Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Yuna Hollander, Jackie Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, Sergei Vetrov, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Bad Friend Hayden Pike, Good Friend Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Outing, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), Ilya Rozanov in Russia, Morally Ambiguous Character, Alexei Rozanov contains multitudes, he's still kind of an asshole though, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective Shane Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending, for almost everyone, Slurs, probably should have added that one earlier, playing fast and loose with the geography of Moscow probably, when it comes to hockey contracts and immigration, i can be accurate or i can make the story interesting, i went with interesting

Language:

English

Collections:

Game Changers Library's Prompt Fest

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-19 Completed: 2026-10-06 Words: 38,564 Chapters: 7/7

Bad Cop

Summary

Hayden is a good friend. The best, probably.

Sometimes good friends have to do bad things, to protect the people they love.

Or,

What if the fanmail leak wasn't an accident?

Notes

Y'all ever add an author's note to a story after you've already posted 6/7 chapters? Me neither. Anyway:

This story takes place in July 2021, after the end of TLG, however it diverges from canon after Boxing Day, 2020. Several canon events (specifically the ones involving planes, electric candles, Hayden's stupid dumb face, Roger Crowell, and a lack of chairs) either don't happen or happen differently here. Otherwise, you can assume the first half of 2021 plays out roughly how it does in TLG.

This story evolved so much from how I initially planned to write it (and improved enormously, in my opinion), partly thanks to the wonderful folks in the comments and on the Game Changers Library discord. I hope you enjoy it, because it has been an absolute delight to write. <3

Chapter 1: 35 Seconds to Impact

At the end of the day, the existence of the video had been a genuine accident. This is the only comfort he can offer himself himself months later, when it's far too late to matter, as he tries to fall asleep. He whispers the half-truth to himself in the quiet moments when he finds he can no longer outrun his guilt and shame.

Hayden hadn't meant to capture Shane, arms wrapped around Rozanov's waist, kissing him slowly, tenderly, in a way that would be impossible to explain away, while Hayden rambled on in the foreground about Brad and his birthday.

Of course he hadn't meant to record them. He had no idea they were even there.

Hayden always watches his fanmails back before he sends them— he learned that lesson months ago, after he'd sent off a video only for Jackie to point out several minutes later that he had a smear of mustard on his jawline, somehow— at least, he had told himself with grim determination that it was mustard, even though he hadn't eaten anything with mustard that day, because the only alternative was that it was baby poop, and Amber's diapers were rancid enough to be considered some sort of biological weapon prohibited by the Geneva Convention.

So, when he watched back over the video and saw his friend and his friend's shitty boyfriend making out, he obviously didn't send it. He rerecorded the video, in an empty room with no mirrors and the curtains firmly shut. He watched it twice to make sure it was safe to send out, because Hayden is a good friend to Shane.

Really! He is a good friend! Hayden took Shane under his wing during rookie season, when the rest of the team was happy to treat him like a finely tuned hockey machine that got trotted out for games, and stashed neatly away in a closet somewhere once the media appearances were done.

A closet— heh. Maybe the team had been onto something there, after all.

Hayden has kept up the friendship over years, inviting Shane into his life, his home, his family, basically! His kids call him Uncle Shane, for fuck's sake.

He'd tried to set Shane up with girls— hot girls, Jackie's friends from outside the WAG circle. And finally, when Shane came out him and JJ, Hayden wasn't even pissed that Shane hadn't told him sooner. Did he wish Shane had felt comfortable enough to tell him before he'd spent years trying to play wingman? Of course, but it's fine! It's totally fine. Hayden is an ally, and Shane is his best friend.

He's such a good fucking friend that he doesn't even complain that much about Rozanov. He mostly keeps his mouth shut, keeps the worst of it inside his head— or at least, out of Shane's earshot.

It's just… this is what Shane does; Hayden has watched him do it over and over again for almost nine years. He lets people take too much while giving him too little, lets people take him for granted while he thanks them for the opportunity. As if he weren't the greatest player in the league. As if he weren't the one guy on the team that could always be counted on, for anything. As if he weren't the best fucking friend a guy could have, his unflinching stubbornness translating effortlessly into loyalty.

And now Rozanov was just another name on that list— another greedy, manipulative asshole, looking to get something out of Shane, looking to use him for his own benefit or entertainment. Hayden was sure he'd take and take and take until he had his fill, and then he'd move on.

If anyone could take, it was Rozanov. The man was insatiable. He partied too much, he fucked too much, ran his mouth too much, fought too much. He was too good at hockey, and too loud about it. He bought obnoxious cars and wore obnoxious clothes and he lived as if he were collecting a debt owed to him by life itself. When he wanted anything, he just took it— sex, hockey, violence, alcohol, luxury, status, controversy. He sought it out and flaunted it for the world to see as he consumed it, before discarding the leftovers thoughtlessly when they were no longer shiny and interesting.

So, yeah, of course Hayden didn't like the guy. He didn't trust him. He was terrified of the disaster Rozanov would leave in his wake one of these days, sure that the mangled corpse of his best friend would be just one more bit of the wreckage.

And yes, when he watched the video— one that showed Rozanov undeniably kissing another man, who was undeniably Shane Hollander, maybe he saw some potential value in that. Leverage. A way to protect Shane. And maybe that's why his thumb slipped, somehow saving the video to a locked folder instead of deleting it like he meant to.

"Shit," Hayden mutters under his breath as his phone clatters to the floor with a noise that makes him wince. It had, until a moment ago, been wedged precariously between his shoulder and left ear, because Hayden's hands are full. On his right hip is Amber, chewing on a teething bisuit and leaving a smear of drool and soggy crumbs across the shoulder of his t-shirt. Jade stands in front of him expectantly, having just shoved a malfunctioning iPad into his hands for assistance, while Arthur repeatedly drives a toy truck into the side of Hayden's foot. Ruby, bless her, is sprawled upside down on the sofa, uncombed hair pooling on the floor beneath her, while she sings along to Disney's Moana with the kind of heartfelt passion and volume rarely seen outside of team karaoke nights, when Miitka has had one too many and starts getting homesick.

He awkwardly transfers the iPad into his left hand and bends to scoop up his phone, glancing towards the stairs as he straightens. It's 8:37 AM, and Jackie, bless her, is enjoying a rare opportunity to sleep in.

"Sorry, man, I've got the whole crew with me right now, things are a little crazy," he says apologetically into the phone. "I don't know how the hell Jacks manages this chaos every day."

"Swear jar," says the amused voice through the phone, and Hayden rolls his eyes.

"Come on, Shane, how bad of a swear can it be if they say it in church?" he protests.

"Fine, you only have to put in a loonie for that one," laughs Shane as Hayden wanders into the kitchen and sets the misbehaving iPad on the counter. He sets his phone down next to it, hits the speaker button, and begins troubleshooting as Jade hovers behind him impatiently.

"Yeah, yeah. So what's up, man? You're on speaker, by the way," he says, frowning at the settings menu.

"Just checking in, seeing how you're doing. I'll be back in Montreal on Monday for an ad shoot but I was thinking I'd stay an extra day or two."

Shane continues talking, and Hayden loves the guy but he can't help but let his attention drift as he tries to figure out what Jade's problem is. He turns to her, and she stage whispers, "It won't let me play the game!"

Very helpful. Hayden taps various submenus at random, looking for anything with big giant red exclamation marks or lightning bolts or anything else that might signal an obvious problem. Shane continues to talk, and Hayden continues to encourage him with the occasional "mhm" or "oh, yeah?"

After a few minutes, he realizes, completely by accident, that the iPad storage is at 99%, which makes sense, considering that he'd scrolled through what felt like 10 or 15 pages of apps at one point in his odyssey this morning. With the slightest roll of his eyes, he begins deleting children's games from the tablet.

"That's awesome man," he says, tuning back into the conversation as he taps, deletes, repeats. "So you'll be back in town! Come over for dinner, yeah? Jackie and the kids have been asking after you."

"Is Uncle Shane coming for dinner?" asks Jade, somehow appearing only a few inches from his ear, loud enough to make Hayden flinch.

Hayden has never stood on a beach and watched helplessly as a tsunami rushes towards the shore, deadly and inevitable, but as all four of his children stop what they're doing to turn their full attention on him, he thinks he has an idea of what sort of dread one might feel in such a moment.

"Uh," he says, before being struck with inspiration, "Yes, he is! And the house is a mess! Quick, kids, go clean up your toys so we'll be ready for him!"

The ploy works, as the three older kids excitedly spring into action. Even Amber struggles to join in the fun, and Hayden sets her down to toddle off excitedly after her siblings. Later, after Jackie has woken up and can back him up, he'll explain that he didn't mean Uncle Shane was visiting today.

"Nice," he hears, as he picks up the phone and turns the speaker off, bringing it back to his ear. "You're bribing your kids to clean up by promising them a visit from me?"

"Well, now you'll just have to follow through, or else you'll make both of us look bad," quips Hayden. There's a laugh on the other end.

"Daddy?" asks Ruby, dancing into the kitchen, "Is Uncle Ilya coming too?"

Hayden makes a face that he hopes is an acceptable approximation of a smile. "I don't know, hun, I'll ask." Into the phone, he says unenthusiastically, "Will Ilya be tagging along?"

"Oh, no, not this time," says Shane awkwardly. Hayden knows he shouldn't, but he can't help but feel relief at that. He keeps most of his attention on the iPad, in a groove now, as he half-listens to Shane talk about Rozanov.

Fucking Rozanov.

Lately, it feels like all Shane thinks about, all he talks about, is Rozanov. Everything all the time is Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. Even right now, over the phone, Shane is more animated, more enthusastic when talking about Rozanov than he's been the entire conversation. It's like he's obsessed, or something, it's disgusting. Not the gay thing! Of course not the gay thing. Hayden knows gay people— Jackie's cousin is gay, they see him and his husband at family gatherings, they're cool! Jackie watches Queer Eye and those guys seem great! Why couldn't Shane date someone like that?

That's not a bad idea, actually. Maybe he should try to get him on the show? Hell, considering Shane's haircut looks like it costs $12 and his entire wardrobe is sponsored by Reebok and Under Armor, Shane could probably stand to be on Queer Eye, even if he doesn't get a new boyfriend out of it.

"Hayd?" Hayden blinks, realizes that he's completely zoned out. He only manages to feel a little guilty— it's not like he cares about what's going on with Rozanov. Shane will probably tell him again when he sees him next week, anyway.

"Hey, sorry, man. Just the kids, I'm kind of distracted, you know?" he offers as an excuse. Shane seems to accept it.

"No problem, I'm about to start my workout anyway. I'll text you about next week though, yeah?"

"Sure thing," Hayden promises, and hangs up the phone. Well, at least he knows he'll get a few Rozanov-free hours with Shane soon, just like the good old times.

"How long will you be in town for?" asks Jackie on Monday evening as she passes Shane a generously filled platter of grilled chicken and veggie kabobs. He accepts it with a grateful nod and serves himself.

"I'll probably head back Wednesday morning," he says as he places two kabobs on his plate, hesitating before adding a third. "These shoots go long sometimes, and I might not be up for the drive back afterwards."

"Do you have to go back so soon?" asks Hayden, hating the slight whine he hears in his own voice. He takes a quick sip of beer and tries again. "I mean, you're like a ghost during the offseason! It's the only time of year when we can actually relax and you're never around." Jackie shoots him a look, and he takes a big bite of chicken to avoid meeting her eyes.

Guilt crosses Shane's face and Hayden could kick himself. He's not trying to make Shane feel bad— fuck, he's bad with his words sometimes.

"What Hayden means is that we're always so happy to see you," supplies Jackie, following the remark up with a look of mild exasperation in his direction.

Shane gives him an embarassed smile. "Yeah— yeah, sorry about that. I guess I just kind of like to unplug over the summer, you know? And—" he shrugs, letting his gaze fall to his plate as he pokes idly at a piece of chicken, "it's not like Ilya and I can be seen together around here. The cottage is really the only place in the world where we can just be a normal couple, you know?"

Hayden chews the bite of chicken that has become suddenly dry in his mouth. Another swig of beer helps to wash it down, and saves him from having to come up with some sort of sympathetic response. Jackie, wonderful woman that she is, swoops in to save him again.

"Of course," she murmurs, "I can understand how you'd want to get as much time together as possible during the offseason."

"Yeah, exactly," says Shane, and Hayden might be imagining things, but he's pretty sure Shane is avoiding his eyes.

"Well, let's go out tonight then, yeah?" Hayden suggests hopefully. The proposal, inelegant as it was, had actually been part of his plan for the evening all along. JJ's birthday was on Friday, and Hayden had managed to convince a handful of the guys to meet up later.

"Oh, I don't know—"

"Shane! Come on, buddy, it's JJ's birthday," implores Hayden, no longer caring if he sounds desperate. "You've literally never been to one of his birthdays. Don't you think you owe him?"

If Shane had looked guilty before, now he looks downright abashed, and Hayden knows he has won.

Shane sighs. "Alright, fine, but I can't be out late. I have to be out the door by 7:30 tomorrow morning."

"Yes! Awesome, that's great, buddy," says Hayden with a smile. "He'll be psyched to see you."

Shane smiles reluctantly. "I'm serious, Hayd, I'll have, like, two drinks and then I'm heading home. Rolex isn't going to appreciate it if I show up looking like shi—" Shane catches himself with a sideways glance at Arthur, who sits next to him, looking up at Shane with patient curiosity, "—uh, like I didn't sleep well," he finishes awkwardly.

"No need to worry," reassures Hayden. "Hey, you come out tonight, and I'll kick you out myself after two drinks, deal?"

"Deal," grins Shane.

The bar is loud; the staccato of voices tripping over each other layered over the undercurrent of some pop single Shane is pretty sure he's heard before. It's a nice enough bar, all things considered; his shoes don't stick to the floor with every step, the two pool tables at the back are in good condition, and the menu boasts a selection of small plates that look, frankly, delicious while still mostly fitting the criteria of Shane's diet plan, but Shane can't quite bring himself to appreciate any of that at the moment.

"Come on, man, it's not even midnight," complains Hayden, already halfway drunk. "You never come out, and it's the off season! One late night isn't going to kill you!"

"Hayden, I told you. I've got an early start tomorrow," Shane says, his patience fraying. He's been having this conversation for the better part of twenty minutes. Probably, he should have just snuck out and texted a goodbye from the safety of his own apartment.

"Hey, Hollander!" JJ's voice cuts through the background noise of the bar, as he approaches, giving Shane a playful clap on the shoulder. "Your drink is looking empty! Time for another round?"

Shane smiles stiffly. "Sorry, JJ, I was just telling Hayden— I have a shoot tomorrow, early. I really need to head home."

Hayden looks at JJ imploringly. "Help me convince him!"

JJ laughs. "Ah, you're on your own, man! I know better than to stand between Hollander and his bedtime routine."

"Happy Birthday JJ, it was good seeing you." Shane is grateful to not find himself outnumbered, and his shoulders release some of their tension. "I'll let you know when I'm back in town, okay?"

Hayden rolls his eyes, and maybe it's the two Moscow mules Shane had over the course of the evening, but he snaps. "Dude, what the fuck is your problem tonight?"

The jovial smile falls off JJ's face as he turns to look at Hayden, who now is glaring at Shane, affronted.

"My problem? Jeez, I'm so sorry I wanted to hang out with my best friend for a few hours," Hayden sputters. "You're never around anymore, maybe I miss spending time with you, asshole."

"Hayden, we spend, like, nine months of the year together," Shane counters. "And I was here for over a week at the beginning of the month for the camp—"

"Oh fuck off, don't act like it's not different now," Hayden says, before looking embarrassed.

Shane scoffs, properly confused now. "Different?"

"Hey, guys, lets—" starts JJ awkwardly as his eyes dart back and forth between them.

"Yeah, different, now that Lily is always around," snapped Hayden, ignoring JJ, "And even when you're finally here by yourself, you're being weird and distant, like you don't even want to be here."

"Wow." Shane's temper flares so suddenly that it almost knocks him off balance. "Are you fucking serious right now, Hayden?"

JJ steps between them now, speaking in a placating tone. In some distant part of his mind, Shane knows he should take a deep breath, apologize to JJ for causing a scene at his party.

"Hayden, buddy, let's take a break, get some water, yeah? No reason to be talking about, uh, anyone, right?" He wraps an arm around Hayden's shoulders, determined not to let the mood of the evening be fully soured by Hayden's rudeness, and steers him towards the bar. As they retreat, JJ casts Shane an apologetic look over his shoulder. Shane nods curtly, and turns towards the door without another word.

The bar isn't far from Shane's apartment, and the night is pleasant, so he decides to walk rather than wait around for a car. He needs the movement anyway. The confrontation with Hayden runs through his head again as a confusing mix of emotions curdle in his stomach.

He feels hot, tense, shaky, embarrassed. Shane's heart beats uncomfortably fast, and he exhales a shaky breath, trying to calm himself.

He knows Hayden and Ilya don't get along, and while he hates it, he can't exactly force them to like each other. He has tried to be patient and understanding. After that first disastrous dinner he had recalibrated, changed his strategy, rebuilt the walls between these parts of his life, feeling stupid for thinking he could lower them in the first place.

It hadn't helped, not really. He'd made the most important person in his life as small and unobtrusive as he could, making himself smaller in the process too, and it still wasn't enough.

Shane starts to feel something else, something cold and heavy that makes him slightly nauseous, and he forces himself to think about something else.

Shane reaches his apartment building with his fists still clenched and a sharp stinging in the back of his throat that he's determined to push down until it disappears.

Fuck, he wants Ilya. He pulls out his phone, ready to call him, but he doesn't. Not now. Ilya's got enough to think about right now, he doesn't need to hear Shane complain about his asshole friend.

Instead, he opens their text conversation and sends off a quick text: Home from the bar. Heading to bed. I miss you.

Almost immediately he gets a response: I miss you too. Was a good night?

It was fine. Can I call you in the morning?

Of course. Go get your beauty sleep so you earn one million dollars selling fancy watches so you can buy your wonderful boyfriend a Porsche.

Shane smiles, already feeling the tension begin to melt away from a few brief messages. Asshole.

You love me.

Yeah, I really do.

I love you too <3. Sleep well.

Somehow, in a haze of alcohol and stormy feelings, Hayden had stumbled his way into the back room that functioned superficially as a home office sometime after 1:00 am.

He sits slumped in front of his laptop now, scowling as that video plays on a soundless loop. He watches his own stupid face, sending manufactured well wishes to a complete stranger as his best friend lets himself be manhandled in the background.

Why the fuck had he saved it, anyway? Blackmail, he supposes; some naive fantasy that he'd be able to corner Rozanov alone, show him the video, and demand that he end things permanently with Shane. It's a preposterous idea, really, to think that Rozanov wouldn't just wrestle the laptop away from him, delete the video, and punch out a few of Hayden's teeth for good measure. And Shane— poor gullible, lovesick Shane, would probably take the bastard's side.

An idea floats to the surface from somewhere deep in the murky depths of his mind. On instinct, he starts to brush it away without even examining it… but.

But.

He remembers Shane's face, earlier. All night, really, avoiding Hayden's gaze, getting weird anytime Rozanov came up in conversation, until he got properly angry. Hayden knew he'd pushed too far, he definitely shouldn't have started things in public, although he hadn't started it, not really, Shane was the one—

Shane, who never used to start fights, who never lost his temper. Not until now, not until Rozanov.

That right there was the problem: Rozanov had changed Shane. He'd burrowed under Shane's skin, slowly, imperceptibly at first, festering and spreading over years, apparently, until he had his roots coiled around Shane's heart. And Shane, desperate to be seen, loved, understood, had let him.

In a split second, the decision is made. Hayden opens a new browser window.

Shane can't, or won't, see the danger he is in. He won't listen to reason. Well, Hayden is no stranger to that. He has four kids, after all; he's used to playing the part of bad cop when Arthur doesn't want to wash his hair or Jade refuses to eat her broccoli.

He navigates to Reddit. Creates a throwaway account.

If Shane won't do what's good for him, Hayden will.

The r/MLHunofficial subreddit is open in front of him. 171K weekly visitors.

He can still stop. He can click away from the window. He can delete the video, go to sleep, pretend none of this ever happened. But Shane is his best friend, and Hayden is going to do what it takes to keep him safe.

Three clicks, a handful of words typed, and it's done. The alcohol numbs whatever he thinks he might be feeling as he closes the laptop and drags himself to the bedroom.

As he brushes his teeth, he thinks, it'll just be like a fever killing off an infection. It'll suck, and it'll pass, and he'll be okay. I'll help him through it.

He pushes down his jeans and boxers, letting them pool around his ankles as he pisses.

Rozanov will deny it all. He'll have to. He'll end things. Shane will be heartbroken, but JJ and I will help him through it. By the time training camp starts, he'll be back to his normal self.

He climbs into bed next to Jackie, careful not to wake her as he settles into the mattress. His last thought before sleep takes him is, not many friends would be willing to do this.

 Ilya walks down the sidewalk, heart full of emotions that he'll try to disentangle later. Grief, gratitude, longing, homecoming, the sweetness of finding something he thought he'd lost, or maybe had never had before. He grips the strap of the backpack he's wearing as he considers its contents. He's almost afraid to open the bag again until he's back in the safety of Shane's steadying presence, not sure he's strong enough to be confronted with everything inside on his own.

It's only just after lunch; he'd begged off for a short break, overwhelmed by the morning but claiming the jet lag as his excuse. Yelena had let him go, after making him promise he'd return for dinner, and despite everything, Ilya can't bring himself to turn down the rare opportunity for a delicious home cooked meal.

He walks the street as if he's in a dream; everything is so familiar, and it's only been a few years since he was last here, but the slow march of time has been steady in his absence. The details in front of his eyes don't quite match up to his memory, and that is another kind of loss in itself.

He won't be back. This is the last time. Tomorrow he will visit Mama's grave, clean it, bring her fresh cut flowers, for the last time. He hasn't decided, but he thinks he might visit Papa, too.

His hotel is up ahead, at the end of the next block, and Ilya is grateful. He needs to lay down. He does the math— it's still too early in Canada to call Shane, who only fell asleep about 5 hours ago, and anyway, he'll have a busy day ahead of him. He glances at his phone anyway— he's had his phone on Do Not Disturb since he woke up this morning, programmed so that only Shane, his parents, or Sveta could get through in case of emergency, and it has been thankfully silent, allowing him to focus fully on the reason for his trip.

Ilya is suddenly aware of a presence behind him. A shadow catches up to his where it stretches across the ground in front of him; in his head a familiar instinct calls out a warning, too late. He half turns before the grip tightens around his arm just above his elbow, and he finds himself shoved off his path, down a narrow alleyway, his traitorous feet allowing it to happen as his brain tries to catch up to what's happening.

"Walk. Don't make a scene. Don't make this worse for yourself."

Fuck.

He tries to think, to figure out where he'd gone wrong. He'd been careful, he thought— had kept a low profile during his travel, hadn't talked to anyone, he hasn't thought he'd been recognized. Here in Moscow he had always been able to blend right in, becoming just another anonymous body making its way through the city. Had he become complacent, after nearly a decade of being stopped for autographs and photos several times per week? He should have checked social media before he left the hotel this morning, or before he left Yelena's apartment, to see if he'd been posted online.

His brain finally catches up with the situation, and he wrenches his arm out of the stranger's grip, turning and shoving him back. For a second, he freezes and takes in the sight of— his brother? Yes, the man in front of him is undeniably Alexei, but hollowed out, half lifeless.

Ilya has never seen his brother so empty. He has always been vibrant, alive, full— usually of poisonous things like greed, rage, cowardice, resentment, yes, but full to the brim nonetheless.

This Alexei looks like the field long after the harvest, nothing left but the corpses of plants once the useful bits have been ripped from their stems or dug out of the earth. What's left is only fit for the worms.

His hesitation is a mistake; Alexei surges forward again, proof of life somewhere deep under the surface. He fists his hands in Ilya's shirt and pushes him back against the concrete wall of the building.

Ilya shoves back at him; Alexei had the advantage of surprise, but Ilya knows they both know he doesn't stand a chance if it comes to a fist fight.

"How?" he spits at Alexei, managing to spin them around so that he has Alexei pinned against the wall with his forearm. "What the fuck do you want, Alexei?"

He sneers at Ilya, lets out an ugly, scornful laugh. "I want you to come for a drive with me. My car is just up ahead."

"Fuck you."

Alexei laughs again, and lets his head drop back against the wall. "Fuck you too, then. Good luck at the airport, if you even make it that far."

Alarm bells echo across the inside of Ilya's skull. He presses his forearm harder across Alexei's chest. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Oh," says Alexei, mockingly, "you haven't heard? Haven't looked online today?"

"Fucking tell me, Alexei!"

The smile drops from Alexei's face, leaving behind a look of pure disgust. "There's a video, Ilya. It's everywhere. You and that other one. The one you're supposed to hate. Kissing."

Ilya can almost feel the blood as it drains from his face, from his limbs. His hands drop uselessly to his sides. Distantly he's aware that Alexei is still talking, that he's stepped forward and grabbed Ilya's shoulder in an unforgiving grip. "…Fucking disgusting, what would Papa say if he knew…"

Ilya's feet carry him on autopilot wherever Alexei steers him, until he finds himself being shoved roughly into the backseat of a car.

So. This is how it ends.

I'm sorry, Shane. I love you, forever.

Chapter 2: Wreckage

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for all of the wonderful comments and kudos! I'm so glad people are enjoying this story as much as I am :).

"Hayden, wake up!"

A hand grips his shoulder, shaking him with an annoying amount of urgency. Hayden groans; his mouth tastes like he fell asleep with one of his dirty socks shoved in it.

"Hayden!" Jackie whispers again, insistently, and Hayden drags his eyelids open.

The room is gray in the dawn light, and Hayden rubs a hand over his throbbing head as he sits up slowly. Jackie is sitting up in bed next to him with a panicked look on her face.

"What, Jacks? It's so early, is everything okay?" he mumbles.

"No, not really," she says, almost shoving her phone in his face. Hayden fumbles for it and forces his eyes to focus, to process what he's seeing.

It's a tweet from a shitty gossip tabloid, and— oh, fuck, fuck.

"Shocking video posted to Reddit last night appears to show MLH Stars Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander in an intimate moment!" The words scream at him from the screen, a crown of thorns above the embedded video. It's been reposted almost 10,000 times, already.

"What—" Hayden stares at the screen as Jackie reaches over to tap on the video, and there it is. There's his best friend's biggest secret, broadcast for the world to see. Because of him.

"Fuck, oh… my god, Jackie," Hayden says, without even really having to put on an act. He did this. He meant to do it, he doesn't regret it, exactly, although… he hadn't quite expected it to blow up like this in a matter of hours. He turns to look at her and is alarmed to see the tears forming in her eyes. "Hey— shit, Jacks," he wraps her in his arms.

"This is so bad, babe," she says, in a half-sob muffled by his shoulder. "I thought you watched your videos before you sent them?"

"I do, I— fuck, I don't know how this happened," he lies. What the hell am I going to say to Shane?"

"You need to go talk to him, now." Jackie's voice quivers as she stares down at her phone screen. "I don't think there's any containing this. Even if you can get this taken down—"

"I know, I know. Fuck. And Rozanov…" Hayden trails off as he pulls a shirt over his head, "I don't know, he might actually kill me."

"Shane won't let him kill you," says Jackie, although not as confidently as Hayden would have liked. She throws a pair of sweatpants at him. "Now go."

An insistent ringing noise drags Shane from sleep. Right— his alarm. He rolls onto his back and smacks at his phone, groaning as he stretches. Over the summer he has gotten spoiled, gotten used to waking up with the warmth and weight of Ilya pressing into him, the smell of his shampoo and sweat mingling with the expensive laundry detergent Shane uses. His bed in Montreal feels too large, too cold, too empty.

Shane sits up and rubs at a knot in his shoulder. It's fine. The shoot today, another night here, and then he'll be on his way to the airport to pick Ilya up, take him back to the cottage, and shut out the rest of the world for a few more blissful weeks of summer.

Shane's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and frowns. Notifications flood the screen— concerning seeing as how it's barely 6:30 in the morning.

He picks up the phone and feels his heartbeat quicken as he begins to flick through them. An unreasonably high number of alerts from the twitter account he barely uses, almost 100 unread texts from the Voyageurs group chat, a few more from Hayden, an email from Farah, and two missed calls from his mother. Almost more concerning than all of that, there's nothing from Ilya.

Fuck.

What the fuck.

Shane stands up and begins pacing across the bedroom. He almost drops the phone as he tries to unlock it; fumbling his passcode twice before he manages to get it right. After a successful third attempt, he bypasses the social media and text notifications and calls his mom.

"Shane?"

"Mom? What— I just woke up, what's going on? My phone is blowing up—"

"Shane—"

"I'm freaking out—"

"Shane, honey, there's a video of you and Ilya."

There's a numbness that builds from somewhere in the base of his skull. It radiates outwards with a horrible, fuzzy sensation, making his face and tongue and fingers feel thick and stupid and useless.

"A video?" someone says, maybe himself.

"Honey, I am so, so sorry. I'm already in the car, I'll be there in a little over an hour, and we will figure this out."

"What video?"

"It was one of those videos Hayden does for fans," she says, sounding almost murderous, "You and Ilya can be seen kissing in the background."

Shane makes a wounded noise. "Mom, no, he's still in Russia—"

Ilya is in Russia.

Suddenly, he's on the floor. His back is pressed into the wood of his bed frame; his knees are pulled up close to his chest. He doesn't remember how that happened. His mom is still on the phone, speaking to him in low, soft tones. The words wash over him in a language he doesn't bother trying to understand.

Ilya is in Russia. Russia knows about Ilya.

"Mom, I need to call him right now," he mumbles, hanging up the phone without waiting for a response. He taps on Ilya's contact and brings the phone back to his ear.

Someone is knocking on the door. It's of no concern to Shane.

A smooth, robotic voice floats through the speaker: "The number you are trying to reach is unavailable."

"No, no, come on…" Shane pleads. He tries again. "The number you are trying to reach is unavailable."

"Fuck!" Shane throws his phone before he can think better of it; mercifully, it skids across the floor and hits a pillow that had fallen off the side of the bed overnight.

The knocks get louder. Then, the door opens and a familiar voice echoes through the apartment.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters, because Ilya is in danger and maybe it's already too late, and if Shane finds out he was asleep when Ilya needed him, when Ilya—

The footsteps get louder until they stop. Legs come into view in the doorway of the bedroom; a body moves forward and drops heavily onto the ground in front of Shane.

Oh, it's Hayden.

He's fucking babbling something, a litany of curses and reassurances and Shane's own name as he squeezes Shane's shoulder, reaching for a throw blanket and wrapping it tightly around him before pulling him in for a tight hug.

"Shane, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he chokes out. "I swear to God, I don't know how this happened." He sounds on the verge of tears, and Shane can't be bothered to care about that right now.

Time does a strange thing, where it seems to expand, and contract, and get tangled up in itself. Shane realizes at some point that his ass is numb and his knees are aching from the awkward way he's slumped on the floor. Hayden must have a similar realization, because he stands with a grimace and helps Shane up to collapse again on the edge of the bed.

"Everyone fucking knows," says Shane. It's halfway between a confession and an accusation.

Hayden collapses in on himself, sinking down on the bed next to Shane with a stricken look on his face. "Shane, I don't even know what to say. I'm so sorry."

"They know I'm gay. They know Ilya…" he can't get anymore words out.

"Have you talked to him?"

Shane closes his eyes, exhales a ragged breath, shakes his head. "The calls aren't going through."

Hayden frowns. "Like… going to voicemail?"

"No. Not. Connecting." Each word feels like it's being torn from his body. His chest feels too tight, his ribs protesting against each inhale. Shane suddenly wonders if this is what dying feels like. He leans forward, finds himself slipping towards the floor again. Hayden springs up and comes to stand in front of him, bracing one hand on each of Shane's shoulders in a firm grip.

"Hey, look— I'm sure it's nothing! Cell service at the cottage can be spotty, right? He probably just doesn't have a signal, or something."

Shane frowns at the floor, confused. "Hayden, no— fuck, he's not in fucking Canada."

There's a beat of silence.

"What do you mean?" asks Hayden slowly, "Is he in the States for something?"

Oddly enough, that one simple question does the trick. Those walls he'd built, designed to hold back every snide comment, every insult couched as a joke, every "well meaning concern", every eye roll and sigh of irritation. With one question, they crumble into dust.

Shane lets out an almost hysterical, mirthless laugh. He stands suddenly, quickly enough that Hayden needs to step back to avoid being knocked over.

"Wow, Hayd. So, you really don't listen to anything I fucking say when it comes to Ilya, huh?"

Hayden's face clouds in confusion and hurt that he absolutely does not deserve to feel. It stokes the white hot ball of anger growing in Shane's stomach, and he latches onto the feeling, lets it act as a tethering point to keep him from going adrift.

"He's in Russia. Russia, Hayden. Do you get what that means?" Shane steps forward, again, closing in on Hayden until his back is against the bedroom wall.

"Russia?" Hayden squeaks out.

"Yeah, Russia. Do you know how the Russian government feels about queer people, Hayden? Do you have any fucking idea—" Shane chokes; steps back, turns away. He can't think about that. Not now. He'll be useless if he thinks about that.

"Leave." Shane's voice is flat and final. Hayden makes some weak protest that Shane couldn't give less of a fuck about. "Now. Please." His voice is strange and tight, emotion threatening to spill out over the top of each clipped consonant. "I don't want you here right now."

For a moment, there's silence. Shane walks over to where his phone is lying discarded on the floor and picks it up. Behind him, there's a slow shuffle of footsteps, retreating.

Shane unlocks his phone and taps Ilya's contact. "The number you are trying to reach is unavailable."

He inhales, holds the breath in his lungs, exhales. He hangs up the phone, finds another number, and brings the phone back to his ear. The line rings twice before being answered.

"Sveta? You saw it? We need a plan."

The door clicks shut softly and Hayden's feet carry him on autopilot out of the building to his car. A horrible, sickening guilt blooms in his stomach as he replays Shane's words.

Rozanov is in Russia. From Hayden's vague understanding of Russia, he likely won't be allowed to leave. He might be arrested.

Hayden curses under his breath and runs his fingers through his hair. This wasn't what he wanted, he didn't want, like, anything bad to happen to Rozanov, he just wanted him to go the fuck away, to go ruin some other poor sap's life and leave Shane alone.

(A small voice, from somewhere deep inside him, sneers at him. This isn't what you wanted? Rozanov gone, permanently? Not only out of Shane's life, but out of the league altogether? That's not the best case scenario for you? Okay, sure.)

Hayden takes the long way home, thinking.

When Ilya was small, and the world was large, and monsters seemed to find their way into his home disguised as his father, he would hide under his bed.

Or in his closet, or behind the large trunk at the end of the hall; anywhere a small shape could be mistaken for an abandoned parcel. Anywhere where he could curl in on himself to become something insignificant, something too forgettable to even be discarded of properly. There, he could hide his body. And on the bad nights, when he wasn't good enough, and didn't earn his father's love, he could hide in his mind, too. He could let his mind become a forest or a cave or an ocean, let himself wander, drift, lose himself in space and time until the monsters retreated.

This is what he remembers, as he breathes in the smell of stale cigarette smoke, sweat, and gasoline fumes.

There's a metal band around his left wrist; he realizes belatedly that it's a handcuff. The other half is looped around a seatbelt which hangs impotently across the stained fabric of the backseat. This, Ilya registers, is the full extent to which he has been secured inside the vehicle; Alexei's priorities are clear.

The car is moving. Buildings slide in and out of his view.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Shut the fuck up, and get down on the floor. I don't need people seeing you."

Ilya considers putting up a fight, and wonders what the point would be. He sinks awkwardly, one arm still tethered to the seatbelt, fitting as much of himself as he can into the space between the front and back seats. It's absurd and uncomfortable— a professional athlete, a wall of muscle, trying to shrink down as if he were a scared little child hiding behind the trunk at the end of a long, dark hallway again.

None of it will matter in a few hours, and maybe there's a sad sort of comfort in that thought. He searches for it as Alexei curses under his breath and lights a cigarette.

"Give me your phone," Alexei barks suddenly.

"What?"

"Your phone, idiot. Give it to me." Alexei's eyes are on the road; he turns left while reaching into the back seat with his right hand, snapping distractedly above Ilya.

"Why?" asks Ilya.

"Are you fucking stupid?" Alexei snaps, with a brief, derisive look over his shoulder. "Hit your head too many times? They'll track your location, of course. You need to get rid of it."

He is correct, Ilya knows, and he fishes the phone out of his pocket. "Wait—" he stops, "There are phone numbers I need to have. I need a pen, Alexei, please?"

"I don't have a fucking pen, Ilya, you think I drive this piece of shit every day?"

Ilya curses. He protests, "Fuck, Alexei, I need—" when he is hit in the back of the head with something small and hard.

"The fuck?"

"It's a burner phone, you whiny fucking dumbass. Code is 7359, save whatever bullshit phone numbers you need. Quickly!"

Ilya wastes no time. He quickly navigates to his contacts, and saves two numbers.

"Okay, I'm done," he says, and clumsily waves in Alexei's direction. Alexei grabs it, and pulls over on a less crowded side street.

"Passcode?" Alexei demands brusquely.

"0510," mumbles Ilya.

Alexei grunts, then goes silent for a moment as he taps through a few menus. Ilya doesn't bother asking what he's doing, and bows his head again, letting his eyes slide shut.

He hears Alexei open the car door and step out, returning quickly. He pulls forward a few feet, opens the door again, closes it, and pulls back out into traffic.

"There. No more phone problem."

"Okay."

"Is that all you fucking have to say? Okay?" Alexei snaps. "No, 'Thank you, Alexei, for destroying evidence against me, Thank you for risking your career and freedom for me, Thank you for picking me up before someone else had the chance.' So fucking ungrateful, like always."

"Out of the goodness of your heart, of course," mutters Ilya, not much caring if he pisses Alexei off further.

To his mild surprise, Alexei responds not with a biting remark or a slap to the side of Ilya's head that he can reach at this angle, but with a harsh, barking laugh. "Of course not. You're smart enough to know how this works, aren't you?"

Ilya swallows down the bile rising in his throat. He's not too proud to buy his own freedom. There's familiarity to this, and if it will get him home to Shane, he'll do what he needs to do. "How much?"

"Five hundred thousand."

"What the fuck, Alexei?" Ilya's head snaps up incredulously.

"Oh, boo hoo, you can fucking afford it. I know how much your contract is for, you greedy piece of shit."

"I don't have a fucking vault full of cash just sitting around, asshole! It's in investments, real estate, that kind of thing."

"Sell a house then. Or ask your fag boyfriend to help you out."

There are signs of life from his useless body at Alexei's insult. Ilya realizes he can still feel anger and snaps, "Don't fucking call him that."

"Okay, I won't call that fag your boyfriend," Alexei laughs cruelly.

"I mean it, Alexei."

"Defending his honor? Like it matters?"

"It matters to me." Ilya snaps. He half braces for the scorn he knows is coming, but for once, Alexei has no retort. They drive on in silence and Ilya begins to feel himself drifting, drifting. It's not until he feels the car slow to a stop again that he realizes how much his muscles are protesting against the awkward, cramped positioning. He dares to sit up, stretching out the aches in his back and neck.

Alexei sits in the front seat; he gives Ilya a sideways glance. "So?"

"So what?"

"The money, Ilya." He sniffs. "I can get you out."

"For half a million dollars," says Ilya dryly.

"You think my connections do this shit out of the goodness of their hearts? You think smuggling a fucking professional hockey player out of the country is free?" snaps Alexei. "You know how this works."

For a minute, Ilya says nothing.

"Ilya. Don't be stupid," says Alexei, and Ilya knows his mind is playing tricks on him, because there's something in Alexei's voice that almost sounds like pleading. Quickly it disappears, if it was ever there in the first place. "You've already made our family into a fucking joke and destroyed father's legacy. If I'm going to forfeit whatever scraps of professional credibility I could have held onto by turning you in, the least you can do is show a little gratitude."

He's not wrong, Ilya knows. There will be consequences for Alexei, for having the wrong kind of brother. He could choose to make it easier on himself by turning Ilya in, by proving where his loyalties lie.

Ilya sighs. He pictures Shane's face, wonders if he's awake yet, if he knows yet.

"I'll need to make some calls."

"That's what the burner is for. Better get started."

Chapter 3: Damage. Control.

Chapter Notes

This chapter ended up taking much longer than I intended, because life got busy and I had to rewrite one of the scenes like three times before I was happy (enough) with it, but I hope it's worth the wait! Next chapter is about halfway written so *hopefully* it won't take me too long to get that one out.

Enjoy! <3

Shane opens the door before his mother has even finished knocking. She takes in the sight of him— a disgusting mess of snot and sweat and panic, he's sure— presses her lips together in an even thinner line than they already were, and steps through the door, closing it decisively behind her.

Shane opens his mouth to say… something— an apology, or a plea for help, but the only thing that materializes is a small, soft whimper, the sound of a scared child lost in the woods. In an instant, Yuna closes the distance between them and pulls him in for an almost painfully tight hug. When she reluctantly lets him step away a moment later, both of their faces are wet.

"I just got off the phone with Farah," Yuna says, wiping her eyes. "Let's put on some coffee and I'll fill you in."

There's a pet store across the street from the park where Hayden had made plans to meet with JJ, who, as usual, is running late. A poster in the window advertises a sale on aquarium filters; Hayden scowls at the striking black and white striped fish— a cardinalfish, his brain unhelpfully supplies— blown up to be nearly two feet tall across the body of the poster.

Why did it have to be a fucking fish? It's like the universe is trying to play some sick fucking joke on me—

"Pike," a familiar voice calls out, pulling Hayden out of his gloomy reverie. He turns away from the window and sees JJ approaching, a paper cup of coffee in each hand.

"What a fucking disaster, huh?" JJ presses one of the cups into Hayden's hand with a grim expression on his face. Hayden grimaces, nods, and falls into a familiar rhythm, walking with JJ in the direction of the park.

"God, I feel like such an asshole," Hayden confesses.

JJ doesn't seem as though he's about to argue the point, so Hayden continues talking before the silence has a chance to get awkward. "How is he?"

"How do you think?" JJ asks. "He is a fucking mess. His mom is already there, I swear at one point I think she was having two different phone calls at the same time, like one on her phone and one on Shane's. It would have been funny if the whole thing weren't so fucked."

"I already talked to my agent," Hayden says, "He's putting a statement together, but I don't know, maybe I should wait. I don't want to accidentally make things worse, you know?"

"Hayden," JJ stops walking and turns towards him. "Shane needs friends right now— loud ones. Even if he doesn't want to see you, you have to make it clear you support him."

Hayden determinedly ignores the guilt simmering in his gut, and nods. "Of course. I'll post something— I'll condemn the people who shared it, and ask for privacy. That's good, right? Not confirming or denying anything?"

JJ shrugs, looking frustrated. "It's something. Honestly though, I need your help dealing with the team, too. The group chat has been fucking vicious, man."

Hayden winces. The buzzing of his phone had been incessant until he caved and muted the chat an hour ago. He still hasn't worked up the nerve to see what the team is saying, although he's spent enough time with them to be able to guess. There was a reason none of them outside of Hayden and JJ even knew that Shane was gay before today.

You knew they'd be furious. You were counting on it. Because now he'll be forced to make a choice, and Shane has never not chosen hockey.

Out loud, he says, "You're right. I should say something, tell them to stop being idiots. I'll see if Jackie can help me come up with something this afternoon when the kids are napping, she's better at that stuff than I am." After a beat, he continues tentatively, "Did anyone say anything about me, specifically? I mean, I know they're upset, they're probably pissed that I obviously knew and didn't say anything…"

JJ gives him an odd look that Hayden can't quite decipher, and he trails off, uneasy. "What?"

"No offense, but that's a weird fucking thing to be worried about right now, man."

"I just—"

"What makes you think the team is saying anything right now about you?"

The words are surprisingly sharp, and Hayden flinches. "Fuck— I don't know, JJ, I'm all over the place right now."

JJ lets out a harsh, scornful laugh. "Let me clear it up for you, then. None of this is about you, Pike! If the team is pissed at you— good! Take some of the heat off Shane, it's the least you can do. And as for Shane," JJ takes a deep breath, attempting to calm himself down, "you need to prove that you've got his back. Grovel, do whatever you can to make things right, tabarnak— publicly apologize to Rozanov when he's home safe, and Shane will come around. After all, it was very stupid of you, but it was an accident."

Hayden takes a long sip of his coffee as he mulls everything over. It tastes all wrong— too much milk, not enough sugar. JJ watches him closely as he swallows.

"It was an accident," JJ repeats slowly, "right?"

Hayden isn't expecting the blow and he reels; terror collides with defensive instinct. "The fuck?Of course it was! What are you trying to say, JJ?"

For a second, JJ looks the way he does when he's about to drop his gloves. He opens his mouth, inhales, then blinks. His entire posture slumps. "I don't know. Fuck, I'm sorry, that was a shitty thing to say."

"Whatever, man," mutters Hayden, not trusting himself to say anything else. "Don't worry about it."

Neither of them have much to say after that. They reach the end of their circuit through the park, and JJ pulls his phone out of his pocket, cursing under his breath.

"I've got to go," JJ says. He slides the phone back in his pocket and looks back at Hayden with a serious expression. "And I meant it— get your ass in the group chat. It looks fucking weird that you haven't said anything yet."

"Yeah, I will."

Hayden watches him retreat with a stony face. Once JJ has rounded the corner, out of sight, he turns and drops his mostly full cup of coffee unceremoniously in the nearest trash can. It hits the bottom with a hollow thud.

Shane picks up on the first ring. Yuna's attention snaps up from where she has been furiously typing away on her laptop to listen attentively to his half of the conversation.

"Sveta, hey— have you gotten ahold of him?" Shane paces across the kitchen as he talks.

"Not yet, but that doesn't mean anything," comes the smooth response. "Did you reach out to Yelena?"

"I emailed her, but she hasn't responded. Ilya didn't leave any other contact info that I can find."

Sveta makes an annoyed noise through the phone. "Okay. Well, probably she doesn't know anything, anyway."

"Yeah, you're probably right," admits Shane. He hates how fucking useless he feels. "Any progress with your father?"

"Yes, I think so. He's extremely upset with Ilya right now, but I think he's coming around."

"Okay," Shane sighs.

"Shane— he'll have to give them something in return, you know."

"Whatever it takes,— I don't fucking care. I want my boyfriend home safe. Whatever he needs to say or do. Whatever he needs from me, I'll do it."

"You're not the one I'm worried about convincing."

"He'll do it, then. I'll fucking kill him myself if he doesn't."

Sveta hums humorlessly. "You'll have to get in line."

For a moment, neither of them speak.

"For now, you can't post anything, at all. Do not even acknowledge the video."

"No shit." Shane winces, and pinches the bridge of his nose, hard. "Sorry, that was rude. Of course I won't confirm anything. I already told my mom and agent to stay silent until we have a plan in place."

Svetlana clucks softly. "Yes, very rude, Shane Hollander. How dare you be impolite at a time like this?"

Ilya watches with narrowed eyes as Alexei shoves his way through the door of the shitty apartment where he'd stashed Ilya a few hours earlier. The handcuff gnaws at his left wrist; the other cuff is neatly attached to the radiator. As if Ilya had anywhere to escape to. One grave is as good as another, after all. His backpack sits in a pathetic heap a foot away from him, slumped and non-descript. Completely unremarkable, which is probably for the best, all things considered.

Alexei doesn't stop to look at him. He shucks off his jacket, grabbing it carelessly as it falls, and tosses it onto a battered kitchen chair, before stooping to retrieve the bag he'd set down as the door closed behind him.

He fumbles for a moment. Drunk? Probably. Ilya logs the observation as nothing more than a data point for a useless, long-abandoned study.

Alexei's clumsy fingers pull something out of the plastic; he tosses the object to Ilya without warning. Ilya's right hand flies up on instinct and he catches the small rectangular package in his palm, registering the shape and weight and smell before his brain has a chance to catch up.

"Cigarettes?" he hears himself say. "Why?"

Alexei ignores him, and retrieves the other object from the bag; a bottle of cheap vodka.

He sets the bottle back down onto the table before continuing into the bathroom, not even bothering to close the door fully. Ilya lets his head fall back against the wall, lets his eyelids drift shut as he listens to Alexei piss, then fumble with something for a few minutes. His thumb traces back and forth along the edge of the cigarette package. Then comes a familiar, harsh sniffing sound, a clearing of the throat, the briefest run of the sink. The hinges of the bathroom door squeak, and there stands Alexei, reinvigorated.

He pauses to look at Ilya for the first time, surveying him impassively as he sits crumpled on the floor, discarded and useless. Ilya holds his gaze stubbornly— so what if he's broken beyond repair? So what if he's utterly ruined? He still has eyes, why shouldn't he look?

"If I unlock the cuffs, are you going to do anything stupid?"

"What, like go wandering through the streets of Moscow? No, Alexei, I don't really feel like being kidnapped a second time today."

Alexei grunts, and turns away from Ilya to search through a cabinet mounted on the wall. From inside, he retrieves a pair of dingy glasses. He pours a generous measure of the vodka into each, drains half of one of the glasses, refills it. He picks up the other glass and crosses the room, fishing a key out of his pocket as he stoops down to examine the cuffs. A few quick movements, and Ilya's free, with nothing but an angry red line circling his wrist.

"Here," says Alexei brusquely, shoving the glass into Ilya's hand.

"Why are you giving me this?" asks Ilya again, against his better judgment.

"Why not? Not like things can get much worse, right? Might as well drink. Smoke. Get high, if you want, who gives a shit?" He turns back to the table and sinks into one of the chairs, kicking the other chair away from the table in a weak invitation to join him.

Ilya shrugs, drinks. The vodka is cheap, but it's still better than some of what he's come across in North America. He crosses the room and sits in the empty chair, draining his glass as he does so.

Alexei refills it, and his own, and lights a cigarette. The silence that settles over them isn't exactly comfortable, but it's comforting in its familiarity.

"So," Ilya muses, somewhere between two and three drinks later, "how do you imagine this all will work? I will, what, have my boyfriend wire you half a million fucking dollars, you smuggle me out of the country, and then you go back to your life without anyone noticing?"

Alexei rubs at his nose, takes a drag on his cigarette. He shrugs. "Don't worry about it."

Ilya scoffs, about to push back, but before he can, Alexei sits forward suddenly and smacks his hand down on the table, hard enough to make Ilya straighten instinctively. He points at Ilya, surveying him through narrowed eyes. The scrutiny of his gaze— this, too, is hauntingly familiar, although Ilya has never seen it coming from so young a face.

Alexei's gaze turns into something almost thoughtful, before darkening, as if he has decided that the words forming on his tongue taste rotten. He spits them out.

"So. You really are a cocksucker, after all."

It's not a question, but it's also not an accusation. Ilya struggles to identify the tone in Alexei's voice and comes up with nothing. The silence stretches as Ilya studies him, unsure of how to respond. He seems determined not to look at Ilya, focusing instead on a gouge in the wood of the cheap table in front of him. He's angry, yes, but that's Alexei's default state. If he's not angry, he's dead.

Ilya should know better. There is a trap in this conversation, if he's foolish enough to entertain it. But somewhere deep inside of him, buried under decades of decay, is a boy who once loved his brother. A stupid little boy who wants nothing more than his brother's approval, or, failing that, his attention.

"And? What if I am?" he volleys back.

Alexei's frown deepens. Ilya braces; maybe he should have played along better. Denied it, even though they'd both know it was a lie. Maybe he should have been more apologetic. Probably, it wouldn't have made any difference in the long run. Better to reach the end directly and honestly, rather than meandering through a painful forest of indignities.

"And? And— how could you be so fucking careless?" Alexei bursts out, and it's not what Ilya was expecting. "I thought, if nothing else, you knew how to be discreet! I was never fooled for a second by those tabloids— oh, look, there's Ilya, drunk again, another girl hanging off him— scandalous enough to keep them from looking further! He just likes to party, that's all. What the fuck do you think they're saying now?"

"I was discreet," Ilya hates how defensive, how petulant his voice sounds. "Never in public, ever. For years, Alexei, we were so fucking careful."

"Not fucking careful enough."

He's right. It hurts.

"Shane has stupid friends."

"Not my fault, never my fault," whines Alexei mockingly. "Shut the fuck up, Ilyushka. You sound like a child." He leans back in his chair, grabs the bottle of vodka, and pours himself another shot.

"I have to ask," Alexei begins, a while later, and it jolts Ilya out of his reverie. The sun has begun to set; he's been drifting again. Perhaps Alexei has been, too; his eyes are glassy. The bottle is half finished. He sits up, affording Alexei more attention than he deserves. Alexei clears his throat, "All of this…" he gestures broadly, "there's no way that it's worth all this trouble." He does that thing again, framing questions as statements, daring Ilya to poke and shove at the walls until they come toppling down on top of both of them. The truth, falling from the sky, crushing them both to death. How noble.

There's a safe answer, and then there's the only one he can bring himself to give.

"It was. It is. He is."

Alexei's face darkens; Ilya braces. Alexei may hit hard, but he doesn't have stamina, and he's been drinking.

"And the girls?"

It takes Ilya a moment to recalibrate. "Girls?" he repeats, stupidly.

"Those girls! All those girls, you had a different one every night for years, it seems."

"You were keeping up with me, ah? Did you miss me, Alyosha? Or were you jealous?" He's being stupid. He's going to get hit. Any second now the taste of copper will fill his mouth and he'll deserve it.

"I don't need your American whores," spits Alexei.

"Oh, okay, you're drowning in pussy over here?" Ilya shoots back. "How's Tatiana? Has she left you for good, yet?"

Something hits the wall a few inches to the left of his head. Alexei's aim has always been shit; drinking has, if anything, improved it.

"That bad, huh?" he taunts, addicted to the kind of high he can only get from this, poking at the soft underbelly of a monster until it slashes him open "She run back to her parents in Nizhny again? How long this time?"

"Careful, Ilya," Alexei warns darkly. "I am the only friend you have in this entire fucking country."

Well. If that isn't the funniest joke Ilya's heard in months. He wants to laugh, but if he does, he might not be able to stop.

Fuck it. He bends, grabs the cigarettes that now lay on the dingy carpet, and plucks one out of the carton. He lights it, takes a drag. Lets the smoke settle in his lungs.

"So, what about the fucking girls, then, Alexei?"

"You actually fucked them?"

"Oh my god," Ilya scoffs as he understands what Alexei is trying to ask. "Yes, Alexei, I actually fucked them, and I loved it." He speaks slowly, condescendingly, taking satisfaction from the flush of anger rising on Alexei's cheeks. "It is possible to like both, you know. Maybe this is too complicated for you, take all the time you need."

Alexei pushes back from the table and stands abruptly. He steps closer to Ilya and for a second Ilya is afraid he's pushed too far. He's about to end up on the floor with a broken nose or a missing tooth because he never fucking quits when he should.

"Is this a fucking joke to you?" Alexei hisses. "All of this— the disgrace to our family, to Russia, your reputation, your career, your own goddamn safety— you threw all of it in the fucking trash, and the entire time you could have just kept fucking girls and been happy?"

"I was never happy," snaps Ilya, "not really. Shane makes me happy."

"How the fuck can you justify this, Ilya?"

"I don't know, how do you justify crawling back to Tatiana over and over again like a pathetic dog, begging for one more chance? Why not just go find another woman, Alexei?"

"Fuck you," spits Alexei. He spins around, steps into the bathroom, and slams the door shut behind him.

Chapter 4: Sirens

Chapter Notes

This chapter is, regrettably, largely stuck inside the head of a cishet white male professional athlete. As such, we get some Hayden flashbacks here which are responsible for:
CW for bullying
CW for really shitty attitudes/behaviors towards women
CW for non-graphic mentions of animal cruelty. If you don't want to read about it, skip the section that begins with, "Hayden doesn't even have that clear of a memory of the day it happened."

Oh, I almost forgot to add- I made a few minor changes to earlier chapters-- nothing that affects the plot, but if any tiny details seem weird that's probably why!

Drapeau has created the group chat "MTL No Cap"

Drapeau has added Hayden Pike, JJ Boiziau, and 17 others

Drapeau: holy fucking shit has everyone seen this

Drapeau: [Link]

Comeau: what the fuck

Andropov: ?????????????

Andropov: is that cap???

Andropov: wait he's not in this chat is he

Drapeau: of course he's not dumbass

Barnes: it has to be him right?

Barnes: @Pike what the fuck

Comeau: i fucking knew he was a fag

Andropov: bullshit u knew lmao

Comeau: I called it and now @Taylor owes me $100

Comeau: pay up bitch

Taylor: hold the fuck up whats going on

Taylor: THE FUCK

Miitka: hey guys let's chill out for a second

Miitka: this might be a total misunderstanding

Comeau: what the fuck kind of misunderstanding could it be mitty

Comeau: he's got his fucking tongue down ROZANOV'S throat

Andropov: yeah it seems pretty fucking clear to me

Drapeau: fuckin a

Barnes: again. pike. what the fuck

Barnes: why the fuck is this happening in your fucking house

Drapeau: great question Barnsy

Drapeau: @Pike

Boiziau: what the fuck is going on why are you assholes screaming at me at 7:00 in the fucking morning

Miitka: scroll up jj

Boiziau: tabarnak

Boiziau: @Pike

Boiziau: @Pike

Boiziau: @Pike

Boiziau: answer your fucking phone asshole @Pike

Comeau: oh now hes scared to answer. fucking pussy

Andropov: well yea he was in on it the whole time

Boiziau: fuck

Boiziau: okay listen up all of you fucking assholes

Boiziau: none of us know what is going on here

Boiziau: but this is Hollzy! OUR capitaine!! hes our brother, yeah? our teammate! he loves us and we love him??

Miitka: jj is right

Barnes: fuck that shit bro lmao

Barnes: like cmon

Andropov: after that video i don't think i want him to love me 🤢

Aucoin: wait hold up

Taylor: we fucking shower and change in front of him wtf

Aucoin: is hollander actually gay for that russian piece of shit

Aucoin: is that what this video is

Boiziau: EVERYONE SHUT UP

Comeau: oh fuck you jj

Boiziau: go fuck yourself comeau

Boiziau: i'm serious. everyone better shut the fuck up until we know what's going on

Drapeau: i think we fucking know what's going on

Drapeau: how many games do you think he's thrown for rozanov

Boiziau: hollander, the guy who played through three playoff rounds with two broken fingers last season??? you are seriously asking if HE has thrown games???

Andropov: fuck he's probably told him all kinds of top secret shit

Andropov: holy shit guys this is why we fucking lost that last boston game!!

Boiziau: oh my god

Boiziau: we lost that game because YOU somehow skated full speed into Boston's biggest d man and knocked yourself out you fucking idiot

Boiziau: and drapeau insisted he was fine to play even though his hamstring was completely fucked

Comeau: whose side are you on boiziau

Comeau: because right now it sounds like you're on the wrong side

Boiziau: now YOU sound like a fucking idiot

Boiziau: why do there need to be "sides" anyway?

Boiziau: we are all on the same team

Aucoin: idk right now it looks like hollander and rozanov are the ones on the same team actually 😂

Boiziau: câlisse

Boiziau: OK!!!!

Boiziau: when @Pike wakes up he will clear this whole thing up i'm sure. Or Hollzy will address it. In the meantime, no one better fucking say or do ANYTHING

Barnes: uh huh. sure

Drapeau: sure, we'll just sit here and wait for someone to clear up this whole fucking mess.

Hayden scrolls through the group chat messages with nausea growing in his gut. Before he reaches the bottom, his phone begins to buzz with an incoming call. It buzzes five, six times, and Hayden watches as it finally ticks over from ringing to missed call, Jackie's smiling face disappearing as the screen turns dark. She's wondering where he is. Why he's not home yet. He doesn't have a good answer for her.

He has a bad answer. It's been chasing him all day. And his legs are getting tired, and his lungs are giving out. And he's sitting at a no-name bar in an unremarkable neighborhood and no one has so much as looked in his direction in the half hour that he's been here.

A bead of condensation makes its way down the glass. Hayden watches it. Wraps his fingers around the glass and lifts it to his lips.

He's been running but his memories are faster than he is. And he needs to muscle his way through this before he calls Jackie back.

Drink. Swallow. Breathe in. Little pinch.

Here's the thing. Before Shane Hollander, there was Josh Timms.

"Alexei."

Alexei stands at the far side of the room, peering out of a small, cracked window, ignoring him. The sun is setting. Ilya feels the restlessness building beneath his skin; they have been sitting still for too long. He's a trapped animal in a temporary hiding spot, just waiting for the wolves to find him.

"Alexei," he presses. Waiting for death is boring. "The money."

At this, Alexei frowns, and takes a drag on his cigarette, which has burned almost all the way down to the filter.

"What the fuck about it? Why do you care so much? Worried about how I'll spend it?"

"I'm trying to figure out how to fucking get it to you, asshole! We've been just sitting here for hours! What's the fucking plan?"

Alexei scratches at his beard. He says nothing. Frustrated, Ilya stands and crosses the room. The buzz of alcohol combines with the restlessness under his skin and he is desperate for some way to release the energy.

"Do you know something, Alexei? The longer we sit here, the more I think, maybe you never expected to be paid after all. Like the money wasn't really a part of your plan." A muscle in Alexei's jaw twitches. Ilya takes one step closer to him, a mixture of anger and frustration and fear and desperation brewing in his stomach. "In fact, it seems like maybe you have no fucking plan at all."

Alexei snuffs out the cigarette and turns around, shrugging. "You think I brought you here, what, to catch up on some quality family time?"

Ilya hears his voice growing angrier, louder, and he knows he should be more careful, quieter, but he can't find it in himself to care about that right now. "I don't know why the fuck you brought me here! I don't know if you're stalling for time, if you're going to turn me in, or— fuck, if you're trying to work up the nerve to end this whole thing yourself! I don't want your cigarettes and vodka, I want you to fucking grow a pair and do something!"

Alexei flinches, like he wasn't expecting that. Ilya braces for the blow he's sure is coming. His body coils tightly on instinct, the way he does when he's gotten an opponent to drop their gloves, ready to block, dodge, strike back.

The hit doesn't come. Alexei's shoulders slump, and for a split second he looks almost sad. It's gone, then, replaced with the mask of cool indifference and mild derision he usually wears. He doesn't quite meet Ilya's gaze, and brushes past him to refill his cup.

"Alexei. Lyokha. Please," Ilya hates the slight tremble of desperation in his voice.

Alexei doesn't turn around. "What the fuck do you want me to say, Ilya?" he asks, sounding tired. "You need me to spell it out for you?"

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly through his nose. He will not cry. He will not show Alexei that he'd fallen for one of his terrible jokes again. That he'd been stupid and hopeful enough to believe that this time would be different. He will die before he lets Alexei see how badly he wanted to trust him.

Alexei murmurs something that Ilya can't quite hear, but the tone— he freezes, blinks a few times to clear his eyes. Alexei is still facing away from him; his hands hang uselessly at his sides.

"What the fuck was I supposed to do, Ilya?" He says, helplessly. "The video exploded— it was fucking everywhere! There was no time to come up with a fucking plan, I wasn't even sure I'd be able to track you down before someone else did."

"Track me down? Why?"

"Fuck you," spits Alexei venomously, whirling around. "Seriously, fuck you, Ilya! So we don't get along— you think that means I want you dead? You think I want you humiliated, turned into some kind of scapegoat? Go fuck yourself!"

And there's the hit, delayed. Ilya recoils. Alexei turns to face him now, angry.

"And the money?"

Alexei laughs; it's harsh and unpleasant. "Would you have believed me if I had said I was acting out of brotherly love?"

"You're protecting me," Ilya asks, flatly. "You never expected to be paid."

"I'm protecting the family," spits Alexei. "How the fuck would I explain half a million dollars appearing in my bank account, dumbass? How could I ever show my face in this country again? I'd never see my daughter again, if they knew I'd helped you."

There's a beat of silence before Ilya speaks again.

"You're right. It would be terrible for you. And still, here you are."

"Yeah." Alexei lets the word fall heavy and flat, fixing Ilya with a sullen glare. "Here I am."

A flash of memory flits across Ilya's mind. His niece, Sofia, when she was three or four. One of his visits home over the summer. Tatiana had invited him over to their apartment; Alexei hadn't been home. Sofia had run into his arms with a gleeful smile; they had sat on the floor of the apartment coloring picture after picture. He'd drawn her picture after picture at her request: the two of them playing hockey, with him falling down as she scored a goal, a picture of her playing in the snow, a picture of her as a princess. Then, as he worked dutifully on a picture of a unicorn, the door had opened and Alexei had entered.

"Papa!" She had squealed, bolting over to him. He'd dropped his bag on the floor and scooped her up with a genuine smile, a playfulness that Ilya had never seen before, wrapping her in a bear hug. "Sonechka, my little princess, I missed you! Did you have a good day? Behaving for Mama?" his smile had tensed into something else, something appraising and wary and ugly, as he noticed Ilya, but for a split second there, Alexei had seemed like someone else entirely.

Alexei regards him now, his face unreadable. Waiting.

"Okay, so. You don't have a plan," Ilya mumbles.

"I didn't say that," snaps Alexei. "I said I didn't have one when I picked you up. What, you think I'm just sitting here with my dick in my hand?"

Ilya suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, curse his brother out, or better yet, punch him in his stupid fucking face. "Well?"

Alexei digs the burner phone out of his pocket and hands it to Ilya. "You saved a few numbers in here, right? I'm guessing one of them belongs to Svetlana Vetrova?"

Hayden left home for the first time when he was sixteen. A team out there wanted him, Hayden Pike, and if he played well enough, worked hard enough, proved himself over and over, maybe they'd let him keep playing. His mother had been against it from the beginning. She'd suggested, cajoled, argued, tried to prohibit him from joining a major junior team. You're a smart boy, Hayden. Why not focus on school, you can still play hockey in college, and maybe even professionally after that, but you could try to earn yourself a degree while you're at it, plan for your future properly. But Hayden's father, to the extent that he could be considered an active participant in family matters, had given his blessing, and as things went when Hayden's father got involved, that had been that. And so, Hayden had gone forth, entering the home of his billet family that first evening with the echoes of his mother's stern, trembling voice replaying in his head: Be the young man I raised you to be. If I hear that you've been a part of any of that horrible behavior I've heard stories about, Hayden Pierce Pike, I'll drag you back home by the scruff of your neck, straight to church so we can both ask God for forgiveness—

Hayden wasn't sure he believed in God, and even if he did, God wasn't even half as scary as Hayden's own mother, so he'd dedicated himself to making a good impression right off the bat.

The family he stayed with was fine— nice, even. Rob and Marie Timms were a bland sort of couple, friendly and forgettable, but comfortable. They had a daughter, Shay, who was 18, smoking hot, and barely acknowledged Hayden's existence, which somehow made her even hotter. And then, of course, there was Josh.

Josh was 14 when Hayden moved in.

Josh was… okay, he was weird. He spoke in a sort of a slow monotone, except when he was excited, and then he'd start to speak faster, and louder, but still with the same robotic inflection, and he'd rub his hands together, or on the fabric of his jeans, not that he ever got excited all that often. He mostly ignored Hayden for the first few weeks.

If Hayden had been smart, he would have just left Josh alone. He would have happily carried out the remainder of the year, a separate but inoffensive entity in the household. Everyone would have been better off for it. But his mother had told him to make a good impression. To ingratiate himself with the household. Which is why, one day, two weeks after he'd moved in, he found himself hovering in the threshold of Josh's bedroom door, watching him meticulously sprinkle some kind of pellet into the large aquarium that sat on his dresser.

"So, you like fish, huh?"

It was a terrible attempt at conversation, but to be fair, it's not like Josh was any better. He eyed Hayden with suspicion at first, but after a few encouraging questions from Hayden, he slowly began to open up.

It turned out that Josh was obsessed with fish, and like, the ocean. He proudly showed off his aquarium, pointing out each fish by name: I have two percula clownfish, four chromis, a blue-spotted jawfish, and a banggai cardinalfish. He rattled off facts about all of them, about the shrimp or snails or whatever that also lived in the tank, how he kept it clean, maybe? Hayden honestly tuned out after about half a minute, nodding along with a dumb, friendly smile across his face as Josh explained the intricacies of maintaining tank pH and salinity and other scientific-sounding things that Hayden didn't bother to try to understand or remember.

So, yeah. Fish. Hayden looked at them in the tank and tried to get it.

The problem was, fish were fucking boring. Sure, they were pretty, it was kind of cool to watch them swim around, but after a couple of minutes… well, it's not like you could do anything with them. Still, Hayden couldn't help but feel a warm kind of pride when he'd come home after practice and Josh would give him an update on the tank. It made him think that, if his own parents hadn't decided to stop after he was born, he could have been a really good big brother. Maybe, someday, he'd be the guy on the team that the rookies would look up to. Fuck, if he was lucky, he'd even have a kid or two of his own one day.

 Ilya tries to control his breathing as he paces and listens to the phone ring. After a few rings, the line connects.

"Hello?" Sveta's voice is tight, guarded, and it's one of the most beautiful sounds Ilya can imagine.

"Sveta?" He manages to choke out, balling his free hand into a tight fist, focusing on the sensation of his fingernails digging into his skin. Fuck, he can't start crying right now.

"Iluyshka, fuck, thank god," comes the reply, Sveta's voice laden with relief.

"You saw?"

"Yes, of course. Are you okay?"

Ilya almost laughs. "I am… not in danger, but I need help."

"Are you alone?"

"No."

"With… friends?" Sveta's voice is cautious, guarded.

Ilya chews his lip. "Eh, not exactly." He turns to Alexei and gestures towards the phone.

From where he sits at the battered table, Alexei rolls his eyes. "Hi, Svetlana," he drawls into the phone.

There's a beat of silence. Then, "Ilya,"

"I have it under control, for now. I just need a way out."

"My father," she says, half question, half statement.

Ilya's stomach twists uncomfortably. "Do you think he will help?"

"I'm two steps ahead of you, as usual," she says, almost laughing. "He is very angry, but yes. I have convinced him you both want the same thing. He will help, if you agree to his conditions."

"Which are?"

"He didn't say, Ilyusha, but— you will agree, right? You have to."

It's terrifying, Ilya realizes, to be asked this. He trusts Sveta with his life— of course he does, but he can't say the same for Sergei, or any other government official. Agreeing feels a a bit like signing his own death warrant.

"Ilya?"

He can picture her on the other end of the phone— it's what, mid-afternoon there? She's probably got her hair pulled out of her face, all business, frowning into her phone. Chewing on the corner of a thumbnail. His oldest friend, arranging for his rescue as if it were just another fucking Tuesday.

"Yes, of course I will."

"Okay, good. You need to go to his home. As soon as possible."

Ilya pauses, and glances at Alexei, who scowls at the half-empty bottle of vodka.

"Okay," Ilya sighs. "He knows we are coming? Security—"

"It will not be a problem, I will call him again as soon as I hang up with you."

Alexei shifts in his seat, growing impatient. He fixes Ilya with an irritated look.

"Okay," Ilya repeats. "Okay. We will go, now."

"Ilyusha? Have you talked to Shane?"

Ilya shakes his head. He can't talk about this right now. "Ah, no. Is he…"

Is he spiraling? Is he eating? Is his career over? Is he out of his mind with worry? Is his entire world falling down around him, and does he have anyone there to catch him as he falls?

"You should call him."

Ilya knows with absolute certainty that if he hears Shane's voice right now, if he even thinks about it too hard, he will fall completely to pieces, and he doesn't have that luxury right now.

He switches to English, not that it makes much of a difference, probably; Alexei has taken lessons, will almost definitely be able to understand him. "I will, Sveta, just— not yet. I can't, until I know it will be okay."

She hums— a mixture of disagreement, understanding, sadness— all things he hates and does not want— but she says nothing further.

"Maybe… Can you give him a message from me?" Ilya continues. "Can you tell him I love him? That I don't regret any of it. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. That I'll see him soon."

He pulls the phone away from his face. He does not think about the fact that he can feel Alexei's eyes boring holes into the back of his head. He takes a steadying breath, rolls his shoulders a few times to try to get rid of the stale, aching stiffness that had settled into his muscles over the course of the day.

He brings the phone back to his ear. Sveta murmurs a reassurance; she will deliver his message. He says his goodbye, and does not let himself imagine that it could, if things go wrong, be his final goodbye to her.

It didn't take long for Hayden to settle into his new routine. He clicked well with his team, becoming friends with Matheson, another rookie. Even some of the older guys joked around with them, and occasionally even invited them to hang out outside of practice. Then, at a game in early November, Hayden scored a gorgeous, game-winning goal late in the third period off an assist from Roy, the team captain, and just like that, he was in. One of the guys.

Things at the Timms house had been going well, too. Josh had his quirks, but Hayden found that over time, they began to feel less strange, and more endearing. So what if Josh insisted on watching the same six-episode nature documentary series on repeat? Ocean waves and whale songs were pretty relaxing background noise, all things considered. So what if he spent forty minutes one night ripping into the factual inaccuracies in Finding Nemo after Hayden had made the mistake of jokingly suggesting they watch it? It had honestly been kind of funny; by the end of it, they had been throwing pillows at each other and laughing about turtles with California "surfer dude" accents.

The issue, then, was the meeting of the two worlds.

At Marie's insistence, Hayden had allowed Josh to tag along to one of his teammate's houses. It was just a casual thing, four or five of them hanging out one Sunday afternoon after back-to-back games. It had been okay at first, Josh had hung back, quiet, sitting next to Hayden, happy to be mostly ignored by the rest of the group.

Hayden tried to include him in the conversation; this, in hindsight, had been a mistake. Roy had been talking to some girl— well, from the sounds of it, they'd done a hell of a lot more than talking. He boasted about it, hooking up with her at a party, describing things in lurid detail that Hayden guessed was supposed to sound sexy but kind of just made his stomach feel queasy. Josh, he could see out of the corner of his eye, was even more uneasy.

It wasn't until Roy started passing his phone around with a tiny, pixelated image of what were still unmistakably a pair of boobs, that the rest of the players seemed to notice Josh's discomfort.

What, afraid of a pair of tits?

Can't tell if he's gonna blow his load or start crying.

You ever seen a pair in real life, or just online?

Doesn't he have a sister? Is she hot, Pike?

Josh's face had burned crimson as he sat stiffly on the couch next to Hayden, rubbing his hands over the knees of his jeans.

Calm down, dude, we're just joking.

You don't need to act so fucking weird.

When they got home, Josh had gone straight to bed. The next day, Hayden knocked on his door, tried to explain. Hockey guys are just kind of like that, you know? It's not personal, it's not malicious. Maybe it's best if Josh just gives them some space, doesn't come hang out again. Really, Hayden was trying to look out for him— Josh didn't get it, didn't understand the jokes, didn't get that they didn't really mean anything by it. Josh stared down at the book he was holding and told Hayden he understood.

Ilya finds himself standing in an ornately furnished office that reminds him, horribly, of his father's study. And once again he stands at silent attention while powerful men consider his latest sins, and decide what his penance will be.

Alexei skulks somewhere behind him. Ilya's not sure why he's still here. He should go, probably, his work is done. Maybe he's hoping to still get something out of this little misadventure. Some money for his troubles, through channels much less likely to be scrutinized.

Sergei Vetrov is tall and lean. He had been standing behind the desk, speaking on the phone in low, clipped tones when Ilya and Alexei had been ushered into the room by a severe looking security guard.

"Yes. Understood. He is here now. I will report back once it's done."

He ends the call and sets the phone carefully onto the desk, frowning at it as he does so. His fingertips rest gently on the wood. Ilya knows this part well; the trick is to remain calm, to be patient, to accept the punishment like a man.

The silence stretches. Ilya is patient.

"So. We have a problem." Vetrov finally says. It's not a question; Ilya will not be tricked into speaking.

"This… video has the potential to be… embarrassing. Damaging. For you. For us. " He looks at Ilya now, for the first time. "Is it real?"

Does it matter? "Yes."

Vetrov pierces him with an icy glare. The silence stretches out again.

"All this time. For years you followed my daughter, my Svetulya, around like a lovesick puppy, let all of us think… well," he throws his hands up into the air. "Better, at least, that this happened before you could tie our families together."

Against his better judgment, Ilya speaks up. "I will always love Sveta, she is my dearest friend. She— she has always known who I am."

"A homosexual," Vetrov hisses.

"Bisexual, actually."

Vetrov scoffs, offended at the word as much as the correction; the distinction is meaningless in his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes deeply, as if summoning the strength to remain calm.

"I just spoke with the Minister of Culture. We, obviously, will need to issue a formal response. It will be one of two responses. The first option, which we would prefer to avoid, is to arrest you. Detain you here, make an example out of you. There would be… hefty fines, but probably no jail time, in the end. Extensive media coverage. Your visa would not be renewed until it's all settled, obviously. The damage to your reputation would be… significant."

He lets Ilya absorb the words.

"What is the second option?"

"We dismiss the video as a clever fake, put out by Western propagandists seeking to undermine traditional Russian values."

Ilya nods. It's more or less what he expected.

Vetrov continues, shuffling a few papers on his desk. "We have prepared a statement. You will sign it, and we will film you reading it. That statement becomes the truth— the only truth about that video." He hands a printed sheet to Ilya, who accepts it numbly. His eyes scan over the page.

Nausea, rage, guilt all mingle in his stomach as he reads the words he will be expected to say. The hate he is being forced to champion. He wonders how many queer Russians will believe his words, and hate him for them. Is that worse than the ones who will see right through him, and know that he's not a bigot, just a coward?

Vetrov is looking at him, expectantly. He should say yes. It's the only option— he's sure as fuck not letting himself be trapped here for this—

Shane's face floats to the surface of his mind, golden in the summer sun, freckles dotting his perfect cheeks. Shane would tell him to do whatever he has to do to get home—

"Well?" Vetrov has run out of patience. "What will it be?"

"He'll do the video," says a voice from behind Ilya. Alexei, still here. For some reason, this breaks whatever spell Ilya had been frozen under.

"Wait— yes, I will, but Minister—"

"He'll do the video, and there won't be any trouble," Alexei repeats, growling out the last few words like the threat Ilya knows they are.

God, has he ever been this small in his life? This pathetic?

Vetrov nods tersely, and calls for his guard. "Please escort them down the hall to wait while I finish preparations. And, Ilya," he says, as Ilya turns to go, "this will not happen again. There will be no protecting you a second time. Understood?"

Words won't come, so Ilya nods. He grips the strip of his backpack tight enough to cut off the blood from his fingertips. His shoulder aches, distantly, from where it has been resting for the last hour.

The guard directs him through the doorway, down the hall, closing the office door behind him.

Hayden doesn't even have that clear of a memory of the day it happened. Maybe, if he remembered it better, he'd be able to figure out where exactly he went wrong, as if it was the wrong wire cut on that day, and not a slow eroding of a dam over weeks. He could really be a fucking idiot, sometimes.

What he does remember, is that Marie had been in an unusually good mood that day. Shay had gotten some kind of award for, like, theater? Or dance, or something, and Marie and Rob were going to the awards ceremony tonight. Josh hadn't been feeling well, and had asked to stay home, so dinner time found him and Hayden lounging on the sofa splitting a pizza as one of Josh's ocean shows played in the background. Hayden hadn't been paying attention; he'd been texting with Matheson.

Matheson: hey man. wut r u up 2?

Pike: nm jst at home. family went 2 some award thing 4 shay

Matheson: oh shit u got the place 2 urself?

Pike: me n josh lol

A few minutes later, a call came through. Hayden glanced at the screen and answered it, wandering into the kitchen to refill his water.

It probably hadn't even taken much convincing, if Hayden's being honest with himself. Twenty minutes later, he was opening the front door and ushering in Matheson, along with Simons and Tremblay, two older boys on the team.

Josh hadn't been happy about it. He'd worried they would get in trouble, if his parents found out. But whatever, Hayden reasoned, it's not like they were going to do anything. Tremblay had brought a six pack, but there were four of them— five, if you counted Josh— no one was going to get drunk and rowdy off of one fucking beer. They were just going to hang out and play some Xbox.

Josh had followed them into Hayden's room with a grim expression on his face. Apparently, if rules were going to be broken, he'd taken it upon himself to at least try to supervise, minimize the damage, even when it was clear he'd rather be anywhere else. Every twenty minutes, he announced the time to Hayden, reminding him of when his parents had estimated they'd be returning home.

It's 7:15, Hayden. Mom and Dad said they'd be home by 8:30, 9 at the latest.

It had been either Simons or Matheson who'd eventually suggested that Josh shut up and take a turn at the game. They'd been playing some shooter game— Call of Duty, probably, and someone shoved a controller into his hands. Hayden was up, too, and he felt a familiar pang of guilt as he watched Josh try to figure out the controls as he got sniped twice in quick sucession, before discovering he could, at least, run and crouch, and spray imaginary, ineffective bullets all over the screen while the older boys laughed.

Tremblay left to use the bathroom, returned a few minutes later. Josh's turn eventually ended, to the relief of everyone. The humiliation had been enough to drive Josh back to his own room, and the guys left an hour or so later. Unremarkable, in just about every way.

He'd woken up the next morning to shouting. Josh, screaming, crying, upset. He'd bolted out of bed, afraid the fucking house was on fire, or something, joined the family in the hallway outside Josh's room—

Hayden's heart dropped when he saw the tank, and he knew. He just fucking knew.

They were all dead. The clownfish. The chromis. The little shrimp that usually flitted about from surface to surface.

Josh was holding a bottle of some kind of aquarium chemical or something, looking absolutely, completely devastated—

Hayden backed up all the way back into his bedroom. He shut the door and slid down to the floor, rubbing at his eyes angrily. Fuck. Fuck.

Seven hours later, as he sat in the locker room, feeling wooden and a hundred miles away, the guys laughed their asses off as Tremblay made a joke about liking his fish with extra salt.

The Timms declined to host any players the following season.

Hayden never did learn what happened to Josh. Whether he started another aquarium, got a job in marine biology like he wanted. Whether he found friends that weren't total pieces of shit.

MTL No Cap

Barnes: uh huh. sure

Drapeau: sure, we'll just sit here and wait for someone to clear up this whole fucking mess.

4:37 pm

Pike: Alright, assholes. Listen up, because I'm only saying this once.

Pike: Interrupt me and I'm done. You get one chance.

Pike: Drapeau, I see you typing. I'm fucking serious.

Pike: Okay.

Pike: Yes, I knew about Shane. I knew he was gay, and I knew he was in a relationship.

Pike: I wasn't thrilled about it, I'm still not.

Pike: But Shane is my best friend. I will always have his back.

Pike: I will not sit here and let you chucklefucks disrespect him.

Pike: He's our captain. He's our friend.

Pike: He has shown up for each and every one of us any time we've needed him.

Pike: And look. I don't fucking like Rozanov, at all. I don't trust him.

Pike: Honestly I'd bet good money he'll deny all of this. Call it a joke or a fake video or something.

Pike: He's going to deny the relationship and break up with Shane just watch

Pike: And it's going to suck.

Pike: But Shane's OUR guy! He's the same guy he was two days ago.

Pike: So get over whatever bullshit you're feeling about him being gay

Pike: And be ready to have his back.

Pike: Okay. I'm done.

He'd turned his phone off after he'd finished his rant in the group chat; he needed a break. He finishes his beers, pays, and heads for home.

The house is quiet as he enters; the kids must already be asleep. He frowns and checks the clock on the wall; it's only 8:30, which— ouch, okay. Jackie is probably pissed, she has every right to be. He's been gone for 12 hours with barely a word of communication. He makes a mental note to take the kids out to the playground or something for a few hours tomorrow.

"Jacks?" Hayden calls softly through the house. It's eerily still; no movement from the kitchen or soft nose from the television.

He notices a light coming from the small room behind the kitchen that Jackie affectionately calls "the library". He steps forward, calling out again, "Jackie?"

"In here," comes Jackie's reply. He steps in and sees her, curled under a blanket on the plush loveseat, mug of tea resting on the side table, a laptop resting on the seat next to her.

"Hey, babe, I'm really sorry, the day just got away from me, I should have called hours ago."

Jackie nods, "I guess you had your hands full with Shane and the team, probably?"

"Yeah," Hayden lies, feeling a mixture of guilt and relief, "It's a shit show. The team is going nuts, Shane is— well, you can imagine how he is."

Jackie nods again slowly, and Hayden suddenly feels wrong-footed. She hasn't actually looked at him since he walked into the room.

"See, Hayden, I don't need to imagine, because I called Shane a few hours ago."

Fuck.

"Jacks, okay, look—"

"Yeah it was crazy, he said he had asked you to leave, like, right away." Jackie frowns and picks at the tassel of the blanket on her lap. "So I figured, JJ must know what's going on. Maybe the two of you were making the rounds, putting out fires with the guys, or something? And do you know what JJ said?"

"Probably that he hasn't seen me since—"

"—since before lunch, yeah. And that you hadn't even bothered to show your face in the team group chat."

"I did," Hayden latches onto the only point he can defend. "It took me a little while, okay, but I absolutely did speak up in the group chat, told them to lay off Shane and all that."

"I saw the messages. JJ was kind enough to forward them to me when I told him I hadn't heard from you in nearly twelve hours."

Hayden lets out a slow breath. He deserves to grovel, now. "Okay, yeah. Fuck. Jackie, I am so sorry. I really messed up today, I should have been more in touch, I shouldn't have left you worried all day long. I— it's not an excuse, but I guess I'm just… struggling with all of this." He ducks his head, admits, honestly, "It's really hard seeing Shane go through all of this. I can't help but feel responsible, you know?"

There's a sharp intake of air and Hayden looks up to see a look he's not sure he's ever seen on Jackie's face. She grabs the laptop and spins it around.

"Really? Care to explain this, then?"

Uultimately, this is on him. This is his fault, completely. He'd used the laptop to store the video in the first place, to create the Reddit account, to navigate to the subreddit and to upload the post. And in his drunken state, he hadn't even bothered to log out.

"I never go on Reddit, you know, but I kept seeing that that's where this leak supposedly originated. So, I grabbed the laptop and decided to look for myself."

All of the air has rushed out of the room. Hayden is going to be sick, all over the beautiful Persian rug Jackie specifically picked out for this room. As if the universe was looking for ways to make this worse than it already was.

"You know, if you had logged out of the account, probably no one would have ever figured it out, not even me. Not with any kind of proof, anyway."

"Jackie," he manages, a pathetic, strangled whine, "I swear— I swear on our kids, whatever you think this is, whatever it looks like— I was only looking out for Shane, I swear…"

She doesn't come to his rescue. Doesn't interrupt him. He realizes she is waiting for him to… explain himself, maybe, or dig his own grave.

He takes in a long, deep breath, and closes his eyes. "Okay. Shit. Listen, this has been a fucking awful day. I know I don't deserve it, but can we table this for tonight? And tomorrow, maybe your mom can come watch the kids or something, and we can grab a coffee and talk? I swear I can explain all of this."

For a minute, she doesn't say anything, just stares down at her hands. Then, she inhales, slowly, and shrugs. "Okay. Fine. If you think you can explain this to me in any kind of way that makes sense… well, I'll listen."

Hayden's shoulders sag in relief as Jackie sets the laptop aside, and stands. "Thank you, baby, thank you. I know this seems crazy right now but I promise I will explain everything tomorrow."

"We'll see," Jackie says, stepping past him. Hayden winces.

"Um… I can sleep in the guest room tonight, if— if you need space," he offers. They've almost never actually slept apart like that, he doesn't expect her to take him up on it, but it's the gentlemanly thing to offer.

"Sleep wherever you want, Hayden, I'm going to my parents' house."

The words land with the force of a check into the boards at full speed, knocking the wind out of him.

"What— Jackie, no, come on, this is— this is kind of crazy, right? You don't need to go, I mean, the kids will wonder where you are when they wake up—"

"Oh, the kids are already there, Hayden. My mom picked them up a few hours ago." Jackie bends and picks up a small suitcase Hayden had completely overlooked when he first got home.

"Jackie?" he says, suddenly feeling so much less sure about all of the decisions he's made in the last 24 hours. "Honey. Please,"

"I'll tell you what, Hayden. You come clean with Shane— tell him exactly what you did, why you did it, beg him for forgiveness, and then? Maybe, maybe, I'll agree to hear you out. Until then, though, don't call me. Don't text me. I can't even look at you right now."

The door slams, and Hayden finds himself completely, utterly alone.

Chapter End Notes

😃😃😃

so listen I also hate this chapter and almost everyone in it. Go Jackie I guess?

Chapter 5: Lights. Camera. Action.

Chapter Notes

Hey hi hello how's everyone doing? Ready for a totally normal chapter where nothing really happens and no one has any strong feelings about anything? Me too.

No imaginary fish were harmed in the writing of this chapter. Sorry again, fishies. 🐠

The bodyguard, or whoever he is, leads them down a hall, up a flight of stairs, and down another hall, ultimately depositing them neatly into a small sitting room, impersonal and meant to be impressive. It's fine.

Not really, of course. None of this is fine.

The door swings shut behind them, with the bodyguard on the other side. Ilya assumes he has positioned himself there to give some illusion of security, a halfhearted lie over the reality of the situation: he is trapped. Alexei— and what the hell is Alexei still doing here, anyway?— paces the room, letting out a slow exhale. He runs a hand through his hair.

For a few moments, they're two ships adrift at sea. Silent. What is there to say, after all? Ilya's feet carry him aimlessly, too restless to remain still. The bookshelf in the corner is familiar, now that he thinks about it. He's been here before. The realization isn't much of a surprise; after all, this was Sveta's home once, too.

Ilya looks down and realizes he's still clutching at the paper from Vetrov's office. A sudden rush of anger flares through him at the sight.

"What the fuck were you doing back there," Ilya growls, "speaking for me? Saying that I'd agree to this?"

Across the room, Alexei scoffs. "Oh? I should have let you think about it, hm? Weigh up the pros and cons of being arrested and publicly charged with promoting homosexuality?"

"What fucking difference does it make to you? It's my life, my business!"

"Only yours? We share a name, remember? Your niece— you want her growing up, all of her classmates knowing what her uncle was? Did you even stop to think how this would affect her? Of course not, only thinking of yourself, like always!"

"Fuck you," Ilya spits across the room. "Remind me whose apartment you live in, you fucking asshole!"

Alexei opens his mouth to respond, lifts a hand to point accusingly at Ilya, but the words don't appear. He narrows his eyes and scowls.

"Give me a fucking cigarette. I need a smoke."

Ilya considers telling Alexei to fuck off already, but then Alexei might leave, and if nothing else, the anger is a distraction. It's the only thing keeping him anchored to the moment. So, he slings the backpack off his shoulder and digs in the small front pocket for the cigarettes and lighter, tossing them to Alexei.

"Ilya…" Alexei rolls his shoulders back as he takes a deep inhale of smoke, "be serious. Your passport is useless, until this gets cleared up. You're lucky Vetrov even agreed to a deal. You know this is the only way."

Ilya sniffs. He can know something, and still refuse to accept it. Exhibit A: The way his stupid heart always soared on the rare occasions his father would praise his hockey to others, as if he believed it was genuine. Exhibit B: His first eight years of knowing Shane Hollander.

Alexei scoffs again and crosses the room to the window. The curtains are drawn; he pulls them back and looks out over the city, now lit by streetlights and headlights. One hand drops to the back of a small green loveseat that rests just under the window.

"What's so bad about it, anyway?" Alexei says, still facing the window. "You say what they want you to say. They're just words, Ilya. They don't mean anything."

"I know," he says. He does. They are just words.

But.

Ilya tilts his head back and tries to think of how to possibly explain.

"About six months ago, Shane and I had a fight. It was a big one. I— I wanted to come out, slowly, just to a few friends. People I trusted to keep our secret, you know? He didn't, he was afraid. We didn't speak for a few days."

Ilya looks at Alexei; he hasn't moved from the window. He also hasn't made any move to interrupt, so Ilya continues.

"It was a hard time for us. Eventually, we agreed we would start, slowly. Two of his teammates know, and his parents. Sveta knows. One of my teammates also, and his wife, and— well, we were going to tell more, but then this happened. And now, I have to tell the world that actually, it's all a lie."

Ilya could sit down. There's no reason not to, it's not like he's going anywhere anytime soon. Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure he and Sveta made out on the small loveseat under the window, in some former lifetime.

"I— I came very close to ending things. I was not kind, or fair. I almost gave him an ultimatum. Still, he listened. He forgave me, he was willing to compromise. He was very brave, when it mattered. Now, I go on television and tell the world that not only am I not involved with Shane Hollander, but I find the idea disgusting, immoral, reprehensible. Like a fucking hypocrite. Like a coward."

Alexei spins around. "So fucking what, Ilya? Who cares? Tell the lie, if that's what will help you get home! You can tell him the truth, if he's the one who fucking matters so much!" He scoffs again, shakes his head. Under his breath, he mutters, "Always so fucking dramatic."

There's logic in Alexei's words, cold and cruel and sharp. He's not wrong. Ilya is surprised to find that he wants to tell Alexei this, wants to bridge the gap between them. Wants to tell Alexei he understands, and he still can't do it, and hope that Alexei can understand him as well.

Instead of any of that, what he manages to come up with is, "I never should have come back here, I think."

He feels stupid, then. What a pointless thing to say. Because he did come back to Moscow. There's no point in discussing hypotheticals.

And if nothing else, at least Alexei is predictable. "Why the fuck did you, anyway?"

Ilya grips the strap of his bag, considers setting it down. Decides against it. "Personal reasons."

A sneer creeps across Alexei's face and he takes a step closer to Ilya. Mockingly, he repeats, "Personal reasons?"

"Fuck off."

"Ah, let me guess… you knocked some girl up last time you were here? Came to keep her quiet, play Papa for a few weeks? Or, what, someone had sensitive information they wanted to be paid for? Another man, perhaps with evidence?"

"I was visiting with Aunt Yelena, you piece of shit," spits Ilya. "Mama's sister."

"Fuck off," says Alexei, "Our mother didn't have a sister."

"Didn't she?" Ilya asks dryly.

Alexei falters, caught off guard. "Maybe she did," he admits, grudgingly, "I thought she was dead. It's not like she ever visited or kept in touch."

"Can you blame her?"

Alexei clears his throat and shrugs. "So? What, she ask you for money?"

"No, no. Don't worry, Lyokha. That's a special relationship, just for us."

Ilya says the words, aiming to provoke, but Alexei is uncharacteristically restrained. He takes another drag on his cigarette, picks up some ugly porcelain figurine from a side table, examines it, and sets it back down with a careless thud.

"Well? What the fuck did she want, then?" asks Alexei.

"It doesn't matter."

"Fuck off. It must have been important, if it convinced you to come back after all this time."

Unspoken, but heavy, is the implication. Whatever it was, it was more important than your niece. Than your brother.

Ilya looks at the ground and steels himself. "She wanted to give me some of Mama's old things. Nothing valuable," he mumbles, "just sentimental. That's all."

Alexei stills, and says nothing.

Ilya, out of the corner of his eye, can see his brother, standing near a fireplace which hasn't been used in decades.

There's silence for a moment.

"Some of Mama's things." his voice is flat, low. It is uncannily similar to how Father used to sound, when he was angry.

"Just some old journals," Ilya says carefully.

"This is what is in your bag, then."

"Well, yes."

Alexei nods, a dark frown on his face.

"So, you come back for her. Notes from a fucking ghost."

Ilya's temper flares. "Why shouldn't I? Would it be better if I pretended like she never existed, like you do?"

Alexei whirls around and closes the distance between them. "Careful, Ilya."

"Oh?" Ilya laughs, breathlessly, almost hysterically. "What, does it make you uncomfortable? Remembering Mama? The hard days, when she couldn't get out of bed?"

"Fuck her and her problems," hisses Alexei, stepping closer to him. "We all have problems, why should I give a shit that she was too weak to deal with hers? It's a small mercy, at least, that she didn't have to watch her precious Ilyushenka grow up to be a faggot."

"I'd say the real mercy is that she never had to see what a fucking disappointment you turned out to be, but let's be honest— she probably already knew." Ilya feels the words pass over his tongue, bitter and cold, a thin blade designed to slide neatly between the ribs. The skill and ruthlessness to utter them is a family heirloom, passed down from his father.

The look on Alexei's face is near murderous; Ilya almost wishes he'd just act on the impulse already, and end both of their suffering. "What difference would it make? She only ever needed one child to be proud of, right? Once you came along, she couldn't wait to give up on me, already fucked up at four years old! You belonged to her, and she belonged to you, and fuck everyone else!" Alexei stamps out his cigarette into a crystal ashtray with enough force to send it almost skittering across the table. "You have always acted like she had no one but you!"

Ilya reels at the venom; the bald unfairness of it all, and throws his hands in the air. "Well? Can you blame me? Father was, well, himself, and on the rare occasions you were even home you were fighting with all three of us! She didn't have anyone but me, at least not at the end!"

"So what, so, you're the only one who— who lost her?"

"I— fuck, Alexei, I—" Ilya's voice breaks, he ducks his head and blinks his eyes. Why the fuck are they even talking about this right now? "I mean, I fucking found her, I have to live with that every day—"

"And I found you, Ilya!" Alexei chokes out, the words sounding as though they were being ripped from between his ribs. "Who the fuck do you think it was who called the police, while you were shaking and screaming on the floor? Who had to tell Father to come home early from his business trip?"

The vodka, the nicotine, the rage, the fear, the danger— all of it has flowed too generously through their veins tonight, and the levees have finally burst. There's no holding it back anymore; the devastation is inevitable.

"Who do you think cleaned you up after they dragged her body away?" Alexei asks, his voice raw with emotion. "Who made sure you ate? Who slept on your floor, sometimes in your bed, for weeks, because your nightmares were so bad?" He turns away, blinking. One hand wipes angrily across his face. He inhales, exhales, picks at something on his shirt that Ilya can't see.

"You forget, of course you forget. So eager to be alone after that, because the alternative was being stuck with me."

 Ilya hates this fucking room, now that he thinks about it. It's nice to hate something outside of himself, at least for a moment.

"Whether you care to admit it or not, she was my Mama, too. My Mama first. Even if she loved you more."

"Lyosha—" Ilya begins, hating how small his voice sounds. He scrambles, trying to think of something to say, trying to find words, any words, in any language, that could possibly convey the grief, anger, guilt, and a hundred other nameless emotions threatening to suffocate him right now. But the closest thing he can manage is silence.

Alexei ignores him anyway. He has moved away, retreated to a small desk in the corner. He stands hunched over it, his back to Ilya, collecting himself. Fiddling with a small notepad. After a moment, he sighs, straightens, opens the cigarette packet again and pulls another out. He lights it, then turns. He strides past Ilya, roughly shoving the cigarettes back into his fumbling hands as he continues in the direction of the door.

"I didn't keep you alive through all of that for you to throw it away now. Make the stupid fucking video, and go live your life."

He knocks on the door, exchanges a few words with the guard, who nods and lets him step through.

"Goodbye, Ilya."

Ilya tries to respond, he really tries, but his throat is wrapped in fishing line and he's not sure he'll ever be able to speak again. In any case, Alexei doesn't wait around. His footsteps fade down the hallway, the door closes.

A sharp buzzing jolts Shane out of the thoughtless limbo he'd been adrift in for… well, long enough to turn the piping hot mug of coffee clutched in his hand cold and unappetizing. His mother had pressed it into his hands before retreating to his rarely-used home office to take yet another in a series of quiet, tense phone calls.

The phone buzzes again; Shane releases the mug and snatches it up. It's a number he doesn't recognize. An international number.

Shane's heart leaps into his throat and he hits the accept button before he can think twice. He brings the phone to his ear, suddenly afraid to speak.

It doesn't matter; the voice on the other end of the phone speaks first. "This is Shane Hollander?"

Shane's hopes sink; the voice, while accented, is distinctly not Ilya's. It's a man's voice, not as deep as Ilya's, and rougher. His accent is stronger than Ilya's, his English tentative from unfamiliarity or disuse; Shane has the fleeting thought that Ilya probably used to sound a lot like this, before a decade in North America smoothed away some of the edges of his beautiful voice, like a pebble in a river.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?" Shane asks, a million new worries springing into his head.

"Alexei," says the voice curtly, clearly expecting that to mean something to Shane, and of course it does. The hand not holding the phone curls into a tight fist almost on its own accord.

"Prove it," Shane hisses into the phone.

A sigh comes across the line, sounding annoyed, almost bored, maybe? Oh, Shane definitely can't stand this fucking asshole.

"Ilya has scar on side of his leg, left leg. Is from when we were young. One day he made me angry, so I take his toy and put it in a tree. Ilya tried to climb up to get it but he was too small. He fell and cut his leg. Cried like little baby."

Shane frowns, scans back through his memory. He knows the scar Alexei is referring to, has kissed it on many occasions when he's been nestled between Ilya's legs, but Ilya has never told him where it had come from.

"I need more proof. Are you with him? Can you put him on the phone?"

Alexei sighs again, not bothering to hide his irritation. "No time for this, Hollander."

The way he says it reminds Shane so suddenly and so violently of his boyfriend he almost breaks right there. He has to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment, dig the knuckles of his unoccupied fist into his forehead, scrub them angrily across his brow in an attempt to calm himself.

"I know," he says, trying to keep his voice even with monumental effort. "But I'm not willing to make a stupid mistake based on emotion when Ilya's safety is at stake. Do better."

There is a curse in Russian on the other end of the phone and Shane considers hanging up, if only to prove his point, but Alexei, or whoever he is, begins speaking again, agitated now.

"Blyat! I don't know. He does not come to Russia since our father died. Now he is here visiting our mother's sister. His— what is the word— what he wears on his neck, it belongs to our mother. Is enough for you?"

"Fuck—" Shane spits out, "Just let me talk to him. Please." He doesn't mean to beg, especially not to the man who, as far as he knows, has spent most of the past three decades making his boyfriend's life hell.

"He is not here," comes the dull response. "He is with the Minister now."

Cold, sharp dread winds its way around Shane's middle. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Svetlana's father, yes? She talked to him. To keep Ilya out of jail, he will make a statement."

Shane absorbs this. "Okay, then what?"

There's a beat of silence. Shane presses, "what happens after he makes the statement? Once he tells everyone that the video is fake, and gay people are a danger to society, or whatever, what happens then? They let him go?"

The silence stretches on, uneasily.

"Alexei!" Shane finally snaps. Fuck this. Fuck all of this tiptoeing around, as if they can somehow protect him, or protect Ilya, but if only no one looks the problem in the fucking eyes. "Fucking tell me! I can't fucking help if I don't know what's going on! I'm sure you think I'm some weak, limp-wristed little fairy boy faggot cocksucker, but I don't give a shit!" His voice has risen to an uncomfortably loud volume. Out of the corner of his eye, he's vaguely aware that his mother is standing in the doorway, a look of alarm on her face, but Shane has too much momentum to lower his voice, to slow down. "I don't have time for your bullshit. The man I love is trapped in a country that would love to make an example out of him. I'm supposed to just take your word that they won't? Do you really think I'm stupid enough to trust you on this?"

"You talk too fast. Too much," Alexei observes, dryly. "Was probably a very nice speech."

Shane stalks over to the kitchen counter, presses his palm flat and hard into the smooth, cool marble. "Why the fuck did you call me if you don't have anything useful to say?"

"Do you think, maybe, I am not the enemy? Maybe I am trying to help?"

Shane scoffs, but Alexei continues before he has a chance to respond. "Yes, is not good for Ilya right now. They are sure to take his passports. Maybe they will return them after video is done, maybe not. Ilya has no phone, no money. When he is finished singing his little song for them, they will tell him he can go, but only with an escort. They will say is for his own safety, and it will be maybe a half truth."

Shane clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut.

"The Canadian embassy is not far from where they are holding him," Alexei continues, grim but steady. "If he can get there, they will help him?"

"Yes," says Shane without hesitation. "I'll take care of it. I'll call his lawyer right away. Can you get him there?"

"I can give him a chance. He will need to take it."

There's one more beat of silence in the miles between them. He should hang up the phone and explain all of this to his mom, call Ilya's lawyer, call the Canadian Embassy in Moscow, drive to Ilya's home in Ottawa and hit the punching bag in his gym until all of his knuckles are split and his fingers are broken and useless as the rest of him—

"Is a lot of trouble, all of this. He says you are worth it. I'm not so sure."

"No offense, Alexei, but I don't really give a fuck what you think."

There's a laugh, soft but harsh, not as bitter as before.

"Not as polite as you are on television. Maybe I see a little why he likes you."

Shane can't think of any response to that, and Alexei appears to have run out of things to say as well. The call ends; Shane lets the hand holding the phone drop heavily to his side.

Yuna enters the room from where she's been hovering anxiously for the past few moments. "Shane? Honey, what was that about?"

"Ilya's brother," he begins, "We need to get in touch with the Canadian embassy in Moscow."

"I'll call the attorney right away. Farah, too."

Shane nods, accepts a quick hug from her before she springs into action, and the kitchen is suddenly silent again. The mug of coffee is still cold.

A series of short buzzes come from the phone still in his hand. He glances down at it; there are three texts from the same number.

The first is a picture of Ilya sitting in a sparse looking apartment, smoking. He's unaware the picture is being taken, looking off somewhere to the left. He's clearly despondent but appears otherwise unharmed.

Under that is a short message.

Unknown Number: See. He is fine.

Finally, a third message comes through, with an attachment.

Unknown Number: Save this file, and listen to it. Make sure it sent properly. Text me after and I will delete the copy on this phone.

Shane's heartbeat quickens. He taps the attachment. It's an audio file. He listens to it, restarts it, listens again.

He doesn't understand most of it, but he's pretty sure he knows what it is, anyway.

Done. Saved in two places.

Unknown Number: good.

Unknown Number goodbye, Shane Hollander.

They usher him into a formal looking sitting room that's already set up: lights, monitors and extension cords, a camera on a tripod; Ilya is almost flattered they went to so much trouble for his public execution. How thoughtful.

The ornate, upholstered chair from which he is to deliver his statement sits in the center of the room; behind it hangs the Russian flag, as if there were any confusion. He is Russian. In Russia. A puppet of the state.

"Sit, please." A production assistant of some type directs him to the chair. He obeys, robotically. Someone shoves a paper into his hand, a polished version of the draft from last night. He reads it and can't even muster up the energy to be horrified. Yes, of course this is what they will make him say. This is what they'll make him do, shoulder the blame, take the full responsibility for his nation's failings, and let them all hate him for it afterwards.

The memory of a stunningly bad Olympic hockey game comes to mind.

"Read this over, familiarize yourself with it. When we film, you will read off the teleprompter," instructs some unimportant person.

Another bends over him, clips a microphone to the lapel of his jacket, feeds the transmitter into the inside pocket. Ilya lets himself be moved, positioned, lets the people attach wires to him, a good little puppet, letting them move his strings however they want. Stares through the page, the words a lifesaving medicine designed to be as painful as possible. He'll swallow it down and hope it won’t actually kill him.

Disgusting and indecent.

Someone hands him a glass of water, he takes a sip automatically. He's not thirsty.

Fabrication. Falsehood. Propaganda.

They tell him to test the microphone for audio. "Test. Test." He gets a nod in return.

Attack on traditional Russian values and my own character.

That line in particular almost makes him laugh. Or vomit. Maybe both.

"Rozanov. Ready?"

Of course he isn't. He nods anyway. Someone takes the paper from his hands, points to the teleprompter where the same horrible words stare accusingly at him. A director counts down with her fingers.

"Good Morning. My name is Ilya Rozanov. Yesterday, a video was shared online which claims to depict a disgusting and indecent encounter between myself and another man."

Thirty seconds, or two hours, or a decade later, the teleprompter stops scrolling. Sergei, along with some other official looking man, insist on another take. Another after that. He needs to stop acting so sulky, so recalcitrant— heartbroken, he wants to correct them. He forces air back into his lungs and tries again.

He thinks of an ice rink in Toronto, a lifetime ago; a commercial shoot with an equally frustrated director.

Let's try it one more time, guys, with lots of intensity, okay?

Freckles. His favorite smile, even if he hadn't known it yet.

"Again."

"Good Morning. My name is Ilya Rozanov."

Somehow, somehow, it's done. The camera is safely tucked back in its travel case, cords are being wound up. The lights that were beating down on him went dark at some point. He said the words they wanted him to say, he guesses. He must have because no one is looking at him anymore. No one seems to even notice that he's still in the room, still frozen in his chair, still gripping the armrests, the wooden ends slick with sweat from where his palms wrap around them.

The morning sunlight floats through the window like a dream. It's a beautiful day in Moscow. Maybe they will let him go to visit Mama. Maybe he'll stay there all day.

A mug of coffee warms his hands. Insects sing in the quiet of the early morning. A solid, familiar body settles next to him; the movement causes the porch swing to sway gently. A soft pair of lips presses against his jawline, murmuring, "Good Morning."

The memory shatters like glass— into a million shards, which can never be repaired, can never do anything again but cut him open. He stands, abruptly enough to draw looks of mild concern from the scattered handful of people in the room.

"I need a fucking cigarette," he snarls. The anger is hollow and brittle, it would collapse under any resistance, but there is none. He's been a shadow of a human all day; at this sign of life, they scramble to appease him. He crosses the room, grabs his bag from where he'd dropped it on a chair earlier that morning, and pulls open the door. No one stands in his way.

There's a man following two steps behind him, probably, maybe, Ilya doesn't fucking care. What does it matter. They took his passports, both of them. They took his wallet. Alexei has the burner phone.

Ilya has half a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, the last gift he'll ever receive from his brother. Probably the first one, too, now that he thinks about it. He retrieves them now. The man who is barely pretending to not be watching him leans against a doorway 15 feet away.

Ilya fumbles with the package and glances inside to grab a cigarette. He freezes, then corrects himself, quickly, hoping that his reaction wasn't noticeable. He carefully selects a cigarette and pulls it out, along with the small folded scrap of paper that certainly hadn't been in the pack the last time he'd opened it.

He digs in his pocket again for his lighter. Glances to the side. Babysitter man is scowling at him, but in a complacent kind of way, like he can tell that Ilya has had the fight beaten out of him for good. Okay, then.

Slowly, he lights the cigarette, takes a long draw, makes a show of exhaling, exhaling like a man who just lost everything, and he might as well give up the air in his lungs while he's at it.

His babysitter glances at a woman walking by. Ilya turns, barely, enough to unfold and read the few words scrawled on it, in a handwriting that feels like a relic of a long-forgotten age:

Two blocks west. Keys and instructions under the seat. Don't be stupid. -A

Ilya crumples the note, drops it, kicks it carelessly into the gutter where a stagnant pool of rainwater eagerly seeps into it. He takes a long draw on his cigarette, mentally calculating how much time he thinks he has before they drag him back inside. For his own protection, of course.

The babysitter looks bored. Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya can see him roll his shoulders back, pick at something on his sleeve. He reaches into his pocket, suddenly, with a frown, his attention pulled away for a fraction of a second.

It's enough. Ilya doesn't wait to see what he's doing; he takes a few decisive steps forward; the pedestrian traffic is sparse, but there's enough people that Ilya can begin to weave, picking up speed to a jog until he reaches the corner, turns in the direction Alexei's note had specified, and—

Run. He hears Shane's voice in his head. A command. He follows. There might be footsteps behind him; he isn't sure. And, anyway, it doesn't matter. He's one of the best fucking athletes in the world, after all. He laughs with the realization.

His body. His skill. His endurance. His tenacity. Russia can't strip these from him. Even if he is to die here, he'll take those with him to the grave.

There it is. The piece of shit car, parked along the side street he's running down, and in this moment, it's more beautiful than any of the cars he's ever owned. He curses, decides to grapple with the fact that Alexei may be the person responsible for his salvation later, and risks a glance behind him as he reaches the car and grabs the handle.

Babysitter man has only just rounded the corner, looking much redder than is probably healthy. Ilya yanks the door open and dives into the driver's seat, reaching one hand underneath to find the keys, another scrap of paper, and— his heart leaps— the burner phone. He slams the door shut, cranks the ignition, and pulls away from the curb as red-faced terrible babysitter man staggers in his direction, too slowly.

Ilya drives without direction, at first. He takes the streets which seem the least busy, turns often, in the hope of throwing his pursuers off his scent. After ten minutes, he grabs the scrap of paper from where it lays discarded on the passenger seat. He unfolds it and reads it, distracted, as he weaves through lanes of traffic, turning right onto a side street abruptly.

Here is the address for the Canadian Embassy. There will be agents outside who will try to keep you from entering. Circle the block first, I will be watching. Will try to cause a distraction. Get your dumb ass through the door and everything will be okay.

Below, Alexei had scrawled an address and a crude map, which Ilya couldn't help but feel a strange and intense sense of fondness at. It's not a feeling he associates with his brother, ever.

He'll think about that later.

His therapist, incidentally, is about to earn herself a month-long luxury vacation to any part of the world she wants, if Ilya makes it home in one piece at the end of this.

Ilya sinks back into the seat, lets his head drop against the headrest, and exhales. Sitting still is a luxury he can't afford right now, but there's one thing he has to do, because he might not get another chance.

He picks up the phone, unlocks it, and dials.

"Hi, Shane?"

There are small miracles in the world, and Shane is blessed in this moment with two. First, the voice of his boyfriend, low and perfect through the phone pressed to his ear; second, that his feet manage to carry him from where he'd been standing in his kitchen gazing dully at the Montreal skyline up the stairs and into his bedroom to find a soft landing onto his bed, his face pressed into the pillow that, if miracles came in threes, would still smell like Ilya.

"Oh my god, Ilya," he says, voice muffled by the bedding.

"Yes, sweetheart, I'm here." Ilya's voice is so soft, so gentle, if Shane just closes his eyes a little tighter, he can almost pretend it's a normal night during the season. Ilya's just in Ottawa.  

"Are you okay? What's going on?"

There's a soft sound through the phone that could be a laugh or a sob, Shane's not sure. "Ilya?"

"I am okay enough, Shane. I'm not hurt, I'm not in jail."

"Are you—"

"Not now, please," Ilya cuts him off. Then, gentler, "Please? I can't right now, okay?"

There are a hundred questions he needs answers to. He swallows them down and searches for something else to say.

"Can you do something for me?" Ilya murmurs. "Give me two minutes of boring."

"Boring?"

"Yes. Tell me about your boring day, Shanya. What was the pretend flavor of your terrible smoothie this morning? Strawberry or pineapple?"

"I didn't have one today."

There's a beat of silence.

"Of course," Ilya continues, determined. "You were running late for your Rolex shoot, yes? Stupid idiot man Hayden kept you out too late last night?"

"I don't want to talk about him," Shane says, instantly regretting how angry he must sound.

Another beat. Shane silently berates himself and shifts gears, trying to play along.

"I, uh, didn't go to the shoot. Something came up and it got rescheduled."

"Hmm," Ilya murmurs solemnly, "Chlamydia outbreak on set? Would not be the first time. Happened to me once, too."

In spite of everything, Shane laughs. "Oh my god, shut up."

"I tell you this all the time, Hollander, your ad shoots are too sexy! Your sexiness is a public health concern at this point. The crew can't keep their pants on, they are too desperate to think clearly, and next thing you know— boom, chlamydia. Probably a few pregnancies as well."

"Fuck off," giggles Shane. "You are such an idiot."

"Maybe, yes," says Ilya.

Neither of them speak for a moment; Shane listens to the breaths coming slow and steady through the phone. He nuzzles the pillow; he thinks he might detect a faint scent of Ilya's shampoo.

"It really is a beautiful day in Moscow, you know. A strange part of me wishes you could be here with me. Not like this, of course, but…" Ilya's voice trails off.

Shane is not going to cry. He's not going to make Ilya listen to him cry, not now. He scrubs at his eyes furiously, swallows.

"I wish I could be there too. Even like this. I'd want to be with you."

"Hm," hums Ilya. The line is quiet for a moment. "I think maybe I will, ah, do some tourist things today, for fun. What do you call it— seeing the sights?"

"Sightseeing, yeah," says Shane.

"Lots to see in Moscow, you know. Museums, churches, parks, embassies…"

Shane's heart hate picks up. "I think sightseeing is a good idea. Just… Ilya. Please, please be careful."

"I will be."

"Promise."

"I promise, Shane."

Shane buries his face into the mattress. He is distantly aware that this probably is causing a lot of rustling and static on Ilya's end.

"Sorry," he manages, "Just getting comfortable."

"You are in bed, love?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Hey, do you remember the last time I called you from Russia?"

"Of course," Shane mumbles.

Ilya laughs softly. "You didn't know it then, but that phone call was the first time I told you I loved you."

Fuck.

"I loved you so much, and I was so afraid. I didn't know what to do about it."

Shane shoves his face harder into the mattress. Tries to do one of the breathing exercises that are supposed to calm him down.

"I was so afraid that we could never have anything real. And now… now I'm just so fucking happy. I'm so lucky, Shane. I love you so much. Okay?"

He tries, he really tries to hold back the sob that escapes his lips.

"Shh, it's okay." Ilya murmurs. "Fuck. Okay, I have to go now, Shane. I love you."

"Ilya?"

"Ya tebya lyublyu, I love you forever, sweetheart. I'll talk to you soon, okay? I promise."

"I love you too," Shane chokes out, but the line is already dead. He curls in around himself, burrowing into the pillows, and finally, finally, giving into the sobs that he has been holding at bay all day.

Ilya follows Alexei's instructions, driving past the embassy and around the block, scanning the sidewalks.

He immediately spots two obvious-looking agents, tall and broad, with a military-esque air about them. Then, another man further down the street, smoking and holding a paper cup of coffee, 50/50 chance on that one. The woman in her 60's walking her dog… probably not, but then again, maybe they follow his social media, and the dog is meant to create some kind of honeypot situation.

There's another guy, just around the corner. A younger guy, twitchy. Nervous, maybe, or maybe coming down off whatever drug he'd taken a few hours earlier. He looks like shit, anyway. Ilya passes him and looks out for Alexei, but doesn't see him.

After a full circle of the block, Ilya finds a parking spot and, with some trepidation, pulls into it and turns off the car. This is it, one way or another.

The phone, which he'd set on the passenger seat, lights up. A text message. He grabs the phone.

Alexei: I see you. Go. Don't hesitate or look back.

Thirty years of instinct are screaming at him to ignore Alexei's instructions, that the last 24 hours have been some kind of fever dream where reality has been turned upside down. But, he's come this far, and it's not like he has any other options.

And anyway, he promised Shane.

He grabs his backpack. He crumples the paper instructions and shoves them into his pocket with the phone. He swings open the car door, and starts walking. The two agents are between him and the door. They haven't noticed him yet. He keeps his eyes down, forces himself to walk casually. Maybe he should take his phone out, pretend to be reading a text.

He's aware of a commotion across the street. He looks up on reflex; the twitchy kid is holding up the older woman at knifepoint. Her small dog is barking furiously.

Ilya's eyes snap over to the two men, whose attention has been caught by the scene. They move, one crossing the street fully to intervene while the other stands at the curb, watching, hands on his hips.

Ilya takes a final, deep breath, and walks forward. He enters the nearest agent's periphery vision; he keeps his eyes forward. The door to the embassy is half a block away. Not much farther now.

There's movement behind him, and he breaks into a sprint.

"Hey!"

His hand is on the door—

The footsteps are loud behind him—

Unknown Number: I'm inside, sweetheart

Unknown Number: [A selfie of Ilya; his hair is disheveled and his face is flushed, but he is sitting in a chair next to a desk prominently displaying a Canadian flag.]

Oh my God, Ilya

Fuck

Oh my god

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Okay listen I did a lot of research about Canadian immigration. Then I very politely and respectfully went, "That's A Lot, I'm gonna do my own thing."

Hayden's thumb taps the side of the steering wheel in an anxious rhythm. He didn't sleep last night; the house was too quiet, his bed too empty. Every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd seen Jackie's face, the way she looked at him as if she was seeing a stranger, someone who disgusted her. Eventually, sometime around 3:00, he'd made his way back downstairs to the family room, settled himself under one of the large, cozy blankets while one of the Toy Story movies played in the background as the sun slowly turned the sky grey.

It's not like he had expected her to understand. Jackie is smart and perceptive, but she only sees the parts of hockey culture that he doesn't shield her from. She doesn't understand why Hayden had to take drastic measures to protect Shane from himself.

Hayden shuffles into the kitchen and gets himself a glass of water. He drinks half of it at the sink, considers making something for breakfast. He glances at the clock on the microwave; It's 6:21 am. Fuck. He'd thought for sure it was at least an hour or two later than that. He wants to hold out, to wait for Jackie to calm down so he can try to explain better. But she'd refused to take his calls, hadn't answered his texts, and even when he reached out to Jackie's mom, he had been told in a tight, icy voice that she had gone to bed early and would call him when she was ready to talk.

He could wait her out if he felt like it, but there's a small part of him that knows, at any moment, she could decide to tell Shane what she knows. Maybe it's better if it comes from him, if he can control the narrative, if he can just explain to Shane—

This is why he texts Shane at 6:45 in the morning. Hey man. Can we talk? I'm so sorry. Shane reads the text immediately. The response takes over an hour to come through. Fine.

And, anyway, there's been radio silence from Rozanov's camp. It's been over twenty-four hours at this point, and yeah, okay, he's in Russia, or whatever, but Hayden's pretty sure they have phones in Russia. He's pretty sure Rozanov could have called his agent to put out a response. He should have; it's strange that he hasn't, actually. With the time difference, he must have seen it as soon as it was leaked. He probably could have even gotten on a plane before anyone even really knew what was going on.

Yeah, Hayden reasons, that's got to be what happened. Rozanov saw the video— he's probably egotistical enough that he has Google alerts set up for his own name— and he left Russia immediately. Now he's laying low in Ottawa trying to figure out what angle will do the least damage to his image.

Hayden pulls up to Shane's apartment and parks, taking in a slow breath. Okay. This is going to be a hard conversation. He prepares himself mentally; Shane is going to be upset. This is normal. He will feel betrayed. He will be angry. Hayden needs to give him space to feel those feelings. He'll come around eventually. He'll understand, it just might take some time.

He knocks on the door to Shane's apartment; on the other side stands Shane, looking wary and exhausted.

"Hey buddy," Hayden begins, an unpleasant trickle of guilt creeping into his gut. "Can I come in?"

The muscles in Shane's jaw clench and unclench. After a tense moment, he jerks his head once in a nod and steps back to open the door wider. Hayden exhales and steps across the threshold, into the kitchen.

They aren't alone, he realizes with a rush of irritation. JJ stands at one end of the island, leaning against the marble, a fresh mug of coffee and a tablet in front of him. His expression as he notices Hayden is unreadable.

Shane enters the kitchen behind him, crosses to the counter. "Do you want some coffee?" he asks without turning to look at Hayden, and without even waiting for an answer, he grabs a mug from the cabinet and begins to pour from a full pot. "My mom won't stop making it."

"Oh, is she still here?" asks Hayden. Maybe this is a good way to ease into things, to follow Shane's lead.

"I asked her to run to the store for a few things." He sets the mug down in front of Hayden, who considers asking for milk and sugar, and decides against it.

"So… what do you want to talk about?" asks Shane flatly, still not looking at Hayden. It's fine, JJ's looking enough for both of them. Hayden wants to ask him to leave.

"I just… How are you holding up?"

Shane laughs bitterly, drumming the fingers of his right hand against the counter. "How am I holding up, Hayd? Really? How do you think?" Hayden flinches. "I mean, men I've played with for ten years have decided I'm a traitor, the league is threatening to suspend me while they open an investigation, my professional reputation is in the toilet, no one gives a shit about the three cups I helped us win, or the shelves full of trophies I have in the next room, the entire internet is discussing whether or not I take it up the ass, and— oh yeah, my boyfriend is trapped in a country with a government that would love to make an example out of him, and I'm still not sure what we can do to get him home!"

Hayden's hopes deflate. "He's still in Russia? He didn't, like, get on a plane as soon as he saw it?"

Shane shoots a look of pure disgust in his general direction, not bothering to dignify Hayden's question with a response.

"Why are you here, Hayden? You said you wanted to talk, so talk."

Hayden glances back at JJ, who frowns, and shifts his weight, settling his hands on the counter as if to make himself comfortable.

Fuck, well. Okay. Hayden takes a deep breath. "Look, man, the video…" he begins, choosing his words carefully. "I can't apologize enough. I wasn't paying attention when I recorded it, to begin with, and that's on me. I fucked up, so so bad."

Shane nods. "And?"

Hayden falters. "Um, and…?"

JJ moves, for the first time. He slides the tablet across the island to land in front of Hayden, almost knocking his untouched coffee mug over. Hayden jumps and looks down at.the dark screen, glancing questioningly at JJ and then Shane.

"Found something interesting, maybe you haven't seen it yet," says JJ, pointing at the tablet. "Take a look."

Hayden taps the screen. It's a twitter thread, with an embedded video— oh. Fuck. Okay, he hadn't considered this. Why hadn't he stopped to consider this?

not my fanmail not my problem @bradsy86

fucking fine, you idiots wont stop harassing me so HERE. THIS is the fanmail i got from @haydenpike35. Whoever leaked that shit it wasn't me so chill with the death threats

Hayden taps the video; he doesn't know why he does it, he knows what he'll see. His own face fills the screen. He sends a happy birthday message to Brad, not quite word for word as the other one, but it's pretty damn close. "Happy 35th from number 35," he'd been so proud of that stupid joke. Proud enough to reuse it when he remade the video. Fuck, he hadn't even bothered to change his fucking shirt between videos. The clip ends, and the kitchen is silent.

Hayden's mouth is dry. He searches for something, anything to say.

"What the fuck is going on, Hayden?" asks Shane. His voice is quiet, steady.

"It looks to me," says JJ, straightening and crossing his arms, "like a second take to the video that leaked."

"Yeah," says Hayden, finding his voice at last, weak though it sounds. "It, uh, I guess I did re-record it."

"Hm," says JJ through pursed lips. "So you did notice Shane and Roz in the background of the first one. You made a second one, sent it off to this Brad guy, and…?"

Hayden takes a step back. "Look— yeah, okay, I don't know— I assumed I'd sent the wrong one— by accident, of course!— but I didn't, so, shit, I mean maybe I got hacked, shit—"

Distantly, he remembers that he's supposed to be confessing, and he's fucking it up, but JJ is looking at him accusingly, he's got all the wrong idea, and honestly JJ should be on his side, he is supposed to understand—

"Hayden." Shane's voice cuts through the weak, waffling bullshit falling inelegantly out of Hayden's mouth. Everything is going so, so wrong, like a car crash. Shane finally looks right at him for the first time since he arrived, and it is a look Hayden has never, ever seen on Shane's face before.

Before today, Hayden had known two distinct Shanes. There's Shane Hollander, Captain of the Metros. This Shane is intense, serious, lightning quick with lethal precision. Professional and demanding, the kind of man who could convince other men to follow him into battle. The kind of player who never needs to throw a punch, because other guys can take care of that; he's too busy putting the puck in the back of the net.

And there's Shane, godfather to his kids. Gentle, quiet, good-natured, almost childlike in his own earnest way. Protective, but also someone to protect.

The man that stands in front of him right now is neither of those Shanes. Hayden remembers, suddenly, that his best friend has probably 15 pounds and two inches on him, that he checked a Detroit player so hard this season the guy was literally fighting back tears as he limped off to the bench, and that just because he doesn't need to fight on the ice doesn't mean he can't throw one hell of a punch.

"If you realized we were in the background of that video, Hayden, why the fuck didn't you delete it immediately?"

Excuses turn to ash in Hayden's mouth.

"We were wearing jackets outside, it was cold. That video had to have been from… fuck, months ago. Why did you still have it, Hayden?"

"Shane, buddy…"

"You got hacked?" Shane steps forward, JJ moves too, and Hayden realizes with horrible, chilling clarity that something has gone very wrong. "You got hacked and that's the only thing they leaked? Not your phone number, not my phone number, not your bank account information? Just a months-old video of me and Ilya making out, that had no business being on your phone in the first place?"

Okay. Okay. Hayden takes a deep breath. He can still fix this. He's dug himself far enough into this hole. Time to be a man and come clean.

"It was me," he says, barely a whisper.

"What?" asks JJ, loudly, rudely. "Can't hear you, Hayden, speak up."

Hayden glares at him, his temper reviving his spirit. "I leaked the video, okay? I uploaded it."

JJ's shoulders drop as guys eyebrows jump in disbelief, as if he truly wasn't expecting to hear it. Hayden steels himself, forces himself to look at Shane. He's frozen— Hayden's not even sure he's breathing.

"Shane," he takes a deep, steadying breath, "please let me explain. I know how this sounds. I— I know this hurt you, and I am so, so sorry about that, but you have to understand— I had a good reason, okay, I was worried about you, and I had to do something."

"Worried about me?" Shane looks up, his eyes unusually bright, his voice higher than normal, almost childlike. "Wha— why?" His face is so deeply confused, open, hurt, it kills Hayden to see it and he scrambles to explain, to reassure Shane that all of this was always for his own good.

"It's— look, man, I know you love him, but he's not the guy," he says, pleadingly. "I know you can't see past whatever lies he's telling you right now, but I can. He's not a good guy, he's— I don't know, using you, for his own amusement or something, and you're too good for that, you deserve so much fucking better than him, and, look— this is all going to blow over, I swear, I will be here every step of the way, and we will find you someone good, someone who deserves you—"

Heat and force and pain explode across Hayden's face; his vision is filled with stars as his head snaps back. He stumbles into the wall behind him, stunned. Rough hands fist in his shirt before he can even react; he is hauled up from where he sags against the wall and slammed back into it. The breath rushes out of his lungs, and Hayden flinches. He tastes blood on his lips, feels it running down his chin. His nose feels wrong, he can't breathe through it. He opens his eyes to see Shane, inches from his face, incandescent with rage. JJ stands a few feet behind him, arms crossed, watching the scene play out with a grim expression.

"I trusted you, Hayden," he says, and it's not the yelling Hayden was expecting, it's so much worse. His voice is barely above a whisper, pained, and trembling. "I told you my biggest secret, one that we both knew could destroy my career, and Ilya's. I trusted you to keep me safe— to keep both of us safe. And you go and do this?"

"Shane, I swear to god, I am going to make things right, I know it fucking hurts right now but it's going to be okay—"

Shane shoves backward from Hayden with a scoff. "Oh yeah? You— what, you jeopardized everything that I care about, Hayden, do you get that? I could lose everything that matters!"

"You won't, Shane, I mean— the team will come around, the league will come around, all of this will blow over, okay?" Hayden tries to speak in the soft, placating tones he uses when Amber gets overtired and upset. This, it turns out, is the wrong thing to do.

Shane explodes. "For fuck's sake, Hayden, I'm not one of your kids!! I'm thirty years old! I'm a millionaire, I'm a professional athlete— no, I'm the best goddamn hockey player in the league!" He throws his arms out, incredulous, his cheeks pink with exertion. "I've known Ilya since I was seventeen fucking years old! You think I don't know what he's like at his worst? You think I don't know what he looks like when he's lying?"

For the first time, Hayden feels a slimy, cold, trickle of doubt.

"He… wanted to come out, you know," Shane continues. "We fought about it, actually. I was the one who wasn't ready. He was willing to risk everything, for me. For our relationship."

Hayden hadn't known that. Why hadn't he known that? Why hadn't Shane told him?

"And we had a plan, too. He's only, like three months away from being able to apply for citizenship. Did you know that? He would have been safe then, no matter what. Canadian passport. Even if the league kicked us both out, he— he would have been okay. We wouldn't have had to worry about Russia."

This is so, so wrong. None of this is going how it's supposed to. The doubt is growing too fast for him to push it down, to ignore it. He feels lightheaded, wonders how much of the sensation is due to the blood dripping off his chin onto his now-ruined shoes.

"You stole that, Hayden. You took it away from us, and we can never get it back. And I almost don't even care about that part right now, because you put Ilya's life— his life, Hayden, in danger. Do you get that?" Shane's voice is trembling, now. He turns away from Hayden and inhales slowly, raggedly.

JJ carefully steps closer to Shane, looking at him with concern. "Okay, capitaine? What do you need?"

Shane exhales hard through his nose— something Hayden wonders whether he'll ever be able to do again— and nods. "Please get him out of my apartment."

JJ makes a noise of agreement and turns towards Hayden. He glances at him, frowns, and plucks a kitchen towel from the counter, shoving it roughly into Hayden's chest before planting a firm hand on his shoulder and steering him towards the door.

"I really didn't mean for it to go like this, JJ," Hayden says, voice muffled by the towel, aware of how pathetic he must sound.

"Did you really think it would go any other way, Pike?" JJ's voice is hard and cold. "Better go get that nose looked at."

There's the heavy click of a latch, and a lock behind him, and Hayden stands stupidly in the hallway, bloody dishtowel pressed to his face.

"Okay, Ilya, here's where things stand," says the Canadian Consular Officer, Maurice. "The easiest and quickest path forward is if we can get Russia to release your passport and lift any travel restrictions they may have put on you. Do you know where your passport is right now?"

"Minister Vetrov took it, I am guessing it is still in his office," says Ilya.

"You said he is a family friend, is that correct?"

Ilya gives a wry, mirthless smile. "Probably not anymore. But, yes, his daughter is a close friend of mine. She was trying to help, having me go to him, she tried to work out a deal. It isn't her fault he's a lying piece of shit."

Maurice writes this down, as if it could be useful. As if he's said or done anything remotely helpful in the hours since he arrived, panting and shell-shocked in their lobby.

"Tell me about this deal. What was the plan?"

"I was to record a video, reading a statement they wrote. Saying the leaked video was false, that I was disgusted by it, that sort of thing. If I said that, supposedly, I would be fine. That would be the end of it."

The corners of Maurice's mouth twitch downwards into a momentary frown, before smoothing back out into a professional neutrality.

"So what happened?"

"Well, he took my passport and my wallet. I had no phone. I had no choice but to do the video."

Maurice looks up from his notes and leans forward with his elbows on the desk. "So you recorded the video? You read their statement?"

Ilya shrugs and looks at the floor. "I had no choice. It was that or be arrested."

"Hmm," Maurice's frown reappears and grows deeper. "That could complicate things, if Russia decides not to play nicely."

"Complicate how?"

"Well, if they won't give you your passport back, your only option will be to try to claim refugee status. A video like the one you're describing doesn't exactly inspire confidence in your claims of fear of persecution, you understand?"

"I was forced to make it," protests Ilya weakly. "I didn't want to—"

Maurice nods, trying to reassure him. "Let me and your lawyer worry about that right now. The good news is that it doesn't seem like they've actually released the statement anywhere just yet."

Ilya just nods again, numbly. "So… what? We just call Vetrov and ask him nicely to pretty please let me leave the country, and I'll promise never to do anything gay on camera ever again?"

Maurice smiles, but it's the kind of sad smile that makes Ilya's skin crawl, so he looks back at the ground. He hears, but doesn't see, Maurice say, "Let's get your lawyer on the phone. I'm sure between the three of us we can figure something out."

"Ilya, I can't tell you how good it is to hear your voice," says Jennifer through the phone. Ilya wants to reassure her the feeling is mutual, but they don't have much time, and he's confident she already knows. The incredibly generous gifts he has sent her the last three Decembers have hopefully conveyed his gratitude appropriately, but just in case, he adds her to the list of people who will receive an all-expenses paid vacation as soon as he is safely back in Ottawa.

"Now, we've been lucky that the video of your statement hasn't been released yet, but we're running out of time on that front. The sooner we get in contact with Vetrov, the better," says Maurice.

"I agree," says Jennifer, "But before we do that, I have something to share with you both that may influence how we approach this. Ilya, Shane forwarded this file to me earlier today. He says he received it from your brother."

Ilya looks up at the phone sharply. "What?"

"I take it from your tone you didn't know Alexei sent anything to Shane?"

"I didn't know Alexei talked to Shane," says Ilya, "What was it?"

"An audio file, in Russian. Here, listen."

There's silence for a moment. Ilya's heartbeat pounds in his ears as he waits for what feels like an eternity, before a muffled sound picks up on the phone. For a moment, there's nothing, and then—

It's Vetrov's voice, slightly muffled, but unmistakeable. So. We have a problem. This… video has the potential to be… embarrassing.

He's breathing too quickly as he listens, hears the conversation from the night before, hears how small and defeated he sounds as Vetrov berates and threatens him. The conversation ends, and so does the recording, and then there's nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat again. Jennifer waits silently; Maurice looks at him in astonishment.

"This is— that's Vetrov, isn't it?" he asks, breaking the silence. Ilya nods, searching for his voice.

"Maurice, you understood it?" asks Jennifer.

"Yes," he responds, a smile growing on his face. "It's good."

"What are they saying?"

Ilya clears his throat. "It, ah, it is Vetrov. From last night— Alexei must have recorded the conversation. Vetrov asked me about the leak, I confirmed it was real. That I'm bisexual. He threatened to arrest me, if I didn't do the video."

He hears the sound of a keyboard typing furiously over the phone. "Okay. This is an excellent bargaining chip."

"It is?" asks Ilya.

"It certainly would undermine the validity of the story they're trying to tell," muses Maurice. "It would strengthen the case for refugee status, if it comes to that."

"And, Ilya, I have to be honest," says Jennifer, "I really don't think it's going to come to that. The internet has been quite aware of your silence over the last day and a half, Shane and your teammates have made sure of that."

"What do you mean?" asks Ilya.

"Shane has been reaching out to people— your teammates in Ottawa, your former teammates in Boston, asking them to post about you. To say that you're in Russia, and no one has heard from you, no one knows if you're okay. It's spreading like wildfire, Ilya, people are asking questions. I have to assume Sergei Vetrov is asking himself right now how much trouble you're really worth."

As it turns out, Jennifer is right. They call Vetrov, and when he hears Ilya's voice, he lets out a string of obscenities that Ilya opts not to translate for Jennifer.

"Lovely to speak with you too, Vetrov. The inside of the Canadian embassy is lovely, in case you were wondering," Ilya responds in English.

"Ilya, I warned you," he growls. "This did not need to go this way."

"Oh? How was it going to go, Sergei? I did your little propaganda film, and you were going to drive me to the airport yourself?"

"Rozanov—"

"Oh, let me guess, your man was chasing me down to give me my passport back, is that it?"

"It isn't too late to charge you, Ilya. You can't stay in the embassy forever, and the moment you set foot outside—"

"Is that what you want?" laughs Ilya, feeling slightly hysterical. "You know they'll make movies about this one day, if you give them a good enough story. You'll be the villain."

"Minister Vetrov," Jennifer interrupts, "My name is Jennifer Cambell. I am Mr. Rozanov's immigration attorney and I have been working closely with Canadian authorities including Mr. Desjardins." At the sound of his name, Maurice utters a terse greeting into the phone.

There's a slight pause. "You have no authority to practice law here, and Ilya is not a Canadian citizen, so neither of you have any reason to be on this phone call. You have no legal standing to do anything at all."

Jennifer continues to speak in her calm, professional register. "Minister Vetrov, I understand a video of my client was filmed in which he read aloud a statement provided by your office, is this correct?"

Vetrov ignores her, and addresses Ilya in Russian. "Rozanov. This is ridiculous. Throwing a fit for the entire world to see, it's pathetic. All you had to do was read the statement."

"I did read the statement," Ilya says, irritated. "I read it four times for your cameras."

There's a pause again. Maurice rubs a hand over his chin with a confused expression. After a moment, his face clears and with a smirk, he leans forward. "He did, didn't he, Vetrov?"

"He did," comes the curt reply.

"So? He fulfilled his part of the deal, right? You got what you wanted. Go ahead, post the video."

"It is in the editing process. It will be circulated soon."

"Minister Vetrov, before you do that, you might want to listen to this audio file," says Jennifer, not giving him time to respond before hitting play again.

After the recording finishes, there is silence in the room. For a moment, Ilya is worried that Vetrov hung up, but then he speaks, cold fury dripping off every syllable. "Posession of that file is illegal—"

"No it's not," interjects Jennifer. "The only private information being shared is Ilya's, who clearly gave consent to the file being shared here, and as per Russian law, any active party in a conversation is entitled to record it."

Ilya feels a strange surge of gratitude towards Jennifer for not implicating Alexei directly. Two vacations for her, and maybe a sports car, if she wants one.

Jennifer continues, warming to her topic. "Now, if we were to distribute this file, you might have a case against us. But…" she clicks her tongue, "I don't think that would be your biggest issue."

"You're threatening me?"

"We're telling you that this situation has the potential to become a very large media circus," says Maurice smoothly, "and we're asking you whether that's really what you want. Ilya is a big, big figure in the MLH, which you know as a former player. What happens here could have lasting impacts on your relationship with the league. Could, ah, make them reluctant to draft Russian players in the future."

"In fact, Roger Crowell's office put out a statement roughly to that effect about an hour ago, have you had a chance to read it?" asks Jennifer lightly.

"Is it worth it?" Maurice is smiling now, a hungry, wolfish grin that makes him look vaguely terrifying. "You know, we all want the same thing, really, there's no reason for us to be on opposite sides of this mess. We want that leaked video to just fade into obscurity, right?"

There's no response, and Maurice takes this as a sign to continue.

"Do you really think that loudly insisting that that video is fake will help it disappear? Don't you think it might just make people look more closely? Shine an even bigger spotlight on it?"

The silence on Vetrov's end of the phone call is deafening.

"Consider," says Maurice, almost purring now, "the mighty Russian government, going out of its way to respond in the strongest possible terms to argue against 15 seconds of grainy footage of a guy that kind of looks like Ilya Rozanov? That feels a bit like protesting too much, you know?"

Vetrov finally finds his voice. "We have Ilya himself asserting the video is false—"

"Yeah, yeah," says Maurice dismissively, waving a hand in the direction of the phone, "and we have him saying it's true, and you knowing that it's true. We can throw these things at each other until the sun burns out, but that's not the point and you know it."

Maurice slips back into Russian, now, the words rolling off his tongue. He leans in close to the phone, a delighted, feral look on his face. "The kid looks like complete dogshit, you know," he says, giving Ilya an apologetic wink. "Did he look this fucking devastated when you forced him to call himself an abomination, or whatever it was? He's talented, but I don't think he's that good of an actor. How do you think that'll play with the audience? I bet it'll look really convincing."

There's another moment of silence, and Maurice leans back in his chair, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

"I need to make a call," says Vetrov brusquely. "I will be in touch shortly."

In the end, a courier from Vetrov's office arrives at the embassy and hands Ilya's passport to an incredibly smug Maurice. After that, it's a matter of arranging for secure transportation to the airport, a chartered flight to Germany, and then a commercial flight to Ottawa, with at least one layover on the way. Ilya lets the details bleed into the background; Germany sounds lovely. He could buy a little house in the Alps, get some of those big fluffy mountain dogs, fly Shane out to meet him and they would be wonderful. Maybe they could herd sheep. If anyone could make lederhosen look sexy, it's Shane.

That's not how it happens, of course. He sits in the plane and watches as the first place he ever called home disappears for the last time beneath him. The feeling is too big. Too much. Too raw. Down there, somewhere, is the spot where he took his first steps. Where he scored his first goal, where he had his first kiss. Somewhere down there he saw Mama smile for the last time. Down there he had a brother who loved him, down there he still has a brother and Ilya knows he will never speak to him again, and his heart clenches painfully in his chest. His eyes sting, his throat hurts. He will not cry, not here.

He closes the window shade and hugs his backpack to his chest. It's lighter than it was yesterday. Before he'd left, he'd carefully selected one of the slim journals, the one Mama had started when she was pregnant with Alexei. He hadn't read it yet, and maybe it's not meant for his eyes anyway.

He'd sealed it in an envelope, printed Alexei's address on it, and Maurice had promised to hand deliver it. It's not enough, nothing would ever be enough to fix them in all the ways they were broken, but it was all he had to give. He had considered writing a note inside, but what could he possibly have said? So, he'd left it alone, hoping that Mama could speak for both of them.

"Welcome to Canada, Mr. Rozanov," murmurs the customs officer, handing him back his passport. She gives him a small smile. She knows who he is, he thinks, and she doesn't hate him. It's a strange feeling.

The long hallways of the airport stretch out. He feels eyes on him, now and then, hears his name float past his ears.

He walks like a zombie towards the exit; Farah said there would be a car waiting for him, it's not like Shane could come get him. He sees a few chauffeurs holding signs, but none of them say Rozanov. He scans again—

"Hey kiddo."

David is here, and Ilya almost starts crying in the middle of the airport. David, apparently, notices, because he puts a protective hand on Ilya's back, between his shoulders, and gently guides him to the doors.

"I figured, no one knows who I am," he says in a low voice. "I'm the least recognizable member of the family, after all."

"Is he okay?" asks Ilya.

"He's climbing the walls and surviving mostly on antacids and bananas, I think, but yeah. He's okay. Yuna is with him. He'll be worlds better in about half an hour."

They're walking down a long aisle of the parking lot when Ilya hesitates. "Are… you okay? And Yuna? I— I haven't been able to follow the reactions online, I'm sure it's a lot, I'm so sorry, David—"

David stops, turns to face Ilya with a stricken expression on his face. Without warning, he pulls Ilya in for a tight hug. It catches him off guard; he tenses, then fucking dissolves.

He lets his head drop to David's shoulder. There are tears, suddenly, too many to hold back, a grief so large and all-encompassing that he has nowhere to put, no way to hold, so he stays here on David's shoulder and lets him hold it for a few moments.

"Hey, it's okay. You're okay, kiddo." David murmurs, rubbing his hand in soothing circles on Ilya's back, as if he were a child. He wants to curl in on himself and cry and cry and cry until there is nothing left of him but an old, dried out husk.

Because his family is gone. His home. Forever out of his grasp now. He is mourning them, and how dare he, when he has such a good thing here, when a woman like Yuna can get him the best legal representation money can buy, when a man like David can hold him while he sobs like a baby in an airport parking lot, and Shane—

Shane, at home, single-minded to the point of not sleeping or eating if it gets in the way of what he needs, pissing off Rolex and his team and the league and God himself if necessary, apparently playing nice and working with Sveta and Alexei, all for him, and what on earth did Ilya ever do to deserve any of it? Why the hell should he be the recipient of such blessings?

Somehow, at some point, the tears subside. His head throbs, but feels clearer than it had in over two days. He follows David the rest of the way to the car, climbs in the passenger seat, gratefully accepts the pack of tissues David hands him.

"Ilya," David begins, staring down at the steering wheel, and Ilya looks up, surprised. David's voice is rougher than normal, his hands grip the wheel tightly. His Adams Apple bobs as he swallows. "I want you to know— I can't tell you enough— if anything had happened, Ilya—" he swallows again and blinks a few times before clearing his throat and starting the car. "We are all so glad you're home. We love you, son."

They drive home in silence. And if both of them cry most of the way there, that's no one's business but theirs.

Shane hears the garage door open from where he's been pacing across Ilya's kitchen for almost two hours. He straightens and freezes for half a second, before bolting across the room without making a conscious decision to do so. The door to the garage opens and Shane nearly bowls over his father, who quickly steps to the side with a surprised, "oh!"

Shane finds his target and flattens Ilya against the side of the car. Finally, fuck, finally yes perfect, good, home, safe— his lips find Ilya's, but don't linger there, there's so much of Ilya he needs to kiss, to check to make sure he's unharmed, there's so much of Ilya—

Shane buries his head in the crook of Ilya's neck and inhales deeply. The fingers of one hand tangle in his fucking perfect beautiful curls while the other arm snakes around his back, pulls him close, closer, not close enough, he squeezes, hard. More.

And Ilya squeezes back. A familiar hand presses the back of his head, passing his face deeper into Ilya's neck. There are lips on his ear, Shane can feel his breath, can feel his pulse against his cheek and Ilya is here and alive and Shane decides they can be perfectly happy living in this garage, actually, they never need to leave again. He'll have someone bring the bed down here and they'll be just fine. They can even rent out the rest of the house if somehow they end up needing some extra income, now that professional hockey is probably off the table, unless Ottawa decides to build a new arena in Ilya's front yard and lets them only show up to home games. The front yard would be a reasonable commute, Shane decides, as long as he and Ilya make the trip together. Other details, like the fact that Shane doesn't play for Ottawa and Ilya's property isn't zoned for commercial use, and the garage doesn't actually have heating and it gets pretty damn cold in Ottawa in January, are unimportant.

"I love you. Hi, fuck, Ilya, I love you," he hears himself say, "Don't ever go to Russia again, please? Okay?"

Ilya pulls back just enough to hook a finger under Shane's chin and tilts it up. He kisses Shane and Shane kisses him back, desperate for it, for reassurance that Ilya is here.

"I love you too, Shane. Maybe we can kiss about it inside, yes?"

Shane frowns; clearly Ilya needs to be caught up on the new plan to stay here forever. He relents, though, as Ilya nudges him towards the door, and satisfies himself with holding tight to Ilya's hand, peppering it with kisses.

There's a small flurry of activity as they cross the threshold into the house as Shane's mom rushes forward to fuss over Ilya; Shane begrudgingly lets go of his hand so he can carefully shrug off his bag. Shane's mom is talking about things that are probably important, he recognizes on some level, but suddenly everything is just too much and Ilya looks so tired.

"Mom, Dad, we'll call you in the morning, okay?" Shane says decisively. "We can talk about everything then."

"Shane," says Yuna with some concern, "we really need to discuss how we're going to address the video, and I know Farah has been fielding calls from Ottawa and Montreal front offices, not to mention the commissioner—

"Goodnight, Mom, night Dad," Shane interrupts, knowing he's being rude and not giving a shit. "Thanks for everything. We'll call in the morning, I promise." He takes Ilya's hand, it's all he can do to keep from picking him up and carrying him up the stairs, but even now he still has some vague sense of propriety, at least where his parents are concerned.

Ilya follows him; as they climb the stairs, Shane hears his mother sounding concerned, his father responding in reassuring murmurs, and as they reach the top of the stairs, the sound of the door to the garage closing.

The sound does something to Ilya; he crumbles, almost falls into Shane who catches him, stumbling back against the wall next to their bedroom door. He does pick Ilya up now, bends and scoops up his perfect boyfriend (who should probably be his husband— why the fuck hasn't he made that happen yet?), and carries him through the doorway to their bedroom, before setting him down onto the bed carefully and sinking down on top of him, settling heavy and relaxed, finally, between Ilya's legs.

"Shower or no?" He asks between kisses.

"Mmm," is the only response from Ilya, and Shane decides that the shower can wait. He sits up and gently begins undressing Ilya, stopping to kiss him every few seconds. His own clothes follow, and then they are both under the blankets, with Ilya's face buried in Shane's chest, Shane's arms wrapped tightly around Ilya's back.

He has to admit, this is better than the garage.

Shane listens as Ilya's breath slows down, evens out. He plants soft kisses on the crown of Ilya's head, unfamiliar shampoo making his nose wrinkle. When Ilya wakes up he'll wash it for him, with his normal shampoo.

God, Shane is so fucking lucky.

Chapter End Notes

<3 <3 <3

Thus concludes the main part of our story. Chapter 7 will be an epilogue for our guys, we'll tie up some loose ends and dole out some extra comfort for everyone (except Hayden. Fuck you and your broken fucking nose, Hayden). I love y'all so much for coming on this wild journey with me.

Chapter 7: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

Soft, early morning sunlight filters through the curtains. Ilya lies still and watches Shane's chest rise and fall as he sleeps. His Shane.

Then, for a while, there's nothing but soft focus, fuzzy, velvet touches and bruising grips and muffled sighs, movement of ocean waves carrying them up and down, or dashing them against the rocky shore. It's them, together, alive and something else entirely, alive like a thunderstorm, and it's them, here, now, everywhere, always, together as one, touching, touching, desperate, no space between them, and mouths and skin and tears and sweat and— again—more—please—

—and it's the cool breeze of the ceiling fan leaving goosebumps on Shane's skin, blankets long ago kicked somewhere on the floor. It's Ilya's fingertips adding to the shivers, tracing gently down the curve of his spine. It's the low, hoarse whispers saying nothing at all to each other. It's Shane's eyes, still sleepy, peeking out at him from where his head is cradled in his arms.

It's quiet. It's home.

Maybe he died in Russia after all. Maybe he suffered enough across his three decades on earth to earn a peaceful afterlife. But, even with everything, he's not sure how he could have done enough good or suffered enough bad to deserve the man lying next to him.

And then, before he can think of that any longer, Shane pushes up from the mattress and climbs on top of him again and— and.

Shane doesn't let him stray far, this morning. As they reluctantly get out of bed in preparation to face Yuna and David, Shane stays in his orbit, not crowding (not that Ilya would mind a little crowding right now, not from Shane), but present. They shower, dress, make their way downstairs to begin making breakfast. Shane takes a phone call from Yuna, and rather than drifting to the rear of the house like he normally does, he paces in the kitchen as Ilya sets out smoothie ingredients and cracks eggs into a bowl.

Ilya feels a hand on his back; he drops the eggshells into the trash and turns to face Shane, who wastes no time pulling him in for a hug, nuzzling his face into Ilya's neck. "Missed you."

"Mm, yes. Kitchen table is very far away," says Ilya, squeezing the back of Shane's neck gently in the way that always makes Shane's shoulders relax.

"Yeah," agrees Shane into the collar of Ilya's shirt. "Mom and Dad will be over in fifteen minutes."

Ilya nods. Okay. Time to face… whatever the fuck else was going on the last few days. In some way, it feels ridiculous to be worried about it, all things considered.

But, Shane is worried. Of course he is, how could he not be? He's said nothing at all about anything— not his team, not the front office, not the media outlets or the commissioner's office or the players association or the wild, rabid, million-headed beast that is the internet. Before, at least, Shane could narrow his focus to Ilya, but now—

As if reading Ilya's thoughts, Shane sighs, a shuddering breath, and Ilya kisses his temple as he rubs slow circles into his back. He takes a few slow, deep breaths himself, wordlessly encouraging Shane to breathe along with him.

"Okay," begins Yuna with a serious expression, after they've all picked at their breakfasts and exchanged the kinds of pleasantries that never seem to serve any purpose in Shane's eyes, and are even more meaningless today of all days. Sure, Mom, the eggs are fine. No, I don't need more coffee.

Ilya is next to him; it's the only reason Shane isn't fully catatonic right now, probably, now that he's faced with just how horrifyingly, permanently fucked his entire professional life is. His mom and Farah have been shielding him from almost all of it while Ilya was in Russia, but there's no ignoring it anymore. They have to say something. They have to do something.

"We've got some important business we need to discuss today, some plans we need to make. First, where we stand with the commissioner's office. Next, your teams. Finally, your response to the situation as individuals."

Ilya nods next to him. Yuna clicks her pen once and glances towards her laptop screen, on which Farah has joined them via video chat. "Farah, can you give us a rundown on what's going on with the commissioner?"

"Of course," she nods. "Crowell's office put out a statement shortly after the video was leaked. Frankly, it was a bit of a PR nothing-burger—we're aware of it, we're investigating it, we have no comment. That sort of thing. Apparently, he was quite livid about the video, until he learned Ilya was in Russia, and then suddenly the thought of two of his most profitable and popular players kissing didn't bother him as much as the idea that one of them could be trapped overseas indefinitely."

David rolls his eyes. "I suppose we should just be grateful that he's so concerned about the league's profit margins that he's willing to set his homophobia to the side for a few minutes."

"Optics, too, no doubt," adds Yuna dryly. "He's got PR people showing him the fan responses. The story here moved quicker than his office could control it, and at this point he's just trying to make sure he comes out looking good."

"There will almost certainly be an investigation into you both. The league has to answer to the board, to their sponsors, et cetera. But I think we can get ahead of that, too. We can volunteer certain information— various financial records, for example, in a bid for transparency and good faith. Your game stats are public record, I've already got people putting together some detailed statistical analysis that we can share publicly. It'll be up to the league to refute it, and we know they won't be able to. And with Ilya's ordeal in Russia, we have an extremely compelling reason as to why the two of you chose not to disclose the relationship." Farah lets out a breath as she finishes the remark and waits for it to sink in. Around the table, there are nods, sips of coffee, shifting in chairs, clearing of throats. Ilya's hand finds Shane's, squeezes it. Shane squeezes back.

"Okay, now let's turn our attention to your teams," continues Yuna, and from her laptop screen, Farah nods in agreement picking up the thread of conversation.

"Here's where things stand. Ilya, Ottawa has put out an unequivocal message of support through their official channels. The wording reads, 'The Centaurs believe hockey is for everyone. We embrace and support all of our players regardless of sexuality.' In addition, quite a few of your team members have shared their own messages of allyship as well as condemning the sharing of the leaked video." Ilya nods, and Shane's stomach twists. "The Ottawa reaction, really, is the best possible scenario for you, Ilya."

Ilya swallows, eyes bright. Shane is so, so relieved for him. He's so happy. He shoves down the horrible, ugly part of him that can't manage to feel completely happy, because after all—

"Then, Montreal," says Farah, a grim frown taking over her features. "Okay. Shane, I won't sugar coat it, they're upset."

Yuna scoffs and shakes her head, but remains otherwise silent. To her left, David crosses his arms and leans forward slightly in his chair.

"There's some… confusion, I guess. Some concerns about the timeline of your relationship, the lack of disclosure. Certain parties have brought up concerns with your integrity and dedication to the team—"

Ilya's the one to scoff at that. "Fucking idiots," he spits. "So afraid of gay people they forget they are talking about Shane Hollander."

Farah raises a placating hand. "I know, Ilya, believe me. Like I said, I've already got people working on that part. There's nothing to support their argument, it's not going to go anywhere."

"They really think I compromised games?" asks Shane hollowly. Ilya leans over, knocking his shoulder into Shane's as his hand settles heavy and warm on his knee, giving him some pressure to focus on.

"I'm not sure if they believe it, but it's the question they think they need to be asking right now. And I think they're worried you aren't taking this seriously, since they haven't heard from you directly yet."

"I was a little preoccupied," mumbles Shane. Then, no—you know what. Fuck this. Actually, he's angry. Actually, he doesn't need this shit.

He looks directly at the laptop screen. "I was busy. You know, trying to make sure my boyfriend was safe. I was busy speaking with immigration lawyers and the embassy and trying to cut deals with corrupt fucking government officials, doing everything I could think of to make sure the love of my life didn't end up, I don't know, stabbed to death in the bathroom of a Russian prison or something!"

"Shane," begins Yuna, that low, calming, warning voice.

"Yeah, so, I guess I'm sorry that I couldn't make time to listen to management tell me what a huge gay disappointment I turned out to be. I just— I don't know, that doesn't really feel like a good use of my time! I'm not really interested in anything they have to say!"

"Shane," it's Ilya this time. "Sweetheart."

Shane takes a long inhale, forces his voice back down to a reasonable volume. "I… Farah, I'm done in Montreal. It's broken."

No one speaks for a long moment. Yuna looks back and forth from Shane, to Ilya, to Farah, aghast. David leans back in his chair, frowning at Shane in concern.

"Lyubimyy, what do you mean, it's broken?" asks Ilya in a low, careful voice.

Shane swallows down the stinging feeling in the back of his throat and digs his phone out of his pocket. He unlocks it, taps on a few pictures, and sends them off.

"Farah, I just sent you something. They're, uh, screenshots. A group chat the Montreal team made after the leak. It's everyone on the active roster but me. JJ shared them with me, I think he thought they might be useful, or something. I think they speak for themselves." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ilya's face darken, sees his eyes flick down to the phone, but Shane locks it and stows it back in his pocket before he can see anything.

Through the computer, they can see Farah's eyes darting around her own computer screen. They watch in real time as her frown deepens. She reaches the end, nods to herself. "Ah. Okay. And, I think I can guess the answer to this, but have any of your teammates been in touch since the leak?

Shane clenches his jaw, then makes a conscious effort to relax. "Yeah. Uh, two. JJ and Hayden."

Yuna nods, reassured. "Of course. They've always been good friends to you."

And there it is. The part he desperately doesn't want to say. The part that he's not even sure he can bring himself to say, at least, not without crumbling into a pathetic, miserable heap right here.

"Actually, um." his voice sounds so small. Actually, all of this is my fault. I'm the one who told you all we could trust him. I'm the one who ruined our lives, our chance at a future.

Ilya's hand is on his back again. Had it even left Shane's body, or has he just been touching him, constantly, holding on to keep him from flying off into the fucking atmosphere? Shane's eyes slide shut, he takes a deep breath and says it all now before he can convince himself not to. "It was Hayden. He leaked the video on purpose. He confessed to me yesterday. So… yeah. I'm— I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, I'm sorry, Ilya—"

What happens next is hazy and syrupy in his mind, when he thinks about it later. He thinks somehow he crumbles in on himself. Somehow, he's not sure, he's kneeling on the floor with his head against the table. Then, there are strong arms positioning him, a wall of solid muscle clothed in soft cotton colliding with his face, those same strong arms holding him close, tight. He can't move, He's safe. He cries, then, like a fucking child, his face is wet, his nose is snotty and he's making noises that are humiliating and pathetic.

"Shane, sweetheart," Ilya murmurs into his ear, a soothing blend of Russian and English, giving him a few minutes to compose himself. "No more apologizing, please. This was not your fault, not your fault, okay?"

Fuck, he doesn't deserve Ilya, and with that thought, he needs a minute or two longer.

They take a short break after a few hours to eat lunch and regroup. Everyone is quiet; the mood is heavy with the weight of everything that's been said, and all that is still to be discussed. They eat, or try to, mostly in silence.

With a few minutes left before they are scheduled to resume, Ilya steps out on the back porch to smoke, with Yuna trailing after him.

Shane finds himself deposited onto the sofa, staring at a glossy magazine, some expensive architecture and design magazine that Ilya had bought for him. Because he loves Shane, because he's the best boyfriend in the world, who put up with Shane through the fear and the bullshit and who almost fucking died because Shane doesn't know who is safe to fucking trust—

A weight settles down on the sofa next to him; a hand wraps around his shoulders. Someone holds out a glass towards him; it's cold, which feels nice, and Shane takes it automatically. He takes a sip without thinking.

Peanut butter. Strawberries.

He takes another sip.

"You always loved this when you were a kid, you know," says David, leaning into Shane. "A PB&J Milkshake, remember?"

Shane nods, his mouth too full of ice cream and memories to speak.

"I thought— I mean, I don't know, but I thought maybe you hadn't had it in a while. I know how careful you are with your diet during the season, but since it's the summer, I figured one couldn't hurt."

Shane takes another sip. It tastes like being nine years old. He's going to cry again, and that sucks, but that's just how today is going to go, he guesses.

David is silent next to him, sipping his own beverage— a mug of tea, which is a much more reasonable thing to be drinking as a fully grown adult. Shane almost sets the milkshake down on the table and asks for tea instead, but there's not a coaster within reach, and what does it matter, anyway? Maybe, in light of everything, he's allowed to drink the damn milkshake.

"You know," David begins after a few moments of quiet, "your mom and I love you boys so much."

"I know."

"Your happiness and safety— yours and Ilyas, that's the only thing we care about, at the end of the day."

Shane nods. He knows this, academically. Knows it as a fact that he has memorized. Most of the time he knows it in his heart, too, but sometimes it's hard to feel it over everything else. Right now the reminder is nice.

"Hockey, Montreal, Ottawa— Shane, it doesn't matter to us where you play, if you play, if you decide to quit and open up a— I don't know, a boutique dog hotel, or something—"

Shane can't help but laugh. "A dog hotel, Dad? What?"

David shrugs with a rueful grin. "It seems like the sort of thing Ilya would enjoy."

"Yeah, probably," admits Shane, taking another sip of his milkshake.

"My point, is that your mom and I have your back. No matter what. I know you've got some tough decisions that need to be made, but there's no wrong answers. Okay? There's no disappointing us. So don't even worry about that."

Shane considers this. "I guess I'm not worried about that, not really. I'm just… I don't know, sad, I guess. Like, I'm so fucking grateful Ilya is home safe, and I'm so, so glad his team has his back, they really seem like great guys and after everything he's gone through he deserves the best."

David nods along silently next to him as his words trail off, gently picking up in the silence that follows. "But, you also deserve the best. You deserve a team that has your back the way you have theirs."

Shane lets out a shuddering sigh. "Yeah."

The following afternoon, Don Grier, General Manager of the Montreal Metros, scowls across the conference table at Shane as he and Farah settle themselves into their seats. Next to him is Thierault, looking near murderous. After spending most of the car ride over practically vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear, Shane finds himself feeling strangely calm as he sinks into the expensive leather desk chair. He and Farah spent hours last night and this morning preparing. They have their strategy. This isn't all that different from one of his games. He can win. He will.

"Gentleman, thank you for your time, I know we have a busy agenda, so let's get started," Farah says, professional and direct. It appears to catch Grier off guard, complacent in his assumed position of power.

That's how you win a face-off.

"Let's not beat around the bush. You have a big culture problem here in Montreal," Farah continues. "Your star player, your captain, and— let's not kid ourselves, here, the only reason your team has even made the playoffs for eight consecutive seasons after nearly a decade-long drought, to say nothing of the three Stanley Cups he's brought home, does not feel safe or supported, and for very good reason."

"Let me stop you right there," interrupts Grier, "because I don't buy your argument."

Farah volleys right back, unimpressed. "You don't buy that a gay player outed without his consent might feel that the locker room is an unfriendly place?"

"No, I think he's throwing a tantrum to try to distract from the fact that he's been carrying on with the captain of another team for God knows how long, and now he's trying to paint us as homophobes for taking issue with that."

Farah flicks through her folder and selects a thick report, which she slides smoothly across the table. "I actually have good news for you on that front. I took the liberty of enlisting a few statisticians and sports analysts to review the games Mr. Hollander and Mr. Rozanov have played against each other since the beginning of their MLH careers. Their work is ongoing, obviously, but this preliminary report goes back four seasons and has found nothing that indicates a shift in performance for either player over time or when compared to the rest of their seasons. If anything, both Shane and Ilya actually perform slightly better when playing against each other."

Thierault scoffs and sits back in his chair with his arms crossed. "And we're supposed to just take you at your word?"

"Not at all— I would encourage you to do your own due diligence, of course. I'm just telling you what you're going to find."

Grier flips through the pages, eyes flitting over charts and graphs and paragraphs of technical jargon, before tossing it aside. "We will be doing our own investigation. Player integrity is of the utmost importance."

"I couldn't agree more," says Farah emphatically, "It's really the most important thing. If you can't trust that a player has the best interest of the team at heart, they're nothing but a liability."

Grier looks at her with suspicion; Thierault grunts some sort of begrudging agreement.

Farah opens her folder again. "Which is why it's so troubling to learn that the person responsible for this leak is none other than one of Shane's teammates. Someone he considered a close friend, actually—Hayden Pike."

Deke. Textbook execution.

Farah slides over two sheets of paper; written statements prepared by Shane and JJ. "Mr. Pike confessed to Shane that he had maintained posession of the video for an extended period of time after realizing its contents, and to uploading it to the website Reddit using an anonymous account. Mr. Boizeau was present for this conversation and has also prepared a statement. In addition, he offered to speak with you further on the matter."

"Two friends gang up on a third?" snaps Thierault. "This is nothing. Why the hell would Pike do such a thing?"

"If you read the statement, you'll see the reason he gave us," Shane speaks up for the first time. "He— he doesn't like Ilya. He thinks I should be with someone better."

"On that note we agree," growls Grier.

"Your feelings about Mr. Rozanov aside, you should find this incredible breach of privacy by one of your players alarming," insists Farah. "You should be questioning his judgment, that he didn't bring this information to you, privately, rather than posting it all over the internet. You should be quite a bit more upset at the PR disaster this man has unleashed upon your organization."

Check. Hard. Right into the goddamn boards.

Grier's face has begun to turn a shade of red that Shane's not sure he's seen outside of cartoons. He sputters as he tries to form a rebuttal. "We're not here to discuss Hayden Pike."

Farah hums, and turns back to her beautiful, lethal folder. "Of course. I have no interest in telling you how to run your team. Although, I'd like to circle back to something we glossed over earlier. I asserted that Shane doesn't feel safe or supported in Montreal and you didn't seem convinced. I'd like to ask both of you, directly, do you feel this team is safe for gay players?"

Grier's lips flattened into a thin line. "Montreal is a progressive city, Ms. Jalali—"

"That's not what I asked."

"The Metros organization has a zero-tolerance policy for bigotry of any kind—"

"Not what I asked, Don," Farah repeats with a chilling calm. "It's a simple question, yes or no. Is Shane safe in the locker room?"

There's a beat of silence. "Yes. Of course he is."

The words have barely left his mouth before Farah's folder flicks open again, and a series of glossy images are spread out on the table in front of Grier and Thierault. "Take your time, there's quite a lot to get through."

"What the f— what, exactly, is this supposed to be?" growls Thierault.

"Screenshots of a group chat created the morning that video was leaked. As you'll see, it contains every player on your active roster, except for Shane. And the content of the messages is, well, enlightening. Quite the peek behind the curtain."

"How do we know these are even real?" Thierault shoots back as Grier picks up a sheet and begins to read.

Shane shoots him a withering look. How hadn't he noticed before, how shriveled and… washed up Thierault is? He's all noise, with nothing behind it. "Come on, Pat," he says, disgusted. "You're in the room too. Are you that out of touch with your own team? Or do you just think this kind of shit is acceptable? How do you think the progressive city of Montreal would react to reading what's in these messages?"

Thierault looks at him with fury. He opens his mouth but Shane hasn't finished yet.

"Those fans out there in our stands every night— how many of them are wearing my number? They're not here for you, they're not here for fucking Comeau, or Barnes, or any of those other mediocre assholes. They're here for me. You think they'd be happy if they saw these messages?"

Thierault makes a move like he's about to push up from the table, but Grier puts a hand out to stop him. The room grows silent except for the shuffling of papers as Grier reads through the pages with a dark frown. Finally, he reaches the end and leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

"I'll ask one more time, Don," says Farah, almost gently this time. "Is your team safe for Shane?"

Grier pinches the bridge of his nose. "Obviously not."

"Obviously not," agrees Farah. "So it's time for a change, wouldn't you say?"

Off an assist from Hollander, there's Jalali with the goal!

In the end, the trade happens with much less fanfare than Shane had anticipated, less than 72 hours after his meeting with Thierault and Grier. The call comes in from Farah as they're finishing breakfast, and just like that, Shane is a Centaur.

He knows the happiness will come. The relief, the joy, the exhilaration of practicing and playing alongside Ilya, coming home with him at the end of each day, never again having to go weeks without touching each other.

He's grateful. He knows this. The way he knows the trade isn't a disappointment to his parents. Soon, someday, he'll be able to feel it. Not today, but someday.

It truly is amazing, and wildly unfair, how money, influence, and a damn good lawyer can grease the wheels of bureaucracy. Jennifer is up to three month-long vacations, a new BMW, and— hell, based on what she's saying on the phone right now, Ilya's strongly considering paying off her mortgage.

"Ilya? Are you still there?" she asks through the phone, a smile in her voice.

"They are moving forward with my citizenship application?"

"In light of everything, yes, they are willing to expedite things. I'm submitting your paperwork before end of business today, and with any luck, things will move quickly from there."

"What do I need to do now?"

"On my end, lay low, don't leave the country for a few weeks, and don't break any Canadian laws. Keep your phone on. Other than that… well, I'd leave that up to you, Shane, and Farah."

He hangs up and finds Shane out back, sitting on his yoga mat— stretching done, just sitting. Watching the lake. Thinking. Ilya sinks down next to him and leans his head on Shane's shoulder. He wraps an arm around Ilya in response and kisses his forehead. "Did the call go okay?"

Ilya hums. "Depends. How do you feel about having a nice, polite Canadian boyfriend instead of mean scary Russian one?"

Shane shows, rather than tells, Ilya exactly how he feels, right there in the backyard, as Ilya hoped he would. He loves the feeling of the warm sun on his skin. He loves the way Shane's body glows golden in the summer light. He loves, he loves, he loves.

Later, after they've reluctantly hauled themselves up off the grass, showered, changed, and eaten, Ilya pulls his phone back out. He looks at Shane. "You are sure?"

Shane smiles back at him. "Absolutely."

Ilya begins recording in selfie mode.

"Hello everyone, it's me, Ilya! I know many of you have questions about the video that has been circulating. You probably are confused and disappointed, and I owe you all an apology."

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and continues in his most serious voice.

"I understand this must feel like a betrayal, and it should. This was a terrible lapse in judgment on my part, and I assure you, it will never happen again. I promise, I will never again allow myself to appear in a video which also features Hayden Pike's stupid, terrible face, unless I am punching it. On the ice, of course."

He tries to keep a straight face, but one glance at Shane's expression is enough to break him. He giggles, and moves around the kitchen island to stand next to Shane, wrapping his arm around his waist to bring him into frame. "As an apology, here is a much better video of me kissing my incredible and handsome boyfriend. You are welcome."

He turns to Shane, smiles, and before he can move, Shane leans in and kisses him.

The next morning, while Ilya takes another phone call with Jennifer, Shane slips out on the pretense of running errands. Which isn't a lie.

It just so happens that the errand in question is to a jewelry store.

University of Miami, Florida

Josh frowns at his laptop as he pores over the data in front of him, running his thumb back and forth over the rocker switch on his fidget cube. The preliminary results are almost dangerously encouraging, and he's experienced enough disappointments to know better than to get excited just yet, but still: if his research is correct, his team has discovered a new strain of plankton that, in layman's terms, eats plastic. It metabolizes polyethylene compounds into harmless byproducts, using the energy for food to create more plastic-eating plankton.

This discovery could save everything.

Holy shit.

Josh needs to sit with that for a minute. He squeezes the fidget cube, tight, rolling it over in his palm. It's seen better days, and Shay keeps offering to buy him a new one (as if he can't afford one himself? They're like, $10), but he's attached to it. He had it through college, through grad school, through the first few years of working on his current project. And now, if he's reading these numbers right, if the trends hold steady, he'll have it as he presents his findings of how his lab is going to save the goddamn ocean.

Yeah. He needs a minute. Maybe two.

"Hey, Josh?" He sits up and smiles at the familiar voice. Angel, one of the other biologists in the lab. "It's 6:00— Mel and I are starved— we're going to grab some takeout, go home, and watch that new Amityville Horror movie. It's supposed to be fucking awful, wanna join?"

Josh grins, closes his laptop, and heads for the door. "Sounds good, we'll see if it's worse than the last movie you made me watch."

Angel laughed. "Oh, the one where it turned out the house was sentient and eating people the whole time? No way this one is worse than that!"

"That one was pretty terrible," Josh agrees.

Angel chuckles, and pulls out his phone, frowning momentarily. "Oh, shit. Hey, I know you're not into sports but you're Canadian, right? Do you know anything about hockey?"

Josh shrugs and shakes his head. "They wear skates and hit each other, that's all I got."

Angel let out a low whistle. "It's crazy—apparently this video was leaked and it turns out that, like, the two best players were making out in the background. Like, intense, hot, making out."

Josh shrugs. "Okay? Good for them, I guess." He wants to talk about plankton, or sentient monster houses, or Thai food or even something really pointless like the weather, if he has to. Anything to not talk about stupid fucking hockey.

Angel babbles on, oblivious. "So that was last week, and now Twitter is saying that apparently the one guy was in Russia when it leaked and like, almost couldn't leave, and it was the other guy's teammate who actually leaked the video on purpose, which is like, insane, right?"

Josh frowns at the floor. "Wow. That guy sounds like a real asshole."

"Yeah, some guy named Hayden Pike, apparently. You ever heard of him?"

Huh.

Josh turns the fidget over in his palm. "Pike? Nah. Never heard of him."

"Me neither. Whatever man, I'm starved, let's get some food."

In early November, Shane scores his first hat trick on the Centaurs. He doesn't even mind that much when the whole team insists on taking him out for drinks afterwards. And when Hayes— Hazy, he reminds himself— spends the better part of twenty minutes trying to explain something called a green lantern to him, he's surprised to realize he's smiling along at his enthusiasm. Ilya meets his eyes from across the bar, looking impossibly fond.

The following week, they go into their first game against Montreal prepared for the worst, but in the end, the Voyageurs are toothless and adrift, managing the impressive fear of scoring zero goals while accruing 21 penalty minutes. Sloppy, pathetic hockey, and when he looks in the stands, he sees his own number staring back at him, in Ottawa red and black, in Montreal blue, and in more than one spot, bright rainbows.

"Hell of a game, man," says Shane with a shake of his head, later, when JJ has settled into an armchair in their living room, beer in hand.

"They all are, lately," JJ scowls. "Don't get me wrong, you made the right choice, but it has been a harsh wake-up call."

"Your piece of shit teammates aren't enjoying their 9-12 record?" asks Ilya as he enters the room with a bottle of his own.

"Hey, be nice, that's JJ's record, too," Shane says with a grin, and JJ goans and lets his head fall back against the chair.

"So… how's the room?" Shane asks, more seriously. Honestly, he'd rather not know, but even he could sense the tension on the ice between JJ and the rest of the team. If nothing else, he can give JJ a place to vent.

"It's fucked. When your trade was announced everyone lost their shit, like— fucking idiots, I don't know what they expected. Grier himself called a mandatory meeting and tore us all a new asshole. Never seen him so angry. Mandatory trainings on workplace harassment and— get this— social media usage. He looked right at Hayden when he said that part, it wasn't subtle."

Ilya smirked and took a long sip of beer. "Yes, well, Pike needs to be hit over the head sometimes before he understands things."

JJ sighs. "Well, everyone else noticed, too, and from there things just fell apart. Everyone knew he had something to do with it, and apparently Jackie wasn't afraid to tell the WAGs what happened."

Ilya's eyebrows shoot up; he casts a sideways glance to Shane, who shrugs. "So? They iced him out?"

"Well, not at first. Fucking assholes… he told them the point of it was to," he gestures at Ilya, "you know, break you two up, and they were all pretty much okay with it then."

Shane's fists clench. He doesn't say anything, because there's nothing to say that he hasn't already thought enough times to wear a deep, muddy path in his head, nothing that he hasn't already muttered through clenched teeth and spat out onto the ground, words tinged with blood and mucus.

There's a pause as JJ looks uneasily between Shane and Ilya. Ilya shifts, moves closer to Shane on the sofa. Nudges Shane's knee with his own; a silent question. Shane nudges back.

"So," he says, forcing a lighthearted note into his voice that he knows none of them believe, "They're just mad it didn't work?"

JJ's face takes on a slightly guilty appearance. "The group chat. They found out that someone leaked it to coach and Grier. They assumed it was him. I thought about confessing, but…" he shrugs. "I don't know. It sort of felt like karma, or something."

"Huh," says Shane, "So, they iced him out for telling on them."

"Iced the fuck out, ouais," agreed JJ, punctuating the remark with a swig of his beer. "And now he's Toronto's problem. Good riddance."

(Ilya had protested, last week, when Shane had insisted on staying up to watch Hayden's first game with Toronto, an away game against Las Vegas. Relegated to the third line, out-of-sync with his new teammates, he'd looked lost. "You always made him seem better than he really was," Ilya had insisted, as he tried to distract Shane with kisses to the underside of his jaw, as his hands teased up Shane's thigh, as he finally gave in and resorted to unfair tactics, crawling into Shane's lap and kissing him filthily. So, as he usually did, Ilya had gotten his own way, and the remainder of the game proceeded, unwitnessed.)

"Jackie's okay?" Shane asked, a while later, after the conversation had drifted from topic to topic, never straying too far from the one with the strongest gravitational pull.

JJ nodded, setting his empty bottle down on the side table. "She's okay. I mean, she doesn't tell me much, you know, but her sister has been around a lot to help with the kids. And a few of the WAGs, too— after Hayden got traded, she left the chat, but from what I hear, it was kind of falling apart anyway. Some of them weren't so happy with how their husbands were talking about you, apparently, and they've stuck with Jackie.

"She's still in Montreal?" asks Shane.

JJ's lips are a thin line. "Still in Montreal. No plans to move, from what I hear. All her family is there, you know. She said it wouldn't be fair to the kids, to move them so far away, when they barely see their father during the season, anyway. I guess he'll come home over the summer, maybe. It's not like Toronto will be in the playoffs any time soon."

"Bold talk, coming from someone playing for Montreal," says Ilya dryly, lightening the gloomy mood that has settled over the evening.

JJ laughs and flips him off. "As if anyone stands a chance against fucking Ottawa now—I feel like I'm going crazy, saying that!"

Ilya holds out his arms smugly, a king benevolently receiving the praise he knows he deserves. Shane grabs the throw pillow nearest to him, and smacks him in the face, while JJ laughs in the background.

The ceremony is private, just Yuna, David, JJ, and Svetlana. Next summer, they'll plan something big. A vow renewal, with all of their friends; the wonderful people who have always been there, and those who have come out of the woodwork in light of everything. But today, in their backyard in mid-September, they promise themselves to each other, every day, forever and ever. There are exactly the right amount of tears, balanced with laughter and stories and embarrassingly mushy toasts with wine and later, vodka, and when Shane falls asleep with his face pressed into Ilya's chest, the last thought he has is, I can't believe I didn't let myself have this sooner.

The call from an unknown number comes through as Ilya's eating lunch. Shane has already finished, and is in the other room, obediently reviewing some sponsorship emails from Yuna.

Common sense tells him not to answer. It could be literally anyone— a journalist, a crazed fan, an old hookup wondering if he and Shane are open to threesomes—

He stands and walks towards the back door as he answers. "Hello?"

"The internet tells me you're married, asshole."

The Russian words swirl around his brain, rubbing against it rough and buzzing and soothing all at once. Some muscle, he'd been holding taut unconsciously for months releases, almost taking his knees out from under him in the process.

Ilya grips the handle to the door, glances behind him. Shane is nowhere to be found. He opens the door and steps out onto the patio, closing it softly behind him.

"Alexei," he exhales.

"Fucking obviously. So?"

Ilya sighs, reaches for the cigarettes he's been so good about not smoking. They're not here, there's an emergency pack out in his car, he thinks. "So? Yes, the internet is correct. It happens, rarely."

There's a noise through the phone, a scoff, maybe.

"You are disappointed?" Ilya asks sarcastically.

"I don't give a fuck what you do," snaps Alexei. "Why should I care more about your reputation than you do?"

"I have an entire room in my house to store the trophies I've won. I'm not worried about my reputation, Lyokha." Fuck it. He rounds the corner of the house in the direction of the garage. Shane can be annoyed about the cigarette later.

"Father must be rolling in his grave," Alexei mutters darkly.

Ilya opens the car door and fishes the cigarettes and lighter out of the glove box. "Ah, good for him, in his current state. More exercise than he managed the last three decades of his life."

There's a harsh laugh on the other end of the phone. "Fuck, Ilya. You'll go to hell for that."

"Oh, only that?" Ilya says, encouraged by Alexei's reluctant amusement. He lights a cigarette and takes a drag. "That's a relief. I'll stop holding back on all the sodomy and cock sucking. The honeymoon is going to be incredible," he says, drawing out the last word.

"Fucking idiot," Alexei grumbles. "I don't want to hear about that shit."

There's a moment of silence. Ilya wanders back around to the rear of the house and settles against the railing.

"So. You called to congratulate me?" Ilya asks. He should end the call, probably. Quit while he's somewhat ahead. He finds himself strangely reluctant.

"I don't know. Sure, whatever. Congratulations on cementing your position as a national disgrace."

"I'm touched. You should fly out for the party next summer and give a toast. It will be so beautiful, everyone will start crying."

"Fuck off."

There's silence again.

"Got the package you left for me, by the way."

Ilya lights a second cigarette. "Oh. Good." He waits for Alexei to elaborate, knowing that he won't. So, instead, he asks the question that he knows will lead to the inevitable end of the conversation. "You're okay? Safe?"

He expects Alexei to tell him to fuck off again. To make fun of him. To lash out, maybe, to say that no, actually, he's not okay, he'd be better with twenty grand, and fuck him for not sending it already.

"I'm fine," comes Alexei's response. "Being careful. Shouldn't say too much, but yes."

Ilya nods. Sighs. "Well, good."

There's a sound on the other end of the phone, as predicted. "I need to go now. These calls are fucking expensive. Not all of us are made of money, you know."

"You called me, asshole."

"Yeah, yeah." Alexei mutters. "Bye, Ilya."

"Take care, Alexei."

The line goes dead. Ilya finishes his cigarette. Above him, the clouds smell like snow. Somewhere inside his house is a small dog, curled up with a mountain of toys on a soft piece of furniture. Inside, placed lovingly on a shelf in their living room, are a worn set of journals next to a faded photo from Ilya's childhood. Somewhere inside is his brilliant, beautiful husband, probably wearing his newest pair of glasses that, when he first saw them, almost made Ilya pass out from the sudden rush of blood away from his head. He should go inside, just to check.

In two weeks, it will be Western Christmas, and Ilya can't think of anything on earth he needs that he doesn't already have.

Maybe, after everything, Ilya's going to be okay.

Chapter End Notes

And then Hayden lost all his teeth in a freak high-sticking incident and developed chronic, untreatable athlete's foot and retired from hockey the following season and no one ever heard from him ever again. The end.

But seriously, wow. Can't believe this is over. Thank you so, so much to everyone who has read along, commented, left kudos, and gone on this wild ride with me. <3 <3 <3 <3 <3