Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Background & Cameo Characters, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Character Study, Sometimes u just gotta project onto ur dog, Mixed Media, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, ilya accidentally comes out as a softy, Miscommunication, Unreliable Narrator, Ilya Rozanov Has Feelings, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Hurt/Comfort, trying to keep the hurt at a minimum though!, Slow to Update, Changing the tags up again, this started out as fluff but very quickly grew a life of its own, Ilya Rozanov Has PTSD, Therapy, Interspersed with all the hurt, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Timeline What Timeline

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of my moon my man

Collections:

so obsessed i might actually watch hockey, HR, My heart is full, girl help i can't stop crying, Social Media Fics

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-17 Completed: 2026-10-24 Words: 55,804 Chapters: 15/15

toska

Summary

Later, he’ll blame it all on a momentary lapse of judgement.

He’ll blame it on the loneliness maybe—on the fact that, despite never having been physically closer to Shane this consistently in his entire life—that despite regularly getting dinner with Shane’s parents—that despite finally having found what he’d spend his entire life searching for he’s also, somehow, never felt more alone.

He’ll blame it on Cliff not texting him back since he’d signed with Ottawa. He’ll blame it on Sveta, face pulled into a perpetual frown during every facetime call.

Or maybe he’ll blame it on Anya—sweet, beautiful Anya—who’d been just a little too cute not to share.

or: Ilya accidentally rehabilitates his image one puppy tiktok at a time

Chapter 1: week one

Chapter Notes

thank u @whentheresidentsareevil for pointing out to me that i accidentally (I SWEAR!) plagiarized dumpling the dog's (from the tiktok account josh&dumpling (@jmw495)) lifestory! I genuinely didn't mean to but looking through the account...yikes! sorry!!

i do not know anything about hockey. we are also playing loose and fast with the timeline here. yay!!
I am also also not a vet and this IS NOT a guide on how to take care of a puppy!!!!!!!!!!! I've done /some/ research but suspend ur disbelief i am BEGGING you.
obligatory english isn't my first language + i don't own anything please don't sue me disclaimer

Ilya meets Anya on a cloudy day in April.

It’s a pretty shitty time all around considering it’s his first season in Ottawa and the Centaurs are so far down the scoreboard that even dreaming about the playoffs feels ridiculous. It’s also cold and wet, and other than watching Shane play and spending time with his would-be in laws there’s not much to do.

Ottawa isn’t, exactly, the most interesting city he’s learned and leaving behind Boston has come with trying to leave some of his more unsavoury habits behind too so—less smoking, less partying and, most importantly, less driving around in his very expensive cars. He’s sold most of them, actually, which sparked a bit of an online debate—though most of the things he’s done lately seem to spark one. All of this means though, that he has nothing to do during the day when Shane is at training or on his way to an away-game—and Yuna has said he should look into some new hobbies so—

Running.

It’s as much a coping mechanism as a way to get away from it all. Phone on airplane mode and do not disturb—though it’s not like anyone besides the Hollanders ever even try to reach him anymore, still it’s nice to pretend—music on and the rest of the world far, far away. It’s a great way to explore the city too, and after the first couple of kilometres it gives him the same sort of high pushing the speed limit in his stupidly expensive cars used to give him.

And it’s after one of those runs that he finds Anya behind a convenience store. 

He’s not even sure how he ends up there. He sort of stumbles his way past the store, and reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants for—his phone or his pack of cigs he honestly isn’t even sure yet—when he hears—

Something.

He pulls his headphones off.

They hang from his neck as he slowly comes to a complete stop—hand braced against the brick exterior of the store, trying to catch his breath. For a second he thinks he’s just imagined it. Back in Boston, Svetlana would let herself into his apartment at the oddest times of day (or night) and sometimes he’d hear her calling for him even if she wasn’t actually there—some odd, auditory hallucination caused by his headphones and music and the perpetual loneliness of having a big-ass apartment and nobody really living in it.

Ilyushka, he’d hear and pull his headphones off and then he’d call back something like yeah? or Sveta? or Did you say something? and there’d be no response. And then he’d put his headphones back on, only to hear it again a few seconds later. Sometimes he’d have to walk around his apartment just to make sure she wasn’t actually there and just playing a prank on him.

And then he hears it again.

It’s something between a whimper and a whine. Something that sounds decidedly not human but distressed all the same. A lost toy, maybe, he thinks or a particularly big rat—and he almost keeps walking before he hears it again. More insistent. Louder.

Before he can even really think about it, he’s moving towards it.

In the back of his mind he can hear Shane—annoyed the way he gets every time Ilya takes a stupid risk and he doesn’t want to sound worried—saying something like if you get fucking rabies I’m breaking up with your ass and he chuckles a little at the thought. And then he rounds the corner—into a tight alleyway behind the convenience store and the Shane that lives in his head says something like if you get stabbed to death I’m also breaking up with you and also killing you myself.

Fortunately for him, there’s no giant rat or horror movie serial killer waiting for him. In fact, the alley is completely empty except for a couple of dumpsters and a pile of soggy cardboard.

Maybe he actually is losing his mind, hearing things that aren’t there.

And then the whining starts up again and Ilya realizes it’s coming straight out of one of the dumpsters and again—he’s moving before the thought even really registers in his mind. It takes a bit of effort but the dumpster swings open and he honestly sort of still expects to find a rat so it’s a surprise when he finds a dog instead.

No, a puppy.

Some sort of mutt, Ilya thinks, with scruffy brown fur dotted by small white spots, curled onto it’s side. It’s—small. Smaller than Ilya’s palm maybe, and it’s eyes are closed and it’s breathing hard and it’s whining for it’s mother.

It’s eyes are closed and inexplicably, Ilya finds himself tearing up.

“Oh, malyshka.” He breathes and moves to reach of it, before flinching back—unsure.

He’s so—big, in comparison, and this is a baby and what if he hurts the poor thing by touching it? What if he makes it worse? What if it’s mother is just around the corner and—rejects her baby, if Ilya—

But no, he thinks. If the mom was still there then this baby wouldn’t be laying in a closed dumpster all alone. Still, he pulls off his jacket—immediately starts shivering both due to the fact that it’s objectively cold and that he’s, essentially, wet with sweat—and gingerly wraps the puppy in the fabric.

The puppy lets out a little yip—maybe?—and immediately starts sniffling at the fabric.

Up close he realizes, he was right, too—it is smaller than his palm, which means he has one hand free to look up the nearest vet and book himself an uber there all while pressing the puppy against his chest, muttering little endearments.

The driver does a double take when he gets in—eyes wide in recognition, as he stares at Ilya through the rearview mirror—but whatever he sees on his face must be enough to keep him from idle small talk, because he doesn’t say anything beyond a quick hey and bye have a nice day once they reach the clinic.

Inside, he’s checked in by a nurse—do vets have nurses even? are they called something else?—that ushers him inside of an examination room.

“What a precious little thing,” the vet says. She’s maybe Yuna’s age, with kind brown eyes and dark, curly hair and a gap between her front teeth and a lot of tight lines around her eyes. She smiles and coos and the lines get deeper as she carefully unwraps the puppy. “You found it in a dumpster?”

“Yes.” Ilya says and feels—not scared, exactly, but nervous maybe. Anxious. A bit like he does before getting on the ice now. His accent sounds heavy and foreign even to himself. “It was making noise.”

The vet nods and smiles at him—and then leans over the puppy, presses her stethoscope against it’s belly. “Well, she is very lucky you found her! Just a little longer outside in that cold and she probably wouldn’t have made it to us!”

The puppy—she, apparently—whines again, loud and sad, and Ilya wants to cradle her again—almost moves to do so before realizing that he’d only make it worse, keep the doctor from working.

“Is very young, yes?” he asks instead. “Eyes still closed.”

The vet nods, enthusiastically. “Considering her size, I’d guess she’s a week old at most, if that—difficult to say with mixes like these. There’s maybe some border-collie in there, considering her fur but really it’s just too early to tell.”

She moves the stethoscope. “Her lungs sound great, actually! I think she wasn’t outside all that long, thankfully. Puppies cannot regulate their body temperature yet when they’re this small. Good thinking wrapping her in your jacket.”

Regulate, Ilya mouths.

Context tells him she means she can’t keep her temperature up—maybe. And regulate sounds close enough to regulirovat anyways. Still, he makes a note to look the word up later.

“I did not want to hurt her,” he says. “She is very small.”

“And you are very big!” Another blinding smile, and then she carefully picks the puppy up and sets her down in a bowl. The little worm curls up even tighter—shivering even in the warm office—and Ilya watches as the doctor takes the bowl and sets it down on a little scale.

“Ten-and-a-half ounces,” she says. “That’s a bit on the smaller side but not quite alarming yet.”

Then she looks up at him, eyes fixing him in an almost uncomfortable way—like she’s looking through him rather than at him. “Are you going to adopt this puppy, Mister Rozanov?”

“Ilya,” he says on instinct. “Please—just call me Ilya.”

“Ilya,” she agrees, but continues to stare. “Will you adopt her?”

He wants to say yes.

It’s—dumb and irresponsible—completely and utterly stupid—but he wants to say yes. But she’s so small and she’d be dependent on him and even though the Cents’ didn’t make the play-offs he still isn’t home enough for this to be fair to her, even once she’s bigger and healthy. Besides—even if he does say yes—who’d ever give something as precious as this puppy to someone like Ilya fucking Rozanov?

God, he hasn’t even talked to Shane about all this. What if he’s fucking—allergic to dogs or something?

The puppy sniffles and whines and it feels a little like getting the air knocked out of him. A bit like how he felt when Marlow punted Hollander out of the way and he wouldn’t get up. He watches, spellbound, as her nose twitches—as she moves her head, just a little, just enough that she’d be looking directly at him if her eyes could already work.

“Yes.” He says, because that alone feels almost as magical as being able to wake up next to his boyfriend. Boyfriend. “If you’ll let me?”

Ilya has to tear his eyes away from her to look back at the vet. He’s almost prepared for her to laugh him out of her clinic—is almost prepared for her to call him a stupid brat—but all she does is beam at him, hands absentmindedly stroking over her fur. “Oh, great! Most shelters probably wouldn’t have taken her, considering how small she still is.”

“Don’t worry,” she continues. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know!”

Ilya leaves the clinic with a how to take care of your puppy!-guide and a two page long shopping list and without his new dog.

Anya—he’s decided on the name while the vet (“Call me Anika”) showed him how to bathe her and feed her and help her with going potty as Anika put it—is going to stay in the clinic for another day or two, just to make sure she didn’t catch anything while dumpster diving. She can’t get any vaccines until she’s at least six weeks, which places her at a very high-risk for infections.

And while Ilya would love to have her home already, Anya staying at puppy-hospital for a bit longer does give him the opportunity to get everything he’s going to need to take proper care of her.

There’s the big, obvious stuff of course—like a carrier and brushes for her fur and a collar for when she’s bigger and puppy-mats until he can take her on walks. But then there’s also the smaller, less obvious things—like formula and bottles and cotton balls and a heating lamp.

Honestly, he sort of blacks out at the pet store and wakes up almost a thousand dollars poorer and his living room a lot more cluttered.

By the time he’s built up the heating lamp and sets up a little enclosure with the mats and a cozy little bed, the sun is already setting and Shane is calling for his pre-game check in.

He’s playing the Admirals and he’s probably still in his hotel room because it’s just a voice call rather than their usual face time—but he sounds happy and relaxed and that is enough for Ilya to exhale in—relief maybe.

“Hey baby,” he says and Ilya is a weak, weak man, turning into a puddle on his rug. “What are you up to?”

He sort of looks around the chaos that is his living room—cartons strewn around, bubble wrap at his feet, the formula sitting on his kitchen counter—and opens his mouth to say I adopted a dog.

“I am pregnant,” is what comes out instead, almost a little hysterical. “You are the father.”

Shane makes a choked off sound on the other side of the line and starts coughing—violently. In the background, Ilya can hear a voice—Pike, maybe?—asking if he’s okay before the coughing slowly breaks off.

Ilya starts giggling.

There’s a sound like a door sliding open and then—wind. Did he step out onto a balcony? “What?!”

“Hollander,” Ilya says. “What do you think of Anya for girl?”

“Ilya,” Shane answers, voice still a little tight from all of his coughing but not—upset. “Talk. Please.”

“I found baby dog today.” He explains, and leans back into the bottom of his couch, lets his head rest on one of the seats. “Tiny baby dog. Took her to vet. Going to adopt her, I think.”

“Of course you will.” Shane sounds painfully fond on the other side. “Do you have a picture? How are you going to deal with it when the next season starts?”

He shrugs. “For now, I just want her to grow big. She’s smaller than my hand.”

“Oh,” Shane says. “Oh baby-baby dog. Now I get why you’ve told me like you’re trying to baby trap me.”

“Baby trap?” Ilya asks, amused. “What is baby trap?”

“When someone gets pregnant to trap someone else in a relationship.” Shane says. His voice turns teasing. “Nobody’s told you this? Despite your—uh—more promiscuous activities?”

And Ilya wants. Wants to tease back—already has a response forming on the tip of his tongue—wants to crawl through the phone and look at Shane—really, look at him and not through the screen, pixilated by shitty connection—watch as he smiles and blushes, count out all of his freckles, his eyelashes—wants wants wants

“Send me a picture of her,” Shane says, before Ilya even has a chance to reply. “Hyd is waving at me through the window, I’ve gotta go.”

“Love you,” Ilya says, quickly. Both in English and in Russian. Shane whispers it back, just as quickly and then he’s gone and Ilya is alone. Again.

Anya needs to be fed every two hours and weighed daily.

Anika gave him a little booklet to fill out—by the end of the week she’s supposed to have almost doubled her weight. By week two, she only needs to be fed every three hours and she’ll maybe open her eyes. By week four he can start to introduce water and softened puppy food.

She’s going to need help with going potty. She’s going to need help keeping warm. She might not feed from a bottle so Ilya goes out and buys syringes instead.

There’s so much that can go wrong and he’s terrified of messing up.

He ends up visiting Anya even before he’s allowed to take her home, and it feels like she recognizes him because she’s sniffing wildly whenever he comes near her little cage. Anika takes pity on him and gives him her phone number (“Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything!”), and while he saves her in his contacts he takes a couple of pictures of Anya through the bars to send to Shane.

He doesn’t see the text until Ilya is already back home and taps back with a heart.

Adorable, he texts. Then She has your nose.

Ilya is halfway through typing something like hope she has your eyes before he deletes the whole thing. you really don’t mind?

Shane texts back a single question mark. Then: What do you mean?

adopting her

without talking to you about it first

I know how much you love dogs

I always knew it was just a matter of time before you got one

is not dumb i got her?

Shane’s text bubble pops up and vanishes repeatedly for a bit. Ilya watches—sometimes he needs a couple of minutes to think of the right words—but a reply never comes. Instead, Shane calls.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He sounds hurried—with the game in New York over, he’s probably already on his way to the next one—Detroit. Once that’s over he’ll have almost a week off and is going to be back home—back with Ilya—where he belongs.

“Nothing is wrong, Hollander. You call me, remember?”

“Shut up.” Shane says. “You never hesitate like that. Of course it’s not dumb you got her. What’s wrong?”

“Just.” He says. Thinks about the words, he wants to say. Translates and rearranges. It’s almost easier in English—feels less vulnerable. “What if I do it wrong?”

“What?”

“I’m not good with—” he gestures, vaguely. “taking care.”

“You take care of me all the time,” Shane says, in the same voice he uses to talk about the weather and hockey stats. The same voice he uses for absolutes. “You are so good at taking care. Anya is going to be the best taken care of puppy in the whole world.”

He looks at the new scale he bought. It measures in pounds and not in kilogram because the booklet is in pounds and the instructions for the formula also calls for pounds—or cups but that seems incredibly inaccurate—and a new measuring cup because the instructions also call for ounces and not liters.

And he looks at the new blankets he got. The cleaning supplies that claim to kill 99.9% of all bacteria.

“Most spoilt, maybe.” He says and laughs.

“And,” Shane says. “If it gets too overwhelming I can help. And I’m sure my parents would love to help too. Pretty sure my dad’s been gunning for a puppy for years now but…”

“You help?” he asks. “You don’t like messes.”

And Anya’s going to be full of messes, at least for the first months of her life. Ilya’s going to have to teach her everything.

“Yeah but I like you,” Shane says. “A whole lot, if you haven’t noticed yet. And this is the first things that’s….” he breaks off. Ilya can tell what he hasn’t said. Made you happy. Since Boston. “Your messes don’t bother me Ilya.”

“You will spoil me, Hollander.” Ilya whispers back. “Ruin me for anyone else.”

“Good.” Shane says and Ilya can hear his smile even from 400 miles away. “As I should.”

“I love you.” He says. “So much.”

“I love you too.” Shane replies. “Now tell me about Anya.”

Later, he’ll blame it all on a momentary lapse of judgement.

He’ll blame it on the loneliness maybe—on the fact that, despite never having been physically closer to Shane this consistently in his entire life—that despite regularly getting dinner with Shane’s parents—that despite finally having found what he’d spend his entire life searching for he’s also, somehow, never felt more alone.

He’ll blame it on Cliff not texting him back since he’d signed with Ottawa. He’ll blame it on Sveta, face pulled into a perpetual frown during every facetime call.

Or maybe he’ll blame it on Anya—sweet, beautiful Anya—who’d been just a little too cute not to share.

He’s honestly—probably—a little too old for tiktok. Maybe? He’s not that old, but his…feed? doesn’t seem to be made for him, at all because he mainly gets book recommendations and dancing videos to perky, cheerful music.

But his Instagram and his twitter account are both very public, and a part of him is sort of scared this is going to be linked back to him—like someone will see sweet, adorable Anya next to him and decide to rescue his puppy from himself. And not having a public tiktok, lowers the risk of accidentally posting pictures to the wrong account.

The first couple of videos he posts—Anya on her stomach, Anya curled up on his chest, Anya asleep with a pale pink tongue sticking out of her mouth—barely even gather any traction beyond a handful of likes and a few scattered comments filled with emoji.

And it’s—nice. Being able to share something without people dissecting his every word or speculating or—

By the fourth or fifth video—Anya is already one-and-a-half weeks old and her eyes are gradually opening already, two pin-sized dark glossy things hidden under furry eyelids—he’s actually gathered a decently sized audience of people ready to coo over Anya and to cheer along with every new milestone.

Anya took few steps today, he posts as the caption under one video and gets sent gifs of people dancing and love hearts and I would die for Anya does she know this.

Anya is down to one feed every three hours today! He posts and gets a wave of likes and shares.

Her little tongue, someone writes. She’s so precious, someone else comments.

Thank you for taking such good care of her, someone sends him in his dm’s, which is such an improvement from the messages he gets on his official profile he almost tears up.

Once Anya officially hits the three week mark, the comments shift a little though.

Chapter End Notes

ilya calls anya malyshka (little one/baby according to google) before technically /knowing/ he's looking at a female puppy. this is only because i thought it sounded cuter lmao
toska is also a russian word and can mean anything from melancholy and sadness to boredom or longing though i don't speak russian so. *shrugs* who knows.
i also get that the whole reason WHY Ilya is so err....uneffected by moving to ottowa is because hockey ISN'T his life, the way it is for Shane. But also. Dude that's been your team for almost a decade. you've been captain nearly as long. ur not even a LITTLE sad to go? u don't miss ur friends? like sure i doubt u care about ur career that much but also. buddy. who are we kidding here?
credit for the twitter work skin goes to starskin and can be found here!!

thank u for reading! :)

Chapter 2: week two and three

Chapter Summary

“If I got upset every time someone flirted with you,” he says, “or even just tried to flirt with you Rozanov, then I wouldn’t get anything done all day.”

“Besides,” and he sounds cocky, smirks up at Ilya from his place on the floor. “You know where home is. I trust you.”

Considering Shane looked ready to cry when Ilya mentioned marrying Sveta for citizenship and then spent an entire night thinking up a contingency plan—including planning a whole charity so they could maybe go outside together sometimes—Ilya also knows he’s full of shit. Shane is one of the most jealous people he knows, placed firmly second right behind Ilya himself.

But he truly doesn’t seem bothered by the comments and Ilya has to kiss him about it. It’s not a choice as much as it’s a need. Like breathing or sunshine or food.

He’s pretty sure just being with Shane could sustain him.

Chapter Notes

changed the rating to not rated bc I'm bad with judging how to rate something and I'd rather be safe than sorry!! there's NOT going to be anything explicit in here though or any violence!! we are staying fluffy!! there are some suggestive tiktok comments in this though so. again. better safe than sorry!!!

u don't know this because I'm posting on anon so I'm not bothering the people subscribed to my profile but i mainly write like. semi heavy angst and one day I'm going to write the 400k Irina Rozanov lives AU that's been haunting my every waking step.
anyways speaking of angst there's like. a teeny-tiny bit of angst in here. like the kind of angst u can expect when stuck in the head of a depressed bisexual hockey player. there is a little bit of underlying gender-envy in there and ilya wishes he was a woman at one point, but less in a gender-questioning way and more in a "if we were in a straight relationship we wouldn't have to hide" way. he's also not super into the way some people talk about him in his tiktok comments but that's less about the thirsting and more about. people making it about him when its supposed to be about anya. i don't THINK i need to tag anything/warn for anything specific beyond that but do let me know if i missed something and take care of yourself!!

Anya is almost three weeks old and Shane is finally home to meet her.

He’s a little standoffish at first—likely due to the fact that even though Anya is gaining weight like she should she is still unbelievably small, and that, despite his best efforts, he still doesn’t actually enjoy mess—but quickly warms up to her. By the end of the first day he’s comfortable enough to carefully pet her while Ilya feeds her. By the end of the week Anya curls up on him as much as she does on Ilya.

“She really does have your nose,” Shane says and carefully strokes over the sparse fur covering her little snout with a single finger. She’s looking more and more like a dog now, rather than the chubby—almost formless—little worm Ilya pulled out of a dumpster. Her tails wags a little and she’s getting more and more confident walking even if she rarely manages more than a step or two before tumbling to the floor. Her eyes are almost fully open.

Shane is both teasing and painfully sincere at the same time when he looks up at Ilya, eyes bright and fond and says “You’ve done a really good job with her.”

It’s a bit ridiculous, but Ilya is aware that he all but beams at the reassurance. Sue him: he loves Shane and he definitely loves Anya and he’s fighting sleep deprivation. Sometimes it really does feel like Anya is his real (human) baby because Shane will not let the whole pregnancy bit go—even more so when he gets up five times during the night to feed her puppy formula.

“Wasn’t easy. Have new respect for all WAGs. Mothers.” He says. Shrugs.

Not that he’s ever not felt respect for WAGs or mothers or women in general. But maybe it was always more abstract—respect instilled in him by his own mother and then Svetlana and her mother and the ladies at his favorite bakery in Moscow. Women deserve respect—something as obvious as the fact that the sky is blue. But this—taking care of something so small and vulnerable—it’s made it more real.

He thinks about his mother—and she’d been so young, younger than Ilya is now when she had him. Even younger when she had his brother. And his father probably didn’t help—Ilya tries, sometimes, to imagine his father sitting up at night to give him a bottle, tries to imagine his father changing diapers, tries to imagine him even just stroking through Ilya’s hair the way Shane does with Anya’s fur and he can’t.

He always feels a bit dirty after. Like a stain.

But he’s also a weak man and Shane is—beautiful and in his apartment, holding his dog so he plays along. “But I can’t let your daughter starve, so.”

Shane laughs, bright and surprised, finger still stroking over Anya’s snout, and his eyes sparkle. She really does have his eyes—dark and wet and knowing.

Anya sneezes and Shane stops—freezes mid pet, mid laugh—and looks away from Ilya to look down at her, nervous and unsure. She settles almost immediately, tongue sticking out of her mouth and rests her little head on Shane’s forearm.

Ilya coos. Pulls out his phone and takes like—ten photos before he even really thinks about it, just on reflex. Immediately feels self-conscious about it—lowers the phone—but Shane is beaming up at him, fond and lovely.

“Send me those,” he says like this is normal. Like it’s natural. Maybe it is. “And send them to my dad too, he’s been bugging me about photos since I told him and mom about Anya.”

David Hollander probably did get up in the middle of the night to feed Shane. He probably changed diapers and let Shane spit up on him. He still ruffles Shane’s hair sometimes—rarely, because Shane doesn’t always like it but enough that Ilya has seen him do it.

Yuna probably didn’t even have to ask. He probably just did it.

“Sure,” Ilya hears himself say and looks at his phone again to do just that—sends the photos into the little group chat they have now. Reads over the last messages again—Yuna enthusiastically planning their next dinner as four and then an entire itinerary of dinners and watch-parties for when Shane is back on the road—all of them now at Ilya’s apartment that he can’t leave because he can’t leave Anya. Watches as responses roll in.

He feels a bit dirty again.

Week three-and-a-half and the comments under his tiktoks are slowly turning away from compliments for Anya and towards compliments for Ilya.

It starts out innocently enough—one of the first comments Ilya actively notices is an account with the profile picture of a…cartoon duck maybe?—asking if Anya needs a mom.

He actually responds to the comment, half tempted to post the picture of Anya in Shane’s arms—cropped down, so Shane isn’t recognizable obviously—and leave it at that but ultimately chickens out before he can hit post.

Anya has two parents, he writes instead. Thank you.

(It does spark a conversation with Shane about the future though—about what to do when the season starts back up officially in October. By then Anya will be old enough that Ilya won’t have to feed her by hand, but still firmly in the puppy age range—and even if she wasn’t, leaving her home alone for hours while Ilya’s at practice or—worse—for days while he’s traveling around North America just isn’t acceptable.  

Shane—because he’s insane—ends up researching a bunch of doggy hotels and doggy daycares and doggy schools for him in between red-eyed flights and hockey games and training.

“If none of these look promising, I can always ask my parents.” Shane tells him over facetime. He’s chewing on the drawstring of one of his hoodies—actually, one of Ilya’s hoodies. It’s plain, in a dark green color—nondescript and Ilya likely wouldn’t have even noticed if it weren’t for the fact that it sits just a little too big on Shane. “I’m sure they’d take Anya for a few days and—and maybe if you talk to your coach you could bring her to practice too?”

“I’ll look through the daycares,” Ilya says, watches as Shane gets that almost giddy smile on his face he gets every time he feels useful. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”)

That response, though, seems to open up the floodgates. And—Ilya doesn’t even post that much is the thing. The account is more diary than anything: a place to write down some of his thoughts and, more importantly, his fears and be met with advice and reassurance. But it’s definitely not a regular thing—most of the pictures and videos he takes of Anya stay on his phone never to be seen by anyone else, not even the Hollanders.

The compliments are vague in nature too.

For one, Ilya makes very sure to not post anything identifying. Nobody has seen the inside of his Ottawa apartment besides Shane and his parents and Sveta in the background of their—by now—rare facetime calls. He doesn’t post his face or talks. The most anyone’s ever seen of him are shots of his arms or hands—once a blurry image of his right knee.

For another, they are just plain strange.

He’s not exactly a stranger to flirting and innuendos and thirst comments as it were. He’s been a professional athlete for almost a decade—he was a bit of a playboy in his recent youth—he has a twitter account and does read what people write about him. He also, coincidentally, owns a functioning mirror. He knows what he looks like, has used his looks to his advantage plenty of times. For a while there, he had a bit of a weird relationship with his body, actually—thought about his appearance as somehow separate from himself, probably because all everyone ever talked to him about was what his body could do for them.

Coaches talking about skate times and shot accuracy. Hookups talking about his broad chest and strong arms. Before that, even, his father looking at him and only ever seeing his mother.

It’s something most athletes go through—seeing their body as a tool rather than themselves.

But Ilyas been better about it since Shane. Since they made it official. Exclusive. Boyfriends. Lovers.

Since Shane looked at him and said I love you and Ilya could tell he meant it—really meant it and not just because he was handsome and fit.

Because Shane had looked at him—had looked beyond his muscles and crooked smile and seen something in him.

Despite of all of that—or maybe because of it, it actually takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize what is happening.

He was definitely written by a woman, someone comments under one of his first posts. The comment gathers a bunch of little red hearts and a couple responses, one of which reads right? I just know he’d help an old woman cross the street.

And he knows that there’s different, like, societal expectations when it comes to politeness and differences in culture he’s probably not getting even after living outside of Russia for almost a decade. Yuna, for example, still beams at him every time he gets her flowers, when Svetlana would probably hit him over the head with a broomstick if he dared to show his face for dinner without a bouquet. And his asshole persona—not that it’s really a persona but still—is at least partially anchored in what Cliff used to call his resting bitchface. Were both America and Canada seem much more about performing emotion rather than actually feeling them, Ilya was taught to stay stoic unless it mattered which doesn’t seem to translate great.

But still. Helping an older lady cross the street feels pretty universal. One of those things you’re just supposed to known to do like saying bless you after someone sneezes and offering your seat to a pregnant person.

He replies as much to the comment and gathers a bunch of likes and people barking at him (??????).

Anya’s mom is so lucky, someone else writes.

If anything I am Anya’s mom, Ilya replies.

What are your pronouns op? they reply to that.

And he actually has to google before he can respond. Both pronouns and op.

He ends up falling down a bit of a rabbit hole when he stumbles over an article talking about Neo-Pronouns and Genderless Language—sort of gets his mind blown because Russian is such a heavily gendered language even when compared to English that imagining a language where gender doesn’t matter at all—like Japanese!—seems unimaginable.

Wow ur so comfortable in your masculinity! They respond when he finally gets back to them. Green flag for sure!!!

Thank you? Ilya asks, and immediately texts Shane to ask what the hell green flag means.

She is so small and your hands are so big!!! Under a video of him feeding her. Yes. He answers. Very scared I hurt her before but vet says shes good.

The first time he really gets what’s happening is when someone comments I’d say something, but my parents follow this account followed by a handful of drooling emoji. Directly below that someone else has written Veins! VEINS!!

Damn, twitter wasn’t lying. Holy Biceps! Someone else comments under a picture of Anya curled up on his chest, his left arm just barely visible in the background. Then I am looking very disrespectfully.

Some of them actually grow quite graphic—maybe because Ilya engaged and, like, accidentally gave permission? Whatever the reason, it causes him to stop posting at all for a few days—no replies to comments, no updates—he doesn’t even open the app—uncomfortable and, honestly, a bit upset. Not about the words themselves, necessarily but—

It was supposed to be about Anya. About how she grows despite all of the challenges life has thrown at her and a way for Ilya to still be able to be online—to maybe even find something like a community—without the shadow of hockey and his own reputation hanging over it.

Now it feels—stained. Dirty. Because, somehow, people have made it about him again and not about Anya. The same way they’ve made the trade about him, the way they’ve made selling his cars about him. And he’s so, so sick of everything being about him.

It also makes him feel like he’s doing something wrong. He’s Shane’s boyfriend. They’ll get married someday, hopefully, if everything works out the way they want it to but even if it doesn’t, Ilya plans on spending the rest of his life with him. He barely even registers people in that way anymore—doesn’t follow any models on Instagram, doesn’t flirt, doesn’t even go out unless it’s an attempt at bonding with his team during away games.

And sure—it’s not exactly his fault if people thirst over him, especially because they aren’t even really thirsting about him, Ilya Rozanov, but rather over blurry shots of his arms. Somehow that feels worse though—makes the comments feel more personal, more targeted.

He stews on it for a few days—long enough that Anya turns four weeks officially and Ilya starts offering her water and liquified puppy food between her bottle feeds—before bringing it up to Shane.

We need to talk, he texts him.

Shane must have downtime, because he reads the text almost immediately even if he doesn’t text back and instead sends him a facetime request.

It looks like he’s in a storage closet maybe—a small space, bad lighting, shelves behind him. He looks pale and is still in his gear and—

He looks like he’s about to have a panic attack actually. Like he’s barely holding it together.

“Moya lyubov,” Ilya says. “What is wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Shane asks breathlessly, a million little emotions flickering over his face in the span of a second. “You—you tell me, what the fuck do you mean we need to talk? Areyoubreakingupwithme?”

“What?” Ilya asks, perplexed. “Of course not, why would you think that?”

“Because that’s usually what happens when someone texts you we need to talk out of nowhere!” he doesn’t yell, because Shane basically never yells, but it’s close. He’s heaving like he’s just run a marathon, pushes his free hand through his hair. Even through with the bad connection, Ilya can see his hands shake.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he answers. He feels—big and wrong. Stupid. Wrongfooted and sheepish and not for the first time does he wish he was there to hold Shane. To press little kisses to his hairline. “I didn’t mean it like that. I am sorry, Shane.”

“It’s—fine.” Shane bites out. Deflates. Rubs his hand over his face tiredly, pushes his hair away. “Is it something bad?”

“I am not sure.” Ilya replies. “Nothing like anyone finding out or anything but…I don’t know. I want to talk to you. But would be easier to show I think. In person.”

Shane narrows his eyes at him. Stares—really stares at him. “Did someone leave a baby on your doorstep?”

“No?” Ilya answers.

“Is it Anya? Is she sick?”

“No. Wait, I can show you.” He flips the camera to show Anya in her little puppy bed, curled up and asleep. “We tried more puppy food earlier and she put her whole face into bowl.”

“Cute.” Shane comments but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. He still looks thoughtful, still a little freaked out and Ilya immediately feels bad. Or, well, worse. “And you’re sure you’re not breaking up with me?”

“I’d rather die, solnyshko.“ And he means that. With his whole chest. He flips the camera again, so Shane can look at him as he says it. “I should not have said it like that. It’s not bad, I don’t think. Please don’t worry.”

Shane bites his bottom lip. “And you can’t tell me now? Because I still have another hour of training left and then another two hours until I can be in Ottawa—I won’t stop thinking about this until then.”

“I get tiktok thirst comments and I feel bad about it,” Ilya says immediately. Because he’s right, Shane will spiral and not having hockey on his mind while on the ice could get him hurt and that’s the last thing Ilya wants, ever.

On his screen, Shane blinks clearly caught off guard, but now that he’s started he just keeps talking.

“I post videos about Anya and first I get nice supportive comment but now people only talk about bicep and forearm and about green flag!” He shakes his head, frustrated. “And I am your boyfriend but they do not care.”

“Baby,” Shane breathes and Ilya gets to watch his expression melt in real time. He looks like he did—all those years ago, sitting on that staircase to Shane’s apartment, Ilya’s jacket folded against his chest. Soft and fuzzy and fond and like the rest of his Ilya’s life. He savors it. “You are so stupid. Of course people are thirsting over you—have you looked in the mirror lately?”

“But—you don’t get it,” he grumbles—more for show than anything. He’s already feeling better about all of this, because Shane doesn’t seem upset or jealous and, really, he was more concerned that maybe Shane would break up with him over this. Which—admittedly—is maybe a bit stupid, considering people on twitter regularly write way worse things about him. Or, well—used to. Ilya hasn’t been on twitter much lately, but he can't imagine most of his fans still...being there. After. “This why I wanted to show you in person.”

Shane laughs. “You can explain it to me later. And then you can show me the videos. And! You can show me the video you took of Anya putting her head into her food bowl, I know you have one.”

“Don’t know why I put up with you,” he says, and then immediately feels bad about it but Shane only smiles wider, his almost panic attack all but forgotten. “So mean to me.”

“You love me.” Shane says and Ilya thinks he tries to sound teasing, but all he can hear is how sure he sounds. “But I should get back to practice. Before someone comes and starts questioning me about why I ran off during water break.”

Ilya sighs—long and exaggerated—before he relents. “I do love you. Enough to make you rabbit food when you come over later.”

“I love you, too. See you soon.”

Ilya stares at him until Shane hangs up.

Even in person, Shane thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

“If I got upset every time someone flirted with you,” he says, “or even just tried to flirt with you Rozanov, then I wouldn’t get anything done all day.”

“Besides,” and he sounds cocky, smirks up at Ilya from his place on the floor. “You know where home is. I trust you.”

Considering Shane looked ready to cry when Ilya mentioned marrying Sveta for citizenship and then spent an entire night thinking up a contingency plan—including planning a whole charity so they could maybe go outside together sometimes—Ilya also knows he’s full of shit. Shane is one of the most jealous people he knows, placed firmly second right behind Ilya himself.

But he truly doesn’t seem bothered by the comments and Ilya has to kiss him about it. It’s not a choice as much as it’s a need. Like breathing or sunshine or food.

He’s pretty sure just being with Shane could sustain him.

Eventually he stops kissing him though—just because he could live off Shane alone, doesn’t mean Shane doesn’t need food or water or air—and reluctantly goes to the kitchen to make dinner.

The good thing about having an open floor plan though, is that he can still watch Shane play with Anya even while chopping vegetables. And when Anya grows tired and curls up in her bed again, Shane stands up and sits down right at the little kitchen counter to watch as Ilya cooks.

“I cannot wait for this season to be over,” he says and rolls his head from side to side, trying to get his neck muscles to relax.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Hollander?” Ilya asks, mock offended. “This is not my hockey fiend.”

“Fiend?” Shane asks and laughs at him.

“Is true,” Ilya says fondly. “Shane Hollander loves hockey most in world. Shane Hollander would play hockey aaaaalll year round if he could. Is boring like that.”

“I don’t love hockey most in the world,” Shane says. “Not anymore. And I wouldn’t want to play all year long. Not anymore.”

Then, “I am really looking forward to my two weeks off work away at my cottage. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“Oh, I hear about it,” Ilya says and smirks. Shane blushes, just the tiniest bit. “Hear is very beautiful. Nature all around.”

“Only two-ish months to go,” Shane says. Then he grows quiet. “Can Anya travel by then?”

“Only if you make it to finals,” Ilya corrects and Shane glares at him. It’s more to rile him up—Montreal has been playing beyond well and is a clear favorite—and Ilya is pretty sure they’re going to get the cup. With Ilya out of Boston, they’ve lost their biggest competitor. Not that Boston is doing bad—they are still in the playoffs after all—but without Ilya there to run interference, Shane is going to destroy them. Close shop. Wipe the floor. Whatever. “And I will ask Anika but I think so, yes.”

“She will love it,” Shane says and turns on his stool to look at her. She’s snoring, softly, but her little legs twitch every so often like she’s chasing after something in her dreams. She is very cute.

It feels so stupidly domestic, he almost wishes Shane would never have to leave. Almost wishes they’d met differently—or that he didn’t have Russian citizenship and that hockey was more accepting or that he’d really been born a Lily rather than an Ilya. He’d retire—he’d do anything—if it meant he could have this everyday.

His father used to call him greedy, and now Ilya feels like it. He should be grateful and yet all he can think about what more he wants. And wants. And wants.

But if it wouldn’t be fair to Shane. Shane who loves hockey and his team and his teammates.

Not as much as you, a voice whispers in his head. Not anymore.

The thought doesn’t help much—doesn’t help, at all really—but if he’s one thing besides greedy it’s patient. He can endure, has proven it over and over again. He’s waited seven years to have anything at all—to have Shane in any way that mattered—and he would’ve waited another seven—would’ve maybe waited his entire life—even if Shane had never loved him back and all he’d ever gotten was a meet-up every five months.

Even if he’d met someone else, even if he’d gotten married—a part of him would’ve been with Shane Hollander always, he thinks.

“She will terrorize wildlife.” Ilya says. “Or—maybe not. Would be—six weeks from now? Eight, maybe, if you win cup? Should keep her away from public until after final vaccinations. Can go outside for short periods but not too long.”

Shane turns back to him, eyebrows raised. “Ask Anika—actually, give me your phone I’ll ask her.”

Ilya shrugs to the counter where his phone lies and Shane unlocks it without having to ask for the passcode—it’s his birthday after all.

Chapter End Notes

holds my ears close: lalalalala canon isn't real to me this is my sandbox lalalala also i dont have a beta!! sorry for any typos!!
I'm back @ work starting tomorrow (night shift. ugh.) so updates might slow down a bit! sorry!
stares at hit/kudos/bookmark/comment counter. Is this what writing for a fandom that ISN'T dead feels like?
thank u very much for all of your support! I appreciate it a lot :)

Chapter 3: week five and six

Chapter Summary

And he’s happy. Why does no one ever see that he’s happy goddamnit—

His thoughts are interrupted by an incoming facetime call.

Marley 👿 the top of his screen reads and it’s enough to snap him out of it. Marlow still hasn’t replied to that text after Boston got knocked out of the playoffs—they haven’t talked in months. Why the hell is he calling now?

He answers, without thinking about it and watches, sort of spellbound as the call connects.

Cliff is at home.

Chapter Notes

sorry this took so long! I'm off nights for the month though which I am honestly BEYOND grateful for so hopefully i can keep updates more consistent now :)
someone convince me NOT to take up a mentorship-type role at work. please. I think im experiencing peer pressure and everyone seems to think its a great idea but I'm soooo on the fence about it.

i don't REALLY get how the playoffs work? so i applied football (the soccer kind) rules and just made it the knock-outs in whatever tournament u prefer. i think it works from what i DID understand about playoffs but if i've completely misunderstood lmk. also the timeline is messed up anyways because the irina foundation SHOULD have been existing since november 2018 and ilya was supposed to be traded to ottowa for the 2018/2019 season and ahhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!! yeah again this is my sandbox now. please disregard canon. :(

cw/tw wise:

I am still making my way through the books (teeth clenchingly) and I have not made it to Role Model yet so. Not sure HOW bad Dallas Kent gets in there exactly but I know he's the worst. so. warnings for him! he's not actually even really in this but Shane plays Toronto and nobody is happy about it and there's some references to him using slurs though none are actually said in this chapter. also a non-graphic description of a (potentially) career ending injury in reference to another player in the past after playing against toronto.
Also references to bad mental health and suicide in regards to Ilya's backstory (mainly, his mother and his own not great mental health) and the Irina Foundation. Nothing graphic--we are still aiming for light hearted here--but still. Let me know if there's anything I might've forgotten about! Thank you :)

The thing about being in a secret gay relationship with your rival is that at some point, the whole secret part looses it’s appeal.

Like—look. Ilya can appreciate all of the sneaking around—the thrill of doing something that’s maybe not forbidden necessarily but something that needs to stay on the down low anyways—the slipping in and out of apartments and hotel rooms and the undercover texting. It’s cool. It’s fun.

But also being with Shane has kind of made it obvious that Ilya really, really likes the whole domestic life thing. And from the second they made it official—actually, maybe even before that, back when Ilya tried to…do something and managed to freak out Shane so bad he ended up in an ill-advised relationship with an actress—he’s made peace with never going back to Russia again. With potentially imploding his life, getting kicked out of the league—whatever. He’d be fine with it, he thinks, if it meant he got to hold Shane’s hand in public.

So, yeah, he’s sort of over the whole secret aspect of his relationship.

Being with the Hollanders, makes it a bit better though.

He still can’t quite take Anya out of his apartment. At five weeks old—fur glossy and growing in more evenly and also growing in size in general—she’s still not quite out of the red zone as Ilya’s vet has called it. She’s getting more and more active though—running around the apartment, stumbling after him and nipping at his heels with tiny sharp baby teeth—and transitioning fully towards solids—well. Solids. Kibble softened to a porridge-like consistency, but still more solid than anything else she’s ever eaten before in her life.

But until she’s fully vaccinated, Ilya is—cautious. Scared, maybe, if he was a more honest person, and flat-out refuses to take her outside unless absolutely necessary.

All of this to say, Shane’s parents have been coming over a lot more to Ilya’s house for dinner and for Shane’s gamedays than Ilya ever thought he’d be comfortable with.

It’s—nice. Forces him out of his head a little bit—forces him to cook actual meals—and yet it still feels kind of unsettling sometimes. And Yuna and David are—great, honestly, but Ilya can’t help but feel like they judge him a little too—like they are looking at his space and see all of the mess he’s spent hours cleaning, like they know somehow that if they hadn’t been scheduled to come over then his place would still be cluttered and—not dirty, never dirty because, again Anya cannot tolerate germs—but…untidy. Unwashed dishes in the kitchen, old laundry on his bedroom floor, crumbs and dust everywhere Anya can’t reach yet.

Yuna also seems sort of unhappy with the fact that Ilya basically doesn’t leave his house anymore.

While his coach and the team and the literal GM are happy to let Ilya—essentially—do whatever he wants until the next season starts—perks of being the best player on the team, perks of being the sole reason Ottawa scored any goals at all this past season—Yuna gets this pinched look whenever she asks him about his day and he doesn’t have anything more to say than taking care of Anya and going on a short run or to the grocery store trip or on a drive around town.

They both have taken to Anya like very eager grandparents, though—cooing and awing over her, and David has playfully attempted to smuggle her out of the house more than once.

They also try and help with the tiktok account.

Shane had made his own—private and inconspicuous and boring without even a profile picture or a bio or display name—because he’s a good, supportive boyfriend and also so he can follow along as Anya grows up a little more even when he’s away. Shane’s parents are a little too old for most social media beyond facebook, but they make up for it in enthusiasm and take about a hundred shaky photos and videos whenever they come and visit.

And while Ilya had been content to let the account simply die, all three of the Hollanders had done their very best to get him to continue.

The very first thing he posts after his little break, is a video David took of Anya—little tail wagging furiously on the ground as she sat on his bare feet while Ilya was cooking. He’d captioned it please stop talking about my body. This account is about my dog. I am also in a committed relationship. Thank you—which had started a small war in the comments with a bunch of people going to very extreme lengths to defend him and denounce the people thirsting in his comments as though they were scared of being implicated somehow, and the people that had been thirsting in his comments defending themselves while also downplaying the comments in general.

Shane had told him to simply stop reading the comments. Ilya thought that was rich coming from him of all people, considering Shane had internalized pretty much anything anyone had ever said about him. And Ilya wanted to read the comments—wanted to be online—wanted to know what people thought about Anya—he just couldn’t bring himself to do it anymore.

“You really don’t have to keep on getting me flowers, Ilya.” Yuna says even though she’s smiling wide and immediately goes for the vase he’s already put out on the counter for her to put them in. “Especially not if you keep hosting. We really should be getting you something for all your troubles.”

David, on the other hand, does not protest the bottle of nice vodka—nor the wiggling puppy Ilya deposits in his lap. “Don’t listen to her,” he says, calmly stroking Anya’s fur as she nips at his fingers. “She loves it.”

Ilya does his very best to smile. His lips feel—heavy, somehow. It takes more of an effort to smile than it should and speaking at all seems completely unappealing. Ilya is good at enduring though, and was raised to be polite to his elders—especially if he wants to marry their child— so he opens his mouth anyways.

“Would get in trouble if I did not buy flowers,” he says, turning back to the stove. “I think Svetlana would appear like ghost to strangle me if I did not get them for you.”

Yuna hums, picking at the leaves of the bouquet a little. Before, she used to say she didn’t like flowers, never even had a favorite one—David had told him he had only ever been allowed to get her some for big anniversaries because she said it was a waste of money—buying something only to watch it die. She doesn’t seem to mind it now though, and Ilya’s been on a journey to find her a favorite flower.

Today it’s a pretty mix—or at least, Ilya thinks its pretty—of white anemone and apple blossoms and baby breath—little forget-me-nots interspersed to make the whole thing look less monochrome. By now the girl behind the counter at the flower shop—Blake—knows him by name but he’s yet to hear about any rumors about him spending a shit-ton of money on flowers, so she probably doesn’t know his name.

“Svetlana is your best friend, right?” David asks, still patting away unbothered, even though Anya has started tugging at his sleeves now. “I think you’ve mentioned her before.”

“Yes.” Ilya says, and scrapes around in the pot. The sauce looks a little…dark. Maybe. A little too solid. He’s not exactly grown up eating a lot of pasta—least of all the Canadian version of pasta—and it’s not like he’d be any better making Russian food necessarily but usually he can at least produce something edible. This doesn’t really look edible. “We grew up together. Her father used to play for Boston, too, back in the day.”

“I suppose I should thank her then.” Yuna says and finally turns away from admiring the flowers—phone in hand, and Ilya is sure he’ll stumble over some photos of them on facebook later. Then, she scoffs.

“Speaking of Boston,” she says. “Knocked out of the playoffs by Minnesota of all teams. Minnesota. Lemaire is the last decent thing that team had and he’s been on IR for most of the season.”

Ilya hadn’t even been aware he was still playing since that accident he had—five years ago? Six years ago?—that screwed up his knee. He hadn’t been there—hadn’t seen it happen live—but the clips had spread online like a wildfire and sometimes he could still hear the way he’d been screaming as the medics descended on him.

“Good on Minnesota,” Ilya heard himself say. “For not abandoning him.”

Yuna shook her head. “That’s just decent. If they hadn’t pushed for him to be back on the ice six weeks after his accident—”

“How’s Boston taking it,” David interrupted. Yuna turned to look at him—and while Ilya couldn’t read his expression, it was obvious she found something on his face because she didn’t say anything else. “Getting knocked out? I assume you still talk to your buddies?”

Ilya had texted Cliff after the game. He’d been watching, had been yelling at his TV, loud enough that he’d accidentally woken up Anya who’d been dozing curled up next to him—backseat playing, as Shane liked to call it sometimes. His legs had ached with phantom exhaustion, arms tensed and jerking around like he really was on the ice, still playing.

Cliff hadn’t texted back yet, but Ilya supposed he was busy still—but then, Cliff hadn’t texted back even before that. He tried not to think about that either. Losing at home. That had to suck.

Taking the pot off the stove, he started dishing out the pasta.

“Dunno,” Ilya said. “Haven’t heard anything yet, but they played well. Don’t think anyone was expecting them to win cup this year.”

Yuna and David exchanged glances again, but before either of them could say anything else about the matter, Ilya smiled at them. “Let’s eat?”

The pasta is fucking awful.

The noodles are chewy and hard—the sauce tastes burned and is cold at the same time, somehow—and the ratio of both is off. There’s way too many noodles for the sauce he’s produced.

Both Hollanders are too polite to mention it though, and smile through dinner while Ilya sort of wishes the ground would open to swallow him whole. He offers—multiple times—to go out and buy something else, to maybe order some pizza, does his best to apologize—but they both wave him off and keep eating.

Ilya has eaten some truly terrible food in his time, but this might take the cherry or however that expression goes. At least he has dessert—panna cotta he’d picked up from a nice Italian restaurant downtown. They end up sitting on the sofa to eat it, the Hollanders getting comfortable while Ilya sets up the TV so they can watch Shane play.

He’s in Toronto, tonight, which sucks because Toronto sucks. Not at hockey necessarily but…

Like, Ilya played for Boston pretty much his entire (professional) life. He knows macho-manly-men. He is a macho-manly-man, sort of. He’s at least done his best to play up that part of him for the media, because it was easy and offered him a way to hide that he never had back in Russia. And Marlow is even taller than Ilya and built like a brick shithouse, and Ilya’s watched Connors bench double his weight no issue. He knows manly-men.

He’s spent a lot of his professional career wrangling manly-men like a mother cat or something—hand on the scruff off overeager rookie necks, an eye on everyone at the club to make sure they all made it back home safely—easy enough, considering that most of his team mates we’re actually kind of sweet off the ice even when they’d spent most of the night bodychecking players out of the way.

All that to say—the sort of rumors surrounding Toronto? Yeah, Ilya hates it there. It’s not even something he can necessarily put his finger on—just the sort of certainty that comes with being queer and recognizing who’d call you a slur and mean it if they were to find out. Some of the shit their center is posting online is getting pretty close to it anyways, and there’s been a few…heated moments or whatever the league called it where he allegedly used them in person to.

Shane hates playing in Toronto too and it’s sort of obvious in the way he’s holding himself on the ice.

He’s still playing exceptionally well obviously—but there’s a tense line to his shoulders, a stiffness in the way he’s holding himself, like he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for someone to ram him straight into the boards.

Ilya will probably never like Pike, but he, at least, is doing his very best to keep any of the Toronto players far, far away from Shane.

While they’re watching—swearing and cheering and celebrating every time Shane scores, falling into each others arms like he’s already won the cup—Ilya can’t help but think about Lemaire again. He’d played Toronto back then too, he thinks, and Lemaire had gone down at a bad angle, leg overextended, screaming all the way down.

My leg, he’d screamed in French. I can’t feel my leg.

During the second break—while Yuna is in his kitchen putting on coffee and David is in the bathroom—Ilya finds himself on the couch, Anya on his lap and phone in hand and looks up Vincent Lemaire before he can stop himself. He finds an Instagram account.

Lemaire looks older—obviously—but also exhausted. Aged not only by time but through struggle. Scrolling he finds that he still plays sometimes—usually not more than one period before getting benched for weeks or months at a time. He’s not bad but not the player he was almost a decade ago when they all got drafted.

He looks miserable in his most recent post—three months old at this point—though the comments under the picture are loving and supportive. Mid-West-Charm or whatever they say about Minnesota.

Back at the hospital for another MRI, the caption reads. Thank you for continuing to support me.

On the TV the commentators replay a clip of Pike shoving a Toronto player into the boards with more enthusiasm than Ilya has ever seen him have playing hockey before—except maybe for that time he tried to fight Marlow after Shane’s accident.

Tell Pike he did good job, he texts Shane. He probably won’t read it until the game is over, but still. Ilya always texts him his thoughts during the game. Next time he should put more of his  weight more into shoving

He puts his phone down, hands going down to stroke over Anya’s soft fur. Her little tail wags a little. 

Maybe there’s little hockey jerseys for dogs too—he should look into it, maybe get a Hollander one to take pictures in and send Shane for his next game. He’s on break again for the next couple of weeks until the quarter finals if he wins tonight. Which he will—Montreal is ahead 3-1, and it’s going to take nothing short of a miracle for Toronto to catch up.

He snaps a picture of Anya anyways—she yawns halfway through, and so the picture turns out a little blurry and mostly shows off her tiny little baby teeth—but he sends it to Shane anyways.

And then—

Then he opens tiktok and shares the picture there too.

Maybe is past bedtime yes?, he writes. Don’t think she likes hockey very much.

Before he can even be tempted to look at the comments, Yuna comes back carrying the coffee.

“Have they said anything interesting?” she asks while she hands over a cup for Ilya. He blinks, momentarily confused, before he realizes she’s talking about the sports commentators still talking on the screen.

“No,” Ilya answers. “Same stuff as always. Oh Hollander is second coming of Hockey-Jesus, blah blah.”

Yuna beams at him. “He is playing exceptionally well tonight. Seems even more focused than usual if maybe a bit nervous? He seems tense.”

Nervous?, Ilya thinks but doesn’t say. He’s terrified.

Then, I think I am too.

Anya’s tiktok account continues to grow in popularity.

Ilya still mostly stays away from the comments—anyone but Shane (or user_24548668481 as it were) gets ignored without mercy—but whenever he does look at them in passing he’s pleasantly surprised to see that they’ve improved. Kind of.

They still talk about him sort of—not about what little they happen to catch of his body, but rather about how nice it is of him to take care of Anya like this.

It’s obvious that you have a good heart, someone writes. I hope good things come your way.

Ilya doesn’t think he has a good heart. He just has a regular heart—a regularly kind, regularly sized heart. And good things have already come his way—Anya being one of them, and then Shane obviously and the Hollanders. Svetlana. His mother.

The whole problem is keeping them.

By the beginning of May, Anya turns six weeks old and grows more independent. Shane spends most of the time he can spare with Ilya in Ottawa. Anya gets her vaccinations.

They also decide to announce the Irina Foundation—finally—which means that come this time next year they can hopefully go outside together and not cause a scandal.

And because life seems to really look up, Ilya makes the mistake of logging onto twitter for the first time in months.

He’s just curious, he tells himself. He just wants to know what people think of the Foundation. It’s maybe a little dumb to read through replies alone, and without Shane—but also it’s fine, because most of the feedback is positive, actually! It’s mainly people assuming he and Shane finally put their differences aside for a good cause—no talks about friendships or anything like that, but even just people mentioning them in the same sentence without pretending like they try to kill each other every time they meet, is good. Great even.

But Ilya is a masochist, apparently, because he simply cannot let it go and continues to scroll and then—

The words hit like a punch in the gut. Sudden and unexpected—enough to knock him just off kilter enough that he actually laughs for a bit. Humorless and unamused but it’s a laugh all the same.

He’s the happiest he’s ever been and people think—what. That he’s miserable? Hiding away from the world? That his father dying—of all the things happening in the world—was enough to send him spiraling?

Which.

Well—he was sad about it, he thinks. But there was also so much relief—in knowing he was gone, and that Ilya was free and that he would never have to return to Russia ever again and that he’d made it out—and he’d been angry, so, so angry that he was gone and that Ilya never really got to know him or be loved by him the way he should’ve been—and he’d been angry that he’d gone peacefully while his mother had to struggle to the very end and…

He had felt complicated about it, yes. Still does. Still isn’t sure if he misses his father or if he doesn’t and if he loved him or if didn’t.

But he’s not—he doesn’t even really think about him most days. He’s so far away from all of the things that do keep Ilya up at night that—

And he’s happy. Why does no one ever see that he’s happy goddamnit—

His thoughts are interrupted by an incoming facetime call.

Marley 👿 the top of his screen reads and it’s enough to snap him out of it. Marlow still hasn’t replied to that text after Boston got knocked out of the playoffs—they haven’t talked in months. Why the hell is he calling now?

He answers, without thinking about it and watches, sort of spellbound as the call connects.

Cliff is at home.

Ilya can recognize his living room behind him, so he’s probably sitting at the little counter/bar space he has in his kitchen and he also looks like he’s been drinking. His beard is thicker than Ilya remembers, and he looks—upset.

“What the hell Rozanov,” he opens with. “What the hell is going on with you, huh?”

Chapter End Notes

i went back and did some minor editing (mostly typos and a few tense mix-ups and correcting the tweet-timeline. we are in 2019 and not 2018. sigh) but i cannot believe not one of you told me i used the wrong formula throughout the first chapter. i am. very embarrassed. blaming it on the fact that i AM in fact stem brained--but also :( u couldn't have told me BEFORE i embarrassed myself like that :(?
also rip vincent lemaire. forever in our hearts as the guy that was drafted with hollanov and never gets brought up again (i think)
anyways, thank u for all of the super kind comments and kudos and bookmarks. this is the second most read fic on my profile now which. insane.

Chapter 4: week seven

Chapter Summary

“The chick from Montreal?” Marlow asks. He sits up straight. Then—“Dude did you get yourself traded to the bottom of the league for—”

“Don’t finish that sentence Marlow.” Ilya says, warningly—but even to his own ears it falls flat. Huh. “But yeah. Yeah. Got—tired of long distance. Made it official. Relationship.”

“What the fuck!” He doesn’t scream, not quite, but it’s close. “Ilya Rozanov got locked down? Someone managed to make an honest man out of you?”

Chapter Notes

EDIT!!: i forgot to give credit for the "ilya learnt english in boston" concept!! SORRY!! I first saw tumblr user freakoutgirl talk about it here!

i don't bring this up in the chapter and actually completely contradict it too but i read and loved Homeward bound by Katzynia (AND DO CHECK IT OUT PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE) so i am proud to announce that i have 100% subscribed to the "Cliff drove Ilya to the airport" propaganda. Truly my favourite fic in the Cliff Marlow & Ilya Rozanov tag PLEASE read it I love it so so much. Please let me know if anything in this reads too closely to it--i think i've internalized this fic as fact but i obviously don't want to accidentally plagiarize!

i also love taking characters that barely have canon characterization and just. making shit up. forever bitter most (side) characters in these series just flat out arent developed lmao anyways i blacked out and woke up to 3k words of ilya and marlow talking. also borrowing names from the background characters of the tv show and making shit up about them too. sorry!

cw/tw

Marlow makes references to being worried about Ilya in regards to his mental health, so warnings for a vague suicide mention though i suppose you could also interpret the scene as Marlow just being worried about Ilya in general (i.e. him actually getting baby trapped or losing all of his money etc etc). Also Ilya thinks about what life would maybe be like if he came out. I maybe projected a little. Mentioned homophobia.

The thing is, Ilya’s an orphan.

People usually don’t think about him as such. Until they announced the foundation most people probably weren’t even aware his mother was dead much less knew how she died. And while Boston did put out a statement when his father passed it was only to explain why he wouldn’t be on the ice until he was back from Moscow. But people hear orphan and think about poor kids locked away in orphanages. And maybe you need to be a child to be an orphan.

But Ilya’s an orphan, has been for a while, actually—was half-an-orphan, polusirota, for most of his life, legally. Became an orphan the second his mother died, socially.

Anya is an orphan too—because with animals, Ilya has learned, only the absence of the mother counts.

Marlow seems to realize this for the very first time and he’s staring like Ilya having dead parents is somehow an insult to him.

“Why haven’t you fucking said anything?” he asks, accent growing thicker with each word. “Why the fuck do I learn your ma’s dead from fucking twitter?”

When Ilya first came to Boston he barely spoke any English and Marlow is Boston born and bred which—didn’t help with the whole learning a new language part. And because Marlow is secretly (or. Well. Not so secretly) a giant softy he’s since tried to tone the accent back a bit. It only ever comes out like this when his emotions run high—like when they won the Stanley cup and Marlow yelled so many swear words in Ilya’s ear in such a short amount of time that not even he knew what the hell he’d said by the end of it.

Learning English in Boston also means that Ilya sounds like he’s from Boston. Or—he sounds like he’s from Russia, obviously—but certain words are apparently a dead give away that he’s from Boston too. Shane teases him for it sometimes—laughs whenever he says something like Dunks’ or packie. The one time he used rotary instead of roundabout, Shane made him google the word in Russian so he could look at pictures in an attempt to figure out what Ilya was talking about. Ilya thinks it’s kind of stupid—learning a second language for most of his life only to realize after he’s grown comfortable that he’s somehow learned words that aren’t used outside of a place that he doesn’t live in anymore.

Right now, Marlow’s accent returns with a vengeance. He’s also slurring his words a little—not drunk but definitely a little tipsy. Funnily enough, it makes Ilya feel right at home.

“But I guess I shouldn’t be fucking surprised, right?” he says. “’Cause you never fucking say anything, do you Roz?”

“Marley,” Ilya says. He’s not sure how to continue the sentence but, it feels important that he says something. “Marlow what is wrong—”

“You’ve met my ma, Rozanov.” Marlow says. “You’ve—we’ve done Thanksgiving a couple of times over the years. You came to visit when my dad was in the hospital!”

“Why are you so mad about this, Marlow?” Ilya asks. “We—we haven’t talked in months, where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Roz.” He continues. “Isn’t it obvious? I guess I thought we were friends—and then you—I mean you have to know what this looks like right? To me?”

“What the fuck are you even talking about?”

His jaw ticked. “I have watched you do some pretty dumb shit during our time. I’ve seen you go some dark places. I’ve—I have tried to be there for you, the way you have been for me. But you don’t—you never fucking talk, Rozanov! I was in the room when you got that call about your dad and you didn’t tell anyone until the pr team put out a statement and you were halfway to Russia. You decide to commit career suicide and move to fucking Ottawa—and you don’t fucking tell anyone until it’s done. You sell your cars, don’t leave your house, aren’t online—you launch a mental health charity named after your dead mother that apparently killed herself. Apparently because you’ve never fucking thought to mentioned that in all the years I’ve known you.” He’s heaving like he’s just run a marathon and he sounds genuinely upset—but not, like—angry. Or well, yes angry, definitely angry but despite what he’s saying, it doesn’t sound like he’s angry at Ilya.

“And my ma—she keeps asking, how is Ilya, Cliff? And is he doing alright? He looked awfully thin the last time I saw a picture of him!—and I have to look her in the eye and say that I have no fucking clue because you don’t talk to me.”

“Hollander knows though. Because you’re friends now or something. Which is—fine. I’m glad you have someone you talk to but—fuck, Roz. I thought we were friends too. And I’ve spent the last year worried out of my mind, thinking one day I’d wake up and see you’d done some stupid shit you couldn’t take back on some fucking gossip website and—”

He breaks off and Ilya—

Ilya tries to make sense of that.

“Still not worried enough to text back,” Ilya says kind of sardonically, though mentally he tries to compute I’ve spent the last year worried out of my mind. “What great friendship, yes.”

Marlow turns an alarming shade of red—now clearly angry—brows furrowed, and grabs his phone. Ilya is treated to a truly horrible angle of his chin—phone close enough that he can make out every individual stubble and one small cut right under his bottom lip where he probably nicked himself the last time he shaved.

“You played like drunk group of dinosaurs,” he says. Ilya’s last text to him—the one right after Boston was kicked out of the playoffs. “Then nothing for ten months. Then Won’t miss Boston but you will miss me. Before that nothing, until I texted you. Want me to read out what I said? Huh? I said Roz what the hell is going on? LeClaire says ur leavin? Then fuck its already all over the news. Then hello??????”

“Well yes.” Ilya says. “Is how we always text.”

Marlow glares down at him—the phone is still positioned so Ilya mainly sees his chin which means the glare loses it’s bite quite a bit. “Fuck you, Rozanov.”

And Ilya should probably say something like you wish, or that what you dream about at night?—but Marlow looks genuinely gutted. Really, really upset—angry, now and at Ilya too. So for once in his life, Ilya swallows it down—this need to deflect, to joke the painful conversations away.

Because despite what Marlow says—they are friends. To Ilya, at least. Marlow is probably his best friend, actually—besides Sveta and Shane of course. His wingman—both on and off the ice, his right-hand man. Marley.

He feels himself soften, a little—tension bleeding out of him. I’ve spent the last year worried out of my mind.

“I do not deserve friend like you, I think.” He says and feels he means it. “I am not good with—talking. I don’t think either of us are.”

A little humor breaks through Marlows tough façade. He sets his phone back onto his counter, leans forward heavily so he can rest both elbows on the wood. He still looks upset but maybe a little amused. He’s dumb, like that, Ilya thinks. Softening with just one small compliment. “What hockey player is?” Marlow asks.

“Is just not done, where I’m from.” Ilya continues. “I am man. I am Russian. I do not talk.”

“Like how you don’t blush?”

“I have never blushed in life.” And talking right now makes Ilya’s chest feel—bad. Uncomfortable. He has to look away from Marlow who’s staring at him like he’s scared he’ll miss a single word. Instead he looks over at Anya, in her little playpen.

She’s awake—and staring back at him, tail wagging—and it’s only because of her that he finds it in himself to continue talking.

“I do miss you. And Boston.” Christ, Ilya thinks and finds himself itching for—vodka, or a cigarette at least. “I was—happy. I think.”

“But you couldn’t stay?” Marlow asks.

“But I couldn’t stay.” Ilya responds.

It’s quiet for a bit—and Ilya finds he genuinely has to fight back tears a little. It’s not—he’s not about to break down sobbing or anything—he’s not even sad really—but just…nostalgic, maybe, thinking about Boston. Or just relieved he can actually talk to someone about it.

Shane feels bad, Ilya thinks. That Ilya left, even though it’s what they both needed—even though it’s something Ilya didn’t even think about twice. Barely thought about once, if he’s honest—and at first it seemed like Shane was just happy and thankful and kind of smug about it—but the longer Ilya’s been in Ottawa the more Shane seems….upset whenever he thinks about what had to happen for Ilya to get there.  

And Ilya doesn’t want Shane to feel bad ever, so he never brings it up and changes the subject as soon as anyone else does.

“Did someone say something?” Marlow gestures, vaguely. “About—”

“What?” Ilya asks—looks back at the screen.

Cliff seems calmer now—but his jaw is still clenched and his brows are still furrowed and he’s looking at him like he’s trying to figure something out. For one hysterical second Ilya wonders if he knows, somehow—about Shane, about him. Surely not. Cliff’s not that smart and while he’s genuinely a good guy Ilya doesn’t—can’t imagine he’d be this chill about it either. If he knew.

Whatever he was searching for, at least, he doesn’t seem to find because he leans back a little until his arms slip off the counter and out of view. He sighs.

“Never mind.” He says. “But I do hope you know—if anyone made you feel like you had to leave because of some bullshit like…like politics or something. We would’ve had your back.”

Ilya blinks and blinks and blinks.

“I overheard one of the rookies like—like two days after the trade was made official, being heartbroken over the phone, dude. Like full on whining to his mum about you leavin. Most of the team was. Well not the whining but, you know.” He shrugs. “Don’t think Connors’ believed it until your last game. And the fans man—like half-of-em think it was some dumb GM bullshit—that you pissed someone off or that management thought you lost your edge after—after, you know? The other half are pissed off and think you betrayed the team for a paycheck. So if you left because of that then…”

“It wasn’t—I didn’t leave because someone made me feel like I had to.” Ilya says. “I just…Remember Jane?”

“The chick from Montreal?” Marlow asks. He sits up straight, his smirk turns downright filthy and then—“Dude did you get yourself traded to the bottom of the league for—”

“Don’t finish that sentence Marlow.” Ilya says, warningly—but even to his own ears it falls flat. Huh. “But yeah. Yeah. Got—tired of long distance. Made it official. Relationship.”

“What the fuck!” He doesn’t scream, not quite, but it’s close. “Ilya Rozanov got locked down? Someone managed to make an honest man out of you?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Ilya laughs. “But yes. Going to get married, I think.”

Marlow whistles. Low and long and sinks back into his chair like a puppet with it’s strings cut. Something flashes over his face again. It’s quick but Ilya still sees it for what it is. Hurt.

“So…are you going to introduce me?” he asks, and he tries to sound teasing but it falls just a little flat. It sounds a like Are you going to invite me? instead. Like Ilya could—would—ever get married without Marlow there—if Marlow would even want to be there if—

With Boston Locker-room talk wasn’t ever bad, at least not once Ilya took over as captain. Conners’ once said Ilya had that Terminator Stare going for him, that kept everyone in line. And while he’d uttered some truly diabolical chirps both on and off the ice, he’d always made sure to walk the line—comments about performance? Yes. Comments on players personal life—sure to a degree—the amount of times he’d made of Pike for having a billion kids and a saint of a wife is honestly kind of ridiculous. Comment about actual serious shit like—family tragedies? Never. Calling—or tolerating someone else calling—anyone a slur? Decidedly also no.

But just because people keep their mouth shut around him didn’t mean they weren’t maybe thinking it. And Marlow has never talked badly like that about anyone. He’s an asshole, just the way Ilya but also…not that kind of asshole, probably.

Still it’s a bit scary—the thought of telling Cliff, even if it’s just an eventual thing. He imagines it’s how Shane felt with his parents—the believe that it would probably all work out in the end too quiet under the worry of what if it isn’t? Sveta had always known. His parents never got to find out—and as much as he’d like to believe for his mother to be accepting he also knows he’ll never know for certain. Alexei probably always had his doubts—Ilya is just too flamboyant, too loud, too feminine in ways that his foreignness disguises in the US, but that point at him like a big red arrow in Russia—and while they never talked about it, Alexei had made it clear that he, much like their father, thought Ilya was too soft.

He hadn’t been scared with Shane’s parents, because it was obvious that they loved him and that they’d continue to love him through everything. The scariest part about coming out to them was the very real possibility that they wouldn’t like Ilya.

The thought of coming out to Cliff—of losing him, the way he’s lost Alexei…that’s scary.   

“So you can steal, yes?” Ilya replies but Marlow doesn’t take the bait. “I will. Eventually. When we’re ready.”

“I feel like I’ve heard about this chick since—shit for as long as we’ve known each other. Insane that you’re…going to marry her apparently. How much more ready can you be?”

“Is complicated.” Ilya says. “Is not just about me, it’s…”

“Fuck, Rozanov.” Marlow says. “Are you hooking up with a married woman?”

Ilya thinks that might be better actually. Or—it wouldn’t be. Because it wouldn’t be Shane and also if Shane was married—and Ilya would let himself be used to cheat, obviously—he’d probably rip out his own hair in a jealous rage.

But being a homewrecker would be more easily accepted by the hockey community than being queer. He’s not exactly Scott Hunter after all.

“Geez, I was just joking Roz.” Marlow says and laughs. “You don’t have to look like a kicked puppy about it. Just…I do care about you, you know? I want you to be happy. And if moving to Ottawa does that—if being with Jane does that, then…shit, homewreck away, I guess.”

“I am telling you is not like that!”

“Sure, buddy.”

They continue talking—Marlow shows him his new pool table, sitting right in the center of his living room where normal, sane people probably keep a normal, sensible couch table. He has the decency to look sheepish about it, scratching at the back of his head.

“I’ll find a different place for it, obviously.” He says, all overgrown child. “Right now it’s pretty much blocking the view of the TV anyways. The last girl I had over wasn’t impressed either but like—I don’t exactly have a cellar I can keep it, right?”

Considering Cliff lives in a penthouse he really doesn’t. He also tells Ilya to get his ass down to Boston to play. “You ain’t got shit to do anyways, considering your team is so far down the leaderboard you’d already be out of the league if this was soccer.”

After thinking about it for a bit, Ilya shows him Anya, and he gushes over her an appropriate amount. Ilya isn’t surprised—Cliff loves dogs probably as much as Ilya does even if he’s deathly allergic to anything with fur and usually spends the entire day sneezing and heaving after even just brushing past any fluffy animal on the street. Not that it stops him from petting anything that will let him.

“That’s it,” he says. “Send me your fucking address, Rozanov! I cannot believe you would keep this baby a secret from me.”

They make promises—to meet up, to talk more. Don’t ice me out again, Marlow threatens. I know where you live now. Ilya doubts it’ll ever get to that—they’ve never been those kinds of friends. He always wanted one—the girly kind of friends. With matching best-friend necklaces and active text threads and daily meetups. For a while Sveta was that for him—but not really, because Sveta had her own friends, her own girlfriends and while she’s the closest thing he has to family, he also knows that he probably values her more than she does him.

It’s not—it’s not her fault. But for ages Svetlana was the only good thing in his life; his only true friend. Obviously he grew attached to her in ways that probably border on unhealthy. It’s no wonder she’s pulled back—no wonder he pulled back too, caught up in this new thing with Shane and then—the shame he felt from keeping it from her.

But him and Marley aren’t like that. Not really.

“I didn’t lie,” Marlow says. “In the interview.”

When Ilya just stares at him, probably visibly confused, he softens again just a smidge.

“When I said you’re missed. When I said you left tough footsteps to follow—man. You made the team and now that you’re gone…I dunno.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll get myself traded for love too. Your Jane have a sister or…?”

“Shut up,” Ilya says. “Could you imagine? Us? Brothers?”

And Marlow laughs and laughs and laughs.

Before he hangs up, he grows serious again though. “You are doing okay though, right Rozy?”

“Yeah, man.” Ilya says. “Of course.”

“Promise me?”

“Promise.”

Shane is in Montreal because he’s playing a home game and for the first time since the season started, Ilya plans on watching the game alone.

Both Yuna and David protested this plan loudly. But people online have been speculating on why Shane Hollanders parents haven’t been spotted in the stands lately and it’s not like Ilya needs company to watch a fucking hockey game so he sent them to support their son in person.

He’s jealous. Unashamedly so.

And while they didn’t want to leave him alone, Ilya thinks they got that he needed them to go, if only because he can’t. What wouldn’t he do to pull a Rose Landry and show up in a Hollander jersey and cheer on Shane like he’s getting paid for it?

It’s far, far off dream. Something that’ll probably never happen but it’s nice to fantasize about.

Anya, now a whooping seven weeks old and done with her first round of vaccines—and how well she did with all the needles and the examinations—has taken her first stroll outside.

Granted—only in the safety of Ilya’s little back garden and he only let her touch the grass once before he freaked out and put her back on the patio, but still. She’s gotten some sunshine and Ilya had watched, enraptured, as her little tail had wagged furiously at all the new smells and the fresh air and the wind in her fur.

Now she’s tuckered out and curled up next to him on the couch—tongue lolled out of her little mouth. Anika thinks her jaw might be a little deformed, bottom jaw sticking out a little too far or the top a little too underdeveloped. Mandibular protrusion, she had called it.

“She’d probably need an orthodontist, if she was human.” She had joked. “But for now we’re just going to wait and see if the rest of her body catches up as she grows. It’s really nothing to worry about yet, she’s still so small. And if she doesn’t grow out of it, we can talk about orthodontics then.”

Ilya had felt guilty about it immediately. Like it was his fault—like he’d somehow caused her jaws to develop unevenly, even while Anika had done her best to reassure him that it might just be because of her unknown parentage. It’s common for certain breeds, she had explained, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d caused it by bottle feeding or by not being attentive enough.

She seems happy though, where she’s curled up, and she’s taken to following him around like a little duckling. Despite her growing independence, it seems that Ilya is still her favorite human.

He’s watching the pre-game coverage—grumbling in a low voice whenever this one commentator comes on screen—Jeff Something who thinks he’s gods gift to hockey and has the dumbest takes imaginable—when his doorbell camera sends an alert to his phone. He has half a second to glance down at it, before his doorbell rings.

He frowns.

There’s like—nobody who’d come to visit him right now. Shane is playing in half an hour. The Hollanders are at the rink—they’ve sent pictures. Sveta is in Russia, last he checked, spending time with. He hasn’t even ordered anything—not even take out—and none of his neighbors talk to him either.

Briefly he wonders if he left his trash outside or his garage open or something or—god forbid—there was an accident and he’s somehow blocking off an ambulance.

The ring of the bell is enough to wake up Anya—she barks pretty much immediately and tries to jump down from the couch. Ilya catches her—she’s not meant to jump distances like that yet, isn’t even meant to walk up and down stairs—and carefully holds her wiggling body to his chest as he goes to open the door.

And maybe it’s dumb that he doesn’t check his camera before he opens. Shane would probably berate him for that—he’s the entire reason why he even has one in the first place—but also Shane isn’t here to do it so what does it even matter.

Anya is still barking furiously, tail whacking Ilya in the arm—her entire body is vibrating. Maybe he should try to socialize her more, he thinks, before she get territorial or—worse—separation anxiety.

Most of his focus is still on her when he opens the door, so he honestly doesn’t see it coming.

“Holy shit,” someone says. A very, very familiar someone. “I thought you were fucking lying.”

When Ilya looks up he’s faced with a group of large, sheepish looking guys. Marlow is right in front of him—smiling wide and, honestly, a little smug—but behind him there’s like five other people. Conners’ who’d spoken, is wide-eyed and staring at Anya like he’s never seen a dog before. Next to him, one arm slung around Conners’ shoulder is St. Simon and, behind him is Carmicheal with his left arm in a sling and Sebbin with his perpetual frown and a busted lip. At the very back—looking shy and starry-eyed is one of the Boston rookies—Aud.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Ilya asks. He doesn’t feel choked up about it, not at all.

“Well, Marley told us you can’t come back home to hang out with us during the off-season because you became a dad.” St. Simons says. Marlow has the decency to look a little guilty at that. “So we thought we’d come to you instead.”

“I let it slip I’d come visit during the last time we hung out and they invited themselves along.” Marlow says. “You should feel lucky it’s only them. If most of the guys weren’t home with their families right now, you’d probably have a lot more people on your doorstep.”

“Are ya gonna let us in, or what?” Sebbin asks. “It’s fuckin’ freezin’ out here.”

“Don’t swear in front of the fucking baby dog, Sebbin!” Conners’ says immediately.

“I think that only applies to actual children actually.” Carmicheal says.

“Aud is here. Close enough.”

“Christ.” Ilya mutters and steps aside—Anya still wiggling away unhappily—to let them in.

They all take off their shoes without having to be asked. When Ilya was still in Boston he used to host watch-parties sometimes—did when Hunter won the fucking Cup actually—and all of his former teammates knew to take them off whenever they came over. He’d only had to yell at them like—twice, for it to stick. Back then he had slippers for them to put on—one of the things his mother taught him that he still sticks by religiously—but since he rarely gets visitors nowadays he only has some for the Hollanders and Shane.

“Aww, look at how domestic you’ve gotten!” St. Simon says, eyes moving across the space. “You built your dog a playpen!”

“We got you a housewarming gift,” Aud says quietly and steps up to him while the rest walk around his space like this is—normal, chattering loudly. He didn’t even tidy up, so the dumb throw pillows Shane made him get are all over the place and there’s dirty dishes piled up in his sink. It’s like he’s gotten a surprised visit by patrons of a very loud pub.

He holds out an expensive bottle of vodka. The good kind. “I thought a plant was more appropriate but they said you’d like this more.”

Anya tries to bite at the bottle and Aud immediately pulls it away, wide-eyed.

“Christ.” Ilya says again and rubs at his eyes with his free hand.

Chapter End Notes

holds my ears closed once again: lalalalala canon isn't real to me lalalalalal smashing characters together like they're my personal dolls lalalalal
sorry btw. this fic in general but this chapter too like. specifically. has kind of gotten a life of its own and is now spiraling ! i promise ill get back to regular scheduled anya content soon!!

In regards to Cliff's accent!

I have to admit that as a #foreigner and #notnativeenglishspeaker all american accents sort of sound the same to me? like i can HEAR differences when people really uh. exaggerate their accent and i can probably also maybe place the accent in a general direction but not much more. That is to say I HAVE heard that people from Boston use some very specific words and phrases. i don't WANT to offend anyone though so i was very careful in my use of them and didn't /really/ write Cliff speaking in the accent? i just don't think i could do it without slipping into stereotypes because all i found online was like. a list of the same 10 words and "just drop the r's" which. doesn't seem right to me! if any of his dialog sounds off or if you notice that he uses words that aren't common in the Boston area please forgive me/point it out so I can go back and edit!! sorry in advance and also thank u!!
as someone who's dialect was pretty much coached out of them and now speaks the standard dialect badly, it's kinda important to me to not mess this up lol i also project on ilya a bit with this HAHA

you don't know this bc I am on anon and i haven't told u yet but i DO work full time!! with a very odd schedule (sometimes up to 12 days in a row with no time off and rapid shift changes) so if i disappear for a bit please don't mind :( i will come back eventually, pinky promise!

Chapter 5: interlude

Chapter Summary

“Depending on how much time you have—” and there’s that tone in her voice again, that screams that she knows he has time to spare because he’s not fucking working and being a lazy asshole at home instead while Shane is off, probably winning the cup—"we could even think about writing personalized messages! Nothing overly elaborate because there’s only so many ways you can thank rich folk for throwing their money at your charity, obviously, but still. We can workshop it so it sounds less generic and then everyone’s going to be super impressed that we didn’t just copy-and-paste the same message over and over again, word-for-word.”

“Yes, I can do that.” Ilya answers her.

Chapter Notes

i literally googled "most frat boy captions" for this chapter. i also ended up on some dude-bro forums about hockey and have learned that unless players have A REALLY REALLY good excuse they /have/ to participate in all stars and that there's a bunch of people that hate all stars??? wild, to me at least. i'm not a sports girlie in the first place (beyond football) but i'm pretty sure people here would go nuts for a weekend of some of the best players of (whatever) league getting matched up for fun? but then football is a lot more international anyways and players get traded from league to league like it's nothing. hm. much to think about. this is also the shortest chapter of this fic to date. sorry!!!
anyways, enjoy. :)
also i am this close to taking this off anon bc having to navigate to statistics (which. i FAMOUSLY avoid looking at bc it stressed me tf out) just to update this is getting real old real quick.

cw/tw

ilya thinks about his mother and is (still) actively grieving. vague suicide mention. i think this chapter gets a little bit heavier towards the end but i've been told im a bad judge when it comes to that. please lmk if there's anything you want me to tag for specifically and take care of yourselves :(

While most of his former teammates seem to instinctively love Anya, Ilya still ends up taking her upstairs and into the bedroom.

It’s not like they would ever hurt her—at least not intentionally. But they’ve made it pretty obvious that they want to party—or at the very least drink—and they’re loud and Anya already seems completely overstimulated just by meeting six new people—

He’d probably let her sleep on the bed too—despite the fact that Shane would be more than a little displeased about it—but ultimately grows paranoid about her trying to jump down from the bed and hurting herself. Instead he takes the pillows and the duvet and builds her a little nest in the corner of the room.

She’s wholly unimpressed—all guard-dog, he thinks, because she had tried to bite anyone coming even remotely close to Ilya and—honest to god—had growled at Marlow when he had reached out to ruffle Ilya’s curls. Not that her growl had been intimidating—Cliff had started cooing while the rest of the guys had laughed and taken pictures—but still.

She’s also still squirming, even in her little nest. Hasn’t stopped wiggling since the bell went. She’s visibly displeased—huffing and puffing all while trying to fight her way out of her makeshift bed—but eventually settles when Ilya brushes his fingers through her fur and rubs the spot behind her soft ears that always turns her into goo.

“You be good, yes?” he whispers. He’s not self-conscious about the fact that he has six big, burley guys in his living room that would love to make fun of him for being soft on his dog, not at all. “They are friends. No barking. No biting.”

She looks vaguely judgmental, but her eyes are also already drooping. It’s no wonder she’s exhausted. She’s just met more people all at once than she has ever met before in total in her entire life.

He waits until her eyes fall shut completely and her breathing evens out—fingers still brushing through her fur carefully—until he slowly backs away. On the way back down he texts Shane—both to apologize and to wish him good luck. They’d agreed that Shane wouldn’t come to Ottawa tonight—being seen out and about with his parents, maybe at dinner or something after the game more important but also felt that Ilya going to Montreal would’ve been too risky with all of the media presence—but they’d planned on facetiming. Debriefing after the game, maybe talking until they both fell asleep.

i will try and get them out of house

maybe we still call later

Usually Shane doesn’t like looking at his phone this close to the start of a game, not even for Ilya, but surprisingly he texts back almost immediately.

Have fun!

I love you!

We can talk tomorrow or just text

Do NOT kick your friends out of your house just to facetime me Rozanov

“You get the baby settled alright?” St. Simon chirps from his place on the couch. He holds a large bowl of microwave popcorn on his lap—brought it himself and pretty much hijacked Ilya’s kitchen the second he walked in to make it—both arms tightly wrapped around it like he’s scared someone will steal it from him. Which is ridiculous because he’s the only person Ilya has ever met that eats salty popcorn in the first place.

“Fuck off,” Ilya replies and sends Shane an I love you back.

Downstairs it feels like he never left Boston at all.

They drink, they chirp, they watch the game—Conners’ begrudgingly admits that Montreal is probably going to win the cup and St. Simon throws a handful of his popcorn at his head, booing loudly. During the first break Marlow and Sebbin step out onto the patio to smoke and Ilya goes with them, if only to catch a whiff of second-hand smoke and to chew his dumb nicotine gums.

Sebbin takes a picture of him like that—cup in his hand and gum in his mouth—and because of the flash his eyes look red in the picture and his expression is torn somewhere between his natural smirk and a grimace.

Marlow fucking coos at it. 

“You look so soft,” he says. “Ottawa really domesticated you, huh?”

He says Ottawa like he really means something else—and with the way he’s, very unsubtlety, nudging Ilya with his elbow, it’s obvious he means Shane, or well—Jane.

Ilya rolls his eyes at him. “Will still outdrink you, Marley.”

“You started as a literal child,” Sebbin says, still looking at his phone. “Unfair advantage.”

Before Ilya can reply to that, his own phone buzzes in his pocket.

A text, from Sebbin with the photo attached—followed immediately by a notification from Instagram. j.seb42 tagged you in a post.

“You kidding me?” Ilya says and glares. He checks the post regardless.

It’s a generic photo dump: a blurry picture out of a plane window followed by the obnoxious Welcome to Ottawa, Ontario sign right outside the airport followed by an even blurrier picture of Ilya’s living room—red solo cups (something that Carmicheal was weirdly insistent about despite the fact that Ilya has literal fucking crystal glasses to drink out of and they truly aren’t 21 anymore) and the Montreal game in the background—the unflattering picture of Ilya grimacing into the camera, curls wild under his hoodie and—a video—a three second clip of everyone cooing over a growling Anya in Ilya’s arms.

He’s captioned it bad day to be a beer with about a hundred flexing emojis.

“Are you 15?” Ilya asks dryly, before pressing the little heart button. “Bad day to be a beer. We are drinking vodka.”

Sebbin shrugs but there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It looks a little grotesque, considering his bottom lip is still split and swollen. “What can I say? I have a brand to maintain, man.”

“He’s been curating that post all day, Roz.” Marlow says. He’s looking at the post over Ilya’s shoulder and takes another drag of his cigarette. He looks very amused, in that dry way of his, and his cheeks are a little flushed from the cold and the alcohol. “Connors’ was teasing him on the way here.”

Sebbin doesn’t blush but it’s a close thing. “Shut the fuck up, Marley.”

Connors and St. Simon are both already in the comments causing havoc.

cconnerss: someone tell ottawa their captain is fraternizing with the enemy 🥺 😫 😤

vicsimon: zaddy come home the kids miss you 🥵 🥵

It’s like Sebbins’ post opened the floodgates because suddenly everyone’s posting pictures of Ilya and their little house-party on their social media like they’re paid for it. It feels like an early 2010s facebook album being publicly shared—blurry overhead shots of Ilya’s living room—overexposed selfies—a video of Carmicheal deadlifting a giggling Aug before the TV all while Gilbert Comeau missing a shot is playing on repeat, captioned while you played in the playoffs I was studying the blade, followed immediately by a picture of Carmichael in a heap on the floor, Aug splayed all over him and Conners—red solo cup in hand—squatting next to them, head shaking in disappointment.

The internet predicably goes insane.

Ilya tries his best not to read any of the reactions. It’s not unheard of for players on different teams to hang out—people get traded literally all the time, it’s just something that happens and nobody expects sympathies and friendships to die just because team loyalties have to change. Fans usually go kind of insane for shit like this, actually—it’s one of the reasons why All Stars’ is still around despite the fact that most hockey fans AND players are split 50/50 on whether or not they actually like participating.

But usually star players don’t get traded to dying teams—and usually they also don’t hang out with their old teammates quite so publicly if they do—and while Marlow said that whole speech about fans missing him, Ilya still has trouble actually believing it.

There’s going to be people pissed at this. He just kind of hopes they’ll be pissed at him and not the rest of the guys.

The reactions he does see seem to be nice, at least. Despite the entire world knowing that he’s an asshole, Ilya also knows he has—or had at the very least—some very dedicated fans that just genuinely enjoyed watching him play and that listened to what he had to say. Maybe not as dedicated as Shane’s fans are but still. He also knows they used to regularly—even before Ilya ghosted everyone in his life and moved 400 miles away—complain about Ilya starving them.

In a world where you cannot leave your house without seeing Shane Hollander endorsing something, the humble Roz fan cherishes every blurry post-club pap shot he’d read once. He’s pretty sure he’d sent a screenshot of it to Shane too—pretty sure Shane had chirped something about your fans are the only humble thing about you back.

All in all, it’s enough that Ilya ends up tweeting out a shot of the guys scrolling on their phones, spread out over his couch once the game is done—obviously after texting Shane a congratulations about winning and a few more flattering pictures of himself—with a selfie of himself where he does actually look presentable.

Tired themselves out. Forgot they are not 20 anymore + Aud who is baby

He mutes the notifications as soon as the post is online and goes to lock his phone and shove it back into his pocket where it belongs when LeClaire of all people texts him.

And—listen. He liked his former coach just fine. He was kind of cold and gruff and someone Ilya enjoyed riling up as much as he respected him. Parental in a way. Not like David Hollander feels paternal but like Sveta’s dad did. Like his own father could’ve been, maybe. Someone that straightened him out when he needed to be, someone that genuinely wanted him to do well but who didn’t coddle him or wanted to spent time with him outside of the rink or tried to butt into Ilya’s personal life.

He was an asshole, the same way everyone in Boston is kind of an asshole.

And while LeClaire had spent the better part of a decade being Ilya’s coach, this is also—probably—the first time he’s ever texted him outside of practice. He’d honestly sort of expected LeClaire to delete his number the second Ilya signed with Ottawa.

It’s good so see you doin so well, kid.

Still don’t get why ya left, but you seem happier over there

You’ll always have a home with us, hope ya know that.

He blinks down at the texts. Reads them over and over again, frozen in the middle of his fucking living room. St. Simon boos again, but it’s all far away—somewhere in the distance, somewhere right at the edge of his consciousness.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. It’s not like he can just not respond but also—what the fuck does he say to that?

Thank you.

For everything.

One of the things most people don’t expect from Ilya is good handwriting.

It’s girly apparently—the cursive and the loopy letters—and one of the things people have tried to tease him about especially during his rookie season. Real men apparently write like they’re using their non-dominant hand or maybe their feet. Chicken Scratch.

It’s not something he’s ever thought about. He learned writing with a fountain-pen—never touched a ball-point pen until he was well into high school—and he learned it in Russian—learned to shape the Cyrillic alphabet years before he learned to even read the Latin alphabet. His handwriting used to get him scolded back in Russia actually—his teacher used to dock points for legibility—and the few times he’s written something down in Russian and Shane had seen he’d asked how the hell anyone could read Cyrillic cursive.

Yuna loves his handwriting—was charmed by it from the very first bouquet he had someone deliver to her house—called it elegant and sophisticated and Ilya had felt very, very embarrassed by all of the praise.

She also wants him to write all of the thank-you cards for the first hundred or so donors of the Foundation by hand.

“A sentence or two at most,” she tells him over the phone two nights after the Boston crew swept through Ottawa. It’s his first night alone again after spending most of his time as a glorified babysitter driving his former teammates around Ottawa, stressed out of his mind with Anya at home alone with David, who’d gracefully offered to puppysit. “We’ll keep it very simple. But I think people will be very impressed to get a handwritten note, especially with your familiar ties to the Foundation. It will feel more intimate than a print…”

She’s really thrown herself headfirst into planning it all out. Shane and Ilya share a manager now—because not even Yuna Hollander can spearhead a charity and manage two hockey players even if she’s made a valiant attempt at trying—but watching her work is both impressive and vaguely terrifying.

She’s already found people willing to invest—or, well, donate—and they’ve barely even done anything besides announcing it. She’s secured people that want to help with the summer camps—both with the teaching aspects of them as well as hockey supply chains willing to donate equipment free of charge. If Sveta’s dad wasn’t a minister in Russia she’d have probably figured out his personal phone number and made him help too.

That alone is enough for Ilya to be certain that, even if Yuna Hollander wasn’t essentially his mother-in-law, he’d do whatever the hell she tells him to do.

“Of course,” Ilya says in return.

“Depending on how much time you have—” and there’s that tone in her voice again, that screams that she knows he has time to spare because he’s not fucking working and being a lazy asshole at home instead while Shane is off, probably winning the cup—"we could even think about writing personalized messages! Nothing overly elaborate because there’s only so many ways you can thank rich folk for throwing their money at your charity, obviously, but still. We can workshop it so it sounds less generic and then everyone’s going to be super impressed that we didn’t just copy-and-paste the same message over and over again, word-for-word.”

“Yes, I can do that.” Ilya answers her.

Anya noses at his hand. Snout cold and wet—tongue darting out to lick a stripe up his palm. She’s growing like a weed. It’s noticeable even to himself and he’s literally seeing her every day, every hour. He wonders how Shane will react the next time he sees her in person. He wonders how parents of human babies feel—if they feel the same overwhelming awe at seeing something they love so much thrive.

He wonders if his own mother felt this all-encompassing love all the time. If it was better—or worse—more or less than whatever he feels when he looks at Anya.

Ilya thinks about her a lot, lately. He used to think about her before too, but it’s only gotten more frequent the past few weeks. Probably because of the Foundation and his relationship to Yuna and that call with Marlow—probably because the entire world now knows the truth about her death.

And as much as he loves her and misses her and clings to every memory of her he can still grasp—every time he looks down at Anya he wonders how she could just…leave him like that. It feels unfair—unjust. He knows how she could leave—why she did it—knows that, at the end of it all, it wasn’t about Ilya at all. That she’d been so strong for so long and that she’d simply…couldn’t go on, not without support at least. That it wasn’t because of Ilya but rather in spite of him.

He tries not to think about her like that.

But Anya isn’t even really his child and yet he had missed her like a limb during those hours he had showed the Boston boys around Ottawa.

Over the line, Yuna is still talking about the thank you notes, but Ilya lets his thoughts drift off a little—free hand smoothing over Anya’s fur, scratching behind her ears and down her body. She whacks him with her little tail again—tries to climb unto his lap, nips at his fingers, sniffles like crazy.

By the time Marlow and the others were leaving again, she’d almost grown to tolerate them. She’d still been wary though—distant. It’s nice, Ilya thinks, to see her so active again, so relaxed.

“—and I’ve talked to your manager and we both agree a joint interview with you and Shane would be great, though you’ve also got some requests for personal interviews—just you about the background of the charity so—”

“Wait,” Ilya says, suddenly locked back into the conversation. “They—they want me to talk about—”

Yuna sounds almost…pitying over the line. Kind. Thoroughly Canadian. “Yourself. And your mother, dear.”

“No.”

Irina Rozanova is—was. Irina Rozanova was. That’s the whole problem. She’d been there and then she hadn’t and Ilya had been twelve and—

What’s there to say? He never even got to know her—the real her, anyways—the person she’d been outside of her role of wife and mother. She’d been his mother—she’d been kind—she had loved him. She’d been beautiful.

During one of his fathers episodes, he’d said Ilya had her smile—that he had the same defiant look in his eyes—but Ilya doesn’t remember her enough to recognize any of that in himself.

He has her sadness, maybe. He definitely doesn’t have her kindness.

It’s not like he could paint an accurate picture of her like that. He doesn’t even remember her voice—only recognizes her face in pictures. Even when he dreams of her—it’s like he knows its her, instinctively, but he never remembers what she looked like by the time he wakes up. He hasn’t seen her in years.

He doesn’t even know her fucking maiden name.

On the other side of the line, Yuna is quiet. Maybe because it’s the first time Ilya’s ever told her no—maybe because, after the whole coming-out thing, Shane had a little sit down and talked about boundaries with her—maybe because she’s trying to find a nice way to tell him he has to do it.

On his lap, Anya is whining.

“I’m sorry Yuna, but I…” he breaks off. Ashamed. It’s his mother and he cannot find it in himself to talk about her for twenty minutes—maybe thirty—to help promote a charity built in her name. A charity Yuna is working her ass off for—free of charge, just out of the goodness of her heart. “I cannot. I—uhm—I think I get another call. Will—will call back. Later. Maybe. Sorry. Bye.”

“Oh sweetheart I—”

He’s rude.

He’s a rude, rude boy because he hangs up before she can chastise him or even say goodbye. He hangs up mid sentence and he’s not even scared of what she might tell Shane—how this might impact their relationship.

He feels—kind of numb, if anything. It’ll catch up with him, eventually, but—

Anya lets out a sound like the one time he accidentally stepped on her tail. He’d call it a howl, maybe, if she was any better at it.

“Sorry,” he tells her and starts petting her in a way that hopefully feels soothing. “Sorry, sorry, malyshka.”

She whines some more—steps onto his chest with stumbling, unsteady little steps—but doesn’t get far. He drops his phone onto the cushions and starts petting her with both hands.

“Sorry,” he says again. “Really.”

Chapter End Notes

so.
I took a couple of sick days because I caught a pretty nasty cold. Went back to work because i felt better, but was still like. visibly getting unwell. like sneezing and coughing and stuff. wore my mask, did some favors for my coworkers. then managed to promptly pass out about two hours in. Woke up to most of my coworkers staring down at me. thought i either had a very weird dream or that i had somehow managed to fall asleep at work. It was VERY embarrassing. i think i apologized about ten times but also i remembered to thank the poor woman that managed to catch me before i could brain myself on the floor so small victories!!
Learn from my mistakes and don’t go to work sick guys. It is not worth it.

once again, I am not Russian but i am vaguely european and went to school with russian speakers and they all had annoyingly good handwriting. most of what ilya describes about learning to write is just me projecting. only my handwriting actually sucks. unreadable. godspeed.

thank you for reading and all of your kind, supportive comments (as well as for the kudos/views/bookmarks/subscriptions obviously). I enjoyed every single one of them and they're largely the reason why i enjoy writing this as much as i do! :-)

more rambling because i can never shut up

I've said this in a couple of my responses to your VERY APPRECIATED comments but I truly do think it's more compelling for ilya to have actually lost something when leaving Boston besides "he doesn't win anymore". Boston, canonically, wasn't a great team before Ilya joined them and falls off when he leaves (which, in my experience, isn't actually what happens with professional teams beyond some very specific instances because most teams have more than one good player but i digress) but Ilya feeling isolated/isolating himself in a new city doesn't hit nearly as hard if it's not a change from how he lived before. do i think they had sleepovers and shared their deepest secrets? no but that's not how (most) guy friendships work as far as I'm aware in the first place. for a man that's looked for a place to belong his entire life, willingly walking away from something close to home for the love of his life is like. infinitely more romantic than a career sacrifices (especially if they don't /particularly/ care about their career...y'know...)

in regards to Irina. Well. Most of that is based on my own experiences with grief. one of the first things i forgot (and this unfortunately happens embarrassingly quickly) WAS the sounds of my loved ones voice. then i forgot their face. i recognize them just fine in pictures and when i dream of them i KNOW it's them even if they don't really...look like anything. but ask me to picture them in my head right now and...idk. i don't remember the smell of their perfume though i can still recognize the scent of their body wash. it's weird. grief, in general, is weird.
even ten years later random shit will set me off sometimes.
again, i haven't finished TLG yet-- i am very slowly making my way through the series as a whole--so most of that part of the chapter is probably NOT canon compliant. i have complicated feelings towards the way she's. uhm. used? in canon. I wish we knew more about her, because as of current she feels very "dead wife montage"/disposable woman/fridged wife. like she only existed so Ilya could have a tragic backstory. maybe I'm totally off and she has surprising character depth i haven't read about yet but...yeah.
anyways friendly reminder that Ilya is an unreliable narrator and jsut because /he/ thinks certain people might feel a certain way about him/the things he does doesn't mean he's right. :)

Chapter 6: week eight

Chapter Summary

His manager only texted him a let me know if you want to put out a statement regarding the twitter situation.

He looks back up at the TV—Pike is off the ice, Shane is sitting on the bench looking marginally better—and only then does he open the twitter link Sebbin sent in the group chat. He doesn’t read any of the new messages already flooding the chat—stubbornly scrolls up until he finds the message and holds his breath as he’s taken to the thread.

Chapter Notes

edit: thank u @whentheresidentsareevil for pointing out to me that i accidentally (I SWEAR!) plagiarized dumpling the dog's (from the tiktok account josh&dumpling (@jmw495)) lifestory! I genuinely didn't mean to but looking through the account...yikes! sorry!! will add this to chapter one/the next chapter as well so hopefully everyone/anyone reading this see's it!

this is the heaviest chapter yet. i want to make it very clear that there's no outing of shane and ilya's relationship in this chapter (and neither will it happen in this fic at all EVER) but Ilya is going through what i would classify as a depressive episode. he's not aware of it himself but he's dealing with a lot of negative self-talk and there are references to his father (specifically) being unkind to him though i do not go into detail about that at all. if this could be IN ANY WAY be triggering for you, pleaseeeee proceed with caution and take care of yourself!

this chapter was written with noah kahan's godlight on repeat. if you even care.

When it rains, it pours.

There aren’t a lot of expressions he likes in English—most of them feel clunky and clumsy and overly literal—but he likes that one.

Lately, it feels like it only ever pours.

Yuna promises she’s not mad about the interview when he calls her to apologize again. She also promises she’s not mad about Ilya just—hanging up on her like that.

Yuna apologizes for even bringing it up, like she has any reason to. “I should’ve known,” she tells him over the phone—and she sounds rueful and sad and it makes something clench in his chest painfully. “It wasn’t fair of me to bring it up like that—and obviously it would take a lot out of you to talk about her at all considering you weren’t allowed to for so long.”

She’s exceptionally kind about it all—graceful even—but to Ilya it only sounds like another failure. It’s not a problem, she says and Ilya hears his fathers thinly veiled distain. I should’ve known, she says and all he hears is I should’ve known you were to weak to handle it.

He tries not to think about it. Shane doesn’t bring it up, which helps but also almost makes him think about it more in a sense—like he’s gotten another teeth knocked out and his tongue keeps darting over the gap, confused by the loss. Thinks about it because the absence of a reaction is almost worse, kind of. Did Yuna not tell him for some reason? But she tells him everything—and Ilya was so rude and his own mother is probably rolling in her grave, ashamed—and Ilya can’t apologize if Shane doesn’t let him, if he doesn’t get mad at him.

He sends Yuna more flowers—handwritten card included—and dutifully attaches a bottle of whiskey for David, just because that seems like the thing to do in a situation like this. They both call him and tell him he didn’t need to—and they’re kind about it (again), but something has to be wrong but they don’t tell him when they’re coming over to visit next.

It feels like he’s broken something. Like Marlow shoving Shane into the boards—no matter how accidental. Like the one time he knocked over a vase playing hide and seek at Sveta’s house because he’d gone through a growth spurt and hadn’t gotten used to his body yet.

It feels like punishment. See you messed up, a voice in the back of his head says. And now you’ve lost them.

Maybe Yuna didn’t tell Shane because Shane would be upset and then maybe think and realize that he can do so much better and Yuna is nice and knows Ilya wouldn’t be able to handle a breakup. Maybe she’s waiting for the right moment to bring it up—for a gotcha! Moment the next time Ilya messes up.

Or worse—maybe she did tell him, and Shane simply…didn’t care enough to fight over it. Because Ilya is an asshole on his best days. Maybe this wasn’t surprising after all. If I got upset every time someone flirted with you I wouldn’t get anything done—Shane had said once. Maybe he thinks like that about him in other ways too. If I got upset every time you’re an asshole Rozanov then…

He feels like a stray dog that got too attached, too used to scraps of food and affection. Tolerated but never quite wanted—and now that there’s no food or affection just sort of…there.

And he knows he has a tendency to overexaggerate—a certain flair for dramatics. He jumps before he looks and speaks before he thinks and he spirals in his assumptions. It’s nobody’s fault but his own.

Ilya, always so sensitive. Always so weak. Ilya, stupid, childish Ilya, sobbing over his mothers grave until he got sick with grief. Stupid, childish Ilya sobbing over the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Rude Ilya. Ungrateful Ilya.

It rains and pours and pours and pours.

If it weren’t for Anya he probably wouldn’t be getting up.

He doesn’t have a reason to, besides her, after all. There’s no mandatory training. There’s no games to attend. Shane is on the road and miles and miles away. Shane’s parents are attending to their own life. The Boston Boys are back in Boston—back with their families. Sveta is still in Russia.

They’ve added him to a group chat—not the Boston Raiders one, obviously, because Ilya isn’t a Boston Raider anymore—that they text literally all the time, but Ilya gets away with reading over the messages and dropping the occasional one-liner. Marlow texts him—privately—pretty much daily and Ilya doesn’t get away with his one-liners nearly as often but Marlow also doesn’t show up on his doorstep again so it’s all good.

Shane texts him whenever he has a free minute and Ilya lives for those conversations. He feels like a fucking sunflower, always facing towards Shane like he needs to look at him—even through text—to live.

He can answer texts and calls from his bed.

But Anya—who’s innocent and depends on him to live—needs food and attention. At eight weeks she’s now reached adolescence  whatever that means. In his little How to take care of your puppy guide! Anika has marked things like get a crate! which Ilya will not be doing, thank you very much—but also things like socialization and training and exposure to other dogs. She needs proper puppy food now—so Ilya is completely weaning her off milk and lets the kibble stay more solid a little more every day.

He gets her chew toys and tells her ouch! When she nibbles at his fingers even though it doesn’t hurt at all.

She still sleeps—a lot. Most of the day, actually, but he’s supposed to teach her how to go potty outside. So—housetraining. It’s hard but it also forces him to leave the house—even if it’s just for minutes at a time—and he looks back into the dog trainers and puppy-hotels and puppy-schools Shane picked out for him all those weeks ago.

Goes to interviews and tries to be intimidating and unassuming at the same time—intimidating enough so he can be sure they won’t hurt his dog but unassuming enough that they aren’t actually scared of him either.

Goes to check ups at the vet—researches additional vaccines and makes pro/con lists for clickers and treat-brands.

Shane’s playing Toronto again, when the messages start.

people with dads and roz

Connors 🥶

fucking hate this city

why is nobody capable of driving in this place

Vic Simon

lemme guess ur stuck southbound again

Marley 👿

weak

Connors 🥶

🖕🖕🖕

He doesn’t actually respond to them, just glances down. Chuckles a little over Connors suffering—you’d think a guy living in Boston for like 15 years or whatever would have gotten used to the traffic there. Marley used to proudly send screenshots of worst traffic in the US!—rankings whenever he stumbled across them, and Boston was consistently somewhere in the Top 5.

He focuses back on the game—Montreal is behind 2-1 and Shane looks fucking stressed whenever the camera catches sight of him.

“You got this, lyubimyy.” He mutters.

But they really don’t. It’s not Shane’s fault, not at all—but Comeau is missing shots like it’s nobodies business and Pike is too busy keeping Toronto players from checking Shane into the boards like they put a bounty on his head to even attempt at scoring, so Shane is the only one even remotely shooting at the net.

The defense is rattled and clumsy and Ilya genuinely wonders what the fuck happened before the game. Montreal’s had a great fucking season. So what the fuck is happening?

His phone buzzes again and he looks down—just on reflex, almost annoyed at being distracted.

people with dads and roz

Seb

Damn Roz, you’re going viral again

Vic Simon

lmfao again

whats he done now

did you link up w some model again?

Something like dread settles in his stomach as he tries to think back. He’s literally done nothing to go viral.

He’s not an anxious person. Sad—maybe. Angry, sure. Prone to dramatics—again—yes, definitely. But now he worries—with everything going on lately, its just a little too easy to worry.

people with dads and roz

Seb

My girlfriend sent me this twitter thread

Everyone’s going nuts over it

What the fuck are you talking about

Connors 🥶

He lives!

Before Sebbin can respond, three things happen pretty much simultaneously. He gets a text from Yuna—then a text from his manager—and on his TV Hayden Pike gets knocked into the boards so hard he slams face first onto the ice.

Somewhere in between all of that, Ilya’s hands start shaking.

people with dads and roz

Seb

damn bro chill

It’s just about ur dog lol here look

https://twit......

All of his instincts scream at him to open the link first. To figure out what exactly people are saying—if it truly is just about Anya which how the fuck do people know about Anya and what are they saying about her?—if they’ve somehow figured out anything else about him or Shane and oh god what if this is why Shane was looking ready to throw up this entire time—?

But also—Pike just went down hard and while Ilya straight up doesn’t like him, he’s Shane’s best friend. And Yuna is his maybe mother-in-law if she still wants to be. And his manager is probably about to debrief him about whatever the fuck people are saying about him anyways.

For now, he forces himself to lock his phone and to watch the game—Hayden is already back on his feet but his nose is bleeding and he’s holding himself like his ribs are fucked and Shane is there—visibly frustrated and anxious, hovering over him like he does every time someone he cares about is hurt.

It’s bad—probably—but not bad enough that Pike is going to die. Good. That’s—good.

He texts Shane a tell pike boston lily sends her regards. That looked awful. And resists the temptation to make fun of him beyond that because he’s still not sure where he stands with Shane after the whole pissing off Yuna thing.

Then—speaking off—he opens Yuna’s texts.

Just so you’re aware dear, people have found out about your account on the TikTok

Your manager just messaged me about it

Apparently they have recognized your living room in some of the pictures your Boston friends posted?

It’s all very positive so do not worry if you suddenly get a bunch of notifications

And that feels like a slap in the face.

Because—sure. Sebbin posted that little video of Anya. Those three fucking seconds and that—well. While Ilya wasn’t exactly in the video—just his arms slung around Anya—he had figured someone might connect the dots that it’s him.

But he didn’t—

He didn’t think people would realize that Anya is his dog. Which is—stupid maybe, but it’s also not the first time people have seen him hold a random dog before. There’s about—twenty pictures of him, maybe, with the street dogs of Moscow curtsy of Sveta somewhere on the internet—him petting them, the dogs laying on him or—most often—ignoring him unless he was offering food—at various stages of his life.

Back in Boston he and Marlow volunteered at shelters about as much as they visited hospitals.

His love for animals—for dogs specifically—is known to the public.

And if he didn’t expect people to realize that Anya is his dog, he sure as hell didn’t expect people to fucking find his tiktok. Not being recognized is like—80% of the reason why he made a fucking tiktok in the first place.

Thank you for letting me know, he texts back mechanically.

His manager only texted him a let me know if you want to put out a statement regarding the twitter situation.

He looks back up at the TV—Pike is off the ice, Shane is sitting on the bench looking marginally better—and only then does he open the twitter link Sebbin sent in the group chat. He doesn’t read any of the new messages already flooding the chat—stubbornly scrolls up until he finds the message and holds his breath as he’s taken to the thread.

It’s—a lot.

He’s almost glad Shane is playing and far away from the internet for the time being—a quick glance at the TV tells him that Montreal managed to even the score and he feels guilty for missing (Shane’s?) goal because people on twitter are creepy stalkers and apparently recognize this living room on sight.

But also nobody is calling for Anya to be removed from his care—nobody is mentioning Shane, though Ilya’s sure he’ll delete his secret anonymous account anyways—and except for a couple of weirdos, everyone is actually pretty nice about the whole thing.

There’s screenshots of his comments plastered everywhere. His confused thank you? To someone calling him a green flag gets a couple of chuckles and a couple of very unkind responses amounting to calling him a manwhore, but he’s thankfully never posted anything incriminating.

He still opens up the tiktok app—ignores the thousands of notifications flashing in the bottom corner—and scrolls through every single video like he’s one of the creepy stalkers that figured out his anonymous account from his living room what the fuck—and combs through them frame-by-frame to see if he can spot anything linking Shane or his parents to him that couldn’t be explained away by their joint charity.

There’s nothing, of course. Shane only keeps a minimum of personal things at Ilya’s place—a bottle of his cologne, a toothbrush, a couple of changes of clothes—but all of that is in Ilya’s bedroom and the ensuite bathroom. He spots Shane’s spare glasses on his table in one of the pictures of Anya in her playpen—just barely visible in the background—but it’s not like the case is clearly labeled SHANE HOLLANDERS BORING SPARE READING GLASSES so like. He’s pretty sure nobody could connect them to anything.

Would deleting the video raise more suspicion than leaving it up?

He goes to text Shane about it—game be damned.

Dushenka please do not freak out if you go online

Everything is okay

But someone figured out my tiktok thing

I will send link of videos with your things in background

Let me know if I need to delete them

Sorry this is happening during game

You play well score is not on you

Tell comeau he plays like drunk donkey

He looks up just in time for Toronto to score again.

The camera zooms onto Shane—lip worried between his teeth and pale and frustrated, visible even behind his helmet. This is like the last thing he’s going to need tonight. And it’s Ilya’s fault.

Fuck.

Chapter End Notes

this chapter is on the shorter side again because it was. A LOT of html. which unfortunately did not turn out perfect. i legit spent longer on the fucking coding then on writing the actual prose!! if it breaks, sorry i fully cannot make this better :(
as much as i struggled with last chapter this one just kind of. happened lmao. i also finally decided to take this fic off anon (sorry if you're subscribed to my profile and got emails for this! my bad!). please be nice to me :( :(

Chapter 7: week nine

Chapter Notes

thank u @whentheresidentsareevil for pointing out to me that i accidentally (I SWEAR!) plagiarized dumpling the dog's (from the tiktok account josh&dumpling (@jmw495)) lifestory! I genuinely didn't mean to but looking through the account...yikes!

*squints at the sudden increase of kudos suspiciously* now what is going on here? thank u for over 1k kudos and all of your kind comments :)

sorry this took so long, I'm back on nights 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 also html makes me cry :(
find me on tumblr @cursedbythenarrative

Montreal loses.

It’s a dirty game to the end. With Pike out, there’s really nothing standing between the Toronto defensemen and Shane beyond him being one of the fastest players the NHL has ever seen. Boiziau, to his credit, tries to keep the worst at bay—but its clear that Toronto is more focused on getting Shane off the ice—and away from the goal—than scoring themselves.

It works.

In the post-game interview, Shane is graceful about it. He doesn’t say If it weren’t for me we would’ve lost 20-0—instead he finds it in himself to talk kindly about his teammates, takes all of the criticism the journalists throw at him with his stupid media-smile. He does a good job pretending but Ilya can look right through him—he’s gutted, obviously and anxious and also he looks so tired it makes Ilya’s chest clench something painful.

Throughout it all, Ilya and his now-not-so-secret tiktok account trend somewhere in the top ten, which both helps and doesn’t.

For one—it confuses a lot of angry Montreal fans enough to take some of the heat off of their loss. Not that anyone really blames Shane for the loss—only someone who’d watched the game backwards and blindfolded and without sound would ever think Shane Hollander was the fucking problem—but still. The loss is probably already stressing Shane out enough as it is—and even well-meaning criticism is only going to make it worse.

For another, the added attention is going to freak Shane out even more.

While most of the Montreal fans are actually sort of nice about the whole thing—probably because you’d have to be a real asshole to be mean about a rescue dog—their added attention is enough that the story spreads outside of the hockey sphere.

His agent texts him again. Public sentiment is still overwhelmingly positive, she says. But we probably should say something. There’s a couple magazines that have already reached out for interviews.

People go crazy for a feel-good story apparently.

I need to talk to Shane before I say anything, he texts back.

Shane, decidedly, hasn’t texted him. Yet. Which is fine—so fine, actually, because Shane is still at the rink, and still under media scrutiny and his team just got kicked out of the playoffs because Comeau played like he’s suddenly scared of the puck.

Just so we’re clear, his agent texts him. You’re not getting out of this. There’s pictures comparing the videos on the account and pictures the boston guys posted. It’s pretty much confirmed already. Denial is not the move here. You can choose not to say anything but people know. Might as well use the publicity. 

Then I’ve talked to Yuna already and she agrees a more general interview about everything (this situation, your move to Ottawa, the Irina Foundation) is the smartest move. No need to go into anything in detail. A little think piece on you.

Think about it and get back to me.

On the TV the post-game coverage is still playing. Anya is curled up on his chest.

And Shane is still four-hundred-and-fifty miles away.

“Baby,” Shane says over the phone. Sighs, actually—the word leaving his mouth all on the exhale. He sounds tired. Exhausted. Like he’s about to collapse and Ilya can picture him in his mind so clearly, they might as well be together. And usually Ilya is the one with the pet names, really—mostly in Russian, some of them flat out stupid—but lately Shane’s been slipping them into their conversations more and more. Sweetheart and honey and baby—and it makes something in Ilya’s chest feel warm and sunny.

“Dushenka.” Ilya says back. “You did so good.”

Shane snorts, unattractively. Ilya is so fond. “Don’t lie to me, asshole. That game was shit and everyone knows it.”

“Well considering it was one vs. ten, I think you did well.”

Even through the line, Shane’s eyeroll is audible, though his tone betrays him. “Shut up.”

“No I am serious.” Ilya says. “Defense decide to play for Toronto, yes? Is—what is word? Not rebellion—”

“Mutiny?” Shane offers.

“Yes.” Mutiny. Bunt. “That. Pike did his best but fifteenth ranked player—is hard.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Shane says but he laughs too. “Hayden played great—he’s flying back tonight, Jackie’s getting him from the airport. Nothing bad but…he says thank you for the well-wishes, by the way.”

“Looked bad on TV,” Ilya says. “Next time he should just stay standing instead.”

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Shane says. Then—

“I saw you’re going viral.”

Ilya hums. “I sent you links to videos with your things in background. I don’t—I don’t think anyone could recognize but, I also did not think internet people would recognize living room so…”

“It’s fine,” Shane says. He barely even hesitates. Sounds sure, if a little rehearsed. “I saw. Even—even if someone recognized it, well…we’re friends now, right? It’s fine.”

For a few seconds, Ilya just enjoys the silence, the sound of Shane breathing and then—then he thinks about all of the texts still blowing up his phone.

“Farah and your mum think I should do interview…about everything.”

Shane—inhales. Gasps, maybe. “She brought that up again?!” he asks, voice almost an octave higher than usual, breaking on the last word. “I told her she shouldn’t—”

“Wait, wait—” Ilya says. “Shane, what are you talking about?”

“Your mom?” Shane asks. “I—she called me saying she just sprung that on you like—like she was talking about the weather even though I told her—okay, I promise, Ilya I told her your family is a sore topic and she said she understood and that she already apologized and—god, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why she wants this so badly and—”

“Breathe, solnyshko.” He says. “Breathe, Shane, please.”

“I am breathing,” Shane snaps.

“It’s—calm down, okay? I think, misunderstanding, yes?” Ilya tells him. “Everything is—fine. Your mother did not need to apologize for anything, okay? I…I made big deal out of nothing, is fine I promise! And she did not—” Frustration bubbles up in his gut. He’s not getting this across right. “She did not ask again. But Farah thinks I should address situation and make general interview.”

“General. Interview.” Shane repeats. “What?  What general interview?”

“About Anya. About move to Ottawa. Foundation.” Ilya says. “Think piece. Show…growth, or something.”

“Ottawa.” Shane says blankly. “What—I mean what would you even say about that?”

“Internet already knows I am in relationship,” Ilya says. “I told Marlow I moved for Montreal Jane. I could just…keep the lie going.”

Anya has two parents. Thank god he did not type Anya has two dads.

Shane falls silent on the other line. He’s probably catastrophizing. Ilya can pretty much hear him thinking.

“I told them I need to talk to you first.” Ilya says. “If you do not want—”

“It’s not—” Shane breaks off. Makes a sound in the back of his throat in frustration. “It’s not about what I want okay? You…you keep having to make sacrifices for me. Of course you should do the interview if you want to. It’s…god, I don’t want to make this about me—”

“It is about you.” Ilya tells him. Everything is about you. There is no me without you, hasn’t been since you introduced yourself to me in Saskatchewan. “I don’t have to do interview. Farah says I can ignore it if I want—”

“You should do it.” Shane says. “But maybe…maybe show me the questions first? Is that something you can do? So we can…workshop it?”

“Sure, milyy.” Ilya breathes. “We can workshop.”

Ilya Rozanov on new beginnings, parenthood and mental health

“I loved my time in Boston,” Rozanov says. “The city truly was my home for a while.”

(alt text: Ilya Rozanov, wearing a knitted sweater smiling down at his dog ‘Anya’, a small, mixed-breed puppy. Anya is licking his face.)

I meet Ilya Rozanov—Ilya, has he asks me to call him—right at the front door of his new home.

It’s a modern looking, two-storey home with a lot of sunny, open space—floor to ceiling windows, a beautiful open kitchen, a comfortable looking living room leading to a small patio and backyard. Even in dreary May, the space looks warm and inviting.

Ilya offers me water—asks if I want to eat something.

He looks almost shy—small—despite his huge statue and built. He’s never done an interview like this before, he tells me. I take the water he offers me again, and together we sit down at his kitchen table—sleek, red-stained wood, large enough to host six people, maybe.

There’s a wonderfully kitsch lace-placemat placed right in the center of the table—complete with a decorative fruit bowl.

I ask him about it.

He looks wistful as he answers. “My mother used to love tablecloths like these. Knitted them herself sometimes. I take this one with me, every time I move.”

The way he says it, makes it obvious that his mother is still a difficult topic to talk about. Just a few weeks before, Ilya announced his shared charity with the Montreal-based hockey player Shane Hollander (The Ottawa Digest reported on it here)—a charity he’s named in his mothers honour.

It’s touching to see her presence still linger like this, despite her unfortunate passing when Ilya was twelve.

I ask Ilya about moving. Even before his controversial move from Boston to Ottawa last year, Ilya was known for never sticking to one place long.

“Is just something I got used to.” He tells me. He fiddles a little with the tablecloth while he talks. “When I move from Russia I didn’t have a lot of money, so my first apartment was—not good. Team was very good to me, so when coach asked me where I live and I tell him he made sure I moved somewhere better.” He laughs. “After that, I just kept going.”

He smiles when he talks about Boston. Fondly.

It makes it difficult to imagine why he’d ever leave a city—a team—he so obviously still loves. I ask him if he plans on moving again.

“No,” he says, something mischievous twinkling in his eyes. “I think I am ready to—ah—settle down.”

He leans back in his chair—for the first time since we’ve met, he seems truly relaxed. I can almost recognize the Ilya Rozanov I’ve seen in post-game interviews, like this. Cocky, yes—a little arrogant, maybe—but mostly a man with confidence and the skills to back it up.

From my place at the table, I can spot a little playpen—complete with a heating lamp and soft looking puppy-beds pushed against the windows.

The space belongs to a—snoring—puppy, sleeping in a sunbeam. Anya, Ilya tells me proudly. Currently nine weeks old, and one of the leading reasons why Ilya agreed to this interview in the first place.

His account @puppyaaaanya on tiktok has amassed a whooping five-hundred thousand followers in the past week alone—following a little house party and some serious internet sleuthing. While the account was meant to be private—as some of Ilya’s past comments show—Ilya does admit he isn’t upset that the secret is out there, if a little disturbed that all it took was one picture of his living room. I ask him if his decision to settle down has anything to do with the mystery partner he’s alluded to on his newest social media account—one of the things he’s revealed about his private life before the account was discovered by his fans.

“Maybe.” He tells me with a shrug and that familiar smirk. “Maybe not.”

Before I can ask him anything else, though, he continues.

“My partner is private person,” he says. “Away for work a lot. So I try to keep attention away—is not just my life, anymore. Is our life.”

Media attention surely isn’t for everyone. Still, I try to wheedle a little more information out of him. Admitting to being in a long-term relationship is perhaps the most surprising thing to come out of his tiktok account. Ilya Rozanovs past is wild and colourful, and the idea of him being “domesticated” has many fans in disarray. Most of my questions he masterfully deflects—though he does answer one of them.

“Of course I believe in true love,” Ilya says, and he looks positively love-sick as he says it. “Would be bit stupid otherwise, no?”

And one thing Ilya decidedly isn’t is stupid. It shows in the way he carries himself, the words he uses—even if they might sound a little clumsy to native English-speakers.

“I am much smarter in Russian,” he tells me. “Is why I try to only use Russian with Annushka.”

Annushka—that is, Anya—continues to snore away in the background.

I ask him about her a little more. On his account, Ilya has revealed that he found her by accident—that he had been out on a run around the city, and heard a sound he couldn’t place and when he followed it into an alleyway, he found Anya in a dumpster.

“She was small,” Ilya says. “Smaller than my palm. Shivering and breathing hard and whining. Probably because of trash-smell. I didn’t really think about it—just—sort of wrapped her in my jacket and took uber to nearest vet.”

Which was the right decision, the vet told him.

“A little longer outside,” he tells me, face hard and eyes trained on his now healthy puppy. “And she wouldn’t have made it.”

The account—and the subsequent attention—wasn’t planned.

“I just wanted to tell someone about her.” Ilya fiddles with the table cloth again. “Just—her. I didn’t want it to be about me—even now people tell me how great it is that I took her to the vet and fed her and tried to keep her healthy but—is just normal, yes? I didn’t do it because I wanted praise I just…I wanted people to see how well she does.”

Dogs have always been one of Ilya’s favourite animals he tells me.

“There’s many pictures of me with dogs on internet, thanks to my best friends.” He shows me some of them. Most feature a much younger Ilya Rozanov—chubby cheeked, with a wide grin and untamable curls—surrounded by the street dogs of Moscow. Others are of him and Cliff Marlow—the current Captain of the Boston Raiders—volunteering at shelters in Boston. “I just think they’re neat.”

I ask him if he expected people to ever find the account.

“There was time where a lot of people found the account very suddenly.” Ilya says. “Even before—before. And I felt a bit uncomfortable then, because they made comments about me too, instead of Anya even though I never really showed myself. So after I try to show even less off myself and it works, a little and I really think I’m—safe, you know? Back to Anya content!”

He shakes his head, chuckles a little. “Was stupid maybe, but I really didn’t think anyone would realize Anya is my dog, even when Sebbin posted video. Much less recognize her or my living room.”

In many ways did the online sleuthing start with Sebbin—Christoper Sebbin, former teammate of Ilya and current Boston Centre—and his by now infamous Instagram post.

I ask Ilya how the post even came to be in the first place.

For a second he looks downright evil as he contemplates on how to answer—his smirk turning dangerous. Even I get a little nervous, wondering if he’s about to reveal one of my secrets next somehow, and I apologize to Sebbin for asking the question in the first place.

“Marley”—Cliff Marlow—“called me shortly after Boston was knocked out of the play-offs just to catch up. Next thing I know he’s standing in front of my door with whole pack to visit. Sebbin was—ah—how do you say? Curating post on way over. Very cute.”

While I show him some of the photos that ended up online that night, he tells me little anecdotes. The video was taken the first time Anya met any of the Boston Boys as Ilya calls them affectionally. She—apparently—wasn’t a fan, though she did warm up to them eventually.

When I ask about the red-solo cups—noting that he served me water in heavy, intricate glasses which rather destroy the whole frat-boy aesthetic—he barks out a laugh.

“Ask Carmicheal about that. He was very insisting.”

By the end of the photo recap—and not even Ilya can explain the video of Carmichael—arm in a sling after an unfortunate shoulder injury he acquired during his last game (read the article here)—attempting to deadlift Liam Aug—Ilya looks wistful again.

I ask him if he misses his former team at all and he looks almost annoyed at the question.

“I loved my time in Boston,” he says. “The city truly was my home for a while. My friends here tease me about Boston accent which I don’t have, obviously but still.”

“I will always be thankful for what the city, the fans, the team and everyone on staff has done for me. Obviously I miss my friends. But sometimes, I think, you need to…what is saying? Quit while ahead?”

The answer is surprising to say the least. Ever since the Boston Raiders announced that their franchise player would not be signing with them for the 2018/2019 season and instead be moving to Ottawa—a highly controversial move—online speculations about why Ilya Rozanov decided to leave have been running rampant.

From internal strive—both in regards to Ilya’s argumentative personality and the raise of Anti-Russian sentiment in the US—to contract negotiations gone wrong and tasteless jokes about Ilya’s performance after his fathers passing, it seems everyone and their grandmother has an opinion on why he decided to leave a team that would have been happy to retire his number in their rafters once he felt his career was done. A team that—if rumours are to be believed—would have probably sacrificed a goat if that would’ve gotten Ilya to stay.

When I ask him directly about the move, Ilya only shrugs.

“Why does anyone do anything?” he asks me back. “Love, obviously.”  

It’s as much a deflection as it is an oversimplification. When prompted, Ilya opens up a little more about his relationship—both romantic and with his family, most of which still live in Russia.

“I think moving halfway across the world, was sort of…sure-fire way of losing touch with my family.” He tells me, face impassive. “And after my father died…I guess I just realized what I did not want to live without. Or who.”

Ilya’s father died in the leadup to the playoffs of the 2016/2017 season. Despite being put on bereavement leave, Ilya only missed two games and lead his team into the second round of the playoffs.

“I decided to leave Boston during that summer,” he says. “My partner lives here and I did not want more long distance. Wanted another cup with Boston but we did not get there, unfortunately.”

He refills my glass, asks me if I need anything else from him. Somewhere in between, Anya stops snoring and he carefully lifts her out of her playpen so I can admire her from up close. While he pets her, I ask him about the Irina Foundation—and—more specifically, his developing friendship with Shane Hollander. Considering their rivalry is something of a legend—binding both players together throughout their careers—that was perhaps even more surprising than the charity on its own.

“Mental health has always been important to the both of us.” Ilya explains to me with a shrug. He hesitates—and all of his usual bravado vanishes from his face. When he continues, it’s carefully, like he weighs every word. “When my mother passed, we were not…permitted to talk about it. Was seen as—shameful. Weak. I think maybe…if there had been better resources, maybe she would have chosen different way.”

“Shane Hollander is just perfect golden boy, obviously.” Despite the sarcasm, Ilya seems sincere when he adds, “Just genuinely nice guy. His mother has taken up most of the logistics and they’ve both been great with getting this of ground.”

Carefully, I try to ask more about his mother. There isn’t a lot known about her, beyond the fact that she chose to end her own life when Ilya was only twelve and that she liked crocheted tablecloth, apparently. Even that was secret for most of Ilya’s life—the announcement of his charity the first time he’s ever publicly mentioned her.

He deflects most of my questions but does admit she’s been on his mind more often lately.

“I used to think about her every other day. I wear her necklace—I don’t think I’m particularly religious anymore, but it makes me feel closer to her.” He shows me the orthodox cross he wears around his neck. “I think is because of the Foundation. And maybe also because of Anya.”

Raising the puppy has brought back memories of her, he tells me sheepishly.

“Obviously isn’t same as raising a baby but still.” He looks embarrassed as he says it. “Lots of getting up during night to feed her.”

….(read more)

Chapter End Notes

why is shane playing toronto again when he already has in an earlier chapter and toronto--by all means--should've been out of the cup already? girl idk hockey isn't real to me i am making this up as i go and i KNOW toronto is evil in this universe so.

the magazine ilya interviews with doesn't actually exists. it took me way to long to come up with a name for it. if it DOES exist somewhere...please do not sue me. i also looked up how canadians count levels in a home (because that is one thing you english speakers DO NOT KEEP CONSISTENT!!) and tried to make the interview as #authentic as possible in general but if i messed up....let me know please? :(
also also can u tell i straight up don't care about celebrities enough to read interviews? i pulled out the little journalism unit we did in highschool for this....

Chapter 8: end of a season

Chapter Summary

For a second, the line turns quiet—quiet enough that all he can hear is her breathing. Then—the sound of her balcony door swinging open—the familiar creak of the hinge—something she’s asked him to fix for her a million times like Ilya was any better with tools or homeworking than her—worse, probably—and something Ilya has promised her to look into time and time again and now will probably never ever do—

He can see the view from her balcony so clearly in his mind. He tries shutting his eyes—shaking the image away—but it’s like someone burnt the memory into his eyelids. It’s all there: the perpetual grey sky, the red square in the distance—the moskva river, lazily flowing below.

I want to go home, he thinks nonsensically—and for the first time since his father died—for the first time since his mother died—he thinks of Moscow. Not Boston and definitely not Ottawa—traitorously not even of Shane. Moscow.

Chapter Notes

@sleepberries told me someone rec'd this fic on twt....reveal thyself!!!!!! (also thank u) (also also WHY)
i need to preface this by saying i hate how this chapter turned out :( sorry if this is disappointing after the long wait! onto better things hopefully.

the amount of attention this fic is getting is making me nervous btw
please pay attention to the changed tags on this, especially the depressed ilya tag and check out the cw if depictions of low mental health could be triggering to you. :)

cw/tw

Shane's struggle with food gets brought up in passing. i know in my dinner with hayden (and in tlg in passing) its mentioned that shane and ilya cook together but also shane and i are blood-brothers (real) (my pronouns are she/they) and i know in my heart of hearts that cooking would stress this man out so. i decided they don't actually.
ilya is doing canonically bad. i somehow ended up VERY focused on his depression in this chapter? which wasn't planned but just sort of happened. there's a bunch of characters worried about him, but there's no in-depth talk about how poorly he's doing. he looks up therapy options and has a very...naive? way of thinking about therapy in general. there's also mentions of religion in this chapter and an underlying idk. let me know if there's anything i need to warn for specifically and take care of yourselves!

Ilya tries not to be too happy about Shane being out of the cup early.

It’s hard though, when he gets to wake up every morning with him in his arms—sleep warm and content—and when he gets to eat with him and work out with him and clean and watch TV. It makes him fantasize about the future: maybe ten years from now, when they’re ready to come out and get married and—maybe adopt a couple of kids, though they haven’t actually talked about all that yet—Ilya could retire and they could live like this every day.

Just—existing together, fills up something in his chest he hadn’t even realized was empty. Like a battery or something. While the beginning of the next season and everything that entails—training camps and pr and award ceremonies and deadlines—is already looming over them like a dark, heavy cloud it also feels like maybe…maybe Ilya can get through the next year—like maybe these precious few weeks they spend together could be enough to…sustain him.

Shane is in a predictably bad mood, though he tries not to show it.

They’re both competitive to a fault—and Ilya has had times where losing has made him so moody people didn’t want to be around him—but its different for Shane. Where Ilya can shake off a tough loss with alcohol and dancing and—other physical activities—and is usually okay after like—a couple of days at most maybe, depending on the loss—Shane takes it to heart.

He doesn’t eat much, the first couple of days he’s at Ilya’s place after the Toronto game. Despite the season being over for him, he still has obligations—they won’t get to go back to the cottage for a bit yet, because he still needs to drive back to Montreal every other day or so.

He’s quiet too. In his head.

Ilya catches him watching—and rewatching and rewatching—that game against Toronto at odd times all throughout the day: on his phone and in the living room with the sound off and on his laptop in bed. He carries his little game-notebook with him, writes down play after play in his familiar messy scrawl. He sleeps…sometimes.

It all gets better the longer he’s with Ilya.

Not—fixed. Shane isn’t something to fix, anyways that would be silly, and Ilya isn’t a cure-all no matter how much he’d like to be but—he helps. He knows he helps.

Shane starts eating more for one. He’s still…particular about what he eats, but Ilya’s been cooking for him every time he’s stayed over because preparing food—especially food anyone else will consume—stresses Shane out like nothing else, and so he has no trouble adhering to Shane’s strict diet. He’s still obsessively rewatching the game—noting new mistakes every time, building strategies upon strategies for the next season—but he does it with Anya on his lap and eventually leaves the notebook behind completely.

And whenever he doesn’t sleep, Ilya is up right beside him.

Ilya tries to distract him—once the season is over, they’ll go through with the hockey camps for the first time and usually that would be enough—should be enough to get Shane to spiral about something else—but the loss seems to have hurt something personal.

Montreal is…competitive. Ilya knows that much. Shane’s coach…..well.

Shane might not understand the sort of hurt hockey can inflict on someone—might not understand why Ryan Price would need to heal from hockey—but Ilya can see the damage the sport has done on him regardless. Even if Shane doesn’t. Especially when Shane doesn’t.

It works, eventually. Yuna calls more—their shared press conference back when they first announced the foundation and now Ilya’s interview has gathered a lot of interest in their charity, and she’s finalized a list of attendees (complete with allergies and medication lists and emergency numbers) that Shane gets to obsesses over.

A week and a bit after the end of Shane’s season, it’s like that game against Toronto never happened in the first place.

Anya—ever a bright spot in Ilya’s life—helps too.

It’s like she has a sixth sense for whenever either of her parents are doing—not bad, maybe, but worse than usual. It’s like she can smell whenever Shane works himself up into a spiral and she has no problem wiggling her small body into his lap whenever its available.

She does the same to Ilya. Whenever he gets bad.

Not that that happens a lot—not with Shane around, anyways—but still.

It feels unfair to her—to expect her to…what? Give them emotional support? It also feels like failure because calming Shane down—well, that’s Ilya’s job. And dealing with his own bad days, well that’s Ilya’s job too.

The call comes right after Ilya’s dropped off Anya for a training day at her new puppy-hotel—a test run, to see if she’s ready to adapt to time away from him and to socialize her more.

“Allo?” he says.

“Ilyusha.” Svetlana doesn’t even bother with a greeting—never does. “What is this interview you put out?”

Later, Ilya won’t be sure what he expected when he saw her name pop up on his screen, but whatever it had been—it wasn’t that.

“What do you mean?” he asks back. It comes out in Russian, still on reflex. It feels good, despite the fact that the words almost feel…clunky. Stilted. He wonders if Sveta can hear it, or if it’s just in his head.

“All of Moscow is talking about what you have said about Tetya Ira.” She didn’t sound…upset. But worried maybe. “Your brother has been on a war path. He keeps asking me for your new number, like I’d ever tell him. I think he’s getting desperate. But my dad is worried—apparently your dads old boss isn’t too happy—there’s been some scrutiny because some people dug further into it and realized how young tetya was and there’s been some calls for investigations—not that there’s anything going to come off it but still.”

“My dad said your dad’s old boss keeps talking about this being a smear-campaign or something. Like your dad needs any smearing. Ridiculous, right? But still. I…I know you said you wouldn’t come back home but like…if you’ve been thinking about it, don’t. Not until this blows over.”

“Alexei has been talking to you?” It feels stupid—focusing on that, when she’s just revealed that his life has imploded back home in yet another way. Before not returning was a personal choice—not wanting to go back because of his brother and the loneliness and the way he couldn’t fucking breathe—choosing to try and find a way out, a way to be safe. Now it feels like exile. “Is he bothering you?”

Sveta lets out a sound—something between a huff and a scoff—and he can picture her so clearly, it feels like they’re in the same room. She’s probably rolling her eyes—lips pursed, lazily admiring her manicure.

She was always the stronger one, out of the two of them. Taller for most of their childhood until Ilya hit his first growth spurt—her hand always wrapped around his wrist to drag him out to play, even when he’d rather stay home with his mom. Bye tetya, she’d say. I’ll bring him home by sundown.

“Please.” She says. “That man? Are you serious?”

Then. “What? Are you going to fly over here and punch him again for me?”

“Depends on what he’s called you, Sveta.”   

“I can handle myself, Ilyucha. And I can handle your brother.”

“Yeah, but maybe you shouldn’t have to.”

For a second, the line turns quiet—quiet enough that all he can hear is her breathing. Then—the sound of her balcony door swinging open—the familiar creak of the hinge—something she’s asked him to fix for her a million times like Ilya was any better with tools or homeworking than her—worse, probably—and something Ilya has promised her to look into time and time again and now will probably never ever do—

He can see the view from her balcony so clearly in his mind. He tries shutting his eyes—shaking the image away—but it’s like someone burnt the memory into his eyelids. It’s all there: the perpetual grey sky, the red square in the distance—the mosvka river, lazily flowing below.

I want to go home, he thinks nonsensically—and for the first time since his father died—for the first time since his mother died—he thinks of Moscow. Not Boston and definitely not Ottawa—traitorously not even of Shane. Moscow.

He almost wants to scoff—to laugh at himself.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” she asks. And she sounds upset, then. Worried, still, but almost angry. More so then she’d been at the funeral when Alexei—

“It’s all just…Is big mess, yes? Maybe you shouldn’t…you shouldn’t have to deal with my brother being a dick. And your dad shouldn’t have to worry about stupid interview.” It all comes tumbling out in English—it feels easier like that. Less grating on his nerves.

“I don’t know what they’ve been feeding you in Ottawa that makes you insane.” Sveta says, and sounds vaguely threatening. “But your mess is my mess. My mess is your mess. Has been like this and will be like this forever.”

“I don’t want—”

“I don’t care,” she says. “You are my best friend, Ilya. If our roles were exchanged, would you not deal? Besides, what do you expect I tell my dad? Papa, Ilyusha—you know my childhood friend that probably spent more time at home with me and Mama than he did at his own house and that accidentally-on-purpose broke Nikolai Sergeyevichs nose in third grade for calling me names—says you shouldn’t worry about him because it’s too much…what? Effort? That will go well.”

“Dyadya has enough to worry about without me making his life more complicated.”

“I’m flying to Ottawa.” Sveta says abruptly. “And I’m finding out what’s wrong with you, or so help me god—”

“Nothing is wrong.” He says. “I’m just…in a mood.”

“You’re not making any sense, is what you’re doing.” She sighs. “Seriously, Ilya—what is wrong? It’s not…It’s not Jane is it? Did you fight? Is that why you are—”

“No. God no—Jane is…has nothing to do with this.”

Shane is the best part of my life, Ilya thinks, a little hysterically. Shane is also in Montreal for a photoshoot.

Sveta’s breathing gets far away for a second. When she speaks next, her voice is echoing weirdly, like she’s put him on speaker.

“The next flight to Ottawa is tomorrow at 4. Layover in Berlin—I can be there the day after tomorrow at 3 am.”

“Don’t.” Ilya tells her. One surprise visit in a month is more than enough—and Shane will be back tonight and then he won’t be moping anymore. “You flew out to spend time with your family. Don’t get on a redeye just because I’m being a baby.”

“There’s a lot you are, Ilyucha, but a baby isn’t one of them.” Her voice comes out muffled. “My grandparents are being weird to my mom again, anyways, so I’ve been thinking about coming home regardless. And I worry about you. We haven’t seen each other in a while. You get…strange when you’re on your own for too long.”

“I’m not on my own.” Ilya says. “I have people.”

“Do you?” Sveta asks. “Really?”

He thinks about his teammates—Boodram and Dykstra and Hayes—even fucking Dillon, bane of Ilya’s existence—Holmberg and LaPointe. They’re the closest—physically, at least—and they’re great but Ilya can’t stomach them outside of the rink. He thinks about the Boston Boys—about that stupid group chat, quieter now with most of them back at home and relaxing with their families. Thinks about Marlow, checking in every other day, like he’s set a reminder for himself.

Shane.

“Yeah, Sveta.” Ilya says. “I do.”

Marley 👿

what did you mean when you said you were worried about me

??

where’s this coming from?

remember my friend sveta?

the scary chick you hung out w in boston??

vetrovs girl?

yes

she said she worries too

don’t get why

oh buddy

Svetlana doesn’t end up getting on a plane in the end. Or maybe she does, but she doesn’t fly out to Ottawa—placated by Ilya’s reassurance. She does end up checking in more often though—dumb, small-talk-ish texts that don’t fit her or their relationship. She also keeps talking about how much she worries about him in roundabout ways—asks him if he’s eaten, tells him to go on walks—calls whenever he doesn’t text her back in thirty minutes like he’s a child alone at home.

Shane picks up on it and looks a little freaked out by it too. He asks about it only once—watches Ilya with like a hawk and doesn’t let up when he tries to brush it off, but respects it when Ilya snaps at him—kisses him so tenderly after, something hurts deep in Ilya’s chest.

That, alone, is almost enough for him to be honest about it all—about the weight that’s been tying him down, the tiredness he struggles to shake—the way he only ever feels like himself when Shane is around and how watching Shane leave his house feels like dying lately.

But Shane has just recovered from his own slump—he’s doing so well, is so happy and shiny and Ilya can’t put this on him—can’t be the reason why Shane starts spiraling, refuses to do anything to whip that smile off his face.

So he texts Marlow instead.

don’t want jane to worry too

He chews on his bottom lip as he waits for Marlow to reply. Listens to the ambient sound of Shane on a business call in their bedroom—of Anya chewing on a toy in her playpen—the birds outside.

Instead of a text, Marley 👿 flashes over his screen with an incoming call.

He hesitates, turns to look up the stairs—decides to get up and take Anya out of her playpen and into his little garden just to make sure Shane won’t overhear anything he shouldn’t.

Anya lets out a disgruntled little sound, but gets with it as soon as he lets her down onto the grass—tag wagging like a propeller as she stumbles around the patio.

“Yo,” Marlow greets him when he presses accept. “What is going on?”

“Nothing,” Ilya tells him.

“Bullshit,” Marlow says. “You don’t text me shit like that outta nowhere.”

He watches Anya—watches how the sunlight hits the grass and the leaves. It’s almost warm outside.

“I mean it,” he says. “I—I am fine. I need you to know that. But Sveta worries and you said you’ve been worried about me too and I’m not---I am not stupid, Marlow. I know you two are watching for something. And I don’t want Jane to start doing that too.”

Marlow shifts—Ilya can hear fabric stretch, the low creak of his leather couch. “If Jane is worth it, she’ll already worry about you.”

His first reaction to that is anger. At the tone he says it with and at the insinuation. He almost snaps something back, but Marlow beats him to it.

“Buddy,” he says. “You are very obvious when you’re not doing well. Like there was a period of time back in—like 2016, I think? Where the entire team was convinced you were gonna get yourself injured because you were pushing so hard during practice. Conners’ was like scheming to take your keys because you kept speeding like a maniac. The thing with your dad was a couple months later so we figured it was that but…yeah man. I bet Jane worries. I bet she’s already brought it up to you.”

What had Shane said? Maybe he needs to talk to a professional or something?

“But why do you worry?”

Marlow snorts. Not unkindly, but exasperated. Fond. “Because we care for you? Are you stupid or something?”

He thinks about getting a therapist.

Shane gets more and more antsy around him—watches him like he’s bracing for something, like they’re speeding down a dark highway and he can already see headlights approaching. He tries to play it off but the longer he’s with Shane, the more obvious it becomes that Shane—just like Ilya—isn’t a cure all.

A week before they’re supposed to leave for the cottage, Ilya wakes up—sleep warm and in Shane’s arms—and doesn’t think he has the strength to get out of bed. He manages, in the end, but only because Shane wakes up and offers to make breakfast.

He’s sort of terrified that sometime soon, not even Shane will be enough to get him moving.

Because he’s in love with a man that would probably find great pleasure in tracking every second of his life in an excel sheet, he ends up doing research about it. Googles Therapists near me and scrolls through listings on maps and reads reviews. Most therapists don’t have more than three stars, he finds—which makes sense, considering therapy in general seems like a hit-or-miss sort of thing: either you click or you don’t, either it works or it doesn’t—but its underwhelming and overwhelming at the same time.

He finds a therapist that speaks Russian—the only therapist in Ottawa, it seems, that speaks Russian—but the reviews aren’t great either and—when he thinks about it for longer than two seconds, he thinks he couldn’t speak about—about whatever it is that’s going on with him—in Russian—thinks it would probably break him. Make it too real—too heavy.

It’s easier in English, he thinks. The words don’t mean as much—there’s a sort of emotional disconnect there, a barrier.

It’s why he tells Shane he loves him in Russian so much—English doesn’t feel like enough.

Eventually he just bites the bullet and makes an appointment with a kind looking older man that reminds him of David Hollander—tall, broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper hair, glasses and a ridiculous cardigan that makes him look like the biggest therapist cliché out there—and offers something called Cognitive Behavioral Therapy which sounds official and promising and a whole bunch of other types of psychotherapy hidden behind acronyms Ilya is too lazy to look up. He’s also a licensed psychiatrist—something that feels important, because if he’s going down this path and it doesn’t work, maybe he can still prescribe him….something. Some pill or something that will fix him.

His earliest opening is the week after their summer camps are supposed to end which works out great because it’s the same week training starts up again, so—if Ilya ends up crashing at least Shane won’t have to bear witness. If he plays it right, maybe he will be fine by the next time they can meet up.  

The confirmation email sits in his personal email account like one of those dancing air things outside of car dealerships—like a shiny, glowing rock. It makes him paranoid almost—scared Shane or Yuna or David—or anyone else, like the nice blue-haired barista at his favorite coffee shop—will see somehow and know.

He wonders if his mother felt like this—ashamed, scared, vulnerable—if that was why she didn’t reach out to anyone—or if she just didn’t have anyone to reach out to. It was different, then, he knows—less research, not enough time or money or medicine—but Sveta’s mother had been there—warm and kind and so sad after—after. And she had been religious—really religious—and weren’t priests there to offer solace and support? Counseling?

 Not for the first time does he wish he’d known her better. Longer.

Chapter End Notes

being in this fandom is like. BAM NEW WIP BAM NEW WIP BAM NEW WIP. like i think ive mentioned the irina lives au before on here but there's ANOTHER rozanov family au that's driving me insane. also i got this temp amnesia/mistaken identity/presumed dead post canon thing haunting my every step.
i need to quit my job fr fr.
I finished TLG btw and im making my way through role model rn. i was doing super well too and would've probably finished it already but took a break to finish some other projects ive been leaving around my space. this also means that i am now aware that the timeline is irrevocably doomed in this fic. please pay this no mind. i am also a galina hater. not sorry.
anyways thank u for reading and ur kind comments, the kudos and bookmarks etc etc i appreciate it!!!!!! SO SO!!! MUCH^^ sorry this update is so late AGAIN but i've been working nights (again) (grrrr) and also everything at work broke (grrrr) and we were understaffed (GRRRRRR) and also also my cold is back???? and now breathing hurts when im standing haha #ooops

Chapter 9: cheating at therapy

Chapter Summary

He’s halfway through talking himself into leaving—last-minute cancellation fee be damned—when the doctor finally walks into the waiting room.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered in one of those fuck-ass cardigans—a collared shirt peeking out at the top. Despite dressing like what Ilya always assumed a therapist would look like, he’s built more like a former athlete—or a construction worker or something. There’s a bit of a softness around his middle—like a small beer-belly almost—but he looks…fit. Strong.

He smiles. “Mister Rozanov?” he asks, which—Ilya isn’t sure how he feels about. “This way please.”

Chapter Notes

no clue how it's the end of the month already again. sorry this is super late (again) but. work. sighs.

stares at kudos/hit/bookmark count. guys. guys this is getting a bit ridiculous now, don't you think? thank u but also. christ.

warning! i tried my hand at writing therapy. if it sucks/is gravely unrealistic pleasseeee tell me! I mentioned this in some of my responses last chapter but i only have personal experience with...very NON TRADITIONAL AND NON PROFESSIONAL THERAPY and mainly oriented myself on things my friends that are in therapy and my own research have told me.

The hockey camps go…well, actually. All things considered.

Shane ends up working himself into a frenzy in the week leading up to the start—enough that Ilya feels strangely calm in comparison. It’s easy too, to be the one taking care of Shane while Shane emulates his mother and takes care of everything else. All he has to do is break Shane—gently—out of his overthinking spirals with very patient rational thought. No solnyshko, he says, no-one is going to go into anaphylactic shock because we have a list of allergies. And if someone ends up going into anaphylactic shock anyway we have a group of very smart very talented medics on standby that will help.

Despite all of their planning, though, pretty much everything that could’ve gone wrong, ends up going wrong during the first couple of days. Nothing horrible—nobody gets hurt, at least—but there’s a difference between seeing sign-up sheets and the actual, visual confirmation of there’s a bunch of tiny people they are going to be taking care of for a week.

They have people helping of course—mainly Pike and Ilya’s new-ish teammate and Ottawa goaltender Wyatt Hayes and fucking Ryan Price of all people—and Ilya is using his widespread connections to recruit even more people too, especially women because a bunch of the kids that signed up are girls and they deserve role models as much as the boys do. But there’s things even experienced hockey players struggle to prevent—and equipment breaking, the entire group, parents included, getting locked in after practice because one of the janitors went home early and a small (verbal) on-ice fight between two kids that end in frustrated tears on both sides, happen to be those types of things.

But good stuff happens too. The kids have fun which, really, is all Ilya was hoping for when Shane came up with a more concrete idea for their charity—and they’re funny too which he hadn’t really expected. A small, shy-looking girl tells him Pike looks like someone used magic to turn a mouse into a human and Ilya ends up laughing so hard he slips on the ice and falls flat on his back.

In the end everyone goes home happy with signed pucks and jerseys and the Irina Foundation gets a nice little donation boost that makes Ilya a little teary eyed even if he’d never actually admit to it.

It feels—good. Like success.

Something he—and Shane and Hayden and Wyatt and Ryan and all the other people involved behind the scenes—can show the world as undeniable proof that he still has something to…contribute. Something to prove he isn’t just around, but something---tangible. A little bright spot—enough that Ilya gets this overwhelming feeling in his chest that maybe, just maybe—not all hope is lost.

The feeling is almost enough for him to drop the appointment looming over his head like a dark cloud. Maybe all he needs to get out of his funk is some success. Just a couple of games where his team doesn’t get destroyed on the ice—a couple of wins, a couple of good days until he forgets what a bad day feels like.

But he hears Marley’s voice in the back of his head every time he finds himself hovering over the Cancel or Reschedule Appointment button. I’ve seen you go some dark places. I’ve—I have tried to be there for you, the way you have been for me. You are very obvious when you’re not doing well.

This feeling isn’t exactly new, anyways. This—heavy, sinking feeling in his chest. The tiredness. And maybe it’s nothing—maybe he’ll go to this doctor-person and he’ll say well Mister Rozanov I diagnose you with being a little whiny bitch the way his father probably would and tell him to get out of his office but—

Well. At least that would mean—clarity. Or something. Knowing for sure.

And maybe that would be enough.

Ilya paces all throughout the fucking waiting room.

It’s—welcoming, almost. As far as doctor offices go, at least. Crème-colored walls and nice, hardwood floors. Big windows, with tasteful, white blinds shut enough to keep prying eyes out but open enough to let natural light in.

There’s informational brochures all over the desks—right next to newspapers and glossy entertainment magazines (Rose Landry Photographed In Ibiza Amidst New Dating Rumors one of them proclaims in bright yellow lettering under a flattering picture of Rose fucking Landry in a bikini on a yacht)—and a little water fountain in one of the corners and a big TV playing a nature documentary with the volume off.

Maybe he shouldn’t have filled out the intake form online and instead opted to do it in person. At least then he’d have something to do.

There’s a receptionist watering a plant at the sign-in counter-thing, that smiles pleasantly whenever Ilya accidentally makes eye-contact.

He feels a little like a caged in animal.

Mostly, he feels incredibly uncomfortable and out of place.

It’s—a terrible idea. Being here. Sure—the office is a little outside the city and there’s nobody else there, having gotten scheduled for the very last appointment of the day because the practice was, thankfully, accommodating when Ilya mentioned wanting privacy and even if there was anyone else there, the waiting room is angled so nobody walking in or out would be able to see him until the receptionist led them through and—

It’s a terrible idea.

He can already see the headline it would make if he was seen here, even just in passing. Can see his face plastered on one of those entertainment magazines: eyes wide and wild, curls sticking up wildly—something like Hockey Prodigy Turned Nervous Wreck  written right below.

He’s halfway through talking himself into leaving—last-minute cancellation fee be damned—when the doctor finally walks into the waiting room.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered in one of those fuck-ass cardigans—a collared shirt peeking out at the top. Despite dressing like what Ilya always assumed a therapist would look like, he’s built more like a former athlete—or a construction worker or something. There’s a bit of a softness around his middle—like a small beer-belly almost—but he looks…fit. Strong.

He smiles. “Mister Rozanov?” he asks, which—Ilya isn’t sure how he feels about. “This way please.”

He shows him through the practice and Ilya follows mostly on autopilot. It feels real, all of a sudden, and that makes anxiety churn in his stomach.

The actual office—consolation room?—looks like it was taken right out of a movie. Heavy—wooden bookshelves lining the wall, a couple of chairs and sofas spewed around—something like a coffee table in the middle. Curiously, there is a coffee machine on a side table next to a large, leather armchair.

“I am sure you are already aware of this,” the doctor says kindly, as he closes the door behind him. “But my name is Gordon Martin—I usually go by Gord. You can call me by—any of those names, really. It all depends on your comfort level, of course.”

“Ilya.” He says, slowly. “Rozanov. Uhm—Ilya. Please, call me Ilya.”

“How about you have a seat, Ilya?”

He looks around the room, at all the seats. They all look comfortable and they’re all spaced out differently from the armchair where Gordon—Dr. Gordon? Dr. Martin? Fucking Gord?—sits down. Ilya internally decides to never directly address the man—ever. Thank god for the English you. He—the doctor—looks up at him encouragingly.

“Where?” Ilya asks.

“Wherever you want.” Doctor Gordon Martin says. He’s still smiling in that kind, encouraging way. “There’s really no right-or-wrong way. Some prefer the couch, others the armchair over there in the corner. They’re all very comfortable, I promise.”

Ilya sits down on the couch—it feels like the most appropriate place to sit. Isn’t it that way, usually, in movies?

There’s a couple of throw pillows placed on the seats neatly and he lets himself sink into the plush.

“Before we start—I read your intake sheet of course, and I saw that this is the first time you’re attending therapy. As a general rule, I tend to keep the first three sessions fairly therapy free, if that makes sense.” He must see that it doesn’t, because he elaborates. “The first sessions are going to be”, he pulls his hands up to put the next word into quotations. “’intake’ sessions. Where we talk about what’s going on—how you’re feeling, and why you’ve decided to come to therapy and what you’re looking to get out of our appointments. Essentially, to see if you feel comfortable with me and if the services I offer are helpful to you—if we’re a ‘good fit’.”

“Oh.” Ilya says. Deflates a little. He was—sort of prepared that he’d have to share—everything. Lay his soul-bare. Answer a lot of And how does that make you feel’s and tell a stranger everything keeping him up at night. It’s almost a little reassuring that he—won’t. At least not yet. “Okay.”

Gord takes up a little clip board from the side table. Smiles. “Alright. What brings you in, today?”

Ilya’s never been to therapy before of course, but by the time the hour is up, it feels like—not a lot has actually happened. Which Gordon warned him about, but still feels…disappointing, maybe? He leaves with standing weekly appointments and Gordon’s work-phone-number in case of emergencies and a handful of pamphlets and feels both lighter and heavier than he felt when he walked in.

There’s talk about confidentiality—Nothing you say will ever leave this room, Ilya. I will never speak a word of what you’ve told me unless you present a clear threat to your own well-being and if we ever happen to run into each other outside of this office, I will not even look at you, much less acknowledge that I know you.—and when Ilya nervously brings up being scared of getting recognized, Gord tells him about telehealth options.

“Considering that you’re going to be on the road a lot,” he says. “I think online appointments could be very beneficial to you, in general. And if you’re worried about someone seeing you in this office or around this office or being connected to this place in anyway at all, then switching to only telehealth could be an option to explore.”

And then there’s—the elephant in the room. Where Gord—god, is Ilya really going to refer to his fucking therapist as Gord—very gently but firmly prods at the reason for Ilya’s visit like their team physio prods at bruises and Ilya stutters through talking about his feelings.

It’s—deeply uncomfortable, actually. He feels, ridiculous, mostly, despite all of Gords questions being surface level.

Really it feels like someone put a spotlight right in his face. Like he’s back in school and his teacher called on him out of the blue and Ilya has no clue what’s going on and he’s about to embarrass himself in front of everyone.

When he says as much, Gordon nods in that—patient, encouraging way of his.

“That is a completely valid way to feel, Ilya.” He says. “Therapy is a deeply uncomfortable thing. Being vulnerable in general is uncomfortable. But it’s important that you know that you’ll never have to share anything you don’t think you’re ready or want to share.”

“I just think I’m…sad, maybe. Heavy.” Depressed, he thinks but doesn’t say. “Some of my friends have said they are…concerned. About me.”

Gordon—Martin—Gordon shifts a little in his seat at that. Writes down something on his little clipboard. Asks “Concerned in what way?”

“I have been…lonely. I have moved here uh last year. Don’t—don’t have a lot of friends yet here and my—my two best friends I uh…I haven’t been talking to lately. A lot.”

Gordon nods again and scribbles down something else. And Ilya braces himself for more questions about it—bristles a little, even—but instead, Gord very smoothly moves along.

“You moved?”

“From Boston. Used to—I used to play for Boston.”

“And I suppose that is where those two best friends live, still?” Gordon asks. Ilya nods. “When you say you don’t have a lot of friends here yet, does that mean you have some friends?”

“I have my…uh lover? Partner? And partner’s parents.” Ilya says, slowly. Carefully. “And my new teammates but it’s been…”

Gordon waits him out. Doesn’t interrupt, or suggests anything. Just looks at him, face carefully neutral.

“Lonely. They aren’t my old teammates and they shouldn’t be either and I’ve only been here for a season but…yeah.” He finishes lamely, feeling like he’s taking a test and failing. Can you fail therapy? Can you get a bad grade in therapy?

“Is that something you want to work on? Getting closer to your new teammates?”

I don’t want to talk to anyone, ever. Ilya thinks at the same time as he thinks I want my old life back.

“I think so.” When Gordon only smiles at him, Ilya sighs. “Yes.”

There’s more questions about his past too—about his childhood, about growing up in Russia, about if he misses his family. Ilya shamefully admits he doesn’t—that he’s feeling complicated about his home at best and flat-out awful at worst.

“My mother kil…committed suicide, when I was twelve.” He says quietly. “I found her. And after that…home didn’t feel like home anymore and what was left of my family didn’t feel like family anymore either.”

Gordon barely reacts to that—there’s no pity in his face when he looks at Ilya—no change in expression, really, at all.

There’s more questions about what his goals are—what he thinks he wants out of this.

“Is to feel better, too…” he waves off.

“Broad?” Gordon offers. “I don’t think so. It’s something I hear quite a lot, believe it or not. A good long term goal to have. But maybe try to break that up into something smaller. What do you need to feel better, right now?”

Ilya is silent for a while after that. Tries to think—really think about it. “I want to get out of bed just to get out of bed. Not because I…not because I have to but because I want to.”

“Being forced out of bed is not the worst thing. Making it out of your bed, especially when it feels hard to do, is already a success and something you should feel proud about.” Gordon says. “But we can work with this. Try to think about ways you can ensure you get out of bed because you want to get out of bed and not because you have to. What are some things you like to do, besides the things that—force you out of bed?”

Hockey. Spending time with Shane. Playing with Anya…

Back in Boston, he’d say something dumb like smoking or driving his stupidly expensive sports cars or partying in a dingy club. None of that is really an option anymore.

But being with people has always made him feel—good. Better. The more alone he’d felt, the worse he’d gotten.

There’s nobody there he can spend time with, regularly. The season is about to start up again—all of his friends are in the hockey world and most of them are in Boston. Sveta would come to Ottawa immediately if he asked but—that wouldn’t be fair to her what with her working on her Masters and her own friends and—

God, Shane. Shane with his shiny, bright eyes and ambition and stubbornness—

They’re closer now, but not close enough that they can spend every free-minute together. And calling is nice—really nice—especially when they’re both on the road. But it’s not enough because Ilya is a greedy, greedy man—

Really, this is his mess, mostly—isn’t it? He shouldn’t just…unload all that on the people he loves?

But what else is there?

Hockey, he thinks. Shane. Anya. Yuna and David Hollander. Hockey. Shane. Anya. Yuna and David Hollander.

“Spending time with—those important to me,” he settles on, finally, even though it feels empty. He’s already spending time with Shane and Anya and Shane’s parents. “Making plans.”

 “Okay.” Gordon says. And he’s so patient it almost pisses Ilya off—can’t he just…tell him what he’s supposed to do? “But what are some things besides that, that you like to do? Spending time with friends is important and definitely something we’ll work on in general—but what are you going to do when nobody else is available? What are some things that you want to do, once you feel better?”

Non-sensibly, the first thing that pops into his mind is travel.

Stupid—Ilya’s traveling literally all the time—but for a second he sees the ocean and feels hot sand under his toes and a breeze in his hair. Somewhere warm, somewhere far away where nobody knows who the hell he is.

A comfortable bed and the prettiest guy with dark hair and freckles and the sunniest smile next to him. An altar. Matching rings. Walking hand in hand, not a care in the world who sees.

Being there for every new wrinkle on Shane Hollander’s face.

“I don’t know.” He says instead.

Gordon doesn’t look like he believes him, even though his face stays pleasant and impassive. “Then I think we know what you’re going to be working on until we see each other next.”

He gets a stupid journal.

Feels ridiculous all throughout the purchase—hidden between puppy food and new puppy mats—Anya’s gotten really good at going outside but accidents happen and she’s still so, so small—and an expensive fur-brush that promises a painless detangling experience.

It’s bound in black-leather and inconspicuous—dotted paper on the inside because they only had blank pages otherwise and that seemed….bad. Somehow.

In between appointments and training and conditioning he tries to sit down and—journal. Write down his thoughts. Tries to do what Gord told him—goals for therapy, something he wants once he’s okay—but nothing comes to mind.

It’s a humiliating experience—uncomfortable, even though nobody is ever going to even read what he’s putting down. Not that he has anything to write which is almost worse. It makes him feel like a huge loser because—when it really comes down to it—he doesn’t really have anything in his life, does he? Beyond his job and his boyfriend and his dog?

He ends up googling hobbies for adult men just so he has something to write down. Most of it seems sport related—Martial Arts or Tennis—but like…Ilya does sport. Professionally. There’s—not really a way for him to workout more than he already does. Then there’s stuff like—woodworking and gardening and—Ilya’s a city boy. Always has been. His father had never—tried to teach him anything manly or whatever, and the little home repair stuff Sveta’s dad had taught him had amounted to stuff like being able to change his own oil and how to use a spirit level. He doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty when it’s a fight on the ice or something—but anything other than that, he’d prefer someone else to do it for him.

So—woodworking and gardening don’t seem appealing at all and Gordon would probably be able to tell he’d pulled that out of his ass if he tried to pretend he’d suddenly gotten into either of those things.

Right at the bottom, he finds a little rubric of creative hobbies. It’s pretty sparse—programming and playing various musical instrument and writing—but also, right at the very end, photography. And—that he can pull off maybe. Lie about. He already has the tiktok thing—maybe he can tell Gordon that and then he’ll move along and instead fix whatever the fuck is wrong with him.

SMART-Goals, he’d said. So Ilya writesFor the next three months I am going to take photos and videos of things I think are cool worth I want to share every day at 4 pm. into his stupid journal and tries not to feel too guilty about lying to his therapist.

Chapter End Notes

me, seeing my boss walk up to me with a little notebook in hand, fully aware I'm about to be asked to pick up shifts: 🫩

anyways. is this a good point to admit that i have no clue where to go with this fic? i #losttheplot not that i ever really had one beyond cute dog videos and a dream....i struggled with this chapter which is why there's such a hard cut/time skip to last chap. sowwy :(
since you've seen me last I've finished Role Model (and I enjoyed it way more than I thought I would. Troy Barrett I have grown quite fond of you it seems) and have also gotten an industrial because i cope with stress by getting new piercings. don't ask.
I have also written a little oneshot about ilya and alexei's relationship (the au i mentioned last chapter) you can find here if that's something you would be interested it! :)

in general I'm fighting back wips like I'm being paid for it. i haven't felt this creative in...years probably. and all it took was a gay hockey romance. weird. but yeah, sorry if updates slow down. both due to work (back on nights next week and having to prepare for an upcoming work trip and the mentioned shifts I'm picking up) and due to the fact that I have a little brain worm that's making me write a really angsty missing/persumed dead fic while simultaneously obsessing over the whole the vampire marleau thing. speaking of, shoutout to WHOEVER came up with the hayden pike was a mouse and got turned into a human (potentially by his witch wife jackie) thing. no clue how we got there but i love it

Chapter 10: headlights

Chapter Notes

Ilya is going through it in this chapter!! it wasn't planned but i kind of blacked out and woke up to this so....please be aware of some very negative self-talk and him not making the smartest choices in regards to his therapy journey. irina haunts the narrative always. i personally don't *think* there's anything potentially triggering in here, but please check out the cw/tw for spoilers should you need them! and do let me know if i've missed something!!
i do think this will be the heaviest chapter in total. its going to go up from here. sorry to anyone that signed up for feel good content only to be hit with this. genuinely. i feel like it's false advertisement at this point. I am sorry!!

cw/tw (spoilers)

Ilya receives a diagnosis and decides to fire his therapist. the way he thinks about himself (and by extension other people in therapy/that are mentally ill) could be read as ableist/internalized ableism.

The thing is, after the internet figured out his secret tiktok account, Ilya stopped posting on it.

Didn’t even open the app beyond that one scroll through to see if he’d accidentally revealed his secret gay love affair with Shane Hollander. He had kept the notifications off from the moment he’d downloaded the app and then flat-out decided to delete it when everything went down because even just having it on his phone was…

Now—with therapy and fucking Gordon—it feels like he has to go back.

Because Gordon thought the whole photography thing was a great idea. A promising approach to developing more goals. Because doing therapy is all about getting his life back or whatever. Rediscovering things that used to fulfill him.

(There’s a whole list of things to rediscover, apparently. Things Gordon has gently—always gently—brought up for Ilya to chew on. It’s like he’s a metal detector or something—there’s something uncanny about how he seems to always find new things to dig his claws in. Things like—you wear a cross—Russian Orthodox I assume? Are you religious, Ilya?—that leave him scrambling, pressing out half-baked answers between gritted teeth.

Not really, Ilya says. I used to be. I think I still believe in a God maybe. Afterlife. Don’t go to Church.

But you still wear the cross.

And then Ilya has to say, it was my mother’s and watch as Gordon looks at him with his kind, somber eyes and scribbles down something on his little clipboard and lets the silence settle over them until Ilya feels like he has to keep talking. I feel closer to her when I wear it.

And then Gordon tells him to think about maybe attending a service—here in Ottawa, because there’s multiple Orthodox Churches in the city, apparently. And Ilya has to explain that he doesn’t want to attend a service in a Russian Orthodox Church and eventually Gordon finds something in his stuttered reply to dig into yet again.)

So.

Tiktok. Which, at the time of explaining the photography thing felt like a nice little gotcha! moment. An alibi almost—something to hold out and be like look, I’m taking this seriously!

But Ilya’s thumb has been hovering over the little cloud symbol for—god-knows how long. Long enough that his screen has dimmed thrice and he’s had to scramble to keep his phone from locking again.

It’s—ridiculous.

To the point that it’s genuinely pissing him off—because like, he’s done it, right? He’s put himself out there, he’s made the appointment—agreed to weekly appointments over an encrypted telehealth app he had to download onto his stupid phone—and now the solution to his problems is downloading a social media app? Taking pictures of his fucking dog and nature and anything else that catches his eye and—what, that’s magically going to fix all of his problems and make him not want to—

He bites his lip and—still annoyed beyond belief—finally hits the redownload button which feels…anticlimactic, if anything. Watches, as the little cycle spins and spins until his wifi gets with the program and the download starts—watches as it creeps along with the same amount of dread he felt when he’d walked into that final meeting with the Boston GM—a man Ilya and the rest of the team had only ever affectionately referred to as Boss Man.

It had been fine, of course. Clean. But he’d still felt awful going into it, uncharacteristically nervous—the same nervous he’d felt, right after the draft when he’d asked Shane if Boston was nice, the way Montreal was nice.

The app lags when Ilya finally opens it—which takes an embarrassing amount of time, actually—and there’s a red circle in the bottom right with a number so high, it sort of freaks him out. For a second he considers just—closing out again. Disregarding the whole thing, deleting the app again—he can just pretend none of this ever happened, can tell Gordon this isn’t working and cancel his appointments and—

He forces himself to navigate to his notifications.

Immediately the screen is flooded. @xilyrozanov_81 liked your video! Right below a comment from @claireeeeeeexD that simply reads I’d never thought I’d willingly follow any of Rozanovs socmed.

He doesn’t scroll much further than that—doesn’t read what else people have said. There’s only one person who’s opinion matters at this point—really matters—and he probably already deleted his account.

Instead he goes through the motions of curating a new post. Choses a couple of pictures he snapped of Anya during their walk—a video of her sniffing at a leaf, a photo mid-stumble, a photo mid yawn—and, at the very end of the little slideshow, a selfie he took for Shane that he never actually ended up texting to him. It’s also the most recent photo he has of himself.

It’s objectively a bad angle—his curls frame his face awkwardly, and he looks—tired, exhausted really with deep circles under his red eyes and a day worth of stubble on his chin—but Anya is sitting politely in his lap, and looks into the camera with an expression so uniquely Shane it’s unbelievable.

Dogs end up looking like their owners—or maybe it’s the other way around and owners change to look like their dog. Anya squints the way Shane does whenever he gets too prideful during a late-night movie-date on his couch and refuses to wear his glasses—eyes big and glossy—and she snarls, almost, tongue peaking out a little, nose all scrunched up, the way Shane does whenever he really focuses on something.

He hadn’t wanted to worry Shane—he does genuinely look like death warmed over—but figures posting it to his dumb dog tiktok is…fine probably. At most, everyone will assume he’s hungover or something—god knows there’s enough unflattering photos of him out there somewhere. There was a time in 2016, especially—right around the time Shane decided to try and be straight and Ilya had only been able to check the news tipsy because he kept expecting to read about Shane getting engaged or something—where he’d looked miserable enough that a paparazzi had asked him if he was doing okay.

He watches the post load with bated breath. Fights the urge to close the app, fights the urge to lock his phone and the urge to go for a run or a drive or a smoke. Lets the feelings rush over him, eyes trained on the bottom right corner of his screen while the numbers in his inbox climb higher and higher.

He’s not brave enough to read the comments but he knows they’re there, at least.

During their third appointment, Ilya breaks.

He’s on his couch, laptop cracked open with Gordon visible from his office over encrypted video-call. Anya is—like she so often is—curled up on his lap.

“I do not think this is working.” He says in a way that hopefully translates as polite.

What he really means is this is ridiculous and stupid and I don’t feel any better at all and I think you are quack, because after their second appointment, Gordon handed Ilya a list of journal prompts. Who am I when nobody is watching? had been written at the top, followed by What do I want my life to look like this time next year?

Ilya hadn’t gotten much further through the list because everything in him had—recoiled, almost, at the prompts. He hadn’t been able to take it seriously, hadn’t wanted to take it seriously—and while he had tried, had picked up his Centaurs branded ballpoint pen and pressed into the paper until the ink bled out of the tip in an ugly dark-blue splotch, he hadn’t managed to write down a single word.

A part of him had felt like Gordon wanted to prank him with the list. Like it was a test or an elaborate joke or something—maybe cultural?—that Ilya just wasn’t supposed to get. It almost felt…malicious, maybe. Like Gordon was sitting at home laughing about dumb, gullible Ilya who’d tried to get better.

Gordon doesn’t look malicious, when Ilya brings it up. Instead he nods, encouragingly, and straightens up in his seat.

“Alright.” He says. “Let’s talk about that in more detail.”

“You’re not…mad?” Ilya asks, genuinely a little surprised.

Gordon’s brows furrow, just a little bit. It’s maybe the most—real, genuine—emotion Ilya has ever seen him show during these appointments. “Of course I’m not mad.” He says, a little bewildered. “That’s the entire point—in general and especially of these first couple appointments, Ilya. Figuring out what works, and what doesn’t.”

Ilya blinks at him. Once, twice, thrice.

“But you seemed so…sure.” He says, carefully. “That this would work. And now it does not.”

Gordon leans back in his seat. Sets the pen down on his clipboard, rests his arms on his lap, posture open. He tilts his head just a little bit, eyes fixed on Ilya like he’s trying to figure something out.

Then he deflates a little, with a sigh.

“Ilya.” He says, and only barely hesitates before he continues. “During our first appointment you said you were—concerned, that you were depressed. And while I think it’s too early to offer you a definitive diagnosis—because we’re still getting to know one-another and also because mental illnesses are inherently complex and symptoms overlap and my colleagues in this field tend to be a bit…trigger happy when it comes to slapping a label on something—I can tell you this: different conditions require different treatments—and even then, no two patients are the same; just because something might work for Person A doesn’t mean it will work for Person B.  

So far, we’ve mainly tried something called Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, CBT, which focuses on changing negative thought patterns. The SMART-Goals we’ve talked about are a part of that. But CBT isn’t the only thing we can try and it’s not the only treatment there is.”

Ilya nods. It does make sense, he thinks and tries to put it into a different context—something easier to grasp. If he went to the doctor because he was sneezing uncontrollably, the doctor would have to figure out if it was because of allergies or because of a cold—and if the doctor gave him antibiotics when he needed benadryl he wouldn’t feel like he was getting better either—but still. “I just thought I’d be…fixed, by now.” He admits, a little shamefully. “That I would feel better.”

Gordon looks deeply sympathetic, even pixilated as he is.

Everything picks up after that.

There’s training and conditioning and Ilya attempting to whip his team into shape. Then there’s rumors of the team getting a new head coach—some guy called Brandon Wiebe, Ilya thinks he vaguely remembers hearing about during his rookie-season—though, really, Ilya just wants someone decent on his right-wing.

Shane is almost exclusively back in Montreal. Ilya sees his parents more than the man himself.

Marlow checks in pretty much daily still. Sveta too, though its obvious her own life is picking up again too, because her messages become a little more sporadic and come during all times of the day (or night).

All in all, Ilya feels—okay, actually. The training helps, he thinks—endorphins and the physical tiredness winning out against whatever thoughts and feelings try to keep him up during the night.

And then, three weeks before the seasons starts—and seven therapy appointments deep—Ilya receives a tentative diagnosis of bipolar II disorder and, surprisingly enough, PTSD.  

It’s like someone’s thrown a wrench in all of Ilya’s plans—suddenly there’s talk of medication—something that sounded appealing, almost, before Ilya decided to go to therapy but that only makes him feel like a failure now that he’s in it—and more frequent therapy and telling his team. Telling his partner.

Ilya fires Gordon pretty much immediately once the session is over. Drafts a nice little email—doesn’t bother with pleasantries or spell-checking or anything else—and sends it before he can chicken out.

Goes online, and reads up on what a man who’s known him for—what, two months?—decides is wrong with him. Hypomania, he reads. Episodes of Major Depression. Persistent Trauma.

Reads accounts from other people, that talk about how comforting it was to get the diagnosis—a name to put to what they’d been feeling—how much it helped to know they weren’t the only ones feeling like this.

It doesn’t help Ilya. In fact—it makes it all worse, he thinks. Because that means—that means there’s actually something wrong with him. Something that he won’t just be able to fix—something he might not ever be able to fix. Maybe he’s just doomed—has been doomed—was doomed the second he was born, the second his mother died, the second he came home.

Gets an email back that expressed how sorry Dr. Martin is to hear that Ilya won’t continue attending his appointments, but that most patients—patients!—benefit from a final appointment and that closure is very important and a list of other therapists and psychologists in the Greater-Ottawa area for Ilya’s consideration. Ilya deletes the email without responding, and then decides to delete the telehealth apps from his phone and laptop too, for good measure.

And then he just sort of sits with that, the best he can.

Unfortunately, his life has never been one where he can just sit with something—times keeps moving and with it, Ilya goes through the motions. He wakes up—forces himself out of bed—feeds Anya and goes on a walk slash jog slash run—gets her to her doggy-daycare and greasy takeout breakfast for himself on the way—drives to the rink and practices and practices and practices until the physical pain and exhaustion makes him feel a little less hollow inside.

He tries to joke with his team, but their attention feels like it burns on his skin so he’s awkwardly caught between trying to entertain and wanting to shy away from the light and hide in a corner.

After practice he picks up Anya and goes home and—honestly—orders too much takeout he won’t be eating and waits for Shane to call once his practice is over too.

Before, staying busy helped. Now, Ilya is man enough to admit—if only to himself—that he feels vaguely like he’s drowning all the time.

The worst part is that it’s right there, on the tip of his tongue, whenever he looks at Shane through facetime. I’m doing bad Shane. I think I’m like my mother and I don’t know what to do with that. But it’s like there’s this invisible wall that keeps the words trapped in his the privacy of his own mind—the persistent fear that Shane will leave—like he should, maybe—once he finds out. That this will be a dealbreaker.

They haven’t promised each other anything, is the thing. There’s a vague plan for the future of course—a coming out planned, for when they retire, marriage, kids—maybe—but Shane is just----

He’s so good. Always. Hockey Golden Boy—yes—deemed good by people that have no idea how much sass he’s hiding behind his quiet demeanor—but he’s Ilya’s favorite person on the whole planet even when he’s a bitch—even when he’s neurotic and a control freak. Because—not despite. And underneath all that, he’s so unflinchingly kind, still, always.

Shane not leaving, would maybe be worse, actually, Ilya thinks. If he thought he couldn’t leave, because Ilya is—maybe sick. What if he feels trapped—the way his mother must have felt trapped with his father? What if he gets hurt because of this? Because of Ilya?

But the urge to tell him persists. It’s always there, in the back of his mind—during dinner with the Hollanders, during walks with Anya—eventually even during training, no matter how far he pushes his body. He lays awake sometimes—stares at the ceiling of his bedroom until he can make out shapes in the tapestry and his vision blurs.

Shane could do better than this. Deserves better than this.

But Ilya is selfish too because despite all of that, he can’t quite give up on him either.

His fathers son, indeed.

A week before the season starts, Shane decides to host Pike and his wife Jackie for dinner.

Ilya is invited too, of course, so he goes even though he’d rather stay home.

Pike is…grating, as always. They both tend to run on a short fuse when the other is involved, and Ilya’s been irritated and prone to downright meanness lately—a mixture of his general misery and usual assholery as well as a by-product of him, violently swinging between sleeping for so long he barely makes it out of bed in the morning, and awful insomnia that has him running through empty streets at 3am—so Ilya does his best to stay away from him.

It doesn’t really work of course, because they’re in Shane’s house in Montreal and they’re having dinner together and—again—Hayden Pike dislikes him pretty much as much as Ilya dislikes Hayden. But maybe Jackie said something, because Pike does his best to be pleasant.

Speaking off, Ilya does his best to talk to Jackie, throughout the night.

He barely knows her—there was that one, initial dinner where everything went to shit and Ilya ruined Shane’s evening—but he thinks he could like her, if he did.

She seems sweet—calm. Peaceful, actually, in a strange sort of way, especially considering she’s—essentially—a single parent for most of the year and Ilya cannot imagine the kind of stress she has to be under to keep their household running with four young kids.  

She’s also funny and seems interested in Ilya and his relationship with Shane—which is nice, considering she’s one of the very, very few people that even know there’s a relationship between them.

All in all, the night goes well, Ilya thinks. There’s barely any passive aggressiveness—Shane is beaming throughout the entire meal, visibly delighted to see his best friend and boyfriend getting along—and Ilya feels…not good, exactly, but more energized than he has in a while.

Predictably, it all goes to shit when Ilya decides to go to the bathroom sometime after they move the dinner to the living room for some more drinks and hanging out before the fire—because when he comes back he overhears Shane and Hayden talking quietly in the kitchen.

It’s not even a bad conversation or anything—Shane isn’t talking about how he wants to break up, and Hayden isn’t encouraging him to—there’s no awful 90’s romcom moment where Shane reveals he only asked Ilya to come to the cottage because of a bet and he never actually wanted to be with Ilya—

It’s actually a good conversation. Maybe not one Ilya was meant to overhear but nothing completely out of left field either. Shane’s mentioned the idea before but only ever as a hypothetical—nothing he was actually serious about.

“—you’re serious, then?” Hayden says.

“Of course,” Shane says. “I love him. Besides—he’s moved to Ottawa for me. Moving closer to Ottawa is like—the least I could do.”

 “Longer commute to the rink.” Hayden muses.

“I’ll survive.” Shane laughs. “It’s worth it, if it means I can see him more.”

“Can’t wait to see his face.” Hayden says and Ilya—

Ilya freezes.

Because Shane loves Montreal. Loves this house, with its big, open windows and the pretty fireplace. Shane loves living close to the rink because he’s always a little irrationally anxious about missing a game or practice because of traffic.

And now he’s—moving. Apparently. In secret? As a surprise, maybe? Further away from the rink and Montreal and his routines and closer to Ilya all so they can spend more time together?

Ilya has half-a-mind to storm into the kitchen and—

What? Make a scene? Tell Shane not to move? In front of Hayden fucking Pike who’ll be delighted to see Ilya ruin the best thing in his life—

As quick as the thought came, Ilya pushes it away—tries to calm himself.

I need to tell him.

The decision is made, suddenly, and with mind-numbing clearness. It’s not even a question anymore. Shane needs to know before—before he signs away his house and—and his happiness. Needs to know what he’s getting himself into—really, really know.

It’s easy, then. The wall is gone.

The Pikes will stay for—another hour or maybe two and then they will leave and Ilya and Shane will stay on the couch and then Ilya is going to be honest. And he will still ruin the best thing in his life, but at least he won’t do it in front of an audience.

Chapter End Notes

considering we are NAWT following the canon timeline i decided to throw everything else out the window too!! who cares!!!! THIS IS MY SANDBOX NOWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
i got a little creative with the work skin and html to try and make one of the "tweets" look like a comment on tiktok (and by that i mean i based it on the way they look when u search up tiktok comment generator (i did not want to download something/upload it somewhere else to embed a potentially ai generated picture in this fic.) which, i have realized, isn't actually what comments on tiktok look like (anymore?) so the whole thing was pointless anyways but.... )
anyone recognize who the comment is supposed to be from? :)
anyways all that means is that i have gained MORE respect for people that actually can code without help + another shout out to the workskin I am using, that u can find here!!.
anyways thank u for reading, as always, and all of your nice comments!! if u keep being nice to me ill become conceited. happy holidays to anyone celebrating currently! Might not get to replying to your comments for a bit because I'll be at work throughout most of tomorrow and Sunday. Sorry!!

Chapter 11: me’n’you

Chapter Summary

"--haunt me, then! [...] be with me always-take any form-drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!” ―Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Chapter Notes

"vee why does this chapter suck so bad" well, you see--i don't typically write romance. so. sorry 'bout that.

shane hollander husband-guy of all time.

cw/tw (spoilers)

Ilya's way of thinking about his diagnosis is still very (internally) ableist. negative self-talk. as always lmk if i missed something!!

The Pikes leave just around midnight.

Shane must know that somethings up, because he drags Ilya back to the couch after they’ve walked them to the door instead of getting started on the dishes. He must also know not to push—that this is something that has to happen on Ilya’s terms—because he simply sinks into the cushion next to him and holds out his arms until Ilya shifts and falls into them, his face smushed into Shane’s chest.

They cuddle like that for a bit. It’s an awkward angle—Ilya is still, technically, sitting but has his upper body draped over Shane’s in a way that makes his spine twinge a little—but its grounding all the same. Shane starts to play with Ilya’s hair—fingers twisting around his curls, nails scratching over his scalp—and Ilya thinks about what it would take to just…keep going like this. Thinks about being selfish a little longer.

It’s a nice thought to have, as unsustainable as it is.

He doesn’t really have a plan for how he’s going to say it, is the thing. Despite how often he’s laid awake at night, fantasying about it—despite needing to say it—it’s like his tongue has turned to lead in his mouth.

“Thank you for getting along with Hayden tonight,” Shane says softly. “I had a really good time.”

“Yeah?” Ilya asks, voice muffled by the fabric of Shane’s sweater.

“Yeah.” Shane says and the hand in Ilya’s hair travels to his nape—where it squeezes just a little—before it slips down further, resting right between Ilya’s shoulder blades. “I know you guys aren’t, like, each others biggest fans or anything but I appreciate that you tried.”

“I am sorry I was dick last time,” he replies and burrows further into Shane’s chest, hides his face in the curve of Shane’s arm.

He feels safe there—comfortable and warm and like nothing could ever hurt him ever again. All he can smell is Shane’s nice aftershave and his fancy laundry detergent and—underneath all that—something uniquely Shane. The hand between his shoulder blades starts petting along his spine and embarrassingly enough, Ilya feels himself tear up.

He can feel Shane inhales get deeper, like maybe he’s about to doze off, and Ilya thinks if I don’t do it now I never will.

“You cannot move closer to Ottawa.”

Shane’s hand freezes on his back—and because Ilya is still lying on him, he can feel the way Shane jerks back into the couch with a full-body flinch. His eyes burn.

“Shane you cannot—you love this house. You love Montreal. You can’t.”

 It’s not what he means to say. It’s a part of it—yes—but it’s not—

God, why is this so hard?

“Baby, can you look at me?” Shane asks, and tugs at Ilya’s sweater a little. “Look at me, please?”

Normally Ilya would do anything—everything—for Shane and yet, for once, Shane asked me to is not enough to get his body to move. Leaving this safe place he found is the last thing he wants to do. He won’t, not until Shane forces him to. Instead he stays buried in Shane’s chest, his own hands clawing into the soft fabric of his sweater, tight enough he’s probably risking popping some of the seams. He can’t face the light, can’t bring himself to care either.

“Ilya.” Shane says. He doesn’t even sound disappointed—just confused—which is worse somehow. Selfishly, he wishes Shane would yell at him—get mad. Mean. “What’s going on? Huh? What’s—I don’t get it.”

The tugging stops. Instead, Shane starts petting his back again. Calmly, methodically—like he’s trying to coax Anya into dropping one of his stolen socks.

“I love Montreal,” he admits, slowly. It’s like he’s trying to work backwards—trying to figure out whatever’s gotten into Ilya, and something about the way he’s not jumping to conclusions from the, frankly, very little Ilya’s given him. “And I love this house. But not as much as you, right? This—did you overhear me with Hayden in the kitchen? I meant to tell you, tonight. I had this whole thing planned—because I found this pretty house, right? Just outside Hawkesbury—super private with a big yard for Anya to play in—and we could just…live there, maybe. Not all the time, but it’d save both of us an hour during the season and I mean if you don’t want to move again I get it, I can just live there on my own and—”

Which was just so—Shane. Of course, Shane would find a way for them to live together. Mister Real Estate. Mister One-Hundred-Plans-For-The-Future. The driving force behind their relationship, always. But if they lived together—really, really lived together without downtime—then Ilya wouldn’t be able to hide, not that hiding was even an option anymore.

“I am sick.” Ilya blurts out. Before Shane can even react, he keeps going—riding the momentum of it, like the rush during a faceoff. “I was—I am like my mother. Maybe. Sick. It’s not something—it’s not something I know how to fix. Might not be something I can fix.”

Through it all, he keeps expecting Shane to push him away—to pull, really pull, on Ilya’s shirt and yank him away—for him to shove Ilya off his lap and off the couch and out of the house. Instead, Shane’s arms snake around him tighter, nails sinking into Ilya’s clothes the same way Ilya has his own buried in Shane’s. Desperate, like he’s just as scared to lose Ilya as Ilya is to lose Shane.

It’s enough to get Ilya to unravel—pathetically—tears spilling down his cheeks in rivulets, nose immediately turning runny and clogging up at the same time until his breaths turn into heaving sobs.

“Oh my baby,” Shane says, only holding onto Ilya tighter—pulling on him until he’s fully lying on Shane, like a giant weighted blanket. It puts Ilya’s face in the crook of Shane’s neck—something that feels more exposed (and therefore worse) and safer (and therefore better) at the same time.

For a while, Shane just—holds him, silently. He doesn’t complain about the tears soaking his own skin, about the spit, the snot, Ilya’s weight. He’s just there, offering the occasional endearment, the occasional it’s all going to be okay. A rock, a lifeline, nadéschnaja opóra. It’s maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him.

When Ilya finally calms enough to not bleed his emotions out all over the couch, Shane starts playing with his hair again.

“Baby,” he says, quietly. “This changes nothing for me. You have to know this changes nothing for me.”

“Maybe it should,” Ilya presses out through his teeth. “You did not sign up for this. I don’t—don’t stay because you feel like you should.”

“Ilya.” Shane says and finally, finally, pulls at his shoulder enough to actually move him. Instead of throwing Ilya off, he manhandles him, until he’s somewhat upright, his body wedged between Shane’s thighs. He cups his face in his warm, broad hands, wiping the tears still dripping from his eyes away with both of his thumbs. Even through his blurry vision, Shane looks—stunning, there’s no other way to describe him, really—but he looks miserable too. Like he’s been chewing on his lips, because they seem raw and bloody and swollen and his eyes are watery and shiny the way they always turn whenever he gets particularly upset—

“I love you.” Shane says. “I ‘signed up for this’ when I told you that the first time and every day since then. Nothing—” his voice wobbles, dangerously, until it breaks on the last syllable. “Nothing could ever make me change my mind on this. On you. You’re it for me, okay? I couldn’t quit you if I tried—and—and I’ve tried okay? Before. It’s you. It’s you—or—or nothing. I don’t want—I love you.”

 “God,” he continues. “When you said I’m sick I thought—I thought you were going to tell me you have cancer or—or—an aneurysm or something and I—I couldn’t. Live without you, I mean. That’s how much I love you. So this—this changes nothing.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Ilya says. “And this could hurt you. If it gets bad. Could hurt you, even if it doesn’t—and you can’t—you love this house.”

That’s what it all comes back to. Shane loves Montreal and hockey and this fucking house. And he loves Ilya too—says he does and Ilya isn’t quite stupid enough not to recognize it as true—but despite everything he’s not sure how he would rank if it really came down to it—isn’t sure he wants to find out.

And Ilya loves Shane, desperately. Enough to lie about it in public, enough to never tell a single soul about it.

What if Shane gives this up—this house, and Montreal at least in part—and then ends up resenting Ilya for it?

“Not more than you,” Shane says again and presses a soft kiss to Ilya’s forehead and then to his eyes, his cheeks, his nose. It’s something Ilya does to him—often—usually whenever they get to wake up with each other for once—little presses of his lips against every single one of Shane’s freckles he can find. Finally settles with one long, chaste kiss to Ilya’s lips. “I’d give it all up for you.”

“Besides,” he brushes over Ilya’s cheek again, both thumbs at the same time. “You’d never hurt me. Not intentionally.”

His talk with Shane doesn’t fix everything. Obviously.

But it does make breathing a little easier.

They end up moving to bed sometime after one—the dirty dishes still piled up in the kitchen sink which would genuinely shock Ilya to his core if he’d have the mental space to really think about it. Shane keeps his arms wrapped around him pretty much at all times—only lets him go so they can both wash their face and brush their teeth—and bullies him into the bed and under the duvet.

Ilya falls asleep in Shane’s arms and he wake up in them too—the sun already high up in the sky, another stray from Shane’s routine.

Shane is awake, when Ilya blinks his eyes open. He’s got his phone in one hand and his other buried in Ilya’s curls and he smiles down at Ilya when he notices him awake.

Ilya feels like he’s been hit by a truck. His entire face hurts from the way he’d sobbed his eyes out the night before, and his head throbs the way it did the first time he’d gotten a hangover. He feels hungover.

“Good morning,” Shane says. “I love you.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya responds. It’s a reflex as much as the truth. He feels like one of Pavlovs dogs. “Good morning.”

He slowly pushes himself up—Shane moves to help, but Ilya waves him off—and once he’s sitting he can see what Shane was looking at on his phone. Bipolar Disorder, the webpage says. What to expect.

He feels himself bristle at it a little. He’d confessed—a little shamefully—to hiring Gord only to fire him immediately. He’d tried to be nonchalant about the diagnosis, had tried to explain why having one bothered him so much.

Shane had been so—Shane about it. Still was, evidentially, considering he was using his free time to research Ilya’s disorder. He was probably already a couple tabs in—had read the Wikipedia page and looked up support groups and reddit pages. And it was sweet—Ilya didn’t want to be an asshole about it, because this was just the way Shane dealt with things. The way he perceived the world, the way he showed he cared.

But—god. This just makes it real.

Like a giant red arrow pointing at him—Something is Wrong With Ilya Rozanov.

Where does the disorder begin, he wonders. How much of Ilya Rozanov is wrong? How much of him is pathological? What parts of him are him, his personality, the person he is—and how much does he need to get rid of?

He bites his tongue—doesn’t want to snap at Shane—but Shane must follow his line of sight or something, because he makes a sound, something between a hiccup and a yelp, and immediately locks his screen.

“Sorry,” Shane says. Which—no. No.

“Is fine,” Ilya replies, hollowly. “Is okay, Shane. Don’t—no apologies. Not with me, okay?”

“I just want to understand,” Shane explains, a little sheepishly. “I think—maybe we go together? To therapy? Even just once?”

“I’m not doing therapy anymore,” Ilya reminds him. “It didn’t fix me. Won’t fix me.”

“Of course you’re doing therapy.” Shane says matter-of-factly. “If your old therapist didn’t help, we can try someone else. Something else. But I told you—I’m not losing you. Not to this, not to anything.”

The only reason why Ilya doesn’t lash out at that—at the audacity—is because he’s too exhausted to. The anger bubbles up in his stomach but immediately fizzles out. There’s just not enough energy in him to erupt—to yell—to get mean. To scream that he doesn’t fucking want to go to therapy—that he doesn’t want to sit and listen as someone dissects him and all of his problems—to tell him its hopeless, that he was just born wrong.

Shane looks at him. Really looks, at him. He can be so perceptive, when he wants to be—and Ilya is one of the few, privileged people Shane ever wants to perceive, so it’s not really a surprise that he can read Ilya’s thoughts.

“Baby,” Shane says. “If it was me—you’d want me to get help too. I know you would. So please—let me help.”

And its unfair—the way Shane looks at him then, eyes watering again. Puppy-dog eyes. Doe eyes. Ilya would never be able to say no to him, when he looks like that.

The most he can muster is a helpless shrug, but Shane smiles like he’s won the lottery.

“I’ll get you some water.” Shane pivots. “Does your head hurt? Do you want some Advil?”

He doesn’t actually wait for an answer, just unfolds himself from where he’s still wrapped around Ilya and gets out of bed and pads out of the bedroom and into his en-suite bathroom. Ilya watches from his place on the bed, as Shane digs around the little medicine cabinet.

“We need to do the dishes,” he says.

Shane hums in response. “They can wait.”

“But it bothers you. Undone dishes in the sink.” Ilya tells him. “We didn’t do them yesterday.”

“I did most of them in between courses.” Shane muses. “It’s really only the wine glasses and the little desert bowls and they can go into the dishwasher for all I care.”

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya says and smiles—real, genuinely—for the first time in…he can’t actually remember. The last time he was with Shane, probably. “Have you been—how do you say—holding on me?”

“Holding out on me,” Shane corrects, gently. He finally pulls out the Advil—shakes the box which makes Ilya snort because it’s not like he’d ever keep an empty bottle in his house ever—and fishes out two pills. “You can have another if this isn’t enough.”

Ilya is pretty sure he could have another two—another four even—but he’s not about to argue doses with Shane. He swallows them dry, and ignores Shane scrunched up nose. “We never use dishwasher.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we should.” Shane says. He brushes through Ilya’s hair, pushes some of the curls that have fallen into his eyes away. Then—

“I still think I should move into the house I found. I’ll keep this one—because you seem weirdly insistent about it but—I want to be closer. To you. I wanted to be, before this—and even more now.” He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, almost absentmindedly and Ilya is hit with the urge to sink his own teeth in and drag it free. “I won’t force you to move with me, but I think maybe you should.”

“I don’t need babysitting.”

“I know.” Shane says and he looks—almost sad about it. Almost. “I know. I just—I want to be with you, always. I want to put you in my ribcage and carry you around. Keep you safe. And I can’t do that so…”

“So we move in together in secret.” Ilya says. It comes out more sarcastically than he means it to. It’s a nice thought, actually—Ilya feels safest when he can hide in Shane’s broad chest; of course he’d feel safest curled up around Shane’s lungs. Or something.

“You don’t want to live with me?” Shane asks, cheekily.

Always. Ilya thinks.

Eventually they make their way back down into the living room.

Ilya washes the rest of the dishes—by hand, obviously, despite Shane’s insistence that they can go into the dishwasher—while Shane makes breakfast.

It’s a big step for him—Shane doesn’t enjoy cooking, at least on his own, mainly because it stresses him out (something about botulism? Maybe?). He’s getting better at it—can handle breakfast pretty consistently now. Which is to say, he makes himself some green monstrosity of a smoothie and a yogurt with….something sprinkled on top and a, decidedly less green smoothie and puts some frozen waffles into his toaster for Ilya.      

They eat, their ankles locked together under the table and then Shane goes on his morning run and takes Anya with him. Ilya stays behind—Shane lives in a fancy, private area, but he’s still Ilya Rozanov and not exactly keen on getting run over by some hockey fanatic.

He’s on strict orders to not touch the dishes—so instead he moves onto the couch and curls up with some mindless reality show he’s never heard about before. He’s only half-watching—the gossip-loving part of his brain is pleasantly engaged—and instead tries to…soul-search.

He probably needs help, he thinks. Shane seems to think so, anyways—and the little research he’d done after the diagnosis had told him as much. Medication—mood-stabilizers, maybe anti-depressants—extensive therapy for the trauma—whatever. Talk to his team-doctor, because depending on what he’s going to be prescribed, it’ll flag on his drug screenings probably. Is that something he’ll have to disclose to the league? And if yes, how long until it leaks?  How long until he ends up in one of those gossip magazines, right next to Rose Landry in a bikini on a yacht?

It all feels so—

Overwhelming, maybe? Like there’s this giant list of things he needs to get done, but without a start or finish line in sight. It would be so easy to just…accept his fate. Take it lying down, maintain the status-quo….

It’s going to take time, he hears Gordon say in the back of his mind. There’s no quick fix to this, unfortunately.

He’s not Gordon’s patient anymore—and the idea of starting over with someone else feels…..

Shane will help, he knows. Shane is probably itching to help—probably has a list of therapists on speed-dial, has probably done enough research he knows exactly what Ilya needs and how much and when.

But there’s only so much Shane can do. Ilya will have to do the heavy lifting.

I love you, Shane had said. I’m not losing you. Not to this, not to anything.

On the TV, a bleach-blonde man with a fake-looking orange-tan and more muscles than brain flexes into the camera, before pushing his girlfriend into the pool. An obnoxious laugh track plays in the background. “Love ya, babe!” he says, while his girlfriend splutters water—makeup running down her face, her pretty yellow dress completely ruined.

“We try,” Ilya says, quietly. “Maybe, we just try.”

Chapter End Notes

Надежная опора -- nadeschnaya opora -- a dependable person. a wheel horse. tower of strength. a pillar/rock to rely on. a safe pair of hands.

I had this scene between Ilya and the senior Hollanders planned, because I still think Ilya is freaked out about the possibility of hurting Shane, that I just could not fit into this chapter. since i want this to go back to being more fluffy, i think i might not be able to fit that conversation into this fic at all. :( maybe ill end up posting it separately?

you might’ve spotted that I’ve set an ending point/chapter cap for this fic! :) I’m notorious for being bad at sticking to stuff like that so if the chapter count goes up you didn’t see anything!!

In recent news: I have learned what a deer meeting a car on a dark, lonely country road has to feel like. New appreciation for the whole “deer in headlights” figure of speech. The vibes at work are #bad. I'm on a work trip now and im NERVOUS!!!

Chapter 12: road rage

Chapter Summary

Sveta would be good about it, he thought, but she’d worry and Ilya had enough people to worry about him—he didn’t need her to fly out to see him and stir up a fuss; didn’t need her crashing on his sofa or in his guestroom—didn’t need her to drag him home to her mother so she could fuss over him either. And she would, if she thought she couldn’t trust Ilya to take care of himself.

Ilya didn’t trust himself, somedays. Shane, presumably, didn’t trust him either.

Chapter Notes

I've written and re-written this chapter so many times and I'm still not happy with it. but as they say: it doesn't have to be good it just needs to get done.

nobody look at the chapter cap im so serious

Predictably, Ilya ends back up on Gords sofa.

It takes a bit for him to get there, actually, because Shane—in true Shane-fashion—ends up researching his way through what has to be every therapist in Ontario and Québec. He brings Ilya his list the same way a cat might bring their owner a dead rat—and Ilya, because he promised to try, ends up calling a few practices for new intake appointments.

One of the places he ends up—run by a woman with kind eyes, and the sort of maternal energy that reminds him of Yuna Hollander—seems promising until she starts to reference things she’s, apparently, learned about him from the media. Small things at first—like that his mother passed when he was twelve, which she could’ve taken from his intake form, sure—but then bigger things too like game-scores or that, by now infamous little house-party curtsy of the Boston Boys.

And while she’s not necessarily unprofessional or unethical or anything—though Shane vehemently disagrees with Ilya’s judgment once Ilya finally brings it up to him—it’s enough to make Ilya…uncomfortable.

He’s not stupid—he’s a famous hockey player in fucking Canada for fucks’ sake, he’d be more surprised if she didn’t know who he was—but by session four, it feels like she only ever see’s Ilya Rozanov—center and captain of the Ottawa Centaurs—and not Ilya Rozanov, patient. Which should feel better maybe—the whole concept of being a patient still freaks him out—but also it makes opening up harder then it’s ever felt before; the nagging feeling of she’s going to tell the press, she knows who I am and she’s going to tell the press, sheknowsheknowssheknows always at the back of his mind.

Obviously she won’t tell anyone—not only would she lose her license and go to prison and also never work as a therapist again, but Yuna would probably also help Ilya sue her beyond bankruptcy. Still, Ilya doesn’t feel like he can trust her either.

The breaking point comes when she references a picture of him out and about—one Ilya knows was taken by the Rozanov Updates Account on twitter because David sent him a screenshot, just to compliment how cute Anya looked in it.   

It’s not something mainstream media reported on—obviously—because it’s not something anyone but like, really, dedicated fans care about. It’s not a particularly interesting photo either—just him and Anya outside the one Dunkin Donuts in like, all of Ottawa.

Still, she brings it up. Mid-session. Out of nowhere—and, well, he looses it, a little. Storms out of the appointment, out of the practice, all while swearing in fast, mean Russian, uncaring of who could see and never returns.

His other appointments go…well. Not as awful as that one, of course. Most of the therapists he talks to are fine, actually—some of them feel better than others, but none of them feel particularly right or good. None of them make him miserable either, though, and so Ilya almost resigns himself to just…sticking it out with someone, until he boots up his laptop on his couch one night—just to answer an email and look over some documents Wiebe sent over—and comes face to face with the blank-space where that stupid telehealth app used to be.

He’s tried not to think about Gordon Martin during his search for a new therapist. He popped up in his head, from time to time—especially during those sessions with the sort-of-fan-therapist—but if there’s one thing Ilya’s good at it’s compartmentalizing so he pushed any sort of thought about him away fast and hard.

He wishes, shamefully, he hadn’t fired him. Out of all of the options he’s tried, he was by far the most comfortable with him—and maybe that’s just because he’s barely giving these new therapists more than—what—four sessions each, so far?—but going back doesn’t feel like an option, not after he’s made such a big deal out of banishing him from his life.  

It’s Sveta, that sets him straight.

Always the voice of reason—always there to push him out of his comfort zone, always there to tell him how stupid he’s being.

He hadn’t even planned on telling her—telling Shane had been bad enough, after all—but she’d straight up asked him. Had called him over facetime at three in the morning—taken one good look at him—and asked him if he was going to do something stupid.

“You have that look in your eye,” she had said. “The one you always have when you’re in a mood.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Ilya had said.

And she’d cocked her head, and squinted at the camera; expression open and warm like she was looking at a much younger version of him. She’d been on her balcony—in Boston, not in Russia—smoking and she’d looked like she had when they were kids, still, and sneaking out of the house to share cheap vodka.

And it had all bubbled out of him, like a fountain. The persistent sadness—the attempt at therapy—the talk with Jane—trying to find someone else.

He’d kept the diagnosis to himself, though.

Sveta would be good about it, he thought, but she’d worry and Ilya had enough people to worry about him—he didn’t need her to fly out to see him and stir up a fuss; didn’t need her crashing on his sofa or in his guestroom—didn’t need her to drag him home to her mother so she could fuss over him either. And she would, if she thought she couldn’t trust Ilya to take care of himself.

Ilya didn’t trust himself to take care of himself. Shane, presumably, didn’t trust him either, because he kept an eye on him seemingly at all times now.

“So go back to your old shrink,” Sveta had said. She’d taken a long drag from her cigarette and Ilya had wanted to reach through the screen to take one himself. “What’s the big deal?”

“I can’t go back.” he’d answered. “I embarrassed myself enough. Cannot crawl back now.”

“You pay this man,” Sveta had said flatly—raised one eyebrow, almost judgmentally. “If anything he should be glad you return. Don’t you know the saying customer is king?”

“I don’t think this applies to therapy, Sveta.”

“I think you’re being a coward.” She’d told him, matter-of-factly. “And the Ilya Rozanov I know—the Ilya Rozanov that survived his childhood and left his home all on his own, is not a coward. So pull yourself together and call your shrink, before I do it for you. He’s just a fucking therapist. He’s just some guy, Ilyucha, seriously.”

And so, Ilya had made that phone call—because Sveta would’ve made the call for him, if he didn’t and that would’ve somehow been even more embarrassing—and he found himself back on Gords couch by the end of the week.

When Dostoyevsky said He knew me through and through. It infuriated me that he knew me so thoroughly, he was onto something, Ilya thinks.

It’s how he’s felt for most of his life—because nothing about being seen had ever felt loving to him. Because Alexei had seen him. His father had seen him—maybe not in his entirety, but clearly enough. Even with Sveta—Sasha—Cliff, there’d been that feeling of…apprehension, maybe. The knowledge that, even with these people that knew him better than most, he truly couldn’t be himself—at least not completely.

And then, of course, he’d been mad about it, whenever anyone got too close to figuring him out. He’s gotten better at it—always too scared of what his anger could be capable off, if he didn’t keep it on a tight leash—but he can be mean—has gotten into awful screaming matches with Sveta over truly mundane shit before. It’s at least a part of what’s gotten him to this point anyways—part of why he quit his feeble attempt at therapy, part of why he stayed silent about it for so long, part of why he pushed everyone away.

Over the next couple of days, Shane proves he knows Ilya better than Ilya knows himself and it does make him feel…loved. Seen.

He’s also really fucking mad about it.

Because Shane alters his routines.

He picks up Ilya’s go-to McDonalds order even though he thinks the food is disgusting. He calls in sick for practice—optional practice but still—to maximize the time they can spend together before either of them are on the road—which means, maximize the time he can stay in bed with Ilya and play with Anya and obsessively clean the kitchen. He makes Ilya’s favourite cocktails and sits on the bathroom counter while Ilya does his two-step curl-routine and chirps about whatever player on whatever’s team is being dumb at the moment and he buries his face in Ilya’s neck when they sit together on the couch and talks about shortening their timeline a little, maybe, showing up together in public more, Ilya coming to team gatherings after a game, the way Ilya goes to the kingfisher with Hunter—

Ilya is so, so mad about it.

It’s pretty much everything he’s ever wanted. It’s maybe everything he needs.

It also makes him feel like he’s a child, Shane needs to take care of. It makes him feel like Shane’s only doing it because he’s freaked out. It makes him—a bit insane, really, because if Shane has known—him, what he wants, how to make it all better all along—then why did it take crying on his couch for any of it to happen?

And then---well, the discomfort barely even registers at first, because of the rage, but when it does, it hits all at once. It makes him feel like a bug under a microscope—makes him feel like sitting on Gord’s couch did and does: scrutinized and watched and dissected—bleeding vulnerability all over polished hardwood floor. 

That part is new. Being uncomfortable around Shane.

It’s bad enough to get him to escape Shane’s pretty new home while he’s out getting groceries. Which is objectively shitty but the other option—i.e. yelling at Shane for being a nice, supportive partner—is objectively worse.

At least that’s what he’s telling himself while he bundles Anya into his car and scribbles a short explanation onto a post-it that he sticks to the fridge before he hauls his ass back to Ottawa.

Predictably, Shane calls before he’s even out of Hawkesbury and Ilya genuinely considers not answering—which, what a dick move right? Shane’s probably panicking—upset that he’s left without a word—and yet, Ilya’s sitting in his car and considering not answering.

The call rings out.

Ilya calls back, pretty much immediately—pretty much blindly, because Jane <3 is on his speed dial and all he has to do is press one little button on his steering wheel to dial his number.

“I am going home, Shane.” Ilya says, before Shane can ask any questions. “I think we need a bit of space.”

“But you’re—okay right?” Shane asks. He does sound freaked out, but also like he’s trying to be cool about it. “Did I do something?”

“Fine.” Ilya bites back. “Everything is fine.”

“Don’t be like that,” Shane says, voice short. “Just—just promise me you’re not speeding or anything? Drive save. Text me when you’re home.”

“Should I text you every time I go somewhere now? Give you live-update when I use bathroom?” It comes out mean, rather than the usual teasing tone he was aiming for. “Maybe we just share location from now on, so you can always have eye on me.”

“I don’t know why you’re being a dick, but cut it out.” Shane says, already agitated. Good. “We were fine this morning. I don’t know why but if you need some space—okay, fine you can have space. But you don’t have to be mean about it.”

Then.

“I love you.” He says. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

It softens something in his chest, soothes the anger just a little. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” Ilya answers. “I love you too. I will text you when I am home.”

“Good.” Shane tells him.

And then Ilya hangs up, because he’s an asshole and Anya lets out a little mournful sounds from her place on his backseat.

As a rule, Ilya doesn’t do his remote therapy before a game.

In fact, he tries to schedule any of his appointments so he as enough time to recover before he has to even leave his house again—usually, that means he makes a day of it: meal-preps the night before, does any of the chores he needs to get done—goes through his session and then just sort of collapses into a heap on his bed. Orders in. Doesn’t move if he can help it.

Because now that Ilya’s decided to try again, Gords switched gears and Ilya leaves most of his sessions feeling like someone’s wrung him out like a wet towel and then threw him into a busy street so a speeding bus could slam him into another speeding bus.

It’s exhausting, like hockey’s exhausting, but in an emotional sense, rather than a physical one. For a bit he’s actually felt worse, after, rather than better and he thought about stopping again—would’ve, probably, if he hadn’t promised Shane to try and if Gordon hadn’t told him he’d have been surprised if Ilya wasn’t feeling worse.

It’s common, apparently, because he’s actively trying to switch out of survival mode and into a headspace more suitable with working through his emotions rather than pushing them away. He’s barely even scratched the surface of—everything—hasn’t even really touched the…trauma Gordon wants him to work through, and it’s already the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

Now he leaves his appointments and feels—bad—but in a good way almost. Like he does when he really pushes himself during a workout and his muscles feel all loose and relaxed despite the fatigue.

By the time he lands in Boston, he hasn’t really talked to Shane in four days beyond texting him photos of Anya and life updates like At the grocery store or omw to the rink or about to take off, will text when I land.

He’s still—mad, honestly and so it’s good that he’s keeping his distance—but he also misses Shane like a limb, misses him all the time. They’ve never gone without talking this long since getting their shit together besides that one awful fight early on when Ilya—most jealous asshole alive, probably—told Shane he could step out on him if he wanted to.

He mostly just wishes life could be different. Wishes—he and Shane could be out, the way Hunter and Price and Bennett are. Rather—wishes they could be like all the other guys on their teams—wishes they didn’t even have to come out, wishes they could just kiss in public and have nobody care.

Because of the seasons picking up—and Ilya’s scheduling quirks—his first call with Gordon after his…fight, if one can even call it that, with Shane lands on the morning right after the Boston game. Which means Ilya doesn’t go out with the team after their defeat—3-2, both of Ottawas goals having been scored by him—and also doesn’t meet up with Cliff when he texts him.

He’s not sure if he would’ve gone out regardless. He’s also really fucking glad he doesn’t have to share his hotel room with any of his teammates because he’s not sure how he’d take Gordon’s 8 am call otherwise.

Mentally, he’s going through a list of thing’s he’s going to need if he’s going to survive the flight—to fucking Toronto of all places—in the evening, so he jumps when the call finally connects.

Gordon looks annoyingly cheerful for someone who’s about to make Ilya feel like a wet dishtowel.

“Good morning!” he says. “How are you today?”

“Mad.” Ilya says. “Angry, I mean.”

Gordon nods. “Any particular reason why?”

“We played like shit yesterday.”

Then—

“I argued with my…partner. Sort of. Maybe.” He elaborates, quietly. “I’ve just…been angry. All the time. And it’s hard because I want to be with them always but being with them makes me angry too and I don’t—I get mean, when I am angry. They don’t deserve that. So I need to stay away and stop being so angry all the time but I can’t.”

“Okay.” Gordon says. Ilya watches as he scribbles something in his notebook—hand just barely out of frame. “Let’s unpack that.”

So they do—Ilya talks about it in the broadest way he knows how, words his sentences carefully. Talks about how he feels like Shane—though he obviously doesn’t use any names—suddenly seems so open to going public, or at least going public sooner despite being terrified about being in the public eye before, how he’s just—around, all the time—clingy. How nice it is—and how he can’t fucking enjoy any of it.

Gordon watches him, through the screen.

“Have you considered that maybe—just maybe—” and he sounds so very gentle, as he says it. “that maybe your partner is clingy and willing to bend their routine and potentially become a public figure because that’s what they need, rather than because they think it’s what you want?”

Ilya blinks.

And blinks.

And blinks.

“What?”

“Well,” Gordon says. “Obviously I don’t know your partner. But it sounds like maybe—just maybe—rather than them wanting to placate you or trying to make you happy—they just want to spend time with you? Because from what you’ve told me about them so far, it seems like they love you a whole lot. If my wife was going through a hard time, I think I’d need to be around her. And yeah, a part of that would be about her obviously, but it would also be about me. Besides—I want to be around my wife all the time anyways—and you want to be around your partner all the time too, that’s something you’ve told me before. Is it so hard to believe that your partner wants to be around you all the time too?”

Chapter End Notes

sorry I went MIA. I was nawwwwt doing well for a hot second there and freaked my entire family out when i randomly started sobbing over dinner (i am. not a very emotive person so they were all like oh SHIT it's #serious). my poor mother's had to field texts she hasn't had to deal with since i was in highschool (but she's being super supportive. no clue what i would do without her tbh). anyways, annual crash out ✅
not quite out on the other side but i am doing better.

thank you for 3k kudos (INSANE btw) and your kind comments and bookmarks! :) my work-trip went really well! thanks to everyone that wished me luck :-)

if you feel like reading something else (specifically something set post-tlg with a generous helping of angst), i did post another fic you can read here.
I'm also going to take the opportunity to rec some fics that have been getting me through the day: (heed warnings/ratings/tags obviously)
A Long Day's Night by Anonymous: one of the first if not the first fic i read in this fandom hehe. recently reread it and its still just as good as when i first read it. essentially: ilya gets hurt on the ice in between the outing and shane's move to ottawa.

A Mother Always Knows by Meishali very fun read of yuna having a burner (stan-)account (kind of. not really) and a growing soft spot for ilya even before she knows shane and him are a thing.

one week, two hours, and six minutes by WingedQuill plane crash but make it on the way to the cottage yay <3 #MyPlaneCrash

Cliff's Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week (Is Probably Going Better Than Ilya's) by petroltogo Ilya gets outed while in Sochi.

Chapter 13: sunshine!

Chapter Summary

PYLADES: I'll take care of you.

ORESTES: It is rotten work.

PYLADES: Not to me. Not if it's you.

Chapter Notes

shoutout to the person on tumblr that pointed out that during that scene in the first episode when they talk to like sponsors and gms with their parents, both of their fathers are on the right side of the frame, while yuna is on the left and, with, ilya, there's only a sharp drop. changed my brain chemistry etc etc

also, and I cannot believe that i need to put this here, but I have not used any ai in the creation of this. i think my lack of consistent updates, general (silly) mistakes with the coding and consistent struggle with the english language is proof of this, but also. well. it's been a couple of disappointing weeks for fandom and i felt like i need to clarify. don't use ai people. we only have one earth :(

i don't like this chapter. im also sorry its short and very very late. my bad! :/

cw: references to religion and the bible. nothing like. in depth/any more than ilya's canon thoughts during the plane incident but i still wanted to warn for it! also references to past (canonical) abuse (ilya's father). discussion of starting medication and toska!ilya levels of spiraling (if this in particular might bother you, feel free to skip the last couple paragraphs starting from "Marlow offers him beer—he even has his preferred brand of Vodka in the freezer because you’re a fuckin’ snob, Rozanov—but he declines: both because of the game and also—") again, most of this is thing's ive picked up from a dear friend of mine and their journey with their medication. please let me know if i handle anything insensitively or if i'm completely off mark somewhere. sorry and thank u in advance! it ends after So Ilya’s thinking about it, at least.
also:

SPOILER!!!!!!

Ilya comes out :-) brief general fear associated with coming out but no actual homophobia. everything is beautiful and nothing hurts!!!

Hockey isn’t fun anymore.

Shane would probably get upset if he heard Ilya think like that, because hockey has always been different for Shane.

Where Shane lives to be on the ice—where Shane wants to be the best, because he knows he can be, knows he deserves to be, where he feels like hockey is his purpose, higher calling, first love—

Well. For Ilya it only ever was an escape.

Maybe, when he was younger, he felt different about it. Back when his mother was still alive and rink side, cheering for him behind the boards—but that’s so long ago now, that Ilya barely even remembers what it felt like.

Most of his memories from his childhood are sort of blurry, actually. Another thing he’s learned through therapy—if someone doesn’t specifically ask him something about his life before he came to America, it’s like his brain pulls the curtains shut and hides it away. Anything before the age of twelve is sort of nebulous—something he needs to really focus on, for him to remember—twelve, thirteen, fourteen he doesn’t remember at all—and then his memories of his later teen years get clearer and clearer the closer he gets to Saskatchewan and World Juniors and the draft and Boston.

Gordon asks about Alexei and Ilya only ever remembers the drugs and the debt and the insults—until Gordon gently wonders if they’ve always been like that, and Ilya thinks back to being five years old and sensitive, getting pushed around on the playground only for his big brother to show up and save the day.

Until Gordon really sinks his teeth in, and Ilya remembers being eight and at his first practice for his first real team and Alexei, fourteen at the time, standing right next to their mom in the stands, cheering him on.

Until Gordon stops, and asks him when their relationship changed and Ilya—

Ilya can’t remember.

It must’ve been after their mothers death, he thinks. Not that he really remembers that time, beyond—finding her. That part is ironically the one thing he wishes he didn’t remember and yet does. But it—it has to have been after that.

The whole not knowing makes it worse, actually, he thinks. That he can’t pick out a when or a why. If there was a fight—if maybe it’s his fault actually, or if Alexei just turned into an asshole over night. If he just woke up one day and thought man I hate my kid brother.

And it’s not like he can ask, either. The idea of calling up Alexei—who he hasn’t answered a phone call of in months at this point, number muted but not blocked or, god forbid deleted—and being like hello yes, Alyosha stop yelling, anyways I started therapy and realized I don’t remember a shit ton of my life can you just tell me why you hate me again, I forgot is honestly so ridiculous he almost wants to try just to get a good laugh out of it.

So, all in all, Ilya isn’t sure if he ever was as passionate about hockey as Shane is—if hockey ever felt like more than just a means-to-an-end—a fun past time, especially when competing against someone like Shane Hollander but ultimately a way to get away from his father and Russia and the ghost of his mother in the rearview mirror—but he does know that—now—hockey isn’t fun because getting on the ice feels like getting a beating again and again and again.

And the thing is, the team isn’t bad, per say. There’s good bones, or whatever and really, there’s no real reason why they’re as bad as they are—except maybe fucking Tanner Dillon missing every pass sent his way.

And yet, it feels like every game Ilya gets on the ice and plays his heart out—puts the puck in the net once, twice—and for every goal they score and every puck Hayes keeps out of their own net, the other team scores double.

They don’t lose every game and the few fans that show up are endlessly supportive and also seem to love him especially for some reason—but it feels like every game, especially when compared to the Metros or Raiders.

He talks to Gordon about it, but the feeling doesn’t go away and Ilya thinks it’s because the person he really wants to talk about it with is, like so often, Shane. Because, maybe, Shane is the only one that would maybe understand, despite their different relationship to the sport.

Shane who would feel—guilty, probably, because signing with Ottawa was his idea. Who would take responsibility for Ilya’s emotions, because Shane sometimes seems desperate to feel guilty—even though Ilya already thought about signing to a Canadian team and Ottawa was, objectively, the best option. Even though Ilya readily agreed to signing with the Cents. Even though Ilya throwing a hissy-fit and being a sore-loser really isn’t Shane’s fault.   

Even though, the Cents performing so badly is—honestly—his fault too.

Because Boston wasn’t great when he joined either—because Ilya made them great and he somehow lost whatever spark he’d had when he left.

Maybe it’s—divine punishment or something. God growing tired of him.

Didn’t Job say that in the Bible or something? The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away?

Shane’s couch might be the most comfortable place on earth.

It might also have something to do with Shane, sitting on said couch, letting Ilya bury his face in his stomach and carding his fingers through his curls, but also—it might just be the couch.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that Shane just—readily let him in, no questions asked when he showed up, unannounced, after a particularly rough session with his therapist. Maybe it’s actually a bit insulting to Shane—who keeps on reiterating how much he loves him and cares for him and just wants him to be okay—that he had braced himself for yelling and insults and accusations when the front door swung open.

He thinks his brain might be wired wrong. He thinks maybe—growing up in the house he did, he’s always associating love with something darker, something meaner. Shane barely even nags at him anymore—Shane is basically his biggest enabler beyond the few hard boundaries he has (mainly, Ilya’s smoking habit and his, objectively, bad diet and even those are only because he wants Ilya to be healthy and happy for many years)—and yet, a part of him always waits for the switch to flick. For Shane to grow tired of him, for him to push too far and for Shane to—see him the way his father saw him. The way he sees himself, sometimes.

Not that Shane ever does.

Also, his couch might actually be heaven because the longer he lays there curled up, the more the tension bleeds out of him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Shane asks, carefully, because he can never not ask. Always curious. Always so, so brave.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya answers and his voice breaks, because apparently he can’t stop being pathetic. “I’ve been such an asshole and I don’t—”

“Hm?” Shane encourages. “You don’t what?”

“Deserve you.” He mumbles into Shane’s hoodie.

Shane’s fingers in his hair stop for just a second. “Don’t be silly, of course you deserve me. We deserve each other.”

And while Shane might actually believe that, it doesn’t feel true.

“Hey, come on.” Shane says. “Look at me baby.”

He manhandles him a little—just enough, that Ilya’s head rolls away from where it’s safely hidden in Shane’s stomach, and one of his hand drift to his chin, cradling his jaw.

“There’s my baby,” Shane coos, like he’s a fucking dog—it’s enough that irritation flashes over his mind, quick and vicious but it sizzles out before it can take root. He’s too tired for this, to exhausted and he’s—mad at himself, mostly, actually, because he keeps making everything difficult, because he can’t fucking get a grip—

“I don’t really get what happened,” Shane tells him. His thumb strokes over Ilya’s cheek in a slow, careful circle. “But it’s okay, baby. You—you just decided to go home. That’s fine. You weren’t even that big of an asshole, really, you even left me a note, you called me back—you didn’t go MIA, and I never had to wonder if you were dead in a ditch somewhere. I think sometimes we just need space and—and maybe I did something or maybe I didn’t—but I wasn’t…I wasn’t mad, baby. I was just worried.”

“I just keep fucking everything up,” Ilya admits. “You’re so—so good and I’m being ungrateful and difficult and exhausting. How long—how long can you just keep up with me being short and angry? How often do I get to run away before you realize that, maybe, is not worth it? This?” Me?

“And I feel worse, somehow.” He continues. “I keep going to therapy and it does—it does something but—I was fine. I was—it worked. I got up in morning and I went to work and played hockey and now I think I’m more miserable than ever before and—and hockey isn’t fucking fun anymore.”

Shane’s eyes look glassy and wet. They’re so expressive and warm, even like this—windows to the soul, or whatever the poets say. They must be right, Ilya thinks, because nobody has prettier eyes than Shane and also—nobody has a prettier soul either.

“You think way too highly of me,” Shane says, shortly. He keeps rubbing his cheek, methodically. Soothingly. “I am irritable and obsessive and I can be horrible. You know how bitchy I get, how grumpy. I forgot Ambers name, for Christ’s sake. Hayden told me about Jackie’s difficult pregnancy and the birth of my goddaughter and I didn’t—I mean I care but…It’s different. For me. And yet you never—you’re so good to me. You know me like nobody else. You know what I need before I do sometimes. And I’ve done a lot of running away from you too, remember?”

“I’m not mad,” he repeats. “I’m worried. And I’m sad that you’re feeling awful but maybe this is just a it gets worse before it gets better sort of situation. I think you’ve been trying very hard, baby, and I think maybe this is your body catching up.”

He leans forward and drops a wet kiss onto Ilya’s forehead. Lingers there, nose almost nuzzling his curls.

“You can lash out at me,” he whispers softly. “I can take it. Big strong hockey player, remember? I’ve heard some awful stuff on the ice, and I…I like knowing I’m a safe place for you to unload. I can carry it for you. Just give it to me.”

But it’s all dark and ugly—like the sludge dripping out of his cars oil pan whenever he brings it in for service. And he doesn’t want to be like his father, and stain Shane’s hands with it too.

“You’re the best person I know, Ilya.” Shane says. “I wish you could see you, the way I see you. And I wish nothing bad ever happened to you.”

Their next game is against New York.

Ilya makes the executive decision to fly into Boston the night before the game and seek out whatever friends he has left there and then drive down to New York in a rental to catch up with the rest of his team.

Marlow is in town—benched because of a minor lower body injury that has him hobbling the same way the ugly stray cat Ilya sometimes fed back in Moscow used to—and Sveta is there too which is nice added bonus. He hasn’t actually seen her, beyond the occasional facetime call whenever she got a little too drunk in Moscow, in months and standing across from her makes his chest ache with a mixture of happiness and homesickness.

He wasn’t even aware how much he missed her until then.

She takes one look at him and it’s like she knows. Maybe that was what he was so afraid off—that she’d see right through him, right at the ugly thing living in his chest. “Oh Iluyshka.” She says. Then, in Russian—which is incredibly rude to Marlow who doesn’t speak a lick of it beyond insults he’s picked up from Ilya—

“Does Jane know?”

He nods. “I do not want to talk about it.”

“You never do,” Sveta sighs, and pulls him onto Marlows couch.

The pool table is still in his living room and it still blocks most of the view of his flatscreen TV. He has the decency to look sheepish about it when Ilya makes fun of him for it.

Marlow offers him beer—he even has his preferred brand of Vodka in the freezer because you’re a fuckin’ snob, Rozanov—but he declines: both because of the game and also—

Gord brought up Meds again. Sent him off to get his blood drawn and all sort of enzymes and markers checked to figure out if his kidneys and liver are still working. Sent him off privately, because he had a minor freak out when Gordon asked for the lab results of his last team check up instead.

If he does—if he does go through with it, which, currently he doesn’t want to, he’ll probably get sent on IR. At least for a bit, at least until whatever Gordon decides to prescribe him levels out. Assuming the medication does it’s job and he’s not switching it for something else. Assuming he’s not experiencing side effects. Assuming the league doesn’t terminate his contract, assuming the Cents don’t just keep him on the bench until it runs out.      

It’s really, really scary.

Shane is supportive. It’s obvious he’d like Ilya to try but he’s not pushy. If I had to deal with this much change this suddenly I would be freaking the fuck out, he’d said. You can take your time with it. But I just…If it could make your life even a little bit easier then…

Gordon compared it to getting glasses or crutches or maybe even a support animal—something he’s suggested looking into with Anya, who’s already most of his emotional support on a day-by-day basis. Not a cure per-say but a way to level the playground. To make it fair or at least as fair as life ever gets.

So Ilya’s thinking about it, at least.

Instead of beer, Ilya nurses a can of coke. Marlow and Sveta squabble—he’s not sure when they got close enough for that, considering Marley referred to her as that scary chick you hang out with not too long ago and Sveta used to call him a fucking imbecile every other sentence whenever their paths used to cross but—

His two best friends are friends. Apparently.

And Shane hasn’t met either of them—well, he’s met Marlow but not as Ilya’s…everything. Just as someone on the ice. Someone that broke his collarbone and gave him a concussion, even if it was an accident. Someone he’s played on a team with during All Stars in 2011 and ignored pretty much the entire time.

While Sveta and Marlow jokingly argue over what takeout they’re going to order, Ilya indulges in a daydream he rarely allows himself: a world in which everything is okay, and Shane and him are out and they—Shane, and Cliff and Sveta and Hayden Pike and his wife and two hundred kids and—maybe even Scott Hunter and his boyfriend and all of their team mates and Ilya—can all just sit together and eat and squabble and Ilya can lean over and kiss the love of his life and nobody bats an eye at them for it.

Maybe that’s why it slips out of his mouth, right as Sveta makes an attempt to wrestle Marley’s phone out of his hands.

“I’m not ordering fucking Lobster Rolls!” Marley says.

“Well I don’t want fucking Cannoli!” Sveta says.

“I’m bisexual.”

Ilya slaps his hand in front of his big stupid mouth, but the damage is done:

Marlow grows slack mid wrestle—just long enough for Sveta to swipe his phone from his hands. His eyes go all big and glassy and his mouth drops open and while Svetlana pretends to focus on the takeout options, Ilya sees her glaring at him out of the corner of her eyes just—watching. Like she’s ready to actually kill him, if he says the wrong thing which is—nice but also—

Marlow looks about ready to cry, actually.

Ilya has about half a second to wonder if he’s just somehow ruined one of the few genuine friendships in his life, before he’s pulled up onto his feet and wrapped up into the biggest bear-hug of his life.

Which—

They don’t do this. They don’t hug. They barely talk about anything real—well, Ilya, barely talks about anything real, Marlow basically never shuts up—

“You’re my brother, asshole.” Marley whispers in his ear. His accent is back in full swing, heavy and comforting. He sounds like home, kind of. “Nothin’ will ever, ever change that, ya’ hear me? Nothin. And I am so, so proud of you and—”

His voice wobbles and eventually breaks, mid syllable—all high pitched like he’s going through puberty again, and Ilya laughs. It’s his first real, full-belly-laugh in days and it makes his belly ache and then it makes him cry and clutch at Marlow’s stupidly broad shoulders.

Chapter End Notes

i have recently learned that therapists in Canada apparently aren't allowed to practice outside of the state/province (??) they are licensed in. even if they are in their province but their client isn't. so ilya wouldn't actually be able to keep up with online appointments unless my man Gord is somehow licensed in every province and also every US state which...i don't think he /can/ be? for the sake of this plot we're just gonna assume plausible deniability and every sessions starts with gord going WOW UR NEW F A K E BACKGROUND IS SO!! CONVINCING!! ALMOST LOOKS LIKE U REALLY ARE IN *spin wheel* TAMPA!! WOW

also nobody act surprised but doomed siblings is one of my favourite tropes. and i know i already wrote a fic about ilya's and alexei's relationship before but also i think i will continue to do it until i eventually move on from this fandom lmao. i wish their relationship was explored more in canon beyond making alexei an evil man for evils sake. like. they are both fucked up by the same event and life just in different directions; alexei is just as mentally ill as ilya is and while that isn't an excuse, i've seen some uh BAD takes around (both in this fandom and just. in general 😬)
also him not wanting to take care of their abusive father is....maybe sort of valid actually. anyways siri play willing and able by noah kahan

little life update: resolved the #problem through #communication like a respectable adult. still dealing with the emotional fallout of everything but I'm doing way better. also started doing yoga semi-consistently like my blood brother shane hollander #realandtrue. thank u to everyone that reached out with support and kind words! appreciate u guys a lot!! :) ALSO AHH ITS JULY!!!

also if u rec this fic anywhere u are now legally required to tell me so I can thank u :)

yell at me on tumblr @cursedbythenarrative

Chapter 14: stage left

Chapter Summary

Later, it’s that single week in November, that ends up being a turning point. He’s not fixed, might never be fixed if being fixed is even possible in the first place—but it’s the start of what he’ll later recognize as recovery.

Chapter Notes

please remember I have abandoned all timelines. also it's been a while since ive read role model or tlg.
anyways: enter Troy, stage left. Dallas Kent as his own warning, though /he/ doesn't actually enter on any side of the stage.
i ALSO HATE THIS CHAPTER LIKE ALWAYYSSSSS

tw/cw:

Ilya dissociates after a rough therapy session. it's not in detail at all but be aware! also vague mentions of ilya's shitty childhood and his father

October ends, and November starts with a good week.

He’s been noting down his mood in a little calendar he’s taken to carrying around with him. A little smiley-face for every good day, and below that everything he needs to do, split out in time blocks. It’s—nice. Makes the days seem less overwhelming, when he can visualize all the work he needs to do with a single glance.

Practice. Tape-review. Public appearances. Games. All of his appointments, neatly pencilled in.

He’s never liked November, but that first week feels like a good sign. Hope. 7 little faces in a row, all smiling up at him.

It’s enough to carry him throughout the games he loses afterwards: Montreal and Toronto and Detroit. Not even the distance to Shane puts a damper on his mood—not even the little voice at the back of his mind wondering if he’s switched now, if he’s stumbled out of one episode into the next.

He’s just feeling good. Getting enough sleep, eating full meals, going out with the team after games.  He’s feeling energized—a metaphorical weight off his shoulders since that evening in Boston.

Later, it’s that single week in November, that ends up being a turning point. He’s not fixed, might never be fixed if being fixed is even possible in the first place—but it’s the start of what he’ll later recognize as recovery.

But in the moment, it’s just nice.

Troy Barrett joins the Ottawa Centaurs in the middle of November.

It’s.

Hm.

Ilya talks to Gord about it, unsure how to feel. He’d talked to Shane before that, but Shane hadn’t been sure how he felt about the trade either, beyond telling Ilya to be careful and to wait and watch.

But one of the few good things about being an Ottawa Centaur is the team climate—and a part of Ilya is…reluctant, maybe, to sit back and let Troy Barrett of all people destroy that. Not that Barrett is even talking, beyond—and he’s got Ilya’s begrudging respect for that—calling Dallas Kent a piece of shit and supporting his victims. Publicly.

Gord, unfortunately, doesn’t have a ton of advice.

He lets him ramble, asks his usual leading questions—but seems firmly on Team Wait-And-Watch or for short, Team Hollander.

“You cannot predict what’s going to happen,” he says. “And instead of focusing on what could be, why don’t you try to think of the things you can control?”

It’s the same sort of narrative he’s been pushing a lot, lately. Control—though less in telling Ilya to let go and more in urging him to take charge of his own life.

Ilya stays unsure of Barrett up until he meets Barretts father in a hotel in Vancouver and finds Barrett violently hungover in his hotel room right after. And the thing is—Ilya might not be particularly smart, but he’s perceptive and pretty good at pattern recognition (there is a reason why he enjoys spending time with David Hollander and his many many puzzles!) and well. He’s also intimately aware of what might cause a young hockey player to drink neat vodka after talking to their father.

It’s in that hotel room—after he’s properly chewed out Barrett for drinking before a game—that he sees something different in the man.

“You need to get your shit together,” he says while digging out his wallet and pulling out the business card of one of the therapists he saw before going back to Gord. He’d liked her well enough—might’ve stayed with her if Sveta hadn’t gotten him to call Gord, though he hadn’t really connected with her either. He throws the card onto the unmade bed, next to Troy. And—

“I’ve been talking to therapist. It’s been helping. You should try it.”

Barrett looks up at him then—eyes red-rimmed, hair tousled, lips raw. He’s only 24—and while that might not be an excuse for some of the truly awful shit he’s said both on and off the ice…well, after seeing his father, Ilya can almost see how he’s ended up like this. Besides, it’s not like Ilya was a saint at his age. It’s not like he’s a saint even now. Still: he’d like to believe he’s changed—evolved, maybe—and if anything, Barrett deserves the opportunity to change, too.

Giving a notoriously bigoted man potential (easy) ammunition is maybe not his smartest move. Especially considering just how scared he’s been about his own issues leaking to the press—

But then, he’s actually talked to Shane about it before—about coming clean about his journey—about putting out a statement, maybe if he truly does end up going on medication. It’d only be a matter of time until his reason for going on IR would leak and considering he’d need to tell the league anyway to avoid any irregularities on any of his doping testing…

Besides, why be a public figure with a mental health charity if he can’t even be honest about his own mental health?   

“And if you don’t want to talk to therapist, find someone you want to talk to.” Ilya scrunches up his nose.

When he leaves, Barrett seems to at least think about it—fingers loosely wrapped around the business card, face slack jawed.

And really, he’s cool about it until his next session with Gord two days later. He deals with being vulnerable like that just fine, actually. He’s got it handled!

Gordon barely even gets a greeting out, when it all comes spilling out of him.

And by now, he’s used to some of his sessions being worse than others. Usually an easy session being whenever Gord let him ramble about anything currently bothering him—gripes with his teammates, awkward interactions with fans or former fans, his own feelings of inadequacy; a hard session being whenever Gord would bring out the big guns and ask him about his childhood.

So maybe Ilya assumed it would be an easy session—just getting out a bit of the anxiety he’s been feeling since Vancouver—

Unfortunately, it seems, Gord really wants to dig into his motivations and before Ilya’s even realizes they’re talking about his father.

It very quickly turns into one of the worst sessions he’s ever had. Gord keeps him almost 45 minutes longer than his appointment was scheduled just to be sure he’s okay enough to be on his own—worried in a way, Ilya has never seen before.

If he’d known beforehand, he would’ve asked Shane to be around—something they’ve agreed upon since making up. He’s been careful about scheduling his therapy around Shane’s availability, especially whenever he knows they’ll talk about something that will be mentally taxing. It’s something they’ve started for both of their peace of mind—

Only Shane is all the way down in New York for a game and won’t be back until the day after tomorrow and by then Ilya will be on his way to Toronto of all places.

He loses an hour or two, just staring into nothingness and when he comes back to himself he feels vaguely hungover. It’s like an out of body experience, almost: his hands feel foreign and off—his feet prickly and hot from where his circulation has been cut off.

On the ground, Anya is whining—

His brain comes back online slowly. He meant to take her out on a walk right after the session, he remembers. He’d been running late, had only let her out into the yard—

Mechanically, he gets up—his knees buckle, legs numb from sitting in one position for ages—

He has to—

He has—

He doesn’t hit his head, going down at least. He just sort of crumples into a little heap. Anya throws herself into his space and licks at his face until he starts to pet her. That, most of all, helps him feel a bit more human, though the guilt that washes over him, almost threatens to overwhelm him.

She doesn’t deserve—

Anya doesn’t let him spiral further because she keeps licking his cheeks. It tickles—another shock to his system, enough to wake him up a little. She seems fine, at least, unhurt. A little stressed, but the more he drags his palm over her soft fur, the more she settles. The whining turns into regular panting—tongue lolling out of her little mouth.

At seven months, she’s grown enough to have grown out of her initial overbite. He used to be so worried about that, he remembers. She’s a teenage-dog now, tall enough to reach his knees when she sits at his heels.

But like this, she looks more like potato-shaped baby he bottle fed throughout the night.

By the time he gets control over his tongue again, she’s almost sitting calmly—just staring down at him with her dark, wet eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps. “Did I worry you?”

She yips in response, and Ilya drags himself upright again.

“Maybe we should really look into getting you into that doggy-school Harris drags Chiron to,” he mutters, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “You are such a good girl. What would I do, huh? Without you to save me?”

There’s still guilt churning in his stomach—this cannot happen again, he’s responsible for her well-being after all—but he’s done enough therapy by now that there’s also a far louder voice, almost completely drowning out the self-doubt demanding he give himself some grace. The voice sounds suspiciously like Shane.

He stands on wobbly legs and hobbles over to the kitchen to give her a couple of treats—both a silent apology and a reward—and then tries to take stock of his body; forces himself to drink some water and eat a banana and some stale, plain bread.

Once he’s choked the bread back, he almost feels well enough to take Anya on her walk—except for his still wobbly knees—and so he still reaches for his phone to text his usual dog walker instead. She’s surprised but available and promises to be over in ten minutes.

He uses those ten minutes to make himself a bit more presentable: washes his face, attempts to tame his curls a bit and pulls on a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt. He still looks like he’s been hit by a bus, but by the time Taylor—the dog-walker—rings his doorbell he almost feels human again.

Beyond the guilt, he feels sort of numb honestly. Maybe that numbness will feel like relief by morning, but for now—

Shane is probably getting ready to get on the ice by now. Staring blankly into space robbed him of the opportunity to call him before the game. Instead he scrolls down a little further and dials Sveta’s number—lets her voice wash over him, ground him, while he curls back up on his couch.

After the game against Toronto, Ilya starts to pay more attention to Barrett.

Or, really, he starts to pay attention to the way Barrett pines after Harris like a pathetic wet cat abandoned in the rain. And isn’t that something? Isn’t that really something—

He’s maybe having more fun with it than he should be, but he gets Barrett to pose for some pretty kitschy Christmas pictures in some truly awful Christmas Sweaters. And while Shane’s been a bit apprehensive still, his own nosiness wins out and he asks for updates every time they call.

It’s—nice. He’s not felt this carefree in ages, and he shamelessly enjoys having enough energy and mental space to meddle in someone else’s relationship and life. It makes him giddy like a little kid—makes him feel like he’s the old him, like he’s back in the Boston locker room playing matchmaker with Hammersmith and his newest girlfriend.

Shortly after that impromptu photoshoot he’s dragged Barrett into, he pulls Ilya aside after practice and quietly admits to him that he’s called the therapist Ilya recommended to him.

“I think you were right,” he says. “I think I do need to talk to someone and…I mean if the Ilya Rozanov does it…it can’t be…”

He shrugs. “Can’t hurt, right?”

“Proud of you, Barrett.” Ilya tells him and finds he means it. Then, quietly he adds: “This doesn’t make you weak. Stick with it, and let me know if you need any help—I have an entire list of therapist if this one doesn’t pan out.”

Barrett grimaces in response, but nods. Then—

“You have a list of therapists?”

Against all expectations, Ilya was actually a quiet child.

It’s one of those things he remembers better, now that Gord’s really dragging a lot of those memories to the forefront.

He was a sensitive child—shy, reserved, with a bit of a mischievous streak though he mostly spent time with his mother—something that pissed his father off to no end.

He came out of his shell a little once he met Sveta and hockey did wonders for his confidence—both due to the nature of the game and the way his talent helped him settle into his body a bit more. But his more…rowdy personality?

That only started coming out, after his mother passed away. Gord tells him, in one of the sessions after that awful one where they talked about his father, that a child acting out after something as traumatic as a parent passing away is normal. Expected even. He doesn’t quite go as far as to say the quiet part out loud, but it quickly becomes apparent that this is another example of his father failing him.

He calls Yuna after, and asks her what Shane was like as a child and she invites him over for tea and a flick through some of the family albums. David is home too, and they spend the entire afternoon sharing stories of Shane’s (very cute) childhood.

Funnily enough, as it turns out, Shane was a very rowdy toddler and only started calming down once he started elementary school.

“He kept trying to bolt at every opportunity.” David says, crowfeet crinkling at the corners of his eyes, visibly amused. “Hayden has told me that particular quirk still comes out whenever he gets drunk—though he’s mostly grown out of it. But back then, he was just so curious about everything that if Yuna or I took our eyes off him for even a second he was sprinting down the street to look at a leaf or something.”

“Once we put him on the ice, it only got worse.” Yuna says, equally amused. “We first taught him on this little lake downtown and he took what—five minutes?—to figure out how the whole balancing thing worked and then he was just zooming away.”

“I think—well, we used to live in quite an old neighbourhood, you know? Mostly seniors and retirees and then like older teenagers and stuff. So he didn’t really have a lot of kids to play with until he started school.” She continues. “Once he had some friends to get all that energy out with on the playground, he became a lot calmer.”

“Hockey helped too.” David says. “Though by then, getting him off the ice was almost harder than keeping an eye on him ever was.”

And Ilya smiles so big, his cheeks hurt. Shane is still curious, always asking Ilya all kinds of questions and just trusting Ilya to know or, at the very least, figure out whatever he wants to know—though he’s not running off to stare at leaves anymore—and it is still a nightmare to try and get him away from the ice, though Ilya’s opted to just sharing the ice with him as much as he possibly can. It’s—soothing. The idea that Shane truly hasn’t changed all that much. “He’s so cute.”

“Oh, did he ever tell you about the time he started a fight with his classmate over the Centaurs?” Yuna asks, eyes sparkling.

“He did what?”

“Oh, he must’ve been—what, six at the time? Seven maybe?” she says. Next to her, David starts chuckling. “And he was the biggest Centaurs fan. I tried my hardest, but the Metros love only started once he started high school—anyways, he comes home from school—his coat missing, hair a mess, face red from the cold and he puffs out his little cheeks and tells me all about how Jake Abbot said the Cents are a bad team and will never win the cup ever.”

“Mom I almost beat up Jake today!” David says. “I can still see him standing in the kitchen, all upset. Obviously, Jake was right—sorry, bud—but man. Talk about team loyalty.”

“Ah, I think Shane was right.” Ilya says and smiles—he’s so, so fond. He’s also pretty sure, he’s had a similar argument back in Russia when his favourite team had gone through a drought. “I think Cents will win cup, soon yes?”

Chapter End Notes

Shane fighting with his classmate is literally based on me fighting TWO of my classmates on the way home for making fun of our hometown football club. it's something my parents still bring up from time to time and i thought it was the kind of thing Shane would do too lmao.

so. guess who has two thumbs and hasn't been doing well?
that's right, it's meeeeeeeeee ⊹ ࣪ ˖( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)⋆˚꩜｡( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)⊹ ࣪ ˖
guess who thought about quitting her job and moving to a remote forest in norway? that's right, also me!!
Don't worry I am normal again. this also means that, because ive been chipping away at this chapter for a while, i think it does not...flow? the way i want it too? i didn't want to keep working on it, because its already very very late (sorry about that!!) but i think i might come back and edit this. or ill never look at it again for my own sanity. hm. thank u for reading and sticking around! I've been really struggling with figuring out where i wanna take this fic, and have, honestly, thought about just putting it on complete because i think the last chapter would've been an okay-ish point to end the story. but i DO want this to have a more satisfying resolution, so i think I'll give myself another chapter or so just to wrap it up! also don't be surprised about the series i've added this fic too, it's literally just all of my hr fics ^-^

Anyways here are some more fic's I've been reading to keep myself sane! Pay attention to the tags!! i have attached little summaries but like. please look at the tags :(

In Fragments, Ilya by InOneEar (55k Words, 14/?, Ilya's old journals go semi-viral after being discovered by an employee of a boston moving company. chef's kiss.)

Who Killed Ilya Rozanov? by rubbleandsins (20k words, 9/?, beware MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!!!!!!! but by god it's so so worth it. essentially, Ilya is murdered and Shane and a bunch of other hockey players try to figure out who did it.)

healing (or something like that) by easytofindme (~180k words, 13/?, Omegaverse with o!ilya and a!shane. BEWARE OF THE TAGS. a story of recovery after (gender-based) trauma.) 

Hold Me Close at My Loneliest by kingskindly (42k words, 11/12, Discriptions of Violence, alexei being an asshole and finding a paparazzi photo of Ilya and Shane and using it to extort Ilya.) 

Chapter 15: shane

Chapter Summary

or, the plane incident

Chapter Notes

i wanted to keep up with the sort of theme of using some of my favourite literary quotes as the summary of this chapter (if you've been following along and its been a while, i started alternating using quotes from the chapter and the most nothingburger quotes u've likely seen 100 times before by chapter 11?) because i am in fact 1) queer and 2) pretentious but nothing really came to mind. it's also why this chapter is just named shane even though this isn't from his pov at all. idk. i was thinking about love and that tim kreider essay, you know the one and like. when ilya thinks about love and being perceived he thinks about shane. there's nothing more to say.

alexa, play a few of your own by noah kahan

cw/tw:

ilya going through a depressive episode. he's coping better than he's used to, and is attempting to use some of the strategies he's learned in therapy but it's still rough. he also realizes he doesn't want to die during the plane incident but that could read as him having (passive) suicidal ideation BEFOREhand though i don't go into detail at all. mild blood warning because he smacks his head against a seat but no major character death/injury! just because it IS whumptober

Ilya’s good mood lasts until Christmas and then slowly tapers off.

Christmas, at it’s core, is difficult because it’s in the wrong month and because it’s the wrong holiday and, by extension, the wrong family. Not that he doesn’t want to spend it with Shane and his parents—he loves them, loves spending time with them, loves celebrating Western-Christmas with them—

And he doesn’t miss his family. He misses his mother and the version of his brother he used to know and now barely remembers. He sometimes, shamefully, even misses his father, though he’s slowly grown to realize that his feelings on the man are a lot more complex than he used to believe.

He doesn’t want to celebrate Christmas with them, not the way they are now and maybe not even the way he remembers them. He can’t even picture it, really and he doesn’t want to be in Russia or around Alexei and Polina or standing at his parents graves. His mother isn’t there. His father isn’t there. He was fucking miserable there, and he’s not putting himself back there, not when he can be with Shane and Yuna and David and his friends and teammates instead.

He doesn’t want to fast and attend church and be sombre and solemn all day long. He wants to be with the Hollanders and drink spiced eggnog and wear silly pyjamas and ugly knit sweaters.

But they’re still not the right family and Christmas isn’t Christmas and that’s a lot to grapple with, especially because the year before Ilya wasn’t grappling with this at all. He’d enjoyed the break, hadn’t wasted a thought on his fuck-up of a family—it had been maybe the best Christmas of his life, aside from the time Marlow tried to drag him to Midnight Mass with his family and Ilya got to make him regret his life choices by obnoxiously flirting with his mother (“I didn’t know Marley had fourth sister, too—hi, I’m Ilya—“) and befriending his father (“I love fishing, please tell me all about it!” (Lie)) and sisters.

He still does his best to participate in all the festivities, but his hearts not really in it and it’s obvious to everyone around him. Shane’s parents don’t know about the therapy of it all—Shane promised not to say anything until Ilya wanted him to and a part of him is still terrified that they’ll hear about his diagnoses and well—shun him. He’s in a good enough place, most times, to realize they probably wouldn’t deem him dangerous or unworthy and that even if they did, Shane wouldn’t break up with him over their opinion, that they’d maybe even come around eventually anyways.

But that doesn’t make telling them any less terrifying—Ilya already feels unworthy of Shane most days and he’s not sure if he’d survive hearing his parents of all people agree. And the idea that they wouldn’t—that they’d embrace him, and support him—pity him is even worse. Being this vulnerable with Shane and Sveta was bad enough and they are essentially an extension of him, almost. A part of him, for all intends and purposes.

And even though they don’t know, they spend a large amount of time checking in on him anyways. They drag his attention back to the conversation whenever he gets lost in his own head. They gently place hot drinks in his hand. Yuna nudges him out of the kitchen when he tries to help with the dishes and David tries to entice him with his newest puzzle.

Shane looks at him from across the room with his wet puppy-dog eyes and watches him like he’s about to break.

In another life, they might fight about this—about life, about Ilya withdrawing, about the state of their relationship, about the impossible situation they’re in.

As it stands, they’re talking more. Ilya forces himself to be vulnerable and truthful, and Shane does his best to listen without judgement, without trying to fix everything. It’s hard for him, Ilya knows; for someone that needs control like he needs to breathe, the idea that not everything can be solved with a ten-step plan and determination is a tough pill to swallow.

But the communication does wonders for the relationship in general, so they keep at it. For Shane, who struggles with getting out of his head at the best of times, knowing exactly what the problem is takes a lot of the pressure of guessing off of him.

So Ilya talks.

Only in the dark of Shane’s childhood bedroom after Shane’s parents have gone to bed. Only when he gets to stare up at the ceiling, with Shane’s head resting on his chest, right above his heart.

It’s probably a near incoherent word vomit—a mix of slurred English interspersed with Russian whenever he cannot think of the word he wants fast enough—but it’s enough that Shane gets a vague idea of the problem and knows its nothing he or his parents have done—enough that Shane knows Ilya’s not being a stick in the mud or withdrawing or mad at him. That it’s just…Ilya, being himself.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Shane tells him when he falls silent, his long fingers buried in the curls at his nape. “I just need you to know that this doesn’t change anything.”

And Ilya tries to move on: puts a little frowny face in his calendar, puts down some of his thoughts in his notes app so he can bring it up to Gord after breaks over even though it makes him feel stupid, takes his silly photos for social media.

Shane tries to get him to attend the Boxing Day Team BBQ™ Bood’s been trying to put together—even offers to attend with him, has a whole backstory worked out (We can just make up something to do with the Foundation! He’d said, even though he’d looked ready to vomit at the thought)—but his bad mood lingers uncomfortably and instead he spends most of the day in his bed instead.

Shane sort of hovers helplessly. Sits next to him in bed for as long as he can tolerate before leaving to walk Anya and clean up and workout and all Ilya can think about is this is how it ends. Which is unfair and unhelpful and something he definitely needs to talk to Gord about—but the thought hangs on anyways.

He’s never been scared to fly.

It’d be a bit ridiculous, maybe, if he was—he’s pretty much doing it for a living, after all—but also he’s been on enough flights with Ryan Price to know some fears are wholly irrational.

To him, it’s always a bit like being on a rollercoaster—a steady climb up, the knowledge he’s safe in the back of his mind and yet still waiting for the drop, the turbulence. It’s like that for most instances of his life, actually, and like—he doesn’t need Gord to tell him why he’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop, what made him unable to trust the peace. Sometimes he feels like a deer standing on a highway—headlights still miles and miles away but trapped anyways.

Maybe he should’ve seen it coming then, but he’d had his eyes closed, headphones on. He’d been trying to sleep, still carrying that bone-deep tiredness that took a hold of him during Christmas and he was also still trying to shake it off. Troy had been eyeing him suspiciously all the way from the airport to the jet and even when the first turbulence hit, Ilya had felt his eyes on him.

And that first turbulence hadn’t been bad. A bit of shaking—the soft ding of the seatbelt sign lighting up overhead—Haas going woah somewhere behind him. Ilya had been determined to try and sleep through it, kept his eyes stubbornly closed but then, in between one breath and the next, the plane dropped.

Screaming—some of it had to have been Ilya himself—muffled cursing over the intercom.

“This is the captain speaking,” but the voice had been barely audible over the screaming and the cackling of the speakers. “We’ve unfortunately just lost one of our engines due to a bird strike. This is no cause for concern, but please take your seats, listen to the instructions of the crew and keep your seatbelt engaged.”

Blindly, Ilya reached for his phone in his pocket—but another drop pushed him forwards, forehead smacking against the seat in front of him and almost made him drop it. He felt a little dazed, as he sat up again, rubbing at his head.

He caught Troys eyes over the rows of seats. He looked terrified—mumbled something that was lost over the mayhem around them—and pointed straight behind Ilya.

“The plane’s on fire!” someone yelled—Ilya thought it might’ve been Dykstra, though he wasn’t sure. There was another ding—more information coming over the intercom—but Ilya wasn’t listening anymore.

Deer in headlights, or something. He could see how it would end—was surprised by the burst of adrenaline flooding him, the reluctance and realisation that he did not want to die—and fumbled with his useless hands to unlock his phone.

Shane was playing a game. He wouldn’t see these messages until he was on the way back to his hotel—rarely even checked his Instagram in the first place; offline unless he had to repost some sponsorship or advertisement. Blankly, Ilya wondered if he’d see the headline first, if he might only think to check his socials weeks and weeks later.

He’d have to make this count then.

You are the best thing in my life, he typed with shaking hands. Distantly he noted how his fingers left red smears all over the display and brushed them off on his team hoodie.  I love you. Maybe from the first time I saw you. And he had, he realized. He’d been wilfully ignorant to it—blind, scared. There was regret there, for all the years wasted but mostly he felt grateful that he’d had Shane at all. Wasn’t that a thing, in movies? Reliving memories in your last moments? Ilya hoped he’d see Shane, only Shane—

I’m only thinking of you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those.

The screaming picked up again, and upfront the flight attendants were yelling. “Heads down, stay down—brace, brace, brace.”

This is more important, Ilya thought, but the Shane that lived in the back of his mind frowned disapprovingly, so he leaned forwards, head tucked between his knees anyways. Blood continued to drip onto his display. Outside the dark tarmac continued to come closer.

Whatever happens, I am with you safe in your heart. I believe it.

Another swoop—Ilya felt his stomach flip—and then another awful shake that pressed his seatbelt into his groin hard enough he thought it might bruise—

Even ground met the wheels of the plane—they did a little hop, not quite sticking the landing, but through what was surely sheer force of will—the captains or maybe the crews or the teams or all of their will together—the plane finally pressed down against the concrete with an awful grinding noise.

And then, slowly, the plane came to a stop.

The entire cabin was silent then, until, slowly, somewhere in the back shaky applause started. Ilya was only a little embarrassed to join in.

“It looks worse than it is,” Ilya warns but it’s like Shane isn’t listening.

He, Shane, looks worse than Ilya if he’s honest: eyes red-rimmed and swollen, lips bitten raw. He looks a bit like Ilya did at his mothers funeral. Like someone’s tried to snatch his soul away and he’s barely managed to hold on. Like he’s died and came back but it’s all wrong—

“You got hurt,” Shane says accusatorily. “You said you were fine—the news said you were fine but you’re hurt oh god—”

“Barely,” Ilya answers. “Nothings broken, I don’t even have a concussion—just hit my eyebrow against the seat in front of me at a bad angle and the skin ripped a bit. I’m fine, see—two little butterfly bandages and is fine. Not even stitches, malysh.”

Shane’s leaning in closer like he’s trying to make sure Ilya’s not lying so he holds his own phone closer to his face and steps under one of the lights lining the car park. The rest of the team is inside, drinking, and Ilya should be there probably. Talking to them, doing the heavy lifting Boods probably doing right now. But Shane had wanted to call, finally back at his own hotel, and Ilya had wanted some fresh air anyways so he’d gone.

“I was so, so scared, baby.” Shane says. “Are you sure nothing’s broken? Did you go to the hospital?”

“Terry cleared us and the EMTs cleared us too.” Ilya tells him patiently. “We’re all fine, I promise.”

On his screen, Ilya watches Shane chew on his bottom lip. He knows him well enough to see he’d feel better if Ilya had an MRI report he could send him via email. A CT-scan at least.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he continues. “Once everything was said and done, I felt really awful for sending you those messages—very dramatic.”

“Don’t say that!” It’s not a yell, exactly, but Shane does raise his voice a little. “I’m glad you sent them, I’m glad—god, I cannot believe—”

He takes a shaky breath. “They’re mine,” he says. “Thank you for sending them to me. They helped.”

“I didn’t freak you out with them even more?” Ilya asks and he shakes his head. He’s lying, Ilya knows, but he doesn’t call him out on it.

“I cannot believe they didn’t cancel the stupid game, I—god I want you home, right now.” Shane says then, and brushes his hands over his face. “I don’t think I’ll calm down until I have you in my arms again.”

“I wish I was home too,” Ilya says wistfully. “I think plane back will be bad but…”

“God, I didn’t even think of that,” Shane says. Then, “Should I just drive down there and pick you up?”

Ilya blinks.

Before he can really react to the question, Shane’s face blurs on screen, like he’s swiped away from the call. “It’s only like 13 hours down to Tampa, I could make it—”

“Shane, you cannot drive here from Washington D.C—”

“Why not?” Shane’s face unblurs. His eyes are shining—he’s almost glaring, actually, angry-kitten face on full display. “I could rent a car, drive down there. Stay in your hotel room until the game and then drive you back. No biggie.”

“Shane, that’s not feasible you just played a game, you haven’t even slept—”

“You’d do it,” Shane says. “For me. If our roles were reversed. You wouldn’t even ask, you’d already be sitting in your car and driving up here.”

“Obviously,” Ilya answers. “And you’d tell me not to and that I’m fucking stupid for even trying to do it.”

Shane glares a little more, before letting out a heavy sigh. “I want to be with you,” he says. Whines. “It’s not fucking fair.”

“No, it isn’t.” Ilya says. “But it’s fine. We’re playing each other soon. Only twelve days, dushenka.”

Shane grumbles a little more but ultimately agrees to not rent a car and drive down the East Coast. He ends up talking about the game he’s played when Ilya asks instead. It’s comforting for all of five minutes.

“You should sleep, baby.” Shane says, when Ilya cannot stop yawning. “I think you’re crashing, hm?”

“Wanna keep listening,” Ilya says. I miss you.

“We can stay on the phone,” he promises. “I’m tired too. How about you go up to your room and I keep talking and if we fall asleep, we just sleep?”  

Ilya nods and rubs at his eyes before he does something stupid like burst into tears.

The next time Ilya sees Shane, they’ve lost against Tampa and Florida but managed to beat New York and Detroit. (And not only have they been riding a wining streak though—is two games really a streak?—but they’ve been playing well. The games aren’t even close!)

And he’s seeing Shane on a night he wasn’t even planning on seeing him either: he’s walking into his house in Ottawa and not the house they’ve taken to sharing in Hawkesbury because he’s dead tired and has another practice early tomorrow, and he’s lugging his game bag and suitcase through the door, when he’s ambushed and drops everything in favour of holding his boyfriend instead.

Shane’s crying a little. He’s also pushing his hands under Ilya’s coat and sweatshirt. His warm hands are dragging over his stomach and chest, leaving behind goosebumps until they find his heart where his nails dig into the soft, sweaty skin, like he’s trying to claw his way into Ilya’s chest, right through his ribcage.

Ilya would give him his heart, he thinks. Not that it’s not Shane’s anyways, but he’d like to present it to him, hand it over like one of his many, many trophies. Shane would keep it safe, he knows, would probably have a better use for it anyways.

He’s fantasising, a little, about where Shane might put it in his trophy room, when Shane starts pressing desperate kisses all over his face. “Oh god,” he says. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re here, you’re okay.”

“I’m all airporty and gross, solnishko.” Ilya says, but cannot help and kiss Shane square on the lips. Brushes his tongue against his lips, delighted when Shane lets him in. Tangles his hands in his hair, pulls him closer, closer, closer. God I missed you, he thinks. I wouldn’t mind kissing you forever.

Right as he thinks this, Shane breaks the kiss. He doesn’t go far, forehead pressed against Ilya’s and just stares at him with his big, wet eyes. “I don’t care,” he breathes against Ilya’s lips. “You have no idea how little I care.”

“Who are you, and what have you done to my boyfriend?” Ilya asks and it makes Shane smile a little. But then he’s serious against, presses another short kiss to his lips.

“About that,” Shane says and sinks to his knees, right there in the entryway.

Ilya has half a second to be a little flustered, to press his hand back against the front door to be sure he’s closed it properly because if this is going where he thinks it’s going—

And then Shane pulls out a little black box. Pops it open, to reveal a plain golden ring.

“Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov,” he says and licks his lips. A nervous habit. “Ты выйдешь за меня?“

His pronunciation is good, is the first thing Ilya notices even before the words register in his head. He must’ve practiced over and over, maybe standing in the mirror—Ilya’s caught him before, for ads and awards. That’s kind of what gets him first—makes him tear up a little. He must’ve tried so, so hard.

And then the words hit him all at once. Ты выйдешь за меня? Ty vyydesh' za menya? Will you marry me?

“What?” Ilya asks. Presses one hand against his thigh to pinch his skin. Pinches hard. “What, Shane—?”

“Did I say it wrong?” Shane asks, and he’s still on his knees—on one knee—clutching the little ring box like his life depends on it. Repeats it, puts a different stress on the syllables.“Ty vyyyydeeessh' zaa meeeenya? Will you—?”

“No, no, you said it perfectly.” Ilya interrupts. “You—god, you did so good I just—what?”

“So, is that like a no or—?” Shane says, and he’s smiling all big the way Ilya loves so much. His little frog smile, according to Arthur Pike.

“Get up here,” Ilya says and grabs him by the collar to kiss him. “Of course it’s not a no, you idiot.”

“Thank god,” Shane says, kissing Ilya desperate and hungry. He’s also fumbling with the ring while he does, slipping it onto Ilya’s hand like he’s scared Ilya’s going to change his mind. “It’s not what I had planned but I just couldn’t wait.”

“Obviously,” Ilya laughs, hides his face in Shane’s neck. “Plan was what—ten years? You are very early for this, Hollander.”

Shane stiffens in his embrace. “About that…”

Ilya steps back a little. Shane reaches out to cradle his face in his hands. “What?”

And Shane is still smiling, but he also looks nervous again—

“I know we said we’d wait for retirement but, like, if you want me to be honest?” Shane asks. Ilya nods, surprised. “I had half a mind to pick you up from the airport and drive to city hall and just…elope.”

Ilya blinks and blinks and blinks.

“Because the plan isn’t fucking working anymore!” Shane says, like he’s begging Ilya to understand. He looks a bit mad like this, hair sticking up every direction from where Ilya raked his finger through it, and the tears are back, though they’re stubbornly clinging to his lash line. He also looks like the love of his life. Soft and warm. “I have half a mind to just—fuck. If you didn’t deserve a proper proposal and wedding—”

“Shane this is—”

“No,” Shane says decisively. Calmly. Ilya watches his throat bob, once—twice. “No. I—listen to me, okay? After—after, we met up with Ryan and Fabian, after that double date I thought—I thought I needed more queer friends. And I brought it up to Rose, during one of our catchups and she offered to introduce me to a couple of her friends—oh, don’t give me that look, it ended up falling through—but she did take me to this art gallery when we played in LA in November.”

“Because there was this exhibition focused on queer history and—there was this piece. Called like-electric fan or something and it was literally that—an electric fan. And the curator explained it—it was the only thing left unclaimed from the apartment of the artists partner after he passed away during the AIDS crisis and…I mean it made me sad obviously, but it felt so far removed. I didn’t get it, I don’t think.” He swallows again, brushes over Ilya’s cheek with his thumb.

“And then JJ said—he just read out the headline. Ottawa Centaurs Face Emergency Landing After Engine Failure. And all I could think about was that fucking electric fan.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, trying for levity. “You are after my estate, yes?”

But Shane doesn’t laugh, doesn’t react at all—not even to call him a dick or an asshole or to roll his eyes. “If you had died that day,” Shane says calmly. “I would’ve found out through the media. The hospital—the police, the airline whoever—nobody would’ve called me. I would’ve had to grieve you like a friend, not like the love of my life. I’d be expected back on the ice the next day. I’d be expected to give some bullshit statement, say something about the rivalry, about the asset the league lost but—fuck.

“I wouldn’t have been allowed to plan your funeral. I wouldn’t have been allowed in the ICU, I wouldn’t—Ilya I wouldn’t have been told anything. And I don’t know what your will says obviously—but I kept thinking about your asshole brother and him just…sweeping in. Taking you away to Russia to bury you in some unmarked grave I’d never be able to visit, him—spreading your ashes.” He shakes his head, and the movements cause the tears in his eyes to spill. Numbly, Ilya thinks it might be the first time he’s ever seen him cry like this; silent and so, so sad. And even like this, he’s maybe the most beautiful thing Ilya’s ever seen. “That all I might’ve had left at the end of it, was an electric fan and the regret. And I’m—terrified.”

“Shane—” Ilya tries. Tries to take Shane’s hands in his own. “This is just the shock of everything—"

“No, listen to me!” he interrupts and his hands slip from Ilya’s face to clasp around his shoulders and shake him, just a little. They are so warm, where Ilya can feel them through his shirt. “I’m terrified of everyone knowing, sure. Of what the league might say, of the team’s reaction. But it’s a terrifying world and we play a brutal sport for a living and the one thing I’m more scared of is losing you. And if—if I have to lose you one day in some senseless, dumb accident on the ice or the road or maybe in fifty, sixty years after a whole life together I want—I want to be able to sit at your bed side and hold your hand and kiss you. And I want to be there. I want to make those decisions, even though having to make them will kill me.

And they will kill me, so you’re not allowed to die before me anyways. But I want…I want a life with you. Now and not after retirement. I want more than an electric fan.”

Ilya doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels his tears drip down his cheeks. Hot, wet streaks burning his skin.

“I want a life with you, too.” Ilya whispers. “I always want a life with you, but Shane—the league—”

“Fuck the league.” Shane says. “Women in the PWHL date their teammates and other players all the time. This isn’t some insane concept anyways. Besides: we’re the best fucking players the league has to offer, what are they going to do? Bench us? You think the fans are going to let that stand? Have you ever MET a Montreal fan? They’ll riot and we both have No Movement Clauses anyways so like—lets be real, Crowell is out of office before he manages to get rid of us.”

He falters, just a bit. “And even if…even if, well.” Shane shrugs. “If I have to chose between hockey and you, it’s always going to be you. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Ilya echoes. “It’s always going to be you, too.”

“I know,” Shane says and for the first time all day he looks kind of cocky, actually. He looks like Ilya. “My fiancé moved to the worst team of the league for me, you know? Turned them around. Press is saying they’ll get a Playoffs spot for the first time in decades.”

“God, I love you so much.” Ilya says and kisses him again—well, it’s not much of a kiss, considering they’re both grinning too hard to really touch. “You’re really sure about this?”

“Never been so sure about anything in my life,” Shane says.

Chapter End Notes

the art piece Shane talks about in this chapter is real and called Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate and is by John S. Boskovich and the first time i ever saw it i got teary eyed. Its one of the few (modern) art pieces that have ever touched me like this, and the first time i read tlg and i got to the plane incident it was right there in the back of my head. idk. i hope i get to see it in real life at least once even if it will probably make me sob pathetically :-)

also that's a wrap!
I'm super unsure with this chapter (as I always tend to be) and I was really unsure whether or not ending it here/like this was the right move. But I also think I've been really dragging the plot. so before i ruin the rest of this fic with my inability to shut up, i think ending it is for the best!
thank you so much for sticking around and reading along! sorry for all the bad hockey i've been putting in here, especially during the first couple of chapters! I've since learned a lot so i hope i've improved along the way but...welp. I'm also sorry for the semi-hiatus i kept slipping into; there really is no excuse beyond my real life kicking my ass and my tendency to doom scroll instead of being productive! I'm working on it, it's definitely a (bad) coping mechanism to all the stress of my day job, but it's going slow. i also have a habit of picking up hobbies like the plague (currently crocheting a tapestry LMAO) which doesn't help.
But i am so so grateful for all the kind encouragement, support and the lovely lovely comments you've been giving me. i don't think i would've finished this fic if it weren't for you guys (especially without u holding me accountable!) :) i hope you had as much fun with reading this fic as i had writing it and that the resolution is somewhat satisfying!
I have a couple of oneshots i wanna write for this universe (mostly some of the scenes that didn't make it into the fic like that ilya + senior hollanders conversation i mentioned a couple chapters back and also some more marlow/boston boys scenes i couldn't fit in here), so if that's something you're interested in keep an eye out!
Again: thank you so much for reading, for any and all comments, your bookmarks and kudos! i appreciate them all a lot :) :)