Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Angst with a Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Dissociation, Second Chances, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Break up sex, Reunion Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Love Confessions, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Different Coping Mechanisms, Using Alcohol to Cope, But not alcholism, Jealous Shane Hollander, Forced Proximity, well kinda, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Irina's Suicide, Injury, PTSD flashback, Fanwork Creator Knows Nothing About Hockey, Emotional Sex, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Breaking Up & Making Up

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-25 Completed: 2026-05-09 Words: 26,126 Chapters: 7/7

Often, Lately

Summary

“Shane had been used to being alone. He'd never thought of himself as lonely. He honestly often craved the solitude, found it grounding. But that was before he knew what it was like to have someone to call, someone to touch. He was never lonely before Rozanov, but he'd been lonely ever since.”

April 2017: Shane does not get laid out on the ice.

Ilya goes through with ending it.

Shane lets him.

What follows is eleven months of distance, denial, and a quiet kind of devastation neither of them knows how to name, let alone fix.

They learn how to live without each other.

(Or at least, how to pretend.)

And then, almost a year later, the infamous collision happens and Shane goes down cold.

And suddenly, neither of them can pretend it doesn’t matter.

Notes

Hello there,

So, Dermot Kennedy released an album earlier this year, and the second I heard the song “Often, Lately,” I knew I wanted to write something that felt like that.

So, add this song, my love for a second-chance romance, and my obsession with heated rivalry, and this fic was born.

 

I’ve had a lot of fun writing it so far and mapping out the plot.

I hope you all enjoy :)

 

Update 16 May 2026

It’s been about a week since I completed this fic, and I could never have expected how much it would take off. I have been absolutely inundated with such lovely comments and kudos. I am in absolute shock!

I think I’ve caught up now with replying to all the comments, and I promise to keep doing so.

I am eternally grateful to anyone who reads, leaves kudos, or comments.

Thank you again!

Chapter 1: I wanted you to know, I learned to live without it.

Chapter Notes

“But I think about you often, lately

I have this dream about returning safely”

- Dermot Kennedy

Now

A loud, incessant honking catches Shane Hollander's attention. He snaps back into reality, eyes settling on the glowing green light. He shakes his head quickly and shifts his rental car into drive.

He tried, and mostly succeeded, to ignore the dirty look he could feel through the glass as a silver Prius overtook him.

He took a deep breath as he navigated his way through the not-so-familiar Boston roads. He needed to stay present, stay in the moment. He'd developed a bad habit of checking out over the past couple of months. One minute he was inside his body, and in the next breath he was somewhere floating just above himself. He mostly had it under control.

It was always worse when he was in Boston, though.

He slowed at another red light and avoided looking at the huge Boston Bears billboard that was touching his field of vision. He knew who would be at the centre of that larger-than-life image. He swallowed thickly, forcing his eyes to study the red light. He didn't even blink. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching his teeth together.

As soon as the light turned, he tore out of the intersection. He ignored the familiar way his heart thudded incessantly in his throat, the way his hands shook when he was in proximity to anything that reminded him of Rozanov.

He drove the rest of the way, vision blurring at the edges as his eyes burned.

xxx

“...Have you heard anything I've just said?”

Shane snapped his head from his dry salmon to look at Rose. Her eyes were soft with concern.

“Shit, no. Sorry,” he admitted, dropping his fork with a clatter. “In my own head a bit today. What were you saying?”

“Is it being in Boston?” she asked, reaching for him. She rested her perfectly manicured nails on his forearm. He studied the gold cross ring on her middle finger. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

“Yeah,” was all he allowed himself.

Rose knew Shane had been seeing someone in Boston. She knew that he wasn't anymore. But she didn't know who it was.

It's not just my secret to tell.

He'd shown up at her front door eleven months ago, wrecked and inconsolable. She hadn't pried, didn't push for details. She'd just held him as he sobbed, sounds he hadn't known he could make escaping from somewhere deep inside him. Held him as he felt his heart break for the first time, torn in half unevenly.

He'd been trying to put it back together ever since.

He struggled at first. The world had faded to grey. His heart kept beating, even when each thud reverberated painfully through a hollow body. He’d gotten better at controlling the pain, locking it away.

He’d learned to live without him.

But, mostly, he was okay now. Some days he wasn’t. Some days, when his schedule was unusually empty or when he was bone-weary from pushing himself, admittedly, too hard on the ice for weeks at a time, he couldn’t chase away that ache that grew from behind his sternum and settled under his skin.

But he hasn't cried. Not once. Not since.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Rose asked.

“No,” he answered honestly.

He didn’t want to spend the limited time he had with Rose spiraling about Rozanov. This lunch would be the last time they would see each other for a while. Rose was in the city to shoot an advert for a perfume she was endorsing and would then be heading to Europe for a couple of months for a film she had been excited to book. This was supposed to be about them, about spending time enjoying each other’s company together. He needed to just pay attention to her.

But it was always harder to stay focused when the games against Boston inched closer in his calendar.

What used to feel like too long between meetings now felt too short. Where anticipation used to thrum through his veins, dread now clawed its way up the cavity in his chest.

He used to love the rush of playing against him. The electricity of it. The genuine thrill of not knowing who was going to win. There was no one he got more excitement from stealing a puck from. No one he'd rather meet in a face-off.

But that all changed; exhilaration crumpled into tolerance.

And in one month, he'd have to face him again.

“You can talk about it, though,” Rose said, squeezing his arm. “If you wanted to. I would listen to you.”

Shane inhaled sharply. He knew that.

He just couldn’t afford to think about him, let alone talk about him.

The first time he’d seen Rozanov on the ice, Shane had been surprised at how easily he’d been able to shut himself down, avoiding the eyes he still dreamt about. It had been a couple of months after that night, at their first preseason meet in Boston. It had also been the first time he’d found himself outside of his body. He did not engage when Rozanov had tried to greet him, didn’t make eye contact when they met at face-offs, focused on an empty seat in the stadium during the obligatory handshaking at the end of the game.

He knew that if he allowed himself the indulgence of studying his face, to ghost his eyes over the crooked smile that had haunted him, he would break.

He’d spent the past eleven months painstakingly packing cement around a box labelled Rozanov that he’d filed away in the back of his mind. It had been grueling work that had left him feeling scraped out and unsteady, but he’d done it.

He was smart enough to know, though, that one gentle touch, one lingering look would take a wrecking ball to all of the brutal work.

Boston was a minefield of wrecking balls.

“It’s not something I can really talk about.” Shane cleared his throat and reached for his fork again.

Rose looked at him, her face drawn, her eyes tinged with worry. “I think it would be good for you, whenever you’re ready. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Shane nodded in a way that he hoped made it look like he agreed. In reality, it was something he would always have to carry alone.

There was no universe in which he would ever be able to tell anyone the real reason he was dragging himself through a life that so many would kill for.

Shane took a bite of his food, mostly for something to do. He couldn’t really taste anything.

“I’m here for you, Shane. You know that, right?”

Shane looked up at his friend. “I know.”

xxx

Shane stared after Rose’s car as it disappeared around a corner. He tugged his toque lower and started walking towards where he’d parked .

It was unusual for him to be in Boston for reasons not related to hockey, but he was here for the weekend for a fundraiser of some kind. He should have, admittedly, read more of the fine print before he agreed. He wasn’t sure he would have agreed to come had he realised it was in Boston. He didn’t really even know what it was for- he’d just been doing as many of these as he could, trying to avoid his empty apartment. He didn’t get a lot of enjoyment out of these appearances. He didn’t really speak to anyone, and often left early, finding the crowded rooms stifling.

He doesn’t know why he keeps doing it; he’s not any less lonely in hotel rooms.

Shane had been used to being alone. He'd never thought of himself as lonely. He honestly often craved the solitude, found it grounding. But that was before he knew what it was like to have someone to call, someone to touch. He was never lonely before Rozanov, but he'd been lonely ever since.

xxx

Shane opened the door to his hotel room. It was quiet and dark.

He toed off his shoes and loosened the tie on his shirt. The fundraiser had gone well: he’d smiled when he was supposed to, shook the hands of far too many people to count, and left a hefty donation. He’d snuck out early, ready to head to bed and pray for the sleep that he knew was unlikely to come, when he’d caught sight of a picture of Rozanov on the cover of some magazine. He’d averted his gaze instantly, but the halo of golden curls had lingered behind his eyelids and played on a loop in his mind.

He wished it didn’t still weigh so heavily on him. Wasn’t he supposed to feel better by now? It’s been close to a year, and he still felt so far from the person he had been before Rozanov came to his apartment last spring.

He was a better hockey player, at least. He’d poured everything he had into the game. All of his blood and all of his sweat. He was beating records, half of which he had personally set without thinking, without blinking. He was a better player than he had ever been, even if he felt less human than he ever had.

He’d tried. To fix himself. To find a reason to find himself again.

Nothing seemed to work.

Rose had suggested, months ago, that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. Shane had barely registered the statement initially. But he found that the thought came back to him when he’d overheard his teammates laughing about a paparazzi photo of Rozanov with a "smoke show” that had made the rounds on Twitter one morning. They were green with envy. As was Shane.

For different reasons, obviously.

That was how he’d ended up outside of a gay club in the middle of nowhere last summer. He’d felt the heavy bass all the way to the balls of his feet. He’d stared at the front door, covered in shimmering rainbow flags. He’d studied the colours intently for about an hour before he’d turned and left.

Shane walked to the bathroom and turned the shower on.

He showered quickly, the hot water a welcome contrast to the Boston chill. He lathered soap and washed himself, starting with the knots in his shoulders and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing down his arms. His skin was pink-tinted as he moved lower. He cleaned his dick perfunctorily where it hung soft between his legs. It had been months since he’d even attempted to get off. It was likely for the same reason that he left the club.

Nothing made him feel the way Rozanov did. Nothing else came close. No one did.

He knew what it was like to feel out of his mind with desire, to feel high on the feel of another’s skin gliding against his. Nothing else compared. He was terrified that nothing else ever would.

He dried himself off, avoided his eyes in the bathroom mirror, and brushed his teeth. He was mostly good at living his life now, learning how to exist around the absence that was left when Rozanov walked away.

But one accidental glance at a picture made it difficult to keep the box shut. Memories pushed from inside, begging to be seen.

Shane climbed into bed.

He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t allow himself to go there.

But sometimes, something slipped through. And when it did, he had to admit he was just really sad about the fact that he had finally been ready to be honest about what he wanted and how he felt. And before he’d even had the opportunity to say anything, he’d had the rug pulled out from under him.

He couldn’t let himself go there.

He couldn’t think of playful smirks, desperate breaths, soft lips on his throat, or a gravelly voice in his ear. Because he couldn’t think about that without thinking about the broken look on Rozanov's face, of a retreating back, and the echo of a door shutting.

Shane turned off the lamp. His eyes stung.

But he did not cry.

xxx

Ilya Rozanov was incredibly drunk. The kind of drunk that muffled the clamor of loud music and distorted conversations. The kind of drunk that left the world hazy and frayed around the edges.

His phone buzzed, the sound muffled, where it sat on the bar, face down and dangerously close to a puddle of unidentified brown liquid.

He reached for it and frowned as he stared at the screen. The wallpaper looked blurry, and he could barely make out the numbers he was supposed to use to type his passcode. He shook his head, as if it could physically clear it. But when he looked again, his screen was still swimming.

He needed to get some air.

He pushed through the throng of bodies. The heat and the throbbing music, that had become the background to his life, surrounded him as he stumbled. The strobing multicoloured lights made it difficult for him to see, but he mostly knew the route by now.

He manoeuvred around a group of girls trying to enter the club as he reached the front door. They were giggling and making eyes at the bouncer.

He was very hot, to be fair.

The winter air hit him like a slap, and he inhaled the icy smell as he made his way around the corner of the building. He could still feel the bass like a second pulse, but the sound was not so overwhelming out here. He shivered while reaching for a cigarette.

He has mostly given the habit up by now.

But he indulges when he's drunk. Which, admittedly, has been more often than before. 

It's fine. Whatever.

He inhaled deeply, the familiar pull into his lungs helping clear his mind further. He looked up, searching for stars, but the city lights bleached them out of view. He took another drag before reaching for his phone. His vision had steadied enough for him to focus on unlocking his screen. His wallpaper was visible now, no longer twisting and untwisting: a hazy sepia image of a vintage ginger ale advert.

He saw that he had a Google alert.

He swallowed. Fuck. He should have done another shot before coming outside.

The thing is, Ilya has become… obsessed… with Shane ever since they called it off. In an unhealthy, should probably talk to a therapist, kind of way. He watched all of his games and all of his interviews. He streamed speeches he gave at hockey events (although those had become increasingly infrequent). He read think pieces on his astounding performance and record-breaking upon record-breaking season. It became so intrinsic to his daily routine that he eventually got into the habit of starting his mornings by opening his Instagram profile. He almost never posted. And when he did, it was always related to the Voyageurs or a brand deal. Ilya loved seeing him, any version of him, but the posts made him unhappy.

Shane's smile was often fake. Still beautiful, always beautiful, but placating. It was nothing like the smiles he'd given Ilya when they'd bent at face-offs, or when he stole the puck after checking him into the boards. They were a poor imitation of the unsure, shy grin that had grown on his face the last time they'd FaceTimed. The night he'd kissed two fingers and touched the camera. The night Ilya had finally admitted to himself that what they were doing could only be described in one irreversible way. It had also been the night he'd come to the decision that seemed like the only logical choice at the time, but had been his biggest regret ever since.

That smile, his real smile, he missed. Missed so much it made his teeth ache and his throat tight.

It haunted him.

The obsession and regret had resulted in a decision, when Ilya had been incredibly drunk last summer, to set a Google alert for Shane Hollander.

It meant that his phone was buzzing almost hourly, but the fixation was soothing in its own way. Through watching grainy paparazzi pictures and thank-you posts from a surprisingly large number of charities, hospitals, and museums, Ilya felt like he was still getting to experience life, if not with him, alongside him. He could at least see it.

His worst fear was a world in which Shane Hollander was not the centre of his world.

He took another drag of his cigarette as he studied the Google alert notification. He opened the article, published on some trashy puck bunny site, and saw a blurry picture of Shane in a suit, because of course he fucking was, walking through elaborate front doors. Ilya’s heart plummeted into his stomach. He dropped the cigarette.

Ilya recognised the building.

Fuck.

Shane was in Boston.

Shane was in the same city he was, right fucking now.

He scanned the article. Apparently Shane was in town for a museum fundraiser. He stared at the picture, his hands shaking as he studied him. Shane was alone, and his face was blank. There was no spark, no emotion in his gaze. Just some shadows brushing underneath his eyes.

It was probably the camera quality.

Ilya swallowed heavily and stomped the dying ember of the cigarette out.

xxx

Ilya was halfway to the museum before he even let himself think about what he was doing. He glanced out of the window of the taxi, the lights of the city blurring together.

He knew it was completely irrational to strongarm Shane into a conversation, in public, when they hadn't really spoken in eleven months.

He just needed to see him.

Ever since he left Shane’s apartment last spring, he’d felt off kilter, like he’d been walking on a tightrope, always struggling to stay balanced. He knew, he just knew, that speaking to Shane would be the only thing that would centre him again.

He’d tried a couple of times to speak to him. On the ice. He’d smile and greet him, try to catch his eye as they warmed up on their respective sides. But Shane was steadfastly ignoring him. It didn’t even look like that much trouble; he didn’t seem pained. His eyes were far away.

It was half the reason he did not reach out and try to beg Shane to forget what he said, that it wasn’t what he meant. He’d only had the courage for half a second last June when New York had won the Cup. But even then, he’d chickened out. Unsure of Shane’s response, unsure of what he could even offer Shane if he decided that he’d be open to seeing each other again.
He’d broken his own heart; it was his to deal with.

But Ilya had this vision, a dream that had played so frequently in his subconscious mind, that when they ran into each other in person everything would click into place. That one conversation, away from the ice, from their reputations, from the expectations, would magically provide the answer. He created scenarios in his head, accidental moments where they would pass each other. Maybe at a grocery store, or at a club. And they would lock eyes and just talk.

Most days it felt like he was going crazy, not being able to tell someone, anyone, how much he missed Shane. How his absence scraped him raw.

He’d tried to find ways to force a chance encounter before, but he hadn’t had any luck. Turns out living in different countries made not-so-spontaneous run ins quite difficult to orchestrate.

But Shane was here now, in his city.

His heart was beating in the back of his throat as the taxi stopped outside the museum.

xxx

Ilya opened his front door, his body heavy with disappointment. The clock in his front hallway read 03:50.

Of course Shane would have left already. He felt stupid for even thinking that the universe would have aligned for him this way.

He trudged towards the stairs, the frustration, nausea, and impending headache pulling him towards his bed. He just wanted to collapse, shut it all off for a while. It took him an embarrassingly long time to register that the lights were on in his lounge.

“So are you just going to ignore me then?”

Ilya’s head snapped up at the Russian words, his eyes landing on Svetlana. She was lazing on his couch, a glass of vodka in her hand.

“Sveta?” Ilya wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. Had he made it to bed and fallen asleep already?

“You’re home late,” she said, tucking her legs underneath her.

“I was out,” Ilya responded. He dropped down beside her, his head in her lap.

She carded her fingers through his hair gently. “You smell awful.”

Ilya barked out a humourless laugh. “I may have taken it a bit far.”

“Two nights before a game?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but it was...something.

Ilya’s shoulders tightened. “I’ll be fine by the game.”

Svetlana was silent for a while. Ilya held his breath.

“What’s going on with you?”

Ilya’s face tightened and his eyes burned. A part of him, a large part of him, wanted to just say: nothing. He should tell her that he’s fine. That he’s just enjoying being single in his twenties, being rich and famous. But another part of him, a smaller but honest part of him, wanted to tell her everything.

Grieving silently and in plain sight was heavy.

But he settled for saying nothing, her question just hanging between them.

“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” she said softly after a while. “I see pictures of you out more, even during the season. You're playing aggressively. You’re taking unnecessary risks.”

Ilya sniffed.

I’m fine. He wanted to reassure her, but he was too tired.

He fell asleep shortly after.

Chapter End Notes

Chapter title comes from the song Gethsemane by Sleep Token.

Kudos and comments are never expected but always appreciated :)

Chapter 2: Please don't say you love me.

Chapter Notes

Thank you to everyone who is read, left kudos and commented on this little story. I really appreciate it so very much :)

I have been writing like a woman possessed over the past three days, so I was able to get this chapter out sooner than I thought. Yay!

I hope you enjoy :)

“And then…

Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen. And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped. 

‘Goodnight Ilya’

Ilya felt an awful lump in his throat. He had buried his father yesterday, but he hadn’t cried. He hadn’t cried in over ten years. But he knew, in that moment, that he had to end this thing with Shane. It was never supposed to have gotten to this point. He was never supposed to have fallen in love with Shane Hollender.”

- Heated Rivalry (Chapter 20) by Rachel Reid

xxx

Then

(11 Months Ago)

Shane Hollander opened the fridge to triple-check that there were cokes in there. His body thrummed with anticipation as he closed the fridge door, satisfied that the cokes he had bought yesterday and stored there that morning had not magically disappeared.

It had been so long since he’d last seen Ilya. They had had their memorable Skype call while he’d been in Moscow. And it had, admittedly, been incredibly hot. Shane’s cheeks flushed involuntarily as he thought of the close-up shot he’d had of Ilya’s face when he came. But he felt a little manic with the urge to touch Ilya’s skin again, to feel his breath against his ear and his lips on his throat.

It had been all he could think about since the game ended.

The lust pulsing under his skin was probably the only reason he wasn’t hyperfixating on the fact that the Voyageurs had lost. He knew that would come later; he would analyse his game over and over again, identifying each mistake and each opportunity he had not taken.

But for right now he was fixated on the doorway. His ears were laser-focused on the sounds outside, waiting for the distant crunch of gravel that would let him know Ilya’s Uber had turned into the driveway.

He’d gone to a little extra effort with the condo this time. Tried to make it seem homey, even if it was not his actual home. He’d hired a decorator to help with throw pillow selection and some colour-coordinated blankets draped over the large, comfortable leather couches. He’d even filled the fridge and cupboards with a variety of snacks.

He wanted to jump on Ilya the second he waltzed through the door, but he also wanted Ilya to feel taken care of. He longed to sink his teeth into Ilya’s bottom lip and swallow the Russian curse he knew would follow, but he also wanted another opportunity to check in on him, to have him speak to him about his feelings and the conflicting aftermath of his father’s death, if he needed to.

He wanted everything with Ilya Rozanov.

He swallowed at the thought and jumped a little as he heard a car horn blare in the distance. The stillness of the night settled around him, his own shallow breathing sounding thunderous in the low-lit room.

He hoped Ilya had given more thought to coming to the cottage. They hadn’t spoken about it since the words had impulsively spilled from his lips while they’d been on the phone. He’d just missed Ilya, and the thought of having a week, or maybe two, had spiked such visceral excitement that the question was asked before he’d even thought it through.

He just needed more time.

He knew they could figure it out, whatever this was, if they just had time. Because he was ready to be all in; he was ready to find a way to make this work. There had to be a solution. There just had to.

Shane’s thoughts were interrupted by the thrum of a car engine as it turned down the road. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

Ilya was here.

xxx

“I, uh-” Shane couldn’t form words, couldn’t think past the buzzing in his ears. “You what?”

Ilya looked at him seriously, eyes drawn, fingers tugging on his ear.

“I think we should stop seeing each other.”

Yes. Okay. That’s what he thought he had said.

Shane’s whole body went cold, ice seeping through his arms and legs, making it hard to move. Not that he wanted to move. He wanted to disappear, actually. He averted his gaze, sniffed, and tried to blink away the burning in his eyes.

Shane had launched himself at Ilya as soon as he’d stepped through the door. Had attached his mouth to his, had groaned when he’d sunk his fingers into his shower-damp hair. His body had been vibrating. And when Ilya had gripped him back, had pulled him into him, Shane’s entire being had erupted in goosebumps.

Wait.

Ilya had kissed him back. Hungrily. Desperately. Had held onto him like, if he’d let an inch of air between them, he would come apart. So what…?

“I, uh-” Shane tried again. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, the words struggling to form. “I- I don’t understand. Um-” He blinked, swallowed heavily. He kept his eyes away from Ilya’s face, even though he could feel his intense gaze on him. “I thought-”

He couldn’t get any more words out. He slumped further into the couch, suddenly grateful Ilya had suggested they sit while they talked.

Shane had been expecting a talk, had actually been looking forward to it, but he hadn’t expected this.

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice was soft, his tone pleading. “We knew this was a bad idea.”

Shane nodded, sniffed again. Because it was true. It had always been true.

“It’s always been a bad idea,” Shane said, his voice sounding raw even to his own ears. “But that’s never-”

Why now? Why was he doing this now?

“Things are different now, yes? You feel it too?” Ilya whispered, echoing the words Shane had said to him a couple of weeks ago in Florida.

Shane nodded once.

Of course things were different. Of course they were because Shane had realised that he was in- 

He cut the thought off.

But wasn’t the difference supposed to be good? Wasn’t this supposed to help them find a solution, now that they knew it was different- and why it was different? When they last talked, it had felt intimate. Sacred. Ilya had said he was going to teach him Russian. They had made plans.

How had he gotten this so wrong?

Shane’s heart leapt into his throat, and the buzzing in his ears grew until he could barely hear himself think.

“Shane,” Ilya cut through the noise. He rested his hand lightly on Shane’s, and Shane pulled away like he’d been burned. Shane noticed Ilya’s flinch in his periphery.

Shane finally mustered the strength to look at him directly again. Ilya’s eyes were red-ringed, his brow furrowed. His hand hovered just over Shane’s, like he was scared to touch him, but also scared to be too far away.

Shane reached up slowly and took his hand in his. The shocks from the contact radiated up his arm and into his heart. “You don’t want things to end?”

Ilya swallowed. “No. But-”

“But what?” Shane needed the answer desperately. He knew this was a bad idea, of course. Had known this since he was nineteen and stood terrified in a communal shower where Ilya’s hungry gaze had ghosted across his skin and awoken a need in him that he couldn’t quite name. He had even thought about ending it himself multiple times over the years. But he could never go through with it. He could never give him up.

What was the thing that made Ilya do this?

“I know it’s hard,” the words escaped from Shane’s mouth in a garbled torrent. “I know we risk a lot-”

“I risk more than you,” Ilya interrupted gently, not unkindly. And that shut Shane up.

Of course he did.

“I do not want to go back to Russia,” he clarified. “There is nothing for me there. And if we get caught- my visa- ”

Shane huffed out a breath, ignoring the bile rising in the back of his throat. He squeezed Ilya’s hand and noticed that he himself was rocking gently.

“And now that things are different, I think we would get caught. I do not know how to be around you and not show it. Not say that I- ”

“Don’t.” Shane cut him off quickly.

Ilya looked at him.

“Don’t say it. Don’t make me live through hearing you say it once and then never again.”

Ilya made a kind of choking sound, and Shane watched as tears brimmed and spilled over. He watched their descent over his cheekbone and jaw. He leaned forward and wiped them away gently, despite everything. Ilya grabbed the hand that was on his face and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the centre of Shane’s palm. His lips dragged away almost reluctantly. Shane closed his hand into a fist, like he could keep the feeling, warm and alive, in his grasp as long as he held on tight enough.

“Okay,” Ilya breathed. “I won’t say it. But you know, da?”

Shane felt the exact moment his heart broke, the agony all-encompassing. “I do. And you know… me too.”

Ilya made a guttural sound in the back of his throat and lunged forward. His lips were on Shane’s, and Shane stopped breathing. He collapsed backwards so he was flat on the couch, hauling Ilya with him, his weight so familiar, so grounding-

This would be the last time.

Shane whimpered and locked his legs around Ilya’s back, pulling him down, pulling him closer. He needed him closer.

Ilya drew back slightly. Their foreheads were touching, their lips a hair’s breadth from each other’s. Shane breathed in as Ilya breathed out.

“Is okay?” Ilya whispered.

It probably wasn’t. This was going to hurt.

But would it hurt any less if they had one more night?

Shane’s arms snaked around Ilya’s neck, holding on as tightly as he could.

“We get together. We fuck. It’s simple,” he quoted Ilya. It had been a lie then. It was a lie now. “Let’s keep it simple. One last time.”

Ilya’s gaze was searing. He seemed to be searching for something. But after a moment, he nodded slowly.

Shane held his breath for one second.

Two.

Three.

And then Ilya was on him. His desperation bled into the way he was gripping, tugging, pulling. Shane felt him everywhere. He gasped as Ilya's hand slid under his shirt, leaving a burning trail. He could feel every groove of his fingerprints as he mapped out Shane's body. It felt like a brand. Shane wanted more.

His eyes rolled back as Ilya tugged on his nipple, just this side of too painful.

Shane scraped his teeth over the column of Ilya's throat. Nipped at the pulse point. Tried to catalogue the exact feel of his heartbeat against his tongue.

Please don’t leave me. The words rattled inside Shane as he gripped Ilya's shirt and pulled it up. Ilya’s skin was scorching. Shane was on fucking fire.

Don’t you see? Shane wanted to scream. I am not going to survive this. I don’t know how to be without you. But he bit into the meat of Ilya's shoulder instead, halting the words with the taste of skin and sweat. He sucked, not caring about evidence, not caring about anything but to somehow prove that he had been here. To plant his flag. Shane Hollander was here. Shane Hollander had wanted and been wanted by him. He sucked harder, hot tears sliding down his face, mingling with his spit. He grazed his teeth over the spot, feeling Ilya's shudder above him.

He needed proof that he'd made a mark on Ilya too.

Ilya's hands dropped to Shane's pants. He worked quickly, then gripped Shane in his hands, and Shane's heartbeat exploded. He could feel it in his fucking tonsils. His hands worked him: rough but slow. Calculated and maddening.

Shane keened. It was too much. It would never, never be enough.

Shane gasped into Ilya's mouth, his vision getting hazy as his hand worked over him. He knew the exact pressure, the exact speed. It was earth-shatteringly perfect. Would anyone ever know him like this again? Would there ever be someone else he’d want to share this with? Shane shuddered as he blurted precome onto Ilya’s fingers.

Shane felt wild as his own hands traced Ilya's body. He had a desire to memorise the shift of every muscle, the exact heat of each inch of skin. It felt like a compulsion. He pressed down, dragged his nails, lips, tongue, teeth over any piece of Ilya he could reach. He wanted to drown in him, to have a perfect recollection of every perfect part of him.

A litany of Russian words fell from Ilya's lips. Gasped, rough sounds that would linger in Shane's subconscious. Shane listened eagerly, filing away each rough syllable. If he hadn’t been listening as closely as he was, he might have missed the broken “mine”- the English word a beacon amongst the unknown sounds.

“Yours,” Shane thought. “I’ll always be yours.” It wasn't a promise; it was an unspeakable oath.

Ilya reached down between them, his hand trailing lower, the calloused fingers dragging softly over Shane's entrance. Shane locked his legs tighter, tried to tilt his hips. Please, he wanted to beg. Shane felt out of his mind. All he wanted was Ilya. Wanted him to mark him, claim him, stay with him.

There was a slight shuffle as Ilya let go of Shane briefly to reach for his wallet. Tears sprang to his eyes with the lack of contact: the air brushing almost painfully against his oversensitised skin.

This is what it will be like. Always. The thought hit him like a slapshot to the jaw.

There would be no more grounding weight on him, no practiced fingers working him up to the point that he felt like he could sob with need. No awestruck eyes, or sharp teeth.

This would be the last time.

Shane was crying. He wasn't sure when he started. He didn't know if he'd be able to stop.

“You okay?” Ilya asked, a hand flattening against Shane's lower stomach. He could feel the outline of each individual finger as it splayed possessively against his overheated skin.

What a stupid question. What an insanely stupid question. Shane was never going to be okay again.

“Just keep going, please,” he begged.

Ilya dug the heel of his hand just below Shane’s belly button, and the pressure sent a pulse of longing through every nerve ending. His hands trailed lower. His fingers, now generously covered in lube, traced his entrance again, and then breached him.

Shane threw his head back, moaned, and grabbed onto Ilya’s biceps, gripping like they were a liferaft.

He was going to miss this. He was going to miss having him like this.

Ilya rocked against Shane, the euphoric drag of him, hard and throbbing, robbing Shane of his breath. Ilya leaned forward and kept up the Russian refrains in Shane’s ear. The feel of his fingers inside him, the rhythmic sounds, the warmth of his breath, the graze of his stubble against Shane’s cheek…everything coiled something hot and familiar deep inside his core.

He was close.

Fuck, no. No.

Not yet. He needed more time. He just needed more time.

“I need you in me,” Shane gasped out, desperate. “Please.”

“Fuck,” Ilya grunted. He shoved Shane’s pants all the way down and off. Shane kissed him wherever he could reach him, a frantic scrape of lips on skin as Ilya worked his own clothes off.

And when he finally felt the blunt pressure, a fresh wave of tears sprang to his eyes. When Ilya pressed all the way in, he stilled for a moment. They were as close as they could possibly be. Ilya dropped his head into the crook of Shane’s shoulder, nosing at the sensitive skin under his ear and pressing reverent kisses all over his neck, his throat. His mouth dragged a devout path from under his jaw to his Adam’s apple and across his face.

Shane needed that moment to last longer than it did. He needed it to expand, to take physical form, to grow and freeze. He needed it to crystallise. To immortalise. Because he knew, with devastating certainty, that no moment would ever feel like this again.

But of course, it couldn’t.

And before he was really ready for the moment to pass, Ilya started moving.

I love you. The words beat inside him, in time with Ilya’s thrusts.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

xxx

Shane watched Ilya tie his shoes in the doorway. The apartment was deathly quiet, their respective breaths the only sound.

When he was done, he froze for a moment. He didn’t look up to meet Shane’s eyes.

Shane’s chest seized, an uncomfortable pressure growing around his lungs.

This was it.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” Ilya’s voice was hoarse.

Shane looked at him, swallowing heavily. Ilya’s eyes were pleading with him, almost begging him to change his mind.

Shane shook his head.

He wanted to. So badly. Had wanted to for years. To fall asleep next to him, to reach for him throughout the night, wake up beside him, his face aglow with early morning sunlight. But he couldn’t experience it and then lose it.

He was already grieving something he’d never had. He couldn’t survive memories; he could barely endure the fantasy.

“I can’t-” He bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t do this.

How was he supposed to do this?

Ilya looked up at him tearfully but gave a single nod. He straightened and grabbed his coat. Shane thought he was shaking. Shane studied the mottled purple mark peeking out from under the collar of Ilya's shirt, and his heart gave a loud, irregular thump.

“Uh-” Ilya started, then stopped. And then his expression caved in, his eyes locking on Shane’s. The look he gave him was so raw, so unguarded. His features a mirror of how Shane was feeling: broken and lost. “I am sorry.”

“I know,” Shane breathed. “Me too.”

And then, before Shane could overthink it, he grabbed for Ilya.

One last time.

He crushed Ilya to him and just held on tight. Pressed his face into his chest, breathed in so deeply it felt like he could tattoo the scent into his lungs. Ilya held on just as tightly. Shane thought he could feel his body jerking with sobs, but he did not look up to confirm. He felt Ilya kiss his temple. Felt him give him one last squeeze.

And then he was gone.

And Shane was alone

Chapter End Notes

Chapter Title comes from the song Please don't say you love me by Gabrielle Aplin.

Thank you all so much for reading :)!

Please feel free to shout at me in the comments :)

Chapter 3: I only think about you all the time.

Chapter Notes

Happy Wednesday everyone!

Thank you all so much for the support I've received on this. Every single kudos and comment makes me feel so grateful.

I really hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Now

Ilya Rozanov woke up to the smell of coffee. He tried to open his eyes, but the morning light burned his retinas. He groaned and rolled over, just to be met with a wave of nausea that had him bolting upright. He took a deep breath through his nose and held the air in his lungs until the queasy feeling passed.

He blinked his eyes open slowly, still slightly recoiling against the brightness. He took in his room blearily, the pounding in his head creating a kind of strobing effect. His mouth tasted like an ashtray and his throat was sandpaper dry. He noticed a glass of water and some ibuprofen on his side table. He remembered Svetlana just as he distantly heard her drop something in the kitchen and swear.

It had been so long since there had been someone else in his house, in his space. It was comforting, in a way, to wake up to the goings-on of another person. He reached for the water and medication, downing the water in three big swallows.

The last time someone had been in his house was about six months ago. Anya? Anna? Something with an A. After his first preseason game against Montreal. Ilya cringed at the memory of his subpar performance. Of how wrong her soft, slender body had felt under him. How wrong it felt when she’d brought her lips to his. Just wrong, wrong, wrong.

He’d been consumed with thoughts about that game. Or, more accurately, with thoughts about seeing Shane again. Ilya was pretty sure that there were multiple times over the years where they’d gone five months without seeing each other. But those five months had been never ending. And miserable.

He had expected that it would be difficult, given that just walking away from Shane’s apartment had felt like cleaving his heart from his chest and leaving it on his front doorstep.

But there was something deeply isolating in his new reality. He hadn’t realized how reliant he had become on Shane’s sure, steady presence in his life. For so long, it was the only consistency he’d really had. When Ilya called, Shane answered. When he texted him, he responded. He might be sulky, he might be huffy, but Shane always, always showed up.

He showed up when it didn’t really matter, when Ilya sent him quips about his stick-handling technique (not funny, Rozanov), and he showed up when it really mattered, like when Ilya had no one else to talk to after his father’s funeral (You can talk to me if you want to, I’d like to help if I can). He’d been an anchor, a lifeline.

Ilya couldn’t have guessed how stranded he’d feel without it.

So when he’d seen their first game pop up on the roster, one of the first of the season, he’d felt overwhelmed with relief. He just knew that seeing Shane in person again would help him feel tethered.

But then Shane had barely looked at him. Didn’t even acknowledge him at the face-off, eyes glued to the ice. And to make matters worse, he’d played well. 

He played fucking well.

Ilya couldn’t remember a game he had to work that hard to keep up, and he often had to work quite hard when he was playing against Hollander. Shane was military precise: each shot, each check, each pass. It was incredible to watch and incredibly frustrating to play against.

Ilya still doesn’t know how Shane managed to play a game like that without touching him once, but he managed. Even when they shook hands, Shane barely grazed him through two layers of gloves before he was gone.

Ilya wasn’t sure what he’d been hoping for, but the interaction left him feeling oddly hollow. He’d gone out with his team, dulling the bite of their wounded pride with the aid of beer and luminescent shots, and attached himself to the first blonde who seemed eager. She’d been all over him, hands under his shirt, nails against his scalp. And he hated every second of it. It didn’t soothe the ache under his skin - her touch too light, too teasing. He’d taken her home anyway. And then he kind of hated himself afterwards.

He’d always loved clubs and one-night stands. He loved the rush, the thrill, the newness. He’d hoped that that experience had been a glitch. A once-off. Because he had no idea how he was supposed to get through a season of Hollander ignoring him without some kind of escape.

It hadn’t been. A once-off.

But Ilya kept trying. Not so much the hookups anymore. It just didn’t excite him; it felt like a chore, and he felt like he was disappointing his, admittedly small number of partners. But he kept going out. Drinking. Smoking

Because… well, what the fuck else was he supposed to do?

There was a soft knock on his bedroom door.

Ilya inhaled sharply, not really wanting a lecture but knowing it would be worse if he tried to put it off.

"Come in,” he said in Russian.

Svetlana pushed the door open with her hip, her hands carrying two cups of coffee. Ilya’s mouth watered, and he reached for one before he consciously remembered giving his brain the command to do so.

“Thank you.” He inhaled the earthy scent before taking a sip. It was incredibly hot; it burned his tongue. He took another.

Svetlana lowered herself onto the bed. She was wearing one of his Boston Bears T-shirts and a focused expression.

“You look like shit,” she said, blowing on her own coffee.

“Feel like shit,” he admitted, rolling his neck and wincing as the movement shot a lancing pain up to his temple.

They said nothing for a while, her steady gaze never leaving his face.

“Don’t you have practice?” she asked eventually.

Ilya shrugged. “Not until tonight.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’ll be fine,” he grumbled. He’d mastered the art of practising a little hungover this past season. He was never hungover for a game, though. He was still a leader.

She nodded, but Ilya got the sense that she did not believe him.

“Is it your dad?” she asked eventually, seemingly out of the blue.

“What?” Ilya was stunned.

“Ever since we came back from Moscow, you’ve been distant. You’re obviously not okay -” she held up her hand to cut off any protests, “- don’t even start with me, I saw the bottles in your garbage can. Did something else happen at the funeral?”

Well, yes. Something else had happened. Just not in Moscow. 

Not until a week later.

“It’s okay to take some time off if you need to grieve,” she said gently.

Ilya blinked. “I am not grieving him.”

That part was at least true. He felt confused about his father’s death. There was a lot of anger and disappointment simmering inside him, but it wasn’t grief. Not in the way she was thinking, at least.

What he was grieving was something very different.

“Then what is it?”

Ilya froze. He wanted to tell her so badly. He wanted someone to give him advice or tell him that he was an idiot or, fuck, just tell him that he was going to be okay. That he wouldn’t feel like this forever. He trusted Svetlana. She knew about him and Sasha, or had at least guessed, so she knew about him. She’d never come out and asked him directly if he liked men, but he was pretty sure she knew. It’s just…

It wasn’t just his secret to tell.

He slumped back against the headboard. “I’m fine, Sveta.”

She scoffed. “Don’t lie to me. You don’t have to tell me the truth. Just don’t lie to me.”

Ilya nodded but didn’t say anything else.

xxx

Shane Hollander collapsed after completing his one hundred and fiftieth push-up. His muscles screamed in protest as he righted himself and leaned against the wall.

He was breathing shakily, sweat pouring out of him, sticking to his skin and dampening his hair. His arm trembled a bit as he lifted his water bottle to his mouth. He didn’t enjoy the deathly quiet of his apartment, but he was glad that he was back in his own gym.

His phone pinged from where he’d left it next to his exercise mat. He groaned as he reached for it - it was the Voyageurs Instagram group chat. J.J. had sent a thirst trap edit of Shane with the caption “Captain My Captain.” The group had recently been trying to find increasingly unhinged edits of their various team members. Shane never participated in the trend, but would send the obligatory laughing emoji. He watched it with a detached sort of disinterest. It was well edited, admittedly.

Shane, out of habit, scrolled down, which was a mistake. The next video was of Rozanov. It was a compilation of slow-motion clips of him on the ice, mischievous winks, and far too many interviews where he was shirtless. His chest, broad and gleaming, took up half of the screen.

His heart stopped and he dropped his phone. He closed his eyes and knocked his head back against the wall. He breathed deeply for a few seconds before opening his eyes again. But he couldn’t get the images of Rozanov out of his mind.

Fuck, he missed him.

He lifted his head slightly and knocked it against the wall again, as if it could purge the images from his mind.

Does Rozanov watch those kinds of videos of me?

Did he want him to be watching that?

No, of course not.

He took another deep drink of water and then started on his next set.

xxx

Ilya Rozanov felt the electricity in the room more than he was experiencing it. He watched his teammates howling and launching themselves into the air, elated cheers whooping from their lungs.

This win basically sealed their spot in the playoffs.

“This is our year, man, I can fucking feel it!” Marleau was shouting right into Ilya’s ear.

“Fuck yes!” Ilya agreed, his voice sounding a little strained. He hoped the commotion in the room was enough to drown it out.

It’s not that he wasn’t excited about going to the playoffs. He was. He loved the intensity and adrenaline-fuelled haze that settled during that time. He loved that he could get completely lost in it. It shut everything else down, made everything else in his mind fade to the background.

But when the final whistle had gone, all he’d wanted to do was message Shane. Make a little snide comment about how there would be no need for Shane to try so hard in the next game, that Boston would flatten Montreal in their last regular season game in two weeks.

It was bizarre that he could still forget. That it was done. That it was gone. Shane felt like an instinct he’d never unlearn.

He should be focused on getting ready for the playoffs, not on the fact that he hated not being able to share any of it with Shane.

“We have to go celebrate!” someone roared, and everyone yelled and beat their fists against the lockers.

Ilya shouldn’t go out. It was late, he was tired. He didn’t want the lecture he knew he’d get. Svetlana had basically moved into his guest room; if he showed up drunk one more time, he knew she’d have a lot to say about it.

No one had asked him directly, probably assuming that he was going. He’s their leader, and the lead instigator. But as he watched them all shoving each other playfully and chatting animatedly, he just felt tired.

His phone pinged from inside his locker.

Another Google alert. Fuck.

Ilya grabbed it, and when he was sure that no one could see his screen, he clicked the link.

The Voyageurs had won their game as well.

So it looked like both teams were pretty much guaranteed to advance to the playoffs.

Ilya read the article, scanning through the stats and the plays. Shane had scored a hat trick. There was an image of him there.

Shane looked… wrong?

He wasn’t smiling, not even the shy half-smile that would show up when he was proud of himself but didn’t want to admit it. He was just gazing kind of vacantly out onto the ice.

How was he doing this? How was he managing to still play this well? Better, even, than he ever had.

Ilya had felt off all season. He was still better than basically everyone, it was just a fact, but he’d felt sloppier. Less in control, more reliant on speed, force, and muscle memory than on any new strategies or tactics. Hockey had always been his escape, but it didn’t help when the thoughts he was trying to escape were so completely intertwined with hockey itself.

Hockey didn’t feel the same without Shane. No one pushed him like he did, kept him on his feet the way he did. He played better hockey when he was thinking about outperforming him; he enjoyed it more when he was facing him.

He enjoyed a lot of things more when Shane was involved.

He looked at the article again. It was detailing all of Shane’s impressive records this season.

There were a lot of impressive records.

Ilya sighed heavily and dropped down on the bench. The locker room was starting to clear out now. Men were either in the showers or heading home to change before going out to the club.

Ilya had told Shane he risked more when it came to them, and it was true. But Shane risked a lot too, that much was obvious. Shane lived for hockey. He seemed to breathe it.

How could Ilya let Shane risk that? How could what they had ever have been enough to justify that?

Maybe one day, when they’re both retired…

He stopped the thought.

It wasn’t helpful. That was years away. There was no guarantee that Shane would still be open to anything between them then. Hell, he barely seemed open to having a conversation with him now. He couldn’t build his life around a maybe.

He took a deep breath.

He tried not to let himself go there. For all his obsession with Shane, he tried not to think about the maybe that had started rattling around in his brain.

Maybe ten years from now, they’d run into each other just after they retired.

Maybe twenty-five years from now, at a Hall of Fame retrospective on previous inductees, they’d find themselves in the same room. He’d hopefully be an American citizen. Shane would have greying hair. Maybe then.

Maybe.

He shouldn’t hold on to maybe, but it was the only thing that gave him any reason to push himself through this part. This fucked-up, painful part.

Because when Ilya was drunk and honest with himself, he’d admit that when he pictured himself happy, it was always with Shane.

He glanced at Shane’s picture one more time before opening his messages, texting Marleau to find out which club they were heading to.

xxx

For how well Shane had been able to avoid Rozanov, he seemed dead set on invading his life in the two weeks leading up to their final regular season game. He was everywhere. On billboards, on cereal boxes and flyers handed out near the rink, he was a thought piece on his favorite podcast (Wow! Rozanov has had what can only be described as a violent season).

And to make matters worse, Shane couldn't get the video out of his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, it looped back, like some old record stuck on repeat. It had been days since he first saw it, but it tried to interrupt most of his waking thoughts. Each rerun scraped something raw in his chest.

He tried not to think about it.

He tried not to think about it while he finished in the gym. Or when he made himself a protein shake. He really tried not to think about it in the shower. Because he could not get himself off to a thirty second edit of Rozanov.

There was pathetic, and then there was that.

But it wasn’t just the muscles, and the sweatiness, and the flirtatious winks. Although that too, obviously. It was also his crooked smile, the playfulness on the ice, the joy when he cheered after scoring a goal. It was like Shane had felt his energy in those brief moments. Energy he hadn’t felt in so long.

He was an addict, suffering through withdrawal.

He was finding it harder to shut down thoughts of Rozanov. Which was why he found himself driving to his practice rink at eleven p.m. It was better than thinking.

He parked his car in the desolate lot. He stayed in his car for a moment, staring through the window at the sky. He could barely make out any stars, the light pollution diluting them. It was nothing like at his cottage.

He felt less alone surrounded by stars.

Although last summer had been lonelier than he’d ever experienced before. The cottage, his favourite place in the world that had held so much hope earlier that year, had felt unnecessarily large. The space he usually craved seemed suddenly too big for him. Too many rooms, too few opportunities to share them with - 

He opened his car door and half marched himself to the entrance.

He hadn’t even made it to the locker room door when he was bombarded with Rozanov’s face. The league had started marketing their game—each wall was covered with the same colossal still of Shane and Rozanov at the face-off circle.

Shane’s heart gave a painful, irregular stutter when he recognised the game the picture was from.

It was from this time last year.

The day Rozanov ended things.

Shane wanted to look away. He knew he probably needed to, for his own sanity. But he was absolutely stunned at his own facial expression. The adoration in his eyes seemed embarrassingly obvious.

How had no one noticed it?

Oh fuck, he was so in love.

He closed his eyes and bit down on his cheek, the pain temporarily grounding him.

Rozanov had been right. There was no way they could have kept going the way it was. The signs would have become too clear. Less easy to deny. If that was how he looked at him after one meaningful phone call, how would he have looked at him in one year? Five?

Rozanov was right to end it.

Shane pushed his way into the locker room, a sick feeling coiling in his stomach.

He’d been right to end it. Shane would never have been the one to do it. Shane would never have been able to give him up. He would have done anything to protect those stolen moments. 

He threw his bag into the locker with more force than necessary. He groaned when he saw another one of the promotional posters against the back of the door. But he looked again anyway. This time he studied Rozanov’s face. The shape of it, the tight set of his jaw, the glint in his eye.

That had been the first game he’d played since losing his dad. Shane had wanted to talk to him about it more, see if he was alright. He wanted to offer to make him feel better, or just hold him through the night so he knew there were still people who cared about him. He’d wondered if the death had brought back thoughts of his mother. He’d wanted to show up for him. He’d wanted to look after him.

He’d wanted a future with Rozanov and he’d wanted a present.

He’d wanted him more than he’d wanted anything in his life.

Shane took out his skates and started undoing his laces.

But that wasn’t on the cards anymore. He needed to close the chapter, shut the door that a small part of him tried to keep askew.

He shoved his feet into the skates.

And if, even now, he still feared that a part of him would always be keeping that door open, he didn’t admit it aloud. He barely even admitted it to himself. He just prided himself on the fact that he wasn’t staring at it all day. Just visiting it occasionally.

And it only broke his heart a little each time he turned away.

He glanced at  Ilya’s picture one more time before lacing up his skates. 

Then 

(9 months ago)

Ilya Rozanov was watching the Stanley Cup Final alone, with jealousy blooming under his skin and a dull throbbing in his side. He shifted, trying to adjust his position on the couch to take pressure off his injured ribs, but he was struggling to get comfortable.

He glanced back at the television. He couldn’t believe that Scott fucking Hunter was going to win the Cup. He huffed out a frustrated breath, only half of it about his discomfort.

The fucking Admirals were going to take it this year. He picked up his phone instinctively, the message to Shane already half formed before his brain caught up.

Oh, right.

Ilya dropped his phone next to him and trained his eyes back on the game.

Three.

Two.

One.

And there it was.

Hunter had finally done it. The celebrations were immediate, the ice flooded in a sea of red as the whole team surged forward. Players on the television were kissing their wives and hugging their children. Ilya had never had someone to reach for after winning. He wondered what that would be like as he studied the joyous expressions on their faces.

His ribs twinged again. It was almost time for his painkillers. He reached for the remote to turn off the festivities when, all of a sudden -

Scott Hunter was kissing a man. On live television.

Ilya froze, his whole body turning to stone.

Was this really happening? What -

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. The two men pulled apart for a second and seemed to murmur to each other. Their eyes were alight, and there was so much reverence in Hunter’s gaze that Ilya felt a bizarre instinct to turn away.

And then the fucker went back in, hands in the stranger’s hair, his mouth moving with a level of familiarity that had to mean they’d done this before. Like this was normal. 

Ilya gaped at the TV for ages; there was a high pitched ringing in his ears. He lunged for his phone. It was still open on Shane’s contact. He pressed call.

It rang once.

“Fuck.”

He hung up.

He threw his phone across the room. It hit the wall with a crack and bounded onto the tiled floor.

This wasn’t going to save them. It didn’t change a fucking thing. It could have, before. It probably would have.

Inexplicably, tears burned in his eyes. What should have felt hopeful just felt heavy, like an anchor.

A lifeline that came too late.

xxx

Holy. Shit.

Scott Hunter was kissing a man.

Something in Shane Hollander’s world cracked open.

How was this happening? How did - ? When did - ? Did that mean he could - ?

Questions were swirling around his brain, bouncing and ricocheting off one another before they’d even fully formed. He was distantly aware of his parents’ shocked gasps, but he couldn’t focus on anything other than the cacophony in his mind.

His heart was beating so hard it felt like he was going to choke.

His phone buzzed in his hand, and the name Lily had barely appeared on the screen before the call was cut off.

Everything stilled, zeroing in on the single missed call notification.

Had Ilya tried to call him? Or was it an accident?

It had to have been an accident, right? It was too quick to have been intentional.

Shane’s eyes were fixed on the screen.

Please call again, he thought.

Please call. Please call. Please call.

He stared at his phone long after the screen faded back to black. Long after he’d accepted that no call was coming.

He stared at it as the world around him kept cracking.

Chapter End Notes

Title of this chapter comes from the song Almost by Lewis Capaldi.

I really hoped you enjoyed it!

I will try to have the next chapter up by the end of the week and promise to reply to every comment :)

Chapter 4: Confessions should be better planned.

Chapter Notes

Hello there!

The last chapter received quite a few comments, so thank you so much to those who took the time to engage with the story in that way. I so appreciate hearing all of your thoughts.

But, also, a great big thank you to anyone who has read up until now or left kudos. I cannot tell you how much it means to me :)

I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Now

Ilya Rozanov grumbled petulantly at his reflection, adjusting a bow tie that didn't really need adjusting.

A charity gala this close to the end of the regular season seemed strange. But the Bears management team had told all of the players that attendance was mandatory. Most of the Eastern Conference players were going to be there.

Shane was going to be there.

Ilya studied himself in the mirror for a minute, patting down some flyaway hairs before reaching for the vodka on his dresser.

He was going to see Shane again. For the first time outside of a hockey game. In nearly a year.

He took another deep drink, the familiar burn down his throat soothing.

What would Shane do?

In Ilya’s fantasy, Shane would stare at him openly. He would trap Ilya in the spotlight of his focus. Maybe his lips would part as their eyes met, maybe a small, almost inaudible breath would escape from his lungs. But Ilya would hear it. Because he’d always been attuned to Hollander - found himself shifting when he shifted, breathing when he breathed.

Maybe Shane would turn and find a side door to leave through, knowing Ilya would follow…

Ilya gulped the rest of his drink, smacking the empty glass down on the dresser.

No, probably none of that. Shane would likely ignore him. He would chat pleasantly to all the bland sponsors about their dull lives, but he would keep his eyes trained anywhere but at him, if this season was anything to go by.

It would be easier to orchestrate an accidental encounter, though, given that they would be in the same room, likely surrounded by a throng of bodies, all swaying and bumping into each other. If not from the open bar, then from the live band the league had hired.

Hollander would talk to him. Ilya would make sure of it. He was certain he would be able to convince or corner him.

What he was going to say… that he was less certain of.

xxx

Shane Hollander was sitting alone at the bar; his glass of ginger ale sweating where it rested on the heavy oak. He ran his thumb over the condensation, the cold surprisingly soothing.

The night had been overstimulating so far.

He really hated crowds and having to pretend he found very uninteresting people endlessly fascinating. He was also on edge, both craving the sight of Rozanov but equally terrified of being in the same vicinity as him. He didn’t have hockey to help centre him this time. There would be no distractions, no puck to chase, no body to check.

Would he even greet him?

It seemed unlikely. To the world, they were still rivals. There would be no real reason for the two of them to speak past a vague nod of acknowledgement if they passed each other.

Which would be better, of course. Shane shouldn’t speak to him, couldn’t speak to him. He took another sip of his ginger ale.

Shane looked up from his drink just as Rozanov walked in, his attention honing in on him like a moth to a flame. He was laughing as he crossed through the threshold, on the other side of the room. Shane swallowed heavily and tried to back himself into the corner of the bar.

Rozanov looked unbelievable, his tailored suit showing off his physique in a way that made Shane's mouth water. He would have liked to stare at him for as long as he could get away with it, but all of his focus was being pulled to the delicate fingers wrapped around his bicep. Shane's gaze flickered to the woman keeping him company.

She was stunning. Her skin gleamed in the dim light, and her red curls were perfectly styled. She looked like the exact type of woman Ilya should be with: gorgeous and confident.

Shane studied them for a bit as they started circulating around the room. There was a familiarity there in the way they walked together. The casual bumps and conspiratorial glances spoke of a shared intimacy Shane could only guess at. They joined a group of players and their dates, standing almost directly across from where Shane was standing. They were definitely charming their new crowd - their laughter booming around the room, it felt like it was reverberating in Shane's skull. He should really look away.

“Next round's on me!” a young forward from Toronto called to the group. Jason Tremblay, or something. His eyes were glassy, his feet unsteady as he headed directly towards where Shane was half hiding. Shane recognized him as one of the early draft picks of last year's rookies.

“Hollander!” he called as he half fell into the seat next to Shane. He was far too close, and he swayed a bit as he tried to get the bartender’s attention. Shane could smell his alcohol-laced breath, and he scrunched up his nose involuntarily.

He didn't want to be judgemental. The guy seemed to be having the time of his life. He was all smiles and loose-limbed. Shane couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like that.

Well, he could probably guess. There was only one person who ever made him feel like that. His eyes darted to where Rozanov was standing, his back to Shane.

Tremblay threw his arm over Shane's shoulder, leaning a surprising amount of his weight on him. Shane gripped the bar to maintain his balance.

“Having a good time, Holzy?” he slurred, and continued before Shane could answer, “I fucking love these things. Get to meet such hot people.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of where Rozanov and that whole group were chatting animatedly. Shane glanced over again. His back was still to him, but he seemed a little tense. His shoulders were drawn, and one of his hands was curled into a fist. His date was running her hand soothingly, somewhat absently, up and down his shoulder.

Shane's stomach recoiled, and he turned away quickly.

“Do you know Rozanov's date?” Tremblay’s eyes were full of wonder.

“No,” Shane replied honestly.

The drunk guy pulled Shane in tighter and whisper-shouted, “That's Sergei Vetrov’s daughter!”

Shane's whole body went numb.

Svetlana.

“There is a girl I like here very much.” Rozanov's words echoed, and it felt like he’d taken a hit directly to the head. “But she’s busy these days.”

Of course it was Svetlana.

It looked like she was not so busy anymore.

The bartender finally returned with the Toronto player's drinks.

“Gotta go, man!” he said as he grabbed more glasses than he could probably carry in this state. Shane should offer to help him, but he would honestly rather walk barefoot over broken glass than go anywhere near Rozanov and his picture-perfect date.

Shane nodded as the guy slunk his way back to the group. Shane turned back towards his drink. He studied the golden colour before taking a sip mechanically. He couldn’t taste much.

Of course it was Svetlana.

He should be happy for Rozanov, really. That he had found someone that he likes. Shane should.

He was trying to be, even if the thought of the two of them together looked wrong in his mind, felt wrong.

Shane felt the familiar sensation of the world going kind of hazy, cottonwool soft. He couldn't hear the noise anymore, couldn't really feel the glass in his hand.

Svetlana made perfect sense. The thought crept hesitantly into Shane’s mind.

She wouldn’t have had to sit there, phone to her ear, in silence while he spoke in Russian, voice breaking, words she couldn’t slow down or translate. She would have understood. She could go with him to Russia, if he ever wanted to go back. She wouldn’t close that door for him. Being with her wouldn’t force a choice between his old and new life. She could hold his hand in public, stay beside him, be seen with him. She wouldn’t have to disappear.

Shane distantly felt his chest tightening. The sensation was there, but it felt hazy, like an echo rather than something real.

Svetlana wasn't a risk.

Shane blinked as a drop of sweat fell from his forehead onto the countertop.

Fuck, Rozanov probably hadn't even needed to teach her how to blow him. She probably just knew what he liked and how he liked it. She probably stayed in his bed after, didn't run away when he called her by her first name.

She had everything he needed. Shane couldn't offer any of these, let alone all of them.

He had… what?

His heart?

It seemed so pathetic in comparison, so embarrassingly insignificant.

Of course he left.

Shane would have given him everything he could, if he knew how to. If it wouldn't have cost them both everything.

After all that Rozanov had been through, he deserved more than what Shane had given him. Or even what Shane could ever offer him.

The thought shot him back into his body, and all of his senses came back to him at once in a wave. The room was suddenly too hot, too bright. The noise from the gaggle of conversation scraped at his eardrums. The constricting feeling in his chest was choking him, making it difficult for him to breathe.

Ilya deserved better.

Shane couldn't be better.

It really was that simple, he thought bitterly, trying to ignore the lump in his throat.

The sensory overload was maddening. Shane wanted to scream. Shane wanted to run to the broom closet he'd seen in the hallway and hide in the dark.

The sweat on his neck was dripping unceremoniously into the collar of his shirt. The sticky feeling made him shudder.

He heard a loud peal of laughter. The clink of glasses. The sounds coarse and scratchy.

He thought back to Tremblay and his big smile and his glassy eyes. He probably wasn't fazed by the buzz of life around him.

Shane wanted that.

Without thinking, he turned to the bartender and asked for two shots of vodka. He downed them both, one right after the other. The burn was intense, it bled down his throat all the way into his stomach.

He signalled for another two.

He needed to get out of there.

He bolted for the door. 

xxx

Tremblay returned from the bar, his sleeves wet from the drinks that had spilled as he stumbled. Ilya had watched him talking to Shane from the reflection in a mirror he’d strategically placed himself in front of.

He tried to sneak glances as often as he could without it becoming obvious.

He was sitting by himself. Had been for as long as Ilya had been in the room. Ilya’d spotted some of the Voyageurs, including Pike, on the dancefloor with their wives and girlfriends. It bothered him that Shane was alone.

But it bothered him a whole lot more when Tremblay had thrown his arm over Shane. So casual, so comfortable. Like he was allowed to just touch him. Seeing the young forward’s face so close to Shane’s had made Ilya’s whole body go tight. A tension springing into his muscles that made it difficult to focus on anything but how much he wanted to forcibly put his body between the two men.

It wasn’t fair that that fucking stranger got to touch Shane’s body so casually. The body that Ilya had been deprived of for a fucking year. Ilya would give up five years of his life just to get to feel that body underneath him one more time.

Being this close to Shane without being able to speak to him or touch him was aggravating. Ilya wanted to claw at his own skin to relieve the thrumming that was surging in his limbs.

Svetlana seemed to notice his state and started rubbing his back and arms soothingly. It wasn’t helping. When he risked another glance into the mirror, he noticed that Shane was looking at him, that same distant look in his eyes.

How the fuck was he so unaffected?

What was with that fucking vacant look?

When Tremblay started back towards the group, Ilya loosed a breath, feeling increasingly calmer the more distance there was between the drunk rookie and his… Shane.

“Have you guys met Hollander? Man’s a fucking legend,” Tremblay said, distributing the drinks. A muscle in Ilya’s jaw twitched. He felt Svetlana’s questioning look, but he did not turn towards her.

He listened as someone made a relatively unfunny joke, but he gave the expected chuckle. When he found another moment to look at the mirror, his heart dropped.

Shane was gone. Four empty shot glasses in the space he just inhabited.

xxx

No, no!

Ilya had been through every fucking hallway and room in this godforsaken building.

Where was Shane?

He could not have missed him. Not tonight. He had to find him.

He ripped open a door he’d already opened. It was empty, like it was ten minutes ago. He heard some distant chattering, and not wanting to interact with anyone, he slipped into the vacant room. It was dark, the only light coming from the moonlight spilling through the large windows.

He slumped against a wall and took a deep breath. He just needed to think. He could figure this out.

But try as he might, he couldn’t work out where he might be.

It was unlike Shane to leave a mandatory event this early. He had to be around here somewhere.

Fuck it.

Ilya grabbed his phone from his pocket.

He scrolled down to a chat he’d studied like scripture over the past year but hadn’t actually used.

Ilya: Where are you?

His hands shook as he pressed send. Shane could ignore him, would probably ignore him. But he had to try.

Shane always showed up, right?

He thrummed his fingers on his thigh, bit his lip. Then he saw the three dots.

Holy fuck, Shane was replying to him.

Jane: Why?

That was a fair question. Ilya couldn’t answer him.

Ilya: Answer the question.

There was a beat. Ilya could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

Jane: Outside.

Ilya collapsed, crumbling to the floor, his back against the wall. Shane hadn’t left. He was still here. He was still here, and he was responding to him.

Ilya: Why outside?
Jane: There’s a park next door. Quiet. Lots of stars.
Ilya: Come back. Meet me.

Ilya’s whole world zeroed in on his phone screen. Shane could say no. Shane could tell him to fuck off. He could-

Jane: Why?

Again, a very reasonable question. Ilya didn’t know why, but he knew he’d figure it out when he could just speak to him. He just needed to speak to him.

Ilya: We need to talk.

There was a slightly longer pause. Ilya started tapping his fist on the hardwood floor.

Jane: Last time you said that, I hated the conversation.

Ilya felt his heart break a little.

Ilya: Shane.
Jane: Rozanov.

Ilya got up unsteadily and headed for the windows. Perhaps he could see the park from here. If Shane wasn’t coming, he’d go find him. His phone buzzed in his hand before he’d taken three steps.

Jane: I don’t know what there is to talk about.

Ilya continued to the window. There it was, across the road. He thought he could make out the outline of someone sitting on a bench, just to the side of the large light.

llya: Second story. There is an empty room next to the bathroom.
Ilya: Come.

His vision was blurring.

Ilya: Please.

There was no response. But Ilya watched as the figure stood, turned, and headed back to the building.

Back to him.

xxx

llya Rozanov stayed by the window.

His heartbeat was so loud that he couldn’t hear the creak of the door as it pushed open slowly, tentatively. But he could see it.

He held his breath until the door was fully open.

And then Shane was there, in front of him. Like a mirage or a dream.

He was bathed in shadows, body tense, but he was here.

Their eyes locked for a second.

Holy. Shit.

Ilya found it difficult to swallow.

Shane turned away quickly, turning his back so that he could close the door softly.

The loss of eye contact had Ilya feeling jittery. He sniffed, willing Shane to turn back around faster. But he stayed facing the door. His entire body was drawn tight; Ilya could feel the tension bleeding out of his frozen form.

Ilya cleared his throat. “You came.”

There was a beat.

“Well, yeah…”

The you asked me to hung between them, the unsaid words almost echoing in the abandoned space.

It hit Ilya then - they were completely alone.

The realisation was dizzying. He took a step forward, the sound unnaturally loud. Shane still wasn’t turning around.

“Is difficult to have a conversation with your back, da?” Ilya whispered.

Needing Shane to turn back, needing him to look at him, to ground him.

Please look at me.

It looked like Shane was nodding, but he couldn’t be sure. It was too dark in the entryway.

What did he have to lose?

Ilya crossed the room in hurried strides until he was right behind Shane, barely an inch of space between their bodies. From this close, he could feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his body was trembling.

He raised his hand and, with two fingers, gently and slowly traced a path from the sensitive skin under Shane’s ear down to the collar of his shirt. The first contact of skin on skin made Ilya’s vision white out for a moment.

He felt Shane’s goosebumps on the pads of his fingers. Heard the soft, needy gasp that seemed punched out of him. Ilya wanted to draw the sound out. Again. And again. He wanted to drown in it.

Fuck, how could he forget the effect Shane had on him?

Shane still didn’t turn around, but he wasn’t stopping him either.

In fact, it looked like he was leaning backwards. Leaning towards him.

He closed the distance completely, moulding himself to Shane’s back. He lowered his hand deliberately from Shane’s neck, tracing it down the familiar contours of his back until it came to rest on his hip. His fingers tightened possessively, holding Shane to him. He ran his nose along the outer shell of Shane’s ear, breathing him in.

Oh god.

How had he given this up?

The room was silent except for the increasingly frequent rasps of their breath.

“Rozanov,” Shane whispered.

No, no. Not that.

He needed to hear his name coming from that voice. He didn’t want the distance, he wanted-

Oh fuck.

He just wanted Shane.

No time or distance was going to change that. Would ever change that. The way he wanted Shane felt embedded in his DNA.

He did the smart thing, the right thing.

And it hadn’t mattered. Nothing changed. 

He didn't want him any less. 

Before he could stop himself, he ghosted his lips across Shane’s neck. Followed the route with his tongue. Shane whimpered, and Ilya was done for.

The blood rushed south so fast he felt like he would pass out. He gripped Shane’s other hip too, to keep himself upright. Shane was here, in his hands. He was warm, and solid, and leaning into Ilya like he always had. Like he couldn’t help himself. The need coursing through his body was almost acidic. He was hard. So hard that it hurt.

Instinctively, he jerked into Shane, chasing friction. The feel of his body against where he was heavy and throbbing was euphoric.

ShaneShaneShaneShane.

Shane exhaled sharply and turned slowly in Ilya’s hold, never breaking contact. He turned until they were facing each other.

Shane’s eyes were a storm of emotions. Ilya couldn’t decipher them, but he held his gaze. Shane lifted his hand and ran his thumb along Ilya’s jaw, the movement so tentative, so gentle. Ilya wanted to scream. To cry. 

He was an idiot. He had been a fucking idiot.

Shane opened his mouth, paused, and then -

“Ilya.”

Something shattered inside him, and the tension that had been grating on every single one of his nerve endings snapped.

He surged forward, lips colliding with Shane’s. He pulled and shoved him onto the nearest wall. Plastered his body to Shane’s and pushed him into the wall: pushed like if he did it hard enough they could meld into one body. So that he didn’t have to go through one more second without him.

Please want me again.

Ilya shoved a leg between Shane’s, and Shane was grinding down onto him in a millisecond.

Oh god, oh thank you.

His hands ripped Shane’s shirt from his pants and smoothed onto the hard planes of his torso. Shane’s skin was burning him.

He needed the shirt gone. He needed it off. He withdrew his hands just so he could undo the buttons.

Shane’s hands were tugging on his hair, the sharp bite painful. Shane moaned into his mouth when Ilya finally got the first button undone. His shaking hands made slow work of it.

He sucked Shane’s tongue into his mouth, devouring the soft, broken sounds he was making. Shane’s hands dropped to Ilya’s belt buckle, and Ilya pushed even closer, trying to give him easier access.

Please touch me. Please make it all go away.

Ilya felt beside himself with lust, frantic energy bubbling into every movement.

He finally got Shane’s final button undone, and then he descended on him. Dragging lips, teeth, and tongue across his chest, shoulder, throat. Pressing prayers of gratitude into every inch of skin- he got to have this again, have Shane again

He bit down over his collarbone, and Shane jerked into him.

Mine. All mine.

He soothed the sting with his tongue, continuing its path until he placed an open-mouthed kiss right under his ear.

“Mine,” the thought tumbled out of his mouth this time, directly into Shane’s ear.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Shane froze underneath him, his body almost going limp. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The change was immediate and gut-wrenching.

Ilya pulled back. “Shane?”

Shane’s eyes, that had been fevered a minute ago, looked cloudy.

“Shane?” he asked again. He wanted to shake him. He wanted to clear that look from his eyes.

“Get off of me,” Shane whispered. Ilya scurried back like he’d been burned.

“I can’t,” Shane cleared his throat, starting to do up his buttons. “I can’t do this again.”

“What is happening?” Ilya reached for him, but Shane ignored him, eyes trained on the ground.

“I need to go.” Shane’s voice cracked.

“Shane, please.” Ilya begged desperately.

Shane looked up then, tears tracking slowly down his freckled face.

Ilya’s heart squeezed painfully.

“Moy lyubeemy...”

“I can’t do this again. I know, I know I am not right for you -” he hiccupped. “And you deserve more, but I can’t lose you again. I can’t. I won’t survive it. You could change your mind - ”

Shane started inching towards the door.

No no no no.

The room was tilting.

“Shane, I - ” Ilya started, but Shane shook his head fervently. His back hit the door.

Please don’t leave.

“Shane,” he tried again as he watched him open the door, “I will always feel this way about you. I will never not lo-”

Shane pressed his hands over his ears as he slipped from the room and disappeared into the night.

And Ilya was alone.

Chapter End Notes

Title of this chapter comes from the song An Evening I Will Not Forget by Dermot Kennedy.
(This song was actually the core inspiration for this chapter, it has been on repeat for days)

I cannot stress enough, how little I know about hockey, galas or what even happens at these events. I am just here to try and force some proximity.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I promise I will reply to every comment :)

Chapter 5: I still love you though, I still love you always.

Chapter Notes

Helllooo,

I cannot thank you all enough for all the love I received on the last chapter. I am so grateful for every read, kudos, and comment. I think it’s the most comments I’ve ever received on a WIP chapter. I hope you know that every comment is deeply appreciated.

I was able to write a little more over the weekend than I expected, so I thought I’d get this out early :)

I’ve updated the tags, and some minor trigger warnings for this chapter can be found in the end notes.

Now

Shane Hollander groaned as he bent down to grab his blender. Every muscle in his body was aching. Moving, in any way, was borderline excruciating. Even breathing was uncomfortable.

He may have been overdoing it at the gym lately.

He just… he just did not know what else to do.

Ever since he’d kissed Rozanov last week, it was like something had been smashed open inside his brain. And every thought, every feeling he’d been trying to avoid over the past year came bleeding into his everyday life.

He’d wake up, and the first feeling he would register was the phantom of Rozanov's mouth on his throat. The sensation was so real, he’d find himself reaching across an empty bed, just to desperately grab onto nothing.

He’d be on a run, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and he’d be met with the flash image of Rozanov, glistening with sweat as he shot the puck into the net, as he pushed into him for the first time.

He’d be in the fucking grocery store, and just the picture of Coke on sale would transport him to Rozanov’s apartment.

It was exhausting and it would not stop. 

He tried everything. He tried harder than he ever had to force the memories away.

But the world was loud in a way he couldn’t shut out, and his body didn’t feel like his own. He couldn’t control it, he couldn’t control anything.

He was hard all the time now, living with a kind of itchy pressure pulsing under his skin. He felt oversensitive and frantic. But he couldn’t do anything about it. The one time he tried, it was the feel of Ilya thrusting against him in that dark and abandoned room that invaded his senses.

He was crying all the time now too. Not sobs, no distraught bouts of emotion, just random episodes of tears spilling over, with no clear cause and no easy fix. He’d wake up, the ghost of arms around him, and find his cheeks wet. He’d be watching a hockey game and be shocked to feel droplets splashing onto his thigh.

He had no idea what was happening to him, but he knew he could not tell anyone.

What if they benched him?

What if, after everything hockey had cost him, everything he gave up to make it work, this was the thing that kept him from the playoffs and another Stanley? His inability to be a fucking grown-up and deal with his own emotions.

So he tried harder. He spent more time on the ice than he ever had, trained harder, ate cleaner. It would help eventually, he knew it would. He needed it to work if he was going to face Rozanov today.

Shane added some superfood powder that smelled awful to his smoothie mix and started the blender. The roaring of the blades made every muscle in his body contract. He breathed slowly through his nose until the concoction looked smooth enough that he could switch the machine off.

He poured it into his travel cup and washed the blender, ignoring the painful twinge in his bicep as he scrubbed every inch of the plastic until it was absolutely spotless.

xxx

Shane drove to the arena in silence.

He didn’t think he’d ever dreaded a game this much. Come to think of it, he didn’t think he’d ever dreaded a game at all. He did not know how to act normal when he felt this frenetic. But the closer he got to the rink, the harder his heart beat in his chest. By the time he was in his usual parking spot, he was truly concerned that the violent thrashing was going to break a rib.

This was fucking ridiculous. He pawed at his chest, like he could absorb the shock through his hands. He waited for a few minutes, eyes closed and face pressed against the cool window, hoping his body would stop betraying him. He just needed the vibrations in his bones to settle. He just needed to make it through the next few hours.

When it became apparent that he was not going to be able to calm down by sitting stupidly in his car, he took some steadying breaths before heading towards the ice.

He was the first person in the locker room, as usual. He’d hoped that the familiar scent and sounds would help calm him down, but by the time he was tying his skates, his hands were still shaking.

He sat up and was met with a flash of a memory.

Rozanov pressing him into the wall, his hands tightening on his stomach as he whispered the word mine. Shane’s body ran cold, like it had last week when the word had sliced through the fog of desire that had settled intimately around him.

The truth is, Shane had always belonged to Rozanov. Maybe since the first time they met in that Saskatchewan parking lot, and definitely since he touched Shane’s hand when he passed him a water bottle when they were both sprawled on a dirty gym floor.

So much of his life had centered around Rozanov for so fucking long.

It centered around his body, his mouth and hands lighting him up with pleasure so intense that it was borderline painful. His strong arms pushing him down, fucking him hard, and then holding him gently after - and Shane never asked him to stay. Never once, not even when he wanted it so badly he thought he’d cease to exist if he had to watch him leave one more time. Until Rozanov had asked him to stay, and Shane had sprinted away from a tuna melt and the gentle cadence of his first name straight into the arms of a public relationship with Rose. When the force of wanting to build something real with Rozanov had knocked the wind out of him and he understood that, once acknowledged, it would be irrevocable. But of course, Rose hadn’t worked out. And neither had looking for someone else, anyone else. The desperation to prove that he wouldn’t always crave Rozanov pushing him into a strange man’s bed in Mexico and pushing him to his knees in that LA bathroom.

It was always, always about Rozanov.

It always came back to Ilya.

Before, when he’d breathed that word, mine, it had felt like a promise. When he caressed the syllables into his skin, it felt like it meant something. That maybe Shane was the only person who held that title, took up that space in his life.

But then he’d said it the night he ended things. Let the word drop into his ear, soft and sacred, like a hopeful poison. But it hadn’t changed anything. Rozanov had called him mine and left anyway. Like it didn’t matter.

Rozanov was not his, not in the reverential way Shane belonged to him. He had people around him that it would be easier to belong to.

If Shane let himself, he would fall into him every opportunity he could grab onto, like he had been doing since he was nineteen years old. Blindly, over and over again. But Ilya could turn away.

Again.

He would, probably. It was better for him.

If Shane had let himself fall last week, even though every cell in his body had wanted him to, he was opening himself up to a lifetime of crashing into the ground, with no one there to catch him.

He was unsurprised to find his face wet when he rubbed at his burning eyes.

He had no fucking idea how he was supposed to do this.

xxx

Ilya Rozanov had no fucking idea how he was supposed to do this.

The locker room was oppressively loud. They’d be heading onto the ice to warm up in a few minutes, and the men around him seemed to be hyping themselves up by speaking louder and louder as the minutes ticked on.

Ilya knew he’d be expected to give a speech soon. Something inspirational, energizing, and a little crude. He usually loved this part.

But today he was distracted. 

He’d been distracted for the past week, each conscious moment seemingly stuck in that last moment he’d had with Shane. How it went from desperate and urgent to… nothing.

He’d never experienced that with Shane before. Ever. The way he seemed to just bleed out of his own body. He’d looked like the shell Ilya had seen in magazines and Instagram stories.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was driving him mad. But at least he knew now that he’d been wrong. Shane was affected.

He thought knowing that he wasn’t alone in his suffering would feel like a relief. That knowing Shane was hurting too would make him feel less alone. But instead, it just made him feel sick.

Ilya had been sober since that night, trying to piece the puzzle together, trying to find the words he needed to say. Because the next time they saw each other, he would need to use words, spell it out clearly. That he was sorry, that he regretted it, that he missed him.

Shane would likely not just accept it at face value. Ilya knew how difficult trust was to get back once it slipped through your fingers.

But he’d work on it for as long as he had to. He’d take every spare second he had finding a way to prove to Shane that he was willing to do whatever it took to carve a future for them. He didn’t have it fully worked out yet, but he had time. He’d think about it properly, mull it over, and come up with contingencies. He’d find a way to make the world safe for them.

But for now, he had to lead his team.

He slammed his locker shut, the sound bouncing off the walls. It grabbed everyone’s attention, just like he knew it would.

“Alright, listen the fuck up….”

xxx

Ilya Rozanov was sweating.

He could feel the tension in the back of his throat, in his teeth. The crowds were screeching, the sounds echoing in his ears.

The first period flew by, and now, at the start of the second, they were at a draw, 1–1. Neither he nor Shane had scored either of those goals.

Hollander looked jittery, his body always in motion: shoving, tapping his stick, clenching around his gum guard. He was ignoring Ilya as much as he could, but every now and then, Ilya could feel his eyes on him. Ilya had noticed the sweat clinging to his hairline and dripping down into his shirt.

They were bent at the face-off circle to start the second period.

Ilya noticed Shane’s frantic heartbeat, his pulse seemingly wanting to break through the sensitive skin of his neck.

“Hollander,” Ilya whispered.

Shane’s gaze darted to his, those brown eyes he fantasised so much about locking with his.

“Rozanov.”

The puck dropped, and Shane stole it immediately.

Shane was flying, and Ilya was struggling to close the gap, and then -

Oh, god. No.

It happened so fast, Ilya could barely process it. One second, Shane was racing down the ice, and the next he was slamming against the boards after colliding hard with Cliff Marleau.

Shane crumpled to the ice. 

He was not moving.

xxx

When Ilya was twelve years old, his world collapsed.

One random afternoon, after a practice that was cancelled early, he came home just to have the ground crumble into nothing below him. And he was falling, falling, falling.

He’d felt a fear so intense that it invaded each and every one of his senses. It clung to him as he threw himself to his knees, as he shook the body of the person he loved most in the world. He remembered begging and the feel of hot tears on his arms as he clutched desperately onto her unmoving, cold form. That fear had settled in his chest like an anchor, inky black and all-consuming. It had broken him when he was young; it had followed him like a shadow as an adult. This fear of being too late, of being left alone.

He’d learned to contain it, how to pretend it wasn’t pressed into his shoulder, watching over every move he made. But it swallowed him again, now, as he watched the body of the man he loved not fucking moving. He felt it spreading over him: his skin on fire and his blood frozen.

He was skating towards Shane, arms outstretched before he could think about it. He just needed to feel that he was alive, that the skin on his wrist was warm. He’d barely moved an inch when he was pushed bodily back by a referee.

There was a rushing sound in his ears, a metallic taste in his mouth.

“Is he okay?”

Medics hurried onto the ice. They were crowding Shane’s body, but Ilya could still see his face from his angle.

His eyes were closed, and he still wasn’t fucking moving.

The fear coiled like a snake around his heart, spilling into his lungs. And he was drowning.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

“Is he alright? Fucking tell me!”

No one said anything to him. No one offered him a life raft. He watched helplessly as Shane was lifted onto a spinal board and into the air. One arm dropped limply off the board, fingers nearly grazing the ice.

Ilya’s breath caught as he was hurled back fourteen years, to an empty house and his mother’s arm hanging lifelessly off the side of the sofa.

Bile rose in his throat as Shane was transported away.

The last thing he saw was the medics hurriedly moving through the tunnel and Shane’s gently swaying arm.

He was still not fucking moving.

xxx

Shane started to come to when he felt himself lifted into the air, a distant ringing in his ears.

The feeling was so unusual that his stomach swooped as he went against gravity.

“Shane? Shane? Can you hear me?”

Yes, he wanted to say. But he couldn’t get his mouth to work. His tongue felt too heavy, and his teeth felt glued together.

“Shane, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes,” the unfamiliar voice demanded firmly.

That seemed like a big ask. His eyelids were so heavy.

“Is he alright? Fucking tell me!”

Ilya.

He sounded so scared.

Shane tried to blink the heaviness out of his eyes, wanting to catch Ilya’s gaze and reassure him that he was fine. He didn’t need to worry.

He just managed to open them a smidge when he felt himself moving.

“Shane? Ah, good, yes! Welcome back. Keep your eyes on me, alright?”

Shane couldn’t discern who was speaking to him. He could see shapes, but he couldn’t focus on individual features.

“Is he alright?” he slurred, unsure if he could be heard.

“Who?” the unfamiliar voice asked.

Ilya. He wanted to say, but his brain and vocal cords were not communicating.

He was so tired. He felt his eyes drifting closed.

“Shane! Buddy, I really need you to keep your eyes open, okay?”

Shane tried. He really did. He blinked and blinked.

But he was so heavy, and he was so tired.

He felt himself slipping peacefully back into the warm, comforting dark. The last thought on his mind was Ilya’s voice.

“Shane! We really need you to - ”

xxx

It was one of the worst nights of Ilya Rozanov’s life.

The fear was stifling, weaving its way into the very marrow of his bones.

The time on his phone read 2:24 a.m. as he refreshed the search for Shane Hollander for what felt like the hundredth time.

No updates.

Ilya’s stomach recoiled, and if he’d managed to eat anything at all, he was sure he would have been sick. Shane had to be okay.

He refreshed again.

No updates.

He’d given up trying to sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, he was met with a vision of a crumpled body or a limp arm.

Shane was alive. Of course he was. This was different to then, to what happened in Moscow.

Ilya sniffed as he opened the most recently published article, one he’d already read about thirty times. There was an image of Shane, dead weight on the ice, although most of his face was obscured by the medical team crowding him.

Ilya studied the image until his eyes started to burn and then swim. 

A realisation dawned on him, the reality settling like bricks in his bones. It was never about the risk to his career, his visa, his life in Boston. It was this.

The risk of loving and then losing. Again. Letting someone in, allowing them to take up residence in his heart, to leave their imprint on his soul, and then to have them ripped away. Again.

He’d barely survived it the first time. Most days he thought he was still trying to learn how to live around the loss, how to coexist with the grief that seeped in when he least expected it.

He was terrified. Of having Shane. Of losing him.

But as he looked at Shane’s picture, immortalised in one of the worst moments of Ilya’s life, he realised that his only regret would be not allowing them to try. Because all he wanted, when he looked back on his life, was to know that he had loved and been loved by Shane Hollander.

They could have a life together.

He wasn’t sure what it would look like yet. But there was a life out there for them: with a dog, maybe, and morning coffee and lazy kisses. Something quiet. Something real. A life with fighting and making up and learning how to meld their stories together. A life he hadn’t let himself think about before.

But for that life, Shane needed to move. He needed to wake up.

Ilya touched the cross on his neck and sent a desperate prayer to anyone who was listening.

xxx

The elevator ride seemed endless. Ilya tried to ignore the cloying antiseptic smell burning his nostrils.

He hated being in hospitals.

He’d been hiding in the hospital parking lot, stress clawing at his stomach, as he waited for the stupid paparazzi account he’d been following obsessively to post Shane’s parents leaving.

It wasn’t unusual for the captain of an opposing team to visit an injured player, especially after a hit like that, but he didn’t want to accidentally run into Shane’s parents - didn’t want to meet them when he felt this untethered. He’d only managed to wait because news had broken around 4:00 a.m. that Shane was awake and that the injuries would need time to heal but weren’t career-ending.

He’d waited until it was late, hoping that the halls would be somewhat empty and that his presence wouldn’t draw unnecessary attention. He wanted to get to Shane as quickly as possible.

He felt shaky by the time he finally found Shane’s room.

Ilya cracked the door open and slipped in.

His chest constricted at the sight that greeted him.

The right side of Shane’s face was covered in a web of darkening bruises, the mottled purple bleeding down the side of his neck and chest. His right arm was in a sling, and his other had multiple needles and tubes stuck to his skin, connecting him to a multitude of machines and IVs.

His eyes were closed, his dark hair splayed across the crisp white pillow.

A lump grew in Ilya’s throat as he tried to gently close the door behind him.

The click was soft, but the sound still made Shane stir. Ilya remained frozen where he was as Shane blinked awake groggily. He wanted to go to him, to fall to his knees and press his face into Shane’s stomach. He wanted to feel him breathing, to feel the warmth of blood beneath his skin against his cheek. He wanted it so badly, but he wasn’t sure if it would be welcome.

Shane finally started looking around the room, and when his eyes landed on him, a huge, unguarded grin spilled across his face.

“Ilyaaaaaa.”

His voice was childlike, borderline giddy, and the relief almost brought Ilya to his knees.

He stayed where he was, plastered against the door, the handle digging into his back. A touchstone.

“I just wanted to… Are you okay?” He tried to speak past the lump in his throat. He hoped Shane couldn’t hear how choked up he was.

Shane shrugged and winced. Ilya started forward and then caught himself.

“Concussion and a fractured collarbone. Out for the playoffs, but -”

“- it could have been worse,” Ilya finished for him.

Shane smiled lazily up at him. “Could have been worse.”

He wasn’t sure what emotion was playing across his face, but Shane suddenly reached for him. He clenched and unclenched his hand in the air, like a toddler reaching for a precious toy. “Hey. Heyyyyy.”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya said quickly, hurrying forward, his tone pacifying, but the gratitude that Shane wanted to touch him had him fighting the urge to break down into sobs right where he stood.

He took his hand in his, and for the first time since he’d watched Shane go down, his heart settled. Air found its way into his lungs unhindered.

“Yes, better.” Shane took a deep breath and squeezed Ilya’s hand weakly. He closed his eyes, a pleased little smile on his face.

Ilya reached up and carded his hand gently through Shane’s hair. Shane turned towards him automatically, instinctively. Ilya’s heart felt like it had grown three times in size.

“You scared me,” he whispered, unsure if Shane was asleep.

Shane hummed softly. “Scared myself. It hurt so bad, it hurt everywhere, kind of like when you broke up with me.”

Ilya felt the colour drain from his face.

“Solnyshko,” he said, running his thumb in a soothing circle over the soft skin of Shane’s inner wrist.

Shane’s eyes opened at the Russian endearment.

“You broke my heart, you know,” Shane said, like he was commenting on the weather. He still had that drugged-up smile on his face. “That hurt everywhere too. That was worse, though. Didn’t have the magic medicine that makes it all go away.”

Ilya’s heart stuttered painfully.

Shane looked conspiratorially at Ilya, cocking his head towards the IV. “These are great. It went from blinding pain to nothing like this.” He tried to click his fingers together without letting go of Ilya’s hand. He stared at the IV for a beat. “Should steal some. For when you leave.”

Shane nodded, looking very pleased with himself. Meanwhile, Ilya’s mouth dried out, an aching pain building in the back of his throat.

“Shane, moy lyubeemy, I am not going to leave again.” He squeezed his hand, hoping Shane could hear his sincerity through the fog.

Shane let out a short laugh, a genuinely amused sound. It was jarring in the fragile atmosphere of the room. “Of course you are. You’ll go back to Svetlana.”

Shane frowned at her name, exhaled shakily, and tightened his grip on Ilya’s hand.

“Sveta? I’ve told you, we’re just friends.”

“Could’ve changed your mind,” Shane shrugged, then winced again. It pulled on the monitors and needles in a way that made Ilya feel completely useless.

“Shane…” Ilya was at a loss for words. There was too much coming at him all at once. He’d barely been able to process the painful relief that Shane was awake and speaking to him, let alone these unhindered revelations. He needed a moment to catch his breath; each syllable falling from Shane’s bruised lips cut into the very core of him.

Shane sighed, his eyelids fluttering, like keeping them open was difficult, but he was fighting it. Ilya stroked along his unbruised jaw with the back of his knuckle.

“I am sorry that I hurt you, moy lyubeemy, I was trying to protect us both.”

“I know,” Shane said, leaning into his touch.

“When you’re awake… we talk, da? Properly. I want to try again. If you still do.”

“Of course I'll want to. Even if I know you deserve better,” Shane said plainly, then yawned. Each time he blinked, his eyes stayed closed longer. Ilya’s heart snapped at the last sentence. How Shane could think he was undeserving was incomprehensible. The thought made Ilya want to rip his hair out by the roots.

He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Shane’s temple, stroking his thumb along his freckles. Shane let out a pleased whimper, and Ilya had to bite back tears.

“I am sorry, Shane. I should not have left. I hate that I hurt you,” he whispered.

“’S okay,” Shane slurred, his eyes closing one more time and this time staying shut. “I still love you, though. I still love you always.”

Ilya’s heart stopped.

Shane was going to ruin him, saying things like this. Ilya felt the words settle inside him, a sudden desperate urgency to be worthy of them taking root.

Shane’s grip tightened on Ilya as he drifted off, like he was scared he would disappear. That he wouldn’t be there when he woke up.

Ilya would, if he could.

He wanted to stay. He would happily forfeit his place on the playoff roster to climb into the bed beside him, to watch over him while he slept, to help him through his recovery. The need to be his caretaker and protector pulsed hot and thick through his veins.

But he could not make that decision for Shane.

He held his hand as long as he could. Longer than he should. He listened to him breathe and didn’t bother wiping his tears when he eventually walked  out of the room.

Chapter End Notes

The title of this chapter comes from the song An Evening I Will Not Forget by Dermot Kennedy.
(This song is still on repeat ).

TW: Mentions of off-screen suicide (finding Irina's body comes back to Ilya in a flashback), PTSD flashbacks, and the canon on-ice injury.

If you want to keep shouting at me in the comments, please feel free to do so. I promise to keep replying to each and every one <3

There will be one more chapter (slightly longer), which I will try to post by the end of the week, and then an epilogue. Both are fully mapped out, but I have some intense deadlines at work over the next two weeks.

I hope you enjoyed :)

Chapter 6: Keep me honest, keep me kind. Keep me as your finish line.

Chapter Notes

So I was completely floored by the number of comments and kudos on the last chapter. Thank you all so much, genuinely, every single one of you.

I’m also not entirely sure how it happened, but apparently I wrote 18 pages for this chapter? Oops.

I hope you all enjoy it :)

Now

Shane Hollander drummed his fingers on his steering wheel, stealing furtive glances out his window, but nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him. He’d been waiting in his car for the past twenty five minutes.

His phone buzzed in his lap, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin.

Lily: Just landed.

Holy shit. This was really happening.

Ignoring the stutter in his chest, he typed:

Shane: Perfect. I’m parked outside.

Shane sent him his location and step-by-step instructions on how to find the correct parking spot. He was incredibly frustrated that he couldn’t meet him at the gate, drag him into his arms the second he was close.But that was not an option. It would draw too much attention.

Ilya sent him a thumbs-up emoji, and Shane let out a rattling breath. He glanced at the cooler he’d set up in the backseat. He reached out and pulled out a Coke, settling it in the passenger seat cupholder. He swallowed heavily and continued tapping on the steering wheel.

The last time he’d seen Ilya was when he was delirious, his system flooded with painkillers and the bone weariness that came during the crash following an intense adrenaline rush.

He couldn’t remember much about Ilya’s visit. The whole interaction had the soft, hazy quality of a beatific dream. All he really remembered was a strong hand in his, a light touch on his face, and gentle lips on his temple. Just a warm glow.

He had almost convinced himself that it had been a fantasy his drug-addled mind had conjured up until his mom had made fun of him for the text.

“Who’s  Lily?” she’d asked, with a knowing smile.

“What?” Shane hadn’t fully come down yet, and he thought he must be experiencing an auditory hallucination. Usually they were of Ilya saying that he was sorry for leaving, that he wanted to try again.

“You’ve got a very romantic text from a Lily on your phone.” She lifted an eyebrow at him.

He scrambled for the right thing to say.

Lily was… his ex something? A man? Ilya Rozanov?

Those were all true, but he couldn’t say any of that.

Lily was… the person he was in love with and pretty sure he would always be in love with?

No, he couldn’t say that either.

“She’s no one,” he said, the lie burning his tongue.

He’s everything.

“What does it say?” Shane didn’t want his mom to read his messages, but he wasn’t allowed to look at screens, and he felt like he would die if he didn’t have the answer to the question.

“Well, she said she was very worried about you, but she’s glad she got to see you’re doing better. And that you’ll have a talk, a real talk, when you’re healed and she’s back.”

There was a beat.

Ilya had come.

He’d been to see Shane. He’d risked a lot by doing so. Shane did not know what to do with that information.

“Do you have a girlfriend that you haven’t told us about?” His mom sounded a little hurt as she stared at his phone.

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said honestly. “But please don’t read anything else.”

“Fine, fine. Have your secrets.” She locked his phone and put it on the side table. “She just doesn’t seem like no one.”

She’d been right, of course.

Shane had gone home with his parents shortly after that to recover. His collarbone hurt, but the headaches were worse. They’d be instantaneous and blinding - sharp, stabbing pains that dug into his brain and left him depleted after. He spent a lot of time resting on their couch, watching the playoffs with his parents, who brought him water and medication and tucked a blanket over him, even when the late April weather did not really call for it anymore.

That was where he was when he watched Ilya’s first playoff game. Boston had taken an early lead and managed to keep it until the very end. It hadn’t been an easy game - it was rough and fast. It looked exhilarating, and if Shane hadn’t been tired out just by walking to his childhood bedroom, he knew jealousy would be blooming under his skin. But instead, he was able to just enjoy watching Rozanov play. He was fucking good. And the way he played was interesting; it looked like he was having fun.

He was glad he still had painkillers to blame for the small smile he’d catch creeping onto his face.

He’d gone to bed early that evening, his parents meeting with some friends, when a text came through.

Lily: Are you home?

Shane’s head had been throbbing, but it was a dull ache. He hadn’t heard from Rozanov since he’d sent that message after the hospital.

Shane: At my parents’ house.

Lily: Are they taking care of you?

Shane: Yeah.

Lily: Good.

Shane watched the chat, his eyes burning in the blue light. The throbbing in his head sharpened. He’d have to put his phone down soon.

Shane: You played well today.

Lily: You watched?

Shane: Yes.

The dots appeared on his screen for a few seconds. Stopped. Started again.

Lily: Can I call?

Shane: Yes.

He probably should have been more hesitant. He probably should have told Rozanov to fuck off. But blame it on the head injury or the pain medication… he wanted to hear his voice.

He knew this didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

One injury did not take away the risk he posed to Ilya’s life. There was no reason to believe that anything had changed for him. The reasons he left were still the reasons he wouldn’t stay. But Shane was so tired, and he missed him so much. He could pretend, for now, that it did not matter. That he could survive some brief contact - a hospital visit, a late-night call.

He just wasn’t strong enough to pack it all up right then.

He wanted to hear Ilya’s voice. He wanted to listen to him speak and hear the little Russian slips that he’d always secretly adored.

That is why, when the call came through, he answered immediately.

“Hollander,” his voice was tired but clear.

“Rozanov.”

Shane closed his eyes, the headache settling in heavily.

“So you watched how well I played tonight,” his voice was low, teasing.

It felt strangely intimate, having Ilya’s hushed voice in his ear, blanketed by the dark.

“Buffalo almost had you a couple of times there,” Shane countered.

“I know! How did that happen? They are supposed to be terrible.”

And that is the way the conversation continued. They spoke about hockey for about forty minutes before Shane felt himself nodding off.

“Hello? Hollander?”

“Sorry,” Shane couldn’t disguise the yawn. “The headaches wear me out.”

“You are in pain?” He sounded tense.

“This helped,” Shane mumbled. “Distracted me.”

“You should go to bed,” Ilya sounded far away.

“Hmm, so should you. Have another game to play tomorrow.”

Shane didn’t want to hang up, even though he could feel himself losing the fight to stay conscious.

“I’ll text you tomorrow?” It sounded like a question.

“I’m not allowed to text, really. Need to avoid screens.”

“I call then, da?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Shane doesn’t remember hanging up.

But Ilya kept his word. He called the next night.

And the night after.

And even when Shane’s concussion healed, the headaches receding and fading, as Ilya started playing the second round of playoffs, Ilya kept calling.

Sometimes they spoke for ages. Sometimes they barely spoke for five minutes. But they talked daily.

It became Shane’s favourite part of the day. It felt like he was holding his breath from the moment the dial tone played in his ear until his ringtone went off the next evening.

They didn’t talk about them, though, or what it meant that they were speaking consistently. They didn’t talk about the fact that Ilya had left or that he had visited Shane in the hospital. They never flirted, bar a teasing remark here or there.

So it was a real surprise when Ilya called the night his team was knocked out of the playoffs with a question.

“Can I still come to the cottage?”

Shane wanted to say that the offer would always be there. But instead he just said, “Yes.”

And then there was a moment, the silence making Shane itch.

“Not going back to Russia this summer?”

“No.”

And now Shane was here, in the parking lot at the airport in Montreal, his heart thundering in his chest.

He knew that there was a potential for this to end really badly. That, he was probably undoing a lot of work he’d put into healing. That, realistically, he was setting himself up for failure - another year of dragging himself through a world drained of colour. But something had changed since the hit.

He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly. But something made him want to be brave.

Ilya left, but Shane hadn’t stopped him.

Ilya came back, and Shane didn’t want to stop him.

He didn’t know what any of it meant.

But freshly healed, sunlight spilling through his windows, he knew he wanted to be able to hope.

xxx

Ilya Rozanov found his way easily enough. Shane was in the far corner of the parking lot, where only a few empty cars were dotted around. He knocked on the back window, and the trunk popped open.

He took a deep breath as he lifted his bag up.

He was struggling to keep his body contained, endless tiny jittery movements pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

He felt somewhat dizzy as he closed the trunk and headed for the passenger door. It took him a few tries to get a good grip on the handle, his sweaty hands slipping in a way that was unbearably embarrassing.

And then suddenly, he was next to Shane.

They stared at each other for a moment in stunned silence. Shane’s bewildered expression mirrored the emotions churning through Ilya at the same moment.

But then Shane smiled, a soft, tentative half-smile, and Ilya’s heart fucking stopped.

Holy. Shit.

“Hi.”

Ilya couldn’t help the grin that snuck onto his face. “Hi.”

Shane swallowed, his gaze never leaving his. Ilya wanted to haul Shane across the dashboard into his lap. He wanted to run his hands under his shirt, feel the ridges of his spine against his fingertips, bury his face in the crook of his neck, and inhale so deeply that the smell of sun-warmed skin would embed itself in his lungs.

But he had to do this the right way.

Ilya tucked his hands beneath his legs. “Thank you for letting me join you.”

He wasn’t sure why he was whispering, but the moment felt delicate.

Shane’s gaze dropped to Ilya’s lips for a moment.

“Thank you for coming.”

The bright sunlight seemed to highlight Shane’s features, setting them aglow. And Ilya wanted.

Would one kiss be a bad idea? Be unwelcome?

He was just about to lean forward when a loud burst of laughter sounded behind them. His head snapped toward the noise, and he was met with a family walking towards them, their car likely parked somewhere close. They were all wearing Montreal Voyageurs jerseys.

Ilya felt Shane tense beside him.

He pulled his cap lower and hurried to put his seatbelt on.

“We should go, yes?”

Shane cleared his throat, stole one more glance at Ilya, and then started the car.

“It’s about a two-hour drive. I brought you some cokes and snacks in case you were hungry.”

Ilya spotted the sweating can waiting specifically for him.

His throat felt tight as he whispered, “Let’s go.

xxx

For the entire two-hour drive, there is a current humming beneath Ilya’s skin, connecting him to Shane. It vibrates as it pulses down his arm. He’s hyperaware of each shift of Shane’s body, each twitch that moves his arm closer, each turn of the wheel that adds an inch of space. 

Being this close to Shane is making it hard for Ilya to concentrate. Luckily Shane doesn’t seem to be expecting him to have any intellectual conversations. They were mostly driving in silence, the tension sitting thick in the air. Shane occasionally muttered updates on the distance they had left, weather forecasts for the two weeks, local grocery stores they could pop into if they ran low on supplies.

Ilya mostly just watched him, lulled by his voice and the soft whir of the aircon. He studied the movement of the muscles in his forearm when he turned the steering wheel. He would've happily spent days right where he was. 

Sooner than he had expected, the cottage came into view. It was beautiful. 

The first thing he registered when he climbed out of the car was the gentle sound of lapping water and the crystal clean smell of the air. The second was that there were no other houses for miles. 

They were completely and undeniably alone.

Ilya’s brain short circuited for a second, the realization making his head spin. Which is why he missed Shane collecting his bag and carrying it towards the front door. 

“I can carry my own bag,” Ilya protested as he hurried towards the cottage. 

Shane just made a non-committal sound and moved the bag out of reach when Ilya tried to snatch it from him. 

When they were inside, Ilya was truly blown away. It was incredible. So open, so light. 

Shane dropped Ilya’s bag in the lounge. 

“Are you hungry? Or thirsty? I could make an early dinner if you want.” Shane sounded hesitant.

“No, I am okay, thank you.” Ilya walked the perimeter of the lounge, stopping  to briefly inspect each piece of art and photograph that littered the walls. There were a lot of Shane’s parents. 

“So what do you want to…” Shane dug his thumbs into the pockets of his shorts, his throat moving as he swallowed. 

I want to drop to my knees and worship whatever god has given me this moment.

“I think we should talk?” Shane’s voice was hesitant, a guardedness bleeding in that hadn’t been there before. Like he was expecting a rejection. 

“Yes.”

Shane indicated towards the soft leather couches. Ilya took a seat on the sofa closest to him, Shane hesitated where he stood for a second before dropping down directly next to him, their bare knees touching. Shane didn’t move away.

“Is this okay?” 

I had nightmares that I would never touch you again, he thinks. “Da. Is okay.”

Ilya swallowed and took a deep breath through his nose. How did he start this conversation?

xxx

Shane studied Ilya for a moment, neither of them saying anything. The tension that had lifted a little since they got out of the car diffused back into the room, thickening the air around them. The enormity of it all was starting to feel a little suffocating.

There was a myriad of emotions playing across Ilya’s features, his usual playful guard completely lowered. He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. The pattern repeated.

Shane felt like he was on a rocking boat, vertigo pouring over his brain.

“I thought I knew what I wanted to say,” Ilya said, clearing his throat, “but the words are not coming now.”

Ilya tugged on his ear, palmed his jaw.

Shane’s chest tightened. Ilya dropped his eyes to the ground.

“I wanted - ” he tried again, but stopped. A huff of frustration fell out of his mouth.

I wanted to tell you that I think we should go back to the way we were, Shane filled in the words in his head. Just fucking. Simple.

Shane wanted to put his head between his legs, calm his breathing, but that was ridiculous. He just didn’t know what he would say if that was Ilya’s request.

He missed him so much and, like an addict, felt that he would likely take whatever scrap of affection he could get. But he knew he wanted more. He didn’t want to just be another body to him. He wanted to be the only body in his bed, the only body that brought him pleasure. And he wanted to be the person he slept tangled up with, the person he reached for in that soft state between being asleep and awake. He wanted to know his coffee order and his gym routine and what made him feel better when he was sad.

Shane had never wanted anything the way he wanted everything with the man in front of him.

“I wanted to have the right words. So there is no confusion. You deserve the right words.”

Oh. Shane blinked.

Ilya dropped his gaze to where their legs were still pressed together. “But the words are not coming now.”

Shane watched him, watching them. “Would it help if I asked a question?”

Ilya, otherwise unmoving, nodded.

“Why did you come see me in the hospital? Was it because you felt bad your teammate hurt me?”

Shane held his breath, scared of the answer. It was a reality that had started poking at the cotton-soft memory. Ilya was a good man, a good leader, and Shane could have read into it. Could have misinterpreted the reason for his trip.

Ilya took a deep breath and gently cupped Shane’s knee, dragging his thumb slowly back and forth. “No. I mean, yes, but no. Not only that.”

Shane’s entire world shrank down to the rhythmic drag of skin on skin and the rough cadence of his voice.

“No?”

Ilya finally looked up at him. “No.”

“Then why?”

“How much do you remember?”

“Uh.” Shane tried to think back, like he hadn’t already tried to drag every millisecond of lucidity from his subconscious mind. “Not much.”

Ilya just nodded, using his free hand to run his thumb across his chin. “I thought so.”

“Why? Did I say anything dumb? My mom said I was spilling all kinds of secrets.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows.

“No, no. Nothing about us. I think even drugged up, I knew that it was -” sacred “- private.”

Shane felt a flush rise on his neck, so he dropped his head, focusing on Ilya’s thumb on his leg.

“I was just telling her about a ten-dollar note I stole out of her purse when I was a kid, and the time I smashed a window with a puck and blamed a bird. Shit like that.”

“Ah.” Shane could hear the smile in his voice. “So you were a bad boy. A rebel.”

“Fuck off,” Shane half-laughed.

Ilya squeezed his knee. “You thought I was leaving again.”

Shane felt like he’d been doused in ice water.

“You were very happy on the drugs, but you seemed sad. Like maybe you’ve been sad for a long time.”

You broke my heart.

“Yeah.”

“I have been sad too,” Ilya whispered. “It never got better. Nothing made it go away, this - ” he rubbed a hand across his chest, over his heart. “It was just always bad.”

Shane’s heart gave a painful, hopeful throb.

“I wanted to take it back the minute I was gone.” Ilya leaned back against the couch. He didn’t let go of Shane’s leg. It felt like an anchor.

“Then why didn’t you?” Shane barely whispered, cringing at how crushed he sounded.

Ilya looked at the ceiling and sniffed. “I thought there was no future. I thought that the risk was too much. For me, yes, but for you too. If we were caught, it could affect your career. And you love hockey.”

Not like I love you.

“You love hockey too.”

“Not as much as you. Hockey is an—” he shook his head as he searched for the English word. “Escape? I think.”

Shane nodded. He wouldn’t have understood before. But he understood now.

“You breathe for hockey,” Ilya concluded. “If we got caught and it affected hockey, it would hurt you more.”

Shane felt something settle heavily in his lungs.

“So I would risk my visa, risk my home, and you would risk the thing you loved most.” Ilya shrugged, eyes boring a hole into the ceiling. “There did not seem to be another option. We couldn’t be together, and I couldn’t pretend to only want-”

Shane studied his side profile, saw a small muscle jump in his cheek.

A question clawed its way up his throat, scratching painfully until Shane felt raw.

“And now?”

Ilya finally looked at him. His eyes were glassy, and a watery track glinted on his cheek. “All I want is you.”

Tears sprang to Shane’s eyes, and goosebumps erupted over his body.

Do you mean for now? Because I’m yours already. Completely. I’ll be yours forever if you ask.

“What changed?” Shane asked, his breathing hitching. He needed to know this before he let himself accept it. He needed to know if it was something that could change back.

Another tear ghosted down Ilya’s face. Instinctively, Shane reached up to catch it with his thumb. Tentatively, he moved his hand until he was cradling Ilya’s jaw in his palm.

“Watching you get hurt,” Ilya swallowed. “Suddenly none of it mattered. Because I was scared of losing you. But the only thing that was scarier was thinking about not getting to be with you. Not getting to -” He clenched his jaw, leaning into Shane’s hand.

Shane’s heart was pounding in his chest.

Ilya locked eyes with him. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

The air was forced out of Shane’s lungs.

Did that mean -

“I love you.”

“Holy shit,” Shane whispered. It wasn’t how he had meant to respond.

“I…” Ilya swallowed again, his eyes never wavering.

“I love you too,” the words escaped him in agonizing relief. “Oh my god, I love you so much.”

Ilya collided with him, and Shane fell backwards onto the couch. Ilya was gripping onto him with a ferocity that should have been painful, but only felt steadying. Shane’s hands tangled in his hair, holding him to his chest.

Ilya Rozanov came back. 

Ilya Rozanov loved him back.

After a few moments of awed silence, Shane pulled lightly on the brown curls, forcing Rozanov to look up at him.

“So you want to try to find a way to make this work? For real?”

“Yes.”

Shane felt a painful cracking inside his body, like his heart was breaking again just so it could heal correctly this time.

xxx

The yes hung heavily between them.

Ilya Rozanov was holding his breath, trying to gauge Shane’s reaction.

Shane looked like he'd been punched, a dazed look settling over his features. He was silent for so long that Ilya began to get antsy.

“Is that what you want? To be together?” he asked Shane.

I'll blow up my life, I'll tear it all down. Just say that you'll be there waiting.

“So much” Shane whimpered, bringing his lips to Ilya’s forehead, “so much it scares me.”

The surge of emotion burning through Ilya was debilitating. He dug his face into Shane’s chest as it washed over him, listened to his heartbeat as soft tremors spilled over his arms, traveled down his legs. 

Ilya breathed Shane in, tightened his arms around him. The rightness of the feel of his body underneath his made him ache. 

He hadn’t thought about God in a while, but he did feel like Shane had to have been made specifically for him.

Shane tugged on his hair again, gently. Ilya looked up at him. There was so much wonder in those dark eyes. Shane lifted his hand to gently run his thumb along Ilya’s eyebrow, down and along his jaw. He left a fire in his wake and Ilya was struck with the thought that he would happily spend his life cataloging the exact indents of each of Shane’s fingerprints. 

“Can I kiss you?” Ilya breathed.

Shane nodded gently, using his hand on Ilya’s jaw to tilt his mouth upwards. And when his lips pressed to Ilya’s it was devastating. Tears sprung behind his closed eyelids. He pulled himself up, so he was aligned with Shane, his lips never leaving his.

Shane melted back, his legs seemed to fall open subconsciously, making a space for Ilya that he couldn’t help but crawl into. When Shane’s legs lifted and tightened around Ilya’s hips his vision went hazy. When his ankles locked together against the small of his back his vision whited out completely. Ilya drew back for a second, Shane’s breath ghosting across his lips. Ilya ran his hand up Shane’s stomach and chest, until it settled against the side of his neck. 

“Is okay?”

Ilya almost couldn’t bear the adoration in Shane’s gaze. “It’s perfect”.

Ilya kissed him again, settling himself so that all of his body was covering all of Shane’s. The  heat of his skin bleeding into Ilya’s even through their clothing. He moved his mouth desperately, his tongue sweeping inside Shane’s mouth, reveling in the taste that he’d dreamed of for months.

Shane’s hands dipped below Ilya’s shirt and trailed upwards and Ilya detached himself from Shane just long enough to to rid himself of the vest. The material had barely touched the ground before Shane surged upwards, pressing his mouth to Ilya’s throat - dragging his lips and tongue across the skin, licking over his pulse point and the sensitive skin below his ear. 

“Shane,” his name, a prayer, torn from somewhere deep inside him.

“I missed you so much,” Ilya heard Shane’s voice cracking, against his ear. Ilya would’ve given an organ to remove the pain that laced through the syllables.

Ilya grabbed his face and crushed their mouths together. He kissed him with everything he had, poured every regret into the way his lips moved. Like he could kiss away the hurt, like he could prove his devotion by taking him apart.

I was starving for you.

He dragged his mouth along Shane’s collarbone, tasting sweat and skin, tracing his tongue along the new surgical scar. He wanted to familiarise himself with every inch of Shane’s skin, map it out so he could etch it into his subconscious. So he could recall it perfectly whenever they were apart.

He kissed down Shane’s body, his lips tracing a worshipful path down his sternum until he reached the waistband of his shorts. He lowered his hands onto Shane’s hips as he mouthed over where he was hard and straining.

“Oh fuck,” Shane threw his head back, a pained sound escaping him.

Ilya pushed Shane’s hips down as he outlined him with his tongue through the fabric, feeling a primal, euphoric rush when he noticed the wet spot he hadn’t put there himself. Shane was still so responsive for him

He kissed his way back up Shane’s stomach until he captured his lips again. He moved one hand from Shane’s hips to palm him through his damp shorts.

“Do you want to show me to the bedroom?”

Shane keened. “I kind of want you to fuck me on the couch.”

Ilya squeezed, and Shane let out a staccato puff of air, his eyes rolling back slightly as he arched into Ilya’s hand.

“I have been dreaming of fucking you in your bed for years.”

That caught Shane’s attention. “Years?”

Ilya held his gaze as he nodded.

Shane lifted his face to Ilya’s and kissed him deeply.

“The bed it is then,” he whispered against Ilya’s mouth.

He lifted himself off Shane, his body suddenly unbearably cold, except for his cock, which was hot and heavy and aching.

Shane hauled himself off the couch, and Ilya immediately pulled him back against his body.

Shane encircled his waist and buried his face in Ilya’s neck. “Is this real?”

“Yes.” Ilya kissed the top of his head, the tips of his ears, along the smattering of freckles until he finally reached his lips again.

“I need you inside me.” There was a hitch in Shane’s voice.

Ilya wondered if Shane was thinking about it too - how the last time they were together, it had been perfect and horrific. How pulling out of Shane’s body and then leaving had felt sacrilegious. He needed to rewrite the memory, fix it. Pour so much devotion into every movement, every breath, that the last time would feel like nothing more than a bad dream.

Ilya kissed him hungrily, kissed him until they were both breathless and panting.

They kept chasing lips, pulling on arms and legs, scraping teeth over shoulders as they made their way up the stairs. Shane lost his unbuttoned shirt somewhere along the way.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Ilya was flooded with so much desire he nearly collapsed. A part of him had wanted to take it slow, to take Shane apart until he was desperate and begging. But a year without Shane was catching up to him. He was buzzing with so much heat and longing that he knew he wouldn’t be able to slow down, wouldn’t be able to last long.

He pushed Shane back onto the bed. Shane looked up at him with such unfiltered need that Ilya felt like his legs would give out. He crawled up his body kissing every part of him: his calf, the back of his knee, his thigh, his hipbone. He only stopped to pull Shane’s shorts and underwear down.

Oh fuck. Shane was so hard. 

Ilya was mesmerised by the sight, he gently slid his finger from the base all the way to the head, circling it a few times until Shane made a choked off sound. 

Shane was studying him with hooded eyes.

Ilya stared right back. He circled him again, collecting the precome on his thumb before sucking it into his mouth.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane moaned, throwing an arm over his eyes as more precome blurted onto Ilya’s hand. 

“Just Ilya,” he laughed as he leaned forward to press his lips to Shane’s. 

Shane looked like he was trying to scowl, but he was mostly melting into the bed. 

“Where is…?” Ilya asked.

“Bedside drawer.” 

Ilya reached over and grabbed a small grocery packet. There was a box of sealed condoms and an unopened bottle of lube. There was also a receipt. He was about to crumble it up when he noticed the date. It was from just over a year ago, when Shane had first invited him. 

There hadn’t been anyone else. 

The thought crushed his lungs.

He scrunched the piece of paper in his hand. 

He would spend the rest of his life making up for the past year. 

He kissed the crease where Shane’s hip met his thigh and rid himself of his own remaining clothes. 

He would ensure that Shane never spent a year alone again. 

He covered his fingers in lube and sucked Shane’s cock into his mouth as he pressed a finger into him. 

Shane made a wanton noise above him, and his hands fell into Ilya’s hair, tugging roughly. 

He prepped him thoroughly, eyes on Shane as he moved, felt him clench when he hit the spot that always left him gasping.

He removed his mouth and fingers simultaneously and Shane whined at the sudden loss. Ilya peppered kisses up his body, tugged his nipple between his teeth. 

He lined himself up, the condom wrapper tossed somewhere beside the bed. “Is okay?”

“It’s all I want,” Shane hummed. 

Ilya braced his arms on either side of Shane’s head and pushed in slowly. 

The moment he was fully inside him was earth shattering. The sounds Shane was making had him feeling reverent. This would be all he would ever need.

I love you. The words beat inside him, as he started thrusting.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

xxx

Afterwards, Shane was lying heavily on his chest, his damp skin clinging to Ilya’s.

He was not sure if Shane's a sanctified gift or a test he keeps failing. But he's content, love drunk and more certain than ever that he would never, could never, give him up. He slid his hand up and down Shane's arm.

“I am free agent next season”

A silence stretched between them.

“You would leave Boston?” 

“Yes. I was thinking a Canadian team.” Ilya felt Shane freeze, going stiff in his arms.

He hadn’t even thought about it before, but the second the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were true.

“Not Montreal, but it would be nice to not have Russian Passport”. 

It would be nice if I was always near you.

Shane tightened his hold on Ilya's waist. Like he could anchor him to the bed or anchor himself to Ilya.

“You want to be in Canada?” The hopeful lilt to his voice  made Ilya want to tear the world down.

“I want to be in Canada.” 

Shane looked up from where his head was resting on Ilya's chest, his chin propped on Ilya's pec. “And you love me?”

Illya lifted his hand to card through Shane's hair. “I love you.”

Shane's smile was the best thing Ilya had ever seen. 

“Say it again in Russian please."

“Ya tebya lyublyu."

Chapter End Notes

Title of this chapter comes from the song Keep Me by Nova Amor.

This is by far the longest chapter I’ve written in years. I’ve tried to edit out any spelling, punctuation, or grammar mistakes, but I do apologise if there are any that slipped through. It turns out editing gets a lot harder when you accidentally write this many words.

Thank you all for sticking with this story. It’s been so meaningful to write, and I should have the epilogue up by the end of the weekend.

I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments. I promise I’ll reply to every single one :)

Thank you for reading and I hope you all have a great weekend :)

Chapter 7: Epilogue: And no thing defines a man like a love that makes him soft.

Chapter Notes

So here we are, at the end of this silly little story that somehow ended up meaning so much to me.

I genuinely cannot thank you all enough for reading, for the engagement, and for turning this into such a positive experience during a relatively difficult time in my life. Every comment, kudos, and reaction has meant more than I can properly put into words.

I really hope you enjoy this short little epilogue :)

Two years later.

It had been Shane’s idea initially.

He’d first brought it up the night Ilya met his parents. The dinner had been a little awkward to start, but by the end Ilya had struggled to fight against the lump in his throat from how welcome he had felt. It had gone really well.

They’d gone back to Ilya’s new house in Ottawa, Shane staring at him giddily the whole way. They were barely through the threshold of the front door before Ilya was being bodily shoved against the wall, his boyfriend’s lips on his.

They’d fucked on the kitchen floor.

It was after, in the sated, syrupy glow, that Shane brought it up.

“I think you should go visit Russia again.”

Ilya’s brain, which was still leaking out of his ears, struggled to catch up.

“What?”

Shane lazily traced nonsensical patterns across Ilya’s chest. “Before we come out, I think you should go back one more time.”

“Why are you saying this?”

Ilya had not been home, or even really considered it, since the summer before Shane’s injury.

Shane exhaled slowly.

“I think it would be a good idea to say goodbye properly. Obviously, after we come out next summer- ”

He stopped mid-thought, his hand stilling over Ilya’s heart.

“I won’t be able to go back,” Ilya finished for him.

“I just want you to be sure that you are really okay with leaving everything behind,” Shane mumbled.

I want to make sure you’re not going to regret choosing me.

Ilya knew his boyfriend well enough now to hear the words he’d never say out loud.

“I am very happy with my choices, solnyshko.” Ilya kissed the top of his head.

I will always choose you, always be grateful that I got to.

“Still,” Shane whispered. “I think you should. And I could go with you.”

“You want to go to Russia?”

Shane was silent for a moment, fidgeting with Ilya’s gold cross.

“I want to know all sides of you. Seeing you with my parents, in my childhood home… I know it will be different, but I want to see where you grew up, the area you lived, walk the streets you walked.”

Ilya stared at the ceiling, running his fingers up and down Shane’s back. “It would not be very happy.”

He heard Shane swallow heavily. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” he surprised himself by saying. “Not for long, and we’d have to be very careful.”

Shane tensed. “Will you be in any danger?”

“No. I know how to be careful. I will keep us both safe.”

It was enough to set the plan in motion.

And so they had spent the last couple of days in Moscow. They did it under the guise of the Irina Foundation, the only possible reason the two of them would be seen together in public. They were meeting with hockey schools. Ilya wanted to look into starting a scholarship for young, promising players who needed a leg up. Who might need an escape the way he had when he was young.

They’d also had a meeting with an up-and-coming mental health charity. They struggled with resources and stigma, and Ilya and Shane wanted to help where they could - for the people living in the city too sad to see a way out, too scared to ask for help.

But mostly they were just meandering through the city.

Shane kept him company, often in silence, as he walked through the streets he grew up on.

The park where he learned to ride a bike. The old rink where he used to practise. The primary school where he had his first kiss.

He wished he could have held Shane’s hand, but his sure, steady presence beside him was enough to ground him as he said goodbye to the world that had shaped so much of who he was.

It was strange. Last time he was here, he had hated everything about this city. He’d felt incredibly alone and stuck in the wake of his father’s death, separated from and longing for a man he thought he’d never have.

But with Shane next to him, he could see there had been beauty in this part of his life too. And he was ready to say goodbye, this time with a peaceful kind of gratitude for every moment that had shaped him into the person he was now. Someone Shane could love and risk everything for.

They were heading back to Canada that evening.

Ilya was glad he came, but he was mostly glad to be putting this part of his life behind him.

They’d started the day with an impulsive trip to a tattoo studio. Ilya had tried to goad Shane into getting one with him. He knew he wouldn’t, but watching him get huffy and defensive still made Ilya’s heart go soft.

And on the way to the airport, Shane had another idea.

Which was how Ilya found himself walking through a cemetery.

He stopped as he came to the tombstone he’d been visiting for more than half of his life.

“Hi, Mom,” he whispered in Russian, placing six white lilies on her grave.

He kissed his fingers and then touched the granite carefully. His throat felt tight as he studied the inscription. He looked over his shoulder to where Shane was standing a few feet back, giving Ilya a moment of privacy. When he noticed Ilya looking, he gave him a small, tender smile.

Ilya turned back to the gleaming black stone and sat down in front of it.

He thought back to the times he’d spent his afternoons here, after school or after practice. When his dad was angry and his brother was horrible. How he would talk to her like she could still hear him. Could still make him feel better.

It did, more often than not.

“I am sorry I haven’t been able to visit much, and I am sorry that I won’t get to visit anymore.” He cleared his throat. “I have the chance to build a happy life for myself, with someone I love more than I thought possible.”

He didn’t bother wiping his tears.

“He’s a good man, Mom. He makes me a better man too. Someone I hope you’d be proud of.”

Ilya knew she wouldn’t be angry at him for leaving a world that had hurt him so much. That she would be proud he was leaving the place that had shaped him, but ultimately made him so sad. Leaving to grab onto a happiness he’d never even thought to want.

It’s what he would have wanted for her if she’d had the opportunity.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to see how much more is out there.”

There was so much life outside of the bitterly unhappy home she’d felt trapped in.

“I know you will be with me though, wherever I go. I feel you here.”

He placed his hand over his heart, where just that morning he’d tattooed his mom’s name  (Cyrillic lettering, in Shane’s handwriting ) so he could always keep the two people he loved most in the world close to him.

He stood up and kissed his fingers before touching them to the tombstone again. Then he touched the gold cross around his neck.

She was with him, not tied to this rock in this country and life that had let her down.

He’d carry her forward. Sing their kids her lullabies. Make them her raspberry jam tea when they were sick.

He turned back to Shane and waved him over.

“Mom, this is Shane. My wonderful boyfriend, with a weak backhand.”

Shane gave a startled, soft chuckle, but then his eyes turned serious.

“Hi, Irina. It is such an honour to meet you.”

Shane gently traced his fingers along the corner of the black stone, his eyes wet.

“I wish I could have known you. There’s so much I would ask and so much I’d want to tell you.” Shane’s voice was shaky. “But mostly I just wanted to thank you for him. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He swallowed hard.

“You can rest easy. I promise I’ll look after him now. You don’t need to worry.”

Ilya glanced around them, and when he was certain no one was nearby, he tangled their fingers together. He brought the back of Shane’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

They stood there for as long as they could, but when the sun started to drip down the sky, they headed back to the car. They had a flight to catch.

Ilya glanced over at Shane as he buckled himself into the passenger seat. When he felt Ilya’s eyes on him, he looked up, his lips ticking upwards.

Ilya felt his heart settle.

The rest of his life was smiling adoringly at him from across the console, and he was worth anything.

Anything at all.

Chapter End Notes

Title comes from the song Strawberry Wine by Noah Kahan

I think one of the most important arcs for me in this story was exploring how difficult it is to give up the place you called home during your formative years. As someone who left the country they were born in for better opportunities, the idea of never being able to go back, even though I have no intention of moving back full-time, breaks my heart.

For all the bad that might exist, so much of who you are, and how you relate to the world, is tied to the language you speak, the customs you grew up with, the humour, and the food. No matter how long I am away, that is still the place where I feel the most understood and seen.

I think the sacrifice Ilya made could easily be underestimated, even if the outcome is a happy one that is undeniably worth it. So much of my story is about struggling with that decision and choosing the path that makes you happier while still acknowledging the sacrifice. And because I am a hopeless romantic, it is also about finding and holding on to the person you love enough to make that sacrifice worth it.

Anyway, that’s the end of my little rant that absolutely nobody asked for!

Comments and kudos are never expected, but always appreciated :)

Until next time!