Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

heated rivalry has too many lamps, so i did something about it, Anger, Airplane Crashes, Song: Die Young (Kesha), Vomiting, Blood and Injury, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, set during the long game, Hockey, Poor Anger Management, but can you blame him, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Shane Hollander Has Panic Attacks, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs (Game Changers), Near Death Experiences, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Debbie The Lamp, Autistic Shane Hollander, Miscommunication, Grief/Mourning, Angst and Humor, Coming Out, Furniture Shopping, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Song: Not the Ghost (The Crane Wives), Angst

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Lovely Lights

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-02 Completed: 2026-01-22 Words: 13,181 Chapters: 12/12

Light Up My Life

Summary

Ilya gave Shane the ugliest fucking orange lamp as a well-meaning gift. Now Shane wants it gone, just like how the man who gave it to him is.
Set during The Long Game, with Ilya unable to contact Shane after the emergency landing. Shane believes he's dead, spirals, and then smashes some lamps.
This wasn’t meant to be taken seriously but it took a turn and I was powerless to stop it.

Notes

As a set designer, I took the egregious amount of lamps in Heated Rivalry personally.

Chapter 1: It Arrives

Chapter Notes

Please don’t put this in any kind of AI. Fuck AI!!!!!!

“Hollander, why do you keep house so fucking dark?” Ilya asks as he flops onto the couch next to Shane. “Like tomb in here.”

Shane bites the inside of his cheek, trying to decide if he should be forthright in his embarrassing answer or not. He knows Ilya will not make fun of him for it, but he still is unused to such unwavering support in the face of his sensory needs.

“The overhead lights are too bright. Even after I switched all the bulbs. I prefer to only use lamps but I don’t have a good one for the living room yet so I just use the light of the tv.” He admits.

Ilya hums, kissing the side of his head absently while he thinks.

“You can turn the light on though, if you need.”

“No, light stays off. I will fix.”

Sleepy, Shane just snuggles into his boyfriend’s chest, and forgets all about the silly lighting fixtures.

Until two weeks later when Ilya brings home the nastiest fucking thing Shane has ever set eyes on.

“What the fuck is that?” He asks, as Ilya sets the thing up on the stand on the left side of the couch.

“Lamp, Hollander.”

“Well I can see that. What’s it doing here?”

Ilya frowns. “You said you need lamp.”

And oh, if that doesn’t set Shane’s heart aflame. Of course Ilya is bringing lighting fixtures into his home, as if he doesn’t already light up his boring, monotonous life.

That does not fix the fact that this very round, orange, flowery lamp is an eyesore though. The shade is a off-white color and absurdly square considering the near spherical shape of the base. “It’s just kind of…”

Ilya’s lips twist up. “You do not like?”
“Ilya, it’s…”

“Orange.” Ilya supplies. “Has got character.” Ilya had smirked. “Very not boring. You need.”

“I’m not fucking keeping that in my house, you asshole.” Shane rolled his eyes, incredibly fond of this annoying man.

“No, no. You keep. Will grow on you.”

When Ilya turns it on later that night, Shane is dismayed to discover that it omits the most calming and cozy light he has ever experienced.

It’s fucking perfect.

Chapter 2: Hayden Meets Debbie

Chapter Summary

Hayden sets his eyes on the lamp, which Shane has lovingly named.

The lamp becomes Shane’s new favorite thing. He turns it on as soon as the sky gets dusky and turns it off absolutely last before heading upstairs to bed.

When Hayden comes over, a few months later, he spots it and his entire face contorts up like he’s just stepped in dogshit.

“Shane, man, the hell is that thing?”

“My lamp.”

Hayden shoots him a worried look. “Why is it so…”

“Flowery? Round? Orange?”

“Ugly. The word I was gonna use is ugly.”

Ilya comes barreling into the living room from the kitchen. “Is not ugly! Shane loves it.”

Two sets of eyes swivel to him for confirmation that he loves his hideous piece of home decor.

“It is my favorite lamp. I’ve named it.”

Hayden looks like he might actually be concerned for Shane’s mental health, and Ilya grins, triumphant.

“You wouldn’t know good lamp, boring man.”

“I am not fucking boring!”

Ilya smirks, and Shane knows exactly what he’s about to say. “No, your wife’s name is Jackie.”

“The lamp’s named Debbie.”

Hayden stares at him like he’s never seen him before. He almost looks more shocked than when he first learned Shane was with Ilya.

Chapter 3: Debbie Meets The Parents

Chapter Summary

Yuna is horrified by Debbie The Lamp

Yuna Hollander sees the orange monstrosity sitting in her son’s living room and has to do a double take. She binks several times as she takes in the new lamp.

“David, honey, have you seen this?” She calls to her husband, who is more focused on pulling up the boys' game against each other than any new home decor.

“What? Oh, yeah.” David smiles. “Ilya got it for Shane as a gift.”

“He did?” She cannot imagine a world where Russian hockey player Ilya Rozanov purchases an antique lamp.

“Yeah, he sent me a few options. There was a good one shaped like a loon he’s going to give to him this summer at the cottage.” David says, turning back to the tv where he’s successfully pulled up the Ottawa versus Montreal game.

“You knew… about this?”

Her husband nods. “He wanted to be sure it was the right kind of light. You know how Shane can be.”

Yuna nods, working her bottom lip between her teeth as she studies the lamp.

“Wait, did you say a loon?”

“Yeah, a lamp shaped like a loon. Neatest thing.” David says, completely casually. “Can’t wait for Shane to see it.”

Chapter 4: Crash

Chapter Summary

Ilya's plane has a crash landing and Shane can't get a hold of him. Shane panics. Notable lack of Debbie this chapter.

The Voyagers lose to Washington, which Shane is sure Ilya will give him shit for when they call later. Maybe, if he’s particularly lucky, there will already be a teasing message for him when he checks his phone.

But first comes his routine. Decompressing stretches, a shower, a pep talk with the team to keep their spirits up after what should have been an easy win. Shane keeps to his routine religiously, not even the temptation of a text from Ilya is enough to get him to deviate. Ilya calls him boring, says he is predictable, but when has predictability ever been bad? It’s relaxing to always know what’s coming next. Never being caught off guard is kind of Shane’s whole thing.

He’s just shaking out the last few water droplets from his hair as he slides on a shirt that’s maybe a size too big and maybe isn’t strictly his, when Coach Theriault comes into the locker room and claps his hands together to gather the team’s attention.

“I don’t know if any of you boys have heard, but the Ottawa Centaurs' plane crash landed on its way to Tampa tonight. Currently, there is no official statement or information beyond that. I know some of you might have friends who play for the Centaurs, so-” 

Shane is aware, distantly, that his coach is still talking.

Shane is aware, vaguely, of Hayden locking eyes across the room with him. His best friend looks stricken, and he wonders how he must look.

Shane is overtly aware of the way his heart is in his throat, of the way his hands are suddenly shaking, of the way he can’t quite get enough air in.

Of the way he suddenly finds himself sitting on the floor with Hayden squatting in front of him, holding his hands.

“Shane, buddy, don’t panic. Not yet. We don’t know- there’s a chance it’s all fine.”

“Woah, what’s going on with Hollander?” J.J. asks, not unkindly. “He alright?”

“He’s fine, we just uh, need some space? Shane, buddy, let’s go outside?” Hayden guides him to his feet and starts to lead him towards the door when Shane grips his arm like a vice.

“Phone. Phone, Hayden, where’s my phone?”

The thought comes to him so suddenly, and so clearly, that all he needs to do is have his phone. Surely, if Ilya was safe, he’d have texted. Called even, to reassure Shane that all was fine and there was no reason to be so upset over a silly plane landing wrong. He’ll open his phone and see a thousand messages of “I’m safe, do not worry Hollander” and it will all be okay again.

Hayden hands him his phone, and Shane taps the screen to wake it.

No notifications.

“No, no, it’s alright.” Shane says to nobody in particular, maybe to Hayden, who is eyeing him like he might bolt from the stadium and run all the way to Tampa.

And maybe he might.

“You just, you swiped it away.” Shane says foolishly, as if Hayden would have been so careless as to dismiss a message from Ilya at such a critical moment.

He unlocks his phone, throat constricting for no reason as he types in 8124 and navigates to him and Ilya’s texts.

Nothing new awaits him.

Shane looks up, meets his best friend's eyes, and sees devastation.

“No, Hayd, he’s fine. He just lost his phone and can’t call.”

Hayden lets out a long, measured breath as he glances around the locker room at their teammates, people who know nothing about the turmoil raging through Shane. Who have the audacity to play with him, to talk to him every day, and not have the faintest clue what an Ottawa plane crash means for Shane because they all have a fucked up automatic loathing for Ilya Rozanov that makes everything impossible.

“I think we should step outside.” Hayden says again. “Let’s call your mom, maybe she knows something?”

Shane follows, all the while refreshing his call log.

The chilled air hits them and while Hayden cringes, Shane simply doesn’t feel it. He’s navigated to Instagram, an app he doesn’t have notifications on for but knows that sometimes Ilya will message him there if he only has access to wi-fi.

He has 4 unread messages from Ilya.

Maybe, if he’d known what they would say, he wouldn’t have sighed before opening them. Maybe he wouldn’t have smiled, looking up at the starry night sky with a rush of relief.

Ilya: Shane, you are the best thing in my life.

Ilya: I love you. Always. Maybe from first time I saw you.

Ilya: I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those.

Ilya: Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.

Shane drops his phone onto the icy pavement with a gasp like some Victorian widow.

Oh shit, that’s him now isn’t it?

A widow.

Except no, he’s not, because Ilya and him weren’t married, not yet.

But nobody sends those messages when they think they’re coming back. Those are someone’s final thoughts. Final words.

Ilya’s final words.

“Shane? Did he text? Is he alright?” Hayden scoops up his phone and Shane watches and hopes that maybe Hayden will say he read them wrong. 

Instead, he sees Hayden’s face go through all seven stages of grief at once.

“No, I mean, come on, we don’t know that-” Hayden, who has always voiced his playful dislike of Ilya, lets out some sort of noise. Like it was maybe going to be a sob but he didn’t let it form properly. “Shane, we don’t know anything yet. I’m calling your mom.”

Shane blinks and realizes for the first time that there’s tears on his face. That he’s actively crying. “Okay.”

Hayden has some sort of conversation with Yuna Hollander that results in him turning back to Shane with a new, determined look in his eye.

“I’m driving you home.”

The absurdity of the statement breaks him out of his anxiety spiral long enough to ask: “We’re in Washington D.C., how are you driving me home?”

“I don’t know yet. Just follow me.” Hayden pulls open the door and storms down the hallway to the locker room like a man possessed. A few men linger and they all look up in alarm when Hayden starts throwing shit into his bag.

J.J. looks between Hayden and Shane, concern and confusion warring on his face. “Is everything alright?”

“No. Shane and I are going back to Canada tonight. Or maybe to Florida, I’m not sure yet.”

J.J.’s normally soothing timbre takes on a panicked note. “What? What happened?”

“A fucking plane crash, that’s what happened.” Hayden hands Shane his coat. “Tell Coach I’ll call him later. Family emergency, we’re leaving.”

Other teammates are talking now, asking more questions, someone says “all this over the fucking Ottawa plane? We have a game in like two days!” and Shane, quiet, shy, Shane Hollander, snaps.

“Ilya was on that plane and he might just be dead so excuse me if I’m not all that concerned about hockey right now.”

“Rozanov?”

As if there’s any other Ilya Shane could be talking about. As if hockey icon Shane Hollander has ever done anything without someone bringing up the equally famous Ilya Rozanov.

Hayden saves everyone from the awkward conversation that was sure to follow by throwing both his and Shane’s bags over his shoulder and shoving him out of the locker room. He pushes Shane all the way to the lobby of the arena, then jabs angrily at his phone.

“Uber will be here in two.”

“Okay.”

Hayden looks up at him, and frowns. “Are you going to put your coat on?”

Shane shrugs noncommittally.

He sighs, then with all the patience and practice of a true dad, maneuvers an unwilling Shane into his winter coat. 

“What would Ilya say if I let you catch a cold?” He mumbles fondly as he zips the coat up to Shane’s chin. “Bastard would never shut up about it if I let something happen to you.”

Shane thinks he might nod, but is distracted wiping away the fresh tears that well up and slide steadily down his face.

“I’ve turned on alerts for the Centaurs. If there’s some sort of update, I’ll tell you, okay?”

Despite what Ilya says, thank God for Hayden Pike, Shane thinks. What would he do in this situation without him?

A black SUV arrives and Hayden tosses their bags in the trunk before joining Shane inside it. Hayden makes painful small talk with the driver, smiling and laughing forcefully until they arrive at a rental car place.

Shane trails behind his best friend, his best friend who is apparently going to drive him all the way to Montreal from Washington just because a man he barely tolerates won’t call Shane back. How will Shane ever repay him for this kindness? This level of dedication?

Not that he wouldn’t do the exact same thing if it was Jackie in Ilya’s place.

Hayden digs through their bags, pulling out both of their passports and slinging them into the backseat before he climbs into the driver’s seat of a fucking Honda CRV.

Ilya would despise this car. Ugly, boring, safe.

Hayden plugs in his phone, pulls up directions, and then opens Spotify. He hovers around then pauses, as if realizing there is no good playlist option for when your best friend’s secret ten year situationship might be dead.

Shane almost tells him to just put on something because driving in silence is almost worse.

They make it one hour, neither of them talking, neither of them doing anything but staring straight ahead and praying to anybody who will listen, that Ilya Rozanov is not dead.

Shane wonders if Ilya had prayed, when the first sign of a plane crash had appeared. Had he held his mother’s Russian Orthodox cross and whispered a plea for survival?

“Pull over.”

Hayden does so without question and Shane just gets the door open before he’s spitting up into the frozen grass on the side of the highway. Not much comes up, but he dry heaves into the night air for a few moments before Hayden is passing him a napkin and mumbling something he doesn’t really hear.

He leans back into the seat, closes the door, and covers his face with his hands. Hayden sits next to him, silent, watching.

“Okay, we can keep going.”

Two more hours pass, they are forced to stop to get gas and that’s when Shane decides he cannot do six more hours of fucking tense silence.

He slides out of the navigation app and opens Hayden’s Spotify. It’s filled with an absurd number of playlists, all with names like “Jackie’s Kitchen,”  “Twins Ballet,” “Pre-game Pump Up,” and one that makes him stop scrolling. “S & I” stares up at him. It’s only 43 minutes long, but absurdly sentimental for Hayden to have. Maybe Jackie made it?

Annoyed at this display of affection he has no room to puzzle out currently, Shane just finds his liked songs and hits shuffle.

Hayden slips back into the driver’s seat, holding a water bottle. “I thought you might need this?”

He nods, smiles tightly, and takes a sip.

They continue their journey, music so soft you almost can’t hear it. Shane stares at the road and wonders if they should be going to Florida instead. If maybe he will be needed to identify Ilya’s body in a morgue. Would there even be anything left to identify? He’s seen movies, plane crashes are not gentle to their victims.

He fights the urge to check his phone. He knows it will only make him sick again to see the Instagram messages. Hayden said if there was news, he’d get an alert.

How long does it take for there to be news of such an event?

Shane’s fingers tap out a merciless rhythm on his thighs as they drive. He wishes he had something to say to fill this space. He wishes he wasn’t in this car at all.

A peppy 2010s song fills the air. The bass thrums and Shane knows the song from somewhere but he can’t quite place it. It doesn’t really matter what it is, just as long as his guessing game of the name keeps his mind away from Ilya.

Hayden jams his thumb into the power button and turns off the radio system completely.

“Fuck, sorry, this is why I didn’t want to play music.” He sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

He quirks an eyebrow in confusion, and then realizes what song had been playing.

Die Young.

It shouldn’t be funny. It shouldn’t make him laugh, but it does. It is funny.

Shane laughs until tears spill down his cheeks again, until he’s clutching his stomach and doubled over against the seatbelt.

Because of course Hayden has that song liked. Of course it would come on shuffle now. Of course when the world is already collapsing and Shane is fighting to not think of his boyfriend being dead or severely maimed, Kesha is there to sing about dying young like it is the pinnacle of human experience. Like Shane should be in a club getting drunk instead of driving to an empty house while waiting to see if any news outlet reports on his boyfriend’s possible death.

Hayden says nothing.

The rest of the ride to the Canadian border is silent.

Chapter 5: Crashing Out

Chapter Summary

Shane loses his shit. Understandably. Debbie takes a hit.

Chapter Notes

This chapter is the entire reason I wrote this. Could be tempted to do another chapter of happy lamp buying if people want.

Yuna and David meet them at the house.

Hayden steps into the kitchen to call Jackie, and Shane’s mother takes the opportunity to fill Shane in on everything the news has posted about the crash landing.

Unfortunately, a lot of the words don’t stick after she looks at her son and reports there is no word on Ilya’s safety.

On his survival.

His father forces him to eat a bowl of pasta and he stares at the noodles thinking, Ilya would be so jealous right now. He lets his mother tuck him into bed despite the fact it’s nearly nine in the morning and thinks, the sheets still smell like Ilya. He listens to Hayden and his parents talk downstairs and has the fleeting thought, why couldn’t I have been on the plane too?

The house stills as the moonlight creeps in.

Shane wakes up hours later, disoriented. It had been morning when he’d fallen asleep but now it was late evening.

Hayden must have taken a guest room or left, and his parents are both asleep in what is unofficially “their room” when he makes his way down the hall to see if he can find his phone. Surely there’s been some sort of update by now and they all just missed it by falling asleep.

He does find his phone, in the living room. Plugged in next to a hideous orange porcelain lamp that doesn’t match the rest of the decor at all. It’s painted like antique china, a giant round, hulking mass that Ilya had given him as a gift to be an obnoxious prick one summer.

“Has got character.” Ilya had smirked. “Very not boring. You need.”

“I’m not fucking keeping that in my house, you asshole.” Shane rolled his eyes, incredibly fond of this annoying man.

“No, no. You keep. Will grow on you.”

And he had kept it.

Because Ilya had disguised the real purpose of the lamp. Had used a joke gift to support Shane after he’d mentioned once that he hates overhead lighting and only uses lamps because they’re less overwhelming sensorily. It had a carefully picked out yellow glow, soft and comforting and Shane hated how quickly it became his favorite lamp in the house. He’d placed it in the living room so it could be the only light he had on in the evenings. He’d tried to find a second matching one, to place on the other side of the couch and had discovered it was a discounted, truly antique piece. Practically one of a kind.

He’d named the fucking thing Debbie.

And looking at it now, as it shines cheerfully and calmly, Shane is filled with rage.

Grief maybe, is a better word for the swirl of emotions inside him, but it registers to him as unending anger and he is struck with one thought.

Destroy that fucking lamp.

He goes out to the garage, roots around for an old hockey stick, one that he doesn’t use anymore, and re-enters the living room. 

He squares his shoulders.

He raises the stick like a baseball bat.

He swings.

The lamp shatters, erupting spectacularly into pieces of orange porcelain that scatter on the hardwood floor like pieces of a plane after a life-ending crash.

The bulb smashes when it hits the floor, going out sharply.

But there’s other lamps on.

Because Ilya always made sure Shane was taken care of. Always made sure he was happy and comfortable. Even if these were conventional, normal lamps, so unlike that ugly orange beast that now lays in ruins.

He raises the stick again, and smashes out the lamp on the other side of the couch.

Then the one on the tv stand.

Then the two on the bookshelves.

There’s a tall standing lamp in the corner, he knocks it to the floor and whacks it repeatedly, until glass cuts into the bottom of his feet when he turns to find another lamp.

There’s still soft yellow light bleeding into the darkness and he will not stop until he’s snuffed each one out.

Shane moves into the kitchen. Swiping the little jade green lamp off the table set for two with the stick.

He swats out all six hanging lights above the bar.

He takes out both the lamps sitting in the foyer, and the overhead light.

There’s footsteps upstairs, where Hayden and his parents must have woken up from the sound of breaking glass but he ignores it. Shane whirls around with his stick, ready to destroy the next lighting fixture he sees.

He goes to the bathroom off the foyer, no lamps but the vanity light makes a marvelous twinkling sound as he shatters that too.

He goes to his workout room, two standing lamps in the far corners of the room. He tears them to the ground and slams the stick repeatedly down until there’s only dust.

Shane catches sight of himself in the mirrored wall.

He has bags under his eyes, there’s blood all over his feet and cuts on his arms. He looks wild, he looks deranged, he looks devastated.

Screaming, Shane lines up the stick and wails it into the first mirror. It spiderwebs but doesn’t shatter. Again he screams, again he slams the stick into the glass.

It explodes, raining glass down onto him.

He steps through the wreckage, not minding the stinging at the bottom of his unsocked feet.

He follows suit with each of the other two mirrors.

Someone is shouting for him, probably shifting through the wreckage of the house wondering if someone mad broke in.

It feels like someone did.

He tears off to the trophy room, stick clutched tightly in his hands but when he opens the door he freezes. Not this room.

He circles back to the living room. His eyes land on the orange lamp. The origin of all this chaos and mess.

It’s too intact. Mocking him by how easily it could be glued back together.

He lifts the hockey stick over his head and slams it down into the remains of the ugly orange lamp. He goes again and again, palms slick with blood, arms aching, chest screaming for a person who is not there and will not be coming.

The orange lamp turns to dust, to millions of tiny pieces that can never be reconstructed. Just like his aching, battered heart.

He keeps beating where it used to be.

He lines up a particularly large chunk and backhands it into the wall.

Weak backhand, Ilya would say.

He finds another piece, the metal part that secured the bulb, and backhands that too. It imbeds into the plaster.

Yuna comes rushing into the living room, shouting his name but Shane ignores her and crushes more porcelain under his feet as he crosses to pick the metal out of the wall.

He thinks he might be screaming again, or maybe wailing, all he knows is that he’s making some sort of awful noise because the man he loves is dead and their last in-person conversation was a fight and Shane spent ten years too afraid to love him out loud. Maybe if he’d known he was only going to get ten years with Ilya he wouldn’t have cared about keeping it a secret, wouldn’t have cared if people saw them hold hands in a parking lot or dance together in a club.

He backhands the metal chunk into the wall again.

Weak, weak, weak.

Coward, coward, coward.

Hayden is suddenly in front of him, hands on the hockey stick, saying something that sounds a lot like “you need to let go” and his mother is talking, is crying too, and he is just so angry.

If he wants to turn his house into a fucking rage room because he was too scared to let anyone know he loved the best man the world had to offer then they should fucking let him.

And then, in the pitch dark of his living room, his father is thrusting a phone into his face. It’s open to a video call.

And there, on a very tiny screen, is a very much alive Ilya Rozanov.

“Moya lyubov, sweetheart, please, I am okay.”

The only thing Shane can think to say is, “I broke Debbie.”

Chapter End Notes

19 lighting fixtures, 3 mirrors. RIP Debbie

Chapter 6: Ilya Comes Home

Chapter Summary

Ilya arrives at Shane's, not fully grasping the extent the whole plane incident had on Shane (and his light fixtures).

Chapter Notes

Heyo so a lot of you wanted lamp purchasing... but we've got some trauma to get through before we get there. Sorry, but also, you're welcome.

Ilya had been warned, before entering Shane’s apartment in Montreal, that there would be a substantial lack of lighting. He’d figured, from the way Shane’s parents described it, that only a lamp or two would be broken. Shane himself had confessed to the brutal murder of Debbie, and Ilya couldn’t blame him. If he’d thought Shane was dead? Well it’s better for everyone they don’t find out but he’d certainly do more than smash a few lamps.

It took several sneakily sent messages from Pike for Ilya to get the full picture, and even then he thought it might have been an exaggeration when he said every light fixture on the first floor was pulverized (Ilya had had to translate the word, unsure how such a term of destruction could be used in reference to his normally very temperate boyfriend). It wasn’t until Shane was letting him into the apartment that he realized the truth of it.

It’s evening when Ilya finally arrives at Shane’s after his harrowing plane incident and then an even more harrowing (read: completely normal) plane ride back to Canada. It’s dusky and dim in the foyer, so Ilya goes to flip on the lightswitch.

“Don’t.” Shane says shakily, grabbing his wrist. “We haven’t replaced that one yet.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow, confused. “The ceiling light?”

“Or the lamps in here, actually.” This is the first conversation they’re having in person after a very long 48 hours and Ilya’s not sure if he’s too tired to understand or if Shane’s being odd deliberately.

He doesn’t say anything further about the lights, just removes his shoes and coat and reaches in the near darkness for his silly, perfect boyfriend.

“Shane.”

Shane kisses him reverently, so earnest and eager it reminds Ilya of their younger days when they only had two hours a month to touch each other. When they weren’t sure if they were going to get another kiss ever again.

He runs his tongue over Shane’s bottom lip, prepared to take this much further, when Shane withdraws.

“I didn’t think I’d get a chance to have you again. Thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m right here. Am okay.” Ilya takes one of Shane’s hands and presses it to his chest, just above his heart. “See? Still beats for you.”

Shane nods, eyes watery, and rests his head on Ilya’s shoulder. Breathing a little too fast, he wraps his arms around Ilya, holding onto him tightly.

“I’m sorry I scared you, lyubimyy.” He presses kisses to the side of Shane’s head in a way of gentle apology. “I will try not to do it again.”

There’s a tense moment, where it finally clicks to Ilya that there are actually no lights on anywhere in the apartment.

“Shane, why is it so fucking dark?”

There’s a soft murmur into his neck, where Shane’s tucked his face, but Ilya can’t make out the words.

“Hm?”

“-all of them. I broke all of them.”

“Why?” He asks, realizing he maybe should’ve taken Hayden’s texts a little more seriously. “What did lights do to you?”

“Debbie pissed me off.” Shane says, face still hidden. “She was just sitting there like everything was perfectly fucking normal, but it wasn’t. You were dead and she was just, shining away like the world was still cozy and warm and inviting. I was so fucking mad that the world was still going, still moving, still fucking glowing as if you…” He trails off with a hitch in his breath, fingers flexing in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt. “As if you hadn’t left me.”

“I did not leave you.” He thinks it’s important to remind Shane of this, as he clings to him like a limpet. “You have me, da?”

Shane nods, then pulls himself back slightly, so they can see each other’s faces. “My mom bought a new lamp for the living room. My dad is going to fix the bar lights later this week. Most just need new coverings, um, but yeah all the lamps are fucked.”

“You have been sitting in dark, waiting for me?” Ilya cups his boyfriend’s face, feeling incredibly grateful to get to do so.

Shane laughs, it’s weak and half-formed but it’s something. “Yeah. I didn’t want to go buy a new fucking lamp and not be here when you came home.”

“So sweet. Now come, I want to see the destruction. Pike said you made hole in wall?” He pulls away, ready to investigate the damage, even if Yuna had assured him they’d cleaned up the wreckage.

“Since when are you and Hayden fucking texting?” Shane chases after him as he strides towards the living room.

“Since you smash Debbie. She was very nice lamp you know!”

“Fuck off! She was ugly and you know it!” Shane smiles, a true smile, and Ilya can’t help but feel some of the exhaustion slide off of him.

If it keeps Shane smiling like this, Ilya will buy him a thousand more ugly lamps to smash.

Chapter 7: Ilya Investigates

Chapter Summary

This chapter was previously titled "lamp fighting" so... brace for impact y'all.

Chapter Notes

After a thorough and proper reunion in bed, where Ilya jokes, “my turn to smash, I think” while pinning Shane to the bedroom wall (Shane denies that it turned him on, but Ilya saw the physical proof that it did), Ilya can’t sleep.

Maybe it’s leftover adrenaline from his flight from hell, maybe it’s that thing where you are so tired you just can’t fall asleep, or maybe… maybe he’s curious.

He’d been too needy to get Shane underneath him that he hadn’t actually had time to survey any of the damage reported to him by the elder Hollanders and Pike. He saw the hole in the wall but couldn’t get more than a single joke out before Shane melted into a puddle of tears, still full of anxiety from Ilya’s near-death and very much embarrassed by his actions when he’d assumed the worst.

So now, as Shane sleeps soundly in bed, Ilya creeps down the stairs to inspect.

He starts in the foyer, using his phone flashlight to peer at the hacked off edges of what once was a nice round glass dome. The two lamps that used to line the doorway are already in the trash in the garage, he knows (Pike had sent him a message saying not to let Shane take the trash out this week, as it was full of carnage). He even finds the LED light above the bathroom vanity gone.

He moves to the kitchen, some sort of morbid curiosity sinking into him. A sick fascination at finding all the clues and pieces of how inconsolable his boyfriend was. A twisted little piece of him enjoys seeing just how much his death would have affected Shane, but it stamps it down to the deepest represses of his mind. He sees all six hanging bar lights have been removed, secretly glad because they were kind of awful and buzzed when on, feels a lump in his throat when he sees the mini green lamp Shane had gotten for the table gone. They used that lamp when having breakfast on dark mornings before the sunrise. That little lamp would cast a glow over an otherwise drearily early start to the day.

Ilya practically stalks into the living room, knowing this is where majority of the damage lay according to Pike. He’s seen the dent in the light blue wall, where the plaster is cracked and caved in. He traces his fingers over it, and can almost see the exact part of Debbie that would have made this. There’s a second hole next to it, significantly deeper, much more obvious. The paint is fully off the wall, likely thrown away with all the little bits of Debbie herself.

He moves the couch and finds small porcelain orange-flowered fragments. They’re smaller than he imagined they’d be. He tucks them in his pocket before moving the couch back. He’s not sure why.

In the living room he finds there are a total of 6 missing lamps. Both of the ones on the bookshelf, the one from the tv stand (which he always believed was a stupid place for a lamp, but Shane said Yuna had thought it looked nice, so what did Ilya know?), the floor lamp, the boring one from Shane’s side of the couch, and, most prominently absent of course, Debbie.

Yuna and David hadn’t said anything about the other two rooms on the first floor being trashed, but he can’t help but check for himself. He peeks into the trophy room first, he’s always had dazzling visions of fucking Shane in here and would be sad to see it in shambles. It looks wholly untouched, thankfully.

But when he opens the door to the workout room, his heart stops cold.

Pike had reported to Ilya that Shane had cut his feet, and that everyone had made removing glass shards from his feet the priority over replacing the lights, but clearly they’d also forgotten to check every room when cleaning up afterwards. Maybe Shane had forgotten he’d even been in this room. With how distraught he was when Ilya finally was able to contact him, it wouldn’t be a surprise.

There’s glass everywhere.

There’s two lamps at the back of the room, metal rods bent and crumpled, lights entirely gone. But the real show stopper is the wall. The three mirrors that line the wall perpendicular to the door are obliterated, all laying in thousands of jagged pieces.

And they’re covered in blood.

Footprints that go every which way, splatters on the glass that have dried and darkened, and even a handprint on the arm of the elliptical. It’s sickening, it’s grotesque, it’s quite possibly the worst thing Ilya has experienced since he found his mother’s unmoving body at twelve years old.

He can’t do anything but stand in the doorway and stare.

Is this what the whole house looked like?

His breath comes out in short little pants, his eyes water and spill over, but he remains frozen, unable to look away from the aftermath of what the idea of losing him did to Shane.

His sweet, gentle, Shane.

Shane who holds newborn babies like they’re made of spun sugar, Shane who checks on the ice but never with his full power, always so careful of harming others, always so delicate with people.

How could he cause this?

How could Ilya have let this happen? How could he have let Shane come to this? He should have found a phone sooner, should have called immediately instead of fucked around listening to the team’s legal people yap about bullshit.

How could his death do this to Shane?

The quiet voice in the back of his mind that sounds a lot like his boyfriend whispers, because Shane loves you, because he’s terrified of losing you.

After all, isn’t that what the whole plan Shane invented is for? To prevent Shane from losing Ilya? Isn’t that why they started the summer camps, started the Irina Foundation, isn’t that why they keep everything between them from going public? To keep them from losing each other?

“Ilya?” A shaky, horribly timid voice calls from behind him, jolting him from his own spiral in this room of pure, unadulterated despair.

He takes a deep breath in, trying to calm himself before he faces Shane. It doesn’t work. He takes five more in rapid succession.

“Ilya, what’s wrong? What is it?”

He tries to speak, but finds words, both Russian and English, clogged in his throat.

Shane peeks over his shoulder, into the destroyed room. “Oh. I guess we forgot to clean up in here.”

“Da, I would say so.” His accent is thicker than normal, making it obvious he’s upset and he desperately tries to swallow down his anger and sadness. This isn’t about him.

“Why don’t we…” Shane hesitates, hands fluttering around like he’s trying to do several things all at once. “Why don’t we close the door?”

Ilya laughs, humorlessly. “And pretend we didn’t see? Pretend I didn’t see your blood?”

“It’s fine, really. I just… lost my cool a little bit for a second there. But! You’re here now, you’re alive, so it’s okay now.”

He shakes his head, still staring at the mess of blood and glass scattered across the hardwood. “No, no, it’s not okay.”

Shane doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he keeps going.

“You think it’s okay that… that you had to go through that? That you fucking destroyed your house because I go missing? That you cut your feet and bleed out because I might not be alive anymore? Because I couldn’t find my phone, because I couldn’t tell you I was okay, because I might have died, you go and do this?”

“Ilya-”

“No, it’s not okay. Nyet, no, it’s not.”

Shane yanks Ilya by the back of his shirt and shoves him into the living room, looking pissed to all hell. He’s yelling when he finally opens his mouth. “What did you want me to do then, asshole? My whole life was falling apart and you want me to just go to bed and have sweet dreams?”

“No! Yes! I don’t fucking know!” Ilya shouts back, unsure how they’re suddenly in the middle of a fight. “I am not your life! Hockey is your life! You cry, you get over it, you go play stupid game with stupid team and win another fucking cup!”

Shane shoves him again, eyes blazing. “I don’t want to play hockey without you! My entire fucking career has revolved around you! What am I supposed to do without you?”

“Find new arch-rival, I don’t know! Maybe you’ll be happier without having to hide you love fucking him so much!”

Shane’s whole face sort of… melts?... as he stares down Ilya. One second he’s angry, and the next he’s looking downright despondent. His voice is soft when he speaks, nearly a whisper, but rises as he gets going. “I was angry that I spent over a decade hiding us from anyone who might look too close just for it to end with nobody at all knowing you and I were together. So yeah, maybe I went too far, maybe I jumped too quickly over the edge of insanity, but I had just lost the most important thing in my life. Who cares if I slice open my feet and can’t skate? There’s no fucking point if you’re not there.”

“Shane-”

“When I smashed the lights out I was angry and terrified and so devastated. You were fucking dead and I wasn’t even going to be able to tell anyone how much you had meant to me. You died and nobody would ever get to know how much you loved me. How much I love you. I was angry at myself. For holding us back. What good is playing the long game if you don’t even get to make it to the end?”

Ilya doesn’t have anything to say to that. He just stares, chest heaving, tears running, at Shane.

“It’s not your fault I did this.” Shane whispers, crossing the room to hold Ilya’s face. “It’s not your fault the plane had issues. It’s all okay. You’re here. I’m here. We are both okay, right?”

Ilya nods, hands coming to rest on Shane’s hips. “I am still sorry. You should not have had to suffer so.”

“I’m sorry you had to see it.” Shane bites his lip, face going pink. “And that I yelled at you. I think what I said was important, but I shouldn’t have screamed it.”

“Normally I like making you scream.” Ilya gives a half-hearted smirk.

“Ha. Very funny.” Shane rolls his eyes. “But I’m serious, you’re more important to me than hockey. How could you ever think that I’d choose hockey over you? I choose you.”

Ilya looks at his very dumb boyfriend, tries not to make it look like he’s thinking, how could I ever think otherwise? and says softly, “I choose you too, moya lyubov.”

Ilya goes to kiss him, but Shane suddenly jerks away, looking frazzled and talking a mile a minute. “We should come out. Publicly. I’ll fucking post something to Instagram right now, if you want.”

“What?” He’s too stunned by everything that’s happened in the last hour to comprehend this new turn of events.

“I mean, we should probably tell our agent, or at least my mom, but like, what’s stopping us from coming out right now?” Shane’s pacing in front of the bookshelves, just a few steps in each direction before turning back. “We need new lamps, so let’s go buy some fucking lamps together. Just you and me. See how fast we go viral for buying home decor together.”

“Is one in the morning?” Ilya manages. “Shops are closed?”

“Then we do it later today. You and me and Debbie’s successor.” Shane looks a little manic, eyes bright. “What do you think? Maybe not even a full coming out, we just stop hiding it?”

Ilya grabs Shane’s wrist to stop his pacing, holding him in place long enough to really look at him. “What about NHL and press?”

“Fuck them! You almost died and everyone would have told me “it must be such a relief to be the number one player now!” so, fuck. Them.” Shane grins, then looks unsure. “If you want?”

“I’d rather fuck you. Right now, here on the floor. Such bold, brave words must be celebrated, yes?”

“So we can go buy lamps and be gay about it?”

Ilya laughs, he can’t help it. “Yes. Yes, we can go buy lamps tomorrow and be totally gay about it. Now shh, and let me fuck you!”

Chapter End Notes

Don't worry, next chapter is fluffy lamp purchasing!

Chapter 8: The Hunt

Chapter Summary

Bickering over light fixtures in basically what they were born to do. Ilya wishes he could find the perfect replacement for Debbie though.

Chapter Notes

Don't take a shot every time I say lamp in this work. Also, if you saw the chapter count jump up... no you didn't.

If you had asked 18 year old Ilya Rosanov to define bravery, he might have said something about leaving Russia to play a high-contact sport. Something to get the press talking a little about his ambition.

Privately he would have thought that his mother was the bravest person he knew.

Now at 28, if you ask him to define bravery, he’d say shopping for lamps in a home goods store while holding hands with his boyfriend of a decade.

It’s their third store so far, and they’ve both sort of settled into the idea of being together in public. Turns out they’re naturally very good at tuning into only each other and blocking everyone else out.

Also bickering. They’re very good at bickering.

“Ooooh look, that one has a nice shape.” Shane points with his right hand to a white lamp that looks like a giant knot.

“LED, pick new one.” Ilya dismisses.

“I think you can switch the bulbs?” Shane says, a little unsurely. He pulls out his phone, presumably to search it.

“Fine. Is disgusting. Next.” Ilya waves left hand, which is holding an iced coffee that sloshes precariously as he does so.

They make their way slowly down the aisle, picking out one small baby blue lamp for their kitchen table. It’s circular, like the green one they had previously, but with a little lip at the top that Shane, who apparently has become a lamp expert, informs him is where the “socket” meets the “base” and is called the “neck”. It means piss all to Ilya, but he’s happy to let Shane tell him about it.

“What about that one?” He points to a large chartreuse one shaped like a lowercase N with his iced coffee. The shade on it (he knows that much, thank you!) is a startling shade of tangerine, with big blue dots. It is, perhaps, made for a small child’s bedroom.

“Absolutely not, fuck you.” Shane laughs. “And no, you’re not supposed to switch LED bulbs for incandescent.”

Ilya has zero clue what “incandescent” means and he is too afraid to find out.

“Okay, so we need 18 new lighting fixtures total, since Mom bought one for us that makes it a little easier. 17, since we have that one for the table. Obviously we need a theme.” Shane says, looking around the store seriously. “Are we going modern? Industrialist? Farmhouse? Probably not, but if we see something we like then what’s it really matter, right?”

“Hollander, just pick nice lamps. It’s not hard.”

“Says the asshole who brought home Debbie.”

He laughs, loud and carefree. “You liked her! I know you did! You are sad she is gone.”

“We should focus on the ceiling light in the foyer, the downstairs bathroom vanity, and new shades for the bar so Dad can replace them.” Shane says, pulling up an actual checklist in his notes app.

“You focus on that, I focus on finding new Debbie.”

Shane looks up from his phone, eyebrow quirked. “What does that mean?”

“Something… different. Not boring.”

“Oh, so all the lights I pick are boring?”
Ilya takes a long sip from his coffee. “I did not say as much.”

“You implied it.”

“Hollander, you are boring.”

Shane huffs. “Fine, you pick one then. For real, no joking.”

Ilya scans the aisle around them, hums, then leads his boyfriend into the next aisle. He pauses to inspect several (fine, in Shane’s opinion) options but shakes his head at them all. Finally, at the end of the aisle, Ilya points to a lamp that has a thin black base, and a metal black shade.

“There. So that you cannot break it.” Ilya’s lips tilt up one side. “Sturdy. Strong.”

“It’s…” Objectively okay. The light shines out the top and the bottom, for a more concentrated feel. A pair of them would look good on the bookshelf, he thinks. “You’re an asshole, first off. Secondly, I think it’s tacky.”

“You’re a lying lair who lies!” Ilya says, eyes wide. “You just don’t want me to win. You know this would look killer on the bookshelf.”

He ignores the use of the word “killer” in reference to a lamp. “It’s boring. I thought you didn’t like boring.”

Ilya frowns. “I love boring. I am committed to boring. Boring is safe, yes?”

“They’re… not bad.” Shane relents. Ilya places two in the basket hanging off his shoulder, feeling triumphant. “Three down. Bar lights next?”

He nods and dutifully follows Shane around as he hums and pinches his lips together in a stern little line as he studies the glass shades. There’s a set that looks identical to the previous ones, and a set similar but with a slightly more orange hue. Ilya personally does not think the difference will matter, they were good lights beforehand, but Shane doesn't appear to share his view.

“What do you think?” Shane asks, reaching for Ilya’s iced coffee and taking a sip, which Ilya considers a huge leap in PDA for them. He’s so thrilled by this casual declaration of their relationship that he won’t even give his boyfriend shit for stealing his coffee after he had explicitly told Ilya not to get him one. “These ones will be a little dimmer I imagine, do we want that?”
“Is your house, Hollander.”

Shane shoots him a flat look. “Yes but you spend just as much time in the kitchen as I do. I want you to like it too.”

“Hmm, I think the same will be fine then.”

His very adorable and not at all exasperating boyfriend nods, bites his lip, then picks up the box set of the more orange ones. “Overruleld, sorry.”

“Why am I even here?” He muses, taking the box and placing it in the basket.

“For looks.” Shane grins.

“Ah, I am your eye candy then?”

“Oh definitely.”

Ilya smiles and he’s aware of the fact they’re grinning at each other like a pair of giddy high schoolers but he can’t quite bring himself to care about what that could do to his public image.

“Okay, vanity next? I think those are in this same aisle?” Shane peers over his own shoulder, trying to see down the way they came.

They agree easily on the vanity light as the options that fit above the oval mirror are limited. Ilya points to a (regrettably LED) bar light that Ilya is pretty sure could be the exact one Shane had before but he never really studied that light fixture so he can’t be certain. Shane acts like it’s a groundbreaking discovery though, so he assumes his own memory might be faulty. It’s too long to fight in the basket, so Ilya is regulated to carrying it under one arm like a handyman. Shane steals his iced coffee to “help carry stuff”.

Finding a light for the foyer is much harder.

“No, too small.”

“What? No, it’s like, not?” Shane squints at the white glass dome he’s holding. “I’ve got the measurements, it’ll fit fine.”

“No, foyer requires excitement. Not boring white thing. You need…” He combs through all the English words he knows. “Pizazz.”

“Pizazz? How the fuck do you know pizazz? Who taught you pizazz?”

“Svetlana. So we could call you boring in more fun ways.”

Shane scowls. “Then what here has enough pizazz for you?”

“Not in this aisle.” Ilya says, promptly turning around and leading Shane away from the boring overhead light options and to the much more grand aisle of mini chandeliers.

“Ilya, no.” Shane says as Ilya waves his one free hand towards the display of chandeliers.

“Shane, yes. Foyer is entrance to house, welcome into home, it must be grand. To show your house is not boring.”

They have an intense staring contest amongst the chandeliers. Shining crystal and sparkling glass reflect little rainbows every which way around them as Ilya narrows his eyes and acts as though they are facing off on the ice. He traces his eyes down Shane’s face, making sure to lick his bottom lip as he admires his throat. He leans forward just a hair, still not comfortable getting too into Shane’s space in this store, and tilts his head like he might just kiss Shane’s jawline. Ilya smirks, quirking up an eyebrow as Shane’s cheeks turn pink and withdraws, knowing he’s won.

“Fine. But don’t make it ostentatious.”

“I don’t even know what that means.” Ilya says breezily, before tilting his head up to admire the options.

There’s so many choices, all great but perhaps too flashy for him to get Shane to agree to. He studies one that reminds him of a starburst, silver rods poking out in all directions with little round bulbs on the ends. He inspects it, considers it heavily, but ultimately moves on. For all his teasing, he knows Shane prefers safer, more conventional options and he would never seriously suggest something that would make him feel awkward.

He finds the perfect option after three more heavy considerations. It’s labeled as “industrialist” with one center point and four little cylinder shades sticking up from a black double bar. It’s understated, it’s classy, it’s basically boring. Even better, it’s not LED.

“This is the one.” He says, hefting the vanity bar up as he points. “Is excellent.”

Shane opens his mouth, presumably to argue, but then sighs. “It really is.”

He grins. “I know.”

Shane writes the number down on his phone and they head to find a shop assistant. They find a middle aged woman with greying hair and purple rhinestone glasses who definitely does not recognize them. She and Shane discuss delivery options for a while and Ilya tunes out. They’re stationed back by the lamp aisle and he’s still fixated on finding the perfect replacement for Debbie.

He squints into the brightly lit corridor, looking for something full of life, but finds nothing speaking to him. Nothing calls out, not even a little whisper of “hey, pick me!”. He frowns, disappointed. They’ll have to go to a fourth shop.

Pulling out his phone to scroll Instagram while Shane pays for the chandelier delivery, Ilya sees a message from Shane’s dad. Curious, he clicks in to find an ad for a local antique market. David’s captioned it “this is her right??” and Ilya has to give the ad a second look to see what he’s talking about.

Right there, in the corner of the advertisement photo, is Debbie.

Or at least a lamp that looks a hell of a lot like her.

Excitement flares through him like he’s on fire, burning through him. He needs to get Shane out of this shop and to this market immediately.

Shane turns back to him, saying something, but Ilya interrupts, filled with a panicked need to hurry.

“We need to leave. Now.”

“Why? What happened?”
Ilya thrusts the vanity light onto the counter and starts hastily unpacking the basket, much to the bewilderment of the woman. “We must leave, Shane. Is urgent. No time for questions.”

“Okay, okay. But you better explain in the car.” Shane says as the woman starts scanning boxes.

Ilya taps his foot impatiently as Shane pays, grabbing as many boxes as possible to carry out to the car. Shane grabs the vanity light and smiles at the shop assistant.

“Thank you so much.” He says.

“No problem boys!” She says happily.

Ilya is already out the door, fiddling in his back pocket for the keys to Shane’s boring Jeep.

“Ilya, slow down!”

“No! You hurry!” Ilya opens the back door, shoves all the breakable objects in with little care, and then scoops the last box from his very slow boyfriend’s arms.

“I’m driving.” Ilya announces, shutting the door.

“Ilya-”

“Get in!” He urges over the roof of the car.

Once they’re both seated, Shane puts his hand over Ilya’s as he grabs for the gear shift.

“What is wrong with you?” He demands.

“Your dad. He found Debbie.”

“What?”

Ilya tosses his phone into Shane’s lap. Shane unlocks it, it’s still open to the ad.

“Holy shit. It’s her.”

“Gimme address. We go now.”

Chapter 9: The Shop

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane enter the shop of wonders. Based off all the Maine antique stores I've been in... seems close enough to Canada.

Chapter Notes

They arrive at the antique market in a blur, pulling into the very first parking spot they find. Both of them nearly fall out of the Jeep in their haste, slamming the doors and fumbling with the key fob to lock it.

Shane pauses at the front door, hand on the metal handle and a look in his eyes like he’s about to take to the ice before a particularly tricky game. “She might not be here.”

“Maybe, but is best shot.”

“Let’s not get our hopes up?”

“Way too fucking late, Hollander.”

They both take a breath, and then Shane pulls open the door.

Inside the market is an overwhelming collection of stuff. Oddities from various decades spread out and displayed on just about every surface- including hanging from the ceiling. It smells like old wood and Ilya’s great grandmother’s cellar. There’s faint music playing, something folksy and soft.

There’s not a soul in sight.

There is, however, a full bear taxidermy greeting them with a little chalkboard sign that reads “Smile! You’re on camera!”. It’s wearing a jester’s hat, gold chain, and orange safety vest with a little nametag pinned on it that reads “Brutus” and it’s immediately endearing. Ilya loves everything about this shop instantly.

“Oh my God. We’re never going to find her.” Shane moans. “This place is a maze.”

Sure enough, there are six different paths branching out before them, each twisting and turning around glass cases and piles of items. He spots several wooden baseball bats, a set of antique snowshoes, a wicker basket overflowing with leather jackets that he bets smell musty and like old cigars, and a large, naked, porcelain baby doll.

“Split up?” Ilya suggests. “We need to find her before someone else comes in.”

“And get murdered?” Shane hisses, looking horrified. He interlocks their fingers. “No, we’re sticking together.”

“Okay, okay.” Ilya laughs. “Dramatic, no?”

“No.”

They start with the path on their immediate left, winding past sketches of old timey planes on yellowed paper, a collection of clocks marked with birds instead of numbers, cups covered in old cartoons that are probably painted with lead, a thousand teacups in ancient and creaking china cabinets, and a few swords.

“Show me the ad again. What was she near?”

Ilya pulls it up again, and they lean their heads together to study the photo.

“Look at that armchair she’s in? The wingback? It’s so large, surely we’ll see that first.” Shane says, standing on his tiptoes to try to peer over the stacks around them.

“And the fish?” Ilya zooms in on the wall behind Debbie, where a singing fish plaque is collecting dust. “Very noticeable.”

Shane nods, and Ilya leads him deeper into the stacks.

They come to a corner, turning away from a rack of seemingly handmade dresses and bonnets and towards a long bookshelf of crumbling paperbacks. There’s a green lamp sitting on a barrel, illuminating a little reading nook with a threadbare rug and two cracked green leather chairs. It’s quite charming, but not what they’re looking for.

Marching on, they pass a section of old basketballs and some absolutely outdated hockey helmets that nobody should wear to play unless they’re looking for a concussion. Shane actually pauses to pick one up, turning it over to admire it.

“This is pretty neat. I think this is from the forties. My mom would love this, don’t you think?”

Ilya nods. “I’m surprised she hasn’t started a hockey museum yet.”

“Should I get it?” Shane picks up a second one. “Oh, this one has initials.”

He leans over to read the letters etched into the soft brown leather. “Oh my God, Scott Hunter is even older than I imagined.”

“Fuck off, we have the same initals!” Shane cries, laughing so hard he has to bend over to breathe.

“Yes, but you are young and sexy and he is old and sad. Washed up, they say.”

“He is not!” Shane tucks the helmet under his arm, still smiling, and they venture on.

They make it back to Brutus, somehow having made a circle. They’ve come out the second path, and Ilya turns into the third.

They shuffle along, hands still tightly together, past an old teal refrigerator filled with glass Coke bottles full of Canadian pennies that no longer have any real monetary value. They pass a shelf of lamps, though they’re all little figurines that feel vaguely racist so they move past quickly. Ilya sort of feels like a pirate following a treasure map or an Egyptian tomb raider, hunting through history for that perfect relic.

And then, high above them on the wall they’re heading towards, they see it. The singing fish. Shane spots it first.

“The FISH!” He points over Ilya’s shoulder, voice loud and as excited as he gets. “We’re close!”

They hurry, as much as possible when stepping around stacks of old fashion magazines and piles of boots that probably once worked in a wood mill back in 1904, and make it to a wide opening in a new room. They scan the collection together until Shane lets go of Ilya’s hand to hunt around the right side of the room, looking between shelves before disappearing behind a fake Christmas tree covered in wooden ornaments.

Ilya goes left. He rounds a corner and comes face to face with a yellow embroidered wingback chair. He pauses, then opens the app again. It’s the same chair as the photo, but Debbie isn’t in it.

“Fuck!” He curses, spinning around. Maybe she’s just been moved? He paces up and down the small pathway, looking behind furniture, lifting rugs and dust cloths to peek underneath. She has to be here. It will crush Shane if they can’t find her.

He stumbles down a staircase lined with old license plates, into a mildew smelling cement basement. He spies a collection of typewriters and old rotary phones, clocks shaped like cats, and even a canoe hanging from the rafters, but no Debbie. There’s a doorway heading further down, and he moves through it, chest tight. He fingers his mother’s cross.

“Pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta. Mama, pozhaluysta pomogite mne.”

The song playing from a CD player set on a pool table in the middle of the room grows louder as he enters the room. The music plays comfortingly for a moment before the singer murmurs, “turn your lamps down low, keep the light so dim that you can’t see what’s out there ahead.”

He pauses, hand tight around his cross. Funny, a song with lamps at a time like this.

“My dear, there are secrets here.”

He looks, a little annoyed, at the CD player. He finds songs about secrets unsettle him, reminding him of a decade of hiding, of the sting of never being able to be more.

He jolts with surprise as he glares in the direction of the music.

“I will carry them home.”

There, behind the CD player, on the dusty cement floor, sits Debbie’s twin.

Ilya whirls around to call for Shane, but realizes he probably wouldn’t hear him and stops. He moves around the pool table and crouches to the floor, squatting down to inspect Debbie 2.0 closer.

She’s missing a bulb, has some questionable orange stains (possible tobacco juice?) on her shade, and a little chip in her orange flower pattern, but she looks just fine. She’s definitely the matching pair to Debbie.

He hauls her up into his arms, careful to wrap the cord around his hand so he doesn’t trip. Ilya looks back up the crowded stairs and narrows his eyes.

Challenge accepted.

No harm will come to this lamp before he can get it to Shane’s.

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, glancing back at the room.

“Spasibo, Mama.”

Chapter End Notes

The queen returns!!

Chapter 10: A Friend For Debbie

Chapter Summary

Shane finds a lamp.

Chapter Notes

Shane is having a no-good-very-bad time in this antique market.

He’s lost his boyfriend, he can’t find his lamp, he’s verging on a panic attack, and the only other form of life he’s seen in twenty minutes is a fucking fly struggling for life in a dusty windowsill.

Jabbing angrily at his phone screen, he tries a third time to call Ilya, only for it to ring itself to voicemail.

“Where are you? Did you lure me here to die? I swear if you’re sitting in the car laughing when I get out of here I’m cutting your balls off!”

A sudden, colossal crash comes from behind a bookshelf in front of him. He hangs up and pokes his head around the shelf to find an elderly woman with a bright white bob laying on the floor surrounded by books.

“Bonjour!” She says in a thick French accent, smiling up at him. “I didn’t hear you come in, you gave me a bit of a fright.”

Shane extends a hand to help her up, ever a kind Canadian, and smiles back, apologetic. “Sorry. I lost my… friend. We were looking for a lamp and got separated.”

She begins collecting books off the floor and stacking them on the shelf haphazardly. “We have a wonderful collection of lamps in the green room. Have you seen it?”

“Um, no.” He says, scooping up his own armful of books and placing them next to hers. “Could you guide me in that direction?”
“Of course!” She says brightly. “Follow me. Maybe we’ll bump into your friend on the way.” She winks at him at the end like she’s said a particularly funny quip.

He follows her through the stacks of antiques, she mumbles quietly to herself and every now and then puts a stray item in the pocket of her long denim dress. She’s wearing a flowered long shirt under it, and bizarrely, bright tangerine Converse.

They go up a set of stairs and she extends her arms as she enters the room. The walls are painted a violent shade of green, true to the name, but what really catches the eye is the hundreds of lamps plugged into a truly unsafe number of extension cords.

“See any you like?”

Debbie isn’t in the room, he sees that instantly.

“We were kind of looking for a specific lamp. It was super nice of you to help but-”

She cuts him off with a vibrant laugh. “No, no, you don’t come to the green room and pick. You come to the green room and experience.”

He does his best not to stare at her. “Um, okay?”

“Which lamp makes you feel? What one makes you think of your favorite memory?”

Too polite to run back down the stairs and wait for Ilya at the car, Shane spins around the room, giving it his all to look at each lamp.

There’s a golden one shaped like a pig, ones that look too modern to be here, one shaped like lanterns, ones with sand and seashells trapped inside.

And then, on a shelf perfectly at eye level, is the lamp.

Not Debbie, no, but the lamp.

It has a rainbow stained glass shade in all sorts of triangles and squares, casting colors onto the green wall behind it, an ornate twisting and flowering black metal base, and a truly captivating feel.

It reminds him, absurdly, of Ilya.

Not boring. Unique. Shining away with all its beauty, unable to be dimmed or ignored. It’s strong, yet soft, a careful balance between too much and not enough.

It’s Ilya’s blue eyes in the sun, it’s Ilya’s golden hair under arena lights, it’s Ilya’s skin flushed pink in the dim light of their room, it’s Ilya in every way that matters.

“That one.” He says reverently, reaching for it. “It’s perfect.”

“Ah, that’s Ira. She’s been here a very long time, waiting for someone to love her properly. Her former house was not kind, I fear.”

He smiles fondly. “You’ve named her Ira?”

“Oui. It’s a Russian name I believe. Would you like her?”

He looks back at the lamp. “Definitely.”

“Bien!” She cheers, and lifts it down off the shelf for him, unplugging it carefully. “I’ll carry her for you, it can be hard to see in here.”

She guides him back to the front of the shop, where Brutus waits cheerily. He’s paying for Ira when Ilya appears, carrying an identical match to Debbie.

“Holy shit.” He gasps.

“I found her.” Ilya grins, looking perhaps a little manic.

The woman peers around Ira to glance at what Ilya’s holding. “Oh! That old thing? Isn’t it just hideous?” Her accent drops the “h” off the word. “I moved it down to the basement because I figured it would never sell.”

“We’ll take it!” Shane says hurriedly. “We’ll even pay double.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you’re sure.”

“Very sure.” Ilya says, placing the treasured lamp down. He cocks his head at Ira. “What is this?”

“Our new lamp.” Shane says.

“That’s Ira. Your boyfriend here bought her.” The woman says, ringing up their second purchase.

“Ira?” Ilya asks softly.

“It’s Russian.” The woman explains, sliding Shane’s card.

“I know.” Ilya traces a finger over a blue triangle. “Short for Irina.”

“Is it?” The shopkeep smiles. “Imagine that.”

Shane looks back and forth between his boyfriend and the shopkeep, unsure if he should say something or if one of them will. The two just look at each other for a long enough time for it to be awkward for Shane.

“Well, um, we better be going. Thank you… I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.” Shane says.

“Not a problem, I’m always happy to help handsome men.” She slides her eyes from Ilya to Shane. “And my name’s Debbie.”

Chapter End Notes

Who could have foreseen her being named that omg??

Chapter 11: Piece of You, Piece of Me

Chapter Summary

Shane goes on a run, Ilya goes on a hunt, and Deb gets fixed up.

Chapter Notes

Sorry for anyone who got a notice earlier about a chapter going up- I uploaded the wrong one!

Ilya finds the piece of Original Debbie he’d saved two weeks after they bring Deb (they’d decided it was easier to call the new lamp Deb) and Ira home while he’s doing laundry at his house in Ottawa. No, he didn’t check his pockets before throwing his sweatpants in… he heard a continuous clinking noise coming from the dryer and went to investigate.

He holds the little triangle fragment up and tries to decide if it’s worth keeping. Something deep in his bones tells him it’s important, but he’s worried if Shane sees it he’ll get embarrassed or upset at Ilya having saved a part of the worst day of his life like some cute keepsake.

He shoves it in a definitely-old-and-totally-not-from-recently cigarette box and hides it in the deepest corner of his bedroom closet. 

Just in case.

Two months later, and they are cleaning up after a birthday party with the Pike family when Shane cuts himself on a chip in Deb’s porcelain.

“Motherfucker!” He curses, tucking his thumb into his fist as he pauses his chore of wiping suspiciously sticky substances off the shelf. “Deb bit me!”

“She is lamp.” Ilya rolls his eyes, continuing his own chore of scooping empty bottles into a trashbag for recycling. “You are just clumsy and trying to avoid cleaning.”

“She’s missing a piece! Since when? Did someone chip her last night?” Shane runs a pointer finger over the missing piece.

Ilya pauses, racking his memory. “No, she’s always had that I think.”

“Wrong.”

“Shane. I remember.”

“No, I would remember.”

Ilya comes over and studies the same little triangle chip in Deb that he recalls being there when he found her at the antique market. “No, same as I remember. She’s been like that since we brought her home.”

“Debbie wasn’t chipped.”

“Debbie was smashed into a million little pieces actually.”

Shane scowls at him. “A situation of circumstance.”

“Anyway, it is no matter. Deb has chip, Debbie didn’t, no big deal.” Ilya turns to go back to cleaning up when he has a sudden vision of a cigarette box in his closet. He looks back at Deb, studying.

“Whatever.” Shane says glumly. “Will you come bandage me up?”

“Ooh, you want me to play nurse? Will you need me to kiss it better too?” Ilya teases, just to see Shane’s face flush.

“No! Fuck you, asshole, I can do it myself!” Shane heads off towards the bathroom, pouting ever so slightly.

“No, let me come with!” Ilya laughs, chasing after his husband. “Don’t do sexy doctor stuff until I’m there!”

The next day Shane is on one of his stupid 4am runs when Ilya digs through his closet like a truffle pig.

He’s emptied all his shoe boxes out, rehung a few shirts that had fallen down, and even found a delightful old wool sweater of Shane’s that certainly could not have been balled up and thrown back here deliberately due to being “too itchy” by said man, but still cannot find it.

Ilya has his phone as a flashlight between his teeth as he roots around on all fours, starting to wonder if someone had thrown the box out thinking it was trash, when he hits gold.

Or, hits cardboard.

He scoots backwards with his prize, tumbling out of the closet and onto the bedroom floor as he pops it open and peers inside.

A little orange and white flowered triangle of Debbie sits perfectly unharmed by time.

He dumps it into his hand and practically scurries down to the living room to inspect Deb, flicking on Ira as he crosses the room. Ilya runs his finger along the cool surface until he hits the jagged missing piece.

A missing triangle.

Carefully, Ilya lines up the Deb piece with the Debbie base. It’s a near perfect fit, though the pattern is not quite aligned.

Ilya races to the kitchen, sliding on the floor in his socks, and roots around in the fridge for the small blue bottle of super glue. He pries off the cap with his teeth and hurries back to Deb.

He pries out the Debbie piece, puts a little smear of glue on each of the three sides, then ever so gently presses it back into place on Deb.

It holds. It looks nearly seamless.

“Oh my God.” He whispers, astounded. “Oh my God.”

The front door swings open and Shane enters the house, moving quietly as to not wake up what he thinks is a sleeping Ilya.

“SHANE!” Ilya shouts, launching himself up over the back of the couch and crashing down on the other side before practically skipping his way over to his boyfriend. “I fixed Deb!”

“Good morning to you too.” Shane laughs. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be mad- I had saved a piece of Debbie, found it under couch after she broke. I kept it and then forgot. Then remembered. The piece fits where you cut yourself yesterday. Near perfect match.” Ilya is tugging him by the hand, anxious to get Shane’s approval.

“Why the fuck would you save a piece of Debbie?”

“So I could someday fix Deb.” He dodges the real answer. “Look!”

Shane inspects Deb, running his finger over the piece. “Wow. It looks perfect.”

“I told you.”

“Well you also tell me that you’ve quit smoking.”

He squints. “I have.”

Shane hums. “Except for when you sneak down to the water at the cottage when I go get food from town.”

“How the- fuck you! You do not know that.”

Shane grins up at him. “I do. I also know you are very sweet for keeping a piece of a broken lamp. Thank you for fixing Deb. She… It means a lot to me.”

He can’t help it, he pulls Shane’s face to his and presses slow, heavy kisses along his jaw. “I know. You are welcome.”

Shane runs his chilly hands under the back of Ilya’s shirt. “How shall I thank you properly?”

He bites Shane’s ear, gently, teasing. He whispers, “All you think about is sex.”

“Are you complaining?” Shane presses his thigh between Ilya’s. “I could just take a shower by myself, then we can have breakfast. No sex required.”

“No! I fix lamp, you let me fuck you.” Ilya presses a quick kiss to Shane’s lips. “Now.”

They race up the stairs, Deb forgotten.

She shines away in the dark until they come back down, happy and carefree.

Chapter 12: Keep The Light On

Chapter Summary

Yuna sees Deb, sees her son happy, and knows it’s all going to be okay.

Chapter Notes

Hey! We made it! Final chapter!
Thank you for reading, thank you for loving Debbie.
Remember to keep your own light on :)

Shane hosts dinner for his parents and Ilya after the season ends. He buzzes around the kitchen, roasting veggies and braising chicken, having nearly forgotten the lamp experience entirely.

They have a relaxed dinner, Ilya poking fun at the Voyageurs while Shane tries to act like he isn’t laughing. His mom and dad make vague summer plans for them all, and his mom tells Ilya she’ll forward him some emails for a few brand deals she thinks have good potential.

“Anyone up for a game?” His dad asks as they finish up the dishes and Ilya uncorks a fresh bottle of wine. “I’m itching for a rematch in trivial pursuit.”

“Oooh yes!” His mom cheers, more than a little tipsy after maybe her fifth glass. “I want to be on Ilya’s team.”

“Mom!” Shane protests.

“No, no, I want to be on the winner’s team.” Ilya laughs. “You two boring people can be on a team.”

“Jokes on you two, me and Shane are smarter than both of you. We’re going to win easily.” David argues, topping off both his and Ilya’s vodka soda glass.

Ilya guides the family into the living room, chatting amicably with Shane’s mom as he flicks on Deb.

Shane turns on Ira, then pulls the game box off the bookshelf. He turns back around to find his parents staring at the lamps.

“It’s back.” Yuna says. “How?”

“Oh, no, that’s not Debbie.” Shane explains. “That’s Deb. We found a replacement. Dad sent us an ad and we were able to find her twin.”

“And… that one?” David asks, nodding his head toward Ira. “Seems out of your usual tastes.”

Ilya and him meet each other’s gaze, neither quite sure what to say.

“That’s Ira. We found her at the same antique market.”

“Do you name all your lamps?” His mother asks, looking a little fearful. “Is this because we isolated you too much as a child?”

“No! No, Ira came pre-named. I thought she was… pretty.”

“Shane says it reminds him of me.” Ilya grins, far too pleased with such a statement.

His face flares with heat. “Shut up! No it does not!”

“Yes, tell them how she told you it had Russian name and you needed to buy it.” He smirks.

“Whatever.” Shane huffs. “Maybe.”

“Well they are certainly statement pieces.” David laughs. “Try not to smash these ones, eh?”

Shane groans. “That was one time! Extraordinary conditions!”

Later, when Ilya’s helping David bring leftovers to the car, his mother pulls him in tight for a hug. “I’m glad you got your light back.”

“It’s just a lamp, mom. Don’t make it into a big deal.”

“No.” She says softly, pulling back to look him in the eye. “It’s really so much more than that.”

Chapter End Notes

The vaguely mentioned loon lamp will return in a separate fic! Be on the lookout!