Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, First Time, Smut, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Mutual Pining, Masturbation, Passive Suicidal Ideation, Traumatic Brain Injury, Panic Attacks, Dubious Medical Science, false memory syndrome, False Memories, shane hollander is very gay, ilya rozanov is very curious, former slut ilya, we love a slut, Coming Out, Homophobia, they have to be honest with each other and someone might explode, opposite of amnesia kind of, speed-running a relationship so for hollanov its just a normal timeline, choatic coming out, ilya is feral, No beta we die like Shanes heterosexuality

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-21 Completed: 2026-05-02 Words: 63,617 Chapters: 11/11

(hopelessly) waiting for your love

Summary

When Shane takes a hard hit on the ice, he wakes up three days later to find his reality has been shattered. But the truth is, it wasn’t reality at all. Just an elaborate set of false memories conjured by a brain injury. 'False memory syndrome' they call it. Shane calls it a nightmare he couldn't have imagined.

Or

Shane doesn’t have amnesia. Instead, he wakes up wanting his boyfriend only to realize his brain concocted a bunch of fake memories of a nine year situationship and Shane has no idea how to live in his actual reality that Ilya hasn’t been a part of. Luckily, Ilya is…curious.

Notes

This story picks up in October 2017 - post when the cottage would have happened. Contains elements of HR and references to TLG.

I wanted to read a story like this and couldn't seem to find one so the plot bunny demanded I start writing this. And the plot bunny is apparently on cocaine because it demands it immediately.

Please do not take the medical science seriously. False memory syndrome is a thing but I’m definitely taking liberties.

Also this is a lot more dialogue heavy than I’m used to writing and I don't write present tense a ton, so we’ll see what happens.

 

*6/18/26 - I’m getting a couple comments saying the images aren’t showing for some people. They are still up. It might be an issue with an ad-blocker or your geographic region blocking the image hosting site. It may be helpful to switch browsers or use a VPN to view them. So sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you for the comments! I wish I had time to reply to you all. 💚💚💚💚

Chapter 1: Reality Check

October, 2017

The slow beeps and steady hum of machines are the first thing that Shane’s consciousness cling to when he comes back to his body. He can feel the stiff mattress underneath, his hip throbbing a little where it’s been settled too long. He resists opening his eyes because he knows what he’ll find - bright fluorescent lighting and discolored tiles lined up in slightly crooked rows across the ceiling in a sterile hospital room. He’s been here before. Hazard of the job.

Shane sifts through his thoughts but some of them slip away, like sand shifting under his feet. Some images are too sharp, too bright, others are dull and fuzzy around the edges. He’d been at a game - that much he’s sure of. He remembers scoring, the game going well. And then he remembers something hitting his knees from behind and the sensation of falling backwards. Fuck. His head hurts. 

He’s not sure how long he lays there before he risks opening his eyes, squinting at the unsurprising intensity of the lights. Shane’s eyes feel crusted at the sides and his mouth feels dry. He can feel cold tubes around and under his skin, see them snaking out around the edges of the scratchy blanket covering most of his body. He doesn't see any bandages though. No casts or splints. Shane lifts his arms slightly and finds them free and unharmed, save for the IV in the back of his hand. 

Before he could catalogue much more, Shane’s eyes snap to the door. A women in her thirties pushes through with a clipboard. She's wearing colorful purple scrubs and a high ponytail and freezes when she sees him. 

“Mr. Hollander…you’re awake,” she says, before quickly turning around and leaning back out the door.  She gestures with her hand towards someone out of sight and before Shane knows it there are four people hovering around him - checking his vitals, shining a pen light in his eyes, testing reflexes. It's overwhelming. He tries to talk but feels like he has cotton in his mouth. 

“Wh…” he coughs. 

The nurse with the purple, Addie, she said her name was, swivels around with a cup and a straw. The bed whirs to life as it props him up further and he carefully cups his hands around the smaller ones holding the cup, taking a few sips of water. He coughs again. 

“Easy,” she says. “You’ve been out for a couple days so you need to go slowly.”

“Days?”

“Yes,” she says a little hesitantly, looking at the man in the white coat for guidance. He shakes his head at her. “The doctor will explain everything shortly. You just rest now.”

She gives his chest a small pat and Shane sighs heavily, letting himself sink back into the bed. 

“Where are my parents?” he manages to croak, sounding like he smokes a pack a day. 

“They’re here,” Addie says quickly. “Just stepped out. We’ll have someone bring them back.”

Less than thirty seconds later his parents step through the door, each with a paper coffee cup in hand. They go still at the sight before them. 

“Shane!” his mother cries, rushing over to him instantly. He watches some of the liquid slosh out of the little hole in the top of her cup as she leans in and claws at his hospital gown, pressing her face to his collar. “Oh baby, you’re awake.”

“Hi mom,” he says, reaching around her back with his left hand that remains untethered. 

When she withdraws, he notices a nurse had taken the coffee cups and set them down so both of his parents could fret over him with equal measure. 

“You gave us a scare there, kiddo,” his dad says, taking Shane’s hand in both of his and squeezing. 

They both look on the verge of tears and Shane wonders how bad it had been. His parents love him to the point of being overbearing sometimes. But they also know hockey. And they know he can take a hit. 

“What happened?” he asks, squinting a little under the glare of the lights.

“You took a hard hit on the ice, honey,” Yuna explains. “Hit your head. You had a brain bleed. They had to put you in a medically induced coma for 48 hours to give the swelling time to go down. But you’re going to be okay. The doctor said you should make a full recovery.”

“I can play?”

“Yes, baby. You can play.”

That relaxes him a little. He closes his eyes and listens to his parents consult with the doctor and nurses until he feels the room grow quiet again, the door opening and closing. He almost allows himself to give in to the pull of sleep, assured that things would be okay. But then his mind caught on a detail he hadn’t recognized the significance of in the moment. 

“How long have I been here? What’s the date?” he asks, opening his eyes again. His parents are the only ones still in the room.

Almost three days. And. Fuck. He’d been playing Boston.IIn Boston. Shane's eyes search the room. His parents' coats and laptop bags were strewn across the chairs against the wall but there was no sign of anything else. Had they spoken with Ilya? Of course they had. They wouldn’t keep him in the dark even if it might be difficult for him to show up at the hospital, given their continued secrecy. They know how important Ilya is to Shane…and Shane to Ilya. Still, Shane is a little surprised he isn’t here. 

“Where’s Ilya?” he asks quietly, even though there’s no one else in the room to overhear them. “Have you talked to him?”

His parents share a look that he belatedly interprets as confusion. 

“Ilya?” his dad asks.

“Rozanov?” his mother says, almost at the same time. 

“I know it would be hard for him to come but he’s probably worried. Have you talked to him? Does he know I’m okay?”

The pinched expression his mother is wearing is something he doesn’t see very often. She’s almost always the smartest person in the room and tends to be a bit of a know-it-all. A trait Shane had unfortunately picked up himself and had to work for years to employ tactfully. But it's not often that Yuna Hollander looks like she's out of the loop of an important piece of information.

“Um…I’m not sure honey,” she says, her tone cautious. “The Metros released a statement. He probably saw it. But…Shane, do you think Rozanov was the one who hit you? It was St. Simon. Clean…doesn’t mean I don’t want to run into him in a dark alley…”

Shane’s expression matches hers now, he’s sure of it. He knew Ilya hadn’t been the one to hit him. He remembers seeing him seconds before going down, fifteen feet away, dodging around J.J. to chase after the puck Shane had stolen from him. 

“Can you just…can you call him, please?” Shane asks. 

He knows they’d only had a few encounters with Ilya at the cottage but why are they acting like…like he's just another player? Like Shane's rival? Had his parents not actually been okay with the two of them together and just pretended for Shane’s sake?

“I…” Yuna stands to her full height and exchanges another look with her husband before dropping her gaze back down to Shane. “I can try to get his number. If you really want to talk to him. I can see if I can get a hold of Boston’s management. I’m not sure they’ll just give it to me though. It could take a while.”

Sighing, Shane squeezes his eyes closed. He’s so tired. “Just give me my phone, I can call.”

“Shane you know you shouldn’t be looking at screens yet. Not for another few hours at least…”

“I don’t care. Give me my phone,” he says, a little snappishly. 

Yuna sighs and slowly moves towards a small table on the opposite side of the room. She digs through a clear plastic bag of his belongings he’d been brought in with and plucks his phone from the contents. 

“I’ll dial, and you keep it short,” she says, holding his phone in her palm. 

He watches her thumb brush across the screen in a repetitive motion, brows knitting closer together with each passing second.

“I don’t see his contact information here,” she says, still scrolling. 

“It’s under Lily,” says Shane, turning his head away to hide the flush creeping onto his cheeks. 

He’s never told them about that particular piece of their past. 

“There’s no Lily in here,” adds Yuna. “Are you sure you have his number?”

“Of course I have his number mom, he’s my boyfriend,” he says, exasperated. 

Yuna flinches so hard she drops his phone. His dad hastily scoops it up but doesn’t hand it back immediately. They’re both staring at him like he’s grown three heads. 

“What?” he barks. 

Fine. So maybe his parents weren’t as okay with Ilya as they let on. But that wasn’t going to stop him from talking to his fucking boyfriend who was probably losing his damn mind over Shane being MIA for almost 72 hours. 

“Shane…baby…” says Yuna, her features twisting to something like grief. Her bottom lip trembles. “....you’re gay?”

What?

Ignoring his relationship was one thing but pretending he hadn’t come out to them in the most stressful way possible was another. Shane can feel the anger bubbling in his chest. 

“....you said you were fine with it,” he grits, feeling moisture prickling at the edges of his eyes. 

“Oh honey of course we are,” Yuna says quickly, reaching down to take his hand. His father puts his hand over her shoulder and smiles at Shane, looking both shocked but empathetic. “We just didn’t know. Of course it’s okay…we love you. We are so proud of you. It doesn’t matter to us who you want to be with.”

She reaches up and pushes a hand through his hair and the anger stalls, viscosity thinning and dissolving almost immediately. But now Shane is the one who is fucking confused. 

“Dad…give me my phone.”

“Baby…” Yuna tries.

“Please. Just for a minute.”

He feels a little panicked and knows it’s coming through with his tone, the flare in his nostrils. 

His dad looks at the phone first, slides his finger on the screen, and then hands it to Shane. The brightness is almost all the way down. Shane quickly pulls up his contacts and scrolls through them. But his mom was telling the truth. There isn’t any contact for Lily. Or Ilya. 

“Shane…you said that Rozanov…he’s your boyfriend?”

Where did his contact go? Nothing else seems to be missing. Did it get deleted somehow? He checks his photos next. They had been very careful of the years, but over the summer Shane had taken a couple photos. Two of Ilya on his own, and one of the two of them. He tucked them away in a hidden, password protected folder of his gallery. He can’t find that either. 

“I don't…I don’t understand…” he whispers, ignoring his mother. 

“Don’t understand what?” his father asks. 

“Ilyas number…the photos. They’re gone. Did someone…did anyone go through my stuff?” he feels the anxiety creeping back in. What if someone found out? “Did anything…do people know about us?”

“About who, Shane?” his mother asks, gently. She’s withdrawn a little but her hands are still clamped around his arm. 

“About me and Ilya!” he nearly yells, dropping a few decibels after the first ragged syllable escapes. 

“I…I don’t think so,” his mother says. “I mean we didn’t even know until just now. Oh honey…you’re…you’re dating Rozanov?”

“Why are you acting like you don’t know this?” he cries. “He came to our fucking house. You made him dinner. We talked about a whole five year plan for christs sake. I know we’re waiting to come out and we still have to hide…but there’s no one in here but us. You don’t have to pretend he doesn’t fucking exist!”

He’s crying now. Exhausted to the bone. His head hurts. His back and shoulders hurt. His parents are looking at him like there is something deeply, deeply wrong with him. They look...scared.

Shane watches his mother take a shuddering breath of her own. She leans down, kisses his temple and tells him she will be right back. 

“Dad…” he says, choking on the word. 

“I know son, it’s okay. We’re just surprised. It’s okay…” David says, his hands rougher than his Yunas but no less grounding when they squeeze his shoulder. 

“I need Ilya,” he says, desperately, pathetically. He can feel his lungs constricting, making it harder to breathe and the machine he’s hooked up to starts beeping with more frequency, quickening with his heart rate.

“I know,” his father says again. “We’ll figure it out. Just rest, okay. Just breathe.”

~*~

The next time Shane wakes up there are people in the room. The lights have dimmed. Or, no. That’s not right. It’s a different room. This one has a window and the walls are beige instead of white. There are flowers on nearby tables and it's more spacious than the last. 

“Mr. Hollander,” says the man in the white coat, the same from before. He’s looking down at Shane with a smile and shines that stupid light in his eyes again. “Glad you could join us.”

The joke lands flat and he can see his mothers arms cross where she's watching from the end of the bed. 

“Do you think you’re up to answering a few questions?”

No. But he wants some answered and figures it’s something to trade. 

Most of it’s pretty standard - his name, birthday, the month, the year. The doctor asks who the president is, his mom encouraging to ask about the prime minister instead, since he’s fucking Canadian - he answers both. He tells them how he ended up in the hospital. How he’d taken a bad hit in his second game of the season. Then they ask him more personal questions that were obviously supplied by his parents. Who is his best friend - Hayden. What kind of car does he drive - Land Rover. Does he have any pets - No. What did he do over the summer - Go to the cottage. He tacks on ‘with my boyfriend,’ since he’s pretty sure the doctor isn’t allowed to say anything and he's still a bit frustrated at his parents lack of acknowledgement from his parents. He tries not to glare at them. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. He can’t remember the last time he was mad at either of them. Not really. 

“Why are you all looking at me like that?” Shane blurts, feeling like he’s under a fucking microscope. 

“Shane…your parents have some concerns that you’re experiencing some confusion. Some memory loss,” says the doctor, sitting on the edge of his bed by his knee. 

Shane shifts away on instinct. He crosses his arm across his chest and does his best to make eye contact, first pausing on the nametag across the man's chest. Doctor Mulden.

“Memory loss?”

“Shane…” his mother says, calmly, moving to the other side of the bed. She takes his hand and he lets her, resisting the urge to pull away. “You told us you brought your boyfriend to the house this summer. And to the cottage. You told us we met him…made dinner for him…do you remember telling us that?”

“Yes,” he says, snippily, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I told you what, like three hours ago? You’re the one acting like you don’t remember.”

“That’s because we don’t,” she says, not unkindly. “Honey your dad and I have never met your boyfriend. We don’t…none of that happened, Shane.”

“What do you mean none of it happened? Of course it…” he pauses. 

Of course it happened. He remembers it so clearly. Whatever happened to him on the ice, he hadn’t forgotten anything. Had he?

So why doesn't he have Ilya’s number? What happened to their texts, to the pictures?

Dread licks up Shane’s body like ice water, starting at his toes and creeping up his spine until he feels frozen. Underwater. Trapped. 

“I’m not…I’m not crazy…” he tries. Not sure of who he’s trying to convince. 

And still, all he can think about is wanting Ilya. His chaotic, loud Russian who somehow calmed every flare of anxiety in Shane’s veins with gentle touch and soothing words that Shane didn’t even need to understand to feel. 

“No one is saying that, Shane,” insists Dr. Mulden, who looks entirely too concerned for Shane’s liking.  “Listen…it may be nothing. But we’re going to run a few tests. I don’t want you to worry, okay? Head injuries can be tricky. Your last scans came back clear so you’re not in any immediate danger, but we’ll just double check some things. We’ll get to the bottom of this, alright?”

The bottom of what!?

“Okay,” he says instead, nodding his head and not even feeling the gesture. He feels numb.

~*~

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Shane is pretty sure the medications they have him on are the only thing dulling his senses enough to stave off a panic attack. He tries not to let himself think too deeply about things. About what it could mean that he remembers things his parents are telling him didn’t happen. If that’s the truth…if that’s reality…he wonders if it might have been easier to just forget. 

He convinces his parents to leave after eight o’clock that night. They won’t have the results of his many, many tests until the following day so he encourages them to go back to the hotel and sleep. He’s in Boston General, he’s learned. They had hopped on a flight the minute he’d gone down in the game, having been watching from home. 

Around ten, he’s still unable to sleep so he twists a little awkwardly to grab his phone from the rolling table beside the bed. He’s technically allowed screens, just supposed to limit his time. 

For several minutes he just stares at the device, not sure what his intentions had been. Then he opens his rarely used instagram app. Ilya’s account is there, just like he remembers it. They’re even following each other. A fragment of the tension he's been holding leaves his chest and he drags a finger along the stupid profile picture. He shakes his head and jams the same finger on the ‘message’ button. 

There aren’t any messages here either - but he didn’t expect any. They’d never communicated on social media. It was too risky. Staring at the little ‘active now’ indicator under Ilya’s name, he starts typing before he loses his nerve. If it’s real he has to know. And if it’s not…

He swallows heavily. Ilya responds almost right away. 

His phone rings a few seconds after he sends his number and Shane stares at it. He’s trying to remember if it's the same number he’d had under ‘Lily’ but it doesn’t look familiar. But then, he’d never bothered memorizing it. It comes through as unknown. 

Shane brings the phone to his ear but doesn’t speak immediately. Not that it’s necessary. Ilya fills the silence quickly. 

“What’s going on, Hollander?” 

The flinch he makes is subtle but the gasp audible. Ilya sounds annoyed. Worried maybe, but annoyed. But for some reason, his voice is still soothing to Shane. 

“I just…I’m…they said…I don’t…” he stammers, suddenly realizing he hasn’t actually thought this through. How does he say ‘Hey…so remember when you came to my cottage this summer and met my parents and we talked about our future together? They said it didn’t happen.’

For a moment, Shane thinks Ilya has hung up on him. But then his voice drops an octave, the words coming out slower. More serious. “....Did you break your head, Hollander?”

“Shane,” he responds, automatically.

“What?”

“It’s Shane.”

The swell of emotion reaches his eyes again, stinging and pressure around his lids. I’m going crazy, he thinks. 

“Okay. Shane,” repeats Ilya, quieter now.

“You don’t remember…” Shane breathes, barely above a whisper. He reached up and fists the fabric of his gown at the center of his chest, fingers curling against the muscle underneath. He doesn’t remember. 

“Remember what?”

Shaking his head, Shane feels the tears escape his lashes, landing on his exposed collarbone where the fabric has been pushed to the side. He doesn’t remember. 

“Any of it…that we…”

“Are you okay, Hollander?” asks Ilya, sounding genuinely worried. Which should make Shane feel better, but it doesn’t. Because it doesn’t mean he cares. It means Shane is losing his fucking mind 

“No…I don’t think I am…” he chokes out, voice breaking. He hopes Ilya doesn’t hear it but he’s sure he does. 

He hangs up the phone. It rings. He declines the call through blurry vision. It rings again. He turns it off. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. 

He doesn't remember. It’s not real. None of it was real. 

He breaks. Not in an ostentatious way with heaving sobs and agonizing cries that would draw the nearby healthcare workers to his aid. But in a quiet, miserable catastrophe…a tempest beneath the surface of his pores that he contains so he can fall apart alone. With tear tracks staining his cheeks and his fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to break skin. With his jaw clenched and stomach muscles aching as he curls in on himself. 

When it’s over and he doesn’t have any energy left to grieve…he’s not even sure what he’s grieving. Shane isn’t sure what hurts more. That there is definitely something wrong with him…that maybe his brain is broken. Or that he prefers his imagination to reality. 

~*~

Shane is no stranger to shoving his emotions under a mask of professionalism and decorum. He does it the next day when he talks with his parents. When he very calmly, mortifyingly, explains that yes, he is gay. And yes, he has memories that he was in a relationship with Ilya Rozanov. He doesn’t give them details or tell them the enormity of what he feels or the elaborate web his brain has apparently spun. But he gives them the broad strokes. He also tells them he reached out to Ilya, who doesn’t seem to remember - unsurprisingly. 

For a moment his mother seems worried Ilya might out him but he assures her he was vague and Ilya couldn’t possibly have guessed any of this from their brief conversation. Fuck. Not Ilya. Rozanov. He’s not Ilya…not the Ilya that Shane believes he is, anyways. 

“What’s wrong with me?” he asks, sounding stronger than he feels. 

His parents are on each side, gripping both of his hands, as Dr. Mulden stands at his feet. He looks like he’s trying to decide if he wants to tell Shane the truth or if he needs to rearrange his words to something more palatable. 

“It’s called false memory syndrome,” the doctor explains. “It’s rare and not well understood. But it can sometimes happen with brain injuries. We believe you are experiencing fabricated memories, delusions, likely caused by the intracranial hemorrhage. You are not completely out of the woods, but the bleed has stopped and the swelling is down. All your tests came back within normal limits. Medically speaking, you’re healthy.”

“Except for the fucking fantasy world I’ve built in my brain…” he snaps, unable to stop myself. 

“Honey,” his mom squeezes his hand. 

The doctor holds up his hand. “It’s alright. It’s common for patients to experience irritability and mood swings. And the psychological aspect of this is traumatizing on its own. We will make some recommendations for psychiatric care, which is the recommended treatment for this kind of memory issue. And we’ll continue to monitor things for the next few months.”

Shane pulls his hands from his parents grip, crossing his arms across his chest. It’s meant to look intimidating or indignant but probably comes off like he’s trying to hide, more than anything. 

“When can I play again?”

“Six weeks,” Dr. Mulden says quickly, as though he was expecting the question. “Four, possibly, if you complete all your follow up testing and PT. And follow concussion protocol like it’s your job…”

He says the last part knowingly and Shane shoots a small glare at his mom. She’s definitely been in the doctors ear. 

“Will I ever…” he hesitates, not sure he wants to know. “Will the fake memories go away? Will I be able to tell what’s real?”

“I wish I could answer that for you Mr. Hollander,” says the doctor. “In some cases, yes. They do dissipate or it becomes easier to identify the false memories. Sometimes getting back to a regular routine and everyday interactions can help. But in other cases it can be permanent. What’s important is to work with a professional so you can learn how to manage it for now. I’m sure someone more specialized can give you more information, but it’s alright to ask if you’re not sure about a memory. Have people help you discern what’s real and what isn’t. The important part is not acting on the psychosis.”

Psychosis. Delusions. False. 

So he is crazy. His brain is broken. 

He nods, as though he’s accepted the information and waits for the staff to leave before burying his head in his hands. David steps in and places a firm hand on his back. 

“It’s going to be alright, Shane. We’ll get through this.”

“This is so fucking embarrassing,” he says, the groan muffled into his palms. 

“Oh honey, it’s not,” says his mom. “It’s just an injury. Like anything else. It’s not your fault.”

Shane drops his hands and stares at her. “I don’t think people usually conjure up an imaginary boyfriend when they break a leg, mom.”

She sighs and holds her hands up in defeat. 

And he’s not entirely sure it isn’t his fault. What possible reason could he have for creating this fantasy in his head without wanting it already? He remembers wanting Rozanov. Since the first time they touched at the draft in that dingy hotel gym. It had only been a brush of hands, Rozannov’s sweaty fingers sliding over his as they passed a water bottle between them. But it felt electric. 

And it probably didn’t even fucking happen, Shane thinks.

So then why Rozanov? They were definitely rivals. Shane spent the better part of his morning googling them. There were dozens of articles about the two of them over the years, starting from their rookie season. The CCM shoot had happened…though Shane assumed not quite like he remembered it. He was definitely gay. If not only for what he currently felt when he thought about the Boston captain but his texts with Rose were still intact. They weren’t explicit or detailed, but she teased him frequently and the context was pretty clear.

So, sure. He would leave later that evening with a mild concussion and recovered brain bleed, along with a laundry list of care instructions to take care of his head, but he would be stepping into a world that never really existed. Into a nightmare so terrible he'd never even considered it a possibility.

Chapter 2: Painting a Picture

Chapter Summary

Shane takes a deep breath and cards his hands through his hair. “Something happened to me last month. After that hit on the ice.” 

“You said you were okay…” Rozanov starts.

“I am! I mean, physically I’m fine. Now, anyways,” explains Shane. “But there was some head trauma. Swelling in my brain. It’s why I was out for a couple days. When I woke up I…reality was different. For me.”

“Like…you did not remember? You had...anes…what is word?”

“Amnesia? No…uh…kind of the opposite?”

Chapter Notes

I realized I'm very busy the next few days so I figured I would drop this one tonight.

This chapter is longer than the others because I couldn’t figure out where to cut it. Again, it’s pretty dialogue heavy. This one is from Shane’s POV while the next couple will be from Ilya’s. 

Once again I have avoided writing any hockey. 

TW: passive suicidal ideation, drinking, panic attacks, canon mention of suicide, mentions of brain injuries/therapy

November, 2017

Over the next month, Shane tries to get back to his ‘normal’ life. He spends time with his teammates, goes to the gym, and counts down the days until he can get back on the ice. Even if it’s just for no-contact practice. He’s bored out of his mind half the time - unable to fly with his team for away games for the first month. And he’s frustrated that his brain still seems to be stubbornly thinking about Ilya Rozanov multiple times a day, despite his best efforts.

Rozanov does text him a few times, but he doesn’t respond. 

So far, Shane has had six sessions with a psychiatrist who specializes in trauma and brain injuries. It’s not the first time he’s been in therapy. His parents had tried to convince him to stick with it for his anxiety in his late teens and early twenties but he’d gone sparsely and eventually given up. He’s trying to put more of an effort in now - if only to feel like he can trust his own thoughts again. Shane feels like he’s making progress in processing the weight of it all, feeling less overwhelmed. But the memories are still there, hovering on the horizon like a nuclear detonation rather than a peaceful sunrise. 

Dr. Onley, his psychiatrist, said his brain could be filling in ‘gaps.’ And that’s why he’s having a hard time figuring out what he’s made up and the truth. But she offers no explanation as to why it’s only memories about Rozanov and doesn’t seem to apply to anyone else. He’s been interrogating people for weeks - Rose, Hayden, J.J., his parents. Bringing up things that happened and asking about them. Their answers always match his experiences. His parents understand why he’s doing it but he’s more subtle with the others. He hasn’t told them about it. He can’t. 

He’s back on the ice by mid-November and his first game back goes well. His playing hasn’t suffered since his injury - small favors. And all his follow-up appointments have put him in the clear. He’s doing his best not to think about Rozanov, though that feels futile most days. He just wants to play hockey. To focus. To be present, like Dr. Onley has taught him. 

It all goes out the fucking window when he skates up for his first face-off with Rozanov during their next game.

It’s the end of November and they’re playing Boston on home ice. His parents had wanted to come to the game but he’d asked them not to. He didn’t think he could take the added pressure of being seen and fretted over on top of having to see Rozanov in the flesh again. It was the first time in his career he secretly hoped he wouldn’t have to play the Russian. But of course, it was inevitable. Because the were Hollander and Rozanov. And they always would be.

By the time he leans in, palms sweaty in his gloves and shaking hard enough that his stick is trembling, he’s on the verge of a panic attack. The ref is about to drop the puck for the first period and Shane is about to pass out on the fucking ice. And even though he’s not looking at him, Rozanov must notice. Because a large, gloved hand clamps firmly around his shoulder and squeezes. 

“Hey…Hollander…Hollander...Shane…is okay?”

When he finally lifts his chin, clenching around his mouthguard, he catches a glimpse of the distress in Rozanov’s features. It steadies him somehow. The hand gives his shoulder a small shake before releasing him and Shane nods several times, meeting Rozanov’s eyes. He can almost see himself reflected back in them. He steels himself and tightens his hands around his stick, tapping it several times on the frozen rink. In front of him, Rozanov shoves his own mouthguard in and smiles around it, eyes twinkling. He looks a little relieved. The puck drops. 

Shane wins the face-off but Boston wins the game. By the second period Shane felt steadier. Things felt familiar. Rozanov checked him and chirped him. Even though he clearly knew something was going on with Shane, he didn’t treat him any differently. The only thing that had thrown him was when Hayden asked about the first face-off. Shane recovered quickly, telling his friend Rozanov was just checking in after the injury. Hayden seemed a little surprised but he didn’t push. 

After the game, Shane is heading towards his car when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He stops in his tracks and stares at. His fingers eventually respond on their own since he sure as fuck hadn’t intended to answer. 

Tossing his duffle in the backseat, Shane flips his keys over in his hand and pulls his phone out again. He’s still staring at it when he hears footsteps. 

Rozanov is walking towards him, his shoulders bunched up around his ears as he walks against the breeze. He has one hand shoved in his coat pocket and a cigarette pinched between his fingers on the other. 

“Smoking’s bad for you,” Shane says, almost reflexively. 

“Yes, I know,” says Rozanov, rolling his eyes. “You have told me this before. Is no less boring now.”

He has? So…Shane did introduce himself outside of that shitty arena in Regina all those years ago. Didn’t he?

“What do you want?” Shane asks, hating how fucking vulnerable he sounds. He was going for annoyed but definitely missed the mark. 

Rozanov takes a final drag of his cigarette and scrapes the butt on the sole of his boot. A crumpled box emerges from his pocket and he shoves the stick inside, pocketing the box again. 

“You tell me Hol…Shane,” he says. And Shane can’t help the tumble in his chest at the correction. “You nearly had panic attack at face off.”

“I didn’t…”

The look Rozanov sends him is condescending at best, pitiable at worse. 

“It’s nothing,” Shane tries. Feeling panicked for the second time that night. He can feel his spine go rigid.

Shane shifts on his feet and slides his eyes away, trying to focus on a lamp post in the distance. 

“That was not nothing,” insists Rozanov.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Turning his back, Shane opens his door with shaky hands and starts to climb in. Before he can slide into the seat a hand clamps around his wrist where he’s gripping the door frame. Shane gasps and yanks his wrist away like he’s been burned. 

He hadn’t meant to, but Rozanov can’t touch him right now. He can’t feel the way Shane is trembling or the way his pulse is hammering so hard he can almost hear it. 

“Sorry, sorry…” Rozanov says quickly, snatching his own hands back and holding them up for Shane to see. He looks as disoriented as Shane feels. 

Shaking his head furiously, Shane wrings his hands together, the metal from his keys scraping along dry skin and leaving red marks. “No…no it’s okay. It’s me. I’m just…”

“...Are you…afraid of me?” asks Ilya, his lips drawn into a frown. 

And Shane is horrified he’s read it that way. Even more horrified that Rozanov seems to care. Like, really care. He’s not mocking Shane or teasing him. He’s not smirking or reveling in the knowledge that Shane is falling apart at the seams right in front of him. Something he could easily use against him on the ice, if he wanted. He looks upset. And it’s familiar but not. Shane supposes he’s really never seen Ilya look this way. Not really. Fuck. Rozanov, not Ilya, he reminds himself. 

“No! No…not. I’m not afraid of you. I just,” he starts to reach out but stops himself, pulling his own hands back to his chest. “I can’t really explain it. But I’m okay. And I don’t…you didn’t do anything wrong. This is just…it’s me.”

Rozanov surveys him carefully. The taut skin between his brows loosens slightly and he tips his head to the side. The wind rustles the curls around his ears that are poking out from under his dark-gray toque. 

“You are a bad liar,” he says. 

Huffing a little, his lungs working a little easier, Shane’s lip quirks at the corner. 

“So you’ve said…” he realizes the mistake instantly as curiosity flashes across Rozanov’s face. No. He probably hasn’t said that. Fuck this is confusing. “Can we just forget it? I’m sure you have to get back to your team.”

Rozanov only shrugs, shoving his hands back in his pockets. “Team is out celebrating kicking your ass. And we don’t leave until noon tomorrow, so they are at a bar somewhere getting shitfaced.”

“Why aren’t you with them?” asks Shane. 

Straightening, Rozanov fixes him with a serious look. “Because I want you to tell me what’s going on. Why did you ask me to call you last month, Shane?”

He tries for nonchalant, shrugging. “I don’t remember.”

“Bullshit.”

“I…” 

Fuck. Why couldn’t Rozanov just let it go? How is Shane supposed to be able to if he has a six foot, two hundred pound reminder following him around?

“You said I don’t remember,” Ilya pushes. “What do I not remember?”

Memories flash through Shane’s thoughts like a film reel, but they’re not dull or out of focus as he’s sometimes experienced through a screen. These images are in full color, bright and vibrant and full of life. Surround sound. And he has no idea which of them are real. But is sure that every single one that makes his heart swell, makes his body hum with pleasure…those are all fake. And why wouldn’t they be? Rozanov is charming and outgoing, loud and funny. He draws people to him like a moth to a flame in every room he walks into. Including women. Shane is pretty sure that’s true. When he’d spoken with his parents his dad mentioned something about Rozanov being a ‘ladies man,’ said with the well-mannered consideration of someone who didn’t want to call a stranger a slut. His research had also yielded plenty of paparazzi photos of Rozanov leaving clubs with beautiful women. So, on top of everything, Rozanov is probably straight.

And Shane…he’s boring. He’s reserved and awkward and a walking ball of anxiety on his best days. Sure he could smile for cameras and put on a media personality for interviews. He was great at hockey. But the rest of it was an act. So of course none of it happened. Rozanov wouldn’t want Shane. Not in a million years. 

He realizes he’s been lost in thought too long, feelings of shame and sorrow all wrapped up and fighting for dominance in his throat as he tries to speak but nothing comes out. In that moment, Shane wants nothing more than to sink into the ground. To fall through the asphalt and let himself be buried under the frozen earth below. He’ll suffocate there but at least no one will see. Not like now where his organs feel like they’re made of stone and his face has warped into something pained and sour. 

“Shane…breathe…” 

It takes him a couple minutes to realize Rozanov’s hands are around his biceps, holding him up against his car. Not aggressively, but sturdy. Grounding. 

Shane shakes his head. He tries to breathe but it gets stuck somewhere in his diaphragm. 

“Breathe,” Rozanov tries again. He moves his right hand to Shane’s chest, pressing flat against his sternum. Shane's own hand reaches up instinctively and wraps around Rozanov’s wrist. His skin is warm there. “Breathe with me.”

He closes his eyes because looking at Rozanov is too much. But the feel of him is an anchor in the storm and Shane focuses on the bones in his wrist, the fine hairs over the back of his hand. He allows himself to to listen to the sound of air when Rozanov draws in a breath and the unintelligible Russian he’s intermittently whispering that sounds like encouragement. 

Finally, he breathes. It’s subtle but steady. And when he opens his eyes he realizes he’s matched Rozanov’s pace, the fog between the mingling as they exhale together. Giving the barest nod, Shane lets go of Rozanov’s wrist. The man steps back but he doesn’t leave. He does twist his wrist at his side, a micro-movement that Shane picks up on. He’s briefly worried he’d hurt him. 

“Thanks,” Shane says, dumbly. Because what the fuck else is he supposed to say?

Rozanov doesn’t respond, but he’s still watching him like Shane might have another panic attack. Or dart into oncoming traffic. 

Which, maybe is not the worst idea. 

He’s about to turn towards his car when Rozanov holds out a hand. 

“Keys,” Rozanov demands. It's definitely not a question.

“What?” 

“Give me your keys. I drive you home,” says Rozanov, jutting his open palm out further.

“What…no. It’s…I don’t need…” Shane stammers. 

“You should not drive like this,” he clarifies. “I drive or call you an uber. Your choice.”

He relents after a thirty second stare-down because frankly, he’s fucking tired. Both mentally and physically exhausted. And he doesn’t have the energy to argue. 

~*~

They drove in silence - Rozanov following the GPS and guiding the truck through damp Montreal streets. Once he’s parked in the garage under Shane’s building, they continue to sit in silence for a while. It could be minutes, could be hours. When the car stills beneath them, Shane asks Rozanov how he will get home. 

The Boston captain shrugs and says he’ll call one of his teammates - apparently a couple of them had rented cars since they’d arrived early that morning and had a late start the following day. Rozanov must see the terror in his eyes though because he walks it back immediately. 

“Is joke, Shane. I will call an uber,” he says, handing Shane his keys. “You will be okay?”

He’d asked Rozanov to call him Shane that night in the hospital but now he feels like he’s having a mild heart attack every time it slips between Rozanov’s teeth. He doesn’t ask him to stop. 

The curiosity is still there when Shane takes his keys, Rozanov's face like an open book. But he doesn’t push. 

“Yea I’m…I’ll be fine,” Shane replies, reaching over to open the door. 

Rozanov pulls his phone out and Shane assumes he’s pulling up a rideshare app. 

“Do you want to come inside?” he says in a rush, trying not to regret it immediately. “I mean…you can come up. If you want. Even just to wait for the car. You shouldn’t stand out in the cold.”

There’s a moment of hesitation but then Rozanov is shoving his phone back into his pocket and holding an arm out for Shane to lead the way. 

He follows Shane inside and surveys the space. Shane can’t tell if he’s unimpressed or trying to come up with creative ways to tell Shane how boring the space is. Instead he drops his coat over a high chair in the kitchen and steps down into the living space, pausing in front of the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. 

“Nice view.”

It is, Shane thinks. But it’s not the twinkling metropolis that he’s looking at. 

Rozanov is dressed casually in a pair of black jeans and a charcoal gray shirt. When he turns, Shane can see the gold cross settled just above the deep v-shape of his collar. He swallows heavily and turns towards the refrigerator. 

Taking his time pulling a bottle of vodka from his freezer buys him precious seconds to settle his nerves. Rozanov joins him a moment later and leans across the high marble counter, elbows and forearms resting across the cold surface. The hat has been discarded, probably near his coat and his curls are flatted on one side. His hair is still a little damp from the shower he’d taken after the game. 

“Drink?” offers Shane, holding up the bottle.

Rozanov nods but doesn’t even glance towards the liquor. His eyes are still on Shane. His phone is nowhere in sight. Shane is pretty sure he never ordered a ride. 

He does take the drink when offered, catching the glass as Shane slides it across the counter. He pours himself a few shots worth and brings it to his lips, sipping. He forces himself not to grimace. He’s never acquired a taste for liquor. 

Holding eye contact in a way that’s both making Shane crazy and uncomfortable at the same time, Rozanov brings the glass to his lips, perfect cupids bow slipping over the rim. Shane watches him swallow and hope the light is low enough in the room that Rozanov can’t see the heat climbing his neck. 

“This is shit vodka,” he says. 

“It’s $200 a bottle,” Shane counters. 

“Is not Russian. So does not matter,” Rozanov says, matter-of-factly. 

Rolling his eyes, Shane picks up his glass and moves into the living room. He drops onto one end of the sofa and stares at his feet. He’d forgotten to take his shoes off but now it feels awkward to do. Even though he’s in his own goddamn house. 

Rozanov joins him a moment later, carefully sitting a full seat away from him. He looks like he wants to say something but only leans forward on his knees, his eyes cast towards the windows again. He sips the shitty vodka and Shane wonders what the fuck it is they’re doing here. Why Rozanov is being so…nice. And thoughtful. And all the things Shane thought he was but turned out might be based on lies. 

It wasn’t all wrong, it seemed. 

“I uh…should I go?” asks Rozanov, straightening and turning his head enough to look at Shane from the corner of his eye. 

“Oh. Um…you can. Sorry. I just…”

Leaning forward Shane sets his glass on the coffee table, about to get up again. To give Rozanov space to wait for his car in peace. But something stops him.

“Shane?”

“Can I ask you something?” Shane asks quickly. 

The Russian only shrugs and gives a small nod, but his eyes are fully on Shane now, his body angled towards him. 

“Do you remember our CCM shoot? Back before our rookie season started?”

“Yes,” Rozanov replies. “I remember.”

“Did you…was it your idea?” Shane asks, brown eyes locking on to seafoam.

“Yes…” Ilya says slowly, brows cinching. “I told you it was.”

“And…what….what happened after the shoot was over?” Shane’s fingers curled against the fabric of his pants. 

“What do you mean?”

“Like after we wrapped up for the day. Did we see each other? In the locker room or anything?”

He tosses the grenade into the already loaded minefield. But suddenly, he has to know.

“Why are you asking me this?” Rozanov returns, clearly confused. 

Shane sighs. “Just, humor me.”

 “Um…not really. I mean, yes,” for some reason Rozanov’s accent seems thicker, the words harder to wrap around. He doesn’t sound angry or upset. Maybe nervous. “But you left as soon as I got to the showers, so we didn’t talk or anything. Almost like you ran away. I thought you just wanted to get away from me.” 

Shane feels his head nodding, processing, and tries to stop the movement but fails. 

“What is going on, Shane?” 

He puts down the drink and leans back on the couch, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, groaning. “It’s embarrassing.” 

“I will not laugh.” 

The reply is immediate and sincere. And Shane believes him. 

“It’s crazy.”

“I have probably heard crazier.” 

“No…you haven’t.”

“Try me.”

Shane takes a deep breath and cards his hands through his hair. “Something happened to me last month. After that hit on the ice.” 

“You said you were okay…” Rozanov starts.

“I am! I mean, physically I’m fine. Now, anyways,” explains Shane. “But there was some head trauma. Swelling in my brain. It’s why I was out for a couple days. When I woke up I…reality was different. For me.”

“Like…you did not remember? You had..am…what is word?”

“Amnesia? No…uh…kind of the opposite?”

Rozanov looks confused. Shane doesn’t blame him. He’s still fucking confused himself. 

“They called it false memory syndrome. That I’d ‘confabulated’ or like…fabricated..”

He tries to simplify it when Rozanov squints at him. 

“My brain made up memories. It filled in gaps with stuff that isn’t real,” says Shane.

Relaxing a little, Rozanov leans back on the couch and puts an arm over the back. “So you ask about commercial because you do not remember it?”

“I remember some of it. I just don’t remember what’s true and what the…false…memories are,” adds Shane, biting his lower lip.

“So you want me to tell you truth? To uh…fill in gaps?” asks Rozanov, flicking his fingers before resting them back on the navy leather near Shane’s head. 

“No that’s not…I’m not asking you to do that.”

“Would it help?”

Shane shifts uncomfortably. His doctors and psychiatrist did say it could be helpful to talk to people when he had questions. That he might start to feel more tethered to reality if he knows the truth. But he couldn’t ask that of Rozanov. Not this. 

“I don’t know,” he says. And it’s not fully a lie. Because they don’t know.

The cushion dips under Rozanov’s thigh as he pulls it farther onto the couch, his knee pointing towards Shane. “What do you think happened at shoot? What is uh…fake memory you have?”

“Jesus christ,” Shane mutters. Which he hadn’t intended to do aloud. 

He reaches for the vodka and downs it. When he goes for the bottle he’d brought with them, Rozanov's hand shoots out and catches his. He holds it for a second but lets go when Shane stills. 

“You do not have to tell me,” Rozanov says, tipping his chin towards the bottle. “Not if it’s something you need to be drunk to say.”

Shane takes a shuddering breath and grabs the small throw pillow between them, setting it on his lap so he can distract himself by picking at the threads in the embroidery. He looks down at the abstract pattern and scratches his nail across the raised surface. 

“We…there was a moment. In the shower,” he says, sure the flush on his neck has spread to his ears. “I uh…got hard. Which I think I actually did so if you said I ran out, that’s probably why.” 

To Rozanov’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. His expression doesn’t even change. He still looks stoic when Shane sneaks a glance before looking back down at the pillow. 

“What happened then? In your memory…you did not leave?” Rozanov asks. 

“No. I didn’t. I stayed and…”

He feels like he's going to combust under Rozanov’s attention, can feel the weight of his stare. 

“You noticed. You started touching yourself. You looked like you wanted me to do the same,” he manages to get out, before dropping his face into his hand, his elbow denting the tacky pattern below. “Fuck this is embarrassing.”

“And then?” Rozanov urges.

Shane gathers the courage to meet his eyes in time to see the other man swallow, his throat moving in a way that makes Shane’s mouth go dry.

“I panicked, kind of. I told you ‘not here’ and left. When we were getting dressed I told you to forget it happened but you could tell I didn’t want to. You asked me my room number and I gave it to you.”

The liquid in Rozanov’s glass sloshed gently as his finger traced the rim. An unconscious movement but one Shane found increasingly distracting.

“I came to your room?”

“You did.”

“You think we hooked up?”

Nope. Warning bells blared in Shane’s mind and neon signs flashes ABORT ABORT as they tipped over into the meat of the narrative. They’d been toeing the line so far and maybe Shane thought he could drag it out forever. Or that he would at least have the good sense to fucking lie. But no. Here he was. In his living room. With Ilya Rozanov on his couch. Telling him that Shane imagined them hooking up. 

He stands and starts pacing. The plush rug underneath flattens under his steps. 

“Fuck this is….fuck,” he freezes with one hand on his hip and the other tugging at his hair. He’s mortified. Worried that Rozanov is rightfully, justifiably, disgusted. “Oh my god. I’m…I’m so sorry. You don’t need to know this. It’s…Jesus…”

“Shane…is okay.”

The words make zero sense so they stop Shane in his tracks and he jerks his body around towards Rozanov.

“What…?” he snaps. “How are you not completely freaked out right now?”

Rozanov shrugs, his posture still loose and open, and he’s watching Shane like he’s…surprised but accepting. “I mean…kind of sounds like me.”

“What the fuck,” is the most articulate thing Shane can come up with. 

“What? You basically told me you like men at All-stars. We are both very hot and have definitely eye-fucked each other in the past. Is not that weird you imagine hooking up with me,” Rozanov says, bringing both arms in front of him and bunching his shoulders up like this is just another Wednesday for him.

“We…what?”

“Relax Hol…Shane,” says Rozanov. Catching himself again. “Is not like ‘I want to fuck Ilya’ is written on your forehead. I am just very eh…perceptive. I notice things.” 

“You notice things,” Shane deadpans. His fear and humiliation is rapidly being replaced by complete befuddlement.

“Yes. Like all the times you have stared at my mouth,” Rozanov offers, smirking. “And my dick.”

Shane makes a sound like a deflated balloon and collapses back onto the couch. What is happening right now.

“Wait…Tampa…” says Shane, sitting up again. “You said…I told you I was gay?”

Rozanov shakes his head. “Not exactly. You told me about the movie star girl you broke up with. You were not ‘compatible.’ I read between lines.”

“Why would I have told you that?” asks Shane, perplexed. He hadn’t even told his parents he was gay. Or Hayden.

“I don’t know,” answers Rozanov, flicking his fingers that have made it back to the couch. “Maybe you just wanted to tell someone.”

He’s contemplating more vodka, but knowing Rozanov will likely stop talking if he does, Shane grabs the pillow again for comfort. Uses the texture under his hands to sooth his unease. 

“Can you…can you tell me about tampa? Everything that you remember? Any interactions we had that weekend?”

Rozanov’s head drops to the side as he seems to consider. “Okay.”

Ilya couldn’t remember ever enjoying hockey this much. Which was stupid because it was just a fucking exhibition game. He’d always loved showing off but what he loved more was winning. Which, sure. All-Stars produced a winner. But it was usually boring and performative. It lacked the adrenaline of a game that would put him in the running for another cup. 

This year had been different. And it didn’t take much for him to figure out why. He’d gotten to play with Hollander. It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have changed anything. Been different, sure. But it shouldn’t have made him feel like he was alive for the first time in years. It shouldn’t have made him feel like he was in The Sound of fucking Music and running through a field of fucking wildflowers in the fucking Alps. It shouldn’t have made him feel…free. 

But playing on the same line as Hollander woke something inside of him he didn’t even realize had been there. Not a caged beast...maybe a sleeping giant. Something raw and powerful and so alive it almost scared him. 

And sure, the feeling probably wasn’t completely separate from his interminable attraction to the Metros captain. There had been…moments. In the past. Where Ilya thought Hollander might share that attraction. He couldn’t be sure but Ilya was usually pretty perceptive when it came to who wanted him. There had been all the cliched heated looks, hands or feet brushing, lingering smiles that bordered on sultry. But every time, Hollander withdrew. 

Ilya wasn’t surprised. They were both professional hockey players. To date, there was only one openly queer player and that was recent. Scott Hunter was also about a thousand years old and would probably retire any day now. So it wouldn’t shock Ilya if Hollander was gay, or bisexual like Ilya was, or anything in between, but wouldn’t act on it. There were times when Ilya wanted to push. But since Hollander always seemed to look one insinuation away from a panic attack every time he saw the man, he kept his mouth shut until. At least until he would get back to his room where he could gasp Hollander’s name into the empty space as he came around his fist to vivid thoughts of the rival captain clenching around his cock as he rode out his own orgasm. And who could blame Ilya? Hollander was hot. 

And weird. And awkward and adorable. Ilya had gotten his first glimpse at the real Shane Hollander at a bar earlier that weekend. Hollander had approached him with more confidence than he usually had and Ilya had chirped him about getting a stylist, even after Hollander made him promise not to. And for some reason Hollander mentioned his girlfriend had broken up with him. The woman, Rose Landry, was an a-list movie star and he was frankly getting tired of hearing her name thrown around in locker room gossip. 

They’d been interrupted at he bar after only a few minutes and gone their separate ways. But it was enough that Ilya wanted more. The giant in his chest swelled, purred with interest and overtook the tiny angel on his shoulder that Svetlana always told him was drunk and therefore unable to effectively keep him from being an idiot. 

So when he saw Shane sitting on the beach, alone, his legs carried him there on the most direct route without his brain getting involved at all. 

Ilya dropped into the sand next to Hollander, the bottle of vodka in his hand sloshing noisily as it landed heavily between them. 

“Found you,” he said, disliking how thick his accent sounded. He should probably stop drinking. 

He took a hefty swig anyways. 

“You were looking for me?” asked Hollander, craning his head to the left but otherwise not moving. He was smiling. 

“Of course not,” Ilya answered, teasing. 

He held the bottle up and shook it, just as he’d done years before in a dingy hotel gym. But this time when Hollander took the bottle, Ilya kept his hands to himself. He blinked several times, a little shocked at the amount Hollander swallowed. His eyes were still transfixed, watching Hollanders throat move that he didn’t notice him trying to hand the bottle back. Ultimately, Hollander swiped the back of his other hand over his mouth and twisted the bottle into the sand. 

“You said you did not bring the movie star?” he asked, not sure why he was bringing her up again. Well. He had a reason. But he didn’t actually want to talk about her. 

“I didn’t. Why?” asked Hollander. 

“My friend, Svetlana. She texted. Asked if she was here. She talks about her all the time, will never shut up about her style this, Hollander that. She is a big fan of yours,” Ilya adds, snatching the bottle again. “Is very annoying.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hollander. Though he didn’t sound particularly sorry. 

“Yes, me too. I would like my peace back. Maybe I introduce you to Sveta so she leaves me out of it. You would probably like her. Her father is former Raider. The goaltender, Sergei Vetrov. She knows everything about hockey,” he said, realizing he was rambling now. He swallows more vodka to shut himself up. 

“So…is she like…your girlfriend?” asked Hollander. And for a moment Ilya could swear he looked jealous. 

Ilya shrugged. “No. She is old childhood friend, from Russia. I mean, sometimes we fuck. But is nothing more than that. For either of us.”

“Yea,” Shane said, clearing his throat a little. “Rose is still a good friend. We just weren’t…compatible.”

“Compatible? What does this word mean.”

“Just ah…that we don’t…fit? We’re not a good match. Not each others…types…I guess.”

“And what is your type, Hollander?” Ilya asked, and he knew he was smirking but couldn’t quite stop himself. 

“Not women,” Shane said. And for a moment, Ilya thought he wouldn’t continue. “Like her, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Ilya hummed. Hollander was clearing getting uncomfortable - shifting his weight back and forth and struggling holding eye contact. Ilya decided to give him an out. “Yes. I do not think my stepmother and my father are compatible. Many people aren’t. Does not anyways stop them.”

“No,” Shane agreed. “It doesn’t.”

“Do you uh…not like your stepmom?” asked Shane. He seemed less tense now, so crisis averted. 

Ilya didn’t ever think he’d met someone who was so uncomfortable talking about themselves. 

“No. But I don’t really like my father either. Or my brother. My family is shit, actually,” he said, barking a laugh and taking another sip front the increasingly empty bottle. “But my father is sick and I cannot be there to help so my brother is taking all my money and pretending to help but is not.”

Why the fuck was he telling Hollander all this? Maybe the giant needed to go the fuck back to sleep. 

“That’s awful, Rozanov,” Hollander said. So fucking earnestly. “But it’s good you can help them take care of him. Even if it’s only sending money.”

“Is not a big deal,” he said with a sniff. “My father probably prefers it to be Alexei anyways. My father was police, my brother is police. They understand each other. My brother stayed. So he is the good son. I am the bank. They call when they need something.”

“I’m sorry your family sucks,” offered Hollander. And at some point their hands have migrated together, their pinkies nearly touching in the sand. 

“My mother didn’t suck,” Ilya said. “She was great.”

“Was…what happened to her?” asked Hollander. As if he had the right to ask. 

The more upsetting thought was that Ilya wanted to answer. 

“She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills when I was twelve,” Ilya cast the words out onto the ocean breeze and listened to the wind carry them away. Like it was nothing. 

“I’m so sorry, Ilya,” Said Hollander, and Ilya stiffened a little at the way his first name sounded on Hollanders tongue. “That must have been terrible. I can’t imagine going through that. Especially as a child.”

Ilya opened his mouth but nothing came out. He realized how ridiculous he must look but he doesn’t stop him from gaping like a fish tossed on the beach. 

“And you’re not a bank,” continued Shane. A dark, determined look on his face that made him look a bit like an angry kitten. “I know I give you shit on the ice and we’ve played in this rivalry forever. But I know you’re a good person. You don’t deserve to be treated like that. Especially by family.”

Shane Hollander was angry on Ilya’s behalf. And he wanted nothing more than to push him into the shoreline and put his mouth everywhere he could reach. When Hollander’s pinky found his, looping over it like he could transfer all that empathy into something useful for Ilya so he could survive his shitty family, he realized that he needed to go. Because otherwise he was going to climb on top of him in front of God and all the families still spread around them on the beach, and fuck him into the surf. 

When Ilya stood, he recognized the sway in his movement as a consequence of the alcohol. But it could be worse. 

“I uh…have early flight back tomorrow. Toronto,” Ilya said, by way of goodbye. 

“Me too. Columbus,” Hollander shared. 

Before he’d taken more than two steps, Hollander called out. “Hey…Rozanov?”

“Hmm?” he said, turning his upper body. 

“What was your mother’s name?"

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was painted fucking sunset casting Hollander in a golden hue worthy of a renaissance painting. But the giant settled, purring again. It was comfortable and warm and it didn’t want secrets between himself and Shane Hollander. 

“Irina,” he said. 

And then he kept walking before the angel on his shoulder disappeared in a puff of smoke from disuse. 

“That was the first time we ever really talked,” Rozanov recalls. 

Rozanov is wearing a gentler expression than Shane has ever seen on him, his mouth subtly curved and eyes soft. He’s not really looking at Shane, having gotten lost in the memory he’d been painting a honey-colored portrait of. Shane feels something like sadness that he didn’t remember it that way. Though, it was more similar than he expected. 

“It sounds…it sounds nice,” Shane mutters, feeling a little stupid.

“It was,” Rozanov agrees. “Your version is not the same, yes?”

Shaking his head, Shane puffs out his cheeks as he sighs. “Not quite. I remember talking at the bar and even sitting on the beach. But I invited you back to my room.”

This actually has Rozanov looking a little surprised. “So…the commercial was not the only time we hooked up?”

“No.”

“....how many times?”

He’s not sure if it’s because he wants Rozanov to know, or he’s too exhausted to lie at this point. Probably both.

“I don’t know. A lot," he admits. "We kept it up after the first time. Whenever we were in the same city.”

“We were in…a relationship?” guesses Rozanov, frowning slightly. 

“No…not really. I mean...sort of. But not until recently. It was mostly just…” Shane shrugs awkwardly. 

And because Rozanov has no concept of humility he says “Fucking.”

“Yea,” Shane confirms. And it still feels embarrassing. But easier now. 

“...Was it good?”

Or it was getting easier. 

“Jesus christ,” Shane mutters, dragging a hand across his face. 

“What?” adds Rozanov. Fucking grinning now. “I think is fair to know if fake memory me was great at sex.”

“The last thing you need is a fucking ego boost,” Shane retorts. 

“So it was good,” and now Rozanov’s teeth are there, his smile cat-like.

Shane shoves his face away without thinking. “You’re such an asshole.”

Rozanov laughs, nodding in agreement. “Yes. That part is true.”

A comfortable silence settles between them. Rozanov finishes his drink and Shane has relaxed a little onto the couch, his cheek resting on the back while he watches Rozanov who watches him back.

“Thank you,” Shane whispers. “I know it's…a lot. And it’s fucking weird. And you should be running in the other direction screaming. But you listened. So thank you. I…do think it helped.”

Somehow, they hold eye contact longer than Shane can usually manage with someone who isn’t a parent or Hayden. But then Rozanov brings his hands up and rubs his eye, scrubbing his hand through unruly curls. 

“I uh…I should get back. Is late,” he says. 

Something in Shane’s chest clenches and he tries to ignore it. Instead he snaps into motion, pushing himself from the couch. “Yea…yea, of course. I could uh, I can drive you?”

“You are okay to drive?” asks Rozanov, standing more slowly. 

“It was like three shots two hours ago, Rozanov,” says Shane, trying to break the newly formed tension. “I don’t drink much but I’m not that much of a lightweight.”

“Ilya.”

“What?”

“I call you Shane. You call me Ilya. Is only fair,” says Roz…Ilya. He shrugs and looks away briefly. 

“Oh. Um. Okay,” Shane agrees, a little taken aback. 

Ilya huffs a laugh and steps towards him, tapping Shane on the temple gently. “And I meant…up here. Is your head good to drive?” 

Shane can still feel the spot he touched after he pulls away. Like it was a button and activates Shane’s entire nervous system. He has to keep from reaching up to press his own hand there.

“I’m okay, now,” says Shane, swallowing thickly. “Thank you.”

Ilya surveys him for a moment and must be satisfied with whatever he sees. He nods and asks where the bathroom is. While he’s gone, Shane cleans up the glasses and puts the vodka back in the freezer. He’s pulling his coat on near the door when Ilya returns. He’s wearing his own coat again, toque shoved back over his curls. Shane feels like it should be a crime to cover them up but doesn’t say so. 

The drive back isn’t uncomfortable - but it does feel strange. They ride in silence, save for the quiet hum of music from the radio that he lets Ilya control. Shane follows the rules of the road like he’ll be immediately arrested if he doesn’t. He assumed he might feel more anxious about having the Boston captain in his car - worried they could be seen. But it’s the furthest thing from his mind. It’s also late, nearly midnight on a weekday, so the streets are quiet. 

When they’re a few blocks away, Ilya breaks the silence.

“You can call or text. If you have more questions.”

“Oh…yea?” asks Shane. And he wants to. But. Should he?

“Maybe it will help…what is expression,” Ilya wonders. “Get to the bottom of things?”

Right. What the doctor said. 

“You don’t have to. But…If you're okay with it…yes,” Shane agrees. “That might be. Helpful.”

Before he can second guess anything, Shane turns onto the block where Ilya’s hotel is. They agreed to drop him off at the end of the street, on the off chance any of his teammates are nearby. Shane feels like both of them have reached their capacity on what nonsense they can deal with at the moment, and that does not include rumors about them.

The car rocks to a stop, breaks squeaking slightly in the damp air. Ilya takes his time unbuckling his seatbelt and patting down his pockets, presumably to make sure he has his phone and wallet. He finally reaches over to open the door and cool air floods the interior, fighting for dominance with the heater. 

“For what it’s worth…” Ilya says quietly, one foot on the curb but still half in his seat. He turns back to look at Shane. “I think I like your reality better.”

Shane sputters, wishing his reaction had been a little more dignified. “I…you…”

“Goodnight, Shane,” Ilya adds, smirking a little as he slides fully from the car and closes the door behind him. 

Shane watches him shove his hands in his pockets, chin tucked into his neck to ward off the cold as he heads down the block. 

What the actual fuck. 

Chapter End Notes

Next update as soon as possible I promise!

Chapter 3: You Could Be My Memory

Chapter Summary

“What did I make you?” Ilya asks. “When you were here?”

“What?” Shane says, getting a little distracted by the ding of the lift reaching the floor.

“The food I made,” Ilya calls, watching the doors slide open. “What was it?”

“Oh. You made tuna melts,” Shane calls, and then he steps onto the elevator, turning. 

“....the fuck is a tuna melt?” Ilya asks, a little too loudly for the space. 

Shane laughs, his smile soft as he shakes his head with mirth. “Goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, Shane.”

Chapter Notes

In which, Ilya has questions and Shane is surprisingly willing to give him answers.

Also known as the timeline where Ilya never read a stupid profile about Shane Hollanders favorite cheat meal being tuna melts and he's fucking Russian so what the hell is this monstrosity?

December, 2017

After leaving Shane’s apartment last month, Ilya thought he might be the one with the broken brain. He’d sat on the bed of his empty hotel room, Connors still out with the rest of the team, and lost himself in thought for an hour. He feels like he did a pretty solid job of keeping his shit together on the outside through that entire bizarre experience in Shane’s living room. But on the inside, he’d been having a silent mental breakdown. Because holy shit. Hollander likes him. Or at at least wants to fuck him. Wanted to fuck him. The semantics don’t matter. But this man, who he’s been secretly jerking off to for the last nine years, has probably been doing the same thing. It makes him hard just thinking about it. Which he should feel shameful for thinking about, given the circumstances. Hollander…no…Shane…was clearly going through something traumatically complicated in a way Ilya couldn’t imagine. Only, Ilya was but a man. One who greatly enjoyed watching Shane on the ice over the years. Chirping him, teasing him, slamming him into the boards and keeping him there for just a second longer than necessary to feel him squirm. 

It’s the reason he, well, fled Shane’s apartment long before he would have liked. Because here Shane was, thanking him for listening, for being kind…and it made Ilya want to press him into those expensive leather couch cushions and fuck him until he screamed Ilya’s name. Worse…it made him want to pull Shane into his arms and hold him there, mapping out every inch of him with his fingertips until they were both shivering. And as much as he thought, terrifyingly, that Shane might just let him do that, he didn’t want to add to whatever psychosis the man was already experiencing. Still. If curiosity killed the cat, or whatever westerners liked to say, Ilya thought he might enjoy a slow, agonizing death. 

He spent the rest of the night lying quietly next to his teammate and googling until his hands cramped. He'd looked up ‘false memory syndrome’ and ‘traumatic brain injury,’ pouring through articles and reddit threads that ranged from clinical to comical. 

When he'd deemed enough of the sun had risen to justify his eagerness, he pulled up his texts where he saved Shane’s number. Because he had the desperate need to make sure he hadn’t imagined the entire thing - fallen into some alternate universe where Shane doesn’t hate him and the way he looks at Ilya actually means something.

At first he didn't think Shane would respond, but then he was typing.

Ilya smiled, finally letting himself drift to sleep for a few hours. 

~*~

They text often over the next few weeks. Not so much about Shane’s injury or his fake memories - just regular things. They talk about hockey a lot and Ilya finds it surprisingly easy. Shane is funny in a way that’s quiet and subtle, but there’s a mischievous streak to him that Ilya’s only glimpsed over the years. Blink and it was gone. He quickly learns that Shane’s uptight, rule-following, modest exterior is just an act. 

No, that’s not right. Shane is all of those things. But he plays it up for the public in the name of professionalism. Because among all the things Shane is in private, to the world he bears the labels of captain and role-model, and leader. In the digital world of their messaging, and that night in Shane’s apartment, Ilya notices he’s also anxious and kind and gentle and vulnerable. But also sarcastic and bitchy and...a bit of a brat. And Ilya kind of loves it. 

On the morning of their next game, a frigid day in December, Ilya invites Shane to his home. They’d talked about meeting up in Boston but neither had been specific. And Ilya will be damned if he lets the opportunity pass because they’re both still a little wary about being too direct. 

For a heartbeat, he thinks Shane won’t respond. And when he does, Ilya worries he’s pushed too far. Ruined something when he doesn’t even know what something is.

But, Shane agrees. A concession, yes. He’s not sure why Shane wants to come over after the game. It’s in the evening and he assumed Shane would prefer to visit when they were less pressed for time - in the light of day when they could pretend things were simpler. But he’s not going to argue. 

He does consider before he responds. First he types Sure, and deletes it. Too flippant. Next is Yes, Please. Too eager. He settles for casual. Or whatever passes for casual between them in this weird rivals-turned-professional colleagues-turned-reluctant friends who know they both want to suck each other's dicks but refuse to say it out loud. 

Their play that night feels charged in a way Ilya remembers from the All-Star game last season. How their eyes track each others movements down to the millimeter and they dance around the ice like it’s only the two of them. Like two gravitational bodies orbiting a singular point, locked in a trajectory that can only end in a collision. Montreal wins, 3-2, but Ilya can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed. Which he feels like his teammates are - their ire amplified by Ilya’s buzzing energy to rush home as soon as possible instead of lick his wounds with the rest of them at a club somewhere. Marlow watches him from the next stall over as he checks his messages, letting Shane know what time he’ll be home. He’s grinning as he sends the address. 

“You could at least look like you’re pissed about the game,” says Marlow, smirking at him. He’s not unaccustomed to Ilya’s post-game rituals of chasing hookups. Ilyas always preferred someone to lick his wounds for him.

“Fuck off, Marly,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it. And it’s not even clever. 

“Just keep it in your pants, Roz. At least until you get out of the locker room. I’m sure she’ll still be waiting for it,” adds Marlow. 

Ilya shoves his phone back in his locker and strips, only managing to flip off his AC before heading to the shower. 

He’s home in record time and by 9:30, Shane is nervously walking over the threshold of his front door. He asks if he should take his shoes off. Ilya tells him he doesn’t have to. He does anyway, neatly tucking them against the wall and curling his socked toes into the rug.

Ilya’s already changed into comfortable clothing - which he'd still meticulously chosen. He’s wearing a pair of joggers, low-slug on his hips, and a fitted tank top. All black. He intentionally turns the heat up so he’s not chilled because for obvious reasons, having his arms on display and watching Shane eye's catalogue every flex of muscle when he moves, is more important than the heating bill.

“Not what you expected?” Ilya asks, following Shane through to the open living space. 

Shane shakes his head. “No. In my uh…memory…you lived in a house.”

“Nice house?” he asks. Because he’s mildly curious. 

“Very nice.”

Ilya moves around his kitchen while Shane describes a multi-million dollar home that probably exists somewhere in an architectural magazine. He then spends several more minutes describing his own cottage he’d built - the one Ilya remembers from a boring documentary a few years ago. He thinks maybe Shane has a bit of a real estate fetish and quietly files that away for later use. 

Opening the vodka, a bottle he paid over five thousand dollars to import, he pours generous portions into two crystal lowballs. He drinks several shots worth. 

“I thought that was my consolation prize?” Shane says, looking a little too smug as he picks up his own cup.

“And now is mine,” he replies, clinking his glass to Shane’s before taking another swallow. 

They talk briefly about the game and how their teams are spending their evenings. Apparently most of the Metros are headed to a new club which Ilya knows some of his own teammates will likely be visiting. He silently hopes he doesn’t get a phone call that another one of the rookies has gotten into a bar fight. Because he’s pretty sure if he has to choose between dealing with that and watching Shane drink his expensive vodka, he’s going to choose the latter over being a good captain tonight. 

Moving around towards the living room, Ilya drops onto his couch in the middle - a practiced move so that wherever Shane sits, it will be within reach. He’s still holding his drink with one hand, his other fumbling with the remote to turn the TV on, when he notices Shane staring down at him. He looks pale. 

Ilya thumbs the volume down and drops the remote onto the coffee table. 

“What is it?” he asks, watching Shane. 

His voice must jolt Shane out of whatever was going on inside his head because his spine snaps straight and he blinks rapidly. 

“Nothing,” he says, sitting carefully, only a couple feet away. 

“A memory?” Ilya asks, perceptively. 

Grimacing, Shane takes a sip of his drink and keeps his eyes forward.

“Bad one?”

With a huff, Shane briefly buries his face in his palm, rubbing furiously. But when he meets Ilya’s gaze, he’s wearing the barest of smiles. “Were you always so fucking observant?”

“Usually. Not always,” Ilya shrugs. 

Because he regrets not being observant enough to notice that it was fear that had Shane running from him back at the CCM shoot. He supposes he thought that’s what it might have been at the time. But he didn’t know pursuing him then would have changed things. 

Ilya had given a lot of thought to Shane’s ‘memories’ in the last month and thought it was a bit insane to regret something that hadn’t happened. But goddamn, he wishes it had.

“In my memory when I went to your house…” says Shane, his body still and poised, hands folded together in his lap. "It didn’t go well."

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…everything was the same as it always was. Until it wasn’t. You were…you were nice to me. Thoughtful. You made me food. Had ginger ale…” Shane says, his face screwed up in concentration. He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand before it falls limp again.

Ilya has noticed that ginger ale was Shane’s drink of choice over the years. He can easily recall half a dozen events where Shane had one drink, just to join in with social niceties, before switching to his boring caffeine free soda. 

“Me being nice was different…because I am usually…” Ilya tries, his brow arching in question.

Shane cuts him off. “No! Not like that. Well. Yes. You’re usually an asshole. I just mean. Until then, we just fucked. That was it. But when I came to your house it was different. You asked me to stay. Overnight.”

“That was bad?”

“That was scary,” Shane says, leveling Ilya with a serious look. 

“Oh,” is all Ilya manages. 

The Metros captain deflates a little, shoulders slouching into the back of the couch. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not great at emotions,” Shane explains, his laugh a little sardonic. “Or…communicating stuff.”

“Yes. I have noticed," Ilya deadpans. "But I am Slavic, Hollander. Join the club.”

Ilya tenses for a moment, having slipped on the name. But Shane laughs. A real laugh. So he guesses it’s okay to use sometimes. They might be Shane and Ilya now. But they’ll always be Hollander and Rozanov. 

“So what happened, you stayed?” he asks, because he can’t help himself. 

“I ran. And I think it hurt you. Memory you,” answers Shane. He sounds apologetic even for his imagined slight.

And Ilya has to flip through the channels until he finds a recap of the nights game. He needs to distract himself. To keep his attention split. Because he can’t keep studying way Shane’s shirt is stretched across his chest or the way his fingers curl around the expensive crystal in his hand. And he certainly can’t stare at the naked, unguarded expression he’s wearing.

“You said I made you food? You leave me with a lot of dishes?” he tries, the humor falling flat.

Shane rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. That is very serious offense. I would definitely be upset.”

He’s not sure if Shane appreciates the deflection, but he seems to relax a little. He sets his drink next to Ilya’s and leans back into plush cushions. They get a little distracted by the game - chirping each other and flinching sympathetically when one of the Boston forwards gets rocked into the boards, even though they both knew it was coming. 

Ads start to run and the announcers fill the screen. Ilya turns his attention back towards Shane. 

“When you messaged me from hospital. You thought we were together?” And what the fuck is wrong with him? 

Blue-green eyes flicker towards the still liquid in his glass on the table and he narrows them slightly like it's personally offended him, internally blaming the contents, or lack thereof, for his utterly insufficient filter. Because this was not why he invited Shane here. To interrogate him about the fantasy his mind had spun around the two of them.

It wasn't. Was it? Whatever his intentions, unconscious or not, he wants to know.

Shane had said they were just hooking up in the beginning, but it had turned into something else. 

He watches the man tense and then school his face to something neutral. 

“I don’t know. I had already said some things to my parents. I didn’t have your number or our texts. So I think I knew I’d imagined it. But it felt real. It still feels real,” Shane says, and then goes rigid. As though he hadn't meant to give away that piece of information. “I just felt like either way you would tell me the truth. I had to know.”

“You told your parents?” asks Ilya. 

“Yea,” Shane huffs, meeting his eyes and dragging a hand across his own face. “That was fucking awful. Worst way to come out to them. But I should have done it sooner. It was stupid to hide it from them so long. And exhausting.”

Ilya turns his body to the side, sinking his elbow into the back cushion and propping his head up with his hand. “Does anyone else know?”

“About the memory stuff?”

“That you’re gay.”

Shane shakes his head. “Not really. Only my parents. And, well, Rose. Landry. She kind of figured it out before me. That’s why we broke up.”

Ilya hums. “So was I also gay?”

“No,” answers Shane, smiling again. “You were bi.”

“That part is real,” Ilya concedes. “I do not remember telling you that.”

He’s not sure he’s ever said the words out loud before. I am bisexual, he tests in his head. Some people know. Svetlana, Sasha…probably other nameless bodies or even some of his family may have guessed. He embraced it a long time ago but has never allowed himself to exist in it. Not really. 

“I mean…I’ve seen a ton of pictures of you at clubs with women,” Shane offers, sounding a little irked. “So I knew you liked them at least. I don’t think my fake memories are able to block that out. I probably wouldn't have been able to make sense of you being...like me.”

“Where do you find these pictures?” asks Ilya, mouth twitching. 

“The internet?” answers Shane, looking at him like he’s being intentionally dense.  

He smirks. “So you were like. Stalker.”

“What? No. Fuck off,” laughs Shane, kicking at Ilya’s leg with socked toes. “I just googled you sometimes. I google a lot of players. It’s good to know your competition.”

“Do you have sexy fake memories about other players?” Ilya wonders, biting his bottom lip. He smiles at the pink along Shane’s cheeks even though he appears more annoyed than amused now.

“No,” he says emphatically. 

“So I am special,” Ilya suggests. 

“Shut. Up.”

Unexpectedly, inexplicably, Ilya’s hand moves of its own accord. It leaves the side of his face and reaches across the empty space to gently ruffle Shane’s hair. It’s longer than it was last season, a few strands falling in his eyes. And Shane pushes Ilya away, but playfully, with a laugh that brightens the whole fucking room. And Ilya feels stricken with something he can’t name. But it’s there. And it’s big. Shane’s foot kicks at his leg again and they separate entirely but somehow end up sitting closer together, mirror images of each other. Ilya’s arm stretches across the back of the couch and if he lifts his hand a few inches they could card through the silky strands he was already aching to touch again. 

He remembers having a similar feeling once before, though it was wrapped in something darker at the time.

At the MLH awards years ago, when Shane had won rookie of the year, Ilya had escaped onto the roof of the hotel, feeling as though he might suffocate inside. He’d been pissed at Shane. But not really for beating him. He’d watched him that night as he was showered with affection by his parents and everyone who came into contact with him. Major League Hockey's Golden Boy. And Ilya had turned his phone off to avoid the inevitable call from his father, scolding him for not winning. Never mind that it was an honor to have been nominated. That it could have gone to either of them since they were equals in their achievements throughout the season. Never mind that Ilya had been drafted first. Nothing was ever good enough and it never would be. 

When Shane stumbled onto the roof half an hour later, yanking at his tie like it was choking him and freezing like a deer in headlights when he noticed he wasn’t alone, Ilya had the fleeting urge to push him off the roof. And he had pushed. Every button he could think of, eventually leading to Shane shouting at him and Ilya shouting back. Because Shane didn’t understand. He had his family and his friends and his awards and his perfect fucking public image and Ilya had a plane ticket to a place he called home but felt like a prison. And he’d more than anything wanted, hoped, Shane would understand that. He couldn’t, of course. He couldn’t read Ilya’s mind. And Ilya couldn’t read his. Nor could he conjure the words to make him understand even if he'd had the gumption to say them. And Ilya couldn’t know where Shane had been going with his “I guess I thought maybe we…” Maybe what? Maybe they could be friends? Maybe they could stop pretending to hate each other when they clearly didn’t. The CCM shoot had been evidence enough of that. 

And then the feeling was there, another urge to push. But this time he wanted to push Shane against the wall and push his tongue into Shane’s mouth and kiss him with everything he couldn’t say. Make him understand. But when Shane offered his hand, a curt “See you next season?” from his pouting lips, Ilya had surrendered, the fight leaving him. Ilya shook his hand and walked back inside without looking back. 

The fabric of his pants rustle as Ilya shifts in his seat. The program returns and they focus back on the game, sitting still through the rest of the highlight reel. Then they watch most of a Detroit v San Diego game that started at ten o’clock, having missed the first few minutes. 

They shit-talk like it’s second nature, easy. Fun, even. Around eleven-thirty he offers Shane a refill, which he declines. Noting he will have to drive back to the hotel soon.

“I tried to see you in hospital,” Ilya says suddenly, his thoughts jumping backwards again.

Blinking, Shane turns his full attention towards Ilya. “You did?”

“Hmm,” Ilya hums. “But you were unconscious. Still in critical care ward. They say only family is allowed.”

“Oh. Um…thanks?” Shane breathes. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Ilya shrugged, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t actually felt something seize up inside of him when he watched Shane slide across the rink like a ragdoll for the second time in two years. Maybe that’s why Shane’s brain was all scrambled. Too many concussions. 

“Maybe I just wanted to see you on morphine again,” Ilya teased. “You are very stupid on drugs, Shane.”

“What do you mean again?” Shane rattles off quickly. 

“Like before. When you broke collarbone,” Ilya replies. “You do not remember?”

“I did, I just thought it was…”

“Fake?”

“Yea,” Shane says, his exhale measured. 

“Was not. I came to see you after Marly laid you out. To be a good captain, of course,” he adds.

He watches Shane’s mouth twitch. “Of course.”

He wonders if Shane's memory there is different from his own. He remembers it vividly himself. Slipping into the sanitized room, closing the door behind him like he was afraid of getting caught. Which was stupid. It wasn’t unprecedented for captains to visit injured players. Though it wasn’t something Ilya had ever done before. 

But his recollection is crystal clear. The way Shane had said his first name, like he’d done in Tampa, but how it stretched endlessly in his mouth as he beckoned him to his bedside. He’d been grinning. Not in the competitive or victorious way Ilya was accustomed too. But sleepy and guileless, full of painkillers and devoid of his usual neurosis. He’d reached a hand out and for a moment Ilya thought Shane wanted him to hold it, but he flipped it over at the last second into a fist. Ilya bumped it awkwardly. He listened to Shane tell him about his injuries and expected return. 

The whole encounter lasted maybe three minutes. He recalls Shane’s grumbled ‘oh no,’ when the nurse came in and joked about Ilya smothering him in his sleep. And then he wished Shane well and left. 

Shane doesn’t ask for details now, and Ilya doesn’t offer them. Instead he offers something much more complicated. 

“You can stay tonight if you want,” he offers, realizing the implication a little too late. “If it’s not weird for you. I have a guest room. I know is late. If you want to drive back in the morning you can.”

Something elaborate happens behind Shane’s eyes, his body tensing and relaxing in a single adjustment to his posture. “Thanks. Really. But I told Hayden I’d be back tonight.”

Is Hayden your mother? Ilya thinks.

He manages to keep the bitchy thought to himself. And then Shane is standing, heading towards the door. But he’s not fleeing. He’s moving slowly, carefully. He takes his time putting his shoes back on and digging his keys from his coat pocket. 

“Text me when you get back,” says Ilya, surprising even himself. “Is snowing, you know?”

Shane looks a little startled but recovers quickly. And Ilya feels heat creeping up his neck. He’s a confident man - but this is unfamiliar territory. He can’t remember the last time he intentionally spent time alone with someone he wants to put his mouth on and they’d just…talked. 

“Yea. Of course,” says Shane. “And thanks, for the vodka.”

He holds the bottle up by the neck with one hand and reaches for the doorknob with the other. His keys jingle against the glass where he has them looped around a finger. 

Ilya leans out of his door and watches Shane step into the hall. It’s empty because it’s private - his penthouse is the only apartment on the floor. His eyes follow Shane to the elevator a few feet away. 

“Shane?”

“Hmm?”

“What did I make you?” Ilya asks. “When you were here?”

“What?” Shane says, getting a little distracted by the ding of the lift reaching the floor.

“The food I made,” Ilya calls, watching the doors slide open. “What was it?”

“Oh. You made tuna melts,” Shane calls, and then he steps onto the elevator, turning. 

“....the fuck is a tuna melt?” Ilya asks, a little too loudly for the space. 

Shane laughs, his smile soft as he shakes his head with mirth. “Goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, Shane.”

Closing and locking his door, Ilya leans against it, letting out a steady stream of air as his shoulders sag. He feels exhausted. But also…excited? He has no idea what’s happening and it takes everything he has not to question it. 

Instead he pulls up a search bar on his phone and asks a different question: what is tuna melt?

Chapter End Notes

If you think about it, this is basically Christmas for Ilya. Finding out the guy he’s been wanting to bone for a decade also wants him back, and then said guy basically hands him a road map of ‘here's what you did in my made up fantasy to woo me’ to take the guesswork out for him? 👌

Also This somehow turned into a ‘What if they to got to know each other with words instead of dicks first?’ Which was not my intention when I started writing but I’m not mad about it either.

Chapter 4: Of Being Brave

Chapter Summary

Ilya stares down at the words on his screen. A message from Shane, sent three minutes ago. 

[I think I’m going to come out.]

He’s not sure what to do with that. It’s true he and Shane are…what…friends? They talk about things. All sorts of things. And Ilya realizes he’s one of the very few people who knows the truth about Shane’s sexuality. But he has no idea how to respond to something so loaded.

Is he supposed to congratulate him? Ask why? Send a fucking gift basket full of condoms and lube?

Chapter Notes

TW: references to homophobia; outing without permission

January, 2018

Ilya stares down at the words on his screen. A message from Shane, sent three minutes ago. 

I think I’m going to come out. 

He’s not sure what to do with that. It’s true he and Shane are…what…friends? They talk about things. All sorts of things. And Ilya realizes he’s one of the very few people who knows the truth about Shane’s sexuality. But he has no idea how to respond to something so loaded. Is he supposed to congratulate him? Ask why? Send a fucking gift basket full of condoms and lube?

He settles on ‘Oh?’ 

Buying time, maybe. Except the next sentence that pops up is Can I call you?

Fuck. He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. Maybe never. But because he no longer lives in a reality where he refuses a phone call from Shane Hollander, he answers when it rings a few seconds later. 

“I think therapy is making my brain even more of a mind-fuck than the injury,” Shane says gustily, without giving Ilya time to even say hello. 

Ilya snorts. “Isn’t that the point of therapy?”

“Fuck if I know.”

He doesn’t know either. Ilya probably should be in therapy. He’s well aware that his habit of drowning even the mildest discomfort in fast cars and booze and sex aren’t the healthiest coping mechanisms. He’d nearly overdone it a few times after returning from the emotional Chernobyl that was his fathers funeral. It had gotten to the point that Marlow sat him down and asked him what the fuck he was doing. And considering he’s scraped Marly off more than a few bathroom floors in the past, it had been a bit of a wake-up call. He’d tried to refocus -  throw himself into hockey, exercise, smart investments. He’s taken more sponsorship deals in the last six months than he’s taken in the entirety of his career. But sometimes he still feels the pull of the undertow - days at a time where he walls himself up emotionally and physically in in his apartment. Sitting in the dark while his phone buzzes with unread messages, ignoring calls and getting intimately familiar with the texture of the drywall on his ceiling. It hadn’t happened in a few months, at least.

“Why is your mind-fucked, Shane?” Ilya asks, dropping onto his bed. He settles in, making himself as present for the conversation as he can manage. Which isn't difficult, he realizes. It never is, when it's Shane.

“I dunno,” Shane says, with a sigh. And then he’s off. Rambling so fast that a few years ago Ilya probably would have struggled to keep up with the English. “...and then were talking about how I had a plan to come out in one memory. She asked if I wanted to do it. I meant to say no. Because I can’t, right? But I said I wanted to.

“Do you want to?” Ilya asks. 

He can’t see it, but the pause has Ilya picturing Shane. Pacing in his apartment, chewing his bottom lip while the gears turn so hard in his head that Ilya would probably be able to see them through his eyes. 

“I think one thing these fake memories do is give me a sense of dread about hiding,” Shane lands on. And some of it Ilya assumes is a suggestion the therapist may have made that allowed Shane some clarify while sifting though his own convoluted thoughts. “Like I know everything between us was fake but when I think about the memories, the most relief I feel is when I think about not having to hide anymore. Or at least that we had a plan to figure it out. When my parents knew. And fake us had stopped hiding from each other, at least. So. Yea. Maybe. We talked about...I was thinking about telling a couple friends on my team first. People I trust.”

The feeling blooming in Ilya’s chest is something like admiration. Maybe also a tiny hint of jealousy. He thinks Shane appreciates being able to say things like ‘we’ and ‘us’ when he’s talking about one of his memories. And he’s only gotten increasingly more comfortable talking about them the more Ilya lets him in. Tried to normalize a decidedly not normal situation. He’s still not sure how he feels about ‘fake us,’ which Shane has said a few times. It leaves a stale taste in Ilya’s mouth when he hears it. Like chewing on cardboard. But this is the first time Shane has alluded to wanting to act on one of the memories. Which he also remembers Shane telling him went against professional advice. But he’s certainly not going to tell Shane to stay in the metaphorical closet if that isn’t where he wants to be.

“That's brave, Shane,” he says, meaning it. 

Shane’s response is automatic. “Fuck off.”

“I am serious!” he insists, his volume and pitch adjusting to something more sincere. “I knew when that fossil Hunter nearly suffocated much hotter boyfriend on ice during the cup that there are more of us out there. We....we should not have to hide.”

“No,” Shane agrees. “We shouldn’t.”

We shouldn’t. He knew Hollander wasn’t asking him to do anything. Hadn’t put the emphasis on anything that suggested Ilya take part in his plan. But he couldn’t help feeling a little guilty at not volunteering to do the same. Maybe you could? His brain supplies. Before his brain could follow that particularly tangled rabbit hole, Ilya forces himself back to the present.

“Whatever you decide, it will be okay. Your parents support you. You have your friends. I will still be here,” he says. Maybe a little too earnestly, so he can’t just leave it there. Because he isn't brave. “You are second best player in MLH. They care more about the money you make them than if you like sucking dick.”

“Second best?” Shane asks, something unreadable in his tone under the amusement. And the fact that it was the hockey jab and not the crude sexual joke that gets a rise out of Shane, makes the feeling in Ilya's chest tighten with fondness.

“Oh, so now you want me to lie to you?” Ilya teases.

“Asshole,” Shane says with a laugh. But Ilya can't feel the words sounds more like praise than an insult.

After hanging up, Ilya spends entirely too much time lost in his head. He thinks about what Shane coming out means for them, even if he isn’t a part of it. Not the we or the us in Shane's memories. But present them. If there even is a them. He feels like they’re on the same page. Or at least in the same chapter. But he’s sure Shane won’t be the one who thickens the plot. As hard as he’s trying to work through what Shane refers to as ‘trauma brain,’ Ilya knows he still feels off-kilter when it comes to the two of them. And Ilya can’t blame him. He can’t imagine how weird it must be for Shane - sharing what are essentially fantasies about someone, with that same someone, who wasn’t more than an acquaintance a few months ago. 

But something changed in Tampa. Ilya knew it. He thinks pre-injury Shane did too. Something shifted between them, like the the air clearing after a summer rainfall. But nothing had come of it. Which, in hindsight, was Ilya’s fault. He’d been the one to walk off that beach - too afraid to find out what would happen if he stayed. Or what wouldn't happen. 

Now, Ilya has a chance to act on it but is holding back because, what? He wants to protect Shane? From what, he isn’t sure. But that’s the only feeling he can really identify. He doesn’t want to see Shane hurt. And definitely does not want to be the one who hurts him. It’s scary and new, but weaving through the maze of Shane’s false memories somehow makes it easier. Like they can talk about things that could potentially happen before they do, in a detached, hypothetical sense that allows them both to think things through first. 

Thinking things through is not always Ilya’s strong suit. He prides himself on restraint and control, but that had always come easy where it didn’t matter. So he tries to have patience. He had hoped Shane might give him a sign when he was ready. When he felt more attached to reality without questioning it. He's just not sure if what he's looking for is the fucking bat signal, lighting up the sky, or a subtle shift, like when the seasons change from spring to summer and you don't notice until you're overdressed and your shoulders turn pink from exposure.

Ilya also doesn’t want to ruin Shane’s false memories, even if they aren’t real. Because some part of him worries that the Shane he knows still sees Ilya as he had in the rose-colored lens of his brain injury. And if Shane loses those memories, or they become tainted somehow, then Shane will see Ilya as he is now. As an impulsive, reckless, asshole who sometimes feels so numb he shuts the world out because everything feels like too much and not enough at the same time. Someone who might be great at giving orgasms and is confident and talented on the ice but a mess outside of it. Someone who can't offer Shane the life he deserves. And that person will be someone that Shane doesn’t want. 

So yes, Ilya spends most of his nights getting off to his own pipe-dreams about Shane Hollander choking on his dick or riding him on his couch until the leather is slick with their sweat. But he also doesn’t want whatever they’ve built to come crashing down around them. Which terrifies the shit out of him.

~*~

A few days after their call, Shane texts Ilya, informing him he’d told two of his teammates about his sexuality and that it went well. And that he was a little annoyed because his mother, who means well and wants to protect him, has already started to bring up queer centric sponsorships and brand deals for when he’s ready and Shane is adamant about not becoming the ‘poster boy’ for ‘gay hockey.’ Ilya helpfully points out that he’s already the MLH poster boy so it wouldn't be much of a stretch. He's met with a string of colorful insults and smiles like an idiot for the rest of the day. 

His subdued elation doesn’t last. Ilya first finds himself more waspish than he should be when he learns they won’t be able to see each other around their January game. His team will be flying in later than usual, not leaving them enough time before the game to meet up. And Shane has to fly out that same evening for a photoshoot for some sports drink advertisement early the next morning. 

Ilya’s mood dips further when, two weeks later, Shane calls to tell him he decided to come out to the rest of his team. It did not go well. He can tell that Shane is holding back. Details, maybe? Or how he really feels about the situation. Ilya better understands how much Shane processes internally now, but he wishes he would lay it all out in the open sometimes. He’s decent at reading between the lines but he needs to know where the fucking lines are. What Shane actually tells him is that his team acted as though his sexuality was a non-issue but he picked up on the discomfort in the locker room after practice. Discomfort is spoken in a slow, flat tone that Ilya translates as ‘they were acting like pricks.’

The rage doesn’t hit until a TMZ article shows up on Ilya’s twitter feed a few days later - outing Shane to the public. 

“SHANE HOLLANDER REVEALS SEXUALITY TO TEAMMATES”

Ilya was only able to make it through the first three sentences of the article before he picks up his phone and makes a call. Otherwise he thinks he might chuck the device at the ground.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks before Shane can respond. He dialed the moment he was seated in his car. It’s freezing out but he only starts the engine, making no move to leave the parking lot.

“I’m okay,” Shane says, sounding tired. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t fucking sound okay. 

“Who was it?”

“What?”

“Who was it?” Ilya asks again, barely regulating his temper. “Who was the piece of shit anonymous source who talked to press? Was it Comeau? He’s a fucking cunt.”

Ilya feels a little taken aback about how furious he is on Shane’s behalf, so he’s sure it’s a little overwhelming for Shane. But he needs to know. Comeau didn’t save his slurs for the locker room, often letting them loose on the ice. Ilya had punched him once for a nasty insult he’d carelessly made to one of Ilya’s Polish teammates. He sort of wishes he could punch him right now. Even if it wasn’t him, Ilya thinks it would make him feel better.

“I don’t know, maybe,” says Shane, still not very forthcoming. “But it doesn’t really matter.”

“Of course it fucking matters!”

“I knew this could happen once I came out to the team,” Shane continues. And Ilya fucking hates that tone. Resignation. The sound of a man accepting his fate at the hands of a bunch of goddamn traitors. “So yea, it sucks. But I was prepared for it. As much as I could be, anyway. My agent swears I’m protected against any discrimination. Mom’s already on a warpath. Talking about a way to ‘spin’ things. I’m sure I’ll be covered in fuckin’ rainbows by the end of the month.”

Ilya huffs a laugh because that’s what he can tell Shane wants him to do. He can already hear the silent plea of please don’t make this worse. Leaning back into his headrest, Ilya bites his tongue and rearranges his thoughts. He is glad Shane has so much support. Glad he did something hard and scary and is still in one piece on the other side of it, even if the road ahead is long and full of fucking potholes that would make Boston look like a freshly zamboni-ed sheet of ice. But more than that, he wants to be there for Shane. Wants to hold him and fold himself around him like a shield and never let go.

And he maybe wants to murder some of Shane’s teammates. 

“If I find out who it was I will break them on the ice,” he mutters. 

“Please don’t.”

“Crack them like glow stick.” 

It’s Shane’s turn to laugh. “Well now you definitely can’t since there’s evidence of this phone call. That would make it premeditated.”

“You will alibi me,” Ilya demands. “Say ‘No detective, Ilya was with me the whole time. He was sucking my cock and making me tuna melt. He could not have done it.’”

“Are you trying to use my traumatic brain injury and fake memories to hobble my team?” asks Shane, with as much mock incredulity as he can muster. 

“This is slander,” Ilya insists. "If anyone asks I will deny."

His nerves eventually calm and they fall into easy bickering about the upcoming All-Star game in a couple weeks. Ilya is counting down the days.

~*~

When they finally see each other again, Ilya is practically vibrating with energy. The rival captains both manage to come in the day before they have any obligations and Shane agrees to let Ilya drag him through downtown Los Angeles. He’s less agreeable when he realizes Ilya had ulterior motives, or at the very least had not disclosed what he planned to do with Shane on their free day. Which was peruse a dozen high end boutique stores on Rodeo Drive. 

“You’re gay now, Hollander. You need to start dressing like it.” 

“What does that even mean?” 

“It means owning colors other than beige and white.” 

“Oh fuck off. I have a stylist.”

“I know. You should fire them.” 

“Wow.”

Ilya didn’t really care much for shopping. He liked having nice things but never spent a significant amount of time shopping for the sake of shopping. And usually when he did it was with Svetlana. He’d always been content to play dress up for her, preening under her praise. He also just liked people. He liked talking to strangers and enjoyed charming and disarming them in equal measure. 

For the most part, Shane plays along. He even tries on a handful of things Ilya forces into his arms and humors Ilya when he asks to see them. 

“I thought you said I needed to own something that wasn’t white?” Shane grumps, standing awkwardly in a private room full of mirrors and neatly upholstered furniture. 

Shane is wearing a pair of salmon colored, linen shorts that Ilya is sure are an inch or two higher than anything he currently owns. And he has to leave the top two buttons of the crisp, white shirt undone where it pulls across his shoulders. The shirt is so thin it’s nearly translucent.

“Trust the process, Hollander,” Ilya says from his position on the couch. “Now turn. Show me what your ass looks like in those shorts.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Is process,” repeats Ilya, making a little circular motion with his finger, brows lifting high while he waits.

It only takes Shane about twenty seconds to comply.

Both of Ilya's arms are stretched across the back of the suede couch, his legs are spread in a way he usually only allows himself at home as he basks in his victory while Shane spins. When he stops, Shane rolls his eyes, his arms raising a little at his sides before dropping again. A silent Well? What do you think? Am I done?

Ilya grins, waving him off towards the dressing room stall to change.

They both buy a handful of things but have them shipped home rather than carrying bags. After eating dinner at a pretentious Mediterranean restaurant Rose had suggested, they head back to the hotel. 

Ilya doesn’t mind Shane talking about his ex. Not really. She honestly sounds like the kind of fun Ilya would enjoy immensely. Except. He finds himself mildly piqued at the knowledge that she’d slept with Shane. Even though Shane insists it was terrible. He was glad at least, she was not able to join them. Shane had told him she lived in LA but was in London right now for filming. And it was not lost on Ilya that this was the first time he and Shane had spent any time in public together outside of hockey. 

The idea that it might have been a date hit him like a fucking wrecking ball the moment they stepped back into the hotel. The idea that he wanted it to have been a date, even harder. But it wasn't because they hadn't talked about it and Ilya was pretty sure you both had to at least know you were on a date for it to be considered as such. Right? He didn’t have any time to dwell on it when several American players made a show of loudly greeting them in the lobby. They were both swallowed in beefy arms and casual monosyllabic ‘bros’ that could comprise an entire conversation when it came to repeatedly concussed hockey players. 

After that, they were swept up by the weekend. 

The game itself was fun. More fun than Tampa, even. But what Ilya looked forward to most was every stolen moment he got with Shane. It never felt like enough. And it was more difficult than he thought it would be. While Shane’s team had been increasingly shitty towards him, their All-Star team, or at least most of them, made it their business to make sure Shane felt welcome. To the point where he could tell Shane was becoming increasingly overwhelmed by their attention. And Ilya couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy on their last night when Scott Hunter pulled Shane aside for some sort of gay-club pep talk when what Ilya wanted was to drag Shane to his room and…watch terrible action movies with him. Or something. 

Ilya was so fucked. 

He actually started to make his way towards them but was waylaid by Carter Vaughan, who probably thought Ilya wanted to get in as many Hunter roasts as he could manage before the night was over. Vaughan redirected him to the bar and kept a hand around Ilya’s shoulder so long he felt itchy under the fabric of his button up. It took two full beers before he managed to escape, but by then Hunter had shuffled Shane over to a small table in the corner of the bar and he felt his intrusion would be too abrasive.

Once Hunter releases Shane, it’s after midnight and both of them have early flights the next morning. Hunter waves at him a little awkwardly as they leave and he offers a slight nod in return, trying not to glare at the man for the time he'd stolen from Ilya without knowing it. They walk side-by-side through the bar and the lobby, close but not touching. Ilya jams his finger into the button at the elevators a little too forcefully and they ride the lift up to their floor - their rooms on the same hall.

When they’re alone, in the little alcove of the elevator banks, Ilya catches Shane’s arm before he starts moving again. Before he can escape.

“What did Hunter have to say?” he asked, curiously. 

“Oh…he just wanted to be supportive, I guess?”

“You guess? He held you hostage for an hour to be supportive,” Ilya continues, trying not to sound too petulant.  

Shane shrugs, the corner of his mouth quirking a little, eyes landing on Ilya's bottom lip that is maybe, pouting. Just a little.

“He told me a little about his experience and how it’s changed things for him. You know, the good and the bad," says Shane. "He told me we should hang out sometime when we play each other or if I’m in New York. I’d like that, I think. He was nice.”

“Was good of him,” Ilya agrees, gesturing a little flippantly. “He can be your like, gay yoda, or whatever. He is definitely old enough.”

Shane barks out a laugh and shoves Ilya a little, propelling him into motion. "You're an asshole."

turning the corner, they make their way down the hall. Slow, short strides and making it clear that neither of them actually want the night to end yet. They reach Ilya's room first, pausing just outside door. 

“Hey,” says Shane, his hand warm when it gently curls around Ilya’s forearm, turning him so they’re facing each other. He doesn’t let go. “Thank you. This weekend was nice. I needed it, I think. After everything that’s been going on…it felt like some of the pressure finally eased up.”

Ilya looks down, trying not to step any closer even though his body is screaming at him to move. To close the distance. He manages to reach forward, long fingers idly straightening the point of Shane’s collar. He smooths his hand over a muscled shoulder before letting it drop back to his side. Ilya doesn’t miss the way Shane shivers under the touch, his lashes fluttering when he blinks.

“You are too tense, Hollander,” Ilya says, his voice a little huskier than intended. Even though his brain is currently sifting through a list of all the ways he could help ease that tension. “You needed to relax. Maybe when you get home you get massage or something. Or do more weird stretching in your backyard. Maybe tape teammates pictures to punching bag and hit it very hard.”

It’s meant to be funny, but the expression Shane’s wearing isn’t one of amusement. It’s desire - unrefined and raw. His lips are parted, his chin tipped down ever so slightly below hooded eyes that drop to Ilya’s lips. He feels like he's looking into a mirror. And for one, triumphant moment, Ilya feels the hand on his arm tug and Shane leans in. But it’s shattered the next. The elevator dings and voices echo down the hall. Loud, and probably drunk, carried closer by heavy footfalls. Shane's hand disappears and Ilya’s eyes blow wide where they'd been closing, watching Shane shove his hands in his pockets. He steps back, putting distance between them and Ilya feels it like a brick wall. Feels the loss of Shane’s body heat like he’s been doused in ice water.

The Montreal captain clears his throat. 

“So uh, good game,” says Shane, his posture stiff and shoulders bunched again. All business. The 'professional' label practically lighting up like a billboard on his forehead. “See you next week?”

Next week. Right. Shane would be coming to Boston for a game. 

Ilya knew he was staring and tried to get his brain back online. Because now Shane was backing away. Inching towards his own room as several people rounded the corner. He doesn’t recognize any of them, at least, and they turn in the opposite direction without paying the hockey players any attention. Likely early arrivals for the boring business conference starting in a couple days that Ilya had seen signs put up for earlier in the day.

“Yes,” Ilya says, dumbly. Because anything else is likely to come out as a scream.

“See you, Rozanov,” Shane adds, with a stupid little wave. And it sounds wrong and it feels wrong. But Ilya’s feet seem to be planted to the fucking floor and his jaw has decided it doesn’t want to open.

Shane is halfway down the hall when it finally unsticks from his skull and Ilya finds himself calling “Goodnight, Hollander,” like something inside of him hasn’t just cracked in two. 

And then Shane is gone, disappearing into his own room and the quiet click of the door sounds deafening in the now empty corridor. 

Ilya doesn’t sleep that night. Instead he lays in bed and tries not to catastrophize. Because Shane had done what he needed to do. What he should have done. And Ilya hadn’t stopped him from leaving. Hadn’t followed him.

So why does he feel like this?

In an effort to finally get some sleep, he decides to address the elephant that has gone unnoticed. Or whatever phrase his western teammates are always using in an expression that doesn’t translate the same in Russian. He texts Shane. A single line. But it’s after three o’clock in the morning so he doesn’t really expect a reply. 

By the time he wakes up in the morning from a fitful sleep, his back throbbing and phone battery about halfway dead because he forgot to charge it, he still doesn’t have a response. It’s not until he’s at the airport that his phone buzzes. And Shane, predictably tries to avoid the subject, but not for long. And finally, finally…there it is. The truth. 

Ilya grins down at his phone, re-reading the quick exchange until his his flight boards. And internally, he starts the countdown until they see each other next. 

Chapter End Notes

I think we've all somehow decided Comeau is a dick.

I will earn my E rating in the next chapter. I promise. 😭

Chapter 5: Deliverance

Chapter Summary

Ilya watches Shane roll his eyes and he mutters something under his breath that Ilya doesn’t catch. The urge to splay himself open rises again, hovering on the boundaries of his self-preservation like prey pacing the the borders of a cage, looking for a weak spot so it can make a bid for freedom. He finds it in the soft slope of Shane’s neck, fingers trailing along the swell of muscle over his shoulder. He squeezes Shane’s bicep and doesn’t let go. 

“I know you said you saw me in pictures…with women,” Ilya says quietly, and he feels Shane go still beside him. “I have not been doing that. Anymore. Not with men, either.”

Chapter Notes

I realized I fucked up the dates - not that it really matters much. But I did make some updates so the timeline is correct.

 

Also, sorry - this chapter got very long. A little angst, a lot of fluff, and about 30% unrepentant smut. Ilya is very dramatic about Shane’s dick.

Shitty google translations of the Cyrillic are in the end notes.

TW: homophobia/homophobic language/slurs; mild violence; smut

February 2018

Boston returns to Montreal at the end of February and Ilya fidgets from the time he sits down on the team plane until he’s undressing in the away-side locker room. It’s not pre-game nerves. He hasn’t had those since he was a teenager, with a few small exceptions. No. Ilya’s restless disquiet is not his own. 

Ever since the article had come out about Shane, he’s been the talk of the hockey world. People at the All-Star game had made a solid effort to be respectful, but Ilya heard the whispers. He noticed when people stopped talking or their posture changed when Shane walked into a room. And Shane noticed it too, though he’d been deliberate in his disregard. 

While most of the chatter was contained, the general public not paying as close attention to the star athlete, things were still charged in the arena, the press room, the locker rooms. The Raiders, at least, had lost interest fairly quickly. Which wasn’t new for Ilya. He remembers the locker room gossip when Shane and Rose Landry were still dominating the new cycle. There had been some opinions, quips and banter, wondering aloud how the awkward, quiet Montreal captain had pulled one of the most popular A-list movie stars. When they’d broken up, the interest lasted about a day and a half, and then they moved on. Like they always did. Because Ilya was fairly certain most hockey players had the average attention span of a hamster. And since the most recent buzz only involved a second queer hockey player and not perky tits and opportunities to cross paths in pretentious nightclubs, the topic had died by the time Ilya got back from Los Angeles. 

In fact, only Marlow had asked him about it. 

“Hey so,” Marlow asked, tipping his chin up and leaning in a little while they pulled off their practice gear. His voice dropped low enough that he clearly didn’t want to be overheard but he wasn’t glancing around like what he had to say was a secret. “How’s Hollander holding up? I know shit people are saying can’t be easy.”

Whether it had been actual concern or just a fishing expedition, Ilya couldn’t be sure. But he’d known Marlow for a long time and he was genuinely a decent guy, if not a little dumb. So, Ilya shrugged, told him that Hollander was fine and just focused on hockey, which was the truth, and the conversation ended. 

And while Ilya knew there were a few Raiders that he wouldn’t voluntarily spend time with outside of team obligation, none of them had said anything outright homophobic that had been directed at another person. Not even when Hunter had come out. Though, there’d been some separation from the news cycle at that point since they’d already been knocked out for the season and it had been months before Ilya had seen most of them again. By then, the novelty had worn off and Hunter was still the same old fuck who’d stolen the cup from their arguably superior team. 

While Ilya is getting dressed, someone turns on the overhead screen mounted above the doorway and the sound of Shane’s voice draws his attention instantly. It’s a pre-game interview, happening somewhere on the other side of the arena. The Montreal captain looks composed and focused, if not a little pale in Ilya’s opinion. But he handles the questions lobbed at him with the ease of someone who takes media training a little too seriously. Though, it works in his favor, Ilya supposes, when they start veering into non-hockey territory. They ask Shane, rather boldly, about the rumors around his sexuality. But he doesn’t ignore it or get defensive. He owns it, corrects course, and lets them know they can mind their own fucking business. 

“While I can confirm I am part of the LGBTQIA+ community, that part of me exists in my personal life and while I’m here, I’m only focused on hockey. So those are the only questions I’ll be taking. Thanks guys.”

Ilya watches him walk off screen, the reporter a little taken aback from the clear dismissal but covers it well, and he has never been more proud. He realizes he’s probably been staring at the screen a little too long and thankful he’s not the only one. A few of his teammates have also stalled in their progress to watch and stand awkwardly, in various states of undress. There are a few faces, pinched expressions and noticeable frowns, that may indicate a problem. But no one says anything.

Maybe to cover for himself, or because he needs to do something to release the buzz of energy swelling in his chest, Ilya claps his hands and encourages the Raiders to hurry the fuck up. 

“You heard Hollander,” he shouts. “He’s here to play hockey. Let’s give him a good game huh, boys? Remind the Metros just because they have one good player does not mean we won’t send them home fucking crying.”

The space fills with cheers and whoops of players who have earned their confidence through years of hard work. And then they’re filtering through the locker room door like a line of wobbly, heavily padded ants as they make their way to the ice. 

~*~

Warm ups are fine - normal, really. The Metros aren’t playing like the well-oiled machine Ilya knows the can be (but will never admit aloud even under pain of death). But they’re not playing horribly. It’s the little things he notices - like the reluctance of their defense to protect Hollander, a slight hesitation like their support is more resignation rather than enthusiasm. Or the way they don’t crowd their star center when he scores, usually rounding on him in a group of rowdy celebration. A few still do, but the display is markedly subdued and when Hollander smiles, it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. 

The Metros are up by a point when they go into the third period. That’s when Ilya’s mood finally spoils. It's been slowly draining throughout the night, like the gas indicator of one of his sports cars ticking down by the millimeter when he drives too fast along rural highways. And now he's nearing empty and someone put sugar in the tank. Feller, one of Boston’s defensemen that’s been with them for two years and Ilya doesn’t particularly like because he’s always been a capricious son of a bitch, calls Hollander something that makes the Metros captain freeze against the boards. It’s long enough that Feller grins smugly and steals the puck from under him, darting towards the goal. Ilya had been close enough to hear but blocked by Boiziau, grappling with the larger man a few feet away. Boiziau hears it too and momentarily forgets about Ilya, turning his head to shout something at Feller in French. Feller looks back long enough that Gangon shoulders him out of the way for the puck. Ilya has already been flying towards them, but instead of going for the puck, he cuts his stick under Fellers blade, tripping him. The man goes down, hard, catching himself but not quickly enough so his jaw still hits the ice before he can fully get his hands under him. Ilya swears in Russian, the sound a little garbled around his mouthguard. Then he leans down and speaks slowly enough he knows Feller will understand him. 

“You keep that word out of your ugly fucking mouth, Feller,” Ilya growls, sniffing and swiping his gloved hand over the back of his mouth before standing again. 

Ilya waves off the ref, takes the penalty. He studiously avoids Shane’s gaze while he waits it out in the box - also avoiding eye contact with his teammates who he can see watching him through his periphery, openly confused. Feller gets up, rubs his jaw and their coach pulls him. The refs must not have heard anything. They were farther away than Ilya had been, so Feller doesn’t get called for it. When he chances sweeping his eyes over the rink, he can see Shane skating towards the puck drop. Boiziau and Pike are on either side of him and seem to be offering some sort of pep talk given the way Shane is nodding rapidly. But then they’re gone, and the game continues. 

Hammersmith somehow scores on the powerplay, tying the game. When they go into overtime, Ilya tries to channel his rage into flattening the Metros. Even though he’s not sure they’re even the enemy right now. He scores six minutes in, securing the win for Boston, 4-3, and earning himself a hat trick. But he isn't feeling very celebratory and the buzz in his chest has turned to something unpleasant. Less like the hum of a thriving hive, everything in its place and working harmoniously, and more like a hornets nest dangling precariously from a tree. It wouldn’t take much to disturb the branch and have it fall, cracking open and the swarm seeking violence. 

In the locker room, he texts Shane before he heads to the showers, asking if he’s okay. When a response doesn’t come right away he starts pulling his clothes off, wanting to leave as soon as possible. He knows his coach will probably try to pull him for post-game interviews but he hopes by getting in the shower immediately he can shirk his obligations. It’s not something he does, ever, but right now he doesn’t know what will come out of his mouth if someone asks him about tripping his own teammate. He knows it looked intentional, because it was. He also knows he’s going to get yelled at for it by the coaching staff, but doesn’t particularly care. And they’ll likely hold off until the next practice since Ilya just scored three of their four fucking goals. 

He’s almost free, almost dressed, when Feller comes out of the showers. Ilya keeps his back to him but can hear the man bitching about being tripped. When Ilya doesn’t take the bait, he decides to address the Raiders captain more directly. 

“You didn’t have to trip me so hard Roz, it was just a fucking joke,” snipes Feller. 

Ilya’s spine snaps into place and he draws himself to his full height. Once he’s pulled his shirt on, he turns slowly. 

“No. It wasn’t,” he sneers, shooting Feller a look so sharp it could cut glass. Then he holds his arms to his sides and takes a few steps to the center of the room. He slowly rotates on the spot, making sure he’s drawn everyone's attention. “Everyone listen the fuck up! You want to chirp each other? Fine. You want to make fun of Pike for having a army of brats or Dresden for his stupid fucking mustache? Fine. You want to insult someone's parentage, fine. But you are not throwing slurs at people. And you’re not using them here. No more.”

For half a breath, the room is silent. There are a few murmurs of agreement, a few eye rolls. But Feller is the only one to test him. 

The defenseman huffs. “Didn’t know you cared so much about your little faggot rival.”

The moment Ilya hears the first syllable he’s moving, across the room in seconds. He clocks Feller in the same place on his jaw that was already red from his fall earlier, his head snapping to the side with the impact. Ilya didn’t put his full strength behind it, just enough to make a point. Feller tries to take a swing of his own but Ilya’s ready for it. The motion is aborted before he’s able to follow through when two of the Raiders grab Feller by the middle, yanking him back by his jersey. And then Marlow is heaving Ilya back, arms locking over his own so Ilya's back is against his chest. 

Ilya has never cared what people call him. Not his teammates, not the public, not even his family. They’re small words for small-minded people. But he won’t allow anyone to hurt someone he cares about. And he cares about Shane. He isn’t sure why or how. He knows it doesn’t make a lot of sense. But it’s more than the heady attraction he’d felt the first time they met as teenagers. It's a little infuriating, he realizes, how much he cares.

“What part of ‘no more’ did you not understand?” Ilya spat, following it up with a swift string of vulgar Russian that probably would have shocked even Marlow if any of them could understand him. “Is there another language you would prefer? Do you need copy of ‘How not to be a piece of shit for dummies?’”

“Jesus, Roz. The fuck is wrong with you?” grunts Feller, holding his face. “Nobody cares about that pussy Metro.”

“And what about me?” Ilya says, recklessly, his brain half a second behind his rage. “The number of women I have fucked is higher than your IQ but I have also fucked men. Does that make me a pussy too? Or am I pussy because I’ve gotten so much more than you have?”

“You? You’re a fucking fa…” Feller sneers, laughing derisively. 

He shuts up when Ilya lunges for him again and Marlow just barely gets a solid grip on him. He feels a swell of satisfaction when Feller flinches at the movement.

“I am bisexual,” Ilya jeers, feeling Marlow's biceps tighten over his arms as he strains against the man. It's not lost on him that it's the first time he's said the word aloud to someone. “And you’re a piece of shit. Keep it up and you will spend all of your time between bag skates and the bench. I fucking promise you.”

There’s silence again and Ilya surveys his room. Catalogues each micro expression, each shift in posture. All shocked, but only a couple look wary or disgusted. So. Better than he could have hoped for. 

Later, once the adrenaline has leaked from his pores and his thoughts have time to catch up, he may have some regret for having dropped an entire bomb on his team. It sinks in that he’s just outed himself. And that this will definitely leave the confines of the locker room almost the moment they walk out of it tonight. Maybe even before, since a few of them are already reaching for phones. 

In the back of his mind, Ilya understands that means he can never return to Russia. He didn’t intend to, but now he can’t. And the gravity of that will definitely hit him once the chaos winds down. He could also potentially lose his passport - possibly even his citizenship. And that…okay. That was a little panic inducing without having citizenship anywhere else. 

But fuck it. Maybe Hollander was onto something. He was tired of hiding too. Maybe instead of staying stagnant, prolonging the inevitable, he needed to be proactive for once. Come up with a plan. Rip the fucking bandage off or whatever shit advice Marlow liked to give people when he was encouraging them to break up with their toxic partners even though he was one of the worst offenders of all in that department.

“I am fine, Marly,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. He peels his eyes away from Feller and looks to the side. “Let me go.”

Marlow reluctantly releases him and Ilya shoves away to reach for his boots. When Feller starts up again, Marlow is in his face before Ilya can even sit up straight.

“Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut if you don’t want it shut for you, Feller,” he said. “Roz is right. You need to cut that shit out. It’s 2018 man. Nobody gives a shit. Stop acting like a fuckin’ baby.”

But because Feller has the IQ of a goldfish and an attention span just as short, he can’t shut his mouth. He ignores Marlow and sneers across the room from his position far enough away that Ilya would have to cross two benches and get through at least six of their teammates to get to him. Fucking coward.

“So, what? Are you fucking Hollander or something?” he asks, pulling on his own shirt and adjusting his tone to something akin to an empty simulation of casual conversation. “Is that why you’re back here white-knighting for him?”

Ilya takes a second center himself, pulling his jacket on and carefully tucking his necklace beneath his shirt. He’s done fighting with this inbred shit-stain tonight. He has better places to be. 

“No,” Ilya says, his voice mocking and saccharine at the same time. “But since idea seems to bother you so much, maybe I will.” 

Ilya grabs his bag, swinging it over his shoulder and fucking grins.

There are a few friendly chirps, some grumbling, more than one “Fuck off, Rozy.” Marlow actually chuckles. 

He hovers long enough to check his messages - still nothing from Shane. When he looks up again, a few of his teammates are shuffling Feller past him while he’s still trying to pull his jacket on, shoes untied. Like they want to get him out of Ilya’s sight as quickly as possible. 

Once Feller leaves and some of the other guys filter out - a few pat Ilya on the shoulder as some kind of support and he nods in return. 

“You’re not really trying to bang Hollander are you?” Marlow asks, his voice low and amused. 

“When have you ever known me to do anything out of spite, Marly?” questions Ilya, feigning innocence. The smug expression he’s wearing probably doesn’t make it very believable. 

“You’re a fuckin’ menace.” Marlow laughs. “Godspeed, brother.”

Ilya pauses once he’s stepped outside of the room, the hall empty but out of sight voices echo off the concrete walls. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

~*~

Ilya’s leg shakes against the back of the passenger seat the entire ride over as he bites his nails and studiously avoids his phone, thereby ignoring any immediate fallout of his locker room confession. By the time pours himself out of the uber and into Shane’s apartment, the excitement has shifted to something sticky and raw. He’s angry. Fucking pissed, actually. At his team. At himself. At the world. 

Kicking off his shoes, he mumbles a return greeting at Shane, leaving him near the door and cutting an efficient path towards the kitchen. He opens the freezer and pulls out a bottle of vodka. Not the nice one he’d gifted Shane that still appears to be mostly full. But one of the cheaper brands. These are not feelings he wants to waste on higher than top-shelf liquor. These are feelings he wants to burn out of his body with jet fuel. 

Foregoing the bottle, Ilya takes a few hefty swigs. Shane is watching him from across the counter and his eyes track Ilya’s thumb when he pushes away a stray drop of liquid from the corner of his mouth. Ilya doesn’t miss the way Shane’s tongue darts out to wet his own lips and it seems like it takes him a great deal of effort to look away from Ilya’s.

“Uh…are you okay?” Shane asks, his fingers drumming a silent, nervous rhythm into the marble. “You didn’t get in trouble tonight because of the…”

Holding up a hand, Ilya waves him off. “No. Well. I might get in trouble for punching Feller in the locker room. But know knows.”

“You punched Feller off ice? Why?!” Shane asked, incredulous. Ilya presumes he’s already guessed why, and he would be half right, but Shane’s sense of respect for game protocol clearly differs from Ilya’s. 

“Because he was being a homophobic piece of shit and I…”

“Ilya…”

“I didn’t do it for you!” he snaps, wincing a little at the harshness of his tone. 

Shane flinches, because of course he does. But it wasn’t directed at Shane. He’s just angry and doesn’t really know what to do with it. In the past he might have been inclined to do something reckless - drink himself into a stupor, find someone nameless to fuck and leave without even pretending he’d call them, get in his car and just drive until the roadside blurred and tunnel vision took over. 

But he doesn’t have his cars here. He doesn’t want to find a stranger to fuck. And he doesn’t want to be drunk enough that he does something he will regret.  

“I did it for me,” he continues, taking another drink but then sliding the bottle away. “I am just…I’m tired of hearing people talk about you like that. About us…all of us. I drew a line. They will fucking stay behind it on their own or I will make them.”

He looks taken aback but Shane stands a little straighter, his hand stilling. He offers Ilya a hesitant smile. “Wow. That’s…that’s brave.”

“Mostly stupid,” Ilya laments, momentarily hunching over the counter. “I also maybe outed myself to make a point.”

“You what,” Shane deadpans, his voice quiet and flat. 

Ilya sighs and pushes himself up again. He’s starting to feel too warm under his coat. He really should have taken it off. 

“He made a joke about me fucking you,” Ilya says with a shrug. “I said I hadn’t but now maybe I would. Out of spite. Told them I am bisexual.”

“You did not.”

“More or less,” he replies.

“Jesus Christ, Ilya,” Shane breathes, and now he’s the one hunched over the counter, forearms pressed into the hard surface. 

Panic bubbles in Ilya’s gut and he worries he’s fucked up. Of course he’s fucked up. He never should have said that, not even as a joke. Scolding his teammates for their bigoted bullshit is one thing but bringing Shane into it was a choice he shouldn’t have made. Especially not without talking to Shane first. 

“Sorry,” he says, quickly, pleadingly.  “I should not have…” 

He cuts himself off. Shane’s shoulders are quivering where they’re bunched up around his neck. But then Ilya hears it - the unmistakable sound of muffled laughter, almost inaudible. 

“You are laughing.”

Pulling himself to a stand, Shane removes his hand from his mouth where he’s been trying to dampen the sound. He’s smiling, and this time it does reach his eyes. 

“You are the most chaotic person I have ever met…” he says. And it doesn’t sound like an insult.

“I…thank you?”

“It actually is a complement,” Shane says, getting himself under control. “I love that about you. l like everything about you.”

Shane’s smile falters, like he’s slipped up, eyes flaring with alarm. 

“Uh…sorry…I mean…”

But Ilya doesn’t want to watch Shane backtrack. He doesn’t want him to feel afraid to be honest. And…Shane just apologized for something very stupid. 

Ilya moves fluidly around the counter, reaching for Shane before he’s even within arms reach and Shane steps into him easily. He kisses Shane. Without hesitation, with his full body. Because he keeps his promises. 

When Ilya’s hands clamp around Shane’s jaw, one sliding into his hair and pulling enough that he can get a better angle, Shane groans into the kiss. His lips part and Ilya takes the opportunity to lick inside the warm heat of Shane’s mouth. He can feel strong hands clamped around his waist, pulling them together until they’re touching from head to toe. 

The sounds Shane is making seems to be traveling directly to Ilya’s dick and knows he sounds just as famished; starving for more of Shane’s mouth, his hands, those beautiful little gasps that they’re sharing since they’ve decided that breathing is optional. He has to force himself to pull back long enough to mutter a question against the hinge of Shane’s jaw, replacing his thumb with his lips. 

“Is this okay?” he asks. 

Because as much as he wants this, needs it, he needs to know. He needs to hear Shane say it.

He doesn’t. He nods frantically instead, reaching up to snag fistfuls of Ilya’s curls and pant into Ilya’s mouth in answer, the position of their hands reversing. 

“Is…is it okay with you?” Shane questions between kisses, wide-eyed enough that when Ilya opens his, he can see the underlying glimmer of concern. 

Ilya huffs, fingers digging into Shane’s waist above the soft cotton of his shirt, and tugs their hips together.

“I don’t know, Hollander,” he says. “What does my dick say?”

Smiling into his mouth, Shane tilts forward and it draws a startled moan out of them both when their groins slot together through their pants. Ilya is suddenly frustrated he’d decided to wear jeans and makes an indignant sound that the friction is dulled by the thick fabric.

Taking a careful step forward, and then another, Ilya backs Shane towards the couch. He discards his coat somewhere along the way. It knocks against a lamp and Shane’s hand shoots down to steady it before it falls, never breaking the kiss. They round an end table and break apart long enough to discard their shirts. Ilya’s hands are on Shane’s chest before his sweater even hits the floor and Shane's fingers are fumbling with the button on Ilya’s jeans. 

When it pops open, Shane shoves his hand past the waistband, behind his boxer-briefs and grips his cock like he already knows the exact shape and size of it. 

“Fuck, Shane,” he exhales, the shudder wracking his whole body in a way that he thinks might be embarrassing with anyone else. 

But then Shane is kissing him again, fist sliding in jerky movements over Ilya’s erection and Ilya shoves his pants and underwear down far enough that he’s exposed. His hand moves without resistance, Ilya’s foreskin allowing for ease of motion even without lubrication. When Shane pulls back abruptly, Ilya chases the kiss until he realizes Shane is sinking to his knees with a whine far more embarrassing than any sound Ilya has ever made. So far, at least. He’s pretty sure Shane will redefine the meaning of the word until it no longer exists in any space the two of them occupy when they’re alone together. 

Shane lets go of Ilya’s dick long enough to shove his pants and underwear down to his knees and then his grip returns, steady and confident. His mouth is less confident when his lips sink around the flushed head of Ilya’s cock and he pulls back for a moment to wet them. The second slide is easier and he sinks about halfway before gliding up and back down again, building a slow rhythm. He holds Ilya at the base with his thumb and forefinger, keeping him steady while he works and the grip his other hand has on the side of Ilya’s ass is strong. It’s not as strong as the grasp Ilya has in Shane’s hair. He’s not pulling or pushing, just holding, letting Shane do the work. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” he pants. “Как это может быть реальностью? Что ты делаешь со мной?” 

The vibrations that reverberate through his cock when Shane fucking moans around it are almost his undoing. 

Ilya is no stranger to blow jobs. He’s given them and received even more. But this is different. This is consuming in a way that feels vulnerable and dangerous and like he has never belonged anywhere else in his life than where he is standing, looking down into wide, brown eyes that are studying Ilya like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. This isn’t a blow job. It’s deliverance. 

It’s only been about two and a half minutes and Shane looks like he could do this for hours; but if Ilya doesn’t stop him he won’t last another ten seconds. 

“Stop…stop…” he hisses, tugging gently on Shane’s hair and then bending low enough to pull him up. 

He kisses Shane, tasting him there and sucking the swollen appendage into his mouth. 

“You are very good at this, Hollander,” Ilya says with a huff. Teasing, because he needs to say something that isn’t the grandiloquent prose that's coursing through every neural pathway in his brain. “Maybe you have been doing this a long time and I am the one with messed up memories.”

He’s never reading one of Svetlana’s stupid romance novels again.

Shane slaps his arm lightly and crowds against him, kissing him hard. Ilya’s knees hit the edge of the sofa and he goes down less than gracefully. Shane tips forward but catches himself with a hand on the back of the couch where it’s pressed against the wall. Before he’s upright again, Ilya has his hands on Shane’s hips and mouths at the tented space in his joggers, nuzzling the hard line of his erection through the fabric. 

“Jesus fuck…” Shane huffs, his legs seeming a little shaky when he stands. 

Nosing along the seams, Ilya smiles against him, eyes flicking up - a question. Shane nods eagerly - an answer. 

Grinning, Ilya plants a palm on Shane’s thigh to put enough space between them so Ilya can shove his own pants the rest of the way off. They’re already around his ankles and he kicks at them impatiently, leaning down to yank off his socks. 

When he’s naked, sitting on the edge of Shane’s couch, his bare ass pressed into the cushion, he inches his fingers back up muscled thighs until his digits can curl into the elastic at his waist. Ilya holds eye contact and watches the way Shane’s mouth drops open, the way his chest heaves, as the garment slips over his ass and frees his blushing cock. His palms smooth over the jut of Shane’s hipbones and he receives a delightful shiver for his efforts, Shane’s eyes fluttering closed. They don’t stay that way. Ilya can tell he wants to watch and Ilya wants him to. He looks away long enough to take in the sight in front of him - Shane’s circumcised cock, flushed and dripping at the tip, surrounded by a dark nest of trimmed, crimped hairs. Ilya doesn’t think he has ever wanted anything so badly in his life.

Shane sucks in a breath when Ilya’s fingers skate lightly along his shaft, not gripping, yet. Ilya spreads his legs and pulls Shane between them as close as he can, flicking his eyes down to see his shins hit the edge of the furniture. His grip tightens enough to angle Shane’s cock away and he avoids it with his mouth entirely, sucking one of Shane’s balls into his mouth without pretense. 

He’s pretty sure the words that Shane chokes out are French. And he’s pretty sure they’re swears. Ilya smiles and gives a few kitten licks around his sac but takes pity on the man when he doubles over, both hands twining into Ilya’s hair like he might slide off the earth if he doesn’t hold onto something. When Ilya guides Shane’s dick to his mouth, he sinks down, opening his throat and sucking him down until the tidy curls tickle his nose. 

Setting a slow rhythm, Ilya works methodically and efficiently, using every trick he’s learned from a lifetime of lovers who he already knows would never even compare to what’s right in front of him. His tongue drags along the prominent vein on the underside of Shane’s cock and when he pulls back far enough to hollow out his cheeks, he lets saliva pool around the head until everything feels slippery. The tang of pre-cum mingles with the lingering sensation of vodka in his mouth and Ilya allows himself an aborted moan at the thought of Shane coming down his throat until the taste the only thing he remembers. 

Letting go of Shane’s cock entirely, the pads of Ilya’s fingers dig into the meat of his ass hard enough to bruise. Above him, Shane’s breath is coming in quicker puffs, his skin blooming pink from the chest up. His eyes are unfocused and Ilya doesn’t think he will last much longer. But before he finishes, Shane’s grasp in Ilya's locks tighten and Ilya releases him with a pop. His dick springs free and bounces between them, tapping Ilya’s chin. 

Since Shane doesn’t seem to be able to speak, his mouth opening and closing like he’s forgotten how to form words. Ilya tries to interpret his silent plea. What he deciphers isn’t fear or hesitation, it’s a plea to keep going but the acceptance that he can’t. 

“Come here,” says Ilya, beckoning Shane forward until one of his knees is pressed into the cushion. 

Shane seems to understand. He steps out of his clothing when Ilya shoves them the rest of the way off and climbs onto the Russians lap. Ilya scoots backwards to make room so Shane can slot his knees on either side of Ilya’s thighs until they press into the back of the couch. They kiss, unsure who moved first. Ilya allows his hands to explore every inch of exposed skin, dip his fingers into the little divots above Shane’s ass he wishes he could see and not just feel. And Shane’s is mapping out his own trails along Ilya’s chest - first with his fingers and then with his lips. He slides his tongue along Ilya’s collarbone and bites. Ilya gasps at the sensation and Shane’s answering smile is something Ilya will probably reminisce about for the rest of his life. 

Settling in his lap more fully, their cocks slot together, side by side, and Ilya gasps again. Shane breaks their kiss when Ilya’s hand folds around the both of them and his pupils flare with something rapturous. Like he can’t believe this is happening. 

Even though Ilya is pretty sure he’s reading the situation, finding only desire and pleasure, he hesitates. Because for him, this is real. And he wants it to be real for Shane too. He doesn’t want Shane trapped in some fantasy that maybe, for him, is where he’d rather be. 

“Is okay?” Ilya asks faintly, holding his breath in case the answer is something that will shatter the moment into a thousand fragile pieces. 

Shane sucks in a breath as well, holding it. But then he’s leaning forward and anchoring himself to Ilya with his arms around his neck and lips lingering in a slow, tender kiss that makes Ilya shiver with the frisson of it. 

“Ilya,” Shane breathes, letting his forehead rest against Ilya’s and tilting his hips to allow for Ilya to get a tighter grip. “I want this. I want you.” 

Ilya nods, though the gesture is aborted at the resistance from Shane’s face pressed against his. He blows out a steady exhale and adjusts tightens his fist.

It starts slow but doesn’t stay that way for long. After a few minutes of Ilya pumping his hand over both of their dicks, slick with sweat and saliva and pre-cum, Shane is rocking into him. His hips tilt in an eager staccato that’s both not enough and too much. Ilya’s orgasm has been building since they made it to the couch and it’s mostly been sheer willpower holding it back. But now that he’s on the edge it feels hard to tip over, and based on the frantic huffs and whimpers Shane is breathing into his mouth, against his cheek, he standing at that same cliff, ready for the freefall. 

Between the ah’s and oh’s and unintelligible syllables filling the silence around the wet sounds of their mouths and cocks, Ilya lets go long enough to spit in his own palm.

Shane makes a pitiful sound at the loss but cries out loudly enough that Ilya almost loses it as soon as the added moisture allows for a smoother glide.

“Fuck…Ilya…I…”

“Oh…блять,” Ilya chokes out. “так хорошо…Shane, Ты так хорош..” 

Clamping a hand over the crease where Shane’s thigh meets his hip, Ilya holds him steady so he can move his hand faster, increasing the pressure. He can feel himself falling apart in slow motion, like he’s simultaneously in his body and watching himself from somewhere else. He kisses Shane, long and deep, but then Shane spills one of the most pornographic moans he’s ever heard between Ilya’s lips and Ilya feels a wet splash against his abs. They clench, almost painfully, and he feels his balls tighten and steps off the ledge. 

“Fuuuuck, Shane!”

Sticky ropes of cum paint his abdomen, a few drops landing on his chest, and Ilya jerks his hand until they’re both out of breath and all the tension melts from Shane’s body. Ilya lets them go, his hand laying uselessly under their slowly softening dicks because his arm is tingling and he’s distantly aware of the mess they’ve made. 

“Christ…” Shane whispers, his head buried in the sweaty crook of Ilya’s neck while tremors wrack his entire body. 

Ilya allows his clean hand to catalogue every vertebrae of Shane’s spine, his thumb moving in what he hopes are soothing gestures to keep the other man as close as possible. It’s a strange feeling, wanting to stay. Usually Ilya is content to leave as soon as he’s hooked up with someone, only a few people being exceptions to that rule. But he’s never needed it before - this closeness. A flash of terror grips his chest at the thought of Shane leaving right now. But the longer they share each others space, the more the ugly feeling dissipates. Because Shane is still holding him, fingers lightly ghosting along his scalp and his lips keep finding the pulse on llya's neck and pressing against it. 

Turning his head to the side, Ilya nudges Shane’s face up with his own. He kisses him. It’s slow and sweet and Ilya finds the corners of his mouth lifting until his smile is reflected back at him in the glassy, unfocused look of adoration that he almost wants to look away from but can’t. 

“We’re uh…” Shane starts, sitting back a little so his weight shifts onto the lower parts of Ilya’s thighs. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “We should clean up?”

Nodding, Shane leans to the right and Ilya holds him with one hand to keep him from falling. He returns with a box of tissues and plucks several from the container before tossing it to the side. They both wipe away the sticky mess as best they can. Shane holds out his palm and Ilya hands him the wad of soiled tissues. 

“I’ll be right back,” says Shane, quickly kissing Ilya on the lips. 

Then he’s dropping his still-socked feet back to the floor and wobbles a little before he finds his footing. 

“Stay,” he commands. And Ilya does. 

He releases a shuddering exhalation into the room, feeling his body temperature return to normal. The sink cuts on somewhere behind him and Shane returns a few minutes later with two damp dish towels. He drops one onto Ilya’s stomach unceremoniously and Ilya flinches a little, expecting it to be cold. It’s not, so he feels himself relax and uses it to wipe his body clean while Shane does the same. Shane takes the towels and pads back to the kitchen. He’s gone long enough for Ilya to set the tissue box back on the end table and pull his underwear on. 

Before he can bother with his jeans, Shane returns with a water bottle in his hand and swipes a fluffy, fleece blanket from the end of the chaise. He tosses it over Ilya and takes a long pull from the bottle. 

Ilya watches his throat work as he swallows and is pretty sure his dick would be twitching right about now if he wasn’t spent from months of pent up…whatever it was. He’d jerked off almost daily but hadn’t slept with anyone since the first time he’d come to Shane’s apartment back in November. Not even Svetlana when she’d come to visit a month ago. It’s the longest he’s gone since he was a teenager and he feels like it should shock him. Somehow, it doesn’t. 

When Shane dangles the slightly translucent bottle in front of him, Ilya takes it. He scowls at the Metros logo emblazoned in bright blue but drinks anyways. He doesn’t miss the way Shane smirks at the small victory before he bends over to pick up his crumbled clothing. 

Shane doesn’t put his shirt back on but he does pull his underwear and joggers. Ilya feels a pang of disappointment when he can no longer see the pattern of his fingerprints on the side of Shane's ass. Distantly, he feels a little badly for leaving marks without asking for permission. He should probably let Shane know they're there before he shows back up to practice.

After his waistband snaps into place, Shane drops onto the couch next to Ilya. He's close enough that their shoulders are touching and Ilya can feel him take a deep breath. Ilya adjusts the blanket over his lap because now that his heart rate has slowed he can feel the chill in the air. 

Movement in his periphery has him dropping his head to the side and he sees that Shane has draped his arm across his face. The set of his chin gives away the lopsided smile that’s hidden underneath and Ilya wants to push his arm away. 

“Why are you smiling?” he asks instead. 

“Oh uh…it’s nothing,” Shane answers. But Ilya is close enough that he can see the pink crawl up his neck and ears.

The arm lifts a fraction and Shane squints over at him where Ilya’s brows have lifted skeptically. Shane huffs and lets his arm fall behind his head and then drop to the top of the couch. 

“That was just…familiar, is all,” mutters Shane, eyes darting between the dark skyline through the windows and back. 

“Ah,” Ilya nods, understanding. “So we have done that before. In your head.”

“Something like that,” Shane admits. 

“Mmm,” Ilya hums, draping his own arm behind Shane to rest his hand on his head, massaging his scalp. Shane’s eyes flutter. “Explains why you are so good at it.”

Shane’s eyes flash and he turns his body enough to slap Ilya lightly on the shoulder. Catching his wrist, Ilya pulls him in and kisses him. 

“Come here,” he says, shifting farther down the couch and bringing Shane with him. 

He props a throw pillow against the arm of the couch and settles onto it, moving towards the edge of the cushions to make room for Shane on the other side. He maneuvers the Metros captain until he can lay comfortably between Ilya and the back of the couch and Shane presses his ear to Ilya’s shoulder. 

At some point it's started snowing outside and Ilya can just make out the scattered blankets of white coating dark rooftops in the distance. It makes everything seem quieter and he focuses on the sounds of Shane’s breathing, the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Ilya’s lips are settled against Shane’s hairline and his fingers tangle around dark hair, messy from the night's activities. They probably need to shower. But for now, Ilya doesn’t want to move and Shane’s index finger is tracing little patterns around the cross lying on his sternum. 

“This is all so fucked up,” Shane mumbles, after a few minutes. But Ilya can feel him smiling against his skin. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. He’s smiling too. 

Outside, there’s a honk of a car horn that’s muffled by the weather. Then silence falls around them again. Ilya feels like he might fall asleep if they stay like this much longer. 

“So…um…” Shane wonders, breaking the silence for a second time. “What does this mean?”

Ilya feels warm and content, fuzzy around the edges. So much that he doesn’t even overthink Shane’s question. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Do you want it to mean something?”

The finger on his chest presses against the metal of his mothers pendant. 

“....I mean. Maybe. Yes. I do. I did just spend the last few months telling you about my imaginary life with you. Do you want it to? Mean something?”

Ilya chuckles lightly, his right hand moving from his own waist to cover Shane’s. Their fingers twine together over the necklace and he kisses the top of Shane’s head. 

“I think, yes. But…is complicated.”

“It’s super fucking complicated,” Shane agrees. 

Because it is. While he’d managed to forget about the game that afternoon, his team, everything really - it hadn’t gone away. He still spilled a secret that wouldn’t remain a secret much longer. And even if his team or the league decides it’s inconsequential, it still changes things. Things that are even more complicated when he considers Shane as part of those changes. And he’s not even sure what Shane is ready for. What he’s ready for. But when he eventually leaves this apartment, things will be different no matter what choices they make.  

“How did we figure it out in your brain?” asks Ilya. Because he remembers Shane saying they’d at least had a plan. 

Shane shrugs against him, squeezing their hands together. “Well. We weren’t out. So that's different. And when we talked about coming out it was always years in the future. So we still…hid. I don’t know how easy it will be to hide…whatever this is…when we’re both out. People are already going to make assumptions..”

“I know,” Ilya replies. And after a beat, confesses something terrifying. Even more formidable because he feels at peace with it. “I don’t think I want to hide. Not for long, anyways..”

“....Really?” Shane goes still underneath him and for a moment Ilya thinks he might get up. But he doesn’t. Just throws his leg over the blanket on Ilya’s thighs. 

“Really,” Ilya says. “But uh…I still have to think about how it will work. Russia is…”

“I know,” Shane mutters, sounding troubled.  “I looked it up a few weeks ago when I got curious about a memory of you telling me about their laws. I know it can be dangerous for you.”

“Only if I go home, I think,” Ilya supplies. “Which I do not intend to do. I have not been back since my father’s funeral. But if something happens and I cannot play hockey anymore…that could be problem.”

“I know,” replies Shane. And he does pull away, but only enough to shove his arm under the pillow, laying his cheek against the fabric next to Ilya's head so he can watch him. “So we’ll figure it out. I’m good at planning.”

Smiling fondly, Ilya shifts his head a little farther away so he can observe the other man without going cross-eyed. 

“Yes Mr. I-have-color-coded-my-workout-schedule-in-spreadsheets,” huffs Ilya. “I know you are organized.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane muses, rubbing his nose to Ilya’s cheek. “You weren’t complaining when I sent you that PDF last month of all the Thai places I found in Boston when you bitched about your favorite restaurant closing.”

Ilya’s heart clenches in a painful, but welcome way when he recalls the memory. It had hit him like a freight train at the time - this frustratingly, earnest man with beautiful freckles, and a slightly weak back-hand, taking time to try and cheer him up after he complained about losing one of his local comforts for about three minutes in a text. The file had come through about two days later - all twenty pages of it - and he had no idea how to respond to something so thoughtful. In the end, he vowed to try every single location and take Shane to the best one when he visited sometime. 

“No,” Ilya breathes. “I was not complaining.”

Another lull overtakes them and Ilya adjusts the blanket so it’s covering both of them. Shane is still warm against him but burrows further into his side until they’re nearly fused together. 

“So you really want to do this?” asks Shane. “You want to…make my weird brain damaged fake memories…real?”

Well. That’s possibly the worst way he could have put it. Ilya glares down at him but there’s no heat behind it.

“When you say like that, I mostly want to throw you out of your very high windows.”

“Good luck with that,” Shane retorts. “They don’t open.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Ilya sighs. No. He doesn’t. 

“Yes,” he finally answers. “I think there was always…something there. I would have tried before if I thought I could have you.”

“I’m sorry,” says Shane, reflexively. 

Disentangling their fingers, Ilya taps against Shane’s chin until he looks at him again. 

“We have time,” he says, kissing him. 

Shane returns the kiss and nods. “I guess we do.”

Shoving his head farther into the pillow, Ilya pats the back of Shane’s hand where it’s still clutching his pec. 

“Okay, so,” Ilya says, resolved. “Will you go on a date with me, Shane Hollander?”

Shane sputters a laugh and his expression is full of disbelieving mirth.

“Seriously?” he laughs again. “I mean…sure. Yes. I’ve never been on one. Not with someone I actually like, anyways."

“I haven’t either,” Ilya admits. “Will be fine. New adventure, or whatever.”

“You?” Shane asks, his disbelief amplifying, like Ilya is teasing him. “You have never been on a date?”

He’s not sure why Shane finds that so hard to believe, but then he remembers they have only really known each other for a few months. 

“Unless you count getting a drink with a guy after blowing him in club bathroom or driving to empty parking lot to fuck a woman in the backseat of her car a date,” Ilya explains. “No, I have not been on a date, Shane.”

Ilya watches Shane roll his eyes and he mutters something under his breath that Ilya doesn’t catch. The urge to splay himself open rises again, hovering on the boundaries of his self-preservation like prey pacing the the borders of a cage, looking for a weak spot so it can make a bid for freedom. He finds it in the soft slope of Shane’s neck, fingers trailing along the swell of muscle over his shoulder. He squeezes Shane’s bicep and doesn’t let go. 

“I know you said you saw me in pictures…with women,” Ilya says quietly, and he feels Shane go still beside him. “I have not been doing that. Anymore. Not with men, either.” 

He’s not really sure why he’s telling Shane this. It’s irrelevant and he knows Shane wouldn’t care. Well. Maybe he would care. But he wouldn’t hold it against Ilya. It’s not like they were together. But something in him needs Shane to know he isn’t sleeping with anyone else. That he hasn’t even wanted anyone else. And he knows it’s a roundabout way to say I like you. I care about you. It’s only you. But directness fails him in the moment. 

“Oh. I mean, it’s okay. If you are,” Shane offers, but it doesn’t sound like it’s okay. “You don’t have to like, change anything. If you want to..”

“I don’t want,” he retorts, silently begging Shane to understand. 

He does. 

“Okay,” says Shane, his body relaxing again. 

“Okay.”

“Me neither,” Shane adds after a pause. “I’m not seeing anyone else.”

Ilya’s only response is to hold him tighter, to breathe in the mix of citrus smelling shampoo he must have used earlier and the faint, mingled scents of sweat and sex and expensive cologne. 

While the snow keeps falling, Ilya allows himself to lose time. He forgets about his shitty team, the shitty league, and a country that will exile him. He forgets about everything except the warm bubble of comfort that’s seeping into his bones and feels like something he never thought he could have. It feels like home.

Chapter End Notes

Ilya's homophobic teammate: So what are you gonna do about it, go fuck Hollander
Ilya: Bet.

Also we stan a Good Friend Cliff Marlow™ in this house.

 

Как это может быть реальностью? Что ты делаешь со мной? - How is this real? What are you doing to me?
блять- fuck
так хорошо, Ты так хорош- so good, you are so good

Chapter 6: First Time

Chapter Summary

"For all the time they had wasted being afraid to even approach each other, they were still able to have something together that was just for them. And fuck. It was exhilarating and alarming at the same time. The thought punched through the crumbling walls of the fortress Shane had spent his entire life building up around him; to keep him safe and obediently following the path he’s been laying brick by brick since he was old enough to understand the meaning of what a future was. But since that hit on the ice, probably since they first met, Ilya had been chipping away at the walls, helping him build forks in the road until everything he knew lost meaning and was reshaped into something else entirely."

Chapter Notes

Pushing back the timeline of nhl ‘bye week’ and making them at the same time so they can have more time. Just ignore any hockey scheduling I made up. It’s fine.

I also split this chapter into two because it became a monster so, as usual, my chapter count went up.

Half of this is porn.

TW: references to homophobia; smut

March 2018

There are moments, when things are still and quiet, that Shane reflects on the last few months and feels in awe of what his life has become. It’s terrible at times. His team is frustrating, there are still ways that he’s not being honest with the people around him, the world, or even himself. But then, there’s Ilya. Who somehow manages to surprise him at every turn. Though, he guesses it shouldn’t be too surprising. While the implanted memories still feel real and he still hasn’t worked out how many of them there are, he’s starting to feel at peace with the knowledge that every time something does happen that comes close, it’s a thousand times better in reality. Even when his experiences tip-toe along the edge of painful rumination, it ends up being over written with something new and whole and sentimental. 

There’d been a moment in Shane’s apartment last month, after he’d finally gotten to know what it really felt like to touch Ilya - to trace the constellations of moles and freckles across a limitless galaxy of flesh - where he’d worried he would run. That panic would override the security he felt in the Russians arms and he would ruin it, as he’d done in his own head. But he panic never came and Shane didn’t run. And neither did Ilya. 

He did leave that night. They had fallen asleep on the couch for hours, only to be woken by Ilya’s phone buzzing across the coffee table by Marlow asking where the hell he was, missing curfew. It wasn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last, but Ilya was typically better at getting someone to cover for him. The Raiders captain had rushed out, but not before kissing Shane against his door, holding up his rideshare long enough to ask Shane to stay, if he could, the next time he was in Boston. 

Their next Boston-Montreal game would be followed by each team's mandatory 'bye week', so neither would be in a hurry to get back home or to training or another game. And Shane had agreed to stay because even if he had no idea what the hell they were doing, he knew he wanted more of whatever it was. 

Overall, things had been…good. Okay, at least. An article about Ilya had come out only days after his locker room confession. It was similar to the one written about Shane but Ilya was not approaching it with the same buttoned-up avoidance that Shane performed. Rather, Ilya towed the lines of professionalism with the same impetuous havoc he always preferred to wreak on the world. So when someone chirped him on the ice, he gave it right back, needling at his opponents until they threw hands, forcing penalties. When leaving the arena after a game once, a reporter asked him if the rumors about his bisexuality were true and he’d stared blankly at the camera and said ‘Yes. So what?’

On a more memorable occasion, Ilya had been doing a shirtless, post-game presser - one of the male interviewers asked him something similar he’d responded with, ‘Why? Are you interested?’ following it with a wink.

Shane had groaned at that one, perhaps had a small aneurysm, and then rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck. But then he smiled like a dumbass for the next three hours. There was a chance some of it was bravado. At least a little. But Shane admired Ilya’s bravery. They way he leaned into his identity in a way Shane wished he could do. And it gave him hope that he could get there too, someday. 

According to Ilya, things had died down for him with his own team fairly quickly. While he hadn’t said so, Shane thought it was quite possible that his team accepted the news with a little more grace so none of them ended up with broken jaws. Ilya wasn’t typically known for violence off the ice, but Shane didn’t think anyone else would jump at the chance to test their captain. 

Ilya did tell Shane that his coaches sat him down after practice one day and told him to stop provoking people. He’d said ‘yes, coach’ and agreed to give more measured responses to the media and reel in his chirping. And then he’d just done whatever the fuck he wanted to do since his ego apparently remained fully intact and he was sure Boston wouldn’t terminate a contract over his extracurriculars as long as they were legal since the organization liked money too much. 

Unfortunately, Shane was having less luck with his own teammates but he wasn’t sure anything could be done about it. They weren’t hurling slurs in his face or attacking him. They were just…distant. Avoiding him as much as they could and only listening to him when they had to. It could be worse, he told himself. A mantra he repeated like a lifeline to keep himself sane. Should Shane start punching people? Probably not. Well...maybe. Not yet, at least. He could handle it. He was handling it.

So when their game against Boston finally rolled around, Shane could barely contain himself. He tried not to let it distract him, but couldn’t help counting down the minutes until he was off the ice and he could barricade himself in the safety of Ilya’s arms. 

~*~

The apartment is quiet and for the first time Shane notices how different the Boston skyline looks from his own views in Montreal. They’re higher up, as well. Shane’s building only has half a dozen floors while Ilya’s penthouse is on the 20th story. The noise from below is nearly non-existent even though with Shane’s limited experience of downtown, it’s usually filled with the sounds of honking cars and impatient pedestrians. But it’s late now, so the city is settling. 

Shane, however, does not feel settled. There’s a steady vibration of excitement living under the carefully constructed facade of placidity he’s trying to project. He’s failing, probably. His palms are a little sweaty and his hands keep curling and unfurling at his sides. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand skates over the small of his back. Ilya’s brows dance under loose curls in amusement. 

“You are jumpy tonight,” Ilya says, his hand lingering.

Turning into him, Shane drapes his forearms across Ilya’s shoulders, like they do this all the time. Like they belong there. He's surprised how comfortable it is.

“Just still wired from the game,” he says, deflecting. “You know. The one where I kicked your ass.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, head dropping back while an annoyed groan rumbles from his throat. “It was one point. In overtime. The only ass that was kicked was yours when I knocked you on it during second period.”

Huffing, Shane drops his head to his arm, hiding his smile. 

“You’re an asshole,” he mutters. And then jumps for a second time when the hand on his waist migrates, pressing against the side of his ass where he’d landed on it earlier. 

It’s a little sore but probably won’t bruise. His head snaps up to find mischief in Ilya’s eyes that his feigned innocence is doing nothing to hide. 

“What?” asks Ilya. “Want to make sure it’s okay.”

“My ass is fine,” Shane replies, struggling to keep his mouth a flat line. 

“Mmm…you are sure?” Ilya questions, pulling Shane in until their hips slot together. “You don’t need me to kiss it better?”

It's Shane's turn to roll his eyes and he can’t stop them from dropping to Ilya’s lips when they complete their rotation. 

“Well,” breathes Shane, already leaning in. “Since you offered…”

He holds his breath, releasing it when Ilya draws him in as close as he can, until there isn’t room for a breath between them. It doesn’t take long for Shane to want to sink to his knees in the middle of the living room. As if Ilya can read his mind, he pulls apart and leads Shane towards the bedroom by the hand. For a moment, Shane feels like the hand in his is shaking, but then it tightens and Ilya’s stride lengthens. The urgency there for both of them and Shane tries to calm his body enough to follows Ilya's lead. 

The bedroom is spacious, dimly lit by two lamps on either side of the haphazardly made bed. Four pillows are scrunched against the headboard, misshapen from use. Ilya is back on him as soon as they cross over the threshold, hands grasping and grabbing, pressing wet kisses along Shane’s jaw and throat. Their clothes are discarded quickly and even though he’s achingly hard, Shane still has to fight against the impulse to pick them up from the floor and fold them. The thought is discarded just as quickly as their clothing when Ilya’s hands grip the back of his thighs and lift him off the ground. 

Shane yelps in surprise, hands flying to the back of Ilya’s neck to keep himself upright. He’s laughing when Ilya takes several long, graceful steps and then very un-gracefully tosses Shane onto the bed. He groans a little when his hard cock slaps his belly as he lands. He groans a lot when arms shove behind his legs and Ilya’s mouth licks up the seam of his balls. Ilya takes him apart slowly, but efficiently with his mouth and tongue, watching Shane through most of it through long lashes until Shane has to look away if he wants to last any longer. He’s just about to pull him up by his hair when Ilya lets go of Shane’s dick with an obscene little pop and leaves a cooling trail of spit behind the wet drag of his lips up Shane's torso. He kisses Shane, hand working over his cock lazily. Their lips are still attached when Shane makes a sharp intake of breath at the feeling of a finger brushing over his ass. 

“This is okay?” Ilya asks, pulling back enough to study Shane’s reaction. 

He nods furiously. “Yea. It’s okay.”

His hands clench in Ilya’s hair and over his bicep as Ilya sticks his own finger in his mouth before pressing against him again, gentle pressure until he can sink in up to his knuckle. He pushes a little harder and Shane relaxes around him. Ilya's brows pinch and he looks over at Shane. 

“Did you…”

Pink blooms across Shane’s cheeks, over to his ears and down his neck. He clamps his eyes shut and tries to focus on the feeling rather than what Ilya is asking. He answers him anyways. 

“Yea…a little. At the hotel before the game.”

The finger in his ass stalls and Ilya stills. “You wanted this.”

“Yea…wanted you…”

He feels Ilya’s grin before he see it, since the Russian is licking a line from his jugular to his ear, biting down on the lobe. Shane’s dick twitches, a small gasp escaping.

“Did you do it yourself? Your fingers?” Ilya asks, murmuring the words into his ear in an entirely different tone than he’d had seconds before. Before he’d been hesitant, curious. Now he sounds fucking dangerous and it might be the hottest thing Shane has ever heard. “Or did you use something else?”

Since saliva is poor lubrication, Ilya slows his finger and waits for a reply. Shane is burning with embarrassment but still answers. Because for some fucked up reason he wants to answer. 

“I…I have a dildo…” he admits, tipping his hips up in a silent plea for Ilya to keep moving. 

Ilya presses a kiss to his sternum to keep him down. 

“Ah…is big? My size?”

Shane manages to open his eyes to glare at the Russian. “Not quite. Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Huffing a laugh against his throat, Ilya pulls his finger out and reaches behind him to open the drawer on his nightstand. Shane whimpers at the loss, because apparently that is a thing he does now. 

Ilya drops a bottle and a condom on the bed between them, leaning down to kiss him again. 

“Did you use your, not quite as big dildo before the game, what, in the shower?”

Shane nods a confirmation. 

"Teammates in the room?"

"Fuck off."

“...All because you could not wait for me to fuck you tonight,” Ilya purrs, biting gently along the column of Shane’s throat, receiving a long moan for his efforts. 

“That is very slutty of you, Hollander,” Ilya adds, his hand moving to the bottle of lube. 

“And I am very quickly regretting it…” Shane says, feigning irritation. He hates how much he enjoys being teased like this. 

“Noooo…I love it, I love it,” Ilya laughs. “You wanted to be ready for my cock. I love this about you.”

“Then fucking hurry up, Rozanov,” Shane gripes, legs dropping open even farther. 

Ilya warms the lube between his fingers before pressing two into Shane without needing to be asked again. Shane sucks in a breath and tenses. It doesn’t hurt, but he can feel the stretch this time. And it’s good. Then Ilya starts moving, fingers sliding in and out and rubbing miniscule circular motions until it finds…

“Ah…ah…there…fuck…fuck!” Shane chokes out, his hips inclining off the mattress. 

Ilya smirks around the nipple he’s been lavishing, looking smug when Shane stares down at him. 

“There?” Ilya confirms. 

“Yes…yea…fuck…do that again..”

So he does. And fuck it feels good. Shane had been using a handful of discreet toys for years but it had always felt a little awkward. He never seemed to be able to get the right angle or having to contort himself to use his hand took him out of the sensation. But Ilya seemed to know exactly what to do. 

“More…” he pleaded. Not sure he really knew what he wanted. Just that he wanted more. 

Ilya adds a third finger, in and out, rubbing and spreading them. He rubs his own cock against Shane’s thigh, seeking friction and seems to speed up the more worked up Shane becomes. When Shane cries out, loudly enough that if he’d had neighbors they probably would have heard, Ilya pulls out his fingers and climbs on top of Shane. Their cocks slide together, Shane's still slick from saliva and pre-cum, maybe a little escaped lube. Ilya’s messy hand presses into Shane’s hip so he can withdraw enough to slip his dick between Shane’s thighs, the head rubbing over Shane's hole. Ilya looks down between them and back to Shane. 

“Do you want?”

Once again, Ilya doesn't have to spell it out for him. 

“Yes…I want it…fuck me…please,” Shane whines, hips twitching off the bed to seek more contact. 

Kissing him again, Ilya reaches down to grope around on the mattress for the condom between their bodies. He locates it and swings a leg over Shane’s thighs, sitting upright. His slick fingers make it difficult to rip the packaging. Shane sits up too, keeping one hand on the mattress while he holds out the other.

“Here, let me,” Shane offers.

Ilya shakes his head. “I got it.”

Something in Ilya’s expression causes Shane to still. He glances down and the hands fumbling with the condom are trembling. So maybe he hasn't imagined it. 

Bringing both hands up to clamp around Ilya’s, he holds them still, chin tilting up. Ilya’s eyes are more green in this light than blue, and they look…worried? Anxious, maybe?

“Hey…” Shane urges. “Talk to me?”

It takes a few seconds, but Ilya meets his eyes and drops his arms, letting Shane hold his shaky palms. 

“Is okay…I’m just…ah…I know this is something you thought about. In your fake memories,” Ilya confesses. “I don’t want you to do something you regret or if it does not…”

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. Ilya is worried that whatever they do won’t live up to some romanticized version Shane's conjured in his brain. Even though it’s already leagues better than anything he’s felt, anything he’s imagined. 

“Hey,” Shane says again. He lets go of Ilya’s hands to cradle his jaw. “The only version of you I want is the one right in front of me. Just you. I want this, Ilya. I want you.”

“I want to fuck you,” Ilya admits.

“I want you to fuck me…” says Shane, pulling him down for a hard, biting kiss. “So hurry the fuck up…”

“Impatient, ”Ilya replies, scoffing.

Ilya shoves him back to the mattress and picks up the condom where it had fallen. He’s almost got it open when Shane’s hand reaches for him a second time. 

“Wait uh…you…you said…you haven’t been with anyone in a while?” he asks, still a little breathless. 

Above him, Ilya freezes, brows knitting. “I said this, yes. Why?”

“I just mean…do we need that?” he tips his chin towards the packet. “I was tested after Rose and haven’t been with anyone else.”

“...Was tested in January during team physical,” Ilya supplies. “No one else since. Just you.”

Shane’s eyes darken and he can see the second it registers for Ilya. 

“блять...ты меня сгубишь. We don’t need it,” the Russian says. “Unless you want it?”

Shane shakes his head quickly, smacking the half-opened package our of Ilya's grip and off the side of the bed. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans, bracketing his hands on the either side of Shane’s shoulders so he can rut them together, hips rolling languidly. 

“Come here,” Shane says, and pulls Ilya into another kiss. 

They kiss frantically, greedily, Shane’s knees bracketing Ilya’s sides and by the time they break apart Ilya is squeezing lube onto his swollen cock, slipping past the tight whorl of muscle around Shane's hole. He moves agonizingly slowly, pausing frequently when he hears Shane’s hitch in breathe while he adjusts to the intrusion. 

“Is okay?” Ilya asks, when he’s about halfway in and Shane’s holding his breath. “Shane....you have to breathe...” 

Ilya’s hand moves from the mattress to Shane’s head, thumb drawing smooth circles along his hairline. Nodding, Shane lets out a breath and his body relaxes fractionally. 

It still doesn’t hurt but it feels…different. Full. Ilya’s cock is definitely bigger than anything he’s attempted before and he’s secretly glad Ilyas being so thoughtful in his restraint. The other part of Shane wants the Russian to abandon all consideration and pound him through the headboard until he can't walk for a week. So Shane guesses it’s probably better that he prefers Ilya being in charge. 

Sinking in a little more, Shane moans, Ilya's cock sliding against his prostate. 

“Almost солнышко,” Ilya whispers against his cheek. “It will fit, I promise.”

Shane’s huff turns into a long “Ahhh…” when Ilya finally sinks to the hilt. 

“Shane?” he asks, checking in again. 

His hands thread in Ilya’s curls again. He tugs him up for a kiss and then rolls his hips slightly. Ilya groans into his mouth and Shane smiles around it. 

“Fuck me…” he asks again. I'm okay. Please. 

Ilya is careful building his rhythm - slow, fluid strokes, first only pulling out a couple inches at a time and then pulling almost all the way out before he sinks back in. 

“Fuck, Shane…you’re…” the rest of Ilya’s exclamations fade to garbled Russian. 

The bed rocks slightly with their efforts and the pillow Shane's head is on muffles the sound around his ears. The pace is less careful now, picking up in speed and Shane doesn’t bother to contain the noises he’s making. His legs wrap around Ilya’s waist and it changes the angle to something maddening. Ilya pounds Shane into the mattress, the sound of his hips and balls slapping Shane’s ass the loudest thing in the room apart from the occasional moan from either of them. 

Suddenly, Ilya pulls out and Shane makes a noise of protest. But he lets Ilya roughly turn him over and yank him up on all fours. He pushes back into Shane with more caution than he’s been allowing himself in the last ten minutes, running a sweaty palm up and down Shane’s spine. He bends over and presses a kiss to Shane’s shoulder blade. 

“Good?” he asks, pulling out and thrusting back in gently. 

“Yes…good…more…” Shane asks, his hands curling around the sheets. He tips his ass up higher. 

“блять…you want it so bad,” Ilya drawls, slamming back into him now, hard enough that Shane’s had to drop to his forearms to keep himself from literally going through the mattress. “Ты так хорош…Ты так хорошо берёшь мой член…” 

“Yes…Ilya…fuck..I want it…I can take it…”

Shane realizes he’s babbling and can feel tears stinging at the corner of his eyes. It’s so much more than he imagined…so much more than a memory. Shane would let Ilya split him in half and live there if he could, right under Shane’s ribcage where he could keep them safe and tucked away from anyone that might try to take this from them. Where everything had felt impossible, Shane feels like he’s floating. And nothing can touch him because he’s not solid anymore, not mass, he’s just a wisp of something intangible and indescribable. Nothing can hurt him because it will simply pass right through what he’s become. Except…except for Ilya. Who makes him whole, makes him solid.  

Ilya, whose thumbs are pressing into the divots on Shane’s back above his ass so he tilts his hips as far as he can, bringing them back to meet each thrust. He’s close now, his balls tightening, heat pooling low and spreading from his groin to his thighs. He’s been on the edge for a while but now he’s falling and he won’t be able to stop it.

“Fuuuck…Ilya…I…”

“Are you…” 

He clenches around Ilya’s cock and a strong arm curls around Shane's middle and yanks him upright, his back smacking against Ilya’s chest. His hands fly behind him instinctively, one to Ilya’s sweaty curls and another grabbing Ilya’s hip. 

“Oh fuck!” Shane cries out, clenching again. 

Two more thrusts and he’s coming untouched. Ilya had been reaching for him, his chin tucked against Shane’s shoulder and eyes cast downwards. His hand even catches a bit of the sticky spray that paints the sheets and his own chest when Shane's dick flings back as Ilya slams into him once more before his body seizes. 

“Oh god, Shane…”

The arm around Shane’s chest tightens and Ilya buries himself inside Shane, wet heat pulsing in time with his stuttering heart. 

They stay there for several minutes, both shaking with the aftershocks, until Ilya’s hold on Shane loosens. Shane goes first, hands braced against the bed while Ilya folds over him, lips dragging across the sweat slick plains of his back, a hand brushing up and down his bicep. 

Ilya helps Shane lay down, narrowly avoiding the wet spots. He pulls out and Shane grimaces a little at the trickle of cum seeping out of his ass and down his thighs. 

“Stay,” Ilya mutters, pressing another kiss to the side of Shane’s ass before disappearing. 

He returns with two damp wash clothes. Ilya does his best to catch when he can around Shane’s groin and legs before it hits the bed and leaves him to do the rest. Once he’s wiped himself clean, Ilya tosses the rag to the floor and turns off one the bedside lamps so the room becomes darker. Shane waits for his vision to adjust before rolling over onto his side. He makes a half-hearted effort at wiping up the mess on the bed with the dry side of the cloth, but Ilya shifts them so he’s laying in most of it instead of Shane. Ilya snatches the towel and tosses it behind Shane, who starts to make a comment about throwing went towels on the floor but Ilya silences him with a kiss. 

“Hi,” says Ilya, long lashes flickering when he rubs his nose alongside Shane’s. 

Blinking slowly, Shane lets his vision adjust to the change in brightness. Ilya is facing him, his features gently illuminated by the single fixture attached to the wall behind Shane, his expression unreadable. 

“Hi,” Shane sighs and his lids flutter when Ilya’s knuckles brush across his cheek, lingering over his freckles. He’s muttering something under his breath in Russian too quiet for Shane to make out. 

“Was…” Ilya pauses, his accent thicker than it has been all night. “Are you okay?”

And Shane understands. He knows Ilya is asking Was it good? Did it live up to your expectations? Did I hurt you? It's a privilege, Shane thinks, to witness that kind of vulnerability in someone as confident as Ilya. 

Leaning in, Shane kisses him, placing a warm palm on the curve of Ilya’s neck. He kisses his forehead and murmurs against the skin there.

“You know…I’ve imagined a lot,” he starts, pulling back and feeling like he should be embarrassed but can’t seem to latch on to the contention. “But I never never thought…I never imagined it could be like that.”

Ilya seems to take his meaning because he smiles fondly and lets his thumb settle in front of Shane’s ear, shifting closer so their knees are touching.

“And…it was…it was okay for you?” Shane asks, because he wants to know even though he feels like he already knows the answer. He hopes he does.

“You are joking?” Ilya says, his expression going flat for effect. "I may never let you leave my house again, Hollander.” 

Chuckling, Shane kisses him again. “I think that’s kidnapping.”

“Mmm…I think that only counts if you want to leave,” Ilya counters. “And I think I can make you way to stay.” 

They kiss lazily and Shane ignores the mildly sticky feeling on his skin. When they break apart he allows Ilya to reel him in, resting his arm and chin across the Russians broad torso. Now his hip is pressed into the wet spot. 

“Was that…first time?” asks Ilya, words a little muffled against Shane’s head. 

“Kind of?” he answers, honestly. “I’ve been with a few women. I just usually couldn't, like, finish or whatever. And a few guys. Two…but just a rushed hand job and blow job in club bathrooms that were stressful because I was so worried they would end up recognizing me. And also gross. Club bathrooms are disgusting.” 

Ilya huffs into his hair and he feels the tickle of his hair rustling, Ilya's hand squeezing Shane’s forearm where it’s draped across his middle. 

“Was mine too, in a way…” says Ilya. 

Shane isn’t sure if Ilya can see the face he’s making but wonders if he can feel it. “How’s that?”

From underneath him, Ilya shrugs. “I ah…have always used condom. Before. It never felt safe not to with anyone else. So…was very different for me.”

His chest swells with affection and Shane distantly wonders if caring about someone too much can actually make your heart burst. Because that was…it was something. For all the time they had wasted being afraid to even approach each other, they were still able to have something together that was just for them. And fuck. It was exhilarating and alarming at the same time. The thought punched through the crumbling walls of the fortress Shane had spent his entire life building up around him; to keep him safe and obediently following the path he’s been laying brick by brick since he was old enough to understand the meaning of what a future was. But since that hit on the ice, probably since they first met, Ilya had been chipping away at the walls, helping him build forks in the road until everything he knew lost meaning and was reshaped into something else entirely. Something he wanted and needed and might actually be able to have. The three words swelled behind his tongue. I think…I think I......

He kisses Ilya, hard. Licking into his mouth with a silent plea because he can’t say the words. Not yet. Not when there was still the lingering thought that this wasn’t…what if it wasn’t real? What if the tangled web of emotions stringing through his soul were residue of his false memories? And if they were, how would he know? And if he did, would he care? No. There were too many variables to say what he feels even if he feels it with his whole being, at the moment. And no matter how much work Shane does in therapy, or how much of an effort he is making to face his fears and communicate with Ilya in a way he’s never felt comfortable with when it’s been anyone else, Shane is still Shane. He still needs to overthink this. 

“I should shower,” he says, a little shakily, a string of spit still connecting their bottom lips. “I’m all sticky.”

Ilya pulls back far enough to observe him carefully and Shane wonders if he’s caught the hitch in his voice, the faint tremble in his fingers where they’re clinging to his curls. If he does notice, he lets it go, nodding so that their noses brush. 

“There are towels in the closet inside,” Ilya says, kissing his nose. “I will change the sheets and bring your bag.”

Standing under the hot spray, Shane hears the quiet thump of his bag being dropped onto the chair outside of the door and smiles. Maybe he can’t say the words. But he doesn’t have to right now. Because they’re both here, Shane is staying the night, and neither of them are running away. He has time to figure it out.

Chapter End Notes

I’m so glad you guys are enjoying my little brain worm. <3

 

If we get nuked tonight because our government is about as functional as a coked up raccoon using Windows ME and starts WWIII, I'm sorry I didn't get to finish uploading. 🙃

 

блять...ты меня сгубишь - fuck, you will be the death of me
солнышко - sunshine/little sun
Ты так хорош…Ты так хорошо берёшь мой член - You are so good. You take my cock so well.
блять - fuck

Chapter 7: First Date

Chapter Summary

“Where are we going?” Shane asks, shoving down his joggers without pretense so he can switch them out for his own jeans.

“A date,” Ilya answers, matter-of-factly. Then he disappears in the bathroom, door closing behind him. 

“A…really?” Shane calls, loudly enough to be heard through the door. He can feel his heartrate kick-up at the thought of it, anxiety mingling with anticipation. “We’re like…actually going on a date? Right now?”

The sound of the toilet flushing garbles the first part of Ilya’s response but it sounds like he says “When did you think I meant?”

Shane is still wrestling himself into a sweater when he hears the sink cut on. 

“I mean…” Shane’s brows pinch and he hopes he doesn’t sound like he doesn’t want to go on a date. Because he very much does. But… “We haven’t really talked about a plan? What if…what if someone sees us?”

The sink cuts off and the bathroom door swings open. The smell of Ilya’s expensive cologne almost makes Shane’s mouth water, an embarrassing Pavlovian response he’s developed around too many of Ilya’s characteristics to count at this point. 

“Is negative three on a Thursday night, Hollander. No one will be around,” Ilya assures him.

Chapter Notes

I intended for this fic to be a lot more angsty when I started writing it. But it's devolved into disgusting fluff.

TW: smut in the beginning; implied/referenced homophobia; referenced to panic attacks; authors obvious hatred of La Croix

March 2018

Shane wakes up around eight o’clock, warm and a little disoriented. It takes him a few minutes to recognize the walls of Ilya’s room, the feel of his sheets tangled in Shane’s legs. Ilya was tangled there too, his ankle locked over one of Shane’s, exuding more body heat than one person ought to be able to. Shane has to piss and he’s typically up hours earlier so his stomach growls loudly enough that he thinks it might wake the sleeping Russian. But when Shane extracts himself, Ilya only mumbles, his hand flexing on the mattress where Shane’s chest had been seconds before. Shane kisses his shoulder anyways, tugging the sheet back up and whispers into the dark. “I’ll be back.”

By the time he’s leaving the washroom, Ilya is still curled in bed, having slid over a little to the warm spot Shane had vacated. Closing the door with a quiet click, Shane makes his way to the kitchen. He’s grateful he had Ilya stock up on his pre-made protein shakes - they’re not as good as if he were to make it himself, but it means he doesn’t have to use the blender and can slide back into the bed only ten minutes later. 

He could get up. He could go to the small home gym that he knows Ilya converted from one of his spare bedrooms. He could start his day with routine. After glimpsing Ilya's slumbering form - features soft and relaxed, it only takes about five seconds to decide to slide back into the bed. He'd thrown his underwear on when he got out of bed but carefully folds them over the chair before climbing onto the mattress. As soon as he does, the hard, tough Raider’s captain twists around him like an octopus, drawing him back in and fucking snuggling Shane - he really can't think of a better word for it. Ilya sighs contentedly against the back of his neck and Shane lets out a long breath through his nose, eyes fluttering closed again. It feels familiar but more lucid - like all the times he thought he’d done this before were like experiencing it in black and white and this was full color, complete with surround sound. Shane can feel everywhere their connected - feel the hairs at his nape fluttering under Ilya’s breath and the drag of his lips there when he nuzzles closer. 

The sun is a little brighter around the curtains the next time he wakes and he can feel the lips against his neck crawling purposefully over his skin now, teeth nipping and tongue, tasting, leaving little wet trails in it's wake. Shane’s yawn turns into gasp when he realizes the very pleasant dream he’d been having was not a dream at all. Ilya’s hand is on his cock, leisurely drifting up and down the smooth skin and squeezing when he gets to the tip, thumb swirling at his slit where a bead of pre-cum is leaking out. He can feel Ilya pressed against him, his erection digging into the meat of Shane’s ass cheek. 

“Good morning,” whispers Ilya, when he realizes Shane has woken. 

“Morninngggh…” Shane tries, but the words evaporate into a moan when Ilya’s fist curls around him, jerking him steadily. 

He can feel Ilya's grin against his shoulder, biting and licking at the scar there. Shane feels like he can breathe again when Ilya lets him go but the air punches out of him just as quickly when fingers brush behind his balls, up the cleft of his ass. 

“Do you want…?” Ilya mutters, pushing himself up on an arm so he can look at Shane over his shoulder. 

Words seem to have left him but Shane nods frantically, dropping his head back so Ilya can kiss along the slope of his neck, biting his ear. He chuckles lightly at Shane's eagerness and then rolls away, jostling the mattress. Shane stays in place and hears the sound of the dresser drawer being opened, filling the room over their quiet panting. Then he hears the snap of a bottle being opened. A few seconds later they’ve kicked the sheets back down the bed and Shane startles at Ilya’s slightly cold fingers brushing his hole. Ilya whispers something soothing in Russian and slides the first digit in, inching along the walls of muscle that clench around it. 

It’s easier this time. Shane still feels loose from the night before and it doesn’t take long before Ilya adds a second finger, a third. He’s breathing almost as heavily as Shane when he withdraws, asking Shane if he wants a condom. Shane shakes his head just as quickly as he’d nodded earlier and wiggles backwards until their hips are aligned, understanding Ilya’s intentions. 

Reaching down, Ilya pulls Shane’s thigh up and over his legs, the blunt tip of his cock pushing into Shane at an agonizingly slow pace. He tries to drive himself back but Ilya is having none of it - one hand on Shane’s hip to hold him steady. When he finally picks up a rhythm, it’s slow and deep and Shane feels like he’s unraveling like one of his mothers spools of yarn. It feels…it feels fucking amazing. Like every nerve ending is bursting open until he’s only left with the molten sensation of lava pooling in his core, moving through his veins as easily as their sweat-click bodies slide together. 

“Fucking…fuck…” Shane articulates, feeling a little embarrassed about how Ilya’s dick has apparently rendered him unintelligible. 

Shane can feel his fingers digging into Ilya’s thigh hard enough to bruise as he rocks back against him as much as the other will allow. 

“Fuck, Shane…you feel so good,” Ilya murmurs, his voice low and raspy with sleep. “Like my cock was made for you.”

Another loud groan is the only answer Shane has to Ilya’s praise and he feels his cheeks heat with desire. He thought he’d known what this was like, being with someone so intimately. Though his false memories felt realistic...realistic enough to carve out a feeling of loss when he'd learned they weren't real. But he hadn’t known, not really. And now that he does, Shane isn’t sure he can ever let his go. It's terrifying and dangerous and so, so good. 

“Touch yourself,” commands Ilya, pulling Shane back a little so the angle changes. 

He chokes out something that sounds like a sob when Ilya's cock slides against his prostate and throws his left arm around Ilya’s neck. Shane rolls enough that he can free his right hand from under the pillow and grab his dick. Another sound escapes when Ilya sucks a hard kiss to his pec, craning his neck awkwardly to drag his teeth across Shane’s nipple just to hear the whimper he makes. 

“I’m close,” Shane pants, pulling himself off in time with Ilya’s balls slapping his ass. 

The angle is a little clumsy and they’ll probably both be sore from how contorted they are later, but right now all Shane can think about is the edge of his orgasm, hurtling closer with every stroke. He tips over with a shout, his palm stuttering and stalling when he empties onto the wrinkled sheets in front of him. A few seconds later Ilya pulls out, pushes Shane onto his back and jerks himself off, spilling across Shane’s hip and abs. His eyes widen at the expression on Ilya’s face when he comes - mouth open, pupils blown and nostrils flaring. He’s flushed from his chest to his ears and Shane watches the vein in his neck throb in time with his heartbeat.

With shaky fingers, Shane brings his hand to Ilya’s hair and twists into messy curls. He’s still hovering over Shane, eyes staring down at the mess he’s made. When he finally meets Shane’s gaze he smiles, body shuddering with little aftershocks. He lets himself go and eases down onto Shane with a considerable amount of restraint, kissing up Shane’s torso until he finds lips. And Shane kisses him back, his other arm around Ilya’s back while Ilya brackets Shane's head with his forearms. And for a moment it doesn’t matter that cum is drying between their bellies or neither of them have brushed their teeth yet. It doesn’t matter that the sheets are sodden with fluids and the room smells of sex. All that matters is that Ilya is kissing him and Shane never wants him to stop. 

He does stop a few minutes later and Shane…is okay with it. Once the afterglow fades he starts to feel gross and his limbs heavy. But because they were both still reluctant to leave each others sides, they end up showering together. 

It’s silly, really. Neither of them have anywhere to be for days and they haven’t really talked about how long Shane would stay, but he’s never been in less of a rush. And when Ilya’s hands massage minty scented shampoo through his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as they go, he thinks he could plant himself like a tree and grow roots through Ilya’s shower tiles. 

Somewhere after his third orgasm in twenty four hours, Shane rethinks their proximity. Not because he wants to be away, but because his stomach is growling and since Ilya’s fancy apartment seems to come with endless hot water, he realizes they might actually die of starvation if he doesn’t force himself to make the hard decision. He finishing jerking Ilya off and after he’s clean, Shane slaps him on the ass and pushes him from the stall, Ilya chuckling lightly and leaving Shane to wash himself off - again.  

Ilya is gone when he emerges, the fan unable to keep up with the heavy piles of steam lingering in the room. Shane leaves to retrieve his toiletries bag from the bedroom and when he returns he still has to take a towel to the mirror to be able to see anything. 

Once it’s clear enough, he catches a glimpse of red on his cooling skin and turns, craning his neck over his shoulders. There are neat, circular patterns just above his ass that are undoubtedly from Ilya’s fingers the night before. Shane idly wonders if he’ll have bruises again and if they’ll still be there when he goes back to Montreal, thinking about the marks he’d had last month. Which Shane thoroughly enjoyed, assuring Ilya it was fine when he started to have a mild panic attack upon seeing them before they parted. But it did mean he had to avoid showering with his team until they’d faded. Which hadn’t been hard. Most of the team was already avoiding him in the showers, rushing out before he could drop his own towel or skipping them altogether. Shaking his head to dislodge some of the water from his hair and useless thoughts from his head, he tried not to think about his team.

Twenty minutes later, Shane has gone through his abbreviated skincare routine and shaved what little stubble accumulated over the last few days before padding out to the living space wearing joggers and a baggy sweatshirt, soft from wear. His socked feet slide easily along the manufactured wood flooring and his nose scrunches a little at the familiar smell wafting from the kitchen. He’s already sidled up to the counter when Ilya turns around, pulling a sheet of something out of one of the wall mounted double ovens, setting it on the cooktop in the center of the large island. 

Shane’s stomach lurches. Partially from hunger, but more so from the familiar sense of deja vu he’s come to associate with some of his false memories. About five years ago, Shane had given some stupid interview for a magazine running MLH profiles and they’d asked him about his ‘cheat meal’ after he’d alluded to maintaining performance diets during the season. Really, he wasn’t sure he had one. There were meals his parents made that felt like comfort and home. But he didn’t really consider those ‘cheat’ meals in the definition of the expression since he never made them for himself. Naturally, he’d both over-thought the question and panicked with a halfway meaningless answer just to move on from the subject. He’d told the woman ‘tuna melts.’ Which, to this day, Shane can probably count on one hand how many he’s had. He likes them well enough but rarely makes them for himself. He has no idea why his mind decided that memory-Ilya made it for him once before and it had led to a panic attack. 

When Shane comes back to himself, he can see the hard line of Ilya’s lips, the way his face has shuddered. Shane had told him that the memory of that day was not completely pleasant but had spared the details. So there was no way for him to know something like this would trigger a sense memory for Shane that made his gut twist into knots. No. This Ilya…real Ilya, his heart supplies, had only latched onto what Shane told him. Which Shane had noticed was pretty much everything. He listened when Shane told him that memory-Ilya made him tuna melts and assumed it was because it was something Shane liked so now he'd done so for real with the best intentions. 

“I…sorry…” Ilya says, apologetic, choking a little on the words. “I should have…”

The knots unfurl and Shane’s shoulders droop, the tension leaving them as he takes in a deep breath. The fragrance fills his lungs and washes over the false memories like a wave rushing the shoreline, dragging it out to sea where it’s swallowed in the undertow. He reaches across the counter and takes Ilya’s hand. 

“Hey…” Shane breathes, forcing himself to hold eye contact. “It’s okay. Really. A little jarring, but I’m okay. I promise.”

The hand under his twists and Ilya holds it tightly, expression searching. He relaxes in increments, first his jaw, then his shoulders and his lips lift in a small smile. Shane offers his help and pours drinks into glasses - a coke for Ilya and Lacroix for himself. He notices there is a case of ginger ale in the refrigerator but has trying to been cut back on sugar. Shane doesn’t miss the wrinkle in Ilya’s nose when he notices Shane take a sip of what he refers to as ‘prickly water.’ 

‘Is aggressive, Shane. Tastes like a peach got close to it and was stabbed by a thousand tiny knives and then ran away in fear.’

Ilya turns on the television while they settle in front of it with their food. It’s good. It’s different from any tuna melt Shane has ever made for himself. Probably because this recipe seems like it came from one of those pinterest boards Rose is always talking about rather than the quick, processed cheese monstrosity he’d first made for himself when he was in high school and his mother was still working into the evening. Whatever he has now, messily falling from between grilled bread onto the plate he’s hunching over, is definitely not that. So yea. Maybe tuna melts are his favorite cheat food. It probably has nothing to do with who made it for him.

“Hm…is not bad,” remarks Ilya, commenting between bites. His cheeks are puffed up like a chipmunk when he glances at Shane. “I thought this would be disgusting but, is good.”

“It’s really good,” Shane agrees, covering his mouth with his hand when he talks.

The afternoon passes surprisingly…normal. They watch game highlights, play one of Ilya’s PS4 games that Shane is, predictably, bad at because it's not hockey. Around five o’clock, Shane is starting to get a little restless from lack of movement. Even on his days off he tends to exercise and stick to his regular routine. Most of it has been thrown off and he’s managing the best he can. But he’s itching to move his body. He decides to go on a run. At first he considers coaxing Ilya into coming with him, but they’re already playing with fire by being in the same city and spending time together. Even with the ballcap and balaclava Shane brought to fend off the chill, it would open them to a lot of questions if they were spotted together. Which, they knew would happen at some point. But Shane wanted a little more time. He felt selfish in a way, wanting to keep what they were building to himself. But it was important to him and he knew that once people caught a glimpse, they would make assumptions and form opinions - never coming close to the truth. The significance of whatever it was they had. He didn’t want people minimizing or dismissing that, twisting it into something flawed or unacceptable. Not yet. 

Ilya mutters something that sounds like “Your funeral, Hollander,” when Shane takes the lift down to the frigid streets. It’s early March but Boston had a cold winter that hasn’t seemed to have been informed of the season change just yet. His fingers prickled with cold as soon as he stepped onto the salted sidewalk. 

After an hour, Shane returns to the apartment, red-faced and breathing a little heavier than usual due to the temperature. Ilya gives him a pointed I told you so, look, which Shane returns with an eye roll. Ilya is on the phone with someone, speaking in rapid Russian, so Shane heads towards the bedroom and takes his second shower of the day - this one going much quicker. 

The Russian is noticeably tense when Shane emerges. He flops onto the couch next to Ilya and his eyes flick between him and the phone left discarded on the table. 

“Everything okay?” asks Shane, trying not to be too invasive but curious. 

Ilya sniffs, swiping his hand across his nose - a tell Shane has picked up on that indicates discomfort. 

“Fine,” Ilya replies, his tone neutral. “Was just my agent. I told him not to call me on time-off but he does not listen.”

“What did he want?” Shane wonders, unable to stop himself. 

“Nothing new,” Ilya says quickly, with a sigh. And then changes the subject abruptly. “So…how long were you thinking of staying?”

There’s a small shift in Ilya’s posture, his inflection turning hopeful. 

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Shane lies. He wants to stay as long as he can. “I packed for a few nights, just in case. I told my parents I would visit before the break was over. My team knew I planned to see them so they think I’ve already flown back to Ottawa. But I haven’t booked a flight or anything yet, just told them I can be there by Saturday night.” 

Ilya seemed to take in everything, nodding along and the arms crossed over his chest slackened. 

“I have practice Monday but, no other plans,” replies Ilya. And it’s not explicit, but it’s an invitation. 

And probably as close as Shane will get to Ilya asking him to stay. They’re both making an effort to be honest with each other but sometimes the words seem to get stuck. But it’s enough, he decides. 

“Cool,” offers Shane. “I’ll check flights for Saturday morning when I get a chance. If that’s okay?”

Leaning to the side, Ilya drops a palm to the cushion between them, tiling his chin up to kiss Shane. 

“Yes,” whispers Ilya. “Is okay.”

~*~

Around seven thirty that evening, after trouncing Shane in one of the MLH games he always considered himself fairly good at, Ilya tosses his controller to the side. He turns off the TV and smirks a little at the annoyed look on Shane’s face. Shane has never been very gracious when it comes to losing things he’s good at. 

“Stop pouting and get dressed, Hollander” Ilya’s calls, where he’s already halfway across the room. 

“M’not pouting,” Shane retorts, his bottom lip somehow sticking out further as he moves to follow. “And why do I need to change?”

“Because we are going out,” says Ilya. 

He isn’t sure if the false memories are responsible or it’s because he’s just gotten so comfortable with Ilya over the last few months, but he realizes he’s already obeying his command before questioning it. Shane’s hands are still in his bag, digging for a pair of pants and less-faded shirt when Ilya steps out of his closet. He’s wearing a pair of fitted jeans and pulling a thick turtleneck over his bare shoulders.

“Where are we going?” Shane asks, shoving down his joggers without pretense so he can switch them out for his own jeans.

“A date,” Ilya answers, matter-of-factly. Then he disappears in the bathroom, door closing behind him. 

“A…really?” Shane calls, loudly enough to be heard through the door. He can feel his heartrate kick-up at the thought of it, anxiety mingling with anticipation. “We’re like…actually going on a date? Right now?”

The sound of the toilet flushing garbles the first part of Ilya’s response but it sounds like he says “When did you think I meant?”

Shane is still wrestling himself into a sweater when he hears the sink cut on. 

“I mean…” Shane’s brows pinch and he hopes he doesn’t sound like he doesn’t want to go on a date. Because he very much does. But… “We haven’t really talked about a plan? What if…what if someone sees us?”

The sink cuts off and the bathroom door swings open. The smell of Ilya’s expensive cologne almost makes Shane’s mouth water, an embarrassing Pavlovian response he’s developed around too many of Ilya’s characteristics to count at this point. 

“Is negative three on a Thursday night, Hollander. No one will be around,” Ilya assures him. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Shane’s forehead where he’s frozen in place. “If they do see us, we just say we are friends, yes? No one can prove anything.”

“Right.”

“And assuming just because two men are out together that they’re fucking is homophobic. Or like. The opposite. Is rude. Whatever. You know what I mean,” says Ilya, flustered and shrugging uncomfortably. “Is bad look for them.”

“We would be two men who are out together and fucking,” Shane replies, smiling now. 

“Not the point, Hollander. Get your coat.”

Shane knows if he’d said no, Ilya would drop it. They would make something to eat or order in and there would be no hard feelings between them. And he can tell Ilya isn’t as relaxed as he’s trying to appear to be. Maybe he knows Shane needs the push and if they don’t take the leap now, it will get harder to do. So. Shane gets his coat. 

~*~

By the time they’ve settled into Ilya’s car, a gunmetal, mid-sized SUV with dark, tinted windows, Shane’s leg is bouncing in contrast to the grin he’s wearing. The one he keeps trying to hide in the high collar of his coat and failing. 

“This is a very sensible ride,” Shane comments, enjoying the way the heated seats envelope his back and thighs. 

“I thought if I try to drive you in Porsche you would not shut up about road safety and accident statistics,” Ilya says mildly, guiding the truck from the underground garage. 

Shane makes an attempt at a glare but sniffs a laugh. It’s not untrue. Ilya had told him a little about the cars he kept in a nearby garage and half suspected to be led to some bright red sportscar that would crumple if they ended up hitting a slick patch of black ice on the road.

“You’re an asshole,” Shane huffs. 

“Maybe,” Ilya agrees. “But am also right.” 

Shane is pretty sure Ilya is making a generous effort to obey traffic laws because he barely goes above the speed limit. He decides to reward him by reaching over and taking Ilya’s hand, pulling it from the gear shift to his thigh. When he curls his fingers through Ilya’s, the Russian doesn’t look over but he smiles softly, eyes on the road, and squeezes back.

Their first stop is some hole-in-the-wall Thai place. Shane recognizes the name from the list he’d sent Ilya a couple months ago. The Raiders captain maneuvers the car along the half-empty street, parallel parking about a block from the restaurant. On the walk over, he explains he’d tried most of the places Shane sent on his list but hadn’t made it through all of them. But so far, this was his favorite. 

Once inside, Shane quickly learns why. The room is small, only a dozen or so tables, and it’s dimly lit to the point that Shane has a squint a little to read the menu. The plastic is sticky and all of the dishes are listed in Thai, printed next to tiny stock pictures. Under the black print, it looks like someone had hand written the English words - several of them seem misspelled. Water is deposited on the table immediately and a short woman hastily asks them, in broken English, what they would like. Ilya asks for a few minutes and watches Shane pour through the menu. He finally gives up. 

“I uh…I don’t know what to get,” he admits, sheepishly. “I think I’ve only had Thai a couple times before.”

It doesn’t seem to bother Ilya, who waves the server over and orders several things through a mixed effort of careful enunciation and pointing at the menu. The server leaves and Shane is not convinced she really understood anything Ilya said but he peels off his coat and settles his elbows onto the table like he does this all the time. Which he might. Shane is also not convinced Ilya follows the team dieticians plans and probably eats out more than he cooks or orders athlete-approved meals. 

Shane lets his own coat drop to the back of the chair and tries to get comfortable. It’s not too difficult - there are only people at a handful of the tables and none of them seem to be paying them any attention. They’d also been sat at the table farthest from the door and when they passed the other patrons, Shane only caught snippets of conversation in a language he didn’t understand. Occasionally, someone would dart in from the cold and approach the counter on the opposite side of the room, swiping a to-go order and leaving again. 

Music tinkled over hidden speakers and a pot of tea appeared in front of them, along with two matching floral cups. Shane’s had a small chip in around the rim. It was good - floral and warm in his palms. And Shane managed to keep his mouth shut when Ilya dropped several cubes of sugar into his. 

“So this is your favorite, huh?” Shane asks, finally breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them. 

“Mmm, yes,” answered Ilya. “Is most uh…what do you call…authentic?”

“Yea? Do they also have authentic Russian food anywhere around here?”

“Not so close,” says Ilya, looking contemplative. “About twenty minute drive. Some closer places but, not as good. There is a bakery nearby Sveta and I go to often but they don’t have many options.”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever had Russian food,” confesses Shane. 

In truth, he had been an incredibly picky eater as a child. Certain textures bothered him and he hated messy food and eating with his hands. Some of it had gotten easier over the years, but then he’d tried one diet plan after enough to focus on clean-eating and caloric intake, focusing on whatever was best for his body that he was told would improve his game. It had opened him up to trying new things, in a way. But Shane rarely ate for pleasure. 

“Maybe we go this week,” suggests Ilya, looking excited at the prospect. “Babushka that owns bakery loves me. Always gives me extra Pirozhki.”

“Yea…” Shane says, nodding. “I think I’d like that.”

Their food arrives around fifteen minutes after they sit down and takes over the surface of the small table. There are four separate dishes - something with noodles Shane thinks is pad Thai, a large bowl of soup, a plate piled high with meat and vegetables, and a bowl of steaming rice. It doesn’t take long for them to consume almost everything on the table. Shane ends up liking the soup most but tries some of everything. Ilya eats with the gusto of someone who’s been fasting for days even though it’s been a few hours since they’d eaten a late afternoon snack that for most people would have been considered a full meal. 

Shane eats too much in the end, not wanting to leave food on the plate because he always felt it was kind of rude. And he was pretty sure they didn’t plan to go straight back to the apartment so they weren’t taking leftovers.  

After a brief, pointless argument over which stupidly rich hockey player gets to pay their $60 bill, Shane concedes and lets Ilya pay so they can walk back towards the car. Shane itches to take Ilya’s hand but resists by shoving his hands into his pockets. Before he can give into the impulse, they’re back in the toasty comfort of expensive leather that smells faintly of cigarettes under the air freshener clinging to one of the vents. 

For about ten minutes they drive through the downtown area of the city. Ilya pulls over and jokingly points to the Boston ‘cop slide’ and tries to goad Shane into trying it, clearly attempting to use Shane’s competitiveness against him. He doesn’t take the bait. A few drunken Raiders were caught going down it a few times last year and the videos on youtube briefly went viral. Ilya hadn’t been in any of them but Shane now suspected he may have been the one behind the camera. The Russian gives up after a few minutes and pulls into another spot at the end of a mostly deserted street on the edge of a park, pointing to a small food truck on the corner.

“I am getting a drink…you want anything?” 

He doesn’t really. But asks Ilya to bring him some hot, green tea, if they have it. 

“Here,” Ilya says, handing Shane a little cardboard cup when he returns, the door slamming closed behind him. “Boring tea for boring Canadian.”

“What did you get?” Shane asks, rolling his eyes. 

Though it was maybe pointless to ask. Ilya is carefully balancing a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream piled so high that he was holding the lid in his other hand since it wouldn’t fit over the cup yet. 

“Are those fucking sprinkles?” asks Shane, laughing. Because there are indeed little bits of something dark peppering the foam. 

“Is shaved chocolate, Shane,” Ilya responds, exasperated. “What is the point of hot chocolate without all of the chocolate?”

“You are going to have a heart attack before you’re forty,” laments Shane, maybe a little seriously.

“Then I will die happy,” says Ilya, taking a sip and slurping loudly to avoid burning his tongue. 

When Ilya pulls away, he has whipped cream stuck to his upper lip and nose. Ilya grins at Shane and before he can stop himself, Shane leans over the center console. He takes Ilya’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and licks the sugar from his nose before kissing him briefly, but deeply. 

Ilya groans into the kiss and the sound seems to snap Shane back into his body, rational thought coming back online. He lets go quickly and tries not to look spooked when he glances out the windshield, his heart hammering in his chest like he’s just run five miles. But there’s no one there. The road ahead is empty and the office building that looms next to them is only a wall of silence and dark windows. 

Something flickers across Ilya’s features but he doesn’t say anything, just drags his gaze from Shane to watch the empty street and sip his sugary monstrosity until he’s able to tame the lid on top. Ilya turns the music up a few decibels and sets his cup in the holder between them before putting the car into gear. 

“So uh…” Shane clears his throat, trying to focus on the warm cylinder between his hands. “Where to next?”

Pulling away from the curb, Ilya checks his blind spots but avoids looking at Shane. 

“You don’t like surprises?” asks Ilya. Shane can see him smirking a little. 

“Historically? Not really,” Shane answers, laughing nervously. 

Lifting his shoulder, Ilya shrugs, turning left onto the highway. “Maybe we can change your mind.”

~*~

“Are you bringing me out here to murder me, Rozanov?” 

Shane stares dubiously at the large NO TRESPASSING sign in front of them. 

They’ve parked at the end of a small, empty lot completely obscured by tall evergreens. It’s a public park of some kind. The sign denotes the operating hours of the public property as open from ‘dawn until dusk’ and it’s certainly past dusk. Hours past it. 

“If I wanted to murder you I would not do it on public property, Hollander,” Ilya replies easily, reaching for the door handle. 

And because Shane has no self-preservation when it comes to this man, he climbs out after him onto the dark pavement. 

“I don’t know, we’ve technically only known each other less than six months,” Shane gives a nervous chuckle. “You could be a serial killer.”

Rounding the vehicle, Shane comes to a stop where Ilya has popped the trunk and is pulling out a large gear bag. He shoves one of the smaller packs into Shane’s arms and he fumbles a little before catching it. 

“Then hurry up and cooperate with inevitable demise, Hollander. I am freezing my balls off,” Ilya adds, slamming the gate closed. 

“Wow. Inevitable,” Shane huffs, his breath still visible in the darkness. “Big word.” 

Ilya is facing him now, hoisting one larger bag over his shoulder. He steps into Shane’s space. 

“Ah, I see. No respect for my balls you seem to like so much. Maybe I will murder you here after all,” Ilya says, leaning in. Just as Shane feels his eyes flutter he’s stepping back. “Come. Let us find a place for your grave.” 

Shane has no choice but to follow, trailing behind Ilya’s brisk pace down a nearby path that’s heavily packed with snow. His brain finally takes inventory of the size and shape of the bag Ilya’s carrying. He narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“Ilya…is that…”

“I know you are second fastest skater but you can keep up, yes?” calls Ilya, at least ten paces ahead. 

“But…” 

Tripping over a pocket of ice, Shane shifts his attention to the ground, allowing himself to adjust to the darkness. His arms shoot out to help rebalance and he’s so focused on watching where he’s walking that he nearly runs into the back of Ilya when he stops. 

Peaking out around his shoulder, Shane’s mouth drops slightly at what’s ahead. There aren’t any lights nearby but the moon is bright overhead and reflecting off the wintry landscape. The end of the path has led them to a small clearing with a frozen pond, familiar swirling patterns of skate blades etched into the surface. 

Moving to one of the two nearby benches, Ilya drops the heavy bag on top and unzips it. Shane watches him pull out two hockey sticks, then a smaller container with several pucks. 

“I…we…we’re going to play hockey?”

“Yes,” Ilya responds, gently taking the smaller bag he’d given to Shane. He pulls two pairs of skates from it. 

“Is it…is it even safe?” Shane’s brain stalls a little with surprise but he can’t help but worry about the sign they’d passed. Plus, it’s March already. Even though it had been consistently cold, public skating has usually ended by now for safety reasons. 

“Yes, Shane. Is safe. I checked forum today before leaving. People skated here earlier, you can see,” Ilya sighs, gesturing towards the frozen pool. 

“You…brought me on a hockey date?” he repeats. 

This time Ilya pauses, sets aside the skate he’s been loosening the laces on. He steps close enough that Shane can feel his warmth. Shane notices he looks nervous, tension in his limbs like there had been earlier in the day after that phone call. 

“Do you not want to?” Ilya asks. 

“No!” Shane announces, quickly, hands flying in front of him. “I do! I’m just…I’m surprised. That’s all.” 

Ilya pulls the toque from his head long enough to scrub his fingers through flattened curls, ruffling them. He shudders when he exhales, eyes finding a fixed point over Shane’s shoulder. He shoves the hat back on. 

“I don’t know what else you like, Hollander. My dick and hockey,” Ilya exclaims, his shoulders bunching as he gestures. It’s meant to sound like a joke but it’s cutting and Shane can hear the panic behind it. “And you already had my dick today. What was I supposed to do? Take you to EDM show?”

“Hey,” Shane whispers, reaching up to press a finger to Ilya’s cheek, turning his head. He softens his voice. “I want to. Okay?”

Nodding, Ilya drops onto the scant space at the end of the bench not occupied by the canvas bag and pulls Shane onto his lap. He goes easily, arms draping over Ilya’s shoulders and forcing himself not to look around. He knows they’re alone. 

Dropping his head to Shane’s clavicle, Ilya’s arms wrap around him. 

“I brought you here because this is what you like and I wanted you to have fun on our date,” Ilya mumbles, the words muffled against Shane’s coat. 

The vulnerability Ilya is offering him is enough to make his heart swell, and it nearly bursts when Shane considers how much thought he’s put into this. He wants to tell Ilya what it means to him but can’t seem to form the words, so he kisses him instead. 

Ten minutes later they’re chasing each other across the, very small, rink, stealing the puck from each other and shooting it into little banks of snow instead of a net. They’ve forgone all their gear except gloves and helmets. 

Ilya shoots the puck so hard that it disappears into the snow and he opts to get another instead of going to dig for it. The sound echoes off the trees and Shane gives a cursory look to their surroundings. 

“Are we even allowed to be here?”

He knows the answer, and is sure that wouldn’t have stopped Ilya. 

The Raiders captain skates to the center, stopping just in front of Shane and holds the new puck, bending down. Shane takes his position. 

“No one ever comes here this late, Hollander” says Ilya, grinning. “And no cop in Boston will arrest Ilya Rozanov for something as stupid as trespassing.”

He drops the puck - Shane wins the face off. 

~*~

The drive to the airport on Saturday morning feels like a blur. On Friday, Shane had booked his flight to Ottawa so he could keep his word and visit his parents, though he’d been tempted to make up an excuse. He wanted to see them, really. But the time he’d been able to carve out with Ilya felt priceless. And it wasn’t nearly enough. It also felt like something he wouldn’t be able to hide from them for long. Shane was incredibly skilled at keeping things inside. Even Hayden, who had been his best friend for years, had a hard time identifying the little shifts in Shane’s mood when he made a conscious effort to tuck everything away. But his parents were more receptive than most and he was pretty sure he had a I Spent The Weekend Getting Fucked By Ilya Rozanov brand stamped on his fucking forehead at this point.

The sun has barely risen when Ilya parks in the corner of the short-term lot at Boston Logan International. He doesn’t shut off the engine but leans forward to look around. They’re in a space under an overpass that’s facing the road with the occasional car driving past, but far enough away that it would be hard to make out passengers. There are a few cars in the lot but none nearby. 

“So…uh…I guess we’ll see each other at playoffs?” Shane wondered. 

He assumed they would, at some point. Their teams were fairly well matched this year but the schedule wouldn’t come out for several weeks. If either of them got bumped in the first round without being matched up, it was possible they’d already played their last game against each other of the season. 

“Yes,” says Ilya, turning a little in his seat. “You should get a lot of rest. We are going to destroy you.” 

Barking a laugh, Shane shoves at Ilya’s shoulder but his arm is caught and he’s reeled in, pulled bodily over the center console until his free hand shoots out and lands on Ilya’s thigh for balance. Shane allows himself to be kissed and makes a noise of surprise when Ilya’s tongue pushes past the slick barrier of his mouth. It turns to a moan when teeth catch his bottom lip and Ilya’s lets his arm go so he can tightly grip the soft curls tangling with his own hair as his head bobs with the familiar motion.

Even with the awkward position and knowledge that they’re, more or less, in public - and even though he’s already spent from the early-morning wake-up call Ilya had given him around 5am, Shane’s cock twitches hopefully.

“Fuck…” he breathes, the sound swallowed by the slow glide of Ilya’s tongue and gentle sounds of suction where he seems to be trying to devour Shane whole. 

They withdraw after several long minutes, panting in the space between them. With a final kiss, Shane pulls back and wiggles a little in his seat to adjust himself. Ilya does so more obviously, using his hand to shift himself between his legs. 

Reaching to the backpack at his feet, Shane opens it and pulls something out he’s been waffling on giving the Russian for the last three days. 

“I’ll um, I’ll call you when I get to my parents,” says Shane, exhaling shakily into the warmth of the car. 

“Okay,” says Ilya, looking just as disheveled as Shane feels. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, Shane hands Ilya the binder in his hand, quickly zipping his bag again and popping the handle on the door.

“You don’t have to look at it now,” Shane quickly, hopping from the seat. “It’s just some stuff I looked up. You know how I like spreadsheets.” 

Ilya’s gaze flicks down to the folder in his hand and back up, watching Shane open the back door to get his larger bag. The door shuts and they stare at each other for a beat. Shane’s eyes soften and Ilya smiles at him, though there’s something sad behind it that Shane tries not to read into. 

“Bye, Ilya.”

“Bye, Shane.”

Chapter End Notes

Some notes -
- When I was editing this chapter I realized I apparently had an em dash-palooza. It's fine.

- I am aware the cop slide was not up yet, but I wanted to give a little nod to this hilarious fic:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/76621596/chapters/200538426
- I may be projecting my hatred of La Croix.

- I looked up a fancy tuna melt recipe just for this.
https://www.howsweeteats.com/2019/02/tuna-melt/

- Also the food is always better when everyone inside speaks whatever language from that culture and you have no idea what the menu says. If you haven't taken a chance on it, live a little.

Chapter 8: To Be Known

Chapter Summary

You haven’t seen it?” 

“I’ve uh…kind of been avoiding going online,” he tries. 

“That makes sense,” concedes Hayden.

When it doesn’t seem like Hayden is going to fill him in, he tries to sound as casual as possible when he asks “So…someone said…”

“Oh, yea,” Hayden continues, laughing and reaching for his jacket. “Someone put together this whole collage of clips and pictures of you guys looking at each other with heart eyes. Clearly they just don’t know those are your murder eyes. Idiots.” 

Letting out a nervous chuckle, Shane stands and reaches for his bag. “Yea…that’s…”

“For real though? You and Rozanov?” adds Hayden, while Shane silently wishes for the ground to open up beneath him so he can escape this conversation. Maybe the province entirely. “At least make it look believable. I mean I heard he came out as bi or whatever and I get he’s like…attractive, Jackie says so at least, but you guys like, hate each other.” 

Chapter Notes

If the tone of this chapter was a little different it’s because I was high when I wrote one half and dealing with crisis shit during the other half. So. Sorry if it got weird. *shrug*

It’s also a little shorter but, surprise! You get two more chapters. 

If you have never read a WIP of mine, always just assume it’s going to have more chapters than I initially plan for because of who I am as a person (a mess). 

Also I used a translator for the Quebecois. If it’s terrible lmk and I’ll just switch to French since I understand that better. 

This switches POVs but it should be obvious.

 

TW: homophobia, discrimination, slur, implied phone sex, Ilya being a menace

March 2018

The silence in the dining room is palpable as Shane stares into the murky depths of his tea, the heat having already left the white ceramic container he’s gripping between his palms like it has the answers he’s looking for. He’s not even sure what the question is. He doesn’t have time to think about it before his parents start rapid firing some of their own. 

“Oh honey…that’s…that’s great?” says Yuna, her smile tight. “Are…are you sure? About him, I mean. This isn’t because of your accident?”

She whispers the words like they're going to burn him. And he knows what she really means. 'Are you sure this isn't all in your head too?'

“Rozanov is gay?” David says allowed, sounding confused. “Doesn’t he have a reputation for being a bit of a.....ladies man?”

“You said you've been talking since November…are you sure he isn’t…he couldn’t be taking advantage of your injury?” his mom adds, switching tactics.

“He’s your…what…your boyfriend?” his father wonders. 

Shane grits his teeth and his knuckles turn as white as the cup.

Less than twenty four hours ago he’d arrived at his parents home in Ottawa, his heart tender from leaving Ilya but full from the time they’d had. Somewhere thirty thousand feet in the air over upstate New York, he decided he would tell them. As much as he could, anyways. He might leave off how he and Ilya had spent most of their week together. And he expected some skepticism, some resistance. It could have gone worse. It could have gone better. They could at least assume that not everything he does is still impacted by his last concussion.

“I…” Shane starts, takes a deep breath and forces himself to meet his mother’s eyes. 

“There was interest, before,” he explains, trying to avoid using the word crush because he already feels far too young, hunched over the same table he’d eaten at with his family after hockey practice when he was twelve. “Before the injury. We talked about it and there was something there. We just didn’t know how to like…talk about it, or whatever. I talked about it with Dr. Onley too. Even she said it’s possible my brain did what it did because it knew there was already something there. And I…I care about him, mom.” 

“Oh baby, I’m sure you do…” says Yuna, not unkindly.

“Are you and he…exclusive?” his father asks, as though he’s still trying to parse the meaning of the word. 

He’s not intentional in his pause but he does have to think about it. Are they exclusive? They hadn’t really talked about it. Shane knew Ilya wasn’t sleeping with anyone else and didn’t really intend to. Did that mean exclusive? Did they mean they were…boyfriends?

“He’s…we’re…” Shane stalls a few times before finding the words. “Look. I know he’s been with a lot of women…he’s, Ilya is bisexual. But he hasn’t been doing that in a while and it’s just me. Now.”

Shane’s shoulders straighten and he’s surprised at the surety in his tone.

“And he’s not…taking advantage of me, mom,” Shane says, defiantly. “He’s…if anything he’s been hesitant. Careful. He doesn’t want to hurt me. I told you he reached out even before he knew about the memories. It’s…it’s real.” 

He can hear the agitation in his voice, feel the tightness in his back. Shane knows his parents are just trying to protect him. It’s the only thing they’ve ever done. And sometimes…it’s incredibly fucking frustrating. 

“We believe you, Shane,” says David, exchanging a glance with his wife and taking her hand. “We just want to keep you safe.” 

“I know I just…I get that it’s going to take some time, but I care about him,” breathes Shane, a plea in his eyes for them to understand. “And he cares about me. That’s what’s real. I just…can you guys please just try be okay with it?” 

The next smile his mother offers him is genuine, even if there is still a hint of worry crinkling at the corner of her eyes. She reaches over and lays her fingers across his wrist and he tries to relax under her touch. 

“Of course we can, Shane,” she replies. “We trust you.”

“Maybe you can invite him over sometime for dinner,” his dad offers, giving Shane a little nod with his smile. “So we can all get to know each other.”

So yea, Shane think, as he sips his cold tea and resists the urge to immediately text Ilya how everything had unfolded. It could have gone worse. 

~*~

Over the next month, neither Shane nor Ilya put in much effort to shut down any rumors swirling around the hockey world. Most are about them individually - not together. Across various twitter feeds and barely known podcasts, they’re both accused of dating or hooking up with pretty much whichever male counterpart they’re seen with that week. Shane had most recently read a ridiculous article about Ilya and Marlow being secret lovers. The composition included a blurry photograph of Marlow’s fingers clamped around Ilya’s chin as his head was thrown back, clearly laughing at something. Marlow was pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. The picture had been taken at a local Boston bar after a win and apparently that constituted proof of the affair. 

Shane had promptly sent a link to Ilya, who had, of course, already seen the article and thought it was hilarious. 

Apparently Marlow kept trying to hold hands with him in public now because he, too, thought it was hilarious. 

It was not quite as funny to Shane when it happened to him. 

“So what do you think Jackie is gonna say when she finds out about our secret affair?” Hayden drawls, buttoning his jeans after they’d finished practice for the day. 

Startling a little more than he should have, lost in thought, Shane stalls with one arm through his shirt.

“Uh…what?” he asks, glancing around to see who’s left. 

It’s clearly a joke. He isn’t sure what Hayden’s talking about, but they’ve all been careful to avoid the subject of relationships or sex or Shane in the locker room to avoid it being even more tense than it already is. Thankfully most of the team is already gone, it’s just the two of them plus J.J. and two of the rookies still gathering their things. 

Hayden snatches his phone from the shelf in his cubby and shows Shane the screen. He makes it as far as the headline before he rolls his eyes. 

“Let me guess…they saw us leaving practice together,” Shane guesses, tugging his shirt around his waist. 

“After a run,” Hayden clarifies, replacing his phone. “When we stopped at that smoothie place last week.” 

“People will believe anything…” he laments, shaking his head. 

“At least this one’s more believable than the one I read earlier today about you and Rozanov,” scoffs Hayden, facing away so at least he doesn’t see Shane nearly fall face-first into the locker when he fumbles his shoe. 

“Me and…” Shane swallows heavily, focusing on his laces. 

“You haven’t seen it?” 

“I’ve uh…kind of been avoiding going online,” he tries. 

“That makes sense,” concedes Hayden.

When it doesn’t seem like Hayden is going to fill him in, he tries to sound as casual as possible when he asks “So…someone said…”

“Oh, yea,” Hayden continues, laughing and reaching for his jacket. “Someone put together this whole collage of clips and pictures of you guys looking at each other with heart eyes. Clearly they just don’t know those are your murder eyes. Idiots.” 

Letting out a nervous chuckle, Shane stands and reaches for his bag. “Yea…that’s…”

“For real though? You and Rozanov?” adds Hayden, while Shane silently wishes for the ground to open up beneath him so he can escape this conversation. Maybe the province entirely. “At least make it look believable. I mean I heard he came out as bi or whatever and I get he’s like…attractive, Jackie says so at least, but you guys like, hate each other.” 

“I don’t hate him,” Shane supplies, a little too quickly, his voice firm enough that he now has Hayden’s full attention. 

“Oh…I mean, no. Yea I get it,” Hayden says, brows lifting. He definitely does not get it. “I just meant the rivalry stuff.” 

Shane has another moment where he wishes he could just will people into understanding things so he didn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of having to spell it out or justify his own feelings. 

“I know it’s just…you know that’s been for show right? Not the competitive part,” he tries to explain. “We love to talk shit and kick each other's asses on the ice. But personally and stuff…he’s a good guy. I don’t hate him.”

“Yea man,”  Hayden says, his expression a mixture between startled and confused. “That’s cool…”

There’s another lull and Shane watches the rookies leave from the corner of his eye. J.J. is slowly meandering towards the exit but so engrossed in his phone he hasn’t been paying attention to either of the conversations taking place. Fuck it, Shane mutters under his breath. 

“Actually…can you guys come over for dinner tonight? You and J.J?” asks Shane, his voice a higher pitch than he intends. He hears a curious Hmm? From J.J. who stops walking when he hears his name. 

“Oh…um…I can probably swing that. I’ll have to double check with Jackie to make sure she can handle the kids…” 

“Yea of course,” Shane interrupts. “I mean, you can actually bring her if you want. Or we could come to your place if that’s easier?”

“Yea!” exclaims Hayden, his mood brightening as it always does when Shane includes his wife. If he’s curious about Shane’s sudden interest in hanging out, he doesn’t say. “She would love that actually, if you don’t mind? You in, J.J?”

“What are you even talking about?” asks the defenseman, looking between them suspiciously. 

“Dinner at my place tonight. Be there at seven,” Hayden demands.

“What? Why?” asks J.J. 

“Because I fuckin’ said so, asshole,” Hayden laughs. “We’re having a boys night. Boys…and Jackie. And the kids until they go to bed.” 

J.J. only rolls his eyes and adjusts the strap on his shoulder, shoving his phone in the pocket of his pants. “You are lucky I don’t have plans tonight.”

Shane watches them fist bump each other and follows them out of the arena. As soon as he gets to the car, he calls Ilya. 

~*~

“I’m sorry…what the fuck did you just say?” Hayden asks, loudly. 

“Hayden! Shh!” Jackie hisses, slapping his arm. But her eyes are still on Shane, bright with something a little feral looking that Shane isn’t sure if he should be afraid of or not. 

“Quelle quantité d'alcool contient-il?” J.J. wonders aloud, staring down at the beer bottle in his hand, brows deeply furrowed. As though he has been deeply deceived by it because how else could Shane's absurd confession make any sense.

Shane swallows thickly. They’d made it through dinner amicably and Jackie had put the kids to bed twenty minutes ago. Once they were settled around the dinner table again, they stared expectantly at Shane, waiting for the ‘news’ he said he wanted to share. They definitely hadn’t been expecting to hear he’s in a romantic relationship with Ilya Rozanov. 

“Sorry…” Hayden whispers, leaning closer, his hand nearly knocking over his own drink  “I just…I thought I heard you say something insane about being in a relationship with Ilya fucking Rozanov.”

“I…” Shane tries, recoiling a little. 

This is a bad idea. He shouldn’t have told them. He knew they would be upset. What if they…

“I knew it!” cries Jackie, somehow keeping her excitement contained with her ‘inside voice.’ 

Hayden whips his head towards his wife, mouth dropping open cartoonishly. “You did not.” 

“I told you! The heart eyes!” she says, staring at her husband like he has never once listened to her a day in his life. In actuality, it might have been the first time Hayden didn’t believe her about something. 

“Those were not heart eyes! They were angry eyes. Loathing eyes!” Hayden replies. 

“Babe, I love you,” Jackie continues. “But you are about as perceptive as a garden gnome.” 

“Wow. Rude,” Hayden scoffs. 

Their bickering is so familiar that Shane almost forgets what they’re arguing about. 

J.J is still staring into the amber glass in his hands like he’s trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem. 

“So…how…what…when…” tries the defenseman, each word a little cropped. 

Calmly, Shane explains they have been spending time together since the winter. That Ilya had reached out after his last injury and while it was casual at first, it’s become more…serious. He, of course, leaves out a substantial amount of detail. He’s pretty sure they might all spontaneously combust if he tells them they got together while bonding over Shane’s trauma-brain delusions about a nine year secret gay situationship. 

By the time he sucks in a breath, Jackie has her elbows on the table, chin propped on her palms and is looking at Shane like he’s become her favorite daytime television show. Hayden has glitched out. And J.J. is squinting at him like Shane has lost his damn mind. 

“Bro…you can’t date a rival captain…that’s like…against hockey ethics or whatever. Also, it’s fucking Rozanov,” J.J. said, his face screwed up in disgust and Shane can’t tell how genuine it is or if it's just part of J.J.'s standard theatrics. 

“That’s not a thing, J.J." Shane sighs. 

“Well it should be! Right?!” asks J.J. shrugging. “I mean what if he asks you to throw a game for him on something?”

“Then I would tell him to fuck off,” says Shane, adamantly. “But he wouldn’t. We both care about the game. We both want to win. If anything this just makes us even more competitive.”

“Hey…buddy…I believe you,” offers Hayden, once he’s back online, making an attempt to be sympathetic. “But I have to admit, J.J. is onto something. Not that he’s right, but it’s what people are gonna say.” 

“I know…I know…” admits Shane. “I just…we’ll figure something out. We’re not going to like, announce that we’re together right now or anything. I just…wanted you guys to know.” 

Jackie reaches down and takes one of his hands, her tone gentle. 

“Shane…it’s okay,” she said, before looking at both Hayden and J.J. in turn. Shane has seen that expression pretty often when she’s scolding Ruby. “We’re not gonna tell. Are we?”

They both obediently shake their heads, but still look uncomfortable when they shift their gaze back to Shane. 

“Are you…are you sure you guys are together? Like…you didn’t hit your head last practice and then your nightmare became reality or something?”

Trying not to choke on his drink, Shane shakes his head. “What? No. I…we actually care about each other, Hayd. This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m sorry! Sorry,” Hayden replies, surrendering. “It’s just…weird, man. It’s Rozanov.”

“He’s a person, Hayden,” Shane says flatly. “A good one. Not some comic book villain.”

“And we can’t wait to meet him!” Jackie chimes in. Shane can already see the gears spinning in her head. 

“We’ve already met him,” J.J. replies, skeptically, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t look angry or upset, just…uncertain. 

“No, you know what I mean,” says Jackie. “We’ll have to have him over for dinner or something!”

“You want him here. In our home. Influencing our kids with all his chirps…and…and slander!” cries Hayden. 

“Hayd!” Shane tries. He’s ignored. 

“Babe,” Jackie offers him a slight pout, fingers draped along her husbands bicep. “He only chirps you because you make it so easy.” 

“You fuckin’ traitor!” Hayden laughs. “I can’t believe my own wife is siding with Boston!”

“I’m not siding with anyone! You’re just being a baby because he’s better at being mean then you,” she continues. 

“I can be mean,” Hayden adds, petulantly. 

“It’s cute you think that,” Jackie replies, pinching his cheek as he tries to bat her hands away. 

Shane wonders if they’re flirting and grows uncomfortable in his seat. He’s also a little untethered since he’s seen this behavior so many times before and is just now clocking it as foreplay since it’s similar to how he and Ilya tease each other. Do people notice they act this way with each other? God. That would be so embarrassing.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by J.J. clearing his throat and lightly slapping his palms onto the surface of the table. 

“So then, you are not going to ask me to go easy on him next week?” he asks.

“Fuck no,” Shane says, honestly, grin. "Slam him into the boards. We have a fucking cup to win." 

J.J.’s answering smile feels like a win, so he takes it. 

~*~

Having his best friends know about Ilya definitely felt like it lifted some of the weight from Shane’s shoulders. He also makes plans to see Rose in a couple weeks when he will be in Los Angeles for the first round of playoffs. 

His relief is short-lived. A week before their first playoff game Shane is pulled into his coaches office for what feels like the fifth time in as many months. He’s sat down at the expensive wooden desk while Theriault and his assistant coaches flank the other side like a formation of fighter jets and Shane is the target. He’s told, in carefully worded language and a patronizing tone, that some of ‘the team’ are uncomfortable sharing the locker room with him.

Shane’s chest seizes and he swallows heavily, his throat dry. He’s furious. But underneath the anger is disappointment, sadness and exhaustion. And there’s confusion, too. Shane has always felt like he’s in his own world in the locker room. He’s usually so laser focused on what’s about to happen on the ice, or dissecting everything that happened, that he tends to zone out when it comes to his teammates. Had he idly noticed some of them had decent bodies? Sure. Seeing someone naked was an occupational hazard when you spent your entire life showering around other men. But he never looked. He barely even noticed. On more than one occasion he’d been chirped or chastised for not paying attention to the chatter around him. And he’d certainly never engaged in the childish antics his teammates were prone to - snapping towels and slapping each others asses, making inappropriate jokes or spouting innuendo. But somehow, he was the one making them uncomfortable? 

“Who?” was the only question he could bring himself to ask at first. 

Of course, they couldn’t tell him. Shane honestly didn’t think they’d even heard him because Theriault talked over him immediately. He explained they were working on ‘arrangements’ and ‘protocols’ to ‘deal with’ the ‘unprecedented’ situation. As if Shane hasn’t already been avoiding changing out or showering in front of his team for weeks now. 

“This isn’t…it’s not…a situation…and it’s not unprecedented,” he seethes. “It can’t just be a few of us. Statistically there have to be more queer players in the league. We’ve always been here and we’re not hurting anyone. If anything we’re the ones who have to put up with the homophobic and discriminatory langauge and are at risk for being targeted.”

“If you feel uncomfortable you are of course within your rights to report it…”

“Am I?” Shane snapped. “Because you have watched me show up early and leave late for weeks and you think I’m suddenly doing that because I’ve enjoyed the way the team talks about me now?”

“Your dedication to the game is admirable, son, but…” 

“No,” his chair scrapes across the floor as Shane stands abruptly. He shakes his head like he's trying to dislodge water from his ear, unable to make eye contact with the men watching him. “No…this is…do what you have to. But I haven’t done anything wrong. And I don’t deserve to be treated this way.” 

“Hollander, we’re not treating you any kind of way,” says Theriault, agitated now. “We want to work with you but the comfort of the team matters - the entire team.”

“So am I not part of the team?” he asks, helplessly.

“Of course you are,” Theriault sighs, like Shane is being unreasonable. 

“Then maybe talk to your other players about respecting their teammates and checking their bigoted bullshit at the door instead of singling me out just because they’re uncomfortable that I’m gay,” he says, forcing himself to meet his coach's gaze. His hands are shaking at his sides, curled into fists. He can feel his nails digging into his palms. 

“That’s out of line, Hollander,” his coach says, sternly. “You know the league supports their…gay…players just like anyone else.” 

Shane barks a laugh and pushes his hand through his hair before it lands on his hip. He tips his head back and tries to gather his thoughts. And maybe resist the impulse to punch his coach in the nose. When he looks back, they’re glaring at him and he returns it with as much disgust as he can manage. 

“Do what you want. Whatever you decide, put it in writing and it can go through my PA rep. Maybe my lawyer,” Shane huffs, stalking out of the office, a little satisfied by the shocked looks they’re wearing when he slams the door behind him.

It’s only a short walk to the locker room but Shane still has no memory of crossing the distance. He comes back to himself and realizes he’s standing in front of his half dressed teammates, silence fallen across the room as they stare at him. 

“If you have a problem fucking say it,” Shane demands, glaring at a fixed point on the wall. He can’t bring himself to actually look at any of them. 

No one speaks. 

“So you can go to coach and complain about how uncomfortable you are with the fag in room but can’t do it to my fucking face?” asks Shane, his words a little muffled through the tightness of his jaw. 

“What?” Hayden asks, head whipping around. “Someone fucking called you that?”

Shaking his head, Shane turns and grabs his bag from his cubby, still half dressed in his own kit. At least his shoes are on. He’s sweaty and disgusting but he needs to get the fuck out of here. 

“You know…you shouldn’t fucking flatter yourselves,” Shane continues. “I wasn’t looking at any of you before you knew shit about me and I’m certainly not fucking looking now.”

“Shane?” Hayden tries, concern evident in his voice. Shane can see J.J. watching them both, features shuddered, possibly a little affronted by Shane’s last statement. 

Hayden spins and turns on their teammates, his mouth opening to release a stream of fury. 

“Leave it, Hayden,” Shane sighs. He shoves his hand in the pocket of his bag to get his keys and pauses by his friend on the way to the door. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

His teammates mouth shuts and he watches Shane leaves, still in full pads on his lower half. 

When Shane gets to his car he slams the door closed, gripping the steering wheel in a vice. Fuck. What the fuck did he just do. Are they going to kick him out of the league? Fuck. Fuck…what do I…

At some point he realizes his phone is in his hand. Ilya’s text thread shines up at him, their last few exchanges visible on the screen. Shane types and deletes several messages before tossing the phone into his passenger seat, starting the car. He stares down at the steering wheel for another few minutes and then snatches the phone again. Taking several deep breaths, grounding himself like he’s practiced in therapy, he dials. 

Ilya picks up on the third ring. 

“You have good timing солнышко, I am just getting home,” Ilya says easily. Shane feels the ice in his veins thawing. “How are you?”

His exhale shudders into the cool air of the car cabin and Shane feels himself slouch in his seat, his shoulders loosening. He isn’t sure why he called - whether he planned to tell Ilya what happened. Whether he wanted advice or to vent. As soon as he hears the smooth rumble of the Russian’s voice it’s like the knot in his chest dissolves. He wants to tell Ilya. He should tell Ilya. But right now he just wants to feel something that doesn’t hurt. 

“I’m okay,” Shane breathes, forcing a smile on his face even though Ilya can’t see it. “You ready for playoffs next week?”

“Am I ready to wipe the ice with Philly? Yes, Shane, I think we have it handled,” Ilya said flatly, as though he’s been insulted. 

Shane huffs a laugh. “Cocky.” 

“I can be,” Ilya replies, and Shane can hear the grin behind it. 

“I am driving,” Shane says, connecting the call to his car so he can put it into gear. It’s a little embarrassing how his cock fucking twitches at the slightest insinuation.

“Is that a challenge, Hollander?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane responds, genuinely smiling now. 

“Mmm…I think maybe you like it,” Ilya purrs. “You like a lot of things.”

“Stop it!” laughs Shane. “You can't be all...all sexy when I'm driving. You’re going to make me end up in a ditch.” 

“We cannot have that, Hollander,” replies Ilya. “Not when I need you to get home so you can and show me how hard you are. Would you like that?"

Shane’s inhale gets stuck somewhere behind his teeth and his fingers clench and unclench around the leather wheel. Fuck. 

“Yes,” he responds, reflexively, the heat in his cheeks nearly burning him. God this is embarrassing. But also really fucking hot. 

“So then I will hang up and you will be good and not drive off the road. And you will facetime me when you get home so I can give you reward,” says Ilya. Shane doesn’t miss the hitch in his breath. 

“O…okay,” Shane replies, nodding pointlessly. “I’ll call.” 

“I will be waiting.” 

The call ends. Fuck. 

Shane doesn’t think about his team, his coaches, or even hockey, for the rest of the night. 

~*~

April 2018

The first round of playoffs were almost boring for Ilya. The opposing team's goalie was injured after game two and Boston had an easy time sweeping the remaining games, ending the series after round five. Montreal had a tougher time, dragging through into overtime on game seven against LA. Ilya had watched that game in his apartment with Svetlana, on the edge of his seat the entire night. But they won and would be moving to the next round. He knows it’s likely that Boston will be meeting Montreal in the conference finals. And a little annoyed it will be weeks before he can see Shane again.

So it’s strange when Ilya receives a call from Hayden Pike the day before he flies to Toronto for the second round of playoffs. He’s so startled by the turn of events that he doesn’t even remember to be rude. 

Mostly.

“Pike…how did you even get this number?”

Because he knew Shane hadn’t given it to him. 

“The WAG network is unmatched Rozanov, it wasn’t hard,” Hayden says, annoyed. 

He finds Pike’s explanation suspicious but he’s too anxious about why he’d called in the first place. Ilya highly doubted the man was reaching out to throw Shane a, belated, surprise birthday party or just wanted to chat about their mutual love for all things Shane Hollander. 

“What do you want, Pike?” he asks, trying to sound less concerned. Which must have been successful because he can practically hear Pike roll his eyes. 

“Man you’re an asshole. I don't know what Shane sees in you,” Hayden breathes, though there isn't much heat behind it. “Look…I just…I don’t want to go behind Shane’s back. But I was wondering if he’s talked to you about what’s going on behind the scenes here. He says you care about him so I’m hoping I don’t regret reaching out to you.”

Ilya pauses at that. Shane has told him the room has been tense. That he’s been getting the cold shoulder from teammates and morale has been generally lower. But Shane also said he’s been ‘handling it.’ It’s in that moment that Ilya curses himself for his obvious oversight. Because of course Shane has been laughing it off and saying it’s ‘fine’ and he’s ‘handling’ it. That probably means he’s about three accidental glances away from being drawn and quartered in the Bell Centre parking lot. 

“He said it has been difficult, your team is ignoring him, but he has been handling it,” Ilya says evenly, his accent heavier. 

An audible sigh hangs in the airspace between them. 

“It’s worse than that,” Hayden breathes.

Ilya listens while Pike tells him about Shane’s rigid schedule - coming in early and leaving late to avoid changing with his team. He tells him about their coach pulling Shane in about the anonymous complains about discomfort and Shane's subsequent meltdown in the locker room. That the team talks about Shane like he’s not even there and ignore his leadership whenever they can get away with it. According to Pike, a few of the rookies have been fine, even one or two of the vets, but beside he and J.J. no one is standing up for their captain. And Shane won’t stand up for himself. He goes quiet and tense and repeats the phrase ‘it’s fine’ so often Pike is pretty sure he doesn’t know the meaning of the words anymore. And that now it’s starting to impact their play and he isn’t sure how much of that Shane can take. Pike thinks he can handle it when it’s just words but when it changes what happens on the ice, it’s only a matter of time before Shane breaks. 

Reasonably, predictably, Ilya is furious. Partially at himself for not having read between the lines; used that perception he’s so keen on flaunting to read his…boyfriend? Yes. His boyfriend. He’s decided. That he couldn’t even see how much his boyfriend was struggling. 

“Pike…thank you for telling me,” Ilya says, after Hayden has caught his breath from his rant. 

“Yea, man, of course,” says Hayden, sounding a little surprised at the consideration.

“I will talk to him. I am not sure how I can help but I will try,” Ilya offers. 

“I get it. I wish we could do more too. If you have ideas I’m all ears,” replies Hayden. “I just don’t want it to become this self-fulilling prophesy thing. Like if they keep treating him like garbage and acting like he shouldn’t be there because ‘queer people can’t play hockey,’ his play is affected and if he starts playing badly I just…I don’t want him to start believing them. You know?”

“I know. I will do what I can,” Ilya says. “You are a good friend, Pike.” 

“Oh…uh…yea, thanks, Rozanov,” Hayden accepts, confusion still hovering over his tone. 

“Even if you are 15th best Metro,” adds Ilya. Because he is still a dick. And he has a fucking reputation to uphold. 

“You dick,” Hayden scoffs, and hangs up the phone. 

Ilya smiles as he saves Pikes contact. 

He starts to pull up Shane’s contact but his eyes land on the binder sitting on the counter across from him. Ilya sets down his phone and opens the folder - flipping through the many pages, each with their own protective plastic sleeve. Some sleeves hold entire packets of information, neatly stapled at the top to keep them together. They’re all creased around the edges now for how many times Ilya has gone through them in the last weeks. 

The binder contains thoughtfully acquired and detailed research on citizenship - both American and Canadian. Apparently, Canadian citizenship might be easier to get if he decides to play for a Canadian team. There is a timeline on each, both longer than Ilya would prefer in regards to the unpredictable-ness of his mother country when it comes to issues like this. 

But it’s not the choices he’s ruminating on now - rather the time, effort, and consideration it took to gather all of this. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Shane has been handing him a roadmap for months where the end destination is Shane’s heart. And fuck. That sounds so fucking stupid in his head. But it’s true. Shane has plotted everything out and all Ilya needs to do is take it if that's where he wants to end up.

Meanwhile, Ilya hasn’t even noticed how hard Shane has been being bullied and beaten down by his own fucking teammates. And coaches. And management. 

Fuck the MLH. Maybe they should both just retire and move to a beach somewhere where no one knows what a puck is and it’s too warm for ice to freeze. He knows Shane won't do that. Ilya doesn't want to do that - not really. He still loves the game. He loves his friends. He just loves…fuck. He loves Shane more. It was that simple. He doesn't expect it's that simple for Shane. Maybe it isn't for him, either. But…Ilya loves Shane. And if it’s one thing that has stuck with Ilya his entire life - through his shitty family, his abandonment, the walls he's built in his own mind to avoid allowing himself to have the things he wanted…it’s that he wants to protect the people he loves. And he wants to keep them. 

Chapter End Notes

Quelle quantité d'alcool contient-il - How much alcohol is in this
солнышко - little sun/sunshine

Chapter 9: Once More, With Feeling

Chapter Summary

He can’t believe he waited so long to have this. So many missed opportunities, so many times he avoided giving in to what he wanted because he was afraid. A tear leaks out as he thinks about what might have happened if he never took that hit on the ice. Who knows how long it might have taken, if ever, to get here. To be in the arms of this man that he…

Ilya reaches up and brushes the tear away, peppering Shane’s face with kisses. But he doesn’t ask and Shane doesn’t offer to expose what he’s thinking. Because he has a feeling, Ilya already knows. 

Chapter Notes

One day I will sit through an entire hockey game and imbue myself with the ability to write it.

Today is not that day.

Also sorry for the delay. Life has been absolute chaos and also whenever I have to write anything *around* hockey it always takes me longer. I tried to make up with it with smut instead.

POV's do switch.

 

TW: hockey violence; references to homophobia; smut

May 2018

It’s been more than two months since Ilya has seen Shane in person. Playoff season had been brutal for both of them and as he suspected, Boston met Montreal at the conference finals in the middle of May. The first game is in Boston but there wasn’t any time to meet before the game so his first glance of his boyfriend was during warmups before their first game in the series. 

He’s still getting used to that word. When Ilya is feeling particularly frustrated or despondent, he often finds himself scrolling back through their texts to find that particular interaction they’d had a few weeks earlier. 

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling like that now, watching Shane shoot pucks at an empty net during warmups, until Marlow nudges his shoulder where they’re standing against the boards. 

“So, you hit that yet?” asks Marlow, smirking. He nods towards Shane. 

Ilya isn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere in the last year he’s lost the smooth wit he carried with him through most of his teens and twenties. Or maybe he never really had it when it came to Shane and it’s always been an act. One he’s finding increasingly difficult to put on. 

“Fuck off, Marly,” is the cleverest response he manages. Which was so unconvincing he might as well have tattooed the word ‘YES’ on his forehead in big, blocky letters. 

“Holy shit, you totally have!” Marlow exclaims, a little too loudly, drawing the attention of some of their nearby teammates. 

The glare he returns is a little more effective and Marlow shuts his mouth, though the shit-eating grin remains. 

“Oh you are absolutely filling me in later,” Marlow hisses, leaning down so they’re not overheard. “I want all the dirty details.” 

Rolling his eyes, Ilya turns his focus towards the bench, dragging it away from where Shane has skated back to his own. 

“You know nothing,” he replies, feeling his neck heating against his will. “I tell you nothing.”

“That dirty huh?” Marlow teases, brushing their shoulders again. “You’re straight up blushing, Roz.”

“Uh no,” Ilya scoffs, trying his best to dredge up some of his old arrogance. “Never in life have I blushed. Russians do not do this.”

“Whatever you say, Cap,” says Marlow, looking entirely too self-satisfied.

“Maybe I let one of these shitty Metros to knock you into the boards. You get concussion and forget,” Ilya suggests, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“Dude I’m pretty sure you could take my head off and I would remember you’re bangin’ Hollander,” he whispers. 

Marlow laughs as he skates off, avoiding Ilya’s glove narrowly missing his arm as he takes swing.

It feels good to have his close friends, as few as there are, approve of his choices. Or at least not have negative opinions about them. Ilya learned a long time ago how to be an island - to stand in the middle with his head held high even when he felt like he was drowning, and to survive alone. It took an equal amount of time to learn that support could sometimes feel so foreign that his instincts were to push it away. It’s different now, but the gut sensation is still there and it’s something he has to fight against when it bubbles to the surface. So he will talk to Marly - because they’re friends he wants to share that part of his life with his friends. But right now he needs to get his fucking face under control because he can feel how red he’s gone up to his ears. 

When Ilya turns back around he watches one of the Metros defenseman shoulder aggressively past Shane when he skates by, filtering out to the bench. Shane’s head whips around to glare at his teammate but he doesn't react otherwise. Ilya feels the hit like he’d been the one to take it. It very effectively kills the growing warmth in his body and it’s replaced with a different kind of heat. The kind that fuels anger and violence. 

He’d hoped to talk with Shane about what was going on with his team, but every time he tried, Shane changed the subject. Pike hadn’t told him he couldn’t tell Shane he’d reached out, but Ilya really wanted Shane to open up organically. It wasn’t a test or anything, but he wants Shane to trust him enough to talk to him about how he’s struggling. In his darker moments, he worries Shane doesn’t think he’s strong enough. They’ve only spoken a little about Ilya's past, about his mother, but he hasn’t been completely straight-forward with Shane about his own struggles either. How he worries he might be like his mother on the days and weeks he can barely get out of bed. When something as simple as having a conversation takes so much effort it leaves him exhausted. So he feels like a hypocrite for wanting Shane to tell him what’s going on in his own head. But Ilya is getting better at accepting that he’s flawed and trying his best to believe he can be worth loving despite those flaws. 

They’re still not there. Neither of them have said the words. But he’s come close, a few times. Laying in the dark under the reassuring weight of his comforter while he watches Shane yawn softly across a screen, five hundred kilometers away, it’s hard not to utter them across the distance. And sometimes he isn’t sure which is more difficult - the feelings he knows he has or the fact that he feels them at all. It’s only been months since they’ve been together. He knows that. But sometimes it feels like he’s already loved Shane for a lifetime.

The slap on his helmet snaps him from his thoughts and his eyes refocus to see his team filtering out towards the locker rooms as the pre-show begins. The next time he gets a good look at Shane is when they’re standing across each other before the first puck drop. 

“You’re looking very pretty tonight, Hollander,” Ilya says, easily. His eyes catch Shane’s where they bend towards each other at center ice. “Will be good for photos and replays showing how badly you lose tonight.” 

“Not a fuckin’ chance, Rozanov,” replies Shane, shaking his head. 

Their sticks tap against the logo under their skates and Shane is smiling when their eyes meet again. Ilya grins. It’s meant to look menacing but considering Shane’s expression softens, just a little, he knows he misses the mark. Instead, he winks just before the puck drops. Ilya wins the face-off. 

~*~

The fingers Ilya trails across Shane’s chest are feather-light, dragging through sweat and remnants of lube still smeared across his naked body. When Shane arrived at Ilya’s after the game, he had every intention of talking. To have the conversation he’d been trying to have since that unexpected phone call with Pike. But the second Shane stepped over the threshold of his front door, still riding the high from Montreal’s win, the pull between them had been magnetic. He couldn’t even manage to be mad about the loss when showering Shane with praise was like lighting a fuse. He burned hot and bright and it felt so good to bask in that warmth that the Boston captain had forgotten all about the game they’d just played. 

Shane was on him before the door closed and their clothes were strewn along the path they stumbled through on their way to the bedroom. Two months felt like an eternity and once he finally got his hands on Shane again, he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to let him go. 

It’s over quicker than he would have liked, though that wasn’t a surprise. Neither of them had the patience for slow or gentle tonight. Ilya allowed himself to give in to the frenetic energy they conjured because they had time. They both had practice the following afternoon and their second game the day after, but all the hours between they could spend together. 

Initially, Shane intended to keep some distance for the duration of the finals - at least staying in his hotel when they were in Boston. He’d been worried his absence would be noticed and didn’t want to draw more attention to himself. But between missing each other and knowing that Pike would cover for him, he decided to stay. And Ilya planned to take full advantage of it. 

His fingers still momentarily when Shane’s breath catches, his pinkie dragging over a dusky nipple. The body under him relaxes and Ilya attemps to take a deep breath without it being too noticeable. 

“So…how have you been?” Ilya tries, hoping Shane catches his double meaning. 

Shane’s shoulder is currently pressed against Ilya’s where the Russian has pulled his boyfriend half on top of him, arms circling his torso to hold him in place. He follows the question up with a light kiss to Shane’s ear, pressing his nose against the damp, black strands tickling his neck. 

“Well…we just kicked your ass so…” says Shane, tensing enough that Ilya can tell Shane understands what he’s really asking. 

“Shane,” he whispers, his arms tightening and voice muffled against Shane’s temple. He hears Shane sigh underneath him. “I want to give you space to tell me things on your own time. But I can tell something is bothering you. There is something you are not saying.”

Silence stretches over the space for long seconds and Ilya can feel Shane shift uncomfortably. Though that could be as much from the drying cum and general mess they’ve made of each other as wanting to avoid a hard conversation. He decides to wait him out and slowly, Shane curls his fingers around Ilya’s forearm where it’s resting over Shane’s collarbone.

“It’s embarrassing,” Shane mutters, pressing his face further to Ilya’s. 

“More embarrassing than confessing imaginary relationship to your crush?” asks Ilya, trying to ease the tension.

“Fuck you,” Shane huffs, slapping his hand on Ilya’s arm. 

Ilya pinches his nipple in retaliation, earning a quiet gasp from Shane and his fingers tighten like he needs something to hold onto.

But then, Shane starts talking. The story comes in waves - the pitch and volume of Shane’s voice rising and falling like the ebb and flow of the tides, a surge and retreat, a roar and a whisper. Ilya stays quiet through it all, intermittently brushing his lips to Shane’s hairline. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” Shane finishes, his heart rate slowing again. “It’s just…it does feel embarrassing. I thought I was handling it. That I could just…deal with it. I only have one season left on my contract. I thought I could make it.”

“Is not embarrassing, Shane,” replies Ilya. “You can’t control them. And you shouldn’t have to just…accept it.”

“I know,” he admits. “My mom is working with my agent and the lawyers to work on options - filing a grievance, considering lawsuits, even trying to get me out of my contract. But it’s taking time. At this rate the season will be over and and then summer…I just. I’m worried I’ll go back and they’ll act like none of it happened. Until they remember I’m…”

Ilya rolls from under Shane and maneuvers him until they’re face to face and kisses him slowly. Hoping he can pour every drop of strength and pride and love into it as he can manage. He holds Shane’s face between his palms and keeps him there even after they break apart, breathing each others air. 

“Hey…we will figure it out,” Ilya says, pressing his forehead to Shane’s. “I hate that this is happening to you. But we will figure something out. And you do not have to do it alone.”

Shane nods, bumping their noses and kisses Ilya. 

“You are brave, you know?” Ilya reminds him. “I am very proud of you for standing up to your coaches. And for telling your team they are ugly. They needed reminder.”

A small laugh escapes Shane’s lips and he wraps his arms around Ilya, shoving one between his side and the mattress so he can pull the Russian into a hug. 

“J.J. was a little annoyed by that one,” says Shane.

“He is not ugly,” Ilya concedes. “But ego is too big. Probably good to take down a little…what is expression?”

“Take down a peg?” 

“Yes, that one.”

“A little hypocritical to be talking about someone else having a big ego, don’t you think?”

“You wound me, Hollander,” Ilya whines, drawing back enough so he can see Shane’s smile. 

They relax around each other and Ilya cards a hand through Shane’s messy hair. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Ilya adds, his features morphing into something more earnest. “I want to be honest with each other, if we can.”

“I want that too,” Shane admits, pressing his lips to Ilya’s cheek. “I’m going to try harder at that.” 

“Me too,” says Ilya. “So uh…I guess this is good time to tell you I got new agent.”

“You did?” asks Shane, propping himself up on one arm. “When?”

“Last week. My old agent dropped me last month before playoffs started.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Shane asks, concern evident in his eyes. Though there was no anger or judgment. 

“There was a lot going on. And I had already been looking for someone else,” Ilya confesses. “I knew once I come out there was chance he would not want to work with me. He has been with me since before the but is very traditional. And I would not want to keep Russian agent anyways. New agent is good.”

“Oh…well, I’m glad you found someone else,” Shane allows. “And um…how has stuff been with your team? Really.”

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. “Not bad. There are a few shitty teammates but the rest either do not care or are supportive. I think they know me and Marly will make them regret saying terrible things so, they shut up.”

Shane seems to accept his answer - which is the truth. He’s not unaware of the looks or the grumbling behind his back but as long as they keep it to themselves, Ilya has other battles he would rather fight. 

Kissing him one last time, Ilya pulls him from the bed so they can finally shower. Once they’re clean and the sheets have been changed, they climb into the bed and Ilya flips off the lamp to cast them into darkness. He’s almost asleep when he feels Shane’s fingers flutter across his hipbone. 

“I was talking with my therapist last week and we have a theory," Shane says quietly. "About the memories.”

“Oh?” asks Ilya, the statement pulling him from the edge of consciousness until he’s alert. His eyes flick down to the top of Shane’s head. 

“Mmm,” Shane hums against him. “I think the reason my brain filled in the gaps, or whatever, had something to do with Tampa. You told me…well. It seems like that was important. Maybe the first time we were really honest with each other. So we think…I think maybe I felt…safe. With you. So my brain latched onto that safety. I did have a…a crush…on you…”

Ilya breathes a laugh and Shane pats his hip in admonishment.

“Shut up,” says Shane, though Ilya can feel him smiling. “But yea I just…you made me feel safe. Even before Tampa there was something there. I felt comfortable around you and that’s where my memories and whatever the truth is seem to merge or come the closest. So I think after the injury and the trauma I wanted to feel safe and so my mind…it went to you.” 

His heart seizes and Ilya wonders if Shane can feel it when it starts again, thumping heavily in his chest. 

“I wish I had not been so scared then,” Ilya says, his voice breaking. “That I could have said what I really....”

Shane presses a kiss to his jaw. “I think you get a pass, considering everything that was happening.”

Smiling sadly, Ilya pulls him in. 

“I am not scared now,” he says, though it’s a lie. “No…that is a lie. I am scared. But I am not going to let that stop me anymore.” 

“Yea,” Shane agrees. “Me neither.”

~*~

The conference finals go to game seven because of course they do. With only minutes left on the clock, the score is 4-3 in the Raiders favor. All they have to do is ride out the clock and they’ll make it to the finals. Ilya’s in the box for a minor boarding penalty and jumps back on the ice the second Drapeau deflects a shot from Connors. Connors snatches the puck from the rebound but both Shane and Comeau are on him. Shane gets to it first but he’s blocked by a Boston defenseman. He passes to Comeau, not really having any choice but Comeau runs into the same brick wall in the form of another Boston player. Shane manages to get around the defender and and almost steals the puck from between the other players legs. But instead of working with his captain, Comeau skirts around the Boston player as Shane distracts him and shoulders Shane out of the way, nearly tripping him. It’s stupid and selfish but while Comeau’s attention is diverted in favor of being a dick, he doesn’t see Ilya sailing towards him full-throttle. He probably could have slowed. His eyes tracked the moment Comeau lost control of the puck and Ilya could have changed the angle of the hit at the last second if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t want to. The hit lands hard and his body slams into Comeau so powerfully his feet leave the ice and his hips hit the boards right in front of the Metro’s bench. Comeau goes careening over the wall, crashing into several players on the other side. 

A stoppage is called and Ilya holds his breath and awaits his fate. It was reckless for a playoff game and could get him suspended if Comeau is injured. But he seems okay. Ilya supposes the other Metros broke most of the fall. He’ll probably be bruised but otherwise it must have looked more dramatic than it was. Ilya still gets a five minute penalty. 

Ilya’s gaze searches for Shane but the Montreal captain is focused on the puck drop. It doesn’t matter in the end. The clock runs out and Boston wins. Ilya watches Shane skate off to his own bench exhausted and favoring his left side, but he’s in one piece. 

When they meet again for handshakes after the game, Shane is smiling. It’s genuine, if a little pained, and he gives Ilya a determined nod.

“Good game,” says Shane. And Ilya’s breath punches out of him harder than it has during any hit he’s taken that night when Shane brings his other arm around Ilya’s shoulder in a brief hug. “Kick some ass in the finals.”

He’s so shocked he barely has time to return the hug, mouth agape when he moves along to shake Pike's hand - who is looking at him with a stupid, knowing smile. 

And when Ilya pushes Shane into his boring, blue sheets that night, and Shane is so gone with pleasure Ilya is sure that the sounds he’s making will hide any of the utterances - Ilya murmurs thank you and you’re perfect and I love you in a language he hopes he doesn’t have to hide behind much longer. 

~*~

“I can’t believe they’re fucking blaming me,” Shane complains. “Like I didn’t score two out of three of those goals in the first place. Like Comeau didn’t deliberately get in the fucking way when I had a shot at tying the game. It’s bullshit.”

“It is,” agrees Ilya. He’s holding the phone aloft and Shane can see laying on the bed of his hotel room. It’s the night before the start of finals and their first game is in Detroit. “At least you do not have to see them again soon.”

“Hopefully not at all…” mutters Shane.

“You are really thinking about leaving?” Ilya asks.

“I guess. Maybe. I don’t know,” he sighs. “My lawyer thinks if we threaten a discrimination suit they might release me from my contract early but it’s still not a guarantee.”

“Maybe you should come to Boston for final game,” suggests Ilya. “Piss them off even more. I will send you a jersey. Maybe give them all heart attacks.” 

Shane laughs. 

“So you think it’s going to go to game seven then?” he teases. 

“No,” Ilya replies, unconvincingly. They both knew it would be a hard series. “But does not hurt to be prepared. And you can always come to Detroit for game six. Isn’t your ex-actress lover from there? Maybe you visit.” 

“Don’t call her that,” Shane huffs. “And you know she doesn’t live there anymore.”

“Hmm…well. Whatever happens I want to see you soon,” says Ilya, his voice softening. 

“I want to see you too,” Shane admits. “I uh…actually had something I wanted to ask you. After the season is over, do you want to come to my cottage this summer?”

Shane watches something unreadable flicker across Ilya’s features and for a horrifying moment he worries he’s overstepped. 

“I mean…you…you don’t have to, of course,” he stutters. “I just figured if you weren’t planning to go to Russia it might be nice to spend some time at the lake. Together. But if you are going back then..”

“Shane,” Ilya says, smiling now that Shane’s trained his eyes back on the screen. “Of course I will. I would love to visit you at your cottage this summer.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Ilya repeats. 

Relaxing, Shane sinks further into the armchair and props his cheek on his hand, shifting the angle of the phone. 

"I'll uh...start planning then," Shane says.

“I can’t wait," Ilya grins.

~*~

Four days later Shane jogs to the door of his Montreal apartment to meet the doorman who hands him a package. He tears it open when he sees the return address is Boston. Inside, is a brand new Raiders jersey with ROZANOV plastered across the back in big, yellow letters. He laughs out loud. 

~*~

June 2018

The next time Shane sees Ilya in person is during the Stanley cup final. He’d bought tickets to attend the game with his parents, having suspected the series would go to game seven. Even though Ilya had mentioned it, probably partly seriously, it was his parents idea to go together. His father had to be in DC for a work trip and managed to get a long layover flight stopping over in Boston. His mother had decided to join his dad so they arrived just an hour before the doors opened and would have to be back on a plane early in the morning. But he was glad they’d been able to make the time to come with him. Hayden had offered, but it would have been hard for him to get away from the kids on short notice. And Shane supposes he could go by himself, but it felt easier this way. 

They sat closer towards the Boston side but in street clothes - not supporting any particular team. Shane cheered for goals for both Boston and Michigan. Unfortunately, he was still too recognizable to go fully incognito. The jumbotron blew his face up across the stadium screens multiple times, catching every awkward smile and stupid looking wave he obliged. 

Thankfully, the cameras weren't focused on him when Ilya scored the winning goal in overtime, securing the cup for Boston in a 3-2 win, because Shane launches himself from his chair and screams until his lungs hurt. And something else hurts as he watches Ilya carry the cup around the rink, holding it high above his head. There are tears in his eyes and Shane finds his own stinging with unshed moisture, catching on the edge of his lashes before they can fall. Ilya looks…happy. He looks strong. And Shane wants nothing more than to climb over the rows of chairs until he can gather Ilya in his arms and tell him how fucking proud is he. 

But he can’t. Not yet. They’d agreed to wait and there will be time for that later. So, Shane shoves down the mild disappointment and starts to file out of the stadium behind his parents. 

Even though he’s able to wrangle them towards the back halls usually intended for staff and players, he’s still waylaid by reporters before they can reach the double doors. He doesn’t stop but slows long enough to answer their question about what brought him to tonight's game. 

“I’m just here to support Major League Hockey,” he says, vaguely. “Of course I wish my team was out there lifting the cup but we played well this season. I respect any team that makes it this far and am always happy to catch a finals game when I can.” 

A security staffer waives them through and the rest of the walk to the exit is quiet and goes uninterrupted. Since his parents have to leave early in the morning, he drives them to their hotel near the airport and drops them at the valet. They talk about the game during the drive over but Shane finds himself distracted and goes a little red around the ears when his mother points out as much, smiling at him in a way he’s all too familiar with - like she knows his mind is elsewhere. He really hopes she can’t tell exactly where it is.  

“And don’t forget to ask Ilya about the 14th! I know it’s the day after finals but if he is going to be able to visit right before his birthday I’d love to make a cake for him,” says Yuna, holding the door open to the passenger seat and dipping her head down as David climbs out the back. 

“I won’t,” Shane calls, averting his eyes at the little smirk she gives him. 

“I love you! Drive safe tonight,” says his mother. 

“Thanks for the ride,” adds his dad. “We’ll see you soon, kid.” 

“Bye mom, bye dad,” he waves. “See you soon.”

~*~

Shane’s restless energy feels like a swarm of bees under his skin by the time he arrives at Ilya’s. He’s not home yet. They’d discussed their plans beforehand and Shane had encouraged Ilya to go out with his team if he won. They deserved to celebrate the win. Ilya even suggested Shane join them but he wasn’t sure he was ready for the attention and the high energy of it all at once. Plus, he sort of wants Ilya all to himself tonight. 

Letting himself in with the keycode, Shane takes his time cleaning up in the shower, changing into something comfortable. Then, just to pass the time, he makes himself his typical post-game smoothie that Ilya now keeps ingredients stocked for, even though he hadn’t been the one who played a game. 

While he waits, he turns off his notifications for all his social media and ignores the texts popping up. It seems his presence at the game has already started making the rounds and he’s sure his team and management will have something to say about it. But he genuinely does not give a fuck right now. Well. Maybe he gives a little bit of a fuck, because he digs out one of the nicer vodka bottles from the freezer and pours himself a few shots. 

Based on the texts Ilya has been sending him from the bar the Raiders have overtaken, Ilya is a little tipsy anyways. The messages are getting filthier by the moment and when he asks Shane to send him a picture of his dick, Shane responds with “I think you’d enjoy seeing it more in person.” He receives a string of Cyrillic he translates as a lot of swearing followed by a slew of emojis. Shane bites his lip and smiles down at the thread. Ilya seems to be having a good time with his team but he hopes he comes home soon. He’s still scrolling up and down their their conversation when the door closes.

Shane had been so lost in anticipation he doesn't hear the elevator ding or the door open. He knew Ilya had taken a rideshare home since he’d been drinking and despite the flush in his cheeks and the way his hair is a little tousled from too many people ruffling it throughout the night, he also looks really fucking sexy. Ilya is wearing fitted jeans a tight button up with the first few undone, the cross glinting on his throat when it catches the light. 

When Ilya’s stare reaches Shane he freezes, pausing in the middle of kicking his second shoe off. Shane is watching him from the living room with his phone in his hand. But he’s only wearing a pair of white socks and the Rozanov jersey that Ilya had sent him as a joke the week prior. It falls just to the top of his thighs and leaves little to the imagination. But the expression on Ilya’s face suggests he’s imagining a whole lot right now.

“Fucking Christ, Hollander,” Ilya breathes, frantically kicking his other shoe off. 

He leaves his keys and phone on the table near the door and rushes over to Shane, crowding him and kissing him possessively. Shane discards his own phone on the nearby kitchen bar and returns the kiss with enthusiasm and heat, sucking Ilya’s tongue into his mouth and then nipping at his lower lip. His hands are buried in Ilya’s unruly curls and he moans into the next kiss while Ilya’s fingers drop to the hem of the jersey, tucking his hands underneath to confirm his suspicions that there isn’t anything beneath it. Ilya’s hand finds Shane’s already hard cock and he pulls away from the kiss with an obnoxious suctioning sound and latches onto Shane’s neck. 

“God you have no idea what you do to me, Shane….” 

“I have a little bit of an idea…” says Shane, smirking. He bucks into Ilya’s fist so the back of Ilya's hand bumps his own erection and Ilya groans. 

Ilya lets go of his dick long enough to walk him backwards towards the living room. His shirt and pants land somewhere on the floor along the way and he doesn’t even bother to take his socks off. He lets Shane drop to his knees and push his underwear down, sinking his swollen lips around the head of Ilya’s cock before it’s even fully freed from the fabric. His mouth swallows around Ilyas hard length and the man shivers as the waistband of his boxer-briefs drag over the back of his ass and down his thighs. Ilya groans loudly as he gets a hand in Shane’s hair. 

He only allows Shane to lavish his thick cock for a few minutes before pulling him up and tasting himself on Shane’s tongue. When he breaks them apart he spins Shane around and bends him over. When he realizes Shane had put a plug in earlier while he was showering, the sound he makes is something Shane will never forget. 

The Russian releases a string of unintelligible swears and presses his thumb against the base of the silicone. Shane’s hole flutters around it he swears himself, arms gripping the back of the chair he’s leaning over. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groans again, pulling the plug back a few millimeters before pushing it back in. “You have been waiting for it all night…”

“Been waiting...weeks…are you gonna fuck me?”

“Oh, I will fuck you,” Ilya purrs, reaching around to grab his dick again. His other hand strays from the plug and he rucks the jersey up Shane’s back before placing a hand over his spine where he knows Ilya’s name is staring back at him. “So tell me how you want it, солнышко?”

Shane presses back, feeling Ilya’s hard length mash against the clef of his ass. He whimpers. 

“Do you want it slow…do you want it careful…?” Ilya says, his hands roaming across Shane’s back and shoulders. He reaches around and grabs Shane by the throat suddenly, pulling him upright so he’s flush against Ilya’s front. His hand squeezes. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough that Shane’s breath constricts. “Or do you want me to make you feel it?”

“Want to feel it,” Shane gasps, squirming under his boyfriends hold. “I need it…Ilya…please…please fuck me…”

“Well,” Ilya obliges, sucking Shane’s earlobe into his mouth. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Ilya shoves Shane forward again and he holds onto the chair like it’s an anchor, his knees already feeling weak. He groans as Ilya pulls out the plug and hears it hit the floor loudly. Then Ilya’s chest is pressed to his back and he’s fishing around beside the cushion in the chair. Ilya straightens and the pressure disappears when his hand comes back with a small packet of lube. 

“Lucky that ended up there…” Shane laughs, his head turned to the side to watch Ilya tear the packet open with his teeth. 

Without bothering to warm it, Ilya slicks up two fingers and shoves them inside of Shane roughly; he hisses at the coolness.

“Is not luck, Hollander,” Ilya confesses, hunching over him to kiss below his ear. “Is strategic.”

It takes Shane two tries to get the words out, the first time cutting himself off with a moan as Ilya adds a third digit and brushes his prostate. 

“You…are you seriously just leaving lube all over your house?” he asks with a chuckle, followed by another bitten off moan. 

Standing back up, he feels Ilya withdraw his fingers and then the blunt tip of Ilya’s cock slap against his hole. 

“You are the one who likes planning so much,” Ilya reasons, sinking into him a few centimeters before pulling out again. He repeats the motion several times. “Surprised you did not think of it first…”

“I guess that is…proactive…of you…fuck..” Shane pants, his fingers curling into the sides of the cushion under him. 

“Hmmm…yes,” says Ilya, before burying himself to the hilt without warning. Shane cries out so loudly he nearly misses Ilya’s murmur of, “Your house had lots of fun hiding spots…”

The pace the Russian sets is brutal and Shane feels himself tilting his hips back to meet each thrust. Ilya alternates from smoothing his hands across Shane’s back to pulling at his ass cheeks to open him wider. Shane can feel tears forming at the corners of his eyes when Ilya pulls him upright, Shane’s dick rubbing maddeningly against the back of the chair. When he reaches down to stroke himself, Ilya bats his hand away and he whines. 

“Ilya…I need…”

“No,” Ilya grunts, an arm reaching around to trap both of Shane’s at his side. He can feel Ilya’s breath against his neck. “You are my prize, Hollander. And I will give you what you want…but you will wait for it.”

“Fuck…” Shane chokes out.

He wants to be good for Ilya. He wants this to last forever. But his body and brain have disconnected at some point and when he unconsciously goes for his cock again, Ilya grabs both of his wrists and holds him like that - crashing into him so hard Shane has a hard time keeping his balance. His thighs start knocking against the chair and it scoots across the wood floors with a quiet scrape. Distantly, he wonders if Ilya put felt pads under the feet of his furniture and tries to make a mental note to remind him later. The thought dissolves seconds later when Ilya abruptly pulls out and spins him around. 

Ilya kisses him, their tongues licking into each other messily. Shane can still detect the faint taste of vodka there and groans into the kiss while their groins slip together. Ilya walks Shane backwards again, one hand on his hip and the other tangled in his hair. He maneuvers them around the chair towards the couch and drops down to get his hands under Shane’s thighs to lift him. Shane yelps as he half falls onto the couch with his ass hanging off the armrest. Ilya slots himself between Shane’s thighs and sheathes himself inside for a second time. 

He’s moving slower now, one hand holding onto the meat of Shane’s ass where his thighs are wrapped around Ilya’s hips and the other exploring the giant 81 in the middle of Shane’s chest. His eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide Shane wouldn’t know the color of them if he hadn’t memorized them years ago. 

“I…” he starts, but cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut both so he won’t come and to avoid saying what he really wants to say because it feels too big for the moment. 

He wants to say I need you and I need this. He wants to say I love this. I love you. 

“Fuck, Ilya…don’t stop…never stop…” is what comes out. 

Swearing under his breath, the pace quickens again and Shane feels both hands pulling his hips into a ruthless rhythm. 

“Shane…fuck…Я никогда не хочу останавливаться…Я хочу тебя всегда…” Ilya chants. 

And, not for the first time, Shane wishes he had actually learned Russian. In his false memories he’d started to learn, but when he tried to recall the words they didn’t come to him. 

But even though he doesn’t understand it…he feels it. Because he is almost certain he is a mirror of whatever meaning is hiding behind the foreign tongue. 

“Oh my god…” says Shane, like a prayer. But he says it to the flushed, marble god above him making him feel like he’s already in heaven and deserves to be there. 

“Touch yourself,” Ilya commands, his eyes hungry and devouring every breath and slap of skin that breaks the silence. “Come for me, моя любовь…”

And Shane obeys. A single touch is all it takes to break the dam and he comes so hard his vision nearly whites out. The spray lands messily across the jersey and Ilya’s chest when he leans forward, chasing his own orgasm. Shane clenches around Ilya's cock and warmth fills him. Ilya makes a sound like he’s been punched in the chest, choking on a groan and stilling while Shane shivers through his own aftershocks. 

When they’ve caught their breath, Ilya shoves him back far enough so he can collapse on top of Shane - still inside him. Shane wraps his arm around the Russians sweaty back and holds him like he might float away if he lets go. 

He can’t believe he waited so long to have this. So many missed opportunities, so many times he avoided giving in to what he wanted because he was afraid. A tear leaks out as he thinks about what might have happened if he never took that hit on the ice. Who knows how long it might have taken, if ever, to get here. To be in the arms of this man that he…

Ilya reaches up and brushes the tear away, peppering Shane’s face with kisses. But he doesn’t ask and Shane doesn’t offer to expose what he’s thinking. Because he has a feeling, Ilya already knows. 

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for sticking it out! Only one more chapter and an epilogue to go. Probably.

 

солнышко - sunshine/little sun
Я никогда не хочу останавливаться - I never want to stop
Я хочу тебя всегда - I want you always
моя любовь - my love

Chapter 10: Where We Begin

Chapter Summary

“Not worried,” Shane answers. “But…scared, a little? It’s just been a lot. And honestly…I’m afraid I’m going to wake up one day and this is all going to have been a dream. I mean if my brain can conjure up what it did, who’s to say it’s not doing that right now?”

He chuckles a little but catches Ilya’s frown out of his periphery. 

“You worry this is fake?”

“What I feel right now is real,” Shane says. “I believe that. I just…I still have this irrational fear that I’ll wake up one day and it won’t be. That I’ll have made it up.”

“Well,” Ilya offered, rubbing a thumb across the back of Shane’s knuckles. “If it is…then I will stay asleep with you. I told you before…your reality is better.”

Chapter Notes

Note: Shane does not have a memory of Farah in this timeline.

Also I don’t know shit about how hockey contracts work and also I don’t care so, just go with it. 

Sorry for the wait. I tried to make up for it with power bottom Shane.

TW: smut; references to homopobia

June 2018

By a twist of fate perhaps, Ilya is able to join Shane in Ottawa on the fifteenth - which just happens to be Ilya’s birthday. He’s only able to stay for a few days before he has to return to Boston for post-cup press obligations, but assured Shane he would return at the end of the month once he’d finished. But he’s glad Ilya made the effort to come early since it’s been priceless to watch him endure a Hollander family birthday celebration. 

It’s undoubtedly a little awkward, especially at first. He’s never seen Ilya act so stilted and proper in front of anyone before and it takes a while before his characteristic confidence and charm are able to shine. Apparently, food works wonders in lubricating weird social situations for the Russian in ways that had never done so for Shane. By his third slice of cake, which he complimented Shane’s mother on repeatedly, he’s wildly gesticulating a story about some ridiculous prank one of his rookies played on their seasoned goaltender and Shane has to grab his arm to keep him from flinging bits of it across the room. Ilya smiles apologetically, blushing, and Shane can’t stop himself from reaching over to push Ilya’s curls back away from his face. For a second, Ilya seems to forget his story and has to do a double take, eyes sparkling with something warm as he turns his attention back towards Yuna with a soft smile on his face. 

Despite the awkwardness, Shane enjoys every second. Even though his parents had seemed reticent about Ilya’s intentions and the authenticity of their relationship, seeing it in person must put their worries at ease. The Boston captain is able to keep up with his mother when they discuss hockey stats and strategies and Ilya surprises Shane’s father with his knowledge of cars and how he’s more recently started to enjoy cooking as a hobby. Shane finds he’s silent most of the night, just watching and enjoying the dynamics around him. And whenever Ilya seems to decide Shane has been left out too long, he asks him a question or takes Shane’s hand and pulls it on his thigh below the table. Once, when Shane started to become overwhelmed with his mother bringing up the topic of his potential trade options they were waiting to confirm, Shane put his head on the table and Ilya carefully drew him back up. He kissed Shane chastely on the lips, effectively dragging him from his spiral and leaving him stunned by the casual, unabashed intimacy of the gesture. When he saw his mothers expression, he was pretty sure she was already making future wedding plans in her head. 

Before they leave for the night, Yuna stops them near the door. 

“We didn’t have much time to plan for a gift and we don’t really know you that well but, well, we wanted to do something,” she says, turning to take a small package from her husband, sidled up next to her. She hands it to Ilya whose brows furrow in confusion. 

“Oh…you did not have to…” Ilya tries, looking flushed. Shane notices his hands are trembling almost imperceptibly as he pulls at the twine bow in the center.

Looking over Ilya’s shoulder as he pulls away the parchment, Shane’s eyes widen slightly at what he uncovers. It’s a photo of the two of them from the All Star game the year prior. Ilya had latched onto Shane after a particularly impressive goal Shane had scored off one of Ilya’s assists. In the picture, Ilya’s arm is around Shane’s neck and his lips are pressed to the side of Shane’s helmet. Shane’s eyes are cast down but he’s smiling brightly and Ilya’s grin is visible even through his puckered lips. 

“Oh…” Ilya makes a quiet sound, not realizing the wrappings have floated to the floor. He cradles the frame in both hands. “I have not seen this one…”

“Me neither…” Shane adds, realizing he’s reaching out to touch the glass unconsciously but withdraws, looking at his parents. 

“How did you…?”

David smiles at them. “You remember Pete Godwin?”

Nodding, Shane gives his father a confused look. “Your college buddy?”

“That’s the one,” David confirms, easily. “He does some sports photography on the side. He was at that game. Sent me a few action shots back in the winter. I always thought the two of you had great chemistry in that game. I guess now we know why.”

“We just figured you’re still not out yet, together,” Yuna continues, reaching out to push a curl away from Ilya’s forehead like she’s done a million times to Shane over the years. “So you probably don’t have a lot of photos of the two of you. We saw this one and thought you both might like to have it.”

When Ilya looks up again, his eyes watery but focused, Yuna reaches out to grasp his wrist lightly. 

“And after seeing you with our son tonight, we thought maybe this could be a bit of a peace offering. We can be overprotective of Shane but I think we all have the same intentions here. So I know you don’t need it, but you have our blessing. And our thanks for taking care of him,” she continues. She lets go to pull Shane in and kiss him on the temple. “For taking care of each other. You are both wonderful boys and deserve the world.”

At this point Shane is tearing up and tries to cover it by rolling his eyes - a long practice defense mechanism his parents easily see through. 

“Mom…” he whines, superficially. 

Yuna laughs wetly and ruffles his hair. She looks like she wants to hug Ilya but he seems frozen, his eyes cast back down on the photograph. 

“Thank you…” Ilya whispers, his voice catching in his throat. When he looks back up the blue-green pools around his pupils are swimming but the moisture stays contained. “Thank you. I…you do not know what this means.”

“You’re welcome, son,” says David. “Now. Not to kick the two of you out, but it’s way past our bedtime. I think the tryptophan is really sneaking up on us.” 

He winks at Shane, who rolls his eyes for a second time. It’s after ten o’clock but he’s pretty sure the urge for them to leave is more for their benefit. Ilya had arrived that afternoon and after the two hour drive from the airport, all the Russian had time to do was shower and change before they headed to the Hollanders cottage for dinner. Shane knew he’d had a late night prior and so they were both fading. 

The pair said their goodbye and left his parents to get their own rest. Ilya stared down at the photograph the entire drive back to Shane’s cottage despite the low light rendering it nearly invisible in the dark cab of the car. 

“Your parents are good people,” Ilya says quietly, breaking the short silence.

“Yea…” Shane agrees. “They really are.”

As soon as they’re inside, Ilya pushes Shane against the wall, only taking the time to set the photo on a small table near the door where Shane drops his keys into a bowl. Shane doesn’t even get a chance to turn the lights on before Ilya is reaching for the button on his shorts and scraping his teeth against Shane’s throat. Shane can feel himself growing stiff against Ilya’s thigh and shoves his hands under the soft cotton shirt over his boyfriends chest. 

“I thought you were tired?” Shane chuckles, opening easily when Ilya’s tongue presses at the seam of his lips. 

“Who said I was tired?” Ilya pants, shoving Shane’s shorts down past his ass, along with his underwear. Shane sucks in a breath when the cool air meets his exposed skin. “Am never tired. Sleep is for weak men.”

Laughing, Shane toes out his shoes so he can wriggle off his clothes and kick them to the side. “You yawned three times in the car…”

“That was just body adjusting to Canadian air,” Ilya says, clicking his tongue. His fingers give up on the rest of the buttons of Shane’s shirt and he wrenches it over his head while Shane makes quick work of Ilya’s. 

“You are so full of shit,” Shane says, smirking. 

“You insult me, Hollander?” chides Ilya, slapping Shane’s ass hard enough that he yelps, pressing himself further into Ilya’s chest. “On my birthday? Divorce. Immediately.”

“You can’t divorce me,” Shane points out, amused. He sucks a small bruise onto Ilya’s collarbone. “We’re not married.”

“Don’t tempt me,” comes Ilya’s huff against his ear, his voice dropping an octave. “You know how I love to do things out of spite.”

The heaving breath Shane inhales is stifled by Ilya’s lips on his again, hot and slick and short-circuiting his brain. While he doesn’t forget the implication behind Ilya’s teasing, he does file it away for later so he can focus on grinding their hips together. The sound Ilya makes when he groans into Shane’s mouth is worth it letting him have the last word.

Now, fully nude, he allows Ilya to guide him towards the bedroom. They don’t make it that far. The pair stumble through the dark and manage to make it down into the sunken living room before collapsing onto the couch. Their laughs fill the dark and where Ilya had been sleepy and sluggish before, his body comes alive under Shane’s. He straddles Ilya’s waist and finishes unbuttoning his jeans, yanking them off with some difficulty when they get stuck on the swell of Ilya’s, very round, ass. His boxer-briefs follow and Ilya’s erection springs free. It's pale and leaking in the moonlight filtering through the windows and he hisses when Shane wastes no time to swallow him down. 

“Fuuuuck Shane,” Ilya moans, both hands cradling Shane’s head while his legs part farther, one dropping off the side of the couch. “So fucking greedy for it.”

He hums around Ilya’s cock and let’s go of the base to palm his hands up Ilya’s thighs, over his hips and settling across his pecs, squeezing. He can feel the muscles twitch underneath. When Shane opens his eyes. Looking up, he can make out Ilya’s puckered lips as breathes around long, Russian vowels that sound more like song than than the fucked out filth Shane knows he’s reciting. Shane opens his throat to take him deeper but he only gets a few hard sucks before Ilya is pulling him up to taste himself in Shane’s mouth. 

“Блять…” Ilya drags out between kisses. “If you keep that up this will be over soon…and I do not want this to be over soon…”

Smiling against Ilya’s lips, flushed pink even in the low light, Shane sits back to stroke him. His own cock is pulsing, almost painfully, with neglect but he wants this to be good for Ilya.

“We can go slow…” Shane drawls, his grip featherlight. When it reaches the head of Ilya’s cock he squeezes hard enough that Ilya groans before fisting over him at a leisurely pace. “....If that’s what you want.

Ilya mutters another expletive and his own grip over Shane’s hips goes from gentle to bruising. 

“You will be the death of me, Hollander,” Ilya whines, thrusting into Shane’s hand. 

Shane’s smile is slow-blooming and cat-like when he suddenly lets go and dismounts Ilya altogether. His boyfriend's protests are immediate and Ilya chases Shane forward but isn’t quick enough. Shane doesn’t go far - he takes two steps back and watches Ilya’s gaze shift to Shane’s cock, bobbing freely and tapping against his stomach. Ilya licks his lips. But Shane takes a third step back and turns to the side, opening the small drawer on the table at the end of the couch. A bottle of lube is pinched between his fingers when he pulls away and nudges the drawer closed again with his thigh. Shane quickly closes the distance and climbs back on top of Ilya, dangling the bottle over his chest where he’s partially propped up on a couple pillows. 

“Oh, so you are hiding lube around your house now?” Ilya grins, doing his best approximation of Shane’s voice. 

Snatching Ilya’s hand, Shane turns it over, pops the cap, and squeezes some of the gel onto Ilya’s fingers. 

“I’m being strategic,” he throws back, the last in a mocking, Russian accent. 

Biting his lip, Ilya wastes no time in reaching between Shane’s legs where he’s hovering over Ilya’s middle and thrusts a finger past the tight ring of muscle there. Shane practically purrs at the intrusion, already moving his hips to meet each flick of Ilya’s finger. While Ilya had been showering earlier, Shane cleaned himself up in the guest bathroom in anticipation. He’d initially put in a plug but took it out after a few minutes, realizing he didn’t think he’d be able to sit through dinner with his parents with a straight face knowing it was there. But it doesn’t matter. He stretches easily around a second digit and then a third. Before the lube is lost to them in the crevasse of the cushions, Shane drips it along Ilya’s erection and he hisses at the cold. Shane reaches down to soothe the sensation with the friction of his hand while Ilya lets go of his hip with his free hand to cup Shane’s balls, rolling them fluidly in his palm. 

“Fuck Ilya…I…I need you to fuck me…”

He feels desperate already, even though he's been making an effort to take more control than he usually prefers.

“Я тебя выебу,” Ilya grits, his face screwed up in concentration as he finds…

“Ahh…” Shane’s back arches and Ilya lets out a steady stream of air through his nose. 

“Yes, котёнок, right there…”

Only tolerating a few more strokes, Shane lifts himself up higher and bats Ilya’s hand away so he can shuffle back and replace Ilya’s fingers with his slick cock. His hole flutters around the head and he sinks down slowly, steadily, without stopping until he’s flush against Ilya’s lap. 

“OH god…” Ilya groans, once again holding Shane’s hips, keeping him from moving so he can adjust to the feeling. 

Shane is thankful for the pause because he’s pretty sure if he touches his own dick right now he’s going to come. But Ilya waits and when Shane feels some semblance of control return, he starts moving. A torturous rise and fall, precise and with enough lift that he nearly pops off Ilya each time before grinding back down.

After a few minutes they’re both sweaty and panting and Ilya has one leg planted on the floor in an attempt to apply more power to each thrust. Shane meets him there each time, using his own strength to help fall in line with the rhythm. But when Ilya starts becoming more frantic in his movements, he attempts to wrap an arm around Shane to flip their positions - to take over and fuck into Shane so hard they meld with the cushions they’re likely ruining. But Shane stops him. 

“No…” Shane pants, shaking his head. “It’s your birthday. Tonight…you let me do the work…”

Something dangerous flashes in Ilya’s eyes and his head briefly drops his head back to the pillow before raising it again. Shane watches the tendons around his throat flex and resists the urge to bend over and lick them because he doesn’t want to interrupt the heated cadence of their movement.

“Shane…I need…” 

God. He sounds so wrecked. He sounds like Shane and Shane doesn’t know what to do with that except give Ilya exactly what he needs. 

“What do you need?” asks Shane. He knows. But he wants to hear him say it. 

“Сильнее...Harder…” Ilya croaks. “Need to feel you….”

Doubling his efforts, Shane bounces on Ilya’s cock with enough vigor his abs are going to feel like he’s done a full workout in the morning. He can feel his glutes protesting and the muscles along his outer thighs strain. He slows long enough to shift them slightly closer to the edge of the couch and get his own leg over Ilya’s so he can reach the floor. It gives him the leverage he needs to pick up the pace, roughly drop onto Ilya’s cock so hard, so fast, that the slaps from each movement nearly blur together into one long, sticky sound. And the angle change is maddening. Ilya is moaning underneath him and he doesn’t want to come yet, not before Ilya, but he can’t hold back the tide any longer. 

“Oh fuck…fuck..fuck…Ilya…” Shane shouts, coming in quick bursts with little warning. He barely has time to reach out and cover his own cock, a weak attempt to keep stray fluids from reaching the unsoiled parts of the couch. 

Letting go of Ilya’s chest to grab his dick causes him to lose balance but Ilya catches him, steadying him with a hand around his ribs while the other clings to the meat of his thigh. 

“Mmmfph…god…Shaaaane…” 

Shane clenches around Ilya’s cock and then Ilya's coming too, emptying inside Shane and leaking around his hole as he gives a few final thrusts, riding out his own orgasm. 

All his years of yoga have made Shane considerably flexible so it feels comfortable to fall forward onto Ilya’s chest. He still has a cock in his ass and he’s laying in cum but at least it allows him to stretch his legs a little more freely and he enjoys the light brush of Ilya’s knuckles along his back while he catches his breath against his boyfriends sweaty neck. 

“Wow…” Ilya says, laughter on his tongue.

Shane laughs too, as much as he can manage considering what little energy he has left. “Yea….

Silence stretches between them as the air around them cools. Shane lifts his hips so Ilya can pull out but neither makes an effort to go anywhere yet. Shane tries not to think about what they’ve done to the couch. He’s probably going to have to break out the steam cleaner in the morning. 

“Happy birthday, Ilya,” Shane mutters, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s jaw and then his lips. 

Kissing him back lazily, Ilya caresses Shane’s spine until the kiss is broken by an involuntary yawn. “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

~*~

Shane does insist on breaking out the steam cleaner in the morning so he lets Ilya make them breakfast. After they’ve eaten they laze around on the couch, spending most of their time making out, but avoid the damp end that’s still drying from Shane’s efforts to wash away last night's activities. 

Around noon, Ilya concedes to a proper tour of the house and grounds. Shane spends ten minutes explaining his decision to have a well dug and Ilya nods along like he both cares and understands though Shane is pretty sure Ilya is just humoring him. When the get to the dock, Ilya is so excited he strips down to nothing and jumps into the cold lake, soaking Shane’s shorts with the splash. Shane swears but can’t manage to look even a little annoyed. 

“What if someone sees you!”

“Then they will be lucky,” Ilya answers, floating in the water. “I am very hot.” 

Okay. Well. Shane can’t argue with that. 

Ten minutes later Ilya has convinced Shane to shed his own clothes and join him - but only after Shane runs back to the house for towels. 

They eat sandwiches for lunch and have leftover pasta from his parents house for dinner. By the time they can settle back onto the couch it’s finally dry. They’re sat at opposite ends, legs stretched out over the clean cushions and toes brushing. Shane had started talking about the improvements he wanted to make to the indoor training rink he has in the basement but somehow got off topic and they find themselves discussing their next steps. Shane intended to avoid the subject, at least for a few days so they could just enjoy each other and relax, but Ilya seems just as eager to trash talk the Metros. 

Shane reveals some of what his mother and agent have been discussing and that the Metros might be open to a trade. More than once, his coaches and management have, not in so many words, suggested Shane go back in the closet because they have ‘a whole team to think about’ and Shane is just one person. He tells Ilya he worries if he does stay it will get worse - he’ll definitely lose his captaincy. The best case scenario is that Montreal is open to a buyout or mutual termination to allow him to be traded. 

“Maybe I could come to Boston,” Shane says, wistfully, even though he knows it’s not possible. “That would really piss them off.”

Ilya huffs. “That would, yes. Is a shame they could not afford us both. Maybe I threaten management. Tell them I will leave unless they sign hockey golden boy Shane Hollander, too.”

“That probably wouldn’t start us off on the right foot,” Shane reasons. 

“Hmm…yes, you are probably right,” Ilya admits. “And as good as most of team has been, I know there are a few who would have problem with it. Especially if it was both of us since I doubt we could keep relationship a secret if we played together…even if we wanted to.”

“Yea…that would be hard."

“Very hard,” Ilya says, grinning slowly. “Because you get hard for me so easily.”

“Shut. Up,” Shane laughs, tossing one of the small decorative pillows at his boyfriend. He bats it away. 

“What? Is okay. I am irresistible. Is reasonable you cannot control yourself around me.”

Dropping his head back to the pile of larger pillows, Shane crosses his arms over his chest. “We’re probably going to have to deal with assholes no matter where we go. Whether it’s together or separate…”

“Maybe,” says Ilya, shrugging one shoulder. “Maybe not. I was talking with new agent - Farah - she has heard good things about Ottawa. She knows the new coach. This guy, Wiebe? He is trying to rebuild team from the ground up. And locker room culture is supposed to be good so…”

“....Ottawa?” Shane asks, taken aback. 

Shane hadn’t told Ilya about Ottawa. That was where Ilya moved to play in his false memories. 

“The immigration stuff you found,” Ilya explains. “Seems like it will be easier to get Canadian citizenship, or at least as easy. And if I can be closer to you I want to try. I know you might not stay in Montreal. You shouldn’t stay in Montreal, fuck them, but maybe…maybe Ottawa could take us both?”

“Even if I can get out of my contract I don’t think they could afford us both,” reasons Shane, his face still pinched and reeling from the overlap with his fake memories.

“So I ask for less,” Ilya suggests, as though it’s that simple. “What do I need so much money for? You are cheap date, Hollander.” 

Shane rolls his eyes but the gears are turning behind them. 

“Maybe…I wonder if I could find a way to drop a hint to Montreal that I was thinking about Ottawa?” he wonders aloud, not really expecting an answer. “They’ve been shit for so long maybe the Metros would be more open to a trade if they thought that’s where I was headed. I’d be less of a threat there.”

“Not if we played together,” Ilya grins. 

“No. Not then,” agrees Shane. 

Playing on a team with Ilya. He’d loved their time playing together in All Stars but hadn’t really let himself imagine it beyond that. But if they were on the same team, even one as bad as Ottawa, Shane is sure they could find a way to turn it around. He always felt invincible with Ilya. And it wasn’t ego or pride, just an energy they amassed together that everyone around them benefited from. And Ottawa was his home. It’s near his parents. And the idea of being near Ilya all the time, if Ilya wanted him? That was priceless. 

“What are you thinking, солнышко?” Ilya asks, curling his bare toes over the smooth fabric of Shane’s socked ones. “You look like you have seen ghost. Or maybe have to poop.”

Shane flips him off but knows he's still wearing a look of awkward contemplation. He shifts a little in his seat and Ilya prods his toes again, raising a single eyebrow. 

“I’m just…it’s…”

“Shane?”

“In my fake memories…you went to Ottawa.” 

“Really? We went to Ottawa?”

Letting his arms loosen and fall to his lap, Shane picks at the hem of his tee-shirt. “Well, you did. I stayed in Montreal. But we were closer together and thinking about starting a charity to we could see each other more in public without starting rumors, or whatever.”

“A charity?” Ilya questions.

Shane’s ears go pink. “Yea.”

“Shane,” Ilya says, in a way that’s both a statement a question. The way he lets Shane know Ilya is aware there is something he isn’t saying. 

As he often does when it comes to talking about his false memories, Shane quickly filters through the pros and cons of revealing a piece of himself that could potentially send Ilya running for the hills. He’s starting to find that, almost every time, he tells the truth. Because the more he faces his fears, the more Ilya proves to him that there was nothing for him to be afraid of in the first place. 

Shuddering a breath, Shane curls his socked toes more tightly around Ilya’s and meets his eyes across the span of the couch cushions. 

“We were going to start a hockey camp for kids,” Shane admits. “Give the money to mental health organizations. For things like suicide prevention.”

“Oh,” breathes Ilya, the shape of the word still frozen around his mouth even after the word dissipates into the cool, conditioned air of the living room. 

“Sorry,” Shane adds, forcing himself to hold Ilya’s gaze. “That’s probably weird.”

“No. Is good idea, actually,” Ilya says, quickly, sitting up a little. Shane already misses the point of contact at their feet. “We could really do it.”

“Really?” Shane blinks. 

“Sure. It sounds like good idea,” Ilya reiterates. He leans forward, laying his arm across the back of the couch and angles himself towards Shane. “Even if people figure out we are together, would still be a good cause. Wait…is this because…”

Shane looks away, shrugging one shoulder, feeling a little embarrassed despite his confidence in revealing the memory. 

“Your idea,” Ilya continues, his intrigue stalling and expression becoming something more solemn. “It was because of what I told you in Tampa. About my mother.”

He doesn’t look upset really, but his face has shifted to something that’s hard for Shane to decipher. 

“It’s called the Irina Foundation,” Shane mutters. Because he’s already taken it this far, why not make himself look absolutely insane while he’s at it. 

And this time Ilya does look away. His head turns towards the windows and his mouth twists down. Shane tries not to panic that he’s gone too far. That he’s done something, or thought something, that wasn’t his place to think. Mirroring Ilya’s pose, Shane sits up and drapes his own arm over the couch until it’s parallel behind Ilya’s but doesn’t touch him. He moves close enough that their knees brush and slowly reaches out to take hold of Ilya’s chin, giving him time to pull away if he wants to. 

“Hey…I didn’t mean to…overstep. We don’t have to….”

But Ilya doesn’t pull away. He does bat Shane’s hand aside to grab Shane’s jaw in both of his hands and pull him in to kiss him deeply.

“Shut up…” Ilya mutters, peppering kisses all over Shane’s face while he holds him in place. 

He’s crying. Shane had seen the conspicuous tears slipping free before Ilya had closed the distance and manages to get a hand between them, cradling Ilya’s cheek in his palm to wipe them aside with his thumb when he kisses him back. 

Between each brush of lips, Ilya is murmuring something in Russian, which then turns into the same phrase over and over.

Я тебя люблю...Я тебя люблю...Я тебя люблю...

While Shane doesn’t understand the words, he feels them. Every part of his body feels them. His skin, his nerves, his heart....And he doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Ilya draws back far enough to rest their foreheads together and switches to English. 

“I love you…” Ilya says, his voice breaking. But it sounds like relief. Like he’s unburdened himself with a heavy, invisible weight he’s been carrying. Which Shane understands, because it feels the same for him too. 

The stream of air Shane releases when he finally sets his lungs free releases into Ilya’s mouth and he follows it up with a kiss before whispering “I love you, too,” in the scant space between them. 

Ilya straightens, separating enough that Shane can see his eyes widen in something like disbelief. And then, he melts. Ilya smashes his face against Shane’s neck and makes a sound that is something between a sob and a laugh while his hands grasp for purchase along Shane’s shoulder and back. 

“Fuck, Shane…” Ilya whispers, fingers digging in wherever he’s touching. 

“I know,” Shane agrees, arms circling Ilya’s back. He pulls his boyfriend in close until Ilya is practically on top of him and they’re laying back on the couch and he feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. “I know…I know…”

And holy shit. This was real. This feeling wasn’t something Shane could have ever fabricated. It was familiar but it was so much more. As much as he’d been able to articulate his fake memories to Ilya…he would never be able to describe this feeling. It was too big for words. But thankfully, he didn’t think he needed to. Because this was a language the two of them were perfectly fluent in together. 

~*~

August 2018

The days and weeks pass like a whirlwind. Ilya returns to Boston for various press events and they both cross countries for endorsement obligations. In between, they spend their evenings calling or video-chatting about their plans and decisions that have to be made. They both talk with their agents and push for Ottawa but agree that while the charity is a good idea, they want to hold off for another year no matter what happens to adjust to all the new changes in both of their lives. Shane insists he’ll still start working on it though and Ilya pokes fun at how many spreadsheets and binders it will produce.

It’s easy - the communication. Or at least Shane thinks it’s easier with Ilya than it has been with anyone else in his life. 

Then, somehow, miraculously, Montreal agrees to release Shane from his contract - mutual termination. He’s not sure if the mentions of Ottawa or the threatened discrimination suit were the deciding factors, but when he sat down in his final meeting with their management and his own team of legal advisors, they presented it like it had been their idea all along. That perhaps Shane would be happier elsewhere with a team that ‘fits his needs.’ The only thing that kept him from punching the GM was the pen in his hand that would release him from the nightmare he’d been living the last year. 

Even more miraculously, the Centaurs sign the both of them. Ilya has Farah work with Shane’s agent to make the deal in tandem so they’re confirmed at the same time. Both agree to take a smaller salary, but not by much and Ottawa’s management seems thrilled at the idea of having them both. Though they do assure the owners that their rivalry has been mostly for show and they can, in fact, get along. Shane suspects they have their own suspicions about he and Ilya’s relationship - there’s no way they haven’t heard the rumors. But if they have concerns, they don’t share them and sign them both with fair contracts without ridiculous morality clauses or expectations to keep their queerness off the cameras. 

The most difficult part of the transition ends up being watching Ilya leave Boston. Shane believes Ilya when he says it’s what he wants. That he wants to play with Shane and feels safer in Canada. But Ilya loved his team and they loved him back. Shane can only hope their new team loves him just as much. But Shane isn’t worried. For all of Ilya’s carefully sequestered insecurities, he’s always been easy to love. 

July fades to August and brings another big change - one Shane has been excited for since Ilya brought up the idea only a month ago. 

Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, Shane waits with the car, idling, while Ilya runs inside to pick up the keys to their new home. Ilya had purchased the home but insisted Shane be there for the signing. He’d secretly spent hours that night sneaking a peak at the paperwork once they’d gotten back to the cottage. Ilya teased him about his paranoia regarding the contents of the long contract and that it was too late to do anything about it. In reality, Shane couldn’t help staring at their names side by side on the lines indicating ownership. They’d bought a house together. They would be living together. And playing together. 

Not for the first time, Shane reaches down to pinch his own thigh like he might wake up from a particularly lucid daydream. Like this reality was the one that wasn’t real and he’d wake up in that hospital back in Boston to find out he’d dreamed it all up. 

Blinking his eyes back into focus, they catch on Ilya strolling out of the office, twirling a set of silver keys around his finger for Shane to see. He’s wearing sunglasses but Shane can still see his smile reaches his eyes. As Ilya climbs inside the car, Shane shoves the unwanted thoughts to the back of his mind. If this is a dream, he’s not particularly interested in waking up, so, to hell with it. 

“Everything go okay?” Shane asks, putting the car into gear to back out of the parking space. 

“Was just picking up keys, Shane,” Ilya muses. “Could not go badly.”

“I know, I know…” he says, turning onto the road. 

Once they're at cruising speed on the highway, Ilya reaches over and takes Shane’s hand from the gearshift and pulls it onto his thigh. 

“Are you worried?” Ilya asks, leaving the question open-ended. Shane understands his meaning. 

Are you worried about moving in together? Moving too quickly? About the future?

The answer was yes and no. Shane isn’t worried, really. Anxious, maybe. He’s always a little anxious when it comes to things he can’t predict the outcome of and the future definitely falls into that category. 

“Not worried,” Shane answers. “But…scared, a little? It’s just been a lot. And honestly…I’m afraid I’m going to wake up one day and this is all going to have been a dream. I mean if my brain can conjure up what it did, who’s to say it’s not doing that right now?”

He chuckles a little but catches Ilya’s frown out of his periphery. 

“You worry this is fake?”

“What I feel right now is real,” Shane says. “I believe that. I just…I still have this irrational fear that I’ll wake up one day and it won’t be. That I’ll have made it up.”

“Well,” Ilya offered, rubbing a thumb across the back of Shane’s knuckles. “If it is…then I will stay asleep with you. I told you before…your reality is better.”

Smiling, Shane curls his hand around Ilya’s and squeezes. 

“I’m maybe a little worried once we’re officially living together you’ll start snoring or something…” Shane smirks, trying to break the tension. 

“Uh no…never in life have I snored,” Ilya deadpans. “I am very quiet sleeper. Like angel.”

“Mmm…more like an octopus,” reasons Shane. “I always end up with your heavy limbs all over me making me sweaty.” 

“I think maybe you are the sweaty one. I am only trying to steal warmth because you have so much of it. Take it up with your body temperature, Hollander.” 

Shane huffs a laugh and glances down when Ilya briefly shifts to pull his phone from his pocket. It buzzes several times in quick succession. The next time Shane glances over Ilya is grinning at his phone, thumbing through a text. 

“What is it?” asks Shane, smiling. 

“Svetlana texted. Asked if we got the keys today. I told her yes and she said we are u-haul lesbians,” Ilya smirked. 

Scrunching up his nose, Shane tried to find meaning in that sentence. He understood the words separately but they didn’t seem to make sense together. 

“What does that mean?”

Ilya provides him with some explanation of a joke attached to a stereotype he still doesn’t understand, he shrugs in mild agreement. “I guess that’s fair.”

“Hmm…” Ilya hums. “I am not sure it counts, though.” 

“How’s that? Our first date was only three months ago…” Shane reasons. 

“Maybe…but in your head we have been together for a decade so…” comes Ilya’s counterpoint. 

“I’m not sure my delusions count towards that,” Shane says, wryly. 

“Mmm…well, has also been a decade since I’ve been staring at your beautiful freckles waiting to be able to touch them so…” declares Ilya, letting go to his hand to brush a knuckle along the side of Shane’s cheek. 

Shane’s breath hitches and he holds onto it when Ilya leans over to kiss the place his fingers had been seconds before. His lids flutter reflexively and Ilya takes his hand again, pulling it back to his lap. 

“Eyes on the road, Hollander.”

Shane guides the car through an open gate and down a short driveway surrounded by hedges until they park in front of a large, cape-cod style home. They’ve of course toured the home when it had been staged with generic furnishings and seen dozens of photos of it online. But this was their first time being able to go inside as the owners. 

Hopping out of the car, Shane sidles up beside Ilya who holds the keys out. Shane shakes his head but takes Ilya’s free hand, squeezing it tightly as his eyes drift from his boyfriend to the front door. 

“You ready for this?” asks Ilya, sounding at ease and grounded. 

“I’m ready,” Shane acknowledges, and allows himself to be pulled onto the steps. 

The first few towards the rest of their lives, he hopes. 

Chapter End Notes

Only the epilogue to go!

NOTES: I know it seems like this has been a speed-run their relationship, but in this timeline they really have been *super* into each other since the Tampa all-stars so, it’s fine. Let them be u-haul lesbians at heart. =)

 

Also this is the Ottawa house I’ve been using as a reference for my fics if anyone is curious.
https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/164-Bayview-Dr-Ottawa-ON-K0A-3M0/453031444_zpid/

блять - Fuck
Я тебя выебу - I will fuck you
котёнок - kitten
Сильнее - Harder
солнышко - little sun/sunshine
Я тебя люблю - I love you

Chapter 11: Epilogue

Chapter Summary

“I don’t believe in fate or a higher power or anything. Not really. But I sometimes wonder if we’re in like…a parallel universe or something. Like this is just how things are supposed to be but that both stories are true - the false memories in my head and what’s happening now,” Shane explains, quietly. “That we would find each other in every version of reality no matter what.” 

Chapter Notes

3500 words of of a fluffy send-off. <3

September 2018

Their trades are announced back to back in late July, much to the dismay of both the Raiders and the Metros. The Raiders still decide to celebrate Ilya’s transfer and give him a proper send off, which Ilya thinks was mostly an excuse to go to an exclusive club so Marlow could set them up with a VIP room and hire private dancers. When Ilya initially told Shane about it he’d made boring jokes and sent several eyeroll emojis. And when Ilya took a short video of one of the male dancers giving him a lap dance, Shane had promptly called and threatened to get in the car and make the five hour drive to murder both Marlow and Ilya and throw their bodies in the harbor. Marlow, teetering on his feet with a beer in hand, had wandered over to where Ilya took the call in the hallway and thrown his free hand around his shoulders. 

“Is that your boy?” Marly asked, loudly. “Tell him we’re going to flatten the both of you next season, you fuckin’ traitors.” 

Marlow clapped him on the back and laughed, heading back downstairs, likely to the bar for another drink. While there wasn’t any heat behind the chirp, Ilya heard Shane go quiet on the other end. 

The Metros had been...less hospitable. Initially, Shane wanted to tell the team himself and considered asking those that remained in Montreal to meet him at the rink or a nearby bar to break the news. His last act as their captain, he'd said. Pike had ultimately dissuaded him, saying they didn't deserve anything from Shane, and Ilya agreed. Instead, Shane dropped his announcement in the group chat about two hours before it hit the media and was met with immediate backlash. He’d left the chat only a few minutes later - ending his era with Montreal with harsh words about his lack of loyalty and cold shoulders from men who should have been his brothers. 

It made Ilya furious. Shane seemed to have taken most of it in stride. Ilya was sure his boyfriend carried the heavy weight of it all in ways that neither of them had yet to understand. But when Shane arrived in Ottawa he was wide-eyed and eager to start the next chapter of his life. Their life - together. 

Once the announcements started circulating in the media it hadn’t taken long for speculation to flare and rumors about their relationship to spread like wildfire. Farah suggested they make some kind of statement to take control of the narrative themselves. Ilya and Shane spent two days bouncing ideas off each other, their agents, and Yuna, until they ultimately decided to just disclose their relationship in an unofficial capacity. No press statements, nothing from their teams or management. Which, thankfully, had no opinion on their relationship. When Ilya finally divulged their status to Coach Wiebe after they spent the afternoon picking up their jerseys and doing a photoshoot for the roster, his only response had been to shrug. 

“I could care less who you’re involved with, Rozanov,” said Wiebe, not unkindly. “As long as your personal lives don’t negatively impact your play, you’re free to do what you want. And the owners feel the same. They’ve got three queer grandkids who, between you and me, might have pushed the hardest to get the two of you signed. They’re big fans.”

So, with the blessing of everyone in their lives who mattered, they decided on making simple, innocuous instagram posts to clear up any confusion. Their agents had advised caution with any social media posts but neither of them felt the same fear they might have a year ago. Not when their futures seemed so bright they were nearly blinding. The posts went up on a perfectly normal Thursday morning in the middle of August. 

Shane and Ilya had been cuddled together at sunrise overlooking the lake one morning when they finally made the decision. They were perched atop a large boulder, the silky, stone surface still cool from the early morning air. Ilya had come out first, only tucking his phone and cigarettes in his pocket. He didn’t smoke much anymore but had woken from a nightmare that morning and needed something to smooth the rough edges the unwanted dreams had carved into his awareness. Shane found him less than half an hour later and brought with him two mugs of hot coffee and a blanket to wrap around their shoulders. By the time Shane reached him, Ilya’s mind was calm and his body loose and comfortable - if not a little sore from their evening activities. It was Shane’s idea to take photos.

“Hey,” Shane said, pulling his phone from the pocket of his joggers. “Lets take a picture. We were going to make the posts today, right?”

Ilya had only smiled at him, pressing quick kiss to his temple. He was awake and alert, but words still felt difficult and heavy in his throat. So he’d scooted as close as he could to Shane and leaned in. Shane lifted his arm and snapped a photo. He took a few, sifting through them until he decided one was acceptable. Watching Shane open his instagram app, Ilya leaned over and read the caption. 

Perfect day.

It was predictably wholesome in a cheesy, very Shane way - paired with a photo of Shane smiling softly at the camera and Ilya smiling, somehow even more softly, at Shane. The glow of the early morning sun dulled their features into something delicate and dreamlike. Slumber still clung to them both, their hair skewed messily but still managing to look artistically intentional. Ilya was shirtless and the chain around his neck, barely visible in the frame, glinted with a small lens flare where the light refracted. 

Instead of posting, Shane tipped his chin towards Ilya’s phone where it sat next to his empty coffee mug and discarded cigarette butt he hadn’t shoved back into the pack yet. 

“Your turn,” he’d encouraged. 

Moving slowly, Ilya’s body reacted before his brain and he reached for his own phone while Shane shoved his between his thighs. Shane leaned in and wrapped one arm around Ilya’s waist under the fleece to pull them even closer together, but it slipped off when Ilya raised his phone and flipped the camera around. Ilya’s other arm climbed behind Shane’s back and settled around his shoulders loosely. 

“Smile for the camera, мой помидор,” Ilya teased, his voice still heavy with sleep as he kissed Shane on the cheek. 

And Shane laughed because Shane actually knew what that endearment meant and proved Ilya’s point in the way his cheeks flushed. He snapped several photos and when he withdrew, he tapped out his own post.

“Ready?” Ilya asked. “Same time?” 

“What did you write?”

“You will have to look to find out,” Ilya grinned, waggling his eyebrows and earning an eyeroll from Shane. “Don’t worry, will tag you in it.”

Shane’s eyes had narrowed. “I’m not sure if I want you to, now.” 

Ilya pecked him on the cheek again. “You trust me, yes?” 

Sighing heavily, Shane fished his phone from his lap. “Fine. Do your worst.” 

“Cannot be worst with you, моя любовь,” Ilya muttered. “Not when you are the best.”

Shane had gone so red then that he had to look away. Ilya chuckled and they both counted backwards from three and hit post. He didn’t make Shane go to his notifications, instead holding up his screen for Shane to look. 

2nd best hockey player is very high maintenance but I guess I will keep him.

In the photo, Shane’s eyes had closed and his mouth shaped around laughter. Ilya’s lips were pressed to his cheekbone and his free hand was at the bottom corner of the frame, flipping it off. Shane snatched his wrist and looked at him with mock incredulity before barking out a laugh. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane had said, his voice losing its bite about halfway through as the softness returned. 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “That is why you love me.” 

The answering smile Shane offered felt warmer than the summer sun rising over the water. 

~*~

The feedback they received when they came out has been mostly positive. There are outliers, of course. But as they spent time revolving around each other's space for the remainder of the summer, it seemed to matter much less what others thought. 

Ilya spent some of the afternoon scrolling through the comments of a picture the Centaurs just posted, both of them in their jerseys when they’d done their roster shoot the month prior, and felt nothing but gratitude at the positive encouragement from the fans. Now, his phone lies tucked away in his pocket, a careful weight against his thigh where he’s nestled together with Shane in the wide hammock they’d put together a few days prior. 

It’s early September but the weather hasn’t turned yet. The breeze is cool enough that Ilya’s bare ankles and toes are a little cold so he shoves them further between Shane’s legs. The hammock rocks a little with the movement and Shane idly presses a kiss to Ilya’s curls and turns the page on the boring hockey book he’s reading. Ilya has spent the last hour alternating between dozing on top of his boyfriend and staring at his cute, bespectacled face. 

A few minutes later Shane sets the novel aside, a bookmark holding his place, and slips his glasses into the hard case on top. He wraps his arms around Ilya and they share a contented sigh. Just as Ilya starts to doze again, Shane’s voice comes out low, and quiet. He feels it against his ear that’s resting on Shane’s chest more than he hears it. 

“When I talked to Hayden this morning he asked me how we got together,” Shane confesses, with no particular inflection. 

“Oh? What did you tell him?” Ilya wonders. 

Shane shrugs under him, his hold tightening around Ilya’s shoulders. 

“I didn’t want to lie but wasn’t sure how to explain it,” Shane admits. “So I just told him I had some jumbled memories after that hit in Boston and reached out to you to confirm some stuff I thought I’d forgotten. I told him we just sort of…kept talking. Which is mostly true.” 

“Mmm…yes,” Ilya hums, nuzzling his cheek against the soft cotton of Shane’s shirt. He feels Shane’s chin rest on top of his head. “Is close to true.” 

“He’d probably have me committed if I told him the whole truth,” Shane chuckles. “Sometimes I still can’t even believe it.”

“Yes,” agrees Ilya. “Is very ridiculous. Could be a movie. Maybe you pitch it to Rose. She can play slightly less attractive version of me.” 

Laughing, Shane slaps his arm a little and presses his chin down harder. Ilya can’t see his face, but he would bet anything Shane is chewing his lip when he goes quiet and says, “I might tell Rose, actually.” 

“You would be okay with her knowing?” asks Ilya. 

“I think she would take it okay,” Shane reasons, shrugging again. “She’ll definitely give me shit, but would probably find it romantic. And she’d keep it to herself.” 

Ilya doesn’t disagree. He hasn’t met Rose yet, but based on everything Shane has said about her, she seems like a good friend. 

After a few minutes of silence, Shane’s jaw works against Ilya’s curls again. 

“It feels strange sometimes…when things happen that seem similar to the fake memories,” he says. “Like thinking you were bi or you suggesting Ottawa when both of those things were true or happened, or whatever. It feels like more than a coincidence.”

“Bad strange?” Ilya questions, hoping Shane doesn’t feel him tense. 

“No,” Shane replies, shaking his head. “Just strange. I think….”

Forcing himself to relax, Ilya withdraws enough to shift his body upwards so he’s laying beside Shane, their heads side by side on the soft, flat pillow that’s tied into the netting of the hammock. But there’s no concern or confusion in Shane’s eyes. Just…wonder. 

“What do you think?” asks Ilya.

“It’s stupid,” Shane says with a blush, though he turns his head to meet Ilya’s gaze anyways. 

“Tell me,” Ilya whines quietly, giving Shane’s side a little squeeze and prodding Shane’s leg with his toes. "You can tell me anything."

Chuckling, Shane brushes a quick kiss to Ilya’s lips and leaves his head there so they’re staring at each other with only inches between, their noses nearly brushing. Ilya pulls back a fraction so he doesn't go cross-eyed. 

“I don’t believe in fate or a higher power or anything. Not really. But I sometimes wonder if we’re in like…a parallel universe or something. Like this is just how things are supposed to be but that both stories are true - the false memories in my head and what’s happening now,” he explains, quietly. “That we would find each other in every version of reality no matter what.” 

Ilya’s expression remains unchanged and he can see the moment when embarrassment starts to take hold of Shane, his eyes widening just a fraction and his mouth starting to twitch downwards. Ilya reaches up to place his palm on Shane’s cheek so he can’t look away. 

“I know it sounds weird and cheesy. Probably crazy, although I guess…” Shane babbles until Ilya cuts him off with a slow, meticulous kiss that leaves them both breathing heavily and Ilya feels mesmerized by the miraculous-ness of it all. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, leaving his parted lips resting on the corner of Shane’s mouth, his hand still twisted in Shane's hair. “I think we would.” 

They kiss again, and again. Until the sun starts to sink behind the house and hammock rocks gently in tandem with the slow drag of limbs where they map out each other's bodies like there’s always new territory to explore. 

Ilya’s phone vibrating aggressively in his pocket is what eventually has them breaking apart. 

He fishes it out, a little annoyed at the interruption, and smirks down at the text. He holds it up to show the message to Shane. It’s from Yuna - a photo of an index card with a handwritten recipe. 

Found this one today. It belonged to my grandmother. Thought you might like to try it. Shane loved it as a kid. Not sure he’d eat it now but maybe you can convince him. 😉

“Sodium-filled, grilled meat,” Shane laughs. “She knows you well.”

“And you,” Ilya jokes. He nearly drops the phone when he tried to zoom in on the photo but Shane reaches up to steady his hand. He studies the recipe for something called yakiniku. “I think we have everything for this. I should make it tonight.” 

“We already have scallops thawing,” Shane reminds him, pinching Ilya’s hip. “Also I didn’t agree to eating it just because you and my mom are conspiring to make me break my diet.” 

Ilya squirms a little and shoves the phone back in his pocket. He pouts at Shane. 

“Season hasn’t even started officially. You are not on diet yet,” Ilya responds. “And also, think how much she will love me if I can make you eat normal people food for family dinners.” 

It’s true that the Hollanders were a little reticent around him that first visit. And Ilya understands. But they’ve since opened up to him in ways that feel almost surreal, considering his only experience with family has consisted of harsh words and high expectations he'd never had a chance at meeting. At least, that has been his experience since he lost his mother. But David and Yuna have been kind to him. They hug him when he and Shane visit for their weekly family dinner and text him things he might be interested in. He never knew it was something he’d been craving until he’d gotten that first taste. Now he didn’t want to think about what it would be like to let it go. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to. 

“You do not need anymore brownie points with my parents,” Shane huffs. “If we hadn’t gotten together in such a weird way, I’m pretty sure you would already be their favorite.” 

“Give me time,” Ilya teases. 

A breeze ruffles the flimsy cover of Shane’s book and the papers ruffle at his side, the glasses case slipping onto the weave of the hammock. A hand threads through Ilya’s curls and Ilya feels Shane shiver a little. They will probably have to go inside soon. 

“I hope the memories don’t go away,” Shane mutters, recalling their earlier conversation.

“No?” Ilya questions. 

Shane had mentioned how frustrating it’s been to not be able to know the difference, sometimes. And how much it hurt to find out the false memories weren’t true when he’d initially woken in the hospital. While he’d never explicitly told Ilya he wished they were gone, it seemed conflicting to want to keep them. 

“Maybe I did for a second. Just so I could know what was real. But I think I would miss them…even though I know they’re not,” explains Shane. He brushes his nose against Ilya’s before pulling back again. “And in the end…they still led me to you. That makes them important. I’d like to keep them, I think.”

Ilya’s heart thumps in his chest and rather than being embarrassed by the visceral reaction this man has on his mind and body, he claims Shane’s hand and pulls it to his chest, holding it there. 

“Then I want that for you too, моя любовь,” murmurs Ilya, his voice catching and eyes starting to sting. “But if you do lose them, we just make more memories every day.”

“I love you,” Shane sighs, the warmth of his breath fluttering against Ilya’s lips. 

“I love you, too.”

He kisses Shane again, having already lost count of the minutes and hours their lips have touched, even just that day. Ilya blinks away the emotion swelling behind his lids and lets go of Shane’s hand to swipe his thumb across his freckles, darker now from the time they’d spent outside that summer. 

God he loves this man. He never thought he could love someone like this and knows he never will again. 

Swallowing thickly, Ilya bites his lip and lets his eyes crinkle with mischief before he does something insane like propose on the spot. He wants to, of course. But maybe they should at least live together for a few more months before they start thinking about forever, even if Ilya is sure they both feel it. 

“...Or if they go away I just bonk you on head again. Problem solved,” Ilya settles on instead, reeling himself in. 

“That is definitely not how this works,” Shane deadpans, a grin hiding behind his eyes. 

“If you say so, Hollander,” says Ilya, patting Shane’s cheek. 

“You know, you’re not a memory, actually,” declares Shane, shoving at Ilya’s chest where Ilya catches his wrist. “You’re a nightmare.”

“The worst,” Ilya agrees, smirking. 

“The worst,” echoes Shane. 

But Shane still lets Ilya crawl on top of him and kiss him until they’re unsteady, playfully wrestling for control when the gentle sway of the hammock turns unsteady and they spill off the side into a heap. They land gracelessly in a pile of limbs on the ground, Shane’s back pressed into the soft, green grass. His book and glasses case bounce off Ilya's shoulder and land beside them. Ilya’s pupils flare and he quickly shoves his hand behind Shane’s head, cradling it gently. He manages to keep his full weight off his boyfriend but immediately worries Shane’s head might have hit the ground. 

“Is your head okay?” Ilya asks, pushing himself up higher so he’s straddling Shane’s hips. He studies Shane’s face for any sign of discomfort. "You did not hit it?"

But Shane is laughing, his fingers twisting in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt where it hangs above him. 

“Yea…it’s good, I didn't hit it,” Shane huffs, his chin tilting up incrementally. “But, you can always kiss it and make it better?”

Ilya smiles and kisses Shane’s forehead, then his cheekbone, jaw and neck. He’s already a little hard from the intermittent make-out sessions they’ve been having for the last couple hours and when he lowers his hips, finds that Shane is too. 

“Any other places hurt, Hollander?”

“Quiet a few, actually.”

“Then let’s get inside where I can fix them properly,” Ilya offers. 

The sun is sinking behind the tree line and they still have to make dinner. There’s laundry that needs to be switched to the dryer and he knows Shane will want to prep their breakfast smoothies before practice tomorrow. 

But even with an endless list of tasks ahead and a busy schedule with the new season starting, Ilya doesn’t feel like he’s in a rush. Because they have time.

And do you ever feel the motion?

And have you ever seen the sun, setting fire across the ocean?

And I will promise you the best is yet to come.

And if I have to wait a moment - let the ache fall from my heart.

'Cause I can't give up on forever.

And if I stay a loaded gun...

'Cause I can't live with now or never.

But I am worthy, I am worth it, I am hopelessly just waiting for your love.

- Jamie Bower (Waiting for Your Love)

Chapter End Notes

мой помидор - my tomato
моя любовь - my love

~*~

Thank you so much for sticking with me through my brain worm! And for all your wonderful comments. I hope to be able to respond to some of them at some point. I had full intention of this fic being a much shorter one shot but it sort of spiraled out of control. Hopefully it feels like everything is wrapped up now.

I have about a dozen other HR fics in various state of outlines so I'm currently trying to decide what to work on next but I am currently undecided because I have more ideas than I have time. 😭

Thank you again! I love you. <3