Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Irina Rozanova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Irina Rozanova Lives, Irina Rozanova Chooses Life, Calgary - Freeform, Hockey, Friends to Lovers, First Love, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Childhood Friends, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Angst, Just Because Irina Lives Doesn't Mean Everything's Good, Angst with a Happy Ending, it just might take a while for the happy ending, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Racism, Classism, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, i don't want to tag every single sexual act?, but i will if they get into anything REALLY freaky, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-02 Completed: 2026-10-13 Words: 182,279 Chapters: 39/39

under the chinook arch

Summary

In another life, Irina Rozanova dies. In this one, she takes twelve year old Ilya and runs.

They arrive in Calgary, Alberta, with two passports and no luggage. Years later, hockey still carries Ilya toward Shane Hollander, but this time, they don't meet as rivals and instead build something neither of them is ready for.

But Ilya has learned never to trust warmth in the middle of winter.

The cold always comes back.

Notes

coming at you from a post on threads that entered my brain and ROOTED.

***Starting as rated Mature. We may rachet up to Explicit.

We have ended up explicit...bc yeah. it had to happen.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Summary

Irina Rozanova chooses herself and her son.

Chapter Notes

November 2003

She knows she will only have one opportunity for this. Only one chance. 

He will not let her live to see another if she makes a mistake.

Not after last time.

Irina is careful.

She is also scared.

But not so scared that she will let fear keep her here, risking her own life and that of her son.

She hates that she can only take one of them.

Hates that Alexei is already a reflection of his father. Already practiced in the art of surveillance, ready to report any of her actions to his father.

Her husband.

Two passports are tucked in her purse, she managed to hide them last month. Grigori hasn't needed them, so he hasn't noticed they are missing. He hasn't noticed that hers and Ilya's birth certificates are gone either. She knows it will be the first place he checks when he realizes.

Alexei will survive. He is so much like his father. Russia is already beneath his finger nails and in his pores. He has already begun to shape himself into the type of man who will survive Russia.

But not Ilya. He is too much like her for his own good. Soft in the places that need to grow scars. But the only way for him to get those scars might kill him. Or at least kill the light she sees in his eyes. He will not survive Russia, not this version of him. Russia will wear against him until he becomes callused enough to hate the choice she has to make for him. For them.

The little boy, so intent on protecting her that he's allowed himself to take responsibility for her mistakes, is the boy she must rescue. She fears he will not survive without her. She knows she will not survive if she stays. 

So they both must leave.

She stands outside Alexei's door and allows herself a moment to mourn the son she will have to leave behind, knowing that she is sacrificing him so that she and Ilya will live.

The reality makes her sick, nearly stops her cold in that quiet hallway, because that's what it feels like. She's sacrificing one child for the other. And for herself. She's not sure she'll be able to think of herself as a good mother after this.

But she hasn't felt like a good mother for years, not when she considers how many days she has spent trapped in her bed, unable to even make supper for her boys. Or protect them from their father.

She is failing them already. Both of them. At least this way, maybe she will only fail one.

A letter for Alexei is on the kitchen table. She hopes he understands. She hopes he doesn't find it until she and Ilya are safely on a plane.

She forces herself forward across the cold wood floor. Her socked feet quiet as she continues down the hall.

Grigori is not home. He has already left for work, gone before the sun rose. But Alexei is home, and she knows he will call if she's too obvious. If she takes too much.

She knows she can only afford to take Ilya. 

Without knocking, Irina eases his bedroom door open, pausing to make sure the creak of the old hinges doesn't awaken anything in the house. Her eyes find her Ilya immediately. Sleeping with a sense of ease that she's certain only happens in childhood.

His blond, curly hair, so much like her own, is splayed against his pillow. It's nearly too long. She thinks his father would have demanded a haircut for him in a week.

But Ilya's hair will not be a problem for that man in a week.

She is still careful as she crosses the floor, kneeling next to his bed where he's grasping at the teddy bear he won't admit he still keeps.

"Ilyushechka," she whispers, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "My sweet boy, wake up."

Ilya startles, his body tensing as his eyes fly open. The fear in his eyes settles her resolve. He shouldn't have to wake up scared.

"Get up, and get dressed," she tells him.

She hasn't told him anything about what's happening. She doesn't think he would have told his father, but she knows that secrets only stay secrets when one person knows. And children let things slip when they're scared.

Ilya sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and surreptitiously pushes his teddy bear under his pillow before standing. Irina grabs it and shoves it into her purse. She can give him this small comfort at least, however this goes.

"Jacket, Ilyushechka." She points to one of his larger winter coats. "And your boots, the good ones."

"Where are we going, Mama?" Ilya asks, his voice still rough with sleep. It hasn't dropped yet and he still sounds like her little boy, despite nearly being taller than her already.

"It's a surprise." 

She just hopes it's not a bad surprise.

The airport is stressful. She tries not to look like a woman fleeing with her son. Ilya, always so perceptive of her, follows her lead, wordlessly understanding that something serious is happening.

He doesn't seem to realize they are truly leaving until they're on the plane.

"Alexei?" he had asked when the cab pulled into the airport.

"He will stay with Papa," she had told him, keeping her voice even. Like it wasn't tearing her apart to leave one son behind. Like she hadn't considered turning back for him more than once.

Ilya accepts the answer, or at least he doesn't question it. She hands him his teddy bear as the plane takes off, and he pretends not to be glad. He holds it and relaxes against the window.

Irina is not able to relax, even as the plane rises above Moscow, knowing that he is down there. That he might already know. Alexei may have already called him.

They make it to Frankfurt, and she and Ilya share a small breakfast, using some of the money she had been hiding and saving for over a year. 

One more stop in London before crossing the Atlantic. She hopes the multiple stops are enough, along with the fact that her friend bought the final tickets. The friend who is waiting for her with the promise of a new life.

She hopes Grigori will not look for them.

The city sparkles below them, dimmer than Moscow and so much smaller. It's early in the morning when they arrive in Calgary. 

She follows the stream of people walking toward customs. She tries not to resent that the other passengers will have luggage to wait for. She knows she can't get greedy when she has at least escaped with Ilya.

She waits in line with people speaking English with an ease that makes the sentence she knows she has to say feel especially daunting.

The kind-faced officer smiles at her, and she briefly feels an instinctual fear at the sight of the uniform despite the kindness in the way the woman says, "Welcome and bienvenue."

"Where are you staying, and how long will you two be in Canada?" Irina is expecting the question. That makes the officer's English easier to understand.

She takes a deep breath, hoping her voice doesn't waver when she finally says out loud the words she's been preparing in the silence of night for months.

"We cannot go back. I need protection for my son."

Chapter End Notes

every other chapter will be shane or ilya POV i just thought this was a nice way to give like...context.

PS: a chinook is a wind that blows over the rocky mountains and drastically changes the weather in the winter. when i say drastic, i mean like from -20° C to like 10°C. like a full 30 degree swing is not uncommon.

they can feel like a false spring. bc within a few days it'll be freezing again.

chinook arches happen as a result, it's a cloud thing (look up a picture)

leave a comment if you liked it!

Chapter 2: February 2007

Chapter Summary

A day in Calgary with Ilya.

Chapter Notes

(let's all pretend the italics moments/when the russians are speaking to just each other that it's in russian.)

anywaaaay.

i'm very interested to explore who ilya might be under these different circumstances.

i mean, obviously he's still an ilya who meets shane. just...not this chapter. (probably next one)

(definitely next one)

February 2007

Ilya moves through the house, opening curtains as he goes. He pauses before turning back to slide open the windows as well. It's warm enough for that, and the house feels far too stuffy. A cold snap had kept every door and window shut except for the few seconds it took to hustle inside after school or work.

But the wind had started blowing last night. He heard it start.

He was immediately hopeful that it would also mean a turn for Mama. She always preferred when the sun was out and the air didn't hurt her skin.

The sudden warmth was one part of his new city he still wasn't accustomed to, but remained eternally grateful for. Winters in Moscow were cold and long, truly unforgiving. Winters in Calgary hadn't been too different. He remembered being bundled out of the airport and into Lara's car, glad he'd worn his winter coat on the plane.

At least, Calgary hadn't felt much different until the winds shifted and it would suddenly feel like spring in the middle of December. It had shocked both him and his mother the first time it happened. They couldn't quite believe that the temperatures had risen so much in a single night.

Chinook.

Snow eater.

Winds from over the mountains to the west that warmed the air and melted the snow.

But never for long. 

They had been equally distressed when, two days later, the temperature fell to ten below.

Lara had assured them nothing was wrong. It was just how the city worked.

Ilya learned quickly not to trust the weather. It changed so quickly here that it was impossible to plan for it.

Ilya checks his watch. It's still early. Sunday is Mama's first day off after nearly two weeks of working straight, even on days she hadn't looked ready to go. He's proud of her for that.

So Ilya decides to let her sleep. She deserves the rest, and it's still early in the morning. He'll have to remember to ask Lara to check on her.

Quietly, Ilya eases open his mother's bedroom door and pads inside to place a glass of water on her bedside table. He's glad to see the blankets still tucked around her. It means she slept well, or at least without tossing and turning.

Her blonde curls are loose around her face, and he can't help but think of the young woman she was before Grigori. Before Ilya, too. People are often shocked she is a mother to a fifteen year old. 

He steps over to the small window on the far wall. It overlooks the small green space behind the duplex, a loose interpretation of a backyard. It's quiet though, so he doesn't feel bad about opening the window here as well. He figures the fresh air will help her when she wakes up. 

In these moments of supposed calm, he remembers the quiet of their home in Moscow. It's never as bad as it was there, but it's not always good either.

These silences are somehow easier to carry, and heavier now that he's carrying them alone.

He sighs and leaves the room, carefully pushing the door closed, twisting the handle so there's no click when the door shuts. He waits for a minute with his hand on the doorknob. He hopes letting her sleep is the right choice. He also hopes the warm air helps her once she wakes.

He slips twenty dollars from the grocery fund that lives on the counter. He's had friends eye the jar and encourage him to take a few extra dollars when they're heading out. They don't understand. Ilya can never take from the woman who's already given him so much.

They need food for the week. He needs something to take for lunch. He grabs another twenty. With the hockey season in full swing, Ilya's finding himself eating more and more.

He leaves a note on the fridge, their most common source of communication, especially during the weeks when his mom is working.

Patting his pockets, he confirms he's got his wallet, his keys, and the grocery list. 

He can hear Lara is up and moving in the other half of their shared duplex, so after locking the front door behind him, he takes two steps to the left and knocks on her door.

He hears the footsteps get closer before the door opens on a familiar sight.

"Good morning, Ilyushka," Lara says. He tries not to feel predictable when she greets him before even laying eyes on him.

"Good morning, Auntie Lara," Ilya parrots back. "I'm going to the grocery store. Do you need anything?"

"No, sweetheart, I don't need anything," she says, stepping back so he can step into her front entry. "But let's not pretend that's why you're here. Ask me."

Ilya bites his lip. He hates and loves that she reads him so well. Lara had been a childhood friend of Irina's, someone his mother had kept in touch with through the years, and who had been instrumental in getting both of them to Canada. Ilya hadn't even known she existed until they got through customs and she was there to pick them up from the airport.

He knows her now, though, and she knows him. Knows especially when he's come to see her under false pretenses.

"How was she last night?" he asks quietly. Mama's bedroom is across the house, but Ilya knows she chafes at his check-in's. Doesn't think her fifteen year old son should be so concerned with her moods.

As if they don't affect him.

"She was fine," Lara assures him. "Ilyusha, she is grown. She hasn't missed work in months. She has bad days, yes, but that is not your responsibility."

Ilya just shrugs. He knows she means well. Wants him to relax and understand that it is not the job of a teenage son to manage the feelings of his mother. But she's wrong.

Lara brings her hand up to Ilya's cheek and lightly slaps his cheek, not hard enough to hurt, only hard enough to let him know she cares.

"Can you make sure she gets up soon?" Ilya asks quietly.

Ilya can tell she wants to argue further. Instead, she just nods, turning him around and pushing him back out into the warmth of the sun.

"Love you, Ilyusha," she calls out as he bounds down the steps.

"Love you, Auntie," he yells back.

The grocery store isn't far, and even though it's only 8 degrees above zero, Ilya forgoes anything beyond a hoodie and decides to make the short walk. 

—

The walk back home is much more difficult now that he's weighed down by a few bags of groceries that will hopefully last them the week. The change is in his wallet. And he has a chocolate bar for his mom. And for Lara as well. 

He hopes his mom won't complain about the additional purchases.

The door is unlocked when he gets home, but it doesn't worry him. He was surprised to find how many Canadians left their doors unlocked. 

He's mostly grateful he doesn't have to juggle the bags and unlock the door.

Kicking the door shut behind him, Ilya carries the bags into the kitchen. He quickly puts away the food and leaves the chocolate bars on the counter where his mom will see them. He leaves a note.

He pokes his head into his mom's room, happy to see that the glass is empty and she's out of bed. He goes back into the kitchen and wonders where she is briefly before he hears her loud cackle through the wall from Lara's place. Their places are mirror images, so that means they're in the kitchen together.

Something unfurls in his chest, and he feels like he can finally take a breath in.

Winters are always hard for her, but she's had a tough few weeks. Lara is right that Irina always manages to get herself out of bed now. Unlike when they'd first arrived in Canada and Ilya felt like he couldn't spend much time away from her bedside.

He hears footsteps through the wall and doesn't want to get trapped in a conversation with his mom about whether or not he's finished his homework. His skate bag is already packed by the door, it usually is, so he grabs an apple, his stick and his bag and runs back out the door.

—

The outdoor rink isn't far, so Ilya walks there as well. 

Ilya's skates technically still lace up. Only barely. He's been growing so much over the past year. They pinch his toes, but not badly enough to matter. Not yet.

He knows if he mentions it Irina will feel the need to replace them. He also knows they can't really afford it right now. He wants to hold out until the summer, or until he can't actually lace them up.

Whichever happens first.

The rink is still fairly empty. He doesn't see anyone he recognizes, but someone usually shows up. He still doesn't have a phone so he can't text to check in with anyone.

The ice isn't great, not even by public rink standards, especially with the warming air. It still works, though. Well enough. He drops a puck and starts practicing his stickhandling, quickly pushing himself around the rink, using the other people on the ice as obstacles to avoid.

"Ilya!" A loud voice calls.

He stops and looks across the ice.

Erik and Austin are standing at the far side of the rink. Erik already has his stick in hand, his dark hair flattened against his head from the toque shoved into his pocket. Beside him, Austin grips the boards while his glasses slide down his nose.

A smile breaks out on his face and Ilya leans down to grab the puck, pocketing it and heading across the ice.

Erik and Austin had known him before he learned how to make being foreign look effortless. Austin had let him sit beside him at lunch without expecting conversation. Erik had repeated himself when Ilya didn't understand, but never louder, as if volume might somehow teach him English.

Most people at school now knew the version of Ilya who always had an answer, even when he had to invent one. Erik and Austin knew he sometimes still needed the question repeated.

He was glad they'd stayed.

When he gets closer, he digs in his edges, spraying slush toward them, only actually hitting their shins.

"You are here," Ilya states.

"Oh shit, don't sound so excited," Austin says. "It's embarrassing."

"I am happy to see Erik," Ilya clarifies with a smirk. "You are unfortunate side effect."

Austin looks at Erik. "Why are we friends with him?"

"He brought the puck," Erik answers with a shrug. 

"And how does that help me?" Austin asks, taking a shaky step forward on the ice.

"Aw, poor baby deer on the ice," Ilya says in a mocking tone.

Erik laughs and reaches into Ilya's pocket, nearly knocking them both on their asses. He grabs the puck and is gone before Ilya can react. Erik tosses it on the ice in front of him and starts off across the ice.

They're both on the same AAA team, and Erik is good enough to at least be a challenge for Ilya.

He's about to follow behind when he sees Austin's arms start flailing in his peripheral vision. Ilya reaches out instinctually, dropping his stick to steady Austin and only barely keeping him from hitting the ice.

Erik starts laughing from the other side of the ice.

"Careful, you almost ate shit," Erik shouts.

A mother with two small kids shoots him a look at the expletive.

With Austin still bracing himself on Ilya's arms, Ilya turns toward Erik with a disgusted look.

"Uh, is no eating shit over here!"

The mother looks really unimpressed and huffs something under her breath, gathering her kids and pulling them off the ice.

"He means falling on your face," Austin tells him, his face red from the effort of staying upright.

"Ah," Ilya says knowingly. "Another way you Canadians have perfected English language. Beautiful."

Austin just smiles.

"Okay." Ilya gets Austin to look up at him. "We have been over this. No reason you cannot do this. Feet stay beneath you. Head stays up. You look down, you go down."

Austin nods, his tongue held between his teeth as he focuses hard on just getting his balance. Slowly, Ilya releases Austin, and skates backward a step, giving him space.

Eventually, after lots of coaxing and a few near falls, Austin is slowly making his way around the ice, keeping close to the boards. Erik and Ilya play a game of keep away, trying not to jostle each other too heavily since neither is wearing a helmet or any pads. And they've got a game midweek.

Coach will be pissed if they show up injured. And Ilya can't afford to have him pissed, not when Coach is helping pay for Ilya to attend a summer camp that's almost guaranteed to get him in front of scouts.

At one point, Ilya pulls up for an abrupt stop and cringes when his toes jam against the skate's toe cap.

Erik notices.

"Skates still too small?"

"They still lace." Ilya shrugs, shaking out his foot.

"That doesn't mean they fit."

Ilya feels his mouth tightening. "They fit enough."

"Didn't coach say he found you a pair?"

Ilya just shrugs. And they've been friends long enough that Erik is smart enough to know when to drop it, to know that Ilya's not going to bend on this.

After a while, Ilya and Erik ditch their hoodies so they're only skating in t-shirts. Austin eventually gives up on skating and instead stands at the boards just off the ice. He still inserts a comment here and there, but mostly seems happy to be out with his friends.

"Ilya! Walk me home."

Even from the far side of the ice, Ilya knows the voice. Knows the tone. He stops and looks across the ice to see Brooke standing next to Austin, who doesn't look nearly as happy to see her.

Her jacket is pulled tightly around her, her blonde hair pushed away from her face. She's got the smile on her face that historically has meant positive things for Ilya.

He grins at her.

Erik scowls.

"You walked here alone," Erik points out.

"So?" she fires back.

"So, you can walk back," Erik says. "You don't need him."

"How about we let him decide," Brooke says, directing a smile to Ilya.

He considers for a moment. The sun is setting. Dinner will be ready soon if Mama managed to cook something, and now that he's stopped moving, the evening air is rapidly cooling his skin. 

And he's not sure when he was last able to feel his toes. It's probably time to call it a day.

"I should go," Ilya tells his friends. He starts skating across the ice to Brooke, and receives groans from his friends at his declaration. "Is late anyways. My mom will look for me."

That last part is not a lie. She doesn't like him out after dark, which is difficult in the winter months considering the sun only recently began setting after 5:30pm.

"Don't forget your puck," Erik calls after him, firing it across the ice to where Ilya stops it with his own stick, leaning down to pick it up.

Erik begrudgingly follows.

All three boys take off their skates and lament the ending of the weekend while Brooke stands to the side, shifting from foot to foot, her hands shoved inside the pocket of her coat.

"My dad's here," Austin says, and both he and Erik bundle into his father's minivan.

As soon as they're gone, Brooke holds out a cigarette to Ilya. He takes it gratefully and accepts the lighter that follows. He takes a drag and as they begin walking with his bag slung over his shoulder, his stick in one hand, and a pretty girl next to him.

They share silence between puffs of smoke as they begin the walk towards home. Brooke lives a few houses down from Ilya. She's known Austin and Erik for most of their lives, having grown up in the same neighbourhood. She's only recently started paying attention to Ilya. He thinks it might have something to do with his recent growth spurt. His mom keeps lamenting that she's lost her little boy and a man has been left in his place.

He's not sure what else she expected to happen.

He and Brooke take part in a dance they've been perfecting for a few months now. It's a careful dance, one only done without witnesses, and one they won't claim outside of these moments. Ilya always waits for Brooke to make the first move. And she always does.

There's a park just within sight of their homes. It's empty now that the sky is quickly darkening and can't really be seen from the road. When they draw near Brooke grabs his hand, the one that's still clutching the extinguished cigarette butt and pulls him towards her and into the park.

He goes willingly. 

Their mouths meet in an awkward approximation of a kiss. Ilya always thinks there's more teeth than ought to be involved and his face ends up much wetter than he'd prefer. But Brooke is warm, she's pretty, and she likes Ilya.

And his body responds. He feels the want building. He's felt it for the past few months they've been doing this. He's been half tempted a few times to take things further than the stuff they've done over clothes, but there's never been a good opportunity.

"My parents aren't home," she gasps into his mouth, her hand bravely tracing down his stomach and the recently developed muscles there before lightly touching the button on his jeans. 

The implication is clear. His body wants him to say yes.

The street light above them flickers on.

"I can't," he tells her honestly. Part of him is sad that he has to get home. Another part of him is kind of relieved. 

He knows he wants to take that next step. Wants to at least get the first time out of the way. But there's a hesitation. A concern about how it would change this. Or him.

"My mom's waiting."

She huffs out a breath. "Fine."

Her expression cools fairly quickly and Ilya just shrugs.

"Want me to walk you to your door?" he offers. He's not an asshole.

"No," she answers, her voice is cool. "I'm gonna smoke before I go in."

He just nods, reaching to pick up his bag and hockey stick from where he'd dropped them when they first started kissing.

"See ya."

She doesn't answer.

He can see the living room lights are on when he approaches home. It's a good sign. Mama is home and has turned on the lights now that the sun has set. It's a good sign. He's hoping she's already made dinner. He's tired, his body's sore and he doesn't feel like making something out of a box.

Once he pushes open the door, the warm air feels like a balm against his slightly clammy skin.

"Hi Mama," Ilya calls, kicking off his boots and heading upstairs without removing his hoodie.

He can smell chicken broth and dill. Soup, then. Something easy, but it's better than anything he would have made.

"Ah, Ilyusha." Her voice sounds fond. Warm. It's a good day. "My boy has finally come home."

Ilya can't help the smile on his face and goes up the stairs two at a time to meet her in the kitchen.

She's standing at the stove, facing away from him. Her hair is gathered into a bun on top of her head. There's music quietly playing from the stereo, something Ilya doesn't recognize.

He walks over and leans around her shoulder to look into the pot, then regrets the move almost immediately. He'd meant to go to his room and change first.

One sniff.

"Smoking, Ilya?" 

Fuck.

He's in trouble.

He steps back, but not quickly enough. Irina turns in a flash, one hand reaching for his hoodie.

"And is this all you wore out?" she scolds. "My god, you would think you have no mother."

Ilya has the sense to look chagrined, reaching back to rub the nape of his neck.

Her eyes narrow. They're blue like his own, and always seem brighter when she's like this, and more capable of seeing him. And his bullshit.

"You said you were not smoking."

"I wasn't," Ilya says, putting up his hands in surrender. "One of the bad kids at the rink was smoking, I was just nearby."

They stand in silence. Irina is deciding whether or not she's going to pretend to believe his thin lie. Ilya is hoping she won't let this ruin her mood.

She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes, but there's a smirk on her face as she turns away from him and toward the stove again.

"Go get changed, Ilyusha," she says over her shoulder. "You stink of sweat and some other kid's cigarettes," he can almost hear her rolling her eyes. 

"Okay, Mama," Ilya says with all the obedience of a kid who's just been caught in a lie, but has been given an out. "Is Auntie coming over?"

Irina nods, quietly humming along to the music.

"She'll be here soon," Irina answers. "She will also not want to smell smoke on you."

"Yes, Mama."

Ilya retreats to his room and shucks off the offending clothes. They do stink, and he dumps them into the already filled laundry basket.

He's smiling to himself as he gets ready for the shower. Before leaving his room, he closes the window he'd left slightly ajar that morning. The air outside has started cooling.

The temperature tomorrow might not dip below freezing, but it's never far away.

He sighs and grabs a towel, wearing only his boxers when he darts across the hall into the bathroom.

Chapter End Notes

i'm oscillating(heh physics word) between this and my physics AU.

i'm trying to bounce between the two. so i don't get stuck. and then when i'm really stuck i go to the bdsm one. (check out all my stuff)

all of this to say...would you believe that i have adhd???

xoxo

leave me comments so i can experience a high i have to imagine is similar to doing drugs.

(me and shane are both sluts for external validation.)

Chapter 3: July 2007 I

Chapter Summary

Ilya goes to camp.

Chapter Notes

I like Irina as a non perfect mother.

i think it's important.

****let's all pretend that the italics are in RUSSIAN. bc i ain't about to fuck with another language.

July 2007

"Auntie, what the fuck?" Ilya scrambles to tuck the box into his jacket pocket.

Lara reaches over to swat at his head. "Don't swear at me, where are your manners?"

"I feel like you handing me a box of fucking condoms warrants a swear," he says, his face flushing.

"Look," she says flatly. "I am glad you felt you could come to me and tell me you'd taken that step with what's-her-name. I am. Truly. But you need to be safe."

"But why now?" Ilya hisses, looking toward the door. His mom is next door. She doesn't know. It hadn't felt as easy to tell her.

She looks at him like he's a moron.

"You're about to go across the country, Ilyusha," she says, like it's obvious.

"For a hockey camp," he points out. "I don't see a lot of need for condoms at a hockey camp."

"And you can promise me you're never going to go out?" she asks flatly. "You're going to stay in your room every single night and never go out and see girls? I know you better than that, Ilyusha. I've met you."

There's a beat of silence and she gives him a pointed look. "Please, I beg of you, prove me wrong. Promise me you haven't hooked up with anyone else since April."

He grimaces. Lara is always too observant for her own good. Or at least too observant for his own good.

"That's what I thought," she says with a sense of finality and the perverse joy of a woman getting something right that she really wishes was wrong.

"I did not tell your mother that you lost your virginity," she says quietly. They can both hear Irina's footsteps moving through the apartment next door. "And I won't. I promised. But listen. If you come home with a wart or a baby, I will not help you with either."

Ilya can't help but laugh, which earns him a glare.

He stops laughing.

They stare at each other.

They both know she's right.

But Ilya's stubborn.

Unfortunately, he's not as stubborn as her.

"Okay," he acquiesces. "I will pack them."

"Just…" She pauses, choosing her words. "Be careful. Please."

"I will, Auntie Lara," he says quietly. "You'll keep an eye on her?"

He doesn't have to specify who.

Lara sighs loudly. "She's your mother, Ilyusha. She's not an invalid."

"I know that," he says, shoving the box of condoms deeper into his pocket. He's already thinking of how he's going to get them into his bag without his mom noticing.

"She'll be fine," Lara promises him. "And even if she's not entirely fine, that's not your responsibility."

"Yeah, I know," he says, but he doesn't even buy what he's saying.

She reaches for him with a sad smile on her face. She only ever looks at him like that when they discuss Irina.

"You will not always be able to be here," she points out. "And she doesn't want you to be. You have a big future, one that I think might take you away."

The idea pains Ilya. He can't imagine his mom without him.

Maybe, logically, he knows she'll be fine. Lara is right. Mama is a grown woman, and she's had a really good few months. They haven't hit any lows since February.

Still.

"Ilyusha!" Irina calls from next door. Her voice comes through the wall.

He leans forward to press a quick kiss to Lara's cheek. When he turns to walk away, he shakes the box of condoms at Lara with a cheeky smile.

"Thanks, auntie."

"I'd rather you not use them," she clarifies, a fond smile on her face. "Please, Ilyusha. Just be good."

"I'm always good," he says.

She just rolls her eyes as he steps through the front door, giving him a quick wave before he closes it behind him.

He takes the two steps and opens the door to his home. To his Mama.

"I'm back, Mama," Ilya calls.

"We need to go soon," she says. He can hear her bustling around, but can't see her from where he's standing.

His bags are piled near the door. Everything he's going to need for the two weeks in Ottawa. He hurriedly unzips his luggage and shoves the box of condoms into a corner, on the opposite side from the two packs of cigarettes he'd managed to buy off someone at school.

His contraband for this trip. He just hopes his mom doesn't do a last second check to make sure he's remembered everything. He runs through the list in his head, trying to head off any chance that she'll ask to look through his bags and make sure he has what he needs. He opens a pocket on his backpack and sees his toothbrush.

He thinks he has everything.

Irina walks past where he's waiting, hurrying into the bathroom.

"I will be right out," she promises him. "Make sure you have everything."

"That's what I'm doing!" he yells back indignantly.

All sounds from the other part of the house stop.

Shit.

Her face pokes out of the bathroom and her expression is serious.

"Ilya." It's never good when it's just his name. "I know you did not just yell at me."

"Sorry, Mama."

She just clicks her tongue before returning to whatever it is that she needs to do, even though she isn't the one traveling across the country.

Ilya decides to use the time appropriately and starts piling his bags into Lara's car.

By the time she emerges, Ilya is adjusting the guards on his skates for what might be the hundredth time since he packed them.

They're already scuffed from the last few weeks of practices, which is fine by him. At least the scuffs make them look less obnoxiously expensive than they had when Mama gave them to him for his birthday.

He still thinks they were too expensive. And the way Irina has been especially careful with their grocery budget, tells him he's right.

But Mama has always been good about putting Ilya before herself.

His heart clenches, not for the first time, when he thinks about leaving her here without him.

He knows she'll have Lara, and that she's a fucking adult and can take care of herself. But he also knows how she gets on the bad days. On the days she can only really stand to see Ilya.

While standing at the front door, Ilya realizes he left his book on the bedside table. He quickly runs back to grab it, taking one last look at the space, trying to commit it to memory. He doesn't want to forget it.

Even if he's going to come back to this bedroom.

When he comes out with the book in hand, Irina is standing at the door with an expectant look on her face. Like she's been waiting for him.

"So slow, Ilyusha," she says with a sly smile. "If you don't hurry, we will be late."

He rolls his eyes at her and shakes his head, opening the door so they can go outside.

As they're getting settled in the car, Irina tosses something onto Ilya's lap casually.

It's a cell phone.

Nothing impressive, as far as cell phones go, but it is a cell phone.

"So you can call," Irina tells him without looking at him. Instead she focuses on adjusting the mirrors.

"Mama," Ilya starts reproachfully. "We cannot afford this."

His stomach twists, knowing that she already sacrificed enough on the skates for his birthday. They were no small purchase.

She shrugs and finally looks at him, reaching over to rest her small hand against his face. The warmth from her touch comforts him.

"Do not mind what we can afford," she tells him. "I will worry about it. I cannot afford to not hear from you. I will need to know you are okay."

That's enough to shut him up.

He holds the small phone in his hands.

"Thank you."

She just smiles at him before putting her hand back on the wheel and driving them toward the airport.

They're sitting in the car in the airport parking lot. Neither of them has moved for a few minutes. Ilya suddenly finds it hard to get out of the car. Suddenly finds that his feet feel like lead. When he turns to look at Irina, he sees a look of stony resolve hastily covering an expression of fear.

"It's only two weeks." He's not sure who he's saying it for.

"You're going to do amazing," she says, turning to smile at him. "Let's get your bags out."

They both open the car doors and, after Ilya finds a cart, start loading his stuff on.

As they approach his gate, Irina stops and starts looking through her purse.

She pulls out his permanent residency card and his healthcare card.

"Do not lose them," she says with no laughter in her voice.

The two forms of identification that announce his place in the country. Permanent residency lets him claim Canada, the healthcare card places his allegiance with Alberta. He stares down at the permanent residency card.

He hates the photo. They took it a few months ago, when he and his mother officially become permanent residents. He was grateful. He hated the way people would look at him and his mother, especially when she struggled with the language, and see the word refugee associated with them.

The open, unabashed pity.

So, Ilya might hate the photo—his hair was doing something odd that day—but he loves the card. What it means for him and his Mama.

Permanent.

Canada.

Home.

They stand and stare at each other. Ilya thinks she must be thinking about the last time they were in this airport together.

When they landed in Calgary, he was still half convinced it was a very elaborate dream. And then they'd spent hours in customs. And he knew it couldn't be a dream. There was no way dreams had that much paperwork.

It feels momentous then, to be preparing to leave his mother for the longest stretch of time they've ever been apart in this same airport that gave them respite from the storm they'd left behind.

He's taller than he was then. Irina has to look up to meet his eyes now, which she does, a pained expression on her face.

"You are a strong skater," she tells him seriously. "Do not forget that."

Ilya opens his arms and envelops her in a hug, breathing deeply, grounding himself in her presence for the last time before he leaves.

"I won't forget, Mama," Ilya promises her.

He keeps himself from crying. He's sixteen. He shouldn't cry at the airport because he's going to miss his mom.

When he pulls away she looks at him seriously. He knows she sees past his thin attempt at bravado. She smiles the small smile he associates with childhood. With being a young boy in Russia who often got his feelings hurt.

It's a look of complete tenderness and love.

"Ilyushenka," she says softly. "My brave boy."

She reaches around her neck and undoes the clasp on her necklace. It's a simple gold chain with a crucifix hanging from the centre. She looks up at him and fastens it around his neck. Her fingers trail along the chain.

"There," she says with a sense of finality in her voice. "Now you have me with you always."

He thumbs at the necklace, uncaring if it looks feminine in any way.

Because there is an awful truth behind all of this.

Ilya is scared to leave home.

But he also knows his best shot at hockey is on the other side of the country. And he will do whatever is necessary so he can take care of his mom.

"I love you," Ilya tells her.

"I love you too," she responds. "Now, go."

Ilya is exhausted by the time he gets to the rink in Ottawa.

The late July evening air is warm, but not uncomfortably so. He dropped off his luggage at the dorms he and the other players would be using for the next two weeks. It hadn't looked like his roommate had arrived yet. Ilya just hopes it's someone decent.

After he registers, he's informed that there's an open skate at the rink and some of the other players are already there. He could check it out and meet some of the other guys.

He honestly just isn't in the mood to unpack his gear.

But he does want to see the kind of hockey talent Canada has to offer right now.

Players from across the country are here, boys the coaches and camp staff hope will become NHL players. Everyone wants to be able to say I knew him when after someone gets famous.

This is a stepping stone. Even though Ilya only turned sixteen a month ago, he knows that these camps are key pieces of the puzzle if expects to go pro.

Although many of them will play as teammates during the two weeks they are here, Ilya knows he has to view the other boys as what they are. Competition.

He knows he's good, the best on his team back in Calgary. But Calgary isn't exactly Moscow, and being the best there doesn't mean he'll be the best here. He needs to know he can stand toe to toe with any of these players.

A burst of cool air hits him when he steps into the rink. He's glad he kept his hoodie on when he walked over.

Ilya takes a seat in the stands, high enough to have a good view, but not so high that the other players don't see him there watching. Good.

There are maybe seven player on the ice, not including the goalie. A few coaches are standing by the boards opposite Ilya. They've got clipboards and are already watching the players on the ice.

Shit.

Maybe he should have just grabbed his stuff and gotten out there.

Oh well, too late now.

A few have started a loose two on two, while others take shots on the goalie.

There's definitely talent here. He tries not to let it bother him.

He watches one guy carry the puck end to end and can see the slight hesitation in his movements. He's a better skater than stickhandler. Another has a beautiful shot but needs too much time to get it off. One of the defensemen is big enough that Ilya wonders whether they actually checked his birth certificate.

There's another player on the far side of the ice who immediately catches Ilya's eye.

He almost seems to be off in his own world while everyone plays around him. He doesn't seem to notice anyone else, while still staying aware enough not to crash into them.

His skating is clean. Almost annoyingly so.

But he is good.

Ilya can admit that.

He seems to be working through the same sequence over and over while everyone else plays around him.

Ilya watches as he drops low into a turn, leans onto his outside edge and comes out of it with more speed than he went in with. His crossovers are tight. Transitions are seamless.

No wasted motion.

One of the coaches on the ice sends a puck his way and he takes it in stride, not bothering to look down. His head stays up as he cuts across the ice, shifts his weight and changes direction hard enough that a player trying to catch up with him ends up even further behind.

The movements look easy. Effortless.

He snaps it far side, just under the bar.

Ilya sits up. His eyes stay trained on the player, who circles back without celebrating. Instead, he collects another puck and does it again.

This time he misses.

Ilya sits back in his seat, briefly self-conscious at how closely he's watching this player.

He watches the player reset and try again.

He's wide this time.

He tries again.

The third goes exactly where he wants it. So do the fourth and fifth.

Ilya finds himself smiling.

Before he can stop himself, he steps out of his row and slowly makes his way down the steps toward the boards, watching the ice the whole time.

Another player is resting at the bench, leaning over the boards while he takes a drink of water.

When he sees Ilya he nods by way of greeting.

"Who is that?" Ilya asks, pointing at the player across the ice.

"Who?" he asks, looking where Ilya's pointing.

"Him," Ilya says. "Red jersey. Black helmet."

The other boy squints like he's thinking very hard.

"Uh, Hollander, I think," he finally answers.

Ilya stares at him. The boy says nothing else.

"What else?" Ilya demands, not caring to soften his tone.

"What do you mean?"

"First name. Anything."

"Shane," he says. "I think."

It takes everything in Ilya not to snap at this moron.

"He's from here," the boy adds. "Ottawa. Local. Uh, I think I played against him last season. He's pretty good."

Ilya wants to scoff.

Pretty good.

A fucking travesty.

Rather than asking the boy how he managed to get to this camp when he apparently left his brain cells at home, Ilya just nods at him and returns to his seat higher up in the stands.

Shane Hollander.

Interesting.

Ilya repeats it to himself so he'll remember the name.

He knows immediately that he will be a player to watch.

Chapter End Notes

hmmmmm, i wonder if they'll talk to each other.

also.

i don't want to go back to work. the whole month of august is the sunday scaries.

all i wanna do is write fan fiction. booooo

if you like it, pls leave comments! i live for them.

Chapter 4: July 2007 II

Chapter Summary

Ilya's first day at camp.

Chapter Notes

let's GO

i cannot stress how much i hATE dialogue between literally anyone but the boys.

the boys? easy breezy beautiful.

anyone else???? no. struggle.

teenage boys??? even worse.

July 2007

The next morning, Ilya is ready to get going.

Ilya enters the dining hall that's attached to the dorms and where, according to his welcome sheet, they will be sharing meals for the next two weeks.

It's louder and busier than it has any right to be. There's something about hockey players and their ability to fill empty space.

Chairs dragging across the floor. Cutlery knocking against plates. Boys shouting across tables at one another, clearly already trying to find their places within the developing hierarchy.

Because there will be a hierarchy. Ilya has played enough hockey in enough leagues to know that. And he's been in enough rooms where people use their stature to decide who gets to speak and who gets to listen.

Any small amount of nerves Ilya may have had about finding his place here dissipates as he looks around.

These are the kinds of boys he's used to dealing with.

Breakfast is spread along one wall in warming trays. Eggs. Bacon. Sausage. Potatoes. Fruit. Cereal dispensers. Enough food with enough variety that Ilya truly gets the sense of just how expensive this camp must be.

A few coaches are scattered around the room, mostly speaking to each other and leaving the players alone.

Ilya grabs a tray and joins the line.

He recognizes a few of the faces he'd been able to see under their visors the night before.

He's mad that he hadn't waited at the rink to get a clear look at Hollander's face. He'd only seen the dark hair poking out from beneath the helmet.

So instead, Ilya keeps his ears open. Listens for his name. Someone will call for him eventually.

Once his tray is weighed down with enough food to feed himself, his mother and his aunt, Ilya turns back toward the boys who all crowd around different tables. He's not sure where to sit. Not sure how everyone seems to be organizing themselves.

There are too many boys with dark hair for that to be a deciding factor.

"Hey, you're from Calgary, right?"

Ilya looks over, grateful to have a direction to move.

One of the boys at a table toward the centre of the room is grinning at him. Ilya thinks he saw him on the ice last night, although nothing sticks out in his mind about him. He has light blond hair and a forgettable face.

"Yes," Ilya answers, putting his tray down and taking a seat at the table.

"Rozanov, right?"

"Very good," Ilya smirks. "You managed to remember one fact."

The boy laughs. It's easy from there.

"What team were you with?"

Ilya won't be able to remember any of their names or where any of them are from. They discuss hockey. Teams. Positions. Stats. Who knows who. The usual careful measuring that athletes do when they're put together.

As someone starts talking about their season in terms that Ilya senses might be slightly hyperbolic, he hears the name clearly said across the room.

"Hollander…"

He doesn't hear what came before it or what comes after it. But Ilya's head turns on a swivel in the direction, eyes scanning the area quickly.

They land on a face across the room.

He's sitting across from two boys who seem more enraptured in their conversation with each other to bother with him. Although, Ilya notes, Hollander doesn't seem too bothered to be left to his own devices.

His hair is black, his skin darker than most of the other boys in the room, and even from this distance Ilya can see freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.

He's built like a hockey player who's not quite done growing.

A burst of laughter from the boys at his table draws the attention of most of the other people in the room, but Ilya's eyes are on Hollander, who doesn't even flinch at the sound.

"…I knew you were Russian, I didn't know you were an idiot."

The mention of his nationality calls his attention back to the boys in front of him. Clearly someone had been speaking and he hadn't responded.

Ilya has schooled his expression into something careful by the time he brings his attention back.

"You should be careful," Ilya tells him, crushing his napkin. "Thinking this hard looks painful for you."

A new chorus of laughter. It's easy.

Ilya knows his English is good. If it weren't for his accent and occasional syntax problems, he'd consider himself fluent.

Oh, and idioms. Stupid fucking idioms.

But sometimes his words still come out wrong, or his mouth can't quite fit over the way the words form. And he hates the way some of the boys' mouths twist into sneers when they hear it.

So, fine. They want a Russian. Ilya will give them a Russian.

After everyone's finished breakfast, most of the players start drifting toward the rink in loose groups.

Ilya falls in with a handful of boys from his table.

The walk is short. It's already warm outside, the sun higher than Ilya would like considering they've just barely finished breakfast.

Someone behind him groans.

"Fuck, it's hot."

"You're from Vancouver," another boy says. "You don't know what hot is."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I dunno. It rains there."

"That doesn't even make sense."

Ilya laughs.

This is easy too.

They spend most of the walk talking about nothing. Who's played for what teams. Who had the worst coach. Who already knows the camp coaches. Which of them are apparently assholes.

One of the boys says he knows someone who was here the previous year and insists that a coach worked some of the players so hard that someone threw up during testing.

By the time they reach the rink, Ilya knows none of their names any better than he did at breakfast.

He knows one is from somewhere in Saskatchewan, one hates his coach, and another apparently has a girlfriend who's already mad he hasn't called her since he arrived the day before.

All very important stuff.

He doesn't see Hollander in their group. He thinks he might have left ahead of them. He seems like the kind of person to be first in, last out. It wouldn't surprise Ilya.

The locker room they've been assigned is already half full when they walk in.

It's a bit of a mess. Their stuff has clearly been dumped wherever people found space and hasn't been organized since.

Sticks propped against walls. Tape, water bottles and pieces of equipment spread across the floor despite the fact they've been here for less than a day.

The smell is familiar enough that Ilya barely notices it. Every locker room carries the same stink about it. He feels confident that they could bleach the room and the smell would persist.

Sweat. Equipment. Disinfectant.

It's as familiar to him as the smell of his mother's cooking.

He finds his stall with his name taped above it and drops his bag onto the floor.

ROZANOV.

It feels right.

He scans the other stalls and sees a familiar name three stalls down.

HOLLANDER.

Shane is already mostly dressed, sitting forward on the bench while he tapes the blade of his stick. He's moving with the calm focus of someone defusing a bomb.

He still doesn't seem to be particularly interested in the conversations happening around him. Ilya is realizing he hasn't even heard the other boy speak.

Whatever.

He starts pulling out his own gear.

"Those new?"

Ilya looks up.

The blond boy from breakfast is gesturing toward the skates Ilya has just set on the floor.

For one stupid second, pride comes first.

"Yeah," Ilya says.

Then the boy reaches down and picks one up by the ankle.

Ilya's stomach tightens.

"Never seen anyone bring these to a camp like this."

The words aren't cruel, necessarily. But they're not kind either.

The neutrality almost makes it worse.

Another boy looks over.

"What are they?"

The blond kid holds them out for him to see.

"Oh."

That's it.

Oh.

Ilya reaches out and takes the skate back from him.

"They work better when they're on my feet," he says.

The boy laughs. And it's not a mean laugh.

"No, they're fine. I just…" He shrugs. "I figured everybody here would be in top-end shit."

Ilya looks down at the skate in his hands.

He fled a country with his mother with little more than the clothes on their backs.

The same woman who had spent weeks saving to afford these skates. Who had waved off every attempt Ilya made to tell her she'd spent too much.

He reflexively touches the cross that hangs at his neck.

"Sorry," he says seriously. "This is very advanced for me. In Calgary we usually strap knives to our shoes."

There's a beat.

Someone across the room laughs.

The blond boy snorts.

"Fuck off."

"No, really. Very advanced technology."

More laughter.

Easy.

It's easy again.

The tension disappears almost as quickly as it arrived.

Someone throws a roll of tape at Ilya. He catches it easily.

"You guys even have indoor rinks out there?"

"No," Ilya says, starting to strip down to his base layer. "Only pond. Sometimes polar bear takes puck."

"Wrong part of Canada, dumbass."

Ilya points at him. "See? This is why camp is important. Already, I learn so much."

The room erupts again.

Ilya grins and returns to getting ready.

Good.

Something tight in his chest eases slightly.

He feels someone watching him.

Looks up to see Hollander's eyes on him. There's nothing discernable in his expression and before Ilya can respond he's turned away.

Ilya can't tell what the look meant.

Fine.

He continues getting ready, pulling on both skates and flexing his feet. The fit is perfect. Mama had made sure of that. He's spent the past month wearing them in.

"Rozanov."

Ilya looks up to see one of the coaches standing at the door with a clipboard.

"Hollander."

He sees the other boy look up out of the corner of his eye.

"You'll be with me and the other forwards."

The coach leaves the room and Ilya finishes tightening the laces on his skates, then stands, shifting to make sure everything is where it should be.

Across the room, Hollander is doing the same. He adjusts his gloves, grabs his stick and leaves. He still hasn't said a word as far as Ilya has heard.

Quiet fucker.

"Calgary."

Ilya turns.

"You forgot your head."

Ilya looks down at the helmet then back at him.

"Ah, this is why I keep you around."

"We met twenty minutes ago."

"And already you prove to be helpful assistant."

"Go fuck yourself."

Ilya grins and pulls the helmet on before heading toward the ice.

That's better.

That's the kind of interaction he's looking for.

Ilya is glad to get on the ice. He pushes himself harder than he probably should on the first day, but feels like he's got something to prove. Even if the other boy hadn't meant anything by his comments, Ilya knows they won't be the first or last time he hears them. So he pushes himself.

It doesn't take long for the tightness in his chest to disappear. He's good. He knows he's good, and once they're actually moving, nobody seems to give a fuck what model of skate is on his feet.

And tries not to focus on Hollander when they're on the ice.

Perhaps there's a small part of Ilya expecting last night to have been a fluke.

It wasn't.

Fucker.

Shane is something else on the ice. Every drill they put in front of him, he demolishes. And if he doesn't, he keeps going at it until he can do it better than well.

At some point, Ilya's finally placed on the same line as Hollander.

The drill is simple. Something he's certain he's done countless times at countless practices. Except there's something different. Ilya's not even sure who else is on their line. They hardly become relevant when he's playing with Hollander. It's easy. Too easy.

Breathing kind of easy.

They finally stop along the boards to grab water, breathing heavily while the other forwards run through some of the drills.

Ilya finally sees Hollander up close.

"Good of you to keep up with me," Ilya says, out of breath but exhilarated in the way that only hockey seems to make him.

"Sure." Hollander nods and skates away after tossing his water bottle back toward the bench.

Ilya finds himself frozen in place. The first word he's heard from Hollander, and that was it? He stares after the retreating form.

He wants to follow him.

He doesn't.

By the time they leave the ice for lunch, Ilya is exhausted, starving and considerably more certain he belongs here.

After lunch, there's an hour of video Ilya struggles not to fall asleep through. The exhaustion makes it even more difficult to sort through the rapid English coming out of the mouth of an East Coast coach. And then the fitness testing that makes Ilya question every decision he's made in life that found him standing, panting alongside twenty other boys.

And at every stage, Ilya finds himself equal parts infuriated and impressed by just how good Hollander is. He barely interacts with the other boys and seems solely focused on whatever task they're doing.

Ilya tries to coax—or goad depending on who you ask—him into speaking a few more times and hits the solid wall of Shane Hollander each time. Immovable. Unshakeable.

Im-fucking-possible.

The only further interaction happens during their second ice session in the late afternoon, when Ilya gets caught up on part of the instructions. After a full day of fast-paced English, his brain is fried, and he misses a string of quickly delivered steps. He's not willing to ask them to repeat it, when everyone else seems to understand, but the blank look on his face must be somewhat transparent.

"Swing low, take the pass off the wall, then drive the middle," Hollander mumbles next to him.

It's said quietly, but clearly, so Ilya has no trouble understanding it. He has considerably more trouble believing Hollander actually spoke to him.

He says thanks and turns to shoot a smile toward Hollander, but finds he's already gone.

Ilya cannot figure out how this guy manages to be utterly silent and still stay about two inches under his skin at all times.

At the end of the day, all of the boys are back in the locker room. Some have already showered, moving around with all the shamelessness that comes with sports. From a young age, you learn that your body doesn't entirely belong to you. It's a tool being built until it can be utilized by someone else. Preferably, in their case, an NHL team.

Ilya is drying off and pulling his shirt over his wet hair, commenting every once in a while on the asinine conversations happening around him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hollander coming out of the showers, a towel tucked around his waist as he returns to get dressed.

Everyone's tired.

Some of the chirps have started to develop teeth.

"He's such a fucking try-hard," one of the boys says.

Fuck, Ilya really has to start learning their names.

They aren't trying to be quiet.

"Who?"

The first boy isn't subtle when he nods toward Hollander.

The other responds with a roll of his eyes.

"Seriously. Guy treats every drill like scouts are standing there with fucking contracts."

Ilya feels his jaw clench.

A few of the other boys have started nodding along. He can see the way Hollander's back has straightened, even though he's facing away.

He knows.

He doesn't react beyond the way his muscles tense. He just keeps getting dressed.

"Probably thinks he's already in the fucking NHL."

Ilya looks across at the boys smiling at each other as if they've said something clever. As if they aren't just poking fun at the one guy they know isn't going to bite back.

"Are you angry or stupid?" Ilya asks, sounding genuinely curious.

"What?"

"I figure it must be one or other," Ilya says, pulling on his shoes. "Either angry that he's better than you, or stupid because you think that he's not."

"Whatever."

"Brilliant response, really," Ilya says dryly. "Does Mensa know about you?"

There's laughter.

Easy.

When Ilya turns back, he sees that Hollander has already left. Oh well.

He resolves to try again tomorrow. For whatever reason, Ilya feels a need to see what's hiding beneath the cool, seemingly unflappable exterior.

He walks toward the dorms with a few of the other guys before he stops, patting his pockets. He left his wallet back at his stall.

"I'll meet you guys over there," Ilya calls to them, jogging back. "Forgot my wallet."

Ilya steps back outside, slipping his wallet into his pocket and setting off toward the other guys.

"Rozanov."

He knows the voice despite having heard it only a few times.

He doesn't even fight the smile that pushes his lips up as he turns to see Hollander walking toward him.

"Hollander." Ilya smiles at him.

Hollander's expression is hard to read. As it has been all day.

"Can I help you?"

"Can you leave me alone?" Hollander asks him plainly.

Ilya feels the smile fall off his face and shatter at his feet as Hollander stops about ten feet away from him.

"Sorry?" Ilya asks.

"Look, I don't know what your end game is," Hollander says, running a hand through his hair. "But I don't need you defending me."

Ilya would be thrilled—it's the most words Hollander's said to him consecutively since they've been there—but this isn't what he'd been expecting.

"I can handle those assholes," Hollander says simply.

"I know," Ilya says. Embarrassment prickles beneath the defensiveness.

Hollander clearly misunderstood.

But before Ilya can correct the misunderstanding, Hollander just nods and steps away, walking back toward the dorms and leaving Ilya absolutely confused.

For the first time all day, Ilya has no idea how to adjust himself to fit into this dynamic.

Chapter End Notes

look at me.

listen.

i REFUSE to accept a willowy baby shane who needs to be rescued.

I REFUSE.

and also let's talk about class issues in hockey.

but since there is SO much dialogue happening at this goddamn camp...posting may delay as i struggle.

let me know what you think! seriously, the comments help so much to keep me moving.

Chapter 5: July 2007 III

Chapter Summary

Ilya makes a friend.

Chapter Notes

okay.

so. i hate writing dialogue, right?

there's only one time i don't hate writing dialogue.

it's when it's between shane and ilya. idk why. (i do know)

i'm obsessed with them starting as just pals.

bc ilya is the PERFECT emotional support extrovert for shane.

July 2007

The dining hall is just as loud the next morning, though Ilya finds he's less interested in taking part in the stupid conversations happening around him.

He settles in at the table and actively tries not to look for Hollander.

The indignation he initially felt over Hollander's response to him the night before has settled in his gut and calcified into embarrassment. He isn't sure what to do at this point.

Ilya has defended other players before when chirps have stopped being something to laugh at and have instead grown barbs. There's just something about people using their places in stupid made up hierarchies to belittle other people that always rubs Ilya the wrong way. But this is the first time someone has pushed back against it. And it's bothering Ilya for reasons he can't quite pin down.

It isn't that he expected Hollander to fall to his knees in thanks, but he wasn't anticipating this either. The cold tone of Hollander's voice from the night before is still bugging him. The request that Ilya leave him alone.

And, perhaps, the actual reason Ilya is having such a difficult time with this is the fact that he knows Hollander is right.

It really isn't his place to decide what's best for him. They don't even know each other.

Suddenly, the boys around him start cheering as a competition to see who can eat the most bacon predictably ends with someone throwing up. And Ilya has decided he will fix this.

Hollander is sitting across the dining hall, still with the same two boys from the day before. Ilya briefly wonders if they are friends, or just people Hollander knows won't talk to him.

He also wonders what it'll take for him to talk to Ilya.

For a moment, he's pulled to just go talk to Hollander immediately, naturally just wanting to get it out of the way. Something stops him. Remembering the way Hollander had waited to speak to Ilya when he was alone the night before.

He should wait until he can talk to Hollander alone. Without an audience. He isn't sure where the instinct comes from, but he also knows it's correct.

Maybe it's the way Hollander always has such a guarded expression when they're in groups, or that he's only ever said a full sentence to Ilya when no one was near to hear him.

Ilya continues weighing these realizations while he eats his breakfast, hardly tasting anything. It isn't until he's nearly finished that he hears his name through the chaos of sounds surrounding him.

"What?" he says abruptly, turning to the blond guy he'd met yesterday. Evan Mercer, he's since learned is his name.

"Just checking to see if you're still with us, Rozanov," he laughs.

Ilya's glad that they've started shifting into the natural state of hockey players in referring to one another in terms of last names. It was rare for North Americans to say either part of his name correctly, but it bothers him less when it's just his last name.

Because he really can't understand the struggle people have with the four letters of his first name.

"Sorry, Mercer," Ilya says, slapping a hand onto his shoulder. "I got distracted trying to figure out how you make eating look so difficult."

A chorus of laughter erupts around him and he smirks happily at the sound. And for some reason, he can't help the way his eyes flicker in Hollander's direction. He forces them away before they can rest on the other boy for too long. Because it's stupid. He doesn't know why he keeps coming back to him.

Must be the guilt over the night before.

Eventually, Ilya sees Hollander bringing his dishes over to the dish return and watches him leave the dining hall without any preamble. He shoves the last two bites into his mouth, not really tasting it. He rises from the table amidst protests from the other guys who can't understand why he'd try to get to the rink earlier than they had to.

Especially because Sully is about to tell them about the time he got kicked out of a Tim Hortons.

He just waves them off, trusting that the stoic Russian thing would dismiss any implied rudeness. He was dead set on catching up with Hollander.

Unfortunately for him, Hollander is nothing if not efficient. He groans when he sees the other boy nearly across the quad and closing in on the rink.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath before running after Hollander.

He immediately regrets the five slices of bacon.

"Hollander," Ilya calls when he's close enough.

A few feet ahead, Hollander freezes and turns slowly. The expression on his face is confused and unsure. Ilya doesn't like that. He realizes that whatever attempts he'd made the day before were not done right.

"Can I talk to you?"

"Look—" Hollander starts.

"No secret evil purpose," Ilya says, stopping in front of Shane, trying not to look as sick as he feels.

"Ulterior motive?" Shane provides.

"Sure, that too," Ilya agrees without really hearing whatever Shane said.

They stand there staring at each other, the silence interrupted only by Ilya trying to manage his breathing and keep his breakfast in his stomach.

Behind him, Ilya he can hear the loud calls of the other boys. He turns his head and sees them headed that way. When he looks back there is a noticeable unease to Hollander's expression that hadn't been present a moment before.

"Come," Ilya says, grabbing the sleeve of Hollander's hoodie and dragging him around the side of the building.

He turns back to Hollander who, at least, has the decency to look more confused by Ilya's actions than genuinely fearful.

"I wanted to apologize—" Ilya starts.

"Okay."

"It was not fair," Ilya tries to continue.

"Yeah, I get it."

"I understand that you did not need—"

"Is that all?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Hollander," Ilya finally snaps. "I am trying to apologize. I am trying to be very nice guy. Would you fucking relax?"

That shuts him up. At least for a moment.

"Uh, sorry."

"You're ruining it," Ilya groans. "I apologize to you." He overpronounces each word. "You do not apologize to me."

Shane rolls his eyes, but there's a smile there too.

"Ah, smile means apology accepted," Ilya announces.

"I don't think that's what it means," Shane says, and the smile is definitely there now.

"Yes, I apologize. You smile. We are friends."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah," Ilya says. "Is simple."

"Simple, sure," Hollander says with more levity than Ilya saw from him all of the previous day.

"Maybe we start over even," Ilya suggests, holding out a hand. "Hi, I am Ilya. I am from Calgary. I am best player here."

Hollander fights the smile that starts at the comment. But he still extends a hand, grasping Ilya's.

"Hi, Ilya," Shane responds. "I'm Shane. I am from here, Ottawa. Uh, I don't think you're the best player here."

Ilya's face drops dramatically.

"Shane," he says. "This is terrible way to make friends. You are terrible at this."

"Yeah, I know."

It's easy after that. Ilya isn't willing to dissect exactly why it's so easy, but it is. And he's treated to a very special experience of watching Shane come out of his shell.

And the kid's a freak.

In the best ways possible.

"What do you mean, you categorize socks?" Ilya asks one night when he's sitting cross-legged on Shane's bed.

They were going to go for a run, but Ilya realizes he hasn't packed nearly enough socks. Shane kindly offers to share…and then reveals this horrific bit of lore.

"You don't?" Shane looks genuinely confused by this.

"No, Shane," Ilya says, disbelieving. "I am not broken human. Or Canadian, at least not yet." A gasp. "Is this Canadian thing? They will make me categorize socks before citizenship, yes? Ah, then you must teach me your ways."

Shane's laughter unlocks something in Ilya that has him grinning until his face hurts. He ends up with socks being thrown in his face after he, admittedly, starts throwing them first, demanding to know the categories for each carefully folded pair.

"You're helping me clean this up, asshole," Shane insists after they've finished and his small bedroom is covered in socks.

"Why? Is not my room." He turns to leave.

That earns him another thwack as a pair of socks hits him square in the back of the head. He still helps clean up. He fucks up the categories though. It's maybe on purpose.

They become a full problem on the ice, and eventually the coaches have to readjust all plans for scrimmages to ensure they're never allowed on the same line or team again.

Ilya isn't even sure he could describe the feeling of playing with Shane. The ease in it. To finally have someone who is actually capable of keeping up with him.

It's more than keeping up with him though, and Ilya knows that. Knew that the moment he saw Shane on the ice. Because Shane is a better hockey player than him. Ilya knows he might be better than very nearly every other player at the camp, but Shane does have him beat. He's not so blind that he can't see that.

Ilya was a highly anticipated prospect in Russia before he and his mother left when he was twelve. He was already training probably more than a child that age should have been, more than he trains now even. He can briefly hear the echo of his father spitting at the idea that it had been too much, muttering about the weakness found in North America.

But Ilya also arrived in Canada with his mom and little else. And hockey isn't a cheap sport. It's something he's been reminded of daily since they arrived in Canada. Ilya cried when he realized they weren't returning to Russia. Yes, he would miss friends and small factions of family he could associate with positive memories. But they'd also left behind all of his hockey gear. Most of it new and barely used, he'd grown so much he had needed new of pretty much everything.

So while he and his mother settled into Canada, and Irina struggled to find work while she struggled to get out of bed, Ilya didn't play.

It wasn't for long. Only a season and a half. But it had been enough. And he knows, judging by the gear he watches Shane pull on without thinking, that Shane doesn't have to ration food before deciding he can afford a pack of gum.

A very small place in Ilya's brain, the one he tries his best to ignore, wants to hate Shane for that. Wants to dislike the Canadian whose softness he knows his father would have hated. He can't. He just can't bring himself to feel anything close to hate when it comes to Shane.

"You should go," Shane tells him the first Saturday night.

Ilya is spread across his bed, throwing a roll of tape up in the air and catching it repeatedly so there's a quiet rhythmic sound as it lands in his hands every few seconds. Shane is sitting on the floor next to the bed. They came in here because Ilya's roommate, who he initially thought was a regular guy named Jason Campbell, has slowly become a guy everyone calls Soup, who constantly fights with his girlfriend on the phone.

"Go where?"

"Out," Shane says. "With the other guys."

There's a crash from the small common room he shares with Soup.

"Is he okay?" Shane asks, tipping his head back to look at Ilya.

"No," Ilya says. "He is absolutely not okay. He is held hostage by girlfriend."

The room is silent except for the sound of the tape being thrown and caught.

"Do you, ya know?" Shane says, and there's something different about his tone here. It feels more rigid, closer to the way he sounded that first day.

"I know nothing, Shane, do I what?"

"Doyouhaveagirlfriend?" The question comes out rushed, and for the first time in at least thirty minutes, Ilya stops tossing the tape up.

He tilts his head as well. They're nearly forehead to forehead. He's certain he must look as fucking weird as Shane looks to him right now and he chokes down a laugh at the sight.

"Shane, I am sad ESL child," he reminds him. "I cannot understand mad ramblings of Canadian when he talk like this."

Shane looks especially ridiculous from this angle when he rolls his eyes.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" he says, the words clearer, but no louder.

"Ah, no."

"Why not?" Shane sounds genuinely surprised. "You're, ya know."

Ilya grins, rolling onto his stomach while Shane twists his body around so they're facing each other.

"You are calling me good looking?"

"Ugh, no," Shane says, his lip curling in disgust.

Ilya lets the grin drop. "You are incredibly rude Canadian."

"I just meant," Shane sighs. "You're, I don't know, confident? Everyone likes you. I figured that would mean…"

"No," Ilya shrugs, rolling onto his back again and resuming the solo game of catch. "I mean, yes, I am very handsome, thank you for that, Shane, and I am very confident and well loved. And yes, I am possibly best future NHL player…"

"You're such an asshole."

"Sorry, what was question?" Ilya smirks.

"Nevermind."

There's something in the way Shane says that part that has Ilya hesitate, causing the tape to hit him in the forehead. He sits up on the bed so his back's against the wall while he rubs the, hopefully not bruised, spot on his forehead.

"Why do you ask?"

"I just…I don't know." Shane is very pointedly staring at the edge of Ilya's bed, where the sheet meets the bed frame. "All the guys on my team always talk about the girls they meet at parties."

"So?"

"Nothing, forget it."

Ilya sits there, staring at Shane for a moment. In a rare turn of events, he's not sure what to say to ease the tension that's suddenly become an uninvited third party. Worse than that, he's not even sure what Shane's trying to say.

"Anyway," Ilya says after a moment. "I do not want to go out tonight, and see the horror of Mac and Sully trying to pick up women who are too old to be interested in them."

Shane nods, but doesn't say anything.

Ilya throws the roll of tape at the back of his head.

After they finish winging the tape back and forth at each other, they quietly decide to stay in. They abandon Ilya's room because Soup has decided to forgive his girlfriend and is now having loud, and very uncreative, phone sex with her.

Shane chooses the movie. Ilya makes microwave popcorn.

And he finds he doesn't miss going out that much at all.

Ilya calls his mom nightly. Even if they can only manage to speak for a few minutes before her shift. The time change makes it tricky.

He also has at least one cigarette each night. He doesn't think it's a coincidence that they happen at the same time. Just tells himself that he doesn't want Soup to overhear their conversation.

He doesn't think about the fact that they speak Russian. And Soup is from Winnipeg and barely speaks coherent English, despite it being his only language.

Still, he figures if he's outside while he's calling his mom, he may as well have a cigarette. There's no connection between the two, though.

There's a green space tucked between two buildings that can't be seen by the dorms. It's his preferred spot, there's a picnic table and no one really walks in this direction. Especially in the evenings when he's there.

"You shouldn't smoke."

Almost no one.

"What do you want, Shane?" His tone is possibly a little too sharp.

Mama had told him she was fine. She has been fine every time he calls. But there's still a pit in his stomach. She tells him she's just tired. But sometimes tired means something more.

So instead of thinking about it, he tucks another cigarette into his mouth and lights it. A quick glance in the pack tells him he can't have many more nights like this one. He's going to run out before he gets home.

"I was going for a walk."

"At nine?" Ilya asks. "Is past your bedtime, no?"

Shane's lips draw into a line. He looks at Ilya with a quiet scrutiny that Ilya doesn't care for.

"Why are you being an asshole?"

"Because maybe I am asshole." Ilya hates that the more tired he gets the harder it is to hold onto all the silly grammar rules in English. "Why the fuck do you even care?"

"Okay." Shane rolls his eyes and turns, heading back in the direction of the dorms. "Goodnight."

Fuck.

"Shane, wait."

Ilya stubs the cigarette out on his shoe and tucks it back into the pack before walking after him.

"No, you're good," Shane assures him without turning around. "I can take a hint."

Ilya just follows behind him like a baby duck behind its mother.

"Is no hint," he promises. "I am just an asshole."

Shane doesn't answer.

"Please stop."

Shane's step finally falters and he stops about 10 feet in front of Ilya. He turns.

"I'm sorry."

Shane just stares at him. His expression is blank. Too blank. First day of camp blank.

"Is my mother," Ilya says, fidgeting with the pack of cigarettes before shoving them into his pocket. "I talk with her every night."

Shane's brows draw together. He looks like he's trying to piece together something.

"Is she…very bad?"

"No," Ilya says quickly. "She is amazing. So good. She just…she just has a hard time sometimes. I don't know how to explain."

He does. He knows exactly what words describe exactly what happens to Irina.

He just doesn't like to say them out loud.

"And that's hard for you?" Shane frames the statement like a question.

Ilya nods. "I smoke. I call Mama. Sometimes she sounds good. Sometimes less good. Tonight was less good."

"Okay," Shane says after a moment of quiet. He says it like everything Ilya said makes all the sense in the world.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, but maybe next time you just tell me that instead of being a dick."

Ilya huffs out a laugh devoid of humour. "Yeah. Maybe."

Shane nods his head, inviting Ilya to walk with him back to the dorms.

"Wanna watch a movie on my laptop again?"

"Sure."

They walk in silence for a few strides before Ilya speaks again.

"I'm sorry."

"You apologize a lot for a Russian."

"Eh, I am basically Canadian."

The last few days consist of far more scrimmages than the first few had. Scouts come. They don't tell the players. But they all know.

Canadians start farming for hockey players even younger than this. A few of the older boys already have major-junior teams attached to their names.

Ilya's only able to convince them to put him on the same line as Shane in the last scrimmage. A cursory glance at the scouts has Ilya smirking. They were talking rapidly, and he didn't imagine the way their eyes tracked him and Shane.

He feels certain that Shane has more of their attention. Even by the end of the two weeks, Ilya is blown away each time Shane gets on the ice. It's like he's built for it, there's a grace to his movements that seems out of place for a hockey player.

Ilya resolves to spend the next year of his life training.

After two weeks of non-stop hockey, Ilya is ready to go home. Very ready.

When Ilya is packing his bag to get ready, the box of condoms from Lara tumbles out.

Huh.

He'd forgotten about them. Hadn't even really thought about them, honestly. Not that there hadn't been any opportunities. He knew a lot of the guys left to go out to bars that didn't card. A few who were eighteen even talked about going across to Quebec, that one-year difference feeling like an impossible boundary.

But they were boys who were being trained like men. Whose bodies had developed far beyond their age, and honestly, there's always a bar or club that doesn't card.

He finds the pair of Shane's socks he borrowed.

He checks his watch.

It's just after three in the afternoon. He thinks Shane had said he was getting picked up around four.

Ilya jogs out of his room.

"Hey, see ya Roz!" Soup calls. He's been in better spirits with his return flight approaching.

"Bye, Soup."

Ilya doesn't stop.

He slows upon his arrival, knocking on the door to Shane's dorm before stepping inside.

"Hey Rozanov." Sully doesn't look up. He's used to Ilya bursting in and going straight to Shane's room.

Ilya just waves before slamming Shane's door open.

"Socks." Is all he says before winging them at Shane's surprised face.

Unfortunately for Ilya, Shane does have fantastic reflexes and manages to snag the socks out of the air before they make contact.

"Fuck you, man."

"I am kind enough to return socks, and this is how you thank me."

Shane just shakes his head and tucks the socks into his backpack.

"You are leaving soon, yes?"

"Yeah, my mom just texted," Shane said. "She's on her way."

Ilya suddenly feels awkward.

He and Shane had become fast friends over the past two weeks. After the initial discomfort, it just became easy. But it was a barely two week friendship. And they lived with a substantial amount of the country between them.

Shane stands across from him.

"Wanna help me carry my shit?" Shane asks.

Ilya nods and grabs the bag Shane hands him.

It's very apparent when they're walking that Shane doesn't need help carrying his things. It's really only his clothes and personal items. All his hockey gear will be picked up directly from the rink.

Ilya's not about to point that out though.

"That's my mom." Shane points toward a severe looking woman who does absolutely look like Shane if Shane had nothing to ease the sharp edges.

She is waiting for him beside a very nice looking SUV. Something about it bothers Ilya, but he doesn't let that feeling stick.

He hands Shane back his backpack.

They don't say anything for a moment.

Ilya finds his eyes catching on the freckles on Shane's face.

"Will you be here next year?" Shane asks.

"I don't know," Ilya answers honestly. Because he doesn't. He's not certain his coach will be able to find a way to sponsor him, and there's no way he and his mom can afford it. "Maybe."

"Oh."

Ilya's phone vibrates in his pocket and the idea hits him.

"You have phone?" Ilya asks.

"Uh, yeah."

"Give." Ilya holds out a hand.

Shane juggles his bags so he can slip a much nicer phone out of his pocket. He hands it to Ilya.

Ilya programs his phone number into the contacts and calls himself.

"Just in case you want to talk to future number one draft pick," Ilya says with a grin, handing it back to Shane.

"I'm not sure I'm able to call myself."

"Shane!" his mom calls for him.

"Yeah!" he calls back, turning toward her quickly.

"Bye, Shane," Ilya says when he turns back.

"Bye, Ilya."

They're both still for a moment, and Ilya figures fuck it, steps forward and hugs Shane. He feels the other boy's body tense for the smallest part of a second before he's hugging Ilya back.

"I'll miss you." And Ilya is surprised to find that it's true.

"I'll miss you too," Shane responds.

He slaps Shane on the back once more before they pull away and Shane starts jogging toward his mom.

Even from this distance, Ilya thinks he can see Shane's mom narrowing her eyes at him.

He waves at her awkwardly. He sees her nod in response.

He checks his phone as he walks toward his room. Sees the missed call.

Saves the contact.

Shane Hollander.

Stares at it.

Backspaces.

Shane.

Better.

Chapter End Notes

i finished planning out the whole story for this one and buddy??????????

we are in for a fuckin RIDE.

they will make us suffer. I promise you that.

i've put in a chapter count, but i'm the WORST for sticking to my chapter counts.

i'm heading back to work in just under 2 weeks. posting will suffer as soon as summer vacation ends and i return to my day job of being a burnt out teacher.

pls leave comments. let me know if you like it! i get way less feedback on this one...(i am insecure. you're right!)

Chapter 6: 2007/2008 School Year

Chapter Summary

Ilya builds a friendship.

Chapter Notes

hey.

pls. understand ilya's texts are done purposefully. my guy's using a flip phone. and using T9.

if you never lived through the time of texting using T9, consider yourself blessed. Ilya was not so blessed. (but shane is a fancier boy and has a blackberry and access to the full keyboard)

(the planning i've done has me so fucking excited to share this story though. the angst is gonna be quite complex and i just think that's neat)

2007 - 2008
School Year

August

Ilya is home for less than twenty-four hours before Shane texts him.

Shane: I think you took one of my running socks. So now I have an uneven pair.

Had Ilya received this text prior to the hockey camp, and prior to getting to know Shane, he wouldn't have known what to do with it. As it is, he laughs when the notification comes up.

Ilya: the horror.

Shane: i'll expect it on my doorstep. post haste.

Ilya has to ask Lara what post haste means. He smiles at his phone.

Ilya: cant. is hostage. big ransom.

His mom asks him why he's smiling at his phone. He shrugs and says it's nothing. He isn't sure why he doesn't tell her.

Shane just feels separate from Calgary. He's not meant to be in their small duplex in Forest Lawn. He flinches away from that thought as soon as it enters his head. Had anyone asked him about his home prior to the camp, he's not sure he would have made that comment.

But he'd heard the other boys at the camp talk. Heard and seen their phones. The gear. The thoughtless displays of wealth that didn't feel like displays of wealth to them because it was just their lives.

Ilya had just not spoken. Some of the guys scoffed at his gear until he outskated them. But he didn't talk about home. Didn't flaunt his shitty flip phone. And, most importantly, didn't mention that he'd been sponsored for the camp in the first place.

These boys wore status on every part of their bodies on and off the rink.

And none of that status matters here.

Shane: isn't a Russian villain a little expected?

Ilya genuinely laughs aloud in his bedroom.

It's not consistent. They don't text every day, but it does start to shape Ilya's weeks. He finds himself looking forward to the texts from Shane.

He likes the way it feels like Shane starts conversations already well into them, and Ilya has to play catch-up.

One Friday, a little after seven, Shane texts him.

Ilya's finishing dinner when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He just left Erik and Austin, and Amanda isn't expecting him until later. So there's really only one person it can be.

He opens the message.

Shane: It just seems like people would actually plan for where everyone puts their shoes at a house party.

Ilya smiles, and slowly types his response. Fucking T9.

Ilya: ur at party?

He tucks his phone away and starts tidying his dinner. His mom had made kotlety and potatoes and left his portion in the fridge. More and more of their meals are shared this way. Their schedules only line up enough that they sometimes see each other on the weekend, or the rare weeknight she has off and he doesn't have practice.

A few minutes later the phone buzzes again.

Shane: If you can call twenty kids gettin drunk on somebodys dads beer a party, sure.

Ilya has a hard time imagining Shane at a party. He'd gotten used to the way Shane tended to exist on the fringes of most group activities, at least, when he was off the ice.

Ilya: wat else would u call a prty?

Shane: …idk

Ilya: why r u even there??

Ilya asks the question as he's getting dressed to head out. He has to meet Amanda in twenty minutes and it's a twenty minute walk to get there. He really needs to convince Mama to let him get his driver's license. He doesn't point out to himself that they can't afford a car.

He's putting on his shoes when Shane's response shows up. He laughs, and can immediately hear it in Shane's deadpan voice.

Shane: it's called socializing, ilya.

He types out a response as he's trying to slip his runners on. He starts to respond immediately, pushing the door open with his shoulder, and kicking it shut behind him. Once he's hit send, he locks the door and starts down the sidewalk.

Ilya: ya and ur clearly lovin it

Shane: shut the fuck up

Ilya realizes that he's smiling at his phone. He also realizes that he's stopped walking to type out his response.

Ilya: bt then ud have no 1 to harrass

He's only at the end of his block when he gets the response. He ignores the text asking where he is, and answers Shane.

Shane: and what a thing to miss.

Ilya: y r u texting me??? b @ the prty

His walking is slow as he waits for a response. When it doesn't come he slips the phone back into his pocket and continues walking.

He's late to meet Amanda.

September

In September, they continue the pattern of texting once in a while that they set in August as they both prepare to go back to school. It's always random, never consistent, and always makes Ilya smile.

Usually Shane texts first. Always with something odd, almost like a thought he felt he had to express but had nowhere else to put it. Ilya is excited whenever Shane's name pops up.

One day, shortly after the start of school, Ilya texts Shane first. They hadn't spoken in nearly two weeks, and he was bored one afternoon when he'd gotten home.

Ilya: how r ur classes??

Shane: awful

Ilya: ???

Shane: i fucking hate math

Ilya: i guess ur not good at evrythng

Shane: fuck off
Shane: hows your team doing?

Ilya: still 2 early 2 knw

Shane: you worried?

Ilya: no

Shane: liar

Ilya: fuck u
Ilya: hows ur team

Shane: fine. coach put me on a line with bouchard

Ilya: the 1 who nvr passes?

Shane: YES. i hate him

It's simple. It's easy, and it slowly becomes part of Ilya's routine without him noticing the intrusion.

Between hockey picking up and school starting, neither has much free time. Even with that limited free time, Ilya finds himself reaching for his phone more and more. He finds it aggravatingly easy to talk to Shane, even with texts sent hours apart and the time difference and hockey both complicating things.

October

In October, they exchange emails and add each other on MSN so they can message on there. Ilya mentioned that he was going to go over his texting limit and Shane suggested it.

Shane: You probably have friends at home to text too.

Technically, he does. But Shane is more entertaining. Ilya doesn't tell him that.

Mostly they talk about hockey. Shane is a Metros fan via his mom, Ilya feels like he has to align himself with the Calgary Outriders because of hometown pride or something. He decides he might like the Centaurs too.

And they talk about the training they're doing. Part of Ilya wants to do it comparatively, because right now Shane is still the bar he's measuring himself against. But he finds there's little reason to, not when Shane is so earnest about his training.

They never get long to talk on messenger. It requires both of them to be at home on the computer. And between practices with their team and additional conditioning, they're left with very little time.

The two hours definitely don't help. Ilya usually gets home when Shane is going to bed. And Ilya's only able to convince Shane to ignore his bedtime every once in a while.

Shane: it's important to get sleep.

Ilya: and talking to me isn't????

Shane: i can probably stay up for like 20 more mins

Ilya: wow. such sacrifice

Shane: you're welcome

Ilya: i feel very special

Shane: you should.

Twenty minutes stretches to forty. They talk about nothing particularly important. Hockey, school, some idiot on Shane's team. Whatever. There's nothing particularly pressing or enthralling about the conversation, but Ilya's still disappointed when Shane really does have to go.

Shane: actually going to bed now
Shane: gn ilya

Ilya: ttyl shane

Ilya checks the clock. It's too late to go out on a weekday, but it's too early for him to go to bed. For the first time since he's been home, Ilya finds himself genuinely annoyed by the two-hour time difference.

November

In November, Ilya calls for the first time. They've been messaging, but Ilya's internet is spotty at the best of times and it seems to have committed to being the worst. They were in the middle of arguing about whether shootouts are a bullshit way to decide a hockey game when it went out.

After ten minutes of Messenger repeatedly disconnecting and refusing to send his last message, Ilya accepts defeat.

He has to use their home phone because he ran out of minutes a week ago and they won't roll over for another week. He dials Shane's cell phone number carefully, making sure not to forget the area code. He doesn't realize until the phone is ringing that Shane won't recognize his home phone number.

Shit.

"Uh, hey." Shane's voice comes through the receiver and Ilya smiles when he hears it. He can hear Shane moving around whatever room he's in. The way his breathing changes, it sounds like he sits up a bit more.

"Hey, it's Ilya," he says lamely.

"I kinda figured," Shane says with a soft chuckle. "Not a lot of people with a 403 area code would call me."

There's a moment of quiet and Ilya realizes they've never actually done this before. They haven't actually called each other. Ilya thinks he can hear someone talking in the background. A woman's voice.

And then Ilya remembers why he's calling. "My internet's fucked."

"Oh," Shane says. "Okay. I just figured you realized I was right about shootouts and were too embarrassed to continue talking to me."

"Shut up."

"Very clever retort."

Retort. Ilya tries the word out in his head. He wants to look it up. Remembers that the internet's down.

"What is retort?" Ilya asks. Even though Shane can't see him he ducks his head. He hates that there are still words that can catch him sometimes.

"Like a quick reply," Shane says. "But I guess I can give you an A for effort for it since you've got the language disadvantage."

He can hear the smile in Shane's voice. He can almost picture the exact smile, the one he can easily hide because it hardly changes his face, so easy to miss if you don't look for it.

"Do people know you're this much of an asshole?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Shane says flatly. "I've been nothing but pleasant."

There's something about the flat way he says it that makes it funnier.

Soon enough, they're both laughing. They continue talking about better ways to break ties in hockey games before they start discussing their training schedules.

"Have your edges gotten any better?" Shane asks, and Ilya can nearly imagine the quietly smug look on his face. The one he only ever seemed to get when making fun of Ilya.

"Shut up," Ilya says, shaking his head.

"I'll take that as a no," Shane says simply.

Shane complains about school work, and Ilya offers to help him with his math if he wants. Eventually, Ilya's lying on the couch. While they're talking, he wonders where Shane is in his house. If he's on his own couch. If he's doing anything else while they're talking.

By ten that evening, Shane is yawning—Ilya forgets sometimes that he's two hours ahead.

"You should probably sleep," Ilya says.

"Probably."

Neither hangs up.

They both laugh awkwardly after a few seconds.

"Goodnight, Ilya."

"Goodnight, Shane."

There's another beat of silence, and then Ilya hears Shane's hand pass over the receiver before the line cuts off.

He's shocked to realize when he hangs up the phone that they were talking for over two hours.

He hopes there isn't a long distance charge.

Shit.

December

In December, Ilya receives a text from Shane while he's waiting for dinner, asking if Ilya can get on msn.

"Is that Shane?" Irina asks one night after Ilya's phone vibrates.

Ilya's head swings in her direction, his face frozen in the smile he had looking at the text from Shane. The smile drops and he tries very hard not to look like a kid caught with his hand in the candy jar. He's not even sure why. There's no reason for Mama to not know about Shane.

"Yes." He hopes he doesn't sound as cagey as he feels.

"Are you finally going to tell me about this friend you made?" she asks while making supper.

"What do you mean?"

She levels him with a stare. "Ilyusha, I'm not stupid. You've been smiling at your phone since you got home from camp. Months ago."

Lara chooses this moment to come in. She's holding a bag of buns from the bakery, her contribution to their meal.

"What are you talking about?" Lara asks, immediately clocking the odd vibe.

"I am asking Ilya to tell me about his friend."

"Ah, Shane."

Ilya looks between the two women. He doesn't like the self satisfied look on either of their faces.

"How did you—"

And both of them just stare at him like he's a moron.

They don't have to say it.

We live in a small space. The walls aren't soundproof. Also they just know him.

"Right," he says after a moment, looking down at his textbook.

Lara pulls out the chair that may as well have her name etched on it at this point, and sits across from Ilya. He continues pointedly trying to finish his math work.

"You cannot avoid both of us," Lara says quietly.

"He's just a friend," Ilya says finally. "Someone I met at the hockey camp."

He feels them looking at each other meaningfully while he keeps his eyes down.

"He's really good at hockey, maybe better than me," Ilya adds after a moment.

Mama scoffs at that. "Not possible."

"Is that why you've been practicing so much more?" Lara asks.

Ilya shrugs and tries to look like it's no big deal. Lara and Irina laugh at the fact that not even friendship can stop Ilya's competitive edge.

He smiles at the sound. December is usually tough for Mama, the sun is up for so few hours every day, but despite watching for every little sign, she has been good. He can tell Lara is watching him while he watches her. He can tell she doesn't like it. He can't help it though.

January

In January, Ilya's out on the rink with Erik and Austin. Austin has accepted that he's not going to be comfortable on the ice, so he's standing by the boards.

The air is warmer than it has any right to be in January, and the sun is bright overhead, but there's still a chill on the wind. Which means Erik and Ilya are both in t-shirts while they rip around the ice, while Austin is wearing a jacket and a scarf.

Ilya is on the far side of the rink from Austin working through the pylons they've laid out when Austin calls that his phone's ringing.

Ilya turns quickly, too quickly. Without warning his feet go out from beneath him and Erik nearly falls over himself from laughing. Ilya pushes up from the ice, wiping off the ice shavings stuck to his pants and flipping off Erik while he makes his way to Austin's outstretched hand.

Shane calling…

Ilya answers it, leaning against the boards to catch his breath.

"Hey," he says between breaths.

"Oh." Shane's voice sounds odd. "Are you busy?"

"Just skating," Ilya says immediately. "Not practice or anything. Just with friends."

"Shit, you're busy," Shane says.

Ilya pushes off from the boards near Austin, unconsciously moving away from his friends because of the tone in Shane's voice.

"I'm not," Ilya says clearly this time. "Seriously. I can talk."

A loud exhale comes through the phone's speaker.

"Just…" Shane pauses. "Bad game."

Ilya looks over and sees that Erik's stopped near Austin for water. And they're both looking at Ilya. He can't really read their expressions clearly from where he is.

"Tell me," Ilya prompts.

"My coach is driving me fucking insane," Shane starts. "I made one bad turnover and he sat me for the last six fucking minutes. We were down one. We lost. He bitched about it, but like how am I supposed to fix it if he won't put me back on the ice?"

"That's really frustrating," Ilya replies.

Another loud exhale. Ilya can hear Shane start deflating from the initial frustration. It's nearly audible the way he starts coming down from the anger. And it's almost as if in that same breath that Shane realizes they're on the phone.

"Shit," he says quietly. "You said you were with your friends. Fuck, I'm sorry."

"You're good," Ilya promises him.

"Okay," Shane says, his voice still sounding thin. "I'll let you go though."

"Will you be online later?"

"Probably not," Shane says. Ilya can hear someone yelling in the background. "Fuck, I have to go. Bye."

"Bye."

The line cuts, and Ilya skates back across the ice. He's got a chill working its way through his body because he'd stopped moving and the sheen of sweat on his skin was quickly cooling.

"Sorry," he says when he approaches Austin, Erik already back to skating and shooting between the pylons they'd brought with them.

"All good," Austin says softly. "Shane?"

"Uh, yeah," Ilya says, his cheeks probably would have flushed if they weren't already pink from the cool hair.

It still feels odd to have people in Calgary reference Shane, even if he had been the one to tell them about him. Shane just feels very separate from his life here. He's not sure why he feels the need to have the distinction.

"He good?" Austin asks.

"Yeah, just a bad game," Ilya says shortly. It feels too personal to share Shane's problems with other people.

"Was that your boyfriend?" Erik chirps from across the ice.

Ilya just rolls his eyes.

As if.

February

In February, Ilya is zipping up his jacket as he slips out of the side door of a house in a neighbourhood much nicer than his own. He pulls his hood up, and it's half because February in Calgary is a cruel joke of weather extremities. After a stretch of 4 days below negative twenty, brutal winds from the west tell him it'll be quite different in the morning.

And, well, he's hoping the hood will at least keep his face somewhat obscured as he gets far enough away from this neighbourhood. Even if he's pretty sure no one's watching for him here.

Still, it's probably not good for anyone for him to be caught leaving his coach's house after spending the last hour alone with his son. Just seems like it'll only create questions Ilya doesn't actually want to answer.

And it's really not about the son part. The fact that he's, well, a he.

The coach part is the bigger problem.

The distinction between those feels important.

He checks his watch as he walks, Lara isn't willing to let him borrow her car with only a few months practice and very little practice with his driver's license, and he thinks there will be a bus for him to catch in a few minutes if he can get to the stop.

Once he's pointed in the right direction, Ilya shoves his hands into his pockets and grins to himself as he walks.

If nothing else, that's an answer to a question that's been sitting at the back of his mind for a while. Because Ilya had enjoyed that. Perhaps more than he'd exactly anticipated.

His phone buzzes before he reaches the end of the block.

Shane: my english teacher says three paragraphs isn't an essay.

He smiles when he sees the name. He checks the time again and shakes his head. Why the hell is Shane up this late? And on a school night. A rebel.

Ilya slows.

For some reason, his first thought is whether Shane would care if he told him what he'd just discovered about himself.

Not care care. Obviously.

Just whether he'd be surprised.

Ilya stares at Shane's name for a moment longer before typing back.

Ilya: ur teacher sounds smrt

It's nearly ten. He wonders if Shane will be able to call him when he gets home.

He starts walking faster to the bus stop.

March

By March, Ilya stops being surprised when Shane calls him.

Sometimes there's a reason.

More often, there isn't.

Ilya is halfway through his math homework when the phone rings.

"Hey," Ilya says when the line connects.

"Hey," Shane answers.

There's a pause where neither speaks.

"What are you doing?" Shane asks.

"Math."

More silence.

"What are you doing?" Ilya asks.

"Nothing," Shane sighs. "Bored."

Ilya checks the clock.

"Nothing exciting happening on a Thursday night in Ottawa?"

Shane laughs at that.

There's shuffling on the other side, and it sounds like Shane is covering the phone.

"I'm on the phone." Shane's voice comes through distantly, only barely audible. "Yeah, with Ilya…okay."

And then the voice is back. "Sorry, my mom."

"She is asking why her son is so boring?" Ilya says with a laugh, dropping his pencil.

"No, she doesn't have to ask," Shane says dryly. "She married my dad."

"Shane Hollander," Ilya gasps, scandalized. "Are you making fun of your parents?"

"Oh fuck off," Shane says with a laugh.

Ilya calls just as often. It's a few weeks before he realizes he's come to expect the phone calls.

April

In April, Ilya is at a girl's place when his phone starts going off. She's slowly been working her hand down his pants. He ignores it.

It rings again.

He slips it out of his pocket while Courtney, a girl from his math class, straddles him and continues to kiss Ilya with the same edge of desperation that always comes with a clear end time. Her parents will be back in about thirty minutes.

He sees that not only is Shane calling him, twice in a row, but Ilya has missed two texts from him.

Coming from Shane, that's basically a sign of the apocalypse.

"Hold on," Ilya says to Courtney.

She shifts her attention to his neck, and he tries to ignore the way her tongue drags up the length of his neck.

"Hey," he says when he answers, and he realizes he sounds out of breath.

"It's fucking ridiculous," Shane says, because as always, he's already a few minutes into their conversation and Ilya has to catch up.

"What is?" Ilya asks, working to keep his voice under control.

As soon as it becomes clear that Ilya's not going to hang up immediately, Courtney sits back and pouts at Ilya.

"They waved off the tying goal. Said Bouchard interfered with the goalie, but he got fucking shoved into him. We would've tied it. Now we're out."

"Fuck, are you serious?" Ilya says seriously, and he shifts, easing the girl onto the bed with a small sound.

"Are you serious?" she says. "My parents will be back in like twenty minutes. Come on."

"Shit," Ilya hears through the phone, though he's only half paying attention to the spiral Shane was starting. "Fuck, I should have waited for you to text back. I'm so sorry for interrupting. I'll just let you go. It's no problem. I'm really sorry."

"Shut up. Just give me a minute," Ilya says into the phone, and then to Courtney "I gotta take this."

"You're fucking joking, right?" she hisses at Ilya as he does his jeans back up, his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear.

Ilya doesn't say anything. Instead, he pats his pockets to make sure he has all his things. He winks quickly at Courtney, mouths "I'll call you", and starts toward her bedroom door.

"Don't bother," she snaps.

He shrugs. Whatever.

"I'm here," Ilya says to Shane as he pulls on his sweater, leaving her house. "What happened?"

May

In May, Ilya kicks open the front door of his home with more force than is strictly necessary. He throws his bag down and only feels bad for a fraction of a second that he might have broken something.

He's glad Mama's at work. Glad Lara won't be back for a few more hours. He doesn't need them hovering over him trying to make him feel better about something that they just don't get. He doesn't need his mom telling him that he works hard, or getting that worried pinched look on her face. He doesn't need Lara assuring him that he's still the best player on the team.

Because it doesn't fucking feel like it.

Ilya throws his body on the couch and picks up his phone, hitting the button before he is conscious of the movement.

It's not until the line starts ringing that his eyes dart over to the clock.

It's six in the evening on a Saturday for Shane. He's probably having dinner.

After two rings, the line connects and as soon as it does Ilya feels his body settle a little more into the couch.

"Hey?" Shane answers. Clearly surprised by the phone call. It's not a time they usually call each other.

"Hey," Ilya replies, letting out a breath. "Sorry for calling."

"Gimme a sec," Shane says.

Ilya can hear the distinct sound of Shane's hand covering the receiver and his muffled voice saying, "It's Ilya."

There's a muffled response Ilya can't hear.

"Yeah, I'm finished," Shane's muffled voice says. "I'll clean up after."

Suddenly, Shane's voice is back clearly in Ilya's ear. "Sorry about that, what's up?"

Ilya pauses and just listens to the way Shane moves through his home. He thinks he can hear Shane's steps changing in sound, imagines he's going upstairs. Does Shane have an upstairs in his house? Probably. And then he hears the familiar click of Shane's door.

"Ilya?" Shane says after a moment too long of silence.

"Yeah," Ilya replies, his voice tired. "I'm here. I don't know why I called."

"Weren't you meeting with your coach today?" Shane asks.

Ilya smiles. He'd mentioned it earlier in the week. He hadn't expected Shane to remember.

"Yeah," he says.

"I'd ask how it went." Shane pauses. "But I'll assume from the general tone that it was awesome."

Ilya laughs despite himself. "Fuck you."

Shane doesn't say anything in response. It happens sometimes when they're on the phone, more at the beginning, less recently. Ilya thinks Shane doesn't always know what to say, can almost hear his brain churning from across the country. Other times, like this, it seems like he just lets the moment breathe, letting Ilya say the thing he's avoiding. Ilya likes it.

"He said I sucked."

Shane snorts. "He fucking didn't."

Ilya sighs loudly and throws himself back down on the couch from where he'd sat up. He stares at the ceiling and fights the prickling feeling behind his eyes that had started when he'd stopped on the ice for his coach's evaluation.

You've improved. I think you deserve to be there. I just don't know if it's enough to get the camp covered again this year.

"No," Ilya concedes. "He didn't."

More silence.

He almost wishes he hadn't called. He feels embarrassed to admit it to Shane, who's already being watched for Team Canada ahead of the World Juniors next winter. Shane, who's damn near guaranteed to be a top draft pick.

And maybe he's upset that it might mean they won't get to hang out this summer.

"He just said I wasn't good enough," Ilya says, again adjusting the reality to fit how he'd heard it.

"Good enough for what?" Shane says and Ilya loves the disbelief he hears in his voice.

"The camp."

The silence this time feels different. Ilya doesn't think he's meant to fill it, he thinks Shane needs it for a moment.

"I don't believe that," Shane says after a moment. "Even if you still played like you did last year, you'd be better than fucking Sully, and he's still coming."

Yeah, but Sully can afford to fly across the country and take part in an elite hockey camp.

He doesn't say that part out loud. He hates the way so many of the people in the hockey world get the same face when he admits that hockey is only barely affordable as it is for him and Mama. It's a look of discomfort and pity. They usually find a reason to walk away shortly after.

Shane definitely knows their families aren't in the same tax bracket, but Ilya has never told him that last year's camp was sponsored too.

"I don't know," Ilya says. "He said he needed to talk to a few people."

"Okay, so it's not a no," Shane says with a tone that says Ilya's an idiot.

"I guess not," he admits, Shane's logic taking the wind out of his sails.

He's right, Coach hadn't actually said no outright. It just wasn't certain and Ilya hated that. He'd spent damn near every spare second during the season practicing and training and doing whatever he could so Coach wouldn't look at him the way he'd looked today.

The look that said, You have promise, but…

"So, can I tell you about the raccoon my dad is apparently at war with now?"

Ilya laughs, recognizing that Shane's trying to distract him, and appreciating it regardless. Mostly he's glad Shane didn't just tell him he was the best and that he had nothing to worry about. Not exactly.

"Please, tell me," Ilya says, rolling over on the couch to settle in while Shane starts explaining how his dad has spent the last three nights trying to keep a raccoon out of their garbage.

June

"Hey," Shane says as he answers the phone.

"Shaaaaaane," Ilya says, as loud and obnoxious as he can manage.

Shane laughs. "Ilyaaaaa, what do you want?"

Ilya scoffs, "Oh, now I need reason to call."

He can hear Shane moving on the other end. He's familiar with the sounds now. And almost exactly when he expects it, Ilya hears the quiet click of Shane's bedroom door.

"Have you heard yet?" Shane asks.

They both know it's the reason Ilya called. It'd be silly to pretend otherwise.

"Maybe," Ilya says coyly.

"Come on, Rozanov."

"What, Hollander?"

Shane doesn't reply.

"You don't appreciate drama?"

"No," Shane says flatly.

"Fine," Ilya says, pretending to be hurt by that revelation. "Well, I did get to speak with my coach today."

Shane, true to his word, doesn't buy into the drama and lets Ilya continue without saying anything.

"And he wanted to discuss the possibility of going to the camp," Ilya continues. "Because, as you know, it was still not certain I could go."

Shane assumes the delay has to do with Ilya's skill levels, and not the financial barrier that makes the camp so far out of reach for Ilya it's comical. Because Ilya hasn't told Shane. Doesn't want to tell him.

"Anyways, I'm going," Ilya says suddenly, the words coming out in a rush.

And it's true. The stars had aligned, the right people had their eyes on Ilya, and he would be able to go to the camp, even though it feels like an obscene luxury when he spent the last week counting out change to only barely make it on a bus to get home after seeing a girl from school.

He's, possibly, especially glad his coach doesn't know what happened between Ilya and his son back in February. And then again in April. And maybe a few weeks ago. Because his coach had worked hard to get Ilya in front of the right people. Maybe Ilya will stop having sex with his son.

Maybe.

Well, at least for part of the summer.

"That's awesome," Shane says, and there's not a massive change to his tone.

The lack of change in Shane's tone doesn't bother Ilya anymore. He's learning to listen far more to the words Shane says as opposed to how he says them. He's a remarkably earnest person, especially for a hockey player. He rarely says things he doesn't mean.

"Yeah," Ilya agrees.

Finding out he's going has taken a massive weight off Ilya's shoulders. He hadn't realized how much tension had been building in his body while he waited to find out. And telling Shane cut the last bit of tension, giving him enough slack to breathe easier.

"So I guess I'll see you in a few weeks."

"Shit," Shane says with a small laugh. "I guess so."

Ilya finds himself grinning at the phone. He really hadn't been ready to deal with the disappointment of not seeing Shane at all that summer. He knows it's wild, but this weird kid from Ottawa has quickly become his best friend.

And he needs to see if his year of training has closed the gap between them. He tries to ignore the fact that Shane also spent the year training.

"I'm glad there'll at least be some competition for me," Shane says, a rare show of cockiness.

"Don't worry," Ilya assures him. "Big Russian hockey player will come and show you good competition."

"Right," Shane says sardonically. "Big Russian hockey player's sounding far more Canadian these days."

Shane's not entirely wrong. Ilya's accent is still unmistakable, but it is far more understandable than it has been. He's spent the last year trying very hard to build his vocabulary even more so he doesn't have to ask about words anymore. And shifting the way words form in his mouth. The remnants of his Russian upbringing are still there, and he's not sure they'll leave fully, but his vowels have started to sound a little less distinguishable from his classmates.

"Jealous of my accent, Hollander," Ilya says, forcing the Russian accent to the forefront as a joke. He likes the way Shane's last name sounds when he lets his Russian accent thicken around it.

"Sure," Shane says flatly before changing the subject. "Are you done school yet?"

"No, two more weeks."

"You gonna bring my sock back?" Shane asks, and Ilya thinks he can hear a smile.

"I don't think you'll want that sock back," Ilya says, his tone suggestive.

A beat.

"You're fucking disgusting," Shane says and Ilya can hear that he's holding back a laugh.

And the conversation goes on. Always a little longer than maybe it should.

July

Irina is just as excited as Ilya is for the camp, but Ilya still feels the anxiety that hums beneath the surface. She makes sure he has enough socks and underwear for his trip.

Lara tries to give him the same gift she'd handed to him last summer. He never admitted to her that he hadn't even opened the box in Ottawa, only using them once he'd gotten back to Calgary. He just waves her off. Tells her he doesn't need them, that they never got time to leave the rink or the dorms with the other boys. It's mostly the truth, because he doesn't see himself using any free time to do much else but hanging out with Shane.

He has a new pair of skates this year.

They're nicer than anything he's ever owned.

They're nice like the other boys' skates were nice last year.

He starts packing nearly a week before his flight.

He moves his bags to the front door three days too early.

He has to keep searching through his bags for items he still needs before he leaves.

Irina and Lara both drive him to the airport. He waves off their attempts to help him carry his stuff inside, instead accepting the warm, lingering hugs they both give.

"Be safe, Ilyusha," Mama whispers.

"Be good," Lara says seriously. When she pulls back she looks at him directly. "She will be fine."

She says the last part quickly and in English. She doesn't want Irina to hear it, because while Irina's English is far better than it had been even just last year, they could still sneak things by if they said them quickly enough.

"I will," he promises both of them, and then quickly in English, "Call me if she's not. Thank you."

He waves at them as they leave.

He tucks the cross Mama had wordlessly handed him that morning beneath his shirt, letting the familiar weight settle against his chest.

Chapter End Notes

a few notes
- i love them becoming friends as teens
- i am also obsessed with ilya's friends, austin and erik (me sitting in the background like 'and then they kiss, right???' and then i remember that i have the power to make them kiss.)

i'm trying not to slow down. but alas, i am human. but i'm falling completely in love with this version of the boys, and i need to get the story out of my brain.

pls leave comments, lemme know what you think! i know it can be tough to keep up with a WIP, but your comments are deeply appreciated.

Chapter 7: July 2008 I

Chapter Summary

Ilya returns to camp.

Chapter Notes

hi hello

i've really fallen in love with this version of ilya and shane. i'm excited to see how it all ends up playing out.

the current chapter count is likely wrong. i've laid out the story and it is...expansive...if i want to get all the details/complexities. and i do.

so strap in!

i'm nearly done my other long fic, and i've got no others planned, so soon this will be my only focus (other than...ya know...my job)

Ilya isn't entirely sure why his palms feel so sweaty. There's a feeling of unease in his chest. He's overcompensating by talking to every person he sees.

Loudly.

He drops his bag beside himself when he enters the lobby and immediately turns when someone calls his name from across the lobby.

"Rozanov!"

"Mercer!" Ilya calls back. He wants to flinch at the sound of his voice, but he carefully maintains the smile he has plastered on.

Mercer laughs as Ilya crosses the lobby to meet him. They catch hands and pull close for a brief touch of shoulders.

"How the fuck are you?" Mercer asks with a laugh.

"Very good. Better than you," Ilya says easily, a smirk sitting on his face like a mask.

"Still an asshole, then."

"Still ugly, then."

Mercer shoves him away, laughing, and Ilya grins as another player joins them. Ilya thinks he's a defenceman from…Quebec. Terrible haircut last year. It's somehow worse now.

Ilya tells him.

The boy tells Ilya to go fuck himself.

Easy. Always easy.

Someone he remembers from a tournament back in March walks by, Ilya grabs his sleeve and pulls him into the scrum. Then another.

He talks.

About Calgary. About hockey. About the weather, because apparently being in Canada has warped what he understands as small talk. He laughs at the stories from the other boys, and does his best to one-up them. They ask about girls. He says nothing, but they interpret his expression as they'd like.

He laughs too loudly.

He can hear his accent getting stronger.

He can feel the facade fit snugly over top him. A larger than life version of Ilya Rozanov that becomes more mythos than man.

He can't seem to stop doing it.

It's a performance piece that he feels keenly aware of.

"Rozanov, you ever shut up."

Ilya feigns hurt feelings, holding a hand to his heart.

"I would never deprive you of my wit."

That gets him another laugh.

It's good.

It's fine.

Everything is fine.

His eyes flit to the entrance.

Nothing, yet.

He turns his attention back to the small group of guys that have congregated near him.

"So, tell me," Ilya says to the defenseman. "Your hair. Is because you lost bet, yes?"

"Fuck off."

"No, really. I am worried, because if this was a choice." Ilya just shakes his head, as if distraught by the idea.

Ilya has his mouth open to say something more about the unfortunate nature of the guys hair when he hears the door open again.

Ilya looks.

And the chirp never comes.

Shane walks in with his bag over one shoulder, talking to another boy Ilya doesn't recognize. Or perhaps he isn't necessarily talking, but he is being talked at. His hair is shorter than it was last summer. Not much. It looks good though.

Ilya hasn't seen much of Shane over the past year. They hadn't really exchanged photos, so other than the odd profile picture—which was rarely actually Shane's face—Ilya is only basing his expectations on the memories from the summer before.

He looks different. Definitely different.

Taller, which, he guesses, is to be expected. And just…more, in some indefinable way.

They spoke three days ago. Talking late into the night while both of them packed the last bits of their stuff for this trip.

Ilya knows Shane. Has known him over a year of phone calls and messages. He knows what Shane sounds like early in the morning. He knows that Shane hates the protein bars his mom has been buying, but eats them anyway because telling her would become a whole thing. He knows exactly how Shane reacts when a loss brings him disappointment more in himself than in his team.

He knows Shane. Probably better than he knows most people. Seeing him should not feel strange. It really shouldn't be awkward.

It feels incredibly strange.

Ilya feels very awkward.

There's a stretch of silence around him where Ilya realizes he is meant to be responding to someone.

"Yes?"

"You just said my haircut looked like roadkill."

"Ah, so you agree."

"Asshole."

Ilya grins at him.

Then looks back at Shane, who has clearly seen him as well. And Shane's face changes in the way Ilya had begun to become accustomed to last summer. It's small. Such a small shift in his lips. Barely a smile, but it's a real one.

And it's directed at Ilya. For reasons that Ilya does not understand, that makes everything happening in his stomach worse.

"Anyways," he says, maybe even a little louder than he'd been a moment ago. "Everyone knows Calgary is much better than Ottawa. Better people. Better hockey."

"Then why the fuck are you here, Roz?"

Ilya doesn't miss a beat, having anticipated the question.

"Someone needs to remind you all what good hockey looks like."

There's a loud chorus of voices as they all begin denouncing Calgary in favour of wherever they're from.

Someone chucks a roll of tape at his head. Ilya catches it. He's still laughing and bumping shoulders with the ugly defenseman when Shane reaches their group.

"Hi," Shane says. Just that. Just hi.

Ilya looks at him and suddenly feels a little silly.

"Hello."

The other boys are continuing around them, talking, chirping, and thankfully ignoring the two boys re-meeting each other.

There's silence between them despite the noise everywhere else. Which is ridiculous. This is ridiculous.

They've spoken, surely, for hundreds of hours over the past year.

So, why the fuck can't Ilya think of anything to say today?

Shane's eyes narrow slightly. That small smile is still lingering on his face.

"You're being weird."

Ah, Shane. Always so straightforward.

And there's something about the way he says it, without any attempt at making it a joke or making fun of Ilya, that makes something he hadn't realized was strung so tight loosen in Ilya's chest.

"I have never been weird," Ilya says, his performative smirk shifting into something a little more genuine. "Seems like you are maybe prejudiced against Russians."

"Good word," Shane nods appreciatively.

The way he says it doesn't set Ilya's hackles on edge. Not like when other people say it as a way to diminish Ilya. Shane means it.

"Yes, I am very smart," Ilya says, trying to hide his satisfied smile.

"And very loud for some reason," Shane remarks.

"People need to hear me," Ilya says easily. "I am very popular."

"You're talking to people you've complained a lot about. Repeatedly."

"Maybe I have grown as person," Ilya says with a shrug.

Shane's eyes shift to someone over Ilya's shoulder. "Has he?"

"No," Mercer says with a laugh. "Absolutely not."

"Fuck you too."

Shane laughs softly.

Ilya feels like his chest is expanding to a painful point. He wants to hug Shane.

Which feels very normal, very expected. He's wanted to hug Shane for approximately three months. Perhaps a little longer.

He isn't certain why, now that Shane is well within arms reach, it suddenly feels like a dangerous concept he needs to navigate carefully with the precision of a bomb disposal technician.

Before he can really let himself think about it too hard, or at least harder than he already is, Ilya steps forward and pulls Shane into a hug, wrapping his arms around him. He's still taller than Shane, at least enough that his arms wrap around the tops of Shane's arms.

"Oh," Shane says on a small exhalation of air.

For what feels like an eternity, Ilya suddenly has brief memories of discussions with Shane. I just hate when people touch me out of nowhere…Unless I know someone it feels weird…Some of the girls at school are always hanging onto me.

Ilya immediately starts loosening his hold on Shane, meaning to step back and apologize quietly, and the second he does, he feels Shane's arms wrap around his waist.

They stand like that for a second, and Ilya feels whatever had been tightening in his chest over the past few months in anticipation of seeing Shane finally ease and drop from his ribcage.

It feels like they both exhale at the same time before separating.

Shane looks the same as he did before the hug. Ilya fears the way his cheeks feel warmed, that he does not.

"You got taller," he says as a way to move their conversation into something else.

"This tends to happen with age," Shane points out. "You grew too, I think."

"Impossible," Ilya says with a sniff. "I am big tall Russian, I have always been big tall Russian. Obviously."

Shane just rolls his eyes and reaches down to grab Ilya's bag. He reflexively reaches to snatch it back.

"You will rob me?" Ilya asks him, still not able to reclaim his bag.

"Yes, Ilya," Shane says with an over the top sigh. "I am desperate to have whatever garbage you probably packed."

Ilya feels a thrill at the sound of Shane saying his name. He pronounces it correctly. They'd spent a night back in November, Ilya thinks, discussing how frustrating it can be when people repeatedly say his name wrong.

People say Tchaikovsky no problem, Ilya had said. But two fucking syllables is beyond them. You North Americans always do it wrong. Adding sounds where there are no sounds.

"Then where are you taking it?" Ilya demands as Shane starts walking away from him.

"Because we're going upstairs," Shane explains. "We're sharing a room this year, right?"

Ilya looks after him for a second, and there's a part of him, far back in his head, that can appreciate that Shane's grown in many ways. He looks far less like the sixteen year old he'd been the summer before. His broadening shoulders hint at the man he's closer to becoming.

Ilya blinks and shakes his head for a second before following after Shane, only feeling slightly silly to have no bag in his hands.

Behind him, Mercer calls out, "Bye Roz!"

Ilya holds up a hand with one finger.

"Fuck you Mercy."

Shane's only a few feet ahead of him now. He glances back at Ilya with that same small fucking smile on his face.

"Are you done with the show?"

Ilya covers the last bit of space between them and shoves Shane's shoulder, reaching down to reclaim his bag.

"Shut up."

Shane just shakes his head. And he's still smiling.

Ilya feels like his grin might permanently change his face. But he does let himself ease up on holding the large mask he'd gotten so used to carrying in front of himself in any of these situations.

It's different with Shane.

He can be different with Shane.

They go down to dinner together and Ilya is sure to keep a space next to him open for Shane. He notes that he might have to do something different the next meal. Ilya naturally becomes the centre of the action. Always the loudest in the room. And a few times throughout the evening, he feels Shane flinch away from it.

Shane doesn't often say much when they're in larger groups, but Ilya doesn't mind. Every time Ilya makes a comment that earns a quiet huff of amusement from Shane he feels something warm in his chest, very proud to have entertained Shane.

Once dinner finishes, Ilya provides a quick encore of his performance as very entertaining Russian on the walk back to the dorms before all the boys split up into their accommodations. Shane and Ilya wordlessly drag the bed from one room into the other, and then dump their bags in the empty room.

An unspoken agreement that they're going to end up in the same room talking, might as well both have their beds. They'll put it back before they leave.

They take turns in the bathroom before changing into shorts and crawling into their respective beds.

Both beds are pushed against opposing walls, leaving very little walking space between them. Ilya could reach out from his bed and slap Hollander if he really wanted to.

Eventually, once the scuffle of putting things away, plugging in phones and actually settling into the beds has happened, there's just silence between them. They both lie on their backs, staring at the ceiling.

Neither says anything for a while, but Ilya knows Shane's still awake. He's fallen asleep on the phone before. Ilya remembers how his breathing changes.

The silence isn't uncomfortable, not at all. It's strange.

Ilya has spent hours over the past eleven months talking to Shane while staring at his bedroom ceiling in Calgary.

He thinks this one is uglier. It also has a water stain in one corner. He idly wonders if there's still a leak. He wonders if Shane's going to get freaked out over the threat of mold.

"Your school is still terrible?" Ilya asks, finally breaking the seal on the silence.

There's a pause.

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"Eh, no," Ilya says. "Question is simple. Your school. Is it terrible?"

"I mean, it's school." And Ilya can hear him try to shrug while lying down. "It is what it is."

"So, yes."

"Well, your school can't be much better," Shane says.

"My school has character," Ilya says with pride, internally wincing waiting for Shane to bring it up.

"Your school had a stabbing."

He shouldn't have told Shane about that.

It's his turn to shrug something off. "One stabbing, and excuse you, it was not at my school. It was next to my school."

"You know that's not any better," Shane says.

"And it was a light stabbing."

"What the fuck is a light stabbing?"

"Like is no big deal. Barely had to call anyone," Ilya says, waving it away.

"Not even the cops?" Shane seems shocked by this.

"Lots of immigrants there," Ilya says, like it explains it. Though Shane might not fully understand, so he adds, "Not a lot of trust with police."

"Oh."

Something clenches in Ilya's gut after he says that. Like perhaps he's revealed a little too much. He feels instinctively protective of his neighbourhood. It's not perfect, far from it, but it's where he lives. It's been his home since he arrived in Calgary and Lara let them rent half of her duplex.

Fortunately, Shane breaks the silence.

"Austin still dating that girl?"

Ilya's eyebrows lift and he rolls on his side to look at Shane.

"You remember Austin's girlfriend?" Ilya says, surprised.

Shane rolls on his side to look back at Ilya with a flat stare. "You complained about her for forty minutes."

"Well, she is terrible. Very annoying."

"Oh, don't worry," Shane says sardonically. "I definitely got that."

"They are still together," Ilya says. "She is fine. I guess."

"She's annoying and fine?"

"Two things can exist at once," Ilya says. "Like you are very funny and very boring. Is impressive."

"Oh shut up."

"And very rude," Ilya mutters.

Shane laughs. And it's a real one. More full than some of the others he's given tonight. It sounds more like him.

The sound settles something within Ilya, like he has been waiting for it. So he can know for certain that they are still them. Even after the year apart.

"Did you decide what you're doing after this?"

"Going home," Ilya answers.

"No shit." Shane rolls his eyes, flopping so he's lying on his back again. "I mean for hockey. Like next year for grade 12."

"Ah."

Ilya rolls onto his back as well, rubbing his face.

There have been many conversations about this. Too many. Coaches. Mama. Even Lara. Men who speak to him as if seventeen means he should already know exactly how he's going to spend the next decade of his life.

"I don't know," he says finally. Because it's the most honest answer he has.

"You've got lots of options."

Which is part of his problem. So many roads extend in front of him and he has no idea which will be best. And when people ask him about the next step they are not just asking about one step. They are thinking three or more steps ahead, and each one will impact the other, and at a certain point, Ilya's just a kid. And he doesn't know how what he has for breakfast is somehow supposed to affect where he gets picked in the draft.

"Yeah. Maybe too many."

"Yeah."

Ilya turns his head to look at Shane again.

"You know where you want to go? Not for draft. Just, next year."

"Probably stay here," Shane shrugs, returning Ilya's gaze. "Just depends."

"You always stay here," Ilya says. "So boring, Hollander."

There's a small shift in Shane's expression when Ilya says his last name. It does feel unnatural to call him that, he really only hears it from the other players.

"Sorry, my parents didn't immigrate here from somewhere more exciting for your entertainment."

The words are dry emerging from Shane's mouth, and Ilya knows he only means it as a joke. It's not meant to be serious or a commentary on anything.

Ilya throws a pillow at his face anyway.

Shane manages to block it with his arm before it makes contact. It falls onto the floor between their beds.

"Shane, pass me my pillow."

"Fuck you, get it yourself," Shane laughs. "You threw it."

"You are not very friendly Canadian," Ilya tells him, leaning over the edge to grab the pillow from where it had fallen.

"Whatever."

"Are you excited for World Juniors?" Ilya asks, the question he's wanted to ask all night.

"I'm not on the team yet," Shane tells him.

"Pfft, merely formality," Ilya assures him. "You are. They would have to be idiots if they do not pick you."

"Still, it's not guaranteed yet."

"It is," Ilya promises. "I have watched you play. You will be on the team."

"I might not."

Ilya looks over at Shane. Even in the low light he can see the tension in Shane's jaw.

"You are terrible at taking compliments."

"No, I'm not," Shane says.

"Shane, you are good. Better than anyone else here," Ilya pauses. "You know, other than me."

Shane scoffs at this.

"See!" Ilya says turning to point at Shane's face. "If you think you are better than me, then you think you are better than everyone. Because I am better than everyone."

"You're an idiot."

"Yes, and I will also be with you on first line for World Juniors."

"I thought you couldn't?" The question in Shane's voice is genuine. "I thought you didn't have your citizenship."

"Details," Ilya says. "Silly little details. I am so good that they will ignore this."

"Sure."

They're silent for a little while.

"I wish you could be," Shane says quietly. "It'd be cool to be on the same team. Like, for real."

Ilya gasps. "You would play wing for me, Shane? You are so sweet."

"Fuck off."

"But yeah," Ilya agrees, his voice far more sincere now. He finds he's sad that it's not actually possible. "It would be pretty cool."

"We should sleep," Shane says.

"I have been trying," Ilya says, rolling over so he's facing the wall away from Shane. "Silly boy won't leave me alone."

"Whatever."

"Goodnight, Shane."

"Night, Ilya."

Shane's on the ice before Ilya, which gives him the opportunity to see how much he's grown over the year. And, though he kind of hates to admit it, Shane has improved notably over the year. This is no longer the skating of a teenager with potential. Shane moves like someone who's starting to grow into exactly what everyone said he could be.

Ilya and Shane are put together in the same group with the other forwards. The coaches run them through skating drills first, then passing, and puck control work before moving into two-on-ones and odd man rushes.

Towards the end of morning skate, they play a scrimmage. Ilya and Shane are put on opposing teams, and it's electrifying. Because Ilya is good, he knows this, he won't pretend false humility when the facts all point towards him being something more than a kid who's alright at hockey. And it's not often that someone can consistently one-up him.

But Shane can. And he does. More than once Ilya finds himself chasing Shane with a feeling that it's impossible to catch him, which only makes Ilya push harder.

He never wants the scrimmage to stop.

It's the last faceoff before they break for the afternoon, and Shane's team comes away with possession. One of his defencemen sends the puck up the boards, but the pass lands just outside Shane's reach. Ilya gets his stick on it first and knocks it into open ice.

He takes off.

Mercer joins him and suddenly it's two on one. Ilya waits until the defencemen commits, slides the puck across, and Mercer puts it behind the goalie.

Their team wins.

They might celebrate more than is strictly necessary considering it's a scrimmage at the beginning of a hockey camp. He sees Shane shaking his head, but he seems to be in good spirits. Ilya's sure that he won't be able to pull the same tricks against him tomorrow. Shane will have learnt.

Ilya finishes a lap, stops to grab his water bottle, and lets two of the boys from Shane's team go past him first off the ice.

"Can he even fucking see the puck?" Bishop, a kid from somewhere out East, says to Sully. And Sully laughs.

Perhaps he could have ignored it as merely a frustration over a missed pass, but Ilya's been around enough boys like these to know it's more than that.

Ilya wants to open his mouth and say something. And then he remembers last year. Shane insisting he can handle it himself.

And then he thinks about the Shane he's grown to know.

He wouldn't want Ilya to draw attention to it.

So Ilya says nothing.

Not even when Shane skates past him and the other boys, almost too pointedly not looking in their direction, but also very clearly avoiding Ilya's eyes too. He can see the way Shane's lips are drawn. The way the tension ripples along his jaw as Shane clenches his teeth.

Shane heard it.

Shane hearing it and not responding makes Ilya's stomach twist uncomfortably. Shane hearing it, not responding, and knowing Ilya heard and said nothing bothers him the most.

Even if he's certain Shane will not have wanted him to say anything.

—

They're both in their beds. Ilya's not sure what to say. The silence feels different than it has before. There's something ugly beneath it, and it seems like Ilya's waiting for Shane to bring it up, while Shane's hoping Ilya won't.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Ilya asks after a bit of silence.

Shane pauses. "About what?"

"What Bishop, said."

Because he knows Shane knows what he's talking about.

"What's the point?"

"He was being an asshole," Ilya says, shifting onto his elbow so he can look at Shane.

"Yep," Shane says, not taking his eyes off the ceiling.

"Okay, so?"

"So, what?" Shane says flatly, like he's tired of the conversation.

"So tell him to fuck off."

Ilya thinks the sound Shane makes is a laugh, but it's lacking any humour.

"Why? It's not going to change anything."

"You don't know that." And Ilya thinks of the times players have made fun of him for his accent. They nearly always dropped it if he confronted them directly.

"Yeah, I do," Shane insists. "It happens all the time. I think I could count on one hand the number of times I've been on the ice without someone making a fucking comment."

And Ilya thinks now of the fact that he's only been mocked after he's talked.

Shane doesn't have that luxury. Unfortunately for him, it's on sight.

"Doesn't it make you mad?"

"Yeah."

And Ilya sees that same tension in Shane's jaw. Ah. It's not that Shane doesn't care. He cares. He's just learned that caring only lets them pick at him more.

"And you don't want me to…?"

"No." Shane doesn't even have to pause to think.

"Because I would."

Shane doesn't respond right away. When he does his voice is small.

"I know."

Silence sits between them.

Chapter End Notes

i think classism and racism are both very complex issues, especially in hockey, a very white and very expensive sport.

so i'll do what i can to explore them.

let me know how you like it!

your comments give me life. i appreciate them lots.

Chapter 8: July 2008 II

Chapter Summary

Ilya comes to a few realizations.

Chapter Notes

pls note that i have updated our rating to explicit.

DO NOT GET EXCITED.

doesn't mean there is spice just yet. i'm just getting ready. i was never gonna leave this as mature. i should have known better.

the boys demand spice.

Shane shoves his shoulder into Ilya's while they stand in line waiting to get breakfast. The spread looks just as good as last year.

He watches Shane go ahead of him, carefully selecting each of his foods. It's almost as if he considers each item before putting it on his place. Ilya watches carefully while he indiscriminately dumps food on his own plate. He wants to see if he can identify what the pattern is in what Shane selects.

By the time they're at their table, Ilya's still not sure, and he's staring far too intently at Shane's plate.

Shane looks at him questioningly, Ilya just shakes his head and turns his attention back to his own pile of food.

Slowly, the other boys start trickling in, because Shane had them both up and out of bed far earlier than anyone else. A few of them start filling in the seats around Shane and Ilya.

Ilya tries not to visibly tense when Bishop takes a seat across from Shane.

"Hey, Hollander," Bishop says. "You see that Ottawa traded Carver to Phoenix for a fifth-rounder?"

"Yeah, I thought it was an interesting choice for sure," Shane says with a laugh. "I personally don't get it though."

Ilya finds himself carefully watching Shane during this exchange. And he sees nothing. Shane is infuriatingly neutral. His face gives absolutely nothing away, and if Ilya hadn't heard it the night before he never would have believed anything happened.

But Ilya had been there. He had heard.

And he's not feeling quite so neutral.

So maybe Ilya slams Bishop into the boards a little harder than is strictly necessary when they get on the ice.

Shane only gives him a look the second time it happens. Ilya just shrugs at him.

After their ice time, all the guys are in various states of undress as they get ready to head out for the evening. Ilya's leaves the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist and walks over to his stall next to Shane, who's already pulling his pants on. He's not wearing a shirt and Ilya is impressed by how much muscle mass he put on over the past year.

"Roz, how many girls you got back in Calgary?" Tremblay calls from the other side of the room.

Ilya just shrugs, but doesn't answer.

He's never appreciated the way some of the other guys talk about girls in the locker room. He's never understood it.

Well, he understands it, because Ilya understands perfectly well how men use sex to keep score with each other. He just doesn't like it. He's never viewed the girls he hooks up with like they're points in some game.

"Ah, so that means zero," Sully laughs.

"Means I do not keep a spreadsheet," Ilya says, pulling his own sweats on.

"Yeah, right."

"And what about Hollander? He's pretty fucking quiet."

Shane looks up from tying his shoes. "Hmm?"

"You got a girlfriend?" Tremblay presses

"No," Shane answers.

Ilya can see the way walls seem to visibly form around Shane's face. His expression goes from a complacent neutral to one that is forced. Far too neutral to be natural.

"Bullshit."

Shane shrugs.

"Come on, pretty boy," Tremblay leers. "Girls must be all over you."

"Not really," Shane says, his voice sounds brittle.

"Hollander's too fucking boring."

Ilya's eyes dart to the owner of that voice. Fucking Sully.

"He's probably waiting 'till marriage."

A few guys laugh.

Shane rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's definitely it.

Ilya can see the effort he's putting into not caring. He can see the way his cheeks are just starting to turn pink. Ilya hurries to pull on his runners.

"You ever even kissed a girl?" Tremblay laughs, and it's starting to gain an edge to it.

"Why is this topic of conversation?" Ilya asks, and he can feel Shane's eyes land on him. Can feel the weight of it. "You hear about what Mercer sent to the girl from Montreal?"

All heads swivel to where Mercer has just re-entered the locker room.

"What'd you send dude?"

He looks like a deer caught in headlights.

"Roz, you asshole."

Ilya just smiles, snatching his phone from the shelf in his stall and turning to leave.

He's nervous to turn when he hears footsteps behind him, worried that Shane will feel like he overstepped. He thinks he was able to draw attention away without it being painfully obvious. At least, he hopes he was able to.

Shane catches up to him and falls into step next to him and says nothing. Ilya is worried what that means for them. He's worried that what he had done breached the limit of what Shane is comfortable with. He had made every effort to not draw attention to Shane.

They walk in silence.

Eventually, Shane asks him what he thinks they'll have for dinner and Ilya lets out a breath he hadn't realized he's been holding. He smiles at Shane and they start naming off increasingly bizarre dinner options.

Ilya's able to breathe a little easier. Shane doesn't look like he's holding any tension about what happened.

But Shane had also been able to talk to Bishop and hang out with Sully without flinching. The realization sours Ilya's stomach. He hates the thought that Shane would ever pretend anything or feel the need to perform for Ilya.

Later that night, after they have a dinner of chicken parmesan—which Ilya brags about guessing correctly—they return to their room. Separating briefly as each takes a turn in the bathroom.

They both lie flat on their backs, neither speaking. It feels like every unspoken moment from the day has settled over top of them and is weighing them down. Trapping them in positions unnatural to how they sleep.

"You didn't have to do that," Shane says quietly, breaking the silence.

"Do what?" Ilya asks, though he thinks he knows.

"You know."

Ilya shrugs his shoulders against the bed. "Did you hear what Mercer sent the girl? It was equally horrifying and hilarious."

"Ilya." Shane's flat tone reminds Ilya that his performance is neither requested, nor appreciated in these walls. Another unspoken thing between them.

"Fine," he says. "I didn't mean…I don't know."

Silence returns.

Ilya feels similar to how he'd felt the summer before when he'd taken it upon himself to defend Shane, and he let Ilya know just how little he appreciated it.

It's an odd mixture of indignation and guilt.

"I haven't," Shane says. His voice is quiet enough that Ilya only barely hears it.

Ilya whispers in return, "Haven't what?"

"Like, been with a girl," Shane says quickly.

"Okay," Ilya says.

He hears Shane sit up in the bed and look over at him.

"That's it?"

"What do you want? A party?" Ilya jokes.

"No."

"Then, okay," Ilya repeats.

Because he doesn't care. And it doesn't exactly surprise him, at no point across the year they'd been talking did Shane reference any girl he was spending time with. Granted, Ilya hadn't really mentioned anyone to Shane either.

"You obviously have," Shane huffs, dropping back down on the bed. "Been with girls, I mean."

"Yeah."

Another pause, and Ilya doesn't let himself think too hard before he speaks.

"A guy too."

Silence.

"Okay," Shane says. Absolutely nothing in his voice gives away his thoughts.

It's Ilya's turn to sit up and look at Shane.

"Okay?"

Ilya sees the small way Shane's lips inch toward a smile.

"What do you want? A party?"

Ilya chokes out a laugh before he can stop it.

He feels relief settle over his body when Shane chuckles softly with him. He realizes he's felt very odd about telling Shane this, so worried about what his reaction might be, but also feeling very strongly that he wanted Shane to know.

He wants Shane to know every part of him.

Ilya's sitting in the stands with half the camp while Shane's group runs through drills on the ice.

"He's calmed down massively, yeah?" Ilya hears someone behind him say.

He turns to see Wagner hanging over one of the seats talking to Smith.

"Massively,' Smith snorts. "I wouldn't have known it was him without the name."

"Who?" Ilya asks, leaning with an arm slung over the back of the chair.

Wagner jerks his chin toward the ice. "Hollander."

Ilya feels his eyebrows fly up. Now, granted, Ilya has only played with Shane during the last two summers, but Shane doesn't exactly strike him as someone who's ever needed to calm down.

"Shane?" Ilya clarifies. "He needed to calm down?"

They both nod.

"Not always, but there was at least one or two seasons it was really bad," Wagner says, leaning toward Ilya. "I think he must have topped minutes in the sin bin during bantam.

"He absolutely did," Smith agrees. "It was rare he made it through a game without starting shit."

"No," Ilya says, shaking his head. "Not, Shane. No way."

"Dude, fucking trust me," Smith says. "I was on his team that year."

"Yeah, I played against you guys," Wagner says. "I was never on the receiving end, but holy shit. I saw some of the guys who wound up between him and the boards. His body checking was lethal."

Ilya's head turns toward the ice where Shane is working through a skating drill. Staring at the way he slices across the ice, effortless in a way that cannot be taught, Ilya cannot reconcile the two images.

"It was insane," Wagner continues. "And seemed like, completely random."

Smith stops short, looking at Wagner.

"It wasn't random, man," he promises.

This piques Ilya's interest, he turns back to the conversation,

"You didn't know?" Smith sounds like he can't believe it. "Everyone figured it out after a season."

"I must have been gone, I moved to Sask that year," Wagner shrugs. "What was it?"

Smith looks around like he's about to reveal codes to nuclear weapons, leaning in so Ilya has to shift even closer to hear what he says.

"People kept saying shit about his mom," he whispers. "Like, before people always said shitty things to him to throw him off, ya know? And nothing. Stone faced like he is now." He nods towards the ice. "But then some of them started talking about her."

Ilya feels his jaw drop at this, he cannot get the look of surprise off his face.

"Sometimes it was during games, sometimes it was after," Smith says. "I remember once he went after somebody before the game even started. Ended up suspended for it."

"His mom?" Wagner says, whistling low.

Smith nods, and reaches to scratch at the nape of his neck, looking chagrined as he says the next part. "To be fair, they were saying some vile shit. And the coaches weren't doing anything. Said if he couldn't handle a bit of chirping, he was too soft for hockey."

"I guess he proved them wrong," Wagner snorts.

"Yeah," Smith chuckles. "Once the other guys realized that Hollander had a helluva right hook, they stopped talking shit about his mom."

"They left him alone?" Ilya asks.

Smith shakes his head. "Not at all. They just went back to attacking Shane. He doesn't care about that. It was just his mom."

Doesn't it make you mad?

Yeah.

Ilya turns back toward the ice, ignoring Smith and Wagner now that they shift their conversation toward some of the best fights they've seen through their years playing. Under normal conditions, Ilya would use this as an opportunity to share one of his own better fight stories from Calgary. Instead, he finds his eyes locked on Shane's figure as he tears across the ice.

He's a player of precision, not force. Ilya really can't imagine him fighting.

It's not going to change anything.

Ilya hadn't really considered that this was a lesson Shane had been forced to learn.

Naturally, World Juniors crops up as a topic in the locker room. Boys are discussing the players invited to the development camp and arguing about who will eventually make the World Juniors roster. Some of the guys who were invited are acting like the final team is already guaranteed.

But one of those boys can't seem to get a puck in the net even if the goalie's off the ice. So, Ilya takes everything they say with a grain of salt.

"You got invited, right?" Mercer asks, bumping shoulders with Shane.

Ilya watches this from his stall, interested to see what Shane will tell him.

Shane just shrugs and mumbles something that, based on the way everyone looks around confused, no one is able to actually hear.

"What's that, Hollander?" Sully calls, chucking an empty roll of tape that hits the wall near Shane.

"Yeah, I'm going," he admits, keeping his back to the room, but Ilya can see the way his cheeks have flushed at the attention.

This is the only statement that any of them seem to take seriously. Shane isn't exactly known for his hyperbolic speech.

"I think I have a decent shot," he says after a short pause.

There are loud cheers, and Shane smiles.

"Holy shit," Mercer calls, grabbing Ilya's shoulders and shaking him. "Imagine if Roz was going too. If we get these two on the same line for Team Canada? No fucking chance for anyone else."

Ilya very briefly has a vision of him and Shane standing side by side. Canada emblazoned across their chests. A maple leaf letting him lay claim to the country he calls home.

"Yeah, but Ilya's like, not Canadian," Wagner says, once more flexing his brilliance with the moronic statement. "Right?"

And the vision fades, just like that.

Ilya shrugs like it's no big deal. Like he hasn't been thinking about it since he realized he'd be eligible in terms of age.

Unfortunately for him, his nationality still lies with a country he hasn't called home in many years, and never would again, if he had his say.

A quick argument breaks out between some of them over whether Ilya's Canadian or not, he just laughs and shakes his head, trying not to think about his disappointment.

"Sorry," he says, faking a pout. "I am still Russian. Shane will have to win this one without me." He winks at Shane.

"Will you play for Russia then?" The question comes from the far side. Bishop, he thinks.

Ilya swallows before answering, and it feels like he's swallowing razor blades.

"No, I do not think so," he tells them. A false smile fitting over his face as he considers the easiest way to leave the room.

Because Ilya hasn't thought about hockey in terms of Russia for a long time. Not since the year he spent lamenting the fact that his mom left his gear behind. Upset with her over it in the way a child's ignorance allowed him to be. Mad at a woman for saving him because she left his skates in the prison she freed him from.

But hockey and Russia remind him only of the time spent at the rink. Watched by someone who only saw Ilya as a means to an end. Who saw the spark of talent and knew to exploit it. Turning something Ilya loved into something Ilya had to perform.

And hockey in Canada is fun. Truly fun. And he knows if he were to ever wear a country's colours, there is only one country he'd willingly choose.

Shane catches up with him almost immediately. And something in the set of Ilya's jaw must tell Shane what he needs to know. He says nothing.

Ilya has never appreciated Shane more.

He's not even sure what he would say. Russia, and everything—or everyone—that comes with it is held somewhere inside Ilya that he doesn't intend to let see the sun.

"Maybe next year," Shane says when they're lying in their beds that night. Beginning what has become their nightly routine of talking about whatever felt too big to bring up when the sun still shone over them. When they still had to look at each other.

"You said you'd probably get citizenship soon, right?" Shane continues.

"Yeah," Ilya replies, he knows he's being uncharacteristically quiet.

He also knows he's promised Shane that he won't lie to him in here. And Ilya isn't prepared to play the role required for him to pretend anything about Russia, and all the barely scabbed wounds it entails.

The scouts first show up at the beginning of their second week. Sully is the first to spot them walking into the training facility. There's more than just a couple. He's red faced and excited when he bursts into the room for breakfast, quickly telling everyone he passes.

"What's this?" Ilya asks.

"Scouts," Mercer says.

This gets the attention of anyone else within earshot, Ilya thinks even Shane shifts his attention to the conversation.

"From where?"

Suddenly, every player in earshot becomes an expert in knowing where scouts are from just the way they hold their clipboards. When it becomes clear that no one actually has any information, and they're just trading gossip, Ilya leans back to finish his breakfast.

"You nervous?" Ilya asks Shane as they're putting their plates away.

Shane shrugs. "Not really."

Bizarrely, Ilya believes him. There doesn't appear to be any external sign of nerves from Shane, though Ilya knows he's incredible at hiding his real feelings, he doesn't think this is for show.

By the time they get on the ice, the anticipation and nerves are palpable across all the players. Some of the guys have visibly puffed their chests, while others seem to fold in on themselves.

Ilya isn't immune to it either.

He can feel an awareness of the scouts hanging around his neck while he skates. Every time they line up for another drill, he has to fight the urge to look towards where they are in the stands.

He fails more times than he should.

The first time, he sees them spread across the top row. Some have clipboards in their hands. One marks something down that Ilya is desperate to know about.

The second time, one of them is speaking quietly to another while looking down at the ice. Another points towards someone, but Ilya can't tell who from where he's standing.

He wants to know what they're talking about.

By the third time, he catches Shane looking at him.

"What?" Ilya asks, immediately defensive and embarrassed.

"Nothing," Shane says. No inflection in his voice, nothing.

"You are looking at me."

"You keep looking at them."

"I am just curious," Ilya says innocently.

Shane looks at him quizzically. "You don't have scouts at your games a lot?"

Asked by someone else and Ilya would assume Shane is purposefully being an asshole. But this is Shane. The words he says mean what they are. He's asking genuinely.

Ilya sighs loudly, turning to look at Shane as he skates away. "Sorry, not all of us are Team Canada hotshots."

Because where Shane is damningly earnest, Ilya has become a master at deflection and misdirection.

"Oh, fuck off," Shane says with a smile.

A shrill whistle pulls Ilya's attention back to the ice.

They're doing skating drills, moving through edge work before the coaches bring out pucks. Ilya tries to put the scouts out of his mind.

It works for maybe thirty seconds. Then he remembers they're watching him and every other boy on the ice and pushes a little harder through the next turn.

Not enough to be stupid. He's seen guys make idiotic decisions in practices that end careers before they even start. Ilya knows better than that.

Some of the other players start trying to turn every drill into a showcase the second they know they're being watched. They hold onto the puck too long, take shots that aren't there, as if they completely forget that hockey requires other people.

Ilya has no interest in embarrassing himself like that.

All he wants is their eyes. To be impossible to ignore.

Fortunately, Ilya knows exactly how to do this.

They're sent through a series of three on twos, and Ilya takes the puck through centre on their first rush. Shane is on his left, Mercer to his right.

Ilya watches the defenders carefully and sees the small shift.

He waits longer than others might have before sending the puck across to Shane, exactly where he knew he'd be.

Shane takes the pass cleanly and puts it behind the goalie before Ilya has fully registered the shot.

"Always showing off," Ilya says, bumping into Shane purposefully.

Shane looks at him. "You passed it to me."

"Yes, and then you show off."

"Well, unfortunately for your ego, sometimes that does happen."

Ilya grins.

Their next turn through, Shane gets the puck first, driving them down the ice. He doesn't do anything particularly flashy with it. That's the irritating part.

Shane very rarely looks like he's trying to make something difficult happen. He seems to see the ice in a way no one else does, anticipates movement naturally, always just a few steps ahead of everyone else.

They keep running through a variety of drills and Shane seems to approach them as he would on any other day, with a nonchalance that might seem forced on anyone else.

At some point Ilya's standing next to him while they wait for their turn.

"You know they are watching us, yes?"

"The scouts?" Shane says without taking his eyes off the other players still running through the passing drill. "So?"

"You do not care?"

"I care."

"You haven't even looked at them," Ilya points out.

"I know they're there," Shane says simply.

The answer bothers Ilya.

"You are so boring."

"And you're trying too hard." Shane smiles in a way he only ever seems to direct toward Ilya. He'd almost call it cocky. Shane bumps shoulders with Ilya.

"I am not," Ilya tries to sound indignant, and also keep himself from looking up at the scouts again.

Shane just gives him a look. And that look drives him insane.

Probably because Shane is right, and Ilya hates being wrong.

Ilya takes a moment to shake himself out, trying to force himself into the moment on the ice with the other players, trying to ignore the weight of the scout's presence.

He almost manages it.

Then one of the coaches calls Shane over to speak with him near the bench.

Ilya nearly crashes into someone because he's watching.

One of the scouts has come down from the stands.

He says something to Shane. Shane nods, his expression unchanged. Answers a question. The man says something that makes a small laugh leave Shane in an exhale before shaking his hand.

It all looks so easy to Shane.

Like Shane has done this before. And maybe he has.

Ilya feels something that he might think is jealousy if he didn't know better. Fortunately, he does know better, because he's not jealous of Shane, not really.

Shane being recognized for his skill is inevitable, and Ilya wants that for him, because Shane is a talent unlike anything he's ever seen before. Of course people recognize it.

But there's something strange about watching a door open for someone else and realizing that Ilya hadn't even known the door existed.

"Rozanov!"

Ilya pulls himself out of the silent reverie he'd fallen into to see the coach waving him over.

For one stupid second, Ilya looks behind himself.

The coach laughs. "Yes, you. Move it, Rozanov."

Ilya pushes away from the boards, making his way towards that door he'd only just discovered.

The same scout who spoke to Shane is still there.

And Ilya can feel his heart beat in his throat.

Ilya just hopes he doesn't throw up on the ice. He doesn't think that'll impress them.

"You're doing well out there," the man says as Ilya approaches.

"Thank you," Ilya says, hoping his accent stays at least understandable while he speaks.

"Where are you playing this year?"

"Calgary," Ilya tells him.

"And after that?"

"Uh, I don't know yet," Ilya says, suddenly feeling very, very ill-equipped to handle this conversation.

"You have representation?"

"Uhh," Ilya's racing to figure out if that's something he has. He assumes not.

"Anyone advising you? Agent, coach, someone helping you sort through your options."

"No," Ilya says plainly.

He doesn't think he knew he had options. He feels entirely out of his depth.

"Your parents handling it?" The man continues to press.

Well isn't that a loaded question.

Ilya just nods. "My mom."

"She's in town?"

Ilya shakes his head. "No, she is in Calgary."

He hates how uncertain he sounds. Fucking childish.

The man nods thoughtfully, consulting his clipboard.

"You should have someone looking at this stuff with you," he advises Ilya. "You've got options. "

He extends a card to Ilya.

Russ Abbott. His card identifies him as a scout for one of the junior teams in Ontario.

Ilya pulls his glove off and grabs the card.

"You ever think about playing out here?"

"Ottawa?" Ilya hasn't genuinely thought about playing anywhere outside of Calgary at this point. Other than the far fetched dreams of the NHL. Though, perhaps those dreams are not so far fetched.

"Ontario," he corrects Ilya. "There are a few programs that would be interested in a player like you. And I think we need to get you out of the West."

Russ laughs at this. So Ilya laughs too, though he's not certain he gets the joke.

But Ilya's focused on the card in his hand. And he sees flashes of playing with Shane. Or even against him.

Because Shane's in Ontario.

"Just something to consider," he tells Ilya with a smile.

It's a dismissal.

"Thank you."

"Talk to your mom," Russ tells him. "Have her or your coach give me a call."

He looks at the card in his hand before sliding it carefully under his water bottle on the bench.

It feels like a ticket burning a hole in his pocket. A way forward.

He falters.

But Mama's in Calgary.

He chews on the inside of his cheek.

He finds it very easy to ignore the scouts in the second part of their time on the ice.

Later, once Ilya has tucked the card safely into his wallet, he and Shane are walking back to the dorms.

They've been quiet since they got off the ice. Ilya thinks Shane is waiting for him to talk. Or maybe not, maybe Shane just enjoyed the silence.

But it's Shane that first breaks it.

"You have representation?"

"Is this only question Canadians know today?" Ilya says sarcastically. He lets his frustration seep out into his words.

"So, no?"

Ilya reminds himself that Shane isn't asking to embarrass him. He's not trying to make him feel like shit.

"No," Ilya admits. "I didn't know I needed it."

Shane just nods.

Chapter End Notes

hi hi hi.

pls keep in mind that this is going to be a slow burn for suuuure.

bc i want them to develop into the more-ness naturally.

and it's gonna be a slow burn that stays touching on issues of race and class.

(i've got a whole arc for how shane has interacted with racism. i cried writing one of the sections....but i'm also on my period. so take that with a grain of salt.)

pls lemme know if you're liking this! your comments are incredibly sweet. honestly, the response to this one has been very lovely.

Chapter 9: July 2008 III

Chapter Summary

Ilya meets Shane's mom.

Chapter Notes

italics? RUSSIAN.

okay? okay.

i finished my other longfic (hooray!!)

so my entire focus is shifting over here.

(and my school year is shaping up to be AWFUL.....so i'll be disassociating 'round here lots.)

forgive my mistakes. i've got the sunday scaries and i'm so stressed about the first day of school tomorrow.

"Of course they thought you were good," Mama's laugh comes through the phone, and Ilya is pleased to hear that it sounds real.

"Lots of the boys are good," Ilya tells her, digging his nail into the wooden bench.

His fingers are itching for a cigarette, but he'd only brought one pack and was out. And Shane also hated the smell. Hated when he came back to the room with the smell of smoke clinging to his body.

So, even though he could likely get another pack somehow, he doesn't try that hard to. For his health, probably.

"How is your friend?" she asks.

Ilya looks in the direction of the dorms. His eyes drawn to the space he associates most with the time he's spending with Shane.

"He's good," Ilya tells her.

"Still nice to you?"

Ilya wants to roll his eyes at the thought of Shane being anything but kind. A brief flash of the conversation he had with Smith and Wagner flashes in his mind. Hollander had a helluva right hook. He shakes his head to dislodge the image that still seems so far flung from the person he knows now.

"Yes, Mama," Ilya says, pulling back when a splinter pulls up and threatens the pad of his finger. "How are you? How's Lara?"

"I'm good, Lara's good," she tells him. "We're all good here."

He believes her, and the spring that slowly tightens in his chest whenever he's away from her loosens just a fraction. He knows it won't release entirely until he's actually home and can confirm that she's okay. But her voice sounds clear.

She sounds like his Mama. Not just a facsimile in her place, holding herself together until Ilya looks away.

"I have good news, Ilyusha," she says, sounding excited, with a nervous edge to it.

He perks up at this. Mama very rarely has news that Ilya doesn't already know at least an inkling of. They speak so often, and they've always functioned as a team.

At least since they've been here. Been home.

"What is it?" he asks, he can feel his heart rate increase.

"It's a little embarrassing," she says and he can imagine the shy smile she gets when attention is drawn to her.

Ilya had not gotten his performative nature from his mother.

"Mama," he says the word draw out. "Please. You cannot say 'I have good news' and then tell me nothing. Cruel woman."

There's a moment of silence. Ilya's about ready to open his mouth to say something more when she finally speaks, her tinny voice coming through clearly all the way from Calgary.

"I'm going back to school," she says, her voice sounds steady.

He's not sure what he had expected her to say, honestly he thought her and Lara might have picked up a dog. Mama always had a soft spot for strays, just like Ilya, and it was only their limited space that kept them from one.

When the words finally sink in it feels like his heart could beat out of his chest. The feelings that settle on him are complicated. Pride comes first. Relief is right behind it. And then something small and stranger that he can't quite name.

"I'm so proud of you, Mama," Ilya tells her honestly. "For what?"

"Just bookkeeping," she says. "I start in the fall."

"That's amazing," Ilya says. "I'm happy for you."

They talk a bit about Lara before she wishes Ilya a goodnight after checking that he's eating well.

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you, Ilyusha."

He doesn't tell her about the scout who suggested Ontario. He's not sure why.

The days move too quickly for Ilya's liking, and before he's ready, it's Thursday and tomorrow is the last day of the camps.

"My mom's going to be here tomorrow," Shane tells him.

"Cool," Ilya says.

"She wants to see you play."

Ilya turns to Shane slowly.

"What? Why?"

Shane shrugs, but still doesn't look at Ilya. "I told her about the scouts."

Ilya waits. Not wanting to fill the silence with his confusion.

"She's, uh—" Shane makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "—well, most of the scouts know her. Russ definitely does. She just wanted to come and see."

Ilya narrows his eyes at Shane, feeling like there's more.

He thinks about the way Shane defended his mother in the past and realizes how important this must be. His mother isn't just anyone, this is someone Shane values highly. Someone he cares about deeply.

Ilya asks Wagner about her, since he played on a team with Shane before.

"She's…intense," Wagner tells him, a complicated look on his face.

"Intense?"

"Yeah, man," Wagner nods. "I don't know what else you want me to say. I think you just have to meet her."

This does little to calm Ilya.

She doesn't show up until they're already on the ice, and Ilya only notices because Shane turns toward the stands and waves toward a woman.

He can't make out much of her from where she's standing. He recollects seeing her at the end of last year's camp, again, only from a distance. It might just be what Wagner said to him earlier, but she does look…intense.

He can see the same intensity in the version of Shane he brings to the ice.

Some of the scouts from earlier in the week are back, not all of them, but Ilya recognizes Russ Abbott.

Just as an uncomfortable feeling starts swelling in his stomach, Shane skates by and bumps shoulders with him.

"Relax," he says in passing. "Just play."

He looks at the smile Shane gives him in passing and it helps pull Ilya's thoughts away from the people in the stands, and the way their opinions could have permanent impacts on the way the rest of his career in hockey played out. Or if it even plays out at all.

Instead, he focuses on Shane. And he just plays.

Soon enough, the rest of the rink and everything beyond just him and Shane disappears the way it always does when they're on the ice together. The coaches make the foolish choice to put them on the same line and they dominate. Always a preternatural sense of where the other is on the ice. Passes connect before defensemen even have the chance to adjust.

Ilya pushes himself, not because he's worried about the scouts, but because this will be his last chance to be on the ice with Shane for…a while. Maybe ever.

He shakes off that realization and pushes himself after Shane when he gains possession from the other team, cutting behind him and hitting exactly where he's needed to receive a pass and fire it into the net.

Shane is smiling at him and they collide, knocking helmets together and laughing.

Whistles are blown, and after a brief thanks from the coaches, all the players are herded off the ice. Some of the boys are leaving that night. Ilya's got one more night before his flight home.

After he and Shane have showered and their gear is packed up, they head back out to meet Shane's mom.

"Come on," Shane says, and he looks a little embarrassed. There's a shift in his body language. He starts picking at his nails a bit, and something in his face seems to shutter as they approach wherever Shane is leading him.

Ah.

His mother.

Mrs. Hollander is beautiful and this doesn't shock Ilya in the slightest. Because even though he's a boy, the first physical descriptor of Shane that comes to Ilya's mind has always been pretty. Ilya thinks he might describe her as severe. Beautiful yes, but also severe.

Where Shane's eyes are serious, hers are uncompromising.

Ilya feels like she's seeing more of him than he's strictly comfortable with.

"Mom," Shane's voice pulls him from a panic spiral. "This is Ilya."

"Hello, Mrs. Hollander," Ilya says accepting her extended hand, hoping that it doesn't come across as weak.

She doesn't seem like a person who appreciates weakness.

"Yuna," she corrects him. "Nice to meet you, Ilya."

"She's not as bad as she seems," Shane says flatly.

Yuna rolls her eyes, but smiles warmly at her son.

And the second she smiles he relaxes instinctively because he sees Shane in that smile. It's familiar.

"Who did you talk to?" Yuna asks immediately, looking over their heads toward where the scouts are bunched up, a few talking to some of the other players.

"Abbott," Shane answers for him.

"Hm." A quick sound. Ilya has absolutely no idea what it possibly means.

"He gave you a card?"

Ilya pats his pockets so he can find his wallet, he finally hands it to her.

"Hm." It's the same sound. He still doesn't know what it means.

"You play well," she says, tilting her head. "How long have you played?"

Ah, no niceties. Shane is starting to make a little more sense to him.

"I have played most of my life," he tells her. "Only gap is when me and my mother first immigrated, and was only a season or so that I missed."

She nods at that. "Yes, I imagine it would have taken a bit to get acclimated before diving into such an involved sport."

Yes, and when we fled my father we could not afford to take anything with us. And hockey gear is not cheap.

He doesn't say that part out loud. That part is just for him. It's not relevant. He never wants it to be relevant, especially not where Shane is involved. Ilya's not sure he could manage it if Shane started looking at him the way some of his coaches had when he first started.

Instead, he just smiles and says, "Yes, ma'am."

She smiles at that, and Ilya thinks there is just a bit of softening to her expression.

"Yuna, please," she insists.

He nods.

"Rozanov!" One of the coaches calls.

He turns to see the coach approaching him with Russ Abbott and some other far too self-important man in tow.

"Hey, kid," the newest man greets him with a warm handshake. "I'm Steve Donnelly. Great playing out there."

"Thank you," Ilya says, accepting the handshake.

He watches the man's eyes slide from Ilya's face past him and land on Yuna.

"Ah, Yuna," he says in a tone that Ilya has a hard time deciphering. "I suppose we should have expected you." He looks at Shane.

"Donnelly."

Yuna doesn't extend her hand, nor does Steve offer his.

Interesting.

"We were just hoping to talk to Rozanov here," Abbott tells her, reaching forward to place a hand on Ilya's shoulder. Ilya doesn't mean to, but his eyes go to Yuna's. He gets the distinct feeling this isn't something he should do alone.

"Ilya," Yuna says, her voice is distinctly warmer. "Would you like me to come with you for this?"

Ilya's eyes dart between the three men, two now that the coach walking away, and back to Yuna. He almost considers going with them alone, but thinks about the way they both reacted to Yuna. And he just knows that they won't fuck around if she's there.

He nods.

"I'll go finish packing up," Shane says. He catches Ilya's eye and nods once.

Yuna nods at him, handing over her car keys to him. She doesn't take her eyes off the scouts.

When Ilya focuses back on the scouts he can sense a distinct shift away from the congeniality that had been present before. There's tension. The kind that sits between people who've spent a long time butting heads. Ilya knows immediately that they've been on opposite sides of a conversation before.

"So, it's no secret," Donnelly starts. "We're interested. You've had a very good camp. Abbott tells me he's impressed."

"Okay," Ilya says.

"He also tells me you haven't committed anywhere for next season."

Ilya just nods.

"Would you consider playing in Ottawa?"

Ilya pauses and thinks of Mama. Thinks of leaving her behind for so many months. Two weeks away at camp has been stressful enough to not know how she's doing. He doesn't know how an entire hockey season would be possible.

"Maybe."

"What exactly are you offering him?" Yuna asks, stepping so she's standing behind Ilya's shoulder.

There's absolutely no room in her voice for anything but a direct answer.

"Right now?" Donnelly seems to reluctantly turn his attention to Yuna. "An invitation to come out for training camp. We think he'd have a very real chance at making the roster."

"A chance at the roster, or are you expecting him to make it?" Her voice is clear and demanding. Ilya would not want to be at the centre of her attention.

"I'm not going to promise a seventeen year old a spot before camp," he replies seriously.

She nods slowly. "Good."

"This is good?" Ilya asks quietly, turning to look at her.

"A good answer," she says back to him, keeping her voice hushed.

"We really like what we've seen, Ilya." Donnelly seems happy to turn his attention away from Yuna's piercing eyes.

"Okay," Ilya says, still not sure what else they're expecting him to say.

"There are going to be other teams calling too, Ilya," Abbott promises him. "Especially after this week."

"And if he comes here, what will the organization cover?" Yuna's voice cuts through again.

Ilya enjoys seeing the way both men clench their jaws when she speaks up again. Ilya's starting to think he really likes Yuna.

"Equipment, team travel, the usual hockey expenses," Donnelly says it like it's obvious.

It wouldn't have been obvious to Ilya. He's not sure he would have known to ask this.

"School?" Yuna asks before turning to Ilya. "You're still finishing high school, right?"

Ilya nods. "Yeah, is my last year."

"We would arrange something locally," Abbott offers.

"Housing?" Yuna is relentless.

"Billet family."

Ilya has heard this term, and has a vague awareness of it.

"Can you explain how that works?" Yuna asks.

Ilya is confused for a moment, he would have assumed that Yuna would be familiar with the concept given how well versed she seems to be in all of this. He realizes a moment too late that she's asking for his benefit, not hers.

"You'd live with a local family during the season," Donnelly answers, still directly most of his answers to Ilya despite it being Yuna asking. "They provide a room, meals, somewhere stable to stay."

"Just with strangers?" Ilya asks, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Donnelly nods. "Usually, yes."

"How are the families screened?" Yuna asks.

"Background checks, home visits, references," Donnelly lists out. "We've got families who've been doing it for years. We trust them."

Ilya feels odd about it. He thinks about being in a stranger's home. Potentially having to perform the hockey version of himself at all times. It would be exhausting.

"What if it's not a good fit?" Yuna continues.

"We can move the player."

"How often would I go home?" Ilya speaks up, mentally trying to figure out how many weeks at a time he would feel comfortable leaving Calgary without checking in.

"Depends on a lot of things," Donnelly answers him. "But generally, traveling home for Christmas and then at the end of the school year will be covered. And of course, we'd cover you getting there."

"Okay."

"What will you need from his mother?" Yuna says. Her voice has remained level the entire time.

"We'd want to speak with your mother before anything moves forward, of course," Donnelly confirms. "There'd be paperwork for her to sign, and I'd rather she hear the details directly from us."

Ilya can't help but feel like the last part, though spoken to him, is directed toward Yuna more than anyone else.

"Okay." Ilya wishes he had something more impactful to offer to the conversation. He feels very out of his depth.

"What's the timeline?" Yuna asks.

"No decision today." Donnelly shrugs, and directs his answers to Ilya. "Talk to your mother. Talk to your coach. We'll be in touch over the next few weeks."

Ilya bites his lip. "And if I say no?"

"Then you say no," Donnelly tells him simply. "We'd be disappointed, but it's your choice. There are other players who would take the spot."

"And he should hear from other programs before he makes any decision," Yuna inserts.

The smile on Donnelly's face gets nowhere near his eyes. Ilya can see the way his jaw remains tense when he look back at Yuna.

"I knew you'd say that."

"I'm nothing if not consistent," Yuna replies, her smile is sharp. Pointed.

Donnelly hands Ilya his card with promises to call him when he's back in Calgary, before leaving with Abbott.

As they walk away Ilya hears Abbott whisper "Fucking tiger mom," to Donnelly, and the two men laugh, Donnelly shakes his head, and the smile on his face puts a pit in Ilya's stomach. They shoot one last look at Yuna before leaving.

The careful neutrality finally slips, blatant contempt flitting across her expression once they've turned away.

Ilya doesn't understand the implication of what the man said. Part of him wants to ask Shane, but he has a feeling it's nothing good.

"Thank you," Ilya says, turning to face her directly after they've left.

"Of course." She smiles, her eyes still following the two men.

"You trust them?"

"No," Yuna says honestly. "But they're fine for what you need."

"You guys done?" Shane is coming back into the building.

"Yes," Yuna replies, her face loses the tension at the sight of her son. "All your stuff is in the car?"

"Yep," he says. "How'd it go?"

"They want him in Ottawa for juniors," Yuna answers before Ilya can speak. "He'd need a billet."

"He could stay with us," Shane offers immediately.

"Shane." Yuna's tone is serious.

Ilya feels, again, like he's a child being spoken about and not to.

"What?" Shane says, indignant. "We have space."

"He doesn't even know if he wants to go to Ottawa," Yuna scolds Shane, and then turns to Ilya. "There's a lot to consider. The teams here are good, I might be biased, but I think they're better than out West."

Ilya nods along to what she says. He tries to remember everything she says so he can explain it when he gets home.

"It has to be best for you," she says seriously. "This is your future, but if you're aiming for the NHL, well. Some of the choices will be better than others."

She stops for a moment and seems to consider what to say next.

"But we do have space," she finally says. "If you happen to choose Ottawa."

Ilya can barely let himself consider what that would mean.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hollander," Ilya says earnestly. He appreciates her more than anything in that moment.

"Please, call me Yuna," she insists with a smile. She turns to Shane. "I'll be in the car. Don't be long."

Yuna walks away, and Ilya doesn't miss the way one of the coaches leaving his office does a quick 180 when he sees her, eyes widening and ducking out of sight immediately.

Apparently, Shane isn't the only Hollander with a reputation in hockey.

"Sorry," Shane says before Ilya can speak.

"For what?" His eyebrows pull together, completely uncertain what Shane could be apologizing for.

"I know she's a lot." Shane grimaces and avoids meeting Ilya's eyes. He rubs the nape of his neck. "I just thought, I don't know. Your mom isn't here."

Ilya snorts. "Even if my mom was here, she would not have known what to do."

"No?"

He looks at Shane flatly. "Not everyone's mom is godfather of hockey, Shane."

"She's not that bad."

"Donnelly looked like he might wet himself if she said much more."

Shane laughs at that.

"I left my backpack in the room."

Ilya smiles, recognizing the excuse.

"I'll walk back with you."

They walk toward the dorm. The last time they'll do this. Next summer they'll be too old for this camp. And so Ilya's not sure when he would get to see Shane again.

That is, unless, he goes to Ottawa.

But choosing that will mean choosing to leave his mom, and leaving feels a lot like abandoning.

"You would live there?" Irina asks him, staring at the card he'd shown her like it was a venomous snake. She hadn't touched it, just let it lie on the table in front of her.

"Yes, I would stay with a family," Ilya tells her.

"What family?"

"Probably the Hollanders," he says. "I think if I decide to go, I would want Ottawa."

He thinks whatever team Shane is on is probably a pretty good team to be part of in terms of being seen by scouts.

Irina looks uncertain.

"Shane's mom, Mrs. Hollander," he still can't imagine calling her by her first name. "She says you can call her. She is happy to tell you more."

Irina thinks about this carefully.

"You will need to be here for the phone call," Irina says, and Ilya has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning. It's not a no.

Ilya nods.

"Just for the school year?"

He nods. "But only if I get the spot."

"Which you will."

"Maybe," Ilya says.

"Can we call her now?"

—

When they're finally able to talk to Yuna, Ilya is about ready to buzz out of his skin. He's not even sure which direction he's hoping this will go. Part of him is desperate to go east and take the opportunity being placed in front of him.

But then he looks at his mom. She's sitting at their kitchen table, her dark blonde curls piled messily on top of her head. Her expression is lively, and she's excited to start school in a few weeks.

She looks the best she's looked, well, ever. Probably since she's been in Canada, and definitely better than any time in Russia. She seems like she's happy. Like the sun has come out and hasn't dipped below the horizon again.

So, maybe it won't be the worst thing for him to leave. At least for a little while.

"Hi, Irina," Yuna's voice comes through the phone.

"Hello," Irina responds, and Ilya tries not to reflexively flinch at the way her accent is still the most prominent part of her speech. He needs to be proud of her, because her English has improved leaps and bounds in the past year alone. And he's often frustrated that people don't hear that when they talk to her. Instead, only hearing the accent and already assuming she doesn't know enough to finish the conversation.

But the Hollanders are not like that. Yuna might be severe and protective of her son, but she's not an asshole.

"Is this serious?" Irina asks, skipping all the niceties.

"Yes," Yuna answers plainly. "They would not have approached him if they didn't want him, if they didn't think he could earn a spot at training camp."

"It is good opportunity, yes?"

"Very, this will get him in front of the right people."

"Can you explain billet?" Irina asks.

"Of course, Ilya would live with another family," Yuna explains, and Ilya appreciates her careful pronunciation, but that she doesn't slow her speech as if his mother lacks comprehension. "If he chooses Ottawa, and if he gets the spot here, and if my family is approved, then his housing and meals would be taken care of through the billet arrangement. Anything hockey-related would go through the team. I know it's a lot of ifs, unfortunately that's just what it is at this point."

"They would feed you?" Irina asks him.

"Yes," Ilya answers her quietly.

"If he wants to leave?"

"Even if the league wouldn't, I'd pay for his ticket home," Yuna says resolutely.

"If he does not like staying with you?" Irina asks bluntly. "If he doesn't feel safe."

"Mama," Ilya hisses, worried that she's being rude. "They will not hurt me."

"You do not know that, Ilyusha, hush."

"It's a fair question," Yuna says to Irina, though Ilya knows the last part is telling him to stop talking. "He'll always have his phone if he needs to call you, and he'll have contacts with the team as well. And if he tells me he wants to leave our house, he leaves. He won't have to convince me."

Irina nods at this.

"You have space?"

"Yes, if he chooses Ottawa."

"Your house is you and Shane, yes?"

"Mama." Because Ilya knows where this is going.

"And my husband, David."

Irina tenses at this slightly.

"Is he a good man?"

"I've never met him. But I think so." Ilya can only base what he assumes of David off what he knows of Shane. And he's never seen Shane flinch when a coach raised his hand. Or yelled. At least, no more than is normal.

"He would have his own room, yes?"

"Yes, we have a guest room."

It no longer feels like they're talking about this in terms of it just being possible. It's starting to sound like they're planning.

"School? He is very smart boy, he will graduate." Ilya groans internally at this.

"He would attend a local school, we'd register him at the same school as Shane."

"Do your credits and grades and everything from here transfer there? It's all different between each province, right?" Irina asks this in Russian to Ilya, not wanting to bother translating it all.

"Uh, she would like to know how the transfer of credits works. Since the school systems are different."

"Of course. The school would look at what he's already completed in Alberta and transfer what they can. We'd make sure he's registered for whatever he still needs to graduate."

He relays this to his mom, clarifying the parts she doesn't understand.

Irina steels herself before asking the next question.

"How much would we pay you?" She sounds like she's asking how she'll be executed.

Right. Of course.

"Oh, nothing," Yuna says, and it's the first time he's heard her sound surprised. "It's covered by the league."

"Would he come home at all?"

"The league will cover a round trip at Christmas."

"I can—" she pauses for a second. "I can visit him too?"

"Irina, of course," Yuna says, and her voice softens. No longer that of an agent explaining the best possible deal for a prospective hockey player, but a mom speaking to another mom. Assuring her that she will still have access to her child.

Irina lets out a breath and Ilya sees her shoulders drop just a little.

"If I need him?"

"We get him home."

"If he gets hurt, who calls me?"

"I would be on the phone immediately."

"Who goes to hospital with him?"

"I would, or my husband." There's a small twitch in Irina's mouth at the mention of David. "He wouldn't be alone. I wouldn't let that happen."

And the tone of Yuna's voice has Ilya believing he could get abducted by aliens and she would find a way aboard the ship.

Irina clicks her tongue, thinking. Turning over all the possibilities and what the best possible option is.

"Do you think he should go?" Irina finally asks.

"I can't make this choice for either of you," Yuna says clearly. "But it's definitely worth considering."

"If it was Shane."

"I would send him if it made sense."

Irina steeples her fingers in front of her face, looking past anything in the room. Considering. Weighing the options of her son leaving for an entire school year.

"Ilyusha, do you want this?" Irina asks him.

He looks down at the phone between them, forgetting for a moment that Yuna won't be able to understand.

"Because if you do not want this, tell me." She's serious. "I will tell them it is my choice, if you don't want them to know."

Ilya loves his mother for the protection she always offers him. And that she can identify what might hold him back from telling them. He knows Shane's excited about the possibility of Ilya being in Ottawa with him, and he doesn't want to let him down.

And he thinks of his mom. Healthy. Happy, and preparing to build something for herself.

"I want to go," Ilya says. "If I can."

Irina nods.

"Okay, how do we do it?"

Chapter End Notes

i need you to know a few things.

i am FORCING myself to slow down with this. bc there are some plot points that i am HUNGRY to write and get to and share with y'all.

but i also know they'll be better if i let them build.

so i am making myself be patient.

even though i don't wanna.

the dynamics within this story are fucking complex. i've got THOUSANDS of words of notes just outlining character stuff. i've got so many notes so i don't forget to mention things. it's a lot. but i'm very very excited (as always, i've never been chill a day in my life...and i'm definitely not chill about this.)

(next chapter is a non ilya POV....i am EXCITED about it.)

thank you for the lovely comments.

Chapter 10: September 2008

Chapter Summary

Yuna welcomes a houseguest.

Chapter Notes

i did a rush read through, but work starts in just over an hour and i still have NOTHING ready.......

but the chapter's ready. (ignore mistakes....)

TW: racial slur mentioned
it's not like...being used in the moment? it's being asked about.

It's been ten days since Ilya first moved in to the Hollander's guest room. And Yuna is still not sure what to make of him. This boy who Shane had befriended the previous summer, and who had taken up such a significant part of Shane's life that she nearly felt like she knew him.

When she watched him on the ice she saw a cocky young man, sure of his skill and competitive. When she helped him meet with the scouts, she'd seen him for the seventeen year old kid that he is, uncertain. And then, the cocky boy had been back when he first arrived for training camp.

But the boy living in her house is something else entirely. In two distinct ways. Because Yuna is not entirely sure who exactly Ilya Rozanov is.

He's quiet in her house, careful. Polite to a point that's nearly irritating, though she'd never admit it. He asks before taking anything, helps in the kitchen without needing to be asked. Yuna would think he's just a very nice houseguest.

It goes beyond that, Ilya is respectful toward Yuna, and he is something else with David. And maybe it's nothing, maybe she's building stories where there isn't any, but she doesn't imagine the way Ilya orients himself so he can always see David. The way he watches carefully when David comes in and ruffles Shane's hair.

But more than anything, Ilya is careful when David is near Yuna. She has caught him more than once, shifting in his seat when David approaches her to hug her when he comes home from work.

She pretends not to make connections between that and Irina clarifying what would happen if Ilya didn't feel safe.

Even with that, Ilya becomes an entirely different person, separate from the others, when he's with Shane.

And Yuna has never seen Shane like this.

Shane has always been different. As soon as he could talk and express himself he was far more serious than she thought a child had any business being. When he'd discovered his love of hockey, Yuna hoped this would be the bridge to Shane developing friendships.

Very few seven year-olds want to talk about the statistical averages of goalies currently playing in the NHL.

So, maybe hockey wasn't the gateway to easier friendships.

At least, that's what Yuna had assumed.

Yuna knows Shane loves hockey, and has loved hockey as soon he was able to, and she also knows hockey doesn't always love him back.

Yuna remembers the first time Shane had been forced to break her heart.

And he had been so young.

Too young for any of it to be fair.

She thinks of his face, still soft with the baby fat his body was quickly devouring as he grew. The way it was already drawn when he'd stepped into the car. And she just knew he had something to talk to her about. But she also knew her son. Knew he would say whatever was bothering him when he was ready.

Finally, a few blocks away from the rink, he spoke.

"Mom, what does Jap mean?" His soft voice did nothing to soften the edges of the word. The ugliness sounded perverse in that sweet voice.

She didn't realize just how tightly she had begun to grip the steering wheel until later when she got home and saw marks from where the seams of the leather nearly broke skin. Her jaw clenched.

Her entire world narrowed to the two of them in the car together. The day she had been waiting for, but never truly prepared for, had arrived. And she would have to be the one to break apart Shane's simple view of the world with words that shouldn't have to be spoken between mother and son.

Ridiculously, Yuna felt a pang she had felt when people would stare at Shane and David in public when he was even younger, often not even pretending to be doing anything but evaluating her family and questioning its legitimacy. The pang of realizing that she couldn't protect him from everything. There would be things beyond her. Things that shouldn't have to hurt her son, but that would.

And pretending they don't exist is foolish, and will only serve to hurt Shane even more as he grows. Because the teeth of this trap will follow him for his entire life, prepared to break skin at any moment. The least she could do was show him what the traps looked like.

Not that he would be able to stop them. Just so he could brace himself.

So, Yuna pulled the car over into the parking lot of a Zellers because she wasn't confident she could keep them on the road while she spoke.

They stayed in the car, in their seats. Yuna felt sick at the idea of looking directly into Shane's eyes while she pulled apart his world. So, she watched him in the rearview mirror instead, offering herself one level of separation. While she spoke, his eyes either met hers briefly, or moved around the car, never stopping for long, as he processed the information she gave him.

She watched his expression shift in that small way it always did. But the way his mouth tightened ever so slightly could have caused an earthquake for how it shattered Yuna's heart.

Unfortunately, Yuna got a front row seat to her son finding out that some people would hate him for no reason other than how he looked.

"And it's just because…?" Shane's voice was somehow smaller than it had been when they started.

"Because of what you look like, baby, yes," Yuna said, unexpectedly able to keep her voice even. "I'm so sorry."

Her apology drew his eyes to hers, his gaze locking on hers in the way that always made her pull up short. There was a depth in those dark, too serious eyes that implied an understanding and maturity far beyond his years. A look he'd had for too much of his short life.

"Why are you apologizing, mom?" Shane asked, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. "It's not your fault."

Yes. It is. The thought was there before she could think better of it.

Because, it was, wasn't it? It was her features that took so naturally to her son's face that would damn him. That would draw looks, and had ever since he was born. The same thing that had brought her a deep sense of relief after trying for a child for so long, to look into the face of her son and see so much of her family. This same thing would make Shane's life needlessly complicated.

Ugliness she couldn't protect him from.

—

She'd told David what happened after Shane had gone to bed. She loved him for the way his jaw tensed when she repeated the word.

She loved him more when he didn't try to explain it away or soften it all.

She pitied him for having to watch his wife and child suffer things he had no power to fix. Didn't even know how to bandage the wounds effectively.

He held her.

She didn't cry.

Her family has lost enough to this country and the way it loved them only in very specific ways. Some of the ways feeling suspiciously like hate.

The way it loved them only when they were useful.

The way it pretended to love them when it was convenient, without ever claiming them entirely.

Because Shane did learn to see the traps. He recognized the patterns in how those people spoke to him. She wanted to make sure he knew them before they bit him. She tries not to think of the times he bit back.

And then she sees Shane laugh at something Ilya says, his face completely at ease in a way she hasn't seen on him in so long. And maybe she's never seen it with someone other than herself and David.

Shane has always been sensitive when it comes to other people, and the first time she sees Ilya grab Shane from behind and drape his arms over Shane's shoulders, she tenses. Prepared for the moment Shane freezes and tries to remove himself from the situation.

Instead, Shane just laughs and tries to flip Ilya off him.

She's so startled she nearly burns dinner watching them.

And it doesn't stop there. They sit close to each other on the couch. They lean on each other when they watch movies. Shane will just hug Ilya.

Hug him.

Unprompted.

It doesn't become less surprising each time it happens.

One day after school, Shane comes home later than Ilya. And he comes in silently in the way that isn't safe. A brooding storm cloud hanging over his head.

"Everything okay?" she asks when he passes through the kitchen.

"Fine." His tone is flat and lifeless.

It's something big.

She watches him pass her without a second look, and hears his feet on the stairs. It's a song she's heard many times before and could count the beats of perfectly. Five more steps, and then his door slams.

Except five steps turn to ten. And no door slams.

If she goes upstairs immediately, he'll know she's following him.

She waits.

She doesn't end up going upstairs for about a half hour after Shane has left the main floor. His door is open and when she peeks inside she doesn't see him, but further down the hall in the guest room, she can see him clearly.

He's lying facedown on the neatly made bed, his head turned toward the wall. She can just make out half of Ilya's face from where he's sitting at the small desk.

"You ready to talk yet?" Ilya's face turns toward Shane on the bed. She can see the way he looks at her son. There's a closeness there she's still not used to Shane experiencing with any friend he's had.

Shane groans in response.

"Okay."

And Ilya turns back to the work on his desk.

"Just tell me when you are."

Yuna is about to turn and start back down the stairs when she hears Shane's voice.

"It's just dumb," he says.

"I bet it's not," Ilya replies.

She moves down a few steps on the stairs and sits so they can't see her. She just listens. Not because she thinks she'll hear anything salacious, but because she just wants to hear them talk to each other when they think they're alone.

"You don't have to tell me," Ilya says.

A loud exhalation from Shane. One she's become accustomed to meaning he's done talking.

"Was it what you thought?" Ilya asks.

"Worse," she's shocked to hear Shane respond.

"Did you tell him no?"

"Three times," Shane sounds exasperated.

"Then he's stupid," Ilya tells him simply. "Not much to do about stupid."

"I guess."

"You want to stay in here?"

"Yeah."

And then silence, the only sound is Ilya's pencil against his page.

She's not sure how long she sits there. Listening to utter silence as they just exist with each other. And it just becomes routine for them. They're almost always together, or at least near each other.

He's careful in the guest room he's been given. If she were told that a teenage boy had moved into it, she wouldn't have believed it. Hell, if she had been told anyone was living in the room, she wouldn't have believed it.

The only evidence is his empty luggage tucked into one corner. But every morning, he makes his bed.

It feels like he's waiting to be asked to leave.

And the first time she helps him grab his laundry to be washed, she sees something on his bed she absolutely had never expected.

A teddy bear.

Well worn, and clearly well loved, tucked half hidden beneath his pillow.

She doesn't comment on it, and she doesn't think he notices that she saw it.

He's polite. Always careful to ask before taking anything, and never taking more than what he sees someone else take. It's definitely not what she originally anticipated from the cocky Russian kid she'd seen on the ice.

"Would it be okay if I had a yogurt?" Ilya asks her one night after he's already been at their home for over a week. And after he's been reminded that he's free to take whatever he wants multiple times.

"Yes, Ilya, go ahead," she tells him. "You don't need to ask. There's plenty of food."

He looks troubled for a moment.

"I just don't want to take too much," he says.

She chuckles. "Ilya, dear, if we run out I can always pick up more next time I go grocery shopping. Especially if it's something you like, I can always get extra too."

Ilya stares at the yogurt cup like it's something far more complex than a snack after school.

And then Shane comes into the kitchen, stops when he sees Ilya and Yuna in the kitchen. He looks between them for a second. Reaches over and takes the yogurt out of Ilya's hand and walks away.

"Shi…shoot," she hears Shane say from the other room. "Ilya can you bring me a spoon?"

Ilya rolls his eyes and his lips quirk up into a smile. He opens the fridge to grab another yogurt for himself.

"I am not bringing you a spoon," Ilya calls to Shane while he grabs two spoons. "Not after you have betrayed me."

She finds herself smiling at the exchange, Ilya nods his thanks to her still, and leaves the kitchen.

"Dude, that's the worst spoon," Shane says and she hears Ilya laugh loudly, and what must be the beginnings of two boys wrestling over spoons.

Ridiculous.

—

"You look hilarious," Ilya says, smiling. "So tiny."

"Whatever," Shane laughs.

"How old are you here?"

"I don't know, like five." Shane shrugs. "It was my first jersey."

"Adorable."

"Shut up," Shane says. " I'm sure you've got embarrassing photos from your childhood."

"Ah, no." Ilya's response is a little more subdued than usual. Yuna stops what she's doing in the kitchen to listen.

"There's no way you didn't look ridiculous at some point," Shane insists.

"Probably," Ilya's tone is still not as lively as expected. "I don't have any of them, though."

"What?" Shane asks the question Yuna wonders. "Why?"

There's a pause, which is unusual. She's not sure she's experienced a moment where Ilya hasn't had a quick answer to anything.

"Must have lost them in the move," Ilya says.

Shane nods.

Eventually, Shane leaves Ilya to continue perusing the wall of photos. Yuna finishes putting away the dishes and dries her hands before walking over to see what Ilya is still looking at.

"My grandparents," Yuna supplies, walking up behind him.

"Where are they?" Ilya asks, and part of her is surprised to hear genuine interest.

"They're at New Denver, in British Columbia. They were forced out of their home during the war. They lost almost everything." She pauses. "They never really got back to the same life. My grandfather owned a store. By the time they were allowed back, it was gone."

Ilya has grown oddly still as he stares into the faces of her family, long since passed, in a moment of Canada's history that she places as prominently on her wall as she will Shane's Team Canada jersey.

"They weren't able to take anything?" Ilya asks, and she's surprised by the emotion coating his words, he's usually so careful in how he speaks to her. Very practiced.

"No," she answers. "Not really. Some photos and I think that was it."

Ilya nods as if he understands.

"That must have been hard."

He turns and walks back to the couch where Shane has flopped over the back and is lying across the cushions. There's a moment where it's almost like he shakes off the conversation he just had and his face shifts into one she associates with Shane now.

Bright. Carefree.

"Are you going to make room for me?" Ilya asks, a challenge in his voice.

"Abso-fucking-lutely not," Shane says proudly.

"Language," Yuna says. "Shane, really."

Shane at least as the wherewithal to look a little chagrined at the reprimand and says sorry quietly before he's back to fighting Ilya off the couch.

Boys.

—

"What do you think of him?" she asks David one night while they get ready for bed.

"He seems nice," David says. "Polite. Shane likes him."

"David."

"What?"

"I'm serious," Yuna presses. "He's been here for nearly two weeks. You must have an opinion."

"I'm giving you what I can." There's an edge of exasperation. "I don't know, Yuna. He doesn't talk to me much."

"What do you mean?" she asks, disbelieving. And then she thinks back and really can't think of any time they have interacted outside of dinner with the whole family present.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice," David says, an edge of humour returning to his voice. "You've been watching him like a hawk."

"I have not."

"Yuna."

She gets into bed next to David but doesn't turn off her bedside lamp.

"He watches you."

"I noticed."

She exhales heavily.

"You said he doesn't have a dad at home?" David asks.

"Not as far as I can tell," Yuna shares. "It sounds like it's just his mom."

They both sit with that. Yuna isn't sure if David's making the connections her brain reluctantly is.

"Well, he'll figure me out eventually," David says.

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I keep being nice to him anyway," he says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. "Maybe he just needs a little more time. Probably just not used to having a dad in the house."

She sits in silence, but still doesn't turn off the light. David has rolled over.

"Shane likes him." She finally breaks the silence.

"They're good friends."

"He seems happy."

"I think they both are," David says, rolling over to look at her.

She nods.

Finally, she reaches over to turn off the light.

On the Saturday of the second week, they watch a movie together. Shane chooses after arguing with Ilya about it for twenty minutes. She nearly tells them to be quiet but realizes she's never had to say those words in this house before. Certainly not to Shane. So, she appreciates the way this boy, who seems to have randomly fallen into Shane's life, has finally managed to breathe life into her son in a way that she is not sure she ever really thought was possible.

By the end of the first two weeks, Yuna isn't sure she's any closer to understanding who Ilya is. Every layer she sees beneath only raises more questions. What she does know is that she's never seen Shane quite as happy as he is when Ilya is next to him.

And for now, that's all she really needs to know.

Chapter End Notes

I bet you thought it was gonna be a shane pov.

WRONG.

ilya and moms only.

i've got an expansive back story of the kinds of shit shane has dealt with and how yuna and david both reacted. i'm trying to weave it in without feeling like 'textbook on racism'. so hopefully that's coming across.....

anyways, i have to go do my job right now (and i desperately do not want to.)

leave me comments to come back to, i will NEED dopamine after today 😫

***if you're unfamiliar with Canadian history - Japanese citizens were placed in internment camps during WWII. Most of their possessions (and businesses) were sold and the government kept that money. A MASSIVELY important thing to know - they were not released from these camps until 1948. A full 3 years after the end of the war. This is an awful part of Canadian history, but hugely important too.

Chapter 11: October 2008

Chapter Summary

Ilya goes to a halloween party.

Chapter Notes

hello

the response to this has been......so lovely. thank you.

i'm trying very hard to pace myself. but i also hate my job and use this as a way to mentally disengage.

fortunately for you, that means i am updating at a rate that is...potentially unsustainable.

unfortunately for you, this means my brain is tired so i will end up doing my edits at like 5am tomorrow morning when i read this again and go 'ah shit.'

David comes home from work one day in a flurry. The set of his jaw is something Ilya hasn't seen on him in the weeks since he's been here. He's angry. Ilya sees that immediately.

Ilya's seated on the couch when David enters. He closes the door with just a little too much force. His feet land too heavily and he drops his bag without easing it onto the floor.

A cold pit opens in Ilya's gut.

Without thinking, he adjusts himself so his body is oriented toward David. The book he'd been reading on his lap blurs as his eyes shift to track him as he moves from the front door toward his bedroom upstairs.

Shane is in his bedroom. Yuna is in the kitchen.

Ilya fights the impulse to follow upstairs.

He can hear David's heavy footfalls as he moves through the hall. It's too many footsteps for him to be stopping by Shane's room, so he relaxes.

After a few minutes, David comes back downstairs and his face is no less stormy. He doesn't spare a glance toward Ilya and just stomps through to the kitchen.

Ilya clenches his jaw and bounces his foot for a moment before shifting to the other side of the couch where he can more clearly see into the kitchen. He can still only catch the edge of Yuna's face and David's back, but it's better than nothing.

They speak lowly enough that Ilya can't actually make out the words, just the tone. David is angry. Yuna is soothing.

The tone is different from what he is expecting. It doesn't have the edge of appeasement that he is expecting. It just sounds like an attempted balm, given to soothe not to placate.

David's voice loses some of the fire it had developed.

And Ilya watches as Yuna says something, leaning into him and poking a finger into his side. David moves quickly and Ilya's nearly off the couch when he watches him gather Yuna in his arms and kiss her cheek while she laughs.

Only once Ilya sees David ease onto a seat in the kitchen, his body relaxed even with lingering tension on his face, does he go upstairs to his room.

It isn't the first time David has confused Ilya since he moved in. He doubts it will be the last.

"Shane."

"Ilya."

"Please."

"Absolutely not."

"It's a costume party."

"I barely even want to go."

"C'mon, it's hardly even a costume."

Shane stops arguing and stares flatly at Ilya as he holds up the shirt and hat he expects Shane to put on.

"Girls will love it," Ilya promises him, shaking the hat in his direction.

Shane's face twists up for a moment before he mutters fine.

Both boys have been invited to a party of one of their classmates.

Ilya has enjoyed school in Ottawa, even if he still feels disappointed that he won't be graduating alongside Erik and Austin and all the other students he's grown up with. But he gets along with the other students for the most part. And he likes going to school with Shane, even if they don't share all the same classes.

People seemed baffled by their friendship initially, but within weeks they were an assumed pair. Wherever one was, the other would be close behind.

He had been interested to see Shane at school. To find out the kind of existence he has in those walls and how it differs from the Shane he knows on the ice and the Shane that seems to belong only to Ilya.

He supposes he shouldn't have been surprised that Shane is popular in his own way. People seem drawn to Shane, even if he's oblivious to it.

And, god, Shane is oblivious.

Ilya about laughed himself silly the first week of school, watching girls all but proposition Shane, and him barely pay them notice. It's a level of aloofness that naturally draws people in because they interpret it as mystery.

Where Ilya brings people in with an over the top confidence, Shane's quiet disconnect brought fascination.

And, apparently, it also resulted in Shane almost never going to parties. Or, if he did go, leaving within an hour and without telling anyone. To a point where it's become a game for some of his classmates to try and catch him leaving.

No one's managed it thus far.

"Is the hat entirely necessary?" Shane whined.

Ilya just sighs loudly.

"I cannot believe this, Shane," he says, his voice sad. "I am spending another holiday away from home, and you will not even entertain me in this way?"

"You've only been here for Thanksgiving," Shane points out. "And you told me you and your mom don't celebrate it."

"Labour Day too," Ilya responds, pulling his own hat on over his hair.

"Oh, fuck off," Shane laughs, shoving Ilya.

"Put on the fucking hat, Hollander," Ilya insists.

Shane pulls the hat on.

"Don't you think this is a little on the nose?" Shane asks him. "You know, you being from Calgary and all?"

Ilya smiles involuntarily.

"Sometimes, expected is okay."

He likes it. The idea of being from Calgary.

They say goodbye to Yuna and David as they leave, promising to be safe, before starting their walk to the party. It's only a few blocks away, and Ilya figures this will be easier.

"If you want to leave, tell me," Ilya says.

Shane nods.

"I'm serious," Ilya insists. "I have heard all about mysterious disappearing Hollander. You do not abandon me. Either we disappear outta there together, or you carry me out."

Shane laughs. "Sure."

It's late enough while they're walking that the majority of kids are already home from trick or treating. They can hear some other parties going on through the neighbourhood, and jack-o-lanterns still flicker with candlelight on some stoops.

Otherwise, it's mostly just them walking.

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what? Leave?" Shane clarifies.

"Yeah, you do not like parties?" Ilya asks.

He thinks of the times Shane texted him while he was out last year. How he'd complain, and make excuses and usually end up on messenger within an hour or two with Ilya before Ilya would head out for the night. Usually an hour later than he'd originally planned.

"I don't know," Shane shrugs. "They're fine, I guess. It's just, I don't know, I never feel like I know what to do."

"What do you mean?"

Shane sighs and doesn't say anything for a few steps.

"I don't know, they're always loud," Shane offers. "And people always end up touching me."

Ilya stops and looks at him.

"I touch you," Ilya says slowly. "Is that bad?"

"No, Ilya, come on, it's cold" He gestures for Ilya to keep walking. It wasn't terribly cool considering it was nearly November, but neither had put on real jackets over their stupid cowboy shirts.

They walk silently and Ilya turns over their physical interactions in his head, seeking discomfort. He doesn't think he's crossed any lines. He's not even sure he could point to when they'd gotten so physical with each other. It's just always been part of their friendship.

"It doesn't bug me," Shane says after Ilya has already successfully spiraled silently. "With you."

His head snaps to Shane. "You are sure? You can always tell me."

"I know," Shane nods, but he won't look at Ilya. "I'm serious. I don't know, you always checked before. And you always seem to know when to back off."

Ilya nods at this. He's always been good at reading people, for his whole life probably. He never wants anyone to feel uncomfortable.

They walk the rest of the way, and when they're at the end of the block they can hear the party well before they can see it.

The house is covered in fake cobwebs, plastic skeletons and other Halloween bullshit. The front door is open, because of course it is.

The house is massive. Ilya's not sure he'll get used to the way people in Shane's world wear wealth like it's a second skin. Though he supposes to them it is. It's not something they've ever had to live without, so why would they think about it at all?

He was doubly shocked when Shane told him they wouldn't need to worry about trying to get their own alcohol. Unheard of. BYOB has always been an assumed fact at every party he's been to in Calgary.

Ilya had been too young to have really gone to any parties in Russia, so he has little to compare his experiences in Canada to. But he knows to always expect the mountain of shoes at the front door. A minefield of potentially broken ankles as they try to navigate the mess scattered across the floor.

Ilya can see at least one pair that are identical to his, and after losing his own to a similar setting in Calgary, he knows to be careful about leaving his shoes anywhere near the imposters.

"C'mere," Shane says and tugs him to the side of the front foyer.

There's a storage bench against the wall and Shane kicks off his shoes and slides open the door on the bench. It's empty.

"I hate when people touch my shoes," Shane tells him. "And if anyone knows they're mine they sometimes try to hide them."

Ilya balks at this. "To keep you from escaping?"

"I've left without shoes before," Shane says with a bemused smirk. "But it's kinda cold today."

Not for the first time, Ilya just stares at Shane and is impressed by the man's ability to still surprise him, even though he feels he knows Shane very well.

"You're so fucking weird," Ilya chuckles.

They both deposit their shoes into the small space, making sure to close it before making their way deeper into the house. They don't have jackets to add to the growing mountain Ilya glimpses in a guest room as they pass through into the den where most of their classmates are.

As they enter the party, Ilya is glad he nixed his original idea in favour of what is turning out to be a very unique idea of being cowboys.

Damn near every boy in the fucking house is dressed as either a shitty version of the Joker or a shitty version of Batman. And each one is awful.

The sound hits like a wall. Music turned up too loud from speakers ill-equipped to play it. The bass is too loud and if Ilya is cringing back from it, he knows Shane must be hating it. When he glances over, he does notice the tightening around the eyes, but otherwise Shane seems fine. As fine as he ever is in a crowd.

They drift away from each other during the party, each pulled in different directions by different people. But Ilya always has a sense for where Shane is in the room. Eventually they come back together, and Ilya's happy to see Shane managed to find a red cup of something.

He hasn't really seen Shane drunk, and wonders if he will tonight.

"No fucking way, Shane's still here?" Justin says.

"Fuck you," Shane responds.

Just looks pointedly at his watch. "What time did you get here?"

"Shut up," Shane says.

"Please, can someone document this," Justin calls around.

Ilya is watching the exchange with a grin. It widens when Shane looks at him sheepishly.

"He's been here at least forty minutes," a girl—Becky, maybe?—says.

"Exactly. This is a big deal. We need it on the books."

Ilya looks between them. "Is this really such a big deal?"

"Dude, I've gone to school with Shane since before he played hockey," Justin says, the seriousness of his voice reduced slightly by the drunken slur on the edge. "I have never seen him leave. But he always manages to escape."

"I have heard this," Ilya says. "So, never a goodbye?"

"Not that anyone's seen."

"Jesus Christ, it's not that big a deal," Shane says, and Ilya isn't certain if the flush is from the heat of the house, the beer or embarrassment.

"Didn't he climb out a window last year?"

"It was on the ground floor and basically a sliding door," Shane interjects. "And the door was blocked," he adds on, almost as an afterthought.

"By people."

Shane just shrugs.

Ilya laughs and reaches over to knock the front brim of Shane's hat over his eyes.

"Do you know your way home from here?" maybe Becky asks. "He will leave you."

Ilya turns sharply to Shane. "You would never."

"Probably not."

Ilya narrows his eyes.

"I will hunt him down if he does," Ilya announces to the small group around them.

"I believe that," maybe Becky says. And the smile she gives him implies he really should confirm her name.

"I should have brought my lasso," Ilya says, matching her smile.

Beside him, Shane makes a quiet sound of disgust.

Ilya turns. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Ah, jealous of my charm again," Ilya directs his grin at Shane.

"No." Shane shakes his head. "Embarrassed by it."

Ilya just shrugs.

Justin drifts off toward the drinks with some of the others. Shane nods at Ilya and leaves as well until it's just Ilya and maybe Becky.

Ilya moves in and out of conversation with a few different groups. He's known enough that he's not necessarily a strange face, but is still novel enough that people stop him to talk.

He always has an eye on Shane. He's still holding a red cup and is smiling while talking to a pretty girl. She's got her hand on his arm and he isn't flinching away from it.

Ilya knows he should feel happy about that, and he does. Of course he does. It's good that Shane has loosened up and feels more comfortable.

The girl, whose name is definitely Becky—he heard someone else say it—finds him again and Ilya, with his own red cup filled with some of the shittiest beer imaginable, is happy to talk to her. She's pretty, with dark hair and a nice smile. For a moment he wonders what the chances are that there's an empty bedroom upstairs.

He hasn't hooked up with anyone since being in Ottawa. Not yet. And she is very pretty and very interested.

Then he thinks of Shane. He can't abandon Shane down here. Though last he saw, Shane hadn't seemed to be having a terrible time.

When his eyes scan the room, he can see Shane on the far side. He's speaking to a few people, and Ilya can see a shift in his expression. His smile isn't quite reaching his eyes and seems forced in a way it hadn't been earlier.

Ilya checks his watch. They've been there for more than two hours, and given Shane's reputation he guesses he should be grateful they've made it that long.

Becky pulls his attention with a jello shot that tastes distinctly of cheap vodka and hasn't fully set, making it far more snot like in consistency than it ought to be. She leans into him, offering to let him taste the one she had and Ilya is happy to oblige.

She leans in and kisses him, and Ilya kisses her back without hesitation, one hand settling easily at her waist.

"Do you wanna go somewhere?" she asks suggestively.

Ilya looks around the room and his mouth freezes before he can answer.

Where's Shane?

He'd been in the far corner where Ilya's looking now, and had spent most of the night in that general area when he hadn't been near Ilya. And now he isn't. Ilya carefully looks through the throng of bodies for the head of dark hair.

Nothing.

Becky clears her throat, and when he turns back to her she's still waiting expectantly.

"Well?"

"Did you see where Shane went?"

"Who cares? He probably just went home."

Ilya narrows his eyes, pushing against the heaviness the alcohol is exerting on his brain.

"No," Ilya argues. "No, Shane promised he would not do this."

Becky rolls her eyes. "Does it matter? He never stays late. He went home."

Ilya knows she's wrong and pushes past her, ignoring the 'hey' she shouts after him.

There are a few people in the kitchen, it's quieter, but there's no Shane. He finds the bathroom on the main floor, and checks one he finds in the basement. Nothing.

Ilya pokes his head outside and finds a small group of people smoking on the back deck. Still no Shane.

He's genuinely starting to get worried, his mind clears quickly as he's searching the house, trying his damnedest not to panic as each room comes up empty of Shane.

A few people ask him what he's doing but he waves them off. Uninterested in being told that Shane just does this, because Ilya knows that. He understands that Shane doesn't enjoy these sorts of things and likes to find ways to get away without making it a whole thing. But he also knows that Shane promised not to leave without him.

And he knows Shane meant it.

Finally, Ilya pushes into a room that looks entirely untouched on the main floor, closer to the front door. It's quieter, and when Ilya opens the door he sees a computer sitting on a desk.

And Shane, sitting on the floor, his hat set carefully in front of his crossed legs. He's resting his head against the wall at his back, eyes tipped toward the ceiling.

"Shane?"

Shane's eyes open slowly, shifting down to where Ilya's voice came from. They're unfocused and distant. For a second, Ilya has a flash of his mother's eyes with the same look and he nearly flinches away. But this is Shane. This is not Mama.

"Ilya?" Shane's voice is slow and drawn out.

He's drunk. Quite drunk.

"You are okay?"

Shane nods, then seems to reconsider and gives a small shrug instead.

"It was just…" Shane trails off for a second, seeking words that won't seem to come. His face tightens and he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Ilya moves forward, kneeling next to Shane, trying to give him space.

"Do you feel sick?" Ilya asks him.

"No."

The answer comes quickly enough that Ilya believes him.

"Do you think you're going to be sick?"

Shane shakes his head. His eyes are closed again and there is something of a forced peacefulness to his expression. Almost like he's trying to make his body believe that he's okay.

"You want to go?"

A small nod.

Ilya bites his bottom lip, considering how he's going to get Shane out of the house without anyone seeing.

It's not like he can ruin Shane's perfect record just because he got a little too drunk. He only stayed because of Ilya. So Ilya will make sure he gets out of the party without being seen. The legend must live on.

"Wait here," Ilya tells him, even though Shane doesn't look like he's in any state to move anywhere.

Shane still agrees by barely raising a thumb before letting the limb drop back on his lap.

Ilya rolls his eyes and leaves Shane in the office, going back to the front door to collect their shoes from the bench Shane had hidden them in.

When he gets back, Shane hasn't moved much. He's pulled one knee toward his chest and is staring down at his stupid cowboy hat like it has personally offended him.

Ilya nudges him.

"Shane," he says. "Come on. I don't know how to sneak out of this stupid big house."

Shane looks up at him.

"Back deck?"

"People were there smoking."

"Hm." Shane thinks about this with far more concentration that the situation deserves. "Front?"

Ilya pauses for a second. They are near the front door. And when he'd gone to grab their shoes, he hadn't really seen anyone.

"Fine. Get up."

Shane puts a hand against the wall and pushes himself upright. He gets there successfully but stays still for a moment after, blinking down at the floor.

"You good?"

"Floor moved."

Ilya just stares at him, waiting.

"It stopped."

"Good."

He carefully balances Shane's hat back on his head. Shane immediately reaches up to straighten it.

Priorities.

He leads Shane the short distance to the front door, staying close when Shane drifts slightly sideways. He looks both ways before easing them outside.

Once they're on the sidewalk, he feels he can breathe freely.

The cold hits them immediately.

For the first block, Shane keeps an arm slung over Ilya's shoulders. He's capable of walking, but not particularly interested in doing it in a straight line, and Ilya keeps an arm around his middle to keep him from wandering into the road.

"What time is it?" Ilya asks. He hadn't brought his cell phone because he didn't want to accidentally lose it.

Shane shrugs.

"You have phone."

"Oh. Right."

Shane makes no effort to get it.

Ilya rolls his eyes and stops them, keeping a hand at Shane's side while Shane pats uselessly at two pockets before finding it in the third. He squints at the screen.

"One."

"One?"

Shane shows him the phone screen.

Shit.

How the hell had they been out that long?

Ilya just groans and starts them moving again.

Luckily, after about a block or so, Shane seems slightly more present. Not sober, definitely not, but the cold and quiet appear to have helped. He's carrying most of his own weight, but Ilya leaves his arm around Shane's middle regardless.

"Just get too drunk?" Ilya asks.

He feels Shane shrug.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"I was having fun," Shane says, and it sounds like he's surprised to find it's true.

"Okay," Ilya says, waiting for the rest.

Shane's face twists like he's trying to figure out how it all ties together.

"I stayed."

"Because you were having fun?"

Shane nods. "And then it was just too…" Shane gestures vaguely with one hand.

"Loud?" Ilya offers.

"Everything."

Ilya thinks he understands.

Shane goes quiet again after that. Clearly having hit his quota again of how many words he's willing to speak right now.

Ilya doesn't push.

What he definitely understands is that Shane's in no condition to talk tonight. And Ilya needs to prepare himself for what's going to be waiting for them when they get home.

They were meant to be home about an hour ago.

Part of him hopes that Yuna and David will have already gone to bed, but part of him is also a fucking moron.

So he's not surprised to see the lights still on when he finally manages to get Shane back home. He is bracing himself for what comes next.

Ilya is surprised, however, that when he pushes through the front door only David is in the front room waiting for them.

David stands immediately.

"Shit," David says under his breath when he sees the two boys.

Ilya feels his defences go up.

He's angry. He must be.

He pointedly avoids making eye contact with David as he helps ease Shane through the door as quietly as he can. The weight of David's presence is heavy, and Ilya fights the instinct to face him. So at least he can see it coming, whatever it ends up being.

David's attention barely touches Ilya.

"Shane?"

"m'fine," Shane says.

It's not particularly convincing.

David moves closer, looking Shane over.

"How much did you drink?"

Shane frowns and he seems to be thinking deeply.

"Dunno."

"Of course," David says.

There's irritation in his voice.

Ilya's stomach drops.

Shane seems either not to notice or not to care. He leans against the wall while trying to get his shoe off, nearly losing his balance in the process. Ilya catches his arm, keeps him from hitting the floor face first.

"'mm good," Shane mutters.

"You're great, clearly," Ilya tells him.

"Shane," David says. "Go upstairs."

Shane looks toward the staircase as if he's been tasked with climbing Mount Olympus.

He takes a deep breath before setting off on his journey.

He nearly stumbles over Ilya's shoes immediately.

Ilya shifts automatically to move alongside him.

"I can go," Shane says.

"Yeah?"

"Yep."

And he's off. Shane puts a hand against the wall as he moves toward the stairs. His steps are careful and slower than usual, but he's steady enough.

David watches him too.

"Go to the bathroom. Drink some water," David calls after him. "Leave your door open."

Shane waves his hand without turning around.

A few seconds later, Ilya hears his bedroom door upstairs and the distinct sound of Shane's body hitting his mattress.

And now it's just him and David.

Ilya sets his jaw.

David sighs loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Do you know how much he drank?" David asks.

"I don't know," Ilya admits, and the fact makes him feel sick to his stomach. He'd been watching Shane all night. Or he thought he'd been. He feels like he failed Shane.

David exhales through his nose. "Why didn't you call us?"

Ilya struggles to figure out what his tone means.

He has no idea how he's supposed to answer that.

"I, um," he mumbles. "It was my fault."

David looks surprised by that response. "Ilya, I doubt you poured the drinks down Shane's throat."

Ilya looks down at his socked feet, feeling very foolish.

He can't believe he's fucked this up.

"It was my fault," Ilya repeats.

Ilya's eyes are on David's chest. Watching to see which way he moves.

"Ilya?" David's voice doesn't make sense to Ilya for a moment, so much so that he barely registers that David said his name.

"Yes?" Ilya asks, not lifting his eyes.

Ilya knows how to manage this. He already knows David is upset, he doesn't have to look at his face. Instead, he keeps his eyes unfocused, watching for movement.

At least Shane is upstairs.

David shifts forward slightly, and Ilya sees his right hand moving, as if to go to Ilya's shoulder. Before he can make the choice Ilya has stepped back and flinches.

He's embarrassed to see David's hand freeze mid-air.

Only at the complete stop of motion does Ilya look at David's face. His eyebrows have pulled together, and the emotion found there doesn't entirely make sense to Ilya. He looks confused.

He looks…hurt.

"I'm not mad," David says, letting his hand fall back to his side.

Ilya still doesn't step closer.

He doesn't have to be mad.

When he looks back at David, there's something complicated happening as he stares at Ilya. He suddenly feels like he's just stepped through the doors back in late August. Like he's being evaluated all over again.

David holds both hands up as if he is surrendering.

"I'm sorry," he tells Ilya. "I didn't mean—"

"Is fine," Ilya says quickly.

"No." David's voice is firm, but no longer edged with anger. He sounds…worried. "I was just worried something happened to you two. Just worried."

"It was my fault," Ilya repeats.

"My son is fully capable of making his own mistakes, Ilya," David says, his voice sounding oddly fond.

"Yes, but I shou—"

"Thank you for getting him home," David interrupts. "That's all I wanted to say."

It's Ilya's turn to freeze. It doesn't make sense.

When does he yell? Ilya's been waiting for weeks. Honestly, the waiting is becoming the more difficult part.

David moves to walk past Ilya and raises his hand almost as if to pat Ilya on the shoulder. Ilya braces himself.

He sees, out of the corner of his eye, David lower his hand.

"Turn off the lights before you come up for bed," David says as he walks away.

"I wouldn't have left him." Ilya finally speaks when he can hear David at the top of the stairs.

"I know, son," David says gently before leaving Ilya standing there. Utterly confused.

Chapter End Notes

everyone's getting hints about ilya's backstory.

(thanksgiving happens before halloween...bc it's canadian thanksgiving)

(is it kinda unrealistic that yuna would go to bed while shane was out?? yeah. but maybe she and david got a lil wine drunk while the boys were out and had their own night free from the prying eyes of teenage boys. either way, let me have it FOR THE PLOT.)

and yes. my drunk shane is not a runner. he's an escape artist. we love him anyways.

seriously, the comments mean a lot. i'm loving seeing how y'all are understanding the interactions and it's just lovely. it helps me adjust as i go.

Chapter 12: Early December 2008

Chapter Summary

Irina visits Ottawa.

Chapter Notes

alright.

i am getting EMOTIONAL over this.

i love irina.

she is so complicated.

(it's gonna get so complicated)

Irina arrives in Ottawa in early December. She'd felt an odd echo of panic when Lara first dropped her off at the airport in Calgary. It hadn't lasted, she hadn't let it.

Her son is there to pick her up in an unfamiliar car driven by a woman who Irina knows only by her voice.

Her hands are on his face the moment she sees him at the airport. He looks good. Somehow he already looks older and something tugs at her heart at the realization that even in the few months apart he has grown.

"Ilyusha," she says warmly. "How are you?"

"I'm good, Mama," he replies in English and Irina isn't sure how that makes her feel.

He takes her bag from her and shoulders it. She doesn't have much with her. It's only a few days, but he insists on carrying it.

"This is Yuna," Ilya says as they approach a woman who has been standing unobtrusively nearby.

She's beautiful, and evaluative. Irina can see immediately that they are both approaching one another with a sense of wanting to understand the other. While also not wanting to give much of anything away.

"It's nice to meet you," Yuna says, leaning forward to shake Irina's hand.

"You as well," Irina replies in English.

She feels more comfortable speaking in her second language than she had felt even a few months ago when Ilya first left. Maybe Irina had used him too much as a crutch the first few years. But since starting her course she's pushed herself to develop her English so much more.

She hopes Ilya notices.

After making innocuous small talk after Ilya insists she sit in the passenger side, they arrive at a home far larger than anything Irina has really been in since leaving Russia. She had noticed Yuna's earrings, the car. The very fact that they had the space for Ilya beyond their own son.

She tells herself she cannot compare the life she's given Ilya in Calgary to the life he's living here in Ottawa. It's not the same.

The fact that they even have a life in Calgary is a blessing she cannot ignore.

But maybe it stings a little to see Ilya walk through the front door without knocking, hang his jacket on a hook without checking, and do the same with Irina's. He's at home here. She doesn't think he's acting like a guest.

"Mama," Ilya gets her attention after placing her bag in front of her. "You will sleep in my room while you are here. I will share with Shane."

Part of her is immediately comforted by the way his voice still wraps around the Russian words like they're part of him. The other part is reeling from him referring to a place here as his.

"Why don't you help your mom get settled?" Yuna suggests. "Shane will be home from school right away."

Ilya smiles at her, and again, there's an ease to it.

"Ilyusha, why are you not in school if Shane is?" she asks him as he leads her further into the house and up the stairs.

"Because Mama," she can't see his face but she can practically hear him roll his eyes. "I wanted to see you."

She pretends not to smile at that.

He leads her past an open door, where she catches a glimpse of an air mattress on the floor. Must be where Ilya will be sleeping. Finally, they arrive at a room that is bigger than her own. And this is a guest room.

She walks by the desk and looks up at Ilya.

"This is where you do school work?"

"Yes." He nods.

"Your grades are still good?" she asks, but she doesn't have to. He has called her after every test to relay his marks, the same way he calls her after hockey games. Proud of his accomplishments.

As he should be.

—

Irina isn't sure what to make of Shane initially. He's reserved when he enters his home, and doesn't ever seem to know what to do with his hands while Ilya introduces them. There's an air of disconnect, furthered by the way he won't hold eye contact with her for more than a fleeting moment, and when he does it feels like he looks past her.

However, as they near dinner and he starts telling her about the selection process for Team Canada at the World Juniors, she feels she understands him a little better. He's passionate about hockey in a way that is overwhelming, and he seems to commit himself to it beyond what any sane person might.

More importantly, she sees the change in Ilya's face as Shane explains the importance of the upcoming games. There's fondness. True closeness that she is pained and relieved to see. And she's comforted that when Ilya starts to tell her about how their team is doing, she sees a similarly fond look from Shane.

As they near dinner time, the front door opens and a deep voice calls out a greeting.

Irina feels her shoulders draw up the smallest amount, though with a deep breath she is able to lower them. She just hopes no one notices the way her face has tightened.

David enters the living room. His presence isn't quite what Irina is expecting. Ilya has said nothing but kind things about him over the past month, after being largely tight lipped about the topic when he first moved in. Something which had concerned Irina.

Irina has learned that men in homes are often dangerous. Her father had been an absolute authority figure who ruled with fear more than anything else, and she went from that straight to Grigori.

She doesn't understand how David moves within the home. He enters with a sense of warmth. His eyes seek out Yuna as soon as he's past the threshold.

Irina doesn't know what to do with the look they exchange.

When his eyes find Irina, settled onto the couch next to Ilya where he's been showing her a test he'd gotten back that week, she forces her shoulders to remain relaxed.

"Hello, I'm David," he greets her warmly and offers his hand. She takes it gingerly.

"Irina." She smiles in response. The smile feels tight even to her.

"How was the flight?"

"Good," she answers. She feels silly for giving single word answers, but isn't sure what else to say.

David's eyes move to Ilya and her hand reflexively tightens on Ilya's arm.

"How was your day?" David asks Ilya, and Irina searches his smile for anything that should stoke worry.

"Ah, was good, picking up Mama," Ilya says, flashing a grin toward Irina.

She just shakes her head at that, but her eyes stay on Ilya's face. She knows what she's searching for, but pretends she doesn't.

Ilya is looking at David with an ease that surprises her. Irina knows her son. And knows what he looks like when he fears a man who's meant to be safe. She had learned how to gauge Grigori's moods purely off Ilya's body language.

And Ilya has no tightness around his eyes. He's not trying to make himself smaller, trying to reduce the chance that he'll be seen. Quite the opposite, Ilya has been on the couch relaxed and at ease in the space. Similarly, he's not trying to make himself bigger in the way he does when he hopes to pull focus to himself. The way he had so many times to protect Irina.

She's not sure why her happiness at seeing him fitting in with this family seamlessly feels so much like guilt.

Around one in the morning, Irina accepts that she can't sleep. She quietly makes her way downstairs to get a glass of water, hoping that will help ease her toward sleep somehow. Mostly, she just doesn't want to stare at the same spot of the wall for any longer.

She's surprised to see the light on in the kitchen as she nears, and she almost turns around to go back to the guest room, until she smells the soft aroma of tea.

She rounds the corner and sees Yuna sitting at the table, a contemplative look on her face as she considers the mug of tea held in her hands.

Yuna looks up when Irina moves closer. She seems startled but not necessarily surprised.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"No," Irina says.

"Same," Yuna says with a tired smile. "Want some tea?"

"Please."

Yuna goes about pouring a mug for her, waving off any attempts of help and just telling Irina to sit down. Once Yuna has rested a matching teacup in front of Irina, she returns once more with a plate of cookies.

"Help yourself," Yuna offers.

Irina takes one but doesn't eat it.

Both women sit in silence. Something hangs between them, but it doesn't seem like either knows what to say about it. Irina is desperate to ask. Desperate to know.

Because although Irina has spoken to Ilya multiple times a week since he's been here, she knows he's good at hiding.

She's not even sure what to ask. What she wants to know more about.

"He is…okay?" It's the best she can verbalize in the moment.

She wants to ask if he's eating, if he's being kind. If he's respectful. If he's happy. What happiness looks like for him here.

But she settles for okay. She at least needs to know he's okay.

"He's good," Yuna says with a kind smile. "He's doing really well here."

Irina smiles at that, her eyes still trained on the mug in front of her. There's an image of a bird on it. She traces over the wings.

"School is good?" she asks next, chancing a look at Yuna.

The only light comes from the stove and it softens Yuna's features. She looks less imposing like this. More like a mother than an authority figure. A far off concept caring for her son.

Yuna chuckles at the question. "School is great. He's a very committed student—" Irina feels the tension in her stomach ease at the fond smile on Yuna's face. "—in fact, I wish it would rub off on Shane sometimes."

"Good," Irina says simply.

Ilya has always been committed to school, committed to having options for himself beyond hockey.

They lapse into silence again and Irina sips the tea. It's nice. She doesn't recognize it. She considers asking what it is, but doesn't.

"They get along well, Ilya and Shane?" Irina asks.

She watched Ilya the whole evening, saw the way he moved within this home. He was familiar with Yuna, though there still seems to be a formality to their interactions. Though Irina thinks this just might be how Yuna exists in the world.

And she watched Ilya with Shane. The way there was no formality between them. Just comfort.

The responding smile on Yuna's face is warm in a way that calms any concerns.

"They get along very well," Yuna says, and her face looks distant, like she's thinking back on the two boys together.

"Yes, I noticed," Irina says with a smaller smile. "Very good friends."

"Mhm," Yuna agrees, sipping her tea.

Yuna is quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh something before she speaks.

"Shane has never been good at having friends," Yuna says, but her expression twists at how she's worded it. "Well, he's always just…struggled with it. Always felt off from his classmates."

Irina nods. There was an edge of disconnect to the way Shane interacted with Irina all night, though it seemed to disappear whenever he turned toward Ilya.

Yuna smiles at her tea.

"Shane is different with Ilya," Yuna says. "Ilya lets Shane be Shane."

Irina doesn't imagine the way emotion has changed Yuna's voice.

"Thank you," Yuna says softly, reaching toward Irina across the table. "He's good, Irina. An incredibly sweet, respectful kid. You should be proud."

Now it's Irina's turn to lower her eyes and smile at her tea, reaching up to wipe a stray tear.

"I am very proud of him," Irina assures her.

She swallows hard. She's not sure what to say.

"Ilya can be…" Irina hunts for the world. "Is not scared. But maybe nervous?"

Yuna nods. "I think maybe apprehensive."

"Yes," Irina agrees carefully. "I do not see this here."

She drops her eyes from Yuna's. She's looking as if she sees more than Irina's willing to share.

"He's happy here," Yuna agrees. "But he misses you."

A breath she hasn't realized she's been holding releases at that. For the past five years, and probably before that too, so much of her life has consisted of her and Ilya as a team. She is happy for his move here, and trusts that it will benefit him, but she can't deny her unease at not seeing him.

Her unease at him not missing her. Not needing her.

"Thank you," Irina whispers her own gratitude in return.

The two women finish their tea quietly.

After dinner on Friday evening, Irina is sitting on the couch with Ilya leaning against her like he has so many times in the past. Some of her hair hangs over his shoulder and he's twirling it around his finger without thinking, something he's done since he was a baby.

It warms her heart that he's still that boy. Even here.

There's a hockey game on the tv. Shane's on the opposite side of the couch from them, and every few minutes Ilya nudges Shane with his knee. Part of her can't believe how relaxed he is in this house.

"Terrible pass," Ilya says after something on the tv happens.

David looks over from where he's seated on a chair. "What?"

"Terrible pass," Ilya repeats, saying each syllable carefully. Almost with an attitude.

Irina is prepared to reprimand him when David responds.

"He had two guys on him."

"He had plenty of space," Ilya says, waving his hand at the tv screen.

"Had hardly half a second," David continues his defense of the player.

Irina watches the exchange. Interested and disbelieving.

"This is plenty of time," Ilya says.

David snorts. "Sure."

"I would make that pass," Ilya says with confidence.

Shane looks at Ilya from the other side of the couch. "You might try."

"Try and succeed," Ilya says like it's a foregone conclusion.

"So then why'd you pass directly to the other team last week?" Shane asks with a mocking look on his face.

She watches Ilya narrow his eyes at his friend. "That was different. Rude of you to bring this up when we have guest."

A complicated twist of emotions comes just from that statement.

"It was still a turnover," Shane says, shrugging.

"It is called strategy," Ilya says, carefully pronouncing the last word.

David laughs at this.

"You stay out of this," Ilya says, pointing at David.

"You started this with me," David says, throwing up his hands.

"Now is between me and Shane." Ilya gestures between him and Shane.

Shane laughs and turns back to the tv. "Leave me out of this."

"No loyalty in Canadians," Ilya says.

"You'll get over it."

"Asshole," Ilya says to Shane.

Irina is about to say something to Ilya when a pillow hits him in the chest.

She's shocked to see it's David who launched it.

"Language," David says. He looks serious but is barely holding back a smile.

"Yuna is not here," Ilya says. He throws the pillow back at David.

"Your mother is."

She watches Ilya's cheeks flush lightly. He peeks sheepishly at his mom.

"Sorry," he says softly.

She kisses his cheek and he looks at her questioningly before easing back against her.

Irina has felt she understands Yuna much better after their talk. Yuna is not loud in her affection for Ilya, but Irina sees the way she watches him. Sees the way she cares for him in her own way. She makes sure he is fed, she checks and double-checks his gear for hockey, and she seems to know his schedule nearly as well as Shane's.

It's love as utility. But it is still love.

David is more complicated for Irina. She knows intellectually that he is a safe person for Ilya. She saw how easily Ilya argued with him, how he threw the pillow back without hesitation, how he never once seemed to check David's face afterward.

Where Yuna is practicality, David is—shockingly to Irina—a warm centre of their family.

On Saturday, after Irina has been with the Hollanders for a few days, Yuna has to take Shane and Ilya to team practice. She saw a game of theirs the second night she was in Ottawa, so decided to sit this one out.

Instead, Irina plans to make borscht. Ilya lights up when she mentions it.

"You will love it, Shane," he promises, turning immediately to his friend. "I promise. Is best thing."

Shane, for his part, looks less certain. She suddenly feels it's very important that Shane enjoys the meal.

They leave shortly after, Ilya calling his goodbye to her from the door before Yuna bundles them out of the door.

Irina tries not to feel anything other than neutral about being alone in the house with David.

The quiet feels different once the door closes behind them.

She turns back to the counter and focuses on the vegetables in front of her. There is no reason to be nervous. She knows this. She has spent days watching David with his family. Watching him with Ilya.

Still, she finds herself listening for him. Tracking him as he moves throughout his own house.

She hears him approach. She thinks that maybe he is stepping slightly heavier than he has over the past few days. She feels his presence behind her. Her body interprets it as threatening even if she knows it's not.

"Need a hand?" His voice is soft, again in opposition to what she's expecting.

She would be shocked if she hadn't watched him cook dinner most nights she's been here. She's unaccustomed to a man happily spending time in the kitchen.

She wants to say no, but she knows he's become close to Ilya. She knows she has to get over this hurdle.

"You can chop onion," she says, nodding to the cutting board she has prepared next to her with a small pile of onions.

David rolls up his sleeves, and she tries not to be hesitant as he lifts the knife, standing shoulder to shoulder with her.

They work in silence, broken only when Irina asks where Yuna keeps something or requests help lifting the heavy soup pot.

She feels like she should say something. She doesn't. She isn't sure what to say to the first man Ilya will have known as safe. She isn't sure whether she should feel bad that he had to travel to Ottawa to experience it.

"He worries a lot," David finally says.

Irina swallows. She knows this.

She nods.

"He seems to always know how everyone's feeling," he says this with affection. It's not the accusation she hears it as.

"Yes, he is, um…" She pauses, searching for the word. "Observant."

"Very."

Something hangs in the air between them. The shadow of a life Irina had hoped they'd left in Moscow. No matter how far she ran, pieces of it still surface in places she least expects.

She and Ilya hardly speak about their lives before arriving in Calgary. A wound that is still raw despite the years, hidden beneath bandages they both try to forget.

So, she isn't certain why she says anything to David, of all people.

"He learned young," she says.

David just nods. Irina lets her body relax when he doesn't start questioning her.

"But he's a good boy," she says, suddenly feeling she has to defend him from some imagined attack.

"He is," David agrees immediately. "Sometimes I wonder if he knows that."

She has to stop what she's doing and lean against the counter briefly as his words really land in the middle of her chest.

Because he's right. He has seen the same things in Ilya that she had watched take root and sprout through him despite her best efforts to cut back at the seeds his father planted when he was so young. Grigori's words had been far too foundational to be undone in their five years in Canada, no matter how hard she tried.

"I tried," she says, fighting to keep her voice level.

She sees David's arm raise and move toward her slowly. He moves remarkably slowly toward her. It lets her anticipate the touch a second before it happens. A gentle, reassuring hand on her shoulder. A light touch before it's pulled away.

"I know."

She swallows back the emotions that are threatening to overwhelm her.

"He's safe here," David tells her.

She doesn't look at him.

After a moment, he continues chopping onions.

She starts chopping carrots.

"I'll miss you Mama," Ilya says, holding her tightly to his chest.

The past few days have gone by so quickly, and he wishes desperately that she could stay longer with them. She looks so good. She sounds good.

She's good.

Having the visual confirmation of what she had been telling him since he'd been gone was a weight lifted off his chest. He was able to breathe the entire time she has been here.

And he's surprised that the weight doesn't feel like it's returning as she prepares to leave.

"I'll miss you too, Ilyushechka," Irina says softly.

"Promise you will be okay?" He doesn't mean to say it. He knows it's not something she can promise or guarantee.

It's just what he needs.

"Of course," she replies, pulling away, but holding his face in her hands.

She looks at his face as if she's searching for something. There's a pause before she nods to herself and smiles at him. She must see what she's looking for.

"Be good."

"Lara is picking you up?" he checks.

"Yes." She smiles at him fondly. "Sweet boy."

She pinches his cheek at that, in the way she knows he hates. And he groans in the way she expects him to.

And he's twelve years old again, standing with his mom at an airport.

She reaches up and her fingers ghost over her cross he wears at his neck. The one bit of home she brought with them, now given to him so he can carry her here in Ottawa.

"I love you," Ilya says. He no longer feels like he stands so much taller than her.

"I love you too," she replies, brushing her knuckles against his cheek. "We will see each other soon, yes? For citizenship."

She says the last part in English, and he's reminded again of how much they've both grown since leaving Russia.

"Yes, Mama," he says with a sad smile. "Soon."

She kisses his cheek once more before looking him over, as she has every day she's been there. She smiles at him once more, and he ignores the sadness that sits just below the surface.

He waits until she's out of sight before he turns back toward the parking lot, toward the car that will take him back to a house that isn't home yet, but has begun to feel like somewhere he belongs.

Ilya is grateful that it's David driving him home from the airport. He doesn't say anything about the tears that have started falling from Ilya's eyes, which make him feel like the little twelve year old who crossed the world with his mom all over again.

David reaches across the centre console and grips Ilya's shoulder tightly. For some reason, this only causes the tears to gather more rapidly.

Chapter End Notes

did i get a lil choked up thinking about irina's chats with the hollanders???? yeah. AH my heart. i was gonna have a shane moment. but shane's autistic as fuck and she wasn't there long enough for him to accept her presence. (and he's in the background stressed about world juniors).

sorry for those sitting and holding their shane and ilya dolls going AND THEN THEY KISS.

we are, regrettably, still a little ways out from any kisses. (apologies, but hopefully the build up is....nice and deserved.)

i am approaching this in a FUCKING complicated way, bc i want everything to feel like it fits, ya know??? i don't wanna force plot points bc i want them. i want it to be what it feels like the characters would do. (sometimes i disagree with them...but i will allow it.) i hope that makes sense.

anyway. i hate my job. i write this as a beautiful escape. (i had a full crash out on wednesday. cried at my desk like 3 times 😅) so truly, writing this and reading your incredibly kind comments is like....the best.

(i will stop babbling)

Chapter 13: Late December 2008

Chapter Summary

Ilya spends Christmas with a Hollander and watches Shane compete at the World Juniors.

Chapter Notes

hi

i love them.

that's all.

I feel very nervous about this chapter for some reason... hopefully it's okay.

Ilya isn't jealous exactly because it would be kind of terrible if he were jealous of his best friend. He just feels disappointed that he's going to miss out on this experience. Missing out on this experience with Shane.

It feels much closer to disappointment than jealousy.

He doesn't say anything to Shane though, he worries Shane will only hear it as jealousy.

"You excited?" Ilya asks. The smile he directs at Shane is entirely genuine.

He's sitting on Shane's bed, watching him carefully fold his clothes before placing them in neat piles. And then finally placing them into his luggage. Ilya thought he was careful with packing. Shane had him beat by a wide margin.

"Excited for what?" Shane laughs. "It's just the selection camp. I could be home in a week if I'm not chosen."

Ilya just stares at him flatly.

"Shane."

"Ilya."

"You're not coming back in a week," Ilya says confidently.

"You don't know that."

Ilya grabs one of the neatly folded pairs of socks and throws it at Shane's head.

"Fuck off," Shane says, but he's laughing. "What's with you and my socks?"

Ilya doesn't answer. Because there's no good answer. He just likes bugging Shane.

Most of Shane's clothes end up needing to be folded again by the time they're done throwing them at each other. Ilya helps.

"You'll be there for the finals, right?"

"Oh! Mr. I-Could-Be-Home-In-A-Week—"

"That's a terrible name."

"—thinks he'll still be there for finals?" Ilya says with a smirk.

Shane shakes his head, hiding the grin the way he does when he's trying to pretend he has even one humble bone in his body.

"I mean, I could probably stay and watch," Shane says, ducking his head so Ilya can't see the grin. "Just in case I don't make it."

"You don't have me to compete against," Ilya points out. "I think you'll have a pretty good chance."

He expects Shane to fire back with something about the fact that Ilya's not nearly as good as he thinks, but when Shane looks at Ilya his face is tighter than anticipated.

"I wish you were coming," Shane says, biting his bottom lip between his teeth.

Ilya wishes that too. Playing with Shane on the Ottawa Rapids for the past four months has been a dream. They are often split between two lines, but when they get on the ice together it's electric. Unlike anything else Ilya has ever experienced. He'd considered moving to wing just so they could more reliably play alongside Shane.

He wouldn't, of course. But he'd considered it.

"I know we're both planning to do one more year with the Rapids," Shane continues, his forehead still creased with concern. "But after the draft we'll basically never play together again."

His words, and the future they represent, cause an ache somewhere in Ilya he's trying to ignore.

"At least with you gone, I will get to be first line centre every game," Ilya says with a grin. The grin feels forced though, because it is. He'd rather there be any situation where they were still playing together for the next few weeks.

Shane rolls his eyes. "Right. Have fun starting those two games."

Ilya sighs loudly at the undercurrent of hurt in Shane's tone. He sits up on Shane's bed so he's sitting on the edge before patting the space next to him.

Shane sits down.

Ilya pulls him into a crushing hug and, like always, Shane's body tenses for a second before he exhales and allows his body to relax against Ilya. It's a little awkward, since they're both sitting, but they stay like that for a moment. Every few seconds, Ilya tightens his grip again.

"I like playing with you too, Shane," Ilya says quietly.

He eases his hold and Shane doesn't pull away immediately. They stay like that for a moment longer.

Soon, almost too soon, Shane pulls back. They both sit on the bed, facing the same direction, neither looking at the other.

After too many silent seconds, Ilya leans over to bump his shoulder against Shane's.

"Ah, at least we will be rookies together," he jokes. "Then we can compete to see who is best rookie, yes?"

Shane scoffs. "Doesn't seem very fair."

"I know, I am very good."

"I meant fair to you."

Ilya holds his hand to his chest as if shocked, and turns slowly. He can see from Shane's profile that his lips are upturned in the little smile he gets when he's being an asshole.

"You are terrible to your houseguest," Ilya says.

"You're not a fucking houseguest, Ilya." Shane shakes his head and gets up from the bed. "You're a housepest if anything."

When Shane looks back at him with the stupidest fucking grin on his face, Ilya can't help but laugh.

"Proud of that one, Hollander?" he asks with a disbelieving look on his face. "That was fucking terrible."

"It wasn't that bad," Shane defends his awful pun. "I thought it was clever."

"Maybe if we were ten."

Shane flies out first, arriving in Regina for the selection camp where he is obviously selected for the team. Yuna follows once his spot is confirmed, planning to stay through the practices, exhibition games, and whatever else. All the way through to the finals.

But, Ilya has school, and two more games before Christmas break starts with the Rapids, and David can only take so many days off work. So, they stay behind.

The house is far quieter without Yuna and Shane, but he and David fall into a comfortable rhythm. They take turns making meals. They watch whatever game's on TSN in the evenings while eating said meals.

They argue about sports they know nothing about.

Ilya decides curling is his favourite. He becomes incensed when the team he's cheering for loses.

"Just don't tell Yuna we ate on the couch." David makes him promise one night.

Ilya smiles at this. It's a promise he's happy to keep, something he and David do only when Yuna and Shane are out of the house. Neither of them will allow even the idea of crumbs near the couch.

Maybe part of Ilya is surprised at how comfortable he is with David, and how comfortable the few weeks are when they're in the house alone.

He calls his mom a few times. She visited only a few weeks before, but he started missing her basically the minute she left. He sees a girl he's gone on a date or two with.

He has found it much more difficult to hook up with the girls he's been seeing since someone's always waiting up for him at the Hollander's place. No parent is working the late shift. He's missed if he doesn't come home. But, necessity is the mother of invention, and they make the back of her car work for at least one evening.

Ilya realizes quickly that life in Ottawa isn't nearly as interesting without Shane.

Yuna and Shane are both gone for Christmas. Which isn't a very big deal for Ilya, it's not something he's ever celebrated the same way as Canadians. It was why his mom came earlier in the month when flights were cheaper, as opposed to trying to line things up and have her in Ottawa for Christmas. And the fact that then she wouldn't have met Shane. And Yuna.

In the days leading up to the holiday, he can tell David's missing his family. They hadn't decorated the house at all, and Ilya catches him looking at the other houses on the block, covered in what is honestly too many lights.

Ilya feels bad watching David obviously feel the gap left by his wife and son. And perhaps, Ilya is also missing the rest of the Hollander's too.

On Christmas morning, Ilya is already up and finishing the last few pancakes when David strolls down the stairs in his Christmas pajamas. They match the ones Ilya's wearing. A gift left to both of them from Yuna.

"Good morning, Ilya," David says, and it comes out like a question. Like he isn't sure what he's seeing with Ilya standing in the kitchen, holding a plate of pancakes.

"Hi," Ilya says. He suddenly feels very embarrassed.

There's silence as David approaches, slowly taking in the scene of the kitchen in the way he always does. Ilya watches David's eyes track around the kitchen, seeing the open container of flour, the pans, the bowls. And Ilya in the centre of it all.

"I made pancakes?" Ilya says. And it definitely sounds like a question.

"They look great." David smiles, accepting the plate. "The couch?"

Ilya nods, grabbing his own plate as well as the maple syrup.

"We definitely can't tell them about this," David laughs, gesturing at the maple syrup.

The morning is easy. David puts one of his favourite Christmas movies on the tv, and they both relax on the couch.

Eventually, Ilya works up the nerve to give David the gift he'd gotten him.

"It's stupid," Ilya says as soon as he's handed the box over. "It's honestly nothing."

David just smiles as he carefully removes the paper Ilya had spent far too long wrapping it in. He reveals a puzzle.

Ilya has noticed David puttering around with his crossword puzzles. He also saw the boxes of puzzles stashed at the bottom of the book shelves in the living room.

It's a picture of the parliament building. It seemed exceedingly boring when Shane suggested it out of the other puzzles Ilya was considering. He just hopes David's boring like his son.

There's a stillness in the room as David looks at the box and Ilya looks anywhere else. He's not sure why this feels so embarrassing. He's not sure why his body still has an unnatural tension to it whenever he has these quiet moments with Shane's dad. Well, he does know why the last one, but that doesn't matter now. It shouldn't.

"This is a problem," David says slowly.

Ilya's blood turns to ice.

"There's no way I can finish this before we have to leave," David continues. "Not alone."

Ilya laughs at the pure relief that floods his body when David smiles at him.

"Thanks, son." David leans over and pulls Ilya into a hug.

Later, David gives Ilya a book. It's a copy of The Two Captains, a book Ilya had mentioned a few weeks back, one he read as a child and had loved. It's in Russian. He spends the evening reading it. He struggles to express just how much it means to him. David seems to understand though.

They finish the puzzle the day before they fly out to Regina. They don't pack it away so they can show Yuna and Shane when they come home. Ilya doesn't find it very boring at all.

David and Ilya arrive in Regina after Christmas. Both of them are anxious to see the rest of the Hollander family after so many weeks away.

Ilya has been receiving updates about the tournament daily from Shane, and a few from Yuna during the games or any time Shane was on the ice. While he and David watched the games they could on TSN, it was better to receive on the ground updates from the two Hollanders in Regina.

As they approach the arena, having driven there directly from the airport, there's a sense of excitement being wordlessly passed between the two of them. David keeps mentioning how proud he is that Shane will be playing for Team Canada, representing his country, and headed into the finals. Ilya feels just as proud of Shane.

His feelings on who they'll be facing in the finals is a little more complicated.

He wonders briefly if he'll recognize any of the names of the boys representing Russia. Even though he'd left at such a young age, he had already been playing quite competitively. Perhaps if he and his mother hadn't left Russia he would have still met Shane. Only here, across the ice. Rivals.

He can hardly imagine it.

Shane and Yuna meet them at the front of the arena, and Ilya isn't sure who's more excited to see who. He can't even fight the highly embarrassing grin that's taken over his face. He honestly doesn't really try to.

Team Canada is painted across Shane from head to toe. He's wearing sweat pants. A jacket. A hat. Everything. All Team Canada.

Ilya is half tempted to ask him if his underwear has a maple leaf on it too.

"Hey," Ilya says with a smile.

"Hi," Shane says somewhat awkwardly. Like he suddenly isn't sure how to act with Ilya.

Ilya rolls his eyes and gathers Shane into a tight hug. He's more relaxed after the embrace. They both are.

"You didn't even try to give Team USA a chance," Ilya laughs, bumping his shoulder with his own.

David and Ilya had watched the semi-finals at home, and Team Canada had absolutely wrecked Team USA.

Shane is bashful at the attention. Next to them David and Yuna are talking, their conversation a low buzz of sound to Ilya as his attention is focused entirely on Shane.

"It wasn't that big a deal," Shane says looking down at his hands.

Ilya notices that the skin near Shane's nails has been picked at. A lot.

He nearly asks if Shane's okay when there's a loud sound that pulls their attention. A group of boys near their age pile through a door on the far side of the lobby. These boys are also wearing Team Canada gear, and are loudly amping each other up as they walk towards where the locker rooms must be.

When he turns back to Shane, he notices the tension in his jaw. The way his face has gone carefully blank.

He almost asks if he's okay again when more movement catches his eye. Two of Shane's teammates are nudging each other and pointing toward him and Shane.

There's something incredibly unkind about the way they laugh under their breath and look at each other. The way they look at Shane.

Heat boils in Ilya's gut and he has to fight every impulse he has to walk over and ask them what the joke is.

"What's their problem?" Ilya asks Shane.

"Nothing," Shane says. An easy mask of indifference fits over his face. "Just locker room shit, you know."

Ilya does know. Which makes it that much more difficult to turn away and say nothing.

Ilya is seated between Yuna and David, and perhaps he feels a little like he's experiencing a fever dream. They had surprised him with a bonus Christmas gift. Far too much Canadian themed clothing. They are quick to put on their own before the game.

They make quite a sight, the three of them covered in more maple leaves than are reasonable, and head to toe in red and white.

Their seats are fantastic, of course, because it had been Yuna's job to get the tickets sorted. They're in the middle of a sea of red and white, and Ilya finds himself absolutely lost in the crowd wide patriotism.

"You think Russia's gonna put up a good fight?" David says over the din of the crowd.

Before Ilya can even entertain the idea that the question is directed at him, Yuna answers, "Yes, they've played hard in every game. If anyone's able to match Canada, it's them."

Ilya nods at that. Team Russia would never call it in. That will not be an option for them.

As the players warm up on the ice below, Ilya finds himself straining to read the names on the shoulders of the Russian players. He wonders if he'll see anyone he recognizes. But he knows that's silly. He hasn't played hockey in Russia in so many years.

The thought pushes its way to the centre of his mind before he can distract himself.

What if one of them knows Papa?

He feels cold.

What if one of them recognizes Ilya?

The dark pit those questions lead him toward starts opening in front of him and Ilya is all too prepared to dive into it when he is able to physically shake himself out of it.

It's been years. Five years.

He looks nothing like the skinny twelve year old who escaped Russia with his mother. Even if the names are familiar to Ilya, it's not as if Ilya is wearing his own name. It's not like any of them would actually be looking for him.

He stops looking closely at the names. Though one or two do sound familiar.

"Russia will play well," Ilya tells David and Yuna simply. He knows this with little doubt.

Yuna's face has shifted into the one she always wears at their Rapids games. Calculated. Evaluating. She is watching each opposing player carefully. It's a look Ilya is happy to not have trained on him for once.

The Canadian team starts filing onto the ice to warm up and Ilya is on his feet when he sees HOLLANDER written across Shane's shoulders. His heart clenches in his chest and he feels impossibly proud looking down as Shane starts warming up. Shane pauses and scans the crowd, stopping at them and offering a wave which Ilya returns.

For a moment, Ilya can perfectly imagine his name in the same red lettering. Right beside Shane. Together.

Next year.

Citizenship should become official in the next few months. Mama's just waiting on a few more documents. He will no longer be just a permanent resident, though he likes the feeling of permanency it provides, he will actually get to be Canadian. Able to claim the country as his own.

And maybe it is presumptuous to think he and Shane will both make the team in a year, but he also doesn't think it is anywhere near impossible. In fact, he'll be shocked if Shane isn't on the team and wearing the C next year.

Maybe Ilya will get to wear the A next to him too.

—

The game is hard fought. Russia plays dirty in the way that's only ever evident to the opposing team and their families. Only ever seen by those watching too closely or those in the centre of it.

Ilya finds himself on his feet more than once next to Yuna screaming at the refs. After the third instance of what Ilya considers a missed penalty call against Shane, he's angry.

He can see Shane pushing himself. He got one of Canada's two goals, and assisted the other. Every second he's on the ice he is moving, chasing down the puck, fighting along the boards, calling for passes.

He never stops.

By the end of the third period, the game is tied.

Only a couple minutes are left and the next few moments will either end the game or send them into overtime.

Shane has just taken the puck from the Russian centre.

Ilya is on his feet before he realizes he's even moved. Yuna and David both rise alongside him.

Shane carries the puck through the neutral zone, two Russian players close in on him as he crosses the blue line. One of Canada's wingers is coming up on the other side.

There's an opening. Ilya sees it, so he knows Shane must see it as well.

He sends the puck across the ice.

A Russian defender just barely gets his stick into the lane.

The puck changes direction and skips back toward centre.

Ilya's stomach drops.

Russia turns with it immediately, not wasting a second.

"No," he accidentally says the word out loud.

Shane turns too.

But the two Russian players are closer. Are already moving toward Canada's end, and Shane is behind them, skating hard to close the distance.

He almost does.

The player carrying the puck crosses the blue line. The other is coming down the opposite side, forcing the Canadian defender between them.

The pass goes across.

Shane reaches for it. Ilya can see the desperation on his face from where he stands. Hands both gripped by Shane's parents.

Shane misses.

The Russian player shoots.

It feels like every person holds their breath. Silence descends upon the arena. An oppressive blanket that feels like both hope and disappointment all at once.

The puck hits the back of the net with a gentle but damning whoosh.

The Russian side of the arena erupts.

Ilya barely registers the earsplitting sound.

On the ice, Shane's momentum carries him past the net before he stops. He stays there for a beat, shoulders rising and falling beneath the red jersey.

He turns back toward the bench.

Even from this distance, Ilya can see how tight his jaw is.

How flat his expression is.

Fuck.

Shane is on the bench for all of a minute before he's pushing back onto the ice for the last thirty seconds of the game. Canada's pulled their goalie.

They give it their all.

Shane leaves the ice after shaking hands with the winning team. Ilya imagines the silver medal feels wrong to Shane. A heavy reminder of what he will see as failure.

Any other player would have skated off the ice and thrown their stick, justifiably mad. Shane steps off the ice and even through the cacophony of all the players and their families and the fans, Ilya can feel the silence that has fallen over Shane.

It's the quiet that will crush him.

Neither Yuna nor David have said anything. Ilya lets out a deep breath.

"Fuck," he mutters.

And it says something that neither of them reprimand him for his language.

Worse, Yuna nods in agreement.

"Fuck," she says softly.

Despite himself, Ilya turns to her with wide eyes.

She doesn't look at him when she speaks next. "I think it's appropriate given the circumstances."

Ilya turns back to the ice. Both he and David nod in agreement.

The three of them slowly make their way to the lobby to wait for Shane. They don't rush. Shane will take his time in the shower, hoping to miss the crowds.

A few groups still linger, most loud and boisterous. Ilya hears some shitty comments from the few groups of Russian nationals. He doesn't comment on them.

Finally, he sees Shane emerge from the locker room. His hair is wet. His face is unreadable, which in and of itself tells Ilya exactly how badly Shane feels. He has his Team Canada jacket pulled tightly around himself almost like a shield.

Shane's eyes meet his, and Ilya sees the smallest flicker of happiness before Shane's brows pull together in something that Ilya worries might be embarrassment.

And in that moment, a few of the drunk idiots who were still hanging around zero in on Shane.

"See, there's the fucking problem," one man, wearing a Team Canada sweater, says loudly. "It's supposed to be fucking Team Canada, not whatever that is."

Ilya's heart sinks and he sees the moment the words register in Shane's brain.

Any emotion he'd been able to read in those eyes is gone.

"No wonder he fucked up the pass," another says, shoving his buddy like he's just said something clever. "We need Canadian players."

Shane doesn't even turn toward them.

"Dad, you rented a car?" Shane asks as he approaches, his voice is too even.

"Yes, but—"

"Give me the keys," Shane says to Yuna, cutting his father off.

He holds his hand out.

"Shane—"

"Mom. Please."

There's a moment where Ilya looks between mother and son.

What happens between them is complicated. He can see the anger simmering below Yuna's surface, ready to boil over. But it's barely visible, only evident in the way she's holding her purse with a death grip, the tightness in her jaw so similar to her son.

And Shane is stone faced, hand extended waiting for keys.

"Shane, can we—"

"I am leaving," Shane says. Each word perfectly enunciated. "Either I walk to the hotel, or I drive. Choose."

Ilya chances a look at David, and he only barely stops himself from flinching at what he sees.

So, this is David angry. His face is flushed, and Ilya can't help but compare it to the flush creeping up Shane's neck more and more. And he's watching the retreating backs of the moron 'fans' as they leave through another exit.

Ilya's distracted from this by the sound of keys being dropped into Shane's waiting hand.

Shane says nothing, just grips the keys hard enough that Ilya worries he'll break skin, and then walks away. Toward the parking lot. Away from them.

"Ilya," he calls over his shoulder. "Please."

Ilya looks between David and Yuna.

"I'm sorry," he says before jogging to keep up with Shane. He's not even sure why he's apologizing.

Shane sits on the end of the queen bed he's claimed as his own since being here. He's staring at his hands and hasn't said a word to Ilya since calling for him at the arena.

Room service is ordered quickly. Ilya chooses a few different meals he thinks Shane will like. He makes a mental note to pay Yuna and David back when they inevitably get the added charges.

After hanging up the phone, he stands uselessly between the two beds. It's the first time in a long time he feels like he has no fucking idea what Shane needs from him.

He almost asks Shane what he needs. The blank way he stares at the patterns on the hideous carpet in this Regina hotel is enough for Ilya to understand that won't be helpful.

Eventually, his panicking wastes enough time that the knock on the door saves him from saying anything. He awkwardly carries the three covered plates into the room, waving off the attempts at help from the room service attendant.

There's a small table in the corner nearest the window. Ilya lines up the three plates.

"We have variety of choices for you tonight, Mr. Hollander," Ilya says, making his accent thicker.

He's beyond pleased when he sees Shane's head turn in his direction.

"Yeah?" Shane's voice comes out as a croak.

"Oh, yes," Ilya nods. "All perfect choices. We have three very boring meals for your Canadian palate. Chicken, veggies, and rice." He lifts the first lid dramatically.

Shane's eyes brighten only slightly at this.

Whatever, it's still a win.

"Salmon, veggies, and also boring rice, oops, I meant brown rice," Ilya announces as he removes the second lid…revealing chicken fingers and fries. "Shit, wrong plate. Ah, chicken fingers and fries if you are feeling a little dangerous."

Ilya looks at the last plate, the one which betrayed him by being out of order. "And yes, still boring salmon with boring rice." He lifts it with no flourish.

"You're an idiot," Shane says to him, but there's the smallest hint of a smile, and the sight makes Ilya feel more pride than any win in any game.

"Yes, but I am also your best friend," Ilya says kindly. "Come. Eat."

They sit together at the small table and share all three plates between the two of them. Ilya turns on the tv to something stupid on the Food Network. They don't talk.

Ilya's luggage is still with David, so Shane lends him some shorts for pajamas since Shane's not at all interested in seeing his parents, or anyone else, tonight.

They don't talk while they get ready for bed. Shane finds something quiet to leave on the tv so the silence of the room doesn't feel as suffocating.

Finally, both boys are lying on their respective queen sized beds. Lying flat on their backs and staring at the ceiling.

Ilya wants to laugh at the absurdity.

It's like they're back in camp.

He doesn't laugh though, because if this is anything like camp that means…

"You know what they called me in all the coverage on TSN?" Shane asks softly.

Ilya does know. But he doesn't think he has many lines in this conversation.

"Canada's Shane Hollander," he says it bitterly. "Ottawa's own."

He turns his head towards Shane, watching as he brings the heels of his hands up to his face, rubbing at his eyes.

"Fuck," Shane says quietly.

He doesn't expand on it any more, and Ilya can hear how ragged his breathing sounds. After thinking about it for a minute or two, noting that Shane's breathing isn't calming, Ilya stands up from his bed and crosses the two steps between their beds.

He nudges Shane's shoulder.

"Move."

Shane's hands lift from his eyes enough and he looks at Ilya, confused.

"What?"

"Fucking move, Shane." He shoves him a little harder. And okay, maybe shoving the guy he's trying to console isn't the move.

Slowly, Shane pushes himself to the other side of the bed.

Ilya slips under the blankets next to him. He stays on his back, looking at the ceiling.

Neither speaks. Neither moves.

Until, Ilya feels Shane's hand gently pushing at his own. He opens his fingers from the loose fist they'd been resting in.

Before he knows what's happening, Shane's hand is in his.

They still don't speak.

Ilya squeezes Shane's hand.

Shane squeezes back.

Ilya can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

There's something more than warmth between their palms.

Oh.

Something unidentifiable tugs inside Ilya.

And then he hears Shane's breathing start to slow and even out, his fingers going lax in Ilya's hand, but when he moves his own hand, Shane's tightens.

So, Ilya falls asleep where he is, holding Shane's hand.

Chapter End Notes

okay. this was NOT how this chapter ended in my plans.

the boys had other plans, and i am merely at their whims.

but friends??????? i am sobbing at them holding hands.

(i'm skimming through doing edits and i just realized this is the second story i've written in which ilya offers pancakes to a hollander as a way to show love?? and???? apparently carbs = love??? but i'm unwilling to change it.)

ANYWAYS.

i love you. i love this story.

if you're commenting on each chapter i present to you the tiniest forehead kiss (with consent). and if not, you get finger guns.
👉👉

Chapter 14: March 2004

Chapter Summary

Shane has a bad day at school.

Chapter Notes

this isn't the chapter i had written to come after the last one.

but i wanted some shane context.

he'd be in grade 7 here (if my math is right) and just before turning 13. so makes sense that the kids suck so much. boo.

**use of racial slurs**

March 2004

Shane is seated outside of the principal's office. His knuckles hurt. His head hurts.

He just wants to go home.

He's mad.

And underneath it all he's very, very tired.

Eventually, the door to the office next to him opens, and the murmurs he could hear through the door moments ago shift into fully formed words as his mother leaves the office.

"I expect this to be dealt with," she's saying.

Her voice is firm. Unwavering in the way it gets when she is pissed and trying not to let anyone know. Shane knows. He knows what to look for.

Right there, she purses her lips before giving a forced smile.

She makes that face at his coaches a lot too.

"I understand, Mrs. Hollander," Mrs. Dumont says in that placating way she always does. "But he will still be out on suspension for a day. It's policy."

Shane doesn't have to look at his mom to know her lips have pursed again. He rubs his hand over his face. It's a mistake, because the movement causes the small breaks in the skin on his knuckles to stretch and open a little.

"Shane."

His mom is already half way out of the office. He grabs his backpack off the floor and follows her without looking back. He already knows the face Mrs. Dumont will be looking at him with.

"Mom—"

"Don't start," she cuts him off. "Not here."

The drive home is quiet. He thinks the silence should make him feel guilty about what he'd done. It doesn't.

His dad's car is already parked when they arrive. Shane checks the clock. Great. He came home early just for this. Shit.

Apparently, the "here" he's waiting for us the living room.

"Honestly, Shane," his mom says, her tone clearly exasperated. "You would think we raised you better than that."

His dad's sitting in his chair. He turns off the tv when they enter, he doesn't look nearly as worked up. Shane hopes that's a good sign.

He really doesn't want to spend the next hour hearing an encore of all the ways he mishandled today.

"So, what happened?" David asks. He must not have received the full rundown.

Yuna looks at Shane expectantly.

Shane sighs loudly, preparing the same monologue he's given three times already. To the teacher. The principal. And his mom.

"I was eating lunch," he starts, taking on the same bored monotone voice that has already carried him through this. "And some of the other kids came over to me and Nick. Ryan started asking if I spoke Chinese. I asked him to stop. He wouldn't stop. Tyler got involved. He started pushing and shoving me."

This is where Shane clenches his teeth. Because Shane had done the right thing, or at least tried.

"Then he called me a chink, said some other shit, I don't know," Shane says. "So I punched him, both of them once Tyler tried to step in."

David looks incensed the entire time, and Shane doesn't think he imagines the look of pride when he finishes the story.

"Alright," David says slowly. He looks at Yuna, likely noting that the look of pride is not something she's interested in. "So, what's the problem?"

"You're kidding," Yuna says flatly. "He punched another student, David! Two students!"

David turns to Shane. "How are your hands?"

Shane holds his knuckles out, flexing his fingers.

"They hurt."

"Show me how you punch—"

"No," Yuna cuts him off. "We are not doing that. He doesn't need that."

"It's not fair," Shane says quietly. "They were the ones being mean. They were being rude. Why am I the only one in trouble?"

"You're the one who threw the punch," Yuna says.

"Only because he wouldn't leave me alone," Shane snaps back. He can feel heat rising in his face.

"That doesn't matter, Shane," Yuna says, her voice is finally rising. "You can't react like that."

"Why?" he asks, and he can hear his voice break. He hates that his voice breaks. "Why is it always different for me? Why aren't you on my fucking side?"

Shane hates how tears well at the corner of his eyes. Hates that this is always his reaction to getting frustrated. Hates how it makes him look weak.

Something passes over Yuna's face, Shane thinks he can almost see a crack. See something that looks far more similar to how he's feeling. And then it's gone. Her face is cool and unaffected.

"I'm on your side, Shane," she says, and he wishes that her voice gave anything away about how she's actually feeling. "I'm always on your side, but you can't hit someone."

"So I'm just supposed to take it?" Shane asks.

His mom has the decency to at least look disappointed in what she has to say next.

"Yes, Shane."

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He doesn't think he expected her to admit it so easily.

"Sometimes it means accepting shit when you know you deserve more."

Shane only grinds his teeth together harder.

"Or you come to us," Yuna says. "You tell me and I can deal with it."

Shane rolls his eyes. He doesn't even make an attempt to hide it. Because yeah, that's what he needs. His mom involving herself even more in his life. It's enough that his coaches seem to want to hide from her any time she's in the building. He knows what it means for Yuna Hollander to deal with something.

No. Shane won't be going to her for anything.

He's just not going to get in trouble for this anymore.

He's lying on his bed, staring at nothing in particular and running through different ways he could have dealt with the entire situation. He honestly can't think of anything.

Say nothing. They keep picking. He's already familiar with that.

Say something. They keep picking. They start viewing it as a challenge.

Do something. Get in trouble.

Do nothing. Somehow that's the solution.

It doesn't make sense.

There's a soft knock at his door.

"I'm not hungry, mom," he says loudly.

The door opens and it's David poking his head into Shane's room. Shane sits up on his bed, shifting over so his legs are hanging off the edge.

"Hey, bud," David says. "How are you?"

"Fine." Shane keeps his face carefully neutral.

"Lemme see your hands." David reaches out.

Shane extends his hands at the same time David steps closer, gently holding Shane's in his. His fingers brush over the swollen skin.

"Show me how you punched."

"I know how to punch, dad," Shane says, his voice giving away his annoyance. "I play hockey."

"Humour your old man," David says congenially. "Get up."

Shane sighs loudly and stands up next to his bed. He gets into an approximation of the position he'd been in when he'd hit the other boy and curls his fingers.

"Alright, shift your fingers a bit," David says, showing Shane with his own hands. "And turn your hips a little more."

Shane makes the adjustments. David puts a hand out for Shane to practice.

"Better."

They stay like that for a while. David makes a few more adjustments and ends it by patting Shane on the shoulder.

"Why bother showing me?" Shane asks and he hopes he doesn't sound nearly as bitter he feels. "If I'm not supposed to do anything about it."

David pauses and looks like he's very genuinely having a hard time putting into words how he feels.

"You can't let people walk all over you," he finally says, each word is careful. Like he knows he's speaking to a boy who will experience the world so much differently from him. "But your mom's right. People see you differently."

It sounds like the admission kills David. And why wouldn't it. Admitting there were things he wouldn't be able to protect his family from.

Shane sighs loudly.

"It's not fair," David tells him. "I know it isn't fair, Shane."

Shane looks down. Angry that his father anticipated what he was thinking.

"You have to be better than them," David echoes the same sentiment as Yuna, and it feels distinctly false leaving his mouth. He doesn't believe it.

Shane turns his head and stares at the poster on his wall. All of the posters. Hockey players.

White.

Every single one.

"And if you aren't—" David shrugs, a glint in his eye. "—better to know how to protect yourself."

Shane doesn't fall asleep easily. He can feel his heartbeat in the broken skin of his knuckles. There's still anger, frustration, something buzzing beneath his skin. He can't manage to get it to shut up long enough to actually fall asleep.

Plus, he can hear their voices, spoken like they think they're being quiet, but there's too much emotion leftover from the day. And he's struck by the fact that he's never heard them direct this level of frustration at each other before.

Sure, his parents have argued at points. They're people who live together and are raising a kid, but they never seemed to be serious arguments and always ended with some sort of resolution. Or at least he's never heard them argue like this before.

The curiosity gets the better of him, and Shane carefully turns the doorknob to his room, easing it open before taking the stairs one at a time. It sounds like they're in the kitchen. If he sits at the first landing of the stairs he can listen to them without being seen, and if they start to move he'll have enough time to get back without being seen. Hopefully.

He shouldn't be shocked that they're arguing about him. It still doesn't feel good though.

"It was just once, Yuna," David says. His voice sounds tired. "And it's good that he stood up for himself."

"No, it's not." As always, his mom's statement carries a sense of finality with it.

"So what, then?" David demands, his voice rising in his exasperation with the situation Shane has created. "He has to be better behaved than every kid who decides to fuck with him?"

"Yes."

"Oh, come on."

"Because it's not enough that he's as good as those other boys," Yuna says sharply. "It won't be enough. They will look at him and expect more from him."

"Yuna—"

"No, David." Yuna sounds genuinely angry. "You don't understand. It is different for him. It's different for us."

A silence Shane thinks might suffocate them all settles in the room.

"I can't just let Shane get hurt, Yuna," David says, the anger in his voice is low and hard. "He's my son." David's voice breaks a little on the last word.

"And you think I want this?" she asks, the pain in her voice disguised beneath fury.

Anger is bubbling between them.

Anger because of Shane.

Shane doesn't hear his dad's response. Can't bring himself to stay crouched on those stairs listening to them fall apart over something he's done. Shane slinks up the stairs to his bedroom. His mom's indignation is familiar to him, but his dad so rarely gets angry, and the sound of it just makes Shane feel off centre. Especially knowing it's his fault.

That night, lying in his bed, Shane considers what to do when it happens again. He's learned well enough that it's not a matter of if. Kids are morons. And mean. It will happen again.

So, next time he'll do nothing. Whatever.

Next time he'll just leave it.

And he does. Until the next hockey season when someone on the ice asks how much his dad paid to have his mom flown in so his dad would have someone to fuck.

Shane figures it doesn't count. It's not as if they're saying anything about him.

Besides, it's not like those boys will tell their parents they got punched by the weak Asian kid.

Chapter End Notes

this was just a quick lil like...interlude almost.

i already finished a good portion of the next chapter (which was originally meant to be here), so hopefully i can post it tonight?? or maybe if i was smarter i'd like stagger posting them?? but i am not. and i will not. i post when i finish writing.

(i might have horrible edits left in here...i'm posting this with about 30 minutes before my students are in the class and!!! i have nothing planned for today!!! bc i was doing this!! shame me)

the comments!!!! again. i love all of them. i would reply if i weren't so fucking awkward. (i've got a half written reply to one comment that's been open for 2 days bc i can't word it right 😅) but know i see them and love them.

Chapter 15: Early June 2009

Chapter Summary

Ilya goes home and finds home, too.

Chapter Notes

i'm literally tossing this on before going to bed.

i am too tired to read through it again.

(hi, thank you for reading.)

the last two chapters were kinda heavy. this one is less that.

They never talk about what the idiots after the World Juniors said. Shane doesn't bring up that night at all after they get back to Ottawa. So Ilya doesn't either. He figures if Shane wanted to talk about it, they would have.

They don't talk about the hotel either.

About waking up in the same bed, their hands still loosely tangled together between them.

Shane doesn't say anything.

There's really nothing to say.

So Ilya doesn't.

Shane plays like a man possessed when they return to the Rapids in January. He plays like he has something to prove. Like he has a personal vendetta against every team they're up against.

Maybe that's Shane saying as much as he wants to about the whole situation.

They start spending more and more time in the gym and on the ice. Ilya never lets Shane stay longer than him. He even lets Shane talk him into eating the awful super health food that's supposed to make them stronger, faster, and shit gold or something.

Annoyingly, it works.

Ilya still makes Shane stop at McDonalds some mornings.

They're both stronger by spring. Faster too. Ilya notices it most in the moments outside hockey, when they're getting changed or wrestling over the remote. Even when they're just standing next to each other in the bathroom while they brush their teeth. Somewhere over the last year they've stopped looking quite so much like boys.

They're starting to look like men.

Which Ilya doesn't spend much time thinking about either.

Shane starts seeing Jessica in April. She's pretty. Ilya likes her well enough. She's funny, and doesn't seem particularly obsessed with Shane in the way some of the other girls at school are. Ilya considers this an important character trait.

Shane seems to like her too.

They go out a few times. Ilya even goes on a group thing with them and a few other people. She starts appearing around more often, even spending time at the house. Ilya makes fun of Shane about it because that's obviously what he's supposed to do as Shane's best friend.

Nothing about it feels especially important. Shane had been on a handful of dates through the first part of the year.

All of their effort. All of their blood, sweat and tears. Every bit of whatever Shane felt he had to prove after Regina, coalesces into the best stretches of hockey either of them has ever played.

The Rapids tear through the OHL playoffs. At some points, it's not even close.

Shane is everywhere.

Ilya isn't far behind him.

By then scouts are at nearly every game. Sometimes there are more suits in the stands than Ilya wants to count. People are no longer just whispering about the draft. They're talking about it like it's already set in stone.

Hollander.

Rozanov.

One and two.

The order depends on who you're talking to.

Ilya tries not to listen.

He can't help it.

Neither he nor Shane talks about this either. Talking about it would make the whole thing far too real. Would mean acknowledging that everything they've spent this season working toward is coming faster than they're ready for.

Instead, they just play.

They win the OHL championship.

And a few days later Shane turns eighteen on May tenth.

Ilya is briefly disappointed to discover that eighteen isn't nearly as fun an age to turn in Ontario as it is in Alberta.

Yuna insists on dinner despite the fact they're deep enough into the playoffs that Shane spends most of the night complaining that they should be resting and refusing to eat most things on the menu. There is cake. There are presents. Shane doesn't eat the cake, but he does appreciate the presents. Ilya makes several jokes about Shane being an old man now. He chooses to ignore the fact that his birthday is only a few weeks away.

There's no time to celebrate. Shane's back at the rink the next morning.

The Memorial Cup follows close on the heels of their championship win.

By the time it's over, Ilya is too busy being crushed beneath half of his teammates on the ice to think about hands held, girlfriends, or draft rankings at all.

Early June 2009

Shortly after hoisting the Memorial Cup, Ilya is walking through the Calgary airport, with the Hollanders following close behind.

He feels a heavy warmth in his chest thinking about the fact that both David and Yuna took time from work to come with him. And that they had been willing to let Shane miss a few days of school.

He leads them through the airport as if he knows it, instead of it being one of very few times he's actually been in the building. There's an inherent sense of pride having them in his city.

As they approach his house in the rental car Yuna insisted on getting—she hadn't wanted to inconvenience Irina at all—Ilya finds he's very nervous.

Maybe not nervous.

Apprehensive.

Yes, Ilya feels more and more apprehensive with every minute they drive toward his neighbourhood.

What if they don't like the area?

What if they judge Ilya's home?

What if they think less of him? Of his mother?

The questions circle him, picking off pieces of any excitement he initially had about bringing them to see his home until there's nothing left. Only the idiotic thought he had that this would be a good thing.

Hooray. Back to Calgary to get Citizenship.

And lose respect.

He doesn't realize his knee has started bouncing while he's lost himself in all these worries, not until he feels Shane's hand, gentle but still so firm, on him. Shane isn't looking at him when Ilya turns his head, but he squeezes his knee. A simple message.

You're good. We're good. Relax.

A deep breath.

And just like that, Ilya is pointing out the next turn and the correct house so Yuna can pull into the small driveway.

"It's nothing special," Ilya says instinctually, thinking he can get ahead of the comments he's sure they're already thinking.

If he says them first, then they only think it because he let them. It's not because they think less of his home. Of him.

"Lara, my aunt, lives on the other side." He points from his place in the back toward the opposite side of the duplex.

The home is simple, has been simple since they first moved in. Unassuming with blue siding, as if a mirror has been put down its centre. Both sides matching.

"She owns the whole building," he continues as they start getting out of the vehicle. "Me and Mama rent our side from her."

He feels like he's babbling. He is babbling.

"It looks lovely," Yuna says, the calm kindness in her voice helps bring Ilya down a little.

Before he can embarrass himself by saying anything else, the front door opens and there is Mama. Smiling brightly in the way that makes his chest ease. It feels nearly too perfect. The sun shining brightly overhead, the grass green damp from rain. In the time he's lived in Calgary it's always one of his favourites. It seems like the city comes back to life the moment the grass starts to green and the warmth stops being a transient and instead settles onto the city in a way that feels far more permanent than the passing chinooks they subsist on through the winter.

"Hello," Irina calls to them warmly, waving them in.

Shane and his parents are staying at a hotel in a different part of the city. There just simply wasn't enough space for them in the duplex. Since they'll only be in the city for a few days, Ilya wanted to spend his limited time at home so he could see a few people before heading back to Ottawa.

Ilya's the only one who has to grab his bag, shouldering it as they head toward the house.

He's grinning widely enough that his cheeks hurt when he approaches Irina, three Hollanders in his wake.

"Hi, Mama."

"Hi Ilyusha," she says, matching his smile. She holds his face and he notices how much farther she has to reach than he remembers.

"I missed you," he admits quietly.

She kisses his cheek gently and lets go of him. Before he can even finish getting through the door there's a rush of dark hair and Ilya is being folded into a rib crushing hug from Lara.

"Ilyusha," she says, her voice warm with affection. "I have missed you. My god, look at you."

He can't even get his arms around her before she's pushing him away to get her own look at him.

"What happened to the boy who left me last summer?" she demands in quick, clipped Russian.

Ilya doesn't feel anything like the over six foot hockey player. He's feeling like the scrawny twelve year old who first stumbled into Lara's life nearly six years ago.

He rolls his eyes at Lara, but leans down to kiss her cheek. "You are being ridiculous."

Lara's eyes dart over Ilya's shoulder and pause on something.

"Is this him?" she asks, her voice low, even though only he and Irina can understand her.

Ilya sighs and turns to see Shane looking around the small entry way of the duplex. He grabs his arm and pulls him toward Lara.

"Lara, this is Shane," Ilya tells her.

"Hello, Shane," she smiles at him brightly, ignoring the hand he starts to extend, instead pulling him into a hug. "Ilyusha has told us so much about you."

"Oh, yeah," Shane says, the breath knocked out of him as he's pulled into the hug.

Ilya is appreciative that Lara doesn't hold him hostage long, letting him go right as Ilya notices him starting to shift uncomfortably. Shane is a little flushed from the unexpected contact.

Behind them, the adults are all getting acquainted. Lara is quickly pulled into a conversation about the age of the home.

"Come," Ilya says, grabbing Shane's arm and pulling him further into the house.

Ilya thinks for a moment that the house looks smaller than it had the last time he was here. It still smells like home though. His mother's soup pot is still in its permanent home on the stove. A note he left his mom last summer is still stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

It somehow feels like he's lived a lifetime since he's been here, while also feeling like he only stepped out the day before.

He tries not to dwell on the conflicting feelings, and instead just pulls Shane straight through to his bedroom.

It's clear his mom hasn't spent much time in here, if any. The room is left almost exactly as it had been when he'd left late last August. He can still see the stray sock he'd kicked just under his bed.

Looking around the room, which is smaller than the guest room at Shane's, Ilya has the sense to feel maybe a little embarrassed. However, before that shame can settle into him in any real way, Shane is already in his room, pushing past him to look at the pictures on his wall.

Along one wall, Ilya has a variety of posters of hockey teams, some photos of friends, a class photo or two, and a few pictures from when they'd first moved to Canada.

"Ah, so you were child sized at one point."

"Shut up," Ilya says, but he's glad for the familiar dig. He knows what to do with that. Knows where it fits, even here in his life that's never held Shane.

Ilya's phone goes off while Shane's making fun of his sock organization, while Ilya's making fun of Shane for thinking that was something people just have.

It's a text from Erik. Ilya had told him and Austin that he'd be back for a few days. Their time in Calgary is so limited, otherwise Ilya would have reached out to a few people. But as it stands, he only has this evening, and so the choice had been pretty easy.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?" Ilya asks, his eyes lifting from the message on his phone.

Shane turns from inspecting the small book shelf next to Ilya's dresser. He tilts his head, his eyebrows drawn together.

Ilya suddenly feels very self-conscious.

"I mean, you don't have to," he says, reaching back to rub the nape of his neck. "It's no big deal or anything. Honestly."

"You want me to meet your friends?" Shane is chewing on his bottom lip and Ilya cannot read the emotions at war on his face.

So he decides to be kind of mean. "I know hanging out with your parents is very important, Hollander. But yes, my friends. We can even put that ID to the test. Eighteen is the legal age here."

Shane flushes a bit at that. "But you're not eighteen."

"Yes, Shane," Ilya agrees, rolling his eyes. "Luckily the park where we will drink is not taking IDs."

"Oh. Right."

"Come," Ilya says.

He grabs Shane's wrist and drags him back into the living room where Shane's parents and his mom and Lara are trying very hard to have comfortable small talk. Despite very clearly not being comfortable with each other in any reasonable way. They're seated in the small living room, with Lara resting against the edge of a counter since there aren't enough seats.

Ilya and Shane end up standing in front of the adults awkwardly, suddenly unsure of what to do with their hands. He has flashbacks to the first time he'd asked his mom if he could have a sleepover at Erik's house.

She'd spent forty minutes grilling him about Erik's family. By the end of it he hadn't even wanted to go to the sleepover anymore.

"Would it be okay if Shane stays here?" Ilya asks.

He realizes a moment too late that he should have asked his mom before he brought it up to the group. He spares a guilty look toward her.

"We're okay with it," Yuna says easily. "But if it's too much trouble, don't worry about it."

"Is there space?" Irina asks him in Russian. "Will you be comfortable?"

"There's space," he confirms. "We can share my bed."

"I also have the guest room," Lara interjects. "If needed."

"Then this is fine," Irina says.

Ilya recognizes suddenly that it's perhaps a little rude to be speaking Russian in front of the Hollanders with no translation.

"Yeah, Shane's good to stay," he says in English. "If you're good with that."

A few minutes later, they've unloaded Shane's bags and the other Hollanders are on their way to the hotel. Surely getting ready to spend a thrilling evening in Calgary.

—

Ilya and Shane leave to meet Erik and Austin at a local park.

It's the wonderful time of year that nearly makes up for the 8 hours of sunlight they get in the winter.

It's after nine and it's still bright out. The air has begun to lose its chill now that they're into June, and there's a sense that the evening will be easy.

"Roz!" Erik calls once they can see the other two boys in the distance.

Forgetting himself, Ilya starts running across the small field until he's crashing into Erik. Both of them have put on weight and it hurts when they make contact.

"Holy shit, dude," Erik says while laughing and hugging Ilya. "You're fucking huge."

"You're not so bad yourself," Ilya says. He feels like his grin could split his face.

"Hi, Ilya," Austin says from behind Erik.

Ilya releases Erik and gathers Austin in a hug too, which seems to surprise him, a small gasp leaving him.

"You are fucking huge," Austin says, sounding like the wind's been knocked out of him.

"I am regular size," Ilya insists.

He hears a small shuffle behind him.

"Ah, yes," Ilya says, turning quickly to see Shane standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. "This is Shane."

Shane offers a small wave and a tight smile.

"It's so nice to finally meet Ilya's boyfriend," Erik jokes.

Ilya watches Shane's face lightly flush. He elbows Erik in the side.

"Fuck you," Ilya says. He reaches over to grab Shane's face. "You think someone this pretty would waste any time with me? No chance."

Shane does something that Ilya thinks might be a distant relative to a laugh, pulling out of Ilya's grip.

"I'm Austin."

"Shane."

"Sorry about the moron," Austin says. "It's cool to meet you, though."

They find a picnic bench on one side of the park and settle in. Erik produces a bottle of something that is able to legally be called vodka, but which Ilya determines to be awful.

"So, any girlfriends, Ilya?" Erik asks, bumping shoulders with him.

"I am a gentleman," Ilya says. "I would not say. But no girlfriends." The last comment comes with a wink.

"You, Shane? Any girlfriend or…?" Austin asks, and Ilya is grateful that he's working to keep Shane in the conversation.

"Not really," Shane says without thinking.

Ilya pauses.

"Uh, Shane."

"What?"

"Did you break up with Jessica and not tell me?" Ilya asks, grinning.

He sees the moment realization dawns on Shane. His eyes go wide. He blushes.

"Fuck."

Erik's mouth is hanging open.

"Dude," he says slowly. "What? Are you out with so many ladies you can't even remember your girlfriend?"

Shane is suddenly scrambling to get his phone out of his pocket, but the few slugs of vodka have thrown off his coordination and he ends up dropping it with a muttered fuck.

Ilya's not quite as inebriated, and is able to snatch Shane's phone off the ground before Shane can get to it.

"I don't think so, Hollander," Ilya says to his tipsy friend. "I do not think texting girlfriend you forgot about when drunk is good idea."

Shane sits there frozen for a moment, before slowly nodding.

"You might be right."

"Obviously," Ilya says, pocketing his friend's phone. "I am excellent boyfriend advisor."

"You just said you didn't have a girlfriend," Austin points out, taking another drink and grimacing at the taste.

"Exactly. No complaints," Ilya says. "Perfect score."

Erik snorts and takes the bottle back from Austin. "Okay, wait. How long have you been dating this girl?"

Shane frowns.

His eyebrows draw together.

The silence stretches.

Ilya bursts out laughing before Shane can answer.

"Dude," Erik says, staring at him, the bottle sitting just below his mouth, frozen mid drink. "No fucking way."

"Shut up," Shane demands. "I know how long."

"Then how long?"

Shane looks at Ilya, the embarrassment on his face tinged with a little guilt.

Ilya raises his eyebrows and throws his hands up. "Do not bring me into this."

"Is it more than a month?" Austin tries to help him.

Shane thinks. "Definitely. I started seeing her before the championship game."

Ilya presses his lips together, trying very hard not to laugh.

Shane looks at him. "Fuck off."

"I said nothing."

Erik leans across the table, handing the bottle off to Ilya. "What's her name?"

"Jessica," Shane answers.

Ilya puts the bottle down, swallowing. He claps slowly at Shane's answer.

"Shut the fuck up," Shane says, grabbing the bottle.

"I have done nothing," Ilya says innocently.

"You're an asshole."

"You're the one who forgot he has a girlfriend," Ilya points out helpfully.

"Does Jessica know she's your girlfriend?" Austin asks.

Shane pauses again.

Ilya has no chance this time. He loses it, bursting out in laughter.

"Holy shit," Erik laughs.

"Obviously, she does," Shane mumbles. "We've been busy. Playoffs."

"Yes, and Memorial Cup," Ilya supplies. "Jessica must know she is not more important than hockey."

Shane's flush just gets deeper, and he swallows another mouthful of vodka before Ilya grabs the bottle from him.

"Have you guys?" Erik asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. "I mean, before you forgot she existed."

"Oh my god," Shane says, and he turns to reach for the bottle again. Ilya tugs it away.

"I don't think so, Hollander," Ilya says, slapping his hand away. "You are already forgetting entire humans. No more."

"Give me the fucking bottle."

"Absolutely not," Ilya says, taking a drink of it himself.

Erik watches the two of them for a second, amused by the exchange.

"How 'bout you, Roz?"

"What about me?" Ilya asks, handing him the bottle, ignoring the sound of complaint from Shane.

"You've been in Ottawa for almost a year," he says, like it's obvious. "You telling me you haven't found anyone."

Ilya shrugs. "I have found several people."

"Of course you have," Austin says with a laugh.

"I am very charming," Ilya says.

"You're a slut," Erik laughs.

Ilya does his best to look offended. "I am a gentleman. How dare you."

For a while, the conversation drifts. Erik tells Ilya about people from school he hasn't thought about in months. Girls who've asked about Ilya. Austin fills him in on who broke up with who, who got caught smoking pot, and who somehow managed to get suspended two weeks before graduation.

Ilya laughs until his stomach hurts.

Every once in a while he looks over at Shane. At first, Shane mostly listens, even with the liquid courage, his shoulders are drawn up. He smiles when everyone else laughs, but he doesn't try to involve himself in the conversations revolving around Calgary.

Ilya mentions something that happened in Ottawa, and leaves space for Shane to comment on it.

Erik asks them about the Memorial Cup.

Shane starts talking more.

By the time the sun has well and truly set, Erik is telling some ridiculous story about getting his truck stuck in a ditch outside the city and Shane is interrupting to tell him exactly how stupid he was.

Ilya smiles at the slowly emptying bottle.

He watches his three friends laughing.

It's easy.

Ilya and Shane get back to the house, probably a little later than they should have. He's proud of himself for forcing both of them to drink full glasses of water before they stumble into his bedroom.

Both of them are exhausted, still feeling the small time difference, and the general excitement of the day. Ilya feels lucky that he doesn't have time to consider if he should feel awkward after the last time they fell asleep next to each other. He's asleep shortly after his head hits the pillow.

When they wake up in the morning, Ilya is grateful to be seventeen. He feels far better than he has any right to.

They both take turns getting ready in the bathroom. Ilya's nervous and he's not sure why.

Irina is careful to make sure they have every document they might possibly need before they leave. Ilya's worried for a moment that she'll bring his honour roll certificate from grade eight. He can't help but smile though. He knows how important this day is to her.

Ilya's clothes are itchy and don't fit quite right. He had left his game day suit in Ottawa since he still had some nice clothes in Calgary. He hadn't considered that he'd grown over the year, especially with the additional training.

Still, Irina fusses over him and it brings a smile to his face as he looks at her, also wearing her best clothes. He has to fight back the emotion that threatens to bubble up in him at this.

He still thinks of that morning when she pulled him out of bed. Feeling so confused but following her because he trusted her in that way a child trusts their parent. Or, he supposes, considering what they left behind, the way a child should trust their parent.

"You did it, Mama," Ilya says softly, leaning forward to envelop her in his arms. She seems so much smaller than his memory has made her. He feels her arms snake around his waist and he presses a kiss to her forehead.

"No, Ilyusha." She tries to sound like she's scolding him. It doesn't work. "We did it."

He doesn't argue with her, even though they both know neither of them would be here without her tenacity. Without her willingness to live for both herself and her son.

He releases her and she reaches out to grasp his face, seemingly taking in each part of him. Her hands move down to adjust the cross at his throat, ensuring it's lying flat. She smiles at its presence.

"Ready?" she asks him.

He nods.

—

The building has a distinct utilitarianism to it that some buildings in downtown Calgary do for reasons Ilya doesn't particularly care about. It feels odd to him that such a significant moment in his life will happen while someone else is just there to argue about back taxes.

Ilya and Irina register and he's briefly panicked when they collect his permanent residency card from him. He feels untethered as he stands there and feels oddly stateless. An incredible overreaction considering what they're here for.

Once they're registered, Ilya and Irina are seated separately from the Hollanders and Lara. Irina holds his hand tightly while they sit down together. He can feel the excited anticipation coming off her in waves.

Without really thinking about it, Ilya's eyes scan across the room. He pretends he wants to take in the exact layout of the room, really cement the moment in his mind.

He isn't. He doesn't care if he never thinks of this room again so long as he walks out with citizenship.

He's looking for Shane. Across the room and toward the back he first sees Yuna, her presence demanding attention even in this federal government building.

A stray thought has Ilya wondering if it is strange for David to be in a federal building even on a day he's taken off work. He shakes it off, recentering himself in the room.

Seeking those eyes.

And of course, Shane's already looking at him. A small smile on his face.

Ilya sticks his tongue out at Shane.

Shane rolls his eyes dramatically.

Ilya tries not to start laughing in this very ugly federal building where they are about to give him a home.

Once the clerk comes in to go over the procedure, things happen quickly.

Finally, Ilya stands next to his mother, and can hear the emotion overtaking her voice as they take the oath to their new home.

Ilya can't fight the tears that prick the corners of his eyes.

Which is ridiculous, of course. There's no reason swearing fealty to some far off Queen, who's little more than a face he sees on money, should affect him this much. Still, Ilya can't help it.

Eventually, Mama is called and she squeezes his hand before stepping forward to finalize her documents.

Ilya Rozanov

He's called next.

When he stands, he looks out at the crowd and catches Shane's eye. He winks. Shane is grinning.

Ilya feels like he's truly coming home.

The national anthem plays.

Ilya feels patriotic for the first time in his life, he thinks.

They're walking out of the big ugly building. Ilya's hand is absentmindedly touching the small maple leaf pinned on his shirt.

When they're standing in front of the building, Shane is the one to pull Ilya into a hug. Ilya's not sure Shane's ever initiated a hug before. He's rendered speechless for a second before hugging Shane back.

All Ilya can think about is standing next to Shane next December.

That night, they all pile into his and Mama's side of the duplex.

Mama invites everyone over for dinner. She'd made cabbage rolls and borscht for them to have for dinner. Shane ate two bowls in Ottawa, and Irina remembered. She'd been especially pleased because Ilya had told her how particular Shane was about food.

Ilya is worried initially that they won't all fit. Lara has brought over an extra table, and their small dining area is extended into the living room. David helps Ilya push the couch up along the wall and shift the chair into Ilya's room.

They carry a few chairs over from Lara's kitchen as well, though Irina spends most of the evening perched in the kitchen, making sure everyone is fed.

At one point, Ilya is struck by how warm this home is. How full it is.

It's home in a way he's not sure he's ever known.

Not even on their best days in Russia had it ever felt like this. Not that he can remember.

He catches a glimpse of Irina at some point and feels momentarily off balance.

Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are fond. She looks happy. So fucking happy.

He wishes he could bottle this moment so that they would always have it. Instead, all he can hope is that this means there will be more days like this ahead. Because they made it.

Canadian. At last.

That night, he lays in bed with Shane next to him, whose body has relaxed into Ilya. He doesn't fall asleep immediately, instead just listening to the soft sounds of Shane's breathing that nearly verges on snoring. 

All at once, with the feeling of Shane pressed against his back, Ilya is left thinking that home might have gained a slightly more complicated definition without him realizing.

Chapter End Notes

thank you for the kind comments, work has genuinely been killing me. (idk how i'll survive this school year. i am struggling)

but this fic is giving me life! i'm so excited for how it's building, and i'm looking forward to letting it just... happen. and i want to take my time with it and give it the breathing room without feeling rushed. i just hope it doesn't feel...too slow or like bland? idk

(part of me fears i'm embracing the slow of the slow burn too much?? not that i'll stop...but i'm just worried)

i'm babbling.

please, continue to leave comments, it's helping me massively stay motivated.

this story feels very dear to me. i'm hoping i'm doing it justice.

Chapter 16: Late June 2009

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane get drafted.

Chapter Notes

your comments!!!! i genuinely smiled so hard. but now i've got to forcibly not allow myself to get psyched out bc people are really loving it. (I fear disappointing y'all 😬😬😬)

it's late. my brother got married today (hooray) and i've read through this enough to know i tidied up all my place holders for when i can't remember words. (it happens more than you'd think).

so hopefully it's all semi-coherent.

(I noticed some last minute things I didn't catch on my previous edit, hopefully I got them all, but I'm literally finishing this note on my phone before going to sleep.... So it'll be what it is bc I don't wanna delay posting)

The draft.

Sure, Ilya graduates with top marks, even has universities trying to tempt him away from the possibility of the millions to be found in the NHL with the promise of scholarships and education. But the draft becomes all he can think about. It's importance always outranking everything else.

Besides, it seems since his eighteenth birthday that everything has hit fast-forward and adulthood is no longer some far off theory or hypothesis. It's here.

And the draft is imminent. It's actually going to happen, and somehow Ilya is not only expected to be there, but anticipated.

Yuna has had Ilya and Shane working non-stop outside of finishing up their grade 12 year. They've both got an agent. They both have people in suits incredibly interested in purchasing a piece of them before they get gobbled up by hockey. While they're still just little more than their potential.

People trying to get in on the ground floor, so to speak.

The end of the school year is followed closely by getting their shit together and getting to Montreal.

Ilya misses his mom at graduation, but she hadn't been able to get work off that day. She still makes sure to call him the second it's over and tells him she's proud. Tells him how much she loves him. That she wishes she had been able to be there.

There's maybe something sad in the way she says it, beyond just disappointment over missing this moment.

He wonders if she thinks of Alexei too.

Wonders if he missed his mom at his graduation as Ilya had. Even if it's for considerably different reasons.

But the graduation is still the second most important thing that will happen in June because Ilya and Shane are going to the fucking draft.

When they land in Montreal, Yuna and David bring them to the hotel they'll be staying in. It's stupid, and over the top, but Ilya is excited to be in a hotel this nice. He's never been somewhere nearly as nice.

Shane and Ilya drop their bags in the room and head out after promising Yuna that they won't stay out long.

He and Ilya decide to walk from their hotel so they can really appreciate the views, and honestly it just gives them more time to hang out. It's hard to think that in a few days they'll be separating for different development camps and then won't see each other until the fall when Ilya returns to Ottawa so they can finish out their last season with the Rapids. It seems bizarre that even after spending nearly a year together that Ilya's worried about how much he'll miss Shane the moment they're apart.

"It sucks your mom couldn't make it out," Shane says after they've stopped near the water.

"Yeah," Ilya says, shrugging. He tries to play it off like it doesn't matter. "Is not always easy for her to get time off work."

Shane nods like he understands. And then it happens. That moment Ilya always senses after they bring up a topic pertaining to his family. To his family being places.

He can nearly hear the thoughts as each one passes through Shane's head. The clear desire on his face to ask Ilya about the rest of his family. He hasn't yet, but Ilya knows it's only a matter of time.

Shane knows exactly as much as Ilya wants anyone to know. That he and his mother immigrated to Canada from Russia for a better life. Because it's true. Because it's simple. Because it doesn't end with his best friend looking at him as if Ilya were broken. As if he were something to pity. As if she were someone to pity.

"Lara threatened to come," Ilya says in his best attempt at misdirection. "Said she would get drunk and make a whole scene if I don't get drafted first."

"Too bad we'll miss out on that," Shane laughs, accepting Ilya's poor attempt to distract him. "Especially since you're definitely not getting drafted first."

Ilya shoves Shane hard enough that he stumbles. Which turns into them shoving each other with increasing intensity while they angle themselves back towards the hotel.

Yuna and David said they'd meet the boys in the lobby, so that's where they start looking for them.

Ilya's body registers her presence before his brain, bursting out into a sprint the moment he sees the golden halo of curls. Hears her sweet voice call for him.

Seconds later, he has his arms wrapped around his mom and he feels hers come around his waist. He takes in a deep breath. The familiar scent of her shampoo. The one he could identify in a crowd for all the comfort it gives him.

"What are…how did—" he can't seem to land on the question he wants. "When were—"

"I am here for the draft," she says in Russian, laughing brightly. "Yuna set it all up."

Yuna. Irina using Yuna's first name unlocks a door Ilya has unconsciously been holding closed between these two important parts of his life. It implies familiarity. It implies connection beyond her just being the woman who houses Ilya.

It takes a moment before Ilya is ready to let go of his mother, but the moment he does he turns and wraps Yuna up in a hug.

"Thank you," he says quietly, only for her ears.

The second his arms wrap around her, he feels her entire body stiffen and he realizes belatedly that they have never really breached this level of contact. Sure, David will give Ilya a hug here and there, will ruffle his hair when he walks past. But Yuna has always kept a certain sense of propriety between them. He doesn't want to call it a wall, because he doesn't think it's cold. He doesn't think it means she doesn't care for him.

He thinks it's just how she is. Who she is.

It only takes a second before her body loosens into the embrace. Ilya realizes, with a small chuckle, that her reaction is not dissimilar to Shane's.

She hugs him back.

"Of course, dear," she says warmly.

She lets him hug her for a few moments longer before pulling away, reaching up with a soft touch to wipe tears that must have pooled in Ilya's eyes.

Ilya's already calculating the possible cost Yuna and David incurred to bring Irina here for him, and is already considering how he can possibly pay them back.

"She had to be here," Yuna says seriously, her hand still loosely at his face. "You owe us nothing for this."

A small smile appears on his face. So like her son, able to read Ilya as if he'd given them both a clear directory to his face.

He doesn't think he stops grinning the entire evening. His smile only faltering when he and Shane tuck themselves into separate beds in their shared hotel room, and Ilya wonders why it suddenly feels like his bed is far too big.

Ilya wakes the next morning and is surprised at how easily he slept through the night. The anxiety over the draft hadn't kept him up at all, and he realizes with a start that he really isn't that anxious about it.

Almost no one is projected to come first or second outside of him and Shane.

As far as he's concerned they're in a no-lose scenario.

The dark circles beneath Shane's eyes suggest he may not feel quite so magnanimous as Ilya. Shane's always been a little more competitive than Ilya. Or, if not more competitive, more dependent on the result to prove what he already knows.

"Bad sleep?" Ilya asks, probably a little brighter than is strictly necessary.

Shane lets his head fall lazily in Ilya's direction, sending him a distinctly withering look. Damn. Ilya really hadn't realized it was that important to Shane to come first.

"I just kept picturing getting up on the stage and somehow having no pants on," Shane admits.

Ilya barks out a laugh, briefly embarrassed to have thought Shane would be worried about anything else. Yes, of course, Shane Hollander lost sleep over the idea that he would forget to wear pants.

The guy who packed approximately ten pairs of underwear for a three day trip to Montreal.

"At least you'd be sure your underwear would be clean," Ilya says, grinning despite the same flat look he receives in return.

"Fuck off," Shane says, chucking one of the pillows on his bed directly at Ilya's head.

Before Ilya can reply, Shane's phone goes off where it's charging on the bedside table between them.

That'll be Yuna.

She has the day quite booked up for them.

And Yuna is nothing if not efficient. She has them on a strict schedule today, and when Ilya glances at the alarm clock between their beds he is quite disappointed—for Yuna's sake—in both of them for already being behind. After jostling Shane out of bed, Ilya waits his turn to clean himself up in the bathroom before they're nearly sprinting down the stairs, still buttoning up their shirts.

They're really only ten minutes late to meet Yuna. Maybe thirteen.

Ilya makes a face at Shane after Yuna gives them both one of her patented, very silent, stare-downs when they finally meet with her in the lobby. After she had pointedly looked at her watch.

They're supposed to start by meeting with Farah, their agent, for breakfast with Yuna. Unfortunately, them being ten, okay fifteen, minutes behind means they don't get to have very much before Farah and Yuna are rushing them along. He and Shane decided to go with the same agent, it just made sense. And she'd been hand-picked by Shane's mom so Ilya figures there's no higher praise.

Farah had run them through a vague itinerary for their day when they'd spoken to her the week before. She had also stressed that the day was likely to be ever-changing and that they'd need to just let the day happen. Ilya wasn't excited to be seated in front of cameras all day.

Ever since his and Shane's names started to be consistently mentioned, the media has been desperate to form some sort of narrative about them. And he supposes it is to be expected, it's not often that the top favoured prospects are not only on the same team, but living together. And best friends.

Beyond that, they also provided fodder in a way that set Ilya's teeth on edge.

The inspirational immigrant.

The Asian hockey player.

It bugs the hell out of Ilya, and he starts finding increasingly entertaining ways to avoid the questions that naturally come with the story the media has decided fits him. Even if they were cutting pieces of him off so it'd slip on comfortably for them.

Ilya isn't sure how they're able to take things that are incidental to his and Shane's identities and somehow turn them into a story. Into some sort of myth they can package up and sell before games.

Before he's really ready for anything, Ilya finds himself thrust in front of a camera being asked questions at such a pace he's not sure he actually understands English by the end of it. Shane is across the room getting the same treatment. And they're both inevitably asked about each other.

Yuna trained the same answers for these questions into both of them.

Of course, I'll be happy for him.

If it's not me, I want it to be him.

He thinks it's between their second tv interview, but before the radio one, when he and Shane are finally able to talk with no one standing nearby. The carefully curated schedule gave them fifteen minutes for a bathroom break, and since the tv interviews went faster than projected, they actually got the time.

"Is fucking nuts, yes?" Ilya says, feeling oddly exhausted. "They won't stop asking about you or about immigration. Nothing about hockey."

"Yeah," Shane nods. "It's a lot."

Ilya opens his mouth to say something else when Yuna calls for them again. There's another interview to do.

Ilya groans dramatically and then tugs Shane's sleeve.

Ilya's next interview ends early, so he hangs around while Shane finishes.

"Do you feel an additional pressure knowing you could become the first Asian Canadian player selected first overall?"

Shane is facing Ilya when the question is asked, so Ilya gets to watch the way his face shifts and it's almost like the light leaves his eyes. It's honestly shocking that the interviewer doesn't notice.

Whatever answer Shane provides doesn't even register to Ilya. He's just locked on Shane's face. The smile that's so careful. The way his words emerge like he's said them before. He probably has.

When Ilya glances to Yuna he sees a tightness in her expression as well.

He only sees Irina briefly over lunch, because he doesn't want her becoming part of whatever narrative they've started crafting of him. He'd like to keep her as far away from whatever this is going to become as he can keep her.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of camera flashes, smiles that no longer feel natural, people picking at his clothes, adjusting his hair. It feels unending. People talk over each other. Everyone seems to be pointing both him and Shane in conflicting directions.

It's exhausting. He can feel Shane starting to drag before he does. Every response is increasingly short, even when Ilya tries to get him to laugh.

When they're walking back toward their hotel room, Ilya's starting to feel genuinely worried. Shane's face hasn't loosened even though it's just them together.

"You want food?" Ilya asks.

"No." The answer is flat. Absolutely flat and lifeless.

"Have you decided which boring suit to wear tonight?" Ilya tries for a little levity. He reaches over to lightly shove Shane's shoulder.

Shane hardly reacts, doesn't even respond to being called boring.

"I don't know."

"Are you okay?" Ilya asks, slowing his stride as they're nearing the elevator.

"I'm fine," Shane answers, slowing alongside Ilya until they're both standing still near the elevators.

"C'mon," Ilya says, reaching over to tug at Shane's sleeve. "You barely ate all day. We can order room service, I can pay, since I am probably number one pick."

He gives Shane an overconfident grin. He just wants to make Shane laugh. He watches carefully for any hint of a smile.

"I said I'm fine."

"Okay," Ilya says, rolling his eyes a little. "But—"

"Could you just fuck off." Shane's voice doesn't rise significantly in terms of volume, but it's sharp. Sharper than it ever has been when directed towards Ilya and he finds himself pulling back. Pulling away from Shane. Physically removing himself from the frustration that's pouring off Shane's body in waves.

A pit opens in his gut.

"I'm sorry," Ilya says softly, wishing he could put more space between them.

"Fuck," Shane snaps at no one in particular, just an exclamation. He closes his eyes for a moment before turning and leaving Ilya standing alone in the hotel lobby.

Feeling like an absolute asshole.

There's a moment where it feels like Ilya can't breathe.

Briefly, he's worried he can't breathe, until finally he's able to take in a big shuddering breath.

Shane's never snapped at him like that before. Sure, they've gotten frustrated with each other. They've been living together for nearly a full year. It happens.

This is different. Shane's never spoken to Ilya like this.

It makes something inside of him tighten and, foolishly, he almost feels like he could cry. Which would be stupid, of course. Crying over his best friend being upset with him would be stupid.

Ultimately, Ilya finds himself seated on one of the cushioned chairs in the lobby. He doesn't want to go upstairs if Shane's in the room and doesn't want him there.

And that's where David finds him.

"Hey, bud," David calls to him.

Ilya looks up at him and he must be in a state considering the way David's face softens at the sight of him.

"What's going on?" he asks Ilya. "Did something happen?"

"I don't know," Ilya answers honestly. "I think I…fucked up. With Shane."

David nods and takes the seat next to Ilya, leaning forward so it feels like the conversation is at least somewhat private and not in a busy hotel lobby.

"What happened?"

"He, uh," Ilya isn't sure how to explain. "It was a long day."

That's pretty much all he has to say before a knowing look comes over David's face and he just says, "Ah."

"I maybe ask too much," Ilya says. "Too many questions."

David just nods.

"I usually am better," Ilya says, embarrassed by how much it hurts that he caused this reaction from Shane. "I am not usually cause of this." He gestures vaguely. "I am usually help."

David places his hand on Ilya's shoulder, and Ilya's so fried from the sheer amount of everything that this day has already been that he almost flinches back from the contact. His brain reverting to some primal fight or flight before his brain can register that it's David fucking Hollander. He sees the small moment of hesitation before there's light contact.

"You can't always help, son," David says gently. "Not with Shane."

"Yes, but—"

"No," David interjects. "I know you two are close." David smiles softly at the understatement. "But I have known my son for a little longer. And this is part of Shane. Sometimes the best thing you can give him is space."

Ilya wants to argue, because Shane's never needed space from him before, but he knows what David has to say is true. Even if he wants to disagree with him.

"I should probably go up," Ilya says.

"We'll see you both down here in a bit," David says, patting Ilya's back.

After taking a deep breath, feeling like he's going to face something far scarier than his friend, Ilya slowly heads to the elevator. He makes his way down the hall until he's standing outside their room. He assumes Shane is already inside and is worried what he'll find on the other side of the door.

Eventually, so no one calls security about him, Ilya has no choice but to open the door. He breathes a sigh of relief when he hears the shower running. At least it gives him some time to figure out what to say before he faces Shane.

Ilya's sitting on the end of his bed, fidgeting with his phone, when Shane emerges from the bathroom. He's freshly showered and looking slightly closer to human. The second he sees Ilya his expression tightens a little. He looks genuinely chagrined.

"I'm sorr—"

"No," Ilya interrupts him. "I am sorry, Shane."

"I'm sorry too," Shane insists. "I shouldn't have—fuck, I shouldn't have snapped at you."

Ilya groans loudly, flopping on the bed. "I have barely been a Canadian for two months and I cannot believe you will not let me apologize."

The sound of Shane's responding laugh is enough to bolster Ilya for the rest of the evening, exhaustion be damned.

Both of them take their time to get ready, Ilya having a short shower after Shane. They get dressed in the suits that were purchased for this day. Shane stops Ilya before they leave and looks at him carefully before reaching up to adjust one of his curls.

There's something about the touch that settles whatever it was in Ilya that had been dislodged when Shane snapped at him.

"You ready?" Ilya asks him before opening the door to their room.

"No," Shane laughs once without any humour. "Not even close."

Ilya nods in understanding before stepping back and looking Shane up and down.

"Hey, at least you're definitely wearing pants."

Shane punches his arm, but laughs.

Shane's picked first. He's going to Boston. Ilya is the first out of his seat to cheer for him.

And it's not long before Shane is doing the same for him when Ilya's called second. Montreal.

The only one who might be cheering louder than Shane is Irina. He holds up the sweater towards her, makes sure she can see his name on the back. His number. He needs her to know it's because of her.

He is only here because of her.

The next hour barely feels real. Ilya is shuffled between handshakes, photographs and people whose names disappear from his head almost as quickly as they're introduced. He's not able to give Shane more than a passing hug once they're being pushed in various directions.

Eventually, Ilya is standing next to Irina, who is beaming. They are speaking to the owner of the Metros.

"We don't care he came in number two," the man, whose name Ilya should definitely know, says. "People are popping champagne all over Quebec."

He chuckles at this lightly as if he's told a joke.

"And just to be clear," he continues. "We're thrilled to have him on the team, coming from such modest beginnings. Makes for an amazing story."

Ilya feels his spine stiffen and tries to keep the affable smile on his face.

Irina, doesn't hear the dig the same way Ilya does, he's had it forced down his throat all day. She smiles.

"I am very proud of him," she says, glancing up at Ilya. The warmth in her expression soothes away any sting from the comment. "He will work very hard for you."

—

That night they both lie in their beds. Too keyed up to fall asleep, but too exhausted to do anything but lie on their beds.

Ilya is just about to suggest they go find the hotel gym just so they can try to exhaust their bodies enough to pass out when he feels the bed next to him shift.

He turns and sees Shane, his face still somewhat drawn, pushing back the blankets and gently shoving Ilya's shoulder until he makes room.

He makes room.

They're both lying on the bed, initially both staring at the ceiling, and the night feels familiar. Like they've done it before. And they have.

Shane lets out a deep exhale the moment he's settled into the bed next to Ilya.

"I'm sorry." Shane's voice is soft.

"Me too."

There's a moment of silence between them.

"We don't have to talk about it," Ilya whispers.

He can feel Shane nod next to him.

Eventually, Shane's breathing evens out as he slips into sleep, and Ilya finally feels his eyes start to droop as well.

And when they wake the next morning, their bodies far closer than they had been before falling asleep, they don't talk about that either.

Chapter End Notes

HEY

slow burn.

S L O W

give them time.

but they cannot kiss just yet. not YET.

we are building toward something absolutely DELICIOUS. (trust me...or don't?)

(BUT IRINA BEING THERE INSTEAD OF HIS TERRIBLE DAD??? HER JUST BEING PROUD??? ILYA GETTING TO HAVE SOMEONE THERE JUST BEING PROUD???? i am sobbing. this ilya might be the most dear to my heart)

i love your comments. I love how much this story is like... working for people. That you get me and my need for the slowness.

Chapter 17: Summer 2009

Chapter Summary

Ilya spends the summer in Calgary.

Chapter Notes

this week is gonna be absolutely bananas at work (fingers crossed i don't lose it and walk into the sea before the end of the week.)

so idk how much time i'll have to write, but i also love this story and can't physically make myself stay away. (i've got the next chapter already stopped)

Ilya and Shane return to Ottawa before they part ways shortly after the draft. He can tell for the first few days while they are still together Shane feels uncomfortable. Ilya thinks maybe he feels a little guilty about the fact that he was chosen first over Ilya. Even though Ilya's pretty sure they both know the truth.

Shane's a better player.

Bravado aside, Ilya cannot deny the simple fact that Shane can outskate him. Ilya might be more aggressive, and more willing to risk himself, but Shane is a smarter player. A sharper player. It's close, and maybe one day Ilya will be able to say the inverse, but for now he's comfortable with this truth.

Saying goodbye feels harder than it should. They've spent the past two summers together. Neither is really willing to admit how much they're dreading the distance. But it's only until the end of summer. Ilya reminds himself of this when the Hollanders drop him off at the airport so he can get to his development camp with the Metros. Shane will be leaving the next day for his own development camp in Boston. And they'll see each other again at the end of August for the Team Canada development camp.

All in all, Ilya thinks they should both be beyond developed by the end of summer.

Ilya spends a few more days in Montreal, but instead of being interviewed to hell before the draft, the Metros' management puts him through physical tests, drills, and assessments, obviously wanting to be sure their investment was worth it. He's happy to be done the second it's over.

After all is said and done, Ilya lands back in Calgary to spend the summer before his life changes.

He's the second draft pick.

He's single.

It's summer.

And technically he should be returning to Calgary with far more money than he has any right to worry about. Which probably would have made the summer a little more fun.

He texts Shane the second he powers his phone on in Calgary. It feels weird to turn and not see those dark brown eyes, so serious all the time, staring back at him. He'd spent nearly every moment the past year with Shane. It makes sense that he's feeling the absence so keenly. It must be why it feels like he's left part of himself back in Ottawa.

He lasts two days before he's dialing Shane's number without really considering what he's doing until he hears Shane's voice, gravelly with sleep.

"Fuck, did I wake you?" Ilya feels bad for all of a second before he realizes it's only four in the afternoon for Shane. "No, new question. Why the fuck are you asleep?"

"Because I was tired, Ilya," Shane tells him and Ilya can hear his eyes roll. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Ilya admits.

"So you called…?" Shane leaves the sentence dangling.

Ilya refuses to fall willingly into the trap.

"Oh my god, Roz," Shane gasps performatively. "Do you already miss me?"

"Okay, phone call done," Ilya says, his face suddenly feeling very warm. For absolutely no reason at all.

"Noooo," Shane complains loudly. "Don't hang up. You already woke me up. Now you've gotta entertain me."

"You know you were not so much an asshole when I met you."

Shane snorts. "Yes, I was. Pretty sure I told you to fuck off or something."

"Yes," Ilya concedes. "But this was before you had fallen under the spell of my Russian charm." Now it's Ilya's turn to gasp dramatically. "Is this what happens when I leave? My charm wears off?"

"Sorry, what charm?"

Ilya's jaw drops. "See. I do not lie. Asshole. Everyone's number one draft pick is number one asshole."

"So you'd lose to me in that too?" Shane's smirk is so loud Ilya can hear it from fucking Ottawa.

"You call me an asshole and do not even have decency to let me be number one?"

"You made me number one, idiot." Shane's laughing loudly now.

"Ah, and now I am idiot," Ilya says, and he flops back on the couch, grinning more than he has since he's been home. "I should give exclusive interview. Here is how Shane Hollander bullies immigrants. Or, maybe Shane Hollander thinks all immigrants are idiots."

"Oh my god."

They don't say anything out loud. They don't make a schedule or something silly like that. But whenever one of them is missing the other and calls, it seems like the other is always ready to answer. And is maybe missing them too. Ilya thinks the most they go is three days without a phone call.

Outside of calls with Shane, Ilya figures out how to afford his summer back in Calgary after talking to an old coach. He tries not to think about the fact that he should have access to a considerable amount of money. Because, really, it only bothers him a little that contract negotiations are dragging. Farah and Yuna are both unwilling to let him walk away with anything less than he's worth. So, even though Ilya is the number two draft pick, he will be spending part of his summer helping with some clinics at a rink just outside of the city.

Because, apparently, there are parents in and around Calgary willing to pay an absolutely reprehensible amount of money for their kids to just be on the same ice as Ilya. It's like they think it'll get their kids into the NHL purely by osmosis. When he hears how much they're willing to pay for what amounts to very limited time on the ice with him, he finds he doesn't feel terrible for taking advantage of it.

He's not sure many of them should even bother paying that much, though.

And apparently, this particular rink in this particular area is a goddamn mecca for these kinds of people. Whether their kids have a shot in hell of making the NHL or not.

It always blows Ilya's mind, driving Lara's old hatchback across the city, how differently people can live within the same place. It was one thing to conceptualize that Shane lived a life free of worry in regard to money when he lived across the country, and another to see just driving across a city.

Forest Lawn is all personality—houses coming apart, restaurants of every type of international cuisine, including countries he'd never heard of, and the ramshackle additions onto homes that cannot possibly pass code. When he exits city limits, he finds himself almost immediately thrust into farmland. It's something that both confounds and charms him about the city. It goes from overdeveloped neighbourhoods to farmer's fields in the blink of an eye.

These neighbourhoods just outside of the city are something else entirely. Homes large enough to house an entire hockey team on sprawling lots of land. Ilya can't even imagine needing that amount of space. He wonders how many people live in those houses, and whether they ever actually see each other.

When he drives past a particularly large home, which looks utterly empty, Ilya's reminded that they've been experiencing a recession for the past year.

He thinks he's heard that some of the players from Calgary's NHL team, the Mustangs, have homes out here, but it's hardly the only explanation for the money. Calgary is an oil and gas city. Money like this isn't exactly unusual, even if Ilya isn't used to seeing such blatant displays of it.

And honestly, it pisses him off a bit when he thinks of players like Erik, who's good—maybe not NHL good, but still good—and would have never seen the inside of a rink this nice, much less be provided the opportunity to skate with a first round draft pick.

Skating with the kids out in Springbank is fine. Absolutely fine. Most of them are talented in the way that people become talented when they've spent their entire lives being told this is what they're supposed to do. Very few of them seem to genuinely play because they love the game. He hasn't realized how important that love is.

Because talent matters, sure, and so does a love of the game, but he fears that in hockey especially what is often top billed is whether or not someone's parents can afford to buy them ice time.

What's even better is the obscene money these parents pay him. And working only two days a week leaves him with more money than seems reasonable.

Ilya uses the money to enjoy Calgary as a final farewell to the city. He might be back next summer, but he'll also have training camp and be getting ready to officially join the Metros. So he won't really be back.

He trains at a local gym and skates at the rink near his home, even though the ice is absolutely not as nice as the rink out in Springbank or even in Ottawa. He trains there because it reminds him of the first few times he played in Calgary after Mama bought him his first skates in Canada.

It reminds him that, at the end of the day, he's playing a game. A game he loves.

It only takes him a few days before people stop staring at him.

He expects to spend time with Irina, maybe helping her around the house, but quickly discovers that she's created quite the system for herself in his absence. And it's good, and she seems good too. Really good, because for the first time inside of his home, Ilya finds himself feeling distinctly unneeded.

It's great. Honestly.

Lara confirms exactly what he suspects one day when they share lunch, that Mama is settled into her life. It doesn't mean that there aren't some days that are a little tougher, but she has so much to her life now. She has school. She has friends. She's changed jobs to something that allows her to see the sun more often. She's doing well in a way Ilya can genuinely say he's never seen before.

It breaks his heart in a complicated way when Lara says that Irina's starting to smile like she did when they were young. Smiling like she had before Grigori.

He thinks he sees the smile a few times through the summer. She wears it well.

So, Ilya spends his days training and his nights out with people he knew from high school, and then with people he meets while he's out.

He finds himself feeling a little untethered, without a clear reason as to why, and maybe that's why most weekend nights end with him at The Back Alley. A club that seems to take its name seriously, aiming to be every bit as dirty, dangerous, and seedy as its name would suggest. And if he's not there, he finds another.

On one particular night, Ilya is in the centre of the dance floor, moving to the loud music he can barely hear over the sound of the bass, when a pretty woman locks eyes with him and makes it a personal mission to be in Ilya's space.

He finds this is not uncommon. Many women are happy to hook up with Ilya just because of his name. Because one day he'll be making far too much money to play a game on large sheets of ice.

It's just as well for him, because if it's not his name, he knows the hours he's been putting in at the gym and on the rink have made his body difficult to ignore. Sometimes that's enough.

Sometimes he doesn't even learn their names.

That's sometimes enough too. He's not exactly sure what it's supposed to be enough for though.

The music is loud enough that he doesn't have to think about anything beyond the sound of it. The press of the bodies surrounding him. The smell of sweat, booze, and sickly sweet body spray. His feet stick to the floor for reasons he's not willing to explore too closely, and Shane enters his thoughts unbidden, because Shane would hate this.

It's that thought one night in late July that propels Ilya out of the club, phone in hand, in search of a bus stop that'll take him closer to home.

He's maybe a little drunk.

He hits the call button.

He realizes just too late that it's nearly midnight in Calgary, so in Ottawa, wait. No. Shane's not in Ottawa, he's at his parent's cottage, which Ilya thinks is the same time zone—

"Are you fucking kidding, dude?" Shane's voice is thick with sleep.

"Ohmygod," Ilya says, and it comes out like a mush of words. "Shit, I didn't realize, uh. Fuck."

"Are you drunk?" Shane asks, his voice a little more awake. "Are you okay?"

"Uh, yes," Ilya says. "Give me a second."

Shane is still complaining when Ilya shoves his phone into his jacket pocket while he counts out coins before dumping the handful into the receptacle and accepting a transfer from the driver with a smile.

Shane's still complaining when Ilya lifts the phone to his ear.

"…middle of the fucking night."

"Okay, hello," Ilya says, probably far too congenially for the circumstances.

He carefully walks to the back of the bus, the sudden movement of it and the way the floor is naturally shifting, making it a slightly more difficult task than usual.

"I take it you're okay," Shane says. He doesn't sound terribly pleased by that bit of information.

"Of course," Ilya says, only half listening. "I will be even more okay when I can get to seat."

"Why'd you call?" Shane says with a sigh. It's a sound that distinctly says well I'm up anyways.

Ilya grunts when he makes it to an open seat at the back and lets himself drop onto it. When he looks toward the front of the bus he can't help but wonder why the hell he didn't sit in any of the other empty seats. There's one other person on the bus. He just walked by so many empty spots.

Whatever.

"Ilya." Shane's voice drags his attention back. "Why. Did. You. Call."

He talks slowly.

"I was out at club. Dancing," Ilya says. He's not sure why his voice suddenly sounds so morose. "Floor was very sticky."

He says nothing else. Thinks, somehow, that it's enough of an explanation for Shane to understand.

"Okay?" Shane does not sound like he understands. "Why the hell does that end with you calling me?"

Ilya throws his head back and sighs loudly enough that the other bus patron, a man in his fifties who looks to be having a more difficult night than Ilya and his sticky floor, turns to glare at him. He mouths, sorry.

"I am just thinking," Ilya starts,hearing his accent thicken and his English get less careful as he talks, but not caring to adjust it. "Oh, Shane would hate this floor. And then I am thinking, I would never bring Shane to place with sticky floor. And then I am walking out of club, getting away from beautiful woman who definitely wanted to suck my dick—"

"Ilya, oh my god."

"—and I am calling Shane Hollander because he does not like sticky floor."

He pauses. And then adds, as if it has just occurred to him. "And I did not get my dick sucked."

At the end of it all, he realizes he may be a little more drunk than he initially assessed, and the other guy on the bus is definitely glaring at him. Or looking at him with some other kind of intensity. Regardless, he looks away.

Shane doesn't speak for long enough that Ilya worries he has fallen asleep.

"You were thinking of me in the club?" Shane asks, and his voice has a quality about it Ilya's not sure he's really heard before.

"Yes," Ilya says. "And then I did not get my dick sucked. Terrible evening."

"Sorry," Shane says, but he doesn't sound even a little sorry.

"You should be," Ilya agrees. "Now keep me company while I try to get home. How is Jessica?"

"Uh, what?"

"Oh my god, Hollander," Ilya groans. "You cannot forget same girlfriend twice. This is too much."

"No, um, shit. I could have sworn I mentioned it," he says. "We broke up."

"When?" Ilya demands.

"Like right after the draft."

Ilya's mouth drops open. "Shane Hollander. You have been broken up with your girlfriend for a month and you only mention it now?"

"I really thought I—"

"We talk every day!"

"It's not every—"

"It's basically every day," Ilya cuts him off again. "You did not tell me."

"I wasn't keeping it from you," Shane says, and he at least has the decency to sound like he feels bad about it.

"I forgive you, I am forgiving Russian."

"You're Canadian."

Ilya doesn't respond to that, focusing instead on pushing the button and preparing to disembark from the bus.

"Thank you!" he calls to the driver, forgetting to lower the phone from his face.

"For what?"

"Nothing," Ilya says. "Don't change subject. Why? Why did you break up? You were just too much for her in bed? Want to be ready for all the puck bunnies?"

He says it in jest, but there's part of Ilya that wants to push for information. Shane was always so tight lipped about the physical aspect of his relationship with Jessica. He can't help being curious about the one part Shane never talks about.

"Right." The sound of eye rolling that crosses the country. "We just…didn't work out. And we'll be busy in the fall. And then next year it's all going to get complicated."

"Makes sense," Ilya says. He loses the joking quality to his voice when he hears an edge of something else in Shane's. "You are good with it?"

"Yes, definitely," Shane says, the relief clear in his voice.

Ilya wants to push and find out why the relief is there. What it means, because he knows there's more to it. He doesn't. The same way that Shane never pushes about why he and Mama left Russia, Ilya lets Shane have this for himself until he's ready to share.

"Then I am happy for you," Ilya says.

They talk until Ilya finally drags his body into bed, just in time for them to say goodnight, and just in time for his phone to die.

—

On other nights, though far more rarely, Ilya finds himself in a different part of downtown Calgary. Ducking his head as he slips into the club adorned with rainbow flags on the front. He tries to be somewhat inconspicuous, though he's sure someone will recognize him, he can't fully bring himself to care.

He dances with some beautiful people there as well. Men and women, and the freedom of that dislodges something in his chest.

Ilya knows he's preparing to commit his life to a sport where whatever this other…need he feels is not only demonized, but actively used to diminish other players. And maybe that's what makes him so reckless.

Because he is. Reckless.

He doesn't hide his identity nearly as closely as he should, though with his face and body they hardly ever actually check his ID. And just statistically, this particular club doesn't tend to be packed with hockey fans. At least, not the kinds of fans who already know the faces of draft picks not projected to start playing until next year.

And he hooks up with guys. Sometimes it's little more than a quick release in the washroom. On one occasion he goes home with a guy who's got an apartment nearby.

Irina doesn't ask where he's been on the nights he comes home late and he's not sure what he would tell her if she asked. He knows she can smell the cigarette smoke, presumably can smell the alcohol on him.

He tries not to care what she thinks of him.

He tries not to think about another home, where he couldn't come home late without an excuse. He doesn't think one is inherently better than the other. Not really. Just different.

It's during one of those nights, when Ilya has made eyes at a man across the bar, and is about to push off the bar to follow him toward the washroom when he feels his phone vibrate in the pocket of his jeans that are just a little too tight.

A quick glimpse at the screen has Ilya smiling a little and turning away from the washroom and heading out the exit, accepting the call.

"Hey, Shane." Ilya is sure Shane can hear the smile in his voice.

"Ilya, the dumbest thing happened…" and Shane is off, telling him how Yuna seemed like she was going to come to blows with a woman in the grocery store parking lot. He loves that he can hear the grin in Shane's voice. He obviously had far more fun with it than Yuna.

—

Some nights, Ilya doesn't particularly care to feel the floor shift beneath him from the bass of a shitty sound system or from how many shots he's done, so he spends them with Erik and Austin. Or just Erik. Or just Austin.

Erik will be attending the University of Calgary and playing hockey for the Bisons. He's mainly excited that it'll give him a scholarship and allow him to actually afford to get a degree. Ilya's excited for him.

Austin will be attending the university as well. Ilya can't remember what he's going for. Something in the arts, he thinks.

"You are going for what? Degree in boring?" Ilya asks Erik on one of those nights.

Erik laughs, almost sputtering some of his beer out of the glass. "It's a business degree, asshole."

Ilya just shrugs. "Ah, is same thing."

There's a moment of silence between them as Erik uses all the napkins the waitress had thrown haphazardly on the table after leaving their drinks. She likely wasn't expecting a very good tip since they'd started ordering by asking what the cheapest beer they had was.

"Did you—" Erik cuts off and looks down at his beer as if it'll finish the question for him. "Are you sure about not going to university?"

Ilya nods slowly. He had thought about it. A lot. Repeatedly.

But in the end, there really hadn't been a choice. It's hockey. It'll always be hockey for him.

"Maybe," Ilya finally says, shrugging. "But, money is too good in NHL."

"It can't just be about the money," Erik insists. "Besides, what happens if you get hurt?"

"Then I am injured millionaire," Ilya says, pointedly taking a long drink of his incredibly cheap beer.

"C'mon, be serious."

Ilya sighs loudly, hating his friend for giving a shit. "It's not. I do love it. And it feels like if I'm going, I need to go. I don't know. I figure if anything, the university will be there if I need it."

Ilya steers the conversation back to Austin and his degree, sociology as it turns out, and after a few drinks Erik admits he's worried he and Austin won't see each other as much since they're not in the same programs.

He's glad that the conversation doesn't come back to hockey. He really doesn't want to talk about it. It'd been talked to death in June and he knows when he gets back with the Hollanders it'll be the main topic again.

He isn't sure why he doesn't want to talk about it. Like talking about it makes it all way too real. Right now, it just feels so far off. The draft became a blurry dream soon after arriving back in Calgary, and if it weren't for the consistent reminders at clubs or whatever external source, Ilya's not sure he'd even believe it was happening himself.

It's not as if he's got the money to show for it, he thinks bitterly at the end of the night when he's counting out change so he can get on the bus and get home.

It's nearing the end of August when Ilya is checking Facebookbefore heading out and sees a message in his inbox. He has made sure his profile is heavily locked down. He'd received some absolutely bizarre, and intensely concerning messages right after the draft. He clicks to see what particular brand of crazy has found him this time and nearly falls out of the desk chair.

It's a name he hasn't even thought about in years. A name he felt confident he would never actually see again.

Svetlana Vetrova

Ilya?

I hope this is actually your account. It's Svetlana Vetrova…obviously. I saw the draft. Couldn't believe it was you.

I don't know if you remember me, I was the girl who beat you at cards every summer when I visited my dad in Russia.

If this is really you, hi. I'd love to talk.

His fingers hover over the keys. He'd known having his face and his name out there during the draft would invite things like this in. He just thought he'd receive something from Papa, or even Alexei before anyone else. He considers himself lucky that they haven't contacted him or Irina. Not yet.

He types out a quick response and accepts the friend request. He'd always liked Svetlana. Always had a bit of a crush on her too.

Ilya Rozanov

Oh wow. Holy shit. idk what to say. but i'd like to remind you that you cheated at cards. every time.

Svetlana Vetrova

Hello, generally works, not immediately accusing a dear old friend of cheating.

Shocking they don't teach manners in Canada. ;)

Ilya Rozanov

ah yes, it's definitely you.

hello. happy? :P

Svetlana Vetrova

Getting there.

Over the next few days they exchange messages with increasing frequency. He finds he likes her just as much as he remembers. She's funny, smart, and knows a godawful amount about hockey.

She tells him she's living in Boston, which leads him to talk about Shane. She, obviously, already knows about him. She absolutely loves Shane. He suddenly doesn't care to have them meet.

They make plans to meet up when he's back on the east coast if she ever makes it north to Ottawa over the next year, and if not then when he plays in Boston with the Metros.

He doesn't tell Mama about Svetlana reaching out. Figures it'll only worry her, the Vetrovs were close with Papa. He makes sure to have Svetlana promise not to tell anyone she found him, especially not her father. Ideally, to not mention him at all to anyone even tangentially connected to Russia.

She points out that if she found him, others probably will too.

He tries not to think about that.

Finally, just days before he's set to leave for Ottawa, she asks the question he's been waiting for.

Svetlana Vetrova

can i just ask something? what happened to you? when i got back the next summer you were just…gone?

my dad wouldn't let me ask about you. or your mom.

It takes Ilya a full day to reply. He types out about fifteen different responses. Some that are far too revealing that he deletes without really considering sending them. Some say nothing. At one point he thinks about blocking her.

Ilya Rozanov

Mama wanted to leave Russia. So we left.

He changes his name on Facebook and removes his profile picture.

Ilya has his bags packed again, though he realizes he never really fully unpacked this summer, knowing the whole time he'd be headed back to Ottawa. He's even leaving a little early for Team Canada's summer development camp in Saskatoon. He's meeting Shane there before they both return to Ottawa.

There's a bit of sadness in knowing Calgary wouldn't really be home for him at all soon. Not after he starts with the Metros next year.

He exhales loudly, and doesn't let his mind fall down that pit. He'd stopped paying close attention to the countless emails regarding contract negotiations he and Shane have already decided to spend their last year playing in the OHL living with the Hollanders as they had the year prior.

Driving to the airport feels different this year. It nearly feels expected. It feels natural. And he thinks, maybe he and Mama have entered into the comfortable and expected part of when a child leaves home. The part where it gets easier for both of them.

At least, he thinks that until he's standing under the sign that says domestic departures, and hugging Irina, suddenly unable to let go.

He does let go though, because she's been amazing all summer. He can see that the scaffolding she's spent the last year putting in place has finally become sturdier. A life that doesn't look like it might collapse the second he leaves.

He finally feels like when he walks away he's not turning back to check on her because he's scared. Instead, he's turning back so he can remember her like this, and see how much more of herself she's found the next time he comes home.

Ilya has been gone for nearly a week, and Irina is readjusting to the way the house seems to shrink without his presence. Almost as if the walls themselves pull in to hold her closer when he's gone.

There isn't the same heaviness in her chest as there was when he'd left the summer before. She knows the Hollanders, knows Yuna. And David. She knows that Ilya will be well cared for.

She hopes he is more settled while he's there. She doesn't know what he was up to all summer, is pretty sure she doesn't want to know. Ilya is stepping into adulthood, and Irina feels little trepidation in seeing him take those steps. Of course, she's scared as any parent would be, but Ilya's always been more mature than he ought to be.

Regardless, she knows that he can always come back to her. Knows that he always will come back to her if he ever needs to. He'll call her when his flight lands, he always does, just to check in. And then he'll call when he misses her, or she'll call. Last year they averaged about twice a week, she thinks with a smile.

She's looking forward to continuing with school in the fall. She could probably complete the courses much faster, but she can only do so much while working. She likes that she is no longer just fighting to survive. She's finally getting the chance to become whoever she might be, here in Canada.

Their phone rings.

She answers.

A gruff voice from another life, so familiar, but somehow…different.

"Is this Irina Rozanova?" a male voice asks in brusque Russian.

Her eyes widen. And her mind goes to the one man who would be calling her with a voice like that. Asking for her in Russian.

"Grigori," she says the name softly, a cry and a curse rolled into one and packaged perfectly to leave her flayed.

She reminds herself of their citizenship.

She has more power than she did the last time they spoke.

She has more protection.

Before she can bring herself to hang up, he speaks again.

"No, Mama." She thinks she can mark the exact moment her heart freezes in her chest. "Alexei."

Chapter End Notes

😬😬😬

some of y'all guessed it. of course, they would be found!

i'm interested to see how Svetlana and Ilya develop their friendship in this world. like what ultimately ends up making sense for them. (bc i have vague plans, but i'm genuinely just going with VIBES)

can i just say...i have an entire fucking document about the complexity of alexei's relationship with both irina and ilya and how that's also gonna play out??

(and yes. i do believe that bc of access, shane is the better hockey player at this point, obv first pick, we getting boston raider shane.)(even though i want him to be a bear. i can never choose book or tv for the team names.)

thank you. i love your comments. if i could give you all a gentle high five i would.

(every once in a while i think "maybe i should save chapters and release on a schedule...but i never do bc i don't have self control. but...would a schedule be better??? or just fucking let 'er rip when they're done?)

anyways. can you tell idk when to shut up?

Chapter 18: 2009/2010 Season

Chapter Summary

Ilya plays his last season in the OHL and his first World Juniors.

Chapter Notes

(WHAT ANOTHER CHAPTER?)

you remember how i fucking hate my job?

bummer for their education. good news for y'all.

(and dude, i wish i could genuinely say that, but you know i'm burnt out as fuck but still giving my fucking all. i'm just also writing this during my lunch break... and my preps... and the second i get home after i have quiet brain time (which is me...reading fan fiction on the couch while my partner Does Not talk to me.))

**homophobic slur used. and just general jackass locker room shit. not as bad as it could be BUT IT'S STILL THERE FYI.

Fall gives way to winter fairly quickly this year. Ilya and Shane are both living with the Hollanders, playing out their last year in juniors. It feels comfortable in the way a home ought to and it's nice. He calls Mama at least twice a week.

She doesn't always answer. Ilya shrugs it off as proof of her increasingly busy life. She's working in an office now, one of those jobs that seems to be a long string of words that don't necessarily mean anything. She sounds brighter some days.

As they march toward December, the light of the day shrinking by noticeable amounts, he worries about her. But he knows she'll be okay. Knows it's just that she's missing the sun.

Shane and Ilya spend nearly every empty minute they have training. It's exhausting, even if it's turning out some of the best hockey they've played. Ever. Ilya can feel the gap between them tightening, but Shane manages to stay just a step or two ahead of him the whole time.

It's fun. Mostly.

Because Shane and Ilya are better than ever.

The Rapids are not.

When the two of them get on the ice together during power plays, it's unreal. They're an unstoppable force. He and Shane no longer function merely as different parts of the same whole. They function far closer to one singular unit. Their passes hardly ever miss, one is always where the other needs them to be.

It feels effortless.

And really, they should be dominating. They're not. The team is playing a perfectly average season.

Ilya knows that no hockey locker room is some sort of mecca of acceptance and kindness. He's seen and experienced things he would never feel comfortable talking about. Ever.

Ilya would love to say that the room last year had been perfect. It wasn't. But no one was being picked out repeatedly, or with the same level of cruelty.

At least, Ilya doesn't think they were. He realizes one day, after helping one of the younger kids get his shit from where they'd shoved it in the toilet, that he laughed at a similar thing happening last year.

Because he'd thought it'd been funny.

It's been easy for Ilya to largely ignore these kinds of attitudes. Maybe he'd roll his eyes, maybe he'd participate to some degree, but Ilya knows that he's let a lot worse slide than he'd like to admit. And maybe it's because Ilya has hardly ever been a target of this kind of focused harassment.

But Ilya has watched Shane get picked at repeatedly by small barbs. Has seen the way the quieter kids in the room get torn apart, having the vulnerable parts force-fed back to them and being asked to smile as it happens. Being asked to laugh at it all in the end. Otherwise, they're not being good sports.

Shane, Ilya, and a few of the other guys tried to make things better, and yeah, some of the guys still said shitty things. But it was usually shitty in the way someone calls something gay in passing. It's not meant with genuine malice. It's just the language of ignorance.

At least, that had been what Ilya let himself believe.

Dallas fuckin' Kent changes that this season.

He arrives and immediately expects to be playing first line centre, some cocky little shit from Toronto. He can't seem to fathom, and voices this, why some "Chinese idiot" is in the position that clearly belongs to him. For whatever fucking reason Kent seems to think first line centre is something he's owed.

Ilya starts digging his nails into his palms to keep from saying anything. Shane shuts it down when he hears it, but he isn't always there. Ilya tries to curb some of the quieter shit he hears when Shane isn't around, but feels like he has to carefully toe the line without overstepping.

If it were just Kent, it's possible that by pure force of will they could turn the room against Kent and ice him out until the only one he's spewing shit to is himself.

But that's the problem with guys like Kent. He's loud. And he emboldens the quieter bigots. Lets them believe their points of view are welcome. Lets them believe they can say shit they hadn't been brave enough to say on their own.

Suddenly, guys who wouldn't have said a fucking thing previously are jumping on and making fun of the singular Black guy on the team, JP. The guy spends most of his time in the locker room having an ongoing debate with Shane, and anyone else dumb enough to engage with them, about which sports drink flavour is objectively the worst. And Kent can't seem to leave him alone.

One of the guys makes the mistake of calling Ilya a cocksucker one day after a particularly frustrating practice.

"You are interested?" Ilya asks him, purposefully leaving his towel hanging low on his hips. "Is why you stare so long in showers?"

The guy's face goes bright red while a few of the others laugh. He tells Ilya to fuck off, and all Ilya has to do is raise his eyebrows suggestively, and suddenly the joke isn't that funny anymore for the guy. And just like that, it's over.

Easy.

But it's also exhausting and it feels like Ilya's fighting against something that's never going to stop. He finds it hard to care sometimes, and maybe that's part of the problem. He has moments where he's allowed not to care.

Ilya's been in locker rooms like this before. He knows what can end up happening to the weaker players, and not for the first time is he glad that Shane already has a reputation from years past that helps to keep him safe from some of the more direct physical aggressors.

The innate animosity that follows a personality like Kent is destructive in a way that infuriates Ilya and nearly has him come to blows with the jackass after practice. He called one of the younger kids a faggot. Ilya wanted to kick his teeth in.

He might have if Shane hadn't pulled him back.

At least he had the pleasure of seeing Kent look genuinely fucking terrified.

 All of this translates out on the ice.

Sure, passes connect on the rare occasion Shane and Ilya share a line, but so many others seem out of time. Lost in the moment.

They play more recklessly than they should. Kent runs his mouth and ends up in scraps that leave them short-handed. The guys who are being targeted can't trust their teammates.

And when things fall apart, the fuckers find a way to blame Shane's captaincy. Like that's the fucking issue.

Ilya and Shane just try to keep their heads down as the World Juniors appears on the horizon, grateful at least that for a few weeks they'll be in a different room.

The fact that the World Juniors are taking place in Ottawa does nothing to reduce just how significant the event feels to Ilya. Last year, he had been in the crowd, a spectator.

This year, he pulls on the jersey before each game standing next to Shane. His last name hangs over his shoulders in white lettering, a duty and an honour all rolled into one. A maple leaf adorns his chest.

There's something poetic, in an awful way, that while Ilya is appreciating the idea of claiming and being claimed by the country and the team, he sees Bishop stroll into the locker room with a grin on his face. Ilya had seen him at the development camp for Team Canada at the end of the summer, and then again at the selection camp a week prior to the tournament, but Ilya had really hoped he wouldn't end up making the roster.

He had spent each day making underhanded comments about Shane that set Ilya's teeth on edge. But he followed Shane's lead and said nothing.

Ilya was honestly surprised that he'd made it to selection, much less the team itself. For some reason, Ilya had made him out to be a much worse skater in his memory than he clearly is. Ilya might have to accept that he just mostly hates the guy and it has little to do with skill.

What makes it all worse is the fact that Shane has the C this year. He's fucking captain of Team Canada, and the asshole can't manage to keep his mouth shut, always waiting until he'd be able to deny he said anything.

They fight hard against each team. Where passes were missing back on the Rapids, each one connected here for Team Canada. The room isn't perfect, but Ilya thinks it might be enough to win it all for them.

If nothing else, he knows it will get them to the final. And he has a sneaking suspicion he knows what country will be waiting for them when they finally arrived.

This is the first time Ilya is playing in Ottawa and wearing the colours of a country he has been waiting desperately to represent. With Shane standing next to him.

"Have you seen her?" Ilya asks Yuna.

He has nearly all his gear on and just needs his jersey. He's walking on socked feet when he approaches Yuna.

"I haven't seen her yet," Yuna says, and he thinks she stresses the yet. "Her flight got in…"

"Over an hour ago," Ilya says for what feels like the hundredth time. He's getting frustrated, but tries to remember that Yuna isn't doing this to spite him. "She should be here."

Yuna looks at him with eyes only a mother could possibly produce. Somehow walking the line of love, exasperation, and a little bit of pity. He loves her for it. He hates her for it a little too.

He doesn't want pity or love or anything.

He just wants his own mother to see him play hockey for Team Canada.

Ilya runs his hand through his hair, unsurprised to find he's already sweaty under all the layers. His heartbeat hasn't come down since Yuna told him Irina hadn't arrived yet.

She hadn't been able to take much time off, so they'd planned for her to arrive the day of the finals, maybe a bit presumptuous that they'd be playing in the finals. But he knew the other teams. Had watched tape on them. No one had a line like his and Shane's. The team had been strong enough to let them stay on the same line. They had steamrolled most other teams each time they got on the ice.

Irina was supposed to get to the arena with an hour to spare. She is supposed to see Ilya win gold. For Canada.

Ilya is pacing outside the locker room and unloading his anxieties on Yuna while a trainer stands in the doorway of said locker room trying to coax him back inside because he needs to get on the fucking ice.

"Roz!" This time it's not the trainer, but the Assistant Coach Gardner shouting at him.

He lets out a string of curses in Russian, turning to Yuna once more with what has to be a wild look in his eyes.

"Don't worry, hun," she says and he can see the resolve in her expression. "I will find her. She'll see you play. Go."

It is only the presence of that expression that sends him willingly back into the locker room before hurrying to the ice. That's an expression Ilya has come to know very well during his time with the Hollanders. The one she uses when she's about to make herself everyone's problem until she can sort out whatever problem is in her way. He gives himself the smallest moment to smirk, remembering that he'd first seen it that last day of camp when she'd spoken to the scouts from Ottawa.

Yuna Hollander doesn't fuck around.

But Mama still isn't here yet. Ilya rests his forehead against the cool wood of his stall. There's a voice, sitting deep in the back of his head, one he has been trying desperately to ignore since a phone call in October with Mama when she had just sounded off. And now she's missing seeing him play in the World Juniors final.

That same voice is demanding he call and start demanding answers. Unfortunately, there is a much louder voice that is making enough noise to let Ilya pretend he doesn't hear the small one. It lets him believe that everything is fine. That Mama promised she would say something if things weren't fine. And so far, she hasn't.

So Ilya finishes getting his gear on, pulling his helmet over his head, hopeful that if he moves fast enough on the ice he won't have time to look at the stands and see the empty seat next to Yuna and David.

He stops just before getting on the ice for warm ups, taking in a deep breath to try and steady himself.

They're up against Russia again, and now that Ilya has become the unwitting poster child of Canadian immigration, he's also found himself the target of the Russian players. He does not recognize any of the names, and he doesn't think any of them actually know him from Russia, but that doesn't stop them from hating him.

Each time he's passed them in the arena between games, he's received snarled threats, spoken just low enough that no one else seems to catch them. They accidentally run into him whenever they get a chance. Traitor, one of them calls him.

Ilya gives it everything he has and then more. Maybe he checks the Russian centre against the boards harder than is entirely necessary. But he is playing with a point to prove.

And Russia is too.

Whenever he has the puck, it seems like their singular purpose is to ensure he cannot make it to the net. Which is just fine with Ilya. If they're wasting two players trying to stop him, it just means they've left someone else open.

Unfortunately for them, it's usually Shane.

They're quick to take advantage of it.

Ilya collects the puck along the boards and immediately has one of the Russian defensemen on him. Another starts moving over before Ilya has even turned toward the net.

And Shane's already moving.

Ilya doesn't have to look twice. Just sends the puck through the space between the two massive Russians and the puck finds its home on Shane's stick, right where Ilya knew it would.

The puck is in the net before the defensemen can even turn.

The arena erupts.

They're first on the board.

Shane barely has time to throw his arms up before Ilya crashes into him, nearly knocking them both over.

"You think you'll be able to get on the board too, Roz?" Shane asks, a smirk on his face.

"You think you'll be able to give me such a nice assist?" Ilya chirps back.

Russia answers before the period is over.

The game gets uglier after that.

During a faceoff, Ilya is standing next to the Russian winger. He mutters something under his breath in Russian to Ilya.

"If you'd like to offend me, you'll have to speak up," Ilya tells him kindly.

"They give you a jersey and you bend over for them that easy?"

"Careful," Ilya warns. "You keep talking like this, I'll think you want a turn."

Ilya skates away from the interaction with a split lip, a smile, and a power play.

By the third period, they're tied.

Ilya's lungs burn every time he climbs over the boards. Distantly he wonders if Shane has been right to hassle him into quitting even his 'social' smoking. His legs feel heavier than they did twenty minutes ago, and every shift seems to end with someone trying to put him through the fucking glass.

He loves every second of it.

He can't think of anything but the brute force of Russians being sent after him one after another. Somewhere along the line, Mama's empty seat disappears.

All he can afford to focus on is the puck, Shane and the red jerseys moving around them.

There are only a few minutes left when Shane wins the puck along the boards and sends it back to the point.

Ilya circles toward the net.

The shot comes through traffic and rebounds off someone's skate before dropping loose in front of the crease. Everyone collapses toward it.

Ilya gets there first and is faced with the brick fucking wall of a goalie, and a defenseman is practically on his back.

He could try anyway.

His mind is briefly stuck on the idea of scoring the winning goal for Canada.

Instead, he hears Shane. Trusts the instinct without thinking about it too closely. He's not entirely sure where Shane is on the ice, but something in him just knows.

He pushes the puck sideways through the mess of skates.

Shane is there before the goalie can even shift his weight.

He buries it in the fucking net.

It feels like the entire world holds its breath.

Then the red light comes on.

The building is deafening, and somehow Ilya can still hear Shane's shout through it all. They collide again, and someone else crashes into them from behind. And someone else.

He hears Shane again. He's laughing right next to Ilya's ear.

They're ahead. They're actually fucking ahead.

They both skate off the ice and spend approximately forty-five seconds on the bench before the coach is pushing them back on the ice for the final stretch.

Russia has pulled their goalie.

Ilya feels echoes of last year. Remembers being in the stands next to David and Yuna while Canada pulled their goalie in desperation.

He will not let this go into overtime.

He will not let Canada lose.

Shane wins the faceoff and sends the puck to Ilya who's already racing down the ice. The Russian winger is chasing him. There's a defenseman coming too.

Ilya gets over centre and sends it into the corner.

There are only a few seconds on the clock, though they are ticking down painfully slow.

Five.

Four.

The Russians are chasing it down with manic desperation.

Three.

Two.

Someone pins it against the boards.

One.

The horn sounds.

Ilya's body stops somewhere near centre ice and before he can register what the sound means he's being tackled from every side.

They won.

They fucking won.

Ilya's laughing brightly with his teammates.

Because he and Shane have just won gold.

For Canada.

Together.

He feels dizzy with excitement.

Ilya lines up with the other players while the medals are presented.

He winds up next to Shane when they line up across the ice, the weight around his neck feeling like a tether. He doesn't try to fight the tears that prick at his eyes while the national anthem plays.

After he gets off the ice, Ilya pushes through the other players. He doesn't stop when Shane calls out to him. He doesn't pause to shower, only gets his skates off and shoves open the dressing room door.

He isn't surprised at all to see Yuna waiting for him.

He's sweaty. Adrenaline is still singing through his body. The medal hanging around his neck suddenly feels much heavier when he sees the expression on her face.

His face falls. He exhales.

"She didn't come." It's not a question. He knows. Every time he was on the bench his eyes would search. Would find nothing.

"No," Yuna says, shaking her head only slightly.

Something cold grips him from the inside and he needs to find his phone. Because Irina wouldn't have missed this. He's suddenly very, very scared. His breathing becomes shallow and he nearly stumbles when he turns suddenly, wanting to find his phone.

"Ilya," Yuna says. Her voice is somehow both firm and gentle. She's good at living in the space between contradictions. "I talked to her. She's okay."

The urgency leaves his body in a whoosh. He suddenly isn't sure he's going to be able to stay upright. He's entirely depleted of any adrenaline and he's fucking exhausted.

"Where is she?" he asks this quietly, not wanting any of the guys to overhear the way his voice cracks.

Big strong Russian player, number two draft pick.

Crying because mommy didn't make it to his game.

He doesn't want to hear what they'd have to say about it.

"She's sick," Yuna says. "She said she was so sorry, but she woke up with an awful flu and couldn't make the flight. She wanted to call earlier, but slept through her alarms."

It sounds familiar.

Well, the flu is new, but she's slept through a few alarms over the past few months. Missed a few calls with Ilya.

He wants to collapse into Yuna's arms. But again, he's only a few feet away from his teammates and he isn't about to let them see this from him.

"She wants you to call her as soon as you're done," Yuna tells him. "She said she'd watch from home. And that she's very proud of you."

Ilya is nodding and pulling away from Yuna before she's finished talking. He pushes past the other players and digs around his stall, getting frustrated each second he can't find his fucking phone.

A hand gently touches his arm and he stills, turning to see Shane, holding his own phone out to Ilya.

"Thanks," Ilya manages to say before walking back out of the locker room, desperately seeking somewhere private. Or private enough.

He finds a janitor's closet that is, blessedly, empty.

He plugs in the ten digit phone number he's had memorized since he was twelve and they'd first moved to Calgary.

She answers on the third ring, just as he's getting worried all over again.

"Ilyusha," her voice slides through the phone and wraps around him.

He doesn't notice how it doesn't hold quite as firmly to him as it usually would.

"Mama," he can't hide the way his voice cracks. He can't keep the tears in.

"I'm so sorry, Ilyusha," she says, and he hears the sadness in her voice. "I woke up so sick. A terrible cold, I think."

They talk for a few minutes. She congratulates him on his win. He doesn't think she sounds like she really feels it. There's something missing from her voice that he's not sure he could define if he were pushed to, but he can hear its absence as clearly as he can hear her voice.

"I love you, Mama," Ilya says softly.

"Love you too, Ilyusha," she replies. "Bye."

There's a pause before either of them hangs up, almost like someone wants to say something more or is waiting for the other to say something more. After a second, the line clicks and Irina is gone.

He's wiped the tears from his eyes and is about to leave the janitor's closet when his hand freezes on the doorknob.

She'd said cold. She'd said she had a cold.

Yuna had said flu. Irina told Yuna it was the flu.

That louder part of his brain tells him that Yuna must have made a mistake, overpowering the rational piece of him that was shouting that Yuna Hollander does not make mistakes.

He chooses to believe the part of his brain that lets him go back home and prepare for his next game. Back with the Hollanders.

When they return to the Rapids, Ilya isn't surprised that little has changed in their connection in the room.

It doesn't take more than a single practice for Ilya to be set on edge again. Reminded that one person can be a cancer to an entire room. He's horrified to realize that he's come home off the high of the gold medal win and somehow the Rapids feel even worse than they had before.

It takes him a little while to call Mama again after World Juniors. He's not angry with her for missing the game, not really. But the voice in the back of his head is still there, quiet but insistent. Whispering that something's wrong.

And he hates himself for not asking questions he doesn't want to know the answers to.

He calls Mama. Sometimes she sounds like she's doing well. Sometimes, it takes more effort for Ilya to convince himself that she's fine.

Games pass with increasing speed. Ilya tries to place most of his focus on the training that he and Shane do on their own time. On a roadie to the Soo, they experience what is, frankly, an embarrassing loss, but they manage to eke out a win in Sudbury.

Unlike last year, making the playoffs doesn't seem like a foregone conclusion.

It doesn't help that a pang comes with each game as well. A reminder that as one completes they step closer to their last game together. It's the only thing making Ilya want to drag his feet on getting into the NHL.

Shane has to start making plans for his accommodations in Boston. He complains about rent, about the commute, about how Yuna has already started sending him links to apartments he hates.

Ilya listens and tries not to think about the fact that Shane's planning a life that won't include coming home to the same place as him. And that Ilya will need to do the same.

At practice the next day, Shane sends him a pass without looking. Ilya's already there. They don't talk about how that won't be true anymore.

One day he types out a message to Lara. He thinks a text might be easier. Because whatever answer she gives, well, text can be interpreted so many different ways.

He asks how Mama is.

Lara doesn't respond until the evening. She tells him that his mom is okay, but is having some rough weeks. He doesn't respond. He doesn't ask what she means by it.

They win the next night. Not gracefully, but enough. Shane knocks his shoulder into Ilya's as they leave the ice, grinning like they haven't spent the season wanting to kill half their own team.

Later that night, Shane is stretched out beside him on the couch, his head propped up on Ilya's leg. He's complaining about the movie Ilya chose.

The easy, happy nights are the hardest. He feels guilty every time he makes a joke with Shane and laughs a little too loudly. He feels guilty every time he's happy and glad he isn't back home in Calgary.

Shane is playing harder than ever, trying to clinch their spot in the playoffs. Ilya wishes he could say the same. He's giving it his best, but he's more and more distracted.

He fucking knows something is wrong.

But each day passes and he considers that he'll soon lose all of this. And soon he'll have to leave for Montreal. And he just needs for at least one more day to believe he's okay where he is.

That she doesn't need him right now.

They play out the rest of the season.

They barely make it into the playoffs, and they don't last long.

He knows it's their last game before they're through the second period. The writing's on the wall. He's disheartened that in the final minutes he doesn't feel proud. Just disappointed that this is probably the last time he'll play wearing the same jersey as Shane.

And at the end of it all, Ilya can't believe he's relieved when his last season in juniors is over.

Chapter End Notes

pals??????

i fuckin speed ran this chapter. i will not lie. i'm not happy with all the phrasing and will likely come back to do some lil tweaks here and there.

but... i need the next chapter.

need it real bad. - this one might genuinely take me a minute. it's got a LOT that needs to happen. (granted, i already have portions written bc it's got some Big Moments that i wrote like weeks ago.)

and yes, usually i'm a stupid quick writer (bc i don't have a life outside of work...bc i don't have energy to have an actual life outside of work) but i will take my time. it will be a chapter that needs room to breathe.

(hopefully i don't build it up too much and then MASSIVELY disappoint.)

xoxo.
love ur comments.

Chapter 19: Summer 2010

Chapter Summary

Ilya spends the summer with Shane before going home.

Chapter Notes

when i just pasted in the scenes i'd already written, the chapter was already over 4k words.

we never had a chance of this chapter being a reasonable length. (i'm sorry)

i thought about splitting it, but honestly??? no.

****also!! i've seen people speculating about irina and whether she will die. HOMIE. i would NEVER do a death without tagging.

(i still hate my job. and i have a twelve hour day tomorrow...so i wanted to get this done and out before i get lost in it.)

It's their last summer before life in the NHL starts.

Shane has a photoshoot for CCM, one of his sponsors.

Ilya's there as moral support.

He was hoping to be involved himself, but Farah's still hammering out the last details of his contract, and evidently an unsigned draft pick isn't the most appealing player to sponsor. They've all agreed that he'll just sign the damn thing when he gets to Montreal for training camp at the end of the summer.

So, instead, he's standing off of the rink and shouting at Shane.

"More, Hollander!" he yells. "We need more attitude."

He can hear the director call cut. He can hear whispering happening among all the production people. He hears his own name mentioned maybe once or twice. They don't necessarily sound very happy with him.

Ilya doesn't really care that much.

Shane skates over to him when they give him a break.

"You look very pretty today," Ilya says with a grin.

"Oh, fuck off," Shane laughs. "It's make-up. Otherwise I'll look weird on camera."

Ilya watches Shane laugh, noticing the way his eyes light up and his cheeks flush. His face relaxes. It eases something in Ilya he hadn't even realized needed easing.

He stops and stares intensely at Shane's face.

"Shane."

"Ilya."

"Did they cover your freckles?" Ilya demands, reaching forward without thinking. He grabs Shane's chin and draws his face close, staring intently at the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know," Shane says, trying to pull his face away. "I guess so."

Ilya's face turns into a frown.

"Whoever did this has committed a crime," Ilya announces to no one in particular. "I will need names."

"Shut the fuck up, dude," Shane laughs, trying to cover Ilya's mouth with his hand.

Shane abruptly pulls his hand away when Ilya licks his palm, grinning rather childishly.

"Make up might make you pretty," Ilya says. "But freckles are prettier."

Ilya can see evidence of Shane's blush trying to peek through the makeup on his face and it makes him smile in response.

"Go finish being pretty so we can leave," he says, shoving Shane back onto the ice.

Yuna is waiting higher up in the stands of the rink. Watching carefully as the photoshoot starts wrapping up. Ilya waves at her with over the top excitement. Grinning stupidly.

He can see the slightly bemused look on her face as she waves back.

Soon enough, Shane's finished, and waves at Ilya before he heads into the locker room to shower before they can leave.

Ilya leaves the spot he'd taken up on the bench, waiting instead with Yuna away from the rink for Shane to finish in his shower.

"Are you looking forward to getting out to the cottage?" Yuna asks him while they wait.

David and Yuna were kind enough to let Shane and Ilya go out to their cottage for about a week before Ilya has to fly home. He'll get a few weeks at home before he flies to Montreal. And Ilya thinks it might be better not to think that far ahead.

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it." Ilya smiles.

"There's plenty to do out there," Yuna promises. "We're right on the lake. You guys can go swimming, fishing, there's some gorgeous hikes nearby."

"It sounds amazing," Ilya says honestly. Because, truthfully, this is almost the first real vacation he's gone on.

He hasn't told them that. Not even Shane. It feels embarrassing that he's just turned nineteen at the start of summer, is going to be playing for the Montreal Metros that fall, and he's about to go on his first vacation.

"What sounds amazing?" Shane's voice comes from behind Ilya, who turns to grin at him.

"Just how I'm going to beat you at every hike we do," Ilya says.

"You can't beat someone at a hike," Shane says, shaking his head, the smile on his face betraying his amusement.

"No, Shane," Ilya says slowly. "You can't beat someone at a hike. I absolutely can. And I will."

Shane just rolls his eyes. "We should go."

"You boys sure you're good to leave now?" Yuna asks. "You can get a hotel tonight and leave in the morning."

They're both already shaking their heads.

"We just want to get out there," Shane says.

They smile at each other, but as he's felt all week, there's something sad, something difficult beneath it all. After this week the next time they'll definitely see each other will be for Montreal and Boston's first game. In October.

Ilya's headed home for a little while before his training camp, and he still needs to finalize all the boring apartment shit once he gets there and finally signs his fucking contract. And Shane's going to Boston to do his own version of it.

It feels surreal that they won't get to spend time together. That they'll be separated by a border as well as the distance. And worst of all, they'll be separated by schedules that'll give them little time to talk.

They're driving in Shane's new black SUV, a benefit of his contract negotiations being complete and his brand deals starting to roll in. Ilya thinks he might feel jealous if it were anyone but Shane. Rather, he's just as happy to sit in the passenger seat and harass Shane while they drive.

"Ilya, hands to yourself," Shane says for the third time, slapping Ilya's hands away from the wheel. "Fuck off, dude."

Ilya rolls his eyes and settles back into his side of the vehicle, holding his hands up in the air, in a show of absolute innocence. Like he hadn't just been trying to put his hands on Shane's face to check and see if any of the make-up was still left covering his freckles.

They're somewhere in southern Ontario, Ilya thinks. He's pretty sure they haven't passed into Quebec yet.

He sighs and stares at Shane. Considering how he can bother him next, since he won't let Ilya drive.

They spend some of the time in silence. Other portions they talk about nothing in particular. It feels like neither wants to bring up the NHL sized elephant in the room. Instead, they let themselves feel like they're just going to the cottage. And then life will continue as it has for the past two years. With them together.

"Is it the same for you?" Shane asks somewhere near Quebec's border.

There's something incredibly comforting to Ilya about the fact that Shane, number one draft pick, is the same kid he met at summer camp a few years ago. He still starts conversations somewhere in the middle after he's already been working through the problem in his head for a few minutes before cluing Ilya in.

"Is what same?" Ilya asks, yawning and reaching over to grab a piece of beef jerky.

"I mean, uh," Shane suddenly bumbles over his words.

Ilya can see the way he flushes, even in the dimming light.

"Just say it, Shane," Ilya says, leaning back in his chair, looking back toward the road. He figures he has a better chance if Shane doesn't feel like he's being watched.

"You've, um, been with both, right?"

Ah, that's the question.

"Yes," Ilya agrees. "More women, but yes, men too."

"Does it feel the same?"

"I assure you, very different bodies usually," Ilya says with a wry grin.

When he glances over and sees the way Shane's jaw has tightened, he realizes that perhaps this isn't the moment for joking.

He sighs softly. "You mean sex, or?"

"Just, I don't know," Shane says, huffing out a breath, clearly frustrated at his inability to explain, or Ilya's inability to understand. "Like, being attracted to both. Does it feel different?"

Ilya pauses to actually consider his answer. This has clearly cost Shane something to ask, and he doesn't want to provide a flippant answer.

"I don't think so," Ilya answers as honestly as he can. "For me, I think, I see beautiful person, I want to fuck them. I get to know them a little, at least name—" He cracks a smile to try and ease the tension. "—and then if they want and I want…well. Yeah."

There's silence in the car while Shane considers this. Ilya can't help but sneak a peek at his friend. He wonders why Shane is asking. Considers the profile of the person who's become so central to his life. He knows Shane is beautiful. And he thinks Shane knows it too. Because he must.

Everyone at school always wanted Shane. So many of the girls flirted, asked him out. Ilya just always thought Shane was too focused on hockey to really think about any of it.

"Why do you ask?"

There's a pause long enough that Ilya nearly opens his mouth to repeat the question.

"Jess broke up with me," Shane says so softly it might have been the wind against their windows. "Last summer. I didn't break up with her. And then when I tried seeing Alyssa back in April, she ended it too."

"Oh," Ilya responds brilliantly. "Uh, sorry?"

Shane laughs once without humour. "Don't be. It's only because I'm a coward and didn't do it first."

"What happened?"

More silence.

"I just couldn't really…" Shane trails off. "I don't know. We tried a few times."

Ilya waits for him to say more. He doesn't.

"Tried what?"

"Sex, or whatever," Shane says hurriedly, like he's trying to get the words out before they settle in his mouth any more than they have to.

Ilya's brow furrows and he fights the urge to turn and look at Shane. He knows there's a reason Shane's waited to talk about this in the car.

Outside, streetlights flicker to life, and Ilya can see Shane's face illuminated every few seconds out of the corner of his eye.

"I think I'm maybe, I don't know, broken?" he frames it like a question.

"Just because you didn't enjoy fucking your exes?" Ilya clarifies.

Shane nods, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I don't think this means broken," Ilya says simply. "Maybe you just weren't attracted to them."

"But…" Shane takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "I liked Alyssa. Really liked her. She was pretty and funny and I really liked spending time with her. I wanted to… want her."

Ilya isn't sure what to say. He knows that Shane struggled this past year when he met Alyssa. Knows that Shane was genuinely disappointed when it didn't work out. He's not sure there is anything to actually say.

"Just—" Shane takes a deep breath. "What if I never feel it?"

"You will."

"You don't know that," Shane's voice is bordering on genuine distress.

"Shane," Ilya says. "You have met only girls at school. Otherwise you spend all of your time playing hockey. Not many chances to meet someone, yes?"

"I guess," Shane admits.

"You're about to move to Boston," Ilya reminds him. "Perhaps, your person is there."

As he says it, Ilya isn't sure why the statement prickles at him.

Shane doesn't respond.

The cottage is exactly as Ilya had always imagined. It's not as spacious as their home in Ottawa, so he and Shane are sharing a room, but it still feels every bit of warmth as he's come to expect from the Hollanders' home.

They try to make the most of their time, swimming, which inevitably turns into racing. Hikes that, again, become races. Ilya's not sure he's ever been as happy as he is in that bubble they build around themselves in those days.

They share Shane's bed, which he apologizes for. Ilya's not terribly bothered by it. It's no different from any other time they've shared rooms during the season, or just when they would fall asleep in the same room accidentally at home.

Each morning they drink coffee on the deck. They enjoy the sun before the day becomes suffocating, always taking the edge off by throwing themselves, and occasionally each other, into the water.

Ilya laughs at the photos that are scattered through the cottage, pictures of Shane at various points of his life at the cottage. He's looking at one in particular of Shane with a flat, unimpressed expression, one he's quite familiar with, when Shane approaches from behind.

"You look so serious here," Ilya says. "You were always such a serious man, even as a little boy."

"Yeah," Shane agrees with a huff of laughter. "I think that was the summer my mom was dead set on me making friends."

"You did not have friends out here?" Ilya asks, turning to face him.

The cottage is in a small neighbourhood, and seems to be teeming with families.

"I've never been great at making friends," Shane says with a shrug. He doesn't meet Ilya's eyes. "I mostly just wanted to talk about hockey."

"Ah, if only we met then," Ilya says. "I would have made fun of you, yes, but I loved to talk about hockey."

"I don't know about that," Shane chuckles. "I think I'm like ten here, weren't you still in Russia?"

Ilya's eyes unfocus for a second. He stops seeing the grim, overly serious face of a young Shane and thinks instead of himself. Smaller. Scared. He thinks he spent most of that summer trying to stay out of Alexei's way. And if it weren't Alexei, Ilya would have been hiding from his dad.

"Right," Ilya forces out a laugh.

He turns toward another of Shane, again too serious, with a fish in his hands. He makes a joke and they move on.

They enjoy the sun. Ilya enjoys the way the sun only coaxes more freckles from Shane. They lie on the dock and make competitions out of increasingly stupid things.

Shane makes burgers for dinner one night, accidentally making enough for them and at least another pair of hockey players. Ilya's glad they brought enough food for the week so they don't have to leave at all.

He's greedy with the time he has left, knowing that all too soon it will come to an end. Shane will drive him to the airport. They'll say goodbye, and start into the next portion of their lives that will somehow be so similar, but with such significant borders between them. They'll see each other a few times through the season, but Shane will probably spend holidays with his parents, just as Ilya will spend them with Mama.

It feels like a cruel irony that he's about to have more money than he could have ever imagined, and it won't help him get the one thing he wants. More time with Shane.

"You should come back here next summer," Shane says one evening. They're sitting out by the fire, enjoying the way the wood crackles and pops.

Ilya looks hopefully at Shane. "Yeah? That'd be okay?"

"Definitely." Shane nods. "I want to eventually buy some space nearby, build something for myself, but I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind if we came out here for a week."

"Ah, Mr. Real Estate, already planning developments," Ilya jokes.

It earns him a swat and an exasperated, "Shut up."

It feels maybe too easy to imagine another summer here.

Their days are filled with the kind of calm that only comes with comfort. They've known each other for years and have come to anticipate each other in truly intimate ways. Ilya has Shane's coffee ready in the morning, prepared how he likes it. Shane will get Ilya's breakfast together, always making it healthy enough that Ilya will roll his eyes, but they both know he enjoys it.

It feels surreal. Like stumbling into a life he hadn't known he was allowed to want for himself.

On their second last day, they're chased inside from the morning run by rain, and the resulting storm. They didn't have anything massively planned, and if Ilya's entirely honest, he's pretty exhausted from all the sun and everything they've done each day, so he's very happy when Shane suggests they just watch a movie and relax until the rain stops. 

Ilya is stretched out on the couch with some awful movie on. They don't have any cable out here, so they're restricted to a select few DVD's that the Hollanders leave out here for rainy days like this.

Shane comes over and slaps at Ilya's feet.

"Move over."

To be fair, Ilya is taking up the entirety of the couch. He stretches out further and then lets his body go lax.

"Can't."

"Then I'm not sharing the popcorn."

"Fascist."

"I don't think that's how you use that word."

Ilya just shrugs before sitting up so there's space behind his head, and once Shane is seated, he leans back. His head ends up in Shane's lap, and he rolls so he can look at the tv. After a small smile, Shane just places the bowl on the side of his head.

"Asshole," Ilya mutters. He reaches up to grab a handful from the bowl on top of his head and awkwardly eats it without moving his head.

"You're a moron," Shane says.

Shane lifts the bowl off Ilya's head, leaning forward to place it on the coffee table in front of them, when he does, Ilya's head gets pressed down by Shane's chest. And something weird happens in Ilya's gut.

"What movie did you pick?" Shane asks, his eyes focusing on the screen.

"I don't know." Ilya gestures blandly at the screen, shifting his focus back. "They are cheerleaders, but I think they're mad about it."

Shane laughs quietly, and Ilya looks up to see the Shane smile. The one that Ilya only ever sees when they're together. He smiles in response and looks back at the cheerleaders on the screen. He briefly wonders if he could do any of the tricks.

At some point, Shane's hand ends up resting on Ilya's shoulder. It's a point of contact that's not different from anything else they've ever done before. But it feels different.

Something shifts in Shane's gaze, and Ilya can feel his pulse in his throat.

Shane's hand gently brushes Ilya's hair away from his face. Ilya watches his eyes move down and rest on Ilya's lips. Shane licks his lips and lets them part. Their eyes connect again.

Ilya sits up slowly, not wanting to disrupt the moment that's building.

He reaches over slowly, letting Shane watch as his hand moves closer, giving him the opportunity to pull away. He doesn't.

"Can I?" Ilya asks quietly, not entirely sure what he wants permission for.

Shane nods, leaning forward.

Ilya's hand lands on his jaw, brushing his thumb across Shane's cheeks.

"You're sure?"

Shane nods again.

Ilya leans forward a little more, and Shane closes the last bit of distance. Their lips touch. The gentleness is both painful, and the answer to every question Ilya hadn't realized he had.

He lets the kiss stay soft. Until he feels Shane's mouth open, his tongue exploring, and Ilya can't help it, he opens in response and it stops being gentle.

He bites softly at Shane's bottom lip, testing the reaction. Shane moans at the contact and Ilya accepts it as an invitation for more.

Part of his brain stays logical. Warning sounds are going off.

This is Shane.

This is his best friend.

And then Shane responds with his own exploratory bite of Ilya's lip and he finds he doesn't care about much other than Shane's mouth.

Shane pushes forward a bit and Ilya feels a hand land on his thigh. Shane doing some testing of his own.

Ilya knows he's hard. And maybe he should be embarrassed by how affected he is by this, but he can't find it in him to care.

The first touch acts like a question. A feather-light brush made along Ilya's cock, and he can't help the way his breathing hitches, and Shane takes it as the invitation it most definitely is. Even with that, his hand is still uncertain when Shane finally grips Ilya through his sweatpants.

Fuck.

"No," Ilya says, willing every possible ounce of self control he has in his body. "Shane."

"Shit."

Before Ilya can reorient himself, Shane pulls his hand back and is up and off the couch. He's dizzy trying to figure out what happened. The speed at which they've gone from kissing to Shane halfway across the room leaves him reeling.

"I'm sorry," Shane says quickly.

He's on the other side of the room and there's absolutely no doubt about what they had been doing. His lips are red and swollen, his cheeks are flushed a deep red, his hair is mussed from where Ilya's hands had threaded through it without him really noticing, and there is a distinct bulge in his own shorts. Ilya tries not to think about it.

"I'm so sorry," Shane continues. "I don't know what I was doing. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm so sorry."

"Shane."

"I can't believe I—, I shouldn't have—, oh my god, Ilya. I'm so sorry."

"Shane." Ilya gets louder, trying to be louder than Shane's panic.

Unfortunately for both of them, Shane's panic is very, very loud.

"We can just pretend it didn't happen. It doesn't have to be weird. I can just go? I don't know. Fuck. You'll need a ride to the airport. I can probably get my parents to come get you."

Ilya stands there through most of Shane making plans for his parents to come to the cottage while he goes home and puts himself into self-imposed isolation until they can both forget this.

Shane clearly isn't paying attention to this and he startles when Ilya finally places his hands on his shoulders.

"Shane."

"…I won't bug you at all…"

His voice finally stops and silences. His wide, panicked eyes land on Ilya before darting away.

Ilya pulls Shane into a hug, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling tight. He appreciates that Shane's panic allowed both of them to calm their bodies. Otherwise, this would not be having the effect Ilya's aiming for.

He can't think about that otherwise he'll get hard again and they'll be back where they started.

A loud shuddering breath leaves Shane and Ilya counts to five in his head before he feels Shane's arms come up to his waist. Pulling tight. He feels Shane's body relax and back away from panic.

"Shane," Ilya says his name calmly. "I asked if I could. If anyone is apologizing it is me."

"But you said no," Shane says softly, his voice muffled by Ilya's shirt. "You pulled away."

"Because we talked about vulnerable things coming here," Ilya says. "Maybe you are feeling vulnerable. I do not want to take advantage."

"And if I tell you that I want this?"

"Then I think we still have to stop." Though it kills him to say it. His body demands otherwise.

Shane looks genuinely crestfallen.

"I just—" Ilya stops so he can choose his words carefully, knowing that Shane often hears rejection where it isn't. "I don't want you to feel you have to prove something. To yourself. Or me."

"That's not—"

"Please." Ilya holds a hand up to stop him. "I want you to be sure. That you want me and not just to want."

Shane bites his lip and Ilya really wishes he wasn't being so goddamn chivalrous. He wishes he could kiss away the lines of worry that are appearing across Shane's face.

"I think I have maybe wanted to do that for a while," Ilya admits. "But I would like you to know."

"Okay."

The rest of the day is awkwardly formal, Ilya's head is swimming as he considers how quickly he was to jump on Shane. He worries he's taken advantage of his friend, or that they've crossed some line. Something that neither of them is ready for. He's not questioning whether or not he wants it.

He's just questioning whether or not Shane even knows what he wants.

They eat leftovers. Ilya makes shitty jokes about Shane's fascist popcorn policies, which, thankfully, get Shane laughing. It eases some of the tension. By the time it's nearing bedtime, they are starting to feel like Ilya and Shane again.

Until it's time to get ready for bed, and Ilya is frozen at the doorway into Shane's bedroom. He's looking at the bed that suddenly looks way too fucking small, despite the fact that they've shared it each night they've been here.

Shane is stepping out of the bathroom behind him and Ilya turns to him slowly, not sure if he'll be able to meet Shane's eyes.

"Uh, I can sleep on the couch," Ilya offers, nodding in the direction of the living room.

Shane's face looks surprised and confused. "Why?"

"I just, uh, fuck, I don't want to make you uncomfortable?" he says it like a question, because honestly, Ilya has no fucking idea what he's doing. This is entirely untread ground for them and he just doesn't want to fuck this up anymore than he already has.

Shane sighs. "If that's the only reason, then don't. It's fine. But if you're not comfortable sharing the bed, that's okay too."

It feels like the two of them are standing so close, but there's a chasm between them. Both trying to carefully sidestep it without falling in. Neither wanting to trip.

"I'm okay to share the bed," Ilya says quietly.

"Okay," Shane nods, and Ilya wishes desperately that he could get a read on his face. His expression has been so careful all afternoon. 

With a sigh, Ilya goes to the bathroom to get ready, briefly panics about what to wear to bed. He and Shane have just been going to bed in boxers, but he doesn't know if that should be different now. If it'll make him uncomfortable.

He decides to go with what his gut says will be best and leaves the bathroom in his boxers. Because he still knows Shane. Knows that he's a creature of habit, of routine. And if this is what they've been doing since they got here, Shane will continue it.

He tries to hide his smile when he sees Shane sitting up on his side of the bed, in boxers. The smile starts to slip as he crawls into the bed next to Shane. It's fully gone when they both lie down, Shane leaning over to click off the lamp.

They lie in the bed side by side, staring at the ceiling. It mirrors countless other nights they've spent together. Except that there's something entirely different now.

Not for the first time, Ilya is scared that he's just destroyed his friendship. That somehow he managed misread everything and all it was for Shane was an accident. Confusion after being vulnerable with Ilya.

And, fuck, Ilya took advantage of him somehow.

He's starting to spiral when he feels fingers nudge at his hand.

He opens. Shane's fingers lace between his.

He flashes back to another night.

Oh.

That feeling is still there, but Ilya can turn it over and see more of it. Attraction, yes, obviously.

And maybe something more.

Shane's thumb, testing, brushes over Ilya's wrist and it's like it goes straight to his cock. He nearly gasps at the sensation and then immediately wants to bury himself about six feet under the ground. There's no fucking way he's getting this wound up over his best friend casually touching his wrist.

It feels like he stops breathing. So he hears very clearly the way Shane's breathing hitches when Ilya returns the light touch with his own across Shane's knuckles.

The moment seems to hang, suspended somewhere between one breath and the next.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Ilya rolls toward Shane. In the dim light coming through the curtains, he can see Shane already looking at him. The cool light of the moon brushing over his features with all the tenderness that Shane deserves.

Ilya raises his other hand, still slow, still cautious, and reaches to brush his knuckles against the freckles that adorn his best friend's face. Appreciating the way they act only to amplify Shane's beauty.

He lets his hand trail down and cup Shane's jaw. Letting out a shaky breath, he suddenly feels very inexperienced. And he supposes this is a new experience for him as much as it will be for Shane.

Ilya's never been in bed with someone he cares this much for.

He shifts forward slightly, and Shane meets him more than halfway, their mouths cautious as they both, once again, cross a line Ilya worries they can't come back from.

He thinks about a million times he's leaned toward Shane and felt the tug that pulls at him now. This nameless, invisible thing that keeps him wanting to remain close to Shane. Trapped in his orbit.

Ilya realizes with startling clarity that he might be in love with his best friend.

With absolutely no idea what to do with that realization, not when Shane's tongue is pushing into his mouth. Not when he has no idea if this is anything beyond physical for said best friend. Ilya just lets his body experience something it's been dragging him towards for years.

Everything else can be solved in the morning.

 "You're sure?" Ilya barely manages to gasp as Shane's mouth starts to explore the sensitive skin behind his ear. He groans while waiting for the response.

Shane nods from where he's tucked closely into Ilya's neck.

"I need to hear you say it," Ilya says, breathless. "Please, Shane."

"I want you, Ilya," Shane says. His voice is quiet, but steady.

Any restraint he had seconds ago evaporates.

He shifts both of them so Shane is beneath him, the evidence of their mutual desire pinned between them. Ilya rolls his hips and briefly thinks he could survive off the sound Shane makes in response.

This time, when Shane's hand slips down between them, Ilya doesn't stop him, he only manages to groan at the added pressure. He pulls back from the kiss, resting his forehead against Shane's. They both look down between them where Shane's hand has made its way into Ilya's boxers.

The contact itself is fairly simple. Ilya's not sure he could even give a proper estimate of how many people have touched his cock. Without him really realizing it, he'd almost desensitized himself to it. Relegated it to being of little more significance than a kiss.

As Ilya's eyes flutter closed at the sensation, suddenly hoping that he doesn't come in his boxers, he feels the world shift around him. Without warning, he's on his back, Shane straddling his hips,

And something about Shane being able to roll the two of them, largely with the power of his fucking thighs, is nearly enough to have Ilya finish far sooner than he's willing.

He's never been with someone as strong as Shane. The idea that the man smiling down at him, pressing kisses that slowly transition into small nips to Ilya's neck, could just as easily throw him around does something to Ilya.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya moans, when Shane starts stroking his cock.

It's too dry, Ilya wishes he'd packed lube. He hadn't exactly expected this.

Shane sits back on his heels, they both still have far too much clothing on, but Ilya can still see the clear arousal in Shane's boxers. Keeping his eyes fixed on Shane's face, he reaches forward and palms the outline of Shane's cock, he can feel his own cock twitch when his palm finds the damp fabric at the head.

A stuttering moan leaves Shane before he's pulling away, earning a momentary sound of complaint from Ilya before he realizes what's happening. Shane moves down the bed, shuffling a little awkwardly to get there. He tugs Ilya's boxers down and Ilya lifts his hips to help.

And there it is. Ilya's cock lies hard against his stomach. He knows he's well endowed. When he sees the look of what might be a mixture of shock and want from Shane, he nearly opens his mouth to make some smart ass comment.

The comment gets swallowed when Shane, with no hesitation, leans down and licks a long strip from his balls to the head of his cock.

"Oh, fuck," Ilya gasps, his upper body jerking off the mattress.

Ilya might see god briefly.

Shane's eyes flicker up to Ilya's face. There's some amount of uncertainty in his expression, but greater than that, Ilya sees the same sort of determination that always crosses Shane's face when he decides he's going to be good at something.

Before he can even recover, Shane is gripping his cock, and slipping the head into his mouth.

Ilya has undoubtedly received more experienced head. He's never cared less.

Far sooner than he would like, the heat of pleasure is racing through him, and he taps Shane's shoulder,

"Shane," Ilya manages to gasp. "I'm going to—fuck."

He tries to pull Shane off of him. Knowing this is his first time with a guy, and how fucking picky he is about food, Ilya has to assume he's not looking to get a mouthful of cum.

His stubborn friend has other intentions. Shane pushes Ilya's hand away and redoubles his efforts, his tongue suddenly taking a more active role, flicking his tongue over the slit.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya cries out, his hands shifting from the bed to Shane's head, not to hold him down, but because he needs something to keep him tethered.

He has enough presence of mind to feel bad about just how much he unloads into Shane's mouth, wincing when he hears Shane choke slightly and pull back, spilling a bit of Ilya's release back onto him.

And then Shane, because he's clearly been sent on a mission specifically to destroy Ilya, leans down and licks up whatever escaped his mouth.

A string of curses from Ilya. He thinks maybe some of them might have been in English.

As he's catching his breath, Shane does the most devastating thing he possibly could, he crawls back up the bed and tucks himself against Ilya's side, sneaking a glance at Ilya. His expression is somehow both proud and uncertain.

With all the strength he has remaining, Ilya pushes himself up and swings a leg over Shane so he's straddling him.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Ilya demands, still breathless.

He leans down and kisses Shane, moaning when he can taste himself still, licking into Shane's mouth, greedy for every bit he can get.

"No," Shane says honestly, and Jesus Christ, Ilya doesn't think he'll ever get over the earnest way Shane answers him. "Was that, um, okay?"

Ilya pulls back, staring incredulously at Shane.

"You just suck my dick so good I see god," Ilya starts. "And you ask me, 'is okay?'"

Shane blushes and tries to cover his face.

"No, none of that," Ilya insists, pushing Shane's hands away from his face. "I see you when I tell you. Shane, I do not have words. I think you have ruined me."

As the words leave his mouth, he can't help but shudder at the truth encased within. He does feel ruined, to an extent. Because how is he supposed to go back to anything else.

Shane's eyes look down, and somehow, having just had Ilya's cock in his mouth, he manages to look fucking bashful. The sweetest blush overtaking his cheeks.

Ilya wants to devour him.

"Your turn, yes?" Ilya asks, his voice rough with desire.

Shane's breathing stutters and he nods.

Ilya smiles, reaching down to palm Shane's cock through his boxers again before easing down the bed, removing his boxers much the way Shane just did for him.

Soon enough, he has Shane naked and hard laid out in front of him. Taking a moment to appreciate Shane's cock. He briefly can't convince his brain that the scene in front of him is real. He's never even fantasized about it. Okay maybe once. But it had always seemed so outside the realm of possibility that even his imagination hadn't really known what to do with it.

"God, Shane," Ilya says, his tone one of reverence. "You are beautiful."

Shane's face scrunches up. "Shut up."

"No." It's all Ilya says before he's leaning down and moaning when he finally gets to lap up the fresh bead of precum on the head of Shane's cock.

Shane's body shudders and his hands fly instinctively to Ilya's head. Fingers thread through the curls, not gripping but caressing. When Ilya drags his tongue up along the length and looks up at Shane, he's struck by the tenderness in his expression.

He has to close his eyes.

Soon enough, Ilya wraps his lips around Shane and takes him into his mouth.

He's larger than Ilya might have guessed. He's seen Shane naked countless times over the years, in locker rooms and showers, enough that there shouldn't be anything particularly novel about the sight of his body.

This is nothing like that.

The weight of Shane in his mouth, the way his body tenses beneath Ilya's hands, the sounds he's trying and failing to hold back. It's all so entirely new that Ilya can barely reconcile it with the body he's known for years.

Shane bucks up once, causing Ilya to gag and Shane to start apologizing profusely between moans.

Ilya considers making a joke about the depths of his Canadian-ness, but finds his mouth is full.

It doesn't take terribly long before Shane devolves to a point where coherent speech doesn't seem possible, but Ilya is able to parse out the information that's pertinent to him in that moment.

"Ilya…'m gonna."

So he's well prepared when Shane's body bows up, one final flex of his hips sending most of the release directly down Ilya's throat. He swallows around Shane a few more times, eliciting some rather panicked sounds at how over sensitized he is, before finally pulling back, his tongue lapping once at the head for anything left behind.

He pulls himself back up on the bed next to Shane and, embarrassingly, finds himself feeling just as bashful as Shane had seemed after Ilya had come. It feels like a struggle to meet Shane's eyes.

Neither of them speaks for a long moment. The only sound is Shane's breathing slowly steadying.

The weight of what's just happened fills the room.

The reality that they've just crossed a line they can't possibly uncross is palpable.

Ilya is about to open his mouth, though he's not even sure what to say, but Shane beats him to it.

"Thank you."

Despite the strange seriousness that's settled over the room, Ilya barks out a laugh.

"You thank everyone after they suck your dick?" he asks Shane with a grin. "Because I think I might know why your sexual encounters don't work out."

"Shut up," Shane says, slapping Ilya's arm.

"No," Ilya responds, leaning over to kiss Shane.

The heat of this kiss is deeper. Embers that have been left at the heart of the fire to cool. Warming, but not ready to burn. They just kiss for a while, until he feels a gentle shiver from Shane.

Ilya sits up and grabs the quilt they had kicked off. He pulls it up and over both of them.

He lies back down and opens his arms, looking questioningly at Shane. In return, he gets a shy smile, and Shane pressing back into his arms.

So, Shane falls asleep where he is, wrapped tightly in Ilya's arms.

 Ilya lies awake for what feels like hours, Shane blissfully snoring, his arm draped across Ilya's stomach.

When he looks down at Shane's face, still only faintly illuminated, it suddenly feels like three years of feelings explode out of his chest. Feelings he'd allowed himself to believe were little more than platonic.

Because he couldn't want Shane. Shane is his best friend. Shane is one of the few purely good, stable things in his life.

He hadn't ever really allowed himself to consider this an option.

Not with his heterosexual best friend.

Though, at least one part of that is evidently not true.

He just worries that by them discovering that together, it will destroy the other part.

The part that matters far more to Ilya.

He cares for Shane.

Eventually, while seeking answers to a problem he can't even fully articulate, Ilya falls asleep with Shane's warmth pressed against him.

 Ilya wakes up and is settled and at ease the way his body often feels after an orgasm. At least until he realizes the bed next to him is cold.

He sits up fast enough that he feels dizzy, stars decorating his vision.

Shane's gone. His side is cold enough that he has no idea how long he's been gone.

Shit.

Ilya scrambles out of bed, pulling on whatever he can find first, ending up in his own hoodie and a pair of Shane's sweatpants. He doesn't think before he propels himself out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He's moving so quickly that he nearly falls face first as he trips on his own feet.

He takes a moment to right himself, looking quickly for Shane.

Finally, he spots him standing outside, staring at the lake.

Ilya takes a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for what he thinks is coming.

It was a mistake.

I don't see you like that.

Or, if fate is truly cruel to him today, I didn't want it.

It maybe takes an extra few seconds before he's able to walk out to Shane, his face schooled into as neutral an expression as he can manage.

"Hey," he says softly, hoping to not startle Shane.

It mostly works, he only jumps a little at the sound of Ilya's voice.

Wide, worried eyes meet Ilya's briefly before dropping to focus instead on Shane's hands.

"Hi."

Ilya walks over and leans against the railing next to Shane, matching his posture and looking out at the lake as well.

"Are you okay?" Ilya needs this answered first. "I mean. I'm sorry if whatever we did wasn't—"

His voice breaks and Shane's face is stricken when he looks at Ilya, immediately reaching forward to place a reassuring hand on Ilya's arm.

"No," he says firmly. "No, Ilya. That's not it. I wanted it."

As Shane says the last part his hand falls away.

Ilya still can't bring himself to look at Shane. There is a voice he cannot silence screaming in his head that he's finally done it. He's ruined his friendship. All because he couldn't keep it in his fucking pants.

"Can you please tell me what's wrong?" Ilya asks quietly. He stares at his nails, picking at the dried skin on his thumb.

"I feel like I ruined something between us," Shane admits quietly.

"Shane, no," Ilya says, shaking his head and turning to his friend. "Nothing is ruined. You had a good time, yes?"

Shane nods, and a small smile tugs at his lips, his cheeks lightly turning pink. The smile freezes on his face for a second and he finally turns and looks Ilya straight in the eye.

"Did you?"

And god help him, but Shane is looking at Ilya with those wide brown eyes. There's strength there, there's familiarity, and there's genuine fear.

"Yes, Shane." Ilya smiles, and it's his turn to feel a little bashful. "Very good."

He wills himself to be brave, and inclines his head as he raises a hand, a silent question. As his hand nears Shane's cheek, Ilya gets his answer in the form of closed eyes and a gentle exhalation.

When his fingers brush along Shane's jaw, it once again, sends heat coursing through Ilya's body.

He wants Shane in a way he's not sure he's wanted anyone else before. It feels fundamental to his being, something existing beneath his skin.

The affirmation seems to settle something in Shane, but Ilya can still sense the unease at his core.

"I need coffee," Ilya tells him, letting his hand fall away from Shane's face, nodding toward the kitchen.

Part of him knows that if he lingers there, he will find some sort of excuse to drag Shane back into the bedroom. It feels like an itch that's been there the whole time, only now brought to his attention, and suddenly the need to scratch it is becoming deafening.

So instead, he leads the way into the kitchen. He fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. He pulls out the french press and sets it down.

He waits for the water to boil and for Shane to finish ambling in from outside.

Shane makes it in just before the water boils.

And soon enough, the two of them are standing at the counter, mugs in hand, best friends who've never struggled to talk to each other, suddenly speechless.

"I guess I'm kind of scared," Shane says after a while, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug.

Ilya's eyebrows draw together and he turns to look at Shane. "Why scared?"

"I just, well, you know how this season went." Shane says, his jaw tenses. "I mean, with Kent and everything."

The name alone sets Ilya's teeth on edge. Kent had realized fairly quickly that Ilya could dish much better than anything Kent could give. But Kent enjoyed pushing at Shane, and since he'd insisted he didn't want Ilya to intervene, he'd watched the asshole from Toronto pick at Shane, looking for a reaction.

"What if that's just what it is?" Shane asks. "I can't… fuck."

He stops and Ilya wants nothing more than to reach across and place his hand over Shane's, soothe the worry from him. He can't though. There are no platitudes that would be true, much less helpful. Because Shane has a point. Higher level hockey doesn't exactly get more accepting.

"And, what, I get to find out my most successful sexual encounter is with a fucking guy?" Shane says this bitterly, and Ilya tries not to take it personally. "How am I supposed to walk into that room? They're going to know."

Shane's breathing has become shallow. He's panicking.

Ilya stops holding himself back, reaching out to place his hand gently on Shane's wrist.

"Hey," he says. "Is okay. Shane. Please, you are panicking. Breathe, solnyshko."

It takes a moment, and his resulting breaths are far from what Ilya would call relaxed, but Shane seems to force himself back from the precipice of a full blown panic attack.

"What is that?" Shane asks. "What you said? You said it last night."

Ilya feels his cheeks warm a little, he doesn't remember saying it. "Is nothing. Just like, uh, nickname."

Without thinking, Ilya lets his fingers trail along Shane's wrist, and Shane releases the mug, turning his wrist over so Ilya can continue his methodical exploration of the tendons in Shane's forearm.

"I just don't understand what this is," Shane admits, gesturing between them. "What it means."

Ilya lets his eyes stay glued to Shane's wrist.

"Doesn't have to mean anything," he says. The words are sharp as they leave him. He wishes he could take them back almost immediately. But he also knows Shane needs this. "We don't have to solve this today, or ever. Not if you don't want to."

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Shane nod.

"Okay," Shane finally says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

When Ilya looks at Shane again he gets an overwhelming desire to kiss him. His eyes can't seem to look beyond Shane's mouth.

"And, if I want it…to mean something?" Shane's words are soft.

Hope, bright and dangerous, blooms in Ilya's chest.

"Then it can mean something," he says, trying to keep his tone from betraying how his heart was doing cartwheels.

Shane bites his lip, looking very focused. "What does it mean?"

Ilya laughs once, but it's not necessarily a joyful sound, more just confused. Maybe a little panicked. "I don't know."

It's the most honest thing he can say. This is entirely untread ground for Ilya.

Shane nods like Ilya's just given him a clear map for how to navigate this unknowable thing. Or maybe he's just glad Ilya seems just as lost.

And Ilya truly isn't sure. They're both about to start playing for teams in the NHL. It's not exactly the kind of place either of them can comfortably do…whatever it is they might want to do with this.

"We still don't have to decide today," Ilya promises Shane. It's about all he can promise him in this moment.

He hesitates for a moment, still uncertain regardless of whatever lines they'd blurred last night, but Ilya shifts forward a little, leaving room for Shane to respond.

A tentative smile and a gentle flush ease any concern Ilya has about whether it'll be reciprocated. Shane leans forward, closing the distance, and they kiss. It's soft. It feels more like a promise than anything else.

And it's the promise he finds there that might actually be the death of him in the end.

Neither lets it push into anything more. He feels Shane sigh into his mouth, a sound of calm that lets Ilya ease and smile as he pulls away. He rests his forehead against Shane, just enjoying the air they share between them.

When he opens his eyes, his gaze catches on the freckles scattered across Shane's face. Shane's eyes are still closed, but the smile on his face loosens something in Ilya's chest. He slips a hand to the back of Shane's head, fingers combing through his hair, and draws him into the crook of his neck.

"Want breakfast?"

Shane doesn't say anything, and he doesn't lift his head, just nods against Ilya's shoulder. They let themselves stand there like that, somehow closer despite having spent years right beside each other.

Ilya wants to hate how right it feels.

They stand together for a little longer, before Shane finally lifts his head, his eyes heavy and calm. A complete change from the panic Ilya'd found him in that morning.

Ilya pushes him gently in the direction of the couch and sets about making breakfast.

It was already going to be Ilya's last day there, so if nothing else, they don't need to exist in this strange limbo for terribly long.

Luckily, the rest of the day proves to be decidedly not uncomfortable. The sun is back out today so the two of them get outside and return to their regular activities with frightening ease. There's nothing strange. Though, now when they move past one another, perhaps hands linger for a moment longer where once they would have just continued.

And maybe when Shane is sitting out on the deck after lunch, the sunlight bringing out the depth of brown in Shane's eyes. Ilya finds himself leaning forward without thinking. And maybe Shane leans forward too.

In addition to the soft touches that appear without discussion, kisses start happening with the same thoughtless ease.

Neither of them talk about it. It just slots into the way they interact with one another like it's something they've always done. Ilya just can't get past the way Shane's face lights up each time.

But they also still chase each other into the lake, laughing loudly and freely when Ilya manages to shove Shane into the water with no warning.

They still feel like them in a way that allows Ilya to release whatever foolish fears he had. Mostly.

That night, Ilya feels uncertain as he crawls into the bed, waiting for Shane.

Nothing happens. Well, nothing that anyone else would define as something. But Ilya's not entirely in agreement, because the easy way Shane tucks himself next to Ilya, almost without thinking, feels very far off from nothing.

They're up early the next morning, they need to drive into Ottawa so Ilya can make his flight.

There's a quiet sadness in the air as soon as they wake up. A sense of foreboding, the horrible realization that whatever this delicate thing that they've uncovered between them will only get to exist as it has in the past now.

They don't speak much while they pack their things into Shane's car. Not even when they take the time to make sure the house is locked and ready for whenever Yuna and David will make it out next.

By the time they reach the airport, they haven't said very much. Neither makes any sweeping promises. Neither commits more than he is actually able to. Instead, they give each other exactly as much as they can.

"I'll see you in October, right?" Ilya says, trying to keep his voice even.

Shane only nods. He's still in the driver's seat, having opted for the quick drop off lane. Ilya steps out of the car and moves around to the back to grab his luggage. He leaves the passenger side door open while he does it, foolishly thinking at least that will prolong their goodbye.

He drops his bags on the ground.

He looks around himself quickly. He thinks this might be the only time they'll be able to have a goodbye like this in public, their faces not yet plastered across screens.

Not allowing himself to second guess, he leans through the SUV, placing one hand on the centre console, and using the other to cradle Shane's face. He hopes everything he can't possibly say is communicated in that moment of contact.

He pulls away before either of them is ready, smiling when he notices how Shane's mouth followed after his.

Shane deflates a bit, but looks up and holds Ilya's gaze with his own.

"October."

It's Ilya's turn to nod.

It's a promise.

And it isn't.

When Ilya arrives back in Calgary he is experiencing a surprising level of clarity. Of peace.

Shane hadn't run.

They may not see each other for a few weeks, they may not even have words to begin describing whatever the hell happened between them. But Ilya can't make himself regret that it happened. He hadn't realized the feelings sitting below the surface were so much more than he'd ever thought they could be.

Shane is still his best friend.

He's leaving in a few weeks for Montreal. He'll finally sign his contract, move into an apartment in Montreal, and start training. And then Ilya will finally make his debut on NHL ice.

And he'll play Shane in October.

Maybe they could be something. Ilya is nearly willing to let himself hope. Sure, only seeing each other a few times during the season would be hard. But Ilya knows he'd be willing. For Shane.

He lets out a deep breath as the cab pulls up to Ilya's house, he shakes his head, reminding himself that he doesn't even know if this will be something Shane actually wants. If Ilya is something Shane actually wants.

He approaches the house with his bags in tow and tries not to think about all the worries that have plagued him regarding Irina. Because he knows she'll be okay.

She's always okay.

He sets foot through the door and knows immediately that something is not okay.

Mail has piled up on the table near the door. Shoes have been left out, scattered across the front entry. Ilya nearly trips trying to step through and find space to place his bag.

"Mama?" he calls.

He hears a muttered curse from somewhere in the house, and that small sign of life chases away a shadow he had started looming over his shoulder.

When he steps into the living room he sees the full picture. Or as full as he can get.

Food has been left out. Dishes have started to pile up in the sink, and the room smells off. Nothing like that comforting smell of near nothingness that can only be replicated at home.

And Irina is sitting up on the couch. She's surrounded by blankets, the coffee table covered with cups in various states of use. It looks like she's been sleeping there.

The tv is playing a low murmur of some bit of daytime television.

"I thought you were home tomorrow," she says. It nearly sounds accusatory. Like it's Ilya's fault he's found the house like this.

He can't find the words. He feels trapped.

And all at once, Ilya hates himself with a force that could send him to his knees.

He says nothing and closes his eyes.

He knew something was wrong.

He'd fucking known.

He can't believe he let this happen

With some small protest, he manages to find a clean towel and is able to get Irina to shower.

Once she's out of the room he lets out a low, shuddering breath and turns toward the kitchen.

Ilya sees the light blinking on the answering machine. He reaches over to press play, intending to listen to it while he starts dealing with the kitchen.

A gruff voice. Speaking in Russian.

He drops the mug in his hands.

Training camp is somehow exactly and nothing at all like Shane had anticipated. It's hard, definitely. More rigorous than any other training Shane has done.

He's texted with Ilya here and there, but they haven't had the chance to actually talk. He's been exhausted most nights, and on the rare occasion he has time, Ilya seems to be busy himself. He'd been oddly tight-lipped about his own time at camp.

Shane still has the awful feeling in his gut that he'd changed things too much with Ilya.

Or that, maybe, Ilya has figured out that Shane isn't terribly skilled.

Or that whatever happened between them was little more than any other time Ilya hooked up with people. Casual. Meaningless.

The last one was the worst to consider.

But Ilya had promised he'd answer if Shane called.

Pre-season is starting tomorrow.

Shane feels sick with nerves. He knows he'll play fine, but there's a vibe to the locker room in Boston that feels unwelcoming. At least that's how it feels to Shane. And he wants Ilya's point of view.

He either wants it confirmed or wants to be told he's making shit up.

Ilya answers after the third ring.

"Hey," Ilya says, voice tired. "How's camp?"

"Good. Okay. Not great."

Ilya chuckles once, the sound wrapping around Shane warmly through the phone.

"Which is it, Hollander?" He's always liked how Ilya says his last name. Except this time he sounds tired.

"Fine, I guess." Shane settles on fine.

"Just fine?"

Shane picks absentmindedly at a piece of fluff on his pants. His intention hadn't been to call Ilya to just complain. To ask him if he's being ridiculous for feeling this uncomfortable.

"Yeah," Shane says. "Just fine."

There's a beat of quiet.

"I miss you." He can't help letting the words fall from his mouth.

He can hear Ilya blow out a breath of air.

"I miss you too."

"We'll see each other in October, right?" Shane asks. "You can stay with me when you're in Boston."

He expects Ilya to invite him to stay at his. At least that's what he hopes for.

"I'm, uh, not sure about that," Ilya says. He coughs.

Shane lets the words process a moment longer than entirely necessary. "Why? Has camp been that bad? I can't imagine them sending you back to juniors."

"No," Ilya says, he can hear him sniff. "I won't be there."

"Sorry, what?" Shane asks, because he knows he's heard wrong.

"I'm not going, Shane."

"Obviously not right now," Shane laughs once trying to keep the mood light. Because he's heard wrong. Ilya is confused.

He has to be.

"But you'll be in Boston when the Metros come through," Shane insists.

"I'm not going," Ilya repeats. "I'm not leaving Calgary."

"What do you mean?" Shane demands, he can hear the stress sneaking out of his voice. "You signed, Ilya. You have to go."

"I didn't sign." Ilya's voice is detached and factual. "I was still waiting on the final contract. I told you."

Shane remembers.

"So what?" Shane says, he's scrambling for some loophole. Something that will at least pull Ilya closer. "You just don't go?"

"I talked to Farah," Ilya says, as frustratingly calm as ever. "If I don't sign, I don't have to go."

Shane is silent. His brain feels like it's slowly sorting through this new information.

Because Farah knows. Knew. Already knew.

And if Farah knows—

"This is a fucking joke, right?" Shane says bluntly. He's no longer trying to keep the mood light. Because it has to be. Has to be some sick fucking joke.

"No, Shane," Ilya says, he sounds exhausted.

There's silence and Shane can hear an inhalation.

Ilya's smoking again.

Shane can nearly imagine him, sitting outside his house on the steps, cigarette resting between his fingers, staring out at nothing.

"Ilya, don't be fucking stupid," Shane says. "You're going to Montreal. You should already be there. You told me you were already there."

"I didn't," Ilya says softly. "You asked me how my days were. I was honest."

Shane thinks back to their conversations. He thinks Ilya's right, but he could have sworn he made some fucking reference to being in Montreal.

"Why?" Shane can't help the emotion sneaking into his voice.

"I can't leave her," Ilya says, his voice breaking on the last word. "She's not doing well."

Shane's mouth opens and closes a few times, he doesn't know what to say. He's been able to gather over the years that Irina can struggle sometimes. He's noticed that Ilya often speaks to her far differently from how Shane speaks with his parents. More like a worried parent than a son.

"What will staying do?" Shane demands.

"It's not just that," Ilya admits. His voice has hardened. Shane can hear the way Ilya's jaw tenses in how his words come out. "Alexei called her."

The name is said like Shane should know who it is. He doesn't.

"Who's that?" Shane asks, his brows coming together in confusion.

What he assumes is a Russian curse comes out before Ilya explains.

"My brother."

Shane is left speechless. And selfishly he feels distinctly hurt, because Ilya has never mentioned a brother.

"He's still in Russia," Ilya continues, and he seems to struggle to finish the explanation. "It's, fuck, it's complicated."

Shane doesn't want to point out that it's only complicated because Ilya doesn't tell Shane fucking anything about himself.

"How does staying help?" Shane demands, perhaps sharper than he should. "You can't solve this from Calgary, right?"

"I'm not trying to solve anything," Ilya says, some heat entering his voice. "I'm just trying to help my mother."

And, well, what the fuck is Shane supposed to say to that.

His head is swimming with questions, and he hates that central to it all, Shane just wants some sort of confirmation that Ilya even considered them.

Selfishly, he wants to ask Ilya exactly that. Whether he'd thought about Shane when he'd made this choice. About October. About the cottage and whatever the hell they'd started there.

But Shane doesn't know if he has the right.

They'd said it could mean something.

They'd never decided what.

Neither had promised the other anything.

"So that's it?"

"Yeah," Ilya says. "Bye, Shane."

He doesn't wait for Shane to say it back before the line goes dead.

Shane is shaking after the call ends. Ilya's words are echoing in his head.

I'm not going.

I can't.

Shane knows it's stupid, but he feels betrayed.

He feels abandoned.

A thought wiggles into his mind.

He's dialing her number before he can talk himself out of it.

"Hey, hun—"

"Did you know?"

His mom's voice stutters to a halt.

"Shane—"

"Did. You. Know."

He can hear her breathing.

"…It wasn't up to me to tell you." Her voice is small, and he has enough presence of mind to realize he's never heard her sound so small.

He hangs up the phone without responding.

The phone drops out of his hand, hitting the couch next to him and bouncing off. It lands on the rug with a muffled thud.

He's sitting in his nice new apartment in Boston. About to start living the dream he has waited his entire life for.

He thinks of Ilya's mouth on his. The fact that he's still not sure what it means to him. To them.

He closes his eyes tightly. Tears well up.

He thinks about the past few weeks of training camp.

What it means for the coming season.

The knot in his stomach grows.

We were supposed to be rookies together.

He doesn't know when he'll see Ilya again.

Chapter End Notes

i've been fucking WAITING for this chapter.

so many important lil moments.

*finally! they kiss!*

and i have learned like too much??? about drafts and contracts and all of that nonsense. (TOO MUCH.) i needed ilya to be able to Not Go and it not become like a fucking legal issue.

i honestly don't know what to say. i'm nervous about this one and i don't know why. 😭😭😭

i consider this to kind of be the ending of what i think of as part 1 of the story (even though i'm keeping it as one solitary fic.)

the next part being titled(in my mind)

what the chinook leaves behind.

pls. tell me what you think. this chapter has me feeling... deeply insecure??? idk. it was just a lot of lil things to include and i hope i've done it justice. (i hope the lead up was worth the pay off...i mean, while it lasted.)

Chapter 20: Fall 2010

Chapter Summary

Ilya's back home in Calgary.

Chapter Notes

i really said 'i'll give myself a few days'

and then had HOURS of empty time at work.

and thus, you get this lil thing.

(i apologize for the emotional damages from the last chapter...but i am also not sorry at all.)

Ilya plays the messages enough times he's not sure he can forget them if he tries. Or if he wanted to.

It feels like penance, perhaps, forcing himself to listen to the hateful voice of the brother who was left behind. Abandoned to a man unsafe for anyone to live with.

"You need to answer me. You owe me that."

"He asks for you. He asks for Ilya too."

"You think if you don't answer, this will all just go away? That's not how this works, Mama."

"He wants to know where you are. I don't know what you expect me to tell him."

"Fine. Don't answer. You've always been good at leaving when things get difficult."

"You left me behind."

"So busy in Calgary that you forget about your other son."

"You don't get to pretend he doesn't exist because you got away. Because you got to have a fucking life while I've been trapped here with him."

He's awake before Irina most mornings and checks for any that are new. He deletes them before she can hear them. He tries to avoid thinking about Alexei threatening to give their information to Grigori. Telling himself that if Grigori already knew, they would know.

He replays some of them. He tries desperately to hear, in the voice of the bitter man, the sound of his older brother. Not the one who'd taken to treating Ilya like a punching bag, but the one who'd first helped Ilya lace up his skates.

He'd like to hate him. Resent the man whose words are pulling apart his mother.

Their mother.

And maybe it's that alone that makes Ilya still listen to each one before he deletes them.

Ilya supposes he has Farah to thank for how it was all handled in the press.

#2 Draft Pick, Ilya Rozanov to Delay NHL Debut

It had been news to some, those who were watching rosters like they held the answers to the secrets of the universe. And the only information that Farah and the Metros released was that Ilya Rozanov had a serious family situation and was not able to leave Calgary.

Which was as true as it was incomplete.

He knows Montreal is still calling Farah regularly. They want answers. They want a plan.

They want to figure something out with this draft pick they invested in before the window to sign him closes and somebody else can get a shot at him. He's absolutely pissed them off, but that won't stop them from trying to keep him off another team.

Ilya also wouldn't mind having a better sense of some sort of plan. Though he supposes the only one holding that back from him at this point is himself.

Ilya sits in Lara's old car outside the rink. He hates this part of the day. The moments just before. The ones where he has to convince himself to get up and walk through the rink, to pretend that it's absolutely fine with him that he's going to help fifteen year old players on their journeys toward their fucking dreams while he's wasting his time helping them.

And pretend they and their parents aren't fucking whispering about what the hell he's doing back in Calgary when Montreal is waiting for him.

He feels like a cautionary tale to the young boys.

"Careful, or you'll fumble your life as badly as he has."

He checks the time, there's still fifteen minutes until he'll actually be considered late. Probably a little more since he's not planning on putting on anything other than his skates today.

So, he uses his time as he's been using much of his free time since he's been back home. He stares at his phone. He even opens the message thread between him and Shane, woefully empty since Shane was in training camp and Ilya was letting Shane believe he was also in training camp.

He even flips over to the call log.

He spends at least a few minutes, usually more, every day just staring at his phone. It's become one of the more pathetic ways he spends his time since he last spoke to Shane.

They've had no contact since.

He can't get past how hurt Shane had felt.

Can't get past that he never got to ask Shane why he'd called. Why training camp had only been "fine."

Hadn't really got to ask Shane anything.

Only got the distinct pleasure of hurting him.

He wishes it had gone differently. He wishes most of his recent history had gone differently.

Because, yes, number two draft pick, Ilya Rozanov, is going to spend the afternoon getting bitched at by teens whose parents have spent too much money on their gear only for Ilya to tell them they are adequate players.

He finally stops staring at the phone, instead letting his head drop back against the headrest.

While staring at the lightly stained ceiling of Lara's Honda, he wonders if there's a certain number of hours he has to stare at his phone, willing it to ring, before it will actually ring.

He figures he must have hit that point at least a week ago.

He's not being paid to wallow in the parking lot, so Ilya gathers himself and forces his feet to lead him into the rink.

It doesn't take long before Ilya has the small group of teenagers ripping around the rink, wearing skates nicer than Ilya had up until the previous year.

He has them run shooting drills first, it's still early on and he's learning them as players. One of the boys slows before he shoots, telegraphing the release so badly Ilya could have saved it himself.

"Don't stop your feet," Ilya snaps. "You stop moving, goalie is set before you even shoot."

He demonstrates before he has the kid try it again. It's better the second time.

"Again."

It takes a few more tries, but he does get it. And Ilya can't help but hate the small flicker of satisfaction that comes with it.

They move onto edgework towards the end of Ilya's time with them. He watches another boy take one of the corners too upright and winces.

"Lower," he calls from his stationary position on the side of the ice.

On the next corner, the kid bends his knees another inch.

"More," Ilya yells, louder this time.

The kid comes up out of the turn and stares at Ilya incredulously.

"I'm practically sitting down!" he says, throwing up his arms.

"Well, you're barely even skating, might as well sit too," Ilya calls back.

The kids were good when Ilya first met them, already playing at a level where he doesn't really feel like he's teaching them any solid skills. They already know hockey the way kids who dream of the NHL have to. All he's doing is teaching them how to lose half a second here, gain half a step there. It's the small adjustments and changes that nobody notices until suddenly one player is drafted and another isn't.

The telegraphing kid is waiting for his parents while Ilya is warming up on the ice after their time is done.

"So, like, are you ever going to Montreal?" the kid, Jake, asks him.

"Are you ever going home?" Ilya asks in response, stopping on the ice to stare daggers at the kid. "Go. My turn on the ice now."

Jake just shrugs and turns to leave the rink. "See you in a few days, coach," he calls over his shoulder.

Ilya doesn't let himself have any feelings about the title.

Because now, Ilya gets to have his time. The time that really makes the whole setup worth it, because not only are they paying him, Ilya gets ice time.

He doesn't offer the same forgiveness of mistakes for himself as he offered the teens.

He grabs the pucks and lines them up along the top of the circle, working through them one after another, changing the angle before every release.

He runs himself through the same drills he had the boys repeat, only faster. Harder. His lungs burn. His muscles scream.

He trains hard, pushes his body more than he probably ought to. Wants to be ready if Montreal comes for him tomorrow, even though he's making no movement toward them. He feels like he needs to be ready.

If he stops getting ready, it means accepting that he'll just be stuck in Calgary. He'll become the guy at the rink always talking about the success he could have had, while wasting his talents working with kids who only barely appreciated him.

He has to think about it as an eventual possibility. Not as the reality of what's already happening.

"I was fine," Irina insists.

Ilya doesn't even stop what he's doing, just continues to sort through the months of mail.

"You didn't fucking call me," he snaps at her. "You didn't tell me Alexei fucking called, or that Papa likely knows where you are. You didn't tell me."

He hates the way she flinches at his raised tone.

"I didn't want you to worry."

He stops in the middle of ripping open another bill and turns to stare at her. He has to physically force himself to bite back his immediate response.

Not that what he lands on is too much kinder.

"So you let me come home and find you like this?" he asks coolly.

"You weren't supposed—"

"Stop it," he says, dropping the envelopes down in front of him and trying like hell not to slam his fists.

He can't do that. Won't do that.

He will not resort to anger that way. No matter how he feels.

"You need to fucking talk to me," Ilya insists.

She won't even look at him.

"Mama, please," Ilya says, his voice now closer to begging. "I cannot help if I don't know what's going on."

"I thought I could handle it," Irina admits quietly. She's suddenly found a particular water spot on the kitchen table to be far more interesting than whatever is happening on Ilya's face. 

"How long, Mama?" Ilya asks. He's so fucking tired of this endless cyclical conversation they've been trapped in since he got home.

She will not tell him as much as he wants to know, only providing small crumbs each time he's able to trap her into admitting anything about how things got to be so bad.

Irina won't meet his eyes. Her jaw is set in a way that looks eerily familiar to Ilya. He wonders how often she gets frustrated when she sees herself in her bullheaded son.

"When did he first call?" Ilya rephrases the question.

She sighs loudly, like Ilya trying to care for her is some fucking burden.

"About a year ago," she admits, still not looking at her son. "Shortly after you'd left for Ottawa again."

Ilya closes his eyes tightly and feels a devastating mashup of emotions overtake him. Because he's mad at her, there's no doubt about that. He's absolutely pissed that she kept something this massive from him.

He also feels like he could drown in the guilt, because he should have fucking known. Something should have tipped him off. He should have done something.

The ugly voice that's taken up more space in his head lately reminds him that he did know. He noticed there was something off fairly quickly.

He just hadn't cared enough to find out what the problem was.

Ilya doesn't particularly care for that ugly voice. Even if it is often right.

"Mama," Ilya says. His voice cracks around the word. A word he's called her for longer than he can remember.

"He's my son, Ilya," she says, and she finally looks at Ilya. Her blue-green eyes rimmed with tears, the heartbreak in them unmistakable. "I already abandoned him. I could not ignore him."

It's Ilya's turn to avert his gaze. Because he understands. He thinks this might be why he feels the need to listen to each message so carefully. Because what gave Ilya the right to be the son she chose?

He knows as well as Irina does how hard life in that house was for the two of them. Alexei may have understood the way Grigori moved, knew how to ingratiate himself into the favour of the bitter old man, but it only meant he received a modicum of kindness, where Irina and Ilya found none.

If there is anything Ilya can believe with certainty, it is the fact that no matter how things have gone, Alexei did not survive Grigori without some amount of suffering.

"What does he want, Mama?" Ilya asks, desperate to find out if there's a centre to this. If there's an easy solution he can point to and help put an end to this. Find some sort of fucking resolution so he might be able to leave.

If leaving is still even an option for him.

"I don't know," Irina says, but Ilya knows his mother. Knows her tells as well as he knows his own.

She's fucking lying.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Ilya asks Lara.

Lara shrugs and sighs, settling down across from him at the small table in her home.

"What would I have said, Ilyusha?" she asks in return.

"That there was something wrong," Ilya says. "I don't know why you kept this from me."

"I told you she was having bad weeks," Lara points out.

"You did not say it was this bad," he insists.

He watches her set her face.

"Ilya, you are grown now," Lara says plainly. "And so is your mother. She didn't want me to tell you how bad it was. And you didn't seem to want to know how bad it was."

Ilya wilts slightly at this, because she's right. He'd asked, but hoped she wouldn't answer.

"Would you have come?" Lara asks, though not unkindly. "If I told you that she was shutting herself inside, that she stopped going out, would you have come home?"

He drops his head, choosing to look intently at the floral design on the side of the mug instead of Lara. The silence is answer enough.

He didn't ask because he didn't want to come home. He just wanted to finish the year, to get through juniors and finally step onto NHL ice. He hadn't wanted to come home.

"She was not willing," Lara says to him. She's speaking far more gently than Ilya deserves. "She would not let me do anything for her. I did not think you could help."

"What do you mean?" Ilya asks, eyes still downcast.

Lara sighs, the only kind of exhausted sigh that comes with dealing with Ilya and his mother. "I tried, Ilyusha. I brought her food. I helped clean up," she stops and he looks up to see her shaking her head sadly. "You know she gets like this. Will not accept help until she's ready. And she wasn't ready."

Ilya wishes he could accept this as forgiveness.

"Do you know what he wants?"

"I didn't even know he'd called until you told me," Lara says. There's a bitterness to her voice. A hurt.

"She won't tell me," Ilya confides. "I've listened to the messages that were there and they're nonsensical. Sometimes he sounds drunk or high. But she's deleted a lot of them. I think she deletes them still."

"If she doesn't want you to know, you will not know," Lara says with finality.

Ilya scrubs a frustrated hand over his face. He hasn't been sleeping well since he's been home.

He doesn't think he's had a good sleep since that last night at the cottage. Wrapped up in Shane.

But he can't let himself think about impossibilities. About moments passed and moments missed.

He's in Calgary and will be here for the foreseeable future.

"Do you know if he knows where we are?" Ilya doesn't need to say the name.

Lara sighs again. She looks regretful. "I don't know, Ilyusha."

Ilya grinds his teeth. He's been doing it a lot lately. His jaw hurts. He's tired.

He misses Shane. Misses his best friend.

Wants to go home and call him and listen to Shane tell him about whatever moronic, bizarrely specific fact about hockey that comes to his mind.

Maybe if Ilya were a different person, or maybe if Shane were literally any other person on the face of the earth, he could just ignore this. He could focus on everything he needs to do with Irina and then, if there's still anything worth saving, he can try to go after Shane.

But Ilya isn't someone else.

And Shane is still his best friend.

So although Ilya allows himself a few weeks of radio silence between him and Shane, he knows it won't last. He can't imagine trying to get through all of this only to reach the other side without even the possibility of seeing Shane.

Even if all he wants is friendship with Ilya.

Ilya is perfectly willing to accept friendship.

So, finally, he types out a message, a variation of one he's considered sending every day since they spoke.

But today he finally has a good enough reason to actually send it.

He deletes the message about fifteen different times, adjusting the punctuation, the emojis, and basically every possible grammatical formation of the simple fucking message. None of it feels right. But he knows it'll feel worse if he says nothing.

He waits until he knows the game has already started before he sends it. He doesn't want to be a reason Shane gets distracted and maybe has an off night.

Good luck tonight.

It's simple. To the point.

He has to physically restrain himself from checking his phone every thirty seconds, despite the fact that he can literally see Shane on his tv screen. Knows he's actively on the ice.

He keeps checking regardless.

Once the game actually ends it becomes true agony to stare at the black screen never lighting up. He restarts his phone more than once to make sure it's functioning. He stops short of going next door to ask Lara if she'll text him to check.

Ilya crawls into bed that night, disappointed.

He'd thought if he'd at least reached out that Shane would respond.

It isn't until he's lying in his bed, closing his eyes and wondering if he'll ever actually be able to coax his brain into silence, that he hears his phone vibrate on the bedside table next to his head.

He nearly drops it in his haste to pick it up.

There are only two words. But it's enough to buoy Ilya's hope. Enough to tether him.

Thank you.

He falls asleep holding his phone.

Over the next few weeks, they start to bridge the gap that was left at the end of summer. Ilya is usually the one to initiate the conversations. They keep it to safe topics at first. Hockey and maybe Shane's parents.

Ilya freezes any time Shane asks about Irina and about what's happening in Calgary. He tends to stop responding. Shane quickly stops asking.

Neither of them brings up the cottage, or what happened between them. If Ilya hadn't felt as if he'd been changed on a molecular level, he might doubt that it had even happened.

It takes a few weeks of semi-regular contact before Ilya unthinkingly clicks the call button next to Shane's name.

They'd spent so long in such consistent contact that anything else has felt wholly unnatural.

Shane answers after the first ring, and that alone is enough to make Ilya's heart clench.

"Ilya?"

"Yes," Ilya says. "Obviously, it is me."

Shane huffs out a breath and Ilya cringes. He doesn't want to be a dick.

"Why are you calling?"

Ilya remembers when they hadn't needed a reason to call.

He could just call, and they could just talk.

"I just…" Ilya picks at a bit of his nail. "I wanted to talk to you."

There's silence, and Ilya can nearly hear Shane thinking from where he is in Boston. He wants to comment on it. Complain about it.

He's not sure he's allowed to anymore.

"Just talk?" Shane says it like it's an entirely foreign concept.

"Yes, Shane," Ilya says, putting on a tone of exasperation. "I was, um, thinking about you."

He says the last part in a rush. Hoping that it doesn't make him sound like a fucking idiot.

He's worried when Shane says nothing at first.

"Ah."

"Are you home?" Ilya asks, as if he hadn't checked the Raiders schedule obsessively to make sure Shane was likely in Boston.

"Yeah," Shane says. He sounds tired. "Home game tonight."

"Right," Ilya says. He wants to smack his head against the wall. So much for being a brilliant conversationalist.

"So, are you—"

"How is your—"

They both stop.

"Go ahead," Shane says. His voice sounds frustratingly formal.

"I just was wondering how the team is?" Ilya asks lamely.

"Fine."

When Shane does nothing more to elaborate, Ilya feels the pang of discomfort.

This is his best friend. Why the fuck can't they talk to each other?

"How's Irina?" Shane asks.

"Fine."

He can't bring Shane into this. Shane who's always existed outside of Ilya's far messier life in Calgary.

Shane chuckles, but Ilya's not sure it's a happy sound.

"We're shit at this," he says.

Ilya barks out a laugh despite himself, grateful for the pressure release if nothing else.

"We're not doing great."

"Want to hear about what Erik's professor said on his first day?"

"Erik was going for business, right?" Shane asks. Ilya cannot believe how giddy it makes him that Shane remembers that stupid fucking information.

"Well, he was," Ilya says dramatically. "But apparently, he's decided to become a teacher, I don't know. He doesn't seem to know."

"Weird," Shane says. "But what'd the professor say?"

Ilya lets out a breath. This is easier. He can do this with Shane. He can slip back into this older, perfectly functional version of themselves.

They spend the rest of the afternoon sharing random things that exist on the periphery of what they really should be talking about. Neither willing to actually burst the fragile civility that they've managed to develop.

Finally, it's time to say goodbye.

"Shit, I have to go," Shane says, and Ilya does think he genuinely sounds regretful of that fact. "I've gotta get dressed before heading down for the, uh, game."

"Right," Ilya nods, even though Shane can't see him. "Excellent."

They both just breathe into the receivers. Two men on different ends of the continent, closer than they've been in weeks, but still farther from each other than they've been in years.

"Will you watch tonight?"

"Do you want me to watch?" Ilya asks. A shy grin appears on his face.

"It'd be nice if you did," Shane says, and Ilya can hear the forced nonchalance. "Maybe I'll score a goal for you."

"I will watch."

"Okay."

"Good luck, Shane."

"Bye, Ilya."

Ilya notices the pattern after the second time it happens.

Shane calls him after losses. Otherwise, it tends to be that Ilya has to instigate the phone calls. And it's not that Ilya perks up when the games end with the Raiders on the losing end of things. He just appreciates the moments when Shane shows that in tough moments he still reaches toward Ilya. Even if he's not fully aware he's doing it.

One night, Shane calls from New York after the Raiders experience a rather rough loss.

"Do you think there are more rats than people in New York City?" Shane asks after Ilya answers.

Shane very rarely calls to actually talk about the losses. Instead, he always opens with some innocuous question to break the ice. Eventually they might make it to the topic of the game, but more often than not they just inch around it without ever crossing into the topic.

Ilya pauses to genuinely think about the question, because he knows Shane isn't asking just to hear himself speak.

"Maybe, yes," Ilya says. "Cities usually have a lot, yes? And there are maybe many people in New York, but there is also so much garbage."

"It's kind of gross," Shane says.

"You know there are no rats in Calgary?"

Shane pauses. "What?"

"None at all," Ilya confirms. "None in Alberta at all."

"There's no fucking way," Shane insists. "Rats are, like, everywhere."

"Not here," Ilya repeats. "We have a fucking rat patrol."

They continue like that, and discuss how exactly the rat patrol works. Why everywhere else hasn't attempted to do something similar. And for a little while they just feel like themselves. It feels like the year they spent glued to their phones, seeking out every possible free moment to speak to each other.

The unwelcome realization that Ilya had in the warmth of the cottage over the summer hits him hard each time this happens. Because how the hell had he not realized just how lost he was for his best friend?

They always talk until Shane hears his teammate returning from whatever bar he'd gone out to. Then Ilya will get a hurried goodbye before the line cuts out.

A less forgiving part of his mind wonders if Shane would still feel the need to hang up if Ilya was a girl. He knows that isn't fair for many reasons, the first being that Shane owes him nothing. He doesn't owe Ilya recognition in this new section of his life. And the second being that Shane wouldn't stay on the phone with a girl, or anyone. Because Shane hates being heard when he's talking on the phone.

Because Ilya's best friend is kind of weird.

"Your teammates, they are not good?" Ilya asks one night.

Shane's been complaining in the way he does, never quite admitting something is wrong, only offering enough details for Ilya to notice there's a problem.

"They're fine."

"Shane, please."

"Ilya, don't."

"Shaaaaaane," Ilya whines. Shane hates when he whines.

"I've never been good with making friends," Shane says in a rush. "You're a fucking anomaly, Ilya. Before you I would say I had like, I don't know, people I was friendly with."

"I'm sure it wasn't—"

"It was," Shane says flatly, leaving no room for argument. "I'm fucking bad at it. I don't connect with them, I don't know what to say. I just feel like an asshole."

"You're not an asshole," Ilya says. It's not nearly close to everything he'd like to say.

"My parents are far, you're far," Shane sighs. "I don't have anyone here."

The answer occurs to Ilya, and he can't believe he didn't think of it sooner.

"I have a friend, she is Boston too," Ilya tells Shane. "I know her from Russia. She reached out to me."

Ilya and Svetlana have kept in contact since she first found him the previous summer. Texting here and there throughout his last season in juniors. They've been calling each other more consistently since he's been back home. It's been nice to have someone who at least knows enough to understand why Alexei's calls are so significant.

It occurs to Ilya that perhaps Sveta's knowledge of him should hold him back from introducing them. She knows more of him. She knows Grigori. She knows who Ilya was in that house, even if she last saw him as a scared twelve year old. It's a version of himself he and Irina left behind.

"Good for you?" Shane says, a question in his voice.

"No, Shane." Ilya slaps his hand to his forehead. "Fucking idiot, you want to meet her?"

"Oh, uh…" Shane pauses. "I don't know. What would we even talk about?"

"Shane, she is obsessed with you," Ilya laughs. "You could talk about you and she'd be happy. But even more, she is obsessed with hockey."

He can almost hear Shane perk up at this. Fucking Shane.

"She likes hockey?"

"No, Shane," Ilya corrects him. He realizes perhaps a few minutes too late that he's about to create something horrific by introducing them. "She fucking loves hockey. Her dad was a goalie. She might be one person who knows more about hockey than you."

"No chance," Shane says.

"I'm not lying."

"That might be okay."

"Look," Ilya says. "I will send you her number. I will tell her you might reach out. But if you do not, no big deal."

"Okay," Shane says quietly. "Thanks, Ilya."

"Of course," Ilya says easily. "I would do anything for you."

He wants to get as far away from that statement as possible, once more fearing he's revealed too much.

Ilya makes good on his promise and sends Shane Sveta's number.

He regrets it within twenty-four hours. He hadn't realized Boston had a few games at home.

Sveta texts him immediately, saying they've made plans to meet. Ilya understands it as she made plans and Shane agreed to them. Shane isn't exactly a social butterfly. Ilya's never known him to meet up with someone so quickly.

Shane calls him soon after they meet each other for the first time, and Ilya can't keep the grin from his face as Shane gushes about how much fun he's had with Sveta. He even calls her Sveta which means they've absolutely had a good time. Shane talks for ten minutes about her hockey opinions, her dad being a goalie, some argument they had, whatever. He has so much to say, without once mentioning that she is objectively gorgeous. Ilya smiles to himself about it.

Sveta waits to call him until the next day, and she gushes as much as Shane did. Even as a child she'd been so reserved. Aloof, maybe, is the better word. But she tells Ilya she loved getting to know Shane and reveals that they've already made plans to see each other again.

He has to remind himself more than once that it's a good thing Shane and Sveta seem to get along.

Great.

And it's even better when, within a day or so, Ilya gets to watch his childhood friend cheer on his best friend from the friends and family section of the rink in fucking Boston.

It's late enough one night, and things have eased between them, that Ilya finds himself talking before he can manage to recapture the words.

"Have you met anyone… in Boston?" Ilya asks, suddenly focused on picking lint off the blanket on his bed.

"You mean any other friends?" Shane asks, completely oblivious. "Honestly, it's just Svetlana."

"No, I mean, like," Ilya wants to crawl out of his skin. "Anyone that maybe you spend time with when you are not playing hockey or talking about hockey. I don't know."

Silence. Always the fucking silence. And with so much space between them Ilya can't watch Shane's face while he processes. Can't guess the feelings before Shane is even aware of them.

He wonders briefly if he'll ever get the chance to do so again.

"You mean, like a date?" Shane clarifies. And Ilya maybe hates him a little for forcing him to confirm how fucking insecure he is.

"Yes, Shane, like a date." He can't help but make his voice sardonic. Hoping he can lift up the veil of sarcasm and protect himself from whatever comes next.

"No," Shane says softly.

More silence. Stupid silence.

And Ilya is nothing if not a fucking idiot who can't keep his mouth shut when faced with silence.

"Ah, well, you are very busy," he says. "Must be hard to find a nice woman."

Shane laughs once. Ilya hears Shane take a deep breath before speaking again. Almost as if he's steeling himself for whatever he's about to say.

"It's not because I'm busy."

Ilya grins stupidly at his phone. Feeling absolutely ridiculous and utterly embarrassed.

"And I think you proved rather resolutely that girls aren't quite for me."

"Ah." Ilya can't help the way his voice rumbles. He can't seem to help much when it comes to Shane. "And what is for you?"

An exasperated exhalation.

Shane doesn't speak.

With every second of silence, Ilya becomes more and more insecure about what he's said. About how he's implied himself into Shane's desires, when they haven't even fucking talked about it since it happened.

And once more, his mouth moves faster than his brain.

"Do you regret it?" the question comes out quiet and scared. Ilya's not even sure why he's asking.

Well, he does.

Because he really needs to know.

"No." The answer isn't uncertain.

The following question is. "Do you? Regret it, I mean."

Ilya's shaking his head, even though he knows Shane can't actually see him.

"Of course not, Shane," he promises. "I could never regret you. Anything with you."

"Okay. Good."

They spend a few minutes longer on the phone dancing around the questions neither is brave enough to ask.

Chapter End Notes

hi hello

i've MADE ALL THE PLANS. finalized them as much as i can.

pals? we're maybe half way through (i'm so sorry omg. but i SWEAR we will get more hollanov before getting even close to the end)

but like...i'm trying to balance including the complexities of race, and class, and mental health, and also the family dynamics that are gonna become a whole dang thing, and also STILL HAVING THERE BE ROMANCE WITH BOYS KISSING AT SOME POINT.

as you can guess...it's a lot to juggle.

all i can promise right now is that there will be a happy ending. (very happy)

Also my original plan was to have them not talk for a while after this bc the boys are dramatic, but it just wouldn't make sense for them, given the friendship. I think this works better

and i fear sveta and shane are gonna become besties. it might have to happen. bc there's no freaking sex jealousy between them!!!!!! they just get to be lil hockey freaks together!!! idk if i mentioned she's still in boston. but i also didn't want to go on a fucking sidequest about what she's up to (WE ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH GOING ON).

every chapter i say to myself "let's try and do shorter chapters!" and then i start. hopefully y'all don't mind it? 😬

pls continue with your lovely comments. i love the long comments. pls tell me literally all your thoughts.

Chapter 21: March 2011

Chapter Summary

Ilya welcomes a visitor to Calgary for an evening.

Chapter Notes

wait....AM I UPLOADING A CHAPTER WHILE THE SUN IS UP (at least where i live)????

insanity. (it's bc i finished it last night, but didn't have time to edit until this morning)

in my mind? this was a quicker chapter.

somehow it's still over 5k words???

also i meant to mention in my notes in the last one - the rat patrol thing is real.

alberta's got no rats. i just think that's neat.

"You're sure you'll be okay?" Ilya checks for what must be the fortieth time that afternoon.

"I'm sure, Ilyusha," Irina tells him with a smile. "I am meeting with some of my classmates. We have a ridiculous project."

He returns her smile with one of his own. She'd reapplied and was able to take back her spot in the program she left. She'd been back since January. Ilya can't deny the fact that the colour has returned to Irina's cheeks.

She moves around the house with ease. And Ilya is frozen when he hears her humming to herself quietly. She doesn't seem to be consciously doing it, just a byproduct as she moves from room to room.

She stops only to tell Ilya she'll be home before him and will leave the door unlocked for him. He can't be sure his voice will be level enough to respond, so he just nods.

"Say hi to Shane," Irina tells him, leaning up to kiss his cheek when he's nearly ready to leave.

"I will, Mama," Ilya promises.

Ilya stops once more in front of the hall mirror before getting ready to leave for the game. Ilya's glad the game against Calgary is actually here and not in Boston, though Shane offered exactly once to fly Ilya out before he shut it down. Entirely unwilling to let Shane pay for anything, regardless of how stupid his salary is.

Something about his appearance keeps him there for a moment longer. He's already changed his shirt three times. He's not even sure what he's aiming for. Or what he's checking for. It's just silly, really. Shane knows what he looks like. It shouldn't be this stressful to see his friend.

Parking near the Saddledome is always hellish when there's an event on the Stampede grounds, but especially so when there's a hockey game. Eventually, Ilya gives up and pays an amount for parking that he feels is personally offensive, surrounded by an endless stream of red jerseys heading toward the arena. All so they won't have to walk two hours to get back to the car at the end of the night.

Ilya wears a baseball cap, aiming for inconspicuous, though he feels like kind of a jackass for even thinking that anyone will recognize him. Granted, hockey fans can be really intense, and even more than that, he's found Canadians tend to get really intense when someone's from their city. He's been stopped before while out with Erik or Austin and it's always just weird.

Especially because he's not really anyone yet. If anything, he was almost someone.

The Saddledome is loud and alive with the frantic energy preceding any sporting event. Ilya's even been to some lacrosse games here, to see the Roughnecks, and the energy is always the same. Frenzied and a little drunk.

Ilya's sure to buy a beer before finding his seat. He waited maybe a little too long to get in, and realizes he's missed the warm ups. He's disappointed to not see Shane as he prepared himself for the game, when he'd still be Shane, and not Hollander of the Boston Raiders. A person who remains wholly unknown to Ilya.

Ilya settles into his uncomfortable arena seat. He's got a great view, which makes sense since the tickets have come from Shane directly. He's able to catch a glimpse of Shane on the bench. He can see the HOLLANDER emblazoned across his shoulders. The big number twenty-four on his back. Ilya can't help but grin.

This is absolutely Shane Hollander, number one draft pick.

Shane's playing second line, though Ilya wonders if it's only seniority keeping him there, because it doesn't seem like many other players are even trying to keep up with him. He knows Boston is still in the midst of rebuilding, and it's clear to see.

Rookie of the Year is essentially a guarantee for him, and after actually seeing him play live, Ilya really can't imagine any other player even coming close to competing with him.

He doesn't let himself wonder who would have won it if Ilya was in the midst of his rookie season as well. It's not fair to either of them.

Ilya thinks he's seen just about every single professional game Shane's played since he joined the Raiders. He may have missed one when he couldn't get out of coaching. Otherwise, he's watched. Always happy to see the way Shane graced the ice.

Seeing him here on NHL ice is a different experience entirely. The cameras aren't able to capture accurately just how much of the ice Shane covers. The broadcast seems to shrink the space he moves through.

When Shane gets on the ice for the first faceoff he takes, Ilya watches the way his eyes track across the crowd. Like he's looking for something.

He stops when he finally lands on Ilya, and even from where he sits, Ilya can see the grin change Shane's face. He lifts his glove in recognition and, with his face coloured by the blush warming his cheeks, Ilya quickly raises his own hand in response.

He very pointedly does not look at the people seated around him, hoping that they don't look at him too closely.

After seeing Ilya, something in Shane's game changes. He was playing well before, in a perfectly textbook way, but now he's playing like Ilya remembers. With the careful grace of a skater who often seemed out of place on the ice with the other brutish hockey players. He's fast, though Ilya wonders if his time training over the year has closed the already tiny gap between their skate times.

Watching Shane skate on the ice feels transformative. The itch that has shown up every few weeks that demands he gets on the ice for a game is back and coating his entire body. It's like something else entirely, and he feels the strangest desire to gear up and get on the ice with Shane.

Because yes, Ilya has missed playing, but even more, Ilya has missed playing with Shane. Missed the way Shane is always where Ilya needs him, and watching as Shane's left wing sends another puck far beyond Shane only makes this worse.

Midway through the second, Ilya sees the play forming before Shane even has the puck. There's a gap opening on the opposite side, Boston's right wing slipping toward the net while Calgary's defense follows Shane.

A small smirk pulls at Ilya's mouth and he unconsciously sits forward in his seat.

There.

Shane gets the puck and doesn't even glance at the opening. He doesn't need to. But there's a half second of hesitation Ilya doesn't fully understand. Shane keeps the puck just a breath too long.

Ilya doesn't understand why until he notices that Boston's winger has only just gotten himself into the open space.

The pass connects, but Ilya feels offended on Shane's behalf.

Ilya would have been there. He would have been ready for the pass when it should have been sent. Regardless, it's still a good play and Calgary's goalie barely has time to move before it's in the net.

Ilya's on his feet before most of the Boston fans who are scattered through the arena. His smirk shifts into a full on grin despite the groans of Calgary fans surrounding him.

There's happiness in his expression that Ilya can't help but appreciate. He's not sure he's seen the same expression on Shane's face during any other game.

Ilya spends a good portion of the second period on his feet, electrified by the way Shane is playing. It draws him in so wholly that he can almost forget any complicated feelings he might be holding onto. All he can think about is Shane carving up the ice and running his own clinic in the midst of a game while the rest of the players look like they're trying to catch up.

He's playing like he genuinely loves the game.

So it's all the more apparent when something shifts in the third period.

During a stoppage in play, Ilya watches as a Calgary defenseman, Fortier, skates by Shane. Even from where Ilya's seated, he can see his mouth move. He says something to Shane.

Shane's face drops, but otherwise he doesn't respond to whatever is said.

Ilya wants to believe it's nothing, but he can see the self-satisfied smirk on Fortier's face. Tension enters Ilya's jaw.

Shane continues to play at the top of his game for the remaining shifts he has on the ice. If Ilya didn't know any better, he likely wouldn't have noticed. He's certain no one else in the arena has noticed.

But Ilya does know better.

And he knows Shane.

He's no longer playing with any amount of joy, every move is methodical and timed. It is technically damn near perfect hockey, but it contains none of the artistry he had been exhibiting before.

Ilya sets his jaw and stares daggers at Fortier every time he gets on the ice. Wondering briefly if he owns one of those nice big houses out in Springbank and whether or not Ilya can go pay him a visit.

Shane manages to sink one last goal at the end of the third, solidifying an embarrassing 3-0 loss for Calgary. He hardly celebrates the goal, just skates off the ice.

Not only that, but Ilya notices that not many of his own teammates approach Shane to celebrate, just one of his own defensemen who knocks gloves with him as he skates toward the bench. A few of the others seem to give him some sort of props when he gets back on the bench and starts spraying water into his mouth. But there's something notably subdued about it.

When the final buzzer goes, Ilya watches Shane go down the tunnel without so much as a glance toward him.

He tries not to be hurt by that.

He knows he doesn't have the right to, knows it's fairly ridiculous to feel this way. Shane's just finished playing a fucking NHL game, has essentially won the game for his team, and Ilya's feelings are hurt because his friend didn't look at him?

Fucking ridiculous.

—

Later, Ilya is waiting by the players entrance where Shane said to meet him. He's leaning against a railing trying not to look nearly as antsy as he feels.

Sure, he and Shane have spoken since August, and they've maybe even brushed up against the idea of talking about what happened between them, but neither has actually said anything about it. Neither of them has actually brought up if anything is different between them. If they're supposed to act differently. If there are different rules for them now.

He sees a few players come out before Shane. They're loudly planning which clubs to hit up and still be back in time for curfew.

When he sees their suits, he is briefly stunned to remember that his fucking jeans and hoodie combo he'd been so careful about is doubtlessly going to look awful next to Shane in a fucking suit.

A few nod in his direction, not as a sign of recognition, just in the tight lipped way people do when they aren't sure what to do with a stranger. One of their glances lingers on Ilya's face, and he tries not to hide further into his hood. Luckily, they just keep walking past him and Ilya doesn't have to deal with any pitying recognition.

Finally, the door opens and a familiar face emerges. Ilya imagines being able to run over and grab Shane up in a hug. Instead, he offers a shy wave and smile while Shane works his way over to him.

"Hey," Shane says.

It happens all at once. Shane's shoulders drop away from his ears, his tense jaw loosens, and a smile breaks open the expression that had been so carefully closed off before. And it happens the moment he lays eyes on Ilya.

Ilya unwittingly pushes away from the railing and steps closer to Shane. Before he can prepare himself for what he's going to do, he's face to face with Shane. They're both smiling and shuffling their feet. The cool March night is just enough to make Ilya's hoodie feel like not quite enough, but not so cold that he feels the need to rush somewhere warm.

For a moment, they just stand there, nearly toe to toe, and stare at each other. Ilya had missed the way Shane's freckles decorate his face. He feels greedy, taking each part of Shane's face and recommitting it to memory.

The second thing he notices, after absorbing the beauty of Shane's freckles, are the dark circles beneath his eyes, marring the beauty only slightly.

Before Ilya can open his mouth to say something, the door behind Shane opens abruptly and the loud voices of more Boston players pour out.

"Hey, Hollander," one of them says. Ilya recognizes him as the defenseman who'd made contact with Shane during the game.

"Hey, Marleau," Shane says in response, and while Ilya sees a slight tightening in Shane's expression, he clearly feels more comfortable with this guy than some of the others.

The large player smiles warmly at Shane and waves on his buddies to stop and talk for a moment.

"Who's this?" he asks, still smiling and offering a hand to Ilya.

"My friend, Ilya. Rozanov," Shane says. "This is Cliff Marleau."

"Call me, Marly," he says with an easy grin. "And shit, you're Rozanov! You two were in the same draft class, right?"

"Yeah," Ilya says, hoping they can get away before—

"What happened with Montreal?" Marleau asks Ilya.

And Ilya wants to hate him for it, but there's an earnestness in the way he asks.

"Family stuff," Ilya answers stiffly. "We should—"

"Go," Shane finishes, stepping away from Marleau. "Yeah, sorry, Marleau."

"Marly, how many times do I gotta tell you?" Marleau says with the exasperation of an older brother. "Are you guys going out? You wanna come to the bar with us?"

Both of them are shaking their heads before he's finished speaking.

"Shane's looking forward to visiting with my mom." Ilya smiles in what he hopes is a friendly way. "We should get going."

Ilya grabs Shane's sleeve and pulls him away and toward his car before Marleau, or Marly can say anything else.

"Night, Hollz," Marly calls to them. "Don't forget. Midnight curfew."

Shane nods and waves back without looking.

Once they're far enough away, Ilya tugs on the sleeve of Shane's suit, which he must admit, Shane looks fucking good in, until he gets his attention.

"Ready to go, Hollz?"

"Shut the fuck up," Shane laughs. "Please, do not call me that."

Ilya had wracked his mind over where to take Shane for the few hours they have before he needs to be back at the team hotel. He didn't want to be somewhere terribly public. Most people in Calgary are more concerned with their divisional teams and the endless rivalry between here and Edmonton, but people will still know Shane.

Taking Shane home is also not an option. He doesn't want Irina to cross the threshold of whatever the fuck is happening between him and Shane. Especially when he's not even sure what's happening between him and Shane. And okay, maybe Ilya also feels embarrassed to bring his best friend, probably Rookie of the Year, NHL player Shane Hollander over to mom's house. Where Ilya's still fucking living.

So maybe he's a little embarrassed of that. Maybe he doesn't want to remind Shane of just how embarrassing Ilya's allowed his life to become. Especially in the shadow of his own life.

"Are you hungry?" Ilya asks.

"Yeah," Shane says. "Always hungry after a game."

"Oh, duh," Ilya laughs. "Sorry."

Why does it feel like they've only just met each other today?

Insanity overtakes Ilya for a short second and he wonders if just sucking Shane's dick will loosen him up. He's contemplating how he might approach this when Shane finally talks.

"I don't really want to go to a restaurant," Shane admits.

"Okay."

That seals it.

About fifteen minutes later they're pulling into the parking lot of a park near Ilya's house.

Ilya starts unpacking the food they purchased. It took some time to find a take out place that had something Shane could actually eat without throwing off the nutrition plan he follows as if it were the holy bible. Ilya ordered too much food and shooed away Shane when he tried to pay for it, promising him they're celebrating his win, so obviously Ilya will be buying.

He hands Shane his take out container and smiles when Shane happily digs in. Some colour returns to his cheeks and Ilya feels like he watches Shane come back online. Reawakening the man after he'd depleted himself for Boston's win that night. Ilya doesn't doubt that the game would have turned out differently without Shane there.

Ilya opens his mouth about four different times to say something, but he can't think of anything. When he turns back to his own meal, he can swear he sees Shane turn his head in his periphery.

He also doesn't speak.

The only sound in the car is their shitty plastic cutlery against the takeout containers and the low hum of the car running. It's too cold to turn it off completely.

"Tell me about Boston," Ilya prompts Shane when it becomes clear he won't start speaking on his own.

"It's nice," Shane says with a shrug.

Ilya turns his head slightly to talk to him. "Hollzy, you have been in Boston for months now. All you can say is 'it's nice'?"

"Don't call me that," Shane says, shaking his head. "I don't know what you want me to say."

Ilya sighs to himself, deciding to shift gears.

"How is Sveta?"

Still facing Shane when he asks this, Ilya gets to watch the way Shane's face transforms at the mention of her name. His eyes brighten and his entire demeanour changes. He actually finally shifts in his seat and faces Ilya.

"She's great," Shane says happily.

Shane launches into a long winded explanation that leaves Ilya equal parts deliriously happy that at least within the slog of Boston, Shane has someone. But it also opens a well of much less appreciated feelings.

Jealous.

Ilya's jealous.

Now, Ilya's not an idiot, and even though Shane's never actually said it in so many words, he has a fairly strong feeling that Sveta isn't exactly his type. But Ilya realizes with stone cold clarity that he's not jealous of them being physically involved.

No, that would be far too simple. Far too easy and maybe even understandable.

Instead, Ilya's left feeling like a child on the edge of a playground. Wanting to complain because his best friends have run off and become friends without him.

He tries to keep the same smile he had on his face before making the realization, though honestly Shane's so lost talking about Sveta's amazing commentary on hockey, that he probably doesn't even notice.

And why would he notice? He's busy talking about Sveta.

Ilya really needs to stop.

"She's going to stop by once I get home," Shane finally says. He pauses, looking shy as he realizes how long he's been talking. "Um, I guess I should thank you. Sveta's kind of been a life saver."

This elicits a smile from Ilya, because he is happy about it. He loves that he was able to connect two people from his life.

They lapse back into silence as Shane finishes the last of his food. Ilya grabs both containers and steps out of the car briefly to toss the garbage in a bin. When he's settled back in the car, chilled a little more since the air has cooled substantially in the moments outside, he turns up the heat a little and smiles at Shane.

When Shane smiles back, there's something behind the look he gives Ilya. And Ilya is reminded of what happened on the ice.

"You wanna talk about it?" Ilya asks after a few moments of silence.

He can't help but draw parallels between each time they've had serious conversations. Either over text or phone calls that first year they spent apart, or lying down, staring at the ceiling, or driving to the cottage last summer.

Somehow close, but never quite face to face. Like they both needed somewhere else to look when the conversation got too real.

"No."

"Shane," Ilya says.

"Ilya."

Ilya doesn't speak right away. He's really considering what to say.

"Fortier, he said something to you on the ice," Ilya says, unimpressed Shane's forcing him to say it. "In the third period."

Ilya looks intently at Shane. He's finally able to watch the minute ways Shane's expression changes while they talk. He hopes now he'll have an actual chance of understanding what exactly it is that Shane is trying to communicate beneath what he's saying.

"Nothing," Shane says easily. Too easily.

He shrugs his shoulders with a practiced effortlessness, but Ilya clocks the way his eyes tighten. The way his mouth draws together.

Ilya almost laughs because the expression is so similar to one he's seen on Yuna. Though, he doubts Shane wants to hear about his mom right now.

"Didn't look like nothing," Ilya says.

Shane exhales loudly. Unimpressed by the way Ilya still pushes.

"It's nothing," he insists. "Just the standard hockey shit. Nothing I haven't heard before."

"Shane—"

"Drop it, Ilya," Shane says, his voice sharp enough that Ilya knows if he keeps pushing it will ruin their very limited time.

"Okay," Ilya surrenders, throwing up his hands. "Fine."

Shane's body shifts slightly so he's turned away from Ilya more significantly. It feels monumental in the small space of the car. The napkin he's holding in his hands takes the brunt of Shane's frustration as he starts shredding it into smaller pieces.

Ilya's starting to feel exhausted in a way he's never experienced with Shane. There's just so much between them that they aren't saying. So much that needs to be said, and Ilya is terrified of hearing. It's never felt like this with Shane.

Being with Shane has always been fucking easy.

And only one thing has changed between them, and Ilya can't keep circling the idea that they've fucked this all up. But every time he gets too close to that idea, he remembers Shane's voice steadily assuring him that he didn't regret what happened.

He just clearly isn't ready to talk about it just yet. And, well, Ilya can be patient.

Probably.

So, he veers the topic into something else he's been curious about ever since that disastrous phone call after Shane's training camp.

"Your team, they are okay?" Ilya asks. It's not exactly what he wants to ask. He'd like to word it a little more directly so there's actually some hope that Shane will answer him the way he wants.

But direct tends to spook Shane.

"Yeah, fine," Shane says blandly.

His face has once more slipped into what Ilya has long deemed to be his 'media' face. Carefully controlled. Blank.

"You're happy there?" Ilya asks.

"Playing? Yeah, I mean, dream come true," Shane says, and winces slightly. "Sorry, I just mean. I don't know."

"It's fine, Shane," Ilya says, even though the words burn a little when they reach him. Of course playing for Boston is a dream. Playing for any NHL team has always been the dream. "But, no. I mean just Boston. You are happy there?"

Shane swallows loudly enough to be audible.

And he doesn't answer right away.

Shane starts piling the napkin confetti he's been making onto another napkin. He's offensively organized about it.

"I like playing hockey there," Shane reasserts.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

"It's fine," Shane says, exasperation clear in his voice. "I don't know what you want me to say. I'm tired from all the travel, my teammates are fine. They bond by partying, which, as you can fucking guess, is just perfect for me."

Ilya's speechless as Shane starts unloading what must be months of frustration that Ilya hasn't heard even hints of. At least not verbally.

"I just don't know how to do it," Shane says bitterly. "I hate going out with them. But when I don't go I can see the looks. I'm sure they're saying lovely things about me when I'm not there."

"Shane," Ilya says softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

There's a momentary pause where Shane just stares at the way Ilya's fingers grasp at his arm.

"I've worked my entire life to be in the NHL," Shane says. Ilya hears emotion cloaking each of Shane's words, hit eyes don't lift from staring at Ilya's hand. "I just thought once I got here, I don't know, it would actually feel—"

Shane cuts off abruptly, like he's just realized how much he's said, a distraught look on his face. He's no longer carefully blank. Ilya's not sure what's more upsetting. That Shane's feeling so displaced in Boston, or that he didn't want to tell Ilya about it.

Ilya rubs gentle circles into Shane's arm, wishing for a moment that he was able to gather Shane up in his arms. Hold him tightly in the way he likes and the way that lets tension seep out of his body.

"You don't have to be best friends with your teammates," Ilya tries.

Shane laughs. "I do if I ever want to be captain."

"Maybe it's just growing pains, yes?" Ilya suggests. "You will get used to each other."

"Sure," Shane says. "So, uh, how are things going here? You still helping with training?"

Ilya can hear the cautiousness in his voice. Ilya knows he's shut down conversations when Shane tried probing too deeply into what Ilya's life is looking like here. He knows it isn't fair when he wants to see each ugly little part of Shane's life, but he also knows that it's different.

Ilya's shit with his family is just different. And he never wants Shane to have to hear those truths and carry them.

"Good," Ilya says. "I am helping coach some kids. A lot of them just have more money than talent, but a few might actually have a shot at something."

Shane nods, but doesn't continue the line of questioning. Ilya expects him to ask about Erik and Austin. It's another topic they've sort of wordlessly agreed is safe to discuss.

That's not where Shane shifts the conversation.

"Are you, um," Shane sniffs, and his eyes drop down to focus on his hands. "I mean, I don't know if it's my business. But, uh, I was just wondering—"

"Jesus Christ, Shane," Ilya groans. "Whatever the fuck it is, please just ask it."

"Areyouseeinganyone?" he says it all at once, like spitting out something distasteful, wanting it gone just as quickly as he can.

Ilya swallows. He turns toward the steering wheel and briefly wonders just how honest he should be here. Unfortunately, he also realizes that every moment he spends without speaking is likely worse for Shane than the actual truth.

"Uh, not seeing anyone, no," Ilya tells him. "Just, you know, go out sometimes, pick up girls. Nothing serious."

The admission feels like pounding nails into his chest. He's embarrassed by it. He's just been so fucking lonely here. And he's felt so fucking useless.

And the sex with these girls let him feel distinctly useful, and less lonely at least until he left.

"Ah." Shane's response tells him nothing and everything. And it all fucking hurts.

He wonders if he should apologize, but isn't sure what he'd be apologizing for. They hadn't promised anything to each other.

"It didn't mean anything," Ilya whispers. He worries if he speaks any louder it'll force them both to actually talk about it.

Maybe he should mention that he's only been able to hook up with women. That no men have held even the smallest amount of interest for him. And, if he's completely honest, the girls had been little more than a way to spend some time.

Which might be unfair to them. But it wasn't as if they were looking for a relationship either.

"It doesn't really matter, I guess," Shane says before clearing his throat and pointedly changing the subject. "Uh, your mom? How has she been?"

The smile that comes across Ilya's face this time is genuine. "She's doing better."

When Ilya looks at Shane he can see the other questions that flash across his face. Can see all the things he might want to push Ilya on, but clearly decides not to.

"That's good," Shane settles on, though it sounds earnest. "I'm glad."

"Yeah," Ilya agrees.

There's quiet again, and Ilya thinks it's starting to be a little more comfortable.

Shane's body has relaxed into the chair more solidly than he has all night. He no longer appears to be holding his body upright by force, he's allowed his spine to curve and his arm to rest on the door, his hand supporting his head.

"I know I mentioned it last summer." Shane suddenly looks quite insecure. "But lots changed. So, I don't know if you still wanted to come to the cottage with me?"

His voice turns up at the end like a question. It momentarily throws Ilya off.

"If you can," Shane adds.

Ilya's brow pulls together, confused. "Why couldn't I?"

Shane shrugs. "I don't know, just everything with your mom, right? I don't know if doing better means you can, uh, leave or anything."

Right. Of course. Ilya turns away and stares out of the front window of the car. He wants to go. And was nearly ready to accept Shane's invitation without pause. And that pulls him up short, because it's the first time in months that he's wanted to agree to something without considering how Irina will play into it.

And perhaps that's more significant than anything else.

"Do you still want me to come?" Ilya asks, carefully watching the way Shane's face shifts at the question.

Shane just nods.

"Okay," Ilya tells him, reaching across to brush his fingertips across Shane's knuckles. "Then I think that maybe this is something I can do."

The touch is electric and sends a shiver through his entire body. He wasn't sure if the time away would change things, but he knows for certain that was silly to think.

Ilya wants Shane.

"Yeah?" Shane's eyes turn up at Ilya's response, and the hopefulness in them is enough to break and heal Ilya's heart.

"Yes," Ilya confirms.

His eyes trail to the digital clock above the knobs for the radio.

Shit.

"I guess I should get you back," Ilya says, nodding toward the time. "Before you turn into a squash or whatever."

"It's a pumpkin, Ilya," Shane corrects him, just as he'd expected.

"Yeah, I know, Shane." Ilya smiles at his ability to just know Shane.

He lets his hand linger against Shane's for just a moment longer before pulling away and driving Shane back to the hotel.

They drive in relative quiet. Every once in a while Ilya will point out some dumb spot. A restaurant he and his friends frequent. A park he's walked through. Buildings he's mentioned in their conversations. Shane asks questions every once in a while.

It's nice.

Ilya pulls into the parking lot that's on the backside of the hotel.

He parks toward the back of the lot to let Shane out.

Shane doesn't get out.

Ilya doesn't move at all.

It would be reckless, right?

All at once, something alights in the car between them.

He can hear Shane's breathing.

When he looks across the centre console, he can see Shane's already turned to look at him. Shane's eyes are locked on Ilya's and he very slowly looks down to Ilya's lips before coming back up.

Shane licks his bottom lip.

"Fuck," Ilya mutters.

He shifts toward Shane at the same time Shane moves to close the same distance. Shane's hand clumsily fists the front of Ilya's shirt, while Ilya's hand threads through Shane's hair and roughly pulls their mouths together.

All at once, the car fills with every unspoken word that's sat heavy and expectant between them the whole night. Or perhaps they've been sitting there, spread along the distance between Calgary and Boston, since what happened at the cottage.

Suddenly, all Ilya knows is Shane. The taste of him. The feel of him. The way small sounds escape Shane's mouth like he can't possibly help himself.

Ilya reaches down to undo his seat belt so he can at least rotate his body somewhat, but the console is still a barrier. The gearshift digs into Ilya's thigh and he wishes he could tear it out of the car.

He figures Lara would probably kill him if he did.

In a move that startles Ilya, he feels Shane's tongue push into his mouth and he opens instinctively in response. He gasps when Shane's hand falls on his thigh.

Straining against the confines of the car, Ilya dips his face forward and kisses along Shane's jawline, slipping down so he can nip at the sensitive skin at the crook where his jaw meets his throat.

Shane moans and the sound goes right into Ilya's gut, stoking something that had been long waiting. Waiting for Shane.

He feels Shane's hand experimentally follow up the inside seam of his jeans, and a flash of light from a car's headlights sends a bucket of cold water down Ilya's spine.

He can feel Shane's body tense against his, and not in the way Ilya would hope given the circumstances.

Ilya lets his hand snake up to the back of Shane's head, directing his head toward Ilya's own throat. He goes with ease. Trusting Ilya.

Fuck.

"Stay," Ilya says softly. "If your head is down they can't see your face."

"Okay," Shane says, his voice is shaky.

They stay like that until Ilya can't hear the other car driving through the parking lot.

He keeps his hand on Shane's head, but looks around the lot. There's no movement.

"Okay, all good," Ilya says, releasing Shane.

He moves back to his side of the car, as Shane adjusts himself on his.

The only sound is their breathing.

When Ilya catches Shane's eye again, there's a beat of silence before they both start laughing. It's just too ridiculous.

"I should probably go," Shane says, checking his watch. He's got about three minutes before he'll be considered late.

"Probably, yes," Ilya agrees, though he wishes it weren't true. Wants to grab Shane and steal him away, take him anywhere they could be alone.

Fuck.

Why had he waited all night just to kiss him?

Ilya feels like a moron as Shane steps out of the car. Before he can kick himself too much about it, Shane ducks back down to look across at Ilya once more. The warmth in his eyes is still there, along with that edge of something else that makes Ilya want to demand he get back into the car, curfew be damned.

"Cottage this summer, right?" Shane double checks.

"If you will have me."

Chapter End Notes

OKAY.

so, i need you to please listen to my logic here, bc i know in fanon Boston is often viewed as being FAR more accepting, but i'll be honest - i think a lot of that (whether canon or fanon or WHATEVER) is due in large part to ilya. boston is the rougher, more like party/rougher/typical sorta hockey boy room. (IN MY MIND ANYWAY) and while yes, we can all agree that Marly is a Good Friend, ilya was also a party boy and that's how they would have bonded, and how ilya would bond with the team. and that's not who shane is. so, no. i don't think shane would have a super easy friendly time in boston.

and instead, i will happily be developing a friendship between shane and sveta.

i feel like i wanted to say more, but apparently my manic note leaving is better done at night when i'm very sleepy.

xoxo, leave comments, it keeps me coming back.

Chapter 22: Late April/Early May 2011

Chapter Summary

Ilya starts planning for the future.

Chapter Notes

yaaay more words!!!

i am posting this on my lunch break, so i didn't do my final look over. all mistakes are intentional...until i fix them.

i've got a whole notebook trying to keep all the parts of this story organized. i don't wanna get distracted and forget about issues of race and class and also how often they kiss!!!!

(at this point i can't be fucked to do the italics...assume if they are speaking only to each other ilya and his mom are speaking russian)

Ilya's lying in his bed when Mama throws his bedroom door open.

He'd heard her moving around the house for the last twenty minutes. He thinks she's getting ready for class. He's spent that same time staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

"Ilyusha, what are you doing?" she demands, her voice cutting through the air.

"Nothing," he says, squinting his eyes at the intrusion of light she brings with her. "I don't have to be at the rink for a few hours."

"Perfect," Irina says. "Then you can have tea with me. Come."

She doesn't wait for him, just turns and leaves his room, leaving the fucking door open, and ostensibly goes to the kitchen.

Ilya blows out a lungful of air and gets up from his bed, dragging his feet to meet his mom in the kitchen where she's already pouring hot water into their mugs. She already had the water boiled. She must have planned for this.

That feels distinctly worrying to Ilya.

"What do you need, Mama?"

"Sit," she says instead of answering.

She takes a few more minutes to fuss about in the kitchen, bringing Ilya his mug, and putting a few cookies on a small plate, before settling in the chair across from him.

Ilya holds the mug in both hands, his finger dragging across the rim, snagging briefly where it's chipped. He lets his finger stay there, rubbing over the slightly rougher texture.

There's no reason for him to be the first to break the silence. Instead, he waits for her.

"It's almost May," she states.

"Okay?" Ilya answers, wincing slightly at how the word emerges.

He sees her eyes tighten at the bit of attitude that came with the word.

"And you are still lying in your bed at eleven in the morning," she continues.

"Mama—"

"No, Ilyusha," she stops him, holding a hand up. "You don't get to Mama me. What is the plan?"

"What plan?" Ilya asks flatly. He doesn't like where this is going.

"Your plan, Ilyusha," she clarifies. "You cannot think I'm going to let you just waste another month lying in your bed between going out and doing god knows what on the weekends, and coaching those boys during the week."

Ilya lets his hands fall away from the mug and instinctively crosses his arms across his chest, leaning back in the chair. It groans slightly at that. They really need new chairs.

"I don't see what the problem is," he says stubbornly.

She hits him with a flat stare. "Oh? You don't?"

"I am helping with bills, yes?" Ilya confirms, though he already knows the answer.

"Yes, but—"

"No," Ilya says, shaking his head. "You don't get to suddenly decide that there's something wrong with the way I am helping you."

"Ah, so it's all about helping me," she says sarcastically. "Of course, how could I not see this? My son, the hero, goes out on weekends and comes home past midnight because he's helping his Mama."

Ilya's jaw tightens as he stares at her.

"That's not fair."

"I am aware," she snaps back. "And now you are just here. Every day you are here."

They sit in silence. Both stubborn as all hell.

"I think it is time you figure out what comes next," she announces, finally breaking the silence.

All Ilya can do is stare at her. He sees so much of himself in that face. The way her eyes are set and unflinching. The way her jaw only seems to fortify under his scrutiny. And the goddamn stubborn way she squares her shoulders at him. She's more than prepared for whatever fight Ilya's prepared to bring.

"And if you get bad again?"

"Then I get bad again," she says with a shrug. As if it's simple. "I am speaking with my doctor, I have Lara, and I am seeing the therapist now. Either way, it is my responsibility."

Ilya laughs once, sharply. "Because that's always gone so well."

"Stop pretending this is about me anymore," she says, her voice low and dangerous. "This is not about me, Ilyusha."

"I gave up Montreal to be here," Ilya tells her. "For you."

"I didn't ask you to do that," Irina says. "And you need to stop pretending it was only for me. You gave it up because you were scared."

"Scared for you!" Ilya says, his voice rising against his better judgment. "Scared of what might happen to you! You fall apart sometimes. You need help. You need me."

"And that's my fault." Her voice falters. "I fucked up, Ilya. I should not have let you think I could not manage alone, that taking care of me was your sole responsibility. But you don't get to use my mistakes to give you permission to make your own."

"That's not what I'm doing," Ilya says stubbornly.

"It's exactly what you're doing."

They're both breathing heavily, like they've run a damn marathon.

"But, Mama—"

"No, Ilyusha," she snaps at him. "You cannot keep seeing everything I do and finding another reason to stay. I am okay. You need to leave."

"You're okay now, but we both know he won't stop calling," Ilya says, desperate for her to understand.

"Okay, he keeps calling," Irina says simply. "Then I will deal with it."

"You've only just started getting back on your feet."

"I've been back in school since January."

"Okay, so a few months, you were bad for a year."

"So, what? You stay in Calgary your whole life?" she asks him seriously, pushing aside her still full mug of tea. "You never leave my side? You give up everything you've worked so hard for?"

"You don't know what would have happened if I hadn't gotten home," Ilya says, willing the tears that threaten to spill over to stay put. To not betray him.

"No, maybe not," she agrees. There's still fire in her eyes when she looks at him. "But I know what happens if you never leave now."

With those words, Ilya feels whatever wind was keeping him upright falter.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks quietly.

"I don't know, Ilyusha," she says. Her voice is still severe, but there's tenderness beneath it. "It's your life. I can't make that choice for you."

"Then what do I do?" Ilya is embarrassed by how childish he sounds.

"Figure it out," she says with a shrug, finally lifting her mug to sip at the tea that's surely cooled by now. "I only know you cannot keep doing this."

Ilya's exhausted by the time they finish speaking. He feels trapped to the chair in their small kitchen. Irina finishes her tea in silence before getting up and rinsing her mug. She stops to kiss him lightly on the forehead. He instinctively closes his eyes at the sensation, and she leaves him there.

It's Wednesday, so he thinks she must be going to class.

He looks at the clock on the stove. He still has an hour before he has to leave for the rink.

His tea is cool by the time he sips it. And too bitter from oversteeping.

Figure it out.

Like it's that easy.

He's spent the last ten months focused on little else but his mother's well-being. He doesn't think it's fair she's throwing it back in his face now.

Though, he can admit she has been better lately. Has been better for a while actually. And Alexei's calls have tapered off, not entirely stopping, but far less frequent.

And she has started seeing her doctor. And a therapist.

And Lara has always been here. Always been a final saving grace if Ilya weren't here.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back.

What's he supposed to do?

The question continues to plague him after he gets up and heads to the rink. It rings in the back of his head while he skates on the ice and gives half-hearted advice. Advice that's definitely not worth the amount of money the parents are being charged for the hour that Ilya is distractedly on the ice with them.

It follows him out of the rink too.

He can't seem to get the question out of his head.

David arrives in Calgary in early May. He called Ilya the week before to let him know he'd be in the city for work, and Ilya is happy to get the chance to spend time with him.

They meet in downtown Calgary for dinner. Ilya suggested somewhere that's nice, but something he can still reasonably afford. He's not sure he can stomach the idea of having David in his city and not treating him to dinner. But if David orders the ribeye, Ilya might just have to order the salad.

David texted him to let Ilya know he's already seated. Waving off the hostess, Ilya passes her and searches the restaurant for David. He's seated at one of the tables on the patio.

There's been a few days of nice weather, so Ilya really shouldn't be shocked that the patio is as busy as it is. Especially given the fact that the sun isn't setting until after nine at this point of the year. The air is a little chilly, but he's never known it to be something to stop people here from sitting outside for dinner or an evening beer.

After catching his eye, David grins brightly. Shane has so much of Yuna in his expressions, but when David grins, Ilya recognizes the cut of Shane's jaw and the same way a smile seems to brighten his whole face.

Ilya's genuinely surprised by how excited he is to see Shane's dad. He recognizes that the man is far more than just a friend's father.

"Hey," David calls when Ilya gets closer.

Approaching with every intent to grasp his hand as a greeting, Ilya is rendered momentarily speechless when David envelops him in a hug, effectively knocking Ilya's extended hand out of the way.

"How are you?" Ilya asks once David has released him and he's gained the power of speech back.

"I'm fine," David answers, waving him off. "Have a seat, I've just ordered a beer."

Ilya sits across from him, keeping his light jacket on. When the waitress stops by, he orders the same as David before turning back.

"How's work?" Ilya asks.

"It's good," David says. "Busy as always. Yuna tells me you've been coaching?"

The waitress stops by to deposit Ilya's drink. He takes a healthy sip before answering.

"Yeah, just outside of the city," Ilya tells him. "I worked there a bit before. Just helping some of the kids who are hoping to make it big someday."

"That must be a lot of fun," David says with an earnest smile.

"How's Yuna?" Ilya asks.

There will likely never be a day when Ilya isn't startled by the way David's face transforms at the mention of his wife. A look of genuine fondness and tenderness that defies everything Ilya had come to understand about marriage as a child. The way his eyes soften when he thinks of her. It's almost too much. Too intimate.

"She's good," David tells him. "She's worried about you."

"Worried?" Ilya asks, hoping the nervousness doesn't show in his voice. "I'm all good here. I, uh, might move out of my mom's place."

David takes a second and stares down at the half finished pint of beer in front of him. He takes a deep breath before returning to staring almost straight through Ilya.

He looks like he's seeing far more than he should be.

By the grace of whatever deity is watching over him in that moment, David opening his mouth is interrupted by the return of the waitress, wanting to take their orders.

David, thankfully, doesn't order the ribeye, but a far more affordable steak. Ilya nods approvingly and orders the same. All too soon, the waitress leaves, and takes with her any protection Ilya could have gotten from her presence.

"We're both worried," David says.

"I'm fine," Ilya tells him.

"Are you planning to stay in Calgary?"

Ilya shrugs, lifting his own pint glass to his lips.

"Maybe."

"Is that what you want?" David asks. He's looking at Ilya with such concern in his expression.

Ilya doesn't feel judged by the question. Perhaps had it been Yuna coming to visit, he may have seen it as more judgmental than anything. The undercurrent of most of their phone calls recently has been what the hell are you doing with your life?

This feels different.

Ilya places his glass in front of him and watches the bubbles slip down the sides of the glass. He wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand.

"I like coaching the kids," he tells David.

"Is that what you want to do? Coaching?" David asks.

They pause the conversation when the waitress returns to place their plates in front of them. They take a moment to have a few bites. And Ilya really considers the question.

Does he want to coach? Does he just want to help these kids prepare and then send them off to a future that Ilya has forced to be out of reach for himself?

"I don't think I want to coach."

David nods thoughtfully.

"But you want to be on the ice?"

"Yes," Ilya is able to answer that without thinking. "I think that…fuck."

"I'd bug you about the language, but I suppose you're an adult," David says with a grin. "And Yuna's not here."

Ilya can't help but laugh at that.

He places his fork and knife down on the plate, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the rapidly darkening sky.

"Fuck," he repeats. "I think…I think I need to go to Montreal."

When he glances back at David, Ilya sees him still nodding, eyes on his plate.

"Is that something you want," David starts, "or is it something you feel like you should want?"

Again, Ilya doesn't have to think about the answer.

"I want it."

David smiles. "Well, I know one Metros fan who's going to be excited to hear that."

Ilya grins in return. "You'll come to my game? If I can still, I mean, I don't know how it'll all work."

"Oh, I'm not the Metros fan," David laughs. "That's all Yuna. I'm, unfortunately, a Centaurs fan."

Ilya groans. "They're terrible."

"Hey, son," David says, pointing his fork toward Ilya. "If you're only a fan when a team's good, you're not really a fan are you?"

"Yeah, but have the Centaurs ever been good?"

David chuckles. "I'm not sure how that's relevant."

They spend the rest of the evening catching about other random things. They talk briefly about Shane, but Ilya feels weird talking about him with David when he isn't present. Ilya tells him about some of the kids he's teaching at the rink. David tells him about an ongoing battle he's having at work with a man named Armand who keeps scheduling meetings that could have been phone calls, and keeps replying all with just "thanks." Ilya hates him on David's behalf immediately.

By the end of the night, after David reveals that he'd already given them his card, thus making it impossible for Ilya to pay, Ilya feels about five hundred pounds lighter.

He wants Montreal.

He supposes the only thing he needs to be concerned with is whether or not Montreal will still want him.

Ilya waits until the next morning before calling Farah. Even as certain as he feels, the second the line starts ringing, Ilya considers hanging up. Thankfully, she answers on the second ring and makes it so he can't.

"Hey, Ilya," Farah says. It sounds like her attention is elsewhere. "How are you?"

"I'm good," he answers, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she says, followed by a quiet laugh. "But I know you aren't calling me to shoot the shit. So, what's going on?"

"Does Montreal still want me?"

He can hear something drop on the other end of the line. Farah's voice is far more attentive when she speaks again.

"Ilya," she says with a warning tone. "If you are fucking with me right now, I will call Yuna and tell her."

Ilya chokes out a laugh at the threat.

"I'm serious."

He can imagine the way a smile unfolds on her face, finally hearing the words she's been waiting on for the past year.

"Oh, Ilya, they are very interested," she assures him. "But I need to know you're serious."

"I'm very serious," he says, in what he hopes is a very serious voice.

"If we dick them around again, you're gonna make my job a lot harder if you want to sign with another team," she says as a warning. "I need you to be sure."

"No dicks here," Ilya says as solemnly as he can. "I am very sure."

She laughs at that.

"Alright, let me make some calls," she says, her voice immediately going into business mode. "I probably can't guarantee the same terms as the last contract, but I'll do what I can. You want to loop Yuna in on this?"

While Yuna doesn't have an official title in terms of working with Ilya, she's been present at nearly all meetings, more like a manager than anything else. Ilya really views her as a bullshit detector.

"No," he says. "I think I need to do this on my own."

"You got it."

Shane is in the gym at the Raiders training facility when the constant hum between players stops being a disorganized mass of sounds and seems to find a purpose.

He thinks he might be hearing things at first. Because he swears he hears Rozanov whispered more than once.

He looks up from the exercise bike to see a few of the guys have gathered around Marleau and his phone. Anyone who's ever implied that it's the WAG group chat that contains the most gossiping has never met a group of hockey players.

Suddenly, Marleau's eyes shoot up and lock on Shane's.

"Did you know about this?" he asks Shane. "You're friends with him, right?"

"Sorry, what?" Shane asks, shaking his head slightly to pull his focus back.

"Rozanov," he says like that explains it.

"What about him?" Shane's legs slow at the confirmation that they are, indeed, talking about Ilya.

"He finally signed," Marleau says simply.

Shane's feet slip off the pedals as he tries to get up quickly, patting his pockets to find his own phone. The shock must show on his face because Marleau takes pity on him and walks across with his phone held out to Shane.

And there it is. Front and centre on ESPN.com.

Ilya Rozanov, #2 Draft Pick, Finally Signs with Montreal.

Scanning the article below, Shane quickly reads that, yes, Ilya has finally signed. That he managed to do it just weeks before Montreal's rights to him were set to expire.

Ilya will be hitting the ice in the fall.

And he hadn't told Shane.

He tries not to let that fact hurt him. Logically, he understands that none of this is about him.

"I didn't know," Shane says quietly, mostly to himself.

"Well, looks like Montreal might actually give us some trouble next year," Marleau laughs, slapping Shane on the shoulder and reclaiming his phone.

The guys go back to talking among themselves, and Shane finds himself frozen in place in the middle of the gym. Someone bumps into him from behind, resetting his thoughts and allowing him to return to his gym routine. Something he does so often he doesn't have to think about it once.

Just goes through the motions.

He texts Sveta when he's leaving.

She's at his apartment, having already let herself in with the codes he'd given her.

"Did you know?" Shane calls, kicking off his shoes before nudging them into their spot. He smiles briefly to see Sveta's already carefully lined up.

"No, I fucking didn't," she calls back.

When Shane steps into his living room, he's faced with a scene that has become increasingly familiar since he's gotten to know her. Sveta, curled up in the corner of the couch, his dark blue blanket tucked around her legs, and the remote held loosely in her hand.

She's watching hockey highlights. She has a can of ginger ale open on the coffee table, and a still closed one next to it for Shane.

After Ilya introduced them, Sveta had slipped naturally into his life. He'd felt so comfortable with her nearly immediately.

Her curly brown hair is pinned out of her face, and he can see her work clothes nicely folded on the end of the chaise. She's wearing a pair of his shorts and a t-shirt. Sveta had made one thing pretty difficult for Shane to keep questioning. Because if he wasn't attracted to Sveta—gorgeous, hockey obsessed Sveta—he felt pretty certain attraction to women wasn't going to happen.

He thinks part of the comfort is that Sveta just kind of walked in and made herself comfortable. It left little for Shane to do but adjust to the woman who has become a near permanent fixture in his life.

Shane puts his keys on the coffee table before opening the pop Sveta had left for him. It's still cold. She must have just taken it out.

"I can't believe he didn't say a fucking thing to me," Sveta hisses. "But for him to say nothing to you? Unacceptable."

Shane runs a hand through his hair, and sips at the ginger ale before returning it to the coaster and leaning back on the couch next to Sveta.

"What an asshole," Shane says simply. "I wonder if he told my mom this first too."

"If he did, I give you full permission to slap him next time you see him," Sveta says sagely. "I do not think I can recommend you slap your mom though. She fucking scares me."

Shane laughs at that. "Fair enough."

"Fucker," Sveta mutters, turning back to the tv.

She turns up the volume with a few clicks when Ilya's old draft photo appears on the screen.

Chapter End Notes

i love sveta and shane.

in my head she meets him and then is just kinda like 'yes, he's good.' and then inserts herself into his life, which is PERFECT for shane bc he just needs someone who decides they like him and then just keep showing up (i think shane's got a type.)

but i like the idea that she just becomes part of his life pretty effortlessly. and she acts familiar with him immediately. which is both bizarre and very endearing to him.

anyway, i have big plans for this friendship.

(but c'mon ilya. you can't send your pal a fucking text when you make a life altering decision??)

(no. he cannot.)

Chapter 23: July 2011 I

Chapter Summary

Ilya spends part of his summer with the Hollanders.

Chapter Notes

okay.

here's the thing.

would shane call ilya to be like 'what the hell???'

no. bc he also SUCKS AT COMMUNICATING. these boys are beautiful morons.

so instead, i like to imagine he and Sveta got wine drunk and talked shit about Ilya. bc that's what friends do. (and no. sveta doesn't know about shane and ilya....yet)

and would i have loved to write that scene??? YES. BUT THIS IS ALREADY SO FUCKING LONG.

(don't worry. we will get more sveta and shane having girl's nights in the future.)

today really sucked. my class is incredibly difficult this year. i've never so intently considered finding alternative employment. but mostly i just wanna disassociate for like a week and do nothing but read/write fanfiction.

(again, posting this as a last minute panic. so hopefully i caught all my mistakes...)

"Can you dry while I wash?" Yuna asks Ilya.

He nods immediately, taking his usual spot next to her with the dish towel. They've been at the cottage for a few days now. Shane and Ilya had lined up the days to overlap with Yuna and David. Ilya was excited to see them.

But this will be the first time Yuna has him alone. Shane and David have stepped out to pick up a few things from town.

Ilya's dried the second plate before Yuna brings up what she wants to talk to him about.

"Are you excited about Montreal?" she asks him, shifting so her hip bumps into Ilya's while she submerges the salad bowl from dinner.

"Yeah," Ilya answers honestly. "Really excited…but maybe pretty nervous too."

All he can see is Yuna's profile as she focuses on scrubbing off any remaining evidence of dinner. She's beautiful in a specifically regal way. He's thought that since the first time he ever saw her. The straight line of her nose, her bright, discerning smile. The sharp line of her cheekbones and the dark hair she keeps tucked neatly away from her face. The way she carries herself, shoulders thrown back and head held high, gives her a quiet dignity Ilya has always associated with her.

"Your contract negotiations worked out?" she asks.

Ilya nods. "Farah did an amazing job. I got essentially the same contract as I would have signed last year."

"That's good," Yuna says seriously. "Has your signing bonus been deposited?"

Ilya can't help the grin that stretches across his face, because yes, it absolutely has been deposited.

"Yeah, it's kind of insane," Ilya says with a laugh.

To go from counting change to having a total in his bank account that felt impossible is genuinely life changing. He still checks his bank account almost daily just to be sure he hasn't imagined it.

"How's your mom adjusting?" Yuna hands Ilya the bowl to dry.

"I think she's happy," Ilya says honestly, and then sighs. "She didn't want me to give her anything."

"I wouldn't expect her to," Yuna says with a quiet laugh. She hands Ilya another plate.

Ilya is still frustrated on some level. He's on the precipice of making more money than he could ever possibly need, and his mom wouldn't let him give her anything substantial.

"I just want to make sure she's okay," Ilya says.

Yuna stops, resting her still soapy hands on the edge of the sink and turning to look at Ilya.

"Maybe what she wants is to know you're okay."

"I just—" He stops and lets out a breath. "I owe her so much."

When his eyes flicker up to Yuna's face he sees a tenderness and level of understanding that should probably concern him.

"I'm sure she doesn't agree with that," Yuna says.

Ilya has to laugh. He remembers the stream of angry Russian he'd had hissed at him when he suggested giving her half his signing bonus. Nearly fifty thousand dollars.

She'd barely let him pay off her credit card bills.

"She does not," Ilya agrees. "But I think I will find a way to do something more. I just want to make things easier for her."

Yuna grabs the towel from Ilya when he's finished drying the last of the dishes so she can dry her hands before wrapping Ilya in a hug.

"You're a good kid, Ilya," she says warmly. She releases him from the hug but keeps a hold on his shoulders. "I'm really proud of you."

Ilya has to duck his head so she can't see the way that statement pulls some rather strong emotions from him. He tries to covertly brush the back of his hand over his eyes.

"Thanks, Yuna," Ilya says after a moment. He still can't quite meet her eyes. "I couldn't have done it without you."

He looks up then and smiles at her. She's shaking her head slightly.

"You would have done it without me," she promises him. "You're one of the best hockey players I've seen. You would have found your way to the show one way or another."

It's Ilya's turn to wrap his arms around her, squeezing her tightly.

—

When Ilya gets into bed with Shane later that night, they do what they've been doing every night since they arrived and Ilya was reminded they would be sharing a bed. One bed. With Shane's parents in the next room. He lies very carefully next to Shane and does everything possible not to think about it too carefully.

It works that night as well as it has been every other night.

Not great.

There's tension in the air the moment the lights are off and Ilya has to fight his body to keep a hand from wandering over to even just brush against Shane. It's the same internal battle he's been facing for the past few days.

The last time they were in this house, they had been so comfortable and had reached such a level of softness with each other. Now, it feels unnatural not to reach for Shane. He's come to associate the home with Shane and whatever it was they had unearthed with each other a year ago.

How Yuna and David haven't noticed something is different between them is beyond Ilya.

And Ilya knows that if he allows his hand to bridge the gap between them and even caress Shane in the most mundane way, he will not be able to stop himself.

There's something about Shane that just makes Ilya feel greedy. He can hardly manage to look at Shane when they're alone. The air between them is charged.

He knows that one wrong move will ignite something they'll have no chance of extinguishing.

Just like every other night, Ilya turns his head and has a few seconds to appreciate Shane's profile. Appreciate the way a blush starts to colour his cheeks in the low light.

And then Shane turns as well.

They smile at each other. A smile that seems to belong only to them, and only in these moments that exist in the muted light of summer evenings.

One of them looks away first. Tonight, it's Shane.

And one of them lets out a breath of air that's almost a laugh.

The other will laugh in return, a pressure release valve that allows neither of them to fall apart with so much tension wrapped around them.

And then Ilya rolls away.

Tonight is like every other night.

But tomorrow morning, Yuna and David are leaving.

So, maybe tomorrow night will be a little different.

"You boys are sure you won't need anything else?" Yuna checks for the fifth time that morning.

"Nope," Shane assures her.

Ilya almost laughs, Shane's nearly pushing his mom out the front door.

They're supposed to have an additional five days together.

Just them.

"David, did you remember to pack up the cooler," She calls out to where David is packing the last few bags into the back of their SUV.

"Yeah, the cooler's already packed," David confirms.

Yuna stands in the doorway, going over a list that seems to be only known to her. If Ilya didn't know any better, he might think she's delaying on purpose, because the look of wild desperation on Shane's face is priceless.

A very small part of Ilya wants her to delay a little longer just to see how desperate Shane gets.

It's a very small part.

"Alright," she says, clapping her hand. "Come back up to say goodbye!"

David comes in at Yuna's words and Shane and Ilya take turns hugging them and wishing them well.

Finally, fucking finally, Ilya and Shane are standing in the driveway waving at them.

Ilya has been really happy to see Yuna and David, and will see them again when he gets to Montreal. They're going to help him get settled in his apartment.

So, yes, Ilya's loved seeing them.

He's also very happy for them to leave.

Ilya and Shane both watch the car until it turns at the end of the street and is out of sight.

"Do you think they forgot anything?" Ilya asks Shane, trying to keep his voice casual.

Shane shakes his head. "My mom doesn't forget things. And, uh, I double checked. They've got everything."

"Hm," Ilya says, slowly nodding.

They don't look at each other, but both turn back toward the house, slowly taking each step at a time. The departure of Shane's parents doesn't feel complete until they're back inside, shoes kicked off, and Shane has closed the door.

The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place acts as a release, and no sooner has it clicked into place than Ilya has Shane pressed back against the door.

It's messy. There's no rhythm to either of their movements. Only pure desire that's been pooling for days finally spilling over and drowning them both.

Ilya reaches up to grip Shane's jaw, possibly a little harder than he would if he hadn't been waiting so long for this. He licks into Shane's mouth and hungrily swallows every sound Shane makes.

Pressed this closely, all Ilya can feel is Shane's body, Shane's hands.

Gripping. Touching. Pulling. Needing.

Ilya pulls away from Shane's mouth and buries his face in the crook of Shane's neck, drawing in a deep breath to savour the faint smell of Shane's soap, clean sweat, and the other scent that seems to just be Shane.

He's careful when he bites and kisses the delicate skin along the column of Shane's throat. They won't be here forever. Ilya can't exactly afford to leave marks.

Shane presses his hips forward, and Ilya moans when he feels just how badly Shane wants this.

"Fuck," Ilya mutters against Shane's throat. "Want you."

Ilya feels Shane shudder at his words. His hands are tentative as they slide up Ilya's body, slipping beneath his shirt. The careful, exploratory way Shane's hands move over him makes Ilya want to come undone with Shane pressed between him and the front door.

Before Ilya can make any concrete plans, he's not sure any plans will be made with how little blood has made it to his brain in the past few minutes, he watches Shane sink down on his knees.

He leans forward and rests his forearm against the door while he watches Shane very determinedly tug down Ilya's sweats, which are doing nothing to hide his own desire.

When Shane looks up, his pupils are blown so wide there's hardly any brown left. Ilya lets out a small involuntary sound. He reaches down and gently trails his fingers down Shane's cheek.

Before Ilya can fully appreciate the scene in front of him, Shane leans forward and buries his face into the crease where thigh meets hip. Ilya has to briefly close his eyes when he feels the warmth of Shane's mouth as he breathes onto Ilya's cock. Shane presses his mouth along Ilya's length.

It's better than anything Ilya could have imagined in the year they spent without this.

Finally, Shane takes pity on Ilya and tugs down his pants and boxers in one movement. The cool air hits Ilya's cock, making the wetness gathered at the tip feel suddenly more noticeable.

There's a hunger in Shane's gaze as he leans forward, and Ilya is close to crying out when Shane finally places his hand around Ilya and angles the head toward his face.

He's seconds from begging Shane to have pity on him, when he opens his mouth and licks up the small bead of moisture at the tip.

Ilya might whimper at the sensation. He'll never admit to it though.

Brown eyes, warm with desire, flicker up and take in Ilya, and whatever state his face is in. He assumes he looks like a slack jawed idiot. It's how he feels.

Shane takes Ilya into his mouth slowly, tongue dragging along the underside. It feels like everything.

"Fuck, look at you," Ilya says, his voice rough. "Perfect for me."

Shane hums happily at the words and the vibrations draw a curse out of Ilya. He has no idea what it is about Shane that drags him so close to the edge immediately. Like it's his first time.

It's made only worse when Shane pulls off Ilya and spits into his palm before wrapping his fingers around Ilya again.

Shane takes him back into his mouth.

He's moving his mouth over Ilya, and whatever he can't get into his mouth he's stroking with his spit covered palm, twisting with each stroke. It's a much better technique than he'd used last year.

An ugly feeling tries to push through the pure bliss he's experiencing, wanting to know how Shane has improved. Wondering if he's been with anyone else.

And then Shane's tongue flicks over the slit and Ilya moans, and suddenly he's not thinking about anything but the wet heat of Shane's mouth.

He's close. He can feel the heat building at the base of his spine and his body wants to chase the pleasure. He has to force himself not to thrust into Shane's mouth. He's improved, but Ilya feels confident that Shane wouldn't likely appreciate getting face fucked with no warning.

"Shane—fuck," Ilya chokes out. "I'm gonna—"

He tries to pull out, but feels Shane's free hand grip his thigh and keep his mouth in place.

A string of curses, not all in English, leave Ilya and his body tenses as he comes into Shane's mouth. He slumps forward with his eyes closed against the wall, Shane's body keeping him from falling into it entirely. Shane keeps his mouth on Ilya for a few moments longer, and he appreciates the warmth.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Shane finally releases him, but not without letting his tongue drag along the length.

"Fuck," Ilya spits out.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Shane below him, watches as Shane's hand goes to his own cock and pulls himself out of his shorts.

He's mesmerized by the visual for a second before his brain catches on.

Reaching down Ilya grabs Shane's arm, and pulls him up off the ground. He's shaking his head in what he hopes is a reproachful manner. Though, he probably looks as fucked out as he feels.

"Couch," Ilya manages to say, pushing Shane in the direction of the living room. "No touching until I'm there."

Shane stumbles after being pushed, and pulls his shorts up to cover himself when he walks away from the front entry toward the living room.

Ilya gives himself a second to take a deep breath and get his legs under him again, grabbing and pulling up his boxers, but leaving the sweats on the floor.

It's nothing to laugh at, but seeing Shane seated on the couch, his cock tenting his shorts as he tries very hard to not touch himself is a sight Ilya would like to remember for a long time.

"You didn't touch?" Ilya asks, even though he knows.

Shane just shakes his head.

Ilya walks toward Shane slowly, enjoying the way Shane shifts awkwardly under his gaze.

When he gets in front of Shane, he trails his hand along Shane's jaw until he reaches his chin, tilting it up so he has to look at Ilya.

"Good boy." Ilya tries it. Something tells him Shane might like that.

Something in Shane seems to relax at the words, confirmation that he's done something right. And his reaction does something to Ilya. Drawing forth want once more, even though he just had his own release.

Ilya sinks to his knees in front of Shane, and tugs his shorts and boxers down, waiting while Shane lifts his hips.

Having Shane on display in front of him is enough to make his mouth water. His cock is heavy and hard, flat against his stomach and just so wet with all the desire that Ilya feels himself.

Ilya leans forward and licks at Shane's balls instead, drawing one into his mouth. He lets the saliva in his mouth pool and drip down into Shane's crease. He buries his face deeper before coming up and letting the slickness of his mouth drag up toward the tip.

Ilya's hands are gripping Shane's thighs, and he lets one dip down in the space between Shane's legs, gently massaging his balls before his fingers slip down a little further. He feels Shane's body tense for a moment.

Removing his mouth, Ilya sits back on his heels.

"I want to fuck you," he says, his voice deep and ragged.

Shane's eyes somehow get even wider.

Continuing before Shane can speak, Ilya says, "Not right now. But maybe before we leave. If you want that."

He can hear Shane's breath catch. It's shaky, but not in a way that necessarily means no.

Shane swallows loudly as Ilya busies his mouth once again, finding a rhythm. He doesn't expect an answer from Shane at the moment.

He just needed Shane to know. Needs Shane to understand that he's been wanting this, been thinking about this, been needing this for the past fucking year.

Maybe even longer.

Probably even longer.

It doesn't take long once Ilya has the right movements before Shane's hips are shuddering, his moans are getting increasingly ragged, and he starts to come undone.

Before Ilya's entirely ready to be finished, because fuck he loves the way Shane feels in his mouth, Shane is groaning out a warning before his whole body goes rigid and a salty bitter taste floods Ilya's mouth.

As soon as Shane's body relaxes, Ilya pulls off, reaches up to grip the nape of Shane's neck and pulls their mouths together.

The kiss is slower than the ones they shared at the door, but no less filthy as Shane moans loudly, licking into Ilya's mouth to pull out every spare bit of himself.

They stop and lean their foreheads together, just breathing the same air as they both start coming back down.

When their eyes meet, Ilya can't help but laugh at the way Shane's smiling, dopey and utterly relaxed. Which makes Shane laugh.

And it's easy.

Easy in a way nothing has ever been with someone else.

Chapter End Notes

and would they talk about ANYTHING the moment they're alone? NO.

because they both suck at communicating.

but they are GREAT at blowjobs.

phenomenal. good work boys. (but don't worry, we're not done at the cottage just yet...)

every time i write the smutty moments i feel deeply embarrassed and like it's...awful? so i hope it's not awful. 😬

also???? this is over 100k words now.

and we're NOT VERY CLOSE TO BEING DONE.

fuck sakes. i really didn't think this would be so long. but i really don't want to drop off any of the details i wanna include. (pls lemme know if things really start to DRAG. slow burn is one thing, but i don't want it to be painful)

but, seriously, i currently really hate my job, it's one of the most challenging groups of kids i've had. i dread going in every morning. but writing this is my lil ray of sunshine. so, genuinely, i look forward to reading the comments so much. helps make this bright spot all the more bright.

thank u for comments. thank u for being just as frustrated with these non-communicative fools.

Chapter 24: July 2011 II

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane spend some time alone.

Chapter Notes

i am ALL over the place.

writing this was far more disjointed than it usually is. I wrote it all out of order and across like more than one day (which isn't crazy but also is for me???). so HOPEFULLY i managed to organize it in a way that almost makes sense???

but babes, we're out here without a beta reader.

this story is between me and god. so just me.

it's fucking possible there's some logical inconsistencies.

i will try to fix them. (no i won't, i'm already outlining the next chapter)

The afternoon is spent wrapped in each other.

They don't say nearly enough to one another, but they allow their bodies to speak for them. Silently, they communicate all the need, the want, and the desire that's been building unchecked between them. On some levels, the silence that hangs in those moments is suffocating, but the way their bodies come together is deafening.

Eventually, even the stamina of two twenty year olds slows down, and they find themselves on the couch, Shane draped over Ilya's body like a blanket. They'd managed to put underwear back on and keep it on for longer than twenty minutes. Shane put on one of the DVDs and they lie together, drowsy and sated.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Shane's voice is soft, nearly unintelligible over the sounds of some elaborate car chase on the screen. Ilya's only certain there were even words to miss because he feels Shane's breath brush against his chest.

"Tell you?" Ilya prompts him, though he thinks he knows what Shane's asking. And had selfishly been hoping Shane would just…not bring it up.

Ilya isn't always the smartest.

"About Montreal," Shane clarifies without lifting his head.

Both men keep their eyes on the tv, pretending to be far more invested in whether the car actually clears the ridiculous jump than either of them actually are. At this point it's just useful at filling in the silence while Ilya tries to think of something, anything, that will make it so Shane stops sounding so wounded.

"I'm sorry," Ilya says, pressing a kiss onto the top of Shane's head by way of apology.

Shane, unfortunately, will not be so easily satisfied. "I don't care if you're sorry. I'd just like to know why."

Ilya lets his head fall back onto the couch cushion, and he stares at the ceiling as if it might be able to give him a good enough reason to explain to Shane why he'd kept such a big choice from him. Again.

Unfortunately, all that's on the ceiling is the rough texture, and oddly what looks like silly string in the far corner. He thinks distantly to ask Shane about it later.

"I wasn't sure they would still want me," Ilya offers him a half truth.

Shane's quiet while he considers this.

"But once you'd signed," Shane continues. "You would have known before it got leaked to the press."

Ilya closes his eyes. Letting the mystery of the silly string leave him for a moment while he gathers his thoughts.

"Ughhh, Shane," Ilya groans. "I said I am sorry, and I am. Just happened quickly. Barely had time to tell my mom."

Before Shane is able to press Ilya for anything more, he reaches down and slides his hands along Shane's side, landing on the elastic band of his boxers.

"Besides, you want to spend time together talking," Ilya says, his voice getting low at the end in the way he knows Shane likes.

He can hear Shane huff out a breath, clearly hearing Ilya's words for the deflection they are, but then Ilya rolls his hips up against Shane.

And as easy as that, when Shane looks up at Ilya from where he's lying on his chest, his eyes aren't inquisitive but needy in the way Ilya loves.

Ilya can already feel his body somehow responding to Shane again.

He reaches down a little further, cupping Shane's ass and squeezing lightly.

"Can I fuck you?" Ilya asks, keeping his voice low and saying it directly into Shane's ear.

There's a moment where Shane's brow comes together and he looks genuinely worried. Ilya lets his grip loosen slightly.

"You are scared?"

Indignation flashes across his face. "I'm not scared."

Ilya just shrugs, leaning up to kiss Shane lightly.

"Is okay to be scared," Ilya tells him. And then gives himself a second to listen to his own advice before adding on. "Have you, uh, been with a guy? Anyone since…?"

Ilya holds his breath for the answer. He's scared and he hates himself for it. He knows he can't reasonably be upset if Shane has hooked up with anyone in the year they'd been apart. It's not as if Ilya spent that same time being anything close to chaste. He hadn't slept with any other men though. He thinks that means something. At least it means something to him.

Shane drops his eyes and shakes his head. "No. No one else."

A knot of anxiety Ilya hadn't realized he'd been holding in his chest relaxes. He tries not to look too closely at why it bothers him so much.

They stay there, lying in silence, Shane has his face tilted up, his chin resting on Ilya's chest. The point of pressure is starting to hurt, but Ilya's not willing to ask him to move.

He brings his hand up to brush Shane's hair out of his face, he let it grow out since they were last together in March. It looks good. When his hand makes contact, Shane's eyes close and he makes a sound of contentment.

"You are so beautiful," Ilya says, his tone hushed.

"Shut up," Shane says, but an involuntary smile starts pulling at his features and Ilya can immediately see his skin warm with a blush.

"Nooo, you are," Ilya insists, and he pushes forward to capture Shane's mouth against his. "So pretty."

They share a slow, languid kiss, letting the minutes stretch around them in the afternoon sun.

"I want you to fuck me," Shane says softly when their mouths part.

Ilya freezes, bringing a hand up to cup Shane's chin and pull their faces apart.

"You're sure?" Ilya asks. Searching Shane's eyes. "We don't have to."

Shane rolls his eyes. "Ilya."

"Shane."

"You asked if I wanted to," Shane says. "And I want to."

Ilya blows out air and lets his head fall back again. He's not sure why he suddenly feels like he's forcing Shane.

Both of Shane's hands come up and grab the sides of Ilya's face, and Ilya is given the rare treat of Shane's undivided attention. It's intense.

Ilya opens his mouth but before he can say anything, Shane's hand covers his mouth.

"You had better not ask me if I'm sure again," Shane says warningly before pulling his hand away from Ilya's mouth when Ilya sticks his tongue out and licks his palm.

That turns into Shane tickling Ilya's sides, and soon enough both of them are chasing each other through the house, stopping periodically to kiss and grab at whatever body parts they can get their hands on.

It's startlingly familiar, and still feels like them, but it's also fundamentally different from anything they were before.

That evening the space between them feels as charged as it had a year ago when they first launched themselves into this grey area beyond friendship, but somehow still short of anything more.

Still undefined.

"This is stupid," Shane finally says, rolling onto his stomach so he can look at Ilya. "Right?"

"What is stupid?" Ilya asks.

"This," Shane specifies, gesturing to the tension that seems to have built between them without either of their consent.

Ilya just shrugs.

He's already made his intentions clear. Shane knows what Ilya wants. He needs Shane to make the next move. Needs Shane to want this.

Needs Shane to want him.

With a shy smile, Shane reaches up to thread his fingers through Ilya's hair, tugging at the curls gently, sending a shock of sensations through Ilya's body.

"Oh?" Ilya mumbles, leaning forward to kiss Shane. Letting him set the pace and fighting every instinct he has to push for more. Push deeper.

Shane pulls back and chuckles when Ilya chases after his mouth.

"I want you to fuck me," Shane says softly, the words passing easily from his throat directly into Ilya's mouth where he can swallow them and try not to choke.

"Fuck," Ilya groans in return.

Shane brings their mouths back together, but at the admission Ilya no longer has any interest in holding back.

He brings both of his hands up to hold Shane's head as he deepens the kiss, all the restraint he'd been holding onto finally snapping. He swallows every sound Shane makes. He nips at any expanse of skin he can get a hold of and, before he knows it, he's rolled Shane onto his back and is hovering over him.

He can feel how badly Shane wants him, and rolls their hips together, twin moans escaping them both.

"I want you, Ilya," Shane says in a gasp.

The words tear at something in Ilya, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. It's Shane. It's always Shane.

Shane.

Shane.

Shane wants Ilya.

And it just feels like a dream.

Ilya kisses his way down Shane's throat, being sure to lap up the skin where he bites with each stop. One hand holds Shane's hips against the bed, the other kneads at whatever flesh it touches. When he reaches Shane's chest, he circles one nipple gently with his tongue. When that pulls a breathy moan from Shane, he catches the sensitive skin between his teeth and tugs.

The resulting moan is even better.

He feels like a researcher as he catalogues every open expanse of skin, every nerve bundle, and finds which parts of Shane cause him to shudder, and which bring out the little noises Ilya wants to get drunk on.

He moves down Shane's body methodically. Torturously slow.

"Please," Shane pants. "Ilya, please."

Ilya hums in response, pleased with the way Shane begs.

When he finally reaches where Shane's cock lay dripping and hard, he thinks Shane might lose his mind. He lets his breath, warm and teasing, pass over without actually touching.

Shane's hips press up against the phantom contact, but Ilya holds his hips in place.

"Patience, Shane," Ilya instructs.

Instead of giving Shane the relief he wants, Ilya dips lower, dragging his tongue lightly over his balls.

A gasp.

It's perfect.

He pulls his arm off Shane's hip and shifts his hands to gripping beneath Shane's thick, muscular thighs. God, even here Shane's gotten stronger. Ilya leaves a smattering of soft kisses along the bottom of Shane's thighs before bringing his mouth back toward Shane's balls.

Moans are intercut with pleading when Ilya goes lower still, teasing Shane with his tongue until his thighs tense around Ilya's shoulders.

Eventually, Ilya reaches for the lube he'd set out on the bed. He pulls his face up to rest against Shane's thigh and looks up at him. He'd like to frame what he sees. Shane is flushed, his breathing is uneven, and his hair is mussed from where he's been tossing against the bed. His lips are red and swollen from their shared kisses, and from him biting down on them between moans. The flush moves down from his face onto his chest and he looks like the manifestation of desire.

It makes Ilya's heart give a pitiful thud.

"You still good?" Ilya asks.

Shane chokes out an amused laugh. "Yeah." Is all he manages to actually say.

Ilya keeps his eyes on Shane's face, he pours some lube onto his fingers to warm it before pressing against Shane. Instinctively, his body tightens up, but Ilya uses his other hand to pet at his thigh and kisses the soft skin there. They're in no rush. So, he gently circles the tightness until Shane lets out a shuddering breath and he can feel the muscle ease just enough for him to slip a finger inside.

There's a moment where he tenses again at this new sensation, but it doesn't last long before Ilya is gently moving his finger in and out of Shane's body.

"So good for me," Ilya says quietly, whispering the affirmations against Shane's thigh as Ilya carefully watches every feeling that flashes over his face. "Taking me so well. Yes, just like that."

It's nonsense after a while, he's sure. But it seems to do the trick and soon enough Ilya's sliding a second finger in as well. Taking his time to scissor Shane open, but never going faster than he thinks he should.

Honestly, the pace he's set should be hell, he's moving so slowly. And on some level, he can see that hell translated onto Shane's face, but as he eases into a rhythm it's far more that Shane just relaxes into the pattern of it. His body accepting the intrusion and just surrendering to every sensation as they become more and more familiar with each movement.

The only sounds filling the room around them are the deliciously filthy sounds of Ilya's fingers fucking into Shane and the breathy moans that each movement drags out of Shane.

Ilya smiles against Shane's knee, kissing it carefully and surreptitiously smiling as he feels around, maintaining the same pace. He crooks his finger and after a moment the way Shane's body arches off the bed makes him grin. He watches with satisfaction as Shane's cock twitches against his stomach, precum continuing to bead and pool on Shane's stomach.

Once Shane's come down from the feeling, Ilya adds a little more lube, and is able to slip in a third finger. He almost groans himself at the sight in front of him when Shane starts moving his hips against Ilya's hand, desperate for more. And when Ilya shifts his fingers to brush against that spot again, he wants to drink up each of the sounds Shane makes.

So, he does. Keeping his hand where Shane's grinding himself against, Ilya leans up and captures Shane's mouth. Kissing him deeply and catching every broken sound against his mouth.

"Holy fuck, please," Shane cries out.

"What do you want?" Ilya asks him darkly.

"Fuck me, please," Shane manages to say between gasps. "Ilya, please, I need—"

He cuts off and his eyes slam closed as his body shifts against the bed, he seems to both be desperate to escape the sensation and keen to get lost in it.

And, well, Ilya is nothing if not a people pleaser.

He slides his fingers out of Shane, wiping them on the towel he'd thrown on the bed earlier.

It takes him a moment to slide the condom onto himself, dripping lube onto his cock and more on Shane too. He's not willing to take a chance to not use enough.

Finally, he's hovering over Shane and he feels himself experiencing a mirrored moment from the year before. Sitting next to Shane, asking if he can kiss him. Knowing that fundamentally they will never be able to turn back from this moment.

"You're sure?" Ilya asks, the words echo in his ears from the year before.

Shane nods, just as he had then too.

And maybe Ilya wants to double check because this is his best friend, and even though Ilya has long seen sex as something casual and easy, he knows that this will be anything but. This is not someone he can ignore tomorrow. This isn't someone he can turn away from.

Above all else, ignoring every other feeling that floods him the moment he lays eyes on Shane, this is his best friend.

Even if sex has long since been casual for Ilya, he doesn't think the same can be said for Shane. This is Shane's first time with a man. And even if Ilya fucks up every other moment between them, he can never take this back.

"Tell me," he asks Shane, and he hopes fruitlessly that it does sound like the plea that it is. Like it doesn't feel as though his entire existence is hinging on whatever Shane says next.

"I want you to fuck me," Shane says.

Almost as if in answer to every concern Ilya leaves unspoken between them, Shane reaches up to pull Ilya's face to his and presses a kiss, so tender and loving that Ilya can feel so many unfamiliar emotions pressing against his chest.

The words have an effect as well, and he can't hold himself back any longer. While their mouths are pressed together, Ilya eases himself forward, feeling the way Shane's body tightens for a split second before relaxing against him. He has to pull back so they're both just breathing into each other as he slides inside Shane inch by inch until he's surrounded by him. Shane's head arches back against the pillow and Ilya finds his face pressed into Shane's neck and starts pressing kisses into the skin there.

Every sexual experience Ilya has had with anyone else falls away and feels irrelevant when he's got Shane wrapped around him like this.

"Oh my god," Shane says in an exhalation. "You feel so good."

Ilya has to close his eyes and count backwards from ten. He doesn't want this to be over as quickly as it seems like it's going to be. He needs to live here.

Finally, when it seems like he'll be able to move without immediately coming, Ilya pulls his hips back before easing back in, and he chuckles when he feels Shane's hips press to meet his.

"Ah, so needy," Ilya says, smiling into Shane's neck.

Which, of course, earns him an offended little sound. Funny when he's already buried inside Shane, and funnier still when Ilya realizes how needy he feels at this sensation.

"Fuck me," Shane says and it's nearly a whine.

His movement gets faster, and soon enough he's fucking into Shane with more force than he had intended to use when they'd started. He wanted Shane's first time to be gentle, tender. Sweet.

Shane has other ideas as he grabs and pulls at Ilya whispering dirty demands into Ilya's ear to fuck him harder. To make him feel it.

Things that Shane will doubtlessly be embarrassed to admit to when they're done. And which Ilya may potentially mock him about later. He hasn't decided.

Far sooner than he'd like, but having lasted longer than anticipated, Ilya is nearing the edge.

"Come for me," Ilya says, the words bordering on begging.

Shane's hand flies to his cock, and it only takes a few more thrusts while he's stroking himself before Shane spills over his own hand. The ripples that pass through Shane's body and the way he grips onto Ilya's cock has his body stutter and freeze before he's crying out and emptying himself into the condom.

Both men lie on the bed, foreheads resting against each other. Breathing heavily.

"Holy shit." It's all Shane says and Ilya finds himself laughing as he collapses on top of Shane, ignoring the way his cum is pressed between their chests.

"Yes," Ilya agrees.

Ilya eases out of Shane and deals with the condom, forcing Shane to stay on the bed. He gathers a washcloth from the bathroom down the halls and takes the time to clean Shane as gently as he can, smiling a little when Shane whimpers at the sensation.

Eventually, he crawls back into the bed and tucks his head under Shane's chin, nudging him until he wraps his arms around Ilya.

"Was okay?" Ilya asks Shane once they're settled.

Shane exhales softly. "Yeah, definitely okay."

They're quiet and Ilya can feel himself start drifting toward sleep. He's sated. Happy. And has Shane's arms wrapped tightly around him. It's so close to perfect he's almost instinctively waiting for something to come crashing through the wall.

"Was it okay for you?" Shane asks, barely audible.

Ilya forces his eyes open and props himself up on his elbows so he can look at Shane.

"Better than okay," Ilya promises. "The best."

"Right," Shane snorts, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling.

Ilya grips his chin and kisses Shane deeply.

"I mean it," Ilya assures him. "Go to sleep."

He tucks himself back against Shane and lets himself drift off to sleep.

When they wake the next morning, Ilya worries for a moment that Shane might regret what they'd done. It had been Shane's first time with a man. And while Ilya knows Shane slept with a few of his ex-girlfriends, he also knows that this was different. And not just physically.

It had been different for Ilya too.

Fortunately, when Shane opens his eyes and sees Ilya lying next to him, his face breaks into a smile so immediate and unguarded that it knocks the breath out of Ilya's lungs.

Apparently, they're okay. Perhaps better than okay if the way Shane reaches for him is anything to go by.

They don't make it very far before Ilya tries to kiss him, only for Shane to shove a hand against his face and insist they both need to brush their teeth first. Ilya complains loudly about the inherent cruelty of it, but follows dutifully into the bathroom anyway.

Once they've completed that to Shane's standards, they're back in bed within minutes.

The rest of the morning passes easily.

Eventually, hunger forces them out from beneath the sheets. Ilya makes eggs for breakfast and they eat standing around the kitchen, and they tidy the kitchen up after themselves. Ilya's not sure what to do once they're done.

In the end, Shane grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and jerks his head toward the lake.

They wander down to the dock together.

The sun is already warm against Ilya's shoulders when they sit at the end, their feet hanging over the edge, just barely dipping into the water. Shane watches the water, how the wind pushes the water into waves, and Ilya watches Shane, content to let the silence exist between them.

Comfortable.

Until Shane shifts beside him. His expression no longer entirely neutral.

"So," Shane starts.

"So?" Ilya continues. He's not sure he likes the way Shane is looking at him.

"What happened…with your brother?" Shane asks after a moment of silence.

Ilya sighs. He'd forgotten he'd mentioned Alexei. Well, maybe hadn't forgotten, but had sure hoped Shane had.

"Nothing," Ilya shrugs, looking away from Shane and instead out toward the water.

"You said he was calling," Shane says leadingly.

"Yes," Ilya concedes. "But he has mostly stopped."

Shane taps his fingers against the rough wood of the dock beneath their legs.

"Why was that so, um, upsetting?" Shane finally says. His fingers continue to tap lightly and Ilya wishes he could just focus on the rhythm and think of nothing else.

He sorts through memories of his brother. The ones from childhood, and the phone calls from a man angry at Irina and Ilya for escaping. He thinks of the way Alexei's face shifted and changed, pulling on a mask that looked a lot like their father, before the snap of a hand and the crack of skin against skin.

And then he lets himself look over at Shane's profile. The strong line of his jaw, so much like David. David. A good man.

"He's angry when he calls," Ilya says, choosing his words carefully. "Makes Mama feel awful."

Shane's brows pull together. "Why is he angry?"

Ilya turns away from Shane. Thinks about all the reasons Alexei has to be angry. The hatred he has grown in the years of their absence.

How is it both so simple, yet so complex?

Either way, Ilya knows this isn't a weight Shane needs to carry.

"Because we left."

It's not a lie.

It's not entirely the truth either.

Shane tries to ask a few more questions, but Ilya lets his hand start shifting up the pant leg of Shane's shorts. It stops the questions.

He's pretty sure Shane knows it's a distraction.

He lets Ilya distract him.

Their mornings seem to take on the same shape, waking next to each other, one of them trying to start something (Ilya) and one of them insisting they brush their teeth (Shane). It's easy in the way things only can be with someone who's a comfort to the nervous system.

They'll often have very inefficient showers together—the shower in the guest room was definitely not installed thinking two large hockey players would try to shower together. Though they both find the set up far more interesting when one of them is on his knees.

Ilya usually makes them breakfast.

Some mornings they just lie around on the deck or immediately race each other into the lake.

Each day slips by them faster than it should. Faster than either of them wants it to.

One morning is a bit cooler than the others, and Shane suggests they go for a hike before settling in for the day. He suggests working out, but Ilya offers an alternative cardio that just earns him a flat stare.

When they get back from the hike, which turned into a race, they're both sweaty and find themselves back in the shower. Ilya's on his knees first this time.

Once they're out of the shower, and Ilya carefully helps Shane dry off and kisses each part of him he can get close to, Shane puts together a light lunch for them.

The clouds have started to roll in, so they decide to eat in the den, Ilya is seated on one side of the couch with his legs stretched out and resting on the coffee table, while Shane has his legs up on the couch reaching toward Ilya.

The room has a view of the lake that's almost entirely unimpeded by anything. There's not much room for much other than the couch and the few bookcases that have found their homes here. Shane opened up the windows so the breeze passes through. It's peaceful. The smell of rain in the air comforting.

"There's some land available nearby to purchase," Shane says, pulling Ilya from his thoughts.

"Ah, Mr. Real Estate," Ilya says with a laugh.

"Fuck off," Shane says, but there's no bite in the words. They sound far more affectionate than anything.

"Mr. Businessman," Ilya continues. "Big money guy."

Shane reaches over to shove Ilya. "Whatever man, you're about to make a stupid amount of money too."

"Right," Ilya says, his face faltering a bit.

Of course, Shane doesn't miss it.

"Is something wrong?" he asks Ilya.

"No," Ilya says, shaking his head and reaching up to scratch his nose.

Shane stretches his leg across the space so he can kick Ilya's leg.

"Ilyaaa," Shane stretches out his name.

"What, Shane?" Ilya says, letting his head fall in Shane's direction.

"Tell me," Shane says simply.

And the asshole has the audacity to look at Ilya with those bright brown eyes. The way they look at Ilya like he's allowed to be honest. Like Shane actually wants to hear what Ilya has to say.

So, Ilya can blame those fucking eyes for why his mouth opens and he says far more than he should.

"I'm worried," Ilya admits with a shrug. "About going to Montreal."

Shane's foot falls away from kicking at Ilya at the admission. Ilya can't bring himself to actually look at Shane while he processes what Ilya's said. He's not sure he wants to say anything else. Is kind of wishing he hadn't said anything in the first place.

"It's no big deal," Ilya says after the momentary silence is too suffocating.

"No, don't do that," Shane says.

Shane shifts around so they're seated next to each other, and uses his considerable strength to pull Ilya toward him. And Ilya will go wherever Shane directs him, so he falls easily against Shane's broad chest while Shane eases them into a horizontal position.

He keeps his arms around Ilya. It's a position that allows them to be close to each other, but doesn't force them to look directly at each other. He wonders if that's why Shane has done this.

"Do what?" Ilya asks, he's aware he sounds a little petulant mumbling the words against Shane's chest.

"When you pretend to be big strong Russian," Shane says, slipping into a horrific approximation of a Russian accent.

Ilya rears back so he can look directly at Shane.

"I think you have just committed a hate crime," he accuses.

"Ilya," Shane says flatly. "Please."

He drops his head heavily against Shane's chest, appreciating the way it knocks the air out of his lungs a little.

"Why are you worried?"Shane coaxes. "You can trust me."

Fucking asshole doesn't play fair.

He keeps his head against Shane's chest, letting the steady beat of Shane's heart lull him into a false sense of safety.

"It's stupid," he tries one last attempt at deflecting.

"I'm sure it's not."

"Easy for you to say Mr. Rookie-of-the -Year," Ilya says.

Shane doesn't speak, just tightens his arms around Ilya briefly before slipping one hand beneath Ilya's shirt, his thumb moving absently against Ilya's skin.

He's really not playing fair.

"It feels like, I don't know, I missed it," Ilya says. He whispers it so no one can hear. So it never becomes real. "Like I missed my moment."

He can feel the embarrassment start warming his cheeks. He sounds stupid.

Childish.

"Can you explain what you mean?" Shane asks. "I just…want to be sure I understand."

Ilya smiles at the blunt way Shane asks for this. It's a habit he's had since they met, and something that genuinely never bothered Ilya, even if he'd seen it bug people who knew Shane through school. People always thought he was being a smart ass, or disingenuous.

"They were expecting me last year," Ilya explains. "I kinda fucked them around, I guess. I don't know. I'm worried that I missed my chance." He stops to let out a breath. "I'm a year behind you now. What if I forgot how to play?"

"Are you fucking stupid?" Shane asks bluntly.

Ilya pulls away from Shane and sits up, they both shift so they're sitting next to each other.

"Ah, so I'm bad at hockey and stupid," Ilya says without humour. "Thank you for this, Shane."

"You know that's not what I mean," Shane says. "Ilya, you spent the past year training younger players. Which helps you develop an awareness on the ice. And you spent every spare minute you had working out or skating."

"So?" Ilya says, and he may as well be pouting for how ridiculously dejected he knows he sounds. "I train children and I skate. Doesn't mean I am ready for NHL."

Shane shakes his head. "No, shut the fuck up."

"Ah, and now you'll be cruel to me too," Ilya moans. "Rookie of the Year and so callous to a brand new player."

"You're ridiculous," Shane says, an amused expression on his face.

A moment lapses between them as the laughter and jovial nature of their conversation slows until it's silenced. Weighed down by something more serious that often exists beneath Ilya's jokes.

"You really don't have to worry, Ilya," Shane says, his voice softening. "So what if you're a year behind? You're still probably better than most of the other players."

Ilya just shrugs halfheartedly, not able to conjure up any jokes this time to hide behind.

"And this is better anyways," Shane promises, leaning over to kiss Ilya softly on the cheek.

"Oh, yeah?" Ilya smiles.

"Now we can both be rookie of the year," Shane says earnestly.

Ilya can't help but laugh at that, because of course that's what Shane is thinking about.

"Ah, yes," Ilya agrees. "And now I know exactly how many points you got in your rookie year. So I can beat it. Easy. No problem."

"You're an asshole," Shane mumbles, relaxing into Ilya's side.

Shane reaches over and takes Ilya's hand. Slowly, he traces the veins on the back of it with the same accuracy and attention that Shane does everything.

"So, Boston's been good?" Ilya asks after letting the silence sit just a moment too long.

"Yeah," Shane answers quickly. Quickly enough that Ilya can see the shape of something else sitting on the heels of the practiced answer.

"But?" Ilya offers, trying to pull out the remaining part Shane wants to hide.

"But sometimes it's just fucking exhausting," Shane says bluntly.

"Ah, well as long as it is only sometimes," Ilya says in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Right," Shane says.

Ilya realizes a moment too late that he's forced Shane to minimize his own experiences because Ilya's an asshole sometimes.

"Tell me," Ilya prompts.

"I don't know," Shane shrugs against Ilya. His fingers are still traveling across the back of Ilya's hand. Slowly, he turns Ilya's hand over and starts mapping the path from his wrist to his elbow.

"Please, Shane," Ilya coaxes. "Tell me."

"I mean, I had, like, a really good season, right?" Shane starts. "It's just taking a little longer to get used to the…culture."

Ilya can feel his jaw tense.

"Are they not good to you?"

"No. They're fine," Shane says, his voice tinged with exasperation. "It's like, we win, and they want to go out. We lose, they want to go out. And that's just never been my scene."

"What?" Ilya asks. "No fun to escape from the clubs?"

Shane ducks his head at the mention of his high school party habit.

"Shut up," he says. "It's just, even when I go out…that doesn't really fix it."

"Why?" Ilya says, he leans back a bit more and tugs Shane with him. Instinctively wanting him close for this.

"People usually go home with girls," Shane tells him. "I don't. They've started to notice. Started to say shit about it."

"Like what?"

"You know," Shane says.

He does.

He knows the 'joke' that's likely first out of their mouths when they realize Shane—young, rich, and fucking gorgeous Shane—isn't taking anyone home.

Ilya searches for something to say, but knows that his very presence and the way that he is close with Shane physically in this moment is part of the wound.

"I know that's just how locker rooms are, I get that," Shane continues. "I guess, I'm just worried. I mean, I don't even know if I'm…"

Ilya swallows. He can feel how each part of Shane stiffens at the thought of his team. Of how they're treating him.

He doesn't know how to fix this. And he can see how much Shane is struggling to find the words to describe himself while other people are using those same words as sharpened points to hurt him.

He waits for Shane to finish the thought.

He doesn't.

Instead, he says, "I just wish they'd stop fucking talking about it."

There's nothing for Ilya to say.

No joke can ease the tension that exists as a result of the two of them on the couch in Shane's parents cottage.

They're quieter that night, after putting away the dishes and spending an easy evening where neither of them really watches whatever is on tv. When they finally tuck into bed it feels like the weight of the NHL and all its implications lie in the few inches that separate them.

It's still there the next morning as Ilya makes coffee, Shane having gotten out of bed before him. Without waking him. This is becoming a habit Ilya doesn't terribly care for. He digs around and finds a Raiders shirt and pulls it on with his own shorts. He figures that maybe the shirt will help break the ice. Ease any tension.

When Ilya strolls into the kitchen his eyes find Shane immediately.

Shane is standing outside and Ilya can't help but laugh again at the symmetry. The way Shane is so predictable, especially when he's stressed.

Just like last year, Shane stands on the deck and stares at the water. Lost in thought while he likely tries to solve every possible problem that they've created by taking…whatever they're doing, and adding sex on top of it.

This year, Ilya's not going outside without reinforcements. He waits until the coffee is ready, fills two cups, and grabs two cookies they'd picked up from the bakery in town.

He carefully balances the cookies on top of the coffees and slowly walks out toward Shane.

Shane's leaning against the railing, his shoulders forward and the line of tension running through his body is apparent even from the distance Ilya's standing. Ilya tries to step heavily enough that he doesn't surprise Shane upon his approach.

An exhale, and his head turns to track Ilya from the corner of his eye.

"Hey."

"Morning," Ilya returns. "I brought…" He holds up the offering.

Shane smiles and it feels like daybreak. Because how bad can the situation really be if he gets to be on the receiving end of those smiles?

They stand shoulder to shoulder and sip the hot coffee and Ilya appreciates that Shane doesn't even argue with him about the cookie. Because it's absolutely not in his diet plan.

Ilya has every intention of asking Shane what he's been thinking about as they bring their mugs inside to clean. He wants to ask Shane what they should do and how they can possibly survive this and if what happened the past few days changes anything for him, because Ilya's worried he's the only one changed.

Their mugs end up in the sink. They'll need to make sure they clean them tonight. They're leaving in the morning.

Staring at the few items that have started to make their way to the front door in preparation of their departure, all the unspoken questions die on Ilya's tongue. Instead, he stares at the way the early morning sun dances across Shane's cheeks. The way he stands and looks at Ilya right now with the same kind of hunger Ilya is certain is written across his face.

At least they have now.

With that in mind, he stalks across the living room and in one movement, grabs Shane's hips and pulls him in, burying one hand in Shane's hair as he brings their mouths together.

They have now.

They spend the day having silently agreed to just not talk about anything. Instead, they swim, they hike, they fuck, and they lie to themselves for a couple hours longer.

Unfortunately, nothing Ilya does can slow the clock.

They're lying together on the chaise lounger out on the deck. It's new, and really only meant for one person. Shane's lying on it normally, and Ilya's crawled on top of him. Shane's fingers are wrapped in Ilya's curls and every once in a while a low humming sound comes out of Ilya, nearly against his own free will.

So yeah, he's lying with Shane and nearly fucking purring.

The sun set a while ago, and if they weren't nearly glued to one another, Ilya thinks he might start feeling a little cold.

"What do we do?" Shane asks, disrupting the calm of the evening.

"Whatdyamean?" Ilya mumbles, not lifting his face from where it's pressed against Shane's chest. He takes a deep breath, enjoying the scent of their bodies together.

"Well, I don't know," Shane says, shrugging and causing Ilya's head to shift. The purr turns into an unimpressed sound at the quick jostling. "I guess, I think that I like you."

"We are best friends, Shane," Ilya says, trying to keep his tone light. He's worried about where this conversation will end. "I would hope you at least like me."

"Asshole," Shane mutters. His voice slightly muffled as he presses his mouth against the top of Ilya's head. "I just mean, I don't know. We aren't going to be able to see each other much."

"Mmm," Ilya agrees. "This is true."

"But I don't want to not have this," Shane says, uncharacteristically vulnerable. "I know, obviously, we can't be…something. But I don't want it to be nothing either."

Ilya lets the words roll around in his head as he considers what Shane is suggesting.

"We'll see each other a few times through the season," Shane continues when Ilya says nothing, an edge of what Ilya thinks is panic to his voice. "And maybe we can have this? When we're together, we can have this."

Ilya keeps his face against Shane, not trusting his expression.

Because this is the most economical solution. This makes sense.

"And when we're not together?" Ilya asks, his voice still muffled.

He holds his breath, not certain what answer he's actually hoping for, or what answer he's fearing he'll receive.

"We're not together," Shane says simply.

Ilya can't see his face when he says it, and he's glad Shane can't see his.

 "So that means…" Ilya says. He needs this to be clear. He needs to know what Shane expects from this. What Shane needs this to be.

"We can both see other people," Shane says.

"Do we…tell each other?" Ilya asks.

He shouldn't have asked.

"I don't—" Shane cuts off. "Maybe not."

"Okay," Ilya says.

"I just don't want to lose you as a friend," Shane whispers, as if it's a secret. Something to be ashamed of.

"That'll never happen," Ilya promises.

They move as slowly as Ilya's departure time will allow them to, but sooner than either is ready, they have to leave.

The drive into Ottawa passes with few words shared between them. Nothing seems right to say. Instead, Ilya reaches over and laces his fingers with Shane's, lifting his hand so Ilya can kiss each knuckle. He doesn't release Shane's hand when he finishes.

He catches Shane looking at him every once in a while, and they both smile when it happens. Ilya lets himself feel unashamed that he almost never takes his eyes off Shane. They have such limited time, he thinks it's okay to be greedy with Shane.

All too soon, they're pulling up to departures and Ilya wants to force Shane to keep driving so they can somehow steal a few more hours.

Ilya stares at Shane, looking down at his lips and wanting nothing more than to lean across and capture his lips. Steal as many touches as he can afford to take.

"I wish I could kiss you," Ilya says, because he can. Because he's allowed to want this when they're here and together like this.

"Me too," Shane says with a sigh.

Ilya settles for reaching over and brushing his knuckles across Shane's cheeks.

"I'll miss you," Ilya admits before he can think twice about it.

"I'll miss you too," Shane responds.

"We'll see each other in October though, yes?"

Shane lets out a laugh. "You think you'll show up this time?"

Shane's voice is joking, but there's hurt beneath it that Ilya's responsible for.

"I'll be there," Ilya promises him.

He hopes the way he lets his hand settle against Shane's before he pulls away says everything he can't.

Chapter End Notes

boy will be boys. and boys will be dumb as rocks. it's like they ALMOST talk about the things. but then still manage to miss the things that should be talked about.

i can't imagine how this will work out???

(jk. i know. you know. we all know.)

love u. yes, u specifically. thanks for the comments. when i posted the last chapter i didn't check the comments until after the work day and genuinely had a lil cry at how sweet all of them were. and pls. give me all the chaos thoughts. i live for it.

i can't overstate how much it means.

(and thank you for those who told me i wasn't terrible with the smut... i am hoping i continue with the not terrible-ness. i fear the cringe so much.)

Chapter 25: October 2011

Chapter Summary

Ilya plays his first game against Boston with the Metros.

Chapter Notes

i took the day off work to get a tattoo (shhh, they think it was a doctor's appointment.)

and so i had time this morning before the appointment to basically finish this chapter. and i don't feel as crushed today bc... no work.

thank you for all the kind comments.

"Hi, Mama," Ilya says brightly.

"Hi, Ilyusha," she greets him just as warmly and the sound of her voice so steady and sure is enough to ease any of the lingering stress he's had about leaving her in Calgary.

In a moment of pure insanity in the last moments before packing up the last of his things he was bringing to Montreal, he'd offered for her to just move to Montreal with him. He knew when he offered that it was a stupid fucking suggestion, but he still had to try. Just in case it wasn't stupid and she would want to be with him.

She'd leveled him with a look that said everything he already knew.

My supports are here.

Lara is here

My doctor and therapist are here.

My job is here.

My school is here.

My life is here.

Right. Ilya had just nodded and continued hugging her before leaving.

And now he just makes sure to call her after every flight like he always has.

Just so she knows he arrived safe.

"We landed," he tells her uselessly. She knows his travel days, he'd stuck a calendar to the fridge before leaving.

"Good," she says. "You'll see Shane today?"

"Yes, Mama," he says, and he can't help the grin that spreads across his face.

They share a few more pleasantries before they both have to go, the bus having pulled into the hotel, and Irina has plans. He promises to say hi to Shane for her before they hang up. He barely gets his phone back into his pocket before something slams into his shoulder.

"You good?" JJ asks, his voice accented in a way Ilya's become more than accustomed to in his months in Montreal.

"I was," Ilya says, shoving him back.

"Did you tell Irina I said hi?"

Ilya's mom had come to his first game in Montreal and had been very proud of him in a way that still makes him smile when he thinks about it. Some of his teammates had expected him to be embarrassed by the way Irina beamed at him after the game and gripped his cheeks like he was a child again. His teammates had no idea just how far it would take to embarrass him.

Though, he suspects they're starting to get an idea.

"You have met her once," Ilya reminds him. "She doesn't remember you."

"Impossible, she loves me," JJ says with confidence.

Ilya just shakes his head.

Pike comes up from behind them carrying his bag.

"Your mom definitely likes me better," he says.

Ilya turns. "My mother does not know who you are, Pike."

"You've definitely told her about me," Hayden insists.

"Okay yes, you caught me," Ilya says with a laugh. "I always tell her, 'Mama, there is very stupid man on my team. I worry he will skate into boards and die.'"

Hayden doesn't even look offended and doesn't miss a beat. "And yet you keep passing me the puck."

"Is charity, Pike," Ilya tells him. "Same thing that woman you met at bar last month is doing for you."

JJ snorts.

"Fuck off, Roz," Pike says, but there's no fire behind the words. Just the usual resigned amusement.

"Ah, so mean to the rookie," Ilya says with a pout. "I think maybe I'll call Jackie and let her know how mean you are to me."

This, at last, causes Hayden's cheeks to flush. They'd all been out together when Hayden met Jackie last month, and he'd quickly become enamoured. And couldn't get past the fact that Jackie thought Ilya was hilarious.

Ilya has no interest in Jackie sexually, but Hayden doesn't need to know that. He and Jackie find Hayden's reactions to be pretty funny.

"You're an asshole," Hayden says, his eyes narrowed at Ilya.

"Yes, and you have to room with me," Ilya reminds him warmly.

Hayden just sighs at that, resigned.

"Excited to play against your friend?" JJ asks as they walk toward the hotel elevator.

Shane and Ilya's history as roommates and Team Canada members is well known, and Ilya hadn't exactly hidden how excited he was to get to Boston.

"Excited to beat him, yes." Ilya smiles.

This elicits cheers from the few other players around them, and they start bumping shoulders into each other. It's easy.

Meshing with the Montreal team had been relatively easy, even though Ilya had been worried about returning after his year delay. He had been able to integrate without much friction. If Ilya's learned anything over the years, it's easy to love the loud, cocky Russian.

"Can you take my bag up?" Ilya asks Hayden, checking his phone.

"Ah, now he wants a fucking bellhop."

"Yes, Pike," Ilya says. "Have pity on the sad rookie. I'm going to be late seeing a friend."

"You're seeing the enemy before the game?"

"No," Ilya laughs. "Not that friend. Different friend. From Russia. She lives here too."

That gets him a knowing look from both of them.

"Ah, of course," Hayden says with a smile.

"Very nice," JJ agrees. "Just don't tire yourself out too much before the game."

Ilya doesn't respond to that, just shoves his bag toward Hayden until he takes it and then turns to leave them.

"Be back before dinner," Hayden calls.

"Yes, mother Pike," Ilya yells back over his shoulder.

He thinks he hears Hayden mutter 'asshole' under his breath. Ilya just smiles.

Ilya won't have a chance to see Shane before the game, but he's got enough time to catch up with Sveta. Even though they've been messaging or calling the past few years, they haven't seen each other since the summer before Ilya left Russia.

And the photos he'd seen on facebook hadn't done her justice he realizes as he sees her approach outside the team hotel.

She's tall and walks with an inherent elegance. Like she knows she's the most interesting person in whatever room she's entered. She's coming to see him from work, so she's wearing black slacks and a fitted winter jacket. Her hair is familiar, but more controlled than it had been when they'd run around her father's yard. Her curls are pinned loosely at the back of her head, carefully arranged to look effortless.

"Ilyusha," she says warmly when she spots him.

"Sveta," he returns, walking toward her.

He leans in to kiss her cheek before they easily wrap arms around each other in a hug. Holding for a moment too long. It's warm. It's familiar and it feels like something he hadn't realized he'd been missing.

They exchange quick pleasantries while they order coffee. Ilya refuses Sveta's half-hearted attempt to pay, and they wind up at a table near the window.

He helps her shrug out of her jacket and they settle in across from one another.

"You're less whiny than I remember," Sveta says with a grin.

"Fuck off," Ilya laughs. "I was twelve."

"You were annoying," she counters.

"And you look older," she says, pausing to sip from her coffee.

"I should hope so," he says, rolling his eyes.

They're both smiling and there's a moment where neither speaks, they both just take in the other. Ilya can see the girl he used to know beneath it all.

It's bizarre for a moment to marry the image of the chaotic and sarcastic twelve year old with the woman in front of him now. Her green eyes carry an intensity he's not sure was always there. But he's also not sure he would have noticed as a kid. It wasn't until the summer after he'd left Russia that he really started noticing girls. And some boys.

"You like it here?" Ilya finally breaks the silence.

"Boston?" she clarifies. "Yeah, it's nice. I like it. Montreal is okay?"

"It's very French," he says.

She laughs. "Yes, you must hate that."

"Ah, I'll survive," he replies. "Lots of good looking women."

Sveta just shakes her head, a fond smile on her face.

"How's Irina?" she asks.

"Good," he says simply.

Sveta just looks at him with a raised brow. She'd been the recipient of many phone calls during his year at home. There was something about her having known Irina and Ilya when they were still in Russia allowed him to feel more at ease letting her see the uglier parts of what happened.

"Actually good," he affirms. "I spoke with her earlier, she's happy."

Her expression softens at this. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, smiling softly and looking down at his coffee. "She's back in classes. Working. Lara says she's started being annoying again, so I figure that's a good sign."

"And how are you?" she asks. "You're okay being away?"

"I'm fine," he says quickly.

She just stares at him flatly and he laughs.

"What?" she says, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

"I think you may have spent too much time with Shane," he says, still smiling.

"What do you mean?"

"You're stealing his 'that's bullshit' stare," he says factually.

"How do you know it isn't my stare that he stole?" she demands.

"Because I have known Shane longer than you have known him," he says. "And Shane's been giving me that fucking look since the day I met him."

"Ah, so he also knew right away?"

"Knew what?" Ilya asks, raising an eyebrow.

"That you're full of shit," she says with a shrug.

Neither says anything while they drink their coffee.

"So, uh," Ilya pauses. "You see him a lot?"

"Shane?"

Ilya nods.

She smiles and there's something in the smile that makes his stomach curdle.

"Often?"

She gives him an odd look. "What is often, Ilyusha? I see him sometimes."

"What is sometimes?" he asks.

She stares at him, confused. "What are you asking, Ilya?"

He doesn't look at her, suddenly finding the rim of his coffee cup to be absolutely fascinating. He shrugs.

"I know you see him," he says. "I just didn't know you see him-see him."

He can hear the amused sound that sneaks out of her.

"See him-see him?" she asks. "Are we ten?"

"Forget it," he says shaking his head.

When he looks up at her again, she's watching him with open amusement.

"Sometimes we go out for drinks," she tells him. "Sometimes we get dinner."

"You go to his place?"

"Yes," she says. "Ilya, I live here. He lives here. You introduced us."

Ilya rolls his eyes again and sighs. "Obviously I know how you met."

"Are you jealous, Ilyusha?" she asks him. Suddenly those knowing eyes feel just a little too knowing.

"Of course not."

"No, you are," she says confidently. "I think it's more a question of who you are jealous of."

Ilya just shakes his head, but he can feel warmth pooling in his cheeks. He'd forgotten how observant she'd been, even as a child.

"What do you talk about?" Ilya asks before he can stop himself.

It's just that Ilya has known so much about every part of Shane's life since they became friends that first summer. He'd spent the year after hearing from Shane constantly. Then they'd lived together. But Shane's life in Boston remains largely a mystery. And knowing that Sveta has access to Shane in that way bothers Ilya more than it should.

He wants every part of Shane. Wants to know even the parts Shane wants to keep hidden.

"What do you talk about?"

"Lots of stuff."

Ilya just stares at her flatly, and she laughs.

"Hockey, mostly at first," she expands. "He was a very nervous little thing when I met him, but very sweet. He tells me about his parents. About the team."

"Me?" Ilya asks before he can think better of it.

She gives him a firm look.

"I'm sure your name has come up," she says flatly.

He bites his lip and considers keeping his mouth shut for about half a second.

"What does he say about me?"

She grins. "I'm not telling you."

He narrows his eyes at her. "You're a terrible friend."

"I actually think I'm being a great friend," she laughs.

"To him, maybe," Ilya says bitterly.

"Well, he's very nice to me," she tells him.

"Shane's a very nice person."

There's a beat of silence.

"He's never hit on me," she says conversationally.

Ilya keeps his eyes on her face, carefully controlling his expression.

"Maybe you're not his type."

Sveta gives him a look. "Ilya. Men flirt with me."

"Ah, very humble, Sveta," Ilya says easily. He hopes he can keep the nervous energy from his voice.

She kicks him under the table. He winces.

"I'm serious," she says. "He doesn't flirt with me. Not even when I see him with his team. He doesn't seem to care if I notice him. He blushes and turns away if I change my shirt in the same room as him."

Ilya looks down at his coffee and is about to open his mouth and ask why the hell she's taking her shirt off in Shane's presence. Why she needs to change her shirt while she's at Shane's place.

Sveta continues before he can speak. "And you were saying you've been with some guys?"

Ilya's head snaps up and he nearly chokes on his almost asked question.

Sveta just raises her eyebrows.

"Work was good today?" he asks quickly. Desperate to change the topic.

The Cheshire Cat grin that crosses her face tells him she sees right through his attempt. But she allows it, launching into a story about some moron at work who'd argued with her for twenty minutes over the exact shade of black on a Bentley.

"You still go back?" Ilya asks after a little while.

"To Russia?"

He nods.

"Yes," she replies. "Still for at least a week in the summer."

It's quiet.

"I haven't seen them in a few years," Sveta answers his unspoken question.

He doesn't respond. She doesn't press.

Ilya checks his phone.

"I should get back," he says.

"Are you flying out right after the game?"

"No," Ilya says, shaking his head. "Tomorrow morning."

"Will you see Shane before you leave?"

Ilya nods and tries to fight the smile that tugs at his mouth.

They say their goodbyes and Ilya tries to get her to promise to come up to Montreal to visit him soon. She makes him promise to call her more often. He doesn't ask her anything more about Shane. And Sveta doesn't make any final comments, but something about the way she looks at him has Ilya feeling seen in a way he wasn't prepared for.

Their rookie seasons hadn't overlapped the way everyone once expected them to, but there's still a consistent narrative comparing Shane and Ilya. Since they'd come up on the Rapids together and had played on Team Canada together, it's almost too easy for the press to build up a story. Meeting on the ice for the first time then has a certain weight of expectation that no other game that season has held. It's palpable.

He can't wait to meet Shane on the ice as actual adversaries. Other than the odd scrimmage, they've never actually played against each other.

There's something to be said about games between Montreal and Boston, Ilya had thought this even when just watching Shane play last year. The rivalry between the cities is bigger than any member on either team. It doesn't matter what narrative is being pushed about Shane and Ilya, Hollander and Rozanov, they'll always be adversaries so long as they are facing each other as a Raider and a Metro.

When they take their first face off against each other, the din of the arena becomes deafening. It's overwhelming and somehow everything narrows down into that circle with just him and Shane. He glances up and sees Shane already looking at him with a smirk.

"You think you can keep up, Hollander?"

"Shut the fuck up, Rozanov," Shane says with a fond laugh.

The smile catches his eye and Ilya's half a second late.

Shane wins the first faceoff.

He doesn't win the second.

Ilya might have thought that knowing Shane as a teammate would give him a unique advantage over playing against him.

Unfortunately for Ilya, he hasn't played with Shane in over a year, and Shane having a full rookie season under his belt is enough. Shane is fucking good. Better than good. He's really taking shape as the generational talent he's been touted as since before their time in Juniors.

But Ilya didn't spend his year away sitting on his ass. Ilya's faster. Sure, Shane seems to have a preternatural ability to see two or three steps ahead of everyone on the ice, but Ilya's pushed himself hard and he's faster than Shane now. Not by much, and it only benefits him in the rare case when Shane isn't already a step ahead, but it's enough.

Enough for Ilya to win the faceoff back to Pike, get ahead of Shane just enough, and take the return pass further down the ice before sinking it into the net.

So, sure, Shane gets the first faceoff. Ilya gets the first goal.

They almost always end up on the ice at the same time, either by the weight of the universe forcing them together, or because both benches can already see the benefit in matching them against each other. Neither team has another player that can keep up quite as well.

It's a hard fought game, and Ilya's torn between pride and frustration when Shane gets his goal in the second period. At least until he responds with his own before the period ends.

The third is a stalemate. Boston pushes hard to tie the game while Montreal fights to maintain their lead. Ilya pushes himself harder than he strictly should this early in the season when teams are still developing their lines and everyone's settling into the season's systems.

Well, honestly, he can't fucking help it when he gets on the ice with Shane. He needs to give his best. And he's happy to win when the final horn sounds, but having played his absolute best and knowing they both had, he'd have been happy with either outcome.

Still, a win's a win.

After celebrating with his team, he pulls away from the group and pushes himself toward centre ice where Shane's delaying heading off the ice with his own team. Complicated emotions are passing over his face, and Ilya can understand them immediately, as they are mirrors of his own.

Pride.

Frustration.

Joy.

And maybe something more beneath all of that.

"Good goal," Ilya says when he's close enough.

Shane's face is flushed and his hair is plastered against his forehead with sweat. And fucking hell, he looks good. Ilya can only manage a grin, can't pretend any other emotion with the adrenaline singing through his veins. He has a sudden, and unfortunate, need to crash into Shane and kiss him. Thankfully, he has enough sense, just to offer his gloves to Shane.

They knock knuckles together.

"Good game," Shane says. And he almost looks like he means it. But Shane has never enjoyed losing. "You still good to meet?"

Ilya nods.

"See you after."

Ilya's still grinning when he shucks off his gear as quickly as possible so he can get in the shower and get out of there.

Unfortunately he's not quite fast enough to dodge media.

They ask asinine questions about him and Shane, he offers answers with a stronger Russian accent than he's had in years. He's found they ask him fewer questions if he plays up the ESL of it all.

Soon enough, Ilya's heading out of the building with his teammates.

"You coming out?" JJ asks him, Comeau is on his left.

"Nah," Ilya shakes his head. "Gonna hang out with, uh, Hollander."

It's odd to refer to him with his last name when they're not on the ice.

It's so typical for hockey players, but since the day when Shane introduced himself with his first name, they just…hadn't.

It's Shane.

Hollander's on the ice.

Either way, the friendship between Shane and Ilya is well known, so they'd decided it wasn't odd if they told people they would be together after games.

"You both should come out!" Pike insists. "C'mon. Hollander seems nice."

"Too nice to spend time with you," Ilya says, reaching over to shove Hayden.

"Whatever, man."

"Sorry, boys," Ilya tells them.

"Just be back before curfew," Hayden says. "I'm not covering for you again."

"Ah, New York was very noble cause," Ilya says with a grin.

"You were hooking up with some puck bunny," Comeau interjects.

"Noble."

"Not sure that's what I'd call it."

"Good thing no one cares, Pike," Ilya says.

Luckily, just at that moment, Shane pulls up in his beautifully boring SUV, and Ilya doesn't need to do much other than nod towards the car to explain he's not going out with them.

He hops in the car and smiles at Shane, and the moment the door closes behind him, muffling the sounds of his teammates yelling out logistics for who's riding with who to the bar, he is transported. Suddenly it's just Shane. The car smells like him, and Ilya tries not to audibly breathe in, not wanting to show how affected he is.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," Shane replies with a shy smile.

As Shane pulls away from the arena, Ilya waits until they're out of the parking lot before his hand slides across and lands on Shane's thigh. He doesn't think it's noticeable to anyone but Shane, who must agree since he doesn't swat Ilya away.

What Ilya actually wants is to reach across and kiss Shane.

But Boston, like Montreal, is a hockey town and they aren't far from the arena. The risk of them being not only seen but recognized is just too high.

"You played well," Shane says, and Ilya knows he means it.

Shane doesn't like to lose.

"You did too," Ilya tells him, squeezing his thigh gently. "Just maybe I played better tonight." He gives Shane a bright, definitely smug grin.

Shane just shakes his head and mutters, "Asshole."

Shane's apartment is similar to what Ilya had been expecting, but just more. He knows Yuna has Shane working every angle of being a famous hockey player. Shane makes more money than Ilya knows how to properly conceptualize, and apparently the apartment reflects that.

While Ilya's place in Montreal is the nicest apartment he's ever been in, this is something else.

Ilya steps through the door and takes his shoes off, sliding them neatly into the open spot beside Shane's, which he assumes has been left for him. He steps ahead of Shane and looks around the open living space. It's nice in a way that feels like it was specifically designed to be nice.

Yuna is written all over it. He doubts that Shane chose even one thing in this apartment.

"Did you want a tour?" Shane asks from behind him. "I know I've sent you pictures but—"

Ilya cuts him off by striding directly toward him and capturing Shane's mouth with his own before Shane can give him the full description including square footage. He can feel Shane's body relax into the contact.

Neither pushes for more at first, instead it almost feels like they're both rediscovering the other. Ilya's hand goes up to Shane's face and he grips his jaw while deepening the kiss. Before he can track what's happening, Shane is sighing into Ilya's mouth and his hands are going to Ilya's hips and pulling them closer together.

"Ah, someone's excited," Ilya says against Shane's mouth, pulling back slightly.

"Shut up," Shane says, and it's damn near a whine. It makes Ilya grin.

"When does the tour get to the bedroom?" Ilya asks Shane tilting his head to the side to look past Shane hopefully. He needs Shane on a bed.

Shane tries to stifle the smile that threatens to take over his face, but just grabs Ilya's hand and pulls him up the stairs—stairs, in a fucking apartment—and toward his bedroom.

When Shane opens the door, Ilya finally finds the first evidence of Shane actually living in this place. There are books stacked on the nightstand, a half-empty glass of water, chargers threaded behind the bedside table, and a sweatshirt hanging over the back of a chair.

He chooses to ignore the mass number of pillows piled next to the bed, clearly only replaced when the bed's made by the cleaner.

Hands slip around Ilya's waist when Shane approaches, and he feels the way their bodies fit together. Soft kisses at the nape of his neck make his eyes flutter closed.

Shane's hands roam over Ilya's chest through the fabric of his shirt, tracing down over his stomach.

He can feel Shane getting harder pressed against him.

"How long do we have?" Shane asks against his mouth.

"Not long enough," Ilya says regretfully.

There's a huff of breath from Shane and Ilya can almost taste the disappointment.

Instead of saying anything in response to their limited time, Shane surges forward again, kissing into Ilya with greater desperation.

"On your knees," Ilya says, experimentally. He honestly half expects Shane to shove him and tell him to fuck off.

So when he watches Shane sink down onto his knees in front of him, Ilya has to forcibly catch his breath.

"Fuck," Ilya says under his breath.

Shane pushes Ilya's shirt up, pressing kisses into the sensitive skin as it disappears beneath Ilya's pants. He takes the hint and shucks off the shirt, allowing Shane's hands to grip up along his body. He watches Shane press his face into the crotch of Ilya's suit pants where his very, very, hard cock is straining against the fabric. He nearly loses his knees beneath him when Shane takes in a deep breath and starts undoing Ilya's pants and tugging them down.

Ilya's more than happy to help.

Soon, all that's between him and Shane is the thin fabric of his boxers. And Shane seems to be taking his fucking time.

Ilya reaches down and tugs Shane up so he can kiss him again.

"Take off your clothes," Ilya demands as he starts stripping out of his own clothes.

He wants to take the whole night and pull Shane apart piece by piece, but he knows they don't have much more than an hour together before he has to go.

They're efficient at shucking off their clothes, though Ilya smiles as he watches Shane carefully fold his suit like he's planning to put it on again after Ilya leaves. The feeling that swells in his chest at the sight is overwhelming.

Soon enough, they're falling back into each other and Shane shoves Ilya so he falls back onto the bed. They never break contact as Ilya situates himself against the few pillows still on the bed.

It's not long before Shane is kissing down his body, nipping lightly at whatever skin he's in contact with before coming to Ilya's cock. For a moment he just stares at Ilya, and the hunger in his eyes causes Ilya's cock to twitch, precum beading at the tip.

Shane's eyes are dark with want when they flash up to Ilya's face. Which he's sure looks just as blissed out.

Ilya reaches forward and brushes his hand against Shane's cheek, and feels his hand stutter when Shane leans forward and licks the tip of his cock before quickly swallowing as much down as he can. Ilya's body bows off the bed, his hands flying to the sides of Shane's head.

"Fuck, Shane," he calls out loudly at the sudden sensation.

And the fucker looks up and smiles.

Well, smiles as much as he can while keeping Ilya in his mouth.

The vision is obscene and Ilya wishes he could keep it.

Shane moves slowly, taking his time dragging his tongue around the tip and using his hand to stroke Ilya while his mouth goes down to lick at Ilya's balls. If any part of him was capable of anything beyond processing the sensations, he might be embarrassed by the sounds he's making. Mewling, desperate sounds.

He watches Shane's other hand slide down between his own legs and the sight of him stroking himself while his mouth is stuffed with as much of Ilya's cock as he can swallow down is nearly enough to do him in.

Something about having this force of nature, the best fucking player in the league, with Ilya's cock in his mouth is intoxicating. It's overwhelming. He doesn't think anything could ever be better than Shane. Shane in whatever way Ilya can get him.

Involuntarily, Ilya's hips flex forward, which pulls a moan from Shane when he can feel his cock nudge the back of his throat.

Shane releases his own cock and places his hand on Ilya's where it's gently threaded through Shane's hair. He squeezes Ilya's hand.

He has to close his eyes and breathe deeply when he realizes what Shane's giving him permission for.

Lightly, Ilya pushes his hips up again into the warmth of Shane's mouth, his hands tightening in Shane's hair.

Shane moans his approval, the sound is muffled.

"You're sure?" Ilya manages to choke out.

"Mmm," Shane hums, looking up at Ilya with big, brown, trusting eyes.

Fuck.

He's slow at first, but grips Shane's head tugging the hair slightly and loving the vibrations the moan sends straight through his cock, and thrusts up a little.

It only takes one thrust, and Shane's hand flies back down to his own cock. That's the final confirmation he needs, comforted that Shane wants this with the same hunger as Ilya. He starts to thrust with a little more intention, shifting his hips up and enjoying the way Shane had become so loose and pliant with Ilya's cock in his mouth.

"So good for me," Ilya babbles. "My perfect cock slut."

Shane somehow opens even more at the words, and Ilya's able to slip further into his mouth.

"Look at you," Ilya says with reverence. "So fucking perfect. God. Fuck. You're going to make me—"

He chokes off into a moan.

"Shane, I'm gonna—"

He tries to lift Shane off of himself, but suddenly Shane's hands are on his thighs and he's holding his mouth on Ilya, drawing out the orgasm that tears through Ilya. A cry leaves his throat as he feels himself spill into Shane's mouth. He can feel him swallow around his suddenly oversensitive cock.

Just before it becomes too much, Shane pulls off and rests his face on Ilya's thigh, just as out of breath as Ilya feels.

"Fucking Christ," Ilya says, breathless. "You—fuck. I—fuck."

"That good?" Shane laughs quietly, his face still on Ilya's leg.

"Give me a second," Ilya pants. "And I want your cock in my mouth."

"Uh," Shane's voice barely makes a sound. "Um."

The nervousness in his voice, and the way Shane's face kind tucks down toward the crease of Ilya's leg, causes Ilya to look down.

"You've been sent to destroy me," Ilya declares.

Because Shane's body is still lying between Ilya's legs, but he's already spilled over his own hand, the evidence slick on his hand and his own stomach.

"I'm sorry," Shane mumbles, his voice muffled by where his face is pressed to Ilya's thigh.

"Sorry?" Ilya is trying to make the words make sense. "You are sorry I fucked your face and you came?"

He can see the embarrassment colour Shane's face.

He sits up with all the strength he has, and pulls Shane to him by his shoulders. He kisses Shane deeply, only the faintest taste of himself remains in Shane's mouth, most of his release having gone right down his throat.

"That's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen," Ilya says in a rough whisper against Shane's mouth.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Ilya's voice is unwavering. "But I hope your refractory period is the same as the summer, because I have to get out of here in twenty minutes and I am going to suck your cock in the shower."

And, because of course, he can feel Shane's softened cock twitch where it's pressed against Ilya's hip.

"I think you will like that, yes?"

Shane just nods, kissing Ilya filthily again.

Ilya pulls Shane into the shower shortly after and makes good on his promise. His knees ache against the hard tiles in Shane's stupidly large shower, but he manages to have Shane coming on his face before their twenty minutes are up.

Ilya is waiting in the living room while Shane finishes in the shower. He's trailing along the wall of photos that look carefully curated. There are photos of Shane and his family. Extended and immediate. Some of them Ilya recognizes as duplicates of photos from the Hollander's home.

He falters when he comes to a photo near the centre of the wall.

It's a photo Ilya hasn't actually seen before.

It's a photo of them in their Team Canada gear, both showing off their gold medals, arms thrown around each other. They look incandescently happy.

He can't believe it's only been like two years. He thinks they look so much younger. They're caught mid laugh, and Ilya can hardly look at the photo version of himself.

Because it's fucking embarrassing.

It's ridiculous.

Ilya's staring at Shane with an intensity that he's wondering how anyone can interpret as merely friendly.

"It's a good picture, right?" Shane says from behind him.

Ilya turns, his cheeks warming at being caught staring. Even if he knows there's no reason to be embarrassed. He just supposes he hadn't realized how fucking transparent he'd been.

"It's great," Ilya agrees. "I'd never seen this photo."

"My mom found it," Shane says.

"I will have to ask her for it," Ilya says, and the expression on Shane's face at that statement is enough to make Ilya fall to his knees for him again.

They stand just looking at each other for a few moments, greedy in the way that they both know their time is limited.

Ilya checks his phone.

"I should go."

"I can drive you," Shane offers.

"No," Ilya shakes his head. He'd rather say goodbye to Shane here properly than have some sanitized version of it outside the hotel.

With that in mind, Ilya steps forward and kisses Shane deeply. They both let themselves linger just a little too long. Neither wanting to shatter the moment.

"You're in Montreal in a few weeks, yes?"

Shane grimaces. "Yes, but we're flying out right after the game."

"Ah, right."

"But you'll be back here in December, right?"

"Yes," Ilya says, kissing Shane once more.

"December then."

"Goodbye, Shane."

"Goodbye, Ilya."

The door closes softly behind Ilya and Shane lets out a breath. The apartment feels as though it somehow both contracts and expands in the sudden absence. It's emptier. It feels like the walls are closing in.

He's embarrassed how much he misses Ilya before he's probably even out of the building. Hates the way his chest aches with something that feels just beyond his reach.

Sighing, Shane starts cycling through his evening routine so he can get ready for bed. It's rote by now, he lets his brain coast while he brushes his teeth, washes his face, and reads exactly one chapter of his book before turning the light off and rolling over.

How has he never noticed how big the bed is before. How cold it is now that Ilya's smiling face isn't looking back at him. He wishes there had been time for them to just…rest together before Ilya had to leave.

He's angry with himself over how long it takes before he's able to fall asleep.

Two days later, Shane is in the locker room before practice when a conversation starts up a few stalls down.

"You actually went home with her?" St. Simon asks.

"Why wouldn't I?" Connors shoots back, immediately defensive.

"Dude, she's been around."

"So?"

"So, like, half the fucking city has probably had a turn," St. Simon says, the disgust clear in his voice.

A few of the guys laugh. The conversation hasn't spread far enough to pull Shane in, so he can keep his head in his own stall and pretend to be very preoccupied.

"Whatever, she was hot," Connors retorts.

"That's all you're after, eh?" Marleau calls out from his place near Shane.

It causes Shane to wince. It'll be harder to stay out of it with Marleau piping up.

"It's a good place to start," Connors says.

"You used a condom, right?" St. Simon asks.

Shane is seated, tugging on his skates, so he sees the way St. Simon spares a glance right at Connors' crotch, as if whatever he might have contracted might be visible through his pants.

"Yeah, no shit," Connors rolls his eyes.

"Good," St. Simon says with a smirk. "I think you'd have a hard time skating if your dick fell off."

That gets a good round of laughter. Shane offers a benign smile before turning back to his stall to grab his stuff.

"Fuck you," Connors says. But Shane can hear from his voice that he's smiling. Enjoying the way they all effortlessly rib each other.

"I'm just looking out for you."

Someone says something that Shane doesn't quite catch and the room breaks into laughter again.

Shane smiles because everyone else does.

Not too much.

He's learned over the past year the right amount of reaction he has to offer. If he doesn't react at all, someone will inevitably notice and start asking him why he's being so fucking serious. Especially if they're talking about girls. They'll start pushing and prodding. Demanding access to secrets they assume he has. If he laughs too hard, they pull him into it. Ask what he thinks. Ask about the last girl he took home. Either way it ends somewhere Shane isn't prepared to offer them.

So he gives them enough.

A smile. Maybe a quiet laugh.

Enough to satisfy and ward off any follow-up. Not so much that they start wanting more.

He grabs his stick and tries to shrug off the interaction.

He always does.

Before he steps onto the ice, Shane takes a deep breath, leaves the locker room behind him and resolves to do what he's actually here to do.

Play some good fucking hockey.

He's glad he's made it home before the alert goes off.

He'd set the google alert after the news broke about Ilya returning to the NHL. He hadn't wanted to miss anything else Ilya was going to try to announce without telling him.

Instead of an article from ESPN online it's from fucking TMZ.

Hockey playboy seen out with mystery brunette.

It's a photo of Ilya in Chicago. The Metros' second stop of the roadie they'd started in Boston.

The night after Ilya had been here.

It's a photo of Ilya in Chicago, leaving a club with his hand resting on a woman's lower back.

And he's smiling at her.

It all looks so natural. So easy for him.

All at once the realization hits.

This is what it's meant to look like. And realistically, Ilya's doing it properly. They hadn't promised secrecy about whoever they hooked up, they just weren't going to talk about it with each other.

The realization that he has to let himself want more, want something other than Ilya, is followed by the reminder that… He can't just go to the clubs and pick up women.

He's still not willing to confirm it verbally to himself. Only hears the words as they've been spat at him through other men's mouths as a means to insult and diminish.

So, yeah, Shane knows he won't exactly be seen leaving a club with someone. Can't be.

And, Jesus, he'd gone off like a fucking rocket before Ilya had even touched him. It doesn't make sense for him to just be waiting for Ilya. And it just leaves him feeling kind of embarrassed.

Like he's an inexperienced teenager.

Which. Okay. With men he kind of is.

That sets his resolve.

Shane needs to start figuring out a way to live outside of his time with Ilya. He can't let himself only exist in the split seconds when their schedules overlap.

Chapter End Notes

SO something i think is interesting is the fact that they wouldn't have to like... sneak, at least not to just hang out? because they're publicly friends. so they have an excuse to be together. to go to each other's homes.

idk. just think that's cool.

next chapter is all stars.

(also as an FYI, and a heads up. they are both gonna hook up with other people OBV, but you will never catch me writing about shane or ilya having sex with ANYONE ELSE in detail. I will reference it. i will not describe it. just feels...gross. which yeah, i've written about ilya spitting in shane's mouth more than once, BUT IT'S OKAY BC THEY'RE IN LOVE 😂)

i don't remember anything about any of the raiders and only care about our Good Friend. everyone else is probably gonna be an asshole.

your comments are so thoughtful and lovely and pls continue bc it helps me so much.

y'all have given me hubris when writing the smut. so hopefully i stay not disappointing.

Chapter 26: January 2012

Chapter Summary

Shane goes to All Stars.

Chapter Notes

from this point on, we're going to be getting more of a mix of POVs. idk if it'll be like EQUAL, but there will be more shane.

**casual use of a homophobic slur. just fyi.

January 2012 - Nashville

All Stars is a rare opportunity for Shane and the other hockey players to meet each other without the weight of playoff hopes hanging over their heads. They've finished the skills competition and he's looking forward to spending time with some of the others. Especially since Ilya is here this year. They'd hoped to be on the same team, wanting another chance to play with each other. But the league has been enjoying pitting them against each other since they're so close in age and the friends to rivals story is just too good for the media.

Shane pauses at the entrance of the hotel bar. His eyes land on Ilya quickly, not only because he's fundamentally drawn to him, but because Ilya's made himself the centre of attention. Shane's not sure what else he'd expected.

Even though he's a rookie, Ilya doesn't behave like it. He never has. Shane doesn't think Ilya's ever stepped into a room he hasn't commanded. It's easy for him in a way Shane has never understood or been able to replicate.

Ilya's in the middle of telling a story, obvious by the way his arms are stretched in front of himself, his glass of vodka held loosely in his hand.

They're not even twenty-one. He'd be shocked that Ilya managed to get served, but he knows most establishments are happy to overlook that small detail for the stupidly rich hockey players.

He can tell the moment Ilya sees him. His face shifts from a ridiculously dramatic expression into a ridiculous grin.

"Shane!" he calls shamelessly across the bar, waving him over.

He takes a deep breath and tries to convince himself he's excited to mix and mingle with all the hockey players. And he is, to a point.

At least Scott Hunter will be here this year. Shane had wanted to meet him last year, but he'd been out with an injury.

A practiced smile takes up residence on his face as he walks over to Ilya, trying to time his steps so he doesn't look like he's running to be near Ilya. Even if that's how he feels.

"Hey," Shane says as he approaches.

Shane glances around the group. He knows a few of the faces well. Others take a moment longer to place without the team colours on them.

Before he can register what's happening, Ilya's pressing a glass into his hand, letting his fingers brush against Shane's for a moment too long.

It's ginger ale and now the smile is genuine.

"Thanks."

Ilya winks and makes space next to himself for Shane to stand, turning his attention back to the conversation happening around them.

"—and then I climb over the balcony," Ilya continues the story he'd been telling seamlessly.

Shane's head snaps toward Ilya. "You did not climb over the balcony."

"Hollander, you have just arrived," Ilya points out. He sounds exasperated, but he's smiling. "How can you possibly even know what I am talking about?"

"You have one balcony story," Shane says, sipping his ginger ale. "And I've heard about every version of it."

Someone—a forward from Florida, Shane can't remember his name—laughs. "Oh good. A witness."

"Do not think this changes story," Ilya demands, pointing toward everyone around him with his glass in hand. "Tell them, Hollander. I climbed over balcony."

Shane notices that Ilya's accented speech always becomes more pronounced in these environments.

"You put one leg over the railing," Shane says, a smirk on his face as he remembers the moment Ilya's referencing. "And immediately decided you were afraid of heights."

Ilya clicks his tongue impatiently. "This is impossible. Impossible story, I am Russian, and Russians are not afraid of heights."

"Then it was someone else whining for me to call the front desk," Shane says.

"Because we needed to get back into the room," Ilya insists.

"Only because I was the only one fully dressed."

The forward from Florida says "Why was Hollander the only one fully dressed?"

"I sleep naked," Ilya volunteers.

Shane closes his eyes.

"No one asked, Rozanov," Shane says.

"Ah, but everyone wants to know, yes?" Ilya says, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Hot young rookie and all, they already imagine me naked."

Ilya winks.

Shane can't help the way his eyes search everyone else's expressions. But no one even looks twice. Even having only been in the league since the start of the season, Ilya's already cultivated a reputation that allows him to say whatever he'd like and never be taken seriously.

Then someone just behind Ilya says, "Hollander, right?"

Shane looks over and his brain briefly goes off line.

Scott Hunter is standing there.

For half a second, Shane loses all cognitive function.

"Yeah," he finally manages. "Hi."

Hunter holds out his hand.

"Scott."

Like there's a chance Shane doesn't know who he is.

"I know," Shane says, then immediately regrets the overeager sound of his voice.

Hunter laughs, but it's warm. His smile is kind.

Shane knows the difference.

Ilya looks delighted.

"Careful," Ilya tells Hunter. "Shane is very big fan."

Shane elbows him, embarrassment making his ears ring.

"Shut the fuck up, Rozanov," Shane says.

"Is true," Ilya insists, throwing an arm around Shane's shoulder. "I have been in his house. Big Scott Hunter poster."

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Shane says through gritted teeth.

"What?" Ilya looks shocked. "Is true."

Hunter raises his eyebrows.

"I just watched you a lot growing up," Shane says to Hunter, and then closes his eyes. "That sounded less weird in my head."

Hunter laughs. It's still warm.

"Well, I appreciate it."

"He was so sad when you weren't at All Stars last year," Ilya's voice cuts in again. "So sad when you got hurt."

"Sorry about that," Hunter says with a smile. "I had no idea you were a fan."

"Trust me, I am also surprised," Ilya says with a smirk. "About him being fan, not you being hurt. Hurt makes so much sense, given your age."

"Oh, fuck off, Rozanov," Hunter says, rolling his eyes. "Asshole."

"Honestly, I was surprised to see you back," Ilya continues. "I figured at your age they would just take you out back. Give you that mercy."

"You're such an asshole."

"Yes, you've said this before," Ilya says, and then gasps. "Oh, no. His mind has started going, Hollander. Where's his handler?"

Ilya pretends to look around the room.

Hunter just shakes his head and turns to Shane.

"For what it's worth, I watched you a lot last season," Hunter tells Shane directly. "Hell of a rookie season."

"Thank you," Shane somehow manages to say over the sound of his heart racing.

He can see Ilya ease back from the conversation. When Shane looks at him Ilya has a self satisfied grin on his face.

Shane nudges Ilya's shoulder with his own. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Ilya says, shaking his head.

"You two ready to play against each other?" Hunter asks.

"Unfortunately for Hollander," Ilya says.

"Whatever, I'm still leading in points," Shane shrugs.

"And I've won more games against you," Ilya says with a smile.

"I've scored against you more."

"I'm a fucking rookie," Ilya shoots back. "You're bullying a fucking rookie."

Eventually, the group moves to another table when a few more players come. Shane feels more at ease than he had at the start. He moves away from Ilya a few times, but finds himself back in his orbit more often than not.

Near the end of the evening, Shane is standing close enough to Ilya that he feels his phone start vibrating. And he's close enough to feel the way his body stills at the feeling.

He turns so his back is to the rest of the group, but Shane can still see the screen. He sets his glass on the nearest table, extracting his phone from his pocket.

Shane can't read the name of the person calling.

Cyrillic characters. Russian.

Ilya rejects the call immediately, but before he can lock the screen Shane sees the list of missed calls. All the same name.

"Who was that?" Shane asks, but he thinks he already knows.

Ilya just shakes his head. "No one."

"Ilya," Shane says.

Ilya looks around at the other hockey players surrounding them.

"Later," he says, sliding the phone back into his pocket and gripping Shane's shoulder once quickly. "I promise."

Shane nods.

They hang around the bar a little longer before the crowd starts thinning. Shane's been ready to go for hours, but he hadn't wanted to drag Ilya away from his first time at All Stars. His first time getting to meet all the other players as people instead of competitors. And there's just something about Ilya with an audience.

"Ready to head up?" Ilya asks him.

Shane nods. He just wants to get Ilya alone.

They call their goodbyes. Shane's grateful that no one else is on the elevator with them or on Ilya's floor when the doors open. Otherwise he was going to have to go to his own room one floor up and wait until he could reasonably sneak down. All he wants is to get Ilya alone.

They'd played against each other once since October in Montreal, but Shane and the Raiders left immediately after the game for their next road stop. So they hadn't seen each other since then.

And Shane finds that he's insanely needy. Even if he'd seen someone else in that time, he's realized fairly quickly that nothing sates him quite like Ilya.

They barely get through the door of Ilya's hotel room before Ilya has Shane pressed against the door.

"We don't have long," Shane gasps as Ilya bites his neck roughly, just roughly enough to worry Shane about marks. He lets go quickly and licks over the tender skin.

"I know," Ilya groans. "Gotta get you back to your room."

Stupid Shane agreed to do early media the next morning.

Crowded against the door, Shane can hardly remember his own name, much less the reason for why he thought an early morning media appearance had been a good idea.

Shane is panting and uncomfortably hard by the time Ilya pulls away, keeping a hold on his wrist and tugging him further into the room.

They crash together again, and nothing is gentle or soft between them. Hands tug at clothes and grip whatever bare skin they can reach.

Soon enough, they're naked, still standing and pressed together. Ilya is rolling his hips at a maddeningly slow pace while Shane all but whimpers, wanting more but Ilya's hands are holding tightly to his hips, keeping him still.

"Greedy boy," Ilya says darkly.

Ilya pulls back and Shane nearly cries out before remembering that they're in a hotel full of other hockey players. Ilya's eyes flash when he sees the thought cross Shane's face.

"I think we'll have to make sure you stay quiet, yes?" Ilya suggests.

Already feeling himself falling into the easy place he exists when they're together like this, Shane finds he can only nod.

Ilya picks up his own underwear and looks at Shane with a question in his eyes.

Shane nods again.

Ilya's hand goes to Shane's jaw, pressing at the hinge until he opens his mouth. Shane's mouth drops open easily and he can smell the musk off Ilya's underwear, feels the damp patch from his leaking cock brush against his face, and Ilya presses them into Shane's mouth.

The fabric is dry and uncomfortable in his mouth.

It's worth it when Shane sees the hungry way Ilya looks at him.

"Bend over the desk," Ilya demands, his voice low and steady.

Shane stumbles slightly and Ilya catches his elbow, but he steadies himself before stepping the short distance and leaning over. He presses his chest and cheek against the cool wood. His ass is displayed to Ilya like a prize.

He jumps slightly when Ilya's hand drifts across the swell of his ass. A finger drags suggestively over Shane's hole.

"Oh, I wish we had time for more," Ilya says.

Shane groans into the fabric in his mouth.

It's torturous as Ilya slowly works his hands on Shane's ass, and Shane can feel Ilya's cock brushing against him. All at once, Ilya leans down and covers Shane's body with his own, his hard cock pressed along the crease of Shane's ass.

He kisses behind Shane's ear before saying, "But I think I can still find a use for you."

The whimper is barely audible over the fabric.

Ilya rolls his hips against Shane once before pulling away entirely. Shane's eyes are closed, his brain is deliciously quiet. He can hear Ilya rummaging through his bag.

"Close," Ilya says, suddenly behind him once more. He taps Shane's thigh, and Shane shifts so his feet are close and his thighs are pressed together.

He hears the telltale click, and then feels the lube, warmed by Ilya's hands, slicked onto his asshole. Ilya's fingers don't press, just rub in a way that still makes Shane's hips jerk a little, his feet falling apart.

"Together," Ilya instructs, and Shane complies quickly, bringing his feet together again. "Yes. Good boy, just like that. You stay like that now."

Even when Ilya's slicked fingers drift lower, tracing the sensitive skin behind Shane's balls, Shane only shifts his hips. He's proud that he keeps his feet exactly where Ilya told him to.

With no warning, Ilya presses his hand, still covered in lube, between Shane's legs. He lets his fingers drag along Shane's balls as he pulls out. Another click, and Shane assumes Ilya's putting lube on his own cock before lining himself up with Shane's thighs.

"Mmm," Ilya's voice is heady and he sounds just as gone as Shane feels. "So wet for me."

He presses against Shane's thighs, his cock slipping between the flesh easily and Shane gasps at the feeling of it.

Ilya pulls back and thrusts back in slowly, like he's testing. With each pass, his cock nudges Shane's balls and the underside of his cock and it's perfect.

Enough to make him come undone far too quickly.

Ilya grips Shane's hips tightly, tight enough to bruise, and pulls back before thrusting hard, nearly causing Shane to fall forward, shifting the desk forward just a bit.

But Shane keeps his feet still. It puts his legs at a slightly different angle, which seems to give Ilya even better access.

Ilya keeps an easy pace, and Shane thinks he's being careful because he's just as driven insane by it as he is. He leans forward without breaking the rhythm of his hips and peppers kisses across Shane's shoulders. The press of his lips is so tender and loving compared to the filth falling out of his mouth.

"A perfect cock sleeve for me," Ilya says at one point.

Ilya's hips start to get more erratic, and after the sound of the bottle of lube opening again, his hand comes around the front of Shane, gripping his cock and stroking him in time with his thrusts.

Shane nearly sobs into the fabric in his mouth.

"Be a good cock slut for me," Ilya growls into Shane's ear. "Come for me, just like this."

It only takes a few more strokes before Shane's release spills over Ilya's hand, the fabric only barely muffling the sounds that come out of him. Behind him, Ilya's hips stutter and Shane can feel the way Ilya's cock pulses, warmth blooming between his legs. Ilya, exhausted, rests his upper body on top of Shane, pressing him into the desk in a way that keeps Shane tethered to the moment. He feels Ilya's hand reach up and tug the boxers out of Shane's mouth.

They stay there for a moment. Ilya's softening cock slips out from between Shane's thighs, but he still doesn't peel himself off Shane's back. Shane's eyes have closed. His mouth is dry.

He gets one kiss before Ilya groans and stands up.

"Wait here."

Shane thinks he might have fallen asleep. It feels like he blinks and then Ilya is kneeling behind him, a damp towel wiping the mess off his thighs. And then he's being helped into a standing position and pulled over to the bed. Once the edge is behind his knees he collapses onto it. Ilya keeps him upright, handing him a glass of water.

Grateful, Shane gulps down the whole glass, washing the fuzz out of his mouth and solving the dry feeling he'd been experiencing.

Ilya must have pulled on some underwear at some point. He kneels in front of Shane and catches his chin, looking into his eyes. He smiles at Shane, and Shane struggles to smile back, unsure why since he feels nice. A little…disconnected maybe, but very nice.

"Lean back for me," Ilya tells him softly. Shane hands off the glass and does as he is asked. Ilya deals with the cup and crawls into the bed on the other side. Shane goes to him and is quickly enveloped into a hug.

Shane closes his eyes and listens to the steady beat of Ilya's heart.

"You did so well," Ilya tells him. "You stayed so still."

Shane finally manages a smile at that, his finger trailing up Ilya's sternum.

"You coming back?" Ilya asks quietly.

Shane blinks a few times and somehow has no idea what Ilya's talking about, but also understands exactly what he's asking.

"I think so," Shane says.

Ilya cups his face and brings their mouths together for a soft kiss before turning Shane's face and pressing kisses to both of Shane's cheeks.

"Was that okay?" Ilya asks.

If Shane didn't know better, he might think this was a different man from the one who'd just called him…well. Yeah. Because now, he sounds so uncertain.

Shane lifts his chin a little so he can stare right at Ilya when he answers.

"Which part?" Shane asks dryly. "The part where you fucked my thighs until I came, or the part where you fucked my thighs until you came?"

Ilya laughs, and the small tension leaves his face.

"I just—" He pauses and looks at Shane seriously. "I called you some things. And, uh, the whole getting you to stand still."

Shane blushes. He knows he should say no. Because Shane Hollander shouldn't enjoy being called a cock slut.

And yet.

Shane lowers his face, pressing against Ilya's chest.

"I liked it," Shane admits. "It was so fucking hot."

Ilya's hand goes to his hair, brushing it back so he can kiss Shane's forehead.

"Good," Ilya says, his voice rumbling through Shane's ear where his head is pressed to Ilya's chest. "I liked it too."

They stay in the bed for a little while longer, and then Ilya checks the hall before Shane leaves, his clothes thrown back on haphazardly. At least his room is only one floor up, so it's a quick dash up one set of stairs before Shane's in his own room.

He's asleep shortly after brushing his teeth and falling into bed.

He doesn't realize until the next morning that Ilya never explained the phone calls.

They decide to go to a club after the game, and Shane's flying high off their win to be foolish enough to agree to go.

The only thing that makes it worth it is seeing Ilya in a black V-neck thin enough to almost go sheer under the club lights and dark jeans that fit him obscenely well.

Shane had gone for something safer, a fitted charcoal button down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark jeans.

The club is loud, and Shane accepts a beer when it's handed to him, figuring if he gets a bit of a buzz going it'll make it all a lot easier.

They're herded toward the VIP area and Shane claims a spot in a booth along the wall, where it's marginally quieter.

Even in the booth, it's still very loud, and he has to shout to be heard by Ilya when he asks if Shane wants another drink.

Someone else hands Shane a shot that he throws back quickly. It at least helps him think a little bit less about how warm he feels under his shirt and that his shoes are pinching his feet.

Not good enough to accept any of the invitations he receives from women to go on the dancefloor, but it's easier.

It's a little quieter where he is, but he can still see the other players who've floated out into the crowd. Most have at least one woman hanging off of them.

Shane is talking to Hunter about a play from the third period when he feels someone drop onto the booth seat next to him. He turns and sees a blonde woman. Well he sees her chest, pressed out toward his face, taking up his entire visual space, before he registers that she's blonde.

"You're a hockey player, right?" she asks, her hand landing on his arm and squeezing his bicep before letting her fingers trail down his arm.

"Uh, yeah," Shane says, his body still angled toward Hunter.

It takes everything in him not to flinch away from the touch, but he knows he won't hear the end of it if he does.

"You wanna dance with me?" She tilts her head and blinks slowly at him, biting her lip.

"I'm not much of a dancer," Shane says, shifting slightly and hoping she'll take the hint to let go of him and stop touching his arm.

"That's okay," she says, leaning in so she can whisper into his ear. "I can teach you."

"Ah, don't waste your time with this fag," Jennings, a defenseman from Colorado, says as he approaches.

There's no actual cruelty in his voice, and Shane's not sure if that makes it better or worse.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," Shane says, choosing to ignore Jennings. "Excuse me."

"C'mon man," Hunter says to Jennings as Shane leaves.

"What?" Jennings asks, completely oblivious that he's said anything wrong.

He does go to the bathroom, if only to give enough time for the woman to lose interest. And she has. He thinks he sees her on the dance floor with the defenseman.

All the better.

He fights his way to the bar to get another drink, and while he waits he turns to look out on the dance floor. In the back of his mind, he wonders where Ilya is.

They'd agreed to meet after, but he knew Ilya liked to be in the middle of things in places like this.

It doesn't take long to find the tall, gorgeous Russian on the dancefloor.

Shane tries to be rational.

Because, yes, of course Ilya would be dancing with a woman. It's fine.

Maybe the issue is how close they're dancing. But even that, he can't begrudge him this.

He's pressed against her from behind, his hands settled on her waist as she moves against him. She turns in his arms and hooks one arm around his neck. Ilya laughs at something she says and leans down to answer in her ear, one hand sliding across her lower back. She laughs at what he says, one of her hands brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead. No one around them gives them a second look.

Eventually, he realizes he's just standing and staring.

He checks his phone.

They'd agreed to meet at midnight.

It's not even eleven and Shane doesn't want to sit around and watch Ilya so effortlessly and carelessly dance with whatever woman touches him. And he doesn't want to keep turning women down.

Mostly, he just wants to be alone.

He heads back to the VIP area, setting his unfinished drink on a table and finding his hoodie.

"I'm heading out," Shane tells Hunter.

Hunter nods and waves him off.

There.

He's not just disappearing.

But it's not like he tries to be seen as he leaves through the back exit.

Shane makes it about a block before he hears footsteps following him. He pulls his hoodie tighter around himself and keeps the same pace.

"Shane," an out of breath voice calls.

He turns to see Ilya jogging after him, in just his t-shirt. Slowing once he catches up to Shane.

"You didn't get your jacket," Shane says.

Ilya furrows his brow, like it's the stupidest thing Shane could have said, tilting his head at the statement.

"I can get another jacket," Ilya says easily, waving his hand. "Why did you leave?"

"I wanted to go," Shane says simply.

They're both standing on a deserted sidewalk in downtown Nashville.

"I thought you gave up running away from parties?" Ilya says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

And Shane hates that he can't keep his own smile away at the reference to his solution to hating high school parties. Can't keep himself from letting out a quiet laugh.

"I was just tired," Shane says, and it's not untrue. "You looked like you were having fun, I didn't want to interrupt."

He tries with every part of himself to keep from sounding as bitter as he feels.

"Okay," Ilya says simply, covering the last bit of distance. "Let's go."

Ilya continues in the direction Shane was headed. The hotel's only a few blocks away. Shane doesn't keep walking.

"You don't have to come with me," Shane calls to Ilya's back as he walks away.

"I know, Shane," Ilya calls back. "Come on. It's cold and I don't have my jacket."

It's Shane's turn to jog to keep up.

They walk the remaining distance in silence. The only sound is the rare car passing by them and their own feet on the sidewalk. The quiet doesn't feel…bad. Just different. Their hands hang between them and Shane feels his fingers twitch. He wants to reach out and grab Ilya's hand. And even though the streets are empty around them, he knows he can't chance it. So he closes his hand into a fist and shoves his hand into his hoodie pocket to keep the impulse at bay.

They get on the elevator at the hotel and they're finally alone. It feels like they both let out a breath. When they look at each other, they can't help but smile and let out shy laughter. Which feels fucking stupid.

It's Ilya.

"You played well today," Shane tells him honestly. "I mean, not quite as good as me."

Ilya groans and throws his head back. "Always so cruel to me."

"Oh, fuck you," Shane laughs.

"Hmm, if you'll let me," Ilya says. His voice darkens, and the smile he directs at Shane is lethal.

He can't help the way his cock responds.

"My room is closer," he tells Ilya.

The doors open.

"Lead the way."

Shane tosses his phone on the bed before going into the bathroom.

"You have lube and condoms?" Ilya calls through the door.

"Front pocket of my bag."

When he comes out, Ilya is placing the needed items on the bedside table and reaching for Shane's phone, clearly intending on moving it. The screen lights up when Ilya lifts it. His eyes pass over the screen, and he does a double take. His brows come together.

Shane feels a cold pit in his stomach, not sure what Ilya's seen.

Ilya doesn't linger on it for long before placing it facedown on the bedside table next to the condoms. He stands for a moment, still staring at the phone, before seeming to shake himself and turn back to Shane. The easy smile is back when they're facing each other again.

"You okay?" Shane asks carefully.

Ilya's smile shifts just slightly. Tighter around the corners of his mouth.

"Yes," he says, opening his arms for Shane to come closer.

Shane happily goes and lets himself be pulled in and crushed against Ilya's chest.

"Who's Tom?" Ilya's voice seems to come out almost unwillingly.

Shane's glad his face is tucked into Ilya's neck.

"Just a guy I know," Shane tells him. "From Boston."

It's not a lie.

Tom is just a guy.

And Shane knows him.

Ilya makes a sound that Shane can't decipher.

Shane pulls back to look up at Ilya.

"We're okay, right?"

Ilya's eyes are closed and he exhales before looking at Shane. The same tenderness is in his eyes, and Shane feels his body relax. He knows the answer before Ilya says it.

They're okay.

"Of course, solnyshko," Ilya's chest rumbles against Shane.

They stand staring at each other, both searching for something in the other's face. Finally, Ilya leans forward and Shane meets him. Their lips touching softly at first.

It isn't long before Shane can't take the teasing way Ilya keeps things frustratingly chaste. His hand comes up to grip Ilya's head and holds him while he pushes in, and he feels Ilya open to him immediately. A moan passing between their mouths, Shane unsure if the sound comes from him, Ilya, or both of them.

They communicate the way they best know how. Bodies pressed together, clothes slowly removed until the pace is too slow and Shane worries that Ilya will rip his underwear when he removes them.

They fight to keep the noise down, knowing that other players could be in the rooms on either side of them. But it feels like they're finally communicating.

But then Ilya pushes into Shane after carefully opening him, and Shane cries out, and Ilya has to lean forward and swallow the sound.

"Shh," Ilya whispers. "Unless you want the other players to know how good you take my cock."

Shane moans and slaps a hand over his mouth. He hates the way his cock twitches against his stomach, more precum smearing across his skin.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" Ilya continues.

He's fucking into Shane with long, slow strokes, clearly wanting to draw this out. And Shane is comforted that they can. At least a little, they can take their time.

He maintains the awful wonderful pace and leans over Shane, mouthing at Shane's earlobe before speaking again.

"Want everyone to see how easy you are for me," Ilya says.

Shane closes his eyes and his body arches up, trying to get more pressure on his cock. More anything. His head is thrown back and he bites his lip to keep the sound from escaping his throat.

"Only for you," Shane says quietly. "Always for you."

Ilya releases his own groan at this, driving himself into Shane roughly and holding himself inside Shane. Shane feels full. Overfull. Like he can feel Ilya in the back of his throat.

It's terrible.

It's wonderful.

Ilya's pace speeds up and Shane can tell he's chasing his own release. He leans back up, adjusting Shane's hips just so and shifting himself while staring at Shane with dark, glassy eyes. He looks so lost and Shane wants to trap them both in this moment when things are easy between them.

Ilya seems to be searching for something, and with one more adjustment Shane feels him land on the mark. He cries out before Ilya's hand slaps over his mouth. With every stroke Ilya brushes against Shane's prostate and fuck he's close.

"So close," he manages to choke out, each thrust knocking the breath out of him.

"Good boy," Ilya growls.

And that's all it takes. Shane feels his body stiffen and it's all too much. Pleasure rips through his body as he comes, release landing across his stomach and chest. He's distantly aware of Ilya shuddering and thrusting a few more times before stilling and leaning forward to bite into Shane's thigh to stifle his moans.

It hurts. The sharp pain tangles with the aftershocks still rolling through his body. He moans at the feeling, not caring if there will be a mark there in the morning.

Ilya takes the time to clean them both up, leaving Shane to lie uselessly in the bed, limbs loose, and fucked out.

Eventually, Ilya crawls into the bed with Shane and pulls the blanket over both of them and wraps himself around Shane.

It's perfect.

"Can you stay?" Shane asks, rolling over so he can look at Ilya.

"For a little," he says. His smile is apologetic. "I've got a really early flight out."

"How early?"

Ilya chuckles softly and pulls Shane close, pressing kisses to the top of Shane's head.

"Too early," he says after a moment. "And I don't want people seeing me leave here in the morning in same clothes as yesterday, people might talk."

Ilya says it lightly, clearly intending for it to be a joke. The words sit like a weighted blanket over both of them.

Shane doesn't respond. He just grips Ilya a little tighter and starts kissing across his chest. Ilya groans and shifts onto his back, pulling Shane with him so his head rests on Ilya's chest.

"But we have a little time," Ilya tells him.

Shane's eyes slowly close, though he fights it as much as he can. He wants to have these soft moments with Ilya. Needs them. The ones their schedules almost never allow them to have. Unfortunately, Ilya chooses that moment to brush his fingers across Shane's cheek, eliciting a sound that is reminiscent of a purr. Shane makes a note to be embarrassed about it tomorrow.

And so, Shane has no chance.

His eyelids get too heavy and his body goes slack against Ilya as he falls asleep.

Ilya wakes a few hours later. The sun still hasn't risen. He looks at Shane's sleeping face, all the tension melted from his expression.

He looks younger. The overly serious face he most often wears is lost to sleep. He wants to stay in bed with Shane and spend the day just counting the freckles on his face, luxuriating in the warmth he's long come to associate only with Shane. And just have time, he hates that they're always rushing past each other.

Unfortunately, Ilya can't help that his eyes drift to the bedside table and snag on Shane's phone. Something ugly twists in his chest.

He'd seen the message. Seen the name.

Tom: Will I see you this week?

He tells himself it doesn't matter.

Because it doesn't.

It doesn't matter.

But if it doesn't matter, then why can't Ilya stop parsing every implication of the text?

His name's saved. It's not just a random number.

And the question implies again that they've seen each other during other weeks.

And it's a name Ilya's never heard.

Ilya sets his jaw.

Just a guy.

What does that make Ilya?

He shakes his head and tries not to think about it. He makes sure Shane's covered, kisses his temple lightly enough not to wake him.

His bags were already packed, so Ilya just has to grab them from his room, call a car, and leave.

It's easy.

As he approaches the airport his phone starts ringing again.

He thanks the driver and answers the phone as he steps out.

"What do you want?" he asks, venom in his voice.

"Ilyusha," Alexei's voice twists his name and it sets him on edge immediately.

Alexei hadn't stopped calling Irina after Ilya left.

So Ilya called him. Asked what it would take to leave her alone.

And, well, Ilya has the money.

"I'm getting on a plane," Ilya tells him, making his way through the terminal.

"Then send it before you get on," Alexei says.

Ilya's tired enough that he doesn't want to argue about it today.

"Fine," he says.

He hangs up before Alexei can say anything else.

He goes into his banking app and sends the money before he goes through security.

Easy.

Chapter End Notes

i'm trying to feel confident about the smut, but y'all i just stress so much about the cringe.

so...this is the first of a sorta 3 chapter arc. and i've done something ridiculous.

i wrote all of it yesterday.

i don't even know how it happened 😅i just sat down and then suddenly it was night and whoops i'd written ~11k words???? but i honestly don't think i would have been able to rest until it was finished.

if i have self control i'll post the next chapter tomorrow. if i have no self control i'll post it later today (it'll probably be later today.)

ADDITIONALLY.

the end of this story has two possibilities.

one is an epilogue and it seals it off nicely (i think so at least) and the other leaves the door open for....a second story in the series.

idk what to do. bc this is already SO LONG. but the sequel idea has potential i think.

love u. thank u for comments.

Chapter 27: Early April 2012

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane have a conversation.

Chapter Notes

kinda meant to post this last night. (whoops.)

anyway, a gift as i head into monday and back to the job i hate.

Early April 2012

Ilya's excited to get to Shane's, even after a loss. He's frustrated by the game the Metros played. They should have won, and it was only stupid mistakes that lost them the game. Okay, that and Shane.

And their defense.

Regardless, he's ready to tear into Shane and just get lost in him for the little bit of time he has before he needs to be back at the hotel.

It's the last time they'll see each other during the regular season, and Ilya doesn't think the Metros will make it far enough into the playoffs to potentially face them again.

Not this year. Which bugs him.

But he thinks they'll have a better chance next year.

The Raiders will probably make it farther.

"Want something to eat?"

"Sure," Ilya says, walking past where Shane's standing in the kitchen.

Shane hands Ilya a coke before he settles onto the couch.

"I just have to heat it up," Shane tells him, pulling the premade meals out of his fridge.

Ilya smiles at him from where he sits on the couch, twisting so he can watch Shane.

"You're still good for the week at the cottage this summer, right?" Shane asks from where he's standing next to the stove.

"Yes," Ilya agrees immediately. He's been looking forward to it all season.

"They've started building mine," Shane says, smiling shyly. "Maybe next summer we can go there."

"Would be weird to go to your parents place to fuck if you have a home down the street," Ilya jokes.

Shane laughs. "I guess you're right."

"June fifteenth," Ilya says, repeating the date they'd agreed on when they'd seen each other briefly in March.

"You're sure you're fine to drive from Montreal?"

Ilya nods. "Will be nice, I think."

"Food's almost ready."

"Perfect," Ilya says with a smile. He drains the last of the pop and holds the can up to Shane. "Where do you put them?"

"There's a bin under the sink," Shane says, nodding in the direction. "I can grab it."

Ilya waves him off, already up and moving.

He opens the cupboard and leans in to toss the can. Something catches his eye.

"Since when do you drink Stella?" Ilya asks him, standing up, and staring down at the offending bottle for a second longer, before looking toward Shane.

Shane doesn't meet Ilya's eyes when he answers. "It's not mine."

Something goes absolutely cold in Ilya's chest. 

"Whose?"

Because he knows Sveta doesn't drink it.

"Does it matter?"

"Feels like maybe it does," Ilya says. He can feel whatever has been quietly simmering in him since All Stars start to bubble over.

"Just some guy," Shane says with a shrug, turning back toward the stove.

"Ah, just some guy," Ilya says, closing the cupboard and feeling unreasonably upset by the way the cupboard slowly and softly shuts without a sound. He'd have liked it to slam.

"Yep," Shane says. He stops to grab the food out of the oven and places it on top of the stove.

"Just some guy you buy specific beer for."

Shane just sighs. "Yeah, I guess."

"Hm."

Is the only sound Ilya can manage. He leans back against the sink and watches Shane mirror his body language next to the stove.

"What's the problem?"

"Is same guy as one you mentioned last time?" Ilya asks, not actually wanting the answer.

Shane raises his eyebrows and he suddenly feels much farther than the few feet that separate them.

"And if it is?"

"And you were seeing him…" Ilya pauses to think through the timeline and his blood feels cold. "…this isn't the guy you were talking to at All Stars, right?"

The way Shane sets his jaw tells Ilya everything he needs to know before Shane says anything.

"Ilya. C'mon."

Ilya laughs, but it's all wrong. It's harsh and tastes bitter falling from his mouth. "I just hadn't realized."

"Realized what?" Shane responds, his tone becoming sharper.

"That I'd become other woman," he says bitterly. "Since you're playing fucking house with this guy."

"That's not what it is," Shane says.

Ilya gestures toward where the bottles are.

"Sure fucking seems like that's what this is."

"We agreed to see other people."

"Yeah," Ilya agrees. "I thought it was understood that we are fucking other people, not moving them in."

"I am fucking him," Shane snaps. "Just like you're fucking a different woman in every fucking city you stop in."

"That's different," Ilya says, though the words feel wrong.

Shane's eyebrows shoot up in a twisted approximation of a shocked face. "How? Tell me how exactly this is different."

"I don't keep seeing the same woman," Ilya insists, he knows his defense is flimsy.

"Because you don't have to," Shane says loudly. It's the closest he's ever come to genuinely yelling at Ilya.

Ilya fights to keep himself from flinching at the sound. Fights to keep control over his expression.

"I can't go out in every fucking city and meet someone," Shane says, his voice having dropped some in volume. He just sounds sad now. "This is what we agreed to."

"I thought we'd fuck other people," Ilya says, his voice is raw. "I just—why him? Why him again? Why is it still him?"

He wishes he didn't sound so fucking pathetic.

Shane looks hurt in a way Ilya never thought he'd be the cause of.

"Because I trust him," Shane says. "I'm not like you, Ilya. I—fuck—"

Shane cuts off, stopping to run his hands through his hair and turn away from Ilya. 

That might be what hurts the most. Shane is upset, and instead of turning toward Ilya, he turns away.

"I can't just pick up women," Shane says, his back is still turned. "I can't just go to a bar and find someone. You know that. I know that."

And deep down, Ilya does know it. Even if Shane's never said the words. Even if Shane's never admitted to it in any way.

He knows Shane can't just find someone to casually hook up with. He can't afford the risk.

"But the same guy?" Ilya doesn't try to hide the way his voice cracks. "What's the fucking point of this if you have someone already?"

"I don't have him, Ilya."

But he also doesn't really have Ilya, does he?

A flash of something cruel appears, a last ditch effort to protect the part of Ilya that threatens to fall apart if he loses Shane.