Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, other HR characters mentioned or in passing

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fanfiction Writer Ilya Rozanov, Fanfiction Writer Shane Hollander, why is ilya's a tag but not shane's lol, Online Friendship, Internet Friends, did my best with timeline, ALL FICS ARE TAGGED, PLEASE READ TAGS FOR EVERY FIC, shane writes all smut, ilya writes fluff and some angst, Characters Writing Fanfiction, Characters Reading Fanfiction, lowkey a love letter to fandom and ficdom, Fluff, Light Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior

Language:

English

Collections:

Fandom Trumps Hate 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-28 Words: 25,579 Chapters: 1/1

the wonderful secret world of hockey rpf

Summary

What if everything was the same, but Shane and Ilya were both secretly Hollanov fic authors?

Notes

This was supposed to be under 5K words, I believe, but I did it again folks... It was super fun, though, so thank you Rusakko for giving me the opportunity!

Disclaimer 1: I've honestly been scared to post given that the HR ficdom is constantly in shambles, so if people treat me the same way I will not hesitate to pull the plug. Remember that fic is written For Free and For Fun. If you don't like this fic, close the tab and move on with your day! You're entitled to your opinion if you're not shoving it in my face or dictating how I write, and there's plenty of other amazing fics that you might enjoy instead.

Disclaimer 2: Every embedded fic has tags, so please read them carefully just in case there's something you might not like! If you need to skip a fic, I hope I've put enough context around it that you won't be missing much. Definitely let me know (politely) if there's a missing tag that you think might be important enough to include.

This fic absolutely would not have been possible without fractionallyfoxtrot. I owe her my life for coding the AO3 work skin embeds from near scratch and cleaning up all the messes I tried to do with the Twitter and other coding. Thank you for everything.

Honestly, what the hell is he doing.

Shane's fingers hover over the keyboard, lingering over the comment reply button. He'd turned it over and over in his head half to death—how much was okay to post, how not only is he writing RPF but also self-insert fic, technically, about himself and his biggest rival.

Is it strange? Undoubtedly. Is it risky? To the hundredth degree. But fanfiction is one of his few outlets. Escapism. He'd always been better at putting his feelings into written words than expressing and processing them out loud, and if the thoughts stayed in his head, scraping at his skull and bouncing off the confined walls like rabid dogs, he'd truly crack.

So when he'd had a little crush on a teammate in junior league, he'd written about it. When he'd kept hoping that two characters would be in a queer relationship on screen as his parents talked about the canon heterosexual couple, he'd written about it.

When he'd finally given in to Ilya Rozanov and gotten the best head of his life, he'd written about it.

What he'd finally published on his secret little Archive of Our Own account isn't even a fraction of what he's written. He'd carefully catalogued the flash of heat he'd felt as Ilya had touched himself in the locker room shower and watched Shane's reactions, the way he couldn't tear his eyes away even as every cell in his body screamed danger. He'd relived the way Ilya had pressed him into the door of the hotel room, Ilya's hot and heavy tongue, his surprise when Ilya had so earnestly and genuinely told him no, he wouldn't leave him hanging, that he wouldn't actually be the asshole Shane and the world sees on the ice.

It's all too much to keep to himself in random notes and private documents, though. He's vaguely been aware of the hockey RPF fandom, of course, being an actual player and writing for other fandoms, but when he'd really deep dived into it and unlocked the potential in his brain, well… this had happened. He'd tried to leave out most of the incriminating detail and also make it an alternate universe in another sport, but the worry gnaws at him. The kudos and hit counts are low for now, but he's ready to delete all this at any moment.

If anyone ever found out it's him behind the screen, if his mom found out, he might lose his career, maybe. The MLH isn't quite known for being queer-friendly, and he's definitely heard questionable, borderline homophobic things in locker rooms his entire life.

Maybe he should have changed their names and made it an original work, or used characters from fandoms he's already written in their circumstances. But there's a certain sort of satisfaction and immersion of actually having been there and experienced these things that he's not sure he would feel with a layer of removal. This is personal to him, after all.

Slowly, he closes the window and pushes himself back from his desk, images of Ilya's irritatingly handsome face close above him still flitting through his mind, the phantom weight of Ilya's cock on his tongue persistent.

He's not sure what all this means, yet. He's not even sure if he's gay, but clearly he's feeling something significant about Ilya that he hasn't felt about anyone else. Clearly it's enough to have made him dip his toes into a whole new fandom space he's not completely ready for.

He'll just have to wait to see whether this was the worst decision of his life.

The real reason Ilya had written this fic is because he can still see Shane's anxious eyes underneath him after the All-Star Game a couple weeks ago as they'd talked about meeting again to hook up after today's cancelled game. Shane had been trembling, and Ilya is no stranger to panic attacks. He's glad that Shane had nodded and seemed happy to follow his lead to calm down, but Ilya wonders how much of it lingers.

He has a couple theories about it, though he's not sure Shane will ever trust him enough to confirm them. It's already scary to be closeted in the hockey world—which is why he'd tried not to be too much of an asshole when Shane had asked for explicit confirmation that he wouldn't tell anyone—but it's also scary for someone who is in the middle of a likely sexuality crisis to be seeing the same guy multiple times, and the potential of allowing him into his home. Ilya can understand that it feels more like commitment, and with commitment also comes what Ilya thinks is a bit of abandonment issues as well. Combine all this into the neurodivergent soup that is clearly Shane's brain, and panic attacks are probably not far behind.

So this is his way of apologizing into the void and manifesting, a little bit. He'd started writing English fics out of both defiance and escapism, and its scary to have a record that his brother or father or the Russian police could find—especially now that he's used both his and Shane's names—but it's his own little pocket fantasy that he can control and shape however he wants, and he can't give that up. He wants Shane to have the same level of comfort and safety as in the fic, and he sure as hell doesn't know if he can be the one to provide it, but hooking up with Shane has left him with such a protective feeling amongst the attraction and everything else. He hadn't been expecting this during his campaign to get Shane in his bed, but then, he'd let himself be with Shane twice now.

"No strings, huh," he murmurs in Russian, head tilted back to look at the ceiling of his living room.

He'd moved out here instead of the desk in his bedroom because Svetlana is still sleeping in there. The message from his phone taunts him, a disappointed Next time, I guess? from Shane that he feels too guilty to respond to. First the snow, then Svetlana… he's already fucking up, isn't he?

All he has is this fic, a little hopeless wish of alternate reality.

The next day when he's alone again, he opens AO3 to a few new notifications—some kudos, and a few comments which he hadn't been expecting. The first couple are fairly generic and he ignores them, but the third one gives him pause.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. What EscapistNerd says is true—most of the writers in the fandom are fixated on the public image they have, the rivals with unresolved sexual tension and Ilya's playboy image and Shane's flat emotionless-seeming appearance. He could stand to have someone like-minded around so he has hopefully more accurate fics to read, not that he hasn't enjoyed other interpretations.

Out of curiosity, he clicks over to EscapistNerd's dashboard. Some scattered anime fics, mostly one or two a fandom, but at the top is Hockey RPF, with six Hollanov fics already. When he clicks on it and scrolls, his eyebrow raises slightly at seeing every single one marked Explicit, but hey, he's not here to judge. He might enjoy some of these, even.

The user's brand seems to be porn with only a tiny modicum of plot, set in various alternate universes, but Ilya does rather like their penchant for explicit consent (or at least mutual enthusiasm) and yes, the softer dominant tendencies they've framed him with. The way they've written him is actually pretty flattering, almost a more idealized version of how he actually is. Ilya's laughed or cringed his way through several out-of-character fics about him being dismissive to Shane's needs or only there to have a good time, but this author seems to put a lot more thought into Ilya's character through fic Shane's perspective, making even their smut more intimate in a way.

Before he knows it, Ilya's read all six fics, bookmarked them for later, and subscribed to the user. He should probably respond to their comment, and maybe he'll go back later and leave some comments on their fics too. Authors supporting authors, and all that.

It's sort of stilted, but hopefully his sincerity shows through. And even if they don't respond, maybe Ilya will be able to read more of their fics later.

For now, he should probably focus on hockey.

Shane is probably leaning on user unrivaled (starfragments) more than he'd like to admit.

Part of it is missing Ilya, he supposes (after he'd taken a while to admit that to himself). Not being able to see him after that cancelled game and never getting a text to reschedule had really messed with his head, but no matter what his RSD tells him, it had been circumstances out of his control, and there's probably a good reason for Ilya not texting him back.

Still, he's allowed to feel disappointed, and he deals with it like he always does: doubling down on the hockey, doubling down on the fanfic escapism.

He writes a fic where he's masturbating to the thought of Ilya, because it happens more than once. He writes an AU where he has a wet dream about Ilya bending him over a pool table and wakes up coming all over his sheets. He writes a lot that he doesn't post. It feels like the only way to deal with the confusion in his head and his slow coping with queerness without the actual Ilya to talk to.

User unrivaled (starfragments) comments on every fic, too, so Shane has started to return the favor. He likes their sort of dry sarcasm but honest vibe, and it's clear that their English is improving greatly as well, so Shane feels a bit proud, but doesn't say anything about it out of anxiety of sounding condescending. In contrast to Shane's slightly desperate outpouring of smut, unrivaled (starfragments) seems to be finding every fluffy scenario they can find. It's sort of a guilty pleasure in its own way, Shane reading about fictional Hollanov on a romantic beach trip curled up in bed past midnight and wishing he could let himself have it.

Writing and reading fic, as comforting as it is, has to be set aside as the season approaches the end, however. If Shane can't get Ilya's attention personally, he can at least throw himself back into hockey with more to prove. Ilya is almost grim out there on the ice like his life depends on it, and Shane wishes he could pick apart whatever's in his head through the TV screen, or talk to him at all.

His blood thunders as he finally gets to hold up the rookie award in Vegas, and is released into the party. Idly, he thinks about writing a fic in a party setting like this as he casts his eyes around for Ilya, maybe hooking up in the bathroom or something, but then he's pulled into shots with Scott Hunter and some of the other veterans he's looked up to and the idea of it becomes hazy in his mind, jumbled with all his other drunken thoughts and the hurt he's been trying to push down.

Seeing Ilya out on the balcony is the trigger to a ticking time bomb.

Shane doesn't know why he lets Ilya kiss him after all that before his brain finally catches up to him. Or he does, but he refuses to think about it when Ilya has essentially ghosted him for months and then started bullshit while and still tried to make a pass at him anyway. He does feel the tiniest bit bad when Ilya calls after him as he walks away, but its far overshadowed by the hurt and guilt and shame and paranoia.

And how else to process his feelings than through writing?

The more he stares at the new document, the more self-punishing he feels, for lack of better term. He's been trying to write their dynamic how it actually is, and how he and his new writer friend like it—the surprisingly gentle, thoughtful, attentive way Ilya has always guided him through sex, the sort of scared but curious way Shane is slowly opening up both sexually and emotionally. He doesn't want that in this fic. It's not the healthiest coping mechanism, and he knows there's probably some trauma and other things going on that make him feel this way, but maybe he'd feel better if Ilya pinned him down until he saw stars.

Exhaling softly, he places his hands back on the keyboard.

Ilya pauses after leaving kudos on EscapistNerd's latest fic. In their author's notes, they'd mentioned having some negative feelings to project, and Ilya had posted around the same time with similar intention. As with most internet friends, he's rather attached to them despite not knowing what they look or sound like, and clearly they've been following and retaining sanity through each others' fics, so it might be nice to let them know he's there for them while they're in a similar boat.

Only after he's sent it does he realize he's been talking to EscapistNerd through AO3 comments exclusively for over a year, which is strange given that he vastly prefers instant messaging. He supposes there's a certain romanticism in what feels more like handwritten notes than online comments sometimes. Oh, well. At least he's fixed that problem now.

It's much later that evening that he gets a follow notification, and then a direct message.

Ilya waits for another message, but none is forthcoming. Glancing up at the time, he realizes it's past midnight, and he's pretty sure they're in the same timezone from their AO3 timestamps, so they might have just fallen asleep.

He doesn't know why he does it, but he whispers a goodnight before turning off his phone.

Shane is still trying not to be swayed by Ilya's texts, but it's hard.

He can't let go entirely, so he tries to be more blasé, or pretend even the blatant flirting and sexual innuendos aren't getting through. He's supposed to be mad at Ilya, dammit. Ilya knows they have to be careful, and he'd clearly been struggling too much with his own issues to be with Shane after the awards in a healthy way.

But the problem is, he's starting to understand. It's only bits and pieces, but he remembers the stone cold look on Ilya's face when Shane had suggested going home to Russia for the summer might be good. He remembers Ilya's familiarity with panic attacks. Something about his father, never a mention of his mother. How he'd kissed Shane on the balcony almost like it was the only thing he felt he could do to make Shane stay.

Maybe Ilya's like him, searching for someone who will accept him as he is. Maybe they can be that for each other.

It's a scary thought, one that he keeps pushing down. He's still reconciling his queerness, and adding whatever they are to the mix is overwhelming. So he compartmentalizes—he can read Ilya's texts and admonish him for dick pics he secretly enjoys, but at a distance for now. He can let them pass like ships in the night, and it's surprisingly easy given their crazy schedules. A part of his heart hurts about it nearly constantly, but he's just trying to protect himself and take it one step at a time.

His writing gets less masochistic, at least. Over the next year or so, his fic versions of Hollanov take on more of a yearning quality. He writes fictional situations in which they only have time for a quick passing hookup, video call sex where they're on the road, anything to feel like Ilya's missing him, too.

At user unrivaled (starfragments)'s suggestion, he also works up the courage to post the links to his fics on his fandom Twitter. It's sort of nice to connect with people who've read his fics and see a few fandom staples on his timeline, and no one treats him like a big hockey star, just a fellow fan, a normal person.

He and starfragments—who he's just started calling Star—started to share ideas with each other in their DMs, which has devolved into every AU, OTP prompt, and sexual situation imaginable. It's kind of crazy what he feels he can build with someone who feels anonymously safe. Shane had thought it would be weirder, but anything they come up with together is like playing dolls in a way, just them forever expanding on their shared imagination. So even if he has some personal investment, there's a layer of separation that he's grateful for.

Today, they're playing with a genderbent alternate universe. It's always nice because Shane is excited about their back and forth and looking forward to new messages; their little fic-related threads are always an oasis in his otherwise chaotic life.

Looking up at the time, Shane blinks. It's already been three hours of them going back and forth, and he really has to get to bed if he wants to make practice the next day. But it's nice, having something to stave off the loneliness at the back of his brain and his conflict about Ilya. He's grateful. Maybe he'll write Star a gift sometime.

But he can't completely ignore the Ilya Problem though, as he's taken to calling it in his head. Ilya is persistent at texting him for months, years, trying to get any rise or reaction out of him, any sembleance of what they had. And try as he might, Shane can't stop responding, as stilted and cold as he tries to seem. He can't completely shut out someone who shares his secret, and who's been the gateway to a whole new world despite his denial.

So he's mad at himself, for trying to type out two different messages rejecting Ilya's pre-game sexting and then, eventually, slowly, responding. And Ilya probably knows it too, the bastard. He knows exactly what buttons to push so that Shane will respond even in public, even in the middle of all his teammates, and Shane should be so much more angry because this is exactly the same problem as after the rookie award. It's dangerous to get so high on the danger of it all, and Ilya is the most dangerous part.

But seeing Ilya meet him at the back door to his apartment building after the game, a lot of that gets buried under how much he's missed Ilya. Even the last dredges of ire he summons to shove Ilya against the wall and demand answers dissipates as Ilya correctly and cockily assumes he'd been hard, too.

"You missed me, didn't you?"

Shane doesn't look at him as he denies it.

He can't even bring himself to do anything but look at Ilya longingly in the kitchen as he attempts to hold a conversation. Ilya doesn't wait anyway, giving in to kiss him first, and Shane lets him. He smiles stupidly as Ilya teases him about too many pillows on the bed, and can't fight down a bigger, more stupid smile as Ilya tells him he knows Shane likes him being an asshole.

And oh, hell. They're drawn to each other like magnets, and Shane gives in, gives up. Ilya kisses him with all the same want Shane's been holding back for years now, and Shane is tired of pretending he doesn't want him just as desperately. For all the smut he's written, it's so much more intense and electric to feel it all in person—the chemistry, Ilya's soft check-ins, the physical feeling of Ilya's cock finally, finally inside Shane for the first time. He almost wishes he could capture every detail in words, vivid enough to relive and for a reader to absorb.

It's almost, almost, enough for him to forget the denial. The afterglow is so warm and hazy that Shane could almost think this was real without panicking. But Ilya asks him whether it was worth the wait and he can't bring himself to respond, hoping a kiss is enough.

Ilya's shift in mood feels off, but at least he gives Shane a parting kiss that's much too sweet for what they are.

Shane lies in bed staring at the ceiling long after Ilya leaves, just trying to savor every lingering feeling. His fingers itch. It's much too late, but he's not sure how much of every vivid detail and sensation and touch he'll remember in the morning, so really he only has now to capture the sensations in words.

Rolling out of bed, he goes to find his laptop and glasses, determined to pocket this for a rainy day reread.

The loss is devastating.

Ilya stares at the ice, already hearing the scathing words of his father in his head.

You're a disgrace.

How could you lose?

How dare you show your face in front of me after that.

His head is pounding. He feels dizzy, and like every blood cell in his body will burst out of his skin. He'd give in to angry tears but he doesn't know how.

Numb. He's just numb.

It's not technically his fault. Sports are brutal and unpredictable. But his father won't want to hear that, his brother would laugh at his excuses. He's absorbed so much of their vitriol that he's turned it upon himself more harshly than they ever could.

To be less than perfect is to be a failure.

He doesn't remember getting off the ice or changing out of his gear. No one asks him for a speech, and he's vaguely grateful, just grabbing his bag and leaving. He ignores Svetlana's texts and texts from a couple other friends and teammates, and he sure as hell ignores Shane's text, finally turning off his phone completely.

He knows what will happen, even if he hates it. His brain will spiral, he'll isolate, he'll shut down and close himself into his tiny little mental cage where even if it's not healthy, it's familiar. He goes to the men's figure skating singles later in the day in a feeble attempt to stave off the brain fog, but he doesn't sit down, just chooses a secluded hallway overlooking the rink and presses his temple against the coolness of a metal support beam.

Shane, of course, still approaches him.

He can feel how hurt and taken aback Shane is without even looking at him, when he assumes Shane is just here to hook up. Even the vague guilt in his chest at Shane pushing past that to ask if he's okay isn't enough to shut down the trauma responses he knows he's going to regret as Shane walks away.

It doesn't help to see his father before the gala, who berates him for losing and making excuses and "not living up to his potential." Ilya fogs his way through the song and dance of deference and being the perfect but never good enough son and reminding his father that his mother is, in fact, dead.

God, he hates being here.

Svetlana is his only saving grace, even if she pushes Sasha onto him unknowingly. Ilya is surprised by how little he feels for Sasha anymore, and there's the niggling thought at the back of his mind that he knows exactly why but he's too tired to unpack it. He's sort of disappointed when Svetlana leaves, because her familiarity and sharp mind are the only things tethering him to reality right now. The fog is so heavy, heavy, settling over his brain and numbing even the faint interest in having sex to cope.

He's so tired, and Sasha is the farthest thing from helpful.

He's so tired, and he can't accept anything good, even Shane's probing text that signals he still cares.

Is he doing okay? No, and he doesn't have the energy to explain the passively suicidal fog that takes over his brain—sinking, sinking into familiar quagmire again.

Sometimes, it feels like he'll never get better.

Still nothing.

Shane has cycled through being worried, scared, angry, and trying to convince himself he doesn't care at least a dozen times. But it's been months, and there's still no response from Ilya.

Maybe he should give up. Maybe the persistent anxiety that tells him Ilya never really cared about him at all is right, and he was stupid to ever think otherwise.

Even distracting himself isn't working. He keeps being unable to focus on writing, and then gets more frustrated with himself, and user unrivaled (starfragments) seems to have gone radio silent as well.

Really reinforces that he's easy to leave, huh.

When he gets a notification in his inbox of a new posted work, however, there's a faint rush of hope that he tries to tamp down. As he skims the tags, however, he frowns more and more, and the worry sets into his chest.

The fic is just… sad. Weary. Shane feels so heavy reading it, like he's taking on the sluggish haze of depression that the author is feeling. With the minimal notes and summary as well…

Suddenly, he feels sort of bad for being annoyed about not being responded to. His fingers hover over the empty comment box. Star had mentioned that they wouldn't respond to comments, but maybe he can still say something nice and encouraging.

Hopefully that's enough. He's always struggled with the right words to say, but he's hoping that the reminder that someone cares about him who might be removed from whatever he's experiencing is helpful. This is all he can do from this side.

A reply only comes a week later.

Shane attempts a response along the lines of not expecting an apology and leaving the door open, but there is a little hole in his heart next to the larger, looming one of Ilya's absence. It's almost like everyone who knows intimate things about him are leaving at once, but he's just going to have to keep himself together.

Star doesn't respond again.

Worse, Shane gets word from his mother that he'll be hosting the MLH awards in Vegas with none other than Ilya himself. He's not sure what to think. He's sort of numbly watched as Ilya has thrown himself back into hockey with a vengeance, but only through a TV screen. He'd felt frustrated enough to blink back tears as he'd watched Boston win the cup with his team, and now he's expected to be civil on stage with him in front of hundreds of people?

But he can't say no, either, both because of expectations and because it's the only chance he'll get to guarantee being in the same vicinity as Ilya again.

It feels kind of sickening to see Ilya treat him like nothing has happened, the same smiley joking front and playing up their dynamic for the cameras. It's with a mixture of shame, guilt, and anger that Shane swallows everything down forcibly until he can run to the farthest bathroom possible and finally exhale when he's checked he's alone.

Of course, Ilya is still persistent.

He has the gall to laugh as Shane stares at him, and Shane sort of knows he acts all cocky to hide everything else, and probably thinks that if he acts like everything is fine, Shane will, too. And fuck him—of course he gives in when Ilya grabs his chin like that, and no amount of frowning can hide that he's missed him more than he's angry at him.

He thinks that maybe things can shift slowly back to what they were, but Ilya still has whatever carefully built walls he's put up around himself as he orders Shane to take off his clothes, and touch himself. It feels so wrong to not have Ilya's careful check-ins and touching him all over so reverently, but if this is what Ilya thinks he wants in the moment, he can't bring himself to say anything.

He does tell him he needs him, and even that is met by a vague hum of acknowledgement. Shane feels sick. He lets Shane suck him off, and fucks him into the mattress, but it's not him, it's not right. Shane feels sicker.

Even sitting together afterward is terrible. Ilya barely touches him, and pulls out a cigarette again that Shane hasn't seen in a while.

Maybe he can ask. He knows all this started with the Olympics loss, and he can still hear JJ talking about how terrible it is to be queer in Russia.

"Are you going back?"

Ilya doesn't look at him as he says yes.

"Do you have to?"

Ilya's tone hardens as he asks for clarification, and he says that it's home so matter-of-factly, like he doesn't have a choice. Shane's heart sinks further. Only when he asks whether it's safe and if Ilya likes it there does Ilya turn his head, and his eyes are so flat, dull.

"What difference does it make?"

It's the most truthful he's been this whole night.

The cracks in Shane's heart widen, shattering. He wants to do something, anything, to reach across the divide. He wants Ilya to be safe, and away from whatever's making him go into survival mode.

"A pretty big one, I think."

But Ilya isn't more forthcoming than that. He sends Shane off without even moving from the bed or seeing him to the door, and Shane feels even sicker.

In the elevator, he types and retypes different messages, each draft feeling worse than the last.

We didn't even kiss—

"Fuck," he says, deleting everything and putting his phone away.

The welcome coolness of the elevator door is his only saving grace.

Ilya sits back against the pillows and his headboard, spent cock still in hand and come over his fingers.

He'd never really thought about written porn as masturbation material until EscapistNerd's fics started getting him too hard to ignore, but he supposes that the extra immersion of seeing "himself" do these things in fic and imagining doing them with the real Shane is extra enticement.

The fic also reminds him of their time after the awards this summer. He does still feel slightly bad for that time… It's not what he wants to do, be cold to Shane when they both really crave emotional intimacy. He's fairly sure he'd guessed correctly that Shane did enjoy showing off for him, but he'd had no idea how to reach out past his depression and trauma making him build up walls and isolation other than sex, and he'd been too burnt out at the time to perform. It had been the only middle ground he could come up with.

Sighing, he wipes his hands on his sweats and picks up his phone. There's a message from EscapistNerd themself, sending him the promotional post they'd made on Twitter. Smiling, he types out a reply.

Ilya stares at the ceiling longer after their conversation, just thinking.

He can picture Shane's voice in his head, the way he'd forced out the words I need you. His eyes, searching like he'd been trying to reach Ilya from the other side of the glass.

Shane, who probably deserves more than Ilya has given him.

EscapistNerd is right, he should be honest. It'll take some working up to it, but maybe he'll make it a point to ask whether they can talk on the phone sometime soon, even if not in person. The season is starting up again soon, and he doesn't want to get back into it without clearing the air a little.

He types and retypes a message about it, and finally sends it the next weekend, keeping it short. Shane seems a little surprised, but he says he'll make time the next evening to talk.

"Hey," Shane says when he picks up. His voice sounds strange through the phone speaker. Ilya doesn't like this; he'd rather be talking to Shane in person.

"Hi." Ilya pauses, unsure how to approach it. "Thanks for calling."

"Are you okay? You're being weirdly polite."

Of course that's Shane's natural response. Ilya smiles to himself before he responds. "Yes, shut up for a moment. I was going to ask if we are good. I think… Vegas was not what you wanted. Not completely."

Shane draws in a breath that Ilya can hear over the line. "Oh… was I that obvious?"

Ilya blinks. "Well, I think maybe I notice things about you that most people don't, so maybe obvious, maybe not."

"Right." Shane pauses, and Ilya can just about imagine his thinking face. "Well, you didn't really do much wrong. Other than ghosting me beforehand."

"I am sorry. I'm not ready to talk about it, but… bad things happened after the Olympics. Depression came back, which does not make me the nicest person."

Shane hums in understanding. "I figured, but it does hurt to not understand why I'm being shut out."

Ilya tilts his face up toward the ceiling and exhales. "I know. I cannot promise it won't happen again but… I will try harder."

"Glad to hear it."

There's a natural pause, and Ilya waits to see if he has anything else to say before he asks, "So after our first game next month…"

Shane laughs. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Text me."

Ilya's chest feels so much lighter than it has in months.

Their first time hooking up in the fall season is just them falling into each other, giggling and breathless, and Ilya is so relieved. It's like they're craving each other with the reconnection, as if Ilya didn't miss him more and more in the long stretches they're apart. More than the sex, it's addicting to crave someone who clearly craves him right back; he never has to question whether Shane wants to be there with him. He isn't even mad as he watches Shane lead the Metros to win the championship two years in a row, because everything is good, and he has a second chance.

The summer of 2016 while he's back home is more bearable now that they've continued whatever this is with just the two of them, but it's also strange. He finds himself ignoring women and drinking to await Shane's next text, skips out on more social things to be available for Shane to call him.

Svetlana is onto him, of course. She's too smart for her own good, but at least she still thinks "Jane" is a woman even though she knows about his sexuality. Ilya wants to tell himself that his thing with Shane isn't serious, but he could just about imagine the unimpressed look on her face if she knew.

Only in the privacy of his own head does he admit that he wishes Shane were his, entirely, for good. If he were to say it aloud, the dream would shatter.

The day of the tuna melt sneaks up on him.

For once, Shane visits his place in Boston, and after Shane rides him much too well, he feels the overwhelming urge to ask him to stay in the sleepy afterglow.

"Stay?" he asks, like it's a foreign concept.

It takes more wheedling and well-placed kisses for Shane to give in, but he does, and Ilya finally, finally, gets to wake up with Shane in his arms, as it should be every day.

Heaven. He's addicted all over again.

He'd even stocked Shane's silly ginger ale and plays off making him food casually, but he catches the soft smiles Shane unknowingly breaks into, and his heart… it will burst, at this rate.

Shane's softness makes him want to push, a little. Just probe at how Shane will react if he talks about women, that sort of thing. But for all Shane doesn't talk about himself much, Ilya can read a lot in his face and actions—like the relief in his voice when Ilya insinuates he's not trying to find anyone else right now.

Ilya is sure Shane's dopey smile is just a mirror of his own.

He thinks he's making headway in starting to introduce his feelings about Shane when, just as always, his father calls at the worst time. When he returns, though, Shane just asks gently about his father, and then gently touches him as Ilya draws him in to cuddle, fingers drifting up Ilya's thigh.

Wait.

Ilya can hardly believe it as Shane settles into his lap so easily, and Ilya doesn't resist him shoving down their pants just enough to grasp both of their cocks together. Shane kissing him all over as he works feels like taking care of Ilya, and Ilya doesn't know if he's ever received this much tenderness from anyone.

It's only natural to use Shane's given name as he comes, like he has been in his head for months, years even.

But even after Shane uses his, he backs away.

Shane stands up from the couch in such a hurry, and keeps repeating that he's sorry, that he can't do this. Ilya is still processing the sudden shift from such a vulnerable moment, so at first, he can't understand what Shane is going on about. He's only gathering the beginnings of what's in Shane's head before Shane bolts like a panicked animal.

And very soon, sooner than he expects, his teammates tell him about Rose Landry.