that is already threading the line. “Full name? What, has something terrible happened?”

There's a long silence on the line, an eerie stillness until she hears the faint click of his throat, like he’s trying to force something past it and failing. Dread begins to pool low in Svetlana’s gut.

“You are home?” 

“Yes.”

That’s all she needs to hear.

“Stay there.” He will not ask her to come, she knows, so she must make the decision for him.

The drive is a blur of turns taken too fast, her mind racing to every possible worst-case scenario. She’s not a stranger to the shadows that lurk in the corners of Ilya’s heart, to the ways that his brain can lock him into black moods. By the time she pulls up, her pulse is racing. 

The door isn’t locked. She isn’t sure if that is a good sign (he’d had the presence of mind to leave it open for her) or a bad sign (he’d not locked it in the first place.) She takes one long fortifying breath. 

“Ilya?” she calls out, moving inside.

She finds him in the living room. On the floor. He’s sitting there in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts with his legs tucked up close to his chest. His feet are bare. 

Shards of glass litter the floor, some dangerously close to Ilya’s delicate toes. The TV is black, the screen jagged with cracks, the remote lodged deep in its center. 

And Ilya is just sitting there, in the middle of it, looking at her blankly. 

Svetlana steps carefully over the glass, crouching a few feet away from him like she’s approaching a wild fox.

“Ilya…?” she asks, testing the space between them. 

No answer.

His hands are braced on his knees, fingers flexing and curling like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His gaze flicks to her for half a second—sharp, wild, unfamiliar—before snapping away again.

“I watched the game,” she tries again. “You were not yourself.”

“I’m fine.” The words come too fast. Too flat.

She shifts closer, reaching out to lay a hand on top of one of his. It twitches at her touch, but he doesn’t move it. 

“Does the television know you’re fine?” 

They both turn to look at it. 

“Ah. An accident.”

“You accidentally threw a remote at the TV, hitting it dead center?” 

Ilya does not laugh. 

Svetlana frowns. “You are not fine.” 

“Don’t tell me how I feel.” There’s an edge to his tone, a warning in it. 

Svetlana looks him over with a careful eye, taking in the way his shoulders are hunched in like he is bracing himself. The way his eyes won’t settle on one thing, tracking an invisible something that Svetlana can’t see. He is like a dog that has been backed into a space too tight. 

If she pushes too hard too fast, he will retreat into himself, it will only make things worse. 

Still, she tries one last time, says quietly, “Ilya…” 

“Svetlana.” He turns his head away from her sharply, like if she cannot see his face she cannot tell he is hurting. 

The message is clear.

Svetlana exhales slowly, sitting back on her heels. She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing half the time. Sometimes Svetlana feels like she’s trying to speak a language for which she has only learned half the grammar. Nobody taught her this. Nobody taught her how to be there for someone, how to put the pieces of her friend back together. She has had to learn this language the same way toddlers do, by trying to imitate sounds and hoping for the best. 

She and Ilya both were raised to shut the fuck up and have a drink about it. 

Fine.

If he won’t talk, then she’ll drag him out of this the old fashioned way. She pushes herself to her feet in one smooth motion, brushing her skirt flat.

“Okay. We aren’t doing this.” She gestures vaguely at the destruction, at him. “Go get dressed.”

A beat.

“No.”

Svetlana ignores that completely. “You will put on something that makes you look sexy, and we are going out.”

His head snaps up. “I said no.”

“Yes, you did,” she agrees easily, already moving toward his hallway. “And I am ignoring you.”

“Sveta—”

“Ten minutes,” she calls over her shoulder. “Or I will choose for you, and you will not like what I pick.”

There’s a long pause behind her. She can feel him bristling, resisting, teetering right on the edge of digging in completely.

Then—

A sharp exhale.

The shuffling sounds of movement.

Svetlana crosses her arms as she waits by the front door. If he won’t let her in, she’ll at least make sure he doesn’t stay here and drown.

*

The club is already pulsing by the time they get there—bass thick enough to rattle eardrums, lights cutting the dark into jagged flashes of neon. The air smells like sweat, bodies packed close, moving as one restless thing.

Svetlana keeps a hand on Ilya’s wrist as they push through the crowd, not giving him the option of moving away from her.

He doesn’t fight her. Lets himself be pulled up to the bar, lets her press a cold shot into his hand. Vodka. Of course. He downs the first one like it’s nothing, barely even reacting, just a sharp exhale through his nose before he’s already signaling for another.

“Slow,” she says, nudging his elbow.

He ignores her. Or maybe he just doesn’t hear her over the music.

Second drink. Third.

His shoulders start to loosen, tension bleeding out of him in increments. Dulling at the edges. He even huffs a quiet laugh at something she says, shakes his head like she’s ridiculous. For a moment, it almost feels normal.

He moves with her onto the floor when she insists, the lights catching in his hair, sweat already starting to gather at his temples. He’s not dancing—swaying his hips really—-but it’s something. He’s present. He’s here.

Svetlana lets herself believe, briefly, that she chose right. That this might actually pull him out of whatever spiral he’d been sliding into.

She turns to order them water—just for a second, just long enough to get the bartender’s attention, to push a tip across the sticky bar—

And when she turns back, he’s gone.

The space where he’d been is already filled by someone else.

Her stomach drops.

“Ilya?”

The music swallows his name whole.

She moves fast, scanning faces, pushing through bodies, fear biting at the edges of her irritation. He’s tall and broad—he shouldn’t be hard to spot—but everyone is shifting, blurring, lights strobing too fast to let anything settle.

She takes a breath and searches.

Bathroom. Dance floor. Bar.

Nothing.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Svetlana kicks open the door to the men's bathrooms again. A guy at the urinal bellows at her to leave, face turning an embarrassed red.

“Don’t worry—it’s too small for me to see from here,” she snarls.

He’s not there. He’s not outside smoking either.

She circles the entire club twice, shoving through clusters of drunk strangers who glare at her and then immediately think better of it when they see her thunderous expression.

After the first fifteen minutes, she’s aggravated. When that turns into half an hour, she’s furious. When it turns into an hour, she is terrified.

All of her calls go straight to voicemail. Texts remain unread.

She has checked every nearby bar. Her heels are forming a blister on her foot.

Nothing.

The possibilities begin multiplying.

A fight.

An accident.

A mugging.

Worse. Worse. 

Ilya had found Irina lying in bed. The image of finding him facedown in an alley keeps forcing its way into her thoughts.

By the time her phone finally rings almost another hour later, her hands are shaking.

Relief hits so hard her knees nearly buckle.

She answers, immediately hissing in Russian, “I am going to fucking kill you—”

A male voice interrupts.

“Sorry, hi, are you Svetlana?”

Svetlana freezes. He sounds American, but not from Boston. His accent has a different tilt to it. New York? Sveta drags the phone away from her ear, squints at where it says “unknown caller” on the screen. She hadn’t even looked before she picked up. 

Svetlana quickly switches to English. “Yes. Where is Ilya?"

“He’s here!” There is a muffled sound. A brief scuffle. Then a familiar voice in the background.

“Svetlanaaaa!”

He sounds whiny. Not the tone of voice someone might use if they were being, say, kidnapped.

“Just who the fuck is this? Where is Ilya?”

“Right. Sorry.” The stranger clears his throat. “My name is Kip Grady. I um— I have your friend—he says he stepped out for a cigarette and then got lost?” The words tumble out in a rush. “To be honest, he doesn’t seem to be doing too good.”

“No, I’m good,” Ilya's voice immediately protests from somewhere farther away.

“He is absolutely not good,” Kip says. “I watched him throw up in a flowerbed.”

“No, no, no, he’s lying. That didn’t happen.” 

“My mistake. Someone who looked a lot like you threw up on some very pretty hyacinths.” 

Svetlana closes her eyes.

“Where are you?”

A street name follows. It’s mercifully only a few blocks away. Close enough that she could strangle him.

“Put him on.”

There is more rustling. Then Ilya's voice comes through, clear but small. 

“Sveta.”

It momentarily cuts through her anger. There is her boy, alive and catastrophically stupid.

“You disappeared.”

“Yes.”

“You made me search for two hours.”

“Yes.”

“You are dead when I get there.”

“Yes.”

A pause. Then, very quietly:  “Sorry.”

Svetlana's throat tightens. When she arrives fifteen minutes later, feet aching in her heels, she finds them exactly where Kip said they would be. Ilya is sitting on the stoop of a brownstone, elbows on his knees. There’s someone sitting next to him that Sveta assumes is Kip. What a stupid fucking name. He’s wearing tight jeans with a rainbow fanny pack at his belt. His yellow shirt is cropped and a little bit of his belly pokes out the bottom.

Kip sits with his knee bouncing, jostling Ilya’s leg and it looks like he is picking his nose—no, no it actually looks like he is just fiddling with his septum piercing.

Ilya looks up immediately and when he spots her his entire face changes. Relief threading through it so quickly it almost hurts to witness.

Svetlana marches straight toward him.

“I called you at least a dozen times.”

“Phone died,” he says, shrugging. 

"I am going to stab you in the kidneys," she hisses at him. 

Ilya nods.

Then he stands and folds himself around her in a crushing hug before she can decide whether she wants to hit him or not.

For a moment, she just holds him close. Then she smacks the back of his head.

And somewhere beside them, Kip lets out a snort of laughter.

Svetlana fixes her gaze on Kip. “Thank you,” she says, shortly.

Kip shrugs his shoulders. His tongue worries at his lip piercing. “Yeah, no problem. It’s just um. You should probably know, uh…”

Svetlana’s eyes narrow.

“Well.” Kip looks like he’s fighting with himself for a moment before blurting, “I found him at Diva’s. And um. It probably isn’t a good idea for Ilya Rozanov to be papped at a gay bar in Boston…?” 

*

(53 minutes earlier)

It is pure insanity that Kip is out tonight.

He has piles of midterms he should be grading, not to mention the annotated bibs he's supposed to finish by the end of the month.

But Kip is about to fucking explode if he doesn't find some kind of release.

The workload. The endless back-and-forth with his unhinged thesis advisor. The absolute fucking shitshow that had been working the MLH Banquet while Scott Hunter was in attendance.

Kip feels a little bit like a wind-up doll, every frustration turning the key in his back another notch tighter; at any moment, the spring coil is going to release and send him spinning out.  

So when Imani and her girlfriend texted the cohort WhatsApp, Kip hadn't hesitated.

Diva's was packed—it was 90s Throwback Night, always a crowd favorite. The bass throbbed through the floorboards and up through his shoes. Colored lights swept across a sea of bodies, turning faces strange and ethereal for split-second flashes before swallowing them back into the dark. Kip especially liked that Diva’s had commissioned local artists to paint murals on the walls; on 90s night they would pulse with new shapes under the blacklights. 

Imani and her girlfriend had disappeared almost immediately, probably to make out somewhere in the back of the club.

That was fine.

Kip could take care of himself.

He'd done some drinking (tequila) and some dancing (a tall, willowy man whose name might have been Dan? Or Darren? Nearly impossible to hear over the music), and is just beginning to think about calling it a night when he spots someone familiar on the dance floor.

The strobing blue and pink lasers catch on a head of golden curls, turning them electric neon.

Kip pauses. Squints.

It's crazy how much this guy looks like Ilya Rozanov.

For a moment, he assumes it's just hysterical thinking. The club is dark. He's had two strong tequila sunrises. Still, he finds himself staring.

The man turns, throwing his face back to the beat of the music just as the pink and blue lights turn his direction. 

And Kip's stomach drops.

Because it isn't someone who looks like Ilya Rozanov.

It really is Ilya fucking Rozanov.

And he is grinding up on some twink. 

Sort of? 

He's so drunk that he doesn't seem entirely in command of his own limbs. His movements lag half a beat behind the music, loose and uncoordinated. It doesn't seem to matter much in a place like this, though; someone who looks like Ilya Rozanov is basically catnip to the boys in here, coordination be damned.

The kid attached to him can't be more than twenty-one and he’s staring at Rozanov with a moonstruck expression. Kip can’t blame him. With his curls artfully slicked back and the lights throwing his cheekbones into high relief, Rozanov looks like  Dionysus incarnate.

Kip swims his way through the crowd, squeezing between bodies slick with sweat, narrowly avoiding a collision with an enthusiastic pair attempting something that is less dancing and more of a vertical Newton’s cradle.

“Rozanov?!” Kip yells over the pulsing music.

Rozanov looks up, eyes hazy. For a second he just stares, blinking slowly.

Then he shouts, “Cup!”

What the fuck?