Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Pork Belly Hollander

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Willa (Game Changers), Andrew (Game Changers), Kate (Game Changers), Harris Drover, Pork Hollander - Character, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog, pork belly hollander

Additional Tags:

Pork Hollander, Fluff and Humor, Slice of Life, Ilya Rozanov's no good very bad day, the things he does for shane..., no cats were harmed in the making of this fic, Fluff, Humor, Social Media, (briefly) - Freeform

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-15 Words: 6,595 Chapters: 1/1

the dad that stepped up

Summary

It’s not Ilya’s fault that Pork gets out.

Okay, well, maybe a little bit. But it is almost equally Shane’s fault.

The facts are thus: Ilya’s home nursing an injury, and Shane’s on a roadie, and maybe he and Shane have managed to get a little codependent after just one season playing together.

And so, while Ilya was making lunch, he got distracted by his very pretty husband facetiming him from the hotel shower. And perhaps the water evaporated and the noodles caught fire a bit.

And in the chaos of smoke and fire extinguishers and flinging open every window and door in the house – Well. Pork’s always been a bit of an escape artist.

 

Or: Shane’s horrible hairless cat gets out and Ilya has to hunt down his least favourite child.

Notes

hello. this is the second dose of silliness this week because the as it was closing companion is kicking my ass. it will get done, but this had to get done first.

for the uninitiated: pork hollander was introduced to the world by the brilliant surya (@narivaaaal) on twitter. he is a horrible pink hairless cat whom shane adores and ilya despises. i was moved to write my own version of this beast, which you find here. pork's origin here is slightly different primarily for plot reasons

• Inspired by [Restricted Work] by thathastu

It’s not Ilya’s fault that Pork gets out. 

Okay, well, maybe a little bit. But it is almost equally Shane’s fault. 

The facts are thus: Ilya has been out on injured reserve since the first game of the season when he tore a ligament in his thumb, which required surgery to fix. Shane is in Winnipeg on a road trip. Despite it only being their second season playing together, Shane and Ilya have gotten a bit too used to being together all the time. Maybe they’re a little codependent. 

And so, while Ilya was making lunch, he got distracted by his very pretty husband facetiming him from the hotel shower. And perhaps the water evaporated and the noodles caught fire a bit. 

And in the chaos of smoke and fire extinguishers and flinging open every window and door in the house – Well. Pork’s always been a bit of an escape artist. 

That’s why they have the little bastard in the first place. 

Once upon a time, when Shane was still a Voyageur, Pork belonged to his positively ancient neighbor. And whenever the despicable pink creature escaped from his Maman’s clutches, he would come to sit on Shane’s deck and watch the birds that congregated around the bird feeder. 

Ilya thinks Pork is very lucky that he was too fat to ever catch one of them. Shane would never have forgiven the miscreant. 

If only. 

Ilya had encountered the little scrotum in this era only once. Ilya was sneaking in late at night, and Pork was lying across Shane’s front door mat like he’d left himself as a gifted dead rat. 

Ilya maintains to this day that he only nudged the little beast, not stepped on him, but Pork yowled so loud that Shane heard him, scratched Ilya’s ankles something fierce, and then disappeared into the night like it was fucking Baba Yaga or something.

Ilya hoped at the time that this would be his only interaction with the gremlin, but Ilya must have done something very despicable in a past life, because of course, when the demon’s Maman died over the summer, Shane was named as a beneficiary in the will.

That seemed a misnomer, actually, because Ilya can’t see any benefit in inheriting the unseasoned beast. It was clear that the children of Pork’s previous owner felt the same, given how quick they were to remand Pork to his new father. 

Father single, not plural. Ilya wanted no part of this then and wants no part of it now. He’s the stepfather at most. 

And now his infernal stepson is missing. 

But a few steps back first: It takes a while for Ilya to even discover that there is a fugitive at large. 

He’s being very brave, fighting fires one handed with cum on his stomach and his husband alternating between yelling and nervously asking for updates over the phone. 

The pot is a wash. He fills it with water and leaves it outside to cool down. 

Then he has to talk down Shane, and then calm Anya, and then finally, blessedly, shower. 

And after all of this, he still hasn’t had lunch. 

Pork’s absence becomes apparent when Ilya says fuck his meal plan and goes to make a tuna melt for old time’s sake. Like his father, Pork can be lured into all manner of situations by the promise of a tuna melt, so it’s straight up alarming that the rat doesn’t materialize the moment the can hits the counter.

Ilya doesn’t want to catastrophize. Maybe the raw chicken demon is still hiding from the chaos of the fire. 

Then his eyes find the sliding glass door that’s still open to the backyard. 

Fuck. 

“Anya!” Ilya calls, and she appears from the living room immediately, panting and bright eyed, because she’s the most perfect girl in the whole world. He sighs, because it feels like a betrayal of all his principles, but it is the fastest method of finding the little fiend. “Anya, where is Pork?” 

Anya cocks her head, her nose twitching, then lowers her snout to the ground and trots in a circle. Ilya waits with bated breath. 

Anya, because she has endless patience and a generous heart, likes Pork. And Pork, despite his myriad flaws, likes Anya right back. 

(In the beginning, Ilya had to work very hard not to view this as a profound betrayal by his own flesh and blood. If Anya hadn’t liked Pork, maybe Shane would’ve been open to rehoming him. Alas, Anya is a better person than Ilya. Or dog. Whatever.) 

Anya sniffs her way across the kitchen and then stops at the open door to the backyard, shooting an uncertain glance back at Ilya, looking for permission. 

Double fuck. So, the cat is gone. 

The cat with no survival instincts and no discernable life skills is gone, and it’s supposed to snow tonight.

Ilya follows Anya out into the yard, hoping against hope that the little miscreant will just be sitting on the deck and watching the birds. 

Pork would never be so kind. 

Ilya searches the backyard anyway, sticking his head through bushes and rooting through the shed, Anya sniffing around at his heels. 

No irascible pink thing turns up, but Anya does emerge from behind a fern with Pork’s alpaca-blend sweater between her teeth. Ilya had dressed him begrudgingly this morning and been bitten for his efforts, but at least today Pork had gone for Ilya’s still bandaged and braced thumb, and his teeth hadn’t met skin. 

(It’s a bit galling, actually, the way Shane babies the rat. Under Shane’s watchful eye, Pork is moisturized daily and bathed weekly. He wears sweaters in the winter and sunscreen in the summer, even though he lives in a climate-controlled house. His food is organic. Yuna knitted him a hat.)

And now the little beast is roaming in all of his repulsive naked glory. The temperature is flatly zero. It’s like he wants to die.

With a steady litany of cursing, Ilya returns to the house for a coat and Anya’s leash. There’s nothing for it. They’re going to have to search the neighborhood.

On the way out the door, Ilya snags one of the many carefully researched bags of treats Shane keeps in stock for both Pork and Anya. These ones are dried sardines, and Ilya opens the bag and starts shaking it as he and Anya set off down the sidewalk. 

“Porkie,” Ilya calls, embarrassed to be doing it. “Porkie, come!” Of course, Porkie does not come, disagreeable creature that he is.

They walk down the street, Ilya shaking a bag of sardines and calling, and Anya with her nose to the ground because she is dutiful and hard-working. 

The neighbor kids are getting out of the car with their mom as Ilya and Anya pass, and Willa runs over to greet Anya. 

“Afternoon, Ilya! Everything alright?” Kate asks as she makes her way over with Andrew. 

Ilya cringes. “Ah, Pork has gotten out, our cat. He is very fat and pink and unfriendly. You haven’t seen him, have you?” 

“No.” Kate looks sympathetic. “No, I’m sorry. We’ll keep an eye out for him. He’s a sphynx, isn’t he?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Very gross, but Shane loves him.” 

“I like him!” Willa exclaims, and Ilya feels vaguely guilty about slandering his despicable stepson. “One time he got out and sat on our deck till Shane came for him.” 

Ilya tries to contain his surprise. “Ah,” he says. “Would you maybe like to take Anya to go check if he is there?”

Willa and Andrew grin. “Yes please!” Willa says, the more precocious of the two. 

“Don’t try to grab him if you see him,” Ilya warns as he hands over Anya’s leash. “He likes to bite.” 

Willa’s eyes go big. “Okay. We’ll be careful, right Andrew?” 

“Yeah,” Andrew agrees. “One time my grandma’s cat bit me.” 

And then he’s running off toward the backyard with Willa and Anya close behind. 

Ilya helps Kate bring in the groceries while the kids look for the cat. 

“Has he been in your yard many times?” Ilya asks. He’d missed Pork’s previous misadventures in Ottawa, apparently. Shane likes to pretend that Pork is as well behaved as his half-sister, but Ilya has always known this to be categorically false. It’s nice to have evidence.

Or, it would be, if he wasn’t the one on the hook for Pork’s well-being today.

Kate shrugs, shuffling a second grocery bag into her left hand to unlock the front door. Ilya takes it wordlessly. “Maybe twice?” She says. “The last time was in September, I think. He seemed pretty harmless.” 

Ilya tsks. “This is only because he adores Shane and Anya. With almost everyone else he is… prickly.” As they bring the groceries into the kitchen, Ilya sees Kate’s frown. “Ah, but the children will be fine. He is… okay with children. If they are gentle.” 

Ruby learned that lesson when she gave Pork’s tail a yank over the summer. Ilya experienced a rare moment of allyship with Hayden Pike then, although Jackie and Shane both agreed a cat was entitled to defend himself. 

The kids and Anya come barrelling in through the back door a moment later. “No Pork,” Andrew declares in a breathless rush, eager to beat his sister to the news. 

“We saw his footprints though!” Willa butts in. “On the deck! Can we come with you to find him?” 

Ilya musters a smile. “Ah, no, I think it is better if Anya and I find him ourselves. But thank you for your excellent detective work.”

“Let us know when you find him,” Kate says with a smile. 

Ilya and Anya go out the back door. There are indeed little cat footprints on the deck, wandering in from the direction of Ilya’s house and wandering out towards the green space behind the houses. 

With a sigh, Ilya lets himself out through the back gate and lets Anya off her leash. “Find Porkie, Anya,” he encourages her with an enthusiasm he does not feel. 

Look, Ilya doesn’t like Pork. Has never liked Pork. But Shane adores Pork, and Ilya adores Shane, so Ilya has to find the little demon that lives in his house. 

(And, obviously, Ilya doesn’t want Pork dead. He just prefers to keep a distance between himself and the flesh creature.)

Anya runs off, tail wagging. She seems like she’s having fun more than really looking for Pork, but Ilya trusts that if Pork is here, she will find him. 

It’s getting later in the afternoon now though. Shane plays a hockey game in a couple of hours, and the snow is even more imminent. 

Ilya calls Anya back, and she returns Pork-less. Together they slip through Willa and Andrew’s side yard and back out to the street. 

They circle the block twice, calling and shaking the bag of dried sardines. And then it’s time to start knocking on doors. 

It’s a Saturday, so most of Ilya’s neighbors are home, and fortunately he is very charming and handsome and good at hockey. It is only mildly mortifying to smile obsequiously and wheedle his neighbors into checking their back gardens for the ugliest cat in Ottawa. 

It takes an hour to get down the street, and no one has seen Pork. The sun is setting, and the temperature is dropping, and Anya is looking tired. 

Ilya mutters one dissatisfied “Fuck,” and then walks her home. 

Shane texts while Ilya’s refilling Anya’s water bowl. 

Shane: On the bus to the arena :) How are things at home? 

Ilya grimaces. He knows that Shane misses him on roadies; that, despite all those years apart, they’ve become comfortably inseparable. Shane likes to check in and stay connected, and usually Ilya is delighted by it. 

Except that now the cat is missing, and Ilya can’t lie, but he also doesn’t want to distract Shane before the game. 

Ilya: some pork drama after the fire. i’ll explain after the game 

He bites his lip. It’s too open ended, too ominous. The typing bubble appears. Ilya stabs out his own follow up message. 

Ilya: don’t worry

He regrets it the second he hits send. It feels dishonest. 

Fuck. He really has to find that stupid fucking cat. 

Ilya sticks his head out the back door once more and shakes the bag of treats, just in case, but the naked mole rat doesn’t appear. 

Ilya’s phone buzzes.

Shane: Bath day?

Goddamnit. Well, when Ilya finds the little devil a bath will be first on the list. 

His fingers hover over the keyboard with uncertainty. Fuck. 

The ringing doorbell gives him an out. 

Willa starts speaking the second Ilya cracks the door open. “We found Pork! Ilya, we found Pork, you have to come see!” 

“Wha-”

Andrew comes crashing into Ilya’s legs, clearly having been outrun by his sister. “He’s at the Johnston’s house!” 

“He’s what?” Ilya blurts. 

Willa’s practically vibrating with excitement, and Andrew is both clinging to Ilya and jumping, which mostly means Ilya’s socked feet are taking a beating. The kids talk over each other in a messy tangle: 

“We went on a walk–”

“Mom said we could go looking for Pork–”

“–and we were looking in everyone’s yards and under cars and–”

“–but just for thirty minutes she said because we have to eat dinner and watch–”

“–I even was looking in the garbage cans because one time–”

“–the Centaurs because we have to support Shane but we have to find his cat and–”

“–I found a rat in the garbage! And Pork is kind of like a rat so I thought–”

“–I thought probably Pork would be cold so we brought a blanket–”

“–maybe he would be in a garbage can but he wasn’t–”

“–and the wagon but Mom has them at the Johnston’s while we came here –”

“–but then we got to the Johnston’s and they’re away and Andrew heard meowing–”

“–so he doesn’t leave where he is because we found him!”

“–so we looked everywhere and went into the backyard–”

“But he’s still up on the roof!”

“–and he was on the roof!”

Ilya stands stock still for a second. His English is very good after all these years, but the force of two children yammering at him in a discordant harmony is a lot to absorb. 

“He is on a roof?” Ilya asks incredulously. Who knew the little deviant had it in him? 

Both children nod eagerly. “You have to come get him down!” Andrew says, tugging at Ilya’s pants. 

Ah. Well. Ilya looks skeptically at his splinted thumb and tries to imagine summiting a roof for the horrible beast. Maybe Kate has a ladder. 

Ilya extricates himself carefully from Andrew’s grasp. “Let me get my coat, and we will go together, okay?” 

He shrugs on the first winter coat his hands find in the front closet. It’s an old puffer of Shane’s, the one he wears when he shovels the back patio. There’s no reason to shovel the back patio, but sometimes Shane gets antsy in the winter, still new to the luxury of a heated driveway, and needs a way to get his energy out. 

The jacket smells like Shane, a little sweaty and faintly like road salt. Ilya stuffs a bag of cat treats in the pocket, these ones made of freeze-dried duck liver. 

(When he’s feeling particularly sappy, Ilya likes that they’re the kind of bougie gay couple who buy their pets the best human-grade organic food money can buy. Shane’s worried they’ll spoil their real human children terribly, when they get around to it.)

Then he’s jamming his feet into shoes and running out the door after the kids. The kids run the whole way, Ilya jogging easily behind, vaguely worried about what state Pork will be in and what retrieving him will entail. 

The Johnston’s live round the corner, and Ilya’s surprised to see a small cluster of people standing on the driveway as he nears. 

There’s Ethel, the elderly lady who lives a block down with her son Jeff’s family. She likes to watch from the window when Shane and Ilya go on runs, but today she’s in a serious conversation with Mariam from across the street, who has her baby bundled up on her hip. 

Both women turn to greet him as Ilya approaches. 

“Kate’s watching the cat,” Ethel explains. “And Jeff’s gone to get a ladder.”

“Ah. Thank you. Is it…” Ilya winces. “Is Pork up very high?” 

Mariam shakes her head. “Just the part over the deck. But he looked a bit spooked.”

Ilya exhales. “Could be worse. Do we know… how long are the Johnston’s away?” 

“Mark said they hoped to be back by November, but I don’t think his father’s getting any better,” Ethel volunteers. She’s always good for gossip. 

“I texted Ada. She hasn’t replied yet, but she won’t mind,” Mariam adds. 

“That’s kind of you,” Ilya says with a thin smile. To be honest, he wouldn’t care if the Johnston’s never found out, but he supposes they’ll care if he breaks their roof while climbing it one handed. And Shane will care at least a little about the trespassing. “I should– see about the cat.” He gestures vaguely toward the backyard, and Andrew grabs his hand to pull him along.

Kate’s waiting as Ilya comes through the gate. “He’s up there,” she says, pointing towards the Johnston’s roof, where a small fleshy lump is huddled in the corner against the house. 

“Pork!” Ilya calls, shaking the bag of treats. 

The lump doesn’t move, but it does yowl at him, angry and scared. 

Definitely Pork. 

“He has been up there the whole time?” Ilya asks Kate.

She nods. “The last fifteen minutes at least. Maybe longer. He came a little closer when the kids and I got into the yard, but then the wind picked up.” 

At least the horrible little beast is sensible. 

Ilya eyes the porch situation. If he stands on the railing, he could probably get an arm on the roof to grab Pork with. But Pork will have to come closer to the edge. Maybe with the treats to tempt him? 

Ilya wraps an arm around the pillar and plants a foot on the railing. 

“Jeff’s getting a ladder–!” Kate says urgently as Ilya tests whether the railing will take his weight. He thinks so. 

“Let me try this first,” he says, gets the second foot on the railing, and stands. He can’t really see the roof around the eave, but he reaches an arm up anyway - the one with the fucked thumb, because Pork likes to attack it – and rubs his middle fingers together. Pork comes sometimes when Shane does that. 

“He’s not moving,” Kate reports after a long awkward moment.

Shit. 

Ilya hops down from the railing. “I guess we wait for Jeff, then.” 

He and Kate stand in silence watching Pork while the kids play in the Johnston’s yard. 

“Has he done this before?” Kate asks eventually. 

Ilya shrugs. “I didn’t even know he’d gotten out. He’s Shane’s cat, mostly.” He frowns, wondering how that sounds. “Not that I don’t– I like cats. Pork and I just have… ideological differences.” Ideological is a good word. He learned it by watching Shane do a crossword on the plane. 

God, he misses his boring, nerdy husband. What he wouldn’t give to watch Shane put on his sexy glasses and suck tantalisingly on the end of his pen while he works on a crossword, or, sexier, a sudoku. 

Shane is so sexy when he isn’t trying. He is also sexy when he is trying. He is sort of just always sexy. 

Ilya misses him. 

In the panic of the afternoon, missing Shane has taken a back seat to a deep guilt over Ilya’s negligence with Pork. 

Now that he’s found the little bastard, the panic has turned into a profound annoyance with the runaway. What business does Pork have on a roof, of all places?

Once, Ilya caught Shane removing Pork from halfway up the curtains. At the time, it seemed like a feat of witchcraft that a beast so rotund had managed to climb even three feet in the air, but apparently, under the weight loss diet recommended by the vet and strictly enforced by Shane, Pork’s powers have only grown.   

A roof, for fuck’s sake. Maybe Pork really can fly like Baba Yaga. He would suit a wooden mortar, and his feet are chicken-y enough that he doesn’t even need the hut. Ilya should have put his foot down when Shane brought him home. If given the chance, Pork would definitely eat a child.

They hear Jeff before they see him, heavy footsteps on gravel and the clink of a ladder as the bottom of it smacks the ground with each step. 

Jeff is a large man in height and girth both, and Ilya knows very certainly that he’s going to have to be the one going up on the roof. He can’t subject anyone else to Pork anyway. 

Jeff is followed by Ethel and Mariam, as well as Jeff’s thirteen-year-old Ethan, plus Ravi, who lives across from the Johnston’s and is a doctor at the local children’s hospital. Ilya should probably be glad that a medical professional is going to supervise the affair. It might mollify Shane at least.

“Good, you’re here.” Jeff greets Ilya with his usual quiet steadiness. He sets the ladder down for a moment. “Thought we could set the ladder up just beside the roof here.” Jeff gestures to the stretch of fallow dirt through which Ilya walked to climb the railing earlier. 

“That makes sense,” Ilya agrees, a little discomfited by the number of people who have turned up to watch the spectacle or, possibly, help. Ottawa is a good city, and it has been good to him and to Shane.

Times like these, when his neighbors gather to pitch in, Ilya understands how Shane was raised in a place like this. How could Shane have been anything but good? 

“Thank you,” he says as he helps Jeff raise the ladder and open it. “I do not know how I would get him down otherwise.” 

Jeff only shrugs. “Of course. It’s supposed to snow tonight. Can’t leave the poor fella up there.” 

Ilya’s not sure he would go so far as to call Pork poor, maybe foolish or reckless, but he does seem rather pathetic in this situation. “Still, I appreciate it,” he says firmly. 

When they’ve got the ladder stable, its feet nestled into the nearly frozen dirt, Jeff takes a hold of both sides to steady it. “I’ve got the ladder,” he says, and Ilya knows the only thing left to do is to climb. 

Onto a roof. 

With one working thumb.

To retrieve his husband’s irritable cat. 

Ilya stalls for a moment, pulling out his phone to check the time and shoot off a text to Shane. The game starts in twenty minutes. Shane should be on the ice for warmups. 

Ilya: i love you

Very ominous, especially in reply to Shane asking about Pork’s bath. 

Ilya: everything is fine

Even worse. Ilya tucks his phone in his pocket and scales the ladder. 

It’s a bit touch and go to clamber up onto the roof, in part because Jeff only has a ten-foot ladder and the roof is a good amount higher than that. 

But Ilya is a professional athlete.

He crawls onto the roof. He’s fairly graceless, probably, but it’s not like anyone’s going to know except himself and eight of his neighbors. Well, nine with Mariam’s baby, but she won’t remember.

The rafters creak as Ilya settles on his hands and knees. He shoots a glance down, determined not to look nervous. Kate gives him a thumbs up, and so do Willa and Andrew, who have abandoned their playing to watch the daring rescue. 

Ilya takes a deep breath, then starts to slowly shuffle towards the lump of pink flesh. Pork is watching him with airplane ears and narrowed eyes. “Hey, Porkie,” Ilya says softly, trying to channel the voice he uses for his beloved daughter Anya, rather than the usual disdain he has for Pork. “Psps, come on, Porkie.” 

Pork stays where he is, tail swishing. Ilya crawls a foot closer, then reaches into his jacket pocket for a cat treat. Slowly, he offers the little pellet on his open palm.

Pork’s nose twitches, and he takes a few nervous steps closer. 

“Come on, Porkie,” Ilya coos again, crawling a little further. Something cold hits his cheek, and then Pork winces as something strikes his nose too. Ilya glances up. 

Oh. The snow has started. 

Ilya inches nearer still. “Porkie, c’mon, aren’t you cold? Aren’t you hungry, you horrible baby? Do you want to make your papa sad?” 

Pork seems to shrink in on himself, and then, just as Ilya realises maybe he’s actually coiling, the little menace springs forward. He grasps Ilya’s hand with both of his front paws, claws extended, and takes the treat from Ilya’s palm as toothily as possible. 

It’s like Pork does everything with the goal of inflicting maximum pain. 

Ilya’s not entirely ready for him, but more than two decades of playing ice hockey have left him with good balance and quick reflexes, so instead of falling off the roof to his death as Pork surely intends, Ilya has the presence of mind to dive forward and wrap his hands around Pork’s plump body. 

Pork yowls, but he’s so cold and Ilya needs his hands, so in the scuffle, Ilya does the first thing that comes to mind: he stuffs Pork down the neck of his slightly open coat and zips it all the way up. 

Pork squirms and meows, and then quiets begrudgingly as Ilya hugs an arm to his body to hold Pork securely. 

There’s a smattering of applause from below, but Ilya still has to get off this fucking roof. “Behave,” he tells the creature in his coat sternly, and then begins crawling cautiously backwards toward the edge of the roof. 

“Do you want us to take him?” Kate asks as Ilya nears the ladder. “We have a blanket, we could catch him.”

Ilya considers this for a moment, but Pork has mostly settled. That he has settled by sinking the claws of all four of his feet into Ilya’s skin is neither here nor there. “I think we will be fine,” Ilya says graciously, and lowers a leg out into open air, hoping he’s in the right place for the ladder. 

None of his neighbors exclaim in concern, so he must be close, and sure enough, his shoe clangs off the side of the ladder a moment later. 

There’s a thump like someone being smacked by their elderly mother, and then Jeff speaks. “Do you want me to, um, guide your foot?”

Ilya’s pride wants him to say no, but his pride is somewhere very far away and not at all relevant. There’s a fucking naked cat clinging to his torso, after all. “Please.”

“Ravi, would you hold the ladder?” Jeff asks, and there’s some scuffling as people get into position. Jeff creaks his way up the ladder, and then a steady hand is guiding Ilya’s foot down to a solid landing. “That’s the step. Do you want me to do the other?” 

“No, thank you. I have it from here.”

And he does. It’s awkward and a little nerve-wracking, and when Ilya’s sort of hanging halfway off the roof, Pork crawls up his chest and buries his head in Ilya’s armpit, which is unwelcome and deeply odd. Still, Ilya gets them off the roof and onto the ladder, and then the trip to the ground is simple. 

Jeff’s kid is tucking his phone away surreptitiously as Ilya turns to his audience, but it seems unimportant in the moment. 

“How is he?” Kate asks. 

“Can we see him?” Willa chimes in, and it’s then that Pork bites him in the tender skin over the side of his ribs. 

Ilya winces and squirms, and tries to play it off as nothing. “He is very lively! But cold and hungry, I think. Needs to go home before he can have people time.” He glances at Kate. “Maybe you could come over tomorrow morning to see him? He will be feeling more like himself by then.” 

Pork withdraws from Ilya’s underarm and climbs further up his chest to poke his head out the neck. He seems very much himself, in Ilya’s opinion, but it’s Ilya who wants desperately to get home and call this saga over.

Kate smiles and strokes Willa’s hair. “Let’s let Ilya get Pork home, and we’ll see him tomorrow. Besides, we have to watch the Centaurs game, don’t we?” 

Both Andrew and Willa perk up at that, both of them yelling goodbyes and running toward home. Kate smiles sheepishly and follows, but not before Ilya can catch her eye and say, “Thank you. For finding him. Really.”

He’s going to have to do something nice for the kids too, but he needs to get this fucking cat home. And thank his other neighbors. 

When he gets to Jeff, he says, “Do you need help with the ladder?” He has no desire to help with the ladder, but it seems polite to offer. 

Jeff waves him off. “Ethan and I’ve got it.” 

And so Ilya is free to hurry home through the falling snow. Halfway home, Pork starts purring.

The moment Ilya is through the front door, Pork is back to wiggling and meowing, and Ilya is glad to finally set him free. Anya is there to greet them, and she and Pork reacquaint themselves with noses and head bumps. 

Ilya checks his phone. There’s an NHL app notification that the Centaurs game is starting and a string of question marks from Shane. 

Ilya snaps a photo of their babies and sends it without a caption. Pork certainly looks grimier than usual, but at least it will give Shane some peace of mind to see them together.

Then he goes upstairs to run the cat a bath. 

And look, has Ilya questioned the need for bath days in the past? Yes. Quietly, he still thinks it’s a little absurd. Aren’t cats supposed to clean themselves? That’s like their whole thing. Ilya likes to tell Shane that Pork is just lazy.

But without Shane to sigh and exasperatedly explain it again, there’s no reason to pick the fight. 

When he left for the roadie, Shane told Ilya he could just take Pork to a groomer. “I know you two don’t get along,” he’d said with enough quiet disappointment that Ilya knew that what Shane really wanted was for Ilya and Pork to overcome their differences. So Ilya sighed and said he would try, if his thumb let him.

Shane left instructions, but Ilya has incredulously watched and mocked the ritual enough times to know the ins and outs without guidance. 

He runs the water warm but not hot, and adds the sensitive skin pet shampoo with oats and vitamin E. When it’s ready, Ilya goes to retrieve the creature. 

Pork is curled up against Anya’s belly on the couch, enjoying her warmth. Anya huffs when Ilya gathers Pork into his arms, but the cat is surprisingly docile. His feet and the tips of his ears are still cold where they press against Ilya’s chest and the guilt blooms anew in Ilya. 

Pork is a proud beast, independent except when Shane is babying him, and it speaks to the magnitude of his ordeal that he doesn’t even protest at Ilya’s presence. 

One of Pork’s few good qualities is that he likes baths, and he goes happily when Ilya lowers him into the water. As Ilya goes about the process, he begins to understand why Shane enjoys it so much. There’s something sort of meditative about scrubbing Pork down with an exfoliating glove, cleaning out his nail beds and the folds of his pink skin. 

He’s better behaved for Ilya than he’s ever been for Shane, which Ilya would rather not read into. It’s the stress of the day getting to him, that’s all.

Ilya takes a photo of Pork standing on his hind legs to lick the dripping tap and sends that to Shane too.

After his bath, Ilya wraps Pork in a towel and cleans out his ears in front of the TV, the Centaurs game playing quietly in the background. Pork watches with surprising attention, and when the ear cleaning is done, even purrs as Ilya strokes the top of his head. It’s domestic and sweet, and terribly wrong that this is happening with the much beloathed creature who lives in Ilya’s house. 

During the first period break, Ilya feeds Pork, who attacks his dinner with his usual disturbing gusto, and Anya, who is prim and proper as ever, and then goes to feed himself. 

It’s only when he spots the unopened can of tuna on the counter that Ilya realizes he missed lunch. With a sigh, he returns the tuna to the cupboard and instead pulls together something easy and meal plan approved. 

Ilya eats dinner on the couch with the game still playing and, sometime near the end of the second period, nods off. 

He’s woken by his phone buzzing incessantly in his pocket and Pork sitting ominously on his chest. Pork is purring, at least, and only blinks at him when Ilya shifts to retrieve his phone. 

It’s Shane. 

Ilya frowns in confusion, and then realizes that the sun has set completely and the game on the TV is between two Western Conference teams. 

Ilya answers the facetime with a yawn. “Moy lyubimyy, did you win?” He asks sleepily, and Shane immediately frowns. 

“Yes. You weren’t watching?” 

“I fell asleep, I am sorry. It was a long day.” 

Shane huffs. “Yeah, I gathered that.” 

Alarm bells raise in Ilya’s head, and he goes to sit up, but Pork’s claws sink into Ilya’s chest as he’s jostled, so Ilya stays where he is. “Pork got out,” he admits, because he might as well get it out of the way. “He’s home now. I didn’t want you to worry.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Is that why there’s a video of you climbing on a roof that’s going viral on Twitter?” 

Ilya freezes. “A– a what?” 

“Harris didn’t text you?” 

“Probably,” Ilya admits. “I was asleep. Pork is a troublemaker.” 

“But he’s okay?” Shane asks. 

“Mm,” Ilya agrees. “Fed and bathed and terrible, yes.” He tilts the phone so Shane can see Pork dozing on Ilya’s chest. “See?”

“Oh.” Shane blinks, then his eyes crinkle in delight. “You’re becoming friends.” 

“Maybe,” Ilya allows begrudgingly. “We have been through a lot together today. Now what do you mean, going viral?” 

Shane explains, and Ilya opens Harris’ texts, and finds indeed that the whole ordeal has been filmed and posted for all the world to see. It’s trending on Twitter. #CatDad. Utterly slanderous.

“Not a very good example, climbing on a roof like that,” Shane chastises him fondly. 

“Tell that to your horrible son,” Ilya says, scratching behind Pork’s ears absentmindedly. “It was his idea. And anyway, at least you can’t tell that I am also trespassing.” 

“Ilya,” Shane admonishes, and Ilya laughs. 

“It was only the Johnston’s. Mariam texted them, and the roof is fine, and we have a bajillion dollars if it is not.” 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Well, I’m glad you and Pork are safe. How did he even get out?” 

Ilya heaves a sigh and explains about the fire and the smoke and the open doors. “So it was your fault, really, malysh, for being so very sexy and distracting me.”

“You should’ve kept an eye on him. You know Pork likes to sneak out.”

“I know no such thing!” Ilya protests. “You keep his adventures a secret from me! Going to watch birds with Andrew and Willa! I looked very foolish, being cuckolded by my cat.” 

Shane grins. “So he’s your cat now too?”

“No!” Ilya sits up as he exclaims forcefully, and Pork meows in loud dissatisfaction as he’s dumped into Ilya’s lap. “Sorry,” Ilya mutters, stroking Pork’s velveteen back to calm him. Then, back to Shane, he says, “No, he is not my cat.”

Shane is snickering. “No, I think it’s sweet. You’re coming around to your stepson. Just what I wanted for our blended family.” 

Ilya huffs and slouches back against the arm of the couch. “You are horrible, both of you. Very evil father and son. I see where he gets it from.”

Shane hums, pleased. “Who d’you think filmed you?” 

Shane and his questions. Ilya adores him. “Jeff’s boy, I think. Had his phone out. I was a bit distracted with the creature in my coat.” Ilya sighs dramatically. “My bravery has been exposed.” 

“My hero,” Shane agrees, tone sultry and eyelashes fluttering. Ilya’s dick twitches. 

“Do you have the room all to yourself?” He asks, voice low. 

Shane smirks. “Obviously. They’re not going to re-do all the room assignments just because you’re out for a month.”

Ilya smiles wolfishly. “Take off your clothes,” he instructs, scooping a hand under Pork’s chest. 

Pork chirps in indignation as he’s lifted from his nap spot and deposited next to Anya, but he settles quickly. At least, Ilya assumes he does, because he doesn’t stay to find out. He’s focused on taking the stairs two at a time while his beautiful husband gets naked for him. 

When there’s cum drying on Ilya’s stomach and they’ve said their goodbyes and I love yous and goodnights and then gazed at each other for another long minute before either dares to hang up, Ilya finally investigates his most recent viral moment. 

It’s not the whole adventure, fortunately, because Ilya can’t imagine he looked very graceful clambering onto the roof, nor nervously lowering himself off of it, but it captures most of the time he spent up there. It’s a decidedly silly video, especially when Pork attacks him and Ilya stuffs him down the front of his coat, but at least he’s not calling Shane’s cat an evil little bastard or something. 

That #CatDad is trending really is an affront though. Ilya is a cat stepdad at most. His very honour is being impugned, and the allegations cannot go unaddressed. 

Without pausing to read a single text from Harris, Ilya types up a tweet.

Ilya Rozanov @ilyarozanov81 

Pork Hollander is Not my son. I am his stepfather Only. I climbed on that roof out of love for Shane. #PussyProtector

A far superior hashtag, in Ilya’s opinion. He hits post. Then he takes a shower.

When he’s hunkered down in bed again with Anya and, yes, Pork curled up beside him, Ilya checks his notifications.

He has even more missed texts from Harris, all boiling down to some variation of, you can’t fucking tweet that you’re a pussy protector. Ilya doesn’t know why not, and he says so in his reply. 

Ilya: should the world not know that i am willing to protect my husband’s pussy?

Harris: Ilya I swear to god I will make you do HR sensitivity training again if you do not delete that tweet

Ilya: 🙄 you are no fun

The replacement tweet is not much better. 

Ilya Rozanov @ilyarozanov81 

FINE. But Pork Hollander is still not my son. #CatStepDaddy

↳ Harris Drover @censminharris

whatever good enough #CatDadWhoSteppedUp

Annoyingly, it’s Harris’ hashtag that trends next.