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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Brandon Wiebe, Hayden Pike, Luca Haas, Svetlana Vetrova, Farah Jalali, Harris Drover

Additional Tags:

Past Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Suicidal Thoughts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma Recovery, Not Canon Compliant, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Courtroom Drama, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Oral Sex, Dubious Consent

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Trying

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-20 Completed: 2026-08-31 Words: 66,736 Chapters: 7/7

Restart Again and Again

Summary

The phone rings and Shane startles, fists tightening in his hair as the sound grates against him. Ilya grabs the device from the counter above him and silences it, tossing it towards the living room and away from the tiny, careful bubble he's created. He watches as Shane's eyes close tightly, a small huff of rattling breath escaping him.

“How could there be a video?” He whispers, almost so quietly that Ilya nearly misses it. Maybe he wasn't intended to hear it in the first place.

Or: A sequel to Try, Try Again - the assault happened, Shane recovered, but when someone sends a link to an online video, their world is tipped upside down again.

Heed the tags! We get a bit more graphic in this one, again, I don't go into explicit detail of the assault, but it is referenced and opening scenes of the video are included. If you do not wish to do this to yourself because you like happiness, please, follow your heart and click away.

Notes

Sorry not sorry, this one was sad to write but I couldn't help it. I won't say that these two are above hurting each other when they're hurting because they're not, but they're trying to be better about it. And me? Well, I'm trying to give them an even playing field, handling the storyline with care as much as I can. Of course, if you think there's something glaring and offensive, please let me know (lollercakesff on Tumblr) or just ramble at me in the comments (I adore hearing from you).

I've done my best to try to keep them in character, but sometimes you need them OOC to tell the story. Please know that I know nothing about the Mexican criminal justice system, how trials work, how hockey contracts work, or anything really about real life business deals. I am making some of this shit up to fit my narrative, not reality's. I will post when I want, as the ending is still being... whatever. But I will finish this.

Chapter 1

When Ilya looks back on this moment in twenty years, he's certain that one of his thoughts will be that at least it happened when it did, and not five years earlier. 

Five years before, Shane had still been intensely working through his recovery, testing his limits and trying to sort out the traumatic memories from those tainted by the PTSD from his assault. He hadn’t yet told his parents what had happened to him, nor really come to terms with what it meant for his identity. 

If all of this had happened to him then, Ilya was certain he wouldn't be here today. The edge had been too close then, too tempting, and surely this would have pushed him over it. 

Because right now, as Ilya looked across the kitchen at Shane tucked into the corner cupboards, face hidden behind his knees, Ilya knew he was so close to that edge again that it terrified him. 

And he could do nothing but watch. 

The phone rings and Shane startles, fists tightening in his hair as the sound grates against him. Ilya grabs the device from the counter above him and silences it, tossing it towards the living room and away from the tiny, careful bubble he's created. He watches as Shane's eyes close tightly, a small huff of rattling breath escaping him. 

“How could there be a video?” He whispers, almost so quietly that Ilya nearly misses it. Maybe he wasn't intended to hear it in the first place.

“I don't know, моя любовь,” Ilya replies with a rough voice, one raw from the tears clogging his throat that he refused to let loose. He didn't know what video Shane was talking about, he'd only caught half of the call, but the way Shane had shuttered after was enough for Ilya to know that it was something that had the capacity to break him, even after everything.

Shane sobs once, curling tighter into himself, and it kills Ilya to keep his distance, to listen to what Shane had asked for, which was space. 

Sure, the request for space had been screamed at him when Ilya had tried to corral him after the call from Shane's agent, and maybe he hadn't meant it, but Ilya wasn't going to test it. Not now. Not when in that same breath he'd threatened to jump off a bridge if Ilya so much as touched him. 

No. Ilya wasn't going to push a single inch. He was going to sit here, and stand guard, and feel useless, and do nothing but try to be here for the love of his fucking life who had just had his world turned upside down. Again. 

Two years ago, Ilya had thought they'd made it through the worst of things. Shane had healed, mostly, his nightmares and PTSD symptoms almost non-existent and Ilya had opted to finally try medications for his depression and so when the video of them kissing at Hayden's house had splashed across the internet, they'd weathered the storm together with the tools and solid network they'd built to lean on. It had been rough, but coming out had given them the permission they thought they needed to thrive, to be with each other publicly, to hold hands and kiss and get fucking married. It hadn't been easy, but they'd found solace in one another and they were better for it now. 

But this. Ilya didn't know how this was going to go. 

The fear of what Shane was going to do, how he was going to handle this… Ilya could feel it in his gut, twisting and painful, as his mind kept flashing back to a dark room, his Mama’s limp hand. It was torture. 

He's not sure how long they sit there. It feels like hours, the sun having set and the only light in the house is that of the one over their stove. From the backdoor, Ilya hears Anya cry to be let out and he tries, desperately, to will her back to bed though he knows he'll be unsuccessful, because at least if they didn't move then neither of them would need to confront the issue at hand. 

“I'll get her,” Shane murmurs after a minute and gets to his feet, shoulders curled inward and hair a disjointed mess from where his fingers have pulled at it. 

Ilya watches him, mirroring his movements and keeping his distance as Shane opens the sliding door and Anya bursts into the yard. He waits in the kitchen as Shane stands in the doorway, the freezing winter air making Ilya shiver. Shane barely recognizes the cold, his expression closed off as he waits for Anya to return and then shuts the door once more. Anya tracks snow through the entryway and onto the carpet and Shane doesn't move even though had this been any other moment, in any other time, he would have grabbed her by the collar and wrangled her into the towel he kept by the door for exactly this purpose. Ilya watches silently as Anya bounces through the kitchen towards her bowl, barking once at finding it empty.

“I've got it,” Ilya says, one eye on Shane as he dishes out the kibble into her bowl. When Shane lists away to the living room, Ilya forgets the soft food topping he normally includes and sets the dish down with a clatter. He tries not to rush, to give away how concerned he was, but his poker face is shit and Shane glares at him from the couch as he enters the space to watch him.

“You don't have to shadow me, I'm not going to kill myself,” he grumbles, pushed so far into the couch cushions that he looks like he's being swallowed up by them.

“This is not what you said earlier,” Ilya counters, unwilling to back down from the truth, not when it was this serious. 

He'd learned several things in the years he'd spent doing therapy, and one of them that had always stuck with him was that if someone talked about suicide with a plan, you didn't ignore it. So what if the advice had come up while Ilya had been crying about Shane's confession, his stepping into traffic after his assault with the express purpose of hurting himself - Galina had said it still and it applied. And he'd taken it in, and listened, and remembered, just in case. 

“I got carried away, I didn't mean it.” 

Ilya frowns deeper, palms itching to reach for him. He couldn't tell if he was lying and it made Ilya want to reach for him and shake him until the mask went away and the truth tumbled out of him.

“You said you were going to jump off the Champlain. You broke your phone and that ugly vase and then you told me if anyone touched you again you would walk to the Champlain and jump in the river. This plan takes maybe ten minutes to enact, Island Park is right here. It is first time you are telling me that you are thinking like this in years. I am fucking terrified, Shane, I am not giving you ten minutes alone to try to kill yourself,” Ilya says firmly, though not unkindly. 

He wasn't angry. He was worried. Scared. It was tearing him up inside like shards of glass caught in his skin.

The Champlain Bridge was practically down their road, a frequent route for their jogs or after dinner walks. It was beautiful at sunset. It would be a beautiful place to end things, if there were beautiful places for such ugly things.

He wasn't going to give him the chance to follow through on his threat. It was an unthinkable thought. 

“So, what, you're going to follow me around and track my every move until when? Until you need to use the bathroom and I go crazy and run out the front door?” 

“I will call Yuna and David. We will take shifts. I will call Wyatt and Barrett and Haas. They will come and sit on you. Sveta will be summoned and hex you so you cannot leave the house. Hayden and Jackie can bring the kids and you'll have to explain to them where you're going and I know how much you hate lying to the children. You will have no privacy. I will surround you with the people who love you until this passes because you have many people who will show up and I cannot let you say things like this and pretend like you don't mean it when I'm looking at you and you look like this,” Ilya urges, watching as each name makes him flinch with recognition and the full meaning of his words hits him like a brick. Ilya wasn’t above using Shane’s family and friends to blackmail him into staying alive. He’d deal with how much of a dick move it was later. 

“Ilya, I just… I'm not going to jump off the bridge. I'm not going to kill myself. It was - it was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry - I don't mean it. I don't want to die. I just can't - how am I supposed to exist like this?” His voice cracks and tears, thick and wild, spill down his cheeks until his eyes are red and his nose is running and his whole body has twisted into itself, arms flailing and grasping at nothing before wrapping around his stomach. 

Ilya comes to him then, sinking to his knees near the couch, hands forced to his sides though all he wants is to wrap Shane up in his arms. It was killing him not to soothe with his touch, the thing he'd used so many times to bring them closer together now was the one thing he was certain would push them further apart.

“Дорогой, exist like what?” He murmurs and when Shane looks at him then, Ilya lets the hurt in his expression wash over him in a flood that makes him ache. 

“That this one mistake will haunt me for the rest of my life and I'll never get free of it. That every few years, right when I feel like I'm okay again, it'll come back and send me right back to Mexico and waking up in that bed and wanting to die. I don't want to die. I really don't, Ilya, I promise. But I can't keep living and being afraid that this will keep happening.” 

“Shane, what did Farah say? What happened that brought you back there?” Shane meets his gaze before his brow crumbles again and he covers his face with his hands. 

“Someone sent her a link. To a video that's on one of those free sites,” he whispers, nails digging into his skin and causing red blotches to bloom across his forehead. Ilya wants so badly to pull his hands away but he can't. Instead he listens, holds his breath, waits for Shane to tell him the worst of it. “It's not you. Which means if it's me, it's him. She thinks it's me but she can't tell for sure but the sender… The sender is convinced. And she wants me to check. She doesn't know - I never told her. She thinks it's just a jilted partner. She doesn't know.”

He can't breathe. He can't blink. His mouth is so dry his tongue feels like sandpaper. But his discomfort is nothing compared to the yawning hurt that was swallowing them both. 

“Shane, Shane,” he whispers, the pain evident in every syllable as his tears break free and his heart hurts for this man who kept having things stolen from him, his privacy and his dignity and his solace . “Please - I just - I need… Can I hold you? Please?”

And maybe he shouldn't have asked because it takes Shane a second to meet his eyes, the red rims stark against his pale face. But then Shane is lunging forward into Ilya and curling into his chest, burrowing and clawing at his skin trying to be closer, to press himself into him, and Ilya wraps himself around him, holds tight, and cries because it hurts him too. He loved this man, Shane’s wounds were his wounds, Shane’s wins were his wins. He didn’t know how to love him any other way. 

The pain doesn't ease with the embrace. The fear doesn't settle. It just moves to another extremity, enough for Ilya to press his lips to Shane's temple and breathe him in, the breath shuddering in his chest. 

“I have you,” Ilya says softly, later. He doesn't say it's alright, because it isn't. Nothing is alright. But he's here and Shane is here and they would face this together. 

“I can't watch it,” Shane says into his neck, fingers tight in Ilya's shirt.

“I know. Do you want me to?” He didn't want to see it, he didn't want to know about it, but it existed and they had to confirm because if they didn't, and it gained traction, all of this would be so much worse. If there really was a video of Shane, they would have to confront it before it stole everything they’d worked so hard to build.

“No,” his voice breaks on a moan, body shivering in Ilya's embrace from the last dregs of adrenaline leaving his veins. “I don't - you can't. You'll never be able to look at me the same.”

“Shane,” he sighs and ducks his head to kiss his brow, palm sliding across his cheek to tilt his face up so their eyes can meet. “I will look at you forever like this because I love you. I will see in instant if it is you, and then I stop. Seeing it will not change anything, I couldn't stop loving you if I tried.”

He lets him think it through as he runs his fingers through his hair, face tucked into his neck and lips at his pulse point. The dark creeps further into the room and Anya paws out from the kitchen to curl up at Ilya’s side, her snout resting on Shane’s knee. 

“Message Farah and ask her for the link,” Shane says quietly, later, his breathing steady.

“You are sure?” Ilya counters, shifting to look him in the eye. Shane nods and presses their foreheads together as he takes a shaky breath. 

“I’m going to go upstairs. I don’t - I’m going to shower,” he says and pulls away before Ilya can draw him back to his chest. Ilya watches him go, hands clenched in his lap. 

“Go with him, Anya,” he murmurs as Shane drifts around the corner and up the stairs. Anya gets to her feet and trots after Shane, following him up the stairs and into their bedroom. 

He calls Farah and she picks up on the third ring, her voice thick with sleep. 

“Can you send it to me?” He asks tightly, squeezing the bridge of his nose. 

“I can - but are you sure?” 

“Yes. We need to know and he can’t… It’s complicated,” Ilya adds and there’s a weighted pause on the other end of the line, Farah taking a moment. 

“It’s more than just a video, isn’t it?” She asks carefully and Ilya releases a breath that sounds like a sob. “Okay. I’ll send it. You call me again after you watch it, alright? We’ll discuss a plan.” 

He hangs up and the email pops up almost instantly. In another life, it would be hilarious to be receiving illicit video links from their agent, but in this it was just painful. He clicks the link and lets the video load on his screen as he notices the copy has already received 50,000 views. The screencap is too blurry to identify anything real and he hates that he couldn’t tell just from the image. 

Getting to his feet, he scours the entryway for his headphones and then pulls them on, ensuring the sound was connected so that Shane couldn’t hear it from his place in the bedroom. He steps outside into the cold air of the deck, using the temperature to keep him grounded as he clicks play. 

The video is grainy, the light low, on a side profile shot of a bed. The man’s face flickers across the screen as he ensures the device is recording, before he ducks out of the frame. Ilya can hear a toilet flush and then water running, before the two men collide off-screen. He swallows thickly as he can hear them bumping around the room, winding their way back to the bed with the sound of kissing and soft moans filling his headphones. 

A man is pushed down onto the bed too quickly for Ilya to see him, but he knows it’s the other man who had been in the bathroom. The man who set up the video climbs over him, grabbing the other man's hands and pressing them into the mattress as his face is hidden behind the mess of blankets.

Ilya watches as the two men makeout, the man on top taking control, manhandling the other as he pushes for dominance. Below him, the other man’s moans stop and he shifts his body against the hold, testing, before a heavy palm comes down on his shoulder. 

“Gonna fuck you so good,” the man says harshly and keeps one hand holding the man’s wrists as he uses the other to pull at his belt buckle. 

Ilya holds his breath as he watches the man be flipped onto his stomach, as the hand is pressed into his neck, as his pants are pulled down just enough to expose his ass. 

“No - what are you - ?” A muffled voice sounds between the scraping breaths filling the audio. 

“Shut up and take it,” the man orders and bites the other man’s shoulder until he cries out. With one hand at the back of the man’s neck and the other shoving up his shirt, Ilya cries out lowly at the sight of a scar that seems too familiar to be a coincidence. 

The man below him tries to get up on his knees, to knock the other man away with his bodyweight, before the man on top grabs his legs and pulls them out from under him until he’s flat on the mattress, knees pressing into the backs of the man's thighs.

“The fuck - get off me!” 

The voice is too familiar.

Ilya stops the video. 

He stares at the image on screen as his vision blurs. Then he hits Report Video and curses as it asks him for a login. He dials Farah and she picks up on the first ring. 

“I will need criminal defense lawyer. I’m going to commit murder.”

He finishes his call with Farah and by the time it’s done, the anger has dissipated and all that remains is an ache so deep that it echoes from the core of him, riddling out into his limbs until they’re numb. Climbing the stairs, he measures his breath and tries to calm his racing heart, entering the bedroom and finding Shane curled up with Anya against his chest despite every rule he’d held fast to about keeping Anya from their bed. He goes to them silently, stripping off his outside clothes before lifting the duvet and crawling under it. 

He doesn’t ask for permission, instead curling his body around Shane’s as carefully as he can, holding him to his chest and pressing his nose into the crux of his shoulder. 

“It’s real, isn’t it?” He asks softly, fingers slow as they pet Anya’s fur. Ilya nods, once, and tightens his arms as Shane’s body tenses. Shane ducks his face into Anya’s neck and releases a low moan that Ilya will hear forever in his nightmares. 

Ilya doesn’t sleep but he thinks Shane might, after the tears have eased and his breathing has softened to a slow and steady beat. When the morning light peeks through the blinds, Ilya crawls out of bed with Anya and leaves Shane asleep on the mattress, heading downstairs to let her out and dish out her food. 

Returning to the bedroom a few minutes later, Ilya finds Shane sitting upright, head against the headboard, eyes clenched shut. 

“What did Farah say?” He asks, hearing Ilya re-enter the room and feeling him climb onto the bed and lay his head onto Shane’s lap. 

“She is launching cease and desist letters, contacting website, hiring firm to scour internet for copies. Her team will hire company to trace the source.”

“Could you - was his face in the video?” Ilya nods and Shane’s breath shakes on his exhale. 

“She wants to know if you want to press charges.” The sound that escapes above him has Ilya lifting himself up until he’s wrapping his body around Shane and pulling him in, holding him tightly, pressing himself into his frame until there’s no space left between them. “You do not need to do anything today, моя любовь.” 

Ilya lets him cry until he falls asleep again, tucked into his lap, hand soft in his hair. He texts Yuna and tells her that they need to talk, then he messages Farah and asks for an update. 

Farah sends him a fifteen point list of actions she’s taken and responses she’s received. Her next messages are sets of questions she needs answers to, ranging from simple to life-altering. He thanks her and says he’ll be in touch. 

When Yuna calls an hour later, Ilya excuses himself into the hallway and shuts the bedroom door to block out his noise. 

“What is it, dear?” She asks and Ilya can hear the sound of what was probably a supermarket on her end of the call. 

“There’s a video. From Mexico. Farah has it. I need you to take over, I - I can’t - “ he pauses, drags in a breath, “I don’t understand all she needs. And I need to be here. I can’t do both.” 

“Ilya, what? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Yuna’s voice wavers, the sound almost foreign because she has never wavered, not once in the time Ilya has known her. 

“Yes. I watched part. Is him.” 

“How is he?” Her voice cracks and Ilya can hear her rushing out of the store, her breathing picking up as she apologizes and pushes out into the parking lot where the sound behind her changes. 

“Is scared. I am scared for him. He says scary things. Is why I need to be here.” 

“What kind of scary things, Ilya?” 

“Last night he said he would jump from Champlain. He says he is sorry, that he doesn’t mean it, but - “

“But he still said it. Okay. I will call Farah and send David as backup.” 

“No, not yet - just - I think is a lot. He is sleeping again. But maybe later tonight. For dinner. You both come and we talk. I won’t let him go anywhere, just in case.” 

“Are you sure, hun? It’s no trouble, David can come - “ 

“I think we need just some time. I will call if things change, okay? I promise this. I will take care of him.” 

“I know, honey. I know you will. Okay - I will call Farah and we will come for dinner. I’ll bring something, don’t worry about cooking.” 

He hangs up and returns to the room, finding Shane up and sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. Ilya moves to sit beside him, hands in his lap, as Shane rubs briskly at his face. “Was that Mom?” Ilya nods and Shane looks at the floor, his breathing tight. “She can’t watch it. I can’t have everyone watching it.” 

“She’s not going to watch. She is going to manage with Farah. Nobody else needs to watch it. We know it is real. We never have to watch it again,” he adds even though he knows it’s unlikely that they’ll be able to escape it forever. If there was a trial… He didn’t want to think that far ahead. “They’re going to come for dinner.” 

“Okay,” he replies with a groan and looks up and out their window, face drawn down in a frown. “Ilya… I’m sorry for this. I never wanted it to be like this.” 

“I know. But you don’t need to apologize. I love you. Am with you. We will be okay.” 

“Yes. We will be because you know what’s funny?” He asks, turning to look at Ilya then, his face twisted up in some semblance of a bitter smile. Ilya raises a brow in question. “He’s on camera. We can find him and put him in jail for what he did to me. He’s trying to ruin my life but he’s only going to ruin his own.” 

Ilya smiles then because Shane’s voice isn’t the broken one from last night, it’s rekindled, brighter, the one he uses before the playoffs when he wants to win. “You sound ready to fight,” Ilya replies and Shane nods, grabbing his cheek roughly with his hand. 

“I am. I’m tired of letting him beat me. I’m not letting him have this anymore. I’ve done so much work to fix myself after what he did to me - I’m not going to be afraid of him anymore. That night - I can still feel it in my bones, but it doesn’t smother me like it used to. I was so scared that last night was going to be like how it was before - but it wasn’t. It was so different because I’m different.” 

“Yes, you are. Is very brave and beautiful to be so strong,” Ilya offers and Shane nods, leaning in to kiss him softly, foreheads pressing together. 

“Can I touch you? Or are you still… Upset about - “ Shane murmurs against his lips, hiding his face from Ilya who has to duck and press a finger under his chin to lift his eyes up. 

“Shane,” he replies gently, catching his gaze and resting his palm against his cheek, thumb soft on his chin. “I didn’t watch full video. I saw this scar,” he adds and presses his thumb to Shane’s hip, holding steady. “This is all I need to know is you. I do not need or want to see the rest. You told me what happened to you. It doesn’t change who I love. It doesn’t change that this man that I love still makes me crazy in best way. So yes - touch me. Hold me. Kiss - “ 

He’s cut off by Shane’s mouth crashing into his, teeth mashing against his lips as he crawls into his lap and presses himself against Ilya until they’re falling back on the mattress and their hands are everywhere, pulling and seeking and taking. 

Ilya lets Shane lead, their hips grinding together as Shane straddles him, taking his breath and moaning into his mouth as his hands remain gentle on his cheeks. There’s an urgency, yes, but a promise too to remain soft, to take but hold each other carefully, preciously. Ilya follows where Shane goes, chasing after his mouth as he lifts up to pull his shirt from his frame. 

Soon their clothes are on the floor, their lengths hard in Shane’s grip, faces resting against one another as he pulls at them slowly, carefully, the pace overwhelming for Ilya as he tries to stay in the present. When Shane shifts forward and reaches for the lube, Ilya traces kisses across his chest, over his ribs, up to his heart. 

Shane sinks down on him slowly, letting himself adjust from the minimal prep he’d done before taking what he needed. Ilya huffs a breath out as his hips reach his lap and his hands lock on his waist, holding tight. He can feel the scar under his fingers and he grazes it softly, reverently, before shifting up to kiss him again. 

When Ilya sinks back down to the mattress, he pulls Shane’s body with him, keeping their mouths connected as they rock together slowly. Neither of them hurry, finding comfort in the way their bodies have slotted together so perfectly, hearts near beating out of their chests. He thinks part of him may fly away if Shane doesn’t keep him pressed to the mattress with his weight, the bliss of being inside of him making him feel light. 

“I love you,” Shane whispers as his hips shift more purposely, the pre-cum from his tip smearing across Ilya’s torso. 

“Я тоже тебя люблю,” he replies gently, their noses brushing together as his hips roll upward. His hands splay across his back, cradling him forwards, as Shane moans and shifts and sighs against him. 

“I want you to fuck me. I want to forget yesterday,” he adds and slows his movements to make eye contact, his palm soft against Ilya’s cheek. “Can you please trust me to know this is what I want?” Ilya nods because they had done so much work to know how to ask for what they needed, despite everything. He trusted Shane to know his body now, to understand when his memories were too strong and when he simply wanted Ilya to do something because he wanted it, and nothing else. 

They flip over in a practiced move and Ilya trails kisses over Shane’s spine, marking him with his lips up to his shoulders and back. He moves slowly inside of him, taking his time to give Shane a minute to settle into himself on his hands and knees. 

“Is okay?” Ilya asks evenly, hands soft on his torso. 

“Yes. I’ll tell you if I need to stop, I promise,” he replies and eases himself down onto his forearms, his body steadying against the rocking pace Ilya has kept. Ilya takes a breath and then snaps his hips forward, not too hard but enough to cause Shane to grunt and moan. “Again.” 

And Ilya complies, setting a brutal rhythm that has them both breathless, sweat slicked and shivering against the onslaught of pleasure and feeling that barrels through them. He feels his cock sliding home, deep, with each thrust, and Ilya groans as Shane tightens below him, his body tensing with each press before releasing once again. When Shane’s cries become disjointed, Ilya leans forward and lets his forehead press into his spine, mouth soft on his skin as he rocks into him. 

“Am close, дорогой,” Ilya whispers into his skin, enjoying the way Shane thrusts back onto his withdrawal, taking what he needed from his body. 

“Ilya, please,” he moans and Ilya could never deny him. He takes his shoulder in his hand and rolls them until Shane is on his back and Ilya has slotted between his legs. Ilya lifts his knees and thrusts into him sharply, palm wrapping around his cock and jerking his length. He feels the orgasm hit him like a brick wall, the sweet ache of it ripping through him as he presses into Shane as deep as he can get. Below him, Shane’s hips stutter and he paints their chests with his spend, body tightening with each aftershock. Ilya drops down to kiss him then, mouth and tongue and breath mixing as he tries to stem the wave of emotion that rattles through him. 

The tears come as he sinks down onto his chest, mouth tracing over every inch of Shane’s face, over every freckle and hair. He lets himself adore, holding him tightly despite their shared mess, despite the way their bodies ached and their hearts clamoured against their chest walls. Shane’s hands stay pressed to his cheeks, holding him close, the tears he sheds quiet and pained but not from this. 

“I love you so much,” he whispers into Ilya’s mouth, holding him tightly as the hurt and the love and the pain and the memory shifts through them both. 

They spend the afternoon not far from each other’s reach, bodies orbiting one another as they move through the house. Neither of them check their phones, instead focusing on playing with Anya, on tidying the kitchen, on finding the number for the air conditioner guy who needed to come do their annual service. When the Hollanders arrive later, they’re more steady than any of them expect to be, Shane accepting bone crushing hugs from his parents before Ilya is pulled into the embrace with them. 

It’s only over dinner later that the mood shifts and the reason for the day rears its ugly head once more. 

“Shane,” David says as he pours them another glass of wine, setting down the bottle and clasping his hands together. Shane looks up from his plate and frowns, looking between the three people who all have their eyes locked on him. When he looks back at his father, he’s surprised to see how steady he is while both Yuna and Ilya twist nervously in their seats. “Ilya said this has been difficult on you. He said you spoke about jumping off the Champlain.” 

Shane jerks his head towards Ilya and frowns. Ilya reaches for Shane’s wrist and presses his thumb to his pulse point. “I had to tell them. They need to know.” 

“I apologized. I didn’t mean it,” Shane says lowly, looking across the table at Ilya before turning to meet his mother’s eyes, and then his father’s. “I’m not going to hurt myself.” 

“We would feel better about it if you spoke to your therapist again. We know you’ve stopped going because things have been better, but this is important and it’s going to be difficult for the next little while. It’s okay to be upset and say things, but we’re concerned because this - Shane, this is frankly scary language. We aren’t trying to force you, we just want you to know that we’re here to support you and that we care. We take this seriously, like we’ve talked about, remember?” 

Ilya watches as Shane nods, ducking his head. He doesn’t withdraw like Ilya expected and that was progress, he thought. David had been the right one to say it because Shane had once told him that he always listened to his father because his words were always so measured. If David spoke, it meant he had something valuable to say, he was never someone to fill silence if he could avoid it. 

“I’m sorry - “ 

“No,” three chorused voices chime together and Ilya tightens his grip, just slightly. “We love you. You don’t need to apologize,” Yuna adds and reaches forward to rest her hand on his shoulder. 

“I’ll call him tomorrow. I just - I need you guys to know that I’m not going to - I was scared. Farah caught me off guard with this and I just… I don’t want to die. I promise you. Please don’t worry.” 

“Honey, we’re your parents, we will always worry. But thank you for telling us this and calling tomorrow. We’ll support you with whatever you need, alright? You just have to call or text and we’ll be there. You’re not facing this alone,” Yuna answers and Shane nods, letting the moment settle before turning and pressing a kiss to Ilya’s cheek, holding himself there for a breath. 

When he draws back, he forces a small smile and picks up his fork again, signalling that they could return to the meal. They all return to their plates and Ilya makes a joke to try to bring a lightness back to the meal. It works. 

The next few days pass in a blur that Ilya tries to keep up with. Every lunch is spent meeting with Yuna and sometimes Farah, or a lawyer, or a publicist. They've traced the video upload to a dead end, but the lawyers in Mexico have it on good authority that the police are familiar with the man from the video. 

“We've succeeded in getting the copies we know about down and we have teams monitoring to see if others show up, but Shane,” Farah pauses on the other end of the call. “Please keep in mind the reality of what we're dealing with here. The internet is like a hydra - you cut off one head and two often reappear. You need to be prepared for this possible outcome.”

“I know. I understand,” Shane says and grips Ilya's hand harder. 

“Good. We still think that even if it did get out, we can deny it's even you since there's very little to identify you. But if we proceed with the charges, this will likely change. I'd like you all to seriously discuss how you will manage this. My team is preparing a plan, reactive lines, case management, media inquiries, etc. We can discuss it next week.”

“Thank you Farah, we appreciate all of your work on this,” Yuna says and they end the call with their goodbyes. 

Ilya watches as Yuna pats Shane's shoulder before excusing herself to the kitchen to make tea. 

“If they find him,” Shane says after Yuna is out of earshot, his gaze turned down towards their linked hands. 

“Do you want that I kill him?” Ilya asks, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Shane's palm as he looks up at his shocked expression. “No?” 

“Ilya, don't joke about that,” he replies, mouth in a tight line though his eyes dance with a smile against his best judgement.

“I'm not. I would do this for you. Would be easy.” 

He says it because it’s true. Ilya was doing his best to be the steady rock in the storm that Shane needed, but inside he was adrift in his own hurricane, the rage and the hatred for this man clawing and shredding his insides in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. He was desperate to put it all back into his box but he was out of practice and the hinges were rusty and he didn’t think it would all fit even if he tried. 

The idea of murdering the man was unreasonable, sure, and he probably wouldn’t do it. But he’d never been closer to thinking he would be justified for something so heinous and that was a worrying thought in and of itself. 

So - he tried not to think about it in too much detail and hoped if, when, the time came, he wouldn’t have to face the choice. 

“I don't - “ Shane’s words are cut off by Ilya's kiss, gentle, tentative, as he tries to still the racing of his own heart at the thoughts spinning in his head. 

“Is okay. No need to decide today. What do you want to do?” He counters, hands wrapping around Shane's as he leans forward into his space and rubs his thumb over the back of his hand.

“I want him to go to prison. I want him to rot there. But the trial… If it comes to that, I’m not sure I could get on the plane to go back. And how long would I have to be there? I don’t know anything about the justice system in Mexico - and what if there’s a trial and it’s during the season? I can’t just miss games because I’m stuck in court - everyone will know and I’ll never escape it. It will fucking haunt me until I retire. Can you imagine what Crowell will say?” 

“Shane, these are real concerns, but maybe we start smaller. Do you want him to be charged?” Shane nods his head and Ilya nods along with him, squeezing his hands. “And you are okay to tell court what happened?” He nods again and Ilya kisses his knuckles. “You will go, if you have to, to face him in court?” 

He hesitates and Ilya tugs him into his chest, holding him tightly as Shane releases a shaky breath. “I don’t want to go back there.” 

“I know, дорогой,” he whispers, running his hand along his spine in what he hopes is a soothing pattern. “But we do hard things, yes? Together?” 

“You can’t miss the season sitting in a courtroom with me. The Cens will never forgive us,” Shane says on an exhale, his fingers pressing into his eyes as he tries to keep the tears from falling. 

“I will be where my husband needs me to be, is no problem. I talk to Wiebe, he will understand. Maybe I don’t see whole trial, but I will be there when you need me.” Shane huffs out a laugh and leans his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder, letting himself be soothed. “You deserve justice. Even if is hard.” 

“What am I going to say when they ask if this is why I'm gay?” He says into Ilya's shoulder, voice cracking midway. 

Ilya has to take a breath to steady himself because the question rocks him to the core. “Shane, мое солнышко, my love,” he whispers, hand coming up to rest on the back of his head. “You don't owe them any explanation. Anyone who asks will receive detailed explanation from my fist.”

“You can't beat up the internet, Ilya,” Shane sighs, shifting to press his forehead into Ilya's chin. 

“I can find Russian hacker, they can setup virtual fist. Would be cheap, good deal because they are my people.” 

“Not for much longer, not if your citizenship application gets approved.”

“It will be approved. But does not matter - hackers want money, I have money to pay. We speak same language, understand same world. Would be simple.”

“And you're willing to knock out a reporter on TSN live?” He continues with the little game, face drifting against his neck. 

“What kind of reporter asks such dumb question? We already tell them how long you have been gay. What? They cannot do math? Answer is obvious and question will get them fired. Yuna would see to it.”

“I know,” he sighs and tightens his embrace. 

“He didn't make you this way, Shane. You know this, yes? If anything, he pushed you into arms of woman when you had best MLH player already kneeling at your feet, or do you not remember?” Ilya chides gently and ducks his head until their noses are pressed together. He steals a kiss against Shane's small smile. “This happened to you. It hurt you. You are still recovering but you are so strong. You will dance around bigoted questions and you will make anyone who dares to ask cry into unemployment insurance checks. You are Shane fucking Hollander, you will not be cowed by this.”

“I'm Shane fucking Hollander,” he repeats, kissing Ilya between each word. “And I will not be cowed by this.”

“Exactly.” 

“And if anyone asks me how I lost the fight - “

“They will not ask you this.” 

“I was going to say if anyone does ask, I can show them the kickboxing skills I discovered in recovery,” Shane finishes with a grin.

“You take one class, please,” Ilya counters woefully and Shane laughs, curling his hand into a fist and punching it playfully against Ilya's cheek. “Mоя любовь, please, look at this fist?” Ilya crows and pulls it back from his face. “You wrap your fingers around your thumb - impact breaks your thumb. Will be very pathetic attempt. Best leave this violence to me. I could use the outlet.”

“Ilya - “ 

“Okay boys, let's talk strategy,” Yuna cuts in, returning to the room with a tray laden down with tea that she sets on the table. The two pull apart and turn to face her, a bit more prepared for what came next.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Ilya starts his spiral, oh how the turn tables... Or something

Three days after the strategy call, Ilya breaks Dallas Kent's nose in their game against Toronto. 

Shane is there somehow, caught between lines, to pull him off, cursing him for letting himself get caught up as he fights to push him towards the penalty box, other members of the Cens standing by and ready to help even though Shane shouts at them to give him space. 

Ilya struggles against his hold, fighting to break free and land another hit on the ‘fucking rapist’ Ilya snarls at currently kneeling on the ice. 

He normally wasn't a fighter, not really. A pest, sure, always one to chirp and pull a penalty from the other team when he could, and maybe that sometimes meant he had to throw a punch or two, but rarely did he pull them first. He knew how to fight though, and he knew, especially well, how to end them, and that had worked in his favour today even though he usually didn't give in.  

But tonight… He couldn't just let the taunts go. Not with the posts Harris had told him about. Not with the slurs Kent had used. Not with the anger that hadn't truly left him from the moment it coiled tight in his gut after he'd closed the screen on that video. 

“Rozanov, fucking pull yourself together,” Shane yells at him, grabbing the chin strap of his helmet and forcing Ilya to meet his gaze for the first time since he swung. He sees the frustration clear in Shane's expression, but below it, a sadness, a recognition that this was more and he knew it. “Don't make me ask Coach to bench you, please.”

“Shane - “ 

“No. We're in the middle of a fucking game, get in the fucking box. We'll fucking talk about this later you fucking - “ 

“Fucking what?” Ilya growls and Shane yanks the strap, hard.

“You fucking beautiful motherfucker,” Shane finishes and Ilya grins, blood in his teeth from where Kent's stick had caught him on the way down. 

He sits on the bench in the penalty box and wipes the blood from his chin, watching as Shane skates back to the bench where he talks to Wiebe. The whistle blows a few seconds later and the game restarts, Ilya feeling his chest constrict more with every passing breath. 

The box does nothing to calm him and when the door opens he bursts back onto the ice and steals the puck from a half-assed pass, breaking away to bury it deep in the net and sending the goal horn blaring. He doesn’t even celebrate it, instead he skates to their bench and grabs at the trainer's arm, motioning towards the tunnel. 

They exit the bench after Shane has cycled on for his shift and only once he’s safely out of sight in the tunnel does Ilya collapse into a crouch against the cement wall. The trainer, a young kid named Matt, drops down beside him and begins working quickly through his checklist of potential injuries. 

“Head? Neck? Limbs? Ribs?” 

“Can't breathe,” Ilya manages and Matt begins pulling his gear, knocking hard on the glass to signal the assistant trainer to come help him. When the initial scan for injuries is clear, the two trainers prop Ilya between them and half carry, half drag him back to the dressing room where they sit him on a bench. The rest of his upper gear is removed and the assistant grabs one of the oxygen tanks from the medical closet before snapping a mask over his face. 

“What's going on, Rozanov? Did you get injured? Where? What happened to cause you to have trouble breathing?” Matt asks, voice calm despite his hurried movements in checking over his frame for a physical sign of what was happening. 

Ilya simply shakes his head and tries to focus on breathing what little oxygen he can manage from the breather, his vision darkening around the edges. 

“If it wasn't an injury, and your chest doesn't have any impact bruising, I think maybe it's mental. Have you had panic attacks before?” Ilya shakes his head and Matt sinks to a crouch, until they're eye to eye. “Try this with me?”

Matt talks him through some breathing exercises and slowly Ilya's chest loosens, his heart coming back to a less erratic bursting staccato. When finally he can take a full breath, Matt grins and takes the mask from his face. 

“How?” Ilya manages, rubbing his chest and marveling at the way it feels less pained than it has all week. 

“Isn't my first rodeo. You have a doctor monitoring this, right?” 

“No, is first time it happens.” He doesn't mention how many times he's helped Shane through his own because that wasn't his story to tell. He probably should have recognized it though, at the very least.

“Alright. Well, I'm going to mention this to the doc and he's going to want to follow up with you. I'm thinking maybe you sit out the rest of the game - they can take a lot out of you and with the fight earlier, it seems like maybe you could use a break.”

“I don't need break,” Ilya grumbles and Matt sighs, raising his brows in challenge before a cascading noise echoes down the hallway towards them. 

“What the fuck Rozanov?” Shane is the first one through the tunnel into the dressing room and Matt gets up from his knees, shooting Ilya a look before turning to cut off Wiebe at the entrance. Shane drops to where Matt had been and brackets Ilya's face in his hands, thumbs pressing hard into his cheeks. “What is going on in this fucking head?”

Ilya glances up and sees the team filing in quietly behind Shane, their gazes averted as though they were trying not to impose on something private. And maybe they were, Ilya realized, as he looked back down at Shane and noticed the blatant concern on his face, no longer hidden under the frustration from the ice. 

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs and Ilya tries. He tries. But his heart hurts and he's still so angry and he can't figure out how to open the box again and shove everything back inside. 

His crumbling expression is hidden when Shane gets to his feet, blocking his frame from the team, as he squeezes the back of his neck, the gesture one that gave him permission to look at the floor, to take comfort in a touch that nobody else would know to be the one thing that comforted him above all else. He doesn't cry, but his eyes water and his throat tightens as gentle fingers press into his muscles in their practiced way. 

“Alright, guys, let's focus here, we still have another period left ahead of us,” Bood says, drawing the team's attention away from the tender moment they were all desperately trying not to witness. 

Ilya sits out the remainder of the game and by the time it ends, 3-2 in their favour, he's already showered and dressed, laying on one of the benches in the corner, pointedly ignoring Sveta’s calls and texts about his disappearance from the ice. 

The team does their best to check-in with him as they clean up, kind and reassuring words of platitudes delivered with an earnestness that Ilya knows is real. Haas stays for a particularly long time, trying to make a joke even though it lands flat. He appreciates every one, but when Shane races through his postgame routine and suggests they take an Uber back to the hotel ahead of the bus, he doesn't argue, just mutters an apology to the team before following him from the room. 

They don't talk the whole way back, not until they're firmly locked in their hotel room and Ilya is sitting on the bed as Shane paces the small space. 

“You're mad at me,” Ilya states, watching Shane track a hole in the carpet, his body tired and his head spinning. 

“I'm not mad,” Shane counters but continues his march, back and forth and back and forth until Ilya is dizzy with it. 

“You're mad I started fight. Mad I couldn't keep playing and we almost lost.” 

“Ilya, I'm not fucking mad,” Shane states and turns to face him, hands on his hips. Ilya raises an eyebrow and Shane huffs, dropping his arms to his sides as he looks at the ceiling. “You’re too smart to get caught up by fucking Kent. What the fuck?” 

“Still sound mad,” Ilya grumbles and Shane curses, covering his face with his hands for a second before pressing his palms together in front of his nose. 

“I’m - okay, I’m a little mad. But I’m more concerned. This is not how you usually play and the last game - it’s like you’re looking for a fight. You almost got into it with Kyllo on Saturday. Nobody gets in fights with him, he's impossible to rile, and yet you almost managed. What is going on with you?” 

“Is nothing,” Ilya lies and Shane rolls his eyes, coming to sit beside him on the mattress, shoulders touching. 

“It’s not nothing, Matt told Wiebe you had a panic attack. You can’t be stealing my moves, Rozanov, the team can’t handle two players losing their shit during the season.” Ilya can’t help it, he laughs, and reaches for Shane’s hands and pulls them into his lap, squeezing his fists. 

“We are team of misfits, Cens have already accommodated both of our mental shitshows and is fine. Besides, you knew this about me for years, it only now bothers you?” Shane looks accosted, staring at him with wide eyes. Ilya doesn't deserve this man, not for one minute.

“I - it doesn’t bother me. You know it doesn’t. I just want to help - whatever it is. But you have to talk to me.” 

“You have too many things right now. I will be okay,” Ilya replies and kisses his knuckles, leaning his head on Shane’s shoulder and letting himself breathe evenly, desperate to give off a false impression of someone who had their shit together even though he apparently very much did not. 

“Are you not telling me what’s going on because you’re afraid I can’t handle it? Because I’m not a fucking child, I can handle a lot of shit. What I can’t handle is my husband starting fights with garbage humans for no reason.” 

“Garbage humans who are like man who hurt you,” Ilya murmurs under his breath, twisting their hands together and squeezing tighter, afraid Shane will pull away. He doesn’t, and Ilya takes another deep breath. 

“Ilya,” Shane sighs and shifts to look at him, Ilya can practically feel the brown depths boring into the side of his skull. “You can't start fighting because of something that happened years ago. We need to be able to move forward.”

“This is happening right now.”

“I know, but you know what I mean. It happened a long time ago, we can't keep being upset about it.”

Ilya looks at him then, expression shuttered and eyes searching because he didn’t understand how Shane could say this, not when every move from this man for the past five years had been a planned execution of his determination to ‘get over’ what happened to him. “I don't know what you mean. I know you try to pretend like is just another event you must conquer, but you forget I know your body. I know how you try to hide how it affects you. But I feel it. Every night. You barely sleep again now. And you are coiled so tightly when you do sleep, even now, your muscles are tight. Are you not tired? Are you not angry? It is happening now, still, even if you do not think it is.”

Beside him, Shane sighs and Ilya feels him try to relax, feels him fail at it because the tension was still there in his frame. 

“I am angry, but I can’t change anything. I can only manage how I react to it. And I'm choosing to not take that anger out on those around me - “

“I only hit man who deserves it because I can't hit who I want. I don't take it out on everyone, I target it, otherwise I keep this anger inside because I try like you to choose what I do.”

“Is that what's going on? Are you looking for an outlet? Like you said the other day when Mom brought the tea?” 

“I think yes, maybe,” Ilya responds, not daring to meet his eyes. He was trying to be honest because he owed at least that much to Shane, even if it felt like too much to give. “But is more, probably.”

“Yeah?” Shane offers, encouraging him by running his fingers through his hair, like he'd once told Shane reminded him of his Mama. Ilya would have felt like it was a dirty trick, if he didn't already think that Shane wasn't judging him for this, simply letting him share how he was feeling. There was something so soft about being allowed to have this, the open acceptance and patience, that Ilya felt it crack something open in his chest. 

“I don't - I feel like I fail you, if I can't be strong. You have too many things coming at you and it is - I don't want to be something you need to manage. I am trying to be strong and keep these things in control, but they are so many and I am only one,” he finishes, voice rough, somehow deflated and overdrawn. 

“You,” Shane starts, pauses, takes another breath. “You are not failing me. Ilya, we are not testing one another about whether we'll stick around. You cannot ‘fail’ me because I'm not looking for a pass. We are partners, husbands. My shit is your shit and your shit is my shit. We have many things coming at us. Not at just you or just at me. This all - it might have started with me, but you are who I go to when it's too much and I want to be the same for you.” 

“I cannot put more on you. You told me you were going to jump off a bridge if I touched you,” Ilya whispers, terrified but needing to say it because if he didn't, he felt like he might die. Which maybe in retrospect was a bit much, but it didn't stop him from feeling it. 

“Are you still upset about that?” Shane counters coldly and his hand stops carding through Ilya’s hair, palm like a dead weight against his skull. 

Ilya takes his response and settles it in his chest, a blooming hurt echoing out from his heart, into his veins. It makes him feel heavy, like his limbs are filling with cement and his spine has become fragile. “No,” he replies and it's a bold-faced lie but how could he possibly say yes when Shane wore a look of frustration so clear on his face at the very mention of it, like he couldn’t believe Ilya would dare to still be upset over something so frivolous. 

“Okay,” Shane says after a moment and then leans in to kiss him, gentle, chaste. “We can talk about it when we’re back home. I think tonight we should just sleep - you must be exhausted, after the game and everything.” 

Ilya nods and tries not to feel like the fissure that had opened in him wasn’t about to swallow him whole. 

They order room service and get ready for bed and Ilya tries, he really does, not to reach for Shane, or draw him in, determined to listen and fall in line with the expectations set upon him to share, but only so much of what he was feeling. There was a limit that Shane would consider and he had drawn the line and now Ilya needed to stay within it. 

He didn’t feel like their conversation was done - they both still had so much more to say, he thought - but this wasn’t the place and this wasn’t the time and he would try to accept that, even though climbing into the bed and letting Shane rest his head on his chest still felt like they were miles apart. 

Ilya dreamt that night about being on an island, staring across an ever expanding sea as Shane stood on the other side, distracted even as Ilya reached for him. When he woke up, Shane was already gone, probably down in the lobby. Ilya had felt him get up, had let himself be hushed when he’d tried to follow, then had laid there for an hour, waiting for him to come back even though he knew he wouldn’t. 

The distance felt like it was stretching and he said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t grow so far that they couldn’t find their way back. 

Sveta calls him as soon as he walks through the door, like she had an alarm set on her phone or a secret camera set up on their driveway to monitor their comings and goings. He wouldn’t put it past her, somedays, she was always spookily accurate in her timing and it did make him wonder. 

“Say hi for me,” Shane whispers and takes their bags up to their room, leaving him to head towards the kitchen and start on dinner as he picks up the call. Her Russian spills out in a mess that overwhelms him at first, the rapid fire of her words hitting him like a barrage of bullets. 

“You cannot ignore me like this, Ilyusha! I cannot be texting your husband asking him if you died because you won’t answer me. It is pathetic. For you, not for me.” 

“Hello to you too, Sveta,” Ilya sighs, rubbing his face as he begins pulling ingredients from the fridge. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. It’s been difficult. But you are right, I shouldn’t avoid you.” 

“Ah, you see, he admits now he was avoiding me,” she cajoles and Ilya nods, setting the phone down and putting it on speaker. “Why is it difficult? Your team is not bad anymore, you get to play with your husband every day, it seems like a dream life.” 

“There are… Issues. I do not think I can go into details, they are not mine to share.” She hums and he can see her now, debating whether to press him on it or not. 

“Is it an issue between you, or a problem he is facing and because you are so codependent, it is also affecting you?” He grins sadly as she hits the nail on the head, her aim perfect once again. 

“We are not codependent,” Ilya says instead of answering, hopeful that he could distract her into proving her case rather than digging for answers. He knew she was right, but still, maybe it would work. 

It doesn’t. 

“So, it is your issue too. Serious, or serious because Shane is always very serious?” 

“He’s not always very serious, that is just when he’s on the ice. You know this.” 

“He is spun up tighter than a coil and you know it. Whatever. Okay. So it is serious. You see, every deflection means it’s the worse option, you cannot deflect with me, love.” He smiles because it’s true and he has no defense against it. “Obviously it affects you because you are mushy man and care too deeply. Can you fix the problem?” 

“No. It happened a long time ago but there is something new that has come up,” Ilya says evenly, dumping the whole wheat pasta into the pot of boiling water. 

“So you cannot change the situation but it has you beating the shit out of assholes and then missing games for undisclosed medical reasons. Interesting. Does it have to do with his miserable season?” 

Her question makes him suddenly flashback to the call they’d had when Shane had first told him about what happened to him and the advice he’d sought from Sveta and her own story. She’d never asked him after, whether the woman he’d spoken to her about was Shane, but she must have suspected, especially when she knew before he did how deep his feelings ran. “You can’t tell him you know,” Ilya says roughly, setting down the vegetables he was chopping. 

“I know nothing, love. I suspect but it is not my place to ask. He would tell me if he wanted to.” 

“It’s just - nobody knows. Only his parents. It is - the story it would make, if it got out -” 

“Ilya,” Shane says from behind him, a spark of panic jolting up his spine. Shane’s Russian was better than it used to be, but he still missed some things. Ilya hoped - “You can tell her. It’s Svetlana. She’s kept your secrets all these years, she can keep mine for a few months.” 

“Shane, come tell me how you are,” Sveta calls out, raising her voice to be heard across the room from the phone speaker. 

“Hi Sveta - it’s good to hear from you,” Shane replies, coming to Ilya’s side and taking the bits of discarded food waste to toss it in the compost. 

“Ilyusha was just ignoring my requests to hear how he is, after this horrible game with Toronto.” 

“He had a panic attack in the tunnel -” 

“Ilyusha -”

“Shane -” 

“Relax, she cares about you and she was going to find out anyways, she gets updates from Wyatt on like, a weekly basis.” 

“Is true, Wyatt does tell all of the updates, especially when you ignore me. I send him lovely treats for the truth, just like I did with Marleau.” Ilya gives Shane a look at that, brows raised. 

“Fine, since all of you are ganging up on me,” Ilya stops cutting the vegetables and turns to lean against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. 

“We’re not. Sveta, can we video chat? This doesn’t feel like a discussion where we can’t see each other,” Shane asks and the flicker of the screen comes almost instantly. Ilya taps the button and positions the phone against the backsplash so they’re both in view. Sveta shifts the camera so they can see the headboard behind her, eyes tired and hair wild. 

“I look a wreck, it has been a busy week and Ilyusha does not make me turn on video anymore because he likes to hide his emotions.” 

“You still look beautiful,” Ilya says and receives a light elbow to his ribs for it. 

“Your husband is standing right here,” Shane grumbles and Ilya gives him a wolfish grin, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Do not worry, Shane, I would only have ever married him for citizenship. I would never have kept him from you. Besides - you have to deal with his busted knuckles, no? It is better that you both figured things out. Now, tell me why Ilyusha is hiding from me.” 

“He is upset because back before we were together -” 

“I already know what happened, I think, Shane. If you don’t want to go into details, we do not have to.” 

“You told her? Already?” Shane asks, voice cracking as he looks to Ilya, face awash in a mixture of hurt and shock. 

“He didn’t, Shane. I promise you this. But he once asked me how to help a girl he was seeing who experienced something like this and I gave him advice because I am as well versed in recovery as you apparently are. Ilyusha did not reveal a thing but I am not dumb, yes? I connected things long ago.” 

“Oh,” Shane says as Ilya reaches out and rubs a hand across his shoulders, squeezing slightly to ground him. “I’m - uh, I’m sorry to hear that Svetlana. Truly.” 

“I believe you. It was much, much longer ago. I am who I am today because of it. I have made my peace. I assume yours is more complicated? To resurface and knock you both offside?” Shane nods and looks to Ilya who smiles tightly, glancing down at the screen. 

“There is video. Our agent has copy,” Ilya says after a drawn out pause, glancing between the two and letting the words settle over them both. 

“I see why you wish to break faces now,” Sveta responds, exhaling loud enough to cause the speaker to turn to static. “What will you do?” 

“We’re still trying to work through all of the details about what we can do. They’re pulling it from the websites and apparently the guy’s face is in it, so the police are looking into it - but it might not go anywhere,” Shane recounts and reaches for Ilya’s hand to twist their fingers together, the silent support needed as he blinks away wetness from his eyes. 

“I am very sorry, Shane.” 

“Thank you. It’s still very new, but it’s fucked us up a little bit.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Ilya counters and Shane raises his brows in challenge. “I am perfectly fine. I want to avenge him, but this is normal. Remember what happened to Emil?” 

“Ilya, you cannot break another man’s leg -” Sveta says flatly, staring through the lens in that way that always made Ilya want to cower under her gaze. 

“He already tried, in the game,” Shane adds and Sveta sighs, waving her hand as Ilya shifts on his feet. 

“This is nothing, Shane. This is hockey. Kent will unfortunately survive, though perhaps he should rot in hell. Anyways. Ilyusha - tell me, are you talking with Galina? This is your therapist, yes?”

“I do not need -” he starts and both Shane and Sveta sigh in frustration. The sound of his two closest people growing irritated with him makes his chest hurt and he wishes he’d never taken this call. He could deal with Shane being upset, even if it killed him just a little, but Sveta too? It ached.  

“Make an appointment. Please. For me, love.” 

“Maybe.” 

“If it gets worse, I’ll make sure he does,” Shane adds and Sveta hums, looking between them. Ilya wonders if she can see the way he’s shut down, how the fight has gone out of him at being cornered. He wonders if she can see how he was trying to desperately shove his feelings into his box so that neither of them needed to worry about him for a second longer. 

“Alright. I will call you again next week. It was good to see you both, take care of each other, yes?” 

“We will,” Shane answers for them both and gives a little wave before ending the call, turning to look at Ilya with a measuring gaze. “I was telling her the truth, if it does get worse, I’ll call Galina’s office myself and drop you off like a kid at daycare.”

Ilya knows he means well, that he’s trying to lighten the mood on something that was otherwise rotting his insides, but still, it felt bitter in his mouth. He didn’t need to go back to his therapist. He needed to be able to compartmentalize this all, he needed to keep it together so that Shane didn’t have to handle it all himself. He could do that, he just needed a minute. 

Turning back to the counter, Ilya returns to chopping the veggies and drains the finished pasta, unwilling to say anything because perhaps silence was the safer option at the moment. 

“Ilya, glad you picked up. Come meet me for lunch,” David says on the other end of the line, the sound of street traffic echoing through. 

“Am waiting for Shane to get back from his appointment,” Ilya replies, bending down to click the leash onto Anya’s collar, figuring he could get in a quick run in the hour he had left before Shane’s therapy appointment wrapped up. 

“I know. I’m in Westboro, meet me at Khao. You’ll be home in time, the traffic will make him late anyways.” 

It wasn’t that Ilya didn’t want to get lunch with David - they’d started doing it when Ilya had moved and Shane was still in Montreal - but he wanted to be home for Shane in case the appointment was difficult, as some of them had tended to be in the last two months since the video was found. David was right though, he could do both, if he managed to clamp down on his anxiety about it for longer than a minute. 

“Okay. Anya and I will see you soon,” he replies and hangs up, pulling on a shirt and ballcap before heading out the door. 

He arrives at the restaurant with a light sheen of sweat on his face, the distance not far but he’d made up for it by testing both his and Anya’s sprinting endurance. David greets him with a wide smile, pulling him in for a quick hug before they settle back into the table. They order beers and a light mix of food to share while Anya lays down below the table at their feet. 

“Been a while since we had lunch, thought it would be good to see how you were doing with everything,” David asks as the waiter heads back into the restaurant, leaning forward on his elbows to look at Ilya with that friendly smile that always tricked him into being too honest. 

“Am fine, Shane has training plan for the summer already and he makes us wake up at dawn to train even though season just ended, but I think is maybe because he doesn’t sleep well lately. Other than this, is okay. I keep busy with Anya and end of season commitments,” he answers with a shrug, looking out at the slow moving traffic as though it held secrets to fixing the muted anger that spoiled in him every day.

“Yeah, it’s still the off-season though, you two should be resting a bit more. Are you thinking of heading to the cottage soon? Don’t you guys usually head out as soon as the season is over?” 

“Yes, but with the appointments and with everything else… Is so remote. You know?” Ilya counters and David nods slowly, his gaze evaluating. Ilya can’t meet his eyes and he’s given a moment of grace as their drinks arrive. 

“I was wondering. You guys practically live there all summer, but I can imagine with everything going on… It would be hard to just up and leave.”

“Yes. He has asked but I’m not - I worry. I would go but what if this gets worse? And he needs help and we’re so far away from hospital?” He questions softly, his hand coming to rub his face brusquely before he reaches for his drink. The idea of being in the remote Canadian wilderness, two hours from help, if Shane, if he… if something happened. It made him sick inside. He would not repeat how useless he’d been to his own Mama or put Shane in that position. He would fix this before it ever got that bad. 

“Ilya,” David sighs, reaching forward and grabbing his hand gently. “I am worried about you. I’m worried about Shane too, of course, but he’s back in therapy and he’s never acted on anything since that first time, right? So of course that’s concerning and you’re right to want to help him and I love you for that, I do, but are you taking care of yourself?” 

“I take care. I go for runs, I have Anya and Sveta who harasses me weekly, I train and text friends, sometimes. I just don’t spend hours away, not right now.” David hums and crosses his hands over one another, leaning back in his chair for a moment and measuring Ilya as he takes a sip of his drink. 

“Loving someone going through all this is a marathon, kid. You need to take care of yourself too, you know, put your mask on first - like in the airplanes?” He offers and Ilya scoffs, leaning his chin into his hands. 

“I know this. But is hard to do differently. What if I go out and do something and he needs me and I can’t help? I would never forgive myself. I am already so angry and I don’t know what to do with this anger.” 

“What's causing the anger?” David prompts and Ilya barks a laugh of surprise, looking at the man with wide eyes. 

“How are you not angry? Is it Hollander trait to not be angry because I don’t understand. This man does this and films it? Puts it on internet for everyone to see? And we all pretend like it isn’t something to be angry about,” Ilya hisses, exasperated and furious, surprised at David’s lack of own frustration and how he barely looked ruffled by the idea of his son’s worst moment being viewed by over 50,000 people. 

“I never said I wasn't angry,” David replies evenly, expression neutral, eyes locked on Ilya's, measuring in the way that Ilya had always found interesting when it was directed at Yuna or Shane. This time though it felt invasive because it was directed at Ilya himself. “But my anger about the situation doesn't change the fact that it is what’s happening. If I let it take over, then I can’t really be there for Shane, or for you for that matter.” 

“I don’t need you to be here for me, I am not the one who has private trauma smeared across internet,” Ilya counters sharply and David raises his brow at that, watching as Ilya twists angrily in his seat, anxious for this line of questioning to let up. 

“Are you not? Shane is someone you love, you helped him put himself back together after that trauma, so in a way it’s become yours as well.” 

Ilya reaches for his drink and takes a deep gulp, afraid of the words on the tip of his tongue. What he wanted to say was that David was insane, that obviously it was not his trauma and he was not the one suffering because of the video release. But as he turns it over in his mind, he thinks maybe David is onto something. 

Shane was the one in the video, yes, he was the one who was hurt, but Ilya had been there for his recovery. Ilya had stood by his side, carried some of the weight, and held it for all these years. He’d married this man, had agreed to be his partner, and so they’d become a unit. Now this video was released and his unit was under attack and of course it felt like an attack to him too. The video was tearing at his relationship too and he couldn't get out of his own head long enough to fix it.

“I don’t want to make you feel cornered, Ilya, you know I don’t. But I watched the end of the season and I saw how you played every game with a rage behind your cage. I’ve watched you at every dinner we’ve shared, I’ve listened to my son as he tells me that he’s worried about you. Yuna is one phone call away from setting up a therapy appointment for you that she’ll trick you to attend. So I’m here to tell you not that you have to go to therapy, or listen to us, or do anything - you’re a grown man and your own person - but that this family, your family, is here to support you and that we’re concerned.” 

Ilya listens to David say so many words in such a short amount of time, the cascade of it so unusual that it makes Ilya listen for the first time in so many months. He understood in that moment why David was always the honest voice of the family, the one to say the things that he’d observed because he kept so many words to himself. 

He deserved to be listened to. Ilya just wasn’t sure he could understand him. Or at least, he didn’t know what he could do about it. 

The food comes and both men let the silence settle in around them as they eat. Ilya tells himself he isn’t upset, but the tension in his shoulders won’t subside and he can feel the air held tightly in his lungs as he tries to ward off another panic attack. He couldn’t bear to have that happen here, in public, with David as a witness. 

“Thank you for lunch,” Ilya says as he finishes his plate and leans forward, elbows on the table to look at David. “I… Appreciate your concern. I will think about it. But I should go. Shane will be home soon.” 

“Alright, son,” David says and reaches out to squeeze Ilya’s shoulder. “Just remember what I said, okay? We are here for you too. Whatever you need.” Ilya nods and gets to his feet, dropping a few bills on the table before tugging Anya up to join him. 

“I will… Call my shrink, maybe. And tell Shane we can go to cottage,” he adds softly and David’s face lightens, just slightly, into a small smile. 

Ilya keeps his boiling panic attack contained by sprinting until he can barely breathe, only stopping when Anya gives out and he has to stop and pick her up. Her fur keeps him grounded as he disappears back into the house to wait for Shane.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

The call from Yuna comes as they're making dinner, the light in the cottage low as the sun sets across the forest beyond the windows. Ilya has pressed his shoulder up against Shane’s as he cuts the vegetables, Shane busy stirring the lentil mix in the pot over the stove, while soft music plays from the living room speakers. 

“Hey Mom, what’s up?” Shane says, hitting the button to pick up the call and put it on speakerphone as the music pauses. 

“Honey, the attorneys have positive news. They’ve caught the guy,” Yuna says evenly, her voice matter of fact as Shane stops stirring. Ilya sets down his knife and turns to look at Shane, watching as Yuna continues. “He’s an American with property in the city and he’s been known to the police for some other activities but nothing as solid as the video evidence. They arrested him a few days ago when he came back into Mexico and they have charged him. The attorneys want to know when you can come down for the trial and they want to meet with us to explain how everything will work.” 

“When did you say? And do we have to be in town for it?” Shane asks after a moment, his gaze locked on the counter and refusing to meet Ilya’s. 

“I suggested tomorrow, but we can change it. It would be online because we’ll all call in.” 

“Do I need to - is there…” 

“Yuna,” Ilya cuts in, sensing Shane’s growing distress at the idea of it all starting to be more real. “Do we need to prepare anything for call? Or just update for us?” 

“Just an update. They just want to catch us all up on what happens next. They need to understand what type of commitment you can make so they can explain it to the judge.” 

“And we have to go? To Mexico?” Ilya continues, knowing this is what was Shane’s biggest fear at the moment. 

They’d talked endlessly about the potential need to travel back, whether Shane could get on the plane, whether he could go by himself or not. They hadn’t fully resolved everything, not yet at least, but now the time was coming that they’d need to figure everything out and the pressure of it sat heavily in the room with them. 

“We can ask them tomorrow. I think they’ll push to have Shane there for as long as they can, but if the trial starts closer to the season I think they’ll be more accommodating. But I don’t get the impression you’ll be able to avoid it, honey,” Yuna says in return, the remorse clear in her voice. 

“Okay,” Ilya replies, Shane still frozen in place. “Send us details and we join tomorrow.” 

“Good, I’ll let them know. Shane, you’re okay with this, right?” Yuna tries one last time, her voice softer than before. Shane clears his throat and nods, eyes shining in the low light. 

“Yeah, Mom. Thanks for letting us know. We’ll talk tomorrow,” he adds and his voice cracks before he can hang up the phone. 

Ilya doesn’t let him collapse to the floor, instead reaching out and grabbing him under the arms before he can fall. Once he has him steady in his arms, Ilya reaches to turn off the burner and moves the pot to the back of the stove before tucking Shane firmly into his chest. 

“S’okay, I got you,” Ilya says lowly, one hand rubbing gentle circles across his back while the other cards through his hair. His lips brush against his temple, soft kisses placed against skin as Shane’s body shudders with the emotions roiling through him. 

His recovery time has improved, Ilya realizes, as Shane only takes a few minutes before pulling back and pressing a kiss to Ilya’s lips, his forehead leaning into Ilya’s. 

“I need you to get on that plane with me. At least the first time. I don’t care if we have camp, or a game, or the fucking playoffs. I need you to do this for me. I won’t ask for anything else. I just - Ilya, I need you to be with me. Please,” he adds as his strangled words dry up and his eyes flicker wildly. Ilya simply brushes his fingers over his cheek, holding his jaw in his palm. 

“Моя любовь, of course. You do not even need to ask.” Shane nods his head once, a quick jerk of motion, before he wipes his eyes with his shirt and pulls the pot back onto the burner, flicking it back on. 

Ilya tries to stuff his feelings back down, to go with the flow that Shane had set by rebounding so quickly, but he can’t. His mind won’t stop spinning with unasked questions, with worries and fears and things that he wanted to say but didn’t know how and didn’t want to bring up because he didn’t want to add pressure. Shane might have recovered from the phone call quickly, but Ilya was still under water from it and he was desperate for someone to notice. He’d been desperate for someone to notice he was struggling since he watched that fucking video, but there’d been no space for him left after everything. David had tried, but Ilya hadn’t been ready to hear it and he still hadn’t called Galina. 

He didn’t know what to do. He tried to pick up the knife and return to the vegetables. He tried to finish prepping the dinner. He tried to sit on the couch and eat and watch a movie and forget about everything happening outside of the safety of their cottage but he couldn’t. 

He wasn’t ready for the phone call tomorrow. He wasn’t ready to fly to Mexico with Shane melting down beside him. 

He wasn’t ready to stand in that courtroom and face the man who did this to Shane, not when the urge to wrap his bare hands around his neck was still so strong. 

Sleep doesn’t come that night, not for Ilya at least, and he finds himself laying on the dock watching the stars and thinking about all of the ways he could try to piece himself back together after their world blew apart again. 

The trial meant publicity, media, reporters. He would have to sit there, in a courtroom, filled with other people watching him, watching the video, in full, and there would be no turning it off. He would have to hear the sounds from his nightmares, from Shane's nightmares. The thought made him sick.

The trial also meant that their relationship would be in the spotlight again and that Shane’s sexuality would be the talk of everyone once more. There would be reports on all of the gory details, people would seek out the video and would watch it and there would be nothing either of them could do to stop them. There would be players they faced on the ice who would inevitably watch the video and taunt Shane for it because sometimes hockey was that toxic. 

He couldn’t fight everyone. He couldn’t figure out how to shove down how he was feeling again either. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place and he didn’t know how to get out without cutting off a limb. 

For the first time in a long time, Ilya thought about rolling into the water and never letting himself come back up for air. He wouldn't do it, unless he couldn't help himself, but the idea of it was thick in his mind and his chest. Shane would never forgive him for it, yet still, he considered.

It wasn’t a plan, per se, but the thought of continuing on like this, with the unknown and the vitriol that he knew was coming their way… It was hard to find it appealing to keep going. Part of him wanted to just disappear, to take Shane and get on a plane and give up hockey and just never resurface. 

But he knew Shane would never do it. His life was hockey. His life was here, with Ilya yes, but with his parents and their friends. But Ilya - he didn’t feel as tethered to that life as much. He felt linked to Shane, but the rest? He could live without the rest if he had to. He could give up hockey, could retire, if it meant he got to keep Shane happy. He would set himself on fucking fire just to keep Shane warm, but he also knew that Shane didn’t want that. 

Shane wanted him happy. Needed him happy. 

But Ilya wasn’t sure he could keep on trying to be happy when this was what they were up against. 

He had to remember though that he wasn't his Mama. He was strong. He could hold it together. 

He just couldn't do that to Shane. 

Which hurt because how could his Mama have done it to him? How could Shane even think he could do it to him? 

And why did the people he always loved so much that it hurt, keep leaving him like this? 

Did he hold on so tightly that it was their only chance to escape him? What was wrong with him that he wasn't worth staying over? That he was someone they were okay to leave behind again and again?

The sunrise finds him damp with the morning dew and he sits up, body aching and chest tight, watching the sun glint across the lake. That’s where Shane finds him with a blanket and a cup of coffee, made just right. 

“I know you’re struggling,” Shane says as he sits down next to Ilya, their bodies pressed together with the way Shane has positioned himself. “What can I do to help you?” 

Ilya shrugs and takes a sip of the warm liquid, turning the question over in his mind. “Is not simple for me,” he offers after a moment, glancing towards Shane before looking away once more. Shane stays silent, encouraging him to continue. “I am okay, maybe.” 

“Ilya,” Shane sighs and leans his chin on his shoulder, his hand coming up to run through his hair. “You’re not fucking okay. Neither of us are. But if we’re going to do this, we need to be strong - “ 

“I am strong,” Ilya grumbles, staring out at the sunlight until his eyes bloom with black spots. Could Shane not see how hard he was working to keep it together? How strong he was to keep it from boiling over?

“Don’t give me this bullshit. I know you’re physically strong, but right now, your brain is fucked up and it’s making you weak. I can see it on your face. You’re trying to hold the world together for me and it’s exhausting you and you’re not talking to anyone about what that exhaustion is doing.”

“You keep pretending like everything is fine, Shane, so I try to do the same. How is it bad when I do it, but not you?”

“I'm not saying it's bad. I'm trying to say that we both know it isn’t sustainable - you can’t fix this and you’re trying so hard to protect me from it but you’re not even telling me what’s going on with you so that I can try to protect you too. If you can’t let me in because you’re afraid I can’t handle it, then who can you let in? Because you have to let someone in. You have to or it’s going to fucking kill you.” 

Ilya sighs and ducks his head between his knees, knuckles white around the mug in his grip. He knew Shane was right, but asking for help felt impossible. “It won’t kill me. I won’t let it,” he murmurs and Shane tightens his grip in his hair, tugging it to bring his attention back to him. 

“Ilya, I need you to hear me when I say this,” Shane says firmly, eyes locked on Ilya’s. “The next few months are going to be a nightmare. I am not going to be myself, I am going to try hard to handle it but I cannot promise you that I will keep it together. If you aren’t willing to even try to get help before we really start this, then maybe you need to step back and let me do it on my own because I can’t deal with the idea of you being pulled down by me. I will still love you, it would change nothing for me in how much I love you, but I won’t survive if you’re not there with me at the end of it and right now it feels like maybe that might happen.” 

“You don’t want me around? For any of it?” Ilya breathes, his chest tightening so quickly with Shane’s words that he thinks he may pass out for lack of oxygen. He looks at Shane’s steady stare, at the way his jaw ticks with the held tension. 

Ilya couldn’t believe Shane was saying this. He couldn’t believe that Shane was telling him that he didn’t want him, now, after everything. He’d been trying so hard these last few months, had been desperate to make himself fit into the gaps where Shane was cracking to keep him strong. And now Shane didn’t want him there. He was saying it plainly so Ilya wouldn’t misunderstand. He didn’t want him, or need him. 

It didn’t make sense and yet… 

“Not if it means it’s going to break you,” Shane says and Ilya swallows back his tears and looks away.  

“I will not break,” Ilya attempts to say around the lump in his throat and the lack of breath in his lungs. 

“Ilya, you already are,” Shane murmurs and Ilya’s tear ducts betray him, releasing a tear that cascades down his cheek. He brushes it away fitfully and gets to his feet, dislodging Shane from his side and walking quickly from the dock, up the stairs towards the cottage at a clipped pace. 

His mind is racing with options, he could go to their bedroom, climb into bed and sob like a baby. He could go to the bathroom and lock himself in and sit in the shower until the well ran dry. The car was out front, he could take the keys and drive back into the city and leave Shane here in the sanctuary he thought of as their true home, the same one he’d just been told to leave. 

He chooses none of these options and instead goes to the gym and stands in the mirrored room with its lazy morning light and perfectly organized equipment, staring at himself in the mirror. 

The first thing to break is a water jug that he pushes over, a sharp jab of his hand to knock it onto the floor. Water splashes across the rubber tile and Ilya feels it against his bare feet, between his toes. He goes next to the cabinet and pulls things from it until it’s empty before he pushes it to the ground. His movements become erratic after that, lashing out and throwing things, the hurt pouring out of him in guttural sounds that escape from his chest with every piece of mess he creates. 

The final thing that snaps him from his destruction is the shattering of one of the mirrors when he throws a weight at it, his reflection cracking and shifting until pieces of him fall to the floor. The sight of it, of him, heaving breaths and crying and looking like a caged animal full of rage and shattering, knocks the wind from his sails and he collapses to the floor, head between his knees as he sobs. 

He should leave. This was pathetic. Shane was going to be so upset with him for ruining his beautiful gym, for bringing such violence into their sanctuary and making such a mess. 

The idea becomes all consuming and he gets to his feet, brushing the tears from his cheeks before running upstairs to the dish where they keep their keys. Shane is behind him then, standing in the doorway from the deck, calling for him, but he can’t stop. Ilya can’t let him see him like this, not when he’s going to go down to the gym and see what he’s done and be so, so upset with him. 

Taking the keys, he slips from the front door and jogs to the car, climbing into the driver’s seat as Shane comes out of the door behind him. He sprints to the car and touches the hood of it, saying something that Ilya can’t hear because the engine is on and the windows are closed and their summer cottage mix is blasting through the speakers, some Russian pop song that Shane had added a few years ago playing too loud against his ears. 

He backs the car away carefully and Shane follows it, his hand staying on the hood as his expression shifts from frustration to confusion to fear. Ilya thinks maybe it’s fear of him because surely he was acting in a way that would scare any normal person. 

When Ilya turns the wheel and steers the car away from Shane’s direction, Shane reaches for the handle of the passenger door and tries to open it, banging on the window. Ilya hears him then telling him to let him in but he can’t. He can’t let anyone in. He won’t. 

He’s on the road thirty seconds later, the wheels having spit up gravel as he raced up their long driveway. The pop song cuts off as the car phone rings, Shane’s contact popping up on the dashboard. He declines the call and the song returns before it’s cut again. Another call. Ilya lets it ring as he drives, his breathing coming in short pants until he’s gasping with it. 

Texts come through, he can’t read them through the tears in his eyes that won’t stop coming no matter how much he brushes them away. 

He is spinning, light-headed, hands tense on the steering wheel. He has no idea where he’s going, he just knows he needs to go even though every inch further from Shane that he gets feels like his skin is being ripped away from him. 

The crash isn’t bad. The car is actually fine, except for a bumper needing to be repaired from the tree he hits when he passes out and his foot falls off the gas, causing the car to roll slowly off the road.

His face isn’t as lucky. The airbags deploy with the impact and his skin bruises across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, head pushed back into the headrest and snapping him awake from his brief unconsciousness. Tumbling from the car, Ilya wobbles on his feet until he sees the damage along the front bumper. Groaning, he moves back to the driver’s door and collapses onto the ground, head in his hands and all of the fight knocked clear out of him. 

The adrenaline blast he’d been suffering through slows and his breathing evens out, his skull aching and his chest still tight but less than before. 

He thinks maybe he’s dreaming, or that he died in the crash, when he sees Shane sprinting towards him. The man slides to his knees in front of Ilya and palms his face, words slurring in Ilya’s mind as he speaks quickly into his phone. In the brief glimpses Ilya manages through squinted eyes, he can see the terror in Shane’s face, the panic laced in and the tears, now darkened by the road dirt on his cheeks. 

“I’m okay, малыш,” Ilya mumbles, reaching his thumb up to brush away a tear. It only smears the dirt on his cheek and Ilya thinks of course. Of course he’d tarnish him. 

“Stop fucking saying you’re okay,” Shane snaps, though not angrily, his face collapsing into a tangled mess of worry. 

Sirens begin to fill the air and soon an ambulance is stirring up a cloud of dust as it pulls alongside them. Shane is moved out of the way as the paramedic drops to his knees in front of Ilya, beginning his assessment as the other paramedic pulls gear from the back. 

“Did you lose consciousness in the impact?” The paramedic asks, shining a bright light in his eyes. Ilya shakes his head and closes his eyes tightly. 

“Before. I pass out before - is why crash,” Ilya admits and when he glances up at Shane, his heart stumbles at the look on his face. 

“Let’s get an ECG,” the paramedic instructs his partner before reaching for Ilya’s arm. “Any alcohol today? Any drugs we need to be aware of? Recent head injuries?” 

“No - none of that. He - he’s been having panic attacks. We play hockey, he had a concussion a few years ago that was bad but nothing since,” Shane says quickly, panic thready in his words. “He slept outside last night -” 

“Did not sleep,” Ilya cuts in and Shane’s face twists even further into something akin to a man being tortured. 

“Okay - let’s run some tests. We’ll get you taken care of Mr Rozanov,” the paramedic says evenly and Ilya hates that they recognize him, that his weakness is now on public display. He glances to Shane who has his arms wrapped tightly around himself, his body shifting from one leg to another as he looks on helplessly. 

“Моя любовь, пожалуйста,” Ilya starts, not knowing what he’s even asking for except that he wants him. Needs him. God, he needed him so much he was near drowning in it, lips barely above the surface of the water. Shane hears him and eases closer, glancing at the paramedic before dropping to a crouch near them. 

“I’m here, Ilya. I’m here,” he says gruffly and the paramedic looks to him with a nod. 

“First tests are okay. You can hold his hand, if you like, but just give us space to work.” Shane nods and darts his hand out to clasp Ilya’s, holding his fingers tightly in his grip as they check his body for other injuries. The nodes on his chest, shirt cut open to ease their placement, hang down into the small machine at his side and Ilya wishes he could tear them away and push the paramedics out of his vicinity to pull Shane into his lap and kiss him until that fear dissipates from his eyes. “Okay - heart isn’t showing any concerning signs. It could have been a panic attack, if you’re saying you passed out before. Was there anything happening in the car that caused it?” 

“We are dealing with a personal issue that is adding a lot of stress. I think maybe it just - “ 

“Shane,” Ilya cuts in, squeezing his hand and interrupting his media-voice spiel. “I run away from house after difficult conversation. We are fine but is my fault. I didn’t realize it was starting when I get behind wheel.” 

“Are you sure this is all?” The paramedic says, looking between the two of them, from the bruising on Ilya’s face to Shane’s tortured expression. 

“Yes,” they say in unison and the paramedic’s expression relaxes. 

“Okay. It’s good your car has the automatic 911 call system, that’s how we got here so quickly. I’d like to take you in to get a few other tests done and make sure it wasn’t something else that caused you to pass out -” 

“No, is not necessary -” 

“Which hospital?” Shane cuts in, squeezing Ilya’s hand again but avoiding his gaze. 

“Laurentien.” 

“Shane, don’t,” Ilya says, voice close to pleading as he shakes his head and regrets it. 

“You’re getting checked out. This isn’t up for debate,” Shane replies and lifts his hand to the back of Ilya’s neck, squeezing it gently. “Can I come with him?” 

“Of course. It’s about thirty minutes from here.” 

“Great. Let me run back and get our wallets,” Shane says and turns to leave, feet kicking up dust as he makes off down the road. Ilya clenches his jaw at the sight and closes his eyes, willing the tears to dry up. 

“Mr Rozanov, I’ll take this opportunity to ask if you’re safe? Is everything alright between you two? I can ask him to take another vehicle if you prefer,” the other paramedic asks, speaking for the first time. Ilya looks to her with raised brows, his heart flopping painfully in his chest. 

“Yes. Shane would never hurt me. I hurt myself enough,” Ilya adds and thinks regretfully that he should have kept his mouth shut with the way her expression flickers. 

“Were you trying to hurt yourself, when you crashed the vehicle?” She presses, eyes filled with concern and a fierceness that he feels burn into him. The other paramedic returns with a neck brace and Ilya realizes just how serious this was getting. 

“No. I didn’t want to crash. I wanted to get away and breathe, but not because Shane or because I want to die. I panicked. This saying - is because I make stupid choices and do stupid things. My head,” he taps his temple with his finger and closes his eyes. “It is difficult right now. But no. I do not want to die.” 

“Alright, Mr Rozanov. That’s alright, thank you for telling me. We’d like to put the brace on as a precautionary measure, the road is quite bumpy. We’ll get you settled inside and when Mr Hollander returns, we will get going.” 

Ilya is bundled onto the stretcher and strapped in when Shane returns, breaths heaving as he climbs in and reaches for Ilya’s hand. “Okay?” 

“Yes.” He can see the thousands of questions Shane wants to ask, but says a small prayer of thanks for him managing to keep them contained for now. 

The drive to the hospital is faster than Ilya expected, though maybe that’s because Shane spends half of it calling CAA, calling his parents, organizing everything to push their meeting with the lawyers until the next day. Ilya makes a noise of protest at that, gripping Shane’s hand harder. 

“Don’t delay it. You need to meet them.” 

“I want you on the call, Ilya. We can do it tomorrow,” Shane says easily, shaking his head. 

And just like that, Ilya is brought back into the fold, no longer unwanted, no longer pushed into the wings to watch as Shane suffers through this alone. He doesn’t know why it doesn’t make him feel better. 

The hospital won’t let him leave without speaking to a psychiatrist and Ilya feels beside himself. He thought he’d hidden it well enough, that he’d covered his tracks, but they saw right through him and now he had a note on his file that he needed evaluation. 

“I don’t want this,” Ilya grumbles to Shane who sits next to him behind the curtain. Their hands linked, knuckles white as though they were holding onto life preservers in the ocean, afraid to be separated. 

“I know,” Shane replies and leaves it there, not reassuring, not excusing. Ilya knew he agreed with the paramedics, it was clear on his face as he’d corralled him from running for the door when the nurse said who they were waiting for. Ilya had wanted to be angry, to hold it against him, but he couldn’t because if he was honest with himself for a single minute, he’d know they were right. 

“Is not going to change anything. They’re just going to tell me to go back to therapist or up my dose.” 

“Maybe.” 

“You don’t have more words? You always have words,” Ilya prompts, desperate to have Shane fill the air like he usually did because the empty quiet was rattling him more than his injuries. 

“What do you want me to say? That I’m glad you are here, waiting for a psychiatrist? That I’m terrified of how you behaved this morning? It doesn’t seem like the type of conversation we have in a room where the walls are curtains,” Shane answers swiftly, sharp and pointed as his eyes flick towards him. 

“You want that I’m committed to hospital? So you don’t have to worry about me?” Shane’s eyes flash, darkening. 

“If that’s what you need,” Shane whispers his reply and looks away, brow tightening. 

“Yes, because maybe I jump off Champlain. But I get hospital because my husband is too tired to stay by my side.” As he says it, Ilya knows he’s stepped too far, but it’s already too late, the words are out there, and he watches them land like a slap. 

“Ilya, fuck,” Shane murmurs and gets to his feet, pacing away before coming back in a rush and grabbing Ilya’s face in his palms. “You - this isn’t - I got help. You asked me to and I did it. And I’m asking you to do the same because you’re scaring the shit out of me. I’ve been asking you to talk to someone for weeks. I even had my Dad ask you because I wasn’t getting through! You need help and you won’t get it on your own and now you’re pissed that I’m the bad guy because I’m glad you’re going to have to talk to someone? Fuck right off with that.” 

Ilya closes his eyes and clenches his jaw and tries, he really does try, to not feel the hurt of it sing through him. “I just need time, I will be better once this is all over.” 

“Time hasn’t made it better. I need you here, with me, now. I need you to get help because if you jump off the fucking Champlain, I’m so close to the edge that I’ll jump in after you.” 

“Shane,” Ilya starts and he’s swiftly cut off. 

“No - no. I know that is some codependent shit to lay on you but it’s fucking true. I love you. Don’t you fucking understand that? I don’t want you to get help just because I think it would be fun. I selfishly need you to get help because I love you and I need you and this ghost of you, this angry haunting person you have been, it isn’t you and it’s fucking killing me. I want you to get better because you deserve to be better. You deserve to feel the sun on your face and actually have it make a difference. You deserve to be happy, to laugh easily like we used to. I can’t - I might never be out from under this, but you don’t need to be under it too. It didn’t happen to you, you can still be better with the right treatment.” 

David’s words float back to him, the idea that the trauma was happening to them both. And Ilya sees it then, the facade Shane has been pulling over himself every minute of every day, his own recovery still very much in progress. Ilya grabs Shane’s wrists and leans into his touch, breathing him in. 

“It is happening to me. It is, Shane. I love you so much - I am so angry about this. I don’t know how to make it better. But I’m under too, don’t you see? I watched it happen. Am right here with you. How could I get better when you are still under? How can I focus on me when I need to keep holding you together?” 

“Ilya, how long will that hold work if you fall apart? If you die first, like your mother, and leave me behind?” His expression is a painful neutral mask, caught in pretending to be okay. Ilya hates it. 

If you die first. The words echo in his head because first implied that Shane would be second. It rocks him inside and he shakes his head, holding tight and feeling Shane’s pulse in his wrist. He was not his Mama. He was not. 

“Shane, любовь -” He’s cut off by the curtain being drawn back as a tired looking woman slides into the space. Shane withdraws but Ilya keeps him close, staring at the woman as she looks between them. 

“Mr. Rozanov?” Ilya nods and the woman smiles softly, her tired eyes settling. “Good. I’m Doctor Lakshi, the psychiatrist on call. I’ve been called in to do an evaluation. Are we okay to discuss now? Or should Mr Hollander step out?” 

“Shane stays,” Ilya murmurs and Dr Lakshi nods, motioning for Shane to take a seat. 

Ilya is released with a prescription for benzodiazepines and a follow up appointment scheduled for later that week. Dr Lakshi gives him an emergency number to call if things start getting too hard and she wishes them both well. Shane's parents are there to pick them up and drive them back to the cottage. 

The car ride back is quiet, full of unsaid things, and when they arrive back there isn't a question of whether his parents will come inside, they just do. Dinner is prepared, food is eaten. 

Ilya takes a pill because he still feels too raw and when they settle down on the couch to watch a movie, he falls asleep before the opening credits are even done. When he wakes the next morning, it's to the sight of Shane and David carrying the broken shelving unit from the gym out to the car to be taken to the dump. 

“Ilya,” Yuna calls, seeing that he's awake. “Would you like some breakfast?” 

“I should go clean up my mess,” Ilya says and Yuna's expression tightens just that tiny bit.

“I'm sure they have it under control. Come sit with me,” she presses and Ilya gets to his feet to come towards the table. He flops into a chair and Yuna sets a plate of food in front of him before she pauses and wraps her arms around him in a bone crushing hug. “I love you, Ilya. I know I never tell you, but I do. And I'm so proud of you for staying to speak with that doctor.” 

Ilya feels the words crash into him, the way her arms hold him tightly and how she says she's proud of him. The last person who was proud of him had been his Mama who he was currently desperately trying to outlive.

Yuna pulls away and wipes the tears from his cheeks, holding his face in her hands for a moment. 

“I'm sorry I make this harder for him. I try very hard to keep it from him, so he doesn’t worry about me with everything else,” he whispers and Yuna shakes her head, softening her touch. 

“You are not making it harder, hon, we know you've been trying. But now it's time to let us help you. That's how we'll all get through this, if we lean on each other.”

They eat breakfast together and when they’ve finished, Ilya joins Shane and David in the gym, cleaning up the mess he’s made. When it’s done and David has left with the final trashbag of debris, Shane comes to wrap himself around Ilya, pressing his lips into his neck and holding him there. 

“I’m sorry for this, was unacceptable,” Ilya says as he turns in Shane’s embrace. He hides his face in Shane’s shoulder, breathing him in. 

“We all say and do stupid things.This can be your version of the Champlain, the sign you need to accept help,” Shane responds softly, drawing back and letting his gaze search Ilya’s. Ilya didn’t know what he saw there, but he hoped it was enough. He hoped he was enough to deserve him.

“Hmm, not crashing into tree with our car?” Ilya chides because he needed to make a joke or it would feel too real. Shane huffs a laugh in response, pressing a kiss to his lips though the smile doesn't reach his tired eyes. 

“You had a panic attack because I pushed too hard. I’m not innocent in causing this -” 

“You’re not responsible for my actions, Shane. I am grown adult, I can be stupid without you taking responsibility for it. Still. Am sorry I did not handle better.” 

“I know you are, малыш. You’re not stupid - we’re both just hurting and we’re not good at managing it yet. But we will be,” Shane whispers with a certainty that Ilya admires before he hugs him tighter, the unspoken words heavy between them. 

The virtual call with the lawyers happens three days after the accident, no longer able to be put off, and the four of them sit around the kitchen table as the lawyers explain what will start to happen on their end. 

Shane will have to appear in court, at least at the start and maybe to provide testimony, but he won’t need to be there through the whole thing. The trial is expected to start in mid-July and they will hope for an expedited process, with a privacy media ban if the judge agrees.

“And the video? Will it be entered into public record?” Farah asks and Ilya feels his blood simmer at the thought of it being published widely. 

“We believe it is already considered public, so it will likely be treated as such. Therefore a legal ban blocking it may not be accepted since neither of the participants are minors,” one of the lawyers replies and Farah nods, accepting it even though Ilya wanted to scream that they were all being fools to let it go so easily. He doesn't say anything though, knowing that it wouldn't do any good to spill his feelings everywhere.

“Thank you. I will have my team tighten up the language for if it’s released widely.” 

“What type of chances do we have? Is a conviction likely?” Yuna asks in the lull of discussion, glancing at David and squeezing his hand.  

“The video evidence is strong. It doesn’t imply debatable consent, it is very clear that it is non-consensual, and the video being posted online without additional consent is also proof of malintent. While cases like these are always tricky and the justice system isn’t known for being very successful at trying cases of assault, we think that the evidence will be sufficient to have a decision in our favour. But we need to be prepared for it to go the other way.” 

“Where will he be in the courtroom?” Shane asks, piping up for the first time. Ilya rubs his hand across his shoulders, landing on the back of his neck and squeezing gently in an attempt to ground him against the nervous tapping he was already doing under the table. 

“He will be separated from you. He won’t be able to address you directly, if that’s your concern.” 

“Thanks,” Shane replies and heaves a breath, getting to his feet and stalking away from the table for a moment before returning and leaning against Ilya, arm sliding over his shoulders.

With all of the questions done, Yuna closes the call and quiet settles over the cottage, their hands linked together like a daisy chain of connection. 

“Do you want to talk about it some more?” Yuna asks after a few moments, and Shane shakes his head briskly, turning to Ilya as though to confirm. 

“No. I think we just need a night to ourselves,” Shane replies and Ilya shifts closer, his lips pressing to Shane’s cheek softly. 

The Hollanders say their goodbyes and Shane wastes no time steering them to the shower first and then into bed, tucking themselves tightly together as the sun begins to set. 

“I want to forget all of this, just for a little bit,” Shane whispers into Ilya’s skin, mouth never far. Ilya takes that in and takes over in the way he knows Shane wants, leading them both into a place where they’ve always communicated best. 

His mouth scrapes over skin, hands soft as they explore and push and pull until Shane is a shivering mess under his touch. When he takes him deep in his throat, Ilya nearly cries at the taste, familiar and yet something he hadn’t had enough of lately due to the distance between them. Tongue and lips slide over skin, his hands clutching at Shane's chest, fingers biting bruises into his thigh until it shakes beneath his touch. 

“Fuck, Ilya, I don’t want to come in your mouth,” he hisses and grabs at Ilya’s curls, tugging them until Ilya hums and pulls off to bite into the flesh of his hip. 

“I want you to. Gonna make you fall apart multiple times. Make you forget, like you ask,” he says drunkenly, mouth wet on his skin. “Is what you want?” Shane nods quickly and Ilya sucks him back down, hollowing out his cheeks and bobbing until Shane is whining above him, hips jolting as he curses and bucks. It doesn’t take long for Shane to spill down his throat, the thick heat of it making Ilya’s mouth water and spit leak from around his lips. He tidies him up with his tongue before licking a strip up his softening length, teeth grazing at his tip. “Come here,” Ilya whispers and drags Shane to rest his back against his chest, sprawled across him, body loose as Ilya rubs circles from his thigh to his ribs. 

He lets his heart rate return to something steady before his kisses turn heated again, mouth devouring all of the skin within his reach. When he can feel Shane stirring again, Ilya shifts him onto his side and tucks in behind him, hand palming his length and smearing the damp pre-cum from his tip over his cock. 

“Ilya,” Shane sighs, reaching back until his fingers grip his curls and tug his face forward into a harsh kiss that seeks and takes until they’re both breathless. 

Ilya slots himself against his ass and sets up a rocking pace that matches the movements of his hand, the pressure slowly growing in his body as Shane starts pushing back into his hips. Reaching for the lube, he slicks up his fingers and cock before sliding them down to his hole and circling the skin there. Shane moans, his breath turning harsh when Ilya slides one, then two fingers inside. The third follows soon after to a pitched cry and Shane can’t help but grab the arm under his head and bring the hand to his lips, the fingers sliding into his mouth. 

“I forgot, this oral fixation,” Ilya purrs into Shane’s ear, index finger pressing on Shane’s tongue as his other hand reaches for his prostate and massages it gently until Shane is crying out and clenching against his fingers. 

“Please, fuck me, I need it, I need you,” Shane says, mouth still full, teeth grazing Ilya’s knuckles to keep him there. 

“Soon, малыш, don’t rush,” Ilya coos and Shane moans, low and sweet, pressing his hips back until there’s no space between them. 

Ilya lavishes him for a few moments longer before he can't take it anymore, his own body shivering with want as he pulls his fingers free and lines his length up with his opening. “Don’t move, let me,” Ilya states and Shane nods, letting Ilya shift his thighs forward as he leans into him and slides his thigh between them. “Gonna fuck you slowly. Make you feel it for days, yes?” 

Shane nods briskly and Ilya shifts his hips forward until he’s entering him, sliding home into his tight warmth. The sound of harsh breaths fills the room and Ilya curses, holding himself steady as he sinks all the way in. Neither of them move when he’s fully seated, Ilya’s body shaking with want as Shane grips his arms for dear life. 

Eventually, Ilya can’t hold back any longer and he starts a rolling motion, slow, shallow, barely moving at all really. It drives Shane mad and before long he’s mumbling incoherently, one hand on his cock and the other in Ilya’s hair, pulling the strands to try to urge him faster, deeper. But Ilya doesn’t take the bait, at least not openly, instead choosing to slow down, to settle, his cock aching but the pressure somehow a sweet relief. 

His mouth finds Shane’s shoulder and he sucks a bruise into the skin, marking him, kissing the coloured flesh and whispering soft words of promises and love and so many things he couldn’t say in the daylight. Shane takes it all, tugging his arm into his chest, pressing himself back into Ilya’s body, nails biting into the soft skin of his thigh. 

“I need,” Shane moans after too long of Ilya staying still, his fingers reaching back to Ilya’s hip and squeezing the stretch of his muscles there. Ilya lets himself start to shift, hips rocking forward before pulling back, again and again. 

“Tell me,” Ilya whispers into his neck and Shane sobs, the sound of it cutting through Ilya’s haze, his hand reaching up to Shane’s chin, tilting it towards Ilya’s gaze. He finds tears in Shane’s eyes, pupils blown wide and shining. “Love, love tell me, tell me it’s okay,” he urges and moves to pull out, afraid he’s done something wrong and set them back but Shane shakes his head and pulls Ilya’s mouth to his, the angle awkward until Shane lifts his arm and Ilya is able to slot up against his chest. 

“It’s okay. I need you. Just you, Ilya. Always just you. I can’t do this without you, please. Please don’t leave me like that again. Please,” he urges, grip tight on Ilya’s skin. And the words burn into him, the ache of them settling in his chest. Pleading and pained and asking him to stay. 

The meaning is beyond sex, beyond the connection of their bodies. Shane has weaved the moments together and he’s asking Ilya for this when they’re both at their most vulnerable, hearts bared, bodies joined together. 

The position Ilya has them in is no longer close enough for him, Ilya needs to see Shane’s face, to watch his eyes and see him, and so he pulls out and rolls them until Shane is on his back and Ilya has sunk between his thighs. He lifts a leg and slides himself back into Shane with a roll of his hips, knocking the breath out of them both as he sinks inside. 

“Я люблю тебя. Я люблю тебя. Только ты. My Shane, my beautiful Shane,” Ilya whispers, kissing across his forehead, down to those pretty freckles, those soft lips. He worships him, rocking his hips in a steady pace as Shane’s length dampens the skin of their torsos. His hands lift to bracket Shane’s face, thumbs gentle on his skin, keeping his eyes locked on him as he begins to speed up. 

“Yes, only you, Ilya. I love you. Я люблю тебя. A thousand ways, I love you,” he sighs, voice hiccuping with each thrust and the sound of it drives Ilya wild, encouraging him to thrust harder, to set up a punishing pace until all he can feel and hear and smell is Shane and Shane and Shane. 

With his Mama’s cross tugged between Shane’s lips, he comes apart at the sound of Shane moaning and clenching around him, Shane’s hands dragging Ilya’s face down into a bruising kiss, his lungs starving for air as he continues to push into him until his body nearly collapses, the sensitive parts of him shivering and coiling into frayed nerves. When he finally pulls out, his warm spend follows and Ilya rubs the softening head of his cock in the mess before pressing the tip in one last time, keeping a part of him inside Shane because he couldn’t crawl his own body into Shane’s skin himself. 

The slick of Shane’s cum turns sticky between their chests and Ilya knows he’s three minutes of delirious bliss away before Shane complains about it. He takes those minutes to wrap himself around the man, holding him and covering his body with his own like a human blanket. There’s no space between them and he revels in Shane’s arms around his chest, nails biting into the skin of his back and legs wrapped around his waist as he holds him equally as tight. 

The three minutes ends too soon and Ilya pulls back at the first signs of discomfort, reaching into the drawer for the wipes they keep on hand to save him from having to run to the sink after. Ilya takes his time, starting with the planes of Shane’s chest, hands moving slowly over his skin before he cleans his own torso. The next wipe slides against Shane’s cock and then Ilya’s, before the damp cold moves against his sensitive hole. Shane sighs with it, his body shivering at the cool touch, and when Ilya is done he discards the wipes and lowers himself down onto his back. Shane is quick to curl into him, mouth placing soft kisses to his forehead, his cheek, before sliding gentle against his lips. 

It’s only later, as they hover on the edge of sleep, that Ilya breaks the quiet that has settled between them. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into Shane’s hair, mouth at his temple. 

“For what?” Shane murmurs in return, body still relaxed in his embrace. 

“For everything. For the gym. For the car. For driving away like that. It must have been scary for you,” he admits, fingers gentle in the strands of his hair. 

“It was. Must have been for you too,” Shane adds and tilts his head up to meet Ilya’s gaze in the low light. 

“I don’t mean to be like this. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I used to have this box, inside. I used to put these feelings in it so I could - so they did not hurt. But it doesn’t work anymore. I haven’t needed it for many years. But this… It should be in the box, but I cannot make it stay.” 

“Ilya,” Shane whispers, hand coming up to cup his cheek. “I love you too much to watch you put things in a box. You’re allowed to feel things out loud. You’re only human. But I need you to understand how it felt to watch you drive away because I think if you understood, maybe you wouldn’t do it again. Watching you speed up the driveway, seeing the alert on my phone for the crash - it was like watching you walk to the Champlain and jump. It felt like I lost you in an instant. And I know - I get it - you weren’t thinking straight and the panic and adrenaline were going - but that is how it felt. That’s probably how you felt when I told you I was going to jump myself, which wasn’t fair either, I know, especially after your mother -” 

“Was different for you Shane, you had reasons to run,” Ilya cuts in and Shane shakes his head, tightening his grip on Ilya’s chin and forcing him to look at him. 

“You had reasons too, Ilya. I know you did.  But we need to be fair to each other. We’re both hurting. This is difficult for us both. But we’re in this together, right? We can lean on each other. It’s going to get harder before it gets better. I need to know you’re going to go to the appointment this week and tell them what’s going on so that we can face this together.” 

“Yes, this I promise you. And you will tell your therapist that you are closer to edge too, yes? Like you say at hospital,” Ilya presses, because he hadn’t forgotten that either. Their argument had been many things, but this was one thing he wasn't going to let slide, apologies or not.

“Okay,” Shane agrees and seals the promise with a kiss, one softer and more reverent than needy. “I love you. We’ll be okay.” 

“I love you too. Don’t forget it, even when I am asshole who destroys your gym -” 

“Our gym,” Shane supplies and Ilya rolls his eyes, tucking himself into Shane’s neck and letting the weight of their words sink in. 

He could do this. He could. He had to. Shane needed him beyond the physical. He needed his touch, his care, his love. And if Ilya was too locked in his own head, too stuck in his own anger, he could give him nothing. He needed to talk to the doctor and go back to therapy and do the work before the trial started. He needed to not be like his Mama, hiding his pain until it got him. They needed to be ready, like they would prepare for any game, they needed to be fit. The brain was just a different muscle to train, maybe. 

He could get better again. He would. 

He had to.

The next week is calmer and Ilya thinks it’s because they’ve burned through all of their loose emotions, the fuel for their chaotic fire finally spent. The Hollanders stay at their own cottage for another few days, always nearby just in case and staying at least until their car is fixed, even taking it upon themselves to drive Ilya to his appointment later that week. The doctor ends up changing Ilya’s medication and it puts him down for two weeks, the adjustment harder than he expected as the medications make him tired in a bone-deep way. 

It’s only on their last night at the cottage, after the trial date has been announced and they know they need to return back to the city for court interviews and evidence gathering, do they find themselves drifting into the evening routine, an easy dinner prepared, a fire started in the yard overlooking the lake. 

Shane settles in the corner of the lounger, his familiar spot, and Ilya takes it as an invitation to stretch out along the cushions and rest his head in his lap. Shane’s hands settle over his torso, in his hair, their familiar weight and motion making Ilya relax down against him, eyes locked on the hypnotic movements of the fire. 

Evening light fades to dark and still they stay, Shane’s hands moving across his frame until his fingers link with Ilya’s across his chest. The contact makes his chest hurt and his eyes burn, the intimacy and the feeling of being held making him feel raw and seen for the first time in so, so long. 

“I am scared of Mexico,” Ilya whispers into the dark, his heart skipping as Shane’s grip tightens just slightly. The man stays silent above him, an invitation, and Ilya steps into it, the words coming thick and heavy. “I worry that it will be too much. That maybe I fly across courtroom like madman and strangle him to death with my bare hands.” 

The idea he’d wanted so badly to put in his box, to lock away and forget about, was finally out in the open between them, and Ilya felt it drift into the smoke of the fire, disintegrating, fading away from his chest like dandelion puffs in the summer breeze. 

“I have never wanted to hurt someone like this before. I have wanted to punch, or trip, maybe high-stick some people, but this - is different. It aches in my knuckles. I want to cause damage. I want him to hurt and make him make the noises you made when he hurt you. I am terrified that I will do this in courtroom and make everything worse. Is why I don’t call Sveta back - she can hear it in me and I think you can too.” 

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs, fist tightening in his hair before releasing. He leans down to press his lips to Ilya’s cheek, holding himself there as his nose nuzzles against his skin. 

“It is not fair that he has spent all these years living good life while you have had to work so hard. He should pay for what he did.” 

“I have lived a good life,” Shane says softly into his cheek, forehead gentle on Ilya’s temple. “I have my parents, and the Foundation, and hockey still even with everything that’s happened. And I have you. It has been a hard life, but it’s been good too.” Ilya twists until he’s looking up from Shane’s lap, into his dark eyes in the soft glow of the flames. They flicker across his face, the freckles lighting up against his cheeks, and Ilya can’t help but think about how beautiful he is, how he’s survived so much and can still have a smile that stops his heart. “I’m scared too. To see him again. To have to remember every tiny detail of that night. But I know it will be okay because you’ll be with me.”

“Not if I am tasered by police for trying to murder him,” Ilya states and Shane grins and rolls his eyes, thumb brushing along his cheek in a comforting pattern. 

“You won’t. I know you won’t. We will get in that courtroom and you will hold my hand and I know, without a doubt, that you will choose to hold my hand rather than parkour your way through that courtroom to get to him. Because all of this rage - this hurt you’re feeling - it’s because you want to help me and protect me. And the best protection you can give me when we’re there is to hold onto me, keep me grounded. So this is what you’ll do, and it will be alright, and we will walk out of there together.” 

Ilya searches his eyes for a hint of a lie, for any piece of his words that he didn’t mean, but he finds nothing. Shane was so sure of Ilya that he didn’t doubt him for a second. And that mattered. It had to matter. 

“Я люблю тебя,” Ilya murmurs and lifts his hand to Shane’s cheek, knuckles brushing against the soft skin there. Shane smiles and leans down to capture his mouth, the kiss a slow promise that he would hold him together too.

Chapter End Notes

I'm sorry Ilya is really going through it, but it's hard and its been months since he watched the video and he still can't cope. Shane is back in therapy but he is avoiding it, which inevitably leads to an imbalance. The talking... Is not so easy.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

In which support shows up and Shane decides to share what's going on, even if it's uncomfortable and he'll never be able to look at his deck the same way again.

Coach Wiebe meets them on a Tuesday. He comes to their house without hesitation, happy to not go into the office for what Shane had described as a personal meeting. 

They’d discussed this conversation for hours, had debated whether it was the right choice or not to tell Coach what was happening. There were pros and cons, of course, but Ilya had left the final choice up to Shane because he’d already had so many choices stolen from him. 

“Coach,” Shane greets as he opens the door, motioning the man in. Ilya jogs down the stairs to meet them in the entryway, pulling him in for a quick familiar hug before leading them to the kitchen. With beers in hand, they make their way to the deck, Wiebe settling into a lounge chair as Ilya and Shane sit on one of the couches. 

Talk of the summer is easy, short, and soon they’re discussing the season in more detail than a random day in June should permit but Shane uses it as a segway, leaning forward on the couch to look at the man straight on. It was now or never, Ilya thought, watching as his husband clutched his nearly full beer tight enough that the glass was at risk of shattering. 

“What’s up, Hollander? I can see the wheels turning in that head of yours, best to get it out in the open. You’re not telling me you’re retiring, right?” Wiebe jokes and Shane smiles softly, looking to Ilya who moves to brush his hand against his back. 

“No. Um, it’s -” He releases a heavy breath and glances at the sunshade overhead, his throat bobbing with a forced swallow. “A few years ago I was sexually assaulted by a man in Mexico. Before I was out.” 

They'd talked about this too, how Shane would say it. Ilya had heard him repeating it to himself in the bathroom, but still, it made his breath catch in his throat.

“That bad season, where you managed to come back and win the Cup?” Wiebe says slowly, voice neutral, and Shane nods, setting down his beer on the table. 

“Yes. Summer before. It was a fucking mess but I worked my way through it. But, now… But before the end of this season, my agent… She received a link to a video. From Mexico. And, um, it was available for everyone to see. They’ve taken it down wherever they could and it hasn’t broken containment yet, but we - I - made the choice to pursue criminal charges. They arrested the guy and there will be a trial. My lawyers say it may interfere with the pre-season, maybe the active season too, so I wanted to, uh, tell you. That I may not be as available in the start - “ 

“And that I may miss some of season start too,” Ilya adds and Shane nods, reaching for his hand and gripping it tightly in his. 

“We’re sorry to just, you know, throw this on you, but we wanted to let you know with enough time to plan for it. My goal is to be back for the season opener and I’ll keep up my training, but I don’t know how the courts work there and it could be longer,” Shane rambles, shifting uneasily as Wiebe sits frozen in his chair. Ilya squeezes Shane’s hand to still his tumbling words and then they wait in silence for the man to catch up, his jaw clenching as he blinks and finally starts to come around. 

“Okay,” Wiebe says after a moment, leaning forward and setting his beer on the table. “First, Shane, Christ, I would like to give you a hug, if that doesn’t make you uncomfortable?” 

Ilya watches as Shane blinks, his expression blank as he processes the question. Neither man had discussed this meeting diverting in this direction, not once. Men in hockey didn’t do this. But then again, Coach Wiebe had never been like normal men in hockey. 

“I mean,” Shane says, clearing his throat. “Okay?” They both stand and Wiebe pulls him into a bone crushing hug, his hands firm against his back. It doesn’t last long and soon they’re sitting back down and Wiebe is swallowing thickly, taking a sip of his beer to try to give himself time to blink away the tears Ilya can see pooling in his eyes. 

“Fuck, kid,” Wiebe mumbles after a minute, rubbing his face. “I did not expect - of course it’s okay if you need to take time. Both of you. That isn’t even a question so forget us discussing that more. You take what you need, I know you’ll come back as soon as you’re able. We'll be fine, we've struggled before, we can do it again.”

“Thank you,” Shane replies and they both release the breath they'd been holding. 

“Now, the more important part. What do you need from me? From the Cens? I know your outing was rough, so I can only imagine the shit storm you're mentally preparing for. How can we run the defensive line for you?” 

Shane furrows his brow, again caught off guard by the question. Ilya looks to him and shrugs, unsure what to ask for either. “To be honest, I have no idea. I didn't think this would be where the conversation went.” 

“Ah,” Wiebe responds and shifts to lean forward, as though finally getting down to business. His hands reach out before him and start to motion as he talks, as though he's an expert in this exact thing. “I'm thinking we wait to see if any of this has wings, if the story even breaks. It'll be a trial in another country, in another language, maybe it won't, and then if nothing stirs up, we can make a statement from the team in support of your need for time off to manage something personal. If it does break, then we follow a list of actions. First, without question, we get the room on board. I don't think there will be any push back. We can make watching the video an internal team offense, automatic benching, so you don't need to worry about this. You won't be walking into any of my locker rooms concerned that it will be a thing. 

“Second, we work with your PR team and try to get the League on board with a joint statement of support. If the League won't, then we will at least. We can bring Harris in, he will have a good voice for this, I think, he’s good at striking the balance between protective language and defense. Third,” he pauses and clasps his hands together, looking between the two shocked expressions that Ilya and Shane wear. “Too much?”

Shane shakes his head but says nothing, leaving Ilya to fill the space. “No. Just shock, maybe. Is not your problem to take this on, you know this, yes?” 

“Ilya, Shane… You’re part of my team. I go to bat for my team. This was something horrific that happened to you and now it has the potential to not only open up old wounds, but take who you are and run it through the dirt for no fault of your own. You didn’t play for us when you were outed, Shane, so we could only do so much to protect you, but now you do. Your team will stand by you and defend you because that is what a team does when one of their players is under threat. Okay?”

“Crowell won’t like that you’re taking a stance on something gay again,” Shane says firmly, his voice making Ilya look at him and evaluate why he was kicking a gift horse in the mouth. 

“I don’t fucking care about Crowell and I don’t fucking care that it has anything to do with your sexuality. I care that you were hurt and that this is another attack coming for you. Sure, you’re gay, that’s important and I'm not saying it isn't, but it’s not the reason this happened to you and it’s not the reason you deserve protection now - this happened because a bad person made the choice to hurt you. You deserve protection now because you are a person and everyone deserves protection from people who want to hurt others. So that is what we’re going to do. We’re going to do our best to protect you from the miserable parts of hockey so that you can get the justice you deserve and not have to worry about your workplace being part of the problem.” 

Ilya has to swallow against the lump in his throat that only hardens at the sight of Shane’s face, the way his eyes have dropped to the floor, how his cheeks have flushed at being seen. Wiebe’s statement was more than they had expected - it saw Shane’s pain for something beyond the simple embarrassment and violation of privacy. Wiebe saw it for the pain forced upon him, then and now, and he wanted to lift it free from his shoulders, even if only an inch.

“I just,” Shane starts, stops, clears his throat and rubs his eye fitfully. “I’m sorry,” he says and gets to his feet, walking into the house and leaving Ilya to stare after him, concern lacing through his veins. 

“Shit,” Wiebe sighs, hands squeezing his knees as he looks between Ilya and the house. “Did I fuck up?” 

“No,” Ilya says and gets to his feet, pausing to look at the man once more. “No - you say good things. Let me check on him. Stay. Don’t leave.”

Ilya disappears into the house and moves through the kitchen and into the living room, checking the empty space for a man who had disappeared. His heart starts to race as each room comes up empty, and soon he’s padding up the stairs, bursting into their bedroom to find Shane sitting on the floor, Anya’s snout nudging his cheek. 

“I’m sorry for just running like that,” Shane says, hands curled in Anya’s fur. “I was overwhelmed. I didn’t - I didn’t think he would be so adamant. I thought he’d be frustrated, or shocked, but he’s just so…” 

“Kind?” Ilya supplies when Shane’s sentence drifts. Shane nods and looks up at Ilya, his eyes damp. 

“It made me think that maybe he knew, before we told him. He didn’t even hesitate, Ilya, it was like he already had the plan drawn up and was waiting for us to ask,” Shane adds and his voice shakes, his tears sliding down his cheeks even though he tries to stop them. 

“We can ask. Maybe he is person who tells Farah about the video,” Ilya says, not believing it but not wanting to invalidate Shane’s instinct. The chances were low, but not impossible. Not after what Wiebe had told him about himself, his missed connection with a man when he was younger. Whoever it was that saw the video and knew it was Shane would have to have been familiar with him off the ice, otherwise there was very little else that could have given him away. At least according to Farah and she wouldn’t have lied… He hoped. 

“Can you ask? For me? I don’t think I can get the words out but I need to know,” he asks lowly and Ilya shrugs, nodding. 

“If this is what you want, yes, of course.” 

“Okay. I’ll be down in a minute. I just need a second.” 

Ilya returns to the deck and flops gracelessly into the cushions, a hand rubbing over his face as he looks out at the wide yard around him, thinking about how he would broach the question. Wiebe twists the label on his beer between his fingers, the action giving away his own stress.

“I didn’t know what it was when one of the team sent it to me,” Wiebe says after a moment, his words low as though he was afraid of saying them aloud. Ilya snaps his gaze back to him, surprised that he was bringing it up on his own. “I don’t want to say who it was because they came to me in confidence, but they saw it and they thought the person was familiar and they didn’t know what to do.” 

“He just tells me he thinks you already knew,” Ilya murmurs with a sigh, fingers pressing into his temples to release some of the building pressure behind his eyes. His new medications were making things easier, but not even they could keep him from feeling the stress curl through him.

“I didn’t think it would be comfortable for either of you to know, unless it turned into something. So I just reported it to your agent and told her we were fairly sure. I didn’t watch the video myself but the certainty of who reported it - I figured it would be best to come from me, in case anything came of it.” 

“Thank you for reporting it,” Shane cuts in, standing in the doorway with another round of beers in his hands even though his own drink was still practically full. Ilya smiles softly at him and takes theirs, setting them down on the table as Shane hands the third to Wiebe. “It’s one of the other players, isn’t it?” 

“Don’t ask me to tell you who it is, Shane, please,” Wiebe says softly, gaze firm as Shane nods in return. 

“Okay. I won’t. But I need you to tell them thank you, from me. Even if it’s the most uncomfortable thing you’ve ever done, please.” 

“Sure thing, kid, anything you need,” he adds, the rest unsaid.

They spend the next hour going through the basics of what they know already, the conversation therapeutic in a way for Ilya as it airs the thing out, broadening the support that they both had into not one man, but a whole team. Someone on their team had seen something private and despite their own risk, they spoke up, they protected Shane from it going further. Even if they didn’t know what it was that they were seeing, they still thought it was better to try to address it than avoid it. 

And now Shane had a chance at justice, even if it terrified him. Ilya was thankful for that, if nothing else. 

“Why are you doing all of this for me, for us?” Shane asks as Wiebe stands near the front door, slipping his shoes back on. 

“Because it’s the right thing to do, kid,” Wiebe answers easily, looking between them. “You could be the worst players in the league and I’d still do this for you because nobody deserves this. Nobody.” 

“Thank you,” Shane says with a nod and looks to Ilya who clears his throat and reaches out a hand for a shake. Wiebe takes it and then tugs, pulling him in for a hug. 

“Take care of yourself, Ilya. It’s only the start of a tournament, not a final,” he says into Ilya’s ear and then releases him to pull Shane into his embrace. Shane’s body stays rigid for a brief moment, before he lets out a breath and wraps his arms around their coach. “You are beacon, Shane, don’t let this dim your light or those who follow after you won’t see their way as clearly.” 

He bids his goodbyes and heads down the step, waving his arm behind him as he goes back to his car and pulls out of their driveway. Ilya stands with Shane beside him, the shock of how the afternoon had gone still coursing through him. When he looks to Shane after the car is out of sight, he sees a man ready for battle, his face firm and the tears from earlier nowhere to be seen. 

“We’re going to fucking win this, Ilya, and then it’s going to be fucking done.” 

“Hayd, come on,” Shane says, his voice echoing in from the deck and the tone of it causes Ilya to look up from the puzzle he'd been working on. 

It was after the last day of the hockey camps they held in Ottawa, the last night Pike would be in town before the trial, and Shane had decided if he didn't tell him now, he was a horrible friend. Ilya had argued he was never a horrible friend, not even if he purposely tried to be, but not said anything about Pike in particular. Shane had taken it as a silent agreement that he should know because otherwise Ilya would have defaulted to giving them both shit for it. 

The number of people who knew now in their circle of friends and family had increased from the previous three and Ilya knew Shane's feelings about it were complicated. On one hand, his nightmares now consisted of the assault and a new element of the feeling of being observed, something that made him wake up angrier than he used to, unable to be soothed back into bed even with Ilya’s quiet coaxing. 

On the other hand, when he was awake, he told Ilya that it was easier knowing people knew because each person he told agreed to hold some of the weight of it, and it was starting to feel lighter. Ilya couldn't really feel it getting lighter, but at least the confused looks at their tense interactions turned sympathetic now rather than confused. 

“You know why I couldn't tell you,” Shane continues, voice low, one part pleading and the other trying to remain firm. 

“I was with you right after it happened. I remember how fucked up you were that morning. You let me think it was just a hangover,” Pike replies, raw and upset. Ilya considers joining them, ignoring Shane's request and coming to his side anyways in his defense, but he would wait because Shane had asked to do this alone and he was trying to support his boundaries, even if this particular one was one that he thought was ridiculous. 

“I know you’re upset -”

“I don’t get why you didn’t just tell me -”

“Hayden, fucking listen to yourself and then think about what you're asking of me. To go back into the past and tell you I was fucking raped the morning after it happened, this is what you want from me? That I do this or that I regret not telling you? That’s what will be good enough for you? Because I won't do that. I don't regret not telling you because I didn't have the language to explain it at the time and to be honest, it is not something I even want to tell anyone now.”

“Okay, fine. Whatever, you didn’t have to tell me. It just doesn’t make sense. You didn't have a mark on you that morning - how did you kick his ass and not get a mark for your troubles?” 

Ilya freezes in his seat, listening for Shane's reply that he had a feeling wasn't going to come. 

They'd talked about this in detail, early in his recovery. How he'd first tried to fight before his body had frozen up and he'd been unable to do anything but survive the pain and humiliation of the assault. Shane had struggled with this for years, the belief that he should have fought harder, that if he was really a man he would have been strong enough to fight back. But Ilya had seen the video, had seen the knees digging into the backs of his thighs, pinning him. He couldn't have won, no matter what he'd tried. Ilya had tried to remind him of that but now fucking Pike was dredging it up. 

“You didn't fight back?” Pike says, losing steam with his convictions. Ilya gets to his feet and comes to stand in the doorway, glancing at Pike before his gaze lands on Shane. He moves to his side immediately, crouching down in front of his chair and grasping his thighs to ground him. 

“Shane,” Ilya says lowly, squeezing and watching his eyes glaze over, the memories behind them thick and smothering and pulling him down into himself. Ilya had seen this look before, after nightmares, after the truth moved too close to the surface, and he knew he needed to grab him before he sank too low.  

“What the - ? Shane, come on,” Pike starts and Ilya glares at him, annoyance and anger bubbling under the surface. Why couldn’t he have just shut his damn mouth and listened to Shane? Why did he have to bring this up and be so clumsy about it all? Ilya wanted to scream at him for his words, his accusations, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Pike just didn’t know any better. 

“Go home, Pike,” Ilya orders, turning his back on the man and focusing his attention back on his husband who was currently pacing his breaths as though trying to walk a tightrope and afraid too deep of a breath would knock him askew. 

“No, I’m not leaving until I know what is going on. Shane, buddy -” 

“Hayden, if you want to keep those expensive veneers in your mouth, you'll get the fuck out of our house right now,” Ilya snarls and the glance towards him tells Ilya the threat has landed, Pike’s expression startled at the vicious tone of Ilya’s words and the use of his first name. 

While Ilya and Pike had always had a playful animosity, a rivalry because of their years of competing on separate teams, the last few years of friendship had softened that rivalry and they rarely stood off against one another now. Except when it came to Shane. He was always both of their weak points, both men wanting to come to his defense when they felt he needed it. Sometimes Pike would push and Ilya would defend, other times it would be the other way around. Always though they were softened by Shane’s insistence that he didn’t need their defense. 

But today Shane was too deep in his own head to respond and Ilya was still too angry with everything going on and so he stood between Pike and Shane and bared his teeth, ready to physically remove the man from their deck if he needed to. 

“I don't…” Pike tries, weakly, eyes watery and expression lost. Ilya could see the regret in his eyes but he didn’t care. Shane needed him now and he couldn’t fix this for Pike, he needed to pull his own head out of his ass and figure out what he’d done wrong on his own, Ilya didn’t have time to do it for him. 

“Go.”

Pike gets to his feet and stalks towards the house, feet quickening on the tile as they bolt for the front door. When it clicks shut, Ilya turns his attention fully towards Shane, reaching for his cheek and brushing his thumb across the bone, hard, urging him to come back up for air. 

It takes a few minutes of quiet words, reminders that he was safe, that he had permission to feel how he was feeling. Ilya works hard to keep his anger buried in his chest as he soothes the man back to the present, gaze never leaving his until the clouds begin to part and he blinks away the fog in his expression. 

“I tried to fight,” Shane whispers after a few moments, jaw clenching as he looks away from Ilya towards the trees that line their yard. 

“I know, моя любовь,” Ilya replies and pulls him into his chest, holding him there as he lets silent tears bleed into Ilya’s shirt. 

They’re on the couch, later, when the doorbell rings. Ilya dislodges himself from Shane’s arms and pads to the entryway, pulling the door open to see Pike standing on their porch, eyes red, shoulders slumped. 

“I was so fucking stupid,” Pike says lowly, shaking his head and brushing the dampness from his cheeks. Ilya looks behind him to the living room where Shane was still laying down, safe and back to himself after this afternoon’s conversation. He was calmed down now, Ilya didn’t want him to have to deal with this clumsiness again and risk it starting all over again. 

Ilya steps onto the porch and closes the door behind him, arms crossing over his chest as he makes the decision to keep Shane safe. “I thought he was your best friend,” Ilya counters, gaze hard and unwavering. 

“I am - I know. I know I fucked up. I just - I didn’t know what to say and then I said the dumbest shit and I was thinking about it the whole drive home and when I got in the door I took one look at Jackie and thought about what if I’d asked her these things and I just - I got back in the car because I knew I’d fucked up and I needed to fix it. I would never - my questions were so fucking - I can’t believe - Ilya, please, I need to apologize to him. I need to tell him I’m sorry and that I believe him and that -” 

“Shut up, Pike,” he sighs, rubbing his face and exhaling audibly, the tension from his frustration clear in his posture, in the way he held his breath. “He doesn’t need your pity or self-hatred. He needs his friend to know what happened to him so when is very hard, he has someone to talk to. Is this going to be too hard for you?” Pike shakes his head briskly, mouth tight. “He is overwhelmed with what is happening. You will let him tell you are sorry and then you will shut the fuck up and be his friend, yes?” 

“Yes,” Pike says and nods, hands clasping together in an anxious fist. “I just want to apologize and hear what he wants to tell me.” 

“Okay. But you fuck this up again, we are done, okay?” The nod he receives in reply is enough and Ilya exhales a shaky breath before leading them back into the living room. 

Shane looks up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, reaching to pull his shirt from the cushions and tug it over his head as he looks up at his friend with trepidation. Ilya feels for them both then, the difficulty of this conversation and the weight of their years of friendship hanging in the balance. 

“I’m so sorry for this afternoon. I can’t believe - I should never have said those things,” Pike says after a tense silence, eyes never straying from Shane’s. Ilya watches Shane look to the floor, arms shifting as though unsure where he wanted them to be as he was scrutinized. 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Shane replies evenly, glancing towards Ilya and then towards Pike. “But we all say stupid shit sometimes when we’re in shock. So we can forget it.” 

“Okay,” Pike says and looks between the two men, hesitant, before he opens his mouth again. “I’m willing to listen, this time. If you still want to tell me. So I can be here for you.” 

Shane nods and gets to his feet, heading back towards the deck because apparently this was where all of their hard conversations this summer would be held. As he goes, he grabs Ilya’s hand and gives him a look that asks him to join them, one clear in its intentions, and Ilya cannot deny him this.  

“I’m going to start from the beginning. Then you can ask your questions and we can move on, okay?” Shane says once they’re all sitting, the firepit lit and casting a warm glow. Pike’s hands are clasped in his lap as Ilya leans back on the sofa, arm across Shane’s shoulders. Pike nods and Shane begins and this time there is no interruption, no hesitation. He recounts the simplified version of events, like he’d been preparing for court, and when he finishes Pike’s eyes are wet again, his jaw set as though he was trying very hard to keep himself together. 

“I know, it was easier for me to let you think that I was just hungover. I wasn't out, I'd just been with the first man apart from Ilya that I'd ever been with and it had been brutal, how was I supposed to explain everything to you over yogurt, you know? I didn’t even know what had happened, really.” 

“I just… Shane, man, I'm sorry. I'm just so fucking sorry. I should have been someone you could tell. Maybe I should have stopped you from leaving the bar that night. I should have done more for you after, when you were struggling so badly, I should have -” His rambling turns chaotic as he leans forward in his seat, hands clasped together until the skin is white and eyes wild with the spilling thoughts.

“There was nothing you could do, Hayd. Nothing,” Shane cuts in. “I'm not telling you to make you upset. I didn't want to tell anyone, ever. But now I'm going to have to tell people. Probably tell everyone. And I didn't want you to find out from anyone but me.”

“Why?” And Ilya will give Pike credit for the way his voice sounds absolutely wrecked, the news clearly causing him distress as he tries to process the magnitude of everything in one big trauma dump. “Why do you have to tell us now?”

“Because there's a video -” Pike's strangled noise makes even Ilya's insides curl up. “And there will be a trial.”

“When? In Mexico?” 

“We fly down for the trial opening next week,” Shane replies stiffly and Ilya can practically see him putting on the mental armour he's been wearing every time they talk about it. He tries to unclench his jaw but only half succeeds, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“Can I do anything? Do you need me to come with you guys? Like a show of support or to just, be there with you? I can talk to Jackie. I can make the trip. I can testify, if you need, to like, how you were after that night. Whatever you need.” 

“No, I think - I mean I appreciate it. But I don't know what it's going to be like so for now it's just my parents and Ilya. But if something is needed, thank you. I'll, um, ask.” 

“Fuck Shane,” Pike grumbles and then he gets to this feet, shooting forward to wrap his arms around Shane without even a second to contemplate it. Shane leans forward and wraps his own arms around his friend, his eyes finding Ilya’s over Pike’s shoulder. 

“I’m doing better now, Hayd. I promise,” he murmurs soothingly, hand gentle as it pats against his back. 

“I know. I just - that season,” he says and steps back to sit down in his chair again, body slumped forward and gaze fierce. “That season I watched you run yourself into the ground and I couldn’t figure out how to help you. The nightmares… Your fucking diet that made you thinner than I’d ever seen you. You were struggling so badly and you couldn't even tell me why because I would have been such an asshole. Like I was today.” 

“I didn’t not tell you because I thought you would be an asshole, Hayd,” Shane says evenly. “It was more complicated than that. I wasn’t ready to come out and have to face all of the questions.”

“Like people asking you why you didn’t fight back,” Pike adds and Ilya stiffens, brow furrowing as he meets the other man’s eye. 

“Exactly. I’ve spent a lot of time being angry at myself for not overpowering him and getting out of there. I did try - I tried so hard - “ Shane’s voice cracks and Ilya grips his shoulder, steadying him as Pike reaches forward and grasps Shane's knee. “He just had me pinned and I couldn't - I tried. But then it was like my brain stopped working and I couldn't do anything.”

“Shane, you don't have to tell me,” Pike cuts in. “I shouldn't have even asked. It doesn't matter, not really. I realized as I was driving that the only thing that matters is that it happened to you and you didn't want it to. If you want to share the details, I'll listen, but you don't need to. Just know I'm with you, whatever you need.”

“Okay,” Shane replies after a minute, finally leaning back into Ilya’s shoulder, his body relaxing from its strung-out tension for the first time since lunch. Ilya considers his next move carefully, weighing the pros and cons in the silence that falls between them. 

“Pike,” he starts once he’s made his decision, palm coming to the back of Shane’s neck to hold tight and keep him relaxed. “There will be lots of media, possibly. When the trial starts. People will see the video.” 

“I know - “ 

“Will you keep your room in check? Can we count on you to do this?” Ilya knows it’s almost too big to ask, that Pike wasn’t the captain, nor the leader of the Montreal team, but still - he had status there. He’d won Cups there. He could at least try and it would be one less team they had to worry about, if he could soften the bad blood that still simmered after Shane's trade to Ottawa.

“Ilya, man, you know I’m going to try my best, you don’t even have to ask. If any of those fuckers even watch it, I’ll knockout their teeth myself.” Ilya nods, pleased with the offer of violence even though Shane shakes his head at that. 

“I don’t need you to punch anyone. Just try to convince them to think before they open their mouths on the ice,” Shane adds and Pike nods, his expression firm. 

“Obviously. You know it’s going to come up eventually though, right? You won’t get everyone on board with leaving it alone. You’re ready for that, right?” 

Shane looks to Ilya then, a sad smile twisting up his lips as his eyes communicate a thousand different things all at once. Ilya simply squeezes the back of his neck and leans into him, tethering him to the earth. 

“I know. I’m working on it with my therapist so that it doesn’t affect my game. But it’s inevitable. I’ll deal with it when I’m done with the trial. Until then, it doesn’t fucking matter.” 

Pike nods and they somehow shift to easier topics, the mood lightening after an afternoon of emotional chaos. 

Harris is told on a Thursday. Shane isn’t the one to do it because he’d decided that maybe it was better that Farah’s team coordinate directly with him on the messaging strategy, now that things were moving. That, and the idea of having to tell someone else seemed like too much with everything he already had to do before the trial. So he’d delegated it and forgotten it. 

They only found out that he was finally informed when he showed up on their front step, cider and flowers and all of Shane’s favourite healthy treats stuffed into a bag that he shoves into Ilya’s arms as soon as the door is open, Anya twisting excitedly around his legs.

“Is he here?” Harris asks, bouncing from foot to foot with a nervous energy that made even Ilya’s frame tense up. 

“He is, wait here - Shane,” Ilya calls and wanders back into the house, grabbing their shirts from where they’d discarded them in their haste to get to the couch, leaving Harris to walk through the door and shut it behind himself. Ilya pads into the kitchen, pulling on his shirt and tossing Shane’s at him as he tugs Shane’s headphones down and off. “Harris is here.”

“Shit,” Shane says and pulls his shirt over his head, looking around the kitchen for his boxers that he’d discarded somewhere along the way. “Where the fuck - ah!” He exclaims as Ilya tosses them into his face, a wild grin on his face. “Asshole.” 

“You love me.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

“I left him to wander. Best to go catch him before he finds the mess in living room, yes?” 

Since coming home from the cottage, the mood had shifted from one of caution, of not knowing where each other stood, to something more desperate. Shane had been nearly insatiable, begging for Ilya's hands and mouth and cock whenever they were alone, and Ilya had only been more than happy to oblige in every room in their house, in the car, in the yard, even though he knew the reason for it was deeper than how good he looked with his post-cottage tan. But he wouldn't deny him, not ever. He would let him use him however he needed, as long as it meant he got to stick around and hold him when it was over. 

It made it a bit awkward when people dropped in though, spoiling their afternoon of lazy exploration.

“Yeah, fuck, okay.” He scurries out of the kitchen, brushing his hands through his hair haphazardly, cheeks flushed and a false grin plastered on his face as he finds Harris crouching and petting Anya. “Harris, man, hey - what are you doing here?” 

“Look,” Harris starts, getting to his feet as Ilya leans against the door to the kitchen, watching as the two men hover in the entryway. Harris looked spun up, brow tight when compared to Shane’s less-than-stressed frame. “I spoke with your team and Wiebe today. They’ve looped me in on the details and I just - I wanted to come and tell you in person that I have your fucking back, okay? And that I’m so goddamn sorry this is happening to you.” 

Shane stares at him for a moment, speechless, mouth moving but the words not coming out. Ilya walks into the hall and comes to join them, staying silent and trying to give Shane time to catch up, but ready to offer his support if it came down to it. 

“I’m sorry for just - like, barging in. I should have called - sorry. I just - I wanted to tell you in person. And like, give you a hug if that’s not weird.” 

“Harris,” Shane manages and looks to Ilya, his eyes shiny and throat working to try to put the sentence together but struggling. Ilya could tell he was caught off guard, how the calculation of every conversation before now had played a central role to Ilya believing Shane was able to talk about this all better than he really was. 

“Thank you for this, Harris,” Ilya cuts in, taking the cue from Shane’s strangled voice. 

“Yes. It, um, means a lot,” Shane adds with a croaky voice. Harris looks between them and rubs his face brusquely. 

“Shitty of me to just drop in. I’m sorry for that. We can talk about it another day - or never. Whatever you want.” 

“Yeah, maybe another time. But -” Shane says and pauses, hands moving uselessly in the air as though motioning for something that would never come. “I’ll take that hug?” 

Harris bowls into him, the hug almost violent, as he wraps his arms around him and crushes him to his chest. “We got your back. Whatever happens. We got you, okay?” Shane nods and when they pull apart, Harris looks to Ilya and then dives to wrap his arms around him too. “You looked like you needed one too,” Harris says as he pulls back, tapping Ilya on the chest with his hand. Ilya feels his eyes sting with the embrace, the small recognition that he needed a hug too as they went through this together nearly bringing him to his knees. “Okay. I’ll get out of your hair now. I won’t discuss this with Troy unless it gets out, I’ll keep it a secret until you’re ready to tell him. Just so you know.” 

“You mean he didn’t know already?” Shane asks and both Ilya and Harris look at him with raised brows. 

“I mean, not that he ever told me. Was he supposed to know?” 

“No - I mean, I just thought… Nevermind. You can tell him, if you need to get it off your chest tonight. I’d do it myself but it’s been - a lot. You know?” Shane continues, distracting from his earlier statement. 

“Yeah, of course. Okay. Have a good night, guys. See you in a few weeks at camp,” he adds and then slips out the front door without another word. 

Ilya stands frozen to the spot, the whirlwind of Harris’ departure catching him off guard. 

“So not every conversation about it needs to be intense?” Shane asks after a minute, looking to Ilya with an expression of utter confusion. 

“Guess not. Maybe we should just have Farah do all of the talking about everything for the rest of our lives,” Ilya offers with a huff of a laugh, reaching for Shane and steering him back towards the kitchen. When they cross the threshold, he tugs on Shane’s boxers until they’re sliding back to the floor where they’d been moments ago. His shirt soon follows and then his headphones, offered with a grin. “Before you disappear into your trance shit again, what did you mean that you thought Troy already knew?” 

“Hmm?” Shane counters, turning back to the smoothie ingredients he had been preparing. “Oh. I just - I thought maybe it was Troy who told Wiebe. It was a hunch.” 

“Really? I thought we were still thinking it was Wiebe himself,” Ilya offers, leaning against the island. 

“Nah, he was pretty adamant it was someone else but I couldn’t figure out who else would be watching gay porn, you know?” 

Ilya’s mind immediately went to the least likely option and he shook his head, certain it couldn’t be. “Oh well. Maybe some mysteries better left alone.” 

“Probably,” Shane says and then slips his headphones back over his ears, the blender buzzing loudly on the counter as Ilya watches him slip back into his routine. God, he loved this man, standing naked in their kitchen, headphones and a smoothie in hand. “Hey, Ilya?” He asks after a second, once the blender has stopped, voice a little too loud with the music blasting in his ears. Ilya raises his brows in question, watching as Shane glances coyly in his direction. “You gonna suck my dick again or should I get dressed for the gym?” 

Ilya is on his knees before the sentence is even complete. 

Luca Haas calls Shane the day before they’re set to fly to Mexico, his voice harried as Shane puts him on speakerphone while he continues to pack his bag for the next day. 

“Hello Haasy,” Ilya greets from his spot lounging on the bed, his favourite place to be as Shane packs their bags for them. He’d used to do it himself, but he’d learned over the years that Shane would be less anxious about their trip if he just packed Ilya’s bag for him. Now he repaid him for the effort with a meal, or getting on his knees, sometimes midway through the effort. Shane didn’t complain and Ilya thought it was a decent trade. Today was no different, he thought as his hand stopped its effort of ghosting over his hardened length in his boxers to listen to the call. 

“Oh, Rozanov - you’re there too. Of course you are. Hi. Hi Hollzy. Yeah, sorry, let me just - I only wanted to talk to you for a minute. I’m back in town early for some brand meeting. Could I stop by? Maybe in an hour?” 

“We’re a bit of a mess today -” Shane starts and Ilya rolls his eyes and cuts in. 

“Stop by Haasy. We will be on best behaviour for you.” 

“Okay, great. I won’t take a lot of time. Just something quick,” he adds and Shane huffs, motioning his hand for Ilya to continue. 

“No problem. See you soon.” The line goes dead and Ilya looks to Shane with a raised brow.

“You know he’s going to ask for brand tips or something, advice on whether he should take the contract or some shit like that.” 

“Doesn’t mean we can’t answer him. Mr. Influencer, you have many tips for youth, no? Or are you worried he takes big sponsors away from you with his babyface?” Ilya chides playfully and Shane rolls his eyes. 

“Mom deals with all that shit, you know I’m just the warm body. You can go and talk to him, I’ve still got to get everything packed properly. I have no fucking idea how much to bring because I have no idea how long this fucking thing is going to last. How are you supposed to pack for this kind of scenario?” He rambles, the frustration clear in his voice. Ilya slides to the edge of the bed and motions him over, hands wrapping around his muscular thighs as he presses his nose into the hair trailing up from his waistband. 

“Our hotel has drycleaning, no? And you are rich, Mr. Influencer, no? So we pack for a few days, enough to have stuff cleaned and still not be naked, and if needed, we buy other things? You are so stressed, моя любовь, let me help you,” Ilya offers, lips grazing the skin of his abdomen as he talks, eyes tilted up to catch Shane’s pupils blowing wide. 

“Haas will be here soon,” Shane grumbles despite the way his cheeks flush. 

“We have time. Let me relieve some pressure,” Ilya continues and slides his teeth into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them out slowly before letting them snap back against his skin. The soft noise he makes is enough permission for Ilya to run his hands up his thighs to cup his ass, his mouth drifting down to press against the hardening outline of his cock in the tight fabric. 

“Fine, but I want your cock in my mouth too. Wanna taste you,” he murmurs and climbs onto Ilya's lap, mouth latching on as his tongue dips in. 

They fall back onto the mattress, climbing their way up until they're centered, boxers shed, skin flush with want. Shane sighs into the kiss as he grinds himself into Ilya's thigh, wet tip tracing over skin.

“Maybe like this?” He breathes out, nipping at Ilya's lip. It feels so good, his brain spins and turns hazy, his hands ghosting across Shane's skin. 

“Whatever you need,” Ilya replies against his mouth, pliant and ready to give in, because he'd give him anything. Shane hums and pulls back slightly, meeting Ilya's foggy gaze. 

“You've been extra submissive since before the cottage, when is that gonna switch back?” He asks carefully, not accusing, but not light enough to pretend it was just a question without any weight behind it. 

Ilya frowns, brow furrowing. “I fuck you into mattress so hard you cry last night, is not enough for you?” He counters, confused and a bit caught off guard at being called out on it.

“No, that's not what I mean,” Shane huffs a laugh and kisses him, forehead pressing against his. “You're letting me steer everything. You stopped giving me orders when we fuck, you make suggestions but it feels like I'm the one telling you what to do all the time. It's like you're afraid to boss me around, even though we both know that works for us. It's not a critique, I just wonder if you know you're even doing it?”

Ilya swallows the words on the tip of his tongue, the raw ones that Galina had said were the defensive ones he needed to think more about now that he felt constantly under attack with everything going on. She'd reassured him that it would pass, that the anxiety attacks and the constant feeling of threat would ease with time and their work together, but still, his reactions were right there, hot and sharp. “I - no,” he stops, thinks for a moment, trying to clear the fog. “Maybe I do this because I think you need control right now. Especially in bed. Or at least this is what my brain tells me.” 

“Oh,” Shane says, eyes brightening as he takes a breath and lets the truth settle over him. Ilya watches his dark eyes flicker, his body tense and ready for Shane to pull back. 

But he doesn't. 

He burrows in further, mouth sliding against Ilya's in a flurry of kisses that steal his breath and make a warmth curl in his belly. “Is okay?” Ilya asks between kisses, hands gentle on Shane's cheeks. 

“Yeah, yeah it's okay Ilya. It's - you're right, is all. I didn't - I didn't think about that. But I need it. I need to have control right now. I need you. Fuck, I need you. How are you so perfect for me?” He urges, biting and sucking his skin, twisting up to nip his lip and sighing into his mouth. “I love you. I love you so much.” 

Ilya's breath comes out of him in a rush of relief, his attention returned tenfold, body flipping them until Shane is on his back and Ilya has climbed over him, turning until his cock is jutting into his cheek. 

“We do this because you ask so nicely and I am perfect husband,” Ilya growls, rolling his hips to nudge his length into Shane's lips. He opens easily, taking the head into his warm heat and sucking it back as Ilya eases down into his throat. Shane wraps a hand around Ilya's base, keeping it from choking him, and begins to work as his own cock hardens insistently into Ilya's neck, pre-cum smearing across his skin in a burning slide. 

Once Shane has set up his own rhythm, Ilya ducks until his lips circle Shane's tip, tongue darting out to flick into his slit. The man bucks his hips and moans, the feeling coming full circle between them as Ilya moans with his own vibrations. 

He feels wild as he sinks himself into Shane's open throat, fucking slowly into him as he presses his nose into the hair near Shane's balls. When it all becomes too much, he rolls until they're on their sides, necks doing all the work as Ilya pulls off his length and moves his mouth to lick and nuzzle the hot skin below, tongue sliding up to the head and back, licking at the bead of pre-cum. 

Shane jolts into his mouth on a particularly deep swallow around his cock head, the small whine he makes causing Ilya to clench and hold himself back from coming so soon. 

He can't manage it, not when Shane senses how close he is and tugs at his balls, his other hand scratching into the cleft of his ass. It's Ilya's turn to huff out a groan as he slides a finger between Shane's cheeks and presses it into his hole. He knows it would be better with lube, that he should do it properly, but he wants Shane to come and he's desperate to keep the man sucking at his tip like it was a candy so he refuses to get up and find the bottle. 

As soon as his second knuckle is through, Ilya feels the teeth on his cock and he groans, the light shock of the bite riddling through him as he continues his ministrations. He's drunk on Shane's taste, on the feel of his prostate under the pad of his finger, when he feels the bite tighten into something painful, Shane's hand coming to grab his elbow and yank his hand free from his ass. 

It's confusing, he moves to pull back, taking the silent command for space, but Shane refuses to let go, twisting until he's on top of him, mouth working his length, thankfully with less teeth, as his hand awkwardly stretches and holds Ilya's face in place for his hips to fuck into his mouth. It's fucking hot, to be used like this, to have the bites of pain, and that's why Ilya comes choking on Shane's dick, his own hips jerking up into Shane's mouth as he cries out. Shane is quick to follow, pulling out of Ilya's mouth and jerking himself harshly until his cum is streaked across Ilya's face, his chin and throat, before he collapses onto his back, lungs heaving.

It's only after, as the two feelings collide, that Ilya feels his insides curdle into something sour. 

It didn't feel wrong. It was a little fucked up for him, maybe, to get off on the pain and the struggle for air, but that wasn't what made him pause. He'd done that before and liked it well enough, especially when he was in a mood.

But no. It was Shane biting him, ripping his hand out of him, like he'd done something wrong and been punished for it. It was like he'd missed a cue, something he hadn't done for years at this point. 

When their breathing has returned to normal, Ilya moves to grab for the wipes but Shane is already there, hovering over him and wiping the spend gently from his skin. Ilya reaches up and circles his hand around his wrist, stilling his movements as his eyes search his. 

“It was the dry finger,” Shane says softly, brow repentant, lips tight around the words. 

“Too much like before,” Ilya says and Shane nods, folding the wipe and looking away. He rotates his jaw and ducks down to look at the sheets. “We've done it before.” 

“I know,” he murmurs and Ilya can feel him retreating into himself, as though ashamed of the slight backslide. That wouldn't do. 

“Gimme kiss,” Ilya says abruptly, trying to break him out of his head, rewarded by the soft smile Shane gives him when he looks up at him. Shane leans in and pecks his lips, gentle, careful, a bit apologetic. “Is okay, sometimes like this. I will tell you if I don't want, like you tell me, right?”

“Yes,” he says with a nod, noses bumping together with the movement. “And I did like it, I just got a bit lost.”

“Are you still lost?” Shane shakes his head and Ilya pulls him down for another kiss, this one deeper, a promise. “Very wasteful to use a wipe though, when perfectly good mouth is right here,” Ilya chides playfully, tapping his mouth as Shane grins and leans back, slapping his hand gently against Ilya's abdomen. 

“I know, but sometimes I just want to make a mess on your beautiful face to remind myself that you're mine.” Ilya's gut clenches, his cock twitching at the thought. “We don't have time to go again. But maybe tonight.” 

“Fucking Haas,” Ilya grumbles as Shane moves away to start getting dressed. Ilya follows only after his boxers are thrown in his face, urging him to get dressed. 

Haas arrives exactly to the minute from when he said he'd stop by which Ilya thinks is extremely Swiss of him. The kid stumbles over Anya before dropping to his knees to say a proper hello, her favourite way to be greeted, and it endears him to Ilya a bit more after disrupting his plans for an afternoon of fucking Shane into boneless relaxation before their flight. 

“You’re such a good girl,” Luca says, getting clumsily back to his feet and looking between the two men with an expression that goes from bright to sheltered in a blink. “Thanks for seeing me, I know it's weird to just show up.”

“No problem, what's up? Do you want to come in and have a beer or something? We are heading out of country tomorrow so we don't have any food but I think there's still some bottles in the fridge,” Shane offers, motioning towards their kitchen. Ilya glances between them, noting how Luca simply grips his hands harder together. 

“I'm the one who reported the video to Coach,” Luca blurts, his expression crumbling into a chaotic flicker of emotions, changing one minute to the next. Ilya glances at Shane, cataloging the phases of his shock, emotions hidden in the micro movements of his features, impossible to read by anyone who hasn't spent the better part of two decades trying to understand him.

“So, that beer, yes?” Ilya says carefully, knowing he needed to get this conversation onto the deck and into Shane's mental compartment where all of these conversations were supposed to take place. 

“I should maybe go,” Luca says when Shane doesn't react, his face stuck in what most would consider ‘processing’ but Ilya knew was actually the expression of a man throwing buckets of water on filling cabinets bursting into flame in his brain.

“No. Just - head out to deck, we'll meet you in a minute?” Ilya says and motions towards the back door down the hallway. Luca grits his teeth and then nods, stalking down the hallway as though he was a man walking to the gallows. Ilya goes to Shane then, fingers gentle on his cheek. “Is better to know now, than wonder, yes? Come have a beer, then we kick him out and I rearrange your organs with my dick and we cry and sleep before we pull ourselves together for tomorrow. This is plan. I take  lead back now, so you don't have to, okay?”

Shane nods, once, quick, and he follows Ilya down the hall.

Ilya grabs the beers, three shot glasses, and a bottle of vodka that he keeps in the freezer. He sets it all on the table in front of them and pours everyone a shot. Shane is the first one to grab it and down it, his face scrunching up as he grabs the bottle and pours himself a second. When he reaches for his third, Ilya grabs his hand and tugs it into his lap, his free hand lifting the shot glass in cheers at Luca who mimics the movement. A second one is poured for them both, too. 

“I don't know - I have no idea - what does this conversation even - Ilya,” Shane mumbles, turning to face him head on with a pleading look, as though he was searching for him to throw him a life preserver.

“Luca, give us the short version,” Ilya says, squeezing Shane's hand tightly and looking to the man who was barely old enough to drink. 

“Obviously I didn't know what it was when I clicked it,” he starts and Ilya raises a brow, lips in a tight line. “I mean, I knew it was two men. Please don't ask me to go into detail on this, let's simply know that I was browsing and I clicked.”

“Luca, we're not interrogating you. You tell us what you want,” Shane cuts in after he nervously peels the label from his beer bottle. 

“Okay well, I'm watching the video and it starts off a bit questionable but you know how sometimes it's played up for the camera, right? Anyways, I keep watching because it seems okay and then it just - it becomes not okay. I mean, you know how it went. Obviously. And I am sorry, Hollz - I mean, Mr. Hollander - “

“You can call me Shane. I think we're past that formality.” Ilya snorts and both men look at him, matching accosted expressions. 

“Is not funny - I know is not. But this formality… Luca, you do not need to be nervous. The worst has already happened, you can relax.”

“Right. Well. I watched it and it gets to a part where your voice is very clear and angry and firm and I just - it was the same one you use in training when we fuck up and we need to be corrected. I couldn't - I thought I was imagining it. But then I was so sure so I watched the whole thing thinking I'd see your face but it doesn't happen,” he pauses and takes a gulp of his beer, looking down at the table and breathing out a harsh breath. “I thought maybe it was a roleplay, at first. By the end though, I knew it wasn't. It made me sick. I didn't know what to do so when I got to the rink I asked Wyatt who to talk to -he doesn't know about what - and he told me to talk to Coach so I did. Coach did a Jedi mind trick on me though and I just, I blurted it all out. He told me he'd handle it and asked for the link.”

“You… watched all of it?” Shane asks, frozen to the spot. Ilya reaches for his thigh and squeezes, hard, to pull him back from the edge. 

“I didn't - it didn't bring me any joy, if this is what you are asking,” he says awkwardly, meeting Shane's gaze. “After he grabs your neck - it's pretty clear it isn't - that you aren't willing. And then you try to fight back but he has you pinned. It's brutal. I only watched it once but I knew it was you. I'm very sorry, Shane. Not just for watching the video, but for what happened to you. It wasn't right.”

They sit there in silence for a few moments, processing the truth of Luca’s words, the remorse in his voice for having seen something he shouldn't have. Ilya wants to hug him, to tell him it'll be alright, because he deserved to know that too. They'd all be alright, he was surprisingly certain of it, they just needed to get through one day at a time.

“It was brave of you, to speak up,” Shane sighs, rubbing his face and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Ilya rubs a hand along his spine, trying to soothe out his rough edges. “I'm not glad it exists, or that you had to see that. But I am glad we know about it and can do something now.”

“Coach said you're going to face him at trial?” Luca says, voice thin and unsteady. Shane nods, mouth in a firm line. “Do you need me to come? I can try to help. I know enough Spanish to get by. I could testify about how I knew it was you. Or just - I don't know, translate your dinner orders or something. My Spanish is pretty useless, I guess -” 

“We really appreciate that, Luca, but don't worry about us, okay? We've had months to prepare for this. We're getting help and he's probably going to jail and that's all because you spoke up. What we need you to do is focus on the season ahead, be ready for when we come back and we'll hit the ice harder than ever before, alright?” Shane urges and Luca nods, taking in every word because of course it would be hockey that recentered them both onto safer ground.

They finish their beers as the sun begins to sink on the horizon, the mood lightening as the sky darkens. Ilya is the one to show Luca out as Shane takes a moment to himself to clean up the kitchen. 

“You have barely smiled all afternoon,” Luca says to Ilya as he stands in the doorway, half turned towards the driveway but unwilling to take those final steps just yet. “It isn't like you. You're getting help too, right? This thing - it is more than one person can handle. It needs a team. You need teammates.”

“I'm - thank you for saying that. For noticing. I am - there is a team. It is still hard, but I know we have team with us. That will get us through,” Ilya adds, voice just short of confident. 

“Still. Everyone can see how hard you're working to keep everything together, but how many people are stepping in to give you a break?” 

“Shane doesn't get a break -” 

“You are giving him a break like, every hour. Every time you step in and take the hard part of the conversation, or the awkward ice breaking. I'm sure you do it other ways too -” he holds up his hand to stop Ilya from cutting in with a crude remark. “I don't need to know. All I'm saying is that you deserve a chance to breathe easier too. It doesn't mean you love him any less and I'm pretty sure Shane would agree.” 

Ilya hums in agreement, a small smile ghosting across his face. “I am getting help. And I will… try to use support system. How did you get so wise for still being a baby?”

“My mom, she took care of my grandfather when he had Alzheimer's. Nearly had to dig two graves by the end because she didn't take care of herself. The team needs you, too, Ilya. Don't forget how much you mean to people, okay?”

“If you're going to treat me like adult, you can go back to Mr. Rozanov,” Ilya jokes and Luca's cheeks flame. “Thank you for today. We will let you know how things progress.”

“Bye, Ilya,” he teases and hops down off the step, heading back towards his car.

“He's right, you know,” Shane says from the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. “You don't smile as much as you used to and I hate it, Mr. Rozanov.” 

“Oh?” Ilya counters, prowling towards him slowly, the title sparking hot in his gut.

“Yeah, I'd really appreciate it if you could start doing it more. Would make this all a little bit more bearable,” he adds dryly.

Ilya wraps his arms around his torso, leaning back to keep eye contact. He plasters a wide smile on his face, the stretch of it on his muscles surprisingly tight and probably a little grotesque. “Better?” 

“You're such a shit,” Shane murmurs, grinning and shaking his head as his palms come up to bracket his cheeks. “But you're my shit, and I fucking love you, and I see everything you are doing for me and I want you to know that I appreciate it, truly, but I agree with Luca. I'm going to try to lean more on my parents during the trial, give you -” 

“Don't you fucking dare,” Ilya cuts in, sharp and pointed but still somehow soft. “I want you to lean on me. I want to hold you up. You are mine and I am yours. You've already tried to give me like fifty outs and I took none of them. I won't start now. I am here, with you, because I love you. Sickness and health and all that other shit.”

“Such a way with words,” Shane teases, thumbs against his brow. “Just promise me, when the trial is done, you'll come back to me? To yourself?” 

“When trial is done and he is in jail, we eat one thousand tacos and fly home and play best season of our lives and win the Cup and prove to you every second of every day that am with you and love you, yes?”

“I already know you love me, I need to know you love yourself, too. Enough to put yourself first.” 

“Ah, like coming first? Okay. I already do -”

“Ilya, fuck,” Shane sighs exasperated but fond.

“I will try. You know new meds make me feel heavy inside but there is also less chaos, more quiet. They help because everything outside is very busy right now. But maybe after, I talk with doctor about switching again. Finding something better.”

“Okay,” Shane says and leans his forehead into Ilya's, holding tight to him. “I can accept that. Now, is it time for organ Feng Shui or -”

“What the fuck did you just call it?” Ilya cackles, the term bursting through his hazy mind as he looks at his husband and his insane words with every ounce of love in his body. 

“Feng Shui, like organizing things -” 

“Oh my God, shut up, you are so boring. No. Actually keep talking. I'm taking you upstairs and shutting you up with my dick,” Ilya crows and grabs Shane by the waist to haul him over his shoulder in a Fireman's carry. 

They don't finish cleaning the kitchen. 

Shane doesn't have enough brain cells left to care by the time Ilya kisses him one last time before they pass out. 

Ilya considers the afternoon far better than the one he'd had planned to keep Shane from freaking out or getting too deep in his own head. He takes it as one of his wins, even if he had very little to do with the way it turned out.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

This is the bit where the dubious consent comes in. Nothing graphic, nor violent, but nonetheless troubling from a consent perspective. I wouldn't say it's worse than other things already covered in the story, but to each their own. Feel free to let me know how you're feeling afterwards... Otherwise the upswing starts in the next chapter (so not this one, sorry not sorry).

My bones might be broken, is all Ilya can think as they settle into their first class seats, Shane's hand wrapped so tightly around his that he's lost feeling in his fingers. Across the aisle, Yuna and David are busy organizing themselves, unaware of the screaming vibration currently running through their son. 

“Shane,” Ilya murmurs, leaning towards him until the brim of their baseball caps tap together. He doesn't look at him, doesn't even blink, so Ilya reaches up with his other hand to brush his cheek with his knuckles. “Малыш, breathe for me.” His exhale is forced from deep within his chest, body slumping forward with it. “Good. Is good. Do you want a pill? Will help you relax.”

“No. Just want to get in the air. Can't run away if I can't fly,” he laughs tightly with no warmth, his words harsh. Ilya nods and holds his chin to kiss him softly. “It'll be fine. I'll be fine.”

“You will be. But my fingers might not,” Ilya jokes and Shane snaps his gaze to their hands, instantly releasing his fingers. Ilya flexes them once before taking his hand back in his palm, keeping the connection steady. “What can I do?” 

“I don't know. I'm freaking the fuck out.”

Above them, the pilot announces that boarding is complete and Shane celebrates the door locking closed by groaning from his chest, the small sound one of strangled panic as he curls down towards his knees.

“You're okay. Shh, моя любовь, is okay,” Ilya breathes into his neck, kissing the skin behind his ear.

“Honey, are you alright?” Yuna asks, reaching across the aisle, grasping his shoulder. She looks over to Ilya and winces, worry filling her features. 

“Is everything alright here?” The flight attendant says, leaning down to speak quietly to the three of them holding onto one another. 

“Yes, just nervous flyer,” Ilya answers quickly, nodding up at the woman whose smile shifts uneasily. 

“Alright. If you feel ill, just remember there’s a paperbag here, in the back of the seat,” she says and motions to the netting holding the white sheath. 

“Actually, before you go - could I just get like, a drink? Vodka or whiskey or something?” Shane asks, sitting up quickly and looking directly at the attendant with a grimace. “I don’t need to get drunk. Just something to take the edge off.” 

“I can’t serve alcohol until we’re in the air, but let me see if we have anything else - “ 

“Ginger ale?” Ilya cuts in, looking at her expectantly. She nods quickly and heads to the galley, returning with a can and a cup of ice. 

“Here you go. It’ll be alright, sir, our pilots today are excellent and the weather is beautiful. We’ll be on our way in no time.”

“That’s exactly what I’m dreading,” Shane mumbles as she heads back up the aisle to help another guest. Ilya squeezes his hand and follows his movements as he leans back in his seat, Yuna and David glancing over at them with tight smiles of support. 

It’s the tensest twenty minutes of his life but soon they’re airbound, the steady rumble of the engines and the pressure of the cabin change keeping Shane focused on other things, enough to get him out of his head. As soon as the seatbelt sign is off, Shane unclips his belt and bursts into the aisle, beelining for the toilet. Ilya looks to Yuna who furrows her brow and he's out of his seat a second later, stalking towards the locked door. 

He knocks once, a quick rap of his knuckles, before leaning forward until he's almost pressed to the door. “Is me, let me in.”

The door unlocks and Ilya pushes his way into the small space, slapping the lock shut behind him and taking Shane's chin in his hand as he meets watery eyes with his own. The kiss is bruising, deep, and Ilya pours himself into it until he's breathless, heaving, and Shane is held up only by his hands gripping Ilya's shirt and Ilya’s body wrapped around him. 

“This is disgusting,” Shane mumbles when they eventually break apart, eyes closed and frown deep. 

“We've kissed in worse places,” Ilya replies softly and nuzzles into his neck, nipping at the skin as he makes his way up to capture Shane's earlobe between his teeth. The sound he elicits is filthy and Ilya can't help but grin wickedly at it. 

“You should stop. You're getting me hard and there's not nearly enough room to fuck in this bathroom,” Shane says breathily. It makes Ilya pull back, a wolfish grin on his lips with the images sprouting unchecked in his mind. 

“You'd let me fuck you if we had more room? Here?” 

“Shut up,” he counters, slapping Ilya's chest and turning to the sink. 

“No, no, this is interesting development. I didn't know you have this kink. I can make this happen. I sit here, you ride me, is very simple. Enough room, easy.” 

“We don't have any lube.” Ilya nearly chokes on his own spit, unable to believe what he was hearing. Shane would let him. But the logistics… he was always so concerned about the logistics. Ilya loved him for it.

“Stay here, I get some from carry on,” Ilya says and turns to the latch, his hand stopped quickly by Shane's.

“I'm not fucking you in this airplane bathroom with my parents a few rows away, Ilya,” Shane says evenly and all Ilya hears is this airplane, not any airplane. He resolves at that moment to put the little packets of lube in his pocket for the return journey, if only to test the theory. “We should go back to our seats or they're definitely going to think we're fucking.”

“Impossible, you are not this quiet. But we will go. Do you feel better at least?” Shane nods and kisses Ilya again, his forehead pressing tightly into his brow. 

“Thank you for making me think about something else,” he whispers, holding close for a minute longer. 

“I only want you to think of me. It is just selfishness, Shane, don't get confused.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. Now get out of here, I'll follow you back in a second.” Ilya returns to his seat and nods at Yuna who raises her brow in question, her expression a little suspicious. When Shane returns, he doesn’t help quell the suspicion when he meets her gaze and his cheeks flush, the red bursting under his freckles. “It isn’t what you think, Mom.” 

“Sure.” 

Neither of them say anything else on the matter and the subject is thoroughly dropped when the flight attendant starts bringing out the beverage cart. 

The rest of the flight is uneventful, Yuna and David managing to sleep for a few hours while Shane and Ilya settle in to watch a shared movie on their screens. Ilya lets himself relax as Shane burrows into his chest, the wide seats broad enough to allow them to get comfortable. It’s only when the announcement about landing comes over the speakers that Shane’s anxiety ratchets up again, his body tensing against Ilya’s as though it was a ticking bomb preparing to explode. 

“You remember the plan, дорогой,” Ilya says, rubbing his palm over Shane's arm, trying to soothe him. Trying to soothe himself, too, if he was being honest. Once they landed, it would all be much more real - Shane would be on edge, sharp, and Ilya would need to smooth out his spikes however he could manage. It would be hard, but Ilya knew that wasn't the real thing that scared him about this trip. In less than a day, he'd be one step closer to having to face the man from the video who hurt Shane so badly and he still didn't know how he would react. Not even his new medications could numb the spike of adrenaline that shot through him every time he thought of it.

“I know. Get off the plane, customs, booked car, hotel, room service, sleep, booked car, court. Rinse and repeat.” 

“Yes. And in between, cry and process and talk with your therapist.”

“Only if you're doing it too,” he counters and Ilya nods, because they'd made that agreement together. Both Galina and Shane’s therapist were on standby, with daily appointments set aside for them if they were needed. 

“I will. I will be so good about it, you will always be talking to them.” And so what if sometimes he meant he'd sometimes be talking to Sveta, she was just as good for him as his doctor.

They make it off the plane and into customs where Ilya is questioned more than Shane, the fact of it not lost on either of them. By the time they make it to the hotel, Shane is a sweaty mess, held up by David's hand at his back, and Yuna with her arm linked through Ilya's.

“Tonight is going to be difficult, I suspect,” Yuna says as she slows their pace, pulling them back slightly to let Shane and David move ahead. “We're just down the hall. If you need us, you call us, alright? Don't try to power through. Don't take it all on yourself.”

“I know,” Ilya assures, nodding. His heart is in his throat as he looks over at her. “He will be okay. He's strong.” 

“I know. But I need you both to be okay, you hear me?” She adds and Ilya clenches his jaw to stem the burning in his throat. “Now go get some rest. Message us if you want to get dinner or something later.”

Ilya hangs up with Sveta and crawls onto the hotel bed, curling up into Shane’s side as he finishes a puzzle on his phone. All he wanted was to crawl into Shane’s skin, disappear inside of him after the long day where he’d felt like a live wire, anything or anyone brushing against him sending shocks through his nervous system. He hadn’t complained, not once, determined to be the steady ship that got them both to the next day, but inside he was still unmoored, drifting, not even his medications could touch the current of anxiety running through him. 

“How is she doing?” Shane asks, arm coming to wrap around Ilya’s shoulders and he feels better, just slightly. 

“Tells me nothing, like usual. She is back in Moscow. Wanted to check in before she flies home in a few hours. She sends her love,” Ilya says softly, fingers playing with the fabric of Shane’s shirt. He wishes he would take it off, let him bite his skin to mark him ahead of tomorrow, but he thinks that would be too much. 

Galina had warned him off of initiating anything too intimate while they were here, not wanting to push Shane’s already fragile boundaries with something he didn’t start himself, and Ilya was doing his best to follow that guidance even if it felt counter-intuitive to how they functioned best. She was smarter than him, especially on this, so he would try to listen because he couldn’t afford a misstep when everything was already so tense. 

“I’m glad she called. It has to be, what, super early there?” Ilya hums and reaches for Shane’s phone, leaning over him to set it on the charger and leaving them tucked against one another in the low glow of the bathroom light spilling out into the room. 

“I don’t want to talk about Sveta,” Ilya murmurs into his neck, holding him close but not tight enough that he would feel like he couldn’t move out of his embrace, if he needed to. 

“What do you want to talk about then?” Shane counters and Ilya sighs, looking up at him and touching his cheek with his knuckle. 

“Just lay here, with me. Do not want to talk. Just want to feel you next to me.” 

Shane looks at him, face shadowed in the dim light. Ilya wonders what thoughts are spinning in his head, whether he was feeling like he too was on a carousel moving too fast, bound to fly off, or if he was strangely steady despite everything going on. He couldn't tell and it was killing him. “I don’t think I can sleep yet. I’m still too wired about tomorrow.” 

It isn’t what he wants to hear but he tries not to show it, instead pulling away and rolling onto his back, arm coming to cover his eyes for fear that they would give away the hurt that rolled through him. He just wanted Shane to settle with him. To still. He wanted but he could not have. It was torture, and sure, he’d survive it, he’d survived much worse, but that didn’t help with right now. He felt too needy, too fraught with wanting, he didn't want to be like this anymore, not when he needed to be stronger, for Shane.

“Okay,” Ilya says lowly and tries to clench his jaw to keep the tears at bay. He wishes the room was pitch black so he couldn’t be seen because being seen was somehow worse. 

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs, looking down at him. Seeing the way he’s trying so hard to hold on and not pile this on top of everything else. He was so fucking weak and still, he wanted so much. “I just realized we missed part of the plan,” he continues quickly, realizing what he's seeing and reaching for Ilya’s elbow, drawing it back slowly to expose his face. “We missed the scheduled crying time. Was supposed to be earlier, but if you want, we could reschedule it to now?” 

And Ilya hates the way it makes him laugh, a pained bark of it escaping from his chest. But the floodgates open and soon the tears are there, burning his eyes and smearing across his cheeks as his nose clogs and his throat stings. Shane is there to press kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, brushing his curls back from his brow as he chokes back a pathetic sob. 

“You’re not crying, малыш, feels unfair,” Ilya gasps with a wet laugh, reaching a hand up to Shane’s face and cupping his jaw. “It was supposed to be a team crying break but you’re leaving me out here alone.” 

“No, дорогой, never alone. Look,” he says and brings Ilya’s knuckle to his cheek, the lone tear damp on his skin. “I cheated, earlier, while you were on the phone. I had a little breakdown but I didn’t want to tell you and make you upset. But clearly you’re upset now. So I’m telling you because you’re not alone. Neither of us are.” 

“Please, lay here with me. This is what I want. Even if you are not tired.” And it hurts to vocalize it, like the words were pulled from the lining of his lungs, but still the relief floods him as Shane shifts his body down fully onto the mattress. Ilya doesn't draw him in but he does grip his hand, tight, and holds on with everything he has. 

He wakes later to a cold bed, the raw light of dawn peeking through the curtains that wave in the morning breeze. His first instinct is to panic, afraid that Shane has left, but then he tries what Galina had suggested and counts to ten, performing an audit of the room. His shoes were still tucked against the wall, there was a tray of room service breakfast on the table, and the balcony door was propped open. 

Ilya is slow to get to his feet, body rough after a restless night. He steps onto the balcony and breathes a sigh of relief at seeing Shane there, eyes closed, face relaxed in sleep, blanket curled around him and face leaning on the stone wall. 

He considers waking him but decides against it, afraid to disrupt what little sleep he was managing to get. 

Instead, he returns to the room and begins preparing for the day, taking a shower, picking at the breakfast tray, and setting out their clothes for court. When he's pulling on his trousers, Shane finally stumbles into the room, still wrapped up in the blanket, eyes filled with panic. 

“I can't do this,” Shane says sharply, firm and unrelenting. “I can't go. I can't testify. I can't sit there and look at him. I can't, Ilya. I can't.”

“Okay, then we don't,” Ilya responds and Shane crumbles onto the floor, the blanket covering him as he heaves great starving breaths. Ilya is at his side immediately, kneeling and then lying down to look at his face, untouching but close enough to feel his stuttered breaths. 

“I have to go. It needs to end. But I can't. It feels like my heart is going to explode, it won't slow down. Ilya, I can't breathe - I can't -” 

“Shh, you can. Follow me,” he urges and begins to count, slow and methodical, inhale, exhale. “Just breathe.” 

He doesn't say it'll be alright because it won't be. Today will be hard, nearly impossible, but they will get through it because they had no other choice. 

They lay there together, hands clasped, until there's a knock on the door. Ilya stays put, unwilling to pull away first. 

“Boys, the car will be here in half an hour, are you up?” Yuna says through the wood. 

“Up and fed. We'll meet you in the lobby,” Ilya replies and Shane closes his eyes tightly, huffing out a final breath. 

“Okay,” he whispers, gripping Ilya's hand before pulling away to get to his feet. Ilya follows and together they dress, wash, and make their way downstairs. 

The courtroom is a flurry of activity and it sets Ilya on edge. They're led into the space by Shane's adviser and given a set of headphones for translation that the lawyers have arranged in advance, before being guided onto the bench that would be their reserved space for as long as this whole thing would take.

Gripping Shane's hand in his own, Ilya looks from Shane to Yuna to David, checking on them all, measuring their expressions for a guide on how to set his own. He didn't know, not really, whether he was supposed to look sad, or angry, or neutral. He felt all of those things, and yet still, he wasn't sure what his face was doing. He didn't want the rage he'd been harbouring to show, especially not here, so he shoved some version of a mask on and tried to take in the room. 

Slowly, people start to wander in, settling on the benches. Behind them, a few members of the press sit tucked in the corner, disinterested looks on their faces as they scroll through their phones. 

“He’ll be brought in soon. Try to keep your reactions contained, if you can,” the adviser says, meeting Ilya's gaze last and holding it for a second, like he could read Ilya's mind and the vicious thoughts that were spiraling.

He counts in his head and makes it to 327 before the side door is opened and two guards lead in a man bound, sporting a prison jumpsuit. He’s placed in a seat and his shackles are released, leaving him to sit freely in the courtroom like he wasn’t on trial at all. 

Beside him, Shane tenses, nails digging into Ilya's thigh and grounding him, keeping him from standing up even though the urge to fly across the courtroom was burning through him like wildfire. 

“You're safe, Shane. Just remember that,” Yuna whispers and Ilya only half hears it, his ears ringing and breaths becoming useless for moving oxygen into his body. 

He can feel himself drifting, his body fighting the surging adrenaline and the taste of blood in his mouth. He thinks of Kent, how it had felt to hit him. He thinks of dropping this man to the floor and putting his foot through his head. The image causes him to recoil in disgust with himself, his stomach roiling. 

“Baby, look at me,” Shane murmurs and squeezes his forearm, tugging until Ilya has to look at him. “Stay with me. Just me.” Ilya nods and breathes, squeezing his hand back, eyes closed. 

The court is called to order and when the docket is read, there's a hushed surprise that echoes through the room at Shane's name. Ilya can practically feel the news outlets receiving the first wires about the story, tendrils of information slipping through their fingers and out into the public. It would be a TSN headline before they left the courtroom, of that he was sure. He wished then that the judge had ruled to protect Shane’s identity, rather than agree with the defense that since his face wasn’t visible in the video, there was no way to prove it was even him who was assaulted. At least if he'd been protected from the release… he had to not think about impossible things now.

From then on it's all a blur. 

Ilya barely remembers any of the opening arguments before they're led out of the courtroom and into a private room down the hall for lunch. He's pretty sure that the only reason either of them eat is because David makes them a bet, which turns it into a challenge, and neither Ilya nor Shane could ever turn down the opportunity to beat each other in a competition, no matter how ridiculous or superfluous it was. 

After lunch, the hard part truly begins as the video is played by the prosecution for the first time. They’d known it was coming, had been briefed on the planned schedule, and yet still, the idea of it made him physically ill. The first sounds of it, so familiar from his nightmares, made his guts clench and his heart race, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning.

Ilya turns and watches Shane's face instead of the screen because he'd promised he wouldn't watch it. But Shane does. Every second. And it makes Ilya sick to see the way his face shifts with the images flickering before his eyes. 

The meager lunch he'd managed to consume turns sour as the sounds become vile and all encompassing. He wishes he could shut off his hearing, close his ears, because Shane - his beautiful husband, the man he had fought for every second of every day of the past decade - was making noises on that recording that would haunt him forever. 

Shane doesn't blink. He watches with an expression empty of any hint of a person behind his eyes and Ilya thinks maybe that's because he's not there, that maybe he's found a way to be physically here but mentally gone. He hopes he’s found a way because he deserved that peace, the kind that only came with a full disconnect from the horror in front of him. 

Until the sound from the video of the man's release echoes in the courtroom, followed by a painful sob from the man below him. 

“Good showing. Five stars. My nice pathetic bottom, was I a strong enough top for you?” There's a smack of hand on skin. “I think yes, you enjoyed it too, wouldn't have come all over your sheets and made this mess otherwise, filthy slut.”

There’s a ringing in his ears, like the alarm in Kill Bill. 

Ilya can't take it. He can't. His body is turning in his seat, his thighs are tightening to stand. He could do it. He could make it across the room before they realized he was on him. His hands were strong, they could crush his windpipe. He could do it. He was going to do it. 

He's just off the seat when David's arm loops over his shoulder and pulls him back down onto the bench, fingers biting into his collarbone to bring him back to himself. 

The movement must jostle Shane enough to break him from wherever he'd gone because he snaps back into himself and looks to Ilya with an expression Ilya can't read. “Do it.” 

He's off the bench like a shot, pushing his way past the other attendees, into the aisle and then over the divider before anyone can blink. His hands wrap around the man’s neck and squeeze, fingers cramping, face red. 

“Breathe, Ilya,” David urges, leaning in close enough that his breath is in Ilya's ear. 

He realizes then that he's not on his knees choking the life out of someone. He's still on the bench, still clutching Shane's hand, held in place by David fucking Hollander, ex-hockey player for McGill with the strength of the fucking Hulk. 

And Ilya feels the relief of that hold, and he wants to cry because he wants so badly to hurt someone, so much that it's actually only hurting him and the people who love him. But they love him too much to let him fall into that place inside of him. He is a hot air balloon, not trapped on the ground, but tethered to it by people who love him. They wouldn’t let him float away.

He was here for Shane and they were here for him and none of them would float away on the rage and fear and sadness that today was pulling out of them. 

The video ends and the lawyer starts speaking, her voice numbing the rage inside of him as he takes a first breath, as though he was coming up for air. 

Beside him, Shane blinks. 

And his face collapses, beautiful freckles stark against his pale skin, tears flooding his eyes. Ilya reaches up to brush a finger across his cheek, the first touch he’s given beyond their hands clenched together in fists. 

“Моя любовь, скоро всё закончится. Забронировала машину, отель, обслуживание номеров, поплакать, поспать, и так по кругу,” he whispers their plan into his ear, forehead pressing against his temple. “You are almost through.” 

Shane nods and looks forward, glazed and frozen, a mask so thick that even Ilya couldn't parse it after years of study. 

By the time the court recesses for the evening, Ilya is spent, nerves raw, thoughts spinning. He does his best to hold it together as he shuffles out ahead of Shane and into the bright evening sun, the fresh air like a balm before he’s herded into a waiting car. 

The first flashes from cameras find them through the windows and Shane groans, ducking his head between his knees as Ilya rubs a hand along his spine. 

“Boys, your phones please,” Yuna says, sliding in with them and taking the devices from them. “I’ll get you local SIM cards and log out of social media. You can get them back tomorrow. Tonight, all you need to do is rest.” 

They arrive at the hotel and are thankfully spared any waiting photographers, though Ilya still hustles them through the lobby and up to their room quickly. Behind them, David and Yuna make some arrangements with reception before joining them in the room, ready to debrief for the day. 

“I don’t want to talk about any of it,” Shane says when Yuna sits down beside him on the bed, her expression open with its mixture of grief and frustration. 

“Okay. We don’t have to. Do you want your phone to call into your appointment?" She offers and Ilya debates saying yes, knowing after today he should call Galina but waiting to see what Shane does and follow his lead.

“No. I just - I want to pretend like today didn’t happen. Can we just - can all of you please forget everything you saw in the video? Can we just never talk about it again?” Ilya tries to lock down his expression at that, the bile rising in his throat. He couldn't pretend like they'd never seen it - he couldn't. But maybe just for today he could try. Maybe it would get better tomorrow, and then the next day too. He wanted to believe even though everything in his body was telling him no.

“Shane…” David starts and Shane makes a noise in the back of his throat, a pitched groan that bleeds with words unsaid. 

“Dad - please. Please. This is already so difficult and the media - they know now, don’t they? That’s why there were cameras outside the courtroom? Everyone is going to see the video now. Everyone. And then they’re all going to want to talk about it. So can we just fucking not? You saw it. You know what happened to me. You know I struggle with it. What more is there to say?” He counters sharply, hands tight in his hair as he refuses to meet any of their eyes. He was angry, panicked and snarling, and Ilya could do nothing to stem it. He half thought maybe it was good, to let it run its course and get it out, rather than letting it simmer.

“Okay, we don’t have to discuss it if you don’t want to. Not with us right now. But you should talk about it in your appointment. It’s different to see what happened to you for the first time like that, in front of everyone. I can imagine -” 

“Stop, please. Just - go to dinner. We can talk in the morning, I just need to not think for like, five years. Please. I’ll do my appointment tomorrow after I get some fucking sleep.” 

A silence fills the room as the Hollanders debate on whether to keep pushing, or to let Shane ruminate on his thoughts. Ilya watches as a silent conversation happens between the two, one similar, he imagined, to when they were trying to escape the Pike household some days.

“Alright, we’ll head out. Call our room if you need anything, or if you change your mind about the appointment. We love you, Shane, we're so proud of you.”

“Love you too,” he says and returns their hugs half-heartedly, as though too exhausted to try. 

When the room is quiet once more, Ilya stands from where he’s been leaning against the table and walks towards the bed, sinking down to settle at Shane’s feet, chin on his thigh. Shane doesn’t say anything, simply lifts his hand and cards his fingers through Ilya’s curls, slow and methodical, the touch soothing for them both. 

They order room service with beers and more food than either of them think they can manage. Afterwards, Shane disappears to the bathroom and Ilya can hear him retching over the toilet, the stress of the day and the change in food from his strict diet coming back to haunt him. He returns looking drawn, pale, and Ilya makes quick work of helping him into a pair of pyjamas as they both get ready for bed. 

“I took one of your pills,” Shane says as Ilya steers him towards the mattress and under the covers. 

“Was before the puking or after?” Ilya counters easily, unconcerned but making note of the out of character behaviour and needing to know the details. He’d offered the pills before, on particularly hard days to help him sleep, but Shane had never taken him up on it. This was new but he understood why Shane would reach for it, especially after today.

“After. I just want to sleep like you slept at the cottage, after the accident. I’m sorry, I should have asked first,” he mumbles and Ilya shakes his head, coming to lay down beside him and run his palm along his arm soothingly.

“Is okay. Only one pill, yes?” Shane nods and Ilya breathes out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. One pill was nothing like Mama. It would be okay. “I am not upset, you can take them if you need them, but only ever one and only if you tell me so I can look after you. And you should tell therapist tomorrow too. Is important they know this.” 

“I know, Mom,” Shane grumbles and Ilya shakes his head, turning Shane to face him head on from where he'd settled on his back. 

“No. Is not something you get to be frustrated with me about. Not after Mama. Not after everything,” Ilya responds firmly, palm coming up to cup his chin and ensure he catches his gaze. He would not relent on this, not an inch.

“Right, fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ilya, I didn’t -” Shane babbles, words full of regret that Ilya knows he truly feels. He leans in and presses their foreheads together, trying to stem the flow of chaos in his mind.

“I know, shh, I know, is alright. I just tell you so you know I will not be okay with this being secret, okay? We talk about this. It is not a Champlain.” God, he hopes it doesn't become one.

“I understand. I will tell you, I promise,” Shane adds and leans forward to kiss him, soft and slow and with none of the distance Ilya had been trying to keep to let him make the first move. 

Their kisses are languid, sweet. Ilya lets himself relax into the slow press of tongue and lips. His hands stay above the sheets, centered on Shane's face, his neck, only once dipping to press against his chest where his heart was rapidly beating. Eventually though, Shane's mouth starts to soften and his eyes close, breath evening out as the meds pull him under. 

Ilya rolls onto his back then and stares at the ceiling, thinking through the day. 

They'd made it through, that was the important thing, he thought. Sure, he'd wanted to commit murder several times, but he'd held himself back. Or rather sometimes David had. Either way, he hadn't been violent and wasn't that his worst fear about today?

He knew it wasn't. But he'd examine that when they were home. When they were through the worst of it. 

Nobody talked today of the fact that tomorrow would be worse. Shane would have to testify and the stories about the trial would start in earnest. He didn't want to think about it - hearing Shane's own words describe what had happened to him in detail. So instead he thought about the headlines, the way they could go one of two ways, and how at least Ilya was glad they were here for it instead of at home, hiding. At least here they were distracted, kept in a bubble by the lawyers and the Hollanders, protected. They'd deal with the rest later.

Ilya looks at Shane then, mouth open in sleep, brow relaxed for the first time in months and he thinks about how much he loves him, how sometimes it feels like he would disappear into the shadows if Shane didn’t shine his light in his direction. He wonders how much sleep Shane had missed in the last few months and whether it was even humanly possible to make up for all of it. He wants to touch him, hold him. Treat him like the precious thing he was in Ilya's soul, but he couldn't. Not right now, not when he was dealing with so many things that made touch dangerous. So instead he turns to face him, burrowing down into the bed, close enough to feel Shane’s breath on his face. 

That's how he falls asleep, as close as he dares to get.

He wakes on his stomach, a heavy weight at his back. It isn’t the first time he’s woken up with Shane draped across him, the man was as mobile in his sleep as he was in a game, but the heaviness felt different this time. 

His hands are above him, there are fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding him down. Shane’s breath is hot on his neck as his hips grind against his ass, length hard and insistent even through the layers of clothing between them. Ilya smiles to himself, feeling his own cock harden under the thought of Shane waking him up for morning sex, but when he tries to shift over onto his back the smile disappears as the grip tightens, keeping him on his stomach. 

He could break the hold, easily, but he is afraid of what mindset Shane was in, afraid that trying to overpower him would make this worse for him. And really, it wasn’t bad what Shane was doing, they’d done it before, they had had many hours of using each other as rubbing posts. 

And yet. 

It felt different. It felt wrong. Too much like the video. Too detached from how they usually started things like this. 

He tries to roll over again and is stopped by another hand coming to the back of his neck and pushing him into the mattress, knees coming to dig into the backs of his thighs. 

Panic claws its way up his throat as he remembers that this is what had happened to Shane, how he hadn’t been able to break the man’s hold, and now - now it was Shane on top of him. Ilya didn’t understand. He couldn’t - what was happening? He felt his heart start to race as Shane’s breaths turn thick and damp against his skin, his head resting against Ilya’s hair. 

He was frozen, scared to push, scared to try to break him from whatever dream must have a hold over him because surely startling him out of it would be worse than letting him take the relief he needed. Even if it meant being uncomfortable for a few moments. He could do it. He could let it happen. He could be this for Shane because it wasn’t anything that he wouldn’t give him otherwise. 

But still. 

It felt wrong. 

He hated it. 

When Shane ruts against him hard, teeth biting his ear, Ilya fights to let his body sink into the mattress, mind drifting to the cottage, to summer sun, to grass under his toes and warm kisses on the couch. 

He loved him. 

He loved him. 

He. Loved. Him. 

It would be alright. 

He would be alright. 

They would.

Shane’s cum leaks through their clothing and dampens Ilya’s skin, his strangled sound of release unlike anything Ilya has ever heard from him before and it sends terror of another kind through Ilya. 

“Shane?” Ilya murmurs, soft and a bit shattered. 

His wrists are released, the body above him scrambles off and away until there’s a thump and Ilya knows he’s fallen to the floor in his haste. He lays there for another moment, still frozen, before slowly his limbs start to answer his brain’s commands and he lifts himself up. It feels like that time on his couch, before Ilya had understood what he was dealing with, and the thought makes his blood run cold.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…” Shane repeats again and again, the loop continuing, his body curling into itself as he covers his face to hide from the world. Ilya slides to the side of the bed, and then onto the floor, kneeling beside him, unsure what to do. 

“Shane, моя любовь, it’s okay,” he says though he isn’t sure it is, not right now at least. He reaches for his shoulder and Shane’s face breaks through his arms, eyes wide as he looks at Ilya like he’s seeing a ghost. “You are alright. You are safe.” 

“Ilya - oh my god - Ilya. I didn’t - mean - I - the, maybe - I didn’t mean to. Oh my god. Oh my god -” 

“Hey, no. Is okay, Shane. Shane - come back to me. Is just me, here with you.” 

“I can’t - I don’t know what is happening. I know what I’ve done, but I didn’t - I didn’t think I was doing it. It just - I woke up and I was fucking holding you down and kneeling -” He vomits bile onto himself and Ilya doesn’t know what to do because he didn’t understand what was happening either but he had to try. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Ilya - I didn’t mean to - I didn’t want to -” 

“Love, малыш, please. I am okay. You are okay. Breathe for me. Please. Just one breath.” 

“I can’t -” 

“You can. You must. Breathe,” Ilya orders, voice turning firm in the way that he only ever used when Shane wanted to let Ilya take complete control. It was not lost on him that the one thing that he hoped would snap Shane out of this panic attack was one of the few things tied to what had caused this attack in the first place. “Another breath, Shane. Again. Follow my lungs,” he urges and pulls Shane’s hand to his chest, holding it there as he tries to breathe deep enough for both of them. 

It works, slowly, and Ilya tries to keep it together as Shane crumples into himself, his strong, beautiful, resilient man collapsing like a dying star. 

He picks him up from the floor, ignoring the bile and cum that smears across himself as he pulls him to his chest and gets to his feet. Ilya takes them to the shower, turning on the hot water until it stings, stripping their frames, before climbing in with Shane in his arms, body limp. 

“Keep your hand on my chest, keep breathing with me,” Ilya instructs as he holds them upright, arms tight around Shane’s torso. Shane’s weight is heavy but nothing Ilya hasn’t spent years learning to hold up. “Almost done, love,” he says over the stream of water, his hands quick as they run a washcloth over the streaky skin covered in bodily fluids. When they’re both clean again, Ilya guides Shane from the shower and runs a towel over him before wrapping him up in one of the hotel’s plush bathrobes. He does the same for himself and steers them back towards the bed, startled only when Shane shakes his head and lets out a pained moan, turning in his arms as though to bolt for the door. 

“Please - the balcony. The chairs - they’re like my couch in Montreal. Please, Ilya. I can’t -” 

“Okay, we go to the balcony,” Ilya says and leads them into the cool night air. Once Shane is settled in one of the chairs, Ilya dips back into the room and pulls some extra blankets from the closet, returning to the balcony to find Shane standing too close to the edge for Ilya’s comfort. “Shane,” he murmurs, not wanting to startle him. 

“I wasn’t going to,” he says and it’s a lie and Ilya cannot take it anymore because he is so scared and he doesn’t know what is happening and he cannot do this alone.

“Come here, right now,” Ilya orders, deadly quiet, and Shane comes to him, wraps himself around him, curls into him. Ilya gathers him close and steers them into the bedroom, locking the balcony doors before setting Shane in a chair. He stalks to the phone then, picking it up and dialing the Hollander’s room. It picks up on the fifth ring and Yuna’s sleepy voice fills the line. 

“Yuna.”

“Is everything alright?” 

“No. I need help.” 

“We’ll be there in a minute.” 

Ilya stands guard, holding Shane against his torso protectively as the minutes pass. Soon there’s a knock and then Yuna and David let themselves in, evaluating the room with a quick glance before coming to Shane’s side. 

“He took one of my sedative pills, to sleep. Just one. He told me after. Was fine, he fell asleep normal, but when he woke up he wasn’t himself. He had panic attack, got sick on himself. Asked to sit on balcony and I leave for one minute and he is looking over edge when I come back. He says he wasn’t going to jump but he - he isn’t himself. Is acting strange. I don’t - I need help. I can’t lose him like Mama.” 

Shane’s arms tighten their grip and he curls into him further, like Ilya was the stuffed animal that a child was trying to hide inside of. 

“Alright. Thank you for telling us all of this, Ilya. Why don’t you and David go for a quick walk? Take a minute to breathe and I’ll get Shane into some clothes.” 

Ilya nods and heads to his bag, pulling a pair of sweats out before ducking into the bathroom to change. He returns and slips on his slides before following David out into the hallway. They make it to the elevator before Ilya breaks down and sinks into a crouch, silent sobs wracking his frame as he holds himself tight against the wall. David grips his shoulder, fingers firm like they’d been in the courtroom, grounding and purposeful. 

“We’ll go to the hospital tonight,” David says after Ilya has pulled himself together, tears dry and body firmly upright once more. “Just to get him checked out, in case one of the medications had an adverse effect.” 

“You think this is what it is?” Ilya asks lowly, watching as David’s expression flickers. “The pills do this?”

“I think he is strong but even strong people have a breaking point. We will see what the doctor says. I know that these medications can make people do weird things, sleepwalk and act strange. We’ll get him checked out and decide the plan from there.” Ilya nods and follows David back to the room where Yuna and Shane are already standing, dressed and waiting for them. 

“You don’t have to come,” Shane says as Ilya digs through his bag for a pair of proper pants. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Shane,” Ilya responds gently and ducks into the bathroom to change before coming to stand beside him, palm reaching to his cheek. “Is me and you. Okay?” Shane nods, eyes watery, and Ilya leans in to press a kiss to his forehead. 

The private clinic waves them through like they were expected and Ilya realizes that maybe they were. The doctor talks them through the side effects of Ilya’s medication, how it was a risk to take the medication without it being prescribed, especially after reviewing the list of Shane’s supplements and medications and finding multiple contraindications in the list. 

“You should be fine once it clears your system but I would advise against ever taking someone else’s medication like this again. You were lucky that the side effects were caught before you made things worse for yourself,” the doctor says and Ilya hates him for that comment. Shane already knew how foolish it had been, he didn’t need anyone to kick him when he was down. 

“I won’t, again,” Shane says after a minute, gripping his hands tightly together. “Is there - um, something else I could do? To help me sleep? I haven’t been sleeping well and the trial is, uh, more than I expected. I just want to sleep.” 

“Mr. Hollander, it is perfectly normal to be distressed in a case like yours. I can prescribe a medication but it may have similar effects as what you’ve experienced this evening. Have you tried other coping strategies, like physical activity or hobbies? These provide distraction and keep the body active and focused on something else. As you’ve managed until now with other methods, I am hesitant to prescribe anything that may compound the stress -” 

“I can try. I will try. Can I still get the prescription? And if we need to fill it we don’t need to come back?” Shane asks, taking Ilya’s hand in his own and squeezing it. Ilya squeezes back, hopeful that Shane was willing to try again despite everything working against him. Maybe it would be good for them both, to dive back into the physical parts of their day that they’d let slip in the offseason with everything else going on. 

They leave the clinic with a prescription that Yuna tucks away in her purse. Once they’re back at the hotel, they’re walked to their room where the Hollanders leave them for the rest of the night after being told, point blank by Shane, that they needed time to themselves. Inside, the room has been turned over, the sheets refreshed, clothes tidied from the bathroom floor. Like earlier had never even happened. It’s both somehow relieving and worse, to see it all wiped away like this. 

“We will talk about tonight when this is all over, yes? Not now. Is too fresh now and tomorrow is important.” Ilya says after a few moments of standing in the entryway, hands soft against one another, unwilling to part. 

“Yes. Until then, will you just hold me? Is that okay? Maybe you don’t want to, which is fine - ” Ilya feels his held breath release, his body making a strange flip between a keen desire to crawl into Shane's embrace and a striking hot need to run away. He quells it by making his body make the first move, reaching to pull him into his arms, before his mind can talk him out of it.

“Yes, of course,” he replies and Shane leads them to the bed, curling up on his side as Ilya tucks in around him. They don’t sleep, not really, but the stillness keeps the demons at bay for the rest of the night at least. 

The courtroom this time has new faces. There’s more media now, two whole rows of it, and somehow, familiar faces. 

Farah, of course, having flown in for the testimony, was sitting next to Jackie Pike and Sveta. The sight of them has Shane tripping over his own feet, stumbling as his face pales. 

“What are they doing here?” Shane whispers to Ilya, voice high pitched and panicked. 

“They are here to support you, probably,” Ilya replies and shuffles them closer to their spots. 

“I can’t testify in front of them. I can’t - everyone will know.” 

“Shane,” Ilya says with a sigh, hand pressing against Shane's chest and holding it there to steady him. “They already know. If they are here, video is already out. They know what happened. This is not new. So now is time you take back your control, remember the narrative? And you tell everyone what happened - no, listen to me,” he says, pulling Shane’s attention back to him from where it’s wandered distractedly towards the media in the back of the room. “You are Shane fucking Hollander, remember? I know it's scary, but you are brave -” 

“This is my fucking nightmare, Ilya -” 

“Then maybe is time to wake up, yes?” And his words seem to work, somehow, pulling Shane out from his spinning thoughts to the here and now. Ilya watches it happen with a kind of awe, the way his expression shifts to one of gametime readiness, the great competitor. He'd missed this look these last few months. “Let's go and talk with them before it starts.”

Sveta keeps her words calm as she takes Shane's hand, running her thumb over his knuckles as Jackie leans in and hugs him. 

“Hayden contacted your lawyers to testify. He's scheduled for tomorrow, after Luca Haas apparently. They're not allowed in the courtroom until after, but I thought it would help you to know they were here too,” Jackie says once they're all seated, hands clasped together. 

The trial is called back into session and they settle into the monotony of the proceedings, the judges asking for follow-up information from yesterday's evidence. When finally Shane is called to the stand, the room turns tense as he lets go of Ilya’s hand and they’re both left to sit on their own, eyes focused on one another from across the room. 

Shane’s media mask slips into place as seamlessly as ever, his hands steadying in his lap, and Ilya looks on with admiration for this man who had the courage to show up when they both knew that this whole thing was slowly pulling him apart. 

They’d practiced this. Had run drills on how he would answer. Ilya knew the words inside and out, had listened in as the lawyers had prepped him over and over. Shane had become the best at testimony because Ilya expected nothing less. Their offseason hadn’t been only for recovery from the hockey season, but a slow and careful preparation for this. 

And he was perfect. 

Every line delivered, every question answered. Clear. Concise. Targeted. He told the truth with none of the flowery language that they might have expected from someone else describing a memory from years ago. 

But then the defense rose to their feet and the cross-examination began. Ilya tensed up and felt Sveta’s hand on his shoulder, the soft pressure of it steadying him as Shane held himself together through the first few questions. 

“And after he left, why didn’t you report him immediately then? Why not report him until now, if you are so certain it is you in the video?” 

“I didn’t report him then because I was scared. After he left, I was bleeding and it hurt to move so I wasn’t up for calling the police in a foreign country where I didn't know the language. Reporting what had happened seemed impossible and unbelievable. I think that is pretty understandable.  

“After I left Mexico, I tried to pretend like nothing had happened. None of the people - my colleagues - who came on the trip with me knew I had sex with men. In my career - it wasn’t acceptable to be gay so I couldn’t tell them about what had happened to me. I have lived with this experience all this time hoping that I could move past it. Up until very recently, only five people in the world knew I was assaulted other than my doctors - myself, my parents, my partner, and the man who assaulted me. 

“I’m only coming forward now because the defendant took a video of his assault on me and decided to post it on the internet. I am, unfortunately, a public figure, and my agent was sent this video because someone else recognized me. If the matching scar on my hip from the video is not enough proof that it is me, then the recognition from a third party should challenge that theory further. It is me, in that video. I wouldn’t be up here talking about the worst moment of my life, publicly and probably harming my image and my work environment at the same time, if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that it is me. I’ve reported it now because there is enough proof to hold him accountable for what he did to me and I've done the work to understand what it was that happened. The scars of which are still making living a normal life a challenge.”

“How can we trust that you are telling the truth, when it wasn’t important enough to report earlier and you have a long history of deceiving the public record?” 

“It wasn't that it wasn't important, but rather it was dangerous for me to report it earlier. Like I said, my identity, my career, at the time, required me to keep this secret. Just because I didn’t have enough proof before doesn’t mean that it is not the truth. It still happened. There’s a video of it, the one that played yesterday? Surely you made note of how I sound when I’m being raped?” 

Ilya’s chest constricts as Shane is scolded by the judges, by the defense, for his comment. It was bitchy, it was smart, it only made Ilya love him more. If there had been a jury, it would have swayed them, but there wasn’t and he would probably be slapped down for daring to be sharp with his words. Still though - Ilya knew it meant that Shane was present, not just on autopilot. The champion he was, as a player, as a man, had shown up. 

“Mr. Hollander, perhaps we can stick to more straightforward answers going forward,” the defense says, looking down at his notes. “I only have a few more short questions. Can you tell me, when did you complete your recovery from this supposed incident?” 

“I am still not recovered fully,” Shane answers shortly, hands twisting in his lap. They both knew where this line of questioning was going. 

“I meant medically,” the defense continues, waving his hand in the air as though his question wasn't akin to digging into an open wound and pulling at someone's insides. 

“I am still not recovered fully,” Shane repeats into the microphone more pointedly, tapping it once to ensure it was on, pushing the boundaries just a little bit more as the defense sneers towards him. 

“Then I refer to your physical injuries, specifically. I ask because you went on to win the Stanley Cup that year, correct? This is a significant achievement in your sport and requires top physical conditioning, correct? How did you succeed at this task if you, by your standards, are still not fully recovered?” 

“My rectal bleeding stopped once I returned home the next day, though it did occasionally recur sporadically for the next few weeks. The muscle pain was a few days after that, mostly due to the strain on my neck and shoulders from being restrained and held forcefully against the mattress. I completed my antibiotics for the STI I received from your client by September. The medical monitoring for HIV exposure was completed before the spring. The mental impacts -” 

“You indicate that you received an STI from my client? Can you please be more specific, for the record?” 

“I had chlamydia. I was treated before the hockey season began as it came up as a positive test during our regular pre-season team health screening.” 

“My client has said that he has never been treated for chlamydia. How are you certain that you received it from him, if you were frequently having sex with men?” 

“I have only had sex with two men, your client and my husband. Prior to this assault, I completed my spring health screening and did not have any infectious diseases. My husband, who was the only person I was with between the spring health screening and the assault, has never had a positive test for chlamydia and he also undergoes regular health screening for his job. It is basic deduction.” 

“Hmm, alright, we will have to take your word for it.” 

“Yes, as you take his about not having an STI. Perhaps he should see the doctor as my lawyers have advised me that knowingly transmitting an STI is a charge that prosecutors like to add to sexual assault cases in Texas, where he lives.” 

“That will be enough, Mr. Hollander,” the judge reprimands, though there’s no heat in it. 

Shane is excused from the stand and the judges set the court to recess, the crowd slow to get to their feet except for Ilya who is out of his seat in seconds, meeting Shane in the aisle and pulling him into a crushing hug that he doesn’t release, even as Shane mumbles a small protest into his shoulder. 

“You were perfect, малыш,” Ilya murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple as he finally pulls away. When he does, Shane is barely given a second to breathe before his parents are on him, holding him tightly, whispering things to him that he apologizes for like a perfect little Canadian would. 

Shane works his way through the rest of the group with a steadiness that belies the instability he’s been feeling all week, his media mask still firmly on even though these were his friends. Ilya knew why he was keeping it in place, the storm that was probably brewing underneath one too harsh to show the world. He knew that he would peel it away later and let the storm spill out in the privacy of their hotel room, and Ilya was ready for it. 

The rest of the day drags on, lunch then more testimony from other witnesses, then timeline debates, then arguments and more evidence from Shane’s lawyers. Ilya doesn’t even bother trying to really keep up, knowing he’d be looped in if there was anything important that he needed to know. All he wanted to do now was take Shane home, run him into the ground until that mask broke and he came back to himself. 

After the day ends, Yuna corrals everyone into a dinner at a private room at the hotel. Ilya still can’t understand how she’s coordinating everything so seamlessly, thinking through every minute five hours in advance. He’s in awe of her ability to foresee the issue and handle it before it became one, her attention to detail and seeing what they needed before they even asked was unmatched. Ilya understood now, more than he ever had before, how Shane had had the space to become as good as he was - Yuna had carved it out of stone for him with her bare hands. 

“I see all things you manage, and it means a lot,” Ilya says to her as the table laughs about something Luca has just said, the young man’s cheeks flush from the wine. 

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Yuna replies, sipping her wine and pointedly not meeting Ilya’s gaze. 

“This dinner. The doctors last night. The room cleaning. The phones and media - how are you possibly keeping media away from him? This is big story, Sveta says. And yet no reporter dares ask him a thing. It can only be you, behind the scenes.” 

“These are all simple requests, Ilya. It is nothing special. I spoke with the hotel before we came, explained the situation. I had the doctor pre-arranged just in case either of you needed it. Farah has been coordinating the media releases we’ve discussed and every media outlet has been told that if they attack his image, every brand that sponsors either of you will pull their advertising -” 

“You are blackmailing them with our sponsors?” Ilya counters, brows raised at the guts it took to play that card. 

“Yes. It is just business,” she adds and then looks at him and he sees the anger boiling behind her eyes, the rage that she was working overtime to keep from simmering over the edge. 

And Ilya thought he knew the Hollanders well. He thought he understood that they were even keeled, protective but only to a fault. They would never raise a fist, but Yuna Hollander would destroy the checkbooks of any person who would harm her son. She would use her business acumen to set fire to any organization that dared come for him when he was down. 

Ilya was willing to use violence, Yuna was ready to pour gasoline and light the capitalist match. They were the same, really. 

He wasn’t alone. 

“Thank you for this,” Ilya murmurs and Yuna nods, a quick jerk of her head, before she turns her attention back to her plate. 

They finish dinner and bid their goodbyes, breaking apart in the lobby before heading up to their room. Once back inside, Shane lets his shoulders fall and rubs his face, a bone tired exhaustion filling his features as the mask slips. 

“Ilya, do you want me to get my own room tonight? So I don’t - you know -” Ilya cuts in with a laugh because the question was fucking ridiculous. 

“You will not take anything tonight? To sleep?” He shakes his head, brow furrowed and eyes wet. Ilya can see the remorse radiating off of him and he hates it, wants his Shane back, his confidant partner, the man who pushed back on him when he needed it. He missed him so much and he hated what this trial was costing them, he wouldn't let it cost them this too. “Then no, I don’t want or need that. Last night - yes, it was difficult, but you didn’t hurt me. I am not afraid of you.” 

“But I violated -” 

“Shane, stop. Put the whip you're lashing yourself with down. We already say we will talk about this when we’re home, yes?” Ilya says and Shane nods, jaw tense. He didn't want another room because he wanted Shane and he needed - well, he needed to make sure he wouldn't jump. It was as simple as that. “Then we talk about it then. I do not want another room. I want to be with you. But if you want -” 

“I don’t,” he interjects and rubs his face again, pressing at his temples. 

“Good. Then go shower and we get ready for bed.” 

The night is easier than the one before, with no terrors to be found other than Shane's usual restlessness. They wake and the routine is the same, breakfast, get ready, booked car, court and court and court. They sit through more evidence, a video from the hotel with the man walking down the hallway from Shane’s room, an examination of medical records of the man proving that he could have had the STI but been cured by treatment for another ailment. 

It’s only after lunch that Pike and Haas’ are called to testify, one after the other. Ilya watches as Luca stumbles through his recollection of seeing the video and knowing it was Shane. When it gets to Pike, Ilya tries not to show his nerves because he couldn't afford to fuck this up, not with everything on the line.

Their testimony is not nearly as intense as Shane’s, but still their voices are clear. It happened, he couldn't hide it the next day. It was him. He is telling the truth. Not even the defense could find holes in their simple testimony.

The words are damning and Ilya feels another weight lift from his chest. 

“Tomorrow we will begin presentation from the defense,” the lead judge says after the prosecution finishes their case. “Court adjourned.” 

As soon as the judges have filed out of the court, they stand and begin to make their way from the benches, following slowly and settling into quiet conversation. It’s only as Ilya is holding the door open for Shane that he sees David Hollander freeze, body tensing, before he turns around and looks at the man smirking, still waiting for the guards to lead him from the room. 

Ilya watches it as though it’s in slow motion, the older man taking one step, then two, before he’s halfway to the divider like a shot from a cannon. The man lunges forward towards the divider and tries to land a punch on David’s chin but he dodges out of the way, lifting his own arm back to swing. It connects, solidly, and the man tumbles backwards into the chair before crashing to the floor. 

David doesn’t stick around as the guards rush in to secure the man, shaking out his hand as he comes back to Yuna’s side. They hurry from the courtroom and down into the waiting car, nobody saying a thing as they flee the courthouse in a rush. 

It’s only after they’re a few blocks away that Yuna pushes David’s shoulder and scolds him, lifting his hand for her inspection. “You suck, you know that, right? I wanted to be the one to hit him.” 

“I know, but you didn’t hear what he said,” David replies lowly and glances over at Shane with a sympathetic look. 

“I don’t want to know,” Shane says, keeping his gaze focused outside of the car window as the city blurred past. “You could tell me how it felt, though? I’m sure we’d all like to hear about that.” 

Ilya laughs, a harsh burst of it because Shane was right, he did want to hear how it felt because David was never violent, but for his son he apparently would be. The matching rage from Yuna the night before, coupled with the hit today - Ilya was starting to realize that the Hollanders were strategic with their anger, rather than numb to it. He’d misunderstood, all this time, and now he did and it felt like relief, to be with people who felt the same so openly. 

The trial had already done so much damage, in the preparation for it, in the suffering through it - Ilya felt like he was finally getting some benefit from it. He wished they could leave now, that it could be over and they could get on that plane with their friends tomorrow. 

The video was done, the testimony was done - Shane’s advisor had told them before that they could leave after the testimony if they wanted - but still they were staying because Shane had said that he wanted to see it through, to see the look on the man’s face when the decision was given. 

Which is why Ilya is caught off guard when, after dinner with everyone finishes and they're back in their hotel room, Shane asks Ilya if he wants to go home. 

“There’s just - there’s no reason to stay here. We don’t have to be in court anymore. I want to go to the cottage and just be with you. Fix whatever has happened to us here and before. The media is going to be a shitstorm and it’s only going to get worse after today - I want to go home before it gets bad.”

An awkward silence stretches as Shane finishes his thought and hovers near the balcony doors which were still locked, hidden behind the curtains. Ilya can't forget what happened the other night, even if Shane seemed back to himself now. Even if it had been the medications, still, what had happened had crossed a line somewhere and they needed to talk about it. They couldn't just ignore it. Or at least Ilya couldn't. They had so much to discuss and he found he didn’t want to stay here either, not when he wanted them to find their way back to each other now, before more time could draw them further apart. 

“Then we go. Is easy. I can book private jet, if you want to go tonight,” Ilya offers and Shane smiles, a real smile, and it shines a light on Ilya that warms him for the first time since they'd come here. 

“Tomorrow will be fine, I'll ask Mom to handle it.” 

“Okay. Then we go. And we will fix it, right?” Ilya says quietly then, chest aching with the words he wanted to say but couldn't because another Champlain was right there just outside the doors. 

“Ilya, you're the only thing in my life I've ever tried to keep, apart from hockey. Of course I'm going to try to fix it,” he replies carefully, like he was measuring his words. 

“We,” Ilya counters and Shane nods, setting down his phone and meeting Ilya's gaze. 

“We. Together. You're the only thing I want, after every day. I know - I know it's been a lot. That I've scared you and - and hurt you. That I've been a lot -”

“We both have. I haven't made this easier either. How can you be expected to put up with my shitty brain, with everything else going on -” 

“I don't put up with any part of you. I fucking cherish you, especially when your brain is being shitty. You are not a burden I'm managing, Ilya. Anything I do - anything I try to do is to protect you or keep you with me. I know I'm not perfect -”

“Neither of us are -” 

“We are the best at what we get paid to do. I have to believe that we can use those skills to be the best at us. Don't you think that too?” 

Ilya feels it reverberate in his soul, the wanting for it to be true. He would give up many things to keep Shane. Of course he would put in the work to keep him. It wasn't even a question for him. But he also knew his brain and sometimes he wasn't able to be the best at anything because of it, especially not lately. “I want to, but you've seen me these last few months. I'm barely holding on. I feel like I'm flailing apart. How can I be what you need?”

“You're not what I need, you're what I want. You don't need to always hold on tightly. Not when I've got you. Remember that movie Twister?”

“The movie with the storms? And the outside movie theatre?” Ilya says, surprised that Shane even remembered the film Ilya had made them watch late one night on a roadie because he’d seen it once on a plane and loved it.

“Yes. You remember the scene at the end, where they're caught in the tornado and they strap themselves to the post? This life right now is the storm and you've got me and I've got you and we have a leather strap built from almost two decades together. We don't have to always agree, we can fight and sometimes it will hurt, we can scare the shit out of each other when we're struggling, even though I seriously hope we can stop that soon, but whatever happens - we have to remember we have the strap, and it's tied around us both, and I won't let go if you don't let go, alright?”

“I hate and love that you, of all people, use movie reference to explain this,” Ilya says, grinning wildly and taking a step towards him. Shane matches him until they're toe to toe, grinning at each other like the foolish kids they’d once been at a CCM shoot. 

“I need to get creative to find a way into that skull of yours and make you believe, even with all those fucking imbalanced chemicals, that we're worth fighting for, even when it's this hard.”

“You’ve always been worth fighting for,” Ilya murmurs and Shane closes the last of the distance and kisses him, soft and sweet, a promise and an apology. 

“Let’s go home. Let's find our way back to us. We’ll ride out the media storm there, with Anya and our family and friends close by. The lawyers can tell me what the decision is, there’s nothing else I can do here.” Ilya nods and wraps his arms around him, holding him to his chest and never wanting to let him go.

Chapter End Notes

Please note that I know nothing of legal systems, or the justice system in Mexico except for what I managed to read briefly. I also want to say that in my head canon, the boys are still bad communicators, but they're trying. They work through a lot of things by jumping over the feeling part into physical stuff and so when they can't draw on that, they get tangled up, and it tugs at them both even though they're both trying to be martyrs for the other.

Anyways. I hope you are still enjoying <3 and no, I will not be taking feedback about using Twister as a reference because both Twister and Twisters are some of my favourite movies of all time. I am a millennial, after all.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

This chapter dives a bit more into discussion of suicidal ideation. It isn't detailed, but it's part of the discussion. If you can't manage that today, you can skip a bit of the running and come back for the smut after (just know it's all a bit tangled up together so you'll miss some other things - sorry for that!)

Anya bolts onto the deck as soon as Ilya has the door open, her small body leaping from the wood into the grass and disappearing into her favourite patch of bushes. 

They’d arrived at the cottage two days ago, after picking Anya up from the dog hotel and packing everything they needed from the house to weather the media storm before they were needed at training camp in a few weeks. 

The conversation as they’d returned home had centered on the logistics, on getting from one place to another, ignoring the internet and the media, and trying to figure out their pre-season workout routine coupled with their plan to use physical activity to deal with the remnant stress from the trial. Shane had a whole calendar of exercise put together, days with lifting, days with recovery swims, days with yoga and running and too many other activities that would keep them busy until their minds quieted and the routine was able to stabilize them. 

Ilya didn’t ask where the sex was, but he wanted to. Badly. 

It wasn’t so much that he was desperate to have relief, it had barely been a week since they were last together, but it was that he missed the intimacy of before, of knowing Shane wanted him at a base level and trusted him beyond anything else. He missed having Shane under him, around him, having his mouth everywhere and nowhere all at once. It had been different since the video and he wanted what it used to be, if they could have it again. He knew that it didn’t belong on a calendar, but he wanted to know where Shane was at with it because he was still letting him set the boundaries. 

So he didn’t bring it up. 

He sits on the edge of the deck and watches the sun flicker across the lake, his tea in hand and sun on his face. 

“When did you get up?” Shane asks, coming to sit beside him with a mug of coffee, a sweater thrown over his torso and boxers from the night before still tight on his frame. 

“Not long ago. Anya wanted out,” Ilya responds easily, keeping his gaze on the lake because actually looking at his husband and his sleep-marked face would make him ache. 

“Thanks for getting her.” 

And Ilya hates how transactional that sounds, like he’d done him a favour instead of taking care of their girl. He looks at him then, evaluating, trying to figure out what headspace he was in. “What?” Shane counters, soft smile on his lips as though he knew exactly what he was doing. 

“Thanks for getting her? Really?” 

“I couldn’t just ask if you wanted to fuck, could I?” He says with a shrug, unbothered, even though his phrase very much bothered Ilya in a way he couldn't quite describe.

“Has that ever stopped you before?” Ilya responds and Shane grins, shaking his head. 

“No, I guess not. It’s just - it’s weird now, isn’t it?” He looks out at the water before ducking his head, unwilling to meet Ilya’s gaze. 

“A little. Nothing we can’t fix. But maybe we talk first?” Shane nods and looks to where Anya is dragging a stick four times her size towards them. “After coffee?”

“After coffee,” Shane confirms and Ilya gets to his feet, moving to join Anya and drag the branch from her jaws. 

It felt strange, to leave the conversation before it had even really started, but Ilya didn’t know how to bridge the gap and it felt like maybe Shane was only half wanting, still somewhat held back from what had happened in Mexico and the last few months of distance and disagreements, unsteady footing and hurt between them. So he’d taken the coward's way out and gone to play with the dog because at least Anya didn’t ask him questions with answers that were like tearing out his heart. 

When he comes back inside, he’s opening the fridge to grab some breakfast when he sees the amendment on the calendar, a small smile playing at his lips as he reads the new line replacing the scratched out ‘Cardio’. 

Sprinting until Honest 

He finishes preparing his breakfast and gets ready in his running clothes, coming to find Shane already in the gym, working through his morning stretch. Ilya watches with an appreciation for his body, the strength of his frame, muscled and still somehow lean. He wanted to bite him. He wanted to mark him and never let him go. 

“Treadmill or trail?” Ilya asks and Shane looks to him from his position in pigeon pose, eyes looking up through his lashes. 

“You decide. I’m tired of making decisions.” And Ilya thinks maybe he means literal decisions, but maybe also he means something more, with the way his eyes burn with it. 

“Trail then. Not as much sprinting though,” Ilya adds with a grin. 

“Guess that means more time for honesty then,” Shane replies and pushes himself up into downward dog before standing up fully. He grabs a sip of his water before walking towards Ilya and leaning in, mouth finding his and pressing forward until his lips open, hand cupping the back of his skull. Ilya feels the sip of water move into his mouth and he swallows it, sucking on Shane’s tongue and reaching to grab his sides and pull him closer. “Come on, don’t get distracted.” Shane smacks his ass and then steps around him, heading back up the stairs and towards their shoes. 

They make the first kilometer in near silence, Ilya leading the bruising pace and deciding to take them down the long path, the one they reserved for days where it was their only workout, because today they would talk and they would start the process of fixing whatever was broken between them. 

By the third kilometer, Shane’s pace is flagging and Ilya grins back at him, egging him on and challenging him forward until he rolls his eyes and picks up his pace again. 

“Are you still afraid I’ll hurt myself?” Shane asks after another minute, jumping into the metaphorical deep end with his first question and causing Ilya to slow his steps and look at him, really look, because he hadn't expected this as the first thing they were to discuss. 

“You mean kill yourself?” Ilya corrects carefully, not wanting to be mean about it but not wanting to let the truth hide in fake words, not when they were trying to be honest. 

“Potato pohtahto -” Shane counters with a smirk that makes Ilya's skin turn tight.

“Shane, no, please stop,” he cuts in, voice gruff. “Is not semantic joke. My Mama killed herself. She didn't ‘hurt’ herself, was not ‘accident’. She killed herself. Jumping from the Champlain, or that balcony, these would have killed you. Do not call it less and pretend I am overreacting again,” he finishes sharply and glares at Shane's profile with a look of exasperation. He wasn't angry, not really if he examined it closely, he just didn't want this belittling of the subject to continue on, not when it scared him so much. It deserved to be treated seriously - he wouldn't lose someone else because he didn't treat it with care and that meant Shane had to treat it seriously too. “If we are being honest, then I tell you now that this is problem for me, this joking about it like it isn't fucking terrifying for me. I need you to remember I have already lost someone like this. Every time we talk about this, remember, please. We do not joke about me losing you, is unacceptable.”

“Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to be dismissive,” he responds softly, reaching for Ilya's wrist to hold on for a few steps. “Or to make you think you were overreacting. I was trying to deflect from my own shit but it was careless of me. Like, of course I know about your mom and how much that hurt you, so it's shitty of me to be glib, I'm sorry. I guess I joke about it because until I'm standing on the edge, in my head it seems so far-fetched for me to try to hurt myself and I don't know how to manage talking about it because it doesn't seem real. Which is insane, I know. But still. I will try to stop with the joking and snapping at you for something you have every right to worry about.”

“Good. Thank you. This is what I want. And from me, I will try to talk about it like it is with plain words. Is not as scary if we put it in light. Now, ask me again properly.”

“Okay. Do you still think I'm going to kill myself?” He asks slowly, honestly, tasting the words on his tongue. 

Ilya glances into his eyes as they keep alongside one another, the way they've filled and become glassy, and Ilya knows the truth of it must be sour and difficult for Shane. He can't help but think good, it feels real to him now, which is all he's ever wanted from this really - to know that Shane knew it wasn't just a one second thing he could throw around and banter with, it was a permanent wound, an ending that could not be undone, and Ilya would never let it sit unaddressed.

“Do you still want to?” Ilya replies evenly and Shane shakes his head no, a quick jerking motion that seems certain.

“No. That's the strange thing, I guess. Like I think about not wanting to deal with all of this, and I think of how I can make it stop, but I don't think I even realize I'm that close to acting on it until you call me out on it, which is why I wanted to know if you thought I'd still actually follow through. It's not something I'm scheming to do all the time, it's more like an undercurrent that sparks when something happens.”

Ilya considered that for a moment, weighing his response with the question at have - did he think he would kill himself? The truth was, Ilya himself didn’t know the answer to Shane's question. Most of the time, Shane seemed fine - like he was going through the motions, sure, but he wasn’t behaving the same as his Mama. She had barely gotten out of bed those last few days, except for that last good day that they’d spent at the rink. Shane wasn’t like that. He had mostly normal days with scattered storms of breakdowns that scared the shit out of them both, which, logically, Ilya knew was part of his PTSD, but still. He didn't know if those storms were enough to one day push him off the edge before he even realized what he was doing.

“Not sure,” Ilya answers, trying to give him a look that conveyed how honest he was trying to be. “I hope every morning no, but sometimes you do something and is terrifying and I think yes, you definitely will if I leave for one second. It makes me very anxious on hard days.” 

“Can I do anything different to make you trust that I won’t?” He replies, not challenging Ilya’s answer but accepting it, recognizing that it was Ilya's truth to hold.

“No. Not really. I will still worry, like I have since you tell me about first time, I don't think I will ever stop worrying. But maybe you keep going to therapy. Talk to me when is bad. Just every day, choose to stay. This is all I can ask.” Shane reaches for him then, fingers against his arm, squeezing and reminding Ilya that he was here, despite everything else. He already had a longer track record of choosing to stay, than to leave, and Ilya figured that had to mean something. 

They continue on their run, letting the feelings from the first question burn through them, hot and sharp, until they soften down to something more manageable. It's only when Ilya's chest doesn't feel as tight anymore that he asks, “Are you still angry at me?” 

“I haven’t been angry with you,” Shane replies quickly, glancing towards him with a sympathetic look. “Frustrated, scared sometimes that you're not taking care of yourself - but not really angry. These are my emotions though, you didn’t purposely cause them. It is not up to you to fix them.” 

“But if I can stop doing things that make you this way -” 

“Ilya, don't,” Shane says, slowing his pace until his hands are resting on his hips, lungs heaving. “You are not doing anything, okay? I react this way because I think I know how you will react, but then you do something I’m not expecting. And that - that’s human. I have always had a hard time with people because of that. It isn’t going to change. So maybe what I can say is that if I’m reacting that way, we talk about it, but you should know that it’s not always because of you - sometimes it’s because my version of you isn’t reality and that's on me. Does that make sense?” 

Ilya considers it for a moment before he turns on his heel and begins running again, Shane shouting and laughing behind him as he jogs to catch up. 

“Makes sense, you picture me better than I am and I disappoint you. Next time I will ask.” 

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says once he’s caught up, shaking his head. “You're not fucking disappointing me. You just put on such a good mask, sometimes I miss that you've put it on at all.”

“And this mask, it makes you angry?” 

Shane shakes his head again. “No. Again, it's not anger. We both do it, we both use masks sometimes because we have to for work. I just wish we could stop doing it around each other.”

“Then we stop, yes? Is simple.” Ilya counters, reaching out a hand towards him. Shane takes it and squeezes, the agreement made to try again to be their true selves around each other, as much as they could. It would be hard, like the cottage that first time, but he would try.

“My turn now,” Shane starts as they make it a bit further down the path. “What has Galina said about your treatment? You used to tell me about your sessions but you don’t anymore and I'm not sure if it's because I've done something to make you stop or you don't want to add things to my plate or whatever. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want -” 

“Is not because I don’t want,” Ilya replies, glancing back at him. They’d both been keeping up with their therapy by video chat from their office since being back, Shane often coming out with damp cheeks but a lighter set to his shoulders and a jaw less rigid with stress. 

They didn't talk about the details of his appointments and Ilya was comfortable waiting for him to bring them up in their next joint appointment, rather than air them out when things were still so fraught. He was secretly afraid that if they discussed it now without a guide to navigate them, it would backfire. He didn't need to know what Shane and his therapist talked about, he just wanted to know what he could do to help, and their joint sessions did that and more, so he could wait.

For Ilya, his own treatments were helping him still sort through some of his feelings on everything that had happened since he first watched the video. Galina made him realize how it had altered something inside of him to see and hear, to validate what he'd known had happened with tangible, undeniable proof. Somehow the reality of it slamming into his chest and locking in like a grappling hook, digging into his insides and tearing at his innards. But he hadn't shared any of it with Shane for fear of it making things worse for him. He hadn't realized Shane had even noticed he wasn't sharing anything this time. “Did not want to add worry. She says I may have ‘secondary trauma’. Is like PTSD but caused by seeing or hearing difficult things, like for bystanders or first responders or loved ones. She thinks my existing depression makes it harder to manage, but maybe watching video was traumatic for me, like a trigger or cause or something like this.” 

Shane slows to a stop again and Ilya frowns, turning to face him. “I made you watch that video,” Shane says, voice gravelly. Ilya moves towards him slowly, reaching for his shoulder. 

“No. I offered. You did not cause this,” Ilya says clearly, shaking his head as he sees the gears turning in Shane's mind, blowing it up into something worse than it is. “Do not take this on, Shane. Do not. She says with more time and once trial is over then triggers will be less and things will be easier. Like same for you. Similar symptoms, similar treatment. Okay?” 

He lets it settle, his expression moving through a range of emotions before he breathes out and blinks, looking up at Ilya with a trusting gaze, one that he hadn't seen in months. “Okay.” 

They start running again, making it past the halfway point at a punishing pace, which must be why Shane reaches for the chaos option with his next question. 

“Do you still want to fuck me, after seeing the video?” Shane asks as he loops around a particularly unruly root system, his steps quick like his moves on the ice and Ilya nearly trips as he admires it, and definitely not because he was distracted by the question. 

“I didn’t watch video after this first time where I stopped before anything happened. Then in court, I watched you instead. I promised not to watch, so I do not watch,” Ilya huffs, glancing up at him from his own feet. “And of course I still want to fuck you. I want to fuck you right now but you tell me we must run first. Is ridiculous but I do it because I love you.” 

“We didn’t have to take the long path, that was all you!” Shane shouts and Ilya grins, nodding, because he had picked the longer suffering just to make sure they took the time to get it all out in the open. 

“Retribution,” Ilya says and Shane shakes his head. 

“Retribution. Fuck. Okay, your turn to ask.” 

“Fine,” Ilya says and pauses, navigating up a small incline before he starts. He'd been trying to figure out this question for a while, how much to give, how much to push. It would always have been easier to ask, so he was going to do it. “Do you still want control? When we fuck?” 

“I mean, sometimes yeah,” he says, nodding. “But I miss you bossing me around. It always meant I didn’t have to think much which is what I like, I could just let you steer us and trust that it would be good. You always seemed to know what I needed and I miss that. I'm so tired of making decisions, it would be nice to not, you know? But it feels like maybe you think you don't know me well enough anymore to be comfortable enough doing it and I don't know how to fix that.” 

“Is not that I think I don't know you,” he says, tilting his head to the side as he thinks through his response further. “I am afraid I do something and you have reaction and you are hurt because of me.”

“Ilya,” Shane murmurs, voice raw as he swallows around his heaving breaths. “Remember when we spent nearly ten years pushing each other's boundaries?”

“Yes, but is different -”

“I know. But what I'm trying to say is that yes, it's different, but I never stopped trusting you. So if the trust is still there and we know how to talk about it, we could try it.”

“But do you want it like before? Where I give orders and you listen? You want this, sometimes?” He asks a second question, breaking their tit for tat because he needed to know, it needed to be plain between them before he would feel comfortable enough taking back the reins.

“Yes. I miss how it was. I miss our dynamic when we did that. It was always fucking hot and it helped me just be in my body, if that makes sense.” 

“Our dynamic, eh? Okay, we try again soon, since you are so desperate to follow orders,” Ilya says and Shane snorts, letting a tree branch snap back at Ilya’s chest. “You wound me, моя любовь, after I am so understanding and willing to give you everything?” 

“You can take it. Are we halfway yet?” Shane complains and Ilya shakes his head.

“Almost. Don’t get hard yet, will be very uncomfortable.” 

“Fuck,” Shane grumbles. 

“I'm asking another question because you snap tree at me and this is payback. Did you mean it, when you told me to let you do this alone? Last time we were here, with the accident,” Ilya asks, pulling out one of the things that has stuck in his gut since their fight on the dock.

“I never wanted to do this alone. I thought you would be better off if you didn’t have to go through it with me, so yes. I meant it. But I really hoped you wouldn’t accept it. If that makes sense.” 

“You wanted me to fight you on it?” Shane nods and Ilya scoffs, shaking his head. “This is wrong approach for me, Shane. You are always direct. You cannot tell me opposite of what you want because I think you must want what you say, like always. This is what I understand about you. It hurt a lot to think you did not want me with you.” 

“I know, it was fucking stupid and I’m sorry that I hurt you. I just - I was trying to protect you.” 

“Still dumb,” Ilya quips and Shane grins, nodding. 

“I know. Don’t keep reminding me,” he adds and checks his watch. “Liar - you said we weren’t halfway yet.” 

“Maybe I take you on extra loop,” Ilya counters. 

“Got more questions for me?” 

“Thousands. But I want to get my hands on you more than I want answers. Is crazy, this torture you make us do.” 

“Again, you picked the path,” Shane says, a bit breathless as he overtakes Ilya. “I want to ask about what happened in Mexico but I don’t know how to ask it.” 

“Which part?” 

“The bad night. When I took your prescription.” 

The path loops up to the road and Ilya steps onto it, hands on his hips, slowing to a walk as he turns his backwards cap back around to block the sun from his face, the trees no longer keeping out the sun. If it has the secondary effect of blocking part of his expression, well, okay. Shane turns and sees him stalling, circling back to walk alongside him. 

“I don’t know how to ask about this night either,” Ilya admits after a few minutes of silence, breathing steadying back to normal after the exertion. 

“Did I hurt you? That night?” Shane asks abruptly, stopping and reaching out to grab Ilya’s arm and pull him to a stop beside him. Ilya shakes his head and squeezes Shane back, eyes soft. 

“You didn’t. But was confusing. Like, you were doing what you’ve done a hundred times before but was different because I felt like I had no choice. And the position, it was like the video. It was - I don’t know Shane. You didn’t hurt me, but it was scary and confusing. I didn’t want to fight you and make you worse so I tried to imagine not being there, which was hard but nothing you did hurt, not really.” 

Shane makes a noise in the back of his throat, his feet stopping as he turns and takes a few steps away from Ilya in the opposite direction. Ilya watches as he wanders away, one hand coming up to run through his hair and tug at the strands. He could do nothing but watch, unable to cross the barrier between them caused by that night in Mexico, not yet. 

“That’s - Ilya, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did that to you - I didn’t know what I was doing while it was happening, it was like I was in  this weird vivid nightmare, but that’s no excuse,” he sobs, turning back to face Ilya with tears tracking down his cheeks. 

“Oh, дорогой, no,” Ilya whispers, reaching for him and gathering him into his chest at the sight of his tears. He'd known Shane wasn't present when it was happening, so Ilya had kept it close to his chest, not wanting to hurt Shane by pressing on the wound but knowing they would need to explore it eventually. Now they were and he knew, he knew, he needed to make sure Shane knew that he hadn't hurt him, that he still loved and trusted him. “No. You didn’t know. Is okay. I’m not hurt. I was confused and scared only, but I knew was not you. I don’t - Shane, listen, shh,” he urges, pressing his forehead to his, holding him tightly against him as he tries to soothe the starving breaths he’s taking. “I am alright. I don’t believe you mean to hurt me and that is what is important. Am not afraid of you. Was more scared for you.” 

“I did to you what he did to me!” Shane gasps, shaking his head and trying to pull away. Ilya doesn’t let him, only pulling him closer, tighter into his embrace. He was not going to let him go, not even an inch. He couldn't.

“No. You did not. Shane, you didn’t. We are so different from that. Don’t think this. Don’t. Please. I need you to know you are nothing like him. This was not like that. We are okay.” Shane moans and tugs on Ilya’s hold, trying to break it, but Ilya won’t let him. This was one time he wasn’t going to let him pull away. “I got you, Shane. I’m not letting go. Be in this twister with me, yes? It will pass.” 

Ilya holds him to his chest, face tucked into his neck, and lets him fall apart against him. He isn’t sure how long they stand there on the desolate dirt road, kilometers from their cottage, trying to repair the distance with honesty and forgiveness and understanding, love and care. Eventually Shane’s tears stop and he pulls away, rubbing at his face and looking at the ground. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says roughly, voice raw. 

“Stop saying sorry,” Ilya replies, watching as he settles himself and shakes away the distress. 

“I’m Canadian, I can’t help it,” he rumbles with a wet laugh, sniffling and groaning and trying to get a hold of himself. “Okay. Fuck. It’s fine. We’re fine.” 

“We are,” Ilya affirms and reaches for his shoulder, tugging him back to him. He cups his hands on Shane’s chin, leaning down to capture his lips in a brief kiss. “Are you back, love?” Shane nods and Ilya grins, stepping back from his embrace and giving him a look. “Good. Race me back?” 

Ilya takes off, sprinting down the road and letting all of the pain and worry and fear fade out of him as he runs until his lungs begin to fail, trees blurring by as he runs and runs. Behind him, and then beside him, Shane’s shoes crunching in the dirt, Ilya remembers the sound of their matched strides on the ice, the thing that had binded them all of these years. 

They make it back to the driveway, bodies wheeling down the slope and up to the cottage, lungs heaving. Shane is the first to slap the building and when he turns around to celebrate, smile wide, Ilya is there, pressing himself against Shane until there’s no space left between them. 

The kiss is harsh, all teeth and crazy want, as Ilya pushes him into the siding until his hard length is pressed to Shane’s hip. Shane’s breaths are strangled, still gasping from the sprint, and Ilya steals every one until he’s dizzy with it. 

“Is okay?” Ilya rasps, palm bruising against Shane’s hip. Shane whines and tugs on Ilya’s hair, exposing his throat to his mouth. 

“Yes, want you so badly,” he says into his pulse point, nipping at the skin there. Ilya groans and reaches for his thighs, grasping the flesh and lifting Shane until he’s wrapping himself around him. Ilya carries him through the front door and out onto the deck before he sits down heavily on the lounger, Shane’s mouth never once leaving his neck. “Here?” Shane asks, finally noticing where they are. Ilya nods, reaching in his pocket for the packet of lube he’d slipped in as he got dressed. 

“Yes. Want you to feel what you’ve built, in this place that you built. Want you to be free from everything and feel only me and the sunlight, мое солнышко.” 

Shane nods and kisses him then, tongue slipping into his mouth, tangling and stealing his breath, hands firm as they tug at his curls and knock his hat to the ground. “Want you, here. Now. Please.” 

And Ilya knows he’s not begging, but it’s close. They shift to pull their running shorts off, bare legs straddling as Shane’s palm works around them both. Ilya’s fingers, slicked up and insistent, press through his ring of muscle and twist until they’re pressing against the spot inside of him that makes his body light up. 

“Taking me so well, малыш,” Ilya whispers and Shane nods, pressing back into his hand and biting his shoulder to mark him. Ilya slides in a third finger and Shane cries out, hips stuttering their slow roll. 

“Fuck me,” Shane sighs, rising on his knees and pushing Ilya’s cock towards his hole. Ilya pulls his fingers out and guides him the rest of the way, hissing through his teeth as Shane’s tight heat envelopes him. 

I’m home, he thinks wildly, not because they were at the cottage but because he was here, with Shane, inside him, and it felt like where he was always supposed to be. Part of him inside him, forever. Owned by him. Held by him. It was all he’d ever wanted and he had it now, in his arms. 

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” Ilya murmurs and Shane pushes himself down further until Ilya is bottomed out inside of him, as deep as he can go in this position. Ilya starts to rock then, small shallow ruts of his hips, pinging that spot inside of him until he hopes he sees stars. 

Shane cries out at the movements, kissing Ilya’s forehead, his cheeks, before taking his lips. They kiss deeply, bodies barely moving, as their lungs and muscles burn with the effort. 

“I don’t want to take it slow. I’m not fragile,” Shane says into his ear after a particularly harsh snap of his hips into Ilya’s lap, when Ilya’s small movements have driven him mad. Ilya growls and pulls him down flush, grip holding him there as he feels ready to fly apart at the roughness. 

He’d missed this. 

“Get up, get on your knees, here,” Ilya orders and Shane slides off of him, leaning his torso against the back of the lounger as Ilya gets to his feet. His hands grab his hips, yanking him back until Shane is braced, arms locked, and Ilya fucks harshly into him. “You take me so well. Muscles spreading just for me,” Ilya says, grip turning bruising as Shane pants and tries to hold himself still. 

Below them, the lounger squeaks as it jerks across the wood, Ilya’s thrusts causing it to shift an inch every time. Shane whines and leans his head down against the cushion, each push causing him to cry out. 

“You’re so fucking deep, Ilya, Christ,” Shane groans, hand drifting to his length and pulling at it. 

“Is how you like it, no? Feel me for days inside you. Only me. Only ever me again.” 

“Only ever you again,” Shane repeats and Ilya likes that, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him up until his back is pressed against his chest. 

“Again,” Ilya demands and Shane whines, hands coming up to grapple against his forearm, holding on for dear life. 

“Only you. Only want you. Taking me. Filling me. Fuck, Ilya, fucking hell you feel so good. So good -” he’s cut off by Ilya’s fingers dipping into his mouth, turning him to stretch and face Ilya close enough that he can bite at his lips, slide his tongue between his teeth. 

“Are you close, дорогой?” Shane nods and scrapes his nails across Ilya’s neck, clinging to the feel of him at his back, desperate to pull him closer. 

“Touch me,” Shane pleads and Ilya grunts, forehead falling to his shoulder, hips snapping, as he reaches around and circles his fingers around his wet tip. He slides his hand once, twice, before Shane is crying out and collapsing forward, ass clenching around Ilya’s cock, his cum painting marks against the fabric below him. Ilya doesn’t bother to hold on any longer, letting Shane’s release drag him down too until he pushes himself inside fully and lets his release burn through him. 

He’s winded, weak, as he collapses onto Shane’s back, heaving for air like he’d run ten kilometers. Which he guess he had. Now his body was spent, his dick softening inside of Shane, oversensitive tip dragging through his inner muscles and pulling his cum out with it. 

The feel of it is too much and he drags a hand down, fingers guiding the spend back into Shane as he presses them in deeply. Below him, Shane cries out at the intrusion, body jolting as he holds his fingers inside to keep himself from leaking out. 

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane whispers, turning his head to look at him over his shoulder while Ilya slowly fucks him with his fingers. “It’s almost too much,” he whimpers and Ilya stills, meeting his gaze. 

“Almost, or is?” Ilya counters softly, watching him for any sign of distress. 

“Almost. I like it. I like when you’re inside me. Sometimes I wish my skin had a zipper and I could open myself up and you could crawl inside me,” Shane says and Ilya grins lazily, the idea so absurd and yet so wild that he realizes he wishes he could do that too, in both of their bodies. 

“Too bad is not possible,” Ilya replies with a sigh, fingers sliding forward and back again in a slow rhythm, his cum and the remainder of the lube ensuring it wasn’t uncomfortable. “Will just have to find other ways to be inside of you.” 

Shane nods and reaches for his other hand, pulling his fingers to his mouth to wrap his lips around them. Ilya finds the move thrilling and his body aches, wanting to go another round but not nearly able to conjure his hard on back to life yet. He realizes he’ll have to settle for something else and drops down to sit on the table, guiding Shane’s hips into place. He pulls his fingers free and circles his thumb, pressing in once, before drawing back and replacing it with his tongue. 

Above him, Shane curses and tenses, hole tightening around his tongue briefly before loosening back up again. The taste is unlike anything he’s had before, his own spend mixing with the sweat from their run and the lube and something definitively Shane, warm and soft. His mouth waters at being allowed to do this - Shane rarely let him eat him out if he hadn’t spent time preparing right before - but today was different. Today they were being honest. 

Sprinting until honest. 

He smiles to himself at the idea of honesty being his body like this and burrows further into him, mixing his tongue with his fingers, sucking at the skin of his sack, mouthing at his perineum. Shane keens and tucks his head into the cushions, ass rising higher with the angle, and Ilya follows, unwilling to be separated for longer than a moment. 

When Shane’s cock begins to stir again, Ilya licks the underside of it and then turns Shane until he’s on his back, legs spread open, eyes glazed. His fingers work inside of him, massaging at his prostate and dragging him back to a crying mess, hands grappling against the cushions for something solid to hold onto. 

The sight of it makes Ilya wild and he lifts his slowly hardening cock to press against where his fingers still slide, easing his soft head into the stretched opening he makes. Shane babbles at the feeling, cursing his name in what sounds like a prayer. 

Fully inside as he hardens, Ilya turns his attention to Shane’s length, palming it slowly as the blood flows back into it. Ilya feels his own nerves coming back to life as they sing and scream, telling him it’s too much, that he is too sensitive to go again so soon. But he doesn’t care. He wants to be inside of him, for as long as he’ll have him. 

It’s slower this time, not just because their bodies are less reactive, but because Ilya doesn’t want it to be over so soon. He wants to take it slow - he wants to take his time. The rush for release is only a whispering voice in the back of his mind, instead the loud chant is from his heart telling him to hold him, to be careful with him, to curl around him and keep him safe. 

Ilya shifts them again until Shane is in his lap, their legs tangled around one another, chest to chest. He isn’t able to go as deep with this angle but he doesn’t care because this way he could kiss him. He could see his eyes and the way they stared into him. It set him alight, to see the intensity in Shane’s gaze, focused only on him. 

“So pretty like this,” Ilya murmurs, lips ghosting across Shane’s as his forehead slides across his cheek. 

“Shut up, I’m not pretty,” Shane replies haughtily and Ilya grins, happy he took the bait. 

“Was talking about scenery. Lake view, forest view, naked man view, is very pretty. If was talking about you, I’d say beautiful view. Because you are beautiful like this. Is view only I ever see. How lucky I am to see it.” 

“All sweet talk today,” Shane whispers, a small smile cracking his lips. Ilya kisses them in reward, thankful that he was able to drag a concession from him. 

“Feeling soft for you today, Shane. So much honesty. We’ve both been very brave, we deserve this. Good fuck and then slow, like this. This is how I always want you but I get caught up and can’t help myself. But this? You on me, full of me? Is perfect. You are perfect.” 

“I love this too,” Shane murmurs and nods, sighing into Ilya’s slow movements. “Feels like it will last forever like this. Never want it to stop. Never want us apart.” He rests his head against Ilya's temple, their slow movements shifting his cheek against his hair, the draw of it soothing. 

“Can't believe I get to have you,” Ilya says, palm coming up to the back of Shane's head, holding him against his skin. “Thought so much that I'd lose you. Do you know how impossible this would be? To have had you and then lose you?” 

“You won't lose me,” he assures, pressing his lips to his temple and holding them there.

“Could not survive it, Shane. You must know. I need you to know. Every time you think it is too hard, or that you do not want to live, I need you to remember me. It is selfish of me to ask, to think that I'm enough to stay for, I know. But push yourself to live for me, if nothing else. I cannot,” his voice breaks and Shane shifts until their foreheads are pressed together, his hands on Ilya's cheeks. Tears pool in his eyes and Ilya can't remember if he's ever cried during sex before. It's embarrassing, is his first thought, but then he thinks that there was no way he could not. He hadn't meant to say these things and yet it was what he needed to say, else he felt like he might die . “Is not fair of me to ask this of you, but I cannot consider staying if you don't. I survived Mama but I won't survive you too.”

“Ilya, oh, моя любовь,” Shane replies shakily, thumbs swiping the tears from his skin. “I will try. You are worth staying over. You -” he pauses and sniffs, kissing him deeply, reverently. “You are the reason I always decide to stay. Because I have this, and easy mornings, and hard mornings, and hours and hours of you giving me such shit. It's never you that I want to leave. Never. So I will try. I will keep trying so hard to stay.” 

Ilya nods because his words fail him then, throat tight and tongue clumsy. It was enough to hear him say he'd try. It was enough. 

Tilting his head up, Ilya reaches for Shane's lips with his own, the man meeting him halfway. It isn't a tentative kiss but a searing promise, deep and slow and seeking. Ilya's hips continue to roll up, their slow pace matching Shane's downward slide. That's how they work together, time drifting, until both of them are so sensitive and aching that they can't stave it off any longer. 

Ilya comes first, arms tight around him, palm holding Shane's head close to him as his hips stutter and his cum spills inside. He feels it seep down along his cock as Shane shifts and tries to ride it out, his own dick seeking friction in the hair of Ilya's abdomen. He comes just as Ilya's softening length begins to slip out, his hole clenching around Ilya's tip and holding him inside for a moment longer. 

Guiding them down onto the damp fabric, Ilya runs his fingers through Shane's hair, mouth tracing lips across his freckles, to his chin. They breathe and catch their breath, bodies too sensitive for anything more than gentle touches to one another's faces. 

Ilya stares into Shane's dark eyes, trying to see what was hidden behind. He wondered if Shane was doing the same, seeking answers for questions Ilya didn't know the answers to himself. 

He didn't need to know now what was inside his head. Maybe he never needed to know. But he wanted to keep trying because every bit he discovered made him love him that much more. 

“Did the calendar activity meet its goal?” Ilya asks later, as Shane lays with his head in Ilya's lap on the couch, some action flick playing in the background. 

“I think so, do you?” He counters, glancing up to look at Ilya. Ilya simply nods because it had helped him settle. He'd said what he needed to say, had been able to share his thoughts and feelings without the conflict and misunderstandings that had been their hallmark lately. He felt better, like they'd done a hard reset on their relationship, starting it from the pre-video place, but with the knowledge now that they could weather hurricanes like that together.

Returning his fingers to the soft tracing of skin, Ilya lets his touch remind him that Shane was here, he was alive, and that was enough for now. 

The first tendrils of the real world start to slip in when Ilya turns on his phone to check the schedule for camp. Shane had wanted to do it, but they were both too nervous to turn his phone on yet, still keeping notifications off and with the Mexican SIM card installed. Yuna left updates about the trial on it every few days and that was enough for them, to know the case was still progressing and they didn't have to be involved more than that.

So it's Ilya who turns on his, leaving it to charge and buzz and beep as he joins Shane in the gym for what he considered to be handsy yoga. The kind where Shane did all the stretching and Ilya simply pretended to correct him until he was too hard to focus.

When he returns to the bedroom a while later, sated and ready for a shower, he picks up the device and frowns at the number of calls, texts and app notifications that litter his screen. Thousands. 

He considers deleting them all but then thinks better of it, in case there were good messages mixed in. Shane would want the good messages. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ilya begins combing through the list of calls, then moves to the texts. Most are supportive, though there are a few cruel jokes that show up as unknown senders. His number wasn't public, so the fact that he had messages like that was the first red flag. 

The second comes as he opens social media and logs in. The sheer inundation of content makes him sour and he sighs, closing the app and setting his phone down again. 

He didn't want to leave the bubble. 

Not yet. 

Two days before they have to leave, Ilya calls Farah. He does it from the car, on his way back from getting dinner, and a small part of him hopes she won't pick up. 

“Ilya, I was wondering when you two would resurface,” Farah says from the other end of the line, voice tired. 

“Yes, your retirement fund would like an update,” Ilya jokes and Farah only sighs in response, his joke unfortunately either not landing, which was impossible, or she was just too wary of their messy file to care. 

“Is Shane with you?” Another red flag and Ilya's heart sinks. 

“Should he be?” 

“Probably. I can give you the highlights and lowlights, but we need to discuss the full picture. Do you want to wait and call back?”

“Give one sentence, so I can prepare him, please,” Ilya asks and he's so close to the cottage, he should just keep her on the line and they do this now, together. But he's got takeout cooling on the seats and Shane is in his comfortable rainy day clothes and he doesn't want to make this evening about that. He wants just another few hours before it has to be about that. 

“The trial has stirred up old bigotry and the League is not helping. If he's not convicted, the trend is not great - manageable, but not where we want it going into contract negotiations.”

“So he might not get re-signed because he was assaulted?” Ilya asks carefully, pulling off to the side of the road and putting the car in park, the sound of the wipers grating on him. 

“No, he likely will, but his value might drop,” she responds evenly. 

“Why?” He feels the frustration building in him, the heel of his hand coming up to dig into his eye. “He has more Cups than ninety percent of the league. He is still the best player on the ice, by far. And his value will go down?”

“Rumors in the discussion are because this is the second major PR incident, he's a liability for other skeletons in the closet. It's bullshit, but you know how much they hated you two when you came out.” 

“And the Cens, they're on board with this?” She hums and makes a noise in her throat, killing time as she considers how to word it and Ilya wishes she would just say it. 

“The team itself, no. They've been vocal in their support of Shane. But the owners see a chance to free up cap space and get a deal on an All Star. Doesn't mean they'll follow through with the plan, but it will be rocky.”

“Fuck, Farah,” Ilya says, exhaustion creeping into his voice. 

“I know. I wish it was better news. But it's not over yet. The general public feedback is sympathetic and supportive. PR team says he's linked with the #MeToo hashtag. The video circulated for a day or two before the public opinion made it toxic to be linked to, which is good. We're not seeing new copies popping up as often.”

“Okay. I'm going to go pretend I know nothing. We're back in two days, we'll call you then.” 

“Alright. Take care of yourselves. We'll talk soon.”

Ilya stumbles into the house with his bags of takeout, damp from the rain, and looking like he'd been run over by an emotional truck. 

He couldn't keep this to himself. It wouldn't be fair to either of them. 

“I talked with Farah,” Ilya says, standing still and dripping on the entryway carpet as Shane comes to meet him. 

Shane takes the bags from his hands and raises his brows, shoulders not yet rising up with stress. “Good news or bad news?” 

“What do you want first?” 

“Bad, I guess. Come inside, I pulled out a change of clothes for you already on the bed. Figured the rain would get you.”

Ilya hangs up his coat and heads to the bedroom, changing into something dry and soft, a pair of his joggers and one of Shane's hoodies. 

“She said League is interfering in your contract negotiations. They're pressing for a lower valuation on your renewal,” Ilya says as he returns to the kitchen, grabbing for cutlery and napkins to join the meal Shane has laid out on the table. 

“So management is listening to them? Even though I helped bring them a Cup?” Ilya nods and Shane glares, shaking his head. “That's fucking ridiculous. I didn't do anything.”

“I know.”

“And the public? Do they want to fuck me over too?” He continues, sitting down angrily in his chair. 

“Is the good news, public is with you, again. Must be your pretty freckles, they have them all spellbound.”

“Fuck off, no they don't,” he says, blushing and making the freckles stand out even more. Ilya leans in and kisses them, soft and sweet and too much for the dinner table. “Okay. So the League is being shit again. Fuck Crowell. I expected that. Did she say anything else?”

“The public hates the video, she says it had initial release but people don't like it being shared. Says it's ‘toxic’ online. Which is good, yes?”

“I guess, if anyone else seeing it could ever be good.” 

“Is least bad?” 

“Yeah, that is a better description. Fuck. Why didn't you wait for me to call her with you?” He asks evenly, no hint of frustration but simply curious, and Ilya looks down at his food, debating how he wanted to come clean. 

“I looked at my phone, it wasn't great. I needed to know if we were going to have reporters at our door when we go home, so I could protect you.” 

“Ilya,” Shane groans, setting down his fork and grabbing his wrist. “I thought we decided we were going to do that together.” 

“I didn't mean to look at everything, I just wanted to check schedule. But then I got carried away and thought would be better if I eased you into it,” Ilya grumbles, meeting Shane's gaze. “It was stupid, I should have waited like we agreed.”

“No, it wasn't stupid. I appreciate you thinking that way, I do. I just - I didn't want you to have to go through it alone, is all.” 

“Oh,” Ilya says, a bit dumbfounded at what he thought would be a cause of strife, actually turning out to just be care. “We can look at some of it tonight, if you want?” 

“I don't. Honestly, I just want to wait until we're back, deal with it as it comes, you know? I've made so many plans and I'm tired of them not always working out. It's harder to be disappointed if you don't set expectations.”

“Sounds very un-Shane, are you sure you haven't been replaced by aliens?” Ilya says, faux concern on his face as he pauses the lift of his fork to his mouth. 

Shane grins and shakes his head. “No. Still me, unfortunately -”

“Nooo, not unfortunate. Shane, you are lucky. You have me, best hockey player in league, planning on laying on couch after dinner with your dick in my mouth. Is good to be you, with such nice plans that won't disappoint you, no?” 

“Really playing this up tonight, eh?” Shane laughs, shaking his head and reaching for Ilya's hand. “Thank you.”

“For?” Ilya asks, tilting his head and raising his brows in confusion. 

“For making this suck a little less.”

“Oh, I'll be sucking more, did you not hear plan?” Ilya responds and Shane snorts, leaning in to kiss his wry smile. 

“You're such an asshole,” Shane murmurs affectionately and Ilya turns back to his plate, pleased with himself for the first time in a very long time. 

There are no reporters at their driveway when they return home and Ilya lets out the breath he felt like he’d been holding since they’d put the last of their things in the car and left the cottage. 

They were back now - training camp was upon them and team duties waited, the rhythm they’d mastered after all of these years coming back to them easily as they unpacked their summer gear and started pulling their equipment from storage. 

The night they return, Ilya casts his phone’s screen onto the TV and they begin to dig through the notifications stacked one after another. He was right to choose not to delete all of the messages in one fell swoop because some of the team’s messages after the news was released were ones that made going back to camp tomorrow sound like a relief, rather than a threat to manage. 

The internet though… That was a different beast. Ilya opened his apps one after another, Shane giving him equal parts shit and mockery as he swiped through all of the DMs of people who promised to show him a ‘good time’. When they finally got to looking through the tags, they were pleasantly surprised to see almost all of the posts were in support of Shane, even if some referenced the video with more familiarity than either of them wished.

What they weren’t expecting, the one thing that made Shane get up and leave the room for a break, was the way that the hashtag #IrinaFoundation was centered as the way that people could channel their action on Shane’s behalf. The conversation followed the simple logic - angry about what happened to your favourite player? Turn it into action through donation. Yuna hadn’t told them it had brought in a few million dollars in just a few weeks, Rose and some other celebrities pushing it to the forefront on a daily basis.

When he returns, they venture into the dark side of the tags, Ilya’s knee jittering even though Shane’s hand tries to still it. 

“It's the same shit as last time,” Shane grumbles, reading through the garbage with disinterest. “They couldn't even be original about it?”

“You know this side of fanbase is dumb, yes? They cannot be clever like you,” Ilya affirms, rubbing his arm and planting a kiss on his cheek. 

“I know, it's just - can we do my phone now? I want to get it over with.” 

They turn the device on and switch out the SIM card again, getting up to get a drink as the first waves of notifications hit. When they come back, Shane deletes most of the social media notifications without even bothering to look at them, certain that he already knew what he needed to know from Ilya's footprint. 

Then he turns to his own messages. They listen to the few voicemails left for him before his inbox was filled, a few from the team, one from Wiebe, and a scattering of other players he'd played with over the years. They're all supportive, quick little notes to remind him that this incident didn't define him, and he asks Ilya to figure out how to save the messages without them sitting in his voicemail. 

Next he moves to the text messages which aren't all as positive. They follow three types, Shane says as he goes through them: supportive, upset about not knowing the truth, and downright offended that he would dare bring up something gay again.

“Comeau wishes me well but says I should have kept my mouth shut like I did in the video,” Shane says numbly, reading the words over, lips moving but no sound coming out. 

“Hey, Shane, look at me,” Ilya cuts in, reaching for his jaw to turn him away from the screen. “We knew there would be things like this, yes? Is not okay, but we know is junk. We take a list of assholes and I check them so hard in our next game they see stars. Right?” Shane nods and leans back into the couch cushions, looking up at the screen. 

“I'm just angry that people think it's okay to send me this shit, you know? Like I don't have enough to deal with, they think their bullshit is important enough that I must see it too. It's infuriating.” 

“We could start posting it? Put it on internet to share their thoughts?” Ilya suggests, leaning back to watch as Shane turns over the idea. “Why should you be the only one to see this shit?”

“I don't want to dox anyone,” he counters and Ilya shrugs.

“So we remove phone number but keep name. If League is already devaluing you, maybe we fight back and try to burn it all down, argue you're still a better player even though this is shit you get from other players.”

“It'll piss off the PR team,” Shane replies and Ilya grins because it's not a no. 

“Enough of a reason not to do it?” 

“No. Let's pick the best ones and I'll schedule them. Like an advent calendar while we're at camp, except each day is a new pile of shit the League has to clean up.”

“Such a beautiful mind you have, малыш,” Ilya says and shifts towards him, drawing him in for a kiss. 

They settle on the exposure of six players, five drawn from Shane's phone and one from Ilya's, the messages particularly vile. Then they call Yuna because pissing off the PR team and the League was one thing, but blindsiding Yuna was another.

“What do you mean ‘expose’?” She asks, voice hesitant as Shane looks to Ilya for agreement.

“We're going to post screenshots and remove their phone numbers but keep their names,” Shane replies evenly, breath held as she considers. 

“What captions will you use?” 

“Was thinking the hashtags, then just something like ‘what a dream to have colleagues like this’ or something. Calling out that it's harassment in the workplace. Maybe highlight the League’s inaction.” 

“Is for transparency, so people see what Shane has to put up with and when the negotiations come up and they offer less, we have public sway,” Ilya adds.

“And if the public doesn't like seeing dirty laundry aired out?” 

“Then at least we tried, right?” Shane says with a shrug. There's a silence that draws out before Yuna sighs. 

“Fuck it. I'll call the sponsors and give them a heads up. Make sure you tag the person's socials too, not just the hashtags. Let their fans know their thoughts.” 

“Thanks Mom,” Shane says and the call disconnects. “That was easier than I expected,” he adds, looking to Ilya who grins back at him. 

“Yuna is still angry she didn't get to punch him in Mexico. This is way to vent, I think.” 

The first post goes up while they're in the first day of camp. It's Comeau’s, the vitriol of his message a good opening number for their mini campaign.

By lunchtime they have several calls to field, from Farah and the PR team, the League, and Comeau himself. They ignore them all and focus on doing their job. 

“You guys are going to melt the internet,” Harris says by way of greeting, joining them by the boards as they watch some of the rookies run through their drills. 

“Have a good summer, Harris?” Ilya asks in return, grinning at him. 

“Spent it defending someone who is currently making my job harder, but at least it's for a good cause,” he replies, a wide smile on his face. “Besides, they do say internet trolls are the spice of life.”

“Do they?” Shane asks and Harris laughs, shaking his head. 

“Not at all, but they're fun. Easy to provoke formally, and I guess, informally as well. Just wanted to come mention that, in the event you were looking for volunteers to manage unsanctioned projects.”

“Could get you in trouble,” Shane replies quietly, glancing at him. 

“I don't consider it trouble if it's right. People should know what kind of culture is being protected here. I just can't say that to the man signing my paychecks.”

“Let's talk after practice,” Ilya says and then skates away, calling out corrections to the rookies and making them run the drill again. 

They hand over the texts to Harris and he talks them through his unofficial plan to take what they were planning on posting and make it viral. Ilya tries to follow but apart from watching funny videos, hockey memes and reels of Shane, he didn’t much care about the inner workings of social media, so he was happy to hand it off. All they had to do was stick with their plan and Harris would use his network and skills to get the ball rolling. It was probably treason, but again, Ilya didn’t care. The League could burn down around him and he’d keep skating. 

What mattered to him was right here, fingers in his, shoulder pressed to his chest, and he would do what it took to ensure that Shane felt like for the first game of the season he was on equal footing, the miserable bigots publicly hung out to dry. 

Later that night, they’re back at the Hollanders for their regular weekly dinner when Yuna asks if they want to be brought up to date on the trial. She’d been keeping in touch with the lawyers for them, creating space for Shane to try to return to a normal life as much as possible, and the efforts were not unnoticed. Ilya was still trying to figure out the perfect thing to buy her in appreciation, his imagination currently stuck on a hiking trip in Norway after this was all over. 

“The defense is expected to put him on the stand tomorrow,” Yuna says after Shane agrees to the update. “The prosecutors think it’s a big mistake for them, but a very good win for us. They’re planning on eviscerating him.” 

“How much longer will it go on? Do they say?” Shane asks, sipping from his ginger ale and leaning back in his chair to rest his arm over Ilya’s chairback. Ilya leans back and lets Shane’s hand rub small circles into his shoulder, a nervous tick he’d developed that Ilya loves and has decided to never correct him of. 

“Maybe a week? Then the judges will take the evidence and make a decision. It might not be until the season starts though, which isn’t ideal because it would be nice to be there for the decision.” 

“I mean, I don’t need to go. I think I’m better off not going back. I did my part, I helped the prosecution, I faced him and told them what happened. If he is convicted, great, but if he isn’t? And I’m back there for it? I don’t think I can sit in the courtroom for that,” Shane adds, avoiding everyone’s eyes by staring at his drink. 

“Okay. Would you want us to go? In your place?” David asks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. Shane glances at him and shrugs. Ilya looks between them and reaches for his hand to pull it into his lap. 

“Is okay to decide either way, Shane,” he says softly, squeezing his fingers. “Like you say, you’ve done your part. You don’t need to go back for that.” 

“You guys - you can go if you want. But you don’t need to for me. I’m trying to get back to my life, I kind of just want it to be done with. You know?” Yuna nods and smiles reassuringly, her hands wrapping around her mug of tea.

“Good. Then we can move forward too.” 

Shane is called in for his first postgame interview after their pre-season game against New York. The game had gone great, they'd won by a last minute goal in regular time, a nice chip off the blade by Haas, Shane assisting, and so they'd asked for him first. It was unusual for the media to not want to talk to the captain first though, and Ilya tried not to worry about what they had up their sleeves to ambush him with. It wasn't so much that he was jealous that he wasn't first, it was that the scrum was fresh off a well fed summer of private drama and they probably wanted to continue the story of ‘the great Shane Hollander, victim? Or hero?’

Ilya didn't want to think about it as he watched Shane head out of the room in his compression layers, hair slick with sweat and rosy tinge to his cheeks, media mask firmly on.

Ilya ached to go with him, to hold his hand while he faced them. He shouldn't have to do this alone. 

Instead he stands near the door, hovering, as Shane steps out and immediately has microphones reaching for him. 

“Hollander, how does that first goal feel after the offseason you've had?” 

“What's it like to be breaking barriers again this season?”

“Do you think you'll be able to stay focused this season with your personal issues?” 

“How are you handling the pressure of the trial and the upcoming season? Are you worried about underperforming?” 

“Are the texts released on your social media account fake?”

Shane takes a breath, hands on his hips, as he rocks back and forth on his feet. Ilya knew he was trying to hold back from taking the bait, could practically see him jumping through the hoops in his mind to come up with the perfect answer. 

“Look, I know you all want to dig into every private struggle of my life because it sells advertising space for you, but I'm here to play hockey. I'm only going to answer questions about tonight's game and if you don't have any related to that, then I'm sorry to disappoint you,” he finishes, voice level, anger contained somehow behind the mask. The silence spreads and Shane shrugs, turning on his heel and heading back into the room. 

Ilya grabs his shoulder and squeezes before the media rep pulls him from the room. He joins the scrum and crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the faces before him. 

“Are you going to ask me anything or…?” Ilya prompts and they pounce, questions piling up on one another. 

“Your husband and teammate's personal life has once again come into the spotlight, how is that affecting the environment in the room?” One reporter asks and Ilya nods, turning over his words. 

“Clearly no one in the room is playing poorly because you won't let his private life stay private,” Ilya counters easily. “Next.”

“Do you worry the issues Hollander is facing will impact his playing?”

“I can remind you he managed to win the Cup the year that he was assaulted. Why worry about his playing when track record is MVP and multiple Cup winner?” 

“Are you worried about upcoming matches with some of the players whose texts he's exposed? The texts are quite inflammatory and have already resulted in several lawsuits that will surely make the on ice environment difficult?” 

“No. If environment is bad, is because League protects players who make it bad. He is too smart to drop gloves, would rather score than fight so this is what he will do. You should remember Hollander did not ask for any of this. He stood up for himself because even though he doesn't ask to be, he is role model for many people. And all he receives from you, and many of the mediocre players he has exposed, is trash talk about how he is weak or pathetic for something terrible that happened to him. He is stronger than all of you. He will keep playing game that he loves and he will put up with your garbage questions and hate from other teams and he will still help us win because he is better than you. Least you can do is ask him questions about fucking hockey rather than picking at open wound.”

Ilya knows as soon as the last sentence is out of his mouth, he's said too much, revealed too clearly that Shane was suffering under his facade. He knew he'd hate the posturing and the defense Ilya had run for him. But he didn't regret it. Not with the stunned look on the scrums faces. 

“Now, any questions about Haas and his outstanding goal in final minutes?” 

“I just wish you hadn't described me as someone with an open wound,” Shane grumbles, hips grinding slowly into Ilya's thigh on the couch, head tucked into his shoulder. “It sounds gross and makes me think of people sticking their fingers in a deep cut.”

“Why would you say this while we're half naked?” Ilya groans, a dry laugh bubbling in his chest as he traces his fingers across the planes of Shane's back.

“You said it first!” 

“Two hours ago! Before I have my hands on you. Is not visual I want with hard dick, yes?”

“Okay, fine. Just - next time tell them all of the good things again because I liked that, and just leave it alone? They don't need to know what it's really like for me.”

“I think is incorrect. They do need to know so they leave you the fuck alone,” Ilya counters firmly, twisting until he has Shane pinned against the back of the couch, hands tilting his chin up so he can see his eyes. “Is not weak to say you are hurt, is fact. Galina tells me this, so must be true.”

“But not everyone and their mother needs to know,” Shane says and his hips stop, hands coming up to wrap around Ilya's wrists. “I don't want people to think they can get to me because I'm hurt, if that makes sense. It'll make me a target. They'll think they can knock me down easier.”

“Team will knock them into new life if they try, you saw Barrett after Collins chirped you, was ready to murder.”

“I know, but I don't want that either. Can we just, leave it? Let the questions go unanswered?”

“This is what you want?” Shane nods and Ilya smiles softly, thumb grazing against his cheek. “Okay. I stop. Only questions about your playing.”

“Good, thank you,” Shane responds, returning his grinding motion against him. “You know, if someone had told me that fucking my captain would make media scrums easier, maybe I would have tried it sooner.” 

“Wow. Shane Hollander is an asshole. Maybe I say this in next interview - my husband thinks he fucks his way to power.”

“That would only look bad on you, you know. You're the one with the power taking advantage of me.”

“No, no, is the other way. Media would be so happy to hear I am lucky enough to have beautiful number two best player in my bed. Would be jealous, couldn't hold it against me for falling for you.”

“Forget it, you'll make this weird again if you keep talking,” Shane says and Ilya laughs, clutching Shane's ass and pulling him flush against him. 

“Then find another way to shut me up,” he growls and Shane does, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss.

Chapter End Notes

Hello dears! I held off a bit on posting this chapter because I'm honestly not sure how I feel about it. I hope it provides some closure for the doors opened in the previous chapters, but if you feel something's missing, please do let me know.

There is one part, where Ilya asks Shane to stay for him, that I know isn't like, great, for suicidal people to hear because it's narcissistic in a way, but I take the perspective that Ilya is asking this not because he believes he is enough to stay over (the opposite actually, where he doesn't think he is worth staying for), but he thinks Shane loves him enough and just needs to remember it and that his own love would be enough to keep him from jumping, which is all Ilya really wants - him alive, whether Ilya gets to have him or not. Anywho.

Thank you for all of your comments and feedback so far <3 Happy Friday ;)

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

The first game of the official season is against Montreal and Ilya is fairly sure the league has scheduled it on purpose, keen to lean into the drama that still simmered around Shane's case and keep his reputation under the microscope. 

Ilya spent the days leading up to it trying to ease Shane's undercurrent of stress, fucking him in every room of the house, working yoga into their morning routine, talking about it in their joint therapy session, and focusing his efforts at night on massaging the tension out of his body under the guise angling for sex, even though he was happiest when Shane relaxed enough to fall asleep during it instead of holding out for his dick. 

But now the day was here and they were on the bus driving to Montreal, Shane's knee bouncing as he listened to the music blasting through his headphones. The bouncing was driving Ilya nuts and so he did what he wouldn't normally do in a team environment and closed the tiny distance between them, his hand gripping against Shane's thigh to steady it.

“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, glancing at Ilya before looking back out the window. Ilya squeezes the muscle once, twice, before turning his attention back to his book and keeping his hand resting on Shane's knee. 

The arena’s visitors dressing room is just as devoid of comfort as any other and Ilya settles into it. He lets the team start their routines, moving about the room and getting their gear ready, as he checks in with Wiebe on the strategy for the game. 

“Harris tells me the Comeau text is making the rounds again,” Wiebe says as Ilya is getting up to leave. Ilya nods and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Yes. But we avoid social media now. Easier to focus on playing rather than bullshit.” 

“You think you'll be able to keep the team in line? Or should I expect higher penalty minutes tonight?” 

“I will try. Maybe we go too hard into defense of Shane, team becomes rabid with it,” Ilya says with a laugh, trying to make light out of a situation that wasn’t funny in the least because that’s how he knew how to cope with things so wildly out of his control. 

“Impossible. Maybe we're all a bit too protective, but what he's been through and the blowback he's getting is frankly disgusting. I can't blame people who care about him getting angry with those causing harm,” Wiebe replies and Ilya raises his brows, sitting back down in the chair. 

“You know they plan to try to devalue his contract?” Ilya says carefully, knowing full and well that he was probably crossing some legal or ethical line somewhere. But he didn't care. Shane needed allies beside him on all fronts and Wiebe had already offered, many, many times. 

“For this? You're fucking kidding me, right?” Wiebe says, face locked in a neutral expression and voice deadly soft. 

“This is what our agent tells us. If true, is very dangerous game they play if they want another Cup,” Ilya adds because it was. Ilya had asked Shane what he wanted to do if his contract came in lower than expected, whether he wanted to move teams or retire. He'd wanted neither, he'd wanted to go scorched earth on Crowell, but the reasonable part of him had chosen retirement. 

“I'm tired of this, Ilya,” he whispered, head pressed to the glass of the passenger side door, the fields seen through the window stretching out on the horizon. 

“Is just about the money? Because we will be fine financially,” Ilya replies and Shane shakes his head.

“No, I don't care about the money. We've lost so much time together because of this job. I've let it steer so much of my adult life, my relationships, my health, my recovery. All of it. And I've given them so much but what are they giving me? A good salary and the possibility to play hockey at the highest level, sure, that was the deal when I started and I’ve done that and achieved all of my highest goals. But I don't think that's enough anymore. Not after how they've treated me, like a pariah.” His words are rough, like grating over sandpaper, and Ilya flicks on the blinker to pull over to the side and reach for Shane's hand. 

“So, you'll retire. And then what? Start coffee shop chain to split Canada's obsession with coffee shop chains started by ex-hockey players?” Shane laughs and shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes before glancing at Ilya. 

“Go back to school, probably,” he says and Ilya raises his brows, an invitation to continue. “I was considering physical therapy. My husband will probably play until his bones turn to dust, it would be good to help him play longer. I already took some courses over the summers back in those first few years. I think I'm only a semester or two away from my undergrad degree with some top up classes maybe…”

“You tell me this now? After we've been together this long? That you are almost Mr. Professional Student?” Ilya chides, false hurt in his voice that makes Shane grin. 

“It was back before everything with us. I just wanted to have a backup plan in case I got hurt and I had time in the summer.” 

“Okay, then you retire. You go to school. You become perfect WAG and Mr. Doctor and we adopt many children and then I retire and you become breadwinner with big fancy medical job while I take care of children.” 

“How many kids are we talking about here?” Shane counters, finally meeting Ilya's gaze head on, his eyes wide in challenge and, surprisingly, excitement at the prospect. 

They'd never really talked about kids, not in any sense of a plan. He knew they both pictured it for themselves, but that was before everything. Could they do it? Would anyone let them adopt a kid with all of their baggage? He didn't know, but he wanted to find out, he realized, desperately. 

“Don't know, two maybe. One for each in case we divorce,” Ilya replies and Shane smacks him playfully on the arm, shaking his head. 

“If you haven't divorced me yet for my issues, I don't think you will. So let's not joke about it, yeah?” 

“Shane, please, you would divorce me when I buy wrong smoothie mix for the fiftieth time. I would never leave you - do you know how hard I worked to convince you to love me? You were like rabbit, running away from me when I was too soft.” 

“I was not! And if I'm going to bother with divorce, it's because you cheat on me with a woman or something -”

“Малыш, no. No, look at me,” Ilya urges, all joking aside, reaching for Shane's chin and shaking his head, eyes meeting his. He wouldn’t like comments like that go, not when they signalled something deeper. “Would never cheat on you. Never. Cannot even think about others. Tell me you believe this.”

“Eventually you'll get bored of me, because I'm boring, right?” His voice is low, tentative, unsure, and Ilya wishes he could pull him into his chest and kiss away this doubt. 

“You are my perfect brand of boring. I love every bit of boring you have. Your boring food and your boring car and your boring hobbies. I've been searching my whole life for your boring. I will never get tired of you. Besides, you are a bit of a freak in bed and how could I possibly consider giving that up? Would be very stupid of me.” 

“I am not a freak in bed,” Shane says, accosted and cheeks heating at the implication. “I'm just willing to explore. That's not a bad thing.” 

“No, I did not say this. I love this about you. I just - I fucking love you, Shane. Believe me. You are it for me, yes?” 

“Only if you believe that you're it for me too? Even before - before everything - I wanted it to be you. None of it changed in all this time.”

“Then good, we have plan. If they devalue you, you don't get traded, you retire and become best physiotherapist and we adopt many children and we die together really old holding hands in sleep like Notebook movie, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane agrees and leans across the console to kiss him, a quick peck before he glances down to Ilya's lap with a Cheshire grin. “Since we're already stopped?” 

Ilya shakes his head and reaches for Shane's chin, holding it in his palm. “No. You'll hold my hand and then we'll get home and I'll prove to you how much I mean every word, but you have to be good for me, yes?” 

“But I want -”

“I know, my sweet little freak, I know, but will be better if you wait.”

And it had been. He'd taken him apart for hours, only coming up for air to refuel and hydrate. 

Now he was sitting with Wiebe trying to help him understand that the League and the owners didn't have Shane over a barrel. He was already ready to step out the door, they just needed to open it for him. It wouldn't be Shane's loss, it would be the team's loss, and Wiebe should know because he deserved to know that it wasn't him pushing them out, but the structures that weaponized Shane's suffering for profit. 

“I'll see what I can find out then. Would probably be grounds to sue, if there were messages. Let me see around. We never spoke of this, alright?” Ilya nods and gets up, heading back into the change room to get his team ready for the game. 

There's a certain hush that falls over the crowd when Shane's name is broadcast into the arena. It causes Ilya to look up into the crowd and take note of the jerseys being shown off, proud Hollander fans shaking their Metros and Cens jerseys like flags in the air. The few posters he can read are all supportive, some viciously so, and it makes Ilya grin wildly as he skates over to Shane's side. 

“You seeing them all here for you, Hollander?” He asks, nudging him to look up. 

“That's just because the jerseys were on sale when I got traded,” he mumbles and Ilya shakes his head, motioning to the nearest poster that says ‘Hollander has receipts #fuckComeau’.

“How did he even get that poster past security?” 

“Look at this one,” Ilya says, pointing above the home bench to where a group of women were sitting with a long poster and a moveable arrow secured by a ribbon, ‘Rape Apologist’ scrawled in large font big enough that whenever the camera panned across the home bench, the sign would be visible and the arrow, likely, moved to point wherever Comeau would sit. 

“Shit,” Shane mumbles and finally looks up, scanning through the arena with wide eyes at the people who were here to support him. “Crowell is going to hate this.”

“Good,” Ilya says with a shrug. “We give him a good show then.”

And they do, or rather, JJ Boiziau does, skating over after Comeau slams Shane into the boards before proceeding to say something to Shane that has him staying down on his knees, head hung low. Ilya is halfway over the boards from the bench when JJ draws back and punches Comeau square in the jaw so hard that his mouthguard skids across the ice. 

Pike, always a beat too slow, skates over to pull a yelling JJ off of his teammate, dragging him back to the bench as Comeau sits lamely on the ice. The crowd goes wild for it and Ilya has to look up as they start to chant, the word slowly becoming clear, bigot, bigot, bigot. 

By the time Shane has been helped up by Barrett, Comeau has righted himself too and begins to skate away when Shane shouts something at him. Ilya would have liked to hear the exchange but the crowd was too loud and the people behind their bench were banging on the boards and it was over before it started, Pike barreling towards Comeau who was lunging towards Shane, tackling him to the ice. 

The Cens look on in amusement as the Metros dissolve into a fight between teammates, the majority seemingly ganging up on the two who come to defend Comeau. 

The game is stopped. The refs don't know what to do because penalties didn't make sense when it was team infighting. Ilya can't help but laugh at the chaos, pleased when even Shane cracks a smile at the mess that's been created. 

He hadn't had to do anything, his friends had done it for him. 

“Best part is Pike is mic'd up tonight, so swear jar will be full tomorrow,” Ilya says as he presses his glove to Shane's, the most physical contact they allowed during a game. Shane looks at him then and skates closer, expression tight. 

“I want to get off the ice for a minute,” Shane mumbles before beginning to skate towards the tunnel. He stops and talks briefly with Wiebe before he's waved by and Ilya swallows thickly, his insides pulling him down the tunnel with him. He skates over and Wiebe nods, motioning him to follow as he says it'll probably be a few minutes before they can get the fighting stopped and figure out what to do.

“Hey, what's going on?” Ilya says as he finds Shane leaning face-first against the wall, helmet on the floor. “Are you alright? Did you get injured in the hit?”

Shane shakes his head and turns to look at him, eyes damp. “He's just - he's such a fucking asshole. I thought we were friendly at least, before, but then he tells me it sounded like I was asking for it in the video? What the fuck? The text was one thing but in the fucking game too?”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya murmurs and drops his gloves and helmet to the floor, pulling him into his arms despite his protests. “No, fuck you, I'm hugging you because I need to.”

Shane doesn't cry, he simply breathes, one breath in, one breath out, against Ilya's neck. 

“What did you shout at him? After?” Ilya asks when he eventually pulls back, touching Shane's cheek with his knuckle. 

“I asked him why he was watching gay porn in the first place,” Shane responds and Ilya chokes on his own spit as he tries to swallow down the laugh. 

“Perfect response, really,” Ilya says and turns when his name is called. “Look, Pike and JJ have your back at least, so does the crowd. Come play and remind them why you're better than fucking Comeau.”

They return to the ice to a roaring crowd, Comeau absent from the bench, and Wiebe looks to Shane with a raised brow in question. Shane nods and Wiebe sends him out with his line to the face off. The sound in the arena is deafening until Shane lifts his hand in acknowledgment and then bends to take the face off. Ilya watches from the bench, a mushy look on his face, as Shane takes the puck and races across the ice. 

The Cens win though the talking heads say it's not from skill but lack of team cohesion from Montreal. Ilya doesn't care, they'll take the win. The game was never about being technically perfect, but rather, being the better team, and he couldn't ask for anything more. 

By the time the bus pulls into the parking lot, Ilya is bone tired from the adrenaline fading and his new medications early side effects, his eyes drifting shut. Shane wakes him and steers him towards the car, bundling him into the passenger seat and then climbing behind the wheel. 

“Proud of you,” Ilya whispers as Shane pulls out of the parking lot, eyes locked on the side of his face and taking in his beautiful freckles, cheeks glowing in the passing lights. He'd been so beautiful during the game, all grace and style in the ice, and Ilya loved him for being strong enough to handle it well, despite everything. When Shane glances over at that, Ilya takes his hand between his own and kisses his knuckles before setting them in his lap to hold for the drive.

He wakes up again at the house and they go in, shucking their gear and clothes and climbing in the shower together. 

Ilya lets Shane lean on him as they rinse the bus and remnant sweat off before stumbling into bed. Alongside one another, they twist their legs together and Ilya rests his face on Shane's chest so he can hear the steady beat of his heart. He falls asleep with Shane's fingers in his hair, his warmth more of a home than the building around them.

They wake to news of Comeau being suspended indefinitely pending further investigation. Pike's live mic had recorded the majority of the vitriol that he had spewed during the fight and the public had seized on it, demanding management to finally do something. 

It's good news, but Shane takes it stoically, his face a careful mask as he watches the updates from his spin bike. 

“What can I do to break this mask?” Ilya asks, coming to brush a hand up his spine and squeeze gently at his neck, fingers massaging into the muscles there. Shane shakes it off and sits up, legs slowing. 

“Nothing, sorry,” he says, voice drained and breathing raised. “Sorry as in I'm sorry but you can't fix it. I just need to be upset with it for now.”

“Why are you upset? Is not what you want?” Ilya counters, confusion furrowing his brow. He’d thought they agreed that seeing the downfall was what they wanted, but maybe after the game Shane had changed his mind. 

“I want them to just be better, I'm disappointed they're actually such assholes. Like imagine what their kids are being raised in?” 

“Shane, you know we cannot fix all things, especially not Comeau’s family.”

“I know that,” Shane snaps and glances at Ilya, the angry kitten face making a return after so long of indifference or hurt. Ilya had to stuff down the small excitement he had that things were returning to normal, albeit slowly. “I just - I didn't want to be at the center of it all again. I just want to play hockey.”

“Дорогой, I know you don't want right now, but maybe later you will, yes? You want league to be better for all, this is how you do this.”

“I know - but why does it have to be me again? Why can't it be someone else?” 

“Because you are obsessed with being the best in everything, including big changes to league,” Ilya says and Shane scoffs, rubbing his face. “Come. Let's take Anya to Gatineau Park. Will be better than sitting here spinning like you are going somewhere with this anger.” 

Shane sighs and climbs off the bike, grabbing Ilya’s hand as they head upstairs to get ready. The drive to the park isn’t eventful and they pull up to one of the parking lots and climb out, unclipping Anya from her seatbelt. 

“We run, yes?” Ilya says, stretching out his body lightly with simple movements as Shane clips Anya into the running harness. “Sprinting until honest?” 

“What, you have secrets you’re keeping from me?” Shane counters with a smirk. Ilya shakes his head and reaches his arms around his neck, resting his forearms on Shane’s shoulders. 

“No, but maybe I fuck you on remote path if we get far enough,” he murmurs and Shane’s cheeks turn pink, shaking his head. 

“Not with Anya here. But I’ll make you a deal, if you manage to run me until I’m not angry anymore, I’ll let you fuck me on the deck,” he says quietly so only Ilya could hear. Ilya’s body twists with want, the idea of taking Shane outside, in the sunlight of the cool fall day, their skin sweaty against the chill in the air, was making him begin to grow hard already. 

“Deal, Hollander. Now get going,” Ilya urges and pulls away, smacking Shane’s ass lightly to urge him forward. 

They set off at a brutal pace, Ilya pushing them quickly into near sprints, down and up through the trail, the incline rising steadily through the switchbacks and along the clear trails. Anya keeps her pace at Ilya’s front, tugging the line between them as Shane pulls ahead. They don’t talk much, but talking hadn’t really been the point, as they pushed their bodies hard against the exertion of the challenging trail. 

When they finally reach the top of the lookout, Ilya doesn’t stop for breath, crashing into Shane and grabbing his cheeks in his hands, holding him in the hard kiss. Shane’s arms come up and wrap around Ilya’s body, one hand tangling in the curls peeking out from under his cap, the other on his ribs, squeezing and holding him close. They only break apart to pant and catch their breath, foreheads resting against one another as the cool breeze moves around them. 

“Not angry anymore,” Shane says between still-harsh breaths, eyes closed, body leaning into Ilya’s embrace. 

“Good,” Ilya replies and kisses him again, softer this time, before shifting and resting his cheek against Shane’s temple. “Very hard for me to run behind such perfect ass for so long. Especially up hills. Very mean what you did there.” 

“Shut up, you liked it,” Shane laughs, pressing a kiss to his cheek and then pulling away. That’s when they see the other couple standing at the edge of the path, hesitating before intruding on their quiet moment. Shane immediately steps away from Ilya and flushes up to his ears. “Sorry! We were just -” 

“Don’t apologize on our account,” the man says, shaking his head with a small smile on his lips. He was older, with a broad-rimmed hat and a pair of glasses hanging on a lanyard around his neck. His partner, a small woman at his side, had rosy cheeks and a pair of binoculars in her hand. 

“Are you, um, Shane Hollander?” The woman says as Ilya tries to guess whether Shane would tell the truth or not. He could lie, but anyone with an internet connection would know better at this point. 

“Uh, yeah. I am, why?” Shane asks and Ilya hates how nervous he sounds, this man who had spent years of his life being approached by strangers who wanted a piece of him, now nervous to meet an old couple in the woods after being caught chastely kissing his husband. They had work to do to break down that fear, but Ilya wouldn’t push it today. They could go slow with this. 

“Just… I thought it was you. And I just wanted to say how proud we are to have you home, representing Ottawa. We’ve seen the news and it’s - well, I can imagine it’s a lot. Our daughter… She went through her own challenges and she didn’t speak up because she was scared but she said on the phone a few weeks back that your story was helping her see there’s a different path out there,” she pauses and looks out at the view, her jaw tightening before she turns back to look at Shane dead on. “I don’t know how to thank you for being brave enough to tell the truth, when so many miserable people are ready to tear you apart. Anyways. I don’t mean to ruin your day -”

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Shane says softly and reaches for Ilya’s hand as the man puts his arm around the woman  and whispers something quiet in her ear, his hat blocking her face slightly. “Ma’am?” Shane says, squeezing Ilya’s hand before taking a step forward. “Are you alright?” 

“Just allergies,” she lies and her partner laughs, shaking his head and turning to face them again. 

“It’s been a difficult few years with our girl. That phone call was a big deal for us,” he says and they share a look of understanding. 

“I’m sorry for all you’ve been through and will go through. I hope she’s able to access the resources she needs to find a way forward,” Shane says, his voice a bit rocky. Ilya shifts forward and wraps his arm around his waist, pressing his palm into his hip to assure him he was there. “I appreciate you sharing that with me. It, um, means a lot to know that all of this helped someone even if it’s been hard.” 

“It did. You’re a remarkable man, but I’m sure you get that a lot. Anyways. Sorry for interrupting you. We’ll let you get on your way again. Thank you again for everything you’ve done.” 

As Shane heads back towards the trailhead, Ilya turns towards the man and reaches out a hand. “Ilya Rozanov,” he introduces himself, waiting until the man reaches forward and grabs his hand for a shake. 

“Thomas Peters,” he replies. Ilya does the same with the woman, her small murmur of “Rosa Peters” filled with surprise. 

“I just wanted to know names of people who are very kind when many are not. I will leave tickets at next home game for the three of you under Peters family, you can pick up at will call or give them to friends. Thank you and -” 

“That isn’t necessary -” Thomas starts and Ilya shrugs. 

“Is nothing. World needs more people like Peters’,” he adds before tugging Anya’s leash lightly and following Shane back down the pathway. 

Ilya has texted the names to the ticket manager by the time Shane has clipped Anya into her seatbelt in the back, his cheeks flush from the run and his baseball cap turned backwards as he pushes the button to start the car. Thumbing through his phone to turn on some music, Shane pauses when he sees the notification for the voicemail, his gaze turning towards Ilya slowly. 

“It’s the lawyers,” Shane says lowly, all relaxation from the run lost with those three words. Ilya looks up from his phone and reaches for Shane’s hand, linking their fingers together. 

“You play it on speakers. Will be okay, yes?” Ilya says with a confidence that belies his roiling gut. 

“Okay.” He clicks a few buttons on his phone and inputs his passcode before there’s a beep and a shuffle of noise. 

“Mr. Hollander, sorry we missed you. We wanted to give you a quick update on the case. We’re reaching out to you directly as it requires your direct input. The defense has offered to accept a plea deal. He has agreed to a twelve year prison sentence, to be served here in Mexico, including time served. This would mean that he is able to return home to America after being released from prison, where we will ensure local agencies are aware of his conviction and can follow-up on the potential for local cases he may be responsible for. It is not the perfect solution, he would likely receive a longer sentence if he were convicted through the court, but this guarantees a recognition of guilt and time in prison. We would like to hear your feedback before we accept the terms of the plea. Could you please call us back to discuss, at your earliest convenience? We can explain more at that time.” 

Shane’s face stays a neutral mask as the message ends and the system asks whether to delete the message or not. Ilya is the one to take his phone and click the call end button, closing the voicemail as he looks across the console at him. 

“Can you breathe for me, малыш?” Ilya asks, reaching for his chin and cupping it with his hand. His thumb grazes his cheek, the soft touch bringing him back slowly. 

“Tell them to accept. Tell them twelve years is fine. Just fucking - tell them to end it so I never have to hear about him again.” 

Ilya takes the phone and dials the number back, waiting as the dial tone sounds in the car. They pick up on the fourth ring. 

“Hello, this is Ilya Rozanov and I have Shane with me. He wants the plea bargain to be accepted,” Ilya says clearly, watching as Shane grips his hands together in his lap. 

The lawyers explain the situation a bit more and Shane nods, agreeing with the plan, that Ilya verbalizes into the line. “Is all? Do you need more from us?”

“Just - Mr. Hollander, can you please let us know by telling us yourself that you wish for this plea to be accepted?” 

“Yes. I just want it over.” His voice cracks and he covers his face with his hands, huffing a breath through his fingers. 

“Great. Thank you both. We will be in touch once the plea is accepted by the judges. Enjoy the rest of your day.” 

They hang up and Ilya unclips his seatbelt, climbing out of the car and circling around to the driver’s side where he opens the door and pulls Shane’s collapsed frame into his chest. He holds him there and lets him cry, quiet heaving sobs that shake his frame but barely make a noise, the sound of a man falling apart who had spent too much time doing it in hiding. When the tears have stopped and his body has given out fully, Ilya tugs him out of the car and leads him to the passenger seat, unclipping Anya and settling her in his lap before he moves into the driver’s seat and puts the car in motion. 

They make it back to the house in silence, Shane’s attention solely on petting Anya’s dusty fur, his head resting against the glass of the passenger window as he watches the forest blur past. 

Back at the house, he follows Ilya in and sends Anya to her crate before he heads for the deck, opening the door and stepping out before looking back at Ilya expectantly. “Are you joining me?” 

Ilya stares back, confused, heart in his throat. Did he want to have another conversation about this? In the safe space he’d carved out over the summer? “For what?” Ilya asks, lifting a brow. 

“You said you’d fuck me on the deck if I stopped feeling angry. I’m not angry.” 

Ilya stares at him, gauging his mood, whether he was serious or still in shock after the call. Whether he actually wanted this or was just trying to keep his end of the deal, a deal that never even mattered in the first place because all Ilya had actually wanted was him to get out of his head for a minute. “Is what you want? Or you think this is what you have to do because we say things earlier?” 

“Ilya, I want you to come fuck me on our deck. I’ve wanted it every step up that mountain, why do you think I ran so fast?” He chides, his brows raised in challenge. Ilya takes two steps towards him, gaze scanning his frame for any lingering doubt about the call. When he finds none, he closes the distance and crashes so hard into Shane’s chest that the man stumbles back a step, rebalancing only because he was quick on his feet. 

They collapse into a heap on the sunchair, Ilya grumbling about the squeak of it under their weight as Shane wraps his legs around his waist and presses their cocks together through the fabric of their running shorts. He’s already hard, a damp spot spreading as Ilya pulls back and tugs at his shirt. Hands cup his chest, fingers grazing his nipples, as he licks up his neck to his ear. 

Shane moans into the feeling, nails biting into Ilya’s back as he sighs against his ear. “Come on, open me up.” 

And Ilya could never deny him. He tugs off their shorts and when he returns to his lips, he kneels on the chair, feels Shane wrap himself around him, before the metal shudders once and the screws give, the chair collapsing onto the deck. They go down with it but Shane hangs on, sparing his spine from hitting the ground while Ilya’s knees take the brunt of it. 

“Fuck, damn,” Ilya curses and Shane releases his body from Ilya’s frame, setting himself down on the ground before reaching up and grabbing Ilya’s face. 

“Okay?” He asks, searching his eyes for any hint of discomfort. Ilya shakes his head and kisses him, soft and slow, before pulling back and looking around them. 

“Not fucking you on broken furniture, come,” he orders and gets to his feet, walking over towards their hammock and sitting his ass in the fabric. “Come. Sit on my lap. Facing me.” 

Shane follows without debate, though his face looks skeptical of the arrangement. He settles onto his thighs, knees bracketing Ilya’s hips. Below them, the hammock rocks backwards and Shane grapples for Ilya’s shoulders, mouth turning down. “You’re going to fucking kill me,” he grumbles, muscles tense. Ilya simply grins up at him and then reaches for his hole, finger circling the bud gently. 

“Is completely safe. Better than slivers from wood, no?” He says and rocks the hammock slowly, letting Shane get used to the motion and stabilize himself. “Wait, don’t get too comfortable. Lube is in my shorts pocket. Get it, малыш.” 

Shane crawls off him and grabs his shorts, flinging them at Ilya’s face. He pulls them down, a wicked grin on his lips as he digs through the pockets to find the packets. “One day the dry cleaner is going to ruin our clothes with your endless supply of lube packets,” Shane says, climbing back into his lap and settling in, muscles in his abdomen rippling delightfully as he learns to balance with the motion. 

“They already give me little black bag with the ones they find. We do not talk about this, we have understanding,” Ilya says defending himself. “Besides - is convenient and you love convenience.” 

“True. It is - ah,” he sighs as Ilya inserts two slicked up fingers, stretching him faster than usual because he was having a hard time keeping his mind straight with Shane in his lap like this. “Very nice to fuck you anywhere.” 

“My little voyeur,” Ilya teases and Shane flushes, shaking his head. 

“The neighbours would be the voyeurs, I would be an exhibitionist.” 

“Are you admitting you are exhibitionist?” Ilya asks and Shane frowns, considering the question longer than Ilya had thought he would. 

“I don’t like what happened with the video and I don’t like people looking at me,” he replies carefully and Ilya realizes he’s actually thinking through his answer, the idea of it making him pause. Determined to let him answer on his own time, Ilya continues his slow motions of stretching him open, free hand running up his thigh to his hip and back. “But with you - I want everyone to see how good this is. How good you treat me. It’s different when it’s with you. But also I don’t want anyone to actually see us because that would be awkward as fuck. But the idea…” 

“Hmm, like role play, yes?” Shane nods and sighs as Ilya hits his prostate, pushing back into his fingers. 

“Yes. But also like this - where it’s safe, but still open. I know that’s weird -” 

“We already know you are a bit of a freak. Is one reason why I love you,” Ilya cuts in, sliding in a third finger abruptly and causing Shane to stutter, his breath coming out in a harsh pant. 

“Fuck, Ilya,” he breathes, forehead pressing down into his neck as Ilya moves his hand in a rocking motion, long fingers tapping against the spot inside of him that makes him see stars. “I might come just from this,” he whimpers, body collapsing down onto Ilya’s frame in a tangled mess of limbs, the motion making them swing dangerously in the hammock’s balance. 

“No, no, not yet малыш. You need to be still, let me do the work but wait for me,” Ilya urges and Shane moans into his ear, soft, the air from his mouth damp on his skin. It sounds filthy, beautiful, and Ilya wants more of it so he pulls his fingers free and lines himself up with his opening, sliding in just the tip until he has to stop and catch his breath. 

Shane doesn’t understand how close to the edge he is, or maybe he does and he’s possessed by a demon, because he pushes back until Ilya is fully inside of him, the warm heat of him burning around him. And then he squeezes because he is cruel and Ilya will suffer for him always. 

“Ilya,” he sighs, rolling his hips and causing the hammock to start to rock, the motion steady and manageable. “Fuck, I love you. I love you so much. I can’t believe I get to have you like this. That you’re mine.” 

The words curl in Ilya’s gut, warm and gooey, and he wants to take his time, to draw out every last bit of Shane’s sweetness, because he couldn’t believe it either, that Shane was his. That he’d survived and come back to him, even after everything. That he could trust someone like Ilya to keep his heart safe.

“Yours, Shane, душенька, always yours,” he murmurs and kisses his cheek, his temple, before guiding him down to his lips. 

They take it slow even though they're both so close to the edge, their breathing ragged with it. Ilya has to pinch his thigh multiple times to keep himself from spilling too early, his heart thumping in his chest. At some point Shane stills his motions and lets Ilya take over, the movements of the hammock below and Ilya's shifts of his hips enough to drive them both a little mad.

“Shane, моя любовь, я больше не могу сдерживаться,” Ilya pleads, body on fire with their slow pace. 

“S’okay, I'm ready,” he replies and wraps his arms around Ilya's neck to cling to him, mouth pressed into his ear so he could hear every panting whisper, feel every hot breath down his neck. “Fuck, fuck, baby, there. Right - fuck, ugh - Ilya, Ilya малыш. Please. Please.”

And it's the final straw, the wet lips on his neck, the way they press and kiss, his body somehow pressing tighter to him. Ilya tries for leverage, lifting his leg to the edge of the fabric, but gets dangerously close to upending them so he settles for grinding Shane's hips down onto him, hands splayed across his ass. The cry from his chest is harsh, gasping, as he feels Shane’s body tighten around him, pulsing with the release streaking between their chests. He comes deep inside him, heart racing as his cum pumps thickly into him until he's slick with it. Ilya rocks them on the hammock a little more, enjoying the way the aftershocks riddle through them both. 

When eventually he softens and slips out, he manages to turn in Shane's embrace and kiss his cheek, the angle awkward but enough to have him draw out of his neck and recenter himself on his chest.

“Ilya,” he says reverently, eyes damp and big and beautiful in the afternoon light. “It for me, always.” 

“Come here,” he murmurs in return and kisses him softly, just a press of lips, the slow drift of them together as his hands sneak up into his hair, across the beads of his spine. 

It's the chill of the fall and the feeling of his cum dripping out of Shane and back into his lap that has him shifting and swinging them up and up until his thighs can lift them both up to an unsteady upright position. Shane holds tight to him, slowly letting one leg down and then the other, unwilling to let go from around his neck. 

“Shower, please,” Ilya whispers and Shane takes over, guiding them back into the house and up the stairs. 

They tell Yuna and David about the call from the lawyers that night over dinner, hands clasped together, a small hesitant smile on Shane's lips. 

“So it's over then?” David asks, leaning forward on the table. 

Shane nods, glancing at Ilya. “I think so. It will have to be finalized by the court but then he'll go to prison and I'll - I'll be free of it.” 

Yuna comes to him then and wraps him up against her, David joining a second later. 

“Get in here, Ilya,” David says, tugging on his arm until he's encircling them all.

The first game after the court's decision is announced is a home game and the crowd is feral with it, Hollander jerseys plaster the stands again, Metros and Cens alike. Ilya looks up and grins at the sight of the love for his husband, not a single Guardians jersey to be seen among them even though it was always an inter-provincial rivalry. 

Behind the bench, the Peters family sits in their reserved seats, smiles wide as Ilya waves to them. They wave back, Rosa’s arm around her daughter, holding her close. 

He thinks the only thing that would make this moment more perfect was if they could see the scoreboard lit up with a Cens win. He vows to make it happen. 

The game is unlike anything he's ever experienced when it comes to fan presence and he spent the first decade of his career in Boston. But tonight - the roar is near constant, the chants vicious as Kent takes the ice. There is no way, Ilya thinks, that the CBC could block out the crowd’s chants without silencing the game entirely and Ilya thinks to himself, good. Kent hadn't been one of the texts they'd released, but Ilya knew, from Harris, from Barrett, that everything he'd heard rumors of was true, and he wanted so badly to rearrange his face again tonight, but he'd promised Shane he wouldn't. 

He hadn't expected Haas though. The kid was barely old enough to drink, barely old enough to click the +18 warning on the websites, and yet here he was, showing more spine than the League Commissioner as he skated up to him and drew a misconduct penalty out of the man for unsportsmanlike behaviour. Ilya wanted to ask how he did it, but Shane got to him first, tapping his back with his glove and grinning around his mouthguard. 

By the second period, Toronto is up by one and Ilya is flying, twisting, spinning like the ice dancers at the Olympics. When he tucks the puck in high to the left corner, he feels the weight of the past year lift from his shoulders, the relief nearly making him cry. He thinks then that if this was what Shane felt every day, then Ilya needed to break him free by whatever means so he could feel this light again. 

“Good goal, kid,” Wiebe says as Ilya sits on the bench, watching as Shane skates to take the face off. He wins and in another second, he's skating wide and firing a slap shot that gets rebounded before it's also snuck into the net for another goal. Shane celebrates more than he's ever celebrated anything except winning the damn Cup and he flies towards the bench, reaching in towards Ilya and grabbing his glove with a yank before he continues on his victory lap. 

The crowd is wild, on their feet, chanting his name with a deafening beat. Ilya feels his heart hammering, the knowledge that this feeling could never be topped making his body sing.

They go to the dressing room in the second intermission and Ilya grabs for Shane as he comes down the tunnel, pressing their helmets together and trying to hold back from doing anything more. 

“Just kiss your damn husband Roz and get it over with so we can listen to Coach,” Wyatt says with a knowing smile, one drenched in years of comfortable familiarity with the two men. Ilya pulls off his helmet as Shane mimics him and they lean in for a quick kiss, one that makes the team laugh and cheer them on. 

“So fucking beautiful,” Ilya whispers as he pulls away, hands on Shane's cheeks. 

“Same to you, Cap,” Shane replies, going full nuclear on setting Ilya's skin alight. Shane never invoked the title, not even in their power play fantasies. But tonight - tonight he was different. He was free of the expectations and the secrets and the brutality he'd survived. He could have fun with his husband, playing this sport they loved, because the worst thing they had left to face was already something they'd decided on as not something so terrible at all. 

They would win the Cup this year. It would be a victory lap, one for the ages, and then if Shane's contract was devalued, he'd retire. And it wouldn't be terrible. Shane would probably thrive on something new in the future ahead of them. Maybe even if his contract wasn't changed, he'd still choose the life they saw for themselves, a few years earlier than expected but no less perfect. 

What they did after - it didn't much matter. Not as long as they were together, facing it head on, linked forever.

Ilya wanted it and when he looked at Shane as they headed back out onto the ice, he knew they'd be okay. 

Shane had faced his demons and bounced back stronger and Ilya had known the hole that his mind could go to if left unchecked and he'd figured out how to climb out of it. 

With help from his family, his friends, his team. If things got bad again for either of them in the future, he knew they were strong enough to face it - they could restart again and again. They would be just fine.

Chapter End Notes

And there we have it, the ending. I know there are a few loose ends but I like the idea of you imagining whichever HEA they deserve after this. If you've managed to make it through both stories, I'd love to hear from you and I welcome your thoughts. Comments are a love language that I subscribe to ;)