Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Kip Grady & Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Scott Hunter, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Kip Grady, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Jackie Pike, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov Needs Therapy, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Good Friend Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Protective Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Scott Hunter Knows About Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Begrudging older brother figure Scott Hunter, seriously they owe him big time, Accidental Rookie Acquisition, Bad Parent Grigori Rozanov, Past Child Abuse, Ilya Rozanov Has PTSD, Autistic Shane Hollander, Learning to be Loved, Fluff and Angst, POV Multiple, Healing, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, furthering the Scott & Ilya besties agenda, navigating complex trauma, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, But it will get better!!

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of To know the sun

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-11 Updated: 2026-10-27 Words: 29,609 Chapters: 10/12

To know the sun

Summary

It's Fall of 2014 and Ilya Rozanov has cut all ties with Russia. But there's no such thing as a clean break, and leaving isn't as simple as never going back.
-
Basically a very self-indulgent fic about how hard it would be for Ilya to actually move on from the pain of the past and to go no contact with his family in a timeline where Grigori is still alive. Also, Ilya deserves to be known and loved by more people than just Shane and Sveta. Forced/Found Family here we come.
*Sequel to my canon-divergence fic "To only ever know the cold" (go read that first or this won't make sense!)

Chapter 1: The source of unhappiness

Chapter Summary

“The greatest happiness is to know the source of unhappiness.”

(Hollander family dinner does not go as planned)

Chapter Notes

A huge thank you to everyone still following along! Your comments made me really excited to keep going with this story. Stay tuned for more :)

November 2014

Watching Ilya with his parents never fails to put a warm glow in Shane's stomach. Ilya is like a little kid trying to be on his best behavior. Brings flowers. Doesn't swear. He starts off shy and reserved - and he usually lasts about 10 minutes before his personality bursts out of him.

Like now: they're spending a rare free weekend at Shane's parents' house in Ottawa. Ostensibly to make up for Canadian Thanksgiving, when they'd both had games. There's a roast chicken in the oven and the four of them are setting up Scrabble. Up to this point, Ilya has dutifully answered questions and helped arrange the table.

"Shane, trade letters with me. I have one I don't know."

Shane puts a protective arm between Ilya and his letters. "No. I know you know all the letters of the alphabet."

"Not true," Ilya pouts. "This is discrimination." Then he sets his sights on an easier target. "David, you are good host, yes?"

Shane elbows him. "Don't start on my dad. You're not allowed to change tiles."

Ilya ignores him. "Come on, David. I make you good deal."

Dad takes a sip of imported vodka (of which he now has a lifetime supply thanks to Ilya) and says, "I'm listening."

"Ok I have very good tiles. This is not exaggeration, I would not lie to you. There is only one that is challenging. But you are smart man. Read the New Yorker. You can handle challenging tile better than me, I think."

Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya's theatrics. "Laying it on a little thick, aren't we?" he teases. 

Ilya puts up a hand to block him. "Sorry sir, this is closed negotiation." Then, to Dad, "How is this, I give you three tiles and in exchange you give me only two."

"I don't know, Ilya. That sounds like a non-regulation move." Dad tries and fails to keep a straight face.

Ilya pretends to think. "We will do under the table trade. No one will know." 

"I am literally right here," Shane says. Once again, he is ignored. 

After further negotiations, Ilya manages to convince Dad to accept a blind trade of three tiles each. He slides down in his chair to pass them off underneath the table. Shane isn't sure if he's being funny or if he actually doesn't know that under the table is figurative. 

Mom returns right as he's shimmying his way back to seated. She fixes him with a look. "I always knew you were a bad sport," she says, with a fondness that makes Shane's heart hurt.

Ilya feeds her an expression of pure innocence. "No, not me. You must be thinking of someone else." 

"I will personally deduct points from your score as penalty," Shane tells him. 

The look of overblown betrayal he gets in return almost causes Shane to break. "You cannot play and also enforce the rules, Shane. This is conflict of interest."

"He's got you there," says Mom.

"Whatever. Let's just start before any more allegations can be made." 

Dad goes first. He plays affixal for an instant 50-point bonus.

Shane groans internally. Of course Ilya gave Dad one of the highest-valued tiles. Ever since summer, whenever Ilya knows he can't win a family game he's made it his personal mission to ensure that Shane also doesn't win. I don't need to win, I just need to make you lose, he'd said after one particularly violent game of monopoly.

Shane levels a glare at his boyfriend. "I hate you."

Ilya winks. 

*

It's after dinner that things go south. Shane is caught in a debate with Dad over the Montreal housing market. He's peripherally aware of Ilya making trips to and from the kitchen with dirty dishes. Shane stood up at some point, plate in hand, with the intention of helping out. It's just that this new property tax Dad is talking about could be important . . . 

"Here, I take for you," Ilya says, trying to pry the plate from Shane's hands.

"No, no I got it."

"I can do it."

There's an awkward moment where Ilya tugs, then Shane tugs, then both of them simultaneously relinquish it to the other, and the plate drops to the floor. It's one of the real China plates they only use for holidays which unfortunately means it shatters spectacularly. Damn. 

He jumps back to avoid the spray of glass shards. It's a good thing they're both wearing socks.

The next few moments are so unexpected that Shane's brain lags to process them. 

Ilya, insisting, "Sorry, was my fault. All my fault."

Dad, standing to survey the damage. 

Ilya, lurching sideways, an arm thrown over Shane's chest. Pushing Shane behind him. 

Dad, obliviously saying, "Let me get the broom."

Ilya, yelling, "Не трогай его!"

The room freezes.

Shane clocks the tension in his boyfriend's body. Tight shoulders, knees braced for impact. Eyes locked on Dad.

His parents are stuck, staring at Ilya. Dad is all confusion. Mom's expression pinches with concern. 

Dinner churns in his stomach.

Shane puts a hand over the one Ilya has pressed to his chest. He feels the tremors coming off of him. Ilya doesn't react. Still hyper-focused on Dad. Shane is infinitely grateful that his parents seem to have grasped the seriousness of the situation. And that Shane needs to be the one to handle it. 

"Ilya, look at me," Shane tries. When he doesn't get a response Shane pushes against the hand bracing him.

"No," Ilya hisses. Still not looking at him.

Shane gets close enough to put a hand on Ilya's shoulder. He gives a firm squeeze. "Здесь ты в безопасности." You're safe here. 

The message doesn't seem to get through. He tries again in English, "You're safe. We're okay here." From the corner of his eye he watches his parents trade startled looks at those words. Ilya stays locked on Dad. 

Shane manages to keep his voice steady as he says, "Dad, can you sit down? Slowly. And put your hands on the table."

"Okay, bud." Dad does so. Shane is so relieved that they're keeping this calm. Because right now Ilya is terrified.

"It was an accident," Shane says, winding closer to Ilya. The pressure on his chest lets up. "Just an accident. Nobody is at fault. Nobody is getting hurt. Okay?" There. Ilya finally looks at him. His pupils are blown in panic. His jaw locked. His gaze trails from the broken plate, to his parents at the table, and back to Shane. All at once, he seems to recognize where he is. 

"Sorry," he says, his expression shuttering.

"Nothing to be sorry about."

Shane knows this is an inadequate response. He wracks his brain for ways to help. Ilya likes touch, he will seek physical comfort from Shane often. Shane steps closer, into Ilya's space, and wraps his arms around him.

Ilya stands there and takes it. Like a statue. He doesn't hug back. Doesn't relax in the slightest.

Shit.

Shane pulls back. Ilya is all clenched jaw and furrowed brows. It dawns on Shane - He doesn't want to fall apart in front of my parents.

"We're gonna take a second in the living room," Shane hears himself tell Mom and Dad. 

"Take all the time you need, sweetie," Mom says. 

Shane guides Ilya out. He goes willingly with Shane's hand on the back of his neck. Allows Shane to settle next to him on the couch.

"Sorry," he says again, face turned away, body braced.

"It's okay." 

That's a lie. Shane does not think this is okay. He harbors a burning hatred for Grigori Rozanov. It's so fucking unfair that Grigori can still hurt Ilya like this, even after months without contact. Even from across an ocean.

How did Shane not realize how scared Ilya is? Earlier he was thinking how cute it was that Ilya gets shy with his parents . . . now Shane wonders if that shyness was just fear. Shane squeezes Ilya's hand and, not for the first time, feels cosmically out of his depth.

We need to tell Mom and Dad, he realizes. So they can keep something like this from happening again. So they can react better the next time it inevitably does. Shane knows how much Ilya hates to talk about these things but he feels like he's failing him. Watching him fall apart over and over again. Letting the wound fester.

He needs help. He needs a playbook.

"I did not mean to ruin dinner."

Shane puts a hand to Ilya's face and turns him until they're forehead to forehead. "You didn't ruin anything. No one is hurt. No one is angry. Okay?"

"Okay."

Shane keeps him there for several long moments. He still has the sense that Ilya is holding himself together. Trying not to make it a bigger deal than it already is. Shane can sympathize with that. He despises attention anywhere off the ice. He'd hate for two people he doesn't know very well to see him emotional. 

"If I ever meet your Dad I'll punch his lights out," Shane promises, going for a little levity.

Ilya sniffles in a way that's almost a laugh. "Yes, I am sure he will be terrified of two-time Best Sportsmanship award winner."

"Fuck you, I'm scary. I fought Scott, didn't I?"

"Mmm, scary like kitten."

He feels Ilya loosen an inch. Good, this is good. Shane can keep him talking, show him that this is normal and nothing to be ashamed of. He runs a soothing hand up and down Ilya's spine.

"No one will ever hurt you in this house. I promise." 

Ilya draws back. "Yes, I know. I am sorry to overreact."

There's no point in telling Ilya to stop apologizing. Shane kisses his forehead and lets it go. He takes a minute to gather the right words before speaking. "I think we should tell my parents about your family. I know my Dad is kicking himself for upsetting you."

Ilya shakes his head emphatically. "Was not his fault. I know David is not . . . is not like that." He takes a deep breath. Still not looking at Shane. "But yes, we should explain. I do not want them to think they did something wrong."

"Do you want to tell them or do you want me to?"

"You. I cannot."

"Okay," Shane agrees. Part of him dislikes the idea of talking about Ilya. It feels wrong, even if Ilya agreed to it. But he doesn't know what else to do. "I won't tell them all the details. Just the gist of it."

"Gist," says Ilya, "This is a good word. I will use it next time we play Scrabble."

"Did you already forget? I'm never playing Scrabble with you again."

Shane pauses in the kitchen entryway. He hears the low murmurs of his parents' conversation. The sink is running. They must be finishing the dishes. He's mustering up the courage to have this conversation.

"Shane," Ilya whispers from behind, "I will go smoke."

"Oh. Do you want me to wait for you?"

"No. You tell them. I will come back when you are done. I . . . cannot listen to it." 

Shane's throat tightens. He desperately wishes he could fix this for Ilya. He knows how much it weighs on him - the string of vitriolic texts when Ilya didn't show in Moscow, the hateful messages from his former agent, the hesitation in Ilya's eyes when he'd asked to make Shane his emergency contact. And that's only the pain of the last few months.

I would bring her back for you, if I could, he thinks. I would go back in time and take your father's belt in your place. I would spirit you away the first day I saw you. I'd do it all differently - if I had known then.

"I love you," Shane tells him, because his feelings never seem to translate into words. 

"I love you," Ilya says, and goes to put on his shoes.

*

"Do you want some tea?" Shane asks. He's not stalling. Well, he's a little bit stalling. He just knows it'll be impossible to have this conversation without something to do with his hands.

Mom takes him in, notes that Ilya isn't by his side. "Sure, tea sounds good."

Dad nods. "Make that three."

Soon enough they're back at the table with three steaming mugs before them. All traces of the broken plate have been cleared away. Shane grips his mug with both hands. He studies the grain of the wood - a pattern he knows intimately, and takes comfort in that.

"Thanks for being so calm about that. It helped."

"Of course," says Dad. "Is Ilya okay?"

"Yeah, he's outside smoking." Shane has been trying to get him to quit once and for all but, he won't begrudge Ilya his vices today. "He told me I could talk to you guys about it but he doesn't want to listen. It's -" Fuck, it's way too early in the conversation to start choking up - "It's really hard for him to talk about this stuff. Even with me."

Shane plays with the string of his teabag. Searches for where to start.

Mom has been remarkably patient so far. So of course now she plunges right in. "Shane, we can guess from how he reacted that Ilya has some childhood trauma to work through. You don't need to tell us everything but we'll need to know any specific triggers to avoid."

"It's not just -" Shane struggles with what to say. This isn't only childhood trauma. It's the very real fear that his father and brother might show up one day and hurt Ilya in ways that no person should ever be hurt. Faced with saying that aloud, Shane thinks he'd rather be outside smoking a cigarette.

Dad saves him. "Let's start with some basic questions. We don't want to assume but, did someone hurt Ilya as a child?"

Shane nods. "His dad and brother. Maybe his coach."

"That poor boy," says his mom - the very same woman who once called Ilya Rozanov every curse under the sun for being such an antagonistic, arrogant hockey player. 

"It didn't stop," Shane spits out. At his parents' confused looks he manages to plow onward. "It didn't stop when he grew up. They still hurt him. And say awful things to him. And use him for money."

It's the first time in years that Shane sees Yuna Hollander at a loss for words.

"I need you to know this isn't like, buried childhood trauma. He hasn't had any time to work through it. The last time - the last time they hurt him was during the Olympics. When Russia got eliminated by Latvia." The table blurs in his vision. "He was really hurt and he called me for help. That's how I found out."

"That's some really heavy stuff," says Dad. "It must be hard dealing with it just the two of you."

Shane nods.

"He said he wasn't on good terms with his family but I didn't realize. Wow. Sweetheart," She reaches an arm out to take Shane's hand. "I'm so proud of you for being someone he could turn to." 

"I wish I knew how to actually help him," Shane admits.

"I think you just love him," says Dad. "Give him a safe place to land."

"We need to protect him, too." Mom has her Business Voice on now. "I'm starting to understand why you two were so insistent on starting Ilya's American citizenship process. But there's more we can do in the meantime. Get a restraining order for the dad and brother. He'll need a lawyer for that, and to help sort out his finances."

"Svetlana already fired his old agent and finance manager but, yeah, he probably does need a lawyer. I just don't think he's going to be ready to talk about this to a stranger. And I don't think you can file a restraining order on someone in another country."

Mom already has her phone out, typing notes. "Probably not but it doesn't hurt to check. As for hockey, I'll reach out to Farah about taking him as a client. Unless he has someone else in mind?"

"He doesn't. But I don't want to push him on that. You know he's not looking to trade anytime soon." Shane carefully avoids mentioning his own plan to trade himself closer to Ilya. Now isn't the time for that. "But maybe we should start on the lawyer stuff. It scares me thinking about them tracking him down or finding some way to force him back to Russia."

Mom types furiously. "I'll email you a list. Priority and non-priority items."

"Thanks." Shane feels a little dizzy. He takes a sip of lukewarm tea and grimaces. 

"I don't want to overstep but have you boys talked about therapy?" Dad wrings his hands. "I have to be honest that it was heartbreaking to see him so scared of me. It'd be good to have a professional's input on how to not upset him like that again."

Shane won the lottery with his parents. He really, really did. 

"I've been thinking about that, too. I'm waiting for a good time to ask. So much has changed recently and the hurt is still so fresh." He thinks of Ilya showing up to the cottage four months ago, right off a flight from Moscow and looking like his heart had been cracked open. Shane doesn't want Ilya to think he's being passed off to be a therapist's problem. He worries Ilya will stop sharing if he thinks it's become too much for Shane. He worries that Ilya -

"Has Ilya come back inside yet?" Shane is already standing as he voices the thought. He doesn't remember hearing the door. He strides down the hallway and opens the front door. 

Nobody out front. Ilya's smoking spot by the mailbox is conspicuously empty.

"Ilya?" he calls back into the house.

"I'll check upstairs," Mom says.

Shane goes through the living room, expecting to find a sarcastic Russian curled on the couch. But it's just as empty. 

"Not upstairs," Mom reports. Dad says the same of the backyard. The jeep sits innocently in the driveway. Maybe he took a walk to clear his head? 

Shane knows he's probably more worried than is rational. Ilya is embarrassed. He probably wants some space. He . . . didn't take his coat. Shane fixates on where it hangs in the hallway. It's a brisk, late-Autumn day barely surpassing 0 degrees. He whips out his phone and dials Lily.

Ilya's phone rings from the living room couch.

Shane's breath catches in his throat. "Where the fuck did he go?"

*

The cigarette doesn't make Ilya's head any clearer. He's floating somewhere outside his body, at the end of the Hollanders' driveway. The house sits in a cul-de-sac. There's one of those mailboxes with the red flag that Ilya associates with American movies. The street is very still. Very domestic.

Ilya does not belong here. 

He takes a final drag of his cigarette and stomps it out. He cannot think about this right now. He needs to pull himself together and make sure he doesn't ruin the rest of the night.

The sound of the plate shattering replays in Ilya's brain. He knows he's freaking out over nothing. He knows. 

Ilya shivers. It's fucking cold and, in his rush to escape the Hollanders' concerned eyes, he'd forgotten his jacket. He knows he could go back in and get it. He's just not going to do that. 

He starts walking. Hopes it will warm him up.

Everything around him is too big. He's never liked the feel of these North American suburbs. Too much space. 

A gust of wind whips through the empty street. Ilya shoves his hands into his arm pits. 

The colder he gets, the fuzzier he feels. The echo of the plate smashing plays again and again. 

Crash, crash, crash. 

His heartbeat makes itself known. It's very loud and the rest of the world is so very quiet. There's a bad feeling clawing its way out of his chest and he needs somewhere safe to let it out. 

He cuts through a yard at random. Ducks under a tree branch. A lake appears in the distance. 

He's nine years old and he's been shut outside without his coat. 

Ilya stumbles toward the cluster of trees by the lake.

Papa will not let him in if he bangs on the door. Papa will make the punishment worse.

This is a good place to hide. 

Ilya slumps to the ground. His back scrapes against the tree's bark through his thin cotton shirt. The setting sun casts orange and red across the surface of the lake. 

Time . . . slips . . . away.

Chapter End Notes

Не трогай его - Don't touch him

Chapter 2: Mercy

Chapter Summary

“Pain changes you, but it teaches. That is its mercy." -Dostoevsky

Chapter Notes

In case anyone is worried, I promise to finish this fic with a HEA <3

"It's only been twenty or so minutes," Yuna says, "He might have gone for a spontaneous run. Let's not jump to worst case scenarios."

"Hopefully he didn't roll an ankle out there," David adds. Privately, he thinks a rolled ankle might be the best case scenario. 

His son doesn't seem to hear them. Shane shoves on his coat and pushes out the front door. He's fallen into a state of intense focus that flattens any inflection from his voice. "I'll head towards the highway. You guys go left towards the lake." He's jogging to his jeep before anyone else can give their input on the plan. 

David thinks letting Shane drive on his own is a bad idea. His boy is so worked up he's bright red in the face. Still, David doesn't fight when his wife gets into the passenger seat of their trusty Buick, leaving him to take the driver's spot. In the rearview mirror, he watches Shane whip out of the driveway.

David has done the math. He knows why his son insisted they go in separate cars. And why Shane went alone. 

First, because two cars can cover more ground than one. That's simple accounting logic. David doesn't contest this.

Second, because whoever finds Ilya first may need to help him out. The kid might be hurt and he's far too heavy for Yuna to carry. 

Third, because Ilya is terrified of David.

Shane didn't say any of that aloud; he didn't have to.

"Do you really think he went for a run?" David asks.

His wife purses her lips. "No, honey. I don't."

He backs out of the drive. Shifting gears, he notices a single tear leaving a track down Yuna's make-up.

"We'll find him," he says, because even a professional hockey player can't have gone that far.

Yuna flicks away the tear. Always battling to be perfectly put-together, his wife. Her voice is tight as she says, "I know we will. I just can't stop thinking about all the awful things I used to say about him."

They make a right at the exit of the cul-de-sac, driving slowly so as not to miss a thing. David re-focuses his gaze on the road and the surrounding houses. He scans for a shock of blond curls.

David flexes his hands on the steering wheel. "We didn't know him then." 

"It shouldn't have mattered. He was just a kid the first time they met. They're still kids, to me. And no one's been protecting him. No one's been taking care of him. God, David."

That sits heavily in David's stomach. It had been the shock of his life to learn that his son was dating Ilya Rozanov. It had also taken about five minutes of seeing him and Shane together to understand why. 

"If I hadn't been so vocal about hating Rozanov, maybe Shane would have called us during Sochi. We could have helped. We could have made sure they weren't alone." Yuna does everything with her whole chest. This includes hating That Asshole Rozanov. It also includes feeling guilty.

David risks a glance away from the road to take his wife's hand. "They aren't alone now."

Yuna squeezes back.

David doesn't want to dwell on what could have been. "You know what I'm thinking about? I'm thinking that I'm really grateful they found each other. I'm thinking about how gentle he is with Shane. For someone who grew up with only the worst kind of role models, he's a damn good kid."  

"He is." She says it the same way she declares who will win the Stanley Cup each season. With absolutely certainty. With a warning to anyone who might dare to contradict her.

An incoming call plays over the car's Bluetooth. Shane. 

"Have you found him?" he asks the second they connect.

"Nothing yet," David says, "We're driving up Pine Ridge now." 

The car speakers crackle. It's getting harder to see distinct shapes as the sun sinks lower. David puts on the high beams. He wishes he'd brought his reading glasses.

Shane asks, "Can we stay on the phone? So we know as soon as someone finds him?"

"Of course, honey," Yuna says. "We're right here with you." 

*

"There! David, angle the light towards those trees."

The tires crunch over gravel as he maneuvers the car back. It's fully dark now. The headlights slide over bushes, reflecting off the lake's surface, and illuminate a curled body tucked into a copse of trees. 

"Shane, he's here. East side of the lake. Near the boating dock." Yuna has the door open before he's even pulled to a stop. 

"Coming," says Shane through the speaker.

He leaves the car running, knowing the light will help Shane locate them on the road. David watches Yuna cross through the high beams with a blanket in hand. He follows at a distance. Yuna goes right up to Ilya but David lingers 5 feet behind, out of the kid's eyesight. 

He can't stand the thought of scaring him again.

"Let's get you warm, honey," Yuna says. She crouches down to where Ilya sits against a tree trunk. David can't see his face yet. Can't tell if he's hurt - or, more precisely, if this is a physical or emotional kind of hurt. 

"Ilya, sweetie, look at me. We need to go home. Can you stand?" 

No response from Ilya.

Yuna rocks forward to encase him in the blanket, her own hands rubbing up and down his arms to bring some warmth into the limbs. It's been maybe forty-five minutes since Ilya left the house - that's a hell of a long time to be out in near-freezing temperatures.

"Come on, up you go." Yuna straightens, tugging on Ilya's shoulders. 

David draws closer in case Ilya needs help getting to his feet. Either Ilya isn't as out of it as he seems, or Yuna is stronger than she looks, because the kid wobbles to a stand. 

Which means he's close enough to hear Ilya, sounding very small and confused, ask, "Mama?" 

Yuna's eyes lock with his over the kid's shoulder. Shit. David needs to back up before he startles Ilya again. He makes a careful retreat to the car. 

David knows he's a big man. He's never considered himself a threatening one. A powerful shame washes over him - warranted or not. David never wanted anyone to be afraid of him.

He vows that Ilya will never feel this way with him again. 

*

For the first time in his life, Shane can't keep his eyes on the road. He drives slowly to make up for the constant glances to the backseat. A bead of sweat drips down his temple, and he knows it isn't just because the car's heating is on full blast. 

When Shane finally pulled up they'd already managed to get Ilya into the car. Mom has Ilya tucked into her side. No one insisted on seat belts.

Ilya hasn't responded to a single word he's said. He's awake. He's unhurt. He's just . . . gone. 

They pull into the driveway. Dad's already got Shane's Jeep parked on the street. He's been carefully keeping his distance and Shane feels bad about that but he's also so worried and so grateful that he can't address it right now. 

Ilya comes out of the car easily. He's perfectly compliant, more or less calm. He's also totally unresponsive to anything they say or do. That, more than anything else, confirms it for Shane.

Ilya needs to talk to someone. A professional. No more putting it off for later. 

For months he's allowed himself to chicken out of what he knows will be a challenging conversation with the excuse that Ilya is happy. That they are happy. He's wanted to respect Ilya's autonomy. He read that therapy works best when the patient is open and willing. So he stomached his concerns - every time Ilya woke up gasping, that night he sobbed out of nowhere in the shower, when Ilya smashed his phone because Alexei somehow got ahold of his new number. Shane told himself he was being a good boyfriend by not overstepping. 

He was wrong. Shane takes full responsibility from now on. He will force the issue of therapy. He will do what he has to so that Ilya goes. Because ideally it would all be Ilya's decision - but Ilya isn't fucking here to make decisions right now. 

Shane wordlessly takes over for Mom when they get to the stairs. He grips Ilya's waist, fighting flashbacks to that awful night in Sochi. Ilya's skin is ice cold under his touch.

"We're gonna take a hot shower, okay? Get you nice and warm." Shane talks in the hopes that his voice will comfort Ilya. He's desperate for a sign that Ilya knows where he is and who he's with. 

Ilya doesn't fight when Shane strips him down. He doesn't react at all to the spray of the shower. 

When Shane pictured Ilya Rozanov naked in his childhood bedroom, this is not what he meant.

Shane clutches Ilya to him. He doesn't care that he's mostly out of the water - and freezing for it. He doesn't care that he's still in his clothes. Shane takes the terror he felt for those thirty minutes that Ilya was missing and pours it into the hug. Ilya's head comes to rest in the crook of his neck and Shane revels in the feeling of Ilya's breath against his skin.

They stay that way until steam fogs the bathroom and Ilya's skin is pink with heat. Shane runs his hand up and down Ilya's back. 

He feels a twitch. A small noise leaks from Ilya. 

Shane pulls back enough to look at his face. "Ilya, are you with me?" 

Ilya's eyes are as foggy as the bathroom mirror. His expression still slack and blank. 

"Ilya, baby?"

A slow blink. The slightest fraction of a nod. "Tired," Ilya mumbles.

"Okay, that's okay. Let's go to bed." 

They get situated quickly after that. Ilya allows himself to be moved like a doll. Shane skips his entire bedtime routine - even brushing his teeth is inconsequential - and tucks himself firmly into Ilya's side. He gets the smallest squeeze back, a murmured, "Shane," and it's enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"That's right, baby. I'm here."

Chapter 3: Overcome yourself

Chapter Summary

"If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself." -Dostoevsky

Chapter Notes

December 2014

Ilya knows that Shane hasn't let go of the Therapy Thing. There's a good phrase in English for what Shane is doing: biding his time. Shane is, somehow, the most patient impatient person that Ilya knows. Shane treats biding time as a hobby. 

Ilya thinks he learned this from Yuna.

In any case, they have entered a standstill on the therapy front. Ilya had said no. Shane had asked him to reconsider. And also for location sharing. As a "compromise". Ilya had accused Shane of not trusting him. Shane had pointed out that Ilya had lost his fucking mind over a broken plate and ruined things with his parents. (These were not Shane's exact words, Ilya is paraphrasing). But still. He understood the gist. Humiliated, Ilya had said something Very Bad in Russian, and has never been more grateful to be lost in translation. In the end, Ilya had promised to think about therapy. Shane has not brought it up in the two weeks since. 

Watching Shane's bubble travel through midtown on his screen, Ilya privately admits that the location sharing is nice. 

He also admits, in a whisper in his brain, that he is glad to have to share Shane tonight with Kip and his ancient boyfriend. Shane will not ambush him with Therapy over dinner. Ilya is safe for a few more hours.

Kip answers the door and doesn't waste time ordering Ilya about. "They're stuck in traffic. You can start peeling the potatoes."

"Yes sir," Ilya says, just to see if it will make Kip blush. 

He gives Ilya an unimpressed glare. Of the group, Kip is hardest to get a rise out of. Which only makes Ilya want it more.

Kip wrinkles his nose. "That sounds wrong out of your mouth. Why do I get the feeling it's not you usually saying it?"

This surprises a laugh out of Ilya. He likes that Kip can dish it right back. "What, you think I cannot be good boy?"

Kip snorts. "Not even a little bit." 

They get to work on dinner. Part of Ilya enjoys the domesticity of it. He likes the idea of being someone worth coming home to. The other part of him resents that he can't go watch his boyfriend play hockey even when they are in the same city. Ilya drove down from Boston to see Shane - but he watched the Admirals-Metros game from the hotel room.

Theoretically, he could have come earlier to watch with Kip. They might have comiserated together. But Kip can go to the games. As a friend, but he goes. Ilya hadn't been able to stand the thought of them watching together - playing WAG - as if the situation were the same. He didn't want to be upset at Kip for something entirely out of their control, so he watched Montreal trounce the Admirals on his own. 

Anyway, it's nice to talk to someone who doesn't give a shit about hockey. 

"I will come back to New York next month to do a shoot for Ralph Laurent. Will bring you samples if you tell me your measurements." 

Kip's eyes light up. "Really? Which collection is it? Spring?"

Finally, Ilya thinks, a homosexual with taste. 

*

Dinner is loud and good. Even if Shane is still biding time, he doesn't act like it in front of their friends. 

“Ilya, if you keep driving that neon orange Porsche to and from NYC people are going to start noticing," Shane tells him. He has a plant-based meatball speared on his fork, which makes him hard to take seriously. 

Ilya grins. “So we tell people I am visiting my good friend Scott Hunter and his young, sexy boyfriend.”

Kip, without missing a beat, complains, “That makes it sound like you’re our third.”

"People would understand. You bring in young guy with stamina.”

"What the fuck, Roz?"

Before Hunter can start a fight, Shane says, “I don’t see how that solves the problem of not wanting the general public to know you’re gay.”

"Did not realize that only gay people can visit New York City."

"Ilya." 

"Okay, okay," he pretends to relent. "Next time I take the Ferrari." 

Shane throws his meatball. 

*

Shane obviously has something on his mind. Ilya can tell from the way he folds his shirt before climbing into bed. Ilya is concocting increasingly elaborate distractions from the Therapy Thing when Shane says, "Do you ever think about coming out to your team?"

Ilya stares at him. "Are you a pod person? What you have done with Shane Hollander?"

"Fuck off." Shane folds his hands in his lap, entirely too awkward for someone who got his ate ass in this very bed not thirty minutes ago.

"No, I don't think about it."

"Not at all? Even hypothetically?" 

Ilya learned this word hypothetically from Shane. Shane is very invested in hypotheticals. 

Ilya feels caught in an unexpected trap. Of course Ilya has considered what his team's reaction might be. He thinks they would probably be fine about it. Confused and surprised, yes, but ultimately supportive. Ilya captained the Bears to a Stanley Cup this season. He thinks those guys would follow him into war if he asked it. But . . . 

"I think they would be good about it," Ilya admits, "But I cannot do it." 

"Because Russia?"

Ilya nods. "Because Russia." He risks a glance at Shane's face, searching for disappointment or worry. Months ago, Ilya promised his mama, and Sveta, and Shane, that he would not go back to Russia. It was one thing to leave. It's another to slam the door closed behind him. Once Ilya is out of the closet, it's no longer his choice to never return. There's a difference between emigration and exile - a difference that, despite himself, still matters to Ilya.

Shane is not surprised by his admission. He nods thoughtfully, like he'd assumed as much and only needed confirmation. Ilya realizes this conversation is possibly not about him at all. 

"Are you thinking about coming out to your team?" He can't keep the surprise out of his voice. Shane treats the closet like a nuclear fallout shelter.

"No. God, no." His fingers twist in the top sheet. "I mean, only hypothetically. Like, in a scenario where we get outed I've wondered how they would take it."

Ilya rolls onto his side to face his boyfriend. He takes one of Shane's hyperactive hands in his own. "And?"

Shane visibly cringes. "I don't think they'd take it great. But, it's hard to say what hockey team would. I know you said the Bears would be good but, we won't really know until we know."

Privately, Ilya has faith in his team. LeClaire is a fair coach. Boston is a progressive city. And Ilya has no trouble standing up for himself in a locker room.

Shane, though . . . "What makes you ask this?" Ilya asks him. "Has your team said something?"

"No, not the team. I'm mostly thinking about the New York teams."

Ah, Ilya understands now. Shane's brain works two, sometimes five years ahead when it comes to their plans. He has decided to change teams at the end of the season, so now he must also imagine which team would be hypothetically the most accepting if they ever came out.

"New York is a very gay city," Ilya says, trying not to sound like too much of an asshole. Luckily, Shane doesn't detect the hint of sarcasm. 

"Not so gay that Scott feels safe coming out."

He hums in reluctant agreement. "Hunter is out to Kip's family and friends. That is not nothing."

The thought it so obvious on Shane's face: That Hunter has a support system outside of hockey. That Hunter is the most universally palatable of the three of them - White, media-trained, home-grown American. That Hunter is much older than them and will retire in the next ten years. That New York City is gayer than either Boston or Montreal. 

He sees the same stupid hope reflected in Shane's eyes. It prompts Ilya to say, as much to himself as to Shane, "We cannot ask him to go first."

"I know that," Shane says, with the same disappointment that Ilya feels. Then, "Is it selfish of me that I don't want to be the first?" 

"No, milyy, you are not selfish." Everything Shane does is for the sake of his public imagine. To be the best role model. The perfect minority poster boy. The good son. Ilya cannot think of anyone less selfish. 

Even if that wasn't the case, Ilya would not push Shane to come out right now. His Shane is sensitive. He's a good captain but maybe not a social one. From what Shane has said, Ilya suspects that the Montreal locker room would not be friendly to a gay teammate. He wants to protect Shane from that pain, the way Shane protects him from the looming shadow of Moscow. 

"Maybe secret fourth gay will come out instead," he jokes. "Maybe the most homophobic sport is secretly the gayest."

Shane huffs. "Dallas Kent talks about cocksucking a lot for a straight man."

"Exactly. First him, then Troy Barret. We can come out third."

Shane gives a quiet laugh, settling into the mattress beside him. "Okay, I guess for once in our lives we'll have to be okay not coming in first." 

"Well," Ilya grins, "you are used to coming in second."

Shane thwaps him with a spare pillow. 

*

It's only as Ilya is drifting into sleep that he realizes: Shane didn't bring up therapy. He's breathing deeply into Ilya's side, more relaxed than he ever is awake (except for those precious moments when Ilya has him fucked out, soft and sated). 

It dawns on Ilya that this isn't some cold war for Shane. That he isn't lying in wait for Ilya to let his defenses down and go in for the kill. Ilya knows that Shane still wants him to go to therapy but . . . maybe his silence on the topic isn't a manipulation tactic. Maybe it's just space. 

Ilya hates being controlled by anyone. He chafes at the very idea of it. This is part of what made him such a party animal those first few years in Boston. He had some pathological urge to express his newfound freedom by doing what he wasn't supposed to do. 

So, the idea of going to therapy because someone tells him to . . . that's worse than chewing glass. At the Hollanders' house, the morning after his freakout, he'd burned with humiliation. Like a child who had done wrong and this was the prescribed punishment. His hackles went up instinctively.

Now, though. Now Ilya thinks about it. 

*

After a sleepy goodbye from Shane, Ilya is back on the road to Boston. He pulls through a drivethru and orders the largest, sugariest coffee combination possible, then sends a picture to Shane with the caption Proud to (soon) be an American.

Shane sends a barf emoji back. 

The drive is long and rage-inducing. In between the honks and the lane changes, Ilya considers the Therapy Thing anew. He understands, objectively, that it isn't normal for people to lose time, or forget where they are, or whatever other embarrassing things Ilya did that he can't even recall. He also understands how scary that must have been for Shane to witness.

Then there's Yuna and David. They've been kinder to Ilya than he ever expected. And he returned the favor by breaking their fine China and losing his shit for no reason. The fleeting moments of domesticity he's had with the Hollanders . . . it's all Ilya has ever wanted. Can therapy teach him how to not ruin it again? He honestly doesn't know. Nobody talks about therapy in Russia. Even his mother only went for "treatment", and Ilya has no clue what that entailed. 

He could ask Shane more about therapy but, he thinks Shane might be biased. It's hard to imagine any of the Hollanders understanding what Ilya is really asking. Because therapy probably works great for people with too much work stress or whose loved ones die from cancer, or any number of mundane Canadian problems. But will it work for someone like him? All jagged edges and open wounds. Is Ilya too fucked up for therapy to fix? Is he too far gone?

Well, there is one person he can ask. 

*

Scott looks at his phone is disbelief. The ringing is too loud in his earbuds - still in from his morning run. Scott sets the spatula down to answer.

"You better be dying because I know I didn't sign up to deal with your ass two days in a row," he says. 

"Aww, you miss me already?" 

Scott gives his scrambled eggs a vigorous stir. "You called me, Roz."

"Yes, wanted to make sure you are not too heartbroken. Now that Kip has seen there are much sexier hockey players out there." 

"The two of you are way too much like children for Kip to find you sexy." 

"Ah, so it is a daddy thing."

"Roz," Scott growls. This fucking kid knows exactly how to push his buttons. Scott would be impressed if he wasn't constantly questioning the life choices which led to him accepting a phone call from Ilya Rozanov at 8:15 on a Monday morning. "If you called me the day after consuming my boyfriend's food and half my stock of wine just to chirp me then I'm hanging up on you," he threatens. 

"You are too easy, Hunter. But no, I am calling for a reason. I need your elderly advice - what is the word?"

"Wisdom?"

"Yes, this."

By now, Scott can brush off a chirp about his age without much fuss. He won't tell but, pretending to get offended by Roz is half the fun. So Scott neatly ignores the entirely uncreative insult to be, well . . . pleasantly surprised. Roz is, in the most irritating way possible, asking for his advice. 

"This better not be a sex thing," Scott warns.

The asshole laughs. "Who has ever called you for sex advice?" 

Very few people call Scott for advice period. But Scott isn't going to say that. 

"Forgive me for not wanting to hear about you deflowering Hollander," he spits out. 

"You would be so lucky."

Scott has officially burnt his eggs. He takes them off the stove and resigns to eating them with a fuckload of ketchup. Leave it to Rozanov to ruin his breakfast. 

"What do you want?" It comes out harsher than he intends. 

"It is bad time?" Hesitation creeps into Roz's voice. That's how Scott knows he actually does need advice, and he's nervous to ask. Scott forces himself to ease up.

"Not a bad time, kid. What's up?" 

"You have done many interviews, yes? Some for winning hockey awards. Some for charity awareness, these things. I would not watch but you are hard to avoid."

Scott rolls his eyes and waits for the kid to get on with it. Between him and Hollander, it's like Scott and Kip are socializing a pair of feral cats. 

"In these interviews you talk about your parents. You say you went to therapy. Is it true or just something you say for press?"

Scott swallows. In his speeches, he tends to leave out the year and a half it took him to finally agree to therapy. Or that the Aunt who took him in threatened to kick him out if he didn't go. (An Aunt he has since cut all ties with). 

"Yeah, I went. Two separate times, actually."

"And?"

Scott wants to prod at Rozanov for being so difficult about this. And what? he wants to snap. But he knows what the kid is getting at.

"The first time wasn't great, honestly. I was seventeen and I mostly went because the guardian I lived with put her foot down. I went, said what I needed to say, and forgot about it. The therapist treated me like a kid and I hated that." If he didn't have any parents to help him out, Scott figured he at least deserved to be treated as an adult.

"Why go again later if it was bad?"

"I got drafted," Scott admits, "And I didn't want to be the Rookie nobody wanted to room with because I was constantly having nightmares and crying in my sleep." 

"Ah," says Rozanov, "Yes, you know about the nightmares." 

"Yeah," Scott says, "I know." 

They've never talked about that night in Sochi, and what Scott saw. Sometimes, Scott thinks he made a mistake not bringing it up sooner. He remembers what it's like to be the person hurting, and how desperately he didn't want to ask for help.

"Do you still have them?" 

There's silence on the other end for long, painful seconds. "Sometimes. Less now than before."

"Yeah, same here. But a lot less. My therapist basically said it's like your brain is trying to process something. If you don't talk about it, all that processing happens in your sleep instead."

More silence from Roz. "What about other things? More than nightmares."

Something pinches in Scott's chest. "You can search for a psychologist based on different criteria. Some of them have specialties in trauma and loss, like mine. Or you could find one who specializes in family stuff. Whatever sounds good." 

A frustrated noise. "No, I mean. I don't know if the talking can fix it. Is not just sad. Not just nightmares."

Scott puts down his fork, suddenly nauseas. "What do you mean?" 

Roz's voice is stilted. His English more broken than usual. "Few weeks ago. Was at Shane's family for dinner. I freak out about something and, was like I forgot where I was. No control over my body. I lose time. Does not happen often but, Shane was very worried." 

Scott takes a deep breath in through his nose. He remembers how comforting it was for his therapist to simply listen and not react. He can have his feelings after the call. "I'm sure he was worried. You must have been scared, too." 

"Is . . . is it something therapy can fix?" 

He hears the hidden meaning behind Roz's question, and for the hundredth time Scott wonders how Ilya fucking Rozanov manages to keep breaking his heart. Roz is afraid of therapy. He's afraid of being told that what's wrong with him isn't something that can be fixed.

Jesus fucking Christ. 

"Therapy isn't really about fixing," he cautions, "But I do think it would help you feel better."

"Do you feel better?"

Scott still has control issues. Routines and superstitions that his therapist said were a way for him to try to manage the unmanageable. He still wakes up sweating, remembering that terrible night - usually when he least expects it. He still has days where the grief hits him like a sledgehammer and he wonders if it would have been better for the car wreck to take him, too. But that isn't most days. Not anymore.

"Yeah," Scott says, "I feel better."

"Good. That is good."

There's the sound of a car blinker, muffled, through the phone. Scott wonders if he should push, tell Rozanov that he really, definitely needs to give therapy a try. He doesn't get the chance.

"Thanks Hunter," Roz says, and hangs up.

Scott stares at his eggs. Then he bends over and laughs weakly into his hands. 

Chapter End Notes

milyy - darling

Chapter 4: No love otherwise

Chapter Summary

"To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise." -Dostoevsky

Scotty-saurus: Rozanov

Scotty-saurus: Why the fuck are you buying my boyfriend designer clothes?

Ilya: You don't want your boyfriend to have nice things?

Ilya: Red flag

Scotty-saurus: Says the walking red flag

Ilya: yes but I am red like communism

Ilya: you are red like angry man yelling at children to get off lawn

Scotty-saurus: It took you 10 whole minutes to type that out and you couldn't think of anything better?

Moya lyubov: I'm lost

Moya lyubov: Is this an actual argument or are you talking about Formula 1 again? 

Scotty-saurus: There's like $10k worth of Ralph Lauren in my living room

Moya lyubov: You didn't answer my question.

Kipstopher: Do you think Ralph Lauren is an F1 driver???

Moya lyubov: Context clues are telling me to say no. 

Kipstopher: It's concerning how little you know about life outside of hockey. 

Ilya: Shane is on facetime with me now

Ilya: I thought screen was frozen

Ilya: But no

Ilya: He is buffering in real life

Ilya: Brain does not compute "life outside of hockey"

Moya lyubov: fuck off 

Scotty-saurus: Can we get back to the point?

Scotty-saurus: Rozanov gifted my boyfriend thousands of dollars of luxury clothing

Scotty-saurus: and no one else thinks that's weird??

Moya lyubov: Ilya is very generous.

Moya lyubov: That's like the third most extravagant gift he's given this month.

Moya lyubov: I really wouldn't read into it.

Ilya: Also was free

Ilya: Remember I did photoshoot

Kipstopher: cheapskate

Ilya: No my skates are very expensive 

Kipstopher: Sure bud

Kipstopher: Also Scott why are you mad?

Kipstopher: We wear the same size

Ilya: No

Ilya: I forbid this

Scotty-saurus: Too late

Scotty-saurus: What's his is mine and vice versa

Scotty-saurus: Your fault for forgetting that, Roz

Moya lyubov: I'd like to report that he's banging his head against the wall

Kipstopher: oh good

Kipstopher: because he needs another concussion 

*

Ilya has not told anyone about the texts from Alexei. Especially not Shane.

The first time Alexei got ahold of his American phone number it was like WWIII for the Hollanders. Lots of making new accounts, and password protecting, and texting everyone he knows his new number. It was annoying and embarrassing. It made Ilya feel like a child.

And if Ilya doesn't block Alexei now? His friends are all only children. They would not understand. None of Scott or Kip or Svetlana or Shane have siblings to fight with. 

Marley has lots of siblings. Ilya gets the impression that things weren't so easy at home. Marley's dad is a deadbeat he hasn't spoken to in years. But he and Marley don't really talk about these things unless they're drunk enough to "forget" it by the morning. And anyway, Marley is the oldest of his siblings. He's the protector of the family. Ilya has never been that. 

None of them understand that, for some people, family is the only place you're allowed to be mean. Fighting with his brother is a kind of condoned violence. A brawl that he doesn't have to feel bad about. Cruelty that comes so easily because he knows he'll get only cruelty back. They've scarred each other too many times to count. When Ilya fucked Alexei's girlfriend. When Alexei stole Ilya's car. When Ilya called him a coked-out loser. When Alexei called him a selfish fag. Every time Grigori beat one of them and the other watched. What's one more bad thing? There's no guilt with Alexei, and he's drowning in guilt with Alexei, and there's no escaping either of those things.  

Sometimes, Ilya thinks Alexei is the only person who knows the truth of him. That the Ilya that Shane and everyone else sees - it's all a front. Alexei's Ilya is the real one. Just a scared, selfish, pathetic creature - forever nipping at his brother's heels. Only Alexei grew up with him in that house. Only Alexei knew him before he learned how to hide. Only Alexei came running home the day Ilya found their mother's body.

So Ilya doesn't block the texts. And, more often than he's proud of, he answers them. It's his secret shame - his outlet to be the most awful version of himself - for many months. It's something he doesn't even tell his new therapist. 

Until he forgets to hide his phone around Svetlana. 

*

"You have your own house, no?" Ilya asks, gesturing to the way Svetlana lies sprawled across his sofa. She let herself in with the key he gave her but that's beside the point. 

"This is no way to treat a guest, Ilyusha."  She types on her phone without sparing him a glance. 

Ilya grabs her foot, yanking her over the cushions, and she squeals and kicks him. This is what they do: annoy each other and pretend to hate it and never admit how glad they are for the company. He could toss her over his shoulders and tickle her until she pees a little, but he holds himself back.

Ilya has a boyfriend now. A boyfriend he loves to make jealous but - not about Svetlana. Some kind of fragile peace formed between her and Shane that night in Sochi and Ilya doesn't want to fuck it up. Settling on the couch across from her, his hand in a box of cereal, he's not lying to say there isn't an ounce of attraction between them. If he really thinks about it (which he hates and his therapist loves) Ilya might say that the habit of sex he and Sveta fell into was always more about intimacy than attraction. Seeking comfort from each other the only way they knew how. He thinks Sveta might even be relieved that he doesn't seek that kind of comfort from her anymore. 

"You're still seeing the model in LA?" he pesters, because he knows it pisses her off.  

"If by 'seeing' you mean I let him bring me to parties then yes." 

"He is very pretty," Ilya comments, then shoves a handful of dry cereal into his mouth. 

Sveta finally looks his way with an icy glare. "If you're going to chew that loudly I'll go home."

Ilya crunches louder. Sveta retaliates by turning on the TV. Hockey - a playback of last night's Tampa vs. Toronto game. 

He fishes his phone out of his pocket to check for messages from LeClaire. Ilya has morning skate in an hour and no interest in thinking about hockey until then. He drops the phone on the coffee table and wanders to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

The TV is off when he comes back.

It's obvious something has happened from the way Sveta sits. That girl is never upright unless she absolutely has to be. And now she's rigid, holding his phone over the coffee table. Her jaw tight. 

"Don't read my sexts," he says, hoping to distract her.

"How long has Alexei had this number?" Her tone gives nothing away.

Ilya shrugs.

"It's not a big deal. I can block him easier than I can get a new number." 

That line might have worked on Shane. It absolutely doesn't work on Sveta. 

"Is this some kind of self-punishment thing?"

"No."

"So you just enjoy being called a 'cocksucking disgrace' and berated for money, hm?" 

"He doesn't always ask for money."

Sveta gives him a look that says he's full of shit. "Okay, what does he want then?"

"Money," Ilya admits. "And for me to call papa." 

"Grigori is getting sicker?" 

"That's what Alexei says. I don't know."

"Will you call him?"

"I don't know."  Yes. Probably he will.

"Him being sick doesn't make him a good person." There's heat in Sveta's voice now. When her mother died of cancer five years ago, it made Sveta furious to hear people talk about her like a saint. Just because she had cancer doesn't mean she wasn't sometimes a shitty person. Liliana Vetrova wasn't difficult in the way that Grigori is difficult, or sad the way Irina was. She was just too American, too young when she married Vetrov, and too self-centered to care about the culture she'd married into. Ilya thinks their mothers probably bonded over how much they hated living in Russia. 

Ilya picks his words carefully. "If papa is really sick then he needs someone to take care of him." 

"That someone doesn't have to be you." 

"You think Polina or Alexei will do it? Even if they wanted to, they're all fucking bankrupt." That's why Ilya hasn't called yet. Because he knows they will ask, and he knows he will give in, and he'll be furious and ashamed as if it wasn't fucking inevitable. 

"So you will call him," she says. Not a question.

He wants to say Don't tell Shane but doing so will only push Sveta in that direction. Sveta will do what she thinks is best whether Ilya likes it or not. And she won't tell Ilya what to do with himself, even when he wishes she would. 

"You don't seem surprised," Ilya says instead. 

"Ilyusha, we both know it was always going to be a long goodbye." 

He swallows. Nods. 

Svetlana hands him back the phone. "You need to get going to practice."

It's not a reprimand. It's not a convenient excuse to get rid of him. It's not anger. It's the kind of acceptance that comes from witnessing the same car crash day in and day out for more than twenty years.

*

Ilya: I will speak to papa. Only him. Understood?

Unsaved number: Still a coward then

The phone vibrates in his hand. An incoming call shows from an unsaved number. Ilya slides the arrow across the screen to answer. 

His thumb hovers over the red phone icon. Waiting to see who speaks. If it is Alexei, he will hang up immediately. 

"Is that you, Ilya?" says Grigori Rozanov. 

Chapter 5: Precious memories

Chapter Summary

“Indeed, precious memories may remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is precious.”
-Dostoevsky

Chapter Notes

Conversations in Russian are denoted in italics (not to be confused with my general overuse of italics lol).

"Is that you, Ilya?" says Grigori Rozanov.

Ilya almost chokes on his cigarette. He hadn't allowed himself to believe that anyone other than Alexei would be on the line. 

"Yes, Papa," he manages to say.

Grigori's voice is thin and hard to hear. For the first time Ilya can remember, his father sounds his age. Last time they spoke, Grigori Rozanov still had the countenance and commanding presence of a KGB general. Now, at 71, he sounds frail. 

"When are you coming home?" Grigori asks.

Never, Ilya thinks. He is afraid to say it. If Papa is in his right mind he will be furious. If not, he will be even more confused.

"I am very busy," Ilya hedges. "It is the middle of the season."

"Yes, you will come home then. For New Year's."

Ilya's throat tightens without his permission. "No, Papa. I cannot."

"Nonsense. You will come a few days early to help me put up the tree. You know how your mother gets when there is no tree." 

Ilya takes a long pull of his cigarette. The rush of nicotine does nothing to steady him. His mother did get sad the year there was no Yolka - the traditional tree, similar to an American Christmas tree. Ilya remembers his parents fighting over it. He was only little, and it was one of the first times he saw his father strike his mother. The next day, the Yolka arrived. This was back when Grigori - albeit rarely - deigned to make apologies.

There has not been a Yolka in the family home since his mama died.

"Alexei will help with the Yolka," Ilya finally says. "I will remind him to do it."

"Bah, Alexei is no help. He has become lazy. Just like you." 

Ilya's stomach drops. Has Alexei truly stopped checking in on their father? Can Ilya trust anything from the mouth of a confused, old man? 

"Papa, who is with you now?"

"No one, you stupid boy. Why else would I call?"

Ilya's chest hurts. It hurts like he's been running and running and running at full speed. He tries to respond - can't. 

"When are you coming home?" Grigori asks again. 

"Soon," Ilya chokes out - not knowing if it's a lie. "Is anyone there with you now?"

"I am tired now. I will rest until you arrive."

"Yes, okay."

Grigori ends the call.  

*

Ilya: Is Papa dying?

Unsaved number: You would know if you were here

*

Scott hopes he's managed to put a normal expression on his face. It's one of those moments where he genuinely feels like a machine rebooting. 

"I can forge a doctor's note if you need me here," Kip is saying, even as he pulls on his coat. 

"Not a chance. You have two final exams today and that meeting for the group presentation." It's unfortunate timing but, it's nothing he can't handle. Shit timing that the Admirals have the day off from practice, too. Scott will be left with nothing to distract himself - but he isn't about to make that Kip's problem.  

Kip stops fighting his coat zipper to take Scott by the shoulders. "An exam isn't more important than you."

It sends warmth all through his body. Scott leans in and presses a kiss to his boyfriend's mouth. "Kip, babe, I'll be okay. I promise." He thinks he sounds pretty convincing. 

"Pinky swear?" Kip kisses him again, which Scott knows mean acquiescence. They rest their foreheads together, content to share space. 

"My pinky promises," he murmurs, which makes Kip laugh. It amuses Kip that Scott doesn't seem to know common expressions (and if Scott plays it up sometimes to get a smile from his boyfriend well, that's no one's business). 

"I'll bring home some take-out for dinner, okay? So we can eat and cuddle on the couch." Kip still sounds worried but at least he's not arguing about skipping class anymore. It's Kip's first semester of grad school. Scott won't let his academic experience suffer. 

"I love you," Scott says, "Now go before you're running so late I have to call you an Uber."

Kip blushes. For some reason he gets particularly awkward about Scott paying for his rides. Some strange city-boy pride about public transit. It's exceedingly cute. 

"I love you, I'll see you tonight," Kip shouts over his shoulder, and disappears behind the closed door.

Scott lets out a long breath. He isn't lying. Or, he doesn't think he is. 

It's been more than 15 years since his parents died. Over half his lifetime. He can handle being alone.

After all this time, it should be like any other day. 

*

Even on days that aren't the anniversary of his parents' death, Scott is bad at having nothing to do. Worse, he doesn't feel like doing the few things he should do. There's breakfast dishes in the sink. He's been meaning to call about the issue with the shower drain in the guest room. But none of that interests him.

Scott tries to cut himself some slack. Today doesn't need to be productive. He just needs to survive until Kip comes home. 

After twenty minutes of trying to read his Golden State Killer true crime book, Scott gives up. Focusing is too hard. He considers leaving the house but he doesn't want to interact with strangers. The idea of putting on another fake smile makes his skin crawl. Flipping idly through TV channels, he lands on a re-run of jeopardy. 

His mom liked jeopardy. They used to get practice quizzes in the mail and do them together. His Dad pretended he didn't care but would end up joining and arguing over the answers. 

Pressure builds in his throat. Scott has the insane urge to throw the remote through the TV screen.

The doorbell chimes. 

Strange. Packages go to the receptionist in the lobby. Probably the Mormons again, he decides.

He opens the door. Not a Mormon - the farthest possible thing from, in fact.

"What the fuck. Rozanov?"

Ilya Rozanov is sporting a backwards cap, a bro-tank with the armpits cut out, and egregiously orange slides. He's got a six pack of beer in one hand. He smells like cigarettes and he's grinning in a way that most people in the NHL would describe as distinctly punchable.

"Good morning, sorry for late arrival. New York State Police did not appreciate my interpretation of the speed limit." Roz says this very casually, as if they had, you know, planned to hang out. He makes an impatient gesture with his free hand. "I come in now, yes?"

Scott is caught unawares. Defenses breeched. Rozanov enters the apartment unimpeded. Half in shock, Scott closes the door behind him.

"Oh, I know this show!" Rozanov declares, kicking off his slides and tossing himself onto the couch. "Mister Trebek."

"Yes, come in, make yourself at home," Scott grumbles. He doesn't put much effort into it. He's not gonna tell Roz but, the kid's arrival probably saved Scott from a deeply humiliating crying session over fucking Jeapordy. 

What is The Monroe Doctrine? A player answers. (Low-hanging fruit, in Scott's opinion). 

"What are you doing here?" Scott asks, unwilling to sit back down until he has a grasp on what the fuck is happening. 

Roz shrugs. "What, you had other plans?" 

Scott's entire plan had been to disassociate the day away and then pretend to be fine with Kip by dinner. "Well, no but . . . " He can't bring himself to say that it's not a good day for Rozanov's antics. He doesn't want to explain what day it is. Doesn't think he's even capable of saying that out loud. 

Something shifts in Roz's expression. "Kip has exams today. He told me this. But today is not a good day to be alone, Hunter."

It takes a long moment to sink in. Rozanov knows what day it is and he doesn't want Scott to be alone. He drove from Boston for this - and Scott didn't even have to ask. It's so monumental and utterly unexpected that Scott is actually speechless. He feels faintly weak in the knees and joins Rozanov on the couch. 

Roz plows on, "You have things you normally do today? Routines?" The way he asks it is so straightforward. It's such a fucking relief. Direct. Unpitying. Without expectation. 

"I don't usually think about it in advance," Scott admits. He never wants it to be a Big Deal. 

Roz takes this in stride. "Okay, so we watch Jeopardy."

And they do. 

A few rounds of questions pass before Scott fully settles. He's not used to sharing space with anyone but Kip. Luckily, Roz has turned down the chirps and charisma for the moment. Scott doesn't think he can handle the Ilya Rozanov show right now. But just sitting with Ilya . . . it's surprisingly nice.

"What is beagle?" Rozanov pipes up, responding to a question on the screen. 

"It's a kind of dog," he explains, and pulls it up on his phone. "And it's pronounced beagle, not bagel." 

Roz clicks his tongue. "Is the size of a bagel. I don't understand why people like these tiny dogs."

"Good size for an apartment," Scott argues, because he can't not argue with the kid. 

"No. This is not a dog. When I get one it will be big and strong. Like hunting dog."

"You're such a liar. I know for a fact you pet every dog you see. If you go to the shelter and see a beagle then you'll end up adopting a fucking beagle." 

Roz makes a face. "Slander!" Then, "Yes, okay. I would name him Bagel."

Scott laughs.

A few minutes later: "These questions actually make sense to you?" 

It takes Scott a second to realize it's not a chirp. "Some of them are tricky, obviously but, we watched a lot of Jeopardy when I was growing up."

"Ah, Old Man personality is genetic trait."

"Fuck off."

It's such an unbelievable relief to joke about these things. Scott didn't know he could talk about his childhood without feeling so . . . heavy.

"You know," Roz says conspiratorially, "When I first moved to America I heard about this show. I thought it would be a good way to learn English. Then I heard the questions and I thought maybe I don't speak a word of English after all."

Scott laughs. "Yeah, the word play is tough even for us native speakers."

Roz hums in agreement. "But seriously, you cannot know these answers."

Scott can't let a challenge like that go unanswered. For the rest of the episode he shouts the answers before the contestants can. It makes Roz's eyes bug out and soon he's cackling with glee.

"Oh my god you are like a dictionary! This is incredible." The kid is fucking delighted. 

They finally hit a question Scott doesn't know the answer to. "Uhhh -" he clams up.

Roz makes a buzzer noise. "No, our millions of dollars! Hunter we are bankrupt," he declares, then dramatically slides off the couch cushions to the floor. He fixes Scott with a look that can only be described as scheming. "Seriously though. You need to get on this show. I will call Mister Trebek and tell them. Scott Hunter must be a Jeopardy star."

Then Roz actually starts googling Alex Trebek's phone number with enough seriousness that Scott has to wrestle the phone out of his hands.

*

They've managed to get through a second episode of Jeopardy and demolished a massive order of Thai food when Scott realizes there is, actually, something he wants to do today. Roz agrees easily.

"You gonna let me drive it?" Scott says when he sees the glossy black Lambo.

Roz glares at him. "Nice try."

Scott gets in the passenger seat.

He waits until they're on the road, Rozanov's focus on the traffic, before saying, "I never really go to their graves. It's too fucking sad. And too fucking far."

The first year he played for the Admirals, Scott had made the 6 hour drive to Syracuse, New York to stare at the gravesite. He'd spent a miserable, endless night in a shitty motel nearby, and promised himself to never do that again. That solitary road trip to the cemetery . . . it was the closest he'd felt to wishing he were dead, too since the accident happened.

"Is only a place," Roz agrees. "They are not really there." He doesn't sound entirely convinced, though. Scott gets hit with the gut-wrenching reminder that Ilya never plans to return to the country where his mother is buried.

He scrambles to explain himself. "It's more like . . . I get tired of being so sad all the time. I don't want to spend the whole day - my whole life - thinking about the fact that they're dead. You know?"

Roz nods. "Yeah, I know."

And he does.

*

The tide is low and the beach is empty this time of year. With the breeze off the ocean, and the setting December sun, it's bone-chillingly cold. Scott and Ilya sit shoulder to shoulder in the sand.

"We came here the last summer they were alive," Scott says. "I remember throwing a fit about it initially. I didn't want to miss hockey practice to go to Coney Island. But my parents wanted to visit my aunt who lives around here, and they promised we could ride all the rollercoasters. It was so much fun. I wish I'd been more grateful."

"I wish that too," Ilya says. "I would have told her thank you a lot more, if I knew."

Seagulls swoop overhead. Scott shivers in his winter coat.

"I wasn't that young when I lost them. Like, I have plenty of memories of them. It's just . . . I don't have anyone else in my life who knew them. And I start worrying - what if I forget? Coming here, where I remember them so clearly - it helps me feel like they were real."

Roz pushes his shoulder more firmly into Scott's. "I am scared of that, too. The forgetting." He clears his throat. "What were they like?"

So Scott talks. He talks about his family house. How his parents gave him the basement room at 13 with a window that opened to the yard - and how he suspects they wanted him to be able to sneak out, be carefree, be a kid outside of the hockey rink. He talks about his Dad working the night shifts and always falling asleep on the Lazy-E Boy in the living room. About his mom's collection of rubber ducks that he still keeps in a box in his closet. He talks about all the mundane, stupid details that no one could possibly care about - and that no one alive but him could possibly remember. He pulls these details out one at a time, like a little kid showing his rock collection, and presents each precious memory like a jewel. 

"Sometimes," Scott confesses, "I can't remember something and it makes it so angry. Like, there's no one in the world to tell me if we went to iHop after my first hockey game or if I'm mixing it up with another memory. If it isn't in my brain it's just gone." He doesn't think he's making sense. It's just fear and grief and regret clawing out of his throat. But it unburdens him to say it, all the same. "Sometimes it's like I lost myself with them. For so long there was no one else in the world who remembered me. It felt like I wasn't real, either. And -" Ah, fuck, here come the tears - "And I just really fucking miss them." 

Rozanov throws himself at Scott with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Scott has to catch himself with one arm. The other arm has somehow wrapped itself around Ilya Rozanov, who is squeezing Scott in a full-bodied hug. The kid clings. It's like every reassurance turned into physical form. The hug says: You're real and I hurt like this too and I'm sorry and a million other things.

Normally, Scott hates to be comforted about his parents. It makes him feel weak and pitied and as if he's fishing for attention by talking about being an orphan. But it's different, coming from Ilya. It means something.

Even if Rozanov is hugging him so tightly that Scott can hardly breathe.

"Jesus, kid," Scott wheezes out, "You're gonna break my ribs." 

"Sorry," the kid stammers, loosening his grip. "Shane likes to be squeezed." 

It occurs to Scott that Shane is probably the only person in the world who gets hugged by Ilya Rozanov.

Shane Hollander, and now him. 

"Yeah, well, my bones aren't as young as Shane's." But Scott tightens his own grip - makes sure the kid doesn't pull away. 

Roz's ears go pink. "Yes yes, Old Man. I'll be gentle."

*

On the drive back, Scott asks, "What was your mom like?"

Enough time passes that Scott thinks Ilya won't answer. Scott knows the wound is fresher for him. He knows the circumstances of Irina's death were not the same. 

"She was beautiful. And funny. She always made me laugh." Ilya's fingers flex on the steering wheel. "She was so kind. So caring. Even to people who did not deserve it."

Scott waits for more but, that's all Ilya has for right now. It's okay. He understands.

"You take after her, then," Scott says. 

He'd never dare call attention to the way Roz wipes his eyes.

*

Kip: Did you know your boyfriend was coming to New York today?

Shane: no? 

Kip: [An image of Scott and Ilya passed out on the couch (suspiciously close to cuddling), empty beer bottles scattered around and Jeopardy on the TV]

Shane: Kip, thank you.

Shane: So many blackmail opportunities. 

Shane: :)))))))

*

Since his visit to New York, Ilya thinks of his mama more frequently than usual. He remembers telling Scott about her kindness. It twists his gut to think of. Somehow, reliving the happy moments of his childhood is always the hardest part to stomach.

He'll never know for certain why Irina never stood up to Grigori. Never hit back. Was she cowardly? Did she think Grigori would hurt her boys in her place? Did she simply have no stomach for violence? Did she hold herself back out of duty, love, fear?

During one of the nascent Russian Federation's more tumultuous political moments, he recalls his mama massaging Grigori's shoulders each night by the fire. This wasn't something Grigori would ask for - he demanded to be served, not to be cared for. But Mama noticed his stress and worked the knots out. It was a gesture of pure kindness for a man who was constantly cruel to her. Ilya thinks that kindness - more than the hollowed-out sadness, more than the biting humor, more than anything - kindness was his mama's core. He wants to believe it, and so he does.

All his life, Ilya has been terrified of becoming like his father. Cruel. Retaliatory. Selfish. Mean.

He wants to take after his mother. He wants to be a good man - a kind man - even if maybe his family doesn't deserve it. 

This is what Ilya is thinking about when he authorizes a payment of $70,000 to his brother's account. 

Chapter End Notes

Scott Hunter finally gets his hug :)

Chapter 6: Something to live for

Chapter Summary

“The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.” - Dostoevsky

Chapter Notes

Hello Hayden Pike

(Translations in the end note)

Unsaved number: What part of urgent don't you understand?

Unsaved number: You think Papa's medical bills pay themselves?

Unsaved number: You think the nurse will stay for his fucking charming personality?

Ilya: The bank says the wire bounced. I don't know why.

Ilya: I am trying again but it is the holidays here. Many banks are closed.

Unsaved number: Papa is freezing with no money to pay the heating bill and you are whining about banks being closed.

Unsaved number: You abandon our family and you cannot even do this right. 

Ilya: I told you I'm fucking trying. Do you think I control the bank?

*

This is Ilya's first family Christmas in more than a decade and he's determined not to fuck it up. He puts his phone on silent in the car from the airport. After Svetlana, he doesn't need anyone else getting curious about the unsaved number in his messages. 

He's at the Hollanders' house a few hours before Shane, thanks to the timing of his flight. David and Yuna greet him warmly and Ilya puts his things in Shane's childhood bedroom. He and David sit down for a puzzle and pointedly do not bring up the last time Ilya visited. 

(When he broke a plate, threw a fit, scared everyone, scared himself, ruined every- No. Galina says not to think this way. No spiraling over broken plates today.)

It's a little awkward but mostly good. Ilya can't help that his heartbeat kicks up randomly around David but he thinks he does a decent job of disguising it. Yuna brings him a hot chocolate with little rainbow marshmallows in it. A fuzzy sensation settles in his chest as he drinks it. 

David's phone rings in that too-loud way of Boomer cell phones. He takes the call saying, "Hey Shane, are you headed this way?" Shane had morning skate at 9 but is supposed to be on the road to Ottawa by now. Ilya watches David's forehead furrow before he holds out the phone.

Ilya stares, confused.

"He's asking for you," David says. 

Shit. Ilya's had his ringer off.

He takes the phone. "Shane, you are okay?"

"Ilya." Shane's voice is tinny and strained. Something is not right.

Ilya is already standing and moving to get his shoes. "You are still in Montreal? I will come."

"No you don't - I just needed." Shane swallows roughly. "I told Hayden. About me being gay. And about you. Now I'm kind of freaking out." 

Fuck.

"He was good about it? You are safe?" Ilya clocks David and Yuna's shared look of alarm. 

"Yeah, yeah. He was fine. I don't - I don't know why I'm freaking out. Can't seem to calm down."

A wave of relief crashes over him. Shane is not in danger. Someone knows Shane is gay but he is not hurt. "Okay, that's okay," Ilya reassures. He turns to Yuna and David to say, "Shane is having anxiety moment. It will be better if I go get him. Can I borrow your car?" Normally, Ilya would never dare ask to use his boyfriend's parents' car but this is not for him. This is for Shane.

Yuna is already handing him the keys. "Of course, sweetie. Do you want one of us to come with?"

Ilya hears Shane panting through the phone. He is close to shutting down. And Shane hates for people to see him when he shuts down. 

"No, just me I think. Will be quick, promise." Ilya gives them what he hopes is a believable smile. Then he bounds down the steps and into Yuna's SUV. The phone connects to the car and Shane's wheezing echoes through the vehicle.

"I am on my way, Shane, keep breathing for me," Ilya says. 

"'m sorry," Shane says. "I thought I could do it before Christmas break. In case it went bad and he needed space."

"Is fine, moya lyubov. No sorries needed." He puts his blinker on and eases onto the highway. Foot to the gas pedal. "I am coming. Will be with you very soon."

"I didn't mean to make you drive to me."

"You do not make me do anything."

"I don't wanna talk," Shane murmurs. "My tongue feels too weird in my mouth."

Something in Ilya overflows. "That's okay, milyy, I will do the talking. Did you know I am driving your mother's SUV? And there is an asshole tailgating me as if I am not going 20 miles over the speed limit." Ilya narrates everything around him and keeps his voice calm and steady. He imagines that he is Shane's personal nature documentary - if the nature documentary were about shitty Canadian drivers. 

He's halfway to Montreal when he realizes he still has David's phone.

*

Shane’s body is a bloated corpse floating in water. His skin feels puffed up, rotten. Disgusting. He hates every point of contact between his skin and the fabric of his clothes. But if he touches his own skin by accident while removing the clothes then he is going to throw up. He hates throwing up. 

Ilya's voice comes over the speakerphone. Shane isn't sure what he's saying anymore but the low hum of it is nice. Ilya's voice is one of the few sounds that helps when the world gets unbearable like this. Sprawled in a starfish on his kitchen floor, Shane focuses on the voice and stays perfectly still to make certain his fingers don't brush.

Eyes closed, Shane braces himself as the waves of prickly-bloated-itchy discomfort roll through his body. The feeling eventually leaves his skin and settles under his sternum. It's like a pill caught in his throat but multiplied by a thousand. If Ilya doesn't come soon Shane thinks he'll start crying. And then he'll be upset over the texture of his own snot because he's so fucking pathetic.

Hayden took it fine! So why is Shane acting like the world is ending? 

The front door slams open. He hears the thuds of Ilya's shoes flying to the wayside and then the soft patter of his boyfriend's feet. Shane's eyes are closed but he senses the moment Ilya spots him - spread eagle on the ground.

"Solnushko," Ilya breathes. Shane knows when Ilya kneels at his side. He's so attuned to Ilya Rozanov it's a miracle they haven't started mind reading. 

Ilya asks, "Touching is bad right now? Or you want smush?"

Shane is still currently at war with his tongue but he is a brave solider and he manages a whiny, "Smush." 

The weight of Ilya settles instantly overtop of him. Palm to palm. Chest to chest. Their cheeks pressed together. 

Ilya's skin reminds Shane's own how skin is meant to feel and the awful bloated-puffy-bad sensation fades. The compression is so perfect. Something about Ilya's solidness makes him human again. An involuntary noise of approval escapes him. 

The muscles in Ilya's cheek move against his own as he smiles. "Moya malen'kaya razdavlennaya vinogradinka," Ilya coos. 

The terrible feeling in his sternum slowly squeezes out of him. His heartbeat settles to a non-emergency level. 

Shane takes a deep breath, reveling in the effort of expanding his chest with the weight of Ilya atop him. He curls his hands and threads his fingers through Ilya's. 

"I'm okay," he says. 

"Yes," Ilya says, unable to keep the laughter totally out of his voice, "Being starfish on the floor is sign of being okay."

"Hey," Shane grumbles, "You're starfishing too."

"Only because you did it first. I am like one of those flightless birds around you."

Shane scrunches his nose. "A lemming? Are you talking about the birds that jump off cliffs? Because that's a myth."

"Oh, I forgot you are bird expert. You are fluent in flightless bird too or only loon?" 

Shane huffs. "Just loon." 

He can't express the relief each time Ilya sees him at his least palatable and treats him exactly the same as before. If Ilya stopped chirping him - if he acted like Shane was fragile as glass - if he stopped seeing Shane as his equal but rather as a liability - that's possibly the worst outcome Shane can imagine. Even worse than telling the whole NHL that he sucks his rival's dick. 

"Okay," Shane says, "We can get off the floor now."

Ilya hums. "I am not on the floor. My pillow is very comfortable."

Shane goes to toss him off but can't. He's bracketed by Ilya in a way that would be all-too-tempting if he were fully connected to his body. Shane hooks his feet between Ilya's knees and rolls them over. Ilya grunts. They grapple until Ilya puts Shane in a headlock.

"Asshole!" 

A brief scuffle later, they've made their way to the couch. Ilya kisses Shane's head and goes to bring him a glass of water. It's sweet how Ilya cares for him, and made sweeter by the fact that Ilya's attention is so doting. He doesn't view Shane as a child unable to care for himself - rather, Ilya clearly derives pleasure from the act of caring for him. In moments like these, Shane is all too happy to let him. 

"Do you still feel the shutdown?" he asks, handing Shane the glass. It's room temperature. Just what Shane needs right now 

Shane takes a sip. "Not really. Just the aftermath, kind of." These things leave him shaky and oversensitive. He's a cut wire. All frayed edges. Embarassment creeps in. "I'm sorry. That was such a stupid thing to freak out about."

Ilya cuddles up next to him. Rubs his thumb in circles on Shane's wrist. "Is not stupid. Telling Pike is a big deal."

The tone almost makes Shane laugh. "You're surprised."

"No," Ilya deadpans, "Shane Hollander is famous for being spontaneous. And for talking about his private life to fellow hockey players."

Shane shrugs. "I've been thinking about it for a while. The longer we do this, the more likely that someone finds out by accident."

"Ah, you wanted to know how he'd react."

"Yeah. I mean, my parents are one thing but, another hockey player?"

Ilya presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. "What happened?"

"I, uh told him after practice. In the parking lot. Figured quicker was better." Just remembering it has the stuck-in-my-throat feeling crawling back. "He took the gay bit fine. He was surprised. Which I guess is a relief after my parents said they'd suspected. I thought maybe everyone suspected but, no." Shane gives into his impulses and burrows his nose into Ilya's collarbone. "The Ilya Rozanov of it . . . he doesn't understand. But, like, that's to be expected. He doesn't know you. And he said he wants me to be happy so. Yeah. It didn't even go badly. I don't know - I don't know why I'm freaking out." 

Ilya is quiet for a minute. Thinking. "Not bad isn't the same as good. You shared something vulnerable and he did not give reassurances. It's normal to be anxious after this."

"You think he doesn't mean it? That he doesn't support me?"

"No, I think he is a dumb hockey player with too many concussions who has never met a gay person in his life." Another kiss to Shane's temple. "I'm sorry he was not better about it. But I'm glad you felt safe enough to tell him." 

"Logically I know I just need to give him time to get used to it. Like with my parents." Shane stops himself there. He doesn't want to share the thoughts terrorizing his brain. If Hayden can't accept it then no one in the league will. If this is how my own teammate reacts, how bad would it be with a brand new team that doesn't even know me? Shane knows it isn't exactly fair to use Hayden as a litmus test for the rest of the NHL but . . . 

"He was probably surprised. Maybe he didn't know what to say in the moment." It's surprisingly generous, coming from Ilya. 

"Yeah," Shane says warily. "Maybe." He can tell Ilya doesn't like that answer. 

Ilya scans him. There's something hard and protective in his gaze. But all he says is, "You are packed and ready?"

"Yeah, let's go."

*

Ilya doesn't tell Shane about the pit-stop until they are in Hayden Pike's driveway. 

There's a distinct note of panic as Shane asks, "Ilya, what are we doing here?"

"Five minutes, you stay in the car." Ilya gives him a peck on the lips and hops out before Shane can protest. He strides to the Pike's front door with a knot of fury in his chest. Rings the doorbell once. Twice. Three times.

"Hello, we hear you!" Montreal's 15th best player shouts through the door. It swings open to reveal Pike and a lovely, extremely pregnant brunette. "What the fuck."

"Shane is watching so smile and let me in." Ilya nudges his way into the entryway as Pike scrambles to form a thought. 

"Are you here to give me a shovel talk or something?" Pike says. 

Ilya has no idea what shovels have to do with this. He ignores it. Looks Pike directly in the eye. "Shane told you this morning, yes?" Then turns to the woman, who must be Jackie Pike. "And I assume you also know now?"

Jackie nods. "Yes, I know." Her mouth is a tight, guarded line. 

"Good. Now listen -"

Pike interrupts, "I don't have to listen to you, Rozanov. And I don't remember inviting you to my house." 

Ilya gives his most withering Slavic glare. "You are right." Pike's eyes go wide. "You don't have to listen to me. You don't have to like me. But I think you care about Shane, so you will want to listen to this."

Pike seems like he'll argue again but his wife puts a hand to his arm. "Hayden," she says warningly. Ilya instantly likes her. 

"Do you have a problem with Shane being gay?"

"What?" Pike stammers. "No! No dude I told him it's fine."

"Yes this is the fucking problem, Pike."

"What do you mean? I told him it's cool and I accept him and everything. Is he - is Shane not okay?" Pike gets some small points for appearing genuinely concerned. 

"No he is not fucking okay," Ilya spits. "He tells you his biggest secret and you say fine, cool, whatever. So he goes home and has a two hour panic attack to me over the phone while I drive from Ottawa to come calm him down."

The blood drains from Pike's face. 

"No - he seemed fine when he left." Then, defensively, to his wife, "I swear I didn't say anything bad about him being gay. I wouldn't. I mean, I maybe made a joke about him doing better than Rozanov but -"

"No!" It bursts out of Ilya, sharp enough to cut glass. "No, you do not fucking say that to him. I don't care if you think I am asshole. I don't care if you fucking hate me. You say that shit to me, not to him. You know him. You know how scared he is. The pressure he is under. In his brain right now you represent all of hockey. If you reject him then hockey rejects him. You cannot just accept it. You have to be supportive. You have to show him that you are happy about it. Fucking fake it if you have to. Because if you don't then Shane will hide himself away forever. He will never tell anyone again. His greatest fear is to lose hockey over this. Do you fucking understand?" 

Pike's mouth hangs open. Shell-shocked. He looks like a big dumb fish. 

It's Jackie Pike who finds her words first. "Ilya, I don't want to start this off on the wrong foot. You're very important to Shane and it's clear you care about him a lot." She glances at her husband. "I think we all want to do what's best for him."

Pike swallows. "Yeah, listen man, I really didn't mean to give Shane a bad impression. I was just so surprised and - yeah, I feel pretty dumb for assuming he wouldn't freak out over it. But we do support him. Of course we do." 

"We'll make sure to find ways to show him that," Jackie adds. 

"Good." Ilya doesn’t let up on the glaring. 

"Are you both spending Christmas with his parents then?" she asks.

Ilya nods. "Yes, we will go to Ottawa now. David will be wanting his phone back."

"Why do you have -" His wife's elbow cuts Pike off. Good. Ilya doesn't have the patience for inane questions right now. 

"Can we wish Shane a merry Christmas before you go?" 

How the hell did Pike get a wife so obviously out of his league in both looks and intelligence? Ilya wants to chirp him so badly about it. But he will refrain. Just for today. For Shane's sake. 

"You will not upset him again?"

"Of course not," says Pike mullishly. It makes Ilya want to grind his teeth. 

So the three of them go out to the car. Shane climbs out when he sees them coming but his gaze stays fixed on the driveway. Ilya keeps a careful eye on the Pikes as they tell Shane how much they love him, how happy they are to know about his boyfriend, how they support him always. Ilya is still angry. But he believes the Pikes when they say these things. So he shoves the anger down and plays happy boyfriend long enough to wish them a Merry Christmas and herd Shane back into the car.

He gets a great deal of joy from Shane's embarrassment when Ilya buckles his seatbelt for him. 

Then, turning back to the Pikes, he says as sincerely as he can muster, "Thank you."

"You don't gotta thank us for this," Pike says, "We love him too." 

*

After the day they've had, Ilya is beyond grateful to eat his weight in chicken parmesan. Then he snuggles up with Shane on the couch and drinks another cup of cocoa with the tiny rainbow marshmallows. In bed that night, he whispers how proud he is of Shane and presses open-mouthed kisses to his pecs. He rubs their noses together and smiles into Shane's mouth and revels in the fact that he can be soft. That Shane is soft with him. 

Shane pulls back a little. Looks him in the eyes in a way that says this is important. "Do you remember over the summer when you said your body feels safe around me?" 

"Of course." After that hellish flight back from Moscow, being with Shane felt like being unplugged. Like Ilya could finally rest. 

"I want you to know that you do the same for me. You make me feel so safe, Ilya."

Emotion wells up in him and Ilya swallows it down with a kiss. Their mouths slick together. He relishes in the string of spit connecting them. 

"Always," Ilya promises, "You are always safe with me."

Chapter End Notes

Moya malen'kaya razdavlennaya vinogradinka - my little squashed grape

Enjoy some comfort and fluff here, things with Alexei are about to get intense :)

P.S. I absolutely adore seeing your comments and read every single one (even if I don't always reply) so thank you thank you thank for them!

Chapter 7: A man who lies to himself

Chapter Summary

"Above all, do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth either in himself or anywhere around him, and thus falls into disrespect towards himself and others." -Dostoevsky

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay on this y'all! Work got pretty crazy but I promise I am still here and chugging away at this story. Also, thanks to everyone who caught my mistake in the last chapter, I have decided that lemmings are flightless birds (and not rodents) in this Alternate Universe lol.

I hope you enjoy :)

Ilya's best Christmas in recent memory culminates with the best possible gift - an email from the Brooklyn Scouts stating their interest in Shane Hollander once he hits Free Agency. It's nothing confirmed. Nothing that could possibly be construed as an official offer (lest anyone risk accusations of tampering). But it's a clear path. A line on the ice opening. 

"Brooklyn!" Ilya crows, dragging Shane around in a lopsided mimicry of a dance. Shane smiles in that secret way of his, something only Ilya gets to see, and that he guards like a dragon with its treasure. Yuna watches from a safe distance with a smug expression on her face. Ilya knows they have her (and Farah) to thank for this. He can't quite believe it - how many people are working to make it possible for Ilya and Shane to be together. 

"Alright, enough," Shane finally says. He slithers out of Ilya's grip in a way that is honestly impressive.

"No, no escaping," Ilya whines. Shane slides out of his grip again with a complicated maneuver. "You are like a snake! How do you do this?"

Shane launches himself overtop of the couch and shoots him a cocky half smile. "It's basic self defense. Everyone should know how to escape from a mugger."

Ilya glowers and sits heavily on the couch. "Yes, well. In Russia the mugger is ex-KGB agent with a gun. There is no use trying to be like snake and escape." 

"Remind me never to let you out alone after dark," Shane says. Then, peering over him from behind, Shane kisses Ilya's forehead and says all sickly sweet, "Don't worry, Rozanov, I'll protect you." 

*

A barrage of new messages from Alexei arrive the next day. It's half gibberish. 

Ilya: You must have had snow for Christmas

Alexei: What. fuck?

Ilya: Snow. Cocaine. Or are you too high to put this together?

Alexei: no ghbyyyyyyy 

It makes Ilya sick to his stomach. Alexei is usually on his best behavior when he's high. It's when he runs out that's the problem. Ilya wonders how many days worth of drugs his brother has managed to get his hands on. Calculates the most probable date for the inevitable shitshow.

Even if I get the money to him, how can I trust him to do right by Papa? 

Not for the first time, Ilya wonders if it wouldn't be better for him to go get the job done in person. Hire the nurse directly. Pay the electric company himself. Try to keep Alexei from fucking it all up. 

"You doing okay there, Ilya?" David's gentle, timbered voice shouldn't come as a surprise. 

It's humiliating that Ilya flinches. It's worse that David notices.

Coming out from behind the half-opened door, Ilya shoves his phone in his pocket. He's been tucked awkwardly in the Hollanders' entryway for too long, it seems. He tries not to show his embarrassment that his hiding spot has been discovered. 

"Yes, thank you. Everything is good." 

"I was thinking of starting another puzzle. If you're not occupied?" David sends a knowing glance to the way Ilya is death-gripping his phone in his jacket pocket. 

"No, not occupied." 

Ilya's response is clearly unsatisfactory because David doesn't move from his spot in the hallway. He says, with obviously forced lightness, "The other day when we had each other's phones you had a lot of messages come through. A lot of 'em in Russian. You sure things are alright back home?"

His muscles tighten on instinct. Ilya forces himself to unclench. With a careless flick of the wrist he says, "Oh, yes. Was a prank from Svetlana. She signed me up for stupid beauty product campaign. So many texts and no way to unsubscribe." Is it a lie if that really did happen? (Albeit four years ago).

"They do make it as hard as possible to unsubscribe these days," David agrees. But Ilya feels the assessing, expectant way he's being watched. 

"So annoying," he says blandly. "But annoying is not worth worrying about." He claps his hands together, "Puzzle time?" 

*

The first few days back in Boston are as shit as they come. The bank finally gets back to him about the bounced wire transfer. Apparently, Alexei gave him an account at a bank that is not properly registered in the international system (something about a SWIFT code?) and so Ilya's bank cannot legally send the money. Ilya explains this to Alexei. Alexei tells him he's being stupid - that all of Ilya's previous payments went to this account so why the fuck can't he do the same transfer now? 

At five in the morning, being screamed at by his definitely-in-withdrawal brother, Ilya regrets firing his Russian finance manager. Dmitri may have been stealing from him, but at least Dmitri did not chip away at Ilya's sanity with endless, incoherent phone calls from Moscow. 

It is a toss-up, some days, on who makes the least sense: Alexei or Grigori. 

Is that what it means to be a Rozanov? Is he destined to go crazy with sadness, or addiction, or be betrayed by his own memories?

Ilya falls asleep on the living room sofa around 6am. He wakes just after 3, feeling hazy and half real. Distantly, he thinks he should be panicking about almost oversleeping and making himself late for tonight's game. He remembers his phone dying just before he went to sleep, and telling himself that the sun would wake him. But the world outside is the deep, impenetrable gray of midwinter. No sun in sight. 

He plays like a zombie on the ice - all aggression without thought. There's a great, howling wind inside of him. Boston wins against Vegas but it hardly registers through the storm - the gray - the void in him. 

When he comes home and finally plugs in his phone, a flurry of texts buzz through. There's one from Shane, congratulating him on the win, and Ilya sends a quick thank you moya lyubov before the void swallows his words completely. 

Finally, the next day, Ilya gets ahold of a bank in Russia who can explain what the fuck he's supposed to do. He ends up giving Alexei his SNILS (the Russian equivalent of a social security number) to open a bank account in Ilya's name. Ilya operates under no delusions that Alexei won't abuse this information. He will. There is comfort in that certainty. It reassures Ilya of his own capacity for rational thought - everything happens as I expect it to, I am not crazy. I am not disconnected from reality. Not yet. 

And besides, what does Ilya need a Russian social security number for? To collect a pension in a country he will never return to? No, better for Alexei to have it and for the nightmare of international banking to be over.

The wire goes through. He gets one last text from Alexei:

Unsaved number: Thank you, brother

Mercifully, the incessant texting and calling is over. And there is only Ilya, and the sudden, stark silence, and the hollow feeling that grows larger each time he rereads that word.

Brother. 

*

The last dreary days of the year ebb away. Ilya blinks and suddenly it is mid-January and he is in New York City with a beer in his hand. 

"Can't believe Hollander came out to one of his teammates before either of us," Scott Hunter is saying, "I didn't know he had it in him."

They're at some bar that Kip's friends like, the Kingfisher, but it's mercifully empty, being a Monday night. Kip is entertaining his buddy who works at the bar while Ilya and Scott have tucked themselves away in a corner booth. The booth was Scott's suggestion but Ilya knows it is for his benefit. Grigori called last night. It left Ilya raw and shaken.

"Shane is very brave," Ilya says. It amazes him how brave Shane can be. He feels so much fear, and he is brave anyway. This is one of the things Ilya admires about him most. 

"Cheers to that," says Scott, and clinks their beer bottles together. He rubs at the stubble on his jaw with one hand. Classic Hunter, putting on his thinking face. Ilya desperately wants to play poker with him someday. He will swindle Scott Hunter for all he's worth. 

"I might tell Vaughny," Scott says. 

Ilya clicks his tongue. "Didn't Vaughn mansplain Russia's anti-homosexuality laws to you in Sochi?"

"Not how you use the word mansplain, Roz," he says, nodding in agreement all the same. "But that's why I think he'd be okay to tell. He's already conscientious of it."

"Yes, good for Vaughn, he knows that gay people exist. This is a low bar, Hunter."

"This is the NHL. The bar is in hell."

Ilya can tell that Scott has decided to tell Vaughn just from the way he sips his beer. Really, maybe poker would be too cruel. 

"You tell me how it goes, yes? I can put Vaughn into the boards extra hard if he is not good about it." 

Scott rolls his eyes.

"I mean it, Hunter. Elder abuse is a serious crime."

Scott (lightly) kicks his shin under the table.

"Ow, child abuse!" Ilya accuses, and gets a second kick as retaliation.

Unfortunately, these antics don't distract Scott from his favorite pastime: asking Ilya questions in return. Ilya thinks this is a failing of American culture. Everyone is too curious about each other. Hunter does not know how to mind his own business. 

"Would you want to tell anyone on your team?" Scott asks with his so-casual-it's-not-at-all-casual voice.

"Marley would be good about it," Ilya says, careful to use the hypothetical tense.

Scott clocks his reticence but not the reason why. "We could make a deal to both do it before the Admirals next play in Boston. You know, moral support."

"My morals do not need supporting," Ilya glowers. He takes another sip of beer, even though it has long gone flat and tepid. The gross-ness is weirdly refreshing. 

"So you'll tell him?"

"No." It comes out harsher than he means. Ilya groans internally. Decides he will diffuse the tension by stepping away for a second. Maybe sneak a cigarette. "I will go get us more beer," he says, starting to slide out of the booth - but finds Hunter's foot up on the seat to block his path. 

"Kid. What's going on?"

Ilya will never ever say it, so long as he lives, but his whole body gets warm when Hunter calls him kid. It's almost as good as when Shane calls him baby. 

Unfortunately, both nicknames are also good strategies for getting behind his defenses.

"I do not want to tell Marley right now," Ilya hedges. 

"Fine. I'm not going to force you into some coming out pact. But something's up with you. You look like you haven't slept in a week and now you're all snippy. What's going on?" Scott levels him with a piercing look and Ilya thinks: Maybe poker is a bad idea. Maybe I am just as transparent to him. 

Ilya closes his eyes. Hides from being known. Fuck. He is going to tell Scott. Worse, he wants to tell Scott.

Eye open again. But he isn't brave enough to look at Scott - bravery is Shane's job, not his. Ilya picks at the split fabric of the booth seat and asks, "If you could see your parents one more time but you knew it would be bad - a bad, painful memory - would you do it?"

A sharp inhale from Scott. Ilya has caught him off guard. Ilya can practically feel him chewing on his words.

Finally, Scott says, "I don't remember them leaving. That night. It was totally normal. So it feels like - it feels like my last memory of them is the memory of finding out they were gone. I can't imagine anything bad or painful enough to be worse than that." 

Ilya takes that in. Accepts it.

"So you would do it?"

"I - " Scott's voice catches and Ilya watches the battle so clearly displayed on his face. The impulse to protect Ilya versus the compulsion to tell the truth. "Yeah," he says, all low and gravely. "Probably I would."

Fuck.

He's going to have to say it, isn't he?

Ilya swallows hard. Clenches and unclenches his hand on the beer bottle. Curses that there is suddenly no spit in his mouth. It sounds like someone else's voice when he says it: "My father is dying."

Ilya buries his head in the crook of his elbow. He takes a deep, shaking breath. Stops himself from blinking so the tears pooling in his eyes can't fall. 

"Roz," comes Hunter's deep, rumbling voice. Then his hand lands gently on Ilya's shoulder. Ilya shakes him off. He cannot let Scott Hunter comfort him in this lame fucking gay bar. The comfort will make him cry. 

Hunter seems to get that because he retracts his hand. "Okay, kid. You're okay." And then he waits in silence while Ilya gets himself back under control. While Ilya bricks up the grief-anger-regret that seems to inevitably come with the mere mention of Grigori Rozanov. 

Ilya blanks his expression and raises his head. 

"I do not want to tell Marley because, even though I trust him, I cannot risk a leak. Not when -" He can't bring himself to say it. Has barely even acknowledged the possibility in his own head.

"Not when you might go back to Russia."

He hasn't planned it. He doesn't know. But he might. 

Ilya nods.

Scott nods too, almost reflexively. He drums his fingers against the table. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume that you haven't mentioned any of this to Shane?"

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Scott says under his breath, "No fucking way have you told Shane."

They sit with that between them. Ilya fights the urge to make Hunter promise to keep it a secret. Ilya has told him things in confidence before, and Hunter never tells. And maybe - maybe a part of him wants to test that. Wants, paradoxically, to find that Scott cannot be trusted. Because if he doesn't trust Scott, then Ilya doesn't have to be honest with Scott, and somewhere in the last year being honest with Scott and being honest with himself have become the same fucking thing. 

"Look," Scott lays his palms flat on the table. "I won't tell you how to grieve the only parent you have left. Even if he's a piece of shit who has never fucking deserved you. But." Scott's expression turns harder than Ilya has ever seen it. "If you go, you don't go without telling someone. Got it?" 

A conflicting mix of shame and warmth churns in Ilya's gut. It's still strange to have people in his life who say these things out loud. Who say that Ilya doesn't deserve the way his father treats him. Who say that they don't want him to go back there. Ilya loves Sveta, and she has been his anchor so many times, but these are not the kind of things he and Sveta say out loud. 

Ilya has no idea what to say now. He has no practice with it. 

"Okay," he finally agrees. 

Scott pushes. He is like Shane in this way. "Okay as in you'll tell me or Shane before you go?"

"Yes."

"To be clear, that doesn't mean texting right before you get on the plane and then turning off your phone," Scott threatens. 

"Yes, I know."

"You have to give reasonable warning. You can't just disappear."

"Ughh, yes, I promise I will not fuck off to Russia and ghost you. Okay?" 

Scott gives him the you're giving me gray hairs look, and Ilya just shrugs back like your fault for worrying about me and the universe laughs because how the fuck did the list of people that Ilya Rozanov trusts end up being Svetlana, Shane, and Scott fucking Hunter? 

Chapter 8: One's first home

Chapter Summary

"From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early childhood in one's first home." - Dostoevsky

Chapter Notes

Sorry it's been so long and huge thanks to everyone who left encouraging comments! Lots of upheaval in my life this summer but I am back and committed to finishing this story. Hope you enjoy!

February 2015

This year's All Star Weekend is simultaneously the most fun and the most stressful of Shane's life. He's on a team with a handful of other East Coast players, including Scott's friend, Carter Vaughn, and the energy is good. Vaughn razzes him good-naturedly about the never ending rivalry with Rozanov (they are, to no one's surprise, on opposing teams for the 5th year running). He sneaks across the hall to Ilya's hotel room the first night they arrive and spends several hours getting the worry fucked out of him. But, somehow, the worry keeps creeping back. 

Shane fights the urge to check over his shoulder as he walks. He waves to Scott in the hall leading down to the locker rooms and wonders if it looks too friendly. (Too friendly for what? his brain yells back. No one even knows that Scott is gay). The problem, he thinks, is the number of people who do know their secret. 

Svetlana came to support Ilya for the weekend. Shane's parents are here, too. Scott Hunter knows. It feels exponentially more dangerous now than it used to - when they pretended it meant nothing, when it was something they never spoke about, something that could only take place in the dark. Shane feels like a secret agent sent to infiltrate the event; an outsider, a spy. Someone waiting to be caught out. 

Halfway down the tunnel, he sprints back to the locker room to text Svetlana.

Jane: Don't sit with my family. People will talk. 

Lily's Friend: You think I'm an idiot? 

He can't tell if he's royally pissed her off or if she's amused by it. The odds are a coin toss with Svetlana and he doesn't have time to reply anyway. Their goalie, a last minute sub-in from Toronto, shouts, "You coming Hollzy?" and Shane locks his phone. 

Ilya smirks at him when they glide together for the face-off. "Did not see you out last night, Hollander. No team bonding?" 

Normally, Shane would make some not-so-witty retort about his team not needing bonding activities to play good hockey. If he was feeling brave he'd joke about not wanting his team to be part of last night's bonding. Today, Shane is frozen.

They know. Everyone knows. We're so fucking obvious. 

Ilya's brows crinkle. "Maybe you stayed in, hm. Worried about showing off to your parents?" To anyone else it would be a chirp but Shane knows this is Ilya's way of reminding him that his family is here to support him. 

Shane badly wants to acknowledge Ilya, and equally to pretend he doesn't exist. His tongue won't cooperate. He manages a curt nod, which only deepens Ilya's scowl, but then the ref skates over and the time for chirping has passed. Hockey brain takes over and Shane launches himself at the puck. 

The game both settles and exhilarates him. Playing with Rozanov always does that. So, mostly, he's able to lock in. Takes a shot off a pass from Vaughn that barely misses the goal post. Fakes out Rozanov's linemate and gets in a smooth, back-handed pass to his left winger. Flirts with danger as the puck goes from his stick to Rozanov's to his again - then catches himself grinning about it and losing his concentration. 

Too obvious. They know. They know. 

Shane gives himself whiplash. 

By the time the game ends, he's exhausted himself, confused Ilya, and played so bizarrely that the Toronto Rookie asks if he's injured. 

Shane wonders, for the first time, if they can really hide this until retirement. 

*

Shane takes a second shower in their suite. The adjoining suites were Ilya's idea, actually. "We are the two richest players in the league, makes sense we would book the penthouses, no? And if anyone notices we can pretend we did not know and act annoyed. Will be very funny." It did make things easier. No excuses needed for going to the other's floor. Officially: one suite for Shane and his parents and one suite for Ilya and Svetlana. Unofficially . . .  

The bathroom door slides open and Ilya wordlessly joins Shane in the shower. His hands land on Shane's shoulders and begin gently working the muscle there. 

"Is a good thing we chose mental health for the charity and not environmental activism," Ilya says, "Would be a big scandal when people find out how long your showers are. So much water waste, Hollander."

Shane huffs. "There's two of us in here. We're economizing." 

Ilya kisses his shoulder. "Okay, Mr. Environment." 

Shane rinses off and lets Ilya into the spray. Tries not to get distracted watching Ilya's soapy hands drag over his abs, suds catching in his happy trail. 

"It was supposed to be the Brooklyn goalie on my team," Shane says. "He had some family emergency come up and we got the Toronto rookie instead."

"I noticed Hayes was here. He played well today. Better than he plays for Toronto."

"Yeah, he played fine. I just - I wanted to talk to someone from Brooklyn. Now that I know." Shane's trade is far from public knowledge and he's sure that none of the Scouts are aware of it but, he wanted to get at least some information this weekend. 

"You will see some of them at the Awards in June." 

He knows Ilya is trying to help but June is way too far away. June is after the trade deadline. By June it will already be a done deal. 

And it's not that Shane is backing out - he's not. He's just trying to get all the information before things go public. Will the Scouts be welcoming? Would they be okay with a queer teammate? Will one of them figure out the reason for Shane's trade? It's all a big jumble in his head. The trade and the hiding and the fear, always the fear. 

He says, "How are we going to hide this for another ten years?" 

Ilya tenses behind him. "I don't know. We just will."

"Yeah, of course, but . . . " Shane trails off. He doesn't know how to put his worries into words without sounding insane. Sometimes I look at you and the love I have is so loud that I'm certain everyone in the room can hear it. I've become legitimately paranoid about mind-reading technology. If it's possible to be a conspiracy theorist about your own life then I've managed to become one.  

"I don't have the answer, Hollander." Ilya sounds so tired when he says it. Not annoyed, just so very done. 

Shane recognizes that tone and backs off. He knows Ilya's been struggling since Christmas. He's not exactly sure why but, he doesn't need to burden Ilya with his incessant, aimless worrying. 

"No, I know. I just didn't want you making assumptions about what was wrong. I know I was acting weird today."

Ilya hums. "Yes, skittish." Another kiss to the back of his neck. "But now we have dinner with your parents and our friends. No one to hide from. Only people who know and support us, yes?"

"Yeah," Shane agrees. Then, turning to kiss Ilya, their slick bellies rubbing together, "But first -"

*

Svetlana greets Shane with a kiss on the cheek that has him blushing and Ilya laughing. "I brought good vodka," she announces, and beelines for the glasses and tumblers already set out. "None for Ilya, though. Your passing today was atrocious."

Ilya pretends to be wounded and Mom laughs. "I've been telling him to work on his sloppy passing," Mom agrees, and Shane worries about how quickly his Mom and Svetlana have begun their inevitable hockey alliance. 

There's a knock at the door that must be Scott. Shane gets through an awkward half-hug, still a little high strung from the stress of the weekend. He's thinking about possibly indulging in that Vodka Sveta brought. Just to cut his nerves.

"Good to see you, Rook," Scott says, and Shane smiles back. It is good - even if this whole secret meeting in their suite has him on edge. It's good to have people who know and love them. 

Coming back into the main part of the suite, Shane spots Ilya stepping out to take a phone call. Odd, but he's too busy introducing Scott to think about it too hard.

"Nice to see you again, Scott," says Mom. "You've been playing a lot more consistently this year." 

Shane knows she means it as a compliment but can't help cringing a little. "Mom," he chides. 

Thankfully, Dad jumps in and shakes Scott's hand. "I heard you took care of our boys in Sochi," he's saying, "I can't tell you how much we appreciate that." Shane thinks he should be embarrassed by his Dad's earnestness and by the implication that they need Scott to look after them, but he's distracted by the rising volume of Ilya's voice from the next room. 

He's arguing with someone. In Russian. 

Shane glances at Svetlana, who is currently pouring a glass of wine for his mom. A sinking feeling starts in his gut. Who would Ilya be speaking to in Russian besides Svetlana?

He can tell that Scott and his Dad have over heard it as well, and the room goes weirdly quiet as Ilya ends the phone call and comes back in. Ilya's gaze flits from face to face and goes chagrined. He and Svetlana share a look but Shane, at a disadvantage when it comes to deciphering nonverbal cues to begin with, has no hope of decoding the two Russians. 

"Everything okay, Ilya?" Dad asks. It's infuriating for Shane, these moments where social cues and hidden dialogue change an interaction. He knows something is weird about how Dad says it. He knows, the way you'd know a word on the tip of your tongue. He just can't understand what.

"Yes, everything is fine," Ilya tells the floor. 

"Who called?" Shane asks. His voice comes out flat. Scott grimaces and then quickly breaks Shane's eye contact. 

Ilya shrinks in on himself. "Ah. Was my agent."

"I thought you fired your Russian agent."

Ilya blinks. "Yes. This was just, uh, closing call?" 

He's lying. Shane knows he's lying. 

Worse, Shane can feel how tense everyone is around him. He has the horrible, familiar sensation, that everybody knows something he doesn't.

"достаточно." Svetlana crosses her arms. 

And, just like that, Shane knows his fears are true. 

"You've been talking to your family again," he says. "You've been talking to them even though you promised me you'd block their numbers if they found your new one." 

Shane knows he's guessed correctly because Ilya's expression goes carefully blank and hard. Defensive position. 

They glare at each other for a strained moment before Ilya says, "Sometimes my father calls. It is nobody's business if I answer."

Cold dread settles behind Shane's sternum.

"What does he want from you?"

Ilya turns from blank to pissed off and sarcastic. "Oh gee, Shane. What do you think?"

"I think that you blocked his number for a reason." Shane's voice is rising now, too. "Why do you even want to talk to him after everything he's done?"

"Because he is still my father, Hollander. He is my father and he is confused. He calls me to ask when I'll be home with the bread. He thinks I am a child lost at the grocery store and you want me to ignore him when he does not even remember the bad things he does." 

"Not remembering doesn't mean he didn't do them," Shane says hotly. He's vaguely aware that they have an audience and that he should calm down but the panic is a beating heart in his brain and all he can feel is fury at the idea that Ilya told everyone but him. 

"Easy to say when you have a perfect family," Ilya snaps. 

David steps towards them, saying, "Okay, boys, maybe we should -"

"It's not about being imperfect it's about the fact that they hurt you, Ilya!" The words explode out of Shane.

Ilya has the audacity to roll his eyes. "Hollander. They cannot hit me through the phone."

This makes Shane so angry he can't speak for a full breath, then a second. He doesn't have the words to explain that Yes, they do hurt you. Even when they can't touch you they hurt you. It's just harder to measure. How should Shane tally up the moments when Ilya dissociates? The flinches he hides around Shane's Dad? What barometer reads the pressure on Ilya's limbs - pressure that keeps him in bed for days on end? Shane doesn't begin to understand the accounting of Ilya's abuse. He just knows that it's there, even when Ilya doesn't want to acknowledge it.

Especially then.

"They still hurt you," Shane insists, knowing the words will glide right past Ilya. "And they'll hurt you if you go back there. You know that, right?"

"My father is dying. A dying, old man cannot hurt me." 

The hollowness in Ilya's voices punches Shane in the gut. Shane knew that Grigori had been sick. He had no idea the man was dying. 

Shane knows this isn't the proper response but he can't stop himself from saying, "Your dad's dying and you told everyone here but me?"

Ilya fucking shrugs. 

"No, Shane," his mom jumps in. "We didn't know that. We only suspected that Ilya and his family were in contact, right David?"

Dad nods. "We figured you guys would come to us about it if you needed help."

Svetlana is unreadable as ever. Shane doesn't even try to parse out her expression. It's Scott who he's locked onto. 

Scott - who his boyfriend apparently trusts more than Shane - straightens his shoulders. "Roz told me a couple of weeks ago. I made him promise not to go back without talking to people first." He clears his throat and clarifies, "Without talking to you."

"Shane," Ilya says, but Shane can't decipher his meaning.

There's a wave of anger and betrayal and fear welling up in Shane. Pressure pushes against the backs of his eyes. Ilya doesn't trust him and everyone in the room now knows it and Shane is burning with humiliation, spiraling with the thought of Ilya back in his family's grip. Shane stares at Ilya for one long moment but he can't for the life of him think of anything to say that won't make it all worse.

A tear escapes and drips down his cheek. He turns to leave. 

Ilya's hand catches him by the wrist. "Shane, stop. We can talk about it, okay?" 

"No." There's a wasp under Shane's skin. 

"No?" Ilya's jaw tightens. "First you are upset I did not tell you. Now you know and you don't even want to talk?" 

"No."

Ilya drops his wrist and gestures wildly. "Blyat, Shane! I tell you my father is dying and you are just going to leave."

"Yes! I'm leaving because I know how this goes!" Shane exclaims. "I'm not doing this with you again. You don't have to shove me out of the room this time. I'll fucking leave by myself." 

The buzzing gets so loud that, if Ilya says anything after that, Shane doesn't hear it. 

*

Scott watches Shane leave and, privately, thinks that Kip is going to be sad about missing out on the drama. He knows that's not the empathetic reaction he's supposed to have, which is why this is a thought for Kip and Kip only. 

There's an uncomfortable moment after Shane's departure where no one says anything. Ilya's shoulders are so high they're in his ears. Scott knows the kid's typical reaction to high emotions, and he's bracing himself for Ilya to turn his frustration on one of the remaining people in the room. 

So it's a surprise when Ilya says, "I'm sorry," to the floor and scurries out the opposite direction from Shane. Scott sees him flick open a pack of cigarettes before the balcony door closes behind him and Ilya disappears from view.

Scott does not like the tone of Ilya's apology, and he especially doesn't like the thought of Ilya unsupervised on a balcony. He's rallying the courage to go have yet another emotionally charged conversation with Ilya fucking Rozanov when Yuna breaks the silence. 

"I'll go talk to him." And of course, Scott assumes she's talking about her son - about Shane - and he's left flabbergasted when she turns toward the balcony door instead.

"Uh, actually -" That's as far as Scott gets. It's enough to halt Yuna mid-trajectory. 

She raises an eyebrow at him assessingly. Technically, Scott's met Yuna Hollander a few times before, but it's always been in business settings. Like everyone in the MLH, he's familiar with her reputation. He knows her as a shark-like negotiator who is extremely protective of her son's brand. The thing is, while Ilya definitely fucked up by keeping things from Shane, Scott knows that another telling off is the last thing he needs right now. When Ilya is at his most asshole-y is when he needs the gentlest hand. 

Yuna must see the concern in Scott's eyes because she says, "I know you're close with him but I think he needs a mom right now."

Relief floods Scott. He nods and steps aside.

Then, out of his periphery, he sees Svetlana disappear down the hallway towards Shane. 

"I guess we're in reserve," Scott tells David, and takes an awkward sip of his drink. 

David brings his hands together amiably. "Well then, Scott. How do you feel about crossword puzzles?"

*

Shane is not proud to be sitting in the literal closet. It's pretty damn ironic given how he's surrounded by the handful of people (minus Hayden and Kip) who actually know he's gay. He just needed somewhere dark and quiet to freak out, is all. 

Someone knocks on the closet door. "I brought vodka." 

Shane startles at Svetlana's voice. She's the last person he expected to come chasing after him. He wonders if he's in trouble. 

The door opens. Light floods in from the bedroom and Shane squints to look at her. She hands him a glass of vodka. It feels like an offering, he just doesn't know what it represents. He takes a sip anyway.

Shane grimaces. "Ugh. Still gross."

Svetlana chuckles. "Next time I will put it in a mixed drink for you. With a little umbrella and everything."

"Ilya will hate that."

Svetlana smiles her Cheshire cat smile. "I know."

Shane takes another disgusting sip and waits her out. He doesn't know what she wants and he's too wrung out to be the one to ask. 

"I started reading about abusive relationships when my mother told me about Irina's plan to leave. I couldn't understand why she didn't just try again."

Shane's grip tightens on the glass. It's jarring to hear that word aloud. Abuse. The one time Shane had used it to describe Ilya's childhood, Ilya had snapped at him not to say things that weren't true. He's relieved that Svetlana agrees with him. This is abuse. He's also a little angry that she knows exactly what this is, and she's stood by and watched it happen for more than a decade of friendship. 

"I asked my mom about it, too," Svetlana continues. "Why didn't she offer to help Irina escape? Turns out she did. More than once. But, until that last time, Irina never wanted to follow through on it. Once, when we were very little, our mothers got into a big fight and Ilyusha and I didn't see each other for almost a year. I found out later that it was because my mom told Irina to leave him, and Irina shut her out."

"I can't just let them hurt him." It comes out small and child-like. 

"I know. You aren't wrong to try. You aren't wrong to tell him not to go. I only want you to understand that he isn't going back to them because he doesn't love you, or because he doesn't know how bad it is. He loves you, and he knows, and he goes back anyway because that is the cycle of abuse." 

Another sip of vodka burns down his throat. Or maybe it's the grief. 

"I'm already scared for him - for us - all the time. The idea of him going back there . . . "

"Yes," Svetlana agrees, "I'm scared, too. I read that it takes an average of seven times for someone to leave an abusive relationship for good. I don't know if that's the same for toxic families but, if it is, then it means we have to be prepared for at least a few more times."

Shane hates it. That's the first reaction: hatred. He hates Grigori and he hates Alexei, and he hates the way Ilya has been trained to accept their abuse. He hates his own powerlessness. He hates that no matter what he does, he can't seem to fix this. 

Beyond the hatred, he feels lost. It hadn't occurred to him that Ilya would want to speak to Grigori again. Svetlana is right - Shane wasn't prepared for this. He didn't understand. Seven times on average. The statistic is horrifying, and strangely comforting. This is a documented pattern. This is something people have studied. Seven is too big a number, but it is easier to grasp than no number at all. Shane cannot handle the unknowable. For Ilya, Shane can handle seven. 

"Do you think you could give me the names of those books?"

*

Ilya can't bring himself to look at Yuna. Not even when she hands him his coat. He holds his cigarette in his mouth and pulls his arms through the sleeves. Takes his cigarette in hand and releases a long exhale of smoke.

"Mind lighting one for me?" Yuna asks.

He's caught off guard. "I didn't know you smoked." 

"Not too often. You know how Shane can be."

He tries to read the tone of her voice. Can't. Ilya busies himself lighting a fresh cigarette and is finally forced to confront Yuna's eyes when he hands it to her. 

"I would understand," he says over the lump in his throat, "If you don't want me around Shane anymore."

Yuna takes a puff of the cigarette. She hums thoughtfully. It reminds him of Galina. "Why would you say that?"

"You heard Shane. I shoved him. I could have hurt him. And all this -" Ilya flaps his hand, "Maybe I am not good for him."

Maybe I am more like my family than anyone wants to admit.

"Ilya, that was almost a year ago. And frankly, I don't really care about a little shove." She shoots him a look, "Don't tell Shane's PR team I said that."

Ilya can't help but let out a confused laugh.

"I don't care because I know you. I see how much you love him and that you'd never intentionally hurt him. Besides, Shane would win in a fight between you."

"He would not win against me," Ilya argues, more out of habit than anything.

Yuna shrugs. "Agree to disagree, Rozanov." She takes another drag. "Has Shane ever talked to you about my parents?"

Yet another question Ilya wasn't expecting. 

"Some," he says. "I know you are not very close." There had been a phone call to David's mother on Christmas Day, but not to Yuna's side of the family.

"That's right. We haven't seen them in, oh - about fifteen years now." She speaks about it matter-of-factly. Ilya wonders if she truly feels so nonchalant about it.

Yuna continues, "You might know that my parents emigrated from Japan when I was five. We had a traditional Japanese home but I wasn't a traditional Japanese kid. I loved hockey, and I spoke English, and I wanted to own a business. My parents never hurt me, they just never tried to understand me. We would get into huge arguments about my college major, my white boyfriend, all the typical stuff. I was always good at standing up for myself so it was never that big a deal, in my mind. Then I got pregnant with Shane. We took a trip to Vancouver a few months into the pregnancy, when it was still safe to fly, and it was the worst trip of my life. I remember sitting in the house I grew up in and thinking I never want my kid to call this place home.

"It's hard to leave what's familiar, even when the familiar thing is painful. It took me until Shane was born to stop hoping that they would change. To stop emotionally investing in them what I could have invested in my husband, my child, my friends. Leaving made our marriage a lot stronger. It made me a better mother. We're all ready to be part of your new home, Ilya. But only if you let us."

Ilya's hand shakes so badly he drops his cigarette. He tries to cover it by stamping out the butt. "I don't know if I can leave. I am not that strong. I need -" He cuts himself off. He can't ask for this.

He's tried to cut his family off before, after all. That was the plan. The first plan - freshly drafted, new to America, with several million dollars in his bank account. In summer of 2009 he bought a one-way flight to Boston.

He'd been so, so naive.

Yuna stubs out her cigarette. Her voice takes on a decidedly no-nonsense tone. "Shane doesn't want to tell you not to go back to Russia. He's terrified for you but he's also afraid you'll resent him for making you choose."

"I won't," Ilya protests.

"You might. Look at me, Ilya."

He turns, shy and small and scared.

Yuna takes him by the shoulders. "I don't want there to be resentment between you and Shane. But I need you to be safe. Parents are used to resentment. It's part of the deal."

Her hand brushes back his curls. Ilya's throat tightens. He hasn't felt this kind of tenderness since - 

"Your mom isn't here to tell you not to go back, so I'll do it for her. You are not allowed to go back to Russia." She wipes the dampness from his cheek with her thumb. "Do you understand, sweetheart? You are not allowed."

Ilya falls into her arms. He's getting snot all over her blazer. He hasn't been hugged like this since -

"Thank you," Ilya says, "Thank you. Thank you."

Chapter 9: Show me something better

Chapter Summary

“Destroy my desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you.” -Dostoevsky

Chapter Notes

Not sure anything Heated Rivalry needs a warning note for spicy content and angst but, yeah. Spice and angst ahead!

It's a long while later that Ilya sheepishly tells Yuna, "I need to talk to Shane."

She gives him a little pat on the back that he thinks means she agrees. Ilya pulls out of the warmth of her embrace, cheeks hot with shame and stomach hot with guilt. "I'm sorry for ruining another dinner," he says. 

Yuna laughs at him. "Oh honey, that's what families are for."

*

Back in the main area, Ilya scans the heads at the dinner table for Shane. Instead, he witnesses David, Hunter, and Sveta huddled around today's newspaper. 

"I'm telling you, A-U-A is a word," Hunter insists, "Crossword editors use it all the time as filler."

"And I'm telling you," says Sveta "A-U-A has nothing to do with the hint A union for lightning McQueen, or those who keep his motor running."

"United Auto Workers," David says, "Makes UAW," shutting them both up. 

Ilya takes a mental screenshot of the scene. He puts on a smirk and sidles up to the table. He'll be damned if he brings up the dramatic scene he and Shane have caused.

"I am filing a discrimination lawsuit against you," Ilya chirps David, "Playing English word games with Russians. Very unfair." 

He gets a bemused look from David in return. 

"Shane's in the bedroom," Hunter says, thwarting Ilya's plan to hide from his problems. 

"Make sure he eats something," adds Sveta. 

"And you, too, Ilya," David tells him. 

Yuna joins them from the kitchen. She sets her own dinner plate down before holding another out to Ilya. "Here, I made it for you to share." 

For the briefest moment, Ilya considers running away. Fleeing somewhere that no one knows him, no one holds him, no one offers him a gentle nudge in the right direction. Life was easier when it was cruel; when he could be only the worst version of himself and take comfort in nothing. 

Life was simpler, but so much colder, when family was merely an obligation.

He takes the plate. 

*

"I brought food," Ilya says, though he suspects neither of them will eat it. The lights in the bedroom are dimmed. Only a single bedside lamp washes Shane in a soft orange glow. He's tucked up into an accent chair with his arms around his knees. A half-empty glass of vodka rests on the table next to him. 

"Not hungry," Shane says. 

Ilya sets the plate next to the vodka and takes a seat on the bed. He's a few feet from Shane, out of arm's reach, and painfully aware of that distance. 

He fucked up. He knows he's fucked up, but what does the knowing matter? Ilya knew this would end badly from the first answered text to Alexei. He finds himself almost annoyed that Shane would expect otherwise. Doesn't Shane know how weak Ilya is? Doesn't he get how easily Ilya gives into temptation?

That is the problem, Ilya thinks. Shane wants me to be better than I am. 

"I talked to your mom," Ilya says. "She told me I'm not allowed to go back to Russia."

"Oh." Shane's monosyllabic response fails to hide the hope in his voice. 

Ilya tries to explain himself. "The situation there is not good. There is supposed to be a caretaker for my father but, when he calls me he is always alone. I send Alexei money but it all goes to drugs and gambling. I was thinking about going back just one time. Just to fix things so my father can die in peace."

Shane's expression is tense and hard. It reminds him of the time Ilya suggested marrying Svetlana for citizenship. 

"Are you going back or not?"

"Not." Saying it aloud lifts thirty pounds from Ilya's shoulders.

"You won't go to Russia," Shane says, like he doesn't quite believe him.

Ilya shakes his head. "I won't go to Russia."

Shane's entire body loosens. Another pang of guilt hits Ilya. 

"I will still call them, sometimes. I hope you find that a good compromise."

"Okay," Shane says, voice rough with emotion. "Yeah. We can compromise."

This is so fucking awkward. It feels like a business transaction. Ilya knows this is his moment to apologize but he doesn't even know where to begin. I'm sorry for having such a shitty family? I'm sorry for lying to you? Ilya thinks if he starts apologizing he might never stop. 

"What about for the funeral?" Shane asks. 

It knocks the air out of Ilya. He hasn't let himself think that far ahead. He imagines being back in Moscow - the funeral dinner, the whole miserable affair. Imagines seeing Grigori's casket in the cemetery that wouldn't accept his mother's. It will be a bloodbath, he knows. Everyone will fight over who pays and who did the most for Grigori and who has the rights to his car, his house. No one will want to take on his debts. Between Alexei and his two uncles, half the group will be coked to hell. Ilya wonders if little Katya will even be sad. He doesn't think she's ever spent time alone with Grigori, the one parenting choice of his brother's that Ilya agrees with. 

"Not even then," Ilya decides. Then, "Alexei will be furious when I don't go. He will ask me to pay for it." Ilya shrugs. "Probably I will pay for it all." 

It will be his father's greatest shame. The prodigal son who cannot even bother to return home for the funeral. Alexei may never speak to him again, after that. Ilya can't decide if that's a bad thing. 

Shane chews his lower lip. "I'm trying really hard to understand why you might want to send money, or at least talk to your family. But I don't - I don't understand why you wouldn't just tell me."

Ilya swallows. "I knew you would want to stop me."

Shane blinks wetly. "But that's - that's not fair, Ilya. You make it sound like I'm unreasonable for not wanting you to go, or that I would try to, like, control you."

"No, no that is not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean by it?"

Shane is looking at him with those earnest big eyes and Ilya . . . it's like a block comes down inside of him. Blocking him off from his own emotions. He has no words for Shane. He doesn't even have words for himself.

When Ilya doesn't speak, Shane plows on, "You told Hunter. You told Svetlana. And my parents figured it out before me and - Do you get how humiliating that was? To be the only person who doesn't know when you're my boyfriend?"

Another wave of self-recrimination washes over Ilya. He hadn't realized. 

"I feel so guilty for not knowing that your dad is dying," Shane says. "And I feel guilty for not realizing how big of a deal that would be for you. But I don't . . . it's never really been a problem with you but, I don't always know things that seem obvious. I feel so stupid for not figuring it out."

Ilya has a horrible flashback to something Shane said once about his teammates from Juniors. They were all making fun of me. Right to my face, and I was too stupid to put it together. Nothing makes him angrier than the idea of anyone calling Shane Hollander stupid. 

He's on his feet before he decides to go to Shane. "No, moya lyubov. You are not stupid for this. I am the one who is stupid." Ilya tries to cup Shane's face in his hands but Shane ducks his chin. 

"I thought we were past this. I thought you weren't going to shut me out anymore."

Fuck. 

"I won't," Ilya promises. "I did not mean to hurt you like this. I did not mean to exclude you, malysh."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

Ilya looks at Shane - this beautiful boy with his doe eyes and his perfect freckles and the hurt so clear on his face. Because you are mine. You are mine and I don't want anything from my world to ever, ever touch you.

"I wanted to protect you," Ilya admits.

Shane's eyebrows furrow. "I'm not a little kid who needs protecting."

"No, but I was." 

The weight of that hangs between them for a shocked moment. 

"Ilya," Shane breathes.

The truth tears out of him. "No one ever loved me enough to protect me from them. Even my mother could not stop them from hurting me. I wanted to keep you away from it all. I wanted to protect you the way no one ever protected me."

Shane launches himself into Ilya. "Fuck, Ilya," he says, and smashes their mouths together in a long, hot kiss. Shane has a possessive hand on the back of Ilya's neck that sends a shiver down his spine. 

"I love you," Shane says, so open and earnest. "But you gotta understand something. When they hurt you, they hurt me. Can you try to understand that?"

His head is spinning. Can he understand? Ilya doesn't know if he's even capable of understanding this. He has never been confronted with a love of this magnitude. But this is what Shane wants. 

Ilya swallows roughly. "I will try." 

Shane's eyes search his face. He seems to accept whatever he finds there. "Thank you."

Their noses brush. The contact sends an electric jolt over his skin. 

"There's something else. Something you need to understand, Hollander." His voice goes deeper but the thumb he ghosts over Shane's cheek is gentle.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to protect you because I think you are stupid or weak. I protect you because you are the most precious thing in my life. Because you are mine." 

Shane's pupils blow wide. "Yours, huh?"

Ilya tugs their hips together. "Mine." He takes hold of Shane's jaw in one hand and runs the other possessively under his shirt. Ilya's entire world centers in on the feel of Shane's skin. The thrum of his heartbeat. Mine. 

He pushes his thumb into Shane's mouth. Groans when he feels Shane suck. Leans in to nip at Shane's earlobe and whispers, "My good boy, Shane. Let me show you how precious you are to me."

Ilya undresses them in record time. He hoists Shane onto the bed and falls after him. He gets his mouth on Shane and has to shush the whimper Hollander lets out. 

"Quiet, milyy, our family is still here."

This causes a soft, strangled moan. 

Ilya gets to work opening Shane up. He revels in the way Shane unconsciously rocks his hips. In the salty taste of Shane in his mouth. In the feel of Shane's powerful thighs clamped around his shoulders.

"Oh God," Shane whines when Ilya swipes his tongue over his back entrance.

"Tsk," Ilya clicks his tongue. "You need something to help you keep quiet, hm?" He pushes Shane flat on his back. Holds him there with a palm on his chin and two fingers in his mouth. Ilya's other hand tugs at Shane's cock while he goes to work with his mouth. Ilya loses himself in it - the wet sound of Shane sucking his fingers, the quiet huffs of pleasure that escape, the pulsing heat of Shane's body underneath him - until he works Shane over the edge. 

He clamps his hand over Shane's mouth to stifle the noise. Enjoys the way Shane's body shudders against his own. Then he's reaching into the side drawer and haphazardly pouring lube over himself. Shane is too fucked out to complain that Ilya spills a little on the sheets. He does complain that Ilya hasn't touched him in all of 2 seconds.

"Ilya. Kiss."

And how can Ilya ever deny him? Ilya plasters himself to Shane's back, turning his chin so their mouths align. He grinds into Shane as their tongues meet and the sensation is positively heady. 

How did Ilya spend so many years thinking he could deny himself this? 

Then he's pressing into Shane and they're gasping into one another's mouths and words are spilling out of Ilya in an uncontrollable mix of sorry, and I love you and mine. Ilya doesn't think they're managing to be quiet anymore but he also can't manage a single coherent thought that isn't Shane - fuck - Shane. So Ilya lets everything else go and fucks his boyfriend to the point of tears. Fucks him hard and deep until Shane comes a second time with Ilya's fingers in his mouth. 

The comedown lasts a long time. Ilya doesn't think he truly breaks out of the hazy high of sex. Even as he goes for a towel and gently cleans them up, that soft buzzy feeling never fades. 

Shane is no better - smile blurry and words slurring a bit as he snuggles into Ilya's chest. 

"You're mine, too," Shane murmurs into his neck. "My baby."

Ilya thinks maybe, just maybe, that means he's been forgiven. 

*

Scotty-saurus: Assuming from the sounds I heard last night that you guys are okay?

Ilya: So you were listening

Kip-stopher: Oooh what did I miss?

Scotty-saurus: AGAINST MY WILL

Scotty-saurus: I need to emphasize that none of my involvement in this is voluntary

Moya lyubov: fuck you heard us?

Scotty-saurus: I'm just glad you two made up after that fight. 

Ilya: Please tell Shane to stop hiding and there is no need to be ashamed of his pretty noises 

Ilya: And Hunter. Just because you are too old to get it up doesn't mean you can listen to our sex life for free

Scotty-saurus: fuck off Rozanov

Moya lyubov: fuck off Rozanov

Kip-stopher: fuck off Rozanov

*

March 2015

Even Cliff Marlow can't take much pride in a win against Ottawa. The on-ice fights are less satisfying when the stadium cheering for blood is half-empty. It's hard to rile anybody up when the Centaurs are on a 12 (now 13) game losing streak. He almost feels bad celebrating. The Cens team just looks so defeated.

Still, Cliff is going to celebrate even if it is Ottawa in March because he's a professional athlete and he's going to live the high life while it lasts, goddamit. 

"We're going out tonight, boys!" He announces to the locker room. "A win's a win!"

He gets some hoots and hollers and turns to Rozanov. "Got any suggestions for a place?" If anyone will know a club worth going to, it's Rozy. 

Marley stops when he realizes Rozy isn't listening. He's got an intense expression on his face as he scrolls through a string of unanswered text messages. It's the kind of intensity that can only mean two things: Montreal Jane or Rozy's family. 

"You good, Cap?" Marley claps him on the shoulder, but doesn't get a response as Rozanov dials the number and sits down. Marley hears Roz say something in Russian and decides to give the guy space. He's been on the wrong end of Rozanov's infamous temper too many times.

Marley recruits Connors and Hammersmith to go out tonight. He passes Coach LeClaire on the way to the showers and gets a "Stop picking fights when we're already winning by three points, Marlow," which Marley just grins at. 

After an unrushed shower, the locker room is starting to clear out. Tanner Johnson gives him a nod and a "See you in a bit" on his way out. It may be a Wednesday night but the Bears know how to turn up. That's when he notices Rozanov.

He's still sitting there. Still in his gear. One hand in his hair, his entire body bent over the phone. Marlow can't see his face from this angle but the body language alone screams something is wrong. Rozanov is a prickly little bastard and, as close as they've gotten over the years, Cliff knows it must be something big going on to have Rozanov reacting like this in a public space. Rozanov and being vulnerable are not simpatico. 

"Hey, Marlow?" That's the Finnish rookie, Koskinen. He's a burly, quiet dude everybody calls Skinny. 

"Not now, Skinny." Marley brushes past him.

"Look, it's about Rozanov." 

That gets Marley's attention. He glances between Roz and Skinny, trying to put the pieces together. "Well, what is it?"

"He's not responding to me but - I think you should hang up with whoever's on the phone."

Marley hustles back to Rozanov and grabs him by the shoulder gear. "Roz, what's going on?" 

Rozy curls deeper into himself. Marley pries the phone out of his hand - normally an impossible task with the way the guy is attached to it - but he lets go easily now. Marley can't read the Cyrillic contact name, and he can't understand what the person - a man - is shouting.

"He's saying some really awful shit," Skinny says, pointing at the phone. 

No one has ever accused Cliff of being hard to anger.

"Yo, who is this?" Marley demands into the speaker. 

Another explosion of angry Russian. 

"He says fuck you," Skinny translates helpfully. 

"Nah, fuck you, dude. You can suck my dick!" Marley hangs up. He goes to hand the phone back to Rozanov but his Captain still doesn't budge.

Shit. 

People have tried to describe Cliff as a gentle giant. Those people would be wrong. He relates much more to that saying about bulls and China shops. What Marley means is, he's a bumbling fool when it comes to anything sensitive and he's more likely to destroy the entire shop's inventory than . . . well, however that metaphor should finish. He's also not great at metaphors. 

"Roz, talk to me, man. What's going on?" 

This is the longest he's ever seen Rozy be silent and it's starting to freak him the fuck out. 

Cliff tries for a reassuring pat on the back. That finally gets a reaction - just a bad one. Rozy flinches away with a grunted "No!" and curls his hands forcibly into his hair. His knuckles are white. 

Cliff turns back to Koskinen, at a loss. "Did you hear what they were talking about?"

Skinny gives the half shrug of the deeply uncomfortable. "I'm not sure. I mean, Russian isn't my first language."

"But you heard something, right?"

Skinny's mouth presses into a flat line. "Yeah, uh, I think his dad just died."

Chapter End Notes

Cliff Marlow, beautiful himbo that you are :)

Chapter 10: Deep heart

Chapter Summary

"Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart." -Dostoevsky

aka Cliff Marlow is Doing His Best

Chapter Notes

March 2015

Cliff Marlow knows plenty about dealing with Shitty Dads. His own Dad is a regular customer on and off the sober train. The guy wasn't around much when Marley was a kid and when he did show up it was pretty hit or miss (literally). But Cliff is big and his Dad is a pot-bellied loser who can't throw a punch so the whole thing is more pathetic than painful. Still, Cliff knows his job: take Dad's car keys, put the puke bucket by the couch, keep the fighting somewhere his little sisters can't see. Marley is good at dealing with Shitty Dads. He always knows what to do.

The problem? Marley doesn't know what to do when a Shitty Dad dies. 

"I uh, I think his Dad just died," says Skinny.

Marley's brain buffers. "Are you sure?"

Skinny gestures at Rozy. They can't see his face. "Pretty sure."

"Okay, um, Roz?" Cliff nudges him with a foot. The guy still has his skates on. And he's still not talking. "Nod if this is about your dad."

Rozanov's knuckles go even whiter. And he nods. 

"Sorry for your loss," Skinny says. Which, shit - that was supposed to be Marley's line, wasn't it?

"Yeah, sorry about that," Marley adds. 

They stand for a long, awkward minute before anybody thinks of something to say. 

Skinny finally asks, "Did that guy on the phone say when the funeral will be?"

"Oh shit, that's right," says Marley. He's only been to two funerals in his life so he sort of forgot that was a thing. Rozy's always wearing that cross necklace - how soon after someone dies do Catholics have funerals? Double shit - Is Rozy actually religious? Should Marley offer to pray about it? Marley doubts Jesus wants to hear from him but he's willing to give it a go.

"Do you want us to help you look for flights?" Skinny asks. This is the most Marley's ever heard the back-up goalie talk. Cliff is kind of annoyed by it. Everybody is always trying to get close to Rozanov and, sue him, Marley can be territorial. 

Maybe now isn't the time for a pissing contest, though. 

Another non-response from Rozanov.

"You gotta work with us, Rozy," Marley says, "Do you need to go to Russia? Nod for yes or shake for no."

There's a moment of hesitation where Marley wonders if Roz even understood the question.

He shakes for no. 

"Are you sure?" Skinny jumps in. "I'm sure coach would give you the time off to go."

Marley may not be the sharpest tool in the shed but, he'd bet good money this isn't about hockey. Rozy doesn't talk about Russia. He doesn't really have to for Cliff to know it's bad. He thinks back to the first couple of years on the Bears. Every start of season, Rozy would turn up looking lean and muscled in a scary way, bags under his eyes and temper off the charts. The team calls it Terminator Mode. Then there had been the Olympics disaster. Those marks on Rozy's back. 

That hadn't been about hockey, either.

"He doesn't want to go," Marley tells Skinny. 

Rozy finally says something. It's under his breath and his face is still hidden in his lap but Marley thinks he says "'m not allowed." 

Well, damn. Marley didn't realized they'd banned Rozy from going back over the Olympics loss. Fucking harsh. 

"You should still take some time off. You're not in any shape to play." Skinny means well but that's the kind of thing you say to Rozy when you want a tongue lashing. Which is why it's so concerning that Cap doesn't put up a fight. "I can tell coach what's going on if you like?"

"Yeah, good idea. Tell coach." Marley turns back to Rozanov. "Well, if you aren't going to Russia maybe we should just go back to the hotel?" 

Another barely-there nod from Rozanov. Marley takes that as a good sign. At least he's no longer catatonic!

Rozy might be nodding but he's certainly not helping. Koskinen leaves. Rozy stares at his feet.

"Alright, bud, skates are coming off." Marley crouches down and starts to undo the buckles. It reminds him of all the times he took his sisters, Stella, Martine, and Claire, to the rink. Not to brag but, Marley's an expert at undoing double knotted laces. Pulling off the skates, Marley pretends to gag at the foot smell (That bit always works with Martine; it doesn't work with Rozy). 

Marley pulls Rozy's protective gear off next until he's just in his pants, undershirt, and socks. Roz lets him do it without complaint. He finally gets a glimpse of Rozy's face and is surprised to see no evidence of tears. Marley had assumed he'd been hiding the fact that he'd been crying from Koskinen. Instead, he's got that terrible, pale blankness - his I just got back from Russia look. 

"Okay bud, go shower." 

It takes a second to compute before Rozy rises onto his feet. He takes one step towards the showers and promptly braces himself against the lockers. Marley lurches forward to catch in case he falls. The look in Rozy's eyes has gone from blank to vacant. He slides back into a seated position on the bench. 

Fuck. 

Marley debates helping Roz shower and decides against it. Not because he's being weird about a naked teammate but because Rozy seems to be barely tolerating Marley's touches as is. Whatever. Shower's not that important.

Marley takes a long, hard look at the guy. For someone whose presence is usually larger-than-life, he is a shriveled up raisin right now. (Again, Marley is not good at metaphors). Watching his Captain not even able to walk from the weight of his grief, Marley realizes he needs back-up. The plan to just keep him along with the team for the rest of the roadie seems woefully inadequate. Cliff glances around the Cens locker room for any hint at what to do.

Wait a second . . . 

Centaurs.

Ottawa.

Canada.

Montreal Jane!

"I'm gonna call your girl to come get you," he tells Rozy. 

There's not much reaction there but luckily Rozy's phone is still unlocked. Marley thumbs through to Jane's contact. The last message from Rozy reads: I love you more.

Ha! Rozy insists they aren't serious. He is so not slick. 

Marley hits call on Jane's contact.

She picks up. Then, in a decidedly not-very-Jane-like voice, says, "Only a hat trick against Ottawa? You're losing your edge, Rozanov."

Marley reboots.

"Ilya?" The same voice again.

Shane Hollander's voice.

Marley checks the contact card. Jane <3

"What the fuck, is this Hollander?"

There's a choked gasp on the other end of the line.

"Fuck. Who is this?"

Cliff can't believe that Shane Hollander says fuck.

"Uh, Cliff Marlow?" He's not sure why it comes out like a question.

"Marlow? Why the fuck did you call me?"

"I didn't call you, I called Jane."

"Jesus Christ, Marlow. Why did you call Jane?" 

"I think I should probably tell Jane that."

A long suffering sigh from Hollander. "Marlow. I am Jane."

Oh. 

Cliff looks back at Rozy. "Damn, brother. Legendary pull."

"Is Ilya there?" Hollander asks. "Can you put him on?"

"Uh, he's not really responding right now."

This sends Hollander into a panic attack. "What do you mean he's not responsive? Is he knocked out? I didn't get any news alerts about him being injured in the game."

"No, no he's good. Well, not good but he's fine."

Hollander's voice goes scary deep. "Marlow. Put your two brain cells together for one minute and tell me what the fuck is going on with Ilya."

It's so weird hearing someone call Rozy by his first name. 

"He got a phone call from somebody in Russia right after the game. I guess his dad just died."

"Oh my god." A wet gasp. "Oh my god, Ilya. Can I talk to him?"

A glance at Rozy tells Marlow he isn't following the conversation at all. "Uh, he's not exactly in a talkative mood right now."

"Fuck. Okay. Okay." Hollander takes a deep breath. Cliff hears the faint sound of a car starting. "Marlow, I need you to listen to me. My parents and I are on our way from Montreal. I'm going to send you an address and the code to the garage entrance. You're going to call a driver and take Ilya there and wait with him until we arrive. Got it?"

Cliff breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, clear instructions! "On it, boss."

"And Marlow? If you say a word about this to anyone I will kill you, resurrect you, and kill you again. Got it?"

Marley grins. "Caposh, Hollzy."

*

Koskinen manages to sort things quick with Coach and returns right as Marley is shoving Rozy's feet into some shoes. Luckily he had those hideous neon orange slides in his duffle bag. Marley fills Skinny in on the plan (minus the Shane Hollander of it all) and sends him packing. Skinny will get the word out to the team.

So that's one thing done. Step two is getting Rozy outside to the car. Luckily Cap has regained control over his limbs. Mostly. 

Marley keeps one hand tight on Rozy's upper arm to guide him. Rozy shivers so hard Cliff can feel it. At any moment Marley expects the guy to pass out or vomit or maybe just start screaming. He does NOT look good.

Rozy's teeth chatter the entire length of the car ride.

*

The Hollander house looks nothing like Cliff imagined. Given all the luxury commercials Hollander stars in, Cliff assumed it would be more McMansion and less typical suburbia. Go figure. 

Roz follows him, unassisted, in through the garage. It's really weird being in the house of someone you've never met. Sure, he knows of Hollander's parents, but that's about it. From the way Rozy navigates through the mud room and into the living area, Marley guesses he's been here before. Probably several times.

They have an open concept kitchen and living area. Rozy stands, unmoving, in the center of it. He fixes his eyes somewhere over the fireplace mantel. It weirds Marley out.

Cliff makes the executive decision to help himself to a couple of beers. He finds two bud lights in the fridge. Hollander won't mind, right? He figures anybody would want a beer after finding out their dad just died. 

"Beer?" he offers. When Roz doesn't acknowledge it, Marley sets the opened bottle on the coffee table. He plops himself onto the Hollanders' bougie leather couch. It feels like it cost at least ten grand. He debates putting something on the tv, just to have a bit of noise while they wait.

The silence is really starting to get to him.

Cliff's stomach growls. Okay, new tactic.

"You want some food, Rozy? I can order McDonald's here if you like?" When he doesn't get a response, Cliff pushes. "Say something now or I'm ordering you McGriddles."

"Don't want."

"Look man, I know I'm not very good at this but I'm happy to get you anything you want right now," Marley admits. "Is there anything that sounds good? Or something obvious you need that I should be doing?" It's probably not fair to ask Rozanov what he needs right now but it's worth a shot, right?

Instead of answering, Rozy crosses to the mantel and plucks a picture frame off the top. So that's what he's been staring at. The photo inside is a family portrait of Rozanov, Hollander, and Hollanders' parents in front of a fireplace. It looks like it was taken recently. Roz and Hollzy are wearing matching sweaters.

"I am an orphan now, Marley."

The tone of Rozy's voice makes the hairs stand up on his arms. 

Rozy enters an intense stare down with the framed photo. "My father asked me to come home for Christmas. And I was here. Pretending to be someone else's son."

Marley has a very bad feeling about this.

"You couldn't know he was going to die."

This is the wrong thing to say. 

Roz throws the picture frame with enough force to dent the wall. The frame explodes. Marley throws his arm up to cover his face. 

"Woah. Dude!" He's absolutely flabbergasted.

Roz goes for the beer bottle next. He smashes it into the floor, spilling bud all over the white carpet. 

"That's definitely going to stain," says Marley weakly. 

Roz picks a clock from the mantel to destroy next. Over the next ten minutes, Marley sips his beer and watches Rozanov systematically destroy the Hollanders' living room. He thinks maybe he should do something to stop it but, frankly, he prefers that Rozy fight the furniture rather than him. Guy's gotta let it out somehow.

A car pulls into the driveway and Roz pauses halfway through ripping up a pillow. "Don't let them in," he orders. "Just David."

Marley didn't think he could get more confused. Who even is David? 

"Uh, I don't know if I should stop them from entering their own house."

Roz turns cold. "You ask what I want. I tell you what I want. I only want to see David. Keep Shane and Yuna out."

Marley throws up his hands in surrender. "Okay, man. Sure. Just David."

The bad feeling grows.

Crossing the kitchen, Marley gets to the front door right as a key scrapes in the lock. He opens it slightly but uses his bulk to keep anyone from pushing inside. It's beyond surreal to come face to face with Shane Hollander in these circumstances. 

"He's asking for David?"

"Let us in," Shane growls. Marley never found him scary until this exact moment.

"He's pretty insistent that he only wants to see David right now." The Hollanders trade surprised looks. Marley gives the mom (Yuna?) an apologetic smile. "Sorry, ma'am."

The older man steps forward. "It's alright, Shane. Let's not overwhelm him. I'll go talk to him and then you can come join." He reaches out to shake Marley's hand. "I'm David."

Marley shakes. "Cliff."

Marley waits until the door closes and separates them from Yuna and Shane to say, "He's not in a great place."

"We'll take care of him."

Another crash comes from the living room. 

"Ilya, you okay in there?" David calls. Marley trails him back to the scene of the crime. He cringes hard at the sight of the living room. He hopes the Hollanders won't be too upset.

When Rozy spots David, there's a sick sort of glee in his eyes. It's deeply unsettling. The look fades the instant David speaks -

"Hey, kid. You doing some redecorating?"

Rozanov goes still. Whatever reaction he expected from David, this wasn't it.

Marley can't help but be impressed by how calm David appears to be.

Rozanov's expressions sits somewhere between shock and suspicion. "You are not mad?"

"No, I'm not mad," David reassures. "In fact, Yuna hated those pillows. She's going to be glad for the excuse to buy new ones."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then you are fucking stupid," Ilya accuses. "You should be angry because I am in your house and I am destroying your belongings and I am a bad person."

"That's not true, Ilya."

"I am bad. I am a bad son," Roz insists. The tension in his neck makes the vein there bulge. 

"No, you're not."

"I broke all your things."

"That's okay."

"No it's not. It's not fucking okay!" Roz begins to pace like a trapped animal.

"Listen to me, Ilya. There's nothing you can do to make me punish you right now."

Oh. Oh fuck. Marley feels a hot rush of anger in his chest. 

If Rozy's dad wasn't already dead, he'd do the job himself.  

"Shut up," Roz snaps. 

David remains calm. "You don't deserve to be punished."

"I am a bad son."

"I love you. Yuna loves you."

"If you love me then just fucking hit me already!" Ilya screams.

The look on David's face is gut-wrenching. "No, Ilya. Never."

Roz lunges for Marley's half-drank bottle of beer. He moves scary quick and Marley only just manages to get at him before Roz attempts to bash his own head in. They grapple for the bottle and Marley doesn't see where it lands because Rozy is thrashing against him like a monkey on ketamine. 

"Dude, calm down!" Marley orders, and Roz howls in rage. Roz takes a swipe at his legs and Marley brings them both to the ground. He's got a good grip on each of Ilya's wrists now but his lower half bucks and kicks like crazy. Marley barely avoids a knee to the groin.

Rozanov shouts in Russian and tries to headbutt him. Marley gets a knee on his chest and presses down. He's got half a foot and fifty pounds on the guy and he tries to keep the pressure only as strong as it needs to be. 

"Chill the fuck out!" Marley shouts. Roz spits at him. 

"Oh my god, Ilya."

Fuck, when did Shane come inside? Roz is never going to forgive himself if he lashes out at Shane.

"Stay back," Marley warns.

"Get off of him. He's not going to hurt me." 

It's really hard to say no to Shane Hollander. Marley suspects that Roz has never said no to him a day in their lives. 

Begrudgingly, Marley rolls sideways off his Captain. He's braced for another meltdown. Instead, Roz goes totally limp at the sight of Hollander and proceeds to lie there like road kill. 

Cliff blinks and Hollander is kneeling with Rozanov cradled in his arms.

"You're okay," Hollander says, followed by some soft words in Russian.

To Marley's immense shock, Roz lets himself be held. Roz doesn't speak, or cry, but he seems to have exhausted all his rage. 

Marley lets himself relax against the base of the couch. He's gonna be okay here, Marley thinks, I did good.

A hand lands on his shoulder. Cliff looks up at David, who says, "Let's give them some space."

Cliff dutifully follows David into the kitchen. His wife is there already, standing with a hand pressed over her mouth. 

At last, Cliff remembers his manners. He gives the Hollanders a sheepish look and says, "By the way, you have a lovely home."

*

Sveta: I will go on your behalf if you need me to. I can make sure everything is paid for and the money goes where it should.

*

Scotty-saurus: Hey kid, I'm here whenever you need. Call anytime. 

*

Unsaved number: Get on a plane tonight or I will come get you myself.

Chapter End Notes

I LOVE LOVE LOVE reading your comments!! I'm really happy with how this chapter turned out and I want to thank you all for following along and caring about this story! More updates coming soon :)