Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike & Jackie Pike & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, The Ghost of Irina Haunting the Narrative, The Ghost of Grigori Haunting the Narrative, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, POV Alternating, Grief/Mourning, Accidents, Time Travel Fix-It, (kind of), the horrors of being fundamentally changed by loss, but the only thing that matters is that they get to be together right???, I promise it's a happy ending please trust me, Hurt/Comfort, Passive Suicidality, Temporary Character Death, Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Book!Shane x TV!Ilya, Shane Hollander Whump, Ilya Rozanov Whump, Hurt Shane Hollander, Parallel Universes, Medical Inaccuracies, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Ilya Rozanov is Loved, Dimension Travel

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Hockey Husbands Anonymous Collection

Collections:

Anonymous, Hollanov Plane Crash

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-26 Completed: 2026-07-04 Words: 42,792 Chapters: 14/14

Ilya; My Ilyusha

Summary

He could still feel it now, the warm-wet slide of Ilya's tongue as he licked a stripe from the sensitive skin on Shane's palm to the tip of his middle finger, shocking a laugh out of him. The head-rush of feeling how quickly his cock hardened against the warmth of Ilya's bare ass, Ilya's full weight bearing down on Shane's hips. The heat of the blush traveling from his cheeks all the way down to his chest in response to the smoulder in Ilya's eyes.

Мой любимый, this is excuse to put sunscreen on my naked body, yes?

Shane gnawed at the memories like a dog with a bone, allowed himself to get lost in them until he felt physically sick, at which point he realized that he needed to switch lanes to avoid hitting the fawn, still unmoving, still unblinking.

—

After the Raiders v. Metros accident, Shane comes back different.

Notes

this is a wip but also not really! i'm almost finished with writing the story, and i'm gonna be posting the chapters as soon as i'm done with editing and formatting them.

i'm using smugrobotics' Hover to Translate Workskin, so hopefully you'll be able to see the translations when you click on/hover over the russian texts!

chapter titles are from the first five stanzas of the poem One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

• Inspired by a year safe in your heart by Anonymous

Chapter 1: The art of losing isn't hard to master;

JANUARY 2022 - Ottawa

Shane's last thought before passing out was that if he survived this, he'd need to convince everyone that it was entirely an accident. The abysmal state of his mental health aside, he really couldn't have anticipated the fawn, the patch of black ice, the unfortunate placement of a nearby telephone pole.

The white-tailed fawn had ambled onto the road three hundred meters ahead of Shane's car with an eerie slowness, giving him more than enough time to ease up on the gas pedal. The sight of it was mesmerizing, with its silhouette outlined by the high beams and its gaze fixed straight on him. The spots on its gray-brown coat reminded him of snow dotting his cottage's garden soil on the first real day of winter. Its big shining eyes took him back to the breathtaking initial moments of the first time Shane saw Ilya cry.

Here it went again, the flashes of memories bubbling so quickly to the surface that he could never put up a mental block in time.

Ilya's golden curls, bright as a halo under the stadium's floodlight, his face lit up with joy; the Centaurs' first win after a long month of back-to-back losses. Ilya mouthing to the camera: For you, мой помидорMy Tomato.

Ilya in the afternoon sun, tanning on the cottage dock naked as the day he was born. The way his ass bounced as Shane slapped it with his towel, the languid motion of him rolling over, laughing, unselfconscious as he adjusted his soft cock, letting it rest on his thick thigh.

Ilya's gaze traveling up the length of Shane's body, besotted. The sunlight hitting his eyes just right, turning them into pools of gold. Shane, caught off-guard by the beauty of his affection, allowing Ilya to surge up and tackle him down onto the dock.

Shane still remembered the vertigo, the familiar push-and-pull of pretending to scramble out from under Ilya and away from his touches as he pawed at Shane's sunhat, his tank-top, his shorts. Take this off, a kiss on his pec, come tan with me, a kiss on the corner of his eye, your body needs more freckles, a kiss on the apple of his cheek.

The sun was much too warm and his heart was growing much too big for his chest, so Shane covered Ilya's mouth with his hand. Didn't he know how dangerous using tanning oil instead of sunscreen with proper SPF was? Skin cancer was the most common type of cancer in the world, and white people were the most at risk for developing it. If Ilya ended up developing both lung and skin cancer, Shane was going to kill him himself. Hah.

He could still feel it now, the warm-wet slide of Ilya's tongue as he licked a stripe from the sensitive skin on Shane's palm to the tip of his middle finger, shocking a laugh out of him. The head-rush of feeling how quickly his cock hardened against the warmth of Ilya's bare ass, Ilya's full weight bearing down on Shane's hips. The heat of the blush traveling from his cheeks all the way down to his chest in response to the smoulder in Ilya's eyes.

Мой любимыйMy love, this is excuse to put sunscreen on my naked body, yes?

Shane gnawed at the memories like a dog with a bone, allowed himself to get lost in them until he felt physically sick, at which point he realized that he needed to switch lanes to avoid hitting the fawn, still unmoving, still unblinking.

Was this a sign? He was never superstitious, but now he'd take what he could get. He had never seen a fawn that hadn't lost its spots by this time of year. He glanced at his phone, which was charging on the center console and buzzing with new texts, and considered pulling over just to google how probable it was, this kind of fawn sighting. In that half of a second, the car veered onto smooth black ice.

The timing was right, almost too perfect. It was the night of Ilya's one year death anniversary.

He had spent the entire day fielding calls from his parents, then from Hayden, J.J., and Rose. Svetlana, Scott, and Marlow texted. So did what seemed like the entirety of the Centaurs, and Wiebe and Harris. He sent perfunctory I'm Okay, I just need some time alone, and I'll call you tomorrow texts to his parents and left everyone else on read.

A deathiversary marked the beginning of another year of not knowing how to deal with people telling him that they were keeping Ilya in their thoughts, that Shane was brave for honoring his memories in the ways that he did, that Shane should reach out if he needed anything. The anger he felt reading those texts, along with the social media posts, the mourning cards, the letters — so many, too many — was quick and uncontainable. The only thing he needed was the warmth of his boyfriend, alive and breathing in his kitchen, on his bed.

He needed to get out before he trashed Ilya's entire house (although in actuality it was Shane's now, like everything else Ilya owned), and so the decision to drive through the woods at 11 p.m made perfect sense. He took Ilya's favorite car, the red McLaren, fully aware of how outrageously unsuitable it was for driving in snowy conditions, and made his way from the bank of the Ottawa River towards Highway 60, passing valley farmlands, the frozen edge of the Bonnechere river, forests dense with white pines and yellow birches.

Ilya was not there in his home; therefore he must be somewhere out there on this familiar drive from Ilya's (Shane's) place to his cottage. It didn't matter that Shane had already scattered his ashes. Shane needed to go find him, he needed his boyfriend back.

This grief — the irrational anger and the tendency to get lost in reveries coming and going in waves — was one he'd been learning to live with, although to describe what he'd been doing up until that point as living was a stretch. He existed in conjunction with his loss, throwing himself into the lawsuit against Boeing and dedicating the rest of his time to the Irina Foundation.

For a few weeks before the anniversary of Ilya's death, Shane was actually getting better at growing around the grief. He had been waking up before noon, having about two meals a day, and sleeping through the night. But, he supposed, he wasn't well enough to not hope that the crash would be the end of him.

Right before the car made contact with the pole, he prayed for a kind of union in death. They should have gotten married, before, fuck, should have, should have.

He did not remember much of what happened afterwards, just sensations and snapshots. The groaning of the car's frame as it wrapped itself around the pole, for one. The steady presence of his miraculously undamaged phone to his right, for another. He could reach for it and dial 911 with his unbroken right arm. He couldn't say the same for his left leg (crushed by the dashboard) and his ribs (broken, and had most certainly punctured both of his lungs.)

He was conscious for long enough to debate whether or not he wanted to make that call. In the end, he didn't.

April 2017 - MONTREAL

As he stands in front of Shane's room in the Neuro-ICU, Ilya's hands start to shake. To his left is Shane's primary nurse, and to his right, the hospital's social worker, both of whom have gently briefed him, just minutes prior in the waiting room, on what he should expect, and what was expected of him.

Ilya had tried his best to parse their medical English — something about how the mention of his name seems to be some kind of neurological trigger for Shane, who was awake but minimally conscious, and they didn't usually permit non-family visitors but this qualified as a special circumstance, and listen, they wanted to mentally prepare him for-

Ilya had gotten the gist, and stopped listening. If he didn't focus on regulating his breathing instead, he was going to pass out before he could make it through the door. Before he got to see Shane again.

Shane, whose condition is unexpectedly stable. Shane, who is surfacing from an induced coma, who's woken for close to twenty minutes at a time.

Ilya closes his eyes and wraps his right hand around his mother's crucifix, fourteen years ago now since the last time she wore it yet it is still hers all the same. For a delirious moment, he considers going back to church because someone out there has clearly answered his prayers. Inhales, holds, and breathes out on a count of four. Gives a shaky nod as the nurse reaches for the door handle.

Turns out, no amount of briefing is enough. He sees the monitors and machinery before he sees Shane, his form barricaded by the amount of equipment that Ilya has only ever seen in end-of-life care. A flash: VK notifications, photos from Alexei, his father, a monitor with a flatline. Missed phone calls, then, a voicemail. Возвращайся домой, ИлюхаCome home, Ilyukha.

He doesn't know where to look without feeling dizzy because there are IV lines and conduits attached to every exposed part of Shane. Most jarring of all is the sight of the tracheostomy tube that connects Shane's windpipe to the ventilator. The puncturing of his skin is life-sustaining, but at the same time it seems violent and desperate, the constant hissing and whooshing, the dripping.

Ilya forces his eyes away from the hole in Shane's throat. And the bandages around his head, and the bruising under his eyes.

He’s never seen Shane helpless, he's never seen Shane mute, with all of his bodily functions mediated by machines — the same body that Shane used to maintain with the religiosity of a good mechanic tending an expensive car.

This is not a scene that fits. Everything in that room, pieces of the wrong theater set. Shane should be on the ice and in his hockey gear and Metros uniform, not this flimsy plastic hospital gown. He should be looking big and strong, like the athlete in his mid-twenties that he is. Best in the league, even if Ilya will never say that aloud. He's supposed to be in his prime.

Ilya thinks with a jolt: Shane's birthday is coming up. The date is marked on Ilya's calendar app despite the fact that he knows it by heart. There's something special about waking up to the notification, a private opportunity to embrace Shane's importance, the forward march of time marked by Shane's continued existence. Hollander's 24th Birthday. Hollander's 25th Birthday. Then, in two weeks, Shane's 26th Birthday. Will he make it to his 26th?

Shane's eyes are open but his gaze is shuttered, fixed on a point on the ceiling. His complexion is ghostly under the room's fluorescent lighting. He's here, but not here, unresponsive as Ilya slowly approaches his bedside. Ilya stares.

It's been three weeks. Pike told him Yuna and David were told to prepare for the worst. Anticipate permanent damage, even if he woke again. Start discussing palliative care and consider what Shane would have wanted.

In those three weeks, Ilya could see the moment Marleau slammed into Shane every time he closed his eyes. The slight downward tilt of Shane's head and Marleau's shoulder-first momentum created the perfect set-up for one of the worst blindside hits Ilya's ever witnessed. Shoulder met temple, and that was that.

Memories of what happened after Shane was taken to the hospital fit together like torn pages threaded by a prayer, Господи помилуй, Господи помилуй, Господи помилуй.Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy.

Chasing after Hayden Pike, begging on his hands and knees for him to let Ilya come with him to the hospital, Pike being the only person with immediate contact with the Hollanders, the one who figured out Shane had been taken to McGill's Neuro before anyone else.

Anguish and panic overriding Shane's parents' confusion as to why Ilya was there. Trying to explain to them why he needed to be there, not finding the words because he and Shane hadn't ever agreed to any label, even after Tampa, and then bursting into tears. Stubbornly gluing himself to the bench outside the emergency room, and then the intensive care unit. Watching Yuna crumple after talking to the doctors once the brain surgery was over. It only lasted for two hours, but felt like an eternity.

Her explanation, mostly to Pike (because Ilya was too stupid? No, because Ilya was a stranger): They had to perform chest compressions because Shane's heart had stopped mid-operation. Something about the pressure in his brain compressing the brain stem, leading to an uncontrollable spike in his blood pressure and sudden plunge of his heart rate. Something about needing to remove a section of Shane's skull. Something about an induced coma.

There was no telling what the outcome might be.

Both him and Pike being sent home by a very apologetic David, Yuna nowhere to be found. We're sorry, there's nothing you can do now. No, you can't see him. Yes, we will keep you updated.

Standing outside the hospital with Pike, shellshocked. Pike awkwardly handing him a wad of tissues — where did he manifest it from? It's a thick wad — and realizing that he was crying again. Or maybe he had been crying the whole time.

"Look, man, I don't know what's up between you and Shane but it seems to me like you're closer than he's let on. So I'm going out on a limb here because I don't know who the fuck else to ask. Do you, uhm, fuck…. Do you know about him and Lily, and do you have any idea how we could contact her?"

Ilya cried even harder, then laughed, his breaths turning into wheezy, painful gasps. He realized the tissues must have been a Daddy Pike staple for his horde of snotty-nosed children and laughed even harder, the feeling of cool Montreal air in early April filling his lungs. Pike was so fucking stupid.

"Lily is out of country. Will not be here for a long time, but I will tell her."

His eyes were dry the day he buried his father but he wept like a child the night he learned that Shane might never wake up again. Later, he started breaking down at random intervals and couldn't stop for weeks.

Then, yesterday, the breathless relief of the phone call: It's David. Shane had woken up but only seemed to respond to the mention of his name. They'd consulted with the doctors, neuro-whatevers, and this was a big ask, but could he please come to the hospital?

He's standing at Shane's bedside now, close enough to touch, and yet Shane's eyes are still glazed over. Ilya feels lost, stupid, small. For a moment he fears that Shane's forgotten who he is and thinks to those romantic dramas that he absolutely does not watch, ones about people losing their memories of the lives they've built with their partners.

But that's not what he should fixate on. Shane's alive, and that's the only thing that matters. He grounds himself with a determination stronger than anything else he's put his mind to before: He can prove himself to Shane this time, and if Shane still didn't want him anymore, he would accept it.

He swallows and finds it difficult to speak. He has been crying so much lately that he might have wrecked his voice. "Shane," he says. He considers begging, but what for?

The gravel of his voice cuts through the fog, just not in the way he hopes. The beeping on Shane's cardiac monitor spikes and immediately turns frantic. Shane's eyes widen, finally focusing on him now, his breath quickens, chest rising and falling heedless of the steady control of the ventilator.

Oh fuck, Ilya's presence is sending Shane into a panic attack, oh god, what if this is it, this is what would trigger a seizure, make his brain bleed again and kill him. The nurses spring to action, and before Ilya can say anything else, he is being gently maneuvered out of the room. I'm sorry, Mr. Rozanov. Mr. Hollander is in a very fragile state right now. It seems like he's not as ready for visitors aside from family as we thought. We're so terribly sorry.

Chapter 2: so many things seem filled with the intent / to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Chapter Notes

tw for shane's section: homophobic language (f slur)

Shane

Beyond time and beyond space, Shane drifts untethered.

The thing about consciousness is that we don't know where exactly it comes from, and along the same veins, we've yet to find out where it goes. If it were true that consciousness requires physical form, then at the very moment the Shane as who Shane was does not exist. He's nowhere, he's everywhere. He's as small as a molecule and as large as a galaxy. Within this place he intuits a kind of letting go that somehow comes with regret and a desire to live because there's still so much beauty.

He drifts until he feels a pull toward true safety, like a promise to wrap him in wool, and:

He's opening two layers of doors to get out of an apartment now, one made of wood, one made of steel. He's chasing after a singing voice coming from somewhere outside, magnetized by a familiar melody.

He's on an empty street now, running his hand through a blanket of virgin snow that's settled on top of a thick hedge.

He's standing next to someone now.

A woman, lean and tall, almost as tall as him. Black snow boots and a brown fur coat, long tumbling curls the color of sand.

She turns toward him and delicately brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes. The tips of her fingers and her knuckles are red from the cold. Her thick lashes, the shape of her eyes, the softness in her gaze remind him of his-

He gasps. "Irina?"

She smiles, a familiar curve of a cupid bow. The warmth of her breath, clouds in the cold air.

"Irina, where am I?"

"When our Ilyushenka was young, he used to weave little baskets out of birch bark for me, so I'd have proper places to store my earrings. I kept losing them, you see."

Shane doesn't understand. "I don't understand." He says. Somewhere above him, or maybe all around him, there are sounds too rhythmic to be natural. Whirs and whooshes punctuated by short blips. There is no sky, just a deep void, neither bright nor dark.

"But they kept disappearing still, one at a time, and they were always just one of a pair. It made him terribly upset. He was convinced that it was because he hadn't woven the baskets tightly enough."

He feels the street stretch and morph. The asphalt splits open, and from the cracks come weeds and flowers. "I don't understand. What's happening to me?"

"We never figured out what happened to my earrings. It might have been my own inattentiveness, or it might have been his brother. Andrei was already quite troubled as a teen. I didn't give him enough attention, maybe. Either way, it was beyond Ilya's control, and I had more than enough money to replace them."

They're in the middle of a field now, its green pristine. The grasses are tall, and are still growing. It's no longer snowing, but it's getting colder. The wind is picking up. Shane shivers. He feels pain radiating from the top of his head down to the soles of his feet. Irina wraps her arms around him.

"Listen to me closely. In every world you are a pair, and neither of you were supposed to be lost. You must be together, the threads will reconnect. It won't be the same, but you will get him back. I'm sorry. The universe is cruel, but in this way it is just."

Terror and relief grip him at once. Irina releases him from her embrace, and the field swallows him whole.

***

In between bursts of wakefulness, Shane can make out more interwoven layers of noises. Harsh speech to the tune of jostled metal, quick footsteps towards ringing telephones, and a constant humming, like whispers, like waves.

Corporeality comes, too, but slowly. An overtone of pain that ebbs and flows. A periodical feeling of things prickling his skin. Alongside the discomfort, he feels the warmth of others. He feels his hand being held sometimes, and hears the voices of his mother, his father, a man, and two women. He's even heard Ilya calling for him once, and thinks Ilya extremely cruel for only coming to him now.

***

In Russia, Shane learned while researching for Ilya's funeral, it was believed that after death, one's soul lingered on earth for forty days. Thus, in the forty days following Ilya's death, Shane implored Ilya to haunt him. He fantasized about hearing Ilya's voice in the walls, seeing his reflection behind himself in the mirror, catching echos of his footsteps in the halls. Shane stared at the corners of every room and left out food for him at night.

Yet the more he wanted, the more Ilya evaded him. Not even in dreams was there relief. Shane obsessively read testimonies about visitation dreams and frothed at the mouth with envy, all of those people out there, getting glimpses of their partners, even conversations, hugs, and not him. Didn't he love Ilya the most? Didn't he love Ilya enough? Although, during their last fight, Shane wasn't kind, and maybe that was all it took for his right to Ilya's love to be stripped away. Even if the love was there all the way to the end, safe in his heart.

The librarians at the Ottawa Public Library didn't blink twice when he turned up at 10 a.m. on a Monday looking like he hadn't slept in weeks and announced, "I'm looking for books about seeing ghosts. Preferably Russian." Whether or not they recognized him, he didn't care, had already grown too desensitized to pity to even register it.

They weren't very helpful at finding instructions on how to conjure ghosts, but they gave him a good list for grief and death: Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita, Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, and anything by Anna Akhmatova. The books were good, though the poems were better. At night, he recited Akhmatova's Like a White Stone in lieu of prayers. The ancient gods changed men to things, but left them / A consciousness that smoldered endlessly, / That splendid sorrows might endure forever. / And you are changed into a memory.

Ilya refused to haunt him, so Shane haunted his space instead. He moved into Ilya's Ottawa property. He held onto everything in that house, keeping it exactly the same as the last day he was there — the last time he saw Ilya alive, the night of their fight — down to the coffee stain on the counter left by Shane's mug, the one time he was too angry to find a coaster. Lived in Ilya's clothes. Drove Ilya's cars. Smoked his way through Ilya's stash of cigarettes.

He swapped his special interest in hockey for the logistics of loss. He learned that he was not special in his suffering even though it certainly felt like it, given the senselessness of what happened. The indignation and resentment lived deep in his guts. How was it even possible that out of everyone on that plane, Ilya was the only one who died? Why him, why only him? Then of course, he would feel shame, because he was essentially wishing death on the rest of the Centaurs. Or, well, just a few more, so that Shane wouldn't need to go through this alone. Christ, what a thought.

Some facts he gleaned from grief literature that tracked with his experiences: grief fucks with both your brain and your body. You can't think, you forget things, you stop eating, stop sleeping. Your immunity is worn down to a nub. If you are a widow or widower, you are close to fifty percent more likely to die within the first year of your partner's passing. Shane himself only continued living for another year, so regardless of whether or not he was allowed to think of himself as Ilya's widower, the fact still applied.

While drafting Ilya's eulogy, Shane's mind kept drifting to what could have been his and Ilya's wedding vow. All the ways they could have built a family. Children, maybe. A dog, certainly.

Those who don't know loss tend to imagine that the grieving process is linear, that there is some kind of forward movement from the lowest point, the day of the funeral to, where exactly? A beautiful place where one can forget? In reality, what Shane felt during Ilya's funeral was nothing compared to what came after, when the relief of a symbolic closure wore off. When he was sitting alone in Ilya's kitchen, eating his tuna melt, staring at the coffee stain. There was no end to Ilya's absence, and no end to Shane's self-pity.

He didn't remember much from the funeral, but he remembered meeting what was left of Ilya's family, Andrei and Polina. He could recall the haunted look in Andrei's reddened eyes, the severe set of his mouth, the way grief and hatred poured out of him at the same time. Andrei, muttering in fragments of Russian that Shane was able to pick out: How shameful, how disgusting, his brother's funeral hosted by a fag.

Shane had despised him, and he always would; but somehow, he hated Andrei less on that day. Andrei's words were impossibly vile, yes, but there he was, risking propaganda laws to attend his queer brother's funeral. The fact that Shane was the executor of Ilya's will had made it to the press too quickly for Farah to do any damage control, and if Shane was honest, he had wanted it to happen. It gave him the chance to claim a title, to grieve publicly.

And Polina… Much too young for Grigori, scandalously so. She had stood with her arms crossed tightly at the elbows and her back hunched, looking just as lost and unsure as Andrei did.

He was shaken by her earnestness. It was Polina who gave him the box filled with Ilya's childhood photo albums, toys, postcards. It was Polina who said, "I'm sorry." The way the r rolled off her tongue was soft, practiced; her eyes, softer.

Ilya

In the days following his botched visitation, Ilya paces and prowls and debates whether it is acceptable for him to call David — he still has David's phone number saved from their first call. Ilya doesn't tend to hesitate, but when it comes to whether his call would be welcome by the Hollanders, well… He knows he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on. They had thought he was doing them a favor (and not the other way around) by visiting Shane; therefore he can claim that he's owed some kind of update. But Ilya's presence didn't help at all.

Because he lacks any sense of self-control, at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night, Ilya makes the call while slightly drunk on bad Canadian vodka.

David picks up on the first ring, which is not what Ilya expected.

"Hello, Mister Hollander. This is Ilya Ro-"

"Yes, Ilya, my goodness. I'm so sorry. We were meaning to… Wait, please give me a second."

David cuts off, seemingly to respond to someone nearby. Ilya hears the faint but steady tones of the cardiac monitor. David is in the hospital. Ilya feels his own heart rate pick up.

"Something is wrong?" Ilya blurts as soon as he hears David clear his throat, back on the phone.

"No, quite the opposite. I was just talking to Shane's primary nurse. They're transitioning Shane to a new night care routine to ease him back into a more regular sleep-wake cycle. Yuna and I are just about to leave for his apartment."

He understands all of those words, and they sound… good. He hopes.

"Ah. Hollander is doing better, yes?"

"We are definitely feeling optimistic." David says, and then pauses for a few seconds. "Listen, we're so sorry that we didn't contact you right after what happened the other day. It must haven been upsetting, being sent away like that. We were all very frazzled, and I kept not finding the time to call you back and explain properly."

"Mister Hollander-"

"David, please."

"David, you do not have to apologize. I made things bad for him, yes? Is natural that you need to prioritize his well-being."

David makes a noise that sounds very much like a long, tired sigh. "Nothing bad happened that day, and even if it did, it wouldn't have been your fault. It was his doctors who misjudged how ready he was. Although, that’s not quite true either. His condition has actually improved by leaps and bounds ever since your visit. He's exited his non-responsive state. Still confused, of course, but he's tracking well and waking up in shorter intervals."

"Слава БогуThank God. That is very good to hear. Thank you."

"No, Ilya, thank you." The warmth in David's voice settles around Ilya like a tight hug.

Ilya swallows, nervous. He's probably going to overstep with what he's about to ask, given that he's offered no explanation for why he's so invested in Shane's recovery.

"I know this is a lot, you are all busy with taking care of Holl- of Shane. But I have been thinking about how he is." An understatement. "So. Maybe you could send updates? Once a week? Will help me sleep easier. I promise I will not leak to media. Please."

David snorts. "If you wanted to leak anything to the press, you would have done so days ago. We trust you. Yes, I'll text."

The relief that comes over Ilya is indescribable. He has done nothing to earn their trust, and yet. That night, after saying goodnight to David, Ilya is able to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and wakes up feeling refreshed for the first time in what seems like months.

***

A fact that the Hollanders will probably find alarming: Ilya has rented an apartment five minutes away from McGill's Neuro and has been staying there before David even contacted him.

A fact that Ilya himself finds disturbing: he had called and asked Pike for help figuring out how to rent on a tourist visa. In his defense, he didn't know anyone else in Canada.

The asshole hung up without a word and had his wife call Ilya back.

Ilya doesn't understand what Jacki sees in Pike, or how their relationship even works, because unlike her husband, Jacki is phenomenally sharp. After successfully helping Ilya sort out his papers, Jacki had asked subtle and polite probing questions about his concern for Shane, and he knew she was already putting together the puzzle pieces of Shane and Ilya's relationship.

Ilya had answered as indirectly as he could. "I cannot tell you anything without Shane's permission. But…"

"Of course. I understand." She hesitated, considered her words.

"And Ilya, I didn't have the chance to say this to you directly last month, but I'm truly sorry for your loss. I can't imagine what you're going through right now."

They ended the call shortly afterwards. Ilya was overwhelmed, not just by how genuine Jacki seemed but also by the reminder of his father's death. A father in the ground, a lover in a coma. God help him.

***

The space between Shane's hit and Ilya’s impulsive decision to come stay in Montreal was filled by a disastrous playoff run. A 0-4 sweep against Ottawa, out in the first round. Ilya did not show up well for the Raiders' games. His nerves were scraped raw, and he was barely able to look towards Marleau's direction — both in the locker room and on the ice — even though they played on the same line. Marleau himself was deeply rattled, his guilt etched on his face. Ilya knew it was an accident, and Marleau could not have anticipated it. He had no right to blame Marleau for what happened, but he still did.

Ilya felt nothing about losing to Ottawa of all teams, not even shame. He didn't give a shit about the frankly absurd number of video breakdowns that dissected his sloppy play. It might have meant something when Grigori was still alive and Alexei still had reasons to call him and criticize his performance, but now, his relentless drive to win was diminished. Ilya no longer felt the need to prove anything to the voice in his head, an ugly combination of his father's and his brother's.

If anything, he was relieved. An early off-season meant an early flight to Canada.

***

During his first few weeks in Montreal, back when everyone was anticipating Shane's death, Ilya didn't do much aside from rotting in bed, chain smoking, and wandering the streets in his unwashed hoodie, baseball cap, and sunglasses. On especially bad days, he spent too much time in the park near Shane's apartment, petting any dog that passed by, and staring at Shane's dark windows.

After his second call with David, his days are anchored by the updates:

He's up for more than 2 hours at a time, they're getting started on weaning him off his ventilator.

They’ve installed a cap on his valve. He's able to make small sounds now.

He should be able to speak again soon.

They're monitoring his intracranial pressure, and it's looking good. We’re staying optimistic

In a few weeks, we might even be able to move him to a neuro-step-down unit. Fingers crossed.

Ilya breathes easier with each new update. To keep himself from going insane, he calls Sveta every day.

Chapter End Notes

- link to Akhmatova’s poem Like a White Stone. i also highly recommend one of her most famous poems, Requiem. it’s devastating
- do i think that irina would have been homophobic and against shane and ilya’s relationship if she had lived? for sure, but she’s dead, and i doubt a ghost would hold onto earthly prejudices
- i think about ilya’s relationship with andrei/alexei a lot because it reminds me so much and so deeply of my relationship with my own brother. queer sibling and hateful sibling dynamics is something i know very well. i believe there’s depth to andrei/alexei. i’m convinced that irina neglected the shit out of her first son (difficult, temperamental) and really latched onto her relationship with her second son (beautiful and talented). i choose to believe that andrei suffered quite a lot of violence, maybe more than ilya, and he turned that pain into hate and anger. i also choose to believe that ilya was a very easy happy baby

Chapter 3: Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

The woman standing at Shane's bedside is his mom, but not his mom.

There are fewer crinkles at the corners of her eyes. The cut of her clothes is sharper, and the lines of her shoulders are tighter. She carries with her a new kind of intensity that, if she weren't his own mother, he'd describe as neuroticism. Her speech is faster-spaced, and she's worse with silence. He can tell that she's unsettled by the metronomic rhythms of his cardiac monitor and his EEG. When it's late at night, she stares at the monitors while drumming her fingers, biting her nails, bouncing her legs.

She spends less time sitting down and more time running around the unit, herding the hospital staff. It's quite stimulating, trying to track her movement from one end of the room to the other. She asks the doctors too many questions, making their brows raise with the mind-boggling specificity of her inquiries. How has his cerebral perfusion pressure been averaging over the course of the last day? Where is he on the Rancho Los Amigos Scale right now? She obsesses over his charts and hounds the nurses about his stats, pulling out comparative numbers from god knows where.

It's clear that his mom has done a good amount of reading while he was unconscious, and she's probably not the ICU doctors and nurses' favorite family member. No, ma'am, he does not need any hyperbaric oxygen therapy. Yes, Mrs. Hollander, it's normal that he can make a fist with his right hand but not with his left.

But there are still aspects of her that are so familiar, so distinctly Yuna. Her voice retains the exact same tone and cadence. The way she speaks to him and the way she looks at him is unchanged. He was always embarrassed when his mom called him 'honey' as a teenager, but he loves it now.

The man sitting at his bedside is his dad, but not his dad.

His hair is darker, his jowl softer, his eyes bluer. He's heavier set and moves more slowly. More prone to falling asleep while sitting upright.

If his mom is more frantic, then his dad is more… zen, more present and attentive. He's much better at spotting Shane's signs of physical discomfort and agitation, and flags the nurse down much faster than the David that Shane remembers would have.

While Yuna flits about, David stays close to Shane's side, rubs comforting circles on the back of his hand where there aren't any IVs, and hums unfamiliar lullabies that are low and soft. He does a good job of validating Yuna's concerns while also making sure she gives the nurses space to do their jobs, stepping in when one or both parties start to get agitated.

But the way he speaks — in short sentences with a slight lag — is still the same. He still reads the New Yorker out of order, marker in hand. Still does the crosswords, is still terrible at it.

The funny thing is that the way his parents interact with each other remains exactly as he remembers it, their heightened intensity and calmness balancing each other out perfectly. His dad still comforts his mom with a hand between her shoulder blades and a low, soothing voice. His mom makes his dad laugh with her old repertoire of corny jokes. They're still Yuna and David, the couple. Lovingly predictable. Sweetly boring.

Shane has had a few weeks to catalogue his observations. Noticing all the ways in which they're different but the same feels like listening to the echoes of people's voices making their way back from across a canyon. They're still voices, but not really. Merely a reflection across space-time.

***

In mid-September, 2020, during their last free weekend before training camp began, Shane and Ilya went on a hike along the Grotto Canyon trail.

Ilya, ever the city boy, whined and whinged about the pebbles in his shoes, the bugs, and the dirt. All the while, he dutifully kept pace, staying close enough for his upper arm to brush against Shane's shoulder on every other step.

This is boring, Hollander, so boring and so hard. Like your dick. Get it?

Shane rolled his eyes and swatted Ilya on the back, impossibly annoyed and impossibly fond. For an athlete of Ilya's caliber, the hike was mildly challenging at best. Shane could tell Ilya was enjoying their outing through the way he cracked jokes, hummed the melody to the viral TikTok song of the week, and snapped what must have been a thousand pictures. Mostly of Shane.

When they reached the lowest part of the canyon's creek bed, Shane watched as Ilya craned his neck upwards, eyes wide, dumbstruck by the quality of the light and the bright blue sky in the distance, blocked in by the tree line and the limestone walls on their sides. Ilya released a long breath, and his whole body relaxed. He was so beautiful, bathed in the canyon sun. Shane loved him so much.

Ilya pressed closer into Shane's personal space and peered down into Shane's eyes.

Is incredible how your favorite things are rolling in dirt and staring at rocks. Such a good Canadian. You are indoctrinating me with Western nonsense, yes?

Shane knew Ilya's complaining was just part of a charade. Ilya looked back on the photos of their trips often, showed them off to Yuna and David all the time, posted some on his Instagram, even. Whenever Shane showed Ilya the beauty of the Canadian outdoors and saw how much Ilya enjoyed it, he was thinking: see this? This is all yours. I will show you all of the beauty, so that from now on you'll know no pain, only peace. I hope this is enough, I know you've given up a lot to be with me. Please let it be enough, I need you to be happy here.

Shane shoved at Ilya's shoulder. Shut your trap, you big baby. Isn't this the prettiest thing you've ever seen? Or are you too much of a brute to appreciate nature?

Ilya laughed. His eyes sparkled. He made an aborted gesture to reach for Shane, maybe to brush the back of his hand on Shane's cheeks. He dropped it when he saw Shane's eyes widen, his body about to recoil.

Then, he course corrected to cupping his hands around his mouth. Shane realized too late that he was about to test the echo. Everyone, Shane Hollander is an asshole who will feed me to Canadian wolves!

The boom of his voice was as loud as a canon and reverberated back as clear as a bell.

Shane was startled. A wave of shame and embarrassment crashed over him. He remembers feeling like the ground had opened up underneath his feet. His hackles rose and his stomach cramped up.

What the fuck, Ilya? What if people recognized us? We're gonna end up on the fucking tabloids!

He'll never forget the hurt in Ilya's eyes.

They started fighting, and the fight snowballed for the rest of the trip. There is a million Shane Hollanders in Canada, Shane! And what is so embarrassing about being seen with me, huh? Aren't we supposed to be friends? We run a foundation named after my dead mother together, oh my god!

The entire way back, Ilya sat in the passenger seat with his arms crossed, huffy and sullen, and refused to look at him. Shane, too stubborn for his own good, didn't apologize.

***

The fact that Shane doesn't really recognize his parents is unsettling, but it doesn't freak him out as much as it should. With a decade of playing an extremely high contact sport under his belt, he knows exactly what head injuries can do to someone's brain. He's read enough hockey memoirs, news articles, and league reports to be able to name all the players who have suffered head injuries severe enough to develop all kinds of conditions, from aphasia to Parkinson's to amnesia.

Case in point: he's just woken up from a coma, and his head hurts all the time even with the painkillers they've been pumping into his bloodstream. He probably has brain-trauma-induced face blindness now, and maybe a very specific type of amnesia that makes it hard for him to remember the kinds of people his parents are.

He only starts to think that something is not quite right when he notices that his legs are completely fine. They aren't in casts, not even splints. There are also no lacerations anywhere on his body. No traces of car crash injuries.

He's also in the same ICU he was in five years ago, when he got his bell rung by Marlow. He recognizes the ugly poster on the side of the door, and the streak of flaked-off paint in the top right corner of the room.

Shane crashed his car in Ottawa, so why the fuck is he in Montreal?

***

"Good morning, Mr. Hollander."

Dr. Ha, Shane’s neurologist, is standing at the foot of his bed, flipping through his charts. He doesn't remember seeing her enter the room. He's just woken up, soft around the edges.

"How are you feeling now that you're fully decannulated?"

Shane presses a hand on the bandage covering the opening in his throat, keeping air from leaking as he speaks. "Fine, I guess. Kind of weird. Better than with the cap." When they first capped the valve, he was able to make sounds but they were raspy and unnatural. Speech that was not quite speech. It scared him.

"It's normal to feel some discomfort while your stoma is healing. Your vocal cords are likely still dry and weak after close to a month on the vent. You can also expect a slight cognitive lag just as you begin to speak."

She proceeds to ask him some grounding questions. His name, his date of birth, where he's from. He answers them easily enough — he's gone through this exact set of questions before. And please, call him Shane. His father is like, right here.

"Alright, Shane. And what do you do for a living?"

"Uhm, nothing really, these days. But I used to play hockey."

His mom looks over, alarmed. She tries to interject. "Honey-"

Dr. Ha cuts in.

"Mrs. Hollander, we can discuss Shane's likelihood of coming back to hockey later. Let's focus on his recovery for now." Shane sees her write something down on her notepad.

"Do you know where you are right now?"

"Yes, Montreal, although I don't understand why I'm here and not Ottawa General."

More puzzled looks, more scribbling.

"Right. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was driving. There was a deer."

Her frown deepens.

"And what month and year are we in?"

"I was out for a few weeks, so maybe February 2022?"

Everyone turns to look at him now.

"Okay, uhm." The concern in his dad's eyes is making him nervous. "What? Did I lose that much time? Are we in 2026 or something?"

Dr. Ha, in a very calm and careful voice, says:

"Shane, it is now June 2017."

***

Right. Her diagnosis: post-traumatic delirium that's closely related to amnesia. It's likely that he's acutely disorientated, Dr. Ha has claimed. Apparently his lack of environmental awareness is making his time-wires cross. His head hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

The spike in his blood pressure causes his system to crash almost immediately, and he falls asleep less than fifteen minutes later. Right before sleep claims him, he sees the neurologist usher his parents out of the room, presumably to de-brief.

Afterwards, the nurses hang a large tear-away calendar on the other end of his room, within his line of sight. They announce the date every morning, first thing as they enter the room. It also seems like his parents are instructed not to overwhelm him with more questions or express too much concern, but he can see that his mom is bursting at the seams with anxious energy.

Of course he knows there's a possibility that this is truly delirium. He's in pain, he still can't make out long sentences, and he can't move his head without feeling like he's going to keel over. However, the diagnosis doesn't explain the fact that he has all of these memories from the future. It doesn't align with his understanding of amnesia — the sense that you've traveled forward in time, that you've lost lived experiences. No, this is different. He's filled with memories. Ones that are way too specific.

Memories are things of the past, so if it were actually 2017, what he remembers of the year following Ilya's death can't be categorized as such anymore. What are they, then, if they were simply figments of his imagination? What then, when he's been permanently changed by things that have happened, that haven't happened?

Over the next few days, (June 5th to 10th, 2017, according to the nurses and the calendar), he starts to test out his memories to see if he's actually gone insane. Because he isn't allowed to look at screens or read anything on his own yet, he asks his parents for Conference Finals updates after every round.

Without fail, he is able to predict which team is going to win, down to the score, and whether the win is secured in overtime. It hasn't happened yet, but New York wins the 2017 Stanley Cup.

***

Shane's task for the day is not clawing his way out of his own skin after being wheeled back from radiology. In the morning, he’s had to swallow food laced with barium in front of an X-ray machine so that the speech-language pathologist could check where the food went and see if Shane was going to aspirate. The texture of pudding coated in barium was disgusting.

While he tries to forget about it, his mom tells him about what happened while he was out cold. Apparently he's been cleared for learning about the outside world, albeit in small conversational doses. Soon, they can start allowing visitations, but it's not yet a sure thing.

"Hayden's been reaching out, and J.J. as well. They're really worried about you. They're absolutely devastated that they can't see you yet."

"Even Rose Landry texted, wow! How did she manage to get our numbers?" His dad pipes up, star-struck.

Then, with a tentative voice, his mom says,

"And we've been keeping Ilya Rozanov updated. He's stopped by, once, do you remember?"

Shane has been absently pulling at a loose thread on his blanket, and at the mention of Ilya's name, he snaps it off the fabric. It's like time has slowed down around him. His heart rate spikes, very very quickly. His vision starts to swim.

"Mom, I'll need you to say that again."

His mom, for the first time since he woke up, speaks slowly and softly, like she's talking to a spooked animal. "Ilya Rozanov stopped by, the first week that you started to wake from your coma."

His dad, misreading his reaction entirely, reaches over to hold his hand. Shane thinks he's cut his finger on the thread.

"It's okay, Shane, if there's something between you two. Your mom and I, we may have guessed. You don't need to be-"

***

Okay. He's woken up in the past, four years before Ilya's death. Either that, or this is some kind of extremely fucked up Truman show designed to torment him until he can't take it anymore and offs himself.

Hearing everyone insist it’s 2017 has been so absurd, and his thoughts haven't been lining up very well. So. While Shane has had the clarity to keep tabs on the playoffs, he hasn't checked whether Ilya is still alive. 

He has come to terms with the permanence of Ilya's death so fully that he can’t fathom the possibility of it changing. It’s impossible. He hasn't allowed himself to hope for anything for a year now. And maybe a part that lives deep within him knows that he can't cope with hearing that Ilya’s no longer here for the second time.

He’s buried the question so, so far down. Every time the day's date is announced, he's subconsciously killed the urge to ask, Does Ilya still exist, today?

He can't freak out. He needs to, needs to figure this out. If it were true, if this is right, he can, wow-

"Mom. Dad. I need you to call him. Now."

Chapter 4: of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

Chapter Notes

tw: homophobic language (f slur), mentions of child abuse (not graphic)

Ilya drifts through May like a rotten leaf on the surface of a slow river. He doesn't notice how spring is turning to summer, how it's slowly getting warmer now. He's comfortable in his apartment, with its drawn curtains and its stale air. He has everything he needs in his bedroom: a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray on his bedside table, and 24/7 access to takeaway services.

Regardless of whether or not he gets out of bed, Shane is still in the hospital, and there's nothing he can do. There's also nothing he wants to do aside from stewing in the dark. It's nice in here. So quiet.

That is, until his doorbell starts to buzz.

He ignores it. It's probably just the neighborhood kids playing ding-dong ditch. He and Alexei used to do that when they were young. He waits for it to stop, but the doorbell just keeps buzzing. One minute turns to two turns to five.

Fuck. He staggers to the entryway and rips the door open. "What?!"

Jacki is at Ilya's door with Amber perched on her hip. Ilya is confused. "How do you have my address?"

She levels him with an unimpressed stare. "Who helped you rent this apartment, Ilya?"

She looks him over. He knows what she's seeing. Unwashed hair, unshaven face, eyes puffy from too much sleep. He probably smells like shit.

He leers at her. "Careful, Mrs. Pike. I am MLH's top one bachelor. Very in demand. Do not be bewitched by my charms."

She ignores what he just said, and the fact that it's Shane who occupies that number one spot. Or, occupied? God.

"When was the last time you took a shower?" The tone of her voice isn't harsh, but it's definitely no-bullshit. Amber coos and makes grabby hands at Ilya's hoodie strings. What a cute baby. Ilya wants to smell the top of her head.

"Where are the rest of your brats?"

"They're not brats, don't call them that. Also, it's the off-season, they're home with Hayden. He's their parent too, you know."

"Who-da-thunk. Daddy Pike actually does the daddying, da?"

A quirk of a brow. He knows she's dying to ask where he's learned that phrase. "Are you going to let me in?"

He really doesn't want her to see the inside of his apartment right now. He's pretty sure there are things growing in his sink. "I am not sure if your baby should be in here. It is. Hm. Radioactive, probably."

"Okay. Then you're coming with me."

Before he could dignify her with a response, Jacki grabs his forearm and pulls him out of the apartment. He stumbles forward. How is she so strong?

With a flick of a hand, she pockets his apartment key, locks his door from the inside, and shuts it softly.

"Come on, my car's parked down the street."

***

Check this out: a 200lbs MLH star center kidnapped by a mother of four who can't be any taller than 5'6". Ilya is wedged awkwardly in the middle of the backseat, which is mostly occupied by two booster seats and other miscellaneous children's supplies.

He lets her drive in silence for about ten minutes before asking, "What are we doing, Jacki?"

She meets his eyes in the rear-view mirror. "We're heading to my place, where you're going to take a shower and have a proper dinner with us. I can also run you a bath, if you'd prefer that."

Ilya is stunned. Amber, in the front seat, babbles happily. Early summer sunlight filters in through the side window.

Jacki doesn't seem to mind his slack-jawed expression. "Do you know how it's possible for me to parent four kids while my husband is away for half the year?"

Ilya doesn't know whether that's a trick question or not. He guns for the worst answer. "Superhuman motherly strength and divine femininity?"

She looks like she's going to turn around and smack him upside the head. Oops, too far. "In any other circumstance I wouldn't let you get away with that, but I'll pretend you didn't say anything this time." She turns the steering wheel — they're pulling into a driveway now. It's a nice house. Two-story with a big yard. Pike-friendly.

"It's because I have people around me. Both of our in-laws live less than fifteen minutes away. My neighbors love the kids and we do play dates on rotation. During the off-season, Hayden takes over most of the housework, and we have friends and teammates who are always happy to babysit."

Ilya also knows what she's not saying. We (used to) have Uncle Shane.

"I'm not doing this on my own, Ilya. Are you?"

***

Ilya didn't know what it meant to be truly alone until he turned twelve.

After Irina's funeral, Alexei, too, turned into a ghost. He and Ilya used to talk, but whatever connection they shared died with their mother. His brother was never home, and when he was, he shut the door to his room tight, kept it locked. When Ilya pressed his ear to Alexei's door, he never heard anything, not even music. Alexei used to love singing along to songs on the radio.

Grigori didn't change, but that was the opposite of a good thing. His presence in the home kept the atmosphere thick, the house bowing under the weight of his heavy footsteps. He still yelled and he still hit, but without Irina, there was no one to redirect Grigori's rage, no one to give Ilya any comfort. Later, as Ilya became an adult, he realized that Grigori's beatings didn't affect him as much as the berating.

Throughout his teenage years, Ilya mastered the art of hiding. Relief was found in the dark, where no one could call him a fag or point out all the ways in which he was lazy and weak. Connection was found late at night in other people's beds, where he could touch and be touched, and feel useful.

He had thought that he functioned best in solitude until he met Shane. Svetlana was always by his side, of course, but she too had her demons. As much as they loved each other, they never talked about their home lives. Hers wasn't much better than his.

With Shane, he found the comfort of being seen. Of being able to bare his underbelly without the fear of being struck. Of crying and knowing that he'd be held.

When they were younger, Ilya marveled at how Shane never stopped asking questions, never stopped trying to understand, despite Ilya's efforts to maintain distance. After Tampa, he marveled at Shane's constant push for sincerity.

***

Once a week, Ilya joins the Pikes for dinner. There's no getting out of it, because Jacki will blow up his phone until he shows up.

The first time he's there, he moves around their kitchen like a spooked horse while Pike cooks. He tries to help, much to Pike's dismay, but Jacki just steers him towards the bathroom. Come on, Ilya, you really need to wash your hair. I've left out a towel and some clothes for you.

Jacki is right. He needs that shower.

He feels human again, clean and comfortable, as he sits down on one end of the Pikes' dining table. Jacki and Pike take the seats opposite each other, framing him on either side. Pike looks at him funny, and Ilya chooses not to think about the fact that he's wearing Pike's clothes. The older kids sit at the other end, content with entertaining themselves and tearing into the steaming tray of lasagna set between them.

Pike, while clearly fine with Ilya being there, is stiff and awkward, his face pinched. His expression is made extra funny by the fact that Amber is perched on his lap, actively trying to shove her hand into his mouth. Okay, I know we're not going to talk about you and Shane yet because, you know. But. Out of everyone, he went for you? Ah. Jacki has filled him in, Ilya sees.

Before Ilya can retort with a nasty chirp, Jacki kicks Pike hard under the table. The topic changes.

They talk about nothing for a while — Montreal weather, what TV shows they're watching, and the Pikes' vacation plans over the off-season. Then, Jacki offhandedly mentions that she's dreading the return of the Metros' pre-season training, and an awkward silence descends over the table.

Ilya appreciates their diplomacy. But also, he wants to talk about this. If he keeps stewing alone, he's going to go mad. He steels himself, pushing through the tightness in his guts, and brings up the Metro management's response to Shane's accident. He's been closely following their GM's moves since Yuna released a statement about Shane's subdural hematoma, and those moves don't paint a pretty picture.

"Trading first-round draft pick for mediocre rental center is stupid move, yes? Too desperate to save season." Ilya says through a mouthful of lasagna. He won't admit this out loud, but god damn isn't Pike a good cook.

"Right, and I think he's already aiming for a buyout. Fuck, man, Shane's only been in the hospital for two months."

It hurts Ilya's heart, thinking about how Shane would feel once he hears about this. Or if? Fuck.

"I just know he's itching to strip Shane of the C," Jacki says, "It's insane, given how much he's done for the Metros."

Ilya doesn't know what to say in response to that. He finishes his meal quietly while Jacki and Pike (okay, fine, Hayden) talk about how little they know about Shane outside of hockey, even though they used to hang out every week.

Afterward, Ilya insists on cleaning up and loading their dishwasher. He plays with the Pike kids until it's time for them to go to bed; then, and he doesn't know how this happened, he passes out for eight hours on the Pikes' couch. He wakes to a fluffy blanket draped over his body, and Arthur tugging at his hair.

***

Ever since he got to Montreal, Ilya has been stocking his rental with things he guesses Shane would like. A fridge full of ginger ale and a cupboard full of "super foods," whatever that means. A linen blanket draped over his couch and a bed full of decorative pillows. A yoga mat next to the door to the porch.

He realizes with a start, standing in the middle of Super C's Household & Cleaning aisle and smell-testing their scented candles, that he's trying to build a home.

It's completely irrational. Shane will never see this apartment. Best case scenario, he'll be living in The Neuro's step-down-unit for at least the next three to five months. Absolutely pointless, what he's doing, and yet. He buys three of the candles that smell the most refreshing and the least intrusive, lights them in his bedroom, and falls asleep to the fantasy of Shane in his bed.

He dreams about Shane sometimes, but more often than not, he dreams about his father.

In his dreams, Grigori is always tormented. The tamer ones feature Grigori chained to the Baba Yaga's bone fence, or cooked in a demon's boiling cauldron, or flayed by imps. The worse ones, the ones that leave him waking up gasping for air, feature Grigori sitting alone in their cold apartment, bent over, weeping, calling for his mother, begging for salvation, for forgiveness.

In his dreams, Ilya is separated from his father by a wall of glass. No matter how desperately he beats at it and begs, Please, no, please, spare my father, Grigori always meets his fate.

It's hard to describe his feelings about his father. He hated Grigori, he supposes, in the same way he hates his brother: he hates because he cares. He hates because without hate, there's nothing left.

***

He receives a call from an unknown number late one evening in June, while he's dozing off to an episode of The Great Canadian Baking Show. He declines it. A few seconds later, his phone rings again. The name on his screen: David. Oh fuck. Ilya's wide awake now.

"Hi, this is Yuna. It's pretty late, so we can be quick."

He hears Shane in the background. "Mom, give me the phone. Please!" His voice is strained, high pitched. This is Panicked Shane's voice, he knows this one.

Ilya can't believe it. Shane sounds awake and so lucid. A second passes, and Shane's voice is loud and clear on the speaker. "Ilya, is this really you?" Maybe a bit too loud, even.

What does Shane mean by that? Ilya can't help himself. "No, Hollander, I am evil doppelganger."

His stupid joke doesn't land, and Shane's voice pitches higher. "Don't fuck with me, asshole. Are you… Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay, I should be the one to ask you that, should I not? It is not me who had an accident."

Shane scoffs. He's breathing hard now, his inhales wet and ragged. Ilya himself starts to panic. He doesn't understand what's happening.

"Hollander, you are having panic attack. I am okay. I am very well. Breathe with me."

Ilya inhales and exhales audibly on a count of four and waits for Shane's breathing to slow down. "You are okay too, yes? You are safe in The Neuro, your parents are with you. I am here."

He thinks Shane is crying now, and the sounds of his sniffles make his heart squeeze. "Ilya, I need to see you. Can you come see me, please?"

Of course he'd come see him, and Ilya says as much. He doesn't get to follow up his response with anything more than that because someone is taking Shane's phone away. Ilya hears the voices of a few different people, Yuna and David and some women. Shane's nurses?

***

Yuna calls back after the longest fifteen minutes of Ilya's life. Apparently Shane's nurses are not happy with how much the call stressed him out, and he had to be lightly sedated.

"Listen, Ilya. His neurologist wasn't sure if it's the best idea for you to see him given how agitated he was just now. But, and this is what I really want you to know before you come, something isn't right. When his doctor said maybe we should wait a while, Shane... He said he was going to hurt himself, if he couldn't see you."

Jesus. Alright. "I am confused. David told me he was doing better."

Yuna hems and haws. "Yes, physically he's recovering well, but mentally they think he's suffering from delirium. He's confused about when it is now and where he is."

The word scares him. "Delirium. Like amnesia?"

"No, not really. He's confused, but it doesn't seem like he's forgotten anything."

Ilya is still scared, but a bit less now.

"So, if you're okay with visiting, there will be a nurse in the room to monitor the interaction. It'll have to be in person because Shane can't look at screens yet. We know that you don't have a regular residence in Canada so if it's too inconvenient or if you need time to arrange for it, I can tell Shane-"

"I am already in Canada." Ilya blurts. "I can come now, even."

Yuna is quiet for a moment. She clears her throat. "We're thinking you can come for about 20 minutes or half an hour in the morning. Does tomorrow work?"

"Of course. I will be there first thing. And," Ilya considers if this seems too eager, but fuck it. "How often can I visit? Can I come twenty minutes every day for many days?"

Her voice, when she replies, seems softer than it was earlier. "As long as it doesn't hurt him, you can visit as often as you want, Ilya."

After they hang up, Ilya stays up until 4 a.m. learning about brain trauma recovery and scrolling through r/TBI. He reads stories about people waking up one day not knowing where they are, or forgetting their loved ones’ faces, or struggling to form new memories. He wonders if Shane is feeling lost or scared, if the confusion makes him feel more pain.

He thinks about his father, in his last year. How childlike and vulnerable he became, how often he called for Ilya from an ocean away. He thinks about how regardless of what Shane's condition is, he will be there for him. He'll stay close.

Chapter End Notes

jackie's name in the official tv credits is apparently jacki, so i've gone back and changed the spelling of her name in chapter 2 as well

Chapter 5: The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

"It's the twelfth of June, twenty-seventeen," announces Shane's nurse. "In about fifteen minutes, Mr. Rozanov will be here. He's signing in at the reception's desk now."

"Okay," Shane says, and pretends that he is unaffected by her declaration of the impossible.

He looks out of the room's window and takes in the view of the day's cloudless sky. It's so clear and so bright that it makes him think he can peer impossibly far and deep into the distance.

The day he lost Ilya, the weather was forebodingly perfect. It had snowed heavily the night before, and everything was covered in a layer of sparkling frost. In the morning, before he left for his game against Toronto — the last game he'd ever play — he had fixed his gaze up at the clear blueness above and thought it must be a good sign.

A question that was ever-present in his unending grief mantra that came up over and over again in the months that followed: How was it possible for the day to have been beautiful? This, he knew, was another way in which he wasn't special, this tendency to recount and resent the day's normalcy, this desire for it to have been different, to have been worse.

The day of Ilya's death, Shane didn't just want it to rain. He wanted the sky to fall down and the ground to split open. He wanted his pain externalized, wanted everything to end.

***

Something has changed in the way his parents look at him, ever since last night. Above the usual layer of concern that permeates his hospital room, there is a film of uneasiness. Maybe he can even call it fear. Shane understands. He too has experienced the terror of realizing that maybe he didn't know his loved ones as much as he thought he should.

After the call, his parents stayed quiet for a good while. His dad busied himself by discussing the logistics of Ilya's visitation with Shane's charge nurse. Meanwhile, his mom sat at his bedside, twiddling her thumbs and staring at the cut on Shane's hand. He knew she was gearing herself up to ask him a question, carefully choosing her words.

Once David came back and took a seat next to her, placing a comforting hand on her back, Yuna broke the silence. "Is there something you'd like to tell us?"

Shane hummed, non-committal.

"I'm not expecting you to tell us everything now. But honey. What happened between you and Ilya that made you react that way?"

Shane didn't know where to start, how to start, whether he could ever start. The life that he had lived before this had been undone. There was no outlet for his grief, the loss having been made unreal.

"I love him," he said. "I can't live without him."

Stunned silence. His mom's eyes widened. His dad leaned forward in his chair. Shane was hyper-aware of the humming of the unit's LED.

"Can you turn the lights off for me, please? I'm tired."

Yuna, still reeling from Shane's confession, didn't move. "Shane…"

David stood up and made his way to the light switch next to the door. Shane heard the way his voice shook, but just slightly.

"Okay, son." He flipped the switch. The room was plunged into darkness. "I'm glad that you're able to tell us."

Shane knew they had more questions. He also knew he couldn't answer them, not yet, maybe not ever.

"Thanks, dad," he said, and closed his eyes. He needed this conversation to be over.

His mom left first, but his dad lingered at the door for a while. Before he left, Shane heard him whisper, maybe more to himself than to his son, "If he's good to you, I promise I'll love him as my own."

***

Shane's heart is beating too fast. There's a lump in his throat and a heaviness between his ribcage. He remembers this emotion, a combination of anxiety and giddy anticipation. It's the one he experienced on the day of the draft, when he got to stand next to Ilya and bask in the glow of his joy and pride for the first time. Shane was so sullen then. He didn't yet know how precious it was, the sight of Ilya's smile.

He feels so young, and he has to remind himself that he is, once again, young. In a few minutes, he'll be seeing Ilya again, and also seeing Ilya for the first time.

Ever since Shane heard Ilya's voice — deep, accented, familiar — he has been desperately trying to squash the hope that the door would open, and Shane would get to see Ilya as Ilya was, unchanged from the last time he saw him alive. It's a stupid fantasy. He knows it most likely won't happen. He must work with the facts here: everyone he's met so far is different. Although, granted, he's only met his parents.

He doesn't know how to deal with the anticipation of meeting another Ilya. He supposes it's only fair that a life can only ever be lived once, and idly considers the fact that his understanding of his own life here is incomplete. If his parents are not His Parents, and Ilya is not His Ilya…

Holy fuck. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks. He hasn't seen himself in the mirror even once ever since he woke up. He hasn't thought to request it. He has made the assumption to not question his sense of self, because the way that he looks has always been tied to who he is. No, was.

Shane feels a new surge of panic. How could he not have thought of this before? If he looks different, if this body is different, it means he's occupying a different Shane's body. Fuck. Fuck. That means the Shane who lived in this body is gone. Who's to say Shane is anything like him? Who's to say this person is anything to Ilya but a rival?

Who's to say Ilya can love him as he is now?

He's been riding the high of having Ilya back, but will he? Is he being completely delusional, yearning for something that is gone and will never be again? Shane thinks back to the parables of the monkey's paw, the genie's lamps, stories about the consequences of wish fulfillment. You can get what you want, but there's always a trade-off.

He needs to temper his expectations. He's alive in a world where Ilya, too, is alive. Even if This Shane and Ilya have never been together in any capacity, he should be-

Before he can finish his train of thought, he hears the door click open. And, oh.

There Ilya is.

A dizzying sense of déjà vu washes over him. His first thought is, I've never met this man, but he is certainly Ilya. His second thought is wow, he looks awful.

The Ilya at his door is haggard and worn, his expression unsure and apprehensive. There's a slight stooping to his posture, a certain kind of resignation that Shane only ever saw in His Ilya during his last months. There's a patch of unshaved stubble on the side of his jaw. There are bags under his eyes. And he's so incredibly pale. He looks like he hasn't been sleeping at all.

Their eyes meet. "Christ, you look like shit," he says. "Fuck. I mean-"

The man who's not His Ilya but certainly Ilya takes a moment to process what Shane just said. Then, his eyes crinkle, and he throws his head back and laugh, a familiar cadence of laughter. It's deep and loud and comes out in full force, bursting out of him like a popped balloon. It makes Shane wants to cry and jump in joy at the same time.

He stands straighter as he rushes over, and Shane takes in the details of his face, the differences: blue-green eyes instead of amber, dirty blond hair that's closer to brunet than blond. There are more birth marks smattered across his face and neck, a prominent one on his cheek. And, Shane can't be sure, but he thinks he's shorter, or at least his frame is leaner. About 6 feet, maybe, instead of 6'3".

He's at Shane's bedside now, his expression smoothed over and tender, and ah, yes, there's love in his eyes. It's intoxicating, being on the receiving end of that gaze. He feels warm, like he's basking in the glow of wood-fire, like he's wrapped in wool. Shane feels the déjà vu again as he leans closer and caresses Shane's cheek with the back of his hand, then follows the path of Shane's freckles with the tips of his fingers.

Shane's been here before. He remembers it, the day of the hit. The fear and relief in Ilya's eyes. Shane understands now, what his Ilya once felt, that day at the hospital. He knows what Ilya is feeling, today.

And there it is, the same crooked line of his nose, that sweet smile. The uneven crowding of his lower incisors. The curliness of his hair, the angle of his strong jaw, the bobbing of his Adam's apple. The way his eyes dart across Shane's face, his body, trying to take in every detail, as if Shane was the most important thing in the world, as if he feared that if he didn't look, Shane would disappear.

He's beautiful, so, so beautiful. Soft, young, alive. And Shane thinks, yes, hello, I know you. 

Shane notices a familiar tugging of desire, and is instantly awash in a sinking wave of guilt. Like he's betraying Ilya, His Ilya. Dead Ilya.

For the first time in Shane’s entire life, he prays. Not to God, but to the Ilya that he’s lost. Please forgive me, for I have been found by another, I am loyal but I am also desperate, and here is an echo of you that is distinct yet the same. My love, I want him. I want you, the you that certainly is also him. 

He prays that there’s a version of Ilya that’s able to find another version of Shane, and fragments of memories in that space between worlds, where he met Irina, is coming back to him now. He remembers the faraway reverberations of her voice, like the warbling of a radio coming from another room over, telling him that the universe is cruel, but it is just.

He latches onto her words and chooses to believe. He has to believe that he deserves this. He needs to have this. Without this, he has nothing, is nothing.

"Da, Hollander, I look awful, while you look like million bucks. Sleeping prince who did not need true love's kiss. You come back all on your own."

It's like he's been freshly concussed — for a second or two Shane sees double, and he experiences the sensation of a simultaneous presence. Maybe it's due to the way the morning sunlight is streaming in through the window, cutting a bright line across the side of Ilya's face, or maybe it's because Shane's eyes are filling with tears. Shane doesn't know what it is, but he feels a soothing, a kind of gentle push, something that eases the pain and the dread.

It's ironic that Ilya chooses that allusion, his sleeping prince. Shane senses the flashback before he sees it and doesn't fight it: the surreal sight of Ilya, His Ilya, in the morgue. Shane remembers being grateful, at least for a moment, that Ilya's death was quick and painless, that it allowed Shane to see him one last time with his features peaceful and unchanged. Like he was merely asleep.

Ilya had been long dead when Shane arrived at the hospital. In the months that followed, Shane tortured himself with fantasies of how things would have been, had Ilya just held on for a bit longer. Just enough for Shane to have the chance to stand at his bedside, and grovel, and beg, and plead. Please wake up, Ilya, wake up.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut and lets the tears roll down on his cheeks.

It's over. It's over, he has to let go. Is this betrayal? Can he have this?

Shane hears the sound of the nurse gently shutting the door — Ilya must have forgotten to, when he came in — and feels Ilya startle. He jerks his hand back as if burned.

"It's okay, Ilya." Shane musters all of his energy and lifts his hand, reaching for Ilya himself. "Everyone who works in this unit has signed an NDA. My mom made sure of it."

Ilya, thank goodness, grasps Shane's hand in his, his expression bewildered. "Shane, what-"

"You know, I've probably asked you this already. When you came back to Russia, do you remember?"

Ilya's face is blank. It's clear that Ilya doesn't remember, or maybe, and this seems much more likely, This Shane hasn't asked. That's okay.

"I have this beautiful cottage in Quebec. Before… before this happened, I'd wanted to ask you to join me there, in the summer, be there with me instead of coming back to Russia."

Ilya's grip on his hand tightens. He's trying to blink quickly, but Shane sees it, the sheen of tears.

"It's so quiet. We could have had a week or even two. Be completely alone, together."

Shane sighs. "But it's not possible now, is it?" He's just met Ilya, and he's already dreading their time apart. Who knows how often they'll get to see each other once Ilya has to fly back to Russia, or Boston, and once his season starts up again.

"Hollander, you know I can't come to your cottage. But." Ilya gives up on the blinking. He's also crying now, and yet he's still so beautiful.

"But, I'm not going back to Russia. I will stay here for as long as you will have me. I will be here every step of your recovery. I am making sure of it."

Shane doesn't understand how Ilya intends to do that, but it's no matter. He's getting tired now, and he can't think much anymore. Ilya lets go of his hand to brush his thumb against the corner of Shane's eye. Shane leans into his touch like a flower reaching for the sun.

Chapter 6: Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

Chapter Notes

all italicized dialogues between ilya and svetlana are in russian!

tw: blood (briefly mentioned, not graphic)

Shane is right. Ilya looks and feels like shit. There's only so much Jacki and Hayden can do, and they've already done so much, helping Ilya feel like he's not rotting away alone. If Shane commented on it first thing, it probably means the state of him is dire.

Ilya needs to get his shit together. He has been working out but hasn't been eating properly, so he's decided to start with actually using his kitchen for the first time in close to three months. Right now, he's trying to cook a large batch of pelmeni. Something to bring to the Pikes', as a token of thankfulness. It's about time he contributes.

He misses his mother. He misses Svetlana. He wishes Svetlana was here with him in person — making pelmeni is much more fun with others. For now, he settles for a phone call.

"Okay, should it be two or three cups flour to one teaspoon of salt? I think mama used to do. Hm. Three?"

"Two and a half. Remember to create a well for the egg." The sound of Svetlana's voice is tinny over his phone's speaker.

"Yes, yes, that I know already."

While he adds an egg into the mixture of flour and water, Svetlana bemoans her latest interaction with an entitled car mogul. Ilya half listens, punctuating her exasperated sentences with Oohs, Ahs, and Yeses, and fantasizes about cooking together with Shane one day, maybe. He knows Svetlana doesn't really mind his non-responses.

In the quiet lull after Ilya wraps up his dough to let it chill, she goes for the throat.

"So, Ilyusha." Uh oh, not the diminutive. "How's our Jane?"

Ilya, having nothing to occupy his hands, leans his elbows on the counter and picks at his cuticles. He should probably get started on the filling. He doesn't want to answer her question. Unlucky for him, she's very good at waiting him out.

"He's doing… Better." Even more than better, in fact. He's overheard the neurologist telling Yuna and David that Shane's recovery has been 'borderline miraculous.' The fact that he is able to hold a full conversation would have been considered unthinkable, just a few weeks ago.

"You don't sound as thrilled as I thought you'd be. What's wrong?"

Ilya is relieved, of course, but he's also bad with good news. Especially when they sound too good. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Nothing's wrong," he sighs. "I don't want to jinx it. And it's just been a lot."

"Yeah, speaking of. What are your game plans in Canada, exactly? It's almost July. Is your tourist visa still valid?"

Fuck, he doesn't want to think about that. Ilya wishes he had a North American citizenship already. The thought of having to file for a visa extension makes him want to explode.

Svetlana barrels on, "Also, have you updated your agent on where you are yet?"

The tone of her voice makes Ilya feel like a child, lost and alone and overwhelmed.

"You need to stay on top of this, Ilya. Have you checked?"

Ilya balls his hands into fists. His gut churns.

"I don't know!" He yells. "He's only just fully woken up and I want to focus on that. Can you hop off my ass?"

He can sense that she's frowning, even over the phone. Ilya tries not to feel too bad. He grabs a yellow onion from the fridge and starts chopping, maybe with too much force.

"Don't talk to me like that. I'm looking out for you, yes?"

Ilya keeps working the onion. The thunk, thunk, thunking of his knife as it slices through the onion and meets the wooden chopping board is grounding, meditative.

"I'm sorry," he grits out. The onion's fume is making his eyes water.

"I can't bring myself to care about anything but being here." He stops chopping. Tries to wipe at his eyes with the back of his wrist. "I close my eyes and I see my father, my mother. For months I thought I'd lose him too."

"Oh, Ilyusha."

"Bad things come in three, don't they? I come see him every day and he's supposed to be getting better but he's so weakened and no one can tell how he'll recover in the next months or years. Things are good now, but what if…"

Svetlana lets him trail off. Ilya doesn't expect her to say anything in response, content with having someone who'd listen and understand.

"I know what you're thinking. It's beyond my control, isn't it."

"That's right. So," On the other end of the line, Ilya hears the rustling of papers, and the sound of Svetlana clicking a pen. "One thing at a time. Let's focus on what we can do right now and figure out your visa situation together. I've got you."

Sometimes Ilya doesn't understand how he's gotten so lucky.

***

Ilya had experienced many deaths, but he had never witnessed the exact moment at which death came. With his mother, he was confronted with the immediate aftermath. With his father, he had had years to mourn, and when it happened, he wasn't there.

On the ice, that day, standing frozen at the edge of the crowd swarming Shane's prone form, Ilya thought he had seen it. At the beginning, he didn't think he needed to worry too much — Shane was still able to sit up and talk to the medics for a good few minutes after the hit. But then came the lull in speech. The blood pouring from his nose. The horrific sight of the seizure, the unnatural bowing of his back.

Ilya remembered thinking, at least there was understanding when he spoke of losing his mother and father. Orphaned once at twelve, orphaned twice at twenty-five. But what could he say to explain how he was feeling now? 

***

Ilya has a new routine. Everyday at 8 a.m. on the dot, he shows up at Shane's unit in the inpatient ward and sticks around until someone kicks him out.

This morning, Ilya is keeping Shane company while he does some light hand-mobility work. He's propped up into a near-sitting position on his hospital bed, kneading a chunk of yellow Therapy Putty in his left hand. He has this far-away look that Ilya desperately wants to fix but doesn't know how. It feels like an inverse of what happened after their hook-up in Vegas, but a lot less sexy.

"Ilya," Shane says. It's strange, the way Shane says his name lately. Eel-yah, instead of Ee-li-ah. Ilya doesn't remember correcting his pronunciation.

"Yes?" Ilya holds off on adding, мой любимыйmy love.

"Where have you been staying, actually? Did I make you hop onto a flight the night of, last week?"

Ilya snorts. Right, 'make him.' As if.

"Ah, no. I have been renting, not far from here."

Shane seems surprised. He stops kneading the putty and looks at Ilya.

"How long have you been in Canada, Ilya?"

Ilya tries to be vague. "Not too long. Don't worry about it."

"Why didn't you just come stay at mine?"

"Your parents have been staying at your apartment, of course I cannot do that."

"No, the se- the investment condo. You must know the code to the door and where I put the spare key by now."

Ilya has no idea what Shane is talking about. "What condo?"

"You know, the place where we met up for sex."

"Yes, we have always met at the apartment. The one your parents are staying in."

Ilya watches as a series of complicated emotions flicker across Shane's face. "Ah, never mind, you're right."

"Have you been secretly fucking some other man at mystery sex condo, Hollander?" Ilya jokes, and tries to tamp down the jealousy. He has no right to be jealous, does he?

Shane frowns. "Don't be ridiculous. You know I only have you." Ilya's heart soars.

"It's just… It doesn't feel right, you know? Having you put everything aside and be here for me like this. Your father passed a few months ago, didn't he?"

What a Shane thing to say, sitting in the hospital with a broken head and still thinking he isn't Ilya's priority, like it's a chore for Ilya to be here.

"I can grieve and still be with you, yes? Or does it weigh on you, with me here?" Ilya nudges at Shane's hand. He needs to keep working the putty.

Shane squeezes it harder than earlier. The sight is a balm — he really is recovering so well. "God, no. I'm worried that this is weighing on you. People might talk, if they haven't already. If you're spotted hanging around the hospital I'm staying at so often."

He has a point. Aside from Shane's parents, Svetlana, and the Pikes, no one knows Ilya is in Canada. He turns the possibility over in his head. It doesn't frighten him as much as it used to, back when Shane hasn't almost died.

"Is simple, I can come up with excuse." Ilya shrugs. "Maybe fake hooking up with some girl and have that be my thing for summer. Or hire someone to be my Jane?"

Shane's face twists up and his shoulders stiffen. He looks like he's going to cry. Okay, bad idea, maybe not that.

"Is just suggestion, I am sorry. I am here for you, yes? Only you. Also, you need to switch the Theraputty to your right hand. Has been over twenty minutes"

Shane complies. "I just don't want you to have to hide. Like that."

"Having to hide is something we do, is it not? But yes, I wish…" Ilya catches himself. Best not to come onto Shane too strong right now. He clears his throat. "Is true that being seen concerns me a bit. Because Russia." Shane nods.

"But my disguise game is good. Also, I can milk my grieving, yes? Say I am at fancy Canadian grief retreat because of my shitty father. Have not look it up, but grief retreat is probably something you Canadians have."

Shane scrunches his nose, making the freckles around it bunch, and huffs out a laugh. He's so cute. Ilya wants to squeeze him, like the way he's squeezing his putty.

He settles for kissing Shane on the cheek. The nurse pops her head in as Ilya leans away, informing both of them that Shane's visitation period for the day is up.

***

There are no patterns to the things Shane is able to recall and the things he isn't. Shane knows of Sasha and is aware that he's the first man Ilya's ever been with, even though Ilya doesn't remember telling him his name, but is taken aback when Ilya mentions his phone calls with Svetlana. Apparently he thinks she's just a regular hook-up. Ilya is appalled. Shane, she is my best friend. We literally grew up together.

Shane's parents and Ilya all dance around Shane's delirium diagnosis, and Shane is content with letting it stay that way. He tries his best to hide his confusion, but Ilya sees the way Shane needs more time to process new information now. Ilya knows all of his tells by heart. A twitching of the fingers, a downcast angle of the head, a furrow of the brows.

Ilya's teeth itch, thinking about how scary it must be for Shane, having to figure out which ones of his memories are real while relearning functions as basic as turning his head or squeezing his hands into fists.

Sometimes, when Shane is overwhelmed, his eyes glaze over, and he looks just like he did back when Ilya came to see him for the first time in April. It rattles Ilya deeply. On days when it happens, Ilya would stay up all night thinking about the possibility of Shane slipping away. He recalls his mother, in her last few months, her dazed look, her quiet voice.

***

The day after Ilya's second visitation — and good God, Ilya still can't get over the miracle of seeing Shane alive, awake, and lucid — Scott Hunter kissed his boyfriend on live television. What a way to celebrate a win. Ilya couldn't believe it. He'd been outdone by a dinosaur.

When he told Shane about it, the morning after, Ilya had expected Shane to be shocked, or at the very least moderately surprised. However, instead of asking Ilya any follow-up questions, Shane had said, "Man, I wish I'm not still under a screen ban. I really want to text him something nice. He's in deep shit with the league right now."

"I have sent him thank you email," Ilya responded, and there it was, the surprised reaction that Ilya thought he'd see when he broke the news. "Because he's one million years old. Will send another saying you thank him too?"

Shane smiled, soft and sweet. "Of course you did. Yes, please."

Afterwards, once he was back at his rental, Ilya couldn't stop thinking about how desperately he wanted to tell Shane he loved him, clearly and intentionally, in both English and Russian, instead of hiding behind the protection of their language barrier.

Now that he had Shane back, he realized that admitting the love to himself wasn't enough. It was so incredibly stupid of him to take the chance to actually say it for granted. Up until this point, Ilya had spent his entire life searching for love in places where it didn't exist — bending over backwards to appease his father, bankrolling his brother — and neglected the single-most precious connection he'd ever had.

Ilya never thought it was possible for him to love someone in this way, wholly and deeply, with peace in his heart. He had always assumed that he would end up like his mother, doomed to a life of hurt, never finding solace in any notion of romance. He didn't dare to believe that he deserved the way Shane looked at him. The steadiness in his gaze, its kindness and warmth, made Ilya's world tilt on its axis.

***

Ilya has now developed a new kind of intimacy with the hospital setting. He still finds its sterile smell and too-white lighting disconcerting, but he has also started to take comfort in being there. It's where Shane gets to recover, it's where he is healed.

Ilya works hard on charming the hell out of Shane's doctors and nurses. He knows all of them by name, and exactly what to bribe them with every morning. Dr. Ha never says no to chocolate, and charge nurse Kowalski loses her mind over hockey gossip. So on and so forth. By the time Shane transitions out of his inpatient unit in The Neuro and into Richardson Hospital's rehabilitation center, most of the hospital staff on Shane's wing have registered Ilya as a quasi-family member.

Ilya doesn't know what to do with the fact that it's Yuna who proposes officially clearing Ilya as an Essential Care Partner when they register Shane at the rehab center. So that you're no longer limited to visitation hours, she has said. Her implying that he counts as family now, even if it's only limited to the hospital context, makes his head spin.

It takes a long time for him to close his distance with Yuna. In the beginning, Yuna regards him with suspicion, and Ilya supposes it's only fair, given that she only knew of him as Shane's sworn hockey rival before this. Neither Shane nor Ilya have elaborated much on their relationship, and he can tell that it frustrates her. The stilted and awkward air around him and Yuna isn't helped by the fact that Ilya no longer knows how to behave around a mother.

***

"Seven down, six letters. Blank spoon, cheap eats. What do you think?" Ilya is solving the New Yorker's daily crossword with David while Shane sleeps. He's crashed hard and fast after an intense day of physical therapy.

"Greasy."

"Twenty four down, five letters. King or Senator, in headlines?"

"Ah hah, is trick clue. NHLer."

"Wow, I didn't think of that. Good thinking." David writes it down. "How did you get so good at this?"

"Guess I am just that smart, David." He will never find out that Ilya does the crossword first at home, where he can search up the clues all he wants.

It's easy, being around David. He exudes warmth and comfort, the kind of paternal energy that Ilya doesn't even know existed.

During the first days of Ilya hanging around Shane's bedside, he and Ilya bonded over the similarities and differences between Russian and Canadian bureaucracies, out of all topics. Ilya knows a surprising amount, having shadowed his father when he was very young. This was back when Grigori still thought there was a future for Ilya in the police, if hockey didn't work out. Over the next week, Ilya noticed David's penchant for the New Yorker crosswords, and picked it up himself.

Ilya hears the door open and the sound of Yuna's footsteps. Then, David's phone rings. He puts his New Yorker issue down and steps out of the room.

Ilya feels himself stiffen, left alone with Shane's mother.

"I should. Ah. Get going soon, yes? Is already night."

"Oh, right." Yuna checks her watch. "David and I are also leaving in about fifteen."

Yuna steps closer to Shane's bedside, her eyes darting between her sleeping son and his not-boyfriend.

"You know, David and I are glad that you've been helping out. But," she starts. Ilya's stomach cramps up at the serious tone of her voice. Is she going to tell him that maybe he should come less often, actually? Maybe he shouldn't have been hogging Shane's time as much as he has?

"We also can't help but feel bad about how much of the care-taking you've taken over. David and I rarely come with him to PT these days."

"Ah. I apologize. Maybe we can. Hm. Come up with new schedule, and I will. What is word… Back off?"

"God, no, that's not it." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'm going about this all wrong. What I mean is that we really appreciate you being here, but we worry that we are imposing too much on you, you know?"

That's not what Ilya expected. He feels wrong-footed still, but not in a bad way. He measures his words with care. He needs her to understand.

“Three months and a half ago I buried my father. And my mother… passed when I was very young." He breaks eye contact with Yuna and looks over to Shane. Grabs Shane's hand and squeezes it lightly.

"I am. Ah, doing this for me, more than anything, like do-over, yes? Or atonement. Learned that from David’s New Yorker.”

"What do you mean, Ilya?"

"Hmm?"

"Atonement, what do you feel like you’re atoning for?"

Ilya pauses. He doesn't really know if it's right of him to say this, especially to Shane's mother.

"Is selfish, but maybe this time around my loved one stays, if I am there to take care of him properly.” 

"Ilya-"

Ilya stands up, a bit too abruptly, the legs of his chair groaning against the room’s vinyl tiles. The sound makes him cringe. Ilya is blinking very fast now. He makes a hasty excuse, something about needing to go home and water his plants, and leaves before Yuna can reply.  

Chapter End Notes

i referenced this recipe, re: pelmeni

what's a Therapy Putty? A mobility therapy tool! Yellow Theraputties are on the softer end

i was unfortunately unable to find a copy of The New Yorker's July 2017 crossword, so i went with the July 2018 edition instead 

Some minor edits: i made a mistake while researching rehab centers for Shane. Montreal General does have a rehab program, but it's outpatient and mainly for cancer or geriatric patients. in Shane's case, it's more likely that he'll be transferred to Richardson Hospital's rehab clinic

Chapter 7: places, and names, and where it was you meant

Chapter Notes

Time isn't quite real and his head isn't so great — Shane keeps slipping out of one reality into the other.

For a week or two after seeing Ilya again, Shane constantly wakes up in the dead of night, not being able to tell where he is. He can't stop himself from reaching over to the other side of the bed, looking for the weight of another body. When he doesn't find it, he's seized by horror, convinced that he is back in Ottawa, alone in the cold.

But morning always comes, and it's summer, and there is a new constant: This Ilya, Alive Ilya. Gentle, soft. Touchy. When Shane opens his eyes in the morning, Ilya is there. When Shane reaches for him, he comes closer. When Shane calls for him, he replies.

***

Today is a good day. Shane wakes up with a clear head, the ache along his craniectomy scar line duller than normal. He still feels the persistent pins and needles in his arms and legs, but it's bearable, and he can sit up on his own without feeling too nauseous.

Shane turns towards the door and watches as Ilya asks after the custodian's newborn grandchild, slips Dr. Ha a Snickers bar, and promises nurse Kowalski two lower bowl seats for Montreal's home games for an entire season. All within the span of fifteen minutes.

Shane is falling in love for the first time, all over again. He can't help but track the long line of Ilya's body, the curve of his back, the constellations of his birth marks.

"You don't play for the Voy- the Metros, you know. You'll have to pay for that out of pocket." Shane says once Ilya unglues himself from the doorframe and comes to his bedside.

"Duh, Hollander. Very observant of you." Ilya settles onto his chair, relaxed and languid, and flips open an issue of… ELLE Canada? Where did he get it from?

"It's nice outside." Shane says.

Ilya replies without taking his eyes off the page. "Da. Will stay nice until at least 4 p.m."

Shane thinks he wants fresh air. Actually, no, he needs it.

"I want to come down to the garden and sit in the sun. With you." Ilya perks up like a puppy, eyes bright, metaphorical tail wagging. "Will you let the nurses know for me?"

Ilya is up and out in an instant. Once his nurse is done with measuring his blood pressure and heart rate and checking the strength of his back muscles, Ilya helps him into his wheelchair and whisks him away. They reach the garden in record time.

The outdoor space is accessible and well-designed, with raised brick beds full of tall plants and flowers framing the walkway. It's quiet and peaceful. Over the last month, Shane has only had the energy to come down twice.

Shane doesn't know what's more beautiful, the summer flowers in bloom or Ilya glowing in the sun. It's only been a few minutes, and Ilya is already sweating. He's bad with the warmth, another fact that's remained unchanged between worlds. Shane doesn't complain when Ilya leans closer, even though he hates the texture of sweaty skin.

***

The first person after Ilya to come see Shane once he's officially cleared for visitation is Rose. Out of everyone, she looks and behaves the most like the person he knew. Her hair is redder, and she's slightly shorter, maybe, but that's about it.

Moments after she walks through the door, Rose throws herself into his lap, peppers his face with kisses, and bursts into tears. Oh my god, I was so scared, I didn't hear anything back from your parents for so long. I thought I'd never be able to talk to you again. Thank god you're okay. I'm so glad. So glad.

Her make up is a mess. It stains Shane's hospital gown, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't know what to say aside from I'm sorry, Rose, truly, so he just buries his nose in her hair and holds her close.

When Rose comes, Ilya makes himself scarce. It is, ah. Too fresh still. I am not ready to meet her. Shane wants to apologize, but Ilya doesn't let him.

Shane has thought that Ilya would leave the room when Hayden and Jacki visit, but he doesn't. Shane is taken aback by the casual way Ilya and Hayden trash talk each other, play-kicking and shoving like middle schoolers, and by the way Jacki shows Ilya new photos of the kids, unprompted.

He stares, and of course Jacki notices. She leans over and whispers, I've been making sure that he comes over for dinner.

The way Ilya, This Ilya, is already close with Shane's dad, Hayden, and Jacki makes him want to cry. It took the Ilya he's lost so long to have any of this.

***

One of the first things Shane had to do after the ink on Ilya's death certificate dried and before the news broke was identifying who he needed to reach out to personally.

They only disclosed their relationship to a handful of people, and most were Shane's. Hayden and Jackie, Shane's parents, and Ryan. Of those within the Centaurs and their sports circle, Ilya regularly spent time with maybe two, Troy and Scott, and Troy already knew. He was there when Ilya died. Outside of it, there were Ilya’s family in Russia and Svetlana. Back there and back then, Svetlana and Ilya met in Boston, and they stopped spending that much time together once Ilya started dating Shane. She was the closest to a non-hockey friend that Ilya had ever had.

Shane didn't truly understand how lonely Ilya was until he finalized the names of the people he needed to notify. Ilya's family, whom Ilya no longer talked to; the Pikes, Ryan, Svetlana, and Scott, whom Ilya saw maybe three times a year. Staring at the list, Shane thought, it was a relief that Ilya didn't keep a journal. If he did, Shane would have read it, and it would have destroyed him.

Then, there was the matter of when to make the call. Should it be during the day? Ruin it the moment they woke up, kill their appetite at noon, or have the news haunt them before night comes? Or should he rob them of sleep by calling in the evening?

Did it matter, controlling for these factors? A loss was a loss, and the time ahead would stretch on with grief regardless of when one received the news. 

In the end, Shane couldn’t make the calls. He had Ilya’s lawyer do it instead.

***

July comes, and his mom, stressed and apologetic, shows up at his bedside with a notary public and a stack of paperwork.

It has taken him a good few moments to come to terms with the fact that in the here and now, his mom is his manager. As he watches her sort through the papers and set aside only the pages that need his signatures, he wonders if he should feel relieved or pressured that the person who manages his career is the one who cares about him the most.

"Can I look through the contracts myself, actually?" He looks to the notary public, a tired-looking middle aged man who seems already bored out of his mind. "You don't have to explain it to me."

"Are you sure?" His mom is taken aback. "We only need your signature for restructuring your commercial shoots with CCM and Reebok for now. For the rest, we can invoke incapacity and wait until..." She trails off. She's holding out hope that he can play again one day.

"Yes," he says. "It's not like I can read all of it today. I just want to jog my memories."

The notary public looks at him like he's grown a second head, but agrees to let him flip through the contracts. Shane's clearly lucid enough.

It's incredible, how many more sponsorships and deals This Shane has taken on. It's at least double the amount he used to do, back in his world.

***

Shane became fluent in the language of legality after Ilya died. As the executor of Ilya's will, Shane filed the lawsuit against Boeing and retired from hockey to become the face of the litigation. For the entirety of the year following Ilya's death, the lawsuit took over his life.

He refused to take any private settlement — he didn't need it; his wealth and Ilya's combined was more than enough to last him three lifetimes over. Instead, he opted for a public trial and pushed for accountability and safety reform. He wanted to protect Ilya's legacy. He needed him to be remembered as more than a tragic headline. He needed for things to change, and was determined to have a safety act named after him.

Shane took on the role of lead plaintiff as a grieving partner and weathered the character assassinations levied against him as a man who had nothing to lose. He let Boeing's defense team scrutinize the history of his relationship with Ilya. He let them attack his standing because he and Ilya weren't legally married.

He was reckless. He no longer remembers how much time and money he had sunken into the lawsuit. It was probably in the millions. He wonders what his lawyers are doing, in this world. He'll have to look them up.

***

Dr. Ha breaks the news two weeks before Shane transfers to Richardson.

They're in her office, which isn't small but has been made cramped by the presence of Shane in his wheel chair, both of his parents, and his primary nurse. The atmosphere is thick with dread as she turns her monitor towards their direction. On it are Shane's brain scans.

He listens to her prognosis with his gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to take in his parents' reactions. It's a miracle that his cognition has recovered to this extent, she says. That, in itself, is a victory, she says. However.

Shane cannot play again. The craniectomy has permanently altered the landscape inside his skull, and his brain can no longer handle any further impact. Even a board check can cause catastrophic re-bleeding.

The only sound in the room is the tick-ticking of Dr. Ha's clock on the wall. This is a lot to process, Dr. Ha says. They should all take some time, Dr. Ha says. She's always available to discuss further questions, Dr. Ha says.

The monkey's paw, the genie's lamp.

"I see," he says. "Please, Ms. Kowalksi, I'd like to go back to my room."

His parents stand up, about to follow. Shane clarifies.

"Alone." He pauses. "With Ilya, please."

Dr. Ha nods. Kowalski takes hold of Shane's wheelchair handles and opens the door quickly. On the other side, Ilya stands, eyes wide, like a deer in the headlight.

***

"How are you feeling? Tired, yes?" Ilya asks once Kowalski's helped Shane settle back into his hospital bed. The back of the bed is set at an incline, propping Shane up in a sitting position.

Shane exhales harshly through his nose, a humorless laugh. "I'm fucking exhausted." There's a dull throbbing in his head, and his breaths are coming out short. Emotions cost energy, he knows this, has been learning it the hard way. Its effects are even more pronounced now, with the diminished state of his health.

Ilya is standing on the other end of the room, busying himself with clearing away half drunken cups of water and the books and papers on the low table set between the hospital chairs. The chairs are usually at his bedside, but the custodian must have rearranged things when they were cleaning up earlier. He's giving Shane space, not pushing him to talk.

"You should rest. I will be here when you wake up."

Ilya is trying very hard to remain calm and nonchalant, but Shane can see the rigidity in his neck and back.

"You overheard everything, didn't you?"

Ilya winces. "Da, I am very sorry." He lowers his gaze. "I knew it was private."

"It's okay. To be honest, I wanted you there."

Shane sees some of the tension bleed out of Ilya's body. He idly considers the fact that no one would have tried to bar Ilya from being there, if they were married. For a few seconds, he's gripped by the fantasy of putting a ring on the chain of Ilya's crucifix.

"How do you feel about it, Ilya?"

"Is not my place."

"It is, because I'm saying so."

Ilya puts down the stack of magazines that he was sorting. He swallows, stays quiet. Shane tracks the movement of Ilya's Adam's apple and feels a headache building at the back of his skull.

"Are you disappointed?" Shane asks. What he means by that is, Are you disappointed in me? There's a difference between this, and retiring after Ilya, His Ilya, died.

Ilya finally turns to look at him now. "What kind of question is that?"

Shane looks towards Ilya's direction but doesn't meet his eyes. "You'll never face me on the ice again." He says, his voice steadier than he thought possible. "From this moment onward I'm just… me."

He'll never again be the hockey player who was good enough to catch Ilya's attention. He hasn't been that person, for a long time. The world has taken so much away from Ilya, and now this.

Ilya's brows furrow. "If you say it like that. Of course I am disappointed, I love playing against you. But-"

"Okay, because that is no longer a possibility." Shane slumps forward, curls into himself. "I don't have it anymore. You won't have it anymore." He grips his blanket tightly, twisting the fabric, pulling it taught, making its checkered pattern stretch and morph into something ugly, indecipherable.

"I don't know who I am outside of hockey, here. I don't know if…"

Shane squeezes his eyes shut and covers his face with the blanket. The knot of pain and grief and guilt tangles up further and further in his mind, his body. He doesn't want to look at Ilya right now, he doesn't want to see his expression, he doesn't want to find out, whether or not Ilya is feeling betrayed by this.

"Am I still worthy of you?" He whispers. "If I never played again, would you still want to be with me?"

Sounds of Ilya's quick footsteps. In less than two seconds he feels the warmth and weight of Ilya's body at his side. The bed dips.

"Shane," Ilya pulls him into a hug, guiding his face away from the blanket and towards the crook of his neck, placing a hand on his nape. What a sight they make, two giant men crowding this single hospital bed. "Listen to me."

Shane breathes in a lungful of Ilya's scent and feels the rumbling of his chest as he speaks. "You are everything to me, do you understand? Fuck hockey if it is no longer possible."

There's true conviction in his voice. Shane is lightheaded.

"How can you say that?" Shane argues, weakly. "You never would have looked at me twice, had it not been for hockey. I'm nothing without it. I'll be no-one."

"It is thanks to hockey that I got to meet you. And for that I am grateful." Ilya's grip on Shane tightens. Shane hears a shuddering intake of breath.

"But you are so much more than the last name and number on your back. How can you not see that?" Shane shakes his head, rubbing his forehead against Ilya's shoulder.

Ilya huffs. "Солнышко, you are. So. Stubborn." Shane snorts. He's the furthest thing from sunshine right now.

"And boring. Don't forget boring." Shane wants to add, and also inattentive, heartless, selfish, but he won't burden Ilya with that.

"Yes, boring, good boring." His voice is so deep, and so full of affection. "Is okay if you do not believe me yet. I will spend the rest of my life convincing you, if you let me."

"Fuck, Ilya. I won't ask that of you, I can't." He's gotten it wrong, Shane thinks. It should be the other way around. It's Shane who needs to spend the rest of his life making it up to Ilya. His Ilya, This Ilya.

"I love you." Ilya chokes out. There's wetness dripping down the back of Shane's neck. "I will love you no matter what. There is no world in which you are not worthy of me."

The weight of Ilya's words settle around him. Shane has heard his declaration of love before, and yet it is still the first time. Shane feels like he's been struck by lightning.

Ilya pulls back and cradles Shane's face, making him meet his eyes. "Besides, you would make the hottest WAG."

Ilya pulls a face. "No, BAH? HAB?"

That startles a laugh out of him. He's so, so overwhelmed. He hasn't expected Ilya to tell him he loves him here, not like this. Shane didn't think he'd be able to hear it again so soon. "Oh my god, you asshole, have you even asked me to be your boyfriend?"

Ilya's eyes soften. "Shane Hollander, я тебя люблюI love you. Please, be my boyfriend."

Shane leans forward, resting his forehead against Ilya's.

"Yes, Ilyusha." The tips of their noses touch. "Honestly, I should be the one to ask you that." His eyes flutter shut. "I love you too. I love you so much. You're too good to me."

Ilya caresses Shane's lower lip with his thumb. Shane is dizzy with love. For this very moment, he lets the guilt fade away.

"May I?" Ilya asks.

Yes, yes, of course. It's their first, one-hundredth, and one-thousandth kiss at the same time.

Chapter End Notes

- did i read the entire consensus statement on concussion in sport? yes, yes i did
- there's also this article, which is completely unrelated to this story but is very interesting
- despite the medical inaccuracies tag, i'm still trying my best to get it right. i want to ground the story in reality as much as possible so that there's some kind of counterweight against its unbelievable central premise
- i think in reality the prognosis disclosure might happen in a meeting room? but uhh then i remember that there's a disclosure scene in breaking bad and it happens in white's oncologist's office and realize that i like that much better lol
- i am sorry for taking hockey away from Shane, but he never would have been able to come back to it the same. physically and mentally speaking. please don't kill me.
- also, yes, that's right, Ilya and Shane say i love you to each other BEFORE the last scene of chapter 6 (scene between ilya and yuna). that's the beauty of a dual POV — i can interweave the present timeline and divvy up which character gets which scene and withhold information from you because i am evil

Chapter 8: to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

Within the confines of the rehabilitation center, Ilya, Yuna, and David create a hockey-less bubble around Shane. They request the staff on Shane's wing to block replays on the communal TV, turn away anyone approaching Shane for an autograph, and shut down all game discussions. Witnessing Shane shrink into himself after the prognosis once was enough. Ilya can't handle seeing it again.

Shane himself avoids talking about hockey. He did ask Yuna about how she was going to resolve his contract with the Metros once, before transferring to Richardson, but that was about it. The moment physical therapy starts, it's like hockey's never existed.

Yuna and David have expected physical therapy to be hard on him. Ilya himself has assumed that he would struggle, has steeled himself for talking him down from who knows how many panic attacks. He can't imagine how difficult it must be for Shane, once a generational talent, to now have to relearn how to navigate his own body.

So, it comes as a surprise when for three hours every day, Shane shows up to his physical therapy sessions brilliantly, with determination and strength, and without a single complaint.

It comes as a bigger surprise when Shane doesn't shy away from the physical therapist's suggestion that a loved one be present during his sessions. Sometimes, he asks for Yuna or David, but most of the time, he asks for Ilya. It's Ilya whose encouragement he seeks, when his weak hand falters. It's Ilya to whom he directs his overjoyed laughter, when he can move from his bed to his wheelchair unassisted for the first time.

Providing the emotional safety that Shane needs and receiving the gift of his trust realigns the hateful voice at Ilya's core, the one that labels vulnerability as weakness. In his hands, Ilya holds the ability to strike Shane down at his lowest, and in his mind, he holds the strength to never do so.

Every day, as Ilya wheels Shane back to his room after each physical therapy session, he lets go more and more of the lessons his father and his brother taught him about what it means to be a man. Love and rage cannot coexist; hate and desire cannot be one.

***

"Is temperature too hot?" Ilya asks, angling the shower head so that the water doesn't get into Shane's eyes. Right now, Shane is sitting in front of him on a shower bench. He's finally been able to sit unassisted without too much pain.

The first thing Ilya did after gaining clearance as a care partner was signing up for caregiver training, so that Shane wouldn't have to rely on the hospital staff for his washing. Ilya had noticed how out of sorts Shane was after his showers back in The Neuro. It must have been unpleasant, having strangers see and touch him in this state.

"No, Ilyusha. It's perfect," Shane leans back, knowing that Ilya will steady his weight. It's so strange and new, the way the diminutive rolls off Shane's tongue, so affectionate and perfect. It lights him up.

Ilya's eyes follow the flow of the water, from the top of Shane's head to his chest, his back, the crease of his hips. It's impossible not to notice all the ways in which Shane's body has changed. Three weeks in a coma and a month of bed rest was enough to wipe out the musculature that Shane had built up over a career. He's so much lighter now, his frame easily containable in an embrace. The left side of his body is weak, and his movements have lost their precision and symmetry. There's no longer a golden hue to his complexion.

And yet, he's still the most beautiful person Ilya's ever met.

Ilya massages shampoo into his hair. It's gotten long in the past few months, reaching past his nape now.

"I bet you miss me sucking your dick, huh." Shane says, apropos of nothing. Ilya sputters, almost sprays water and soap everywhere.

"Jesus, Hollander. What?"

Shane cranes his head back further to look at Ilya's face, but doesn't meet his eyes. That can't be comfortable. Ilya tilts his upper torso forward instead, so that he doesn't strain his neck.

Shane answers his question with a question. "When was the last time you had sex?"

Ah, okay. Ilya knows what he's angling at. He washes the suds out of Shane's hair. Shuts off the water and puts the shower head back onto its mount.

"Since Tampa." Ilya says.

Shane looks down, away. "That's ages ago."

He pinches Shane's cheek, gently. "I am not for the streets any more. We are dating, yes?"

"Yeah, but it can't be fair. Who knows when I'll be well enough for sex again. Might even take a whole year." Then, he says, more quietly. "Maybe even longer."

Ilya has thought about that before, the fact that they can no longer rely on sex as their default mode of communication. He won't lie to himself — he wants Shane as Shane was and Shane as Shane is. Ilya wants him desperately, and he knows he always will. But he can also go the rest of his life without having sex if it means he gets to have Shane.

With loving him comes a new kind of desire: the desire to be one with him, to live inside his heart, his mind.

"I am going to step out from behind you." Ilya taps a finger between Shane's shoulder blades. "Will you engage your back?"

Once he sees that Shane is holding himself up on his own, he walks in front of him, kneels down, and takes Shane's face in his hand. He looks Shane in the eyes and musters his most serious voice.

"My dick broke when you broke your head. Will not work again until doctor clears you for sex. This is scientific fact."

Shane doesn't laugh, but his expression does soften. He looks less morose, less far away. Ilya counts that as a win. "And what kind of science is that?"

"Love you science. Obviously."

The corniness is so worth it. Shane's eyes sparkle. Ilya leans in for a kiss, and Shane meets him half way.

"I am perfectly happy, yes? Do not get your panties in a twist about sex stuff. We will have plenty of sex later, I just know it. I am happy with loving you like this."

Shane snorts. "Okay, Ilya. I love you too. More than you'd ever know."

***

Ilya recognizes the signs of Shane's desire. The want is certainly there, still, even if neither of them can do anything about it right now. There's heat in his gaze whenever Ilya shows up in too-tight tank tops, flexes his biceps, or bends over to fetch Shane's slippers. He can feel Shane's eyes on his neck, his chest, his ass like a caress. None of this is unusual.

What is unusual is the fact that Shane doesn't seem to be truly familiar with Ilya's body anymore. Whenever Shane practices edge-of-bed standing and Ilya is hovering nearby, Ilya will sometimes catch Shane turning over and looking up even though they're the same height. It doesn't happen often, but his course correction — the act of lowering his head to look into Ilya's eyes — is very obvious. Up, down, away, goes the routine.

Then, there's the one time when Shane's inhibition is low after a long day battling a persistent migraine. Loopy from painkillers, he looks toward Ilya's shoulder and asks,

"Where did your bear tattoo go?"

"The what?"

"The bear." Shane repeats. "On your right shoulder."

Ilya keeps the tone of his voice light and playful, but deep down, he's unsettled. "What is this, Hollander, fantasizing about me with ink?"

Shane doesn't answer. He stares at Ilya blankly for a few moments and closes his eyes. The next morning, when Ilya asks him about it, Shane tells him he doesn't know what he's talking about.

***

A month into rehab, Shane moves on from practicing standing with the parallel bars to body-weight supported treadmill training. He can finally shift his weight from one leg to the other, and his leg muscles are strong enough to relearn how to walk.

The session starts well. Seeing Shane take his first slow and steady steps, even if they're taken with the support of a harness and a physical therapist guiding his weak leg, fills Ilya with relief. His heart triples in size as Shane's face lights up with joy. There's now a significant and tangible proof for his recovery. Ilya's not allowed to say anything while he's in his observation chair, but he knows that Shane can sense his pride and happiness.

He wonders if he's to blame for why Shane decides to push himself too hard.

Ilya senses it a few seconds before the physical therapist does. After ten minutes on the treadmill, his weaker left leg starts to drag, but imperceptibly so. His complexion, already quite pale, turns paler. His breathing becomes shallower, but he does a very good job of masking it.

The PT hits the emergency stop button at the exact moment that Shane's knees buckle, and the harness catches his full body weight. Ilya brings the wheelchair over before the rehab tech even realizes that it's a task she needs to do.

Later, after the nurses are done with checking Shane's vitals and assure Ilya, Yuna, and David that he really is okay, this tends to happen with athletes, you know, they're so good at pushing themselves through pain and exhaustion, and after Yuna and David leave to get dinner, Ilya leans over in his chair and asks,

"Why did you do that, sweetheart?"

Shane, caught in the hazy space between exhaustion and wakefulness, slurs out,

"I'd be no use to you if I don't try my best and recover soon, wouldn't I? If I get you back," He trails off, and doesn't continue for a few moments.

"I need to earn this, Ilyusha."

Ilya feels his heart break into a million pieces. He doesn't know what to say, what the right way to fix this is. They've had this conversation before. They've talked about this, too many times.

***

Once he is sure that Shane has fallen asleep, he steps out of the room, slumps down against the door, and buries his face in his hands. Ilya doesn't know how to convince him that his love is unconditional, that there's nothing he needs to prove. No matter how many times he says it to Shane, the message just doesn't get through. Like water off a duck's back.

"Oh, honey. What's wrong? Is Shane okay?" Ilya startles at the sound of Yuna's voice. He's assumed that he and Shane are going to be alone for at least half an hour, but apparently not.

He feels Yuna's hands reaching for his, prying them away from his face. For another few seconds, Ilya keeps his eyes shut, too ashamed to look her in the eyes. A grown man, having a meltdown in public like this.

"I am sorry," he croaks. "Nothing is wrong, Shane is fine. I am the problem."

"I highly doubt that, Ilya." Her hold on his hand is firm. She leads him to a quiet corner in the communal family lounge. It's late, they're the only ones there.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

There's too much to unpack, and he doesn't know where to start. Ilya shakes his head.

"Okay. That's alright. Can I give you a hug, then?"

Ilya feels so young and so vulnerable, and part of him wants to say no, to be strong and preserve his dignity. But part of him needs the warmth of another. Of a mother.

He nods, a small movement of the head. Yuna wraps him up in her arms, and they sit like that for a long time.

Later, much later, once Ilya has extricated himself from her hug, Yuna will tell him, "I'm sorry that I was so rude to you back then, the night of..." Neither she, David, nor Ilya have been able to refer to what happened directly, over the course of the past few months. They won't be able to, anytime soon.

Ilya will say, "Is okay. You were scared, yes? Your son was in emergency surgery because of game against Boston, and Boston captain showed up. I had, ah, intruded."

"You didn't intrude. I just had no idea what- who you were to each other then."

"But you know now?" He will ask, with apprehension.

"Yes, Ilya." Her eyes will meet his, with affection, with love. "Thank you for being here."

***

Blink, and it's August, and the beginning of the new season looms over their horizon. As the days pass, Shane gets increasingly twitchy and antsy, and more distracted during his physical therapy sessions. Before long, he starts bringing hockey up himself.

How's Marleau? What do you think about the new draft pick? Will he be playing on your line, do you know? He's fine. The kid's just alright. And Ilya doesn't know.

Finally, mid-way through the month, he asks Ilya the real question.

"When does your pre-season training start?"

It's early morning on a PT-free day, which means neither of them gets a chance to hide behind any obligation. Very smart, his boyfriend. Ilya has just arrived, and he hasn't even sat down yet.

Ilya doesn't know why he's put off telling Shane about this for so long. He's had plenty of time to run the decision by him, to make sure that this is a mutual decision, something Shane actively agrees to. Which is something a good boyfriend would do.

Or, maybe he does know why: if he does the right thing, the responsible thing, Shane will say no. Don't do that for me, Ilya, I want you to live your life, Ilya. I can't burden you with this, Ilya.

"Okay, Shane," he says. He takes his slippers off and sits down cross-legged on the foot of Shane's bed instead of the hospital chair. Tries to look at Shane with his best puppy dog eyes. "Don't be mad."

Shane levels him with a stare. Yeah, that's probably not the best opener. Not his best work. He's planted the seed — Shane's going to be mad.

Ilya clears his throat. "Pre-season does not start. For me. This year."

"What do you mean." Shane asks, but it comes out more like a statement.

"I have met with Raiders GM last week. And submitted written request for, ah, personal leave of absence."

Shane's eyebrows climb toward his hairline.

"Ilya, you what? Citing what reason?"

"I, ah, cited my father. Personal family reasons. Bereavement."

Predictably, Shane says, "Ilya, I can't have you do this." Ilya's able to guess the phrasing down to the word.

"Well, too late, because leave has been approved. I am taking half the season off, until February next year."

Shane blinks. Ilya can practically see the gears in his head turning, trying to come up with a way to resist this.

"You're lying to the league. For what? To keep babysitting me?"

Ilya wants to say, fuck the league, who cares, but he knows it won't go over well. He also wants to be honest and tell Shane that Ilya's doing this for himself.

Lately, Shane looks at him with love, but also with deep melancholy. Once in a while, when Ilya was about to say goodbye before leaving for his rental, Shane would say, Don't say goodbye, Ilya, just come back to me tomorrow, and Ilya would be filled with an inexplicable sadness.

The weight of their goodbyes from all the times they've had to be apart in the past seems unbearable now, insurmountable. At the very moment, just the thought of being away from Shane while he's still weak and recovering makes him want to keel over, makes it hard for him to breathe. He fears that Shane's presence in front of him is a mirage, that if he looks away he'll disappear.

"Relax, Hollander, people do this all the time. Is mourning period, no big deal. I have accumulated enough seasons to still reach free agency next summer."

"It's not about that. How are you going to avoid being found out?" Shane asks, and Ilya knows he has a point. "Putting this kind of secrecy on you is just too much."

Ilya wants to say, I know that you want me to stay, Shane, but he doesn't. Instead, he goes for, "I could figure this out. We could."

He reaches over, holds Shane's bony ankle in his hand. "We have done it successfully for close to ten years, yes? This is nothing. No big deal." He needs Shane to understand that Ilya will do whatever it takes, and right now nothing matters as much to him as making sure Shane's okay.

Apparently Ilya's chosen the wrong angle, because the moment the rhetorical question leaves his mouth, Shane shuts down and refuses to speak. For the rest of the day, they sit in the same room, stewing, silent. When David and Yuna arrive, a little bit later in the morning, they're bewildered by the cold war happening right in front of their eyes. This hasn't happened before.

When Ilya offers to go home to give Shane space, Shane refuses. At night, before Ilya finally has to leave for his rental, Shane says something again for the first time in hours. "Promise me you'll come back tomorrow."

The request drives Ilya nuts. He wants to say, See? You need me here, yes? Let us have this. But instead he says, "Yes, Shane, I promise."

Chapter 9: I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

Chapter Notes

tw: (implied) disordered eating

Shane tosses and turns and stays up until the early hours of the morning, thinking about the expression on Ilya's face before he left, that night. The tightness in his jawline, the bitten-redness of his lower lip; his eyes, the glassy color of a deep lake in the summer, the place where water meets sky.

Shane saw it, Ilya's effort to hide his sadness, his determination to not let his pain bleed through. He's seen it, in the world before. He might not have caught it back then, but he knows now.

He sleeps fitfully and wakes before dawn. Through his window, he watches as the horizon changes colors, from a dazzling gold to a vivid blue. He spends hours thinking about what he should say to Ilya and comes up short. He wants to do his best, to do it right this time around, but it's so hard to think past the undercurrent of pain.

Although, he can't fall back onto that excuse for much longer. He can feel it — he's recovering well. His body is slowly becoming his own. One day soon, he'll be whole again.

Shane doesn't know how to cope with this miracle of being able to feel Ilya close, of not only being in his presence but also of being loved by him. It's so precious and so terrifying, the duality of this second chance.

He doesn't have much to go off of, aside from Irina's promise, and he finds it impossible to make sense of what has happened. He's met death and defied it. He's seen what's in the beyond. He can't remain faithless, but he doesn't know what it is exactly that he should believe in now.

It is all too much. He's buckling under the weight of this incredible secrecy.

***

At 8 a.m., the latch clicks open. Shane braces himself for facing Ilya, but it's not his boyfriend who's walking through the door. For the first time in months, his parents arrive at his hospital room before Ilya does.

His dad clocks his nervousness immediately. Just as Shane is about to ask whether his boyfriend is okay, David says, "We told Ilya to come later today. We wanted to talk to you first."  

His mom takes a seat to his right, and his dad, to his left. His mom runs her hand through his hair, scratches lightly on the back of his scalp. His dad holds his hand, interlaces their fingers. The gentleness in their gestures warms him.

His parents haven't even started talking, and he already feels disarmed and exposed. He tries to keep his voice neutral. "Did he tell you before he told me?"

"Well," his dad says. "On a technicality-"

His mom cuts in. "He told us the day before yesterday, right when we were about to leave for the night. So yes and no. He didn't run it by us, if that's what you're asking."

"But we weren't very surprised. We've guessed that he might do that."

Shane raises his eyebrows at David. "What made you think that?"

David looks to Yuna. She continues in his stead. "Has Ilya told you about his parents?"

Shane deflects. "I asked you something first, though." He doesn't really know how to answer her question. There are two truths here, and he must pick one. Yes, Shane knows all about his parents, and no, in the here and now, Ilya hasn't told him the specifics. At least when it comes to his mother.

Yuna takes his non-response as confirmation. She nods, and keeps going. "Ilya came, the day you were… hospitalized. He was one of the first."

Shane isn't surprised by this, but he can't say he's really thought about it. If he understands what happened correctly, it was also the night This Shane died. Christ.

"We were both shocked by the way he was, when he showed up." David says. "It was like his heart had been ripped out of his chest."

Yuna's face clouds over. "Honey, he was destroyed."

Shane's feels a shooting pain beneath his ribs.

"I was completely overwhelmed by his reaction." She pauses, looks down at her lap. "At the beginning, I was angry at him. I remember thinking, he didn't have the right to react the way he did."

David's hold on his hand tightens, just slightly, his expression contemplative.

Yuna lifts her head, fixes her eyes on a point beyond the window. "I think I was trying to mask shame with anger. I was afraid to confront the fact that I had no idea. About how much you meant to each other."

She wipes at her face. "And the fact that you had kept something this big from us for god knows how long. To find that out on the day we thought we were going to lose you…"

Shane tries to say he's sorry, but he's shushed by both of his parents. David lets go of his hand and pulls his chair closer to the head of his bed. He leans in and brushes a strand of hair out of Shane's face.

"Right now, you're his entire world, you know that, right?" He asks, with tenderness. "He needs you as much as you need him."

Shane knows, and the knowledge tugs at the knot of regret and guilt lodged deep within him. He swallows. It takes him a while to speak pass the lump in his throat.

"I'm scared that I'm monopolizing him," he says. "I'm scared that he'll lose himself in me. I want him to live a full life."

Shane wants Ilya to be happy. He wants Ilya to find happiness outside of him, outside of their relationship.

"His days have already been revolving around me for the past few months. If he stays… He's putting both his personal life and his career on hold, just for me."

Yuna nods. "I understand where you're coming from. But you must consider all that he's gone through. Especially within the past year."

"Your mom and I can't imagine what it's like for him, Shane. Almost losing you was the most terrifying thing we've ever experienced."

"And honey, you keep talking about what you want for him. But you know what he wants already, don't you? You need to seriously think about what you want as well."

"Do you really want him to leave, son?

Fuck, okay. No. No, he doesn't.

He still doesn't know what to say to Ilya, but they need to work this out. Shane doesn't want to hurt him by pushing him away. He can't have that happen again.

"If it's okay with you both, I'd like to spend the rest of the day with Ilya."

His parents nod, their movements synchronized. It's so sweet.

"Of course," his mom says. "We'll come back tomorrow morning. Talk to him properly, okay?"

***

Throughout 2020, Shane religiously logged his meals on a calorie tracker app. In the beginning, he only used it to keep a close eye on his diet and optimize his performance during the season. After a few months, however, he started to turn its notes section into something akin to a journal.

He didn't type out full sentences and there weren't any detailed descriptions of his days, but once every other entry, he'd jot down the things that happened while he had his meals. February 4th. Breakfast, kale smoothie (kale, almond milk, banana, peanut butter) — called Ilya, seemed more snappish than normal. May 17th, Lunch, brown rice and salmon, cucumber — Ilya got new tattoo, a loon. July 21st, Dinner, Caesar salad, finger foods — Scott and Kip's wedding. Ilya looked nice in a suit.

In the year that followed, Shane deeply regretted the fact that he didn't keep a diary. There was such little evidence of the time he had spent with Ilya, so few ways to revisit the past. All he had were a few thousand text messages, about two hundred iPhone snapshots locked away in a hidden folder, the posts on Ilya's Instagram, and the framed photo from their CCM shoot that Ilya had gifted him.

They were not nothing. He was grateful for what he had, but what he had represented only a fraction of their decade-long relationship.

He made the most of any and all things related to Ilya that he could find. That year, he tracked the forward movement of time by matching his days to the entries in his calorie tracker app. If an entry from the previous year featured Ilya's name, he would cook the same meal and try to remember what it was like, eating it while Ilya was still alive.

He was retracing his steps, he was following footprints in the sand. This was one of his many illogical and desperate attempts to search for the exact moment when things went wrong, to find the point where he wanted to turn back the clock.

Now, he's gotten what he wanted, but not exactly so. He's gone backward in time to a place where so many things are different, and everything is still beyond his control. He must accept that his future past is completely gone now, inaccessible, irrelevant. The way forward has to be forged anew.

***

Ilya shows up an hour before noon and acts as if yesterday didn't happen. He brings with him a book, one that I can read to you, he says. It's an obscure non-fiction about concussions that Shane's mentioned wanting to read once, weeks ago. He can't believe Ilya remembers.

He knows that Ilya finds it unbearably boring. Shane tells him this, and he just laughs and kisses his nose, his cheeks, his eyelids. Nothing about boring is unbearable, мой любимыйmy love. Boring is best, yes?

Instead of sitting down in a hospital chair, Ilya climbs onto Shane's bed, manhandling him until his head is comfortably rested on Ilya's shoulder, his body warmed by the line of Ilya's body.

He lets Ilya read to him, and lets himself be soothed by the vibration of his voice. He's a good narrator, and it's clear that he's taking the task seriously. Shane knows what Ilya is doing, because this is a classic Ilya move — he's bulldozing his way through the news that he's sprung onto Shane earlier.

Look at them, two guilty parties trying to right the wrongs committed out of love.

Shane half-listens. It's hard to concentrate on the book when there's so much on his mind. How does he tell Ilya he knows that the love is mutual, but he doesn't know how to truly receive Ilya's devotion? He's lost him once, taken him for granted once. It doesn't feel right for him to not be the one who provides the care and the healing now.

Before long, Shane's eyelids start to droop. He's so tired.

"You want to nap, yes?" Ilya asks. "I can tell hospital staff to bring your lunch later."

"Hmm, maybe, yeah. I want to fall asleep to the sound of your voice."

Ilya complies.  

***

Shane wakes up an hour later to the feeling of Ilya plastered to his back, his arms wrapped possessively around Shane's body. The blinds are partially drawn, and there's a tray with his lunch on the bedside table.

Ilya knows he's awake before he even stirs. He rubs his nose against Shane's nape. "Good… noon? I love you." His voice is thick with sleep. Shane wonders if he also stayed up late last night.

"I love you too." He places his hand on top of Ilya's, where it rests curled around his waist.

With his back still turned to Ilya, he asks, "Ilyusha, what do you like about me?"

Ilya hums. "What is this, Hollander, fishing for compliments?"

Shane tries, and fails, to elbow him in the ribs. "Shut up, asshole, just answer my question." Ilya stays quiet for a few seconds, and for a moment Shane is afraid that he might hear something like I love you, but I don't like you.

He answers, right before Shane tries to take his question back.

"I like the way you scrunch your nose. I like how you say my name." Ilya's grip on him is careful and firm, and he tightens it slightly. "I like how you are always looking out for me, like right now even when you are brain injured."

Shane snorts.

"I like your focus on everything you do." Ilya tries to turn him over, so that Shane faces him while he speaks. "I like that you try to understand, even back when I did not tell you anything."

Shane doesn't budge. Ilya sighs and settles for kissing him on the shoulder. "I like how you hold me, how you let me hold you. I like the way you trust me."

"I just like you so much, Shane," he says. Shane tries very hard to hide his face in his pillow. Which, at the moment, is Ilya's right arm.

One thing that Shane hadn't expected to mourn, back then, was the chance to see who he was through Ilya's eyes. To Ilya, he wasn't just Shane Hollander, the symbol — the hockey player, the face of the Asian-Canadian community, the role model. Ilya simply loved him for the person that he was.

Right here and right now, Ilya loves him, as well.

Shane is thankful that there are things about him as he is that Ilya likes, but he's also afraid of being himself again, of slipping back into his old behaviors. Regardless of how much he's changed, he can't undo the fact that he was the person who failed to recognize his Ilya's loneliness, who inadvertently pushed him far and deep into a corner.

"Do you really still like me, the way I am?" Shane rubs his cheek against the inside of Ilya's elbow. "There are so many things I used to be able to do that I'm not able to any more."

His voice shakes. "And I'm… different, now. This has changed me. You've noticed it, right?"

He has Ilya back and yet he can't stop grieving, and he won't be able to stop anytime soon. His new triggers are hard to hide, and he knows that Ilya has caught on to some. He so badly wants to tell Ilya why he is the way he is, but he doesn't know how.

He doesn't want to be another person, or another reason, for Ilya to grieve. Ilya, too, has lost, and Shane thinks he knows on an abstract level. He fears that if Ilya stays too close for too long, he'll figure out the wrongness of Shane's existence here. He doesn't know if Ilya will still love him or not, once he's learned that Shane's taken his Shane's place.

Shane himself is scared and uncertain, because the line between who he was then and who he is now is starting to blur. When he looks in the mirror, he does see himself, and he's comfortable in this body. There are certainly notable differences: he's taller, his freckles are less pronounced, and the texture of his hair is much coarser. But he still has the same eyes, same voice, same smile. He's different, but it still feels right.

"Of course I still like you." Ilya says. "I love you. I love you as you are."

Shane musters his courage and turns over. His eyes meet Ilya's, and the tenderness in his gaze takes Shane's breath away. "You are Shane. You are not what happened to you. Or what you can or cannot do. Okay? Do you understand?"

Shane rests his forehead against Ilya's and thinks, maybe he does understand, and even if he hasn't yet, he needs to try. He doesn't answer Ilya's question, but he does nod.

***

One of the things that Shane loves about summer is that the days are long, and he gets more hours to see Ilya in the daylight.

It's his second day without physical therapy of the week, so there's nothing for them to do except lounge around and bask in each other's presence. For most of the afternoon, they sit outside in the small park right across the street. They're both decked out in their standard sunglasses-and-baseball-hat disguises, even though Shane wishes they didn't have to.

When Shane announced his retirement, he talked about the decade he and Ilya lost to secrecy, and how he could not allow it to extend to death, to force him into a grief hidden from view. What he wanted, more than anything, was to have Ilya with him, to have him back, to love him publicly; but now that he was gone, he wanted the chance to mourn him as a partner.

At this very moment, with Ilya next to him, radiant and alive, Shane knows that everything he didn't get to do the first time around, he needs to do here.

"Ilyusha," he says. Ilya turns over, one hand raised, in the middle of feeding a flock of pigeons. "You really shouldn't give them white bread, you know. It's not good for them."

Ilya rolls his eyes, but dutifully puts the bread away. "You are so boring, Hollander."

Shane tries and fails to suppress a smile.

"I've been wondering, what are some things you'd like to do together once I'm discharged? Do you have, like, a bucket list or something?"

Ilya wags his eyebrows at him. He feels his face heat up. "Ugh, why did I even ask. Where do you plan to stay, anyway, if you're taking time off this season?"

Ilya beams, a brilliant sight in the summer sun. "Your cottage, duh. You have the space, yes? I stay with you and play doting house husband. Your parents come visit every day, it is perfect."

It does sound perfect indeed.

Chapter 10: next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

Chapter Notes

The day Shane gets discharged from Richardson, he buttons his own shirt.

It's a nice shirt — plain, blue, linen, a very Shane shirt. When he reaches for it, Ilya laughs. Of course you would go for the most boring one, Hollander. Shane glares at him, and bats Ilya's hands away when Ilya tries to help him put it on.

The shirt fits loosely on Shane's frame. Just a bit over half a year ago, it probably would have been snug. Ilya follows the shaky but determined movements of Shane's fingers as they make their way up the row of buttons, and realizes that Shane has chosen the shirt to make a point. It's the only button-up within the roster of tops that Yuna has brought over from his apartment, the only one that Shane would potentially need help with.

It takes a long time for him to reach the second-to-last button, and yet, it's an incredible achievement. Ilya is so proud of him. The possibility of Shane functioning independently is within reach.

Once he's done, Shane wipes his sweaty hands on the front of Ilya's t-shirt. As retaliation, Ilya pushes him back onto his hospital bed, pins him in place, and makes out with him until they're both breathless.

***

"Okay, honey, I think that's everything," Yuna says. David folds Shane's wheelchair and stashes it with the bags and suitcases in the back of the SUV while Ilya helps Shane into the passenger row. Once David is done, Yuna shuts the lid with a thud and climbs into the driver's seat.

More than half of the things in the trunk are Ilya's belongings. The sight of it fills Ilya with an unbearable tenderness.

Two days before they make the drive to Shane's cottage, Yuna and David insisted on coming over to Ilya's rental and helping him pack up. He tried to refuse, I am grown man. Also I do not have that much stuff, but they wouldn't take no for an answer.

Ilya gave in eventually. He made sure to clean the apartment until every surface was sparkling before they arrived.

"You boys all good back there?" David asks from the front passenger.

"All good," Shane says. He looks happy, but also nervous, worrying his lower lip and picking at his nails. Ilya takes Shane's hand in his and pulls him close. Shane sighs, and rests his head on Ilya's shoulder.

"Da, all good," Ilya says. "Cannot wait to see famous cottage in person."

Shane huffs. "Oh my god. You watched the documentary, didn't you?"

"Oh, I watched it all right." He tries to leer at Shane, but he's not sure if Shane can see it from his angle. He's definitely caught Ilya's tone though, because he proceeds to smack Ilya on the thigh.

Yuna laughs. David, as per usual, seems confused.

"Mom, don't even." Shane feigns exasperation. Ilya can tell, because he's smiling so fondly, so sweetly.

***

It's late September, and Ilya sees autumn everywhere he looks. The leaves are changing colors, painting the roadside scenery with a vibrant mix of red, yellow, and green. The quality of the light has shifted from a harsh summer brightness to a softened golden glow. This beauty, Ilya thinks, is imbued with promise.

Ilya spends the whole hour-and-a-half drive watching sunspots dance on Shane's skin as he dozes, tucked to Ilya's side. All the while, he turns the question Shane asked him a month ago over in his head. The bucket list.

He didn't give Shane a direct answer because there are too many things he wants to do, and listing them all out right then would just make him seem like a lovesick madman.

Ilya wants to watch TV together and figure out a way to rope Shane into watching trashy reality shows. He wants to play bad music and laugh at Shane's reaction. He wants to cook together and learn how to make food that Shane doesn't wrinkle his nose at. He wants to dig through Shane's closet and see how he sorts his clothes, whether it's by material or type or color.

He wants to mow the lawn shirtless and rile Shane up. He wants to watch the sun rise and the sun set on the cottage dock. He wants to see sunlight hitting Shane's eyes, illuminating their honey brown color, and kiss him in the open air. He wants to watch the trees shed their leaves and witness the first snowfall as they sit curled up on the couch.

He wants to fall asleep together in the same bed. He wants to kiss Shane first thing as they wake up and make Shane complain about his morning breath. He wants to know which side of the bed Shane prefers. He wants to admire Shane's face as he sleeps. He wants to see Shane relaxed and at ease.

Once Shane is well, and if Shane wants it, Ilya wants to have sex, to make love. To relearn what it's like to join their bodies, as lovers this time.

Upon reflection, he realizes, there is actually a short answer to Shane's question. The only item on Ilya's bucket list is to find out what it's like to play house, to make a home, to become safety and comfort.

***

Shane agreed to Ilya staying with him on the condition that he spent at least a third of his week with other people. I can't entertain you the whole time, Ilya, it's too much pressure.

Ilya's interpretation was that Shane wanted Ilya to be outside of the house, find new friends, and experience Quebec's nightlife. But Ilya thought of a loophole: he could bring people to the cottage. Be around others, check, and be around his boyfriend, check.

In order to do that, of course, he needed to figure out whether Shane was okay with others knowing about them. He opened the conversation with an apology — he hadn't been doing a good job of keeping things under wraps. Svetlana already knew, and so did the Pikes.

Shane's response surprised him. Instead of freaking out, he very calmly said, It's okay, you can tell anyone that you trust. Now that I'm no longer your rival, it's not that big of a deal, right?

Awesome, no big deal. No one could say that Ilya didn't know how to coordinate. He came up with a concrete schedule: take Shane to physical therapy at Terrebonne two days a week, have dinner with Shane's parents' twice every week. Have dinner with the Pikes, either at their place or at the cottage, once every two weeks.

Aside from the fixed schedules, Ilya planned to bring in someone new from their shared roster whenever they're free. So, mainly Svetlana and Rose. He even reached out to Scott Hunter, although the old fart was too busy to make the trip up to Canada. Which, yeah, fair enough.

***

"Good god, Jane, this is no cottage." Svetlana whistles. "I have seen this place on TV, but seeing it with my own eyes is still some kind of crazy."

Shane blushes. He's leaning against the wall at the doorway, looking like he might pass out. Ilya is flabbergasted when upon opening the door, Shane tries to help Svetlana with her suitcase. The fact that he's walking unassisted now is incredible enough. Ilya refuses to let Shane overexert himself.

Svetlana booked a flight to Quebec the moment the invitation left Ilya's mouth. When Ilya told Shane she was going to arrive at the cottage less than three days after they'd settled in, Shane huffed and puffed. You've got to stop springing shit on me like this, Ilyusha. Meeting your best friend is a huge deal to me. He was right, and Ilya felt bad. He offered to book her a BnB instead, but Shane said no.

"Don't tell me Ilya roped you into watching the documentary."

"Yes he did. In fact, we watched it together." Svetlana winks. The look Shane sends Ilya's way is borderline murderous.

Svetlana drifts to the living room, and Ilya hovers at Shane's side while he walks over. His gait is still uneven, and he tires quickly. Ilya doesn't want to risk a fall. Once both Shane and Svetlana have settled on the couch, Ilya heads to the kitchen. He grabs two beers and some chips for himself and his best friend, and ginger ale and a pack of plain crackers for his boyfriend.

He comes back to Shane and Svetlana debating whether the elimination of the traditional heavyweight enforcer makes the games safer, and the '05 lockout's impact on the phasing out of tactical fighting. Of course these two would skip small talk entirely and jump straight into hockey talk.

Since August, Shane has been coping with losing hockey a lot better than Ilya expected. He doesn't avoid talking about it any more. He doesn't even shy away from discussing the logistics of when and how to announce his retirement with Yuna. Ilya worries that he's suppressing his pain for Ilya's sake.

Ilya puts the tray of drinks and snacks down on the coffee table and takes a seat. "Wow," he says. He presses up against Shane. "I leave for five minutes and you are already in your own world."

"Yes, Ilya. Keep him on a tight leash, otherwise I will steal your Jane away." Svetlana says. Shane cackles, and Ilya feels like he's walking on air. Two people he loves the most in the world, in the same room, getting along. What a gift.

Svetlana stays with them for two days and one night. They don't do much aside from lazing around, and the more time they spend together, the more Shane's nervousness melts away. Ilya reads while Svetlana supplies Shane with ammunition — stories from their childhood. Skipping classes, sneaking out at night, smoking for the first time.

"Was he good at school, actually?" Shane asks at dinner. They're finishing up the pot of borscht that Svetlana and Ilya have made together.

"He was excellent. Until…" Svetlana pauses. Her expression turns serious, and she shoots Ilya a look.

"Are you fine with talking about it? Does he know?" She asks.

"Ah, a little bit. But maybe I will fill him in myself later."

"You don't have to fill me in on anything you're not comfortable with, Ilyusha. I won't pry," Shane says.

Ilya smiles, bittersweet. He reaches over and covers Shane's hand with his. "Okay, милыйsweetheart. I just need some time, I think."

Svetlana watches their interaction from across the table with relief and approval in her eyes. When it's time for her to leave, she hugs Shane for much longer than she hugs Ilya.

It isn't until much, much later, long after Svetlana has left, that Ilya realizes he and Svetlana were speaking Russian, right before Shane replied.

***

His mother comes to him on October 1, the first night Ilya gets to fall asleep in the same bed with Shane.

Nothing's out of the ordinary, in the beginning. He knows this dream. He has it once every few weeks.

He's standing at the entrance of his childhood home's living room. In front of him: the worn carpet, the engraved coffee table, the wooden divan. His father, kneeling on the floor, gripping a photo of his mother. Further beyond: the large window in perpetual twilight, casting the scene in a blue-grey tinge.

He rests his fists against the wall of glass. "Father," he says. "Get up, please. I can't take this."

But then, he hears the creaking of the front door's rusty hinge, and footsteps that are simultaneously too familiar and too foreign. His mother. He hasn't dreamed about her in so long. Hasn't sensed her presence, hasn't allowed himself to remember.

Warmth. Her hand on his back, his shoulder. A tugging on his arm.

"Ilyushenka," she says. "Come." It's incredible, the sound of her voice. He thought he'd never hear it again. He thought he'd forgotten.

Ilya lets her lead him out of the living room, out of the front door, out of their home. They stop somewhere far away, where Ilya can no longer hear the wailing of his father.

His mother wraps him up in her arms.

"It's okay, my love. You don't have to carry him with you like this. You can let go."

Ilya jerks awake to the weight of Shane's body, sprawled and draped over him. Shane's still sleeping deeply and soundly. He's here, safe, alive. Ilya holds Shane close, and weeps quietly for the better part of an hour.

***

Jacki and her children visit midway through October for Thanksgiving. Yuna and David can't come. They're traveling to the Rockies and catching up on time spent alone together.

Oh no, no Hayden Pike. How can I ever cope, Ilya says over the phone when Jacki informs him only she and the kids are joining. You know how the early season grind is.

Before they come, Shane and Ilya stock the pantry for children-friendly food, child-proof all of the corners, and free up the two guest bedrooms. When Jacki tells them she feels bad that they're taking up space in Shane's cottage for the whole long weekend, Shane says, No, please stay for as long as you want, really. This is the least I could do.

It’s a full autumn. In the morning, Ilya and Jacki prepare breakfast while Shane keeps the kids entertained. They eat on the dock and revel in the gentle sunlight and crisp, cool air. The beauty of the nature surrounding the lake is surreal, overwhelming: the pink of dawn and purple of dusk on the water, the yellow of the trees' shedding leaves; the trilling bird songs, the rhythmic sloshing of lapping water.

That weekend, Ilya spends most of his time watching Shane lounge on the dock while at least one Pike kid crawls over him and paws at his clothes. He thinks, this peace is something he's never experienced, and it's something that he'd like to keep. Needs to.

***

For lunch, the day before Jacki and the kids leave, Shane makes a giant serving of burgers. It's delightful. Shane looks proud of himself as the older kids tear into them. Ilya chooses to eat a bit later. He's bottle-feeding Amber at the moment.

"So," Jacki says with her mouth full, "Hayden and I are thinking about traveling to Grand Valley during the Bye Week in February next year. His parents are from there, and we all haven't been back in a while."

"February 2018? In Ontario?" Shane asks.

Ilya is puzzled by the question, and so is Jacki. "Uh, yeah, there's only one Grand Valley. Why?"

Shane stares down at his plate of burgers, picks the buns and the meat apart. "Don't go to Grand Valley then, it's dangerous. It's going to flood."

"Hollander, you are Mister Weather Man now?"

Shane huffs, looking amused and annoyed at the same time. "It tends to flood there, around that time of year. Just trust me," he says. "Go to the Yukon instead. I remember Hayden saying that he wanted to see the Northern Lights once."

Jacki brightens. "Oh my god, you're right! I totally forgot. He's going to love that."

They move on to talking about winter gear and what kind of goggles Jacki should buy for the kids shortly afterward. Ilya makes a mental note to check the weather in Grand Valley, once the new year comes.

***

"Jesus!" Ilya gasps at a hooting sound in the distance. It's night now, and all of the kids have already gone to bed. He, Shane, and Jacki are sitting in front of a campfire that Shane has just built. "What the fuck was that?"

Jacki laughs. "It's a loon."

"A what now?"

"A loon," Jacki says. "It's a kind of bird. You've been out here for a month already, how have you not heard?"

"Well, someone has been keeping me distracted."

Jacki rolls her eyes, and Ilya realizes what he just said came out as dirtier than he intended. What he means by that is: they've been going to bed quite early every day to maximize Shane's neurological recovery.

He looks over to Shane, and is further startled by the fact that Shane is blinking back tears. "мой любимыйMy love, you are okay? Are you in pain?"

Shane turns away, shields his face, wipes at his eyes. "No, no, I'm fine." He clears his throat. "Jacki is right, it's a loon. But it sounds like a wolf, right?"

"Yes, exactly! What kind of bird makes noise like that? Stupid Canadian wolf bird."

Shane smiles a wobbly smile. Jacki looks between the two of them. She stands up and brushes dirt from her dress. "Aright boys, I'm turning in for the night. I'm so beat, and I have a bit of a drive ahead of me tomorrow."

Ilya and Shane wishes her goodnight in unison, and Jacki snorts.

Once they're alone, Ilya leans closer and gathers Shane in his arms. "You really are okay? Maybe we should go to bed too, yes?"

"No, Ilya," Shane says. "I want to stay out here with you for a bit longer."

That's fine by him. They sit in companionable silence. Ilya stares at the fire and Shane looks somewhere beyond the water. After a while, Ilya asks,

"Has Yuna told you about my mother?"

Shane is quiet for a few moments. "Uhm, a little bit, but not really?"

"You know that she is dead, yes?"

Shane nods.

Ilya continues. "She, ah, came to me, a few weeks ago. In a dream." Ilya turns over and hides his face in the crook of Shane's neck. "Is first time I feel like I can remember her, without thinking about the day she…"

"Oh, Ilyusha." Shane pulls back, stands up shakily. With Ilya's help, he straddles Ilya’s lap, and envelopes him in a full-body embrace. Ilya rubs his face against Shane's collar bone and breathes in deeply. They sit like that for a while.

***

On the first day of November, his mother comes to him again.

This time, they're no longer in Moscow, but in the middle of a forest. Ilya thinks he recognizes the fauna: they're somewhere in the East, in Canada. His mother takes his hand. She leads him through a winding walking path, until they reach the gate of an unfamiliar house. They pass through without needing to open the door. Ilya shudders.

They walk past the living room and the kitchen. Then, his mother stops in front of the door to a home office. Ilya peers inside.

He sees Shane sitting at a large mahogany desk, buried in paperwork. He looks a bit different, a bit unfamiliar. His build is more compact, his hair longer, softer — dream distortion, maybe — but it's definitely Shane.

There's a dullness in his eyes, a hardness to the line of his shoulders. Ilya watches him flip through the stacks of papers, jot down something in a notebook, and then after a few minutes, bury his face in his hands. Shane slumps over. "Fuck, Ilyusha. Just take me with you, please."

Ilya tries to walk through the door, but he can't. He so desperately wants to reach out, to take him away. He wakes soon after, heart pounding.

Chapter End Notes

small note: i made a mistake in chapter 5. shane's cottage is in eastern quebec, not ottawa

Chapter 11: The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Chapter Notes

cw: description of aviation accident (not graphic)

Shane and Ilya spend October and November in a warm, blissed out haze. Most days, they wake up to the glittering of sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves outside the cottage's bedroom window. On other days, when it rains, when it's gray, when the wind is bitter, they still have the warmth and the total comfort of each other's arms. The calmness of loving in safety. The freedom.

They bicker, sometimes, in the way that cohabiting couples do. Ilya prefers doing the dishes right after they're done eating, and Shane prefers to put it off until the end of the night. Shane can't focus on talking with any kind of background noises on, and Ilya has no issue starting a conversation in the middle of a Love Island confessional. Ilya kicks the blanket, and Shane gets cold during the night.

These domestic qualms are ones he's experienced with the Ilya he's lost, but only in stolen weeks, a month at most. Right here and right now, he gets to have Ilya for a whole half year.

"Okay, so this load is on forty degrees, and the next one on thirty, yes?" Ilya asks. He bends at the waist and squints at the washing machine's settings. It's a Saturday, which means it's laundry day.

Shane looks up from sorting their clothes into two different baskets by type. He's doing it while sitting down because his legs aren't cooperating very well today. His eyes land on the back of Ilya's naked thighs.

"Yes. Don't forget to put the second load on delicates."

Shane looks away. He finds it hard to concentrate on his task, given that Ilya's running around the house in nothing but a pair of boxers. "You do know that there are still plenty of clean t-shirts in the closet, right? And sweatpants?"

Ilya peers over his shoulder and smirks. "You are complaining? You need me to cover up because you are blushing maiden?"

"Ugh, you're so annoying." Shane grumbles, but the exasperation is a front. The truth is that he wants Ilya so much he feels like he's going to combust. Alas, he's still on anti-seizure medications, and he needs to wait until his month-six outpatient check-in to be cleared for any form of 'vigorous exercise.'

Ilya blows him a kiss, then turns his attention back to the washing machine and the dryer. "You North Americans' obsession with dryer is so strange. Back in Moscow mama and I only ever needed laundry lines."

"Dryers are so much more convenient, though," Shane says. There isn't a lot of conviction in his tone. He's mainly happy that Ilya feels comfortable enough now to talk about his mother.

"Da, but get this: sheets billowing in the wind, and the smell of fresh laundry in open air. Beautiful, yes?"

He can't argue against that. Shane braces with his stronger hand and stands up on shaky legs. He wraps his arms around Ilya's waist from behind and speaks against the back of Ilya's head.

"You're right. I'll figure out a way to install some laundry lines out back. Would you like that?"

Ilya leans back, his voice warm. "I would, very much."

***

A month earlier, when Ilya moved in, he brought a yoga mat, three sets of silk bedding, a linen blanket, and a stack of hockey books that even Shane finds delightfully obscure. Watching Ilya unpack one item after another that were clearly meant for Shane filled him with love and a certain kind of vertigo.

It's so strange, this coming back to a life that has not been his, but is now and will continue to be, this returning to a home that's new yet familiar.

Shane's cottage is yet another thing that is similar but different. It's smaller, and thus, cozier. The windows are larger and so the space is brighter, more open. However, the interiors — from flooring to furniture — are pretty much the same, still exactly to his taste.

And, a few days into staying at this cottage, Shane discovered something truly incredible: there was a bird's nest in the yellow birch tree right outside the bedroom window, occupied by a bonded pair of gray jays. They looked nearly identical to the pair that nested on his property back in his old world. The first time he caught sight of them fluttering about, then settling back onto their nest to preen the feathers on each other's heads and necks, he thought, there's true magic in the world.

***

They head back to the living room once they're done with laundry. Shane shuffles, but refuses Ilya's help. While he's trying to shoo Ilya away, his eyes land on a pair of neon green running shoes left out in front of the entryway. The sight is so familiar that for a moment Shane feels lightheaded.

"Are you going on a run?" He steadies himself with a hand on Ilya's shoulder.

"Yes. Is very nice out today. You will survive without me for one hour, yes?"

Shane rolls his eyes.

"Okay, remember to put on some sun screen, it's pretty sunny today."

"What is the point, Hollander, I will just sweat it out anyway."

Shane squints at him. "Ilyusha, you went out on a run two days ago and came back red as a lobster."

After some grumbling, Ilya fetches the sunscreen from the bathroom. Shane forces him to put it on under supervision.

Later, as he watches Ilya lace up his shoes, Shane asks, "Ilya, do you prefer ASICS or Altra for running shoes?"

"Altra," Ilya says. "I used to like Nike's, but they did not have as good midfoot strike."

Shane's guessed so. Back then, he had bought Ilya a pair of Altras for Christmas, without knowing that it was going to be their last.

*** 

Rose visits the second week of November. She has a shoot in Toronto, and is able to squeeze in an eight hour break.

If Shane wasn't feeling so guilty, he'd be entertained by Rose and Ilya's supreme awkwardness around each other. This is possibly the first time Shane has seen Ilya, This Ilya, truly at a loss. They greet Rose at the door, and Shane watches Ilya fight the urge to flee, eyes darting between the stairs up to their bedroom, the front door, and Shane.

They move to the kitchen after the most uncomfortable re-introduction of Shane's entire life. Rose is dying for a coffee. Ilya seems glad to have a task to occupy his hands with. He makes a beeline for the kitchen and starts the coffee machine.

Once the whirring of the machine and the hissing of the steam nozzle cuts out, Rose breaks the silence. "You know, sex with Shane was far from the worst sex I'd ever had, but it was so clear from the first and only time we tried that he was like, super duper gay." She drags her vowel. Suuuper.

Shane squawks. "Excuse me! I'm regular gay."

Ilya laughs, loud and bright.

"Lucky me, I cannot relate. Would say he is sex champion. Second best, after me." He brings the coffee over. Rose and Shane take their seats at the counter; Ilya stays standing.

"Can I tell you something, Ilya?" Rose asks

Ilya looks apprehensive, but he says yes.

"I honestly wasn't very surprised to learn you were the one Shane was pining after." She takes a sip, cupping the mug with both hands. "Oh, wow, that's some good coffee."

Ilya preens.

"Anyway, Shane was always checking or scrolling through his messages. And he got so distracted whenever Boston was playing."

Shane rubs the back of his neck. "Rose, for what it's worth, I am so sorry. For, you know, all that."

"Thank you for apologizing." Rose smiles. "Despite it all, I'm really glad to have you in my life."

Rose gives Shane a sideway hug. When she leans away, Shane turns to Ilya. "I only truly realized that I was gay and accepted it thanks to her, you know. In a way, I owe our relationship to her."

"Wow, Rose Landry," Ilya says. "Is there anything you cannot do? Shape-shifting and breaking out of mafia bunkers. And gay whisperer, too?"

She beams. "I really am just that talented."

The tension dissolves completely. Turns out, Ilya and Rose have a shocking amount in common. They have similar tastes in movies, and Ilya has some thoughtful opinions about the pieces Rose has starred in.

Shane leaves them to it. Meanwhile, he mulls over the hurdles he and Ilya have overcome to get to where they are now. He thinks, with both relief and regret, about how without others' help — Rose, Scott, and in a fucked up way, Marlow there and Marleau here — they would never have ended up together.

Later that night, after Rose has gone home and once they're cuddled up in bed, they talk about what they left unsaid, after Sochi, after Vegas, after Shane's… tuna meltdown.

Ilya talks about home and what having a home means to him now, and Shane talks about how thankful he is for having been able to stay rooted, his entire life. With no small amount of trepidation, because this is maybe too much, too fast, Shane says:

"I want to give you a home. I don't care what I'll need to do, or how long it's going to take. I will give it to you, Ilyusha."

***

On the first of December, Shane wakes at 3 a.m. to a dark room, an empty bed, and too-still night air.

His muscles tighten and his breath quickens. Fear, not dissimilar to one induced by sleep paralysis, a kind of helpless terror. He calls for Ilya, and when he receives no answer, he fights his way through rising panic and goes searching for him.

He finds Ilya on the living room couch, nursing a tumbler of clear liquid. On the coffee table, a bottle of vodka. Beluga Gold Line, a gift from David. Shane speaks through his shortness of breath.

"Ilya, why are you up?"

Ilya looks up, and something in Shane's face must have alarmed him. He puts the vodka down with a clack, spilling some on the table, and rushes over. "Jesus, Shane, are you sick?"

"No." Shane gulps. He lets Ilya drag him to the sofa and doesn't pull away from Ilya's fluttering touches on his face, his body. "I’m okay, seriously. You didn’t answer my question. Why are you up?"

"I, ah." Ilya hesitates. He frowns, his jaw tight. "I had a bad dream. A very strange dream."

"Oh, my poor love. Was it about your father again?"

"No, I have not dreamed about him in a while." Ilya rests his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands in a white-knuckled grip. "It’s… fuck. I do not know. If I can talk about it right now."

Shane leans closer and covers Ilya's hands with his. Ilya unclasps them to hold Shane's hand properly. He bends over and nuzzles at it with his forehead. Breathes deeply, each exhale a laborious sigh.

"I know you're feeling bad, but I don't think drinking at this hour will help," Shane says. "Let’s go back to bed, okay?"

Shane stands up, takes the bottle away, and rinses the tumbler. These simple tasks leave him winded, completely wrung out. Once he's done, he comes back to the living room and tugs at Ilya's arm until Ilya follows him back to the bedroom.

In bed, Ilya's hold on him is as tight as a vice. Right before he falls asleep, he hears Ilya ask, "Shane, do you feel alone here? Does having me here help?" Shane wants to reply, but he's so exhausted. The next morning, he's already forgotten what it was that Ilya asked him. 

***

Ever since the beginning of December, Ilya's been somewhat out of sorts. Shane's been trying to prompt Ilya to open up, but it's like talking to a brick wall. For a few days, Shane tried to ask about the dream, but it made Ilya retreat even further, so he stopped. 

The days are still good. Wonderful, even. Shane's been making good progress with physical therapy. He can walk for fifteen minutes at a time, and he needs to sleep less. His energy level is increasing by the day. Now that he's feeling better physically, he's able to make more emotional effort. He initiates more conversations, and even proposes watching The Real Housewives, unprompted.

He thought all of these things would lift Ilya's mood, and in a way they probably did, but there's a certain restless energy to Ilya that's over-encompassing and perpetual.

Ilya is exponentially more clingy. He reaches for and touches Shane even more — Shane didn't even think that's possible. There's an intensity to Ilya's kisses, the way he drags his hands over Shane's neck, hips, and thighs. It leaves him wanting, but it also leaves him confused.

***

Tonight, the atmosphere is charged and loaded when Ilya sits down next to him on the couch and brings his arm over Shane's shoulder, kisses his cheeks and sniffs his hair. They've just had dinner, and Shane is idly browsing through YouTube's recommended page.

"There is. Something I want to discuss with you," Ilya says.

Shane stiffens. He mutes the TV.

"You know that I am reaching free agency next summer, yes?"

His heart rate picks up. He feels simultaneously too warm and too cold. He tries to school his voice. "Yes," Shane says.

Ilya nods. "My agent has been putting out some… feelers. I have told him to send signals. Canadian teams, Eastern conference."

Oh, fuck. Okay, fuck, fuck. Shane is blindsided. He hasn't been preparing for this. He thought he'd have at least a few months before they need to have this conversation. This year hasn't even ended. He thought there was time, more time, fuck, how stupid, how arrogant.

"You said you wanted to give me a home, yes? The thing is you have already given it to me."

Ilya continues, unfazed by Shane's silence. "Your parents, the Pikes. Everyone else we surround ourselves with. Your people have become my people. I love it here, too, the nature. I want to stay close to you."

Shane gulps.

"And Shane, I can’t stay with Boston, I just can’t. I can ride out one last season, maybe one last cup, but I cannot do any more than that. Whenever I see Marleau I see that night. I see you on the ice." 

On the TV, YouTube autoplays the first twenty seconds of the trailer to Stranded, a documentary about the tragedy of Flight 571, which occurred when Uruguay's Old Christians Club rugby team left for a match in Santiago and crashed in the Andes.

Back there, back then, Shane used to read Piers Paul Read's book about this incident in between hearings. He was morbidly fascinated by it, and thought often about how it would have been easier for him to cope, maybe, had what happened been a large-scale incident. But it wasn't that. A freak accident, was the phrase everyone used.

Fragments of the NTSB civil aviation accident report are rushing back to him now, the speed and intensity knocking the breath out of him.

Boeing-737, to Tampa, January first. Uncontained engine failure. One passenger, seat 12A, emergency exit row, fatal injuries. Restraint system failure.

One fucking faulty belt buckle whose internal pawl didn't fully engage, and a sudden yaw, massive lateral G-force. Contact with the overhead luggage bin. Coup-contrecoup injury, immediate epidural hematoma.

The death wasn't instant, but it was very quick, and according to the doctors and morticians, painless. This was used as a defense from the Boeing team.

He hears Ilya's voice, but it's like he's underwater.

"There are positive signs, from Ottawa. There are, ah, some other teams too, but I do not know how you would feel about it," he says. "I think maybe Ottawa is best option, yes?"

Best option, right, how amazingly ironic. The ringing in Shane's ear is so loud. Here he stands at the fork of the road: tell Ilya the truth and potentially lose him as a partner; refuse to tell him, and lose him forever. There's obviously a right option here.

He’s been greedy, hasn’t he. His luck can only extend for so far. 

Shane slips off the couch and kneels in front of his boyfriend. He squeezes his eyes shut, crosses his arms at the elbows and grips tightly, an effort to keep himself in his body. He rests his forehead on Ilya's knees. Steels himself for what is to come.

He starts talking, in between stuttered gasps.

"You can’t come to Ottawa." Shane grits. "I don’t know where to start. Fuck. Please, I can take you leaving me, but I can’t take losing you like that again, I can’t, I can’t, it’s too much."

Ilya tries to pull him up, alarmed, confused. "Shane, what? What are you talking about? What's going on?"

The words tumble out of Shane. "Please, Ilya. I'm begging you. Don't come to Ottawa." Shane is crying now, his tears flowing unconstrained. "I’m Shane, but I’m not him. I’m not your Shane. I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry, Ilyusha, words can’t describe how sorry I am, for this, for the fact that I’ve put you through this. I swear, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to take his place, you must understand."

Ilya gives up on trying to pull Shane back up. He too, gets on the floor. He runs his hands down Shane's face, his back, attempts at comfort that usually work but aren’t working now.

"Shane, you have got to calm down. I’m here. I am not leaving you, okay? Shane, please. I love you, nothing is wrong, I am okay." 

Shane heaves. Back then, back there, during that one year, he remained stoic, dry eyed, existed with a low, throbbing pain that he pushed far down, looked away from. There was no time to mourn when one spent twelve hours a day working on a lawsuit, or a foundation, or resolving assets. 

Now, for the first time since Shane lost Ilya, His Ilya, he doubles over and cries the true mourning cry, the gasping, gulping, guttural wailing of a widower. He knows he can’t do this to Ilya, This Ilya, Alive Ilya. He can’t have him witness something this horrible, this grief that remains unexplained. But the dam has broken, and he can’t stop. 

***

The panic attack gets so bad that Ilya almost takes him to the ER. Ilya gets up and moves away from him, and it is the sounds of Ilya frantically packing a go-bag and rummaging for the car keys that finally snaps Shane out of it.

"Please… Ilya, I don't want to go to the hospital," he gasps out.

Ilya is back at his side in a blink. "Okay, Shane, but you have to breathe. Let's try again, yes?" Ilya wraps a hand around Shane's back. He takes Shane's hand with the other, and brings it to his own chest. Ilya breathes deeply. Shane mirrors the rhythm of Ilya’s inhales and exhales. 

Once Shane is able to get his breathing back to normal, Ilya takes him to bed and holds him. In bed, Shane stops hyperventilating but he doesn’t stop crying, and that puts an end to all of Ilya’s questions.

“Okay, Shane, we do not talk about this anymore, yes? This is bad for you, you are still recovering. I am sorry I stressed you out like this.”

With his chest against Shane's back and his arms around Shane's body, Ilya whispers to him sweet nothings, promises of love and devotion spoken in the tone of prayers. Shane expends the last of his mental energy, whose reservoir is mostly drained by the adrenaline crash of the panic attack, to truly listen to Ilya's words. He commits them to heart, to memory. 

Tomorrow morning, Shane must explain. He doesn’t dare hope that he and Ilya can move past this, that Ilya will ever be able to see him the same, let alone love him; but he needs to do this. No matter what and no matter how, Ilya, This Ilya, has to live. He'll make sure of it.

Shane will gratefully accept Ilya no longer wanting him as a partner if it means he gets to see Ilya live to old age. Even if Shane can’t stay by his side, there will be proof of life, things that are tangible and true. Like everyone else who adores Ilya, he will get to see Ilya on TVs, on billboards. For as long as Ilya stays a professional hockey player, Shane will still have a constant supply of photos, replays, interviews.

There were so many lasts, back then. Shane doesn’t know if this night, too, will be a last. If this is the last time Ilya holds him in his arms, the last night he gets to hear Ilya say he loves him. The last time Ilya looks at him without grief, without fear. 

They both stay up. Shane knows that Ilya is awake, even though he's stopped talking. But dealing with Shane’s panic must have drained him, because eventually his breathing deepens, and his body relaxes.

Once Shane thinks Ilya is asleep, Shane whispers, "I'm truly so sorry, Ilyusha."

He's mistaken. "Whatever for, sweetheart?" Ilya slurs in between sleep and wakefulness, and Shane startles.

There's no easy way to answer his question. He wants to say, I'm sorry Your Shane died and I took over his life like a fucking body snatcher. I'm sorry that we have both lost, that I am the reason for your loss. I'm sorry that this is as good as it'll ever get for you, for the both of us. But instead, he says, "We'll talk tomorrow, yeah? Go to sleep. I love you so, so much."

"I love you too," Ilya says. He snuffles and hugs Shane even closer. He starts snoring softly, not long after.

Shane stays up for another few hours. To soothe himself, he turns fragmented lines of the poems he used to recite during his worst bouts of insomnia over in his head. Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone—things fall apart; the center cannot hold—so dawn goes down to day, nothing gold can stay.

Eventually, he falls asleep with a pain in his chest, one felt as keenly as a stab wound.

Chapter End Notes

Stop all the clocks - W. H. Auden

The Second Coming - W. B. Yeats

Nothing Gold Can Stay - Robert Frost

Chapter 12: I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

Chapter Notes

cw: mentions of Irina's suicide

When Ilya was young, his mother used to take him to the vigil on Saturday nights and the divine liturgy on Sunday mornings, for solace and for distance from his father. He never thought to question why she never took Alexei. It was always just Ilya and his mother against the world.

His first real memory of being in church was one of complete reverence. Even now, when he closes his eyes, he can still hear the Znamenny chants, the priest's intonation in prayer, the choir's psalms and hymns. He remembers the unifying sensation of moving with the procession. The chill of the stone flooring. The overwhelming dominance of the floor-to-ceiling wall of icons depicting Christ, the Virgin Mary, and the saints.

For a few years, between school and hockey practice, he had the church. Ilya really believed that he and his mother would have it as their safe haven forever, under the watchful eyes of God.

His mother took him to church for the last time on Holy Friday. In the flickering light of the parishioners' candles, Irina mouthed the words to the Holy Week lamentations alongside the clergy with tears streaming down her face. Ilya thought nothing of it. He had assumed that she was weeping for Christ.

He found her, the Friday after.

In the week that followed, Ilya overheard Grigori making innumerable phone calls to the coroner and the priest. She was not in her right mind. She was not morally responsible for her actions. She had not intentionally rejected God's gift of life. Ilya was old enough to understand the implication of the bargaining. To guarantee an Orthodox funeral mass for his mother, his father needed to secure a false post-mortem stating she had been suffering from a mental break at the moment of her suicide.

'делирийDelirium,' was the word on the report. A cognate. A word he never expected to hear again in Russian, let alone in English.

In between calls, Grigori had whispered, both to himself and to Irina's ghost, The shame you've brought onto this family, my dear wife, making things hard for me even in death. Later, at the mass, Ilya thought, so that was how it went — ending one's suffering was a sin, but tormenting one's own wife to the point she sought death was not.

Ilya's faith in the Church died with Irina, yet somehow he still believed. If not in God, then in his mother, in something nebulous and bigger than himself. Something beyond comprehension, whose power is absolute. He had to believe, because the alternative was a deep, dark, empty void.

***

Ilya wakes to the smell of a greasy breakfast, and the sight of his boyfriend carrying a bed tray. There are bags under his eyes.

With trembling hands, Shane sets the tray down in front of him. Ilya takes inventory: two McGriddles, two servings of hash browns, two coffees. No greens, no fruits, no oats. What the fuck.

"Shane," he says. "You are breaking up with me, yes?" If he is, then Ilya isn't above some begging and groveling. He doesn't know what he's done wrong, but he can fix it.

Shane looks like he's been slapped. "No, what? That's absolutely not what this is."

"Then why the last meal? What is this? Where is your kale smoothie?"

Shane sounds amused when he replies, which calms Ilya somewhat. "You're so dramatic. I can make exceptions, I'm not a robot. You've mentioned wanting breakfast in bed once, right?"

Yes, he has, and Shane was vehemently against it. The crumbs, Ilya! Absolutely not. "Uh," he replies helpfully.

Shane sits down on the bed, his body language more rigid than his voice. Ilya is sure Shane's also feeling the emotional hangover from the night before. He doesn't know how to navigate this, he doesn't understand what it is that Shane wants or needs right now. He's wearing the look of haunted grief, an expression Ilya recognizes but has never expected to see on his boyfriend.

Ilya’s stomach growls. Shane elbows him gently.

"Come on, let's just eat first."

Ilya resists the urge to ask, and then what? He sighs and scoots closer to Shane on the bed, and Shane doesn't lean away. At least there's that.

They eat in silence. This is possibly the first time Ilya's ever seen Shane have any kind of fried food. Ilya, predictably, sheds crumbs everywhere.

After they're done, Ilya clears the tray, loads the dishwasher, and changes the sheets while Shane brushes his teeth. Shane emerges from the bathroom right as Ilya's done with tucking in the corners.

"Would you be okay with going out onto the dock?" Shane asks.

"You are sure? It is cold."

"Yeah, but it's nice out today," he says. "And we can bundle up. Please?"

Sure, alright. He doesn't think he's ever said no to Shane, since they started dating.

***

Winter has come early this year. They're only midway through December, and the lake is already completely frozen over. It's going to get bitterly cold soon, Ilya can just tell.

Today is an uncharacteristically warm day, though. It really is nice, sunny with no windchill. The air is crisp, but it's not too cold. Definitely above freezing.

Both of them are in wool sweaters, hats, and socks. Ilya makes sure Shane puts on a pair of mittens, as well. His hands are more prone to tremors now when it's cold. On the short walk to the dock, Ilya thinks, Shane's outfit reminds him so much of the first day they met, how young and adorable Shane looked in his green toque. Ilya brings a blanket, just to be safe, and he drapes it over both of their shoulders once they've sat down.

Shane sits with his legs crossed and stares down at his hands. Ilya dangles off the edge of the dock and looks toward the frozen lake. It's so quiet, so still. There are no longer any loons or mergansers or belted kingfishers swooping and gliding above the water. They've all migrated south, except for the gray jays.

Ilya has gotten used to waking up to the brightness of bird songs in the last few months, and he's saddened by the gradual transition into silence. This, he supposes, is the incredible ache of a season ending.

Ilya starts talking first. "I have to admit, winter in Quebec is not so much better than Moscow." The humidity is certainly worse here in Lanaudière.

He's buying time, because he's apprehensive, and he can't get the image of Shane crying and panicking out of his head.

"Hmm," Shane says. "We get a lot more sun here, though, don't we? I think that makes it better."

Maybe so. There's something magical to the warmth of the winter sun, and the way the light glistens on the surface of the ice. They both say nothing more, for a little while.

"So," Ilya says. He can't take the suspense any longer. "Why are we here, любимый мойmy love?

Shane takes a deep breath. "On January 1, 2018, the temperature in Ottawa will dip to minus thirty two degrees Celcius. It'll mark the coldest winter day in the history of the province in seventy years."

What? "Okay, so you really are Mister Weather Man."

Shane sighs, and keeps going. "On January 5, Canada will beat Sweden, 3-1. We'll win the World Junior." He scratches his nose. "Fuck, what else… Uhm, referee Gagnon will die of lung cancer, also around the same time. I think he will have been like, 87 or something."

Ilya frowns. He doesn't know how to respond to any of that.

"It's okay if you don't believe me. But everything I just said will happen."

Shane draws his knees to his chest, hugs them with his arms, and lowers his head, hiding his face.

"My name is Shane Hollander, but I didn't grow up in this body. I've carried this name across two lives. In my first life, all of the large facts were the same, but some tiny details were different. I was also born on May 10, 1991. I was also a hockey player. I played for Montreal, but in my world, it was the Montreal Voyageurs." He pauses.

"I died on January 1, 2022. I lost Ilya, My Ilya, on January 1, 2021."

Ilya feels an overwhelming clarity, the sensation of missing puzzle pieces clicking into place. He wishes he could say he didn't understand what Shane is saying, but he does.

"Back then, I used to come out here. When I wanted to think about him."

The light has gotten too blinding. Ilya closes his eyes.

***

Ever since Ilya got Shane back, he had been keeping a list.

Ilya felt bad about it. He knew Shane would be changed by what had happened — he was well aware that brain trauma could lead to confusion and lapses in memories. He also took into account the fact that in one fell swoop, Shane had lost hockey, the one thing that defined him, that he had dedicated his entire life to.

Yet, he couldn't help but keep track of every time Shane misspoke, every time the details didn't match up. It started with names, and slight differences in their recollections of the timeline of their relationship. These issues really were to be expected, if Shane's neurologist was right about him suffering from post-traumatic delirium.

But then there was the Russian, and the fluency with which Shane referred to him by the diminutive. He clearly understood at least parts of Ilya's phone calls with Svetlana, back when they were at the hospital, and then later, when they met in person. And the prophetic tendencies. This only happened three times, but Shane had mentioned global events that hadn't happened, and having read books or watched movies that hadn't come out.

Ilya stopped pointing out the discrepancies to Shane, because every time he did, he could see a kind of barely suppressed terror on Shane’s face. He knew that Shane would just panic further if he knew just how much Ilya had noticed, so Ilya learned to roll with the punches and blow past them. 

Ilya himself wanted to move past the noticing, but there was a concreteness to the things that Shane said that made them ring true to Ilya. It didn't help that it always felt like Shane was keeping something back from him. 

 ***

"Ilya. Please, say something."

Ilya opens his eyes and exhales a long breath. It comes out as a fog, turning the scenery in front of him opaque. He looks over and takes in the expression on Shane's face. Red cheeked, eyes shining. Anguished, like he's awaiting anger, rejection.

"Did I, ah." He swallows. "Did he. Die. In Ottawa."

Shane's face twists up. He looks skyward, squeezes his hands into fists. His arms are still locked tightly around his knees. "He joined the Ottawa Centaurs back in 2018, a year after we got together. Three years later, there was a plane ride for a game, in Tampa. And an accident."

Ilya tugs at Shane's hands. He's squeezing them too tight. His touch unwinds something in Shane. Shane turns to face him and grasps at his forearms, his movements quick and desperate. He's on his knees again, he's bending his head low, again.

"I know what I'm saying is insane, and it's okay if you think I'm crazy. Maybe it'd be better if that was the case," he says. "You deserve better than tying your life to a nutcase, so I don't expect you to stay with me. I love you as a partner, and I can also love you as a friend."

Shane's back and shoulders are trembling. The way he's forcing out his words tears at Ilya, shreds him up inside. "I just need you to promise me something. I'll ask nothing more of you than this. Don't go to Ottawa. I've lost you once. If it happened again, I wouldn't survive it this time, either. I need you to live, Ilyusha. You must live."

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya says. "I do not fully understand yet, I will need some time. But I do not think you are crazy."

He wraps his arms around Shane and pulls him into his lap. Rocks back and forth as Shane grasps onto his shoulders and hides his face in the crook of Ilya's neck.

"I love you. I have said it before, I love you no matter what. I will not leave you. I need you to believe me, too. I promise I will not leave you."

Ilya came so close to truly losing him. If he had, Ilya didn't know who else or what else he could live for. Right now, Shane is alive, and Shane loves him. That's all Ilya needs. He’s not one to spit in the face of a miracle. 

***

Things get worse, for a little while, before they get better.

The confession takes the wind out of Shane's sails, and for about two weeks, he's catatonic. His expression blank, ghostly. Between them is a shared grief, simultaneously unknowable and too large to bear.

Ilya tries to pull it together for the both of them. Shane isn't able to talk much, so Ilya fills the silence. He talks about nothing, really, just inane observations about the weather, the books he's been reading, the hockey gossips that have been trickling in through the Raiders' group chat. Ilya holds him, during bursts of crying that seem to start and stop out of nowhere.

They continue their outpatient physical therapy routine but cancel all social plans. During this period, Shane asks Ilya to sit out on his sessions, and Ilya reluctantly agrees. He tells Shane that he would wait for Shane at a cafe, but in reality he just sits in his car in the parking lot in front of the rehab center.

He waits in anxious silence, doing nothing but staring at the entrance, until Shane steps out. His gait has been getting steadier and steadier every week, and the sight of him making his way back to Ilya fills him with an incredible relief. On their drives back to the cottage, with Shane dozing next to him on the passenger seat, Ilya thinks about the things they have both done for love, for belonging.

*** 

Two days before Christmas, Ilya comes back from a groceries run to Shane smoking on the porch, staring out into the distance. He's wearing nothing but a knit sweater and a pair of fleece pants. His cheeks, his nose, and his fingers are red from the cold. Ilya doesn't know how long he's been standing out there.

He drops the groceries bags on the floor and rushes over, grabbing a blanket from the living room on his way.

"Jesus, Shane, you are trying to get yourself sick?" He wraps the blanket around Shane and spots the pack of cigarettes Shane is holding. It's his own. Ilya has stashed it behind the shoe rack a few weeks ago, but hasn't opened it even once.

"How did you find this?"

Shane doesn't answer his questions. Instead, he asks, "Ilyusha, why haven't you tried to put me in a psych ward, or something?"

Now it's his turn to be at a loss. He doesn't have the words to describe the dreams he's been having at the beginning of every month, the visitations from his mother. The visions of Shane alone in his bed, Shane alone in his cottage, looking out onto the water, Shane, alone, alone, alone.

His mother, taking him by the hand. I know you understand his pain, Ilyushenka. I need you to see. I need you to believe.

Ilya replies, with indignation. "Do you really think so little of me? I have been trying my best, Shane, with everything. What more can I do to make you trust me?"

"I don’t want you to stay with me out of, like, a sense of responsibility," Shane says. He's still not listening to Ilya. "Or duty." 

Ilya snatches the pack of cigarettes out of Shane’s hand and throws it with as much force as he could muster. Shane must really be out of it, because he doesn't even flinch or chastise Ilya for littering.

"Fuck!" he yells. "Shane, you are killing me. Why do you insist on me leaving you? Is it actually because you want to leave me?"

Then, more quietly, he says, "Am I not living up to him, the one you have lost? You are disappointed by me?"

"God, Ilya, that's not what this is." Shane slumps down into a squat. He hangs his head. Grips the cold railings. "Don't you hate me? Aren't you angry at me?"

"What the fuck," Ilya says. He looks down at the curve of Shane's back. "Why. The fuck would I."

"Because I had been lying to you for over half a year. Because of the insanity of this."

Shane pulls at the blanket so that it wraps him up tightly around the shoulders.

"I was so prepared for you not to believe me, because I don’t want you to believe. Because if you believed then you’d have to accept that he’s… If you stayed with me you’ll see that the Shane you fell in love with is gone." 

He continues, weakly. "My only goal was to eke out as much time as I can with you, under a pretense. I don't deserve more than what I've received. I killed him, Ilya. You've lost him. Because of me."

Ilya drops to his knees behind Shane. He pulls Shane backward until his back is flushed to Ilya's chest, hugs him around the waist, and speaks against his ear.

"You did not kill him. If anything, Marleau did, but it does not help, thinking about it like that, does it?" 

Ilya will not lie — he has been struggling to wrap his head around this. What's an identity, really? With his father, he had learned that the missing pieces did not disrupt the whole. Even if Grigori forgot more and more of himself and those around him, Ilya still saw him as his father, he still saw Grigori through the loss. With this new reality that he's sharing with Shane comes a new question: what about the added pieces?

"I cannot grieve him because I have not lost, not really, do you understand? You cannot take this guilt upon yourself," Ilya pleads. "You have not taken anything away from me. You are Shane, and you came to me, and that is all that I will ever need. I love you. I love you."

Shane is breathing shallowly now. They've really got to stop doing this, all of this crying in the cold.  

"And let’s say that I have lost. If I were to see it that way, then I still carry him with me, safe in my heart. In the same way that the me you have lost is safe in yours, yes? We can mourn together."

Ilya understands what it means to lose. It's all that he thinks about, for a long, long time. This preoccupation with loss comes with having found the thing that he fears losing. When he met Shane, when they started sleeping together, he had done everything he could to emotionally pull away, because he knew he wouldn't be able to handle Shane leaving him, too.

"Ever since I got you back, I have not stopped falling in love. I love you more and more every day, yes? It did not stop when you… he… got injured on the ice. It did not stop, when… when he left me."

He nuzzles at the back of Shane's neck. "Okay, Shane? Do you believe me?"

He feels Shane's labored inhales and exhales against his chest. Eventually, Shane says, "Okay, Ilya." They continue to sit like that on the porch until it starts to snow, first in a light dusting, then a flurry.

Chapter 13: some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

Christmas this year is a small and quiet affair.

Shane lost track of time — he had completely forgotten about his parents' invitation for him and Ilya to celebrate at their vacation cottage until Ilya reminded him of it. Should I, ah, tell them we cannot come? No, no. Shane wouldn't know how to explain their absence.

His parents have really made an effort to decorate. There are evergreen wreaths and swags hung throughout the entryway, and a sizeable Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, tastefully decorated with hand-made straw ornaments and golden string lights. Gifts, stashed neatly in a row underneath the tree. Stockings above the fireplace, embroidered with both his and Ilya's names.

They have also made sure to keep the light low and dim. Everything is bathed in the warm ambience of Torchiere lamps and tall candles. Ilya looks so young and soft in this kind of lighting.

Shane doesn't know what Ilya has told his parents, but they're taking his mood in stride. Neither Yuna nor David have commented on his silence, and they seem fine with letting Ilya lead the conversation.

"-and Alexei and I went on hunger strike after we found out the Christmas centerpiece was same beautiful duck quacking in the kitchen the morning before," Ilya says, through a mouthful.

Shane knows this story. Ilya is leaving out what happened after, how he and his brother were punished for it.

Yuna cracks up. Shane's pretty sure his dad is also going to die laughing.

"Oh my god," Yuna says. "Shane also went through a vegetarian phase when he discovered that meat comes from, get this, cute animals that I can pet?!"

Shane snorts. He pushes his salad and half of a deconstructed slice of Tourtière around in his plate. There's pomegranate in the salad. Shane picks out the seeds and squeezes them with his index finger and his thumb until they're stained red. Ilya glances over and holds his thigh under the table. You are okay? He mouths. Shane nods.

The conversation continues, and Shane lets his family's voices wash over him. He wonders how everyone would take it if he suggested that they stopped doing western Christmas and switch to celebrating on January 7 instead.

Shane zones out, and before he knows it, they're done with dinner. At Ilya's insistence, Shane has somehow been able to finish half of his portion.

His parents start on taking out clean dishes from the dishwasher, and Shane stands up to help with clearing away everything on the table. Ilya puts a hand over his when he reaches for the empty salad bowl. "I can take care of it."

Shane frowns. "Yes, and so can I."

"Okay," Ilya says. "Your hands are tremoring, though."

"It's fine, don't treat me like an invalid." Shane picks the bowl up and makes for the kitchen.

Ilya hovers at Shane's side, still. He moves left at the same time Shane moves right, and his elbow knocks against Shane's hand. The bowl slips out of Shane's grasp.

"Oof," Shane says, at the sound of it shattering.

"Fuck, I am sorry," Ilya says.

Shane crouches down to pick up the bigger shards. "It's no big deal, Ilyusha, shit happens." He's honestly pretty used to cleaning up broken dinnerware on Christmas Eve. It's a bit of a Hollander tradition at this point — at least one of them always knocks something over. There was one year when they had each broken one champagne glass, Looney Tunes style.

Shane's dad rushes over, and in a flash, Ilya gets between him and David, his back to Shane. Ilya holds his arm out wide, palm open, as if to shield Shane from a blow. His shoulders are tense, the line of his body rigid. Oh shit, fuck, Shane thinks.

Then, after a few seconds, Ilya catches himself. He drops his arm. "Oh my god, I am so sorry, I did not, ah. I did not mean to, David. I…" Shane can't see his dad's expression from behind Ilya, but he knows David's been taken by surprise.

"Son, don't worry about it," David says, his tone slow and careful. "I'll go grab the broom, yeah?"

Shane listens to his dad's retreating footsteps. He stands up, steps in front of Ilya, and takes in his expression: he's pale, completely mortified. Shane tries to pull him into a hug, but Ilya is already turning away.

"Hey, hey, it's alright, baby. Seriously, my dad won't think anything-"

"Shane," Ilya says. "I do not want to talk about it here."

Shane considers the tightness in his voice and his body language. There's a time and place for pushing Ilya to open up, and now isn't it. "Alright. Let's clear out the rest of the stuff."

Shane guides Ilya away from the mess. They help Yuna load the dishwasher while David sweeps up the shards. Everyone moves to the living room after they're done. His dad sets out a box of puzzles on the coffee table, and his mom takes a seat in the armchair next to the bookshelf. None of them mention what's just happened.

***

Shane wakes, slowly, to the sound of Ilya and David's voices. He doesn't hear his mom. He's pretty sure she has gone to bed already. She's an early riser, even on the holidays.

Shane is lying on the floor, his body cushioned by his parents' fluffy living room rug and warmed by the fireplace, his head on Ilya's lap. He fell asleep while his dad and boyfriend were getting started on the puzzles — he can't believe Ilya has the audacity to call him boring when Ilya himself enjoys doing thousand-piece puzzles and New Yorker crosswords.

Shane doesn't open his eyes. He's content, where he is.

"No." Ilya replies to a question that Shane doesn't catch. "Is complicated. My brother and I." He fakes a cough, awkwardly. "My father was not a kind man."

"Ah hah," David says. "I understand what it's like."

"You do? But you seem so…"

"Normal? Vanilla?" David supplies.

Ilya must have pulled a face. David laughs. "Loosen up, son, there's no overstepping here. But yes, my father was also very tough. Violent."

Shane feels Ilya's hand on his head. He gently runs it through Shane's hair, probably to soothe himself more than anything.

"He was born in a small town during the frontier era. He was smart but never had the chance to finish school. Started working in the mines pretty young. Started drinking young, as well."

"Ah," Ilya says.

Shane hears the clicking sounds of Ilya and David working the puzzle.

"He passed when I was in my forties," David says. "We hadn't been talking for a few years, but his death still hit me pretty hard. I can imagine that it's also been difficult for you."

"It has been. Not easy, yes."

Ilya squirms, slightly, but makes sure not to jostle Shane. "My father loved me until… He used to say I had much potential. When I was a child," Ilya says. "But I joined Junior League and began to have, ah, anger issues. And many crying fits, after my mother died. Very unmanly."

He continues, after a pause. "Sometimes I think I am like him. With my anger. Sometimes I wonder if I should have been a better man and face him properly, maybe, but I was cowardly."

"What would you have wanted to say?" David asks.

"I do not know. Ask why he did not love us, maybe. Or what exactly he wanted from me, to fix things. Make him kinder."

David shuffles closer. "Oh, Ilya. We can't take responsibility for our parents' pain. You were just a child. And you're still so young."

Shane feels Ilya move a little bit, and hears the light thumping sound of his dad patting Ilya's back — his dad is pulling Ilya into a half-hug above him.

"For what it's worth, I think you're one of the best men I've ever met. Trust me on that. I'm glad Shane has you." 

Shane chooses that moment to stir. He lifts the hand that's not trapped underneath himself and hugs Ilya tightly around the waist. Rubs his face against Ilya's middle.

The conversation makes Shane thinks about the future, his new future instead of the one he has lost with true clarity, and for the first time, without guilt: there hasn't yet been much that Shane needs to atone for here, but there are things he can preemptively fix. He can make good on his promise to give Ilya a home as soon as possible, where he can stay safe, happy, and loved. Where he, too, gets to heal.

Shane starts planning.

***

Shane and Ilya don't do much, the week after Christmas. Their routines are pretty much the same, but the atmosphere surrounding them is different. Lighter. Shane starts to be able to get up earlier in the morning, and he takes up more of the housework, despite Ilya's protest.

There's a newness to their connection and an added layer of understanding. There's bittersweetness, too, and Shane knows he'll have to learn to embrace it, this happiness that comes in the wake of their losses. Somehow, he finds himself comparing his realities less.

It's snowing heavily today, which gives them the perfect excuse to stay in and laze around. After breakfast — We have proper breakfast from now on, Shane, do not freak me out with that fried shit again — Ilya lounges between Shane's legs on the sofa, his back to Shane's front. Shane drapes his left hand over Ilya's chest, and with his right, plays with the chain on Ilya's neck.

Ilya flips open a book, something in Russian. Shane recognizes the Cyrillic. He squints.

"Is that an Akhmatova collection?"

Ilya cranes his head up, although Shane doubts he can see anything but Shane's chin. His mouth parts. God, he's so beautiful. Shane thinks he'll never stop being mesmerized by the blue-green shade of his eyes.

"Da. You have read her work, back then?"

Shane stiffens. Ilya takes that as an answer. Ilya turns his head downwards. He covers the hand that Shane's placed on top of his crucifix with his. "Is okay, if you want to talk about him. It might help, yes?"

"Hmm," Shane says. He places a kiss on the top of Ilya's head. "Are you sure? I don't want you to feel like I'm comparing you."

"I am grateful that you are here. I will not resent you for mourning him."

Shane smiles. "Okay, Ilyusha, maybe. I'll think about it." He asks, after a pause, "Do you, uhm. Do you want to talk about your Shane? The one you've lost?"

Ilya sits up. For a moment Shane thinks he's said the wrong thing, but then his boyfriend turns around to face him and flops down on top of him again. He rubs his face on Shane's pec.

"I will say something that may sound stupid," Ilya says. "You will need to try and see it. From my perspective."

"Of course."

"I cannot see you as different people. I understand what happened, yes? I am not denying it or saying you are him."

It's interesting, what Ilya's just said, because there has been a certain merging between his new body and his mind. There are impulses and behaviors that are new or heightened: he needs to fold clothes the moment he takes them off, and he has a flatter affect. His sensitivity to smell and textures is more intense.

Ilya shifts and readjusts his legs, straddles Shane's lap. He plants his hands on the arm rest, caging Shane in. He peers down into Shane's eyes.

"But you are Shane. In the same way I am Ilya like the me you lost is. It is painful to know that he is gone, yes, but I have never… I have never had to bury him. I did not have to sit with the loss, alone for a long year, in the way you did."

Ilya caresses Shane's face, tracing the patterns of his freckles. "I love you. Both of you. All of you."

Shane's heart is going to burst out of his chest. He still feels the pain, but he can also feel it lifting, bit by bit. He links his hands behind Ilya's head and pulls him down for a chaste kiss, then parts his mouth and deepens it. He focuses on the softness of Ilya's lips, the warmth of his breath, the wet slide of Ilya's tongue against his.

They're here, now. They're together, now. They're Shane and Ilya as they are, now.

***

In the afternoon, while Ilya is down in the garage and changing out one of their winter tires, Shane calls Marleau. He can't put it off any longer. He doesn't want this to be something that stays hanging over Marleau's head.

Shane asked after Marleau once, when he was still in the hospital, and Ilya lied to him. Marleau isn’t fine. He's been following Boston's games ever since his screen ban was lifted, and his performance has been catastrophic.

Shane knows he should have asked Ilya for Marleau's phone number directly, but Ilya always shuts down at the mention of his name. He copied the number from Ilya's phone while he wasn't looking instead. Passcode: 2481. How sweet.

Marleau replies after one ring. "Hollander?" That's curious — Marleau has Shane's number saved in his phone.

"Hey, Marleau," Shane says. Fuck, this is going to be so awkward. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." Shane hears a terse exhale. "And you…"

"I'll be honest, I'm as well as I can be. Listen, uhm." Shane scratches his head. "I'll just get straight to it. I'll still be on the Metros' LTIR until my contract expires in June next year, but I'm retiring from hockey."

From the way Marleau’s been playing, Shane knows that the news of his retirement is widely expected. Shane just wants to soften the blow for Marleau personally.

Marleau doesn't say anything for so long that Shane thinks the call has been dropped. Then, he says, "Fucking hell. What do you want me to say? What are you doing calling me like this?"

"Uhm. I don't want it to, like, blindside you."

"Because if you're doing this to tell me it's my fault, I already know. Boston suspended me for four fucking games after your injury statement." Marleau's voice rises. "It's everything the press talks about. I know I've ended your career. I'm already a fucking villain, alright?" Sounds of pacing footsteps. Heavy breathing, on the other end of the line.

Shane tries to stay calm. He's expected an emotional outburst from at least one of them.

"I know the press has been cruel. I won't sugarcoat it, the media frenzy has died down, but it will be tough on you again when I officially retire," he says. At that, Marleau starts to sniffle.

"I guess… I'm calling because I just want you to know that I don't blame you like that. It's no one's fault, okay?"

"Fuck," Marleau chokes out. "But it was my fault. I should have known-"

"It's an accident. I got my bell rung, shit happens. Neither of us could have changed anything," Shane says, and works hard to be convinced by his own words. Shit happens. The universe is cruel and senseless.

"I'm really, really sorry, Hollzy. I'm so fucking sorry, you don't even know."

"I know, Cliff, trust me. I forgive you. It was an accident."

Shane stays on the phone without saying much, to keep Marleau company while he cries. It's slowly starting to sink in for Shane, the fact that there were and are and will always be things that are beyond his control. He hangs up when Ilya comes back. There's a streak of soot on his nose.

***

The night following Shane's six-month outpatient check-in, he comes out of the bathroom with only a towel on his waist and with his glasses on. This is a strategic decision. He usually gets dressed in the bathroom, right after he's done showering.

Ilya gapes at him from where he's sitting on the bed. The New Yorker issue in his hands is completely crumpled where he's holding it. Color blooms high on his cheeks. Shane lets his eyes drift down to Ilya's lap and yup, there's the tent. That's probably the quickest hard-on Ilya, both Ilyas, have ever gotten.

Shane tries his best to keep his gait steady as he walks over to the bed. He straddles Ilya.

"Whatever happened to Russians do not blush, Ilyusha?"

"Uh," Ilya says.

Shane leans in and kisses Ilya, without tongue but slow and sweet. "So," Shane says. "Doctor told me any position is fine, as long as we take it slow."

Ilya's pupils are blown, love drunk. He brings his hands to Shane's hips, grips them firmly.

"Before that, though, I need you to hear me out, because I'm going to propose something crazy."

Ilya sobers. "What crazy? Bad crazy?"

"No, no." Shane pulls back a bit. "Like, we'll-need-to-workshop-the-idea crazy. Nothing bad."

"Okay," Ilya says. "I am listening."

"I’ve been thinking. What if you sign with Montreal?" Shane has a whole speech prepared, but his heart is beating way too fast. It's also quite hard to concentrate on his thoughts with Ilya's hard-on pressed against his ass.

He nuzzles at Ilya's temple with his cheek, then leans down to rest his forehead on Ilya's shoulder.

"I know that you want to stay in Canada, and I want you to stay, too. I also know that there are things that are different here. But I just can't risk you coming to Ottawa," he says. The Centaurs aren't even the Centaurs here, but the Satyrs. And he knows that he can make sure Ilya doesn't get onto that new year flight. But.

"I'm already on LTIR, so the Metros' cap space has been cleared. They need a new center, and they can definitely afford you. I know the press is gonna go crazy if you joined your rival team, but it won't be so bad with my public endorsement."

"Shane-," Ilya says.

"No, let me finish." Shane lifts his head to look into Ilya's eyes, but he can't hold the eye contact. He stares down at Ilya's collarbones instead.

"Their locker room culture isn’t ideal, and the GM is honestly fucking stupid, but it’s an alright team. And with you as the C eventually and Hayden as the A, I think you can really change something within the team."

"Shane," Ilya says again.

"Just shut up for a moment, baby." Shane huffs. "And, uhm, if you came to Montreal, we could move in together. If you want. It's always been my home, the one thing that’s remained steady throughout my lives. I want my home to be your home also. And… I think I want to go to university. McGill, maybe." 

He closes his eyes, because the next part is the scary part. "We might be spotted living together. You might need to come out. But I can try really really hard to work on my disguises and we keep it under wraps for as long as we can."

He waits, and Ilya doesn't say anything. "Uhm, that's it. That's the whole speech." Shane notices that Ilya's hard-on hasn't flagged. That's gotta be a good sign. He opens his eyes.

"Shane," Ilya says. "I don't give a shit about keeping things under wraps. It will not matter as soon as I secure no-movement clause."

Ilya holds Shane's face in his hands. "Of fucking course I will come to Montreal. I was trying to tell you. It is one of the teams. With positive sign."

"Oh," Shane says dumbly. "Oh wow, okay. Yes, really?"

"Duh. I love you." Ilya kisses him on the cheek, then on the mouth. "Is honestly kind of hot, yes? It will be our legacy."

Shane snorts. He lets his hand trail down Ilya's front, thumbs at his nipple. It's so nice and convenient that Ilya always goes to bed in nothing but a pair of boxers. "Do you still, uhm, want…"

Ilya shifts. With one hand on the small of Shane's back and the other between his shoulder blades, Ilya flips their positions as if Shane weighed nothing. The way Ilya is looking at him from above makes Shane feels so exposed, and so, so desired.

"Fuck yes, Любимыйmy love. I still want."

Chapter 14: I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Chapter Notes

Ilya has no words to describe what he's feeling now, with his hands freely exploring the expanse of Shane's skin, his mouth on the long column of Shane's neck, his thigh pressed to the evidence of Shane's desire.

He watches hickeys bloom high on the place where Shane's neck meets the corner of his jaw and thinks, what a shame, what a loss, that this is the first time he gets to mark Shane up with abandon. Ilya doesn't know if he can ever go back to hiding again, now that he's experienced what it means to be with Shane under an open sky. His need for a shared life must be an observable fact now; no one can look at him and say he's not a man gone on love.

Shane, too, is taking the time to feel him up, to drink the sight of him in. Ilya caresses Shane's cheek with the tips of his fingers. Constellations, written on his skin. He's about to lean in for a kiss, but there's a look in Shane's eyes, a slight furrow between his brows.

"Hey, you are okay? This is okay?" Ilya leans back.

"I'm okay. I want this. So badly." Shane bites his lips, then covers his face with his hands. "It's just, uhm, in a way this is a first for me, and I'm…"

"Ah, yes. This must be. Unfamiliar," Ilya says, suddenly self-conscious. He knows there are differences between his body and that of the Ilya Shane has lost. For a moment he's insecure and unsure. There's an irony here, this wanting to live up to another version of himself, one he'll never know.

Shane senses the wavering in his tone. He lifts his hands, runs them down the side of Ilya's neck, his side, his navel. Cups him between his legs, gently. Shane's cheeks are red, the color muting the contrast between his fair skin and the darkness of his freckles. The blush travels all the way down the center of his chest. Ilya wants to lick the flushed skin.

"I'm just thinking about how lucky I am. Uhm, to get to explore your body again. To have the time."

Snowfall, outside their windows, the panes of glass separating the darkness beyond from the low warmth of ambient light within their bedroom.

Shane combs a stray curl back from his forehead. Ilya can't take it, the depth of affection that's overtaking his mind. He surges forward and kisses Shane with urgency, an unrestrained joining of the breath, allowing himself to give in to his expectations. He coaxes out Shane's desperate wanting, making his breathing quicken, making him lose words.

Ilya pulls back when he feels Shane grow restless. He mouths at the scar on Shane's shoulder and trails kisses along his left side — his weaker side. Lightly squeezes Shane's pec in his hand while he moves down his body. Like Shane, Ilya too is getting the time to explore Shane's new body. Neither of them knows whether Shane will regain his musculature, but he's filling out again, becoming fuller and healthier day by day.

He lets his breath ghost over Shane's hardness, grabs the back of Shane's thigh and rests it over his own shoulder, and takes him into his mouth. Shane gasps.

Ilya revels in the taste of him, the weight of him on his tongue. Shane is right, this is a first time. There's a sacredness to what they're doing here, a commitment to new desires. Ilya sucks Shane off until he feels Shane's legs lock up around his head and thinks, he really can die happy here.

"Ilyusha," Shane says. Ilya sucks hard, meanly, just to hear him whimper. Shane tugs at his hair, tries to pull him up. "Fuck, I need you in me."

There was a time when Shane could have easily flipped their positions to get on top of Ilya and take what he wants. It can't happen now, Ilya knows, but he believes it's simply that it can't happen yet. One day, it will happen again.

"You are sure?" Ilya asks. He presses a kiss to the inside of Shane's thigh. "We should take it easy."

Shane kicks at his shoulder, then grabs his hand and guides it lower. Ilya feels wetness. He nearly blacks out. "I've already prepped. If you don't fuck me right now, I swear to god I'll just fuck myself on my dildo, come on."

Ilya scrambles up Shane's body. Shane pulls him in for a filthy kiss. "So mean, зайчикbunny," Ilya says when they separate for breath. "Making me miss out on my favorite part."

Shane's eyes soften. "I know you'd be hesitant if I didn't do it myself. But we have time, right?" Shane looks away. "I'm, uhm, assuming that you'll keep wanting to. You know. Like, there will be a next time?"

Yes, of fucking course there will be a next time. Shane's crazy to think that he wouldn't want to have sex with him every day for the rest of his life.

He spends a few minutes working Shane open, still, to see Shane squeeze his eyes shut, to make Shane's legs tremble where they're rested on Ilya's sides. When he finally sinks into Shane raw — I know you got tested before the season ended, and I just got tested at my check up, please, Ilyusha, please — he feels like he's transcended.

As he cages Shane in with his elbows on either side of his head, watching the fluttering of his lashes and listening to the way he chokes out Ilya's name, Ilya finally understands the difference between sex as a means of release and sex as an act of worship. There's the momentum of helpless desire, yes, but there's also a sense of wholeness in expressing his love for Shane with his body instead of with his words. There's nothing being taken out of him or away, just a joining.

He rocks into Shane slowly and softly, gets himself drunk on Shane's moans, lets himself get lost in the potency of love and lust. Shane's arms are locked around his shoulders, his hands tugging at his hair, holding onto the back of his neck. He licks the sweat off Shane's collarbone, gnaws gently on the shell of Shane's ear, does everything he can to distract himself and musters all of his willpower to hold off his own release until he starts to feel Shane twitch and tighten.

They come together, an overwhelming tumbling over a shared edge. For a moment the thought of them getting married floods Ilya's mind, blurring his vision.

He can already see it: they'll marry on a cloudless day in spring. He knows thinking about marriage now is simultaneously too soon and too late. Shane wouldn't say no if he asked, but they both need more time to settle, to build a new life, to let the broken halves mend.

Ilya buries his face in the space between the pillow and Shane's head and cries. Shane brings his arms down from around Ilya's shoulders. Pets his back, presses a kiss to his temple. His voice doesn't waver when he whispers, "Я тебя так сильно люблю, Илюша.I love you so much, Ilyusha."

***

With the new year comes new anxieties — Ilya needs to come back to Boston for his last season with the Raiders soon. His heart is heavy at the thought of packing up and leaving, even if it's just for a few months.

"You are sure you do not want to come to Boston with me?" Ilya asks while making dinner. He's being whiny, he knows. They've talked about this already. Enjoy the last bits of your bachelorhood, Ilyusha, seriously. It'll be different once you move to Montreal. Aren't you looking forward to spending time with Svetlana?

Ilya flips the salmon fillets. The kitchen is filled with the fragrance of herbs and cooking rice. It smells like a well-loved home. Ilya is proud of how much and how often he's been able to feed Shane lately. His appetite has been improving a lot, and Ilya finds himself cooking bigger portions and researching recipes for more elaborate meals.

"I'm sure." Shane sighs. "I don't really know anyone in Boston, so I'd just be hanging around your apartment, twiddling my thumbs. And I need help getting to PT still. It's easier to live with my parents in the mean time."

Ilya is aware of how selfish it is, trying to wheedle Shane like this. He wishes he could just stay here and skip straight to the next season.

"Make the most out of your time in Boston, baby." Shane moves to stand next to him while he seasons the fish, presses a kiss to his jaw. "Go clubbing and stuff, I don't know. They won't be so nice to you when you join the Metros."

Ilya pouts. "I do not want to go clubbing. I want to come home to my hot boyfriend and have hot sex." Shane huffs out a laugh, and the feeling of Shane's breath on the sensitive skin of his neck makes Ilya shiver. He turns the stove off. "Could you, ah, pass the plates?"

They settle at the dinner table after Ilya is done with plating the fish and portioning out the brown rice. Ilya watches Shane dig in.

Shane starts talking, once he's finished about half of his portion. "By the way, I heard that Marleau is taking the second half of his season off. Rose texted me about it this morning. He's entered the player assistance program, apparently."

"Da," Ilya says. He doesn't elaborate.

Shane squints at him. "How do you feel about it, Ilya?"

Ilya deflects. "I should be asking you that, yes? It is not me he almost killed. Or ended my career."

Shane looks down. He pushes the rice around in his plate, weighing his words.

"If we're counting the time I've spent in my past life, it's been close to two years since the last time I played hockey," Shane says. "After, uhm. After his funeral, I just couldn't play anymore. I didn't see the point."

Ilya reaches over to hold the back of Shane's free hand. Shane flips it palm-up and squeezes Ilya's fingers lightly.

"The way I think about what it means to live, or how I want to spend my time, is different now. I'm not saying I feel nothing about losing hockey — I really miss sharing the ice with you. In a perfect world I can see us figuring out a way to play together on the same team." He smiles, rueful.

"But I'm really excited about getting my Management degree. I want to run our foundation properly as the director this time around, you know?"

"Yeah," Ilya says.

"I'm not gonna tell you to just put what's happened with Marleau behind you," Shane says. He finally meets Ilya's eyes properly. "It's just… I'm not unhappy with the way things have turned out. I never imagined I'd get this second chance with you, Ilyusha. The life that we're sharing now is still good without me playing hockey, right?"

Yes, of course. It's good. It's more than good.

***

The weekend before Ilya leaves, Shane brings out a pair of skates. These are mine, but we have the same shoe size, I think. You must miss skating, right? A few days prior, there was a mid-winter thaw followed by a brutal cold snap. The surface of the lake melted and immediately froze over, creating mirror-like ice as smooth as a backyard rink.

Ilya glides and weaves and cruises. Above him: a sky as deep as crystal. Around him: the whooshing of late January air, crisp and biting. Within his line of sight, Shane is bundled up and reading on the dock, with a thermal flask full of Caravan tea at the ready for Ilya when he skates over.

One day, they'll skate together again. One day.

He lets his muscle memories guide him, the motion of his skating more meditative than exertional. He thinks about what it means for Shane to have experienced a life lived twice, and the mortality of another version of Shane and himself. At a place beyond space-time, Ilya's ashes lay on the bottom of this lake.

Earlier in January, Shane told him about his last year in bits and pieces. About the shock of finding out that His Ilya had already written a will — he bequeathed almost everything to Shane, with a percentage of his liquid assets going to his niece for the purchase of her first home. About the regret that came with finding out about the extent of Ilya's depression. Shane was careful about his phrasing, but Ilya could feel it, the heaviness of his guilt.

Back then, I didn't know how to cope with the possibility… There's a world out there where maybe I hadn't lost him to a freak accident, but suicide instead.

With his eyes squeezed shut, Shane went on, I need you to promise me something. Don't keep your sadness to yourself. I need you to not put my pain above yours.

Ilya held him tightly and so badly wanted to tell Shane that right here and right now, there was no darkness haunting him, but the reassurance would ring hollow. He was his mother's son, born with shadows at the edge of his mind.

So, Ilya said the only thing he knew to be true. It is not your responsibility to read minds. His depression was not your fault, yes? Neither is mine.

They both agreed to get therapy. When Ilya floated the idea, Shane said, I know a therapist who speaks Russian. I'll forward you her number.

***

Ilya leaves Boston with neither a bang nor a whimper — he makes a valiant effort, but the Raiders don't win the 2018 cup. The three months spent without Shane are the longest of his life. They get through it with a disgusting number of video calls.

The news of Ilya signing with Montreal, as a matter of course, is explosive. Within twenty four hours, Shane and Ilya become the face of the most dramatic storyline in modern hockey history. Their joint statement and Shane's individual interview break the internet. The clip of Shane saying, My accident brought us closer, and Ilya and I are proud to combine our legacies makes the round on RPF Twitter; their announcing that Ilya will take on Shane's jersey number adds fuel to the fire.

The night of Ilya's first game with the Metros, Shane sits in the Owner's Suite directly to their GM's right. The camera pans to Shane often, and Ilya is proud of Shane's composure every single time. Ilya knows he struggles with being under this much scrutiny as a spectator instead of a player.

The commentators do a good job of following the breadcrumbs of their narrative — that Shane has passed on the torch to Ilya, that Ilya has shown incredible humility in honoring the space Shane's left behind, that out of one of the most tragic career endings of the decade comes a beautiful story of unity and sportsmanship.

Ilya will never forget the sight of Shane standing up from his seat, almost jumping with joy, when he scores his first goal. The cutaway from Ilya's goal to Shane on the Jumbotron is beautiful, almost cinematic.

What actually makes the crowd erupt, however, is what happens after: Ilya blows him a kiss, and Shane catches it midair.

***

It's dizzying, the way time passes. They move in together as soon as Ilya signs with Montreal, and that September, Shane starts his first semester at McGill. They get a dog and name her Anya. They don't come out, but they don't make an effort to hide their relationship either. It comes as a surprise to very few people when they announce their engagement, three years later.

On the day the news break, Ilya almost breaks Comeau's nose.

The open secret of his relationship is a source of contention within the team, but Hayden and J.J. do a good job of moderating the atmosphere as a united front. Ilya doesn't give half a fuck — he grew up dealing with much worse, and nothing matters more to him than coming home to Shane. So, he shows up to optional practice expecting some level of antagonism, but he doesn't expect to hear Comeau say:

"Who would have thought getting knocked off his ass would turn Hollander into Rozanov's bitch?"

Ilya spins around and pins Comeau's throat to the closed locker with the length of his forearm. This time, Ilya lets himself act on his anger, at men like him, like his father, like his brother. The locker room falls silent.

"You motherfuckers listen to me," Ilya snarls. "I will say this once, and never again."

Ilya's anger extends beyond Comeau, because he's the symptom, not the cause. He thinks about the way Crowell has been breathing down his, Barrett's, and Hunter's necks — the barely veiled threats about them needing to keep their personal lives out of hockey. It's rotten all the way down.

He grieves, too, because this is what Shane, the Shane he's lost, died for.

"Be grateful for the legacy Shane Hollander has left for this team. Without him, this team would have been nothing." Ilya doesn't add that he too would have lost his drive without Shane's opposing force. He brings his face close to Comeau's and resists the urge to spit. "All of you, especially you, Gilbert, would be no one."

Right now, unlike Shane back when he was still a hockey player, Ilya has no reputation to uphold, no community to represent — he's no symbol, and he has never had much to lose when it comes to this sport. Ilya doesn't care about how he could be reprimanded for his aggression. Everything he needs, he already has, and none of it is tied to hockey: he has a home to return to; he has those he can call family.

"And next time I hear homo, or faggot, or anything like that, I will make sure that you hurt. You will suffer for the rest of your career. I am one with no movement clause. No matter what, I stay. So watch. Your fucking. Mouth."

Ilya storms off, refusing to deal with the aftermath of his speech. He skips training that day and falls into Shane's lap moments after getting through the door.

He doesn't expect it to work, but he never hears anything homophobic in the Metros' locker room again.

***

Ilya's mother comes to him on January 1, 2021.

He sits with her on the cottage porch, watching the snow fall. On a deep and instinctual level, he knows this will be the last time. From here on, her presence in his psyche will be in the form of memories.

"Mama," he says. "Could things have turned out differently?"

She turns to him, her expression wistful. "I too have wondered, when I was still alive. Making sense of the universe's whims is difficult, isn't it?"

Ilya hums.

"Tell me, Ilyushenka, are you happy?"

"Yes," he says. "I am happy, and I am scared that I will lose this. Like I always have."

His mother nods. She looks away from him, toward the garden. Ilya follows her gaze.

In the perpetual twilight of the in-between, a fawn steps out from the edge of the woods and ambles in their direction. It stops in front of them and lowers its head. Irina runs her hands through its short coat, from the back of its neck down to its back. It tolerates her touches for a little while, then huffs and tries to lick at her face. Irina laughs.

"I need you to believe in one more thing, my love." She stands up and brushes snow from her fur coat. "Will you do that for me?"

"Of course, mama," Ilya says.

"I am sorry for what you have lost — that I cannot undo. But this happiness, and everything that you have now, is yours to keep. For as long as you live, you will have him."

She lets the fawn lick her hand. She smiles at Ilya, and he can see that she is at peace. She leans down for a hug. Her hands linger at his side before she lets go. Ilya sits still for a long while, watching his mother and the fawn walk away, into the forest, into the dusk.

He wakes before dawn to the warmth of Shane in his arms. For the first time in maybe years, he feels a true serenity. He holds Shane closer, breathes in the scent of Shane's hair, and lets himself drift back to sleep. When morning truly comes, they find deer tracks in their garden, in the snow.

Chapter End Notes

thank you so so so much for reading this until the end. it's really been a journey. i've truly loved the process of drafting it and been very blown away by the kind comments i've received.
this fic means a lot to me personally. i've basically used it to process my own thoughts on loss (i too am experiencing a grief in limbo; cancer, estrangement) and explore the themes that i'm tackling in my own work: loss, displacement, etc.
re: my deal with writing. i'm a career author! i spend most of my time writing in script form and illustrating my comic/graphic novel. this fic is quite literally the first time i've ever attempted to write something entirely in prose, and the process has been so incredibly enjoyable.