Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Troy Barrett

Additional Tags:

Secret Marriage, Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Exes to Lovers, Slow Burn, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Second Chance Romance, Mutual Pining, Ilya Rozanov Has Feelings, Yearning, Divorce Proceedings, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Hockey Injuries, Shane Hollander is High on Pain Medication

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-03 Completed: 2026-04-07 Words: 47,188 Chapters: 12/12

degrees of separation

Summary

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov got married in secret and for two whole years, they lived their life quietly.

They broke apart quietly, too.

The worst part is that none of it feels right. Not their continued rivalry on the ice, not the divorce papers on Shane’s table, and definitely not the idea of saying goodbye. There are too many wounds untouched, too many things left unsaid, and too much love between them still.

Notes

disclaimer: i am not canadian! i've also definitely never gotten divorced there! i researched the process but took liberties since this is, you know, a work of fiction.

if you have any other questions about the divorce part of this (i know it may be triggering to some), don't hesitate to ask, either in the comments or on tumblr. i can assure you, though, that at the end of the day, this is a love story

i don't know exactly how many chapters this will be, but i have it all outlined in my head and i truly can't wait to share it with y'all. i hope you enjoy. ♥

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Ottawa, February 2021

To nobody’s surprise, Shane overdresses for the occasion. He dons a suit-and-tie, puts on his best shoes, and grabs one of those office-appropriate handbags his mother bought him at some point, or some sponsor left at his doorstep. He hairsprays his hair to filth, puts on cologne that stings against his freshly shaven jaw.

Throws a warm gray coat over it all. It’s really cold in Ottawa in February.

Ilya, on the other hand, shows up in black jeans, an expensive-looking but streetwear jacket, and a baseball cap.

The only thing they have in common are the sunglasses hiding both their faces.

Shane has never been to this building, so maybe it’s a good thing they run into each other in the parking lot. They look at each other; Shane opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t even manage a peep. All he can feel is the extreme windchill poking his cheeks like needles and the way his heart breaks just a little bit more at the sight of Ilya’s clenched jaw.

“Hey,” Shane tries in the end. His voice is probably too quiet, or maybe Ilya just doesn’t want to hear it.

“Let’s go in, yes.” The words are familiar, but they’re not phrased the same. There’s no real question in them; it’s like he said them just to say something.

Shane follows Ilya out of the parking lot.

The pavement click-clacks under the soles of his shoes in contrast to Ilya’s quiet sneakers. There’s irony in him wearing Reeboks while Shane isn’t, and Shane would probably bring it up and laugh under different circumstances. The world just seems so gray today. If at least it was sunny— But then that would just make him sad for different reasons.

The lawyer’s office is on the second floor.

The building is high-end, all glass, very luxurious. Marble floors and high ceilings and Shane is glad he can trail after Ilya and stare at those instead of navigating the different hallways and rooms. For the hundredth time, he tells himself to just get through this.

They take the elevator and they still don’t exchange a word.

When the doors open, there’s a reception desk right in front of them. Muzak is playing softly in a poor attempt at distraction. The spacious front office smells like laundry detergent and soap, and there’s a large aquarium lining the left-side wall. Maybe you’re supposed to watch fish eat other fish or hide in kelp, Shane thinks, so you don’t think about why you’re actually here.

“Hi!” The receptionist’s tone is like she’s mistaken working at a dentist’s office with working here. She definitely shouldn’t sound so fucking cheery. From what Shane can see, she’s wearing a long-sleeved dress with a floral pattern. He looks down at the tips of his shoes. He doesn’t want to see happy people right now. “Do you have an appointment, gentlemen?”

“Rozanov-Hollander,” Ilya offers without preamble. It sounds like he’s put a hyphen there, but there’s a chance he really meant it as a comma. Regardless, it’s a little line between them keeping them apart.

There’s a shuffle of papers, maybe she’s double-checking the itinerary, and then Shane – pointedly not looking – hears her stand up.

Her chair creaks just a little. It’s probably one of the wheels, he thinks absently while he worries at the loose threads on the inside of his coat pocket with nervous fingers. He looks from the floor to the aquarium to the stark white ceiling while counting her steps.

It takes eleven before she’s knocking on the door. One-two-three knuckles against wood.

“Mr. Thompson,” she says in that cheerful voice, “your 2PM divorce is here.”

Shane genuinely vomits in his mouth just a little. From where Ilya is standing, there’s a sharp inhale.

“You can let them in, Sandra.”

Mr. Thompson’s voice sounds warm enough that Shane manages to force himself to look up again as they’re ushered further into this hellscape. Where the reception area is tile, the lawyer’s office is all thick carpets and muffled steps. It makes it feel like this room itself is a dirty secret.

It’s all glass windows like the rest of the building, but at least it’s decorated. It’s got less of a fabricated smell—probably thanks to the flowers in practically every corner—and there’s a replica of a painting Shane recognizes but can’t place into the actual context of art. He does notice the personal items scattered across Thompson’s table, though, and that makes it feel a little friendlier. Shane’s not sure that’s good—this should feel like enemy territory, he thinks.

When there are no more decorations and chairs and tables to look at—Shane hurriedly glances over the client space; that table is full glass, too, and already layered with paperwork—he looks at the lawyer himself.

Caleb Thompson looks kind of like the dad from Shane’s old billet family. He’s Black, in his forties, silver streaks line his slightly receding hairline. He’s wearing a polite smile, but his hazel eyes have the same forever-looking-Shane-up-and-down quality.

“Mr. Rozanov, Mr. Hollander, take a seat.”

Thompson himself stands up from his heavy-looking wooden table and takes just a few long strides to get to the other, glass one. He takes the head while Shane settles on his right.

Ilya right across from him.

(God, what Shane wouldn’t give to sit next to him. What he wouldn’t give to nudge a shoe, or have his shoe nudged. How did they even end up here?)

You could cut the tension in the room with a butter knife, but Thompson must be used to that—he’s still all smiles, all good humor.

Shane shrugs off his coat and busies himself for a few extra seconds with hanging it over the backrest of his chair. Peripherally, he sees Ilya doing the same.

He clears his throat.

His body is itching everywhere, that’s how much he doesn’t want to be here.

After a moment of consideration, he puts his hands on the table, fingers entangled. Then he realizes they will leave clammy-cold-sweat marks on the glass and retreats like he’s wounded. He leans against the chair instead, the lapel of his coat digging into his back. It keeps him grounded in a way, actually.

“Okay,” Thompson sands, starting to look through the paperwork. “I know this is probably not a great situation for either of you guys, so I’ll walk you through everything. Sound good?”

Shane gives a noncommittal grunt.

“Yes,” Ilya grinds out at the same time.

Thompson smiles—small now—and looks first at Ilya, then at Shane. It crosses Shane’s mind that this guy might be a hockey fan. He might be tuning into every NHL game that he’s got the time for, and this situation is a wet dream for him. He’s obviously bound to keep it to himself, but should that be true, he’s got two people who have portrayed themselves as rivals for over a decade asking him to help them get a fucking divorce.

What a nightmare.

“I’ll take you step by step through the process, but if you’ve got all the paperwork I asked for, you should be good and it should be fairly quick. We’re looking at about three months tops. I won’t bog you down with details, what you need to know are really just three things—filing, separation agreement, final order.” It doesn’t escape Shane that Thompson is avoiding the D-word wherever he can. Divorce seems to be a dirtier word than dick here.

Ilya clears his throat. Shane’s eyes jump to him for a split second.

“What is this— separation agreement?” Ilya’s voice sounds a little rough around the edges, like he’s fighting a cold.

Shane slumps in his chair in an attempt to make himself smaller. It sounds like Ilya is saying I’ve already fucking agreed.

Mr. Thompson talks with his hands a lot. As he explains, his fingers tap the table, move the paperwork around. Like he’s putting on a little show. “You guys own a condo, right?” Nod, nod. “A separation agreement is essentially a document where we’ll say in legalese what’s going to happen with it. Whether you’re going to sell it, or one of you is going to buy the other out. If you had any debts, or let’s say, a joint bank account, or other property—that would be written down here, too.”

Shane knows. He stayed up last night and watched up to a hundred videos on Youtube about the forms that need to be filled out, what hands—clerks, lawyers, courts—they go through, what exactly he’ll need to sign. He told himself that he wanted to be prepared, but it felt like some weird passive form of torture so maybe he just wanted to have an outlet for all this hurt.

“Okay,” Ilya says. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Mr. Thompson smiles again. He’s got a whole repertoire of different smiles, it seems. “That’s why I’m here. You can ask all the questions you have, really.”

“The agreement has to be signed before the divorce is filed, right?”

Thompson looks right at him, and Shane can feel Ilya looking at him, too.

“That’s correct, Mr. Hollander. You’ll have to come to a decision about the condo before we can move on, though I’ll obviously get started on the paperwork in the meantime. You can decide between the two of you or we can decide on mediation.”

There’s a huff of breath from Ilya’s side of the table. Shane wonders whether he doesn’t know the word—or, well, understand it in this situation.

“It’s like a negotiation,” Shane murmurs because his mouth is quicker than his head on some very rare occasions. He’s just wired this way—has been since the time of press conferences of long ago.

Ilya shoots him a look that’s hard to read because it’s clouded with a frown. “We can decide between us,” Ilya says resolutely. “Is our business.”

“Yeah, of course.” Okay, maybe Mr. Thompson is not a hockey fan. He seems taken aback by Ilya’s sudden grumpiness and if he knew anything about number eighty-one, he wouldn’t be. “Totally up to you. We’ll schedule a meeting at a later point in time. Today, I’d like to get the paperwork together so we can get going on the filing process. Can you show me what you’ve got?”

Shane is thankful to be doing something with his hands. The way Thompson keeps saying ‘we’ is making his skin itch more and more and he’s hungry for a moment of silence where there are no voices bombarding his head.

Out of his handbag, he grabs what he could gather. They have to be eligible for this, obviously, and since neither of them cheated or abused (Jesus, no, Ilya would never, Shane can’t even think it), there has to be evidence that they’ve been living separately.

He pulls out an extract from the land registry that proves his ownership of the Montreal apartment complex. Months and months of printed out bills with proof of payment for water and electricity. There are a few receipts from Montreal gas stations. Nobody needs to know they’re from away-games that they drove to. He hands over his tax statement, income statements—it feels like he’s proving his existence on paper.

Shane hands it all over in a file that he spent long minutes organizing by date and by (assumed) importance. Ilya hands over a stack of papers.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Thompson puts the papers on top of Shane’s neat file and puts them to the side. “The next part might feel like a little bit of an interrogation, so let’s get through it quickly, shall we?”

Shane grits his teeth through every question and answer. In reality, he’d like to scream that everything can be found in his papers, but he dutifully gives dates and personal details.

It feels like it takes fucking hours.

Finally, Thompson pulls one more smile out of that repertoire—apologetic this time. “Thank you, guys,” he says. “Do you have any questions at this time?”

It is met with deafening silence.

“You have my number, should you think of anything later. I’m available to both of you, but you can reach out to me separately, of course.”

Shane closes his eyes and drags a lungful of air up through his noise with difficulty. He tries very hard not to imagine Ilya sitting in his apartment, on the phone with Caleb Thompson, inquiring if there was any way this could go faster.

It means he misses Thompson’s final words. When he comes back to Earth, the room is abuzz with movement—Thompson is shaking Ilya’s hand, and Ilya is already back in his jacket and baseball cap.

Shane quickly gets up and rubs his sweaty palm against the pantleg of his suit. “Um—thank you,” he says awkwardly when it’s his turn to shake the lawyer’s hand.

“It’s no problem, Mr. Hollander,” he says. Shane can’t read his face, though he wishes he could—there’s a look on his face when their eyes briefly meet that he doesn’t know what to make of.

Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t know.

He already feels small enough.

He hurriedly puts on his gray coat to leave.

Ilya is gone at this point, his cologne the only thing that lingers in the doorway.

Shane doesn’t know what else he was expecting.

Ilya punches the button to call the elevator one more time, but the damn display up top still shows it on the fifteenth floor. He should have just taken the stairs.

It’s too late to turn on his heel and run for them, though. He feels Shane behind him before he can hear him, and it’s too late for anything. Ilya’s jaw hurts because he’s been clenching it so much, but he clashes his teeth together yet again.

Finally, the number starts creeping down as the elevator begins its trek downward.

Shane smells nice. Clean, fresh, and Ilya recognizes the cologne. He recognizes the underlying scent that is just Shane, too, and it makes him turn to the side. He wants to tell somebody how horrible this all feels, but the only person he’s ever told those things is standing right next to him. It’s the one person he cannot tell.

After what feels like an eon, the elevator dings and its heavy doors open.

Thankfully, it’s empty. Ilya steps in. The Muzak is even louder in here, but it makes it easier to pretend and perform. He ever-so-casually leans against the mirror, hands in his pockets, and he looks directly at Shane.

Shane, who’s clearly wavering. Hesitating; eyes downcast. He looks so good. It’s not just the cologne—his entire appearance makes Ilya want to smash his head against the wall. His hair is fucking coifed, the spray or whatever he used making it look raven-black. His clothes are smooth, the coat he’s wearing is unfamiliar but hugging him like he’s a fucking fashion model.

God, it makes Ilya sick.

In the very last second, Shane quickly steps in. Last-minute decision, and Ilya can’t stop looking at him.

They’ve exchanged a total of five words today. In the last week, actually.

And Shane is still looking everywhere but Ilya.

He presses the button for the ground floor and leans back in. Bites his lip; tries very hard to stop himself from doing something stupid. But he’s Ilya—stupid is his trademark.

“You can’t even look at me?” he asks, voice clipped.

Like a petulant child, Shane immediately looks up and right at him. Ilya wishes he couldn’t still read him like an open book.

Shane’s face looks beautiful, even with a frown that currently crowns it. His freckles look strikingly dark against his face in the artificial light, and his lips are pressed into a thin line. It’s his expressive eyes that betray him as always—Ilya sees resentment, he sees anger, he sees that Shane is overwhelmed.

“Happy now?” Shane snaps moments before he looks away again. His shoulders are pulled up practically to his ears.

Just like that, the elevator ride is over. It adds eight words to their total.

It’s like Shane can’t wait for it to be over—he pretty much runs out the second the door gives him enough space to do so.

Ilya, on the other hand, drags his feet out.

Shane is a dot rushing through the parking lot by the time Ilya steps outside, and it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s a perfectly fine ashtray by the entrance and Ilya won’t complain if his husband isn’t there to tell him off for smoking.

His husband.

Ilya shivers.

Shane is not his anything anymore.

Once his cigarette is lit and he takes a good old drag out of it, he takes his phone out of his pocket.

Sveta

Call me when you get out?

Ilya balances his weight from one foot to the other. The cigarette is lit and forgotten between his fingers, its smoke occasionally wafting up and hitting his nostrils. His hands are very cold and he’s forgotten to put his sunglasses back on. The last thing he wants to do is talk to anybody.

He wants to be alone. Part of him thinks he deserves to be alone.

Sveta

Call me when you get out?

I don't want to talk

Well how did it go?

Oh, fantastic
I'm so sorry, Ilyusha.
So... Nothing new?

Ilya doesn’t have it in him to tell her, actually.

What’s there to tell, anyway? He can tell her about the weather—so fucking cold all the time—or he can tell her about how Shane felt two thousands miles away the whole time. Like he wasn’t even there at all.

Sveta

I'm so sorry, Ilyusha.
So... Nothing new?

I'll call you later.

He tucks the phone back into his pocket and puts out the cigarette he’s had exactly one drag of. He rolls his shoulders, trying to shake off this afternoon—the lawyer’s voice, Shane’s avoidant eyes, the cold feeling this building has enveloped him in.

Then he drives himself to that condo they’re going to have to deal with.

Shane doesn’t need to know there’s someone still living in what they’ve made.

Shane’s fingers are shaking. His handbag rests in the passenger seat like a witness to some heinous crime.

Too many things are happening at once. He’s trying to get the engine started, he’s trying to focus on even breaths so he can actually drive, and his phone starts ringing. When he sees it’s Rose, what he feels is partially relief. He’d rather talk to his mother, but Yuna Hollander has been… complicated to navigate. She loves them both too much.

So does Rose, but she’s better at hiding it.

The shaking in his fingers has calmed into a slight tremble. When the engine purrs into life and his phone connects, he accepts the call.

“Hey, Shaney.” Her voice is like smooth butter that coats the inside of his car. He turns the heating on and leans back in the driver’s seat, trying to collect himself.

“Hey.”

“Are you okay?” she asks gently.

“No.”

How could he be? Some percentage of him is still in Caleb Thompson’s office, and then another percentage got left in that elevator. Not to mention the part of him that’s still in the condo, or the part of him that’s still living in four years ago; or the part that isn’t anywhere at all.

Shane Hollander is a lot of things on the surface; a lot of things he used to care deeply about. The number on his jersey, the plans that failed, his mother’s name sharpied on to his hockey stick, the number of Cups to his team’s name, whatever. On the inside, Shane is all over the place—too scattered for any of the other stuff to matter.

Not in this parking lot—not after… not after this.

“How did it go? I’m alone, you can say anything.”

Shane sighs. His body finally slumps—he rests his head gently against the steering wheel.

He starts with the easy part. “Yeah, the lawyer is good. I think. I don’t have a lot of experience with this,” he scoffs, “but he seems decent. Helpful. I had all the paperwork, and… I think he did, too, I don’t know.”

“You didn’t talk at all?” she sounds concerned and Shane hates it.

He shakes his head. “No. I said hey. He said let’s go in. Then he asked me if I can’t even look at him or whatever.”

Rose is quiet for a second. “What did you say?”

“I just looked at him. And then I asked him if he was happy with that.”

“Shane.”

“What? What was I supposed to say to him then?”

Her sigh sounds staticky. Shane wishes he could see her face, or at least catch a glance at it. It’s difficult for him to read people’s moods and thoughts over the phone on a good day, and this is not a good day.

“I can’t tell you that, babe.”

“You’re being nice to me?” he asks, checking.

“Yeah, I’m totally being nice to you right now. So what happens next?”

Shane gulps. It feels like he’s swallowing razors, and he realizes he hasn’t drunk anything since he got up in the morning and forced himself to down a glass of water.

“He said it should take about three months. We have to deal with the condo and—and other stuff, mostly paperwork. Then it will be over, I guess.”

“Shane—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. He shakes his head even though she can’t see him. He can feel where this conversation is going, because this is exactly how her tone shifted last time. It’s exactly how his mother’s tone shifted, and even his father’s. He’s had to go through this so many times at this point that he can smell it over the phone. “I don’t want to talk about how we’re being hasty right now. I just walked out of a lawyer’s office, Rose.”

“No, totally, I know. Are you good to drive?”

His chest relaxes. The interior of his Jeep has gotten a little warmer now so he shakes his coat off and throws it to the backseat. His hands seem stable now, but his brain is still racing. Five thousand miles a second, existing in all of those different places and times at once.

“I think so. Can you talk to me though? Just for a bit.”

“You know I can talk,” she assures him, her voice a little higher now.

Shane pulls out of the parking lot and Rose becomes a pleasant buzz in the background of the ongoing traffic. Shane doesn’t necessarily tune her out, he knows she’s talking about her next project, but he’s not an active listener, either.

The drive back to Montreal is longer than he’d like, and he’s too busy avoiding any thoughts of where Ilya might be.

Too busy wishing it hurt just a little bit less.

Chapter End Notes

NEXT TIME: ✨ proposal flashback ✨ hockey rivalry continues ✨ social media stuff ✨ and more!

so i've been thinking a lot about a fic about these two that would be heartwrenching without mcd, but everything i came up with (like a lalaland au or a bridges of madison county au) just felt wrong because i don't think they'd... stay apart like that. and then i saw a post on tumblr about how their comfort zones are the other person's trigger and that's why they struggle with communication and i was like, YEAH, THAT. but worse. :) so here we are with a secret marriage au that results in a decision to get divorced. except they don't know what went wrong, just that they still love each other deeply. we are going to suffer with them while they work it out.

i hope you liked this first chapter (kudos and comments MUCH appreciated). i know i loved writing it, so i'll be here with the next one asap. ♥ reminder that you can come hang out with me in the meantime here.

thank you for reading, truly.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

i can't believe these two have me doing CSS shit. never in life have i blushed (read: i've been writing fic for over a decade and this is my first time pulling this bonanza). with that in mind, a couple of notes:

whatever is in russian/french/whatever: hover over it for a translation. it should work on your phone too.

there are a couple of clickable things in this chapter! if it looks like a link, you can probably click it (excluding the tweets).

oh and i can't believe we have to say this now but all the em dashes are my own and i'm friends with google translate.

Ottawa, February 2021

Ilya has a sea of time stretching out ahead of him.

It’s barely four in the afternoon, but— His body is tired. Some of it is thanks to the Centaurs’ morning practice; most of it is thanks to the meeting. Regardless, by the time he parks his car in the underground garage of the building, he’s exhausted.

Svetlana’s last text (Okay, call me asap) seems to weigh his phone down with every step he takes from the car to the condo.

And, actually, it’s infuriating. Ilya is so fucking tired of feeling this way. He can barely stand to be around himself these days, and all the talk about filing and separation agreements and whatever-the-fuck-not is only making it more insufferable.

When he gets to the condo, it still looks the same. It is, after all, the same place he toured with Shane, the same place they settled on and bought, the same fucking place they decorated together. And it still smells like the detergent Shane picked out and kept buying, and Shane’s shit is still all over it, and maybe Ilya’s just going to scratch his eyes out or bust out of his skin or something.

Or maybe he’ll just a punch the wall they painted ‘Tiffany Blue’. What the fuck’s a Tiffany Blue, anyway?

Grumpily, Ilya decides to distract at least his hands if his brain decides to stay focused on misery. Not that getting a Nespresso coffee machine going is that deep, but it’s better than nothing.

(Does he realize that the mug he puts there is Shane’s? Like, does it register to him at all that it says Montreal Voyageurs? Probably not.)

He stands with his back leaning against the counter. He lets his shoulders slump and he rubs his face like he’s trying to wipe off everything that’s happened in the last few months.

It doesn’t help at all.

He numbly takes out his phone and looks at his notifications. One more text from Svetlana urging him to call. Harris yelling in the group chat about another one of Bood’s BBQ sessions. He was tagged in an Ottawa Centaurs post. There’s an email from a potential sponsor; another from The Hockey News. At the top, there’s an email from Thompson & Wilde and it takes Ilya a painful second to connect the dots and realize that it’s an email rounding up everything that happened in the lawyer’s office.

He briefly wonders if ‘the two men were so cold towards each other, they turned the office into Antarctica’ is part of the meeting minutes.

Ilya swipes it all away, including Svetlana’s concern. Like he continuously believes this will make it permanently go away.

Still in his jacket, he grabs the steaming mug of vanilla-flavored coffee and storms off to the balcony.

He welcomes the chill, even though he doesn’t have anybody to storm out on. He can barely stand the inside of the condo, is all. It feels like he’s lodged here like a piece of food that gets stuck in teeth. Shane moved out what feels like years ago. He doesn’t even know that Ilya’s still here, trying to steal some warmth from the fire they got going here, and he feels fucking invisible.

One of Ilya’s hands grips the icy-cold balcony railing while the other reddens against the steaming-hot mug.

It crosses his mind again—how they ended up here. Wonders which of the turns they took was the wrong one, or if they’ve been wrong since the beginning.

Do not think about it, he tries to tell himself, but if he’s not thinking about this, then he’s thinking about how much he fumbled during practice this morning.

Cyclically, it brings him back here anyway—to thinking about the foundation that never happened, or the fact he’s now contractually stuck in fucking Ottawa of all places on planet Earth.

His mother used to say, Chelovek zamyshlyayet, Bog menyayet. Man plans, God changes.

“Fuck,” Ilya curses and promptly burns his tongue on the coffee.

This is now how it was supposed to be.

Lanaudière, December 2017

“What are you doing out here?”

Ilya startles so bad that some of his (Yuna-Hollander-made) mulled wine spills out and over his hand.

“Shit!” he yelps, mostly because that’s the second thing that jumpscares him in five seconds. He’s been standing out here on the Hollanders’ cottage’s patio for long enough for the drink to cool down.

“Oh Jesus, sorry.” Shane is there immediately—with him, his careful sleeve. He smells like apples and cinnamon and Christmas, even though Christmas has been over—check watch—for seventeen minutes.

“Is good, I’m okay.” Ilya gently pushes Shane’s hand away—he’s honestly just threatening to spill more with his patting—and takes the half-empty mug into his other hand. Then he puts it on the windowsill behind him, just in case.

“My mom just wanted to know if you want any more of the maple pudding.”

“Tell her yes Mrs Hollander please,” Ilya says and he’s not even joking. She’s told him at least a dozen times now that he should call her Yuna, and sometimes he does, but when it comes to her maple pudding, he’s not risking it.

“Oh, um.” Shane shuffles. “That was just an excuse, I wanted to see where you were.”

It’s only now that Ilya notices—Shane is wearing his gray coat, the one that makes him look like he’s the main character in a nineties rom-com. That, and it makes him look so fuzzy and warm that every time he wears it, Ilya wants to stuff his perpetually cold hands underneath.

“You’re so mean. So mean to your only boyfriend.” Ilya is definitely joking now.

Shane stands next to him. It looks so different here now compared to what it looked like during the summer. It’s not just the layer of snow that covers the greenery—it’s Ilya who feels different. If he were a third party watching himself from the other side of the carefully kept yard, he probably wouldn’t understand what he was seeing.

Ilya Rozanov, hockey player first. The face behind the brand second. Fighter third.

Instead: Ilya Rozanov who hasn’t thought about hockey once since the last game before the holidays. Celebrating Christmas with something he’s too scared to call family—this Russian prodigy, yes, whose mother’s Orthodox cross hangs around his neck despite his distaste for the faith; whose police father brought expensive gifts from expensive people at the break of January.

He feels so full.

Full enough to burst.

“You disappeared,” Shane explains, half-teasing. They are shoulder to shoulder now.

“Needed time to think, sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he hurries to say. “I just missed you inside. Die Hard is on and stuff.”

“Best Christmas movie ever,” Ilya mumbles. His mind is floating elsewhere. It’s stuck on the first part of what Shane said, and he finally understands the western tendency to become sentimental as December creeps to a close. It wraps itself around him like a scarf.

“So… why are you out here?” Shane asks, circling back to his question.

And it’s an excellent one, honestly. Why is Ilya out here? He’s thinking about how being fond of somebody is one letter away from being found by them. How that’s terrifying but comforting at the same time, and how he doesn’t understand that those two things can co-exist.

Kind of in the same way the two of them co-exist.

“Shane,” Ilya says, tasting the word. “Hollander.”

Shane leans into Ilya’s shoulder. It’s colder than cold out here—Shane’s warmth, as it presses against him, is better than a duvet. “Ilya Rozanov,” he replies with an undeniable smile in his voice.

Ah, this is maybe not the best place for this conversation. But this is where it catches up with him, so let’s go.

“I have been thinking,” Ilya says almost too casually. There is a lot of truth to this, though. He has been thinking, a lot. The first time he thought it, he let it grab him and he sank with it. He imagined worst-case scenarios before he allowed himself to conjure up better ones. It’s always been his way of approaching things.

“Mhm.”

“I know you have a plan.”

“Okay.”

“I have a different plan, maybe.” Ilya’s eyes quickly look to the side. He’s known Shane long enough to know that he doesn’t like his plans changed, moved around or otherwise tinkered with.

However, he’s Ilya. This always seems to win him a bit of grace, though he can’t begin to guess at the reason why.

“I’m listening,” Shane encourages.

They should be looking at each other, Ilya thinks. He can’t say what he wants to say without eye contact. His body moves around Shane’s easily. He’s mapped him; he could dance around or with him in the dark. It’s second nature to angle his body just so—the movement to slide in front of Shane and gently catch his fingers is uncomplicated.

“I love the plan. Biggest fan of the plan.”

Shane smiles. It’s one of those little things that only pulls one corner of his mouth up into a knowing smirk. “But.”

“But maybe I am selfish. And horrible. Maybe I want more.” Ilya briefly looks down at the places their fingers touch and entwine. Then he looks around. “Maybe I want this, what your parents have.”

“A house?”

Ilya smiles. “Well, not exactly, though—would be nice to have a place together, I think. I mean mostly what they have here.” One of his hands goes up, motioning between their chests. The—ugh. Is so hard to say, I hate it.”

“Ilya.” Shane gently cups one of Ilya’s cheeks. “Just say it, I’m not gonna bite your head off.”

“Marriage,” Ilya finally says. He half spits it out like a bad word, half drags it out like he’s begging for it. At least he thinks so—it feels that way.

Shane is still looking at him a little bewildered. “Well, I mean, I kind of always assumed that down the line—”

“No, no, not down the line. I mean soon, like, very soon, Hollander.” He sighs in frustration. He knows he needs to spell this out for both their sakes, but it’s so hard to admit to wanting something he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t care if it’s secret, I don’t care if it means the rest of the plan happens later. Today was—fuck, Shane, you have no idea.”

But maybe Shane does, if his hand, still firm but soft against Ilya’s cheek, is anything to go by. This he can’t spell out. He can’t say out loud that the Hollanders, the Christmas tree, the warmth, Shane’s hand—that’s home.

“Hey,” Shane mutters, and Ilya realizes he’s been trying to look away again. He’s always, always trying to look away—unless whatever is in front of him is more horrible than what’s inside.

(Marlow checking Shane and sending him to the ice during that one game splices his mind.)

“It’s stupid, it’s—”

“No,” Shane argues, immediately shutting Ilya’s deflection down. “I don’t think it’s stupid. I just told you—it’s always been part of the plan. It just means we get to do it sooner. Do you really wanna do it sooner?”

Ilya sniffles. “Only if you propose in, like, the most romantic way, Shane.”

“Oh, because you’re so mushy?”

“No, so I can make fun of you for the rest of your life.”

“Hmm.” Shane smiles again. This one pulls at both sides of his mouth. He rests his forehead against Ilya’s. “Sounds more accurate, I guess.”

If Ilya left his body and stood on the other side of the yard as a third party, he’d actually see something very simple to understand: he’d see a person who never wants to leave.

Montreal, February 2021

The game against Toronto goes horribly. They lose 6:2 in the most disgraceful way, and it’s a goddamn miracle that Shane didn’t bust Dallas Kent’s stupid face open right there on the ice.

And considering that a team only plays as well as its captain leads it, everybody plays like sloppy, unnecessarily aggressive versions of themselves.

When the buzzer finally signals the end of the third period, Shane and the big ugly C on his jersey are the first ones back in the locker room.

He’s never angry, except tonight he is and he can’t control it and that makes it even worse. He throws his helmet into the stall and grits out a low, “Fuck!” before the team rolls in behind him.

His captain speech is a joke.

“Guys, I know we can play better.”

(wonder if Ottawa’s game went better)

“Every team goes through bad game days.”

(Shane forgot his wedding ring in the pocket of that ugly suit he wore last week to the lawyer’s office, is this bad luck?)

“Pike, great goal and assist.”

(has Ilya scored tonight?)

“J.J., if anybody got to sit out a penalty against Kent, I’m glad it was you.”

(what if Ilya got hurt during the game?)

“Now let’s focus on delivering better hockey next time, alright?”

(they’re playing against Ottawa, fuck)

Nobody really pays that much attention, anyway. The locker room is noisy and even though the boys aren’t celebrating, they can always find something to scream about.

The one with the loudest mouth is, as is often the case, Boiziau. Shane can tune him out pretty well while changing out of his gear at this point—until he hears his famous capitaine.

“…and because our capitaine played like a bull tonight, we should hit El Toro Verde!”

El Toro Verde is a place not far from the rink that is owned by an old mustached guy by the name of Fernando. He’s well over eighty years old so he doesn’t technically work there anymore, but he often sits out front and talks about his twenties in Seville (if it’s after midnight and he’s had something to drink). As far as the Voyageurs’ usual haunts go, this one is really not the worst.

Shane would still rather sit on a hot stove than go.

“First round is on me,” J.J. continues graciously, “and second round is on Hollander. To boost morale, eh?”

Shane looks away. “No, I don’t think so.”

Pike next to him joins in. “Personally, I’m going to go home to my beautiful wife who’ll tell me I’m still the best player in the world.”

A round of chirping echoes from each corner of the locker room.

“More like to change diapers, man!” Comeau says from Shane’s other side with a scoff.

“Yours, maybe,” Drapeau chirps. “Toronto got you so scared you didn’t even try scoring, buddy.”

“Je ne pense pas que tu mérites d’avoir une opinion ce soir, gardien!” I don't think you deserve to have an opinion tonight, goalie! J.J. teases.

Shane retreats inside himself when a playfight breaks out around him. He has a sneaky feeling that this is exactly what Pike intended anyway—to redirect attention.

Just to Shane, he says: “You can join us for a late dinner if you want.”

“I’m good, Hayd, but thanks. I think I’m gonna hit the rink early in the morning so I’m just gonna… hit the hay.”

Pike considers him. For a moment, it looks like he wants to say more—or ask something horrendous along the lines of are you alright—but he just shrugs. “Anytime, dude. You know that.”

Shane wonders whether Hayden would be so understanding if he knew that the thing on Shane’s mind was his divorce from a certain Boston captain. The same one Hayden has hated so loudly and so proudly for nearly a decade.

Yeah, probably not.

Better not entertain the idea. It can just be so unnecessarily hard—to have to move through the world alone when the world doesn’t even know it hasn’t been that way for years.

In his Montreal apartment, Shane doesn’t think twice about rotting on his couch for the rest of the evening and scrolling his phone for hours. He only turns on the small lamp by the armrest. Casually—automatically—he puts on a Henley that Ilya left behind maybe even years ago, and layers it with a black hoodie.

That way, not even he has to be aware of what he’s doing.

He opens the Twitter app.

His finger swipes up and up and up on autopilot. Someone shares an article about jellyfish. A couple of people are talking about Kent’s two goals from the game. Whatever ESPN has posted over the course of the day pops up tweet by tweet, but Shane’s eyes are not really registering the words—more like gliding over them.

Everything feels a little bit blurry around the edges. The same way his eyes can’t seem to zero-in on the text in front of him, he couldn’t concentrate on the game earlier. He’s forgotten to grab dinner at all, and his reading glasses are five feet and too much effort away.

With a sigh, Shane taps the search bar open. Consider it a vice—about the only one he’s got. He types: Ilya Rozanov. He hits the little spyglass button before he can change his mind and—or—get a grip.

A mish-mash of the most liked and recent posts jumps out at him.

On and on it goes. It’s honestly among the more ridiculous reading materials that Shane’s ever had the (dis)pleasure of skimming through, but he can’t stop himself. The more he does it, the more aware he is of the reason why. Internally, he’s waiting for a different type of post to pop-up. He’s expecting a headline to hit him every time he scrolls: Ilya Rozanov spotted with a gorgeous new blonde! threatens to greet him with each new tweet. If not that, then something similar. A blonde could be a brunette, a brunette could be a hot new model, a hot new model could be a Hollywood starlet instead. Regardless of the details, what Shane expects remains the same.

But it doesn’t pop up and it doesn’t pop up. The phone has warmed up uncomfortably against Shane’s palm and when he looks up at the time, he’s a little alarmed to see that it’s past midnight.

Talk about rotting away for hours.

Shane locks the screen without even exiting the app first and throws it. May it fucking get lost in the cushions or whatever void he seems to be lost in.

Absent-mindedly, he chews on the string of his hoodie. It’s not the first time he’s done it—his teeth slide into spaces and over ridges they created overtime. His arms, equally sub-consciously, come across his chest as if he was trying to hug or hide himself.

Even on zero evidence, Shane can’t stop thinking about the what if. Ilya looked so casual during the meeting—looking for a fight at most. There’s no evidence to the contrary either, after all. No tweets saying that he’s looking lonely or that it’s been a while since anybody’s seen him leave a club with a hot piece (ew) on his arm. So who’s to assume…?

Shane imagines Ilya in a hotel room, perhaps. Not unlike the hotel rooms they used to see each other in; not dissimilar. Maybe with someone new and equally easy; maybe with a stranger.

When Shane was little, he struggled a lot with how to perceive and understand the people around him. Some might say he struggles with it still. One of his downfalls was always being unassuming, and he had to drill it into himself to see each person and situation as a tree with a hundred branches going in a hundred different directions. It’s difficult, now, to guess at which branch he should focus on—which assumption to rely on, if any.

Still—better a hotel room than the condo. Their condo. Spacious, well-lit.

Does it still smell like home?

Even with Ilya gone?

Shane sighs. He searches for his phone again, which has indeed fallen in-between two pillows.

The hour is atrocious. So is the decision-making in progress. Still, Shane opens the message thread with Ilya. it still says Lily up top, and Shane has probably never hated it more—the secrecy, the fake names, and how unreal it makes all of it feel. Like it never even happened.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Then types:

He hypnotizes the text window. It says Delivered.

And then it says Read.

And then… nothing.

“Ugh,” Shane groans like he’s complaining to his empty apartment and not talking to somebody who isn’t even there. “I don’t need you,” he tells the phone, lying through his teeth. “I can go to the condo by myself. I can do it without you.”

Lie, lie, lie.

But if Shane knows how to do anything, it’s how to fight against that inside voice.

The practice in the morning is optional. Shane will get in his car, and he’ll undergo the drive to Ottawa, and he’ll unlock the condo and step in and it’ll be fine. If they want to sell it, it needs to be checked, anyway.

He doesn’t need Ilya by his side.

(He does, he does, he does.)

Chapter End Notes

sunday scaries? more like sunday saddies am i right haha... ha 🥲

thank you for reading + i hope you enjoyed this. kudos and comments genuinely keep me going so thank you if you decide to leave them. ♥

you can find me on tumblr here.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

i'm kind of proud of this one 🥲

again, if it looks clickable, click on it (if you want). i hope you enjoy. ♥

Ottawa, February 2021

Shane feels like he’s waking up the whole neighborhood when he starts up his engine a few minutes past five. He’s running on three hours of sleep, and it certainly doesn’t wake him up, but still. He rolls his Jeep out of its parking spot slowly and sets off down the dark street.

February is still a merciless time. He knows that daylight will only barely catch him when he arrives in Ottawa, but he doesn’t mind.

Shane really likes driving.

Ilya always laughs at him for going too slowly and taking too wide a berth when parking.

(Laughed?)

It’s his preferred way of doing it, anyway—it makes everything feel smooth and easy.

There are times, too, when the act of driving calms Shane’s nerves better than anything else. He sits down in the driver's seat: hands clammy with rootless anxiety, his heartrate unreasonably accelerated. There could be a reason—but not always. When he gets his car onto a highway or a wide road, though, and he’s got soft music playing on the radio, his shoulders slowly start relaxing and his mind empties. Caught between departure and arrival somehow offers long stretches of quiet and calm.

Not this morning, though.

Shane’s got this drive memorized. It’s been three years since he took it the first time, after all, and he’s done it many times since. On days off, it would eat four and a half hours total, but he’d do it anyway if it meant Ilya was the destination.

How many times have they done it, actually?

One or the other driving on too little sleep just to spend a night (or two, if extremely lucky) together. The drives have always felt longer than their time together. Every single time.

Today, Shane’s mind is occupied—he can’t seem to turn it off. The entire drive it eats at him like a hungry animal that’s finally come upon prey. His hands automatically signal for turns and grip the wheel; his feet perform the familiar dance of brake-accelerate on their own.

Some small part of him lies in wait. He’s expecting his phone to vibrate with a text message, but all he gets is a singular notification (a weather alert for Ontario when he crosses over from Quebec).

Once in Ottawa, Shane’s nerves take over fully even though he’s driving. His mind counts down—five blocks away from the condo, four blocks, three.

The sky no longer looks like a black patch. Light streaks through it in shades of pink and yellow, and soft mist seems to raise up from nothing to greet it halfway. The asphalt ahead of Shane’s car takes on an ugly eggplant tint. In this slowly waking world, Shane feels tired and scared and cold. He wonders whether it will be a sunny day.

When he’s two blocks away from the condo building, he finds a convenient parking spot on the street. He could absolutely go to the underground garage and park it right under the sign with the Jeep’s license plate, but he’d rather take this even if it means parallel parking.

The engine purrs to a stop and the radio’s music is cut off abruptly.

Shane notices a group of kids walking on the side of the road, and a family loading all of their numerous members into their vehicle. He checks the clock: it’s seventeen minutes past seven.

Why is he here? God, what has he done?

“I’m just going to go in,” he tells the wheel, once again pretending to talk to inanimate objects. “I still have stuff there. I own half of it. And somebody has to go in to see if there’s any mess left behind.”

Whatever is there is just memorabilia and that needs to be promptly packed up and put away. They dated in secret and got married in secret—he’s not going to let someone as trivial as a property valuator discover the secret now.

“In and out. I’ll be back in Montreal in no time. It’s just what’s needed so we can move on.”

Shane purses his lips. If only it was that easy.

One more time, he checks his phone and his last message to Lily. It’s still sitting at Read with no response.

I wonder where you are, he thinks just to himself, and why I’m not there with you.

Shane’s walk is brisk and quick because it’s really cold out. He wishes it took him more time, but before he knows it, he’s standing in front of the tall building. People pass him by like he’s not even there, and he allows himself a couple of moments to people-watch before he goes in. Part of him is scared.

(part of him is always scared)

Mostly that somebody walking in or out will recognize him and wonder—huh, what is Shane Hollander, the Shane Hollander doing here?

But he’s also scared to walk in. He’s got the front door code memorized and the key is in his hand, but instead, he looks at the strange shiny red that somebody has dyed their hair. He looks at coats swishing, and how everyone’s color changes as the world continues brightening. Over the white noise machine that’s blaring in his head, he hears low conversations and kids chatting and cars revving.

He finally goes in.

The elevator (he chooses it for privacy) quickly whooshes him up to the seventeenth floor and then he’s got no other choice but to step out.

There’s an inconvenient, uncomfortable lump lodged in his throat when he sees the familiar door.

Alright. No way but through.

It’s what he tells himself every time something hurts. Every time something feels insurmountable; every time he has to face something he doesn’t want to even if it’s just his own reflection in the mirror.

The key goes into the lock easily.

It almost feels like it shouldn’t—like maybe the metal should already be rusted over.

The door gives a familiar click and Shane softly steps inside.

One step inside—the door is barely closed behind him—and it overwhelms. It clouds, it overpowers.

Shane wishes he could have left his senses strapped in the car like disobedient children. It hits his nose first. It should smell like his Montreal apartment. He uses the same air freshener in both places, the same detergent. There is an underlying scent here, though. Something that was just theirs. Something he would be ashamed to call home.

And he doesn’t understand why it’s still here, either. He moved out over two months ago, and Ilya must have found something closer to the Centaurs’ rink as well.

The second thing is touch—or something akin to it. He feels the wooden floors below his feet. Easy to clean, pleasant to listen to no matter the type of shoe that goes clack or thump over it. The door handle is heavy in his hand, too, even when he finally releases it and lets the door click closed.

Then his sight finally catches up.

Shane’s eyes dart across the place, seeking something to latch on to, and it doesn’t take him long to realize that something doesn’t add up. It’s not only the lack of stuffy air. It’s that the condo still… looks the same.

Ilya’s shoes lie scattered in a messy heap by the door. a leather jacket hangs next to the streetwear piece Shane saw last week. As he steps further into the space and enters the large kitchen area, more evidence of life catch in his periphery.

Plates in a pile next to the sink. Papers and an empty glass on the kitchen island. His old Voyageurs mug next to the coffee machine, a deep-brown rivulet staining the side.

This is not what an abandoned condo looks like. This is not—

There’s a noise to Shane’s right. He turns on his heel so hard his calf half-cramps, and he’s met face-to-face with Ilya.

Ilya, who is standing in the mouth of the hallway in an oversized gray tank top, briefs, and a slipper in his hand.

“What the fuck!” Shane yells. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

Ilya, when he sees it’s Shane by the counter, promptly (or as promptly as his sleepy state allows) hides the slipper behind his back.

“Me what the fuck? Really? You’re the one sneaking in like thief!”

It’s adorable, the way sleepy Ilya forgets about articles and grammar, and Shane wishes he didn’t think so.

“And you what? Wanted to take me out with a flip-flop? Are you insane?’

Ilya lets the shoe fall to the floor behind him and he tiredly rubs his face. He looks back to Shane again, like he’s making sure that this is real, and Shane sees a slight change to his posture when he realizes it is.

“What are you doing here?” Ilya asks. “Is way too early.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s past seven. Respectable people are awake.”

“No, Hollander. Bankers and freaks are awake, maybe.”

Shane’s smile slips out before he can stop himself. It’s a sarcastic thing, really, on its way to being a scoff, but he quickly turns to the side to hide it. the realization that this is their first conversation in weeks hits him like a bulldozer, and he knows it’s no longer his place to smile.

It’s not Shane’s place to look, either—at Ilya’s legs, at Ilya’s arms, at Ilya’s beautiful face with a pillow crease pressed into his cheek.

That crease in particular makes Shane want to fold.

“So, what are you doing here?” Ilya asks again, a little colder this time.

Shane is tracing invisible patterns into the marble of their kitchen counter. “You didn’t text me back.”

“So? Was a stupid text.”

Shane bristles. “What are you doing here, anyway? Do you still live here or something?”

“Yes, see, people do this thing where they need a bed to sleep and a bathroom for showering and all these other things. So weird.”

Shane places his palms flat against the marble and leans his weight against the muscles in his arms. This is not what he expected. He crafted a careful step-by-step manual—go in, pretend to check the condo, maybe cry a little. He thought it would be empty here—that it would mirror him in having this vacant spot at its center where Ilya was supposed to be.

“I thought you moved out,” Shane says quietly.

Peripherally, he sees Ilya shrug.

“That’s you, not me.”

Shane’s eyes squeeze shut. He doesn’t want to argue. The words threaten to slide over the tip of his tongue—don’t you dare blame this on me, I’m not the one who wanted this—but he quickly rolls them up and swallows them back down. it’s hard enough as is without rehashing these hurts and shifting blame.

“I’m just saying I didn’t know you were here. I obviously wouldn’t have barged in like that if I knew.”

(Hotel room doors opening and slamming closed. Bodies clashing. Bodies barging in and disproving any and all theories on one’s need for private space.)

(Skin on skin.)

(“I do.”)

“Okay,” Ilya says placidly, matter-of-fact.

“I thought I could go through any things I left here, I guess, before we hire an appraiser.”

Ilya is looking a lot more alert now. “Appre-what? Sounds French, I don’t like it.”

“It’s just…a person who comes over to look at your property before you try to sell. So you know how much to ask for.”

With every word, Shane watches Ilya’s face withdraw further and further. By the time he’s done speaking, Ilya looks like he’s successfully gotten lost at the back of his own mind. The only thing that is aimed outward is a deep frown and a curve to his lips that Shane doesn’t recognize.

The fact that there are unknown grimaces and movements to Ilya that Shane will never know—

Shane looks to the side again, at their Tiffany Blue wall. That color is so close to the shade of Ilya’s eyes. In the summer, sunlight breaking and fracturing against irises. Shane blinks; hopes his own eyes look dry.

Ilya throws his hands up. “Do whatever you want,” he snaps.

With that, he turns around and retreats back into their bedroom, kicking the discarded shoe on the way.

Shane is still by the kitchen counter, like he’s adopted it to be his comfort zone, when Ilya reappears. He’s exchanged the gray tank top for a tight-fitting black tee, and he’s put on black sweatpants. The slipper has found its twin and they go swish-swish-swish-swish when Ilya walks over the polished wood.

Wordless again.

Shane quickly moves to the other side of the counter when Ilya goes for the coffee machine. He doesn’t know how to act around Ilya’s body—whether to sidestep it, whether to leave the general area overall. There’s more light coming in now, full daylight having arrived, and Ilya’s curls look golden instead of a mellow brown.

Shane averts his eyes when Ilya glances towards him.

The clinking of the coffee machine as Ilya puts in a capsule is a familiar sound. Shane wonders whether vanilla is still Ilya’s favorite, but he doesn’t dare look again.

“I will be outside while you… look through your things.”

Shane nods at the counter. “Okay.”

Once alone, Shane sees that the Voyageurs mug is no longer there. He allows himself to watch Ilya’s retreating figure. The mug is in his hand, and the other is taking out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his sweatpants.

It does something to Shane. It’s not a dramatic breath-hitching, or heart-lurching—but his stomach somersaults just a little bit at the bad habit making a comeback. He feels guilty, maybe, like he’s put the cigarettes there himself.

He sighs.

When he’s sure that Ilya is safely out on the balcony, he slumps against the counter. Shane’s forearms rest against the cold surface and he closes his eyes.

“Fuck,” he exhales.

Shane’s mind is buzzing and threatening to overspill. For all his compartmentalizing, there just aren’t enough compartments to shove all of this in. Ilya living here; Shane not. The mug, the cigarettes. The familiarity and how cold Shane feels despite it.

Get it together, Hollander.

Shane needs to busy his hands. Otherwise he might cry, or worse, start panicking. He can’t let himself think about how wrong this has felt the entire way through, and he can’t let himself think about how much he wants to go to the balcony. It’s just not an option, no fucking way.

Out of the blue, he remembers working on his vows. He remembers a poem that he almost used.

(Love has no ending. / I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you / till China and Africa meet, / And the river jumps over the mountain / And the salmon sing in the street)

He ultimately changed his mind, because of how it ended.

(The lovers they were gone; / The clocks had ceased their chiming, / And the deep river ran on) ***

Yet here Shane is, his lighthouse having a casual smoke on the balcony, and he can’t go to it; he can’t go to it.

Shane quickly wipes away at his eyes, just in case something has slipped out despite his efforts. Right. He can’t go out on the balcony, sure, but what he can do is actually go through his stuff. His wardrobe is still missing various things, including from sponsorship deals that he’s supposed to be wearing out and about.

It’s strange, going through the condo. It feels lived-in and Shane finds himself to be the one thing that doesn’t fit in here.

He grabs an old bag he used for his skates once upon a time and throws what he can find—his own pair of Reeboks, a couple of shirts, a hoodie. He can’t help himself; he throws in one of Ilya’s too. The Henley barely smells like him anymore.

Shane halts in the bedroom. The bed is a mess—the sheets need a wash and they’re splayed across it every which way. The air smells like sleep.

He cracks the window open just a little bit to let some freshness in.

Despite his better judgment, he retreats to the bed. Puts the skate bag on the floor; sits down on his side.

The mattress sinks and hugs him like it’s welcoming him back, and Shane knows it’s stupid, that it can’t be because beds don’t work that way, but it feels like it’s still warm from Ilya’s body. He lets himself sink into it.

Except no, don’t start thinking.

Shane reaches for the nightstand and opens the top drawer.

There are traces of him here. A tube of magnesium tablets for his leg cramps, a neat stack of Polaroids from two summers ago when Ilya was obsessed with his little Fuji and went through twenty packs of film in two weeks. Shane doesn’t look through them, but he quickly grabs them out and puts them in the bag’s side pocket so they don’t get damaged.

On the left, there’s a random bottle of lube (should have been one drawer down but maybe they got lost in the moment and it never made it to its rightful spot). Some more pills—sleeping, vitamins—and a nearly-empty bottle of foot cream. This was life at some point, somehow. Every two or three weeks, for a night or two.

At the very back of the drawer, Shane spots a rectangular wooden box.

He didn’t look at the Polaroids, but maybe he could—

His fingers are quicker than his brain. The wood is smooth and he’s tracing the cursive on top of the box before he can stop himself.

Shane & Ilya, it says in fancy loops.

Rose had it made in LA. She told him the shop’s whole story—something about a small business owned by a lesbian couple—but he remembers how it made him feel even more. There are only a few people who know about them. Shane’s parents, Rose, Ilya’s Svetlana, the divorce lawyer. But when Rose handed him this box the day before their wedding, Shane felt like he was being hugged by the whole world.

He cracks it open and morello velvet peeks out at him.

It’s empty.

Shane stares at the little creases where two wedding bands used to be. He knows where his is, obviously—tucked away in the suit pocket still like he’s scared it will burn his skin off should he touch it—but where is Ilya’s? Could he have thrown it away?

Jesus, could he?

“Ah,” comes from the doorway, like Shane’s thoughts alone have summoned him. “You’re here. I thought that maybe you left.”

Shane turns around. There’s no way he can hide what he’s holding, so he doesn’t try. The box’s mouth is still wide open, gaping.

Shane looks at it and then at Ilya, standing so tall and seemingly casual against the doorframe.

“Where’s your…?”

“What?”

“Your wedding ring. It’s not here.”

Ilya’s jaw clenches. His lines are so sharp that Shane can see it clearly across the distance between them. He looks to the empty box, or maybe at Shane’s hands.

“And yours? No rings on your fingers.”

“We never wore them on our fingers,” Shane mutters, and it’s half-true. It was difficult during the season. Shane always worried he would lose it between practices and games, but he sometimes put it on when they visited each other. During the summer, he always left it on even though the constant sunlight never failed to tan around it.

Ilya scoffs and looks towards the window. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Forget about it.” Shane clicks the box closed, but it goes into the bag instead of back into the drawer. He hurries to stand up. “We will need to go through everything at some point, even if you think it’s stupid.”

“Yes, so we can hire appraiser.” The word sounds foreign in Ilya’s mouth, but Shane thinks it’s because he’s not really trying or wanting to become familiar with it.

“Yeah. So we can hire an appraiser. And we’ll need to contact the lawyer again and set up another meeting.” And put the separation agreement together, and then sign the forms so the divorce can be filed. Just go through it one step after another and don’t think about it too much.

There is, indeed, no other way but through—Shane will have to pass by Ilya on his way out. The man is not budging from his spot in the doorframe.

“I’ll text you. Text me back this time.” Shane keeps his eyes pinned to the ground on his way out.

It’s enough that his shoulder brushes against Ilya’s chest. Heat settles in Shane’s cheeks immediately, but he doesn’t know how to describe what it does to his body. It screams for contact.

He can’t remember the last time he was touched. He can’t remember the last time he was touched by Ilya, and it’s a physical ache that spreads across his chest when he takes another step and their contact breaks. It’s almost like Shane’s epidermis is screaming for him to go back, and everything underneath indistinctly joins the chorus.

“Shane.” Ilya’s fingers find familiar purchase around Shane’s elbow.

Automatically, Shane’s head whips back.

He can recognize this expression. Ilya is looking at him the same way he was in Boston, which only spurred Shane to leave faster back then. He wishes he could read it. Is it supposed to be a plea or a dig? Is it supposed to be disbelief?

“The ring is here,” Ilya says. His free palm covers his chest and then his fingers trail up to catch his necklace. He pulls it out from under his tee, tugging as it trips over the thick collar line.

Shane looks down. Next to the crucifix, he sees a thin black band.

Ilya holds it out. It hangs there, clinking next to the cross, and it looks so heavy.

“Oh,” Shane chokes out. He can’t tear his eyes away. “That’s—”

“What are you really doing here?” Ilya asks for the third time.

“I just wanted to see it,” Shane finally admits. He can bullshit himself that he wanted to prepare it for realtors, but he can’t bullshit his husband. He can’t bullshit Ilya at all. “I’m glad you’re still here, it’s—Yeah. I should go.”

Ilya’s face scrunched up for a second. Shane wishes he would say whatever is on his mind—maybe even especially if it’s something like stay.

Instead, he releases Shane’s elbow and takes a step back, like he’s generously offering him space. That’s all they’ve ever tried to give each other in this fuck of a marriage and it makes Shane want to scream because he doesn’t know how to fight against it. It’s not about the condo, he knows. Sure, it’s home, but it wouldn’t be that without Ilya—Shane wants to hold him, he wants to ask how things have been and if he’s the only one who can’t sleep at night, he wants to kiss and be kissed but it’s like he’s a kid working off of pocket money and dreaming of buying a Ferrari.

It’s impossible. And it doesn’t seem to matter that Shane doesn’t know why.

“I will see you Saturday,” Ilya says resolutely in the end.

Fuck. Shane internally groans. Montreal’s game against Ottawa is this Saturday.

“Yeah,” Shane agrees with a curt nod. He watches as Ilya tucks the crucifix and the ring back under his shirt. “I’ll see you Saturday, I guess.”

Shane is almost at the door when Ilya calls after him: “I’ll text back!”

Which is useless, anyway, because it’s not like Shane is going to actually say what he wants to say.

(It would be I miss you. Do you miss me. Obviously.)

The drive back to Montreal, Shane’s space between departure and arrival is one long stretch of feeling the gaping hole inside his chest.

Chapter End Notes

the poem from Shane's vows prep is linked in the text, but if you want something cheeky, i recommend the platonic blow, another w.h. auden poem that he wrote under the pseudonym 'miss oral' in the 1940s. crazy work imo.

as always, thank you so much for reading. please know i'll literally love you forever if you decide to leave kudos/comments.

you can also come hang out with me on tumblr.

♥

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

i wanted to try something different and play around, and i think i like how it turned out! i hope you enjoy & thank you for being here. ♥

Montreal, March 2021

Start of 1st Period

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04:51

Penalty – 2 minutes – Holding

17 BARRETT Troy

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07:15

              Goal – Equal strength

              35 PIKE Hayden

              Assist

              24 HOLLANDER Shane

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08:06

Penalty – 2 minutes – Boarding

81 ROZANOV Ilya

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End of 1st Period

Start of 2nd Period

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22:58

Penalty – 2 minutes – Tripping

24 HOLLANDER Shane

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23:59

Goal – Power play – 1 Player

81 ROZANOV Ilya

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24:46

Goal – Equal Strength

38 HAAS Luca

Assist

81 ROZANOV Ilya

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31:13

Penalty – 2 minutes – Unsportsmanlike behavior

81 ROZANOV Ilya

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31:50

Penalty – 2 minutes – Interference on a goalkeeper

16 BOIZIAU Jean-Jacques

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39:28

Goal – Equal strength

24 HOLLANDER Shane

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End of 2nd Period

Start of 3rd Period

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48:15

Penalty – 2 minutes – Boarding

24 HOLLANDER Shane

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52:09

Goal – Equal strength

17 BARRETT Troy

Assist

38 HAAS Luca

Assist

9 BOODRAM Zane

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56:14

Goal – Equal Strength

20 WILSON Stephen

Assist

16 BOIZIAU Jean-Jacuqes

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58:02

Goalkeeper Out

41 HAYES Wyatt

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58:16

Goalkeeper Out

1 DRAPEAU Patrice

58:50

Goal – Empty net

81 ROZANOV Ilya

Assist

17 BARRETT TROY

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End of 3rd Period

Final Score

4:3

SHOTS ON GOAL

48                           39

07:15

Shane has never really liked playing in Ottawa, but what he could call a vague dislike some years ago and neutrality some months ago has now morphed into anger. Hatred, maybe.

Though, to be fair, he’s mostly directing it at himself.

They’re almost halfway through the first period. He would have liked his team to have more shots on goal, and he’s frustrated, to say the least, that they didn’t use the two-minute power play to their advantage while Barrett sat in the penalty box.

This could be going so much better.

Shane is chewing on his mouthguard on the bench, waiting for his next shift. His team is not doing badly, but Ilya’s Centaurs are doing exceptionally well.

“Do what you came to do!” Coach Theriault barks at every player leaving the bench. “You know your job! Do your job!”

It usually irks Shane. The constant angry yapping often riles him up to the point of scoring just to shut him up—so at the end of the day, he could say it works—but today it’s making his skin crawl.

And Ilya is like lightning on the ice. Like he has something to prove, or like he’s here to spit in Shane’s face.

Does he have the ring—Focus. Focus on the fucking game.

“Go, go.” Theriault is rubbing his upper lip nervously. Shane interprets it as a direct order to score, and he jumps over onto the ice together with Hayden and Wilson. His mouthguard clicks into place; his thigh muscles give a pleasant stretch as he rushes after the puck.

The Centaurs are a wall today. Shane’s not quite sure when they’ve managed to put a proper strategy together or started working as a team, but it’s not important. What’s important is redirecting that anger and putting into his hockey stick.

He intercepts a pass between Ilya and the Centaurs’ rookie, Haas, and swiftly turns around on his skates.

It only takes him seconds to measure the distance and the angles—he can’t understand math for shit, unless it’s hockey math. When he enters the Centaurs’ zone, he passes over to Hayden.

Rozanov comes between them, but he makes the mistake of focusing on Pike and his rookie is just not fast enough to check where Shane’s going.

Hayden sends it around the goal back to Shane.

Shane pretends to aim for the Centaurs’ goalie’s pads, but he ends up turning around his axis just like they practiced and the puck finds its way back to Pike.

Pike doesn’t hesitate. The slapshot catches on the goal post and then jumps in—fast, unexpected, and fucking beautiful.

“Yes!” Shane exclaims as Hayden rams into him, hockey stick high up. Montreal is on the scoring board. Good. If only he felt the usual exhilaration.

His eye catches Ilya’s on his way to the bench.

Shane’s brows knit together. He takes his mouthguard out and spits.

08:06

Ilya knows he’s losing control.

He’s losing control of the game, he’s losing control of his teammates that he’s supposed to be leading,

(he’s losing control of the puck far too often,)

he’s losing control of everything.

He’s got all this pent-up energy that seems to be bubbling like lava through his body. He knows he’s being aggressive. He knows he’s acting like it’s his rookie year in Boston.

It’s really unfortunate that knowing it doesn’t equal doing something about it.

And Hollander is like lightning on the ice. It’s like he came here with some fucked up vendetta against the entire Ottawa team, or like he’s here to laugh in Ilya’s face.

The goal Pike scored against them weighs a ton. Ilya can literally feel it pushing against his shoulders and trying to drive him into the rink.

When he chases Hollander next, his skates scrape against the ice. It sounds like when someone runs the sharp edge of a knife against marble. For a few seconds, it’s the only thing Ilya can hear.

They’re by the boards when Ilya finally catches up to Shane. He can see perfectly well when Shane pops the puck to the side with the screech of his hockey stick against the plastic, but he has no plans of slowing down. Somewhere, maybe even as far as the blue line, his aim has shifted from the puck to Shane completely.

His fully body goes against Shane’s, and he knows it’s a painful hit because he feels the impact on his own skeleton even though there’s a whole person between him and the boards. It echoes around his ribcage, and he can only imagine how bruised Shane is going to be.

The ref is a few feet away.

“You really want to fucking sell it?” Ilya spits out.

One of Shane’s skates goes up, but Ilya has him pinned so well that it prevents a fall.

“Get the fuck off me,” Shane hisses like an angry dog, but Ilya can see it in his eyes that the question has rattled him.

The whistle sounds somewhere to Ilya’s right and then he can feel multiple pairs of hands on him, pulling him away.

He skates to the penalty box backwards so he can watch. It takes Shane a few seconds to unglue himself from where Ilya smashed into him, but Ilya would bet every single dollar he’s got to his name that it’s not because he’s hurt.

In the box, Ilya rubs his sweaty face down with the provided towel over and over again.

He’s clearly learned nothing about wiping feelings away.

22:58

Banging helmets for good luck can only help so much.

At the beginning of the second period, Shane honestly feels every rib. It’s not because they’re that badly bruised—it’s mostly that his chest cavity is actively trying to fall in on itself and they’ve only scored the one goal.

Well, that and Ilya’s remark, too personal to be called a chirp.

Shane is also a little unsettled. Ilya is playing a messy game, which opens up a lot of chances for his teammates, but it’s too uncontrolled for Shane to be able to follow or mirror perfectly. Theriault is pacing behind them—for some reason, he’s acting like his career is hinging on this one game against a frankly mediocre team—and Shane is sometimes chewing the mouthguard, sometimes chewing his lip.

The worst part of it is that Shane can’t focus on the game.

In all their years together—Shane and Ilya, not Shane and the Voyageurs—he’s never struggled this much to keep his eyes on the ice. Involuntarily, he keeps looking for Ilya’s jersey when his line is out, and even towards the bench when they’re not.

Then the two of them are finally on the ice together again.

Of course Shane trips him on purpose.

He was always going to get a penalty for it. The important part is keeping decorum; making it look like an accident. Hockey is a dirty game sometimes. Players have taken out captains and rivals on opposing teams even despite a 10- or 20- minute suspension. A lot of tripping and slashing isn’t accidental; a lot of fighting is preplanned.

It feels good to see Ilya fall and slide a good few feet across the ice.

Until it doesn’t, and Shane has to look away.

23:59 / 24:46

It feels so fucking good to score. A pretty thing, too—unassisted, clean, perfectly executed. Ilya can feel eyes on him from all sides, Shane’s among them, and he screams—performs—for all of them.

Momentarily, he forgets about everything else and hockey is just hockey.

Something he can do well even when everything else around him keeps falling apart.

Flashes of his rookie year briefly play in his mind again, but it rewinds a little further back this time—Junior League, his father’s hopes of a long career in the KHL, scouts. Every game mattered then, for one reason or another.

Maybe this game should matter, too.

And not just because he’s playing against the person he’s about to divorce even though he loves him with all that he’s got.

Only a few sets of seconds pass between that goal and the next.

During his next face-off against Wilson, Ilya passes to young Haas. He’s always so scared and shy and hard on himself—in a different way than Shane—but he’s good. His shoulders are the next in line to bear this weight of being good at something.

A couple passes later, Ilya gives Haas a fairytale assist. It feels like he manifests it—like he thinks it into being.

Haas celebrates with his hands high up and a wide smile, like he’s just won them the Stanley Cup, and it hits Ilya that this doesn’t matter at all.

Because he’s about to divorce the person he loves with all that he’s got.

Shane can never know. Ilya needs to fucking forget about it.

His skates go like knives on marble again.

31:13

As the second period rolls over into its second half, Ilya can’t seem to shake Shane no matter where he goes. It’s enough that he’s trying to intercept every pass and that he chases after Ilya whenever he breaks away and tries to get them out of the Centaurs’ zone, but it’s not all.

It’s like Shane is inside Ilya’s head, anticipating every move.

He’s fighting Ilya for the puck by the boards; he’s colliding with him at center ice and making Ilya wobble again; he’s always in front of him when Ilya tries to shoot on goal.

Ilya is out of breath when the whistle blows for icing, his arms sore from the constant pressure.

Thirty-one minutes of hockey without a face-off against Hollander, and now here they are.

Shane is not looking at him. He’s looking down at Ilya’s chest. The ring, always the ring.

“Set,” the ref tells them on the right side of Ottawa’s goal.

Ilya grits his teeth. “Are you going to start playing, Hollander, or will you keep following me around like lost puppy?”

Shane’s eyes jump up and his face twists. His expression reads as hurt even though the arena lights are hitting his shield and reflecting Ilya’s helmet back at him. Still, Ilya can tell that his words might as well have been scalding hot water.

“Oh, fuck you,” he spits out.

Ilya’s heart hammers. He tries to bite out a response. “Mm, I’m sure you would like that.”

“Set!” the ref reminds them, his whistle dangerously close to his mouth.

Shane seems to inch a little bit forward, to Ilya. “You think about that, huh? Lots of lonely nights?”

Heat rolls in like a wave, sudden and burning. Ilya’s body reacts before he can fully register the immediate regret on Shane’s face. Lots of ugly shit gets said on the ice, and there’s a certain thrill to it—like discovering somebody’s limits in bed for the first time, really—but they both know that this was overboard. Immediately.

Ilya’s glove meets Shane’s shoulder in a rough shove. Not too hard, but hard enough. Ilya still wants to scream, to push him, to do more.

“That’s it!” the ref yells, putting his hand between them and finally whistling. “Eighty-one, unsportsmanlike behavior. Get off the ice.”

Ilya barely hears him, or the hum of the arena around them. He skates off on autopilot—Shane’s words are still ringing in his ears, stinging with every echo. You’d know, wouldn’t you, he thinks with a bitter taste lingering in his mouth.

39:28

Where the fuck is your defence? Shane thinks to himself, steering the puck from the left side of Ottawa’s goalie, Hayes, to the right. He’s practically alone here, discounting Tanner Dillon whose stickhandling is a piss-poor excuse for trying to intercept.

There’s a perfect opening above Hayes’ right shoulder. Shane has a clear shot.

He doesn’t even want to take it.

(His mind is not one, but two separate entities. The first one is still playing this game, because he knows his captaincy vows him to do so. The other one is sinking into itself and into constant repetitions of fuck you – lots of lonely nights – fuck you – I’m sure you would like that – lots of lonely nights.

(This part of his brain chirps, you’d know, wouldn’t you?)

Shane takes the shot.

He scores, defeated.

48:15

Twelve more minutes until this charade is over—not that Shane is counting. As it stands right now, they’re tied 2:2. The idea of going into overtime is enough to make his skin break out in hives.

Everyone on the ice is feeling the same.

The crowd is unhappy—often whistling and yelling—but so are the players. If anybody takes a closer look at this game later, he already knows they’ll trace it back to two names: Hollander, Rozanov.

Theriault’s eyes have narrowed into two angry lasers at this point.

They’ve never played like this. They’ve always been so careful. The last time Shane remembers his playing feeling so unstructured and rough is probably the few months after Sochi, or maybe the game they played against each other when he was still trying to date Rose. Trying and failing—no matter what he did, the only thing on his mind was Ilya, even before the marriage; before everything.

The fact that this all is going through Shane’s mind instead of what to do next in order to win the game is testament enough.

By the boards, Shane trips and rams into Ilya on accident. They go against them, Ilya face-first. When Shane peels back, Ilya loses his footing and falls down with a loud groan.

“Shit,” Shane says despite himself, “I’m sorry—”

The ref blows the whistle in his actual face and the crowd just behind the boards groans. “Twenty-four! Boarding! I’ve had just about enough of you two today!”

Shane tries to make eye contact—to say he didn’t mean it. Not the boarding; not what he said earlier.

But Ilya won’t fucking look at him. As Shane skates away, all he can see is a clenched jaw and a body somewhat struggling to get up.

58:50

“No overtime,” Ilya tells his teammates on the bench. “It’s not an option.”

The guys around him grumble. There’s no enthusiasm, no real motivation. It’s like they’ve all already left it on the ice even though there’s still just a bit over a minute left to go. And they’re 3:3.

And Ilya can’t do it anymore.

Their coach senses it—he’s good at shit like that.

“Listen to your captain,” Wiebe says. “Montreal’s in timeout—they’re going to pull their goalie.”

Hayes, who’s also been pulled from the game, slams his hockey stick against the floor. “Then put me back in.”

“Stupid.” Ilya shakes his head. “No good, Hazy. So they pull their goalie. We practiced this, yes?”

“Yeah, we practiced this extremely rare situation like… once,” Boodram spits.

And, okay, maybe Ilya has been a bad captain this whole game. Maybe—probably—any of the other guys would have done a better job. But he just physically, mentally, whatever—he can’t do overtime against Shane. These sixty minutes have nearly killed him.

“We’re a good team,” he says. As far as he’s concerned, it sounds convincing enough. “So we go out there and we win. Barrett. Are you with me?”

Barrett joined the Centaurs just a few months ago. He definitely wasn’t there when they practiced this scenario of ‘what if both teams lose their minds and pull their goalies’. But he wants this, Ilya can tell. He needs a win.

Barrett clacks his stick against the bench. “Fuck yeah. I’m with you.”

“Then let’s fucking score.”

Or else I’ll die here.

The Cottage, July 2019

It’s late in the evening, but Shane isn’t aware of it at all. The indoor rink doesn’t have windows, robbing him of any visual cues that would help him tell the time, and he hasn’t looked at his watch or his phone in ages.

Still, he pushes off the boards, enjoying the subtle resistance under his skates. It isn’t ice—not really, just synthetic—but it’s close enough that his body recognizes the movements; his muscles remember the motions.

Ilya is already moving, the edges of his skates scraping against the surface. He’s going backwards, eyes pinned on Shane, a smile lighting up his face.

“Faster,” Ilya calls, wiggling his finger like he’s trying to reel Shane in.

This is why Shane has no clue what time it is. Here, in his indoor rink, time doesn’t exist.

It’s just him and Ilya—skating, chasing each other, challenging each other, racing each other. Laughing, playing. It’s a reflection, or maybe a taste of something they could have had if they’d started off as friends and not rivals. Shane laps up every second of it like a cat licking at a bowl of milk.

Once Shane catches up, they skate side by side.

“Faster, faster,” Ilya keeps saying with a grin, urging them both on.

At a certain point, it just makes Shane giggle—Ilya’s acting like they’re in bed or something, not just following each other on synthetic panels, and it’s so endearing. Deep warmth coils in his chest.

“You’re so slooow,” Ilya mocks, the words lost in scraps of laughter.

Shane fights to hide his own smile.

“I’m literally right next to you!” he spurts, struggling to keep his own composure. “See?” Between strides, he pokes Ilya’s shoulder.

Good thing he’s there, too—when they get to the other side, Ilya wants to turn around. His body moves into a slalom position, but the fake ice doesn’t glide like that—it’s slower, like little drops of honey on the skates when it comes to turning.

Ilya trips, but Shane grabs his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle, and steadies him.

“Be careful, you big doofus,” Shane says with a smirk, but his heart is beating just a little bit faster. They’re not wearing any gear—that’s a wrist easily broken, or an ankle easily sprained. Maybe they should be more careful.

Ilya’s cheeks are red from the race and sweat is starting to gather above his brow. “I have a big doofus, is true.”

Shane punches him in the shoulder. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Come here.” Ilya’s hands catch Shane’s elbows and bring him closer again. Once only inches apart, Ilya takes hold of Shane’s waist instead. Their skates briefly touch. “I’m not worried. You are always there to catch me, Hollander.”

Those red cheeks are warm to the touch, Shane realizes when he cups them in his palms. The LED lights above catch on his wedding ring, snug and elegant on his finger.

“You are so wrong about that, Rozanov,” he says lovingly, although it isn’t true. Shane will absolutely always catch him if he needs catching.

He reaches up, wobbling on his skates, to peck Ilya’s nose.

“Faster,” Shane teases with a twinkle in his eye.

He pushes off again, rushing back towards the other side.

“You hate romance,” Ilya grumbles behind him. “You hate me.”

Shane’s calf muscles groan as he puts more pressure into them, bending his body, trying to gain distance and gather up speed. “Why don’t you catch up to me and tell me to my face, huh?”

It’s probably past eleven. They should go have dinner; they should step into a shower.

Shane lets time stand still instead, for just a bit longer.

Chapter End Notes

alright, i tried my best to build this chapter around hockey but not bog it down with hockey, and i hope it works!

the play-by-play at the start of the chapter is loosely based on how they did them for milano cortina (i can't do THAT type of CSS, sorry), not the NHL because i... like the look more and they're more concise, lol. apologies for any hockey-related errors, though please know that some of them may have been on purpose 🫣

fun fact: since we don't have luca's official jersey number, i went with 38. it belonged to a player from my country who died tragically in a plane crash (i mean...) and played a few seasons with ottawa!

anyway, in between chapters you can come hang out with me on tumblr (my ask is always open to anything - including prompts).

i hope you're still liking this. comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, and the best motivation there is. thank you if you decide to leave em. ♥

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

hi! i'm so happy you're here! i hope you enjoy this chapter. ♥

Ottawa, March 2021

A win against Montreal is far too big a thing to fit in one small locker room.

When Ilya makes it there after having microphones shoved in his face for fifteen minutes straight, it doesn’t feel like there is enough space for him. The victory seems to have seeped into the wooden stalls; to have threaded itself through every player, excluding him.

He’s actually positive that nobody even notices him at first. Maybe his steps are too quiet amidst the loud yelps of celebration or maybe he’s finally mastered all the disappearing he’s been thinking about.

Either way, he twists his body around more-or-less undressed hockey players who are all at varying degrees of smelling. He makes it all the way to his stall unharmed.

But that’s as far as he goes unnoticed.

“Captain!” It’s Dykstra’s voice that pins attention on him. “You beautiful, angry Russian prince.”

Svetlana once made him watch a few episodes of The Office. He thought it was deeply unfunny, but he looks at the nearest wall now like there’s a hidden camera in there and it’s the only thing in this room that understands him. Like, come on, really?

He keeps his mouth closed. Maybe if he doesn’t dignify it with a response—

“Yeah, it felt like I was watching a tape of one of your old Boston games, Cap,” Luca pipes up.

This must be what Caesar felt like when he realized Brutus stood there with a knife. “You too, Haas?”

The rookie immediately looks down, scolded. Pretends to be busy with folding his jersey, and Ilya really wishes there were fewer things he had in common with Shane, so he wouldn’t have to constantly look at them.

Dykstra again: “Aw, what’s up your ass?”

It’s all in good fun. And Ilya likes to think that he’s left all this anger back in Boston, many years ago. It scares him whenever it rears its ugly head, like it did on the ice, but the bigger problem is that he can feel it rustling like old leaves at the back of his head even now.

Even though he knows it’s just playful jabbing.

Even though he knows this team likes him.

Ilya realizes that he’s tuned them out. When he makes himself listen again, he only catches the tail-end of whatever they’ve been saying.

“—and maybe you and Hollander need couples therapy or something, because man, I thought you were going to kill each other.”

Ilya’s chest tightens. “Is that what you do with your wife in your free time, Hayes?” he snaps.

The atmosphere in the locker room immediately changes. It remains equally charged, but the celebratory air thickens into something completely different.

Of course, Ilya regrets his words. Of course.

It doesn’t mean that Hayes’ remark has left any less of an imprint somewhere raw and open that’s hiding inside him. Wyatt is the last person on Earth to be intentionally hurtful, and the worst part is that Ilya can’t even walk up to him and say, hey, maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s what we should have done and it kills me that you’re the one to figure it out and not me. Sorry I’m like a bitch in heat sometimes.

Hayes’ ears are an ugly shade of red. The chatter has quieted down. “I’m gonna let you sit out whatever is going on with you, okay? I’ll go take a shower and then head home.”

Ugh.

It’s fucking infuriating that he’s not even going to put up a fight. Ilya would love to punch something that isn’t a wall.

“I know you’re our captain,” Troy says next to Ilya when Wyatt quietly leaves the room. His voice is surprisingly even. “But you shouldn’t talk to Hazy like that. He’s the sweetest dude I know.”

Ilya closes his eyes and gives way to a low, low groan that slips out from the back of his throat. “Yes, fuck. I know. I’ll go talk to him.”

He lets himself kick off his skates with vigor, though.

Three doors.

That’s the distance between Shane’s and Ilya’s locker rooms—Shane counted before the game even started.

A game.

He scoffs while changing out of his gear. He wouldn’t call it that, and the speech he gives isn’t much better than the one he gave after that fiasco against Toronto. They’re officially on a losing streak, which Theriault is bound to make them feel during their next practice.

The only difference between then and now is that Shane isn’t even trying to listen to the guys’ chatter. They know, too—that he’d rather be somewhere else, not surrounded by people.

There are no invitations to Ottawa pubs or restaurants given to him out of courtesy, either. If the team goes out to drink—which they shouldn’t, with their early flight to Buffalo—they definitely won’t want to have their captain there. They’re more than likely to take it as an opportunity to trash-talk him, and he deserves it after his performance on the ice.

But Shane doesn’t mind.

He’s more than happy to keep his eyes downcast and outwardly focused on the steps at hand. He knows he doesn’t have to, but he stacks his skates neatly. Folds his jersey, piles his gear up into a neat bundle so that whoever’s responsible for moving the players’ belongings can simply scoop it up and not worry with it too much.

Inwardly, he’s killing time. Doing everything slowly—barely taking off his hockey socks while half the locker room is already in the showers.

Even though he can’t hear him or see him, he is painfully aware of Ilya’s presence in this building. It’s like Ilya’s got his hand pressed against Shane’s bruised ribs, and it’s not just resting here. It’s pushing, pushing, pushing.

“Shane, buddy.”

Shane focuses his eyes and looks to Hayden. “What?”

Hayden nods his head towards the door, where Marcel’s peeking in like a bird ogling a big piece of bread. He looks so out of place it’s almost comical.

“I said your parents are here,” Marcel says in his annoying little PR voice, always so serious. He never fails to look like he’s managing for a group of politicians, not a hockey team in the NHL, and—wait.

“What?” Shane asks again, dumbly.

Marcel almost rolls his eyes. “I said—three times—that your parents are here.”

“My parents?”

Marcel gives him a stone-cold look and his expensive Tom Ford shoes squeak against the floor when he turns around to leave.

“Did somebody hit you in the head during the game, dude?” Hayden asks with a smile. “Should I call a medic for you?”

Shane shakes his head, but he’s frowning. “No, I just—I didn’t know they’d be here is all. I’ll go—I’ll be right back.”

Hayden shrugs. “Sure, man.”

Shane, still with his compression shirt and pants on, hurries out of the locker room. Of course, it makes sense that the Hollanders would come to a game in Ottawa. It’s their hometown, for fuck’s sake. Shane can’t believe that he hasn’t even considered it—hasn’t even checked his phone, Jesus.

(Well, he’s mostly been avoiding it because he’s scared of seeing what all the social media is saying about this game.)

(About him. About Ilya.)

(About them.)

In all his haste, Shane forgets about killing time.

He walks out into the corridor and he looks to the right.

Ilya’s right there.

He’s shirtless, curly hair wet and dripping onto his bare shoulders, a white towel lazily bound low around his waist. It’s a familiar scene. Shane watches him talk to Hayes, hand on the goalie’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. Hayes is nodding. Shane looks at it and looks at it like it’s a movie.

Ilya’s gaze lifts and travels over Hayes’ shoulder.

Shane doesn’t manage to look away in time—their eyes meet and lock, and something soft that was previously dislodged clicks back into place. He doesn’t need to look down; doesn’t need to glance at Ilya’s half-naked body.

The noise of the corridor, together with the voices coming from both locker rooms, subside and slip into a distant hum.

Shane can’t remember the title, but he once watched an old film on one of his many plane rides. In it, the camera did something strange—from the top of a staircase, it seemed to stretch and stretch while putting the immense height into focus, and watching it felt like it was Shane’s own body that was about to plummet down.

It feels that way now.

They are only a few feet apart. Shane can almost smell the aloe vera deodorant; he sees the necklace and with it, the ring; his palms curl into fists without his realizing.

And then it’s over.

It could have been seconds or hours—Shane can’t say. Either way, Ilya’s perfect eyes slide away from Shane’s face.

“Hi, Yuna,” he says loudly, like he wants to alert Shane that this corridor isn’t, in fact, just for the two of them. “David,” he adds with a small smile.

Chest heaving, Shane whirls to his left.

Right.

His parents.

If he could just have a small moment to himself, maybe things would start making sense again. Maybe then he would remember his left and his right and what he’s doing. Or what he’s supposed to be doing. Fuck.

 “Hi, sweetheart.” Yuna’s voice is melodic and she’s looking right over Shane, at Ilya. Shane is only distantly aware of his face contorting into a grimace at her warm but sad expression. David’s solemn nod in the same direction makes Shane straight up wince.

It reminds him that’s he’s not the only one losing something here. Ilya isn’t, either. It echoes inside him with a painful twang.

“Hi guys,” Shane mumbles, his fingers raking pitiful trails through his hair. “I wasn’t sure you were coming to the game.”

His mom finally looks at him. And maybe it was better when she wasn’t doing that, because damn. Her eyes look right through him.

“Well, of course. Your dad and I were wondering if you were interested in coming over for dinner.” Her smile is tense. “Unless you’re going somewhere with the guys.”

Oh, this is an ambush.

Yuna Hollander knows better than anyone that Shane isn’t ‘going somewhere with the guys’.

“I don’t know,” he tries anyway. “I’m pretty beat after the game, to be honest.”

“Wonder why,” his dad comments, and Shane doesn’t miss it that Yuna jabs him in the ribs for it.

“Thanks for the offer and I’d love to catch up, but…”

Yuna’s eyebrow jumps up. She doesn’t even have to open her mouth to say oh really, would you, since when?

The truth is that Shane has cut every phone call short ever since he told them about the divorce. The truth is that he is keeping as much distance as he can without raising too much suspicion, or making his family feel like he’s cutting off all contact.

The truth is that Shane knows his parents had two sons—briefly, secretly—and he doesn’t know how to look them in the face after leaving them with just their boring biological original.

“Shane…” David starts but trails off.

“I wasn’t clear, I think. I meant you are coming to dinner,” Yuna says.

“I still need to shower, and—”

“We’ll wait in the car, darling. That’s totally fine.”

David sighs, his fatherly hand tapping Shane’s shoulder once, twice. “We just want to talk, okay?”

Well, what’s one more defeat.

“Okay,” Shane concedes. “I’ll be quick so you don’t have to wait long, just—just give me a few minutes.”

Yuna nods and David smiles. It reminds Shane of the first time they dropped him off at his billet family, unsure that he would even survive an unfamiliar routine in an unfamiliar house. Like he was and is an old dog who could but doesn’t want to learn new tricks.

Shane turns around to return to the locker room; to grab stuff for a quick shower. He needs to wash off the grime of the game before he enters a whole minefield.

He casts one more glance to the right, but Ilya is long gone.

Shane loves the Hollander house. Every few years, his parents do renovations on it, but its smell remains the same one he remembers from his childhood. The mantelpiece might be new, but the pictures on it stay the same. They always take care to keep parts of it stuck in time, so it never feels just like a house, but a home.

Tonight, though, Shane feels like a stranger within its walls. Seated in his usual spot by the table, he is hyper-aware of the empty chair next to him, and his clothes feel wrong, and even the new table, though still dark wood, feels like it’s a whole different texture that he doesn’t like.

Small talk would be easy, but his parents skip over it. Shane mourns all his learned phrases deeply, and he’s constantly worrying his eyebrows or his hair, just to give his face the reprieve of a momentary hiding spot.

“Your father made halibut,” Yuna says, proudly presenting a wide cloud-blue plate and setting it down in front of him, “with brown rice, of course, and shallots on the side if you want.”

“Thanks,” Shane replies quietly, hands going for the familiarity of fork-and-knife. The shallots are an unusual addition that he’s not going to touch. “Looks great, honestly.”

It doesn’t escape him, though, that this is the safest meal they could have gone with. They’re clearly trying to make him comfortable here, but the knot in Shane’s stomach will not untie itself until he’s out of here. At the end of the day, he’s about to be interrogated and mild light with a familiar meal are not going to reduce the pressure of it at all.

Out of politeness, he takes a bite. It’s delicious as always—whatever his dad touches always ends up tasting good.

“Some game that was, huh?” Yuna starts. She probably thinks she’s starting small, but in reality she’s opened the biggest can of worms.

You’re with your family, Shane tries to remind himself. Relax your shoulders. You’re safe here.

He sighs. “What are people saying?”

“Oh, the usual.” Yuna waves her hand, taking a bite.

His father is more forthcoming: “They’re wondering what’s happened to you kids. And they’re saying that you played like you used to.”

“David.”

“What? It’s true. The rivalry talk got fired up immediately.”

Shane looks to his dad with a silent thank you. His mom struggles with choosing the right moments to sugarcoat or not, but Shane wants to hear the truth even if it sucks.

The fucking rivalry talk. Instead of getting married, they should have focused on dousing it completely.

“We’ve always played hard on the ice,” he says through gritted teeth, “so I don’t see what the big deal is all of a sudden.”

His eyes fall, but peripherally, he sees his parents exchange a glance. Maybe he, too, struggles with choosing the right moments to sugarcoat. His second bite of the halibut tastes like nothing, but he’ll dutifully eat all of it if it means he can chew and be quiet.

“I think we should talk, buddy,” David says after a minute of silence.

So much for being quiet.

Yuna, ever electrified by whatever her husband says or does, picks up the torch. “Which you haven’t done at all. We haven’t properly spoken since—well. Since you guys told us about what’s going on.”

They’re both looking to him for an answer, but what they said is factual. Shane has nothing to add.

“What do you want me to say?” he half-snaps.

David leans back on his chair, like he’s putting himself out of the line of fire. Yuna, on the other hand, places her elbows on the table, forgetting her meal, and leans closer.

“Have you talked to anybody about this?” she asks.

Shane shrugs. “Sure. I talk to Rose sometimes.”

“Okay, that’s good. What does she say?”

Shane’s eyes squeeze shut. He spent so many years lying to his parents that he can’t bring himself to do it again these days. “She says we’re being hasty,” he admits, his tone much milder.

“And do you agree?”

“Oh my God, mom.” Shane puts his fork down quietly, though he’d much rather throw it down. it’s just that the clinking would probably give him an aneurysm. “What the fuck does it matter? It is what it is, isn’t it?”

“Shane.”

“What, dad? I can punch someone on the ice but saying fuck is too much for you?”

David slowly shakes his head, and Yuna remains quiet as well.

Shane wills his fingers to relax and his breathing to even out. Every sharp inhale makes his ribs twist and hurt; Ilya’s bruised them better than well. His mind is going so fast, though—a million miles a minute—that it’s difficult for him to tell his body to stay calm and not try to match its pace.

Shane’s teeth catch the side of his bottom lip. He forces himself to breathe. “I’m sorry for snapping. It’s just a lot of pressure from every direction right now and I don’t know what to tell anybody, pretty much.”

“Well, I think that’s understandable,” David agrees. But then again, he’s generally agreeable.

“Shane, have you talked to Ilya at all?”

He shoots her a glare. “I have to talk to him about the condo, but we haven’t done that yet.”

“Baby, have you talked to him about why you’re doing this? Because we feel,” she says, stealing a glance at Shane’s dad, “that maybe Rose is right?”

And Shane just knows that if the table were small enough, she’d be trying to reach over it and catch his idle hand.

Yep, he’s abandoned the halibut for good. He shrinks back.

“No. I mean no, I haven’t talked to him about that,” he admits. It sounds simple but it makes him feel dizzy.

David, for all it’s worth, merely sighs at first. Then rubs his hand over the bottom half of his face, like he’s trying to crack a very difficult equation. Then he says: “Maybe you should, Shane.”

“And he still wears the ring,” Yuna adds softly. Shane knows she means it as an observation, but a part of him can’t help but take it for a dig. A subtle where is your ring, Shane?

A distant but solid heat slowly creeps into Shane’s cheeks, and he suddenly has to focus all his might on not crying. His vision is getting a little blurry; thick tears settle on the precipice, threatening to fall. He swallows the lump in his throat with great difficulty.

“Have you guys—have you guys talked to him?” he asks in a small voice.

It’s about as much vulnerability as he can manage. Every word takes a toll; he can’t look at his parents at all.

His eyes find the plate with his half-eaten food, then travel up to the surrounding walls. They land on a chest of drawers on the left side of the dining room. It’s where the tea set resides, and a glass carafe that Shane remembers always being placed on the table during the summers, filled to the top with fresh lemonade.

He notices a few picture frames decorating the area.

His next intake of breath really does hurt his ribs, given the state they’re in. He kind of forgets he’s breathing—that’s why.

The picture on the leftmost edge—Shane, and Ilya next to him. Cheeks squished together.

(Christmas 2017.)

(After their talk outside.)

(Ilya’s face a little red from the punch he drank after all that maple pudding. Shane can’t see the picture that well from this distance, but he remembers it so well he can still feel the warmth of Ilya’s face against his.)

(He touches that cheek so briefly it’s almost not there.)

Blinking, Shane looks back at his parents. “Sorry, what?” he asks, voice a lot lower, held down by whatever’s going on inside him.

Yuna rubs at her temple, quickly fixing her hair. “I said no, Shane—we haven’t really talked to him.”

“Not for a lack of trying,” Shane’s dad adds.

“Yeah, no. I didn’t want to tell you, but since he’s here in Ottawa—well, we’ve been trying to invite him over, but he…” His mom shrugs.

“He always has an excuse ready,” David fills in. “He hasn’t been over at all.”

“I think you’re both scared. And I’m not going to therapize you or whatever,” Yuna scoffs and Shane does the same, “but I think it’s worth thinking about whether that’s why you’re doing this.”

Shane shakes his head. “What’s happening between us is whatever. Why are you so worried? It’s not affecting the sponsorships or anything, is it?”

“Shane, you know I’ve been trying to do better,” Yuna says. And her composure is incredible. Shane thought she’d finally snap or pick a fight. This gentleness is horrible—like a thousand needles driving into each and every open pore. “But it’s up to you to take it or leave it. Okay?”

Yeah.

Looking up to the ceiling, Shane finally scoffs one more time. If there was a way to breach what’s going on inside him and make it appear on the outside, his parents would be looking at something somewhat functional. Like a watch that’s broken but still looks pretty on the wrist; like a vase that looks beautiful until you turn it around and see it’s been cracked beyond repair. It’s chipped, it’s useless.

But it’s still there, still on the wrist, still on the table—and he is still here, too, somehow.

But he’s so tired.

“Thanks for dinner, guys,” he says and makes himself look down, somewhere between his parents, where they’re sitting so snug next to each other. “I think I’m going to head back to the hotel.”

“Shane, you have a room here,” Yuna presses.

“Yeah, I know. I think I just need to be alone for a bit, okay?”

His mom looks like she wants to say something else, but David gently puts his hand on her arm, holding her back.

“Okay, son,” he says. “You do what you have to do.”

This is what feels like the hundredth time that Shane sinks into the driver’s seat of his car, hands trembling.

Check the mirrors; fix the rearview one. Put on the seatbelt. Start the engine.

All these steps.

Win the game. Give a speech. Play hockey. Make everyone like him. Please everyone. Forget about the hurt. Forget about what gets left behind. Focus, focus, focus.

It doesn’t make any sense anymore.

For once, Shane’s fingers glide over the keyboard on his phone without a second thought.

Tapping out a jumbled rhythm against the smooth leather covering on his wheel, Shane waits for a response.

After a minute or so, he grabs his phone again. What if he didn’t sound urgent enough? Or patient enough? Maybe he should have sounded more firm? The overthinking starts to ram up again, but—

The three dots appear, dancing seemingly to that very same rhythm Shane’s hand was beating to.

Shane’s jaw clenches until his one remaining wisdom tooth aches.

Where they live. Fucking where they live.

The engine starts smoothly, but his tires screech against his parents’ driveway when he pulls out.

Chapter End Notes

in case you didn't click it open, the movie Shane thinks of in the corridor is Hitchcock's Vertigo. the shots in question are only a few seconds long and it cost nearly 20k to get it done. 🥲

i am BUZZIN to write the next chapter!!! omg. you don't even know who what's coming.

please and thank you for kudos/comments. you have no idea how motivating they are. ♥ oh and come hang out with me on tumblr if you want to! my ask is open to anything (yelling at me to write something for you included).

(you might have noticed that i put this at 12 chapters overall. it's a tentative number, it might be a chapter or two longer/shorter, but it should settle somewhere around there. ahhh.)

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

i LOVE this chapter and i truly hope you enjoy reading it. thank you for being here, as always. ♥

Ottawa, March 2021

The naked tree branches below look like spider legs jutting out into the sky. Ilya leans over the balcony railing and inspects them from his seventeenth-floor height. He flicks the ash off the tip of his cigarette and with a sigh, he turns back around. His body is exhausted from the game, but the ice-cold railing digging into his lower back through the fabric of his hoodie keeps him grounded.

He looks at his phone, propped-up on the small glass table, Svetlana’s face taking up most of the screen. She’s got a glass of wine to his cigarette.

In Russian, she asks: “Are you even listening to me, Ilyusha?”

He takes a drag. When she facetimed him shortly after he got to the condo, he searched and couldn’t find it in him to decline. Seeing the Hollanders was painful enough; the way they looked at him was worse; the pull to go to them like they were his family was the worst.

It’s like Svetlana sensed it—this giant hole around him where he felt increasingly more and more alone.

“No,” he says now, because it’s the truth. He was looking down at the tree spider legs, not hearing a word of what she was saying.

He wishes they could sit in silence. He wishes she wasn’t forcing him to talk. He wishes people would stop asking him questions and commenting on his performance and demanding explanations. He doesn’t have anything to give them, and he remembers the last time he felt this way. He presses his back harder against the railing.

“I’ll say it again, then,” Sveta announces.

“I won’t listen again.”

“No, you will. You’ve been ignoring my calls and texts and I’m tired of your ‘I don’t want to talk’ bullshit.”

Ilya scoffs and looks to the side. It’s not bullshit, he thinks but doesn’t say.

The next drag he takes is the last one this cigarette gives him—the filter softens, air pulls through it without the resistance of tobacco. He hastily puts it out in the ashtray next to Svetlana’s face. God, look at the state of it. He needs to throw it out, and do the dishes, and vacuum, and ugh.

“What I said,” she continues, unbothered by his silence, “was that you two need to talk. And I said that if I have to come there and physically force you into the same room, I’ll do it.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” he argues.

Svetlana rolls her eyes and utters a loud ‘oy’. It sounds pretty from her mouth, even though it’s just a glorified way of groaning or banging her head against a wall.

“I swear, only you would go and find somebody as stubborn as you. Of course he wants to talk to you.”

Ilya peels his body away from the railing and sits down on the chair instead. He re-angles the phone so they can still see each other. “It’s too late for that anyway. He was here the other day because he thought the condo was empty and he wanted to go through it before selling.”

Sveta pops her tongue. “Or so he told you.”

“Yes—”

“And if it was the other way around? You’d tell him what?”

She’s right, but then Svetlana is always right. It really doesn’t matter whether she’s talking about hockey or giving relationship advice—at the end of the day, she rarely ever misses.

Even though he took a shower at the arena, Ilya’s hair feels dirty when he runs his fingers through it. “He told me he was glad I’m here.”

“Oh my God.” Svetlana puts down her glass of wine. “You’re both ridiculous. Look at you, Ilya. You look so tired. You’re playing bad.”

“What the—”

“And he’s the same. You. Need. To. Talk. Rose agrees with me.”

“Rose?” Ilya’s face scrunches up. Eyebrows pulling tight together, the corners of his mouth curling. “Rose Landry?”

“Yes! We’re friends now because you two are impossible to deal with solo. So thanks for that, I guess, but my point is—”

Her voice fades into the background at the ping of an incoming text. It flashes across the screen. Ilya’s mouth suddenly feels dry, his tongue like sandpaper.

“He just texted me,” he announces.

Whatever Svetlana was saying goes unfinished. “What did he say?”

“Can we meet.” He says it in English, and it comes out in a terrible accent after all the Russian. That’s not the reason his cheeks color, though, or why his chest fills with dread and heat at the same time.

“Text him back!” Svetlana exclaims, in Russian again. “We’re hanging up. You’re going to text him back and you’re going to meet. Ilya.”

Forcing himself to look at her shouldn’t be so hard. Meeting the genuine concern on her face couldn’t ever be easy, though. Svetlana is so gorgeous in every moment and memory he’s got, even now with her forehead slightly creased, eyes determined.

She’s always taken care of him and it weighs him down that he hasn’t been able to return the favor. When it comes to her, he’s like a bird she’s trying to feed and teach basic rules of flying. There has only ever been one other person who made him feel like being vulnerable didn’t mean being inferior.

“Promise me you’ll talk to him,” she presses, but it’s soft, like tentatively pressing your finger into the edge of a bruise to see if it still hurts.

“Okay. Ya obeshchayu, Svetochka.”

“Good boy,” she says with a small smile.

She’s the only one to ever get away with calling him that.

(Whatever.)

(He texts him back in the best way he knows how.)

About thirty minutes later, there’s a soft knock on the condo’s door. It feels like somebody cuts through the string Ilya’s been dangling on ever since he got the text, and he jumps from where he’s been sitting on the couch.

Maybe he shouldn’t, but he rolls his palms down the side of his sweatpants, fixes the chain around his neck, smooths down his hair.

(Checks that he smells okay.)

The door opens with a small click to reveal Shane, still in the suit he left the arena wearing. He looks like a picture of proper composure, not a hair out of place—but Ilya sees something in Shane’s eyes that’s not normally there. It gives way to something more than proper, and from where Ilya’s standing, it just makes him look perfect.

Ilya gulps. “You lost the keys or something? Why are you knocking?”

Shane opens his mouth to respond, hand outreached. Ultimately, he only shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Ilya checks the hallway over Shane’s shoulders. The elevator is no longer on their floor. How long has this man been standing here?

“Come in. If you want.”

“Y-yeah. I want.”

Ilya takes a few careful steps back. Shane slides into the space and closes the door behind him. With him, the scent of his cologne rushes in, and a whiff of cold air that he’s brought from the outside. The condo immediately feels fuller—the way it should.

(Not that Ilya is a stranger to spending many nights here alone, long before this all started.)

Is he supposed to offer him a glass of water? Or invite him to sit on his own couch? Is there some sort of weird western etiquette he’s supposed to follow when the person he’s divorcing comes over for an impromptu visit?

Ilya clears his throat. “How are your ribs?” he asks instead.

Shane shrugs and focuses on taking off his suit jacket. Ilya watches it get caught on the left wrist, and he smirks to himself when Shane forcefully tugs it off. Back to composed by the time he’s hanging it up by the door.

“They’ve been better,” he answers finally. His fingers stop and hover over one of the pockets, but whatever he wanted to grab, he changes his mind.

“I didn’t mean to,” Ilya offers in lieu of an apology. He remembers the evenings where this would precede a quiet undressing and apologetic kisses being peppered across hurt skin.

His heart won’t stop hammering.

Shane kicks off his lacquered shoes. When he crosses the hallway, his steps are muffled as the wood meets the fabric of his socks.

Ilya sits back down on the couch and puts a protective hand over his thigh, so it won’t start jiggling. “So? Why did you want to meet?”

Instead of answering, Shane busies himself with his clothes again. His fingers gently undo his tie and pull it over his head. He hangs it over the backrest of the armchair, only a few feet from where Ilya’s seated.

In the end: “My parents forced me to have dinner with them, as I’m sure you heard. It—hah. It didn’t go well. All they wanted to talk about was—and I just…”

Shane trails off. His body seems stuck in this space; like he wants to run away and sit down with equal urgency.

And it upsets something in Ilya. This dance they’re doing, the stilted back-and-forth—all these words, and for what? So they can get trapped here, a few feet apart, and feel how off kilter it is in all the spaces that felt right before? Just so Ilya can sit here, calling everything the; the couch, the door, the living room, when he’s supposed to be thinking their couch? Their space, their home?

“What do you want me to do about it?” he snaps, the last t rattling off like a cap on a bubbly bottle of soda.

“Nothing!” Shane exclaims. His fingers are trembling when he disrupts the put-together strands of hair. He finally looks at Ilya. “Is this easy for you?”

Ilya’s eyebrows shoot up as his heart skips a beat. “Easy for me? Easy for me, Shane?”

“Yeah. Is it?”

“What is this easy you’re talking about? Do you mean the empty bed? Or do you mean playing against you? Or what is easy for me?”

Shane steps closer, though not too close, and visibly regrets it immediately. He retakes every inch of space he’s lost and starts pacing instead; little unsure but hurried steps across the rug they placed in front of the couch.

“This shouldn’t be easy,” he hisses, voice tight; wringing his hands and then letting them fall limp along his sides.

There’s a laugh caught in Ilya’s chest that he struggles to bite back. “No. But you act like it is easy, for me. Like I’m fine. While you—” His voice catches.

“While I what?” Shane snaps, mid-pace.

They’re both quiet for a moment—in the back, Ilya can hear the fridge humming, or maybe it’s just his own blood in his ears; a clock ticking.

(Do they even have a clock? Ilya forgets. So many things were brought here by Shane and his careful eyes and hands.)

(Like Hey, we haven’t seen each other in three weeks, here’s a grandfather clock for the hallway.)

Ilya doesn’t know when he’s stood up, but he’s standing. “While you are the one acting like it is easy.”

Shane’s throat gives a wet sound. “You’re impossible,” he mutters.

His body angles away again, like he wants to start pacing after a brief pause, but Ilya catches his arms. He wants to think it’s because he wants to look Shane in the face; that this is a selfish decision. That it’s not at all the fast spiral he can see Shane entering, and Ilya’s need to prevent it from happening.

Hands on Shane’s forearms, Ilya mutters: “Shane.”

“What?”

“It’s not easy for you?” Ilya asks, swallowing hard. His voice is tight with anger or longing or maybe both, and when their eyes finally meet, neither can look away.

Shane’s weight shifts. “I—” he starts, then stops. His jaw tightens, and Ilya wants to shake him.

Many people have called Ilya brave. For playing hockey the way he does—in mock praise, for leaving Russia, for creating a life here, for signing with the Centaurs, for trying to be better. They don’t know, at all, what a coward he really is. If Shane just opened his mouth and said… yes, this isn’t easy, I miss you. if Shane only said that, then Ilya could look him in the eyes, and run his thumb across the freckles that bridge his nose, and he could say… He could say, Fuck, me too. I miss you so much. I miss you being mine but I miss being yours more.

“Why can’t it be easy?” is all Shane says. Something—maybe the way his words plunge Ilya somewhere deep and dark—must flash across Ilya’s face, because— “I mean, why is it like this? Why does it have to be? I don’t… Ilya. I don’t know what to do.”

“Shane,” Ilya says again, his mouth draping around the name like he’s saying it for the first time.

Shane’s arms go up and wrap like vines around the bottom of Ilya’s forearms, too. They’re holding each other. For the first time in months, they’re holding each other, and Ilya dares to hope this is not just a moment frozen in a heartbeat.

Shane’s eyes flicker down, head slightly tilting. “My ring is in my pocket.” The fingers, hovering just above it when he arrived. “I always keep it there. I swear.”

For the third time: “Shane.”

Nothing is okay. Ilya is smarter than that. This doesn’t count for talking, either—not in the way Svetlana meant, or (probably) Shane’s parents. But Ilya’s heart skips anyway as it all unfolds within him and blooms into familiar longing; into the feeling of being given more time.

His lips press against Shane’s forehead, sweat and hair product hitting the front lines of his taste buds.

Shane breathes out. His fingers squeeze Ilya’s arms, tugging, keeping in place, asking. At first, he merely leans into the kiss, but then his hands drift a fraction lower, brushing over the fabric of his hoodie like he’s testing his own restraint.

Shane’s face moves as well, until they’re nearly cheek to cheek. “I—” he starts again, but it’s just a huff of his breath against Ilya’s ear.

The touching is admission enough.

“I never stopped wanting this, Shane,” Ilya murmurs, heart in his throat. Even though it’s uncomfortable, even though it doesn’t fix anything, even though it’s terrible. It would be so much easier to take the situation and twist it, or say something stupid, but this isn’t Vegas so many years ago.

Shane’s fingers squeeze reflexively, offering comfort.

Shane himself leans closer—so close that Ilya can feel his warmth against him. His breath is at Ilya’s temple, his cheek brushes against his skin. “Me either,” Shane sighs.

Ilya shivers. His own hands inch up, resting against Shane’s chest, just enough to feel the tremble beneath his shirt. He’s let himself forget—how it feels to be wanted by Shane, to be desired by him, to feel the evidence of it so clearly under his fingertips.

“Then what are we doing?” he asks.

“Trying not to ruin it,” Shane admits. His voice is low and ragged. “Trying not to ruin… us.”

“We already are, you idiot,” Ilya says with a shaky laugh.

Shane huffs out a laugh, too, low and amused, but it seems to be replaced by his own longing almost immediately. He shifts again, forehead rolling against Ilya’s.

“Please,” Shane mutters.

Hesitantly, fear and lust mixing in his chest, Ilya trails his hands further up until one reaches the collar of Shane’s shirt. His fingers go over it in a burst of blind confidence, and skin finally meets skin. Shane’s breath audibly catches.

“What, solnyshko?”

Shane leans into him. “Fuck this, just kiss me. Please kiss me.”

There’s nothing crazy about the moment their lips meet—no proverbial sparks flying or the world shifting.

Instead, it feels like coming home after a very long and tiring day.

If anybody asked Ilya even just a few hours ago whether or not he had ice cubes rattling around his chest, he would have laughed at them—now, though, he can feel them melting one by one as Shane’s mouth moves against his, pliant, and then opens in a warm invitation.

God, Shane’s mouth.

Ilya’s missed it so much.

He slides his tongue in, brushing it against Shane’s, and both his hands come to cup his cheeks. He can’t lose this; this can’t run away from him.

He’s both hungry and thirsty. He sates himself with the taste of Shane’s lips; he drinks up the noises he draws out, soft but plentiful.

“More?” Ilya asks after a while, his own lips blooming red and puffy.

Shane’s hands snake underneath Ilya’s hoodie. Ilya inhales sharply at the contact, and Shane presses in with his whole body. “Fuck, yes. Ilya, more. Yes.”

This they know how to do.

Their mouths clash back together, losing the soft edge of the kiss; turning hungry, relying on need instead. They tumble together—hands catching on picture frames and paintings that line the hallway wall, toes catching and stumbling over rug hems, just don’t break the kiss, don’t stop touching.

Sub-consciously, they lead each other to their bedroom; towards their bed.

This could have happened on the couch. For all the fire that’s nestling in Ilya’s chest, it could have happened on the floor.

Yet, here they are—near the bed they picked out together, hunched over a laptop, clicking between color variations.

Once they’ve undressed, Ilya takes in Shane’s body—again, like it’s for the first time.

“Lie down on the bed for me,” he tells Shane gently,

The first thing Ilya pays attention is the planet-shaped bruise on his ribs from the boarding. Seeing it sends a wave of guilt through Ilya’s body. He kisses it gently, brushing his lips across the bare cloud-hued skin, hoping it can stand in for an apology he can’t bring himself to say.

It must, because Shane’s fingers disappear in Ilya’s hair and pull.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes out, squirming on the bed, clearly trying to get kissed and touched elsewhere.

Or maybe everywhere.

Ilya’s cock hardens embarrassingly fast against the hill of Shane’s thigh as he leaves open-mouthed kisses across Shane’s chest, down his ribcage, around his belly button and further south.

Ilya hears a familiar hum when his face nuzzles just next to Shane’s own erection. It’s a sound he recognizes and loves—it slips out of Shane every time he gets turned on, and Ilya shivers at being able to elicit it out of him even now, like this.

His teeth nip at the skin of Shane’s abdomen.

“More?” he asks again.

Shane’s hands are pushing down on Ilya’s shoulders like he’s trying to get him to swallow him down, but his words go against it. “Come here,” Shane’s rambling, “kiss me again.”

Ilya makes his way upward and Shane opens his legs wide, making it easy for Ilya to slide between them and settle.

They’re barely kissing when Shane speaks again: “Yes,” he whispers into Ilya’s mouth like they’re shotgunning secrets, “I want more.”

Ilya groans. “So much talking,” he mumbles. “Since when?”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs, but it’s a sound that’s interwoven with shaky want. “I just missed you, missed you so much.”

“Whatchu want, solnyshko?”

But Ilya’s mouth is already open and filthy wet sagainst Shane’s neck, and his fingers have already found their way to Shane’s entrance. He knows this body in front of him better than he knows his own. If he wanted to, he could make Shane tremble within minutes. He knows where the push, he knows how to move his hands so they’re pleasuring and not hurting, he knows the right words to say.

(“Good boy, Shane.”)

(“You can come now, yes, just like that.)

(“Look at you. Taking me and looking so pretty.”)

“You,” Shane says, his body already shuffling to gain more traction, to get as much of Ilya’s touches as he can.

It momentarily gives Ilya pause. He wonders about the boundaries of this bedroom; thinks of the hotel rooms that used to hold them for years like the secret they were. He wants this to be an admission that reaches over the limit of these four walls; he wants it to be about everything; not just getting his cock wet.

Don’t think about that right now, Ilya reprimands himself.

Obligingly, he reaches for the nightstand. He grabs the bottle of lube, but Shane stops him before he takes a condom as well.

“I… don’t want that tonight. That’s not how we—and I haven’t—”

“Me either,” Ilya admits.

“I need to feel you,” Shane adds, already pulling Ilya back.

Even just slicking his fingers up and stretching Shane out makes Ilya’s whole body twitch. He hasn’t been with anybody. The only thing he’s done are sad jerk-offs into the shower drain, each one making him feel worse and worse about everything.

Truth be told, he didn’t think he’d have this again.

To have Shane like this, writhing and cursing, fisting the sheets to refrain from touching himself and coming just from Ilya’s fingers rubbing against his prostate—it’s doing things to Ilya that make him blush.

“I’m ready, come on,” Shane is saying adamantly, like a petulant child. “Ilya, please.”

Ilya’s free hand presses against Shane’s chest to keep him down. Only gently, so as not to hurt the ribs, but still. “Not yet,” he murmurs.

But Ilya could stop. Shane is as stretched as he’s going to get, and his cock is twitching. It just feels so good, to have his fingers this deep, to feel the willingness in the roll of Shane’s hips, and if he doesn’t get to do this again—

“Ilya,” Shane pants, “You’re gonna—make me come, I can’t—please.”

It sounds so desperate, so full of need, that Ilya finally slides his fingers out. He only stays a moment extra—to watch Shane clench around nothing. The movement itself is delicious, but the low groan that accompanies it makes it a thousand times better.

Ilya guides himself inside Shane slowly, until his abdomen reaches Shane’s crotch and the wet tip of Shane’s cock drags a slick line across it.

“Nnnh-fuck, Shane.”

“Yes,” Shane moans, back arching, coming a couple inches off the bed.

Ilya buries his face in the cradle of Shane’s neck, breathing hard. He lowers himself until they’re chest to chest, but if Ilya doesn’t move, if he—fuck.

“Can I?” he asks breathlessly against Shane’s skin.

Shane’s nails are digging into Ilya’s back, like he’s trying to anchor himself, or he’s looking for steady ground. “Please,” Shane repeats again like it’s still not clear to him that he doesn’t need to beg for this. Like it still hasn’t occurred to him that Ilya is the desperate one; the one that needs it, the one that will not survive without it.

He fucks Shane hard.

Maybe he wants them both to disappear into the mattress. Maybe.

It’s not about pushing and pulling tonight, though. There have been nights where Ilya’s hand rested on Shane’s cheek and pressed his face into the pillow. Nights where Ilya held Shane down, or gripped his hips roughly to pull him up for better leverage. There have been some nights where they were both chasing something that only rough edges, and please, and mean eyes, and bending over could bring about.

Tonight, Ilya never changes position, and Shane never lets him go.

Even when Ilya’s thrusts grow frantic, and his mouth opens against Shane’s shoulder—teeth peeking out, biting down—he can’t bring himself to be anything but held.

“Let me—Shane, let me,” is the only thing Ilya says. It’s when Shane squeezes one of his hands between them to get himself off, but—no. “Your hands, like before.”

Shane’s hand goes back onto Ilya’s shoulder blade and Ilya’s wraps around Shane’s cock.

It’s not perfect, but he manages. Ilya’s orgasm hits hard, but Shane finds his only moments later and relief mixes with pleasure—relief that this is still possible, and it’s not any more difficult than it used to be.

Ilya lies on top of Shane like the ruins of something that used to be beautiful but is now scattered across acres of perfect land. His breath out of control; his heart just the same.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Shane pipes up a few minutes later.

Ilya groans into his shoulder one more time before he holds himself up on one arm. “I am still inside you. How would you leave?”

Shane blushes, but tries to blink his bashfulness away. There’s a glint to his eyes that is a little bit more serious now that the easy part is over. “So funny. I mean it, Ilya. I want to say overnight.”

“Is your condo, too,” Ilya says lazily. “And we should talk, probably.”

“Definitely,” Shane says around a smirk. “Shower first, though.”

Shane’s chest is aflutter after the shower. Incredibly, his time spent alone surrounded by soft-green tile and hot water did not leave enough room for overthinking or spiralling.

Even with a clean towel around his waist, scrubbed raw off everything, Shane feels light. Like this was supposed to happen—like he was always meant to come over, like they’ve always been supposed to end it in bed. It’s a little poetic, he thinks, that fucking should solve their problems.

Is it going to become, like, an inside joke? Sex can fix anything?

It could. Better a crude inside joke than a divorce.

Because Shane can’t shake the feeling that it’s going to be fine. That they’re going to be able to talk now.

The condo feels familiar again, too. He’s sheepishly asked for one night, but he recognizes the soft carpeting, the lovely color tones on the wall, the decorations they’ve picked out together.

Rubbing his hair dry with another towel, Shane vows to be better. He knows that part of this whole thing is the absence of each other that they kept perpetuating, and he won’t let it happen again.

He uses Ilya’s aloe vera deodorant before slipping out of the bathroom.

“Hey,” he says shyly, his heartbeat still racing, when he shuffles back into the bedroom.

There’s still tension in the air, but that’s normal. Ilya isn’t all smiles, either, but they can get there. Right?

“Hi.” Ilya is still on the bed, buck-naked and scrolling on his phone. Fingers in his hair, scratching an itch, perhaps. “Your phone pinged a couple of times,” he says matter-of-factly.

As he walks around the bed to his trousers, Shane can’t look away anywhere but at Ilya’s body. His eyes count the moles that pepper him head to toe, and they catch on curves and valleys Shane hasn’t properly touched in months and desperately wants to.

He grabs the phone out of the trouser pocket. “Just my mom asking if I’m okay,” he mumbles, going through the notifications. “Oh my God, ESPN again. Have they been on your ass lately or was I born under a lucky star?”

Ilya scoffs. “No, they want to talk to me, too. Like vultures after today.”

“Ilya,” Shane says, sitting on the bed next to him. “I know we don’t normally do this, and maybe you’ll think it’s stupid or boring, but the game was rough and I’m sorry. I tried to apologize, but the ref—”

“I know,” Ilya interrupts, laying a gentle hand on Shane’s towel-covered leg. “Wasn’t a good game. Next time will be better, yes?”

“Great speech,” Shane chirps, “you talk to your guys like that? No wonder—”

“Ay-ay-ay, Hollander, that mouth…” Ilya trails off, but his hand comes up from Shane’s thigh to his face, squeezing his cheeks, holding him. Shane gladly lets him; if anything, it sends a shiver down his spine, and maybe he took that shower a beat too early. “Shut it.”

“Make me,” Shane responds placidly.

“Hmm, I might.”

Shane scoffs and wiggles his face out of Ilya’s grip. He looks down at his phone again. There’s one more thing there—as they slipped over into Sunday, his daily reminders arrived in the notification bar. Still next to Ilya’s perfect naked body, Shane rolls them open.

At the very top: draft email to Thompson about meeting

“Ilya,” he starts, because he’s suddenly very aware of him, and how the phone is in his line of sight. “That’s not—”

“Shane, all is okay. Don’t worry about it now. Come to bed.”

Feeling smaller and smaller, Shane quickly shoves the phone back into the trouser pocket and climbs into the sheets instead. He wishes he never looked at it; wishes even more that the room feeling icier was just his imagination.

Ilya holds him, holds him tight, but it doesn’t escape Shane that they don’t actually end up talking at all.

Chapter End Notes

oh my god 🍒 SMUT 🍒 y'all! how are we feeling! i spent all of today (well, 10am-6pm) writing this whole thing and i am STILL buzzing. (might also be because i had to write them vulnerable and i hate Being Vulnerable but. tomato potato etc.)

before you ask, my chapter 7 teaser to you is as follows: we're going to have a slightly different structure & figure out exactly what went wrong.

thank you to everybody who's reading and commenting and leaving kudos! you have no idea how much it's been fuelling me, tbh. reminder that you can come hang out with me on tumblr, my ask is open to, like, literally anything.

i hope you're having a good day wherever you are. ♥

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

hi, welcome, i'm so glad you're here. ♥ i hope you enjoy this chapter. if you want, i can hold your hand while we do this.

The Cottage, July 2018

Shane sits cross-legged on the ground and leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window of their bedroom. The glass has warmed itself with his body heat. Across from him—Ilya, folding his body into a mirror of the same position. Their knees bump occasionally, and Ilya’s hand is rubbing spirals into the skin of Shane’s hands.

They will be husbands tomorrow.

Shane’s stomach feels like the bottom of a deep well, shallow water rolling pleasantly from side to side. He wonders whether Ilya feels the same. He can’t really tell, though, even though they’ve been staring at each other like kids during a sleepover for the past five minutes.

The outside world is dark. it’s late—an hour and it will be today, not tomorrow. Ilya’s face is haloed by the warm golden light of their nightstand lamps. Shadows fall and cascade across his face, and Shane thinks you’re so beautiful, you’re so beautiful, so beautiful.

“I’ve seen this thing online,” he says to break the silence. Ilya’s eyebrow is already arched. “Where couples sit across from each other and ask each other questions and you have to, like, answer honestly without judgment.”

“Like what you call—twenty questions? Is that why we are on the floor?” Ilya asks. Shane has learned that this tone means amused, not irritated.

He smiles and shuffles, the hard floor digging into his ankles. “Yes. But no, more like—deeper questions, I guess. Like what’s something nobody else knows about you and stuff.”

“I knew it, Hollander. You are trying to find some terrible secret so you don’t have to marry me tomorrow.”

“Ilya.”

“Like I will reveal I’m with the Bratva.” He covers his mouth with his fingers in mock horror. “I am already married?”

Shane nudges Ilya’s knee with his on purpose this time. “Stop,” he says through stuttered laughter.

“No. What if I am that man that puts mysterious graffiti everywhere?”

“Banksy? You’re ridiculous,” Shane snorts.

“So you want to marry a ridiculous man.”

Shane leaves the warmth pressing into his back and leans closer. His hand caresses over the prominent mole on Ilya’s cheek; his fingers run down his sharp chin; his thumb momentarily outlines the shape if his bottom lip. “Yes,” he says, softer than he usually allows himself to be. “Absolutely.”

Ilya smiles. The way he leans into Shane’s hand is softer, too; reminiscent of their first summer here, when everything felt so fresh and new but vulnerable.

“Okay,” Ilya sighs. “I will play your stupid game.”

A shit-eating grin splits Shane’s face in two. “Okay. But you have to answer honestly, that’s the whole point. Promise?”

Ilya groans. He takes Shane’s hand, gently, and pulls it away from his face. Instead he holds it safe and cradles in his lap. “Yees, I guess. Promise.”

(“For these next two weeks, let’s just be honest with each other. About… what we actually think, and maybe how we really feel?”)

(“I will try.”)

Shane gulps, swallowing hard. “What’s one thing that scares you about tomorrow?”

Ilya smirks. Shane can see traces of playfulness still filling out the creases around Ilya’s eyes, but he purses his lips to keep quiet. To mould his face into an expression of trust, or a silent request to answer truthfully. Not with Everything, Hollander, is terrifying or something like it.

Shane’s hand, laying lazily in Ilya’s, finds a finger—pointer, he thinks—and squeezes.

“That I will sound stupid, maybe. Like saying the vows, but also to your family after.”

“They love you.”

Ilya shrugs. “Still scary. What about you? What scares you?”

With a start, Shane realizes that maybe this game isn’t as fun as he thought it would be. It’s his attempt at feeling closer—even though he’s never felt this close to anyone before—but he’s miscalculated. It’s hard to speak.

This is the rest of your life, he thinks. You can’t afford to be so scared.

“I think I’m more worried about after,” he admits, words scraping themselves out like his throat is too tight to make proper space for them. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m anxious as fuck about tomorrow, but… what scares me most is, I guess, failing… us? Or maybe failing you? Forever is a long time.”

Ilya moves. It ruins the whole sit-across-from-each-other point of the game, but it’s nice when he shuffles and presses himself into Shane’s side instead. They’re better at this, anyway. Everybody loves seeing them face off, but it’s really when they’re next to each other, equal, that magic becomes real.

“You will never fail me,” Ilya says with staggering conviction in his light voice. “And if you do, you will always try to make it better. You are annoying like that.”

Shane shakes his head, but his long exhale reveals how much Ilya’s words help. “Ask a different question,” he suggests.

“Hmm, tell me something about your past.” Ilya rests his head on Shane’s shoulder like he’s expecting a bedtime story, and their fingers tangle again; in Shane’s lap this time.

Shane ruminates; rolls the question-not-question around in his head like a die. Distantly, he’s aware of the nervous hum in the back of his head quieting.

It makes him think of safe spaces, maybe because he is in one whenever they’re like this.

“When I was five or around five, I didn’t want to leave my room,” he admits. “The kids in kindergarten were mean to me and I cried and cried and cried until my parents let me stay home for a few days. Then they signed me up for hockey. I always watched hockey games with my mom and they thought it would be good for me to be around kids my age who shared the same interests, I guess.”

“I will kill those kids in kindergarten,” Ilya deadpans.

“Ilya, we were five.”

“Well, still.”

Shane snickers. “What about you? And something from your past?”

Ilya huffs out a dissatisfied breath, and answers with a question. “Can I tell you something about my mother?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I don’t remember everything. But I remember when I was small. She sometimes put on her ballet shoes and danced in the apartment. It was just me and her, and she danced for me, no music. She was very elegant, and always happy when she danced.” Ilya lets the unsaid ‘she didn’t dance a lot’ hang in the air between them.

It’s not the first time that Shane is faced with the mystery of what to do with these memories of Ilya’s mother that come and go. He doesn’t think Ilya is seeking comfort. He wonders, and it hurts him a little bit, that maybe Ilya is just looking for somebody to remember her with. To collect these glimpses and keep them somewhere safe, in case Ilya ever forgets. So Shane can look at him and say: Hey, do you remember how your mother sometimes put on her ballet shoes?

Or maybe Ilya is really saying that he’s been left, and left behind, and left alone for as long as he remembers.

Maybe he’s still answering the first question about fear.

“Was she… a ballerina?” Shane asks, breath soft and quiet. He feels Ilya nod into his shoulder; curling up a little more. “I bet she was beautiful.”

“She was.”

Like you, Shane thinks. He turns to the side and buries his lips in the crown of Ilya’s thick curls. “What would you change about me?”

“This is the worst part,” Ilya mumbles next to him. “I would change nothing.”

“Me either,” Shane whispers.

The hard floor underneath him, the unmoving glass supporting their bodies—they’re nothing compared to the softness of whatever lingers between them.

They’ve said their I do a long time ago.

Montreal, April 2019

His new Ottawa teammates say that Ilya is sometimes like a maniacal bunny hopping left and right with excitement (especially when the team puppy visits), but in reality, he’s really, actually excited only a few times a year.

Tonight, he is very excited.

He hasn’t seen Shane in over two weeks, and the hockey season is almost over—which means summer and their first anniversary.

He is so excited that he even puts his wedding band in its rightful place on his finger before he drives to Montreal, and he doesn’t mind cooking in an apartment that isn’t theirs.

(Ilya loves their new condo in Ottawa so much.)

(Even though he spends so much time there alone.)

Today, borscht is on the menu. Ilya has researched macrobiotic diet options and then decided to ignore them, though he did pick up coconut-based sour cream to give it the illusion of propriety. It actually makes their hook-up apartment smell like home—the beet and carrot smell with an underlying layer of onion; the potatoes about to boil.

Lizzo is quietly playing in the background.

Ilya’s phone pings. He quickly rubs his hands clean against the makeshift apron (one of Shane’s Voyageurs shirts found in the back of his closet) and looks at the text he’s just received.

Well.

The apartment around Ilya dims a little bit—not so much in light, more so in color and sound. Shane’s plane was supposed to take off in about fifteen minutes and get him to Montreal from their last road stop in Philadelphia in about two hours. The borscht would be done and served; Ilya would be in nicer clothes or maybe no clothes at all, depending on what exactly they were hungry for.

(Everything.)

He stares down at the text, heart simultaneously in his throat and dropping to his heels where it makes his feet feel so heavy he can’t lift them.

This is, of course, one night of many.

Ilya’s got a pot full of vegetables and two hands.

In one: the nights they used to spend here before I love yous and marriage. Ilya always so happy to be here because it meant Shane, and sad because he could only have him in secret.

In the other: blizzards and cancelled flights, road trips that took Shane so far away while Ilya was left behind. Happy because he had a home, sad because there was nobody in it with him.

Tonight was supposed to be special for no reason. He wanted to cook dinner and be there for Shane’s arrival. He wanted to kiss him slow and long and deep and them take him to bed after a good fucking meal. It was meant to be a celebration of the ordinary, and Shane knew that, or should have known that, and here Ilya is, alone again, not-home.

He sighs.

Tries to tell himself to not act like a jilted lover. Shane is probably stressed, the shortness of his message a result of his anxiety when plans unexpectedly change, but—

But.

Stuck at the airport, sorry.

Ilya grits his teeth and his heartrate speeds up with all the words he types out but doesn’t send: I made dinner for you. I’m here all alone. Do you not care? When is the last time you said you miss me? Have fun at the airport then.

Yesterday. Shane said ‘I miss you’ yesterday. Calm the fuck down.

His response ends up being equally short.

The phone buzzes again. Ilya tries to keep his shoulders from stiffening when he picks up, but it’s up for debate whether the attempt is successful. “Hey,” he says.

“Hi.” Shane’s voice sounds a little clipped, but Ilya hears tiredness in it as well, and the constant airport chatter in the background. He briefly wonders where Shane’s escaped to in order to make this call.

“Stuck, huh? Good for you.”

“Our flight got cancelled last minute,” Shane is saying while Ilya takes the lid off the pot and lets the steam of the borscht waft up and curl towards him. “I tried to see if there were other planes going to Montreal, but there are strikes and—”

“Mm,” Ilya hums.

“I texted you in a weird moment, sorry. I was rushing to—”

“Is okay,” Ilya says with a sigh, interrupting again. Hearing the words from Shane’s mouth, in their softness, makes it impossible to voice whatever hurt he’s feeling. This is not Shane’s fault. “I know you tried, salfetka.”

“What the fuck’s that?”

Ilya smiles. It’s a good thing that Shane can’t see him, because he can tell it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Napkin.”

“Wow, Ilya, I really must have hurt you this time,” Shane notes, sarcastic.

“Mhm. I made borscht for you. Great borscht.” The food doesn’t need it, but Ilya takes one of the spoons and absent-mindedly stirs the pot anyway.

Shane is quiet, leaving too much space for Ilya to feel his chest caving in again. Like he’s somebody’s call girl, sitting in an expensive apartment. It makes him feel so far removed from what he used to be—a good hockey player on a good team, so independent, so uncaring, so flippant. He’s still a good hockey player, of course, just on a much worse team, and it was all supposed to be worth it to be closer.

Except Shane is stuck in Philadelphia and Ilya is alone in this old place where their fucking used to exist, untethered from the real world.

“I really am sorry,” Shane emphasizes. “I wish I was there with you, I really do.”

Ilya sighs into the stifling empty space of the kitchen. “So what is the plan now?”

“Wait for the next flight,” Shane utters, voice low. Ilya can imagine him rubbing at his face tiredly. “Should be in a few hours, so I’ll still get there, just—later. So much later. God, I hate this.”

“Yes, me too.” Ilya bites his lip. He covers the pot back up and leans against the counter, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He doesn’t want Shane to feel this way. It’s enough that he feels this way. “I will eat all the borscht,” he says lightly. Too lightly, maybe.

Shane’s laugh is a little strained, but at least it’s there. “No, leave some for me. I love when you cook for me.”

“Really? You want your husband to cook for you and iron your clothes for you and clean the house for you?” Ilya asks teasingly.

“That… among other things.”

“What things, Hollander?”

Another beat of silence; then a softer sigh that seems to travel through Ilya’s phone all the way from Philadelphia and settle around Ilya like a cloud of heavy mist. “I’ll show you when I get there,” Shane murmurs.

The thrill that settles in Ilya’s belly is almost enough to make him forget the rest.

Montreal, 2019 / Pittsburgh, 2019 / Ottawa, 2020 / On the Road from Ottawa to Montreal, 2020 / Ottawa, 2020 - Again / Everywhere All the Time

The first year of their marriage is good. For every conflict, there is something akin to a solution. Every lonely night can be explained by the Twister-like positions they have to stretch, crouch and curl into.

Of course they are lonely; it’s only natural.

Shane still plays for Montreal, but Ilya starts playing for Ottawa.

Everything is one big uncomfortable adjustment, but they buy a condo in the outskirts of Ottawa like a real family.

Shane hates the time they have to spend apart and it wears him down, but once they get past the cancelled flights and cold borscht waiting on the kitchen counter… the bed holds two bodies in quiet synchronization. They’re okay. They’re fine. That’s enough.

The summer that follows is good, really good.

They spend it at the cottage and it has that kind of warmth they’ve never needed to name. Like the Earth and the sky fold them into something sweet, and they don’t have to stretch anymore. When they return to the condo at the end of August, it smells like home.

The good stops when the hockey season starts, but hockey is just one of the many things they don’t talk about.

The rest of the year, and the entirety of twenty-twenty, is a blur. When Shane remembers it later in an attempt to organize the chaos, he finds that he can’t. He has trouble putting conversations in the right places. Remembering them practically word-for-word poses no issue, but the ability to stock them into the pocket of his brain titled Ottawa or Montreal or All-Star Game escapes him.

Shane remembers a week where they didn’t even text, but he can’t tell whether that’s the old or the new year.

The couch in Ottawa they picked together never seems to fit Shane right anymore. They hold hands less. It’s more grab and grip, less trace the veins on the back of Ilya’s palm.

Their quiet places are quieter.

At some point, he knows he’s crying in his car—softly, just to himself, he would never tell anyone—but he doesn’t remember why. It’s laced with the feeling of being stretched thin, like trying to rub a small drop of lotion across sunburnt shoulder blades. That’s all he’s got.

One night, without saying hello, Shane simply goes for Ilya’s mouth and then he finds himself sinking to his knees. He’s twenty-five, twenty-one, nineteen. All he knows is the weight of Ilya’s cock in his mouth and so he opens it and opens it and it’s the one thing that still works.

“No hockey talk,” Ilya says after being apart for three weeks, but where does he say it? When are they?

“I love you,” over the shoulder;

“I love you so much,” on a sunny Sunday,

“I love you,” in a text message under a fake name,

“Me too,” in a dark apartment, two feet away from sleep.

Shane gets lost here. He can speak but not talk, and Ilya keeps pulling further and further away from him with the same expression Shane sees on himself in the mirror.

Ilya’s mouth is still soft; still goes up in smiles and smirks and grins. But those are never full anymore—they don’t reach the places they should. Shane is scared to ask about it, and at first he thinks maybe Ilya is, too, but the longer he sits with it, the less certain he is. The heavier the fear settles at his lower back or in the crook of his neck.

How long until I see him again? turns into How long can we make it last?

Ottawa, November 2020

The condo is quiet in the way it only is at night. Up on the seventeenth floor, there is never any traffic sneaking in—at this hour, though, there are no upstairs or downstairs neighbors moving about, either. Ilya only hears the occasional click of their heating as it works overtime.

He stands at the kitchen counter—an untouched glass of water glistening with condensation sitting next to him.

Shane, by the door, halfway through taking off his shoes. He hasn’t looked up.

“You’re late,” Ilya says, but he’d be hard-pressed to find a trace of accusation in his voice. He’s mostly just stating a fact.

“Yeah, media ran long,” Shane answers easily. He tucks his shoes neatly into the shoe rack, but he doesn’t seem relaxed as he fully enters the space. He must be tired from the game they played against New York, and undoubtedly from his drive to Ottawa, but he’s refusing to let his professional façade fall.

Ilya shrugs. “I thought so.”

“I did text you, you know,” Shane continues.

“Yes, I know.” Ilya and responding to texts, huh? Nothing these walls haven’t heard. “You won?”

“Yeah, we did.”

Shane steps into the kitchen, and Ilya’s space, a little hesitantly. He leans in, but his body doesn’t follow. A small peck lands flat in the no man’s land between Ilya’s cheek and the corner of his mouth, and then Shane’s lips quickly retreat.

Ilya’s chest feels like somebody is rummaging around in it with a pair of tweezers. “Congratulations,” he mumbles.

The word, too, lands flat.

Ilya watches as Shane rubs his face—it’s only this movement that betrays how tired he might be. “You don’t have to do that.”

Inadvertently, Ilya’s mouth twitches. “I don’t have to do what?”

Shane frowns. His hand waves between them in a vague gesture. “The—the formal thing or whatever.”

Ilya pulls his lips in, nodding to himself. It hits him like a strong pungent smell, the way this scene feels familiar. Typical, really. Actually, he’s had quieter with Shane in the past half a year at least—louder, too. This one is just heavy with its seemingly well-trodden path they always walk.

Leaning against the counter, Ilya folds his arms. “You’re tired,” he says. “Go shower.”

Shane scoffs and looks to the side. His eyes land on Ilya’s face before moving on to the glass, to the counter, to the cupboards. For a second, it seems like he’s going to listen. Like he’s going to turn on his heel and go to the bathroom even though he most likely took a shower after the game. There’s no sweat on him as far as Ilya can tell.

(It used to be different.)

(They’d skip showers because it was worth the extra fifteen minutes.)

(They’d shower together.)

Something flashes across Shane’s face—Ilya can see the crack they’ve been so adamantly trying to cover finally come apart and break out to the surface.

“I’m fucking sick of this,” Shane exclaims. “We keep talking like… like fucking coworkers or something.”

“But we are talking, no?” Ilya shoots back, but he can feel his body trying to pull away. He can feel his throat tightening.

“But we don’t say anything!”

“We are saying things right now, aren’t we?”

“That’s not—” Shane huffs out an exasperated breath and turns around, towards the kitchen island. His shoulders are pinched together. “Fuck,” he mutters; no bite.

It makes the world drop away. Ilya realizes that, as he stands there with his arms still crossed, he’s grabbed fistfuls of his own shirt. The fabric feels damp and worn down from his clammy hands. When he tries to relax his fingers, his knuckles whine with a dull ache.

“If you want to say something,” he begins quietly, cautiously, even though he doesn’t want to, “then just say it, Shane. Let’s be honest with each other, yes?”

“I’m trying,” Shane replies.

“Try harder.”

Shane finally turns around. Ilya has only seen this in movies—this moment when there’s a car chase and the metal scrapes, or somebody gets hurt and the frames seem to speed up in order to keep up.

The way Shane looks at him is one thing.

Somehow, Ilya can see Shane looking at him through the years. There’s disdain in his eyes now, a sadness Ilya can’t categorize—behind it, though, are the stolen glances across arenas. He sees the lust and the want and the impossibility of the idea of being apart. Shane’s eyes are gentle, and nobody has ever looked at Ilya that way—nobody ever will. This one glance and Ilya is recounting everything from the parking lot in Saskatchewan to the way they locked eyes while saying their vows.

It’s all there and not there at the same time.

“I don’t think… Ilya, I don’t think we’re good at this anymore.”

Ilya’s breath stills. “What do you mean?”

Shane shakes his head. His cheeks are a little flushed, Ilya notices. Nostrils flared; brows together like little soldiers. “It’s like… I don’t know, like we keep missing each other even when we’re in the same room?”

Ilya looks to the side, jaw tightening.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes.

“What?” Ilya snaps. His eyes are burning, but he refuses to let it go any further. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek and meets Shane’s reddened eyes dead-on. “What is it you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” Shane exhales. “No, that’s bullshit. I want you to fight me on it. I want you to tell me I’m wrong.”

Ilya thinks of the nights he’s spent here alone. How it’s felt lately. Like a cage that’s a little bit too small for everything that’s constantly thundering through his head; like he’s keeping space for someone who’s not there.

He thinks of the worst part of it all, which is that he would love to pin the blame on Shane but can’t. Ilya could have driven to Montreal for a surprise visit and decided against it each time. He’s had hundreds of opportunities to say Shane, we need to talk, we are not kids anymore, this is serious to me.

Instead, he’s pushed Shane away. And he’s let himself be pushed away, too.

Ilya lets his arms fall. He briefly touches the glass of water like he wants to take a sip, but his fingers merely run down its wet side.

“I agree,” he says.

“You agree?”

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut and forces a deep breath through his nose. “We don’t feel good. You are right, Shane, I think.”

Here it is, finally on the table. Like they’re playing cards and they’re both folding to an invisible third player that’s crouched in the corner of this room. It’s not that Ilya was hoping for a night in; it’s just that he didn’t think they’d end up here so fast.

This condo and their life feel like an overblown balloon and Ilya is flinching even before it pops.

“What does that mean, then?” Shane asks, but he’s always had too many questions. “What are you saying, Ilya?”

“I don’t know.”

Ilya can’t look at him. He’s falling and Shane’s hands aren’t there. He’s being left behind again. Shane deserves better than this, and Ilya can’t—

Because what if Shane feels the same—

“Are you saying we keep trying?” Shane presses, voice tinged with hysteria. He clears his throat to cough it out. “Are you saying… something else?”

Ilya shrugs. “We tried, no? Doesn’t seem enough.”

“So what then?” A beat of disbelief or two, and Ilya can feel that they are about to snap. “Divorce?”

Shane spits it out like it’s a bad word because it is, and Ilya’s body’s knee-jerk reaction is to inhale sharply and glare at Shane. His husband stands there, his shoulders down now, his eyes pleading. Ilya wants to fold himself into a small little box and put himself in the back of their cupboards.

What is he pleading for? For Ilya to forget that he’s said the word? Or for somebody—Ilya—to take his hands and take the responsibility of choosing for both of them?

I love you I love you I love you, his brain frantically supplies.

Ilya can’t bring himself to say yes.

Ilya can’t bring himself to no.

Chapter End Notes

first of all, before anybody yells at me, THEY WILL TALK IN THE NEXT CHAPTER I PINKY SWEAR OKAY

second of all, i linked to Lizzo's Cuz I Love You not because i listen to Lizzo (like ever), but my side hustle here is spreading my agenda that Ilya is a DIVA first and foremost, thank you.

your response to the last chapter knocked me off my feet. i've never experienced people engaging with my fics in that way and i can't tell you how mindblowing it was to me even though it may seem small to others. and i just wanted to say thank you forever and ever. ❤️❤️

you can come hang out with me on tumblr while we wait for chapter 8 together.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

my subscriptions for this fic doubled today so uh, hi ALL of you! where did you come from! no seriously what's going on

there's one longer line of russian in this chapter. you can either hover over / tap it OR you can experience it the same way shane does (boy has no clue what's being said). anyway, i hope you enjoy this one and as always, thank you for being here. ♥

Ottawa, March 2021

Bleary eyes stare back at Shane from the mirror. It’s barely four in the morning and he’s running on three hours of sleep again. He groans under his breath, bending over the bathroom sink and splashing ice-cold water over his face.

There’s a pleasant ache circulating through his body, sharpened by how tired he is. Most of it lives in his lower belly and the knuckles of his fingers that clutched Ilya’s shoulders only hours ago. It thumped through him, too, when he got out of their bed and walked here.

What he forgets about are the bruised ribs, so he hisses and yelps when they come calling with pain at an unlucky turn. Fuck.

Shane brushes his teeth and goes through a list in his mind: the Voyageurs’ flight to Buffalo is at eight, so he needs to leave Ottawa in about ten minutes to get to the airport on time. After landing, check in to their hotel. They’re staying at the Marriott—not Shane’s favorite rooms but he likes the staff. Then an afternoon practice, and his evening should be dedicated to finally answering emails.

With a sigh, he turns off the stark bathroom light and steps carefully back into the bedroom.

The bed is empty. Just before, Ilya was still laying there, snoring softly, and Shane really wanted to see him like that again. Even if for just a second.

His socked feet make almost no sound on the carpet as he leaves the room. He feels a little heavy, though. Not as heavy as he did at his parents’ place, sure, but heavy enough that his shoulders sag a little too much, and he feels guilty when he spots Ilya standing at the kitchen counter, shoulder blades curving deliciously with each movement.

“Good morning,” he says stupidly. The outside world is still hours away from seeing daylight and Ilya has only turned on the lights above the counter. His curls are ruffled and Shane wants to kiss him.

Ilya looks over his shoulder, hands busy. “Morning,” he says. Shane’s given him shit for his cigarettes for years now, but he adores the raspiness it fills Ilya’s voice with in the mornings. He knows it’s realistically not an octave lower or whatever, but it can sound like that sometimes—like now.

It warms something inside of Shane. Like he’s the tip of a burning cigarette, maybe, if he believed in shit like that.

“When is your flight?”

Shane’s eyes flutter down to his watch. “In four hours and eighteen minutes. Yours?”

Ilya hums. “No, our flight is tomorrow. Toronto.”

Shane stops himself at the kitchen island. Their last two conversations in the kitchen didn’t go well, so he stands there with his hands shoved as deep into his pockets as they can go. He’s scared to cross that threshold.

“We had a bad game against them the other week,” Shane comments.

“I know. Shameful.”

“What are you—what are you doing?” Shane inquires instead of scoffing. Ilya’s back is nice to look at, but he’d like a chance to see his face before leaving. Which he should be doing. Like two minutes ago.

Instead of answering, Ilya turns on a mixer. The sound is indecently shrill at this early hour, but that’s not what makes Shane’s ears burn and turn a violent shade of red.

“You still drink this dirt, yes?” Ilya asks when he stops the mixer and starts pouring the liquid into one of the smoothie shakers Shane’s left behind.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

Ilya closes the shaker up and finally turns around. “For the road,” he says in that low voice.

The bottle clinks against the kitchen island when he places it there, and Shane snatches it like he’s scared it’s going to grow legs and run away.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Ilya leans, palms against the marble. His biceps jump out, but Shane is looking at his jaw instead, at his sleep-ridden eyes, at his unstyled hair. He used to have this every morning they woke up together and he somehow fumbled or forgot the right way to hold it.

“I should get going,” Shane mumbles.

“Sure,” Ilya agrees. “You can’t miss your flight.”

“Right.” Except they haven’t talked. Shane might have swiped his reminder to email the lawyer’s office away, but it’s still flashing bright red in front of his eyes when he blinks. The game is still reverberating through him, too, and he’s supposed to leave. Drive-flight-land-hotel-practice-emails.

His feet carry him towards the door. His hands organize all the items correctly—put the smoothie down, put on shoes, take suit jacket.

His hand is practically on the door handle, but to Shane’s head, it feels like the world has slipped into slow-motion. Tell me to stay, he thinks desperately. Just say stay, say it, say it, say it.

Fingers wrapped around the cold metal, smoothie in hand, Shane freezes. This is stupid. He should know this is stupid. In a hockey game, you don’t stand by the opponent’s net, waiting for the puck to get to you. You fucking chase it. It’s the only way to win the game.

“I’ll text Hayden,” Shane says, pretty much to the door.

“What?” Ilya’s voice sounds strained; surprised. When Shane turns around, he sees him still leaning against the kitchen island, but he looks like somebody looking for support because their legs are not working properly. It’s the same way Shane would fold himself into his car.

Shane clears his throat. “I said I’ll text Hayden. Tell him there’s a family emergency or something, our game isn’t until tomorrow. What’s on your schedule today?”

“Morning practice,” Ilya responds. “Optional. I can skip it.”

Shane puts the jacket back on its hanger; kicks off his shoes. It would be a lie to say that crossing the distance back to the island is easy, though—every step feels like he’s walking on hot coals, but he’s determined enough to grit his teeth through it. The smoothie ends up in the same spot Ilya placed it before.

(Shane doesn’t even care that there is no coaster and it will form a gross sticky ring.)

(It does cross his mind, but he doesn’t care.)

“Ilya, about that notification—“ he starts, but Ilya cuts him off.

He leans over the counter, palm easily finding a place to stand and ease against Shane’s neck, and he kisses him.

Ilya’s mouth is sleep-soft and warm and it presses against Shane in a perfect way. He must be standing on the tips of his toes, Shane realizes, in order to reach him.

Shane circles the kitchen counter blindly, hip ramming against the edge and bursting with a sharp flash of pain. His own hands find support on Ilya’s chest. He unspools, head-to-toe and inside-and-out, right into the small crevice between Ilya’s lips.

Maybe it shouldn’t, but it feels different from last night. His heart races the same, that much is true, but it feels… warmer. It feels more concrete and less like a hologram he’s trying to grab with his fingers.

It pains him to do so, but Shane breaks the kiss, cool air hitting his wet lips. He’s running on adrenaline—his reserve of it isn’t infinite, though. “About the notification,” he repeats stubbornly. “It wasn’t—it’s not what you think.”

“Nah, I don’t think anything,” Ilya argues, the small huffs of his breath hitting Shane’s face because they’re still barely inches apart.

“You are…” Shane trails off. His hands curl into lazy fists and he pushes them against Ilya’s ribcage. “…a good liar. But I can tell when you’re lying after all this time and we both know you are thinking. Probably a lot.”

“Are you calling me smart?”

“Ilya.” Shane uses his hands to push him away this time. What he said is true. He can tell that Ilya’s brain is going a hundred miles a minute. The problem is that he doesn’t know what he’s thinking. It’s safe to assume that it’s nothing good, but Shane hates being this bad at mind-reading. Others always seem so good at it, Ilya included, and Shane wishes with all his might that he could know what exactly he’s speaking against. There are always millions of options and he has no way of figuring out his best starting point. “Be serious for a second, please, okay?”

Ilya quiets down like a reprimanded child.

Shane briefly squeezes his eyes shut. “Can you tell me what you’re thinking,” he asks, except it’s not really a question. His tone is too flat for that, and his voice sounds so loud—

Ilya shrugs, the corners of his mouth a little downturned. “I don’t know, Shane.”

“Come on. Don’t you… Fuck, don’t you care about this at all? What was last night supposed to be, then?”

“I—” Ilya makes a low noise at the back of his throat. And Shane thinks, Great, here we are again, in this stupid beautiful kitchen, and he doesn’t care. He’s annoyed or frustrated and I am boring, always boring. “I think maybe you want to email him about the agreement,” Ilya grits out like every word is a nail he has to force out through his esophagus. “Or make it go faster, or…”

Shane watches Ilya shake his head and look to the side. Wave his hand like it’s whatever, or like he’s said enough.

“Ilya, I don’t… want those things.” Why is this so fucking hard? “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted those things.”

Ilya tilts his head, but he’s even more difficult to read when he’s half-turned away. Staring towards the balcony like he’s considering escape. Maybe it was better when they were chest-to-chest, but Shane doesn’t know how to go back to that.

“You had reminder,” Ilya says with finality.

Like that’s the one deciding block and now their little Lego is complete and ta-dah, it’s a model of Thompson’s office.

And actually, Shane thinks, screw that.

“I’m a neurotic person, Ilya,” he exclaims in bitten-down frustration. “Of course I set a reminder!”

But Ilya looks unconvinced. He’s always had a wall around him, taller than anything Shane has ever seen. No gate to walk through, no ladder to climb. Overtime, Shane felt like he got through it anyway, but he realizes now that it’s never fully come apart. Ilya lowered it and lowered it until Shane could hop on and sit up top between the outside world and whatever Ilya kept inside. And somewhere along the way, he jumped off, back into the outside world, and Ilya has wordlessly built the wall back up brick by brick.

Shane inches back into Ilya’s space and touches his cheek. “You’re still my husband. I’m sorry about—about everything. It was just a stupid reminder. I don’t want this.”

He knows the thread of what he’s saying is loose, rickety, but he can’t say anything else. His brain is working overtime and the only thing he can do is spit out fact after fact in the hopes it will mean something.

Ilya turns around. The usual twinkle in his eye has been replaced by the distant threat of tears.

(They were supposed to be happy, why are they not happy?)

(What else was Shane supposed to say?)

Ilya’s voice is a little muffled when he speaks. “I don’t want this either. I hate it. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for marriage, I should have waited. I didn’t know it would—blyat, this stupid language.”

Shane carefully chooses to stay quiet. Keeps his hand right where it is against Ilya’s morning stubble.

(Shane shouldn’t have asked for divorce. He should have waited.)

“Esli ya znayu, shto takoye lyubof', to tol'ka blagadarya tebe, i ya ne khotel chtoby tak poluchilos’. If I know what love is, it's because of you, and I didn't want it to turn out like this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.” Ilya’s voice is low, like he’s afraid that Shane has learned the complexities of Russian grammar overnight.

Shane hasn’t.

But it does send chills down his spine, running down from his shoulder blades like little rivulets of melting ice. Just like before, he is twenty-five, twenty-one, nineteen all at once. The condo around him blurs with its early-morning liminal lighting, and he feels it run through him—from their marriage vows all the way to standing here, burning a hole into this very spot with his antsy feet, saying divorce?

“I know you said trying isn’t enough,” Shane says, “but I don’t fucking care. I want to try. Fuck, I want to try, Ilya. Do you… want to try?”

Ilya’s body mellows. It’s like the melody of his limbs slows down and softens around the edges.

When his arms snake around Shane’s waist, it feels good, it feels gentle. Like they’re both only a few grams each. Ilya picks him up easily and then softly sets him down on the kitchen island, landing himself between Shane’s thighs. His body presses itself against Shane’s, inch after inch of distance disappearing until Ilya’s cheek is nuzzling Shane’s chest. He’s nodding.

Ilya is nodding.

And then he’s saying: “Da.”

Shane exhales. It’s a breath that plucks everything blue and dirty from the pit of his stomach and huffs it out, away from him.

His lips find Ilya’s forehead, kissing; resting.

An unfamiliar thought makes its way to the forefront of Shane’s brain: maybe they can be okay again.

Toronto, March 2021

When Ilya joined the Centaurs, it was a horrible team. The media ran it over and over again, NHL’s star player signs with historically worst team this and Will Rozanov’s career end in the suburbs of Ottawa that. All the headlines seemed worth it, though. Some people might think he moved for Shane, but he did it for himself. He was the one who needed the closeness.

Anyway, c’est la vie. Another thing some people didn’t—and still don’t—understand is where the emphasis in that sentence should be.

It’s not ‘the Ottawa Centaurs was a horrible team’.

It’s ‘the Ottawa Centaurs was a horrible team’.

Then Ilya signed with them.

Ilya’s always understood this, so it’s no surprise to him when he saunters into the locker room after a win against Toronto.

They’ve run the drills. They’ve run practice after practice, and they deserve this. The bigger surprise is how light Ilya still feels, so incomparable to how he felt in the last rocker room he was in just this past Saturday.

He’s barely aware of Troy Barrett next to him, humming under his breath. It’s just that the rumble of the space sounds softer; even the smell of the sweaty men is hitting his nostrils less. The loudest sound is somebody ripping tape, and even that seems to exist somewhere far away.

But then—hold on. Barrett is humming?

“Barrett,” Ilya says, stopping what he’s doing (which is just untying his skates). “You are humming.”

Barrett, who was also held up by the sports journalists, blushes a deep red and looks around like there’s a second Barrett in the room with them. “Me?” he asks, acting inconspicuous.

“Yes, you. Shouldn’t you be depressed? Toronto was your team before.”

“Do you cry when you beat Boston?” Troy shoots back.

“Hm, touché. Still suspicious.”

Truth be told, they wouldn’t be where they are without Barrett, and Ilya likes the guy anyway. They’re different sides of the same coin to him: Troy was a good player, and signed to a good team for a long time, and although he was merely traded to Ottawa after speaking up about Kent and his behavior, they still both ended up here.

(And maybe Ilya knows about his huge crush on the team’s social media manager, but then anybody with eyes knows, and it’s just another angle that makes Ilya feel less alone.)

“You should try it,” Troy is saying. He was excited after they won against Montreal, but now he’s ecstatic. It’s infectious.

“Try what?” Ilya asks with a smirk. “Humming? Like crazy person?”

Troy shoves him in the shoulder. “No, cap. Feeling your happy feelings or something.”

Ilya frowns. He’s used to being the one telling these fake-guru things to his teammates, but then, on the other hand, there is something to it. Like he needed to be told.

“You sound like Harris,” he chirps anyway.

He lets his skates be skates and he reaches up in the stall to get his phone from the upper shelf. He and Shane haven’t texted much. The morning in the condo was nice, and everything they said, the way they kissed; that’s what’s putting this lightness into Ilya’s whole being.

Outside of the condo, though, it’s hard to pick up a conversation that’s been stilted for months. Longer, maybe.

Ilya scratches at his head, thinking. Shane was brave enough to stay. It shouldn’t be such a big deal to open up his text messages and send something.

The worst part is that the only thing on his mind is I love you. it’s the same unsaid thing from months ago when he wanted to say them in their kitchen before everything unfolded into a nightmare. Almost like those words are lodged at the back of his throat and he can’t get out anything else before he says them.

Distantly, he’s aware of his heart picking up speed, like when he’s really close to a good shot on goal, or catching the puck on a rebound and sending it in.

Maybe he doesn’t say I love you. Maybe he sends three messages and says

Ya

tebya

lyublyu.

Shane might not understand all Russian, but he’s familiar with this much. Maybe he’d even send Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu. If his game went as well as Ilya’s. If he felt the same. That would really make it feel like spring’s arrived, and even just the idea of it makes Ilya’s stomach clench with happy anticipation.

Ilya’s fingers hover over the keyboard.

“Whoa!” echoes from the other side of the locker room. It’s so loud that it pierces through Ilya’s bubble. He gives Luca a glare. “Have you guys heard about Buffalo?”

A frown quickly descends across Ilya’s brows. “What about Buffalo?” he barks.

Shane is in Buffalo.

Everything from natural catastrophes to the building collapsing in on itself flashes through his mind like a blade. The air in the room turns thick; oppressive. Ilya’s body can’t quite remember how to operate when it wants to take a clean breath.

“Shane Hollander took a hit,” Haas reads off his phone.

“How bad?” somebody asks, maybe Barrett who has tensed noticeably next to Ilya.

“Seems pretty bad.” Luca takes the phone and pat-pats in his hockey socks across the room to Barrett’s stall. Ilya could easily join them but he just can’t. Actually, they’re too close to him if anything.

“Look,” Luca says to Troy and shoves his phone in his face. Out of the corner of his eye—just look at your own phone, just keep looking at it—he registers them both hunching over the small screen. Like reviewing game tape. Ilya wonders if it’s worse to see it like this or in real life. Like back when they were playing against each other and Shane went down—

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut against the open thread of messages with his Jane. He tries to tune out the world around him just for a second, but the silence then scares him even more. He blinks his eyes open again.

Is he supposed to say something? Why are the lights here so sharp and bright all of a sudden? Why is everybody being so loud?

“It says he collided with Fischer and they both went down hard, but Hollander had to be brought off the ice on a stretcher. They don’t know anything else yet. Shit. Hold on, there’s a video.”

Ilya is barely listening, but he can see it even without looking. He’s a master of being in two places at once—in Boston playing hockey and back in Russia caring for his dying father; with Shane but always keeping his distance. Here in this small locker room. On the ice in Buffalo as Shane falls.

Shit. Fuck.

Ilya turns away from the situation. Well, not the situation—from Troy and Luca and their eyes that might be pinned on him and might not.

Instead of sending a stupid fucking message, Ilya presses Call.

It goes straight to voicemail.

“Fuck!” he exclaims loudly, making Barrett next to him jump.

His fingers are shaking when he hunches down to quickly finish untying his laces. He’s half-aware of the locker room, half-hypnotizing his phone. Why has no one called him? Why has no one let him know?

Ilya has no way of knowing how this is coming across to his teammates, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Rozanov,” Troy says right next to him. Luca has gone back to his stall, and Barrett is talking in a low enough voice that Ilya knows it’s only for him. “Do you need to go?”

Ilya momentarily stops again. This is the second time Troy has surprised him. If his chest wasn’t gripped in a vise, he’d feel wonder at this development—Ilya is so used to seeing but not necessarily being seen. Troy is more perceptive than he’s given him credit for. And this situation feels impossible. He needs a hand, just for a moment, even if it comes in the form of another hockey player.

“Yes,” he says seriously. “Can you tell Wiebe?”

Troy is nodding. “Yeah, obviously. You good?”

No. The room seems to be shrinking and expanding at the same time, and Ilya doesn’t have a solid grasp on why. He needs to know what happened to Shane, and he needs to hear it from someone or something that’s not an ESPN Tweet. He can only focus on small tasks, even if his fingers are still trembling, palms clammy. Here are hockey socks, here is his suit, here are his shoes.

“Thanks, Barrett,” he says, avoiding a real answer.

Even when Ilya leaves the locker room, clutching his phone, the air doesn’t change or thin. The corridor has the same sticky quality to it—and the outside air is the same.

He calls Shane and calls Shane.

It hits voicemail every time.

Chapter End Notes

sooooooooo sorry about the ending there. feel free to consult the tags for reassurance but like listen, i couldn't just let them TALK. i had to also be evil a little baby bit.

come hang out with me on tumblr if that tickles your fancy.

thank you again?? i truly love you every single one of you. ❤️

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

happy weekend to those who celebrate :) i'm v glad to have you here n i hope you enjoy this one!! ♥ i think it's a good one.

Toronto, March 2021

Chewing his thumbnail down to the quick, Ilya bounces on the edge of the curb. It’s been twenty-five minutes since his call with the rental company. Considering the bulky sum that’s left his bank account, he’d like the car to be here.

His other, unchewed hand, is opening and closing Twitter. News outlets haven’t shared anything new since the original posts. Shane isn’t picking up. The Hollanders are not picking up. Ilya doesn’t know what’s worse.

He’s seen the video now, too, right after hanging up with Hi, you are speaking to Kayla with Enterprise Rent-A-Car, how can I help you today? She had no idea why she suddenly had to listen to a hurried Russian accent that was constantly forgetting to use articles and what the correct word order was, just that she didn’t appreciate this urgency at ten in the evening on a random Monday.

(“You could pick it up in about an hour, I suppose—“)

(“I need it is dropped off at Air-Canada-Center.”)

(“But that would cost you—”)

(“Yes, I don’t care!”)

It’s still playing in front of his eyes. Standing here in 3 degrees Celsius, ice-cold breeze needling his body, it’s like he’s there:

24 HOLLANDER is waiting by the Buffalo goal for a pass from somebody off-screen. It looks innocent enough. Any other day, Ilya would have called it lazy and half meant it.

Two Buffalo players come into view. Fischer and Spuchlak, caging Pike who’s in possession of the puck. Pike must see a window somewhere—as they’re nearing the goal, he sends it to Shane.

Fischer pumps his skate to the side to turn around quickly. Maybe there’s a dent in the ice, or gravity takes over, or it’s just bad luck. 6 feet and 8 inches of height and at least 250 pounds of bodyweight slam into Shane. They go down in a heap, Shane swallowed so completely he is invisible for a second until they switch cameras.

Fischer scrambles to his skates as fast as he can, fully aware of his crushing impact. Refs are already pulling him away. The crowd is not breathing; the arena is quiet. After too many seconds, Shane peels himself off bit by bit and tries to brace his knees against the ice to get up. His right arm, the same arm that’s been hurt before, hangs limp by his side.

(You have to watch the video twice to notice the terrible twisted angle his elbow is when he’s still down, which Ilya does, and regrets.)

Shane’s body wobbles, unhurt hand flying up to his helmet as if to keep his head in place. Visibly, he tries to lock his body in position, but he can’t keep his balance. He falls backwards, skates skidding from underneath him—Pike is there, by his side, ungloved hands grabbing and clutching the jersey.

The video ends and goes back to the beginning. 24 HOLLANDER is waiting by the Buffalo goal—

Ilya’s jaw is working overtime, eyes looking up the street one second, down the next. At least his body has mostly calmed down. His fingers are no longer trembling, and the world has come back into focus. It’s only his heartbeat that feels to still be skyrocketing, going up and up with every passing second that the car he’s rented isn’t here.

He should have rented a cab—but then what if the driver recognized him. He should have gone to the airport—but then there are no direct flights to Buffalo. Blyať, blyať, blyať, yob tvoju mať. This is impossible.

The streetlamp above Ilya’s head flickers and a brown Toyota Camry bends the corner to Ilya’s left. It comes to a slow stop next to him.

Ah, thank fucking God.

If the Enterprise employee recognizes him, he doesn’t let it show. He seems to understand that Ilya is in a bind and he goes over the paperwork relatively quickly, seeming almost apologetic when there are additional signatures needed for extra insurance because Ilya will be crossing the border.

Frankly, Ilya would sign the man’s forehead if it helped him.

The Camry is fine. Ilya wants to hate it, but if it gets him to Buffalo in one piece, he might have to start harboring love for the brand. Nothing is grinding or clicking; the driver’s seat is just a bit too worn down and the steering wheel is like a knife in need of sharpening. Nothing too bad.

Leaving downtown Toronto, he tells himself it will be fine. He forces his brain to consider best case scenarios instead of the worst ones (limp hands). It almost works. Only his knuckles are still white with Ilya’s grip on the wheel.

He’s just passing a line of trucks on Queen Elizabeth when his phone rings, Yuna Hollander’s name flashing at him across his navigation.

Fingers scramble to answer. “Yes?”

“Ilya, thank God,” comes from the car’s speaker after the initial seconds of staticky crackle. It’s David’s voice, not Yuna’s. “I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Da, yes. What happened? Where is he?”

Ilya can hear Yuna’s muffled voice in the background.

“My wife says not to worry, but then she’s going over the speed limit, so… But they took him to General in Buffalo.”

“Have you talked to him?” Ilya asks breathlessly. On the outside, he keeps his car from swerving.

“No,” David says with a sigh. “We talked to Hayden. He said Shane lost consciousness in the tunnel, but the medics said it’s probably just a mild concussion. Something with his elbow, we’re not sure.”

“Blyať,” Ilya hisses.

“…on speaker. There you go! Ilya, hi. Don’t worry, okay? David and I are on our way, we should be at the hospital in about three hours and we’ll let you know.”

“I am on my way too,” Ilya says incredulously. His pulse point is pumping so much blood he can feel it against the collar of his jacket. “I will be there in an hour and a half.”

(His navigation says one hour and forty-seven minutes. He steps on the gas.)

“Oh, Ilya.” Yuna’s voice falls in melody, pity and sadness and something he can’t recognize altering the usual timbre.

It may be love—the thing he can’t recognize.

Ilya’s hands relax on the steering wheel, if only by a margin. His body threatens to shrink into itself with the situation. “I tried calling him,” he tells the Hollanders, hating the way his r’s are rolling, rough and sharp against the words. “I tried but he didn’t pick up. I was so…”

It would be untrue to say he doesn’t have the right word. The right word sits like lead on his tongue; he just can’t say it. He cuts, instead, past cars. Lights blur around him, and the worn tires of the Camry are lucky it hasn’t been raining. This, to Ilya, is the only way to express that word. The speed at which he’s going. The way his body holds itself like a statue while the inside of him twists unto itself.

“Scared?” Yuna supplies. “Us too, but it will be okay. Oh, I’m going to give you such a hug at the hospital.”

“Me too, son,” David joins in.

“I will get there first. Before you,” Ilya responds. Part of it is in competition, sure. Another part of it is stating a fact to circle around responding to what the Hollanders just said; another part, the same word he can’t say. “Will I have to tell them?”

There is a beat of uneasy silence. “Probably,” David replies. “Depends, but you might have to.”

Ilya grits his teeth, biting down on the idea of walking into a hospital lobby and saying I am here to see my husband. He’s never said that to anybody.

A car honks at him as he tears around it, and his fingers tense up again.

So what if he’s never said it? There are worse things in the world than doing so now. Worse things than letting it be true.

“Okay,” he says. “Spasibo for calling me.”

“We’ll see you in a bit. Just drive safe, Ilya,” Yuna says instead of saying goodbye. It’s nice, Ilya realizes, to be a person somebody worries about.

It’s high time he stops running from carrying it. It’s high time to realize that not all weight is crushing; not all weight is a burden. Sometimes, weight—like this one—are two hands carefully placed on his shoulders to keep him from floating away when gravity isn’t quite enough.

Buffalo, March 2021

There is a fine layer of foggy confusion when Shane blinks his eyes open. It feels a little bit like waking up late during the summer, in that sweet spot between morning and noon, but the sun-lit illusion disappears when pain rolls in. It starts as a small pinprick at the back of his eyes, but it spreads in small ways until his head and arm throb in dull beats. He quickly closes his eyes again.

“Mr. Hollander.” The voice is feminine. He doesn’t recognize it.

His eyes flutter open, dimmed lights still sharp enough that looking around hurts. A second or two and he realizes he’s in a hospital room. It’s small and private, no other beds other than his, and the TV is off. That’s all he manages to take in before looking to the red-haired nurse standing next to him. She’s got a small trans flag pinned to her pocket, and a thin line of ink peeks out from underneath her sleeve.

Shane carefully unglues his tongue from the roof of his mouth and runs the length of it across his teeth. A vague copper-y taste mixes into his saliva and covers his taste buds like when he takes milk and watches it swirl and seep into a mug of tea.

He grimaces.

“My name is Lily,” she says kindly. Shane smiles. “I see here that a doctor came to see you about half an hour ago when you first woke up. Can tell you tell me if you remember that?”

“That’s funny,” he says instead. Usually, he loves being a good student who tries to nail every question, but for some reason, he’s grinning; unbothered.

“What is?” she asks patiently.

“Your name is Lily,” he says as if that explains anything. “Not like—Not like your name is funny, just like, that you’re Lily. You know?”

Obviously, she can’t know. It makes Shane giggle, but she takes all of it in stride. She consults his vitals or her little board or whatever and tries again: “Do you remember when a doctor came to see you?”

Come to think of it, the fact that he’s in a hospital room didn’t necessarily hit him like a brick. He nods. “I think so,” he says, serious now. “Give me a moment.”

In his groggy state, trying to remember feels a little bit like retreating into himself and trying to catch an apple with his mouth while his hands are bound. It takes him a while and costs a lot of effort, but he finally lands on something.

He squints. “Uhh, something about my elbow? And a concussion. Mild, I think?”

Lily smiles at him, deep lines framing her mouth on both sides. Shane loves looking at people who wear evidence of laughing every day in such an effortless way. He smiles, too. Wonders if there are lines around his mouth or spider-webbing out from the corners of his eyes.

‘You could have just said yes, Mr. Hollander,” she tells him. “But it’s good to know everything’s functioning up there. Just to make sure, though. Mind telling me your name, the date, and where we are right now?”

It’s a lot of words Shane has to weed through. He’s probably frowning with concentration and maybe that’s what’s making his head throb a little more, but he gets there eventually.

“Shane Hollander,” he says, even though the name sounds alien in his mouth. How often do people say their own names out loud? What are the statistics? Is it possible to forget it completely?

“And the date and place, if you will?”

Shane shakes his head.

(Bad decision. Ouch.)

“Sorry. March 8^th, unless it’s past midnight. Then March 9^th. And we’re in Buffalo. Right?”

Fuck, and it’s just a few weeks before the play-offs. He can’t believe he’s screwing his team like this again.

“Perfect,” Lily muses. She really is so pleasant and patient. Shane likes her so much. “Your accident really looked much worse than it was,” she continues, “but we’re keeping you overnight just to keep an eye on everything. Your doctor will be around in a bit to go over the injuries again…”

Shane drifts off just a smidge as she goes on to explain about how he hit his head and how Fischer landed on Shane’s elbow. He turns off completely when she mentions strained ligaments; she’s right to assume a doctor will have to go over it with him later.

The thing is… His brain keeps snagging on the first part of what she said: Your accident really looked much worse than it was. Reaching for older memories is easier, and Shane suddenly remembers the first time he went down on the ice this hard—remembers watching the footage much later in that documentary ESPN ran on him, and how terrifying the split second looked to the outside. Remembers how Ilya stood on the ice then, so scared, and—

“My phone,” Shane chokes out, voice thinning with panic. “Where’s my phone?”

“No screens allowed tonight, I’m afraid.”

“But I need to—” Shane tries to move, but the sharp pain pushing out from his elbow through the swelling stops him almost immediately. “My parents…” He trails off. “I need to call someone.”

Lily gives a small smile, like she’s privy to a secret Shane has no idea about. “Mr. Hollander, I’d really like it if you gave yourself some space to breathe. Your team management called your parents, I believe, and you have a visitor outside. Should I fetch him?”

Him. Him.

It could be Hayden. Or Theriault come to yell at him.

Except neither of them would be let through outside of visiting hours.

“Yes, please,” he answers politely.

“Okay. Just hang tight for a second, and if you need anything at any point, press this button. I’ll come running.”

Lily gives him one more smile, and Shane appreciates that she doesn’t try to comfort him with touching him or fixing his pillow or whatever the alternative to her soft non-verbal reassurance would be. The hint of it he can see in the curve of her mouth is perfect.

When she leaves the room, the throbbing Shane can feel even through the cloak of pain meds becomes louder. It doesn’t really hurt. The pain is just ever-present, like an itch hiding somewhere under the layer of skin he can scratch. The machine-beeping next to his head once drove him crazy, but he got used to it the last time he was in hospital. He remembers to close his eyes and focus on the spaces between the beeps, rather than the sound itself, and curl into them. The more evenly he breathes, the bigger the space is, and the more comfortable he feels.

The door clicks open and then closed in quick succession.

“Lily,” Shane whispers to himself, inaudible. Ilya’s hair is a mess, all ruffled, the way he only lets it fall at their cottage or in their bedroom. His eyes are so huge and blue, shoulders so tense.

God, Shane just likes him so much. He’s smiling, he thinks. Still, or again.

“Lyubov. Shane. Are you awake?”

Careful steps echo and Shane realizes he’s let his eyes fall closed again.

“Mhm,” he murmurs. It’s less of a struggle this time to open them, maybe because he knows his gaze will land on Ilya. And fuck that the lights are making his head hurt—look at how pretty Ilya looks in them. “I’m awake.”

Ilya stops by the foot of the bed at first, but he moves closer at Shane’s dissatisfied mewl.

“You’re all sweaty,” Shane says with a lazy grin, his good arm reaching out and out until Ilya finally grabs it. Ohh, Shane thinks, that’s so nice. “Did they tell you I strained my ligaments?”

“I talked to your doctor, yes. He explained.”

Shane shakes his head. Incredible that Ilya knows what strained ligaments are even though Shane’s got no clue. He’s so smart.

“How are you even here?” he asks.

Ilya has said ‘Sorry’ many times. In the gym after the NHL draft; after winning Fastest Skater at the last All-Stars Game; while picking Shane up and dunking him into the lake. Multiply those by a thousand, but none of them have ever really felt genuine.

The look on Ilya’s face now does. An apology is smeared all over it, from his worried brows all the way down to his pursed lips. “I had to tell them, Shane.”

Shane’s head tilts. “Huh? Tell who what?”

Ilya’s fingers grip Shane’s tighter, but that’s the one kind of pain he’s not going to complain about. “The staff. I had to tell them that…” He sighs, chest expanding like the bed of a volcano. “That I am your husband.”

“Oh.” Ohhhhhhhhhh. “Okay.”

Ilya blinks. “Okay?”

Shane shrugs like the idiot he is and immediately hisses as the pain in his right elbow tears through his body. He goes to move to that side as if to protect ir and grits his teeth through it—nails digging into Ilya’s palm.

“Ugh. Yeah, okay. You are my husband.” This brings the grin back even though he can still feel his heartbeat thumping around the injury. “But how are you here?”

“You asked this already,” Ilya responds with a frown. “Do you need me to call someone?”

A little giggle bubbles out of Shane before he can stop it. This is the first—and only—time that their constant miscommunication seems so fucking funny to him. Like, a simple question. How are you here. And Ilya Rozanov steps onto a path to martyrdom. Oh I am sooo sorry, I had to tell them I’m your husband. Shakespearean tragedy. Meanwhile, Shane’s simply wondering whether Ilya has grown wings or he’s been hiding some magic Speedy Shoes this whole time or he just… drove.

“No,” Shane says when he takes note of Ilya’s worried eyes. Be serious. “I meant… How did you get here?”

Even in this light, Ilya’s cheeks visibly change color. They redden instantly. “I didn’t hear until after the game. I rented a car, got here as fast as I can.”

Ilya’s thumb is so carefully pressing love into the back of Shane’s hand. It reminds Shane of a different night; a different season; wooden floor holding their bodies; Shane running over his vows in his head again and again.

(He could still recite them.)

Then Ilya commits the crime of touching his other thumb to Shane’s cheek.

A different hospital room, a different them. So much irony in his body aching like this again, almost like the universe is saying:

here are some bruised ribs, here are strained ligaments, here is a mild concussion.

but.

I’ll be nice. the side dish is a chance to rebuild something if you’re stupid enough or brave enough or both to do it.

“Did you win the game?” Shane asks quietly.

“Is not important,” Ilya argues. “But yes. We did.”

The corner of Shane’s mouth goes up. “Good for you,” he says, and he even means it.

Despite the fog, Shane wishes they could stay like this forever. He can tell that his edges are a little blunt thanks to the meds, but he can also feel that they’re getting marginally sharper by the second. The lights in the room seem brighter, the pain in his elbow more immediate. At the same time, his eyelids lay heavier every time he blinks.

“Shane,” Ilya says all of a sudden. His body looks so big as it hovers closer.

“I want a hug,” Shane complains.

Ilya leans down. Instead of hugging, he softly lays his curly head against Shane’s left shoulder. He doesn’t have to utter the word careful for Shane to understand it. It’s only for a few seconds, but it’s almost enough.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Shane whispers quickly before Ilya’s weight completely disappears. “I’m so sorry, Ilya.”

“No no, don’t. Name of the game, like you said that time, yes?”

“C’mere,” Shane says like he didn’t hear a word. “C’mon.”

When Ilya rests his head back down, Shane does his best to hold him closer with his unhurt arm. Not just hold—pull. This time, when Shane blinks, he lets his eyes rest for an extra beat. He knows he could fall asleep like this, Ilya’s breath next to his, bodies overlapping like somebody has put two strips of film over each other.

Groggily, he says: “I’m sorry I left.”

Ilya pulls away. “I should have asked you to stay,” he whispers, voice thick.

Shane’s fingers go up and touch the curls falling haphazardly across Ilya’s forehead. He should touch them more. On sunny days and cold mornings and before practice and in the middle of the night. He should run his fingers through Ilya’s hair all the time.

“Will you?” Shane asks stupidly. “Stay?”

Ilya takes his hand. “Da. Always. Will you leave?”

“Nope, never.” Shane sighs contentedly. “I will freak out tomorrow, about the husband thing I mean, and we need to talk about the divorce and— But that’s tomorrow.”

“They told me they could not let me in—”

“I like the husband thing,” Shane shushes him. “Will freak out anyway, you know me. Mhmm, do you think I could nap while you hold my hand?”

Shane’s eyes are positively closed and he can feel himself drifting. He hears Ilya step away, followed by the scrape of a chair as Ilya drags it to the bedside. It splices through Shane’s brain like he’s an onion about to be fried, but then Ilya’s hand is back on his and—yep, that’s nice.

“Wake me up when my parents get here, okay?” Shane mumbles sleepily.

“Okay.”

“Okey,” Shane repeats with a smile. “Thank you for coming to see me. Ohh.” One eye squints open. “What car did you rent?”

Over their joined hands and twisted fingers, he sees Ilya roll his eyes. “Toyota Camry. Ugly shit brown.”

Shane thinks he laughs. “You loveee me,” he sing-songs.

If there’s a response, he doesn’t hear it. Before his edges finish sharpening and everything that’s hurt comes back into center focus, the meds allow him to float away. For all the fear and pain, Shane can’t recall the last time he was this happy.

Chapter End Notes

we're getting to the good stuff y'all!!!

thank you so much for reading, commenting and leaving kudos!! never did i think i'd be here with these numbers and i'm grateful 24/7 🥲

i'm on tumblr if you want to chat or hang out.

♥

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

hi, so happy to see you here. i hope you enjoy this one. ♥

Buffalo, March 2021

“Are you comfortable, do you have everything?”

“Yes, Mom, Jesus. You know you can stop babying me, right?”

Ilya turns away from the two Hollanders with a smile he’s barely managing to bite back. They had a good night all things considered, even if Ilya had to fold himself into a chair like he was an origami swan, and a nurse came in to wake Shane up and check on him so-many-times. This morning feels a bit more like their normal.

“I find it best to wait it out,” David says from where he’s standing. A respectable distance from the ugly Camry—Ilya joins him.

“Your sling is sitting weird, and did they ever give you the referral for physical therapy?”

“Mom.”

“I enjoy this view.” Ilya takes his place next to David. “She’s his match,” he comments as he and David both watch while Yuna almost physically fights Shane for the seatbelt until they awkwardly click it in together.

David hums. “Hmm. I think he’s found his match elsewhere.”

Ilya is used to having eyes on him, but it’s different when it follows a sentence like that. There hasn’t been much space to talk about the Big D (the divorce)—Shane’s injuries are taking clean and clear priority. Ilya doesn’t appreciate that it leaves him stranded like this, though, with David Hollander who likes to drink Russian vodka and is more of a father to Ilya than he’s ever known.

The knowledge that Ilya’s been ignoring both him and Yuna stings whenever he remembers it, and sometimes even when he doesn’t.

“Well, am I wrong?” David presses.

He wants to say no, but to be honest, he’s not sure he’s anybody’s match. Aren’t people supposed to be like puzzle pieces? Once they fit, they fit. If that is true, then no—Shane has not found his match elsewhere, and definitely not in Ilya. But. How is he supposed to know that they’ve been put together? Puzzling is not so straightforward. Sometimes you try to fit two pieces from the wrong side and it takes you a while to figure out you have to flip them. Maybe that’s what they’re doing—they’ve put themselves apart to approach each other from the right side. This is not just up to Ilya to decide, though.

“Maybe,” he says in the end.

David doesn’t say anything to that, but he heaves the smallest of sighs. It’s possible that if the wind blew in the opposite direction or wasn’t blowing at all, Ilya wouldn’t catch it.

“And you’ll call your doctor the second you start feeling dizzy, correct? No heroics.” Yuna finally unglues herself from the passenger door and turns around. “Ilya, I’m counting on you to keep an eye on him.”

Ilya quickly glances in Shane’s direction. “Of course,” he says, amused again. “I will not let him be a hero. At all.”

Shane very visibly rolls his eyes.

Before they depart, Yuna kisses both of Ilya’s cheeks in silent thank you, and gives his shoulders her signature squeeze. David grants him a half-hug.

And then Ilya is back behind the wheel of the Camry, and it feels like nothing has even happened. Like the hospital is barely anything but a brief blip, and his frantic drive from Toronto happened years ago or not even at all; or he’s never left this driver’s seat.

Except Shane is next to him. It may be the only change, but it’s also the biggest.

“My parents love you more than me,” Shane says as Ilya pulls out of the parking lot and the Hollanders shrink and shrink in the rearview mirror.

Ilya scoffs. “No, they don’t. Or maybe yes. Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the airport? Is a long drive.” Over four hours if they’re going to Ottawa; six if they want to go all the way to Montreal. Nothing but the road ahead of them keeping their time.

Shane settles against the passenger seat. “No,” he says plainly.

Ilya swallows, keeping his eyes on the road as he merges into the ongoing traffic. His glance at Shane is a half-stolen thing, quick and cautious. “Flying would be quicker.”

“I don’t care,” Shane grumbles. He sighs, the noise sharp and cutting through the silence of the car. “I wanna be around you right now, okay?”

Ilya hums and bites his cheek to hide the smile that’s slowly creeping out. He feels like he’s just picked Shane up for date night, the way Shane’s admission sets butterflies loose in his belly. He has to look to the side; arm propped against the door, he buries his lips in the palm of his hand.

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says. “You just wanted me to say it out loud. You’re unbelievable.”

“Eh, what’s so bad about it?”

“Ugh. Take me to the airport.”

Ilya shakes his head. “Nope. How’s your head, and your elbow?”

“Head hurts a little bit,” Shane replies with a small smile curling his own mouth, “and my elbow feels weird, like it’s not even mine. It’s different than last time. Head’s better.”

Ilya hums in response, nodding. He’s had his fair share of bruises, but no hospital stays. It makes him paranoid sometimes—like when it finally happens, it will be career-ending, and it’s bound to happen. It happens to everyone.

“And your ribs?”

“Okay, how about you stop feeling guilty about stupid shit? So you checked me into the boards, big deal.”

Ilya once called Shane Salsa, but not the dance. With good reason.

“Okay, so, can I ask if you’re freaking out instead? Is that a better question for you?”

Shane squirms. Ilya can only see it out of the corner of his eye, but it still makes his breath hitch at the back of his throat, just a little. After the Hollanders arrived, there was also very little—if any—space to talk about the husband thing. Shane slowly came off his high and Ilya has been itching for a reaction of… well, any sort. It’s very hard to do anything when he doesn’t know whether he’s on even ground or on ice or trying to walk on water.

“I freaked out a little bit,” Shane finally admits. “When you were napping, I asked my mom to look at HIPAA and stuff.”

(Ilya imagines the Google searches: HIPAA, What’s protected under HIPAA, Is marital status protected under HIPAA, Can hospital staff disclose a patient is matried to the press???)

“And?”

“And it’s generally not allowed for anybody to tell, like, third parties or anything without our explicit authorization.” Shane huffs out a breath. “Which is good, but I was also freaking out about… just, you know. You drove all the way and we’ve made such a mess, didn’t we?”

Ilya laughs, but it’s a small sound. “Yes, Shane, I guess you can say that.”

The navigation quietly tells Ilya to take the exit for I-190. Their words have gotten a little bigger than the car, so Ilya lets them sit before they evaporate. The morning traffic keeps him plenty occupied, and he doesn’t know what to add, anyway. Not everything can or should be said at the beginning of six-hour-long drives, or confined into vehicles at all. He’d love to not have this conversation at a gas station, too.

“You should get some sleep, Hollander,” Ilya says in a much quieter voice.

“You just want to listen to bad music,” Shane argues.

“Ay, you think every music is bad.”

It gets a small chuckle out of Shane—they both know it’s true. He shuffles again, leaning in the passenger seat towards Ilya. He’s so clearly asking to be comforted, and who’s Ilya to say no? He reaches out, thumb caressing Shane’s freckled cheek; falling to his shoulder; slowly coming to rest on the back of Shane’s palm.

“I’m serious. Get some sleep, chashka.”

Shane twists their fingers together. “What’s that?”

“Like a small cup. Of tea maybe.”

“I’ll have some sleep,” Shane starts, “if you promise to think of something normal to call me while you drive at a legal speed.”

“Good,” Ilya says, but the truth is that he’s never even started speeding. He’s too aware of potholes and Shane’s head and—yeah. But Shane doesn’t need to know that.

Ilya keeps their fingers joined and resting over Shane’s thigh until Shane’s warm and then relax as he drifts off to sleep.

And also after that.

Ottawa, March 2021

“Here’s an espresso for you, cap.”

Barrett’s mop of dark hair comes into view before his hands, but soon enough, there’s a small banana-yellow mug placed in front of Ilya. He’s thirsty for a quick shot of caffeine, but even though it’s ten full degrees warmer than it was a couple of days ago in Toronto, he yearns for a good mug of tea. Not just some trashy Lipton black-tea-lookalike—no, proper Russian tea, hot samovar water pouring over zavarka.

“Thanks,” he says nervously anyway. Ilya’s got both—a samovar and a beautifully concentrated zavarka—back at the condo, but he needed to meet Troy in neutral territory.

“Yeah, sure.” Troy plops into the chair opposite Ilya without fanfare. “So why did you want to talk? Is this like a separate team meeting where you tell me I suck?”

Ilya waves his hand. “No. Wiebe would tell you that. He is much better at that talk than me.”

Troy scoffs. “Yeah, I can’t imagine you doing it gracefully.”

“I’m very graceful. But no. I wanted to meet you for, ah… personal reasons.” Like the fact that Barrett was the only person who saw Ilya’s hasty exit after their Toronto game. Like the fact that Barrett seemed to clock absolutely everything without Ilya so much as uttering a single word. This was a problem.

Maybe the idea to meet in a cutesy little family-owned café was not the best idea. It’s so clean—tiled floors, white chairs, fucking banana-yellow cups.

(Or maybe that’s good. Maybe that’s part of what will make this all feel less like a dirty little secret.)

(Even if it’s a big maybe.)20.

Troy’s eyebrow shoots up. The guy looks nervous, but then he’s looked nervous ever since his trade to Ottawa. Like he’s expecting somebody to jump him at every corner, and, Illya guesses, tell him that he sucks.

“Personal reasons?”

“Barrett,” Ilya starts. “About Toronto.”

“Oh. Listen, Rozanov, you don’t have to—”

Ilya shushes him with a wave of his hand. “Yes, I do. I should thank you.”

“I mean, sure, you can thank me, I guess.”

Ilya blinks. “Thank you.”

Troy gives a nod of acknowledgment and then takes his matcha while clearing his throat. He takes the gentlest of sips. Ilya watches the awkwardness roll over him like a tidal wave. Troy even wistfully looks out the window.

With a sigh, Ilya’s fingers touch the rim of his cup and twirl it around its axis. He can’t tell what he wanted from this meeting, but this isn’t it. it would be an overstatement to say that he wishes Barrett would use his mouth to ask things, kind of like Svetlana, but Ilya doesn’t really know how to talk without it. Certainly, there must be a place inside him where unwarranted honesty resides, but he hasn’t found it yet. Or he found it many years ago and labelled it oversharing, gross, don’t do this.

And yet he keeps putting himself at the centre of these conversations.

Downing the espresso in two big gulps burns like swallowing a lit match, but Ilya does it anyway.

“So here is the thing,” Ilya bites out. “I think you know, Barrett.”

Troy’s eyes jump away from the street milling with people, eyes squinting against the toothy winter sun. “I don’t… I don’t know what you think I know, but…”

“Mm, is kind of like, I know you have a crush on Harris. Correct?”

Barrett purses his lips.

“Yes. So, I think you know this thing about me, too, but it’s not just up to me to talk about it. Do you understand?” Troy gives another nod. Ilya’s wedding ring lies heavier but warmer against his chest. “But I think it’s okay that you know.”

Shane would have probably phrased the last thing like a question, but Ilya can’t bring himself to do it. Maybe, if he states these things as fact, they will become fact. Call it one of his bad habits from childhood, where Russian was all he knew and what mattered most was the intonation around the unchanging word order. His father always said You want to score at least three times. Never a question. You don’t want to say a word. I will talk to the scout. This and that, whatever, but Ilya can’t always shape his voice around questions all these years later, anyway.

(Up for debate whether he is still mimicking his father or there’s a part of him that’s still in the same spot his father put him.)

“It is okay!” Troy exclaims. “Totally. I’m not going to tell anyone anything, obviously. These things are fucking complicated even just… outside of hockey, I get it. But if you… I guess, ever need anything, I’m here, you know?”

Ilya looks Troy up and down. The man hasn’t said this many words since joining the Centaurs, like speaking up against Toronto’s Kent used up all of his vocabulary, not just cost him a spot on a good team.

“Calm down, Barrett,” he says, “you’ll spill your moss drink.”

Barrett smirks. “Yeah, sure. But you know what I mean.”

“Yes. And thank you, again. Maybe I will… take that offer some time.” Because it wouldn’t be so bad to have a friend that isn’t hundreds of miles away, would it?

“Is it that obvious?” Barrett asks all of a sudden. “The… The Harris thing?”

Ilya smiles; this he can do. “No. But I’ve got a nose for these things.”

Montreal, March 2021

Four or so months have passed since the last time Ilya was here, but Shane hasn’t changed anything about his Montreal apartment. It’s still funny, stepping into spaces that used to feel familiar but bear a touch of the unknown now. It’s like Ilya expects new furniture, or for walls to have been brought down between rooms, but no. Everything is where it used to be; it even smells the same.

Shane does look different. He’s still got the sling supporting his elbow, but there’s something about him that’s shifted. It might be the casual clothes—Ilya hasn’t seen him in those in… a very long time—or it might be that his hair isn’t styled. But there is something.

It might just be the fact that after he opens the door, he kisses Ilya right on the corner of his mouth. And his hi lands softly. Feels like cotton all over Ilya.

“Hey,” he says dumbly.

Ilya’s body wants to react. Hands want to reach out, mouth wants to chase, arms want to hold. Ilya clears his throat and shrugs off his jacket instead, hanging it next to Shane’s. His shoes end up next to Shane’s, too.

It’s just—he doesn’t want to cause hurt. They need to talk before anything.

“How are—”

“I missed you,” Shane says, and it’s like their roles have reversed. Shane’s left hand comes to the side of Ilya’s face naturally, and Shane’s second kiss comes in a little heavier, a little deeper. His lips are still soft and melty against Ilya’s, but they press in with different urgency.

Ilya is careful—his right arm goes up and over Shane’s shoulder, fingers catching over the nape of Shane’s neck, nesting, ruffling baby hairs, investigating the soft skin that meets the collar of Shane’s shirt.

His teeth catch Shane’s bottom lip.

It feels so easy. It felt like dredging through mud in their condo the other time—there is no mud here, just clear water that’s begging to be swum through.

“Missed you too,” Ilya whispers into Shane’s mouth before kissing him again.

Ilya is talking about the past months. The past year. Not just I missed you since I dropped you off three days ago. Maybe Shane means it that way, too.

His heart rattles against his ribcage.

It would be so effortless to have Shane, and he wants to, but—but. He can’t. He pushes his other hand against Shane’s chest with a grunt. His eyes are closed, like looking would tip him over into not-thinking.

“We…” He trails off and swallows. “We said talk when we texted.”

Shane rubs his face down Ilya’s jaw and nuzzles his throat. A small whine escapes his mouth. “I know,” he murmurs, “and we should.”

Ilya exhales. His hands gently take Shane’s face and pull it up until they are looking at each other. “Let’s do it, Hollander. Get it over with.”

Shane nods.

The irony is not lost on Ilya when they sit down by the table. Its edges are wooden but a glass panel runs up the middle, and it reminds him of the lawyer’s office. Here, too, they sit across from each other. On Ilya’s left—the warmth of the apartment. On his right—tall glass windows, and the world behind them. Shane’s chair scrapes when he sits down and pulls himself towards the table.

Ilya softly places his hands on the wood, palms down.

(“Where do you want me? In the kitchen, on the floor…?”)

Shane curls his in his lap and looks down at them.

A small smile pulls at Ilya’s mouth. “Mediation,” he says mockingly, imitating the lawyer’s voice with a little bit of added flare.

Shane snorts. “I mean, that’s not so far from the truth, is it.”

“It’s like a negotiation,” Ilya continues with his mocking tone, this time repeating what Shane said during the meeting.

Shane shuffles in his chair, but the teasing brings his gaze up and up, until it meets Ilya’s. He probably thinks he looks so annoyed, but Ilya can see the trace of a smirk. “Shut up,” he says.

Ilya gives a brief smile on his own, but then pulls his face straight. The same way he can’t rely on fucking Shane and counting on it to translate as an admission, he can’t rely on jokes and teasing to show he’s nervous. But he is. The very idea of this situation makes his heartrate go up and nothing has even been said yet.

“Sorry,” he says. “I want to be serious. Talking is just… hard for me. It feels like everything depends on this, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees easily. “It’s hard for me too, but I’ve been thinking a lot, and I have things to say, but maybe we could cover logistics first? And then I’ll say the rest, and… you can too, obviously.”

“Sure,” Ilya says. He should have grabbed a glass of water, or maybe a shot of vodka. “Sounds good.”

It really must be easier for Shane to talk about this first—he seems to come alive a bit. He sits up straighter and taller; his good hand comes to rest on the table across from Ilya’s. His eyes are pinned to his fingers as they move around the table in a pattern that mirrors what he’s saying.

“We obviously handed over all the paperwork for a divorce, right?” Pointer finger to the left; down. “But we haven’t given our go-ahead, so I’m assuming it hasn’t been filed yet.” Middle finger; down. “Same for the separation agreement. It may have been drafted, but we haven’t signed anything.” Look to Ilya.

“No, I haven’t signed anything.”

Ring finger down.

Oh. Wait.

Shane’s wedding ring is on that finger. Not in a pocket, not on a chain around his neck—on that finger. How has Ilya missed it? How did he not feel it against his cheek earlier, how did his eyes not catch a glint of it when they sat down? How is it there? Maybe that really means—

“…ntment. Are you listening? What’s wrong?”

Ilya blinks himself back into the present and forces himself to tear his eyes away from Shane’s hand. The rush of his own blood quiets down and recedes from his eardrums.

“No… Nothing. I am listening.” He quickly, hopefully nonchalantly, catches his necklace by the clasp and threads it through his fingers until it escapes his black tee. Until the cross and his own wedding band are sitting in the middle of his chest. He nods, keep going, don’t make a big deal out of this.

“I was saying we should probably make an appointment with him just to make sure,” Shane repeats. He hasn’t noticed. All four fingers except his thumb are down now, and he is looking at Ilya, but he hasn’t noticed the movement. Too wrapped up in what he’s saying, no doubt, rattling off the list of things he’s prepared.

“Okay,” Ilya agrees again.

“Unless you want to go through with it,” Shane adds.

“Sht— What? Go through with it?” Ilya can feel himself pulling away, half-an-inch by half-an-inch, like he didn’t manage to dodge a slap so he’s left to a soft retreat.

“No, wait.” Shane shakes his head and his hand relaxes. It slides across his wooden edge and the glass panel until it reaches Ilya’s space. The touch is cautious, thumb running over Ilya’s knuckles soothingly. “I said it wrong, or I didn’t say the whole thing… Can I try again?”

Ilya swallows and nods; begs his mind to stay here and not go running.

“What I meant is, like… We can go through with it, we’ve started the process, and maybe you see it as a fresh start. I’m not saying I want to, I just… wanted to let you know that if that’s what you wanted, I could give it to you— give you the space, and we could try again.”

Part of Ilya wants to crack a joke. Wants to say: You are eager to marry me twice, Hollander?

A bigger part of him is quiet. People talk about lumps in their throats, like a dam holding back tears, but what Ilya feels is a fist. Fingers curled and all, lodged at the back of his mouth, squeezing. “No,” he says over it. “I don’t want that.”

Shane squeezes his hand. “Thank the fucking God, Rozanov. Me either. I don’t want it either.”

“Shane,” Ilya says and he wishes his voice didn’t sound so wet; wishes that the fist in his throat was doing a better job when in reality it is beginning to soften. “Are you done with the logistics?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, what do you… Say what you need to say.”

“Because I think I fucked us up,” Ilya continues, and he would have continued even if Shane tried to talk about the most efficient way to talk to their lawyer. “This is my fault.”

“Ilya. No.” Shane’s chair scrapes again. Ilya watches numbly as Shane circles the table, sitting down next to Ilya.

(On Ilya’s left—the world.)

“This is not your fault,” Shane urges. His hand finds Ilya’s like it’s never left, but all of Ilya’s space is now Shane, and he breathes it in in a series of sharp inhales. The fist in his throat is lax. A tear is threatening to go. “Actually, we both fucked up.”

“Yeah?” Ilya mumbles.

“We were both gone all the time and we couldn’t meet in the middle and Jesus, I hated all of it. I hated it so much and I thought I was hurting you and I didn’t want to say anything or I was just gonna make it worse.”

Ilya nods, nods, nods. “I thought you were happy and I didn’t want to make my sad ruin it for you.”

Shane’s hand lifts, and Ilya is embarrassed to feel his fingers chase after it at first. Shane moves closer yet, chair going scrr-scrr-scrr until their knees are bumping and their faces are inches away.

“When you said you wanted marriage,” Shane starts, the shrunken distance between them making it possible for him to merely whisper, “I wanted it too. I wanted nothing more. I want nothing more. You are my husband, Ilyusha.” A beat of silence. “I don’t know if I said it right.”

Ilya’s face splits in a grin—he can feel it, the way his cheeks go up as if to cradle the escaping tears. “Mr. Perfect. Who is teaching you this?”

“Svetlana might have reached out to me.”

“Everybody talking to everybody behind our backs,” Ilya mumbles. He swallows his own smile, the tears, whatever else. He lets his ears echo with the diminutive, so alien and awkward but right in Shane’s mouth. Finally, he moves—angles his body so that they’re facing each other, leaning and leaning into.

Their noses bump, too.

“I still want this,” Shane reiterates.

“Ya bol'she nichego ne khochu,” he says. “That means ‘I want nothing else’, Shane. Just you.”

Shane leaves a trail of pepper-kisses up Ilya’s cheek. “I didn’t just Google couples therapy,” he teases. “I Googled how to get my Slavic husband to agree.”

Ilya laugh-snorts through his stuffed noise. “You are the asshole. I keep telling you this.”

“Maybe, but I love you,” Shane deadpans. It flies out of his mouth like nothing. “And I will fight for this.”

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” Ilya says something into Shane’s mouth. “Now fucking kiss me already.”

Maybe Ilya was the clenched fist—when Shane kisses him, he finally, slowly unfurls.  

Chapter End Notes

how are we FEELING!!

you can come hang out with me on tumblr (askbox always open) if you wanna. other than that, i hope you're having a cute lil day wherever and whenever you are. ♥

pst yes we still have two more chapters to go, we are not done yet!!

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

20k hits!! i've never EVER seen that number on a fic i wrote. thank you so much!!!

and as always, thank you for being here today. i hope you enjoy. ♥

Montreal, March 2021

March has eaten half of itself. Spring is around the corner, and with it the end of the regular season. They have about a month’s worth of games left, and every away-game is going to feel like the day before Christmas now, even if Shane isn’t going to be playing it. At least the sling will be off with the upcoming physio appointment, and if he follows the designated regimen—which he will—he might be back on the ice a game or two before the play offs. The Voyageurs have been playing well. Well enough that Shane would place it somewhere between good and great on the proverbial scale, so there is always a chance.

Not that Shane is thinking about any of it this very second.

Caught in a pleasant limbo, he’s more focused on Ilya and the chin-shaped hole he’s trying to dig into the left side of Shane’s chest. His blackout blinds have been clicked open, and Ilya’s eyes look to be an impossible shade of blue.

(“It’s really kind of a washed out blue when you think about it. Like somebody’s run it through a dryer or something, right?”)

(“No. His eyes are the exact shade of blue you see when you look up at the sky on a cloudless summer day. Nobody would ever call it washed out. You’re not going to make me feel better by lying, Rose.”)

(“Well, I could try.”)

“How’s your schedule looking for the next few weeks?” Shane asks. One of his legs is asleep and his wrist twists every time he tangles his fingers further into Ilya’s curls. For now, though, he refuses to give an inch or move a muscle. There’s nowhere he’d rather be.

Ilya blows raspberry. It’s funny, the ease with which they’ve slipped back into something that Shane thought they’ve lost. The room feels light, not just Shane.

“All over the place,” he says. “Couple of games in Ottawa, but we hit the road one more time. St. Luis, Edmonton, Seattle, New York.”

“That’s a long one,” Shane comments. He tries really hard not to say it with a layer of dread underneath, but he’s not sure he manages. The dread is there, burrowing itself into him. It’s not so dissimilar from the dull ache that sometimes shoots out of his elbow when he exercises it.

Ilya nods and his chin digs even deeper. “Mhm. Yes.”

“Montreal is mostly playing at home for the rest of the month. I should be able to start going to practice soon, and there’s one game we’re playing in LA that I might tag along for. I haven’t seen Rose in ages, might be nice.”

Ilya groans and presses his forehead into Shane’s chest instead of his sharp, sharp chin. His head moves and Shane’s fingers slip out of his hair even through a couple knots that momentarily choke around his knuckles. Ilya tries to hide it, just like Shane, but it’s audible in the lowness of his voice: God, Hollander, I didn’t ask, I don’t want to think about this now.

“Sorry,” Ilya mumbles. “I wanted to look at your stupid face. Now I have to think about not seeing it. For how long?”

Shane allows himself a sigh. Even though Ilya’s head goes up and down with his chest, it feels like it will get lost in the warmth of the sheets around them, or like it’s a small crime he can get away with. All the while, he’s doing the math in his brain; catches himself running to old patterns. They’re stitched together with not worth it’s and next time’s and too long’s. Hungry, incomplete things that Shane doesn’t want to entertain anymore.

Stubbornly, he dips his fingers back into Ilya’s hair. “We’ll figure it out,” he says instead of getting lost in games and away-time. “When’s the next time you’re free in the evening?”

Ilya groans again. At least this time, it sounds like general discontent at having to make his brain work so early after waking up. He unglues himself from Shane’s body, leaving behind a warmed up patch that suddenly feels empty. To Shane, it feels like sitting down in front of the fireplace and then suddenly looking to the side, or lazing about in the sun when a cloud suddenly crosses the sky. He shivers.

“Next Thursday. We have late game on Wednesday, then a day off. Then the trip.”

Shane closes his eyes to imagine the Voyageurs' schedule. He wishes Ilya said tomorrow or something—in almost a week’s time, the sling will be off and he’ll be on the ice. Not playing, but practicing. Boosting morale; being a captain from the sidelines. Will have to be.

As he’s thinking, they reshuffle—Ilya slides into the nest between Shane and his outreached arm, palm resting on Shane’s lower belly.

“I can do Thursday,” Shane says with a gulp. “We’re playing in the afternoon, but we’re playing at home. If you drive here in the morning, we could have a bit of time and then in the evening, maybe?”

No hangs in the air. The two-hour drive that embraces mere slivers of time rears its ugly head, and it’s like they’re saying goodbye and see you soon before next Thursday ever happens, and Shane’s briefly transported back into this weird vacuum of existing in the past, the future, but never the present. He’s grinding his teeth, isn’t he?

“Shane,” Ilya says. “We will be okay.”

Molars push into molars, tongue against the incisors. Like trying to bring down a brick wall with bare hands.

“We also need to make the appointment, though, with the lawyer. And if something goes wrong and the divorce gets filed in the meantime, and we can’t agree on a good time—”

“Hollander.” Ilya props himself up on his arm and forces his face right into Shane’s line of sight, until they’re looking at each other. “Even if it gets filed, there is no separation agreement. We agreed to not separate, yes? So, nothing is signed.”

Shane looks away again, somewhere over Ilya’s head. “It’s still… I don’t know. It feels so complicated.”

“Okay. So we make the appointment.”

“What, now?’

“Yes, now. You take your phone and you call the office and you say I would like to make an appointment. All polite.”

“But we’re naked in bed—”

“You’re going to Facetime the receptionist?” Ilya asks, his face completely serious, eyebrow arched up. Like he’s really asking something so ridiculous.

“Obviously not,” Shane grits out.

“So? You can put it on speaker, we can call together. And then we have an appointment and one more hour before we have to get up. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Shane admits almost sheepishly, already reaching for his phone. “Sounds good.”

“You know you don’t have to come to the LA game, right?”

Shane nods even though Rose can’t see him. His phone is on speaker, resting atop the table in his living room, while he goes through the list of exercises his physical therapist has given him. Some movements make him wince, but a least he can do this sitting down, and he gets to take off the sling, and he gets to talk to somebody. Rose, in this case.

“I know,” he says, bending his wrist backwards and forwards. It makes him feel like a corpse coming back to life. “But I want to see you, it’s been ages.”

“I’ll be in Montreal after the summer,” she argues. “It’s really no big deal.”

“Do you have a new boyfriend you don’t want me to meet or something?”

She huffs. “Yeah, five of them. All are straight, obviously.”

Shane laughs; then winces again as he forgets his current range of motion and moves his whole arm upwards. “I’m serious,” he continues. “Do you not want me to come?”

“No, dumbo, of course I want you to come. I miss your face so much, but shouldn’t you, I don’t know, spend that time with Ilya?”

Shane is glad that Rose can’t see him, actually. His neck and cheeks warm, blood rushing and flooding the vessels. Coloring them a lovely shade of red, no doubt. His wrist is buzzing so Shane relaxes his position and gently rests his hand on his knee. Although he doesn’t resit, it feels like he’s sinking further into his sofa.

He doesn’t quite know what to say.

Ilya left a little over an hour ago, and it says everything that Shane texted Rose almost immediately. He’s not so far from a teenager who finally kissed the person he’s been crushing on since he was a freshman. I don’t kiss and tell belongs to the Shane that talks to the media, not to the Shane that couldn’t stop smiling after the door closed; not to the Shane who can’t shake the phantom of Ilya’s smell and touch; not to the Shane who ran to his phone and sent a series of exclamation marks with no explanation, their goodbye kiss still rolling through his lips like gentle waves.

“Shouldn’t you?” Rose asks again.

Shane straightens his back and clears his throat. He’s not sure how many sets he’s done with his wrist, so he moves on to the next exercise.

“I don’t know,” he says, bending his elbow and then slowly turning his hand until he’s got it palm up. He counts one, two, three, four, five seconds and relaxes it again. “It’s just, I want it to be different this time.”

“Different how? Hold on—” a loud crash follows that makes Shane wince more than the exercises, “—shit, I broke a jar of vegemite. That was real Aussie vegemite!”

Shane grimaces. “Congratulations,” he deadpans.

“Oh, shut up. I have to clean it up but keep talking. So different how?”

One, two, three, four, five seconds and Shane makes himself answer. “I don’t want it to be like, I don’t know. Like we got back together so I’m going to cling to him and then yay summer, and then what? The same shit again? I’ll be calling the lawyer by February again or something.”

“Listen, I was with you until the half point, but you really can’t go into it with this attitude, Shaney.”

“Really? What would you know, you can’t even keep a jar of vegemite intact.”

“Like, I understand you don’t want to get stuck in the puppy love stage or whatever, but you can’t go into this already thinking you will fail. You’re manifesting the wrong shit, Shane.”

Shane’s chest balloons and then he breathes out deeply. Through the window, a lot of bright daylight fights its way in, and it may be a little bit too early in the day to be having this sort of conversation. Maybe calling the lawyer and making the appointment should have been the cap of all adulting today.

That includes the exercises—Shane’s still got two left on the list, but he throws in the towel and puts his sling back on. He can try again later.

“What do you tell yourself when you’re about to go out onto the ice?”

“I tell myself and my team that we’re going to win,” he recites. That line is something that’s so deeply engraved into him that he doesn’t even question it. It’s the core of all his belief, probably. “But we don’t always win.”

“Yeah, but I think you’d lose a lot more if you told your team, I don’t know…” Rose clears her throat and when she speaks again, her voice is comically low. “You guys all suck and we’re going to lose to the worst team in the League now. We won’t even score, rah-rah-rah.”

“I don’t sound like that at all.”

“Yeah, because you’re smarter than that. And I don’t know why you’re trying to attempt marriage with that attitude.”

Shane tiredly rubs his forehead. Originally, he just wanted to talk about the evening. Wanted to brag about how they talked, and what Ilya’s Russian sounded like, and how good it was to be kissed by him. The worst part about Rose are not her cringy jokes but the unwarranted reality checks she whips out at the most inconvenient moments.

Or the moments he needs it the most.

“I know,” he concedes in the end. “I know you’re right. And I want us to be good at this, but I also don’t think it’s just about… hanging out all the time. I think it’s about talking, and telling him he matters.”

“Aww, babe. I always knew you had it in you,” she says, and she sounds a little sniffly. He can only hope it's over his salvaged marriage and not the vegemite. “Remember I tried to tell you after that appointment?”

Shane grabs the phone and takes it off speaker, holding the phone to his ear instead. “Ugh, don’t remind me. That was such a fucking nightmare.”

“And look at you now! And you said you made an appointment to withdraw?”

“Yeah, but it’s not until the first week of April. We… could have made it next week, but we only have that one day to see each other and I want to, like, I don’t know. Have a romantic evening with Ilya, I guess, before we don’t see each other for a while.”

Rose hums, though it’s interrupted by the sound of shards clinking together in the background. “Tell me more,” she sing-songs. “My romantic life is in shambles. I need to leech off of something, spare no details.”

Something in Shane’s chest gives and he finally relaxes. Rose’s question feels like permission to want this, and to want to do it their way. “So I may have ordered a couple of heated lamps that I can put up on the roof…”

“…so we won’t be too cold. Bear with me.”

They’re not exactly racing each other up the stairs—they’re holding hands, actually—but their steps are rushed. They haven’t seen each other in a week and if Shane didn’t take them up to the rooftop immediately, he doesn’t know that he’d have the restraint.

“All I’m hearing is secret rooftop place you never showed me,” Ilya breathes behind Shane. He’s one step below him and his warm breath hits Shane right at the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his body.

Shane doesn’t say anything. They’re almost at the rooftop door, and he is nervous. Light anxiety has been sitting in his belly all day, and although at least half of it was related to Montreal’s game, the other half is bubbling right now—reaching it’s boiling point.

His brain supplies: it’s colder than anticipated; cloudy, it might end up raining. The food in his little container might not have stayed warm; Ilya might not like this. The heating lamps could break, they could get hemorrhoids from sitting on cold chairs. It could remind both of them of that rooftop in Las Vegas a decade ago, where they tried and couldn’t understand each other.

But. But Shane knows he’s here for a reason, and he needs to trust his gut.

He opens the door to Ilya with an unspoken ta-dah.

As they both step out, Shane tries to see it through Ilya’s eyes—or simply eyes that aren’t his.

The rooftop is not a romantic place by design. There’s debris that has gathered over the years, sand and dirt and dried up leaves. Shane didn’t have the time to clean it up, and water has turned into miniature puddle-shaped rinks where it rained the other night before the temperature plummeted.

But a few feet to the right, there is a small table with two chairs standing next to it, like they’d see in a garden somewhere. Granted, it looks a little ominous without the two giant heating lamps on, so Shane quickly skips around Ilya and plugs them in. A few seconds of buzzing-whirring later, they come to life. And it looks… Well, it kind of looks romantic.

Shane is still worried about all the same things, but he thinks… he thinks it might be to Ilya’s liking anyway.

“Well, uh… Say something, maybe?” Shane encourages.

Ilya sniffs. “Is very cold up here,” he says seriously.

Shane deflates. “Yeah, no, that’s true, it was supposed to be like ten degrees warmer, we probably shouldn’t—”

“I’m just fucking with you,” Ilya interrupts. His fingers catch Shane’s. “So romantic, Hollander. So many years and I still didn’t think you were the type.”

Shane clears his throat, but he lets himself be turned around until they’re facing each other. “I can be, for you.”

Ilya’s hand is still warm when his thumb caresses Shane’s cheek gently. There is no reason to pretend; Shane leans into the touch, soaking in the warmth, welcoming the softness.

“I love it,” Ilya says. “I love you.”

“You’re hopeless,” Shane counters, “and I love you too.”

They don’t talk about the week they’ve had.  Instead, Ilya lets Shane set up, standing by the edge of the roof while plates are being placed and Shane carefully spoons in the borscht he cooked the previous night with Svetlana on the line. He does it all in a rush—the food and the wine—like he’s afraid that Ilya will turn on his heel any moment and insist on helping. It is very rare that Ilya Rozanov lets himself be pampered, even if being pampered means being served dinner on a cold-ass roof of an apartment building in Montreal.

When everything looks semi-ready, Shane hides the container by the door that stands propper open, and adjusts the lamps slightly. They’ll both be able to take off their jackets and eat in peace, but before that happens, Shane still has a couple of things to… do, or, well... say.

He approaches Ilya by the edge. It’s a cloudy night, but it feels like Montreal is all the shinier below them for it. Cars keep passing, headlights slashing through the dark, and dots of light—windows, street lamps, neon signs—stare out into the night. Shane’s spent a few evenings here for sure, whenever life got to be too much or too little. Even though he is so far removed from everything up here, part of him feels connected at this height. He can imagine a person behind every single one of those lights, and it’s a good reminder—he’s never been the only one feeling too much or too little; never will be.

“You have a great fucking view from here,” Ilya comments, hands in his pockets, to acknowledge Shane’s presence. “I can’t believe you never showed me, Hollander.”

“Yeah, well.” Shane shrugs. He mirrors Ilya’s stance, hiding his own hands from the cold. “I guess I was waiting for the right moment.”

“It’s very nice. But so is your kitchen, you know. All this extra stuff… I love it, but you didn’t have to—”

“I know. You always say that, but you deserve nice things.” Shane’s mouth quirks up a little bit. “And I wanted to show you something, or I guess tell you something.”

“Will I want to jump when you’re done saying your something? Is this why you brought us here?”

Shane opens his mouth to retort; then closes it. He can humor Ilya next time.

“No,” he says instead. “I wanted to share something. That’s a better way of putting it, maybe. I come up here sometimes and look down and there are thousands of people there, Ilya. And we are all the way here, so far away from them. How many of them do you think are gay? Happy? Married? Divorced?”

“I don’t read funny statistics like you,” Rozanov replies.

Shane nudges him in the side. “Whatever, asshole. I just wanted to say… It’s so many people. It’s overwhelming. And I think I want to be with them sometimes, you know? But even if I was and there were thousands of people around me, I would… I would choose you. Every time, every day.”

Shane doesn’t know when Ilya’s hands came out of their pocket-shaped shelter, but suddenly there’s an arm snaking over his shoulders as Ilya pulls him into his side. Like a rat in a maze, Shane’s trying to figure out if it’s clear he’s taking words from his vows. That’s what they said when they were getting married: I choose you.

No poems or love quotes or whatever. Just. I choose you. They prepared it separately; yet they both said it.

“I chose you a long time ago,” Ilya says. “Nothing’s changed about that. It never will.”

Shane’s insides drop like when he was ten years old and his parents took him to Disney and he rode his first upside-down rollercoaster.

“Do you ever… want to be? With them down there, I mean?”

Ilya pushes a kiss into Shane’s temple. “More specific, solnyshko. What do you mean?”

Shane mulls it over. Tries to shape his tongue into and around the right words. "Do you ever wish we were down there? Do you think we would be easier?"

"I don't think it matters, this would-be."

"That's such a non-answer, Ilya. It's bullshit."

"No, I really don't think it matters," Ilya repeats. "Maybe we would be easier. Maybe not. But I don't mind that we are difficult. I only mind sometimes that nobody can know. It's difficult twice."

"It’s difficult squared," Shane exhales, watching his own breath waft out and up from his mouth like cigarette smoke. He feels his body automatically press against Ilya’s as it seeks warmth. "It’s still so fucking cold. I can’t wait for the summer, not just because... you know."

"Not just because I get to fuck you every day?" Ilya says with amusement in his tone.

"Sure. Ilya, maybe... I don't know, this is stupid, but maybe after the summer we could start talking to our agents. About going public. Maybe. I don't know, but I hate it too."

And it's not that Shane Hollander needs to love loudly in order to be happy. It's not that he's unhappy with a sappy romantic gesture on a private roof. To be honest, he's already got enough on his plate

(a lot of kids will be looking up to you!)

and fear is a powerful companion. He doesn't want to be othered, he doesn't want to be the gay one, he doesn't want journalists to add questions about his sexuality to their already insensitive roster. He just wants to play hockey. Good hockey. The problem is that after a game, he wants to shower, change into a suit, and go home to his husband. He wants to say: I am your captain and I should socialize with you, but Ilya and I are having dinner tonight. 

And let that be that.

Ilya is talking to him. Focus.

"We always said we would do it on our terms. Do you think that after the summer...?"

Shane catches Ilya’s hand in his. "Maybe."

"I can do maybe," Ilya agrees. 

"Now let me serve you some probably cold borscht."

"You made borscht? Hollander."

"...and if you don't like it, it's Svetlana's fault."

Back in the apartment, Ilya sinks to his knees like he's in a church and Shane’s dick is the body of Christ. He takes it in his mouth, hungry and thirsty at the same time, and swallows it down with a hum that Shane hears but mostly feels around his base. It makes the world feel tingly, so tingly all around him. It feels so good.

He wants to bury his hands in Ilya's hair, but his husband's got them pinned against his hips. Don't strain your elbow now, okay? Ilya said with fingers already squeezing around Shane’s wrists.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Maybe Shane wouldn’t know what to do, anyway. Push deeper in? Pull Ilya off? Both at the same time? Right here, mere feet from the door, he will beg for it if that's what's needed.

"Fuck, fuck," he rambles. Ilya keeps going until Shane feels his throat around him. He so desperately wishes he could move his hips. "Fuck, Ilya, you're so..."

Ilya pulls away with a loud pop. Downright angelic, kneeling like that at Shane’s feet, if it weren't for the playful twinkle in his eyes. "Nice date," he says, his voice a little raspy. He releases Shane’s hands only to cup his ass. "Thank you."

"Y-you're welcome, now can we... Ah." 

"Yes," Ilya nods with a smile, and it's only now that Shane notices the string of spit connecting them. It breaks, finally, and Ilya's chin glistens. "Take me to bed, Hollander."

The turn of phrase makes Shane's stomach flip and he's grabbing at Ilya's shoulders immediately, pulling him up, dragging him towards the bedroom. Take me to bed. Who even says that? 

"My turn next time," Ilya mumbles when they get there. The lights are barely on, but Shane is already going to his knees, no protest, and Ilya laughs. "I mean, to give you a nice date. But if you are willing, I will not stop you. You were made to suck my dick, don’t you think?"

Shane hums, too, in response to both, as he takes Ilya's cock in his mouth. He hopes it rolls over him, that hum; hopes that it vibrates with pleasure all the way to Ilya’s toes. 

He can call it sucking dick. He can call it love. It has kind of always been the same thing between them, from carpets in hotel rooms to this.

And also:

Next time will never wear down its shine. Next time.

Chapter End Notes

one more to go!!! we can consider that an epilogue, i guess, and i can't wait to share it with you (though i'll be very sad to say goodbye 😔)

thank you for reading. there are no words to express my gratitude tbh.

come hang out with me on tumblr if you want. i'm also lowk on threads i guess, but it's empty rn. ok that's all, it is 4am and the birds are chirpin. yikes. see u soon with chapter twelve!!! ♥

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

one last time with feeling: thank you so much for being here. i hope you enjoy this one. ♥

Ottawa, April 2021

In a way, nothing in the condo has changed.

It’s probably by design, if Ilya really thinks about it. Which he does; his mind goes to it automatically, keeps returning to it, insists on dissecting it. Their appointment with the lawyer is tomorrow; Shane will be here any minute. All that, sure, except for a few moments longer, it’s just Ilya standing on the balcony with a cigarette in hand.

And it’s the plants Shane bought that Ilya has kept alive. The detergent that ran out and Ilya repurchased, just a couple of weeks ago. It’s the rugs and the bedsheets and the pillowcase on the couch, with hockey sticks and pucks on it, that Rose gave them for Christmas. It’s Ilya and his cigarette and all the things they’ve accumulated as evidence that they are something.

Something that is beyond secret sex in hotel rooms, or maybe something that is bigger than a small wedding. It’s the old Voyageurs mug that Ilya still drinks from, the set of wine glasses minus one because Shane’s toe knocked it off the table when Ilya picked him up; the Tiffany Blue wall.

Isn’t it cringy, the way Ilya never even tried…?

He puts the cigarette out and clicks the balcony door closed just as the main door opens and Shane’s form fills it out.

He looks like a Christmas tree. Here is the only thing that did change: Shane’s hoodies, shoes, notebooks with hockey notes; all that has been missing. But it’s back here now, bags hanging like ornaments off Shane’s shoulders, a singular bottle of shampoo in his hand.

(“Come, the evening before.”)

(“Are you planning a date night for me, Rozanov?”)

(“Date night, yes. You bring your things back. Then we put them back where they belong together. Very romantic.”)

(Shane’s voice falters. “Yes,” he whispers. “It is.”)

The bags thunk to the floor one by one. There are three of them total.

“Jesus, Shane,” Ilya exclaims instead of saying hello. “How much stuff did you take?”

Shane offers a brief, lazy shrug. “I brought extra from my apartment. Like, almost everything, I think.”

With every word, a smile that is small at first slowly spreads across Ilya’s face until it’s full and wide. He loves being reassured, sure—who doesn’t like being told that they are loved—but he doesn’t need to have everything spelled out. He doesn’t need Shane to say: I am making this my home. The bags are enough.

His grin reaches shit-eating levels when he crosses the space between the balcony door and his husband. Without preamble, he grabs the front of Shane’s shirt and pulls, pulls, pulls.

And Shane goes, goes, goes. His face faster than anything, so clearly and eagerly chasing a kiss.

Ilya tries to shove Shane onto the couch, drawing a laugh in the process, but he fails. Shane playfully fights back and his foot cleverly catches around Ilya’s ankle, sending him down on the sofa first. He follows almost immediately, though. His weight settles on Ilya’s lap, heavy and correct, and his arms cage Ilya’s face as Shane rests his palm against the backrest.

“I keep telling you,” Shane says with a smirk, quiet because their faces are inches apart now, “I’m stronger than you.”

“Like fuck you are,” Ilya argues. He can’t make his body match his tone—hands are already exploring; already circling Shane’s waist and pulling him in. “I am stronger, Hollander.”

“Hmm, and I’m better at hockey, too.”

Ilya shakes his head and laughs. “Oh, you’re still taking pain meds? Are you high right now? You shouldn’t be driving when you’re high.”

Shane rolls his hips, but it’s in a playful way—more of a nudge than anything. It still makes Ilya’s breath hitch at the back of his throat. His lips part on their own just slightly.

They finally kiss.

Ilya sighs into it and his fingers try to dig in; even through multiple layers of clothing, they try to leave a mark.

Every time they part, it’s only to come together again—lips brushing, small kisses tucked into the corners of each other’s mouths, almost mischievous but gentle at the same time.

Eventually, Shane pulls far enough away that Ilya can’t reach him. So he looks instead, letting his eyes rake from Shane’s wet lips up across his freckles all the way to his eyes, wide and curtained with shadows cast by his long lashes.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Shane asks breathlessly. He reshuffles, moving his arms ever-so-slightly. Leans into Ilya an inch more; two.

“Yes,” Ilya says. And even though he’s nervous, even though he’s scared… it’s true. He’s ready, as ready as he can be. It’s easier to focus on that with Shane so close to him, but then again, life has always been easier like that. “But that’s tomorrow,” he continues after a beat and a gulp. “Today is ours, yes?”

One of Shane’s hands leaves its place on the couch and rests against Ilya’s jaw again.

Ilya feels Shane’s nose as it rubs against his slightly, then goes further down and catches over Ilya’s upper lip. He could resist, it’s just that he doesn’t want to—his lips give a small kiss there, just because. It is disgusting.

You make me so mushy, Ilya thinks to himself.

“Today is ours,” Shane repeats. It sounds more like today is ours, and tonight, and tomorrow, and everything after that.

Ilya catalogues all of it. He makes the conscious decision to remember all of this. The exact weight against him, the way Shane smells like the cold air outside and skin, what it feels like when his thumb moves in a small caress over Ilya’s cheek. He tries to memorize the exact way the light breaks through the window glass and what their walls look like, and the softness of their sofa. At the end of it, he thinks, And remember how your heart is beating, too, and remember how warm he feels. Remember how much you want to be here.

“Kiss me again,” Shane murmurs, head back up. His mouth is still glistening, bottom lip still a little puffy.

“Greedy,” Ilya mumbles back. But he’s a good guy, an obliging guy; a giver.

He kisses Shane, tongue easily sliding over his lips and into the warmth. A small moan from Shane greets him.

If something doesn’t get old after a decade, will it ever? If Shane still moans like this, and if it moves Ilya every time like it’s not a moan but like it’s an orchestra performing the most beautiful sonata ever written, will he ever get used to it?

They can put Shane’s clothes back later. This, right now, is theirs.

At some point in the year, it starts feeling like it will never be warm again in Canada. If the display in Shane’s car is correct, it’s actually colder than it would be in Boston—and colder than it would be in Russia. Ilya is downright cozy in his passenger seat, and Shane must be too. They’ve been sitting in this parking lot for up to five minutes but neither of them has moved.

As if he can read minds, Shane says: “We should’ve just sent an email, Ilya.”

“No. You would have fifty questions, or think they forgot something, and it would never end.”

“I hate that you’re right,” Shane mumbles, but his fingers finally stop gripping the wheel so hard.

Shane insisted on driving and Ilya played rough, saying they should have left half an hour earlier with his slow speed then, but really—he understands. He also would have gone crazy with a fidgety Hollander sitting next to him while he drives, so. Win-win or something.

“Maybe we can go in now in that case,” Ilya suggests gently.

He watches Shane’s eyes jump to his watch. “We still have thirteen minutes.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Okay. Let’s sit for ten more minutes, then take two minutes for panic attack, then go.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Hollander. Do you want to get this divorce cancelled or what?”

“Withdrawn,” Shane corrects, still unaware that Ilya makes these small mistakes on purpose sometimes, just to break Shane out of his head. And it works every time—his face looks clearer, like when he wipes steam off a mirror after a long hot shower. “Let’s just go.”

“Yay,” Ilya deadpans, already unclicking the seatbelt.

In the outside world, it’s not only cold. It’s windy as well, not unlike the day back in February when they walked up to each other like strangers. Once in it, Ilya resists the urge to hug his jacket around himself and tighten it like a rope. He knows that part of it are his own nerves. Stepping out and standing up, his insides feel jumbled, fluttering all funny, and he doubts it’s the temperature making his fingertips tingle. The anxiety brewing underneath is a much more likely culprit.

More than anything, Ilya would like to hold Shane’s hand.

It felt so alone here the last time; some of that loneliness seems to still linger in the air, like it’s stayed in the shade of the tall building, trapped. Ilya feels trapped, too.

God.

Is the elevator ride long enough for Shane to change his mind? And is that a reasonable thought to have? Maybe so—Shane could still decide that a fresh start would be better after all, and then Ilya’s stuck here wearing his wedding ring, an unknowing and unwilling participant in a cruel joke.

But Shane is wearing his wedding ring, too, so maybe…

“Did you forget something in the car?”

Ilya looks up. Shane is a few paces ahead of him—once he’s going, he’s going—and he’s tilting his head slightly. He’s not wearing a hat, and the wind is pulling at his hair almost playfully.

Don’t get stuck, Ilya tells himself.

“No,” he says. “Just nervous, sorry.”

Shane smiles. “I didn’t know the two minute panic attack was gonna be you,” he says teasingly.

Ilya slowly shakes his head no. He is not about to have a panic attack, but he is not feeling great. His insides have settled, but they feel too far up, like they want to try and come out through his mouth. His heart isn’t even racing, at least not as far as he can tell, but his body feels… shaky. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t remember feeling this way last time, so why the fuck…?

Shane checks the perimeter. The coast must be clear, because he’s swiftly right in front of Ilya, hands hanging onto the lapels of Ilya’s jacket. “Hey,” he’s saying, “hey, are you okay?”

Ilya swallows. He feels ridiculous. Hot embarrassment floods his cheeks. “Yes,” he says, voice thick. Hatred underlines the red in his face with a sharp stroke. Just say you’re fine, his brain supplies. It’s a pattern he would fall into easily, and maybe he can shake it all off before they even get to Thompson’s office. He sighs. “No.”

There’s a rough tug on his jacket. “Yeah, that’s fine. You don’t have to be okay.”

Ilya can feel himself nodding, and he quickly changes it to a shake of his head. “It’s stupid.”

“C’mon, Ilya. It’s not stupid at all. I’m terrified, alright? I didn’t even want to get out of the car.”

Despite knowing he should check the perimeter first, too, Ilya finds Shane’s wrists and takes hold of them. “Sorry I made fun of you. This is scarier than last time, Shane.”

A giggle spurts out of Shane’s mouth. “It totally is. Like, I’m probably more nervous than during my first play offs, I don’t get it.”

But it makes sense, doesn’t it? People make rash decisions all the time; root them in impulse. And it’s easier to follow that thread wherever it takes them, even if it’s the surgical quiet of a lawyer’s office. Calculated decisions that require work in just their making are much more difficult. There is no comparing the confidence of hurt to the uncertainty of choosing to try, and fail, and try again.

Ilya’s fingers squeeze around Shane’s wrists one more time before letting go. “Let’s go, Shane. We will tell Mr. Thompson that we want to stay husbands. Is not so scary when I put it like that, is it?”

Shane smiles. His hands run down the full length of Ilya’s lapels before releasing them, and when he nods, it comes across as far more assured. “Okay. Let’s go tell him.”

Still, they don’t hold hands—but at least they walk side by side, their pace even and matching each other step to step.

Even though Ilya has only walked this path once, his feet remember the way through the big reception area and towards the elevators. He remembers, too, what it was like last time. He feels the shiver of saying, You can’t even look at me; he can imagine Shane’s near-teary eyes boring into him in protest. He hears an echo of Happy now?

The speakers must be broken; there is no Muzak playing when they step in and the doors of the elevator slide closed. It’s Shane, this time, who presses the golden number 2.

Ilya pulls Shane into his side almost immediately. They just about had the time to exchange eight words last time, so he knows he’s working with seconds. Even though it’s only a half-hug, he holds Shane just so. They melt into each other a little bit, and Ilya presses a hurried kiss to Shane’s temple before they pull apart.

The doors roll open.

“Wait,” Shane says. “Hold my hand.”

Ilya blinks. His eyes fall down, catching on Shane’s outstretched palm, so ready to be grabbed. “You’re sure?” he asks.

Shane nods. “Yes. Hold my hand.”

Ilya’s fingers twist around and with Shane’s easily. Both their hands are cold from the windchill outside, but the brush of skin against skin warms something inside Ilya anyway.

(“Yes, it’s scary. But you’re brave.”)

When the receptionist, Sandra, eventually holds the door open for them, they go together.

They sit by the same side of that glass table.

They’re brave.

Regina, December 2008

Five times.

That’s the count so far for asking Ilya if this Saskatchewan cold reminds him of Russia. His English stretches far enough for him to understand the question, and he nods politely every time. Yes, is very cold in Russia, he says like a well-trained dog.

But then he goes outside to smoke by himself and the truth of it is that it doesn’t remind him of Russia. At all.

Winters in Russia are rabid things. It’s impossible to walk out and smell anything. The world loses color, but it also loses all flavor and scent. The air feels crackly, just like the salted sidewalks under shoes. The freezing temperature can and will bite, practically with every lungful, until the organ is shrunk into the size of a walnut and rendered incapable of breathing.

Maybe, to Saskatchewanians, this feels the exact same. Maybe they can’t breathe here.

But to Ilya, Regina is something that reminds him of… nothing. It’s brand new, it’s fresh. Despite the looming Prospect Cup that hangs over Ilya’s head like the sword of Damocles, it feels like freedom.

And that’s fucking terrifying.

He blames the lighter’s malfunction on the weather and the wind, but it may be his trembling fingers causing it. It takes him thirteen tries to finally light a cigarette outside of the arena, its back wall offering little to no shelter. He’s not even one drag in. He is offered no space to convince himself to relax; to momentarily forget that everything hinges on what happens here. Yeah, not even one drag, and—

“Ilya Rozanov?” goes a voice to his left. Ilya glances to the side, peripherally taking stock of toque—jacket—hoodie. Very big, very earnest eyes. “Shane Hollander… I wanted to introduce myself.”

Hands are shaken. Ilya tries very hard not to make a fool of himself while his future stretches out ahead of him into an endless horizon.

He thinks he knows it all while knowing nothing, but he is correct about one thing.

Everything, really everything, hinges on this, from this point on—

—until death do them part.

And if he’s lucky, they’ll play some great hockey along the way.

Chapter End Notes

click for:

🫶 lengthy author's note

i really truly don't think that i'll ever get to experience something like this again. at the end of february, i sat down and wrote down 4 ideas + a page worth of text for each. one of those was obviously this au, and even as i was writing that one page, i knew. 🥲 i also knew it wasn't going to be everyone's cup of tea, but i really desperately wanted to explore hollanov if they rushed into a big decision and all their inability to TALK of tlg exploded in their faces even harder. so you get divorce AND miscommunication, which are two things people don't tend to like, but... it mattered to me enough to try.

and listen, i've been in fandom and writing fanfic for a VERY LONG TIME. english isn't even my first language, so i crossed over from my first tongue and still, i have ALWAYS been... a small author. i can't even EXPLAIN to you what the numbers on this fic did for me. the amount of hits and kudos and subscriptions is... idk man. i'm gonna cry. i will never forget a single comment and feeling. that is all.

🫶 what's next?

i figured i could give you some information on my next projects:

🍑 i do have a fic for mean dom ilya week. not everyone's cup of tea either but i'm so excited!!
🍑 something i'm calling 'the bad day protocol' about ilya and his coping mechanisms on Bad Days
🍑 i will be posting some smut for kink week!
🍑 i have SO MANY longfic plans. the next one will be a movie au, and i think the one after that is going to be a lighthearted rom-com to heal us all from this heartbreak lol.

thank you to my girlfriend for listening to me talk about this for HOURS. thank you if you read, commented, left kudos. i loved writing this but i loved writing it even more because of y'all.

please consider clicking to my profile and subscribing (if you want to see more from me). you can also find me on tumblr and newly also on threads.

thank you thank you thank youuuuuuu! ♥