Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Carter Vaughn, Original Children of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Mpreg | Male Pregnancy, Pregnant Ilya Rozanov, Canon Divergence, Post-Scene: Ilya Rozanov Makes Tuna Melts in Episode: s01e04 Rose, Miscommunication, implied/referenced switching (once), (resulting in the mpreg), made up mpreg worldbuilding and lore, POV Alternating, Unplanned Pregnancy, Discussion of Abortion, Discussion of Pregnancy Complications, pregnancy symptoms, See notes for more detail, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Getting Together, discussion of canonical past suicide (irina), Past Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Secret Relationship, Relationship Reveal, Surgery, surgical delivery, Hospitals, Mutual Pining, Postpartum Depression, Depression, Family Feels, Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby", Chest Feeding, Nursing, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Medium Burn, Intimacy, art included, Male Lactation, Misunderstandings, Jealous Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, some brief angst that may be considered, Ilya Rozanov Whump, Ilya Rozanov Calls Shane Hollander "Sweetheart", Ilya Rozanov Gets A Hug, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, hopefully in a heartwarming way though, completed aside from an epilogue

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-24 Updated: 2026-10-06 Words: 113,262 Chapters: 14/15

soft the landing, hard the fall

Summary

There’s still a big part of him that wants all the same things he used to. The hockey, those other interests, the simplicity of the smaller circle. But there’s a twinge of something else now beside it when he considers it for too long, a bruise he can’t place the origins of. He’d been able to put somewhat of a name to it, after Rose.

He only wishes he hadn’t filled in the rest of the blanks staring down at a grainy photograph of Svetlana Vetrova in a convenience store parking lot in Boston, a bag hanging off of her manicured finger just transparent enough to make out the logo of a First Response as she’d ducked into a sleek, black sports car, driving away with Shane's best worst would-have-been and, presumably, Ilya Rozanov's baby.

Shane feels no particular way about this turn of events. He really, honestly, mostly is somewhat close to believing that, too. It's progress.

Notes

hi! :D

click the arrow for a few personal notes + disclaimers prior to reading!

if you happen to have checked out the most recent chapter of my cci shane fic, i talked a little about the struggles of chronic illness, brain fog, and being a caretaker for both myself and a loved one full time. i still feel very much like i’m hitting a wall creatively right now and figured that i should try something else low stakes that i’ve never done before, so… mpreg it is, i guess! hjdgfsjgf

mpreg (or any kind of pregnancy in fic) is a hard no for some people, and i totally get that too! i don’t plan to take a hard swing into publishing this trope often, but i’ve read it off and on for a few years and i wanted to try my hand at it. please keep it respectful in the comments.

(to be clear, i am an equal opportunity #shanepreg and #ilyapreg truther when i’m reading, but within this iteration of canon i do feel like #ilyapreg makes slightly more sense, so we’re going with that for now)

i am not a healthcare professional, and i am most definitely not a hockey expert. i have done research on the medical side of things but as always fic is NOT the blueprint for medical advice. as far as the hockey goes, i am well aware that the conflicts with ilya/shane and the mhl in this would be much more nuanced and complex in real life. however !! if i can get ilya rozanov pregnant i think we can all handle a little bit of suspended disbelief <3

as mentioned above, this is pretty low stakes and i’m working on it whenever my health conditions and schedule allow me to. as such, there may be some typos scattered throughout, but hopefully no egregious or disruptive plot-adjacent errors.

click for content warnings!

vague reference to past child abuse refering to grigori and ilya. one reference to underage sex between ilya and sasha. mention of unethical and non consensual medical procedures on a minor.

though the mpreg of it all is fictitious, the procedure mentioned - uterine ablation - is very real. there is also discussion of general pregnancy symptoms, as well as the risks and complications that accompany it. mentions of chestfeeding but does not occur in-text. mentions of vomiting / blood, and hospital settings. nothing is terribly detailed and everyone ends up okay (!!), but please take care while reading. i’ve written kidfics before but this is the first time i’m delving into the part that comes before the kid. if i’ve missed any tags or warnings, please kindly let me know and they will be updated accordingly.

lastly, to help me visualize as i write, i've done - very poor - illustrations of different stages of ilya's pregnancy throughout the fic. i decided to include them as an optional view while reading (you can click the arrow with '...' beside it to reveal the image!) but i cannot stress enough that there is no 'right way' for a pregnancy to look. the illustrations are based on my research of specifically what someone with ilya's build and athletic background might look like in this situation, but it is certainly not a blueprint for anything. if seeing them will be upsetting in any way, just don't click the arrow to reveal the image and you should be fine!

if you're curious about more of the world building aspects aside from what's written in-text, feel free to check out the end notes!

Chapter 1: i. 0-19 weeks

S H A N E

zero weeks

The first thing he thinks when he wakes up is: I slept. 

It isn’t anything particularly phenomenal. It’s just that he struggles, sometimes, in new places. The hotel rooms bleed together enough to feel sort of the same after a while, and the lullaby of a clicking AC unit and the muffled voices of other guests in the hallway is typically both irritating and comforting enough to get him there eventually. 

Sleeping in other people’s houses, though—Hayden’s after a late dinner where he’d indulged in a rare drink, JJ’s twenty-fifth, sometimes even his parent’s place now—is almost always a guarantee that he’ll be up all night, staring at the ceiling, restless and exhausted the following day. He avoids it, when he can. 

But Rozanov had asked him to stay, and he’d stayed. And he’d slept. 

It’s early now, sunlight sneaking in in streaks across the tall ceilings, the fan spinning lazily above them to counteract the incoming heat. Despite its efforts Rozanov is a heater beside him, warm and a little sweat-sticky where their bodies are pressed together, rebelling against their joint shower from the night prior. Shane’s always kicked in his sleep but Rozanov is stubborn even in unconsciousness, his arm heavy across Shane’s middle and leg bent over both of his thighs. 

In the angled line of his collarbone, Shane can feel his breaths, hot and even against the skin. He hadn’t planned to come to Boston expecting this.  

The before—the game, the chirping, the sex, that was all normal. But somewhere around the time Shane had been alone on the couch, staring at a plate of bread crumbs and a half-drunk ginger ale while the crack of Rozanov’s voice echoed down the hallway, things had shifted. 

“Mmph,” comes eloquently from Rozanov’s mouth, muffled in the side of his neck. Shane’s  twitches in response.  

“Morning,” he says. He drifts a hand over Rozanov’s hair, unsure of the rules. “Sleep well?” 

Fingertips rise to press against his mouth as if to quiet him, but ultimately end up gentling to trace the line of his lips, thumb sweeping down from one side of his cupid’s bow to rest at the too-honest corner. 

“Shh,” he rasps, muttering something in Russian. “Not yet. Too early.” 

It’s accompanied by a shift of his head further into Shane’s palm, soft and seeking and new enough that it gives Shane pause. 

Last night, after the phone call, after kissing the tremble of Rozanov’s chin until it went steady again. After the staircase and the bath, Rozanov’s bulk heavy leaned back against his chest in the water. After the shakiness in both of their voices when Shane had said you want? and Rozanov said please. 

Last night, when Rozanov had looked at him as if he were handing over something he was surprised to be able to give. Had gone slack enough with relief when Shane had taken and taken and taken as if the fear that he wouldn’t had been melted away with each press of his mouth, each delve of his hands. 

Last night. When Shane had forgotten to be scared of anything. 

The sun shifts again, slanting more sharply through the blinds. The thin shadow of their silhouette atop the sheets takes shape, dark and distinct against light colored blankets. He hadn’t felt quite so bare in his nakedness the night before. 

Rozanov twists, lashes fluttering against his jaw as they close. “Shane,” he murmurs, already half-lost again somewhere in sleep. 

When Shane turns, his lips find the top of his head easily. In a bed of curls molded by his own fingers, he whispers back. 

“Ilya.” 

The fear licks its way back in, hot but not warm, too heavy instead of settling. In the morning light, Shane doesn’t feel at all like he’s accepted something offered with open palms. 

He half expects to see dirt underneath his fingertips when he carefully withdraws them from Rozanov’s hair, some sort of evidence of having put his hands somewhere they didn’t belong, having taken too much, left the earth upturned in a way that prevents it from growing back correctly again. 

He can feel it, now. The click of something he won’t be able to put back in place. It’s too loud, in the quiet calm of the bedroom that once felt like a refuge. It’s too loud in his head. 

Silently, he leaves the borrowed clothes folded at the edge of the bathroom countertop. Crosses back by the hallway, down the staircase, through the living room, past the kitchen where the ingredients for his breakfast have been recently bought and stored in the pantry. His shoes sit neatly where he’d left them by the door when he arrived, toes facing the exit as if to say I told you so. 

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing as he slips out into the sting of early morning air and gets into his car. All the way back to his hotel and then later to the airport, then back to his house in Montreal. 

By the time he begins to feel anything aside from sheer panic again, his hands are shaking on his phone. There’s a trail of dirt from here back to Boston. The call goes to voicemail. 

J.J.’s name pops up instead, and Shane’s thumb slips onto answer before he can decline. 

I L Y A

eight weeks

His phone buzzes on the corner of the marble by the sink as Ilya fumbles a hand up to flush the toilet for the third time within the last couple of hours. He ignores it. Shane—Hollander—stopped calling weeks ago now. He’s stopped hoping. 

It’s been several days since he returned to Boston from the roadie and he still hasn’t quite managed to stop feeling like the earth is moving wrong underneath him. It takes more effort than it should to drag himself off the floor again, his knees aching from hitting the tile so often in a way he doesn’t particularly care for. 

He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he washes his hands and rinses with mouthwash, spitting into the drain. His phone lights up, Marly’s name on the screen. He reaches over and silences it again. It’s not like it’s unusual for him to not show up to an optional practice sometimes. 

His hands span the length of the marble sink in the guest bathroom downstairs, knuckles white where they grip the edges, head hanging low in the middle. When he manages to lift his head again, he startles at Sveta leaning against the doorframe, ankles crossed and frown expectant. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You need a fucking bell.” 

Unperturbed by his outburst, she spins on her heel and follows him when he slaps the light switch off and swerves to walk to the kitchen. He does not like the feeling of people behind him. Never has. 

“We are going to the doctor.” 

“No,” he tells her. “No doctors.” 

“Ilya. It has been a week of this.” He loathes the way her voice softens when she adds, “You need medicine.” 

Only a week? Ilya thinks. It feels much longer than that. 

“Not sick,” he mutters as he rounds the island. She diverges from him, each of them on one side of it, and raises a brow. 

“Oh? And how do you know this?” 

“I just fucking know, Sveta.” 

Flicking on the tap, Ilya bends in half to seal his mouth to the stream of cold water, hoping it’ll be refreshing. It throws him off balance when the world tilts underneath him, his stomach lurching as he hurries to right himself again. 

“Woah.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Ilya,” she continues in Russian, cursing at him as she rounds to his side . “Stand up. Give me that.” 

She reaches past him to snatch up a cup from the countertop, rinsing it and then filling it with cool water and a few ice cubes from his freezer while Ilya watches in a daze. When she presses it into his palm, he finally gets some of the relief he’d been searching for. 

“Go sit down and drink. Slowly.” 

He heads for the living room, feeling the weight of her eyes on him the whole way. She is both the most comfortable and the least comfortable person for him to be around when there is something wrong. She can be incredibly soothing, if and when she deigns to be. 

She is also incredibly skilled at seeing through his fibs. It is why, Ilya reckons, she’d shown up here in the first place. He has never played it particularly safe on the ice, and he can only fake a healing rib injury for so long before someone who pays attention as closely as Sveta calls him on his bullshit. 

And it is probably bullshit. He’d be deluding himself to think otherwise. Maybe he should tell her, just so that she can tell him that he’s being ridiculous. 

“You are not making any sense,” Sveta informs him, as if she can hear his thoughts. “You have not thrown up this much since your first time being drunk.” 

With something of a groan, Ilya sits down—too fast, again—on the couch, pausing at the edge to blink dazedly a few times before he reclines and tosses a hand up to rub at his eyes. “Can we not talk about that story now?” 

“Why not? I think of it fondly. There is still a stain in my carpet in my old bedroom. Sasha made fun of your face for weeks.” 

Ilya grimaces underneath his hand. “Maybe we do not talk about Sasha either.” 

When he lowers it to take a tentative sip of the water, her eyes have narrowed. She stares at him from atop her crossed arms. “What is going on with you.” 

“I am allowed to just not want to talk,” he defends, exasperated. “You are the one that just came by without telling me.” 

“And you are lucky I did. Who else would spoonfeed you electrolytes when you do not eat?” 

He glares at her. “You did not spoonfeed me. I am not a child.” 

“You do not have to be a child to need help sometimes, you know,” she says. “I am here. Tell me what you need.” 

Forcing down another slow sip of the water, Ilya sighs as he sets it on the table, then leans back against the cushions. He chews at his lip while he tries to decide if saying it all out loud will be as mortifying as he estimates it to be. 

If there is anyone to be mortifying around, he figures Sveta is probably a fine choice. 

“Do you remember when we were fifteen,” he murmurs, head reclined over the back of the sofa. “And papa took me away for the summer.” 

“The hockey camp?” Sveta asks, pulling her knees onto the cushion to mirror him. “Yes, I remember. You left me bored by myself all summer. It was horrible.” 

Ilya’s mouth twists, opening his closed eyes to stare at the blank canvas of the ceiling instead when the memories begin to surface. “It was not a hockey camp.” 

“Oh.” Any trace of Sveta’s earlier humor fades from her voice, slipping back into that soft spot that Ilya loves and hates. “It was… because of Sasha?” 

Sasha, whom Ilya’s brother had caught with Ilya in his bedroom the month beforehand. Sasha, who Ilya was not allowed to see after that unless he was feeling risky or just plain reckless. Sasha whose parents only ever threw money at their problems, sending him off to a bustling coastline somewhere he could disappear into dark corners and designer drugs while Ilya’s father had only ever preferred to fix things with a fist. 

Ilya doesn’t resent him for it. But even all this time later, the thought of him still, ironically, turns his stomach. 

“Sort of, yes. You know how papa was about him. He dragged me to a clinic to make sure that I did not have anything after. Nothing that would come up on the physical later on for the league.” His head rolls forward again, staring at the eerie stillness of the water in the cup on the table. “I tried, but. I could not fight him.” 

“Fight about what?” Sveta asks. “He is an asshole, yes. But easier just to do the tests and get it over with, no?” 

Ilya clears his throat. “Mama took me to the doctors before she died. It did not matter much then, because papa didn’t care unless there was something to pay for. But mama was quiet, and I was quiet, and if Alexei had not found me with Sasha and told him so I had to go back, papa would not have ever known either.” 

“Known what?” 

“About the Cyesis gene,” Ilya admits, wiping his palms on the thighs of his sweatpants. “It was fine, because Sasha was not fucking me. But it came up in the paperwork.” 

It is the only other time he’s said as much out loud before, other than with his mother. It still makes his skin ache just a little, makes something slither along the insides of his teeth. But C gene is easier to get out than all of the other clinical terms that had made him feel even more disconnected from himself, from the nebulous shape of a future he couldn’t fathom for himself at the time. 

One he is still struggling to grasp now. 

Sveta is ashen across from him when Ilya chances looking. “But you never said—?” 

“I know what I said,” Ilya interrupts, maybe more sharply than he intends to. “I had no choice. I could not tell anyone, Sveta. No one but mama knew.” 

She is quiet fora moment, her swallow audible when she turns back to him. 

“So. In the summer…” 

“In the summer, papa took me to take care of it.” 

“Take care of it how?” 

“Surgery, I think. It is all—fuzzy, in my head. Hard to remember. There was a doctor, some kind of medicine that made me sleep. When I woke up, they told me it was done,” Ilya explains as flatly as he can manage. “I stayed home for the rest of the break to recover and then went back to practicing for the season.” 

He wishes he’d had the foresight to turn on the television or something. The silence is stifling in Ilya’s echo chamber of a living room, the empty yard sprawling toward the silhouette of the treeline outside the windows. It gives him no choice but to turn again, to force himself to notice the liquid glass of Sveta’s eyes. He has not seen her cry in years. 

Her mouth opens and closes again, and then she shifts to sit beside him, both of them facing the black screen of the television. She is warm against him, familiar. When her head tilts to lean on his shoulder, Ilya rests his on top of hers. He blinks rapidly against the sting of his own eyes. 

“You think this is why you are sick?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya sniffs. “They told me I could not—after. But I did not ask questions. I did not even know what happened.” 

“Yes, because you were fucking fifteen,” she says. Ilya counts the in-and-out of her breaths as she slows them again, the muscles in her jaw unclenching against his shoulder. “And this… makes sense?” she asks, gentler. “You have been with someone lately who could have…?” 

He stares straight ahead. “Yes.” 

“Is it Jane?” she hedges after a pause, near whisper quiet now. Ilya nods once against the top of her head, unable to stop the trembling of his chin in the process. “Oh, Ilyusha.” 

He turns blindly into it when she hugs him, welcoming the familiar tickle of her curls on his cheek. “I don’t even know if it’s possible,” he rasps eventually. “But I have this feeling, Sveta…” 

“Then we listen to it,” she says, pulling back to sweep away the wetness underneath his eyes with her thumbs. “We do not have to go to the doctor yet. We take a test here and we make a plan if we need to. We go from there.” 

He nods. “Okay.” 

“Okay. I will go get them. You stay here.” 

She pats his thigh and stands, and Ilya presses a hand to the cushion to push himself up with her. “I will go with you.” 

“You can get up without puking again?” 

He’s unimpressed by the arch of her brow, but finds himself properly chastened by the wave of nausea that rolls over him when he leans forward. 

“...Maybe I will stay.” 

“I will be quick. You want anything else?” she asks, voice echoing down the hallway as she collects her purse and shoes from the entryway. “Soup? Crackers? Ginger ale?” 

Ilya’s head snaps up, head spinning. “What?” 

Her head peeks back around the corner again, pulling her hair from the collar of her jacket. “You had some in your fridge, I thought maybe you were drinking them now.” Sveta blinks, unaware of the landmine underneath her feet. “There are only a few left. You want more?” 

“Yes. Please,” he says before he can consider it. She smiles softly at him, head tilting a bit at his reaction. 

Her shoes click on the sleek tile, suddenly muted when she steps onto the rug. She leans down to press her mouth to the center of his forehead, and even that feels too raw, too tender. 

“It will be okay, Ilya.” 

He waits for her to leave before his knees meet the tile again. 

S H A N E

fourteen weeks

Shane sits alone at the hotel bar in Tampa and turns his thumb into carnage with his teeth as he stares at the keyboard. He’d considered sending a congratulations last month, when the pictures first started circulating in the MLH gossip rags and team group chats. He doesn’t think he could pull it off without sounding facetious though, so he hadn’t said anything at all. 

He’d thought, maybe, that he would get the chance to figure it out in person. He’s shit at the texting, shit at reading people when he can’t see them—and even sometimes when he can—and Ilya certainly hasn’t wanted to do that lately. 

Shane supposes he’s been busy. A pregnancy probably fills up a schedule. 

In the end, after a couple of beers, Shane angles his phone deliberately away from the scatter of other players throughout the bar and types: Hope you’re doing okay. Hits send. 

A perfectly reasonable thing to say to a teammate, or someone who would have been one this weekend, anyway, who’s out on LTIR. He does not type it’s not the same without you or I wish you were here or I miss you, because he can’t imagine that would be appreciated right now. It’s jarring how easy the thoughts fill themselves in anyway. 

“Yo, Hollander!” 

Shane flinches as a heavy arm swings around his shoulders, nearly cracking the screen of his phone as he flips it face down onto the bartop and puts on a congenial smile. 

“Vaughny,” he returns. “Good to see you, man.” 

“It’s good to see you. And at a bar, no less. Never thought I’d see the day,” he says, clinking the neck of his bottle with Shane’s as he drops into the stool adjacent, wiping invisible tears. “My boy’s all grown up.” 

He laughs. “I’m twenty-five, Vaughny. Pretty sure that ship has sailed.” 

“Well. I, for one, enjoy seeing you let loose a little. You’ve worked your ass off this year, dude. You deserve a vacation.” 

“No more than anybody else here,” Shane tells him. And before he can argue, adds, “So, tell me about New York.” 

Moderately buzzed and easily swayed into talking up his team, Vaughny answers enthusiastically and thoroughly, and it’s nice to hear. It is. He wonders what his own team might say about him, if someone asked. 

There’s few places left where he doesn’t feel like this; like he’s present but not a part of, tolerated but not actually accepted. He’s not under the impression that anyone is here to make friends, necessarily. Even for a team sport most of them keep things relatively close to their chests, wary of rigid superstitions and overnight trades and stolen strategy. 

Still, there’s a camaraderie between most of them, especially this weekend, that feels slightly out of Shane’s reach. The laidback atmosphere is due in no small part to the lower stakes of it all, he knows. Tampa is nice this time of year, nicer still from the rooftop pool of the hotel the league’s chosen, and Shane hasn’t been able to avoid the spectacle of it since the moment he checked in. 

Everywhere he looks, he sees it. Things that never mattered enough to notice before—one of his teammates tossing their squealing children into the pool cannonball-style, one by one. Another with his arm slung around his recent fianceé, ring glinting in the setting sun as they walk along the beach. One of them had stumbled into practice just this morning, grinning through a hangover as he insisted his one night stand had been his soulmate. 

These have never been things that Shane needed. He had a few hobbies, a small circle of family and close friends, he had hockey, and that was enough. When he’d won the Cup—both times—he hadn’t once looked around at his teammates swallowed up by their families and partners and felt envy. It confuses him that it seems to bother him so much now, makes him wonder when the switch had flipped. 

It hadn’t been completely. There’s still a big part of him that wants all the same things he used to. The hockey, those other interests, the simplicity of the smaller circle. But there’s a twinge of something else now beside it when he considers it for too long, a bruise he can’t place the origins of. 

He’d been able to put somewhat of a name to it, after Rose. He only wishes he hadn’t filled in the rest of the blanks staring down at a grainy photograph of Svetlana Vetrova in a convenience store parking lot in Boston, a bag hanging off of her manicured finger just transparent enough to make out the logo of a First Response as she’d ducked into a sleek, black sports car. 

“I gotta admit,” Vaughny says, leaning an elbow on the bar, “I was a little disappointed to hear the news.” 

Shane’s fingers twitch around his bottle as he blinks back into the conversation, unable to tell if the slick is mostly the sweating glass or his own palms. 

“What, um. What news?” he asks, and takes a drink. 

“Well, don’t tell him I said this, but—I was kinda looking forward to playing with Rozanov. He can be a lot sometimes, but, fuck, is he good on the ice. It’s gonna be boring without him, I bet.” 

Shane swallows the knot in his throat. “Hunter would probably faint if he heard you say that.” 

Vaughny snorts, loosening a clump of salt from the rim of his glass and sucking it off his finger. “Nah, Scott’s got his own shit going on. I doubt Roz is on his radar at the moment.” 

Hunter is pretty much always at least adjacent to being on his radar, Shane bites his tongue to keep from adding. The last thing he needs now is to invite more questioning. 

As if Vaughny can hear his thoughts, he says, “Must be a pretty tough injury to take him out for so long.” 

“Probably,” Shane agrees, stomach turning. 

“You talked to him at all? Asked how he’s doing?” he asks. “You know, captain to captain?” 

The napkin underneath Shane’s beer is soaked through on one side, nearly transparent. He abandons the bottle in favor of taking it between his fingers, ripping a uniform line from one corner toward the other. He has no reason to be angry at Vaughny. 

Hope you’re doing okay. 

“I’ve reached out,” he says. 

Vaughny nods and glances out across the bar toward the open deck, the echo of laughter and chlorine wafting in on the breeze. “It’s just really not like him. I mean, I once played against the guy when I’m pretty sure he had a cracked rib, and he still managed to hand our asses to us.” 

“So?” Shane asks, unable to help himself. “Whatever it is, he clearly doesn’t want people to know.” 

He lifts his hand to signal the bartender for another round, doubling Vaughny’s order and pointedly ignoring the raised brow to his right. 

The silence that follows only serves to make the noise around them swell that much louder. The families on vacations, his temporary teammates cheering around a pool table, the socialites sneaking into single-stalls with sly smiles. Shane remembers being satisfied with that too, once. 

He glances out the opposite window, toward the empty coastline. The outfit he’d chosen specifically for the occasion clings miserably to his skin in the lingering humidity, but the shame of his once-hope touches bone deep. 

The clink of a new glass being set down in front of them snaps him back into the moment. Vaughny collects his, much more subdued this time, and he taps his fingers on the side of it, lips pursed. 

“You’re right. Better not to speculate,” he decides. Shane watches him take a short sip, cleanse the salt from the corner of his mouth with his tongue. “All I know is, must be something pretty important to keep him off the ice,” he goes on, looking Shane in the eye, “‘cause I know there’s a lot here that he probably wouldn’t wanna miss out on.” 

Sweeping his drink off the bartop, he stands and pauses for a moment to squeeze Shane’s shoulder before he goes. 

“I’ll see you around, Hollander.” 

Shane closes out his tab and leaves his own untouched drink behind as he heads up to his room. He pulls out his phone in the elevator. 

I was really looking forward to finding out what it’d be like to play on the same team, Shane types. Maybe next time? He reads the words back to himself, and a spiral of nausea whorls behind his ribs. What if Ilya quits? 

The doors ding and slide open, and he deletes it. Back in the privacy of his room, he tries I’m sorry. Can we talk? Deletes that one too. 

His original message is still unread. He brings his thumb back to his mouth, chasing down the taste of salt and lime with iron and finally letting himself admit that he misses when it was vodka and cigarette smoke instead. 

Shane plays well, and it’s nice. It’s fine. He has a good time. 

He wonders, back in the locker room as the hiss of the showers comes on, if Ilya could tell that he kept accidentally almost passing to someone who wasn’t there, had given away just how much and how often Shane had played it all out in his head before this weekend. He wonders if Ilya had watched at all. 

He checks his phone again as he’s leaving Tampa, in the window seat with his headphones on. The coastline, equally as empty,  watches him go. 

I L Y A 

nineteen weeks

There is a mango inside of him, according to the infographic stapled to the clinic wall at his left. Ilya isn’t sure how he feels about likening a potential baby to a fruit. He is also not sure that he can keep saying things like ‘potential’ when it is very much not just a possibility anymore. 

He doesn’t like doctors. Never has, but especially not ones that are so determined to actually help him. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to jump out and reveal that it’s one big joke. Or to wake up in a pool of sweat in his bed, catching his breath and clutching a flat abdomen, his body a vessel for nothing more than the grief and grayness it has always been. 

But there is speckled tile underneath his feet, crinkling paper where he’s been drying his sweat-tacky palms, the whooshing sound of a heartbeat that’s been knocking around inside of his head since the moment he’d first heard it. This, and the mango. 

His crossed ankles thud against the base of the exam table as he kicks them. The red dot beside his messages makes his nerves worse, so Ilya locks his phone and sets it aside, shifts his attention instead to Sveta across from him. 

It helps, having her here. Now that he isn’t as sick she’s been able to go back to work, but she does what of it she can from his dining room table. He knows she’s seen the rumours. And she knows how much pressure it takes off of him to lean into it, just for a little while, to let the speculation not fall squarely onto his shoulders. He refuses to let it fester, to trap her into a future of people believing that she’s the mother of his child, but—Ilya probably needs to work at being able to acknowledge it first before he pulls the rug. 

With her stylish black boots and designer bag wilting on the floor of the exam room, Ilya wants to laugh at how out of place they probably both look here. Earlier when he’d looked up she’d been on her phone, legs crossed and lips pursed. Now, he watches as she reaches a long nail out stealthily toward the three-dimensional model of a pregnant stomach, baby and all, and waits for the inevitable. 

Her finger meets the hard surface of a tiny forehead and makes a hollow sound. 

“Weird,” she murmurs. 

“You probably should not touch that.” 

She rolls her eyes. “You are so paranoid, Ilya. It is literally plastic.” 

She pokes it harder as if to prove this to him, and both of them watch as the fake-baby slips out of the fake-stomach and clatters onto the cabinet, and then onto the ground between them. 

“Fuck,” Sveta hisses, fumbling to pick it up and put it back in. 

Ilya snorts. “Nice.” 

“Shut up,” she tosses over her shoulder, trying different angles. “They are not this slippery in real life.” 

“You have held many babies?” he asks. 

She glares at him. “I have held babies.” 

“You do not like children.” 

“I do not want children. There is a difference. I do not mind other people’s children.”  

“This is good, probably,” Ilya tells her. “I do not think this one likes you very much.” 

Sveta makes like she’s going to hike the fake-baby at him like a football, then promptly lowers it again when the door handle turns and rushes to sit back down in her seat. 

Dr. Walsh is a very intimidating woman, despite being nearly a foot shorter than Ilya. She is also very honest, which he appreciates, but Ilya does not always handle the truth well. He hadn’t come into any of this with expectations, but she’s kind and tells him that he can call her doctor Yvonne if he wants to, and she has not once kicked Sveta out or made him uncomfortable. This feels pretty important too. 

Fake-baby stares at him from atop the counter by Sveta’s elbow. Ilya straightens, and the paper crinkles underneath him. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she tells them, slipping a manilla folder underneath her arm to reach for the sanitizer dispenser on the wall. The door falls shut behind her with a click. 

“We are good at keeping each other entertained,” Ilya drawls. Sveta feigns fixing her hair and flips him off. It does little to help his nerves. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Doctor Yvonne says, and sits on her stool in front of Ilya, pulling out the folder. “Ilya, are you ready to go over your results?” 

He already has the one that matters, he thinks. But he nods regardless, throat unusually thick as he swallows. She flips open the first page. 

“So, according to your ultrasound scans, it looks like the procedure they tried to have done on you was initially intended to be a uterine ablation, which makes sense with the tenderness and minor swelling we found during your initial exam.” 

He pauses where he’s taking the paper from her. “Tried?” 

“And failed, to be blunt,” she goes on. “It’s difficult to tell what the exact reason for failure might have been so many years later, but I can’t say that I’m entirely surprised. The younger you are at the time of the operation, even if accurately done, the higher the chance of failure. And from what you’ve told me, Ilya, I also suspect that perhaps the person who performed the operation on you may not have been… entirely qualified to do so.” 

The heel of Sveta’s boot makes a noise as she re-crosses her legs in the corner. Ilya doesn’t have to look at her to imagine her face. It’s the same sad-angry one that he has been avoiding being on the receiving end of since that day in his house. 

“Naturally, that leaves room for risk. And while I’m not certain whether or not you view this pregnancy as a good thing or a bad thing, I can tell you that often times those risks end in outcomes that are not conducive to your health, not only reproductively but holistically. And that’s putting it very lightly.” She gentles her voice slightly, as if also affected by the things they’d rehashed at his first appointment. “The fact that you survived the procedure and haven’t had any complications is a testament to how strong you and your body are. And now that you’re here, I can help you continue to make decisions that are in your best interest. Whatever those may be.” 

The implication makes his head spin. He looks across the papers in his lap, black and white print-outs of his vitals, lab results, scan summaries. It blends into a blur in front of him, his body here and his thoughts jumping somewhere much further down the line. 

It was one thing when all of it was simply happening to him whether he liked it or not. Making choices is something different. Growing up in his family, the weight of responsibility has long since made his skin crawl. 

“That was a lot of information, Ilya. Do you want to take a short break?” 

“I just want to know if they’re okay.” 

He’s embarrassed at the sound of his own voice, but no one else in the room points out the way it caves in the middle. Doctor Yvonne offers him a smile and nods. 

“We can do that. We’re going to start with updated labs and a regular ultrasound today since we weren’t able to get you in for your intake appointment until sixteen weeks, to track your progress and find out how things are going currently. We’ll get you scheduled for an MRI as well. Then, once we have as much information as possible, we can go over your options moving forward. Does that sound okay?” 

He shakes his head, the muscles in his jaw burning as he clenches them. His grip has dented the paper, and the noise of it gives away the slight shake of his hand where he’s holding it. 

“I—” Ilya starts, unexpectedly compelled. 

Patiently, Doctor Yvonne stops before she reaches the doorway and turns back to him. “Yes?” 

Ilya reads the lines underlined in red again. “I am worried that maybe the bad operation has hurt something and it will hurt them or—I will not be able to—” he has to stop again when his lip won’t quit wobbling, his chin touching his chest as he squeezes his eyes closed. 

“I understand, Ilya. I promise, we’ll run the tests needed to rule out any concerns you have,” she assures. “But, if you want my opinion as of now, you haven’t reported anything to me so far that seems out of the ordinary for a normal pregnancy. If there is something, we’ll handle it. But you’re in good hands. I know it’s difficult, but try not to worry too much right now and add on more stress, okay? You’re doing great.” 

He nods at her, hoping that the tilt of his lips looks more like a smile than a grimace as she takes her leave. More labs, probably. More scans. More tests. Ilya’s fingers itch on the crinkly paper as if magnetized to his abdomen, but he keeps them still, ever aware of Sveta’s watchful eyes making sure he’s alright. 

For once in his life, Ilya does not want to be the spectacle. For once, he thinks, it would be nice if things were simple. 

If he were that though, he supposes he would never have ended up here at all. A proverbial mango of its own.

Damp with sweat at his palms, the paper finally breaks under his fidgeting fingertips. Across the room, Sveta exhales. 

“I’m just saying,” she maintains on the drive home, handing over a drive-through cup of ice cream to lighten the delivery, “this is a lot. It would not be so bad, maybe, to have more people there for you. Something about villages, yes?” 

“You are breaking up with me,” Ilya deadpans, sticking a spoonful of mint chocolate onto his tongue. 

Sveta pulls out onto the street again, headed toward his house. “Shut up. I’m being serious. You already have me. Your teammates are texting.” Her gaze drifts to him and back to the road. “Maybe you could also see if Jane—” 

“No.” He feels her sigh as if drawn from his own chest. 

“Ilya,” she says gently. 

It’s dark outside now, the brief spills of the lamps separating either side of the interstate the only voyeur when he adjusts his elbow to press against the side of his ribs. The ice cream he’d had a visceral craving for only minutes ago now feels too sticky-sweet, thick on the backs of his teeth and numb on his tongue. 

He knows he needs to talk to Shane. He will. He just can’t stop replaying Doctor Yvonne saying I’m not certain whether or not you view this as a good thing or a bad thing and now that you’re here, I can help you continue to make decisions that are in your best interest, whatever those may be. 

He can’t stop thinking of the way Shane loves hockey. Ilya loves it too, but there’s a difference to it that he can’t name, can’t quite put his finger on. It just happens sometimes, and Ilya will remember it again. Sometimes fondly, sometimes, mortifyingly, as if he were a jealous lover. Before Rose Landry, Ilya had not thought to be jealous of other people with Shane. Not when the data had proven, time and time again, consistently, that life would find a way to lead them back together again. Even if only for a weekend, for a night, for a couple of hours. 

Hockey, though. When Ilya had foolishly and scarcely, on lonely nights and typically after heavily drinking, let himself imagine a life where he might say sweet, overly honest things to Shane like I miss you all of the time, even when you’re still here and I think you are worth the risk and please don’t leave, hockey had always been the one thing that Ilya feared would rival any chance of requite. 

He puts the cup in the holder between them, appetite soured, hands sticky as they settle limp in his lap. He does not think he could handle Shane looking at him with a pitying frown, tone soft and wrong as he says I just don’t think it’s the right choice. I’m sorry. But we have options—

Having his choice taken from him once is all it takes, Ilya’s found, to leave him unsure of how to make one by himself even now. It isn’t Shane’s fault Ilya’s put him in a place to hold so much power over him. It hadn’t even been a conscious act. But it hardly changes the fact that he does. 

Ilya cannot talk to him. Not yet. 

“Just—let me be sure there is something to tell first,” Ilya rasps eventually. He turns to face the window, props his chin in his hand and twists the material of his hoodie over his hip with the other. “Okay?” 

Sveta mentions neither the overpriced ice cream melting all over her cupholders, nor the way his voice trembles. Quietly, she agrees, “Okay.” 

His body feels heavy by the time he crosses the threshold into the house, aching for a shower but too tired to make it there. He leaves his shoes in the doorway, hoodie discarded at the end of his bed as he climbs his way into it. He’s become like that lately, careful where he used to be careless, perpetually braced for something he can’t see. Two actions born of the same feeling, maybe, but difficult to miss in the execution. 

Laid back against the pillows, Ilya pulls out his phone. He skips past the texts from Marly and his brother to get to Jane again. 

Hope you’re doing okay. 

Each time he looks at it, it makes him feel slightly more delirious. He can’t tell if the burning in his throat is laughter or tears anymore. 

He sets the phone aside on the sheets and, completely alone now, body safely hidden beneath the sheets, allows his hand to drift a familiar pathway; the outline of gold resting in between his collarbones, straight down the valley of his ribs to the—the mango. It’d been completely hidden beneath the thicker material of his hoodie but now, in just a thin t-shirt, the firmer, slightly distended skin is noticeable, fitting too easily into the curve of his palm. 

Ilya has never had to beg his body for things before. He only ever seems to find out, at times to his surprise, that it can survive things beyond comprehension over and over and over again, even when he’d been certain it wouldn’t. Even when, sometimes, he’d wanted it not to. 

Tonight, he presses all five tips of his fingers underneath his navel and thinks, to his mother, to the universe, to an unaware Shane somewhere a country away, to himself: please.

The world stays steady beneath him this time, an answer or an omen. 

Chapter 2: ii. 21-26 weeks

Chapter Summary

Shane has one four year old hanging from his forearm and another latched onto his thigh when it hits him that Ilya is going to be a father.

Chapter Notes

this chapter utilizes a work skin for the translations! to use them on mobile, click the text. to use on desktop, hover above the text. the code for the hover translations is from here by smugrobotics.

cw's for this chap:
- body changes / body image is discussed
- there is a reference to past (passive) suicidal ideology
- non-detailed descriptions of symptoms including nausea/vomiting and pain

(chapter count updated to include an epilogue.)

I L Y A 

twenty-one weeks

It takes time for him to start recognizing the changes. 

He’s not had a cigarette in weeks. Not had a drink in even longer than that. He is taking more vitamins than he ever has in his life. There’s a sense of care toward his body now that Ilya can’t recall feeling even when he was much younger, unburdened by grief and the persistent drive to avoid failure. 

It… isn’t terrible. Just different. Success had always looked like whatever he needed to look like to play well on the ice. Sharp edges, firm muscle, every liability strategically concealed. Ilya had liked that body. What it could do for him. The way people looked at it, strived for it, revered it. That body had won him a Cup. 

He looks in mirrors less these days, but when he does, it isn’t as upsetting as he thought it might be. He’d avoided them at first, terrified that he might feel resentment, as if something was being taken away from him. But the first time he’d looked at himself on purpose above the bathroom sink, really looked, he’d been surprisingly okay with what he’d seen. 

His cheeks are rich with color and fuller now, the places where his collarbones and elbows had once sharpened subtly smoothed out at the edges. His muscles haven’t left despite the limitations on his time in the gym, if anything growing more pronounced around his hips and thighs to counter the shift of weight. Doctor Yvonne says his hair and nails will grow faster, his curls steadily inching further down his neck and around his ears, the calluses underneath his knuckles actually given time to heal before Ilya splits them open again. 

Sveta isn’t hovering so much, which may be the most trustworthy proof that he’s doing okay. Today is his first appointment, in fact, that he is taking himself to without her while she travels for work. It feels good, even though there will always be a fraction of nerves present any time Ilya finds himself in an exam room. At least he doesn’t have to get undressed this time. 

There is also the fear of being seen. His LTIR announcement has had time to fade from the headlines at this point but Sveta is plausible deniability. If anyone were to see them walking into the clinic together, it would fit neatly into the narrative that the tabloids have already run with. But Ilya walking in by himself in progressively baggier clothing would be probably not so straightforward. Would probably be a headline that would not be forgotten so easily. 

But he is determined to not take Doctor Yvonne up on her offer for house visits unless he physically cannot get there anymore, so. The clinic it is. 

He is still knuckling sleep out of his eyes as he walks through the front doors into the lobby of the medical building, keeping his sunglasses on until he reaches the inside of the elevator. Maybe he’s slightly more nervous than he’d thought. 

Most of it is routine, once he’s safely inside of her office. Sveta has made her staff sign NDA’s, a precaution which Ilya thought was overdramatic at the time but has since become incredibly grateful for, and none of the women who work there seem to be particularly invested in hockey regardless. Or they are nice enough to pretend when he’s there, anyway. 

He checks in at the desk and makes his way through the routine, usually taken back immediately to avoid the waiting room. After his weight, blood pressure, and temperature have all been taken, he finds himself back in the baby blue exam room. He takes a seat in the chair this time, relieved, at least, to be avoiding the table. 

It makes him kind of dizzy to look at the numerous posters and information plastered to the walls still, so he pulls out his phone instead while he waits. He lets Sveta know that he made it okay, ignores the preview of a scathing message from his brother, but pauses over Marly’s name underneath it. 

His last message from two days ago sits unopened. He thinks what everyone else thinks, probably. Officially, Ilya’s out on LTIR for an upper body injury for the rib that’s been bothering him off and on all season. Unofficially, he’s received dozens of messages in the team chat, each one varying degrees of offensive, congratulating him and Svetlana. Ilya hasn’t responded to those either. 

His thumb hovers over the screen in his and Marly’s thread. He does miss him, and if he’s going to see him at all over the next few months, it’s probably better to do it sooner rather than later. 

He gets as far as Hey sorry before there’s a knock at the door, and he pockets his phone again as Doctor Yvonne steps into the room. 

“Good morning, Ilya,” she says, her smile subdued. 

Ilya tries for one back. “Good morning.” 

She steps to the side to set down her clipboard on the cabinet and use the sanitizer dispenser, and then takes a seat on the stool. “Just you today?” 

“Yes,” he confirms. “Sveta is traveling this week.” 

“Well. I appreciate you coming in anyway. I know you’ve been nervous the last few appointments. I hope our conversation today can clear up some things for you and make you a bit more comfortable moving forward.” 

Slipping his hands in between his thighs, Ilya sits up straighter in the chair as she logs into the computer at her side to pull up his information. He watches her eyes flick over the newest vitals listed from today and is pleased when her face remains neutral, but he can’t keep his own gaze from flicking to and away from the folder on the cabinet. He has not had good experiences with folders so far. 

He would like more pictures. He has a copy of the sonogram from his first appointment but it was difficult to tell what he was looking at, even after Sveta had explained it for the tenth time. Because of the C-gene they say it will be difficult to tell much anyway until later on, and he wonders if now is long enough to finally see more. 

The expression on her face when she moves the screen aside and wheels to sit directly in front of him does not seem to suggest that it’s a good time to ask. 

“Ilya, before we go over the results, I wouldn’t be doing my job correctly if I didn’t make it clear to you that this is considered a high risk pregnancy,” she says. “Androfecundia puts you at a significantly elevated risk of complications, and we also have to take into consideration that we still may not have the full picture about the operation you underwent as a teenager. If you go through with this, you will need to adhere to strict guidelines in order to have the best chance at carrying to term, and even then, something could go wrong that’s out of your control.” 

Easing in a breath, Doctor Yvonne rests an elbow on the cabinet beside her and glances at the folder, but doesn’t pick it up yet. Ilya feels pins and needles start at the base of his skull and work their way up over his head as he stares at the floor. 

“If you don’t go through with this,” she continues carefully, “as I said, your pregnancy is considered high risk. This means, medically speaking, you would still be able to terminate even if you surpass the twenty-four week deadline here in Massachusetts. I wouldn’t encourage taking too long, but you do have some time to think about this, given that you only confirmed the pregnancy five weeks ago and we’ve just now completed the necessary scans.” 

He flexes his fingers in between his thighs. “What kind of… complications,” Ilya asks. “For me? Or—for baby?” 

“Possibly both,” she answers honestly. “As a professional athlete, you are starting with an advantage. If there was anyone with a high chance of having a successful pregnancy under these conditions, it would be you.” She gives him another small smile. “But bodies can still fail us. Sometimes for no one reason. Sometimes even if we do everything right.” 

“But it would not be cruel to go through with it,” Ilya clarifies. “You do not see anything right now that makes you think they would not be able to have, ah, a good life?” 

Finally, Doctor Yvonne’s face softens, the clinical mask slipping enough that Ilya feels pacified in being able to read her a little better. 

“Oh, no. Of course not, Ilya. If there was anything like that, I would have told you right away,” she assures. “The main reason I want to be clear about this is just so you know that you have a choice. I understand that you may have already made peace with the outcome of the situation you were subjected to when you were younger. You were told by someone whom you assumed was a healthcare professional that you could no longer become pregnant, and you believed that. If hearing suddenly now that not only were you able to still become pregnant but also that you currently are pregnant was something you’ve been having complicated feelings about, that would be completely understandable.” 

Her hand falls from the folder altogether in his peripherals, fingers laced together over her knee. The speckled pattern of the tile grows into a blur where Ilya’s been focusing on it. 

“Trauma can be a tricky thing, especially when it’s central to our bodies. And pregnancy, statistically, can also be a traumatic experience. There will be lots of things your body does without your consent as it works at creating a new life. And if that’s what you choose to do, I would be honored to help you navigate it. But right now, I am here for you. If this pregnancy is not within your best interest, I want to make it clear that this is a safe space to discuss that possibility as well.” 

He should do that, probably. Or at least discuss it, like she’d suggested. He’s spent the last nearly four months in a limbo, ignoring the pull of the league on one side of him, his family and Russia on the other while he waited to find out if it was real or some kind of fluke. And even then it hadn’t felt real, like something Ilya would get to have and keep. He’d kept waiting for the other shoe to drop in order to move forward—to do the scans, to talk to Marly, to tell Shane, to believe it—but now, here he is, and it’s still real. Nothing waiting for him in the room with no lights on, no footsteps outside in the hall. 

No one left to tell him what he should choose. 

It would be easier, not going through with it. Ilya could be back on the ice within the year. Maybe as soon as the next couple of months. He would not carry this guilt every time he sees Shane on the television, and he wouldn’t feel such a sense of growing dread at the thought of returning home again one day. Other than the usual kind, anyway. Life could be… simpler again. If he only had to worry about himself. 

Except for the fact that, despite his affinity for refusing to get attached to good things, the thought of losing this, the ache it sprouts behind his sternum, the cinch in his stomach, is proof enough that he believes it. That he doesn’t want to lose it, regardless of guilt or home or even Shane. 

That’s his answer. Is it not? 

“I want to do it,” he says eventually, glancing down at his hands. “I have always wanted a family. I did not think it would happen like this, but…” he takes in a deep breath, then lifts his chin again. “I am sure.” 

It feels good to say it out loud. It feels even better that Doctor Yvonne’s smile solidifies a little more at his confidence, something sort of proud inside of it as she watches Ilya’s shoulders straighten. 

It feels good that she doesn’t question him. Not once. 

“Okay, Ilya. Then, unless you tell me otherwise, that’s how we’ll plan to proceed.” Now, finally, she reaches for the folder. “Would you like to go over the results of your MRI now?” 

He feels marginally more prepared this time when he nods. “Yes, please.” 

“The good news is, I am fairly confident that you will be able to carry to full term and deliver a healthy baby.” 

His newfound confidence wavers. “There is bad news?” 

“Not necessarily.” She flips open a page and turns it toward him to let him look over the information. “You have something that we call placenta accreta. In short, it’s something that can happen in pregnancies that occur after procedures like the one that you were subjected to. It means that the placenta, which attaches to your baby via the umbilical cord and provides them with necessary nutrients and hormones, has embedded itself a bit too deeply into the wall of the uterus.” 

He frowns. “But you said the procedure from before didn’t work.” 

“I told you that they failed in reference to accomplishing their initial goal for the procedure, which is that you wouldn’t be able to get pregnant afterward,” she rephrases. “It’s difficult to say for certain whether the failure was due to malpractice or simply your age, given the time that’s passed since the initial procedure. Either way, they clearly did not succeed in removing enough of the uterine lining to the point where a pregnancy wouldn’t be viable.” 

Chewing at the inside of his cheek, Ilya takes a minute to scan the rest of the page in front of him. It’s a black and white print out of information regarding the condition, and then more grainy images of his scans with different points marked and labeled. 

“So what does this mean,” he asks when he can’t make sense of them. 

“With pregnancies on the PAS spectrum, our main concern is going to be delivery,” she tells him, gingerly reaching out to turn the page again. “The placenta is typically delivered or removed following the baby during a standard pregnancy. Because your placenta is embedded more deeply in the uterine wall, it may not detach as easily as we’d hope. This can cause very severe, potentially life threatening bleeding for you if not handled correctly.” 

Before he can focus too much on this, she redirects his attention to the portion of the page labeled Next Steps. 

“We have several safeguards we put in place to combat this. We’ll have frequent scans to monitor placental growth and make sure no other complications arise. We’ll have you avoid heavy lifting, sex, and any other rigorous physical activity, especially throughout the second and third trimesters,” she lists. “As we approach your due date, we’ll schedule a planned C-section delivery, usually somewhere between 34 and 36 weeks, and we’ll discuss how to go about making sure you feel comfortable before, during, and after the procedure. We’ll have all of the necessary equipment and staff on hand for a transfusion if needed, and we’ll talk about the possibility of a hysterectomy directly following the birth, what might lead us to make that decision, and what that might look like should you decide to go ahead with it.” 

Ilya nods. “Hysterectomy is…?” 

“Surgical removal of the uterus,” she explains. “That part is not mandatory, technically—but it can become so if we aren’t able to stop the bleeding. We’ll know more as you progress, but it’s always a good thing to be educated properly about beforehand.” 

He sits with this too for a moment. He was never really educated properly about any of this. It just doesn’t happen that way in Russia, not like it does here. There are no courses or teachers, the concept of losing reputation too large a risk to confide in even a close family for fear of being reported. Mama had tried once, but it hadn’t been the same, and Ilya hadn’t paid close enough attention. Hadn’t understood enough then. He fidgets with the cross at his neck. 

“So. If the bleeding happens, and you have to do the surgery, the… hysterectomy,” he glances at her to make sure he’s following, “you are telling me that this is the only time I can—that I will be able to—?” 

“Yes,” she confirms gently. “A pregnancy in your case is already pretty rare. In the event that the hysterectomy would save your life, and you agree to it, removal of the uterus would be our primary course of action, and this would permanently prevent you from being able to get pregnant again afterward.” 

He turns his head to the side, taking what he can of his privacy. He feels strangely calm, the familiar churn of nausea he’d braced for never making an appearance. He’s had a very long time to come to terms with the fact that this was an impossibility. He does not view it as something his body owes him, nor as something he probably would have elected to do had he been aware he was still capable of it. Not necessarily because he’s against it, just… 

There had been a time when Ilya couldn't picture a life for himself past the age he is now. It wasn’t like he’d had a plan, but he’d figured, between the hockey and the drinking and the cigarettes and his genetics that something would eventually be his undoing. Do the dirty work for him. That, finally, he would be free of responsibility and expectation once and for all. That he could rest. 

There is irony here, he thinks. A child is the opposite of rest and liberation. And yet suddenly, he catches glimpses of something beyond. A year from now. Two, four, ten. A future. Things he hadn’t been able to pull himself out of the depths of the past long enough to picture before. 

A child will not fix him. It will not cure the scars from the sport he loves and may one day return to. It will not reverse the damage from the liquor and the smoke. If fate decides that he’ll inherit his mother’s sadness or his father’s mindless anger, it will not stop this either, though he can do everything he can to slow it. 

But, for the first time in years, Ilya can envision a life beyond the present. It terrifies him as much as it excites him, the scope of the possibilities. Having potentially only one chance at this only makes him more certain about it, more confident in his choice. 

And, behind all of the rest of it, another voice concedes that if there is only one chance at this, he’s glad that it’s Shane. 

The gold is warm now tucked in between his fingertips, same as the sheen in his eyes when he blinks. “Okay,” he rasps. 

Doctor Yvonne leaves him with the folder and a smile, wheeling to the side again to access her computer. When she has his chart pulled back up, she says, “Tell me about the rest of your symptoms. Have you noticed any of them lessening? Getting worse?” 

He clears his throat. “I still have the headaches sometimes. And my lower back hurts most of the time.” 

“Sounds about right,” she gives him a sympathetic look as she types on her keyboard. “Are the headaches worse or more frequent than last time? Or pretty much the same?” 

“Same, I think.” Ilya frowns. “I am also… napping often. I said this is fine, but Sveta wanted me to bring it up.” 

“Fatigue is very common, especially during the second trimester. As long as you aren’t sleeping so much that it disrupts your other basic functioning—bathing, eating, socializing, things like that—I’m not concerned.” 

He gestures vaguely with the hand holding the folder. “And all of this is… normal?” 

“In your case, extremely. C-gene pregnancies are more highly symptomatic by design. The symptoms you’re experiencing definitely aren’t enjoyable, but I’d say you’re handling them extremely well, for what it’s worth.” She pauses her typing. “Have you felt them moving yet?” 

“No.” Ilya’s gaze snaps to hers. “Should they be doing this?” 

Doctor Yvonne purses her lower lip, tilting her head toward her shoulder. “It’s possible. Typically we start to see movement occur between the sixteen and twenty-four week mark. But given the circumstances, I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes a little bit longer in your case.” Evidently sensing his nerves, she quickly moves on. “We’ll check in on movement again at your next appointment. Okay?” 

Ilya waits while she finishes typing up the rest of her notes, already envisioning his conversation with Sveta later. Despite the well of information, Doctor Yvonne had been right. He does feel slightly more prepared being informed, and more comfortable speaking up. 

He goes to open his mouth to do exactly that, but she beats him to it this time. 

“I only have one last thing to ask you before you leave today,” she says, something brighter in her tone. She powers off her computer and turns to him, lacing her fingers together on top of the miniature desk with a small grin. “Would you like to know what you’re having, Ilya?” 

“Yes.” He nods, quick and instinctive. “Please.” 

She pulls the sonogram machine from beside the cabinet. “Then let’s find out.” 

He waits until he’s back home to text Sveta the picture so that he won’t be driving when she inevitably calls to bombard him. It’s much clearer than the one from five weeks ago, his body having made room, slowly but surely, for them to grow. 

In the doorway of the upstairs guest bedroom, Ilya stands and considers. He finds the text he’d never finished from this morning under Marly’s name and backspaces his Hey sorry in favor of a vague, likely insufficient for the gap in time it’s been since he last answered: Are you interested in some manual labor. 

He takes his lip between his teeth as he steps inside, running a hand over the trim of the door, feeling the soft, rarely used carpet beneath his feet. There’s no attached bathroom, but it’s got natural light, a closet, space to expand. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and Ilya pulls it back out to read it. 

Fuck yeah, Cliff sends back. I just took my adderall and ive got a home depot gift card my sister gave me for christmas last year. What’s the move? 

He laughs as he drops down onto the corner of the guest bed. Come over. I will buy you lunch. 

The answering row of saluting emojis is still on his screen when it’s replaced by Sveta’s contact. He has to take a moment to stop grinning before he picks up, because she will undoubtedly be able to tell. 

“Hello, Sveta,” he says. 

“Did you tell her about the headaches?” she asks in rapid Russian. “And the napping?” 

Ilya sighs loudly. “Yes. I said everything that I was supposed to.” 

“And all of it is okay?” 

“She said it’s normal. But I will send pictures of the papers since I know you don’t believe me.” Impatient and oddly giddy, Ilya keeps talking before she can ask any more questions. “I am going to ask Marly to help me make the upstairs guest room into a baby room, I think.” 

“Oh, Ilya,” she gentles. “That’s a wonderful idea. You will let me furnish it though, yes?” 

He curses at her and they bicker for a minute, familiar and comforting. He knows this elation won’t last, that everything Doctor Yvonne had warned him about is still looming. But for the moment he can’t make himself focus on that, too preoccupied with the good parts for once. 

The call lapses into a slow silence, sitting easily between them. Eventually, Sveta clears her throat. 

“So… you’ve decided, then.” 

Ilya sniffs, glancing down at himself. “I already had, I think.” 

She hums. “It will be a lovely nursery, Ilya.” 

Blinking rapidly to clear the sudden emotion from his eyes, Ilya bites his lip to keep from grinning again. 

“Yes. I think she will like it.” 

He has to pull the phone away from his ear at the noise Sveta makes, the smile splitting his face anyway. 

S H A N E

twenty-three weeks

Shane has one four year old hanging from his forearm and another latched onto his thigh when it hits him that Ilya is going to be a father. 

“I don’t buy it,” Hayden complains from the adjacent sofa, squinting down at his phone. “There’s just no way. Rozanov taking off mid-season just because he got somebody pregnant?” 

“What a novel idea,” Jackie says flatly. 

Sheepish, Hayden locks his phone and reclines over the back of the chair to look at her where she’s feeding Arthur who seems determined to wear his food instead of eat it. “Hey! I was there for every kid so far!” 

She rolls her eyes and then flicks them to Shane, as if to adopt him onto her side of the argument. Shane isn’t paying attention, honestly. Hasn’t been since the moment Hayden brought up the stupid rumor that seems to have followed him from Florida back to Montreal—and several other awkward off-ice interviews in between. Shane has never been as good at smiling and nodding as he’s had to be these last few months. 

“Plenty of players take LTIR because of their partners,” Shane mutters, carefully extracting himself from the pile of children. 

“Sure,” Hayden agrees, “but first of all, they’re usually married. You think the league would just let him skip out that many games for a girlfriend, or—whatever they are that he won’t confirm?” he asks. “Second of all, if it’s true, why bother stating the official reasoning as an upper body injury?” 

“He played with a rib injury the first half of last season. It’s not uncommon to have complications of flares after that.” 

“Stubborn motherfucker,” Hayden mumbles. 

“Swear jar,” Shane and Jackie say at the same time. Hayden heaves a sigh and reaches for his pocket. 

“We’ve been pretty lucky with our pregnancies,” Jackie reminds him, coming over to hand off Arthur. “You shouldn’t assume it’s the same way for everyone else. With all the secrecy and the timeline, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it was high risk. And good for him for citing whatever the hell he wants—it’s nobody else’s business.” 

“Swear jar,” Hayden smirks. Jackie blinks. None of the kids or Shane step in to defend him. 

“Your son is covered in peanut butter,” she says instead, which is its own kind of penance. “You know how he gets about bath time. Come and help me.” 

Hayden groans. “Anything but the peanut butter,” he fusses, but ultimately hefts a sticky Arthur onto his hip and heads for the stairs. Jackie herds the other two up the stairs behind him, and then pauses at the base to look back at him. 

“It shouldn’t take long with both of us. Do you mind watching Amber for a minute?” 

“I don’t mind,” Shane smiles. 

And then he’s alone with a four month old. 

He wasn’t around as much for the twins, but Arthur had been a very curious baby, babbling often to himself and grabbing whatever was in the vicinity—and usually trying to taste it, too—with his chubby fists. Watching Arthur required a very keen eye and instincts carried over specifically from the ice, and sometimes it’s still the case. 

Amber doesn’t seem like she’s going to be very similar. She’s lost some of the ambiguity that most newborns have, her cheeks rounding out, features beginning to look vaguely similar to her siblings and parents. But the similarities seem to stop there, because while the rest of them can be fairly energetic, Amber’s been a very calm baby so far. 

“You probably never get any rest around here,” Shane murmurs, leaning forward on his elbows to watch her in the electric rocker. 

He feels guilty for not having considered that Svetlana might have some sort of condition that would require Ilya to be present full time. The pictures of her have been scarce since the ones in Boston, the result of either strategy and paranoia or a much more aggressive media manager. Maybe there really is something else going on. 

It startles him to think about Ilya with a baby. And then it startles him even more that it kind of doesn’t. 

Most of the headlines that make it big are the ones about the fights, the penalties, the partying. But, with not even that much digging, there are dozens of other articles outlining him visiting a children’s hospital in Boston, spending the day taking pictures and signing things. He’s donated cars, clothes, food to local women and children’s shelters. He was in the background of a photograph taken at a teammates birthday party last year, sitting criss-cross on the floor with a tea cup in his hand instead of a beer. 

Shane, conversely, has never had an instant spark with children despite them seeming to like him anyway. He likes Hayden’s kids but in relatively small doses, and he’s always been somewhat relieved to go home after spending a day corralling and keeping track of them. 

To be fair—this is also admittedly how he feels just being around Hayden for a full day sometimes. So he guesses he can’t assume it’s the children specifically. 

In front of him, Amber stirs in her rocker. She doesn’t get fussy often but Jackie’s walked him through the steps enough times now that he knows how to unbuckle her and slowly lift her out, how to place her head in the space between jaw and collarbone with her little fist featherlight on his chest. 

He double checks the rug is free of toys or other familial debris and then paces a long line back and forth on it between the coffee table and the TV, keeping his palm a steady weight on her back until she settles. 

Shane’s only ever thought about kids in regards to that vague checklist he keeps running in the back of his mind; there are the priorities, things he can’t live without, and then there are the secondary goals. Things that would be nice to accomplish, but not necessarily because they’d be personally rewarding. 

Some of them, sure. Hobbies he’d like to pick up one day that seem interesting. Skills he’d have time to hone without hockey taking up so much of his schedule. But most of it is the sort of stuff he’s shoved aside and labeled normal people things in his brain, things that would be rewarding because they feel like he’s fulfilling some sort of unspoken milestone, an invisible threshold he’s sensed he must cross in order to be considered to have lived a ‘full life’. Things that would make his parents happy, make them not worry about him. Things like marriage, maybe school one day. The other parts of hockey that he can store on a mantle one day, like the frames and medals and award ceremonies. Things like kids. 

In this hypothetical future, he has the house with the yard in the suburbs. He has the wife everyone assumes he wants. Like his teammates, like his parents. He has a couple of kids and maybe a dog or something else terribly nice and normal and presented neatly enough that no one would ever think to look any more deeply at it. 

In this future, it’s difficult not to imagine himself miserable. He’s never been able to envision it fully. Just blank slates, bodies with empty faces and missing warmth, like he’s looking at a photograph of someone he can’t place. The harder he focuses on the details, the more the world seems to crumble—the wood of the picket fence, the concrete steps leading up to the front door. The more he forces himself to imagine it the way he should instead of the way he wants, the more it dissolves before he can flesh it out further. It’s the echo of laughter that he never finds the source of, scuff marks on the hardwood not his own, television static in the living room that won’t ever turn off. 

It’s what happened with Rose. He’d tried to fit himself into the mold, because for once he’d met someone willing to play the part with him. But even then it had uncanny angles and watery edges, spooked when he touched it like the surface of a lake until it’d rippled out into nothingness, leaving only his own reflection in its place. 

The problem, because there always is one, when it comes to the things he wants, is that there is a version of this future that isn’t blurry. The problem is that it’s the one he’d seen that morning in Boston, too sharp, too vivid, too real, too separate from the life that was possible to actually have. 

The problem is that, against all odds, no  matter which way he tilts and turns it, it’s always fucking Ilya. 

Everywhere there had once been a big, gray nothingness seems to take shape around him, and for once, Shane isn’t the one having to bend himself until he breaks trying to fit. He just does, the surroundings filling themselves in, the details secondary still, yes, but as the result of a centerpoint that can’t be mistaken for anything else, that isn’t smudged out at the corners. 

This version of the future unfolds and unfolds with no end in sight. The house is no longer cardboard, skin no longer only silhouette. There is gear in the coat closet and something soft playing on the television, shoes stacked by the door. There are shameless grins and callus-worn hands that fit into his so well purely because they’ve been all the same places, a language made up completely of anything but actual words. 

There’s the hardwood and the tall windows and when Shane follows the laughter this time, he can finally see it, coming around the corner—small palms turned upwards and a mouth with missing teeth, a body that reaches no higher than their hips, even on tip-toes. This version of things is terribly fragile, but it’s real in a way that the other one could never be. 

But this is not a future Shane gets to have. He’s a voyeur of his own making, stuck on the outside while someone else lives it instead. 

By the time Hayden returns at the end of the stairs, harried but softened by bathtime and bedtime, Amber is back sleeping soundly against his shoulder. Hayden offers to take her with a grateful smile, and goes to hand her off to Jackie to be fed while Shane idles by the sofa, one side of his neck suddenly cold. 

“Hey, um. Sorry. For earlier. Jack’s was right, we have no idea what’s going on with Rozanov and it was shitty to assume things based on how he acts on the ice.” 

Shane looks up when he comes back, the back of his neck prickling. “Why are you apologizing to me?” 

Hayden crosses over to the fridge, tossing up a shoulder as he grabs a water bottle. “I know you guys have always had this weird bond over the rivalry bullshit, and you seemed sort of bummed about All Stars. And… ever since, honestly.” He uncaps it and takes a sip, glancing at Shane over the plastic. “I’m not saying it’s all related, but. I took it too far.” 

Shane blinks at him. 

“Jackie chewed you out, didn’t she?” 

With a wince, Hayden deflates against the island. “Yeah. I’m surprised I have an ass left on me still, actually,” he chuckles. “But, for what it’s worth, I am serious about what I said being a little too far. I know I’d hate it if some guy on another team was shit talking the way I parent my kids. You know. Whether they were born yet or not.” 

“That’s… big of you, Hayd.” 

Shane accepts the bottle he’s offered and takes a drink himself, bracing a shoulder against the wall of the kitchen while Hayden leans back against the island. 

“So, you really haven’t heard anything? Off the record?” 

“No. I haven’t,” Shane says, and hates that it’s still technically the truth. 

“Hm. Well.” Hayden sighs. “I guess time will tell, then.” 

Shane isn’t so sure. If there’s anyone that can keep a secret, he has firsthand knowledge that Ilya is a professional. Shane might be the only one that can rival him there, too. 

“I guess so.” 

Hayden doesn’t push again after that. For the first time, Shane sort of wishes he would. 

I L Y A

twenty-six weeks

The nausea comes back. Ilya finds it is much more difficult to get on and off of the floor now than it was five months ago. 

Ten weeks left until his scheduled delivery date. Leave it to his father to keep him on his toes, even in death. 

There’s an open suitcase on the end of his bed, clothes haphazardly shoved inside in a way that defies physics, he’s sure. A phone charger has unspooled itself back onto the sheets. Ilya yanks it back inside and slaps a hand down on the mattress to steady himself when the ache in his temples pulses and makes his stomach turn again. 

After several slow breaths, he reaches over to exit Sveta’s contact and find Doctor Yvonne’s instead. It’s past midnight, but she’d said to call her any time. He hopes that she’d meant it. 

It rings several times. Just when he thinks it’s going to go to voicemail she answers, very clearly having just woken up. “Ilya?” she asks. “How are you? Is everything—?” 

“Do I need special permission to get on a flight?” 

There is a longer pause, then sheets rustling and the sound of a light turning on. “Are you planning on flying somewhere?” 

“Yes. I need to go back to Russia for a week. Maybe two. My father is dead,” Ilya delivers mechanically. “Svetlana says that there are rules about this. So, do I need a note? Or—slip thing?” 

His hands are shaking on the luggage, knuckles white while he tries to breathe through his nose. The pain in his lower back is worse than when he’d injured it on the ice, throbbing in time with his too-fast heart rate. He does not think it would bode well for him if she heard him throw up right now. 

“Ilya, I—I have to strongly advise against this,” she says. “You haven’t technically passed the threshold for the no-flight rule yet, but you are still considered high risk, especially this far along.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t have a choice. I will have to handle everything. My family is… my brother is not…” he stops, shaking his head. “It will not get done if I am not there.” 

“I understand. I do. But a transatlantic flight on top of things like planning a funeral, arranging accommodations for guests, managing a tense family situation, all of that is added stress on you and the baby,” she maintains, gentle but firm. “Not to mention the risk of early labor, which isn’t uncommon under significant stress. If for any reason you deliver in Russia, that could very seriously complicate things, and I legally wouldn’t be able to intervene to help you. This is… extremely risky.” 

Ilya’s eyes burn behind closed lids. 

“I will be careful,” he croaks. 

“I…” Doctor Yvonne starts, then exhales slowly. “I can’t stop you.” 

Picking his phone up off the bed, Ilya turns and sits carefully beside his suitcase. It takes several tries to swallow past the knot in his throat, tears instead of bile this time. 

“My mother is buried there,” he admits after a stretch of silence, when he feels like he can get the words out. “This is the last time I will go to Russia, I think. If I do not get another chance, I—I want to know she was able to meet her at least once.” 

Doctor Yvonne is quiet for a moment. “And if any of your family members find out that you’re twenty-six weeks pregnant?” 

Ilya’s voice hardens again, determination sharpening it into a promise. 

“They won’t.” 

There’s another pause, then a sigh, and then more rustling. “Have you left already?” 

“I am about to leave now. Flight is in three hours,” Ilya says, glancing at the time. “Svetlana will be here soon. She is coming with me. I will not be alone.” 

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Do you have somewhere to write?” 

Ilya grits his teeth against the pain and makes it to the nightstand, rifling through the drawers until he finds a stray pen and the back of a cardboard box. He rips it off and scribbles notes to himself as Yvonne explains what he should and should not do, things that will help on the flight, how to pick up an emergency script for his nausea medication before he leaves so he doesn’t run out. 

When the cardboard is full, he folds the slip and tucks it into the suitcase more gently than he had the other things. For safe keeping. 

“You’re very admirable, Ilya,” Yvonne tells him. 

He gives a tired snort. “I am doing exactly what you told me I should not do.” 

“You’re willing to do a lot for your family.” 

“It is not—like that.” Ilya winces. “They are not good, maybe, but I just—” 

He cuts himself off when he realizes he can’t finish the sentence, lost somewhere between honesty and a stale sense of duty. Too hesitant to condemn them all when his mother had also technically a part of it. When Ilya still is too, and when he’s so determined to pave a way forward unlike what’s behind him. 

“Then I can’t imagine the lengths you’ll go to for a good one,” Yvonne says gently. “Be careful. Come back safely. We’ll talk then.” 

Ilya nods, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He sniffs. “Yes. Okay. Thank you for this, and—the notes and—I will be careful.” 

He finishes packing slightly more calmly after he hangs up, stepping into the bathroom to clean his mouth a final time before Svetlana arrives. His hair is much too long to have been appropriate for a trip home before, but there’s hardly time for anything to be done about it now. He combs through it with his fingers and tries to flatten it behind his ears, a few stubborn curls laying over his temple. 

Further down in his reflection, his midsection is stretching a black t-shirt over his abdomen, a jacket hanging unzipped at either side. Russia is cold and Ilya spends most of his time there covered up anyway, in big jackets and scarves and layers. Between the clothes and the fact that he’s not seen his family in person in over a year anyway, he hopes it’s enough to keep anyone from suspicion. 

Ilya flips the lights off and walks back into the bedroom, allowing himself one more moment of freedom before he zips the jacket up and has to pretend. 

He’s been enjoying walking around the house like this the last few weeks, oddly fascinated by the way his shirts stretch in a wide curve over his hips or going without one altogether, getting used to the feeling of it. The extra room he allows himself when he’s walking past cabinets or bending over, the way one hand is nearly always on it, as grounding as his mother’s necklace. The way he accommodates without even thinking about it. 

Will it be like that after too, he wonders? When she’s here? 

"Надеюсь, я поступаю правильно по отношению к тебе, малышка,""I hope I'm doing right by you, baby girl," Ilya murmurs, rubbing his palm over the curve of his belly. "я пытаюсь. я обещаю.""I'm trying. I promise."

His phone pings on the bed, probably Svetlana. But Ilya waits another moment, enjoying the first reprieve of sickness he’s felt since the moment he hung up with Alexei early this afternoon. The most peace he will probably have for the next two weeks. 

Something flutters underneath his hand, and Ilya stills. 

He has surpassed the twenty-four week mark already with no movement. Sometimes he’ll think she might be… but then nothing. His hand hovers close, hardly breathing as he waits. 

It happens again. Stronger this time. Not anything near a kick, but significant enough that not even the upset of his stomach today can convince him it’s anything else. 

"Яна,""Yana," he breathes like a revelation, gentling his fingertips until goosebumps erupt on the skin where he’s lifted his shirt, "привет, моя девочка.""Hi, my girl."

He presses lightly with his fingers over the spot, and the movement comes again. Like butterflies. Being gentle with him back. A laugh tumbles out of Ilya as he drops onto the bed again. 

"Папа здесь. Я буду тебя оберегать.""Papa is here. I will keep you safe."

His phone begins to ring, and Ilya reaches over with his free hand to pick up. He swipes Sveta’s call to the side and opens her text instead, letting her know he’ll be outside in a second. 

He finishes zipping up his suitcase, locks up the house and gets into her passenger seat. By the time he’s boarding the plane, armed with nausea meds and Sveta’s steadying weight at his side, Ilya feels maybe the calmest he’s ever felt going home. 

He slips his hand into his jacket pocket so he can reach for her again, and drifts off to pressure against his fingertips, grief and a brand new life meeting in the middle.

Chapter End Notes

a hollanov reunion is on the horizon! hooray! :D

Chapter 3: iii. 27 weeks

Chapter Summary

The ringing stops, and the line picks up. 

“Ilya?” he asks the answering silence. 

The silence answers: “Shane.” 

Chapter Notes

click/hover translations are once again used in this chapter, but knowing these two words will help with context:
pominki is a traditional russian memorial meal that takes place following a funeral/burial, like we see in episode 5.
kladbishche translates to cemetery / graveyard

no illustrations in this one since last chap had the 26 week photo, feel free to go back and check that one for reference until next chap!

I L Y A

twenty-seven weeks

He and Alexei sit on opposite sides of the casket for the ceremony. Ilya does not attend the viewing. 

Russia is both new and ancient, its ice cold jaws always hovering, boxing him in even underneath the wide open sky. It makes him ache, seeing the smoke shaped clouds against the blue-gray again, driving past streets that’d left scratches on his shins and lead in tightly wound shoulders. He’d learned things here that had once felt more sacred than mama’s scriptures; how to stand, how to swallow a smile. The length of his hair and how to walk in shoes that were perpetually too large for him to fill. How to say yes and no, which one earned him punishment and which was rewarded. How to reveal nothing despite the story written across his body. A clumsy fall. An accident. A rib injury. 

But he’d confused compliance with willing obedience then, believed that fear was love. Mama had tried to tell him this. Ilya hadn’t listened, but he knows better now. 

The funeral isn’t unlike any of the others Ilya was dragged to as a child. Black and bleak and needlessly extravagant for a man who’d buried his wife with little more than a wave of his hand and a couple of signatures. For a man upheld as the standard of honor and duty, grievously lost to a disease that doesn’t discriminate and perhaps, in the end, might have been the only thing brave enough to truly stand down his father in the ways Ilya could never quite manage the bravery for. 

In other words, this is the first time Ilya’s found himself unconsciously reaching for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket that he stopped carrying six months ago. He wraps his fingers around Svetlana’s instead. 

The table at the pominkimemorial meal is arranged well, paid for, like most everything else during this trip, by Ilya. The decorations, the placards, the tedious necessities. Everything functions accordingly, but the banquet hall still feels stifling, too dim and too ripe with scents he’d forgotten to remember, too crowded with family that look at him like a stranger. It used to make him that much more desperate to prove himself to them, but this is something else he’s let go of in the last few years. 

He excuses himself from the table before he should and later than he’d have preferred, slipping his coat on over the thick, stiff dress shirt he has on underneath, and the lower layer beneath that. His stature and build have given him a natural advantage, and with the coat, Ilya appears, for the most part, just the same as he would have a year ago. 

Ilya steps outside into the courtyard, his exhale heavy and visible against the air. Upon making certain he’s alone, he glances down and murmurs mournfully, “I will not have to keep you hidden for much longer, ЯночкаYanochka."

She has been moving a lot since that first night, but she’s been quiet today. Ilya wonders if that sort of thing is something she can pick up on or not, if she can feel his moods. Or maybe, he thinks, she is simply as utterly exhausted as he is. 

His dress shoes crunch against a translucent layer of fresh snow on the concrete as he makes his way over to a vacant bench that faces the courtyard, an intricate fountain in the center quite literally frozen in time and silent. 

The whistle of the wind against his cheeks feels refreshing. Every limb in his body feels heavy, every move more deliberate. His shoulders ache, his lower back aches, his head aches. It’s a miracle he’d been able to get through some semblance of a meal in there today without it coming back up again. The gravity doesn’t feel right here, and getting back home—meaning Boston, this time—is yet another ache that can’t yet be addressed. 

The weight comes so easy here, like an old comfort blanket. The awareness of how much space he takes up, how to do it in the right ways. There will always be a part of him that stays here. But it’s not where his future is, and lately, Ilya has been especially keen to start moving toward it. 

It’s the last place he should be thinking of Shane, but he does anyway. It’s a habit—has been for years, but more so recently. Shane, whom Ilya had once resented for the passionate advocacy of his mother, for the steady support of his father. Shane the product of that, that Ilya had slowly, unbeknownst to even himself, come to search for the quiet intimacy of. A hand in his hair, the trace of lips across chin, nose, temple, waiting mouth. The echo of a voice in his subconscious that had said his name with more tenderness than anyone has in a decade. More than he deserves, probably. 

When Ilya thinks of how he’d like to love, he thinks of Shane. Earnest and stubborn and maybe just a little scared, in that way that people get when they don’t want to lose it. 

He’s spent a great deal of time trying not to think about Shane lately. He’s been good—avoided the photos and the articles, refused to stare at the heart-faced, hazel eyed disposition of Rose Landry brushing elbows with him walking down the street while he carries her bags, so aggravatingly perfect that it used to make him seethe. 

The last ones had been two weeks ago at a cafe in Ottawa. He’d seen them on accident. He still sees them when he blinks. What is he supposed to do? Call randomly? Send a text? The longer he waits, the more guilty he feels. The more he worries that all of those fears he had in the beginning could still ring true: that Shane had felt something for him, yes, at one point. That he may still even care. 

Just not more than he does about the things he has now. 

The door of the banquet hall opens again, and the thoughts of Shane dissolve in his mind as if they can be seen on the outside, tucked away and safely concealed like everything else. Ilya is tired of shame, tired of secrets. Tired of holding his tongue. 

He memorized the sound of Alexei’s footsteps the moment he’d started wearing a hand-me-down pair of their father’s old boots. Pity mistaken for respect, though Alexei had not grown out of those beliefs the way that Ilya had. 

He comes to a stop beside the bench Ilya’s on, staring down at Ilya while Ilya stares ahead at the crumbling concrete fountain. 

His brother sniffs, shifting on his feet. When Ilya doesn’t acknowledge him, he says in Russian, “Why did you bother coming back.” 

“Because nothing gets done here without me, Alexei.” 

“Nothing gets done without your money,” he scoffs. “Which you’re wasting away on a vacation the last six months anyway. Spare me the guilt. It’s the least you can do to take care of things here.” 

Ilya does not mention the countless bills. The debt. The nurses and lawyers and landlords. The responsibilities he’d taken on because they’d put his name on the line instead of theirs and never said a word. 

“He was our father,” he settles on instead. 

“Which didn’t seem to mean much to you until now.” 

Keeping his hands in his pockets, Ilya stands from the bench. There’s no use in arguing with Alexei, not when the goal is something Ilya can’t afford right now. 

“You were his favorite,” he goes on when he notices Ilya readying to leave, ice on his breath. He shakes his head. “You were always the favorite. Even when you weren’t there. I don’t fucking get it.” 

Ilya slants him an unimpressed look. “Papa hated me.” 

“He loved you in his own way,” Alexei insists, “which is more than I can say he ever did for me.” 

“You don’t have any idea what you’re saying.” 

His brother laughs. “Yes. Of course. Because I’m just a stupid fucking addict you can’t bother to—” 

“Because you don’t understand that being held to a higher standard comes with worse consequences when you stray from his pedestal,” Ilya hisses, turning toward him. “He decided what I should be before I ever had a chance to figure it out for myself. He made me what he wanted me to be without asking. That is not love, Alexei. It is control.” 

“Do you hear how ungrateful you sound?” Alexei’s eyes narrow, fists clenching at his sides. “He made you a legend.” 

“I made me a fucking legend,” Ilya snarls, stepping closer. “If papa had his way, I’d have stayed in Russia and played for a league that would have buried me. I would have been born, lived, and died right here, just like the rest of you.” 

Alexei raises a fist and makes to swing, and the panic sets in all at once. Ilya folds inward where he would have happily provoked before, shoulders at his ears, one palm facing outward in wordless concession, the other hidden underneath his coat over his middle. 

The cold is biting suddenly, the air caught in his throat choking him. He is four and six and ten and fifteen years old again, and he knows the fear will only make it worse but he can’t stop it. This, too, is horribly nostalgic, making his eyes water with dust and stale, misplaced nostalgia. 

The hit never comes. Ilya is trembling anyway. His brother laughs once, cold and rattling like death around the empty courtyard. 

“You’re still a coward, Ilya,” he says. 

He forces himself to stand and move away, take in several deep breaths. “The only reason we ever fought in the first place was to gain papa’s favor,” he maintains, as level as he can. “We are not kids anymore. I’m done fighting with you.” 

Alexei’s grin is mean and stained yellow against the backdrop of white. “While you run off and avoid me, sure. We’ll see about next time you’re here.” 

“There will not be a next time,” Ilya tells him. “I am not coming back.” 

He stares. “You’re not serious.” 

“There is nothing else here for me. You can have my apartment. I will not be needing it anymore.” 

Between the four walls of bricks, the whistling grows louder, caught in an endless tunnel of forward instead of up and out. Now, finally, Alexei looks at him the way Ilya’s already looked back for years; like he’s looking at a stranger. 

“I have a wife.” His voice cracks, brittle at the edges. “I have a fucking child, Ilya.” 

It gives him pause, only for a moment. 

“You’re right. And it is not their fault you’ve spent the money I’ve sent for them on drugs and booze and bribes. It is not mine either,” Ilya says. “My niece will have a trust. She will have sole access after she turns eighteen. You will have to figure out the rest. I have covered your tracks for long enough.” 

He takes a wide berth around Alexei as he walks around him to go back inside, but he doesn’t try to reach for Ilya this time. He’s almost made it to the threshold when Alexei speaks again, quiet enough that Ilya nearly misses it for the howling of the wind. 

“I will tell everyone. I’ll tell them what you are. What you have probably been off doing these last six months. Then we will both suffer.” 

For a few seconds, the fear paralyzes him again. Alexei doesn’t know everything—some things, yes. Things that really could potentially harm him, especially here in Russia. But he does not know about what’s underneath Ilya’s coat, nor that it was ever even a possibility. Their father, in his rage and paranoia, had gifted him that much. 

Ilya takes his hand off the door handle and turns back to Alexei, takes a handful of measured steps until they’re eye to eye once again, Ilya at his level this time. 

“Fine,” he agrees. “Where I’m going, I am the best fucking hockey player in the league. I’m irreplaceable,” Ilya enunciates, keeping his tone calm and quiet. “And you will stay here, knowing that you have brought shame to papa’s name in condemning mine, to your wife and your child, and I will be in another country hearing none of it.” When Alexei refuses a response, Ilya drops down to a whisper and leans closer. “I will haunt you every day for the rest of your miserable life if you do this. And you will only have yourself to blame.” 

When he turns around this time, he keeps walking. Despite the shift of old boots, despite the urgency in his brother’s voice. 

“You won’t do this,” Alexei calls after him. “You always say it’s the last time. It never is. You’ll change your mind.” 

Their father had failed both of them. That, Ilya thinks, is the only shame left worth feeling here. 

“I have other people that need me now, Alexei,” Ilya says at the doorway, turning only once to look back. “I cannot be a ghost here forever.” 

He leaves the stricken face of his brother behind and steps back into the warmth of the banquet hall. Svetlana is leaning against the opposite wall of the entryway, her eyes wide and focused. 

“You had two minutes until I came out there to get you.” 

He reaches for her with a subdued smile, tucking her tense shoulders against his chest. She is the only person he hugs these days. The only one he lets close enough to feel what’s underneath. 

His lips press to the top of her head. In Russian, he says, “I love you. Thank you for coming with me.” 

Her hands, warm and familiar, rub at his back. “Of course. I love you too.” 

From the other room, the echo of the pominki persists. Alexei does not come back inside. Ilya holds her for another minute and then straightens, letting her fix his hair and clothing. 

“You are okay?” she asks, still suspicious. 

“Yes,” Ilya tells her. He squeezes her wrist once. “We should go.” 

Without a word she plucks her jacket and scarf from the rack beside the door, and they walk toward the front exit of the building to leave. He falls asleep on the way back, dreaming of the hand, the lips, the waiting mouth, the sound of his name tucked gently in between teeth that never threaten to bite. 

He has to tell Shane. 

S H A N E

He’s halfway finished on the home treadmill when Rose’s name flashes across his phone. It’s nearly identical every week now, a pocket of time where Shane’s typically at home and she’s on her lunch break in her trailer. 

Shane punches the speed a few degrees lower to a brisk walk and accepts it, propping the screen up on the machine in front of him while he takes a sip of his water. The call connects, but it takes him a minute to figure out what exactly he’s looking at. When a piece of lettuce falls into the frame, he realizes it’s a neck and chin. He’s oddly relieved. 

“Did you mean to call me?” he asks, setting his water aside again. 

There’s a gratuitous crunch. Still chewing, Rose says, “Um. Duh.” 

“So you’re aware that I can’t actually see you,” he clarifies. 

“Oh, yeah. You’re kind of in my boobs right now. Sorry.” She bites down on a crouton. “I’m on the clock. Girl’s gotta eat.” 

“Right,” Shane chuckles. Rose hums to herself as she keeps eating, and Shane’s the first to admit how surprising it was to find out that this sort of thing could be productive. 

He’s always disliked phone calls and video calls. He feels paralyzed while he’s on them, stuck thinking of everything he could be doing but can’t focus on until he hangs up. But after Rose became a friend and there was less pressure to appear in a certain way, it was easier to just… keep going about his day while she talked. Rose doesn’t mind it, and sometimes it helps, having someone else’s presence to hold him accountable for whatever task he’s trying to get done. 

“So,” she says, finally setting her phone up further back against her thighs so Shane can get the full picture: half in costume in her trailer, laid back on the sofa with her hair flipped over the arm of it behind her while she eats. “What’s new?” 

He frowns. “We just saw each other like two weeks ago.” 

“Yes, but a lot can happen in two weeks!” 

“Like what?” 

“Let’s see…” She purses her lips. “Like, maybe you decided to change your workout routine.” 

His brow dips. “Do you really want to hear about that?” 

“Hey, just because I can’t eat the meal doesn’t mean I can’t admire some damn good cuisine,” she defends, fork raised. It spins to point at the camera. “Also, I was dead serious when I asked for your glute routine and you know it. I’m waiting.” 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“And you could use the ego boost, Mr. deflection,” she retorts. She throws a crouton at her mouth, and it misses and hits her chest. He watches in morbid fascination as she tries to fetch it back with her tongue before admitting defeat. “Hmm. Maybe you… got a haircut?” 

“You caught me,” Shane drawls. “I’m actually bald now. This is a wig.” 

She snorts a laugh and then slaps a hand over her mouth to keep from choking, and Shane lets a smile break through. He lowers the speed again and stretches his neck, cooling down. 

“Okay, okay. Maybe you met someone?” 

It comes out far too smoothly for her to have just thought of it. He looks at the camera. 

“Rose.” 

“What? It’s a normal question!” 

He sighs, reaching for the water again so he has something to do with his hands. “I already told you. I’m not—I’m not looking for anything like that right now.” 

“Alright, fine. I’ll stop. But let the record show that I did at least try to get you laid.” 

“Duly noted,” he says dryly. “How about we talk about your love life now?” 

“Sorry, what was that? I think you’re cutting out.” 

“Hilarious.” 

“Almost as much as you,” she croons without missing a beat. Salad finished, she abandons the bowl to the side and snatches a sleeve of Oreos into the frame. “You know, I was reading in Men’s Health the other day that working out shirtless is actually much more effective.” 

He continues his work out—with his shirt on—while they run through their weekly catch up. Rose is actually a pretty entertaining conversationalist, and she listens if he asks her to leave something alone. He’s glad that she’d been so insistent on staying friends, because he doesn’t think he would have kept up the line of communication if she hadn’t, too worried that he’d crossed a line they couldn’t come back from. 

Somehow her boobs are still a pretty frequent conversation topic. More than when they were dating, even. These are the makings of a true friendship, she tells him. Shane’s beginning to wonder if he’s ever actually had any like that before. 

He stops the treadmill to make a smoothie for lunch, and responds to a text from his parents confirming breakfast the following week while Rose talks about what she’s filming, tidying up the gym while he’s feeling productive before he sits down at the table. 

She’s halfway through chronicling the drama she’s having with a costar when a Google alert appears at the top of his screen, and Shane feels his face heat the way he does every time he gets one of those even though Rose can’t see it. As if she can somehow sense that he deliberately went to his settings and turned on notifications for Ilya Rozanov. 

Subtly, he clicks it before it can disappear, the video call minimizing to open a separate tab. The headline loads and Shane does a double take, gaze lagging somewhere around Grigori Rozanov and cause of death and Russia. It was published forty-five minutes ago. 

“... Shane?” Rose asks. 

He fumbles for the phone, trying to get back to the video call while this news comes after a surprising and somewhat mysterious break from the ice for the youngest Rozanov, who was unable to be contacted regarding either topic despite a notorious penchant for media fanfare throughout his career flashes behind his eyelids. 

“Fuck,” he curses, jabbing blindly at the screen. “I gotta go, Rose. I’ll talk to you later.” 

In his texts, he scrolls a too familiar amount and stops precisely over Lily, clicking on the thread and then clicking the contact button to call. Only once the phone is against his ear, thumb to his teeth, does he stop to consider what the fuck he’s thinking. 

He’d texted before this. If Ilya wanted to be in contact with him, he’d have surely done it by now. And yet he can’t make himself hang up, holding his breath in between rings, waiting to hit the voicemail. He’s not even sure what time it is in Russia, if Ilya’s even awake. 

The ringing stops, and the line picks up. 

“Ilya?” he asks the answering silence. 

The silence answers: “Shane.” 

I L Y A

“Hi.” 

Ilya exhales a laugh from his nose. “Hello.” 

It’s been several hours since he and Sveta returned to the apartment, and despite all of his napping the last few weeks, his body is unwilling to relax here. He’s been staring at the ceiling since Sveta bid him goodnight, the world quiet and the inside of his head loud. 

And then Jane had popped up on his phone. 

“I saw the news about your father.” Shane hesitates. “Are you okay?” 

His throat clicks when he swallows. “No.” 

“I’m sorry. Is it really bad there? Is there anything I can do?” 

“I don’t need charity, Hollander.” He has to put a stop to the tone Shane’s using, the one that makes him feel like he’s one wrong word away from sobbing when he’s managed to hold himself together on this trip so far. 

“No, I know. I didn’t…” Shane clears his throat. “Sorry.” 

“There is not much you can do,” Ilya admits, softer, “but thank you. For calling.” 

“Of course.” A moment of silence stretches between them. “How long have you been there? The news just dropped today but, I mean, have you already…?” 

He relaxes slightly under the familiar weight of Shane’s curiosity, reaching a hand up to rub at his eyes. “Funeral was today,  yes. I am back from it now though. Was just laying down.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know what time it is there. If you need to sleep, I can let you get back to—” 

“Hollander,” he interjects, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Stop saying sorry.” 

“Right. Okay.” 

It’s quiet for a minute. Ilya wipes a damp palm off on the curve of his stomach. 

“Shane, I—” he starts at the same time Shane says, “Do you want—?” 

Ilya concedes before he can. “You go first.” 

“I, uh. I was just going to offer to listen. If you wanted to talk about anything. I haven’t been to many funerals, but I know they can be a lot.” 

A lot is probably a good word for it. Through gravel, Ilya admits, “I don’t know if I have the right words in English right now.” 

“So tell me in Russian,” Shane offers. “I mean—only if you want to.” 

“You speak Russian now?” he asks. 

“Well. No. But I’d like to listen. If it would help.” 

Pulling the phone away so he can gather himself, Ilya sniffs, knuckling hard at his eye. “Okay,” he rasps. 

Despite the unshakeable chill, the bedroom is humid, the long, angled blades of the ceiling fan that Ilya had forgotten to cover properly before he left last time spitting particles of dust into the air. When he was young, he used to pretend it was snow. 

"Сегодня я похоронил отца, но всё, о чём я могу думать — это ты.""I buried my father today and still all I can think about is you."

Other than the slightest hitch in Shane’s breathing, the line remains silent, expectant. It’s easier like this, when he can talk without making it into a confession just yet, to have someone listen without trying to minimize. 

Maybe that’s why it feels better, Ilya realizes. Something can’t be minimized if it isn’t known. 

"Я так устал, Шейн. Не могу вспомнить, когда в последний раз чувствовал себя хорошо. В последний раз, когда у меня нигде не болело.""I’m so tired, Shane. I can’t remember the last time I felt good. The last time I didn’t ache somewhere."

He grits his teeth and rolls back onto his side when the pain in his hips is brought to his attention again, his senses that had been dulled and distant from the overwhelm of the day slowly beginning to trickle back to him the more he talks. 

"Я боюсь, что всё делаю не так. Что совершаю ошибку, за которую потом придется расплачиваться. Я боюсь сказать тебе — или кому-либо еще, — потому что меня ужасает мысль: что-то может отнять её у меня еще до того, как она по-настоящему станет моей.""I’m scared that I’m doing this all wrong. That I’m making some kind of mistake I will pay for later. I’m scared to tell you, for anyone else to know, because I’m terrified something will take her away before I’ve even had her."

He has to stop when his throat tightens. Shane may not understand Russian, but he would surely be able to tell if he were to start crying. He has made it this far, through the finding out, through the funeral. He just needs to make it back to Boston first, needs to bury the stress he’s tried to keep at bay here and leave it behind him when he goes. 

His other hand touches his middle again when it flutters beneath the skin, rubbing his knuckles back and forth. She’s been quiet here so far, but he’s been trying to build her confidence. He smiles despite the rest of it, even as the room blurs around him. 

"Но она заслуживает того, чтобы о ней знали. И ты заслуживаешь знать. Поэтому я скоро тебе всё расскажу. Обещаю,""But she deserves to be known. And you deserve to know. So I will tell you soon. I promise," he vows. "О том, что у нас есть дочь. Что она — самое дорогое, что у меня когда-либо было. Я поблагодарю тебя за это. Мне просто нужно еще немного времени. Пожалуйста, наберись терпения.""That we have a daughter. That she is already the most precious thing I have ever had. I will thank you for it. I just need a little more time. Please be patient with me."

It feels lighter just having said it aloud. Even if he’d taken the easy way out for now. 

Ilya draws in a deep breath and clears his throat. 

“I’m done.” 

Something creaks as Shane readjusts. “Did that… help at all?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Thank you.” 

“Good.” 

For a moment Shane doesn’t breathe at all, and then it all comes out in a rush. 

“Look, Ilya, I—I’m just gonna be honest. I missed you. I shouldn’t have left. I think about it every day and I just—I’m so fucking—” Ilya hears him swallow, the squeak of spit as he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. He closes his eyes to visualize it better. “I’m so sorry. And I know the situation is different now but, if you’re okay with it, can we—can we try being friends? At least?” 

Ilya’s eyes open. 

“Friends,” he repeats. 

“Yeah. I know you’ve got other things going on, I’m not trying to overstep. I just thought… you know, if she’s okay with it…” he falters. “Not that she knows about us, I mean. Not like that. But.” 

Oh, Ilya remembers viscerally. Rose Landry. Yes. Right. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” Shane echoes, delayed and winded, as if he hadn’t expected it. “We should—we should get together when you’re back. It would be nice to catch up, if you’re up for it.”  

He glances down at the cradle of his palm and sighs. “Maybe, yes.” 

“When does your flight get in? Have you booked one yet?” 

“I get back in four days.” 

“At Logan?” 

“No. Landing in Maine, then driving to Boston. Less people.” 

“Makes sense,” Shane hums. He idles. “I’ll just be on the other side of you, I guess.” 

“In Montreal?” Ilya clarifies. “Yes, I figured.” 

“You could… stop by. If you wanted.” 

He tries to summon a laugh, though it comes out as merely a sniff. “Come to your sex apartment?” 

“Come to my house,” Shane amends. “I’ve got more than enough room, and I don’t have anything I have to do the weekend you get in. You don’t have to stay long. Just… we could catch up there without worrying about anything else, you know?” 

Even with a heavy head, Ilya considers the logistics. Four days is a much shorter timeline than he’d planned to tell Shane, but with a ten week deadline regardless, he supposes it isn’t that far fetched. Taking the hand off of his belly, he plants a palm on the mattress and uses it to shift again, this time to sit up with his shoulder blades against the headboard. 

“I would need to find a ride home when I go back,” Ilya tells him. He has to fly back in from Moscow and the one to Maine is the simplest, but nothing after that. He’d promised Yvonne. 

“That’s fine. I can pick you up from the airport, too. Actually, you could just fly straight into Montreal, if you wanted. And then I can drive you home Sunday so you don’t have to pay for a ride.” 

“You will drive me from Montreal to Boston,” Ilya reiterates after a pause. 

“Yeah. It’s only a few hours. I have practice early Monday, but that’ll be more than enough time.” 

Ilya chews on his lip. 

“I still have to fly into Maine so that Svetlana can go back to Boston. But she can drop me off, probably. I will just need the ride home after.” 

Shane pauses for long enough that Ilya checks to make sure the call is still connected. Eventually, he says, “I didn’t realize she was with you. I guess that makes sense. Um. How is she—doing?” 

“Fine,” Ilya answers slowly. “Has been nice, having her here.” 

He makes a vague noise of acknowledgement. “And she would… drive you to see me like this?” 

“She is always saying I need more friends, so,” Ilya drawls, the word still stained inside his head. 

“Right.” After a pause, Shane adds, “She’s, uh. She’s welcome to stay too, if that’s better for you guys, or—” 

“No.”  

“Are you sure?” Shane asks. “She’ll be okay going back to Boston ahead of you?” 

Ilya frowns. He cannot think of a reason she wouldn’t be. 

“Yes. She will be fine.” 

“Okay,” he says, seemingly to himself before Ilya. “Okay. Then I’ll send you the address. Just let me know your flight information when you have it, and I’ll—I’ll be waiting for you.” 

“I will text you,” Ilya agrees, and even that gives him somewhat of a thrill. He presses two fingers against his middle when Яна flutters again, seemingly in agreement. 

“Cool.” He lingers. “Ilya?” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m looking forward to it.” 

“Me too,” Ilya murmurs, his eyes finally growing heavier. He tucks his chin to his chest, only Яна privy to the curve of his lips. “See you soon, Shane.” 

Hanging up doesn’t feel quite as intimidating this time. Ilya leaves his phone on the nightstand and allows himself another moment to sit and think about I missed you, I shouldn’t have left again until his hips begin to ache badly enough that he has to turn back onto his side. He huffs as he readjusts the pillow at his knees, too flat to really support his weight, cold, but not in the refreshing kind of way. 

He’s sitting in the middle of the mattress, legs up and bent so he can get a better angle to punch some fluff back into the pillow again when there’s a knock on his cracked bedroom door. It creaks as it opens a few inches further. 

“You are decent?” Sveta asks. 

Ilya rolls his eyes. As if he’d be getting up to much else at the moment. “Yes?” 

The door opens fully now, and Sveta steps through the threshold carrying a thick duvet and pillows. She marches to the other side of the mattress and dumps the mountain of them at his side, t-shirt sliding off one of her shoulders, eye mask sitting like sunglasses on top of her head. 

He raises a brow and pointedly does not move. “We are having sleepover party?” 

“You can never sleep by yourself here and I got tired of waiting for you to come and get me,” Sveta says, switching to Russian. She shoos him to the side, and then sets about arranging the new pillows under his back and knees. “Was that Jane?” 

“Sveta,” he sighs. 

“I’m only asking.” 

He turns obediently when she motions him onto his side, and the relief is instant after tossing and turning all night. “Yes. It was Jane.” 

“You are going to tell him?” 

“It is looking like it, yes.” 

Crossing back to the other side of the bed, she grabs the duvet and tosses it outward, letting it float down over the mattress until it’s covering it entirely. It clears some of the dust from the air and immediately eliminates some of the chill, and Ilya turns his face up eagerly when she climbs in beside him and begins tucking it up around his neck. 

“How do you think he will take it?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” Ilya admits. “Maybe not so good.” 

“But maybe good.” 

He sighs again. “Maybe.” 

Finally Sveta lays down properly on her side and tucks her hands beneath her cheek to look at him, both of them lying facing each other on the pillows. 

“You are scared,” she says. 

“Of course I’m scared.” 

She moves one hand across the distance to grab his, tangling their fingers together on the mattress. 

More quietly, like she’s aware that it might spook him, she asks, “Why did he leave?” 

“Because I was too much,” Ilya answers. “I was… different. The last time. The sex, yes. But also… everything else. I was stressed about papa, and Alexei would not stop calling, and I couldn’t be—like normal.” 

“Could not be in control of everything, you mean.” 

“I do not need to be in control of everything,” he argues. 

“Maybe. But it makes you feel safe.” She runs her thumb along the ridge of his knuckles. “It sounds like he does too, if you were able to let go of that. Even only for a little while.” 

“I think you are missing the part where he left, Sveta,” Ilya mutters. 

“I did not miss it. But if this change was so significant for you, maybe it was also scary for him.” 

He frowns. “He didn’t say anything.” 

“Ilya,” she emphasizes, squeezing his hand, “neither did you.” 

He opens his mouth to counter this too, but finds himself coming up empty. It would be useless to compare Shane’s silence with his own—they’ve always been different, the things that make them retreat. Ilya isn’t ignorant enough that he can’t admit he was too busy taking whatever he could get, whatever Shane would give him that weekend to do anything more than keep his mouth shut for fear of losing it. 

“I am worried he will be mad that I didn’t tell him for so long,” he confesses at a whisper. 

“He could be,” Sveta agrees, “but I think he will be more relieved just to know now.” 

Ilya can’t help the bitter smile from tilting his mouth. “We will see.” 

“Well. He did not invite Rose Landry to his house,” she points out. 

“Wha—Sveta.” He blinks, sputtering. “You know? For how long?” 

“You play his interviews in your room every night, Ilya,” she says gently, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Maybe not as quiet as you think.” 

Warmth floods every limb of his body, steadying him and throwing him off balance all at once. His eyes burn, his throat rebelling against the words he tries to get out. 

“I wanted her to be able to hear him,” he admits shakily. “I wanted it to be like—like he was talking to her.” 

Sveta eases in a breath. She pushes up on an elbow and leans across the distance to push his hair from his forehead, pressing her lips to the spot before she lies down again. 

“It will be okay, Ilya. I think he will be good about it. Really.” 

“What if he’s not?” Ilya croaks. 

“Then you have me.” 

This is true, he thinks. He lifts their hands and presses a kiss to the back of hers before he lets it go in favor of tucking it underneath his abdomen again. 

The way she’s arranged the pillows is magnificent, and after the magnitude of the conversations he’s had today, the exhaustion is even quicker to catch up with him. Now that he’s actually comfortable, he could fall asleep in seconds probably. 

“Is there anything else you need to ask me?” 

Ilya’s eyes flutter open again, fighting to keep hold of his consciousness as he frowns at her.  “What?” 

“If you are going to use me as a taxi, you should at least say please. Gas is not cheap, Ilya.” 

It takes several moments for his brain to catch up with her, to realize that she’s talking about her dropping him off in Montreal at Shane’s. 

Ilya pinches her. “How long were you standing out there?” 

“Not long!” she squeaks, dodging his fingers. 

“Will you pretty please drive me to Montreal, Sveta,” he drawls. 

“Hm. I will have to think about it. You will owe me.” 

He squints at her in the dark. “Owe you what?” 

“Rose Landry’s phone number. Ow! Stop fucking pinching me, Ilya, you are pregnant!” 

“How is this related?” he asks, genuinely pausing for a second. 

“Because I cannot retaliate.” 

He bothers her until he’s simply too tired to keep doing it, which is probably about thirty seconds before they’re both too out of breath. He flings her eye mask at her which had come off in the scuffle, then has to toss an arm out to grab her by the calf when she leans a little too far over the edge to catch it before it hits the floor. 

“I am already surrounded by children,” he huffs. 

She sticks her tongue out at him as she climbs back underneath the blanket, finally settling in to go to sleep. He needs to get what of it he can, with three long days ahead of meetings and signing things, cleaning out the apartment and trying to come up with a way that feels appropriate to say goodbye. 

Ordinarily he would pull her to his chest, but it’s impossible now, with Яна taking up so much space. He settles for this instead, their heads and bent knees touching around the firm slope of his abdomen, the comforting smell of her shampoo and laundry detergent on the sheets. 

The snow falls in flurries outside of the windows, but inside, Ilya is warm. 

+

In the early morning on his last day in Russia, he visits his mother. 

The week has worn him down, his steps heavy as he treks a familiar path through the kladbishchegraveyard. He had felt guilty at first, at leaving this for last. But now he knows it’d been the right choice; to let it, to let her be the lasting memory that he takes with him when he goes. 

Her grave is modest, taking up only a small corner of the cemetery away from the glamour of the other tombs and personal monuments. She was much the same in life, always conscious of the space she occupied, save for the rare occasions that Ilya could manage to distract her from it. 

It hadn’t been his job, as a child. He knows this now. But he’d have still done it, whatever it’d taken, would have forfeited the hockey or played for the Russian league like his father had wanted just to stay close. Just to make sure. 

He will not give Яна a life of looking over her shoulder. 

Even though it’s harder for him to get up now, he lowers himself to the ground beside her, aching to feel close. He’d thought the words would spill out of him once he was here like they have lately in Boston, talking to her and to Яна in equal measure, wondering if somehow the liminal space between death and burgeoning life overlaps enough for them to have crossed paths. 

But he sits beside her now and finds himself quiet. Not hesitant nor angry or even terribly sad, the ways he’s visited her sometimes in the past. Just… still. Aware of himself in a way he doesn’t think he ever has been before. 

For all her grief, mama was always fascinated by life. By the tender inconsistencies, anomalies that could only be accounted for by childlike curiosity and, sometimes, even the mistakes that would come of them. She had been strong in faith, buoyed most by the promise of things that couldn’t be defined or seen. Ilya hopes more than anything that she got to witness them, in the end. 

He wishes he could bring her back with him somehow, but he’s surprised that he isn’t distressed by the prospect of being unable to. The snow melts, the stone decays, the flowers he’d brought her over the years long gone by now. Mama is not really here, even if Ilya once believed that she was. 

It had unmoored him before, to think of it like that. Her presence had been a lifeline, an explanation, an excuse to return to a place he would never have wanted to otherwise. Now, though he can’t pinpoint when it’d changed, he’s grown to think of her as something less concrete than that. He’s learned to see her in the small things that she loved most, the whisper of wind in between tree branches at his window when he can’t leave the bed. He sees her in Svetlana, in Shane, in Яна now, in all of the gaps Ilya had refused to name until they’d taken the shape of those who filled them. 

Even though he finds himself talking with her often these days, he’s not prayed in a long time. Not consciously, anyway. 

He does it now, the chain of mama’s cross wrapped tightly around his fist, his head leaned as far toward his bent knees as he can manage at this point. He prays silently, his mouth forming the words but voice absent. For his health, for Яна, that things will go well with Shane. He prays for blessings over Svetlana and Yvonne the way mama taught him, even if he isn’t sure that he has many favors left to call on. 

He stays on his knees until the denim is soaked through with slush and dirt, his hips beginning to protest. With surprisingly steady fingers he lifts the cross to his mouth, and then touches the same fingers to the top of mama’s grave, right where it’s embellished with the same outline. 

He had been bitter about Shane’s word choice before, but as he makes his way back toward the car, the plane, Montreal, Ilya thinks maybe a friend is exactly what he needs right now. 

He thinks maybe mama had known this, too.

Chapter End Notes

this was supposed to wrap up at around 30k but i’m pretty sure we’re looking at closer to double that now sjhgfsjdhgf sorry guys

Chapter 4: iv. 28 weeks

Chapter Summary

He starts to squeeze the muscle, familiar and sharp underneath his hand, and falters. The angled jut of Ilya’s iliac crest that dips low into his v-line is something Shane knows intimately. This is not how he’d remembered it.

Instead of the rigid line between muscle and bone, Shane’s fingers find firm, warm skin that curves outward, and keeps going and going until suddenly his hand is flat against the sloping edge of an abdomen that most definitely was not there in Boston.

Shane’s fingers twitch. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing. Underneath his palm, something thuds against him, quick and hard.

“Ilya,” he says, deceptively calm. His ears are ringing.

Chapter Notes

things you can expect in this chapter:
- #shaneshouse
- painfully awkward and tense conversation
- an egregious number of em dashes and italics (to convey the aforementioned awkwardness and tension)
- somehow even MORE miscommunication
- and maybe........ a reveal .........:D

I L Y A

28 weeks

Ilya would feel relieved the moment he touches ground again in Maine if not for the blinding pain radiating throughout his back when he gets there. 

Sveta gives him a painkiller and a very pointed look when he still insists on the drive to Montreal, which Ilya dutifully ignores in favor of staring out the passenger side of the rental car until the blur of scenery makes him too lightheaded and he has to stop. 

The drive is probably even worse than the flight. On the plane he’d been mostly just nauseous, but back on the ground it’s like gravity’s come down on him all at once, his body heavy and sore and uncooperative in a way that Ilya hasn’t encountered up to now. 

Яна has become something of a soccer player, as if she can sense his restless anticipation for this weekend. The heartburn that Yvonne had warned him about (that Ilya had foolishly believed he would be immune from) has set in with a vengeance, likely made worse by the flying. He has to make Sveta stop for the bathroom four times throughout the five hour drive, which he finds deeply embarrassing but gives up the pretense of pretending just to need a gas station snack between number two and three. He does manage to go through three grab-and-go bags of sour gummy worms, however, when he can’t manage to stomach anything else. 

Ilya is used to muscle cramps occasionally. After a thorough workout or a longer practice, when he’s winding down from a game. He is not used to unwarranted, unexpected ones that will not stop no matter which way he contorts his body and which curse words he uses while he does it. He cannot even see the fucking lateral bones in his ankles anymore. 

By the time he is sitting outside of the address Shane gave him, Ilya remembers to be nervous. Up until now Яна has been only for him. And that felt… safer. The less people that know, the less people to disappoint if he had done something wrong. Ilya has spent a lifetime under pressure. He hadn’t wanted it for this, even if it’d incidentally meant that he’d isolated himself in the process. 

So maybe Sveta is not completely wrong about the control thing. 

But Яна is not a mango that can pass for thick muscle anymore. She has eyes and ears and a nose and a face, tiny fists and a little body of her own. One that will be outside of him in less than ten weeks. It is becoming very real in a way that logically he’d known that it would, but physiologically is only really beginning to set in now. 

Admitting all of this to himself is already enough to make him have to catch his breath. The thought of telling someone else is terrifying. 

“Technically,” Sveta says when he is white knuckling his bag the passenger seat, “he did tell you I could stay if—” 

“You are not staying,” he interjects. 

“But we would have so much to talk about. Hockey, you, Rose Landry…” 

He drops his head back against the seat. “I know what you’re doing.” 

“Is it working?” she asks. 

“A little bit,” he sighs. “If I was just seeing him like normal I would not be this nervous.” 

“I think you would be a little nervous.” 

“You are supposed to be on my side, Sveta.” 

“I am!” Ilya can see her head tilt in his peripherals. “Being nervous has not stopped you from doing much before.” 

“Those things were not this.” 

“Maybe not. But you made it through the other things, so why wouldn’t you make it through this too?” she asks. Ilya opens his mouth. “You are not actually supposed to answer that, Ilya.” 

“Fine.” He lifts his head from the seat, flexes his fingers, now damp, against the material of his bag. “Fine. I will go in.” 

“Good. Because I have another five hours ahead of me and it is already getting dark—” 

“Unbelievable,” he huffs. 

Leaning across the console, Sveta presses a kiss to his cheek, and then flips the mirror down. “Maybe fix your hair first.” 

The light from Shane’s door spills out onto the gravel of the driveway, the front steps winding up in a half-circle toward the entryway. Ilya adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder and makes himself move. 

Sveta only begins to pull away when he’s standing on the landing, one hand curled into a fist in the pocket of his hoodie, the other poised in front of the dark wood. There’s a sliver of frosted glass beside the door outlined with warm light from inside. He wonders if Shane can see the big, dark outline of his shadow out here as he hesitates. 

It takes a handful of seconds for the door to open after he knocks. Maybe he is not the only one who’s nervous. 

Shane is sharper than Ilya remembers, more vivid up close. Haloed by the light from the hallway, his hair is less styled, eyes more brown, freckles dark across his nose. Ilya’s chest seizes for another, non-heartburn related reason this time. He hopes Яна takes more after Shane than him. 

“Hi,” Shane says, just above a breath. 

Ilya keeps his fists in the pocket over his middle. “Hello.” 

The sound of Sveta’s tires pulling away fades out as Ilya steps over the threshold, Shane holding the door open for him. He’d underestimated his own reaction, his pulse far too quick as he inhales Shane’s scent again; clean detergent that smells vaguely of baby powder and the lingering jolt of his aloe deodorant because he doesn’t like to wear cologne, not if he doesn't have to. 

“Shoes here?” Ilya asks, nodding toward the spot beside the door as Shane closes it behind them. 

“Oh, yeah. If you don’t mind.” 

He kicks off his slides but leaves on the thicker socks he’d been wearing, his sweatpants covering his ankles at least. Maybe he can avoid whatever lecture he would surely get if Shane were to assume that he had some sort of mysterious, edema-causing illness. He’d blame it on the cigarettes, probably. Ilya buries a smile despite himself. 

The entryway feeds right into the kitchen and dining room, and Ilya follows a few steps behind as Shane leads him into it. The bottom of his feet hurt badly enough that he has to keep his face from doing anything to betray it, each step sending another jolt of pain up through his legs. Too much walking the last couple of weeks. 

“How are your ribs?” Shane asks when they come to a stop at the island. 

Ilya tenses. “Fine. Why.” 

He lifts a shoulder. “You just… still seemed to be favoring them a little. I was just wondering.” 

He’d forgotten how observant Shane could be. Rookie mistake. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” he goes on, cutting past the ringing in Ilya’s ears as he reaches for the fridge. “I don’t have any alcohol here, but I have Cokes. Ginger ale, water.” 

“Water, maybe,” Ilya says. “Thank you.” 

“Sure.” 

He reaches for a clear drawer stacked neatly with labeled bottles, taking two in hand. He keeps one for himself and slides the other across to Ilya, both of them cracking the caps and taking a drink at the same time. Ilya watches him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Um. If you come this way, I can show you where to put your bags.” 

Bringing the water with him, Ilya follows down another, longer hallway, past a cozy looking living area and another two doors before they get to the bedroom. Shane pushes open the door for him again and lets him pass through, idling in the doorway as Ilya steps inside and sets his bag down—finally—on the mattress. He fights the urge to reach up and rub his shoulder. 

“There’s fresh towels in the bathroom and I just changed the sheets this morning, but there’s extras of those in the closet too,” he explains. “If you need anything else, just let me know.” 

“Okay.” 

Shane shifts on his feet. “After you get done settling in, I’ll—I’ll be in the living room. If you’d like to talk.” 

Ilya nods, still half turned away from him. “I will be out in a minute.” 

“Take your time.” 

Only once the door has clicked shut behind him does he take in the breath he’s needed for the last several minutes. Dropping down to sit on the foot of the bed, he allows himself to rub at his shoulder, his neck, the incessant pulsing at the back of his skull. He could fall into this pristine, freshly made bed and sleep the entire weekend, he thinks. 

Unfortunately, that is not why he’s here. 

With a sigh he heaves himself up again, grimacing at the sharp pain in the soles of his feet, to get to the bathroom. He unpacks his toothbrush and comb but leaves anything else that could be incriminating tucked safely away in his bag for now, using the mirror over the sink to fix himself a little better than he could in the low light of Sveta’s car. 

His face is rounder now, and still holds some of the lingering paleness he’d brought back from Russia. His nose is flatter and wider, his jawline less defined than it used to be. It makes him look younger. He isn’t sure how that makes him feel, so he stops looking for now. 

He splashes water onto his face and brushes his teeth again, attempts to run a comb through his hair despite how stubborn the curls are. He needs a haircut, he thinks, but not cutting it feels a little exhilarating, especially when it’s his father’s voice in his head. He smooths down the ones that persistently give him a cowlick in the back of his head and decides this will have to be good enough. 

He’d love to have a shower, but he’s not supposed to do that without someone supervising or sitting outside the door. He keeps his clothes on instead, readjusts the thick material of the hoodie and the shirt underneath it and keeps his hands in the pocket for good measure as he makes his way back toward the living room. 

The house is very Shane. Lots of wood and neutral colors, tall curtains framing the windows. Ilya passes two bookshelves full of hockey related subjects, a couple of stray picture frames disrupting the stacks—one from the ice, another with his parents. On the top shelf, as if put there as an afterthought, sits his Rookie of the Year award. 

Stepping onto the carpeted rug in the living room is immediate relief. Shane has situated himself on the left third of the cushions so Ilya takes the right, the lamps on and the television dark. He watches Ilya and tries to pretend that he isn’t while he nurses a ginger ale in his hands, and Ilya pretends like he isn’t hyper aware of it all as he lowers himself gingerly onto the cushion. 

He grabs one of the throw pillows from between them and puts it in his lap, and sees Shane shift from the opposite side. 

“Is it cold in here? I can turn the heat up, if you want to—” 

“No,” Ilya says, eyes on the coffee table. “No. I am comfortable like this. Thank you.” 

He takes another long look around while Shane sips his drink, jutting his chin toward the wooden pillars framing the entryway and the fireplace beneath the TV. 

“This is, ah. Nice place.” 

“Thanks. I travel a lot, obviously. But I like to be here whenever I can.” 

“Much less creepy than the sex apartment,” Ilya agrees. 

Shane looks down as he smiles, eyes flicking up to Ilya’s face. He takes another slow sip. “I don’t know. You seemed to like it just fine.” 

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya feigns offense, a little of his own tension easing as he smirks. “This is not very polite Canadian of you. You have changed.” 

Shane doesn’t stop looking. “You’ve changed too.” 

Ilya’s smile wanes, suddenly occupied by the pillow in his lap. He runs his thumbnail across the stitching on the side, tries to find a loose thread that isn’t there. Shane clears his throat. 

“Also, sorry—if that joke was too much. I don’t want to overstep.” 

“Right,” Ilya mutters. “Girlfriend might not like it, yes?” 

Shane sucks his lower lip into his mouth. Ilya wishes the fucking TV were on. 

He taps his fingers against the can in his lap. “Are you hungry? I didn’t cook, since I wasn’t sure if you’d eat something on the way. I can order something, if you want.” 

I have had three bags of sour gummy worms is not a sentence he thinks Shane would enjoy hearing, but the thought of other food right now makes him wince. 

“I ate a little bit earlier. I’m okay.” 

“Okay,” Shane says. “So, how’s the LTIR going?” 

Carefully, Ilya shrugs. “Fine. Very boring. Very long.” 

“I bet. I mean, boring’s a good thing in this case, I guess? But, yeah—I don’t know what I’d do if I suddenly didn’t have hockey for like a year. Have you been able to get in any private time on the ice in Boston?” 

Tension creeps back into his shoulders. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have hockey. 

“Ah, no.” 

“Oh. Well. It’s probably second nature, right? I’m sure you’ll pick it right back up when you get to come back.” 

He shrugs for a second time, less composed than the first as he dampens Shane’s pillow with his palms. “I told you. Has been very boring. You have had much more exciting few months, I think.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Shane counters. 

“Your team is in the playoffs,” Ilya reminds him. “You had All Stars. Rose Landry. Exciting.” 

He looks away. “We made the cut, yeah. But we’re up against some pretty good competition this year. So, we’ll see.” 

“Too modest,” Ilya tuts. 

“It’s just been that kind of season, I guess.” 

“Why? Without me there you should be—what do they call it? Mopping the floor with everyone. Mopping the ice, maybe.” 

“Maybe,” Shane agrees, “but it’s not really the same, you know? Beating you is something I’d be proud of. Beating everybody else is just… logic. Strategy. They don’t make me better.” 

It settles loud and unignorable in Ilya’s chest despite the quiet of the living room, his own thoughts echoed aloud. He has to look away when his eyes burn—insescapable, these days. He’s cried over much less lately. 

Shane offers a breath of a laugh, but it does little to diminish anything. “Sorry. Maybe that doesn’t make sense.” 

“It does,” Ilya assures. 

Яна, evidently wanting in on the moment, chooses now to kick him hard against his left side underneath the pillow. Ilya leans forward and hides the noise he makes with a cough. 

“You don’t smell like smoke,” Shane says, as if he’d just noticed. 

When he’s certain she’s finished treating his insides like a soccer ball, Ilya tentatively sits back again. “Did you think I would?” 

“A little bit, yeah,” he admits. “I know you were trying to stop at one point. But I figured… with everything lately, maybe you’d have picked it back up again.” 

Because of his father? The funeral? Russia? Ilya has no idea what he means. 

“I quit. Has been months now.” 

Something in Shane’s face clicks, and he shakes his head. “Oh, shit. Yeah, I bet that’s—that’s probably good, you know. For Svetlana, and everything. Good for you.” 

“Svetlana?” Ilya frowns. “Maybe, I guess. She never really cared if I smoke or not.” 

Shane nods, staring at his lap again. “It was, uh. Nice of her. To drop you off here.” 

“She is… discreet,” he offers. “If you’re worried.” 

“No, I’m—I wasn’t. I was just—” Shane’s phone, face down on the coffee table in front of them, pings once, twice, three times in succession. He hesitates for a moment, glancing between it and the sofa, and then reaches for it with a sigh. “Sorry. Give me a sec—it’s just Rose.” 

Sure, Ilya thinks. Just Rose. He sniffs, glancing the other way. Admiring the architecture. 

“She knows I’m here?” 

“Rose?” Shane chuckles, still typing. “No. She’d probably freak out and have, like, a million questions. Better to just avoid the line of fire, trust me.” 

Ilya bobs his head. 

“She is working?” 

“Yeah. She’s been on set for a couple weeks now, but I saw her when she was passing through Ottawa before that. It was nice.” 

“Must be difficult. Long distance.” 

Shane pockets his phone. “Not really. I think it’s pretty common to have friends you only see every once in a while, especially when you’re traveling as much as we do.” 

“Friends?” Ilya scoffs. “Is this the word you use for everyone you sleep with?” 

Halfway to reaching for his drink again, Shane blinks. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Ilya huffs. “Just—forget it.” 

Shane leaves the can on the table and shifts to the edge of the cushion so that he can face him. “No. What is that supposed to mean?” 

“You told me we could be friends,” Ilya says. 

“Yeah.” 

“But you are also friends with Rose Landry. So you can see why I am confused.” 

“I really, really don’t,” Shane maintains, still looking lost. “I wasn’t being facetious to either one of you. I’m friends with Rose, and I meant it when I said we could be friends too.” 

“You call your girlfriend your friend?” Ilya asks. 

“My girlfriend?” he says. “Ilya, we broke up in January.” 

Whatever Ilya had been about to say shrivels on his tongue. He swallows it down, tries again, and still nothing comes. 

Three months. Three fucking months he’d hesitated because he believed he was doing Shane a favor, letting him live his life the way he wanted to for as long as possible before Ilya massacred it. Three months where his fear had grown and festered because it’d looked like something it wasn’t. 

“You are not dating Rose Landry.” 

“No,” Shane confirms. He fidgets with his fingers in his lap. “It’s actually—I wasn’t going to get into all of this tonight, but. I think maybe I should.” He takes in a heavy breath, then makes himself look up at Ilya’s face. “Rose and I dated for a little over two months. And she’s great. We’re still close friends, but I—I couldn’t be with her.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because… because I’m gay.” 

Well. Ilya guesses that makes sense. 

“Okay.” 

Shane deflates a little. “...Okay?” 

“Am I supposed to be surprised by this,” Ilya asks, genuinely. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Shane huffs. “Well, yeah, a little,” he says. “Considering you’re the first person I’ve actually said it out loud to.” 

Ilya’s eyes are burning again. The mood swings are going to be the fucking death of him. Яна flutters around in his stomach, less intense now. 

“Thank you for telling me.” 

“You already told me you like girls and guys, so,” Shane shrugs, heavier this time. “Everything’s out in the open now, I guess.” 

Everything. Everything everything everything. 

“So,” Ilya begins slowly, “you and Rose Landry are not together, but you invited me here for… friendship.” 

“I figured that was all that was on the table.” 

“Why?” 

“Why?” Shane repeats with a frown. “Because of Svetlana.” 

“What about Svetlana.” 

“Your relationship,” he says. 

Ilya furrows a brow. “We are friends…?” 

“Yeah.” Shane looks away, eyes not quite rolling, but definitely doing something adjacent. “Friends, like you said in Boston.” 

“No,” Ilya emphasizes. “Friends like normal. Like you and Rose Landry.”  

Whatever emotion had briefly come over him before clears away, and Ilya finds himself once again facing down the meticulously crafted neutrality of Shane’s face. 

“You’re not together?” Shane asks. 

Ilya shakes his head. “No.” 

The answer only seems to further confuse him, his brows low and lip pursed. “I… how does that work? Are you guys just going to, like, keep things open then while you live together? Or—shit, I don’t think that’s the right word. Are you co-par—?” 

“We are not ‘open’, Hollander,” Ilya asserts before this line of thinking can spiral any further. “We are not anything except for good friends.” 

“Oh.” He relaxes some as if he might finally believe it, the tightness in his face slackening again. “I just figured, with the baby and everything…” 

This time, Ilya cannot hide the way he chokes. 

Gravity does the thing again where it feels like it’s failed him, and Ilya has to white knuckle the arm of the sofa just to feel like he isn’t falling through Shane’s soft rug and hardwood floor. 

“What?” he manages tightly. 

Shane looks at him. “What?” 

“You know?” 

“Of course I know,” he says. “There’s pictures online of Svetlana buying pregnancy tests in Boston, Ilya. Then with you not answering and the LTIR… It wasn’t that difficult to piece it together.” 

“So, the whole time—? All Stars, on the phone in Russia,” he stumbles out, “you—you knew and said nothing.” 

At this, Shane seems guilty. “I tried to text, but. I didn’t think I had any right to demand anything from you anymore. I just figured you would tell me if you wanted me to know.” 

Ilya’s mouth is open. He closes it, then opens it back again. 

“Shane,” he says. “What?” 

“What do you mean what?” Shane snaps, finally losing some of his composure. “I—I guess I could have been a little more forward about it, okay? But back in Boston that day, you told me you and her weren’t serious. That that was all it was for both of you, just sex, and just in the past. So when you stopped answering and stopped playing hockey for her I was a little surprised, yeah.” 

His eyes dart to and away from Ilya’s face quickly, and then his cheeks color. 

“Not that—I mean, I think you’re doing the right thing, for sure. I’m not saying that. And I’m sure she’s great, obviously, if you think so highly of her. And you’ve got the history and everything, so. I’m—I’m happy for both of you. Really. I am.” 

I know you’ve got other things going on. If she’s okay with it. She can stay too, if you want. Really? She’d drive you to see me? Like this? 

Ilya wants to laugh. And then he wants to cry again. 

“You think that Sveta is pregnant,” he realizes. 

Shane stares. “Yes…?” 

Prying his fingers off the leather of Shane’s couch, Ilya shakes his head against the wave of nausea that turns his stomach. His feet hurt, his hips hurt, his back is nearly fucking unbearable, and Shane Hollander thinks he got Svetlana pregnant. 

He’d been relieved, just for a moment, that Shane had already known. That he didn’t have to say it. But it wasn’t supposed to be this. 

Ilya stands from the couch. “I—I have to go.” 

He hears Shane stand behind him as he turns to leave the living room, passing underneath the pillars into the long hallway with the bookshelves. 

“Wait, Ilya—what? Go where?” he asks, voice echoing down the corridor. 

“Just—away. I cannot be here, I cannot do—this.” 

Shane catches up with him halfway, catching him by the wrist to get him to stop. Ilya yanks it away like it’d burned, shoving it back into his pocket to cover his abdomen. Surprised, Shane takes a step back, raising his palms in contrition. 

“You don’t have a car here. Look, if I said something wrong, I didn’t mean to—” 

Ilya laughs, wetter than he’d planned, and realizes it’s equally as damp underneath his eyes. “You have… no idea,” he half-wheezes. 

“No idea about what?” Shane presses, stepping closer again at his tears. “Ilya, hey. What is it?” 

“You don’t know. You have it all wrong.” 

“Then tell me,” he says, just as loudly. 

Heaving in several breaths, Ilya steadies himself with one hand on the bookcase and blinks hard. 

“Sveta is not pregnant,” he grits. 

“I…” Shane falters. “She’s not?” 

“No,” Ilya shakes his head. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “So it was, like. A false alarm, then?” 

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut. “No. It has nothing to do with her. She was—helping me.” 

“So you got someone else pregnant?” 

“No.” 

“Ilya. Just fucking tell me, okay? I’m—I don’t want to guess anymore,” he yells, voice hoarse as he loses steam, his eyes glassy. “I’m serious. I spent the last several months picturing you in love with someone else who can give you things that I can’t, so just—” 

“Oh, this has been hard for you?” Ilya asks. “Has it?” 

Shane’s jaw works side to side. “I told you I was sorry. That I regretted leaving. It’s not like you made any move to tell me that the rumors about you and Svetlana weren’t true. You didn’t even answer my texts.” 

“I have been a little bit busy,” Ilya seethes. “And you cannot blame me for that when you let the whole world think you were dating Rose fucking Landry for the last six months.” 

“We’re friends.” 

Ilya snorts. “Looked like it.” 

“Are you seriously jealous right now?” Shane’s eyes narrow. “Is that what this is?” 

“No.” 

“You are,” he scoffs. “You know what, Ilya? I might be the one that left Boston but I wasn’t the one who had a girl in every fucking city the years we were sleeping together. We wouldn’t have happened at all if I’d acted like this every time you showed up just because I knew you’d been with somebody else.” He stops, gathers himself. “I’m trying to tell you that Rose and I aren’t together. That I want you. I wanted you even when I thought you were having a kid with someone else.” 

Ilya goes very still. 

“Would you have wanted me then?” 

The question baffles Shane, who wrinkles his forehead as he blows out a breath. Exasperated, he says, “What?” 

“If I had a kid,” Ilya clarifies. 

“You just said it wasn’t true.” 

“I am not having a baby with Svetlana,” he agrees, increasingly frantic, “but what if—what if I had one—some other way.” 

Shane blinks hard, shaking his head. “Ilya, what the fuck are you saying.” 

“If we didn’t talk for a long time and then I came back and I had a baby, Shane,” he croaks. “Would you want me like this.” 

Mouth hovering open, Shane looks back toward the living room as if it might hold the answers. Instead, he only looks even more lost when he turns back. 

“I—does it matter?” he asks. 

Ilya grips the wood harder. “Answer the question.” 

“No,” Shane snaps, squaring his shoulders. “I’m not going to sit here and answer your hypotheticals just so you can make me beg and lay out how much I want you while you get to act indifferent. I’m standing here telling you that I want you.” He steps closer again, less than a handful of feet away this time. “If we’re doing this, great. But we’re doing it like we do everything else. As fucking equals.” 

The hallway feels like it narrows around them. Ilya can already feel it in his body—the courage dwindling, the fear overtaking it. He’ll do what he has to do. He’ll still tell Shane before he leaves this weekend. But he can’t fucking do it tonight. 

The wood leaves imprints on his palm when he peels it off and tucks it back into his pocket, turning on his heel. 

“I need to go to bed.” 

“Seriously?” Shane says behind him. Ilya hears his footsteps start up again a second later. “Is this punishment? Pretending I didn’t exist for the last seven months wasn’t enough?” 

Ilya keeps walking down the stupidly fucking long hallway to the guest bedroom, trying to keep his jaw from trembling before he’s alone again. 

Shane calls from over his shoulder, his own voice breaking, “Fuck, Ilya, I’m sorry. Okay?” 

He stops with his hand on the door handle, and hears Shane stop in parallel. He can’t turn and look at Shane, not yet. But he knows Shane, and Shane will spiral about this, and Ilya doesn’t think he’ll believe him if he says it’s not you, it’s me. 

Doing his best to keep his tone level, Ilya opens his mouth again. “It’s not punishment, Hollander.” 

It’s silent for a long moment, enough that Ilya starts to think maybe Shane’s walked away altogether. But then the wood creaks, and Shane laughs once, out of breath and humorless. Tired, just like Ilya is. 

“Okay. Rozanov.” 

Ilya walks into the bedroom and presses a fist against his mouth so Shane won’t hear him sob. The bed meets him on his way down. 

S H A N E

It’s been three hours, and Shane can still hear the fracture of their voices in the echo chamber of the hallway. The click of Ilya’s door closing shut behind him. 

Hollander. Rozanov. He’d meant for them to move forward this weekend. Not backward. 

The guilt eats at him. He still doesn’t think he’d have gotten a straight answer if he’d asked Ilya directly about anything before, but he guesses he could have… done something differently. Tried anyway. Maybe he’d have gotten somewhere in the last few days since their phone call in Russia, but he’d been too hesitant to rattle anything, to rock the boat before he ever even got to see him face to face again. 

So much for that, Shane thinks. His head thunks when it meets his headboard. 

So many things are still up in the air. He still has dozens of questions, but the bottom line is exactly what Ilya had laid it out to be: Shane isn’t with Rose, and Ilya isn’t with Svetlana. It’s that thought that sticks with him, that drives his feet into socks and his body toward the guest bedroom. 

It’s late Friday night. Shane drives him home Sunday evening. If Ilya has some reason they shouldn’t make use of the time, Shane will listen. But Shane sure doesn’t fucking have one. 

He keeps his boxers on but slips a t-shirt over his head just in case, running a hand through his hair as he steps into the hallway. He hasn’t heard anything from Ilya’s room since the door closed but Shane hasn’t made any either; sitting against the headboard and staring blankly at the wall typically doesn’t make much sound. 

Steeling himself, Shane draws in a breath and taps his knuckles against the bedroom door. He waits several seconds, hovers his fingers above the handle, and then barely pushes down. 

“Ilya?” he asks quietly through the gap. “Are you asleep?” 

There’s light shining in a beacon across the floor from where the ensuite is also slightly open, deceptive from the hallway where it makes it appear like the lamp is still on. But the rest of the bedroom is dark, contrasted further by the glow. 

Shane considers leaving, but his feet won’t move. He’s already come this far, he figures. If Ilya wants him to fuck off, he’s exceptional at telling him so. He’ll just say what he needs to say, and then he’ll go back to bed, and they can start this whole thing over in the morning. 

He pushes the door open further, enough to slip inside the room before closing it again to keep the light off of Ilya’s face. His socked feet thud on the wood until he reaches the rug, and when Shane squints, he can just barely make out the shape of Ilya’s body underneath the blanket on his side, facing away. 

He’d slept hard the last time, in Boston, but Shane still lowers himself gingerly, careful not to scare him. “Ilya?” he asks again. 

There’s some vague muttering that sounds like it might be Russian, but he doesn’t turn. Shane reaches for him as his eyes adjust to the dark, gently setting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Ilya, hey. Can I talk to you for just a minute?” 

The noise is more distinct this time, and Ilya shifts under the covers. “Mmph. Shane? What’s’it?” 

He takes his hand away. “Um. I just wanted to say sorry, about earlier. That wasn’t at all how I wanted that to go. I was really looking forward to seeing you, and you’re only here for a few days. I don’t want to fight. And if—if we’re going to try to be friends, we should talk about this stuff, right?” 

Ilya, who has turned part of his upper body flat onto the pillow now, filters a sigh through the hand he brings up to scrub at his face. 

“Is middle of the fucking night, Hollander,” he rasps. 

“I know. It was just—on my mind, and I wasn’t going to be able to sleep until I got it out. Sorry.” Even in the dark, Shane can feel his face heat. “Just—please don’t leave early tomorrow. I’ll make breakfast. It’ll be better.” 

“I think I will sleep through tomorrow probably,” Ilya slurs, muffled against the pillow again. 

Shane nods to himself. “Okay. Well. I just… needed to say that. Goodnight, Ilya.” 

He takes one last look at the silhouette of Ilya’s face and then makes himself stand. The springs move underneath his shifting weight, and a noise comes from Ilya’s side of the bed. 

“что ты делаешь,”"What are you doing," he huffs.

Shane pauses. “Um. What?” 

He mumbles some more, then clarifies, with effort, “What are you doing?” 

“Going back to my room.” 

“Should stay,” he murmurs. 

Shane’s eyes have adjusted now. It’s only Ilya’s face above the duvet, his features uncharacteristically relaxed, the warmth of the bed all too welcoming. He doesn’t move. 

Instead, he chokes out: “What.” 

This earns him a very big sigh. 

“I have not slept in two fucking days,” Ilya says, accent thicker in the middle of the night. “Get in bed or get out.” 

“Oh. I—are you sure? It’s… okay?” 

There’s more Russian, but Shane is pretty sure it’s not flattering. He doesn’t ask for clarification for those. 

Before he loses his nerve, he stands from the mattress and peels the sheets back so that he can climb in beside Ilya, pulse thumping as he goes. He keeps his shirt on, lying down as quietly as possible so he doesn’t disturb Ilya—who seems to already be falling back asleep—any more than he already has. 

The bed is an oversized queen, so they both have plenty of room to sleep comfortably. But Shane’s leg brushes Ilya’s while he’s adjusting, and Ilya presses back against him. Slowly, Shane turns onto his side and lays behind him, waiting, but it’s Ilya that mumbles something as he shifts back and closes the distance where Shane had let in a sliver of cool air underneath the covers. 

Shane’s breath hitches when he realizes Ilya’s shirtless. He’d been wearing the thick hoodie since the moment he arrived, even though Shane had been more comfortable in his short sleeves all evening. It seems like maybe he’d gotten overheated, the hoodie and his undershirt slung across the adjacent nightstand when Shane looks over his shoulder. 

Nearly shaking with it, he hovers his fingers over the bare skin of Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers. 

“Mm,” Ilya hums and presses into the warmth, breaths deep and even once again. 

Carefully, Shane lays his head down on the pillow behind Ilya and lets his palm rest with a little more weight. The corded muscle of Ilya’s shoulder and bicep are familiar, the skin smooth on the top and giving way to soft hair covering his forearm. Soothed by Ilya’s invitation, he relaxes further into the bed, tucking one knee up against the bend of Ilya’s with an exhale. 

He smells the same, Shane thinks, only without the ever lingering scent of smoke. He must have really meant it about the quitting this time, if even the last whisps of it have been washed out of his clothes. Shane is surprised to miss it, a little bit. 

He slides his hand down from Ilya’s forearm to his wrist, elbow bent so his hands are in front of his chest. Shane traces over his knuckles when he reaches those, then gently works his fingers in between Ilya’s to squeeze. 

It’s nice. It’s another glimpse of what happened in Boston, only he hadn’t even gotten to have this then. Shane’s back has been against his chest plenty over the years, but he can’t recall a time it was ever the other way around. 

He shifts more to get comfortable enough to sleep, nose sorting through the soft, longer array of Ilya’s curls at his neck and, when he feels certain Ilya’s mostly drifted off, he bends to press his mouth to one of the moles on his shoulder. 

His arm is extended a little too far to sleep, so he gently extricates his fingers from Ilya’s hand and runs them up the length of his arm again. He’s warm and real here in Shane’s house, and despite the distance and the time, they still fit together just like before. Nothing has changed irreversibly. Shane’s relief feels palpable. 

The last of the distance closes as Shane moves in close, fingers drifting over the curve of his shoulder down his side instead. He shivers as Shane passes over his ribs with his knuckles, settled easily by the weight of Shane’s hand spreading over his hip. 

He starts to squeeze the muscle, familiar and sharp underneath his hand, and falters. 

The angled jut of Ilya’s iliac crest that dips low into his v-line is something Shane knows intimately. This is not how he’d remembered it. 

Instead of the rigid line between muscle and bone, Shane’s fingers find firm, warm skin that curves outward, and keeps going and going until suddenly his hand is flat against the sloping edge of an abdomen that most definitely was not there in Boston. 

Shane’s fingers twitch. He’s not even sure if he’s breathing. Underneath his palm, something thuds against him, quick and hard. 

“Ilya,” he says, deceptively calm. His ears are ringing. 

Lost in sleep, Ilya murmurs something half-conscious and shifts, sliding his hand over Shane’s. The same thing happens—the quick thud, something intentional underneath it. Oh God. Shane should not be feeling this. Shane should—he should have minded his fucking business instead of doing this in the middle of the night. He should—

Ilya groans at the feeling of another dull kick, pressing Shane’s hand harder against the spot when he tries to pull it away. Shane squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Ilya.” 

“Mm—what, Hollander?” he snaps, waking up again. 

Shane spreads his fingers out. 

“Is this—are you—?” 

Everything is frozen for a second, and then, all at once, Shane can feel when Ilya realizes. 

He tenses up like a spring, and Shane only narrowly involves a kick to the groin and an elbow to the chest as he scrambles back and away, and something hits the headboard with a hard thump. 

Worried that he might throw himself off the mattress, Shane flings a hand backward to his side and turns on the lamp, squinting at the flood of light as he tries to orient himself. 

“What the fuck are you doing,” Ilya hisses, back against the headboard, duvet yanked up to his shoulders and clutched in a trembling fist. 

“You were the one that asked me to stay!” Shane says, heart pounding. “I asked if it was okay that I touched you!” 

“Yes, well, I was not thinking!” he yells. 

He’s breathing too fast, eyes wide and unfocused and anywhere but on Shane, who now sits frozen on the other side of the mattress. 

Something in his gut twists at seeing Ilya like this—chin wobbling, pale, his eyes swollen enough to be visible proof that he’d been affected just as much by their argument earlier as Shane had. 

He feels at a loss on how to fix it, unable to pretend that he hadn’t felt what he felt, unable to get the fear in Ilya’s face unstained from the backs of his eyelids. 

“Ilya,” he tries. 

Ilya shakes his head nearly violently, eyes closing as his head dips to meet his covered knees. “Don’t.” 

“I—we should talk about this, shouldn’t we?” The timeline. Svetlana buying a pregnancy test in Boston. All Stars. Ilya’s LTIR. All the secrecy, the lack of photographs of him the last few months. “It—it has to be mine, right?” 

Ilya gives a harsh laugh, tries to cut him a glare but can’t hold his eye long enough. “Because seven months is obviously not enough time to find someone else.” 

“Did you?” Shane asks. 

Ilya sniffs, shrugs. “I could have.” 

“Ilya.” 

He loses the sharpness in his infliction now and his expression wobbles, face twisted as he chances a look at Shane with wet eyes. “You don’t want this,” he mutters. 

“I never said that.” 

“I asked you. Earlier. You said you would go crazy without hockey,” he insists, stronger now. “You would not say you wanted me like this.” 

“That was a hypothetical, Ilya, and also way out of context. You didn’t say you were currently having a baby, or that it was mine,” Shane points out. 

“So you only care because you think it’s yours,” Ilya tries for flippancy, but he can’t quite manage it. Shane shifts closer, only by a few inches. 

“I care about you, Ilya. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all night,” he says firmly. “I invited you here prepared to take whatever you would give me even when I thought it was Svetlana who you were having a baby with. I can’t talk myself out of you. The circumstance doesn’t change how I feel.” 

Hesitant, Ilya’s eyes flick to and away from him again. Eventually his head falls back against the wood, and he drags a hand through his hair. 

“This was not how it was supposed to go,” he murmurs. 

“Were you going to tell me?” 

“While I was here, yes.” He swallows. “I thought I could earlier, but…” 

“But I wouldn’t answer the question,” Shane finishes for him. 

He’d been caught off guard by it earlier, too preoccupied talking about one thing to shift gears suddenly into another when it hadn’t even seemed like something relevant. 

But it had been. Had been more than just relevant, even. Imminent, maybe, judging by what Shane had felt underneath the sheets. 

“Sorry,” Ilya chokes, shoving his palms against his eyes. The blanket falls a little on his shoulders, and Shane looks away. He already feels like he’s seen too much that he wasn't intended to. 

“So… I’m not with Rose. You’re not with Svetlana. You’re the one that’s pregnant and…” he trails off, shaking his head. “What—what’s next?” 

“I don’t know,” Ilya admits, scrubbing at his cheek. “When I came here I thought you were with her, so I—I was only going to tell you. I was not… expecting anything back.” 

Shane makes a noise. “You should have.” 

“I did not want it if it was because you felt—obligated,” he explains. “I can do it by myself. I have been doing it by myself. I will be fine.” 

“Is that what you want?” 

Ilya blinks. “I—I can do it.” 

“I know you can,” Shane says. “Is that what you want?” 

More tears come just as quickly as he’d gotten rid of the others, and for the first time since Shane met him at seventeen, he looks completely, truly lost. 

“I—I don’t know, I—” Ilya stammers. “I think I am going to throw up.” 

The words hit Shane with an instinct born of hockey and babysitting alike, and he makes it to the ensuite a half second before Ilya to clear the pathway and make sure he doesn’t trip on anything. He backs up to give him a moment but can’t make himself go too far, hovering near the shower at his back just in case. 

Ilya gags several times and spits, steadying himself on the corner of the cabinetry beside the toilet, but ultimately doesn’t throw up despite still looking like he might. He wipes his mouth with a piece of toilet paper and then flushes that with everything else, slumping sideways and back against the wall. 

He glances over at Shane. “I have medicine,” he rasps. “Can you—?” 

“Yes. Yeah, where is it?” 

“In my bag. Front pocket.” 

In the bedroom, Shane grabs the water bottle off the nightstand and Ilya’s undershirt, then finds the bag sitting on the ottoman at the end of the bed. He unzips the front compartment and finds a folded up piece of cardboard blocking him from everything else underneath. He gently dislodges it, scribbled ink staring back at him. His eyes catch on underlined words at the bottom: do NOT get stressed - bad for baby!!!

Well. Shane had fucked that one, hadn’t he? 

He grabs the prescription bottle and leaves the vitamins, zipping the pocket back up with the note intact. He hears Ilya gag again from the bathroom and puts the bag where he’d found it, hurrying to get back. 

“Here,” he says, handing over the water and pills just as Ilya groans and sits down again. He holds out the shirt next. “Thought you might be more comfortable in this. Maybe not the sweatshirt, though. You’re pretty warm.” 

Ilya shivers for a different reason as he takes them, wiping his mouth and nodding gratefully. He sets the bottles on the tile so he can pull the shirt over his head, knees still blocking Shane’s view of his middle, then shakes one of the pills into his palm and chases it down with the water. 

Only after he’s swallowed it does he seem to relax slightly, his head reclined back against the wall. Shane takes a seat on the edge of the tub to give him some space. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have though Ilya had the flu. 

“You went to Russia like this?” he asks gently. 

Ilya drops his chin again, watching Shane with tentative eyes. “I was careful. She was safe, I—I have good doctor, and I did not—” 

“Ilya, hey. I wasn’t blaming you. I just didn’t know,” he assures. “That must have been difficult. Your father, and everything you had to do for the funeral… I thought you sounded different on the phone, but I figured it was just stress.” 

The moment he stops talking, Shane pauses. 

“Did—did you say ‘she’?” 

Looking exceptionally tired now, Ilya allows a weak smile. His knees lower until his legs are flat on the tile, the hand Shane couldn’t see earlier tucked protectively in the space between his curved stomach and his thigh. 

“Yana,” he confirms. 

Shane’s eyes snap to his. “That’s—my mom’s name is—” 

“I know,” Ilya rasps. “Was not intentional, but. Fitting, no?” 

The guest bathroom feels too small for this conversation, for the way the magnitude of it has shifted something in him that he doesn’t even have a name for yet. He should stop staring, can feel himself doing it, but his gaze keeps drawing to Ilya’s hand, the soothing back-and-forth slide of his palm over skin that’d been bare earlier. That Shane had touched. That—he’d—he’d felt her. A baby. Their baby. 

Shane’s throat clicks. “So, she’s really…?” 

Ilya’s smile fades but he holds Shane’s eye this time, the look on his face so intense that Shane nearly folds underneath the weight. He nods. 

“There wasn’t anyone else. She’s yours.” 

The feeling in his gut billows and stretches, the shock he’d felt earlier pin-and-needling its way into something much more vivid. Much harder to ignore in favor of making sure Ilya was okay. 

“Shane,” he wavers, eyeing him. “Is… too much?” 

“No. I—or, yes, maybe. Not the bad kind, just—give me a second.” 

When the restlessness spreads to his legs, Shane stands from the edge of the tub and paces his way toward the bedroom—but remembers to pause beforehand in the doorway. 

“I’m not leaving,” he tells Ilya. “I’m just—I just need a second. But I’m not going anywhere.” 

Ilya watches him from the floor. 

“Okay, Shane,” he agrees softly. 

With a firm nod, Shane enters the bedroom and walks from one end to the other. It’s mid-season. Toward the end of it, actually, depending on how they do in the playoffs, but still. If Ilya got pregnant in Boston, that would potentially put his due date around  the summer, would it not? There’s a good chance the season will be over by then, but it’d be a close call. And what if his math is wrong? What if it’s earlier than that? What if there are complications? 

Shane narrowly avoids tripping on the carpet as he comes to a stop. He hears Jackie in his head: We’ve been pretty lucky with our pregnancies. You shouldn’t assume it’s the same way for everyone else. With all the secrecy and the timeline, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it was high risk.

Had the nature of it been simply to avoid the backlash and questions Ilya would be sure to get if anyone found out? Or had Jackie been right that something made it extra important to be cautious? Is that what Ilya’s note had been about in his bag? 

The sink turning off in the bathroom catches his attention. He hadn’t realized it ever turned on. He hears Ilya using the hand towel from the wall holder, the click of the light turning off. Ilya emerges a moment later, staring at him from between the two rooms for a second before eventually walking back to his side of the bed. He climbs under the blankets again, and Shane sits down on the other side in a mirror of when he’d first come in here earlier tonight. 

He clasps his hands in his lap while Ilya turns onto his side to face Shane, pulling the blanket to his chest again but keeping his arms out this time. 

“How long—?” Shane asks. “I mean, when did you—?” 

“This will be week twenty-eight.” 

“Six months,” he breathes. 

He can feel Ilya’s eyes on the side of his face. “Yes.” 

“And everything’s—good? When everybody thought it was Svetlana, there was this rumor that something was wrong, or that it must be high risk for you to take that much time off. I know it was a different story, but you—is the sickness and stuff normal for this far along? Jackie said it mostly wears off after the first trimester unless there’s something else going on, but that might just be for her,” Shane rambles, looking down at him. 

“I, ah. I do not know who Jackie is, but… technically, yes. I am considered high risk.” 

Shane turns on his side. “What does that mean?” 

Ilya is quiet at first, mouth twisted. He holds up his hands. “So, baby is connected by cord, yes?” he asks, gesturing accordingly. “Cord is—attached. Inside, to me. And when normal people have a baby it comes out after baby does and is fine. But cord for her is attached wrong.” 

“Wrong?” Shane frowns. “Does it hurt you? Is she okay?” 

He considers this. “I cannot feel it for this part, I don’t think. And maybe not wrong. Just—too deep? So there is possibility that when it’s time to come out after baby, it can be complicated.” 

“Complicated how?” 

At this Ilya hesitates, as if he can already tell that Shane is thinking twenty-five steps ahead. “Like. Um. Too much bleeding, maybe. If they do not do it right.” 

And, yes—okay, he is going to worry about that. 

“How much is too much?” 

“Shane,” he pleads, reaching out to grab one of his hands. “I will tell you more, I promise. But—too much right now, okay? I—I am too tired to be scared more right now.” 

“Sorry,” Shane apologizes, hot in the face once more. “I just want to know everything.” 

Ilya squeezes his hand, and when Shane looks up, there’s a small, tired smile on his lips. “I will tell you. But after we sleep, yes?” 

He nods. “Is it—do you still want me to stay?” 

“Yes. If you want to.” 

He nods again, firmer this time. “Yeah. Please.” 

He pushes the sheets down to climb underneath them again and pulls the chain on the lamp, scooting to lie flat on his back with Ilya at his side. It takes some figuring out, where to put his legs to make room for Ilya’s, the hovering of his hand at his back, the feeling of Ilya’s breaths against his collarbone a little too familiar for comfort at the moment. 

After the third time he shifts, muttering again, Shane clears his throat. 

“Is this comfortable for you?” 

“No,” Ilya admits, sheepish. “Maybe, ah. Like we were before? Sorry. My back is… not so good right now.” 

Shane files that way too, making a mental list of things he’s going to research while Ilya catches up on sleep. 

He waits for Ilya to sit up and turn over before he moves behind him again, passing pillows and readjusting blankets in the dark. They end up similar to earlier, with Shane’s knees behind Ilya’s, hips cradled by Shane’s. Ilya’s back is still to his chest, but this time with both of their shirts on. 

“Like this?” 

“Yes,” Ilya exhales, settling in again. “This is very good. Thank you.” 

It feels good for Shane too, except he realizes belatedly that it leaves him with another problem. His hand has migrated to Ilya’s waist automatically, fingers resting along the inward curve before his hip. Ordinarily he’d just reach around, but he doesn’t want to risk making Ilya uncomfortable again. 

He chances moving it upwards instead, forearm resting over Ilya’s chest where his own arm lies bent. It’s good, except for the fact that they’re two adult hockey players and if Shane keeps his arm like this, his shoulder will be out of socket by morning. 

Subtly, he shifts it down just slightly, draping it across Ilya’s chest instead. Ilya’s elbow jabs into his forearm, but it’s fine as long as it works for him. But it could be better, maybe, if he moved it just so—

“I don’t care if you touch her, Shane,” Ilya says, amusement audible. 

“I don’t have to,” Shane rushes. “I didn’t even mean to earlier. I wasn’t, like, checking, or anything—” 

Ilya reaches down and grabs his hand, putting it back where it’d been earlier. He sweeps his thumb across the back of it once, and then pulls away to tuck his own hands by his chin again. Shane’s fingers flex, intrigued, this time with permission, by the new feeling. 

“You’re not doing anything wrong. I don’t mind.” At a whisper, Ilya adds, “I told you. She is yours too. If you want.” 

If we didn’t talk for a long time and then I came back and I had a baby, Shane. Would you want me like this? 

Shane finally lets his arm relax, his forearm resting neatly around the curve of Ilya’s abdomen. He touches his nose to the back of Ilya’s neck again. 

“I want.” 

He can feel Ilya swallow. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” He touches his lips to the same spot. “We can talk tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” Ilya agrees eventually. “Goodnight, Shane.” 

“Goodnight, Ilya.” 

He’d planned to stay up longer, try to chisel a plan out of it all. But the moment he feels Ilya go slack in his arms his own exhaustion kicks in, too tempting to deny. 

Shane falls asleep with an open palm, waiting for the chance to feel what’s on the other side of it again. 

Chapter End Notes

this chapter has not been read over yet for typos due to the fact that i was too excited to wait to post it sihgfkjsghf but hey my initial goal of getting excited about writing again has been achieved !!!! i will get around to it eventually, but feel free to kindly let me know if there are any disruptive/glaring errors if you come across them. the scenes that take place in the back half of this fic are some of the first ones i wrote for it and i'm so looking forward to sharing them!!!! hope you're all doing well x

(ps i don't have the means right now to go through and thank you all, but please know that i read all of your comments and enjoy seeing all of your thoughts and reactions thoroughly <333 i tend to write whole fics and then publish all at once, i had forgotten how much fun wips can be! thank you for giving it a chance and coming along for the ride!)

Chapter 5: INTERLUDE

Chapter Summary

If his father had used his fists, he would have had a chance. Ilya is younger, quicker, primed from honing his skills on the ice. He could have fought for it, and even if it’d ended the same way, he would have something to show for it. 

But Grigori had known this, probably. He has no scar, no visible bruise. He has only the knowledge that someone had trespassed inside of him and changed something irrevocably, left an incessant, aching emptiness in its place. 

Chapter Notes

i debated posting this alongside the next full chapter, but i didn't want it to get lost or overlooked since (as of right now) it contains lore that i plan to reference later on. i've added the ilya rozanov whump tag because i think this might be a step up from just angst, so please see all warnings despite the shortness of the chapter!

warnings for neglect and references to abuse/demeaning language, mentions of medical procedures and lack of bodily autonomy/consent, bleeding, indirect references to irina / suicide by overdose

that said, the reference that will be made later on is not terribly central to the main plot, just a nod to ilya's storyline. if you need to skip out on this one, definitely do what you need to!

I L Y A

Moscow, 2006 

The worst part is that he has nothing to show for it. 

Ilya is no stranger to bruises. He’s gone looking for them, in some cases. From his brother’s fist, from the warm, wet slate of a mouth against his pulse, the invigorating knick of teeth. On the ice or in seedy back alleyways, clumsily defending Sveta’s honor when she is probably the least likely to need it but is charitable enough to help him limp home and put ice to his jaw afterward with a fond, pitying twist of her mouth. 

The closest thing he has to them from this is the ones on his knees from dragging himself to the locked bedroom door, begging for the painkillers he’d been given to stop the sharp, blinding pain in his lower abdomen each time he moves. Each time he breathes. 

“Тебе нельзя их доверить. Ты слишком похож на свою мать. Растерянный. Слабый,”“You cannot be trusted with them. You are too much like your mother. Confused. Weak,” Grigori mutters through the wood. “Боль научит тебя быть мужчиной. Вы должны быть благодарны мне.”“The pain will make you a man. You should be thanking me.”

It has been days, the rest of the summer stretched out in front of him, unreachable. Unfathomable, really. He has not kept food down, he is exhausted from crying, and he is bleeding, slowly, constantly—his body mourning something he was not given permission to grieve. 

“Папа. Пожалуйста.”“Papa. Please."

“Ничего подобного,”“None of that,” he snaps. “Помни, Илья: если кто-нибудь узнает, тебя может ждать участь куда более страшная. Это ради твоей же безопасности.”“Remember, Ilya. If anyone were to find out, you could be suffering a much worse fate than this. This is for your protection.”

My protection? Ilya had thought. Or yours? 

If his father had used his fists, he would have had a chance. Ilya is younger, quicker, primed from honing his skills on the ice. He could have fought for it, and even if it’d ended the same way, he would have something to show for it. 

But Grigori had known this, probably. He has no scar, no visible bruise. He has only the knowledge that someone had trespassed inside of him and changed something irrevocably, left an incessant, aching emptiness in its place. 

His whole life has been learning how to keep secrets. How could he have failed at it at the time it maybe had mattered the most? 

“Мама,”“Mama," he moans, sobbing quietly. “Мама.”“Mama."

Grigori, evidently still outside in the hall, kicks the door to get him to stop. Ilya jolts and then whimpers, pain radiating throughout his middle as he leans against the adjacent wall and wraps his arms around himself. 

“Заткнись!”“Quiet!"

The wood groans as he finally retreats, Ilya left alone again, away from Alexei, away from Sveta, away from the ice and his bed and himself. His hand shakes as he places it against the curve of his swollen, inflamed abdomen, his body holding onto an anger Ilya can’t fathom for the sadness. 

He wishes for a miracle. For mama. To be far, far away from here one day. He clutches her cross in his fist and prays and prays and prays. 

It changes nothing. The place beneath his palm, unlike Праведная ВероникаRighteous Veronica, remains empty.

Chapter End Notes

Righteous Veronica / russian orthodox context

within the russian orthodox religion, Righteous Veronica (Праведная Вероника) refers to an instance in scripture in which a hemorrhaging woman is healed of twelve years of bleeding by touching Christ’s robes. she is also honored in july, which would have been around the time this interlude takes place.

Chapter 6: v. 30-32 weeks

Chapter Summary

He’d split off from the team somewhere around Albany in a rental as they’d made their way toward Philadelphia, with Hayden and J.J. covering most of his tracks. He’ll have to take a flight to catch back up with them in time for the game, but he’ll have what’s left of tonight up until the early morning after tomorrow. He’ll take it. 

Killing the engine, Shane grabs his bag from the passenger side and steps out. It’s cool but humid in Boston, unkempt hair sticking in wisps against his forehead where the gel he’d put in it this morning has been chased out by his fingers throughout the day. He raises his hand to the bell, but the door opens before he can press it. Shane falters, thrown off, as he takes in the backlit figure in front of him.

Svetlana Vetrova smiles where she leans against the doorframe. 

“Hello, Shane Hollander.”

Chapter Notes

thank you to those of you who were kind about the previous chapter. i’m not one to write gratuitous angst for the sake of it (though even if i was, it is *my* work) but i appreciate those who read the a/n about its purpose. i maintain the fact that i think it provides context for ilya’s perspective throughout the fic and lays some groundwork moving forward, and while the whump tag has not always been present, the angst tag has. it isn’t unfounded - ilya has already spoken about these events in chapter one.

i will also always include any warnings or disclaimers on necessary chapters, as i did with the last one. i know it’s easy to just jump right in, but please take an extra few seconds to check for them so that both reader and writer can have a better experience.

cw’s: one mention of eating behaviors (it's pointed out that shane deviates from his playoff diet), and talks of chest feeding among other late-term pregnancy topics

this chapter was getting way too long once i started including the pre-written pieces as well, so i decided to split it. (there is another 20k of this already written, which is how i’ve been able to publish chapters more quickly once the gaps are filled in.) next one will be fully in boston and focus heavily on just ilya/shane :)

has not yet been proofread and my brain fog is currently horrendous. please excuse any mistakes until i come back around to fix them. x

S H A N E

30 weeks

After Ilya goes back to Boston, they talk. 

With the playoffs ramping up there isn’t much space for phone calls or video calls, but Shane tries to make time for those too. The updates about the baby are much appreciated, and Shane likes getting them; but he also hadn’t realized how much he’d just missed talking to Ilya in general. 

Despite all the changes, it’s nice to converse with someone that’s known him nearly a decade, that’s accustomed to his mannerisms enough to understand the tone he’s using even through a screen. And it’s easy—the kind where Shane will get to the end of the day and look back at every message they’d managed to send back and forth in between Shane’s games and practices and Ilya’s appointments and marvel at how seamless it all is, even when it shouldn’t be. 

They’re not back to the way they were before, but Shane thinks this is better. 

He’s scheduled to deliver at just over thirty-seven weeks, in the middle of June. In theory, that should mean that Shane will be finished with playoffs regardless of if Montreal takes another Cup or not. It should give him time to finish up post-season and then take the first flight to Boston to be with Ilya for the delivery, and then he’ll have the entire summer until practice starts up again to be there to help. 

If he doesn’t take some more time than that. It’s the first time he’s ever considered it aside from what an injury dictated for him. He’s considering it, even if he has none of the logistics pinned down yet. Even if it feels daunting, most days. 

The timeline of it all is close but tidy, like blocks that have been perfectly aligned, and it makes Shane’s palms sweat. There aren’t a lot of built in contingencies that Shane can realistically pull off within the constraints of the season and Ilya being labeled high risk. But Shane tries not to think about everything that could go wrong—an injury, a hectic post-season, complications he hasn’t even considered yet—in favor of keeping his head down, giving as much of himself to the game as he usually would, or more now, maybe, knowing that Ilya’s watching from Boston. 

The practice facility is temporarily shut down, entire portions of the complex taped off for construction that they’d been informed was only supposed to take a handful of days. It’s nothing major but it throws him a little off schedule each time he has to remind himself of it, his regular routine compromised. 

Soon enough they’ll be back on the road and it won’t matter anyway, but he has to make it through today first, which is proving to be difficult already. 

Shane doesn’t mind the Bell Centre. He knows it intimately after all these years, lives less than twenty minutes from it on a day when the roads are clear. But preparing for a game is different than regular practice, and the buzz of the city hub with all its traffic and tourists and fans who’ve realized they’re there lining the entrances and exits is not something he wants to have to deal with on those days. 

He carpools with Hayden and makes it there on time, but he’s halfway through the morning, reaching for his phone when he has a second to check in with Ilya when he realizes he doesn’t have it. 

He doesn’t have his bag at all, the one he’s been bringing with him the last couple of weeks that has an extra set of clothes, some assorted toiletries, the things he doesn’t trust other people to handle for him when they’re uprooted like this. 

He tells himself he can make it through the day without it. It’s just an hour or two, tops. 

But Hayden always stays after and J.J. always talks them into a late lunch and coach asks him to stick around half the time later than everyone else to help workshop or review tape and that’s not even to mention the time he likes to have to himself on the ice sometimes, when doesn’t have to be captain and can just be Shane for a little bit. And what if there’s traffic on the way back—because there always is in the afternoons, when the lunch crowd is heading home and the nightlife is beginning to ramp up. 

He can’t do it. What if something’s wrong with Ilya and he has no idea until he gets home at who knows when because he’d forgotten his fucking phone? 

When he gets a second, he borrows Hayden’s to call his parents and ask if they’ll stop by his place and bring it to him. They’re in the city anyway for a meeting his dad has, and Shane offers to buy lunch from his mother’s favorite bakery downtown for the trouble. 

He walks there as soon as practice lets out while the others make plans to go out, ducking out of the least populated exit toward the restaurants on the adjacent corner of the square. 

The relief he feels when he sees his phone sticking out the pocket of his bag at the table is weighted. 

“Thank you,” he sighs when he reaches his parents, reaching for it. “You’re a lifesaver.” 

“No big deal, kid. It was on our way,” his dad says. 

His mother’s smile is more subdued. “No problem, honey.” 

With the rest of the guys down the street grabbing drinks, Shane has a little time to sit. He discreetly checks his phone for any new messages while his parents order at the counter, bringing his hand up to his mouth to cover his smile at Ilya’s latest update. After having his chest in a knot all morning long, it’s like he can breathe again. 

“You seemed eager to get that back.” His mom points to his phone as she sits down across from him again. “Waiting to hear back about something?” 

His dad takes a seat beside him with their backs to the window, and Shane quickly locks and pockets it again. 

He elbows Shane, winking at Yuna. “It’s just his generation. Right, Shane?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Shane agrees. He thanks them for the small sampler of appetizers and addresses his mother, evading the question. “I responded to the sponsorship agreement you sent over last night. I don’t think they’ll need anything else from me.” 

Another thing that could potentially throw off his schedule. His mother hums, taking a bite of her croissant. 

“I noticed you saw Rose Landry again a few weeks ago,” she hedges. 

Shane wipes his mouth with his napkin and nods. “Yeah. She was just visiting. We had lunch.” 

“That sounds nice,” she smiles. 

He can tell this is leading somewhere he doesn’t have the capacity for today, so he picks up another pastry that looks mostly like air, tries not to think about how much Ilya would probably like it, and turns to his dad. 

“How was the meeting?” 

It does the trick. Shane actually tends to find his work interesting, even though most people think it’s mundane. He likes hearing about the inner mechanisms of things, adding depth to what he’d previously considered to be two-dimensional. But today he lets his mind drift underneath the familiarity and considers shipping a box of the baked goods to Boston. 

Luckily, his dad doesn’t seem to notice that he’s not paying much attention. His mother, however, is already looking at him when he reaches across the table for another napkin. 

“... Do I have something on my face?” Shane asks. 

She shakes her head. “No. No, I just—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you actually eat anything from here before.” 

Shane glances at the raspberry jam staining his fingers and swallows, clutching the napkin in his fist. 

“I—uh,” Shane falters. “Just stress from playoffs, I guess.” 

She frowns. Her mouth opens, but his dad speaks first, setting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. 

“Anything we can help with?” 

His phone buzzes from his pocket. Shane glances down at the preview of Ilya’s text on the screen. Sveta is going home tonight. I will have time for a phone call if you are not too busy. 

“No. I’m good. Just tired, I think.” 

His dad chuckles. “Well, that’s understandable. But it’s paying off, isn’t it?” 

Yes. Please. Shane texts back underneath the table. Ilya likes the message. 

“So far, yeah,” Shane smiles tightly at them. He pushes his plate away, covers the remaining pastries with his napkin. “That was Hayden. I’d better catch back up with them before they head out.” 

“We can drive you back, if you want,” his mom offers, sitting up straighter in her chair. 

“Oh, no. that’s okay. Thanks, though. The construction at the complex has really thrown me off this week. I’m trying to stick to as much of a routine as I can.” 

He slides out of the booth and makes his way to the counter to pay before they can try to talk him into it any more, pocketing the receipt and returning to the table as his parents are slipping back into their jackets. 

“I’ll go grab the car,” his father offers once they’re outside, pulling Shane in for a hug before he goes. “Good to see you before you head out, kid.” 

Shane leans down to press a kiss to his mother’s cheek in parting when it’s just them left amongst the outdoor cafe tables. He’s already got one hand back in his pocket on his phone when she touches his arm. 

“Shane,” she says as he starts to turn away, “can I talk to you for a minute?” 

He lets go, facing her again. “Sure.” 

They step out of the way of the sidewalk, standing underneath the awning where the wind is quieter and it’s more private. They people watch for a minute, the way they used to when Shane was young. He’d had time for it, then. 

“Are you sure there isn’t anything going on between you and Rose Landry anymore?” 

“I’m sure,” he says, mildly confused. “We’re on good terms, so she wanted to see each other while she was in town and catch up, but it’s just friendly.” 

“Okay.” She nods. “But you know you could tell me, right? If there was something going on?” 

“I know.” Shane clears his throat. “Is there a reason you’re asking?” 

His mother turns from where they’d both been staring out at the street to face him directly, her shoulder against the glass and voice purposefully low when she speaks again. 

“When I went to grab your bag, you’d… left some things out on the counter.” 

Shane freezes, suddenly ice cold. 

His mind runs through worst case scenarios, but he mostly has backup plans for these things—the most incriminating thing would be if she’d seen a text from Ilya, but even he’s still in Shane’s phone as Lily. 

Any of his… personal toys are stored in a cubby beneath his bathroom counter next to the sanitary products, except for the lube which is in the back of his bedside table behind other things. What could he have left out on the counter, clearly visible for her to see? 

He walks back through the morning in his head. He’d been tired, having stayed up too late the night before talking to Ilya while making sure his bags were packed for the upcoming roadie. He’d showered, made a quick smoothie for breakfast, and then there’d been a knock at the door, Amazon, and he’d brought the packages in and—

Oh God. He’d left a stack of half-unpacked pregnancy and postpartum books right above where his bag had been sitting. It feels like there are ants all over him. 

“Mom—” he starts. 

“I’m not upset,” she whispers, reaching out to squeeze his arm again. “Really, Shane, you think I didn’t come up with at least a couple of contingencies for this sort of thing? But I just need to know how Rose plans to move forward before we start drafting any sort of statement, so that we don’t—” 

“It was—she’s not—” Shane shuts his eyes hard, shakes his head. “It’s not what you think.” 

Her eyes narrow. “It’s… not?” 

“It was a false alarm,” he spits out before he can think of anything better, setting his hands on his hips when he needs to discreetly rid them of nervous moisture. 

His mother stares, unmoved. “A false alarm.” 

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. “Yeah. We broke up, you know, but then she thought maybe—so she took a test and that’s—that’s why we were meeting up. So she could tell me she wasn’t.” 

“So the books on your counter…?” she asks, brows deepening into a furrow. 

“Delayed,” he says easily. “I ordered them a few weeks ago, when I thought we’d need them. But they ended up just getting here now so I figured I’d keep them to donate. Or something. Hayden will take them probably. Not worth the refund.” 

“Right,” she agrees slowly. 

His skull is tingling. He hates lying, and he’s never been very good at it. He makes himself stand still as she scans over his face, only lets his shoulders fall the slightest bit when she finally glances back toward the street. 

“Well, I have to say,” she admits eventually, “I’m kind of relieved.” 

"Relieved?" Shane manages, small. 

“I’ll be the first to admit that babies are wonderful. You know how hard we fought just to be able to have you, and I’ve never regretted any of it for a second. And Rose seems like a lovely girl,” she assures. “But babies are so much more wonderful when they’re planned. They take time, effort, every last bit of energy at first. And the stress level is insanely high, especially the first time around. You were so thrown off by the complex being closed down for maintenance. Think of what a surprise baby would do.” 

Shane stares at the spot where tires meet pavement out in the street, outwardly frozen. His mother, as she often does, takes this as invitation to keep going. 

“Not to mention your careers. I can’t imagine Rose wants to take a break when she’s had such a successful year so far, and you—could you imagine trying to juggle hockey with a newborn?” 

He hears himself make a vague noise—panicked acknowledgement, maybe. 

“You’re back on the road to a Cup this year, in my opinion. And I’m not the only one that thinks so, either. There’s nothing wrong with players that choose to have families during a season, of course. But you can’t deny that they tend to… fade out. If not within the same season, usually the next three to five. It can cut a good hockey run short before it’s even hit its peak yet.” 

A group of people pass by them on the sidewalk in front of the tables, and his mother leans in closer, dropping her voice to the cadence she used to use when gossipping to him about other players they’d watch practicing in the stands. 

“And that’s for regular hockey players. Not even someone at your level,” she says. “I mean, do you really want to end up like Ilya Rozanov?” 

The heavy metallic design of the cafe chair scrapes against the concrete when Shane pushes it out of the way. 

“I have to go.” 

“Oh—okay,” she falters, righting the chair. “Are you alright, Shane?” 

He nods. “Yeah. Fine. I’ve just got to—get back to the guys, you know. Thanks for the bag.” 

“Of course,” she says. Her eyes flick down the street and back to Shane again, mouth tugging downward at the corner. “Here comes your father. Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” 

“I’m sure. I’m just—it was good to see you.” 

He leans in one last time to kiss her cheek and then quickly pulls away, trying for what he hopes is a smile instead of a grimace. 

“You too, honey. Get some rest, okay? You really do seem stressed. And call us when you get back.” 

“I will,” he promises, even though he still feels like a liar. 

She lingers a moment longer but ultimately heads for the car when his dad pulls up to the curb, and Shane tosses up a wave and books it around the corner before his mother can turn back and watch him go. The ants have graduated to bees now, he thinks. 

By the time he catches back up with Hayden for a ride home, he’s scoured his phone calendar, paced around the Bell Centre twice and is mildly sweaty again, but has also achieved a fragile sense of calm. 

“Do you think you could cover for me if I leave after Toronto and meet back up with you guys in Philadelphia,” Shane asks. 

Hayden, previously racking up swear jar penalties by cursing at the radio when it won’t stop playing one of the kid’s CD’s, stops to glance at him curiously. 

“That’s a forty-eight hour turn around, buddy,” he points out in the voice reserved for when Arthur tries to eat something most definitely inedible. “In the middle of playoffs.” 

“Yeah,” Shane says. 

He finally gets the CD to stop belting something vaguely show-tune adjacent and slumps in his seat, relieved as they make their way down the freeway. After a moment passes to actually be able to think, he throws up his hands on the wheel. 

“Alright, sure. Fuck it. Can I get J.J. in on it too? Cover more ground that way.” 

“That’s fine,” Shane offers a small smile. “Thanks, Hayd.” 

As soon as he gets home he texts Ilya that he’s free, then moves the stack of books into his bedroom, leaving his bags for tomorrow in their place. Two weeks, and then he’ll be in Boston. 

“Long day?” Ilya asks when he picks up, face pixelated on Shane’s screen. He still isn’t quite used to that. 

“I should be asking you that, I think.” 

“My day is boring,” he waves his hand. “We are both very bored. I know it will be hard, but you will have to be exciting enough for all of us for now.” 

“Pretty sure I could do without any more excitement,” Shane sighs, then pauses. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—” 

Ilya hums, eyes moving over his face. It’s quiet between them for a minute. 

“Tell me about hockey,” he says, softer, and this, at least, is something that still comes easy. 

I L Y A

32 weeks

“Five weeks out, Ilya. How are we feeling?” 

The post-Russia house calls have admittedly been much nicer than the paranoia he couldn’t manage to shake when he was still going to Yvonne’s office, especially since he can’t really believably hide Яна under his clothes anymore. 

More than anything, he’s just glad to be back in Boston. 

Visiting Shane was a good thing, eventually, and Ilya’s glad he’d done it. There were conversations that needed to be had, plans to be made, a lot to catch up on and clarify. He feels better about it now. 

Aside from the logistics of it though, things are still admittedly a little tense. Ilya’s had six more months than Shane has to come to terms with this, so he supposes he just needs to be patient. He thinks, maybe, they have time for that now. 

“I have to pee more,” he blurts out as she’s strapping a blood pressure cuff to his arm at his dining room table. Despite his usual brazenness, he feels his face heat. “Also apparently I do not think before I say things anymore.” 

Yvonne smiles to herself as the cuff tightens, taking his blood pressure manually. When she slips the stethoscope off, scribbling his results down in her notes, she says, “The good news is that both of those things are totally normal. The bad news is that you will have to deal with them to full term, and they will probably get worse.” 

Ilya blinks at his kitchen tile. “Fuck.” 

It startles a laugh out of Yvonne, who’s now moved on to having him peel his shirt up above his stomach so that she can palpate it. It’s consistently one of Ilya’s least favorite parts, but he’s more used to it now. She marks down some tenderness near the bottom of his belly and then resumes pressing gently on his sides with warm, gloved hands. 

“How is the pelvic pain?” 

He makes a halfway noise. “Svetlana bought me this pillow. It takes up almost the whole bed, but. I think it is helping.” 

“Good. How about the stairs? Are you still able to navigate them okay? No fear of falls or loss of balance?” she asks, stripping off her gloves and letting him roll down his shirt. 

Ilya thinks about it for a moment. “No. Nothing like that. Sometimes I will get the dizzy spells still, but that’s mostly when I stand up too fast. It does not last long.” 

Doctor Yvonne pulls her notepad into her lap as she nods along. “Nausea meds still working for you?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says. 

“You noted at around twenty-six weeks that you were having some chest soreness. This is where we’d usually begin to see signs of visible colostrum production, a little later than is typical, but pretty in line with androfecundia,” she notes, looking up at him now. “It seems to have stalled a bit since then according to your symptoms, though. Have you given any thought so far as to whether or not you’d like to chest feed?” 

He had, briefly, when she first mentioned it several appointments ago. But then there had been other, more current things to focus on and he’s yet to think about it since. Until now. He shifts in his chair. 

“Does it… affect things?” 

“Yes and no,” she allows. “It’s something to be aware of either way. If you choose not to, you’ll still need to be prepared in case you do start producing, which is likely to happen sometime within the next few weeks. It also helps in terms of knowing what you need to have on hand here at the house post-delivery for feedings,” she explains. “If you think you would like to try it, since you’re a little behind schedule, medically speaking, we can start you on pump therapy to try and stimulate your production in time for baby’s arrival. There’s no right or wrong answer.” 

It is a lot of information. He can’t quite name the feeling it gives him, only that the thought of the pumps and supplies, the idea that his body could fight him regardless—he’s behind schedule, evidently, but also if he decides he doesn’t want to it could still sneak up on him—adds another thin layer of stress. 

Yvonne continues, “Why don’t you take some time, look into it. Think about it and then give me an update. Okay?” 

“Okay,” he nods. She caps her pen and slips it into her breast pocket, looking back through her notes. 

“That’s about it from me today, Ilya,” she says. “BP and vitals are doing alright, latest iron levels look okay as of right now, and we’ve got all that info already sent over to the operating team for transfusion prep if needed,” she lists off. “Your most recent ultrasound looks right on par with what we predicted, and I’m not seeing any signs of preeclampsia.” 

Underneath her personal notepad on her lap, she pulls out another folder marked with his initials and flips it open, turning it toward him. 

“We’ll go over your other day-before and day-of protocols and postpartum at your pre-op. I’m leaving this packet with all of the information about your delivery here so that you can look over it again whenever you’d like. I recommend you familiarize yourself with it as much as possible, as soon as possible. That way if you have any questions, we can get in touch with the right people and get you answers before anything is truly imminent.” 

She flips another few pages. 

“We’ve covered all of our bases from a medical standpoint as well as we can, but you’ll see a section here discussing more personal touches too. I want you to start thinking about what you want your hospital experience to be like outside of the operation itself. If you have comfort items you’d like to bring—a blanket, a pillow, extra clothes or toiletries, anything like that,” she explains, gesturing to a list of examples. “You can also consider who you’d like to be present before and after the surgery, since they’ll need special clearance. Having that information written down ahead of time will make things run much more smoothly in the moment, especially when discretion is something that’s important to you.” 

It gives Ilya pause. He chews at his lip for a moment, then glances up at her. 

“I, um. I told… the other father. After I came back from Russia. So he will be there. Maybe. Probably.” 

Unless something goes wrong. He is trying not to think about it. 

“Oh?” she asks, brows raised. “That was a really big step, Ilya. How did that go?” 

He shrugs, looking back at the paper, thinking about writing Shane’s name on it. “Probably better than it could have. I freaked out. He freaked out. But it was… nice. To not have to hide it anymore. And we have been talking a lot since. It’s good.” 

Yvonne smiles. “That’s amazing. You should accept all of the support that comes your way right now.” 

The support is good. And if Sveta and Yvonne are right about the village thing, Ilya really is going need all the help he can get, whether he likes it or not. 

It will just take some… getting used to. 

The night Shane found out had ended well. Ilya had felt like he’d skipped right to the good parts—sharing a bed again, Shane’s arms around him, getting rest for once. Exhaling. And it’s not that Shane isn’t helping, because Ilya’s been marginally happier since they began talking again. 

But the morning after that night, Ilya had woken up to an empty bed for a second time. It’d been different, yes—he could hear Shane moving around in the kitchen, and he was at Shane’s house, so it wasn’t like Ilya immediately assumed the worst. But after dragging himself up and into the dining room, it was no longer the Shane from the night before, with the sweet, sure I want and the endearingly hesitant, soothing hand grazing Яна at his middle. Instead, it’d been calendars and to-do lists, a smoothie Shane had researched to be healthiest for him at this stage of carrying and questions about his prenatals Ilya couldn’t begin to answer, Shane’s glasses perched on his nose and gesticulating with his spatula, and most of that all before Ilya had even really woken up properly and swallowed back the nausea enough to listen. 

He wants every version of Shane. That part of it isn’t going to change. He will just have to get to know this one a little better, and maybe—maybe tell Shane that what he needs sometimes is more touch than it is words, especially when he’s stressed or tired. That Ilya would rather have five more minutes in bed with him than the fancy breakfast. 

Ilya does not have a good record of staying places where he begins to feel like a thing to be handled instead of a participant in the handling. Most of the time, having Shane’s perspective, his planning, is a relief. Right now, though, it makes him feel a little bit like maybe he’s been doing everything wrong this whole time. Like he has been too calm, let things slip through the cracks. It makes him anxious. It makes him scared, a little bit. 

But he wants to speak to Shane about this in person, especially when they’re both just getting used to talking again. 

“I think I just wasn’t expecting how real it is feeling now,” he admits, focusing mostly on his fingers fidgeting in his lap. 

Yvonne doesn’t argue. “That makes sense. Up until now, we’ve just been looking at a picture on a screen, focusing on the here and now. Telling the other parent, discussing things like birth plans, hospitals, postpartum care—it makes sense that things would begin to feel a little heavier.” 

“And you will be there, during?” Ilya asks, trying not to cringe at himself. “Sorry. I know I have asked this already.” 

“You can ask as many times as you’d like,” she assures patiently, “and yes, I will be present throughout the entirety of your surgery, and I will be overseeing each of your concerns that we spoke about before. It’s all listed out in the packet, okay? Check it whenever you want, and call me if something doesn’t look right or if you have any questions.” She sets the packet down on the table between them and pats it with her hand. “Baby is dictating our timeline, but you get to dictate what the process looks like.” 

Just like it did the last twenty fucking times Ilya did it, the answer makes him feel better. He gives her a crooked smile. “Thank you.” 

“That’s my job, Ilya.” He appreciates that her tone does not change when she adds, “Counseling is always an option as well. I have several recommendations, if you’d be open to hearing about them at some point. Discreet, accessible. There’s no shame in asking for help, even if only for a short period.” 

The idea of it would have been too intimidating before, but now, with Яна, he’s trying to be more mindful. He used to hate that quote that Marly used to parrot around the locker room for a phase, do it scared. He’d thought it was stupid. Now he thinks maybe there had been some truth to it, when motivated by the right thing. 

“I will think about it,” he says after a pause, and is somewhat surprised to actually mean it. He looks back at the folder on the table. “You are a very good doctor.” 

“Well. That’s always lovely to hear. Thank you, Ilya.” 

“You are very professional, but—also nice. Not scary.” 

Her face brightens at the compliment. “That means a lot.” 

He stands from the table—with Yvonne’s help, to his embarrassment—to use the bathroom again when Яна will not stop moving against his bladder, leaving her in the kitchen to finish packing her things. By the time he gets back he’s thought of another question, and his loose tongue, evidently something he’s going to have to become used to now, speaks ahead of him. 

“Did you know me? When I first came in for an appointment?” 

Yvonne smiles down at her bag as she pulls the zipper while Ilya leans against the island, not so subtly using it to stretch his sore back. 

“My wife is a die hard hockey fan, Ilya.” 

Ilya perks up. He’s missed hockey. “She is a fan of me?” 

“We live in Boston,” Yvonne slants him an unimpressed look. “What do you think?” 

He chuckles, and then he can’t stop. Eventually there are tears in his eyes and an ache in his side from Яна trying to join in on the fun. Ilya rubs a hand over the spot absently as Yvonne’s eyes narrow, halted before she can leave.  

“What’s so funny?” 

“She would not believe who the other father is,” he says. Thrilled at the prospect of someone knowing, horrified at his own lack of filter, and relieved by the patient confidentiality clause and Sveta-approved NDA’s all at once. 

She stares at him, assessing. “I’m not sure I understand.”  

“Mm. I could tell you, but it would be more fun if you found out at the hospital, I think.” 

“I’m sure it would be,” she agrees, “but I’d rather not have any sort of cardiac incident when I’m trying to focus on delivering your baby, personally.” 

“You don’t play fair,” he pouts. 

Yvonne shrugs, mouth twitching. “Name of the game.” 

“Okay, fine. I will tell you,” Ilya wagers with a grin, “but you cannot tell your wife. Sorry.” 

“Well, that’s just cruel.” 

He lifts his brows. “So you don’t want to know?” 

“That is not what I said.” 

He could not tell Marly, and Svetlana had put it together for herself. Saying it now is the first time he’s done it aloud, and it makes him feel giddy, makes it real in a way that isn’t as intimidating as the other parts. 

“No shit,” Yvonne scoffs after he tells her. 

A laugh bubbles out of him, delighted at the prospect of getting her to stray from her professionalism. “I told you it was surprising.” 

“No, I mean, it is, yes, but—my wife and I met at a hockey game, actually. Montreal at Boston.” She gives Ilya a wry look. “She was cheering for Boston. I was for Montreal.” 

Ilya gasps exaggeratedly at her betrayal. “Was I playing?” 

At this, Yvonne is the one who laughs. “It was a bit before you two got there, but still. Quite the coincidence.” 

“Yes,” Ilya nods, leaning against the counter again. “It is good your wife has made you a Boston fan now. Would be awkward for me otherwise.” 

She blinks, suddenly becoming busy with the bag she’s already packed and zipped twice over. 

“You are Boston fan now, yes?” he confirms. “Yvonne?” 

“I think that’s all the time we have for today, Ilya.” 

He gasps—for real this time—and follows her out. 

“Yvonne.” 

“I can tell you that I’m fully team Ilya for this baby, and that’s what matters,” she defends, turning to face him as she opens the door.  

She is not playing fair again. Ilya sighs. “Okay, you can maybe be on both of our teams for baby. Just this once.” 

“How diplomatic of you, Captain,” she teases. 

It’s a joke, Ilya knows, but with all of the hormones lately, the word lands somewhere tender in his chest. He is still glad to be doing this, but he misses his team. Misses hockey. Misses being Cap, Rozy, Captain Rozanov. It’s the same thing he feels each time he sits down to watch one of Shane’s games. Proud, nostalgic, a little melancholy at the same time. 

He’s only been off the ice for a handful of months, but it feels like more when he’s been on it for so long, relentless, without breaks. He knows how the industry works. It’s the same reason he’d been hesitant to tell Shane in the first place. 

“And, for what it’s worth,” Yvonne says, drawing him back to the moment, “I know we’ve only known each other for a short time, but I don’t think it’s quite as surprising as you think it is.” 

Mortifyingly, his voice cracks when he tells her, “Thank you.” 

“So. How are the mood swings coming?” 

He scoffs, knuckling at his eye. “I take it back. You are not nice.” 

Yvonne laughs all the way back to her car. Ilya waits until her back is turned, still just as stubborn, to crack a smile of his own. 

S H A N E

The streets are pitch black by the time Shane makes his way down the winding, tree-lined road that leads to Ilya’s place. 

He’d split off from the team somewhere around Albany in a rental as they’d made their way toward Philadelphia, with Hayden and J.J. covering most of his tracks. He’ll have to take a flight to catch back up with them in time for the game, but he’ll have what’s left of tonight up until the early morning after tomorrow. He’ll take it. 

The only thing he hadn’t accounted for in his heedless determination to get to Boston was the fact that he’d be arriving close to the middle of the night. Ilya hasn’t said outright that he’s been having trouble sleeping, but Shane has his suspicions. 

He knows the gate code from before but Ilya had never given him the one to the front entrance, so he’ll have to knock or try to call. After being in the car all day long, with the team and then alone, he could really use a good night’s sleep, so. Maybe Ilya will forgive him if he only has to get up long enough to answer the door before they both pass out again. 

The gate closes automatically behind his car as he pulls into Ilya’s driveway next to two other cars. He can never keep track of the new ones. They look less sporty than usual at least, which gives him some assurance. 

Killing the engine, Shane grabs his bag from the passenger side and steps out. It’s cool but humid in Boston, unkempt hair sticking in wisps against his forehead where the gel he’d put in it this morning has been chased out by his fingers throughout the day. His feet carry him all the way to the front door before he pauses, a sense of déjà vu looming as he stares down the entryway that he’d left in such a hurry last time. Something else to be forgiven for. 

He raises his hand to the bell regardless, but the door opens before he can press it. Shane falters, thrown off, as he takes in the backlit figure in front of him. 

Svetlana Vetrova smiles where she leans against the doorframe. 

“Hello, Shane Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

to the comment that asked if ilya's bump was ever going to surpass the size of his ass in the timeline illustrations, i hope this delivers sjhdkjhgsf please know i laughed x

Chapter 7: vi. 32 weeks - part one

Chapter Summary

Stifling a yawn behind his fist, Ilya blinks several times as he steps into the open dining room, and then goes abruptly still the moment he focuses enough to register the third presence in the kitchen.

“Шаня?” he whispers, then shakes his head. “Shane?”

Still a little shaken up himself, Shane offers a mild, “Surprise.”

Chapter Notes

S H A N E

He is acutely aware of how much time has elapsed since the front door opened. This does not, incidentally, make the muscles in his legs any more inclined to work again. 

Svetlana, who Shane is rapidly beginning to realize is not done justice in the slightest from a grainy magazine photo, stays leaning against the frame of the doorway, head tilted to the side as she observes him. 

Thing is. He’s kind of poured every bit of himself into hockey these last two weeks so that he could not think about that—or anything else—once he finally got to Boston. Boston was just supposed to be Ilya. And maybe if it were the afternoon instead of midnight, and Shane hadn’t been driving all day long, making excuses to Rose, avoiding Hayden’s questions, lying to his parents, maybe then he could handle a little change of plans. 

But he has been doing all of these things. And now his chest hurts. 

“You are having a panic attack, Shane Hollander.” 

He shakes his head, says through a wheeze that would be comical if not mortifying, “I’m good.” 

“Not really,” she informs him. “Do you want to come in anyway?” 

His eyes flick up to her face again, holding open the door with a single brow patiently curved in what Shane can only assume is some sort of test dressed up as invitation. He takes his hand off of his chest, straightens his shoulders, and nods. 

“Good choice,” Svetlana says. 

She spins and walks off into the house, leaving Shane to scramble through closing the door, removing his shoes, and catching up with her somewhere around the kitchen. Most of the lights are off but the short hallway leading to the lower guest bedroom is brightly lit, and the low hanging bulbs above the island in the kitchen are on, dim, tinged yellow and making the sharper edges of Ilya’s minimally furnished home feel just slightly more welcoming. If not for… everything else. 

He sets his bag down on one of the stools at the island and takes the seat beside it while he tries to even his breathing, Svetlana on the other side of the counter. 

“I assume you are the reason Ilya has taken up drinking ginger ales the last seven months,” she continues, reaching past the aforementioned cans in the fridge, “but you get water for now. Drink.” 

“Thanks,” he croaks as he accepts it, unscrewing the cap and taking several sips. He feels like he could use a good full-body dunk in it right about now. 

Svetlana hums, taking a few steps backward to lean against the countertop by the fridge with her own bottle. She taps her fingers against the side of it. 

“Interesting that you are here when you are supposed to be in Philadelphia.” 

“Forty-eight hour turnover,” Shane rasps after he swallows. 

“And Boston was just… on your way?” 

He swallows again. Wipes his mouth and forces his eyes up to meet hers, cool and calculating. 

“You know.” 

“I know many things,” she says, “you will have to be more specific.” 

His gaze narrows. “Do you… have a problem with me?” 

“I have not decided yet.” 

“You drove him to my house,” Shane defends. “That wasn’t on your way.” 

She makes an exaggerated face of recognition, pointing at him with one finger lifted off the bottle she’s holding. “I did, yes. But, see—you cannot leave him from your own house.” 

The panic recedes, tension taking its place. 

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Shane asks. 

“Yes,” Svetlana agrees. “I am not questioning that you are here now. I am wondering if you will stay.” 

“I came here in the middle of a roadie in the last leg of playoffs. I only found out a month and a half ago. I’m doing what I can. I’m lying to my team—” to my parents, Shane nearly says, voice cracking, “—just to get barely twenty-four hours with him.” 

Svetlana looks at him. “Are you willing to keep doing that?” 

Shane’s mouth snaps closed, his hot streak of defensiveness fizzling. 

There is a scuff from the stairs on the other side of the dining room, and he stands so quickly that the wooden legs of the stool wobble, thrown off balance. 

A steady thud of footsteps follows with several seconds in between each one, and the closer they get, the more he can hear Ilya’s voice, muttering to himself as he finally makes it past the half wall toward the bottom of the steps. 

Just five weeks ago he’d been at Shane’s house in an oversized hoodie and undershirt, able to pass more for bulking season than a pregnancy. Now, as he steps off the stairs with one hand rubbing the spot where his t-shirt refuses to meet his sweatpants and the other knuckling the sleep from his eyes, Shane is a little bit speechless at how steep of a change it is. 

He’s seen Ilya’s face plenty lately on their video calls, heard his voice. But what all is he missing in person? 

He appears to have just woken up, sheet lines carved into his cheek and curls a mess, skewed to one side. A noise gets stuck in Shane’s throat, something fond and too revealing. If Svetlana weren’t here, he thinks it might have slipped out anyway. 

“Света, можешь подойти и поправить мне подушку?”“Sveta. Can you come and fix my pillow?” Ilya grumbles, still rubbing at his face. “Кажется, я снова облажался.”“I think I fucked it up again.”

Stifling a yawn behind his fist, Ilya blinks several times as he steps into the open dining room, and then goes abruptly still the moment he focuses enough to register Shane. 

“Шаня?”“Shanya?” he whispers, then shakes his head. “Shane?” 

Still a little shaken up himself, Shane offers a mild, “Surprise.” 

Ilya doesn’t move. “What—you—you have a game in two days. In Philadelphia.” 

“One and a half now, technically,” he says. “I just thought… I wanted to see you. But if you’d be more comfortable with me getting a hotel or something, I can—”

“Идиоты,”“Idiots,” Svetlana mutters. “He does not want you in a hotel. Go.” 

Shane stumbles forward as if his strings have been cut, crossing through the kitchen to get to him. Ilya doesn’t meet him in the middle but his arms are open when Shane reaches him, surprisingly steady. The larger curve of his abdomen keeps their lower halves separate now but Ilya pulls him as close as he can up above, his hands making tight fists in the back of Shane’s pullover. 

“Hi,” he buries in Ilya’s hair, but it’s quickly undercut by the hitched rhythm of Ilya’s sobs. Shane freezes, hovering a hand over the back of his head as he glances toward Svetlana. “Um. Should I—?” 

She waves a hand, taking another sip of her water. “This is fine. He is just like this now.” 

“Sveta,” Ilya hisses. 

“What? You think I would lie? To Shane Hollander?” 

He winces. “Uh. You can just call me Shane. You don’t have to use… the full name. Every time.” 

“You’re right.” She smiles. “Here, you are just the man who put a baby in my best friend.” 

Shane chokes, turning away from her to hug Ilya again while he rubs a palm over his back. But instead of leaning into it again, Ilya rears back, eyes wide and red, jaw clenched tightly despite his trembling lower lip. His knuckles are still white on Shane’s arms. 

“Если ты снова его спугнешь, я тебя не прощу,”“If you scare him off again, I will not forgive you,” he tells Svetlana. 

Her face softens, expression losing its protective edge and smoothing into something nearly sad. She stares at Ilya a moment longer but schools herself quickly, sets her water down and clears her throat. 

“Shane,” she says, turning to him. “I very generously bought Ilya a pillow that helps him with his back, but he cannot always get it just right when he is lying down without someone there. Maybe you could help him with it?” 

“Yeah. Of course.” He touches Ilya’s hip with his hand. “Whatever you need.” 

“Good.” Leaving the three dim lights on over the island, she backs away toward the guest bedroom again, her eyes lingering. “Then I will see you both in the morning.” 

Grabbing his bag off the stool, Shane shoulders it onto one side and keeps the other on Ilya, a hand splayed in the center of his back as they ascend the stairs back to the second floor. Ilya clearly struggles with it, either from lack of sleep or simply because his center of gravity has shifted now, but Shane doubts now is the time to bring it up when he sniffling echo of Ilya’s tears is still around them. 

The bedroom looks nearly the same as the last time he’d been here, which is both a blessing and a curse—an unfortunate reminder and, maybe, a chance to do it over again. Shane loses a little of his nerve once he passes through the doorway, only pulled back out of his head again when Ilya looks over expectantly from the bed. 

He takes a change of clothes into the en suite and rushes through brushing his teeth and washing his face, then pulls on a pair of sweatpants with a t-shirt to sleep in. When he returns Ilya is sitting astride what Shane assumes is the pillow he’d been referring to, legs splayed, one hand on his middle, face pinched like he might cry again. 

This is not a version of Ilya he’s accustomed to, despite the decade of prior experience. The Ilya his mind conjures up from even just a year ago he thinks would sooner mask himself with agitation than ever let himself be seen shedding a tear. It’s going to take some getting used to. All of it is. 

The pillow isn’t completely unlike others than he’s seen before recommended across various PT specialists and sports injury threads, the ergonomic shape keeping the spine and hips aligned. Except instead of a wedge between the knees or a prop underneath the arm and shoulder, this one winds its way fully around Ilya’s body, molded to the shape of his stomach, the arch of his back, and extending down in between his knees. 

Getting Ilya situated inside of it is… a process. Shane can see why he’d need help, especially if it isn’t as easy to reach, twist, and pull as it used to be. But eventually they get there, a team effort, Ilya’s body safely cocooned inside of it while Shane settles into a sliver of bare mattress left on the side. 

“Is that good?” Shane asks, bringing the sheets up around his middle. 

Ilya whines miserably and shoves a palm against his eyes. “No.”

“No?” 

“No,” he reiterates, thick with congestion as his eyes water again. “I don’t like it.” 

Shane falters, glancing up and down the length of it. “What’s wrong?” 

“I cannot touch you.” 

Oh. Well. That’s kind of nice. He fights against a small, relieved smile and reaches across the pillow between them to touch Ilya’s arm. 

“It’s not going to fit both of us,” he estimates. “Do you want—I could try to do what we did at my house, if—?” 

Ilya is nodding before he can finish. “Yes. ДаYeah. That, please.” 

“Okay, here. Sit up for a sec, if you can. Let me just—” Shane says. 

With a hand underneath himself, Ilya pushes up slowly onto his side while Shane works the pillow out from behind his back and under his head, then carefully from in between his legs. It’s even more massive on its own without the vastness of Ilya’s bed as a backdrop, and Shane walks it over to the sofa by the windows to lay it down so it won’t get dirty while it isn’t being used. 

The rest of the pillows that usually go on the bed are in the closet, and Ilya talks him through where to find them and new cases. He tosses four onto the  mattress, two for each of them, and leaves two others on the nightstand in case they need them. 

They’ve only slept together like this once, the first night Ilya was in Montreal. Ilya had been too sick to lie down in the bed the rest of the trip, so they’d moved out to the sofa, Shane’s living room overcome with soup bowls and a half-sipped plain can of Coke and Gatorade, a well-tread pathway already made between the furniture for Ilya to get to the bathroom quickly if needed. 

This time around he’s a little less hesitant when he settles in behind him, carefully tucking his hips against Ilya’s, turning them just enough to take some of the pressure off without irritating his spine or lower back. Ilya groans, but Shane thinks it sounds more relieved now than irritated. 

“Better?” he asks. 

Ilya hums. “Is there—other pillow? Behind you?” 

“Yeah, here,” Shane says, and reaches back to grab it off the nightstand. “Where do you—?”

He helps him tuck it partially between his body and the mattress to support the other side of his stomach, where turning back into Shane has left a slight gap. It earns him another contented sigh. 

“Your knee,” he murmurs next, patting Shane’s thigh. “Put it forward. Between mine.” 

“It won’t be too heavy?” Shane checks. 

“No.” 

Keeping one leg parallel with Ilya’s extended straight one, Shane bends the other and wedges it in between so that Ilya’s can rest half on top of it without sliding forward. 

“Like that?” 

“Yes,” Ilya nearly hisses, words slurring on a moan. He pulls Shane’s wrist around until his palm is taking over the pressure that the pillow can’t reach underneath the swell of his abdomen, then falls slack completely. “Боже мойMy God, that is good.” 

Shane doesn’t try to conceal his smile this time, letting it spread as he touches his lips to the back of Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Good.” 

+

Shane is a morning person. He finds out very quickly that Svetlana is one, too. 

They have coffee together early, cohabiting Ilya’s kitchen as the sun comes up outside the windows, civil but not necessarily friendly. She makes herself a bowl of oatmeal and fruit while Shane puts together an omelette, and they eat at the dining table. She seems so different here, he thinks. So separate from the image inside of his head, from the one online. Less untouchable. 

“Have you considered moving him downstairs?” Shane asks while he eats. “He was having some trouble with the stairs last night.” 

Taking a bite of oatmeal into her mouth, Svetlana taps the spoon against her lips as she swallows. “I have noticed this too. We were going to wait a little longer, but we can do it while you’re here, if you think it would be good.” 

It feels like progress, at least. 

As soon as Ilya wakes up they start moving his things into the downstairs guest bedroom, Svetlana’s things already neatly cleared out of it to make room. Ilya, from his perch at the kitchen island as he eats his own breakfast, mumbles about how unnecessary it is but is hovering in the doorway by the end of it, rubbing absently at his stomach while he directs them where to put things. 

He catches Shane staring at one point and freezes, shoulders raising. “What?” 

Shane shakes his head. Smiles. Pretends that he can't feel Svetlana’s eyes flicking between them. “Nothing.” 

They gather in the living area toward the back of the house when it’s finished to take a break before lunch, the familiar sounds of an old hockey game drawing him in. He hands Ilya a can of ginger ale that matches the one in his own, but halts before he can round the coffee table to take a seat. 

One corner of the living room is completely swallowed up by a large, dark-furred teddy bear with a massive pink bow. It is the same height as Shane when he steps in its direction. 

“Who is that from?” he asks, bewildered. He hadn’t even known they made them this big. “And why does the tag say ‘Love, the Godfather’?” 

Ilya snorts from the sofa. “Marly says it sounds much cooler than just ‘uncle Marly’.” 

Shane drops the tag as he turns, certain that his face betrays his shock. 

“Marleau knows?” 

“Not about you,” Ilya assures, gentler, his eyes now fully on Shane instead of the television. “Just—that there is a baby. He helped me with the nursery.” 

His eyes drop to Ilya’s stomach and back. “And he was good about—everything?” 

Ilya’s lips quirk. “Would you beat him up for me if he wasn’t, Hollander?” 

“I’d take a penalty or two for it, yeah,” Shane says, and means it. 

“I am not allowed to have sex until after baby,” he groans, tossing his head back onto the couch. The arch of his neck, his pouting lip—it’s all so distracting that Shane momentarily forgets the fact that they haven’t even kissed again yet. “This is cruel.” 

Shane feels his face heat. He walks away from the bear, finally coming to sit on Ilya’s other side and open his drink. “Come on. I’m being serious.” 

Over the next couple of minutes, game flickering in the background, Ilya’s smile wanes. Not sad, but something like disappointed maybe. 

“He still thinks that Sveta is pregnant.” 

He frowns. “I thought you said he came over to help with the nursery?” 

“I was not so big then,” Ilya shrugs. “Also he is not so smart. He was confused that I would not drink with him to celebrate, but mostly was excited to use his new hammer from the Home Depot.” 

Shane tries to picture what it’d be like to share that with one of his own teammates. To casually mention that he’d gotten someone pregnant—no, they can’t meet them, and yes, Shane will be taking time off for it. He can’t possibly picture that working out, but if Ilya had done it, surely it was possible? 

He opens his mouth to ask more about it, but Ilya has slumped over a bit now, cheek pressed against the cushion, eyes fluttering as he dozes. The books say that that’s probably normal for him right now, but Shane mourns the loss of his voice when it’s gone. After the night before and the early morning though, he can’t bring himself to wake him. 

Carefully easing the can from Ilya’s loosened fingers on the cushion, Shane sets the ginger ale beside his own on the coffee table, and then tucks the throw blanket around his shoulders. He tries for a few minutes to watch the TV but hockey isn’t what he wants to see right now, and he’s too restless to sit still anyway. 

He finds Svetlana in the kitchen, deftly mixing something in a bowl by the stove. It smells good, something rich and hearty that had wafted its way slowly into the living room before he left it, and Shane drifts closer, intrigued. 

“What are you making?” 

“Rassolnik,” she replies without glancing up. “It is a soup from Russia. He has been enjoying it lately.” She pauses for a moment. “Is there something in it you cannot eat? We have other things.” 

“No, it should be fine,” he says. “Can I—help?” 

At this, she does look at him. “You would not rather spend your time with him?” 

“He fell asleep on the couch, and after last night, I’m pretty sure he could use it.” 

She nods. “You could too, probably.” 

He hovers between the two rooms, hands in his pockets, then takes a step forward. 

“I’d like to help. If that’s okay.” 

Svetlana purses her lips, taking stock of her ingredients. She grabs a jar from a bit further down the counter to inspect, and then looks back at him. 

“Have you ever pickled a cucumber, Shane?” 

Shane rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. 

+

The rassolnik is ready just before noon, and Ilya eats it reclined in the same spot he’d slept in, a napkin spread over his chest and the bowl balanced on the arc of his stomach. A talent he’d discovered whilst eating cereal, Shane learns, and that he’s all too proud to boast about. 

Svetlana is leaving after lunch, and he’s as eager for the countdown as he is nervous for it. He wants to get along with her because she’s Ilya’s best friend, but her pointed attention makes him self conscious. She’s also been here much more than Shane has, and is more likely to know what to do in the event that something goes wrong. 

But he also desperately would like to be alone with Ilya again. The last time had been—a lot. Too much to catch up on, too many misunderstandings to set straight. Shane hadn’t even fully wrapped his mind around the reality of everything by the time Ilya left, doesn’t think it would have been possible to in the span of a weekend alone. 

Last time was for laying the groundwork. This time will be more, Shane hopes. 

“You should let me take your picture,” she tells them from the arm chair as they’re finishing their bowls. 

Ilya wrinkles a brow. “Why?”

“You have not let me take any,” she shrugs. “We should have at least a little bit to remember the time by. And now Shane is here too. It will be first family photo.” 

Despite being close the night before, they haven’t quite bridged the gap today. He and Svetlana have an easy, overtly physical type of relationship Shane has realized, more than comfortable holding each other’s hands or leaving kisses on cheeks and heads. He doesn’t know if he and Ilya are at that point yet, unaccustomed to casual affection, unsure if it would be different or not because they’re… they’re something. 

Aren’t they? 

Ilya sits a wide cushion away from him now where they both settled down to eat, fidgeting with his empty bowl. 

“You are okay with this?” he asks Shane, the furrow in his brow deepening. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Ilya looks away. “We have only one picture together. That we took on purpose, at least. I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to.” 

“I mean, it’s not like we’re going to post it online or anything,” Shane reasons, suddenly a little bashful about it now himself, “but I’d like to have it. And I think we should take more. You know, for us.” 

He’s not a fan of the way Ilya is looking at him like he could change his mind at any second. He chews at his lip for a minute, then turns from Shane to nod at Svetlana. 

“Okay.” 

Both of their bowls are placed to the side on the coffee table, Ilya’s blanket draped aside as he sits up a bit and runs a hand through his hair. It’s unruly and wild but still soft, long enough now to disguise the the natural swoop of it that it gets when it’s shorter. Shane wants to run his fingers through it, but lays his hand along the back of the sofa instead, just barely grazing Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Big smiles,” Svetlana tells them, aiming the phone in their direction. Her eyes flick up over it a second later, narrowing at Ilya. “That is not a smile, Ilya. What are you doing?” 

“What do you mean what am I doing,” he drawls, lacing his fingers together in his lap. “I am sitting for the picture.” 

“You are being so… modest,” she grimaces. 

“I can be modest!” 

She rolls her eyes. “At least get the bump in it. It is not a picture of you without some skin showing.” 

“Oh, I am a slut?” Ilya asks, brows raised. “Hollander, she is calling me names while I am helpless and vulnerable. Protect me.” 

“Come here,” Shane says, smiling, and shifts closer. 

Ilya, evidently finished with laborious tasks like moving, simply leans his upper body over to Shane instead. He’s not actually leaning on him, his weight propped by his elbow on the couch beside Shane’s hip. But he’s close enough to feel the warmth of Ilya’s sweatshirt, to smell his soap, to just almost have a hand on his shoulder. 

He keeps looking, can’t stop himself. It’s one thing to sleep beside Ilya, when it’s dark and they’re both exhausted and Shane’s nose is tucked into the back of his neck. It’s another entirely to be this close to him in the daylight, when Shane can see everything, all of the subtle ways his face has changed over the last few months—the broader slope of his strong nose, his full, flushed cheeks, the blurry emergence of a freckle near his left brow that Shane swears hadn’t been there before. 

Svetlana clears her throat. Softly, she asks, “Shane?” 

His head snaps toward the camera, his own face turning pink. He can feel Ilya look up at him in response. Svetlana’s thumb presses down more times than Shane can keep count of or worry about. 

He and Svetlana gather up the dirty dishes afterward to bring to the kitchen, Svetlana rinsing them while Shane loads them into the washer. She finishes slightly before he does, drying her hands on the towel. 

“I’m going to go and say goodbye,” she tells him, and heads toward the living room back to Ilya. 

Their voices carry a little through the long, connecting corridor, but Shane tunes them out, trying to give them a minute alone as he finishes loading and adds the detergent, setting them to a slow cycle for a couple of hours. 

They switch briefly to Russian, Svetlana’s voice soft, and he busies himself cleaning up the rest of the ingredients from earlier until he has nothing left to do with his hands. 

When he gets back to the living room, Ilya is sitting against the last cushion with an elbow propped on the arm of the couch, his fingers laced with Svetlana’s as she swings their joined hands back and forth. She smiles when she sees him, straightening. 

“Well. I should be going. You should enjoy your time together. I will be back later this week, Ilya.” 

“I will walk you to your car,” he says, but makes no move to actually stand. 

She laughs, smoothing out her shirt. “Do not pretend to have manners because your boyfriend is here, Ilya.” She leans down to kiss his cheek and then steps away. “It’s unbecoming.” 

Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Shane wonders if it hits Ilya in the same place it does him, warm in his chest. 

He can't see Ilya’s face from this angle, but he untangles his hand from Svetlana’s and waves her away with a sniff. “Fine. Get out of my house.” 

“I’ll walk you out,” Shane offers instead. 

Both of them turn to look at him. Slowly, Svetlana’s mouth tips into a smile. She nods. 

“That would be lovely, Shane. Thank you.” Without looking back, she pinches the lobe of Ilya’s ear. “Some people are actually polite.” 

Ilya spouts something at her in heavily accented Russian, but Svetlana’s smile only widens as she follows Shane toward the entryway. 

He lifts her bags onto his shoulder and holds the door open for her, closing it behind them as they walk down the front steps toward her car. Offloading them into the backseat, Shane meets her around the driver’s side, unsurprised to find her already waiting for him there, designer sunglasses perched on her nose. 

“You asked me last night if I was willing to keep lying for him,” he says. “My answer is that I’m willing to do whatever’s best for him right now, and I really don’t think that that’s adding more stress onto him by trying to plan out a future in the five weeks before he’s due.” 

He’d thought about it all this morning, when he was up too early running on hardly any sleep and the heavy dose of caffeine Svetlana had made him. He hadn’t had it quite as polished then but a few more hours to sit with it has brought him more clarity, at least for now. 

“I’m doing my best to balance everything. I don’t have a believable reason to take off right now that wouldn’t put me or him in a riskier situation, or else I would be here. But after playoffs are over, I’m there. I’m taking as much time in the summer as I can, and Ilya and I will talk then about what next year will look like. We’ll make a decision together.” 

Svetlana watches, face neutral, until he finishes talking. It unnerves him but not as badly as it had last night, when he still couldn’t see her face without thinking of the hotel bar in Tampa, without recalling the chill of the ice and an empty coastline. He takes in a breath. 

“So, yes. I’m willing to keep doing whatever I need to do to get us through the next five weeks. And after that, I’m staying. Whatever that can look like for us.” 

A light breeze settles around them, making the trees rustle. Svetlana turns her head to look at them briefly, expression still carefully tucked away beneath her sunglasses, and then turns back, her hand outstretched. 

“Give me your phone.” 

Shane pulls it from his back pocket and unlocks it, watches her input her contact information and send herself a text the same way he’d watched Ilya do it years prior. When she passes it back to him, her hand lingers on his for just a second. 

“Call me if you need anything, yes?” 

He nods, stepping back to allow her space to get into the car. “I will.” 

She sits down behind the wheel, looking up at him from the rolled down window. “It was nice meeting you, Shane Hollander.” 

“You too.” 

He watches her pull out of the driveway, leaving a gap between he and Ilya’s parked cars. As soon as he can no longer make out the sleek black shape of it underneath the shadow of trees as they huddle together over the entrance to the front gate, he turns and goes back inside. 

He toes his shoes off more calmly this time, turns the lock on the door. The downstairs guest bedroom is finished and ready for them tonight, and the kitchen is already clean for whatever they decide on for dinner. Shane walks down the long corridor and ends up where he started, facing Ilya from the side, still on the couch. He looks up when Shane comes back, an uncharacteristically timid smile on his lips. 

“We should be honest with each other from now on,” Shane says as he sits down, closer to Ilya than he had before. “Like, really honest. About how we feel, what we’re scared of. I think we spent enough time not understanding each other.” 

Ilya tenses briefly. “Did Sveta say something—?” 

“I’m saying it,” he amends. “You’re seven months pregnant and we live in different countries. I’m still playing hockey. I have to be in Philadelphia in less than twenty-four hours. I understand that that’s all we can have right now, but if this is going to work, we have to be honest with each other.” 

Incrementally, Ilya relaxes again against his side. 

“And that’s what you want?” he asks, eyes flicking down to Shane’s mouth and back. “For this to work?” 

“More than anything,” Shane confesses. 

Something in the words makes Ilya’s face ripple, emotion so quick that Shane can’t manage to catch and define it. But he thinks it’s a good thing—or at least it feels good, when Ilya finally leans into him fully, shoulder to shoulder, and his eyes glint with mischief Shane’s been aching for since Montreal. 

“Okay,” Ilya sighs, conspiratorial, “then I should probably tell you something else.” 

Shane swallows a grin, drifts further into his airspace, helpless. “What is it?” 

In a whisper, Ilya admits, “I have been waiting for Sveta to leave all morning so that you would finally kiss me again.” 

He presses his knuckles to the outside of Ilya’s thigh, feels the muscle jump and press back in invitation. 

“Yeah?” 

Ilya nods, head tilting, and Shane turns and dips forward until—finally, finally—there isn’t anything left between them. 

He tastes like the soup they’d eaten and the lingering fizz of Shane’s favorite soda, Ilya’s mouth sweet and pliant and patient as Shane kisses him. His hand touches Shane’s thigh, squeezes firmly in approval at the first press of his tongue, and Shane takes his cheek in hand, thumb against the freckle he’d discovered just last night. 

He’d forgotten how much he missed this, how difficult it’d been when he thought he wasn’t going to get to have it anymore. The version of Ilya he’d had last in Boston had felt so disproportionate at first, so separate from every other time. But Shane can see now where the lines blur together, the vulnerability in the nip of his teeth, the strength simmering beneath the surface when he sighs and turns his head so that Shane can taste the flutter of his heartbeat against his tongue. His fingers flex on Shane’s thigh. 

“Fuck, Shane,” he moans shakily. “We can’t.” 

“I know. Just kissing,” Shane mitigates, even though they’re both obviously more affected than that. “Nothing more, I swear.” 

Ilya huffs. “Not because of that. … The Godfather is watching.” 

Shane casts a glance over his shoulder at the bear sitting in the corner which is, admittedly, directly facing them with its big, round, abyss-like eyes. 

“Seriously?” he asks Ilya, catching his breath. “Wait. I thought the Godfather was what Marleau wanted to be called. Did he also name the bear that?” 

“I…” Ilya starts, faltering. He furrows a brow as he thinks, and then grabs Shane by the back of the neck to pull him in again. “Shut up.” 

True to his word, Shane keeps all of his touches above Ilya’s lap and his mouth contained to Ilya’s, eager for each other without doing anything to put Ilya’s body at risk. He kisses the smile off of Ilya’s mouth over and over and over again, and still it comes back. The clinking of their teeth meeting in the middle tells Shane that he’s no better. 

They slow down eventually when Ilya’s energy wanes again, slow and indulgent. His hand tries to fall to Ilya’s waist instinctively, still not entirely used to the extra space Yana takes up underneath the stretched skin, and ends up with his fingers there on his stomach instead. Ilya sighs against his mouth, puts a hand over his and kisses him a final time, sharing air more than anything at this point. 

Separation only comes when Shane’s phone pings from his pocket. He pulls it back out as Ilya settles in to fix the blanket and find something else to watch on the television, clicking on the new text notification. Svetlana, image attached. Shane clicks to enlarge it on the screen. 

“It’s a good photo,” Shane says, voice thicker than he’d thought it would be. 

Ilya hums, attention swayed from the TV to look. His expression shudders into something tender, but he manages to narrowly avoid tears today. 

“Yes,” he agrees quietly. “It is.” 

Shane saves it to a private folder after they manage to peel their eyes from it, and vows to himself that it won’t stay there. 

Five weeks. He tucks an arm around Ilya’s shoulder and exhales.

Chapter End Notes

IT GOT TOO LONG AGAIN I’M SORRY NEXT CHAP WILL BE DIRECT CONTINUATION OF THIS CHAP <3

Chapter 8: vii. 32 weeks - part two

Chapter Summary

It feels new in a way that they’re both getting to experience this time, Shane fiddling with the dimmer switch on the floor lamps while Ilya stands barefoot on the rug, running his knuckles along the knitted blanket hanging on the back of the rocking chair. If Shane tunnels his vision just right, he can picture it all taking place in a different house, some perfect, impossible split between this world and the other one where neither of them have to make sacrifices.

Love is about compromise, he’d grown up hearing his mother say. But Shane thinks maybe it’s more about wishing you could give a hundred and ten percent without ever burning out, that you could take on the world if it meant taking it off of someone else. To be that kind of brave.

Shane’s hand pauses on the switch, halfway between bright and dim. Love?

Chapter Notes

two chronic yappers in the same house together…. i wonder what will happen…..

cw: ilya talks about irina's suicide from his pov. there is nothing graphic or detailed, but the pills are mentioned and ilya discusses the day that it happened, his grief, and having felt at one point like it was his fault. the conversation takes place between "And your mother?" and 'Ilya closes his eyes and lets himself be held together.' more references to past abuse from grigori. ilya also mentions his depression, but I don't believe it requires any other warnings. also one mention of chest feeding.

LONGEST CHAP YET LFGGGGGGG :D

S H A N E

The downstairs bedroom is different from Ilya’s regular one, longer instead of wider, windows lining only one portion of the furthest wall. There’s a cozy looking rocking chair in the corner with a rug underneath it, courtesy of Svetlana, and a gap between that and Ilya’s bed where Yana’s bassinet will go at first before she moves upstairs to the nursery. 

It feels new in a way that they’re both getting to experience this time, Shane fiddling with the dimmer switch on the floor lamps while Ilya stands barefoot on the rug, running his knuckles along the knitted blanket hanging on the back of the rocking chair. If Shane tunnels his vision just right, he can picture it all taking place in a different house, some perfect, impossible split between this world and the other one where neither of them have to make sacrifices. 

Love is about compromise, he’d grown up hearing his mother say. But Shane thinks maybe it’s more about wishing you could give a hundred and ten percent without ever burning out, that you could take on the world if it meant taking it off of someone else. To be that kind of brave. 

Shane’s hand pauses on the switch, halfway between bright and dim. Love? 

He stands and wipes his hands on his shorts, making his way over to the bed. He’d like to be making a bit more headway through the books he’d purchased, but they aren’t exactly roadie material. He pulls out one of the other novels he keeps on rotation instead and folds his glasses onto his nose, sitting up against the headboard with the book open against bent knees. 

This does not work as well as it does in hotel rooms to clear his head before sleeping, not when Ilya stands a handful of feet away, freshly showered with a towel around his waist while he searches for clothes in the closet. 

They can’t have sex. Shane knows that. The only reason he was even in the bathroom with him in the first place was because it was technically a medical necessity at this point. But brushing his teeth at the sink had given him a full view of the shower directly behind him in the mirror, the glass panels fogged, but the shape of Ilya behind them unmistakeable. It’s far from the first time Shane has been intimidated by the depth of his want. 

It’s not even just the sex, though he can admit that he misses that, too. He’s always been fascinated by Ilya’s body. It wasn’t the first thing that had drawn him in—that had been the hockey—but it was a overwhelming, startlingly close second. 

Shane notices when there’s a new dent in the ice on the home rink. The places it was chipped enough that it couldn’t be restored, the ways he’ll have to adapt because of it. It’s no different, really, than the way he’s observed Ilya all these years; tracing new scars with his fingertips, collecting bits of data that he files away for safe keeping. The places he’s allowed to press in and burrow, the ones that feel like a split second trip before hitting a landmine. 

This hasn’t changed. Ilya’s body is different, and Shane is just as curious as he’d been all those years ago at seventeen and nineteen and twenty-three, just as desperate to learn all of the soft spots, to cut his fingers mapping out the edges. But, equally as similar, he still isn’t quite sure how to ask for it. 

Ilya drops his towel. Shane looks away, then cautiously looks back. 

From the back of him, things aren’t so different. The broad stretch of his shoulders is the same, though a little of the definition in his biceps has faded without being able to keep up the sort of routine he used to when he was playing. His waist still tapers into a narrower point just above his hips, but those have turned softer, rounder, more plush beneath the weight of his fingers when he lets himself touch. His legs still look strong despite the way he stands a little differently now, glutes always somewhat strained as if to help carry the swell of extra weight in his middle. If he didn’t know what to look for, though, he’d just look the same as he always had. 

Ilya stretches his arms up over his head, rolls his neck. Lowers both hands to rub at the dimples in his lower back and making a noise of relief. He’s less restrained these days, Shane has noticed—which was somewhat amusing given the fact that Shane had been under such a solid impression those first few years that he was the most raw, unabashed, open book imaginable. Now he knows they’d both had things they’d kept hidden. 

Fabric hanging loosely from two fingers, vaguely reminiscent of a long-abandoned cigarette, Ilya lowers the pair of boxers enough to step into one side and then the other, leaning down to pull them the rest of the way over his thighs and hips under the band rests just beneath the curve of his bump. He turns then as if to give Shane a better view, the swell of his pecs and abdomen silhouetted by the closet behind him. He peruses it for a minute but ultimately bypasses the shirts in favor of a warm pair of pants, leaving his upper body completely bare around Shane for the first time since nearly eight months ago. 

Ilya catches him looking as he’s smoothing down the hem of the sleep pants, trepidation smoothing his features into something indefinable. 

“What?” he asks. 

Shane shakes his head, the book in his lap fooling neither of them. “Nothing. You’re just…” 

“Yes, I know,” Ilya sighs, walking over to the bed. “No more twelve-pack. How sad for you.” 

His mouth opens and closes. “Well—okay, first of all, it’s a six pack, I don’t think a twelve-pack is even actually possible to achieve, and—” 

The mattress dips as Ilya climbs onto it, and Shane finds himself pulled in by the back of the neck toward his mouth, hot and still shower-damp, tasting of spearmint toothpaste. It’s harder than Shane expects, one of his hands blindly reaching up to grab at Ilya’s waist as the book falls from his lap completely. 

He has to wipe spit from his chin when it’s over, watching warily as Ilya settles in against the headboard. “What was that for?” 

“Because you are so boring and I missed you very much,” Ilya says, and reaches over to right his glasses. 

Shane busies himself with marking the page in his book and setting it on the nightstand to conceal the warmth in his face. “You’re changing the subject. I was about to compliment you.” 

“Oh?” Ilya asks. “Yes, please. Do not let me stop this. Continue.” 

Under the weight of Ilya’s full attention, he loses some of his nerve. But he makes himself find it again, wants too badly to see Ilya’s face when he says it. 

“I was going to say you look beautiful.” 

For a split second there’s a wide-eyed earnestness there, and then it’s gone again, replaced with a familiar, playful smirk. But some of the tension he’d carried over from noticing Shane watching him at the closet has receded along with it, like he might believe him this time. 

“Flattery does not work on me, Hollander. You are a horrible liar.” 

“I’m not lying,” Shane insists. “Can I…?” 

He doesn’t elaborate further, but Ilya lifts a shoulder and settles back into the pillows nonetheless. “Sure.” 

Sliding his glasses off his nose, he folds them and sets them aside with his book, then turns back to face Ilya properly. Shane isn’t self conscious about his body too often, especially these days. But in the beginning, and still, sometimes, when it comes to sex specifically and all that entails, it’s a little easier to run into darkened corners and newness that doesn’t immediately click into place, easy to close in on himself instead of opening up. 

Every time that’d happened, he’d had Ilya there to coax him out of his shell again, to aid him with laughter or seriousness or whatever he’d needed in the moment to remember where he was, what he wanted, who he was doing it with. 

The sex has already been had, the proof of it sitting in between them. But Shane thinks the same method might still apply here. 

Slow enough that Ilya’s watchful gaze can follow him while he does it, Shane hooks a leg over his thighs, plants a knee at either hip until he’s on top of him. He holds most of his own weight but Ilya’s body sighs underneath the ghost of familiar pressure anyway, his fluttering heartbeat slowing when Shane presses his hand to it on his chest. 

He rubs at the skin there, delighted by the ripple of pleasure across Ilya’s features in the lamplight—that he can still make him feel good, feel all of those things he’d made Shane feel despite the lack of sex. It’s a thrill all its own, to be able to touch freely, affectionately, without specific purpose. Shane thinks they deserve at least one night of indulgence. 

It finds him in the center of his chest: the thought that, unless Montreal fumbles their winning streak somehow in the next few upcoming games, Shane won’t see Ilya again until right before he’s due. 

He hadn’t been brave enough the last time, had barely been able to wrap his mind around the fact that there was going to be a baby at all yet. He won’t forgive himself if he takes this time for granted too. 

His mouth finds the curve where Ilya’s neck meets shoulder, kissing from his jaw down to collarbone while his hand rubs at the knots in the opposing side. Ilya’s cross is cool beneath his lips as he trails down the valley of his chest, curious fingertips never far behind. 

Ilya’s mouth grazes the top of his head just before he moves too low to reach it anymore, and Shane flicks his eyes up with a smile as Ilya watches with glassy eyes, transfixed. 

“Okay?” Shane asks as his chin presses into the spot Ilya’s bump arches outward. Ilya slips a hand into his hair and nods. 

It doesn’t feel as out of place as he’d thought it would underneath his mouth, tracing the trajectory with his lips. Ilya’s bump is firmer, less of the elegant teardrop shape that Jackie always had and more defined by the muscle that Shane guesses had enabled him to keep her hidden for so long. He starts at the centerpoint between his ribs and trails down the middle, until the swollen jut of his navel where his nose grazes the familiar hair leading down into his boxers. Ilya is hard underneath the material, hot and willing where he presses into Shane’s jaw, but neither of them acknowledge it. There will be time, Shane thinks, now that the future isn’t as fragile as it’d been before. 

Ilya’s leg bends to accommodate Shane in between them automatically when Shane settles on his stomach, propped on an elbow with a cheek against the warmth of the inside of one of Ilya’s thighs. He turns, drags his lips along the tendon. 

“I don’t know if I could do it. All of this. What you’re doing for her,” he admits, which isn’t what he’d intended to say in the slightest. He winces. “That sounded insensitive. Sorry.” 

Ilya’s nails drag against his scalp. “No. We are being honest, yes?” he asks, quiet for a long moment afterward. “I didn’t think I could do it either, at first.” 

“Really?” 

One of Ilya’s brows arches lazily. “This is hard to believe?” 

“Well, I mean. Yeah. Kind of. You’re so…” 

His mouth ticks up. “Having a hard time finishing sentences tonight, I see.”  

“Shut up,” Shane murmurs. “I don’t know. It’s hard to picture you scared of anything, I guess.” 

Not as much now, but they’ve been more open with each other in the last twenty-four hours than they ever have before. Even when he digs he can’t quite envision what it must’ve been like to find out about something like this, if Ilya had been paralyzed or angry or calm. 

He answers Shane’s unasked question with a whisper: “I was terrified.” 

Shane squeezes the outside of his thigh. 

“Do you,” he tries, sucking at his lower lip. “Do you want to tell me about it? How you found out?” 

A slow smirk spreads over Ilya’s mouth. “I think you already know how I found out.” 

“I saw the pictures, asshole,” Shane huffs. “I mean the parts I didn’t see. If you want to tell me.” 

He keeps still, the warmth of his cheek against the hotter skin of Ilya’s thigh, and Shane swears he can hear the thud of a quick heartbeat even from here. He smears a kiss to the place beneath his mouth again, another, several, sinks into the weight of Ilya’s thick fingers smoothing through the hair over his forehead. 

“I had… surgery when I was young. I was not supposed to be able to do this, ever,” he confesses at a rasp. “And it didn’t really matter very much, because…” 

“Because?” Shane prompts when he trails off, glancing up. 

He’s surprised to find Ilya unable to meet his eye. “It would not have happened with anyone else, anyway. I was always the one doing the fucking. You were the only one who—” the fingers in Shane’s hair lift away briefly to gesture something he can’t see. 

“What?” 

Against the headboard, Ilya’s face goes pink and then a rosemary red. He seals his lips together as if to refuse the answer on his tongue. 

“Oh,” Shane’s mouth slides off of him, slack, when he realizes. “Oh. Really? Even in Russia, you—?” 

“Yes. Only you.” 

Guilt is quick to replace any proprietary sense of satisfaction he gets from that. 

“And I left afterward,” he mutters. “Fuck, Ilya. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. It was still very special… deflowering, ah?” 

Shane makes a face. “I’m not even going to ask where you picked that up.” 

“I watch the History channel sometimes when I can’t sleep. Very boring. It’s nice. Reminds me of you.” 

“Fuck off,” he says, but can’t manage the levity it usually holds between them. “And I’m serious. That was shitty of me, regardless of if it was your first time like that or not. It already doesn’t sit right with me that it was—that was when we—when she was—and I didn’t—” 

“Woah. Shane,” Ilya stops him, fingers back in his hair and tugging just enough to pull him back into his body. They gentle again when Shane looks up, stroking over his temples. “You are here now, yes? I did not say anything to you either. It’s okay.” 

He turns, momentarily overwhelmed, to press his face into the open offering of Ilya’s palm. Presses his mouth to the topography of lines across the skin, thinks of Rose trying to explain to him where the ones for head and heart run parallel. 

“You were saying, um. About the surgery?” Shane asks, voice thick. 

Ilya clears his throat. “Yes. I was not supposed to be able to be pregnant after. So when we—” he gestures between them, “I did not think it was something to worry about.” 

“I mean, if you think about the amount of condoms we’ve used over the last several years, I guess we were bound to become a statistic at some point. There’s at least a two percent failure rate on the box.” 

“We have always been overachievers, yes.” Ilya gives him a lopsided smile, then sobers. “I got sick somewhere around beginning of December.” 

Shane turns fully away from his hand, and Ilya’s fingers fall to his stomach instead. “That was right in the middle of a roadie for you.” 

“Yes.” Ilya looks down. 

You played every game until you were back in Boston.” 

“Yes.” 

“Ilya.” 

“I did not hurt her,” he rushes out. “I didn’t know then, but I could… I had a feeling. I played very safe.” 

“I know you did,” Shane assures, softening his tone. “I’m not accusing you of putting her at risk, I’m worried that you were sick and still played.” He touches Ilya’s hip with his hand, smooths his thumb over the crease where it flattens out again. “How bad was it?” 

“Bad. At first.” Ilya sniffs. “I said I had the stomach flu. I could not stop throwing up. I was dizzy all the time. On game days I would lay flat all day and drink electrolytes until it was time so that my balance would be good.” He glances to and away from Shane quickly. “I would not have gone out if I thought I would get hurt.” 

Shane reaches for his hand again, touches his lips to calloused knuckles and hopes it feels like I believe you. “How long did that last?” 

“It was still bad when I got back to Boston, and Sveta could tell over the phone. She came here and watched over me, made me food, helped me with things I couldn’t get done. She was the one who got tests and helped me find a doctor that was good.” 

“I think I owe her several more thank you’s,” Shane murmurs. 

That earns him a hint of a smile again. “She is family.” 

“I’m glad she was here.” 

Ilya snorts. “You wanted to kill her.” 

“I did not,” he insists. “You didn’t like Rose either!” 

“This is still true,” he says, and keeps talking before Shane can make his case. “Anyway. Having a good doctor helped. Also I was not as sick in second period.” 

Shane’s nose wrinkles. “Don’t you mean second trimester?” 

“You don’t like? I was trying to make it like hockey.” 

He grins. “Alright. Sure. Second period,” he agrees. “So. You felt better?” 

“Until Russia, yes. But that turned out okay too. And then there was Montreal, and now we are here.” 

His thumb stretches further, up to press against the side of his stomach. 

“You didn’t mention the part about being terrified,” Shane recalls gently. 

Ilya stares at him for a long moment, and then blows out a breath. “I lied. A little bit.” 

“About what?” 

“I was not so scared to find about about her. Like I said, I already had a feeling that there was… something. I was a little scared of the doctor, but finding out mostly felt like—yes, okay, so I am not crazy, then.” 

“Okay,” Shane follows. 

“I was scared most of telling you,” Ilya confesses, watching carefully for a reaction. “Not in a bad way. Not that I thought you would be mean about it, or—anything like that. But I did think maybe that this was… that I was not important enough to you to make this big of a decision. That what we had was not enough.” 

“Because of the last time I was here,” he assumes. 

“Because you have a different life,” Ilya stresses instead, squeezing his hand. “You have parents that love you and want good things for you. That will support you no matter what happens. You will not be sent back to another country that wants you dead if you break the rules here. You have friends that hate me.” 

“They don’t hate you.” 

“And for a while, I thought you had a pretty girlfriend who could give you the same things but in a way that would be much easier,” he goes on, quieter now. “In a way where you would not have to have secrets or answer uncomfortable questions. In a way where you could still get to keep the life you have always had.” 

“Maybe I don’t want that life anymore,” Shane whispers back. 

Ilya still looks unsure. “It is safer, maybe.” 

“I don’t care,” he says. “It’s not you. It’s not her. I don’t want it.” 

Carefully ducking underneath the bend of Ilya’s leg, Shane leaves one last press of his lips against his knee as he shifts up the bed to lay against Ilya’s side. His arm extends for Shane easily, fingertips light against his back as Shane lays his head on his shoulder. 

“I know we’re still young. I know things can still change, but. A few years ago, all I wanted was to keep playing hockey. Nothing else really mattered to me. And I was happy, like that. When I won the Cup that first time, it felt good. I wasn’t missing anything. But lately, I—I don’t know. I think I want—more?” he tries, tasting the words as he says them out loud for the first time. Ilya doesn’t flinch. “For a long time, I didn’t know what that was. Where I’d find it. But then you—” 

He surprises himself with the helpless smile that spreads over his mouth, has to pause to get it back under control enough to finish his thought. 

“You picked up my call that day, in Russia. When I found out about your father. It was the first time I’d heard your voice in months, and I just thought—” Shane laughs wetly, “...oh.” 

Ilya’s fingertips twitch against his spine, then tighten imperceptibly. He turns his head and says nothing for a minute or so, his sniffling betraying him. “And this was even before I confessed to the babytrapping.” 

“Shut up,” Shane says, fondly this time, and reaches up to touch the side of his face. “Ilya. Look at me.” 

He turns back but his eyes stay tightly closed, mouth a thin, stubborn line. Shane pushes up to press his lips to it, to Ilya’s pointed chin and his jaw, over his cheeks and the tip of his nose, across his brow and into his hair. He touches their foreheads together afterward, runs his thumb along the dip of his wet lashline. 

“I would still want you even without her. Okay? I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve reached out sooner, but I was miserable, and scared—” 

“Scared?” Ilya interjects, opening his eyes. 

“Well, yeah,” Shane says honestly. “I told you. I haven’t needed anything like this. Just the hockey. Everything else was secondary. And when I realized that something else was still missing, that I needed it just as badly—that I didn’t think I could go without it—yeah. It scared me.” 

He leans forward to kiss the edge of Ilya’s mouth again, and again and again, until it relaxes underneath him, until it reaches back, soft and earnest and tinged with salt. 

“You are still scared now?” he asks when Shane pulls back. 

Shane shakes his head. “Not as much. Not anymore.” 

He takes Ilya’s lip between his again and sucks, laves his tongue against the swollen pout of it until it’s thoroughly saturated in spit and the reminder of his teeth. The noise Ilya makes when he pulls him closer is one he’s ached to hear again for months now, urgent and stripped of anything but need, a little shaky in the way they reach for each other. 

His fingers sink into Ilya’s hair, curls long enough to get tangled in them now. The pregnancy has made him softer in ways Shane hadn’t expected, has sharpened his own instincts in response, reshaped the outline of his own need. There’d been a thrill that came with being unequivocal equals, a benchmark that’d only heightened the euphoria of Shane having allowed certain parts of himself to yield under Ilya’s weight. 

The thought that Shane had softened Ilya back somehow, that he was some sort of responsible for this—for the newfound, aching vulnerability, the unmistakable cradle of his heavy abdomen, the sensitive, swollen peaks of his chest that are all proof of something Shane had left behind—is thrilling him an entirely different, unexpected way. 

His own hips drag against Ilya’s side when he readjusts his leg, a shaky moan rattling through his teeth. He parts from Ilya’s mouth to pant against his shoulder, and Ilya brings a hand up to squeeze at the back of his neck, equally as affected and out of breath. 

“Ah. We should—no sex.” 

“I know. Fuck. Sorry. I just…” Shane lingers, unable to say it even after the rest of their confessions tonight. He feels Ilya’s chin turn above his head, lips to his hair. 

“S’okay. We have lost time to make up for, yes? Just—ah. After she is out.” 

“Yeah,” Shane sighs. “Yeah. We have time.” 

They separate briefly to cool off, Shane fetching them both water from the kitchen. He double checks the lights and locks and then makes his round back to the bedroom, setting the glasses down on the nightstand. Ilya’s got a bottle of lotion out when he gets back to the bed, and looks somewhat sheepish to be caught with it when Shane climbs back onto the mattress. 

“I am supposed to put it on at night,” he explains. 

Shane holds out a hand. “Can I help?” 

Still embarrassed but more so relieved, Ilya hands over the bottle and leans back against the pillows once more. Shane kneels in between his bent knees and squeezes a dollop into his palm, rubbing it together to warm it before it touches Ilya’s skin. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, starting just to the side of his belly button. 

Ilya nods, eyes fluttering closed. “Mm. It’s nice.”

Shane lathers as much as he can onto the top, then has to go back for more once he’s rubbed it all in. As soon as he presses his fingers back, there’s a flurry of movement underneath them. 

His eyes snap up to Ilya’s. “Was that—?” 

“Tигрёночек,”“Little tiger cub,” Ilya confirms with a smile.

“That’s not what you usually call her,” Shane notes after the shock fades enough to start gently rubbing the lotion back in. He hasn’t felt her again since that first night in Montreal. “What does it mean?” 

“Means like—baby tiger. She has given me stripes now. See?” 

Ilya’s fingers circle his wrist, moving his hand over and down where he hasn’t covered yet to the plush area above his hip. Shane’s felt it many times now through a shirt or hoodie, reaching out to steady him on the stairs or passing by. But without fabric in between he can make out the jagged, opaline texture of where the skin has stretched to accommodate, changed Ilya’s body to make room for another. 

Once again he’s struck with appreciation for Ilya’s willingness to accept and adapt to these kinds of ever changing terms, the lack of rules that would undoubtedly make Shane’s own head spin. 

He leans down to touch his mouth to the place his thumbs are tracing over them, and then reaches for the lotion to finish the rest of it. 

He’d planned to move again once he’d finished, to sit back up by Ilya against the headboard and get ready for bed. He leaves in less than twelve hours now. He could use the sleep. They both could. 

But he hands Ilya the bottle to put away and he wipes some of the excess off, rubbing that into the places that’d been stubborn, and then he just—doesn’t stop. Finds that he can’t, sort of. 

He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him as he lowers back down to his stomach, Ilya’s legs relaxing further to follow him down around his shoulders. Shane meets his gaze over the swollen, pink-tinged skin, can’t bring himself to stop touching even long enough to wait for Ilya’s approval. 

“Talk to her,” he murmurs from the pillows. “She likes your voice.” 

“She hasn’t even heard it that much,” Shane argues, regret fracturing his voice. 

“She has heard it for months. I play your interviews.” 

He looks up at Ilya, hopeful. “Really?” 

“Mm. And on speaker, when we are on the phone,” he says. “She will kick, if you talk to her.” 

He doesn’t want to doubt Ilya, but every time it doesn’t happen he gets a little more certain that it won’t. He blames himself for it—they have only limited time together this way, when she’s still in Ilya like this, and he’s had to put his prenatal books on hold for crowded buses and hotel rooms, has spent more time with his hands inside of hockey gloves than on Ilya like this, touching. Connecting. 

“Um. Hi,” he tries anyway, tossing a glare up at Ilya when he bites down on a laugh. “I’m Shane. But Ilya says you know that already. …Wait, should I be referring to us by our first names? Will that be confusing later? I didn’t really do anything when this happened in Montreal, so I don’t know if she—” He jumps when there’s a hard thud next to his hand, and shifts his palm over to cover it more with a grin. “Oh!” 

Ilya smiles. “See?” 

“Does that not hurt? They’re getting pretty solid.” 

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, chin raised triumphantly as he rubs over the side of his stomach. “Very strong. She has your glutes.” 

“Oh, does she,” he laughs. 

“Mhm. If she also has my good looks and charm, we will have real problem on our hands.” 

The tail end of it gets cut off when Ilya yawns, eyes half-lidded now. But the smile stays, fingers brushing Shane’s where they’re both touching her from the outside. 

“You’re tired,” Shane says. 

Ilya hums. “Always.” 

“We should sleep.” 

Reluctantly, Shane starts to move his hand, ready to push up on a palm to climb further up the bed again. He’s relieved to feel Ilya’s fingers against his shoulder, keeping him there. 

“Stay,” he pleads. His nails drift back into Shane’s hair again. “This is nice. I will sleep. You keep talking to her.” 

“Won’t her moving around keep you awake?” Shane asks, even as he settles back onto his stomach again. 

“No,” he says, lacing the fingers of his other hand with Shane’s and pulling them back to the right spot. “Если бы я мог, я бы никогда не обходился без твоих прикосновений.”“If I could, I would never go without your touch.”

Shane doesn’t ask him what it means this time, and Ilya doesn’t offer. His eyes close, breaths deep and even, while Yana stirs beneath their joined fingers. 

“I love you,” Shane tells her right up against the curve of his stomach, and finds himself in awe when it earns him another enthusiastic kick. 

Ilya’s hand doesn’t move in his grip, but Shane swears the upturn of his mouth is just a fraction steeper when he glances up to check. 

I L Y A

True to what he’d told Yvonne, Ilya wakes up around three in the morning, like clockwork, to use the bathroom. 

He manages to leave the bed without waking Shane, passed out hard on his stomach against the pillow. Ilya has no idea how long he’d been up talking to Yana after he fell asleep, but the ache in his tailbone is a small price to pay in comparison for the type of night that Ilya has been dreaming of having since even the first few months of knowing he had her. 

He is hungry after relieving himself, so he washes his hands and drags his feet toward the kitchen, in search of something he can’t name. Careful to be quiet since he’s only a hallway away from the bedroom, he pulls out a plate and opens the fridge, fingers tapping on his middle while he scans through his options. 

Sveta had put together a grocery order for him a few weeks ago when he’d had likely the worst combination of cravings to ever exist, and he’s been just reordering it over again to keep stocked just in case. Without Shane in the room he feels marginally better about reaching for the chocolate bar first, setting it out on the counter to thaw a bit while he looks for more. 

He grabs some cheese next, from one of those charcuterie-things Sveta likes and keeps here for snacks, but leaves the meat for now. The cheese makes his eyes stray toward the milk, then to the chocolate powder in the cabinet. He makes himself a cold glass, too tired to warm it up, and takes a long swig, moaning low at the taste. He pours himself a little more before he puts it away. 

Ilya reaches for the salt last to balance everything out, dumping a handful of pretzel sticks onto the plate that he can eat with the chocolate. He wishes he still had some of the rassolnik leftover, but he’d already finished it off earlier. He grabs the jar of extra pickled cucumbers from the recipe instead, figuring it’s a good enough substitute. 

He had craved nothing but cheeseburgers from the McDonald’s down the street during his second trimester. He does not know if this is better or worse. 

Using the fridge as a night light to cool the warmth of his slightly overheated skin, Ilya stands at the counter as he eats, shifting his weight every minute or so between his feet to avoid any more soreness. It won’t work, probably, but it feels like it does, so he keeps doing it. Subtle, as if his own body may catch him in the act, Ilya brings the hand he isn’t eating with up to feel at his chest. It feels slightly bigger, Ilya thinks, but mostly normal. He tries and fails not to huff about it as he keeps eating. Yvonne says it’s okay regardless, but he still finds himself a little disappointed each time there’s no evidence he’ll be able to feed Яна after he’d tentatively decided—and told no one—that he wanted to. 

He’s worked his way through three fourths of the plate when he’s blinded by a sharp tightening in his lower stomach. It catches him off guard enough that a groan rips its way from his throat, and he covers his mouth with his hand to stifle it as he tries to breathe. It’s dull but inescapable, like someone’s tied a resistance band around his middle and yanked until he could feel it in his ribs. 

If this were the first time, he would likely attribute it to the horrendous mix of foods he’s just consumed. But it isn’t—it’s just like the one he’d felt yesterday when Shane had gone outside with Sveta, and Ilya had gripped the sofa so hard with his white knuckles that he thought he would surely draw feathers. 

Slowly, ominously, the pain begins to recede. Ilya doesn’t move for a long moment, waiting to see if it’s really over, cataloging himself for any of the symptoms Yvonne said were in the bad, urgent, hospital column. 

When he doesn’t feel any of them, he carefully unsticks his sweating palm from the granite and takes the other off his mouth, touching Яна with a newfound hesitancy. Appetite long forgotten, Ilya shuts the fridge, carries the rest of the plate to the trash and dumps it. 

He stands in the dark for several long minutes, fear licking up his spine the way that it always does when there’s something unexpected now. He is okay—he knows this. Can feel it. Is breathing normally, Яна already fluttering around again, wondering why he’s still awake. He’s fine. 

The fear does not go away so easily though. Ilya reaches up to touch the cross at his neck, rubbing his thumb over it back and forth as he heads for the stairs. He doesn’t think he’s ready to go back to Shane just yet. 

He climbs them slowly, careful not to overexert himself. The nursery sits just off the landing, a work still in progress, a mix of he and Marly’s crooked enthusiasm and Sveta’s sophisticated touch. Boxes still unopened in the corner, an empty crib in the center. 

He wonders briefly if mama had ever felt truly prepared for him. And then he feels guilty for believing for a moment that she had any sort of choice in it at all—that she had any power to do something about it if the answer had been no. 

The oversized chair in the corner of the nursery greets him with metaphorically open arms. Ilya had bought it in a fit of optimism one night, picked it out all by himself. It doesn’t match any of the other furniture in the room and Sveta had looked vaguely disapproving when it arrived at the doorstep, but Ilya hadn’t cared. The rocking chair she’d picked out is technically perfect, and he’s certain it’ll be great when the time comes that he needs it. But this chair had looked so soft, so welcoming. Had been the only one big enough to fit both he and Shane inside of it, just enough room for Яна in between. He couldn’t bring himself to pass it up after he’d had the thought. He paid for in-home set up, and had it delivered the following day. 

He settles into it now, alone, and tries to stop the tremble of his chin. The crying is something he should be used to by now but it never seems to stop making him feel small and emasculated, like a child again trying to escape the echo of his father’s voice telling him that tears are for the weak, Ilya, and a weak child was no child of his. 

How Ilya had ached for that before. To be claimed in that way, to be loved. 

Now he looks back on the memory with a striking clarity that has never felt quite so calm before, a distance that asks how Ilya could have endured so much at his hand and still wanted for its pressure at his back. 

He presses a hand against his side, desperate to feel her. Яна will only know open palms and gentle fingers, will be safe somewhere far away from the memory of closed fists. 

“Ilya?” 

Ilya’s head swings toward the doorway, where Shane is now standing, knuckling sleep from his eyes. He squints at Ilya as his gaze adjusts to the lamp on the dresser, and frowns when he catches Ilya wiping his cheeks. He steps inside. 

“What’re you doing up?” 

“Sorry,” Ilya croaks. “I did not want to wake you.” 

Shane stifles a yawn against his elbow as he comes closer. “S’okay. I wish you would have, actually. Is everything okay?” 

“Yes. I was hungry so I went to eat and then I was…” he bites his tongue before he can confess to the little bit of pain that’d turned him into a bumbling mess, even as his eyes burn again. He feels Shane’s hand graze his shoulder. 

“Sit up.” 

Another of his visions comes to life as he shifts forward to allow Shane into the lounger with him, moving a couple of the firm support pillows to sit himself between Ilya and the back of the chair. There’s plenty of room with the ottoman attached to the end of it, Ilya’s legs extended while Shane’s bracket his hips on either side, incidentally keeping them from aching. It shifts the pressure from his sore tailbone just enough to be manageable again, and Ilya finds it’s much easier to take a breath now when his lungs expand. 

Easier still when Shane’s arms slip around his middle, Ilya’s head guided back against his collarbone. 

“Sorry,” Ilya chokes, relieved that Shane can’t see his face. “I don’t know why…” 

“You don’t have to keep apologizing, Ilya,” he says, squeezing him lightly back into his chest. “I’ve already missed out on so much. I wanted to come here. I want any parts I can get.” 

He sniffs. “Even in the middle of the night? You are leaving early.” 

“I don’t care. That’s not important right now.” 

It is, but Ilya appreciates the sentiment. He would do worse now, probably, if Shane went back to bed. He hates himself for the codependency of it, the assumption of something he isn’t even sure he’s allowed to have yet. Just not enough to pretend he isn’t hurting, to send Shane back to bed anyway. 

His tears are slow, leaking down the contours of his cheek to land somewhere in the crease where Shane’s arm is folded across his shoulders, keeping him steady. He turns every few minutes to press his lips to Ilya’s jaw, stopping them in their tracks until they dry. 

“I don’t know if I will stay in Boston.” 

Shane hooks his chin over his shoulder. “Where else would you want to go?” 

Ilya shrugs. “I like Boston. I have Cup and team and Sveta and this house. But I don’t know if I want to raise a child here. Everything is so loud and fast. It was so easy for them to get pictures of Sveta. And it is quiet in here, away from the city, but also can be… lonely. Sometimes.” 

“I know some people, if you’re looking to buy somewhere else.” 

“Mr. Real Estate, hm?” Ilya teases. He tips his chin up for the reaction, but Shane doesn’t fracture. 

“I’m serious. If you… if you have some idea of where you want to be, or when you do, I can help,” he says earnestly. “I want to help. And, like. Be involved. You know?” 

The part of him that has been so insistent on doing this on his own wants to argue, but Ilya can only find it in himself to be relieved. If Shane wants to help, if he wants to be involved in something like a house, that means that he plans to invest in this—in Ilya, in some capacity, surely. It must. 

“Are you…” Shane starts. 

Ilya turns, nudges his chin with the top of his head. “What?” 

“Well. Just—do you think you’ll go back to playing? After this?” he asks, setting a hand on Ilya’s stomach. 

“I have to, I think,” Ilya replies, slipping his own fingers through the gaps. “Visa does not work if I do not work.” 

“But you get mandatory time off for things like this, right? Like, legally?” 

“Yes,” he sighs, “but…” 

“But what,” Shane prompts. 

“But if I was citizen and did not have to worry about it so much, I would probably take more time. I do not want to be a parent who is…” 

“Absent?” 

“ДаYeah. Absent.” Ilya nods. “I was at home with both of my parents often. But even when they were there, I did not always feel like they were. Or sometimes I wished they weren’t. I do not want this for her.” 

“You said you wouldn’t go back to Russia again after this last time,” Shane says gently. 

“Unless they make me.” 

His grip on Ilya tightens. “So then, there’s—no one there that you would want, you know. Involved?” 

He shakes his head. “No. My father is gone, but I would not have wanted him around her. And my brother I do not trust with his own kids, but I have done everything I can for them now.” 

“And your mother?” Shane asks. 

Ilya’s hand slips free of Shane’s to reach for his necklace again, pressing at the edges to feel the indention it makes in his skin, over his heart. 

“She is dead.” 

“Oh.” Shane’s hand stops moving on his stomach. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, Ilya.” 

“Was a long time ago now,” he tells Shane, as if he doesn’t still keep finding new ways to turn over old dirt. 

“How old were you?” 

“Twelve,” he answers. “I—” 

“What is it?” 

That is why he cannot stay in Boston, Ilya realizes suddenly—a house on the outskirts that is beautiful at a glance but too quiet, too lonely on the inside if the wrong door is opened, if you’ve overstayed your welcome. Ilya has been running both toward and away from his childhood since he left it. If he doesn’t forge some other path for himself, for Яна, he’ll end up the same ghost he’d sworn to his brother he couldn’t be. 

“I loved my mother very much. More than anything,” Ilya whispers. “She was so kind, Shane. And smart, and so beautiful.” He allows himself a rare smile at the memory, allows himself the trembling at the corners that comes after it. “She was so sad. And I know things were different for her. When she had me and my brother she did not have same access to things like I have now.” 

“What happened to her?” Shane asks after a beat, just as quietly. 

“She took a whole bottle of pills.” He takes a breath. “I found her.” 

He can feel Shane’s breath stutter behind him. His hand slides up until his arm brackets Ilya’s, fingers overlaying his on top of mama’s cross. 

“Ilya,” he says. 

“For a long time, I thought it was my fault,” Ilya goes on, unable to stop it now. “I was younger, so I was home with her the most. On bad days, I would fix the house before papa and Alexei came home from work. Every room. Every chore. But when I first started to play hockey, I would get tired. My body hurt. Going from practices and also everything at home was—too much, sometimes.” His voice bleeds into something mechanical, the cadence of a confession awaiting judgement. “I thought it would be okay if I laid down with her for a few minutes. Dinner would not need to be ready for a while and I had most of the chores done. And I was so tired, Shane.” 

“I’m sure you were,” Shane murmurs against his temple, still holding tight. 

“And—and it was so nice. She held me just like this, and I had not had that in… a very long time. Was not safe, with papa and Alexei around. I felt so lucky.” He swallows. “And I fell asleep. And when I woke up again, she was not holding me anymore.” 

Shane’s turned his face now, hand on Ilya’s jaw, lips against his forehead when he speaks. Ilya isn’t sure if Shane realizes he’s rocking them gently, side to side. “I’m so sorry, Ilya.” 

Ilya closes his eyes and lets himself be held together. “I know it is not my fault now. But I have been thinking about her lately, with all of this.” 

“Of course.” 

He drags the combined weight of their tangled hands on his chest back down to his middle. She has been quiet since he came up to the nursery, as if the pain had exhausted her as well. 

“I do not ever want Яна to feel like there is anything that could take me away from her,” he tells Shane. “Not where I live, not the hockey, not being sad.” 

Ilya feels his breathing skip again. “Are you?” he asks. “Sad?” 

He had promised to be honest. In a small voice, he admits, “Not bad, like mama was. But, yes, sometimes, a smaller version of that.” 

The sturdy cradle of Shane’s arms is easy to drift within, Ilya finds, content to rest his eyes for a minute in the unfamiliar comfort of having found somewhere to put all of it down. 

He forgets the weight of it sometimes, doesn’t remember again until Shane sniffs behind him, eyes glassy when he turns to look. 

Ilya kisses his jaw in pale apology, thumbing a tear from his cheek before it can fall. “Sorry. I did not mean to be so negative.” 

Shane squeezes his eyes shut. Rasps, “Please. Don’t apologize anymore.” 

He shrinks. “I was not trying to scare you. I do not think that I would ever…” 

“But you’ll tell me, right?” Shane asks, eyes open again and back on him. “If it ever is like that?” 

Without Яна between them, half of him and half of Shane, so small and so vulnerable and not even here yet and already depending on them, Ilya might have lied. He has always handled this part of things by himself. Always been so sure, and even if he changed his mind, or even if he couldn’t help it, he did not have many strings attached to him anyway, not other than Svetlana and maybe Marly, his team. 

But this is different. Responsibility had not fixed mama, but that isn’t what Ilya is searching for either. After so long caring only for himself after her death, afraid of doing it for someone else again, this doesn’t feel more like obligation than opportunity. 

It feels a little bit like hope. Ilya had thought he’d forgotten the taste. 

“Yes. I will tell you.” 

“Okay,” Shane breathes, turning his chin up to kiss his head again. “Okay. Thank you.”  

Ilya looks back to the crib in front of them, curious. “Will you tell your parents?” 

The temporary laxness of Shane’s body tenses again around him as he shifts. He laughs, too brief and too thin to be genuine, an anxious puff of air against the back of Ilya’s head. 

“I mean, yeah. I’ll have to.” 

“You are nervous,” Ilya notes. 

He deflates again. “That obvious?” 

“It’s okay. Probably a normal thing to be nervous about,” Ilya reasons. He turns Shane’s arm over in his grip, traces up the sensitive inner part of it with his fingertips. “You want to talk about it?” 

Shane sighs. “I’m not—like, hiding you, or her, or anything. It’s not like that,” he explains, resting his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder. “They just. They’ve always had this specific plan for me, you know? And for a long time that was fine, because I wanted the same thing. Mostly.” 

“And now?” Ilya asks. 

“Now… things have changed.” 

“And you are scared to disappoint them,” he nods. “I understand this.” 

“I don’t want to disappoint you, either,” Shane insists. 

“I get it. Really. They are your parents, Shane. It is important, what they think.” 

He huffs again. “Yeah, but you’re my—” 

“Your what?” Ilya jumps at the chance to tease, digging into a ticklish spot near his elbow. “Your lover? Your baby mama?” 

Shane splutters a laugh. “Who the hell taught you that one?” 

 “Marly.” Ilya pinches him. “Do not change the subject.” 

Expertly catching Ilya’s wrist before he can exact any more tickle torture, Shane brings it up to his mouth, kisses over his pulse. 

“I was thinking, maybe… my boyfriend?” 

The grin starts slow, then spreads like a flame across Ilya’s face. “Really?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. Really.” 

“You like me.” 

“Of course I like you,” Shane drawls. His hand curves around Ilya’s bump again, maybe the most confidently he’s ever done it before, and Ilya shivers at the touch. “Thought this made it sort of obvious.” 

Breathless and eager, he says over his shoulder, “Okay. Yes. Boyfriend. I like it.” 

Shane grins back. “Me too.” 

Ilya leans in and kisses him and the angle is shit but the kiss is just as good as it always is, the plateau of all of the emotions from the last half hour spun together into something sweet and simple. 

After a second, Shane makes a noise against his mouth. “God. What did you eat?” 

Ilya laughs so much that his side cramps and he makes Shane rub it until it stops, Яна kicking at them for the trouble and disrupting her sleep. 

“You should come to Ottawa with me. Maybe during the summer?” Shane suggests, a tiptoe of a voice as his hand lingers over the spot. “You’ll have time off on top of the mandatory leave. I have this cottage, outside the city. It’s not loud, and it’s not lonely. We could have at least a few weeks. Just the three of us.” 

“The three of us,” Ilya repeats, dizzy at the sound of it. “Yes, I think that sounds nice.” 

“We won’t do anything too crazy, no hikes or anything. But it’s where I grew up. You got to show her Moscow, maybe… maybe I could show her Ottawa, too. Both of you.” 

“They have your picture up everywhere? Sculpture of your breasts?” he asks. 

“It’s called a bust, Ilya.” 

“Big signs that say the Shane Hollander was born here?” 

“No,” he scoffs. After a pause, he adds bashfully, “Not in the part we’re going to, anyway.” 

“Disappointing. Maybe we can make a pitstop. We will get another picture.” 

“If you end up liking it there,” he continues between presses of his lips against Ilya’s shoulder, “I know a lot about the real estate around Ottawa.” 

Ilya tilts his head. “Ottawa, hm?” 

“Yeah.” 

He pats the back of Shane’s hand. “Let’s go in the summer. You, me, Яна, and the Cup.” 

Shane laughs. “What Cup?” 

“The one you will win this year,” Ilya says, “obviously, since I am not there.” 

“Obviously,” he echoes, soft. 

With enough distance between himself and the memory of the pain now, Ilya yawns, tired once more. He burrows back into the heat of Shane’s body, but the pulsing of his tailbone has grown too irritating to ignore again. He groans, shifting to try to find a more comfortable position. 

Shane follows him up into a sit, rubbing at his back. “You wanna move back to the bed? I’m sure there’s going to be enough late nights once she’s actually here.” 

“Mm. Fair. Yes,” Ilya agrees, and sighs heavily as he leans to the side so Shane can climb out of the chair. He reclines back against the pillows the second he’s able, eyes closed and arms extended outward. “Carry me, Hollander.” 

There’s the click of the lamp turning off, and then arms sliding beneath his back and knees. Ilya jolts as he’s lifted into the air, spitting out a curse. 

“Shane!” 

“What?” Shane asks, carrying him down the hallway. 

“I was not serious,” Ilya hisses. 

He feels one of Shane’s shoulders lift beneath where his hand rests. “I was.” 

They take the stairs nice and easy in the light of the small bulbs installed at each step, then cross through the dining room and kitchen to get back to the downstairs bedroom. Ilya feels small in a different way by the time his body hits the mattress again, laughter absorbed into something bigger, more tender, cared for instead of belittled. He had forgotten this feeling, too. 

He lays facing Shane this time, head on his chest, Shane’s leg underneath his bent knee, Яна pressed against Shane’s hip so he won’t have to have his hand there to feel her. Ilya hides his face in Shane’s shirt, tries to memorize the scent of the detergent. 

“Will you leave this here?” 

“Sure,” Shane says easily. “You don’t want me to wash it first?” 

“If you wash it first I will kill you.” 

He doesn’t laugh, but Ilya can feel his grin in the dark. “Fine. No washing.” 

“Good.” Ilya makes a fist of the fabric at his hip. “I will miss you.” 

“I’m going to miss you too.” His hand slides up to the back of Ilya’s neck, squeezing lightly, stroking over the skin. “Five weeks, right?” 

“Yes. Five weeks.” 

It doesn’t feel like enough. As much as his body has rebelled against him lately, there’s a larger part of him that doesn’t want to leave this quiet, in between phase. That has become attached to being a home for someone else, Яна safe and sound inside where Ilya’s exterior, the one that had been molded for performance, for aggression, for perpetual pessimism, had betrayed grief for life instead. 

Sveta likes to call him a contrarian. Ilya won’t argue it, if this is what it means to have gone against everything else. He turns his face further into Shane’s shoulder. 

“Tell me before you leave. I want to wake up with you.” 

He feels Shane’s mouth meet the crown of his head. 

“I will.” 

S H A N E

After leaving Boston, Philadelphia is brutal. 

They win, but only by a margin, and it’s the sort of game where it’s relentless even though it shouldn’t be. Montreal had the advantage in nearly every way that mattered, and yet they’d been neck and neck at the end of each period, only managing to narrowly secure the win in the last tension filled minute. 

They’re another step closer to the Cup, but Shane’s fucking exhausted. 

He’s more than ready to text Ilya and go to bed after he finishes with press and showering, his body sore and head pulsing in time with his heartbeat. They won’t quit asking him questions about Ilya, if it’s easier without him, if Shane is relieved, if he has any comment. He keeps his lips sealed even more tightly than before now, plagued by the image of their daughter one day seeing evidence of their rivalry—what was really just one big inside joke for something more, but stripped of all context—and taking it to heart. 

He’s not sure how much more pretending he’s got left in him. Not about this. 

They’ve been texting on and off since he left, at least. 

How’s she doing today?

Very active. She is moving a lot since you left. Trying to chase you I think. 

Taking off. When he landed. In the car from the airport to the hotel. 

How is Philadelphia? 

Fine. How’d the first pre-op appointment go? 

Good. I will send you the notes if you want. I have another packet. 

Yes please 👍 

In the locker room at practice. Right before the game. 

Good luck. The four of us are watching. )))) 

Four? 

Me, Yana, Sveta, and the Godfather. 

Do we really have to call it that? 

It’s his name, Jane. 

There’s another two messages waiting for him now as he gets back to the room he’s sharing with Hayden, relieved to find it empty for now. He swings his bag onto the ottoman at the end of the bed and flicks on the lamp instead of the overheads, then pulls out his phone to read the newest ones. 

Sveta bought me something. 

Wanted you to have this. Listen with headphones. 

An audio message is included underneath it. This time last year, any text from Ilya that mentioned using headphones would have sent his heart racing, his face hot. But the mention of Svetlana makes him think it’s probably more baby related, and Shane hopes, more than anything today, that he’s right. 

He walks back over to his bag, pulling open the zip and rifling through the pockets. He’d used them earlier in the car, so they should be fairly easily accessible. 

Except for the fact that they’re not where he’d sworn that he left them. Or in the other place he usually keeps them. Or even in the backup spot. He’d never taken them out of his bag at Ilya’s, so they have to be inside of the damn thing somewhere. 

He yanks out his neatly folded changes of clothes and tosses them out onto the mattress, his toiletries scattered between them. The dogeared novel topples out, hits the bed and dumps unceremoniously onto the carpet with a thud. They’re not fucking here. 

Dropping his weight down onto the edge of the mattress, Shane pulls his phone back out and decides to listen anyway. He finds the message again and clicks play, turning up his volume. 

“Ilya, you have to stay still,” he hears Svetlana say, speaker muffled against fabric. 

“You are pushing too hard!” Ilya complains. Despite the day, Shane closes his eyes, smile threatening the edges of his mouth. “Are you holding it in the right spot?” 

She sighs. “I am holding it the same way it says on the box. Перестань ныть. Stop whining. And stay still.”

There’s some more grumbling and shifting, the audio scratchy and echoey in what Shane assumes must be his palm, and then it suddenly clears. 

“Okay, and then it says we turn this part on and—” 

Svetlana’s voice cuts off at the same time the phone starts making a whooshing noise, and Shane pulls it away from his ear with a frown. It sounds like they’ve abruptly stepped out of Ilya’s house and into a wind tunnel. 

He starts typing to Ilya to ask if something got cut out, but then—then the noise starts to take shape. 

A thump-thump-thump, quick but steady. Shane grips the phone in his hand and forgets how to breathe. 

“Oh.” Ilya’s voice comes back. “Oh. It worked. Do you think he can hear it? Shane—” 

“Shh. Let him listen.” 

His thumb presses down on the volume button to turn it up again, letting the rush and swell of it fill up the silence of the empty room. He’s not sure exactly what he’d expected, or if he expected to get to hear this at all, since he hasn’t been able to make it to any of Ilya’s appointments. But it hadn’t been this, hadn’t been something so unequivocally real. 

He’s felt her kick, seen the sonogram pictures, read the books about all the ways she’s been developing in the last few weeks. But this is something different, it feels different—makes his chest lurch, his own heartbeat coming faster, hands aching suddenly for something he can’t yet hold. 

He thinks he understands now why she’d been so active when they were talking to her in Boston, kicking and kicking like she’d wanted out, closer to the source. Shane wonders if it’s possible to miss something you haven’t even had yet. 

“I’m sorry the day has been hard, sweetheart,” Ilya says in the recording, low and clear like he’s pulled the phone close to his mouth to talk. “But we are proud of you. Ещё пять недель. Мы любим—"Five more weeks. We love—”

He has it turned up so loud that he mistakes the hotel door opening for another part of the audio. 

“Hey, you made it up here fast. A couple of the guys were wondering if you wanted to—” Hayden starts, trailing in with his own bag as he tosses it onto his bed. 

Shane’s mind turns to white static as he fumbles to turn it down, and the phone slips out of his hand in the process. Ilya has stopped talking now but the sound of Yana’s heartbeat is still pulsing throughout the room, and Shane feels nearly feral as he follows it down to the floor, scoops it back into his shaking hands and mutes it, plunging the room into silence once more. 

“Shane,” Hayden says. “Is that…?” 

It spurs him into action again. Shane stands, shoving his locked phone into his pocket and walking back around the bed to his bag. He starts grabbing some of the mess he’d made earlier, re-folding his clothes and gathering up his toiletries. 

“Just a random video. Auto played from some website when my hand slipped. I was just looking for my headphones,” he tells Hayden tightly without looking up. 

His entire body is hot like a bruise. Guilt, fear, that new, fierce protectiveness—he can’t even put a name to it anymore. 

“Okay,” Hayden agrees after a long moment. He clears his throat. “I, uh. I was going to ask if you wanted to come out with us, but if you’re turning in, I can get you out of it.” 

Shane nods for too long. “Sure. That’s—that’d be great. Thanks, Hayd.” 

“‘Course, man,” he says. “I’ll probably be gone for at least a couple hours, so. You’re good here?” 

He hums, still nodding, still busying himself with his bag. Shoving at the corners of clothes, watching himself from the ceiling. 

God. How the fuck did Ilya tell Marleau? He trusts Hayden, and if there were anyone who would understand what having a kid is like while playing professional hockey, it would probably be him. But he can’t get the words out of his throat, can’t picture being able to tell just a fraction of the story, spinning more and more lies until he hits something he can’t run from anymore. 

“Shane?” Hayden asks gently. 

“Yeah?” Shane chokes. 

“I think your headphones are sticking out of your back pocket.” 

Tossing a hand behind himself, Shane pats at his pocket and, sure enough, feels the cord of his headphones wrapped into a tidy oval. Right where he’d slipped them earlier when he changed so he could get to them easily once he reached the hotel.  

He pulls them out and lifts them in Hayden’s direction. “Oh, uh. Fuck. Yeah. There they are. Thanks.” 

“All good.” In his peripherals, he sees Hayden’s hands in his pockets, rocking back on his feet. “We probably won’t go too far, so. Call me if you need… anything. Okay?” 

“I will.” 

“Alright. I’m headed out, then. I’ll see you.” 

Shane manages a smile, glancing over his shoulder at him to dip his chin in acknowledgement. “See you, Hayd.” 

The second the door closes behind him, Shane has the headphones in. He sits up against the headboard, knees pulled up on top of rumpled sheets, and pulls up the message again. Presses play. 

“Ilya, you have to stay still,” Svetlana says. 

Shane sends back Thank you. ❤️

Chapter End Notes

can a grown man carry another grown man who is also almost 8 months pregnant down the stairs realistically? i feel like if there’s anyone that can it’s probably shane hollander and i think we should let ilya have this <3

I’M SO FUCKING EXCITED FOR NEXT CHAP !!! TIME TO LOCK IN !!! :D

Chapter 9: viii. 34-36 weeks

Chapter Summary

I am taking him to the hospital. We are packing a bag now. His doctor is meeting us there. I don’t like how much he is throwing up and the pain is very bad and very close together now, Svetlana's text reads.

What does Ilya say? Shane asks.

That it’s just Braxton Hicks.

Shane’s hands shake as he types out: Do you think it’s still Braxton Hicks? 

No.

Fuck, Shane thinks. Fuck.

Chapter Notes

-reminder since it will come up in the chapter that even though ilya mostly refers to her as just Yvonne at this point, her last name is Walsh!
-once again, i am not a hockey expert so there may be some accuracy sacrifices to better serve the plot

this is taking the top spot for longest chapter at around 14k. word-wise i should probably have split it, but that felt mean shjdgskjgf so. here !!!! if you have the time for it, please at least skim the author’s note at the end of the chapter x

content warnings (contains spoilers for the chapter)

- non-detailed descriptions of loss of mucus plug and other general third trimester pregnancy symptoms
- talks of surgery, hospital settings, etc.
- mentions of blood/hemorrhaging and potential surgical complications
- mention of newborn respiratory complications

WHO'S READY FOR YANA :D

has not been proofread yet x

I L Y A

thirty-four weeks

Ilya stares at the packet on the coffee table, and it stares back at him. He hasn’t quite worked out if it’s a challenge or a tied defeat that he wants out of the contest, but he doesn’t think that he’s winning either way. 

He shouldn’t have looked. Or, he should have—he has put it off to the last three weeks, even—but he should have done it with Svetlana here. Should have started with the highlights. Should have done it when he wasn’t alone. 

He’d thought he would be more scared of Яна being here. But as he rapidly approaches the date printed on the front of the packet, he realizes that he’s more nervous about the how than the what. As if it can hear him and is actively aware of this, his body has decided to start pressing on the gas instead of the brakes. 

The pain in his lower back follows him no matter what he does, or how he lays, or if he’s walking or sitting or breathing, sometimes a dull ache and others something sharp and vicious. He spends most of his days with kleenex shoved up his nose to stop the random, incessant bleeding. He can’t eat anything without heartburn after it, and he can’t drink anything without having to relieve himself within the next half hour or else things get ugly. 

It feels like a message, uncoded and uncaring of whether or not Ilya is ready yet to hear it: soon. 

He’s called Yvonne enough times to warrant some sort of legal action, he’s sure. About everything from a cramp in his leg to the brief period where he could not stop chewing on ice to—well, this. 

“It sounds like you’re beginning to lose your mucus plug,” Yvonne hums thoughtfully. 

Ilya glances over at the phone on the edge of the bathroom sink and flushes the toilet. “This sounds bad.” 

“No, not bad,” she amends as he starts washing his hands. “A little early, yes. But it sounds like you’re not losing it all at once, and there’s no signs of imminent labor, so we still have a little more time.” 

In the mirror in front of him, he does not make eye contact with the slope of his middle that he could have sworn was not quite as low the last time he had looked. He dries his hands and turns the light off, moving back to the living room. 

“I do have one part of this you’re not going to like, though,” Yvonne continues. “I’m officially putting you on bed rest.” 

Ilya groans. 

“I know. I know. But you’re so close, Ilya, and we really need to make it to that thirty-seven week mark if we can. The more you’re up and moving around right now, the more we risk an earlier delivery.” And more complications, she doesn’t say. “Is there someone in the house with you right now?” 

Putting a hand to the tender spot at his side where Яна’s been kicking, Ilya winces at the added pressure in between his hips as he lowers himself back onto the couch. 

“Sveta is coming back tomorrow.” 

“Okay. That’s great. Then take it easy for today, and starting tomorrow, see if she would be open to sticking around to help you with things during this last stretch. If that doesn’t work, we can always explore other options.” 

He sighs, rubbing at the skin under his shirt. “No. She will do it.” 

“I know it must be difficult to ask you not to do anything when you’re used to being so active, but I wouldn’t have you doing it if it wasn’t important.” 

“I understand,” he nods, watching the phone move up and down as he breathes where it’s balanced on his stomach. “I will try to be still.” 

“Good,” she says. “And Ilya? I know you told me the pain is only random and unpredictable right now, but if it starts becoming predictable at any point, I need you to call me immediately. Okay?” 

“I am reading the packet,” he replies maybe too defensively. “I will call.” 

And he will. When he’s certain that he needs to. It will be fine. 

“I’m holding you to that, Ilya.” 

He does not think he can attribute the rabbitting pulse and sweating palms to the pregnancy. Ilya swallows and says, “Okay.” 

S H A N E

thirty-six weeks 

Outside the hotel is quiet, but Shane still scans the parking lot as he steps off the curb, phone to his ear, and calls Ilya. 

It’s cool with dusk settling around him, enough for a light jacket at least. The dial tone hums while he waits for him to pick up. It’s been taking longer sometimes lately, with the bed rest, if he’s not near his phone. Shane had offered to try to make it back to Boston for another turnaround between games, but Ilya had insisted that he stay with the team and focus on playoffs, that he was incredibly bored at home and needed to live vicariously through him. 

Shane isn’t honestly sure how much he’s living when he spends most of his time worrying and convincing himself not to book a flight to Boston anyway. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi,” Shane answers. “How are you?” 

Ilya makes the sort of noise Shane probably isn’t supposed to hear, and then says the thing he always says when he is definitely not fine: “Fine.” 

Shane bites at his lip. “Are you sure? Svetlana said you’ve been having Braxton Hicks contractions.” 

“Of course she did,” Ilya scoffs, and Shane loses him in a string of Russian curses temporarily. He huffs. “Is just a little pain. No big deal.” 

“And you also… I don’t know. It seems like some of your other symptoms are worse too? Maybe?” 

The line goes quiet. “Like what?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Shane.” 

 “Maybe, like, mood swings?” he rushes out. “Which is totally normal. It’s not a big deal. It’s just—it happens.” 

“Mood swinging how.”

If his pacing could wear a hole in the concrete, Shane thinks it would have by now. “What do you mean?” 

“Which way, Shane,” Ilya says, oddly detached. “You’re saying I am angry?” 

“No,” he assures. “Well, I mean, sometimes maybe like irritated, yeah. But I get it, this is a lot. It’s okay to be angry, or sad, or—whatever you need to be.” 

There was a time when he was younger, not even really all that long ago, that Shane had picked up on a pattern. He’s most comforted by logic, when things fit neatly and make sense, and that’s his gut reaction, usually, in moments of stress or high tension. To be as knowledgeable as possible, to relay that information like a balm when someone—or himself—is nervous. 

He has also picked up on the pattern that often times what he needs is not what other people need. The problem is that he never manages to realize that that’s what’s happening until he can already taste rubber soles behind his teeth. 

Ilya says, tiredly now, “I am angry and sad because there is a person growing inside of me, Shane. It hurts. I am sick all the time and I can’t leave the bed and my body is all—weird. I feel weird.” 

“It’s okay to feel weird.” 

“I know,” Ilya snaps. 

Shane swallows. Quietly, he adds, “Sorry. I don’t—I feel like I’m not saying the right things.” 

Ilya takes in a breath, lets it out long and slow while Shane steps over a crack in the sidewalk and blames the burning in his eyes on the wind. 

“You are. I know you are reading all these things and you are very smart and I will need to know all of this at some point, I know,” he tells Shane, gentle but firm. “But right now sometimes when there is so much information I start to feel like—like a thing you are observing instead of person going through it. And that feeling is maybe not so good for the… sadness, and things. Yes?” 

“Oh,” Shane blinks, staring at his feet. “Yeah. That makes sense. I didn’t think of it that way.” 

“I appreciate you wanting to learn. I am not saying that—I just—блять."Fuck." There’s shuffling and sniffling for a minute and then the sound of a nose being blown, and then a brittle laugh. “I think you are right about the swinging. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. We said we’d be honest, right? This is—good. I’m glad you said something.”  

His voice is still thick and shaky with tears when he asks, “You are not mad?” 

Shane slides a hand into his hair and pulls, eyes squeezing shut. “No, of course not. I—I’m trying to make all of this easier for you, Ilya. Not harder.” 

“You do,” Ilya sobs, anger completely forgotten. “I will say it more often. I promise. I—motherfucker—!” 

Unlike the emotional pause from earlier, this one is abrupt, his gasp more of a hiss. Shane opens his eyes, shoulders tense, and stops walking. 

“Ilya?” he asks carefully. “Another Braxton Hicks?” 

“Mhm,” he wheezes. “Fuck, that hurts.” 

“It doesn’t sound like you’re breathing through it,” Shane tentatively points out, checking the watch on his wrist to time it out. “Are you sure you don’t want to do a house call? Just to be safe?” 

Ilya doesn’t answer for a minute. He hums his way through a long, drawn out exhale, then grits out, still breathless, “I am scheduled for one week. Is not so long. Will be fine.” 

“I don’t know if she really cares about our timelines, Ilya,” he tries to buoy lightly. “But it’s your call. I’ll back your play, whatever you choose.” 

“Even with Sveta texting you behind my back?” 

“Hey. It’s you and me, okay? I’d like to stay informed, yeah, and sometimes Svetlana’s easier so I don’t annoy you all day. But when it comes down to it, you know I’ve got your back. Or—hopefully you do.” 

“You are not annoying,” Ilya tells him after a moment where Shane thinks he may have lost him to the tissues again. He sniffs. “But. Thank you. For saying this.” 

He makes another couple of laps around the hotel parking lot as the sun sets, ducking his chin to talk behind the collar of his jacket so the wind won’t be too loud in Ilya’s ear. He can hear the television running faintly in the background while they talk, the echo of Svetlana’s voice as she asks out a question from the other room and Ilya calls back his answer. 

“Shane?”  

When he’s made it back around and isn’t ready to go back inside to the noise of the rest of the team at the hotel bar or an empty hotel room yet, he sits down on the curb. 

“Yeah, Ilya?” 

“I miss you. Very much,” he admits, voice raspy but clearer now than before. “I know we have not had—this for very long. But. I do.” After another breath, he adds, “I wish you were here.” 

Shoving his thumb and finger against his eye sockets, Shane leans an elbow on his knee and tries to keep his tone level. He doesn’t have any tissues on hand. 

“I miss you too,” he manages. “One week. Okay? I’ll be there.”  

Ilya sniffles. “Okay.” 

Neither of them says anything else, but they stay on the phone until the last of the sun is gone and Shane’s teammates have either migrated to the bar next door or up to their rooms, Shane’s light jacket no longer enough to shield him from the chill. 

He checks his watch again, but it doesn’t make the time move any faster. 

+ 

At the end of the second period, Montreal is down by three, and Shane has never thought less about hockey while actively being on the ice before in his life. 

His top three conversations in his messages are Ilya, Svetlana, and Yvonne, whom Shane had acquired the number of the week prior so that he could ask her all of his questions without using Ilya as a proxy. But the conversation with Svetlana is the one he can’t get out of his head—a stream of updates stretching from early this morning to just before the game: He is very nauseous today. Having more pain. And, more distressingly, I do not think he will end up making it to next week, Shane. 

He’s already booked a plane ticket for tomorrow, mid-day, as soon as he can get away without eyes on him. At the time—today, frantically, over lunch he couldn’t get down either because he’d been too nauseous—he’d resolved himself to missing the rest of the season if he needed to, already drafting up and rehearsing the reason he’d give in his head. 

The way this game is going though, he isn’t so sure that’s going to be an issue. It makes him feel oddly resolved, allows him to pour himself into the game in a primitive, instinctual kind of way, knowing that by this time tomorrow he’ll be with Ilya in Boston. He just has to make it through tonight. 

He had received only one message today from Ilya, right before the game. Good luck ❤️❤️. Shane had hearted it and promised to call as soon as he could afterward to check in. 

“You okay, man?” Hayden asks him as they trickle back into the room before the third, Shane weaving his way straight toward his locker. 

“Yeah,” Shane says without turning around. “Why?” 

“You’re just—playing kind of intense tonight.” 

“Almost like there is a Cup on the line, criss d'épaisidiot," J.J. says, shouldering past him.

“Alright, alright,” Hayden mutters, rolling his eyes. 

The words go in one ear and out the other as Shane reaches up for his phone. He pulls it close to his chest and unlocks it, chest stuttering when he has more messages from Svetlana. 

I am taking him to the hospital. We are packing a bag now. 

His doctor is meeting us there. 

I don’t like how much he is throwing up and the pain is very bad and very close together now. 

What does Ilya say? 

That it’s just Braxton Hicks. 

Shane’s hands shake as he types out: Do you think it’s still Braxton Hicks? 

No. 

Fuck. Fuck. Another text comes through just as he finishes reading. On instinct, he clicks Lily when it pops up. 

Shane. 

Do not leave that fucking game. 

He stands in front of his stall feeling paralyzed, gripping his phone too tight in his sticky palms while the rest of the locker room buzzes around him, keeping the energy up for third period. 

“Seriously, dude,” Hayden doubles down, keeping his voice low. “You okay?” 

“No,” Shane admits before he can stop it. He can’t stop seeing it behind his eyelids; in pain, not sure, going to the hospital. Even if he leaves right this second, he may be too late. “I need to—I need to be somewhere else.” 

At that, Hayden’s hands falter inside of his own locker as he rifles through it. “You’re leaving?” 

“I—I think I am, yeah.” 

“You’ve never left a game in your life, dude,” he hisses, glancing around them as he leans in closer. “Is it… Lily?” 

Quietly, Shane admits, “I need to book a flight to Boston.” 

With the kind of urgency typically reserved for his kids minutes before imminent breakdown, Hayden schools his voice and grabs his phone from his locker. 

“I’ll have Jackie book it. We’ve got tons of miles saved up, and she’s home with the kids right now.” His thumbs fly over the screen as he pulls up her contact and starts typing a message. Hayden tilts his head toward the door without looking up. “Go tell coach, I’ll have her send you the flight info on your way to the airport.” 

“Hayd—” Shane starts, feeling a little like his chest is collapsing inward. 

“Go,” he reiterates. “J.J. and I’ll cover for you with the guys again until you figure out what you want to tell them.” 

Like a flipped switch, Shane grabs randomly at a duffel and grabs a handful of what he considers essentials to shove inside of it. “Thank you.” 

He’d packed a bag for this—a real one—but it’s with his luggage at the hotel. He hadn’t thought he’d need it until his flight tomorrow, and there’s no time to go backwards and grab it now, not when the hotel is thirty minutes in the opposite direction of the airport. 

“Jackie said all good, she’s booking it now,” he relays, reaching over to squeeze Shane’s shoulder after he levers his bag up onto it. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

Shane nods, throat too tight to speak, and starts for the door. His teammates have noticed now, heads turning and furrowed brows facing his direction. 

“Wait—what the fuck? Hollander, where’re you going?” 

He grips the strap of his bag with white knuckles. Hesitates for a moment, feels Hayden take his arm again. “Hey. We fucking got this. Okay? Go.” 

He stumbles a little as Hayden pushes him toward the exit, but it gets him going. 

He changes and showers quicker than he has in his life. His coach is furious. Shane bets some of his teammates will be too, even though he’s still perfectly entitled to take urgent leave for a family emergency, playoffs or no playoffs. His brain catches on family and clings to it as he leaves the building, hails a cab and heads for the airport. 

He texts Svetlana that he’s on his way so that his call won’t interrupt something if they’re driving or already at the hospital, and tries not to panic more when he doesn’t receive a response. 

Halfway to the airport, Jackie sends over his flight information. A call from his parents immediately follows—his mom, then his dad, then his mom again. They must be back on the ice by now, and at this point, his absence is something more than just noticeable. 

He can’t think about it right now. 

Security and check-in passes in a blur of automatic step-by-step’s, well ingrained after so many years of catching flights and making steep deadlines. He stops inside of a concession shop to grab a water bottle and a Gatorade when he realizes he’s shaking, the sweat he’d haphazardly washed off from the game now back and clinging to his lip, between his fingers. He buys a hoodie regardless, some tacky, tourist-y thing that he can pull up over his head just in case he’s recognized, and sits down in the stiff chair, bouncing his knee as he waits for his gate to be called. 

He stares down at the group chat with his parents in his lap as more texts roll in, confused and pissed and worried all at once. Boarding starts just as he begins to type, and Shane shoves it into his pocket instead, rushing for the line. 

His bag, small enough to be considered a carry-on, gets shoved into the overhead as Shane takes his seat. There aren’t many people on the flight, and he’s more than grateful that no one ever sits down beside him. He’ll have to find something nice to send Jackie as a thank you. 

His stomach lurches again as the flight attendants walk through the emergency protocols, and Shane shuts his eyes, breathes deep, and doesn’t feel any better for it afterward. But at least they’re closer to take off. 

He checks his phone one last time before he powers it off. Nothing from Svetlana, or Ilya. Several more messages and voicemails from his parents. Now, mostly just concerned. 

Quickly, he opens the group chat and types I’m okay. Going to Boston. I’ll call you as soon as I can. 

He shuts it off as soon as it sends, and the flight attendants do their final walkthrough before takeoff. Shane leans his head against the seat and lets gravity push him backward as the plane moves forward onto the runway, pressure beginning to pop in his ears. 

The last stubborn parts of his brain try valiantly to come together to recall his plan, to make a new one, to remember everything he’s read and prepped for these last three months. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like yesterday. 

Instead, all he can do is turn his eyes toward the skyline and think: please. 

+

Shane’s stomach drops further upon finding out the level of clearance it takes simply to get to where Ilya’s being held in the maze of the hospital. 

It’s calmer on the labor and delivery floor than it is in the rest of the building, lacking the raucous noise and harsh fluorescents, but the quiet is too quiet, and the dimness and excess adrenaline make him feel like he’s drifting through an uncanny dream as he’s led down the winding hallways by the nurse. 

Subtle red lights buzz at the corridors they pass, shut doors opened with specialized ID cards, the word EMERGENCY emblazoned on far too many signs for Shane’s liking. He’s breathing as if he had stuck around for the third period by the time they reach a patient room off the far side of one of the nurse’s stations, pausing only for a half-second to gather his courage at the threshold, and then he steps through the already propped open door. 

The curtain gives easily when Shane pushes it out of the way, and there, finally, is Ilya. 

“What did I say, Hollander,” he rasps, trying and failing for a smile. 

Shane laughs once, thinks he might sob but swallows it back as he gives Ilya a wobbly grin and approaches the bed. 

“Fuck off,” he says more gently than he means to, dropping his bag onto the visitor’s chair so he can grab Ilya’s outstretched, taped up hand. “I can’t believe I didn’t miss you. They haven’t taken you back yet?” 

“He is about to go now,” Svetlana informs him from the narrow sofa on the opposing side of the small room. “We had to wait for his doctor, and he had IV put in for surgery and epidural. They say it takes longer, since it is first baby. She is not in distress so they did not have to go immediately, but is still an emergency surgery.” 

“Okay,” Shane breathes, looking him over. “Okay. You doing okay?” 

He’s sure he can ascertain the answer—Ilya’s eyes are heavy with what Shane already knows has been a lack of sleep and effort to sit through the pain, carved with gray circles underneath. His teeth are clenched, the muscle in his jaw bulging as he grinds them, and his breath is coming too quickly and sharply through his nose even when he lies back against the pillow. 

“Fucking—hurts,” Ilya grits, and squeezes Shane’s hand hard enough for a moment that both of them go pale with the pressure. Shane sweeps a thumb over his knuckles. 

“Is he allowed to have something for the pain?” he asks Svetlana, eyes flicking over to scan the IV bag. “How’s his nausea?” 

“Nausea is much better, they gave him something that seems to have helped, but he is a little dizzy. Whatever else he is allowed they have already given him in the IV,” she explains. “They said the epidural should have helped with the pain, but it does not seem to be doing much for him.” Her mouth twists, displeased. “He will have anesthesia for surgery, so they will do that soon.” 

It takes him a minute to place it, but Shane realizes this is her nervous. His gaze falls back to Ilya, and Ilya’s already looking at him when he does despite the effort it seems to be drawing up. 

There’s noise in the hallway, nurses coming in and out of the open door to check notes, take vitals, report back. It’s startling at first but he gets used to it quickly, ignoring them altogether to focus on Ilya when it becomes clear that no input is needed. 

When the tension eases from Ilya’s face a second time and his head collapses back onto the pillow again, sweat glistens on his brow. He hums and rolls it to the side to look up at Shane again. 

“Maybe is selfish, but,” he croaks, “I am glad you are here.”

“Me too,” Shane says. 

“Would have lost anyway, I think.” 

“Hey!” He scoffs, using their tangled hands to tap lightly on his shoulder. And then, softer, “You were still watching?” 

“Of course,” he smiles, countering Shane’s movement by sliding their grip down to his middle instead, pressing Shane’s fingers into his skin through the gown. “We have watched every game of yours.” 

Shane waits for a punchline to that, but one never comes. He’s never seen a version of Ilya like this before, even over the last few months. The achiness has softened his angled edges, dulled whatever instinct that runs deep enough to make him feel like he has to undercut every genuine thing with humor or distraction. Even Shane, who typically would prefer to communicate directly, feels unsteady in the wake of it—Ilya’s eyes watercolored with tears and unwilling to look away from him, as if Shane holds some sort of answer he needs to commit to memory. 

As if he wants Shane to be the last thing he sees before they take him back. His mouth runs dry. 

He reaches up to push some of the hair back off of Ilya’s forehead, clutching his slick, shaking palm in his own. “Ilya, I…” 

Within the span of a second Ilya’s face has pooled with tension again, lines carving themselves deep through his forehead, around his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut and yanks on Shane’s grip again, his hold slackened but enough to pull Shane’s upper body down like a cocoon over him. 

Shane feels the inexplicable need to apologize again and then maybe never stop. He bites his tongue and puts a hand on the back of Ilya’s sweaty, bent forward neck instead, kissing the top of his head as he trembles. 

To his right, the curtain slides open again and the doctor—Yvonne, Shane realizes, though he hasn’t met her in person yet—is moving quickly, obviously not her first time in the room tonight as she slips on another pair of gloves and takes a seat between Ilya’s legs. 

“Okay. How are we doing, Ilya?” 

Through his teeth, Ilya replies, “Bad.” 

“We’re going to fix some of that for you soon, I hope.” She wheels the nurse’s cart around beside her and pats Ilya’s ankle. “I’m going to take one more look to make sure we’re not missing anything else, and then we’ll get you transported to surgery. They’re nearly finished prepping for us right now.” 

Ilya gets no time to bask in the brief reprieve between contractions as he readjusts to the right position again, leaning heavily on Shane and a little bit on Svetlana as they scoot him further up the bed. His legs get situated carefully but efficiently into the stirrups, and Ilya winces at the first press of gloved hands that disappear beneath his gown. 

Shane had read that back-lying positions aren’t ideal for laboring with C-gene pregnancies, but he doubts the plan is for Ilya to stay here any longer than what’s necessary. He doubts even more that his input would be welcome right now. 

“Shane,” Ilya murmurs quietly, and Shane’s head swivels toward him. Some of the color in his cheeks has faded, his voice trembling. “I am scared.” 

“Me too,” Shane whispers, preserving as much privacy as he can get when the room is full of doctors and nurses and Svetlana. “But you have a good team, a good doctor. You planned everything right. Everything’s going to be okay.” 

This doesn’t seem to soothe him. If anything, Ilya’s eyes grow wider, his grip on Shane’s hand lacking in strength but gaining in desperation. “If something is bad, or—if it does not go right, you will promise—” 

“Ilya,” Shane says. 

“You promise you will take care of her. Yes?” 

Shane hears something vaguely like a whimper leave his throat. He clutches Ilya’s fingers hard enough for the both of them. 

With a conviction that startles even himself, he promises, “Of course. Of course I will.” 

The tears swimming in his eyes finally slip out over his cheek, and Shane wipes them away with his thumb. “I want it to be you. I know I—I did not tell you about her until later. Maybe I should have said, but is not her fault.” 

“Ilya,” he breathes. “I know, baby. I know. I don’t care about that, I promise. I love her. I love—” 

Yvonne stands at the end of the bed, and both of their eyes go to her. 

“Ilya, I am seeing some signs of minor hemorrhaging, so I’m going to strongly suggest you go ahead with the hysterectomy directly following delivery like we talked about. Are you okay with this?” 

Svetlana’s hand slips into Ilya’s other one and holds. Shane watches him chew on his lip. 

“It is safer?” Ilya asks. 

“It will likely save your life.” 

Ilya pales significantly, which Shane hadn’t thought was possible. He nods once, sharply. “Okay. Yes. We do the surgery.” 

“Alright. I’ll let the operating team know.” Yvonne peels off her gloves and disposes of them, taking a moment to glance at the triangle of the three of them. “We need to go ahead and get you transported, Ilya, if you’re ready to go.” 

Svetlana leans in first, her lips against Ilya’s forehead as she speaks something in quiet, fierce Russian. Shane doesn’t understand it but it isn’t for him anyway, so he steps back long enough to give them a moment alone together before he says his own goodbyes. 

No. He shakes his head outwardly at the thought. Not a goodbye, just—a see you in a few hours. That’s all. It’s going to be fine. 

“Mr. Hollander.” Yvonne steps up at his side while he’s waiting to speak to him. “If everything stays on schedule, the delivery will be the shortest portion of the surgery. Are you planning on staying in the waiting room outside the OR? You’ll be able to accompany your baby to the NICU as soon as she arrives.” 

Shane nods. “Yes. I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” Yvonne gives him a small smile. “Someone will come out and let you know when they’re ready to transport, and you should be able to see her within the first hour or two if they aren’t experiencing any complications.” 

“I’ll be there,” Shane vows. “And you—you’ll be in there with him the whole time, right? For the surgery?” 

“Yes, start to finish. The team we’ve put together is very intentional, and very skilled at what they do. Both Ilya and your daughter are in good hands here,” she tells him, and Shane appreciates the way she doesn’t gentle her tone to say it. “He’s a special case, but we began monitoring early on and have prepped for this exact scenario extensively, I can assure you.” 

“Okay,” he exhales, nodding again. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. It’s nice to formally meet you, Mr. Hollander.” She turns back to the bed. “Ilya, are you ready to go?” 

It’s almost a shock to see Svetlana less than composed, her face wet underneath buzzing hospital lights and lower lip trembling despite her carefully neutral expression as she steps back, giving Ilya’s hand a final touch as she goes. 

The transport team has already unlatched the wheels and started moving him a few feet, the bed angled toward the door. Shane opens his mouth, but Ilya beats him to it. 

“No, wait,” he rasps. “Shane.” 

The movement pauses, and he reaches up to undo the clasp at the back of his neck with shaking fingers. It takes him a few tries and Shane shouldering his way in between two of the nurses to get to his side to help, and then the skin-warm, sweat sticky chain of gold is resting in the center of his own palm, too heavy and much too light all at once. It’s jarring, seeing Ilya without it. 

He closes Shane’s fingers around it and puts his own around them, squeezing again, much weaker this time. He offers a small smile, heavy lidded as he looks up. 

“Take care of this too, yes?” 

Shane tightens his grip enough for the both of them, until he can feel the edges of it digging into his palm. Eyes blurring, he nods. “I promise.” 

He bends just as Ilya tugs him down again and the kiss tastes like salt and nerves, fleeting against his mouth, and Shane’s too nervous to appreciate the thrill of getting to kiss him for the first time in front of people. 

“Знай, что я тебя люблю. На случай, если я не успею тебе это сказать,”“Know that I love you, in case I don’t get the chance to tell you,” Ilya says, momentarily steady again as he looks at him. “Вы с мамой сделали мне самый драгоценный подарок. Спасибо, моё солнышко.”“You and mama have given me the most precious gift. Thank you, my sunshine.”

Somewhere behind him, Svetlana’s breath hitches on a sob. But Shane can’t look away, can’t begin to try and process what it could mean right now, when his own words feel tangled up and far away, hands too uncoordinated to grasp them properly. 

“Ilya,” he whispers, helpless. 

“It’ll be okay, Shane,” he smiles. His fingers manage enough strength to reach up and touch his cheek in a hollow mimicry of that first time all those years ago, and Shane nearly falls with it when it collapses back onto his chest, right over his heart. “Bye, sweetheart.” 

He tongues at the spot where Ilya’s teeth had accidentally left indentions as he watches them go, Ilya’s body somehow made small in the sea of the hospital bed and nurses. He stands there frozen for a long moment, left behind with Ilya’s necklace and the weight of words he doesn’t understand. 

He moves again purely because Svetlana bodily guides him, their elbows linked together as they walk toward the waiting room. His bag sits heavy on her shoulder, and he wants to reach out and take it, insist that he doesn’t need help, but he can’t unlatch his fist, can’t loosen his grip enough so that the gold doesn’t dig deep enough to leave marks. So that it doesn’t stay. 

The moment they reach the waiting room, he thinks of several different things he should have said, each one making him feel more awful than the last. Ilya had needed comfort, and there he’d gone again—everything down to his logistical failsafes betraying him until all he’d had to offer was an echo of Ilya’s name back at him. 

He can’t believe his own dereliction. At the very fucking least, he should have told him that he loved him. 

“Are you okay, Shane?” Svetlana asks softly, and it takes Shane a full minute to realize that she isn’t touching him anymore, that there is an empty waiting room around him, a chair waiting for him next to his bag. 

Yvonne says the delivery is the quickest part of it. He has a short window to get himself set straight, and then he has to be present. 

“I need—I need a minute,” he tells her, and tries not to stumble as he heads directly toward the sign for the bathrooms. 

It’s empty when he gets there, the nature of Ilya’s surgery and the late hour contributing to the lack of activity on the floor. Shane checks underneath the stalls anyway, then slaps a steadying palm down beside the sink, cranks on the tap, and shoves his face underneath the cold stream until he feels like he’s back in his body again. 

His hand is still shaking, so he makes himself carefully unfold his slick fingers and clasp the chain around his own neck, slipping it beneath the collar of his shirt. It’s warm against his chest, solid where it presses against the fluttering of his heart. 

His phone vibrates in his back pocket and it startles him. He’d completely forgotten it was even there, between trying to get here and then seeing Ilya and the doctor and Svetlana, the noise around him too loud to have even registered it if it’d buzzed. 

He has a heart from Jackie where he’d said thank you for the ticket, another longer message from Hayden that looks encouraging but that he can’t bring himself to open yet. His parents, predictably, had tried to contact him more after he’d announced he was going to Boston with no explanation, cycling through confusion back to concern once more. 

The last text in the group chat reads Please call us when you get there. We love you, Shane. 

Without thinking he taps on their contacts and blindly presses whichever one he hits first, raising the phone to his ear as the line rings. 

“Shane,” his mother answers immediately. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?” 

“I’m—I’m okay,” he manages to get out, and he opens his mouth again to elaborate further, maybe, but chokes on a sob instead, his fist too late to stifle it. 

“Oh, honey,” she says. “What is it?” 

“Can you—can you come here, please?” he asks. “I really am okay, it’s just—I just—” 

“We left as soon as you texted us,” she admits somewhat sheepishly. “We didn’t want to wait for a flight, so we’re driving. We have about three hours left until we reach Boston. Where are you?” 

“I’m at Mass General. I can text you the room and floor info. You’ll have to use the entrance through the garage, probably. I don’t—no one can know I’m here.” 

“Okay. It’s going to be okay, Shane. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. We’ll be there as soon as we can, alright?” 

“Do you need us to pick up anything on the way?” his father asks, distant over the speaker through air conditioning and road noise. 

Shane’s laugh, wet and abrupt, buoys the thick stillness of the empty bathroom. He lifts his head and doesn’t think about how they could raid a Babies-R-Us and still probably not be as prepared for all of this as he’d like to be. 

More subdued, he says, “No. No, just—get here. Please.” 

“As soon as possible,” his mother promises. “Do you want to stay on the phone with us?” 

“No, I need to get back. I just had a couple of minutes.” He chews at his lip. “And I might, um. I might not be able to answer the phone again, I don’t know. But you’ll have the information. You can ask the desk and they’ll take you to the right place.” 

“Okay. Text it to us. We’ll handle the rest. We’ll see you soon, honey.” 

“We love you, Shane,” his dad says. 

“Love you too.” 

He feels just slightly less claustrophobic when he hangs up, with his parents coming and Ilya’s cross around his neck. 

He lifts a hand to press against it through the fabric of his shirt, reaches for the door handle and tries to stomach the fact that the next time he sees his parents, he’ll be one himself. 

+

The prepackaged sandwich in Shane’s hand doesn’t really taste like much of anything, but he appreciates Svetlana for getting it for him. 

He’d managed a few bites and a sip or two of his drink before his stomach had declared enough, and now he sits in the rigid waiting room chair with his hoodie stripped off and condensation bunching up the plastic wrap in his palm, and time doesn’t feel real. 

Current time doesn’t feel real. The last few months feel nauseatingly so, in perspective. 

“I should have been there,” Shane mutters. 

“Today?” Svetlana clarifies, swallowing a bite of her own food. “There is nothing else you could have done. He is too stubborn. I think the best part of his day was watching a little of you play before we left.” 

He shakes his head. “Not just today. I—I should’ve just taken IR when I found out. Not just phone calls and weekends and—I should have been there.” 

In his peripherals, he registers her fork pausing halfway back to her boxed salad, and then it gets set down altogether in her lap. 

“Shane,” she says. “Ilya does not expect this of you. I do not think most people would. You are captain of one of the biggest teams in hockey. If there is anyone who understands this, it would be Ilya.” 

“But Ilya would have done it for me,” he insists. “If it was me in there right now, he—he would have found a way to be there from the moment he knew.” 

Her mouth closes. For a long moment they both stare at the floor tile in front of them, and then Shane feels her hand slip into his briefly between the chairs, feels the pressure when she squeezes. 

“It is like you said,” she tells him, “you are here now. That is what matters.” 

When he doesn’t answer that either, she sighs, drawing her hand back to stab another forkful of salad onto plastic cutlery and lift it to her mouth. 

“He knows that you love him, if that is what you’re worried about.” 

“I didn’t say it,” Shane laments. “How would he know? I never fucking said it.” 

“He knows, Shane.” 

He glances at her, and the look on her face makes him feel just slightly better. With a heaving breath of his own he nods, and she nods once, sharply, back at him in response. 

“Now eat your food so that you will not pass out when you tell him this later.” 

She has a point. He hadn’t been able to get down much of lunch today either, and dinnertime had passed in a blur of airport noise and rattled off cab directions. He finishes off the sandwich and then manages the off-brand chex-mix too, downing the rest of the Gatorade from his bag for good measure. 

He gets his parents added to the list of approved guests, paces the length of the waiting room, sits back down when he catches Svetlana looking at him over the top of a magazine. 

Fifty-three minutes from when Ilya went in, the OR doors open. 

Shane stumbles to a stand once more, ears ringing as they’re approached by a woman in a pair of scrubs. 

“Family for Rozanov?” 

“Is everything okay?” Shane asks. 

“Everything is on track, and the surgery is progressing as planned,” she informs them, smiling gently, “and I’m pleased to be able to inform you of the arrival of your baby girl.” 

The ringing stops. 

“She’s—she’s here?” 

“She is. If you’d like to accompany me to the NICU, Mr. Hollander, you’ll be able to meet her momentarily.” 

He feels Svetlana’s hand on his arm. “Go. I will stay and wait for updates here.” 

“And you’ll—you’ll get me, if—?” Shane fumbles, already backing toward the nurse. 

“I will make sure you know. I promise.” Svetlana grins, tired but blinding. “Go meet your baby. Ilya would not want her to be alone.” 

He pauses for one more second in the in between threshold to glance toward the OR, and then turns to follow the nurse down the hallway. 

It’s not far from Labor & Delivery, which makes him feel better. The nurse lets them into another set of frosted glass doors, the air warmer and lights even more dim. 

The NICU is just as quiet as the waiting room had been but the air moves differently, the hum of life replacing the eerie stillness of limbo. 

She leads him to a small intermediate corridor before the curtain, gesturing toward the cabinet with a sink and various protective gear, speaking quietly. “You can wash your hands right over here. You won’t be able to hold her just yet until we get her a bit more stabilized, but she’s doing well. You’ll be able to touch her and talk to her through the incubator.” 

Shane reaches for the soap and washes his hands twice, thoroughly, and dries them with the stack of neatly folded paper towels, making sure to dry up as much of the excess  moisture as possible. 

“Before you see her, I did want to let you know that we had to apply a bubble CPAP to help regulate her breathing. This is a small piece of tubing that’s fastened underneath the nose to help her lungs. It’s non-invasive and it doesn’t hurt her at all, but we like to brief new parents about it beforehand because it can look a little intimidating, especially on preterm babies,” she explains. “Once she starts breathing well enough on her own, we’ll remove it.” 

He nods along, trying to process the information but finds that it’s slippery inside of his head, his focus already pulled toward what’s behind the curtain. The nurse pulls it aside for them to step through and then leads them down another hallway, this one open, as they pass by other semi-private, curtained rooms with incubators and bassinets inside. 

His footsteps feel heavier here, his breath more noticeable in his chest. He can hear faint whispers and cooing, can hear someone crying from the opposite end. One of the open curtains holds a room with a couple embracing as they lean over the side of the incubator, and another houses the incubator by itself, three different machines scattered around it, wires coming from each of the sides, silent inside the plexiglass. 

Shane tears his eyes away and forwards, focusing instead on the blue-green of the nurse’s scrubs as she comes to a stop outside of one of the rooms. 

“Here we are,” she says, and gestures him behind the curtains with a smile. 

He’s pretty sure he doesn’t breathe as he takes a step forward into the room, more aware than ever of the space he takes up inside of it. Her incubator sits centered in front of the window, dark outside now, with a chair tucked into the corner beside it. It has an open top when he steps closer, not even plexiglass separating them when he approaches slowly and peeks in and— 

“Oh,” Shane breathes. 

She’s everything and nothing at all like he’d pictured, the curvature of her nose and upper lip nearly identical to the sonogram photo, but the two dimensions could never have captured the full scope of her. 

The CPAP machine takes up a lot of her small face, and Shane understands why he’d been given a warning for it. He knows what it does and understands the need for it, the scored tubing stretching across underneath her nose and bending at either side to frame her face, the tape keeping it attached to her little striped hat, but it’s jarring nonetheless, and Shane feels his eyes burn as he steps even closer, drawn in by instinct he can’t name. 

“She’s so small,” he notes in a whisper. 

“Five pounds and thirteen ounces,” the nurse confirms. “Small, yes. But perfectly healthy for late pre-term.” 

Yes, Shane had read that. It just—hadn’t felt quite this small in his head, in the pictures online. Like she might blow away if he exhaled too harshly. 

His hand floats in the air just outside the plexiglass barrier. “How should I…?” 

“Most grounding touches are okay. You probably want to avoid patterns, tapping, or anything like that for right now. We don’t want to overwhelm her when she’s already working so hard. Really, the only goal right now is skin-to-skin.” 

“So—this is okay?” he asks, gesturing first toward the hole in the side of the plexiglass instead of the open top, where her tiny fist lies clenched right inside of it. 

“Yep. That’s perfect.” 

Ever so carefully, Shane extends his pointer finger and strokes lightly over the back of her soft, pink knuckles. He sucks in a breath when she twitches, her much smaller digits suddenly expanding outward in search of the cause, curious. 

He readjusts only slightly, moving the pad of his finger into her palm, trying not to focus too much on the fact that it takes up nearly the entire surface area. Her miniature ones flex twice more as if she’s still testing the range of her movements, and then close in around his fingertip and hold. It takes Shane a belated few seconds to realize that the breathless laugh that had echoed throughout the room had come from him. 

“Look at that,” the nurse smiles, looking in from beside him. “You can talk to her, if you want. She seems to respond to the sound of your voice.” With a final check to the CPAP machine, she turns for the hallway in Shane’s peripherals. “I’ll give you some privacy, but I’ll leave the curtain open and I’ll be right outside if you have any more questions for me.” 

Shane can’t even manage to find his voice enough to thank her, much less to speak to Yana for the first time. 

He looks at her some more at first instead, taking in the details he couldn’t from farther away. At less than an hour old she still simply looks like a baby, nothing too definitive yet in her features. But Shane notices little things—the light brown wisps of curls peeking out from underneath her hat that must surely be from Ilya, the thick, dark line of her lashes that Shane thinks are reminiscent of his own baby pictures from the home albums. His freckles hadn’t come in until somewhere around three and four years, according to his parents, and Shane wonders if she’ll get those too in place of the smooth, blank canvas of her rounded cheeks, or maybe if she’ll start to get Ilya’s moles and sun spots instead. Maybe both. 

It stuns him momentarily to finally be able to put a face to the vision, the future that he could only ever seem to imagine with Ilya. This is what had been missing, he thinks, gently bringing his thumb to rub over her knuckles again where they keep his finger in a vice grip. This is the shape of what he could never grasp before. 

Her eyebrows are the same wispy brown as what he can see of the hair on her head, and Shane notices when they twitch, pulling inward toward each other. Her mouth opens and closes, not quite what he would associate with hunger, and he frowns. 

“Um. Excuse me?” Shane says over his shoulder. “What is she doing? Her mouth—it looks…” 

Patiently, the nurse returns to the side of the incubator and peers in. “She’s okay. Due to the anesthesia and the respiratory issues she hasn’t been able to cry yet, but she’s been trying to use those little lungs anyway. It’ll be easier once her breathing is regulated and she gets the CPAP removed, but for now we don’t want her to strain.” 

For a moment, Shane plummets headfirst into a vision of a busy operating room with clinking tools and beeping machines, Ilya lying unconscious on the table, their baby completely mute as she enters the world to the soundtrack of stark, clinical silence. 

He shakes the thought away, swallowing thickly. Their daughter is here and safe and holding his finger like a relief more than a lifeline, and Ilya will be okay too. He has to be. 

“If she’s trying to cry, does that mean there’s something wrong?” 

“Not necessarily. She’s spent a long while in a dark, cozy room, getting everything she needed from her dad. Having to do all of that on her own so suddenly can be pretty scary.” She takes another look at Yana’s expression, more sour now, and offers to switch places with Shane. “Why don’t you try putting your hand lightly on her chest, like this? No real pressure, just enough to let her feel you’re there.” 

He slowly extracts his finger from her grip and moves to stand at the end of the incubator like she’d shown him, standing over the open top. She looks even smaller from this angle, and the size of his hand feels for a moment like it might engulf her completely as he lowers it in alongside her. 

The nurse shows him how to position his palm, and Shane lays it down as gently as possible over her stomach, trying to find skin amongst the stickers, pads, diaper, and identification bands they have strapped to her. The wires extend off to the sides, readjusted by the nurse as he spreads his fingers out underneath her chin. 

And then. Then he’s nearly covering her completely with his hand. Tape and wires and all, his middle finger just about at her shoulder, wrist touching her restless knees, the staccato of her heartbeat cradled near the top of his palm. 

The heart line, after all—he’d verified with Rose. 

He thinks he can understand why Ilya had felt so protective, why he’d wanted to keep her in so badly if it’d felt anything like this. Shane’s hands are clean but the evidence of life is inescapable. The scar near his wrist, his calloused knuckles from holding sticks and ripping tape, his nails bitten down to the quicks. All the better in this case, he figures; all the more he feels like he could make himself impenetrable if it could keep her from anything planning to do harm. 

Shane only notices the steady beeping of one of the machines in the room when it begins to slow down, Yana’s brow smoothing and mouth relaxing into a restful, deep pout once more. Shane’s always loved pressure like this, widespread and constant, has sought it out even in the last few years with massages and weighted blankets, even Ilya. He looks at Yana lying peacefully again, torn halfway between laughter and tears. 

“I’ll give you some more time with her,” the nurse says softly, stepping away again. It hardly registers. 

He wants desperately to lift her to his chest and take a seat in the chair by the window, but he keeps himself still, keeps the featherlight pressure of his hand steady on her chest. The words come more easily this time, slipping off the tip of his tongue before he can reel them in. 

“Ilya’s gonna love you so much,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “I already do, and he had six months on me, so.” 

Predictably, Yana doesn’t have a response. Her fists clench again at each side of her head, and Shane strokes his thumb lightly over her elbow as he keeps talking. 

“I can’t believe he wasn’t the first to get to see you. I think you’d probably rather have him, but I hope I’m at least a close second. I’d be okay with that, you know. In this case. I wasn’t so sure the last time it happened, but I think he earned it.” 

Her chest dips on her next exhale, a puff of air that aligns with a kick of her foot. Shane smiles, can nearly taste the mirage inside of his head that once felt impossible, the laughter just around the corner, just down the hall, just through the doorway. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth. 

“Um. I’m not—I haven’t had much time to get this right, I was mostly reading about the medical stuff. But I wanted—I learned it for Ilya first, but since he’s not here to say it right now—” he stops, takes a breath, gives it his first honest try that wasn’t just alone to himself: “Я тебя люблю.” Then more quietly, in a way he can be sure he hadn’t messed it up, he pluralizes, “We love you.” 

Saying it aloud punctures the steadily growing balloon of emotion in his chest, and he feels the evidence slip like sand out the confines of his ribs, sinuses burning as he tries to catch his breath, tries to keep his tears from falling on her. 

He refuses to feel so much regret at not having said that when it mattered again. 

His free hand smooths out the folded edge of her hat, grazes the humming plastic of the CPAP tube, unavoidable, in the process. “You—you’ve gotta get better, okay? So you can tell us. If you’re hurting, or—if something’s not right, or if you need us. So we can be there.” 

She blows out another breath that he can feel underneath his palm and turns her face toward his hand. Shane smiles again, even as it wobbles badly enough at the corners that he struggles to get the words out. He does anyway. 

“We’re going to be there. Both of us. I promise.” 

With a press of his thumb to her cheek in lieu of his lips, Shane stays even when his voice runs dry again, basking in the bulk of something he won’t ever be able to quantify. 

+

He wouldn’t say he’s necessarily calm by the time he leaves the NICU to go back to the OR, but his head feels more clear than it had going in. His gravity shifted, the centerpoint changed. 

The thought of Ilya still being in surgery still makes him tremble. He’s all the more grateful for the food Svetlana had made him eat in the waiting room earlier after having spent another hour in the NICU with Yana. 

Walking back the way he came, Shane attempts to ready himself for whatever waits beyond the doors. He has a text from his parents from nearly a half hour ago letting him know they’re close and finding parking, and one from Svetlana twenty minutes prior to that telling him that the surgery is still progressing as planned, but no ETA on when he’ll be out. 

He slips his phone back into his pocket as he steps through the double doors back to the OR waiting room, and spots his parents coming through the opposite ones on the other side of the corridor off the nurse’s station. 

“Shane,” his mother says, and tackles him into a hug the moment they’re close enough for it. “There you are. Are you okay?” 

Swallowing thickly, Shane nods, hugging her back. “I’m good.” 

He pulls away and lets her check him over, then turns to embrace his dad too. She’s still looking at him when he steps back. 

“Honey,” she whispers, “I thought you said Rose wasn’t pregnant?” 

“She’s not.” 

With a pause, she glances pointedly around them. “Then why are we in Labor & Delivery?” 

Before he can come up with an answer, there are footsteps from behind them, where the corridor outside of it meets the waiting room. 

“Shane,” Svetlana says. 

“Hey,” Shane breathes, spinning to face her. “Any updates?” 

Her mouth opens and closes again, the relief on her face slipping into something carefully neutral as she looks at his parents and then back to him. 

“Lily is out of surgery. They are monitoring her now until she comes out of the anesthesia and then they will move her to a room, but she is okay,” she relays. “We can go now and wait for Lily there, if you want.” 

“Yeah, that’s good. That’s—fuck. That’s really good. Okay.” He walks further into the waiting room to grab his duffel and then turns back to his parents. “You guys are coming too, right?” 

“If you want us to, we’re there,” his dad says, sharing a glance with his mother. “It’s just… who are we waiting on, exactly?” 

For a moment, the peaceful clarity he’d found in visiting Yana begins to wane again, reality buzzing in around the edges. Shane starts to say it, and nothing comes—can’t confess to everything right here in the middle of the waiting room, can’t bring himself to spin another lie. 

“Shane,” Svetlana calls softly. “Why don’t you take the room for a bit? It will be empty for now. I will go and get something else to eat and then come back.” 

His shoulders sag. “Sure. That’s—yeah. Thanks, Svetlana.” 

“Of course.” She pulls out her phone to send him the room information, then nods. “Mrs. Hollander, Mr. Hollander.” 

She squeezes his arm as she passes by to leave, and Shane focuses on moving toward the elevator instead of meeting the surprise in his parent’s faces. 

They go up to a floor adjacent, marked postpartum intensive care unit when they step out onto the landing. Shane speaks to the nurse at the station while his parents idle behind him, letting him lead the way to the room. 

And the room, it turns out, holds no secrets. 

The floor had already been a giveaway, but the large room they’ve set up for Ilya has a bassinet in the corner, a nursing chair by the window, a private bathroom far more spacious than any Shane’s had for hockey related injuries before, and a white board across from the extra wide hospital bed already covered in postpartum tips and reminders. 

Shane sets his bag down on the visitor’s chair and closes the door behind him. To his parents, he says, “You might want to sit down.” 

His father goes easily, taking a seat on the sofa beside the bathroom door. His mother, however, stays standing beside it, her brow furrowed and arms crossed over her chest. 

“What’s going on, Shane?” she asks. 

“We’re already here, son. You’ve got our support. We’re just…” his dad trails off. 

“Confused,” his mom finishes. “Very, very confused.” 

Shane takes half of a breath, reaches up to drag a hand through his hair. “I—I know you probably have questions.” 

“Yeah. I can’t possibly—you had all of those books, and then you told me you and Rose had a false alarm, and I could swear that that woman out there was the one in the pictures with Rozanov—” she continues, exasperated, “and who the hell is Lily?” 

“Give him a second, hon,” his dad says, patting her hip. 

“I didn’t lie about Rose at first. We—we’re broken up, and we’re still friends, but there wasn’t a false alarm. She never thought she was pregnant. This has nothing to do with her.” He pauses. “And, yes. The woman you saw is Svetlana. She is—she’s close with Rozanov.” 

His mother scoffs. “Close? Half the hockey world thinks she’s having his baby.” 

“She’s not.” 

“So, then… ‘Lily’ is? And you’re—what? Here for support?” After the rush of questioning her shoulders finally drop, her expression so naked in its concern that he struggles to hold her gaze. “You left a game in the last leg of playoffs for this, Shane. Help us understand.” 

Realistically, Shane knows that of all the things he well and truly has reason to fear, it shouldn’t be his parents. The league, maybe. The rest of the world, sure. But—looking at the data—his parents have never given him any reason to believe there was something he could tell them that would result in anything detrimental. 

He’s also never given them three potentially life changing things at once, though. He figures there’s no time like the present.  

He opens his mouth, and there’s a knock at the door. He deflates again, and then tenses right back up. The door clicks open. 

“Shane Hollander?” 

He turns. “Yeah. Yes.” 

Another young woman in scrubs steps through the door, extending a hand. “I’m Agnes, I’ll be the nurse on shift with you tonight managing your partner’s care. I wanted to go over just a couple of things with you beforehand so that you’re prepared on what to expect for the first night. Is it okay if I speak to you here?” 

His partner. Shane blanks. “Um. We can—uh, or I guess the hallway’s probably not—um.”  

“We’ll give you a minute, Shane,” his dad says from behind him, and Shane turns to watch him put a hand to his mother’s back to steer her out into the hallway with him. 

“Okay. Thanks. Sorry.” 

He waits for the click of the door shutting again completely before he turns back to the nurse. 

“Is he okay?” 

“The surgery was successful. His vitals stayed within range, and baby looks right in line with what we would expect at thirty-six weeks, which is awesome. Both of them did great,” she informs him. “However, recovery is going to be a bit of a process. That’s what I’m here to help with.” 

He swallows. “Okay.” 

“We’re looking at pretty significant hemorrhaging during delivery, which isn’t uncommon for conditions like PAS. Our medical team was heavily briefed beforehand on patient history and they were able to get the bleeding under control before it damaged any organs or caused too much distress.” 

“Will there be—um. Any lasting effects of that?” he asks. 

“That would be a question for Dr. Walsh, most likely. She’s monitoring him in Post-Anesthesia Care right now, but she’ll be back up to speak with you soon after the transfer.” 

“Okay,” Shane exhales. “So—but he’s doing okay right now?” 

“Most of the focus post-delivery was controlling the bleeding and completing the hysterectomy. Both were successful. He’s having a little bit of trouble coming out of the anesthesia, but he is stable currently.” 

Shane’s eyes snap to hers. “Trouble?” 

With a slight tilt of her head, Agnes’ mouth dips. 

“He shared with the medical team that he’d had an operation in the past in which not enough anesthesia was used to keep him properly sedated,” she explains. “Often, in those cases, we like to be safe in terms of making sure that isn’t an issue we encounter again. Waking up at any point during a surgery like this would have been very traumatic, as well as posed significant risks for both him and the baby.” 

This time, he has to press his fingers into the center of his chest to get the feeling to go away. He nods, numb. 

“We like to prepare partners ahead of time in these cases. While he is stable and is on track to heal normally, keep in mind that the process takes time. He’s endured a difficult thing, and his body may reflect that,” she goes on, polite but clinical. “We were able to control the hemorrhaging before there was risk of permanent damage, but the amount was still significant. He may experience brain fog or slurring of his words, weakness and lightheadedness, and lethargy or nausea as he works at regaining his strength, as well as lingering fatigue as he continues to improve. He’ll have around the clock care here in our intensive postpartum unit with frequent check-ins to monitor how he’s doing. We encourage you to verify with us if you’re unsure if a symptom he’s experiencing is normal or not, especially within the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours.” 

Agnes gives him a minute to process this, and then pulls her clipboard from underneath her arm to glance at her notes. 

“Due to the blood loss from the hemorrhaging, he’ll be on transfusions until Dr. Walsh clears him to stop them. Are you squeamish around blood?” 

He shakes his head. “No—no, it doesn’t bother me.” 

“Good. He’ll be assigned a couple of different nurses aside from myself that will come by periodically to make sure that the transfusions are running correctly, that he’s not clotting and that there aren’t any signs of infection or other internal bleeding.” 

When the information starts to feel more like a tsunami instead of a strong foundation, Shane walks backward several steps until his calves hit the sofa, and he sits. 

For a long minute neither of them says anything, and then Agnes adds a bit more sympathetically, “I know this is a lot. You’re going to have a lot of people coming in and out of these doors for the next few days. While I can’t prevent that, it’s my job to make sure you and your partner are the most comfortable that you can be during your stay. If there’s anything I can do to help you with that that comes to mind over the next few days, please don’t hesitate to let me or one of the other nurses know.” 

She leaves shortly after that, and Shane is alone thinking about the way Ilya wouldn’t meet his eye when he said I had surgery when I was young. Surgery that was supposed to make this impossible, apparently. And Shane hadn’t even asked—God, how young was young? He’d been picturing it as an elective thing, a sacrifice made for a career in hockey, but had it really been? If he’d had it performed by someone who couldn’t even give him the right amount of medicine to make sure he wasn’t traumatized in the middle of it? 

He thinks of all the times he’d caught Ilya staring down at himself, the way he’d sometimes touched the stretched skin around his bump with the same hesitancy of a child scared to spook their reflection in the water, like one wrong move could send reality rippling away. 

And he’s not even awake yet. Can’t even hold her. Shane can’t tell him that he did it, that she’s here, that everything’s okay, that all he has to do now is heal. 

He can do nothing at all but be there for Yana until he can do those other things, and sit in the silence of this empty hospital room until he remembers how to function again. 

He has his palms buried hard into his eye sockets when the door opens again, and Shane knows it’s his mother without even removing them to check. 

The door shuts, the footsteps stop. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” Shane croaks. 

The sofa dips underneath her weight when she sits down beside him, her palm settling in between his shoulder blades as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees. Even though he’s certain it must be killing her, she says nothing. 

Shane takes his hands off his eyes and stares at the floor tiles. “I’m gay.” 

There’s one. 

Her hand falters, only for a fraction. “Okay,” she says. “Does that have something to do with why we’re here?” 

“Yeah. You—you were sort of right, before. I am here for Rozanov. Ilya. But I’m not—” he shakes his head. “Rose isn’t pregnant. Svetlana’s not pregnant.” 

“And ‘Lily’?” his mother asks. 

Shane takes a deep breath. “Lily… is Ilya.” 

“And Lily,” she pieces together slowly, “just had a baby?” 

“Yeah,” Shane sobs, dropping his head again. “Yeah. He did.” 

“Oh, Shane,” she breathes. “Is it—? Are you—?” 

“Yes. I’m sorry. I know I should have told you, I just—” he lifts a shoulder and her hand stretches to cover it, bringing him into her side as he tries to stop the stubborn tears on his cheeks. 

He leans into her, realizes now how long it’s been since he’s allowed himself to, since he’s felt comfortable just feeling something in her presence without pathologizing or trying to cure it. 

“I didn’t know that Rozanov—that Ilya—was, um. That he could—” 

“We didn’t either,” Shane mutters, sniffling. His face colors. “Not until it happened. And I didn’t find out until about six months after that. It’s a long story.”  

“How long, exactly?” 

“We’re together now. Boyfriends, or partners, or—whatever you want to call it. That part’s recent but—we’ve been together, in some way or another, for a while now,” he admits. “But I guess the first time was… rookie year?” 

His mother fully freezes at that, her hand slipping off of his arm. It takes her a long moment to unthaw enough to get out, “Wow.” 

“Yeah,” Shane huffs a lackluster laugh as he sits up. “Not—it wasn’t like this the whole time. It’s complicated. But…” 

“But you knew you were gay,” she interjects. “Since you were… what, seventeen?” 

“Since before that, maybe, too. I don’t know. I think I just… it didn’t feel like part of the plan, so I just tried not to think about it. And I did try, but then—” he falters, earnestness a knot in his throat. “Then there was Ilya.” 

“And you felt like you couldn’t tell me.” Silence follows, and Shane doesn’t make it worse, but he doesn’t absolve her of it either. “I’m so sorry, Shane.” 

“It wasn’t just you,” he says. “You know how it is. There was always so much pressure, especially on me. You might’ve contributed to that sometimes but it doesn’t change the fact that you were right. If I stepped out of line, if I was different, I got punished for it harder than anyone else did. Before, the risk just wasn’t worth it.” 

“But are you happy?” she asks. “Did you—I thought you were getting to do what you loved, but were you? Did I get this wrong too?” 

“No. Not wrong. I love hockey. If I could go back, I wouldn’t change anything.” He thinks about the best way to phrase it. Settles on: “I just hate that in order to get to do the thing that I love, I have to hide so many pieces of who I am. I hid them so well that I forgot they existed sometimes.” 

With the same sort of tentativeness he’d used with Yana earlier, his mother’s hand slips into his and holds. 

“What’s your plan?” 

“I—I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing, until Ilya’s feeling better. But I know that the hiding wasn’t fair to me. And now I also have to consider Ilya and our daughter, and it’s not fair to them either.” 

Something like a choke registers from beside him, and Shane realizes what he’s just said. He glances at her from the corner of his eye, finds her making the face she always does in the rare moments before she cries. 

“A daughter.” 

“Yeah,” he confirms, disposition softening despite the tension. “Yana.” 

“Oh,” his mother gasps, squeezing his hand tighter. 

“Ilya says it’s sort of like ‘a gift from God’ in Russian. He picked it to honor his mother. But it—it ended up honoring mine too, I guess.” 

She wipes at her face, her hand slipping down to cover her mouth as she shakes her head. 

“A granddaughter,” she echoes lightly. “I wish I’d known.” 

“I know. I’m sorry—” Shane says. 

“No. Not like that. Not because you should have told me, but so I could help you,” she emphasizes. “You’ve been traveling and in the playoffs while Ilya was here in Boston, about to give birth. I can’t imagine how stressful it must have been for both of you.” 

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell you. I just didn’t know how.” 

“Why?” she asks. 

“It sounds awful,” he warns. “And it sounds even more awful after I’ve seen her and touched her and Ilya’s gone through all of these complications, and—” 

“Shane. I have thought of every possibility of things going wrong for every decision I’ve made since before you got here,” she assures, thumb moving back and forth across the back of his hand. “I can promise you that whatever thought you think is so horrible? I’ve had it too. It doesn’t make you bad. It makes you prepared.” 

Clinging to the fragile courage he’s managed to muster up, Shane opens his mouth again.  

“I was already going to have to tell you I was gay,” he rasps. “I didn’t know how to also tell you that I was having a baby. And with Ilya,” he breathes out an overwhelmed noise. “I—I’d like to say I was just being protective. That less people knowing was less risky. And that’s also true. But with you, I—I was afraid you’d be disappointed in me.” 

The last of it comes out near a whisper, but still lands heavy as a shout inside the quiet room. Shane hadn’t lied about feeling terrible about it—he isn’t ashamed, not of himself, not of Ilya, not of Yana. He doesn’t think he could be. It’s far from the first time he’s considered the fact that, if either of them were a woman, Shane could have been open about it from the beginning. Could have been celebrated by the same people he’s scared to be shunned by, could have had access to things that might have made the difficult more than a little bit easier. He’s had his anger over it, and he’s certain Ilya has too. 

But with his mother… he hadn’t been prepared for it to also matter so much if it had been a woman. Even when she thought he was having this baby with Rose, she was still wound up all through lunch, still brainstorming ways to handle the situation before she’d even confirmed it with him yet. His lie of absolution had only been yet another admission of guilt; another test in which he’d studied his options and given the incorrect answer. 

Her hand reaching up startles him back into the moment, her thumb sweeping away the tears on his cheek. 

“I’m so sorry for the things I’ve done to make you think something like that,” she whispers. “I could never be disappointed in you, Shane. Not ever.” 

He makes himself meet her eye. “This could change everything. You have to understand that. I know you do,” he stresses. “Ilya and I haven’t talked about logistics yet with how much stress he’s been under, but we can’t raise a kid from two separate countries. And if that means one or both of us have to come out or relocate, then… I probably won’t be able to stay in Montreal. It’s where we said I’d retire from. Where the Cups are. My number was going to be in the rafters—” 

“And none of that matters if you’re not happy, Shane,” she interrupts, and he finds himself at a loss. 

“But—but what you said when we went to lunch. About being relieved about Rose, that babies ruin good careers—” 

Her face visibly shudders into a grimace. “I shouldn’t have said it that way,” she admits. “I—I think we may have miscommunicated a little bit. I was relieved that Rose wasn’t pregnant because I know how much you love hockey, and I thought having a baby with a famous actress would mean stepping away from that, or having to share a lot more of your life with the public when you already find that part of things difficult.” 

Shane blinks. He hadn’t really thought about it like that. Had been too busy trying to conceal what was actually happening to think of all the ways his fib didn’t align with him, especially to someone who knows him well. 

“The only reason I brought it up to you at all was so that I could help you figure out how to keep doing what you love,” his mother goes on, “and that’s the same thing I want to do now. If that’s hockey, then great. We’ll figure it out. If it’s not, if you want to take a break, if you want to step back altogether—” she offers, even though Shane knows it must cost her, “—we can work with that too. I’m in your corner. Your father is in your corner. You know Farah will help us with anything else we need. It’s all strategy, and we know strategy. Okay?” 

“Okay,” he says eventually, somewhat adrift in the displacement of his expectations. “Sorry.” 

Her hand leaves his to reach around to the opposite side of his head, pulling them back together with a sigh. “I’m sorry, too.” 

He leans against her again, even if he’s bigger than her and the angle is odd, letting her fingers straighten out the mess he’d made of his hair with his own hands throughout the day. 

“How is he doing?” she asks. “Ilya, I mean.” 

“Not great. He was—it was a high risk pregnancy. On top of the baseline C-gene risks.” 

“That’s awful,” his mother laments. “Poor baby.” 

Shane’s lip wobbles. “Yeah. The nurse said he’s having some trouble, um, coming up from the anesthesia? And—he has a great doctor and I’m sure they did everything right but they said he’ll be on transfusions for a while, because—because of the hemorrhaging. I haven’t been able to see him yet but I think—it was pretty bad, I think.” 

He bobs his head and tries not to, but the tears have a mind of their own. He brings a hand up to his face when it crumples again, breath hitching on a sob. 

“Oh, honey,” she follows him down, rubbing over his back. “He’ll pull through. Rozanov is tough.” 

I know he is, Shane thinks. I just wish he didn’t fucking have to be. 

“Your father and I packed bags. We weren’t sure how long we’d be here, so we already have a hotel for tonight too. It’s less than five minutes from here, but we’d be happy to extend it or take shifts staying up here at the hospital if needed. Whatever helps,” she offers. “Is she with Ilya now? Will she get to come back up here with him?” 

“Ah. No,” Shane sniffs. “No, she’s—she’s in the NICU indefinitely until they can make sure she’s breathing properly. She was early, so her lungs—she’s on a respiratory machine, she—she can’t even cry yet,” he hiccups out, his own tears coming faster as if to account for both of them somehow. 

He feels her mouth press to the back of his head. “Well, if she’s anything like either of her parents, I bet she’s stubborn enough to be just fine,” she teases gently. “Is there anything I can do to make things any easier right now?” 

Shaking out his hands, Shane sits up and takes several deep breaths through his nose while he considers it, logic sweeping back in alongside the emotion again. 

“I probably should let Hayden know I’m okay. I missed his call. Maybe not the full story just yet, but—Jackie bought my ticket to Boston and Hayden and J.J. covered for me, so.” 

“Got it. I can do that.” 

The score hadn’t been in their favor when Shane left, enough to reasonably assume that it would have taken a miracle to even things back out, much less to pull off a win. But it was a playoff game nonetheless, and Shane knows without checking that a good portion of the team will be holding a grudge about it for a while. That isn’t even to mention his coach. 

The idea of walking back into the room makes dread simmer in his stomach. He’d have put up with it any other year, some of them with more enthusiasm than others. This is the first time he’s ever had to ask himself: but is it worth it? 

“And then, after that, I… the season’s over now, I guess, so it’s not imminent, but I probably need to start thinking about what I’m going to tell them. Or at least coach.” He reaches up to rub at his temples. “I’ve missed so much here already, I—I’m not sure how I feel about going back so soon after the summer.” 

“I’ll start up a few rough drafts, but I think you’re right—that can wait a little while,” his mother agrees, taking her hand from his shoulder to make a note on her phone. “I’ll keep Farah in the loop though, just in case. Better to be prepared.” 

Shane nods. “Okay. Thanks.” 

“Of course.” 

He watches her finish typing and pocket the phone again, and then sighs. 

“I should tell dad.” 

“Probably. God. He’s going to be thrilled.” She grins, and then sobers as she glances at Shane. “You mentioned earlier that Ilya named her in honor of his mother… does he have any other family here?” 

He shakes his head. “His mom passed when he was twelve. He lost his dad a few months ago, and he’s not close with his brother. It’s just me and Svetlana here.” 

She freezes beside him for a second, and then Shane feels her shoulders straighten. 

“Your father and I will stay.” 

“Mom—” he starts. 

“We don’t have to be in the room. We’ll give you space. But we’ll be here if you need us,” she says, final. “Either of you. Okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” he exhales. “Thank you.” 

“I love you, Shane.” 

He offers a small smile. “Love you too.” 

He’s gone back and forth with regretting not coming clean when she’d asked him about Rose the first time, but with the dust settling he finds himself almost strangely glad that it worked out this way; his mother can be overbearing when there’s something she’s passionate about, but he forgets sometimes, that in a moment of crisis she can be the calmest one in the room. 

The door handle twists again, and Shane glances up to find his father’s face in the thin window. He takes a breath and stands, wiping his palms off on his pants. 

“Oh, good,” Shane says as the door opens. “Dad, I—” 

“Shane,” he interjects, pale, “there’s a nurse out here, she says they need you in the PACU.” 

His stomach drops down to his feet, head spinning after the emotional whiplash of the day. 

“What? Why?” 

“Something about Rozanov, the anesthesia—” his dad says, gesturing down the hallway. 

His mother’s hand touches his arm. “Go. We’ll be here.” 

He can’t even reach the panic anymore, exhaustion making him pure action. Shane slips past him into the hallway, rubber soles hitting tile, and goes.

Chapter End Notes

EVERYONE IS OK I PROMISE !!!!! back to ilya pov for next chap! (i also have no prior experience drawing babies so please allow for some grace there sjfhgskjdfg)

i can finally share the time lapse of ilya's bump now djshgjdhgf -->

[...]

author's note

i want to keep this brief since i don’t want it to take away from the story, but i did want to make a couple of things very clear. i understand that realism is not necessarily the focus in a fic that contains mpreg elements, but i *am* trying to maintain as much of canon as possible, which means that shane and ilya are both grown men who are prominent figures in the career they’ve chosen, who also would both face serious consequences if any information about their relationship or potential child were to get into the wrong hands.

my works are very much written with the same amount of love for shane and ilya, and what i hope comes across as respect and empathy for each of their different circumstances as they interweave with the plot. we don’t play favorites here, and the narrative choices are not intended to be a thinly veiled excuse for literal character assassination. i’m disappointed and a little confused if that’s been the takeaway thus far, and also obligated to include a reminder that this is an ongoing multichap in which the plot is still actively unfolding.

ilya is not a dirty secret. he’s had six more months to come to terms with everything, and while he had his reasons for waiting to tell shane, it still only leaves shane with a three month window to do the same. shane’s not living in a utopic bubble and planning to be an absent parent so he can keep playing hockey, he’s attempting to - very, very quickly - adjust to what is going to be a major life change and clinging to normalcy while he can—both so that he doesn’t spiral, and to avoid the possibility of any more eyes on them, at least while ilya is in the home stretch.

i’m always, always happy to hear thoughts and to be excited about things together - that’s the whole point! i’m having fun writing it, and i hope it’s fun to read as well! - but not as much to be a landing pad for generalized character grievances outside of just this work, as i can assume most other authors who are doing this purely for the love of the game in their free time would also feel. i don’t like deleting comments, but i will be doing so more liberally from now on if i feel it’s necessary.

that said, this was one of my favorite chapters to write. i hope shane’s conversation with yuna was able to ease a few worries (yuna has a subtle but important storyline that i really enjoyed writing throughout the next few chapters) and that you enjoyed yana’s arrival! thank you again to everyone that has been kind in the comments or on my tumblr and taken the time to leave thoughtful and respectful feedback! i am very excited about the coming chapters x

Chapter 10: ix. postpartum pt. i

Chapter Summary

The first time Ilya hears her cry, something breaks and mends at the same time.

Chapter Notes

i’m so glad you guys enjoyed the roller coaster of the last chapter, and i want to take a moment to sincerely thank those of you who shared your own stories along with the kind words. i could not be more pleased to hear that i’ve walked the line between authenticity and accuracy well, and even though i can’t reply to them all, please know i read and appreciate each one <3

content warnings:

this chapter is focused heavily on ilya and picks up immediately postpartum after a small time skip. we’re in his pov too so while a lot of the action from the last chap has already occurred by this point, he is still in a pretty intense headspace, which includes some heavy feelings around his body, the delivery itself, and general self esteem. there is a scene as he’s beginning to remember the birth in which ilya panics and believes that yana is gone or has been taken from him, and needs to be restrained so that he doesn’t injure himself further. there's mention of blood (transfusions) and medications. chest feeding is briefly discussed. ilya thinks about his mother and grief. there is mention of his catheter being removed, as well as a brief, single paragraph description of his surgery scar.

the format of this chapter is a little different than the other ones to better reflect ilya’s headspace, but will slowly return to normal over the course of the chapter.

also sorry guys i really tried to fit everything into the current chapter count but there was just no way sjhdgjdhgf thanks for sticking with me!

I L Y A

postpartum

Waking up had been a process. 

He remembers most of the before; the worry beginning to creep in, the pain, the nausea that had felt like it was going to clean him out from the inside. Remembers telling Shane do not leave that fucking game and being unreasonably relieved when he had done it anyway. 

He remembers before that, arguing with Sveta in thick, angry Russian about denying the anesthesia once they’d arrived at the hospital, the way his word had sharpened into acrid fear and then plummeted into hopelessness whenYvonne had declared that he didn’t really have much of a choice in that portion of it. He remembers folding into Sveta’s chest and sobbing like a child and letting her stroke his hair, remembers her telling him this will not be like the last time. I will stand in the operating room if I have to. Ilya remembers, somehow, believing her. 

The middle is all a blur, after giving Shane his necklace. The medicine had kicked in quickly after Yvonne had given him a thorough description of the drug, what it was used for, and how much they intended to give him. That had been the before, and then he’d woken up in the after. 

It was all more feeling and instinct than thought, really, but Ilya remembers them in increments. 

Upon his first moment waking, I want mama. It’d been in that all encompassing, overwhelming sort of way, when he still wasn’t sure where he was, what happened, his conscious mind only just beginning to flicker back to life and searching for the first thing it could recall. In his head, he’d woken the way he does after his nightmares—gasping for breath, one hand extended, reaching for something that’s no longer there. In reality, he’d barely moved more than a twitch. 

And then, naturally, there had been I want Shane. More rational and more visceral, the thing that had lifted his eyelids, parted his parched mouth, pulled him back out of the murkiness of dreams and memories. 

Lastly, like a domino, there was: I want my baby. The sick feeling had come roiling back in in the emptiness beneath his rib cage; that déjà vu of waking up with the distinct knowledge of having lost something without actually being able to recall the moment of extraction. He hadn’t realized just how much he could feel her until she suddenly wasn’t there anymore. 

There are other people in the room, a buoy of quiet voices that keep him afloat. He wishes they would talk louder. Wishes he could hear what they were saying. 

When he gets his eyes open again, the world is hazy around him. But one shape is closer than the others, more vivid, saying his name, and the tone of it appeases all of his wants at once—the gasping unsteadiness, the hand reaching back. You have not lost anything. 

Someone lifts his hand for him. There are warm lips at his knuckles, then the cool, jagged edges of a cross placed underneath his fingertips. 

She’s okay, the voice is telling him. Warm, familiar. Devastatingly indistinguishable between Shane or his mother. She’s okay. I have her. 

His body slackens with the answer, heavy with loss and exhaustion once again. It will have to be enough for now. 

+

Shane is crying. 

Ilya’s dreams, or what he thinks have been dreams, have been odd and unsettling, sticky like tar to the darkest depths of his consciousness, but this is not like that. 

There is light coming from the side, nearly too bright to suffer through lifting his eyelids, but he wants to see. Wants something light after so much darkness. 

The room is quiet, no voices this time. There is only the shuddering sounds Shane is making, the hiccup of his breath every few seconds in between. His head is heavy in the center of Ilya’s chest but not bad—not like the weight of the rest of it that he can’t remember right now but can feel waiting for him, distant and patient. 

His hand twitches, one of them held captive in Shane’s sweating palm, the other laying flat on the bed, the dull pinch of a needle coming from somewhere on it. Ilya tries to move one finger, then two, then all of them at once, and it’s hard, hard enough that he thinks to be scared of it for a moment, but it’s enough to move from the sheet into soft, dark hair. It’s enough, he thinks, right now, to shift his entire center of gravity around. 

Shane’s face turns up then, careful not to dislodge Ilya’s hand but desperate in his perusal of Ilya’s disposition, dark eyes flicking in every direction. Something terrible leaves his chest, half relief and half agony, and he sobs as if he’d been waiting to do it, holding it in all this—how much has he lost?—time. Ilya’s hand falls, clumsy, to try and wipe the moisture away. 

“Sweetheart,” Ilya tries to tell him, only half sure it’s even in English, “I am okay. Everything is okay.” 

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, words too elusive in his head. Every thought he has vanishes before he can commit to it, but there, through blurry vision, underneath shaking hand, Shane remains.  

“Shane,” he tries again, and pictures himself smiling when he says it.  

Shane chokes, “Ilya.” 

I love you, he tries for a third time, but his voice has run out again, his mouth unable to hold the uptick of his lips. 

They fall slack again as his consciousness wanes, everything else drifting around Shane’s centerpoint. 

+

Ilya wakes through fog this time, vision cloudy and hearing tunneled. He’s more aware of it now at least, can place that he’s lying on a bed, that the light is coming from a window instead if some murky abyss in his mind. 

He blinks and blinks until things begin to clear only slightly, each one taking more effort than it should. He has had hangovers like this before. His head too heavy on his shoulders, a pounding at the back of it like awareness had come knocking before he was ready for it again. His tongue is sluggish against his palate when he goes to move it, and he winces briefly at the taste and dryness. He touches five fingers to the sheets beneath him so that he can push himself up, find something to wash it down, and nearly blacks out at the bolt of pain that had been lying dormant moments before. 

He cries out, he thinks, and only realizes it once it rings back as an echo inside of his ears, which in turn only makes the pounding in his head worse. He grits his jaw hard enough to crack teeth and forces himself flat once again, and the pain lances through him like a toxin, from the tip of his skull down to his toes, billowing out from the middle of him like a hurricane. 

“—Ilya,” comes the urgency of a distinct voice at his side, soft and strong at once. “You are—getting the nurse, yes? It’s—better in a moment. Okay?” 

He collects bits and pieces of what she’s telling him, but he recognizes that it’s Sveta. After he’s been lying flat for a minute, breathing through his nose with his eyes shut, he’s able to make out the weight of her hand in his, the featherlight drag of nails against his scalp. He whimpers for it in a way he’d usually never let himself, and she keeps talking until the sound of her voice is replaced by several others. 

He can recognize Shane immediately, and he forces his eyes open to check even as the ceiling spins overhead, angry with him for attempting to move. Ilya knows it’s him but he is talking so fast and saying so many things, and Ilya cannot follow right now. 

“Hurts,” he grunts, gripping her hand harder. 

Svetlana tells him, “I know,” sympathetically, and then begins talking to someone over his head. 

Something tickles his arm and he tries fruitlessly to scratch it but can’t muster the strength. With a frown, he rolls his head on the pillow toward the side of the room with the sunlight, and squints at the spot, startled to find a pair of gloved hands already there, that the itch he couldn’t scratch is, apparently, a tube filled with his blood. 

He panics, trying to thrash away and hurting himself more in the process. “No,” he tries to say. “No, you can’t—” 

“Ilya,” Sveta soothes, pressing a hand to his shoulder, her eyes wide. “They are trying to help you. What is wrong?” 

“I cannot—they cannot take more, Sveta, I will not make it,” he pleads, wincing when the sob he tries to choke up makes hurt radiate through his chest. “Don’t let them. I need to—I cannot leave her alone, Sveta. Please, enough.” 

“Oh, Ilya,” she whispers, hand sliding down to hold his cheek. “They are not taking anything from you. I promise. They are giving you more, to keep you healthy and make sure you are okay. See?” 

For a long moment, he is not brave enough to look. Everything around him has stopped now except for the pain—the hands on his arm backed away, the other voices silent. Distantly, Ilya realizes he’s shaking. 

With the comfort of her fingers on his jaw, he slowly turns again, and appraises the tubing more closely this time. He cannot see whatever it’s connected to somewhere behind his head, but he can see now that it isn’t doing what he’d thought it was. Can feel, when he focuses, that underneath the place where it disappears into his skin there is the cool balm of an additive and not burning emptiness.  

“See?” Sveta asks, soft. “Everything is okay. The nurses are good. They want to help you. Will you let them give you something for the pain?” 

He wants to say no, no more medicine. Not when he is just now getting his mind back. But he doesn’t think he will get his body back without it, so reluctantly, he nods. Svetlana says something above his head again, and Ilya furrows a brow, trying to make it out. She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes weakly back. 

He turns his head to the side and watches the nurse work at first, but his eyes are still heavy, his neck too sore to keep holding the angle. His gaze shifts down along with the rest of his head on the pillow, and there, hovering by his feet, is Shane. 

Another layer of clarity ripples through him. A hospital. He is in a hospital room, and that is the reason for the blood and the medicine and the pain—because of the baby, yes. Because of Яна. Because they took her out and Ilya doesn’t—she’s not— 

Fighting against what is quickly becoming a secondary pain, Ilya frees his hand from Sveta’s and pushes it underneath the blanket against his abdomen. He struggles one-handed with the gown while the nurse handles his other arm, yanking it up and up until his midsection is exposed, head spinning as he looks down at himself. 

Gone. She is gone. And some part of him knows this but the logic isn’t there now, and the sight of his abdomen, bloated and mottled and bruised with a big, white bandage over the exit wound but undeniably empty, makes him cry out again. 

“You said it would not be like last time,” Ilya accuses, heavy through sobs that seem to wrack through to his core. He is making the pain worse, he can feel it radiating with every hitch of his ribs, but he can’t stop. “You said—but she is not here, she’s not here—” 

His arm escapes the nurse’s grip, wrenched free to join the other in its inspection of his abdomen. He presses down on the spot where he’d felt her kick last, thinks that he screams when nothing happens. He goes for the bandage next, but his trembling fingers can’t work their way underneath the tape, and Ilya is so weak, and the room will not quit spinning and his head is still pounding and he thinks he might be sick, maybe, if he had anything left inside of him to give. 

“No, you can’t touch that right now, Ilya, you’ll—fuck. Shane—!” 

Ilya has just managed to get the very corner of the tape up when another hand, bigger, stronger this time grabs his wrist and presses it against the bed at his hip. Ilya snarls, using the other one to finish the job. He thrashes when that one is restrained too, fighting against the hold with every last thread of energy he can muster. 

In the end, it isn’t enough. He runs out of it quickly, feels helpless and small and miserable and he doesn’t understand what they’re saying, what’s happening, why his body is failing him, where his baby is. He yells out again, one last time, and then throws his head forward into a broad, hard chest like the snapping of a branch holding too much weight, and sobs. 

He is shaking so badly that even the bed underneath him feels unsteady. Blindly, he reaches for the closest anchor, the body above his holding him down, and fists his hands in the fabric under his fingers until they go numb. 

“My baby,” Ilya cries against the shoulder in front of him, softer now as his energy wanes. “Please, my baby.” 

The voices over his head start up again, quick and not loud enough to make out over his own hitching breaths. Eventually Ilya registers a mouth against his forehead, the grip on his wrist gentling enough to smooth a thumb against his hammering pulse. 

“I love you,” comes out in Shane’s voice, the syllables odd and fitting wrong inside of his mouth, but Ilya understands all the same. Ilya waits for him to say something else, something other than just beginning fragments that don’t quite make sense, but Shane just keeps repeating it, I love you, I love you, as if it’s all he knows, and Ilya can't refuse it. 

He lets it wash over him, rinse him clean of as much of the pain and worry as possible. Even though Ilya doesn’t think it will ever stop. He leaves the bandage alone and lets Shane’s words act as an anchor, something to temporarily stop the bleeding until it takes him under again. 

The next sob that comes is not from him. Ilya aches to stop it, but he is so, so tired. So sore. He’s been fighting for so long. 

Surely it would be alright if he just rested his eyes for a little while. 

+

The next time he wakes, it is dark in the room. 

Mercifully, he had not dreamt, floating up into calm waters rather than treading it, waking with a breath instead of a gasp. He aches still, but the pain doesn’t feel like a separate, throbbing entity anymore. He lies there for a long moment, able to take in his surroundings more in the lower lighting. 

He looks to his left first, and finds the same tubing from before. It feels tender, his arm a little sore on the inside, but otherwise okay. He still can’t see the machine behind him but he can hear the steady hum of it, interrupted by slow beeps every few seconds. 

His gaze shifts past it toward the cracked doorway spilling light across the floor, just almost enough to reach the foot of the bed. Past that there’s a slim couch, a thick blanket and two pillows on top of it but lacking the shape of a body underneath. Straight ahead of him is the black screen of a television and a white board with black marker all over it, and beside that is the door that Ilya assumes leads out into the hallway. 

On his right, curled in on himself in the visitor’s chair, is Shane, one arm shoved underneath his cheek inside of his hoodie, the other extended over the side of the bed to grip Ilya’s fingers, even in sleep. Ilya stares, and then makes himself look straight ahead again. He cannot place everything right now, but if Shane is sleeping, even though Ilya would like to tell him to move to the couch at least, Ilya probably should be resting as well. 

Except that when he closes his eyes again, the shadows grow legs, sprout faces, tell him things he doesn’t want to hear. The skip in his heart rate makes the machine beep a little quicker. Ilya’s eyes snap open again, and he opens his mouth before he can think better of it. 

“Shane,” he croaks, throat dry. 

In the chair, Shane’s brows furrow for a second, and then he springs into consciousness with none of the ease Ilya had managed to achieve earlier. His hand slips from Ilya’s as he steadies himself on the arm of the chair enough to sit up, wide, tired eyes swinging toward the bed. 

“Ilya,” he breathes, and stumbles to a stand. 

“Hi,” Ilya rasps, taking his hand eagerly once more when offered. “Is late?” 

Shane glances at his watch, then the clock on the wall for good measure. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s just past three. Are you—you can understand me?” 

“Yes…?” Ilya says. “Sorry for sleeping for so long.” 

“Don’t be. Just—how are you? Do you need anything?” Shane asks, checking him over. “They came and administered more pain meds about an hour ago, but I can ask them if there’s anything else we can do if—” 

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.” 

“I’m here.” 

“Too far,” Ilya urges, tugging at his hand. “Come here.” 

Shane hesitates. “I don’t know if I should…” 

“Shane. Please.” 

Either the tiredness or Ilya’s blatant need is enough to wear him down, and he has to fight a smile even through the pain as he lets Shane help him readjust so that they can sit side by side on the bed. It’s a tight fit with their combined width, but Shane lays half on his side since Ilya can’t turn, chest angled perfectly for Ilya to rest his head, and it works. Ilya would have wanted him there regardless. 

“Are you cold?” Shane asks, rubbing a hand up and down his arm. Ilya hadn’t realized he was shivering. 

“I—I think so? I don’t know.” He shoulders carefully further into Shane and lets himself be covered with the sheet. “I am still tired. Sorry.” 

“That’s okay. You can sleep more, if you want.” 

Ilya’s eyes close. He exhales. “Mm. You will stay?” 

“Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Good.” He nods. “Do not sleep in chair again. Bad for your back.” 

Shane’s laugh is strangled. He presses his lips to Ilya’s forehead, not quite a kiss, and rests there with a breath of his own. “Okay, Ilya.” 

Ilya yawns, wincing at the unstretched muscles in his neck. “Я тебя люблю,”“I love you," he slurs against Shane’s shoulder, fading again. “Моё солнышко.”“My sunshine."

Shane says something back to him, but he can’t hear it. This time, the shadows do not follow. 

+

When he wakes up a handful of hours after that, it feels more solid than it has any other time. 

He remembers what happened, knows why he’s so sore, and things make slightly more sense when he tries to fit them all into chronological order inside of his head. Not totally, not yet, but the pieces are there. 

Unlike the nighttime prior, daylight brings with it a flurry of people, questions, and information that Ilya clings to the important bits of and has to ask them to repeat the rest. 

“When can I see her?” he asks Yvonne, and feels Shane just as eager for the answer at his bedside. 

“Tomorrow, most likely,” she answers. “I would bring her to you right now if I could, but she’s not permitted to leave the NICU until tomorrow morning by their estimate.” 

“I can go to her,” Ilya offers. 

Yvonne smiles warmly at him, something a little solemn in her eyes. “You haven’t been cleared for movement yet either, Ilya. In the next  few days we’ll start with the wheel chair, then a walker, then get you walking on your own again, but this is the first day you’ve been awake and conscious for more than an hour at a time. We just can’t risk it right now. I’m sorry.” 

It is not the first time that he cries. It will not be the last. 

Sveta spends half the morning with them and then leaves for lunch, promising to be back later in the afternoon. Ilya is glad to see her, except for the fact that she is not nearly as tactile as she usually is, and it makes him feel odd. She sits on the sofa in the corner of the room and does not come any closer, even when Shane offers her the chair by the bed. She kisses Ilya on the cheek when she arrives and leaves, but she does not stay to run her fingers through his hair. His eyes burn as she goes, but Shane is quick to distract him. 

Around his own lunchtime, Shane steps out for a moment and comes back with a warm bowl of soup for him, clearly not from the hospital. It isn’t rassolnik but Ilya finds that he almost prefers this one in the moment, the simple heartiness of it instead of the rich flavorings of the other. 

“There’s more, if you want it,” Shane offers. “Though I’m not sure you should go too crazy, since it’s the first thing on your stomach in a while.” 

He licks his spoon clean, plastic so that his hand doesn’t shake too badly holding it, his body craving the salty aftertaste. “You ordered this?” 

“No, my mom made it.” 

Ilya pauses. “Your mother?” 

Shane swallows a bite of his sandwich and nods, watching Ilya’s face. “There wasn’t really a way for me to hide it for long after I left the game. I asked if they’d come to Boston, and they’ve been here since the first night. Not in the room with us, but—here. They have a hotel close by. They’ve been helping.” 

The furrow in Ilya’s brow deepens. “First night? This is only second day, no?” 

Shane looks at him for a moment, and then puts his sandwich down. 

“Uh. No. It’s—it’s been three days now since that first night.” 

“Days?” Ilya gawps, feeling like someone had hit him in the chest. “I didn’t—oh.” 

He reaches a hand up to touch his face, his upper lip, his hair. 

“You’re not allowed to shower or anything yet, but I shaved for you and washed your face a few times.” Shane smiles faintly as he talks, the kind where he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Your hair is all Svetlana, though. I’ve been taking notes. Seems like Yana’s going to have your curls.” 

Ilya cries again. It hurts every part of his body and somehow feels good at the same time, like he’s shedding dead skin and growing into a new one all at once. 

“You have seen her?” he asks as Shane wipes at his eyes, sandwich abandoned in favor of sitting on the side of Ilya’s bed. 

“I went to see her right after she was born,” he says lightly. “Usually when I’m not here, I’m in there with her. She can’t leave the NICU yet but she can do skin to skin now, so I’ve been doing that with her every day. More than once, if I can.” 

Ilya nods, lip quivering. “Your parents…?” 

“They’ve seen her, but they haven’t held her yet. No one has, except me.” He watches Shane’s throat as he swallows, Shane’s eyes dropping to their hands. “They’re allowed to, technically, but I couldn’t—it just didn’t feel right, before you.” 

“They are not… mad?” Ilya asks. “That you will not let them?” 

Shane looks up again with a frown. “No, not at all. They get it, I think. They agree that you should be first.” 

Ilya wants to ask they are not mad that it’s me? but he can’t find the courage. If there is anything he’s become more aware of today it’s that they are all trying not to overwhelm him, and given that his face is swollen and sore from the crying today alone, Ilya can’t even argue against it. So. One thing at a time. 

He sniffs and looks down into his empty bowl on the tray. 

“Tell your parents to cancel hotel. They can stay at my house. Guest room upstairs.”  

Shane blinks. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course I am sure.” Ilya shoves the bowl toward him. “I would like more soup, please.” 

Half of him expects something to change in the minutes Shane’s gone from the room, that now that Ilya is awake enough to understand what’s happening again they’ll decide to take their leave. They are mostly here for Shane, probably, and now that Ilya won’t be as useless anymore, it is not so much worth the effort. They will probably not want to stay in his house either, will probably wonder what he had done to get their son there in the first place, why he would bother with Ilya at all. 

The door opens again, and Shane steps in with a fresh bowl of hot soup in hand. 

“She said she’d make more for tomorrow, if it sounds good again.” 

Ilya grabs the spoon, can’t taste the salt of his tears underneath the steaming comfort of the broth. 

+

If the baby had not bonded him and Shane together, Ilya thinks the removal of his catheter might. It would be funny, if every touch to his body didn’t still feel like prodding at an open wound. 

Sometime after dinner they come to ask him if he’d like to give the wheelchair a try, and Ilya sort of feels like he might throw up, but if he does good at this they might let him go to the NICU, so he tries it anyway. 

“Easy,” Shane says, palm on his back when he sits up straight in the bed and sways, holding him steady. 

“M’fine,” he insists. His knuckles, paler than he remembers, clutch the side of the bed. Without the mattress flat underneath him, his gravity feels… off. He blinks hard several times, and then nods to the nurses and Shane at his elbows. 

The gap between bed and chair is terrifying. He hadn’t expected his legs to be so weak, though maybe he should’ve. He flails, too scared to be embarrassed, and Shane’s forearm bears the imprint of his fingers long after he’s lowered into the chair. 

“This is already so much progress,” one of the nurses assures. “If you need to stop here, that’s completely—” 

“No, I—I can do more. Please.” 

He isn’t sure how convincing it is when he’s breathing like he’s just been checked into the boards and he’s braced for another invisible hit, but luckily Shane backs him. 

“Maybe just to the hallway and back?” He slides a hand onto Ilya’s shoulder and squeezes. “Then we’ll reevaluate?” 

Yes. Good. The hallway is just a few feet away. Ilya can manage that, surely. 

He scrambles for Shane again when the chair begins to move, hissing as the muscles in his abdomen tense. He has to keep his head completely still so that he doesn’t get too lightheaded, making the nurses stop and keep moving in increments toward the door. 

“There is… people?” Ilya asks warily before they can cross the threshold into the hallway. 

“We’re in a highly secured unit. Only those with clearance or approved family members are allowed,” the nurse says. 

A bit shakily, Ilya nods. He is grateful to Shane and Sveta for keeping him somewhat put together, but he doesn’t need a mirror to feel that he is not at his best. 

The world spins around him again as he exits the dim light of his room into the brighter hallway lights. He tries to close his eyes to escape them but it makes his dizziness worse, and nausea burns hot up through his stomach. 

He feels the brakes on the chair click on underneath him, Shane’s voice lowered to his level. “Hey. She’s not going anywhere, Ilya. She’ll be with us tomorrow morning, you don’t have to push yourself.” 

He strains hard against the burning in his eyes this time with an audience, even though the nurses have been perfectly nice. With a quivering lip he shakes his head affirmatively at Shane. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Shane echoes, sounding somewhat relieved himself. “Let’s just sit here for a minute until you feel like moving again.” 

Ilya has stumbled his way into many situations over the years in which he’s simply had to grit his teeth and push through, even if he realized at the halfway point that he had maybe bit off more than he could chew. He hasn’t often dealt with situations where just pushing through wasn’t an option; where his body was the final say instead of the vehicle in which to achieve it. 

That’s been one of the most unsteadying parts, he thinks. Not the actual dizziness, not the way his limbs tend to crumble underneath him right now. But the knowledge that, even more so than a decade ago, something has been changed irreversibly. That he hasn’t felt out all of the jagged corners of that yet. 

Slowly, when the nausea has receded and he feels like he can sit up in the chair again, he opens his eyes and tries to orient himself. He made it slightly further than he’d thought, idling in the middle of the hallway facing the wall opposite his room. 

“You ready?” Shane asks when Ilya’s breathing a little more evenly. 

He takes in a tentative breath, lets it out. “I think so. Yes.” 

He hadn’t made it to the NICU, but it’s progress. He’ll have to meet himself halfway. 

Shane presses lips to his cheek briefly as he stands again, and the newness of being seen, even if it’s only his two intensive care nurses holding his chair and tugging the transfusion pole along, sends a warm thrill through his sore, overtired limbs. 

Since he’s still facing the opposite wall, they have to back his chair up to turn him around. He readies himself for the movement but it still makes him lightheaded, gaze flicking along in small intervals at a steady eyeline as they turn. 

He pauses to take another small break when he’s turned in a quarter circle, bare knees now pointed toward the double doors at the end of the hallway. Just as he starts to move again, the doors open. 

Yuna and David Hollander are engaged heavily in conversation as they pass the threshold, but their voices fizzle out as they look ahead of themselves at Ilya and Shane on the other end. 

His body braces instinctively, rote memory kicking in. Here was the thing, and we must not discuss it. Here was Ilya, who must not be acknowledged until the less preferable parts of himself had been given a proper burial. 

Here is Ilya, bandaged and taped with tubing in nothing but a hospital gown, ashen gray from the blood loss and incessant nausea, hand fisted over the absence of his abdomen. He cannot hide anything, so he freezes instead. 

“Shit,” Shane says to Ilya. “Sorry. I didn’t think they’d be back so soon.” To his parents, he adds, “I thought you guys were going to get food?” 

Yuna Hollander finds her voice first. “We did. Or, we tried. But they were closed, so we decided to just come back for now. Sorry, we—we should have texted.” 

“Probably, yeah,” Shane agrees. 

His tone makes Ilya’s hairs stand on end, his shoulders straightening even though he can’t properly meet either of their eyes. 

“It’s okay,” he rasps, voice still half-lost. “They have been here. Now is… is first time I am up. It’s fine.” 

Ilya winces at himself for implying he’s been laying around all this time, even if they’d already known. If they were angry with Shane, he would have no problem making himself more of a target. But now, inextricably linked as they are, Ilya is struck by the long-since unfamiliar feeling of wanting approval again. His ears are ringing. 

Shane steps between them end bends slightly to talk to him, lowering his voice though the open corridor doesn’t give them much privacy. 

“Are you sure? I can ask them to step out until we get you back in the room.” 

“I will have to meet them at some point, Shane.” Ilya flicks eyes over his face. “Unless you do not want—” 

“No. No, no. I want—I want, Ilya, trust me. I just didn’t want to overwhelm you with too much too fast.” 

Without moving his head much, Ilya glances at himself. “I do not think I am going to get much better than this for now. So. Now is good. If you think so.” 

“Okay,” Shane says to him, and then again to himself. “Okay. Can we—?” he asks the nurses. 

They wheel him toward the nearest chairs lined up along the wall outside his room and put on the brakes, and Ilya watches vigilantly as Shane walks up to his parents at the other end of the hall and speaks quietly with them, then leads them over. 

And then the nurses step away to give them a few minutes, and suddenly Ilya is face to face—or face to their abdomens, at least—with the Hollanders. 

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander. Mr. Hollander.” Ilya lifts the hand not cluttered with tape and IV’s toward them, and uses the other to pat his hair back. “Sorry I am not—ah. Looking so good.” 

“Just David and Yuna, please,” she says, taking the seat closest to him. “And you look fine, Ilya. In fact, we’re happy to see you working toward getting on your feet again. How are you feeling?” 

Ilya has said both the words fine and okay far too often today, and tries to summon another. 

“He’s still pretty dizzy today,” Shane takes over for him when he can’t, standing beside his chair. “And the pain’s not great either, but the meds are helping a little bit, I think.” 

Struggling to find his voice, Ilya nods. 

“We appreciate you letting us stay at your house,” David says after he’s finished shaking Ilya’s hand, sitting down in the chair beside his wife. “We took our things over there just before lunch. It’s really something. Did you buy it that way or did you have it built? I’ll tell you, those windows would just be perfect to have up in—” 

“David,” Yuna admonishes. Despite himself, Ilya feels the beginnings of a laugh caught in his throat. 

“He bought it,” Shane answers for him, soft as he sways sideways enough to press against Ilya’s shoulder. “I’ll send you the info, dad.” 

To Ilya, Yuna says, “The nursery is beautiful.” 

He tenses again. “It is not finished yet.” 

Not finished is an understatement. He’d ordered a bunch of things but left the tidying and organizing for the last several weeks, presuming that it would be a good thing to keep him occupied in the lead up to having her. But then he had not been able to climb the stairs anymore, and then he was put on bed rest, and now there are boxes relegated to the corners and furniture still half built, ideas he had started but not been able to finish. 

He hadn’t thought about any of that when he’d suggested they stay in the room next door to it. 

“I think it’s lovely, but if there are other things you’d like done to it before you get home, David is very good with tools.” 

Overwhelmed and self conscious now that he’s drawn attention to both his laziness and his unproductiveness while he’d been sitting around at home for months, Ilya chokes at the prospect of being offered help instead of reprimand. He shakes his head for a beat too long and tries to think of something polite to say. 

“Thank you for being here for Shane,” he tells them, palm slick on his gown in his lap. “I am sorry I’ve been asleep for so long but I—I am getting better now. I can help more and he will not have to take care of me so much.”  

“Ilya,” Shane says, small. Ilya can’t look at him. His chin wobbles. 

Yuna’s mouth, which had been open and about to speak, seals closed. In his peripherals, he sees David scoot forward in his chair. He clears his throat, then gruffly adds, “We don’t feel like that at all, son.” 

Ilya squeezes his eyes closed and ignores the lightheadedness that it brings, determined to keep himself together for just the few minutes it takes to make a good, or even tolerable impression. The moment wears on, his silence growing viscid, his effort to shift focus instead putting him underneath a microscope. 

“Sorry,” he offers impulsively, unsure now for which offense. 

Yuna’s mouth opens again, strained. “Can I hug you, Ilya?” 

He glances up at Shane to check and the glassiness of his eyes makes Ilya’s own tears spill over. He looks back to her and nods quickly. Croaks, “Yes,” and is unreasonably proud of himself for not adding please. 

She bends forward, past his wires and tape and tears and wraps her arms around his shoulders, and later, Ilya will be embarrassed about how easily he folds into her chest. He is shaking again, probably over exerting himself at this point, but he doesn’t want the nurses to see, doesn’t want to have to go back to his room just yet. 

His cheek dampens the fabric of her shirt near her shoulder, an awful noise pushing its way out through his teeth when he feels her hand stroke down the back of his head. He can hear the hitch of his breath echoing in the hallway around them, lets himself hide underneath Shane’s palm when it touches his upturned face. 

When he’s trembling bad enough that he can’t hide it anymore, she pulls back and takes him by the shoulders, her own cheeks wet but expression surprisingly firm. Ilya sniffs, straightening in turn. 

“You don’t know us very well yet, but there isn’t much that we do in halves around here,” she tells him seriously. “So I’m going to need you to stop apologizing for needing help now, because you certainly won’t be hearing any from us while we’re providing it. Got it?” 

When Ilya had first learned the term tough love, he figured that’s what his father must have provided him with. Then, when he had earned his own room, when he would stand up in the center of a dozen men and inspire them with words alone, the definition had changed, shed the old weight and reformed around a new one. Sveta, too, each time she had been the only one brave enough to tell him what he needed to hear and trust that he would not break on the receiving end of it. 

This, he thinks, is yet another progression. 

“Understood,” he says, and it feels nothing like heavy, dust littered curtains and clefted chins and the sharp pinch of vodka burning in his nose. 

She squeezes his shoulders twice, and then lets go with a nod. “Good.” 

Four of them cross the threshold this time instead of two, and even though Ilya is nearly asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow again, he likes the sound of their voices talking in the background, keeping the room alive for him. 

+ 

The first time Ilya hears her cry, something breaks and mends at the same time. 

She is four days old and so, so small in the little plastic bassinet they’ve wheeled her to them in, and she starts crying the moment the wheels stop as if she can sense that Ilya is in the room and is not touching her yet. 

It’s hoarse and raspy, something of a mewl that fractures every so often. From the respiratory machine, Shane explains. The thing that had kept her breathing. It sounds desperate, urgent, and for just a moment, the pain and everything else inside of him fades, paling in comparison. 

They sit the bed up further and Shane adjusts the pillows behind him, laying two in his lap so that Ilya can rest his arms on it to hold her. The room is otherwise quiet, filled with shuffling and anticipation, careful movement. Ilya’s tongue is caught in between his teeth, words far away. Afraid that if he says something the mirage around him may dissolve and take the last of Ilya’s resilience with it. 

Ilya’s eyes do not leave the bassinet. 

Shane moves as quickly as possible, well trained now in the art of handling her, and he makes the transition appear smooth as he lifts her from her makeshift bed, murmuring low to her as he pulls her to his chest, and brings her over to Ilya. 

She looks even smaller in his grasp, one of his hands holding her head, the other underneath her back. Ilya stares openly, in awe as Shane steps in close, sits down on the side of Ilya’s bed and begins to lower her down onto the pillow in his lap. 

“How—?” Ilya asks, frantic once she’s in front of him. 

“Like this,” Shane tells him, adjusting the bend of his arm to better support her head, guiding the other around to the outside of her restless legs. “That’s good. You’ve got it.” 

It doesn’t feel like it. Ilya can’t look away from her. It feels like the entire world has been tenderly laid down in his lap, a bundle of kicking feet and tiny fists. He can’t make out her features for the way she’s wailing faintly, and a new pain blooms behind his sternum, persistent and singular. 

“Skin to skin might be better,” Shane suggests, touching the tie of Ilya’s gown lightly behind his neck. “Do you want me to—?” 

Ilya nods frantically, tilting forward to help. Shane’s fingers are deft as they undo the loose knot and pull the strings free, peeling the gown away for him. It bares one arm and half of his chest, stuck halfway on his other shoulder when Ilya leans back too quick to get it the rest of the way down. 

It’s enough. Shane tugs it down a little further in the front until her cheek is against his chest, and Ilya gasps at the sensation of it without any kind of separation between them, both of them crying in earnest now—Ilya silently, her with an open mouth and unapologetically working lungs. 

He props her in his elbow a little better, pulls her head to his pec even if he has nothing yet to offer her from it. Up close he can see her much clearer, even through blurry vision. She’s more vivid than anything else around him, the pink flush of her rounded cheeks, the pout of her little mouth, the divots left behind from the machine on soft, impressionable skin. 

“It’s okay,” Shane says, working a hand into his hair, and Ilya realizes how steeply he’s inhaling, how much his chest aches with held breath. 

He breathes in and forces himself to exhale slow until he’s not heaving anymore, until he can feel Shane’s fingers again. He leans back into the sturdy weight of body heat and comfort beside him, and as his heart rate begins to slow, so do Яна’s cries. 

She squirms against him, curious. Ilya watches her eyes squeeze and flutter, the little scrunch of her nose. She shoves a deeply furrowed brow straight into his chest, mouth open and searching. For a moment Ilya worries she will find what she’s looking for and be disappointed that it isn’t there, but with a ceremonious grunt of air, she shoves her face harder against his pec, lips split open around nothing but warm, bare skin, and goes perfectly slack. 

And—oh. Ilya had not lost anything at all, had he? 

“I know,” Shane murmurs, reaching over to carefully swipe a thumb across her cheek. “Isn’t it crazy?” 

“She is—I—” Ilya flounders, searching for the words. 

“I know,” Shane whispers again. 

“Она — самое совершенное, что я когда-либо видела,”“She is the most perfect thing I have ever seen," he breathes. He traces around her brow, her ear, the curve of her open mouth with his thumb. "Hi, Яна.Yana. Hi, малышка."baby girl."

His hand trails up over her head, the thin wisps of golden curls there. Impossibly soft and unmistakably his, just like Shane had said. 

“And she is—everything is okay now?” 

Shane hums, thumb stroking over the back of Ilya’s neck while they watch her. “She’s doing great. She’s breathing normally now, she can cry, she’s hitting all the right milestones. A little over five pounds, but she’s in the right range for when she was born. She’s perfectly healthy.” 

The relief is palpable. All the small things from before he knew, the beers he’d had with Marly, the hockey aches and pains before he went on LTIR, Russia and Montreal in the car and the plane, all of it had turned out okay. The delivery had been hard, but he had not hurt her. 

“And she—she has been eating, yes?” 

“The nurses and I have been bottle feeding her,” Shane confirms. “She has a big appetite, but they say that’s good for her size.” 

Sadness winds its way into his joy, a subtle, throbbing undercurrent. “I wanted to be able to feed her,” Ilya admits very quietly. He feels Shane shift beside him, fingers pausing on the back of his neck for a second. 

“I didn’t know,” he says. 

“I didn’t tell you,” Ilya returns. 

“I mean, we had to go ahead while you were recovering, but now that you’re up, a lactation consultant is on the list of people we’re supposed to see. I can talk to Yvonne, see if we can move that up.” 

He doesn’t tell Shane that part of him had hoped something in his body would just miraculously wake up the moment he held her, that it would come easily. But her face is pressed against him now, mouth open, and while the skin of his chest is still swollen and larger than it used to be, he has none of the aching tenderness that he’d been told he might at this point. 

He swallows, tugging her closer. “Okay.” 

“She seems comfortable with you,” Shane notes, mouth twitching as Яна drools on his chest. 

“Яночка,"“Yanochka," Ilya croons to her in response. She could drool all over him and he would not care. “Мой драгоценный дар."“My precious gift."

“She’s been really calm, aside from today,” he goes on, genuine now. “I think she gets overwhelmed easily with all the noise and movement.” 

“She is taking after you already.” 

“Shut up,” Shane huffs softly, his grin evident without having to look. “You make that same face when you sleep, you know.” 

“Well, it is the cutest face in the whole world, so yes, I can see this.” 

He cracks a smile of his own, but the longer the silence lingers, it wanes. Ilya finally lifts his eyes off of Яна’s face long enough to glance at Shane over his shoulder, and finds glassy ones already looking back at him. 

“I missed you,” Shane says before Ilya can ask, and there’s something he can’t place in his voice. 

“I have been right here,” Ilya reminds him. 

Shane’s smile tilts and wobbles, his gaze dropping to Яна again in his lap. Ilya watches him look, realizes only now how different the view is from the one he’s memorized over the last decade of his life. Shane is still Shane, but he is not so untouchable now. Expressions he doesn’t have to work to decode anymore, all of the things he can pick up on and ways they can communicate without ever opening their mouths. 

Like now, when he allows Shane to look away from him because the weight of whatever is inside his head is something he thinks is too heavy to rest on Ilya. 

“Shane,” he murmurs, unwilling to give up just yet. “Sweetheart.” 

Ilya noses at his cheek, his jaw, until he can get to Shane’s lips. It breathes new life into his lungs—Shane’s mouth against his, the daughter they’d made sleep-heavy and trusting in his arms—and Ilya takes in as much as he can, rippling with the after effects of the brief time he’d thought he may never get the chance to feel this at all. 

They part after a round of deep, urgent kisses, mouths swollen in the afterglow. He presses his forehead to Shane’s, both at peace and greedy for more, smearing his lips to any skin he can reach. 

In the safe, private hollow of his neck, Ilya admits, “Я тебя люблю,"“I love you," and touches his mouth to Shane’s pulse to seal it. 

The tendons go tight underneath him, Shane’s fingers twitching on the side of his face. Ilya pulls back. 

“What is it?” 

Shane’s eyes flick between his for a moment, and then down to his mouth. He licks over his lips. “I… I love you too.” 

He freezes. “You…?” 

“I learned it so I could say it to you. To both of you,” Shane confesses, face turning that shade of scarlett that Ilya adores. “It’s sort of the only thing I know so far, but—” 

Ilya kisses him again, tastes the words right off of his tongue. This one is slower, more appreciative, but no less earnest as he licks over the ridges in the roof of Shane’s mouth, traces the line of teeth that have practiced devotion in a way Ilya understood before any other. 

“Will you say it now?” 

“It’s not as good as yours,” Shane warns. 

“Of course not,” Ilya agrees, breathless against his lips. “Tell us anyway.” 

He watches Shane’s face rearrange itself, the concentrated furrow of his brow, the determined set of his jaw. Watches the shape of his mouth as he sounds out, “Я тебя люблю."“I love you."

Ilya grins, wide and uninhibited. “Is perfect.” 

“No, it’s not,” Shane laughs. 

“It is the best thing I’ve ever heard,” Ilya counters, kissing him again. “Thank you. I love you.” 

On his chest, Яна wriggles the same way she used to inside of him, her kicks nothing more than flutters now as she readjusts in sleep. She breathes hot against him and one of her little fists comes untucked from underneath her chin, splaying out above her cheek, warm on his chest. Carefully, Ilya brings it to his mouth to kiss her palm, his mouth stretching wider than her whole hand, and then tucks it gently back into place. 

He had thanked Shane and his parents, but there is still one thank you left. 

Ignoring the pinch in his abdomen, Ilya bends enough to press his mouth to the soft curve of Яна’s head on his chest. “Спасибо, мама."“Thank you, mama."

He feels Shane do the same to him at his temple without asking for clarification. 

“Tell me what she was like,” Ilya asks, “the first time.” 

Shane’s mouth curves upward against him. 

“I couldn’t believe she was small enough to fit in my hand,” he starts. Ilya settles back against him and listens. 

+ 

Shane had been right that she is a very calm baby, but Ilya is rapidly becoming grateful to have more help. 

Яна likes to move. Ilya enjoys propping her on his lap and watching, and when she is less sleepy—which is rarely—she has started blinking at him. Right now she has blue eyes like his and mama’s, which had been bittersweet to realize. But Yuna says that babies can sometimes be born with blue eyes before they change to hazel or green or brown, so he supposes they’ll just have to wait and see. 

Yuna and David are very knowledgeable about babies, Ilya finds, and all too happy to get the chance to watch her while Ilya sleeps or to help him when Shane steps out. It makes his chest ache, but in a good way, he thinks, to watch them with her. Inevitably, he thinks of his mother. Thinks of his brother, even, when his own daughter had been born. 

For once in his life, Ilya does not think of his father. It is a relief. Sveta, though, does make him think of Russia. 

She has always had a flawless, believable veneer she’s hidden behind when she needed to, but with all that’s been going on, Ilya had failed to realize until today that she is putting on the veneer for him. 

With movement a priority now and his catheter removed, he has to get up to use the bathroom, typically with at least two nurses around while he does it. But he has made progress with that too, his dizziness slightly better now and his strength returning slowly. Today, he’d graduated from the wheel chair up to the walker, but only for short distances. 

Sveta is the only one in the room today when he needs to go, Яна sleeping soundly in her bassinet and Shane taking his parents for breakfast with the promise to bring Ilya back something with carbs and calories and, hopefully, syrup. 

Up until now she’s been sitting on the sofa again, in the room but untouchable, polite but not earnest like he’s used to. When he asks her for help getting to the bathroom, it’s the first time she’s touched him that he can remember since before he’d gone in for the surgery. 

He braces himself on the sink to wash his hands afterward, re-opening the cracked door so he can fit the walker through back into the room while Sveta rolls his IV and hovers a hand near his back. Ilya desperately wishes she would press it down, rub in between his shoulders. 

Before he can ask her to, his nurses come back to change his dressing again. They help him onto the bed and lift his gown, rolling the blanket up over his lap. 

He’s seen his scar only one other time, and not enough to familiarize himself with it. It’d been jarring to see the jagged line stretching from underneath his navel down to his pubic bone, his hair shaved, skin loose, stitches not yet dissolved enough to give the impression that if he moved too suddenly they might pop out. 

He’d thought at first that seeing it would be too hard, would bring too much back. But if anything Ilya feels almost vindicated by it; he had longed for something visible before, something to prove that it was real. It’s different now, he is different now, but he finally has some sort of closure. 

Svetlana, who hasn’t seen his scar until now, stands rigid off to the side while they work. Ilya extends a hand in her direction to get her attention, and her wide eyes flick over to his face. 

“You do not have to stay for this,” he tells her. 

She steels her jaw, and her eyes fall back to his middle. “Yes. I do.” 

Ilya draws his hand back to his side and waits for the nurses to finish, blames the burn in his sinuses on the sting of disinfectant. 

Once the site has been cleaned, re-bandaged, and his stomach has been gently palpated to check for any other swelling, the nurses take their leave with a promise to return later on. If he keeps healing accordingly he won’t have to keep the gauze on it all the time, but his relief is weighted down by the tension that seems to have permeated the room over the last couple of hours. 

“Sveta,” he says when they’re alone again, body covered by the blanket. In Russian, he asks her, “Why are you doing this?” 

For a few minutes she cannot look at him, mouth a firm line, head turned in the other direction. Ilya waits her out, like they have always done for each other. 

“Because I was not there before,” Sveta spits out eventually. “I was off at parties while you were locked in your room, hurting and miserable—” 

“I told you I was leaving for camp,” Ilya reminds her. 

“I should have at least checked,” she says, exasperated. Her mouth opens, closes, her eyes glassy when she blinks. “There was one night, I—I was looking for this sweater, and I realized I had left it with you the last time I snuck over. You always kept your window unlocked for me, and I thought—I should go and get it. Probably no one would be home, and I could grab it. It wouldn’t even take long.” 

Her lower lip begins to tremble, and Ilya feels his own mimic it in response. Sveta shakes her head and laughs once, wet and thin. 

“But I didn’t even care about the stupid sweater. I just missed you. Sasha was sent away, and I thought you were in another country, and I wanted to go and get it, but I had this idea that maybe you wouldn’t like it. That maybe you would get big over here while you were gone and you would come back wanting to leave Russia behind and you would not like for me to be clinging to you like a leech.” 

“Sveta,” he breathes. Finally, she looks at him. 

“And I wanted that for you so badly, Ilyusha. I would have given anything to keep you but you were not happy there. I knew you would never be, if you didn’t get out. So I told myself I was doing the good thing, leaving you be. And the sweater could be—I don’t know. A token to remember me by, I guess.” 

His thoughts lately have been slow, never as instant or coherent as he’d like for them to be. He wants to hug her but she’s still so far, standing several feet away where he cannot get to her. 

“Ilya, you have—you have no idea how awful I felt when you told me that you were in Moscow that summer,” she whispers shakily. “If I had just gone over there like I wanted to, then—” 

“Then you would have stopped nothing,” he insists, surprised at the sturdiness of it. “It was already done.” 

Her shoulders drop. “But I could have helped. I could have comforted you, at least.” 

“You did.” 

“I could not possibly have comforted you while I was pouring myself into booze and boys trying to get over you leaving, Ilya,” she spits, but the anger doesn’t hold. She turns away before he can track the tear that falls all the way down her cheek. In a small voice, she admits, “I was thinking only of myself. I—I’m ashamed.” 

It’s that word that propels him. Sveta has been ashamed of nearly nothing in the time they’ve known each other, unapologetic about the things she wants and does not want, and unabashedly herself regardless. 

This other version of her, meek and quiet, is not one that’s he’s met before. Maybe they are both seeing each other in a new light. 

“I slept with it,” Ilya tells her. “Your sweater. Every night that summer.” 

She wipes her cheek, glancing tentatively toward him. 

“What?” 

“I could not leave my room. They had burned most of mama’s things, and I would not have been able to get to them anyway. I tore apart my closet, the bedding, looking for something of hers that was not there. But once I had pulled everything out, I saw—your sweater, it had fallen from the top shelf. Where we hid it so—” 

“So that your brother would not find it snooping through your room,” she finishes, tears coming too quickly to wipe them away now. “Ilya.” 

“So you do not get to stand here and talk badly of yourself for something you did not cause and could not have stopped. If you are going to help me, I need it to be because you want to,” he emphasizes. “Not so that you can punish yourself for not being there before.” 

“I am here,” she promises, straightening. “I want to be here. If you want me.” 

Ilya groans and rolls his eyes, even if it costs him some lightheadedness. “If I want you, hm?” he teases. In English again, he says, “I would tackle you like football player if I could. Now would you please come here.” 

She tumbles toward the bed with none of her usual elegance, hesitant only in the way of avoiding his tape and tubing as she collapses forward to hug him. She keeps her weight off of his torso but surrounds him everywhere else, her familiar shape and scent like a salve covering the sting of its absence. 

He lifts the hand with the IV carefully to the back of her head and pets over her curls. He doesn’t have her fingernails, but he hopes it’s comforting all the same. 

In the bassinet beside the window, Яна stirs, waking up from her nap. Shane had just fed her and changed her before he left so Ilya doubts that it’s either of those, but his attention strays and fixes to her all the same. 

“Will you—?” he asks Sveta. 

She sniffs, wiping at her face again as she sits up. “Yes. I will get her.” 

“Careful,” he warns her, suddenly aware that this is the first time she’ll have actually held her. He starts to tell her the best way to do it, but finds his worry replaced with tenderness when she bends over the bassinet, mouth pursed and brow furrowed determinedly. 

It’s a far stretch from that day in Yvonne’s office with the plastic one, and the memory brings a smile to his face. Sveta eases one hand underneath Яна’s bottom and another beneath her neck and lifts nearly comically slowly, until her head is cradled in the bend of her elbow. 

“Oh,” she says, stroking a finger over Яна’s cheek. “She’s so beautiful, Ilya.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees easily. 

“I am going to spoil her rotten.” 

His smile widens. “I am sure.” 

“I do not know why I was so scared of her.” 

“She can be scary,” he allows. 

But Sveta shakes her head, her eyes still on Яна as she comes back to the bed and sits down at his side. “No. No, she is perfect.” 

He feels warm at the sight of them together, and maybe a little sad that out of the three women he loves the most, only two are here with him now. He has finally broken free of hearing his father’s voice in the back of his head, but now he can’t seem to stop thinking about his mother. 

As if she can sense where his thoughts are going, she hands Яна to him. Ilya shifts her, uses some of his newfound strength to prop her plush little cheek against his collarbone, her fist resting in the v of mama’s necklace. Gently, he rubs her back, pressing his chin to the top of her head. 

“I am so proud of you,” Sveta whispers with a watery smile. “And I know she would be too.” 

Ilya closes his eyes and lets that sit in the room with them. It doesn’t replace the empty spot, but it does feel separate and alive, thrumming with energy that his tired bones so desperately need. He turns his face further into Яна on his chest and inhales, memorizing the scent, feeling her soft curls tickling against his chin. 

This time, he thinks, it would not be the worst thing for the grief to stay for a while. 

Chapter End Notes

we've got a little more hospital left, then back to ilya's house, then an epilogue! :D

Chapter 11: x. postpartum pt. ii

Chapter Summary

He knows that he should mostly just be happy that she is here and safe. And he is.

But even now, he feels useless. Weak. Always tired. He’s spent a lifetime perfecting the art of needing absolutely no one—even if he had wanted them—and now he cannot do the simplest things without help. Use the bathroom. Brush his teeth. Bathe and eat. Having to have Shane hold her to his chest when his arms will not cooperate any longer. The whiplash is worse, almost, than if he had surgically removed whatever bone inside of him the hockey is stored in.

He’s left with distress he does not have a name for, instincts he can’t yet decipher, a fullness in his heart but a strange emptiness beneath his ribs and a surety that it had not felt like that beforehand, and no pathway to ever return to the way it was if he had not overturned this particular stone.

Chapter Notes

GENUINELY IM SORRY ABOUT THE CHAPTER COUNT IM NOT TRYING TO BAIT YOU GUYS I PROMISE I JUST CAN'T SHUT THE FUCK UP AND I WANT TO DO JUSTICE TO THE PLOT LINES JKSHSKDJ BUT I SWEAR I THINK THE COUNT IS LEGIT THIS TIME!!

heavy dialogue and introspection ahead! ilya is hard on himself sometimes again in this chapter and also still reeling from everything in the last two chaps. please keep in mind that he is an unreliable narrator <3

content warnings:

more detailed talk about chest feeding, brief talk about being exposed and examined by medical professionals when uncomfortable, mention of implied past childhood abuse (grigori), references to homophobia but nothing depicted, end of chapter includes introspection on religion/faith and prayer, and ilya visits the hospital chapel, callbacks to the interlude and irina related grief. I don't think this is as heavy as last chap, but things to keep in mind! x

I L Y A

For the first time in many years, Ilya does not want to take off his shirt. 

It’s one thing around Shane, who saw him primarily in the nude for almost a decade, or Sveta, who’s been around him in all his varying stages of sex appeal and sadness over the years. 

But now there are strangers—medical professionals, yes, maybe, but still strangers—coming in and out of his room asking to check things and touching him and speaking about deeply personal things in a very clinical way that makes him feel not so good about it afterward. He still flinches sometimes when they reach for his scar, as if something is still underneath it that needs protecting. 

Maybe it’s just him that needs it, Ilya guesses. 

When the lactation consultant comes, he isn’t feeling any more optimistic, even though it’s something he wants. Warily, Ilya leans forward to let Shane undo the tie on his gown again and lets them look. 

They test Яна’s latch first, waking her from her early morning sleep and making her disgruntled. Her face is pinched when Shane hands her over, and Ilya’s heart rate goes so high on the machine when the consultant tries to step in and adjust his hold that Shane has to intervene and do it by proxy. 

Her crankiness does not get better once she’s settled. She’s restless, wriggling against his chest until she eventually head butts him with a huff, eyes closed and determined to fall asleep again. When she doesn’t get to her chin wrinkles, lower lip extending in a pout that seems to overtake her whole face, and starts to cry. 

They don’t get her to latch. The consultant says they can try again later. 

She asks for permission to touch his chest while Shane tries to rock Яна back to sleep in the corner, incensed to have been disrupted and just about as miserable as Ilya feels. Ilya closes his eyes and tries to ignore the feeling of latex covered fingers poking and prodding at him, the dull soreness that follows afterward. 

“Sorry,” Shane says, sheepish when he can’t get her to quiet down, tucking her face into his neck while he rubs her back. 

“A newborn crying can sometimes encourage let-down,” the consultant assures, peeling off her gloves and tossing them into the trash. “Ilya, I’m not seeing any signs of engorgement or a clogged duct. This could just be a case of delayed lactogenesis, which is very common with both PAS and cesarean deliveries. Are you feeling anything with her crying?” 

Several things, yes. But none of his answers are polite, so he shakes his head and keeps his tongue firmly between his teeth. 

When Яна eventually quiets and Shane returns, she walks them through how to use a pump to encourage production. The assembly of it, how to position it and attach it, how to turn it on. The actual sensation of it isn’t so bad, the slow, rhythmic pulsing. Or it wouldn’t be, Ilya thinks, if he weren’t still so aware of everything. 

He can feel everywhere it’s touching him, hear every noise it makes as it suctions and releases. He can’t get away from it and the fact that it’s doing nothing but reminding him of what he hasn’t been able to accomplish. 

“Remember, the goal isn’t necessarily to see anything today. We’re just testing things out, getting your body into a routine.” 

This sounds very nice, but Ilya doesn’t think he can do any more today. 

"Это уже слишком. Я не могуIt’s too much, I can’t—Shane," he tries, shaking his head, trying to get it off of himself, increasingly frantic. 

The machine is off of him in seconds, Shane’s hands much steadier than his own as he moves it out of Ilya’s sight. 

“I think we’re done for today,” Shane tells her, retying his gown behind his neck. “We’ll—can we let you know if anything changes when he’s feeling better?” 

“Of course. Just let one of your nurses know and they can get in touch with me.” 

She apologizes for overwhelming them and then takes her leave, Ilya’s face buried in his palms by the time he hears the click of the door. He wonders if mama ever had this kind of trouble, if her body had also at some point declared enough. The noise that slips through the gap in his hands is a miserable, ugly one. 

“Hey,” a hand settles warmly on the back of his neck. “Ilya, hey.” 

He sobs. “I can’t do it.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“No—I—I want to. I wanted to… блятьfuck."

“Then we’ll keep trying,” Shane agrees, hand slipping down to rub between his shoulder blades. “But there’s nothing wrong with taking a break, Ilya. She’s eating from the bottle fine. We can circle back to it. We have time.” 

Ilya whimpers, shoving his face harder into his hands. He cannot tell Shane that he is having crazy thoughts; that half of him is sick with worry that she must think this is him not wanting to provide for her, that he is rejecting her. And the other half of him is convinced that because she is taking the bottle so well, she is the one rejecting him. That he has been in competition with something for so long he doesn’t know how to not be now. Even if his opponent is himself. 

He knows that he should mostly just be happy that she is here and safe. And he is. 

But he cannot tell Shane that knowing this doesn’t keep guilt from clawing its way back into his head. The way he’d delivered her; cut out of him like a cyst while he slept, even if he knows that is the way most people like him do it and he would have only been more hurt otherwise. The way his body has always gotten nature and nurture confused at the worst times, defying odds for certain things and digging its stubborn toes six feet into the dirt for others. 

Even now, he feels useless. Weak. Always tired. He’s spent a lifetime perfecting the art of needing absolutely no one—even if he had wanted them—and now he cannot do the simplest things without help. Use the bathroom. Brush his teeth. Bathe and eat. Having to have Shane hold her to his chest when his arms will not cooperate any longer. The whiplash is worse, almost, than if he had surgically removed whatever bone inside of him the hockey is stored in. He’s left with distress he does not have a name for, instincts he can’t yet decipher, a fullness in his heart but a strange emptiness beneath his ribs and a surety that it had not felt like that beforehand, and no pathway to ever return to the way it was if he had not overturned this particular stone. 

There’s a tug at his wrists, and Ilya is too weak to fight it when Shane pulls his hands away from his face. His rough thumbs sweep over the center of his palms, cradled in between the hills and valleys.  

“Hey. Talk to me,” Shane pleads. 

Blinking rapidly, Ilya sucks on his trembling lower lip and shrugs. “I don’t know what to say.” 

The jerk of his shoulder pulls on his abdomen, and he fights a grimace. He’s aware that he failed when Shane immediately picks up on it, one of his hands leaving Ilya’s to rest carefully in the divot of his hip over the gown. 

“It’s healing nicely,” he murmurs, tape crinkling underneath his thumb. “It makes sense that it’s going to hurt, but. I hate it for you.” 

Ilya should say something like I have endured a lifetime of pain, this is not even the worst of it. He should reach up and smooth out the lines in Shane’s brow, the landslide pout of his mouth as he looks down at Ilya’s midsection in between them. He can taste the words behind his teeth: I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m okay. 

Instead, what comes out is, “You are not mad about the other part?” 

Shane glances up. “What do you mean?” 

Like a trade off, the full weight of Shane’s attention makes Ilya drop his gaze again. “The hysterectomy,” he rasps. 

“It saved your life, Ilya,” Shane says, his own voice hoarse. “Why on earth would I be mad about that?” 

“Because it means—no more. Like this, I mean. We never get to do it on purpose.” 

I never get to try to do it better, he means. To atone. 

It had been a rarity in the first place, to be able to do this at all. One that he hadn’t even given much thought to until he’d believed it was taken away from him altogether. And he is endlessly relieved that Яна is here, and perfect, and Ilya already cannot fit the love he has for her inside of him without bursting at the seams—and also. 

And also, he will never get to know what it’s like to find out he is carrying life and not know panic before joy. He will never get to see the look on Shane’s face when he tells him about it immediately instead of six months afterward. He will never get back that time lost when Shane wasn’t there the first time Ilya saw her moving on a tiny screen, the first time he’d heard her heartbeat, the first time she’d kicked. And if Ilya feels robbed of those things and he’d done it to himself, how must Shane feel? Does it not eat away at him the same way it gnaws at Ilya? What Ilya had kept from him? 

In front of him, Shane’s mouth has gone pinched, his brow furrowed in the way it gets when he’s trying to figure something out. Ilya swallows and clears his throat, giving him a wobbly, self-effacing smile. 

“Sorry. We did not even talk about if you want more or not. We have only been together for few months now. Stupid question.” 

“It wasn’t stupid,” Shane insists, but it takes him a long moment to speak again. “I told you, I’m all in with this. I want everything. But I… I don’t think we need to make so many sacrifices to have it.” 

But that is what love is, he thinks. Ilya does not know love he has not bled for. 

“I would have done it again,” Ilya confesses, even as the scar under his navel twinges once more, “if you wanted to.” 

This time when he chances a look, the color that stained Shane’s face has paled. He seems at an even greater loss for words now, and Ilya feels the weight of his own lingering in the air, the thought too heavy, his offering too much. 

“I, um. I’m going to check on Yana,” he says, and gives Ilya a frail smile. 

“Okay.” Ilya doesn’t cling to him when he goes, but he does get out, with some urgency, “I love you.” 

He pauses between the bed and the bassinet. “I love you too, Ilya.” 

Even with his back turned, body bent carefully down over Яна, Ilya feels like there are still eyes on him. 

+ 

It’s mid-morning when the nurses come get him to practice walking again with the walker. He’s only used the wheelchair in the hallway so far, but he’s been using the walker around the room and he thinks he can at least make it the length of the hallway once or twice on his own. 

Given how the last attempt had gone, they don’t take his word for it. 

So he’s upright—and clothed for the first time in days, in a loose pair of sweats and a soft t-shirt Sveta brought from his house—and wearing the socks that have the suction on the bottom of them that squeak with each drag of his feet across the tile. He grips the sides of it with palms that quickly become damp, knuckles tightening as he tries to breathe through the adjustment of gravity weighing him down again for more than just a few minutes at a time. 

He has Yuna on one side and Shane on the other, their hands resting lightly inside of his elbows in case he were to lose balance, his IV rattling along beside them in Shane’s opposite grip. His legs feel more sturdy now at least, less like the floor beneath him is quicksand inviting him to sink. 

“Are you planning on returning to the ice at some point, Ilya?” Yuna asks halfway down the hall, and is Ilya admires her for being polite enough to insinuate that he’ll be in skates again when he can’t seem to walk in a straight line. 

“We’re taking things one step at a time right now, mom,” Shane says. Literally, Ilya thinks. 

“I’m just curious,” she continues, giving Ilya’s elbow a light squeeze. “You are one of the best players.” 

Shane makes a noise over his head, and Ilya stops concentrating so hard long enough to crack a smile. 

“What?” Yuna asks. “It’s a fact. I can help, if so. Draw up a rough timeline, stagger appearances slowly at first so that the shift from home back to the ice isn’t so abrupt but you don’t lose reputability. Help arrange childcare, and things like that.” 

They stop for a break once he’s made it all the way to the end, leaning against the wall while he catches his breath. Wiping sweat from his brow, Ilya considers it. 

He looks to Shane, then slowly back to Yuna. “I do want to come back. But I would like to take more time. I think my team would be okay. But I don’t know if my visa will still be good if I am not playing for long. And I—I cannot risk it. Not now.” 

“Of course not. We wouldn’t want you to,” she assures, rubbing his shoulder. “But as far as I know, there’s no upper limit with the LTIR specifically that could impact your visa, even if it outlasts your current contract. The trickier part is going to be once the injury reserve ends, if there’s a gap between that and going back.” Her voice trails off along with her gaze, lips pursed thoughtfully. She nods to herself. “I’ll look into it over the summer while you and Shane are with the baby, and we’ll meet up and talk about it before next season starts.” 

“Mom,” Shane warns, exasperated. 

Ilya stands a little straighter and shakes his head. “No, this is good. Thank you, Yuna. I appreciate this.” 

She smiles. “Of course, Ilya.” 

He really does appreciate it, because the fog in his brain cannot possibly grasp those concepts right now, even while being perpetually aware that he needs to. He catches Shane’s eye and tries to give him what he hopes is a reassuring look. He hears Yvonne’s voice in his head again, telling him to take all of the help he can get. 

When he’s caught his breath again, he reaches for the walker and adjusts his grip, reveling in the solidity of them at his sides. Ilya inhales, faces down the wide open corridor laid out in front of him, and tries again. 

+ 

David comes to visit for lunch, trading off with Yuna now that things aren’t as urgent at the hospital. Ilya had been nervous to spend time alone with him at first, despite his kind, aloof disposition, given how poorly his own father had often reacted when Ilya was sick or not actively being productive somehow. But it’s been an hour so far, sub sandwiches half-eaten and his allotted soda fizzing on his tongue, the end of a hockey game rerun playing on the grainy television, and Ilya doesn’t feel anything but relief. 

Ilya is sitting up in the chair today, David in the one adjacent while they eat and watch the game, Яна’s bassinet angled beside Ilya’s chair so that he can soothe her if she starts to fuss. 

During a commercial break, David pats at his mouth with a napkin and says, “You know, Shane wasn’t anything like that as a baby.” 

“Like what?” Ilya asks, intrigued. 

“Quiet,” he chuckles. “Yuna and I had the hardest time coming up with things to distract him with just so he’d stop crying. A couple years in and he was much calmer, but boy, those first few years? He sure was a screamer.” 

Ilya has to turn toward the bassinet under the guise of checking on Яна so he doesn’t grin. The amusement fades quickly but the fondness stays, picturing a baby Shane incensed with his surroundings, commanding a room even then. 

“Were you a quiet baby?” David asks. 

The question gives him pause. He swallows. 

“Ah. Yes. I think so.” 

Mama had flinched at loud noises and papa had punished him for them, so he had learned very quickly that throwing a fit would earn him nothing. 

“You’re very in tune with her,” David notes. Ilya’s fingers twitch on Яна’s stomach. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “What does this mean?” 

“You’re good at predicting what she needs,” he elaborates, and Ilya relaxes slightly. “And she’s your first. Even with Shane, Yuna and I had to learn him a bit. Speak his language. But it seems like you’re a natural.” 

The compliment bleeds away the last of Ilya’s brittle hesitance, his chest warm inside. Shane has told him this, and Ilya trusts him, but he also maybe has to say these things, a little bit. And Yuna is quick to show affection in other ways, her praise wrapped in optimization and action. But David simply says what he’s thinking, and for all the times that’s made Ilya nervous in others, he finds it extremely comforting now. 

“Thank you, David.”

“You’re welcome,” David says, and takes another bite of his sandwich as the game comes on again. 

Ilya keeps stroking his knuckles over Яна’s legs until she grunts and kicks at him, sleepy from eating and being held earlier, and he retracts his hand to his lap and resumes eating his own food, slower this time around. 

His attention shifts from the game back through their conversation, to David’s honesty, to the door across the room where Shane has not yet returned. Ilya wraps the rest of his sandwich and sips idly on his soda, and when the next break rolls around, the words have already been queued on the tip on his tongue. 

“Do you think Shane is okay?” 

Unperturbed by his questioning, David takes a sip of his own drink and clarifies, “Okay?” 

“He seems stressed still, maybe,” Ilya shrugs. 

David huffs a laugh. “Babies will do that to you, son.” 

Well, yes, Ilya supposes this is true. Except for the fact that Shane’s distress seems to be originating less from Яна and more from him. Ilya chews at his lip. 

“But he seems… happy?” 

Balling up the empty sandwich paper, David thinks for a moment. “It takes Shane a while to process things sometimes, and this was pretty big. But I don’t think there’s anywhere else he’d rather be right now, Ilya, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, looking at Ilya now. “Do you disagree?” 

“I—I don’t know,” Ilya admits. “I think, yes, he is happy. When we are alone or when he’s holding her. But sometimes the last few days he has looked… scared of me.” Saying it out loud feels horribly vulnerable, and Ilya tacks a nervous smile onto the end of it, dipping his chin toward his lap. “Sorry. I should not be saying this.” 

Over the small table in between their chairs, David leans forward to pat the outside of Ilya’s knee. 

“You’re not saying anything wrong. And I’m always happy to listen anyway, but I think you’ve got it a little bit backwards—Shane’s not scared of you. If anything, I think he’s amazed. But he might still be a little scared for you.” 

“For me?” Ilya frowns. “Why? I am still here. I am doing the infusions. Doctors say I will be fine.” 

For the first time since he’d arrived, David hesitates. He starts to say something, stops again to purse his lips, and blinks at him. The hand on his knee suddenly feels much heavier now. 

“Has anyone talked to you about you coming out of surgery, son?” 

“Um. I… I know that I was asleep for a long time. That Shane had to take care of everything else while I was not able to,” he relays, more uncertain as the divot between David’s brows deepens. “There is more?” 

He wavers again, just long enough for the door to open before he can answer. The room turns blue-green with nurses doing their daily check-ins, the hockey game back on on the television, and Sveta arrives just as they’re leaving, the moment gone. 

“Look at you!” she cheers after David has said goodbye and slips out the door. “You are up and dressed!” 

Ilya bites his tongue and tries to let it go, soaking up what enthusiasm he can today. 

“That is the first time you have ever said this without sarcasm,” he drawls. 

She pinches him for it, and Яна makes the sound that is steadily beginning to precede an imminent diaper change, and Ilya thinks now is a perfect time for her to learn how to change one of those, thinks about anything other than David’s calm, unshakeable face turning ashen like Shane’s had before, like Sveta’s before that, the hand on his knee, the not scared of you, but scared for you. 

“You are evil,” she mutters as she treks toward the trash, one hand covering her mouth and nose, the other gripping Яна’s dirty diaper precariously between two manicured fingernails. Ilya wants to laugh, but he can’t quite manage it. 

Maybe she’s right. He just isn’t sure if he wants to know why. 

“I am an angel,” he delivers mechanically as she comes back. 

“Well, you must be,” Sveta concedes, bending down over the bassinet again to croon at Яна, “if you created this one. Yes, yes. Isn’t that right, сладкая девочкаsweet girl?"

Ilya smiles when she turns to look at him, and he doesn’t ask. 

+

They are supposed to be sleeping when she is sleeping, but Ilya’s most favorite part of the day now is deep into the middle of the night, when the lights are low and it’s only him and Shane, and the world is narrowed down to pink cheeks and mittened hands. 

Яна is light as a feather on his chest and fast asleep despite their soft conversation, unaware of their eyes on her as she huffs and hiccups in her sleep. Now that Ilya has some more range of motion it’s a little bit easier to fit both of them in the bed, Ilya scooted to the left while Shane lays on his side on the right, his head on Ilya’s shoulder, his hand resting on Яна’s back while Ilya strokes over his digits and her small shoulders with his fingers. 

After a long stretch of just watching, Shane murmurs, “We have to decide the rest of her name before we leave still.” 

Ilya touches his cheek to the top of his head. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, they asked me about a middle or last name, but I didn’t know. So far, she’s just… Yana.” 

“Oh. Like Cher,” Ilya provides, proud of himself for the reference. 

Shane snorts sleepily into his neck. “Fuck off.” 

“Ah-ah!” Ilya whispers, petting over Яна’s head. “Little ears, Hollander.” 

He can almost feel the eye roll. 

“She needs a full name, Rozanov.” 

He heaves a sigh, watching her rise and fall with it on his chest. “Yes. I guess so.” 

“We could hyphenate. Hollander-Rozanov, alphabetically. Or maybe Rozanov-Hollander sounds better,” he rattles off. When Ilya doesn’t immediately respond he adds, “Or—I mean, if you want just Rozanov, then that’s also—” 

“No,” Ilya assuages. “No. I was thinking maybe just Hollander, actually.” 

Shane’s head lifts far enough off his shoulder that it starts to feel cold. Ilya shimmies his neck enough to meet his eye on the pillow. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “Really?” 

Ilya nods. “Yes. It would be Rozanova instead of Rozanov for her, like mama. I have no interest in passing on my father’s name anyway and I have already honored mama with her first name. So.” 

“Hollander, then,” Shane agrees after a long minute where Ilya pretends not to see his eyes going misty. Gentler this time, he lowers his head back to Ilya’s collarbone. “Do we give her a middle name?” 

Ilya’s own middle name had been set in stone from the moment they knew mama was pregnant, a patronymic declaring him his father’s son. Ilya hasn’t used it in years except on official forms, hasn’t uttered it aloud in even longer. He does not belong to Grigory, and perhaps he never had—not in the ways that had mattered to a man like his father. 

He cannot give himself a new middle name, but maybe he can shed this one. And maybe Яна can have a good one, one of her own that is not about ownership or unearned respect. 

And maybe one day, if Ilya is lucky, the three of them will share a last name too. It would be very easy to belong here, he thinks. 

He tells Shane, “You can pick, if you want. It’s only fair. I picked the first one.” 

Shane nuzzles the side of his jaw as he gets comfortable again, then settles with a heavy exhale, warm enough to make Ilya shiver in the coolness of the hospital room. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

Ilya turns just enough to kiss the top of his head, and then resumes his watch. 

+

The day before they leave the hospital, he asks Yuna for a favor. 

David is at home today and Shane is with Яна, and when Yuna offers to go with him on his daily walk, Ilya eagerly accepts. He will have to maybe have more scheduled infusions after this but they removed the one that had stayed in his arm this morning, so he isn’t stuck to a gigantic, loud pole anymore. He is getting better with his balance now too, and the stitches don’t pull at him quite as much as even days before. It feels good, in a way, to get up and stretch his muscles. As much as he can, anyway. 

But today isn’t really about his balance or his pain. Not the physical kind, at least. 

Shortly after when Ilya remembers first waking up, he’d been visited by a chaplain from the hospital. This was not something he’d had any of the other times he’d been in for injuries or smaller things, and he’d been surprised to receive the visit. But due to the nature of his surgery and the cross around his neck he had only parted with when it had become medically necessary, they’d sent someone. 

It was a rare moment where he was alone in the room, truly alone—before Яна came, before Shane’s parents, when the silence, even for the briefest of moments when Shane would step out and come right back, had been suffocating and scary and wrong. When he could not stop thinking about mama. When the blood loss was still making him feel a little bit not real, stuck in a limbo somewhere… else. 

He tells himself it was only coincidence, but even he doesn’t believe it. He had scarcely been left alone much in those first days, monitored almost constantly by either Shane or the nurses and doctors. 

They had offered to pray over him, and Ilya said yes. It was in English, not Russian, but it had resonated all the same, left an ache behind in his chest; a grief he had not known he was still mourning. 

Ilya had never learned to pray the way mama had. But she had done it for him for many years before she did not have the energy anymore, and even then, Ilya had gone to her instead and tried his best to return the favor for her, even if it was clunky and unpolished and inelegant. And mama would smile on the days when words were far, and she would hold his hand to her chest as if showing him the warmth he’d managed to create despite the unceasing winter outside the window, waiting on the other side of the door, growing inside of her where Ilya had once done the same. 

The chaplain had left shortly after sitting with him, and had mentioned that there was a chapel on one of the lower floors. Ilya hasn’t been to one since he was a boy, with stiff shoulders and mama’s hand untangling his and Alexei’s bickering fingers during the liturgy. If he’s honest, he doesn’t think he’s going to seek one out after this either. But while he’s here he feels drawn to it, be it for closure or because of the surgery or because it ties him to mama still, and he doesn’t want to pass it up. Any other chapel still feels chained to the idea of sharply collared shirts and candles that made his sinuses burn, a stern, strong voice much too similar to his father’s telling him how he should act, what he should believe. 

This chapel, tucked into a lower floor of the hospital, where the sick and the grieving and the desperate have been, lacking the fancy clothing or the incense or the ritual of it all,  feels more like one Ilya could be a part of. 

So he asks Yuna to accompany him instead of Shane, and swaps the walker he’s been using for the wheelchair again so that he won’t get tired traveling to the other side of the hospital, saving up his strength. 

“I didn’t know you were religious,” she says once they’re outside of the room, navigating the long, winding corridors toward the elevators. 

“I am not, so much,” Ilya admits, rubbing at the cross underneath his thick hoodie, pulled up to conceal some of his face. “This was my mother’s.” 

“I wondered,” Yuna hums. “It makes you feel closer with her, then?” 

“Sometimes.” 

There is more he could say, but his thoughts are still not organizing themselves as smoothly as he’d like, and the neutral tone of her voice is waking up the insecurity he’s been trying to lay to rest from all of the hormones lately. 

They arrive at the elevator, luckily empty when they step on, and Ilya eyes her from the chair as she presses the button and the doors close them in. His fingers press harder into his necklace. 

“It… bothers you? These kinds of things?” 

“Religion?” she clarifies. “No, it doesn’t bother me. I was just surprised, is all. Brands have been trying to get Shane to wear a cross around his neck for years now. I thought maybe that’s what you were doing,” she explains, and gives him a small smile. “But I didn’t know you very well then, did I?” 

Ilya nods, somewhat relieved. “I thought you were going to say you didn’t think so because I…” he trails off, gesturing loosely with his hand. He can’t use the word his father would use, and he wouldn’t anyway, not to describe what he and Shane are. 

Yuna blinks at him, arms crossed as they descend. 

“If anybody so much as insinuates that you, my son, or my granddaughter are some kind of abomination, I will personally construct a brand new version of hell.” 

Ilya laughs. He means to make a joke about people on the internet, but the connection between his tongue and his brain has not come back—well—online yet. 

“I am several kinds of abomination, I think,” Ilya ends up telling her instead, but even as he says it, maybe especially after he says it, he doesn’t believe it. 

Maybe in that golden, glittering chapel, yes—but not in mama’s eyes. And if mama had believed in a version of it all where Ilya was not doomed, where he could love Shane and where his body could bear proof of that, where he could mess up this many times in so many different ways and still be forgiven, then maybe there was hope for him yet. 

“Look, Ilya,” Yuna says. “I don’t know you that well yet. But I do know my son. And I have faith in the fact that he wouldn’t choose to be with someone who he didn’t expect the best from. If you’ve earned Shane’s respect, you already had mine a long time ago. And I don’t know about you, but nothing about that sounds very damning to me.” 

The elevator stops and the doors slide open, and Ilya ducks his head as they roll past the people in the lobby area until they reach a quieter hallway off the main floor. 

“You can ask me, if there are things you do want to know,” he speaks up when they’re alone again, quieter this time. “I know this was probably very… surprising to hear.” 

Yuna snorts as she pushes his chair, and Ilya’s lips twitch at the similarities between her and Shane. The dryness in their humour, the watchful glint in their eyes. Ilya thinks this might be harder if she were anything like mama was, but it helps that being around her makes him think more of Shane than anything else. 

“Honestly, I’m more surprised by the fact that a Hollander kid came out so small.” 

Ilya fidgets with the strings of his hoodie. “They say it’s normal for when she was born.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it is. But I had Shane at thirty-nine weeks, and that kid was so big I had to be stitched up afterwards. Twice.” 

“No,” Ilya gasps, fighting a grin. “How big?” 

“Ten pounds, if you can believe it. He certainly made an entrance.” 

He laughs. “Amazing. Does Shane know this?” 

Ilya expects another quick answer, but as they turn the corner, the silence stretches with them down the hallway. 

“I’m not sure. I don’t think we’ve ever talked a lot about his birth.” 

He sobers a little, his smile fading. “You do not like talking about it?”  

“Nobody really asks,” Yuna says, and before Ilya can add anything, the wheels come to a stop. “Okay, here we are.” 

Ilya turns and finds dark mahogany wood suddenly in place of the cool grays and whites of the hospital, yellow candlelight flickering just inside. They leave the chair outside the door and he takes her offered hand to help him up, keeping one on his arm while they walk. 

Above it, in faded gold: Whoever will may enter here. 

The air isn’t any different but the enclosed space makes it feel more intimate, the darker colors more inviting. Stained glass panels near the ceiling are the only light from outside, casting fragments of a rainbow on the red carpet that Ilya goes to step on only to find himself blanketed underneath instead. 

The buzz of hospital noise is dull here, and Ilya can make out some sort of purifier or something he can’t see, his attention that had once been drawn to many things all at once suddenly collapsed inward instead. 

Yuna walks him up to one of the first few rows and helps him sit down, then steps back to give him a moment alone. Ilya waits until her footsteps fade, and then reaches up to take down the hood of his sweatshirt. Slowly, he lets his shoulders sink. 

And then… he sits. Part of him, again, had thought it would be something instant. A visible sign or something he can’t ignore or mistake. But he has only the facts; he’d crossed from one room into another. And now he is here. 

He is not sure if he’s allowed to ask for miracles anymore, too tired to twist the past into their shape. He has only himself to bring to the—metaphorical, in this case—altar. He had always despised the man standing up on it and reading off directions, precepts, principles, but now, without them, he feels lost. 

He wishes he could remember mama’s prayers, but he can’t even recall the sound of her voice anymore. The only thing he remembers are the technicalities of it. The tone she’d used, the cadence and the pauses and the emphasis. The way he’d felt when he heard them, tentatively hopeful, safe in the knowledge that he was cradled in the palm of something much, much bigger than him. 

That had been one of the things the chaplain had prayed over him, hand on his shoulder—that Ilya would know he is loved and supported, that he is never truly alone. It’d brought that same feeling back to him, sort of. That relief that he did not have to be in a room by himself, that someone else could keep watch for a little while. 

When mama died, that’s what it felt like. Like Ilya was alone in a big room with cavernous ceilings and tall windows covered in heavy drapes, dirt floating in the air. Where his voice echoed and splinters stained his knees and palms, the door at the end always locked, as if waiting for him to notice something or solve something or do something he hadn’t yet. Ilya had spent years inside that room, adjusting picture frames, folding corners of the bedding, watching the ceiling fan spit dust. He goes back to it sometimes, not quite on accident but never on purpose. No matter how much he changes, it always stays the same. 

For a long time, the room had been vivid. Ilya could smell the rotted wood, see the chips in the paint on the walls, the place where the rug atrophied and turned up at the corners. 

It’s true that he can’t hear the sound of mama’s voice anymore, but the room is also not so easy to stumble into. He can’t remember the texture of the frames or the bedsheets. For the first time, he is looking in from the hallway instead of being swallowed up inside—the clenched fist. 

It is the other side, the open palm, that he doesn’t know how to bridge the gap between. 

He thinks again of the Saints, of Veronica, the trail of blood, the wound that would not cease. The miracle of her healing. When mama used to tell the story, Ilya was always fixated on the climax rather than the impetus. The meeting of flesh to fabric, the instant, miraculous gratification. 

At fifteen, Ilya had prayed for that. The story summed up into a few neat sentences, the blood on his hands made invisible. There had been no good reason for his suffering, no divine justification. 

And yet, if he had not been so determined after that to get out, he might have stayed in Russia to play there like his father had wanted. He would not have the life he has now, or Boston, or his team, would not have been able to bring Sveta with him too. He would not have met Shane, and so he would never have had Яна. 

He would never have known that his prayer for a miracle had been answered, even if it had taken years, even if it could not shrink into the confines of just a few paragraphs, even if it does not fit into any rooms. 

No more begging. No more bleeding. 

He had started crying some time ago, he realizes, cheeks wet when he reaches up to touch them. He turns his face up toward the stained glass above him and lets his eyes close, summoning the words he couldn’t bring himself to say in the back corner of a graveyard in Moscow, somewhere in the liminal space between life and death. 

"Хоть бы ты могла её увидеть, мамаI wish you could see her, mama," he whispers, grinning. “Она такая чудесная. Так любима. Наше маленькое чудо.”“She is so perfect. So loved. Our little miracle.” Opening his eyes, he vows, "Мне жаль, что тебе не довелось дождаться своего чуда. Обещаю: я буду ценить её и никогда не стану воспринимать как должное"I am sorry you did not get yours. I promise not to take this one for granted."

He doesn’t know if heaven exists in the way she’d envisioned it, but he hopes that it does. With a press of his mouth to the cross at his neck, Ilya spends another few moments waiting for his tears to dry, and then stands. 

Yuna returns to help, a hand splayed in between his shoulders as they leave. The candle flickers as he passes it, and as he reaches up to pull the hood over his head again, he smiles. 

+

They wake him up early on his last day. He could’ve done with the extra sleep, he thinks. Judging by the lines carved into Shane’s cheek from the hospital sofa as he chugs a small paper cup of coffee, he is not the only one. 

He hasn’t decided yet how he feels about leaving. Good, in the sense that he would like to be in his own house again, in his own bed, on a schedule that is not constantly interrupted by vital checks and needle pokes and clipboard charts, but nerve wracking when he thinks about the fact that despite it being a familiar place, he will be irreversibly different when he returns to it. He feels so far from the version of himself that had been there only over a week prior, making plans, imagining a future that had been only just theoretical at the time. 

Things have become very, very real since then. 

“We’ve got the chargers, the meds from the pharmacy, formula samples,” Shane lists off to himself, digging through a backpack on the sofa. He asks Ilya, “Have you seen that folder with the postpartum resources in it?” 

Finishing taming his hair with his fingers, Ilya steps out of the bathroom and walks the short distance to the bed without his walker. 

“It is here, I think,” he says, scooping the manila paper from the sheets and handing it over. There is another paper beside it now though, and it looks official. Ilya traces a finger over it. “What is this?” 

“Hm?” Shane asks, still rifling through the bag. It stops when he looks up and sees what Ilya’s holding, and his voice softens. “Oh. I gave them our answer this morning. They just brought by her birth certificate while you were in the bathroom.” 

Ilya’s finger stops where it’d been tracing the edge, and he pulls the page closer to him for a better inspection. It is all there: her time and date of birth, how small she was, his and Shane’s names, and finally, printed neatly on the line—Yana Alyona Hollander. 

A name. A full name, not just the piece of it Ilya had picked out, but something complete, something real. With a quickening heart rate, Ilya touches his thumb to the drying ink. 

“Alyona?” 

“Yeah,” Shane says, at his shoulder now. “Her first name is already for your mom, and it sort of ended up being for mine, too. And I know we want her to have her own name, but I was thinking, and… Alyona means shining light, like—” 

“Sveta,” Ilya finishes with a gasp. 

It hadn’t clicked right away but he can’t untangle them now, the words perfectly distinguishable from each other, yet sharing a precious, common thread of meaning. Ilya reaches up to wipe at his eye before he can get the paper wet. 

“Are you okay with it? I talked to her first—she helped me pick something that wouldn’t be exact and I wanted to make sure the research I did was right—but we agreed that if you had another idea, then—” 

“I love it,” Ilya interjects with a sniff before he can keep rambling. He very carefully sets the certificate down on the sheets again and then reaches for Shane, pulling him in close. “I—it’s perfect, Shane. It’s perfect.” 

They sway like that for a minute, Shane’s hand gently sorting through the curls Ilya had missed untangling in the mirror before. Ilya wipes his cheek off on his shoulder and without lifting it off, turns his face to look at the bed beside them, needing to see it again. 

"Яна Алёна ХолландерYana Alyona Hollander," he says aloud, tasting it for the first time all together. From their other side, Яна makes a gurgling, affirmative noise in her bassinet. Ilya laughs, separating from Shane to turn to her. “Yes. She likes this.” 

“Oh, she told you that?” Shane asks, fighting a grin of his own as Ilya reaches down to lift her into his arms. 

Ilya smacks a kiss to the top of her head, and Яна grunts at him. He nods. “She did, yes. We talk often. I am fluent in baby.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause you are one,” Shane mutters. 

With a gawp, Ilya turns to him. “You cannot chirp me, Hollander. I just had your baby.” 

A thrill simmers through him as the words come out and settle in the room with them. Ilya hadn’t thought about them, had only been trying to rile him up, but it’s his own face that he feels heating at the blatant, unavoidable truth of it. 

Amusement replaced with something else, Shane stares at him from the bed, and then takes the few steps to get to where he’s holding Яна. He looks at Ilya’s mouth while he wets his own, and then nods, slow and certain. 

“Yeah. You did.” 

Ilya makes a noise and twists the short distance he’s able, and Shane meets him halfway. It’s a little more than the sweet, soft kisses they’ve been sharing in the middle of the nights lately, and Ilya feels it like a muscle he’s been resting for months, how much he misses him despite having been right here. 

Shane’s hand lingers on the back of his neck even after they part, breath heavy and lips swollen. He stares at Ilya like that, just for a handful of seconds, and then kisses him once more before he says, “Let’s go home.” 

For the next two hours, Ilya idles restlessly around the room while nurses come in and out with various paperwork and pamphlets and packets, which Shane dutifully folds and slides into his organized backpack for later. 

Yuna shows up just as the last of them leaves, phone in hand and equally as organized as her son. 

“Okay, David’s pulling the car around, car seat’s ready, and I got everything settled with using the staff entrance around back,” she tells them. “Svetlana was arriving just as David and I left this morning, so she’ll be at the house when we get there.” 

He nods. “Thank you, Yuna.” 

“Thanks mom,” Shane echoes. He pats his pockets. “Ilya, are you sure we got the—? Shit, hang on. My phone’s blowing up today.” He pulls it from his pocket with a sigh, a line carved between his brows. 

“Mr. Popular,” Ilya teases as he stands, Яна tucked against his chest. 

Shane mutters, “I’m about to be Mr. Do Not Disturb if it—” 

He cuts himself off so suddenly that Ilya looks away from Яна to glance at him, his own dread growing when Shane’s face has gone completely blank. 

“Shane?” he asks. 

“Hold on.” 

Whatever he’d been reading on his screen evaporates, and when Ilya sees a glimpse of it, Rose Landry’s name is in its place. Ilya’s frown deepens. 

From the sofa, Yuna says, “Honey, Hayden’s texting, he wants you to call him. He says it’s—” 

“Yeah, just—hang on a sec,” Shane interrupts. He slides to accept the call and lifts the phone to his ear, turned slightly away from them while he talks. Ilya can’t hear the other side of the conversation. “You’re serious? Right now?” 

Immediately, he assumes the worst. He’d known it was selfish to make Shane miss part of the game, but it had been stupid to think that someone would not put it together somehow, between the pictures of Sveta from months ago and Ilya’s IR, and the way Shane had disappeared for nearly a week eight months later. Or maybe it’s something worse—maybe someone had seen them inside the hospital, maybe they hadn’t been careful enough with Shane, his parents. Maybe there are pictures of that too, or—or, somehow, of Яна. 

Yuna’s phone pings from the sofa, and Ilya, his palms now wet on the back of Яна’s onesie as he holds her in his neck, darts his eyes toward her while Shane speaks stiffly into the phone. He is not ready to share her. Not yet. 

“Yuna,” he croaks. “Do they know?” 

Her head snaps up from her phone, and it takes a moment to clear the furrow of her brow into something sympathetic instead. 

“No,” she assures, standing from the sofa. Her gaze strays to her phone again. “No, honey, it’s not that. It’s…” 

“Yeah, thanks, Rose. I—I will. I’ll call you back,” Shane says, turning back to them as he hangs up.  

“What the fuck is happening,” Ilya hisses to him, bouncing a little to soothe Яна when she starts to grow restless, picking up on his worry. 

Shane opens his mouth, but Yuna answers first. 

“Scott Hunter just won the Cup,” she breathes, “and then kissed his boyfriend at center ice.” 

Oh. Oh. The relief Ilya feels is enough to make him sit down on the edge of the bed again, petting over Яна’s back in apology, but the rest of him buzzes with something else now, anticipation that has nowhere to go. 

He looks up at Shane. “This is true?” 

“Yeah. It’s real. That was Rose on the phone confirming it, and Hayden’s been texting. It’s all—it’s real. He really did it.” 

Neither of them can look away. Shane is still nodding even though Ilya hadn’t asked anything else, and Ilya—Ilya feels sick and scared and hopeful all at once. He closes his eyes when Shane reaches forward to take his head into his hands, lips pressed to Ilya’s forehead as he folds them into a hug. Ilya buries his face in the center of Shane’s chest and breathes. 

“Shane,” he rasps. “What does—what does this mean?” 

“I don’t know,” Shane admits. “I… maybe we don’t have to know right now.” 

Yuna doesn’t disrupt them until they pull away from each other, but she’s there waiting when they part, her own expression intense, thoughtful, nothing Ilya could begin to define. Shane grabs the bags and Ilya sits down with Яна in the wheelchair, and Yuna wheels him out into the hallway toward the elevator. 

The silence is hesitant and unbroken, until Ilya can’t take it anymore. 

“I can’t believe this.” 

“I know,” Shane agrees. “It’s crazy.” 

“No, that Hunter won the Cup.” Yuna snorts, and Shane flicks the back of his head for the attitude. Unfair, because Ilya is holding their baby and cannot retaliate. Instead, he says flatly, “Ow.” 

“Be nice,” Shane admonishes lightly, stroking his knuckles over the spot. 

“He might be right,” Yuna adds. “As much as I would have loved to see the Cup go to one of you again, the two of you might want to start making some connections. I know nothing’s happening urgently, but down the line, it’d be nice to have support like that.” 

Something about villages, Sveta had said. 

Ilya watches as Shane takes a separate route through the hospital on the ground floor to meet them at the car, and tilts his head to let Yuna fix the hood over it again. Яна stirs, cocooned in her own blanket against his chest, strongly opposed to being restricted in any way. 

One day, Ilya thinks, there will be no separate routes and hoods and cocoons. And that will be scary and exciting in its own way, probably. He lowers his face to hers to nuzzle their noses together until she settles again. 

For now, he only wants to make it home.

Chapter End Notes

i knowwwww baby names are a sensitive topic in fandom, especially when named in honor of another character. but i felt like this one made sense, so hopefully it lands! (and if not, they don't use her full name a lot in writing anymore in the fic so ksjdgfjsdfg)

notes on the religious lore:

- while i've taken some liberties describing the hospital itself, ‘whoever will may enter here’ is really on the door of the chapel at MG, and originates from revelation 22:17
- in the story of veronica referenced in the interlude and in this chapter, the woman bleeds for 12 years, and completely on accident, the gap between ilya’s surgery and when he has yana spans 11 years. it’s not exact, but i think it adds another cool layer to the parallels!

we’re back in shane’s head for next chap! <3

Chapter 12: xi. one week postpartum

Chapter Summary

They haven’t watched the video yet. It’s all been secondhand, filtered through Rose, Hayden. Svetlana doesn’t ask them if they’ve seen it, and Shane’s grateful for it. He’s happy for Scott, immensely so. More than he knows how to put into words. But there’s too much there left for him to untangle first, the anger and the fear and the hope all at once.

The truth is that Shane doesn’t feel like he’s processed much of anything at all from the moment he’d watched Ilya being wheeled off to the OR.

Chapter Notes

a little bit of a shorter chap this time, I struggled a bit with where to cut it off, but I think this makes the most sense in terms of both length and subject matter. the next chap will be an accompaniment to this one, and then the epilogue! hoping to get this wrapped up before kinktober starts, but we'll see. thank you guys for sticking around!! x

content warnings:

continued discussion and description of chest feeding methods, ilya uses a pump, and there's some brief introspection into shane's autism if you choose to view it through that lens. one indirect reference to ilya's story about irina's suicide from previous chapters. we also get shane's pov of what happened in the gap between chap 9 and 10 which includes mentions of blood, fear of loss/death, and medical trauma from a partner's perspective. it only lasts a few paragraphs during shane's conversation with yvonne and isn't terribly detailed, but please be aware of it as it has not been directly discussed until now.

S H A N E

one week postpartum

Ilya’s house looks nearly unrecognizable from last year. 

The last time Shane had been here there’d been some evidence; the nursery, the downstairs bedroom, Yvonne’s notes scattered across the coffee table in the living room and a sonogram stuck to the fridge. But when he and Ilya step inside for the first time after the hospital, things are different. 

There are thin curtains extended halfway down the floor-to-ceiling windows that Shane didn’t even know Ilya had, the wall sconces actually turned on along the hallway into the living room. It makes things much warmer than the wide open daylight, and the house isn’t swallowed up in shadows already by the time afternoon shifts into evening. 

Some things can’t be changed—the sparkling tile that runs through the bottom floor is still there, and some of the angular, minimalist-style architecture around the stairs and the fireplace remains. But every sharp edge has been dutifully covered, a safety gate installed on the button of the stairs. The lower drawers and cabinets have guards fixed on them now, and any of the stylish decor that Ilya bought along with the house has been either moved up or put away, his mother’s label maker stored neatly atop the fridge, his father’s tool box beside it. 

The picture that Svetlana had taken of them the last time he was here has been printed and framed, sitting underneath the TV in the living room. Ilya cries when he sees it, and it’s the first time Shane has seen him initiate a hug on his own since those first few days in the hospital. 

“You think he is going to cry again when he sees the nursery?” Svetlana sidles up to ask while Shane watches it unfold. He has a difficult time looking away from Ilya’s white knuckles in the back of his mother’s shirt. 

“Why? Did Marly come back with his hammer?” 

Svetlana laughs. “No. Your parents and I finished it.” 

“You—what?” Shane says, and turns to face her. “But I’ve been here since then. How did you—?” 

“You have been here to come in, pass out in the downstairs bedroom for a nap, and then go back to the hospital. You have not been upstairs.” Her smirk gives way to a smile as she squeezes his arm. “You two deserve this, Shane. Let us help.” 

She pauses for a moment. 

“Cliff did send another gift basket, though.” 

“Oh, God. How big is it?” he asks, grateful for the swift distraction. She laughs and says nothing as they continue through the house. “No. Svetlana.” 

He likes having her around, as much as he’d been wary of it at first. It was difficult, learning to exist in a world where they could have both each other and everyone else they loved. But watching Ilya do it, the way he gets to keep his oldest friend while also tentatively settling into Shane’s family and simultaneously building one of their own—it makes Shane think. It makes him want. 

He knows it’s different. Svetlana is adjacent to the hockey world, certainly. But her loyalty was to Ilya before anything else. Just like how Marly knows a fraction of the truth but not the whole of it, Shane’s people are all tied to the hockey. Hayden and J.J. he trusts, but they’re all three aware in very different ways just how much power the league holds over them if they were to step out of line. The stakes vary, but they aren’t any less real. 

Shane’s lived with this for nearly a decade of his life, held secrets in some form or another that could have sent the entire thing toppling down. He’d been paranoid, gone out of his way to cover his tracks, told lies, even if he’d done it all in some twisted form of protection. And he’d do it again in a heartbeat, for Ilya. 

But would he really feel comfortable subjecting someone else to that? His mother had said to make connections, not just a web of people maintaining his lies. 

He hasn’t stopped thinking about Scott Hunter since the hospital. He can tell that it’s made Ilya just as restless, their fidgeting fingers tangled together in the backseat of the car. If Shane’s reading the lines right—which he doesn’t, sometimes, to be fair—he’s pretty sure the look in Ilya’s eyes equates to the one mirrored in his own: ready for change but too scared to take the next steps when the ones they’re on now aren’t even sturdy yet. 

They haven’t watched the video. It’s all been secondhand, filtered through Rose, Hayden. Svetlana doesn’t ask them if they have, and Shane’s grateful for it. He’s happy for Scott, immensely so. More than he knows how to put into words. But there’s too much there left for him to untangle first, the anger and the fear and the hope all at once. 

The truth is that Shane doesn’t feel like he’s processed much of anything at all from the moment he’d watched Ilya being wheeled off to the OR. 

His dad stays downstairs with the baby while his mother and Svetlana take them to see the nursery. Shane’s glad they’re still sleeping on the bottom floor for a while, he thinks as he stands directly behind Ilya on the stairs, forearms layered parallel to Ilya’s, their hands laced tightly together as they take the steps one at a time. Shane would just carry him again, if he weren’t still leery of accidentally hurting the scar himself. 

When they reach the landing, Ilya’s breathing hard and both of their palms are slick, and Shane rubs over his back in apology. 

“I’m fine,” Ilya says, slightly breathless when he realizes there are three pairs of eyes on him. “I need to practice anyway.” 

His mother’s voice is soft when she speaks again. “We’ll just give you a quick tour, and then you can relax for the rest of the night.” 

Svetlana was right; Ilya does cry when he sees the nursery. 

Shane does too. 

Where before there had been only the lounger and rocking chair, the crib, and a dresser, the room now encompasses a changing table, a linen basket, and a small bookshelf too. 

Svetlana’s paint sampling has been painted over with a pale but warm cream-brown that reminds Shane of a stuffed bear, and he can see some more of her design input scattered throughout in the throw blanket, the expensive looking white noise machine by the window, the artsy, elegant mobile hanging above the crib. He notices the Russian children’s books in between the others on the bookshelf at the same time Ilya does, and blinks hard himself at the hitch of Ilya’s breath at the sight of them. 

Above it, the rest of the shelving has been put up, and with the others his dad’s hung up around it, the crookedness of the ones Marleau installed first are more of a fond quirk than an eye sore. Shane runs a finger over one of them, the memorabilia and picture frames waiting to be filled, and thinks they must have been working on this non-stop since they’ve been here in order to get it all finished. 

Shane finds himself wrapping his mother into a hug and sees Ilya and Svetlana doing the same on the other side of the room. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into her shoulder. His own have dropped sometime since he stepped over the threshold, ignorant to how tense he’d been about having to do all of this himself once they returned. 

A russian word he’s mostly positive is an expletive of some kind lures his attention back, and Shane wipes his eyes as he picks his head up to look over. 

Ilya’s got the closet doors open now, brows comically raised in Svetlana’s direction as he gestures toward the noticeably very full rack of baby clothes inside. Hands on her hips, Svetlana maintains her ground as she fires something back at him, but the tops of her cheeks are warmer. Ilya shakes his head as he looks back at the closet, and for a moment Shane can’t tell if this is a genuine argument or not. 

Eventually, he turns and squeezes the back of her neck, pressing a kiss to her head, and Shane relaxes again. He doesn’t think he can take much more emotion today. 

“I wanted her to have this,” Svetlana says in English again as she walks over to them, picking something up out of the crib. “I had one when I was little.” 

“And she slept with it until we were teenagers,” Ilya drawls. She shoots him a glare. 

“Or did I? Because I seem to remember that someone kept stealing it from me for weeks at a time.” 

“Lies,” Ilya maintains with a sniff. “You are not setting a good example for the baby, Sveta.” 

“What is it?” Shane asks. 

He steps closer to look, and at first it only looks like a blanket. No bigger than a chess board, the material softer than silk but thick enough to hold warmth when he runs it through his fingers. But it’s heavier in the middle, and when he lifts it, he notices that the head of a teddy bear has been sewn into the fabric. 

“Is like успокаивающая вещьa comfort item,” Ilya says. “Sort of like… safety blanket? Comfort thing?” 

“It’s lovely,” Shane tells her. “Did you make it yourself?” 

Ilya snorts at that, and Svetlana turns and pinches his arm, patience thin even as her mouth twitches. 

Shane is not expecting his mother to say, “I did.” 

The only time he’s ever seen her pick up a needle and thread was in a last-second time crunch if he’d ripped a seam in one of his jerseys before a game. And even then it was mostly glasses slipping underneath a stubbornly furrowed brow, the hiss of a muttered curse as the trajectory shifted and caught her finger instead. 

The thought of her wanting to bring Svetlana’s idea to life, going to a fabric store and picking out the soft material Shane hasn’t been able to stop rubbing his knuckles against since he first held it, spending hours making it perfect despite also working on the nursery and visiting them at the hospital, makes a knot form in his throat. 

“You… you did?” Shane asks. 

“It is much better than the one I had,” Svetlana admits. “I think she will love it.” 

He sees Ilya nod in his peripherals. “Yes, it is perfect. Thank you, Yuna.” 

Hesitantly, his mother nods, and her eyes flicker to Shane. 

There are some natural gaps in his memory of his childhood, but Shane remembers parts of it well. He certainly doesn’t consider himself to have ever had absent parents, and he generally thinks the three of them were close as he was growing up until—well, until somewhere around rookie year, maybe. 

But there were still times when his mother had seemed… distant. The younger Shane tries to imagine himself, the more frequent it’d been. 

He knows he hadn’t always been an easy child. He’d thrown tantrums, been overwhelmed easily and confused about how to communicate the fact that while things from his perspective would build and build until he eventually collapsed, outwardly he just seemed to snap from zero to one hundred. It would stress any parent out, he’s sure. He gets it. 

Even still, getting it doesn’t necessarily take away the sting of a locked door while he’d stood outside in the hallway, something skewed in the softness of his father’s tone as he said your mom just needs a little while by herself, bug. She’ll be back soon. He hadn’t realized until later on that most times it happened were because of him. 

His mom has always been there for the big things. And Shane’s never doubted that if he asked for something, she would give it. Even if it was hard. Even if it took blood, sweat, effort. Even if it meant pricking her fingers on fabric needles outside of a hockey rink just so Shane wouldn’t have to play with a loose string, just so he wouldn’t be giving anyone else one more reason to look. 

Somewhere along the way, though, that was what it became. She didn’t know how to be around him in the in betweens, when he was just being, and so he’d become something that needed. That achieved. 

When had he stopped? Like those gaps in memory, he has only a snapshot of before and after, the knowledge that he had. He loses himself staring at the tiny blanket in his hand, wondering which of them had approached the door first. He isn’t sure that it matters so much, with the wood shredded to dust under their feet. 

Shane clears his throat, and echoes Ilya’s words when he can’t find his own. “It’s perfect.” 

The line of her mouth trembles for only a second before it smooths again, her shoulders rising with a breath. “Good.” 

Downstairs, his father is taking Yana on a tour at the windows, pointing out things in the yard and speaking about them in relatively the same way he does with Shane on weekly phone calls. Shane smiles as he helps Ilya down the last few steps into the dining room, watching as he hands Yana off to Svetlana and his mom, who are quick to begin cooing over her in the living room while his dad makes dinner. 

“I can help,” Shane offers. 

“Nope,” his dad smiles, polite but firm in his denial. “You go relax. I’ve got it.” 

Later, after a nap that he and Ilya fall into a heap on the downstairs bed to savor more than any hospital room could ever allow, they all have dinner together. A warmed bottle is handed to him for Yana as they set the food out, sheet lines still in Ilya’s cheek as he watches on from the seat beside him. 

It is the most crowded table he’s been at lately that hasn’t required him to wear a tux and a smile that feels like a stain. He doesn’t have to sip champagne and he doesn’t have to make any speeches, even if his mind is filled with dozens of half-finished thoughts he’s restless to find some way to express. 

When he’s been quiet for a few minutes, Yana handed off again so that he can eat his own food, he feels a light pressure at the side of his foot. At first he thinks on accident, and then more persistently, resting solid against him. He doesn’t have to look to know. 

The sun sets behind the treeline outside the windows, and the lights inside stay warm, the doors open. Shane lifts the fork to his mouth again and presses back. 

+

The first time Shane notices that something’s changed, he doesn’t think much of it. 

They’re days out from the hospital with a brand new baby, both of them sleep deprived, Ilya’s body still weak from the blood loss and trauma. Shane can’t fathom a world in which it wouldn’t make sense that one or both of them might be a little on edge. 

He’s been taking care of most of the nightly feedings and diaper changes since Ilya’s balance is still slightly off, and neither of them have felt particularly comfortable with him handling her without supervision just yet. It was logical. 

Even during the day, when she would cry, hungry or wet or simply displeased with the world for a moment, there was Shane’s mom. His dad. Svetlana, when she was here. A cycle to rotate through when Shane also needed a break for a few minutes. 

Somewhere around the middle of the night when Yana needs to be fed and Shane jolts himself awake again to go to her, he tries something different. Ilya had been so content to hold her in the hospital, so visibly proud of himself for managing it even when his hands shook and his energy waned after mere minutes. They’d spent hours at a time just staring at her together, in awe. 

“Why don’t you try it tonight?” Shane offers him the warm bottle in the gentlest voice he can manage, Yana propped in the crook of his arm as he sits on the edge of the bed. “I can help hold her like we did at the hospital, and you can—” 

“No,” Ilya says, too quick. His eyes flick away from Shane. “No. I—sorry.” 

And Shane agrees, “Okay,” and feeds her anyway, pats her back for a few minutes, then settles her back to sleep again before he gets back in bed. 

But he doesn’t forget about it. 

The next night, he’s awoken not by Yana crying, but by Ilya nudging his shoulder, telling him that she’s about to. 

“How do you know?” Shane murmurs, knuckling at his eyes as he reaches for the bedside lamp. He hardly finishes the sentence before Yana gives a weak mewl, and then begins to wail. 

Ilya is sitting up already halfway against the headboard, and appears to have been that way for a little while now. Shane opens his mouth to ask if Ilya wants to try it this time, but the rigidity in his shoulders, the tension radiating off of him in waves doesn’t suggest as much. 

With a large breath, Shane pulls his legs from the covers and stands, walking over to her bassinet on Ilya’s side. He shushes her as he picks her up, patting her back until she quiets enough that he can get to the kitchen. Ilya watches them leave, is still watching the doorway when they return, watches the whole way through as Shane goes through the same process from the other nights until he’s back in bed again. 

So Ilya won’t hold her, but he won’t take his eyes off of her either. 

When it stretches from four nights, to five, to six, Shane turns on the lamp before Yana ever begins to cry, and sits up at Ilya’s level with both of their shoulders against the headboard. 

“Baby,” he says, more loose-tongued with his affection in the middle of the night. “You have to sleep.” 

“I do sleep,” Ilya insists. “I took nap earlier. I am fine.” 

“I think we’re supposed to sleep when she sleeps,” Shane tries to reason. 

Ilya shifts underneath the sheets, head tilted away from him, on Yana’s bassinet. With every part of him visibly wilting with exhaustion, he mutters, “Not tired.” 

Shane takes another moment to enjoy the warmth of their bed, and then gets out of it again. Ilya springs a look at him when he feels the bed shift, eyes wide over his shoulder. 

“Where are you going?” 

Opening up the bedside drawer, Shane grabs his glasses and the book he’d set aside in case he found himself restless one night, and takes them both over to the chair beside Yana’s bassinet. 

“Do you trust me to watch her?” 

“What?” Ilya asks, taken aback. “Of course. It’s not—”

“Okay. Then I’m staying up.”

Shane sits down and bends a leg underneath himself, leaning over to check on Yana before he gets comfortable in the chair. He slips his glasses onto his nose and doesn’t ignore the way Ilya’s staring at him, but doesn’t press on it either. 

“Shane.” 

“I’ll watch her. I won’t fall asleep. And I’ll be right here, if you wake up and want to check,” he assures. “But you have to get some sleep, Ilya. You can’t keep going like this.” 

The silence stretches for a while, only the rustling of Shane’s book pages turning and Yana shifting in her sleep. Slowly, Ilya’s body turns on the bed as the minutes unfold, until he’s on his side, knees drawn up, temple against the bedframe. Shane lets him look. 

Eventually, he croaks, “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” 

“I am,” he says. “I’m sorry, Shane. I don’t want—it’s not on purpose.” 

At that, Shane glances up, sobered to find his face wet, glistening in the lamplight. Ilya’s mouth is so twisted to keep whatever he wants to keep in from coming out that his whole face withers with it, and Shane puts his book down with a careful hand. 

“I didn’t really think it was,” he admits. 

Ilya squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again as if he can’t bring himself to be in the darkness for long. 

“I just—I—every time I fall asleep, I worry that when I wake up, she—” he cuts himself off with a sob, and Shane freezes, the same way the entire world had held its breath between when Ilya had whispered weeks ago I fell asleep and she was not holding me anymore. 

Shane gets out of the chair.  

“Ilya. Ilya, hey.” He sits down on the bed in the space between Ilya’s face and his bent knees, where he’s curled onto his side. “Baby. Look at me.” 

“I—I am so tired,” Ilya cries, hiding inside of his hands. 

Shane bends completely over him, holds as much of him as he can without crushing him. “I know.” 

“But I can’t not watch her, I can’t—” 

“You can,” Shane pulls back to tell him, sweeping a thumb underneath his tired eyes. “You can, because I’m going to do it for you. Just for tonight, okay? Can we see how that feels?” 

His own voice shakes when he asks it, the exhaustion catching up to him too. Ilya shivers on the bed as he catches his breath, and Shane waits him out. Eventually, he sniffles, gaze flicking up to Shane’s face. 

“I don’t know if I will be able to fall asleep,” he confesses, but he doesn’t sound as opposed to the idea of it this time. 

“That’s okay. Can you try?” 

Barely, Ilya nods. “You will wake me up if…?”  

“Yes. I promise.” Shane strokes a hand over the back of his head, and his eyes flutter. He bends to press his lips there. “Do you want the lights off?” 

“No. On, please.” 

Standing from the bed, Shane stoops to pull the sheets up over him and tuck them in, and then walks back to the chair. He has a good view of Ilya here, just a few feet between them, Yana sleeping soundly at his side. 

“She cannot—you know, she cannot sleep on her tummy,” Ilya murmurs, half slurring with his eyes in stubborn slits. 

As if Shane hadn’t been the one to tell him this, he smiles and says, “I know.” 

“And she does not like the… um. The blanket… с перьямиwith feathers…”

Another Marleau gift. “I know, Ilya.”

He squirms around underneath the sheets for a minute, and the wince on his face nearly makes Shane get back up to help him readjust with the scar. But abruptly, his leg shifts up, cheek smushed hard into the pillow, and then he’s out. 

He’s snoring within minutes, mouth open and eyes moving behind closed lids. His own tiredness aside, Shane wants to commit it to memory. He also kind of wants to cry. It’s probably the lack of sleep. 

He reaches for his book and reopens to the page he’d been on, knowing full well that he won’t be comprehending anything, but at least it’ll keep him up until Yana needs him. 

So. Ilya still won’t hold her. But at least one of them is getting some sleep. 

+

When Ilya wakes up, still not with a full night but at least having slept a few hours, Shane leaves him in the bedroom to watch Yana and heads to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He can feel the exhaustion creeping in, causing misfires and clumsy mistakes. He’ll have to catch up on his own hours pretty imminently, but—coffee, maybe, first. Just in case. 

Most of the house is still asleep but his mother is awake, sitting up at Ilya’s dining table with her laptop open in front of her, her planner out to one side, reading glasses on her nose. She looks up when Shane walks in and offers him a small, acknowledging smile. 

“Coffee?” she asks. Shane feels like a bobble-head, top heavy when he nods. 

He makes himself eat something while she brews it for him, a bagel with spread just so there’ll be something on his stomach. But as soon as he reaches for the pantry, she stops him. 

“Freezer. Top drawer,” she says. “Couldn’t sleep last night, so I figured I’d do some meal prep.” 

They’ve been doing meal to meal lately, all of them taking turns making things while Ilya rests. It’s all been pretty spur of the moment, which means Shane’s had to sacrifice some preferences for whatever’s the closest to him, but when he opens the freezer to find a polenta omelette staring back at him, he thinks he could sink to the floor and weep. 

“Fuck,” he blows out on an exhale. He’s too tired to even imbue much remorse into it when he says, “Sorry.” 

His mother snorts and takes the coffee off of the machine, then makes herself a second one. 

He slips the plate into the microwave to warm it, then brings it over to the table to sit down across from her. It’s still early, the birds only beginning to sing from the trees out the window behind him. Shane slices through the omelette and eats and tries to savor it, eyeing the spread of notes out on the wood between them as he chews. 

“Did they say anything else?” he asks. 

She levels him a look over the lid of her laptop, and the sigh that follows is answer enough even before she replies, “They’re not budging.” 

Shane nods and feels her looking at him even as he goes back to his breakfast. Neither of them says anything for a while, until Shane is finished scraping his plate for crumbs and has swallowed every last drop of his coffee, and he feels slightly more like a person now but no less tired, and significantly more frustrated. 

He stands, takes the plate to the sink, washes it and sets it out to dry. Then he turns and makes himself a second cup, too. 

“It’s your call, Shane,” she tells him when he sits down again, using his mug as a shield. “If you want us to keep pushing, we keep pushing. We have leverage.” 

He sets the cup down between them. “And if I don’t?” 

As if to see and match him, she closes the lid of her laptop and removes her glasses to reveal her own weary eyes, but there’s a determination in the cross of her arms on the table as she leans forward. 

With a very controlled level of casualty, she says, “I have some ideas about that too.” 

Shane takes a big gulp of the caffeine and reaches for the pile. 

+ 

Yvonne arranges for house visits twice a week at first. She’s put them in touch with a good pediatrician already should they need it, but Shane feels better that her attention isn’t shifting, that she’s still as meticulous and thorough about Ilya’s care as she had been prior to Yana’s birth. 

They get an all clear, for the most part. Ilya’s scar is healing on track, and he’s not showing any more signs of internal bleeding. Shane waits off to the side as Yvonne asks questions, adds things when he can and holds his tongue when Ilya tosses him a look that says not here, not now, please. 

He hovers when she walks him through a self-exam of his chest, letting Ilya be the one to do it himself this time. It’s a relief to hear that he still doesn’t have any clogging or concerning symptoms, but Shane can see the way Ilya’s shoulders curve inward after, like he’d almost wished there would have been just so there would be a reason for the lack of result. 

She briefs them again on how to use the pump they’d bought for home use, then hands it to Ilya. “I’d be happy to wait out here and give you some privacy, but it would be really helpful if you could just try to use it for a short, ten to fifteen minute cycle on a low setting while I’m still here. That way I can answer any questions you might have and help adjust if anything is uncomfortable.” 

After answering a few of Shane’s clarifying questions, Yvonne gives them an encouraging smile and takes a seat beside the couch while Shane helps Ilya up from it, presses a hand to his back and leads them toward the bedroom. 

His parents are upstairs with the baby and Svetlana won’t be here until dinner, so the downstairs stays quiet as they get situated. Shane closes the door behind them while Ilya reluctantly begins to strip off his shirt, his back to Shane as he walks toward the bed. 

It’s dejá vù to the second time Shane had ever been here, that first night they were sharing this bed together when he’d been endlessly enamored with Ilya’s body but too scared to reach out and touch. He feels the same way now, when he sees the silhouette of Ilya’s hips, the curve that last few months have shaped. 

Ilya’s pregnancy was not about him. Shane knows that. It wasn’t even something he’d known about for the first six months, and even after that he hadn’t been there enough to appreciate it properly, to hold through the tremors and the pain and the complications. He’d played a hand in in it, yes, but Ilya’s pregnancy was Ilya’s, and had been right from the beginning. 

Even so, Shane can’t see any part of him now without thinking about it—without something in the back of his mind saying look what he endured for this, for you. It opens up an entirely new set of feelings tangled in barbed wire. He looks at Ilya and wants in the way he always has, desperately and all encompassing and in what’s probably a little unhealthily possessive. He looks at Ilya and thinks, still, why would you have done this? Why sacrifice your body, your career, your life and family to have this? 

The thought is, of course, a dead end. Shane can’t be in the same room as their daughter and not know. But he sees every grimace when a movement pulls on Ilya’s scars, has been there for every sleepless night since she’s been home with them, has soaked up an infinite number of Ilya’s tears with his skin, enough to have memorized the taste. You’re a miracle, Shane wants to tell him. And you’re miserable. 

I love you and I’m sorry and do you hate me for it and that sick, twisted thrill of you have wanted me in a way that cannot be undone and you will always bear proof of. 

Even if it costs him. 

Ilya leans back against the headboard, bare from the waist up. Shane forces himself out of his own head and stalks forward, wishes that his nakedness were a choice instead of a medical mandate. Makes do with what he can. 

His hands are cool when he touches Ilya’s chest, and he apologizes for it as he positions the pump like Yvonne had explained, fixing the specially shaped flange to the swell of Ilya’s pec while Ilya holds it in place. Reaching for the bag with the bottles in it, Shane bypasses them for the smaller collection cups. The machine has to have it in order to suction properly but they’re not anticipating any actual production for now, and the larger bottles will undoubtedly make Ilya just as miserable as anything else they’ve tried so far if he just has to stare at them empty the whole time. 

“Okay, I think that’s right. And then we just…” Shane says, and reaches over to turn on the machine. 

It starts up with a gasp of suction, and Ilya makes an involuntary, uncertain noise. It starts pulling in quick, short intervals at first like Yvonne had explained, and Ilya’s face is twisted up when Shane looks, his eyes closed as he breathes through his nose. 

He drifts a hand far away from Ilya’s chest, over his leg. “Is that too much? We can adjust it.” 

Ilya exhales long and slow and mutters, “No. It’s good.” 

“Okay. Do you… want me to stay?” 

When the machine plateaus for just a few seconds, Ilya glances up at him, chewing at his lip. Guiltily, he says, “No, maybe. Sorry.” 

“That’s fine,” Shane tells him. “I’ll be in the living room with Yvonne. Just let me know if you need anything, alright?” 

Ilya swallows hard, and then winces when the machine starts up another round. He gives Shane a weak smile. “Thank you.” 

Leaving the door only barely ajar so that he can hear, Shane crosses through the kitchen first to check on his parents and Yana in the nursery, and then returns downstairs to Yvonne, waiting in the living room. 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asks, rounding the couch. “Ilya and I really appreciate you coming out here for the house calls.” 

“Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks,” she smiles. “Ilya is certainly worth it.” 

Shane ducks his head as he takes a seat on the sofa again. “Yes, he is.” 

“Actually, Shane, I would love to talk to you about something while we have the chance.” 

He glances up. “Without Ilya?” 

She nods. “If you’re comfortable with that. It’s not anything private. It’s about you, actually.” 

“Me?” he asks, dread turning in his stomach. “Alright.” 

He wishes that he had something to wet his throat now. 

“I know you’re only a week out, so there’s still a lot on your plate. And I definitely do not want to add to that. But I did want to let you know—a few weeks ago, I offered Ilya a referral for a counselor if he were to need one postpartum. I’d like to make you the same offer.” 

Oh. “Why?” 

Yvonne’s head tilts. “Ilya’s delivery is what we would consider to be traumatic,” she explains patiently. “For him, yes. But also for you.”

“I’m not the one that gave birth.” 

“No,” she agrees, “and I’m not comparing your experience with Ilya’s. They’re entirely different. Ilya was heavily sedated for the birth itself, which was traumatic for him in its own way. But you experienced no reprieve from the stress of worrying about a loved one while they were in an intensive surgery, and meeting your baby for the first time in what was likely a much different environment than you were expecting.” She pauses for a moment, then in a much softer tone, adds, “There were also the complications from the post-op blood loss, which—”  

“Yeah,” Shane croaks before she can finish, which is answer enough in itself. He brings a hand up to jab his fingers into his eyes. “Yeah. Alright.” 

He feels like he’s thought about it not really at all and also every waking moment since it happened. When he doesn’t, he feels guilty, and when he does, he still feels guilty, just in a different way. 

He hadn’t been angry, not knowing about Yana until later on in the pregnancy. Despite their promises to make up for lost time, he’d never felt resentment, not even really regret, other than that he’d left that day in Boston in the first place. He wasn’t angry when he wasn’t here, because that was his own doing. And he’s not angry at Ilya for any of it, not the delivery, not his choices, not how he’s handling it. 

But now, in the aftermath, he allows himself to be a little bit angry at the world. He’d like to blame something more specific than that, but he isn’t sure what. 

He doesn’t have the sort of faith that Ilya does, doesn’t feel any conviction at pointing toward the sky and demanding answers. But it leaves him lost in times like this, when it feels like there should be some great big reason to attribute the things he doesn’t understand to, the instances where things had been more difficult than they needed to be with no explanation. Somewhere to place blame other than so persistently onto himself. 

He’s so relieved that both Ilya and Yana are okay that he could have—and has—cried over it. A good amount. But there’s a stubborn piece of him that still wants to demand answers for why things couldn’t have been different. 

Why they couldn’t have gotten their shit together earlier. Why Shane wasn’t brave enough to stay when Ilya had pushed, why they couldn’t have found out that Ilya was capable of this under different circumstances. Why Ilya had been subjected to that kind of surgery so young in the first place. 

Why couldn’t it have been the way he’s seen in all the movies, where they’re all awake and aware, where Shane could have held his hand and pushed his hair from his face? Where they could have heard her voice for the first time together, uninhibited by the CPAP or anesthesia or the lack of extra time she was supposed to have spent safe inside of Ilya’s body? Why couldn’t Ilya have given birth in a hospital room surrounded by the people who cared about him instead of strangers on an operating table? Why couldn’t the gap between her first breath and her first time against Ilya’s chest have been seconds instead of days? 

Of the people still here taking care of Ilya, he and Yvonne are the only ones that know the full extent of it. 

His dad had heard the nurse calling for him, and his mother had caught him more than once sitting against a hallway wall with his knees to his chest, enough to infer that it had been bad. Svetlana had been there when Shane had had to hold him down, when he’d had to overpower him in a fight he never wanted to have to win. 

But before that, it was only him and Yvonne and a tiny room full of strangers trying to keep Ilya breathing. No one knows that Shane had begged and Yvonne’s hands had shaken, or the way the single long beep had sliced through the room, or that merely an hour after Shane had first marveled at the life of their daughter, he had held Ilya’s cool, clammy hand at his bedside and anticipated the opposite. That for days he had stayed awake just to watch, just to make sure, the same way Ilya does with their daughter now. 

After that, when Ilya had asked if Shane was disappointed about the hysterectomy, that he wouldn’t be able to do this again, and Shane had struggled to find a way to tell him that he was, in fact, so relieved that he would never have to see Ilya suffering so viscerally again that it gave him vertigo he’s still trying to find his balance from. 

He still sees it when he closes his eyes. So he opens them, and Yvonne is already looking when he does. She is the only person Shane can’t insist that he’s fine with. That he isn’t just tired. 

“I’m not trying to pressure you, Shane. You don’t even have to use the referral if you don’t want it. But I would be remiss if I didn’t at least make it known to you that it was an option—one that I highly recommend, both as a medical professional and as someone who has experienced this alongside the both of you in a different way.” 

“I don’t—how does it, like. Work?” he rasps, voice low. “Would we do it together?” 

“Together is an option, if you want that. But typically, because the experience of the person giving birth and the supporting partner is so different and both ideally need the time and space to work through that, most couples see different counselors, at least at first. Especially if one of you would like to begin that journey earlier than the other,” she explains. “A lot of couples worry about adding more stress onto their partner during what is already a stressful time. This introduces a neutral third party that can help you carry those things and free up some more space to enjoy the good things, too.” 

That… doesn’t sound awful, Shane thinks. He isn’t very good at opening up to people, has to dig around just to feel like he has something to offer that’s interesting and isn’t hockey. Being psychoanalyzed is far from his idea of a good time, but if he was talking about Ilya, if he had somewhere to put this down without feeling so guilty for it or like he was betraying Ilya’s trust—maybe it would help. 

He shifts on the couch, wipes his hands off on his thighs. “So this is… common? I guess?” 

“Incredibly so. Usually I make it clear to both partners prior to the birth experience, so they’re aware it’s an option. Even if they don’t think they’ll need it at the time. But I wasn’t able to do that with you, and I’d like to remedy that now.” 

“Could I do it from home?” Shane asks, already considering logistics. “Everything’s still so… I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable just—leaving right now. Especially while we’re still in Boston.” 

“Completely understandable. I’m aware of several options that offer over-the-phone or virtual sessions, and I’d be happy to vet a few more until you’re happy with the referral.” 

Shane thinks about it. “I think—I think that’d be doable.” 

“I’m glad to hear you’re considering it, Shane,” she smiles lightly. “Remember—there’s no need to make a decision right away. I’ll get some info together and send it over to you within the next few days, and Ilya already has my list I sent to him a few weeks ago, when and if he wants to use it.” 

He nods. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, Shane.” 

She doesn’t push or make him talk about any more, and as a few more minutes pass, he feels some of the tension ebbing away again. Just as he’s about to excuse himself to go and check on Ilya there’s the sound of a door hitting the stopper, and shuffling in the hallway outside of the bedroom. 

“Shane?” echoes past the kitchen. They both stand from the couch and chair. 

“Yeah?” Shane calls back. 

Ilya’s voice lowers. “Is—um. I am done, I think.” 

“Okay,” he says, and glances sideways and then back toward the hallway. “Do you want me or Yvonne?” 

His response is singular, certain: “You.” 

Shane probably should not feel quite so smug about that. Something else to bring up in therapy, he thinks, and heads for the hallway.

Chapter End Notes

if you’re unfamiliar with the type of baby blanket Svetlana and Yuna gift them, an example can be found here. it’s not exactly like i was picturing when i was writing it, but the design is pretty standard even with the fabrics or animals changed. i grew up calling them lovey blankets, but i’ve also heard just comfort blankets or doudous.

Chapter 13: xii. two weeks postpartum

Chapter Summary

He stops himself just shy of it, tries to calm himself with a shaky breath. “I needed to get to him.”

“Do you regret it?” Rose asks.

Pulled from his momentary upset, Shane blinks. “What?”

“Do you regret leaving the game to be with him?”

“No,” he replies immediately. The truth this time, without filters or addendums or hidden meanings.

With a simplicity only she could achieve, Rose concludes, “Maybe that’s your answer.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees after a moment. “Maybe so.”

Chapter Notes

bad news: i lied about the chapter count

good news: i am uploading two at once so technically you’re getting the same content as promised just split into two because it would have been a humongous 16k monster if i hadn't :D

the nerve i had to be calling last chap ‘dialogue heavy’ when this chap and next chap were right around the corner…. we are in for some YAPPING today folks.

cw's:

there is one reference to yuna having had a miscarriage before having shane. it takes place during the scene that starts with shane in the nursery, toward the end of the conversation. it is not detailed at all, and though it's inferred that the characters will have another conversation about it, that is not included on-page. warnings again for ilya's postpartum depression and sadness, and more descriptions of what's involved in chest feeding.

(regarding the chest feeding: once again, i’m not a medical professional. though it’s not largely discussed on the page, ilya has delayed lactogenesis compounded with the traumatic birth and the blood loss, as well as the hormone fluctuation post-hysterectomy (and other hand-wavey factors from the in-world lore). while breast milk typically comes in anywhere from 3-14 days (most commonly, certainly not in every case), ilya’s takes longer due to the above reasoning.)

thank you for being patient again! between kinktober starting and the october slide hitting super hard this year it's taken a bit longer to get my thoughts together, and i wanted to be able to put everything into it i envisioned. <3

S H A N E

two weeks postpartum 

Unsurprisingly, Yana is not a fan of being woken up at four thirty in the morning. Shane, on the other hand, is beginning to get used to it. 

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, gently lifting her out of the bassinet. 

Those first days they’d been so exhausted that they’d just woken up to feed her when she cried, but since the visit with Yvonne’s pediatrician, they’ve been trying to practice scheduled feedings to avoid both the strain on her slightly underdeveloped vocal chords and the muscles in her jaw and mouth that get tired too early during a feeding and ultimately mean she’s not getting quite enough. 

Ilya isn’t in bed when Shane carries her out of the bedroom, not in the kitchen or the living room either. Shane frowns, but he can’t go looking until after he’s finished with the bottle. 

Carefully adjusting the wrap that goes over his chest, Shane tucks her in and rubs a hand over her back while he prepares the formula, her small head close enough to his mouth that he can touch his chin to the soft wisps of her hair when he looks down. She stirs against him, beginning to root, and he bundles her in closer until the bottle’s ready. She gets so cold lately, and he’s been paranoid about keeping her temperature level. The pediatrician says skin to skin is best, but Shane can’t have her on him twenty-four hours a day, even if he’d like to. And Ilya… Ilya still won’t hold her unless he has to, so it’s been mostly on him. 

Yana likes the wrap, though, he thinks. Likes to be cradled up near his collarbone next to the warmth and the sound of his heartbeat. It’s made them even closer lately, made it even more noticeable when she isn’t around. 

It makes it easier for nights like this too, when Shane only has two hands to handle everything he needs. He tests the formula on the inside of his wrist for temperature and then walks over toward the windows, the area that’s become his pacing spot over the last several nights. 

Keeping one hand on her, Shane sets the bottle down for a moment and loosens the wrap enough to tilt her head just so and give him a better angle to see her, then picks it back up to press the nipple, slick with milk, to her searching mouth. 

“There you go,” he encourages absently when she begins suckling at it. He strokes a thumb over her head where he holds it. “Good job, baby.” 

He paces slow and steady back and forth a few times, then comes to a stop, lets his eyes close for a moment, and breathes her in. She hasn’t learned to make much noise yet aside from when she cries, but he’s memorized the smaller things; the puff of air when she yawns, her sighs, the little squeak she gives sometimes when it seems like she wants to communicate but hasn’t managed how to just yet. 

He very gently bounces her a bit when she starts to fall back asleep, so close to finishing what she’s supposed to be getting. Her nose pinches underneath her closed eyes but she keeps drinking, and just as Shane is about to praise her again, the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen turn on. 

His dad is at the counter, pulling down a glass for water. He smiles when he sees Shane, eyes crinkling tiredly. 

“Hey,” Shane whispers. 

“Hey, bud.” His dad fills the glass up with the tap and takes a sip. “Rough night?” 

Shane sighs. “Yeah, a little. She didn’t eat enough earlier, so I got her up a little before the regular time to see if she’d finish this one off without tiring herself out crying first.” 

“Want me to take over? I can finish feeding her and get her back to sleep. Your mom and I used to walk you around until you got tired again. Worked like a charm. I bet it would for her, too.” 

“That’d be great, actually,” he says, too worn down to fight the help. He carefully dislodges the mostly-drunk bottle and hands both the wrap and Yana over to his dad, the movement hopefully having woken her enough again to finish it. Shane glances back toward their empty bedroom. “Um. Have you seen—?” 

“Nursery light’s on,” his dad replies before he can finish. 

Shane lets out a breath. “Thanks.” 

Going briefly back to the bedroom to grab the other monitor, Shane slips it into the pocket of his sleep pants and heads upstairs for the nursery. True to his dad’s word, the lamplight glows underneath the door, and Shane pauses to listen for a moment before he knocks. Even through the wood, he can hear the rhythmic suction of the pump. 

How often has Ilya been sneaking off to do this when he was asleep or with the baby? With a frown, Shane raps his knuckles against it. 

“Ilya?” 

He pushes the door open when he hears nothing in response, figuring the noise of the machine was too loud and not wanting to wake up his mother still asleep in the next room over. But Ilya seems to have heard just fine, his head turned away where he sits in the rocking chair, shirt off, small beneath the tubing and the wide flanges. 

“Go back to bed, Shane,” he rasps without opening his eyes. 

Shane hesitates in the doorway for a moment, and then steps forward enough to close it behind him and says, “No.” 

There is probably no one else under this roof who understands the need for time alone more than Shane. And he gets it; that Ilya hasn’t had much of it lately, that there’s always someone asking him how he’s feeling, if he needs anything, if anything is wrong. Shane has to be inside the room while he bathes and his dad has to stand outside the door still just in case Ilya slips and they need backup. The moment he reaches for something and there’s a hint of a grimace at his scarring, someone is there to help. It’s probably infuriating. 

But that isn’t what this is. 

Ilya peels his eyes open and rolls his neck to look at him, raising a brow. “No?” 

“No. I won’t stop you, and I don’t even have to look if you don’t want me to see. But I’m not leaving you up here to punish yourself all night. If you want to do this, then we’re doing it together.” 

He stands and stays and waits Ilya out, the shifting of his red-rimmed eyes and the intermittent waver of his chin. His only objection, eventually, is, “Where is Yana?” 

“My dad has her, and the monitor’s in my pocket if they need something. We’re good.” 

His suspicions are confirmed about Ilya not truly wanting to be alone when he steps closer to the rocking chair and Ilya starts to shift, eyeing him warily even though his body instinctively makes room. 

Shane doesn’t push his luck. He grabs a pillow off the lounger in the corner and drops it at Ilya’s feet, then sits, his cheek beside Ilya’s knee as he faces the side so he won’t be directly in his vision. 

“Am I okay here?” he asks. In his peripherals Shane sees him nod, but he makes another small, agreeable noise for Shane’s benefit, and Shane turns just long enough to exhale against his knee cap with a kiss before he looks at the wall again. 

For several minutes that’s all it is, Shane’s thumb tracing the island of Ilya’s ankle and the rocking chair not rocking, the harsh clicks and huffs of the machine echoing around the room. 

The hitch of Ilya’s breath on an almost-sob cuts right through it. Shane squeezes his ankle. 

“What is it, baby?” 

“It’s—это больноit hurts. It’s not right.”

Shane’s chest hurts at the misery in it, even if he hadn’t understood all the words. “The pump? Can I look at it?” 

At Ilya’s urgent but agreeable noise, Shane turns and sits up on his knees in front of Ilya. He wants to reach immediately for the machine and slap it off because he can hear that it’s too high and too fast, but he’s worried about spooking Ilya any more right now. Instead, he meets Ilya’s eyeline first, steady against his reluctance, and only when Ilya isn’t curving on in himself so much any longer does he move lower. 

He bites his tongue against the sympathy that threatens to spill out. Ilya isn’t a child, is so incredibly smart and so obviously capable, but sometimes, all Shane wants to do is fold him into his arms and rock him like one until he’s solid again. 

Ilya’s chest is bright red around the edges of the flange, his suspicions about the suction being too high evidently confirmed. He starts there, turns it off for now and gently works his fingertips in between Ilya’s skin and the plastic until the tiniest bit of tension in Ilya’s face fractures and fades. 

Underneath it, the skin around his nipples is a pinkish-red that Shane hasn’t seen before, dry enough to look like it burns in some places. Shane glances up, considers proposing that they stop for the night so that he can fetch the ointment Yvonne gave them and get him some relief, but the stubborn set of Ilya’s jaw and his watery eyes, looking at Shane like he has all of the answers, wins out. 

With great care, Shane reattaches one flange to the side with less irritation and restarts the machine on a much lower suction and slower pace. If he were producing anything they’d need the quickness of the introductory pulses first, but Ilya’s been using it that way already for what Shane suspects is much longer than he should have and the collection bottles remain empty. 

Through the gravel in his own throat, Shane clears it and asks, “That better?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says immediately, still looking a little like a child waiting for a scolding. He sniffs. “Sorry.” 

Shane dips to kiss his thigh again in response, arm bent upwards to hold the flange in place where it won’t pull as much. 

“Next time wake me up, okay? I won’t be mad. I can help.” 

“You should be spending time with her,” Ilya murmurs. 

Shane glances at him. “I do.” 

“Like, without me,” he clarifies. Shane’s brows furrow. 

“Without you?” 

“Yes. Babies are supposed to be big, happy thing. You should get to have that without—” he cuts off, shaking his head. 

He chases Ilya’s eye. “Without what?” 

With a startling shift, Ilya suddenly looks at him directly, and Shane is faced with the full scope of his dark circles, the red spiderwebs stemming out from his blue, wide irises, the edge of his mouth that seems to pull down at the corner no matter how much weight Shane tries to take off him. He opens his mouth, but Ilya speaks first. 

“I scared you. At the hospital,” he croaks, and pushes past Shane’s bristling. “I don’t know a lot. I—I don’t remember anything. And I hate it. But I know that I scared you, and I don’t want to do that anymore. So I think, maybe, is better if I—do this, sometimes. Be alone. Until I can be… better. For you. For her.” 

He’d like to do what he’d done earlier. Put his foot down and say no. But he doesn’t think Ilya is built for tough love, not in the way that he tries to let people believe that he is. 

Another part of him, the part that gets overwhelmed sometimes with big feelings, wants to shut down altogether. Go back downstairs like Ilya told him to, crawl underneath the covers, and let his parents take care of Yana while he hides until he can catch his breath again. With no hospitals, no crying babies, no rocking chairs, no reality where Ilya looks at him like this—like he doesn’t believe he can be fixed but is willing to let Shane muddy his hands anyway just for a touch. 

For a brief moment, Shane has to close his burning eyes. He misses what Ilya’s always been for him, he realizes. The stability of it. The relief that, even if only for a few hours, could be provided by a hand on the back of his neck, a heavy look from across a room. Being told, without words, I see you. I know you. I will give you what you need. 

He opens his eyes again and reaches up with his other hand to put his thumb against the downward divot of his mouth. I see you. 

“We don’t need you to be perfect, Ilya.” I know you. “We just need you to be here. Don’t disappear on us, okay?” 

He leans up on his knees again, just in time for Ilya’s head to land safely at the juncture of his neck while Shane rubs his back, mouth hot against his hair. 

Let me give you what you need. 

“Okay,” Ilya rasps eventually, and it sounds, at least, like I’ll try. Another exhale, slower. “Okay.” 

The hiss and release of the machine underscores their breathing, and Shane drags his nails over Ilya’s scalp to keep him here, to feel him shiver and draw impossibly closer. He wishes they were in the lounger, that he could hold him properly, but Ilya’s body, soft animal that it is, has finally decided to rest, and Shane can’t bring himself to move. 

They sit, Ilya bent over, Shane kneeling at his feet, the scar nestled in between them, branches twined together over dirt where life had once grown. Ilya whispers wet Russian against his collarbone, I love you and what Shane is almost certain is I’m sorry, and thinks of his conversation with Yvonne. 

If pouring his heart out to someone in a blazer with a notepad is going to make him more equipped for this, for Yana, for making himself into a man capable of loving Ilya in the way he needs—there wasn’t really ever a question. 

+ 

The transfusion appointment has been on the calendar, front and center, since the hospital. There’s only a couple of them unless the doctors decide otherwise, and they don’t last terribly long. And it’s not like Ilya will be alone. Svetlana is going with him, because Svetlana can be seen with him in public, because a good amount of people—quieter now, but no less persistent—still think that she was the one who’d hidden a pregnancy. So if they’re seen together or someone recognizes them near the clinic, it checks out. 

Shane is still angry about it. Not at Svetlana or Ilya, just—at the situation in general. At how simple things could be if the world weren’t so insistent on being the way that it is. 

He paces the living room with Yana on his shoulder while the television plays, trying to take his mind off of it. The way Ilya had turned a little pale at being in a car again, the look he’d tossed Shane for a split second before he’d hidden it away. It’d been hard for him, leaving the house and Yana for the first time, on top of the physical sensation of a moving vehicle. Shane had had to watch him go like that, with wide, alert eyes, and white knuckles clutching a travel pillow against his scar to protect it from the seat belt. 

Now, he’s restless. They’ve been gone for nearly three quarters of an hour, and Svetlana had texted him minutes prior to let him know that they’d made it, parked, gotten inside and checked in without any problems. She doesn’t mention it, but Shane can picture the sweat on Ilya’s brow, his hand gripping the arm rest while he waits for his name to be called while he tries not to picture the last time someone in a pair of medical scrubs had done the same. 

Or maybe that’s Shane’s problem. 

“Honey,” his mother says, stopping him in his tracks on the rug. “Why don’t you go for a walk? Work off some energy?” 

“I can’t walk here,” Shane delivers flatly. “We’re in Boston.” 

He knows he’s being pedantic. It’s not intentional. It just makes him more frustrated with himself. He has reasons for the choices he makes, knows there are still some sacrifices that have to be made temporarily. But sometimes when he says them out loud, his brain just screams excuses, excuses, excuses. 

His mother, who is probably aware of at least some of his modes of operation, generously does nothing but adapt. 

“Maybe you could use the home gym?” 

“I don’t want to use Ilya’s gym without Ilya there.” 

That one he can’t manage to make sound quite as neutral as the other. Especially when his voice cracks down the middle of it. 

With a sigh, he cuts off of his drag path and sits down on the edge of Ilya’s coffee table, cradling Yana’s head in his palm as he removes her from his shoulder to lie against his thighs instead, so he can look at her slow blinking eyes, feel the soft plushness of her cheek. The only person in the world, maybe, who thinks Shane has never done wrong. 

He feels his mother sit down beside him, her hand on his back connecting three generations at once. Shane wilts into it and rubs his thumbs over the barely-there hair of Yana’s brows, watching her eyes flutter sleepily in response. 

“I wish I could’ve gone with him.” 

His mother, who had watched from the entryway earlier as Ilya’s fingers had been pried from the back of his shirt, doesn’t disagree. 

“I know,” she murmurs. 

“This is just—so much more than I thought it was going to be,” he admits, feeling vulnerable with Yana so trusting in his lap. “Which, yeah. I wasn’t expecting it to be easy. I just… I just wasn’t expecting to feel so much like a completely different person.” 

This is the longest period of time he’s gone without touching a stick or a puck or ice in years. He used to get two weeks to himself in the summer, and even then, he’d start itching to go back halfway through, performing his distractions as if someone had been observing him, an item on a checklist instead of something actually enjoyable. 

Now, instead of craving it, feeling like he’s walking around with a missing limb, he’s more scared of going back to it than he is of staying away. It’s the useless kind of fear, the kind that fills and then inevitably bursts. The kind that Shane says he wants to hide from when all he really wants is to face it head on, if only he didn’t have to risk so much to do it. 

He’d jumped from hockey player into parent with no in between, but he’d failed to answer the lingering question underneath it all: who is he without a label? When he’s only just Shane? 

Isn’t that the sort of thing he should know by now? 

“You’re still you, Shane,” she says, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. “It’s been less than a month since you’ve brought her home, and Ilya is still healing. None of this is something you figure out overnight, even if everything had gone smoothly.” 

“You’re saying I should cut myself some slack.” 

“I’m saying that you’ve been in a bubble since the three of you came home, and while that’s not a bad thing, it might help to remind yourself that that’s not all there is,” she rephrases. “Have you tried talking to someone?” 

Shane clears his throat, shifting a little on the table. He can feel heat rise to his ears. “Ilya’s doctor sent—um. I’m making an appointment with one of the counselors, or whatever. She thinks it would help with… everything.” 

She smiles encouragingly. “That’s great, honey, but I mean more like—have you spoken to Hayden? J.J.? Another friend that you trust?” she asks. “You don’t have to give them all of the details, of course. But maybe it’d be nice to have a conversation that just feels… normal.” 

“That—that sounds like a good idea, I think,” he agrees, frowning thoughtfully. “Maybe tonight, I could—” 

“Or now,” she interjects pointedly. “You’ve been pacing a hole in Ilya’s very expensive rug and your daughter has been huffing at you for the better part of twenty minutes. I think she’s ready for a nap somewhere that isn’t moving underneath her.” 

Shane looks down at her slack face, deep in sleep now that he’s stopped moving. He chuckles sheepishly. “Oh. Alright, yeah. You don’t mind—?” 

“That’s what I’m here for.” After lifting her from him, she props Yana’s sleeping form against her shoulder and pats her back, fixing him with a look. “You can’t feel guilty for taking a minute for yourself, Shane. You’ll burn out.” 

Logically, it’s sound. He can’t argue with it. But he can recall the feeling, that first time he’d realized, that locked door, the lonely hallway. 

He gives her a wan smile. “Yeah, I guess I just—I still do, anyway.” 

“I understand,” she says quietly, and Shane considers it as he watches her leave, heading for the nursery. 

He stands idle in the middle of the empty living room for a handful of seconds, listening to the television, trying to think of what to do next when Ilya and Yana aren’t an option. 

Then, on a whim, he scoops the remote up to turn off the TV and grabs the extra monitor, taking his phone out to Ilya’s patio and leaving the sliding glass door cracked behind him. 

It’s quiet outside but not the same way it is inside, his senses at once accosted with the chill of a light wind, the smell of grass and dirt, lingering summer humidity sticking to his skin even up close to the house. He hadn’t noticed any of this earlier in the driveway with Ilya—just the scent of an engine running and tires driving away. 

He really does have to be careful in Boston, but Ilya’s property is heavily surrounded by thick trees and a gated entrance, tailored for privacy that Ilya has admitted is double-edged. Shane compromises somewhere in the middle of it on the deck, finds a seat on the sofa right at the edge of the concrete. When he sits down, his feet just barely touch the line where sunlight meets shadow. 

Laying the monitor on the cushion beside him in case he needs it, Shane shifts his focus to his phone. He hovers over Svetlana’s contact again to ask how it’s going but holds himself back. She’d promised to keep him updated, and it hasn’t been long since Ilya first checked in. Call someone else, he vows to himself as it begins to feel paramount, literally anyone else, and then you can check in again. 

With a clear objective, he clicks out of Svetlana’s contact and scrolls down the list of his messages. 

He’s got unopened ones from Hayden checking in and poorly disguising his meddling for details. Then there’s J.J., something short and blunt and direct instructing him to reach out if he needs anything, no questions asked, the way they’ve always shown up for each other with an unspoken solidarity. Shane had been relieved about that one, that he hadn’t lost that when he walked out. 

There’s even a text from Vaughny in there, having seen the headlines about Shane’s brief absence, which had then been quickly swallowed up by the Admirals win. Nothing from Scott Hunter, though Shane imagines he probably has more than enough on his plate at the moment. 

Underneath all of that, Rose’s name sits with one of Shane’s excuses typed out beside it, some quick fib he’d rushed after the hospital. 

She’d been the first to tell him about Scott Hunter. A weekend at home when Shane knows how much she values it, how she shuts her phone off in the rare time she gets to spend with her family. Breaking all of her rules to find somewhere private enough to call him just in case he hadn’t been watching, just to let him know that something that was important to him and for him was happening. That he should be watching, and that she was, too. 

He taps on her name, and then the call button underneath her contact. Usually he texts first to make sure she isn’t on set, but the line rings, which is a good sign. He brings his thumb to his mouth while he waits, elbows propped on his knees. 

“Well, I’ll be damned.” 

Shane fights a smile, but it spreads regardless. “Hey.” 

“Hey? That’s what you’re opening with? You’ve been gone long enough to have had an entire plotline on the shitty soap operas I’ve been watching in my trailer, babe, you have got to do better.” 

“You’re right. I should’ve opened with—” Shane takes a dramatic breath, and promptly recites the horribly written monologue from one of her love interests in her older movies that Shane knows makes her turn bright red. 

“Oh my God. Okay. First of all: fuck you,” she says, “and second of all, I’m actually so impressed you memorized that. Then again not really though, because you were reciting hockey stats to me on our second date. But regardless, I maintain that I could get you an in if you’re looking to dip your toes into film. The camera would love you.” 

“I think I’ll keep my toes in skates, but thanks,” Shane tells her dryly. 

“Poet might work as a backup too,” she lobs back. “One of these days you’re going to have to stop being better at everything than me, you know. It’s not funny anymore.” 

“Sorry to dash your dreams, Shakespeare.” 

“Fuck that. Try Dickinson or Plath, asshole.” 

Shane’s grin hurts in a spectacularly good way. He’d missed this. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” 

Rose sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, I was just about to watch two housewives who really should just be fucking each other argue over a man instead, but I guess I could take a break from what I’ve done literally every other night I’ve been in this hotel to talk to you.” 

“Hotel?” Shane asks. 

“Yeah. I’m big time, Hollander, didn’t you know?” she posits. “Seriously, though, I have no idea how you do this so often. I can’t stop thinking about everything that’s happened on these sheets. I bought a UV flashlight, Shane.” 

“No,” he commiserates with a gasp. 

“Yes.” 

He nearly flushes himself to think of what the beds he and Ilya had been in must have looked like afterward and winces. “Did you find anything?” 

“I’m laying in a sleeping bag from Walmart on top of the duvet right now, if that answers your question.” 

“Probably a good choice.” 

She hums. “I muted my housewives. It’s worse like this. I can feel the tension between them. It’s infuriating. Distract me.” 

A laugh bubbles out of him. “With what?” 

“‘With what’, he says. You are literally one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. We worked on this, babe. Give me something here, ‘cause if you don’t, I’ll end up talking about my boobs again. Is that what you want, Shane? Is it?” 

“No, thank you,” he declines. 

There’s a pause. “You know, every time I know what the answer’s going to be, and every time it still hurts.” 

He laughs again, this time with a closed mouth, and watches the light shift in the yard in front of him as the brief silence settles. It’s his turn to fill it now, and usually they can keep going like this, back and forth, and it’s easy. But he’s hyper aware of everything he says now, not to incriminate himself for something that doesn’t feel criminal in the slightest. 

Maybe that feeling isn’t entirely new. 

“So,” she starts, more subdued this time, “I still don’t get to know where you’ve disappeared to for the last few weeks?” 

His smile wanes. “Not—not yet, Rose. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I’m just nosy,” she dismisses, though Shane can hear how much she wants to linger. “Just—let me know if anything changes, okay? I’m a pretty good listener.” 

This is true, but she lets Shane step into the role for a little bit while she catches him up on her life since they last talked, and his mother was right—having a pocket of normal in between everything else is nice, makes him feel a little more rooted, less like he’s drifting aimlessly from one crisis to the next. 

But if his mother had been right about this, she’s probably also right about the fact that they need to make connections. And he can’t do that if he lets them fall back into something one-sided, where Rose’s cards are all on the table and Shane’s still hoarding his up his sleeve. 

“Hey,” he segues the next time there’s a lull, when he can hear the sticky, wet sounds of Rose applying a face mask in the hotel bathroom. “Can I ask you something?” 

Something plops. Rose curses, then says, “Shoot.” 

He leans back against the sofa, rubbing anxiously at his leg. “If I, uh. If I were to like, come out, or something—not—not right now, but, eventually—you’d… could I count on you to be someone that—fuck, this isn’t making any sense. Sorry.” 

“Shane. It makes perfect sense,” she interrupts his spiral to assure, her voice much closer to the phone now. “I’m literally an actress. I’m pretty fucking good at reading between the lines. And just to be clear, if you ever do come out, yes—you have my full fucking support. Loudly.” 

“Just… like that?” Shane asks, breathless. “I mean, you have managers, and brand deals, and it might affect if you get hired, and—and—” 

“Okay, breathe,” she tells him, and he does. “I’m not going to say you’re wrong, necessarily. But certain spaces have come a lot farther than you think. Also, I’m a privileged actress at the top of the media food chain right now, Shane. What’s the fucking point if I don’t use it for something good?” 

“Longevity,” Shane considers earnestly. “Career stability. Employer trust. No backlash from people who disagree.” 

“So, what? I just never take a stand for anything?” 

Something about it lands directly behind his ribs. Shane blinks hard at the lawn in front of him and thinks, suddenly, of the photos of Ilya at the children’s hospital. The money and cars he’d donated to different charities, the causes that were exponentially boosted because of his visible interest. Because he’d shown up. 

Shane knows it’s different. Knows that Ilya doesn’t necessarily have that built in radar Shane had been instilled with growing up; the knowledge that everything, even the good things, could become a double edged sword through a certain lens. If someone was determined to pick him apart and paint him badly, they would do it, and still Shane would take the blame for not having examined all angles more thoroughly first. 

Rose’s situation is different too, but the acute need for absolution burns a path up the back of his throat. He’s never needed so much validation in his life than he does right now, when he’s trying to come to terms with the fact that now his decisions affect not only himself, but his family too. 

Weakly, he asks, “Do you think that’s what I’ve done? This whole time, all these years, I—” 

“No. Stop it,” Rose says firmly. “We’re in two fundamentally different places. And, yeah, in some ways, they’re both shit. You’re at the forefront of a sport that perpetuates outdated, racist, misogynistic bullshit and punishes you for not falling in line with it, and I’m soaking up my five minutes of fame in an industry that constantly objectifies me and would be much happier if I never opened my mouth aside from my lines. But we’re not robots, Shane. We care about things. We have to, or else we lose ourselves in it.” 

He expects the truth to sting, and it does. But he appreciates the blunt edge of it, the way it puts him back into his skin a little. The relief that comes with someone else saying I see it too. 

“That doesn’t mean that that care has to look the same, necessarily. Everything comes with a cost, but this is one that I’m lucky enough to be able to afford right now. That isn’t always the case. And you shouldn’t feel bad about not forking it over immediately too if the price tag is everything you’ve worked your ass off for the last decade to build,” she continues, and that feels good too. “It’s brutal, giving everything to a system you know would still swap you out in a heartbeat if you misstepped. Fuck anybody that makes you feel like it’s less than that.” 

For years, since the beginning, the anger he’d felt at the things she’s talking about hadn’t felt rightful. It’d felt like a nuisance. Like if Shane could simply shed the part of himself that constantly insisted on better, he could finally be satisfied with what he had. The older he’s gotten, though, the more his perspective had begun to shift. 

The younger version of himself that he’d once loathed for being awkward and naive he now mourns, in a way, for how he still flinched, still shied away from the things that feel second nature in the room now. Years of biting his tongue had made it atrophy. His anger at their ignorance had turned into ignorance of his own—and it had been for survival, yes, but that was never supposed to be a permanent state. 

“For a long time, I just wanted to be good at hockey. That was it. That was all that mattered,” Shane confesses. “But then things just kept piling on. Invisible rules I had to memorize. Always more for me than anybody else. And I know why, but—sometimes it’s like I’m just drowning in all of them. I can’t look a certain way. I can’t talk about certain things. Can’t even be associated with people that do. And it’s—it’s kept me so fucking scared, all this time, and I—” he stops, swallows. “I’m so tired of being scared.” 

“I get it,” Rose says without hesitation. 

With a long exhale, Shane opens his squeezed shut eyes and squints against the light that’s climbed up to his knee caps. “What… what do you think I should do?” 

“Well, if there’s one thing I know about you, you feel better with a plan.” 

He laughs. “Yeah. Fair.” 

“So. Start there. Do what you’re doing now, with me—I know it won’t be exactly the same, since you’re not out. But that doesn’t mean you can’t start building a foundation. Figuring out who’s going to be on your side when the time comes. Strength in numbers, you know?” She pauses. “Hey, have you talked to Scott Hunter?” 

Shane chews at his lip. “Not yet. I—I’m thinking about it.” 

“Maybe you should.” 

“It just feels weird, I guess. He’s been closeted for so much longer than me. I could only admit to myself that I was gay when—well, you know when. Feels disrespectful, or something, to compare us.” 

He expects some laughter, one of her dry, perfectly timed, pressure-easing jokes. But the line simmers with silence, and Shane’s knee starts to bounce. 

“Shane,” she starts gently, “I know that it may feel that way, and I know there’s other factors here too. But you didn’t just wake up gay one day after we started dating. This is… this is something you’ve been holding onto for a long time, even if it wasn’t always at the forefront. Your version of it isn’t any less than Scott Hunter’s, in any way. I think maybe you really need to hear that.” 

His knee stills. Ilya comes to mind, which isn’t a rarity, but feels weightier in this context. 

In Shane’s head, he’s eighteen hiding behind cigarette smoke as he takes Shane’s hand, he’s nineteen and introducing Shane to things he never thought he could want but undeniably, blindly, always had. He’s twenty-one and balancing a glass of whisky in one hand and Shane in the other, twenty-three and Shane has to leave immediately afterward every time now, because he knows there’s something there he has to run from, that he can’t name, that he’s not yet ready to let take hold. He’s twenty-five and asking Shane not to leave, which was never really the same thing as asking him to stay, and Shane had only started to understand the difference for the first time when all five of Yana’s fingers had curled around the tip of one of his own, the first time Ilya’s eyelids fluttered after surgery. The moment when he’d realized he wanted to stop clinging to things with gritted teeth and sweat on his temples so that he could simply hold them instead. 

So that he could maybe, maybe be held in return. 

“There’s someone,” he admits carefully. “I still can’t say much else, but I—that’s where I’ve been. There’s someone, and I needed to be here, so I—I went.” 

“That was really brave of you, Shane,” she says, and he can hear her soft smile, and pinpoint the moment that it sours. “I bet you’re getting hell for it.” 

He barks a laugh this time, relieved. 

“Yeah. I am.” The sunlight shifts, anger rattling with the leaves when the wind blows again. “I made that team into what it is. I carried them through two fucking Cups, I kept them at the top, and I never asked for a thank you. I’ve never missed a fucking game. And now they want to re-negotiate my contract as some sort of intimidation tactic. It’s a punishment. All because I left one game that we weren’t going to fucking win anyway because I needed to get to—” he stops himself just shy of it, tries to calm himself with a shaky breath. “I needed to get to him.” 

“Do you regret it?” Rose asks. 

Pulled from his momentary upset, Shane blinks. 

“What?” 

“Do you regret leaving the game to be with him?” she clarifies. 

“No,” he replies immediately. The truth this time, without filters or addendums or hidden meanings. 

With a simplicity only she could achieve, Rose concludes, “Maybe that’s your answer.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “Maybe so.” 

She has to go soon after that to get sleep for an early call time in the morning, but she lets Shane stick around while she takes off the mask and gets ready for bed, and when he promises her this time that they’ll talk soon, he means it. 

Just as he’s hanging up with her his phone vibrates, and he pulls it from his ear to find a message from Svetlana. It opens on an image when he clicks into the thread, and Shane enlarges it, bringing it closer to his face. 

It’s Ilya in a transfusion chair, non-descript tan walls behind him, jacket unzipped and hanging off one shoulder to expose his arm. Svetlana had brought him a blanket from home and he has a glass of orange juice beside him, most likely for the lingering lightheadedness. 

Shane wants to ask a million questions. But his eyes trail up to Ilya’s face, just as tired, still a little scared, but he’s putting on a wobbly smile for the camera, and one of his thumbs on the free hand has been lifted skyward for the picture. 

It’s so completely different from the Ilya in flash-bright club candids, with a smirking grin and a different finger held up. It’s different, though, in some ways from the photos of him at the children’s hospital too. 

So maybe neither of them are as contrastingly different as it feels right now. They aren’t the same as they were at nineteen and twenty-two and even twenty-five, but with a little more perspective now, those versions of themselves don’t feel like strangers either. 

He hearts Svetlana’s photo and then sends a text just to Ilya, since he can see his phone sitting in his lap in the picture—I’m so fucking proud of you. Hope everything goes okay. We’ll be waiting for you when you get home. I love you. 

I wish you were here, Ilya sends back. 

Shane types Me too and lets himself imagine, for a moment, a world where he could walk in there and hold Ilya’s hand, where he could take the picture, where he could have all of that and not give up everything he knows in the process. 

He keeps the phone open in his lap until it begins to overheat, the sun reaching the top of his head now. 

Shane basks in the warmth of it just a little longer, and then reaches for the crack in the sliding glass door again, waiting for him just as he’d left it. 

+

His mother says you develop a natural neutrality to things you once had an aversion to when it’s your own child. Shane, who still gags a little bit during diaper changes and cleaning spit up, puts on a brave face, but he’s not sure how much he really agrees with that. Maybe she’d just meant you learn to do it anyway, when you love something so much the discomfort can’t possibly overshadow it. 

Yana squirms on the changing table in the nursery in front of him, endlessly curious as she eyes the room around them and tries to reach for things with her hands. Shane talks to her absently as he changes her. He’d taken after his dad in that regard; the ‘baby talk’ has never come as naturally to him, even when he’s alone with her. He just uses his regular speaking voice, which Yana seems to like anyway, and occasionally she even seems to try to respond with a noise of her own. She’s got a ways to go until her first words but sometimes he breaks them down into sounds and mouths them to her, and he enjoys it almost as much as she does. 

There’s time for her to nap before dinner, he thinks, his parents voices’ carrying up the stairs from the kitchen while they cook. He keeps one hand on her while he reaches for a clean diaper, the crinkling of it covering up the sound of incoming footsteps. 

Shane does a double take when he notices Ilya standing in the doorway, gripping the frame by his hip. He hovers, not quite inside the room, and Shane makes a point to meet his eye. 

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t hear you coming up, I would’ve helped you.” 

Ilya sways in the direction of his lifted shoulder. “Little easier now.” 

Trying not to leave her too prone to the cool air in the house, Shane resumes changing her. Her legs have always been the last of her to relax, and it makes Shane smile a little every time she bends them and then bursts them outward, the soft soles of her tiny feet pressing against his wrists just like they had Ilya’s belly. 

“She is okay?” Ilya asks, peeking at her as he makes his way just inside the threshold. 

“Her digestive system seems to be working just fine,” Shane assures, patting the tabs on her new diaper. “Isn’t that right, mon chou?” 

He picks up the onesie folded to the side, fabric still only stretching from the tip of his middle finger down to a third of his forearm in total. She squeaks at him, incensed at the prospect of being clothed, because she is half Ilya’s, after all. 

“What does that mean?” 

“Hm?” Shane asks, mind drifting back to their conversation. His face heats a little when he realizes. Mon chou. “Oh. Technically, uh. It means ‘my cabbage’. But it’s sort of like saying ‘honey’ or ‘sweetheart’ too.” His hand lingers on Yana’s chest even once he’s done up her buttons, thumb stroking slowly back and forth. “My mom used to call me that. I guess it just slipped out.” 

Shaking himself out of the hazy memory, he slips his hands underneath her arms to lift her off the table, bringing her to his chest. Her entire head fits neatly in the cradle of his palm, hair soft against his skin. He fixes it with his fingers where the curls have started to stick up, then bends to touch his mouth there. He starts to bounce her gently without much thought, her noises quietening as she gets sleepy again. 

“You are good with her,” Ilya observes. 

“You think so?” Shane asks. He warms further at Ilya’s nod, pleased to have his approval. “I was thinking about putting her down for a nap in here, if you want to stay?” 

Ilya stares at her in his arms, and then glances back up to Shane’s face. “If it’s okay.” 

Shane’s mouth fights between a knee-jerk smile and a frown at that, confused and concerned in equal measure. “Why wouldn’t it be okay?” 

A few paces away still, Ilya only shrugs, toes at the edge of the rug, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Shane’s apprehension grows, and he takes Yana over to the crib so he can put her down for her nap before they talk. 

She’s slept mostly in their room these first few weeks, close enough to monitor and reach quickly if needed. So far they’ve only tried the crib in here for a handful of minutes a day or so, just to get her used to it enough that it won’t be a shock when they eventually move her in here. But today was a good day for her, and Shane thinks now’s a good time to try a nap in here while they watch her. 

She’s already out against his chest when he leans gingerly over the crib to place her down, the mobile Svetlana picked out spinning lazily high above her head. He tucks her bear up beside the clench of her fist and watches it soften to grab hold, little fingers flexing in the fabric. 

“Shane,” Ilya says from behind him. 

He adjusts her position once more for sleep in the crib, still bent over. “Yeah?” 

“You said to tell you when I am sad.” He pauses. “This is—I am doing this now.” 

“Oh,” Shane breathes, turning around. 

He swallows hard and hopes that Ilya doesn’t notice, but it feels worse to find Ilya’s eyes glazed and distant, staring at the carpet instead of at Shane at all. 

Stepping away from Yana’s crib, he reaches for Ilya, his first instinct to touch, even after all these years. Ilya drops like his strings have been cut, stiff at first and then all at once against his shoulder, the tip of his nose cold against Shane’s quick pulse. 

For a minute he says nothing at all, one arm wrapped around Ilya’s middle, the other on the back of his head. He rubs his cheek against Ilya’s ear and then kisses the shell of it, spreading his fingers out wide in between his shoulder blades. 

“Okay,” he exhales. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.” 

Ilya makes a miserable sound in response, and Shane means to tell him that it was brave, that he’s still proud of him, but instead, his fingers falter briefly as he pets over the back of Ilya’s hair. 

Quietly, he asks, “Are you—I mean, do you feel like you might—?” 

“No,” Ilya shakes his head, sniffling. “No, I don’t think so. I am not a danger to me or anyone. I am just—” he stifles a sob into Shane’s shoulder. “I’m so sad.” 

Shane pulls back to get hands on either side of his face, to sweep his thumbs underneath his heavy eyes. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay that you’re sad, Ilya.” He leans forward to kiss the center of his forehead, each cheek, his chin. Is not above begging, “Talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“Yvonne says probably is—um, post-baby…” 

“Postpartum depression,” Shane proposes. 

“Yes. This, I think.” Ilya’s lip trembles as he looks off to the side. “I feel so… empty. And I should not, because I am so full inside, Shane. More than in years. Everyone has been here, and I have you, and Sveta, your parents, and I’m not alone. I should not—” 

“You’re allowed to feel however you feel. I don’t know if ‘should’ really applies to any of this.” 

He shakes his head. “I still feel guilty. This is so much of everything I have ever wanted. A family. You. I thought I would be even happier when she was out, but I—right now I am just scared all the time. I don’t like that she’s not in me anymore, that I cannot feel her and keep her safe. That every time I move I am reminded of it.” 

One hand hovers just above his abdomen between them, and Shane takes it in his own and squeezes as a tear slips down Ilya’s cheek. 

“And I—I am sad that I cannot feed her,” he continues, voice shaking. “I want to do it but it’s not working and—what if she thinks that I’m doing it on purpose? That when I am angry at myself I am angry with her?” he asks. “I—I made so many promises to her and I feel like I’m failing. Like I’m useless. It is—everything is harder than I thought.” 

The wording of it strikes him, so deeply similar to what Shane had told his mother only days prior. He and Ilya have been sleeping in the same bed, sharing the same table underneath the same roof, feeling the same way without communicating it to each other. 

The place where he might once have felt guilt for not noticing sooner or shame for not admitting to it remains, surprisingly, nothing more than a passing blip of a thought. The world has simultaneously narrowed to something the size of their palms and swelled to encompass the magnitude of everything that could threaten that, and Shane doesn’t doubt for a moment that both of them have done the best they could within the circumstances; done everything they could to carve out a home knowing all that still waits for them on the other side of the door. 

He’s not too proud to admit that, despite the rush of getting to suddenly be so much for each other after years of only savoring what they could scrape together, they can’t always be the one to meet every single need. 

“Would it make you feel better to talk to Yvonne again? Double check that all of this is normal?” he offers. 

“I think so, maybe.” Ilya sniffs. “But. Would you call? And… talk? I wanted to tell you, but I do not think I feel like talking anymore.” 

Leaving Ilya with Yana briefly, Shane fetches his phone from downstairs and warns his parents that they might be late to dinner, then returns to the nursery. He and Ilya settle into the lounger side by side, and though he’s caught glimpses of it before, Ilya feels strikingly fragile against him despite his body carrying evidence of a clear opposite. 

It’s just past regular business hours, but Yvonne picks up quickly. Shane explains generally what they’re looking for, reassurance about Ilya’s symptoms and an explanation of anything they can do to make it easier, and feels a little better already when Ilya nods against him, approving. 

He holds the phone on low speaker between them while they listen, fingers tracing patterns where they’re tucked around the outside of Ilya’s shoulder. Shane appreciates the way she listens to their concerns and can minimize them without dismissing them. Her experience and clean cut explanations of things that feel so much larger, so much more nuanced, makes Shane feel less lost in it all. He hopes that it does the same for Ilya. 

As he’d suspected but still needed to hear, everything that Ilya’s feeling makes a lot of sense with what he’s been through. She doesn’t go into detail about Ilya’s post-op, which Shane thinks is probably a good thing for now. But she does get firm about the fact that it makes sense for him to feel these things, that he’d done good, bringing them to Shane and then to her. 

“And remember, Ilya, you underwent not only one significant operation during surgery, but two,” she reminds them. “It makes sense that you seem to be feeling things doubled right now. Even if you can’t differentiate between the pain, your body knows that something is different. It also knew before your pregnancy was ever confirmed, when you still believed it was impossible. Right?” 

Ilya makes a half-noise, nodding against his shoulder. 

“So, while I am sorry you’re experiencing that, I’m not surprised that you’re picking up on these cues. You’re extremely intuitive. And that’s on top of the baseline sensitivity caused by the shift in hormones that most people experience after things like this.” 

Shane clears his throat. “I think, also—Ilya, let me know if I’m wrong—I think he still wanted to keep trying the chest feeding, but he’s feeling pretty disheartened with the progress so far. Is there anything else we can do to make that easier on either of them?” 

Ilya squeezes his hand where their fingers have migrated and tangled together between them. Shane thinks that means it was okay to ask. Another relief, because he isn’t sure he can keep watching Ilya force himself through fruitless, painful efforts, even if he’s stopped trying to do it in secret. 

“That’s a good question,” Yvonne says. “Ilya, we talked about how the combination of PAS and C-gene can delay your production, but the blood loss from the surgery you had is also a major factor in why you may not be seeing anything yet. Your body functions in order of urgency, and recently it’s been more focused on replenishing what you need as opposed to providing for someone else. That’s not a bad thing.” 

“He says he’s been really sore and sensitive in his chest, especially postpartum,” Shane relays when Ilya leans up to murmur it sheepishly into his ear. “That’s probably a good sign, right? In terms of production, I mean?” 

“Exactly right. Often before your milk comes in, you might experience tenderness, tingling, or even a little bit of leakage. It sounds like you’re on the right track, Ilya.” 

A hand tugs at his shirt, and Shane leans to the side again. “He wants to know if the bottle feeding that we’ve done so far will make it more difficult if he’s eventually able to switch to chest feeding.” 

“It shouldn’t be a problem, no. Many parents choose a mix of both, especially in situations like this where there’s a gap between birth and production,” she explains. “Have you still been using the pump?” 

“Yes, he has,” Shane answers, tightening his fingers. “That helps, right?” 

“Definitely. Even if you don’t produce much at first, pumping can sometimes help ease your body into the right rhythm for chest feeding. Other than that, skin to skin can also be a major contributing factor.” 

Ilya’s face turns guiltily into his neck, and Shane disentangles their hands to stroke through his hair again as the collar of his shirt goes damp. 

“I know you’ve already heard all of my speeches, Ilya, so I’ll keep it short,” Yvonne adds before they can ask anything else. “But I just want to reiterate that the most important thing is that she’s being fed—and she is. You’re still providing for her, it just may look a little different than you thought. And that doesn’t reflect anything about your body or your ability to care for her.” 

Clearing his throat, Ilya finds his voice again to rasp, “Thank you.” 

“Of course. Did you have any more questions for me?” 

They keep her another fifteen minutes while Shane flickers through a running list of his own questions he’s been meaning to ask, Ilya’s weight heavy and solid against his side. He’s propped on his hip, leaned into Shane’s space, closer than they’ve been in what feels like weeks. It’s hard to believe that the last time they sat here like this Ilya was still pregnant, this room still unfinished, talking about a future impossible to grasp. 

After they hang up, Shane tucks the phone against his leg and stays there, the room quiet aside from Yana’s soft noises when she shifts in her sleep in the crib. He turns his head and drags his lips against the top of Ilya’s and doesn’t say that he misses the tilt of his grin, the secret dimple that carves itself into his cheek when it’s genuine, the sunshine of his laugh. He has a feeling Ilya already misses those things too. 

“Do you want to try coming down to dinner when she’s up?” Shane murmurs. 

Ilya adjusts enough to look over at the crib from Shane’s shoulder. “Maybe I will stay here and watch her,” he says. “You should go and eat. Spend time with your parents.” 

“I’d like to spend time with you too, if you’re okay with it. Even if I bring our plates up here.” 

He exhales heavily. “I am a mess.” 

“You’re not,” Shane maintains. “And even if you need to be a mess for a little while anyway, I think you’ve earned it.” 

At his insistence, Ilya shifts. “Your parents…” 

“Do you want them to leave?” 

“No. No. They have been so helpful. And they are so nice to me. I just do not want them to see me like this and think I will always be—like this,” he explains, gesturing vaguely to himself. “I will be better, Shane, I promise. And I will see the therapists and—like Yvonne said, there is all the chemicals and hormones, I—I will take the medicine if i have to, and—” 

“Ilya,” Shane stops him, reaching for his face to turn it upward in his direction. “No one here thinks you’re a bad parent. Okay? Tell me you know that.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes at himself as they begin to water again, fighting the tremble of his jaw. “I—I don’t know anything right now.” 

“Then know this: nobody here thinks you’re bad. In any capacity. You made her, Ilya. You protected her through hockey and when you were so sick. You kept her safe in Russia. You carried her all the way through, even with all of the risks and complications.” 

“Those are mostly things that were probably not smart,” he insists, hiccuping on a breath. 

“You made every best choice you could for yourself and for her.” Shane tugs, digs his thumb gently into the plush of Ilya’s cheek to make sure he’s listening. “Okay? They were your choices, and they were good.” 

With them puckered from Shane’s grip and wobbling in front of him, Shane kisses the salt off of his lips once, twice, an indulgent third time until Ilya’s threads of tension break once more, and then wraps an arm around his shoulders to hug him again. 

“Please, please don’t be embarrassed here. My parents will understand,” he promises. “In fact, they probably understand more than you think.” 

“Why?” 

Shane opens and closes his mouth. “She doesn’t talk about it much, but I know my mom’s pregnancy was hard, when she had me. They tried for a long time, did all sorts of treatments. There was another baby before me that she lost before they tried again.” 

Ilya is quiet for a long moment. “I didn’t know this.” 

“I don’t know all the details, but you could ask her. I bet she would talk to you.” 

With a shaky inhale, Ilya nods. 

“Okay. Maybe.” 

They eat upstairs in the nursery, on cushions on the floor, splitting time between staring at Yana, talking, and picking at their plates. There’s something to be said for sharing a bed, a table, a roof. But sometimes, Shane realizes, what happens on the ground is what makes it a home. 

He lets his head fall back against the end of the lounger, the food finished and the words fewer and farther between, and bridges the gap between them until their pinkies brush. They haven’t conquered it, but they’ve given it a name now. Shane used to avoid that. Used to run. 

He curls his pinky over Ilya’s. It’s time to do more than just survive.

Chapter 14: xiii. three weeks - one month postpartum

Chapter Summary

On their first night alone again at the house, they gather in the living room to watch it. They share a cushion this time on the sofa, Yana asleep in her mobile a few feet away, and for some reason, Shane is nervous.

It’s palpable, he thinks. Ilya’s own face has slipped into careful impassiveness, which Shane has learned does not mean that he is unfeeling; if anything, the opposite of it. They both have their tells.

But this is what they do, now. The scary things, together.

Chapter Notes

I AM UPLOADING CHAPTERS 13 & 14 AT ONCE! PLEASE MAKE SURE YOU HAVE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAP BEFORE CONTINUING TO THIS ONE!

cw's: while it doesn’t go terribly in depth, some conversations in this chapter touch ambiguously on racism, homophobia, and sexism both in the hockey world and in general. again, nothing specific or explicit enough that i feel i need to preface here, but it is touched on. hazing from shane’s rookie year is also mentioned, not in detail.

S H A N E 

three weeks postpartum 

Twenty-four days brings Shane’s first official outing from the house. The first time being away from Yana since they brought her home. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with it?” Shane asks for the third time this morning, because he’s panicking, a little. “I can cancel.” 

“Pike took a flight from Montreal to Boston to surprise you, offers to drive the rest of the way to see you out here, and you are going to cancel on him one hour before you are meeting?” Ilya rephrases where he’s lying on his side, body curved like a parentheses around where Yana lies in the warm spot where Shane had been earlier. “I mean, it is Pike, but even I think this would be mean.” 

Shane sighs, dropping down onto the edge of the bed. He reaches for Yana, soothed when she latches onto his finger. “I’m not very good with surprises.” 

“I think you are better than you think,” Ilya says, gaze flicking between them and back up again. 

“Alright, alright. Fine,” he concedes. He appraises Ilya for another moment, who seems a little more comfortable with her after speaking to Yvonne but is still hesitant. More seriously, he asks, “You’ll be okay here?” 

“Yes. If you are going to be out for a while… maybe I will talk to your mother today, like you said. If she’s okay with it.” 

“I think she will be,” Shane agrees. “And I’ll have my phone on me. If you need anything—” 

Exasperated, fond, and still so tired, Ilya’s mouth twitches just barely at the corner when he looks up at him. “I will tell you. I promise. Go see your friend. We will be okay.” 

Reluctantly, Shane picks himself up off the bed, kisses them both goodbye, and gets into the rental his parents have been using to drive himself to see Hayden. He’s regretting picking a park that’s a little over thirty minutes away from the house as he types it into the GPS, but Ilya said it’s private in the mornings and that traffic isn’t bad, and Shane had thought, at the time, it was nondescript enough to not be egregiously suspicious. 

He hadn’t expected to wake up to a text from Hayden this morning telling him he was coming to Boston, but Shane thinks maybe Hayden knows him well enough at this point that it was the whole point. Shane is good at not being found if he doesn’t want to be. He could have told Hayden it just wasn’t the right time, he couldn’t talk yet, sorry, he’d pay for the flight back. He could have just not answered at all. 

But part of him needs to do it, he thinks. He’s morbidly curious to hear from someone in the room what had happened after he walked out. To confirm what he already knows. 

And also, Shane just doesn’t know a lot of people who would go to the trouble of coming all this way for him. If they’re securing connections, building support, why wouldn’t he go? The worst that could happen is—well. Shane isn’t going to think about the worst case scenario right now. 

Hayden had covered for him. Multiple times. Had gotten him to Boston when he needed it, no questions asked. Had been his friend for the eight years before that, of which there were also certain lines Shane wouldn’t cross, explanations he couldn’t give. 

Maybe, if today goes well, he can change some of that now. 

It’s not far enough into the day yet to be warm, so Shane keeps his jacket and sunglasses on as he pulls into a spot at the park and turns off the engine. One of Ilya’s shirts sits underneath it, the slightest bit loose on his shoulders, smelling familiar enough to be a comfort. 

The park is mostly empty, like Ilya said it would be. Shane waits for someone jogging on the running path to pass by and disappear into the trees before he opens the door and starts to walk across the grass in the other direction. 

He feels a little unsteady being away from them, fingers twitching in the pockets of his jacket as he tries not to reach for his phone and ask for constant updates. Instead, he finds a table underneath one of the gazebos and takes a seat atop the fading aluminum, scratched and carved with age. 

A few minutes later, he hears the distant shutting of another car door, and then Hayden’s walking across the grass toward him. In Boston. Shane can’t believe he’d actually come here. 

He’s wearing a ball cap on his head, but Shane’s glad it’s a, perhaps accidentally appropriate, dad-themed one and not one with the gaudy Montreal logo they hand out to the team every year. He approaches Shane uncharacteristically timidly, hands in his pockets and eyes flicking around them. 

“Hi,” Shane says when he gets close enough, clearing his throat. 

“Thank God that was you sitting there and not some stranger. Boston’s foggy as fuck in the mornings. Who knew?” 

I did, Shane thinks but doesn’t say. He cracks a smile that seems to ease a little of the tension, and Hayden drops down onto the bench a ways down, straddling it so that he can look up at Shane on the table. 

“Flight was okay?” 

Hayden nods. “Yeah, yeah. It was good. Quicker than I thought, since I got the early one. Still had points leftover, so it was cheap, too.” 

“That’s good.” Shane bobs his head in return. “How are you? How’re the guys?” 

“Honestly, I haven’t seen them much outside of mandatory stuff,” he tells Shane, and squints out into the fog—his tell when he’s leaving something out. “I’m supposed to text J.J. after this, let him know you’re alive. But other than that, it’s been…” 

“Yeah,” Shane concludes. 

He sighs. “Yeah.” 

Shane tenses when another person crosses the running trail in the distance, but they pass eventually without even a glance, and his shoulders drop again. He can feel Hayden’s eyes on him, his own looking out at the grass as he tries to figure out what to say. 

In the end, he doesn’t have to. Hayden reaches up to pull his cap off and run a hand through his hair, then slips it back onto his head and drags both palms down his face with a groan. 

“Okay, I’m just gonna—I took an early flight and drove out to the middle of bumfuck Boston for this and I’ve been thinking about it non-fucking-stop and I just.” He drops his hands to his lap and looks at Shane head on. “Are we gonna talk about it?” 

“Talk about what?” he croaks. 

Hayden stares, unphased. “I’ve had four kids, Shane. I know what a fetal heartbeat sounds like, and I know the look your face gets when you’re listening to one of ‘em.” 

For a second Shane considers doubling down and denying it, but he’s—he’s so fucking tired of lying. Thing is, he’s been doing it for so long that he’s not quite sure how to tell the truth either. 

Outside of his own volition, his body folds on itself, forehead heading for his knees as he spits out, “Fuck.” 

“Hey, it’s okay—” 

“It’s not,” Shane insists, tugging at his hair. “I didn’t even ask him if I could—” 

He goes completely frozen when he realizes his mistake. His brain, muddled on everything that isn’t Ilya and Yana right now, had skipped several steps ahead, collapsed its walls too soon. 

Hayden snorts from beside him. “I don’t think a three week old baby’s gonna understand much of anything you ask him right now, buddy.” 

When a long stretch of nothing but distant cicada noise passes between them, Hayden pauses. Shane watches his brow furrow in his peripherals, his lip curved down. Watches it start to dawn on him. The widening of his eyes like a barreling train Shane can’t derail at this point right before they flick in his direction. 

“Unless—unless you mean… oh.” 

Shane tosses his sunglasses onto the table beside him and shoves his palms against his eyes.  “Fuck.” 

“Woah, Shane—hey, it’s all good. I’m not—I’m not gonna tell anyone, alright? I swear,” Hayden assures, voice gentling. “Man, this is… wow.” Shane cuts him a look. “Not in a bad way! I just didn’t think—I mean, Lily, you know. That sounds like…” 

“I know what it sounds like. It was on purpose.” 

At that Hayden wilts a little, mouth pinching again. He glances at Shane, considering. “You’ve… you’ve been talking to Lily since rookie year, though.” 

Shane swallows. “Yeah.” 

“So. So then. All this time—?” 

“Yeah.” He hangs his head, eyes closed. “I’m sorry I lied—” 

“What the fuck?” Hayden asks. “No, Shane. You don’t have to be sorry. I mean, it’s shit that it was a secret in general, but it’s mostly shit for you. You were protecting yourself. I get it.” 

Shane lifts his chin. “You do?” 

“You think we haven’t been in the same room all these years?” Hayden arches a brow. 

It’s been a long time since Shane’s thought about it. He supposes in some ways he’d blocked it out. The grueling underbelly of his rookie years, the constantly having to prove himself. He’d gotten it the most, especially when he’d come into it outperforming even some of the veterans and ultimately taken the captaincy. But he doesn’t think about before that much, when he and Hayden were in it together, locked in the showers with their clothes stolen, waiting for the janitorial staff to show up and help them. Playing scapegoat for anything the older players hadn’t wanted to take the fall for with coach as a backwards form of ‘showing respect’. Making them compete with each other, pushing them around, demeaning them for not drinking enough, not fucking enough, not getting mean enough on the ice, all the other pointless hazing you were supposed to endure but never talk about. 

Shane can still see a lot of that in them now. Avoiding eyes and talking in circles until the balloon pops and one of them says fuck it. Even if it’s still a little shaky, like they’re still not totally sure they’re allowed to be the ones to call it. 

“I guess so,” Shane sniffs. “It’s—I wanted to be there. You know. It’s just… hard sometimes.” 

“I’d walk too, you know. If you left.” 

“What?” His head snaps toward him. “Hayd, where is this coming from? I’d never ask you to—” 

“You didn’t ask me. I’m saying I would choose to do it. I’ve got two years left of my contract. I’m not ruling anything out.” 

It’s not that it isn’t a nice thing to say. It is, and Shane appreciates the hypothetical. But the look on Hayden’s face is a little too certain to be only just that, and it makes Shane sweat underneath his jacket, to suddenly put real stakes to the nebulous idea in the back of his mind. 

Outwardly he tries to be modest. But the bottom line if that if Shane leaves, he has failsafes. He can pull rank, achievements, team status and global recognition in the league. His captaincy and marketability—for the time being, at least—make him more likely to be able to negotiate something doable. His contract is fundamentally different from Hayden’s, even if they’re on the same team, the same line, even if they’ve put in the same amount of time. It’s riskier for him, and while it’s a fact that Hayden’s position and former experience will result in inevitably good pay, Shane knows that his own salary would certainly be slimmer if he was financially supporting six people on his own. 

Shane stares, ekes out a strained, “Why?” 

Hayden shrugs in that way he does when something isn’t actually all that casual, shaking his head. “After you walked out of that last game, I just…” 

“It was bad,” he hazards. 

A humorless laugh echoes under the roof of the gazebo. “Yeah. Yeah, it was fucking bad. I nearly punched Comeau.” 

Shane’s brows raise. “Seriously?” 

“Yes,” Hayden says, and he looks it. “He wasn’t the only one. And I was just standing there in the room and they were all talking shit, and I knew they were going to blame the loss on you, even if it was over by the middle of the second, no fucking thanks to them,” he mutters. “And I realized that without you there, it just wasn’t fucking worth it.” 

“I don’t think you would’ve stayed all these years if it wasn’t worth it,” Shane tries to deflect lightly. 

“No, but that’s what they don’t get. You make the room. You make us a team. You’re the glue, man—but you shouldn’t have to be. You’re a fucking amazing captain, and you’ve earned their respect ten times over. That shouldn’t just disappear the minute your back is turned. And selfishly, I’ve been glad to keep you all these years. But, yeah, if it meant you getting the recognition you deserve in the room, I wouldn’t blame you for leaving. And I wouldn’t be upset about following you either, when and if I can. Jacks agrees.” 

Wishing there was a way to subtly slip his sunglasses back on, Shane chews at the inside of his cheek and nods in acknowledgement, throat tight. 

“Thanks, Hayd.” 

“Least I could fucking do, honestly.” 

He’s never been the kind of captain that Ilya is, with his rousing speeches and open affection. And he’s not like Scott Hunter much either, with that paternal sort of patient praise and reassurance. He’s always believed more in leading by example, showing them the steps to follow if they wanted to succeed, and for a long time, they’d followed. 

It just sort of really fucking sucks to find out that some of them had only been doing it because of the common goal, regardless of the person leading them there. 

The more he considers it, the good and the bad, his endless, deep love for his sport and his equally intense love for his family now, the more he doesn’t really want to compromise anymore. If Hayden can have that, maybe he can too. 

The fog clears a bit more, the grass greener underneath the sun, and Hayden blows out a breath. “So… a baby.” 

Shane’s mouth twitches. “A baby,” he confirms. 

Warmth spreads in his chest. He doesn’t think that’s going to stop any time soon. 

Hayden turns to him, gives him a look that’s long and assessing, then says with all the gusto of a gossiping session, “Aren’t they wild?” 

He laughs. “Yeah. Crazy.” 

“Am I allowed to ask for pictures? I need to see what a little baby Shane looks like.” 

“I have some, yeah. But…” he trails off, sobering. 

“I get it. Jacks still doesn’t like to make any posts with their faces in ‘em. But I won’t share it with anybody, cross my heart.” 

Hayden mimes the aforementioned action, then zips his lips for good measure, tossing the invisible key over his shoulder. 

“It’s not that,” Shane admits, nerves fluttering again. “The other father isn’t… out yet either. And the pictures might be…” he tilts his head, searching for the word as his face turns scarlet. 

“Oh. Oh. It’s someone I would know?” Hayden asks. His brows draw together. “Shit. I don’t know, man. I don’t know of anybody going by Lily in Boston. Actually, I don’t think I know anybody in Boston. Well, except for—” 

“Please don’t guess,” Shane says, but Hayden’s eyes have already doubled in size again. He turns them like headlights onto him. 

“Shane.” 

“Hayden.” 

“Shane,” he hisses. “Is it fucking—?” 

“Don’t say it,” he interjects, surprisingly firmly this time. “I meant what I said earlier. I haven’t talked to him about telling you yet.” 

Hayden guffaws, slouching against the table. “Holy shit.” 

“Please, Hayd. Promise me you won’t—” 

“I promise,” he swears, which is something, at least. “Absolutely. I promise. It’s not like anybody’d fucking believe me, anyway. What the fuck.” 

“He’s not what you think,” Shane defends, and it comes out softer at the thought alone. 

“Yeah. Obviously not,” he agrees. “Oh, shit—what Jacks said at the house. When we thought—the pictures, and—she was totally convinced that there must have been complications, that it was high risk or something.” 

Shane sucks his lip into his mouth. “She wasn’t wrong.” 

“Fuck, Shane,” he sympathizes. “Is everything—I mean is he, uh—?” 

“He will be okay, I think. If that’s what you’re asking. It’s… taking some time.” 

Hayden nods somberly. “And the baby?” 

“She’s doing good. She had a lot of reasons not to be, but. She’s as stubborn as we are, I think,” he grins. 

“No shit,” Hayden scoffs, and reaches over to grab onto his knee and shake it a little. “A daughter. Holy shit, dude. You have a daughter. You’re a girl dad!” 

Shane colors again, a part of him preening at the external confirmation. “I know.” 

“It’s going to take some time to wrap my mind around the fact that it’s with—” 

“Hayd.” 

“—but, fuck, man. I’m so fucking happy for you. Get the fuck over here.” 

They both stand and Hayden yanks him forward into a hug, the one reserved for family and not teammates. Into his shoulder, Shane mumbles, “I think you owe, like, at least fifty bucks to the swear jar.” 

“Oh, man,” Hayden laughs, clapping him on the back. “I cannot wait to start uno-reversing that shit on you.” 

Shane gets to actually relax after that, Hayden’s knee bumping his on the bench as he catches him up to speed on everything else he’s missed in Montreal. It’s nice to hear, Shane had asked, after all, but as he listens, he doesn’t find himself wishing that he’d actually been there for it. 

As it nears lunch time, sun high and heat creeping back in, they move back to the parking lot. Shane slides his sunglasses back onto his nose and Hayden pulls the bill of his cap down over his face, but their elbows touch when they walk, another connection kept even after his cards were laid on the table. 

“Hey, Jacks and I saved a bunch of stuff from when we had the girls. We were going to donate it, but if you guys need it, it’s yours.” 

“That’d be awesome,” Shane says as they arrive at their cars. “Thanks, man.” 

Hayden unlocks his door but doesn’t get in yet, leaning up against the side with crossed arms. “So, wait. He, like—knows that you came to meet with me? You told him?” 

“Yeah,” Shane frowns. 

“And he was cool with it?” 

“I don’t know if cool was the word he used,” he smiles to himself, “but, yeah. He’s fine with it. He knows you’re my best friend.” 

Something in Hayden’s face settles, like he’d gotten his own closure. He nods, then points at Shane with a stern finger. “As soon as he says it’s cool to share pics, I want them.” 

“Noted,” Shane chuckles. “Thanks for coming all this way, Hayd.” 

“Of course, buddy,” Hayden squeezes his shoulder. “Do you have help? First few weeks are always a lot.” 

“Yeah, we’re good. My parents are leaving soon, but they drove in after my flight and’ve been staying with us.” 

“God, I bet they already love the shit out of her,” he says. 

Shane’s smile widens. “They do.” 

With a dramatic sigh, Hayden steps away, hand on the handle of his door now. “Alright, well. I’ll go, then. But hey, now that the cat’s semi-out of the bag—or I guess out of of the—” he grins, then blinks, juts out his lower lip, and shakes his head. “Nope, you know what, bad joke, ignore that. Just—let me or Jacks know if you need anything, okay? It sounds like the before was pretty different than with us, but we’re pretty familiar with all of the afters.” 

“Will do. Thanks, Hayden.” 

He stares at Shane over the top of his car for another few seconds like he’s noticing the differences, and then shakes himself out of it with a wave of his hand and a sniff. 

“Ah, fuck. Alright. Go get back to your baby and your—” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay, okay,” he waves off, stepping into his car. “Call me when you’re back in Montreal, yeah? Or I can come back here. Whatever works.” 

“I will.” 

When he gets back to the house and lets himself inside, he tries to be quiet. He stops at the bedroom first off the entryway, glad to see the bed empty and made but also a little disappointed. Shane would have loved to have crawled right back into the spot he’d vacated earlier this morning. 

There’s no one in the kitchen and the living room, the television off and oven cool. He figures his parents must be taking a nap. He listens for a moment at the base of the stairs, but he doesn’t hear anything coming from the nursery either. 

Wandering a bit further, he finds a light gust of wind coming from beyond the dining room, the sliding glass door of the patio cracked open. Shane follows the light spilling onto the tile and makes his way outside again, slipping through the gap over the threshold. 

He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting to find, but it hadn’t been this. Ilya on the outdoor sofa in the shade, back reclined and knees up on the wide cushion, Yana propped up against his thighs. His hands are on her sides, thumbs stroking back and forth over her collarbones in her soft looking bear themed onesie a la Marleau, her cheek smushed against his knuckles where she’s fallen asleep. 

On the ottoman in front of him, there’s an empty bottle. Shane’s brows climb. Feeding her has been difficult for him since they brought her home. 

“Hello,” Ilya says, and smiles to himself without turning his head. “You can close your mouth, you know.” 

Shane does so, realizing he’s been standing off to the side just staring. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” Ilya cranes his neck over the back of the sofa to look at him, and Shane marvels at the sight of him outside for the first time in a few weeks. “Come and sit with us?” 

Gingerly, he does, careful to settle against Ilya’s side in a way that doesn’t disturb either of them. Ilya moves anyway, adjusting his head to lean against his shoulder. Shane turns to touch his nose to his curls. 

“Everything go okay with my mom? Not too much?” 

Ilya shakes his head. “No. It was good. It helped, I think.” 

“Good.” 

“How was Pike?” 

He smirks. “Are you genuinely asking?” 

“Don’t push it.”

“I think it was helpful for me, too,” Shane admits eventually. 

“Good,” he returns. He pauses, and then adds, “Shane?” 

“Yeah?” 

He can feel the tension in Ilya’s shoulders, the deep breath that he takes to try and dissipate it. Shane wonders if something had happened with his mother, or if he’s done something wrong, or—or, or, or. It’d been his first time leaving them at the house, after all. 

“I don’t think I can do Ottawa right now. Sorry.” 

Shane’s own tension eases. He touches a hand to Ilya’s shoulder. “Oh, that’s okay. It was just an idea. Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about it. We can table it for whenever you want.” 

“I do want to go. I think it would be nice. Maybe just… not yet.” 

“That makes sense. Things are still really new. Maybe that plan was a little too fast.” 

Visibly reassured by the agreement, Ilya burrows a little further into his side. “And I think… I think I am going to talk to one of Yvonne’s counselors.” 

“Really?” Shane asks. 

“I—I don’t want to be afraid of her anymore,” Ilya confesses, brushing a knuckle against her cheek. “I miss her. I miss her, and she has been right here.” 

Yana squirms sleepily against Ilya’s legs. Her tiny nose twitching when Ilya runs a finger between her brows down the curve of it, turning her head blindly toward the sensation. The pacifier in her mouth pulses as she sucks on it, her new favorite pastime after they’d consulted with the pediatrician. 

“Looks like she missed you too.” 

Shane smiles, but Ilya still seems lost in thought as he looks at her. Gently nudging him, he seems sheepish to be caught, but takes Shane’s invitation for what it is. 

“It’s like—in the hospital, there was so much happening. I did not feel guilty for sleeping, or for taking a break. For trying to be myself again,” he explains. “And no one is making me feel guilty here, but. I do. I just want so much for her. I want to give her everything I didn’t have. Everything that I wanted but was too afraid to ask for.” He sweeps some of her golden hair back from her forehead. “I don’t want her to have to ask.” 

To some extent, Shane understands. But also, he feels more like he can thrive here at home, in private, than he had at the hospital, where he’d felt like everyone was measuring his contributions, watching over his shoulder, secretly thinking he was doing everything wrong, even if there was nothing in particular that proved this. 

It’s a difference he’s noticed between them, that while he tends to stress more about external pressure, the things that he thinks other people want from him and performing that accordingly, Ilya seems to stress more about his own beliefs and expectations. Formed from his family, perhaps, but now parroted back to himself in a voice all his own. 

“That’s a lot to carry, I think,” Shane says carefully. “I’m not saying those aren’t good things to want. But you… from what you’ve told me, it sounds like the way you grew up was characterized by the things you wanted but couldn’t have. What you needed people to be for you, and they weren’t. What if, instead of just trying to not be like other people, you just… be you?” 

Ilya exhales a shuddering breath, but he doesn’t move away. “That’s scarier.” 

“Yeah. It is.” 

“What if I do it wrong?” 

“I don’t think you can be yourself wrong,” he considers, “but if we’re always trying to be something else, I think, maybe we miss things. Like you said. You miss people who are still here.” 

Ilya turns to graze his nose against Shane’s collarbone, buried in his shirt. He inhales deeply and hums on the way out. For once, Shane feels like he’d given the right answer. 

“I want to be here.” 

“Good,” Shane says, and the smile holds this time. “I want you here.” 

His head raises from Shane’s neck to look at him properly, leaned on the back of the sofa and close enough that their noses brush. Ilya’s the one to close the distance between them first, and the kisses are soft and featherlight, no more pressure than the knuckle against Yana’s cheek earlier as Ilya sighs against him. 

Like she’d heard him thinking of her, she stirs again in Ilya’s lap, her pacifier dropping out of her mouth. She makes a displeased squeak, and Ilya winces as he pulls away from Shane when her little kneading kicks push at his stomach. 

“Good morning, солнышкоsunshine,” he coos, lifting underneath her arms to bring her to his face. He kisses over her cheeks and her forehead, and both of them laugh when she squeals under the attention, little fingers splayed against the spot on Ilya’s jaw where the stubble has returned. 

It’ll be a while before she starts babbling, according to the books Shane’s read. Even now she’s making the sounds she’s supposed to make, but the evidence of the respiratory machine still lingers, her cries a bit hoarse and her squawking not totally unlike his father’s bird documentaries. 

He nabs the fallen pacifier from Ilya’s chest right before Ilya settles her on her stomach with her cheek against his shoulder, his hand on her back. It leaves her face turned toward Shane, her big eyes blinking slowly as she takes in her surroundings. She makes another noise when they land on him, surprised. 

“Hi there,” he grins, petting her chin with his thumb. “Let’s not kick papa, okay?” 

She grunts at him in response, face souring as her brow wrinkles and her lip juts out in focus. Shane looks to the empty bottle on the ottoman again and back to her small, wrinkled forehead. 

“Time to go in, I think,” Ilya manages, strained. 

“Smells like it,” Shane agrees with a laugh. He carefully extracts himself and stands, stretching. “You want me to take her?” 

Ilya, sitting forward on the edge of the sofa now, strokes a thumb over her back. “No. I don’t think so. But can you—?” he asks, putting a fist on the cushion to push himself up. 

Shane keeps one hand on Ilya’s forearm that holds Yana and supports his hip with the other, trying to keep his midsection from straining more than it needs to. 

This time, they step back over the threshold together. 

+

The first thing Shane registers is that it’s late. The second is that it’s a deep voice rousing him from sleep and not a baby crying. 

“Shane.” 

“Hmph, what,” he mutters, still half-swamped in exhaustion as he rolls in the vague direction of it. Without the biological trigger of audible distress he struggles to pull himself up to the surface, eyelids twitching as he sinks back into the pillow. 

“Shane.” 

That one gets him. 

He sits up in a dizzying snap, flinching at the harsh lamplight when he tries to blink his eyes open. “Huh. What. Are you okay? Is she—?” 

“Look.” 

It takes him a minute to focus and push through the fog of sudden consciousness, to find the source of Ilya’s quiet but firm insistence that he see. 

He’s sitting up beside Shane on the bed, shoulders forward and head down. His shirt’s off, the broad expanse of his back bare in the yellow light. Is it the scar? Shane thinks, already planning to call Yvonne if needed, but Ilya doesn’t seem to be in distress. 

Planting a palm on the mattress behind him, Shane shifts his weight until their thighs are touching. It puts his shoulder tucked parallel behind Ilya’s, and Shane tilts his head to look over it. 

There, at Ilya’s chest, Yana rests small and sleep-soft in the crook of his arm, her cheek smushed into his skin, her mouth securely latched as milk froths in a fleck of tiny bubbles at the corner. 

“Oh,” Shane breathes. “You did it.” 

It wouldn’t have bothered Shane if it never happened, but he knows Ilya had wanted it badly, and the tentative, disbelieving relief radiating off of him is enough to make Shane’s own eyes prick with emotion. 

He hooks his chin over Ilya’s shoulder gently so he can keep watching, the weight of Ilya’s head resting heavy against his temple. 

“She’s smiling. Look at that,” Shane whispers, reveling in the soft curve of her mouth. He’s seen her pout and cry and yawn and smack them toward the nipple of a bottle, but he’s never seen her do this, this miniature version of, as absurd as it sounds, a real, human smile. 

A sniff from Ilya draws his attention from her, and Shane reaches up gently to catch a bead of moisture falling from his jaw with his knuckle. 

“Hey. You okay?” 

“She’s not mad at me,” Ilya whispers, voice shaking. 

It tugs at something in his chest. He brings a hand up to rub at Ilya’s other shoulder, kisses the one closest to him with his mouth. “Baby. Of course she’s not.” 

“Even though I did not get to hold her after she was born, and I have been so scared, and—” 

“Ilya,” Shane stops him, grip tightening just enough to get his pull him back. “You’re everything to her. You would have been regardless, but—look at her. Look at what you’re doing for her.” 

His hand slides up from Ilya’s shoulder, over his neck to cup the side of his face, bringing him even closer. He gives another kiss to his wet cheek, and then presses his own to it so they can both watch her together. 

With all of the earnestness he feels, he tells Ilya, “You’re her whole world.” 

Even through the heaviness of relief, he can tell that Ilya’s radiating hesitance, waiting for the soft bubble of the moment to pop. Without jostling them Shane pulls his legs to his chest and shifts so that he’s behind where Ilya’s sitting up, then extends them on either side. He touches a hand to Ilya’s side to get him to unfurl a little, relaxing in increments until he’s reclined against Shane’s chest and no longer has to hold himself up. 

The groan he lets out sounds involuntary and thick with lingering emotion. Shane kisses the side of his head. They’re not quite close enough for him to bridge the gap to lean his shoulder blades against the bedframe, but he doesn’t need it right now. He has no idea how long Ilya’s been sitting here, curved over the edge of the bed. Shane can keep them upright for a while. 

Yana eats for another stretch of time yet, safe in Ilya’s arms while Ilya rests in Shane’s, all three of them so full that it glows. 

one month postpartum 

On their first night alone again at the house, they gather in the living room to watch it. They share a cushion this time on the sofa, Yana asleep in her mobile a few feet away, and for some reason, Shane is nervous. 

It’s palpable, he thinks. Ilya’s own face has slipped into careful impassiveness, which Shane has learned does not mean that he is unfeeling; if anything, the opposite of it. They both have their tells. 

But this is what they do, now. The scary things, together. 

Shane scoops the remote from the coffee table and aims it at the television to turn it on, then grabs his phone to find the video that’s been circulating non-stop for the last few weeks. It’s easy to get to, and not one iteration of it has any less than millions of views. He swallows back the knot in his throat and clicks on one, casting it to play on the screen in front of them. 

The clip is cut from a live stream of the original game, two minutes still on the clock when it loads and begins to play. Shane sets the phone down on the cushion beside him and reaches for Ilya’s hand, eyes glued to the screen. 

He watches Hunter glide down center ice, buoyed by Vaughny along the way, and feels the words come up before he thinks them through. 

“I think Vaughny knew.” 

“About Hunter?” Ilya clarifies. “Probably.”

“No. About us. Or about me, at least.” Shane clears his throat. “At All Stars, he tried to talk to me about you.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Wanted to know if I’d talked to you. Said it must have been something important to keep you away since… since he knew you’d probably really want to be there otherwise.” 

The clock on the screen hits a minute thirty. Hunter skates straight past the line of a camera, his gaze focused, unwavering. The Admirals are one point up, but the game isn’t over yet. 

“I would have, yes,” Ilya admits softly. Shane squeezes his hand. 

The clock ticks down, the familiar comfort of the game at war with what he knows is coming after the buzzer. He and Ilya have both won Cups before. Both know the sort of dedication it takes, the bottle rocket fizz of a goal you’ve put blood, sweat, and tears toward finally bursting to fruition. The extra weight on the blade that first skate with it in your hands, held up high over your head. 

Ilya’s fingers flex in his grip, both of their palms clammy in his lap. The game is called now, and the Admirals morph into a sea of red and white as they dogpile, scruffing hands on the backs of necks, pulling each other close by the jersey, foreheads together and grins wide on their faces even as tears leak from their eyes. Shane recalls watching a similar scene the year Ilya took it, the visceral joy and the swarm of teammates to share it with. 

“I texted Hunter.” 

Shane tears his eyes away from the screen only for a moment to look at Ilya. “Oh,” he says. “You did?” 

Ilya nods, once. “Yes.” 

Back on the screen, the team has spread into branches across the ice as family members are let in, men kissing spouses, swinging children up onto their shoulders. Shane’s eyes find Hunter again, skating a winding, aimless line through the reunions. Lost. 

This, Shane can relate to. Maybe not quite in the same way, not so instantly. He’d been ecstatic when they’d taken the Cup, both times. He’d wanted to try for a third, then, too. But he knows the prickle of a burr that attaches so deep that not even this could extract it; that restlessness of achieving what you poured yourself into wanting for so long only to be immediately plagued by what now? 

Hunter is glancing up into the crowd now, waving a hand. The camera pans over, searching for something it can’t predict the need to focus on. Back to Hunter, who now looks equally as determined as he had minutes before the final score. A blue denim jacket moves through the stands, blurred in the ocean of color and commotion of the crowd. 

“What is he doing,” Ilya breathes, incredulous, though Shane knows he isn’t really looking for an answer. 

Shane replies, “I don’t know,” and it isn’t a lie this time. 

They’ve won Cups, but they’ve never done this. 

Hunter reaches out a hand, helps someone hop the boards. The arena somehow manages a hush despite still being loud, the lights bright, the cameras still rolling, Hunter still achingly determined. Shane’s hand is sweating properly now, or maybe it’s Ilya’s twined with it. 

“He’s—” Ilya says. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees when he can’t finish it. “Yeah, he is.” 

The pair of them come to a stop at center ice, exchanging words that can’t be picked up by any of the cameras or mics. There’s a shake of a head—the kind that doesn’t say I can’t but says I can’t keep this to myself any longer instead—and then he kisses him. 

Shane’s breath catches. Ilya is leaned all the way in as if he gets close enough to the television, he can experience it for himself. This is what it was about. What had made his mother falter in her steps. What Rose had seen that made her think of him. That unspoken echo of possibility. 

The camera zooms in, and Hunter’s grinning now, both hands clutching the man’s face, tender and desperate. Shane thinks he can make out the shape of an I love you before he dips down to kiss him again. 

His eyes flick over beside the TV, to the framed photograph of he and Ilya underneath it. Someone had printed that, put it on paper, displayed it. It’s been seen now by a handful of people, they pass it every time they’re in the living room, and nothing drastic has happened. 

Scott Hunter kissed his boyfriend on live television, and he’s still there. The only difference is that he’s drawn a line in the sand on a beach they had once shared; had achieved the goal, seen the what now? and answered: this. 

The coastline he’d assumed couldn’t be for him beckons again, the roar of the crowd on the screen like the rush of cool waves. 

“Again, please,” Ilya whispers when it stops. 

Shane starts it from the beginning. 

+

When Ilya takes Yana upstairs to spend some time in the nursery, Shane steps onto the patio again, leaving the door wide open into the dining room behind him. 

Light from inside spills out onto the concrete, dusk making the sky a purplish-orange bruise above the trees at the edge of the property. Shane pulls up his most recent messages, finding the thread he hadn’t responded to yet and typing we watched it. 

The phone starts to ring in his hand, and Shane accepts. 

“So. Ottawa?” his mother asks. 

Shane glances over his shoulder into the open door and says, “Ottawa.” 

Chapter End Notes

just the epilogue left in ilya's pov! i'm doing kinktober so it may be next month before i can get back around to it, but i hope the previous two chaps are a good placeholder until then :)

ps i realized that i don’t think i’ve said it in any of the opening notes, but if you’re unfamiliar with paris paloma, the title of the fic is from one of the songs off her newest album called i cry in front of paintings, which is a little different from her usual sound but equally as gorgeous. feel free to check out the song or the album if you have the time, i think of this fic every time i hear that one now! <3