Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/F, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Original Female Character(s), Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Queer Themes, Closeted Character, Ilya Rozanov's Last Year Playing in Boston, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov Gets A Hug, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Homophobia, Bisexual Erasure, chosen family, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Queer Culture, Russia, Smart Ilya Rozanov, POV Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Trying His Best, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Rose Landry, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Ilya Rozanov is Loved, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Humor, Angst and Feels

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Queer Studies 101

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-11 Words: 5,693 Chapters: 1/1

Steady Ground

Summary

The events of week five of Ilya attending his mandated Queer Studies course.

Ilya nearly gets caught texting his queer studies professor in the locker room, befriends Sandra’s girlfriend and learns some new and very relevant terminology.

Or, what happens when you’re in love with Rose Landry’s ex-boyfriend and someone explains to you the concept of compulsory heterosexuality. 

 

Notes

This is Part 2 of a series.

If you haven't read Part 1 'Shall We Talk About Home?' I would recommend reading that first. As I doubt this will make much sense without it.

Ilya steps through the automatic doors of the Russian supermarket and tries not to breathe. Just for a moment. It’s a little overwhelming, is all. The smell of this place.

He hasn’t been back here since last spring. Not since before he made the decision to never return home.

But this evening is week five of his course and he promised Sandra Russian pastries so here he is again, trying not to breathe too much.

Ilya gives up on controlling his breathing the moment he steps into the aisle with the fresh baked goods.

He stands in front of the stacked shelves of vatrushka and cherry pirozhki for a solid minute, drowning in the familiar scents. Seeing his grandmother in her tiny little kitchen. He barely remembers her really. Just the smell of her cooking and the way her shoulders hunched as she leaned over the kitchen table. Hands always moving to kneed and roll out and shape.

Ilya wonders if he’ll be able to live with himself if he cries over fucking sweet breads.

He snaps a picture of the pastries laid out in front of him and texts it to Sandra. Alongside the photo, he writes ‘do you think it is bad if I buy the whole supermarket? I have big house. I can just take the leftovers home after.’

‘Clara’ texts him back straight away.

Clara: No complaints from me. That looks fucking delicious.

‘Clara’ because that’s how he’d saved Sandra’s number in his phone. It’s a significant step above his normal level of caution. A fake name for a woman feels a little ridiculous, honestly. But the coverage has been fucking everywhere. Sandra’s given at least a couple of quotes to overeager reporters. She always keeps it vague, which he appreciates but still, her name is definitely a part of this whole media shitstorm. There’s still paparazzi outside his house some days, even six weeks after the story broke. So, yeah, Clara.

Ilya: They smell so good.

Ilya: I think I am going to buy all of them.

Clara: What’s the point of having a hockey player’s salary if you can’t buy out the whole bakery section anyway?

Ilya: I do not think my nutritionist would agree.

Clara: 👎👎👎👎

Ilya just laughs at that and sends her another picture of his shopping basket which is already filling up with sweets and snacks.

Clara: Now that’s what I’m talking about.

Clara: 🥖🥞🍰🥮

He doesn’t buy the entire supermarket. Not quite. It wouldn’t fit in his Ferrari anyway.

Ilya has just about finished gearing up for afternoon practice when Sandra texts again, reacting to the photo of the overload of cake and pastries sitting in his passenger seat. He grins and starts to text back just as Marleau plops down onto the seat beside him.

“Ooh Rozy, got plans? Clara, eh? Wait, you buying fucking Russian cakes for this girl? What is she, a fucking movie star or something?”

Fuck. Ilya stuffs his phone into his bag and considers his options.

He really doesn’t want his abrupt halt to always being the first to take someone home from the club to become a subject of locker room gossip. The guys will be fucking relentless.

Sure he hasn’t actually slept with anyone but Shane since before last All Stars, but that had been easier to hide amid news of his father’s death followed by the onset of the playoffs. Now though, well. Best to muddy the waters a little, probably, before anyone takes too much interest in his changed habits.

“Maybe,” Ilya says.

“You serious, a fucking actress?”

“No, idiot. Maybe I have plans.”

“Plans? All you’ve gotta do is walk into any club in Boston, man. What’s with the whole cake and pony show?”

Sometimes Ilya really doesn’t know if it’s his English failing him or if Marleau just gets the sayings wrong. Too many fucking concussions, honestly.

“Maybe I wanted a challenge.”

“Oh yeah? And where’d you find one of those then?”

He hesitates, considering. Half the locker room is listening now.

“Ah,” he shrugs, “on my course.”

“What? From your fucking fairy course?” Uh, and that’s Hammersmith joining in. Oh good. “Rozy, you trying to pull a fucking dyke?”

“She is not a lesbian. Is bisexual.” He flashes a grin. “See, I am learning so much already.”

“What the fuck is bisexual?” Carmichael says. “I didn’t think that was like, a thing?”

Okay, time for Queer Studies 101, Locker Room edition.

Ilya sighs. “Yes, is a thing.”

“Really?” Hammersmith asks.

“I’m the one on the fucking course! I have fucking textbooks on this shit, fuck. Its a fucking thing. Enough already.”

“Alright, alright, don’t get your fucking panties in a twist, Cap,” says Connors. “We all know you hate the fucking course already. We’re just asking.”

Ilya tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes a moment. Fuck his fucking life.

“Well, she must be fucking stacked, is all I’m saying, if she’s got you buying fucking cakes,” says St Vicky.

“Yeah, gotta be a ten, for sure,” Hammersmith adds.

“Cap, come on though, no way you’re pulling her,” Connors says, coming to lean up against the side of Marleau’s stall. “Not if she met you on the course, man. Wasted fucking effort.”

“Ah, I do not think so,” says Ilya, sitting forward again with a shrug.

“Come on, Cap,” says Vicky, “not even you can pull some fucking lesbian fucking feminist PhD student or whatever the fuck she is.”

Ilya just rolls his eyes. “Yes, is hopeless. Is why I have her fucking number already and is only halfway through the course, so.” He just shrugs again and shoots Vicky a smirk. “Do not worry about me. Will be fine. I know what I’m doing, yes? Fucking hell.”

“No but Rozy, he is right though,” says Marleau. “Like, I know you’re good but even you can’t pull a lesbian off of your fucking course when they all know you’re homophobic as fuck. She obviously knows why you’re there, man. What, you think she doesn’t have fucking twitter? Its just not happening, brother. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but no way, dude.”

Ilya scowls at that, trying not to look too genuinely angry. What can he even say at this point?

He throws his hands up, playing it up a little to keep them off the scent. “Ah, no, she is bisexual, Marly. Bisexual, not lesbian. Is different, I have just said this.”

“Yeah, yeah, Rozy, whatever man.”

“No is not whatever, Marly. If you are trying to chat up lesbians, you will not be getting anywhere, is important you know this, yes?”

That gets a laugh at least and a scuff across the back of the neck from Marleau.

“Yeah, okay Rozy, I hear you. I get it alright.”

Probably not, Ilya thinks, but decides that’s as far as he can push it today. Class dismissed.

Marleau pulls him into a headlock and Ilya lets himself be dragged. “You’re still not getting into her pants though. It just isn’t happening.”

Ilya squirms free and staggers upright, pulling Marleau up after him. He loops an arm over Marleau’s shoulders and sighs. “Ah, you think what you like Marly. I will be busy fucking Clara so is no problem for me, huh?”

Ilya gives Marleau a rough shake then releases him, feeling faintly sick.

Oh well, time to get out on the ice.

That evening Ilya drops down into a chair at the very back of the Queer Studies classroom and fights the urge to simply lay his head down on the desk and close his eyes.

What a fucking day.

Sandra catches his eye and he shoots her a quick smile as soon as he thinks no one else is watching. Week five. Okay, time to see what these couple of hours have in store for him this time. At least afterwards he can eat his own weight in vatrushka.

It’s a whole mix of subjects today. Queer community. Chosen family. A bit about the importance of ballroom culture to the history of America’s black transgender community which is all entirely new to Ilya. Then a whole section on acceptance and what that can look like, from yourself and from others.

Ilya takes a moment to steal a photo of the paragraph in his textbook which talks about chosen family.

‘Chosen family is vital for many in the LGBTQ community. While there are many different definitions, chosen family are those people who love us for who we are, without conditions or prejudice. Many in the queer community maintain that without the support of their chosen family they would not have managed to come to terms with their own identity, find community or, in some cases, survive at all.

‘The phrase ‘You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family’ may be commonly used but that doesn’t make it true. It’s not and, in fact, queer people have been proving this for generations, especially when biological family is abusive and/or rejecting of their queer identity.’

He stares at the photo for a solid twenty seconds then texts it to Sveta before stuffing his phone back in his pocket.

Ilya blinks a few times, feeling suddenly and abruptly very grateful that he’d asked Shane a couple of weeks ago whether he could tell Svetlana about their relationship. It almost scares him how much better he feels about everything, the distance and Russia and his teammates, just because Svetlana knows now and is always on the other end of the phone if he needs her. She’s been back in Russia a lot so far this season but still, she’s always there if he calls.

Shaking himself, he focuses back on Sandra and her ongoing monologue on self-acceptance and the various different routes sometimes taken to get there. He’s only supposed to be pretending not to pay attention. Not actually drifting off and missing half of what she’s saying, even if it is a lot of academic English after a long day of gruelling exercise at the rink.

Five minutes after class ends, Sandra’s girlfriend Zeynab walks through the door. She heads straight towards him, a beaming smile on her face as she sees him setting out his vast array of Russian snacks. He has pushed a couple of desks together to make enough room to lay everything out. He may have gone a little overboard but whatever, its fine.

“Zeynab, you are here.” Ilya grins at her.

“Yes, of course,” she says, squeezing his forearm before drawing up a chair for herself. “I really wanted to make it last week but I’m travelling so much at the moment. Anyway, I’m here today, that’s what matters. It’s good to see you again Ilya. How’s the hockey?”

“Uh, please, do not ask me about hockey.”

She just laughs at that. “Whatever you want, darling. Tell me about the food then, instead?”

“Yes,” Ilya claps his hands together, “this I can do.”

Zeynab has only joined them once so far at their after class hang outs. Ilya had liked her immediately. With her infectious smile and her wide sweeping hand gestures. Last time she had asked him about fifteen very specific questions on Russian diminutives, then heaped extravagant praise on every single bite of Russian food she’d tasted.

Ilya quickly lists through everything as Sandra also pulls up a chair, leaning to kiss her girlfriend hello.

“And this one,” he finishes, “is kartoshka. You can tell is Russian because means potato but like potato cake. Is Russian chocolate truffle, sort of, but not fancy. Very nice though. My grandmother used to make with leftover cookies.”

“Potato?” Zeynab asks. “Because of the shape?”

“Ah, yes, because of the shape, yes. And also, because is Russia so everything is potatoes.”

 “Okay,” Sandra says, pointing at him, “but when we get to week eight, I am not standing up at the front of the class and saying ‘you know, it’s Russia, everything is potatoes.’ There’s no way I can say that and not have it be some fucking terrible stereotype.”

Ilya laughs. “No, no, Sandra, you are just being coward.”

“Hey, I didn’t befriend you so you could get me cancelled too!”

Ilya clutches his chest. “Ah, Sandra, is too soon,” he says, laughing.

Zeynab just grins at the two of them and helps herself to another pastry.

“Ah yes, those are very good. With apple. There is cherry too.” He waves at the paper plate to her left, grinning as she sighs happily around her mouthful of pirozhki.

“Thank you for all of this Ilya,” Zeynab says, “this is so lovely, really.”

“Is nice for me too. Has been a while since...” He clears his throat and casts around for another subject. Oh, yes, that was what he wanted to ask. “Zeynab, you are born here, in America, or no?”

Her English is perfect, as far as he can tell. Much better than his anyway. Fuck, why is everyone so good at languages? But every now and then he thinks he hears the edge of an accent slip into some of her speech. He can’t place it though.

“Ah, no, I wasn’t born here. I spent time in the U.S. as a kid. We came every year pretty much. It’s why I don’t have an accent. Not really, at least, but no, I wasn’t raised here.”

She takes a sip of her tea, sets it back down and looks at him.

“I’m Iranian. We would spend summers in the States growing up but only ever the summer. Iran was home, y’know?” She waves a hand at herself, Sandra, their little classroom. “I don’t go back anymore.”

Ilya feels something unravel at the idea of being able to say, ‘yes, same,’ to someone who knows what it means. The leaving. The leaving there and the staying here. The choosing of it. The way it fractures such simple things, like the word home, and stitches them back together at the same time.

Ilya nods. “Yes, me neither.”

Zeynab stretches over and squeezes his hand, just once. Ilya tries very hard not to cry. She gives him a sad smile which he returns without having to think about it.

“Are you religious?” Zeynab asks then, gesturing to his cross.

Shit, this is what he gets for asking personal questions.

“No, no, was my mothers. But you? Are you religious?” he asks quickly then winces. Zeynab wears a headscarf. At least she has the two times he’s met her. So of course she’s religious, right? Fucking stupid question to ask.

“Ah, yep. I’m Muslim. It’s something we had in common, actually, when we first met.” She indicates between Sandra and herself. “Not being Muslim, but religion. Coming from very religious families and being queer and trying to figure out how to, you know, exist in the middle of all of that.”

Sandra grimaces. “I was raised Mormon.”

Ilya frowns. Sandra with her close cut short hair and her fitted jackets and all this easy authority on queer everything is so far from what he knows of being Mormon that he isn’t even sure how to think about that.

“Mormon?” he asks.

“Unfortunately, yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, you can say that again.” She sighs. “I’m not religious any more. But Zeynab’s right, it was something that brought us together a lot. Trying to figure out how to live with it all, even if we both found different answers in the end.”

“Yes, Sandra is all done with God,” Zeynab says. “No second chances. But I found better places, more welcoming ones. Eventually, anyway. There’s a small mosque here that is good about it. Took a long time to work through everything but,” she laughs “I am happy I kept searching, you know?”

Ilya just nods at that. Its not something he can understand really. His mother was religious but it never meant much to him. Well, it meant a chance to get out of the house and away from his father. Mama always liked the singing too. Ilya just liked seeing her smile, humming along to the hymns still on the walk home from church.

He turns to Sandra. “You were saying earlier, in the class, about, um...different ways...with acceptance and...”

Sandra smiles at him, attentive but not interrupting, as he tries to find the words.

“Sorry, long day and is a lot of English.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“What did you mean about when someone is, like, very sure that they are straight even when is not true. There was a word, maybe?” The description she’d given had struck him, somehow, but he didn’t quite get what she meant.

“Oh, yeah,” Sandra says. “Compulsory heterosexuality.”

Okay, well no wonder he couldn’t remember what it was called. Stupid fucking English.

“Yes, that. It is...what is it? I did not understand, I think.”

“Well,” Sandra says, spreading her hands out on the table top, “it’s actually pretty common, sadly. It’s a by-product of society’s homophobia and, um, messed up ideas we get taught about what’s supposed to be normal, really. So, yeah, compulsory heterosexuality is, like, when you can’t see any other way forward than being straight. Or, well, its more than that. You can’t even think about being anything else. You won’t let yourself but you don’t realise you’re not letting yourself, if you know what I mean? Does that make sense? People can be really determined to ignore any sign they might be gay, even if its painfully obvious sometimes. They just can’t think of themselves that way at all.”

Oh. Well, shit.

“Ah, yes, okay,” Ilya says. “I was wrong. I do know about that. Is when your hook-up of seven years realises things are maybe not so casual anymore and runs off with a movie star.”

“What?” Sandra is staring at him.

Zeynab is leaning towards him, nearly bent double over the table. “Ilya, darling, no! What the fuck?”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya gives a sheepish smile, “do not worry, is okay now.”

“That’s...” Zeynab pulls herself back to vertical. “Your boyfriend ran off with an actress?”

“Yes, well, we were not boyfriends then. Not yet.”

“Oh my God.” Sandra runs her fingers through her short cropped hair, still staring at him. “Fucking hell. What did you do?”

“Played some very terrible hockey mostly. There are many articles about it. They do not say why but...” He shrugs one shoulder, “so many articles... ‘Is this the end of Ilya Rozanov?’ ‘What has happened to Boston’s star player?’ All this shit.”

Of course he also spent two months staring at every picture of Rose Landry and Shane that he could find but he’s not about to mention that. Besides, it would out Shane so he couldn’t admit to that even if he wanted too.

He waves a hand. “Was not so good, really.”

At that Sandra dissolves into giggles, one hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, Ilya, no. That’s so awful. Fuck.”

“And you took him back?” Zeynab asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. I love him, so.” He clears his throat. “And he was scared. I know this now. I do not quite understand it but I know he was scared. I was also scared, yes, but not of the same thing, I think.”

“That makes sense, yeah.” Sandra reaches over and rubs his arm. “I had a fair bit of the compulsory heterosexuality stuff myself and it can be so hard to think of anything else when you’re stuck inside it, y’know? To see any other way to be. It sort of fills up all your thinking, leaves you only able to see the default option.”

Ilya hums, considering. He probably shouldn’t but also, what the hell, right? “Are there any, um, maybe books about this? The complus...the thing you said?”

“Compulsory heterosexuality. Yes, for sure. I read a really good one last year actually. I’ll write you down the details before you leave. Don’t let me forget, okay?”

Ilya leans back in his chair and lets out a breath. “I did not know there were so many words for everything,” he says and then immediately feels like an idiot.

Sandra nods at him though. “Oh, same, yeah. Ten years ago I didn’t either.”

Ilya gives her a disbelieving look. She just shrugs. “Ex-Mormon, remember? I didn’t have a fucking clue.”

“It’s true. When we met,” Zeynab points at Sandra, “she was still living with her parents as a Mormon, which only isn’t a cult on a technicality.”

“And Zeynab’s dad,” Sandra says, “had just started to get involved in Iranian politics.”

Zeynab nods. “So, yeah, you aren’t the only one with the dramatic relationship history. We were really fucking messy for a while there.” She shrugs. “For maybe longer than we should of been, even with all that going on.”

Well, fuck. “So how are you now all,” he waves his hands between the two of them, “like this?”

“We spent a fortune on therapy. Both of us,” says Sandra.

Zeynab hums. “Yes, that.”

“I...really? You are telling the truth? Is just a little hard to imagine, the mess, is all.”

“Yeah, well,” Sandra says, looking around the little classroom and shaking her head, “if you’d met me at twenty-two, I would have had a panic attack at the sight of a pride flag.”

“You are joking?” Ilya can’t even picture it. What the fuck?

She just shakes her head again.

“Twenty-two is generous,” chimes in Zeynab. “You were not much better at twenty-five.”

“Hey! Twenty-three at the latest.”

Zeynab raises her eyebrows, a light smirk playing across her lips. “Hmm, twenty-four maybe, at best.”

Sandra just rolls her eyes and picks up another slice of honey cake. “Guess I should know better by now than to haggle with you, right?”

Zeynab grins at that. She leans over and gives Sandra a soft kiss, the silver threads woven through her headscarf catching the light as she moves.

She really is very beautiful, Zeynab, Ilya thinks, not for the first time. Sveta would love her, without a doubt. If she had been single, he absolutely would have tried to set the two of them up. Oh well, too bad for Sveta. Sandra and Zeynab look so happy together Ilya almost wants to warm himself on it like a little kid trying to sit close to the fire in winter. Something about the way they lean into each other as they talk, the way they smile at each other. The surety in it has him feeling both jealous and lighter at the same time.

It’s hard to think of them having any sort of uncertain beginnings, let alone something like the fucked up tangle of a thing that was him and Shane before last summer.

“Will you be here again, Zeynab?” Ilya asks. “Next week?” The leftover food is packed away now and he’s standing ready to leave, his bag slung over one shoulder.

“Yeah, I can be,” Zeynab says. “If you don’t mind me muscling in and joining you both, that is?”

Ilya fixes his gaze on the colourful posters pinned to the wall behind her head. “Maybe, ah, maybe next time we could have Iranian food... I could pay. I have never tried, you know, so maybe...If you want to come, that is.”

To his surprise, Zeynab wraps him up in a hug.

“Deal,” she says as she steps back. “I will see you next time, Ilya, darling, okay? Us queer exiles have to stick together, yeah?”

Ilya just smiles at that, not trusting himself to speak.

Sandra saves him from wondering what to say next by stepping forward with a folded slip of paper. “Here’s the name of that book, Ilya. Lovely to see you again." She smiles at him then. “See you next week, yeah?” Then she hugs him too before the both of them turn to gather up Sandra’s scattered course notes and the handout sheets left lying on desks all around the room.

Ilya takes one quiet shaky breath then nods to them both and rushes out the door.

Sveta texts back just as he reaches his car. He climbs into the somewhat uncomfortable seat and thumbs open her message.

Sveta: Fuck you Ilyusha. Making me cry at the club. My makeup is trashed.

Sveta: If I don’t get laid tonight it will be your fault

Ilya grins at that, shaking his head.

Ilya:🖕

Ilya: Fuck you Sveta

Ilya: Like you are not still the hottest person there

Sveta: 😘

Sveta: Is it your Jane making you all sentimental like this?

Ilya: Ha, no. Jane would not be the one teaching me queer culture terms. He’s terrible at being gay

Ilya: Except for the practical 😏

Sveta: Idiot

Sveta: Ok, I have to go Ilyusha.

Sveta: I love you, ok? I will see you when I’m back.

Ilya: Love you too Sveta

Ilya: Go have very hot sex for me.

Sveta: Are you not seeing your Jane in like 5 days time?

Ilya: Yes and it’s been a whole month already. I am dying Sveta. Its awful.

Sveta: You are very grumpy about being in love

Ilya:🖕🖕🖕

Sveta: ❤️

Ilya: ❤️

Ilya taps open google. He orders one copy of ‘Unlearning Compulsory Heterosexuality’ on next day delivery, sets his phone down beside the last of the leftovers and drives home.

The day after class brings morning practice. Everyone asks about Clara of course. Ilya just smirks and raises his eyebrows. For this he gets an assortment of wolf whistles and a slap on the back from Marleau that he thinks might actually bruise. They still hound him for details but he just ribs them all instead and refuses to give any real answers. Its similar enough to how he’s always been that he gets away with it.

Practice goes fine after that.

Tonight they have a game against fucking Toronto. Right now he needs to get back to his house and nap. He steals a moment for himself though to head into a stationary store on the way. It’s a store he’s seen before but never entered. The checkout clerk gives him a weird look for buying a stack of heart shaped sticky notes but what the fuck does he care.

Ilya goes back to his house, grabs his post and sets everything down on the kitchen counter. He pulls out the book he ordered yesterday and grins. Taking up a pen, he grabs the sticky notes. What’s the stupid English expression? Oh, yes, ‘I told you so.’ He writes the stupid saying onto the pink heart shaped sticky note and then presses the note carefully onto the cover of the book.

Ilya puts it all in an envelope and drops by the post office down the street to pay for their overnight courier service.

Alright, done. Okay, back to the house. Eat, sleep, watch game tape, eat more. Then get to the rink again in time to talk to coach before the game. Maybe he can call Shane on the drive over.

The next day he gets an angry message from Jane. Oh good.

Jane: What the fuck is this?

Lily: You are always reading boring hockey books. I thought maybe you would like boring gay books too.

Jane: What’s with the note, asshole?

Lily: Ah you will have to read it to find out

Jane: Fuck off

Jane: And I don’t only read books about hockey.

Lily: Ah, no? When was last time you read not a hockey book, Shane?

Jane: I read other things

Jane: Sometimes

Lily: Such a bad liar

Jane: Fuck you

Lily: Soon 😈

Lily: 4 days now ❤️

Jane: ❤️ I fucking miss you

Lily: Yes, me too. Has been too long.

Lily: So you will read it?

Lily: They have written whole book about you and Rose Landry and you will not read it?

Jane: Fuck off

Jane: What do you mean its about me and Rose?

Lily: Ah you will just have to read it and find out, no?

He doesn’t get a reply to that but decides to leave it alone. Shane will read the book. He’s too curious not to.

They talk on the phone at lunch and Shane hasn’t started the book yet. He’s got an off day tomorrow. Says he’ll get to it then. After that it’s just catching up which rapidly devolves into video sex in the kitchen. Ilya smiles to himself watching Shane methodically wipe down his kitchen table after. So predictable, Hollander.

The next day Shane doesn’t call. He doesn’t text either and Ilya knows he’s not at training. After the third time his call goes through to Shane’s voicemail, Ilya realises he’s a fucking asshole.

What the fuck was he thinking? Fuck. Fuck.

After a forth missed call Ilya can’t bring himself to try again.

Lily: Shane, I’m sorry

Lily: Was stupid

Lily: Don’t read the stupid book, okay?

Lily: It does not mention you and Rose. I was just being idiot. You don’t need to read it.

Ilya sits on his couch and stares at his unanswered messages until sitting on the couch begins to feel too familiar and he goes to wallow in his stupidity in bed for a while. Why did he fucking think this was a good idea?

It might be funny, yes, in like twenty fucking years. The whole trying so hard to be straight thing. It’s not fucking funny now. Its fucking awful now and Ilya made it into a fucking joke. What the fuck is wrong with him? What does Shane even see in him anyway?

Ilya drags himself out of bed and back to the kitchen. Tells himself he won’t check his phone again until he’s eaten. He caves before the water even begins to boil.

The next day Shane picks up the phone and Ilya chokes back a sob he’s so fucking relieved.

“Shane, fuck, I’m sorry, okay? Was so fucking stupid. I’m sorry. I should not have sent it. Not like that.”

“Well, I mean...maybe the note was a little much, yeah.”

“You are not mad?”

“No, not really. I mean, I was. Like really mad, yeah. Then I finished the book and, uhh.” Ilya hears Shane drop down onto his couch. Hears the long exhale.

Alone in his kitchen, Ilya squeezes his eyes shut and waits.

“Uhh, then I finished the book and like, fuck Ilya.”

“I am sorry Shane. I was not-”

“No, Ilya, I mean I finished the book and, fuck, it really fucking helped, okay? Like, a lot. Yeah. So, I’m not mad anymore. Well, I am. But not really at you. Just, y’know, at all of it. Fuck.”

“Okay. Okay, that is good, I think. I still should not have sent it. Not like that.”

“Ha, next time maybe just talk to me first, okay? And no more fucking notes Ilya, I swear or I’ll-”

“No, no,” Ilya runs a hand down his face, “no more fucking stupid notes, Shane, I promise.”

No more sending books either. Ilya doesn’t think he’d dare do this again. Why is he such an idiot.

On the other end of the phone, Shane’s laugh is a little choked. “Thank you though. I mean, you’re a fucking asshole but...thank you for making me read it. I think I need to read it a couple more times but, I’m glad I read it. I think. My head fucking hurts though, honestly.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to say to that. He waits but Shane seems to be done speaking.

“So, tomorrow I am still staying at yours or...?”

“What? What the fuck, of course you’re staying at mine. Where else would you go?”

“Okay, okay. I just...” Ilya could cry he’s so grateful to still have this. “I didn’t know if maybe...fuck Shane, I’m sorry. Was bad way to do this. I was not sure if you would want-”

“Hey, no, of course I fucking want to see you. I fucking miss you. I’m sorry I didn’t text yesterday or like, answer your calls. Yeah, I was fucking mad, for a bit at least. But of course I want to see you, okay? Always, alright?”

“Okay.” Ilya swipes at his cheek and screws his eyes shut, half lent over the kitchen table. “Okay, Shane, okay. Me too. I want to see you. Always.” He sniffs. “I am always wanting to see you.”

“I know. It’s been too fucking long.”

“Is always too fucking long.”

Shane sighs. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

God, thank fuck for that. Fuck. Ilya takes a ragged deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. Fuck.

Uh, well, at least he hasn’t fucked everything up quite yet and he still gets to see Shane this week. Gets to see Shane tomorrow.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Fucking finally.

He hasn’t fucked everything up. Tomorrow is almost here. He can fix this and be more fucking careful next time. Hold Shane and kiss him and tell him he’s fucking sorry from the same fucking room, not just over the phone.

He can learn how to be a better boyfriend for Shane because he has no fucking clue what he’s doing.

Maybe he can ask Sandra? Would that be okay? Anyway, that’s a thought for later on. For now he still has Shane and he gets to see him again fucking tomorrow.

Tomorrow he can fall asleep next to Shane and wake up next to Shane. They can eat together and fuck and fall asleep actually in the same bed. Not in his stupid king sized fucking empty fucking mattress next to the sound of Shane’s breathing coming from his phone propped against the spare pillow. Ilya is pretty sure falling asleep with Shane in his arms again will make every single one of his problems disappear. Even if only for the night.

At least he still has this.

One night will have to be enough. For now at least.

Bits and pieces of time always sliced too thin and spread too far apart.

Ottawa can’t come soon enough.