Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Queerplatonic Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, Bisexual Svetlana Vetrova, Platonic Soulmates, meeting the friends, First Meetings, Shane Hollander's Cottage, Autistic Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-21 Words: 3,680 Chapters: 1/1

How The Mighty Fall (In Love)

Summary

Svetlana would do anything for Ilya, just like he’d do anything for her. Pretending she doesn’t know why she’s being invited to the ass end of nowhere Ontario in the middle of the summer is a small thing to ask.

Notes

If I’m ever not tagging QPP Ilya&Sveta, presume I’ve been body snatched. Every queer needs a queer best friend, and all the better if they have an on and off habit of fooling around, and/or are considered too close/confusing by The Hets.

Also, shout out to Spider Robinson for the hugging discourse mentioned in this fic. Twenty years after reading your funny, kind, sci-fi, polyamorous hopepunk novels for the first time, I still think about A-hugs and 1-hugs.

Svetlana has her suspicions when Ilya asks her to have a weekend with him. It’s in the way he asks. They’ve been friends for twenty years. They’ve spent literally hundreds of weekends together, often weekends of their own definition, considering neither one of them has ever had a Monday to Friday job. They don’t ask to hang out, they decide they miss each other’s stupid faces and they arrange transportation to be where the other is. Outsiders may think it’s onesided, her chasing after him like some worshipful fan with stars in her eyes, but the fact of the matter is Ilyusha’s career is dependent on location while Svetlana works on commission and can convince a client to spend six figures on whatever day is most convenient to her.

She says yes, of course. That was never in question. He’s pointlessly vague about the details, what airport to fly into and what style of clothing to pack. Svetlana knows why she needs lakeside attire in Ottawa, she’s seen the documentary too, but she doesn’t yank on the blinds just yet. This isn’t Ilya spending stoic lip biting months trying to tell her he’d fucked Sasha, changing the subject at the last moment each time until she’d finally had to tell him that Sasha had texted her about it before Ilya had even snuck back in through his window. And it’s not all the opportunities she’s set up over the years to get him to talk about Jane, smirks and eye rolls and comments he’s ignored while being as tough-boy as he can. This is an irrevocable move made by Ilya, a brave, honest one from someone who’s been built and twisted to fit the first adjective and constantly endangered by the second. Even if the set up is beyond obvious, Svetlana’s going to shut the fuck up, verbally and via body language, and let Ilya do this how he wants to.

The plane rides go by in a blur of a Matrix rewatch. The Montreal layover is just long enough to grab lunch, a rich soup and some crusty garlic bread for dipping. The world isn’t quite saved when the plane taxis, but she slips the iPad into her carry on unconcerned. She’s seen the trilogy enough times to have it memorized, physically watching it only mentally updates the visuals.

Svetlana makes it through customs with only a sprinkle of don’t trust the foreign national. She makes it through the crowded airport, tugging her wheeled luggage behind her, carry on strap digging in to her shoulder. Every time she travels she promises herself she’s going to buy a new, more comfortable bag, and every night before travelling it’s the perfect size to hold everything she needs, better than anything else in her closet. She makes it to the right exit, the visitor parking, and there Ilya is, listening to wordless industrial in his backwards ballcap and sunglasses in his orange 918 Spyder. He’s so fucking obnoxious. She loves him so fucking much.

The car ride is long, but Ilya isn’t someone she notices time with. At first it’s just dissecting the last season and predicting the next. Then he goes and delivers truly awful news. He’s free trade, and he’s choosing the Centaurs. The goddamn Centaurs. Sveta could rip the hair out of her head for what a fucking shame it is, such high quality talent on a sewage tank of a team. But Ottawa is a two hour drive from Montreal, no planes necessary, and there are cute bed and breakfasts and VRBOs in between the cities. As a bisexual mixed race female semi-Russian citizen, Svetlana knows all too well about not being allowed to have everything you want, and needing to decide what prioritize. Romance trumps career. It’s painful, but she gets it. Ilya hasn’t come out yet, hasn’t said why Ottawa, is spinning some shit about wanting a new challenge that she’s sure is what his agent or maybe Hollander’s momager told him to say, but Svetlana knows. She trusts that it will be a challenge he’ll exceed expectations with, he’ll probably have them playoff worthy in three seasons, barring bad trades, but there’s not a chance it’s for his athletic ego. It’s for the man she’s about to meet, no question.

From what she can see as Ilya pulls onto private land, it’s a gorgeous property. And Svetlana can see a lot. Nearly every wall appears to be glass. Good thing Shane’s a multi millionaire because the heating bill come fall must be astronomical. Ilya parks, but doesn’t get out of the car. He doesn’t even undo his seat belt. It is very dramatic, the way he’s not looking at her, but she’s still determined to let him take the lead.

“Jane is-“ Ilya sighs and curses. “Jane is Hollander. Shane. I love him.”

He cannot look at her as he says it, eyes locked to the dash of his Spyder, and it takes Sveta back ten years to Ilya telling her he’s going to go for the MLH, abandoning their country and his family. Twelve years, to admitting he likes boys, too, sorry if it’s gross. Fourteen years, and whispering that it wasn’t an accident, no matter what Papa and Alexei said, Mama killed herself on purpose. Hell, nineteen years and informing her that Ded Moroz doesn’t exist. Ilya has never been able to make eye contact while having a serious conversation.

But Sveta’s always been able to listen. Eye contact isn’t necessary, when atmosphere and posture and gesture and just fucking listening all tell you everything you need to know. And, thank god, she’s always been able to provoke this hulking, safe, stupid asshole compassionate genius into at least cracking his shell, if not fully coming out of it. Nineteen years ago she asked if it mattered as long as there were still presents at the fireplace. Fourteen years ago she buried a stuffed animal in her backyard with a ceramic plate tombstone so he’d have somewhere to mourn her that wasn’t full of lies. Twelve years ago she laughed and asked who he thought was the hottest boy in their school. Ten years ago she decided to finally use the other side of her granted by birth dual citizenship and buy a house in Boston. And now she’s going to be fucking happy for him, as hotly happy as the sun’s molten rays, to combat the icy chill she knows will come over her best friend when he’s alone in a new country on a losing team, hearing his dad’s criticism in haunted ears.

“Oh, you magnificent man. I know. And he loves you like you deserve?”

Ilya turns away further. He’s looking out the driver’s window as he starts, “I don’t-“

“Like you deserve, Ilya.” God, sometimes she hates Alexei and Grigori and her dad and his coach and his snotty douchey Prospect Cup teammates and Irina and just everyone for keeping him in a place where he could feel undeserving of love. He could have known Shane even earlier if their paths had been allowed to mingle in Regina. He could be travelling around the world having exotic threesomes with Sasha if Ilya hadn’t needed to get the fuck out of Russia before Sasha got them caught and beaten to death by Coach Novikov. He could have had a boyfriend in high school if Alexei hadn’t been there to cruelly observe the golden brother’s every move. There are so many times people stole ways for Ilya to be loved, and Sveta wants this one for him. Fuck, if Shane doesn’t love Ilya, she’s going to lure the gullible Canadian into the woods and put him down like a deer.

“Probably. Yes. I think so definitely.”

“Yes?”

“He planned the next twenty years of our lives.” Ilya says, like it’s everything, fireworks and shouting from the mountaintops. Maybe it is. “Hollander is always needing a plan, always, and he wants the one where we’re together. Because we’re boyfriends, and he loves me. Fuck, Sveta, he told his parents that. Twice. He’s going to keep saying it. Fuck, Sveta.”

Ilya might still be in his seat belt, but she is not. Svetlana has enough interest in cars for this to not be the first time she’s launched herself into the driver’s seat -though road head, backseat head, and across the hood all have their trophies too- and landed in a straddle. It probably is the first time she forgoes pushing her panties to the side in order to pepper his face with delighted kisses.

“I’m so fucking happy for you, Ilyusha. Best news I’ve ever gotten. Sasha is going to shit a brick.”

“We can’t all have orgies in art museums every night,” Ilya laughs. His big hand is on her waist to steady her, his forehead against hers, and she doesn’t care that normally she’d be reaching for the condoms in the glove compartment because he’s so full of joy that sex isn’t necessary. One day she’ll probably miss his dick, if Shane stays permanently and eternally no exceptions monogamous, but that’s not today.

“You know he’s going to bring cocaine to your wedding. And probably a hundred thousand dollar gift.”

Ilya’s face falls a little, then. “I didn’t say we’re getting married. We can’t. Not until we retire.”

Sveta rolls her eyes. “The world is not going to run out of cocaine by then. Sasha and I can wait.”

You two better be together forever, is what she doesn’t say. Smirking at each other during faceoffs. Texting hourly, things both ludicrously smutty and utterly mundane. Vacationing in locales foreign to both of them. It’s a good sign that they’ve apparently already charted it all out. Is she heavily figured into Shane’s plans for their lives? Probably not. But she’ll fix that. Once Shane knows her, he’ll understand he can’t love Ilya without loving her. Ilya will probably have to learn the same about Pike, given that they’ve been Captain and AC for half a decade and are still voluntarily rooming together.

Or maybe she is, at least a little. She’s here, after all.

“Ready to go in? You're carrying my luggage,” Svetlana announces. She could get out on this side of the car but it’d be awkward backwards crawl. Easier to launch herself back to the passenger seat. Besides, she can smooth her dress down this way, no chance of flashing her underwear to a very gay man who very much does not want to see it.

Ilya, evidentially, is not ready, given that once his hand falls to the seatbelt buckle, the whir of the harness spooling back into the compartment isn’t accompanied by an opening door. He wipes his lipgloss shiny face with the bottom of his tank top, and Svetlana waits. Whatever it is will come, if she gives space for it.

“You are the first best friend to visit,” he informs her, abrupt in the silence. “Rose Landry can’t come ‘til the September long weekend.”

“Smart man, to still be friends with Rose Landry. She is very beautiful.”

“He is gay. Her beauty means nothing.” Ilya’s twitching eye belies his statement, or at least his belief of it. Svetlana’s always been a better read of situations, and she believes it’s the actual truth. The kind of man Hollander -Shane now, she supposes- is, he doesn’t invite people to his refuge to witness him unless it’s serious. He doesn’t have to be purely gay for Rose to not be the right one. If she was, she’d have been here first.

“He loves you. I’m sure it doesn’t.”

“This place means a lot to him. And to us, I think. It’s the first place we’ve been allowed to be something, without it hurting.”

“I’m not going to break any vases,” Svetlana promises. She wants those details, to align all his witnessed moods with what might have been happening behind the scenes. She wants to know where they were together, and how each time crumpled. But she knows better than to fish for everything in one go. Better to capitulate to what he’s telling her, that this is a precious place he doesn’t want smudged. Well, she won’t.

Ilya nods. He reaches across the console to curve his long fingers into the mass of curls at the bottom of her skull. So many times it’d be the first step to making out, a hot blowjob or some sex, but it’s none of that. Now it’s the touch of friends thicker than blood. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and nods again. Then she’s losing the cupped hand as he tugs on the door handle to step onto the driveway.

He carries her bags, of course. She follows swiftly behind him, taking the opportunity of free hands to apply a new layer of lipgloss. Shane hasn’t locked the door in the four hours Ilya’s been gone, so they let themselves in. But whatever he’s been doing to kill time must not have an audio component, or it’s one of his more heightened senses, because the door clicking closed is enough to have Shane suddenly appearing from their left.

He looks good, in summer clothes. Given his lifestyle, Svetlana’s most used to seeing Hollander in hockey gear, game suits, or in boxer briefs or whatever other slutty little outfit they make him sell products in. This feels far more comfortable. She’s like half sure the t-shirt Shane’s wearing is one of Ilya’s. Even if it isn’t, the mere sight of him has Ilya smiling. Ilya is a friendly guy, to those who deserve it. And he’s charismatic. He’s got a lot of smiles for a lot of different people. But this kind of smile, a devoted, I’m so energized to see you I want to punch things, heart-eyed grin? To Sasha sometimes, in their teenage years when they drove each other crazy. To her, untethered to whether or not they fucked that night. And now, Shane.

She’s going to miss that look frequently directed at her. Her dual citizenship won’t be the golden pass it once was, now that Ilya’s dropped the country that’s been making him sick for a place of hope and hidden opportunity. But it’ll be fine. She won’t crash their summer, or stretches when they’re both in Quebec or Ontario, but there’s nothing stopping her from flying out for roadies and couch surfing when Shane’s across the country. They can have nearly as many adventures as they always have, it’ll just have to be more carefully scheduled.

“Hey. Back,” Ilya says, unnecessarily.

Svetlana’s hoping they step into each other’s arms for a hello kiss, because it’s not often they’ll get that chance, rather than be forced to ape neutrality. Ilya wouldn’t think twice about it, she knows. She’s seen a lot larger displays of PDA from women who have meant a lot less. But he lets his boyfriend take the lead, and Shane is either not ready for public kissing, or just keyed into the task of receiving a guest. “Hello. Svetlana? I’m Shane. Hollander. But you know that.”

Shane holds his hand out to shake, like an idiot. This isn’t a press junket, it’s her soulmate’s third half introducing himself. Sveta can appreciate that he’s almost certainly some level of autistic -not that the MLH would ever press for diagnosis, it might have blowback- and will later take all steps necessary to accommodate his needs, touch averse and audio heightened and etc, but in this one instance she cannot. Their beginning cannot be some shitty impersonal handshake.

She doesn’t fully ignore the stretched out arm. The hand, yes, but the arm is quickly commandeered to be the outside bracket of the hug she’s about to force. As she gets closer she can’t help but notice he smells like Ilya. It’s an all but signed guarantee they showered together this morning. Cute as hell. And then she’s in, chest to chest, thighs to thighs. A favourite English author of hers once described hugs as A-shaped or 1-shaped, people who only get as close as is necessary versus people hugging with their whole bodies, and there’s an obvious right answer, but personally Svetlana’s into 4-shaped. If a limb or two isn’t suspended, temporarily attached, is it even really a hug? Frankly, she’s taking it easy on Shane, only throwing herself against him. And it’s good. It is. Svetlana’s spent her life being conditioned to love a size difference. It feels right, even safe, that her arms barely reach around the bulk that is Shane’s chest.

Shane is tense, but accepts it. He even eventually returns the gesture, one-armed, the other hand tucked into his shorts pocket. She’ll slowly work on it, in their limited time together. Some day he’ll rest on a couch with his head in her lap as Ilya gives him a foot massage, she’s sure of it.

“Sveta or Lana’s fine,” she finally answers him, granting him the chance to get back to his previously deployed script. Hard to say if he’s more relieved about that, or the way she takes a few steps back to answer.

“Okay,” Shane nods, as if he’s committing it to memory. Truthfully, he probably is. Names are part of the script.

“You have a nickname you’re more comfortable with?” Hollander has such a nice ring to it that as far as she knows Holly or Hollzy never took off, but maybe there’s something else. Svetlana can have that amount of manners, at least.

“Try Second Best MLH Hocker Player. He’s used to hearing that,” Ilya teases.

“You’re the absolute worst. Fucking asshole,” Shane bitches. But there’s a smile on his face as he shakes his head, the discomfort of her familiarity wiped away by the arrogance of his boyfriend. Svetlana imagines after ten years of it, it’s probably soothing. An aural version of a weighted blanket.

“It is kind of you to invite me to intrude on your summer.”

Shane nods once. “It’s only a weekend.”

Yes, he’s definitely neurodivergent. That’s not how most people answer, acknowledging inconvenience instead of lightly lying and pushing it away. Svetlana already knows how delicately yet deliberately Ilya must treat him. He hasn’t had many opportunities to care, but when he does it’s supportive in every conceivable way.

“I’m well aware of how little free time professionals like you have.” Let Shane think she means the royal you, for comfort. She’d never say Ilya doesn’t work his ass off, but he certainly allocates time to pleasures that she’s sure go to contractual obligations for Shane I’m On Every Billboard Hollander. But it’s a topic that could sound critical in a dozen different ways, and that’s definitely not a first meeting conversation.

“My family knows. It seemed only fair that Ilya got to tell his family.”

There’s respect in the word choice that Svetlana appreciates. Shane must know that no Rozanov deserves the title. It’s not fully accurate, family doesn’t fuck and she’s seen every inch of Ilya, but it’s good to know he does know she’s forever. She’ll have to see if she can get Sasha on the guest list too, but that’s an argument for a different day.

“Do you want a tour?” He offers. Another host script launched. Half her friends would never, preferring a sink or swim method, find the bathroom before your bladder explodes, find a bed or sleep on the floor, but Shane isn’t like them. “I can show you the guest rooms. You can decide which one you like better. There’s a gym downstairs too, though we’ve been taking it easy this summer.”

“I dunno. I’d say you’re fit, Hollander,” Ilya lightly flirts.

“Or do you want something to drink? I have ginger ale and Coke, but the water’s really good, too. I have my own well.”

He says it like it’s a brag, and so Svetlana lets him. She’s the daughter of a minister, she’s had enthusiastic conversations about mundane things more times than she can count, most of the time in uncomfortable attire and half drunk, and never embarrassed her parents other than intentionally. This is baby mode. He’s gesticulating towards the window, for godsake.

“Really? I’ve never met anyone with their own water source before. How did you go about getting it?” She twists to face him, to show Shane interest without looking him in the eyes. If Ilya hates it, then Shane definitely does.

“Oh my god, my boyfriend has turned my best friend boring. It’s contagious!”

“You’re an asshole,” Shane complains, voice loose and up like it’s a nickname, as Svetlana lets loose an “idiot” in Punjabi. It was an easy promise made early in their friendship. If she ever wanted to use insults his family or team or Coach might, she’d do it in a language they don’t speak so it sounded different. Svetlana knows idiot in eight languages, and jackass in half a dozen. She doesn’t know lazy in a single one, and she never fucking will.

Ilya thumps both fists into his chest after another, and tilts his head back as he croaks. “Two arrows. Innocent Russian, best player in league, dies of cruelty, terrible barbs.”

And Sveta is smiling widely, and Ilya’s just barely holding one back as he acts his scene, and Shane hiding one even further as he snaps out “you’re a drama queen”, but they’re all happy. This is definitely going to work. Svetlana knows, now. She and Ilya have always worked, friendship large enough to eclipse the word. Ilya and Shane work, star crossed lovers daring enough to not kill themselves. And they’re going to work, a peanut butter and jelly and banana sandwich in which each element only elevates the others. Shit, maybe some summer she’ll find a girlfriend or boyfriend to keep in a cottage across the lake and they can jetski back and forth. Sveta doesn’t know who she’ll love enough for that gesture, but they’ll have to adore Ilya and Shane if they’re going to matter to her.