Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog, Irina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Japanese-Canadian Shane Hollander, Wasian Shane Hollander, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Feels, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Grief/Mourning, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Lunar New Year, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Inspired by Heated Rivalry (TV), Written after Heated Rivalry (TV), Svetlana is based off of Heated Rivalry (TV) Svetlana not Game Changers (Book) Svetlana, Autistic Shane Hollander, Grounding, Tactile, physical touch, Allusions to Irina Rozanova, Dead Irina Rozanova, Mentioned Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Mentioned Grigori Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Misses Irina Rozanova

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Shane Being Asian

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-03 Words: 2,298 Chapters: 1/1

Memorial Tablets, Scarves, and Silence

Summary

It's Lunar New Year and Shane wants to honor everyone that has passed in his life that helped make it what it is today.

Or, Shane puts something that reminds Ilya of Irina on his altar to honor her too.

Notes

Minor Spoilers for: The Long Game and Post Heated Rivalry (TV) canon
TW: Grief, hints at emotional abuse and homophobia

Very belated Chinese/Lunar New Year to all those who celebrate! The premise for this fic has been rolling around in my brain for a bit and I decided I wanted to do something for new years so here it is!

I am not Japanese or Canadian and not someone who personally owns a butsudan so if I got anything wrong please let me know and I will rewrite it asap! I am also not Russian so if there is something that is incorrectly following Russian Orthodox tradition please let me know and I will rectify it as well.

It was beta'ed by two friends of mine, so if you're reading this you know who you are!! Thank you again!! That being said, please enjoy!

Shane is always up early but Ilya could feel the difference in the air’s weight. Even for him it was a quiet morning. Nail clicks from Anya on their hardwood floors, the only thing breaking through the long extended silences, and even those slow and eventually stop. His eyes open gently, the warm morning light streaming in from their shared home’s window in Ottawa.

An arm reaches over to his husband’s side hoping to hit a warm body even though he doesn’t feel the heat in the air close to him. A grumpy sigh escapes him as he hits the fabric and it is already cold. He pulls his arm from the left side of the bed and untangles himself from the sheets. Standing up, slipping on underwear and lazy sweats, then pading his way downstairs, passing an uncharacteristically open drawer on the way.

The cool wood of the railing grounds him from slipping back into sleep. Slow moving and still groggy the scent takes a moment to register. The familiar warm, woody smell with an edge of complexity smoothed over by a certain creaminess as an undercurrent, Shane’s usual incense. The back of his hand attempts to banish the sleep from the corners of his eyes with an aggressive rub as his mouth opens and releases into a yawn.

Hitting the bottom of the stairs, the temperature dips slightly. There is a gentle breeze and coolness, only kept at bay by his sweats. Blinking away tired tears, Ilya is finally able to see catch his first glance of Shane who is sitting on his knees in front of a small black and gold cabinet-like altar, a butsudan.

An ornate bowl sits on the bottom shelf and is filled mostly with sand. Three sticks of incense are standing in the center of the bowl, they release gentle curls of smoke into the air as Shane sits quietly with his eyes closed. The usual bell and two small platforms for food are one tier above, where one holds oranges on it and the other has what he now recognizes as mochi. In the middle of the entire back of the cabinet-like altar is a small intricately painted wall scroll of the Buddha. Just below it on the highest tier, the two usual memorial tablets stand to the left of the wall scroll. But there is also a new addition, another platform. And that, is what jolts Ilya wholly out of the last vestiges of sleep. Across from the two memorial tablets, to the right of the Buddha, a feather light black scarf of the highest quality sits atop the last butsudan platform.

His breath catches in his throat. Shane, now alerted to his presence, opens his eyes slowly and looks groggily over his shoulder, his mind still emerging from wherever it settles while incense is burning. Soft brown eyes look up at him still weighed down by sleep, his voice coming out low and drowsy, “Mmmorning.”

But even through the haziness Shane sees something is going on, his eyes narrowing as Ilya stands there frozen in place, unsure if he is even breathing. Nervousness immediately radiates from Shane as he is scrambling to his feet to get over to Ilya. All the other man can do is stare. Eyes fixated on the scarf sitting on the altar. Shane gently grasps one of Ilya’s hands rubbing slow circles on back of his hand.

“What’s going on in there Ilya?” Shane asks, giving an exceedingly gently tap on the man’s temple with his other hand.

Ilya forces himself to swallow, eyes beginning to prickle with tears. Shane had explained it to him a few times. How he was taught grief has a physical place, that acknowledging it helped, how there was a special festival in August, but also how New Years meant it was a good time to leave offerings for ancestors as well. That his grandparents and parents celebrated in line with the Gregorian calendar and the Lunar one, the latter being odd for most Japanese people. Ilya had had a physical space but it never felt right. The gravestone not done to his standards. How it felt woefully inconsequential for someone who brought so much light to his life.

Simple, plain, that wasn’t his mother. The stone felt barren, uninspired, if he dare say it. That wasn’t his memory of her, not even close. His memory was: a mink coat, never a hair out of place, refined, elegant, graceful, gentle, light, even when weighed down by something. The same thing that weighted him down, the thing that brought her to Earth, and eventually beneath it.

So, when he saw Ulyana Sergeenko’s 2013 Spring Collection, and the wisping black, patterned and transparent scarf, he knew he needed it. He should have saved the money, he knew Alexei would demanded it and then he did. But none of that mattered after he had it in his hands. He had pulled a few strings less than gently and implied other things as he was still being a resident menace. Once he had a hold of it though, he had no regrets whatsoever. All he wanted was the scarf, and now he had it. Sveta did not push on this. She did not push much at all, since she knew he wouldn’t let her into certain places, certain feelings, at that time at least. Yet, when she handed him the box that summer, something was in her eyes too. Something he rarely saw from her, a deep sadness. Not as deep as his own but.. she knew what the scarf was for.

The scarf sat untouched in its box, carefully hidden among his mess of clothes. That way in the event his father or Alexei dropped by they wouldn’t find it. They rarely did anyways. He did his best not to rouse their suspicion in those days, to not provide more evidence than they already had.

It wasn’t until he was flying back to Boston that the box moved out from under some undershirts and underwear. He tucked it safely in between dress shirts and casual clothes to not damage it. The knowledge it was there seared in his brain the entire flight. He had put the box in his carry-on just to make sure that there was no way it could become lost. Finally, after the usual travel day from hell, his carry-on was opened. He shoved his clothes aside and an elegant box stared back at him. He focused on his breathing, instinctively touched his orthodoxy cross and then his nose. He reached out and with feather light touch, slid the lid off. It lay there silently, nothing but weft, warp, and air. Yet it broke him. He collapsed into himself, hands gripping the carpet for purchase, tears freely flowing, unable to constrain it. Not when he finally had something that reminded him of her.

Maybe that grave feeling impersonal was a blessing in disguise, a final motherly gift to spare him from spending time agonizing there. Then, he suddenly had something that could remind him of her wherever he went. But it stayed in a drawer carefully out of sight most of the time. He took special care to put it in his carry-on once again when he had moved to Ottawa. There was a lot that had happened since moving, that for the first time in a long time, he had forgotten about it. Just slightly, just for a moment.

Now though, with it in a place of reverence, respect, and care, it all came flooding back. At that moment he was very thankful life had blessed him with the best hockey player in the league—who had absurdly fast reaction time, the hockey IQ of a god, and a body to match—as his husband, because Ilya Rozanov collapsed from the weight of his emotions, thoughts, and feelings. And his husband caught him instantly. Shane guided them to the floor as Ilya’s vision became nothing more than swimming blotches of color and he gripped onto him like he was the only lifeline in an endless wine dark sea. Since, in a sense, he was. Shane was the only person Ilya could come apart in front of ever since that fateful night in Tampa. He knew he could fall apart and be held together by Shane Hollander and that Shane Hollander would never let go until he knew Ilya was stable or on a plan to get there.

It still took a constant agonizing effort to shut out the voices of his father, his brother, and others ringing around in his head that he was weak for this. Weak for needing another person. But when they were both so strong, so in love, and so right together, those voices rung hollow instead of forceful.

He held his husband tight as Shane rocked them back and forth. It always helped. The motion helped the both of them. It helped Shane when he got overwhelmed and it helped Ilya when everything became too much. He buried his face into the crook of Shane’s shoulder surely drenching it as he sobbed heaving cries into the other man. Shane simply held him, gently comforting Ilya with words and the repeated motion the both of them were accustomed to.

At a certain point he stopped. It had went on for a long time he knew that, but Ilya felt so emotionally wrung out he couldn’t even grasp the mental space to parse time. He stayed in the crook of Shane’s neck, the tears cooling to a chill on his face and most certainly on Shane’s shoulder but Shane didn’t pull them apart. He waited quietly, rubbing circles on Ilya’s back. He let Ilya be the one to initiate the separation which he eventually did. Ilya still had a small amount of energy, pulling his hand from where it was still holding Shane’s back and taking the man’s chin in his hand instead, Ilya shakes it a little and makes a scrunched face before placing a kiss on Shane’s forehead, “So dangerous, kotik, you know exactly how to get to me.”

Shane let out a choked laugh, “Well I am glad you aren’t mad.”

“How could I ever be mad?”

“I took the scarf out without your permission. I’m sorry,” Shane blurts out quickly. “I wasn’t thinking. You had mentioned it once or twice, that it was the only thing besides your necklace that reminded you of her.” His hands stretch out and then relax, then they do it again as he tries to find what he wants to say, looking down at his lap even though he cant see it through Ilya’s palm. “I felt it was necessary to pay my respects to her too,” Shane whispers. “You wouldn’t exist without her, like I wouldn’t exist without them,” he says gesturing to memorial tablets with his shoulder as he looks up at them and then back at Ilya.

Ilya nods, releasing Shane’s chin and wiping a few more tears forming in his eyes, “I could not be mad at that.” He says trailing off, “I was.. surprised. That is all.”

Shane looks away again, nodding, “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense. Do you..?”

“No,” Ilya replies quickly, “I think she would appreciate this,” a small smile spreads across his face. Shane recognizes it immediately and he is already rolling his eyes before the words fall from Ilya’s lips, “But I think she would have wanted to meet Yuna first, given they are closer in age than the two she’s sharing a space with.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off Rozanov,” Shane says elbowing his husband gently.

“What?” he says feigning ignorance, “I am just making an observation,” Ilya retorts and Shane is rolling his eyes again.

Shane pulls him close again by Ilya’s hips and connects their foreheads together, “I am glad though. This feels nice.”

“Yeah it does,” Ilya replies, sliding his head to the side and sinking into a hug with Shane.

They stay like that for a few more moments before breaking apart, this time initiated by Shane. He gets up, grasping Ilya’s hand and moves to be in front of the butsudan again, though more off to the side. He pulls another kneeling pillow from somewhere and slides it next to him where Ilya sits down as well. The previous sticks of incense have since run out and Shane reaches forward to light three more, settling them amongst the sand and ash, evenly spaced and carefully grouped together. He assumes the same pose from earlier and Ilya does the same. Using the box breathing Glaina taught him he relaxes, since he notices it does a similar thing to what Shane describes meditation does for him.

They sit together, their sides brushing against each other, breathing controlled but easy, with the warm, comforting, and complex wooden scent permeating the air once again. And tension Ilya didn’t even know he was harboring begins to fall away, his body easing its grip on something. He sits with his husband, more unraveled and undone than ever, but also more at peace. Probably more at peace than he’s ever been and Ilya can be glad that he has someone that has helped shape him into the person he is now, and that he had done the same for Shane. They got to wake up everyday and choose each other, play hockey with each other, and exist with each other. The people that helped create and raise them into the people they were now may never have gotten to see this version of them, but maybe in some small way, they would be proud of the two people sitting in front of them now, and maybe that was enough.