Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Rape/Non-Con

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Assault, NOT SHANE AND ILYA, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Rape Recovery, or at least the very beginning, no beta we die like scott hunter soon, Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Unreliable Narrator

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-17 Words: 4,956 Chapters: 1/1

There is a Dream That I Sometimes See

Summary

Shane has been acting different lately. He can't sleep, no matter how tired he gets. He should be fine. He just finished his first ever season on the Ottawa Centaurs and has been openly married to his husband for almost a year now. He should be fine, right?

He knows Ilya is starting to notice, but he doesn't know what's wrong with him, so he's just going to pretend nothing is wrong.

Or, Many years ago, Shane Hollander was assaulted.

fic title from "Abbey" by Mitski

Notes

Hello, hello. I am back! Just finished an absolutely HUGE project at school, and now I'm sort of chilling for the rest of the semester (besides classes and clubs and grad stuff), so I started writing again! I will get to "Yesterday is History" very soon, but I just really felt the need to write this fic.

Ever since my project finished a few days ago, I've had some pretty turbulent emotions, and some old stuff I've been ignoring because I was busy came back up to bite me in the middle of the night. This fic is in response to that, so it is sort of a vent fic. Sorry about that el oh el.

This will probably stay a one shot, but I could see myself adding more chapters or making this a series in the future, but it's totally based off where I am mentally, so please don't expect anything more.

Also I wrote this in one sitting and the idea of going back and editing it right now makes me want to throw up, but I do really want to post it, so please excuse any mistakes. I'll probably go back through later and fix them.

TW: Talk of rape and assault. No actually rape is written, but the event is retold from the perspective of the victim. It isn't too graphic, but please don't read if it could be triggering.

“Shane,” someone says.

Shane blinks his eyes open, but it’s a battle. His eyelids feel heavy and swollen. He didn’t get much sleep last night, for no reason at all. He felt jittery, like he was about to break out into uncontrollable muscle spasms. His heart felt jumpy, but when he checked his watch, everything looked normal enough.

“Shane. You have to wake up,” he hears, and now he knows that the person shaking him awake is Ilya, his beautiful husband.

Shane groans, exhausted, and Ilya chuckles. Ilya drops a quick, close-mouthed peck to his lips. He knows that Shane hates morning breath kisses and a peck is about all he can tolerate before getting twitchy.

“I know, sweetheart,” Ilya says, “but we have brunch at your parents’ in half an hour to talk about the Foundation with your mama.”

Shane rolls over, squinting at the bright light coming from the window. Ilya must have opened the curtains. He peers up at his husband, who is wearing a loving, fond, and slightly worried expression. Shane usually is the one who has to do this for Ilya, so it makes sense.

Ilya gently places the back of his hand on Shane’s forehead, cheeks, and bare chest.

“Are you okay, my love?” he asks.

“I’m fine, Ilya,” Shane replies, voice still gravelly from sleep.

“You’ve been so tired lately. Do you think you’re coming down with something?”

They’re well into their summer break right now. Ottawa got knocked out of the playoffs in the first round this year, which was a let down. A lot of people expected more from Shane and Ilya’s first season playing together, but there wasn’t much to do about it now. The finals finished up a few days ago, with the Colorado Mudslides taking the win.

So, they’ve had enough time to settle in from the end of the season, recover from the bumps and bruises they’d accrued since October and the exhaustion of the end of the season. But, for some reason, Shane has just been more and more tired.

He can’t sleep at night. He feels jittery. He often feels like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. He hasn’t told Ilya yet the extent of his paranoia and exhaustion, mostly because he doesn’t even know the cause, and he doesn’t want to worry his husband.

There’s no reason for him to be feeling so jittery, not mental or medical (he checked). It’s not affecting his playing since they’re in the off season, anyway. So Shane will solve it on his own.

“Seriously,” he says to his husband. “I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”

A small wrinkle forms between Ilya’s eyebrows, and Shane wants to smooth it away with his thumb. After a second, he remembers there’s nothing stopping him, so he does. Ilya’s face softens, and he turns his head to kiss the heel of Shane’s palm where it hovers near his mouth.

“I will make your smoothie,” Ilya says. “Get dressed, love.”

Shane gets up, stretching his stiff limbs and cracking a wide yawn. “Okay,” he says.

He gets ready as quickly and efficiently as he can, throwing on some simple comfy clothes, making the bed, checking that Ilya had fed Anya, and brushing his teeth. He hears Ilya puttering around downstairs and eventually hears the loud whirring of the blender. For as much as Ilya complains about how gross Shane’s smoothies are, his husband seems to take great joy in preparing them for him.

When Shane enters the kitchen, his smoothie is poured neatly in a to-go cup, and the blender is already cleaned and put away. Ilya pulls him in for a sweet kiss, and he melts into it, bringing his palms up to rest on his husband’s lower back underneath his shirt.

Ilya makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a groan as Shane pulls away. Ilya drags him back in, but Shane keeps them separated with a hand on Ilya’s muscled chest. 

“We have to go, Ilya,” Shane says, laughing.

Ilya tucks his face into the crook of Shane’s neck, placing little close-mouthed kisses at the junction between his neck and shoulder. Shane shudders.

“My husband is so cruel,” Ilya says between kisses. “Denying me his beautiful body.”

“Ilya,” Shane laughs, shuddering. It comes out more breathy than stern. “We’re gonna be late.”

“We have five minutes.”

“What are we gonna do in five minutes?” Shane asks, and he knows he’s already lost.

Ilya takes his head out of Shane’s neck and smiles that sweet, mischievous smile that he knows Shane can’t resist. “Let me show you,” he says, dropping to his knees.

They are late to brunch. And suspiciously flushed and rumpled, but Mom and Dad tactfully ignore it. They’ve had plenty of practice at this point, much to Shane’s embarrassment.

The conversation goes well, as always. Ilya fits in so well with the Hollander family, it still makes Shane’s heart race whenever he sees it. Mom handles most of the business stuff, preparing for the upcoming Game Changers camp in Montreal in two weeks. Shane and Ilya mostly just listen and nod, trusting Mom to make the important decisions.

By the time that the business talk is done and most of their food is gone, Shane is yawning loudly every few minutes. He stops contributing much to the conversation because he’s tired, and oddly, he finds himself with nothing much to say.

Everyone who has anything to do with hockey knows that Shane has never been the most social person, but those close to him know a different Shane Hollander. Around people like Ilya, his parents, Hayden, Jackie, and now a lot of the Centaurs guys, he always finds himself with something to say. But not today, apparently.

He finds himself gravitating toward Ilya, desperately craving the warmth of his husband’s touch. It starts with a hand on Ilya’s thigh under the table, but as the meal goes on, he leans more and more weight onto his husband, eventually resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder.

It’s sort of unlike Shane to partake in such a physical public display of affection, but he’s tired, and he’s tired of being anxious every time he has the urge to touch Ilya in public. He’s too exhausted to worry about what other people think right now. He just needs Ilya.

“How about you two head home?” Shane hears, tuning back into the conversation. It was Dad, and he looks at Mom with a strange glint in his eye.

“No, Dad,” Shane says, blinking open eyes he hadn’t realized had fallen closed. “We were gonna go for a walk, right?”

“You seem tired, Shane,” Mom says. “You should rest.”

“I’m fine,” he says, but he finds that he can’t really sit up from his slumped position against Ilya. Doesn’t want to, moreso.

“Are you okay, Shane?” Mom asks. “You’ve seemed really tired lately.”

He yawns. “Just not sleeping well. I don’t know why,” he says. “But I’m okay. Seriously.”

“If you say so,” Mom says. “Well, Dad and I are gonna go home.”

“Mom, I’m seriously fine to go on a walk. I’m a professional athlete.”

“I know, sweetie. I think Dad’s tired too,” she says.

“Yeah, I could use a nap,” Dad says.

Shane’s starting to get irritated now. “Seriously, Mom. I’m just a little sleepy. I can go on a walk. I’m not lazy.”

“I know you’re not,” she says.

“Of course not,” Dad says.

“We just want you to get some rest,” Mom says. “The off season is the only chance you get, and with the camps starting up soon, you’ll be busy.”

“Jesus,” Shane says. “It’s just a walk. I’m a grown adult”

He can tell Mom is getting irritated by his tone, and he understands why. He feels like a teenager again, scowling and scoffing at his mother over a minor issue, but he can’t help himself. He’s tired and probably a little cranky, and he doesn’t want his Mom babying him at this stage in his life.

“Let’s just go, sweetheart,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane’s arm. 

He glares up at his husband before huffing, too tired and frustrated to argue. “Whatever. Sure,” he says.

Ilya leads him out to the car, and they say their quick goodbyes to Shane’s parents before driving home. In the passenger seat, Shane leans his head against the back off the seat, glaring out the window. 

He’s frustrated because he doesn’t know why he’s being so irritable and why he can’t regulate it. It’s probably just because he’s tired, but he feels like he could explode at any moment.

In his peripheral vision, Shane can see that Ilya’s hands are tight around the wheel, and his posture is tense. The first few minutes of the drive home are tense before Ilya breaks it.

“I’m worried about you, Shane,” he says.

It wasn’t exactly what Shane was expecting him to say. He doesn’t know what he expected. “What?” he says.

“I am… worried,” Ilya repeats. He pauses to gather his words, and Shane lets him. "You are not sleeping. And you are quiet. Not acting like yourself.”

“What does that mean?”

Ilya huffs out a breath, frustrated. Shane turns to look at him, but Ilya keeps his gaze on the road ahead of them.

“Not not like yourself, but different. Like something is weighing on you,” Ilya says. “Like you, but sadder.”

That is how Shane has felt, but he hadn’t wanted to worry Ilya. He should’ve known Ilya would know anyway.

“Yeah,” Shane sighs. “I guess so. I’m just tired. I don’t know.”

“But is not normal tired,” Ilya says. “It’s different. Deeper.”

Shane shrugs, and he feels tears begin to sting in his eyes. He blinks, trying to get rid of them before they fall.

“Reminds me of myself,” Ilya says. He pauses. “You remind me of my mama.”

Shane gasps in a short, shuddering breath. “Oh, Ilya,” he says.

Ilya turns to him now, quickly, before turning back to the road. Shane can now see the single tear that has fallen on his husband’s face. “So,” Ilya says, voice cracking, “so, I am worried about you.”

“Okay,” Shane says because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Okay.”

“You will get help?” Ilya asks.

The idea grates at Shane. He’s an advocate of therapy and is beyond grateful for Galina’s role in Ilya’s mental health, but the idea of going himself…

“Please, Shane.”

“Okay, Ilya. Okay.”

When they get home, Ilya ushers him off to bed for a nap, and Shane doesn’t protest. He lays in their bed in his outside clothes, feeling off-center. He feels like something has shifted, but he doesn’t really know what. And he’s too tired to try and figure it out.

Eventually, to the quiet sounds of the TV and Anya jumping around the house, Shane falls asleep.

When he wakes up, the room is darker. The curtains are still open, and Shane can see that some time has passed. It’s probably still a few hours to sunset, so Shane has only slept for a couple hours.

Ilya is sitting by him on the bed, looking worried. He’s running a hand through Shane’s hair. 

“There you are,” he says. “You were having a nightmare.”

“I was?” Shane asks. He feels sweaty and his mouth tastes gross.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “You were making noises, and you looked scared. Or in pain.”

“Noises?”

Ilya nods. “What was it about, my love?”

Shane answers honestly. “I don’t remember.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, and Shane would do anything to dispel the worry on his husband’s face, but he doesn’t know how anymore. “I made dinner.”

Shane can smell it now. Something savory and herby. It smells good, but the idea of eating is kind of making him feel sick.

“Ilya…” he starts.

“Please, Shane,” Ilya says, and Shane can at least do this after making his husband worry so much.

So, he says, “Okay,” in a quiet voice because it's about all he can manage. 

He lets Ilya lead him downstairs by the hand and sits while Ilya fusses around him, bringing him a tall glass of water and a full bowl of salmon, brown rice, and vegetables. Anya plants herself at his feet, curled up on the floor with her head on her paws.

They eat in silence. It’s not tense, but it isn’t easy either. Shane is all too aware of the way Ilya watches him take every bite. He manages about two-thirds of the bowl before he’s just pushing the rest of the food around with his fork.

Ilya cleans up as well, to Shane’s protests. Shane lets him win, though, because he knows that not being able to fix whatever’s going on with Shane is killing his husband.

They head up to bed early, and Ilya sticks close to Shane’s side as he goes about his nightly routine. Neither of them worked out today, but they can afford a day off, especially in the middle of the off season. They shower together anyway, softly and slowly helping the other clean off.

Ilya brings out both of their comfiest pajamas and all but tucks Shane into bed. He grabs Shane his glasses, a book, and a full glass of water to place on his nightstand before climbing into bed next to him. Shane immediately curls up into Ilya’s side, head on his shoulder, and Ilya pulls him close.

“We’ll look tomorrow,” Ilya says. “For a therapist.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers, feeling small.

For a few minutes, he breathes in his husband’s scent, but eventually, he starts to get jittery again. He revels in Ilya’s warmth, and eventually, the hand he was resting on Ilya’s chest begins to snake downward.

“Shane,” Ilya says.

Shane looks up at him, smirking softly. “What?” he whispers.

Ilya’s face is genuine. He looks sorry. “I don’t think I can,” he says.

That bothers Shane. This has always been them. Sex is always safe. “You have such little faith in me,” he says. He grabs Ilya through his pajama pants, and Ilya gasps softly. “Let me try?” he asks. “I still have to repay you for earlier, anyway.”

Ilya looks deeply into his eyes, studying him, and Shane stays still, meeting Ilya’s searching gaze and trying to project just how much he wants, needs to do this right now.

“Okay,” Ilya whispers.

Shane slowly drags kisses down Ilya’s already bare chest, until he’s face-to-face with his husband’s crotch. He nuzzles Ilya’s cock through his pajama pants, looking up at Ilya through his eyelashes.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, his hands flying up to caress Shane’s hair and back. Shane feels him getting hard under his face, and he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to Ilya’s dick through the fabric. “Fuck, Shane.”

Slowly, Shane pulls Ilya’s pajama pants down just enough to free his dick and balls. He presses kisses to Ilya’s balls, sucking one into his mouth. Ilya yanks gently on his hair in approval, throwing his head back.

Ilya’s wet breaths turn into pants as Shane kisses his way up Ilya’s length before finally taking the head into his mouth. He looks up at Ilya before dropping down, taking more of his husband into his mouth. Ilya moans loudly. Shane braces himself for a moment, grabbing the base of Ilya’s cock to steady himself.

Ilya reaches down to gently push Shane’s hands away. It’s something he does often when they take it slow, as Shane’s touches can overwhelm him quickly. Shane knows this. He’s used to it. But, suddenly the action has him remembering another night, years and years ago in a hotel room with another man. The image comes at him so quickly and violently that he gasps and ends up choking on Ilya and his own spit.

He comes up for air gasping violently.

Ilya immediately rushes forward, hands hovering as if unsure if his touch will break Shane.

“Shane, are you okay?” he asks, worried.

Shane can only nod, holding up a shaky thumb. Ilya tucks himself back into his pants and reaches across the bed to grab Shane’s water. He holds it out, and Shane takes it.

“Thanks,” he manages through gasps, and he chokes down some of the water, which helps. Eventually, the choking feeling passes, but he feels disgusting. Like there’s something sticking in his mouth and the back of his throat and all across the surface of his skin. He downs the rest of the water and hands the glass back to Ilya with shaking hands.

“Are you okay?” his husband asks again.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “I’m fine. I just breathed in wrong.”

Ilya looks at him for a long moment. “It’s more than that,” he says with certainty.

And, God. Shane sometimes wishes Ilya didn’t know him as well as he does. He shrugs.

“Something is wrong still,” Ilya says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you…”

Shane glares at Ilya. “Hey. I wanted to. I don’t want you to walk on eggshells around me because I’m a little sad,” he says.

“Sorry.” Ilya looks a little chastised and a lot worried. “Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to.”

Shane just shrugs.

“We can cuddle. I can get more water. I can get Anya and leave you alone. Tell me what you need,” Ilya says.

Shane doesn’t deserve him. Deserve the tender love and care Ilya treats him with, especially after thinking about another man in bed. The thought alone sends a violent shiver up Shane’s spine, and he twitches.

“Shane?” Ilya asks.

“Can you get me a sweatshirt?” Shane asks. “And cuddle?”

“Of course,” Ilya says, springing up and bounding over to the closet. 

Shane settles back into bed, breathing deeply and curling up. Ilya is back in a moment, with a shirt this time, and he hands Shane one of his old, worn Boston Bears sweatshirts. Shane throws it over his head without hesitation, snuggling up into the soft heat of the sweatshirt.

Ilya climbs into bed, and they settle back into their cuddling position from before, Shane curled up on Ilya’s chest. Ilya runs his fingers through Shane’s hair for a few minutes, and they breathe together in the silence of their room.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says eventually.

“What are you sorry for, sweetheart?” Ilya asks.

“I thought of someone else, earlier,” Shane says, miserable.

“When you choked?” Ilya asks.

“Yes.”

To Shane’s surprise, Ilya doesn’t tense or pull away. He continues to stroke Shane’s head in a gentle rhythm. He pauses, seemingly looking for the right words.

“Was it… a good thing?” he asks, eventually.

“What?” Shane asks, offended. “Of course it wasn’t a good thing that I was thinking about someone else when I’m with you. I feel horrible.”

“Hold on,” Ilya says. “I am trying to find the words.” He pauses, and Shane feels like his heart is in his stomach. He feels so bad. Tears fill his eyes, and all he can manage is a broken hum to encourage Ilya to go on.

“I mean,” Ilya says, careful, “the thing you were remembering. Was it a good thing?”

“I don’t understand.”

Ilya huffs, and Shane knows he’s frustrated at himself for not being able to articulate his thoughts. Shane tries not to freak out as Ilya pauses again, but his breaths are fast and shaky. Ilya wraps his other arm around him, now stroking his hair and his back.

“You thought of one of the other men you slept with, right? Before we were together officially,” Ilya says.

Shane nods.

“Was it a good hookup? Or were you… scared? Or sad?”

Shane shudders. “Um,” he says, voice breaking. He curls up further into Ilya. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t great. I was mostly just wishing he was you the whole time.”

“You are mad at yourself,” Ilya says. “Why?”

Shane huffs a wet, disbelieving breath. “I thought of another man during sex, Ilya. That’s basically cheating.”

“I don’t think that’s what this is,” Ilya says. “And I think you don’t really either.”

Shane feels sick, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to think about it. Eventually, he whispers, “What do you think it is?”

“I think that man hurt you,” Ilya says, and Shane immediately shakes his head. “I think he hurt you,” Ilya continues, “and you are blaming yourself, and you had so much else to worry about that you didn’t let yourself think about it. And now that we are okay, now that we are out and married and playing together and everyone is okay, now you don’t have anything to distract you from it.”

Shane sobs, and he turns his head into Ilya’s chest, trying to muffle himself. Ilya continues to caress him gently and tenderly. His voice is steady, but just barely.

“I think that is probably why you have been so tired and why you have so many nightmares you can’t remember. Why you can’t sit still at night and why you are so sad sometimes,” Ilya says. “And I think you’re gonna be okay. Because we’ll figure it out together. And because you’re strong. And brave.”

“I’m not,” Shane says, and suddenly everything is rushing out of him without his permission. Words, feelings, sobs. “I’m not strong, not brave. He was just some guy. I’m a professional athlete. I could’ve done something. I don’t think I even said no. I’m overreacting. It’s stupid.”

“Tell me,” Ilya encourages.

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“I wanted him there. I invited him up to the hotel room. I did it to myself. It was my fault for picking a stranger,” Shane sobs. He needs Ilya to understand how weak, how disgusting he is.

“Not your fault. Never your fault, Shane,” Ilya says, and Shane shakes his head in time with his heaving cries.

“No, no. It is.”

“Tell me about it,” Ilya says. “If you want. I will show you it’s not your fault.”

Shane breathes deeply, calming himself a little. His cries slow, but tears still leak from his eyes, and his voice cracks every now and then.

“I started okay,” he says. “I realized kind of early on that I didn’t like him that much anyway, but I thought I just needed to get it over with. Get over you. And it was fine. We were kissing, and he was moving so fast. He stretched me out quick, and I told him he had to put on a condom, but it looked like he didn’t want to. He didn’t bring any, but I had one, so he put it on.” He feels Ilya tensing underneath him, but his hands are still so gentle where they comfort Shane, so he continues. “I don’t think I was prepped enough because it hurt when he pushed in. I remember saying ‘Ow,’ actually. And he told me it shouldn’t be hurting so bad and that it would get better and continued.”

Ilya sucks in a shaky breath. “Shane,” he says, voice cracking. “Sweetheart, that is not your fault. He should never have continued if it hurt you. Never. That is not consent.”

“I didn’t say no,” Shane says. “I could’ve easily pushed him off, but I didn’t.”

“You were vulnerable, Shane,” Ilya says. “Would you ever keep going if I said ‘Ow?’”

Shane pauses. “No. Never.” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t even really like him, Ilya. I wasn’t attracted to him. I was barely hard.”

Ilya kisses the top of his head. “I know, Shane. I know,” he whispers.

“He came, eventually. And cleaned up and everything. And he realized I hadn’t come, so he tried to help, which I guess I thought was nice. But I couldn’t, and so after a while I just wanted to go to bed. But he was hard and asked me to do something. So I blew him, but I didn’t really want to. And every time I brought my hands up he’d push them away or pin them behind my back,” Shane says.

He hears Ilya suck in a shaky breath at that, realizing what made him choke. “I’m sorry,” Ilya says, and Shane just shakes his head, trying to keep his momentum.

“And he asked to stay, which I didn’t want him to. But-” Shane sobs again, and Ilya coos, pulling him closer. “And then, I realized. What if he does something when I kick him out? Like what if he knows who I am and leaks our texts or tells someone or punches me and I have to explain that to the team?”

“Oh, Shane,” Ilya says, sounding devastated.

“And so I let him stay. I didn’t want to, but. I did. And he didn’t let go of me all night. We were both naked, and he was hot and sweaty, and I could feel his breath, and I wanted to get out of there, but I didn’t leave. I’m so stupid,” Shane says.

“Never stupid. You are so smart, Shane,” Ilya says.

“Eventually I fell asleep,” he continues. “And when I woke up, he had turned me or I had turned, and I was on my back and he was over me. And then he starts– He starts… fucking me. Again. And I didn’t really know what to do. I was sleepy and he was inside me and I didn’t–” Shane lets out a violent breath. “I didn’t know what to do, so I just laid there. I’m not even hard, or anything. Like, at all. And he gets closer and eventually he pulls out and comes on my stomach. Because he didn’t even put a condom on.”

“Sweetheart,” Ilya coos, rubbing his back.

“And we went to go get toilet paper to clean me up, and I just laid there because, what? I didn’t– I always thought that if something happened to me I would say something or do something or fight, but I just… And he came back and cleaned off my stomach and just went back to sleep. How do you–?” Shane cuts himself off with a harsh exhale, burying his head further into Ilya’s now soggy shirt.

“Sweetheart,” Ilya says again. “Of course that is not your fault. You were scared of what would happen if anyone found out. That’s a serious power imbalance. And if you’re sleeping, you can’t consent. Of course it isn’t your fault.”

“I never said no,” Shane says. “I never fought.”

“You were scared. It’s okay to be scared, my love.”

“I shouldn’t be scared,” Shane protests.

“If a woman came out with this story about Dallas Kent, would you say it was her fault?” Ilya asks, and it hits Shane like a punch to the gut.

“Of course not,” Shane says.

“Would you tell her she should have fought, should have said no? Would you think the man was at all in the right for doing what he did at any point?”

“No.”

“Then why is it different for you?”

Shane keens, and Ilya shushes him. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Ilya says. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I know that if someone told me this story, I would never blame them. I would tell them the same thing you’re telling me. But I just can’t– I don’t know how to not blame myself,” Shane says.

“We’ll figure it out together, okay?” Ilya says, pulling him closer. “You and me. Forever and always.”

“I love you,” Shane says, totally miserable but so so so full of love.

“I love you too,” Ilya says. 

They lay in silence for a few moments, and Ilya just holds him while he catches his breath. Eventually he shifts like he’s getting up, and Shane whines. 

“I know. I know,” Ilya soothes. “I’m going to lock up, and then I’ll be right back.”

Shane reluctantly lets him go, curling up under the covers to try and preserve the warmth Ilya left behind. He wipes his face with his sweatshirt sleeves and pulls the hood over his head. After a few minutes, Ilya returns, the click-clack of Anya’s paws following him down the hall.

“Go on, girl,” Ilya says, letting Anya into the room. He motions toward the lump of Shane on the bed. “Go cuddle with Dad.”

Shane glares at his husband half-heartedly as Anya jumps up onto the bed and promptly settles on Shane’s side of the bed, her warm body pressed into Shane’s back where he lies curled up facing Ilya’s side.

“I will wash all the bedding tomorrow,” Ilya says. “Promise.”

Shane huffs but lets it go, and Ilya sets a full glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen on his nightstand.

“For your headache,” Ilya says.

“I don’t have a headache,” Shane replies.

“You probably will,” Ilya says matter-of-factly, and he’s right. Shane can already feel how his head feels full of pressure and his eyes feel swollen from crying. His throat hurts too, so he just holds out his hands for the water and pills, drinking half the glass and taking two pills before letting Ilya put it back on the table.

Ilya settles in next to Shane. He must have also grabbed a new shirt at some point because when Shane snuggles back into his side, the spot where he rests his head is no longer damp. Ilya wraps his arms around him.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” Ilya says, planting a kiss on Shane’s forehead. “Rest now. We will deal with everything another time. One day at a time. You and me. Every day. Always. I love you.”

“I love you,” Shane whispers, and he sighs.

Cozy, warm, and cuddled between his husband and their dog, Shane Hollander falls asleep.