Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Irina Rozanova, Grigori Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Past Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss of Parent(s), Mild Blood, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, NOT of Ilya!, Childhood Trauma

Language:

English

Collections:

ella's hollanov hall of fame 🏒, pepperroxd’s library, *Heated rivalry melts my heart*, Heroes hive👀, AHRFC, No thoughts just gay hockey

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-02 Words: 5,316 Chapters: 1/1

we're the product of love (that we do not receive).

Summary

Maybe together they could figure out a way to make sure Ilya was never afraid of David again. He really didn’t want to be afraid of David.

“Is… silly.” Ilya said. “Maybe not silly, but now that we are here and not there, I see it was silly. I broke the wine, and I thought - maybe everyone will be angry. And…” Clearing his throat, Ilya pushed past his discomfort to spit out the next part. “Well, angry back in Russia is not the same as angry here, I think.”

“What was angry like back in Russia?”

OR

Ilya drops a bottle of wine, and it's fine. Really, it's fine. If only someone could tell Ilya's brain that.

Notes

hiiiii ! i'm back with another angsty look into a fictional character's childhood, sorry <3 this one would not have been possible without my darling lea who helped brainstorm this and was a constant support/sensitivity reader/receptive void to scream into as i put my beloved ilya through emotional saw traps ! <3

if you choose to read this, please tread lightly and take care of yourself. there are descriptions of various kinds of physical abuse that ilya faced, none of them are gratuitous or overly-graphic, but it's pretty consistent through the last half of this one shot.

it's also implied through ilya's thoughts that irina was most likely sexually assaulted by his father - very brief and not at all descriptive/graphic.

ilya also gets a cut on his hand while cleaning glass, there are brief mentions of the blood drawn by this.

TRIGGER WARNINGS:
- blood
- past physical abuse
- ptsd
- loss of a parent
- implied sexual assault

This is set after the events of Heated Rivalry, but doesn't include any spoilers for TLG or Season 2!

Title from "Silver Spoon" by Erin LeCount <3

It started with a thud.

Ilya watched in horror as the bottle fell towards the ground, bouncing once off the soft rug before—

Then came the unmistakable, deafening sound of glass shattering. A Pavlovian response within Ilya was immediately triggered, the residual panic felt deep within his chest, his gut.

Everything slowed down, the world broken into milliseconds.

One. The bottle of ridiculously expensive wine burst into pieces on David and Yuna’s rug.

Two. The dark, maroon alcohol spread quickly across the fabric. So quickly. Too quickly. Maybe Ilya could drag it all back into the broken bottle. Maybe he could— Shame coursed through Ilya as he fell to his knees, hands frantically clawing at the wine, willing it to reverse course, to somehow scoop away the evidence of his own shortcomings.

Three. David stood abruptly, his arms outstretched as he did. Without thinking, Ilya flinched away, heart pounding in his throat.

“I am sorry,” he rushed out. “I am so sorry. Was an accident, I will clean it - I will pay for it to be cleaned—“ Ilya braced for the stinging pain, knowing it was an inevitability. Knowing that a slap was nothing, really. He’d handled worse. He deserved worse. He sat on his heels, head bowed as he waited for the force of the impact to land, because that was the logical next step.

David had jumped up, arm raised, braced as if to strike. So this was a position Ilya was familiar with. One he’d been in more times than he wanted to admit. Ilya, on his knees, head hanging in shame and resignation. A man, a father, his father, in front of him. Strong feet planted securely on their magnificent marble floors, his hand reared back, his cunning eyes - gray and analytical - scanning Ilya’s body. Planning out where his fingerspalmfist should connect. Deciding where it would hurt the most. Deciding where it would draw the least attention.

Ilya’s father had lost much of himself in the later stages of his dementia. His infallible ability to land a hit exactly where he wanted had not been part of that.

Ilya could still feel it - the pain, yes. But the shame even more. The absolute embarrassment he felt for having been a grown man, the best fucking hockey player in a generation, and still allowing his father and his bony hands to silence him so quickly. If he looked close enough, even up to the very end, Ilya could sometimes see the stain of his mother’s blood on those thick, swollen knuckles. Could taste it on his tongue, the coppery zing blooming in his mouth after the soft skin of his inner cheek split against his porcelain dental implants. Could imagine - hysterically, he knew - that he was taking it back from him. Mine. He thought. That’s my blood. It belongs to me. Not you. You took it from my mother and I will take it back from you.

Four. Yuna rose next to him, hands raised up defensively. “No, no,” she said, gesturing to David to sit back down. Your knee is hurting you, I’ll clean it, she finished, but Ilya did not hear her. The sound of blood pounding in his chest plugged his ears up. “No,” he whimpered, probably sounding pathetic. No, he wanted to shout, just as he’d always wanted to shout. Sit down, I can take this. Look away, close your eyes, please, I can take this, I can take this, let me take this so you don’t have to, he would have said if he could have. If he’d been brave. But he hadn’t. He had been a coward. Weak and scared of his father, small and all-too-willing to seek shelter behind his mother’s legs. No, he thought, his breath catching on a sob, the guilt choking him as he watched the familiar scene play out. He knew what would come next. A woman, a mother, his mother, would take the hit meant for him, and he would allow it, because he didn’t know how to do anything else. Because it hurt so much.

“Please,” Ilya croaked out. “I’m sorry.”

“Got some paper towels,” came Shane’s voice. A lifeboat in the violent sea that Ilya was stuck in. “Here you go!”

Scrambling up to his feet, Ilya shuddered, his breaths too-short and too-quick as he rushed to stand behind Shane, because he was a coward, because he was weak. It wasn’t enough that he would let his own mother stand between him and an angry man; he’d done it again. Twice. Yuna loved him completely, without asking anything of him, and Ilya took the first opportunity he was given to take advantage of that selflessness. To sit idly by as she took the punishment meant for him. Just as he’d always done.

No. It wasn’t enough that his mom, and now Yuna, who cried the first time he called her as much, had taken his hurt. He used Shane’s body as a shield now, too. Shane, who he knew would do anything for him. Shane, who maybe David would go easier on, like his father had gone easier on Andrei. Shane, the good son, the perfect son. Shane, the one who had not spilled wine, who had not opened his mother’s door twenty minutes too late. Shane, the body now standing between Ilya and another bruise. “Hey,” Shane said, turning to face him, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Ilya was weak, pathetic, cowardly. “Everything okay?”

Like dominoes falling over, each Hollander seemed to notice Ilya’s state. The panic in his eyes, the racing pulse that he was sure had to be visible to the naked eye, the blood pouring down his hand from where he’d sliced it on the broken glass.

“Hey,” that was David’s voice. Kind and gentle and warm in a way that felt as if it didn’t fit the situation. “It’s okay, son, it’s just a spill. Are you alright?”

Yuna chimed in then, too. Ilya’s eyes did a perfunctory scan of her, looking for any obvious injuries and finding none. “Here,” she said, her voice impossibly even kinder than her husband’s. “Why don’t you let David and I clean this up? Shane, he needs some bandaids and ointment on that hand. You should take him to the kitchen - get him all fixed up.”

“Yeah,” Shane said, wrapping a hand around Ilya’s bicep comfortingly, his voice soft and soothing. “C’mere. I’ll take care of you.”

On shaky legs, Ilya followed Shane into the kitchen, watching him gather up first aid supplies. “I am sorry,” Ilya said. “I am so sorry. It was stupid and clumsy, I embarrassed you—“

“Ilya, Ilya,” Shane cut him off, his tone leaving no room for Ilya to continue on his self-deprecating downward spiral. “Stop, hey, you have nothing to apologize for, okay? It’s just a spill. It was just a little spill.” Shane maneuvered Ilya’s hand under the gently running water, leaving it until the stream turned clear. “You did not embarrass me, or upset anyone. Okay? I promise. It was just a spill,” he repeated, desperate to get Ilya to believe him. “They happen all the time. And it’s not the end of the world. Okay? Not in this house. I promise.”

Silently, Ilya nodded. It was just a spill, he told himself. It’s not the end of the world.

“David?”

“Dad was more worried about this than anything,” Shane reassured him, gesturing to the cut that Shane was now cleaning with a saline solution.

“And… Yuna?”

“Mom is probably going to be glad to finally get rid of that rug. She’s hated it for years,” he explained, a warm little smile on his face as he pressed a bandaid on top of the slice in Ilya’s palm. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I promise that under any roof of mine, you are okay. Okay? I promise. You’re fine. I love you, mom and dad love you, nobody’s angry, nobody’s hurt.”

With a jerky nod, Ilya forced in a few deep, steadying breaths. Nobody’s angry, he thought to himself, repeating the words like a mantra. Nobody’s hurt.

“Are you holding up okay?” Yuna asked, reaching for Ilya’s hand to check the damage herself.

“Yes, am okay, I am… sorry, about this. Mess, yes, but… afterwards, too.”

“Don’t be silly! No apologies needed at all, honestly, I’m glad to be rid of the damn thing! David’s mother got it for us at a yard sale and I’ve hated it for years,” Yuna said, eyes crinkling with laughter. “You’ve made me a very happy woman!”

And David, who had been so angry and menacing only moments before - hadn’t he? no, of course he hadn’t, he had always been David, with age-knobbed knuckles and lines around his eyes that could only come from smiling - laughed right along with them. Shane joined in, too, a hand coming to the small of Ilya’s back as if to say, see, you’re here, you’re okay, I love you, mom and dad love you, nobody’s angry, nobody’s hurt.

“Can I see your hand?” Shane asked, sitting on the bathroom counter as Ilya finished brushing his teeth. With an affirmative hum, Ilya held his palm out, offering it to Shane. Gently, Shane removed the bandaid, staring at it silently as if gauging exactly how many milliliters of blood Ilya had lost. “We’re lucky it’s summer. I still don’t think you’ll need stitches, but it’s pretty close to a couple of tendons. You’ll have to take it easy, and we’ll keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t reopen.”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed, using his free hand to push some hair out of Shane’s face. “My sexy nurse.”

Pride surged through him as Shane shot him a playful glare, laughing quietly. “That’s Dr. Hollander to you.”

“Oh? And I am your unruly patient?”

“No, you are my perfect, model patient who’s going to stand there and let me fuss over him because Dr. Hollander does not like seeing his favorite patient hurt.”

“I am losing plot a bit, I think.”

“Just let me bandage you back up again, will you?”

“Fine, fine,” Ilya pouted, allowing Shane to do exactly that before they slipped into bed. Ilya’s hand actually really did hurt, and he was a bit too emotionally exhausted from all of the… memories that had been brought up to pursue the whole Dr. Hollander thing. Tomorrow, he promised himself. Instead, he slid deeper into the covers, pressed himself against Shane, and opened Instagram.

Gone were the days of his “bachelor algorithm,” as Cliff used to call it. Half-dressed women, motorcycles, dance trends, half-dressed men grunting with their 200th rep of some ridiculous workout. Hollander had even made his Instagram feed boring. Loath as he may be to admit it, he kind of loved the funny jokes told by completely dressed individuals, and there were still motorcycles, they were just parked in fancy garages instead of driving 150 kilometers per hour. The food, however…

“Look,” Ilya said on his next swipe, turning to show Shane his screen. “You have ruined my Instagram. Is recipe for macro dessert balls. Ridiculous.”

“Oh, that’s actually a good recipe, it’s made of sweet potato and—“

“If you want macrobiotic balls, Hollander, I have them right here for you.”

“Oh my god, fuck off,” Shane said, but he laughed - beautiful and unashamed in its volume, so Ilya considered it a win. They settled back into their silence, their gentle routine - Shane traced his fingers up and down Ilya’s bicep while he read, tracing the veins he knew by memory. Shane’s fingers, almost hypnotic in their consistency, had lulled Ilya into a false sense of security. Perhaps he would make it through the night without having to explain what had happened. Perhaps—

“Baby?” Shane asked in that voice he only used with Ilya, so sweet and sincere that Ilya would do anything just to keep hearing it.

“Mm?” Ilya asked, as if he didn’t know. As if he hadn’t been bracing for this since he finally stumbled out of the fog of memories he’d been stuck in, realizing how transparent his reaction had been.

“We… we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” started Shane, the tips of his fingers still stroking Ilya’s warm skin, up and down, up and down, up and down. It was inescapably comforting, a constant reminder that Shane was there, that they were in Shane’s cottage, in Shane’s bed, that he was in Shane’s arms. “But it seemed like - the wine today, like maybe it felt worse to you than it did to us. Is that… is there anything I can do to help you next time something like that happens?”

“I do not want to talk about it,” Ilya said quietly. Immediately, Shane started nodding.

“Of course, we don’t have t—”

“But,” Ilya interrupted, though not unkindly. Steeling himself, summoning all of the courage he could muster, he continued, “We probably should, no?”

“I’d really like it if we could, yes,” Shane said, hugging his bicep tightly before shifting away just enough to meet his eyes. “I don’t want you to ever feel… stuck like that again. Or, if you do, I want to know how to be there for you.”

Fuck. Ilya loved him so much. He knew that Shane wouldn’t understand his childhood, wouldn’t see that his father was just doing what he thought was best, was just toughening him up - Ilya could hardly imagine Yuna or David raising their voice, let alone their fists - but maybe he would at least understand Ilya. Maybe it would help him understand the split second in which Ilya flinched after a particularly loud noise. The way he held his shoulders tighter when bracing himself for disappointment from his coaches. Maybe together they could figure out a way to make sure Ilya was never afraid of David again. He really didn’t want to be afraid of David.

“Is… silly.” Ilya said. “Maybe not silly, but now that we are here and not there, I see it was silly. I broke the wine, and I thought - maybe everyone will be angry. And…” Clearing his throat, Ilya pushed past his discomfort to spit out the next part. “Well, angry back in Russia is not the same as angry here, I think.”

“What… was angry like back in Russia?”

Ilya heaved in a breath, remembering exactly what angry was like back in Russia. Angry was the feeling of Grigori’s rings stinging across the red welt on Ilya’s cheek (always enough to burn and sting overnight, never enough to last until the morning, god forbid his father’s colleagues witness his shortcomings). Angry was the chattering teeth and blue lips that he was left with when Grigori forced him to sleep in the back yard in the middle of March (never the front yard, god forbid their neighbors witness his failure to behave as expected). Angry was the hot, burning sensation of silent tears that fell as he clenched his teeth, sitting still in the face of the agonizing pain of lit cigarettes burning small holes into his skin (his tears were always silent, his posture stick straight even as he took his punishment, god forbid his father witness any more weakness that ought to be snuffed out).

Angry was the cold metal of a fork shoved deep into the meat of Ilya’s forearm, always deep enough to ache for days, never enough to leave proof for longer than a week. Angry was Ilya staring straight ahead, not daring to speak a word, even when spoken to - not unless he was prompted. Except, sometimes he wasn’t prompted, and his silence still ended up being the wrong answer.

“My mother,” Ilya started, because this was the part that felt most important. “She protected us as well as she could. He—” He hit her, he bruised her, he trained her to display nothing but utmost silence and servitude, he probably did things I never want to know about, but have to admit to myself most likely happened. “She did what she was able to. I want you to know that. She was so brave.”

“Of course,” Shane said, without a hint of doubt in his voice. “I know that, Ilya. I know she was so, so brave. Both of you were.”

“But, once she was… after, it was… well, she could not protect us anymore. And Andrei…” Ilya looked towards the ceiling as if praying for strength. His fingers traced the gold of his mother’s crucifix, and Ilya was suddenly more aware of the weight of it against his skin than he had been in years.

Angry was the cool, telling snap of his father’s belt, the weight of its metal buckle as threatening as the hands that wielded it. Ilya remembered, vividly, a time when Grigori had shoved Ilya to his knees; the swish of the man’s belt coming undone sounded like a death sentence. Mamochka, he wanted to cry out - but he wouldn’t. His mother was gone; she would never protect him again. Andrei, he cried out instead, looking up at his brother, who was standing in the doorway. It was stupid. Foolish. Ilya should’ve known better. He, in fact, immediately learned better. Andrei stared at him without a flicker of emotion before turning away, closing the door behind him and leaving Ilya alone with their father. Even at 13, his hands were too valuable to be punished the way Andrei’s sometimes were, palms faced upwards, split open by the latch of Grigori’s belt. Instead, the few times Ilya misbehaved badly enough to warrant his father’s belt, he would kneel in front of his father's desk and swallow the yelps as his shoulders took the brunt of it.

Maybe Ilya had never really healed from the sight of the door closing behind his brother, maybe he’d been forced to accept - then and there - that nobody would ever protect him again. It had broken a part of him - but then, Ilya wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have done the same. He had been foolish to ask for help - it would only have led to them both being punished. At least Andrei had gotten away, at least Ilya hadn’t pulled him down, too.

“And Andrei,” Ilya repeated, dragging himself through the minefield of memories, holding onto Shane as if he were a lifeboat. “I am sure he did what he was able to, too.”

Andrei, teaching Ilya where the antibiotic ointments, burn salves, and scar creams were. Andrei, teaching Ilya how to tend to his wounds, so scars wouldn’t be left behind. Their father hated scars. Andrei, taking the blame for the time Ilya had broken one of their father’s mistresses’ teapots. Andrei, thanking Ilya for helping him with the several open cuts on his palms.

Andrei, his brother, despite everything. The boy who had survived that home alongside Ilya. The man who had to go back into that cold, loveless place to care for the person who’d turned it into that.

“Angry,” Ilya said, remembering the question at hand. “Was not good in Russia. It was…” Words were lost to him. He searched for the truth in both of the languages he knew, and it was nowhere to be found in either of them. It was horrible, it was wrong, it was scary. But also, it was just what parents did, it was his life - the only one he’d ever known, it was what had turned him into the brash, competitive, strong, immovable man he was today. “It was not like it is for you, I think.”

“Did he…” Shane hesitated, his breath shallow in his chest. “Hit you?”

Hollander and his questions, Ilya thought to himself before nodding. “Yes,” he said. And then, because Shane had saved him from having to admit that part out loud, he summoned a little bit more bravery, a little bit more honesty. “And cigarettes, sometimes.”

“Cigarettes?”

“Da. Yes.”

“What does - how did he hit you with cigarettes?”

Ilya grimaced, his stomach turning over at the question. Oh, god, Ilya loved Shane so much. His beautiful, perfect, tortured Shane, who couldn’t even imagine what Grigori could’ve done with cigarettes. He suddenly regretted mentioning it, wished he could scoop the words back up in his chest, longed to turn back time. He hated to think that he might break a little piece of that rose-colored world view his beloved had been so lucky to have.

“He, um.” Clearing his throat again, Ilya shifted awkwardly. “He would put them out on my arms.”

“What?!” Shane hissed, sitting upright and staring at Ilya in horror. “Ilya, oh my god-“

Maybe he should have mentioned the belt instead. Or the cold, winter nights? Shane understood cold nights. He thought he’d done the right thing, mentioning the cigarettes. It was quick, over before it had begun, and the burn of it was enough of a shock to stave off most of the pain. It seemed like the easiest to digest.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya stammered out.

“No, no, please,” Shane said. “I’m sorry - I’m not - I shouldn’t have freaked out, just—“ As Ilya watched, Shane took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m so sorry you went through that. God, no wonder you froze like that today. I am so sorry. I wish—“ Shane stopped, caught his breath, and realized that he wished a lot of things. He wished he could’ve been there for Ilya for so much longer, he wished Grigori had died years and years sooner, he wished Irina was still alive. “I wish you’d had a softer life, Ilya. One you deserved.”

“I am okay,” Ilya said. “I have this. You. Your parents, my Centaurs. Today, I got scared and I didn’t need to be. Is okay.”

“It’s not, though,” Shane said. “What you went through - it’s not okay. You know that, right?”

“Ah,” Ilya waved a hand dismissively. Truthfully, what his father had done to his mother - that was unforgivable. What he had done to Ilya, though, was just… Russian culture. That was just parenting, to him, to his family, to his people. “Shane, is just - you wouldn’t understand.”

“What wouldn’t I understand?”

“Canadians - you are… different. Softer,” he said, using Shane’s words against him.

“The things your dad did to you were a lot worse than just… not being soft,” Shane said, his tone gentle.

“You’re right, he was - he was teaching me strength. Teaching me lessons.” Ilya insisted, his voice bordering on desperation.

“Children shouldn’t have to learn lessons that way, Ilya, you didn’t—“

“You would not understand, Shane!”

“No, I think I do understand,” Shane said. “I think you just… I think you are remembering your dad differently than he was, maybe. And that’s okay, but what he did to you was not.”

“He did nothing to me. He raised me the only way he knew how. That was just how my people raise their children.”

“That was…” Shane trailed off, running a hand down his face.

“Was what?” Ilya asked.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“No, what was it, Hollander? Is nothing, like I said, is just—“

“Abuse, Ilya!” Shane snapped. “That was abuse.”

Ilya couldn’t help but scoff at the word, rearing back as if it had landed like a physical blow. “Abuse?!” He all but shrieked, pushing himself out of the bed. “You are being ridiculous. Stupid. Is why I never told you.”

“Ilya-“

“No. Was stupid for me to think you would understand. Perfect Shane Hollander. I bet your parents never even spanked you.”

“Well, no, but - burning you and a spanking are very different, they’re both - neither one is right, but-“

“See, you think spanking is abuse, even.”

“This is not about spanking!” Shane shouted, climbing out of bed as well. “Ilya, what you went through was wrong! If you don’t see that, I don’t—“

“You love me, yes?”

“What? Ilya, of course, yes! I love you so much!”

“I am who I am because of my father. You should be glad he made me into this!”

“Ilya,” Shane paused, fortifying himself with a deep breath. “I am so glad that you are the person you are right now. Because I love you. And I love every version that came before you. But I will never, ever be grateful to that man for treating you the way he did. I am glad that he brought you into the world. I’m glad that he chose your mother, who is responsible for so much of you, and I love the jagged edges and dark corners and scars, too. But your father abused you. And I think - I think maybe you know that I’m right-“

“No. You’re not,” Ilya interrupted, barely resisting the urge to plug his ears like a child.

“I’m not?”

“No. My father did bad things, but he was just showing me how to - to toughen up. To be a man,” Ilya said, and it sounded… it sounded like he believed it. It sounded like a lie he had told himself enough times that it had morphed into the truth.

“Will you spank our children?”

The question was so unexpected, so completely out of the blue, that it stole the breath from Ilya’s lungs. His jaw hung open, his blood ran cold, and the next word escaped him like a whisper.

“What?” He choked out, in disbelief that Shane could ask him such a question, that Shane could imply that he would —

“Our children, Ilya?” And they had spoken about children, of course, in the hypothetical - in the yeah, I think I want to be a dad - but never as a certainty, never as a solid, real thing that Ilya had to make a decision about.

“Our…”

“Will you spank them?” Shane pushed, wrapping his arms around himself as he stared up at Ilya. “This is important to me. Will you spank them?”

“No, I won’t,” Ilya snapped, rage simmering inside his belly.

“Will you hit them?” Shane reiterated.

“No, I won’t!” His voice was raised now, as he realized the corner that this line of questioning was backing him into.

Shane continued, unbothered by Ilya’s apparent anger. “Will you burn them with your cigarettes?”

“I would never!” Ilya could feel his body shaking, could hardly catch his breath - visions of their children, their babies, cowering away from him in fear, the idea that he could hurt a tiny little human being, one that looked like him, or maybe they’d look like Shane, or maybe they’d look like neither of them, but they would be theirs. The fact that Shane could even suggest that he would—

“And why not?” Shane’s voice was even, and it cut deeper into Ilya’s chest because of it.

“Because they will be kids!” Ilya shouted, his voice cracking around the last word. “Our kids! I would never do anything to—“

“To hurt them? Why wouldn’t you do that, Ilya? Why wouldn’t you hit them? Why wouldn’t you burn them with your cigarettes?”

“Shane, stop,” Ilya said, his tone verging on a plea, but Shane continued.

“Is it because our children deserve better? Because it’s wrong?”

“I-“ Ilya choked out, lost for words yet again.

“Because it’s abuse?”

“Stop, Shane, stop. Stop saying that word, please.”

“Listen,” Shane said. He lowered his voice, softened it, began slowly approaching Ilya. “We don’t have to put a name to it, not tonight or tomorrow or ever, if you don’t want to. But I am telling you, as… as someone who loves you, because I love you,” Shane said, placing his arms on Ilya’s shoulders.

“I love you, too,” Ilya said, his voice barely more than a whisper as he let his forehead fall against Shane’s collarbone. Shane’s hands ran up and down his upper arms, constant, grounding friction.

“And as someone who loves you, I’m telling you that you deserved better. You deserved softer. That who you are is not because of him, but because of you. You are Ilya. My Ilya. Irina’s Ilya, okay?” Ilya surrendered to the battle against his tears, finally starting to cry as Shane tugged him closer, their bodies pressed chest-to-chest. “And you are my Ilya because you put in the work, and you put in the hours, and you did not let yourself turn into him, in any capacity, no matter how easy that might’ve been. You are Ilya. Not Grigori. It’s you that I love. You. Not the product of your father’s abuse. Not Grigori’s son. But you. Ilya. My Ilya.” Shane paused to catch his breath, desperate for Ilya to understand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d said so many words - even playoff speeches to his team were more direct, more concise. “I love you. Only you. Always you.”

Suddenly, Ilya let out a loud sob, throwing all of his weight into Shane’s arms, who stumbled back enough to prop himself on the edge of the bed. “I’ve got you,” Shane crooned, not letting go as Ilya moved to straddle his hips, burying his face in Shane’s neck as tears streamed down his cheeks. Blinking against tears of his own, Shane clung even tighter to his boyfriend as Ilya settled in his lap.

“I know,” Shane said, hands stroking up and down his back. “I know. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m here, and I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”

“I am glad you had a soft life, Shane,” Ilya said, nuzzling deeper into Shane’s shoulder. “I am glad you do not understand.”

“I know. I know. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

“You are not angry?”

“No, Ilya,” Shane stroked his fingers through Ilya’s curls gently. “Of course not.” For long moments, they sat there quietly. Ilya sniffling occasionally, Shane rocking him side to side in his arms.

“I am too heavy for your lap,” Ilya said, finally ready to break the silence.

“No,” Shane replied, stubbornly holding onto him. “No, you’re not. I’d stay here forever if you wanted me to. Just like this.”

(He didn’t mention that his left foot had long since fallen asleep under the weight of Ilya on his thighs. It would wake up eventually).

“Can we lay down?”

“Of course.” With some shifting, the two ended up beneath the blankets, facing one another while sharing Shane’s pillow.

“I don’t want to spank our kids,” Ilya said quietly.

“I don’t either.”

“I don’t want them to be scared when they break a glass.”

“They won’t be.”

“No?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you are Ilya. My Ilya.” Shane repeated, rearranging himself so Ilya could lay on his chest, his fingers immediately finding a home in Ilya’s curls again. “And you love so softly, despite everything. I never, ever, actually thought for a second that you would hurt them, Ilya. I just… I wanted you to see how serious what you went through was. That it was wrong, in whatever way you were willing to admit it,” he admitted. “But I know, without a second of doubt, that you are going to be an amazing dad. There’s nobody else on earth that I would trust with my kids. Nobody. Because I know they will feel as safe around you as I always do.” They both agreed to ignore Ilya’s sniffle as he fought back more tears. There would be more to talk about later. Hard conversations, deep ones - but for now, Shane knew a little bit more about what Ilya had faced. For now, Ilya could share a little bit of that weight.

“So,” Ilya finally said. “Kids? More than one?”

“Yeah,” Shane replied. “Kids, plural. I think?”

“I will have five hundred kids with you, Shane Hollander.”

“Let’s start with two, maybe three, depending on how our joints are holding up by the second one.”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed, tugging the blankets tighter around them. “I want everything with you, moy lyubov.” My love. “Anything you will give me.”