Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, David Hollander & Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Theriault (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Autistic Shane Hollander, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Established Relationship, Coming Out, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Therapy, Dom/sub, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Sexting, Recovery, Stanley Cup Playoffs, Drunk Shane Hollander, Confrontations, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Original Character(s), BAMF Shane Hollander, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Subspace, Choking, Spit Kink, Dry Humping, Mouth Kink, Hand & Finger Kink, Clothed Sex, Ambiguous/Open Ending, this is a VAGUELY open ending, every time i use that tag im told its not applicable so, grain of salt yall, POV Multiple

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-21 Words: 33,474 Chapters: 1/1

heavy handed

Summary

“I’m sorry,” Shane chokes, closing his eyes. Rozanov draws his hand, pulling Shane’s with it, to his face and wipes his cheeks.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, любовь моя, it is okay,” Rozanov murmurs, tugging at Shane’s hair again. Shane exhales, letting him clean his cheeks. “You got overwhelmed, yes? It happens.”

“I can’t be fucking normal,” Shane says quietly, whining, head falling back, pressing into Rozanov’s hand.

“No, if you were fucking normal, you would not be my Shane.”

// shane is a liar, and he's tired of it all. his life falls apart, and he finds that he doesn't actually mind.

Notes

- this takes place sometime after the cottage, but canon diversion in that david never walked in on them
- cws: mental illness; mentions of ilya's trauma involving his mother; discussion of depression, disordered eating, compulsions; use of f slur but its shane using it in reference to himself; homophobia and mentions of racism

He’s having a bad day.

Maybe it has something to do with his entire life falling apart in his hands, crumbling like sand, his fingers slipping from every bit of control he tries to grasp at, every bit of control he’s worked so hard to maintain for his entire life.

Maybe. Who fucking knows.

It’s fucking bullshit, the way the day seems to be searching for ways to fuck with him— his phone dies on the bus over to the stadium and he can’t even text Ilya to tell him he feels like shit, his shoelaces are tangled from the way he tied them too quickly and clumsily on his way out because he was running fucking late, and it takes twice as long to undo them as it usually does. His mother’s name is fading from where it’s written on the top of his hockey stick, and he doesn’t even have a marker to redo it— nor does anyone else.

And you know what, as he thinks about it, chewing his mouthguard, it’s not really the day fucking him up, it’s really just him. He has fucking problems, more than he knows what to do with, and the problems aren’t at the fault of the world, not really. The overhead lights are too bright, and they’re shining off the ice somehow even more brightly, and the locker room was loud enough that it feels like his ears are ringing, like he can hear a buzzing in his skull, and his fucking face is sore from grimacing. Hayden’s asked three times if something’s wrong, and he seems to believe Shane less and less every time he waves it off. He knows Shane is lying, and he doesn’t know it, but Shane is a liar.

It took some time for Shane to learn the difference. There’s some stupid societal nuance to it— everyone lies sometimes, but not everyone is a liar. Everyone is mean sometimes, but not everyone is an asshole. Everyone is nice sometimes, but not everyone is kind. Everyone has their moments. Some people have their whole lives.

Hayden lies to Jackie sometimes, about surprises he’s keeping quiet until it’s time to reveal them. The guys lie to their parents about how much they’ve been drinking, sometimes about how hurt they are after intense games.

A rookie needed some new skates and couldn’t afford them so I helped him out.

I just had a beer, then I had some Coke. We walked back to the hotel because I didn’t wanna drive at night.

I just pulled something, it doesn’t hurt too bad. It’ll be fine tomorrow.

Sometimes he still struggles to understand where the line is, when it is and isn’t acceptable to say something that isn’t true, whether it’s just toeing the line of factual, skipping over part of the whole, or something that’s entirely untrue, completely made up. The line seems to sway, to shift when Shane isn’t looking, and he can’t stand it, not being able to know if he should or shouldn’t say something, if he should or shouldn’t believe someone.

But Shane is a liar.

He lies about No, I’m fine when people ask if there’s something wrong with him, and Yeah, she’s hot when the guys show him pictures of women they’ve hooked up with. He lies about It’s not a problem, I know what you mean when someone says something entirely backhanded and so not-even-borderline racist that they hear it themselves the moment it comes out of their mouth. He lies about No, I’m not seeing anyone and I’m not really interested, I’m focusing on my career when someone— his parents usually— ask about his dating life. He lies about It’s just how hockey is when someone chirps a little too close to where he keeps his heart.

He’s a liar.

He’s a coward. He’s known that for a while now. He never fought with the other kids when he was young, for a few reasons:

Mostly, he was just scared— he was smaller than the others, especially the older kids that seemed to like picking on him specifically. He was a late bloomer, and even now he finds himself looking up at the other players.

Fighting was wrong. That had been hammered into his head since fucking preschool, that he had to speak with his mouth, not with his hands. No pushing, no hitting, no pointing. Fighting was against the rules, both the posted ones clearly visible and the unspoken rules of society, like don’t blow cigarette smoke in people’s faces and don’t swear in front of little kids or old ladies. He learned the nuances of hockey fights as he got older.

He would get hurt. The others knew how to throw punches, or at least they seemed to know, and Shane has always had a pretty high pain tolerance, but he didn’t want to hurt.

And amidst all the fear and anxiety around right and wrong and pain and weakness, Shane knew that there were eyes on him, all the time, already. From the moment he showed up at his first youth hockey camp, the moment he had to inform the others that yes, he speaks English and French, and yes, he does know how hockey works and he does know how a left wing is different from a left forward. They’d watched him, the kids and the grownups alike, like they were waiting for him to slip up, like they were searching for some reason to send him home (which would be in fucking Ottawa, Braden), some reason to not let him come back the next year.

He draws enough attention to himself just by existing. He doesn’t need to bring more eyes to him by getting blood involved.

He knows he’s a stereotype, kind and sweet and patient and polite. He answers all the stupid questions thrown at him, allows the microphones into his personal space like they’re other players slamming him into the board— somehow it feels the same. He doesn’t go online much, occasionally opening Twitter just to make a post welcoming new rookies, congratulating other players on wins or awards, or about the occasional holiday. He posted on his twentieth birthday just because someone managed to get a photo of him that he actually liked.

A lot of the time his polite Canadian-ness is a lie. He’s gotten good at it, lying through his fucking teeth, smiling like he’s fine, and he fucking hates that he’s good at being a liar, mostly because he hates lying. He wants people to know how he feels, and they never do, which means they make assumptions about how he feels, assumptions that are wrong, and none of them actually fucking know him.

He lies, and he lies, and he lies, and he lies so much that it comes naturally to him. Naturally enough that he lifts his chin and furrows his eyebrows at Hayden the next time he glances over at him, like he doesn’t understand why he keeps looking, keeps checking.

And he loves hockey, of course he does, loves it so much it gets him out of his head for a few hours, enough that he doesn’t squint from where he’s caught under the glaring overhead lights and blinding reflections of the ice, enough that he doesn’t even really hear the crowd or the slicing of his skates under him. He doesn’t know how he does it— maybe he’s weird, or maybe he’s insane— but even when he’s angry, even when he’s tired, even when he was grieving his recently passed grandfather when he was a rookie, nothing gets between him and the ice. Nothing distracts him.

Which is great during the game.

But not after.

He’s tried explaining it before, to his parents and a psychologist or two (or three, actually), to Hayden and his coach, but it never works. They don’t get it.

It comes crashing back in.

It happens the moment he walks back with the guys to change, to shower. There are too many sounds. Showers running, water dripping. Voices overlapping. Echoing. Fabric hitting the floor, shoes dropped to the ground. Bags zipping and unzipping. Someone’s phone ringing. A woman’s voice coming across said phone out loud, voice tinny and high-pitched. The overhead lights buzzing.

And things touching him. His hair, wet on his face and back of his neck. The fabric of his clothes, the seam of his long sleeve brushing against the side of his wrist. His sock, twisted a little. Someone’s hand landing on his shoulder in a jovial, brotherly shove. The ground, damp from dripping sweat and shower water. His fingernails digging into his palms.

The lights are too bright, but so is everything else. The reds and blues of the cubbies, the floor, the benches where the others are sitting and laughing and acting like the world isn’t imploding, like Shane’s fucking head isn’t exploding. He’s shaking.

Fuck, he’s shaking.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, just a moment, and he exhales, but it trembles on its way out of him, and he hates this, he hates this, he hates this.

It’s fucking stupid.

“Shane, you good?”

“I’m fine,” he says instinctively. He doesn’t even think his brain told his mouth to say it. He opens his eyes, and immediately regrets it, because fuck, the lights are too bright, and they can’t be getting brighter, can they? That’s not a thing— not here, at least. They can’t have been dimmer before the game, right? He’s just crazy, right?

He squeezes his eyes shut. A sound escapes him, a strained groan in the back of his throat, and he turns away from Hayden’s prying eyes, facing his cubby like he’s going to climb into it.

Hayden seems to get it.

“JJ,” Hayden says quietly, stepping up close to him. JJ turns, eyes bright, grinning, excited and charming, and Hayden’s chest loosens a little at the sight of him. He’s like a golden retriever puppy. “Hey, I need you guys to, like… leave.”

JJ stares blankly for a moment.

“...What?”

Hayden leans closer, voice low, and JJ furrows his eyebrows, leaning in to meet him halfway.

“Shane’s having a moment,” Hayden says softly. “I need you guys to get out so he can…”

He doesn’t really know how to finish the sentence. He doesn’t really know what it is that Shane needs, what he does when this kind of thing happens. It seems to be different every time, the way he seeks some kind of pressure on his face, the way he covers his ears or his eyes, the way he tosses his hands like he’s flinging something off of them, the way his whole body tightens and he makes noises that Hayden can’t really decipher.

He remembers the first time he witnessed it. They were in a bar. Shane had been acting weird all night, staring off into space, zoning out like he was on something even though he had barely touched the beer Hayden had gotten him. He’d been quiet, more quiet than usual, and he’d been squinting and skittish, flinching every time someone walked by him, every time a chair scraped across the ground or the table wobbled. And then he left, just stood right up and walked away, weaving between the line of people waiting at the bar, and Hayden, of course, had followed him.

He found him in the alleyway right next to the bar, pacing back and forth, taking short, gasping breaths, hitting the heels of his hands against his forehead, and Hayden has four children, right, so he kind of knows how to help people calm down, and he knows not to panic, not to freak out because that just makes everything worse. But really, he was fucking terrified.

That’s his best friend, and he had never seen him like that before, completely out of his mind with panic and whatever else he was drowning in. And Hayden had heard his breathing before he saw him, and he thought— really— that he was dying, that he’d been fucking stabbed or he was in anaphylactic shock or something. Four kids hasn’t helped with Hayden’s tendency to assume the worst fucking thing possible.

And there was nothing he could do. The alleyway was quiet, and it was secluded, and it wasn’t a terrible place— sure, there was a dumpster and a pile of trash bags next to where Shane was pacing, but it smelled like damp concrete and faint garlic and grilled meat instead of piss and vomit. And if Hayden couldn’t do anything to help, couldn’t hold him or speak to him, he could at least stand guard, right?

But right now, as Shane is standing with his head tucked into his cubby, pressed into his coat like he’s trying to block out the rest of the room, Hayden can kind of help, can’t he? He can make the guys leave.

JJ glances past Hayden to where Shane is standing, and his expression shifts into confusion.

“We won, did we not?” he says, as though he actually wonders if he imagined it or not. “He is upset?”

“No, he’s just—” Hayden waves a hand, dismissing it. “He just needs some quiet, and some space, can you…”

He gestures.

JJ turns to him, standing up straight, and he salutes him.

“For my capitaine.” He turns away, grabbing his bag as he calls to the room, “Whoever gets to the bar before me, I will buy him a drink.”

There’s a cheer, and Hayden grimaces, glancing at Shane, who hasn’t moved. The guys start to file out, and Hayden lingers, hovering like he’s trying to block Shane with his own body so they don’t see him.

“Where’s cap?” one of them asks, but JJ answers before Hayden can say anything.

“He will catch up, he is talking to Mama Hollander.”

A few of them coo. Hayden gazes at JJ appreciatively as he turns back to wave, shooting Hayden a thumbs-up, and he thinks maybe he should get him flowers or something.

It’s quiet when the door shuts, and Hayden’s never really had a problem with loud noises, but even he appreciates the silence, the way the room suddenly feels bigger around him, like there’s more space to breathe.

He hears Shane sniffle. Hears him hiccup around a breath.

“Shane,” Hayden says softly.

“‘M fine,” Shane mumbles, his voice muffled by his coat.

“Okay, well,” Hayden starts, moving a little closer to him, leaning against a barrier between two cubbies. “No, you’re not. And that’s okay.”

Shane groans into his coat before he stands up straight, shaking his hands out, tossing his arms out into the air like he’s trying to get something off of him, like he’s covered in something, and Hayden watches, crossing his arms over his chest to keep himself from reaching out. He knows enough to know not to touch Shane when he’s like this.

Shane is gasping for breath, soft pained moans escaping with each exhale, and he sounds tortured. Hayden bites his lip, blinking his eyes as they start to sting.

God, he hates this.

He’s practically hyperventilating, and he’s trembling, his entire body is as he reaches into his cubby and finds his phone, fumbling with it.

“Do you want me to call someone?” Hayden asks quietly, watching his hands shake, typing something clumsily. He doesn’t even know who he would call— maybe Yuna? She’s in fucking Ottawa, but maybe she can talk Shane down over the phone. Hayden thinks he has her phone number saved too, if Shane can’t manage it on his own— but Shane shakes his head,taking trembling incomplete breaths. Hayden watches. His stomach hurts.

Shane types some more, alternating between squeezing his eyes shut and staring intently at the screen, and Hayden has no idea who the fuck he’s texting, what could be so important, but he waits, and he waits, and he waits, until the phone slips from Shane’s trembling fingers and falls to the floor with a loud clatter.

Shane’s hands clap over his ears, and he lets out a strained whine, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

“It’s okay,” Hayden says stupidly— because no, it’s fucking not— as he reaches to pick up the phone. The fall turned the screen off, but it’s unharmed. “It’s fine.”

He sets the phone on top of Shane’s bag in his cubby. It vibrates, but Hayden doesn’t look at it, looking at Shane as his fingers climb into his hair and tighten.

“Hey,” Hayden says, stepping closer, almost reaching for Shane’s wrist. “Buddy, you’re gonna hurt yourself, c’mon—”

Shane’s hands rip free from his hair, probably pulling at least a few strands with them, and Hayden startles, watching Shane’s hands fling in the air.

“Fuck!”

“Shane,” Hayden says evenly, calmly. “You gotta breathe.”

Shane groans roughly.

“C’mere, sit down,” Hayden suggests, gesturing to one of the benches vaguely, and Shane cracks his eyes open, looking at him and then the bench, hesitating before he goes, sitting heavily and rocking back and forth. One of his knees is bouncing almost violently, and his hands are hovering in the air, fingers moving and shifting and rubbing, clenching into fists before stretching out wide and then clenching again. “You got it, man.”

Shane hums, closing his eyes again, and it has to hurt, Hayden thinks as he looks at him, the way his eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes are shut so tight wrinkles form in his skin. Hayden inhales slowly, crossing his arms again, watching him rock back and forth so hard he’s almost standing with every forward motion.

Hayden waits.

It’s so quiet save for Shane’s choppy breathing, the quiet squeaking of the bench under him, the vague sounds his hands make when they move in the air or hit his thighs, and Hayden is sure the quiet is good for Shane, but it’s too quiet for him. Maybe it has something to do with growing up in a loud household, and having a loud wife— no offence, Jackie— and having four children under six years old, Hayden doesn’t know. But the quiet is weird to him.

He startles when the door to the locker room opens, jumping as he turns, and it should be JJ, maybe, come to check in on Shane, or someone who works here, who needs to clean up or something, but it shouldn’t be Ilya fucking Rozanov.

“What the fuck,” Hayden hisses, moving toward him, already reaching out to shove him back, a hand to his chest, but Rozanov’s eyes look past him, finding Shane on the bench. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hayd—”

“You need to leave,” Hayden snaps as quietly as he can. “He doesn’t need this shit right now, Rozano—”

“Let me help,” Rozanov interrupts. He grabs Hayden’s wrist like he’s holding his hand to himself, and he looks desperate, eyes wide imploring.

“What the f—”

“Hayden,” Rozanov hisses, whispering, and Hayden doesn’t really know why the fuck Rozanov always calls him by his first name. It’s kind of weird, but he’s never questioned it until now, the way all his chirps toward Hayden have used his given name, like they’re buddies. He’s always assumed it was just to get under Hayden’s skin, and it didn’t really do the trick as much as Rozanov just opening his mouth did. “Fucking move.”

“I’m not gonna fucking let you—”

Rozanov interrupts with something in Russian, something that sounds angry even though he doesn’t really look angry— he looks worried. His eyes are wide and shiny, and his eyebrows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, lifting a little like he’s looking for something.

“You can beat me up later,” Rozanov says. “Just let me help him.”

Hayden stares at him. He stares back, eyes flickering between Hayden’s like he’s trying to use fucking telepathy or something.

“Please,” he says finally, his voice so soft and desperate that it catches Hayden off guard. He blinks, faltering, his hand softening on Rozanov’s chest, and Rozanov takes it as permission, pushing his hand away and stepping past him, dropping his bag gently to the ground. “Turn the lights off. And watch the door.”

He moves, passing by Hayden and going toward Shane, and Hayden watches, absently reaching to flick off the lights.

It goes dark, the windows at the tops of the walls letting enough light in that he can still see as Rozanov kneels on the ground in front of Shane, looking up at him.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m here.”

Hayden watches, leaning against the door, crossing his arms over his chest again. Shane barely seems to even notice Rozanov there, and part of Hayden wants to pull Rozanov away by his fucking hair, but another part of him is kind of in awe. Because Rozanov isn’t looking at Shane like he’s a spectacle, like he’s lost his mind or grown another head. He isn’t touching him, isn’t reaching to shake him by his shoulders or hold his jittery legs still. He’s just… looking at him.

“Shane,” Rozanov says softly. Hayden blinks. “Can you look at me?”

Shane shakes his head after a moment, shaking his hands out in the air.

“You can,” Rozanov says lightly, almost whispering, and he sounds so kind. It’s weird. “Hayden turned the lights off, Котенок, it is dark for you, okay? Look at me, please.”

Shane groans, pausing before he opens his eyes like it hurts, like he has to force it, and Hayden can’t see what Rozanov’s expression looks like from here, but his voice is light, almost playful as he says, “There he is.”

Shane is breathing hard like he’s been running, like he’s just gotten off the ice, and he keeps rocking back and forth, coming close to Rozanov, but Rozanov doesn’t move away.

“Hi,” he says softly. “Just breathe for me, yes?”

Hayden hears him breathe slowly, in and out like he’s trying to lead Shane through it, like he’s guiding him, and he can just see the way Shane is staring at him intently, unblinking, his eyes glistening. Shane’s breath stutters, and he shakes his head, hands clenching into fists that hover in the air.

“I know,” Rozanov murmurs. “Just try.”

Shane tries. Hayden can hear it.

It doesn’t work. His breath is stifled, choked in his throat like there’s something in the way, and Shane lets out a distressed whine, squeezing his eyes shut again, and then he’s hitting his head again, smacking his palms to his forehead so hard it makes Hayden wince, tensing.

But Rozanov just reaches up, catching them before they can land for a fourth time, pulling them down as he makes soft Ah, ah ah noises like a light scolding.

“No hitting,” he says softly. “Squeeze.”

Shane groans, and Hayden sees his hands turn to tighten on Rozanov’s, gripping them tightly.

“Good,” Rozanov says, head bobbing. “Just like that, милый, you feel me?”

“Mhmm,” Shane hums tightly, breathlessly.

“I’m right here,” Rozanov says. His voice is so smooth, like he’s perfectly fine, like this is a common occurrence for him. “Squeeze again. …Da, like that, good.”

Shane hums again, breathing hard, but it’s evening out, slowing. He shifts, shoulders pushing back, squirming, and Hayden watches, his own shoulders tensed, almost at his ears. Rozanov seems to notice Shane’s discomfort.

“You want to take your shirt off?”

Shane hums, nodding after a moment.

“Okay, you need to let go of my hands for a moment,” Rozanov says, his voice light like he’s amused. Shane shakes his head.

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbles, bringing them to his chest as he rocks back and forth again, swaying absently.

“I know, милый, but they will be here in a moment, yes?” Rozanov says, letting Shane move his hands. “They are not going anywhere.”

Shane takes another slow breath, nodding a little, and Rozanov whispers something Hayden can’t hear. Their hands separate after a moment, and Rozanov reaches for the hem of Shane’s shirt, pulling it up over his head. Shane lets him, lifting his arms up in a practiced motion, before he’s already reaching out again, hands outstretched and trembling, waiting for Rozanov’s.

“Do you want me to fold it?” Rozanov asks softly. Shane seems to think for a moment, pausing before he shakes his head. Rozanov sets it aside and takes his hands, letting Shane grasp his fingers tightly. “There you go, good job.”

Shane exhales shakily, but it comes out smooth.

“That’s it,” Rozanov whispers. Hayden can hear his smile. “Perfect, baby.”

Baby.

Hayden blinks, watching the way Rozanov slumps over to look up at Shane’s face, watching the way Shane’s eyes flutter open as he leans toward him like he doesn’t even notice it, like he’s drawn to him like a fucking magnet.

Lily.

Hayden is fucking stupid.

Shane must have texted him, some kind of SOS I need you message, and he had come to him, had almost cried in desperation when Hayden tried to stop him, and he knew what to do. He knew to turn off the lights, to not touch him, to only touch him to stop him from hurting himself. He knew to take Shane’s shirt off.

“One more like that,” Rozanov whispers. “Breathe for me.”

Shane stares at him. His eyes are glassy, and he’s crying now, tears escaping down his cheeks as he takes a shaky inhale. Rozanov nods, shifting a little closer as Shane drags one of his hands up to his head. Rozanov’s fingers disappear into Shane’s hair, curling into it and tightening. He’s pulling it, and it looks like it’s too hard, like it has to hurt, but Shane’s shoulders fall, and he exhales smoothly. Rozanov nods, letting both of Shane’s hands grip his.

“Beautiful,” Rozanov murmurs.

Shane breathes steadily, eyes trained on Rozanov’s face, relaxing like he’s melting into Rozanov’s grip in his hair, and it takes a moment before he sniffles, eyes fluttering, lip quivering.

“Darling,” Rozanov coos, almost whining. He sounds so sweet, so not Rozanov.

“I’m sorry,” Shane chokes, closing his eyes. Rozanov draws his hand, pulling Shane’s with it, to his face and wipes his cheeks.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, любовь моя, it is okay,” Rozanov murmurs, tugging at Shane’s hair again. Shane exhales, letting him clean his cheeks. “You got overwhelmed, yes? It happens.”

“I can’t be fucking normal,” Shane says quietly, whining, head falling back, pressing into Rozanov’s hand.

“No, if you were fucking normal, you would not be my Shane.”

Shane sniffles, stifling a sob, and Rozanov exhales slowly. It sounds strained, like his own throat is tight, and Hayden can’t stand this. Everything in him hurts, because his best friend is crying, and Hayden is pretty sure that he hates himself, and it breaks his fucking heart.

“Baby, you are having a very hard time,” Rozanov says softly, calmly. “You are allowed to feel like this, okay? You are allowed to feel overwhelmed, and you are allowed to be upset, and you are allowed to cry.”

He stops, and Shane looks at him, sniffling, lip quivering again, eyes glistening. He’s trying so hard, and Hayden tears his eyes away, looking at the ground, pressing back against the door harder.

“Cry,” Rozanov whispers.

Hayden hears Shane sniffle, hears his breath hiccup, and he squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his jaw.

Rozanov is hushing him, and when Hayden finally looks back up, they’re embracing, Shane’s face tucked into Rozanov’s neck, arms tight around him. Rozanov has lifted onto his knees to reach, and it has to hurt, the hard ground on his knees, but he doesn’t even seem to notice it, swaying back and forth a little with Shane in his arms. He’s whispering something that Hayden can’t hear, and Hayden doesn’t really want to hear it.

They’re there for a while. Until Shane stops crying, sniffling a little, lifting his head to rest on Rozanov’s, forehead pressed to his, and Rozanov smooths his hair down before he touches his face, wiping his cheeks tenderly.

“Better?” he asks softly.

Shane nods, quiet.

“‘M sorry,” he whispers.

“Mm-mm.”

Shane scoffs, lifting his head and looking at Rozanov for a few moments. Rozanov waits for him, and shit, they’re in love, aren’t they?

Shane’s expression is soft, tired, and he touches Rozanov’s face, brushing over his cheek before he presses his palm to it. Rozanov’s head tilts into it.

“It’s okay,” Rozanov says quietly. “You help me all the time, don’t you?”

“That’s different,” Shane insists, and Rozanov’s head shakes.

“We have different problems,” Rozanov says pointedly, and it makes Shane’s expression lighten, almost smiling, which Hayden thinks is a win. “But— Shane.”

His voice wobbles.

“I love you,” he whispers.

It comes out of his mouth easily, like he says it all the time, even if it’s a little broken and thin. Hayden is kind of glad Rozanov isn’t facing his direction, because he doesn’t want to see him cry.

Shane nods, like he’s heard it before. He lifts his other hand to Rozanov’s face, cradling it.

“If you call for me, I will come for you,” Rozanov says softly, earnestly, and God, they’re so fucking in love.

Shane exhales shakily, and he falls forward, wrapping his arms around Rozanov’s neck, hugging him tightly. Hayden wipes his face.

“Hayden,” Shane says weakly, after a few moments, without lifting his head.

“Yeah,” Hayden chokes.

“...I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Hayden says a little too loudly, but Shane doesn’t seem to mind it, laughing a little into Rozanov’s neck. “C’mon, man.”

“I lied to you.”

“Shane.”

“I told you I had a girlfriend.” Shane’s voice breaks, and he sounds so pitiful that Rozanov pulls away a little, his hands running over Shane’s bare waist, and Hayden abandons his post at the door. He goes to them, kneeling on the ground with a hand on Rozanov’s shoulder to steady him. His legs are fucking sore.

“Shane,” Hayden says again. “Buddy.”

Shane looks at him. His hand falls to Rozanov’s almost absently, like he doesn’t even notice their fingers tangling together.

And Hayden hesitates, looking at him, because he doesn’t really know how the fuck to say this out loud, how to tell him that Hayden fucking loves him, and he doesn’t give a shit if he’s fucking gay. He might have a word or two about how terrible Shane’s taste in men is, but actually, Hayden thinks as his eyes find Rozanov’s thumb brushing over Shane’s knuckles tenderly, maybe his taste isn’t that bad. Maybe Rozanov is an asshole, especially on the ice, and maybe he’s a dick online, especially to paparazzi (which, actually, Hayden kind of respects about him), but here, now, with Shane’s face tear-streaked and his hands still trembling, Rozanov seems pretty great.

Not that Hayden would ever say that out loud.

“Man, I don’t fucking care,” he says finally, and Shane chokes out a laugh. “I don’t, Shane, I’m so serious.”

“But…”

“No.”

“Hayden.”

“No,” Rozanov says dryly. Hayden gestures toward him.

“Two to one, brother.”

Shane rolls his eyes, shaking his head and letting it fall back to Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov runs a hand over his hair gently, and Hayden watches it. Maybe it’s weird, but it kind of makes him miss his wife.

“Look, man,” he says softly, soberly. “I don’t— I don’t mind, okay? You weren’t ready to tell me, that’s fine.”

Shane looks at him, turning his head to press his cheek to Rozanov’s shoulder. It squishes, and it’s cute. Hayden gets a very similar urge as the one he gets when the kids are being particularly cute, like he wants to bite him or something. Jackie has expressed similar urges when they talk about Shane.

“You’re my best friend,” Shane says pitifully. Hayden’s chest clenches, and he almost lets out a weak sound, a pained groan.

“Shane,” he says softly. “Buddy.”

Shane looks at him, lifting his head, and Rozanov moves a little, shifting to sit on his ass instead of his knees, letting Hayden move closer to Shane.

“You’re my best friend,” Hayden says firmly. “I love you so fucking much.” He half-expects Rozanov to interrupt with some kind of Watch it, but he doesn’t, looking at his own hand holding Shane’s, quiet. “Okay? This doesn’t change anything, and not knowing this didn’t change anything, and it—”

He pauses, leaning to look at Shane’s face. It takes Shane a moment to meet his eyes, and when he does, Hayden crumbles.

He hasn’t cried since Amber was born.

“It’s all fine,” he says, voice wobbling. “Okay? This—” He gestures to where Shane and Rozanov’s hands are linked— “is fine, okay? And you are fine, and I— Shane, I made you my baby’s fucking godfather and I’m not even Christian—”

Shane interrupts with a wet laugh, and Hayden smiles, tilting his head fondly. He glances at Rozanov, and he’s smiling too, gazing at Shane softly, and Hayden wonders how the fuck he ever though these guys hated each other so much when Rozanov is looking at him like this, like he hung the fucking moon.

“It’s fine, man,” Hayden says, looking back at Shane and admiring the way he glances at Rozanov, meeting his eyes briefly. “It’s all fine.”

And Shane nods, but his eyes are glistening, and Hayden can’t help but push Rozanov aside gently, kneeling and lifting his arms for Shane to hug him, laughing at the way Rozanov gasps like he’s been stabbed or doused in cold water, falling aside and rolling onto his back. Hayden kind of hates himself for thinking it, but Rozanov would probably get along really well with the twins.

Hollander dozes in the car.

Ilya keeps glancing at him, at the way his hands are folded in his lap, the way his head is tilted back against the rest with his eyes closed, his expression soft. Ilya longs for him even as he listens to him breathe, and he reaches for him tentatively, touching his knee as lightly as he can so Hollander can pull away if he wants to, or nudge his hand aside, or something.

He doesn’t.

Hollander reaches down, tangles their fingers together and squeezes tightly, exhaling slowly. Ilya nods even though Hollander isn’t looking, even though he seems to be falling asleep, his fingers falling slack in Ilya’s.

Ilya lets him sleep until they get to the house.

“Hollander,” he whispers, squeezing his hand gently. Hollander exhales sharply, turning his head, his fingers tightening weakly. “Hollander…”

“Mm.”

“Come inside.”

“Mmm.”

“Come with me,” Ilya whispers, tugging at his hand gently. “Holly.”

Hollander’s eyebrows furrow, and his nose scrunches like a bunny’s, and his eyes finally crack open, squinting at Ilya in confusion.

“There he is.”

“You don’t call me that,” Hollander mumbles. “‘Ve never heard you call me that.”

“That is because I have never called you that before.”

“...Mm.”

Hollander lets him drag him out of the car, stumbling tiredly behind him into the house. He lets Ilya pull his jacket off, lets him get his shoes off and set them neatly by the door, lets him drag him into the kitchen.

“I will make dinner,” Ilya says softly, touching Hollander’s face softly. Hollander exhales, leaning into it. “You will take a shower. And we will eat delicious food, and then we will make out probably—”

Hollander interrupts with a scoff. Ilya smiles.

“And we will go to bed, yes?” Ilya murmurs. “So you can rest and I can look at you.”

“Look at me,” Hollander repeats quietly. “Look at me?”

“Yes, romantically,” Ilya says. “There is word for it?”

“Gaze?”

“Da,” Ilya says, his face lighting up as Hollander opens his eyes to look at him. “Like us. Gays.”

It takes Hollander a moment. He stares blankly, eyes narrowed and glassy, and then they roll dramatically as he shakes his head.

“I can’t stand you.”

“Go shower.”

Hollander turns away, and Ilya slaps his ass as he leaves.

Ilya makes dinner. Something boring and plain— white rice, grilled chicken and vegetables, broccoli browned and crispy like Shane likes. He gets a ginger ale from the fridge, and a glass from the freezer.

Hollander’s hair is wet when he joins Ilya again, sitting at the table close to him. He’s wearing Ilya’s clothes, black sweatpants and t-shirt, and it makes his skin look even brighter, makes him look a little like he’s glowing, especially in the dim light of the dining room. He looks sleepy, drawing a leg onto the chair he sits in, his knee near his chin so he can lean on it.

“How do you feel?” Ilya asks softly, watching Hollander poke at his food.

“Bad.”

Ilya’s chest aches.

“You will feel better after you eat,” he says. Hollander nods absently, lifting his fork to his mouth. “Is it okay?”

“‘S good,” Hollander says, nodding, chewing. “I like it.”

“Enough furikake?”

Hollander’s face softens, and he looks up at Ilya, smiling a little around the food in his mouth.

“I love you,” he says softly.

Ilya gazes. That’s a good word, he thinks, the perfect one for the way he can’t help but look at Hollander. Soft and sweet and tender.

“I love you too.”

Hollander gazes back at him.

He looks tired.

More tired than he usually does after games, more tired than he usually does at the end of the day. He looks hollow, like there’s something missing in him, his eyes dull instead of shining.

Ilya’s throat tightens.

“Shane,” he says softly, but Shane’s head shakes, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Ilya falls quiet.

“Later,” Shane whispers. “Okay?”

Ilya nods.

They eat in silence. Shane kicks at his leg until he moves it, letting their ankles lock under the table like they’re hiding even in the solitude of Ilya’s home.

“We do not have to talk,” Ilya says later, as they’re tucking against one another, limbs tangling. “If you do not want to.”

“I think I do,” Shane says softly, shifting onto his side, lifting his head for Ilya’s arm to slide under it. “I think I should.”

“Okay,” Ilya whispers. “Talk.”

It’s dark. The bedside lamps are on, dimmed to the lowest setting, barely glowing at all, just bright enough for Ilya to see him, the way his cheek squishes against Ilya’s arm.

“I don’t know,” Shane whispers. “I just…”

His eyes close. He looks so fucking small like this, like he’s burying himself in the space between Ilya’s arms.

“I’m so fucking tired,” Shane says breathily, shaking his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m so— so fucking tired.”

“Shane,” Ilya whispers.

Shane sniffles, and he’s crying now,a tear slipping over his temple to the crease between Ilya’s arm and Shane’s own skin. It’s warm.

“Baby,” Ilya breathes. “I think you are depressed.”

Shane shakes his head again, turning his face into Ilya’s arm.

“I don’t wanna be.”

“...I don’t think many people want to be—”

Shane interrupts with a laugh, and it makes Ilya’s chest loosen, makes him smile a little, touching Shane’s cheek, watching him exhale and look at Ilya tiredly. He looks so soft like this, tucked up against Ilya like the bed is three times smaller than it is, like he can’t possibly get close enough.

Shane touches him. Puts a hand to his chest and traces the sparse hair there, dragging his fingers over Ilya’s skin like he’s trying to trace his veins.

“Am I actually?” he says softly, whispering, eyes suddenly downcast, watching his own fingers. “Depressed?”

“I think so,” Ilya murmurs. “You…”

Shane meets his eyes. Ilya’s breath escapes him.

“You do not shine like you used to,” he says finally, a little stupidly. “I don’t know how to say.”

“‘S okay,” Shane says, nodding. “I get it.”

He’s quiet. He looks back at his fingers trailing over Ilya’s chest, and Ilya smooths his hair back gently, running his fingers through it.

“I had a panic attack a few days ago,” Shane says quietly, like he’s embarrassed. “It doesn’t usually happen, like… that soon after. It’s usually a few months or something.”

“Shane,” Ilya breathes.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Ilya says, moving closer, cradling the side of his face. “Nothing is wrong with you, you just…”

Shane closes his eyes.

“You are having really terrible time.”

Shane scoffs, smiling weakly.

“Yeah,” he says quietly before his eyes flutter open again. “You make it better.”

Ilya smiles weakly.

“I am not professional,” he whispers.

Shane blinks, his hand coming to a stop on Ilya’s chest before it falls to the space between them, tucking with the other under his chin.

“...Do you think I should see a professional?” he asks in a small voice.

“Maybe,” Ilya says softly, shrugging a shoulder. “It might help to talk to someone, no? And they— if you want to talk to them about this. They cannot tell anybody. What is word? They keep secrets.”

“Confidential,” Shane whispers. “Patient confidentiality.”

Ilya hums, running his thumb back and forth over the side of Shane’s neck, watching him think. He can practically hear his brain moving, spinning.

“You do not have to decide right now,” Ilya says. “But I think…”

“Hm?” Shane prompts when he trails off. Ilya looks at him, hesitating before he speaks around the lump in his throat.

“I think maybe you should talk to your parents,” he says quietly. “Just— Just tell them you are struggling.”

He hears Shane’s breath leave him shakily.

“Shane,” Ilya whispers. “Shane.”

“I’m here,” Shane says, as though Ilya lost sight of him— but maybe he kind of did. He barely seems present at all, his eyes glassy and half-closed, whispering like he’s in hiding. “I’m here.”

Ilya’s throat tightens. He looks at Shane, at the faint spots of his freckles, barely visible in the dim light of the bedroom, barely visible at all during the season— Shane doesn’t spend as much time in the sun during this time of year. Ilya brushes his thumb over them.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

Ilya kisses him. It’s soft. Heatless, but slow, lingering in place as Shane takes a breath, and Ilya can feel him relax, melting against Ilya’s arm. He resists the urge to murmur something stupid like There you go, or Just like that into Shane’s mouth, and instead, he holds his face, nodding as he kisses him again.

“Talk to someone,” Ilya says when they part, whispering weakly. His voice is strained even to his own ears, and he hates it. He can feel Shane look at him, close enough for Shane’s eyelashes to brush his skin as his eyes open. “Me, or Hayden, or your parents, or— or a therapist, or somebody, just…”

“Ilya—”

“I don’t want to watch you disappear.”

Ilya’s voice breaks when he says it, and Shane’s chest splits apart.

“God,” Shane chokes, moving, pushing himself forward to hug him, to wrap himself around Ilya’s body as tightly as he can. Ilya is shaking, his hands trembling a little as they slide over Shane’s back and waist, as he holds him just as tightly. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t say sorry,” Ilya says, his voice muffled in Shane’s shoulder.

“I don’t wanna disappear,” Shane chokes. He’s never thought it before— it’s never even occurred to him, really, that he might fade away, but he doesn’t fucking want to. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to.

And he doesn’t want to make Ilya witness it, doesn’t want Ilya to relive anything he saw when he was young.

Ilya hums, hugging Shane tightly, rolling on top of him, and Shane savors it, the weight of Ilya’s body pressing him into the bed. The smell of him.

“I want you to stay,” Ilya chokes, his voice muffled in Shane’s neck. “I don’t want you to go, Shane—”

“I won’t go,” Shane says, his arms wrapping around Ilya’s neck tightly, nudging his face into the side of Ilya’s head. “I won’t— You got me—”

Ilya sniffles, taking a hiccuping breath, and Shane’s entire body hurts. His eyes burn, and his throat tightens, and he slides his hands into Ilya’s curls, fingers tangling and tightening and pulling.

“Baby,” Ilya whimpers.

“I’m here,” Shane whispers weakly. “You got me.”

Ilya takes a broken breath, hot on Shane’s neck, and he presses closer, shaking his head like he’s trying to nuzzle into him, like he’s trying to reach Shane’s fucking pulse. Like it’s impossible for them to get close enough.

“Can I keep you?” Ilya whispers, lips brushing Shane’s skin.

“Yes,” Shane breathes. “You already have me, Ilya, I’m yours.”

Ilya lifts his head, holding himself up, forearms framing Shane’s head, and he looks at Shane like he’s searching for something, eyes flitting across Shane’s face. He’s sniffling, and his lip is quivering, and he’s so beautiful it kind of kills Shane. He reaches up and touches Ilya’s face, but Ilya looks away like he always does when he’s like this, tucking his chin toward his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut tightly.

“Ilya,” Shane whispers, cradling his cheeks. “Ilya, look at me.”

Ilya opens his eyes, blinking across the room before he looks at Shane, his throat bobbling as he swallows.

“I’m right here,” Shane whispers. “I’ll talk to my parents. My mom will find someone for me to talk to, and I’ll… I’ll go to therapy, or try medication, or whatever they think I should do, okay?”

Ilya nods, sniffling again, eye fluttering.

“We’ll figure it out,” Shane murmurs. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya whispers, nodding again. “We will figure it out.”

He leans down. Nudges his nose against Shane’s. Kisses Shane so softly he barely feels it.

“I love you,”Ilya whispers. “So much. And I— I am very proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” Shane repeats, lifting his chin so their noses press again.

“Mm.” Ilya hesitates, brushing his nose back and forth against Shane’s, letting their lips touch briefly. “Getting help, it is… It is very hard. And scary.”

Shane nods.

It is.

He hasn’t even moved, hasn’t done anything to even begin the process of getting help, whatever the fuck that entails, and he’s terrified.

Terrified, because getting help means admitting it— admitting it to someone that isn’t himself and isn’t Ilya. For some reason, that makes it worse.

This thing with Ilya, it’s something he can keep to himself, something he keeps tucked away in his chest, even if Svetlana and Hayden know about it, and everything that comes with it can be kept there, too. Like this. Needing help.

“Shane,” Ilya whispers. He must see him spiralling, must see it on his face. Shane’s never been very good at having a poker face when he wants to be unreadable. “It will be okay.”

“I know.”

“We will figure it out later. We do not have to figure it out right now.”

Shane nods, blinking the sting in his eyes away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He scratches his fingers through Ilya’s curls, tugs them lightly the way Ilya likes him to. He watches Ilya’s eyes flutter.

“Tomorrow,” Shane says, nodding again. “We’ll make a plan tomorrow.”

Ilya nods, leaning down and kissing him.

“Right now, you go to sleep. I will gay.”

Shane makes a face, looking up at him.

“Gaze,” he corrects, narrowing his eyes when Ilya’s lips twitch into a smile.

“But it is singular.”

“It…” Shane blinks at him. Watches his lips purse to suppress a grin. “You know what you’re doing.”

Ilya giggles. Shane’s chest hurts. He rolls his eyes.

Ilya relaxes on top of Shane’s body, pressing him into the bed before he rolls off of him, laying on his side so they’re facing each other. Shane lifts his head so Ilya’s arm can stretch under it, and he turns to rub his face on Ilya’s soft bicep. He suppresses the urge to bite him.

“Go to sleep,” Ilya whispers, lifting his other hand to touch Shane’s face, fingers brushing delicately over his skin, prompting his eyes to close. “I am right here.”

Shane hums softly, opening his eyes to find Ilya in the dark. His curls have gotten longer, and they’re falling across Ilya’s face in a way that makes him look windswept, effortlessly lovely. And sexy. Shane reaches up to push them back, out of Ilya’s face, and Ilya smiles softly.

Shane exhales, letting his hand fall to Ilya’s arm, fingers pressing into his skin, eyes falling shut again as exhaustion takes over.

Ilya’s thumb brushes Shane’s lip like he’s tracing it, like he’s committing Shane’s face to memory.

Shane opens his mouth, holds his tongue out, and he just barely hears Ilya let out a laugh as his tongue slides over Shane’s tongue smoothly. Shane hums, closing his mouth around it, sucking softly.Ilya’s fingers curl under Shane’s chin.

“я тебя люблю,” Ilya whispers.

“Mm. я тебя люблю,” Shane mumbles, Russian clumsy in his mouth, even more jumbled around Ilya’s thumb. Ilya kisses his forehead.

✦

Shane has never really been able to tell when a situation he’s in is awkward. Which, maybe, says something about him as a person, but that’s not his problem. Not right now, anyway.

Actually, maybe it is his problem right now.

Maybe it’s not even his problem so much as the problem is him.

His parents are talking, but he isn’t really listening. Isn’t listening at all, actually. He’s staring at his plate, at his uneaten food, at the glass of water that’s placed above his utensils. At the fork in his hand, lingering by his plate like he’s reaching for a bite.

They’re talking, and he can’t tell if it’s entirely, terribly awkward or if it’s just him, if he just feels so uncomfortable it feels like it’s coming from the whole room, if he’s just fucking miserable enough that it feels like it’s infected the house itself, like the foundations of it are rotting.

His phone is in his pocket, and he’s itching to pull it out, to text Ilya I changed my mind, I can’t do this, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t usually get his phone at the dinner table anyway, especially when he hasn’t seen them in a few months, when he only gets to have dinner with them because he had a game against the Centaurs today.

He’s tired. Of course he’s tired— all games are tiring, even if they’re kind of boring.

But he’s also always fucking tired lately.

He’s tired of being tired.

“Can I talk to you guys about something?” he asks abruptly, interrupting Yuna. He winces, looking up, but they don’t look annoyed. They don’t even look confused.

“Of course,” David says lightly. “Are you okay?”

No, he doesn’t say. I’m not fucking okay. In fact I’m kind of terrible and miserable and depressed enough that I’m scaring my boyfriend.

“Yeah,” he says instead. Lie. “Just— I, uhm…”

They’re quiet, waiting for him, and he sets his fork down, reaching down to tuck a hand under his thigh, muscles tense with discomfort. His other hand slips into his pocket, fingers curled tight around his phone like he’s holding Ilya’s hand.

“I— I’ve been having… a hard time lately.”

A fork clinks against a plate.

He glances up at them, and they’re both looking back at him, expressions somber and worried, and he feels like a fucking child. Looking up at his parents like he’s small, shoulders hunched like he’s going to be scolded— which they didn’t even really do much when he was a kid. He was too well-behaved, which he’s come to realize was a result of his fear.

He didn’t talk much in school. His teachers loved him— he was a pleasure to have in class— and he was perpetually struggling to follow along because they would seat him next to the annoying kids, the ones who never shut up despite the teachers’ assumptions that they would be quiet when next to Shane. He always did his homework, anxious about getting detention or getting scolded in front of everybody.

When he struggled to open the lock on his locker, he bought a new one and set it to the same combination so he could practice at home. He still has it, actually, somewhere in his bedroom, waiting to be used for its actual purpose. 3-27-15. He remembers feeling weirdly relieved when he learned the combination— all multiples of three, unlike his locker number, 167.

He was a good kid. He never got in trouble, never got in fights— even when he really was wanted to. He never snuck out or went to parties or got wasted or did drugs. He never talked back, never yelled or swore at his parents. He always did what he was asked to do. He was good.

But this isn’t good.

“A hard time how?” Yuna asks softly, hands falling below the table as she looks at him, head tilted.

“Just…” He shakes his head, blinking the sting out of his eyes. “Uhm.”

He hesitates, fingers clenching around his phone again before he pulls it out.

“I have, uhm.”

His hands are shaking as he finds his notes app, which opens automatically to the list he worked on with Ilya, and he kind of wishes he was there again, lounging on Ilya’s sofa with his head on Ilya’s tummy, feeling his every breath as they talked about hard things.

He sets his phone on the table next to his plate. They watch.

“I’ve been feeling really overwhelmed with everything lately,” he reads in a quiet, flat voice, like he’s a child reciting lines for a school play. “And I’ve always been overwhelmed, but it’s been getting harder to deal with. I’ve had a few panic attacks in the past few weeks, and they’re happening more and more frequently, and I’m— I’m kind of worried about it happening during a game, or during a press meeting or something.”

He fights the urge to glance up, scrolling down, lifting his other hand to worry his skin between his teeth because he can’t hold Ilya’s hand.

“I feel tired all the time,” he says. His voice shakes a little. “The kind of tired that I usually would feel after a meltdown or something, but it’s constant now. And I feel lonely.”

His voice breaks. He stops to clear his throat, looking intently at his phone.

“Even though I’m not,” he says firmly. “I know you guys love me and support me, and I have other people too,” he adds vaguely, wincing a little at how stupid it sounds. “I just feel really alone, and I feel tired, and I feel…”

He trails off, pausing. His vision blurs, and he can’t read the rest of what he has typed out, what he’s prepared for himself.

“I feel sad,” he says softly, finally lifting his head. The tears fall. His parents look fucking devastated, and he regrets it. He wants to take it all back, to say he’s lying even though he isn’t. For once in his fucking life, he isn’t.

“Shane,” Yuna says softly.

He closes his eyes, shaking his head and looking down, and a weak apology escapes him.

“No,” David says, voice firm but gentle, like it always is. “Shane, don’t apologize.”

“I tried,” Shane chokes, covering his face as he sobs. “I really— I really tried—”

“Shane,” Yuna says, whispers, and Shane can feel her looking at him like she wants to reach out, like she wants to hold his hand. “Breathe, honey, it’s okay.”

It takes him a moment, which is expected, really. He lets his head fall to the table, his shoulders shaking, and he lets himself cry, partially because he can’t help it at all, but also because it’s fine. He cries.

They wait for him, and he cries.

They look at him, and he cries.

They love him, and he cries.

He longs for Ilya, which he always does, because he fucking loves him more than life itself, and because Ilya always makes him feel so much better. He doesn’t even have to try. He murmurs to Shane, says just the right things, and he touches him in a way that he doesn’t mind, in a way he wants. Firm and tender and demanding Shane to be fine. Sweet.

Shane’s stomach hurts, and he feels like he’s feverish, his skin tingling the way it does when he’s getting sick, nerves too sensitive, and he must be fucking losing it. It feels like he’s in fucking withdrawals.

He sniffles when he finally lifts his head, reaching for a napkin to wipe his face, avoiding his parents’ eyes, but he sees Yuna’s hand reach across the table, fingers outstretched, palm to the ceiling. It looks warm, and he wants it.

He takes it, fingers trembling.

She steadies it, holding it tightly like she’s scared of him pulling away.

“Shane,” she says softly. He nods at the table, squeezing her hand, exhaling as her other hand runs over the top of it, smooth and warm and soft over his knuckles. “Thank you for telling us.”

He nods again, biting down on his lower lip to stop its quivering.

“We’ll figure it out,” Yuna says shakily. “Okay? We’ll do some research, find someone for you to talk to, and it’s going to— Shane. It’s going to be okay.”

“I know,” he breathes, nodding again, reaching for his phone and holding it tightly. The screen’s turned off. “I know.”

Yuna squeezes his hand, and she must see the way he recoils a little even though he tries not to, and she lets go, sliding her hands across the table in a way that makes a smooth hushing sound.

“When did this start?” David asks softly. Shane sees his arm stretch out under the table like he’s reaching for Yuna’s leg, and Yuna reaches down to meet his hand halfway. It makes something lessen in his chest.

“I don’t know. I think I’ve… I think I’ve always been like this,” he confesses, watching the way their faces fall even more. “But I didn’t know there was anything wrong until— until someone pointed out that it’s getting worse. I’m

not… handling it as well.”

“Do you…” Yuna pauses, drawing David’s hand closer to herself almost absently, like she doesn’t even notice it. “Do you know what’s causing it?”

She stops, leaning closer to the table, watching Shane intently like she’s trying to read his mind, and she interrupts as he’s taking a breath to speak.

“Just— We don’t have any history of depression in the family— or at least, not that anyone will talk about,” she correctly, and it makes Shane scoff. She softens. “If there’s a cause, or a— a factor, maybe we can do something about that to start.”

Shane looks at the table. At his phone hidden between his hands, his knuckles white from how tightly he’s gripping it.

“It…”

His throat closes. He chokes on it, hiccuping a little, and he lifts his phone to his chest, rubbing his knuckles roughly over his shirt until it’s scraping his skin.

“It’s a lot of pressure,” he says finally, whispering. “Just… being.”

He hesitates, looking up at them.

“I love what I do,” he says firmly. “I do, I really fucking love hockey, and I love competing, and I love winning, and I love— I love being a captain, I just…”

His voice peters off. His parents are blurry.

“I’m the only one,” he says weakly. “Like me. This is such a— a white sport, and I’m the only one like me and it’s like the entire world is constantly just— just waiting for me to fuck up, and they’re always watching me, and I…”

He exhales. His shoulders fall.

“I’m tired.”

“Shane,” Yuna tries, but he doesn’t let her.

“I don’t wanna quit,” he says. “I don’t wanna quit, or— or retire early, or take a— a break. I don’t want to, I just—“

Truthfully, if he quits— or retires, or takes a break— his life would fall apart.

Which, really, maybe, isn’t healthy. For him to rely so deeply on something that he can’t even imagine life without it, can’t imagine having lived a life with anything else. It’s insane.

But he kind of doesn’t mind it, can’t really imagine a life without these dependencies— hockey, his parents. Ilya.

“I just think… maybe. Maybe talking to a professional will help me… deal with it.”

He looks at them. They’re nodding, eyes wide and shining, and he is fucking pitiful.

“Shane,” David says softly. Shane looks at him, lip quivering. He feels pathetic. Small and miserable, lonely and tired and sad and weak. And he knows it’s fucking toxic or whatever, thinking he needs to be stoic and strong and manly, but he can’t help it. Something about playing sports since childhood has fucked that part of his brain.

“Yeah.”

“That’s okay.” He’s so gentle, Shane’s chest aches. “You’re allowed to get help, okay? And you’re allowed to need help, Shane, that’s okay.”

Shane nods absently. He loosens his fingers on his phone, watches the blood flow back through his knuckles.

“Shane,” Yuna says after a few moments, voice tilted like it’s a question. He looks up at her. “…Do you think this might have something to do with your eating?”

He looks down. At his plate. The untouched rice, the picked-at salmon, the scattered vegetables.

His stomach hurts.

“I don’t… I don’t want to get into that,” he says quietly. “Right now.”

“Shane—“

“Not right now,” he interrupts, shaking his head, closing his eyes. “Please.”

“Okay,” Yuna says softly. “Okay.”

Shane exhales shakily, lifting a hand and rubbing his face roughly. They lapse into silence, and normally, somebody in Shane’s place would probably take a bite of their food, would finish dinner, but he fucking can’t.

It’s something to talk about. He knows it.

Ilya tries sometimes, to nudge him into acknowledging that it isn’t fucking normal to feel so disgusting for eating, to feel guilty for taking in too many calories or eating something that isn’t clean— that it isn’t normal to think of food as clean at all. He’s tried to get Shane to talk about it, to figure out what exactly it is that makes him eat like this, what makes him refuse what he wants— Chocolate, strawberries. Coffee, with cream.

He’s tried to get Shane to give in. To lick the sweetness of candies and fruity cocktails from Ilya’s tongue, to pick berries from Ilya’s teeth with his own. To let himself want something so mundane and fine like fucking white rice. To let himself have it.

He’s tried to get Shane to simply not think about it, and that’s actually worked once or twice. He’s good at that, getting Shane out of his head enough to open his mouth for Ilya to feed grapes into gently, enough to chew and swallow just how Ilya tells him to, sated and exhausted and content. When he’s sliding into the gentle respite of Ilya’s arms after coming so hard he loses his sight for a brief moment— which Ilya’s really good at making him do— it’s easy to let anything happen. It’s easy to let himself actually enjoy the tart sweetness of berries and the bitterness of dark chocolate, the way fruit juice slides over his tongue and down his throat, chasing the slight salt of Ilya’s come.

It doesn’t always work.

Sometimes, Shane shakes his head when he’s offered the sweets, even when the green grapes are perfectly frosted and crisp. Sometimes, he just has no fucking patience for it, for the unnecessary snacks, the temptation that Ilya offers him.

He doesn’t know why he’s like this, why he needs it so fucking badly.

He stares at his plate, and it feels even worse now that they’ve acknowledged it, now that he knows they can see it, now that he knows they can fucking see it, right now. He doesn’t pick up his fork, and he doesn’t touch his plate, and he doesn’t eat.

They do.

He waits, watching his food like it’s going to disappear on its own, until Yuna speaks again.

“Who helped you?”

He blinks, looking up at her tiredly.

“Huh?”

She pauses to swallow the food in her mouth, looking at him like she’s curious.

“You said someone pointed out that you’ve been… struggling.”

Shane hesitates, and then nods.

“Who was it?” Yuna asks lightly, like it’s easy, like it doesn’t matter. “Who helped you?”

Shane stares back at her, hesitating, holding back, and there’s a lie right there, at the forefront of his brain, on the tip of his tongue— Hayden learned a lot about depression and anxiety after Jackie had their first kid, that he’s seen the signs, recognized them from pamphlets and articles.

But Shane is tired.

He’s really fucking tired.

“Uhm,” he says, fingers wrapping tight around his phone again. “It was, uhm. Someone I’ve been… seeing.”

He’s met with silence, and he looks at them, glancing between their blank stares. David blinks at him, eyebrows furrowing like he’s thinking hard about it.

“I thought you said—”

“I lied,” Shane says, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, grimacing at the pain in his bones. “I lied, I’ve been lying to you for a long time, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” David says gently, interrupting. Shane shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. “It is, Shane— Hey. Buddy, we’re not mad at you.”

He’s heard that before.

He remembers losing a game once, when he was thirteen, his team dejected and disappointed, and he remembers the debilitating ache in him that told him it was his fault, that he had fucked up. He remembers crying, remembers apologizing to his parents like he’d personally wronged them, and he remembers them saying that. We’re not mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong, you did your best, you’re not going to win every single game, that’s just how it goes. Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.

“Shane,” Yuna says, her voice soft and sweet and so much more patient than Shane deserves. “Honey. You’re allowed to have secrets.”

He opens his eyes. Looks at her through his unshed tears.

“You are,” Yuna says softly. “You don’t have to tell us everything.”

“Mom.”

“And we don’t expect you to tell us everything,” she persists. “Okay? You can keep things to yourself. But you don’t have to.”

He exhales shakily, rubbing his forehead roughly, sniffling.

“You can tell us right now if you want to,” Yuna says lightly. She makes it sound so fucking simple. “Whatever you want to tell us.”

He groans softly, covering his face before he drops them with a sharp exhale. He’s a little lightheaded. He might pass out. That would be bad.

“Uhm, I don’t…”

He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s trying to say. That he doesn’t know where to start, how to say it, if he should start by announcing that he’s fucking gay, or that he’s been hooking up with his longtime rival, the guy that they shittalk all the fucking time on his fucking behalf, or that he’s fallen head over fucking heels in love with him.

“When did it start?” David prompts.

And that’s just as fucking hard, isn’t it? Admitting that he’s been lying for the better part of the last goddamn decade?

“...Rookie year,” he breathes.

Silence.

He looks at them, and they’re staring back at him, eyes wide, but they don’t look upset. They look sad.

“Shane,” Yuna says softly. “...That’s a long time to keep a secret.”

And in spite of himself, he laughs. It comes out kind of hysterical, like he’s delirious, and he pushes a hand through his hair roughly.

“It’s been longer than that,” he says shakily, his voice wavering. “I, uhm…”

They wait for a moment, and he takes a stuttering breath.

“It’s a man,” he says. It sounds like a question. “I— I’m— I’m gay.”

“Shane,” Yuna whispers. He shakes his head, looking at the table resolutely as one of his arms wraps around himself, clutching his shoulder tightly. “Shane, that’s okay.”

Her voice is tight, like she’s crying, and Shane hasn’t seen her cry since their first Stanley Cup win, and it rips him apart.

“It is,” she says when his head shakes again. “That’s so, so perfectly okay, Shane, there is nothing wrong with that, okay?”

“Shane,” David says firmly, like he’s upset. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

Shane rubs his face harshly as David repeats himself, and he can’t help but laugh again, his voice muffled in his hands.

“You might change your mind when you know who my boyfriend is.”

David scoffs, and Yuna lets out a wet laugh, reaching up across the table.

“Can I hold your hands?”

Shane looks away, exhaling sharply, blinking his eyes hard before he reaches for her hands, fingers weak as hers squeeze tightly. He has bigger hands than hers, he has since he was seventeen, but it doesn’t feel like it right now. It feels like he’s tiny, like his fists fit in her palms, like she could scoop him right up.

“Shane,” Yuna says seriously, dropping her chin like she does when she’s being firm with him. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

“I do not care who your boyfriend is,” she says slowly, and he can’t help but let out a guffaw, a stupid laugh at the absolute absurdity of it, and it makes her laugh a little, her glistening eyes squinting under her smile. “I don’t care, baby, I don’t give a shit.”

“Mom,” he tries, but she shakes her head, letting out a firm Mm-mm sound, squeezing his hands.

“I don’t care, Shane,” she repeats. “I care that you’re happy.”

He blinks, his smile faltering as he looks at her, and her eyes flutter. A tear falls down her cheek, and it’s oddly beautiful, really. He hates it.

“We want you happy,” she says quietly, almost whispering. “And we want you safe, and whoever you find that with…”

She trails off, exhaling softly and shaking her head like she can’t find the words. She squeezes his hands, looking at him desperately.

“Is he good to you?” David asks. Shane looks at him, blinking tears back, and he nods. “He treats you like you deserve?”

“Better,” Shane says.

David smiles, and his eyes look shiny too, soft like he’s looking at a baby, like he’s proud.

“Do you love him?” Yuna asks.

Shane drops his head, sniffling, taking an unsteady breath, and then he looks up at them, letting the tears fall from his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “So much.”

Yuna smiles, head tilting like Shane is adorable, like he’s a cute cat or something, and her hands squeeze again.

“Have you told him?” she asks, and he looks away again, face burning as he suppresses a bashful smile.

“Yeah.”

“Wo-o-ow,” David says. Shane laughs, dropping his head again even though they can definitely see that the tips of his ears are bright red. Ilya always says he blushes easily, incredibly obviously. “That’s a big step.”

“It didn’t feel like a big step,” Shane says softly, almost muttering to himself.

“Really?” David says, and the air around them loosens, like it’s suddenly a casual conversation, like Shane’s entire world hasn’t just fallen apart. He shifts, leaning to drape his arm over the back of Yuna’s chair. Yuna looks at him, one of her hands releasing Shane’s so she can turn toward David. “I thought the world would end when I told your mother I loved her for the first time.”

Yuna laughs, and Shane shakes his head, his free hand finally lifting to hold his own arm, fingers digging tightly into his bicep.

“I mean, it— it was a big deal, it is a big deal, it just…” He shakes his head, pausing. “It was easy.”

Yuna’s thumb runs over Shane’s knuckles.

She’s smiling when Shane looks up at her, and David’s expression is soft, and they look so kind. He feels… loved.

“What’s his name?” Yuna asks softly.

“Uhm.” Shane takes a slow, deep breath, but it doesn’t fill his lungs the way he needs, and he sits up a little, trying again. His hand slides over his upper arm like he’s cold, rubbing harshly.

They wait.

He could refuse. He knows he could. They would let him shake his head, would let him drop it like the food conversation, and they would be nice about it, because they’re nice. They’re so nice, and Shane loves them so much, and he’s been lying to them for fucking years, he’s been hiding from them, as though they’d be mean about it, like they would punish him or disown him or drop him by the side of the road like a kicked dog.

He’s a terrible son.

This might break their hearts. Shane, in love with a fucking Boston Bear. In love with—

“Ilya,” he says finally, whispering.

He’s already looking up, and because he is, he gets to see the way Yuna’s expression falls, the way her eyes widen, her smile falters, and his stomach hurts, twisting like he’s going to be fucking sick.

But just as his eyes are burning again, Yuna nods, lips parting to let out a soft, “Wow.”

He looks away, letting out a sharp breath that carries with it a weak groan. Yuna’s hand tightens, pulling at Shane’s a little.

“Ilya,” Yuna says softly, nodding. “Hm.”

“It’s never affected our game,” Shane blurts, suddenly desperate. Yuna looks at him, nodding a little. “We’ve never— We would never let it affect how we play, we’re just as competitive as we were before we…”

He doesn’t know how to end that sentence.

Fucked?

Fell in love?

“We’re even more competitive, actually,” he says, voice almost slurred from how fast he’s speaking, looking at the table so he can think, even though that doesn’t really help. “We play harder against each other than we do against anyone else, and it’s not even really a matter of pride, or— or of winning— but we like winning, of course we do, we’re the fucking captains of our teams, but it’s just— fun.”

He stops, his hand falling to the table with a solid thud, and his eyes flutter, trying to restrain the tears threatening to fall again.

“He makes it fun,” he adds weakly. “It feels like it did when I was a kid.”

They’re quiet. His chest aches, and he thinks he might be dying, even though they don’t seem to really have a problem with it— when he looks up, they’re staring back at him, eyes shining.

“You really love him,” Yuna says softly.

Shane nods.

“He makes me happy,” he mutters. “He’s also… a huge pain in the ass, but—”

They interrupt with identical laughs, and he smiles bashfully, running his hands up and down his thighs hard. It feels fucking bizarre, telling his parents about his boyfriend— his amazing, sweet, darling menace of a boyfriend. It’s never felt possible, not in the slightest, to have something as normal as this, as mundane and typical and domestic. For a brief moment, he imagines having even more than this. His boyfriend meeting his parents. Having dinner, maybe, or lunch. Sipping vodka with David and talking shit about the Rangers with Yuna. Holding Shane’s hand in front of them, letting their ankles lock under the table. Maybe Shane would even kiss his cheek or something. Refer to him as his boyfriend in front of them. It would be normal, and fine, just for a little while, even if they couldn’t have it outside of this bubble they would be in, even if they couldn’t have it in real life. Just for a little while, they could pretend.

He’s fucking exhausted. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so tired in his stupid life, and he hasn’t even moved from where he’s sitting at the table. His feet are on the floor, and his hands are pressed to his legs, and every muscle in his body is tense, aching.

“Uhm,” he says softly, looking at the table. “I kinda… I wanna go to bed.”

“Okay,” David says softly, nodding when Shane glances up at him. “That’s okay.”

“I’m…”

“You’re okay,” Yuna says quietly. “You’re okay, and we’re not upset about anything, and we’re proud of you.”

Shane nods absently.

He’s tired.

He looks at his plate.

“Uhm.”

“Leave it there,” Yuna says. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” Shane says, nodding. “Uhm. Thank you.”

“We love you,” David says. “So much. No matter what.”

Shane nods at his uneaten dinner.

“I love you too.”

He can hear them cleaning up from his room, the sound of water running in the kitchen sink, plates and silverware clinking in the dishwasher. He can’t hear their voices, but he can feel them talking about him. Something about how little they know about him, about what they want to know. About Ilya.

Ilya, not Rozanov. He wonders if they refer to him the same way.

He puts on his headphones, sound cancellation on, and he shuts off the lights, and he tucks himself into his bed, wrapping a blanket around himself tightly, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He shuts himself off from it all. He can hear himself breathing, slow in and out and in and out, his lungs filling and emptying steadily.

It’s all different, and he kind of hates it, but he also doesn’t think he really minds.

When his skin feels like it’s on properly again, not twisted or inside out, he opens his eyes just enough to rummage for his phone, squinting in the dark.

Shane keeps his headphones on. He looks at the ceiling in the dark, and he waits.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing Ilya says, and his voice rushes over Shane like warm water, soothing and soft and safe.

“I’m okay,” Shane says softly. Ilya doesn’t respond, and for a moment Shane wonders if the headphones aren’t picking his voice up. But then Ilya speaks again.

“Are you actually?”

Shane’s throat tightens.

His arms wrap around himself under his blanket, squeezing tightly, and he longs for Ilya closer, for him to squeeze him, or to lay on top of him the way Shane loves so much, weight pressing and holding him in place.

“I’m tired,” he breathes.

“You can sleep,” Ilya says quietly. “I will stay here.”

“Not that kind of tired.”

He hears Ilya exhale slowly, like he’s restraining a deep sigh. Shane squeezes his eyes shut even though his room is almost pitch dark, and he’s so fucking sick of crying. He keeps expecting to run out of tears.

“Your parents are…”

“They’re okay,” Shane says softly. “I told them everything, that I— I’m gay, and I’m… depressed,” he says, forcing it out. “They told me… that they’re not upset with me, and I’m not in trouble or anything.”

Ilya is quiet for a moment before he speaks, his voice hushed and smooth. Tender.

“I wish I could fix it for you,” he whispers. “I want to make you feel better.”

“You do,” Shane says weakly, rolling onto his side, squeezing himself tightly. “You always make me feel better, Ilya.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. Feel so…” His voice breaks, and he swallows, the lump in his throat stubbornly resisting. “Safe. With you.”

They fall quiet, and Shane listens to him breathing. He loves the sound of it. They don’t spend the night together very often, but sometimes, when they’ve collapsed against each other, sated and tired, Shane just listens to him, the steady in and out, watching his chest rise and fall. He longs for it, to listen to it for hours and hours and hours, to fall asleep to it and to wake up to it.

“I told them I love you,” Shane whispers. Ilya hums softly.

“Did you tell them I love you?” he asks.

Shane hesitates.

“...Uh.”

“Wow.”

Shane can’t help but giggle, rolling to tuck his face into his arm the way he wants to do to Ilya’s chest.

“My bad.”

“They will hate me,” Ilya says, and there’s a rustling noise like he’s rolling over on his bed, like he’s writhing in despair. “They will never give blessing so I can marry you, because they think I do not love you. What have you done, Shane?”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I am reasonable,” Ilya says. “I want my boyfriend’s family to like me, what is the problem? I am crazy?”

Shane giggles, shaking his head even though Ilya can’t see him.

“I told them you’re good to me,” he says after a moment. “That you treat me better than I deserve.”

“You deserve the best,” Ilya says, his voice suddenly firm. “You don’t deserve anything less than everything.”

Shane exhales, eyebrows furrowing, lip quivering.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So fucking much. I can’t stand you.”

Ilya laughs. It’s beautiful, his voice bright and lovely and right in Shane’s ears, surrounding him.

✦

“Two months, Ilya,” Shane complains, looking up at him. “I might die.”

“And you say I am the dramatic one.”

His voice is strained, a little weak in his throat, and it makes Shane grin. He shifts, rolling his hips just enough to make Ilya grunt.

“I’ve never said that,” Shane says lightly, dragging his fingertips over Ilya’s neck, into his hair, tugging at his sweat-damp curls. “I would never say any such thing.”

“Fuck, Shane.”

“Don’t stop, keep…”

Ilya moves slowly, his head falling to rest in Shane’s neck. Shane’s eyes flutter shut, and he gasps, pressing Ilya’s head into place.

“Fuck, yeah,” he moans. “Right there.”

“Shane—”

“Like that, fuck, you’re so deep.”

Ilya groans, hips meeting Shane’s, rolling slowly and intently, grinding into him. Shane moans breathlessly, hugging Ilya’s neck as Ilya turns to mouth at him, lips and tongue sliding over his cheek, jaw, and neck, lingering at his pulse.

“I want to live here,” he mumbles, lips pressed to Shane’s skin. “I never want to leave, you can keep me.”

“Fuck, Ilya—”

“You feel so good.”

“Mm.”

Shane pushes his head back into his pillow that was so lovingly placed just right for him. He breathes open-mouthed, gasping desperately, and he lets Ilya at his neck, licking and sucking gently enough that nothing will linger when they’ve finished.

He shifts against Ilya, groaning, rolling against him.

“Я хочу больше,” he mumbles clumsily. “Прошу, Илья.”

Ilya groans roughly, hips moving harder, slamming down into Shane, who shouts, clinging to him, grappling over his back and leaving scratches in his path.

“Yes,” Shane moans. “Like that, fuck, baby—“

“бля,” Ilya chokes. “Shane, mm— я тебя люблю—“

“Fuck, wait—“

Ilya stops. Of course he does, immediate and sudden, pushing himself up to look at Shane, but Shane clings to him, drawing him close.

“What is it?” Ilya asks, breathless. “Does it hurt?”

“No, just— I don’t wanna come yet,” Shane pants, burying his face in Ilya’s hair. “I don’t wanna finish, I want…”

“Okay,” Ilya whispers, nodding, kissing him slowly. It soothes him, shoulders falling, body loosening into the bed. “It is okay.”

Shane exhales slowly, shuddering.

“I am here,” Ilya whispers.

“I know,” Shane chokes. “And it’s only two months. We’ve gone two months.”

“Not like this,” Ilya breathes. “It wasn’t like this back then.”

“I know.”

Shane noses at his neck, catching his breath, and he’s still squirming, pushing back against Ilya’s dick, scratching at his hair.

“Bite me,” Ilya whispers. “Right there.”

Shane does, without hesitation. His teeth press into Ilya’s skin, softly and then harder, and then harder, and it hurts. Ilya’s breath hisses, and he grunts, and it’s going to leave a nasty mark, but he wants it, wants everyone who lays eyes on him to know that he belongs to someone.

“Fuck, I will miss you.”

“I already miss you,” Shane whispers, lips brushing the wetness of his spit on Ilya’s neck. “Can’t stand it.”

“Dramatic.”

“Mm-mm.”

They linger, holding each other close, breathing slow and steady until Ilya shifts, and Shane’s breath catches.

“Всё в порядке?” Ilya whispers.

“да.” He exhales shakily. “больше.”

Ilya moves, lifting his head to breathe into Shane’s mouth. It’s slow, each thrust firm and steady, and Shane moans, his legs catching around Ilya’s waist, a hand reaching down to grab at Ilya’s ass.

Ilya moans, nodding. Their noses bump and nudge and his hair is falling in their faces, and they’re both breathless and sweaty, their skin sliding.

“Fuck,” Shane chokes, fingers wrapped in Ilya’s curls. “I love you so much.”

Ilya says his name.

“Я не могу без тебя жить.”

Shane moans softly, gripping Ilya’s hair and pulling him back to look at him. He’s dazed, eyes glassy, red-faced and panting.

“What’s that? You can’t…”

Ilya moans, kissing him clumsily.

“I ca— I can’t live without you.”

“…Fuck, Ilya—“

✦

Codependent.

A person with an excessive emotional or psychological reliance on a partner, typically one who requires support on account of an illness or addiction.

Dr Ouellet says there’s nothing really wrong with codependency, just that it can be a slippery slope when strong attachments are formed, when someone’s wellbeing depends on another person’s presence or feelings, and it takes several appointments for Shane to even mention a boyfriend.

It’s hard to say. Shane has to rip it out of himself, to tear the information free from his own ribcage. Ouellet made it very clear that everything is completely confidential, that nobody will ever know what Shane’s told him unless someone is in danger— somebody else or Shane himself. It had been a comfort, but Shane also had the odd sense that that comfort was compromised by Ouellet’s sheer knowledge that Shane is, in some way, a minor celebrity. And Shane realises during their third appointment, sitting on the plush armchair diagonal from Ouellet and his fucking clipboard, that he dislikes being known.

Most of the time.

He supposes, after some more discussion and introspection, that he dislikes being vulnerable— which he decides after sitting in his car and thinking for a long while before going home after an appointment— that this is because he isn’t supposed to be vulnerable. He isn’t supposed to be soft and needy and pitiful, even if he allows himself the occasional indulgence in it.

Crying in Ilya’s arms, sometimes because he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of him, sometimes just because. Talking to his parents, telling them that Ilya is sweet to him and always has ginger ale in his fridge in Boston. Cradling the Pike babies, kissing their heads, so gentle with the spots on their skulls that still scare the shit out of him.

It’s different, he supposes, with this distance between him and the recipient of his softness. A professional, medical distance. One that is filled with explanations and technical terms like increased muscle tension and orthorexia nervosa.

He thinks sometimes that he should have waited for the off-season, when he could stay in Montreal and go see Ouellet in person, every Monday and Thursday just like he recommended, but after the initial meeting with him— he’s praised online by former patients and patients’ families as a safe, supportive professional and as providing clear, practical insights— it’s decided that Shane shouldn’t wait months longer, especially when he constantly feels like he’s on the brink of a panic attack.

So when he leaves Montreal for games, they do virtual meetings. Skype calls. And it’s fucking embarassing, and awkward, and Shane hates it, but he’s on time for every appointment, and Hayden is a fucking godsend that makes excuses for him when the guys ask about where he is.

It’s not that Shane is hiding it, really. He just doesn’t need them to know that he needs help like this. He’s their captain, their leader— he isn’t supposed to be like this. And, he supposes, it’s a vulnerable thing to let people know that he needs help. Ouellet, actually, is pretty good at his job.

✦

During their first appointment, Shane describes his panic attacks and the weird non-panic attacks that he’s had since childhood, and he decides that no, he doesn’t want to be assessed for autism. Because what would be the point?

Two weeks in, Ouellet gets Shane to talk about food. And Shane hates it. He fucking hates it. He hates being uncomfortable, and food makes him uncomfortable, the overwhelming flavours and textures and smells, the groaning ache when he’s hungry, the tight ache when he’s full. And talking about food makes him uncomfortable, which he already knew, but he didn’t really know the extent of it until this appointment. He has to sit alone in the dark for a long while afterward, wrapped in a blanket and playing Solitaire.

Four weeks in, Shane finally admits he has a boyfriend— a serious boyfriend, one that he loves so fucking much it kills him, one that loves him too. One that actually prompted him to get help, which maybe is the biggest sign of love that Shane can think of. Sure, he cooks for Shane, keeping in mind Shane’s restrictions and gently nudging him out of his comfort zone, and he keeps ginger ale in his fridge all the time, and he stopped using his fancy scented laundry detergent after he found out Shane didn’t like it— the smell was something floral and overwhelming. (Yes, he’s sure he doesn’t want an autism assessment.)

But Shane keeps going back to the fact that Ilya told him to get help, gently and kindly and tenderly, and he checks on Shane every day, even when they’re apart. Little How are you feeling?s and Good day or bad day?s that always seem to come just when Shane needs it, when he needs to know that someone is there, waiting and listening.

He looks at the ground the whole time he tells Ouellet about Ilya, avoiding his eyes and squeezing his hands uncomfortably, digging his nails into his palms, clenching and unclenching and clenching and unclenching and clenching and unclenching.

The week after that, Shane says, “This is gonna blow your mind but I kind of have some control issues—” and he’s interrupted by Ouellet’s laughter, which makes it easier to tell him that Shane does things by threes. He knows it’s not normal, which is why nobody really knows about it. (Except that Ilya’s definitely noticed. Three sets of twelve, or fifteen, or eighteen (or any multiple of three, really)every time he works out, volumes of his television or music set to a multiple of three, three deep breaths when he’s feeling overwhelmed, and so on. But Ilya also seems to know that Shane wouldn’t talk about it even if he brings it up.) And Shane tells Ouellet that it’s not really a big deal— it’s annoying sometimes, when he has to push through exhaustion during workouts so he doesn’t stop on a bad number, or when he has to close and open the thick padlock on his locker before games three times, and maybe six, and then maybe nine if it isn’t working.

It’s a nuisance, but it’s never really been a huge problem— maybe it costs him some money when he needs to wash his body three times and wastes soap and water. But really, not a big deal. Just a weird quirk.

And yeah, okay, he can admit that life would probably be easier if he didn’t have to do this to himself, if he didn’t have to count so often, sometimes in English, and sometimes in French, and lately, sometimes in Russian. And he can admit that it disrupts his life sometimes, when he gets stuck in a seemingly never-ending cycle of threes, when some weird sensation gets stuck on him and he can’t figure out what it needs in order to go away, and he just tries everything he can think of, attempting to follow the instincts that, quite frankly, don’t even seem to know what the fuck they want.

It’s worse now than it used to be, he tells Ouellet. It was tolerable when he was younger, subtle in a way that made it just so nobody would notice. Three wasn’t an obsession, or a compulsion back then— it was just lucky. Shane’s fucking lucky number that he despised. He would read each test question three times before answering it, which was praised as a good technique to ensure reading comprehension, but he would have to rush through the last bits of every test because of all the time he wasted reading.

Three was his lucky number, so people knew not to touch whatever Shane had put into place three times— sometimes a fork, or a bag, or his phone— because it would ‘fuck up his mojo.’ Whatever that means. To Shane, it just meant he would have to start over. Three more times, but usually, if someone else had fucked it up, six, or nine.

“Would you like it to go away?” Ouellet asks one day, and it makes Shane pause.

Because it does, in a weird and infuriating way, bring him comfort. When he feels like he’s losing his fucking mind, numbers don’t change, and they’ve never changed since man learned to count, have they? Three has always been three, and three has always gone into six and nine and twelve and so on. And that’s nice— Shane likes it. It’s steady, like something he can hold onto when he’s unstable. But as he thinks about it, eyes drifting away from Ouellet’s face on his laptop to the lines between the keys, he thinks maybe what Ouellet is referring to by ‘going away’ isn’t the comfort of threes, but the need for it.

He nods.

“We can work on that,” Ouellet says. “Shane, have you heard of OCD?”

“The… neatness thing?”

“Kind of, sometimes. It’s different for everybody. It stands for obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

“Oh.”

“Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Of course he does.

Ouellet isn’t a psychiatrist, he clarifies to Shane later, and he technically can’t diagnose him, but he knows Shane is averse to seeking diagnoses, and he knows Shane doesn’t really see a point in getting an actual diagnosis in any of the things he might have, so he just lets him have this. It might be. It could be.

It probably is.

He’s told that being tired after therapy appointments is normal, but that doesn’t make it any less tolerable. He hates being tired, but apparently feeling things is exhausting. He finds himself laying in bed for a while after most appointments, sometimes dozing, sometimes thinking, sometimes texting or calling Ilya just to be with him.

Codependent. He knows.

It takes time, he’s told.

It’s not a linear process. You’ll have good days, and you’ll have bad days, and you’ll have days that you want to give up and give in, and you’ll have days that you wanna try so hard it hurts, and that’s what matters. That you try at all.

“I wish I wasn’t like this,” he says one night to Ilya, eyes closed to the dark with his love’s voice whispering in his ear. “My brain’s all fucked.”

“I love your brain,” Ilya says softly. Shane would roll his eyes if he wasn’t drifting off.

“Whatever.”

“I do. It is amazing.”

Shane just scoffs, but he doesn’t argue, because Ilya would hate that. He always gets frustrated when Shane can’t take a compliment.

“You have become quite proficient in Russian,” Ilya says lightly. “And you are quick thinker on ice, and you are very good team captain, and you are kind, and considerate, and you always think outside box that people want you in.”

Shane’s lip wobbles. His fingers tighten around his phone.

“You are always thinking so much,” Ilya murmurs. “Too much. I wish I could stop it.”

“You do,” Shane says. “Sometimes. You get me out of my head.”

Which, embarrassingly, he’s talked to Ouellet about— the way Ilya talks to him sometimes, the way he looks him in the eye and leaves no room for argument or insecurity, the way he grabs his hair and calls him a good boy. Jesus, Shane had wanted to throw himself into traffic when it came up, when he had to explain how Ilya helps him, but Ouellet hadn’t even blinked, hadn’t seemed to notice the awkward mist in the air.

And he’d told Shane that it’s fine, that it’s healthy even, as long as they’re safe and responsible and practice proper aftercare. He’d used technical terms like he always does, words that don’t really make much sense to Shane— things about interpersonal relationships and dynamics and finding a healthy balance in his expression and control. None of it sounds right, even though it all makes sense, he supposes, because he’s never used any actual terminology to describe his and Ilya’s relationship. They’re just them.

Maybe eventually Shane will work up the nerve to tell Ouellet about the time Ilya spanked him to get his brain to shut up, and he had Shane count— his hand had landed seven times. Not six, and not nine, but seven. And Shane had noticed, of course he had, he’d had that irritating feeling of not quite right that he desperately wanted to fix, but he’d allowed it to go away on its own. He wasn’t in charge.

“It doesn’t help.”

“It does,” Shane says quietly, firmly. “You do.”

They’re quiet for a few moments, and Shane listens to him breathe. It makes his shoulders relax, and he never notices himself all tight and bunched up until he melts like this, exhaling slowly as the tension escapes him.

“I love you,” Ilya whispers. Shane nods even though he can’t see him. “I did not know it was possible to love somebody so much.”

Shane laughs a little, smiling weakly, throat tight.

“Feels like fairy tale shit.”

“Yes,” Ilya laughs, but it sounds melancholy, like he’s grieving the distance between them too, like he’s just as codependent. “It is fucking insane.”

Shane laughs, nodding again, rolling onto his side, and then he’s crying into his pillow, and he doesn’t really even know why. Maybe because he’s fucking tired, just in general but also of being like this, of being fucked in the head, of being tired— and what a viscous cycle existence is— but also because he’s like this and Ilya still loves him.

“I am so lucky,” Ilya whispers.

Shane cries some more.

✦

✦

He gets better. Ilya sees it.

It takes time, of course it does— neither of them expected an overnight shift even if Shane seems like he would have killed for it— and it takes effort. Trial and error. Experimenting. During the off-season, Shane tries medication for the first time, and the first one fucks him up. He hates it, and he makes it very clear that he hates it. He complains often, groaning, curling up around the nausea swirling in his gut. He cries. It rips Ilya apart.

Then they try something new, and after a few weeks, Shane shifts into something softer. When the initial nausea subsides, he smiles more easily, even in his exhaustion. Ilya knows how hard it is, coming around to it all, getting used to it. Accepting it. They take their medication together. Ilya gives him kisses after every pill they swallow.

Shane gets lighter.

After a few months, he carries himself differently. Like it’s easier.

It fucks Ilya up. It makes his chest get tight, and sometimes it makes him cry.

He fell in love with Shane so easily, with everything about him, even when he was miserable. And he doesn’t know how to explain it, even to himself, but he thinks he’s falling in love all over again.

There’s a whole other side of Shane that he never knew, and, unsurprisingly, it’s just as radiant and beautiful as the rest of him. Ilya loves learning about him, loves seeing his edges soften and his eyes shine.

It’s not perfect. They’re not perfect, neither of them. Shane keeps making it sound like he’s the problem, like he’s too fucked up for Ilya to tolerate, like Ilya doesn’t take antidepressants too. Ilya reminds him every chance he gets that he doesn’t mind it, that he doesn’t tolerate or put up with him. That he loves him more than anything.

It’s an eventful off-season.

They stay at the cottage, isolated and lonely together, away from the rest of the world so Shane can acclimate to his medication without any eyes on him. He goes to Montreal occasionally, to see his psychiatrist for check-ins, and to see Hayden and his family. And it’s kind of insane that Ilya practically lives here now, staying in the cottage overnight while Shane is away, his toothbrush in a cup on the right side of the sink, his phone charger on the right side of the bed. His mug in the sink, coffee dregs dried crisp. His shoes by the door, his clothes in the drier, his medication on the dresser next to his cologne.

He wakes up to Shane climbing into bed next to him one day, and he’s just barely conscious, but if he was, he would probably cry. The bed is warm and Shane is shirtless, his hair damp from a shower, and he’s burying his face in Ilya’s neck like he can’t get close enough. Ilya closes his eyes again and lets him in, sighing into his hair, breathing him in.

Ilya meets his parents. They have dinner at David and Yuna’s house, and Ilya is horrifically uncomfortable, terrified out of his mind, and it’s awkward and too-quiet as they take their seats around the table, but it’s amazing. They’re so nice, actually nice, asking questions about Ilya and his life and his family, about him and Shane. There isn’t much they can tell them— much that wouldn’t absolutely humiliate them both and send everyone around the table into an early grave, at least. Shane holds his hand under the table.

He spends the night in Shane Hollander’s childhood bedroom. The bed is in the corner of the room, and there’s a desk opposite it, and a dresser. It’s plain, very Shane in Ilya’s opinion. There aren’t any photos or posters, but there are medals decorating one of the walls, the metal inscribed with years from before the two of them met, the ribbons colorful and pretty. There are four pillows on the bed— every pillowcase is different, but they fit together, varying shades of blue and grey— and there’s a rug on the floor, round and some vague shade of green.

The bed is smaller than the bed at the cottage, but Ilya doesn’t mind, because it forces them closer. Part of him almost expected David and Yuna to make them sleep separately, to make Ilya stay in a guest room, but they didn’t seem fazed when Shane told them, “We’re gonna go to bed,” as he pulled Ilya down the hallway by his hand.

Obviously they didn’t get up to anything. They took their medication, and they brushed their teeth, and Shane practically passed out the second they cuddled up in bed. And now Ilya gets to look at him, to gaze at him, and he gets to look around the room, and it’s a weird room, oddly impersonal for a childhood bedroom— plain walls and lacking trinkets and keepsakes— but Ilya loves it. It feels fucking safe, and he wonders if Shane feels the same way. If this room was his sanctuary, if he sought it during long days and bad days. If he slept on the left side of the bed before he started seeing Ilya. If he laid the same way, with his arm around a pillow like he does with Ilya’s chest.

There’s enough moonlight coming in through the window that Ilya, sitting up against the wall, can see around the room even with the lights off, and he takes the opportunity to look around some more even though there’s nothing new to see.

He takes it in.

Shane Hollander’s childhood bedroom.

Shane Hollander, next to him, tucked close with his face pressing to Ilya’s leg.

The same Shane Hollander that awkwardly introduced himself to Ilya in a parking lot, the same one that shook his hand and smiled, with his shiny eyes and soft, freckled cheeks. The same one that Ilya crushed on, which he’s willing to admit now (sometimes), the same one that eyed Ilya’s body in the locker room shower. The same one that looked up at Ilya from the ground, eyes wide and wondering. The same one Ilya fell for so fucking easily.

Ilya’s eyes burn, and he blinks across the room, sniffling, listening to Shane breathe. It’s a steady sound, even and slow and soothing. It’s Ilya’s favourite song.

He lets his head fall to rest on the wall behind him, his eyes falling shut, and he listens, letting his breathing sync with Shane’s, until it’s one soft sound, some kind of white noise that draws Ilya to sleepiness. He forces his eyes open, looking down at Shane and reaching to touch his head, brushing his hair back as gently as possible, wanting not to fall asleep but to savour this, this quiet moment of solitude and domesticity. His love in bed, asleep next to him. Medals decorating the walls.

Shane shifts after a few minutes, his steady breathing interrupted by a slow, heavy breath as he rolls onto his back, hand lifting to rub his face. He hums softly, low in his throat, gravelly, before he speaks, mumbling.

“Что случилось?”

Ilya smiles fondly, running his fingers through Shane’s hair.

“Ничего, солнышко.”

Shane just hums again, reaching up for the hem of Ilya’s shirt and tugging at it until Ilya moves down, laying next to him. He gets hardly a moment to settle before Shane is pressing close, rolling on top of him and wrapping around him. Ilya stays awake to savour this too before he lets sleep take him.

✦

Ilya smiles at his phone, watching the bubbles appear and disappear as Shane deletes his message, probably tucked up against his cubby in the locker room. He hesitates, lingering, sliding back on the sofa and holding his phone above his head to see the screen as he types some more.

He watches the game from the sofa in Shane’s living room in Montreal. His teammates are sulking in Boston, probably watching around Marleau’s television, complaining that the Voyageurs have made it to the very end, have made it to the fucking Cup itself.

Shane Hollander lifting the Cup over his head is a beautiful sight. He’s beaming, cheering, eyes bright, glistening with sweat and pride, and it feels like that first time, years and years ago, when Ilya had watched from his own living room, smiling because nobody could see him. He’s standing this time instead of lounging, his muscles tired from tension.

At some point, the coverage ends, and the teams have gone to celebrate or mourn, and Ilya is sitting there, watching mindlessly as commercials roll across the screen. His phone buzzes with a text from Shane, something short and sweet that reads just six exclamation marks, and Ilya grins.

It feels strangely domestic, like he’s waiting for his husband to get home from work, like Ilya Rozanov is some kind of housewife. Which, he finds as he thinks about it, he doesn’t actually mind the idea of. He thinks he would be happy as a WAG, or something adjacent, going to games, cheering for his love, posting online like the other wives.

He knows Shane would never allow it, would never permit Ilya to quit, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about it sometimes. Supporting Shane, watching him chase his dreams, obtain his dreams like he always does— of course he does— and standing on the sidelines. Watching. Loving.

It would be a dream, to watch openly, to gaze the way he does when they’re alone, the way he does when Shane is sleeping next to him. It would be a dream to love him so openly, to love him so loudly, without apprehension or fear.

He knows it’s silly. Childish. It’s a dream, just that. But he kind of does long for it in the most ridiculous way.

He has a beer while he waits, scrolling Twitter, watching highlights and reading the stupid things people say on the internet.

It’s only been a few hours before he gets a phone call from Jane, and he’s laying on the sofa when he gets it, facing the ceiling, breathing in the scent of Shane’s home that Ilya can’t even smell anymore.

“My love?” he answers softly.

“Hi,” Shane says brightly, his voice sweet and light. “I’m, uhm… I’m a little drunk.”

“Oh, are you?”

“I am. I’m, uhm…” He trails off. It’s quiet around him, but there’s some muffled music that Ilya can’t quite make out, and some muffled voices that sound distant, too far away to really matter. “The— The guys are in a bar, I’m outside. Just.”

“How drunk are the others?”

“More than me,” Shane says. “Except Hayden, he’s… designated driver. ”

“That is nice,” Ilya says lightly. “Why are you calling me instead of celebrating with the guys, hm?”

“Was just thinking about you,” Shane says. “You watched, right?”

“Of course I did.”

Shane laughs, giggles, and it’s so adorable Ilya covers his own face, beaming at the ceiling.

“I miss you,” Shane whines after a moment. “I wish… I wish you were here. I think if I got enough alcohol in you, you’d like the guys.”

“No chance,” Ilya says dryly, eliciting another laugh. “I will never hang out with any Voyageur except the best one.”

“That’s nice,” Shane says. “Hayden is fun to hang out with, too.”

“What, him and his million children?”

“He has four—”

“That is so many children.”

“It is a lot,” Shane giggles, snorting a little. Ilya grins. “You would like them too. And also Jackie. She’s kind of insane too.”

“‘Too?’ What does that mean?”

“You’re… a handful?”

Ilya tilts his head, eyebrows jumping.

“Don’t,” Shane says before Ilya can get anything out, and a laugh bursts out of Ilya.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were totally thinking something about me needing two hands—”

Ilya interrupts with another laugh, and Shane giggles with him. Ilya can practically see him all sweet and tipsy, ducking his head like he’s trying to hide his gorgeous smile.

Shane’s laugh shifts into a groan.

“I might be a few more hours,” he says like he’s grumpy, regretful. “With the guys.”

“That is okay.”

“I feel bad,” Shane moans. “That you’re just… there. Like… waiting.”

“Do not feel bad,” Ilya says lightly, shaking his head like Shane can see him. “It is okay, my love, I don’t mind.”

“But…”

“Shane.”

“...Yes,” Shane says shyly.

“Are you having fun?” Ilya asks. Shane is quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking, and Ilya waits until he hears another quiet Yes. “Then go have fun,” he says. “Go celebrate with your team, captain. I will be here.”

Shane is quiet for a few moments.

“...I love you so fucking much.”

Ilya’s chest aches. He squeezes his eyes shut, squirming on the sofa.

“I love you so fucking much too,” he says softly. “Go have fun. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Nothing you wouldn’t do, right?”

“Nothing I would do,” Ilya corrects before he pauses. “And also, yes, nothing I would not do— Maybe just sit there, okay?”

Shane laughs again. Fuck, it’s a glorious sound.

“Okay, go,” Ilya says, waving a hand like Shane can see him at all. “I love you.”

“I love you-u-u-u—”

Ilya hangs up, grinning to himself, because he knows neither of them will hang up if he doesn’t right now. He drops his phone on his chest and looks at the ceiling, covering his face with his hands, eyes squeezing shut under a beaming grin.

Shane doesn’t drink very often, and even when he does, it’s usually never to get drunk. He’ll have a beer, maybe two, or a gin and tonic, which he’s partial to.

Tonight, it’s vodka.

At this point in his relationship with Ilya, Shane knows the difference between good vodka and bad. This vodka is mediocre. Ilya would hate it.

He does shots with the guys, vodka, and he does one single shot of tequila because JJ manages to talk him into it, which he really, really doesn’t like. It tastes like regret and bad judgment. And he drinks the beer that’s pushed into his hand by… someone. He doesn’t really notice who. One of the guys.

He eats some almonds that are available at the bar, and he even eats a few fries when JJ offers them to him, even though they’re doused in gravy and cheese, which Ouellet will be very happy to hear about. He watches the guys play pool and drinking games, listens to them laugh and yell over the pulsing music, and he watches JJ coo at the photos of the Pike kids on Hayden’s phone. He’s drunk enough to feel kind of spacey, kind of out of it, drunk enough to be giggly and stupid, and he’s enjoying himself.

He doesn’t go out very often. Everyone knows that. It’s a running joke in the locker room, that Shane must actually hate them, or he’s some kind of vampire that can only go outside to skating rinks. Shane’s never really gotten the vampire thing, though— they all seem particularly ticked by it, but there’s nothing else that supports the theory. He appears in photos and mirrors, and there’s plenty of footage of him in direct sunlight, and he can go into places without explicit invitations. He thinks it’s kind of a stupid joke.

The guys take photos, and he’s in a bunch of them, but he doesn’t see them. He just smiles when they say, throwing up a thumbs-up occasionally, and he tolerates the phones shoved in his face for stupid videos like the one JJ takes.

“Capitaine, how many drinks have you had?”

Shane stares blankly past the phone, watching JJ’s face shift into an unrestrained grin.

“I don’t even know, man.”

JJ cackles, and someone’s hand lands on Shane’s back roughly before it shakes him, and Shane laughs too, letting himself be jostled. JJ posts the video on his Instagram story. Shane wonders briefly if Ilya will see it. He thinks he’d like it.

It’s hours that he’s there, sitting in some booth, eyes narrowed from the alcohol and the dim lighting of the bar. It occurs to him as the guys come back with another round of shots that he hasn’t paid for anything, and he isn’t sure if it’s because someone else is or if whoever owns the bar is a hockey fan. They get free drinks after winning games a lot, and winning the Stanley Cup seems like a good excuse for free stuff.

He traded places with Hayden at some point, overstimulated into claustrophobia, and he’s on the outside of the booth now, with space to stretch his legs, to lean back and slide against the red faux-leather of the seats. He’s smiling absently, content, watching as Hayden leans to show JJ another photo of Amber, one of the professional photos that was taken when she was a newborn. Shane catches a glimpse of it, and he’s seen it before, of course he has. It’s a cute photo, her eyes closed, head bare except a pink bow, bundled in a muslin cloth. She was so small it kind of blows Shane’s mind when he thinks about it.

JJ lets out a very unmanly squeal, grabbing the phone from Hayden’s hand, and Hayden laughs loudly enough that Shane winces, grinning as he watches JJ coo at the phone screen like he’s holding Amber in his hands.

“Mon dieu, si petit—”

Shane is startled out of it by a hand landing on his back again, jumping and looking up. Hayden looks too, glancing as he reaches to take his phone back from JJ, who would surely keep it for however long he’s allowed just to admire Amber’s face. It’s Graham and Gagnon— Edouard Graham, left wing, and Travis Gagnon, right wing. They’re talking about something that Shane can’t hear, laughing, and as Shane watches them, chin tilted up, allowing Graham to grip his shoulder tightly and shake him by it, he thinks briefly about how happy he is to see his team enjoying themselves, bonding, laughing and joking and being stupid together.

“Right, cap?” Graham says finally, shaking Shane’s shoulder again, looking at him. Shane blinks.

“I didn’t hear a single thing you said.”

They laugh, and Hayden elbows Shane, shaking his head.

“Just say yes,” he says, waving a hand dismissively, and Shane laughs, lifting his hands as if in surrender.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’d be agreeing to—”

They laugh some more. Graham shakes Shane’s shoulder. He allows it again, grimacing.

“I said,” Graham starts, leaning down a little, shouting so Shane can hear him over the music. “We’re lucky to have a captain like you instead of Scott Hunter.”

His hand finally falls from Shane’s shoulder. It’s a relief.

He makes a face, fingers twisting the lukewarm beer in his hand.

“Why, ‘cause I’ll still be playing in three years instead of in a retirement home?”

Maybe he spends too much time with Ilya.

They laugh. Graham’s head falls back, and Shane grins crookedly.

“That too,” Graham says loudly. Shane laughs, lifting his beer to his lips and taking a tiny sip. “But also, I mean, like…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely, and Gagnon laughs, nodding. “The fuckin’ Rangers didn’t even make playoffs this year, I fuckin’ wonder why.”

Oh.

Shane nods absently, taking a longer pull from his beer, and he feels Hayden glance at him, feels him lean against him for a brief moment, and he supposes it does kind of help, having him here. Feeling him here.

“Man, he should have retired years ago,” Gagnon says loudly, shouting over the music, which Shane vaguely recognises, but he assumes the song must be in someone’s training playlist, or it’s something that’s played briefly from Ilya’s phone. “The dude’s ancient—”

“He should have retired before he even started,” Graham interrupts. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that the statement doesn’t make any sense. “He is not supposed to be here, man.”

Shane doesn’t say anything. Hayden doesn’t say anything. Gagnon laughs, and JJ seems to tune into the conversation, expression open as he tries to catch up, looking back and forth between Gagnon and Graham.

“Which is why,” Graham says, grabbing Shane’s shoulder again, jostling him roughly, “I’m grateful we have this fuckin’ guy for captain.”

There’s a cheer, and some of them lift their bottles and cups to him. Shane smiles tightly, nodding, the joy seeping from him as Graham’s words settle over him.

“How many fucking cups do we have?” Graham says loudly, shaking Shane again. He shrinks away from it a little, and as the guys shout varying versions of Four fucking cups, Hayden reaches behind Shane and nudges Graham’s hand off of him. Graham doesn’t seem to notice it at all. “Four fucking cups.”

“It’s the start of a fucking dynasty,” Gagnon shouts. There’s another cheer, this time including some voices from around them, from random people that Shane doesn’t even know. Shane nods, staring at the bottle in his hands, damp with condensation. He picks at the label, peeling it back.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Graham says, throwing a hand out and hitting Gagnon’s chest. “And how many cups do the Rangers have? One.”

“Hunter did get them that cup,” Shane mutters, but he doesn’t say it quietly enough.

“Did Hunter get it?” Graham says in a way that makes Shane feel itchy. “Or did the team get it?”

“I mean,” Shane says dryly. His heart is beating too fast. Hayden’s knee presses to his under the table. “You were just saying I got you guys the Cup today, right? Captains take their teams to the top. Hunter took his team to the top.”

“I guess.”

Shane shrugs, sipping his beer again. But Graham keeps talking.

“But, come on, man, I don’t wanna be on the fuckin’ ice with him.”

Shane sniffs, letting the glass of the bottle bump against his teeth.

“I do,” Drapeau chimes in, lifting his beer like he’s raising his hand. They all turn, eyebrows raised. “Just to check him into the boards hard enough to make him retire early.”

They laugh. Shane sips his beer, holding back a comment about how his team should play clean.

“It’s fuckin’ weird, right?” Graham says, grimacing, his arm resting on the back of the booth behind Shane’s head. Shane can smell the cologne and sweat on him, tinged with liquor. He lowers his head to smell his beer instead. “A queer on the ice? Kinda freaks me out.”

Shane glances at Hayden. He’s looking at his phone, flipping through photos of the kids like it’s keeping him sane.

“How the fuck am I supposed to play a serious game knowing some guy might be, like, looking at my ass or something?”

Another laugh.

“I promise you nobody is thinking about your ass,” Shane says. It elicits another laugh, this time from Hayden too, but it sounds kind of forced.

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Graham says, jostling him a little, looking down at him. Shane doesn’t look back. “That this guy you’re competing against likes…” He shudders audibly, the sentence unfinished, the rest of it unnecessary.

“I don’t really think much about the kind of sex my opponents are having,” Shane says blandly. “I guess you do?”

Laughter. Stupid, drunk laughter.

Shane glances up at Graham, whose face is flushed red like he’s angry even as he fights back a good-natured smile, a normal response for ribbing, for chirping. Friendly fire.

“Is that why you’ve been a little off this season?” Shane asks, tilting his head like he’s genuinely curious, squinting up at him. “You a little distracted?”

“Man, whatever, you don’t get it.”

“‘S because Hollander’s too nice,” Drapeau says loudly, like he can’t hear himself over the music even though Shane swears people outside can probably hear him. “He can’t imagine someone being fuckin’ weird.”

Shane lifts his beer to his mouth again, something settling in his chest as his lips part.

“Maybe ‘s just ‘cause I’m gay.”

Hayden has always prided himself in knowing what to do.

He knew just how to deal with shit in school, when he was picked on by the bigger kids, when his friends panicked about ruined projects or lost homework, and he knew just what to say when he met Jackie, and just how to ask to see her again. He knew what to do when they started going steady. He even knew what to do when she went into labour the first time. He’d managed to keep her calm, to get her to breathe steadily and go to the car in an orderly fashion while he grabbed the hospital bags.

He knows what to do when the kids are losing their minds, when they’re throwing tantrums or having fits, when they’re in pain from ouchies or when they’re scared. He knows what to do to distract them, to draw their attention elsewhere.

But Shane goddamn Hollander always finds ways to catch Hayden so completely off-guard that he has no clue what to do with himself.

He gets stuck when Shane has meltdowns or panic attacks, which have names now that Shane’s started seeing a professional. He gets stuck when Shane mentions Rozanov by his first name, and when he makes off-hand comments that are vaguely suggestive. And he gets stuck when Shane says things like I’m gay in front of their entire team, loud enough for them to hear.

He’s stuck, and all he can do is say a light, “Hey, Shane?” like he’s opening a casual conversation, but nobody seems to hear it even though they’ve all fallen quiet. Hayden looks at Shane, watching his head tip back as he drains his beer.

“...What?” Drapeau says finally. Shane lowers the bottle to the table, looking around casually.

Shane pauses for a moment, blinking.

“I said I’m gay,” he says lightly.

Graham’s arm retracts from the back of the booth, and he backs up a little, eyeing Shane like he’s a live explosive, which, Hayden thinks, might be an apt description. Shane looks way too fucking calm. He looks almost amused, and it’s not an expression that he wears often. It’s unsettling.

“This is… This is a joke, right?” Graham says, laughing lightly, nervously.

Shane just looks at him, his eyebrows lifting.

None of them seem to know what to do, or what to say, or even where to look. Hayden shifts uncomfortably, looking around at them. Drapeau’s expression has turned into something like disgust, and Hayden’s hand tightens around his phone, resisting the urge to move closer to Shane.

“So,” Comeau says from where he’s sitting at the end of the table, using a chair that’s been dragged over from another place. “You’re… You’re gay.”

“Yeah,” Shane says with a nod.

“You’re gay,” Graham says again. Shane exhales sharply.

“What the fuck is confusing about this?” he snaps, tossing a hand. “I’m gay. Which is why I know for a fact that no gay guy is thinking about you while we’re on the ice. You have nothing to worry about, man.”

Hayden chokes on a laugh, and there are a few scattered laughs around them.

“Sorry, why are we acting like this is—” Graham cuts off sharply, gesturing vaguely. “Fine?”

“Is it not?” Hayden says abruptly, raising his eyebrows as eyes turn to him. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” Graham snaps at him, and he looks angry now. Hayden’s stomach twists.

“You were just praising me as your captain that led you to the Stanley,” Shane says dryly, leaning back in the booth like he’s at ease. “I was already gay before you knew, Graham, you know that right?”

“Man, what the fuck?” Graham turns away, grimacing, and he looks so viscerally uncomfortable that it’s almost amusing to Hayden. It’s fucking absurd. “This isn’t fuckin’ funny, Hollander.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Shane says. “For some reason, I need to educate you on the fact that gay guys can, actually, play sports without being fucking creeps, which straight guys seem to be incapable of—”

“You think— You think normal guys are the creeps,” Graham says with a humorless laugh.

Shane is quiet for a moment, his tongue sliding over his teeth as he exhales.

“I think I’ve heard how you talk about women,” he says finally. “And I’ve never talked about a man like that.”

Graham scoffs. Hayden kind of wants to punch him— it’s an urge he’s felt toward Graham before, but it’s never been this strong before. It’s never made his hands shake like this.

“You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“Is it unbelievable for a fag to be better than you?” Shane snaps. “You just can’t fucking stand that, can you? That a guy that likes dick can outdo you?”

“Jesus,” Drapeau says, like it’s the most vulgar thing he’s ever heard. And maybe it is, coming from Shane. “Chill out, man—“

“Fuck you,” Shane interrupts. “I’ve heard the shit you say, you do not get to act like I’m gross.”

“You are fucking gross,” Graham says sharply. Shane glances around.

“Who are you talking to?” he says. And Hayden’s hung around him long enough to hear it for the bait that it is. Graham doesn’t.

“You—“

“Then watch your fucking mouth,” Shane snaps, standing abruptly. His bottle hits the table, and Hayden could swear they all jump back. Hayden himself flinches, squeezing his phone, the side of his leg suddenly cold from the absence of Shane’s.

He watches as Shane steps closer to Graham.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s the off-season or not, or if we’re on the ice or not,” Shane says, his voice eerily steady. “I’m still your fucking captain.”

He touches Graham’s chest with each word, chin tilted up so their eyes meet.

“And I expect you to talk to me like it,” he says. “Got it?”

Graham stares at him as Shane’s hand lowers. It’s so quiet, except for the pulsing music, the laughter of some people partying nearby.

“Yes,” Graham says quietly.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes,” Graham says through gritted teeth, “captain.”

Shane exhales, the distance between them still close, and Hayden’s fingers won’t loosen around his phone.

“You didn’t have any issue with me a few hours ago,” Shane says, his voice a little louder. “Did you? When I got you another fucking Stanley? Nothing’s fucking different, except that I’m drunk enough to not give a fuck.”

“It is different, though,” Graham says intently, like he’s on the verge of a tantrum. Hayden kind of wants to laugh. “We can’t fucking trust you now, can we?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Hayden says, his eyebrows furrowing. JJ is making a face too, looking up at Graham like he smells.

“Fuck off, Pike,” Graham says, barely sparing him a glance.

“You can’t trust me,” Shane says so softly Hayden almost doesn’t hear it. It sounds pained, like it hurts to say, like it’s struck something in him. “Fuck you, man.”

“How the fuck are we supposed to share a locker room with you?” Graham says, like it’s a rational argument, like he’s being reasonable and Shane is being ridiculous.

“Man—” Hayden starts, finally pushing himself to stand, but he’s interrupted when Shane hums softly. Thoughtfully.

“You’re worried about the wrong things,” Shane says lightly, and his voice slurs a little, and Hayden remembers that he’s fucking drunk.

Fuck.

“Shane—” Hayden tries, shifting to get out of the booth, but it’s awkward, the table too close to his torso, the seats too high.

“You— You kissed my cheek,” Shane says, poking Graham in the chest again. “For one of the pictures with the cup. Remember that?”

Graham is seething, eyes narrowed as he stares at Shane, unblinking. Hayden finally gets out of the booth, and he joins Shane, standing behind him.

“You might want to wash your mouth out with some soap or something,” Shane says coldly. “Just in case it’s contagious. Wouldn’t want you to get better at ho—”

Graham’s fist is flying before Shane can finish the sentence.

Hayden throws himself between them, wrenching Shane back by his shoulder as it descends into chaos.

JJ meets Hayden in the middle, their arms clashing as they reach to pull them apart, and even as Hayden works to separate them, Gagnon and Drapeau are pushing at him, shoving him so he hits the edge of the table, and then one of the chairs, and pain is blossoming across Hayden’s body from tussling hands and the hard corners of the table. The music is pounding on his eardrums like it’s trying to break into his head, and the lights are flashing, colours swirling around him, and they’re all shouting as he shoves Shane back, out of the way, away from it all.

And through all of it, cutting through the noise and lights and pain, Hayden hears the painful, aching sound of Shane laughing.

There’s a siren somewhere in the city, singing to the sky, and Shane knows it’s not for him, but he kind of wishes it was.

He’s sitting on a curb, his knees close to his chest, and his head is down, hanging so he can hold the cold can of Coke to his cheek. It hurts, the cold sharp on the tender skin that’s already bruising, and his head aches from the music and the lights and the pain— and the alcohol. That certainly didn’t help anything at all.

He feels fucking stupid. He feels like this a lot, but it’s worse right now, when he’s still tipsy enough to feel a little out of it, a little loose in the soft breeze, like he might drift away.

“Hey.”

He lifts his head when Hayden joins him, opening his eyes and humming softly in response. He doesn’t turn to look at him.

“How do you feel?”

Shane scoffs. He’d laughed when Graham had fought him, but he doesn’t feel like laughing now. He can still hear the music in his ears, the beats pulsing like his head is throbbing.

“Bad,” he says dryly.

Hayden chuckles, settling next to Shane on the curb, bumping his knee against Shane’s.

“You wanna talk?”

Shane shrugs a little, exhaling, letting his eyes close again, rolling the can over his cheek.

“I’m fucking stupid,” he says.

“Shane,” Hayden says, like he’s disappointed.

“I goaded my own teammate into punching me in the face.”

“The guy would have punched you sooner if you weren’t captain,” Hayden says, and Shane winces a little at it. Hayden must see it. “I— He’s a fucking asshole, Shane, I should’ve decked him before he had the chance to say anything to you.”

Shane stares at the ground. It hasn’t rained today, but there’s something wet on the pavement— maybe a spilled drink, or a leak from a car— that’s reflecting the lights around them, golden and red and green, blurring into some kind of painting.

“Shane,” Hayden says. “Hey.”

“Mhmm.”

“...You didn’t do anything wrong,” Hayden says quietly, almost murmuring. “You know that, right?”

Shane takes a slow breath, holding it for a moment before he exhales steadily.

“I, uhm.” He swallows, taking another breath, shrugging and shaking his head. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have done it, I shouldn’t have— said the shit I said, I shouldn’t have fucking come out like that—”

At all, he thinks. He shouldn’t have come out at all.

He exhales shakily, humming softly like he’s nauseated. He isn’t. Not yet. It’ll probably set in later.

“Shane, man,” Hayden says, turning toward him, but Shane interrupts with a shake of his head.

“I know,” he says. “I know, I… I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

Hayden’s knee bumps against Shane’s again, and then it lingers, and Shane’s throat is suddenly tight, because he can feel Hayden looking at him, searching for a reaction, for permission. Shane presses his knee to Hayden’s firmly, and he lets it stay there.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Shane says softly. “It would have been stupid to expect them to be chill with it, and to suddenly be perfectly fine with gay guys, but… I don’t know. I’m… disappointed. I guess.”

“You’re allowed to be disappointed,” Hayden says. “They… They’ve been your team for fuckin’ years, man, and they just…”

Shane nods when he trails off.

They just.

He listens to Hayden breathe next to him, and he feels the condensation from the Coke can on his face dampen his skin. It’s cold, especially when the wind blows across his face. It kind of feels like tears.

“I might have just ruined my life,” he says softly.

“Shane, come on.”

“They’re gonna tell Coach,” he says simply, shrugging. “Coach is gonna tell… whoever. They might tell fucking everyone, I don’t know. And you know Coach, he’s not gonna want me to be captain— he might not want me on the team at all, you know, he might wanna trade me or something—”

“Shane, you don’t know that,” Hayden interrupts, his voice a little sharp, like it’s upsetting for him to even think about.

Shane exhales.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But if I anticipate the worst, I can’t be surprised.”

“Why are you so calm about this?” Hayden bursts, turning to look at Shane, who scoffs again, suppressing a smile as he shrugs. “What’s going on with you?”

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I think I…”

He exhales, lowering his hand with the Coke can, letting his head fall back to look at the sky. There’s too much light pollution to see the stars, but there’s an airplane up there, blinking red, passing by slowly. Shane watches it.

“...I’m tired, man.”

Hayden exhales softly. His shoulder presses to Shane’s. Shane’s eyes close. His throat tightens.

“I’m sorry,” Hayden whispers. “It’s fucking bullshit, man, you don’t deserve this.”

Shane shrugs.

“It is what it is.”

“It is fucking bullshit.”

“I know,” Shane says tiredly. He shrugs again. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been, like, holding myself up my entire life, and I… I wanna rest.”

He feels Hayden looking at him, waiting for him to keep talking, waiting for him to explain himself, and he doesn’t know how.

“Like. It’s gotten easier this past year with… with Ilya, and with my meds, and my therapist, and… You know, my parents actually knowing stuff about my life outside of hockey. But.”

His throat tightens. His eyes sting.

“It’s lonely,” he says softly, whispering. “I’m just tired. I give up.”

“Jesus,” Hayden mutters, moving to wrap an arm around Shane’s shoulders, and he tugs him into a half-hug. Shane lets him, dropping his head to Hayden’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. “I fucking love you, man, you’re not alone, okay? You’re my fuckin’ best friend.”

His voice breaks. It shatters Shane.

Shane turns to him, setting the Coke can on the ground between his feet, and their arms wrap around one another so tightly it kind of hurts. Shane buries his face in Hayden’s neck. His shoulder digs into the bruise on Shane’s cheek, but he can’t let go, can’t loosen his arms or soften the hug.

Shane gets shotgun. JJ sits in the backseat, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s singing along with the radio, humming almost nonsensically even though he isn’t that drunk— the songs are in English, and Shane wonders if JJ just doesn’t know the lyrics to English songs even if he knows the melodies.

He gets dropped off first, and as he’s getting out of the car, unbuckling his seatbelt, JJ leans forward and slaps a hand across his shoulder like he’s trying to hold him into the seat, like he doesn’t want him to go. Shane cuts a look at Hayden, who looks like he’s suppressing a laugh.

“Mon homme,” JJ says emphatically, almost groaning. “You are my hero, you know this?”

“That’s nice, JJ.”

JJ groans, falling onto his side in the backseat, and Shane turns to look at him. His arm is extended above his head, like he’s attempting to catch himself or fall gracefully. Shane laughs, eyebrows raising, and he’s fond of him. His friend.

“Je t’aime,” JJ mumbles sleepily. “De tout mon cœur.”

Shane laughs again, watching, amused, as JJ lifts a hand for him, reaching like he’s begging for his life even though all he does when Shane reaches back is dap him up. Hayden is covering his face, but his shoulders are shaking as he laughs.

“Moi aussi,” Shane says softly. JJ hums, nodding, smiling at the ceiling of the car as he mumbles something in Quebecois too clumsily for Shane to understand. “Don’t let him die, okay?”

“No promises,” Hayden says around a laugh. “Night, bud.”

“Good night,” Shane says, getting out of the car. His stomach hurts suddenly.

This is normal. This, right now, this very second. Getting out of the car to go home, glancing at a drunk JJ that’s waving at him blindly, watching Hayden lean to look at him through the open door. And Shane can’t help but feel like it’s the last time. JJ is snoring. It makes Shane smile even as his throat tightens.

“Hey, tell Roz I said hi,” Hayden says lightly after glancing back at JJ. “It’ll freak him out.”

Shane lets out a choked laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Me?”

“Whatever, man. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Hayden nods, his smile faltering a little. Shane sees it in his eyes, the understanding, the recognition of this. The last time.

“Please,” Hayden says with another nod. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He watches Hayden’s car drive away before he turns to go inside.

Ilya is in the living room when Shane opens the door, and he watches him get off the sofa as he toes off his shoes. His stomach aches like it did when he was a kid, when he lost games or did badly in practice and anticipated some scolding that never came because his parents weren’t like the other kids’.

Ilya’s hair is ruffled, messy like he’s just woken up, but he’s wide-awake— Shane can tell by the bounce in his step as he rounds the sofa, and he’s grinning, and it’s beautiful for the brief moment that it lasts before he sees Shane’s face.

His smile fades, falters and falls, and he looks at Shane intently like he’s looking for something, like he’s trying to remember if Shane somehow obtained the bruise during the game, if Ilya somehow missed it.

“I fucked up,” Shane says, and even to his own ears it sounds too flat. Unaffected. But Ilya knows him too well.

“What happened?” he asks in the same tone, unemotional and reserved so he doesn’t scare Shane off. HIs expression shifts into something almost apprehensive, like he’s bracing himself.

“I came out to my team.”

Ilya’s chin lifts in an almost-nod, his eyebrows raising with it, but Shane corrects himself, moving forward a little, and Ilya sees it, the need on him. He holds a hand out for Shane to take.

“I— They didn’t, like, jump me, or something,” Shane says clumsily. “I— I goaded Graham into it, I was stupid, I shouldn’t have—”

“Goaded,” Ilya repeats quietly.

“Provoked,” Shane whispers. “I taunted him, I pissed him off until he hit me.”

“Why?”

Shane’s eyes burn suddenly, and he hasn’t actually cried all day, has he? He doesn’t think he cried after winning any of the Stanley Cups except the first one, and that was only because Yuna had been there, right there, on the ice, hugging Shane so tightly he couldn’t breathe. She was there tonight, long enough for the photos of the team, but even though her eyes looked shiny, Shane hadn’t cried.

He didn’t cry when Graham punched him in the face, or when he tried to get back at Shane after being pulled away— he’d laughed, which might be the most insane thing Shane’s ever done. He hadn’t cried when Hayden dragged him out of the bar before security could get their hands on him, or when JJ followed after them, shouting vulgarities in both French and English, or when JJ went inside a convenience store to buy the Coke can for Shane’s face.

But Ilya’s hand is soft on his, and it’s warm, gently smoothing over Shane’s knuckles and the lines of his palm, and Shane’s chest opens up, and he can breathe for the first time today.

Tears fall from his eyes as he lets out an inexplicable laugh, and Ilya looks so worried it makes Shane’s body hurt. He touches Ilya’s face, smoothing a thumb over his cheek like he can wipe the worry away, but it doesn’t work.

“Shane,” Ilya says softly, ignoring the way Shane is already shaking his head. “Talk to me, любимый, please.”

“I think I…”

Shane exhales shakily, pulling at Ilya’s hand a little until Ilya lets himself fall forward, lets Shane let go of him to hug him tightly. He’s shaking, and Ilya seems to feel it, because his hands run over Shane’s back gently.

He lifts Shane up, and Shane lets him, tucking his face into the side of Ilya’s neck. It’s so warm here, and he can feel Ilya’s pulse against his nose. Ilya’s hands hold his hips, and his thighs, and Shane is still just a little bit tipsy. It feels nice, being a little drunk in his lover’s arms, floating through the air.

Ilya lowers onto the sofa with Shane in his lap.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs after a moment. “What are you feeling?”

“I, uhm,” Shane starts quietly, nuzzling into Ilya’s neck for a moment longer. He smells fresh, like his own skin and soap instead of cologne or locker rooms. It’s delicious. “I don’t really know.”

“Is okay,” Ilya says softly, hands pushing a little at Shane’s waist so make him sit up. He looks at him, eyebrows furrowed a little bit, and Shane leans back, taking a slow breath. Ilya’s eyes scan over his face again, and then his neck, and his chest, like he’s looking for more bruises, but it’s just the one— and the one on his left shoulder from a hard check during the game. But that’s unrelated.

Shane is still holding the Coke can. He scoffs a little when he finds it in his hand, and he glances around absently, searching for a place to put it. Ilya takes it from him gently, setting it aside on the sofa.

“I think I’m just…” Shane starts, his voice hushed. “Fed up. And I didn’t really realize how fed up I was until Graham was running his mouth about Scott Hunter.”

Ilya nods. He sets his hands on Shane’s waist again, his thumbs brushing back and forth. They fall quiet, and Ilya looks pained, like he has a stomach ache, or a muscle cramp, his eyes flicking back and forth between Shane’s. Shane’s hands fall between them, and he tugs at the hem of Ilya’s shirt, fidgeting with the fabric.

“I don’t know what to do for you,” Ilya confesses.

Shane smiles half-heartedly, shrugging.

“I don’t think there’s anything to do,” he says softly. “I just…”

He takes a heavy breath, his head falling back as he exhales the way Ilya does sometimes when he smokes his now rare cigarette, blowing smoke at the ceiling so Shane doesn’t have to breathe it in.

“I feel stupid,” he says finally, speaking again before Ilya can get a word out. “I know I’m not, I just feel like I am right now. Because I shouldn’t have been drinking, and I shouldn’t have come out like that, or— or at all, and I shouldn’t have said that shit to Graham, and I might have just ruined my career.”

Ilya exhales slowly.

“But I…” He pauses, hesitating, searching for the words he needs. “I don’t know if it’s just that I’m tired enough that my brain won’t let me feel… whatever it is I should be feeling, but I… I don’t really care.”

“About…”

“Any of it,” Shane says quietly. “They’re gonna out me, I know they are, and it’s shitty that I don’t get to do it myself, and it’s shitty that my coach is, like, for sure gonna at least remove me as captain, and all of them hate me, except Hayden and JJ, they’re cool, but I just…” Another shrug. “I don’t care. I’m tired.”

Ilya reaches for one of Shane’s hands, lifting it to his lips and kissing his knuckles gently. Shane’s eyes flutter shut, and his fingers twist to wrap around Ilya’s fingers tightly, childishly.

“I love you,” Shane whispers, his throat tight again as Ilya’s lips brush over his fingers. “So much. And I know that you love me, I do, I just…”

He sniffles, letting Ilya hold his hand to his chest. He can feel the warmth of Ilya’s skin even through the fabric.

“I’m the only one,” Shane whispers. “I have you, and— and Hunter is gay, and Toronto just signed a rookie that’s Filipino, but I…”

Ilya is nodding when Shane’s eyes open, like he gets it, and he still looks like something hurts. Shane presses his hand to Ilya’s chest more firmly, letting it beat against his palm, and some nonsensical part of him wants to open Ilya up to feel it beat in his hand. It would be warm.

“Everything about me is wrong,” Shane whispers. “And I’ve been trying for so fucking long to be right, and I’ve been pretending for so long that I— I feel fucking sore, like I’ve been keeping all my muscles flexed since I got my first skates, and I just…”

His breath catches in his throat, and he hiccups a little, blinking tears out of his eyes. He lets them fall, doesn’t even bother wiping them away.

“I’m tired,” he breathes. “I can’t do anything right, and I’ll never be able to do any of it right, so what— what’s the fucking point in trying—”

“Breathe,” Ilya murmurs, nodding when Shane takes a slow, trembling breath.

“I don’t wanna retire,” Shane says, his voice breaking. “I don’t wanna quit, I just— I just wanna play fucking hockey.”

Ilya nods again, running his thumb over the back of Shane’s hand.

“You will have… sacrifices,” he says softly. “To make. Yes?”

“I know,” Shane says, nodding, lifting a hand to rub his face, but Ilya stops him, catching his wrist. “And I don’t— I don’t expect you to come out, you don’t— Don’t feel like you have to—”

“I know,” Ilya whispers. “I know, it’s okay.”

Shane falls forward, tucking his face back into Ilya’s neck.

“I’m probably going to have to talk to Theriault tomorrow,” he mumbles. “And I’ll have to talk to Mom about what to do if he wants to trade me, and—”

“Tomorrow,” Ilya interrupts softly, his hands running over Shane’s back before he cradles the back of his head. “Tomorrow problems, yes?”

“...Yeah.”

“What do you need right now?” Ilya whispers, turning into Shane’s neck and kissing him gently.

“...Just you.”

“You have me,” Ilya murmurs. “You will always have me.”

Shane shudders, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing closer to Ilya, who wraps his arms around him tightly. Ilya’s breath is warm on Shane’s neck, and his lips are soft, and Shane lets himself melt against his chest, his shoulders falling.

Ilya kisses him softly, mouthing over his neck. His hand slides into Shane’s hair as Shane slumps over, cradling the side of his head like he’s holding Shane up for him, like he wants to tell Shane that he doesn’t have to hold himself up.

Shane hums, sighing, letting his head fall to the side so Ilya has more space to work, his mouth working at his skin gently enough that it won’t leave any marks— he can leave some later in the summer, when Shane isn’t going to have an inevitable conversation with his coach about his being gay.

Something swirls in Shane’s stomach, something warm, and he bites his lip as Ilya licks at his neck, tongue sliding over his skin like he wants to taste whatever lingering sweat there is after Shane’s post-game shower.

“Shane,” Ilya breathes, cooling the spit on Shane’s skin. He shivers.

“Mm.”

“This is okay?”

“Yes,” Shane says, nodding. “‘S okay.”

“You want this?”

“Yes, I want it, fuck.”

“Tell me,” Ilya whispers before licking his neck again. “What do you want?”

“You,” Shane chokes, shifting on his lap. “Fuck, I just— Get me out of my head, Ilya. Please.”

“Look at me,” Ilya says. Shane forces his eyes open, straightening his back. His cheeks are red, and his lips are shiny, and Shane wants to eat him. “Ask me nicely.”

“Ilya,” Shane breathes. “Fuck me up, please. I need it. Please.”

Ilya exhales slowly, evenly, watching Shane’s face.

“Take your shirt off,” he says after a moment. Shane complies without hesitating, lifting his heavy hands to the hem of his shirt and leaning back to tear it off, throwing it aside. It lands on the Coke. “Good boy.”

Shane’s eyes fall shut.

He’s so beautiful. His cheeks are pink, and his freckles are bold, and he’s so fucking lovely that Ilya can’t think of a word in any language that’s fit to describe him. None of them are good enough, worthy enough of being attached to him. They’re all too small. Even love is too small a word.

Ilya touches his chest the way Shane likes, groping his pecs, watching Shane’s mouth open silently.

“You like that,” Ilya whispers, “don’t you? You like being my good boy?”

Shane nods, his tongue slipping out over his lips.

“You are my good boy,” Ilya coos, sliding his thumbs over his nipples and watching his back arch. “I am so fucking proud of you, Shane, you don’t even know, you are so amazing. Winning the Stanley fucking Cup and then telling all those fucking assholes exactly who you are.”

“Fuck, Ilya.”

“You make me so proud,” Ilya murmurs. “I am so lucky to be your boyfriend.”

“Ilya.”

“Is an honour, Shane, really.”

Shane smiles, finally, and it’s a beautiful fucking sight— he looks delirious, flushed and tipsy and happy as Ilya pinches his nipples for a moment, squeezing and letting his fingers slide off without loosening. Shane’s smile shifts into a grimace of pain, and Ilya grins, watching fondly.

“They do not know about this,” he whispers. “Do they?”

Shane shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut as Ilya’s hand finds his neck.

“No,” Ilya breathes. “This is just for us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Shane chokes, nodding desperately. “‘S ours.”

Ilya hums, watching Shane’s face, watching his eyes. They’re dark, pupils blown so wide Ilya can barely make out the gorgeous brown of his irises, and glassy, like he’s high. He’s beautiful.

Shane is already tilting his head back for him, surrendering to his fingers around his throat.

Ilya loves it when he’s like this, when he gives himself over so easily. It sounds incredibly fucked up, but it makes him feel so powerful. He’s sure there’s some deep psychological explanation that could be provided, something about how Ilya never had control over anything in his life growing up, how his life was scripted and choreographed for him, how he had so few decisions he could make for himself. He’s aware of it— it’s not like he’s going to argue with himself. He sought control as a teenager, usually in the form of alcohol and drugs, of skipping school to smoke cigarettes, of sex.

And now he has this— a life of his own and a beautiful, perfect boy in his lap, handing over control in the palms of his hands.

Ilya gazes at him, tightening his fingers just enough to discolour the skin of Shane’s neck, watching how Shane’s eyelashes flutter.

“Breathe for me,” Ilya whispers. Shane nods, his chest rising slowly as he inhales. Ilya watches carefully, listening to the soft hush of Shane’s exhale followed by the brief silence before he inhales again.

He waits, brushing his thumb back and forth over Shane’s neck gently, feeling his pulse. Ilya sometimes wishes he was a vampire just so he could appreciate the beat of Shane’s heart even more.

Shane breathes a few more times, slow and steady like he’s meditating, and then he inhales once more, and Ilya squeezes, pressing his fingers and thumb into Shane’s neck firmly. Shane’s mouth falls open, and his breath gets stuck in him.

“Сахарок,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane’s eyes open, and he looks at the ceiling blankly before they find Ilya in front of him. He looks fucking wasted, like he’d fall right over if Ilya wasn’t holding onto him like this. His hands find Ilya’s wrist and forearm, holding onto him weakly. Ilya nods, watching in awe as Shane’s lips curve into a small smile.

Ilya lets up after a few moments, when Shane’s cheeks are flushed a gorgeous shade of red, and Shane gasps, his hands tightening on Ilya’s arm. He whines, shifting on Ilya’s lap anxiously.

“Спасибо,” he gasps, hands sliding over Ilya’s arm like he’s trying to hug it to himself. Ilya smiles, nodding, squeezing Shane’s neck gently, reassuringly.

“Не за что.”

He pulls Shane down by his throat, and Shane goes easily, falling forward and letting Ilya kiss him messily, the way he likes. Shane takes it so fucking well, falling lax against Ilya, mouth open for Ilya’s tongue. Ilya smiles, licking between his lips, coaxing his mouth open wider, his hand sliding up to his face to hold his jaw like he’d held his neck.

Shane moans softly.

“Open,” Ilya whispers, letting their lips brush, squeezing Shane’s face. Shane’s jaw drops, and Ilya’s smile widens. “Good boy.”

He pauses, eyes falling to Shane’s perfect lips, shining, as he lets saliva gather under his tongue. Shane waits patiently, eyes closed like he’s asleep. He startles a little when Ilya spits into his mouth roughly, letting out a soft whine. His jaw shifts like he’s going to swallow, and Ilya squeezes his face again, holding his mouth open.

“I did not say to swallow it,” he says in a low voice. Shane groans, exhaling sharply. The spit is on his tongue, glistening, and it slides over it, down, down, down, until it drips off of it. “There you go.”

Shane whines, squeezing Ilya’s arm. The spit finds his chest, dripping slowly, shining on his skin. Ilya looks at it, lifting his other hand to gather it on his fingertips before he touches Shane’s nipple again, rubbing the spit against it.

Shane lets out a tight groan, his back arching, pushing his chest toward Ilya, who laughs lightly.

“You like that?” Ilya murmurs. Shane nods, humming affirmatively like he needs to say it, like it isn’t a rhetorical question. “Oh, I know, baby.”

He rubs harder, circling around it until the spit goes dry and sticky, and Shane grimaces, scrunching his nose. And he wonders why Ilya likes to call him Зайчонок.

“Give me some more, my love,” Ilya says, lifting his fingers to Shane’s mouth. Shane hums, reaching to hold his hand in place as he spits carefully on his fingertips. It’s adorable. “Thank you.”

“Mm.”

“Don’t close your mouth,” Ilya says casually. “Keep it open for me.”

“Mm.”

Ilya plays with him, circles his wet fingertips around his nipple just to watch the way Shane winces, the way he moans so softly, the way he tries to push closer, still holding Ilya’s wrist. He can feel the way Shane is shifting on his lap, searching absently for friction.

Ilya glances down to see the bulge under Shane’s jeans, clicking his tongue in faux-sympathy.

“Does that hurt?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, shifting again, desperate. “Help me?”

Ilya coos, squeezing his face before he releases it just to slap his cheek gently.

“Ask me nicely.”

“Fuck,” Shane chokes, jaw finally closing a little. Drool falls from his lips, and Ilya smiles, his stomach fluttering. “Please, Ilya, I need…”

He whines, squirming.

Ilya lets go of his face. Reaches down to his jeans and undoes the button and fly. It loosens his pants, and Shane exhales sharply in relief.

“Listen to me,” he whispers, pinching Shane’s nipple, looking up at him. Shane groans, catching his wrist, falling forward. His eyes find Ilya’s, squinting a little like there’s a haze between them, some kind of fog. “Yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane chokes, fingers digging into Ilya’s wrist, nodding. “Yes, I’m listening.”

“I want you to come like this,” Ilya murmurs, reaching for Shane’s hip and pulling so he moves, grinding against Ilya’s lap. “Just like this.”

Shane nods, breath catching in his throat.

“Okay,” he chokes. “I can— I can do that.”

“I know,” Ilya coos fondly, finally releasing his nipple and rubbing it firmly, watching Shane shudder. “You can win four Stanley Cups. You can come from humping me like dog.”

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane says weakly, shaking, “Can you…”

“What?” Ilya whispers. “What do you need?”

Shane moans, rolling his hips, his mouth falling open again like he’s showing Ilya his tongue. Ilya smiles.

He reaches up, pressing his middle and ring fingers between his lips, letting them slide over Shane’s tongue until they press to the back of it. Shane’s back arches, and he chokes for a brief moment before he gathers himself— he’s practiced this. Ilya presses them in deeper, into his throat.

“There you go,” he murmurs, nodding. “Always take it so well, baby.”

Shane groans around Ilya’s fingers, nodding, rolling his hips firmly. Ilya swears under his breath, glancing down. He can see his own cock straining in his sweatpants, pressing, rubbing against Shane’s with every rock of their bodies, the fabric stained dark with the wetness of his precome.

“Fuck, Shane.”

Shane groans again, nodding, tilting his head to force Ilya’s fingers deeper, and Ilya lets him, nodding, panting. He moves his fingers like Shane wants, like he can’t ask for, rubbing against the inside of his throat, and Shane’s eyes roll back as he lets out a rough, choked off sound.

Ilya never did this with anyone before Shane. It never even occurred to him as something he would want to do with someone— he knows it’s fucking weird, fingerfucking someone’s mouth, someone’s throat, but it happened so naturally the first time with Shane. He’d just taken it, let Ilya’s fingers into his mouth, which was supposed to be a tease at first, just to piss Shane off, but he’d liked it. He’d loved it. He’d let Ilya’s fingers spread across his tongue, tilted his head to make them nudge into his throat. Fuck, Ilya had seen stars. It’s been the subject of every wet dream since.

When Ilya pulls his hand away, Shane groans, choking on his breath as he tries to catch it, and spit falls from his mouth, slimy from his throat.

“Fuck,” Ilya hisses, catching the spit on his hand and rubbing it across Shane’s chin and jaw. Shane lets him, his eyes closed, lips parted as he gasps for breath. “My good fucking boy—”

Shane moans, his head falling forward into Ilya’s hand, and Ilya pulls him down, lifting his own chin to reach so he can kiss him messily, biting at his lower lip before he licks at it. Shane’s hands find his hair, pushing into his curls and tangling with them. It hurts, but Ilya has never minded a little pain, especially not from Shane’s hands.

“C’mere,” Ilya mumbles, pulling him down closer, grabbing the back of his neck. Shane whines, catching himself on the back of the sofa as Ilya slides his tongue across his face desperately, licking at him.

“Fuck, Ilya—”

“Mm.”

“Fuck me,” Shane gasps, squirming on Ilya’s lap, searching desperately. “Please, fuck, I— I need it, please—”

Ilya swears under his breath, slides his hands to the small of Shane’s back, wrenching him forward as Ilya moves to stand, turning to drop Shane unceremoniously onto the sofa. Shane clings to him, arms wrapped tight around his neck, legs hitched up on his hips, and Ilya leans over him, setting a knee on the sofa and his hands on the back of it so he can hold himself up.

“Fuck, yes—” Shane chokes when Ilya moves, grinding against him. “Oh, fuck, yes—”

Ilya groans roughly, moving against Shane, reaching for his hip and ducking his head to bury it in Shane’s neck. Shane is moaning weakly, his voice high in his throat, and it sounds fucking beautiful, like he’s singing, like every pitiful sound is part of a serenade.

“Harder,” Shane manages to get out, fingers burying themselves in Ilya’s hair and squeezing like he doesn’t even notice himself doing it. “Harder, please, fuck—”

Ilya moans, propping himself up on the sofa so he can move faster, hips pushing with intention, every thrust forcing a pretty sound of Shane’s throat. He sounds pitiful, pathetic, but Ilya can’t even say anything except, “Fuck, Shane—”

He’s fully dressed, and he isn’t sure why, but it almost makes this feel even more filthy, like he’s too desperate, too needy, to even take the time to undress properly, to even get his cock out before using it.

And Shane.

He’s a fucking wreck.

His hair is a disaster, tangled from rubbing against the back of the sofa, and he’s in a state of undress— shirtless, his jeans undone. His chest is still glistening with spit, but some of that sparkle might be sweat now, and some of it might be tears, because he’s crying, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to hold tears back. His face is flushed with colour, some pretty shade of redpink that’s blooming on his cheeks and his ears and his neck. He’s letting out these perfect little moans, short and punctuated in his throat like Ilya’s actually fucking him, like there’s a cock in him, like he can feel it through the layers of fabric between them.

“Fuck, Ilya, I—” Shane chokes, nodding, groaning. “Fuck, I’m— I’m—”

He reaches for one of Ilya’s hands and tugs it to his neck, Ilya groans, pressing his palm to Shane’s throat, watching his face carefully as his eyes roll back.

He squeezes. Shane lets out a strangled, choked sound, and he writhes under Ilya’s body. Ilya moans, gasping as his stomach flips, watching Shane’s shining lips open soundlessly before he lets out a rough groan.

“Fuck, Shane—”

Shane’s eyes open, and he looks at Ilya desperately, his legs locking and holding Ilya in place. He grabs Ilya’s forearm, squeezing it so tightly it might bruise, and Ilya doesn’t think he would mind if it did. He would love that, actually, even if it drew curious looks, even if his teammates asked if he was okay or teased him for being kinky.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” Ilya pants, loosening his grip on Shane’s neck, letting him gasp for breath. “I fucking adore you, baby, you—”

Shane moans weakly, his voice high in his throat, raspy, and his eyes flutter. Tears fall from them, slipping over his temples, into his hair, staining the fabric of the sofa when he turns his head like he’s in pain. Ilya leans down and presses his face into Shane’s neck, breathing hard, licking at his skin.

“Come f’me,” Shane mumbles, squeezing Ilya’s arm and burying his other hand in Ilya’s hair, gripping it tightly. “Please, Ilya.”

Ilya groans, his hips landing on Shane’s and staying, pressing hard and rubbing as his breath catches in his throat. He gasps, sliding his tongue over Shane’s pulse, savouring the salt of his skin.

Shane’s hand loosens in his hair as he comes, scratching across his scalp and rubbing his head soothingly. Ilya buries his face in Shane’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, shutting out the light of the room as he feels Shane’s pulse slow gradually.

“Fuck,” Shane says softly. His voice breaks.

Ilya nods absently, exhaling, and he lifts his head, letting himself slide off the sofa so he’s kneeling on the ground, leaning forward so he’s as close to Shane as possible. Shane follows him, sitting up tiredly, reaching for him. Ilya lets him.

He closes his eyes again, pressing his face to Shane’s chest, catching his breath. Shane caresses him, running a hand over his head and pushing the other down the back of his shirt like he can’t get close enough.

“I love you,” Shane whispers. His voice is rough, his throat dry, and Ilya lifts his head to look at him, prepared to stand and get him water, but Shane stops him before he can even try, pulling him into a soft, lingering kiss. “Just…”

He pulls Ilya back in, kissing him again before he pulls Ilya to his chest, the rest of his sentence left unfinished. Just stay here. Just a minute. Just let me.

Ilya presses his face back to Shane’s chest, kissing his sweat-sticky skin lazily. He finds Shane’s nipple and takes it in his mouth, sucking softly. Shane sighs, running a hand over Ilya’s head, cradling it like he’s holding Ilya in place. Ilya slumps against the sofa between Shane’s legs, wrapping his arms around Shane’s hips, and he wants to stay here forever. He would, if Shane would let him, and maybe it’s macabre, and morbid, and maybe even a little unhinged and not quite entirely healthy, but if Shane said he wanted to die here, to rot right here with Ilya’s mouth on him, Ilya would indulge him. He’d let them wither away here, satiated. They’d be found here, probably soon— someone would notice when they don’t show at practice, when they don’t respond to texts or calls— but Ilya thinks there is a certain romance in the idea of decaying together. If they stay like this, limbs tangled, when they’re found nobody will know which bones belong to who. He kind of likes the idea of that.

Their fingerbones in an indistinguishable pile together. Their ribcages tangled together like claws.

Shane has to force himself out of bed in the early morning, when his phone won’t stop vibrating on the nightstand.

It’s too fucking early. Ilya is still in bed when Shane leaves, trying to sit up even though Shane makes him lay back down with a soft kiss and muttered, “I’ll be back, go to sleep.”

The coffee shop is quiet, the few people inside still waking up with caffeine in their hands. It’s chilly out, the air damp with mist and dew, and Shane is wearing one of Ilya’s hoodies— it’s a dark green one, a little too big and soft enough that Shane finds himself rubbing the ends of his sleeves in his fingers as he goes inside, looking around, ignoring the person by the door that seems to recognize him, his face lighting up a little when Shane pulls the hood down.

Theriault is in the back, looking at a cup of coffee in front of him. He looks up when Shane approaches and sits across from him, and he already looks angry.

Shane’s stomach hurts, and he reminds himself that he’s twenty-six fucking years old. He’s not a child that’s gotten in trouble for something silly. He’s not grounded, and he doesn’t have detention or something stupid like that. He’s a grown man.

“This is not how I wanted to spend my morning,” Theriault says flatly. Shane nods, ducking his head for a moment before he lifts it again.

I didn’t ask you to, he doesn’t say.

Theriault is looking at him intently, searching his face, his gaze lingering on the bruise on his cheek, and Shane waits for him to say something, to call him a fag, to ask about the bruise.

“Are you gonna just sit there or are you gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on?” Theriault snaps, speaking a little too loudly, and Shane suddenly wishes there was nobody else here, wishes they were in some park or something, far away from anybody that might overhear them talking.

But then he decides that he doesn’t care.

The guys know, and Theriault knows— or he’s about to, at least— and he decides that it doens’t fucking matter.

Let them hear. Let them talk. Let them make their stupid Twitter posts and speculate about the things he’s kept close to his chest for his whole life. Let them act like they know the shape of his soul.

Fuck it.

“I came out to the guys,” he says.

Theriault stares at him blankly for a moment before he inhales slowly, closing his eyes, and he sighs heavily.

“Damn it, Hollander,” he says. “You can’t just tell me it was a stupid joke?”

Shane swallows the lump in his throat, twisting his sleeve around his hand.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Coach.”

“Hollander.”

“Coach,” Shane says, his voice a little too sharp. “I’m gay.”

Theriault huffs, looking away from him, and it reminds Shane that they’re in public, and that he’s sober. He feels a little nauseated.

“God damn it, Hollander.”

“I shouldn’t have told the guys the way I did last night,” Shane says, softening his voice. “But I was drunk, and I was angry, and I wasn’t thinking—”

“No, you shouldn’t have told them at all, Hollander,” Theriault says sharply. Shane blinks.

“I…”

“We don’t need to hear about this shit,” Theriault snaps. “It has no fucking place in hockey, Hollander, you understand me?”

Shane stares at him.

“...I don’t have a place in hockey.”

“Don’t twist my words, Holl—”

“That’s what I am,” Shane snaps, watching as Theriault blinks like he’s startled. “I’m gay, and I’m team captain, and I got your team the fucking Stanley Cup last night, and you’re saying I don’t have a place in hockey—”

“Hollander.”

His mouth snaps shut. His eyes are burning, and he stares at Theriault, waiting as he takes a slow breath like he’s calming himself down until he speaks again.

“...You understand that I have to let you go.”

It doesn’t kill Shane. It doesn’t behead him, or rip his heart out of his chest. It makes him run cold, but something in his stomach settles, something like relief, like a cramp finally subsiding.

“No.”

Theriault looks at him, eyebrows raising.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t understand,” Shane says firmly, ignoring the way his voice wavers slightly. He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Hollander,” Theriault says, tossing a hand, looking away again, like Shane is being childish, like he’s being ridiculous. “We can’t trust you.”

Shane stares, looking back and forth between his eyes, but all he finds is honesty, and it makes him feel fucking sick. As though he would do anything, as though he would suddenly, overnight, start creeping on his teammates.

He hums quietly.

“That’s what Graham said,” he says quietly. “You’re worried I’m going to start treating them the way they treat women, right?”

Theriault blinks again, his expression shifting, eyebrows furrowing.

“Hollander, you lied to us for years—”

“Why do you think I did?” Shane snaps, raising his voice a little, and he regrets it, but it doesn’t quell his anger. He leans forward, across the table. “The second they find out that I’m gay, suddenly I’m a pervert, and a freak, and I can’t fucking play hockey even though I’ve been their captain for years—”

“Teams are built on trust—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Shane says, gesturing toward himself weakly. His voice breaks. “They can’t trust me now, fucking sure, but I have never trusted them with who I am.”

“Hollander.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Shane says. His voice shakes. “I’m a good fucking player, you know that, Coach, I…”

He exhales sharply, looking at Theriault’s face, searching it.

Shane has known him for a long time, and he somehow looks exactly the same. A little older, but the same. His eyes are intent, so dark Shane can’t see his pupils, his eyebrows drawn together. He’s just as intimidating as he was when Shane was a teenager.

Shane exhales.

“I’ve been in a relationship with a man since I was eighteen,” he says evenly, watching Theriault recoil almost imperceptibly. “Eighteen, Coach, and between then and now I have gotten you four Cups, and I have been to the Olympics, and All-Stars, and I have been called generational, and—”

Theriault looks away, turning his eyes from Shane’s, but Shane doesn’t let him go easily, leaning with him, forcing their eyes to meet as he continues.

“— and my fucking a man has never impacted any of that—”

“Stop,” Theriault snaps, his voice loud enough that the room hushes a little bit. They both fall silent. Theriault looks at the table and brings his coffee to his mouth. Shane watches, waiting for the room to fill with conversation again.

Theriault looks away with another sigh, and Shane feels so fucking small here, like he’s a rookie again, like he’s a fucking teenager, with a cracking voice and confusing urges. Like he has to tuck himself away in his own chest.

“I have to let you go,” Theriault says finally, looking back at Shane.

And it’s not that Shane is trying to change Theriault’s mind, really, because, if he’s honest, he doesn’t want to play for this fucking team anymore anyway. But.

“I have given my life to this team,” he says quietly.

“It’s not your team, Hollander,” Theriault says bluntly. “It’s my team. And I don’t want you on it.”

Shane nods, seething a little, tonguing at his teeth.

“So you’re cool with having the token Asian—”

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Hollander—”

“— and the token autistic, but the token faggot, that’s just too far, right—”

“You are a liability, Hollander.”

Shane stops.

His chest aches. His knee is bouncing under the table. His hands are shaking, fingers clutching at the sleeves of Ilya’s hoodie.

And for some reason, he thinks about how fucking pissed Theriault— and everyone else— would be if he knew who Shane is in love with. If he knew who Shane has been seeing, has been fucking since he was a rookie.

And it makes him laugh.

Theriault looks caught off guard, looks almost startled, scared, and Shane looks away, shaking his head, reaching up to rub his face.

“Fuck you, man.”

And he could take the time to try and talk Theriault out of it, to try to educate him, to convince him, but he doesn’t have the fucking energy, or the patience, or the desire. He doesn’t care anymore.

He stands and leaves, the chair scraping loudly over the ground, and he pulls his hood up as he ignores Theriault shouting his name behind him.

Shane isn’t there when Ilya wakes up a second time, but the bed is still warm. It’s only been a few minutes. Shane probably just left.

But Ilya won’t be able to sleep like this, thinking and waiting and wondering, so he gets up. He puts on some pants, and he goes to get his hoodie from the top of the dresser where he left it last night, but it’s not there.

He shuffles to the kitchen in his slippers, and he makes coffee. It’s bland and bitter— he never learned how to make good coffee, and Shane always buys the same grounds.

He waits in the kitchen, scrolling on his phone, sipping his shitty coffee. He plays a mobile game until he gets bored, then scrolls through his emails until he gets even more bored, and then he just stares at the counter.

He waits. And he waits. And he waits.

Until the door opens, and he startles, pushing his now cold mug away as he turns to find Shane coming into the apartment, toeing his shoes off. He’s carrying a paper bag and a coffee cup, the lid topped with a bright orange stopper.

“Hey,” Shane says lightly.

“Hi,” Ilya says, leaning against the counter, already holding a hand out to him. “Come here, tell me.”

Shane goes to him. He’s wearing the missing hoodie. Shocker.

He puts the coffee and the paper bag on the counter, followed by his wallet and keys, and then he falls against Ilya, who holds him tightly.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks, pressing his face into Shane’s hair, listening to him breathe.

“I’m okay,” Shane says softly. “I’m fine.”

“Shane.”

“He’s dropping me,” Shane says bluntly, his voice muffled in Ilya’s shoulder, his breath warm. The tip of his nose is cold. “I don’t know if it’s… Like if I’m getting traded, or where, or… I don’t know. But he’s getting rid of me.”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya exhales.

“I’m okay,” Shane whispers. He kisses Ilya’s shoulder, and then his collarbone. “Fuck all of them. I’m done with them.”

“Fuck,” Ilya says again.

His stomach twists, and he can’t tell if it’s arousal or whatever else it is that he’s feeling. He doesn’t know if there’s a word for it in any language. Physically, it feels like guilt. The same ache in his stomach like nausea, the same prickling behind his eyes. But it’s not guilt, or shame, not right now at least. His heart hurts for his boy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Shane shakes his head, brushing his nose back and forth against Ilya’s collarbone.

“‘M fine.”

“Shane,” Ilya says softly, pushing at him a little to make him lift his head, cradling his cheek. “You can be sad, you know this, yes?”

“I know,” Shane says, nodding, turning his face into Ilya’s palm. “I know, I just… I’m not.”

“Shane.”

“I’m not,” Shane repeats. “I’m not sad, I— I might be later, but right now I’m just…”

He exhales slowly. His hands slide over Ilya’s chest, palms pressing into his pecs and kneading gently. Ilya watches him, tilting his head, brushing his thumb over his freckles lightly. His eyes look glassy, but not in a good way like last night. He looks tired.

“He called me a liability,” Shane whispers.

Ilya knows that word. He’s heard it plenty in his life.

“Bastard,” he mutters.

Shane smiles briefly, thumbing over one of Ilya’s nipples absently.

“I’m not sad,” he says, even though he looks sad. “I’m… hurt.” He’s quiet for another moment, mouth twisting as he thinks. “Disappointed.”

Ilya nods, leaning forward to kiss Shane’s forehead. Shane lets him, closing his eyes and sighing.

“Okay,” Shane says after a moment, nodding resolutely. “I, uhm. I’m going to call my therapist.”

Ilya nods, letting Shane nudge their noses together.

“And then I’m going to call my mom,” Shane continues. “And I’ll talk to her about whatever I need to do. She’ll probably talk to my agent, and they’ll talk to Thierault, and…”

He exhales shakily. Ilya nods, kissing him softly.

“We will figure it out,” he whispers. Shane nods. “Yuna will know what to do.”

“Yeah,” Shane says with another sigh. “I’m fine. Uhm. I brought you coffee.”

“That is for me?” Ilya says, turning to look at the coffee cup like it’ll have his name and an arrow pointed at it.

“Yeah,” Shane says. “From the cafe down the road, the one you like. And I got you a muffin.”

Ilya sighs heavily.

“You are an angel, you know that?”

“You’re so dramatic,” Shane says, smiling, kissing him lightly.

“Will you share it with me?” Ilya says, letting go of Shane to reach for the paper bag, opening it. It’s a blueberry muffin. It smells nice. Shane eyes it as Ilya pulls it from the bag, watching like it’s dangerous. “Hm?”

He breaks a part of the muffin off, looking at Shane. He’s staring. He looks worried.

Ilya lifts the piece to his mouth and holds it in his teeth, leaning forward with his eyebrows raised as Shane lets out a pretty laugh, shaking his head. He leans in anyway, taking a bite of it from Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya grins. He finishes the piece, taking it into his mouth as Shane moves away, chewing.

“You’re so weird,” Shane says around the bite, his voice muffled. Ilya just raises an eyebrow at him. “I love you.”

Ilya touches his face, gazing at him, setting the muffin aside, and Shane lets him give him a chaste kiss.

“I love you too,” he says softly after swallowing. “I am very proud of you.”

Shane kisses him, lingering, touching his chest. His mouth tastes like blueberry.

“Uhm,” he says after they part, still close enough that their lips brush. “I’m going to make some calls. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“Is okay,” Ilya says, nodding. “Take your time.”

Shane kisses him.

“When I’m done, though,” he says, trailing a finger over Ilya’s sternum lightly. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t think.”

Ilya’s breath catches. He nods, eyes flickering over Shane’s face.

“I can do that,” he says softly. “I will be here. Get me when you are ready, okay?”

Shane kisses him slowly, arms wrapping around his neck, and Ilya very intentionally does not lift him up onto the counter even though he desperately wants to.

He watches him go. He sits on the sofa and turns on the television to a random channel that he doesn’t actually watch. He sips his coffee— which is much better than the drip he’d had earlier— and he finishes the muffin, and he waits, and he waits, and he waits some more.

He lingers in the hall, listening closely to the silence behind the door before he knocks as gently as possible, nudging it open and peeking inside.

Shane is on the bed— their bed— and he isn’t moving, a mound covered by a blanket of shadows from the setting sun. And Ilya knows not to panic, knows to be rational, but he can’t control the tight clench of fear around his heart that appears for the briefest of moments before he hears Shane exhale softly.

His favourite sound.

Ilya lets out a shaky breath, and he pauses once more in the doorway, watching the slight rise and fall of Shane’s shoulders, reluctant to leave him here. He leans against the door, letting the edges of it press into the curves of his fingers as he presses his knuckles to his forehead, closing his eyes. Listening.

His mother used to say something about blessings.

She told Ilya— young Ilya, naive Ilya, innocent Ilya— to count his, and he’d struggled with it, with knowing what could be considered a blessing. She had told him something about dark clouds having silver linings, about how yes, his father could be mean sometimes, and yes, sometimes he even hurt Ilya, but really, what a blessing it was to have a father at all. Mama hadn’t had a father, and she swore to Ilya that she would not rob him of his no matter how many times he asked to go away with her. She told him that yes, school was a bother, and homework was boring, but really, what a blessing it was to learn things, and to be able to gather so much knowledge, and what a blessing it was to have more and more and more to learn, and to know. She told him that yes, Ilya was tired, and yes, Ilya was lonely, and yes, Ilya was sad, but really. What a blessing it was to have clean air to breathe, and to have a soft bed to sleep in, and to have a mother to kiss his forehead and hold his upset tummy.

When she was gone, the air didn’t feel like a blessing, and neither did his bed.

He tried to keep up the habit that she’d cursed him with— blessed him with, rather— of counting the good, of optimism and positivity, of spinning things just so sunlight reflected off them and they seemed so much brighter than they were. Yes, Grigori was cruel, and he was losing his mind, but what a blessing it was that he didn’t remember when Ilya took his car for a joyride at fifteen, and what a blessing that he was no longer angry that Ilya liked men. Yes, Andrei was an asshole, and yes, he refused to let Ilya even see Anfisa, but what a blessing it is that Ilya has a niece to save money for, and what a blessing it is that this fucked up, shitty bloodline is continuing in spite of all that Ilya is.

Shane exhales steadily.

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, but he lets them sting, and he lets them burn, and he doesn’t fight the tears that fall when he opens them.

Yes. It’s fucked up that Shane has been dropped from his beloved team. And yes. Ilya is angry and Shane is hurt and there is no fixing any of it.

But really.

What a blessing, Ilya thinks, to have the love of his life laying in bed, sleeping soundly. And what a blessing, he thinks, to get to love this much at all.

He stays there for a few more moments, and then he goes inside, shutting the door as quietly as he can before he approaches the bed.

Shane is on his side, arm tucked under his head, and his other hand is out in front of himself, fingers loosely wrapped around his phone. It makes Ilya laugh a little, and he takes the phone carefully, moving it to the nightstand, next to Shane’s glasses and the book he’s been reading.

Shane’s fingers move a little. His nose twitches. Зайчонок.

Shane stirs as Ilya climbs into bed next to him, his eyes fluttering open, and Ilya hushes him, settling close.

“Mm?”

“Go back to sleep,” Ilya whispers, touching Shane’s face and letting him move closer like it’s an instinct, like he doesn’t even notice himself doing it. “‘S okay.”

“I fell asleep,” Shane mumbles.

“Oh, did you?”

Shane snorts, smacking Ilya’s face with a heavy hand, and Ilya grins, catching the hand as it slides off his cheek. He holds it in place, turns into his palm to press a kiss there.

Shane exhales slowly, settling, melting, his face now pressed to Ilya’s shoulder. He’s still wearing the hoodie. He looks so warm like this. Cozy. Ilya gazes, watching as his expression fades into contentment, relaxed and soft.

“You g’na fuck me?” Shane mumbles sleepily after a few moments. It startles a laugh out of Ilya, and Shane grins. It makes his cheek squish against Ilya’s shoulder.

“Later, pervert,” Ilya says, tugging his hair lightly. “Get rest now. You will need it.”

Shane hums quietly, falling into silence again. He’s warm against Ilya, his fingers pushing into his curls when Ilya lets go of his hand, and it draws Ilya into sleepiness with him. He can almost hear Shane’s heartbeat. But his eyes remain open, looking at Shane in the dimming light of the room, stargazing.

“They’re gonna trade me,” Shane whispers. “I don’t know where yet.”

“How do you feel?” Ilya asks quietly. He scratches at the nape of Shane’s neck. “Hm?”

Shane makes a face, lips pressing together, eyebrows raising. He shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I’m…”

He exhales slowly. His breath is warm on Ilya’s skin, but it makes him shiver anyway.

“I’m gonna miss my team,” he says finally. “It sucks.”

“You are sad,” Ilya says, blunt.

“Maybe a little. Might be worse later. I don’t know, I’m just…”

“It is a lot to feel,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane a little. “There is a lot happening.”

“Mm. ‘S what Ouellet said.”

“Ah, so I am right,” Ilya says, nodding at the ceiling. “I could be therapist.”

“Definitely not,” Shane says around a soft laugh before it fades.

“Still,” Ilya says. “There is a lot happening. It is a lot to think about, and to feel about, yes?”

“Not right now,” Shane whispers. “There’s nothing happening right now.”

Ilya blinks at the ceiling before he tilts his head, looking down at Shane in confusion. Shane smiles softly at him, and then he moves somehow closer, tucking his face against Ilya’s chest.

“There’s just this right now,” he mumbles. “Just this right here.”

Ilya looks back at the ceiling. He runs a hand over Shane’s hair, cradling the curve of his skull, and his throat is tight.

This fucking sucks. It sucks.

It sucks that Shane is losing his team. It sucks that he is lost, and aimless, and at the mercy of a league that has no respect for him, and it sucks that the team he has devoted so many years to has turned their backs on him.

But.

Ilya counts his blessings.

The freckles spotting Shane’s cheeks and every soft breath that leaves his perfect body as he drifts off once again. The pill bottles on the dresser across the room and the pile of dirty laundry in the closet, spilling out of the laundry basket. The muffin wrapper in the kitchen trash can. The shitty coffee, now cold in Ilya’s favorite mug. The shared calendar with Shane and Yuna, full of scheduled meetings and dinner, from press conferences to dentist appointments to Ilya’s birthday. The strawberries and grapes in the fridge that Shane has been nibbling at.

What a fucking blessing it is to have so much to figure out, to have a wide open future so full of options and decisions and choices, so full of struggles and strife and growing pains. What a fucking blessing to have the time to figure it out. What a fucking blessing to have Shane Hollander asleep on his chest.

What a blessing it is to be a safe place for his love to rest.