Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Rose Landry

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Rose Landry, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Past Sexual Assault, Trauma Recovery, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Not Canon Compliant

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Trying

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-28 Completed: 2026-05-17 Words: 57,291 Chapters: 7/7

Try, Try Again

Summary

It's already so complicated - their hook-ups and their secrets - that Ilya Rozanov knows it can't continue forever. So, when Shane Hollander, his rival on the ice and current reason for waking up in the morning, suddenly ghosts him and starts playing like an amateur, Ilya is desperate to figure out why and fix it so that their tangled little mess can maybe, one day, last.

AN: Make note of the tags. Not a full recount/description of the assault, but it's a central theme.

Notes

Chapter 1

Ilya

See you in 2 days? 😉
Read

Ilya looked at his phone for what had to be the millionth time, his palms sweaty and his heart thumping in his chest like it was getting kicked around in a beating. Around him, the sounds of his team doing their pre-game routine were pressing in on him, a tightening vise that crept up his throat. Maybe that’s why it felt hard to breathe. 

It’s just – he rarely felt like this before a game. Like he could crawl out of his skin and disappear into the ether, untethered to the earth. 

Normally the sounds of his team, his friends around him, hyping themselves up for the game, had the effect of stoking the fire in his gut. It was what had driven them to their Stanley Cup win last year, what drove him to push into every game with a desire to not just win, but to crush the other team. 

But today was different. 

He knew why, logically, but he would rather not admit it to himself nor any God above. 

It had been six months since the MLH awards in Las Vegas where he’d taken MVP. Six months since he’d watched Hollander put on a show, since he’d pressed his hand into Hollander’s shoulder blades, his face against the mattress and pretty ass in the air. Six long goddamn months after Ilya tried not to let his emotions surface, desperately pushing deeper with every jerk of his hips as though the force of his movements would push his feelings back into the locked box he was trying to keep closed.  

Six months of trying to deny that he felt anything other than lust when it came to Shane fucking Hollander. 

And, miserably, six months of radio silence from the man. 

Which was… Not uncommon. 

But it was a new season, and the year before there had been messages over the summer. Chirping about training. An emoji or two. 

And when the season had started last year? It had been like the lights had been turned back on after being in the mental shadows that Russia always evoked in him. He’d landed back in North America and fallen into training camp and the schedule ahead and they’d hooked up at their first match up and it was normal. Blissfully easy. Like a return to a routine he hadn't realized they'd established.

But then Sochi had happened and maybe he’d started it first. Maybe he’d set the tone for what they were after that encounter when he’d pushed him away so forcefully. Maybe this silence was his fault? A tit for tat that he hadn’t realized he set in motion? 

It’s just – Hollander didn’t play these games. He wasn’t a beacon of communication and honesty, neither of them were, but the man was so responsible that the only notifications he probably hadn’t ever cleared were his socials (which Ilya knew he avoided like the plague). 

So, Ilya knew he’d read the message. He could see he’d read it, for fucks sake, but Hollander had chosen not to respond. 

And for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. 

Had he hurt him? 

The last time had been intense, sure, but Hollander hadn’t seemed in pain. There’d been no discussion of crossed boundaries, nothing to flag that his eagerness had resulted in injury. Hell, if anything, they’d sat around after like two buddies on a couch shooting the shit. A buddy that Ilya had desperately wanted to take in his arms and kiss until he couldn’t breathe. But still… A buddy. A hook-up. 

Ah fuck, who was he kidding? 

He checked his phone again. Silence. 

Ilya

Same place? 
Unread

He shoved the device in the stall and cursed, slapping his hands against his thighs and turning to his teammates to get his head in the game. 

Hometown crowds were always loud, but Ilya loved the way his team was able to shut them up with a solid defeat. Montreal was a beast of its own though, passionate and deafening and a little bit feral. It made Ilya work that much harder to bring in a win, his team driven right alongside him. 

Entering the ice for the warm-up, Ilya listened to the crowd’s rumble and the music playing overhead as he glanced across the ice to the Montreal side. It didn’t take him long to spot Hollander warming up in the corner, practicing a few moves with Pike before taking a few shots at the net. 

Ilya managed to do a few rounds of his half of the ice before hovering near the center line, their typical meeting place before the match. He’d tried to signal Hollander’s attention without being obvious about it, keeping to his routine before trying to meet him half-way. 

But Hollander didn’t come to the centerline like he usually did. 

In fact, he barely looked across the ice to the Boston side, his focus solely on the puck he was toying with and the occasional teammate who skated into his orbit. 

Ilya’s stomach clenched as the buzzer ending the warmup blared above him, the realization sinking in that he had definitely done something to piss Hollander off. 

The other man was ghosting him, just like Ilya had done before Vegas in a last-ditch effort to stop the dangerous feelings he had felt brewing for his rival, the same man he’d been fucking for an unholy number of years. 

But why? 

He didn’t try to ask at the face-off. He didn’t ask at the boards, when they battled for the puck. He didn’t chirp him about it, didn’t pull him in to ask as they shook hands at the end, 3-1 for Boston. 

Hollander had played like shit and that was more terrifying than anything Ilya could imagine was wrong between them. There were very few things that he thought Hollander would get distracted by that would make him play as poorly as he had, and Ilya knew there was no way that Ilya mattered enough to Hollander to be the cause of a performance like this. Ilya’d never, not once in all of the time they’d been playing against one another, seen the type of listless effort Hollander gave to the game as he did that night.  

It made the sinking feeling in Ilya’s gut freeze, a coldness slithering through him that not even the win could thaw. 

After the game, Ilya went through the motions, giving interviews and chatting with his teammates as though there was nothing wrong. He was nothing if not consistent at pretending like he wasn’t losing his fucking mind. He’d had decades of practice at this point.

But inside he was twisting himself into knots, thinking back through every minute, every text he’d sent. Back at his stall, he opened his phone and didn’t even bother to check whether his message was read or not. Instead he opened the browser and quickly glanced through the headlines for “Shane Hollander” over the last few months. 

Not a great start to the season. 

Distracted, inconsistent. 

Goal count lower than the last two years. 

How had he not noticed? He watched Hollander’s clips. He followed the outcomes of the games. Montreal had been winning, hadn’t they? But not because of Hollander’s performance, it seemed. At least not according to the reports. 

It didn’t make sense. 

What had happened since Vegas that turned the greatest player he’d ever competed against, the man he had feelings about that he refused to confront, into this? This shell? Who wouldn’t even text him back? 

If it was just the texting, he’d get over it. He’d have to. It would fucking hurt but he would do it because eventually they’d have to anyways. Because hockey. Their careers. Russia. All of the stupid reasons he could never have what he wanted. 

But if Hollander didn’t have hockey? If he’d broken something in Hollander that took hockey away because Ilya was careless and took and took until there was nothing left? 

He needed to not think about this anymore. He was blowing it out of proportion. The season was still new, there were plenty of games left for Hollander to recover. Maybe he was just having an off few games. Or he had a cold. Or… 

It didn’t matter. 

Clearly it didn’t because the man didn’t want to tell him what was going on. That wasn’t the relationship they had. 

“Rozy, you good?” Marleau asks, breaking him out of his miserable fucking spiral. 

“Yes – just tired. Game was so boring I almost fell asleep on the ice,” he grumbled in return. Marleau laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Right? Was almost too easy with Hollander on another planet. We’re heading out for drinks after. You in or seeing that girl you’ve got in town?” 

Ilya shook his head, grabbing his things from the shelf and finishing packing his bag. “No to both – shit to deal with. Will head back, have early night.” 

“Alright man, I’ll try not to be too much of a dick if I make it back to the hotel tonight,” he responds with a wink and heads from the locker room with some of the other players. 

Ilya blows out a breath and rubs his thumb between his eyes, the tension of his thoughts pressing against his skull. 

None of it matters. 

That’s what he’ll tell himself as he grabs his bag and takes the team bus back to the hotel. 

Hollander could do whatever the fuck he wanted. Ilya would be okay. He was always okay. They weren’t anything to each other, just stress relief when in the same vicinity. A familiar fuck after a good game. 

Except – 

No. 

Why did it feel like he was twelve and his world was falling apart again?

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

At this rate, Montreal would not make the playoffs. Ilya is certain of it. Hollander had played like a zombie for the past three games, worse than he had against Boston in the pre-season, worse than Ilya has ever seen him play. And he watched clips of him in the youth league, for fucks sake.

Ilya has stopped texting him. Okay. Maybe not stopped completely. But he’s texting less. Kind of. 

Okay, that's a big fucking lie. He's texting more and if he feels a little desperate about it then that's his fucking problem.

Ilya

Silence, not even congratulations? Unusual
Read

Saw this dog in Boston thought of Pike [img]
Read

That game was brutal
Read

U up?
Read

I see you read these messages 
Read

u good?
Message Unsent

Message unsent? 

Ilya looks up what that means and nearly breaks his phone. 

Hollander had fucking blocked him? The realization made him sick. 

A week later and he's bored at the airport, suffering a little from a late night out, and wanting to punish himself, he figures, so he opens the text chain again. 

Ilya

u good?
Read

So he's unblocked again? Is this progress or a step backwards? Probably both. 

He stops texting after that, determined to pull himself free from the clutches of trying to rouse a response from a man who clearly wants nothing to do with him. 

But then Montreal is in town, ready to get crushed by Ilya’s team, and Hollander’s last two games have been abysmal, and he can't help himself. 

Ilya

Come over after? I cook and you tell me why you're throwing away Cup? 
Unread

It was the most forward he's ever been about this being anything other than a hook up and it terrified him to send the message, but when it came down to it, Hollander's presence on ice had been terrifying in and of itself. He couldn't sit back and watch it anymore, not the missed passes, not the way he drifted across the ice rather than skated over it like he was faster than light. 

The man who had been his rival year after year, who had had a spark about him (even if hidden under all of that controlled boringness), was flickering out before his eyes and he didn't understand why no one else in his life was doing anything about it. 

He knew it wasn't his place. That Hollander didn't come to him for guidance or support or any of those things other than getting his dick sucked occasionally. He had a team, his parents, for the real things and he could probably pick up a host of willing women, or even men if he wanted, in any of the cities he played in for the rest. Ilya was just convenient, a safe place for their secrets to be kept, they both knew it.

So it wasn't his job to do what those around him should have been doing already, which was snapping him out of whatever funk he was in and get him back on the path to legendary status like he should have been.

But nobody seemed to be doing it. Or at least not with any success. 

So yeah sure, he hit send on the message and he put his phone down and he prayed to a God he didn't believe in for the message to go through. And not just go through on the network, but get through Hollander’s goddamn head and make him say yes. 

Ilya needed him to say yes. 

It was unreasonable. Maybe a bit pathetic. Kind of needy, probably. But he still needed it. 

Because who was he, if not Hollander's rival? If not his - 

Nothing. He wasn't anything to Hollander. Couldn't be. 

Ilya

Come over after? I cook and you tell me why you're throwing away Cup? 
Read

Jane

Maybe

Ilya nearly crashes his car on the way to the arena when the text comes through on his dash, swerving to the side of the road to pull his phone from his pocket and open his messaging app. 

The message is there. It's real. The ghost finally figured out how to do more than read a screen. 

His stomach was in his throat. Hands shaking, tongue darting out to whet his lips as he tries to stop himself from sending the five million messages he wants to send in response. 

Instead he puts his phone away, settles his grip at ten and two, and drives the remaining distance to the arena as though the sweat on his palms was caused by anything other than the lick of anxiety curling up his spine.

On the ice, he follows his routine, skating around his end of the rink to warm up before circling back to the centerline and reaching into his bench for his bottle of water. He watches from the corner of his eye as Hollander circles once, twice, before easing closer to where he stands. 

“Ready to get buried tonight?” Hollander greets, something almost akin to a smile pulling at his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes and Ilya has to force himself to keep scanning the ice even though all he wants is to grab Hollander by the chin and drag his gaze over every inch of him to figure out what’s wrong. 

“Will you show up with shovel then?” Ilya replies, daring to give him a cocky smile in return. Hollander’s lips quirk before his eyes go flat again.

“Maybe. Let's see.”

Then he fucking skates away. 

Months of silence, of being left to wonder what he'd done to bring on this empty space, and then out of nowhere a response. An extended olive branch. But apparently one with jagged edges.

He hadn't thought olive trees had thorns. 

The game isn't the return to what he'd hoped it would be. It's close, flashes of the old Hollander peek out from what Ilya has realized is not the shell of a man, but a fortress built up so solidly that the walls reach the sky. But those flashes are so brief that if Ilya wasn't so obsessed with trying to catch Hollander's eye, he'd miss them in a blink. 

Boston takes it again, 2-1 this time, but it doesn't feel like he's actually won a damn thing. 

In the handshake line, Ilya dares to squeeze Hollander's hand hard enough that the man has to look up to meet his eyes. He doesn't say a word, but his expression speaks volumes. 

When he returns to the locker room Ilya immediately reaches for his phone, pulling up the chat and typing in his address. He hits send and then waits, watching as the typing bubble appears, disappears, appears, disappears… 

“For fucks sake,” he grumbles, hating these stupid dots and their mysteries. What was Hollander trying to say that took this many restarts? 

“You're looking too murderous for someone who just won a game against our biggest competition this season,” Marleau says with a laugh. 

“Am not murderous,” Ilya sighs, rubbing his brow and putting his phone on the shelf. Hollander could type into the abyss for the rest of the night, if he wanted. It didn't bother him. 

Except it really fucking did. 

He runs through the motions of cleaning up, packing up his gear and finishing up conversations with his teammates before he finally grabs his phone and keys from the shelf and heads for the parking lot. 

Purposefully he doesn't check his phone again until he's in the safety of his car where he could process whatever message Hollander managed to settle on. 

Jane

I have an early flight

Ilya nearly screams, his fist clenched as he bites on a knuckle until he nearly breaks skin. 

What did he do?

What could he have possibly done to make this so impossible? Did Hollander hate him? Had he already ended this - thing - and Ilya was just too dumb to realize?

And worse, why did he care? 

They were just supposed to fuck. It was never supposed to be more, or to feel like this. Like there were fingers digging around in his chest, nails scraping on his ribs to slice through his heart. And yet he couldn't stop it, the damage was already done and he couldn't undo it. 

He couldn't take it and it made him reckless and every Russian before him who ever proved the resiliency of his people would be rolling over in their fucking graves if they saw the message he sends in return. 

Ilya 

I understand what you're not saying. I'll leave you alone
Unread

He drives home in silence, eyes burning from the blinding LED headlights. Or that's what he tells himself because the truth is a bit too pathetic for him to confront at the moment.

He doesn't turn the lights on as he lets himself in, simply turns off the alarm and moves through his place with the ease of knowing the floorplan by heart. In the kitchen he flicks on the stove light and pulls out the ingredients he'd bought for the meal he'd planned to cook - salmon and quinoa and a bag of mixed salad because he was too lazy to chop vegetables. 

He's halfway through seasoning the fish when there's a knock at his door, one he surely wouldn't have heard if he'd had any type of noise running to drown out his thoughts. 

Making his way to the door, he glances out at the porch, his body nearly freezing mid-step. 

Hollander is standing in the cold, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, shoulders tight around his ears. The wind sweeps at his hair and he turns around to look at the yard, then back at the dark entryway that Ilya is currently haunting like a shadow. 

Ilya watches him for another minute before Hollander turns and begins to step down from the porch, causing a strike of panic to kick Ilya into action. He quickly turns on the light and pulls open the door, sliding his mask back into place to pretend like he'd known all along that he would come. 

“Are you lost?” Ilya says with a lilt, lips forming into a crooked smile that belies the current of hesitation pumping in his veins. 

Hollander barely meets his eyes as he pushes into the space, closing the door behind him. 

If this were any time in the past, they'd be tearing at their clothes, halfway to naked in the first minute as they traded quips that moved them closer to the bedroom. 

But not this time, apparently. This time Ilya stood in his hallway and watched as Hollander moved through the dark space, mapping his place like a hunter planning his attack. And maybe he was - maybe he was here to kill Ilya. If not end his life, then at least end this thing between them. To Ilya it would feel the same, he figured. 

“Afraid of your electricity bill? I thought you weren't home when the Uber dropped me off,” Hollander says with a gruff voice, jacket still on, collar still popped against a cold no longer surrounding him. 

“Thought you weren't coming,” Ilya counters, shrugging and moving back towards the kitchen. He brushes past Hollander as he goes and it nearly kills him not to grab him by the lapels and push him against the wall. He wasn't willing to spook Hollander by rushing to sex, at least not when he'd promised dinner. Especially not when things felt as off as they did between them. 

He could pretend for this night that they were friends, who had conversations, who worried about each other and talked about their problems and lives and things that mattered to them both. That they weren't just bodies that pressed against each other for relief when they were in the same city. 

Because maybe they'd already crossed that line between the two, but Ilya was definitely not going to be the one to point it out and send the other man running for the hills.

As he reaches the kitchen, he turns on the overhead light and Hollander makes a noise in the back of his throat that has Ilya glancing back with concern, brows furrowed slightly. That's when he notices the dark circles under Hollander's eyes, the rosy tint in his cheeks from the cold, the only colour in his skin except those damn freckles that melt his insides every time. 

“Off?” Ilya offers, reaching back to the switch and flicking it off when Hollander nods. The warm glow of the stovetop light is all that remains, casting a soft light across the kitchen island where Hollander moves to sit. “Are you staying long?” Ilya asks as he turns back to the counter, his nonchalance an act that is taking every reserve he has in him. 

“What?” 

“Your coat. I'm Russian, yes, but we heat our houses,” he replies with a flick of his wrist. Behind him he hears rustling and lets the small smile appear for the briefest of seconds. “Salmon and quinoa, some salad. Okay for you?” 

“Yeah, I mean, you don't have to cook, we can just… “ Hollander's voice trails off and Ilya turns to look at him again, his face a schooled cool facade. Hollander won't meet his gaze, eyes focused on the counter and his fingers linked in a white knuckle fist. Ilya leans on the counter and waits, evaluates. Takes in the messy hair, the hunched shoulders. He knew it before, but it's worse seeing it two feet away. 

“You want that I come over there and fuck you against counter?” Ilya asks lowly, even though it's the last thing he wants. Not because he doesn't want Hollander - he always wants him - but because it looks like the exact opposite of what Hollander wants. 

Hollander looks startled by the offer and there's a flash in his eyes when he meets Ilya's gaze, before it quickly disappears again. Ilya can practically see the bricks in the wall being placed, the fortress rising and blocking him out once more. He wants to scale that wall, take a sledgehammer to it from the inside. Wants to crawl inside it and find Hollander and pull him into his chest and remind him that he's Shane fucking Hollander and he matters and he doesn't need the walls or to hide or be anything but himself here, with him. 

“Didn't think so,” Ilya says instead and Hollander closes his eyes, a sound of relief escaping him before he can stop it. Ilya ignores the pang of hurt that flits through him with the realization that Hollander was relieved to not have Ilya touch him. He shoves it deeper into the box he keeps painful things hidden in and turns back to the food for something to do. 

It's unusual, the way Hollander doesn't try to fill the empty space with questions. The last few times they'd been together, Ilya had given more details about himself than he had to any other person on this continent except Sveta. Hollander was crafty with his questions, pulling them out when Ilya was too boneless to think about how the answers were little strings stitching them closer together. But now there were no questions. Not even hockey stats or training details. It was just the sound of the boiling water and the crackle of oil in the pan. 

Ilya hated it. So he tried to fill the space, talking about the recipe, the market where he'd found the fish, his last game in Tampa, his missing keys, that he was craving a certain flavour of gum he could only find back home. Anything and everything spilled from his lips, a running commentary of his most mundane thoughts as though there wasn't even another person in his house and he was just talking to himself to fill the air. 

It didn't make him feel better when he turned to drain the quinoa and Hollander was still sitting picking the skin around his thumbnail, barely present at all. 

“Was thinking about sucking you off in showers after the game today,” he says pointedly, trying to get a rise. “Would you want?” 

“Hmm?” Hollander responds, finally looking up like he was being called on in class when he hadn't been paying attention. Ilya sighs and turns to pull plates from the cupboard, setting them down too harshly. The clash against the counter makes Hollander jump as his eyes spark wide, panicked. But then he takes a breath, folds his hands tighter together, and places more bricks. 

Ilya wonders then just how many bricks were in this fortress and how Hollander could even breathe under the weight of them all. 

He makes a point of serving the meal as quietly as he can, molars cutting into the skin of his cheek as he tries not to say what he's thinking. When he comes around the island to take the seat next to Hollander, there's something in the way Hollander shifts uncomfortably on the stool that makes Ilya pause, instinctively diverting instead towards the dining table he's never once sat at.

“You joining? Is rude, Hollander,” Ilya quips jokingly, a forced smile on his lips as he tries so hard to pretend he's not losing his goddamn mind with worry.

Who was this ghost and what had they done with his Shane? 

Hollander picks up his plate from the counter and moves slowly across the room to the table, his eyes flicking between the chair across from Ilya and the chair beside him. At the last second, Ilya lets out a breath as Hollander chooses the chair diagonal from him, closing half of the distance between them and giving Ilya a glimpse of hope that maybe he wasn't a pariah after all. 

They take the first few bites without speaking and Ilya nearly rips his hair out, lost with how to make this evening anything except the painful teeth-pulling event it's become. 

Sure, he hadn't actually thought it would be a typical night with a thorough fuck and maybe a light dinner if he could corral Hollander long enough to eat, but he hadn't imagined it would be this painful. This was worse than trying not to kiss him every time they met on the ice. It was worse than pretending in those hotel rooms that he wanted to leave when really all he wanted was to stay and see what the dawn light looked like spreading across those damn freckles. 

The quiet was worse. The worry about what caused the quiet? Fucking gutting.

“This isn't bad,” Hollander breaks into his spinning thoughts, finally doing more to initiate the conversation. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“I don't. But I offer you dinner and know you eat bird food so I find good recipe,” he answers between bites. 

“You didn't have to offer dinner,” he pauses and looks up to catch Ilya's eye. “I mean, I know I owe you an explanation for - for everything.” 

“You don't owe anyone anything, Hollander. I just worry,” he admits with a shrug, false nonchalance. 

“You were worried? About what?” Hollander puts his fork down and stares, almost shocked. 

“What do you mean? I worry about you, obviously.” Hollander sputters and frowns, hands dropping into his lap as Ilya sets his fork down too. “You disappear, Hollander. You play like shit. Is not like you. Of course I worry. Who will make hockey real competition if you don't show up?”

“Right,” he murmurs and reaches for his fork again. Ilya clenches his jaw as he sees the bricks and Christ, he can't just sit here and watch. Reaching for Hollander's hand, Ilya leans forward to try to catch his eye. 

But it's the wrong thing, somehow. He doesn't understand it, but Hollander's body stiffens and Ilya can see him flinch as though he wanted to pull away but some part of him was forcing himself to bear it.

Ilya takes his hand anyway and squeezes. Once. Twice. Until Hollander finally looks up with a stricken look, fear and panic in his eyes. Ilya lets go of his hand in shock but Hollander reaches for it again, pulling his arm until Ilya’s fingers are tucked against Hollander's chest. 

He doesn't know what to say. 

He doesn’t have the right words for this. Not in Russian, definitely not in English. He’s never been a wordsmith and their relationship has never relied on words. 

And so he does what he thinks is needed. Ilya gets to his feet, slowly, carefully so as not to spook Hollander further, and pulls his chair alongside him. Ilya lets Hollander keep his arm. He lets him hold it to his chest like a child holds a teddy bear in sleep as Ilya presses his shoulder against Hollander’s. 

Whatever it is that’s happened, Ilya knows now for certain that he cannot push. That pushing would only have the opposite effect and Hollander was already too close to sprinting away at top speed, if his eyes gave away any insight to his thoughts. Which they always did. 

“Is alright, Hollander,” Ilya whispers, lifting his other hand to rest on their joined fist. Hollander releases a shaking breath that catches and Ilya holds tighter, presses his body further into his shoulder.  What he really wants is to pull the man into his lap and hold him until whatever is haunting him releases him, but his instinct says it’s the wrong thing. 

And he knows – in that second he knows – that it’s not what Hollander needs. Because he’s been here before, but with Sveta, when they were just kids and she’d been hurt in a way he’d almost committed a murder to avenge. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, can’t picture the world in which it's even possible for Hollander to have experienced anything like it, and yet… 

He remembers pushing into his spine with his palm, holding him down. 

He remembers his fingers having left bruises on his hips, keeping him in place. 

The pieces click into place and he wants to throw up, the thought one with spikes that lodges in his brain, hitching into every crack of his conscious mind. 

He tries to pull back then, to extricate himself from Hollander’s hold so that he can give the man room to exist in a space that was safe. One that didn’t have him, looming and pressing in and making him relive the moment where he’d hurt him. 

Why had he pushed so hard for this? How had he not seen the signs? Recognized what he’d done? 

He really was going to be sick, he realized, and lurched out of his chair, out of the dining room and into the kitchen where he just barely managed to throw up his carefully prepared dinner into the trash. 

But then Hollander is there, his cold fingers on his neck, gentle and reassuring and Ilya doesn’t understand it and so he stays bent over to hide. From himself. From the man he’s hurt who is now trying to comfort him like some parody of reality. 

“Let me get you some water.”

Hollander begins opening the cupboards, searching for a glass and spurred on by having a tangible task to complete. Something real and solvable rather than the unforgivable thing making the air harder to breathe. 

Ilya takes the offered glass and rinses out his mouth first, spitting it in the sink as Hollander’s hand rubs soothing circles across his back. 

“Are you okay?” Hollander asks after he’s managed to finish the glass. Ilya wants to laugh. 

“Am I okay? Hollander…” He counters with a strangled noise. Hollander frowns and ducks to catch his eyes, the first time he’s sought any meaningful connection since he appeared on his doorstep tonight. 

“What? You just threw up for no reason. Was it the salmon, you think?” 

And then Ilya does laugh because the question is so preposterous that he doesn’t know what else to do. Hollander tilts his head and puts his hand on Ilya’s cheek, pressing his thumb into his cheekbone. 

“You’re acting strange.”

“Me? I am strange? Hollander, you disappear for months. You play like zombie. You show up after saying you won’t. You flinch every time I get close. I think you are acting strange,” he pauses and sucks in a breath, rallying his courage to admit his mistakes. To apologize and beg for forgiveness for harm he did not realize he caused. “I think you are afraid of me. I think I hurt you in Vegas and you don’t want to be here but I made you come. I hurt you and you still come because you are Shane Hollander, Mr. Polite. And now you comfort me, after I hurt you.” He shakes his head and steps back, wanting to put distance between them. “Thinking I hurt you – this makes me sick. I didn’t know. I thought – I thought you had wanted it. But I was wrong. I’m sorry. I am so sorry, I – “

His pleading apology is cut short by Hollander pulling him into his chest, one hand curling into a fist in his hair and the other wrapping tightly around his torso until they’re pressed together, no space between them and the bricks of the fortress shaking with the change. 

“You – it wasn’t like that,” Hollander breathes into his ear. There’s dampness on his cheeks and his body is shaking but Ilya doesn’t know which of them is responsible for the evidence of distress. He hears Hollander's words but they don’t make sense. Not really. 

“But it was,” Ilya replies weakly, trying not to take the comfort he didn’t deserve. 

“It wasn’t you,” Hollander urges, pulling back enough to slide his hands up to bracket Ilya’s face until they’re eye to eye. “Vegas was – it wasn’t Vegas. It wasn’t you. You didn’t - haven’t done anything to me that I didn’t want. You have never – I need you to hear me. You have never hurt me. Never. Do you understand me?” 

“But – “ 

“Christ,” Hollander takes a beat and presses their foreheads together, the contact almost painful with the force of it. “I want you. I have wanted you every time we’ve been together. I’ve wanted everything you’ve ever done. I’ve wanted so much more than we can have. If I’ve ever been hurt from this, this thing between us? It’s my own doing.

“But I have been… Off. I am… Avoiding you. Because I still want you but I am not okay. I am…“ He gasps for a breath, choking on his words as Ilya wants so desperately to reach for him, but holds back because something inside of him screams to not touch. Not take. Not close the distance unless Hollander closes it himself. “I made a mistake. After Vegas. Hayden and I and a few of the guys went to Mexico and I – “ He cuts himself off and pulls back, withdrawing from Ilya like he hadn’t just been clinging to him like a buoy in the ocean. 

Ilya wants so much to follow him, to pull him back in, but the fortress grows and the moat widens and Hollander disappears back behind the walls. When he speaks again, his voice is half of its normal self, the volume lowered and the cadence robotic like he’s said this before but to someone who didn’t care what he had to say. Ilya’s heart twists painfully and he clenches his jaw, terrified of the truth. 

“I met a man. I brought him back to my place after the bar. But then it wasn’t – it wasn’t what I wanted. He didn’t – he didn’t listen to me. I tried to make it stop – I tried so hard but,” he pauses and rubs fitfully at his face with his sleeve, his jaw rotating to unclench. “It hurt. I should have stopped it. I shouldn’t have brought him back with me because I couldn’t get him to leave and - and it hurt and I couldn’t make it stop and I couldn’t…” 

Ilya lets the confession sit between them. He knows what he wants to do – take him in his arms and hold him until they discover a way to turn back time – but he knows it’s impossible. He also knows that he doesn’t have the right words for this. Two languages and there’s nothing he can say that will ease this type of pain. But he wants so badly to solve it, to make it go away. To take this burden off his shoulders because Shane fucking Hollander does not need to see the dark side of the world. Ilya already knows the darkness; he should be the one to carry it. 

But he can’t. Not this time.

“Hollander,” Ilya tries, softly, carefully. Hollander shakes his head and turns to face the living room. 

“I thought if I left Mexico, it would stay there. That I could get on a plane and leave it behind. But it followed me back. I have tried to deal with it, to pretend like it didn’t happen, but I fucking can’t. I don’t sleep, I’m playing like shit, Coach wants to bench me, Hayden and my parents… They don’t know what to do and I don’t know what to tell them because this – because I can’t tell them the truth.” 

Ilya didn’t have wise counsel to offer. He hadn’t for Sveta either. He preferred to use action to solve problems, but this was never a problem that action could fix. At least not his actions. 

Except – 

“Hollander,” Ilya tries again, and this time Hollander looks back at him, his face a tangled mess of fear and frustration and desperation. “Come. Let’s sit.” He offers his hand, holding it out even after it feels like he’ll never take it, but then he does and Ilya leads them into the living room, settling Hollander on the end of his couch before turning on the lamps. Ilya settles himself at the other end of the couch, watching as Hollander leans forward, elbows on his knees and head hanging low. 

They sit in silence for five minutes. Maybe ten. Before Hollander looks up and realizes just how far away Ilya is, the resulting frown pulling down the corner of his lips. 

“I’m not a leper,” he chides through a croaky voice. Ilya takes a breath before slowly getting to his feet and moving closer. It’s clearly not close enough because soon Hollander is shifting the remaining distance and dragging Ilya’s hand into his lap, linking their fingers together. “Is this – is this okay? For you?” 

“Why would it not be?” He responds, frozen for fear of doing anything to shatter the careful balance between them. 

“You can be mad at me. You can be disgusted, I’d understand,” he replies lowly. 

“What?” Ilya looks at him with wide eyes and a painful twist in his gut. 

“I just mean – I was with someone else and they – they – “ 

“They fucking hurt you,” Ilya interjects and though his words are harsh, they don’t come with the heat of the rage he’s trying to keep locked in the box. “You are not disgusting because of being hurt. It was not in your control - it was not your fault - why would you carry the filth? And of course you’ve been with other people – I have too. This – this few times a year is not enough for anyone. Is not disgusting to be with other people. Is normal.” Ilya takes a breath and closes his eyes, wishing he could pull him into his chest but knowing he can’t. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Not like that. I don’t want you scared of me.” 

Hollander swallows thickly and Ilya watches his Adam’s apple bob, watches his jaw clench and unclench, chewing on some invisible thing in his mouth.

“I'm not scared, not of you,” he murmurs after a moment, turning to face Ilya. And Hollander has never been a good liar, but there’s something Ilya can’t quite place that makes him hesitate.  “I still - I want you. That's why I'm here. I tried to stop wanting you. After. I keep trying to stop. But I can't.” 

Ilya doesn't look away even though a part of him wants to, still refusing to admit the truth of his feelings and willing to pretend like this was still just what they were both here for and nothing more. “Are you sure?” Hollander nods quickly. A beat too quickly. But Ilya misses it because he'll give Hollander anything he wants, anything to make him come back to himself. 

Lifting his other hand, he reaches for Hollander's cheek and brushes his thumb across his freckles, so gently that it feels surreal. When he leans in, Hollander is the one to close the distance between their mouths. 

They're not on the same page, not even in the same book, Ilya realizes as he tries to take it slow but Hollander barrels forward like a freight train. 

Before Ilya realizes what's happening, Hollander has climbed onto his lap, knees straddling his hips, and his fingers pulling so harshly at his curls that he has no choice but to tip his head back. The kiss is rough and Ilya takes it, his hands coming to Hollander's sides, fists bunching in the fabric of his shirt. 

Hollander's tongue is in his mouth, his hips grinding into whatever friction they can manage, and Ilya takes it. Takes the jerk of his hair, takes the bite to his lip that nearly draws blood. The frustration and anger and want that are pouring over the fortress walls, flooding the moat below and threatening to drown them both. When Hollander pulls one of Ilya's hands to his belt, he follows the unspoken instruction and works it open, pulling Hollander’s hard length free and into his palm. 

The resulting sound is one he's never heard from Hollander before, a keening pained moan that reverberates into his mouth. 

“Please,” Hollander gasps, rocking his hips into Ilya's frozen hand. Ilya thinks, briefly, that this is wrong. That this is a mistake. But how could it be when clearly Hollander wants this? And Christ, Ilya has wanted this for months, has nearly begged for it. 

Just… not like this. 

But you don't always get what you want, Ilya knows. And so he wraps his fingers around Hollander's cock and lets out a searing hiss when Hollander's fingers find their way into his pants and he tries not to think about the questions and the worries and the absolute terror that hovers around the edges of his frazzled mind. 

He's lost in it, turned around, when it happens. 

His free hand has migrated from Hollander's shirt and made its way to the back of his neck, holding their faces together so that he doesn't have to reach into the kiss. But it's another mistake, like the swipe of a serrated blade against a fraying rope. 

He can feel Hollander's hips lose their rhythm, can feel his messy kiss falling to distraction. And then he feels Hollander's fingers on his throat, a soft grip he's never once felt from the man. It makes Ilya pause, the spark of uncertainty breaking through his haze of lust. 

The grip tightens, just a fraction, nothing near to pain, but enough of a press that Ilya sucks in a surprised breath. 

Ilya searches for Hollander's gaze, turns his face until he can see his eyes clenched shut. It isn't pleasure on his face. Ilya has seen Hollander gone, has been inside him and watched him as the feeling of his release overtook him. This was not that. 

“Hollander,” Ilya breathes against his lips, seeking, praying. Letting Hollander grip his throat because he would let him take what he needed if it would fix this. He could take it. Even if it might kill him.  

Ilya removes his hand from the back of Hollander's neck and brings it to his own neck, to where Hollander's fingers press lightly into his skin. He doesn't pull him away, but simply rests his hand over Hollander's. “Hollander,” he tries again, hoping Hollander will open his eyes and see where he is, who he's with. “You're safe here, is just me,” he whispers. 

And Hollander cracks apart. His eyes snap open and they flick between Ilya and his hand at his throat, the way it splays across his skin. He pulls his hand free like he's been burned and, panicked, pushes from Ilya's lap until he's tumbled onto the floor with a thump. 

“Hollander, is okay,” Ilya says, reaching to help him up, concern etched across his face. Hollander groans and pushes Ilya's hands away, instead pulling his pants back into place and scrambling to his feet. 

Hollander might have the record in the All Star game for shooting speed but Ilya is faster at this, tucking himself away and getting to his feet to try to corral Hollander from bolting for the door. 

He only half manages. 

“Is okay, Sh - Hollander. Hollander - don't do this. Don't run - is just panic attack. You're okay, you're safe. Is me, Ilya. Just Ilya.”

Ilya doesn't stand in front of the door because he once read about the danger of blocking the escape of a startled animal, but if it was only his body on the line he would have done it. Instead he reaches for Hollander's shoulders, crouches when Hollander puts his shoes on, trying to catch his gaze. 

“Where are you going? Can't leave like this. It’s almost one am. Hollander - “

Ilya stands back up as Hollander pulls on his coat and he grabs his arm, desperate to keep him from running out into the cold with no plan. 

The push from Hollander catches Ilya off guard and he hits the wall with a thwack, his head bouncing painfully against the drywall. It's the sound of a framed piece of art hitting the floor, the glass breaking, that freezes them both in their place. Ilya watches as the fortress starts to crumble, the bricks falling and revealing a broken man behind the walls he’d tried so desperately to hold. 

“I'm sorry,” Hollander's voice comes out and he sounds just like a kid, like a boy apologizing for breaking his mother's favourite vase. 

Ilya knows violence. He's been raised in it, has played in it like a sandbox on the ice and off of it. He knows how and when to throw a punch, how to make it a lesson or a punishment. He's been on the receiving end of enough of it from his family to know that this - what's just happened - is not the same. 

This is panic. This is fight or flight. 

It won't be solved with punching back, or with raised voices and hands, but with the sheer force of showing Hollander he was safe, wanted. That he didn’t need to run or fight his way out. 

“Hollander, please. Don't leave,” Ilya murmurs, frozen to the spot against the wall, afraid to move an inch for fear of causing him to take off. 

“I - I didn't - “

“You did nothing wrong,” Ilya reassures him, gaze tracing over the drawn lines of his face, the shadows of hurt swirling in his features. 

“I'm sorry. I hurt you. I didn't mean to - I didn't - I would never - I didn't know what I was doing - I couldn't - “ Hollander rambles, words tripping over one another as they spill out. And then Hollander is collapsing forward into a crouch, his forehead pressed to Ilya's thighs and hands gripping his calves as he gasps for air. 

Ilya isn't sure what to do. Every unexpected touch he'd given tonight had resulted in a reaction he hadn't expected. If he did the wrong thing, Hollander would suffer, so he couldn't do the wrong thing. 

So he does the only thing he knows how to do - he slips his fingers through Hollander's hair, slowly, gently, from temple to nape. Again and again, like he'd done for his mother, her eye blackening in his lap at just ten years old. 

“Is not your fault. You're safe. I'm with you,” he repeats, again and again as though the repetition would fix things.

Hollander doesn’t cry. He breathes, ragged, aching breaths, until his crouching legs give out and Ilya has to grab him under his arms and haul his exhausted body into bed. The adrenaline from the panic attack drains him and within minutes of his face hitting the pillow, Hollander crashes into unconsciousness.

Ilya doesn’t follow, the fear still thick in his veins, instead he pulls off the man's shoes before tugging the blankets up to Hollander's shoulders and slipping from the room. 

He cleans up the unfinished dinner and spends the rest of the night reading everything he can find on the Internet about trauma and men's sexual assault. But there are no answers for this or what he's supposed to do in the morning. 

Hollander's phone is ringing on the counter where he'd left it and Ilya glances down at it from where he stands over the eggs he's frying. 

Pike. Shit. 

Ilya looks up the schedule for Montreal and sees that Hollander is likely supposed to be at the airport already, heading to Detroit. But the man was still passed out in his bed, had been for almost nine hours now, and Ilya couldn't bring himself to wake him. He'd said he wasn't sleeping, Ilya was going to let him sleep. Hockey could wait. Hockey had to wait. 

After turning the eggs over, Ilya grabs Hollander's phone and attempts a few passcodes, finally getting lucky on one. He opens up the chat with Pike and frowns.

Hayden

Man, where did you go? You said you were staying in

Look it's none of my business, but it's 3am - the fuck are you? 

Shane? 

Missed Call

Coach is asking where you are

The bus is leaving Shane. I have your gear but like where the fuck are you?

Missed Call

Missed Call

Are you at least in an Uber to the airport? 

Missed Call

Missed Call

Missed Call

Missed Call

Shane 

Food poisoning at Lily's, will try afternoon flight

Will call Theriault

Sorry

Ilya puts the phone down on the charger again and finishes making his breakfast to the sounds of beeps and buzzes that he tries his best to ignore. 

Later, as the late morning sun drifts through the windows, Ilya finds himself reading on his phone in the chair usually tucked in his walk-in closet, now pulled into the room, closer to the bed so he can keep an eye on Hollander. It's there that Hollander first sees him, bleary eyes blinking open slowly before he realizes where he is. 

“Shit, what time is it? Why didn't you wake me?” Hollander grumbles,crawling from the bed and grabbing his shoes from the floor. 

“I already told Pike you will take afternoon flight. He thinks you have bad stomach,” Ilya replies softly, watching as Hollander hops around on one foot trying to pull on his shoes. 

“You did what? How did you get his number?” 

“I respond in your phone, 1221 is passcode, yes? Is silly code, Hollander,” Ilya teases lightly as Hollander drops the remaining shoe from his hand. 

“What - why did you let me sleep in? How long have you been up?” He asks distractedly, easily giving up the rush to leave and instead choosing to toe off his shoe again and collapse back onto the side of the bed. He looks more rumpled than Ilya has ever seen him, creases on his face from his watch, wrinkles in his shirt, hair askew. It would have been adorable, if Ilya hadn’t known the reason for why he’d slept so hard.

“Didn't sleep. Is okay, wanted to be awake in case,” he leaves the rest of it unsaid. In case Hollander freaked out again. In case he tried to leave or had a nightmare. In case he was needed. 

“Rozanov, you need to sleep, you can't just stay awake for two days straight. You have a game tonight!” 

“Yes, and I will sleep when you are at airport safely. Is no problem. I have done worse before. Now - what do you eat? I will make it while you shower. Closet is left door, bathroom is right. Use what you need.”

“You want to make me breakfast and lend me your clothes?” Ilya shrugs and heads into the hall. He would give him this house, if he thought it would fix things.

“Get your life together Hollander, we will talk when you're ready.”

Except they don't talk. Not about what happened in Mexico or in that same kitchen the night before. It's like the cold light of the winter morning has stolen all of the words they needed to say. Instead they stick to what's safe - the teams they're about to play, the prospects for the rest of the season, and nothing else of real value. Ilya hates it. But he also doesn't have the right words to bring it up over eggs and toast. 

It's only later, when Ilya is turning towards the airport drop off and Hollander asks him to go to the parking garage instead, that he thinks maybe this time he'll manage something. They are back in the dark again after all. 

“What happened last night - I'm sorry. I behaved like an insane person and I - I hurt you. And I'm sorry. I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am,” Hollander says after Ilya has pulled into a spot in the corner of the lot, cement bracketing them on two sides. 

“Hollander, you didn't hurt me. I am not fragile like bird. I am Russian, we speak with fists in Russia. Is okay. If I was angry, you would not have my favourite shirt on and I would call Uber instead of driving in airport traffic. I am worried though, you scared me. Made me worry maybe you do this with someone else and - and they hurt you again. Already I cannot - “ Ilya's voice betrays him, cracking against his will. “I already want to go to Mexico and find this man. I cannot murder everyone who hurts you, is too much work.” 

Hollander manages a weak smile at that, his dark eyes swimming in the low light. 

“I've never - last night was the first time I've told anyone. I wanted so badly for it not to matter, but clearly it does. It's why I've tried to stay away - I didn't want to risk you finding out because what we have, it's so… physical. And it's the physical stuff that is hard right now.”

“Can I ask - why come? If you are afraid of the physical stuff?” 

“Because I wanted to be normal again. And I wanted you, so much. And you gave me that stupid ultimatum and I thought fuck it, maybe I can push through it and we'll fuck and it will fix everything and I'll stop missing you and it'll go back to how it was.” 

Ultimatum - Ilya will need to look up that word later and ensure he never does it again. Shifting in his seat, Ilya reaches his hand over to wrap around Hollander's clenched fist as he watches the emotions pass over the other man’s face. 

“We can have more than physical things, if you want,” Ilya starts, taking a pause and watching as Hollander's jaw works around words he's holding back. “You can call, I will answer. Maybe not listen if you bore me like New Yorker article, but I will pretend,” he continues to Hollander's tense bark of laughter. “And we try again. When ready. If ever ready again. Maybe never but is okay. I can be okay as long as Shane Hollander, superstar hockey player, still exists.”

“Are you saying you want to be my friend, Rozanov?” Hollander asks, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“I can be what you need. If friend now, sure. If man who makes you come handsfree later, okay. I am, what is word… dynamic. Very flexible,” he smirks. 

Hollander glances up at him then and looks, really looks, and Ilya doesn't back down because he wants Hollander to see him. To know that he is here, with him, waiting for him, wanting him. He can't stop wanting him. And it's a problem but what can he do about it now? 

Their fingers intertwine, Hollander's other hand coming to rest on Ilya's thigh in a tentative touch, a weight barely there but still burning through to his skin. It's not enough but it has to be, for now. 

“You're going to miss flight and Pike will be very upset,” Ilya says after a moment, his voice rocky with words left in his throat. 

Hollander nods and squeezes Ilya's hand, once, twice, before tugging it and pulling Ilya forward until their lips meet, teeth clashing. It isn't the same as before, more desperate and aching, but Ilya reaches for Hollander's cheek anyways and opens his mouth to let him take what he needs. The kiss sears him, makes his eyes burn with what he refuses to believe are tears, and he keeps leaning into it until he has to break away for a starved breath. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks softly, forehead pressed against Hollander's, thumb brushing over his cheek. Hollander nods, nuzzling his nose against Ilya's before grazing their lips together one last time. “See, already improvement. Nine hours of sleep and good breakfast. I make miracles.”

“You're such an asshole,” Hollander laughs and pulls back, his hand drifting down Ilya's chest. “Did I really steal your favourite shirt?” He asks, looking down at his own chest. 

“Yes. But is okay. I will take it off you next time, if you want.”

“Okay. I will… work on letting you.”

“Good. Now go. Call when you see Pike. I want to know if he cries with relief.” 

Hollander nods and reaches for the door handle, clicking it open before turning back one last time and pulling Ilya's collar forward, the kiss almost barely there, before he slides from the seat and closes the door with a thud. 

Ilya watches him leave through the rearview mirror, his stomach in knots. 

It wasn't the first time that Hollander's departure made him ache but it was the first time that that ache was filled with a fear that maybe this was the last time he would see him, touch him, hold him, and that made it almost unbearable. 

They'd barely even touched, when he thought about it. Not properly at least. He felt like every time he'd tried it was like he was applying a brand rather than relief. It was a miserable feeling, knowing he was the burn rather than the balm.

The drive home from the airport was too long and he had too much time to think about all of the mistakes he'd made, the pressure he'd put on Hollander to come even though he wasn't ready. He should have known better. 

It's those thoughts that swirl in his mind as he curls up on his bed, his face tucked into the pillow Hollander had slept on not four hours ago. 

He'd said it was the first time he really slept in months. Ilya hoped that maybe that meant something. 

He gets a message from Hollander later, telling him he'd arrived, that Pike had read him the riot act and asked for Lily's number so he had an emergency contact if he ever went AWOL again. Ilya laughed listening to it, a band of warmth curling around him as he pressed the pillow closer to his face. He knew he had to get up, he had a game in a few hours, but the warmth of Hollander's voice and his smell kept him in bed until he was almost late. 

Ilya's game that night goes fine. Hollander's game, at least according to the recaps Ilya manages to catch when he gets home, is one of the best he's had in years.

Chapter End Notes

And the hurt begins, sorry! The rating will be earned, but at a cost. I promise HEA, but our babes suffer along the way until they learn to talk things through.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

“Are you sure?” Ilya asks, hand twisting the handle of his bag as he stands near the gate. His team is getting ready to board, it's not a great time to have this conversation, but he's having it anyway because Hollander called him and he never doesn't pick up his calls. Not anymore. Even if it's within earshot of his entire fucking team in a close space. 

“Yes, I'm sure. I talked with that service you recommended and I've been, um, working, I guess, on things. I want to see you when you're here. If, uh, you want that,” he says carefully, like he was measuring his words or treating them like a ticking bomb at his feet. 

“I want to. Just - I make it easy. No pressure. We hangout, watch TV, talk, whatever. We don't - “ 

“I want to try, is what I'm saying. I want to try with you. Because I trust you. But I don't want to pressure you. I want you to st-”

“Get your sweet talking ass over here Rozy, it's time to go,” Marleau calls from the door and Ilya misses half of what Hollander says, the words a lost jumble of English in his lame attempt at multitasking.

“I have to go. Whatever you said, yes, okay? We figure out details. We talk first, like you said before. Okay? See you soon.”

“Okay, yes. Good. Have a safe flight,” Hollander says and the line goes dead as Ilya makes his way onto the plane and flops unceremoniously into his seat. 

He curses under his breath, pressing his phone to his brow and hating that these past few weeks have barely allowed him a moment to address what happened the last time they were together. 

The day after Hollander left, Ilya had lain awake thinking through the magnitude of the situation. 

It wasn't just what Hollander had told him had happened, though that in and of itself was something he was probably unequipped to deal with. It was also everything else - the secret they needed to keep, the way that Ilya knew that he couldn’t just be friends with Shane Hollander. He was already too far gone, had been for longer than he was willing to admit. 

The moving pieces of it were a foundation built on a fault line and Ilya was terrified another earthquake would strike and they’d lose all the progress they’d made in the weeks since. 

So he’d called Sveta and asked for her advice, hating to dig up the past but knowing that she was the only one who would explain it to him with no prying questions and no bullshit like the hopeful recovery stories he’d read online. 

She’d given him his advice coupled with a warning - you can’t be the solution to her experience. Her recovery is hers to resolve, Ilyusha. Be there for her, but don't try to fix it even though I know you'll try anyways. Just don't take it personally if she pushes you away. 

He hated to hear it but he knew she was right. He couldn’t change the past and only Hollander could work on getting better. Ilya could be there, could listen and try to help, to understand, but he couldn’t fix this overnight. 

When he’d asked her whether he’d been a good friend to her after her own experience, she’d laughed and cursed at the same time. Yes, love, you made it hurt less without even trying. 

And so he’d been trying to be there for Hollander. He’d looked up resources, had tried to suggest he talk to someone. The first time he’d brought it up, Hollander had hung up on him. The second time he’d accused Ilya of wanting to ruin his reputation before hanging up. He’d called him back half an hour later and admitted he was being ridiculous. A week later he’d messaged him that he had a callback appointment, that he was trying to follow through with getting help. 

Ilya had forced himself to only ask if the appointment had helped, the day after it was scheduled to happen. Hollander had told him no, but that he had another one already scheduled which Ilya figured wasn’t a no, but a maybe. 

The calls between them were infrequent, yes, but when compared with the radio silence that they’d both imposed on each other over the last year, it was almost overwhelming for Ilya to have so many words from Hollander in such a short amount of time. He felt like he’d skipped forward chapters in a book, that he’d glossed over the part where they tried to define what they were and now they were pretending that this was more. That this was something worth keeping, no matter the cost. 

It terrified him because what if Hollander got better and realized he had never wanted Ilya in the first place? That he was only sharing these parts of himself with him because Ilya had been close enough to hear him whisper the truth out loud for the first time. 

It was pathetic to worry that Hollander getting better would mean Ilya getting left behind because what kind of monster was scared of their - whatever he was - getting healthy again? He wanted him better, needed him to get better because the world was empty with Hollander hidden in his fortress. 

But still. Ilya worried that he wouldn’t be enough when Hollander saw him for who he was, past the decent ass and crass personality. He’d never been enough before, why would him being there for him change anything? 

Maybe Sveta was right about the other thing too. Maybe he should talk to someone about his own locked box and the way it settled in the pit of his stomach.

Maybe. He probably wouldn't though. 

The flight to Montreal is short and soon enough they're checking into the hotel and getting ready to head to the arena for the game. 

He's got his head in the game when they take the ice, heart beating and blood buzzing with the thrill of playing Hollander again after a run of better games. When he's finished his warmup routine, he finds Hollander already kneeling at center ice, stretching his hips. Ilya tries to play off the way he licks his lips at the sight of him - not the one covered in hockey gear, but the man beneath the uniform that he was desperate to get his hands on again. 

“Hollander,” Ilya greets, skating a little circle close enough to watch his response. 

“Hey Rozanov,” he replies but doesn't look up to meet Ilya's eyes. Ilya hates it but knows he can't drop to his knees and join him in the stretch for fear of it looking too cozy. 

“Happy to see you warming up properly. Will be a hard night for you.”

“Yeah, well, I've been training for it, you know,” Hollander replies and Ilya grins, surprised and pleased at what he hopes was a double entendre and not just Hollander being a boring competitor.

“Good, will make it more fun this time.”

The game is better than he could have hoped and when Montreal takes the win in a brief overtime, Ilya doesn't have it in him to be upset about the loss because seeing Hollander return to some semblance of himself was a good consolation prize. 

Hollander sends him a new address after the game and Ilya wonders where they could possibly be meeting if not at his hotel or the apartment they usually meet at. 

When the Uber drops him off at a high-rise, Ilya messages Hollander that he's outside, giving him a heads up that he was on his way in, as if the man needed a warning that Ilya was going to crowd his way into his space again. 

He wouldn't lie, he was nervous about tonight. His palms hadn't stopped sweating since his shower and he'd nearly chewed a hole through his lip by worrying it between his teeth. What if he did the wrong thing? If he somehow mixed up signals and made things worse? 

Last time he'd considered himself lucky that Hollander still talked to him after all of his clumsy decisions. He'd only realized after his deep dive into the resources he'd found online that he could have compounded the trauma that night, and the thought of that scared him. 

He was determined to do better with the second chance he’d been given, to listen between what Hollander said with his mouth and what he said with his body. To go back to the roots of this thing between them, when they both let their bodies speak better for them - or at least, Hollander’s had. Ilya had always been mouthy enough for them both.

The elevator ride to the apartment is quick and barely gives Ilya enough time to calm his nerves before the door is opening to a hallway with only two doors, both of them marked with “Hollander”. 

Ilya
Is a test? One door leads to death and the other to reward?

He messages, waiting before knocking on either. The door on the left quickly opens and Hollander tilts his head, standing in just his joggers as he beckons him in. Ilya follows, stepping into the space and taking in the sprawling city below, the giant windows reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Behind him, Hollander reaches for his shoulders and Ilya jumps, not expecting the touch. 

“Sorry, just - your coat, I can put it in the closet,” he offers, stepping back from Ilya with surprise. Ilya nods and slips it from his frame, handing it over and then moving further into the apartment. 

“This your place? Or do you own this building too?” Ilya asks after a beat, turning back to look at Hollander with a measuring gaze. He looked less haunted this time, though the black circles remained. 

“No - not, I mean, it’s my place. I, um, sold the other one. After Mexico. When I thought - nevermind. Yes, this is my place. My parents use the other apartment when they visit. They’re not here though, now, in case you - nevermind.” Ilya grins, recognizing the old Hollander peeking out from behind his walls which were, frustratingly, still there, but at least smaller this time. 

“Hmm, Mr. Real Estate is back. Very sexy. Will he help me invest in Canadian property?” The tease is so easy in a comforting, familiar way, and it makes his palms dry up for the first time that night. 

“Sure. How does Iqaluit sound? I heard it’s beautiful this time of year.” 

“No, I want property here. Downstairs. Like kept boy for you. Or WAG. Whichever.” 

As soon as he says it, he’s afraid it’s too much. Too close to what he would really want, if he could have it. Maybe in the next life. Dying and coming back to find Hollander again would be an okay reason to die, he figured, but now was not the time to dive into that conversation. 

“Interesting, I never thought you wanted to take orders,” Hollander quips in return, a smile curling at his lips. This one reaches his eyes and Ilya lets out a harsh breath of relief. 

“Funny. All good partners know power is not in the one giving the orders, but in the one who chooses to follow them.” 

“Have you been studying philosophy in your free time?” Hollander asks, finally taking a step closer from where he still hovered near the door. Ilya matches his move, incrementally closing the distance at Hollander’s pace.

“Uh no. But power dynamics, yes. Is helpful in real life.” 

He dares to take another step forward, just a tiny one, and Hollander’s careful resolve shatters as he takes the space between them almost at a sprint, crashing into Ilya’s chest and knocking him back a step on the impact. 

The kiss is bruising, all teeth and bone pressing together harshly as Hollander pushes his tongue into Ilya’s mouth. A bolt of desire rockets up Ilya’s spine and it mixes with the fear tucked at the back of his mind, swirling into a choked sound in his throat. He doesn’t reach for Hollander’s sides, instead he lifts a hand to cover the one pressed to his cheek, his fingers gently pulling it loose. 

“Woah, s’okay. We have time,” he says against Hollander’s lips, his wide eyes searching. 

“But I want you,” Hollander murmurs and if Ilya was a weaker man, he would have broken at that. But he’s not weak, not right now at least, and he won’t let them spin out of control like last time, he’s nothing if not a learning man when it comes to studying Shane Hollander. 

“I want you too. You don’t understand how much. But I am nervous,” Ilya admits, still not drawing back, his words cascading across Hollander’s cheek. “Can we talk first? About what you want?” 

“Don’t make me say it,” Hollander grumbles, pulling back and dropping his hands to his sides. His expression is guarded, the walls of his fortress firmly intact. “You never used to want these big conversations. Maybe that’s why this worked.” 

Ilya knew that his pushing back would cause a rupture if he wasn’t careful. And he also knew that he would have to push back on some things because Hollander was hurting, and not everything a wounded man said was true. Like accusing him of not talking, which maybe wasn't a lie, but it also wasn't fully true either, so he let it go.

In his mental preparation for coming here, he’d settled on needing two things before he would give in to the physical side of things. He needed Hollander to be clear with his boundaries and he needed him to know that Ilya would listen to those boundaries, would stay within them until his last breath on this earth. 

But this was harder than he expected it would be because he was asking Hollander for the exact opposite from what they’d built their situation around. He was asking for them both to take care with one another, care beyond their already agreed basic understanding to not hurt each other physically, but now mentally too. He was asking Hollander to pretend like what they had mattered, that it was worth protecting. 

Ilya thought it was. He wasn’t sure if Hollander agreed, but he thought maybe he did. So he just needed Hollander to slow down, just a beat. 

“Hollander,” Ilya breathes, fingers reaching and grazing the man’s wrist. He doesn’t grab it, but brushes the skin, itching for contact. “I know I need more from you now. But is different now too.” 

“I don’t want you to treat me differently!” The volume startles Ilya but he holds his ground, unwilling to be scared off by a raised voice. Ilya knew Hollander didn’t want to be treated with care, that he wanted to push through the pain like years of being a professional athlete had taught him was necessary, but Ilya wouldn’t do it. If that meant he treated Hollander differently for now, then he was okay with it. “I trust you not to hurt me. Why can’t you just - just - “ 

“Just what, Hollander? Tell me.” Hollander exhales forcefully, colour rising into his cheeks in a beautiful blush that makes Ilya swallow thickly. He wants to kiss the trail of pink, wants to see exactly where it starts on his frame. But he needs to wait.

“I want you on your knees,” he whispers and Ilya sinks down instantly, looking up at Hollander’s flushed skin and soft lips. 

“Okay.” Ilya looks up at him, the way his lips have parted in surprise. 

This was new territory for them both and it made his skin buzz with want. Typically Ilya was the one controlling the interaction, Hollander more than happy to comply in the past, but Ilya had thought that maybe part of the bridge back to who they were before would come from handing over the reins and giving back the power that had been stripped from him.

So he would try. He would try anything for this man and maybe that was a dangerous thought he didn’t want to explore too deeply. At least not now. 

“What else?” Ilya prods when a few seconds have passed. Hollander’s fingers grip the fabric of his pockets as though wanting to touch but afraid to reach. “You want my mouth? Hmm?” Hollander nods and Ilya licks his lips. “Tell me.” 

“Rozanov,” he whines, looking up to the ceiling.

“No, you have control here. Take it. Tell me what you want.” The truth of Ilya’s played hand seems to jar something in Hollander and he frowns, looking down at Ilya with a pained recognition. He understood what was happening now - not just the push for the words, but the handing over of power. 

Hollander doesn’t say a thing as he reaches out and runs his fingers through Ilya’s hair, curling around the back of his skull and tugging lightly on the strands at his nape. His other hand comes to Ilya’s cheek, softly, until his thumb is sliding across his lower lip and pulling it down. Ilya tilts his head forward slightly and takes the tip of Hollander’s thumb between his lips, a gentle kiss to his digit as his eyes drift upwards again. 

“Fuck,” Hollander hisses, crowding forward until his hips are in line with Ilya’s face. Ilya nuzzles into the fabric of his joggers, his hands finding Hollander’s ankles and drifting up the back of his calves slowly. 

“Hollander,” Ilya breathes, hot breath mixing with the fabric and the heat from his hardening length. 

“I want you to suck my dick. Please.” The words tumble from his mouth as his grip tightens in his hair and the hand on his cheek drops to cup his jaw. Ilya hums in agreement, mouthing at Hollander’s length and revelling in the hiss he hears from above. 

“Can I touch?” Ilya asks when the fabric becomes too frustrating, the damp patch from his spit and Hollander’s wet tip no longer appealing. 

“Yes,” Hollander sighs and Ilya yanks his joggers down, leaning forward to press his mouth around the head still hidden behind his briefs. Hollander ruts forward, his hand pressing to the back of Ilya’s skull to hold him in place, and the friction has him groaning. 

Ilya wants so much more, wants more sounds, more skin available to him, but he’s determined to be patient, to let Hollander take what he needs from his body. So when Hollander finally reaches down and drags Ilya’s hand to the waistband of his briefs, he takes the unspoken instruction and pulls them down to the floor. 

Hollander’s length immediately juts out, red and swollen and already leaking and it makes Ilya’s mouth water. He doesn’t hold back from what he knows they both want then - his mouth on Hollander’s cock, his tongue sliding across the vein that runs from root to tip. With the pull of Hollander’s grip in his hair, he follows the pace set for him, his own hands trying not to dig into the skin of Hollander’s thighs. 

If Ilya were in control, he’d be setting a faster rhythm because he knows that’s what Hollander likes best when he’s this far gone, but he promised himself he would play within the boundaries set. Still though, he watches as Hollander closes his eyes, as he curses under his breath and tries to stop his hips from fucking into his mouth. 

He takes the risk. 

“You will not hurt me, if you want more. Harder or deeper or faster, all of the above. I can take it,” Ilya says as he briefly pulls off, his thumbs pressing into Hollander’s hipbones, his hands migrating upwards. 

“You’re going to kill me,” Hollander replies breathlessly, his hips slowly rocking and spreading pre-cum across Ilya’s cheek. 

“No. Prefer you kill me. Better for me to not miss you.” 

Ilya wants to take it back, the truth of his words terrifyingly honest, but he can’t because they’re already past his lips. So he does the next safest thing and swallows Hollander’s cock into his throat, hoping that the words don’t even register with the distraction. 

Above him, there’s a keening noise and Hollander’s grip on his jaw grows tighter, his other hand holding his head more firmly in place. Ilya manages to swallow around his length and it causes Hollander to buck, his length hitting the back of Ilya’s throat. He does everything he can possibly think of to not choke, but it’s a near thing. 

“Fuck, Rozanov, look at you,” Hollander moans, nails scraping against his scalp as he starts to rock faster. Ilya hums a sound of encouragement and flicks his eyes up to meet Hollander’s hazy gaze, his fingers kneading into the muscles of his ass to spur him on. 

Ilya can tell he’s close by the way his pace has quickened, how he’s leaning forward and fucking into his mouth as though he’s lost in it and Ilya thinks good. He thinks at least he can give him this. And it isn’t enough but it’s enough for right now. Flicking his tongue around the cap of Hollander’s cock, Ilya breathes and presses forward until his nose is nearly touching Hollander’s skin. 

“I’m so - Roz, fuck, I’m going to - fuck,” Hollander continues rocking his hips but pulls his hands off like he’s afraid to hold on and that simply will not do. Ilya’s hand grabs Hollander’s wrist and brings his palm back to his chin, pressing it into his skin until Hollander realizes it’s permission, that Ilya wants him to hold him there, and it sends the man over the edge. 

Ilya can feel the pulse of Hollander’s cock on his tongue, the strands of cum coating his throat, and he swallows against the torrent, swallows back the saliva that flows at the taste of him on his tongue. His hums mix with Hollander’s moans and he locks his spine in place as Hollander’s weight presses down on him, the man’s knees going weak as the last echoes of his release reverberate through him. 

Pulling back slowly, Ilya licks a stroke up the underside of Hollander’s softening cock, his teeth grazing the edge before he leans in to press a kiss to his navel, his stomach. He presses his cheek to the skin there and looks up at Hollander’s wrecked expression, at the way his brow is furrowed so deeply it looks painful. 

“Hey,” Ilya whispers, breaking through the sound of ragged breaths as concern blossoms in his chest. He sees then the tears on Hollander’s cheeks and his skin goes cold. “Hollander, what’s wrong? Did I do something you didn’t want? Tell me. Please.” He locks his arms in place to keep from putting his hands somewhere that could make this worse. 

The words seem to pull Hollander from his thoughts and his eyes snap open, the hazy fog of his release still keeping his eyelids heavy but his gaze clear as he lowers to his knees and grabs Ilya’s face in his hands. “No - no. I’m - it’s - I’m relieved. I’m so fucking relieved that this isn't gone. That I still can have this.” 

And then Hollander is kissing him. Not the crush of faces that have been the hallmarks of their last few kisses, but a tender brush of lips that makes Ilya’s heart clench and his eyes burn. He lifts a tentative hand to Hollander’s cheek and he leans into it, his own hand lifting to hold Ilya there as he deepens the kiss. 

The panic subsides and Ilya wants to sob into the kiss, wants to let loose his own feelings of relief, but he won’t add it to the mess of emotions already flooding the room and instead he tucks is away in his box, locking the latch and letting himself get lost in the feel of Hollander so close. 

“Do you want me to…” Hollander murmurs against his lips, his hand sliding across the painful bulge in Ilya’s pants. Ilya laughs in response, nodding and pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. 

“God yes, but my knees are fucking numb,” he groans and Hollander jumps to his feet, pulling at Ilya’s arms until they’re chest to chest, wrapped up in one another. If Ilya hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed the way Hollander’s expression falters, tightens. But he is watching and so he lets go, puts an inch of space between them and waits. 

“Sorry,” Hollander says after a second, shaking his head as though to clear his mind before reaching for Ilya again. “I trust you. Can we try that again?” Ilya nods and lets Hollander pull him against himself, their bodies flush and eyes locked on one another like a game of chicken but with impossibly high stakes. 

“Is okay?” Ilya asks, hand rubbing slow circles against Hollander’s spine. He nods and then leans in to kiss Ilya’s brow, his thumb running along his jaw. 

“I think,” he starts, stops, clenches his jaw. “I want to do more. But I don’t think I am ready to be in a bed. Which I know is really fucking stupid and pathetic and just - “ 

“Is not those things,” Ilya cuts in, ducking to hold his gaze. “I’m glad you’re telling me. We don’t need bed, there is perfectly good couch. Or this chair. Or this floor is nice - what is it, bamboo? How did you get bamboo flooring in Montreal?” Hollander snorts, nodding his head and pressing another kiss to Ilya’s cheek, almost like a reward for him breaking the tension again. Ilya could get used to this reward system, if he was not careful. 

“Okay. Get on the couch, then.” Ilya doesn’t need to be told twice, taking Hollander’s hand in his own as he moves towards the corner and slides down into it, tossing his shirt off to the side as he goes. Hollander follows but settles a foot away, his hand running through his hair three times before Ilya reaches out to steady it. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says softly, his thumb pressing into the pulsepoint of his wrist. Hollander mutters something Ilya doesn’t understand before nodding and turning fully towards him. The next thing Ilya knows is that Hollander’s hand is on his hard cock and his body is kneeling over his extended legs in what has to be an uncomfortable angle, the tension of his spine evident. Ilya reaches down and covers Hollander’s hand in his lap, stilling his movements. “What did you say? Just now?” 

“Nothing,” he replies, reaching for Ilya’s waistband before being stopped again. 

“Really?” 

“Really,” he snaps and Ilya is not having any of this. Not after the success they’d had moments ago. He wasn’t going to let them go backwards now. 

“Okay. Stop then. Let me up,” Ilya says, gently moving Hollander’s hands from his lap and shifting his legs onto the floor. Hollander barely reacts, looking up at Ilya with a puzzled brow and mouth agape. 

“Where are you going?” He asks as Ilya stands from the couch and begins to walk back towards the kitchen. 

“We’re done with this for tonight. You don’t want to tell me what’s in your head, okay, but I don’t want to risk making mistake. Is too important, so we stop.” 

“But I want to do this for you!” Hollander urges, coming up behind him and grabbing his arm to turn him around. 

“This is problem for me. I want you to do things for you. Not for me.” He tries to keep his voice level and his meaning clear, but still Hollander’s face falls, his eyes betraying the thoughts swirling in his head. 

“Fine then. I'll tell you. I was telling myself it would be worth it, okay? That the anxiety I have is just anxiety and that making you feel good will be worth pushing through it. I want to do this. I want to watch you come and know that I did that to you. That I can still make someone come without it being a bad thing. And I didn’t tell you because that is a fucking boner killer and I wanted to be brave. For you,” he adds pointedly, giving Ilya a look. 

Ilya hates this look.

“Anxiety for something like this is warning lights,” Ilya counters softly, reaching for Hollander's face to keep their gazes locked. He needs to be sure he's paying attention because it's getting late and this is so many words and maybe they aren't the right ones but he's trying. “You have already been very brave for me tonight. You opened the door and let me in. You let me touch you and suck you off and it was good, no? We don't need to do everything tonight. Not if you're not ready. We can have other times.”

“Rozanov, I appreciate you trying to protect me, but I'm a grown adult who can make my own decisions and right now, all I fucking want is to help you get off. Why are you so afraid to let me try?” Ilya lets the question sit between them for a moment, turning it over and checking its sides for hidden meanings but finds none as Hollander continues. “I want to do this. I'm nervous, but I still want it. Let me try. Please.” 

That last word sticks in Ilya's brain, clogging up the processing of his thoughts and reverting him back to his basic functions. He'd always loved when Hollander asked so nicely for what he wanted, the word please on his lips always so perfect that it could tear down his resolve. And it worked, again. 

“Okay,” Ilya replies and Hollander is on him like a dog let off leash, rushing forward to crowd into him and push him against the counter. It reminds him of before, of the eager way he used to crash into his hotel room, the privacy like a switch for releasing his desperation to be touched, to be fucked, by another man. The eagerness was back and it made something bloom in Ilya's chest, warmth and want spreading out to his limbs as Hollander's hands pull at his pants and he's pushed back and up until he's somehow sitting bare ass on the counter.

Hollander would normally find this disgusting, but Ilya knew that he would freak out about it only after he got what he wanted. Which at this moment was clearly his mouth around Ilya's dick. 

It doesn't take Ilya long to grow hard again under Hollander's exploring licks, the soft breaths stinging a path up the wet marks that he leaves behind. Ilya wants so badly to grab a fistful of his hair and pull, to direct the movements to get relief, but he forces himself not to and keeps his hands pressed into the cool marble below him. 

When Hollander's lips finally wrap around his tip, he can't stop the pathetic whine that comes from his throat, his hips shifting up just an inch. Hollander groans and presses his palm to his hipbone, forcing him to stay still. 

“Let me,” he breathes without looking up, thumb digging into Ilya’s skin until the pinch of light pain settles him. 

Fingers graze his balls before sliding up to his base, circling there and tightening the grip in the way Ilya always likes. The bite of Hollander’s fist around him feels glorious, his tongue dragging across the tip and making him exhale a shaking breath. 

Thoughts of the first time he’d done this, at the way he’d dove in head first even though he had no idea what he was doing, flood Ilya’s mind. Hollander had been so desperate that first time, had sunk to his knees so easily and it had endeared Ilya beyond belief. To have Shane fucking Hollander get on his knees for him had made him too quick, had pulled him back again and again into this bad idea that now he couldn’t imagine wanting to ever escape. 

With hair brushing his stomach and Hollander’s mouth moving so slowly that it was going to kill him, Ilya releases a harsh breath and tries to shift again, failing with the man’s anchoring hand holding him in place. 

“Hollander, please,” he murmurs desperately and he thinks maybe it’s the first time he’s wanted to beg. He’s given over the power so determinedly that he has no other options but to cave in. He thinks of every time he’s drawn this word from Hollander’s mouth, the thrill it had always given him, and he knows in the way the moan riddles through his length that it must work for Hollander too because his efforts double, the pressure increases, and he can feel the heat pooling at the base of his spine. 

Hollander’s mouth tightens with an almost painful sucking motion as he sinks down, the tip of Ilya’s cock brushing the slick skin of his throat before he’s eased back out. Ilya wants to buck up into his heat, wants to hold him there and fuck into his mouth, but he won’t. He won’t. 

Fuck it, his brain whispers, just try, push the boundary just a bit. 

Ilya knows it’s the devil speaking and yet still, his self-control wavers and he lifts a hand from the counter to softly graze Hollander’s cheek. It causes the man to look up at him, pretty lips wrapped around his length, dark eyes alight with desire and something akin to pride. 

“So good for me,” Ilya says, fingers drifting into Hollander’s hair, all exploration, no pressure. Hollander makes a whining sound and grabs Ilya’s wrist, pulling it back down to the counter and holding it there as he continues to move up his length in a painfully slow pace that drives Ilya insane. 

He feels like they’re playing a game of edging, that Hollander is purposely bringing him to the brink and then backing off. His thoughts are confirmed when he gets so close that his hand curls into a fist against the counter and Hollander pulls off, wrapping his fingers around his base tightly and holding it off. 

“I want,” Hollander says lowly, unfinished as Ilya strains to hear. 

“Anything. I’ll give you anything,” Ilya replies and it still sounds so needy that he’d be embarrassed if this was anyone else. 

“I want to try more. Please. Trust me like I trust you?” 

Ilya knows it’s the lust making them stupid. He knows this. But he is weak and he wants things he can’t have and Hollander’s eyes are begging and maybe he knows himself and it will be okay and they can jump over all of the steps the internet told him were useful in recovery. 

“Tell me what to do.” 

“Wait here,” Hollander instructs and disappears down the hallway before returning with lube and a condom, face flushed. “Just - in case.” Ilya nods, a current of nerves rippling in his veins. Ilya wasn’t sure he was ready, if he was being honest with himself. But he wasn’t because Hollander was standing there, so beautiful in the low light, asking him to trust him too. “Can you help open me up?” 

Ilya slides down from the counter and leans in to take Hollander’s mouth, the kiss gentle and seeking, his knuckles sliding across his cheek. He waits for Hollander to return the kiss, to lean into him, and only then does he let his hand drift down his shoulder, his arm, until it rests at the top of his ass. 

Pressing his fingers into the muscle there, Ilya keeps his mouth moving slowly, his tongue exploring as Hollander’s hands come to grip his sides. His palm slides across skin, each circle drifting lower until he cups his ass and squeezes gently. Hollander breathes out forcefully through his nose and drops a hand to Ilya’s length between them, not breaking the kiss. 

He slides his knuckles along skin, dipping between his cheeks, before he pulls back to take a breath. “Is okay?” He asks to Hollander’s returning brisk nod. When Hollander takes both of their cocks in his hand, Ilya nearly forgets his name, the sweet friction made slicker by Hollander’s leaking tip. 

Ilya grabs for the bottle of lube as Hollander works his hand back and forth, pulling soft curses from his lips as he slicks up their fingers. 

It’s not a great angle, he is barely able to reach, but maybe it’s better that he can see Hollander’s face as his fingers press against his hole, massaging the skin there slowly. The hand around their dicks squeezes almost painfully in surprise as Ilya presses in the tip of his finger, pulling it back out again just as quickly. The grip releases and he tries again, this time Hollander’s hand doesn’t squeeze but holds steady in its slow slide. 

“Okay?” Ilya whispers, his knuckle through the ring of muscle that stays so tight against him that Ilya is certain he wouldn’t be able to get a second finger in if he tried. Hollander nods but Ilya knows it’s a lie, and so he dips down to kiss him into distraction. His resulting exhale is forced from his chest, a centering breath that Ilya recognizes as the one Hollander always uses before a dropped puck. 

He makes a note of it and keeps his movements slow, just one finger for now, matching the movements of Hollander's hand. When he finds his prostate, Hollander makes a pained noise and breaks off their kiss, pulling back until Ilya's finger is no longer inside of him. Ilya doesn't have time to catch his eyes before Hollander sinks to his knees and takes Ilya's cock back into his mouth. 

If he hadn't already been so close, he would have done something more about that reaction, he'd have tried to soothe out the edges of it, soften the instinct to pull away. But he was weak and he was so close and Hollander's mouth was on him, sucking him back and he was lost. 

“Hollander, off - I'm going to - “ he tries, pressing against his shoulder to warn him back because Hollander wasn't always as enthusiastic as him about letting him finish in his mouth. But Hollander grabs his pushing hand and presses it to his hair, sucking him down until his release floods out of him and into Hollander's mouth. 

His cock twitches on his tongue, balls emptying completely as he has to lock his knees, one hand grabbing the counter for balance as he watches Hollander's other hand jerk at his own length, his cum painting Ilya's leg and the bamboo flooring a few seconds later. 

Ilya thinks back to the last time they were standing like this, under very different circumstances, and he has to shove away the memory for fear of it tarnishing this moment. This was good. They'd both managed, they both seemed alright. 

He sinks down to the floor and leans his back against the counter, arms open in invitation. Hollander nods and eases up against him, letting Ilya's arm settle over his shoulders.

“Okay?” He asks as their breathing slows, fingers linking with Hollander's hand in his lap. 

“More than okay,” Hollander murmurs and shifts up to press a soft kiss to the corner of Ilya's mouth. “Thank you for trying.” 

He tries not to think about the way Hollander's smile doesn't reach his eyes, or about how he still keeps a distance between them despite what they've just done. Instead he focuses on the feel of the man in his arms and how much more he wants, not just physically, not anymore, but from the rest of it. He wants to know what's going through his head, was he okay with what Ilya had done? Was he ever going to be okay with more? And why did he look so sad still, like he'd been defeated in a battle Ilya hadn't known they were waging?

Ilya had so many thoughts, but it was late, and he never spent the night even when his flight was later in the day, and so he enjoyed the moment for as long as he could before inevitably Hollander shifted and started to wordlessly get to his feet. The distance was returning and Ilya opened the box inside of himself and put any feelings he had about the distance firmly inside, closing it with a snap. 

“When do you fly out?” Hollander asks as he stands, reaching for Ilya's hand to help him from the floor. 

“Two, team coordinator thought it would be funny to do team brunch at place downtown,” Ilya replies as he heads towards the kitchen to grab a wash cloth. Hollander realizes what he's doing and makes a sound of distress, causing Ilya to stop dampening the cloth and look towards him. “What? I clean up,” he says, motioning towards where they'd just been. 

“I have disposable wipes. One sec.” He grabs a yellow packet from a cupboard and pulls out a wipe. Ilya thinks it’s ridiculous but so perfectly Hollander that he can’t hide the smile that spreads across his face.

“This is not for cleaning?” Ilya teases, setting down the cloth and moving to take the wipe from Hollander’s hand, brow raised expectantly. 

“That's for dishes. You really think I want to wipe off my dishes with a cum rag?” 

“No, but you have laundry though, yes?” Ilya chides as he absently works the wipe across where his ass had been before dropping to clean the cum from the flooring. “There. All clean and…” He stands and takes the package, looking at the label. “Disinfected. Wow, you think I need disinfection. Or is it you? Should I be worried about your cum in my stomach?” After tossing away the wipe, he presses his body against Hollander’s and runs a finger over his brow to soften out the crease there. 

“Don’t joke about that,” Hollander says brusquely, turning out of his embrace and moving to put the package of wipes back in the cupboard. He stays turned away, busying himself in the kitchen as Ilya watches him carefully. Confusion twists inside of him, knowing he’s crossed the line, but unsure exactly where the line had been. 

He turns the situation over in his mind as he picks up his briefs and pulls them back on, reaching then for his discarded clothing and holding it lamely in his hands as Hollander finally turns around to face him. 

“You’re leaving?” He asks, leaning on the counter. Ilya can read the surprise in his expression, the hint of it in his brows. Why was he surprised? They always left each other after - that was what kept the balance of things. 

“I mean, yes. Is not what you want?” Ilya counters, forcing himself to keep his face expressionless because he was afraid that if he let his face do what it wanted, Hollander would know how he felt. 

“I thought - on the phone - but it’s okay, I, um, get it,” Hollander murmurs and looks down at his hands. 

“Hollander,” Ilya says, setting down his clothes onto the counter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about with this phone you mention.” 

“When we talked about you coming over, I asked if you would stay and you said yes. But it’s okay. I get it. I wouldn’t want to stay with me either, it’s - it’s a lot. I understand.” 

Ilya feels a part of him shatter at the defeated tone in his voice and he hates that he’s caused it. “I didn’t hear this part. Marly was - I don’t want to leave. I thought this is what you want, like always.” 

“I don’t want you to leave. I’d like you to stay, if you’re not disgusted with me,” he adds and turns his head to look out the window, shoulders still hunched. Ilya crosses the room in long steps and crowds into his space, hands coming up to cup his jaw and turn him to meet his gaze. 

“What is all of this disgust? Why would I find you disgusting?” Ilya asks, voice low. His eyes search Hollander’s, the warm brown swimming and making Ilya’s chest ache with the worry of where this concern was coming from. 

“Just - the disinfectant thing,” he mumbles and takes a shaking breath. “Please forget it, I don’t want to tell you.” 

“Okay,” Ilya says in reply, even though he wanted very much to press. He wanted so badly to take the weight of whatever was making Hollander look like this after what had otherwise been a good night. “You tell me when ready. Or never. Is okay.” 

“You aren’t leaving? Even if I don’t tell you?” 

“I said I wanted to stay, if okay with you,” Ilya replies gently and lets his fingers slide down to Hollander’s chest. He feels the rattling breath the man releases and tries to match it, his own breathing having gone tight. 

“Yes. Good,” he adds and Ilya thinks it’s the least convincing ‘good’ he’s ever heard. 

“We shower then? Maybe eat on couch? Get crumbs everywhere before you pass out in my arms?” Hollander nods, a small smile returning to his lips as he leads them towards the bathroom. 

They shower slowly, hands careful with one another as they wash the sweat and remnants of the day from their skin. Wrapped in a towel, Ilya follows Hollander into his room and revels in getting another piece of this man, his eyes bouncing through the space and taking in every small thing. The mountain of pillows and matching lamps, the sensible dark wood furniture, the blackout curtains. 

“You think you have enough pillows?” He chides playfully and makes a small oof as Hollander throws him a long sleeve and pair of shorts to sleep in, his blood thrumming with the thought of wearing Hollander’s clothes, of being wrapped in Hollander’s scent for the next ten hours. It was thrilling. Maybe torturous. But he would savour every second of it. 

“I hired someone. They wanted to create depth or something,” Hollander says as he pulls on a hoodie and a pair of sleep pants. “Come on. I have snacks.” 

Hollander’s version of snacks makes Ilya realize he may actually be too boring to be real. “Celery sticks and peanut butter is not a snack, Hollander.” 

“Excuse you, it is the best late night snack. We put these on it too,” he adds and tosses a container of chocolate chips towards Ilya. Ilya could accept the chocolate, but the rest - he was skeptical. 

He’s proven wrong thirty minutes later as he lazes back on the couch, a full belly and the contentment of having Hollander sitting so close that he could lean into him if he was being bold. He told himself he wouldn’t be, that they’d already done so much work to push the boundaries today, but he also told himself that he hated that he called it work. As though Hollander was a project he was ‘working’ on and not someone who was hurting, a friend or… whatever, in need. 

Sveta’s words return to him and he sighs, deciding he’d rather be bold, and reaching for Hollander’s shoulder to pull him back and against his chest. He comes willingly, though his body is too tense to be in any comfortable position. Ilya doesn’t push on this though, simply deciding to press a kiss to his hair and turn down the volume on the west coast game they were watching. 

The quiet of the apartment wraps around them like a blanket, the low familiar sounds of the game a comfort as slowly Hollander's frame begins to ease against him.

“I had chlamydia,” Hollander says later, softly, as Ilya’s hand moves in slow circles along his arm. Ilya doesn’t stop his movements. 

But inside he breaks and his little box isn’t nearly big enough to shove this feeling into, even if he tried.

His feelings aren’t because any part of him fears for himself, he knows Hollander would never be so irresponsible to put him at risk. But because he understands now. The disinfectant, the disgust. He'd been such an asshole.

“Okay,” he murmurs, worried that if he said anything else, Hollander would hear the river of feeling that was overflowing inside of him, the concern and the pain and the desperate wanting to take back his earlier comment and turn back time and make all of it okay again. 

“I obviously - I had it treated. I’ve been tested and it’s gone, just so you know. I don’t have it anymore or anything.” Hollander’s voice is so soft that Ilya barely hears it, but he feels the tears drip onto the bare skin exposed by his shirt, each drop burning into him. 

“I didn’t doubt this,” Ilya assures, his lips brushing against Hollander’s hair. 

“It - it was from him. I didn’t get it from anyone else. I’ve always been safe. Or I’ve - I tried.” 

“I know.” 

“You’re not disgusted?” His voice is so broken that Ilya almost can’t bear it. Shane Hollander, the golden boy of Canada and the best player, the best man he knew, was afraid that Ilya would judge him. 

“It was not your fault,” he says simply, hand squeezing his shoulder as he ducks his head to press a kiss to Hollander’s brow, other hand soft in its attempt to tilt his head up so Ilya can reach his cheek, his lips. “You are not disgusting. You are not dirty. You are beautiful and brave and strong and kind. None of this changes because of what happened. None of it.” 

Hollander’s face crumbles, the fortress cracking up its sides as he tucks his head into Ilya’s neck, the tears coming in full force now as Ilya rubs soothing circles across his back.

Inside, Ilya is screaming, his own eyes stinging as he sniffs and clings to an expression that keeps the truth hidden. That he wanted to book a red eye flight to Mexico and search every house until he found the man responsible. That he wanted to burn the man at the stake. That he wanted to touch Hollander until every memory was overwritten with his skin instead. 

Instead he sits there, holding Hollander as he cries, and doing his best to keep himself stitched together, at least until he can be alone and process the fact that the hurt Hollander was feeling was killing him too. He was so fucked over this man, he didn’t know what to do about it and his box was already so full, how could he possibly fit in anything else? 

He isn’t sure what time he wakes to Hollander climbing from his lap, his hand coming to pull Ilya to his feet. Following mindlessly, he doesn’t question when he’s guided down onto the bed, Hollander crawling in on the other side before turning off the light. 

When he wakes again, it’s to Hollander’s groans, the low light of the unfamiliar room making Ilya tense up on instinct as he tries to piece everything together again. But then he sees it, the distressed look on Hollander’s sleeping face, his body rigid as he lays on his stomach, face twisted to the side in a way that looks painful. 

“Hollander, is just a dream,” Ilya murmurs, reaching for his shoulder and it is wrong. He knows it instantly because the flinch of Hollander’s body makes Ilya want to turn on every light and chase away the darkness that ever once curled around them. 

“Stop, please,” Hollander whines, his breathing coming in hot pants that drag bruising grunts from his throat. Ilya sits up and reaches for the lamp, turning it on and hesitating as he tries to think of what to do. 

It was clearly a nightmare, but how far into it Hollander was, Ilya didn’t know. He couldn’t remember whether you were supposed to wake people up from nightmares, or if that made it worse? Or was that sleepwalking? Or what his doctor had said about his father’s dementia? He couldn’t remember and he had no idea what to do and the clawing panic in his throat was going to take him soon if he couldn’t make those noises stop and release Hollander from the nightmare’s clutch. 

All he could do was realize that sitting there and watching this - watching Hollander have to relive that moment - was not an option. 

“Hollander - wake up,” Ilya urges, softly brushing the skin of his cheek. When he doesn’t break from the dream, Ilya taps his cheek, then does it a little harder. 

“Please,” Hollander cries and Ilya can’t and so he grabs the waterglass at his bedside and tips some of it over Hollander’s forehead, hoping and praying that the new feeling will be enough to pull him from this hell. 

It is, but at a cost. Hollander wakes, eyes wide as he looks around him, realizes how he’s laying and scrambles up and off the bed. His hand swipes fitfully at the water on his skin and, wildeyed, his gaze flickers through the room from object to object until it lands on Ilya. 

“What - “ he starts, frowns, swallows. He takes a breath and the fortress walls receive more bricks thrown onto them haphazardly. “I’m sorry.” 

He was sorry? Ilya would laugh if his lungs weren’t starved for air. 

“No need. Do you want to come back to bed?” Ilya says, voice cool even though things were very much not. Hollander shakes his head and rests his hands on his hips, trying, desperately, to reclaim some of the semblance of calm that was impossible in that moment. “Okay. What do you usually do after?” 

“After what?” Hollander snaps, his jaw clenching as his eyes apologize for him. 

“Your nightmares. You said you don’t sleep. So what do you do? We will do that,” Ilya proposes and Hollander laughs, a tense bark, his body still tight with the echoes of his nightmare. 

“It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Go back to sleep. I’m going to go to the couch and watch some TV.” 

“Hollander,” Ilya says lowly, his gaze scraping over every inch as though trying to calm him through sight alone. 

“It was just a dream. It happens all the time. You have a flight tomorrow, you need your rest - “ 

“You think I can sleep after seeing this?” Ilya cuts in, the late hour and his tired mind making him foolish with words. He didn’t know how to say that it wasn’t just the seeing, but the understanding itself that was destroying him. Watching Hollander struggle, Ilya felt like he could picture the whole event as it had happened, as though he’d been in the room, and he didn’t know what to do with that. Surely he couldn’t just roll over, go back to sleep and pretend like everything was okay.

“Can’t be worse than reliving it,” Hollander snaps and Ilya tries not to let it feel like a slap. 

“No, it can’t,” Ilya admits quietly, hurt and worry clouding his voice. “But I can’t let you carry this on your own. I am here tonight. Let me hold it for you. Let me be with you while you sit on the couch and watch TV because there are many nights where I can’t be and that is too - you have me, Hollander. I'm right here.” 

Hollander’s shoulders collapse and his frame curves in on itself, arms coming to wrap around his torso and hold himself together. Ilya watches him for what seems like forever, before he nods.

They settle on the couch, feet touching under the shared blanket and TSN on the TV. Neither of them sleep. 

At some point Ilya rises and makes them breakfast, the morning light once again bringing them back to the world of the living. He remembered something he’d read online, that post-trauma responses could sometimes feel like a hangover, the event sapping the person’s energy and leaving them adrift. He hadn’t wanted the website to be true, but he could see it now in every move Hollander made, every exhausted smile he tried to give as Ilya dished him out his omelette. So Ilya tried to care for him, as best he could.

As Ilya readies to leave, he realizes that it doesn’t feel right but at least it doesn’t feel as painful as it had before in the dark. Hollander had spent the morning after breakfast trying to fill the space with the inane, his need to make things feel normal almost convincing even Ilya that maybe the night before had been a dream. 

But when he does turn to say goodbye, the hug they share lasts too long, their bodies crushing too tightly together and their kiss is far too pained. 

Ilya knows as he rides the elevator down to the ground level that he doesn’t want to leave. That it will kill him to walk out of these doors and into an Uber like he wasn’t leaving part of himself behind in that apartment. 

He calls Hollander from the lobby and the wet sound of Hollander’s voice tells Ilya more than any words ever could. 

“See you in a few weeks, okay?” Ilya murmurs, looking up at where Hollander’s window must be. “Promise me?”

“I promise. Call me when you land.” 

And he does. And it hurts a little bit less to hear his voice smoother. To hear him laugh and make a joke. And when Hollander tells him that it was still a good night having him there, he almost believes it.

Chapter End Notes

Look, I know I said things would get better - and they will! - but just not yet. Recovery isn't linear, it's a messy hodgepodge of mixed memories and chaos pretending it's orderly. I know writing this won't fix my own traumas, but I think maybe the catharsis is worth it. I hope any of you out there find maybe a little comfort as we work through the hurt. <3

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

The All Star game was in fucking Ohio and Ilya absolutely did not want to be in Ohio in January. It wasn't so much that it was cold, he was Russian after all and minus ten was barely chilly, but it was Ohio, what was there to even fucking do there in the winter? 

The only thing that made it somewhat worth it was that Hollander was going to be there too, if his delayed flight ever managed to find the runway and land. Ilya was definitely not watching the flight tracker in his hotel room while he debated whether to go out or not. 

He decided to split the difference and head down to the hotel bar, hoping maybe he'd run into someone who could make the waiting less boring. At least until his favourite brand of boring arrived. 

The last few weeks had been weird. Not in a bad way, but in a ‘what the hell was happening’ type of way. He'd left Montreal with his team and a scolding from his team coordinator who was upset he hadn’t bothered to show up to brunch. Ilya had waggled his brows and pretended his night was a blissful romp that he couldn’t possibly have missed. 

Which, it had been, kind of. Not really. He wouldn’t take it back, not a single second, but maybe it wasn’t blissful. 

Who was he kidding? It had been one of the hardest nights of his life, second only to the batch of nights that were tinged with shouting and crying and his father telling him to tell everyone it was an accident. But those nights had been inescapable - he’d been twelve, he had nowhere else to go. That night with Hollander though? He’d chosen to stay. He’d chosen to stay over and over, every time he thought it was getting too hard, he could have left. They weren’t anything to each other, not really. 

But he’d stayed because he was stupid. And because maybe there was something there. Even if there couldn’t be. 

He needed to stop. This line of thinking wasn’t helping him keep up the pretending that he wasn’t falling for someone he could never have. 

Sitting down at the bar, he orders himself a vodka and glances around the space. It was decorated minimally, more a lobby waiting spot with alcohol rather than a full bar, but it served its purpose, Ilya figured, as he sipped his drink and watched the people stream through the hotel entryway. 

Marleau was the first to catch his eye, checking in at the desk before coming over to drop his bag at Ilya’s feet and hug him like they hadn’t been five feet from each other not 24 hours ago. 

“Already drinking? Was it a rough flight?” He asks as he settles onto the stool next to Ilya. 

“Was fine, just thought I’d come watch the people,” he replies with a shrug. Marleau orders a beer and turns around to join him and together they watch, making up stories about the other guests, commenting on the way some rush and others look lost just trying to find the elevators. 

When Hollander steps into the lobby, Ilya tries to maintain the facade when all he wants is to go to his side, to touch his cheek and kiss him. But he absolutely cannot do that. 

“Ah here’s the man of the match,” Marleau crows, clapping Ilya on the shoulder. He catches Ilya’s expression and shakes his head, looking back at Hollander. “It’s just a friendly match, Rozy, no need to let him get to you.” 

Ilya wishes he could have listened to that advice months ago, but now he was far too gone. “He’s not. I’m just sizing him up. Will be easier to beat all his records in the competition tomorrow.” 

“Fucking cruel.” Marleau laughs. “Can’t even let the guy catch a break at a friendly.” 

“Is rivalry. Is what the audience wants, no?” Ilya asks, taking another sip of his drink as Hollander thanks the desk agent and turns to scan the lobby for the elevator. The spark that lights in his chest when Hollander catches his gaze and raises a hand in greeting makes Ilya feel pathetic. 

This was getting out of control. 

They’d had a few more phone calls since the last game. Had been messaging semi-regularly. He’d picked up more pieces of Hollander than he had in the last few years altogether. And now he was spoiled for it, greedy for more. But he couldn’t have more. 

“Hollander,” Marleau greets and reaches out a hand, startling Ilya back to the present and the dumb look on his face as Hollander stands before him. “Good to see you. How’ve you been? Was a rough start to the season but you guys have held on.” 

“Yeah, not my best opener. The exhibition match against you guys was probably the worst I’ve played since I was ten.” 

“Hey, you said it not me,” Marleau replies and then they’re both looking at Ilya, expectant. 

Which was normal because usually he was the one filling the air with his sarcasm, his boisterousness that he used as part of his public persona, but in that exact moment he could barely make his throat work because all he wanted was to curl himself around Hollander for the next seven years. 

“Hey Rozanov, good to see you too,” Hollander says jokingly, rolling his eyes and shifting on his feet as though Ilya was just being a dick. 

“Hollander, ready to get crushed by our handpicked All Stars?” It is the lamest thing he’s ever said in his entire fucking life. Was boring contagious? Because maybe Hollander was rubbing off on him. 

“Not a chance. Look, I need to go find 1413, the desk agent warned me it's in some abyss in the corner. I think she was trying to be cute, but…” He adds with a shrug and shakes Marleau’s hand again before extending it towards Ilya. Ilya takes it, squeezing it twice before watching as he walks away. 

His mouth is dry at the fit of his jeans on his ass and Ilya groans internally. He was definitely fucked. 

They finish their drinks as other team members arrive, joining them at the counter and turning the session into a gathering that has the hotel manager asking them to kindly move further into the bar if they were going to keep this up. Hollander never returns to the lobby, but Ilya receives two texts from him that he watches flash across his phone. 

Jane
1413 but this room is right next to Drapeau - maybe not here?
I’m meeting the team for dinner later but maybe I’ll see you after the competition

Ilya smiles to himself, settling in for the evening and enjoying the company and the thrill of knowing he was going to get time with Hollander the next day. 

The competition is fun, sure, but it’s the way Hollander circles him throughout the event that makes the afternoon float by in a haze. Every time he looks up, there he is, skating by or doing something impressive or Christ, staring at him. He knows he’s behaving the same, he even tries his best to hide it, but he knows for certain that he’s failing because even his teammates notice it. They think it’s part of the rivalry, thankfully, but still. 

Afterwards, as he returns to his room, Ilya feels almost childishly giddy with excitement. He’ll have Hollander all to himself for the whole night and it would probably be a good night. The competition had been fun, the mood was high, and every conversation they’d had before this weekend had been better than the last. He tried not to hope, but a small part of him thought that maybe things were better for Hollander, that maybe he was over the hump of challenges and they could ease back into normality again. If he was ready. And if not? Well, he was determined to still make it fun. 

Ilya
1510 - see you in an hour?

Jane
maybe sooner. showering first

Ilya
Nooo do that here. Don’t rob me of seeing you

Jane
Okay, can I come now? 

Ilya
Please

The knock on his hotel door comes ten minutes later and he opens it to let Hollander slide in, the man holding a bag at his side and standing awkwardly at the door like it was their first time all over again. 

“Hi,” Ilya says after looking him over, his palms itching to reach for him. 

“Hi - can I..?” He motions towards Ilya and Ilya closes the distance without answering, easing himself in for a kiss. His hands cup Hollander’s face, all gentle despite the way he wants to grab and tug until their bodies are practically fused together. 

The kiss is slow, seeking, until Hollander is backing Ilya against the wall and angling his mouth to slide his tongue further in. Ilya groans and tugs lightly on Hollander’s hair, spurring him on as he presses his whole frame against him. 

It’s different, letting himself be the one pressed into the wall, his body wanting so badly to be the one initiating things, but he accepts the change in role because he knows it’s what Hollander needs. At least for now. And it’s still good - he thinks, letting himself be devoured. 

Hollander’s hands slide under his shirt and Ilya takes a chance, drifting his hand down to grip his belt loops, fingers tugging at the fabric and pulling him closer until he can feel the bulge in his jeans against his thigh. 

“Already so hard, Hollander,” Ilya whispers between kisses, his teeth nipping the man’s lip. 

“Been too long. Thinking of this,” he replies breathily, voice raw. Ilya hums and lets his hand slide down to grab his ass through his jeans, pulling them flush together until there was absolutely no space between them. 

“Me too, can’t you feel it?” He says gruffly, rolling his hips against Hollander to show just how much he wanted him. 

“Fuck, Roz, how do you do this to me?” Hollander whispers and moves to bite his shoulder, rough hands pressing against his skin and nails running through the hair of his abdomen. It feels so good that Ilya huffs out a breath, his body singing with the contact. 

He shifts them then, his movements slow as he eases Hollander to the side until their shoulders are pressed to the wall, the distraction of his kisses doing God’s work. In another minute he’s got Hollander where he wants him, back to the wall, legs bracketing Ilya’s and hips rocking towards him. 

“S’okay like this?” Ilya asks as he traces his mouth across Hollander’s chest, seeking out every inch of exposed skin. 

“Mmm, yes, I think - it’s fine,” Hollander replies and Ilya slows his movements slightly, easing his frame back an inch to give him a second to catch up. When Hollander pulls him back into his embrace, it’s the signal he needs to return his attention to biting and nipping and laving with his tongue. 

“Can I pick you up?” Ilya asks after another minute, pressing his luck. He wanted Hollander against the wall, wanted his body to be holding him there, but he knew it might be too much control for Ilya to take. But still - he wanted. 

“I don’t know, can you?” Hollander counters, a playful lilt in his voice, the gauntlet thrown at Ilya’s feet. He moves to grab his ass, lifting him up easily as Hollander’s legs come to wrap around his hips. “Trying to impress me, Rozanov?” 

“I am very impressive,” Ilya says with a wicked smile. “Wait until you see what I can do later.” 

“Better not disappoint.” And Ilya laughs because it’s a challenge, and it’s fun, and the mood is so different than it has been these last few times and he’s excited to see what boundaries they set for the hours ahead, because they did have hours - so many of them before they were needed on the rink tomorrow. He would savour each one. 

He holds Hollander against the wall with his body, hands brushing over his skin as his mouth busies itself by turning him breathless. His hips rock pointedly into where he can feel Hollander’s length, the friction driving him as he tries to push further into his body despite the clothing that keeps them separated. 

When eventually it’s too much and he can’t stand it anymore, he sets Hollander back down and yanks at the fastenings of his jeans until he’s hot and heavy in his hand. Ilya drops wordlessly to his knees and takes Hollander into his mouth, his thumbs pressing into his hipbones to hold him still. 

Above him, Hollander curses and runs his hand into Ilya’s hair, tugging at the curls and making a groan erupt from his throat. 

“Love seeing you on your knees,” he whispers and Ilya could get used to this praise, his left hand sliding up Hollander’s side to grab at his chin. His fingers slide across Hollander’s lips and then he does what he’s done so many times before, he slides his thumb into his mouth, exploring the touch. 

But Hollander pushes his hand away and when Ilya glances up, the look on his face is one of a man in battle. 

“Sorry,” Ilya says, pulling off his length and kissing his hip, his navel, trying to draw him back from wherever he’d gone in his head. 

“No - it’s… It just surprised me,” he says and his hand wraps around Ilya’s wrist and brings it slowly back to his chin. “It’s okay, you can do it.” 

“But do you want it?” Ilya manages to ask, his chin pressing into Hollander’s hip as he watches him process the question. His other hand glances over Hollander’s cock, fingers barely wrapping around the length. 

“Yes,” Hollander says after a breath, his nod urgent. Ilya takes it as truth and runs his thumb over his lip, slowly, before returning his own mouth to Hollander’s leaking tip. His tongue swipes at the bead glistening on his slit and above him Hollander mimics the movement with his own tongue against Ilya’s thumb, his lips drawing the digit in. 

Ilya takes that as progress and returns his attention to Hollander’s dick, lips wrapping around him as he makes honest work of it. His tongue twists around the head and he sucks him back, taking him down into his throat with a low hum that he feels radiate out of him and into Hollander. 

He knows he’s getting close because his noises turn rough, his breathing laboured and his hips rolling forward and breaking free of Ilya’s hold. Ilya’s hand holding Hollander’s hip abandons the task and comes to circle around his base, fist slicking with his spit as he twists and tugs until Hollander’s hips begin rocking and his hands grab the back of Ilya’s head to hold him steady. 

He comes with a strangled moan, knuckles white in Ilya’s hair and teeth pressing into the skin of Ilya’s thumb as he tries to keep from calling out. Ilya swallows him back and keeps him between his lips until he knows there’s not a drop left, his length beginning to soften against his tongue and the aftershocks of his attention turning from pleasure to an oversensitive gentle torture. 

“Fuck, you’re always so hungry for my cock,” Hollander whispers, pulling Ilya up from the floor. He finishes shoving his pants down his legs and steps free of them before pushing Ilya back a step towards the bedroom. Ilya grins and begins loosening his own pants before pulling off his shirt. 

It’s then he notices it, his shirt, on Hollander’s body. 

“You kept promise,” Ilya says, running his hand over the fabric. 

“Of course I did. Now, where do you want me to suck you off?” Hollander says with a grin, kissing him so thoroughly that he almost forgets the question. 

“Mmm, here, there. Anywhere,” Ilya responds, motioning around the room and letting Hollander guide him back towards the chair in the corner. He’s pushed down into it and Ilya feels his pupils blow wide at the sight of Hollander dropping to his knees and pushing Ilya’s legs apart. His length is pulled through the flap in his briefs and in another second Hollander’s mouth is everywhere around him, taking him back with a sucking motion that makes his muscles clench. 

He wasn't going to last long, he’d already been so close as Hollander had spilled down his throat, but he was determined to hold on and try to enjoy it for a few minutes longer. The man had other plans though, one hand cupping his balls as the other scraped his nails along his abdomen to his nipple. He flicked it once, twice, before Ilya was cursing and groaning, hands gripping the chair to keep from holding Hollander in place so he could fuck his throat. He wanted it so badly but he knew that was a step too far right now. 

Hollander was full of surprises though and he must know how to read minds because in another second he’s looking up at Ilya with those dark eyes and he’s daring him to do more than just sit there. When Hollander takes Ilya’s hand and brings it to the back of his head, he nods slightly and moans as Ilya slowly raises his hips once, twice. 

“I want it,” Hollander says as he pulls off, mouth wet as his lips drag across the skin of Ilya’s cock. “Fuck my mouth. Take what you need.” And Ilya wishes he could think straight because he knows he’s said that before, that Hollander was turning the tables on their power games, and they were moving into risky territory, but he couldn’t think and he wanted it so badly. 

His other hand comes to gently hold Hollander’s face to his crotch and Hollander matches the move by bringing his hand to Ilya’s base, giving him the friction but keeping him from getting too close to choking on his cock. The sight of it makes Ilya moan as he snaps his hips up, his fingers gripping tightly to Hollander’s hair because what he really wanted to do was push him further down on his cock, but he won’t. Instead he lets himself feel everything, the way Hollander circles his hand around his dick, how he sucks in so tightly that his cheeks hollow, and how he hums when Ilya begins to rock up more forcefully. 

Ilya loses himself in it. It doesn’t take long for him to find a rhythm that matches Hollander’s ministrations, his body on fire as he pushes and takes and takes until he’s urging Hollander back and reaching for his cock to finish himself off, the strands of cum half caught in his palm, half painting Hollander’s chin and his shirt. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, apologizing for his poor aim. Hollander simply runs his tongue along his chin, his thumb brushing the missed cum up to his mouth where he licks it clean, and Ilya might die. He could literally have a heart attack at the sight of it. 

“Don’t apologize. I wanted you to come in my mouth,” Hollander chides, hands rubbing against Ilya’s thighs as he looks up at him with a smile and soft eyes, begging to be kissed. “Besides, you promised me a shower, didn’t you?"

The evening together is like night and day compared to the last time in Hollander’s apartment. It’s like they’re back on even footing, their comfort with each other easy as they wash up in the shower before ordering room service and settling onto the couch in the suite’s living room. 

Hollander easily fills the air with a recount of Pike’s latest adventures in parenting, the man so clearly in over his head with all of his children that Ilya couldn’t understand it. How he could possibly have time for fifty children and a professional hockey career, was beyond him. He maybe thought he could manage one kid, maybe two, if Holl - 

Nope. What the fuck was that? 

Ilya plasters a smile on his face and tries to rinse his mind out with bleach, the idea so preposterous and impossible that he had to try to remember if he took a hit to the head during the competition. He hadn’t, he was pretty sure, but still. Maybe better to check with the team doctor tomorrow, just in case. 

“Do you think you’ll ever have kids?” Hollander asks, cutting into his incriminating thoughts. 

“Hmm?” He hums, trying to play it off as he toys with Hollander’s hair. 

“Kids - do you want to have any?” He glances up at him, just quickly, but Ilya sees the searching look he’s given, the way Hollander looks away as though he really wanted to know the answer but was pretending he didn’t care. 

“Um, yes, I think. No rush though. Hockey is too much right now for - all of that. Explains why Pike is bad, you know?” 

“Shut up. He’s not a bad player, you just don’t like his hits.” 

“Oh, you mean his little taps? He falls more than I do after them,” Ilya teases and Hollander snorts with laughter, raising his brow in silent acceptance. They both knew Ilya was right. “But maybe yes. Afraid I'll be like my father, so maybe not.”

“What does that mean?” Hollander asks, reaching for Ilya's hand to tangle their fingers together. 

“My father is - is hard man. I worry sometimes I will be like him.”

“I can't imagine that side of you at all,” Hollander says lowly and Ilya presses a kiss to Hollander's temple, leaning his forehead closer to breathe him in for a moment. How did Hollander silence so quickly the fears that he'd never voiced before? And with such certainty? It made him weak for him in a way he couldn't afford to be.

“Do you want them?” Ilya asks then, because even though he isn’t allowed to care, he still really wants to know the answer. 

“I mean, I always thought I would have them. Kind of picture it when I look at myself in ten years. But it seems pretty unlikely, considering… Everything,” he adds, his voice dropping on the word. Ilya rubs his hand up his arm soothingly, his lips brushing across his brow in a lame attempt at comfort. 

“Is no rush. You’ll find right girl and she will be great WAG.” Even as he says it he wants to choke on the words. He didn’t want Hollander to find a woman. He didn’t want Hollander to find a man. Or anyone else for that matter. 

But he wasn’t allowed to want that. 

“Yeah, maybe.” 

The conversation dies and Hollander excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving Ilya to sit on the couch and stew in his thoughts. Why did he have to always bring up the one thing that shone a giant spotlight on what they were doing? As though he was determined to point at this… situation and say look! A shiny thing neither of us can have!

He hated it and yet he revelled in the fact that at least he knew now that Hollander wanted kids. So he could live in his fantasy world, where he fictionally loved Shane Hollander and they were a cute hockey supercouple that everyone in the world loved because the world loves love and Jesus Mary and Joseph he needed to pull it together and really, seriously, start to figure out how to disentangle himself from the feelings he so clearly had for this man. 

Except he didn’t think he could. At least not now. For the minute. Maybe the season. He could keep pretending for a little while longer. Until Hollander was ready to move on, at least. 

“Rozanov, you want anything from the canteen? I need to go grab a toothbrush, I forgot mine,” Hollander says, coming out of the bathroom with his shirt and a pair of joggers pulled on. 

“You can use mine, if you want,” Ilya calls back from the couch, flipping through the channels for anything other than the boring news Hollander had made them settle on. 

“Ew, gross. No.” 

“You had my dick in your mouth an hour ago, Hollander,” Ilya calls out jokingly to remind him and Hollander scowls, shaking his head and pulling his wallet from his bag. 

“Be right back,” he says and disappears into the hallway. 

Five minutes pass. Then ten. And at fifteen, Ilya debates calling down to the desk to see if Hollander stopped in the bar. He couldn’t do that - there was no reason for Ilya Rozanov to be looking for Shane Hollander in the middle of the night. But still. He sends him a text, but Hollander’s phone buzzes on the counter where he’d left it. Should he go down to see if he was in the lobby? Again, why would he be looking for Hollander in the lobby? He didn’t have a good story. 

At twenty minutes, there’s a knock on his door and he figures Hollander forgot the key and so he pulls open the door. “What took - “ The words die on his lips as he sees Marleau standing in the hallway holding a case of beer. 

“Rozy, we have got to go out, this town needs us to liven it the fuck up,” he says, pushing into the room. Ilya can smell the beer on his breath and he says a small prayer to the God’s above that Marleau has already had one too many to take in the sight of his room, with the discarded clothes and Hollander’s things on the countertops of the kitchenette. 

“Mhmm no, not tonight, Marly, I have company,” Ilya says, trying to box him in and keep him from making it to the couch where he would definitely settle and never leave. 

“Is it like, imaginary company? There’s no one here,” he adds, motioning to the empty room. 

“She’s in lobby, grabbing delivery. You have to go.” He tries to make it come out more authoritative, but the sheer panic inside of him makes his voice betray him just that little bit. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll go. Can’t be a wingman if I’m a cockblock, I get it.” He turns and reaches for the door handle, pulling it open. 

Ilya half expects Hollander to be standing there, eyes wide and caught. 

But he isn’t and Ilya releases the breath he was holding as his teammate heads back into the hallway. 

When still, almost forty minutes have passed, Ilya curses and decides he needs to find where Hollander has run to. He needs to find out if he’s run from Ilya, or is taking air somewhere, or some other boring thing like reading the free lobby newspapers. 

Pulling on a shirt, he heads first down to the lobby and does a scan of the bar and the business centre, popping his head into the canteen. He checks the gym and the pool, considers a pass of the conference rooms but thinks that’s a little bit too much, even for Hollander, and heads back to the elevators. He’s halfway to his floor when he remembers Hollander’s room number and decides he’ll try there last. 

Slipping down towards the end of the hall, Ilya prays that Drapeau isn’t in his room as Ilya knocks on Hollander’s door. It swings open quickly and he’s yanked inside by a frantic pull. 

“I think Marleau saw me coming to your room,” Hollander hisses, hands on his hips as he stalks back and forth, as though he’d been doing it since the moment he left Ilya’s room. 

“No, is okay. Marleau wanted to go out. He said nothing about you, he was already bit drunk.” Hollander looks at him with wide eyes, measuring, trying to balance the reality of what he saw and what he thought had happened. 

“Are you sure? He nodded at me,” Hollander presses, barely breathing. Ilya reaches for his face and nods. 

“Yes. Marly is friendly, he says hi to everyone. Probably thinks you were going to get laid. Which, you were. So…” Ilya jokes and Hollander makes a hrumph noise in his throat that Ilya can’t help but find adorable. “He wouldn’t know we were fucking if he walked in on us. I promise. Is okay. Now will you come back to my room so we can fuck around or fall asleep without Drapeau hearing us through wall like super power goalie?” 

“Fine. But you go first and I’ll come in ten minutes.” 

He slides through the door again in fifteen, cheeks flushed with nerves as he leans back against the frame. Ilya grins, knowing it had taken a lot for Hollander to face the hallway again after a close call. 

“Did you remember your toothbrush this time?” Ilya asks, his voice a singsong tease. Hollander groans and brushes his face with his hand. 

“No,” he moans and Ilya laughs, because it's funny and Hollander is cute when he realizes he's being ridiculous. Ilya comes to press their bodies together, his hands settling on Hollander's hips. 

“Don't worry, I can try with my tongue if you want,” Ilya says lowly and leans in to capture his lips. 

“I'll just use yours, even if it's disgusting. Not taking that risk again,” he adds with another kiss. “Come on, I want to try more things, if that's okay?” 

Ilya follows because he doesn't think there's a scenario in which he wouldn't follow this man to the ends of the earth. 

They wind up naked in the kitchenette, Hollander pressed against the counter as Ilya jerks his hand over both their lengths, his fist tight and his mouth ghosting across Hollander's chest. 

“These noises, is too much,” he groans, thumb pressing against Hollander's slit and collecting the liquid to slick up his tip. 

“You're being just as loud,” Hollander breathes back, clinging to Ilya's shoulders because his legs were close to collapse. Ilya feels it too and soon he's easing Hollander onto the linoleum and tracing kisses over his thighs. 

“What did you want to try? Before I distracted you,” Ilya asks between kisses, fingers massaging into his calves. 

“Wanna try to fuck you. If you want.” And it is music to Ilya's fucking ears because yes, he did want. He was nearly blind with it. 

“I can be like genie, grant you wishes.” Above him Hollander laughs, grabbing his face and pulling him up to capture his mouth. 

“Where is your stuff?” Hollander demands, teeth nipping at his lips. 

“Bedside drawer, come, don't want to not touch you,” Ilya replies and tugs him down from the counter before leading him across the room. 

He grabs the bottle of lube and condoms from the drawer as Hollander hovers near the chair, hand slowly passing over his cock as he watches Ilya approach him like some wildcat stalking its prey. 

“Before that, I'd like to try something else,” Ilya admits, hips pressing forward for contact even though he leans back to keep his gaze on Hollander's face. Hollander nods, lifting his arms to wrap around Ilya's shoulders. “Can I try giving you rim job? Would you want?” 

Hollander contemplates it for a minute, fingers absently playing in the curls of Ilya's hair before he nods. “Is that what you want?” He counters and Ilya nods, licking his lips and winking. “Okay - how, should I…?”

“You can get on the bed. Or stay here, but lean on the chair,” Ilya offers helpfully, pulling away and demonstrating against the chairback. Hollander immediately shifts to grab the back of the chair, his continued aversion to the bed returning with blinking yellow lights. Ilya logs it away for later, when he has a clearer brain to think of how to ease him back onto a mattress eventually. 

Returning his mind to the task at hand, Ilya hums his approval as Hollander bends over before him, butt out for Ilya to grab with one hand and squeeze. “Such a beautiful ass for me, Hollander,” he growls as he leans over and presses a kiss to Hollander’s spine. It sparks a reaction in the man and he jack-knife’s upwards, knocking Ilya back a step. 

“Sorry - just, don’t crowd me like that,” he states evenly, eyes averted, before he leans back down against the chair’s frame. Ilya considers then his plan, re-evaluating it and trying to think through how to pull Hollander’s mind back from where it had snapped to. He wanted to rim him, but not if he wasn’t in the right mindset - there was no point in pushing too hard for something he didn’t need. “What are you waiting for?” 

“Less tension,” Ilya replies honestly and receives a glare for his troubles. “What? I consider logistics and you try to rush me.”

“I didn’t mean - I still want it. I just, I hate this feeling,” he admits and stands back up, finally realizing that Ilya was in no rush to get down to business. 

“I know you want. I want too. Everyone in the world wants. But what you want and what you need are separate. What feeling do you hate? I will fix.” Hollander shakes his head and looks away at the TV, still flickering in the evening light. “Come on, Hollander, tell me.” 

“I don’t like feeling cornered, or at your - at anyone’s mercy. It fucks with my head, okay?” His voice warbles and snaps taut, steadying himself from showing any sign of weakness. Ilya hates that he’s trying to rebuild the fortress, hates standing there and watching when all he really wants is to throw the bricks into the ocean so they can never be used to rebuild the walls. 

“Okay. You know you are never at my mercy, yes? Unless it’s when I tell you not to come yet, then you listen so nicely to me, yes?” He offers, attempting a joke even though he’s not sure it’s the right time for it. But Hollander laughs a half-laugh, and he rewards himself with an internal fist-pump of success. “I will try not to physically do this without warning, but maybe this is what we practice? So it isn’t as scary anymore?” 

“I’m not scared,” Hollander rasps and Ilya sees the lie and bites his tongue. 

“No, you are brave. Which is why we try, yes?” He nods then and Ilya smiles softly, his hand easing over his arm. “Good. Then we start like this,” he says and pulls Hollander in for a hug. He goes, body rigid, until slowly, breath by breath, the tension seems to release from his frame with every rotation of Ilya’s hands on his back. 

The progress is slow, Ilya takes his time making his body known, insisting his presence into Hollander’s space and using his hands and mouth to distract, to comfort, to touch every inch he could reach. He makes his way along Hollander’s collarbone, chest grazing along his shoulder as his mouth burns across his skin. His hands work at his hips, sliding up his sides before one hand snakes up his back and over his shoulder again. 

“S’okay?” Ilya asks with the touch, lips brushing against his upper arm. Hollander nods with a half-sigh, half-moan, as his fingers unfurl from their fists. 

Ilya shifts again, his length jutting into Hollander’s asscheek as he slides his hand across Hollander’s broad back. He revels in the muscles there, the way they tense and shift under his skin with every exploring touch. Absently, he lifts one of Hollander’s hands until his lips find his fingers, gentle in the small kisses he places to each knuckle as he shifts his body closer. When he’s done, he moves Hollander’s hand up into his hair, encouraging him to feel the curls and remember who it was behind him. 

“Still okay?” He asks against Hollander’s spine, nose pressed to the vertebrae. 

“I just - I need a second,” Hollander replies and Ilya can feel his tightly controlled breathing, the way it rushes in and out, as though he was cycling it to stay centered. He makes to move away, to give him space to reset, but Hollander’s hand tightens in his hair and he makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat. “No - just, stay,” he urges and Ilya does, grip softening to a feather-touch. 

He waits. He would wait forever, if Hollander asked him to. And maybe that wasn’t healthy, but he didn’t care because he was too far gone. It was too late for him to do anything else. 

“Okay,” Hollander sighs eventually and Ilya can feel the tension has eased, that his breaths are no longer catching and his shoulders have lowered from around his ears. 

Ilya presses another kiss into his neck and he shifts closer until his torso is flush against Hollander’s back, length insistent at the curve of his ass and his hands steady on Hollander’s own. To his credit, Ilya notes that the full contact doesn’t cause Hollander to react like Ilya had expected - there’s no pushing away, no request for a pause - and so he toes the boundary again and slides the back of his hands against Hollander’s sides, down to his hips, before he splays a palm against the skin there. 

The tension returns, like a game of cat and mouse, and Ilya waits, reading Hollander’s body and listening to what it says, no words required. 

When again, he settles, Ilya repeats the action with his other hand until their bodies are pressed together and Ilya has managed to hold his waist in his hands, fingers sprawling across his front. 

“Does it feel okay?” Ilya asks as he tightens his grip experimentally, not to pain, but enough to hold him in place. Hollander nods briskly and Ilya reads and listens and loosens his grip, sliding one hand forward to come up and grab his chest. His mouth sucks the skin of his shoulder as he squeezes, hips rolling gently forward. 

“I’m not - not yet. But stay,” Hollander says, stumbling over his words as he tenses up and Ilya slows back down. 

“Do you want to try again?” Ilya asks as he settles again, his body wrapped around Hollander and closer than they’ve been in almost a year. 

“Yes.” 

Ilya begins to ease Hollander over to lean against the chair, his mouth and hands following and tracing down his frame once his hands are gripped around the fabric. Nudging his legs a bit wider, Ilya sinks to his knees and kisses up the back of each leg, slowly moving his hands forward to spread his cheeks. 

The heat of his breath makes Hollander jump, his knuckles turning white. Ilya flicks his tongue out against the ring of muscle and a pained noise escapes Hollander’s chest, his body tensing up again. He waits, rubbing his hand across the skin of Hollander’s thigh until he relaxes and Ilya licks again. This time he’s rewarded with a moan that goes straight to Ilya’s dick and he’s spurred on, diving into the contact with a little more force, a little more intention as he works at his hole. 

He explores Hollander’s body and listens to his sounds, his own hand dropping to wrap around himself as he presses the tip of his tongue through the tightly clenched opening. The sound Hollander makes at that is unholy and Ilya knows he’ll hear it in his dreams, his hand beginning to pick up the pace as he works diligently to lick and press and push at his opening. Above him, Hollander starts to grab his own cock, tugging on it harshly and mimicking Ilya’s movements, the sight of it pulling Ilya closer to the edge. 

When he can’t stand it anymore, Ilya gets to his feet and drags Hollander up with him, arm wrapped around his torso and holding him tight as his other hand comes to grab his dick and stroke it roughly. He’s so lost in the feel of Hollander against him, the scent of him flooding his senses, that he misses the way the man tenses as he drags his release from him with a harsh cry. Ilya follows him with a few strokes to his own length, pressing a kiss to his shoulder as his cum joins Hollanders on the floor in front of them. 

Ilya doesn’t expect the push. It catches him off guard and he stumbles back a step, shock flooding his body as he catches Hollander’s darkened expression, the way he grips his hair tightly in his fist. 

“Hollander,” Ilya calls, trying to pull him from wherever he’d gone in his head, the burning of regret beginning to build in his gut. The beast of self-loathing that he’s hidden in his little box roars to life, rattling the locks that keep it contained. “Is okay. Is just me,” Ilya tries to reassure, reaching halfway across the distance between them. 

Hollander slaps away his hand and stalks across the room, breathing heavily as though he’d just run a marathon. Ilya watches him like he’d watch a caged animal pace their enclosure, heart ricocheting in his chest. 

“What do you need?” Ilya tries again and Hollander laughs, harshly, manicly, and there’s a terrifying edge to the way he cracks his neck and looks at the ceiling. 

“This was a fucking mistake,” he whispers with a strained, bitter laugh, and Ilya’s heart stalls in his chest, his breathing freezing. The locks on his box break and the hidden things he’s tucked away for ages begin to seep out, flooding through his veins. 

“What does that mean?” Ilya’s voice shakes and not even he, the great pretender since he was six years old, could close the shutters over the way his face begins to fall apart at the idea that any of what they’d done was a mistake. 

Like, sure, maybe their whole… Situation was a mistake, in the grand scheme of things. But what they were doing together, the release and the carefully discussed actions and the kisses and the soft touches - it wasn’t a mistake. It couldn’t be. Not when it made Ilya feel like he was flying at the simple sight of Hollander’s smile and his elation at Ilya’s attention. 

But maybe he was Icarus and Hollander was the sun, burning his wings until all that was left was the fall from a good thing. 

“I shouldn’t be - I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. This keeps fucking me up,” Hollander says and Ilya knows he’s not talking to him, but to himself, anger and frustration bleeding into his voice. 

“What is?” Ilya tries again, lost but somehow knowing in his soul what Hollander meant but refusing to think it could be real. 

“This - us. It is always so good until it fucking isn’t. I don’t have any fucking idea of how to deal with this. Maybe I shouldn’t even be fucking trying. Maybe this was a sign - that I shouldn’t be doing this. Like we almost got caught by Marleau! And I'm still being so stupid and continuing to push when all it's doing is making things impossible. I should just give up on it and stop.” His words break and Ilya wants to go to him but can’t because Hollander wants it to stop. 

Ilya didn’t have the guts to end it himself, he still wanted too much, but Hollander was saying it as clear as day. 

This was no longer just fucking. Hell, they hadn’t even fucked in almost a year, so it wasn’t even just about getting off anymore. This little thing they were doing was reckless, they both knew it, but Ilya hadn’t cared because Hollander had needed him and he knew he had feelings that he was trying to ignore but still, he was weak, just like Papa always said. 

Weak of flesh, weak of mind. 

“If you want to stop, we stop,” Ilya says calmly, as though he wasn’t fucking dying inside. 

“It’s not that easy,” Hollander moans and turns to lean against the counter, hiding his face in his hands. 

“I know. But if it hurts you - I don’t want to hurt you. Ever.” And he didn’t - but what about Ilya’s hurt? 

“It’s just so confusing,” he whispers and Ilya barely hears it, blood roaring in his ears. 

It was over. Maybe. He wasn’t sure but Hollander looked done with him.

So he pulls his emotions back into his box, sits on the lid until it closes and then winds a new chain around it, padlocking it shut even though it shudders below him, threatening to break free again. When he feels the mask slide firmly back in place, Ilya slides his pants back on and collects Hollander’s neatly folded clothes, bringing them to Hollander’s side. He doesn’t touch him, simply sets the bundle down and moves back to sit on the edge of the couch, staring blindly at the TV. 

Eventually Hollander lifts himself from the counter and pulls on his clothes, looking across the room at where Ilya sits, frozen to the spot, afraid of being seen. Not observed, but seen, the little boy sitting on his box of emotions, trying so hard to keep them inside. 

“I think I should go,” Hollander says after a moment, calmly, too calmly for Ilya to manage it. 

“Okay,” is all he says, nails digging into his palms as he fights the urge to run to Hollander and wrap him up in his arms and never let him go. 

“It’s not anything you did, Rozanov. I need you to know that,” he adds and Ilya wishes he’d never said anything. At least then he could have blamed himself for something, some tangible action he’d taken to break this thing apart, rather than have it confirmed again that he was not enough to be worth staying over, even when things were hard. 

Everyone left him when things got tough because he wasn’t worth the effort to stick around. It was clear now. 

“I'm sorry. This - I can't… I can't, uh. I can't do this. I'm sorry. I just need some time to reset,” Hollander says quietly, as though in battle with himself.

“Goodbye, Hollander,” he says and stares at his hands as Hollander packs up his things and escapes into the hallway. 

He doesn’t cry. He cleans up the mess. Wipes the trace of another person from his life and turns off the TV before crawling onto the mattress and curling up there, motionless, until his alarm blares the next morning. 

He shows up to the game and he plays, unremarkably. Hollander somehow finds it in him to shine, finally free from Ilya’s weight around his neck. And Ilya thinks it’s good, it’s great, actually, that things were finally clear, even if that clarity came at a cost.

Chapter End Notes

Oh look! The chapter count went up because I have too many words and they won't stop. Don't worry though, I'm fairly certain everything I've written towards the end is just tender goo. If you're out there, why not say hello? I'd love to know what you're loving and (likely) hating ;)

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

“Roz, you've gotta see this!” He turns to see the phone shoved in his face, his eyes slow to focus on the image on the screen. 

Shane Hollander and Rose Landry, caught out!

His stomach drops and his legs stop spinning on the bike, brow furrowing so deeply it's almost painful. 

He reads the article with his tongue between his teeth, feeling like maybe he'll bite it off if he's not careful. 

Rose Landry? 

Since when was Hollander dating Rose Landry? Movie star Rose fucking Landry?

Since when did he date women?

Ilya wanted to throw the phone but it wasn't his and so he shoved it back quickly and dismounted, stalking from the room before he did something as ridiculous as tear up with the hurt stinging in his chest. 

There are no messages pending in his phone. No calls. Hadn't been since they'd last seen each other, which he expected after Shane had unknowingly crushed his heart beneath his boot in some hotel in Ohio. But still, Hollander could have told him to expect this, could have given him a heads up so he wasn’t having it shoved in his face, unprepared.

All the times before, every photo of Hollander in public had been him with his team, his family. He'd never seen him in paparazzi photos with a woman, at least not smiling at her like that. 

He was fucking confused. Angry. Jealous. Fucking gutted. He didn’t have any right to be, he knew that, but still. It was still so fresh that it felt like someone was ripping his stitches back open again. 

He knew the press didn't always print the truth, but they'd been holding hands. And he was smiling. Hollander didn't smile like that anymore, he was still so firmly hidden in his fortress every time Ilya had seen him. 

Except he did smile like that. But with her. Not with him. Maybe it was Ilya that made the fortress appear, like a neat magic trick except it wasn't magic it was just Ilya’s very existence in Hollander's orbit.

What the fuck?

The image haunts him for the rest of the week, through two games, and nothing he does seems to reset him. He tries, he goes out, picks up a woman, takes her home and tries. But he can't get Hollander's smile out of his mind. 

He's out with his team a few days later after a winning game, three shots of vodka in, when his phone rings. 

Jane

He puts his phone back in his pocket, orders another shot, and pushes onto the dancefloor of the club to get lost in the music and the bodies, seeking anything other than those damn freckles. 

The sound of his phone buzzing the next morning wakes him, his head pounding as he blearily squints at the screen. 

Jane

He groans and tosses the phone on the floor, letting it continue to buzz as he pulls his pillow over his head. 

There was only one regular season game left between Boston and Montreal. Ilya could avoid him until then, he'd done it before. Then it would be playoffs and they probably wouldn't be matched up before he was either hoisting the Cup or catching a plane back home. He could do it. 

What did Hollander even want with him? 

Ilya didn't mean anything to him, there was no reason to pretend like he did. He had been just a warm mouth and something to rub against as he worked through his shit and now that was done. He’d been pretty fucking clear when he’d walked out of Ilya’s hotel room.

Rose Landry could fix the rest, he was pretty sure. She was fucking gorgeous, was apparently kind to everyone she met, was funny and sweet in interviews (he'd gone down a rabbit hole, so shoot him). She was perfect for Hollander, a nice North American poster-girl to go with his boring perfect self, he was certain of it. 

Hollander didn't need Ilya. Or this complicated mess that came with him. Hadn’t they decided it was for the best that they stop?

Or, actually, Hollander had decided, saving Ilya from having to do it himself when he couldn’t fucking manage.

He’d been relieved (which was a lie). It was too much to deal with, in all honesty (another lie). The secrets and the hiding and the weight of all of it. His life was already complicated enough, with his season and his brother and father and their endless neediness and wanting of more and more (this was true). Hollander was just another man in his life who needed something from Ilya and not Ilya himself. 

But the weight - no. No. Hollander was with Rose Landry. Hollander didn't want him to sit with him on his couch through a rough night. He didn't want him to hold him when things were too much. Ilya had read too much into it, had fucked up the signs. He was a practice doll, one so desperate for something more that he would take the scraps. 

It had to stop. He didn't want the scraps, he wanted it all and that was impossible so he had to stop.

The buzzing ceases and he manages to fall asleep for another few hours, the pit of despair a yawning chasm that welcomes him fondly. 

Another two weeks pass of avoiding his phone, the internet, and anything resembling accountability when the message comes through.

Jane
What's up? Been trying to reach you

Ilya closes the messaging app again. Opens it. Stares at it as his feet pick up their pace on the treadmill.

What could Hollander possibly want with him? He had everything he wanted - a winning streak, a new ad campaign for an underwear brand that kept Ilya awake at ungodly hours, and a hot movie star girlfriend that had even been seen at his game, in his fucking jersey. 

The only thing Ilya could think of that Hollander could possibly want was his body and that was over, so there was literally no reason left for this man to be messaging him. 

If someone had asked him eight months ago if he'd have jumped at the chance to fuck Shane Hollander again, no strings attached, Ilya would probably have told them to fuck off. And then he'd have jumped really fucking high. He'd thought of Hollander almost every day for the past two years, probably even since they'd first hooked up. 

His feelings were complicated for the man. He’d known, logically, it would never work. There were too many things against them with their careers and the league. But that hadn't stopped him from wanting more than he could have. He'd always loved wanting the forbidden things and Hollander was top of the forbidden list, it only made sense that he'd focus his misguided energy on him. 

But Hollander had called it quits and Ilya had respected that, keeping his distance even though he opened the messages almost every day and thought about giving in and messaging him. He was pathetic, he was fine with that. Sometimes. 

It was just - being the keeper of Hollander's secret, the one who had been helping him try to put things back together again after he'd been hurt so badly, had only further complicated his changing feelings and he was still lost in the storm of it. Not just the knowledge that this would never be more, but the hope that he could have meant something to someone beyond just being a warm body and a bank account. 

Seeing Hollander happy did make Ilya happy - how could it not? He wanted him to be happy, he deserved to be happy for fucks sake. But the fact that it was with someone else was a hard pill to swallow, one that felt jagged on its way down his throat, choking him. 

Jane
What's up? Been trying to reach you

Ilya
new phone who dis 

It's a childish thing to send, but he does it anyways because if it doesn't at least drive Hollander a little nuts, maybe it will give him pause before - fuck. 

His phone buzzes against the treadmill’s casing. 

Jane

“So, you are avoiding me then? Can’t even message me back?” Hollander says when he accepts the call, Ilya's pace slowing but not stopping. 

“Is joke, Hollander, what do you want?” Ilya tries to play it off even though Hollander was absolutely correct that he was trying to avoid him. 

“I'll, um, be in Boston. This weekend. For this brand thing I need to do and I was thinking - if you were there, shit, I should have checked the schedule - “

Ilya wanted to disappoint him without the emotions he felt clawing inside of him, taking the easy way by saying he was on a roadtrip, that his team was playing in Sunrise or Raleigh or literally anywhere other than Boston, but he knew Hollander would check and he knew he wouldn't be able to come up with a convincing lie by the time he finished his rambling sentence and so he didn't. He couldn't lie, there was no truth to hide behind, and he's so tired of the hurt consuming him that he realizes he really is the weak man his father thinks he is when he says:

“I'm not mistress, Hollander, find another toy to play with on your visit.” 

His words are razor sharp and pointed, his throat dry as he clicks the button to hang up. 

He wants to be sick. He wants to cry, honestly. Even his eyes are burning with the stupid tears that he refuses to let loose and his hands are shaking as he hits the emergency button to stop the treadmill below him. 

Sinking to a crouch, Ilya rests his head against the treadmill and thanks God for at least the grace of being alone in the training room as he has his pathetic little breakdown about Shane fucking Hollander. 

His phone stops buzzing, the messages cease and it's somehow worse. 

Ilya takes out his feelings on the ice, receiving a black eye for his troubles. 

He should have put them in the box instead, at least when they were in the box he knew they weren’t in his fists causing trouble.

There's a car in front of his gate when he pulls up after the game on Saturday. 

It had been an early match, thankfully, and Ilya hadn't wanted to stick around after Coach laid into him for his terrible showing. One goal and yet still a disappointment, it felt just like home. 

He'd come home to lick his wounds in private, maybe eat some terrible takeout since he had a rare day off on Sunday and he wouldn't have to suffer the consequences of training first thing in the morning. 

But there was a ridiculously sensible rental car at his gate and he knew who it was before he even pulled up behind it, clicking the gate open and watching as the car flickered to life and drove in ahead of him. 

He parks his car in the garage and forces himself to take a breath with his head pressed to the steering wheel, knuckles white. Entering his place through the adjoining door, Ilya pulls off his tie and moves through the dark space to tidy up the kitchen, thankful that the cleaning service had kept everything else in order while he let the rest of his life fall into disarray around him. When the knock finally comes at his door, Ilya shakes out his arms and sucks in a breath, forming his features back into the expression he uses for interviews, cocky and sure and careless. It's a farce but that's what this whole thing was anyways, so why not use it? 

“Hollander,” Ilya greets, leaning against the door but not opening it wider to invite the man in. Hollander’s smile is more grimace than grin as he stands on the porch, hands shoved deep in his pockets. A second passes between them as Hollander realizes Ilya has no intention of inviting him in, his expression faltering before he rolls his eyes and pushes past him into the house. 

Toeing off his shoes, Hollander doesn't stop in the entryway, continuing on past the kitchen and into the living room where he stops, jacket still on, hands still hidden. Ilya hovers at the edge of the room, watching as Hollander finishes his internal debate before settling on what he came here to say. 

“I'm sorry,” he says plainly and Ilya waits. Surely there's more. Hollander always had more words than him. But the words don't come and Ilya waits and the silence stretches until it's so tense it hurts to breathe. 

“Okay.” It's all he can manage. Pathetic. 

“Okay? That's it?” Hollander counters and finally pulls his hands free to rest them on his hips like an angry old man. 

“Okay, yes. Thank you for apology. Will you go now?” 

He doesn't mean it as an order, more of a question, but by the way Hollander's face falls, he knows it's not taken the way he intended. 

“I don't fucking understand you,” Hollander grumbles, turning away to stalk further into the room and, surprisingly, away from the door Ilya half expected him to bolt for. 

“What? You expect that I come crawling and begging for you? I am not desperate man.” Except he very much was, for this man in particular. 

“I - look I know. I know you're not hurting for women falling at your feet, I see it anytime I search the internet. And I know that last time was, well, I was an asshole and I made it difficult like I can't stop fucking doing -”

“You said you needed to stop seeing me and then went and started dating someone. What the fuck else was I supposed to do?” Ilya cuts in sharply, miserable when it makes him feel justified for his petty behaviour.

“Am I not allowed to do what you've been doing for years? Why is me dating a woman any different than your trail of conquests?”

“Because it is, Hollander! It is and you know why. I have done what you wanted - I have given space and wished you well and still here you are. I don't understand what you want with me.” 

“I thought that you'd at least talk to me after, that maybe we were more than - whatever. This was a waste of fucking time - “ He makes to leave as he talks, gaze focused on the floor as he begins to march purposefully towards the door, but Ilya catches his arm, hands gentle and still tentative knowing it was a risk to even attempt. It was an instinctive reach, one caused by his need to hear how the sentence ended because Ilya had been trying to end the same sentence himself for months. They were maybe more than what? 

Hollander doesn't finish his sentence. Instead he grabs Ilya's shoulders and captures his lips in a starved kiss, one with tongue and teeth and sweet mint. Ilya wants to give into it, to bury his hands in Hollander's hair and hold on for dear life, but he is frozen to the spot. 

He couldn't share Hollander. He wanted him too much and he'd tried so hard to keep the distance, it was going to be impossible to start over again if he gave in now.

Stepping back, Ilya hates the sound Hollander makes at the loss of contact, the bereft look in his eyes as his jaw clenches tightly closed. 

“I will not welcome someone from another bed, Shane,” Ilya whispers, the undertone of hurt making his voice waver as he uses Hollander's name. Shane. Shane. It still felt foreign on his tongue but the taste of it was bittersweet. He wanted to say it until he died, but it wasn't his to use, not really.

“What does that even mean?” Hollander asks softly, one hand coming to rub against his brow. 

“Rose Landry - your girlfriend. I am not stupid, I have internet too. I cannot keep being whatever we are and helping you this way when you have someone better suited to what you need.” 

Hollander stares at him, lips parted and eyes watery in a way that he shouldn't be allowed to do when he was the one to break it off and Ilya was trying so hard to hold himself together. 

“She's not - we're incompatible. I tried. I tried really hard to be what she needed but I couldn't - I thought it would be different with a woman and that I would be fine. And it was fine, sort of, I could do it but it wasn't good, for either of us. It wasn't hard like it is with you but it - she made me realize that what I was trying to be instead - a, like a man who had sex with women because he was terrified of men - wasn't going to fix what happened to me or the fact that I think I'm gay and no amount of sex with women is going to change that. I can't pretend I'm straight just to try to avoid what I'm scared of. And really what I'm trying to fix isn't a problem that needs to be solved, it's something I need to accept and work through. So, I'm not with Rose, I'm not with anyone.” 

Ilya tries to keep up with his spilling words, his mind working double time to translate and understand the real meaning behind it all but it's so hard because he knows what he wants to hear but he's too afraid that he won't hear it. 

Until he does. 

“You broke up?” Ilya says after Hollander has stopped talking and sucked in a breath. He nods briskly and blinks, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. 

“I'm gay, Ilya,” he states again, to make it clear. “I'm gay and it's fucking terrible because I'm terrified to have sex with men and the only person I trust and want to actually have sex with is acting like I'm gum on the bottom of his shoe that he can't get rid of. It's a cosmic fucking joke.”

Ilya wants so badly to reach for him, his palms itch and his arms ache with it. He doesn't though because he's afraid of what it would mean if he did. 

Hollander was telling him something so close to what he wanted to hear that he could almost convince himself it was enough. 

But these weeks of silence and distance had made him realize that maybe what Hollander was saying wasn't enough for him anymore and maybe, terribly, that meant he needed to stop even if he wanted him so badly. Hollander had said practically as much before walking out the last time, ending this thing between them because it was hurting him too.

Ilya couldn't sustain himself on just the physical side of things anymore. He wanted what neither of them could have - the connection and the comfort and the dawn light across their faces. He wanted tomorrows and weekends and time, so much time for him to listen to Hollander's boring jokes, to understand why he folded his clothes after taking them off, to know that Hollander felt the same about him as he fell asleep on his chest watching a game on his couch. Even if the sex wasn't there now, he wanted the time to find it again and know that no matter what happened, Hollander wouldn't leave again because it wasn't a transaction or an exchange, it was a rebuilding of trust and they needed to lay the foundation of something more on stable ground. He didn't need to hold hands in public or get married or do any of the other things normal couples did, not now at least, but he needed more from Hollander than just sex. 

Hollander wasn't gum under his shoe, whatever that meant. He was the one thing that made so many parts of Ilya's day worth getting through and he needed him to not be that because how the hell was Ilya supposed to move on if he had to keep pretending this all was just a nice convenience? 

“I don't think I can be, what is phrase? Rubbing post, maybe, for you. Is too hard to separate and I think is very complicated for us both to keep trying,” Ilya says quietly, his heart twisting as he admits it. 

Maybe he'll regret not taking him back later, when it's just him and his hand or another faceless hookup. Eventually though it won't hurt as much. He had to believe that. It couldn't possibly be the same as losing his Mama or he couldn't bear it. 

God help him, it had already been so close to that. 

The box wasn’t big enough for two wounds like that.

He's so in his own head, desperately trying to batten down the hatches for the storm of loss that was about to retake him, that he barely registers the fingers on his cheek, the soft touch sliding back into his hair. 

“Ilya.” He hears his name and blinks, looking to the ceiling, throat working to ease the pain from holding back his tears. He wouldn't cry. He would not. 

An arm comes around his waist and soon Hollander is pressing their bodies together, his grip tightening to pull him closer as Hollander tucks his face into Ilya's neck and breathes. He feels Hollander's lips on his skin, gentle against his pulse as he works his way up, to his chin, his ear, across his nose and finally to his mouth. 

“Ilya,” he sighs, lips barely grazing. “I don't just want you for sex. I'm sorry for pretending I did. It's not true. It hasn't been true for a long time and I don’t think I can keep pretending either. I was just too afraid to admit it, to you or even to myself. Last time - I said those things because I was scared. Not of what you'd done, but of wanting something that still hurt me. I needed time to understand if I was making the wrong choice by trying to keep you.”

“And was it? Wrong choice?” Hollander shakes his head and leans into him. 

“No. It doesn't even feel like a choice anymore. Not being with you, not talking to you for weeks - it's been killing me. Even though I'm still scared of what that means, I know now that losing you is worse than that fear. Trying to cut you out of my life has been one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. I want you in my life. Not as a convenience, but as someone more. I want more for us.”

It's like something breaks inside of him, the box bursting through its chains, the dam that had been holding him upright collapsing with the truth whispered into his skin. He loses his right mind as his arms come up abruptly, locking around Hollander's - Shane's - frame. 

There's a moment where Shane tenses in his arms, surprise and a jolt of fear making his spine rigid, but then Ilya is there, whispering foolish things in Russian against his lips, pressing his forehead into Shane's shoulder and trying desperately not to let his tears dampen the fabric of his coat. Shane's spine softens, his arms tighten, and the two men cling to each other in the low lamplight of Ilya's living room. 

It's all too simple. It couldn't possibly be as easy as saying what he'd kept behind his teeth for all this time, could it? 

But Shane is here, in his arms, and he'd said he wanted more too. The rest… they could figure out the rest, he thought. What mattered was that he wasn't the only one choking back his feelings anymore. It wasn't an immediate fix but it was a start and Ilya would give anything for a chance to start. 

“How long do we have?” Ilya asks when he returns his lips to Shane's, the words soft. 

“My flight is on Monday,” Shane replies, his palm sliding against Ilya's cheek and leaving a burning wake. 

Ilya realizes then that it's so much time - more time than they've ever had together before - and he nearly collapses with relief. 

“No other man you need to see in town?” Ilya jokes, though secretly wanting to be sure one last time. Shane shakes his head and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

“Nope. And my bag is in the car. If I can stay here, of course, I just assumed - maybe you have? Other, um, plans?”

“No, bad mood about unrequited feelings, was planning to eat ice cream and watch action movies until practice Monday.”

“Unrequited, eh? Such a big word, too bad it's not the right one, since they're definitely requited,” Shane chides and Ilya rolls his eyes before stepping back. 

“Go get your bag, then come back and let me make up for lost time.” 

They settle on the couch after Shane has brought in his bag and placed it against the dresser in Ilya's room, a promise that he intended to stay with him and not just at Ilya's house. It was subtle but Ilya didn't miss it, rewarding him with a soft kiss as he moved to join him.

The next hour is spent catching up on everything they'd missed over the last few weeks. Their team's respective pushes for the Cup, Ilya's new experiments in the kitchen and Shane's hiring of a personal stylist who was indeed responsible for the dark blue silk button up he was wearing with an extra button open, just to kill Ilya slower. 

“So you wanted to look more sexy for me, yes?” Ilya cuts in with waggling eyebrows as Shane explains why he'd decided to hire his stylist. 

“No - I mean, yes, obviously, but I wanted to look like I had my life together more than I did, after everything this season,” Shane adds with a tense laugh. Ilya remembers the way he'd looked, like death warmed up, like he was in shambles that were so uncharacteristic for him as the top performing player in the league. Ilya grabs for his hand and holds it, squeezes it as the mood shifts just that little bit. “I, um, I've also been working on other things. With a real person,” he admits, his head resting in his free hand as he looks over at Ilya. Ilya raises his brow, uncertain if he wanted to hear the details. “I mean, like a real professional. A therapist. He knows about me and what happened to me. I didn't lie to him like I did to the service. And the advice has been a little different.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. We talked a lot about what happened and we've been doing this thing - like exposure therapy. It's been helping, I think. I'm not telling you this because I want you to carry it, but I want you to know that I'm working on it. Seriously. And I'm not here to practice or try to fix myself at your expense. Not like last time.” 

“Hmm, time with you is always okay, even if is hard. But I'm glad this is helping,” he adds reassuringly, thumb coming up to graze Shane's cheek. Shane closes his eyes and leans into it slightly before turning and placing a kiss on Ilya's palm. “Shane,” Ilya says softly, waiting until he meets his eyes. “Tell me honestly, your answer does not change how I feel about you being here. Do you want to try? Again with me? Is okay if no. I just need you to say it so I don't make mistakes again.” 

“You didn't make mistakes, I did. I pushed myself too far and I didn't communicate clearly. That's on me.” 

“But I didn't listen to your body and I - “

Shane leans forward and steals his words with a gentle kiss. “My therapist said that expecting you to know what I need without using my words is always a recipe for failure. So I need to be better about telling you, rather than hoping you'll just know.”

“But - “

“Ilya, this is not a competition for who makes the most mistakes. I promise that I will try to tell you what I need. All that I ask from you is that you try to listen.” 

“I will listen. I promise,” he adds and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

Shane sighs slowly before easing his mouth down to Ilya's. “I really, really do want to try again with you,” he replies, pecking Ilya's lips in a light kiss. “If you want. I was trying not to seem too needy, but I'm not above begging.”

“Oh yes, I do remember how you like to beg.” Ilya grins, his fingers drifting into Shane's hair as he gives him a wicked grin. 

Together they shift until they're pressed along one another, hands exploring and breaths mixing as their mouths drift over exposed skin. Ilya can't help but notice that the previous triggers have lessened, Shane rarely flinching when hands stray and his attention stays more focused on the present. When Ilya leans forward to deepen their kiss, Shane pulls him down on top of him without breaking contact. 

“Is okay?” Ilya can't help but pause to ask, lifting himself instinctively from covering Shane with his body for fear of it causing a chain reaction. 

“It's okay,” he replies with a nod and pulls Ilya back down to him. 

Their kisses run languid, their hands slow and their hearts fast, beating in tandem. When Shane’s hand eventually slips down to Ilya’s belt, Ilya lifts to his knees and begins unbuttoning his dress shirt as Shane works at his waist. They switch when the buckle is pulled free and Ilya’s shirt is laid across the back of the couch. Ilya’s hands are quick on the clasp of Shane’s jeans while he slides free of his own shirt. Ilya takes it, folding it gently and setting it atop his own before leaning down to return his mouth to Shane’s. 

Kissing down his chin to his neck, he murmurs sweet words into Shane’s skin, some English, some Russian, all adoring, as Shane’s hands tug at his curls and little sighs escape his chest. When he reaches the waistband of his briefs, Ilya looks up to check with Shane before running his hand down the fabric to where it ends mid-thigh. 

“Can I?” Ilya asks, mouth grazing the light trail of hair on his abdomen. 

“Yes, it’s okay.” Shane nods, lifting one hand to rest behind his head. Ilya drifts further, taking the fitted shorts with him until Shane is bare below him, only his socks remaining that Ilya pulls off with a cheeky look before continuing his trail of kisses back up his legs. 

He reaches Shane’s thighs and runs a hand up his torso, palm squeezing against his chest as he circles towards his hardening length. Above him, Shane moans softly and drops his hand to cup the back of Ilya’s head, not insisting but giving permission, as he dips in with his tongue to lick the bead of pre-cum that’s already started to appear on his tip. Shane releases a harsh breath and grips Ilya’s hair tighter with the contact, his hips rolling up. 

“Always so eager for my mouth,” Ilya chides with a soft laugh that has Shane groaning in exasperation. 

“Always eager for you, asshole,” he quips back and it’s so true that Ilya rewards him by taking him deep in his mouth, tongue pressing firmly to the bottom of his cock as he slides his mouth upwards. “Fuck, Ilya. Gonna fucking kill me before we even try.” 

“You can come twice in one hour. Have seen it before.” This pulls a snort of laughter from Shane that turns into a hiss as Ilya’s teeth drag across the head. He begins to move his mouth more pointedly after that, one hand squeezing his chest as the other comes to work his base. The sounds above him turn filthy, soft moans and curses that run straight to his own dick, pulsing and still trapped uncomfortably in his briefs. But it's a discomfort he’ll take because Christ, he wanted to last for him. He just needed to speed things up. Just a little, if he could take it. “Shane, can I touch you? Do you want me to try to open you up?” 

Shane nods briskly and grabs Ilya’s hand, sucking two fingers into his mouth and lathering them with spit. Ilya realizes what he’s doing and maybe he isn’t going to last, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“Nice try, Mr. Desperate-for-my-Cock. But I will get lube. Spit is not enough to feel good,” Ilya says after the little show, reluctantly getting to his feet and stepping out of his jeans as he heads to his room. He fully intends to return to the couch, cautious of Shane’s hesitation about beds, but when he turns to go back, lube in hand, he finds Shane in the doorway, cock jutting out and arms crossed over his stomach. “I was coming back,” he states, holding up the bottle awkwardly as Shane hovers. 

“Can we, um, try here?” He asks, motioning to the bed. Ilya nods and reaches out a hand for him, beckoning him closer. Shane crashes into his chest, reaching his hands to his face in a brash kiss as he tumbles them back onto the mattress. Ilya smiles into it, hands grasping at his sides as Shane crawls up and over him. His knees straddle Ilya’s thighs and his hands drop to his waist, pulling at the fabric of his briefs until it’s shifting down Ilya’s legs and kicked free onto the floor. 

“So urgent all of a sudden,” Ilya murmurs as Shane rubs a hand over Ilya’s cock, revelling in the warm girth of it. 

“I want to ride you. I dreamed of it last week and I haven’t - it’s been on replay in my head,” Shane admits, somehow causing a blush to rise up his neck, as though admitting that was somehow embarrassing and not the thing that almost makes Ilya come right then and there. 

“I think we have a deal, come here, shift up so I can reach - Да, yes, like this,” Ilya urges until Shane’s knees are tucked in near his upper arms, his cock just close enough that if he lifts his head he can reach it with his mouth. As Shane settles, Ilya manages to pour the lube into his palm and slicks up his fingers. “So good for me, Shane. Can I touch you now?” He asks, fingers grazing against his balls and sliding up and back. 

“Yes, please.” And Ilya had missed that little please so much that he lifts to press a kiss to Shane’s wet tip, his finger gliding around the muscle of his hole, soft and probing and careful not to rush. 

He takes it slowly, one knuckle at a time, as he eases inside of him and then pulls back out. Every time he manages to deepen the contact, he flicks another part of Shane’s cock with his tongue, reinforcing the positive feelings that he knew were still inside of him, just mixed up. 

Remembering the time before, Ilya doesn’t go straight for his prostate, instead choosing to avoid it and focus on loosening the muscle one digit at a time. When Shane is easily taking his fingers, his hips even rocking back into the contact, Ilya lifts and takes him into his mouth as his fingers tap against the sensitive gland inside of him. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Shane gasps, his body clenching around Ilya’s fingers as his frame folds forward and he has to brace himself against the wall. Ilya backs off immediately, mouth moving to press gentle kisses along his thigh, fingers pulling back but not fully out, waiting for Shane to self-soothe in the way Ilya knew he preferred to do since their first time together. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks after Shane has taken a breath and opened his eyes from where they’d been tightly shut a moment ago. 

“Mm, yes, sorry. It’s - it’s good. It’s just…” Ilya pulls his fingers out and watches Shane’s face intently for any sign of panic but all he sees are those blissed out eyes, gorgeous freckles and beautiful flush in his cheeks. Shane makes a pained sound at the loss of Ilya’s fingers and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to stop. It’s okay. Really. I’m just so close and things are tangled up in my head and it’s confusing.” 

Ilya’s heart is in his throat as he shifts himself upward, concern edging his thoughts as he listens to Shane’s voice, the waver in it. He pulls Shane into him, mouth finding his in a slow kiss as he rubs his back. 

“S’okay, Любимый,” he murmurs into his skin, the Russian slipping from him because he couldn’t manage the English. 

“I’m trying,” Shane whispers, voice tight, nuzzling into Ilya’s cheek. 

“I know. I know, you are so brave for trying,” Ilya assures and kisses his temple. “Do you want to stop? Do something else?” 

“I want to keep going. I want it so badly. Please, can you - maybe if I can see your face better when, um, when you touch me there?” Ilya nods and adjusts until Shane is kneeling, his legs spread as Ilya’s finger presses up into him again. They keep their gazes locked on one another, hands pressed to the other's cheek as Ilya shifts his hand in and out, slowly working to make space again for his second finger. 

When both fingers have eased in, Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s lips and then shifts to look at him as he reaches for his prostate again. It’s the briefest touch, one that elicits a moan from Shane’s throat, and Ilya waits as his expression eases and he nods. “It’s okay. You can do it again.” 

And he does, and the world doesn’t end, and soon Shane is rocking back on his hand until every downward shift causes him to jolt with that sweet contact, his face a blurry mix of bliss and concentration. 

“I want to fuck you now,” Shane says after a few minutes, hips lifting as he presses their mouths together. Ilya slides his hand free and reaches to pull on the condom and slick it with extra lube, trusting Shane and his ability to know when he’s ready. 

“If is too much, we stop, okay? You have power here, Shane, okay?” Shane nods and they move until Ilya is settled on his back, his cock so hard that he may not even last long enough to make it good. Above him, Shane moves until he’s aligned, his hips slow to sink down on Ilya’s length.

Despite every effort to loosen up his muscles, Shane is still far too tight for it to be comfortable and so Ilya forces himself to breathe, to wait, to run his hands up and down Shane’s sides in a comforting and predictable pattern that he hopes works to relax him. 

“Please - Ilya - say something,” Shane whispers, his eyes closed, brow furrowed and fingers gripping so tightly to his arms that he might leave bruises. 

“You’re safe, Shane. Is just me. You are in control. You’re so beautiful like this. I can’t believe you let me see you like this, second best hockey player in MLH let’s me see his face all twisted up and panting for my dick,” he begins, switching to link their fingers together on one hand and pull himself up as much as he can manage. 

“Fuck off, even when you’re inside me you’re such a dick,” Shane croaks as his brow loosens, a choked laugh bubbling up from his chest as he relaxes, just that little bit. 

“Is true though. So pretty. These freckles,” he runs their joined hands along his chest. “I cannot get enough. Picture them in my dreams. If other players could see, maybe you’d have Cup already because they’d be so distracted.” 

He’s rewarded with another laugh and the slightest shifting of Shane’s hips, the movement causing Ilya to curse this time. “Hmm, someone is close. How the tables have turned,” Shane teases playfully before sliding himself up and then back down, the movement experimental, testing. His brow eases more and his hands loosen their grip as his body begins to rock. 

“Won’t last long, how could I? Look at how nicely you take me. I’m yours, Shane. Take what you need. I’ll give you everything,” Ilya murmurs as Shane opens his eyes and finally glances down at him. The pained look has softened into something adoring, his gaze clear and his swollen lips caught between his teeth. 

They find their rhythm slowly after that, Shane’s hips rocking down to Ilya’s deep thrusts, his length hitting his prostate repeatedly, each time drawing a sound from Shane’s throat that drives Ilya to madness. The sounds of their bodies working together, pushing and pressing until Ilya is deeper, his length fully seated as much as he can with this position, fill the room. 

It doesn’t last long as Shane is quick to tense up with his hand on his own cock and the repeated hits to his prostate making him stutter his hips and, mouth agape, spurt his cum in long strips across Ilya’s abdomen. The feeling of Shane clenching around him, his release squeezing against Ilya’s length with every pulse, pulls Ilya’s own release from the base of his spine with an aching groan, hips bucking up to push himself deeper. 

Ilya pulls him down to his chest, his lips finding Shane's in a starved kiss, one that tried to promise a future that was uncertain, but closer than it had ever been before. For one blissed out moment, Shane doesn't complain about the sticky cum between them, or the dampness of the sheets that he always hates so much. Instead he lets Ilya distract him with his mouth, his own returning kiss deep as the wet tears on his cheeks are brushed dry by Ilya's thumbs. 

“Shane,” he murmurs into his mouth, fingers gentle against his chin. 

“I'm okay Ilya, just relieved, I promise,” Shane whispers and returns his focus to the slow kisses that speak of tomorrows and futures and something more than the moment they were in.

Eventually they pull apart as Ilya's softened length slips free and Shane's mind reminds him of the discomfort that always comes with the tightening of dried cum on his skin. Ilya doesn't mind, he'd gladly wear it like a mark of ownership, but Shane had his particularities and Ilya was happy to oblige, especially because it meant more time together in the shower. 

He disposes of the condom and quickly changes the sheets before following Shane into the bathroom. 

They take their time under the hot spray, hands drifting across each other's skin. Ilya places kisses along Shane's shoulders as he soaps up his torso, sliding down and exploring the familiar dips and curves of his muscles. 

“Does this still hurt?” Shane asks, thumb grazing the dark splotch of the bruise from his black eye. 

“Nothing I didn't ask for,” Ilya replies softly, looking up at Shane through hooded eyes. 

“It was a stupid fight.”

“You watched?” Ilya is surprised, his heart flopping clumsily in his chest. 

“I watch all of your games,” he says simply, as though it isn't one of the most obsessive and endearing things he's learned about the man. “You were so angry that night.”

“Maybe it was that. I think, probably, but I was sad too.” He doesn't want to admit why because it makes him feel weak, but Shane knows, Ilya can see it in the way his expression shifts. 

“I'm sorry. I thought…” His words trail off and Ilya nods, understanding. It was enough, they didn't need to go fifty rounds of apologies. 

“How did you manage to get three days off in a row?” Ilya asks, changing the subject as he lathers up his hands with shampoo and runs his fingers through Shane's hair. 

“I didn't. I'm supposed to be back for practice tomorrow afternoon but, uh, my skin feels a bit feverish, you know?” Ilya grins and presses his wrist to Shane's forehead, tsking as he tilts his head back under the spray to rinse the suds away. 

“Who is this man? Skipping practice? Is not superstar Shane Hollander, he would never.” 

Shane laughs and reaches up to grab Ilya's chin before pulling him in for a deep kiss. “I would. For you, I would.” 

And Ilya wants to say he would do it too, that he would give up hockey itself for Shane, but maybe that's too much of a confession for today, so instead he simply says: 

“Good. I pretend to skip tomorrow too. We play, what is it? Hickey?” 

“Hooky. A hickey is what you give me when you get distracted and don't realize you're leaving a mark.”

“Oh, I always know I'm leaving mark. Is my intention. Want the world to know you're mine.”

“Yours?” Shane questions, pressing his lips to Ilya's shoulder and nipping the skin there. 

“Yes. I think so. Is what you want?” He counters, hands settling on Shane's waist as they stand in the spray and the steam, enjoying the contact. 

“God yes, Ilya, so much it hurts.” 

And Ilya thinks he knows that feeling too, the need for being certain he belonged to Shane, that it wasn't just a fling anymore, that maybe it was finally more. 

“But less now?” He asks softly and Shane nods, his mouth working at the skin where he'd bitten, pointedly trying now to leave a mark. Ilya lifts his hand to rest on the back of his head, holding him there until he finally pulls off and captures his lips. 

“There. Now you can think of me when your team gives you shit about it on Monday,” Shane says with a wide grin. 

“Oh, you want that I get hard in the locker room? Strange request from my lover.” 

“Ew, not that word,” he laughs, tucking his head into his chest.

“What? Is what we are,” Ilya offers. English was a stupid language, never using the obvious words correctly. 

“We're something more. Lovers is… I don't know, it just doesn't fit with what we are.”

“Okay. Then we are… Together. Exclusive. But title to be determined.” 

“Yes, okay. For now at least.” Shane nods briskly and then surges forward, nearly having them tumbling into the tile, Ilya's foot slipping as he tries to stabilize them with the contact. 

“Woah, woah,” he laughs, grabbing Shane's chin and kissing him thoroughly. “Going to kill us both. Could be good though, six months off. We could go away. Somewhere nobody knows us. Fuck on beach somewhere.”

“Not this year, it's my year,” he says between breaths. 

“Hmm, maybe. Okay. We make it back to the bed. Whoever lasts longer gets the Cup.”

“Just like that, eh?” 

“Yes. Because I will win. Second year in a row, too. See, you're already hard, will be easy win,” Ilya coos, flicking off the water and reaching for the towels. He tosses one at Shane and wraps the other around his waist. 

Shane manages to win, but only because Ilya realizes he can’t survive against an opponent who talks dirty to him in three languages, one of which he’d somehow been studying on his own. As a surprise. 

“Мне кажется, я тебя люблю… и я совсем не понимаю, что с этим делать,” Ilya says after, catching his breath as he pulls a spent Shane into his chest.

“What does it mean?” Shane asks and Ilya hums, uncertain that he was ready to say it aloud. They’d already had a day of such revelations, it was enough for now. 

“You’ll understand it when we’re both ready to.”

I think I love you and I don’t know what to do about it at all. 

And he didn't know, but they had time to find out.

Chapter End Notes

And now, we take a bit of an upswing! Of course I couldn't end it so simply. Two more chapters after this one, please do tell me if you're sticking around and enjoying, it makes my day to hear from you!

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

The first call comes while he is on his morning run. The second and third over lunch. Number four comes later as Shane licks a strip up his inner thigh and both things make him curse. 

“Do you need to get that?” Shane asks, nipping at the skin of his hip. 

“Never would I ever choose phone over this. Is ridiculous question,” Ilya replies, gripping his hand into Shane's hair and tugging him up for a kiss. 

They only had a few hours together before their final game against one another this season and Ilya didn't want to ruin it by talking to Alexei. So he ignored the calls, and the messages, and everything else that was happening outside of the bed. 

They still hadn't fully gotten back to the level of intensity they'd had before in their hookups, but the exploration had become something of its own beast that thrilled him. Ilya looked forward to these hours they spent together because they were ones seeking release, yes, but they were more than that now. 

The intimacy was something he'd never had with anyone before because he'd always focused on the transaction of it, the give and take. But this - the slowness of the way they progressed - was woven in with an affection and a curiousness that made the emotional connection of it far more intense and terrifying. More than once he'd found himself with words on the tip of his tongue, swallowed back because he wasn't sure either of them were ready to hear it aloud. 

So no, he wasn't going to answer the phone. He was going to lay there and let Shane take his time with him, let his hands and mouth get reacquainted with his body until he knew every inch from memory. Only then would he ease the man onto his back and get to work on burning his own memories into his skin. 

The incessant pinging of messages while Shane is doing his best to let Ilya curl around him from behind, their knees tucked together and Ilya's forehead against his neck, abdomen sliding along his spine, nearly drives Ilya mad and he can't stop himself from thrashing out an arm and knocking the phone to the floor. Below him Shane startles at the abrupt movement, body going rigid, and Ilya knows he's lost him for now with the poor decision to let his brother get to him. 

He reluctantly pulls away, easing back onto his haunches and tracing soothing kisses down Shane’s back as he goes. 

“Sorry,” Shane breathes, held firm on his hands and knees as he tries to work through his body's instinct to freeze up. 

“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have -” he waves his hand towards where the phone had been on his bedside. “Are you okay?” 

And the check-in is enough to have Shane ease himself down until he's sitting, naked and still half hard, chin resting on his bent knee as he looks at Ilya. 

“I'm okay. But I think whoever that is wants to talk to you. Maybe you should answer it?” His gaze is evaluating, eyes only half lost in the waning desire. 

“Is my brother. I don't want to talk to him, not when I have you.” 

“Ilya,” he sighs and moves to the side of the bed until he can bend down and reach the phone, his ass so perfectly tempting that Ilya has to practically sit on his hands to keep from grabbing it. “Answer him. It'll give us the rest of the time together.” 

He takes the phone and looks down at it in his hands, the stupid black screen and whatever nightmare was waiting for him when he unlocked it. 

A part of him was afraid of what was hidden there. Not because he feared anything his brother had to say, but because his brother was the canary in the proverbial Russian coal mine. If he was calling Ilya this insistently, it couldn't be just his need for more money. 

He flicks open the screen and types in his passcode, a flurry of messages flooding through. Ignoring them all, he gets to his feet, pulls on his joggers, and dials his brother's number. 

It rings twice before the onslaught begins, harsh biting panicked Russian spilling out onto him. Not even a greeting, just a spewing mess of anger and distraught emotions. 

“Papa is dead, you piece of shit. You ignore me for hours and what am I to do? You need to get back here now. You need to make the arrangements,” Alexei hisses into the line, his voice seething in a way that Ilya could practically see his bug-eyed glassy look.

“What happened to Papa? What did you do?” Ilya accuses after a minute, his breath coming in quick pants as he turns from where Shane watches him on the bed with wide eyes. He exits the room because to stay would show Shane too much of himself, would put Shane in the same world as Alexei and Russia and everything that felt like weight dragging him down into the ocean between his two worlds. 

“You think I did something? He was old and sick! He died in his sleep, you fucking idiot. We should all be so lucky to die like this.” 

Ilya leans against the wall and closes his eyes, thinking of his father's pale eyes, unblinking in his gilded bedframe. 

“I will make arrangements. Do not call me again. I will deal with all of it when I arrive.” 

Ilya hangs up and holds his breath until his lungs burn and the sting of tears has dissipated from the sharp knife they've become in his chest. 

His Papa was dead. It didn't hurt as much as he'd thought it would, but still it was there, an emotion pressing into him, curling around him like a smothering blanket, like a thick tar. 

There was a list of things he needed to do - flights to book, arrangements to make, calls. He needed to talk to Sveta, ask her if she would come so he didn't have to face this alone. He needed to do so much, but he was frozen, feet locked in place, muscles tense and unbending. 

“Is your father alright?” Shane asks from behind him and Ilya jumps, eyes wide as he turns to look at him. He'd forgotten he was here - that brief second of time had passed and he'd forgotten he wasn't alone.

“He's dead,” Ilya responds, half torn from his chest. And then Shane is there, pulling him in, holding him, tucking himself into every pocket until they are practically melded together. Ilya doesn't realize he's holding himself stiff until Shane presses his palm to his cheek, wide dark eyes searching his. 

“Ilya,” he whispers and Ilya cracks, his resolve shattering. He lets Shane sink his fingers into his hair, lets him burn kisses into his skin as he apologizes for a hurt he didn't cause. Ilya doesn't cry. Isn't sure if he will, even, but he lets himself be held and coddled, and treated like he meant something. 

In less than a day he would be back home, surrounded by people and things that only took from him. But here, Shane was giving him breath, comfort. He was making him feel like he belonged there, in his arms. 

Ilya didn't have any tears left for a man who'd already left him, but he took the comfort offered because he would need to shore it up, hoard it in his soul to get him through this trip home in one piece. He didn't want to go, not really, but he had to. It was what good sons did, even with terrible fathers. 

“What do you need?” Shane asks as he steps away a few moments later, still touching him but already so far out of reach as he switches into action mode. 

“I need to make some calls. You can, um, head back to the hotel if you want. Is going to be boring things only, no more fun,” Ilya replies, attempting a smile that barely makes a dent in his stony expression. Shane frowns and runs a hand up and down his arm. 

“Aren't you always telling me I'm boring? Sounds like perfect activities for me.” And Ilya does smile then, small and tight, but still there. 

“Okay, then you're on flight duty. Two seats, lie flat. I don't care where we connect but if you put me on KLM I will never speak to you again,” Ilya jokes miserably and heads back into his bedroom to begin pulling his things together. He would pack enough to get him through the trip, but bring enough suitcases to salvage what he wanted from his apartment there because a part of him knew this might be the last time he went back. It was both somehow freeing and petrifying, the idea of leaving that world behind. But if Shane was here… It didn’t seem so scary to leave it in the past and build something new here. 

“Two seats?” Shane asks as he follows Ilya back into the room, his voice higher pitched than normal. When Ilya looks back at him from where he stands in his closet, he looks half torn, expression pained and a little fearful. 

“I need to bring Svetlana,” Ilya says evenly and when Shane's face shutters closed, Ilya knows he needs to fix it immediately. “She is old family friend. She knows my family and will help. I can't bring you. But she isn't replacing you either.”

Shane nods like he understands, but still his face twists up before he can school his features again. Ilya's heart clenches as he watches Shane type away on his phone, dedicated to his task as he searches for options. 

“I don't want you to go back there, ever, Shane. Not just because it is dangerous, but because I don't want you to see this part of my life,” Ilya continues, taking one measured step towards the man when what he really wanted was to forget the last twenty minutes and just go back to bed. 

“I know you think that helps, but it doesn't. Just so you know. But it's fine. I understand we can't - that I can't go there and help you with this. I know this. And I’m not upset at that.” 

Ilya sighs and rubs his face. “Why doesn't it help then? To know I want to protect you?” 

“Because it's not protection. At least not protection for me. You're afraid I'll see a part of you that you never let me see. It feels like you don’t trust me with knowing you and that sucks. But it’s fine - I shouldn’t even have brought it up, your father just fucking died,” Shane sighs and shakes his head, scrubbing fitfully at his eye. 

“Shane,” Ilya says after a minute, moving to stand before him and reaching to lower the phone in his hand until he looks to meet his gaze. “Papa has been sick for years. I knew this would happen. My brother is not - he is my brother but he is not like family like you have family. This part of my life is not - I do not want you to be - what is the word - painted by it. It is not secret, but it is also not what I want you to think of when you think of me.” 

“Why not? You’ve seen the things that I don’t want anyone else to see but I still let you see them, even if they hurt. I don’t see how it’s different because I know you as you are now - you came from this. It is just a part of how you became who you are. Why can’t I know that part of your story?” 

Ilya thinks it's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him. The want to know him from every piece, not just the sum of it all. 

“You are too - something Shane Hollander. I do not know what to do with you. I want to put you in a little Matryoska doll and keep you in my pocket,” Ilya whispers and leans in to kiss him. Shane sighs and wraps his arms around his neck, holding him close for a moment. 

“Don’t sleep with Svetlana when you’re back there, please,” he whispers on a miserable sigh and Ilya chuckles, squeezing him closer into his arms. 

“She is not my lover, why would I sleep with her?” He chides softly, wanting to tease but understanding the hurt the idea must have been causing Shane to have him voice it at all. 

“That's actually the correct use, I think - she would be, your lover, if you did, kind of. Whatever English is dumb like this,” Shane grumbles and kisses his neck before finally pulling back. “Get your shit together. I’ve got the flights pulled up. Call her and confirm she can catch the flight at eleven.” 

Ilya returns to his closet and dials Sveta’s number, his voice rough as he explains the situation and asks her to come. She agrees instantly and for the second time in an hour, Ilya realizes he’s not actually alone in this life. He had people with him who would stand by his side, no matter the reason. 

His flight is booked, his bags are packed, and he’s notified his coach of the need for him to leave before the game that night. By the time he’s gotten things together, Shane is collecting his stuff to meet his team at the hotel before heading to the arena. Their time is up. Wasted on arrangements and phone calls and packing. 

“I likely won’t see you until after the playoffs,” Shane says as he loiters by the door, knowing he needs to leave but fighting it down to the last minute. 

“I do not want to wait this long,” Ilya replies gruffly, jaw working to keep himself from scowling at the idea that they wouldn’t see each other for practically months. He hated this arrangement. Hated the distance now that they had an understanding that this was something they both wanted to be more than a thing that happened a few times a year. 

“I know but the schedules suck,” he grumbles, equally unhappy, eyes dark and glassy. “This was never this hard before. Was it?” 

“No,” Ilya says with a shrug that feels like a lie. He knows that if he said anything more about it, it would come out in hushed promises, things he couldn’t possibly have. “You should go. Pike will panic and call Lily and then we will have to explain everything and that is too much today.” 

Shane laughs and shakes his head, reaching for Ilya to pull him into his arms. “I don’t want you to go back there. I don’t want to go to the arena and pretend I care about this game. I want to sit with you in the airport until you have to board that flight, and I want to pick you up at the arrivals gate when you come back. I hate this.” 

“I know. But is okay. I will come back, and you will have worked more with your therapist and next time we see each other, you will be Stanley Cup Champion and you will let me do whatever I want with your body to celebrate and you will be very happy. Think of it like this. Not other way.” 

“Are you telling me to look on the bright side?” Shane sighs, pressing a kiss to his lips. 

“Yes. Is your better side,” Ilya counters and returns the kiss, deepening it until he’s dizzy. 

“Ilya?” Shane pulls back and shifts on his feet, his teeth glancing over his lower lip as he debates his next words. 

“Yes, Shane?” Ilya prods, thumb grazing over where his teeth pull the skin tight. 

“Come back to me, okay? Don’t leave any part of you in Russia. Go and do what you need to do and then come back and give me a run for the Cup.”

“It was never a question. Russia is loose ends. I still owe you hands free promises, and I always keep my promises,” Ilya adds with a wink and Shane groans, tucking his face back into Ilya’s neck as his arms wrap him up in a crushing hug. “Okay. You must go now before I make you late by getting on my knees.” 

“I would happily be late for that reason,” Shane replies into his neck, biting the skin there and leaving a mark. “I don’t need my pre-game routine, Boston without you is a cakewalk.” 

And Ilya makes him late, letting him show up a bit disheveled and sticky. It’s his own personal win ahead of Montreal’s easy 3-1 take away later that night that he watches from the airport lounge. 

His apartment is too quiet. 

He’d landed back into Moscow after a journey which took far too long, dropping Sveta off at her place before retreating to his own. He’d see his brother later for the funeral arrangements, the discussion with the bank. He was not looking forward to any of it. 

Coming back had taken any steadiness he’d had about his life and tipped it on its edges, making him skate along a thread that was too thin and fraying. Moscow had always done this to him though, it was just that before he hadn’t had a choice about whether he had to stay or not - he’d never thought he had enough of a reason to leave it behind for good. 

Until now. Now he had a reason to stay away - his ties to this place were either dead or financial, and that one he planned to cut before he left Moscow for good. If he was lucky, he could get citizenship in the US and stay there permanently, he was sure Sveta would help. Or - sometimes he dreamt - he could apply for Canadian citizenship. The dream was more often now, even if still unlikely. 

He wandered the dimly lit space and sipped at his glass of vodka, savouring one of the few good things about being home as he looked out over the city through his windows. It was too early, but his body was still in a timezone too far away for any of it to matter. He would pretend for a little while longer he wasn’t actually here, then he would take a nap and then the car would come to collect him and the misery would truly begin. For now he’d enjoy his drink and the silence that surrounded him. 

The flight had given him a lot of time to think about what needed to happen next. He would finish up the arrangements for his father, meet with an agency to sell his apartment. Visit Mama. He’d like to see his niece again, if his brother would allow it. Then he would go back home - to Boston, his life there. Maybe he’d see Shane again during the playoffs, if their teams were lucky enough to be matched up. They could have almost two weeks together off and on over the series and the thought thrilled him more than he realized. 

Looking at his watch, Ilya did the math and considered his options. It was late in Montreal, yes, but not too late. 

“Hey,” Shane’s face fills the screen of his phone and Ilya can’t stop the smile from growing at the sight of him. 

“You wear glasses?” Ilya says and Shane pulls them from his face, cheeks flushing at being caught. 

“Only when I’m reading, how are you doing?” Shane asks and Ilya can see the concern clear on his face, brow furrowed with it. 

“I will be better when you put your glasses back on,” he counters and, Christ, Shane complies and he wishes he was there, with him. Far away from this place that was drafty and cold, filled with old memories that only carved into his chest. 

“How was your flight? Did I pick the right seat?” And Ilya laughs because he had, but the fact that it had even been a thought process for Shane was far too endearing for him to ignore. 

“Flight was fine. You did, thank you. How was game?” 

“Not the same without you slamming me into the boards every five minutes.” Ilya grins and nods, wishing he’d had the chance to crowd into him again with thousands of people watching.

“Sure, but you like it.” 

“Only because at least if it’s you, it’s not Marleau ringing my bell,” he replies with a smirk. 

“He better not be ringing your bell. Save this for me,” Ilya requests and Shane nods, the flush returning and making his freckles stand out on his cheeks. 

“Obviously. How is, um, everything else? Have you seen your family yet?” Ilya shakes his head and rubs a hand over his face, releasing his breath in a drawn out sigh and a flick of his wrist.

“No. This afternoon. But I don’t want to talk about this. What are you wearing?” He asks instead with a wink, interested to see if Shane will follow his lead or if he would draw the line at this. 

He’s quickly treated to the camera being turned around, the view of Shane’s apartment filling the screen before it flicks down to his t-shirt and legs clad in joggers, spread out along the couch. 

“Nothing surprising,” he replies softly and then turns the camera back around. “What about, uh, you?” And Ilya grins, knowing he’s been successful in this one small thing today if nothing else. 

Ilya lowers the camera to show his bare torso, his legs covered in low slung trousers. “Would you want to touch yourself while I watch? Since I cannot touch you myself?” Across the world, Shane huffs out a breath, his pupils blowing wide with the idea. 

“Only if you do it too,” Shane says softly, as though afraid of being caught. 

“You think I could watch and not? Have we met before?” Ilya adds and settles down on his couch, setting the phone down on the table for a better view for them both. On the other side of the camera, Shane tries to find a good angle himself, awkwardly turning this way and that before settling with a side view of his torso from his phone propped up on the coffee table.

“Is this okay?” He asks to Ilya’s returning hum of approval. 

“Is good. Tell me how it feels when you have your hand on your cock,” Ilya urges and mimics the instruction on his end, pulling his pants down enough to expose himself to the cool air with a hiss. Shane moans at the sight, his hands working quickly to ease his joggers down his hips as Ilya licks his lips. “Fuck Shane, already growing hard for me.” 

“You’re hard too,” he replies haughtily, fist closing around his length and giving a slow pull. “Wish it was your hand. You have these callouses - it’s better.” 

“Yeah? I always think I need more moisturizer. Maybe I think wrong.” And Ilya can feel the grit of his palm, the familiar tug turning anew at the thought that it was what Shane liked. 

“Maybe some, but I like it. When you twist your wrist like this,” he adds and Ilya watches the screen as Shane flicks his wrist and his hips rise, just that little bit into his own palm. “It feels so fucking good.” 

“Is better when you’re slick. Are you leaking for me? You’re always wet, like broken faucet I never want fixed.” Shane nods and Ilya can see him brush his thumb over his tip, can hear the little gasp of breath that escapes him at the contact. Ilya wishes he was there, stealing that liquid for his own cock, the way it would make his finger slide easier against the skin. “Love when you get like this.” 

“Like what?” Shane manages a breathy moan as his other hand pushes his shirt up his chest to expose more skin. 

“Noisy. Slutty. Look at you, wishing it was my hands,” Ilya murmurs and God, he wishes he was there. He would give anything to be in Shane’s apartment right now, hovering his mouth over Shane’s cock, breathing in his scent and revelling in his hands touching and pulling and grabbing at him. 

“Want them on me so bad,” Shane hums and Ilya can see his pace pickup, his breathing tightening in his chest. “Fuck, Ilya. I wanna come in your mouth. On your cock. I want you everywhere.” 

“Me too,” is all Ilya can manage, his words failing him as he jerks his own length. 

“Ilya - move your camera so I can see your face, please,” Shane demands and Ilya complies, willing to do anything for this man. “Better, fuck, that flush. I love those fucking pink lips. I never tell you but I do.” 

And Ilya cannot manage the sweetness of it, the way his heart squeezes in his chest at being seen like this. And suddenly he wants to see Shane’s face too, is desperate to see his glazed eyes, those beautiful freckles made darker under his own warm cheeks. 

“Let me see you too,” Ilya asks, ready to be told no but so grateful when Shane reaches for the table and pulls it closer as he rolls onto his side. Ilya can see him then, his face caught in the pleasure of his ministrations as he watches Ilya do the same. 

And it’s intimate, and beautiful, and it makes him fucking lose his mind when Shane closes his eyes and bites his lip, his hips rocking forward into his fist. 

“Open your eyes,” Ilya urges and Shane does and they’re lust-drunk and wild but filled with something else, something deeper that makes Ilya’s insides clench and heat curl at the base of his spine. “Fuck, Shane, fuck. I’m close.” 

“Me too. Ilya - I can’t,” he whines and bites his lip and Ilya loses his battle with restraint. 

“Come with me,” Ilya orders and watches as Shane’s eyes flutter, as his face darkens in a deeper blush, his body rocking with the movement of his hips as he spills himself into his palm. Ilya follows with a curse, spurting against his chest in thick strands as Shane moans, eyes locked on the screen and watching every last twitch. 

“That was so fucking hot,” Shane says as he recovers, tissue in hand wiping himself down before grabbing the phone and bringing it closer to his face. Ilya brings his phone closer too, his body a bit more relaxed as he settles back on the couch. Soon he’ll get up and shower, get ready for the day, but for right now, he’ll take this view. 

“Yes. I am very hot,” Ilya chides and Shane grins, rolling his eyes. 

“What time is it there?” Shane asks, shifting again to lay on his other side with the phone tucked against the back of his couch, his glasses pulled free and probably set aside on the end table. Ilya can picture it now, the way he’ll curl into the comfortable cushions as the night wears on, likely sleeping the whole night there rather than his bed. 

“Almost six. I have few hours before everything,” Ilya replies, watching as Shane’s eyes get heavy. “You should go to bed. Is late there.” 

“I don’t want to hang up yet,” he says with a yawn and Ilya smiles softly, wishing he could reach through the phone and brush his thumb across Shane’s cheek. 

“Sleep then. I chase away nightmares, yes?” 

“Okay,” Shane murmurs and slowly his eyes close, his breathing quickly evening out as Ilya watches from a world away. 

He wishes he was home. Not here - Moscow wasn’t home anymore. Maybe Boston wasn’t either. 

Maybe his home wasn’t even a place anymore, but the person currently snoring lightly an ocean away. 

Ilya lands in Montreal on a whim. He needed to be back to Boston the next day, but there'd been an earlier flight and he'd wrapped up his arrangements and the last time Shane had called, Shane had listened to him rant for ten minutes in Russian without saying a thing. It had meant everything to Ilya and he couldn't wait until after the season ended to see him, even if it was all a little bit insane. 

So he'd checked the schedule, packed his things, changed his ticket and taken an extra two connections to make it to the city early enough to give him almost twelve hours.

He lets himself into the building and heads up the elevator, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. When he reaches Shane’s floor, he knocks on the door and waits, half terrified he'll be sent back to the airport like an unwanted guest. 

He hears voices, shuffling on the other side, and Ilya starts to panic. He hadn't thought - Shane had said he was having a relaxed night at his place so he hadn't expected him to have anyone over. He should go before he fucks everything up by barging in on him with someone else. 

But the elevator is too slow and the door opens behind him and he is terrified to turn around. 

“Rozanov?” Pike's voice is tight with shock, half accusatory even though Ilya was guilty of nothing else than knocking on the right door at the wrong time.

The door to the elevator opens and he hears more shuffling behind him and he can't decide whether to turn around and face them or step in the elevator and tuck tail and run. 

“Rozanov, hey,” Shane's voice this time, warmer but still surprised. 

Ilya turns because he couldn't leave now, he'd heard his voice, he was done in. He'd come all this way for a surprise that he'd fucked up, now somehow making it worse, but he couldn't make himself leave because Shane was right there and he wanted him too badly to run away now. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, man? Aren't you supposed to be in fucking Russia?” Pike says and Ilya watches as Shane elbows him until he grunts. 

“My flight, um - “

“Shit, I completely forgot,” Shane cuts in, smacking his forehead almost comically with his palm. “Your layover. I thought it was tomorrow. Come in, I'll get you the keys for my parents place.” 

The lie is as close to believable as they were going to get and Ilya follows Shane into the apartment, Pike trailing slowly behind. Standing in the entryway, Ilya watches as Shane makes a show of looking for the keys, hobbling around with a limp Ilya didn't realize he had, and surely trying to give himself a minute to concoct a whole story. 

“Thank you for this, Hollander. Is nice to have quiet place to go that isn't airport hotel,” Ilya says, holding his bag on his shoulder as Pike looks curiously between them. He wanted to ask about Shane's leg, to go to him and pick him up and settle him on the couch, safe and sound and off what was clearly an injury he'd kept quiet about rehabbing while Ilya was gone.

“What the hell kind of flight has a layover in Montreal from Moscow?” Pike asks, drawing Ilya's attention and poking at the story, looking for a rationality that wasn't there. 

“Last minute one. Hard to find good flights when father dies unexpectedly,” Ilya supplies easily and Pike chokes, catching himself as he remembers the whole reason Ilya had been in Russia in the first place. Ilya almost smiles. 

“Got it! Here. I had the service make up the spare room for you. Did you, uh, want to join us for a beer? We were watching the game.”

Ilya is half tempted to take the out and escape to the apartment next door, but he's been in transit for almost a full day and he was tired and all he wanted was Shane, so he found himself nodding and setting down his bag. In front of him, Pike looks accosted as Shane hands him a beer and motions him into the living room and onto the couch, leaving the man standing in the entryway, mouth agape.

“There is baby here,” Ilya says as he sits down, catching sight of the child in the car seat, chewing on his fist and fussing with being cooped up. 

“That's Arthur. Hayden’s kid,” Shane says and Ilya rolls his eyes at him, like he couldn't put the very obvious dots together. 

“Can I pick him up? Is okay?” Ilya asks then, looking to Pike who still stands in disbelief at the edge of the living room. 

“I mean, yeah, if you want to,” he replies and gives Shane a look of pure confusion, brows furrowed and hands firmly on his hips. “Shane, can we talk?” 

They retreat to the kitchen and leave Ilya to shift out of his coat and lean forward, one hand extended to brush over the baby's brow. Arthur reaches for a finger and squeezes, his mouth a gooey mess around an attempt at a smile that makes Ilya exhale the breath he'd been holding since Pike opened the door to him. 

“You want to sit with me while your Papa tries to understand very simple things?” Ilya asks softly, reaching down to gently lift Arthur up and into his arms. 

Ilya had always loved babies, their squishy too chubby arms, their gummy mouths and silly smiles. They were carefree, soft and sweet, and Ilya always loved their stupid fresh baby smell. They were the perfect companions because they were simple - take care of them, use your actions to show love, no need for words just yet, and everything was fine.

But it was weird for him, a single man with the reputation of a playboy, to show anyone this side of him because they always got that confused look on their faces. The one that couldn't match his public persona with the pro-baby-cuddling side of him, as though he only had one side to him and not the multitude of human depth he hid under a false bravado. He figured him being Russian didn't help - North Americans never really knew what to do with the ex-Soviets after all the propaganda, so he rarely got the chance to be trusted with a baby. 

He settles Arthur in his lap and they make faces at each other, Arthur slapping his hands up and down and gurgling in approval at the new activity. From the kitchen, Ilya tries to ignore Pike's rising demands for the truth, the repeated claims that it made absolutely no sense for Ilya Rozanov to be on Shane’s couch right now. 

“Your Papa is maybe smarter than I thought,” Ilya tells Arthur, his knuckle running over the soft cheek. “But his brain doesn't extend far enough in his questions, so Shane will win if he keeps deflecting.”

Arthur almost nods and Ilya grins and returns his hands to playing peekaboo. When Shane and Pike return, drinks in hand, it's to find Ilya and Arthur tucked into the couch’s corner where Ilya has fallen asleep with Arthur curled into the crook of his arm, comforted by the warmth of his sleeping form.

Ilya wakes some time later to Pike lifting the baby from his chest, brow furrowed in confusion at what exactly Pike is doing here and why he's holding a baby. But then he looks at Shane, with his tense frame but his soft eyes, and he remembers that in his exhausted state, he'd put them both at risk because he couldn't wait another few weeks to see him. It was foolish, but he didn't regret it. Not really.

“Jackie has the twins by herself so I'm taking off. Thanks for the place to escape, Shane, I'll see you tomorrow. And, uh, Rozanov, sorry about the layover but the guest bed is pretty comfy - better than the couch at least, eh?” Pike offers, almost as if testing whether Ilya planned to stay or not after he left. 

“Yes, let's hope. At least no planes at four am here. I should go too, bed is calling,” Ilya adds and slowly gets to his feet, grabbing his coat from the back of the couch as he goes. 

The three of them awkwardly crowd the entryway until Ilya slips out first and uses the key to let himself into the other apartment. He doesn't quite know what to do there, whether Shane was upset with him and fully expected him to stay in his parents' guest room, or whether he should sit at the kitchen counter until he was summoned. He chooses to take a few minutes in the dark and quiet to breathe, to rub at his eyes and roll out his shoulders from the long trip. 

Behind him, the door opens and he feels Shane's arms wrap around him, his forehead pressing to the back of his neck. 

“I'm so glad you're here but Christ, Ilya, send me a text so I don't have Hayden and his fucking baby over next time you get the idea to drop in,” Shane scolds gently, turning Ilya in his embrace until he can see his eyes. 

“It was surprise. You said it was relaxing night at home. I figured the company would be your hand, only,” Ilya says with a tired shrug. Shane kisses him then, arms tight around his shoulders, torsos pressed firmly together.

“I can't believe you're here,” he says between kisses, bending his neck back to let Ilya trail his mouth over his skin with a soft moan that goes straight to Ilya's dick. 

“I missed you. Took earlier flight to see you. Had to transfer with KLM - ate even more terrible Dutch food to be here.” He brands it into Shane's skin, mouth never lifting further than a centimeter, as he wishes he could crawl into him and stay there, tucked safe and warm inside. 

Being back home had been miserable. The only bright spot had been the few calls he'd managed back to Shane, always too short and never enough, but still. The weather had been shit and his brother had been worse than usual, terrified of what this change meant for his family's safety and financial stability. With Papa gone he was exposed, his behaviour under the magnifying glass, and worse, he knew Papa being gone meant Ilya had no reason to keep supporting him. They'd raised fists at one another, as a parting goodbye, and Ilya had made his peace with it. 

Now he was here, and Shane hadn't thrown him out, and he was warm and present and whispering soft promises into his skin and it felt like home. Or at least some semblance of it. 

“Come, you're falling asleep on your feet,” Shane says as he pulls back from Ilya's lazy kisses, grabbing his hand and dragging them both back to the other apartment one hobbled step at a time. 

Ilya is steered toward the bedroom where Shane makes quick work of setting down his things and beginning to pull loose his clothes. 

“Shower first, please,” Ilya urges, feeling a bit like a doll being played with as he's put through the motions. But he doesn't mind, not in the least, because it's Shane and because he wants him yes, but he wants his care more. 

“Okay, do you want me - “ Ilya doesn't let him finish the sentence, simply grabbing at his shirt and dragging it over his head in an unspoken request. 

He knows he only has a limited amount of time here before he needs to go home to Boston, but Ilya had underestimated the depth of his exhaustion from the trip. He'd travelled home after back to back games, had suffered a week of the most tooth-pulling of family gatherings, and now he was here, safe and in Shane's arms and feeling like he belonged. It was too much for his nervous system to handle and so his brain began shutting down all high reason, his body moving into autopilot as he stepped under the warm spray. 

Shane was there then, running shampoo through his hair with his fingers, lathering his body in the familiar scented soap that Ilya liked to dream about. He was a man on a mission, cleaning Ilya's body and neglecting the one primal function that Ilya was desperate to address before he passed out again. 

“How long until you have to leave?” Shane asks as he runs the soap over his own body, fingers drifting temptingly down his frame and into the places Ilya was desperate to run his tongue. 

“Nine hours, wasted almost three of them with Pike,” Ilya teases, wanting to touch but too tired to do anything more than watch and lean against the shower wall. He uses the opportunity instead to trace his gaze over Shane's frame, from his tight shoulders to his cut torso, the end of the season drawing any padding he'd once had into sharper edges as he pushed through lagging injuries and not nearly enough calories to sustain him. Ilya catches sight of Shane's knee then, the deep purple of the bruise and he wants to reach for it, place a kiss there and will it back to normal.

“If I'd known you were coming - “

“Shh, no. Come. You're clean enough,” Ilya cuts in and slaps off the water, abandoning the observation and leading them back to the bed without bothering to dry off. Shane goes easily, lost in Ilya's urgency and drunk on his kisses. “Have you made progress on this,” Ilya asks as he runs his hand over Shane's spine, testing the waters to see his reaction. 

“Maybe. We were really close last time and I could try,” he offers, too firmly to be truly confident. Unwilling to give up any of their short time together, Ilya tucks it away as something to attempt another time, instead leaning in to guide him onto his back. 

“I want to fuck you. I want to do other things, yes, but I want to feel you come on my cock. Tell me if is too much, we will do anything you want,” Ilya says with his hand around Shane's already hard length and his mouth at his neck. 

“I want that. So bad. But my fucking knee.” He motions downwards and Ilya nods, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. Shane couldn't ride him like they'd managed the last few times, the position safe enough to be a default when he wasn't injured, but not today. Ilya cycles through the options in his head as he runs a hand up his side.

“I saw. You want that I kiss it better?” He says and without waiting, crawls down Shane's frame until he's placing kisses across the discoloured skin. Above him, Shane's body relaxes and his hand comes to card through Ilya's wet hair, gentle and soothing. 

“Come back here,” he whispers after a moment, tugging on his locks to bring him back to his lips. Ilya lets his body soften atop Shane's, his weight pressing the other man into the mattress with a contact that hadn't been possible a few months ago. But Shane had worked hard to reclaim this contact and Ilya had been patient enough to let him try, and now here they were. 

“Do you want we try like this?” Ilya murmurs into his skin, rocking his hips to increase the friction for them both. “No knee strength needed, I do all the work, if you want.” 

And Shane looks at him with desire, and trust, and something else Ilya can't name as Shane kisses Ilya so softly that he feels he might float away if not for Shane's hands holding him to his body and the earth. “I want to try,” he replies after a moment and Ilya nods, the man of action returning as he grabs for the lube and condoms from the bedside table. 

He slicks his fingers and shifts to lean on one arm, lifting Shane's leg into a bend so he can reach his opening. The tension that had been there so many times before is lessened and Ilya finds he's able to slip in extra fingers faster than before, a grin spreading as Shane palms both of their cocks in his grip. 

“So ready for me,” Ilya breathes into Shane's lips when he feels ready enough to take him.

“Want you inside me,” Shane replies and swipes his finger across his slit to rub the pre-cum onto the heads of both their cocks. The feeling makes Ilya gasp and Shane steals it from him with his mouth. One second he's knuckles deep and the next he's pulled free, Shane's hands making quick work of the condom on his cock before he pulls Ilya into the cradle of his thighs. 

He lines himself up with Shane's hole and runs his hands up the back of his thighs, easing his knees back towards his shoulders. “Is okay like this?” Ilya asks, thumbs circling gently in the soft skin at the back of his knees. Shane nods and reaches down between them to guide Ilya's cock into the right spot. 

Ilya shifts himself inside slowly, eyes locked on Shane's face for any signs of discomfort or distress. Finding nothing but the slack half-drunk look, Ilya begins to move and thrills in the way his expression shifts and his body reacts to the intrusion. 

The sounds Shane makes below him are a tune he'd missed, wrapping around him and curling like smoke into his body. He lets the sounds guide him, leaning into Shane's thighs and marveling at the flexibility and strength in his body. Ilya thinks then, not for the first time, that he was impossibly lucky to have him for himself, not just his body but the way he pulled him in and offered a place for him alongside his soul. 

The thought of it brings another layer of feeling into Ilya's chest and he lets it guide his movements deeper and faster, wanting to take everything Shane offered him. Below him, Shane writhes and reaches for his cock, pulling at it and muttering words of encouragement. 

Ilya listens, and watches, and picks up his pace until he's snapping his hips forward, pushing them up the bed with each thrust. It's the roughest they've managed since before and it makes Ilya wild, knowing that he had the trust of this man to give and take what they both needed. 

“I'm - fuck, Ilya, fuck right there,” Shane moans and Ilya uses his shoulders to brace his thighs back, body leaning fully forward as one hand comes to Shane's cock and the other grabs his chin to pull him into a desperate kiss. 

Shane’s body shudders, his lips go slack, and his head tilts back, exposing his neck as he comes into Ilya's grip. Ilya feels it all, the way his tension snaps and his muscles pulse with his release, tightening around his own length until Ilya can't fight it anymore and he falls over the edge with him. 

The aftershocks riddle through his bones and he releases Shane's legs and discards the condom before he collapses more fully into his embrace. Below him, Shane is quicker to recover as he wraps his legs around his back and guides Ilya's face back to his for a drawn out kiss. 

This was good. This was so much better than he could have expected. Shane was here, holding him. He hadn't turned him away at his door, instead he'd welcomed him in even though Ilya had almost given away their secret. And now they had this again, the contact and the push and the comfort of one another. 

Ilya didn't need to cry over his Papa, or leaving Russia behind for the last time, but he found himself tearing up anyways because here, in Shane's arms, he knew that he was safe, wanted, and he was too exhausted to hold it back any longer. It was the only place on this earth where he thought he could let go, just that little bit.

“Shh, I've got you,” Shane whispers into his ear, soothing his hands along Ilya's back until the tears ease and his eyelids feel heavy. 

Somehow he falls asleep and is only woken again when Shane shifts below him. He rolls to his side and Shane follows, kissing his shoulder and brushing his thumb across his still damp cheeks. 

“I'm just going to get a cloth, I'll come back,” Shane says and Ilya feels a ping of guilt for not doing a better job at aftercare like he usually does.

“Let me,” Ilya replies and moves to crawl from the bed. Shane doesn't let him, pressing a hand to his chest to ease him back down. 

“Let me take care of you for once,” Shane urges and climbs from the mattress. 

Ilya watches him disappear into the bathroom, hears the water turn on, and he slowly gets to his feet, body aching with exhaustion as he pulls on his briefs and collects their discarded clothes from the floor. When Shane returns, Ilya catches sight of the surprise in his expression, dark brows raised in silent question. 

“You're leaving?” Shane asks and Ilya laughs, shaking his head quickly and setting down the folded clothes before coming to cup his face in his hands. 

“No, obviously I'm not leaving,” he murmurs and kisses each of his cheeks before resting their foreheads together. “Was just tidying up, looking for fresh sheets because I know you hate the damp ones.”

In his arms Shane melts, the wet cloth in his hand abandoned as he pulls him close. “Okay, sorry for assuming - I just -” 

“Don't. Is okay. Is what we used to do, but not anymore. Where are your sheets?” 

Together they make up the bed and then crawl into it, tangling their bodies as sleep takes Ilya once more.

Ilya wakes with his body wrapped around Shane's, chest to back, legs intertwined. It feels foreign, holding him this closely when they've barely been able to touch like this while Shane was awake for fear of setting off any of his triggers. Ilya isn't sure whether to move or steal the few minutes he had in this position before he inevitably had to give it up. 

He decides not to move and instead tucks his chin on Shane's shoulder, cheek pressed to his neck. His arms tighten, just slightly, and he lets himself breathe him in, enjoying the contact in his sleep dazed state. 

He lets himself drift in and out of consciousness after that, his eyes closing as Shane's soft breaths pull him back to sleep. It feels too good and his mind drifts, shifting through memories and thoughts and wants at a dreamy pace. Eventually his body starts to react to the contact and Ilya lets it happen, his hardening length slotting nicely against Shane's perfect ass, his hips inching just that slight bit closer to relieve the ache. 

The moment is broken when Shane’s conscious mind resurfaces from sleep, his body growing tense as he comes back to himself in Ilya's arms. 

“Is just me,” Ilya whispers, mouth pressing a kiss to Shane's shoulder. Shane relaxes, just slightly, and Ilya ducks his head to press another kiss to his neck, enjoying the soft moan that escapes Shane's throat at the contact. 

Ilya doesn't push it more than that, happy to lay with him in his arms like this for as long as he can, enjoying the quiet and the comfortable way they fit so seamlessly together. 

But Shane is rarely so simply satisfied and he rocks his hips back experimentally, fingers digging into Ilya's arm as he draws a groan from his chest. 

It is not fair, the way he knows he has to hold back. That this man could have him this down bad for him with just a shift of his hips. 

But Ilya knows better and so he holds still, letting Shane take what he needs through the limited contact even though all he wants is to push inside him and stay there. It's not reasonable, but still, he wants. 

His hips continue rolling back, slowly, cautiously, as though testing the edges to see if they'd hold. Ilya tries to keep from rocking forward by distracting himself with his mouth, sucking and biting and kissing the freckles along Shane's shoulders as he sighs and moans in his arms. 

When eventually it's not enough, Shane pulls Ilya's hand to his cock and urges him to take hold. Ilya doesn't hesitate, twisting his wrist and firmly pulling the warm skin that slowly slicks with the pre-cum from his slit. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Shane gasps, his hand coming to tangle in Ilya's curls, tugging until Ilya hisses. 

“You are sure? Like this?” Ilya asks, desperate for a yes but ready for a no.

“Mhmm, it's okay. It'll be okay,” he says pointedly and Ilya isn't sure who it's supposed to convince. Maybe both of them. Shane reaches for a condom and presses it into Ilya's hand before reaching down to check his own readiness. “Please, Ilya. I need you inside of me.” 

And Ilya will not waste anymore time. He slides on the condom and touches Shane's fingers at his opening to urge them out, easing the head of his cock in instead. The angle isn't great, he can't go as deeply as he wants, but Ilya remembers the nightmare from before and fear whips through him. He knows he can't move them onto Shane's stomach, can't risk it even, and so he pushes Shane's leg forward until it's opening him up and bracing him from rolling forward, keeping him on his side. 

“Tell me if it's - “ 

“It's okay. It's you. I know it's you,” Shane murmurs and drags Ilya's hand to his mouth, lips pressing a kiss to his knuckles before he slides it down near his ribs. Ilya's palm splays across his chest, squeezing and pulling him in closer as he slides fully in. 

They both take a breath. 

“Is okay?” Ilya asks, forehead tucked against his skull, arms wrapped around his chest from each side. Heart near beating out through his ribs. 

“Please, fuck me.” 

And Ilya does. Slowly at first, still cautious, but then Shane is pushing back, biting at his arm, moaning into his pillow, and Ilya can't stop the way his hips snap forward. Ilya feels his control come undone when Shane tilts his hips and spine into a curve, deepening the angle as his hand reaches to jerk himself off. 

It's a beautiful sight, the way his body bends for him, turns pliant in his grip. Soon Ilya is cursing with the effort, reaching for Shane's hip and grabbing it forcefully in his hand before he's slapped away. 

“Don't stop - just - not that - fuck, Ilya, please, please,” Shane moans, almost painfully, and he twists his neck and shoulder around to try to reach Ilya's mouth with his own. Ilya returns his hands to the safety of Shane's chest and bucks forward, chasing the release with every flicker of energy he has left. 

When Shane comes it's with the force of his body curling up like a spring, bursting forward in dragging pulses that leave him raw and wrung out. Ilya knows instantly that he needs to withdraw, to pull the condom free and finish himself in his hand because he was already flying too close to the sun. It only takes a few strokes before he’s moaning against Shane’s neck, his hips rutting forward with the aftershocks of his release onto Shane's thigh. 

After he's finished, he grabs the unused cloth from before and wipes them both off. Only then does he turn Shane onto his back, pulling his face onto his chest and wrapping his arms around him in a crushing embrace. Ilya can feel the waves of relief, fear, want and pain rolling through his body, and he only holds him tighter, lips pressed to the crown of his head.

He falls asleep again thinking only of Shane and the way that this time he hadn't panicked. It was progress, even if it was slow.

When Ilya wakes again later, it's still dark out, his body convinced it's still in another timezone even as he looks at the clock and realizes he only had maybe two hours of sleep. Beside him though, the bed is empty, Shane nowhere to be found in the room. 

Getting to his feet, he makes his way out of the bedroom and back down to the living room, surprised to find Shane sleeping soundly on the couch. Inside Ilya feels a brief flash of hurt, confusion bleeding through him at the thought that Shane couldn't sleep with him even after all of the progress they'd made. But he knew it was bigger than him, more complex, and so he tucked it down inside his box. 

He knew things weren't fully fixed. Shane had told him about his appointments during their calls and what pieces he was working on, but still to see it hurt. He didn't want to be the thing that made Shane suffer - he hated to be the one that caused his uncertainty, or his discomfort at the wrong touch. Seeing him here, curled into the corner with a blanket barely covering his frame, physically pained him and Ilya decided it wouldn't do to let it continue. 

“Shane,” Ilya whispers, bending over the back of the couch to brush his fingers through his hair. Shane’s bleary eyes flicker open, bouncing around before landing on Ilya. “Go back to the bed. I'll take the couch. I don't mind.” 

“Mmm no, s’okay,” Shane mumbles and burrows his face further into the cushions. 

Ilya doesn't press him. Instead he grabs two more blankets and a pillow, laying one of the blankets fully over Shane before tucking himself under his own with a pillow at the other end of the couch. 

He didn't think he could sleep, but he could keep watch in case any nightmares came for him. 

Morning comes with a dawn light spreading across the living room and Ilya wakes to find Shane curled in his arms, the man having moved to rest against him sometime after he'd fallen asleep again. 

The relief of his proximity floods through him and he tightens his arms briefly, kissing his forehead. 

“You should have stayed in the bed,” Shane scolds gently, reaching up with a clumsy hand to pull Ilya's face down to his. 

“I prefer to be with you, even if is not always like this.”

“Alright. I'm not complaining, you're warm,” he adds sleepily and burrows back into Ilya's chest. Ilya lets the quiet settle around them, his fingers gentle in his hair. “Did you sleep okay? Or did I keep you up?” Shane asks into his skin.

“I slept better with you there. Why? Did you have another nightmare?” Ilya counters carefully, not wanting to disturb the moment but still curious. Shane nods, but doesn't say anything more, so Ilya continues. “Was it really bad?”

“No. They're not as bad as they were before. But sometimes it's still hard to sleep in a bed after, so I come out here. It helps.” 

“Is harder with me there?” Ilya asks after a moment, uncertain he wanted to ask, but knowing he needed the answer. He didn't know what he'd do if Shane said yes.

“No. It was better to have you there, I think. It was, um, comfortable? And reassuring, in a way,” he admits and glances up to see Ilya's blank expression, his feelings already being corralled and primed to be shoved into the box. “Ilya?”

Ilya blinks and with Shane's honest response, he thinks he can maybe talk about it too, that maybe he can almost picture the boy inside of him opening up the box and taking the feelings out, setting them in the sunlight for the first time.

“Okay,” Ilya manages, but just barely, before he has to look away. Shane cups his chin and forces his gaze back, his thumb brushing along his jaw. 

“If you're afraid of what happened last night, you shouldn't be. It was good. Sleeping next to you was good.”

“But you still had nightmare. You still slept on couch.”

“That doesn't eliminate the good things. You're making things better, Ilya. I know I'm difficult right now, but you do make it better. I need you to know this - you aren't responsible for fixing me, you know that, right?” 

Ilya did know. Sveta had told him, Shane had told him, even the internet had told him. Still, it didn't stop him from trying and thinking he could. 

“Yes,” he manages, blinking the tears away as Shane holds him. 

“Then what is it that has you looking like I've shot your dog?” Shane asks with a crooked smile, running his fingers through the hair at his temple. 

Ilya couldn't quite put a finger on it. He didn't have the words, not really, but he knew he had to be brave like Shane and try. “I worry that one day I make mistake with this and you run away again and if you did, I would be alone, but would be worse because this feels like the only home I have left now.”

He knew it was too much, that this fear wasn't Shane's to fix. It came from the box filled with years of hurt, not from simply the thought of this relationship ending. But still it felt good to say it aloud and share it with someone else because he couldn't remember the last time he'd been allowed to voice it. 

“Ilya, hey,” Shane murmurs and shifts until he can see his eyes more clearly, the deep brown seeking. “I can't promise that we won't make mistakes with each other, or that this won't be hard because we both know better. But I can promise you that I will always try to give you the benefit of the doubt. I'll try not to run again because I know that you - that we - deserve the chance to figure it out.” He pauses and takes Ilya's hand, raising it to his lips. “Is that okay?”

Ilya nods and leans forward to capture his lips, his hand soft and tangled in the hair of his nape. “Yes, is okay. And maybe I try with someone too. The talking. So maybe fear of loneliness is not - ” he waves his hand and Shane grabs it, holding it. “ - making this harder.” 

“I have a guy, if you need,” Shane offers and Ilya laughs, shaking his head. 

“No. I need Russian therapist. Need tough love, no bullshit,” he adds and Shane nods, curling back into his chest and letting the thought of it carry them through for a while longer. 

Eventually the time does come where Ilya needs to leave and catch his flight and it isn’t Ilya who pulls away first, reluctant down to his core to give up this closeness. But ever responsible Shane Hollander crawls from his lap, makes him some eggs, and kisses him thoroughly before telling him that he won’t date someone who doesn’t have a job. 

“But I will be great WAG,” Ilya moans, hands on Shane’s waist as he stands in the entryway of his apartment, unwilling to go downstairs to meet his cab. “You saw me with Arthur, I have great parent potential.”

“Maybe. Maybe - but not yet. We can talk about potential babies later. You need to try to get another Cup or it’ll kill you, I know it,” Shane says and for the first time Ilya is fairly sure he disagrees, knowing full and well that he would give up ever winning another Stanley Cup if it meant he could keep this. If he could have the family with Shane that he pictured in his insane imagination.

But he nods and agrees half-heartedly, knowing it was too much for today, before kissing Shane goodbye and disappearing down to the lobby and the waiting car. He calls Shane when he lands, just to hear his voice one more time before he re-enters the race for the championship.

Chapter End Notes

Another angsty fluff piece here. I had intended to end it after the resolution of last chapter, but something in me said these babies needed just a bit more of an extra kick to get to the cottage, so that's where we'll go next (how can it be a spoiler when we're all wanting to be at the cottage?)

If you're liking this story, I'd love to hear from you! Share in my obsession a little bit, please <3

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Ilya doesn’t see the hit coming. It comes at him from behind, slamming him into the boards with a force that has his helmet bouncing, his cheek catching on the little lip of siding before he hits the ice and loses consciousness. 

When he wakes up, it’s to blinding light and too loud noises, the medics overtop of him working to strap him into too many things. 

“Settle down Rozanov, we’re trying to help,” one of them says, guiding his outstretched arm back to his chest before running a strap across him to hold it in place. 

His brain buzzes, everything is too much, and he thinks he’s going to be sick if someone doesn’t turn the lights down soon. His body is strapped to a board, the padding of his uniform crowding his frame, and then he’s lifted and he’s definitely going to be sick as the vertigo hits him like a brick wall. 

He blacks out and when he comes to again he’s in an ambulance and the siren is blaring and the paramedic is telling him to stay awake and he tries, truly he does try, but it’s so hard and the light is hurting his eyes and he can taste the vomit in his mouth and it’s all too much to process that his brain stops trying and goes dark. 

“Rozanov, stay awake, we’re almost at the hospital,” the paramedic says and he tries to nod but his neck is in a brace and all he can do is move his eyes but it makes him dizzy so he closes them against the light and the noise. 

The hospital blurs around him and he can feel the doctors cutting through his clothing, tilting him this way and that, moving him and checking his hands and toes. They move, he’s fairly sure, and it’s the best news he’s had all month. 

Above him the doctors talk but it’s too fast, too impossible to translate, and he’s lost in the chaos of it all, desperate to understand what’s happening to him but unable to string a sentence together in English to ask. Instead it comes out in Russian and the doctors ignore it, telling him to calm down and that everything is alright. How it could possibly be alright when he hears things like ‘surgery’ and ‘bleeding’ and ‘severe’ is beyond him. 

He wishes someone would just take a minute and tell him what was wrong with him. He wishes Shane was here, pushing into the room and taking control of the situation because Shane would, but he wouldn’t come because nobody knew about them. He was alone, lost, and it was too much to deal with so he simply stopped trying, body going numb and mind blank as he stopped fighting back. He let the doctors do what they needed to do even though every touch felt like a violation, stealing from him as he closed his eyes and let his body be poked and prodded, let them put a mask over his mouth as his naked frame was rolled under a too bright light. 

He’s told to count back from thirty and he doesn’t remember how far he gets before the darkness comes for him once more. 

When he wakes again there’s a pain in his arm that is dull and aching, his eyes blinking open as his head swims. Overhead, the sharp lights that had been torturing him since the hit are dimmed and the noise has softened to a low hum with occasional beeps reminding him that he’s unfortunately still alive. 

He doesn’t know what day it is, how long he’s been out. All he does know for sure is that the hit had been hard, he was in the hospital in Ottawa, and his arm hurt. 

“Алло?” He says tentatively, his throat dry and raw. There’s a rustling and then David fucking Hollander’s face is swimming above him, concern etched in his brow. 

“Rozanov, you’re alright,” he says softly and looks around the room until he finds the button at the edge of the bed. “You took a bad hit and the doctors had to do a surgery on your arm, but it went well. Let me get the nurse in here.” 

“Mr Hollander - “ 

“David, please,” he corrects and glances towards the door, looking desperately for the nurses. 

“Why are you here?” Ilya asks because it isn’t making any sense. None of it was making any sense. Why would David Hollander, Shane’s father, be here? They’d never met before, had never even shaken hands at one of the events they’d both been at. He didn’t know this man and yet he was here, in his hospital room, in what was probably the middle of the night. 

“You were playing in Ottawa when you got hit. Shane - he called and told me to come and check on you. He said your family wouldn’t be here for a few days and that you would need someone to look out for you, so Yuna sent me over. I’m not sure when you two became such good friends, but he sounded pretty worried so here I am.” 

It’s too many words. Too many things hidden between the lines of it to be clear on its meaning. But Ilya understood one thing - Shane hadn’t wanted him to be alone. Shane had cared enough to send his parents, blindly, to see to his recovery. 

The thought made his chest hurt. 

He wanted Shane. 

“Okay,” he says softly, throat working to swallow back the emotions that were flooding through him. 

He’s saved by the nurse coming into the room, turning the lights up higher and causing Ilya to groan with the pain that shoots through his skull. 

“Sorry love,” she says, moving to his bedside and beginning her checks. David stays near his side, watching as she moves from one machine to the other, measuring and recording and making sure everything is alright. She asks him things and he tries to answer, tries to ensure it’s English that comes out and not the Russian on the tip of his tongue. When she’s finished, she tucks the blanket back around him and asks them if they have any questions. Ilya shakes his head but it makes him dizzy, his gut rolling with the way it feels like his brain is sloshing around in his skull. 

“Perhaps just a few, but maybe in the hallway so he can rest?” David replies. “Rozanov, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

They disappear out of view and Ilya lets the sleep overtake him once again. 

The sun is bright in the window when he opens his eyes again, the sounds of the machines and voices in the hallway finding him as he looks over to where David Hollander had been seated before, finding the chair empty. A part of him thinks he’d imagined it all, that his foggy memory had spun it into something else, but then the voices in the hallway quiet and the door opens and David Hollander comes through the frame followed by his son, pale and lines drawn deeply in his face. 

“Shane,” Ilya says because he can’t pretend he’s Hollander, not now, not anymore. 

“Ilya,” he breathes and steps quickly to his bedside, jaw tightening as his brow furrows further, hands coming to grasp the metal bars of his bedside so hard that his knuckles turn white. “You’re awake, thank god.” 

“You’re - here?” Ilya asks, convinced that he was hallucinating. “Is not a dream?” 

“No, I’m here. I came as soon as I could,” he breathes, face relaxing slightly. 

Ilya wants to reach for him, wants to pull him into his arms and never let him go, but he can’t because David Hollander is standing right there and nobody knows or would understand why Shane Hollander was at his bedside. 

“You didn’t need to come. Is not serious,” Ilya rumbles and tries to shift and sit up, but his body protests every inch of movement. He wants to pretend it’s nothing, that they were just friends, but the drugs in his system and his fuzzy brain were making it impossible to put his mask back on.

“Not serious? Ilya, you had surgery, you have a serious concussion. Of course I’m here,” he replies and then Ilya feels Shane’s fingers brushing against his, his thumb and index finger squeezing his pinky. “Dad, could you give us a minute?” 

And David Hollander, Shane’s father, the man who had no idea his son was gay, looks between them for a moment before blinking, nodding, and leaving the room without a question raised. 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane whispers as the door closes, hand coming up to Ilya’s cheek. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“I am alright,” he lies because he doesn’t want to waste their precious time on talking about his injuries. “Come here,” he urges and he’d reach for him if his body didn’t ache so deeply with any movement. 

Shane doesn’t make him wait, leaning over the bars and capturing his lips in a gentle kiss, one that seems to heal as much as it comforts. “Ilya, Christ - I couldn’t - when JJ showed me the video during the second break I almost left mid-game. It was bad. It was really bad and I thought - “

“Don’t think this anymore. I’m here, you’re here,” Ilya cuts in, tilting his lips up to seek his kiss again. Shane lets himself sink into it more, hands bracketing Ilya’s face as he softens his touch against his skin. “How long can you stay?” 

“I have to leave tomorrow. The doctors say you can fly back to Boston in a few days but you don’t need to stay in the hospital for the whole time. My parents - I asked and they said you could stay with them if you prefer. They think we’re friends so they aren’t asking as many questions. But the league - your coach is wanting to bring you back to Boston today so you get care in their hospital.” 

“This - this is too many things. I don’t - you leave tomorrow?” Shane nods and Ilya tries to place that puzzle piece in the jigsaw of reality he was building in his mind. “Okay. Good.” 

“Ilya, we need to - “ 

“No, give me minute to have you. Just one minute,” Ilya murmurs and manages to lift his good hand to rest on Shane’s arm. Shane sighs and leans his forehead into his, eyes closing as their breaths mix together. 

There’s a knock on the door and Shane reluctantly pulls away, his body retreating but his hand staying next to Ilya’s on the bed, their pinky fingers linked. David Hollander returns, an apologetic look on his face. 

“The doctors want to do an exam. Says it’s better if we wait in the cafeteria for this one,” David says and Ilya can’t swallow back the noise that he makes, his whole body tensing as he remembers the way they’d treated him when he’d first arrived, like a slab of meat ready to be butchered. 

“Ilya - are you okay?” Shane asks, turning back to look at him with wide eyes. He sees it then, the cold panic that laces his features, the way his skin turns clammy at the thought of being left alone with the doctors again. 

“I don’t - please stay. They don’t tell me what’s happening, they just do the exam and nobody tells me what is happening,” Ilya croaks, throat working to shift around the words lodged in his throat. “Please - I just - please.” 

And Shane sees him, sees the fear and the desperation, and he nods, resting his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll stay. I’ll make sure they tell you what’s going on this time.” 

“Good, I’ll send them in. I have my notes too - in the notepad. Some questions on next steps in there too so you can ask. I’ll go get us some coffee,” David adds and slips back into the hallway. 

“Don’t want this,” Ilya mumbles in the few seconds between David leaving and the doctors entering. Shane squeezes his shoulder and watches as an older man and a trio of younger white coats surround the bed. A short nurse with curly grey hair steps to the other side of the mattress and begins noting down the vitals as Shane watches. 

“Hello, Mr Rozanov and… Mr Hollander? Are you, um, staying for the exam?” The doctor asks, giving him a look of confusion so blatant that Ilya could practically hear the gears turning in his mind. 

“Yes. Rozanov has requested I stay with him to help him keep up with what’s going on as the concussion is impacting his ability to understand and consent in English. Does the hospital have Russian translation services? Maybe they could assist in his ongoing care?” 

Ilya looks to Shane with wide eyes, his heart twisting at the easy understanding he had for him in that moment. The Russian, yes, obviously it would help - but he understood too that Ilya wanted to be able to understand the procedures and say what people could and couldn’t do to his body. Everything they’d been working on together, building that comfort with consent, had given Shane a language to advocate on Ilya’s behalf and even though he didn’t have the words, he felt it release some tension in his chest to know he was there. 

“We can explore those options - Marney, why don’t you go see if we have anyone on service who could assist?” The doctor says and one of the younger doctors disappears from the room. “In the meantime, I'm Dr Rosenthal and these are doctors in training who are here to observe and learn. I’d like to proceed with checking the incision and doing a revised neurological test. Mr Rozanov, is it okay if I continue?” 

Ilya looks to Shane then who nods, his words simple, “They’re going to look at your arm, check for an infection, and see if your brain is still working okay.” 

“Yes - is okay,” Ilya replies then and once more tries to sit up, only to be scolded by both Shane and the nurse who gently eases him back down on the bed. 

“You’ll tear your stitches or pull out the IV if you keep trying to move,” she says, patting his chest softly before reaching back and pressing a button to bring the bed up further into a more seated position. She then presses the remote into his palm, pointing out the buttons he can press to change his position or call for the nurse throughout the day. 

The doctor proceeds to demonstrate how to do the exam, talking Ilya and Shane through each step as he peels back the gauze and uses his gloved fingers to prod the stitches. “We inserted a small plate along here to stabilize the bone. We’ll take it out again in a few weeks once we’re sure it’s healing correctly,” he says, running a finger along Ilya’s forearm. 

“Can I still play?” Ilya asks, watching as the doctor moves to stand again. 

“I don’t recommend any contact sports until the plate is out and you’ve had time to heal, but you can start physio to ensure continued movement. We don’t expect any loss of mobility that would impact your long term playing, but if you injure it again before it’s healed it could be a different story.” 

“Season is over,” Shane confirms shortly, squeezing his hand as his gaze softens. Ilya nods, having understood this for the most part. 

“Now, the neurological part. When you came in, you were severely agitated and disoriented. You vomited in the ambulance which is an immediate cause for concern, but the scans have been improving over the last 24 hours so we are confident the concussion will resolve and that the minor bleeding in your brain will cease on its own,” he says, pulling a pen from his pocket that is equipped with a flashlight. He lifts it and puts a hand on Ilya’s forehead to hold him still, surprise filling his features when Ilya quickly pushes his hand from his face. “Mr Rozanov, these are standard procedures, please allow me - “

“Please, Dr Rosenthal, just give him a minute. He has already expressed that he is uncomfortable with the exams,” Shane says with exasperation, reaching over to wave them back a step. “He’s just been through serious trauma and you’re using him like a pin cushion with an audience. Tell us what you’re needing to do first.” 

Dr Rosenthal looks at Shane, and then to Ilya, and nods, accepting the request. He explains the exam in basic English, using plain concepts to help Ilya understand how each test is meant to determine whether any cognition issues were present or to be monitored before he could be released. When it’s over, Ilya doesn’t feel like he’s been treated like a test dummy, rather more like a person, and it’s because Shane had been there to help him express what he needed. 

“Your recovery is positive so far, Mr Rozanov. I’m going to approve the league’s request to transport you to Boston for further follow up. They will begin preparing the paperwork this afternoon and arrange the transport either this evening or tomorrow morning. Do you have any other questions for me?” 

Ilya feels overwhelmed by the idea that he was going to be sent back to Boston so soon, before he’d even really understood what was happening to him and what it meant for his career and the next few months. He couldn’t even think of a single question he needed to ask, his brain on fire and mind too chaotic to focus on stringing a sentence together. 

“I have a few,” Shane says then, and moves around the bed to grab his father’s notebook. He begins reading through the questions, noting down the answers and making annotations to the existing notes. Ilya barely follows any of it until Shane turns to him and asks, “Rozanov, do you have family or friends who can stay with you in Boston for a few days? They will need to monitor you after the hospital releases you.” 

And Ilya considers Sveta, she would stay with him, but he remembered that maybe she was already home for the summer. He could have asked Marleau, he’d have probably said yes, but the team still had a playoff run to make. His family was out of the question and outside of the team, he didn’t really have anyone. Except Shane. And his parents who’d already offered him a place to stay. 

“No,” he answers softly, trying not to feel as pathetic as the answer made him seem. His life was full of transactions and secrets, but nothing real that he could rely on. Not in Boston at least. 

Shane looks to the doctor then and raises his brows in expectation, in challenge. 

“Okay - if you can confirm he has accommodations and someone to monitor him here, we can make the recommendation to the league. But it is not up to us - the league is clear on their expectations that his care be monitored in Boston.” 

“Please make the recommendation. I’ll speak with the players union about our options if they wish to proceed with moving him,” Shane says and Dr Rosenthal nods, excusing himself and his minions as he goes. “Sorry - I should have talked to you before that. Do you understand what’s going on?” Ilya shakes his head and Shane leans down to brush his curls from his brow before pulling up the chair to sit next to him. “The league wants to send you back to Boston, they will have you checked out at Mass Gen, then you would be discharged. If you don’t have anyone to stay with you, you’ll have to stay at Mass Gen for a week until you’re able to be left on your own. I’ve asked them to recommend you stay here so that you can be discharged and stay with my parents. They have space and they’ve done concussion protocol with me before, so they know what to look out for.”

“With your parents? Why would they look after a stranger?” Ilya asks, the thought making his brain hurt a little bit more. 

“Because I asked them to. I’m sorry - I know it’s weird and it’s a lot, but I don’t want you stuck in the hospital and I don’t want you alone down there. You said you didn’t have anyone so - “ 

“Shane, is okay,” Ilya urges, shaking his head and having to close his eyes to stop the room from spinning from the movement. “I understand. I do whatever. You make better plans than me and my brain is broken right now.” 

Shane releases the breath he’d been holding and nods, leaning his chin on the bar of the bed. “They will take care of you. At least until I can come take care of you.” 

“They will ask questions,” Ilya says then, the first real consideration he’s made to what this all means, the secrets at risk and the truth of what they were to each other becoming harder to ignore. 

“I know. I think - I will tell them. I’ve been wanting to tell them for months but I didn’t know how. Do you want that? Would you be okay with that? Because it changes things for you too.” 

“Shane, is not CNN news alert. If is just your parents, is okay, no?”

“But if it gets out, you wouldn't be able to go home, right? It's dangerous?”

“Yes, but I won't go back. I will find new way, here, in Boston maybe.” Shane’s face tightens at that, jaw ticking, and Ilya finds it inappropriately cute as he tries to puzzle out the solution. 

“Are you sure? That I can tell them?"

“I think probably yes. I don’t - is hard to hide this already, they are not Pike, they are smart. If my brain is still broken and I’m left alone with them, I will probably say wrong thing,” Ilya says and Shane smiles softly, hand coming to rest over his own. 

“Okay then. I will tell them that, we’re, uh… Together,” Shane murmurs and his mouth moves like he’s turning over the words in his mouth. “Fuck, this is terrifying.” 

“Is okay, you can use me as distraction. You give me hand signal and I make dumb Russian sentences to confuse. Or it goes weird and I fall out of bed, nurses must come to rescue me, they forget what you say and we try again later. I do this for you, offer to break my other arm, would be worth it,” Ilya adds with a cocky smile, eyes half-closed as the exhaustion returns like a heavy blanket being pulled over him. 

“Jesus, Ilya, please don’t fall out of bed. It will - they love me. It will be okay. They’re going to love you too.” 

Love you too. 

Ilya hears that sentence in two ways and both make him buoyant, like floating in a warm sea. Shane’s family would take him in, care for him, maybe one day love him like a family is supposed to love you. And, maybe, Shane meant that they would love him like Shane loved him, like maybe Shane felt the same way as Ilya. 

Because as he lay there in that hospital bed looking up at Shane’s dark eyes and beautiful freckles, all he could think was that he should tell him how he felt. That he loved him. That it wasn’t something unnamed anymore, he was fairly sure, and he couldn't blame it on the drugs because the feeling wasn't new, just the name he finally put on it all. 

He falls asleep with Shane’s fingers linked with his own, the fuzzy medications and the concussion pulling him back under. 

Shane is still there when he wakes later, the sun low on the horizon through his window. When he stirs, Shane startles in his chair and moves quickly to stand alongside his bed, fingers soft against his cheek. 

“You’re awake,” Shane murmurs, dark circles under his eyes. 

“Sorry,” Ilya says and Shane laughs softly, head ducking to kiss him. 

“Fucking apologizing like you can control when your brain taps out.” Ilya smiles into the kiss, his good hand resting over Shane’s on his chest. “My parents are here, down in the cafeteria. They’ll probably be back in a few minutes, so…” 

“Are you ready to tell them now? Or we wait?” Ilya asks carefully, remembering that this had been what they’d been discussing before he fell asleep earlier. 

“I’m going to just do it. Rip the band-aid off. Is that still okay - “ 

“Yes, Shane, of course. I have concussion, not lobotomy,” Ilya chides and Shane grins at him, raising his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Lobotomy? Wow,” he teases and presses another kiss to his cheek. “You’ll give my Dad a run for his money in Scrabble.” 

“Maybe he’ll read me New Yorker articles for bedtime too,” Ilya counters with a smile, enjoying the way Shane drifts in and out of his space, like he couldn’t get close enough but was afraid of being caught. Ilya wanted to tug him down onto the bed, hold him there until he had to leave the next day, but it was a ridiculous thing to want so he settled for the closeness of every scattered kiss that was dropped on his face. 

“Knock, knock.” Their respite is interrupted as the door to his room opens again and Shane’s parents spill in from the hallway. “Sorry to burst in, but we wanted to see how you were doing before we head out for the night, check if you needed us to get you anything?” Mrs Hollander offers quietly, seeing that Ilya was awake and coming to stand behind Shane, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Your team brought over your luggage from the hotel, but we’re happy to go shopping and get you some clothes for the next few days, if you’d like that.” 

Ilya grins and looks between Shane and his mother, Shane’s small nod of his head encouraging Ilya to go along with her plan. “That would be very nice, yes. But maybe we wait and see if league sends me to Boston first.” 

“Oh, Rozanov, no. They won’t be doing that. I already talked with the union. They have a responsibility to ensure you receive care and they can try to direct you where to obtain that care, but they would be opening themselves up to legal trouble if they demanded you travel and then not have the necessary support for that care. Which is all to say that if you want to stay here, with us, we could argue it’s safer than sending you to Boston. No pressure though - if you want to go home, we won’t take it personally,” she adds confidently, looking towards David who smiles and nods along. “We’ve billeted OHL players off and on for years. It’s not an imposition to have you recovering with us for a few days.” 

“Okay, Mrs Hollander, if is okay with you,” Ilya says and she nods, her look carefully evaluating under her tight smile. 

“Please - call me Yuna. Any friend of Shane’s is welcome with us, even if I'm a little surprised he's friends with the enemy,” she adds with a lift of her brows towards Ilya. He stays silent, knowing she likely had a thousand questions he was unsure how to answer.

“Definitely a bit of a shock to have Shane call and ask us to come visit his rival in the hospital,” David accompanies, though his look is less evaluating, expression soft and unworried. Ilya looks to Shane then, trying his best to keep his own mask in place.

“About that,” Shane cuts in then, turning slowly to get to his feet and face his parents, spine rigid and hands shaking from the truth. He takes a steadying breath and glances back at Ilya, eyes nervous before his body settles. “I think - you guys should probably know, um. This is - fuck, I can’t - “ He takes another breath and Ilya reaches for his arm, fingers gentle on his wrist in support. He wishes he could do more, could stand beside him and give him strength as he potentially turns his world upside down.

“What is it, honey?” Yuna asks and Ilya catches sight of her gaze flicking between her son's face and Ilya's hand, brows raising slightly in recognition. Ilya simply holds on, a tether in a storm.

“Mom, Dad, I’m gay. And, uh, Ilya - Rozanov - he’s not just… We’re, um, together. I know, it’s a lot to just drop this on you, and I’ve been lying to you about it and I'm sorry for that, but - I needed to tell you before - well, before you did this, in case you were uncomfortable or - “ 

“Shane,” David cuts in, stepping forward with concern. Yuna shifts on her feet, arms crossing over her chest, and Ilya wishes he could do more than just sit here, could keep him close in case the response wasn’t what they hoped. If it had been his family… But they weren't his family, the Hollanders weren't the Rozanovs, they were kind, friendly - they came to help him at the hospital because Shane asked. Clearly they loved him. He had to believe it would be alright. 

“I’m sorry, could you please say that again?” Yuna whispers, bewilderment and confusion lacing her words as she looks between them and then towards David, as though he had the answers. 

“I’m, uh, gay. And Ilya - Ilya and I have been seeing each other. For a while. He’s not - not just a friend,” Shane replies and glances down at Ilya before looking back at his parents. “We’re, um…” 

“Probably boyfriends, yes?” Ilya says then, watching as Shane twists to look at him, and where Ilya expects shock or disgust like when he'd called them lovers, all he finds in Shane’s expression is acceptance and a little awe. 

“Boyfriends. Ilya is my, um, boyfriend. Is that - are you upset with me?” His voice cracks and Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s wrist, releasing his held breath as Shane shifts to take his hand in his own, the small bit of contact strengthening them both. 

“Honey, no,” Yuna says after a beat, shaking her head as the tears come, unshed but pooling. 

Beside her, David mimics the action and then reaches for his son, dragging him into a hug. “Of course we aren’t. Surprised, yes, but - I mean, how long have you been together? It seems so sudden to fly back from your road trip if it’s still so new.” 

“Oh, no. It’s not - not new. It’s been, um… Since rookie season,” Shane says, shifting until he’s able to more fully face Ilya and hold his hand to his chest. 

“No, was the summer before,” Ilya pipes in helpfully and Shane chokes, shaking his head and giving him a scalding look. 

“Concussion couldn’t knock some sense into you? That’s not helpful,” Shane says and then kisses Ilya’s knuckles, his expression exasperated. “We’ve been friendly since then. But, uh - only something more since - well, for a while now. I guess.”

“Okay then,” Yuna says, still frozen to the spot as she tries to process it. 

“Mom?” Shane presses, bracing himself against her silence. “I'm sorry - I tried. I really tried, but I just couldn't -”

“Oh, no, Shane, honey no, that's not - I'm not upset about you being gay. Maybe I'm still shocked that it's with Rozanov -”

“Ilya,” Ilya corrects softly, desperate for her approval of him, if nothing else because he needed her not to hate him if this was ever going to work. 

“Sorry, Ilya. Shane, it's just we always thought you hated him,” she clarifies and Shane shakes his head. 

“No. I don't think I could ever hate him. Are you upset with me?”

“Of course I'm not, I'm upset with me, for not being someone who you could confide in with this. I love you, I support you. I'm sorry for letting you down,” she says and her voice cracks, arms tightening across her chest as Shane notices the tears then. He looks to Ilya and kisses his knuckles again before reaching for his mother and pulling her into his chest in a tight hug. David and Ilya watch silently as they whisper to each other, mother and son finding forgiveness in each other until they break apart. Yuna leans into David's side and Shane returns to grip Ilya's hand in his own, eyes fond as he looks between the people who matter most to him.

“Alright. Um, since this is all making more sense now. Roz - Ilya, you will stay with us. No son of mine is being sent to a foreign country with a brain bleed.” 

“Mom,” Shane warns and Ilya smiles warmly at the idea of being someone's son again, protected by a mother's fierce loyalty.

“It will be fun,” he cuts in conspiratorially. “You can show me all old family videos. Like first girlfriend. He cannot stop you because he has the first round of playoffs. He will be distracted. Will be perfect,” Ilya adds with a teasing wink that makes Shane groan. 

“I’ll have to find the old camcorder,” David says brightly, as Shane looks down to Ilya with a sigh of relief and a little bit of exasperation. 

“This was a terrible idea. Should have let you go back to Boston,” Shane says sarcastically and bends over to brush a kiss across Ilya’s brow. Behind him, Ilya catches sight of his parents softening, Yuna’s hand coming to cover her mouth as she looks towards David. 

“Since rookie season,” she whispers. 

“Summer before,” David replies and Ilya smiles into Shane’s kiss, closing his eyes and letting the moment settle over him. 

He falls asleep again not long after, his eyes heavy and the quiet sounds of the Hollander family keeping him company in the room. Shane’s hand stays linked with his, warm and steady, and as he drifts off he can’t help but be comforted by the possibility that he could keep this, maybe someday soon.

The question comes as the Hollanders drive Ilya to their house for the first time, Yuna and David in the front and Ilya safely buckled in the back after a lot of fussing over ensuring he was comfortable. It comes from Yuna because he was starting to learn that Yuna was always the instigator, the one who moved the dial and pushed the two men in her life forward into action, even if they didn't realize it was happening. Ilya usually found it fun to watch, but this time it was him on the backfoot, unsure how to respond. 

“Ilya, last summer,” Yuna starts, keeping her face forward and tone casual. Ilya sees David glance at her, a raised brow indicating his surprise and making Ilya's palms sweat. 

“Yes?” 

“Shane was… not himself. Did you - was he different with you too?” 

Ilya wants to nod vigorously, to lean forward in his seat and take Yuna's hand and share with her every worry he'd harboured over the last year, desperate to share the weight of what he kept in his box. But all of that would require her to know, to understand what had happened, and Ilya could not share that secret. It wasn't his and these weren't his parents, even though they had been treating him like a son for the last few days. 

“He was. Was very difficult time, I think,” Ilya answers carefully, not wanting to confirm anything but wanting to tell the truth where he could. 

“It was. We thought - do you know what was going on?” She asks and Ilya meets David's eyes in the rearview mirror, brow soft with sympathy for the questioning. 

“Yes,” he says calmly and looks to his feet, unsure of what else to say and waiting for Yuna to move her next chess piece in their little game. She twists around to look at him then, gaze steady.

“Ilya, forgive me for my bluntness, but was all of that because you guys broke up? Because if it was, I worry that if you were to breakup again -”

“No,” Ilya cuts in, shaking his head and looking toward Yuna with as much confidence as he can. “We weren't together before now. This was - Shane should be the one to discuss with you.”

“We've tried, trust me,” she says with a sigh and turns back to face forward as David reaches for her hand. “He always gets this panicked look on his face when we bring it up before he shuts down and leaves. I hoped maybe you would know and could tell us how to help him.” 

Ilya considers then what he could share to lessen their worry but still protect Shane's privacy. He knew he didn't owe them anything, that it could be perceived as a betrayal to even be discussing this without Shane present, but Ilya knew the secret was too important to not at least have a safety net ready to catch Shane, if Ilya ever couldn't. 

“I will not share details because Shane should, when he's ready,” Ilya starts and chews his lip, choosing his words carefully. “But you should know it was very bad, but is not still happening today. He is recovering. He needs you to love him, even if he pushes you away.” 

When he looks up again, Yuna is wiping her cheeks with her finger, a small sniffle escaping her. 

“We will always love him,” David says, voice rough, and Ilya can see it then, the hurt and the worry they were carrying for their son. They were still on the outside looking in, the way Ilya had been all summer as he'd tried to rouse Shane back from the edge. He couldn't fix it, but he could try to ease the worry, if only a little bit.

“Shane is very brave and strong, but is still stubborn too,” he says and David snorts, glancing at his wife who shakes her head while mumbling a small I know. Ilya smiles gently and continues, “He tries to do everything himself but he knows now that he needs more help for this. I think he will tell you when he is ready. It doesn't help you, the worry, I know is hard, but maybe I can say he is getting help. He is getting better, I think. Slowly. But is not as bad as summer.”

Yuna nods briskly at that and turns to reach her arm back, her hand squeezing Ilya's knee. “Thank you for telling us this. We know - I know - I shouldn't have asked you. But I think you know how much we love him and we only want the best for him. It's been killing us to not know how to help him.” 

“It killed me too,” Ilya admits and Yuna’s eyes soften further at seeing the mask lift from his features, the pain of the memory still too fresh. 

“I am going to hug you, Ilya Rozanov, as soon as we get to the house,” she says brusquely and Ilya sees her understanding, sees the way she knows he's helped, that he's held some of the weight of Shane's fortress to keep it from crushing him.

She's seeing him and it feels a little less nerve wracking to be going to stay with them while Shane shows the world how strong he actually is.

Montreal takes the Cup and Ilya’s smile hurts his cheeks as he watches every game from the Hollanders’ couch, staying beyond the doctor prescribed monitoring period and the plate removal from his arm at the insistence of Yuna Hollander who he was quickly learning was a force to be reckoned with. It was no wonder that Shane had turned into the man he had, with parents as steady and supportive as this - they had raised a good man because they were good people, kind and warm and willing to give the clothes off their backs to support others. It was nice to see a family so different from his own, for once, and not feel like he was crawling out of his skin to escape. 

It probably also helped that the hospital in Ottawa had set him up with a Russian-speaking psychologist after his injury, one he'd made more use of after being discharged than he had thought he would have needed. They'd already discussed his request to keep the sessions going virtually once he returned to Boston, as Ilya felt like maybe they were only just opening the box inside of him, taking out the small things first and working through them. He had so many things in that box, he didn't know if he'd ever get through them, but he was willing to try. If Shane could be brave, he could be brave too, he figured.

The trio had settled into a pattern easily, the Hollanders continuing their regular routine as Ilya slotted himself into the gaps, making dinner, cleaning and doing simple repairs when his body felt up to the task. It was nice to be useful in a home, not just a burden or the ghost in his own place that he'd become. 

Shane called regularly during the run, checking in and frequently apologizing for the things Ilya loved most about his parents, their slightly hovering nature and their excitement to share the stories of Shane's childhood with the first partner he'd ever brought home. Ilya didn't mentioned the conversation he'd had with Shane's parents in the car, but he knew he would, eventually, just not while Shane was doing so well and so close to his goal. So he waited.

By the time it was over, Ilya was already considering his next moves, whether to go back to Boston for the summer or take a trip after his doctor gave him the green light. He thought maybe he could convince Shane to join him in Majorca, or the Canaries, where nobody would know or care who they were and they could have time together to see how they worked beyond just the flow of the hockey season. 

It was an enticing idea - having Shane to himself, unbothered by schedules or training or flights to catch. 

Waiting for him in the airport lot after he flies back from his last brand commitment in New York, Ilya thinks back to the last time he'd sat in the driver's seat at an airport with Shane. The realization of how far they'd come made Ilya's chest ache. He hadn't realized then how close they'd been to splitting apart, likely never to recover. But they'd made it back, had fought for each other, and now Shane was walking towards his parents' sensible SUV in the parking lot, climbing into the passenger seat and leaning over the console to kiss Ilya into oblivion. 

“Чемпионат мистера, my Champion,” Ilya says when they break apart, thumb brushing over Shane's cheek. 

“Shut up, now we're even. Come on, switch spots with me, I wanna drive.” He climbs out of the car and Ilya gives him a look, slow to exit the driver's seat as Shane takes it over. 

“Didn't know you liked driving so much. Should come to Boston, drive one of my real cars,” Ilya teases as he climbs into the passenger seat. 

“It's not that. We're not heading back to my parents, so it's easier if I drive,” Shane says and Ilya raises his brows at him, head cocking to the side. 

“Oh? Taking me to secret sex dungeon?” Ilya chides and Shane rolls his eyes and puts on his sunglasses. “No answer. Must be true. I don't have anything packed.” 

“You do, Mom put some of your stuff in a bag, it's in the back. We're heading to my cottage, if that's alright with you? You said you didn't have a flight booked yet -”

“You're kidnapping me? Shane Hollander, a kidnapper? I should tell media. They are already asking where Ilya Rozanov disappears after injury,” he continues, picking up his phone as Shane laughs and reaches for his hands. 

“We don't have to go, we can go back to my parents,” Shane offers, watching as Ilya turns to look at him for the first time since getting in the car. 

“I missed you,” he says easily, reaching out and cupping his jaw with his good hand. Shane leans into it, turning to press a kiss to his palm. 

“I missed you too,” he murmurs and brushes the curls from Ilya’s forehead. “Come with me to my cottage. We can stay a week, or even two. It’s so private. Nobody will see us and we can be completely alone, together,” Shane murmurs, gaze locked with Ilya's.

“Okay,” Ilya agrees and drops his hand to Shane's thigh, squeezing it. 

They leave the airport lot and the conversation flows easily, the drive taking only a few hours before they're pulling up to what normal people would call a mansion in the forest. Ilya scans the building, its broad wood siding and sprawling frame blocking the view of the lake from the driveway. 

“I've thought about bringing you here since it was finished,” Shane says as he puts the car in park and climbs out of the driver's side. He collects their bags and heads to the entrance, Ilya following after him. “It's got its own well, and there's a gym where we can do your rehab. Maybe take the kayaks out. I had the service bring in groceries so the kitchen is fully stocked.”

Ilya walks through the house with wide eyes, taking in every last detail of the structure and the way Shane's face shines particularly bright while touring him through it. When they reach the master bedroom, Ilya grins and lets Shane explain to him the boring details as he makes his move. 

“And how many sets of clean sheets do you have for this bed?” Ilya asks playfully, hands reaching for Shane's hips and pulling him into his chest. 

Shane’s cheeks flush, that beautiful pink crawling up his neck as he lifts his arms to wrap around Ilya's shoulders.”Three, but there's a laundry machine downstairs.” 

“Good. Doesn't have to be in bed anyways. We've gotten better at other places, yes?” Ilya urges, easing him slowly up against the window until their bodies are pressed together. He leans in and runs his mouth along Shane's neck, enjoying the soft sounds that escape his throat as his frame tenses and then begins to ease, each kiss pulling him a bit more undone. 

“Fuck Ilya, I've missed this. Missed you, so much,” Shane murmurs, fingers carding through his hair and tugging, causing Ilya to nip in response. 

“This is why you want us to come here and not your parents’. Can make all the noise we want, only birds to hear us,” Ilya breathes into his skin, hands exploring under his shirt, sliding up his chest. 

Like being unburdened from a weight, Shane hisses and grabs at Ilya's shirt, pulling it roughly from his frame. His mouth finds Ilya's then, tongue sliding between his lips and stealing the sounds from his throat. 

The desperate pace from before overtakes them then, their clothes discarded and hands grabbing and pulling at every stretch of newly exposed skin. Ilya says a small curse when his air cast catches on something, the clumsy device in the way as he drags Shane back to the bed. 

“I want this off,” Ilya grumbles. 

Shane looks up from where he's working down Ilya's chest with his mouth, eyes bright. “I like it. Reminds me that it's your touch when I close my eyes.”

Ilya says a prayer for the mind fuck of that statement, no longer annoyed but pleased, though somehow still disappointed that reminders were needed. He'd think later about whether he'd ever not need a reminder that it was Ilya holding him, Ilya kissing and nipping, Ilya pushing into him. If Ilya had any say, their time at the cottage would clean the slate and by the time he could take the cast off, the need for reminders would be over. 

He's pulled back to the now when Shane takes his cock in his mouth, deep and slow and torturous after too long without. “Fuck, Shane,” he curses, fist tight in his hair and tugging it back so Shane has to look up at him with his cock-drunk eyes and wet lips. Seeing Ilya's own need reflected back at him, Shane doesn't break eye contact as his tongue makes a circle around his tip, teeth grazing the skin before he pulls free of the hold and sucks him back down. 

“You're killing me,” Ilya murmurs, fingers bruising as they cling to his own thigh, to Shane's shoulder. He wants so much more, more of his body, of his mind, he doesn't know how to contain it all. “Come here,” he pleads and Shane moans, finishing his ministrations with a kiss to his hip as he climbs up his frame. 

“I'm going to ride you, but then I want you to fuck me, like before. Will you try?” Shane asks, straddling his waist as he kisses up Ilya's neck, biting and rough, his hands pinning Ilya's above his head. 

The request makes Ilya groan, the want for it so heady that he wants to give in to his old habits and flip them over now. But he's learned and Shane trusts him so he'll trust him too. “Yes. Take what you need.” 

Shane sighs and tilts his hips to create friction, reaching back to take Ilya's length in his hand. 

“I want you inside me,” Shane says as his tip drags wet streaks up Ilya's torso. Ilya hums his agreement and Shane reaches to grab the lube, slicking his own fingers and sliding two inside with a hiss that makes Ilya look up at his twisted expression, the pleasure he sees there making his cock jump. “Is it okay, like this?” Shane asks abruptly, catching Ilya off guard. 

“What?” Ilya counters, trying to understand. Of course he could ride him, he was desperate for Shane to get on his dick, so why the question? What was he missing? 

“Do you - there's a condom, in the bedside table, if you want,” Shane manages and the dials click in Ilya's head, understanding blooming within him as he shifts up and reaches for Shane's chin, drawing his hazy eyes towards him. 

“Is what you want? Do not push yourself on this for me, I don't need it,” Ilya says clearly, determined to make sure Shane understood what he was asking. 

“I want it. All of my tests came back clean last month, and it's only you. I only want it to be you,” he replies confidently despite how easy it would be to get lost in the rush of want. Ilya understands it, he gets caught up so often himself. But not on this, not with Shane, not anymore. 

“My last check-up - it was clear. Is only you now. Will only be you, as long as you will have me. But you must be sure - I cannot - Shane, listen to me. I cannot be afraid you will regret this.” 

“I won't,” he says with a nod, his kisses soft as he leans over Ilya and nuzzles into him. “I want to feel you, all of you.” 

Ilya knows he won't last long so when he kisses Shane back, it's with a promise that he'll make it good and that he'll be here, through it all. 

He feels his body ache as Shane shifts backwards and slicks up his cock with the lube, his fingers slow against him as he moves his hips into place. Ilya lifts his knees to steady him as Shane sinks down, the heat, the pressure of his muscles tight in their grip around him, makes Ilya groan and he struggles to keep his hands on Shane's thighs. When he's fully seated inside, Shane stops and takes a breath, the movement driving Ilya wild and he pulls Shane down to him, lips crashing messily together while he keeps his hips steady. 

“Good?” Ilya asks, revelling as Shane's body vibrates above him. He rubs his hands up and down his sides, soothing the skin as he nods and starts to move. 

They move together slowly, exploring each other with every thrust, and Ilya does his best to not push too much, to let Shane lead them with what feels good to him. It all felt good to Ilya, the way his body held him so tightly, the slide of their torsos together as Shane dipped down to kiss him. He was lost in him, his heart flying as he was allowed to watch the pleasure move in waves across Shane's face, his mind fracturing knowing it was Ilya himself who was giving this to him. 

“I fucking can't,” Shane groans, face twisted up as he palms his own length. 

“Can't what? Talk to me,” Ilya urges, rocking up into him as his pace slows. 

“I want to come so badly, I can't stand it,” he replies, voice gummy and thick with the need. 

“Want me to fuck you now?” Ilya asks and Shane nods, eyes blinking open to meet his, assuring him that he did indeed want that. “Okay, up, on your knees for me.” And Shane pulls off of him, crawling onto his knees as Ilya shifts. 

He doesn't immediately move behind him, instead taking everything they'd learned about each other and practiced these past few months into his slow approach. He starts with his hands, his mouth, tracing along Shane's shoulder and soothing down his spine. 

“Keep arms firm for me, okay?” Ilya instructs, wanting to keep him from collapsing to his stomach and waiting for Shane to agree before moving further down the bed. “If is too much, you tell me, promise?”

“Yes, Ilya. Please, I want it. Want you.” 

Shane rocks back into his hips when he finally settles behind him, Ilya's torso sliding against his spine before he straightens and grabs his hips to steady him. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks as his fingers graze his opening, slipping experimentally inside to gauge the reaction. When he pushes back into them, Ilya smiles and pulls them free before lining himself up with his opening.

He slides into Shane slowly, each inch a battle won over months of patience and rebuilt trust. When he pulls back out, Shane makes a whining noise and Ilya bends to confirm, pleased when Shane messily kisses the knuckles of the hand gripping his shoulder. 

“You can let go, Ilya. I can take it. I want it.” 

Ilya's tether snaps taut at Shane's words, his carefully held restraint fraying with the permission given to him. Still though, he tries, picking up the pace but not letting himself get lost in it, afraid that if he did, and he missed something, it would take too long to put themselves back together after. 

But below him Shane is writhing, sweet sounds escaping from him that remind Ilya of the times before, of the music of his body that had always had him coming back for more. He wanted those noises to be the soundtrack of his nights for the rest of his life, and it makes him take the risk. His hips snap, his thrusts turn rough, and Shane curses as his arms start to collapse under the force. He's almost down to the mattress when Ilya notices it and grabs at his biceps, tugging his torso up until they're flush, chest to back, Ilya's arm banded across Shane's chest while the other holds his hips in place. 

The angle changes and Shane cries out, hands scrabbling for purchase, finding his arm, twisting back into his hair. 

“Fuck, Ilya, don't stop,” Shane whines, needy and desperate and trying so hard to take him deeper as Ilya curses into his neck. 

He feels Shane shudder, his body spasming as the orgasm hits him and pulls him forward, muscles clenching against Ilya's continued hold. His body tightens into a fist, his throat releasing a heady groan that Ilya feels reverberate into his chest, his heart, until his thrusts turn brutal, taking and haphazard as he chases his own release. 

It crashes into him like a tidal wave and he’s winded by it, hips stuttering as he presses himself inside and feels his body pulsing his release into Shane for so long he feels he might pass out. 

Shane is the first to recover enough brain cells to make any purposeful movements, his lips trailing open-mouthed kisses along Ilya’s arm, up to his shoulder, until he’s twisting back and reaching for Ilya’s mouth with his own. Ilya leans into it with a sigh, holding Shane’s chin at an awkward angle until his body starts to relax and he tumbles down onto the mattress, spent and satiated. 

Settling himself onto his back away from the wet spot, Shane pulls Ilya into his arms and kisses him deeply, slowly, letting the breath come back to them both as their bodies return to the earth. 

“Okay?” Ilya asks when he finally pulls away, looking up at Shane with a searching look. 

“More than okay,” he replies and grazes his fingers along Ilya’s cheek so softly that Ilya feels he may break from the sweetness of it. 

They don’t rush. They let the air settle around them, exchanging slow kisses between gentle brushes of skin against skin, the peace found between them certain once more. 

Ilya lets himself sink into the feeling, his heart full with emotions he never wanted to tuck away in his little box. Instead he lets himself feel them for the first time, the easy way the words come to his lips as the sun starts to set over the lakefront outside their windows. 

He loved this man. He knew it now with a certainty that he’d never had before in his life, and it both freed and terrified him to recognize it. 

Shane was the one he wanted to stand beside every day until he died. He didn’t care about the distance, or the way their relationship would change their careers. Those were obstacles they could overcome together, just like this one, if they kept trying to work together on them. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought of them being together - how could it? Not when the alternative was not having him to call his own. 

Ilya knew Shane was it for him and he would climb every metaphorical mountain to be with him, in this life and the next, again and again until their souls were spent. 

He should probably tell him. 

But when he looks up, Shane is smiling, eyes closed, and fingers absently tracing circles on Ilya’s shoulder so Ilya will wait, there was no rush. He had time. They had so much time. 

“Ilya?” Shane says later, after they’ve showered and replaced the sheets, crawled back under the blankets and curled up together to watch the moonlight skate across the water. 

“Mmm,” he hums, glancing up to where Shane’s expression is focused and determined, like he was reviewing game tape in his mind.

“What if you played in Ottawa, after your contract was up in Boston? Would you want to make the move?” Ilya frowns and considers it, wondering why on earth Shane was talking about contracts, of all things. This man was so boring. He loved it. 

“I like Boston, but I do not care where I play, really. I am free agent next year,” he replies with a shrug. “I will go where they pay me. Maybe stay in Boston if they want.” 

“But if Ottawa offered, would you accept? I know they’re terrible, but you’d be closer and my contract isn't up yet so I can't relocate yet. It would only be a two hour drive - “

“Faster if I am behind wheel - “ 

“Sure. But you could be here - we could, um, try. It would be easier. To be together.” 

Ilya examines his face, the way his unreadable mask sits heavy on his skin as though he was afraid that Ilya would call him ridiculous for even thinking it. “We would keep being secrets?” 

“Yes, maybe - but no. Not really. Maybe we could tell some people. Not make it a big thing, but change the narrative a bit. Maybe start an organization or something so people don’t find it weird when we’re seen together. Then later - we could really be together. When we’re both ready.” 

“And you would want this, us together? That far away from now?” Ilya counters, afraid of the answer but needing to know if this was going the same way he thought it would. The same way he hoped it would. 

“Yes. If you wanted it too,” Shane says softly, watching as Ilya looks away and tries to school his features into something calm and collected. He fails, miserably, and Shane guides his eyes back to meet his. “Hey,” he whispers, brushing his curls back from his brow. 

Ilya gives in and climbs over him, kissing his chest, his cheek, all while muttering Я люблю тебя again and again into his skin until he reaches his mouth and the low sob escapes him. “I love you,” he breathes against his lips, eyes seeking as Shane’s stunned expression looks back at him. 

“Holy shit,” Shane replies, wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open. 

“I mean - “ Ilya says then, panicking and starting to withdraw when a full second passes and nothing else is added as his brain screams at him to abort. 

“I love you too.” Ilya hears it cascade over him and his resolve crumbles, his mouth finding Shane’s in a messy kiss before he collapses onto his chest, wishing he could crawl into him and be held safe there forever. 

They fall asleep like this, wrapped in each other's arms, and when Ilya wakes again later, it's to find the bed empty beside him and a silhouette against the first light, perched on a rock near the water. 

He pulls on a sweater and grabs a blanket from the couch, stepping outside the cabin to go to him like being drawn forward by an invisible string. His hands settle the blanket over Shane's shoulders first, before Shane reaches for him and draws him against his chest, arm coming to rest over his shoulders with the blanket wrapped around them. 

They stand together and watch the sun rise from the horizon, the sky shifting its colours in beautiful shades of pink and gold. Ilya turns then to look at Shane and sees the way his expression looks peaceful, no longer torn or on a razor's edge. He looks like a man settled, calm and ready for the life ahead of him. 

And Ilya thinks about how he hadn't thought they'd get this all those months ago, when every outstretched hand felt like a slap. They'd come so far, together, and he realized he too was different for it, his soul lighter. 

“What are you looking at?” Shane asks softly, gaze turning from the sky to where Ilya stands watching him. Ilya smiles, his hand coming out to brush his thumb across Shane's cheek. 

“I'm enjoying the dawn light across these beautiful freckles,” Ilya replies, gentle as Shane's cheeks pink a little further at the thought of being observed. He reaches a hand up and rests it against Ilya's, squeezing it. 

“How could we let this happen?” Shane whispers then, eyes locked on Ilya's as he leans forward to rest their foreheads together. His breath fans across Ilya's face and Ilya reaches his chin forward to kiss him. 

“We are both very stupid and irresponsible,” Ilya answers, lips against his, and Shane smiles, and presses into the kiss again as the light envelopes them.

And the sun rises. The world doesn't end. Together they settle to look towards a future that was uncertain but built from a torn down fortress, old bricks repurposed into a foundation, and little boxes opened, the contents no longer hidden in the dark.

Chapter End Notes

That's it, that's all folks! There may be an epilogue posted or a one-shot as part of the series where Shane tells his parents what happened, but I didn't want it to overshadow this ending which I think is one of the first times I feel like I've managed proper closure to my story, instead of the haphazard "c'est fini". Tell me if you think it's needed or not, perhaps it kicks my brain back into production mode.

Otherwise I hope you enjoyed the ups and downs and the explorations of exploring touch and memory and all that trauma. I hope if this story had any negative impact on you due to the content, that you're able to find the support you deserve to have to help you work through it and move forward when you're ready. Thank you all for reading and sharing your thoughts with me, it was wonderful to pop into this fandom for a little while and get back to writing again.

If you've liked the story, please do feel free to share it with others, you can let me know in the comments how you're feeling, or come follow me for a mixed bag of obsessions over on Tumblr as lollercakesff. Miss you already.