Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov/Original Male Character(s), Alexei Rozanov/Original Female Character(s), Ilya Rozanov/Original Female Character(s), Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Alexei Rozanov, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Irina Rozanova, Grigori Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Alexei Rozanov is a good brother, Kid Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Growing Up, Found Family, Canadian!IlyaRozanov, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Teen Angst, Coming Out, Slice of Life, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby", Ilya Rozanov Has a Crush on Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of Rivers and Roads

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-13 Completed: 2026-07-19 Words: 198,451 Chapters: 13/13

My engine works perfect on empty (I guess I'll drive)

Summary

Ilya Rozanov is seven the first time he puts on a pair of skates.

-

OR learning to trust someone is hard, learning to trust someone with yourself is always harder

Notes

TW: mentions of self-harm, child abuse, minor character death and slurs

Chapter 1

Ilya Rozanov is seven the first time he puts on a pair of skates. His mother is kneeled in front of him as she tightens his laces, with methodical hands, like someone who never outgrew the habit. There are kids everywhere, already in gear, their sticks tight in their hands as they rush over onto the ice.

Ilya doesn't want to be there.

His plan had worked flawlessly at first; in less than three months at Alexei's football club, Ilya had tripped over his own feet and fallen over kids enough times that, with his temper, the liability had looked too big for the coach not to politely kick him out the team.

His father had been furious, Ilya's cheek had been stained for a whole week with the imprint of his backhand, but within the newfound freedom in the afternoons that practice had taken away from him, while his father was still on his shifts, Ilya could do everything he wanted: he didn't have to stay still if he didn't want to, he could push his cars down the pipes right outside his window and into their backyard how many times he wanted and, when his mom felt like getting out of the house, he could hold onto her hand as they run their errands, without the grumbling and imperative voice of his father ruining her mood.

His parent's fight that night had been so loud that even Alexei had leaned outside his room with a tensed frown, despite the music Ilya could hear coming from his Walkman as he did the same. Both their doors had clicked shut as soon as the pacing steps and the screams started to move up towards the stairs.

Not all the begging in the world had been able to change his mother's mind, a couple of days later, while she drove them to the nearest ice rink. At some point, Ilya had to wipe his tears and try to convince himself that, at least, she was there with him, out of the house instead of sad and laying still in her bed.

She always seemed sad, lately.

Now, with his feet snug in a smelly pair of practice skates, Ilya feels like he might throw up at the expectant expression on her face.

"I don't want to go." He whispers, sniffing loudly "I don't know how to play, they're going to make fun of me."

His mother, finally done tying up his left skate, tilts her head up to lock their eyes together, resting her hands soothingly on his stubby knees.

"Nobody is going to make fun of you, baby." She says, brushing away at the tear tracks burning on Ilya's cheeks "They're all learning, look."

She's right, the other kids waddle on the ice pushing at each other and unsteady on their feet, laughing as they fall on their butts during drills, under the coach's exasperated expression. He doesn't look like Coach Chanov back at the football field, all poised and tight like a soldier, more like an exhausted babysitter. He must be really young, Ilya considers, just like his mom, with the way he doesn't flinches after crouching down to talk with the other kids.

"But why do I have to?" He whines, still.

His mother's face twists with a grimace "Me and papa want you to grow big and strong. It's good for your health, Ilyushenka." She says, with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Then, her tone softens "You know, I used to love skating when I was little."

Ilya tries to imagine his mother with all that padding the coach made her shove him into. It paints a funny picture in his head, but he doesn't want to be rude and laugh "You played hockey, too?"

"No, silly." She answers, chuckling, probably at the same thought "My mama used to bring me and my sisters to skate when the lake near our house would freeze over."

"And you just skated?" It sounds extremely boring, Ilya thinks, even more boring than having to kick a stupid ball into a net with his feet.

The expression on his mom's face turns wistful "We used to compete all the time, chase each other... it was very fun."

Ilya has never met his mom's family, it was just one of the things they couldn't talk at home; his father would yell, his mother would be sad, and Ilya doesn't want her sad again.

"Then I have to learn so we can skate together, mama." He states seriously, stumbling off the bench and almost faceplanting on the plastic seats in front of them.

His mother laughs fondly as she steadies him, holding his hand as they walk towards the door to the rink "We'll see, Ilyusha."

The other kids pay no mind to the barrelling danger of Ilya in a pair of skates, but he still feels extremely awkward trying to copy what Coach Rakhymov had showed him. It doesn't take him long to get the hang of it, even if he hasn't actually understood how to break yet and keeps ending up crashing full speed into the boards.

It's fun, though, he starts to think, the more intensive practice gets within the next few months. Ilya is faster than the other kids, if still a little of a skating warning sign, but the coach doesn't seem to mind his restlessness in the way he pushes confidently on the ice during bag skates and laps.

He can tell that his mother is relieved, can see it all the way from where she always sits, a couple of rows away from the other parents, for the exception of Mrs. Morozova, whose family just moved to Moscow.

Mrs. Morozova, Ilya thinks, is probably the coolest person he's ever met. She's loud and funny and always has the best jokes, that make even his mom chuckle on her good days. He doesn't think he's ever seen his mom being this close with anyone else, it must be a good thing, he presumes, even if it means having to try and befriend Mrs. Morozova's son.

Nikolai is not like his mom; he's quiet and shy, and never cracks at Ilya's attempts at conversation, hiding behind his mother's legs every time they have to wait after practice for their moms to finish chatting.

"Did I do something wrong?" He scowls to his mother one day on their way back from the rink, crossing his arms over his chest "I told him the joke Daniil made at recess yesterday, the one I told you about, but he ignored me. Again!"

His mother had hummed amusedly "Have you tried asking him why?"

"I did!"

"And?"

"He walked away." He huffs "I wish he was like Nadia."

"You'll meet all kinds of people in your life, Ilyusha, we can't all be the same as you." His mom teases him "Kolya is just very shy, so you have to be gentle with him. I'm sure you'll be friends in no time."

"I can't be friends with someone so boring." Ilya mutters.

The other kids at practice aren't that much nicer either. Ilya is well aware that he's a show off, that he can be brash and cocky.  it's hard not to when the real prize of a goal or an assist is Coach Rakhymov's smile of approval.

The rest of the team should learn to suck less, Ilya decides, if they want the same kind of treatment. Maybe if they weren't so stuck up they would actually learn how to pass.

Ilya quickly learns, though, that sometimes people don't necessarily like hearing his opinion, despite it being the truth.

But if they're going to be petty and push him around the ice, they can count on the fact that he'll do just the same.

What he's surprised to realise is that he's not going to be alone doing it.

They're in the middle of a practice game when Milan, a burly kid with an awful lisp, suddenly trips him over with his stick, sending him face first on the ice with a loud crack. It hurts and the cold stings just as much as his bottom lip does when he bites down to keep himself from crying like a baby.

His nose is dripping blood, over his chin, over his jersey, but Ilya barely registers the Coach stopping the game to help him off the ice and his mother panicked shriek, after hearing the loud thump of a body checking into Milan's shoulder, so hard to make both of them fall down a couple of feet away.

"Oops." Nikolai says, not so sheepishly, standing up and turning his back to the crying kid left laying on the ice "I'm sorry, I didn't break in time."

The Coach is too busy holding Ilya's head back to say anything but a curt "Jesus, kids." and proceed to bench both of them, one for a possible broken nose and the other for roughing. Nikolai doesn't look particularly mad about skipping the rest of practice, as Nadia drives the four of them to the emergency room.

Ilya nudges his calf with his foot, keeping the ice pack firmly on his pulsing nose like his mother instructed. Nikolai doesn't say anything apart from smirking shily.

Maybe he's not so boring after all.

His father is furious when they finally get back home, an hour later than usual, but Ilya thinks he looks almost impressed at the state of him. He's never come to see him play in the two years since he started at the rink, but, for the first time ever after a game, he pats Ilya's shoulder with his own version of pride. Neither he or his mother correct his assumption, Milan's arm is still in a sling, after all, it doesn't matter if it wasn't Ilya to put him in it.

Maybe, maybe, Ilya gets just a little more careless after that.

He's ten and the best player on the team, so what if he drops the gloves just a little more than necessary? He has Nikolai covering for him, anyway.

What Ilya knows is that his dad finally wants to hear about practice when he comes back home from the rink, now, and his mom always finds the strength to get out of bed and tend to his bruises, brushing his hair gently out of his face as she fusses over him.

And Ilya wants that. All of it. Anything they can give him.

"You're acting stupid." Alexei says once after picking him up from the arena. Ilya's cheek is red from the other's team forward hitting him in a quarrel with his elbow pad. His brother barely took a look at the scrapes on his face before sighing.

Alexei doesn't look like he wants to be there. Actually, Ilya thinks, he looks like he would rather be anywhere else than ahead of him, walking the way back from the rink, but Nikolai is sick, so Nadia couldn't drive him home after practice and both of them know what refusing to follow an order from their father implies.

And yes, perhaps he wouldn't be so annoyed if Ilya hadn't put glitter into his backpack yesterday morning, he might deserves the cold shoulder after all, but Alexei barely acknowledges him on a good day anyway. He always has.

"I'm not stupid." He mumbles into his jacket, trying to keep up with his steps. Alexei is so much taller than him, taller than many of the guys his age that Ilya sees when walking to school together in the morning, before Alexei leaves him in front of his building to get to his own class. Ilya has to lean his head all the way back to frown at him.

"You call getting beaten like this smart? You threw yourself in there like an idiot." Alexei snorts humourlessly as he lights up his cigarette "You know, brain cells don't fix themselves after you scramble them."

"You read that in a book?" Ilya sneers.

Alexei clenches his jaw but doesn't react to the jab.

"Why do you care anyway?" He prods, petulantly.

Alexei eyes him sharply and, for a second, Ilya thinks that he's not just going to brush him off, like he usually does when he doesn't want to deal with him, but Alexei just shakes his head "You're right, I don't why I do. Just keep walking."

Deflated, Ilya doubles his steps.

"You have to be more careful, baby." His mother whispers tiredly, wiping the gauze wet with antiseptic over his cheek. It stings and burns, but Ilya quickly gets over it and leans his head into the palm of her hand as she kisses his forehead, basking in the simple affection.

The eyebags under her eyes look heavier and heavier every day, he can't help but notice, her smile tighter at the edges, but she looks at him so tenderly that Ilya can easily forget about having no one but the Morozovs cheering for him at his games, about the pitiful stares of his teachers at every parent-teacher conference missed.

She's sick, his father had said gruffly, she's weak.

Ilya doesn't think she's weak. She's sad and lonely, being all by herself while they're out of the house. The few times Nadia manages to come over, usually when his father is still at work, can only cheer her up so much.

"Maybe you can ask Lev's mom to check on her, she's a doctor." Ilya suggests seriously the next time she drives them to practice "Then she can give her some medicine, to help."

The smile on Nadia's face looks more like a grimace, something pained. She doesn't say anything apart from nodding. Ilya doesn't ask questions and buries further in her arms when she hugs him to her chest, after getting out of the car.

That year's holidays pass in a blink. His mom seems to be doing better when it's only them and Alexei, sitting around the fireplace and watching old Christmas movies on the tv. He's surprised Alexei hadn't joined their father at the gala, he feels like he hasn't seen him at all that past few months. His father wants him to be a cop too, just like him, and has been running him on edge ever since that summer. He's got fit for it, just like the actors in the movies Ilya likes to zap through when he's particularly bored, in trance. He wants to be like that too when he grows up, so nobody will ever pick on him anymore for being short and noodle armed. If Alexei did, Ilya can too, that is just how genetic works.

Not even their father coming back early from his work event is able to pop his bubble, not when he's just spent the whole evening curled against his mother's side, with her fingers carding gently through his hair, and watched the fireworks together from their porch, just like they always used to on New Years.

Everything is perfect, Ilya thinks later that night, closing his eyes against his pillow.

In retrospect, he should have known that it wouldn't last.

Nadia is in a hurry that afternoon, too much to come up and keep his mother company while he and Nikolai tip toe in Alexei's room to play with his console. Ilya has a routine by now; he always drops his boots in the space closest to the door on the shoe rack and hangs his coat and scarf by the wardrobe closet in the hallway. His hockey bag finds its place under his desk, and then he's off to find his mother, leave a kiss on her cheek and spend the rest of the time before his father gets back home together.

Only this time, when Ilya opens the door to his parent's room, calling out for her, nobody answers.

Ilya frowns, looking around the room with growing confusion in his guts.

Then he sees it.

The door to the bathroom is slightly open, and low gurgling sounds come from the other side of it. A long cascade of sandy blonde hair is spread over the tiles like a painting as his mother lays trembling onto the ground, her lips blue and stark over the clammy colour of her skin. Ilya falls to his knees next to her, his hands shaking as the pills scattered on the ground dig into his knees.

"Mama?" He doesn't know where to touch, if she can hear him, Ilya has no idea what is going on "Mama! Mama, please!" Her skin is cold as Ilya reaches for her hand, squeezing it between his own like a safe line "mama, wake up! Please, mama!"

And then, the sounds stop. Ilya's own heavy breathing is the only thing he can hear as he raises his head to his mother chest. It lays still. Her eyes are shot open, her pupils tight and in pinpricks, and staring into the ceiling.

"No, no, mama- p-please wake up. Mama wake up, wake up, wake up-" there are tears falling from his eyes, Ilya can't think of anything as he shakes her body frantically, calling out her name, pleading for her to blink, to squeeze his hand, to please do something.

He should be calling an ambulance, the police, hid dad, but the landline is downstairs and Ilya's vision is blurry as he sobs and gasps and holds onto his mother's limp arm, his legs jelly under him when shuffles to lay over her, desperate for anything, just a sign that she's still there.

She was fine, he can't help but think, desperate, she was doing so much better with the pills Dr. Kuznetsova gave her.

She was sad but she would still walk downstairs to send them off to school, and he would find her reading or listening to Alexei's tapes when he came back home sometimes, instead of staring outside the window in silence, like she was waiting for something to happen.

She'd even come to his game that Saturday, the first after break, and sat at her usual seat leaning off Nadia's shoulder. Ilya had been so happy to see her there, smiling down at the rink, at him, like she was witnessing a miracle.

"Are you coming to the next one too?" He'd asked her hopefully later that night, leaning his head over her chest.

She had buried her nose in his curls, leaving a kiss of the crown of his head "I'll do my best, baby, I promise."

She'd promised.

She still left.

Ilya is alone now, alone with a dad that never wanted him and a brother that would prefer if Ilya just disappeared.

She left him alone.

He doesn't how long has passed when other voices start echoing in the bathroom, and suddenly there are two men in neon uniforms kneeling down over them as he tries burying his sobs in his mother's neck. A solid hold closes around his wrist then, and Ilya's being ripped away.

Ilya screams, kicks and pleads, his throat aches from the shriek of surprise he lets out when his feet all of a sudden are hovering several inches off the ground and he's being dragged away by strong merciless arms.

He barely recognizes his father's voice as he digs his nails into every piece of skin he's able to reach, snarling and fighting against him while he struggles to walk them away from the room, away from his mother.

"You fucking brat-"

It's his fault, Ilya's brain yells at him, he left her first and then she left Ilya with him. 

It's his fault, it's his fault, it's all his fault-

The hands that close around his back next are gentler, they don't cut into his skin when he tries to elbow his way off, and Ilya is so tired, he just wants to go back upstairs and lean his head into his mother's lap, feel her warm and breathing and alive under the palm of his hand-

"Ilya? C'mon, breath, you have to breath." Alexei's voice stutters into his ear, Ilya doesn't think he's ever heard him so scared in his entire life "I need you to tell me what happened, please Ilya. Breath, breath."

Ilya feels like he'll never breath again.

He's only half aware of the words rasping their way out of his mouth, before passing out against Alexei's chest, over the loud beating of his brother's heart.

-

His dreams always start the same.

He's back there, on the threshold of his parents room, looking over to the bathroom. Ilya's feet walk on their own across the room, doesn't matter how many times he begs himself to stop, not to look past the door, how many times he tries grabbing at the furniture until his fingers bleed. And then he sees her, laying motionless on the ground, her skin pale under the stage lights of his mind, as she stares into him with lifeless eyes.

And, like clockwork, every time her cold fingers brush his ankle, Ilya wakes up.

And when Ilya wakes up, Alexei does too, jumping from the weird sitting position he's been taking every night on the floor by the side of Ilya's bed, when their father has long been closed in his room.

Alexei doesn't say anything apart from guiding Ilya's shaky hands over his sternum, letting him feel the rapid rhythm of his heart over his shirt until Ilya's breathing settles back and his eyes are not watering anymore with unshed tears.

He's learned not to cry ever since the dreams started, over the memory of the first and last time he woke up screaming, after their mother's funeral, and his father barged into his room, yelling so loudly and ultimately giving him another reason to cry about, scared, along a bruising smack across his face.

His brother never yells when Ilya wakes up shivering, he just stares at the floor in silence while giving Ilya the time to realize that he's back to reality, that he's alive and that their mom is not anymore.

And the funny thing is, Ilya doesn't remember a time where his brother ever wanted to purposefully spend time with him, even. Maybe when they were younger, when their mom was better, when their father was too.

Ilya wants to be mad at him, tell him that he doesn't need his pity and that he could go fuck off to the academy even now for all he cares. Ilya wants him to hurt just like he's hurting.

Until he wakes up one night, from a dreamless sleep and his mouth parched, to find his brother leaning over the windowsill. The air smells faintly of cigarette, the same smell that used to stain their mom's fingers after a long day. They had that in common, Ilya thinks, Alexei and their mom, these moments where they could get stuck into their heads and drown in the silence of their thoughts.

Sometimes, Ilya has learned, people don't get back to the surface.

Alexei's shoulders are shaking but the sound of his sobs is muted, so much Ilya wouldn't have realized he had been crying if he hadn't been up.

He realizes then that he doesn't remember ever seeing his brother cry before. Not after a backhand at a yet another barely passing grade, not when their father would start to throw plates and glasses at their heads during an argument, and especially not at their mother's funeral. Ilya had silently let his tears fall down his cheeks, wiping them off whenever he would meet his father's eyes, but Alexei had stood still at his side without saying a word for the whole function.

Perhaps, Ilya thinks, he needs this too, and it would be a lie to say that knowing someone is there for him doesn't help the starved and ugly feeling trying to feed off his chest.

He pretends to be asleep until the window closes with a soft thud, before shutting his eyes and try to sleep.

Living without his mum... Ilya wishes he didn't have to know what it meant. He misses coming back home to her, to her smile, the soft tone of her voice and the way she would laugh at his stories.

Now all that's left of her in the house is the crucifix hanging off Ilya's own neck and the few things his father didn't get rid of, for reasons Ilya can't even begin to unpack, like the picture of her on top of the stairs or her vanity inside their room.

Sometimes he can't help but ask himself if his parents had ever really loved each other, why his mom had never left if living with them made her so sad she had to take her life.

The question burns the back of his throat every time his father talks about remarrying at the dinner table, barely acknowledging the fact that even if he managed to forget about his wife in less than five months, Ilya didn't. Ilya can't forget. Not when she haunts him day and night, all the way in his dreams and in the little things that can't help but remind him of her, like the way Alexei cuts their sandwiches for school or the fond pats Nadia leaves on his cheeks before letting him out of the car, when she drives him home.

Even if he could forget, just to make everything stop hurting, he probably wouldn't want to anyway.

Ilya just wants his mom back.

He wants her to fuss over him because he didn't wear a hat before going outside, to nag him about picking up after himself and tend to his scrapes after his games.

Instead, the next time Ilya goes crashing against the boards, it's Alexei that crouches in front of him as he sits over the closed toilet lid, with a cotton bud, antiseptic and a colourful box of butterfly strips.

"I can do it by myself."

"You can't even reach the cabinet for the disinfectant." Alexei says pointedly, dabbing at the cut on his eyebrow. Ilya hisses uncomfortably.

"Fuck you." He snarls "You are not my mom."

Alexei stops in his tracks. He doesn't look hurt, mostly dejected as he clears his voice and avoids his eyes "No, I'm not. But she's dead and I'm your brother."

"You don't even like me." Ilya protests, with what comes out like a wet sort of whine "You do this just because you feel bad, I don't need your help."

"Well it's too bad," Alexei replies, somewhat firm despite the vulnerable glint in his eyes, carefully placing the band-aid over the tail of his brow "That's what brothers do, they take care of each other, so suck it up."

Ilya is too dumbstruck to reply before Alexei stands up and stalks away to his room.

He's still thinking about it the next day, while he and Nadia wait for Nikolai to finish his packing up his bag outside of the lockers.

"A penny for your thoughts?" Nadia asks, tugging gently at one of his curls.

Ilya shrugs, scrunching his nose "What does it mean when someone becomes a different person? Like, all of a sudden."

Nadia eyes him amusedly "Different how?"

"As in, they start doing things they never did before." He explains.

"I guess it depends; sometimes things happen in our lives and everything just- moulds around them, they change us. Nothing is set in stone but what we've already lived through, kiddo."

Ilya frowns "Then how do you know when a person means it?"

"You don't" Nadia shrugs "you can either trust they do or don't. It's as simple as that."

"Would you?"

"I'm a lawyer, Ilyusha, my job is to not believe what people say." She laughs, ruffling his hair "Life is not a courtroom, though. I would say that in this case the best you could do is give them the benefit of the doubt."

And so, considering that Nadia is probably the smartest person Ilya knows, he starts to watch more closely.

Alexei is not so much of an interesting person; he wakes up stupidly early in the morning to get back to his room and leave for a run, before walking them to school with an earbud in and blasting music coming from his Ipod. If there's no practice, Ilya usually stays with the Morozovs up until Alexei comes to pick him up, chatting with Nadia in her studio while Ilya packs his stuff, as fast as he can to get home before their father does.

Ilya doesn't know what Alexei does on the weekends, after dropping him off at the Morozovs. What Ilya knows is that he doesn't like staying home alone, and, even less, staying home with their father, who doesn't bother to ask where they're going as long as they make themselves scarce until dinner.

Plus, the Morozov's house is Ilya's favourite place after the rink. He and Nikolai spend the weekends riding their bikes around the neighbourhood, playing videogames for how long they want and eating junk food in front of the tv. Sometimes, when Ivan coaxes them away from the screens spewing about rotted brains and the psychological consequences of such violent games, they go shooting hoops in the backyard, despite none of them knowing a single thing about basketball and Ilya being too short to reach the hoop. Nikolai is a good sport, though, and it's funny enough to just try and get the ball in while they goof off and chase each other around the backyard.

That's where Alexei finds them, that afternoon, when he walks up the Morozov's driveway a whole hour earlier than usual. He looks tired, Ilya thinks, a bit worn out. Something Ilya has noticed, is that he never sleeps much in between the tight routine his father set for him, to stay in shape for the academy, school, and being Ilya's personal chauffeur. But even then, there must be something more to it than simple exhaustion, if the way Nadia tends to nag him about taking care of himself whenever they think Ilya is not listening in, is any giving.

"You can keep playing. He's not going to be home until later, anyway." Alexei says, waving off his questioning look and aiming for the front door.

The best you could do is give them the benefit of the doubt.

"Do you want to play with us?"

Alexei looks alarmed at first, freezing on the last step. Ilya thinks he can understand why. He wouldn't exactly say he'd tried to test his brother lately, after that day in the bathroom, but maybe he had wanted to see how long Alexei would last being this... present.

Ilya gave up asking him to play with him years ago, when he started to understand that they couldn't be like any other pair siblings at the park, he would never get him to go sledding together on snow days or convince him to let him stay in the room while he played video games with his friends.

He'd always thought it was unfair. If he’d had a younger brother, didn't matter how much younger or annoying, Ilya would have still been there for him, just like in the movies.

So sue him for being just a little more petty than usual, when messing with the neat-freakish way Alexei keeps his old cassettes in inside a drawer of his desks or hide his keys in the most unthinkable places around the house.

Not all the poking and prodding has been enough to make Alexei blow up, though. It's been weeks now and the biggest reaction Ilya ever got out of him was a deep and heavy sigh that had made him feel worse than he'd ever though it would.

So now Ilya stands there, in the middle of the Morozov's driveway with a basket ball in his hands that feels more like a bait, looking up at his brother with a too serious look on his face for such a stupid game.

Maybe he should have asked Nikolai first, he thinks absentmindedly, watching his friend turn beet red and shuffle uncomfortably on his feet every time he looks in Alexei's direction.

Alexei shakes himself back to reality faster than Ilya had given him any credit for. Ilya watches him drop his duffle on the porch swing "Alright." He says, bundling the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows. His fingers are paint stained, nails bitten raw, he can't help but notice among his surprise, when he catches up to them "Not for long, though, I have to talk with Nadia before we leave."

Ilya throws the ball into his hands without another word.

Perhaps this could work.

-

His first birthday without his mom Ilya spends it laying in bed, curled around his pillow. School has been over for almost a week, but Alexei has closed himself in his room to study for his finals ever since May turned into June. With the season being over and Nikolai and his parents leaving for a couple of weeks to visit his grandparents, it has only been him and his brother lately and the fleeting presence of their father.

Alexei doesn't mind if Ilya hangs out in his room as long as he keeps the sounds to a minimum, he knows that he doesn't like being alone. So it's probably not a surprise when Ilya hears him knocking at his door, just about an hour after their father left that morning

"I brought you a toast." Alexei says carefully, placing a plate over the nightstand. There is some shuffling, then the mattress dips as Alexei sits with his back against the headboard.

"I'm not hungry."

"You still have to eat something."

"Please, just go." He whispers weakly, hiding his face in his pillow.

The pressure behind his eyes is dry, like his body just didn't dim it enough for his mourning. But Ilya feels it, the pain under his sternum, the kind that rattles around his ribs like as a reminder that his mom is not there too ease it anymore and will never be.

He wants to eat his words as soon as they come out of his mouth, tell Alexei to stay, that just the idea of silence and solitude makes his skin crawl. But he has seen the frantic way he has been going over his notes for the past few weeks, how Ivan had to sit him down and convince him to let him and Nadia help. Ilya is not exactly proud of his eavesdropping, but he knows that there is something his brother is not telling him, it's obvious in the way he often disappears to take calls and looks paler and paler every time their father asks about his application, if he has emailed the academy for the draft yet. He shouldn't have to deal with Ilya too, on top of it.

Alexei is quiet but doesn't make a move to stand up.

"I miss her." Ilya admits then, wobblily "It's not fair."

"No, it's not." Alexei agrees "I miss her, too."

"Even when she was sick, she remembered my birthday. Papa didn't."

"That's because he's a dick." Alexei scoffs. The bluntness in his statement makes Ilya almost crack a smile.

"Will it always feel like this?" He asks, before he can stop himself.

Alexei exhales loudly "I don't know. I hope not. I think she would want you to be happy." He says  "but at the end of the day, she'll still be dead, and it's your right to be sad, angry, however you're feeling right now."

His necklace feels burning hot against his collarbone "Is it like this for you too?"

"Yes, always." Alexei replies instantly "Probably always will." He considers.

Ilya shuffles on his other side then, facing him. Alexei is picking at his nails, hands folded in his lap.

He only tenses slightly when Ilya bumps his head against his hip. They are still walking on eggshells with each other, Ilya feels almost embarrassed by the silent request, but, after a couple of more seconds of hesitation, Alexei pats his head, flattening his curls against his forehead. It's so awkward and robotic that Ilya can't help but snort, this time.

"You suck at this."

"Fuck off." Alexei scoffs, but he doesn't take his hand back, tugging pettily at the hair on his nape "I got you a gift, by the way." He says quietly then, as if self conscious, breaking the silence formed as his uncertain fingers scratch at his scalp.

Ilya perks up a little at that, sitting up "you did?"

"Yes." Alexei clears his voice "It's, uhm, I didn't know what you would have liked so..."

"I don't care, show me." He prompts him, pushing him off the bed. Well, trying to at least. 

Alexei huffs, but there is an amused smile on his face when he stands up "Jesus, alright."

Ilya doesn't know what he was expecting, but Alexei comes back with a fairly large box in his hands a smaller bag on top.

"The box is from Nadia and the guys." Alexei explains, watching Ilya lift the lid with wide curious eyes, to find a pair of brand new skates, ready to get broken into "Kolya said you told him your feet hurt."

"Snitch." Ilya mutters, only half heartedly. Truthfully, the sole thought of asking his father for new skates had been almost enough to make Ilya ponder the idea of quitting. His mother dying had made him ponder about quitting.

Hockey had been theirs, Ilya wouldn't even be playing if it wasn't for her.

And he loves it, he loves the feeling of owning the ice, being fast and agile and in control, he loves that he's good at it like he's never been at anything else in his life, that he's the best. It hurts more than it should to realise that it might start not being fun anymore.

"Those should be a size bigger, so they can last you longer."

"They're perfect." Ilya says, sniffing.

Alexei scrunches up his nose as he hands him the bag. Inside there's tape, of a bright teal colour, a new neck guard and, surprisingly, a car. Well, a toy car. It's blazing red, shiny and-

"That's a-"

"A '59 Impala." Ilya gasps, picking it up and turning the box over in his lap "This is so cool! Where did you get it?"

"There's a miniature shop near the train station." Alexei shrugs "I thought you might like it." Ilya would say he looks pretty satisfied with himself, if not a little surprised.

Suddenly it all feels like too much. Ilya feels like too much. He's still sad, empty, and he wishes he could run to his mom and show her the new car he got, tell her everything he can remember about it from the magazines he read in Alexei's room, on the days where boredom was too stuffy to make something out of it. But he can't. Ilya can just look at the flashy car he's been holding into his hands and feel incredibly stupid for thinking about her.

"Hey, uhm, what about we looked up if the rink is doing free-skate hours today?" Alexei asks, snapping him back to reality. The rink does do free skate on Fridays, they are both well aware of that. Ilya feels like that wasn't really that much of a question after all, with the concerned way his brother looks down at him "You could try your new skates."

"Don't you have to study?" He can't help but ask, sceptic.

For a moment, a conflicted look passes over Alexei's face, rapidly replaced by a gentle kind of firmness "I should, but it's fine. It's your birthday, we should do something, so we're going to the rink." He states.

Ilya wants to blame the unsurmountable heavy weight in his chest when he asks "Will you skate with me?"

Alexei hesitates "I don't know how to skate."

"But you have skates."

"I also have very high chances of splitting my head open every time I put them on."

"Please, Lyosha." He pushes, testing the waters "It is my birthday."

They hold each other's stare for a couple of seconds before Alexei's resolution visibly start to crumble.

Gotcha.

"Fine, but if I bleed out on the ice, it's your fault." Alexei says, raising his hands at his sides.

So they go skating later that afternoon. Ilya has the time of his life watching Alexei grip the boards like his life depends on it, for almost two hours straight, and end up being genuinely too shaken to say no to ice cream before dinner. It's a good day, he thinks, as they walk back home.

Ilya wants it to last, for once.

-

Sweat uncomfortably sticks his shirt to his back as they sit quietly on the driveway, waiting for Nadia's car to pull over. The sun is so blazingly hot over Moscow that day, that to anyone it would feel almost like a foolish idea to step foot outside their house.

They don't have any other choice, though, but to wait in the heat, surrounded by their belongings and a sombre air of- disappointment? Sadness? Ilya is barely aware of what is currently tumbling in his stomach right now, too stuck on the fact that they just got kicked out.

Their father kicked them out.

It's not like Ilya hadn't taken the possibility into account, and It's definitely not like he hadn't wanted to go with Alexei, either. But he hadn't expected their father to just... let them go.

Get that faggot out of my house and never show your face again.

Ilya hadn't been able to get himself to feel guilty about eavesdropping, after that. Alexei had found him still sat on top of the stairs, with his backpack clutched against his chest and his eyes glassy, stuck on the front door and staring right through him.

Alexei said he wanted Ilya to come live with him, and their father hadn't even tried pretending he actually cared.

Just like he had never cared about showing up, not even at their own fucking house after their mother's funeral, leaving Alexei to pick up the pieces of Ilya's broken heart.

He'd tried convincing himself that his father was just too old to be like his teammates' dads, who cheered from the sidelines after every goal and kneeled down to tie their kids’ laces, like Ivan. Ilya had never been more jealous of Nikolai than the first time his dad drove them home, so long ago now, and let them pick the station on the radio, asked about practice and school.

But Grigori wouldn't look twice at Ilya if he wasn't bruised and bloodied and wearing a stupid medal around his neck, and he hadn't either when he'd walked away from Alexei earlier, after the loudest fight that ever happened in their house since their mother's death, and briefly met Ilya's eyes in the reflection of the living room mirror. 

Alexei's hand, the one that's not currently holding a cigarette, is closed in a tight fist over his knee. Ilya has no idea about what he's thinking.

It must be hard for him too, he considers, especially for him. At the end of the day, Ilya had always known that if their father ever had a favourite, it had surely been Alexei. He was older, he was composed, he put up with all the crazy things their father asked him to, even if it meant joining the fucking military.

And it almost did. If their mother hadn't died they wouldn't be sitting on that curb, right now, knowing that they'll never be able to set foot in the house she died in again.

But they are, and Nadia is about to pick them up to drive them to Alexei's apartment, the apartment that Ilya had no idea existed until barely twenty-four hours ago, when he'd found Alexei packing.

Ilya doesn't know how he'd never noticed before, all the things that disappeared from his brother room like none of them ever belonged there. The cassettes piled inside the desk drawer, the magazines over his nightstand or the weird lamp their mother had got him so many years ago, all the things that Alexei actually cared about, fully disappeared under his nose like they hadn't been living inside the same house.

He'd wanted to yell at him, to be mad and hurt, because Alexei didn't get to do that, to leave him too, after spending months trying to convince Ilya that he could trust him, that they could be brothers, finally.

Had it all be just a plan to him, to pretend to care about Ilya enough to distract him so he could take his leave without no one noticing?

Then Alexei had asked him if he wanted to come live with him. Ilya had thought he hadn't heard him right at first, he surely must have not, but the raw and nervous way Alexei had been looking at him, while kneeled at his height, cleared him of all doubt. Ilya couldn't have cared less about damping Alexei's shirt with tears when he'd thrown his arms around his neck. No one had ever asked Ilya to stay, and maybe part of him had thought, despite everything, that Alexei wouldn't either if it ever came to it.

But his brother wanted Ilya to live with him, he'd looked so relieved when he'd said yes that Ilya had almost felt bad for doubting him in the first place, as Alexei helped him pack everything, Ilya's entire life, in bags and old duffels, the same ones that Ivan helps them load into the trunk of their car when the Morozovs finally pull up in front of the house.

Nadia only crinkles her nose when she gets a whiff of Alexei's smoke stained clothes, bud doesn't nag him further when she drags both of them into a one armed hug.

Ilya must really look like shit, he thinks, if the only thing Nikolai does is bump their shoulders together and pretend that Alexei sitting on Ilya's other side is not making him blush over the top of his ears. He's a weirdo, but Ilya appreciates the sentiment, especially when he lets him lean his head on his shoulder and close his eyes for the whole drive.

The apartment is on the fourth floor of an old looking building, tiny, and freakishly tidy. He wouldn't have expected anything but that from Alexei, though. The furniture is second hand, not all of it matches and the floor is stained in some places by something that Ilya does not want to concern himself with, but it's perfect, he thinks, when Alexei opens the door to his room; the walls are freshly painted, all white but for the blue accent wall behind the single bed. A desk is pushed right under the window, beside the closet, and the opposite wall's tiny library has just enough room for Ilya's cars and his hockey trophies.

"I know it's not a lot." Alexei clears his voice. Ilya hadn't realised he hadn't followed him in  but stayed at the doorstep and patiently waiting for his reaction "we can change whatever you want in it, really."

"No, I like it." He says, pushing eagerly past him to go get his backpack "I need to put my stuff in, though!"

That night, after a team effort between them and the Morozovs to unpack the last things around the apartment, they settle around the dinner table with takeout boxes and sodas, something that Ilya wouldn't really have expected from someone like his brother.

It's late when Nadia and the guys drive back home, but Ilya feels still over the moon, albeit a bit nervous and unsure. He has no idea how this is going to work now, living there, just the two of them.

"I'm leaving my door open." Alexei says, leaning into his room, at some point before going to bed. He looks like he could fall asleep on his feet, more relaxed than Ilya ever saw him in the past few months.

"Scream, walk in, whatever, just don't make smoke signals, it would suck to make this place burn down now, but, for any reason, I'm there. Alright?"

Ilya turns on his side, looking sleepily at him from where he'd already settled under the covers, exhausted. He hums "Alright, leave mine open too."

Ilya can't stop himself from calling him back when he makes his move to go back to his room. His brother sends him a perplexed look.

"Thank you." He whispers.

Thank you for changing your mind, for wanting me, for not leaving.

The exhaustion on Alexei's face does nothing to hide the way his smile softens "You're welcome, kid. Goodnight."

They can learn together how to get through this, too.

It's a warm night in Moscow, but Ilya can finally keep his door open.

-

"That is not how you do it."

"How can it not be? My answer is right, look!"

"But that's not the way our teacher wants us to do it."

Alexei scoff, leaning over Ilya's shoulder to read the question once again.

"It doesn't make sense, you can just make a linear system and solve by x. Did she taught you how solve by x while apparently not doing her job?" He huffs, scribbling on a loose piece of paper with the hand that's not currently holding a wooden spoon. He is good at multitasking, Ilya has to give it to him, despite the fact that the way he's been holding Ilya at the kitchen table for the past thirty minutes has kind of been making him want to bawl his eyes out.

"I don't know." He whines.

"You don't know how to do it or you don't know if she taught you how?"

Ilya lowers his forehead over the kitchen table, more roughly than intended "What difference does it make? She doesn't want your stupid system anyway." He mutters "Can't I just skip it? It's just that one, it doesn't matter."

"If you knew how to do it, it wouldn't, no." Alexei says pointedly.

You don't know how to read but I don't see you trying to.

That's what Ilya wants to say, as he inhales sharply against the wood. He doesn't, though, because even he can recognize how low it would be and, the last time he brought it up, Nadia threatened to sharpen his skate's blades and make him eat them. Also, if he had to be honest, because Alexei has been looking worse for wear lately.

Everything had been great at first after moving, despite the initial awkwardness. While Alexei looked for a job, Ilya had spent most of the summer going back and forth between their flat and Nikolai's house, even staying the night sometimes, now that he could. When school started up again, they'd found their rhythm fast; it had kind of been like playing an intricate game of Tetris between Alexei's shifts, school, practice and the driving lessons Ivan had offered to give Alexei.

It was hard, but it had worked for them, especially after weeks spent just trying to understand how to work a washing machine or how to cook anything that wasn't noodles or sandwiches on rotation.

Besides, Ilya could see how much Alexei had been trying to make everything fit, with the flat, the piling bills on their coffee table or the maniacal way he would spend hours cleaning the place top to bottom, muttering about social workers.

Ilya had tried his best not to make it worse by being on his best behaviour, too.

It had been hard, at first, to shrug off the idea that Alexei would get rid of him if he could take the chance, if he got too annoying. It had taken Ilya exactly one visit by child protective services to make himself change his mind. He'd done just like Alexei asked of him, played less roughly on the ice and tried not to pick fights around. Ilya could do that, he'd told himself. But the social worker had barely been concerned about the few bruises from practice left, instead asking about school, if Alexei brought him on time, if they had been settling fine and how found his brother, if he liked living with him.

They would have sounded like normal questions if the dinosaur of a man that asked them hadn't looked like he was just waiting for Ilya's response to deem Alexei unfit and move on.

So he had told the truth, that his brother always brought him on time for school, that he cooked every night they weren't having dinner at the Morozovs and helped him with homework and school projects, no matter if Ilya only remembered about them just the night before.

And yes, maybe Alexei could be too nagging at times, too straightforward and harsh, but he cared, all he did was because he cared, and the only thing that Ilya ever wanted was someone that did. 

The relief in Alexei shoulders at the social worker's report had been telling enough for Ilya, just as it had been when Nadia had finally handed him a letter from the court, months later, officially designing Alexei as his guardian. His brother had looked so overwhelmed and happy that Ilya couldn't even tease him for the way his arms shook as he drew him against him.

But then, all those cops had started following them. Ilya had only realized when it had started to be just too weird to see the same three faces everywhere he turned; at the grocery store, at the bus station, even a couple of driveways past the Morozov's house.

And the worst thing was that Alexei was not going to do anything about it. And Ilya could understand it in some part, because if the police could afford corrupted cops there really weren't any chances to make it stop. What he couldn't get over, though, was that he would have never told Ilya if it had been his choice, if Ilya hadn't noticed the way he would frustratingly make their way home five times longer than it actually was, with the weak excuse to run last minute errands to shops that had already closed for the night. And Ilya could see how scared that made him, being cornered like that, in the imperceptible ways that Alexei would show it, like skipping his runs in the morning or obsessively looking around himself every time they left the house, keeping Ilya close like he was afraid someone would just snag him in the middle of the train station.

And that only served to made Ilya scared too, to watch him close back into himself as if wanting to disappear.

"You don't have to worry about Lyosha, sweetie. We're going to find a way, it's going to be fine." Nadia had told him one of the last times he'd slept over at their places, while they waited for Nikolai and Ivan to have breakfast. She didn't really look like she believed her own words either, if the way she kept checking on them was any giving.

Ilya had know it wasn't going to be fine, he'd already lived through all of it once already. The tiredness, the avoidance and the sadness. Maybe it had been a tad dramatic of him to be that shaken up about the only game Alexei had ever missed since they moved in, about finding him sleeping in bed when Nadia drove him home after dinner, instead of watching the tv like he usually did that early into the night, but Alexei hadn't scolded him for being childish, a nuisance, for waking him up in the middle of the night like he hadn't done in months and failing to contain his sobs behind the palm of his hand.

"I'm not leaving, never." Alexei had whispered into Ilya's hair, easing him on the free space between his side and the wall as his sobs turned into sniffles. Ilya had been too out of it to feel embarrassed about clinging onto him like a child half his age "I promise."

Ilya had wanted to believe him.

It's hard to when Alexei still looks jumpy and tired, and, at least from Ilya's impression, like he's been trying to find the words to say something all night, even when bugging Ilya about stupid math.

"How do you remember all this stuff anyway, you're a thousand years old" It's what Ilya says instead, groaning as he picks up his pencil once again and stares blankly at the problem.

"You're so funny." Alexei deadpans, pushing a plate of pasta in his direction with a sympathetic smile "C'mon, you can do it later."

The Wolves' last game is playing on tv as they eat dinner in comfortable silence. They arrived on the fourth found of the Playoffs and, even though Nikolai stands by their victory, Ilya is still pretty judgemental of their first line set up. Even though Ilya is aware he's probably just as confused as the time he tried explaining to him the difference between an offside and icing, Alexei lets Ilya blabber about hockey as much as he wants, nodding every now and then encouragingly.

They're cleaning out the kitchen when Alexei suddenly clears his voice, officially distracting Ilya from the plate he's been drying while spewing off about Dynamo's power play in the last round.

"Do you remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? About uhm, moving."

Ilya blinks up at him, taken aback "Yes." He says carefully "you said we can't and we got to deal with the pigs."

"Please don't repeat that at school." Alexei huffs, smiling faintly at the edges before grasping back on his most serious expression "I talked with Nadia about it and I think we might make it work."

Ilya doesn't bother to hide his surprise "Really?"

"Yes, uhm... there is this money, from mom's inheritance. I never wanted to use it but this is worth it." He admits, biting the inside of his cheek.

It's a weird conversation to have while washing the dishes, Ilya thinks, but he's glad he has something to do with his hands while they talk.

"Where would we go? It's cool if we leave Moscow, it would be really fucking awful to be without Kolya and the guys but-"

"How about Canada?"

"Canada?"

"Yeah, like, in North America." Alexei smirks "you know where that is, right?"

"Shut up." He says, splashing dirty water at him with a scoff "I know that."

Alexei chuckles, wiping the water from his face "I guess I'll have to believe you."

"But why Canada? You said it was a 'stupid idea' wanting to leave Russia." He points out.

"I think a change of scenery might be good, for both of us." Alexei confesses, focusing on his task rather than Ilya's eyes burning a hole through his skull "Canada has good immigration laws and great opportunities, it's not that hard to get a Visa to live there, too, and English it's easier to learn than many other languages." He considers out loud. Then he lists, more cheekily "Plus, it snows in winter, you could still play hockey..."

"You know I was just joking." Ilya mutters, embarrassed, but still curious "How would that even work?"

Alexei hesitates "I would have to go there for a bit, get a job, an apartment-"

Ilya stills, his brows meeting in frown as he whispers faintly "you?"

Just you?

There is a defeating silence before Alexei dries his hands on his pants, kneeling in front of him as he gently nudges Ilya into look at him in the eyes "Hey, I wouldn't just leave you here." He says firmly, brushing his thumb over Ilya's ear soothingly "That would be only be temporary, just until I found a job and a place and dealt with the papers, so you can go to school in the meanwhile."

Ilya can't help the weak inflection of his voice "But where would I stay?"

"Nadia said you could live with them, if you wanted. We're only talking hypotheticals now, of course." Alexei assures him "We could just find another flat around here or in any other city, but-" his expression turns remorseful and almost guilty "I don't think I can take this thing with the cops and everything anymore." Alexei admits quietly.

It's the first time in months he's admitted that out loud. The morse on Ilya's stomach tightens uncomfortably as he shuffles on his feet.

"You don't have to give me an answer now, but whatever you decide, I'm taking you with me, always. We're a package deal now, you know? The court said so, I'm afraid." Alexei says, poking Ilya in the ribs "Alright?"

Ilya squirms away from his hands with a hoarse laugh, but doesn't fight him when Alexei ruffles his hair as he stands back up.

"Alright." He answers quietly, picking up the towel from where it feel from his hands and leaving it near the sink "It- I think it would be cool." He admits then.

And, as a concept, it really is; Canada is home to the biggest hockey league ever and part of him cannot even begin to think about how putting as much distance from them and their past would be a great start to move on. A change of scenery.

Still, it wouldn't only mean leaving behind the bad things; Russia has Nikolai, Nadia and Ivan, it's a country where he can speak the language and, even though his life is not perfect, he could still try to make it work.

And that's where their mother is buried. They've never been to see her after the funeral, not even that February, on the anniversary of her death. Ilya just couldn't bear it and Alexei hadn't pressed. Ilya'd thought he looked just as green at the thought of driving to the cemetery as he did.

"You know what else would be cool, right now?" Alexei prompts then, innocently, effectively straying him from any more grim thoughts. Ilya doesn't trust that expression one bit "If you finished your homework so your teachers won't think I make you slack off."

Ilya sighs. It's going to be a long night.

-

The night before Ilya has to watch his brother board a plane to the other side of the world, he doesn't think twice about quietly stepping out of Nikolai's room and into the guest room, without bothering to knock. Predictably, Alexei is still awake and staring at the packed bags laying at the foot of the bed, despite it being the middle of the night and have re-arranged both of them at least twice each in front of Ilya's eyes.

He doesn't even startle when Ilya joins him over the covers, miming his position and crossing his arms across his chest.

Ilya has been thinking about this night ever since he told Alexei he wanted him to go, almost four months ago. It had been a journey since then, between Alexei finally taking his license exam, starting the process of packing up the flat and moving everything into a deposit cell, at least until they could ship it to the new apartment, and learning to live with the idea that his brother was really moving a whole other continent away.

If someone had told Ilya a little over two years ago that he would've eventually find himself hoping for Alexei not to go, he would have never believe it. And if he had to be honest, neither does he now, in part. He wants him to go, he wants that chance for them and he thinks he's never seen his brother as happy as he was buying the plane tickets to leave. Alexei asked Ilya to choose, after all.

But, even though the plan is to fly in too as soon as Alexei's settled, Ilya can't help the twisted feeling in his guts that makes him wish Alexei could just stay.

He's tried all week to act tough, not let it bring him down as he helped Alexei pack, but now he's leaving tomorrow and Ilya cannot pretend to ignore all of it anymore.

Alexei puts his arm across Ilya's shoulders without a word, allowing him closer despite September's humid heat.

"Are you ok?"

Ilya hums, leaning into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry you couldn't come with me now." Alexei says.

"It's fine."

It's not, it's not fine, Ilya is going to fucking miss him.

"You'll have to call a lot, though." Ilya says "Nadia will be mad if you don't and she can be very scary when she's mad."

Alexei snorts "You think I don't know?"

"Maybe you'll forget it." He tries to shrugs.

Maybe you'll forget me

Alexei shakes his head knowingly, scratching  gently at his scalp "Never, kid."

Ilya doesn't even realize he's been falling asleep until he wakes up the next morning, with his feet hanging off one side of the bed and his face smashed against Alexei's bicep. He doesn't shift until it's Nadia to lean in through the door to have them come down for breakfast.

It's a silent drive. Ilya spends it looking outside the window on Nikolai's side, who is snoring softly in his seat. Well, it is terribly early in the morning after all, Ilya is just too jittery to sleep now.

"Do you see your flight? Actually, I see it- no, wait, that's not the one, I-"

"Dusya." Ivan calls her out gently, walking up to the screens with Alexei's second luggage. Ilya still can't believe everything fit in just two of those. He and Nikolai follow right behind him as they walk into the hall "It's still too early, don't worry."

Nadia inhales loudly, pushing her hair behind her ears to calm down "You're right." She says, clearing her voice "Are you sure you don't want neither of us to come with you?" She asks then Alexei "I can totally take a few days off and none of Ivan's patients can get any worse in just a week, right?"

Ivan just shakes his head fondly as Alexei chuckles, fixing his backpack over his shoulders "I'm good, guys, but thank you. For everything." He adds, before getting an armful of both of them.

"You text me as soon as you get to London or I'm getting the first flight." Nadia threatens, visibly tightening her arms around Alexei's back. Ilya doesn't really envy him, at the moment "and you better call once you get to fuckass nowhere in Canada, you get that, Rozanov?"

Alexei laughs breathlessly into the hug. Ilya tries to imagine what the passerby’s might be thinking, watching the five of them huddled close like they're seeing Alexei off to war. They look like a family, Ilya realises then, when he spots the same conflicted worry on a nearby old woman's face, while cradling her daughter's hands in hers, reflected on both Ivan and Nadia's faces as they fuss over Alexei. He doesn't really know how to feel about that, though.

"It's called Edmonton." Alexei repeats, for what feels line the thousandth time.

"Of all the places in Canada" Nadia responds like clockwork, pushing Alexei's bangs off his eyes with glassy eyes. His hair has gotten way longer than Ilya's ever seen it, it was a bit of a revelation to see it curl up just as Ilya's own, like their mother's, over his forehead "How the hell did you even find that?"

Alexei didn't find that. Ilya did, in fact, by throwing darts at a map of Canada Alexei put up over the wall of his old room. It had been mostly a joke at first, but it had seemed like a good enough place from the pictures they'd found online, so neither of them had minded Ilya's shitty aim much.

Nadia is not supposed to know that, though.

He and Alexei share an accomplice smile over her shoulder.

"Don't worry about it." Alexei dismisses her, kissing her cheek and patting Ivan's back one last time.

Nikolai's face goes nuclear red when Alexei ruffles his hair, but he allows him to draw him into a hug regardless. Ilya thinks it's a progress, a slow one for sure but still a progress.

Alexei turns to him last, his expression falling with unsureness "Hey, kid."

Ilya is already walking towards him when he opens his arms to squeeze him gently against himself. It's a bit of a cruel joke, Ilya thinks, that when Alexei finally got nonchalantly comfortable with this kind of affection it also came his time to leave, leaving Ilya to the same destiny of a plant that got put in the shade to shrink and die of starvation.

But Ilya wills himself not to cry, sniffing loudly against his shirt.

"You'll be fine." Alexei whispers, dropping his chin over the crown of Ilya's head "It's just for a couple of months."

"I know."

"Be good for Nadia and Ivan and pick up your own dirty socks off the ground."

"I will."

"Be... good at hockey, I guess?"

"I'm already the best at hockey, I don't know about just good."

Alexei amused scoff resonates in Ilya's ear where it's pressed over his chest "Start working on getting humble then, or I'll ask Kolya to trip you every time you step on the ice."

And if Alexei asked, Nikolai probably would, out of that weird admiration thing he's got going on towards him.

Ilya chuckles wetly "Alright, old man."

Alexei pulls him back by his shoulders. His eyes are the same colour of a cloudless sky, less heavy than they used to be, settled. It's a good thing, he tells himself, all of this is for a good thing.

"Take care."

Ilya indulges in the warmth of his hands only for a couple of more seconds before stepping back.

"You too."

Nadia pulls him at her side as they watch Alexei disappear behind the security line to the international flights.

It's going to be two long months.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Sorry if this took so long, life loathes me

TW: slurs, bullying

Turns out, Canada is actually so fucking boring. 

It's kind of a shame really, because Ilya can't say he minds the place, overall; their apartment is cozy, Ilya still has a good amount of his stuff just laying around in his new room, waiting to be placed on the shelves Alexei built around the window nook that faces the main road outside the building. People are very, overly, nice, even if they have to repeat themselves one too many times so that Ilya can understand what they're trying to say, even if sometimes he doesn't get it either way and is left nodding and smiling politely as he walks away more confused than before. Ilya likes waking up to snow covered streets, to the Christmas lights still hung outside the shops and the lampposts right outside his window, that have been lulling him to sleep ever since he got there. 

Alexei's coworkers are pretty cool, as far as Ilya has been able to tell, and he's glad that his brother managed to get some friends out of this. Ilya can't remember the last time he saw him joke around with people his age. Alexei’s boss, though, is undoubtedly Ilya’s favourite; she always sneaks Ilya cookies when there is a new batch coming out, letting him sit on a stool next to the kitchen counter while she bakes and tells him about her recipes. And Ilya still has no idea how to ask for bus information, but by his second week in Canada he can point out baking supplies better than he'd have ever thought he would, all thanks to Elke, who doesn't care if his words are blocky or roll off his tongue like gravel, when he struggles to tell her about skating with Alexei at the park or the cool fair he brought Ilya to that weekend to get him out of the house. 

Still, apart from that, Ilya has been mostly having nothing to do for days on end by now, and it has been driving him absolutely crazy. He has probably seen all the movies ever streamed in the past ten years while curled on the couch of the break room at the café, trying to follow up with the stupidly fast subtitles, ran his phone battery dry hundreds of times only in the span of a couple of days, to play snake in between his brother’s breaks, and took enough mindless walks around the neighbourhood that he surely will never get lost again, after that first time Alexei had to pick him up in front of a tourist point three blocks away.

Ilya still prefers that against staying all alone at the flat, but it's really fucking boring, anyway. 

This is the longest he has ever been without hockey, without Nikolai. After years spent going to school together everyday, to practice, and basically living in the same house after they sold their old flat, it’s deeply unsettling to get to see him only from the other side of a screen.

As much as he feels bad admitting it, it makes him feel a little bit better to see that his best friend is doing just as miserably. Well, at least at first.

Nikolai's face looks tired from the grainy picture of his computer. It must be pretty late in the evening there in Moscow, by now, Ilya figures, and he knows too well how a whole week of practice can drain one out. Still, that can’t be the only reason, he thinks, as they chat, and Nikolai lets him moan out and about the deep unfairness of boredom. But it’s when Nikolai shifts against the backrest of his chair, at some point during Ilya’s yap, hissing in pain, that Ilya cuts himself off, frowning.

"You're hurt." He points out, trying to assess him, as much as physically possible from thousands miles away and a blurry screen, anyway.

"Just practice." Nikolai says, mindful of his left shoulder as he settles back. Their computer is in Nadia's studio, Ilya can see him fidget with one of the stray hairclips she always leaves around the house, up for grab for when she's late for work.

"Are you okay?"

"Landed weird on my shoulder, it's fine."

Perhaps it is, but Nikolai is not exactly an easy guy to take down. He's always been the tallest on the team, very aware of his limbs and pretty much a natural in his position. Nikolai always had his own way of playing, clinical and calculated, so unlike Ilya’s brash and overeager strides. That was probably why they’d always fit so well on the same line, and also why Nikolai left the ice intact, more often than not.

"How did that even happen?"

Nikolai grimaces "Coach put Zaitsev to play center, but, well, he's..."

"A giraffe on skates." Ilya offers, stunned "What the hell?"

"Yeah, I know. He tripped on his stick during second period and pretty much dragged me down with him." Nikolai complains, rubbing his shoulder on top of his shirt with a grunt.

"Definitely a great strategy if your goal is to bring the opposite team to the hospital."

"More like your own team." Nikolai mutters, but still loud enough for the microphone to pick up.

At that, Ilya can't help but scoff "Oh, so he's my replacement?" Jealousy burns hot through his veins as he takes it all in, but Ilya cannot even pretend to feel self conscious about it "Is coach nuts? He's a third liner at best and barely a good enough wing when he's able to stay on his feet. Now he wants him to actually score? He's not me." He sneers, incredulous.

The qualifications for the juniors are barely a month away, and it's absurd to think coach would play roulette with his players like that, especially considering that scouts are going to attend those games. It’s a too big of a risk, Ilya thinks.

"What do you expect him to do?" Nikolai asks then, sounding way less sympathetic than Ilya had imagined he would "Kiselyov broke his leg last week so he's out for at least another six weeks and without you we don't have another center to cover for practice teams. Coach is going crazy trying to find someone before regionals." He says, looking straight through the camera and into Ilya's eyes, with a mix of resignation and anger. At Ilya, at coach, at stupid Zaitsev, Ilya doesn't know, but for once he wishes Nikolai didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve, only for him to be stabbed in the chest with them.

"Oh."

"Yes, oh." Nikolai snorts humourlessly, wiping at his eyes "It fucking sucks. We don't have any really consistent scorer and our line isn't balanced without you. If we don't find another center we're out of the qualifications run, we can’t play short. I-is that what you wanted to hear, that we miss you, that I do?" shame pools at the bottom of his stomach as Nikolai's lower lip wobbles dangerously “You’re fucking welcome.”

It's just a game, Ilya wants to say, but, for as much as that might be the truth for him, it has never been like that for Nikolai. Ilya knew it when they were kids, driven by the same amount of competitiveness, as they shoot plastic pucks in the net at the back of Nikolai’s garage, and he’s definitely more aware of it now, that hockey is more than just practice and chasing each other on the ice. Ilya plays because he’s good at it, but Nikolai does because he loves it, and Ilya can imagine how upset he must be at not being able to play.

"I think my dad is calling for me." Nikolai says then, strained, despite the evident lack of any other sound, on his side "I gotta go."

"Nikki-"

"I-I'll see you, alright?"

Ilya's apology is stuck on the back of his throat when Nikolai hangs up, leaving him to stare at his own pale face in the reflection of the blank screen. 

Fuck.

That wasn't supposed to go like that, Ilya thinks, miserably. He can’t even remember the last time they fought, either. It just isn’t them, it’s hard to be in a disagreement with someone that thinks just like you. He wants to call him back, fix this, but the thought of Nikolai possibly ignoring his calls is enough to get him to sit back in his desk chair, with his hands limp at his sides.

Alexei doesn't ask what's wrong when Ilya flops on the couch next to him and buries his face across his lap, once he finally finds it in himself to get up and drag himself out of his room. Maybe Ivan already texted him, maybe he didn't and he thinks Ilya is just nervous about his first day of school, tomorrow. Still, he brushes Ilya's hair from his face silently, changing the channels from his usual de-stress crime dramas to that Sunday’s game, and simply waits for anything Ilya will give him, like he always does. Ilya doesn't think he can this time, though, not without crying out with frustration.

Seeing Edmonton lose this badly can only manage to make him feel a little more understood, at least. 

And perhaps he must be making a just as pathetic scene in his brother's eyes, because he agrees way too easily to order in, later that night, and eat right in front of the tv, with take out boxes weirdly balanced on their laps and a new episode of American Dad playing on the screen. 

Ilya feels so worn out he doesn't even realize he's been falling asleep to the last run of The Office until he wakes up the next morning, in his own bed, to the blaring sound of his alarm and dark outside his window. His phone is plugged in and resting on his bedside, with no other text apart from some words of encouragement from Nadia and Ivan. His thumb hovers over Nikolai's contact for a couple of tensed seconds before a knock on his door has him almost dropping the phone on his forehead.

"Ilyusha, we have to be out in an hour." Alexei says, leaning his head into the room "C'mon, there is breakfast on the table."

Ilya sighs into his pillow. 

It's going to be a long day.

Edmonton middle high looks kind of like what Ilya would expect from a prison; grey and dull. 

They attract a lot of stares walking through the hallways. Ilya doesn't know if its due to the novelty of a new student or Alexei's imposing height as he leads them to the main office, completely unbothered. His backpack feels heavy on his shoulders. Ilya is not used to walk around with anything more than pens, pencils and notebooks, and frankly the list they had to shop for a few days ago had seemed way too excessive and expensive, but Alexei had waved him off.

"If the school wants you to have it, we'll get it." He'd said, before frowning at the list in his hands like it had personally offended him "What the fuck is an 'inch'?"

Ilya had no idea.

What he does know, instead, as he finally drops at an empty table in the cafeteria, is that he can't wait for the day to be fucking over. 

Once Alexei left that morning, with a last reassuring pat on his shoulder, Mr Hart, the office man, had Ilya leave some of his stuff in a dusty locker, before walking him to his class.

"They are numbered, with numbers." He had explained slowly, kind of like one would to someone they thought was an idiot, pointing at the silver plaque beside each door and at the numbers on his schedule "Just like the lockers, you remember where yours is, right? In case you don’t, there are maps hung in the hallways, so you don’t get lost."

"Ok."

"I think you're going to like it here." Mr Hart had continued, jovially "Our teachers have the best references in all Edmonton and-" Ilya hadn't really intended tuning him out, but following his rambles had turned out to be kind of impossible with the way his words tangled with each other to his ears. 

Ilya had never felt so out of place in his entire life as he had in class, copying the other kids as they took their things out of their backpacks and trying to match the words written on the board with whatever the teacher of the moment had been saying.

They had all tried, Ilya has to give them that, as he can the fact that they didn't ask for him to stand up and introduce himself with the few English three months of private classes and two weeks in Canada had helped him build. 

He knows how he sounded to them, to all of them, like some funny caricature straight out of a movie. The snickers coming from the back of the class hadn't needed any translation whatsoever, Ilya had to just grow used to them by the end of fourth period.

And he had tried so hard to still be his usual self, the one people liked for his charm and confidence, for his jokes and quick-witted mind, but nobody had really wanted to keep up with the new kid that could barely string a whole sentence together.

Therefore, lunch is just as lonely as recess had been, and not even Alexei's attempt at drawing a puck and a hockey stick on his lunch bag is able to cheer him up, not when he feels both too much and not enough, wrapped in his own bubble of loneliness at an empty table. 

He misses it, he misses hiding in the back of the room to play GTA on Nikolai's portable console during class, play football with a ball made out of tape during recess and sit at lunch in the canteen with their classmates, their friends, people that Ilya hasn't heard back from ever since winter break started. And the only one that did, he can’t help but think mournfully, Ilya fucked that up in less than four weeks.

But when Alexei picks him up later that afternoon, Ilya tries his best not to let it show on his face that he hated every second of it, that he wants to go back home.

He doesn't want him to feel bad, to think this is not going to work out, because Alexei worked so hard for them to be there now, in Canada, the only place, apart from the Morozovs' house, where Ilya has ever seen him this happy. He sees it every day in his smile, both the polite one he gives costumers and the one he wears to hide how amused he is by Finn's bad jokes, and in how he started to go back to his habits, like his morning runs or the light strolls he insists they take to not being cooped up in their flat even on a Friday night. 

Ilya doesn't want it to go back to how it was before, and he owes Alexei a bit of solace for everything he has done for him. 

"Oh, kiddo." Ivan sighs into the phone, when Ilya finally finds the courage to admit that he's just about to tear his hair out from weeks worth of pent up frustration "You know, Lyosha is not expecting anything back from you."

"I know." He sniffs pitifully. It's the middle of the night, barely nine AM back in Russia, and Ilya has been closed off into his room ever since he walked out the living room after dinner, and slammed the door shut behind himself. The sound had been so loud that Ilya is pretty sure they'll be hearing from the old lady living upstairs in the morning, if the stomps he’d heard over his head earlier hadn’t been enough of a warning. He can't find it in himself to care just now, not when he barely knows how something as stupid as Alexei asking how his history test went ended with such haste. 

"Everything you feel right now it's completely normal." Ivan continues. Ilya can perfectly imagine him leaned back in his studio's chair in between patients, his glasses hanging around his neck from the old-man cord Nadia had gotten him as a gag gift that New Year's eve.

"I just- It feels like I'm someone else when I'm there." He admits, hugging his knees to his chest "Whatever I try saying comes out wrong, it's exhausting. I didn't think it would be like this."

Ilya feels like he’s been betrayed by the picture all the teen movies he’s watched only through that past month had been painting. Maybe he’s should have gotten his clue by all the singing.

"I get why you wouldn't. I'm sorry it wasn't what you had hoped for. But Ilya, it's also been less than two weeks." Ivan considers "And I'm pretty sure that none of the kids there has any ill intentions. It's hard to imagine ourselves in someone else's shoes, and ever harder to understand that we might hurt them by not even thinking about it." Ilya hears him make a pondering sound "You know, when we moved, Nikki had a really hard time with fitting in, kind of like you. Well, you know him, he's always been shy. We were deeply afraid about him ever feeling lonely growing up here, especially that first few months. I don't think I'll ever be grateful enough for all your effort, yours and your mother’s, of course."

Ilya's phone almost slips from his ear from his surprise "My mom’s?"

Ivan chuckles, fond "Ah, yes. Irina was probably the closest friend Dusya ever had, after we got to Moscow. It was hard for her too, to be so far away from home, even though we both never had a close relationship with our parents. It never stops while growing up, being scared when things change, I’m afraid. But then she got back from bringing Nikki to practice, that first day, and she couldn't stop talking about the woman that helped her convince Nikki to get his skates on. That was just one of the ways your mom ever showed her kindness. She had such a big heart, and, for that, you do too."

Ilya feels his face crumple as a shaky smile makes space on his face "I didn't know that."

That does sound like something his mom would have done, though, he thinks, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. Ilya was just a kid, but he still remembers holding on her hand as they walked to the stands of his old rink, a pair of little skates hanging off by the laces over her shoulder as she reassured him, gently. If he concentrated enough, he could probably still hear the sound of her voice.

"That is how it went. You two brought back the smile on the two people I love the most, and maybe I'm terribly biased, but that makes you more special that you might think. Give these kids some time, they'll understand it too."

Ilya smile can’t help but subdue "How's Kolya?" He asks, before he can stop himself "He didn't text me back."

He hadn't wanted to come off too strong and sound clingy, but after two whole days of no contact he had started losing hope, and almost two weeks later he has even less ideas about how to fix it than he did back then, nothing that doesn't involve flying out to Moscow and force him to hear him out, at least.

"He's grumpy, feeling pretty down, and he misses you a lot." Ivan tells him, as if he'd expected the question "I shouldn't tell you this, but since I'm filling in my dad duties and not my professional ones, it’s probably best I do: I think he's afraid you're still mad at him."

Ilya blinks dumbly at the darkness of his room "Mad? He thinks I'm mad?"

Ilya had thought he was mad. What the hell?

"I don't really know what happened between you, kiddo, I'm just giving you my opinion." Ivan sighs "But you know my son, he's not going to text you if he thinks he's not welcome to."

That, Ilya does. Nikolai is the same kid that would still shyly ask for a cup of water at their flat, as if he hadn’t long since then earned the honour of not being a guest anymore but a third, unofficial, inhabitant. Maybe Ilya should have expected this, after all.

"I'll do it." he says eagerly, before getting cut off by a loud yawn "Tomorrow, I'll do it tomorrow. Thanks, uncle Ivan. If someone didn't tell you already: you're really good at your job."

Ivan's laugh feels warm, despite the thousands miles in between them "Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Ilyusha. Just hang in there. And talk with your brother, he's been pretty worried about you."

Right. Ilya acting like someone had been pissing into his cereal lately surely hadn't helped with that, he thinks, flinching.

When he finally hangs up, that day's emotions are still rattling inside his ribcage like the high of a storm, but somehow feel more manageable, leashed. Still, there is a certain heaviness weighting down on him as he walks timidly out of his room and towards the living room.

Ilya has stopped questioning Alexei’s sleeping habits a long time ago, and he is far from surprised to find him still hovering around the kitchen at that hour in the night, scrubbing a pan a tad too aggressively, as that Sunday’s derby plays (Legally? Ilya has no idea) on their computer perched on top of the microwave. 

"How- how is the game going?"

Alexei's only sign of acknowledgement is his hands hesitating as he props the pan on the drying rack "CSKA might actually win, it looks like Spartak doesn't even remember how to play tonight."

"That's... good?''

Alexei sighs tiredly, reaching for a towel to dry his hands "You care about football, now? What is it?"

Ilya shuffles uncomfortably on his feet "I'm sorry, for earlier." He says "It wasn't fair to take my shit out on you."

There is a flicker of surprise in Alexei's face, as if he hadn't been expecting it, maybe "It wasn't." He agrees.

"And I shouldn't have raised my voice, that was a shitty thing to do." 

"Yes." Alexei nods, crossing his arms over his chest "If you have something to say to me, to anyone, you talk like an adult, you don't yell. Yelling doesn’t fix things.” He presses. 

Their father used to yell a lot; at their mom, when things in the house weren't the way he wanted, at Alexei, whenever his report cards came in the mail or his music was too loud, at Ilya, when he was in his way. Ilya can't say he's missed it or that he doesn't feel ashamed about falling into his same steps. 

"I know." He whispers weakly "I'm really sorry."

The firmness in Alexei's eyes visibly softens at that, as he lets Ilya burrow in his arms. 

"Thanks for apologizing." Ilya hears him say, where he propped his chin on the crown of his head "I know it's been hard for you, but I would never get mad if you flunked a test, you know?" There is a faint chuckle "That would be kind of hypocritical of me."

Ilya groans against his chest "It was stupid, I know."

"Not stupid, just... unprecedented." Alexei admits "Since when you care so much about grades, anyway?"

"I just- I wanted it to go well, to prove that I'm not an idiot." Ilya sniffles, laughing wetly "results definitely didn't really help my case, I guess."

Alexei stiffens, leaning back to hold onto his shoulder as his gaze grows concerned  "Someone told you that?"

"No-"

"I'll speak with the teacher, that is fucking bullshit-"

"Nobody said anything." Ilya cuts him off, hurriedly "And please don't, It would be super embarrassing." He mutters, trying to turn his head away from him. Hiding something from his brother, Ilya has learned, is difficult enough without having to look straight at him in the eyes. 

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone." Alexei says firmly, cupping Ilya's jaw to lock their eyes together "Not me, not your teacher, not your classmates. It's not a grade that defines how smart you are, especially not when you're taking a test in a language you are still learning." 

"What if it's me I want to prove it to?" Ilya asks then, lower lip quivering against his will "I- I wanted to know that I could do this."

Everything since coming to Canada has been an humbling reminder than there are some things Ilya will not just be automatically good at, and maybe that had also been the problem, because Ilya has always been good at picking things up, at being flexible and bending without breaking. He couldn’t explain it to himself how it could have been so easy for his brother to get used to all of that, while Ilya felt like drowning under a pressure he hadn’t know he’d put himself under.

"You need to learn some patience, Ilyushenka" Alexei says softly, tugging at a curl "Some things you have to wait for, they take time. It doesn't make you worth any less than any other person, even if you flunked a stupid test. Alright?" His fingers tangle gently at the hair on Ilya's nape as he taps his thumb soothingly over his ear.

"Alright." Ilya leans his head on his shoulder, the rest of the fight leaving his body as he relaxes in his hold. 

He can hear the smile in Alexei's face, then, as he says "You're still grounded, though." 

Oh well, he can take that.

After all, Alexei is not exactly what Ilya would consider as strict, probably due to the fact that, after all, against everything with his own father and what he got to hear about other kids parents at school, living with his brother had always felt easier, something that had way less expectations. As much as Alexei can bring out the nagging to a next level, sometimes, Ilya can’t say he minds him caring, either, even when it’s too much or if it’s a little embarrassing.

Whatever is going to make him do? Take on laundry duties for a week, no tv after ten PM-

"When Mrs. Sawyer will come for our heads tomorrow," Alexei continues, mischievously "you're answering the door." 

"Fuck, no." He gasps, leaning back with a full body shiver "She hates me, Lyosha. That should be considered some form of child endangerment."

"But she's just a sweet old lady." Alexei coos, not even bothering to hide the smirk on his face as he ruffles his hair, before turning his back to Ilya and walking away.

"Sweet old lady?" Ilya croaks back, tailing him to the living room after a shocked moment of realization "Alexei, she's the literal devil; she threw her slipper at our door last week for having the tv too loud and her ugly cat keep chasing me every time I get near the building."

"So now you're scared of a cat?" Alexei snorts.

Ilya scoffs, outraged "I am not." 

He just thinks Wrinkles should belong to some vet facility, so they could study how evilness develops in cats that have probably been around to see the collapse of the Berlin wall. For the wellness of the whole community, of course. 

"No problem, then. We can all coexist peacefully, which is exactly what you'll tell Mrs. Sawyer tomorrow." Alexei shrugs, as if he hadn’t just damned Ilya to the worst twenty minutes of his entire life "You should really go to sleep now, you have a big day ahead of you, yes?" He says at last, patting Ilya's back and retreating to his room as he calls out "Goodnight!"

Ilya is left standing in the middle of the living room, alone and mildly terrified. He should really stop underestimating his brother.

-

The anniversary of their mother's death creeps up on him before Ilya has any time to name the growing sense of dread making space inside his chest. 

Finally back on the ice, he had barely noticed the days blending together.

The Edmonton Flyers had welcomed Ilya with definitely more enthusiasm than anticipated. Ilya’d had enough of a flop experience with school to be wary, but the guys on the team hadn't minded his rocky English or his tentative chirps during the practice rounds. Ilya was supposed to just play the best he could, and that he could definitely do.

Something Ilya also hadn’t expected, had been how fundamentally different the same sport could be in two different places; coach Vasilev used to have very little mercy towards tardiness or cheeky playing, Ilya probably wouldn’t be able to count all the days he’d to stay after practice to run bag skates and laps around the rink, only during that last season he’d played before moving. He was a very difficult man to impress, harsh and severe, the total opposite to what coach Martin had resulted to be, when Ilya had introduced himself at try-outs, before leaving both him and the team eating the ice as he took off with the puck. There was always some great satisfaction into leaving faces gaping at him, as he moved through drills with years of muscle memory. Nikolai had called it being a show off, when he’d called him back after practice, Ilya had humbly replied that it wasn’t just showing off if it was going to get them to win regionals.

The Flyers weren’t a bad team at all, to begin with, for being Canadian and coddled, both on and off the ice.

Now though, the thought of going to practice later that afternoon makes his limbs feel tons heavier than they already did, as he stares at the yellowed picture over his nightstand, at his mother's smile, through the only slither left uncovered by the duvet. 

The alarm has already gone off, Ilya let it stop ringing by itself, already awake ever since the dreams begun, earlier that night. 

In the hallway, Ilya can hear the faint sound of Alexei, who probably just got back from his run, pacing around the flat. He does that sometimes, Ilya has discovered, mostly when he's stress cleaning or has thoughts too big for his head. It's unusual for it to happen right after being on a more than an hour long run, but Ilya supposes that Ivan is right in this case too: grief does show differently, even if you're mourning the same person. 

"You're staying home today." Alexei decides, when Ilya finally manages to drag himself out of his room and to the kitchen isle, to sit in front of an untouched bowl of cereal.

"I have to go."

"There is no reason why you can't skip one day, I'll call and tell them you're sick-"

"Lyosha," he mutters quietly "I need to go."

He holds his stare across the isle for all the seconds it takes for Alexei to find what he's been looking for on his face and give in with a nod, before lowering his gaze to his hands. 

Ilya will go to school, then to practice, like any other Thursday, and he'll pretend that thinking about getting on the ice doesn't make him want to curl up in the middle of the rink. He doesn't want to stay home alone to his thoughts, make Alexei worry any more than Ilya can tell he already is, among his own load of grief, and hover around the shop like the sadder ghost of himself. He'll take the quiet acknowledgement classmates and teachers alike give him anytime, to hold onto that scarce impression on normality he can have on days like this, when everything feels just too much. He needs a distraction, he thinks, his fingers itching for the necklace around his neck. 

"We could go to church tonight, yes?" Alexei says, fussing with Ilya's scarf, in the few minutes left before the ring of the bell. Ilya lets him, leaning into the warmth of his hands, as kids rush up and around them to scramble out of their parents cars.

That has Ilya almost crack a smile. The only person that hated going to the early Sunday's services with their mom more than Ilya, was his brother, who always ended up tagging along, anyway, Ilya had guessed, just to have an excuse not to stay at home with their dad. Ilya can't really fault him for it, he did too.

Ilya doesn't know if he believed then, if he does now, but sometimes it makes him feel like some kind of imposter to wear the proof of his mother's faith around his neck. 

"Maybe." He nods, just to see him squirm a little "maybe." Perhaps they could light up a candle for her, that doesn't sound too bad, after all.

When Nadia had called earlier that morning, her and the guys were on the way to the graveyard. In all the years that he's known them, he's probably never been more grateful than he is now, to have them. Since her death, Ilya had only visited his mother’s grave once, early that January, only a bunch of hours before leaving for Canada. He hadn't been able to say anything to her, do anything, apart from leaning into Nadia's embrace, as they both stared at his mother's name covered in snow and moss. Ilya thinks he wouldn't have had the courage to go even if there wasn’t an ocean dividing him from Moscow, not with the sound of her last breath vividly ringing in his ears from the previous night. 

Today, he can't say he's too mad about being a wallflower. Nobody calls him out for being slouched over his desk, despite a few pointed looks, and a too nosy stare from his French teacher, who, after the last PTA meeting, Ilya can confidently say is only waiting for a valid chance to have another talk with Alexei. Ilya hadn't know what was more awkward back then, if the obvious way she had flirted with his brother during the whole thing or the fact that Alexei hadn't picked up on it a single time. From someone so perceptive, Ilya had expected way more game. A boost in her class wasn’t that much worth it, though.

He barely registers the morning slipping from under his feet.

Like any other lunch break, Ilya is left wandering around the backfields after the bell’s ring. It feels like a waste of seats to get a table no one else with sit at in the cafeteria, anyway, and Ilya likes watching the marching band practice on the football field as he bites into his lunch. 

He's picking at the seeds of his sandwich (a choice of bread Ilya completely blames on the whole country of Canada, because Alexei used to get human bread before moving, not the bird kind), when he suddenly gets the feeling he's being watched. It takes him only a few seconds of looking around to meet the small rounded eyes of an orange cat, huddled under the bleachers and sniffing at the pieces of bread Ilya threw under the seats.

"You can have them." He huffs with a glare, feeling ridiculous as soon as the words leave his mouth "But then you go away. I'm having a pretty shitty day, alright?" 

The cat only stares at him in response, crawling forward with a warning grumble. If it thinks Ilya is getting up anytime before the bell rings again, it's clearly mistaken.

Maybe he really is going crazy, he thinks then, rewinding his thoughts to the exact point where he’d started to become territorial towards a cat, but then, the cat actually has the audacity to hiss at him, pawing at his leg like it's coming for blood.

Perhaps a more sane person would stand up and find another bench, there is a whole lot of them in fact, around the football field, but Ilya's sad, he's angry, and he will not take any shit by some feral ball of fur, not today.

He wants to think that it counts as a good enough justification when he instinctively leans in and hisses back. 

And the cat was probably not expecting it either, because it scrambles down the bleacher with a graceless jump, disappearing behind the gates' bushes all the way down the stands. Ilya has no time, however, for gloating.

"What are you doing?"

He almost falls off his seat himself when the sound of a jovial voice comes up from behind his back.

"Shit! Sorry dude! Didn't mean to scare you." The boy says, raising his hands up apologetically "Are you okay?"

Ilya, very unlike him, gapes a little as he searches for his words "Ya- Da, Yes, okay. You not scare me, is fine." 

The other looks down at him with big curious eyes, the greenest Ilya’s ever seen. Ilya thinks they look  about the same age, still, he doesn't remember his face in any of his classes. He's probably not part of the band either, he figures, for his lack of geeky uniform over the already geeky enough character shirt. 

"Why you here?" He grumbles, an equal amount of embarrassed and surprised. 

"I got lost, I was looking for the cafeteria." The guy shrugs, apparently taking Ilya's question like an invite to slide into the next seat, before Ilya can think about asking how exactly could he think he would find that on the outside the building "Why are you here? And why were you beefing with the cat?" He asks back, crossing his legs under himself.

"What."

"Beefing." The boy repeats, tilting his head "It means, ugh, fighting, kind of."

Ilya tucks that in a corner of his mind, before answering, albeit defensively "He fight first, I fight back. Cats hate me." He admits, for some reason.

"That's weird." The other considers.

"You come talk to me still, that is weird too." Ilya points out.

Ilya doesn't know what he expected in response, surely not for the other to start laughing in his face and hold out his hand "Point taken. I'm Wyatt, Wyatt Hayes, definitely a weirdo." He informs him, waggling his eyebrows up and down endearingly "Just moved here, we do that a lot: my dad is in the military." He adds, like that should mean something to Ilya. 

A weirdo, he repeats in his mind, picking up the offer with a solid shake. Huh.

"Ilya Rozanov." 

"Il'ya" Wyatt tests out, with definitely more effort than anybody else in that same school ever put into it "What is it? Russian?"

"Yes." Ilya nods "I am too, new."

"I figured." Wyatt says, his curls bobbing every time he moves his head, to the rhythm of the band practicing down on the field "Everybody looks so close, but you're here, alone, hissing at cats, it adds up. It sucks being new, I changed lots of school so I know a lot about it."

Ilya gets the impression that Wyatt wouldn't have any problems starting up a conversation with a wall, chance given, but he gets the frustration etched on his face, he really does. Maybe then it wasn't Ilya the problem all along, if Wyatt too can't manage to fit in apparently, and he really does seem like the type that would. Ilya used to too, but that is another thing he would rather not think about.

"How long have you been here?"

"Two months, almost."

"Is it cool?"

"Is fine. School is normal, city is pretty, lot of snow. There is very big, uhm, muzey, museum? All old things, dead animals and rocks, many rocks. Hockey team is mid." He heard the word from a kid in his math class last week, Ilya preens at the chuckle it gets out of Wyatt.

"Hell yeah, that is true. They're not consistent at all. I guess there is worse, though. Like, have you seen Ottawa?" He snickers, taking a bag of chips out of his backpack.

"Left wing has banana feet and they play like they not want cup at all." Ilya huffs, leaning in to pick a chip out of the bag at Wyatt's offer. Alexei won't be offended if he doesn't finish his bird sandwich, he decides, not if Ilya pretends to have found the Hockey pun he wrote in his note cool "I could play more good with eyes closed."

Wyatt perks up "You play?"

"Ah, yes, for long."

"I do too!" 

"You are goalie, yes?"

Wyatt blinks blankly at him, chip stuck mid air "What are you, a fortune teller? Old woman that tells the future." He adds, for Ilya’s sake.

He shrugs "You look like." Truth be told, Ilya would have been more surprised if he wasn't "Goalies are weird, very... they see everything." He tries explaining.

"We do." Wyatt agrees proudly, before starting to rumble "You know, with my sister Kristie, she's a high school senior, we were thinking of going to the rink this Friday after school, with our neighbours. They seem nice, even if they don't like hockey that much and they made fun of my Return of the Jedi poster, which sucks because that movie is fucking awesome, but you should come with us! If you want." He then adds, like he only just remembered they met less than twenty minutes ago.

Ilya is left staring at him, his fingers greasy and still covered in salt. There is an urgent voice in his head screaming at Ilya to accept, that if Wyatt hasn't already been put off by the sad, crazy kid sitting alone on the bleachers, Ilya shouldn't make him want to reconsider or think he doesn't want to go. Because he does, he thinks helplessly, if Wyatt had came up to talk to him on any other day he would have agreed with no hesitation. 

But now it feels like cheating, somehow, to let himself have this to try and escape his grief. 

"Maybe. I ask my brother." He says, clearing his voice and pushing back his guilt as he lowers his head and pretends to look for a napkin inside his backpack.

If Wyatt notices it, which Ilya thinks he probably did, he's a good sport about it, smiling up at him like Ilya just made him the happiest kid in the world "Alright! That'd be sick!" He says excitedly "So, you have brother? He could come with us!"

He snorts at the thought "Yes. Alexei. He is old."

"You mean older?"

"That too." Ilya smirks. 

Wyatt talks and talks while they finish their lunch, about his team back in Belgium, where he last lived with his family, about his sister and moving, and about characters of comic books Ilya has never heard of before, taking his ignorance in merit very personally, even more so when Ilya points at the stamp on his shirt.

"I know that one; he bite by spider, walks on walls, beef with criminals and is very loser for red hair girl."

"That is both the most insulting and funniest thing I've ever heard." Wyatt admits, looking at Ilya with wide eyes "But this is not Spiderman. This, you uncultured soul, is Matt Murdock, lawyer by day and Hell's Kitchen's protector by night." He explains solemnly. 

Ilya frowns, taken aback "So he like, very mean superhero chef?"

Wyatt sighs "I have a lot to teach you." 

Despite only really understanding half of what Wyatt is saying, Ilya finds that he doesn't mind letting him fill the silence between them, just like Wyatt apparently doesn't seem to care if he has to repeat himself or stop to explain the nerdiest and most godawful words to him. 

Their classes don't match exactly, but their lockers, as the last enrolled, are side by side.  Ilya's is mostly filled by candy wrappers and loose paper rather than actual books, he still hasn't got the purpose of going back and forth to it in between classes, but, when the last bell finally rings, he still sees Wyatt to get his stuff before walking out the building together. 

Alexei is already waiting for him by the bus stop and eyes them curiously as Wyatt bumps their shoulders together, before taking off to where a blond girl is waving at him from the driver seat of an old Toyota, with a 'See you tomorrow!"

"That a friend of yours?" Alexei asks when Ilya reaches him, taking his backpack from him and setting it up on his own shoulder, even though Ilya could definitely carry it by himself, now. He still lets him, matching his step as they walk home. 

"I think so." He admits, tucking his hands into his coat "He asked if I want to go skate with him and some guys this weekend."

He can see Alexei's lips curl into a small smile around his cigarette "We can make it work, if you want."

Ilya keeps walking "I think so."

After his mother died, Nadia once told him that, if there was something she was sure about was that Irina would have always made sure to watch over him. It had seemed just too bizarre, part of him hadn't wanted to think about a world where his mother was there and he just couldn't reach her. Now, it almost feels worth believing, that maybe if he can see her in the most mundane ways of life, that means part of her lingered behind, for him, for them. Ilya might've just needed a sign, and what a better one than that?

The candle burns on the altar among dozens of them, in honour of loved ones and cherished, the saints. He and Alexei watch the flames raise in tomb silence, but if his mother is really looking over them, Ilya knows she'll understand he's thankful. He grips his necklace.

I miss you, I love you, Thank you.

-

Everything eventually settles, as it often happens.

The end of the season arrives way too fast, but Ilya is grateful about summer and being able to stay up all night to play COD on the old Xbox Alexei got him for his birthday, with Nikolai's unimpressed voice talking into his ears. Turns out Ilya is not that good at COD, but being able to still hang out with Nikolai, somehow, from different sides of the world, is enough for him. He also finds riling him up with weaponized incompetence incredibly funny. 

Wyatt rapidly becomes a steady presence into his life; his family is still finding their feet after moving all the way from Europe, and, even though Ilya is pretty sure Wyatt's dad isn't really a fan of either him or Alexei, for reasons he still cannot understand, he merely acknowledge them as long as he and Wyatt keep from being too loud when he comes back from work and Wyatt is home by curfew. Ilya can't say the feeling isn’t that mutual. Stephen Hayes reminds him a little too much of his own father sometimes, but Wyatt never seems too bothered by his strictness, and what does Ilya really know about him to judge, apart from stilted interactions and a series of odd looks?

On the other hand, Wyatt's mom is easy to charm, and Ilya is good at that, smiling big and being polite and witty. She always pats his cheek and smiles, endeared, when letting him into their house, chuckling at his jokes as he waits for Wyatt downstairs.

Ilya's favourite Hayes after Wyatt, though, is definitely his sister; Kristie is funny, always offers to drive them around instead of biking under Edmonton's scorching sun when she's not busy, and gets them shakes from the McDonalds' drive through on the way back, before dropping Ilya off at the café or at their flat. 

She's just effortlessly cool, Ilya thinks, every time she beats either of them at air hockey at the arcade or when they're playing on Wyatt's console in the living room and he can see her practicing her tumbling from the tall windows that give to the backyard, to keep up with her regime before college and cheer try-outs. She never seems too bothered when they interrupt her, and, by the time summer is over, Ilya is able to land a wonky backflip that makes Alexei almost loose ten years of his life the first time he shows it to him. Ilya likes keeping him on his toes every now and then.

Nobody takes her going away for college worse than Wyatt does. He comes back from Toronto and helping her move into her room with the most dejected expression Ilya's ever seen on his face, all sad and droopy.

By the time the first day of school rolls up, he seems to be doing much better, though, all jittery in the backseat of Alexei's new (kind of) car as his brother drives them, with the windows pulled all the way down and the loud screech of overlapping guitars coming from the radio. 

High school is not that big of a thing to adjust to. Ilya's English has greatly improved since that first few months, both organically and by forcing himself to keep the subtitles off the tv, and it makes fitting in way easier than it used to be, especially with Wyatt being his usual social magnet.

Ilya likes this, being able to finally get back to how he was before, to the version of himself that could entertain a crowd with only a few words and a wink. And girls like it too, he rapidly discovers. Ilya reels from the attention, from making them blush over compliments and large grins. And there is nothing more to it than that.

"Do they know, though?" Alexei asks pointedly, lowering his fork into his plate, after Ilya's finished telling him about school.

"Know what?"

"That it's nothing more than that."

Ilya frowns at him, taken aback "I guess so. I mean, it's just a joke."

"A joke means that we both know you're kidding. I know you probably don't mean anything bad by it, but if you bring it too far someone might get hurt." Alexei considers, meaningfully, before flicking his forehead and standing up to load the dishwasher.

Ilya doesn't want to hurt anyone, especially not Crystal from biology, who always shares her skittles with him whenever they get paired for lab work. He thinks he can find a balance in that, and it seems to be working, all things considered, even though the guys in the locker room tease and chirp regardless.

"What, no pretty girl cheering for you in the box today, Rozy?" Davies asks that Saturday at practice, snickering while strapping off his chest plate. 

Ilya wants to point out that Tracy Miller waiting for him outside the rink to go to the library together and work on a school project it's pretty different from whatever Davies is implying.

"You jealous, Dave?" He retorts instead, smirking "Is fine if so, I'm sure there is hope for you too."

Wyatt chuckles in the stall beside his while lacing up his shoes.

"Fuck off," the other laughs, pushing at Ilya's shoulder.

"Yes Dave, don't take it personal!" Someone yells from the other side of the locker "Up and at them, Roz!"

That first New Year just him and Alexei in Edmonton hits no harder than Ilya already expected it to. Ilya can tell how much Alexei is trying to make it feel like it was back in Russia, with their mom, with the Morozovs, just from the way he makes them spend a whole afternoon trying to follow a recipe online to make odd shaped cookies to hang off a little Christmas tree they put over the coffee table in the living room. They come out of the oven way too dark to be intentional and Ilya is pretty sure they put salt into the batter instead of sugar, but they have still more than half of the muffin box Elke gave them before the holiday break, along with matching hand knitted hats, that they eat while sprawled on the couch as they open gifts with Nadia and the guys on Skype, at Moscow's midnight.

Ten hours later, the neighbourhood lights up with fireworks, that they watch huddled together under a blanket on the fire escape outside of Ilya's window. Just like them, people are out on the streets, watching the show with eyes full of wonder as snow quietly falls over the roads. Ilya leans his head further against his brother's shoulder.

Overall, that is not a bad place to want to call home.

-

That year's season is intense. Ilya kind of already expected it after moving up teams and entering the junior league, by the start of sophomore year, but it’s still a nice change to be immersed in real competition. Hockey has never been more serious than it is now, there is more pressure, more expectations, from his coach, from his teammates, and while Ilya is not that good of a soldier, he plays to win, and win he does.

Which makes meeting Shane Hollander the worst thing that could have ever happened to him.

Hollander moves on the ice with an agility many players will never get to achieve, not even in the NHL. His pushes are powerful, meticulous, and Ilya, with all three inches he has on him, still finds himself struggling to chase him around the rink for the puck.

And the worst thing about it is that Ilya thinks he hasn't had this much fun playing hockey in years, maybe ever since he was just a kid learning how to skate, waving at his mom through the glass boards.

It's exhilarating and absolutely maddening. 

It doesn't matter how many points Ilya scores in the end, the Ottawa Beavers end the game with a clean 4-3, and Ilya, sweaty and out breath, is left staring at where the other team gathered around Hollander after he scored the winning point, right before the end of the last period. 

He doesn't realize Wyatt has left the net until he's standing right beside him, his helmet in hand as he tiredly pushes his damp hair back from his face, with an haunted look in his eyes.

"Holy shit." 

Ilya can't help but silently agree. 

The morale is sullen as they line up to shake hands with the other team, but Ilya keeps his head up while moving through players.

Hollander's little smirk feels like more than a simple nip at his pride, spiteful "See you next year."

The visor of his helmet is pushed back, Ilya is almost too distracted by the speck of freckles littering his nose to hear him, his heart beating miles in his chest. He grits his teeth "You bet."

It's by far the first game he's ever lost, but the thought of Hollander's playful and burning stare keeps Ilya awake throughout the whole trip back to Edmonton.

And maybe Ilya is, admittedly, a little too invested into keeping track of Hollander's stats, but it's almost an unconscious instinct to in some way, in between games or as he scrolls through old videos of the past years' championships. 

Ilya feels a bit like he's being haunted, with the only exception that it's not by a killer clown or a creepy doll, but by the memory of freckles and the sound of blades cutting through ice. 

Wyatt doesn't seem to be in the same predicament.

"So what?" He says around his sandwich, sending stray pieces of lettuce flying over his tray "If we lost, we lost."

"It doesn't bother you." Ilya says, stunned.

"I mean, of course it does, but we still got second place-"

Ilya throws his hands up "Second is not first." 

"He's not wrong, Wy." Jay hums, pointing at him with a chip, before sending Ilya a considering look "Even if it's getting kinda creepy, man. You gotta let it go."

Betrayed, Ilya feels utterly betrayed; by his friends, by his teammates and by his own brother too. 

His own brother, whose integrity Ilya has seen fold in half in the past three months more than he has in all of his life, all for a cute redhead with a dazzling smile. And Ilya likes Niamh, he really does, but Alexei should think twice about poking his wounds when he can't take Ilya pointing out the fact that if he's not going to get a move on and ask her out, somebody else will. 

And, despite this, Ilya is still going to help him. Alexei owes him big time.

"The guy on your Myspace." Ilya prefaces, leaning into his elbows "He's not your new boyfriend, yes?"

Niamh frowns "Guy?"

"Black hair, very handsome, cool earrings-"

"No, ew, no." Niamh cringes, scrunching up her nose. With the arrival of warmer, sunny days, the freckles splattered all over her face have take an even starker look against her fair skin. Ilya briefly wonders if this happens to Hollander’s face too, with spring, before shrugging off the thought. He’s being really fucking persecuted "That's my brother, he's very much related to me."

Ilya blinks "I would not have guessed."

"We get that a lot, but- I thought you needed help with French?" She asks, confused. She's still in her uniform, despite her shift having been over for at least the last thirty minutes, when she'd walked into the shop with two solid eyebags and dragging her feet, what anyone would consider a normal amount of tired after a twenty-four hour shift.

But Alexei is not anyone, and Ilya has been able to feel his stare burn a hole through the side of his head ever since Niamh had come up to say hi, holding onto her coffee like a safe line and not even protesting when he'd dragged her to sit down with an excuse.

Well, not really an excuse, he could use some help with French, but he has bigger priorities at the moment.

"Ah, French does not matter."

"Are you sure? It's really not a problem-"

"I want to talk about my brother." Ilya cuts her off.

Niamh sputters around her coffee, patting her chest "Wow, well, alright?" She coughs, clearing her voice. Her face falls into something concerned, then, as she looks back towards the counter where Alexei is serving two particularly chatty old ladies with a dazzling smile "Is Lex okay? Something happened?" 

Ilya sighs.

"He's fine, just being very stupid. That's why I come in."

"Where you come in." Niamh corrects gently, but confused "what do you mean?"

"You really like my brother." Ilya considers out loud, locking their eyes together "and my brother really likes you back." 

Niamh's face breaks into surprise "He does?"

This is going to be harder than Ilya thought. 

"What do you think?" He scoffs, incredulous.

"You know, there is definitely a set amount of times you can ask a person out before starting to think that maybe you're the problem." Niamh says defensively, shifting into her seat "And I'm fine with being friends, you know? If that’s what he wants." She continues, deflating, like she might have prepared herself for the possibility.

"He doesn't!" Ilya comes close to yell, earning the weirded out looks of a group of tired college students, sat a few tables away.

"Ilya-"

"No, listen." He insists urgently "My brother is very bad with saying he wants things and I also think he is scared of you, like, not wanting him back." 

Which Ilya cannot understand at all to this day, because even Bryce, who has the emotional intelligence of a brick, had taken a look at the both of them the last time they came by the shop, and clocked them right away.

"I don't know why I'm about to tell you this," Niamh sighs, embarrassed, more to herself than him if he had to guess, leaning in on her elbows "I used to hate coffee. A normal amount, in a 'I need it to survive this shift but I'm going to complain about it' kind of way. My accountant thought my card got cloned by a broke college student with how many times I've come in here, now. You get where I'm going with this, right?" she trails off, suddenly very interested into her coffee.

Ilya has to hold himself from gaping at her as she looks down "You know, it's called café but it doesn't really only sell coffee."

The top of Niamh's cheeks grows faintly red "Yes but, after a while he started making the order right after I came in and it just seemed so rude to say anything, you know? Plus, I don't know what he puts into this," She confesses, with a small, soppy smile on her face "but it's really fucking good."

"I think you're just hallucinating." Ilya states.

"Maybe I am." Niamh chuckles. Her expression turns hopeful then, unguarded "You really think he does?"

"He does." He agrees, pointing his pencil at her "And I need you to hold on, even if he is idiot and doesn't deserve it. Don't give up on my brother." He practically pleads "He is just very- uhm-"

Niamh tilts her head knowingly "Oblivious?"

"Yes! That." 

"Well, I wasn't planning on it to begin with." Niamh confesses, thumbing at her name written in Alexei's messy handwriting on the side of her cup, her eyes soft and curious "But why are you doing all of this?"

Because Ilya thinks that Alexei should stop putting other people, Ilya, over himself, and that even if he told him he understood a couple nights ago, he's still definitely not going to do anything about it, this, even it would mean losing someone like Niamh.

And Ilya lives with him, he’s noticed how Alexei  started putting in more effort to fix his hair in the mirror, every morning, despite it being tied up most of the time at work, anyway, or how he can often catch him looking straight out of the shop’s window, on the days he’s hanging out at the shop after school, as if he’s waiting for the Station’s engine to pull up and Niamh’s fiery had of hair to walk in anytime. Niamh makes him blush, makes him laugh, and for as much as Ilya’s brain had to wrap up around the childish concept of having to share him, Alexei is his brother, he wants that for him, someone like her.

"My brother deserves someone who would come in for months straight for coffee they don't even like, just to see him." Ilya says quietly "He takes care of me, but I think he needs someone to take care of him too, if I can’t."

"You are a good brother." Niamh says then, looking genuinely touched as she pats his forearm with her calloused hand "And I'm really flattered, for the record."  She adds then, more cheekily.

Ilya nods, very seriously "You should be, I don't go whoring my brother out just for anyone."

Niamh snorts, before ruffling his hair "Never change, kid."

"Everything alright?" 

Neither of them had noticed Alexei coming up to their table, visibly exhausted, but while Ilya is used to getting sneaked up on by him, Niamh straightens up with a small jump.

"Hey! Yes, everything's fine." 

"Was coffee good?"

Niamh smile melts into something even sweeter "Yes, Lex. Thank you."

Alexei, Ilya can’t help but notice, has ditched the apron, which usually means only one thing.

"Closing up?" He asks, already reaching for his backpack to put away his half finished homework. He's just going to ask Wyatt to help him before class tomorrow, he decides. 

"Shit, I didn't think it was this late." Niamh says, looking at her watch with wide eyes "Sorry if I overstayed, I'm just going to-"

"No, is fine. Finn is still cleaning up the back" Alexei waves her off, despite probably having just spent the last fifteen minute telling people they were about to close. Ilya had been to focused on their conversation to notice "You're very tired." His brother considers then, looking her up and down, before fixing his eyes on the dark eyebags under her own.

"It was a long shift." Niamh admits, sheepishly shrugging into her shoulders.

His brother’s face turns pondering "You shouldn't drive like this. I can give you a lift?"

Ilya coughs loudly.

"We can give you a lift." Alexei corrects himself, rolling his eyes, as the tips of his ears grow pink.

"What about my car?" 

"I can drive you to get it back tomorrow, is my day off." He offers.

If Ilya hadn't grown so used to the weird tension between them, this, the way they stare into each other's eyes like they've apparently forgot he's still there, would be enough to make him gag. 

Is this what it means to really like someone? He wonders, as he silently promises to himself to never fall into this kind of lovesickness.

"Alright." Niamh accepts at last.

"I get changed and we go."  Alexei nods, visibly pleased, before walking away and disappearing behind the back of the counter.

Ilya waits exactly five seconds before opening his mouth again "I say shotgun."

"Dammit."

-

There is something about staring outside the window of a plane, miles high over land, that, as Ilya's come to discover, surprisingly manages to quieten his mind of all thoughts. The cabin is filled with silence, mostly due to the fact that, like Ilya himself, most people come from hours of flying connections and are currently suffering the worst of the jet lag. 

He's slept through all the way it took to fly from Edmonton to London, he doesn't have anything more into him, which is probably going to suck when they'll finally land in Moscow. He can work with that, though, even if it'll means having to stay awake through most of the night. Ilya feels just too jittery to really care. 

He hasn't been home in almost two years now, and it still feels a bit surreal to think about being on his way back to Russia, if he has to be honest, even more than when he'd first opened the envelope Alexei had given to him that Christmas, if possible.

"I couldn't find any flights for New Year." Alexei had said, looking self-conscious as he folded his hands in his lap while Ilya's eyes scanned incredulously over the papers.

"This must've costed an arm and a leg." He said, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. 

Alexei had smiled tiredly "Don't worry about that, alright?" 

He always said that when Ilya questioned the new gear magically replacing the old and battered one inside his hockey bag or how they could afford his away games and his field trips. It had started to grow old on him, even though there was nothing condescending about the way Alexei changed the subject. Still, Ilya couldn't find it in himself to put up a fight about it, in that moment, even though it hit him, once again, the realization that his brother knew him way more that he gave him credit for.

"Thank you." He had whispered against his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his neck "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"I hoped you would like it." Alexei said back, chuckling as he patted his back "Nadia wants to tell Nikki on New Year, though, don't spoil it."

"I won't." He'd promised, vibrating in his seat as he leaned back on the opposite side of the couch. He could already imagine it; painting Easter eggs at the Morozov's kitchen table, helping Ivan with the Kulich, play street hockey with Nikolai on their driveway, even with the last traces of snow still lingering on the ground.

And Ilya'd come to like Edmonton; he liked his team, his friends, their flat, but he would have been lying if he'd said that it wasn't hard, sometimes, to stick with a language that didn't feel his and swallow the feeling of not being actually welcome.

"You're kinda making me feel bad about only getting you a stereo." He'd mumbled, sniffing into his sleeve as he wiped under his nose. 

Alexei's foot nudged his calf "Shut up, I love it. I'm waking you up to Stairway to Heaven, tomorrow."

Ilya had not hesitated to throw a pillow at his face. 

As much as Ilya had wanted to, he didn't address why there was only a set of tickets into the envelope. He knew what Alexei would say; that he had to work, that he'd already agreed to extra shifts to help Finn have more time for his finals, excuses to not acknowledge the fact that Alexei simply did not want to. And Ilya could understand it, after all; moving might had have fixed the problem, but it hadn't made the memories of it disappear, but wasn't fair that, after everything that had happened, their father could still strip them of a normal life, especially considering that Ilya knew how much Alexei missed Nadia and the guys, even though if he would never admit it in front of him.

Its late in the afternoon when the plane finally lands. The hostess looks at him in disapproval when he jumps up to eagerly dislodge his duffle from the over-head rack, but Ilya can't find it in himself to care.

Nadia is no short woman; when Ilya left for Canada he was still at least an inch shorter then her, but now he can rest his chin over her head as he falls into her arms, making them both stumble in the middle of arrivals, blind to the annoyed looks of passerby’s trying to make their way to the exits. 

"Jesus Christ, kid, what did they feed you?" Nadia wheezes out, but holding onto his shoulders just as tightly.

Ilya laughs wetly, hiding his face in the crook of her neck.

"Uncle Ivan and Kolya?" He asks then, when they finally dislodge.

"Practice ran late." She explains, fixing the collar of his jacket up to his neck in a tender gesture, before starting to lead them outside the airport "We're meeting them home. I thought we could get take away on the way back, yes? You must be tired from all that flying-"

Ilya lets himself relax into the passenger seat, to the sound of Nadia's voice and the radio station playing quietly in the background. The sun is low over Moscow as they make the ride back to the Morozovs, through streets Ilya used to ride his bike on with Nikolai every summer, along still opened shops he would walk into while holding his mother’s hand, back when he was younger, and the still familiar path back and forth school he did every day trying to keep up with Alexei’s long legs.

It's only been two years, and Ilya feels like time froze the moment he set foot on a plane to Canada  only to start up again once he landed back home. 

Nadia talks about work, tells him about the renovations she and Ivan were thinking about doing around the house that summer, before flying out to Edmonton in August, like they've planned for Nikolai's birthday that year. Ilya has already made a long list of places he can't wait to show them, and Wyatt had seemed pretty excited about finally getting to meet Nikolai, outside of the few times they've all played Gear of wars online together, when he'd told him. 

Everything is perfect, for the exception that Ilya doesn't expect to walk in through the door and see Nikolai's face bloody and bruised like he just went through the beating of his life. His hair are sticking out in every direction, like he let them dry out in the cold, and he looks like he got dressed in a hurry, as he alarmedly stands up from the step he’d been sitting, almost tripping on his hockey bag. Ivan stands beside him, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and face unreadable.

"Well, that is going to be a hell of a shiner." He says dumbly, over Nadia's gasp of horror.

"What happened?" She asks Ivan, dropping the bags from the restaurant on the floor and leaving the door open behind her as she rushes to cup Nikolai's cheeks in her hands. Nikolai flinches when her fingers reach to up trace the band aid holding his eyebrow together, trying to shy away from her touch.

"Oh, I have no idea, why don't you ask your son?" Ivan says, leaving her to fuss over Nikolai as he comes up to wrap a still dumbfounded Ilya into his arms "Very glad to see you, kiddo. Sorry for not meeting you at the airport, had to check this one in the ER." He adds pointedly.

"The ER." Nadia repeats, angrily "You didn't tell me you were going to the ER, Ivan, what the fuck."

"It's just a concussion." Nikolai mutters, awkwardly shifting on his feet from all the attention. His eye, the one that's not entirely closed shut, keeps fighting the light as his mother looks him over, poking and prodding despite his pained hums.

Nadia stops in her ministrations "Just a concussion-"

It’s only by taking advantage of Nadia's moment of static realization that Ivan manages to usher her out of the doorstep and into the living room, closing the doors behind them with a soft thud and a look in his eyes that Ilya can only identify as resignation. Soon enough, Nadia’s muffled voice erupts, too loud to be kept out by a couple of mere doors.

"Well." Ilya says, closing the front door before kicking off his shoes, as he tries pretending not to hear the screaming match taking place on the other room "Does the other guy look just as bad, at least?"

Nikolai makes a half-hearted huff before coming up to get Ilya into a one armed hug. The concussion must not have scrambled his brain too badly, from the way he actively tries not to get blood on him, Ilya thinks, leaning into it longer than normally necessary. Fuck, if he's missed this.

"You'd be disappointed."

"I think Ivan is already disappointed enough for all of us." He considers, effectively making Nikolai groan in annoyance as they separate. That, he missed even more. Ilya delivers a weak punch on his upper arm before shoving his duffle into his hands "C'mon, punk, make the house honours and show me my room, will you?"

There is a tensed silence hanging over the dinner table as they eat, only interrupted by the sound of cutlery and Ivan's attempt at making small talk, asking Ilya about school, hockey, about Alexei and work. Not even gossip is able to distract Nadia from where she’s been staring up at Nikolai's face all throughout dinner, unmoved. So, Ilya is pretty much expecting it when she suddenly drops her fork on her napkin, fire burning in her eyes.

"How did that happen?"

Nikolai, who Ilya has never seen try to lie so blatantly to his mother's face, if at all, makes himself small into his chair "It's hockey."

"Your dad said it didn't happen on the ice." She points out.

Ilya can't help but eye him curiously at that. Fighting on the ice, Ilya can definitely understand; he's lived it and done it more times that he can genuinely remember, and, even though Nikolai is not the type to, he's still a defenceman, Ilya wouldn't be that much surprised by it. But off the ice? That doesn't sound like Nikolai at all. He's never been an easy guy to rile up, much less to lose his cool and use his fists if not strictly necessary, that had always been Ilya's job: on the playground, at school, in the locker room. Nikolai might have been his keeper on the ice, but Ilya always had his back off of it. 

But now, Ilya can’t help but ask himself, who did?

"Dusya, maybe-" whatever Ivan was about to say gets rapidly shut down by his wife.

"He looks like he was mauled by a bear, Ivan, I think we deserve to know why" She hisses, looking expectantly over to her son "Who started it? Was it that Korolyov kid? I know it was a mistake not going to the coach back when it started-" She scoffs as she starts rambling, to Ilya utter confusion, until Nikolai, who up until then had kept his head hung low and looking down at his knees and the ruined skin of his knuckles, stops her with a quiet whisper.

"I started it." He admits, his eyes glassy. Ilya gently reaches under the table to nudge their socked feet together, in solidarity "He was talking shit when we got back to the locker room, and I- I hit him. And he hit back, obviously. Listen, I'm sorry, but can we just- not talk about this now?" He practically begs, so pitifully that for a second Ilya almost believes Nadia will really let it go, at least from the way her eyes soften and she reaches across the table to lay her hand on top of his. 

"What did he say?" She demands instead, firmly, looking for his eyes. Ilya can see how much she’s trying to keep her worry at bay, the rage towards anyone that had the nerve to lay a hand on  Nikolai, but, for a lawyer, Nadia has always been pretty bad at thinking completely straight concerning her son.

Nikolai shakes his head "It doesn't matter."

"You are extremely lucky that boy's parents decided not to press charges, Nikolai, do you realize it? So yes, it does matter." Nadia presses, almost clinically, before lowering her voice into something sweeter and understanding "I just want to help, baby, but I need you to tell me what is it, to fix it." 

Ilya is fully expecting Nikolai to give in at that, for the dam to break, because he has never been one to keep anything from his parents, nothing as serious as this, at least. Ilya has always like this about the Morozovs, the unadulterated trust they have for each other.

Instead, the tight line of Nikolai's shoulders makes itself even sharper, his eyes unfocused as his breathing grows dangerously ragged. Like he's scared, Ilya's mind supplies, over the ever growing concern he's been feeling in his chest ever since he saw Nikolai's face by the front door.

"You think I didn't try? You can't fix this." Nikolai says through gritted teeth "Just leave it the fuck alone." 

The screeching sound of his chair dragging across the floor is the last thing he hears before Nikolai crosses the double doors of the dining room, stalking in the direction of the stairs. 

Ilya is still silently gaping at the place Nikolai just disappeared behind, when Ivan suddenly clears his throat.

"I told you this was a bad idea."

"Oh, please, as if you could have done any better, Dr. Freud." Nadia snaps, letting her hair down and hastily combing through the dark strands "Should we be teaching our son that he can just beat up people without consequences? Is that your unsolicited parenting advice?"

Ivan drags a hand down his face, looking over at Ilya with what he interprets as pure exhaustion.

"Ilyushka, can you-?"

"Yes." He nods, extremely glad to be excused "Absolutely. Goodnight. Love you, guys."

The door to Nikolai's room is closed shut and, despite how much he wants to do something and help, Ilya forces himself to walk over to the guest room. If he had wanted him to come in, Nikolai would have left it ajar, like he always did when they were kids. Nikolai is not Ilya, he likes his own time alone sometimes, and, after years of knowing each other, Ilya has learned to give him some space when he needs it, no questions asked, and let him come to him on his own.
On a normal night he would have played board games with Nadia and Ivan to fill time until becoming too tired to keep his eyes open, but he doesn't really want to walk back into the trenches downstairs, so he just walks up to the bed, throwing himself over the duvet as he reaches over for his phone.

"Hey, is everything ok? I was expecting a text- Finn, I am taking ten- wait a second." There is a loud rustling sound, followed by what Ilya recognizes as the backdoor to the shop creaking closed, then the familiar click of Alexei's fancy lighter, the one Ilya got him for his birthday last year "Ilyusha?''

"Yes, still here." He answers, sitting back against the headboard "All fine, except for the fact that hell might as well have frozen over-"

Alexei listens quietly, humming quiet sounds of assent, for all it takes for Ilya to finish his story, and lean back with an arm over his eyes.

"Well, fuck." Alexei says, eloquently "I never thought Nikki had it in him."

"I think it was more than chirping. Nadia said something about this not having been the first time, but Kolya never told me anything." He admits, sourly.

Did he think he would think less of him? Because of what? Hockey players being hockey players? 

"It's hard to ask for help, sometimes." Alexei reminds him "You think you don't need it until you get proven wrong. It wasn't you, Ilyushka, Nikki just had to figure it out by himself."

"Yes, and now he looks like he got a chair to the face." Ilya huffs, playing with the string of his hoodie "I don't know how to help him." He admits, weakly.

"Just be there for him." Alexei says "Even if he won't tell you anything, I know he'll appreciate it."

In retrospect, his brother should have realized who he had been talking to.

Ilya lasts exactly three days, three days where he sticks to Nikolai's side the most loyal guard dog, as they laze around the house, mindful of his concussion, and eat junk food, while Nadia and Ivan are at work. On his part, Nikolai doesn't seem to mind, even if the peace inside the house still feels precarious, cold. Ilya has no idea what Nadia and Ivan told Nikolai later that first night, when their voices finally quietened down to a level he couldn't eavesdrop from his room anymore, nothing apart from-

"-I'm basically super-grounded." Nikolai explains, biting into a Reese's cup from the stash Ilya brought back from Canada. His face contorts with disgust "What the fuck is in this thing."

"Super grounded?" Ilya repeats, questioningly, stealing the other half from is hand and popping it in his mouth as he switches characters on the screen "It's peanut butter. Good, right?"

"That's so gross, what the hell." Nikolai replies with a grimace, washing it down with soda before starting up the match "And like, the kind of where I can only go to school and practice and that has no screens for a whole month. As soon as you board back, at least." 

Well, fuck.

"I thought uncle Ivan didn't believe in grounding." Ilya says, thrusting his elbow into his ribs to distract him from the merciless beating he's currently delivering to his poor Armor king. For someone who would barely hurt a fly- well, usually -Nikolai is way too good at this kind of games, even with a shut eye and sore fingers. Ilya can only be glad Wyatt is not online, right now, their coalition is always twice as brutal on his pride.

"He doesn't. But he also doesn't want to piss mom off, either." Nikolai shrugs, digging his fingers under Ilya's armpit and making him squirm away with a squeal. 

The house is silent outside of Nikolai's room; Nadia and Ivan have long since gone to bed, since Ilya last saw them sharing a bottle of wine in Nadia's studio, and everything is quiet apart from the sounds coming out of Nikolai's console and their voices mixing with the low whisper of the wind outside the window. 

Nikolai's face, if possible, looks even worse than it did three days ago, now that the bruises have bloomed dark and purple and the cut over his brow scabbed over unevenly. In the darkness of the room, the sight is almost unsettling against the angular cut of his cheekbones.

"Yeah, she's pretty mad, already." He considers, lowering his controller as Nikolai finally takes his character down. 

"I guess."

And maybe later Ilya will regret not holding onto Alexei's advice, but right now it feels almost impossible to keep the words from coming out of his mouth as he hits pause on the remote with a scoff.

"Dude, what-"

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asks, crestfallen. Their knees bump when he turns his whole body in his direction "Alright, I get it, it's not like I could have done anything about it, but why not tell your mom, at least? Since when you keep things from her?" 

Nikolai's jaw clenches as his eyes grow extremely interested into his joystick "Ilya-"

"Don't 'Ilya' me." He huffs "She wouldn't be this pissed if you had just told her. She's a lawyer, Kolya, don't you think she heard worse things than locker room shit?"

"It's not the same."

"Then explain it to me. I know how this stuff works and I know you." He prods, and prods, confused and, yes, pretty hurt "You never let this stuff get to you, why now? What was is it even about?"

There is something there, then, in Nikolai's expression, that for a second almost makes Ilya waver. Almost.

Nikolai's eyes are glistening when he asks "You're not going to let this go, right?"

"Not a chance."

"Why?"

"Because you're my best friend, and because when the doctor said you could go back to practice, you looked like he just told you you were terminal." Ilya says, seriously. That, earlier that day, had been hands down one of the most absurd experiences of Ilya’s life. Realistically, nobody would really want to have to share a locker room with someone who beat them up, but hockey is different, being teammates is. The green look on Nikolai’s face had been way far from normal, though, and yet nothing Ilya could try blaming on his concussion.

Nikolai hands finally drop the joystick as he pushes his knees up to his chest, folding himself into something smaller.

"Do you- do you remember that I told you about Katya's birthday, a couple of months ago?"

Well, Ilya wasn't expecting such premise, but he still nods, confused.

"We were drinking and we were all pretty out of it." He says, fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt's sleeve "Nastya kissed me. Korolyov 's sister."

Ilya's joke gets stuck in the back of his throat as a single tear escapes Nikolai's eye, only to be hastily wiped by the back of his hand. 

"I threw up on her." Nikolai admits, with a teary and desolated laugh "It was so fucking gross. I had to call dad to come get me. I went to tell her I was sorry about it the next day, after school." He continues, looking more and more as if he's about to puke his guts out again "And she was nice, you know, said that everyone was pretty out of it and it wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to her at a party. And she- she asked me out." He says, not meeting Ilya's eyes "and I said no."

"Nikki-"

"The next day Korolyov went around the locker room saying that reason why I did is because I'm- because I'm a fag." Nikolai croaks out, weakly "And the others, they picked up on it, I guess. I tried, Ilya, I tried so hard to ignore it, everything, but- but he- they-" Ilya sees the tears falling before hearing the choked down sob Nikolai tries to muffle biting down on his lower lip, as he hides his face against his knees. 

All Ilya can do, in the few seconds that it takes him to reacquire some clarity, is stare at him with rage pooling at the bottom of his stomach "The fuck." He lets out, before kneeling in front of him and grip his shoulders firmly in his hands "What did they do." He demands, looking over him as Nikolai might just be about to break into pieces right in front of him.

"Like- put up pictures in my locker, sometimes. They took my clothes once, hung them up the bleachers." He confesses, shying away from Ilya's eyes as his cheeks redden with mortification.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Ilya can't help but ask, horrified "Did you go to the coach?"

Nikolai's is visibly exhausted when he looks back up at him, with tear stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes "What do you think happened? He said that maybe if I weren't such- such a sissy all the time, it wouldn't have happened." He whispers, clenching his bruised fists.

Ilya’s mind is raging as he talks through clenched teeth "Is he even allowed to say shit like that?"

"This is not Canada, Ilya." Nikolai points out quietly, tired, as he retreats more into his own arms.

It takes Ilya a couple of minutes to understand what Nikolai means by that, as he deflates, where he's sitting up on his legs in front of his friend. If he has to be completely honest, Ilya has never found himself really thinking about it. 

There have always been stark differences in between the two sides of Ilya's life, the one left back in Russia, that had Nikolai, his parents, Ilya's mom and old memories he wishes he could forget, and the one in Canada, where his team's chirps where teasing, not born to be mean, where people weren’t even half as superstitious or radically closed. There is so much Ilya has left behind when he moved, and maybe he'd been too young to really understand part of it, both the good parts and not.

It pretty much feels like having a bucket of ice cold water thrown over his head.

"I don't get it" he admits, looking down at his hands "I mean, I guess I can understand why you wouldn't want to go to your coach again, but why not your parents? It's just a stupid rumour, they won't care."

And that is evidently the wrong thing to say, because Nikolai's good eye fills back up with tears as he whimpers, the saddest sound Ilya has ever heard in almost sixteen years of life "Ilya..."

Oh.

Oh. 

"Oh." Ilya exhales, sitting back as he searches through his brain for words, for anything.

"You can't tell anyone." Nikolai stutters, then "It's bad enough that you know. This- this could ruin my life, Ilya. It already fucking did." He laughs humourlessly, without even bothering to wipe off his tears, anymore "Fuck. I just- Korolyov wasn't that wrong, after all, this is pathetic. I'm fucking pathetic: I can't even stand up for myself without being the one ending up in the hospital. And maybe I pissed God off, or something, in another life, to deserve it. I don't know why I'm like this, why I'm- broken. I just am. And I tried so hard, I swear I did, but I just can't help it." He sobs, gasping for air as his hands come up to grip through his hair and Ilya heart breaks a little more into his chest "I only wanted to be normal; go to a party, have fun, kiss a girl, and maybe I could forget the rest, pretend to be like everybody else. Instead it became my worst fucking nightmare." 

You think I didn't try? You can't fix this.

Is that what Nikolai had been trying to do? Fix himself? Nikolai, who is the most considerate person Ilya has ever known, the kid that spent afternoons just laying beside Ilya after his mother died, offering comfort on afternoons he would wish to just disappear, who would keep him in line, on and off the ice, and loyally followed him even if Ilya's plans were disasters waiting to happen.

And maybe Ilya can't fully understand this, because he likes girls, he's kissed girls and very much liked it, but what he does know is that Nikolai does not need any kind of fixing, he never has and he never will. And Ilya is not going to have him believe otherwise.

"Shut up." Ilya says, firmly, reaching up to tug at Nikolai's forearms. His face is blotchy, his breathing dragging and heavy, as he looks up at Ilya through tear-clad lashes when Ilya brings one of his shaky hands to his own chest "Breath- in and out. It’s only you and me, you're fine, we're fine. C'mon, man."

Ilya doesn't know how much time has passed when Nikolai finally sags, letting his hand fall off of Ilya's chest "Sorry- I-"

"Ah, no, I talk now." Ilya cuts him off, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand, despite Nikolai's look of protest "Listen, it doesn't matter what stupid Korolyov or that group of assholes run their mouth about." He says "Maybe you like dick, that is what it means, right? And so what?" 

Ilya can feel the blush spreading over Nikolai's face burn under his hand as the other stares up at him, unimpressed. Ilya will take unimpressed over mildly terrified "There is nothing broken about you." He continues, more seriously "You don't have to- change or try to be someone you're not. And I know rotten shit about this thing, but I know you, and fuck Russia, if it means you can't be who you are. I wouldn't want anybody else as my best friend." He whispers "I'll help you find a way to make it better, I promise, even if it means teaching you how to throw a real fist and having auntie chase me with her slipper." 

Nikolai snorts wetly against his hand, and, even though Ilya can tell he's overwhelmed and exhausted, a bit still probably from the stronger residues of his concussion, falls pliantly against his shoulder when Ilya pushes him into a hug, tipping them sideways with a grunt.

It feels like being little kids again, laying on the maroon carpet by the foot of Nikolai's bed, like they just wrestled for the better joystick and not because they're both drained and emotional.

"Your hand smells of peanut butter." Is the first thing Nikolai says, voice husky and thick with tears, making Ilya laugh against him "But, uhm, thanks. I don't know how you're being so calm about this, but I'm, uhm, well-"

"Hey, what is that supposed to mean?" He asks, digging his fingers in the space between his ribs.

"No! Stop- dude, fuck-" Nikolai gasps, trying to kick him away, the tears only a phantom on his face now, replaced by a ticklish grin and challenge "And- you know, for being a hockey player you're surprisingly left brained- no! get away from me, I'm still concussed!"

"You brought this on yourself, man." Ilya only says, straight-faced, before diving across his stomach.

Something never change, he guesses, even with growing up.

Chapter End Notes

Yahoo!

It's been a long time, I know, but would yall believe me if i told you that Ilya's POV is probably the hardest thing I've ever written in my entire existence? I'm too neurotic to write about someone so chill.
Also, I started classes again so yeah, updates will be less frequent from now on, I hate my life.
technically, this chap should have covered up until the cottage, but this alone was 16k, so I had to look at myself in the mirror and say 'be fucking for real', so yeah, it's gonna be long.

 

Moving onto the chapter- this was an emotional rollercoaster. Like genuenly, for me too, because obviously there are things that just weren't going to come up from Alexei's POV and playing with them was both funny and sad af.

Alexei Rozanov invented gentle parenting without knowing he invented gentle parenting. My man fr.

Little Hayes! i so wanted to get to introduce Wyatt before TLG and I already made canon my personal shoe polish, Idc anymore. Just let me cook, it will all make sense later on.

So, I swear that Nikolai will have a happy ending, I SWEAR (my beta reader would kill me if i didn't), and Ilya starting to realize that there is a lot of things he's started to give for granted after going to live in canada is my roman empire. I cackled writing about Shane, this is gonna get gay very fast.

Thanks for all your kudos and comments, still can't believe BTC reached 15.5k hits, yall are insane.

This being said, hope to see yall sooner next time,

goodnight and take care!!!

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

“You're sure you're going to be fine alone, here?"

"Hazy is coming over later, relax." Ilya huffs, pushing Alexei's jacket against his brother's chest as he ushers him towards the front door "And maybe we won't burn the house down, I'm feeling particularly responsible today."

"Ilya."

"I'm joking!" He says, before Alexei will actually debate it and find an excuse to stay home "If you dare cancel on Niamh after she spent six months trying to ask you out on this date, I will consider burning the house down, but with you inside of it." He threatens, emptily, because chances are Niamh would break down the door to save him and ruin the purpose of it.

Still, Ilya won't let all the nervous pacing Alexei has done the past few days go to waste, especially after having to watch his brother getting ready like he was going off to war and not out on a date, during the last two hours.

Alexei drags a hand down his clean shaved face "Yes, alright, fair. The money for pizza is on the kitchen table, don't open to other strangers, yes?" He says then, pulling on his leather jacket and giving a last considering look at himself in the mirror. When he won't be on flight risk anymore, Ilya is going to make so much fun of him.

Rolling his eyes, Ilya reaches grumpily to nudge his calf with his socked foot "You do remember I'm sixteen, right?"

"Very hard to when you act like such a damn brat all the time." Alexei points out, laughing when Ilya, very maturely, sticks his tongue out at him. He pats his pockets one last time before ruffling Ilya's hair "Close the gas panel before going to sleep and lock up. Don't smoke on the fire escape, I will know, just use the balcony-"

"Yes, mom. Now, will you just go?" Ilya huffs, swatting his hand away and throwing his car keys at him.

Wyatt arrives not long after Alexei's car finally pulls out of its parking spot, armed with a sleeping bag, a six pack of coke and a Tupperware full of his mother's mouthwatering cookies, that Ilya doesn't hesitate to snatch from his hands as he leads him into the flat.

"Where is he bringing her?" Wyatt asks curiously, around a mouthful of popcorns, while taking Ilya's first place and sending his car crashing against the boards.

Ilya glowers at him, before restarting the game with a sigh "They're getting dinner, Niamh found a place that plays music live and has pool tables. Very them."

"Oh, that's nice." Wyatt says, looking through the wheels options as he chuckles "Always better later than never."

Ilya can't fault his logic, he was just about to start really considering closing them in the shop's broom closet, like Finn only half-jokingly suggested.

"How is Kristie?"

"Still in Toronto." Wyatt sighs, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie as he waits for Ilya to finish building his car "Dad wasn't happy she didn't come back for summer break, but she started interning at this firm and the probation period started in July. I think she wants to stay there after graduation." He admits, a bit dejectedly.

Ilya is not that surprised to hear that; Kristie always looked kind of mournful when coming back home, reciting stories from college and sharing a flat with her roommate, Eve. They were very close, Ilya had come to discover, when Kristie had her come to Edmonton with her for Canada day, last year.

"Maybe I could go to college there. Would be easier to see her," Wyatt adds then, lost in thought "and Kristie said UT has best Campus in the whole city."

Ilya's fingers still on his joystick "College?" He asks, a bit dumbly "I thought you said you wanted to go pro?"

"There are many players that went to college before getting drafted." Wyatt shrugs "I could play varsity hockey, until then, kind of like Dryden. I love hockey but you can't play forever, it's good to have a plan B just in case."

It's not like Ilya ever thought he would still do face offs at the old age of fifty, but he has never considered doing anything other than play hockey in his life, either. He and Nikolai used to spend afternoons talking about how it would be getting to play in the KHL, for the bigger teams, when they were kids, while passing a plastic puck between each other in the Morozovs’ driveway. And Ilya's grades are more than fine, he could probably get accepted into any middle rated college if he really wanted to, but what would he be even go there for?

Hockey feels safe under that aspect, Ilya knows perfectly what to expect from it, that he's good at it, and he knows just as well that scouts, coaches, know that too.

Alexei still has the copy of the sport section of the newspaper from last year, the one with the picture of his teams' beaming faces after winning provincials, hung up outside of Ilya's room in the hallway. Ilya remembers the thrill of having cameras pointed at them as they took their medals, the heavy weight of coach Martin's pride as he patted him on the back in front of them, after scoring two points and an assist.

Everything had felt way bigger than him, back then, while answering questions to a bulky microphone and trying to make his English as clean as possible. Thinking about the future now, makes if feel it even more.

But that's what Ilya wants, what he's always wanted, right?

"I guess." He whispers, trying to concentrate back to the game. Wyatt, Ilya has learned, is weirdly perceptive, the perks of being a goalie if he had to guess, and doesn't pry further.

"There is still time," Wyatt says then, definitely for his sake, right before cutting the finish line seconds before him "fuck yes! Take that, Roz!"

Ilya has no qualms about swatting him in the face with one of the couch's pillows.

When Ilya wakes up is to the sound of quiet steps in the hallway and a light switch turning on. There's faint, warm, light coming from under the shades of his window and, if Ilya hadn’t already been sure of how unfairly early it still is, from Wyatt's deep snores coming from the floor, the big 6AM written on his alarm would be the unmistakable proof of it.

They'd gone to bed no earlier than two AM that night, after cleaning up the living room from stray pizza boxes and the mess of popcorns that had fallen on the floor after they'd decided it would be a good idea to watch some creepy film about zombies. It had taken them way longer than Ilya would like to admit to move from the couch after the end credits.

He hadn't heard Alexei come back home from his date, after finally collapsing into bed.

Which is probably due to the fact that Alexei just came back home, Ilya realizes, when carefully closing the door to his room behind himself only to find his brother on his way to the bathroom, still in the clothes he worn the night before but his shirt, looking both like he got the best night of sleep he ever did in the past twenty-three years of his life and like he wants to dig a hole in the ground to bury himself in, as Ilya gapes sleepily at the hickey the size of Alberta nestled in the crook of his neck.

"It's safe to say that you had a great night, then." Ilya says, somewhere between horrified and impressed.

"Shut up." Alexei intimates, slowly backtracking into the bathroom "Go back to sleep."

Ilya throws his hands in the air as he calls out "She better be your girlfriend after this!"

There is definitely a giddy smile on his brother's face, though, as he flips Ilya off, before closing himself in the bathroom.

Thank fucking god.

He needs to tell Nadia.

-

All three Morozovs land in sweltering Edmonton on a Tuesday night.

Ilya hasn't been able to contain his excitement all throughout that week, whether on call with Nikolai, as he watched him pack while Nadia made her way in and out every room of the house, looking for things to pile in already overflowing suitcases, or during dinner, to his brother and sometimes Niamh, now a even more persistent presence in their lives.

There had been no way to hide his smugness, especially after Alexei so embarrassedly asked him if he would've minded her sleeping over sometimes, around three weeks into their new arrangement. And Ilya does not, in fact, mind at all, because it's nice to watch the game with someone that actually knows what they're talking about and, Ilya has discovered, Niamh makes the best waffles he has ever eaten in his entire life, on mornings after she's stayed over. And maybe that's just an attempt to win Ilya over, but if it is, she definitely knows him well enough to know it's working. He's not going to point out she has already had his blessing for months if it gets that waffles in his direction.

Niamh, who had offered to help with picking up the guys and all their luggage at the airport and tailed them with her car, and who got rapidly swarmed by Nadia's enthusiastic hug as soon as she was done smothering Alexei and Ilya himself against her.

"Best than pictures, very pretty like Lyosha says." Nadia says,  appreciatively, holding her at arm length as Niamh's cheeks tint red. Despite this, she gives her her best smile back, all dimply and brighter than a summer day.

"It's so nice to meet you." She says, shaking both Ivan and Nikolai's hands, after they've both gone through Ilya's welcoming tackle.

Nikolai, Ilya can't help but consider, relieved, looks way better than he did almost four months ago; there is a thin silver scar cutting his eyebrow horizontally in the memory of the fight, but his face got back to its ghostly pale complexion and he doesn't look half as gloomy as he used to be. Convince his parents to change clubs hadn't been that difficult, at least from what Nikolai had told him once he got back to Canada and his ban from practice expired. His new team had sounded pretty tight knit, and, even though Ilya had still wished he could have been there for him, Nikolai had seemed to have found good people or, at least, ones that had the same and only goal as him: win.

It's nice seeing him like this, loose and giggly, while fighting Alexei's playful headlock with a flaming face, as his brother leads them to the parking lot with Nikolai's suitcase dragging behind him, instead of closed off and skittish.

Dinner that night it's at an Italian place downtown, a five minute walk from the hotel Nadia had booked. It had been a logical arrangement for the Morozov to book two rooms for the almost two weeks they'd spend in Canada. Their flat would have been way too small for five people, it was a practical choice. Still, he's plenty pouty when it gets time to say goodbye. Niamh had regretfully excused herself first, in the name of her seven-thirty shift the next day, but not before a last polite hug and leaving a loud peck on Alexei's overheated cheek.

Ilya had made sure to loudly coo at that, barely complaining at Nadia's playful cuff.

She likes Niamh, Ilya is pretty sure of it, even more than she already did before by hearing Alexei shyly talk about her and from Ilya’s texts, and so does Ivan, both rapidly charmed by Niamh's bubbly personality and her effort in trying to communicate with them, despite the obvious language barrier.

Ilya can see how relieved Alexei is by that same acknowledgement, as they walk the Morozovs to their hotel and make the drive back to their flat. Not that Ilya had any doubts about it.

That first week flies by: Elke had utterly refused to see Alexei behind the counter for any day of the Morozovs' stay. He could understand why, considering that his brother had probably never took a day off ever since he started at the shop, apart from his mandated employer's leave. She seems delighted to finally meet the Morozovs, that first day, after seeing them walk in for breakfast and coffee, enough to allow Nadia to function, at least.

Edmonton is not even half as big as Moscow is, the skyscrapers not as tall, the people not as hurried as they walk through the streets, to their jobs, their errands. Ivan and Nikolai, who have never been to Edmonton before then, unlike Nadia, seem just as thrown off as pleasantly surprised by this, as they walk them around the centre, through spots and places Ilya has grown used to by now, their favourite restaurants and shortcuts and the big expense of Fort Edmonton Park and sites, sometimes even with Niamh as a dutiful and weirdly enough full of historical fun facts guide.

That Saturday Nadia and Alexei pack them up in his car for a three hour ride to Calgary.

Ilya had only seen pieces of it through a bus’s window once or twice during away games, never going further than the rink or their hotel's perimeter, through colourful and busy streets.

Ilya only makes a little fun of Alexei's for taking pictures and furiously texting on his phone every time they make a stop, whether it's in the middle of Kensington Road, to rest at a coffee shop and hide from the heat, or in front of the penguin enclosure at the zoo Ivan insists on going to. Nikolai chuckles beside him as Ilya makes a low gagging noise behind his brother's back. Alexei's hand, the one not currently occupied with answering Niamh's text, gets rapidly busy with flipping Ilya off.

"You two, leave Lyosha alone" Nadia scolds, amused, her elbow locked in Ivan's as they follow the server to their table "Niamh is his first girlfriend-"

"She is not my first-"

"-and they're still on their honeymoon phase. I'd like to see how you two will be once you'll find a nice girl to settle down with." She says pointedly, under Alexei's embarrassed sputters and her husband's sigh of endearment.

The spark in Nikolai's eyes dims like someone just threw the blinds closed behind them. Ilya is the only one to notice, though, as both Nadia and Ivan are too busy arguing with Alexei about healthy family boundaries. But just like his frown appeared, it gets rapidly smoothed out. Nikolai responds with what Ilya interprets as a reassuring shake of his head when he bumps they shoulders together.

Ilya is still thinking about it, hours later, on the way back, with Nikolai asleep on his shoulder and under the sound of his brother humming quietly to the radio and tapping his fingers against the wheel, to not disturb the others' dozing off.

Some afternoons, while Nadia and Ivan are on their old people sightseeing and Alexei is off at Niamh's flat in between her shifts, he and Nikolai make great use of the pool at the hotel and the open bar just a few feet away from it. Ilya is sunburnt and content as he teaches Nikolai how to play Go-Fish under their umbrella's shade, sipping out of virgin mojitos and winking at girls subtly ogling them from the poolside. But, well, if Nikolai's not interested-

"That guy is hot, isn't he?" He finds himself saying, hinting at the lithe dark haired boy doing the crosswords with a girl pretty much his copy just a few sunbeds away.

Nikolai chokes on his drink as he looks around them in alarm "Ilya, what the hell."

"Hey, chill." he waves him off, pushing his sunglasses over his head and raising his arms to the swarm of empty sunbeds around them, before laying back "It's only us, and no one understands here, anyway, yes? And you didn't say no." He sing songs.

Nikolai shifts uncomfortably, blushing pink as he dips his eyes over to where the guy just sat up on the bed, a toned arm folded behind his head and Hawaiian shirt open on his chest "I guess." He whispers, clearing his voice "Not really my type, though."

Ilya's brows meet in a frown.

"Not your type? You have a type?"

"Everyone has one." Nikolai shrugs self consciously, looking back down at his cards "Do you have a four?"

Ilya hands it to him with a groan.

Does Ilya have a type? He's made out with a great number of girls from the cheerleading team, but he wouldn't say that his type is cheerleaders. Is that not how this works? And the guy is hot, Ilya thinks, with his bulky shoulders but delicate face traits, kind of like a model, as he chuckles around the end of his pen to something his companion said.

"You need your eyes checked." He grumbles, weirdly bothered, ignoring Nikolai's deadpan stare as he throws his cards on the table "I'm bored." He whines next "Want to play volley?"

The hotel has a little artificial beach in the back, with a tow of three nets and a small playground for littler kids. Ilya has been eyeing it ever since they first found out, while exploring the back of the resort.

"It's just the two of us." Nikolai points out, mindlessly shuffling the cards before securing  them back into their box.

And that gives Ilya the best idea ever.

He smirks, standing up and ignoring Nikolai's sound of confusion as he makes his way through empty sunbeds and towards the next victims of his entertainment.

It's fairly easy to convince the pair of siblings, Emma and Tyler, from cold Minnesota, to come along, after putting on his best charming smile. Nikolai is predictably unimpressed by the whole ordeal, but accepts his fate with grace, following Ilya to one side of the field with little to no resistance.

Ilya is glistening with sweat and still confused about all kinds of beach volley's rules by the time they call it quits and decide to move to the pool tables on the patio, mindful of the sand stuck on their clothes.

The twins have both that kind of snarky personality that makes Ilya feel comfortable as they banter at the table, and Nikolai, who has grown up with his kind of chaos, rapidly warm up to it, as he accepts the ice cold soda Tyler hands him after coming back from the bar, endearingly flustered by the perfectly white smile he gets in return.

Ilya is doing a great job at this wingman thing, he thinks, wagging his brows in his direction only to be served with a mean pinch on his side and an annoyed huff.

That night Nadia convinces Ivan and Alexei, and so Niamh too, to go out on a walk after dinner. Both him and Nikolai are way too tired to comply and so he's not surprised to see him in just sweats, a t-shirt and slippers, against the polished and elegant way his parents are dressed, as they sit on their couch to wait for Alexei to find his keys and Niamh to put on her heels.

Alexei doesn't even have the time to nag him about stranger danger like he usually does before Nadia is ushering him out the door, Niamh under her arm and Ivan trailing behind them.

They spend the night playing Halo and eating pizza on the couch, up until it gets unreasonably late and there is still no trace of neither Nikolai's parents or Alexei at the door.

Nikolai grimaces, then, as a text comes through his phone "Dad says mom is making Lyosha bring them to a club. Wait- a boat club. The fuck is a boat club?"

Ilya can't help but laugh. That is definitely up to character "Guess that means you're bunking here, then. We can share." He shrugs. Nikolai would probably need to fold twice to fit on their couch, he thinks, leading them up to his room.

Nikolai's face looks suddenly insecure, standing there by the doorstep "You don't-uhm- are you sure?"

"I mean, It's going to be a tight fit, but still better than the-"

"No, I mean- because- because of the- the gay thing." Nikolai stutters, flushed.

"The gay thing?" Ilya snorts "Dude, we used to shower together. I think it's pretty pointless to worry about this, now." He says, a bit incredulous.

"Yeah, but, it's different. You didn't know back then." Nikolai mutters quietly.

Ilya curiously tilts his head, sitting down and leaning his back against the headboard. He mimicks him over "Did you?"

Nikolai shrugs, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as he comes up the bed and crosses his legs under himself "I guess. I didn't like know, but I knew I wasn't like the other guys. A lot of things from back then make definitely more sense, now." He admits, shyly.

"Like what?"

Nikolai flush turns into a full on red light blush, only worsened by the sunburn on his cheeks, falling in a defeating silence. Then "Do- do you remember when The Fast and the Furious came out?"

And Ilya does, that was a hell of a movie. They must had watched it hundreds of times only that year after it was released, both completely entranced in front of the tv. Ilya had practically begged Alexei to bring him to the movie theatre, when the last one came out.

"Sure." He nods, a bit confused "What about it?"

"Yeah, uhm- I- I was a bit- I really liked O’Connor. Maybe- maybe a little too much. You can, uhm, guess why." Nikolai says, hiding his burning face in his hands.

"The cop?" Ilya laughs. Well, not that he can't see why after all. It's still pretty hilarious, though, especially paired with the faint memory of a kid that had never been that invested in loud, action movies before then, but still never complained when Ilya insisted on setting it up on the VHS player "So that's your type? Tough, hot and blond?"

"Shut up." Nikolai grumbles, kicking his shin "you asked."

"When did you know, then?" Ilya can't help but follow up, wrapping his arms around his knees.

He can't say he hasn't ever wondered about that. Ilya could respect the fact that Nikolai hadn’t wanted to talk about it further, after that night in his room, but what he hadn't been able to do, ever since coming back from Russia, was shutting down every other thought that came with it.

"I don't know, it just happened. I think I only realized after all the guys started talking about this one girl from another class; she was pretty, I guess, but I really couldn't see what the fuss was about. Plus, well, other things." Nikolai coughs, flustered, picking at the skin around his nails. Then, more sheepishly "Puking after a girl just kissed you, also helps putting things into perspective."

"You said it was because you were drunk." Ilya accuses him, playfully.

Nikolai snorts "That too, but the kiss didn't help, though."

The air is way less eery than Ilya remembers from back then, and Nikolai, despite everything, doesn't look as haunted, Ilya can't help but consider. And it's probably due to the peacefulness of the moment that he can't stop himself from asking "You ever kissed another guy?"

Nikolai seems just as floored as him, at that, but he makes an imperceptible nod.

"Wait, really?" Ilya gapes. Maybe Nikolai doesn't actually need any kind of matchmaking, after all "Who?"

Hesitation twists Nikolai's face for a couple of seconds, as he worries his lip like he can't believe they're really having that conversation "Did I tell you that my new coach is Sasha's dad? Sasha from-"

"Pee-wee hockey?" Ilya fills in, connecting the pieces. He remembers Sasha; he was funny, somehow always had a pack of cigarettes on him and he absolutely sucked at hockey. He guesses it made sense for someone who coached a sport to want their kids to be into it, too, but Sasha was both too stubborn to care and naturally deprived of any kind of hand-eye coordination. Ilya hadn't been too surprised when he quit.

"Yes, uhm, he came by the rink sometimes after practice was over to help coach clean up. I helped too, a couple times, and, well-" Nikolai clears his throat, visibly embarrassed.

Ilya makes a startled noise "Sasha is gay?"

Nikolai shakes his head, pensively "No, I don't know. He likes both, I think."

Huh.

Ilya has always been curious, it's in his nature; he likes to pry, to dig, to pick things apart and build them up again, and, up until recently, he'd thought he knew himself just as well as he's always thought he could figure out other people.

Part of him thinks maybe he should tell Nikolai about it, about how what had started as trying to understand this new thing for him, months spent really looking around himself, whether it was at lean, toned men in gossip magazines, smiley college students with ruffled hair and askew glasses coming in the shop or older boys practicing at the rink, had turned into a full on blown on Ilya's own alleged sexuality.

But now, for some reasons, Ilya feels almost too vulnerable to look at himself and unpack the rest, the same tangled mess of feelings that had once left him blushing in front of an underwear commercial.

"So... the coach's son." Ilya wheezes out, instead "You know, I'm impressed, never would have pegged you for that kind of guy-"

He probably deserves being pushed off his own bed.

Later, Ilya makes a point of leaning the side of his body against Nikolai's as close as physically possible, while Fast and Furious plays on the computer perched over half of each of their laps. Nikolai had only huffed a laugh at his choice of movie before settling beside him against the headboard.

"I never noticed, but he kinda looks like Lyosha when he had shorter hair, doesn't he?" Ilya snorts as he reaches for his drink over the nightstand. It's pretty uncanny, now that he thinks about it; the blond curly hair, hooded blue eyes, the thin line of his smirk... Alexei is just not half as cool, though.

Nikolai makes a noncommitted sound, but when Ilya turns next his face is unmistakably red, as he hides between his shoulders, cladded in a pair of Ilya's shorts and the biggest sweatshirt he could find inside his closet. It probably used to belong to Alexei, from the big CSKA stamp on the back. Well, before Ilya got his hands on it, at least.

Ilya can't help taking another brief look between the screen and Nikolai's flaming and clearly guilty face, as the sound of roaring engines takes over the room.

Wait.

Plus, well, other things.

So that's your type? Tough, hot and blond?

It takes Ilya's brain only a couple of seconds to catch up, as the rest of the puzzle puts itself together, giving him just enough time to recoil.

"Are you for real? My brother-?"

Wyatt's first impression of Nikolai is an awed, mildly impressed, and hilarious "Well, dude, you're really fucking big." That has Ilya snorts into his palm as he fumbles with his skates.

Nikolai, whose English is definitely enough by now to catch his words, after months of playing online together, turns to look at him with red high on his cheeks and shake his hand "Wyatt, yes? From COD?"

"The one and only." Wyatt grins, before starting to work on his own skates.

The guy in the box doesn't bat an eye at their hockey sticks. It's only the three of them on the ice, anyway, on a too hot summer day.

Skating with Nikolai reminds Ilya of simpler times, of being two kids playing catch on a slightly different ice. They haven't done that in ages, not even when Ilya flew back in April, and it’s thrilling to see how fast they click back on sync, running laps around the rink.

Wyatt is not used to keeping their kind of pace, probably due to being a goalie, but catches up to them pretty easily once Ilya finally drops the puck and they start passing it across the ice, skating eights back and forth, making do of what they can without a net.

Ilya is pleased to see Nikolai and Wyatt playfully ribbing each other, even without a screen in between them and very limited linguistic resources.

Wyatt is patient, though, just like he'd been with Ilya years ago, and purposefully shows off the little Russian he's picked up by listening to Ilya and Alexei argue with each other, as they walk out the rink to get smoothies at a near shop.

Nikolai's face blanches with horror.

"Not say it to other Russians, yes?" He stutters, glaring at Ilya as he folds in half from laughter, over Wyatt's most utter confusion.

Ilya is so focused on getting the best out of the few days before the Morozov's will have to go back to Moscow, that he doesn't realize at first how short they have left, up until he find himself struggling to let go of Ivan's shirt, hugging him by the gate, at six AM on a Wednesday morning.

"Hey, it's not a goodbye, you know?" Ivan says, patting his back.

"It still sucks."

Ivan's hand grips his nape, gentle "Yes, it does. We'll try to make Easter work, alright?"

Ilya can only nod against his shoulder before taking a sad step back. Nadia is still clutching both Alexei and Niamh's shoulders, talking at the speed of light in low Russian. Niamh doesn't seem that put out by it, mostly still half asleep where she's leaning off his brother. They'll need to stop for coffee before leaving the airport, Ilya decides, even though Niamh will probably complain about it tasting like rotten. Ilya still has no idea what makes the shop's coffee better than any other place's, but Alexei always looks so proud by the silent praise that it probably doesn't matter anyway.

Despite everything, it brings a little smile to his lips to see the embarrassment written on Nikolai's face when Alexei draws him in to ruffle his hair.

How the hell did he never notice it? He asks himself, watching him being all sheepish as his brother pats him on the cheek, in the same affectionate way Nadia did with him just a few minutes earlier.

Nikolai settles back at Ilya's side with blush still prominent over his face and his teeth gritted.

"Shut up."

Ilya throws his hands up "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

Yeah, well, fair.

He wraps an arm around his shoulders "Oh, c'mon, it's pretty cute. This will be something we'll laugh about in a few years."

"If you bring it up again, I'll tell Wyatt to put Nair in your shampoo." Nikolai threatens, poking his side with an annoyed huff "I'll miss you, asshole." He mumbles, then, bumping their heads together, as they walk behind the others and towards security.

Ilya will miss him too, all three of them, just like he's always done.

He wants to think there is a world where it won't have to be like that forever.

-

The journey to that year Canada's junior championship had been just as brutal as Ilya expected. Ten games, all of which Ilya, with the new blazing C painted on his chest, had pushed through with an urgence he'd never felt as fervent as he had after watching the Ottawa Beavers win their first game in the Ontario's regional run.

The team hadn't questioned the new, racing pace practice fell into, apart from cursing him under their breath whenever being called out for slacking on the ice. Ilya was far too unbothered and way too determined to care. None of them would have lasted a day on a Russian team, Ilya had made sure to point that out any chance given.

But now, in the passenger seat of Niamh's car, still half geared up, shivering and with a puke bag in his lap, everything feels lost. It had started with a couple of sniffles, earlier that week. That, he dealt with just fine, but when the fatigue and the fever broke, managing to keep it a secret from his brother, his coach, had started to feel just as draining as keeping himself upright on the ice had felt that day, right before he’d faceplanted on the bench from exhaustion.

Ilya had expected Alexei's worried and disappointed face to greet him outside the rink, while leaning on Wyatt's shoulder to keep steady on his feet. Instead, he'd found Niamh, in cozy civvies, who had expertly took Ilya's hockey bag from Wyatt's other hand and helped him into her car.

"Lyosha?" He mumbles, leaning his head back against the headrest as he fights back another wave of nausea.

"He's working. Finn is still sick and both Avery and Leah had class, it's only him and Elke on shift."

"He sent you?"

Niamh hums "I offered. He couldn't leave and I was at the shop when coach called."

Right. She had off that day, Ilya knew already because she'd been the one to drive him to school, earlier that morning, behind the excuse of getting breakfast while Alexei miraculously slept in. It would have been hard to forget regardless,  Ilya thinks, with her colour coded work schedule set up under the just as filled in calendar on their fridge. She and his brother really were made for each other.

"We're going to the shop?"

"We're going home." Niamh corrects, leaning over the gear shift at a red light to tuck sweaty curls away from his mouth.

Ilya wants to push her away, because, objectively, he's really fucking gross: he's sweaty, both from practice and the highs of his fever, and he must still smell awful from all the puking he had done in the parking lot, that left his mouth tasting like battery acid.

But then again, Niamh is a paramedic, she must have seen way worse than puke, at least from the way she didn't even bat an eye when helping him getting his shoes off and wipe his face clean, with wet wipes she took out of the dashboard. It seemed fitting for her to have a whole emergency kit in there, but Ilya had still been drowsily impressed.

Getting out of the car and up the stairs to the flat results to be one of the hardest things Ilya has ever had to do in his life, and even worse does showering, but, when he finally drops into bed, clean and exhausted and with his hair still damp but puke free, at last, Ilya can't say he regrets following Niamh's strict directions.

The water washed away all the sticky layer of sweat from his skin, leaving behind the cooling feeling of a fresh shower and the gentle fragrance of the bodywash Niamh had stocked their cabinets with, after discovering the bottle of three-in-one shampoo in their shower cub.

It feels silly, he can't help but think, as he lets Niamh tuck him under the covers, too out of it to protest. He's not a child anymore, he could take care of himself just fine. But Niamh's hands are gentle as they brush the hair away from his forehead, to fix a wet cloth over it, soothingly cold.

"I wouldn't have brought you in today if you said you were sick." She sighs, pushing the covers more up to his chin.

"I'm Russian, we don't get sick." Ilya slurs, shivering in the heavy jumper she'd helped him put on.

"What does that even mean?" He hears her chuckle.

"I can still play." Ilya continues, the words tangling in the way from his brain to his mouth "I just- need tissues for ice. And bucket. We can make Gerry carry it, he's bad player anyway. But I need to play, practice. For championship."  He continues, wetting his cracked lip "so we beat Hollander and stupid beavers."

"We'll see about playing, alright?" Niamh says, with what Ilya hopes is not condescendence. With his eyes closed, he can only hear her exiting the room as he relaxes against the pillows, closer to sleep any second longer. The bed feels just so comfortable against his aching limbs, the light dim enough not to bother his eyes anymore, and Ilya is just so tired.

"So, I didn't find any Advil, but I always keep some in my work bag." Niamh says, pulling Ilya out of his slumber as she walks in with a tall glass of water and a plastic blister.

Ilya barely registers her weight dipping the mattress as she pops it open.

And he wants to blame the fever, the uncoordinated sluggish flow of thoughts that makes Niamh offering up two white pills seem like a death sentence, but he can't fight the way his breath gets stuck in his throat, as he furiously shakes his head, sending the cloth falling over the sheets.

"Ilya-?"

"No pills." he whimpers, struggling weakly against the weight of the covers. They feel heavy, suffocating, Ilya needs out, out "Please, no, no, no- don't make me."

"Ilya, I don't understand- hey, please, breath with me." There are hands gripping Ilya's shoulders as he trashes feverishly.

"No, Niamh, please, please."

"No? Alright, alright, nyet- it's fine-"

Fingers tangle gently at his nape as Ilya's breathing stutters and gasps out of him in rants. Ilya feels them wiping at the couple of tears stuck at the corner of his eyes as Niamh hums quietly.

He doesn't know when the picture of a cold, unmoving body finally disappears from behind his eyelids, only to be replaced by Niamh's concerned face, as Ilya forces his eyes open. The softness on her face is so familiar that, for a second, Ilya worries he'll run his mouth in his delirium and embarrass himself even further. But her hair is copper, unruly, and not poised, golden brown, like Ilya remembers from his dreams, her eyes too light against the rich and warm darker shade his mom's were.

"Hey." She whispers, trying to smile up at him while speaking in practiced words "You're going to be fine, no pills, I promise. But, your fever is pretty high and if we don't do something, I'll have to take you to the hospital."

"No-"

"I know, I know." She sooths, gently "I think I have an idea, but you have to promise to stay in bed while I go to the corner shop, okay?"

Ilya doesn't exactly know what he's agreeing to, but he trusts Niamh and he feels way too floaty to stop her from leaving him, even though the sound of the front door closing behind her is utterly defeating.

Ilya is alone, sick, and Alexei will probably not let him get near any rink until the last sniffles are out, definitely not in time for the road trip. And the worst is, they could have won it, this time, Ilya knows it deep into his bones.

He has watched every highlight and recording he could find in the past few months about Ottawa, about Hollander, made Wyatt practice to block feints up to exhaustion and the team to not fall for smart handling and formations. Ilya himself spent weeks trying to figure out how to point his slap shots with the same accuracy as Hollander did, in all those videos.

 All of it, wasted.

He feels justified in his misery, even more so when Niamh comes back, with a grocery bag in tow, full of-

"Is that children syrup?" Ilya croaks out, as she sits on the edge of the bed, still in her coat and scarf, and starts to take one of apparently numerous boxes out of the plastic bag.

"We need to bring your temperature down" Niamh reminds him, while reading off the instruction sheet "And it’s not just for children, many people who can't swallow pills take it instead of normal Tylenol. We just need to find the right dosage. How much could you weight? An hundred-sixty pounds, give it or take?" She asks, filling in a childish, bright orange syringe. The smell coming from the bottle alone makes Ilya's stomach churn in protest.

"Yeah."

Niamh nods mindlessly, before grimacing  "Beware, this is going to taste awful, so I also brought you this." She says, rummaging through the bag for a bottle of blue Gatorade, Ilya's favourite.

Fowl taste or not, Ilya would take that over pills anytime, even though it is awful and by the third syringe makes Ilya re-evaluate a whole life of bad decisions. The Gatorade can only do so much to chase it down, but at least Niamh doesn't look as worried when he finally lays back, exhausted as if he'd just ran a whole marathon.

"Why don't you try and sleep for a bit?" Niamh suggests, tucking him back in.

"I don't feel like sleeping." He mumbles, even though he could definitely use some. "Watch movie with me?" He pleads, sniffing pathetically as he looks up at her through clumped eyelashes.

Niamh doesn't pretend to be fooled by his tactic, but still comes back with Alexei's computer after changing into comfier clothes and one of his brother's hoodies, and lets him rest his head on her shoulder while Ghost Rider plays over the screen, just like every time she's had a rough shift or Ilya's been too wrung out from practice to do anything but collapse on the couch and start the movie up. Ilya likes it, the fact that even though she's now Alexei's girlfriend, they can still be friends.

Niamh's fingers idly playing with his curls is enough to make Ilya doze off, but he's still conscious enough to hear keys turning in the padlock and the steps quietly walking up to his room.

"Hey, love." Niamh whispers, but she doesn't make a move to dislodge herself from where Ilya has been trapping her under his weight.

His eyes feel too heavy to open, but he hums appreciatively when Alexei's glacial hand comes to rest over his forehead, melting further as he pushes sweaty hair away from his face "Hi. Fever still?"

"He's less warm, I gave him Tylenol."

"And cough syrup?"

"No, that is the Tylenol. I think you ran out, so I tried giving him some Advil I had on me but he, uhm, he didn't want to take the pills."

There silence then, Ilya hears his brother exhale slowly as he sits down by Ilya's feet.

"Right. Sorry I- should have imagined that."

He can feel Niamh shake her head "Hey, don't stress about it. The important thing was to get his fever down, didn't matter how."

"Thank you."

"No need, baby. The dosage is a bit tricky to measure, but I'll show you later. Maybe I could teach him some tricks; my brother couldn't swallow pills either when we were kids, but then-"

"No, it's- it's not that."

Maybe this should be the moment where Ilya makes it clear that he's not, in fact, still sleeping, hasn't been pretty much since Alexei arrived, but words seem just way too hard at the moment to deal with, as he sighs quietly against the warmth of her hoodie.

"Our mother, when she died, she overdosed. Ilya found her."

Niamh tenses against him, the fingers in his hair stopping in their motion, as she takes his brother's words in. Ilya can't see her face, but he's pretty sure of what he would find if he did. What Ilya is surprised about, is that in all four months they've been together, Alexei never told her.

He gets it, in part, because Ilya doesn't think he will ever find the courage to say those words aloud to anyone, for that matter. They hold a kind of pain that hasn't faltered in all four years since he walked into that bathroom and found her laying on the floor. Thinking about her is not always sad, but even the happy things make his heart ache like a little kid's.

On the other hand, Ilya thinks there is no one else Alexei has ever shared his life with like this other than Niamh, especially now, that they're practically starting share a flat too, despite what is brother is trying to convince himself of, while Niamh's shoes keep joining on the front door's rack and her toothbrush and hair products find space in their bathroom.

"Fuck." She whispers, then, tenderly resuming to draw circles on his scalp as Ilya tries keeping still "I'm so sorry, I would have never offered if I had known, really-"

"It's not your fault." Alexei stops her, gently. Ilya feels the moment his hand reaches for hers over the covers "I didn't think to tell you. I barely know how it went."

"You didn't-?"

"No. I-I left for school that morning and she was there, and then I came back and she wasn't anymore. Our father said it was an accident." Alexei laughs humourlessly, still quiet enough not to wake him. If Ilya were sleeping, that is. The lurching feeling at the bottom of his stomach doesn't feel just like nausea anymore, now "I found out from police report, he left it in his study after the funeral. Ilya was... he was always more close to her, it broke him. Ivan helped but it didn't change the fact that he saw her. I don't how much, for how long, but he was just a kid, it was enough. I used to keep medicine in bathroom before, but it freaked him out, even if he didn't say so. I just keep it in my room now, if I need it. All the hockey made him tough, he basically never gets sick." He hears him add. Ilya can smell the stench of cigarette and coffee grounds on his fingers when Alexei reaches to fix the blankets higher on both of them.

"I trust you with him. Thank you, for doing this."

From where he's leaning on her, Ilya can feel Niamh's heart beating miles as she releases a stilted breath "Always, baby. I've had way worse patients than him, anyway."

Alexei chuckles "But not this clingy?"

Hey.

"That's really bold of you to say." Niamh rebukes, seriously.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Lying doesn't suit you, Rozanov."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Can you two please not?" Ilya groans weakly, too gagged to pretend not hear anymore "Is making me want to throw up. Again."

Niamh snorts, but keeps her hand over his head at his whine of protest. The light makes his head throb as he opens his eyes, to find the stern yet docile stare of his brother.

"Morning, sleeping beauty." Alexei greets, full of sarcasm, nudging Ilya's cheek with his knuckles. Then, more softly "How you feel?"

"Like shit." He whines, briefly hiding his face in Niamh's hoodie, once again "This is unfair."

"I know, Ilyushka."

"I hate this."

"I can imagine why, but why you didn't tell us?" Alexei frowns. He's still in work clothes, his hair down and frizzy like he spent hours running his hands through it. He probably did, the worrywart.

"I didn't think it would get this bad." He admits, sniffily.

Alexei only hums quietly, before letting it drop "You want something to eat? We order in."

Ilya does feel a little hungry, now that he thinks about it "Toast." He decides "No butter, though, please."

"Okay. Niamh?"

"Chinese?" She proposes.

"Sure."

Ilya in not expecting his neat freak of a brother to bring dinner directly to bed, but he's also pretty aware he wouldn't be able to take more than a couple of steps straight, right now, and, selfishly, he appreciates them not leaving him alone, as Alexei settles on the other side of him, but not before setting up some comedy on his laptop and putting it up by Ilya's shins.

Ilya falls asleep slumped in the tight space between them, surrounded by take away boxes, warmth and the sound of their quiet laughter.

Leaning down for the face off, Ilya can't help the feral grin spreading over his face as he hastily wipes under his nose with his sleeve. His grin can only widen further when Hollander face contorts in disgust and something almost akin to concern.

"Should you be playing like this?" He asks, copying his stance as the rest of their teams take their positions. His hair has been cut shorter, fringe barely reaching his brows and pointing straight in every direction under the line of his helmet. His eyes look even bigger than Ilya remembers, as he scowls at him.

And he shouldn't be, not in his brother's opinion at least, but, as Niamh had loyally and very professionally stated after checking him over, the brunt of his cold had pretty much disappeared, the fever completely gone by the day before the road trip, and Ilya was old enough to understand his limits.

Ilya probably wasn't, actually, as recently demonstrated, but Alexei had gone through three whole days of Ilya pathetically dragging himself around the house and looking mournfully at his hockey bag from the lair of covers on his bed, Niamh's helpful reasoning had been the cherry on top of his pleads to successfully make him crumble.

Ilya coos "My, Hollander, you’re so afraid to lose?"

"This cockiness didn't bring you anywhere last year, if memory serves me right." Hollander grits between his teeth, but it's too late by then: the puck has dropped and Ilya's got it as he skates to the other side of the rink, with Hollander right behind him.

The Flyers are leading by two points by the start of third period: Wyatt has been an absolute monster on the ice, the team coordinated and on tune, just like Ilya made sure they would be, and just like, he's happy to notice, Ottawa didn't expect.

There is some sick kind of pleasure into seeing the frown on Hollander's face, the seething rage every time Ilya skates circles around him and shoves him into the boards for the puck.

"Getting tired?" Ilya asks innocently, battling his eyelashes at him as he leans off his stick during intermission "Losing must be exhausting, but cheer up: you still have a period to try your best instead of... whatever that was."

Hollander drops his water bottle on the bench with enough force to make the metal rattle "Do you ever shut up?"

The freckles on his face draw constellations across the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, ruddy from exertion and spite as he looks up to him with the same energy of an angry kitten. Ilya is extremely endeared.

"And let boring Canadians like you talk? You know, you should chill out more." Ilya points out, pushing sweaty hair away from his forehead and trying to ignore the weird flip in his stomach. He can feel the stares pointed at them, from their teams, the cameras, the sponsors over the bleachers, it's elating just as much as it’s annoying. Part of him wishes they didn't exist and it were just the two of them "Face is too pretty to frown so much." He finds himself adding, before really considering the words about to leave his mouth.

What the fuck.

Hollander's glare only intensifies at that as the red on his face deepens dangerously, while Ilya's brain goes through the whole seven stages of grief.

And alright, Hollander, objectively, really is pretty and he would bet his whole car collection that this is not the first time someone told him, or well, chirped him about it, in a sport as rough as hockey is.

The problem is that A) it didn't come out half as mockingly as he'd intended to and B) that had been concerning enough as an inside thought to begin with.

"I mean-"

"Fuck. Off. Rozanov." Hollander snarls, before leaving the bench and catching up with the rest of his teammates stretching on the ice.

"Wow." Matthew Denvers, Ilya's left winger and alternate, voices behind him, his bottle halfway to his mouth "That is some level of pissed, the fuck you said to him Roz?"

"Doesn't matter." Ilya shakes his head, put out, getting his helmet back on "Lets bring that medal home, yes, Matty?"

The Flyers win the game with a score of 3-1. Ilya's cheeks hurt from smiling as he's being hoisted up on Milly and Rover's shoulders, while the rest of the guys celebrate on the ice. Victory tastes good, so does shaking Hollander's hand, before standing up in line for gold.

"Same time and place next year?" He can't help but ask, still grinning.

Despite everything, he thinks there is some of that grin reflected in the curve of Hollander's lips too, as the other nods, fuelled and determined "We'll beat your ass."

Ilya laughs "Will believe it when I see it, Hollander."

Ilya's fever spikes up again on the bus, just a few hours away from Edmonton.

Still, totally fucking worth it.

-

Ilya knows something is definitely wrong when Wyatt comes into first period, for the first time in all two years he's known him, more than fashionably late, with bloodshot eyes and miles long shadows underneath. He hasn't been answering to Ilya's texts all weekend and didn't come neither to practice or school on Monday. Now, Wyatt falls into the seat next to his like his own body weights more than he can carry, head low and stuck looking down at is desk, and refuses to meet his eyes all through two painful hours of biology.

The worst thing is that Ilya thinks he's the only one that noticed it, not even Jay, who lives only a couple houses down from Wyatt and apparently didn't question why they hadn't meet up that morning, shrugging at Ilya's concern.

In the end, it's Wyatt that takes the first step.

"Can I- Can I come to yours after?" He asks timidly, pushing his lunch around in his tray.

"Sure." He says, with no hesitation whatsoever, taking his phone out to text Alexei under the table. The response comes in earlier than expected, a thumbs up and a simple 'Going to Niamh's', which has Ilya both smirk and huff in surprise. Sometimes he forgets Niamh still has an apartment of her own, with all the times he's come back home from practice to find her and Alexei in a tangle of limbs on the couch. It's not like he minds, but every time he opens the front door he hopes to find them wearing clothes, at least. It's only been less than three months since they started dating and Ilya has already been scarred enough to last a lifetime.

Also, Wyatt doesn't deserve it when he's already this kicked down.

Ilya's concern grows even bigger once they're home, later that afternoon, sitting on the fire escape outside his window, on one of the few snow free steps, and Wyatt holds out his hand for the lit up cigarette in between Ilya's fingers.

His last growth spurt has done miracles for allowing Ilya to use Alexei's old Russian ID in gas stations, even though he's not nearly as tall and his beard still comes in patches, but Ilya has learned that if he walks in with his hood pulled down and leans into his accent just enough, it's very unlikely he won't walk out with a too expensive pack hidden in his backpack. Canadians and taxes, Ilya misses not having to save two weeks worth of allowance just to buy cigarettes.

Wyatt has always refused Ilya's generous offer, blabbering half heartedly about the chances of lung cancer, strokes, and a long list of long term medical problems that Ilya could list off his fingers if he wanted to. It's not so different from what Nadia has been telling Alexei for years, anyway.

"This is serious." Ilya states, lighting up another and bringing it to his own lips.

Wyatt leans forward, head in his hands, as he breaths heavily against his palms.

"So, uhm, I'm going to tell you something." He starts, after a particularly deep drag "And I'm doing it because Kristie said I could and I think you might be my best friend and the only person that I can tell this to and will keep the secret. Jay and Bryce, they- sometimes they can be assholes and Kristie doesn't deserve to be talked behind her back. But I need you to promise that you won't take this badly." Wyatt pleads.

Ilya grips his shoulder "Hazy, whatever it is, I'm not going to tell anyone."

"And you won't take this badly." Wyatt presses.

"Alright, yes, I promise." Ilya assures him, officially bordering into panic "Something happened to Kristie? Is she fine?"

Wyatt exhales wetly "My parents kicked her out. She- she came back for Christmas and- I mean, I already knew, she had told me before going to college, and I knew how my parents are but I didn't think they would react like this, they just- they started screaming at her. And it's my fault, I told her that they love us and that it wouldn't matter if she came out to them, and they kicked her out." Wyatt sobs. The butt of his cigarette slips out of his fingers when he brings his hand to his mouth to muffle his cries.

"Hazy. Hazy." Ilya calls him, throwing his cigarette away before kneeling on the lowest step, kind of panicked and unsure of what to do "What- where did Kristie come out of? I don't understand."

Against all the odds, the next sound coming out of Wyatt is a startled, distorted laugh "Jesus, no. Come out, as in she's gay, Rozy. She told them she is gay, and- well."

Wyatt's words make Ilya's ears ring.

Oh.

The realization settles at the bottom of his stomach like a rock stuck underwater, tethered to the seabed. 

Wyatt's parents, for as much as Ilya always considered them as overly strict and old fashioned, they loved their kids. He could see it in the way Mrs Hayes used to kiss both their foreheads when seeing them off at the door every morning before school, while he waited for them in Alexei's car, or in how they never missed any of Kristie's cheer competitions and asked about practice at the kitchen table, actually interested. They were present, they cared. 

But maybe, that hadn't been enough.

Ilya remembers the fear on Nikolai's face, the skittish and clipped resignation with which he'd shut his parents attempts down. And Nadia and Ivan were the best people Ilya knew, part of him at the time still couldn't understand, after Nikolai's heartbroken confession, why he couldn't trust them with that, with that part of himself.

But then, if love could be so conditional, maybe Nikolai hadn't been that wrong into hiding.

"Fuck." He whispers, deflating, his head running miles per hour as he tries getting back to earth "I'm so sorry. Is she- is she safe?"

Wyatt nods through tears, seemingly relieved as he scans Ilya's face for disgust? Disapproval? Ilya can't blame him, after all "Yeah, she, uhm, she already had a ticket to get back to Toronto. I helped put her stuff in a storage unit until she can come back and pick up the rest. Eve called and said she's got her."

"And Eve..."

"They're girlfriends." Wyatt confirms, against everything, with a wobbly smile "They've been together for a couple of years now. She- she's very happy." He says, sniffing against the back of his hand as he wipes away the last of his tears, leaving behind only the blotchy result of sadness.

"That is good." Ilya nods, setting his arm across his shoulders. It feels just as grounding for him too, for some reason "They'll take care of each other. How are you, though?"

"I- home has been hell." Wyatt quietly admits, looking down at his feet "mom can't stop crying, she hasn't since Friday, and dad is always closed in his study. I'm so mad at them, I just- I don't get it. They ruined everything, and for what? Because Kristie doesn't like boys?" He sniffles, before turning to look back at Ilya "My dad wants to ask for a transfer."

Ilya's words get stuck in his throat, momentarily stunned "A- a transfer? To where? I thought he wanted you to finish high school here."

"Yeah. He said some bullshit about starting fresh." Wyatt spews, angrily "I haven't talked with him since then. Mom said she would talk to him, but I know she thinks he’s right."

"Assholes." Ilya breaths out, only half involuntarily.

It only takes a couple of seconds for Wyatt to chuckle "Yeah, fucking assholes."

The silence stretching between them is heavy, as they watch cars moving underneath them, people walking the streets, in and out of lit up shops with full bags of gifts. Christmas is less than a week away after all. If Ilya weren't already aware of it because of the lights, the snow littering the streets and the mouthwatering smell of hot chocolate coming from cafés and street trucks, Alexei pacing around the house while mentally internalizing having to meet Niamh's family in just a few days would have been a great reminder.

As he lights up another cigarette, which rapidly makes its way back and forth between them, Ilya feels Wyatt start to relax under his arm, probably spent.

"Stay here tonight. We drive together to school tomorrow and get your hockey stuff after." Ilya proposes, then "Niamh is on shift, we need a fourth for Trivial pursuit, so Finn doesn't win, anyway."

"I don't know why you still play that if you don't know half the answers." Wyatt snorts, red rimmed eyes scrunching up with mirth.

"Finn said is to help with pop culture." Ilya shrugs. Plus, Ilya doesn't really mind losing at it, he thrives enough by seeing Niamh and Finn scream at each other for cheating while he's been subtly moving their pieces across the board throughout the whole game, under his brother's amused stare "He's probably just tired to loose at cards whenever he comes over."

"He’s not that wrong, Alexei is too lucky to be normal. But yeah, uhm, I'll text mom." Wyatt nods, gratefully "Thanks, Roz."

"Always, Hazy. I'm your captain." He reminds him, before standing up to pop his back with a groan "And since I'm captain, now we'll go back inside and you're going to use your little goalie fingers to roll us a nice jay, yes?" Will Alexei smell it when he'll get home later? Probably, but Ilya has by now figured out how to keep the stench at a minimum, enough to blame the college students living downstairs, at least "We relax, we watch game, we eat ice cream, then we call Kristie. The order is your choice, but Kristie is fine, I would say that she's in good hands, so enough with sad talk." He intimates, seriously.

Wyatt only laughs before climbing back through the window to look for Ilya's stash.

Ilya takes a second to follow him inside, to think about Kristie, about the Hayes moving, about Nikolai, then, a little about his brother too, with his heart pounding against his ribcage.

This is not Canada.

But what if that didn't change anything, after all?

What if-?

Ilya pushes the though away before it can even begin to form in his head. Wyatt needs him.

He can pretend everything it's fine, for now.

Chapter End Notes

Heyo!

When I started writing this I thought it would be maybe a lil shorter than the last one, but then it got to 19k and I knew I couldn't post something that long, for yall's sanity. So you get two chapters, and I get the knowledge of not having bored you to death with my long winded ass.

I really thought over about the crevices between canon and this fic, and came to the conclusion that if hockey had been a way to escape Russia for canon!Ilya, it just wouldn't have made sense in this scenario, so I gave Ilya what every kid starts experiencing at 16: FOMO and future anxiety. I have a couple of ideas for this, but won't spoil anything eheh.

Nadia and Ivan absolutely treat both Ilya and Alexei like their spawns, it's def a trope.

Kristie's story broke my heart, tbh, but that was also one of the reasons why I wanted to introduce Wyatt into the mix, besides the obvious fact that I love him and that if Jacob doesn't cast him right I just might go to his house with pitchforks.

This chapter was my occasion to point out that Niamh totally baby-trapped herself, it was fully consensual, she said 'hold my beer' and dived in head first into it. I love writing about her relationship with Ilya, they are so siblings coded, and especially so her and Alexei's relationship developing in Ilya's POV. Btw, the syrup thing is actually true, my one year in nursing school and my mom being a doctor once again contributed to the story line.

So the closet is not even made of glass at this point, it's literally a mirror.
I had so much fun writing Ilya being an involuntary bisexual mess, hail my brother, I totally feel you. Jokes apart, Ilya's own take on his sexuality was very interesting to plan, because, obviously, it's not that he wouldn't have accepted himself if he were gay, the real problem was that he just never knew that you didn't necessarily have to be either straight or not, and all the implication that come with that. Nikolai and Kristie's situations are two sides of the same coin, and Ilya is also a person with slight abandonment issues, so the road is still pretty long. Shane's POV of this is probably blaring allarms, rebooting sounds and a big loading sign.

As always, thank you so much for all your kudos and comments, they feed me and fuel me.

Hope yall liked this chapter, see you for the next one (in way less time than you might expect)!

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Christmas that year leaves Ilya almost lightheaded. He's not used to this many people crowding up a single room, but, as loud and chaotic as it gets, Ilya finds that he does not mind at all. Alexei had worried so much about meeting Niamh's family, but the Callahans, all of them, they'd done everything but make them feel unwelcome, even when Ilya had finally convinced Alexei to join in on a round of Blackjack after lunch and he'd ended up wiping the floor with a very impressed half of Niamh's family tree.

Ilya spends that week soaking in Niamh's parent's kindness, helping Jean out in the kitchen, Niall with using their computer, playing Risk with Niamh and her siblings on the living room's floor, and watching his brother finally reach the same realization Ilya had already had months ago, when coming back home from practice one afternoon to see Niamh brush the hair away from Alexei's sleeping face almost reverently, like she couldn't believe to really get to have him: Niamh Callahan had carved herself into their life and she was bound to stay.

Ilya would be lying if he said that getting back to their flat for boring, normal life doesn't feel even a little bittersweet.

The Hayes move just a few weeks into the new term. Ilya had up until then tried to convince himself that Wyatt's parents would change their minds, that they would take Kristie back in and everything would fix itself, eventually. He'd been way too delusional, Ilya realizes, while helping Wyatt pack up his comic books and action figures in carton boxes, ready to be shipped to fuck-ass somewhere in Manitoba.

"You better call, Hazy." Ilya intimates him the day before their flight, barely keeping at bay the pressure behind his eyes as they lay over the cold floor of what was Wyatt's room, side by side "I'm still your captain, and Manitoba is not so far that I can't come kick your ass, if you don't."

Wyatt only huffs a wet laugh before locking their pinkies together.

And Wyatt does, in fact, keep his promise; Ilya gets all of the updates about their new house, his new school, hockey club, all while catching up on Skype with both him and Nikolai as they play WOW from three different time zones.

Ilya likes those calls, he can almost pretend everything is still the same during them, even though Wyatt’s life has not been the only one changing lately-

"Is that a cat?" Wyatt asks, once finally logged in, leaning further into the camera and giving Ilya the creepy image of his whole eye socket.

Ilya begrudgingly lifts the Potato into the air to show him off, the cat pliant in his hands. Sometimes Ilya wonders if he really has any bones in his body or he really is just all fur, after all "This is Potato. He's Niamh's cat, we're, uhm, babysitting for her."

"I didn't know Niamh had a cat. Oh my god, he's so cute." Wyatt coos, more like one would to a baby than to an overgrown cat. If a cat could looked pleased, Ilya bets Potato would be gloating right now by all the attention "But I thought you hated cats?"

Nikolai snorts, from his side of the line "He not, he just baby, very scared of cats."

"Fuck off." Ilya pouts, lowering Potato back into his lap. Potato curls up in a ball of warmth over his legs, going back to his low purring "And surprise, I guess. We're just doing her a favour: she had an overnight shift and her neighbour was away so she couldn't feed him."

Alexei, for all of his 'no pets' regime, had been way too eager to fold and offer to keep him at their flat. Ilya is going to remind him that, the next time he'll need leverage. He's entitled to it, Ilya thinks, dragging an hand through silky fur, because rationally he knows that Potato is going to stay. Niamh shift was three days ago, anyway, who are they trying to fool?

"You two look very cozy there, Roz. I never thought I'd see this day."

"He only who doesn't find you annoying? Good for you."

"I swear to god, allowing you two to meet was the worst idea I ever had." Ilya sighs, grabbing his controller from the desk and trying not to jostle them much. Potato is unperturbed as long as he keeps scratching behind his ears.

For having been found in the garbage, he's surprisingly clingy. Ilya gets him, in some way: he's a bit clingy too. And even he has to admit that it's kind of nice, now, with the little time Alexei has between classes and work and Niamh with her own shifts, to have someone to still go back home to in the middle of the day, after school, when there is no practice to distract him from his loneliness.

But It's in his loneliness that Ilya does what he does best: watch. He's no stranger to see his brother stress. Alexei has an innate talent for it, even though he tries his best pretending to be chill most times, in some weak attempt to not make Ilya worry or keep himself grounded, probably. Not that his facade has ever worked with him.

When Alexei had told him about the internship, he had been genuinely happy for him, at first. Ilya had always tried to push Alexei into doing things that made him happy, and that was one of those things. Him actually doing something for himself was a day to be written down on the calendar. Nadia had a field day with he’d told her.

Still, he hadn't really thought it would be quite like this. Alexei should be happy when coming back home. Tired, surely, but ultimately happy. Instead, Ilya has resorted to only see him late in the evening, exhausted, sometimes so much to even skip dinner just to catch up on sleep, before having to wake up at the break of dawn just to do it all over again. Ilya can pretty much understand why, with the absurd schedule now taped to their fridge.

Ivan had said that Alexei only needed time to adjust, they both did, the last time Ilya had called him, after seeing his brother almost run into a door earlier that morning, scrambling for his things and late for class.

And Ilya, on his part, had tried to be patient, he really did, because the suddenness of everything happening all at once had left him gasping too.

Then, one day, Jay had come into class saying that he couldn’t hang out that afternoon because he had found a job at a gas station. And the other guys had teased and joked about him only thinking about affording weed and taking his girl out on the weekends, but that had given Ilya what, in that moment, he’d thought would be a great idea.

If he’d known he would end up curled up on Finn’s beat up couch on a Thursday night with his eyes rubbed raw and his throat itching from yelling, he’d thought twice about ‘great ideas'.

“I told Lex you’re here.” Finn informs him, coming back from the kitchen with a can of coke and a plate balancing in his hands, shutting him up with a look after Ilya’s outraged attempt at interrupting him “You ran out of the house, he was scared shitless, man. I had to tell him. Also told him you’re staying here for the night, unless you want him to come knockin’ at the door.”

And Ilya doesn’t, in fact, want to see his brother right now, much less for the foreseeable future, he thinks, picking at the lettuce poking out of Finn’s sandwich.

Finn has the grace of not asking any questions up until the game playing on tv is finished, the same they’d been watching at home with Niamh when Ilya had lowered his fork and said: “I want to find a job.”

Alexei had frowned at that, putting his glass back down as he turned to look at him from the other side of the table “What do you need a job for? You have allowance.”

“It’s not for that. I was thinking that with everything going on I could, you know, try to help around here.” He’d said, suddenly more and more insecure as the lines of Alexei’s scowl tightened “I mean, just until you get the hang of it, with the internship."

“’Get the hang of it’?” Alexei had repeated, gravelly. He always pressed Ilya about speaking English in front of people that couldn’t understand them, but in that moment he hadn’t seemed to care about being polite, despite Niamh’s evident confusion “There is no ‘getting the hang of it’, it’s just work, and you need to mind your business.”

“Well, maybe I would if you didn’t look like shit all the time.” Ilya had rebuked, rather defensively “You need help, what’s so bad into admitting it?”

“The only way you could help me right now is by remembering your place.” Alexei hissed between gritted teeth.

“And what is my place? Watching you overwork yourself until there’s nothing left? It’s not fucking worth it, Alexei, just let me-”

“No, Ilya.”

"But-"

"I said no."

Ilya scoffed, throwing his hands up “You can be so fucking stubborn, sometimes.”

“And you’re arrogant." Alexei bit back, standing up from his chair "You always think you can magically solve things, but that is not how the adult world works. I don’t need you to come here and tell me I’m doing a shitty job when, if you hadn’t noticed, this is what puts a roof over our heads.” Alexei’s hands were shaking at his sides, if by rage or exhaustion Ilya didn’t know, as he progressively grew antsier into his chair, smaller and smaller while Alexei’s voiced raised “So, fucking toughen up and get out of whatever fairy world you think you’re living in, but most of all, leave me alone.” Alexei said, breathing heavily.

Ilya had been out of the door before either he or Niamh could try to stop him.

"Fuck." Finn comments, once Ilya is done, taken aback and while making himself comfy into his armchair "I don't think he meant literally-" he tries, blocked by Ilya's dark glare.

"I don't care." He rasps out, leaning his head over the arm rest with a wet sniffle "I just wanted to help him."

Finn's face fills with sympathy as he looks down at him "Yeah, I get it." He sighs.

"Sorry if I barged in." He adds, a bit sheepishly.

He's promptly waved off "Don't give me that. Better here than in a ditch, alright? For what it's worth it, I think Lex just needs to think this through."

"It won't do anything, he always ends up treating me like I'm a fucking kid." Ilya groans.

"Well, you kinda are." Finn considers, ignoring Ilya deadpan stare "I mean, alright, you aren't a literal child but it's been only you and him since you were, what, eleven? He feels responsible for you. I kinda understand him: Jenny just got old enough to drink and I still see her like my annoying, nosy, little sister." He says, fondly, fidgeting with the string of his hoodie "I guess it's a bit different since he's kind of like a dad for you, but still."

"Alexei is my brother." Ilya reminds him, appalled, as if Finn might've just about become insane. And maybe he really has, Ilya thinks, when the other bursts out laughing right to his face.

"Dude." He gasps, wiping a dramatic tear from the corner of his eye "You are not that thick, c'mon. The guy hasn't missed a school event in all three years I've known him, he taught you how to shave and he's literally been gambling with his car's life to teach you how to drive. That's more than my dear old daddy ever did for me in twenty-five years of life." Finn states, pointedly raising a brow "Of course he's not like your actual dad, but I'm just saying, everything he does, those are dad things." He shrugs.

And Finn... is not that wrong. Their father hadn't done half of what Alexei did, in all twelve years he'd lived with him. But Alexei came to his games, he sat through hours of PTA meetings and odd, sceptic stares from much older parents. He made sure Ilya had what he needed, what he wanted, so much that Finn used to tease him about spoiling him too much, back when Ilya was younger and used to make wide eyes at him for just another five minutes on the ice at the park, even if they'd already been outside for hours and his lips were turning blue from the cold.

Ilya had just never thought of that in those terms. Somehow, it makes everything even scarier, now.

Finn's smile turns more serious then, as he leans his chin on the palm of his hand, ankles crossed over the coffee table "He did said pretty shitty things and I'm not saying he doesn't owe you an apology, but it hasn't been a great time lately for him and you know how he gets when he's stressed. Elke has been thinking about forcing him to take a week off for all our sakes. She found him asleep against his locker last week." He reveals, springing a laugh out of him.

"I just don't get why he would get so pissed off." Ilya admits then, lowering his eyes to the ground. To be fair, that had hurt way more than his words did, probably because while Ilya has always been aware that his brother could be particularly mean when he wanted to, he usually had a way more layback way to express his disappointment. He surely never yelled at him like that, before.

"Well, I can't speak for him but- you know, I would never think to accept money from my little brother. Not necessarily because of pride, but that would be a hard pill to swallow, too" Finn ponders "It's hard to let people in when you have always done things on your own. He only wants what is best for you."

"I never said he doesn't." Ilya insists, urgently.

"Yeah but, even if you didn't, he might have gotten the hint that you think he's not doing enough. It doesn't have to make sense, but it scared him, and he closed off. It's not your fault." Finn reassures him, with an encouraging look that only serves to make Ilya feel guiltier.

His intent hadn't surely been to make Alexei feel, what, emasculated? Even less to have him think Ilya wanted to throw back on his face everything he'd done for them.

Ilya just wanted his brother back.

"It's going to be fine." Finn says, standing up to ruffle Ilya's hair "Niamh text said that Lex was close to calling the police, and I don't think I know anyone who hates those pigs more than him. Maybe he's not quite like your dad, but you are very much his kid. Just let him stew a bit."

Ilya only half follows the movie Finn puts on in a weak attempt to cheer him up, snuggled under a throw blanket that smells a little too much like weed and coffee, as his head runs through the last few hours in snapshots.

Leave me alone

What if Alexei suddenly decided he wasn't worth it, after all? And sure, that was only one among the numerous fights they had through the years, and Finn is probably right, Alexei didn't mean it like that, but... he'd never told Ilya to go. They could have been arguing about Ilya's dirty socks being anywhere but in the hamper, about him forgetting to text when he held back at the rink, late in the evening, but it was always Ilya that left, that took his time to cool off. Alexei stayed.

What if he eventually grew tired of it? Of Ilya?

Finn has already been snoring for hours, curled up on the other end of the couch, when Ilya finally manages to close his eyes, hoping he didn't just fuck anything over.

It feels like the longest two weeks of Ilya's life: the more Ilya tries to stand his ground, on a matter of principle, through compromises that make his mouth feel full of sand by the unfairness of it all, the more Alexei seems to brush him off.

If Ilya hadn't know Niamh had his back, he probably would have given up around day three of not speaking to each other. The worse thing about all of it had been that it wasn't strictly on purpose, Alexei was just always too caught up with work to be home.

"I told myself you two needed to solve this on your own, but this is getting ridiculous." Niamh had said to him one night, after walking into Ilya's room to see him off before her shift. She'd sighed heavily, leaving a soft kiss on his forehead and a scratch behind Potato's ears, where he was cuddled up near Ilya's head on the pillow, despite his best attempts at moving him where he would have not risked to suffocate him during the night "I really have no idea how society decided men were the superior sex. I'll talk to him when I get back, alright?"

If there was someone Alexei would have listened to, after brushing even Nadia and Ivan off, that was Niamh, Ilya had reasoned.

"Did he?" Nikolai asks, without taking the eyes off the tv. Ilya can faintly hear gunshots and explosions coming from his side of the screen, despite the awful connection. Maybe Ilya should be offended about not being found entertaining enough for him to drop the joystick, but sometimes it's a matter of choosing battles.

"I don't know what she said to him, but it worked." He nods, still a little dazed by their earlier conversation "Elke agreed to let me take some of his shifts."

"Do you even know how to make coffee?" Wyatt asks, before cursing under his breath and flipping Nikolai off through the camera, as the distinct sound of GAME OVER blares from his speaker.

Yep, should have never let them meet.

He shrugs "I've watched Lyosha do it for years, how hard could it be."

It is, in fact, not as intuitive as Ilya had initially though, but there is nothing he can't learn just by pushing the right amount of spite into it, and Ilya, turns out, has a lot of it stored in him.

Alexei's unimpressed face, as he gleefully drops a cup of thankfully-not-burnt, scalding coffee on his table, where he's been at ever since he came in after leaving class to try and make sense out of his notes, is indeed very rewarding in itself.

Ilya owes Niamh Callahan more than he will ever be able to repay her, probably: he and his brother are back on good terms, Alexei finally looks like he's not on the verge of burning out at any second, and Ilya gets to make coffees and help Elke bake pastries for the shop every other day while getting paid for it. He's hit fucking jackpot.

It doesn't matter how hard adjusting to having to find time to finish off his assignments in between breaks at work and after practice reveals itself to be, because at the end of the day, when Alexei drives them back home from the shop while singing softly under his breath to the radio, tired by hours spent bent over books, but content, Ilya can only think that it is worth it.

Plus, there is definitely another perk to the job.

"Well, hello there, what can I get you?" He says, grinning widely at the group of girls that just got through the door. Ilya recognizes one of them from his math class and so does she, probably, from the way she blushes red at his wink.

"Less mingling and more working, Casanova." Leah says, bumping her hip against his side.

Ilya likes Leah, mostly because she's cynic and sarcastic and she makes boring shifts pass faster with her banter, even when she fights Ilya about monopolizing the shop's tv with his games or the apparently unacceptable way he loads the dishwasher after a shift.

"You are so mean to me." He pouts exaggeratedly, making the girls giggle.

They chat as he rings them up and prepares their orders, and, by the time they leave, Ilya is a phone number richer and the subject of Leah deadpan stare. She still claps his hand as he raises his arm for a high five.

"At least Alexei had more class flirting with the clients." She huffs, pushing him by the shoulder to make her way to the sink.

"Ah, but I don't do it for the money, why should I need class?" Ilya tuts, leaning next to her with a towel in his hands "And this is not flirting, it's called socializing, you should try it."

"I think you 'socialize' enough for all of us."

"Don't knock it until you try it." He shrugs, taking a dripping cup off her hands to dry and store on the rack. The shop is awfully slow that day, Ilya is very close to start sweeping the floor just to ease his restlessness "My brother found love making coffee, maybe your prince charming is behind corner and you don't even know."

"Don't make me sick."

Everything comes to as straight as train tracks. Ilya hadn’t realized how much he'd been stuck in routine up until he's well far away from the city and everything that it entails.

He is not exactly thrilled about the spiders, bugs in general really, but camping, as he discovers, brings him some new kind of peace of mind: Ilya likes the feeling of his bones being too heavy for his body after a hike, getting drowsy from the sound of the campfire burning outside of his tent, floating on his back on the clear turquoise waters of the lake by the camp. Niall takes time to teach Ilya all about weird knots he cannot even begin to pronounce, names of birds and trees they walk past on the trail, how to grill on a fire without risking a third degree burn.

Alexei seems pretty at ease too, Ilya thinks that first night, while looking for tree branches together to throw into the fire.

Ilya remembers pouting to his mom about wanting to go too, back when they were both younger and Alexei left with his football team for a whole weekend, to go somewhere in the woods to sleep under the stars and swim in river creaks, which in that moment had sounded very appealing to a six year old. To be fair, at that age, Ilya used to want to do pretty much everything his brother did, and while he knows their mother used to find that very amusing, Ilya is pretty aware now, at seventeen, why that used to piss thirteen year old Alexei off so much.

It's nice to get to have this now, though, especially with someone like Niall, who has been particularly enthusiastic ever since they asked him about going all together a couple of weeks ago.

Overall, what Ilya absolutely hadn't expected from a three day camping trip was William Ferguson, and especially so having to hold himself up against him while fighting off the urge to lean down and let their lips meet in the middle.

There are blaring alarms ringing in Ilya's head, all covered by the sound of his heart threatening to burst out of his chest as he stares into Will's dark and challenging stare, as if it wasn't Ilya holding his wrists up to the sides of his head, but the opposite. Ilya feels a bit like that too, if he has to be honest, while trying to stick to one reason among the obvious list of whys they shouldn't absolutely do this.

The creak Will had wanted to show him is not too far from the camp, anyone could walk down any moment, right behind the trees surrounding the waterfall, and see where they're laying, sweaty and dishevelled from having rolled on the grass, after Ilya had playfully stole the lighter from Will's fingers.

He has no idea where the lighter fell during their scrimmage, least of all where the rest of the joint went, when Will had set it aside before tackling him on the ground to get his lighter back. In the end, it had only made sense for Ilya to end it, blocking Will under his weight with a breathless laugh.

And Will isn't that much of a smaller guy either, but he'd fall pliant under Ilya after the first two unsuccessful attempts at turning them around. A smile had still been etched on his face when his eyes fell over Ilya's lips.

And that, had made Ilya stop laughing altogether.

"What, you scared now?" Will whispers,  teasingly.

Well, yes, Ilya actually feels so fucking scared right now, because while Will somehow looks like he's totally in his depth, Ilya is most definitely not. And sure, it's not like he'd missed the way Will had checked out his ass when they'd shrugged off their clothes to get in the water earlier, but still, it feels unfair for him to not be affected at all, while Ilya's brain is still trying to process that he doesn't hate this, Will under him, definitely not the way he's supposed to, and that his lips look enticing, dark red like he'd just spent hours biting at them.

Will brows meet in a small, concerned frown, then, probably because of the long, awkward silence following his words "Hey, I'm messing with you: you don't have to do anything you don't actually want, you know?" He says, wriggling under him to try and meet Ilya's eyes.

Ilya feels just like when he first moved to Canada, pathetically struggling to find his words "I-"

"Fuck, you are not straight, are you?" Will recoils then, alarmed "Listen, we can just forget this happened, I really didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I'm so sorry-"

And that's the thing, no? Ilya doesn't know what the fuck he is, apart from really annoyed about making Will lose his cool, the only thing that had helped keeping his feet stuck on the ground up until now.

Ilya just wants to stop thinking.

So maybe that's probably why he takes one last second to put his mind to rest, before he's grounding his knees at the sides of Will's hips and finally crashing their lips together.

Will, cut off, doesn’t need too long to catch up.

It feels... Ilya for some reason had thought it would feel different from kissing a girl, in the sense that finally scratching at the itch would have given him the chance to move on and forget about it.

Instead, the feeling of Will's scratchy stubble feels nice against his cheeks, and the low sigh he lets out when Ilya nips at his bottom lip to deepen the kiss makes the hair on his arms stand up with a shiver.

And Ilya guesses it is different, in some way, just like Nikolai had tried describing one night, after Ilya had been too curious to stop himself from asking.

"It doesn't feel like I'm pretending." He'd said, voice small "I guess it's the same as when you kiss a girl, you know: right."

This feels more than right, this is exhilarating, it's hot and wet and Ilya can't help the sigh escaping him when Will leans just as aggressively into it, calloused and rough hands flying to Ilya's hair as soon as his wrists get freed, tugging at the knots and making him hum in pleasure.

If Will wanted, he could take advantage of the fogginess raising in Ilya's mind to flip them over, take back the control Ilya has so desperately been trying to clutch onto. He would easily be able to manhandle him on his back right now, unlike every girl Ilya has ever slept with, and, truth be told, Ilya doesn't think he would be that opposed to it, either.

What Will does, though, is gripping Ilya's hair even tighter and breaking them apart.

Ilya has to bite his tongue to suppress a very pitiful whine at that.

"Alright, fuck, wait a second." Will gasps, eyes dazed and glistening with want "Jesus." He chuckles, contagiously "You okay?"

"Yes, yes, so okay." Ilya answers, eager "You?" He adds after, because he has manners, even though, with so little clothes, it's pretty difficult to not get distracted by the feeling of Will's crotch pressing into his.

"You tell me." Will laughs, probably at the same thought, before cradling Ilya's face in one of his large palms "We can stop here. You... you have never done this, right?"

"Not with another dude."

"Yeah, that I figured. The kiss was lit." Will informs him. Ilya can't help but preen "It's fine if you don't want to go further, though."

And Ilya wants, actually, he wants it so fucking bad that it's almost scary to think about it. It's probably a good thing that there is very little blood up to his brain now. He shakes his head "What do you have in mind?"

"I'm not having sex with you here. Woods really don't do it for me, too much mud." Will says, raising an amused brow.

"Really?" Ilya teases, leaning his weight over the hardness inside his shorts "Doesn't do it for you?"

"Shut up." Will pants, before, reluctantly, pushing Ilya back with a hand on his chest. He lands beside him, holding himself up on his elbows. His confusion it's rapidly dismissed by arousal when Will kneels in between his parted legs, one hand coming up to the waistband of Ilya's sweats, questioningly "I could give you a hand job? Blow you? I'm not opposed to either but it's your choice."

Ilya has never met someone just as unashamed as him. He thinks it's a little of a blessing to have Will, an expert on gay sex, apparently, deal with the technicalities, in this case.

"Yes. Is fine. Either." He nods, gulping loudly as Will takes that as an invite to lean down with a smirk, and mouth at the outline of his hard on.

And Ilya has received plenty of good head, but he still finds himself breathing heavily as he takes control of Will's rhythm, by curling his fingers into dark strands, trying not to make this pathetically short. Will is nothing but dedicated as he sucks, licks, works his way up Ilya's length, all while looking up at him with big, glistening eyes. The roughness of his cheeks rubbing on the creases of his thighs feel maddening, the feeling of Will's moans around him even more, the more his throat stretches to let him deeper in his mouth.

It's far from perfect, Ilya has tree branches digging between his shoulder blades, grass tickling his sides and the soles of his feet, still barefoot from swimming, but between the wet heat of Will mouth and the risk, concerningly exciting, of anyone seeing them, Ilya has just the time to tug Will off his dick before coming with a stilted string of gritted curses.

It takes him an embarrassing five minutes to come down of the high.

His head feels like filled with cotton, quiet, as he reaches over to where Will had fell at his side after tipping him over, to return the favour. The position is a bit awkward and the feeling of another man's cock in his hand different, but Ilya has always been praised for being a quick-learner and soon enough Will is finishing in his fist, with a chocked off whine muffled in the crook of Ilya's neck.

Their breaths mix in the little space that divides them, after, surrounded by the sounds of the forest.

Ilya had thought it would feel revolutionary, instead, he's kissed another boy, let him give him a blowjob and made him come all in the span of fifteen minutes, and the world hasn't gone crashing down on him.

Ilya is just the same as he was before, only more lax and giggly as he falls on his back with will warm and sticky weight of Will's body at his side.

"Fuck."

"Yes, fuck." Will yawns, stretching his limbs and lazily tucking himself back in "You alright?"

"I'm fine." He admits, surprised by how true that sounds even to his own ears "Was good?"

"Mhm." Will hums, skin golden under Ilya's knuckles as he explores the expanses of his back "Was very fun. Should definitely do it again, if you're up for it."

Ilya lifts his brows "Again?"

"What, you're a only one time kind of guy?" Will asks, lightly, as if genuinely curious.

Ilya hesitates "Is just... no one can know. I play hockey and my brother-"

"Hey, chill, I'm not asking you to be my boyfriend." Will interrupts him, dislodging himself from Ilya's side to lean off his elbow on the patch of grass they're laying on "It's difficult to find other guys like, well, like me, and you're an okay one, at that." He admits, shrugging into his shoulders "It doesn't have to mean anything, just fun between friends, if you want."

Ilya shouldn't risk it, he knows he shouldn't, and he also knows they should start picking their clothes back up and walk the way back before, who knows, Will's parents, or worse, his brother, might start looking for them. But maybe it's the sultry way Will's index draws patterns across his bare chest, following the line of his necklace, the remnant wooziness of his orgasm, or the intrinsic wonder of whatever might come next, that brings him to nod.

Perhaps curiosity did kill the cat, but that is going to be future-Ilya's problem, anyway.

"Fun between friends, I can do that." He says, before pushing himself up in a sitting position and on his feet, a little too aware of their state "but now we clean up, yes? I have jizz everywhere."

"And they say romance is dead." Will snorts, accepting his hand, the clean one, and following him back down to the water.

"That William lad really must have ran you dry for you to be this knackered." Niall considers at dinner, over the crinkle of the fire, as Ilya fights sleep to stay upright in his camping chair.

Ilya is glad for his can of coke to wash down the piece of hot dog that gets stuck in his windpipe.

-

If someone had asked him years ago if he would have ever imagined himself playing at the World Fucking Juniors, Ilya would have probably laughed. Of course he had, he and Nikolai had a simple but very efficient life plan they had formulated in detail at the early age of nine, and the world juniors were just a step in between the 'play hockey together' and 'win a lot of cups' parts, written down in glittery pen on a loose paper that Ilya knows Nikolai, the sentimentalist, keeps still safe somewhere into his nightstand.

Which makes it really unfortunate when Ilya discovers they are not going to be on the same roaster, after all.

"How did this even happen." He huffs, still uncapping the marker with his teeth to sign off Nikolai's cast. On second thought, he adds a little grumpy face next to his name, just to make his disappointment clearer.

"I was helping dad with cleaning out the garage and tripped on a box." He complains, not even bothering to check on Ilya's scribbles "So both out of the juniors and the season, at least for another four weeks."

"How is it that every time I come back here you are fighting for your life." Ilya considers, snickering at his groan and trying to keep his eyes open.

Flying out had taken them a whole entire day, and he feels so jet legged that he genuinely has no idea how he's still able to function, even more so with the prospect of a whole day of practice the next day. 

Neither Vetrov had seemed to share his same predicament, while they walked through the airport to where Ivan and Nikolai were waiting for, allegedly, only him.

He still has no idea how that had transformed into a ten days Vetrovs and Ilya field trip.

Vetrov had shook both hands of a collected Ivan and a completely starstruck Nikolai before excusing himself and Svetlana to find a cab, with a wink in Ilya's direction.

They say to never meet your idols, and Ilya can kind of understand why now, after months spent dealing with Vetrov's dramatic flairs, even though seeing the vein popping on Alexei's temple every times he makes himself present it's pretty hilarious. And making himself present he does, a lot in fact, so much that Ilya wonders sometimes if he really does have a job to attend in Boston or he just decided that popping up at their house for Thanksgiving was a normal occurrence now that he is, what, Ilya's agent?

Ilya has actually no idea why Vetrov is still there.

"We don't need more money." Svetlana had said, while running her fingers through Ilya's hair, as they laid bare under the covers of her hotel's bed, during one of their last visits to Edmonton, for Niamh's birthday. Jean had been incredibly thrilled to feed two more mouths at her table, especially after being served with Vetrov's most charming attitude.

He didn't exactly know when that thing between them had started, but Will's family had gone to Vancouver for the weekend and falling into bed together had become almost a ritual after their first time. Ilya liked Svetlana, her humour, the mesmerizing glint of her eyes, and the fact that he could speak Russian with her, just as free as he could in his own home, and he also liked that she wasn't one to twist the truth instead of saying what really was going through her head.

Ilya had shifted to look back at her with wide eyes "You're saying you're doing all this for free?"

And Ilya was a good hockey player, sure, but he had still also been just a seventeen year old centre from Edmonton.

"Oh, no." She'd giggled "Dad tried, he really dotes on you, you know? He was ready to offer another kind of deal, probably to make some publicity for the agency with the oncoming draft, but Lyosha refused. He called and basically yelled at him for an hour straight about not needing our charity. He can be kinda scary. I don't know the details of the contract but the only thing dad had a real say into was his signature at the bottom of it. You have a really great lawyer." She'd informed him, as if she hadn't just flipped Ilya's entire world around.

Alexei had only given himself a couple of seconds to be flabbergasted before hugging him back, concerned, when Ilya'd found him in the kitchen after getting back home from the hotel, later that night, and attached himself to his back.

Because Ilya had known his brother would have rather he did anything but keep on playing hockey after graduation, and he'd still signed up a contract to allow Ilya to play for a country he despised even more, under the wing of someone he barely tolerated and they most definitely couldn't afford.

He'd been too overwhelmed to mutter anything but a tons heavy 'thank you' against his shoulder.

"It's probably your fault, I should start throwing salt behind my back every time you step on a plane here." Nikolai deadpans, before tugging his arm away from Ilya's creative hands "And stop drawing dicks on me, asshole."

Ilya gives the closed door of Nikolai's room a pondering look "I thought you liked dicks, what happened to that?"

"I deeply despise you."

Ilya settles at his side against the headboard, mindful of his cast "I guess we'll have to win for you too, if you can't play."

Nikolai snorts "You have never even seen the other guys play, how do you know you'll win?"

"They have me." He shrugs, smiling mischievously "And I'm captain." He sing songs.

"You know, maybe I am glad I broke my arm, so I don't have to deal with your shit on the ice too."

"Ouch." Ilya gasps, clutching at his chest "I agree to a week of training that I don't need, on the whole other side of the world, just to see your sorry ass, and you dare wound me like this?"

Nikolai only huffs in reply, before resting his head on Ilya's shoulder "I played against some of them, your teammates: Petrov has a strong slap shot but can't aim for shit, still a pretty good wing, though, and Nikitin, one of the defencemen, he's too hot headed but I think it will be a good thing when you'll play Sweden, the guys there are fucking giants. It's not a bad team, overall. I've seen clips of Rudko, the guy from Belarus, he's a good goalie but he's still recovering from a crooked rib, and-"

"You're such a nerd." Ilya teases him, dodging Nikolai's casted elbow aiming for his own ribs "It's a bummer you can't play." He adds, then, in a smaller voice. That had probably been one of the things he'd looked out for the most, if he had to be honest. Well, that and-

"Me too, I wanted to play against that Hollander guy you always talk about." Nikolai admits, almost mournful.

What?

"Always seems a little excessive-"

"It's really not." Nikolai objects, shrugging into his shoulders "But he's a good player, I get why you would."

"Please. He's sloppy and his backhand is completely all over the place."

Nikolai raises an unimpressed brow "I think you need prescription glasses, because I've seen his backhand and it made me feel things."

Ilya can't help but frown "Hollander is nothing special, no 'feelings' material. Actually, the only feeling that he could get out someone is boredom, because he is boring, boring and preppy." He bursts out, crossing his arms across his chest "And you're my friend, you are not allowed to like him, he's basically the devil."

Well, probably not the devil, he thinks, with the clear picture or Hollander's docile, freckly face pressed in his mind. Still, Hollander winning inherently means Ilya has to lose, and that does seem enough of a requirement to dim him a problem.

"Are you... are you okay?" Is Nikolai's reply, as he leans back, his face a mix of amusement and concern.

"I am fine, completely fine, it's you that apparently is- is infatuated with Hollander-"

"Infatuated-?"

"-first it's my brother, then it's my rival, who is going to be next Nikolai-"

"Alright, shut up." Nikolai sputters, putting his non casted hand over Ilya's mouth, face flushed "You promised we wouldn't talk about- about that anymore," he glares "and I don't have any kind of infatuation whatsoever going on towards Hollander, he's just objectively very good at hockey." He scoffs, letting his hand fall.

And it's not like Ilya had really had any doubts about it, but the clarification is still relieving somehow "His backhand is not too bad, I guess." He grumbles as some sort of middle ground "But he's nothing like Sasha, he'd bore you to death."

"It's a good thing that I'm not interested in him, then." Nikolai rolls his eyes "And I called it quits, with Sasha." He admits, next, more sullen, as he traces the signatures on his arm with his fingers "It was fun but... he didn't want anything more than that, I can't want more than that. It’s better like this." He shrugs.

And Ilya- Ilya is pretty confused actually "But I thought you liked him." He considers, resting his head on top of his knees, turned in his direction.

It's not like Nikolai enjoyed talking about these things, and with Wyatt often on call with them, especially so, even though Ilya had tried multiple times to hint at the fact that Wyatt was the last person Nikolai needed to worry about, with no results. Nikolai wasn't ready, and Ilya couldn't hold it against him, more so considering that despite it having been months, he still hadn't had the courage to actually tell with him about Will, about himself.

Still, that much he had been able to understand, from the way Nikolai always looked when calling after practice: loose, relaxed, and still flushed up to the tips of his ears.

"I think so. I don't know. It doesn't matter now." Nikolai says, dragging an hand down his face "It was probably a bad idea to begin with, too risky."

Ilya can't help but scoff "It does matter, you're allowed to want things."

"Ilyusha, it's fine." Nikolai whispers, shaking his head tiredly "You can't understand. Even if this wasn't Russia, there's still hockey, and I can't- there aren't any gay hockey players; not here, not in the NHL, nor anywhere else. Even if Sasha had wanted something more, which he didn't," he urges to clarify "It would have just been a matter of time before either of us broke it off: it's not safe and even if it were, I could never ask someone to hide for me."

It makes sense, Ilya thinks, faintly. It does, but it also serves to make Ilya heart break a little into his chest. At the end of the day, Ilya could try and live just like any other person if he wanted to, have a wife, kids, a picked white fence. Nikolai can't, not if he wants to keep playing and more so stay in Moscow, and Ilya doesn't even want to begin to unpack the possible outcomes of Nadia and Ivan's reaction.

"Well, Sasha is still an idiot for not fighting for you." Ilya states, a bit weakly.

"You don't even know what happened."

"I don't need to: it hurt you, so he's an asshole either way."

Nikolai chuckles "And you know a lot about being an asshole, do you?"

"Alright, that's it, I'm officially hurt." Ilya decides, throwing himself on his back over the duvet "I try defending your honour and you treat me like this. Why don't you just stab me, Nikki?"

"Shut up." Nikolai says, kicking his shin.

Ilya's eyes are fighting against his will to stay up when he feels Nikolai sliding down next to him. The bed is almost too small for them to fit like this, but neither of them seems to be bothered by it, and, even though his arm itches where Nikolai's cast ends up bumping against his arm, Ilya doesn't move, eyes stuck over the faded stars stuck to the ceiling. They definitely don't light up anymore, he can't help but consider, disappointed.

And it's probably in the splurge of the moment, the quietness at the memory of Nikolai's words and the incessant need of just having to tell someone, that the next word coming out of Ilya's mouth are:

"I had sex with a guy, once. Well, not once. More like, a lot of times." He blurts out, trying to stay calm as Nikolai tenses beside him "I mean, a lot, but a normal amount of a lot. A not-straight kind of a lot."

"You- okay."

"And it was- I liked it, very much. But I also like it with women. A lot." Ilya thinks he should have given Nikolai way more credit, because this is probably the hardest thing he feels like he's ever done in his entire life.

Nikolai releases a strained laugh "Yes, you told me. A lot. But since, uhm, since when?"

"Do you remember when we went camping for my birthday..."

"Ilya, it's been like six months." Nikolai points out, appalled.

"I know, I know."

"And also, at camp?" Ilya can't see Nikolai's face when laying like this, but he can clearly  hear the disgust in his voice "What is this, some kind of Tarzan shit?"

"Why do I feel like we're missing the point of the conversation, which was, if you forgot, me coming out to you, and not the sex in the woods part."

Not sex in the woods, Ilya can almost hear Will petulant voice insist. Oh well, Will is not there to hear it anyway.

Nikolai clears his throat "Yes, sorry. Is just- I guess it's not that surprising?"

"What?" Ilya asks, turning on his side and meeting a set of unimpressed eyes.

"Listen, when you ask a gay guy how gay sex works in the way you did, you have to expect to give off some kind of impression." He mumbles, blushing,

Alright, that maybe hadn't been one of Ilya's best moments, especially considering the red mortification on Nikolai's face as he'd stumbled through his words to tell Ilya to 'just watch fucking porn if you're that interested'.

In retrospect, Ilya should have realised earlier, after all.

"Maybe I was just curious?"

"Nobody is that curious."

"I could have been, in the name of general knowledge."

"So you asking me how giving head feels like was just for science?"

"I think we have just established that I did not." Not that Ilya knew that, at the time "But I was right, it is kind of like eating a girl out." Ilya ponders, even though no girl had ever held Ilya down with that much force before, which had definitely eye opening in its own way.

Nikolai groans, hiding his face in the crook of his not broken elbow "Please, just shut up." He sighs "So you're..."

"Bisexual. I don't know if there is a Russian word for it," he admits "but that's how Will called it."

"Will." Nikolai repeats, with a small grin "Your..."

"very helpful and knowledgeable friend." Ilya fills in, laying back down "We just help each other out."

Admittedly, sneaking around with Will had been one of the weirdest and most thrilling experiences of Ilya's entire life. Will's place was always conveniently empty after school, with the weird ass jobs his parents had, and even if their schedules didn't meet up during the week, Ilya had become pretty good at letting himself in and out of Rory's window, on the weekends they spent at Niamh's parent's house, and make the jog to three houses further down the road, in complete silence.

The guiltiness of having to move behind his brother's back had eaten him alive that first few months. And sure, it's not like Ilya had ever made a point of telling Alexei about all the people he slept with. The most they'd ever talked about sex was when Alexei had made a point of making Ilya sit through an embarrassing thirty minutes talk about safe sex, back when he was fourteen and the school counsellor had made everyone go back home with pamphlets. Ilya still cringes at the memory, sometimes.

Still, there were very little secrets between them, about themselves, and the knowledge of purposefully keeping all of it from his brother, hiding behind study groups and hang outs with the team, had been pretty hard to swallow.

The idea of telling Alexei and the hundred scenarios his mind had built up had softened the blow of his guilt, though, because why should have Ilya risked it? It was just fun. Will, boys, were, and fun wasn't something worth losing his only family for.

So he had taken it all, the good sex, the hiding, and everything that came with having to split his life in two, and he had made everything fit, trying to keep both worlds as far away from one another as possible.

There is evident relief spreading through his chest, though, as he tells Nikolai about it, keeping his voice low to not disturb the night.

"Wow." Is Nikolai only response, followed by a breathless laugh "What a pair we make, right?"

Ilya's laugh is rapidly swarmed by a yawn.

Neither of them pretends to care about having to squish in, that night, as if Ilya didn't have a perfectly good bed in the next room waiting for him. Ilya waits for Nikolai's breath to even out before closing his eyes to the pale glow of the stars over them.

If they can manage to still survive the dark, after all this time, maybe he and Nikolai can do it too.

-

It does not come as a late kind of realisation that the entire world junior team fucking hates him.

"It's like they feel threatened." Ilya grumbles at dinner, after the third day of having to endure the worst kind of cold shoulder he's ever received.

Vetrov, who had unpromptly appeared on the Morozov's doorstep just in time for dinner earlier that night, with a very expensive bottle of wine in the crook of one arm and an amused Svetlana hanging off the other, makes a pondering sound behind his glass "Most of them are older than you and you were still made captain, they're ought to feel a little threatened."

Ilya wishes that had been the problem.

Honestly, before coming back to Russia, he hadn't realised just how much he'd unconsciously begun to incorporate English words while speaking Russian at home with Alexei. That had probably started for Niamh's sake, especially after she'd officially moved in, and, more recently, taken an interest into learning Russian. Ilya hadn't found any good reason to tell her no when she'd asked for his help, weirdly touched.

But the extent of having spent almost four years living in Canada, what it meant for a language he only spoke briefly at home or when there was no one else around that couldn't understand it, well, Ilya had never considered it, just as he hadn’t the way he dressed, the way he played, the way he thought.

So when he'd mindlessly called out for Troshin to get his toque from where he'd left it on the bench, Ilya hadn't really realized the reason of his frown, at first.

"Your hat." He'd corrected himself, then, throwing the blue bundle in his direction.

Troshin had barely nodded before leaving the locker room with a confusing scoff.

And perhaps Vetrov is not completely wrong, because he's seen the envious look of the older guys on the team, at the last junior run,  but Ilya feels like it's way more personal than that.

"I think it’s more like they don't think I'm Russian enough to be on the team." He admits, effectively making the whole table fall into silence.

"Ilyusha, you were born here, how much more Russian would you need to be?" Ivan tries, but his chuckle falls ill to his ears.

"What, because you live in Canada, now? That's bullshit." Nikolai frowns, shaking himself out of the awestricken silence having one his childhood's favourite players sat right in front of him at dinner had brought him into "Half of team is not even really from Russia, anyway."

"Yeah but they weren't also made captain, weren't they?" And it's not like Ilya necessarily cares about a bunch of overgrown idiots feeling undermined because he got the spot, but running practice has been almost impossible with that level of hostility.

"Well, Ogarov's the son of the Commissioner's secretary." Svetlana considers "Him just being allowed on the national team should be more scandalous, with the way he plays."

The force behind Nikolai's pointed nod would be funny if Ilya wasn't feeling quite miserable at the moment.

"Do you need me to talk with the coach?" Nadia says, seriously, in the same way a general would announce the start of a war.

"No." He shakes his head, because not only that would be pretty embarrassing and would probably risk the lives of half of the team and the coach himself, but Ilya also doubts it would actually do anything but make the others hate him even more "And there is no need to tell Lyosha, either." He stops her, at her evident concern.

Ilya doesn't want to risk his brother flying out to Russia for the first time in years just because of some stupid hazing "We're going to Regina this weekend, anyway. Maybe it'll be better once we're back in Canada." He tries, pushing the food around in his plate.

It does not, in fact, get any better, if not for the fact that Ilya made them do so many bag skates on their second day of practice at the Brandt Centre, after finding maple syrup poured all over his pillow the night before, that neither of them had had the courage to try anything after.

Ilya wouldn't exactly consider himself a vindictive person. If the coach doesn't mind the strict regime he imposes on the ice, why should he change it? Ilya's job is to make them win, after all, and god knows some of them really do need some extra laps around the rink, with the way they skate.

Ilya can bear the weight of their chirps, he can adapt to their way of playing, some of it he still remembers from the lower league, anyway, and most of all, he can still lead them through a championship, because, whether they like him or not, Ilya’s stats are better than all of theirs combined.

"You know, I think this is really ideal, Hollander." He says earnestly, leaning down in front of the Canadian team’s captain for the face off "I'm going to win here, now, and then next week once again at home. Sweet deal, don't you think?"

Ilya almost can't believe that the guy blushing with rage under his helmet right now, is the same one that came up to him just a week ago to wish him good luck in a dingy alley on the back of the rink, looking so small and out place against the confident and spiteful figure now crouching in front of him.

"You think I'm going to let you?" Hollander says, biting around his mouthguard and bumping his stick against Ilya's in a way that could be considered almost playful.

Ilya perks up "Oh, but that's the thing, you don't have to let me-"

"Do you want to fucking switch teams, Rozanov?" Yakovlev hisses from his left, only seconds before the puck gets dropped onto the ice and Ilya is left chasing Hollander for the puck.

It's probably the most physical game Ilya has ever played in all of his life; his right shoulder aches by the end of the first period, after a quite brutal check from one of Canada's forwards, and he's pretty sure he's got a loose tooth somewhere from colliding against the boards while trying to scruff his right wing away from getting crushed by the other team's defencemen.

It's taunting, the way his eyes keeps finding Hollander's across the ice, while fighting for the puck, for the medal, for the privilege of holding it against the other, with lips stained with blood and bruised limbs.

Do you feel this too? He wants to ask him, once the buzzer breaks over the ice and Russia's bench empties out to swarm the rink. Ilya thinks he does, or he wouldn't be looking at him like he wants to set him on fire right where he stands, right now, just a couple of feet away, where he stopped in his track after scoring the last point of the game, after winning.

Ilya's lungs are screaming from the strain, but he's laughing as he gets pushed around for rough pats and head butts, from the same guys that barely pretended to tolerate him for almost three weeks.

He can feel the cameras pointed at them as he takes Hollander's firm hand in his, with a smirk "If this embarrassed you so much not to show your face next week, I'll see you at the draft."

Hollander scoffs a laugh through gritted teeth. To Ilya, it sounds almost as good as the final buzzer "You fucking wish, asshole."

Ilya has right the time to skate past where he knows Alexei and Niamh are sat with the Vetrovs, showing off the golden medal around his neck, before they're being ushered back to the locker rooms.

The morale is high through the tunnel, the locker room even louder as the showers start. Ilya lets the hot water soak through his hair as his muscles relax under the stream, exhausted but with his heart still pounding in his chest and the sound of Hollander's short laugh still ringing in his ears.

He's just won the fucking World Juniors.

His phone is flooded with texts when he gets back to his cub, hair dripping over his back as he goes through Wyatt's chat, Nadia and Ivan's congratulations, and what looks like an entire retelling of the game from Nikolai. Ilya chuckles as he reads through it. Despite everything, with all he's done by being what Wyatt would probably call his 'man behind the chair', looking up old tapes, formations, sending Ilya training tips and suggestions, Ilya owes a good half of this to him. He could send him the medal, it's not like he doesn't have hundreds of them hung up in his room, already.

Nikolai probably wouldn't accept it, though, and, plus, there is no need, Ilya thinks, smiling down at his phone.

They're going to win next year's Worlds together, anyway.

Most of the guys are already pulling on their clothes when Ilya sends one last text to Alexei, about meeting up outside back at the hotel, to follow their example.

"Did you see Hollander's face?" Ilya hears Belyayev laugh, then, as he walks out of the showers and to the bench, not that far from where Ilya stands.

"Always known Canada was a bunch of pussies, they all looked like they were going to cry on the ice." Yakovlev snorts, right behind him.

"They were the favourites." Rykov, quiet and agreeable Rykov, and probably Ilya's favourite among the roaster, considers. The bar is really low, anyway.

"But we won, so Hollander and his bunch can suck my dick for all I care." Ogarov's barks "Bet they'd like it, anyway."

And it's not like Ilya hasn't heard worse; after all those years he's learned to ignore all kinds of locker room talk, especially from players pumped up with the taste of victory and testosterone. But now, Ilya is so fucking tired of having to bite down on his tongue. And, he guesses, it also became kind of personal.

"You know, I wouldn't laugh so much if I were you." He intimates, towelling his hair off.

The boisterous sound of laughter comes to an alt, as the rest of the locker room, Ogarev, turns to look at him.

"You said something, Captain?"

Ilya lets the towel fall around his neck "You heard what I said."

Ogarov steps forward, his face contorted into a glare as he looks up to where Ilya stands two inches taller than him "We are joking, no? Did we hurt your precious sensibilities?" He chuckles darkly, as the rest of the team buzzes behind him.

"I'm just saying: Hollander is a first line centre, one that fucking earned his place at that, while you're a mediocre-at-best third liner that wouldn't be touching this ice if daddy dear hadn't paid the commissioner. If we won, it wasn't because of whatever you think you did out there, but because someone on this team actually knew how to play a fucking hockey game to win it." He says, voice low and threatening as he watches Ogarov's face pass through various shades of red, his fists clench at his sides like he's trying to keep himself to deck Ilya in the face. Oh, Ilya can't fucking wait.

Which is probably why, after a moment of deliberation, he adds "No money will ever make you half as a good of a player as he is, so watch your fucking mouth."

"Piss off, Rozanov. You don't know what you're talking about." Ogarov seethes, Ilya can see right where his jab hit as he snarls back, coming up to push their chest together in some weak attempt at intimidation "We all saw you on the ice." He snarls "What, Is Hollander your little boyfriend? Are all Canadians like you two fags?

Ilya gives him the best of his smiles, before leaning in to whisper into his ear "I must not be that great of a fag with how well your mom moaned for my coc-"

"What is going on here?"

The bark of coach Malinov's voice is enough to make Ogarov still, where he'd been about to charge for Ilya's jaw.

"Nothing, Sir." Ilya responds, casting an eloquent look in Ogarov's direction before turning back with a dazzling smile "Just hyping this one up." He says, patting Ogarov's back with too much force and sending him stumbling forward in surprise. He turns to the rest of the guys, who stand still half naked and astonished "Great fucking game, guys. It was really an honour-" he starts, trying to convey just how much it wasn't, in fact, an honour.

Coach doesn't bother to hide how unimpressed he is from his antics "Quit the sentimentalism. This is a locker room, not a tea party. Hurry the fuck up, we have a plane to catch."

And thank fucking god Ilya is not setting foot on it.

Nobody says anything after that, and Ilya prefers it that way, especially when he can feel Ogarov's glare go directly through his skull as he puts the simple, small, golden hoops back on, but not without sending him his slyest wink. He'd decided to ditch them while in Russia, after a lot of reasoning in front of the mirror, and with all the time they'd spent on the ice he hadn't bothered with putting them back on once back in Canada. He feels a little more like himself, now, while eagerly packing up his bag to leave.

He hasn't seen either Alexei or Niamh in three weeks, apart that from behind a screen or through the speaker of a phone, and he doesn't particularly care about following etiquette when escaping the last of the cameras to walk up to them in the hotel's lobby and fall into their embrace.

"How do you feel, captain?" Svetlana teases him, later, as they make the walk back to the hotel, after grabbing dinner at the way too fancy restaurant her father brought them to, to celebrate. Vetrov is walking ahead with his usual whimsical theatrics as he shares with an amused Niamh what Ilya cannot but consider true office gossip, while Alexei follows absentmindedly, led by her hand tight in his.

Ilya wraps an arm around her shoulders, breathing in the cold and the sophisticated smell of her perfume. He thinks of the golden medal in his hockey bag and the long list of assignments he still has on hold, about his team waiting for him back in Edmonton and Hollander's unwavering and transparent eyes.

He smiles down at her "Ready to go home."

He still has another game to win.

Chapter End Notes

Heyo!

So, this is the second part of the last chapter. In retrospect it was a really great idea to break it up because there is a lot of stuff going on here (put together, this would have been 21k and over words, like cmon), hope you enjoyed it!

Alexei and Ilya's fight was genuinely painful to write up on Ilya's side of the events, both because I'm not a confrontational person and I hate writing fights, but also because I had to find a way to make Alexei sound like a burned out asshole without exceeding into unredeemable. My boy was just tired and overstimulated :(

I also never planned Ilya and Finn's scene in the original plot of this chap, but writing is also one of those things that you can't really plan step by step ig, and Finn had too little screen time up to this point.

In regard of this scene, i have like 1k unused words of a crack piece about Alexei teaching Ilya how to drive, heavily inspired by my own disastrous driving classes, so, who knows, maybe you'll get that eventually.

About Will, let me tell you, I had the picture of this absolute twunk in my head. Nikolai totally owes him flowers for putting a stop to Ilya's inappropriate jock questions, in a 'thank you for your service' kinda way, my boy was on the verge of combustion. Once again, I swear that Nikolai will have a happy ending for all the sad things he's going through now, just let me cook I PROMISE-

I was on twt a couple of days ago and read something like "Ilya would call Shane boring but dismember anyone that dared doing the same" and I said BET, it just makes so sense with his lil crush boiling up, like that is HIS rival. You can guess that I laughed my ass off writing about Ilya being genuenly offended that Nikolai could find Shane cute, even though Nikolai did not imply that once.

Thank you for joining in my madness once again, kudoing and commenting, they're always a joy to read,

Cya!

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

New York is exactly Ilya's kind of city: it's loud, chaotic, filled with people from all over the world, looking for a chance. And that's kind of what Ilya is doing too, after all, by playing in a minor league, on a team filled by guys just like him, aiming for the top of the chain.

He and Svetlana settle easily into living together. Ilya wants to believe that sharing a flat with his nitpick of a brother made him into a good roommate after all, despite what Alexei might think. For as much as one wouldn't tell from the outside, Svetlana is just as bad as him in keeping their shared space tidy, but still has the audacity to laugh at his brother's ribbing, like Ilya didn't almost break his neck tripping over her misplaced heels, once, the morning after a night out with her friends.

And so he plays hockey, entertains the weird game of house he and Svetlana have going on, and fills the rest, all the time he has on his own inside an empty flat in a city that feels so far from home, with chasing anything that can keep his mind off of it.

And New York? New York is the perfect place for it.

"You know, there are way more things here than just bars and clubs." Svetlana tells him one day at the breakfast table, after watching Ilya's umpteenth walk of shame back into the apartment. Ilya feels so hungover that he doesn't even register her words at first, too busy trying not to puke his eggs back up "You could, I don't know, take pottery classes, painting, maybe? A book club, too, you don't mind reading, right?"

Ilya perks up "Or we could get a dog."

"We are not getting a dog."

"We have so much space here, why can't we get a dog?"

"Because we already have you in this house." Svetlana rebukes, as a matter of fact "And where will the dog go once you’ll be in Boston? You won't be able to take care of it during the season."

Defeated, once again, Ilya slumps into his chair "I'm fine, I don't need a hobby."

"If you were fine, you wouldn't be smelling like puke right now."

"It's not my puke."

"That doesn't make it better." Svetlana says, humoured, slapping his hand away from her toast. She gives him a pensive look, then "Come to class with me."

"To class." Ilya laughs "To your boring eight AM class." It sounds even more absurd said out loud, but Svetlana just raises a thin brow as she crosses her arms across her chest.

"Why not? You don't have practice and you're just going to spend all day moping around the house and waiting for Lyosha to call, anyway. Instead, you could come with me to class and get free coffee." She proposes, sultrily "And maybe, if you can behave through two very interesting hours of my sociology seminary, I'll even get you a shake."

Ilya feels only a little ashamed about actually considering her offer. Maybe he really is that lonely "From Dairy Queen?"

"From any shitty food chain your heart desires." Svetlana nods, looking at him from under long and very convincing, fluttering eyelashes. She stands up with her plate next, without waiting for any kind of confirmation on his part. Not that Ilya expected otherwise, but still "But take a shower first, you reek."

The cheap coffee Svetlana gets them on their way to her lecture does nothing to ease the headache springing up behind his eyes, and certainly doesn't serve to wake Ilya up enough to do anything more but look blankly around the campus as Svetlana leads them to her department.

Ilya hasn't really thought of college after graduating, apart from Wyatt's updates about moving into his room at UT and his asshole of a roommate, and watching Svetlana stress for her winter midterms at their kitchen table. He hadn't been that bad of a student, just not the most dedicated, especially that last year, with the Juniors, the Worlds, having to fly back and forth between Russia and Canada.

It's not like Ilya regrets his choice of signing with the Comets: they are great guys, Ilya doesn't mind the sudden lack of C on his chest as much as he'd thought he would, and the season has been promising so far, even though, Ilya has come to discover, hockey is not half as fun without the prospect of getting to play Hollander in the finals. Hollander, who Ilya hasn't even had a chance to pack up in a corner of his mind after Calgary, after LA, because the man is literally plastered everywhere: on soda ads, sport commercials, Ilya even can't even go buy a pair of shoes without finding a full 4k print of Hollander's freckles stuck on a sign.

And maybe he's just still a little sour about their last game, about losing and letting Hollander have the last word before taking each their road, before the draft. Hollander's face, as they stood side by side with their jerseys proudly in display after Ilya took the place as that year's number one draft, had been a great way to soothe the itch, though. The challenging look on his face as they sat on the floor of a dingy gym in Los Angeles, panting and sweaty, had been even more.

Still, he wonders how it would be like now if he had decided to follow Wyatt, major in something nerdy like computer science or engineering, too, and just postpone the walk up to the league.

Not that, despite everything, it had been an easy decision to begin with.

"Niamh?" From the driver seat of her car, months ago now, she'd made a questioning sound, while stopping at a red light on the way home. She was still in her uniform, after hurrying out of the station to pick him up at the rink, despite how many times Ilya had tried convincing her he would have had no problems taking the bus "Did you ever... have you always known you wanted to be a firefighter?"

Niamh had snorted loudly at that "No, definitely not. I wanted to be a hockey player growing up, like any other kid."

Right. Canadians.

"Then why didn't you?" He'd found himself asking, a bit stunned, because Niamh was good, even after years of no practice apart from the occasional game, probably one of the best skaters Ilya had ever seen on the ice. And he had seen a lot of them "You could have made it pro, like, very easily."

Niamh had shrugged "Dreams can change. And, honestly, I couldn't get over the fact that I would get paid less than half than the worse player in the NHL. It wasn't really about the money but more like a matter of principle."

And well, Ilya could see her reasoning there, but still.

"Seems radical to go from hockey player to firefighter, though."

"I wanted to be a doctor, back then. Help people, really." Niamh had admitted, tapping her fingers on the wheel as if to will the traffic to move faster "I got into pre-med at McGill, even, for it."

Help people.

Ilya couldn't help but think of his mother, left alone to die by something no one had been able to see, even Ilya himself, at least not at that age nor in that way. He'd thought of Niamh, of her station, men and women that put their lives on the line every day to try their best at giving others a chance to be saved.

That had seemed way more important than hockey ever did, after all.

"But you didn't become a doctor." He pointed out, curious.

"Oh, I only lasted one semester before dropping out. I hated college: I was homesick, my roommates absolutely sucked, and trust me, I grew up with two siblings, I knew what I was signing up for. And it's not that I wasn't doing good in my classes," she confessed "but I also realized that it wasn't what I really saw myself doing for at least another good ten years of my life. It's a long road from college to get a medical degree, and I'm not the most patient."

"So, firefighter."

"Yes, firefighter." She'd chuckled, eyeing him sideways "Why are you asking? Having second thoughts? You are not too late for applications, if you have changed your mind."

"I don't know." He'd said, probably one of the hardest things he'd ever had to admit out loud, nibbling on his lower lip "Lyosha wants me to go to college."

"Lex wants you to do whatever you think it's best for you." Niamh corrected gently "He worries, but he would never force you into anything you don't want just for his sake."

Ilya knew that rationally, he really did, but with the prospect of the oncoming draft and the urgency everybody else around him had started talking about application essays and the upcoming finals with, he had found himself struggling to find his way around milestones he just didn't seem to relate enough to.

Will was going to Florida, Wyatt to UT, and Nikolai had never wanted to do anything but play hockey ever since putting on a pair of skates and had already got a spot in a great minor league team from St. Petersburg, while waiting for the draft. Neither of them had been a good enough pick to share the reason why Ilya hadn't been able to get a good night of sleep in weeks, the more senior year slipped through his fingers to leave space for a new chapter of his life that Ilya didn't even knew the name of yet. Unlike everybody else around him, apparently.

And then, as if all that hadn't already been scary enough, Ilya had to come to terms with the fact that choosing hockey also meant not only having to keep hiding himself from his brother, from his family or his team, but from the whole world.

Future-Ilya's problems had suddenly become Present-Ilya's nightmares, and Ilya had started to feel the dread that had been simmering in the pit of his stomach switch from low to high in the span of just a scarce few months, the time it took him to realize that everything was changing, and maybe he had too.

"What if I choose wrong?" Ilya had asked then, quieter than a whisper.

Niamh had hummed quietly, as if trying to sort through the right words "If that were to happen, it's never to late to go back to your steps. You're still very young, Ilya, nobody is expecting you to just know. I'm not saying it's easy, when I dropped out it took me months to get back on my feet, but there is nothing wrong in needing a little more time to find what you are looking for." Her hand had reached to pat his knee over the gear shift "Whatever will happen, Alexei will be proud of you, I'm proud of you."

The rest of the drive had been silent as Ilya fought the pressure behind his eyes.

But then the draft had happened and there hadn't been any more doubts about where his place was, if not fighting for the top spot in the NHL against Canada's golden boy, Shane Hollander.

Ilya has been counting down the days until the Worlds ever since then.

Maybe college would have been fun, Ilya guesses he'll just never know, but it surely wouldn't have given him the same kind of feral satisfaction hockey, winning, does.

He's still thinking of Hollander (-of his annoyed huff and the small kick he'd given Ilya's shin while they sat in front of each other on a gym's dirty floor, after the playful wink he'd sent him over his water bottle, the way he could swear Hollander's eyes had fallen down at his crotch as they panted, still short of breath from the treadmills, about his freckles-) when Svetlana's first class of the day finally wraps up and Ilya is left carrying her expensive book bag as he follows her around campus, munching on a bag of flavoured chips from the vending machines.

Ilya doesn't want to give Svetlana any reason to say 'I told you so', but he has to admit that it's easier to bear his homesickness by letting boring old people fill his head with even more boring talk while he stares absentmindedly at the board behind their desk, like it might reveal the secrets of the universe, and chat with Svetlana's friends during breaks.

"You know, you could sign up for a couple of classes if you wanted to. You don't need to be enrolled to attend." Svetlana says, later, while sitting in the seat opposite to his at a Dairy Queen. She doesn't look particularly thrilled to be there, but a promise is a promise, and Ilya fucking earned this. Her sociology seminary was probably the less interesting thing he's ever had to listen to, and Ilya has once got trapped into one of Ivan's rants about the Cold War.

He eyes her from behind his Snicker-bar blizzard "What's the point of going to class if I don't get a degree out of it?"

"Starting to get out of the house to go somewhere that is not either the gym, the rink or any nightclub open in this city." Svetlana lists, lazily mixing in the caramel in her sundae "I'm just saying, you could give it a try. I think it could be good for you. Worst thing that could come out of it is you actually becoming the first hockey player with a braincell." She teases him. Her expression turns softer then, as she lays a manicured hand on his "It could be anything, really. Just think about it."

Admittedly, Ilya is way too busy soaking in his family's coddling for the first time in months to think about anything too far from helping Niall chop wood in their backyard for the fire later, when they'll all curl up around the living room, drinking Jean's hot chocolate with Die Hard playing on the tv, like on any other Christmas Eve for the past three years.

Ilya loves Christmas at the Callahans', getting to help Niamh's younger cousins and the neighbour's kids build snowmen in the streets, skate with the guys at the lake and have a walk through the light displays around the neighbourhood, bitch with Teagan and Rory on shitty realities behind Jean scolding looks, especially more so when the ones on tv are people Rory has met at work in person.

Ilya still struggles sometimes to wrap his head around the concept of Rory being actually famous, the same guy that once faceplanted on the floor while too invested in bobbing his head to whatever was playing on his iPod, even though he could hardly forget when there's a big ass poster of him and his bandmates plastered on the other side of the room from Will's bed, staring creepily down at him every time they lay back, spent and satisfied, after a thorough round of sex. Will has always found his protests too funny to take it down whenever he came over and, well, it has been months, Ilya is not going to be fussy about it now.

"How's Florida?" He asks, still trying to catch his breath, with Will's solid weight distributed against his side. Will has never been that touchy of a person, but whether because he doesn't mind indulging Ilya after sex or because he genuinely enjoys it, he still curls up beside him, mindlessly twisting Ilya's curls between his fingers as they recover.

"Very hot, cool beaches" Will says, propping himself up on his elbow, one tan hand coming up to rest over Ilya's chest  "You should see how nice people are when there is actual sun and more than twenty degrees all year long. The guys are also pretty hot." He adds, mischievously "Surfers are kind of dumb, but they are jacked and a nice fuck, if you want my opinion."

Ilya laughs "Is that all they have you do at UF? Tanning and fuck?"

"God I wish. Chemistry's been killing me." Will groans dramatically, before smiling down at him "And how is living in New York been treating you? You, uh, won a lot of cups?"

"Jesus, you suck at this." Ilya snorts "No, no cups, yet."

"I tried watching your games." Will sighs "Riley, he's my roommate, the hot one I told you about with the big hands, he's from Jersey and always hogs the tv with them, but I swear everything that he tries teaching me goes into one ear and out of the other."

Ilya can't say he doesn't appreciate the effort, at least.

"Something else he's been trying pushing in you?" Ilya says then, waggling his eyebrows up and down suggestively.

Usually at this point he would already be putting his clothes back on, to hurry back, but Will's parents both have the night shift and as, far as Alexei is concerned, they've been catching up at a club and Ilya will stay over to save the trouble of accidentally waking someone up while stumbling back home. To be fair, they did have a couple of drinks before falling into bed, but Ilya doesn't mind this either, being in the safe four walls of Will's empty house and be able to be himself, instead of having to tip toe his way around it, like in New York.

And Will doesn't seem to mind either, considering how his smile turns sly as he pushes up to straddle him again.

Ilya doesn't think about Svetlana's words again up until coming back from Will's house, the next morning, to an empty home, for the exception of Rory sat cross legged on his bedroom's floor and with an acoustic guitar propped up against his chest, sparse music sheets laying all around him.

He hasn't noticed Ilya standing on the doorstep, practiced fingers moving over the strings to follow along a base he's humming under his breath, lost in thought.

"Hey. Where is everyone?"

The guitar screeches as Rory's fingers suddenly slip "Jesus, man, you scared the shit out of me." He says, an hand to his chest. Ilya figures he's not the only one that got very little sleep last night, from the dark shadows under his eyes and the unkept state of his curls "How long have you been there?"

He shrugs, stepping in to find his duffle and change out of the previous night's clothes. Not that they had any chance to get dirty, but still "Just got back. The others?"

Rory rubs at his eyes, guitar abandoned on the floor beside him "Lex and Vivi went with mom to get groceries, I think. Dad drove with Teagan to the shop to help her fix a couple of shelves."

He gives the state of the room a pondering look "You working? I can go downstairs if you need quiet." He could call Wyatt, Ilya thinks, as far as he knows he and Kristie were going to spend the Holidays with Eve's family, but the last time he heard from him he was still in Toronto complaining about the cost of plane tickets and the holiday’s taxes.

Rory sighs "No it's fine, I should take a break anyway."

Ilya catches up with the meaning behind his words fast. Soon enough the window to Rory's room is cracked open, and Ilya is sat on the beanbag near the record player and Rory's enviable collection of vinyl, a cigarette burning in between his fingers as he watches the process of Rory rolling up his own.

"The song giving you trouble?" Ilya asks.

"Kind of. It's not for the album. I mean, it could be, but right now is just something that I started a while ago and never finished. Coming home usually helps with it, but I'm still fucking stuck." Rory huffs, catching the lighter Ilya throws in his direction, eyes stuck on the old, battered guitar propped up against the edge of the bed.

"I thought you played bass." Ilya considers next, even though he's pretty familiar with Rory's extensive capabilities, having occupied his room for years and snooped around his instrument collection one too many times.

"I do," Rory nods, smoke curling around his head as he scratches at his stubbly cheek "but I used to play guitar, before the band." He reveals, a small smile on his face as he looks over the guitar he’d been using, almost reverently. Among the ones Ilya's seen, that might be the less impressive: it's just a guitar, not as flashy or weirdly shaped as the ones neatly stored in the rack near his desk, and covered up in stickers, doodles, small scratches from the years. Still, he guesses he can understand the fond look on his face, as Rory continues "This was my first, I got it when I was like ten or something."

Ilya frowns "Why did you switch?"

"There were too many of us playing guitar in the band. We needed a bassist and I offered. It felt right."

"Aren't they basically the same thing, anyway?"

Rory snorts, leaning in between them for the ashtray "Depends, I guess. Bass is about the beat, where guitar usually covers the melody, harmonies, that kind of stuff. Most things you can do on a guitar you can do on a bass, definitely. But I like the fact that even though most people don't really care about trying to hear it, it holds the song together. It's like it's hiding in plain sight, you know?" Rory says, stubbing out his cigarette "It doesn't mean it isn't there, though."

Ilya knows a lot about that, he thinks, eyes stuck on Rory's initial carved on the guard of his guitar.

Rory follows his eyes "You ever played?"

"Ah no." Ilya shakes his head "But we had a piano in Russia, mom knew how to play." That Ilya knows of, at least. He doesn't think he's ever heard the old piano in the dining room being played in all twelve years he'd spent in that house.

Rory's eyes glint playfully "Want to try?"

Ilya eyes the guitar, pensively.

Living with Alexei had always meant having to deal with eardrum shuttering music at any possible time of the day. Ilya has grown so used to it that, somehow, he's learned to find comfort into playing stupid ACDC at six PM on a Thursday just to make everything feel a little bit like home, despite being miles away. But Ilya likes music he can dance to the most, the one where he can lose himself in the loud thumping of the console and forget the rest, while he’s just another person in a crowd of overheated bodies.

He can't say he's not curious enough at the offer, though. He can tell Rory needs the distraction, anyway.

He shrugs, throwing the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray "Why not?"

Turns out, Ilya can add playing guitar to the list of things he mistakenly underestimated. By thirty minutes of following Rory's instructions his fingers feel like they're going to split open, achy and tender for being forced in positions that have made Ilya re-evaluate the pride he holds onto his hands, hands that somehow feel too big but at the same time too small to reach over the fretboard, as his right hand awkwardly plucks at the strings like Rory's been showing him thousands of times now.

Ilya will absolutely not be beaten by a stupid wooden instrument of torture.

Rory looks like he's having the time of his life after years of being laughed at on the ice, Ilya just knows it, but he doesn't outright make fun of his annoyed grumbles as the guitar keeps making what could be considered literal cries for help under his hands.

He doesn't realize how long they've been at it up until the door creaks open and Alexei’s confused frown peaks in through the space between it and the doorstep. They didn't even hear them coming back over the buzz of the amplifier "Who is dying in here?"

A goddamn traitor, that is what his brother is.

"This was fun." Rory states, then, placing both guitars back on their wall stands, after they got called down for lunch.

"It was." He finds himself admitting, more truthfully than expected. He guesses it is for Rory like hockey is for him, that good kind of ache that helps grounding him to earth. Ilya thinks he can kind of understand it now, because somehow, despite everything, he hasn't thought about having to fly back to New York in just a couple days all morning, while he fought to keep all of his fingers on his hand.

"Think you would want to do this again?" Rory teases, but looking sincerely interested in his response.

"Maybe." He says, helping him pick up the music sheets from the ground "Svetlana did say I need a hobby." He adds.

"Is New York not that exciting by itself already?"

Ilya chuckles "It is. But, I don't know, I've never been this much away from home. It's hard sometimes." He admits, for some reason. Saying it out loud doesn't feel as defeating as he thought it would, not when Rory turns to look at him with plain understanding on his face.

"Aw man, I get it." He confesses, leaning on his desk and crossing his arms across his chest with a somewhat melancholic smile "I was just a little older than you when we got on our first tour. It was the coolest thing I'd ever thought I would do, but once you're off stage and alone in a hotel room on the other side of the world, that's where it hits; I missed the girls, my friends, my parents..." He says, smiling at a point behind Ilya's shoulder, pictures of him, his family, that Ilya has found himself staring at so many time through the years now to know by memory "It doesn't exactly get any easier, but when you turn around home is always going to be where you left it."

Ilya doesn't really know how to answer to that, as he stares in the peaceful sea blue of Rory's eyes.

They're not so different from each other after all, he thinks, while nodding in what hopes is a silent 'thank you' before clearing his throat.

"Was this at least inspiring for your song or did I just go through all of this for nothing?"

Rory laughs, then pats his back to start leading them downstairs. Ilya can hear Alexei's voice arguing half heartedly with Niamh about putting the groceries away, as Niall and Teagan help Jean set the table "I want this to make the billboards, kid, not bring people to want to bash their head on the wall. They already made rap for that."

Ilya feels justified in raising both middle fingers at him as soon as Jean is not looking.

Ilya thinks it should have been easier this time to deal with the concept of leaving home, but landing in New York holds just about the same sorrow it did back in September, under all the excitement moving out to play in a real league carried with it.

Svetlana won't be back from Boston until that weekend, so Ilya has almost a whole week to spare in between practice and coming back to an empty apartment, before leaving for Russia and training for the Worlds.

What he hadn't expected, was to walk up into the hall to get the elevator up to the apartment and being alerted by the doorman of mail waiting for him by the atrium.

It's probably the expensive coffee grounds he'd got Svetlana, he tells himself, but has to quickly reconsider once finally in the familiar entryway to the loft, where he gets greeted by a bulky box that stands up over his hip.

Ilya is still wearing his coat and the new warm scarf and toque Jean and Niall got him for New Year, his duffle haphazardly abandoned by the door, when he gets it carefully laid down on the ground to open it, with the same urgency of a kid on Christmas morning.

His fingers still, then, as a laugh gets ripped out of him.

He did not, he thinks, opening the leather case to find a slick black acoustic guitar laying on dark red velvet. It looks way too expensive, so shiny that Ilya's fingers leave imprints as he picks it up to read the little card tucked between the strings.

Tell Svetlana I'm sorry. Have fun ;)

-RC

Ilya is eighteen, sat on the hard wood floor of a lonely flat in New York, and tearing up over a guitar that might cost twice his AHL weekly salary, while his phone blows up in his pocket with what he presumes are his brother and Niamh's texts, asking if he has landed yet.

He’s not really that alone, after all.

-

Ontario is cold and unforgiving in January. Ilya would already be complaining into Nikolai's ear, just like he's done for all eleven hours it took to get to Ottawa, if it weren't for the fact that he got banned from their room as soon as they checked in after a very cranky 'I'm going to punch you in the face if I don't get five hours of uninterrupted sleep'.

Which was very fucking rude on his part, especially because now Ilya has to wander around with nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon. The other guys on the team hadn't hesitated to follow their captain's example and bunk until dinner, too jet legged to do anything but drag their duffels and bags to their rooms.

Ilya feels everything but tired at the moment, despite getting very little sleep himself. The tournament won't start for another week, but Ilya can already feel unexplainable restlessness pumping into his veins and taking over the rest as he follows the receptionist's instructions to the rink.

Nikolai has prohibited him from saying anything that could jinx them ever since he was made captain. Usually Ilya wouldn't be so superstitious, he draws the line at his game socks, almost ripped to shreds and completely stretched out, but Nikolai on the ice could make the devil seem like the sweetest grandma so he's not going to take his chances.

Still, as he watches the Swedish team wrap up and the Swiss guys take their place on the ice for the last turn of the day, Ilya feels confident enough in their chances that year.

Dinner is quiet later that night, everyone too out of it to talk in anything but grumbles. Ilya has to elbow Nikolai in his side multiple times to keep him from faceplanting into his salad, but does get a good shot of him glaring at the camera with a leaf stuck to his cheek to send Nadia and Ivan. Exhaustion catches up to him by the time they get back to their room, but, while Nikolai doesn't take that long to pass out, Ilya finds himself staring at the ceiling with droopy eyes.

It takes him exactly five other minutes of listening to Nikolai's soft snores to lose his patience and climb back out of bed.

The hotel looks almost haunted in the stark silence of the night. Ilya pads quietly through the hall and the lonely hallway near the back he found while snooping around that afternoon, looking for a vending machine. Armed with a bag of questionably stale skittles, he sits down on the flight of stairs near the emergency doors, fiddling with his phone.

Ilya: Are you awake?

Ilya knows his brother too well to think he might have gone to sleep at a reasonable hour. He's definitely not surprised when his phone starts ringing in his hand.

"Everything okay?"

"Why do you always assume the worst." He pouts into the phone.

"I don't know, you tell me. The last time you texted me that you and Will had drove the car in a ditch." Alexei deadpans.

"We got it out of it. Eventually."

"We as in me and Niall."

"That's irrelevant." Ilya waves him off "How is it going there?"

"Is fine. A Mustang came in today, shuttered lights. Joel definitely overcharged, but I guess that with a car like that you should have all the money to get it fixed after crashing it against a tree." He says, lightly. Ilya can hear the sound of the tv running in the background as he talks "Niamh fell asleep already. She had a rough shift, we were watching Ghost Rider."

Ilya gasps "Without me?"

"I'm not the one in stupid Ottawa aren't I?" Alexei quips "Is Nikki with you?"

"He's sleeping." Ilya says, sorting through the bag of skittles for the red ones "Knocked out completely. I had to text Nadia for him for her wellness check."

"He's captain, that's a lot of stress." Alexei considers.

It is, Ilya thinks, especially so when your team spews insults that hit way too close to home, like they might be just words, and the only thing you can do is bow your head and try not to look too different from them. Nikolai, Ilya couldn't have helped but notice gravelly that first week of training they'd spent in Moscow, had looked way too used to it.

Ilya had been plenty impressed by his amount of leadership, for someone usually so quiet and reserved, even more so considering all that he had to deal with. But then again, if there was someone the spot should have gone to beside Ilya himself, that was Nikolai, who had always breathed and lived hockey. Ilya hadn’t been that surprised to see the team come together as it did, not with him being the one to lead it, but if only by respect or also through sheer fear, Ilya is still debating.

"It is, but he's doing great. Scarier than Nadia when she found out you let me smoke, though."

Alexei lets out what Ilya can only interpret as a shudder "Good fucking luck with that. You good?"

"Yes. Just couldn't sleep." He shrugs, fully aware Alexei can't see him, while leaning his back on the handrail with a sigh.

"Is it because of the tournament? I find it hard to believe you could be nervous about hockey."

"Of course I'm not, why would I be when Sweden's goalie can't even see past his own feet?"

"Then what is it?" Alexei asks, gently.

And Ilya... it's not like he doesn't really have any idea. He's thrilled, he and Nikolai have never played together at this level, and Ilya has all intentions of keeping his promise and cross Hollander's irked glare from across the ice before getting back home with another golden medal around his neck. But he can't deny the heavy weight he's been carrying along lately, after coming back from Russia.

"I had a dream. About mom." He admits then "I- it's stupid, really. I thought that maybe going to see her before leaving would fix it, but it didn't."

It wouldn't have been the first time he did, Ilya always went anyway before flying back, even though most of the times he could only greet her before spending the rest of the time in front of her grave in complete silence.

He'd never been back in Russia around that time of the year before, though, during the frigid and heartless cold that fell over the suburbs with the new year. The year before he'd been too busy being lost in his duties, dealing with the pressure of a team that couldn't accept the authority of someone they deemed unfit, even more the one coming from the league, the medias. Ilya had felt like being pulled by the arms in two different directions throughout the whole tournament.

This time, with way less weight on his shoulders, there had been nothing to distract him from thinking of her. It always started a couple of weeks before the anniversary of her death, but being in Russia had only sped up the process and, somehow, made it ten ti.

"It's not stupid." Alexei says, firmly "It's seven years this February."

Seven years. There was a time Ilya couldn't fathom the idea of not seeing her everyday, let alone having to live with the idea of never doing it again.

"There is no right way to feel about this." Alexei continues "You're allowed to still grieve. She was your mother, that'll never change."

"I know. But it feels like grieving is all I can do, sometimes. We have all of those pictures of her, but- I can't really remember her voice anymore, you know?" He confesses, weakly "I can see her talking, in the dreams, but it's like- it doesn't sound like her, anymore. I don't even know what does, I didn't really know her after all, not like you got to. And the more time passes I keep thinking that someday maybe I'll forget the only things I do have about her and there'll only be the pain."

The silence he gets in response makes him regret his words almost instantly as he closes his eyes to the ceiling. It's not Alexei's fault, Ilya probably shouldn't be bothering him with this right now, this late in the night, while he should be cheering Niamh up and get some actual sleep before work tomorrow. He shouldn't, but he can't help the tears stuck at the corners of his eyes as he listens to the shuffling on the other side of the line.

"You know the most important things." Alexei says then, quietly "You know that she was kind, that she always spoke her mind even if it made dad angry and it meant having to fight, that she loved you. Ilya, she loved you so much." He whispers.

Ilya breaths heavily, the strings holding him up snapping as a tear falls down his cheeks.

"I know we don't- we don't talk much about her." Alexei says, voice hoarse "but Ilya, if you ever want to, we can. You just have to ask. Maybe she is not here now anymore, but what we had of her still is. I have you." He points out, as easily as any other simple and objective statement "You are just like her: fearless, stubborn... a bit of an asshole." He adds, as an overthought, making Ilya snort wetly against his hand.

"Are you saying mom was an asshole?"

"She could be, when she wanted to." Alexei considers "She had to stop coming to my games because the coach told her she couldn't just make fun of the other teams whenever we scored. I was... seven, maybe?"

"You're messing with me."

"I am not." Alexei insists. Ilya can almost hear the wistful smile in his words "You can't remember, you were like two, I think, when it happened, but this one kid once pushed me so hard during a game that I broke my arm falling. I swear I don't think I ever saw her get that mad in my entire life. Coach had to hold her back from charging the kid's mother. She was definitely something." He chuckles.

Ilya's chest blooms with warmth as he listens to his brother talk, in a way that thinking about his mother, up until then, never had. Ilya wishes he could have known that version of her, the one still so full of life and passion, that he could remember her like this, like he knows she had been so long ago. He drinks from Alexei's stories like a man at sea, trying to match up his picture of  her from his own distorted memories.

Ilya doesn't even realize he's started to get drowsy, lax against the handrail, up until the phone almost slips from his hand, just as he doesn't the clear lack of Alexei's voice in his ears.

"Falling asleep on me?" Alexei teases.

"Fuck off, I was not."

"Your snores say otherwise."

"I do not snore."

"Yes, yes, keep dreaming and wipe your chin while you're at it." Alexei's voice turns softer then, veiled with insecurity, as he asks "Did it, uhm, did it help?"

"It did, thanks. I'm sorry if- I know you don't really like thinking about, well, everything."

"Nobody does." His brother objects "But she's worth remembering all of this, even if it hurts. I miss her too."

Ilya's brain offers the image of a nineteen year old that used to wait until deep into the night to finally let everything out, so he could cover his sobs with the sound of the wind, outside of his window and a broken home. But Ilya is not twelve anymore, he won't pretend not to hear him this time. And then, he thinks, there is also someone else having Alexei's back, now.

"You know, I think mom would have loved Niamh." Ilya considers out loud.

"I want to think so too." Alexei agrees, in that same sappy, sickening tone Ilya has grown very used to hear through the years.

"So, when are you exactly going to put a ring on it?"

"Of course you had to ruin it." Alexei deadpans, huffing at Ilya's booming laugh. The sound echoes up the stairs, as Alexei grumbles a predictable and half hearted ‘shut up’.

"Nadia has already made a binder for the wedding planning. It's colour coded and everything, too, just your kind of shit."

"Ilya, I swear-"

"Alright, alright." He interrupts him, before Alexei can start spewing off about how 'we don't need a piece of paper that says we love each other' and 'Do you know how fucking much a wedding costs?', even though Ilya knows that if Niamh had ever actually expressed wanting to get married, Alexei would have already bought a ring, by now. They're fucking hopeless.

They wrap up fairly soon after that, both because Ilya feels like all the exhaustion he'd accumulated that past week has finally found its way back to him and Alexei's shift later that day.

When he walks back into their room, Nikolai is still sleeping soundly, arms crossed over his chest like a psychopath and barely making a sound. Ilya manages a blurry picture before dropping the yellow and orange skittles left untouched inside the bag on Nikolai's nightstand and slipping under the covers of his own bed.

Nikolai is probably going to wake him up for a run at an ungodly hour in the morning, before their skate time at the rink, but Ilya can't find it in himself to care about it now, as his eyes finally shut.

That week of practice keeps Ilya on his toes, aching and with a new found hatred for a man he thought was his best friend, but he can see the results in Nikolai's strict training as Russia rapidly decimates its way through the tournament, despite their lines being definitely too unbalanced for consistency.

And so it is even more disappointing to watch Canada's team and the crowd whoop loudly after Hollander tucks the puck inside their net, only minutes away from the end of the second period, while Russia stays at 0 points.

He can see the way Nikolai's brain is furiously trying to come up with a way, anything really, to at least even up the game and go into overtime before the final buzz, but Canada's line feels like a brick wall, too solid to break through.

But the worst, Ilya thinks, is the subtle smirk in Hollander's face as he skates over for the face off, after landing his second goal for the night.

"Getting comfortable, Rozanov?" He says, looking way too proud of his all bark and no bite chirp.

Ilya grits his teeth, trying to keep a grin off his face. Adrenaline is rushing through his veins as he leans down, trying not to get distracted by the expanse of Hollander's freckles over the flushed skin of his cheeks "Why, Hollander? Thinking of joining in?"

Hollander's frown and brief moment of hesitation get Ilya both the puck and a very determined center on his tail.

But it doesn't matter in the end, because Ilya's goal, Russia's only point, is not enough to give them a chance to win.

As the other guys just slump on their feet, watching Canada celebrate on the ice with sour, long faces, Ilya skates over to Nikolai, who stands over the blue line with his helmet still on and his stick held in both hands, like he has yet to realize the game is actually over.

"You did a good job, Captain." Ilya says, patting his back.

"We lost."

Ilya shakes his head "But we fought for it. It was a good game."

And really, it was; Ilya had almost forgotten how good it feels getting to play hockey with someone able to catch up to him. And the team, despite being rough at the edges, had made its way to the final in an admirable way, even if it had costed them the first place. Ilya usually wouldn’t bother pointing any of this out after a loss, because at the end of the day it’s not like it really matters now, but even if Nikolai's hands tighten around his stick, eyes colder than the ice they stand upon, his shoulders do lose some of their tension as he shakes himself out of it and bumps Ilya's helmet with his, pretty gravelly "Yeah. C'mon, we should line up."

Silver isn't Ilya's colour at all, he thinks, as the medal gets lowered around his neck. But gold does suit Hollander's smile, a traitorous part of his brain can't help but consider.

He's way too busy looking over Nikolai's sullen figure to do anything more than briefly shake Hollander's hand as they skate past each other, even though there is nothing he can do for the way his eyes don't leave the back of his jersey before the team makes the turn for the locker room.

Ilya is not surprised when Nikolai just signals him to go ahead without him, staring blankly at the tiles of the showers. The rest of the team has mostly left already, grabbing only a quick shower after the interviews before deciding to wait on the bus. Ilya definitely did good by telling coach to leave without them, Nikolai always took too much time under the shower, anyway, win or not, and he doesn’t expect today to be any different.

He just need to stew it off a bit, Ilya decides, as he leans his back against the outside of the building to wait for him, a cigarette already lit up between his lips when he finally drops his bag on the ground to answer the piling texts on his phone.

FavGoalie: guess who owns me a crisp 50€ each

Ilya: way to kick a man whos alr down.

FavGoalie: Would it be a bad time to text Niko?

Ilya: Yes, he's trying to drown himself in the showers rn

FavGoalie: shucks

Ilya can't help but snort around the filter.

On a positive note, the team's flight back to Moscow is not until late in the morning the next day, so Ilya has all the time to fulfil his duties as best friend and get Nikolai as drunk as he can later that night. They’re way past due getting smashed together somewhere that is not Nikolai’s room with Ivan’s secret stash of brandy, now that they’re of age, anyway.

He's looking for clubs on his phone when suddenly a pair of shoes appears in the corner of his eyes.

Ilya gives the time a look "Took you way less than I expected-" he starts saying, genuinely impressed, only that it's not Nikolai the one standing in front of him, but a very confused Shane Hollander himself.

He looks flushed, fresh out of the shower, and he probably is, Ilya reasons, sending him a curious look and trying not to think too much about how cozy he looks, standing there in a loose sweatshirt as if the cold were only Ilya's hallucination.

"Come to gloat?" He asks, stubbing his cigarette under his shoe, very much endeared by the way Hollander's freckles seems to disappear under his blush as the other rocks on his feet, annoyed.

He's so easy to rile up that it almost makes him smile.

"No." Hollander huffs "I just- I wanted to say that it was a good game-"

"Ah, would have been better if we had won-"

"- but I couldn't find your Captain, so I thought you could pass the word. It was the polite thing to do." Hollander finishes.

"So I'm your messenger pigeon, now." Ilya sighs dramatically "That is a shame, Hollander, I thought there was something real between us."

"Fuck you." Hollander scoffs, but visibly amused.

Ilya's feels almost ill with the way his guts flutter at the sight. He doesn't dwell much on it, though. They haven't seen each other in months now, ever since the draft, and that is just how playing against Hollander has always left him, jittery and impatient for the next time.

"Aw, you missed me." He smirks, reaching for another cigarette despite the clear judgement written all over Hollander’s face "I know Canadians don't play half as well as I do, must be very boring." He adds, shifting to blow the smoke away from him.

"You are Canadian, too."

"Yeah but I'm also the best player in the league."

"And you haven't even played a NHL game yet." Hollander points out.

"I don't have to." he muses.

Hollander's eyes glint with resolute pettiness "Well, the best player in the league would have won tonight." 

"Wow." Ilya can't help but laugh “What about not gloating?"

"I- you started-" Hollander sputters, before getting interrupted by a loud "Hey, Hollywood! You coming?” from the other side of the road, where a tall man in a Canada tracksuit is waving in their direction with a giant smile on his face.

"Hollywood." Ilya mouths, glaring at him from over Hollander's shoulder. Can't he see they're talking? Maybe not all Canadians know their manners, after all.

"Coming, Smitty, just give me five!" Hollander yells back, leaning down to grab hoist his bag on his shoulder.

Ilya hums "Celebrating?"

Hollander flinches "I think so, probably later though. But parties are not really my thing."

"What are Shane Hollander's kind of things, then?" He can't help but ask, only realizing halfway that there is no more wall behind his back now, and Hollander's dark stare is just a few inches away from his face.

It takes Ilya a couple of seconds, ones he uses to stop in his tracks as he comes to the consideration that maybe that might not be the straightest looking thing from the outside, even though no one would ever come to that conclusion with their history, with them being hockey players and supposedly hating each other.

But even then, what the fuck is Ilya doing?

Hollander doesn't seem to have caught up with the internal turmoil running through Ilya's mind, if anything he looks a little dazed, confused, and like he's staring down at-

"I think you should follow your friend, Hollywood." He says, clearing his throat "And do avoid the clubs, I have a loss to nurse and a point to prove tonight."

Hollander frowns "What point?"

"That even Ottawa's clubs suck ass. Hopefully their drinks won't, though."

Hollander rolls his eyes "Have fun, I guess. See you in October." He says, before walking away, leaving Ilya to stare at his back with his heart in his throat, smile rapidly falling from his face.

Had he been fucking flirting with Hollander?

Ottawa's drinks better be really good, Ilya considers, because the silver medal in his bag might not be the only thing he needs to forget tonight, after all.

"I hate this so much." Nikolai whines against his pillow, as the alarm goes off once again "I hate scotch and vodka and whatever the fuck you made me drink last night, I hate this stupid alarm, and I hate you."

"Well, thank you." Ilya grumbles, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he rests his head into his hands to try and soothe his headache.

Maybe they did go a little overboard last night, but once other guys from the team had decided to join in, Ilya had pretty much expected how the next day was going to turn out. Still, to his tipsy self, to engage in a drinking contest with a group of other ten burly Russian men had seemed like a very good idea.

He's in his boxers, yesterday night's shirt unbuttoned and still reeking of smoke and gin, which is only a step away from being enough to make him dry heave on the spot. Svetlana's going to have his ass when she'll pick him up from the airport.

He turns on his side, poking Nikolai in the ribs and eliciting another pained moan out of him "C'mon stud, we have a plane to catch."

"I'm never drinking again in my entire life."

"Don't make promises you're not going keep."

"Why are you even in my bed? Can't you go being annoying somewhere else?" Nikolai complains, swatting his hands away. He has pillow creases all over the side of his face, eyes red and puffy from the lack of sleep, and his hair stick out in every direction as he sits up, a little green.

He probably doesn't look any better than him, Ilya reasons.

"Just when I though I would be so magnanimous and leave you the first shower." Ilya sighs, reaching for his phone where his drunken self had at least the good idea to plug it in, on Nikolai's bedside table.

Nikolai stands up with a groan, dragging his feet towards the bathroom as he sheds off his shirt.

"Are you sure you don't want to come to Moscow? Mom and dad would love to see you." Ilya hears him yelling over the sound of the shower starting.

"Sergei already booked my flight back to New York, I have a game on Friday." Ilya sighs, stretching over the middle of the bed with a pleased hum "And you are the one to talk, when do you have to be in St. Petersburg?"

"Thursday, but I'm staying a couple of days. I'll probably get the train back on Wednesday’s night." Nikolai says "Grandma asked if I want to stop there for dinner before getting back to my apartment."

"I bet Nadia was happy to hear that."

"Dad said she was very close to cuss grandma out when she called to tell her I was coming back early just to see her."

Ilya can't help but snort at that, as he picks his phone back up just in time to see Nadia's name popping up on the screen.

Speaking of the devil.

Nadia: (video attachment)

Nadia: forgot I had this! I'll look over the rest of the tapes too later, but thought you might need this more now

Nadia: me and uncle Ivan are always here for you, Ilyushka. Love you, kiddo.

Nadia: and please tell my son to answer at his phone >:(

Ilya's heart is full as he scoffs. Of course Alexei tattled, he thinks somewhat fondly, pressing over the video with growing curiosity as the sound of Nikolai humming under his breath mixes with the pouring shower in the other room.

It's grainy, Ilya has to squint at first, as the camera comes to focus, framing two kids passing a puck to each other in the distance. Ilya recognizes immediately the frozen shores of the pond near the Morozov's house, just as he does Nikolai's squeaky laugh as ten-ish year old Ilya falls on his butt over a pile of snow.

Nadia, he recognizes, laughs behind the camera, moving with her "They are good, aren't they?" She says, zooming in and catching the moment little-Ilya pettily slips his stick under Nikolai's blades, sending him down too with a flail of his arms.

But then, "Ah, you know I know too little about hockey, Dusya." Irina chuckles, as the camera moves to frame her tired amber eyes, the blush on her cheeks from the stinging cold, framed by a long cascade of golden curls. That must have been one of her good days, he thinks, breathless, watching her lips purse mischievously as she gives the camera a wink "I know I am extremely beautiful, but shouldn't you be pointing this at the kids?"

"I am portraying the whole moment," Nadia precises "and I already have enough proof they were once this small and cute to show them someday, anyway." She coos, just as a loud screech rips from the distance.

Irina cups her mitted hands around her mouth as she jumps on her feet "Ilya! More gentle!" She calls out before plopping back down on the bench "They're going to give me a stroke, I swear.”

"The joys of motherhood."

"You tell me." Irina sighs dramatically, eyes too soft for it too sound anything but fond "They're growing up so fast."

Ilya has to bite his tongue from uselessly pleading the camera to turn back to his mother, once Nadia points it once again to where he and Nikolai have apparently dropped any pretences of playing and are chasing each other for the puck Ilya is mockingly waving up in his hand.

"Can you imagine them? I mean, all grown up?"

"Do you want to make me cry, Dusya? Because my tears are going to freeze and then I'll freeze and you'll have to be the one to tell my son why I turned into an icicle."

"You are so ridiculous." Nadia giggles "Be serious. You have already done it once, I'm just gasping for advice here."

"I haven't 'already done it once'." Irina denies, outraged "If you are referring to my Alexei, I'll have you know that seventeen is not all grown up." She sniffs "He's still a baby, my baby."

"A six-foot-two baby."

"We watered him a lot when he was born." Ilya can imagine her shrugging, as they both laugh "I guess, if had to," she says then "I would see the two best hockey players of the entire continent; they'd still be playing together, of course, and close to home, with their families. Dogs too, Ilyusha always says he wants five of them, god bless his future wife. And they would have so many bowls-"

"Cups, Ira."

"Ah, what difference does it make?" Irina waves her off, as if she didn't use to deal with Ilya's excited rambling during every game they'd get to watch together, in the quietness of an empty home, when his father was working "I'd just want to see them at their happiest, however that might look like."

"I do too." Nadia says next, softer than a whisper, while little-Nikolai finally manages to catch up and get the puck back from Ilya's hands, gracelessly cutting an edge to dodge Ilya's next assault with a high squeal. There is some shuffling then, as Irina gently gets the camera from her hands to point it at her, under Nadia's amused frown "What are you doing?"

"The whole moment includes you, Dusya, don't be shy." Irina teases her "Now, something to say to our future prodigies here?" She asks, in a deep voice, setting up a closed up fist in front of Nadia, as if she were holding a microphone.

Nadia's dark eyes glint playfully "Indeed I do, miss, thanks for your question." She declares solemnly, before looking into the camera with a tender smile "We love you so much, kiddos."

"We do!"

"And you makes us so proud everyday."

"You do!"

"But do remember who put you in your skates once you'll be famous and rich."

Irina snorts "Dusya."

"Oh, c'mon, I'm joking." She says, before looking back down to the camera with a subtle shake of her head.

The video cuts just as they burst out laughing, freezing over Nadia scrunched up face.

He rewinds the video, once, twice, three times, but after every single one of them Ilya is left looking at the screen, speechless, with the sound of his mother's laugh ringing in his ears like an echo.

He plays it again, eyes closed and the speaker of his phone pressed against his ear, as he curls up on Nikolai's bed with tears pooling in his eyes.

She sounds so... young and happy. She sounds like his mom, in a way that he couldn’t remember her being.

Ilya's thumb aches from running it on the screen to start the video again and again and the hangover is still painfully there, in the form of an dull throb behind his eyes and a stale taste in his mouth, but Ilya also feels so at peace, somehow, like he hasn't in weeks, all for less than a ten minutes long tape that somehow survived years tucked in a dusty box inside the Morozov's garage.

It could have been hours since Ilya first opened the file, he wouldn't know, but he still acknowledges the moment Nikolai walks out of the bathroom, looking annoyingly rejuvenated for someone that was on the verge of blackout wasted just less than six hours ago.

Nikolai sends him a concerned look as he walks towards the edge of his bed, still only clung in a towel and dripping everywhere "You good? Something happened?"

Ilya holds out his phone to him, making space against the headboard. Nikolai's eyes widen slightly as the tape starts, before softening, wet with tears as they both watch Irina smile wickedly to the camera.

"I forgot mom used to make those." Nikolai sniffs after a couple of seconds of silence, once the screen blacks out and they're left staring at their own reflection.

"She said she'll look into the others." Ilya says, bumping their arms together and resting his head on his shoulder "But this... this was more than I could have imagined. I'll have to send auntie some really good wine for her birthday." He considers, to break the tension.

Nikolai chuckles "She would definitely appreciate it, you heard her. God, they looked so…”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?" Nikolai asks then, like the softie he is, looking down at him with still glistening eyes.

Ilya thinks of the fear that had accompanied those nights back in Moscow, the misery of realizing that not even his nightmares could hold up to what had been left of his mother in his memories, anymore. But now, Ilya can close his eyes and start up the tape, and listen to the cheeky sound of her voice saying that she's proud of him, proud of someone she'd never get to meet outside of a hopeful premonition.

Ilya wants to believe she would have really been, if she had.

"I'm fine." He decides finally, standing up and starting to walk in the direction of the bathroom.

He thinks he's finally started to believe that too.

"You should call auntie back, though, her text sounded pissed."

"Oh, Fuck."

-

Admittedly, when Ilya had asked Sergei to talk with the sponsor about bringing up the endorsement to Hollander's manager, he hadn't really stopped to think it through. It had seemed logical, he'd tried to convince himself, the media loved putting them against each other, they always did, ever since they were just kids.

The problem with that, though, is that Ilya doesn't hate Hollander as of now, he probably never has, actually, which is mortifying in itself now that he thinks about it.

Sergei, on his part, had seemed very enthusiastic at the idea, against the unimpressed look Svetlana had sent him across the dinner table. But what did she know anyway?

Ilya had spent way too much time during the rest of the season thinking about Hollander and illegally watching CHL games on his computer, especially on times Sveta would segregate his guitar in her closet with a not so subtle threat to his well being. So yeah, many times.

But that should have stayed there, in the four walls of his room in New York, not under his brother's too perceptive eyes.

What had happened later hadn't been his fault, though, the way he'd felt Hollander's intense stare follow the path of his hands as he got under the shower spray, and Ilya had not been the one to make him grow hard either, in the most literal sense of the phrase.

And, alright, maybe he shouldn't have started jerking off right in front of him, in response, at least to keep up the appearances, but still.

Now, with Hollander pressed against the door of his room, Ilya thinks there is very little he could care for other than the hungry way Shane Hollander himself keeps looking down at his lips, flustered and like he's been fighting himself to not lean in and take a bite.

Ilya hadn't expected any of this when booking the flights to Toronto, that is for sure. 

And maybe Hollander was right, it is a bad idea, this, whatever it is, but, Ilya reasons, as he falls back onto the sheets with a front row seat to Hollander's endearing strip tease, including picking and folding his clothes up on a chair, he can allow himself have this, just for once.

Ilya has always been very careful with the men he falls into bed with, ever since moving away from home; it's never men that can recognize him just by face alone, that don't look like they have a secret to keep just as much as he does. Whether is to the rest of the world or towards themselves, Ilya doesn't need to know to pick up his things and leave, right after the high is spent and his brain is able to tune back to the reality of having to walk out and find a cab among the busy streets of New York, arguably the easiest city to keep such a secret in.

And when they'll be done, when Ilya will finally put a stop to this curiosity of his and scratch Shane Hollander off of his mind once and for all, everything will be just like that once again; he and Alexei will fly back to boring Edmonton in the morning, then Ilya will leave for training camp, and there will we too much to worry about in Boston to think of Hollander and his impressive amount freckles again.

This doesn't mean Ilya won't indulge into every second of it, now, though. He’s a gentleman, after all.

Hollander's inexperienced hands roam over his back with barely controlled lust, as they make out where Ilya has him pinned over the comforter, his naked body planted over his. Ilya can't believe that the same man who took his thumb in his mouth and dropped to his knees without any complaint less than ten minutes ago, is the same one flushing with embarrassment as Ilya states, as they part "You haven't done this before, with a man."

"No. Have you?"

Ilya nods against his neck, his nose dragging over his jugular. Hollander's breath falters "Another... another hockey player?"

Ilya can't help but snort "No, quite the opposite. And it's safer when it's nothing serious." He whispers against his lips, before locking their eyes together "How do you want this?"

Hollander doesn't seem to register his words at first. He looks precious, like this, staring up at Ilya like waiting for instructions, like he wants to beat his expectations. Give it to Shane Hollander to be competitive even in the sheets, he thinks, waiting patiently despite the urge to crash their mouths back together.

"I don't know." Hollander admits, gulping loudly with clear nervousness as he moves his eyes towards the ceiling.

That won't do it.

Ilya hums pensively for a couple of seconds before diving slowly back down for a kiss. It's more gentle than the urgent ones they'd shared on the way to bed, and Hollander's lips part with the sweetest sigh as Ilya's hand runs down his chest, teases the sensitive skin of his nipples and reaches the dip of his waist "Is this okay?" He asks, raising his eyebrows as both a confirmation and a challenge.

Weirdly enough (is it really?), that seem to make Hollander relax under his touch, as he nods, hands tight in fists at his sides, like he's trying to keep them from reaching over to touch back. As he slides in between his thighs, groping the smooth skin of his hips, he takes a hold of them, bringing them to rest them over his head.

"I'm going to suck your dick now." He informs him, as if that weren't clear enough already, eyes motioning to where Hollander has already been leaking over his stomach ever since Ilya blocked him under his weight. He can't help but smirk "Lets see how long this last, yes?"

Hollander's reaction is instantaneous "Asshole-" He hisses through gritted teeth, cut off by a loud moan as Ilya takes him all in.

Ilya feels lightheaded as he works his mouth up and down his length, with the harsh grip of Hollander's fingers through his curls and the sound of his whimpers already growing closer together, his body trashing with pleasure while Ilya’s rhythm grows faster and he guides Hollander’s hands to keep him nose deep over his crotch.

"Rozanov- fuck, fuck-" he pants, head thrown back against the pillows. Ilya has to move his hips over the bed to not get more riled up than he already has, just by watching Hollander come apart in his mouth, despite the other’s attempts at pushing his head away.

The room is silent if not for the sound of their breath mixing as Ilya gets off his cock to kiss him again, rough and wet, before falling at his side still painfully hard and too aware of the blood singing into his veins just by them simply laying beside each other.

He doesn't even have the time to tease him about lasting just as about as a fourteen year old high on hormones, that Hollander is already scrambling to climb in between his legs.

It's way too sinful, the picture he paints while on his knees for him. It makes Ilya almost feral to touch him, as he goes down on him, way more gradually than Ilya did and looking up for reassurance.

And that's the thing, Ilya's never had someone looking both so cute and unbelievably hot while trying not to choke around his cock.

"So fucking good." He grits out, taking a hold on the back of Hollander's head without jostling him, in the vain attempt to ground himself and not shoot off the second Hollander hollows his cheeks with a chocked off moan and tears in his eyes, making him see stars. What the actual fuck.

Ilya is so used to see him in control on the ice that somehow he hadn't expected the pliant way Hollander lets him lead the reins, in this. It feels like nothing and everything he's ever had before at the same time, it makes Ilya's brain completely shut off and, most of all, it's enough to make any of his resolution crumble as he pushes Hollander away to finish himself off in his own hand.

As he gasps for air, Hollander's fucked out gaze follows his movements with hunger, like he didn't just come less than ten minutes ago. Ilya is doomed the moment Hollander's hand closes over his around his cock, with a look of determination that has the temperature of the room spike degrees hotter.

By the time they both fall back against the pillows, Hollander's warmth is a straight line against his side. Maybe it's the absurdity of it all, the fact that it's them, Hollander and Rozanov, the two best prospects of their generation and alleged enemies, but clarity hits him in the form of a laugh being ripped from deep down his chest, as he drags his hands over his face.

Hollander cracks up not too long after that, sitting up and giving Ilya a good view of his freckled back. Ilya wants to lick all over him.

"God..." Hollander wheezes out "This was, uhm-"

"The best you ever had? The peak of your sexual expeditions? The-"

"You never really shut up, do you?" Hollander says, even though it doesn't sound half as mean off the ice and with his face scrunched up like he's trying not to smile.

"Oh, I think you did find a nice way to shut me up." He grins, getting up on his elbows.

Hollander's face does something complicated then, as he looks at him over his shoulder "You- you are not going to tell anyone about this, right?"

"Me?" Ilya scoffs, pointing at his chest "Of course I'm going to tell everyone, why don't I start with the Commissioner? I bet he would like to know we just fuc-"

"Fuck you. No one can know about this." Hollander presses.

"Yeah, no shit." He snorts, fixing his chain around his neck. And really, Ilya had thought it would be more than obvious that nothing could come out of these four walls, but Hollander looks like he's ready to flight, with the way his broad shoulders tense and his jaw sets in a tight morse. This was his first time, though, Ilya's brain supplies next, and god knows how scared Ilya still is at the sole idea of this part of his life being plastered online for anyone to see, even years after his own.

"Look," He says, bumping his knee to his hip "I'm not going to tell anyone, okay?"

Hollander doesn't answer, but does look a tad less terrified as Ilya locates his clothes on the floor "I should go, I have an early flight tomorrow."

He can feel the way Hollander's eyes follow him as he pulls his clothes back on, from where he's still sat over the edge of the bed.

"Yeah, me too."

And Ilya knows this routine way too well, what happens after wearing his jacket and tasting his pockets for his wallet and keys, his phone, the awkward silence that comes from the knowledge of two strangers packing up before never seeing each other again. Still, as he stands nonchalantly in the middle of Hollander's hotel room, he finds no reason why not to lean in for a last short kiss. He’s still inside the room, after all, what difference does it make?

Hollander doesn't seem to mind, faintly chasing his lips when Ilya stands back upright.

"Good night." He says, with one last wink and ogle (how the fuck didn't he notice Hollander still had both socks on?) "I’ll see you next season."

Ilya doesn't realize he's smiling up until he meets his gaze into the elevator's mirror. His heart is beating like a freight train in his chest and he still has the taste of Hollander's kisses on his lips, bitten raw. There is trepidation simmering in his body, as if Ilya hadn't just got his brain sucked through his dick, a greedy and impatient feeling begging for more.

He'll need a cigarette, maybe two or three, he thinks, throwing his head back against the elevator's wall, before he'll be able to at least try and pretend Hollander is just like all the men that came before him and the ones that will come next. Forgettable.

Fucking Shane Hollander.

Chapter End Notes

Heyo!

Ilya being homesick in parallel to Alexei's empty-nest syndrome was both funny and sad to write, but both my kids are going to be fine through the sheer power of communication. I love writing Sveta walking Ilya like a dog, go girl.

Something I also found very funny was underlining the fact that Rory is famous, Alexei is just too much of a grandpa to know this. He's like 'yes, my brother in law works in the industry, no big deal' while Rory's face is literally on people's walls, yall get what I mean? My oblivious princess strikes again.

Im all in for the 'Ilya got his freak from his mom', because c'mon, he couldn't have got all his zestiness from baldy there. More so, writing about Irina and Nadia's friendship was so sweet and funny, I giggled. In another universe their befriendism got girlfriends allegations, I just know it.

When I wrote Shane's pov I kinda alr knew that I was gonna write Ilya's pov, so finally getting to show Ilya at eighteen realizing he might be way too obsessed than normal was funny af. My boy is also scared shitless, which, fair.

In shane's pov I also implied that he didn't know about Nikolai that well, which you could think its weird with them being captains of their respective teams here. My take on this is that Shane didn't even bother considering someone else but Ilya would be Russia's captain and was genueinly put off when it didn't happen so he just- he didn't care anymore you know? He did not try looking for Nikolai after the game, that is for sure (he said, trying to justify plot holes he wrote because he is dumb and wasn't expecting to be writing this at some point).

I really hope the down badism affecting Ilya throughout the ccm shoot came across as intended. Shane gave him cuteness aggression and a boner, lit the whole package up. The thought of Alexei sleeping two floors down completely unaware cracked me up.

This chapter should have reached past Vegas but I yapped too much, sry guys.

Break the Chain being at almost 18k views was def something I would have never expected with my silly headcanon, love yall (UH). Thanks for all of your comments and kudos,

Cya next time ;)

 

(Update 04/20- haven't disappeared, chapter is gonna be long and im submerged by work, help)

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Exam season is killing me, send help (and tissues)

Something Ilya has always deeply appreciated about his brother is his innate tendency to always be a step ahead when disaster strikes: if Ilya's stick broke, a new one would always replace it for the next day of practice, when the whole neighbourhood fell into darkness after a blackout, Alexei got them set up in the living room with flashlights and had twelve-year-old Ilya babble for three hours straight about the last Avangard-CSKA game up until the power came back, and it had never mattered how late Ilya remembered due assignments, papers Alexei should have signed and sent him back to school with, there was always a way to fix things.

At nineteen, Ilya is sufficiently old enough to realize how scary it must have been to keep the game rolling under any circumstances, especially against the first struggles that had risen after leaving home.

It feels absurd to think that while Alexei was busy figuring out how to hold a roof over their heads, at his age Ilya's biggest concern most days is remembering to empty his fridge before road trips to not come back to mold everywhere.

Which is probably why, Ilya thinks, Alexei deserves to go a little ballistic over this baby thing.

Not that Ilya would ever consider having a baby a disaster, especially not when he doesn't think he's ever seen either Alexei or Niamh so happy, under all the nervousness and fear, the stress of having to move and arrange their life around this new reality.

Ilya still can't believe it: his brother is going to have a real fucking baby.

"This thing is killing me." Niamh hisses, dry heaving from the floor. Ilya has to try all his best to not show how queasy the sound of her throwing up her guts just made him, as he holds her hair back.

"I thought making a new life was supposed to be a beautiful thing, this just sounded like Jurassic Park."

Niamh snorts, wiping her mouth before flushing the toilet and standing up on unsteady legs. With Alexei covering a shift for one of his colleagues, Ilya takes the responsibility of making sure she doesn't have a meeting with the floor making the way back to the living room, or, well, the few things left of it already packed into boxes, after what he would consider a very productive morning.

Moving, among everything that has been happening lately, Ilya still has a little trouble coming to terms with. This is the flat he grew up in, and there is no penthouse in Boston or everywhere else in the world that could ever feel like it, without the burn marks left behind the counter from when Ilya had tried making pancakes for Alexei's birthday their first year in Canada, the hole accidentally punched in by a stray puck over his desk during one long summer of boredom, or the dent in the sink made by Niamh's hair straightener the one time they almost fried Ilya's hair off and forgot it plugged in.

They are definitely not going to get their deposit back, now that Ilya thinks about it.

"We should start bringing this stuff over." Niamh says, giving the living room a pensive look "You already packed what you want to bring back to Boston with you?"

"Yep." He nods, aware of the empty duffle resting on the floor of his new room at their new apartment, if not for the little bag of weed he should definitely get rid of before flying back that Monday. Finn will probably appreciate it without further questions "But you should rest now, we can wait for Lyosha to get back before driving back."

"I don't need rest. Just because I'm pregnant-"

"You just finished puking your guts out, Vi." Ilya points out, ushering her towards the couch "I know you can do it, I'm just saying that you don't have to."

"But-"

"No buts." He shushes her, fiddling with his phone "We are done here anyway, it's just those boxes and the bathroom stuff. So now you'll let me order us lunch and we'll sit down to watch something until Lyosha gets back, yes? Is Thai alright?"

Niamh grumbles, annoyed, but doesn't protests as Ilya starts digiting the number to their favourite place (a real shame to have to move away from it, Ilya can't help but think), only huffing a "No onions!" in his direction before laying back on the couch with a sigh.

"Jesus." She eyes the empty shelves, the faint marks left by the furniture and the holes on the walls from the lack of pictures "This is really happening, isn't it?”

Call closed, Ilya plops beside her, relaxing on the backrest while she shifts to rest her head on his shoulder.

He's exhausted, after a whole week stuck in a box-throw out-donate cycle and having to go back and forth the two apartments. Between them, Niall and Jean, and some of the guys from the station, the move had taken way shorter than expected, the whole five days Ilya had managed to fly in thanks to the bad weather holding off their road trip to Florida.

But when he'll get back, Ilya will have no excuses to skip practice anymore, not with the prospect of the All Stars in less than two weeks.

That first half of the season has been everything Ilya has ever dreamed of, so far: the team was great, the guys a good sport and very close, so much that Ilya could easily forget about being all alone in the penthouse most times. Finding his place on the first line hadn’t taken long either despite being fresh meat, just a rookie.

A rookie that got invited to the All Stars, though, to play for a team made of the best players in north America.

And that is only part of what all the medias seemed to want to talk about in interviews: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, the two best prospects of their generation and contenders for that year's Rookie award.

And it's easy to keep up with it, this rivalry, especially with all the media training classes Vetrov made him take, after a not so pleasant interview with a too invasive reporter at the very start of the season. Ilya still thinks he hadn't been in the wrong to just walk away from the camera, because if he’d had the chance to talk he probably would have been fined. 

And while it's true that in most of them Ilya is just expected to smile wide and talk hockey, anyway, it wouldn't be the first time questions about hockey become questions about Russia, about him being in Canada, in the attempt to spike even more talk about the two Nations' rivalry on the ice.

Ilya just wants to play hockey, he doesn't need someone to tell him any other reason why he should hate Hollander, other than him being good enough to actually be considered competition.

And, for sure, he also doesn't need anyone to remind him that maybe he's not really as Canadian as he thinks, while being not truly Russian anymore and prying into his family's business like Ilya owes them something.

It's really a pity for them that he has very little in his priorities beside making his team win the All Stars later that December, before crushing Montreal first thing January.

"I think so."

"I'm going to miss this place."

"I will, too." Ilya admits "But it's for the better." He says, looking down at her with a small smile.

Niamh rubs her stomach absentmindedly, over the small bump hidden under a black oversized Bears sweatshirt, one of many Ilya had sent them as a joke after signing with the team. Nice to see she didn't burn all of them in some magical attempt to make Montreal finally win a cup. Ilya lives with the enemy, but that he has always sadly been aware of.

"You okay?" He asks "You need to puke again?"

Niamh shakes herself out of the vague stare she's been looking over the tower of boxes near the front door with "No, no it's fine. I'm just tired, Bean hasn't let me sleep much."

"Tell me that's not gonna be the baby's actual name." Ilya recoils, genuinely concerned. God knows what the past two months of no-sleeping and relentless house hunting must have done to their fragile and hormonal brains "I won't let you and my brother ruin my niece-slash-nephew's life before they're even born-"

"Fuck off." Niamh giggles, pinching his arm "Just for the record, I haven't gone completely insane. We just haven't settled on any names yet."

"Hear me out: Ilya Junior. We already know it's gonna come out a great hockey player, anyway. With your genes, and hopefully only the ones me and Alexei share, it could be a generational talent."

"Yeah, no. One Ilya is quite enough for us." She muses, making Ilya's chest warm "I do hope they'll like hockey, though, Montreal will have another little fan."

Over his dead body "Fuck, no."

Niamh chuckles, before setting her lips in a tight line "I think I’m just getting the first-time-parent jitters. Lex has been going haywire ever since we found out, and don't get me wrong, he's so sweet, but I'm tired of being treated like an invalid." She huffs "I'm already benched from work, I can't take any more of this."

"You still got a long while of him being overbearing, I'm afraid." He can't help but flinch.

She's not exactly wrong: if he's not working, Alexei just hovers, a bit like a guard dog would with its owner, which, combined with his already mother henning tendencies, has all the bases to make someone as self sufficient as Niamh seethe.

It's totally in character other than maddening, Ilya would know, he's been the victim of it for better part of his life, but pointing out the obvious probably wouldn't do Niamh any favours now.

On a more positive note, he's surely calmed down from that first period of generally allowed freaking out. Ilya still remembers the sheet-white hue of his face through the screen when he'd jokingly suggested that, knowing Niamh's family history, they could be waiting for double the surprise in less than eight months.

Alexei had looked ready to faint and Ilya had to deal with Niamh's unimpressed disapproval until the new sonogram his brother had convinced her to book, just to be sure.

"I used to carry people out of houses on fire and now I'm a designated couch potato." Niamh complains, rubbing her eyes "I can't stop throwing up, I keep waking up in the middle of the night craving the most disgusting things ever and the crying, Ilya, I feel like a damn leaking faucet. I love this kid, but they're going to be so grounded once they're out of me." She says, threateningly enough to make Ilya thank the stars when the doorbell rings and he has an excuse to slip away from the couch.

Niamh looks decidedly less hangry after downing a whole box of pad Thai, in front of Alexei's old computer (which will soon be only a memory too, with the already wrapped new MacBook Ilya got him for Christmas. Niamh will never have to guess the letters on the keyboard anymore, at least), that they balanced over a little made up table of boxes to play the first movie Ilya found remotely interesting while scrolling online. Of course Alexei, the freak, already cut the cable, Ilya shouldn't have been as surprised as he was.

But it makes sense, he thinks, later, as he takes the last box from the otherwise empty floor, in an even emptier apartment, ready to leave the flat for one last time.

This is it.

He doesn't hear Alexei walking up behind him up until a firm hand settles on his shoulder. In his eyes, Ilya reads the same wistfulness that has been grasping at his chest all week.

"We're about to go. Are you ready?"

He leans into the squeeze. At the end of the day, home has never been just four walls and a ceiling.

"Yeah, let's go."

*

Ilya had almost forgot how New Year could be in Russia.

With Nikolai stuck in St. Petersburg for Christmas while Nadia and Ivan flew in, Ilya had taken the ultimate decision that he could tail Nadia and Ivan back to Moscow and at least make the last of the year a little less miserable for him, despite their very different opinions on what made a good party.

Nikolai had still looked happy to see him, though, when they'd picked him up from the train station, and had only shook his head in fond defeat when Ilya had informed him about Svetlana's get together later that night during dinner, over Ivan and Nadia’s amusement.

To be fair, ‘get together’ is the last way Ilya would describe the crowd that had littered every corner of the Vetrov's mansion, settled on the further edge of the old money part of Moscow.

But they'd mingled, they'd drunk, and they'd had fun, the real goal overall and a definite success, despite the killer hangover Ilya is still sporting now, two days and a lot of throwing up later.

What Ilya had hoped mostly, in getting Nikolai as drunk as he could, was to get him to relax for once, especially after what Nadia had described like a stressful couple of months, at dinner at the Callahans’ earlier that week, still salty about being deprived of seeing her son even during the holidays.

And Ilya can see it now, definitely more than he could sense by text, the tense line of his shoulders as he types on his computer, frowning at the screen like it personally offended him.

If Ilya weren't so bored, he would probably leave him be, but the door to Nikolai's room had been open and with Nadia and Ivan away for one of her Law firm's too long events, Ilya is privy of anything to do but annoy him.

"Hey."

Nikolai hums in acknowledgement as Ilya steps in, pushing the door behind him.

"What are you doing?" He asks, plopping in his desk chair and reaching for the old Rubik’s cube over the windowsill. He's never figured out how to stack all the colours together right, no matter how many times Nikolai tried teaching him, but it does serve to keep his hands occupied as he twists in the chair.

"My agent sent an endorsement deal with some weird clothing line. I'm trying to find a way to decline and make him understand that I would rather die than pose in front of a camera again." He huffs.

Ilya can't help but chuckle a bit. He has no idea how Svetlana ever convinced Nikolai to model for one of her friends' clothing brand, but Ilya still has the magazine with Nikolai's naked back plastered on the cover that he had her send to him, kept like a holy grail in his house in Boston. Ilya wouldn't even say it's a bad picture, but knowing they specifically chose it because Nikolai couldn't stop blushing is still very funny.

"How about: dear Pavel, kindly fuck off."

"Is that how you email Vetrov? No, you know what, I actually wouldn't be surprised."

"He uses gifs in his emails, what other tone should I use?"

"What do you want, Ilyusha? I'm kind of busy." Nikolai sighs, a little too hastily.

"Such a grump." Ilya says teasingly, crossing his shins near Nikolai's feet on the bed, to nudge at his calves "We could go skating, the pond is open, and you need to decompress."

"I have work."

"I could argue that skating is kind of like your job too."

"Ilya."

"Nikolai." He insists, nudging him harder and making Nikolai's hands slip from the keyboard  "You have been cooped up in here ever since lunch, and I'm kind of flying back tomorrow night, so..."

The computer snaps closed with too much force. Nikolai looks somewhere close to annoyed, but not in the way that would have already set off alarming bells in Ilya's head, like he knows too that he's being unreasonable.

"You are so fucking annoying." Nikolai declares, swatting away the foot Ilya pokes his stomach with "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"What crawled up your ass and died?" Ilya grumbles, barely catching the pillow aiming for his head "Auntie said you have been a prick lately. When's the last time you got fucking laid, exactly?"

And Ilya was joking, he really was, and had frankly expected Nikolai to just flip him off and give in to being Ilya's source of entertainment for the rest of the afternoon, so he's not really ready for Nikolai's stoic and irked face, as he does his mental math, which in itself it's enough of an answer, Ilya thinks, watching the blush spreading over his cheeks with genuine concern.

"What?"

"Since Sasha, alright?" Nikolai mutters then, through gritted teeth.

"That was years ago." Ilya points out, faintly,  after minutes of interminable silence, as Nikolai buries his face behind his hands "Fuck, for real?"

"Yes, for real, Ilya. Do I need to spell it out for you?"

"Jeez." He mumbles, still a little put out, as he leans forward in his chair "I guess I just- well, it's a little weird- but like, not that there is anything wrong with it." He tries correcting himself then, as Nikolai's face visibly falls "Some people don't want to have sex and it's fine-" oh, Will would be so proud of Ilya, right now-

"I do want." Nikolai stops him, raising his arms to stop him "This has nothing to do with that, please shut up." He grumbles, embarrassed "It's just easier this way: I don't have to worry about people finding out if I just don't, uhm-"

"Have sex at all?"

"Can you stop saying 'sex'?" Nikolai huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, flustered, and burying himself further into his shoulders.

Ilya scoffs "So what, you're just going to stay celibate until retirement?"

"Why are you being like this?" Nikolai bursts out, then "It's not your business whether I get laid or not, Ilya."

And that really is an interesting question, because if Nikolai had told him he just didn't care for it, Ilya would have probably just teased him about being too hockey wired, like he always does. And maybe Ilya kind of wishes that had been that, because the only thing he can master to say to that is “It's just not fair, nothing is. You- it shouldn't be like this."

His words hold weight down on his shoulder like a boulder, on both of theirs. Nikolai sighs.

"Well, what can you do?" he says tiredly, in the same way one would complain about the stupid weather.

And well, maybe Ilya can't change the world and make it better just through the power of will, but there is not exactly nothing he can do-

"What if, you know, I helped you?"

Nikolai stills, eyes wide as they trace Ilya's face like he can't believe his ears "What do you mean?"

Ilya rolls his eyes "What do you think? Listen, you look like you're about to bite someone’s head off, god forbid it’s one of ours at this point. Plus, you're my best friend, I wouldn’t mind. Me and Sveta do this all the time." he shrugs.

"Sveta hasn't watched you throw up after trying to see how many marshmallows could fit into your mouth."

"I mean, we used to live together, she arguably saw worse."

Ilya knows his argument is weak, and really, he made the offer pretty much seventy-five percent sure that Nikolai would refuse on the spot, but, instead, Nikolai's face turns levels of blush he didn't even know could be reached, as he looks up at him with a conflicted expression.

"If we- Jesus, this is so fucking weird," He says, dragging a hand down his face "This cannot be like, like with Sveta, or- or that Will guy." He intimates "No jokes about it, no- no chirps. I'm- uhm-"

Ilya frowns as he watches him stumble through his words.

"Hey." He calls out, taking Nikolai's wrists into a gentle hold to get his hands away from his face. Nikolai's phone goes off on his desk, but neither of them pays it any mind "This is not, in any way, going to be anything you don't want it to be. If you want something to happen. Sex should make you feel good, alright? Not scared, never scared." He presses, looking straight into his big blue eyes "It's just me." He reminds him, gripping the base of his neck with a firm grip "You can say no and we'll forget about this, no questions asked."

Nikolai stare burns holes into him as he looks Ilya up and down. He exhales roughly.

"If you're sure, yeah, fuck, why not?" He says, pretty endearingly, like he's trying to hype himself up. Part of Ilya thinks he should be offended by it, but if he's being honest, even if on a definitely smaller scale than Nikolai, he is a little pent up himself. What a way to kill two birds with one stone. But, still.

"Are you actually sure your problem is not that you just suck at inviting people in your bed?"

Nikolai doesn't hide the roll of his eyes before standing up from the edge of the bed and eagerly lean down to crash their lips together.

Oh well, Ilya didn't really meant now, but with an empty house at their service for the foreseeable future he can definitely see Nikolai's point.

It's not quite like kissing Sveta or Will, he thinks, pulling Nikolai closer by the dip of his waist. Despite everything, there is still shyness in the way Nikolai parts his lips to draw him in and hesitates before settling his arms over Ilya's shoulders as he lets him take control. It surely feels different from kissing Hollander too, without the bite, the eagerness, the blood boiling and addictive feeling of his fingers tugging on Ilya's hair, the sound of his moans spilled in between them.

Ilya has never kissed someone taller than him, either. It doesn't feel necessarily bad, just weird, new, to not be the one looming over his partner for once, he thinks, as he pushes him to fall on his back over the mattress with a playful shove.

Urgency burns like liquid gasoline in Nikolai's clouded eyes, Nikolai who keeps intently watching him with a flustered blush over the top of his cheeks, while Ilya makes a quick work of his shirt, before following his example.

"You have lube?" Ilya asks, shimmying out of his pants.

Nikolai reaches for the last drawer of his nightstand in response, before chucking an half empty bottle of lube at him.

Ilya give it a pensive look "I'm surprised your hand is still attached to your body with all the-"

"You talking is more of a turn off than you might think." Nikolai interrupts him, leaning back on his elbows after throwing his sweats somewhere in the direction of the desk.

Ilya had thought it would be way more awkward, with it being them, but desperation is a valuable weapon and thinking of Hollander's scrunched up face of pleasure definitely helped with getting him more than half hard by the time he's standing only in underwear and making his way back towards the bed.

"I'll have you know that I've never had any complains over my dirty talk." Ilya says, tossing the lube at armlength and crawling in between his legs.

Nikolai's breath itches when Ilya's hand reaches to his chest, over the expanse of his ribcage, before settling on his hip in a gentle hold.

"Still okay?

"Sure." Nikolai confirms, a little breathless, lax under his weight. His face morphs into something almost vulnerable "Just... go slow. It's, uhm, been a while."

Ilya nods. However Nikolai needs it, Ilya will comply, that wasn't even worth questioning. Their breath mix together as he leans forward to connect their lips once again. Nikolai's calves lock behind Ilya's back, releasing a quiet, breathy sigh as Ilya draws a path of open mouthed kisses down his neck, over the blush spreading all over his chest, where he can feel the loud thump of his heart.

Nikolai's fingers suddenly pull at the hair on his nape "Quit teasing." He huffs, pouty.

"You said slow!"

"Not this slow."

Ilya gives a playful slap to his thigh, balancing on one arm as he pops the cap of the lube with his teeth to squirt some on his palm "So bossy. See if I ever decide to help you again."

"Ilya." Nikolai says, warningly, which could have definitely sounded more threatening if his voice weren't so close to a whine "My dick will fall off if you don't hurry the fuck up."

And, to be fair, Nikolai might not actually be that wrong, at least for the way he's concrete hard against Ilya's stomach and leaking in his boxers.

"Shut up and relax." He intimates, sliding the sticky fabric off his hips at his eager nod and finally closing his lubed hand around him. Nikolai moans loudly in the silence of the room, chasing the feeling of Ilya's hand on his cock like a man starved.

"Fuck, Ilya."

"Yes, that's the goal." He smirks against the crease of his thigh, biting gently into the meaty skin after a rougher stroke. God bless hockey.

"Ouch. Fucking sadist." Nikolai hisses, despite the way his cock jumps in his hand.

"Sorry." Ilya says, not sorry at all, dragging his tongue over the shallow dent left on his skin "We have time, you think you can come twice? Once like this and once on my cock?"

"Probably. Definitely. Jesus." Nikolai pants at Ilya's next long drawn stroke, fists tight against the sheets "Just fucking hurry up."

Ilya's body is tuned to this, to sex, the intoxicating feeling of knowing he's the reason of his partner's pleasure, of the gasps and the cries coming out of Nikolai's mouth right now.

After Hollander, there have only been girls. Between practice, games, Will busy in Florida with his new fancy job, and finally being back home to be just Ilya and not Rozanov, he hadn't even had the chance to think about it any deeper. It wouldn't have been safe anymore, either, he thinks, to pick up guys in sketchy bars in Edmonton, not with the knowledge of his face being plastered on every sport magazine available, thanks to Vetrov's doing.

But Ilya could do this with his eyes closed, no need for refreshments, and from the litany of moans echoing in the room he most definitely doesn't need any.

Nikolai's only warning is a sharp tug on his scalp before coming down Ilya's throat, with a growl that has Ilya’s hair stand up on his arms and groan around the sensitive skin of his cock.

Ilya lays his head over his lower stomach, jaw sore and still hard in his boxers, as Nikolai falls back over the duvet, slackened.

"Just- just give me a minute." He says, laying his arm across his face as he catches his breath, his other hand still tangled in Ilya's curls. The tension in his body is gone, replaced by a cloudy peacefulness that has him shake under Ilya's weight, in silent laughter "What the fuck."

"Are you okay?" He asks, drawing circles over his abs.

"Yeah, is just- I guess it's a little weird."

"Because it's me?" Wouldn't be the first time someone freaked out on him after regaining some post-sex clarity, he thinks.

"No. Maybe."

"We can stop." Ilya reminds him.

"No, no, it's good. I want it." Nikolai insists. Ilya feels him twitch against him, as if in agreement. Shit, he probably might have more than just two in him, if this is how it’s going to be "Please." He adds, blue eyes glassy and dark.

"Dork." Ilya huffs, fondly.

Ilya has always loved the closeness involved in sex, whether tender or rough, offering or demanding, the heat of a body pressed against his in the small timeframe in between meeting and disappearing from the others' lives. He guesses it’s going to be pretty different for them, apart from the ways it won’t: this is nothing but purely a one time mean of necessity, fun, and Ilya is well aware and fine with it, just like he knows it’ll still fill part of the starved feeling in his chest that thrives for contact.

And Nikolai probably knows too, just like he knows him, and so Ilya doesn't need to muffle his moans while they make out and his palms come up to cup the base of his neck, thumbs running along the his cheekbones, the cut of his sideburns, as the mood grows back to hot and urgent.

That's probably the reason neither of them hears the knock on Nikolai's door.

"Hey kids, I don't think you got Nadia's text but the conference ended earlier and we-"

Ilya's body hits the floor behind Nikolai's bed with a painful thud that has his ribs and back scream in protest, but it's hard to dwell on it more than the initial hurt when Ivan is standing on the threshold of the room, still holding the door handle, wide eyes moving between Ilya, sprawled on the floor, and Nikolai's terrified expression.

Ilya's chest caves in the more his brain fails to find a decent reasoning behind the lack of clothes, the bitten raw lips and the debauched state of the sheets, barely covering Nikolai's naked and shaking frame.

"Ivan, what's taking so long? I need to know where to make the reservation!"

Ilya must have died and ended up in hell, he thinks, as Nadia's voice grows closer with every step up the stairs. There is no other answer to this, he reasons, completely paralyzed at Nadia's sharp intake of air, only seconds before the door is slammed shut behind Ivan's red and embarrassed face.

The house falls silent.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck-

Ilya's legs feels like jelly as he pushes himself off the ground, trying to ignore the twinge of his ribcage, where he hit the bedframe falling.

On the bed, Nikolai is still looking towards the door like he might see through it, hands limp over the sheets he'd pulled over to try and cover himself up.

Ilya is expecting him to panic, he feels like he's going to panic, but what Nikolai does instead is abruptly stand up, and start to look for his clothes with what would seem like glacial calmness if not for the way his hands keep fumbling to turn a hoodie inside out.

Ilya watches him walk towards his closet, then, sliding out an old half packed duffle from behind a pile of ironed shirts, identical to the one Ilya still keeps his old pair of skates in back home, only to start to fill the rest of it with shirts, pants, anything he seems able to grab from the hangers.

While shrugging on a crewneck, Ilya can't help but peak in: a flashlight, two phone chargers, a box of stale looking cereal bars, stray batteries, a first aid kit-

"What- what is this?"

"Get dressed." Nikolai says- orders actually- instead, voice hoarse "You have your wallet on you, right? Good. Here." He says, before pushing a pair of shoes hidden in the back of the closet in Ilya's direction. What the hell- "Go get your passport and, I don't know, pack anything else you could need. I'm calling a cab." Nikolai continues reaching for his phone, still on his desk.

The shoes fall from his hands as Ilya leans over to pluck it from his fingers, still in shock, and just so fucking scared.

He planned this, Ilya realizes; the duffle, the shoes, the way that he, despite everything, seems so... equipped, like a soldier ready to be shipped off to war. And the thing is, Ilya can see it, a terrified kid spending nights awake in his bed to make a plan for the worst and packing a whole- survival kit to hide in the back of his closet with the hope to never have to use it. That is just such a Nikolai thing to do, but it only serves to make Ilya's already bleeding heart painfully throb.

And now they're here, standing across from each other in the middle of the room, and Nikolai is glaring down at him with something akin to betrayal written on his face.

"Give me my phone."

"Nikolai-"

"Ilya, don't- not now, I can't do this now." Nikolai stutters, crowding him against the desk "We need to leave."

"Leave to where?" Ilya asks, incredulously, holding his phone away from his reach.

"Literally anywhere, it doesn't matter." Nikolai says, slowly inching closer "Just as far away as possible from here. But I need my phone back."

"You're not thinking clearly. What about your parents? We can't just leave." Ilya tries "What if-"

Nikolai shakes his head "I can't talk to them, I really can't, I just- I'm just going to do a favour to all of us and make this quick. Please, Ilya, I'm not asking you to help, just not to stop me." He pleads, tears pooling in his eyes "Please."

When Nikolai drops to his knees, Ilya is already there to pick up the pieces, phone abandoned over the desk to swallow him in his arms. Nikolai's fingers grip tightly on the fabric of his sweatshirt as he cries into his shoulder in full body wrecking sobs.

Ilya holds him with the hope of being able to keep him together, that what waits for them on the other side of his door is not what Nikolai imagines, he prays it's not, doesn't matter if it's to a god he doesn't believe in anymore.

"You don't have to ask." He says, trying to get a grip on himself "I have your back: if you want to leave, I'll help you leave. I can ask Sveta to get us both tickets to- I don't know, you would wanna go to Paris? We could go to Paris, at least until we figure this out."

Nikolai sobs a weak laugh against the dampness on his shoulder "Paris? I thought you hated French."

"It is a stupid language, it deserves all the hate it can get."

When Nikolai slumps back, his eyes are still glassy, puffy and red, tears clumping up his lashes, but Ilya feels the win of prying a smile out of him in the same way one would feel about seeing the sun after weeks of rain.

It's short lived, but Nikolai looks more settled  then, as he wipes under his nose with his sleeve and pushes his hair back "Fuck. This is a nightmare."

Ilya can't help but second that.

"I'm sorry it had to happen like this."

Nikolai nods, lower lip quivering as he looks up to him "I should talk with them, shouldn't I?"

Ilya hesitates. He has no idea, frankly, what to do from there. Part of him doesn't want to jump to conclusions, for Nikolai's sake, for his own, but it feels like a very short leash to hold onto, like they're going to be bit anyway.

On the other hand, it's Nadia and Ivan.

Nadia, who spent every possible minute of her time after his mother died helping them; whether it was with paperwork and the boring art of the Russian law, about distracting Ilya from his grief, or even his homework, when Alexei worked until late. She’d hold him in her arms, firmly and grounding, when Ilya woke up from nightmares when sleeping over or when he used to live with them before moving, and it would dawn on him that maybe he missed his brother more than he imagined.

On the contrary, being in the same room as Ivan had always felt more like being picked apart than getting put back together, kind of like a board game after that he hadn't had the chance to finish.

Alexei used to say that it was just him not being able to completely separate work from home, but Ilya still thinks that is just how Ivan is. Ilya had never had someone like that before, anyway, who listened quietly while he told him about being happy, sad, angry; at his dad, at Alexei, his mom, it didn't matter. Ivan was there, void of judgement, waiting for Ilya to finish before speaking words of wisdom that usually left Ilya too confused about their meaning to be still upset and driving him and Nikolai to get ice cream.

He just was there, they both were.

Ilya wants to believe that this doesn't change anything, that it won't erase years of being family, but there is very little his brain can rationally focus on right now, in these conditions, with the nagging thought that with Ivan and Nadia knowing, there are very little possibilities Alexei won't.

One thing at a time, he tells himself. Nikolai needs him more now.

"Maybe." He concedes, then, patting Nikolai's blotchy face "But whatever happens, we'll figure it out."

Nikolai sniffles, offering his hand to him as be stands up.

He looks on the verge of crying again, but everything seems to fall in second place as he pushes his face into something neutral, into his captain face. Yeah, they might need it after all.

"Okay, lets do this."

The house is creepily quiet when they step outside of Nikolai's room, if not for the whispering coming from Ivan's studio, on the far end of the hallway. Nikolai walks like a man sent off to be executed and Ilya doesn't feel much different, as they reach the tall glass doors of the studio.

The whispers come to an halt at Nikolai’s shy knock.

Ivan is sat behind his desk when they let themselves in, an half filled glass of bourbon in front of him, with the clear promise of being refilled when needed, or at least that’s what Ilya deduces from the bottle still standing on top of the desk, instead that on the bottle rack in the corner of the room. Nadia is walking a hole in the floor, but stops in her tracks once she sees them, face dark and unreadable. They're both still in the clothes they left in that afternoon. Ilya feels extremely underdressed in his sweats and with the way his hair are still flying out in every direction from Nikolai's fingers, standing behind Nikolai like a tall child.

"Hi." Nikolai forces out "I think maybe we, uhm, we should talk?"

Ivan's response is to motion to the small couch opposite to the desk, before turning in his chair to reach the cabinets "You want a glass?"

Ilya nods, desperately "Please."

He has never seen Nikolai down a drink so fast, not even that one time they raided that same rack during the night, and had to hide the evidence before either of his parents could notice the half empty bottle of gin.

The alcohol burns down his throat as he follows his example, waiting for anyone to say something in the clearly uncomfortable silence of the room.

"So," Nikolai clears his throat, under Nadia's scrutinizing look from where she's now perched on the edge of Ivan's desk "What you saw-uhm- shit, this is so embarrassing." He laughs, bordering hysterical, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Listen, I'm sorry." He says then, lowering his eyes to his empty glass "Not about the- the sex part, I guess, uhm, you weren't really supposed to see that. I just- I wanted to tell you someday but, well, not like this."

Ivan lays his glasses over the desk, staring so deeply into both of them to make Ilya feel even more naked that he had been when he found them earlier "Tell us..."

"That I'm gay." Nikolai nods "Yeah. And Ilya, he is uhm-"

"Bisexual." Ilya fills in, crossing his arms across his chest.

Nadia's mask breaks into something confused "What does that mean?"

"That I also like women."

"And you don't?" She asks then, at her son, who makes himself smaller in his seat.

"No. No, I don't."

"Since when have you been like this?”

Ilya feels like throwing up a bit.

"What I think your mother means." Ivan is quick to intervene, sending his wife a tight look as Nikolai's face pales "Is how long have you known."

"Oh. I think I was, uhm, twelve? Thirteen, maybe."

Neither Ivan or Nadia fail to hide the surprise on their faces as they share a look over their shoulder, not that far off from horrified. Ilya doesn't really know how to interpret that.

Even less, he knows what to make of what Nadia says next, weirdly judging "Does Sveta know about this?"

Ilya frowns. What does Sveta have to do with this?

He turns questioningly towards Nikolai, who, on his part, looks not that far off from a deer caught in headlights "Grandma told you."

"You mean about how despite your upbringing you seem to have find a nice and polite girl to settle down with?" Nadia deadpans, her eyes darkening "Yes, she did. But now you're saying you're gay so I don't really know what to believe, because I for sure didn't raise a cheater-"

"Dusya."

"No, Ivan. This is ridiculous, she has the right to know if he's using her or-"

"No- no." Nikolai interrupts her, a clear grimace on his face "With Sveta- it's not what you think. She's only been doing me a favour with the team. They kept trying to set me up and she, uhm, she offered to come around sometimes and help with that." He confesses, avoiding looking in Ilya's direction, or his parent's for that matter.

Ilya can't help but gape a little at that. Two days, that's when he's last seen Sveta, and both her and Nikolai had acted completely normal while downing shot after shot like two alcoholics at Oktoberfest and share Ilya's pack of cigarettes throughout the night over bursts of uncoordinated laughter. Ilya would remember if either of them had mentioned anything about this in the past, right? And maybe he does get why Nikolai didn't, because under very different circumstances he would probably be laughing his ass off at the absurdity of it, but Sveta surely could have, in between all the sex, the chat and the watching American Housewife, they'd done the last time she'd visited him in Boston.

Ilya feels utterly betrayed.

He should really start to keep up with whatever Russia's equivalent of TMZ is.

"Help." Nadia repeats "Help how?"

"She wore my jersey at a couple of games, came to some team events and outings when she could. She, uhm, just pretended to be my girlfriend, I guess."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Nikolai shifts uncomfortably in his chair "Some pictures of us leaked a couple of months ago and Grandma saw them. She wanted to meet her and you know how she is, I couldn't exactly refuse. I didn't think she would tell you." He admits, hiding in his shoulders "Why didn't you ever say something before?"

Ivan links his hands over his desk, somewhat sheepish at his wife's pointed look "Ah, it's kind of my fault: you have never told us about dating anyone, I didn't want to put that pressure on you in case you weren't ready yet."

"Oh."

"But you don't like women." Nadia considers, neutrally "So it's not a matter of when."

"No, it's not."

"So not a wife, kids, what else?"

"Mom." Nikolai pleads "What does this have to do with it?"

"I'm just trying to understand, Nikolai, okay?" Nadia says, nervously combing her hair away from her face. Ivan's hand reaches to squeeze her arm, reassuringly "It's not- we weren't really expecting this."

"I mean, we are not that old to think it weren't- that it can happen." Ivan adds "But you never... you never seemed the, excuse my French, the type to, you know? Sure, you were always a shy kid and everything but that didn't really mean anything, at the end of the day. And then you got into hockey and we figured it was just a stupid stereotype at that point."

"It is." Nikolai agrees, guarded, but visibly comforted by the calmness of their statements, albeit pretty... ignorant.

Ilya would take ignorant over angry every day. Still, he can't help shifting closer to Nikolai as he adds, in a small voice "But I am both gay and a hockey player, so..."

"How does this work? With hockey?" Nadia asks, frowning "Does anybody else know?"

Nikolai furiously shakes his head "No. They probably wouldn't allow me to play anymore, if this came out, at best." He presses, hands tight in his lap "This could- there could be consequences for you too, for your jobs, but not only. So, no, just Ilya and Sveta know, and it needs to stay this way."

The silence that follows is terribly sombre. Ilya can’t do anything but bump his foot against Nikolai's in the hope of bringing some silent comfort, during what feels like the scariest thing he's ever had to do in his entire life.

And he wouldn't say it's going badly, not as much as he had imagined it would, but he can see Nadia's conflicted expression, the way she keeps clutching her hands together how she usually does when she's trying to get a grip.

"I get that this is, uhm, this must be hard." Nikolai says, unsure "But if you have any questions-"

"Why didn't you never say anything?" Nadia promptly interrupts him, unable to bottle herself up "We're your parents, Nikolai. What would you have done if today never happened? Would you- would you have ever told us?" She demands, a torn look on her face.

Nikolai's eyes turn glassy as he lowers his head "I don't know." He confesses "I never... it always seemed so far to think about. Why should that matter now?"

"It does matter." She scoffs "It matters because you were just a kid, my kid, and all those years you spent them thinking, what? W-what did you think would have happened if you told us? I don't get it. I just don't get any of this." She says sniffing into her hand.

"Mom, it wasn't anything personal-"

"Of course it was! I thought you knew you could tell us anything, that no matter what we would have loved you regardless. It was my job to take care of you and you didn't trust me with it, and it's frankly killing me to think that maybe we did something to make it that way, that you had to do this on your own." She blurts out, without her usual kind of restrain. It comes out raw and unsettling, Ilya can hardly fight the pressure behind his eyes as she slips from the desk to walk up to the couch and cup each of their cheeks in the palm of her hands.

"I love you two, so much. We both do." She whispers, wetly. Ilya hadn't even registered the scraping of Ivan's chair against the floor as he stood up, but the gentle feeling of his fingers smoothing his hair back is unmistakable, even when Nadia draws them both in against her "We're going through this together, from now on."

They barely fit in the hug. Nikolai's elbow presses exactly on the blooming bruise on his ribs as he shakes against his mother's shoulder, babbling words Ilya can't figure out over the sound of his own sniffles, completely abandoned to relief and exhaustion into Nadia and Ivan's embrace.

Ivan's hand is solid and comforting on the back of his head, real, so gentle yet firm, and it makes a new round of tears sprung up as he falls boneless in his arms next, clutching the back of his shirt like he might slip away from him.

"You're okay, Ilyusha, it's okay." He hears him whisper, just like when Ilya was a kid who just lost his mom, fuelled by anger and grief and looking for scraps of love wherever he could get them, to fill the hole left in his heart.

Ilya doesn't know how long they stay like this, awkwardly sprawled over the couch in Ivan's studio, but at some point there are no tears left in him to cry anymore and there is a throb in the back of his skull, muffled by the fuzzy haze spreading over his mind.

Nikolai is a total wreck. His eyes are rubbed raw and puffy, face blotchy with tears, and his fringe is flat against his forehead, but there is something there, some kind of ease, in the way he falls back against the back couch, his mother's hand still held tightly into his, as he gives his parents a tentative smile.

Ivan and Nadia are perched over the coffee table, after carefully moving their glasses over to the desk.

Ivan is the first to break the silence, hesitantly "I assume Alexei doesn't know either."

Ilya's gaze lowers to his feet, hands tight in his lap "He doesn't and I, uhm, I have to ask you not to tell him. Please." He begs "I have no idea how he would take it and he's- he has a lot on his mind already now, with the baby and everything." He stutters "Just, please don't tell him.”

“It's okay, sweetie." Despite the evident conflict on her face, Nadia is fast to agree, probably sensing the mood shifting back to tense "We're not going to tell him anything, Ilyusha."

"But I think he would understand, if you did." Ivan considers, quietly.

Would he?

The thing is, Ilya really has no fucking idea about how Alexei would take it. He had fought so hard when he was a kid to get him simply to acknowledge him, and trust him again after their mother died to reach what they have now, and the thought of ruining it, them, is enough to make him taste bile.

It would be easier, he thinks, if Alexei had ever said something about it, like the one time Ilya, honest to god, still thinks he saw Finn get a number from a burly guy coming into the shop for a Frappuccino. His brother had barely batted an eye at that, but Ilya, who probably should have tried focusing on studying for his SATs other than Finn's extravagant dating life, hadn't been able to get the deadpan look on his face out of his mind.

Not knowing, Ilya had figured he could live with, after that, because at the end of the day deadpan was better than disappointed, disgusted or anything that his brain could bring itself to think of.

"Maybe." He just says, tiredly, lowering his gaze to his knees.

"It's your call." Ivan reassures him, despite the clear sadness in the squeeze he gives Ilya's shoulder.

"But how do you think of keeping your, uhm," Nadia struggles, waving her hand between the little space dividing him and Nikolai on the couch "your relationship from him?"

Wait-

"What relationship are we talking about?" Nikolai wheezes, with badly concealed horror written across his face. Which, ouch, he had his dick down Ilya's throat less than an hour ago and he surely didn't seem so disturbed by it back then.

Ilya turns slowly in his direction, eyes wet "But you said I was the love of your life-"

"Ilya-"

"Was I just a body for you? What- what about everything we have been through?" He cries.

"You were- he is not," Nikolai, blushing up to the tip of his ears, denies, waving his arms towards his parents as he glares in his direction "Fuck off. He is messing with you! Tell them!"

"Like you played with my heart." He moans, throwing himself over his lap, one hand pressed on his forehead.

Nikolai looks down at him, glaring "Are you done?"

Ilya huffs. So much for playing it down "Such a Buzzkill."

"You dramatic asshole, this is not the moment-"

"I guess that is nothing we should worry about, then." Ivan says, amused "We just thought that since you two were-"

"If everyone is okay with it, I'd just forget about that part." Nikolai grumbles.

"Oh Nikki, having sex is completely normal, and nature totally supports the fundament of homosexual copulation. Also do you remember when me and your mother-"

"Dad." Nikolai stops him, mortified "Today was already traumatizing enough." He states, dragging his hands down his face with a charged exhale.

Ilya can't help but second that. He needs a damn cigarette once this is over, even if it'll mean meeting Nadia's rage.

"So, you're not..."

"No." Ilya confirms, patting Nikolai's knee before getting back to his seat "It was a, uhm, lets say, particular situation."

Nadia looks like she wants to ask more, but Ivan is quick to come to Nikolai's aid, who looks quite ready to dig a hole into the ground to swallow him alive, clapping his hands firmly as he stands up from the coffee table "So... takeout tonight, yes? Who wants pizza?"

-

An hour later Ilya is sat at the Morozov's dining table, an ice pack under held over his sore ribs, and going through his fourth slice of pizza of the night as he and Nikolai run through the most uncomfortable pop quiz either of them can say to have ever received.

"-so when I me and Katya from accounting set you up with her daughter..."

"Yes, mom." Nikolai snorts, poking at the discarded crust in his plate. Ilya reaches silently for it, popping it in his mouth "That was very awkward."

"Oh." Nadia looks genuinely put off by it "I'm sorry."

"You didn't know, it's fine. But just for the record: that girl was crazy, as in 'out like a balcony' and 'I had to call an uber from the bathroom' kind of crazy."

"Oh." Nadia flinches "Yeah, maybe I should have known considering who her mother is." She gives her son a considering look then, over the rim of her wine glass. Ilya thinks it was a pretty funny choice to pair it with pizza and fries, but he can't say he blames her, after all "By the way, I know you said no one can know, but are you sure you couldn't at least tell your grandma? Because taking her out would do us such a huge favour actually-"

Ivan's frown only serves to make Ilya laugh harder behind his glass, as Nikolai releases a vaguely distressed sound "Dusya, that's still my mother you are talking about."

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

Nikolai is the first to retreat upstairs after dinner, having lasted even more than Ilya had thought he would, all things considered. The air at the table hadn't been heavy, if extremely embarrassing, but he could see how overwhelmed the last few hours had left him just in the way his knee kept jumping under the table.

Everything is overwhelming, Ilya supposes, though maybe his brain still hasn't really caught up to the realization that now Nadia and Ivan know and the world is still spinning. It feels like having had a weight lifted off his shoulders, even though, at the end of the day, there is still a whole mountain resting on his back.

When Nadia makes a move upstairs (to Nikolai's room, Ilya figures, hopefully just to say goodnight), not before stamping a loud kiss on his forehead, Ilya helps Ivan clean up the table before sneaking out through the back door with his cigarettes hidden in a pocket of his jacket.

Despite Nadia's complains about vices, there is a glass ashtray waiting for him over the handrail giving to the garden, probably after too many stubs badly hidden in the trash.

Ilya is not surprised when he hears the door close once again behind Ivan, but he does feel pretty blindsided as the other reaches to pluck a cigarette from his pack.

"Don't tell your aunt." Ivan intimates.

"Not if you don't first." He croaks, passing him his lighter.

"Are you okay?"

Ilya takes a long drag, bumping their arms with a sigh "Yes, yes I am." He admits "I just didn't expect... all of this actually."

"What do you mean?"

They both know already, Ilya tells him anyway.

"You and auntie took it a lot better than I thought. And I'm so grateful, I can't even explain it. But it feels too easy, you know? Like I'm waiting for the blow now."

Ivan hums around his cigarette "It's hard to leave behind something you have believed to be truth for a long time. You can't unlearn it on the spot. What we can do is make sure you know it's not going to be like that anymore. I can't pretend I know how it must have been like and I'm sure tonight was... a big adjustment, for all of us in some way, but me and Dusya will try to be better from now on."

"It's not like you were ever bad before-"

"It's not necessarily about being good or not, but the assumptions." Ivan shakes his head "we made a lot of them and I'm sorry if it hurt you."

"I had it easier than Nikki had." Ilya says, brushing the ridges of the ashtray with his thumb, in a sympathetic attempt "North America is not exactly the land of rainbows, but even if it's not fully accepted, there is still a community.

That's what Kristie had said, at least, one of the last time he'd heard from her and Wyatt, but even if there was something like that in Boston, Ilya probably shouldn't try too hard and dig into it, a little for the fear of being disappointed, a little more for the possibility of liking what he would find.

"Hockey complicates things." He adds, truthfully.

"I can imagine why."

"You are being awfully good at his." Ilya considers, then "Nadia too, despite the third degree."

"You can't take the courthouse out of her." Ivan chuckles, terribly fond and a bit sheepish "I'm sorry if we made you uncomfortable, we're... this is something we didn't really grew up into or heard about much, for that matter."

"You wouldn't tell, looking at you."

"Don't let me fool you, It's the scotch." Ivan jokes. His face turns into something pensive, mournful "You know I- I had a patient come in, once. I probably shouldn't tell you this, but, well, it's been years now, anyway." He considers, scratching at his stubble "She was one of my firsts patients, Nikki had just turned two, I think, and I was still getting my masters. She was so young, only seventeen, and came straight from rehab as an ultimatum from her parents. She had an history of substance abuse, depression, not that anybody really wanted to admit it back then or believed that therapy could have made it any better, only that hopefully it would get her too occupied to relapse."

"She carried a lot of anger, fear, didn't trust easily. We didn't speak a word throughout the whole first three sessions, but when she started opening up- it got very hard to stay detached; she was so... defeated, in the way she spoke, like maybe she believed it too, to be a lost cause. She took her own life eight months after our first session." He says, eyes fixed over the snow covering the patio like he might not see it all.

"She was in a lot of pain and, rationally, I knew it wasn't my fault the way it ended, but... I couldn't help but feel like I could have done more. Her family didn't even plan a funeral, they were too ashamed; of her addiction, of who she was and of things out of her control. It gave me a lot to think about. My parents thought we were too liberal in the way we were raising Nikolai. They were very traditional in that sense, Dusya's too, but after that I swore to myself that if it ever gave my son the chance to know that we would always be there for him, then it would be worth it. And maybe, if that girl ever had someone to rely on, if they'd caught the signs earlier, before it got worse, it would have ended very differently from how it did. If they had just... accepted her, for the way she was, maybe she would have accepted herself too." He whispers, giving Ilya a meaningful look.

Oh.

"I went to see her before we moved," Ivan reveals, leaning his elbows on the handrail "Her friend- girlfriend probably, or whatever came close to it, she was there. She used to talk about her in our sessions like she didn't want to waste her name, as if it were too precious. The guardian at the graveyard said she came every week still, after all that years."

Ivan sends him a wistful smile "I wouldn't have wished it upon anyone, to have this kind of secret, not after her. It makes things complicated, it makes people cruel, and it breaks my heart to think that Nikki had to keep it from us, that it could have been him in her place, or the kind of life he will have here, because of it." He says, stubbing his cigarette into the ashtray with too much force.

His eyes, so blue to look black in the poor lighting of the patio, are particularly earnest as he reaches to pat Ilya's arm "I'm not ashamed of Nikolai, of you, I could never be," He presses, voice rough "but if I can come to peace with my son loving another man someday, I can't with the fact that there will always be somebody that will hate him for it."

Ivan's words echo in the back of Ilya's mind like the final roll of a drum. He can understand it, he thinks, teary eyed. It doesn’t make it any less sad.

"Nikolai doesn't care about everybody else, though, not really." He says, decisive "If you can, that can be enough for now."

Ivan's sorrowful smile melts with hope "For now." He agrees, brushing Ilya's hair out of his face, like he were a kid much younger.

He wants to believe like one too.

In the cold of a Moscow night, something settles inside Ilya's chest.

*

The graveyard is empty when Ivan's car pulls over the side of the road, to let Ilya out. It's methodical by now: his feet bring him right to the kiosk by the gates, where he briefly points a whatever bouquet caught his eyes first, before paying silently to make the walk up the trail.

They are already late that morning, after getting stuck in traffic on the way back from leaving Nikolai at the train station, but Ilya takes his time, tired from a week full of emotions and also kind of relieved to be flying back to Boston, despite the prospect of having to go to practice still fully jet lagged in less than thirty hours.

The flowers by his mother's grave have already dried out from the last time Nadia visited her. Ilya makes a quick work of switching them out with the new ones before standing up to loom over the stone.

He never talks to her, like he knows Nadia does, more out of guilt than loss of words. Canada gave him so much, but his mother is still here, buried six feet underground, and while Ilya's guilt could be considered pointless, it's hard not to see the flowers as a bribe more than a symbol of love. Maybe he doesn't deserve the comfort of talking to her while barely coming to see her.

You’re going to be a grandma, he wishes he could tell her, Lyosha is going to be a father, the best. And I play in the NHL, would you have ever guessed?

Would you be proud of me? He wants to ask, a little desperately. Would you love me still, despite this?

He doesn't.

He tucks himself further into his coat, and presses his fingers to his lips, then to the stone, before walking away.

I still do.

*

Truthfully, Ilya doesn't know what had possessed him that first time it happened.

He and Niamh had been on a walk through Hawrelak park, Yulia promptly conked out in her stroller since lunch. Summer didn't give it any justice, he'd thought, squinting against the sun as they chatted quietly about that years playoffs. But maybe Ilya was biased because of all the times Niamh used to bring him skating at the pond during winter break, sometimes even convincing Alexei to dust off his skates and pass the puck around with them.

It had been a little off putting to see the grass free of knee high piles of snow and the ice melted into crystalline water. Yulia had been extremely fascinated by the ducks waddling around the edges of the pond, though, and Ilya hadn't been able to resist snapping a couple of pictures of her wide eyed stare to send Alexei to see during his break, and the hilarious fight between two ducks over a piece of bread.

But then, after closing Alexei's contact, his thumb had hovered over Jane's. They hadn't seen each other ever since the All Stars, when Ilya had typed in his number in Hollander's phone before he could bring himself regret it, under some sort of sex daze he still cannot explain to himself.

Lily: the angry one is u when i score

He had turned off his phone pretty much the second after hitting send, flustered, and got back to tickle Yulia with a bunch of grass.

Hollander's text had come in later that night, while Ilya was in the shower. He had not almost cracked his skull open slipping on the tiles to read it, Ilya had way more self respect than that, and truthfully he hadn't know what to expect either, but Hollander's first long streak of '????' had made him chuckle way more than allowed.

Jane: ????

Then, ten minutes later.

Jane: they are both mad?

Still dripping on the bathroom floor, Ilya had snorted, flawlessly typing back.

Lily: your also the shortest one

Lily: of course

Jane: You're*

Jane: 🖕🏼

Ilya was still giddy when he fell asleep that night.

And things had just... escalated from there, in some sense; at first it had mostly been pictures of every ad of Hollander's he could walk past on the way to grab coffee before practice, an easy tease, all of them quickly deleted following Hollander's annoyed nags about keeping the chat void of anything compromising. And then, Hollander had started actually texting first, from sets, in that way of his to be cluelessly hilarious, quips and chirps that had made Ilya soar, throughout the usual summertime boredom.

It had started to become automatic at some point, to see something funny and open Jane's contact, whether it was a gif he'd found on twitter, a compilation of Montreal's most ridiculous falls on the ice, or teasing lines about their games, most ignored and met with fervour later, when crouched down one in front of the other for the puck.

The frustration on Hollander's face was always a pleasure to see, so much that Ilya couldn't even be offended by the juxtaposition of his texts and the evasiveness with which Hollander promptly ignored addresses and hotel rooms Ilya kept sending in his direction. Maybe part of him liked him, like this, a little mean and playing hard to get, so opposed to the red faced and sweaty pictures he would send off in their chat, mindful of everything that could give him off, and giving Ilya just the time to build a fantasy behind his eyes before deleting every proof.

Canada's golden boy his ass.

Ilya wouldn't call them friends, whatever texting and sending the occasional sext means, but he can't pretend seeing Jane's number brighten up his phone (while he's getting ready to leave for practice, trying to decipher the music sheets Rory sent him with his guitar propped on his lap, or in the middle of a night out, on smoke breaks that most often than not end with Ilya getting an uber home, to keep texting in the backseat), that it doesn't make the swirl of... something in his chest curl up with warmth.

Ilya's never felt quite like this before. It feels like a dangerous game to play, but, he's figured, if it hasn't already set Hollander off, the most nervously meticulous person Ilya has ever known, then it must be fine. Ilya is okay.

And if Hollander had anything against it, he would have let Ilya know, that he is sure of, because he seemingly has no problem whatsoever making his opinion known about everything Ilya possibly did wrong during that night's game.

And Ilya can't even be mad about it, because there is evidently no malice in his texts, in the perfect grammar Hollander cares to inform him that 'Well, maybe If you had cut the edge earlier, you wouldn't have lost the puck, Lily' with.

Cheeky.

Ilya would already be half hard if he were home now, but, of course, life had other plans.

"You're being a baby." Nikolai informs him, happily sipping out of his beer, as Ilya turns his pout back up, locking his phone after a well pointed 'Well, tx, Jane. You sure know how to make a woman feel appreciated.'

The pub is loud around them, both teams sat around a long row of tables pushed together against the very back of the room. Despite having been just thrown out of the playoffs, the spirit is not as gloomy as Ilya had expected. Must be the alcohol, Ilya reasons, watching Connors sing loudly along the karaoke going on in the next room, his arm thrown awkwardly around the shoulders of one of Minnesota's forwards, just as drunk.

And sue him, Ilya has never played a game against Nikolai before in all thirteen years they have known each other, so he feels justified into being as pouty as he wants now, with the way his left shoulder hurts after his tank of a best friend pushed him against the boards with no mercy whatsoever.

"Am not."

"Are too. It was a legal check."

"Am not. If you win a Stanley cup before me and with shitty Minnesota I'm going to revolt."

"Baby." Nikolai repeats, knocking on the wooden table three times, like the psycho he is "And don't say shit like that."

The problem is, as Hollander also has been pointing out all night after Minnesota dragged their ass across the ice, Ilya doesn't think it might be that unrealistic of a prediction.

Fucking Minnesota.

Ilya can't say he's exactly surprised, though, not when Minnesota's problem had always been their defensive line, and Vetrov spent all summer setting them up with probably one of the best enforce men out there. Perhaps Ilya is extremely biased, but results do speak on their own, and so does the glow of Nikolai's starry eyes, behind his glass.

Ilya's proposition, when Nikolai had flown down to Boston after him and his team got thrown out of the playoffs early that may, had sounded more like a joke at first, or that kind of thought that just didn't make any sense once said out loud, especially over the ear shuttering beat of the music in a crowded club and with that much alcohol running through their veins.

Because, well, in Russia Nikolai had his own reputation as the number one draft, the youngest player to enter a major league and top scorer among the defencemen of his year. And the logistics didn't add up, as they'd come to discover the next morning, while lazily brainstorming over two hot americanos and trying to cope with their sounding hangovers: with his contract, Nikolai would have to wait at least three more years before asking for a trade, and even then he would have needed to pay off his contract to enter the NHL as a free agent.

It just wasn't possible, they'd concluded, and left it at that.

But when, out of pure curiosity of course, Ilya had asked Vetrov, after a meeting with his PR team for the upcoming season, the man had simply sent him a considering look over the top of his shades, before walking away with a jovial and chirpy "Anything for my favourite client!"

Ilya shouldn't have underestimated Vetrov's frankly scaring powers of mediation, and maybe he also should have expected the glare Nikolai had sent him from his fortunately very distant apartment in St. Petersburg, still damp from his post-practice shower, but not too tired to rip Ilya a new one. Just his luck.

"Can you explain to me why your agent just sent me a five step plan for next year's season and an preliminary contract with-" Ilya had seen him scramble to scroll through his email "Minnesota? Where the fuck is Minnesota? And what does Vetrov have to do with this?" Nikolai had demanded, looking straight at him through the camera with thunder in his eyes.

"Fuck." Ilya had snorted, incredulous "He really did it."

"Ilya, did what-"

"Listen, do you remember what we talked about the last time you were here? About switching league." Ilya had said, shifting against the headboard with a sleepy groan. It was only eight AM on an off day, for him, not that Nikolai had seemed to care at all "Maybe I- uhm- I forwarded the idea to Vetrov. I mean, I didn't know he would go this much ahead with this, I just wanted to help you out and see if this could work."

"I was drunk, Ilya." Nikolai had sighed, but definitely mollified by his admission. Ilya was glad, something Nikolai had certainly inherited from Nadia was the scary intensity of his glares.

"So you wouldn't even consider it?" Ilya had pried "What does the contract say?"

"I mean, the contract is fine, I had mom have a look at it: it would be a big pay cut, but it's a first line spot and Vetrov said they were very open to negotiate a raise. But it's... Ilya, this is crazy." Nikolai had said, propping up the computer on his legs as he fell over the couch "It's the NHL.”

"It is." Ilya agreed "But they want you. Minnesota is good: sure they have a quite shitty defensive line, but their alleged trades for next year look very promising," Ilya'd have known, he and Hollander had spent the whole afternoon texting about it only a few days prior, while Minnesota destroyed Chicago on home ice "and they have the first round pick for the draft, this year. I'm not telling you to agree, but just... why don't you look a bit into it?" He had said, watching Nikolai's expression twist with conflict.

"Is just... what about my parents? I can't just take off and leave to... wherever this is, I have a life here: my favourite coffee place, my favourite running trail, and there is a very good sushi place that just opened a few blocks away," Nikolai had blurted out.

"Well, there must be a place that sells good coffee there too, and I can assure they do have roads in Minnesota. I frankly don't know about the sushi place, since when do you even like sushi, anyway? But I know how being away from home feels like," Ilya said, hesitating "It's hard, it always is, but maybe... maybe it would be easier here, if you didn't have to worry that much about... you know."

Nikolai's face had hardened "If it came out, I could still be deported, you know that, right?"

"Kind of hard with a work visa, but If that happened you could ask for asylum." Ilya had checked, after all "And really, you're only looking at the worst case scenario: maybe you still couldn't be out, but you wouldn’t need to be hiding as much, at least, no?

Drunk Ilya had given it a lot of thought, so much in fact that sober Ilya couldn't help but indulge maybe a little too much into the idea, especially after that last June and the hours Ilya’d spent listening to Nadia's rant about stupid governments and passing laws that had made his blood run cold. But the end of the day, they'd always known that Russia wasn't safe, not for him and especially not Nikolai. The disdain in Nadia's voice had somewhat still made Ilya find a reason to smile, though.

After Nikolai came out, after Ilya came out, during a Christmas break that he’ll probably be never able to forget, Nikolai had described calling with his parents kind of like walking on eggshells. Not really because of any kind of hard feeling, but both Nadia and Ivan had started being very vocal about wanting to compensate for the years lost.

"Dad is going to make the postal police come to our house one of those days. He keeps sending me sketchy articles about self discover and acceptance, like I'm some kid going through an existential crisis." Nikolai had moaned into his hands once, during one of their calls, making Ilya laugh loudly at the embarrassment on his face.

It was very sweet on their part, Ilya had thought, even if a little overbearing, but he knew that under all the grumbling Nikolai appreciated it nonetheless, their clear way of showing their support, despite still being mostly clueless and trying to find their steps.

Nikolai had given him a considering look before humming in what Ilya had hoped was a silent promise to think about it, before changing the subject.

Later that September, Ilya had found himself  booking a flight up to Minnesota to help him look for a flat, before the start of the season.

Now, Nikolai looks undoubtedly better than Ilya has ever seen him, cheering along his teammates for their fifth win of the playoffs and, despite having just lost, Ilya can't find it in himself to be bitter, watching it unfold in front of his eyes.

"And how is it going in the sentimental department?" Ilya asks then, waggling his eyebrows up and down suggestively "Auntie keeps ribbing me like you're hiding some kind of big secret romance from them. Give me something to tell her so I can keep her off my back at least."

And Ilya is also quite interested himself, if he has to be honest. The only thing he knows is that there must be someone, at least from the couple of hickeys Ilya had clearly seen poking out of his shirt on one of their last calls.

Nikolai throws his head back with a groan, weirdly flushed "She has to stop doing that. I hoped she would finally stop with her meddling after, you know, but at this point I think she just wants something to gossip on with dad when they're off the clock."

Ilya chuckles. He probably isn't that wrong, anyway. Ever since Nikolai moved, Nadia had entered a whole new level of helicopter parenting. Not even Alexei used to check on  him that much, when he first got to New York, also a city living a whole other universe away from Saint Paul. The situation had pretty much settled after a couple of months, but Nadia is still Nadia, after all.

"So?"

Nikolai stares deeply into his beer.

"Kind of. There was, ah, a James." He says, lowly, as if they weren't speaking Russian in a room full of drunk and gullible Americans.

"A James." Ilya repeats, gleefully "And what was this James deal?"

"We met at the gym, went out a couple of times, nothing serious. He was nice-"

"Wow, that is a very high bar you're setting there."

"Fuck off." Nikolai says, kicking his shin under the table, before downing a large gulp "He was nice, private, and for a good reason since he was also very married."

Ilya's mouth hangs open for a couple of seconds "Married?"

"Happily too, apparently. At least that's what their anniversary post implied when I found him on Instagram." Nikolai adds, pressing his lips tightly together "I think you can understand now why I didn't tell mom."

"Jesus Christ."

"I should become a monk, maybe, I would make a great monk, don't you think?"

"Also a great topic for wine night."

"Don't you dare tell my mom-"

*

Hollander bought them a building. A whole building. To fuck.

It's hard to separate the genuinely flattered feeling in his chest from the arousal coursing in his body as he lets himself being led through the empty halls of the loft, to the more than finished bedroom. Pillows, there are pillows everywhere, sheets and duvet tight and carefully tucked under the mattress, and everything in the room makes Ilya imagine Hollander stressing over drapes, choosing paint samples, or the colour of the rug by the bed.

Ilya has spent months thinking that Nashville would be the last time he would ever see Shane Hollander off the ice, and if he weren't half-hard at the moment he would spend more than just a fleeting thought over the implications behind all of this, Hollander wanting him just as well.

But looking at Hollander, waiting by the doorstep and mumbling about house maintenance while sporting a pretty pink on his face, is enough to make Ilya abandon every doubt and reach him in long strides to push their bodies together with childish glee.

"Such a business man." Ilya grins against his lips.

"You smoked." Hollander complains emptily, his back pressed against the wall where Ilya has him cornered, staring up at him with unmistakable heat despite the scrunch of his nose.

"Yes, yes, sorry, mom." He mutters, grabbing  a hold of each of his thighs to hoist him up against the wall, before swallowing Hollander's outraged squeak with his lips.

Hollander's hands link behind his neck in a tight force as he moans, roughly carding his fingers through his hair and pushing against him just as forcefully.

Ilya is absolutely obsessed with this, their weird game for control, the way Hollander's legs tighten around his waist despite the bite of his words. He revels in it, the reciprocal urgency Hollander rolls them over in bed to settle between his legs with, fire burning in his eyes as he maps the expanse of Ilya's chest with licks and bites, just enough to make Ilya feel it and not to mark.

Ilya almost wishes he did.

It's been way too fucking long since they last did this, but, well, since Ilya had sex with any other man that wasn’t Will, really, still a bit scarred from the last time he was in Russia and then maybe a little too lost in the coming and going of every season, every trophy he got to raise instead of Hollander and the new responsibilities wearing a C on his jersey had given him.

"Wait-" Hollander says then, when Ilya finally gets him pinned under himself, now both stark naked. He reaches for the nightstand, still caged in Ilya's arms, to produce a whole strip of condoms and a bottle of lube. Ilya has to bite down on his tongue not to cackle, tremendously endeared and concerningly turned on.

"Why are you laughing?"

"I'm not laughing."

Hollander frowns up at him "I can literally see you laughing."

"Is just-" Ilya lifts the strip of condoms, trying to be serious "For someone that says he could come maybe twice, isn't this quite enough?"

Blush spreads over Hollander cheeks, dusting over his freckles as he spits "Fuck you."

"Ah no, that'd be you, I think." Ilya says playfully, before cupping his cheek in his hand "If you still want it?"

Ilya would be okay with anything Hollander gave him, anyway. For the sake of his dick, he just hopes it will be anytime in the near future.

Hollander's eyes are completely blown out with lust, as he nods shily. Ilya strokes his cheek with his thumb, over his freckles, before gently pressing down on his bottom lip.

"Use your words, zaychik."

The answer is immediate "Yes." Hollander says, decisive, rough "I still want."

His arms cling to Ilya's shoulders when he dips down to bring their lips together. It's slower and sloppier than the ones they've shared before, it makes Ilya's toes curl against the sheets as he moves them back to the middle of the bed.

Hollander looks so good, flushed and panting under him, that Ilya has to take a second to calm himself before fumbling with the plastic seal around the lube like an idiot.

Ilya leans in for another kiss, patting at his hip "On your front."

Hollander doesn't hesitate to roll under him, giving Ilya the sight of his strong freckled back, the muscled ridges of his shoulders, and the raised scar etched over his skin.

"How'd you get this?" Escapes him, as he leaves an open mouthed kiss on the jagged line of it.

"Hockey, got-got cut by a blade. Rozanov-" Hollander gasps, while Ilya licks and kisses his way down his back. He squirms, leans back against him, and makes Ilya's job of using the little blood left in his upstairs head very difficult, with his supplications, all the sounds escaping him as Ilya reaches down between his cheeks, to press his tongue over his hole and lick a long stripe up to the dips the shapes of his thumb at the bottom of his back.

Hollander's back arches, an high strung moan leaving his lips "Fuck- What the-"

"Never did this?" Ilya asks, resting his chin over the top of his ass while the other catches his breath.

Hollander huffs, trying to glare at him "What do you think?"

Ilya leaves a chastising kiss on his lower back "I'll go slow, then. You still fine?"

Hollander's gaze sort of melts then, his elbows shaking under him as he nods, adding a small 'yes' at Ilya's pointed look.

He's never quite felt like this, Ilya thinks, as he carefully works him open with his mouth, then his fingers, arms wrapped around his thighs to help holding his hips up as Hollander trashes in pleasure under him. He would be lying if he said he wasn't just as affected, desperate for release, as he scrambles for a condom.

Hollander's eyes shine like a starry sky, wet with unshed tears, when Ilya flips him on his back.

"It’ll fit.” He tries joking, brushing his knuckles to the freckles on his cheeks, in exchange of a weak huff “Still ok?" he asks, then, again. By this point Will would have already cursed him out for making him wait just to be a gentleman, but Hollander looks grateful to be asked, as he agrees, so unapologetically trusting, locking his legs back together behind Ilya's lower back and bringing him down for another kiss, languid and filled with lust.

Ilya feels like he might have as well reached heaven when he finally bottoms out, his breathing ragged and uneven as he gives Hollander the time to adjust, hands palming everywhere he can reach without jostling them from their position, his chest almost one with Hollander's.

Hollander looks absolutely fucked out, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and spit glistening lips. It's definitely blasphemous, the way his necklace hangs less than an inch away from them, and even more so is the clear restrain on Hollander's face, like he might be trying to keep himself from taking it in his mouth and pull. Ilya finds he doesn't care a single damn.

"Fuck, fuck, please move-" Hollander pants, his fists tight on the back of Ilya's head, so much to make him see white as he complies, biting down on Hollander's lower lip to muffle his own moan.

His thrusts find a rhythm quickly, following Hollander's cries and his pleadings for more, faster, more- and Ilya is so lost into the feeling, Hollander's heat surrounding him, that he can't form a single thought as the other meets him halfway, deeper and deeper with every push of his hips.

"God, Hollander." He moans through gritted teeth, linking their fingers together, his forehead pressed in the dip of neck, and lips mouthing at the faint freckles there, painted on the top of his shoulders like constellations.

If he doesn't want to make this embarrassingly fast, Ilya needs to do something.

The decision of flip Hollander on his stomach seems reasonable enough, and Hollander wails even louder when Ilya slips back in and right and against his prostate, muffling his cries in the pillow under his head as he trashes and writhes underneath him.

He hears the moment Hollander's breath itches, in a gasp that's like music to his ears and a clear warning sign that he's getting close.

"You're doing so good, zaychik." He whispers, in a rampage of haziness, mouth hovering over the shell of his ear as Hollander starts rutting against the bed along his trusts, whimpers and quiet curses slipping past his lips in a sweet string of supplications for harder, Rozanov, fuck- "Now, come."

Hollander's sob of bliss is still ringing in Ilya's ears when he comes down from his own high, trying to catch his breath where he falls beside him after pulling out and discarding the condom, his arm still extended over Hollander's side and tracing patters on his hip.

When he turns to face him, to cup Ilya's head and bring their lips together, finally, Hollander's eyelashes are clumped with unshed tears, sated, if the way he leisurely sucks into Ilya's mouth is any giving.

"Are you okay?" He asks, then, as they part, pressing his forehead against his, just a breath away.

Hollander's eyes are still closed as he nods, a breathless chuckle leaving his lips "Yeah, Jesus, it was..."

"Fucking good." Ilya agrees, brushing their noses together as he stands up on his elbow, only to end up kissing him again, just because he can, and also because Hollander looks like out of a dream like this, lax and pliant, looking up at Ilya with what is nothing short from reverent. Ilya can feel himself harden against his own thigh, hungry "You up to bringing this to the shower?"

The predatory glint in Hollander's eyes would have been enough of an answer if he hadn't shot up to lead the way, a wince in his step, giving Ilya a perfect visual of his ass.

Ilya almost slips on the mess of sheets fallen over the edge of the bed to follow.

He feels a little out of this world when they make their way back to bed, later, after wasting probably too much water and pink from the hot steam of the shower. Hollander's arm slips behind his head to cushion him and bring them closer together, damp bodies fitting against each other like puzzle pieces over the now clean sheets.

Hollander's hand finds the tips of Ilya's hair, probably leaving a wet spot on his pillow and dripping all over his arm. He doesn't seem too fazed by it as he gently rolls a curl between his fingers, as if he hadn't tried to rip them out of Ilya's head with his grip less than forty minutes ago "It's always been so long." He comments then, definitely still out of it, making Ilya chuckle "It must be pretty inconvenient with the helmet on, for hockey, though, isn't it?"

"I like it, Hollander. And it makes me look like a sexy Viking when I take it off, so no, I wouldn't say inconvenient."

Hollander huffs a laugh, lightly scratching over his scalp and making Ilya almost preen.

"Was it worth the wait?" He asks, looking at him through heavy lidded eyes.

And Ilya has had a lot of great sex in his life, but none of it ever made him feel like this after, shielded as if wrapped under a warm blanket, safe, not like the sleepy kisses Hollander leaves over his face, his forehead, in response, do.

The realization is enough to make Ilya's feet come back down to earth.

"I should go." He says, inhaling roughly. His palm, still on Hollander thigh (which kind of looks like it could be the size of his head in this position, Ilya thinks faintly, trying to will his dick to stay down), gives a gentle pat as he dislodges from under two-hundred pounds of hockey player to sit up.

It's almost funny, the silence that accompanies them getting dressed. They've been texting for months, years even, and now it feels kind of like they have nothing to say to each other. And the things is, it's way less uncomfortable than it should be, in fact Ilya would almost say that he doesn't mind it, for once, the silence, after what probably was the best hook up he's ever had.

Even more, Ilya like's their banter, though, as Hollander takes him down the emergency stairs and through the back of the building, back where they'd met earlier.

"I guess we won't be seeing each other during the Olympics." Hollander says, as Ilya is tying up his shoes, hugging his jacket to his chest as he watches him with a considering look on his face.

If Ilya hadn't made sure he drunk something (and apparently, as he'd discovered, the sex den came with a little fridge full of gatorade. Fucking Shane Hollander), he would think he's still trapped in the post-sex elation, and maybe he still is, in some way, with the soft and woozy smile set on his lips.

Ilya has the weird urge to squeeze him back into his arms.

He doesn't, though, nodding briefly as he works on his other shoe.

"Your family must be happy they're in Russia," ah "My parents are pissed they can't come, my mom is threatening to wake up at  four AM to watch every game."

"Ah yes, your obsessed mom."

"She's just very passionate."

"Montreal would probably have better chances at the playoffs if they hired her as your coach." Ilya says, only half joking, because Yuna Hollander surely sounds intense, and she's also the only reason why he and Alexei managed to get back to Edmonton in time so his brother could see his daughter being born, that night in Vegas. Truly a force of nature. Maybe he shouldn't give such advices to him, now that Ilya thinks about it.

"Perhaps." Hollander chuckles "I bet your parents will be there, right?"

"My aunt and uncle." Ilya says, standing back up "My brother's got work."

"That's a bummer."

"What can you do?" He shrugs, leaning off the wall "You ready to get your first bronze medal?"

Hollander's face scrunches up. Ilya has to suppress the urge to lean down and pinch his cheek "You fucking wish, man."

"It's good for you to be humbled sometimes."

"Because I'm the one known for being a cocky asshole, Mr. Fifty goals?"

Ilya smirks "It's Mr. Fifty-two for you, Hollander. And you know I am a man of my word." He whispers, giving in to himself and reaching down to kiss him.

It's slow and intimate, almost, it makes Ilya want to ask for more. Hollander would give it to him, he thinks, as they part, but it's probably better like this, anyway.

"Bye, Hollywood." He whispers, gently picking his jacket up from Hollander's arms, before making his way through the emergency door.

Ilya is still thinking about that kiss the next day, on the plane back to Boston, and later too, in the backseat of Alexei's car, with Yulia's little hand tight in his still, after she fell asleep ten minutes into the drive back to Niamh's parents, glasses askew on her face and snoring softly against her car seat.

Ilya can't even pretend to mind his legs getting cramped, adding to the leftover soreness left by the two games he's played that week and the tiredness from the interminable hours between his layover.

"You know, you could have told her no." Alexei says, amused, at Ilya's umpteenth attempt at shifting in his seat without jostling Yulia's arm, eyeing him from the rear way mirror.

"If my niece wants to hold my hand, she'll hold my hand." Ilya answers seriously,  finally finding a comfortable position that won't have him beheaded by the belt or cut the circulation off his arm.

Alexei only huffs a laugh before looking back to the road.

Coming back home feels as good as it always does; watching Yulia squeal excitedly while unwrapping her presents as they exchange the rest still half asleep, sitting at the crowded Christmas table and trying to keep up with everything he's missed while in Boston, and enjoying the quietness of a normal, boring and absolutely average life. He's missed this.

Yulia laughs sweetly when Ilya blows a raspberry against her puffy cheek "I could take a bite out of you." He growls playfully, kissing her nose as she squeals and waves her arms to try and escape his lap.

"With what teeth?" His brother quips, walking back into the living room and stealing his kid back into his arms as Yulia raises her little arms to be picked up. Ilya's wounded sound only serves to make her giggle even more around the straw of the juice box Alexei settles in her pudgy hands, before sitting down with her in his lap, on the other side of the plush couch of the Callahan's living room.

Boxing day is Ilya's favourite holiday: the gifts have been opened, the food eaten, and all that's left is the faint traces of festivities, opening to the part of the holidays that has no expectations and where Ilya can freely wake up as late as he wants to after spending the night out at the pub with Will or the guys from his old team, teach Yulia how to skate at the lake in the little skates he got her for Christmas, along with an even smaller hockey stick and what his brother had deemed an a bit too excessive amount of presents, or spend it sprawled over the Callahans' couch to recover from the half season, surrounded by the hectic contentedness that's the sound of a full house.

"You think you're so funny. Zvezdochka, your papa is such a comedian, isn’t he?"

"I am funny and I'm also just stating facts." Alexei says, taking the hand Yulia holds out in his, as if they weren't already plastered together, and using the other to smooth her hair out of her face as she laughs.

Ilya melts into the couch with a fond smile already stretching over his lips. It feels almost absurd to think that there was a time when Alexei used to barely know where to put his arms in a hug, as a gangly nineteen year old, while now he cradles his daughter like he might be holding the eight wonder of the world.

Sometimes change is the best thing that can come out of just living.

"How are you holding up?" Will asks, later that night, taking a sip out of his hot pink twirly straw, in the club he's dragged Ilya to, to catch up.

"You want to listen to me talk about hockey?" Ilya teases, raising both eyebrows "What happened to you?"

"I'll have you know that Riley keeps me updated about every one of your games now, he still can't believe you're that Ilya Rozanov." He snorts.

Ilya snickers. He had that impression the last time they'd played in Florida, and Will had briefly introduced him to his roommates while Riley rushed out their flat to go to work, before leading them to his bedroom to 'show him around'.

"Too bad he's an Admirals fan." Ilya considers.

"Can you fault him? Have you seen Matti Jalo?"

"The Swedish guy." Ilya deadpans "He looks like he was raised inside a cult-"

"And I'd still bounce on it." Will says, dead serious, as Ilya knows he is, smiling slyly around his straw "which brings us back to my question: are you okay?"

Ilya leans on his forearms, beer between his hands "Why wouldn't I be?" He humours him.

"Don't get me wrong, honey, I love catching up with you, but by now we're usually already one hour deep into other... activities, if you get what I mean, while this is your third drink and you have been looking quite constipated all night," Will says, "And I'm a smoke show tonight, so I feel like I really do have to ask."

And he is, Ilya has to give him that: Will has always been cute, with his big brown eyes and his boyish charm, but moving to Florida had just only made even more confident and secure in himself. It's a good look on him, especially now, as he stares Ilya up and down behind his thin rimmed glasses, tanned skin glowing under the colourful lights of the club.

Will is also not wrong.

"I got selected for the Olympics, as captain." He says then, carefully.

"The Olympics." Will repeats, astounded "Like, the real Olympics."

"How many Olympics do you know?"

"Well, fuck." Will says, smile even bigger as he pats his arm "Congratulation, man, this is crazy."

"Yeah." Ilya agrees, lowering his gaze to his hands.

"You don't seem particularly happy." Will considers then.

"It's an honour." Ilya admits, thumbing at the sticker of his beer "Is just, they're held in Russia, this year, and I don't... Russia is hard," and hard, Ilya thinks, doesn't even begin to cover it "Everything about it is. I still have family there and I'm glad to get to see them, just like I don't mind playing for Russia, but-"

"It's hard." Will finishes, sympathetically "Is your brother going with you?"

Ilya has to stop himself from laughing. In almost eight years, Alexei has never even voiced wanting to fly back to Russia. Ilya gets it, in part, more now than he did as back a kid, anyway. Maybe, if he did, it wouldn't be like this, or at least Ilya could have a distraction from the dread he feels almost guilty to feel, settled among the rest.

"No, Nadia and Ivan will, though, Nikolai is flying them in."

"Your dark and handsome Russian friend?" Will asks, eyes glinting mischievously.

"Oh, so that is your type, now? Dark and handsome?

"You know I'm not picky." The other winks, twirling the straw inside his glass. He tilts his head curiously "Don't you ever miss it? Russia, I mean?"

Does he?

Ilya misses when his mom used to drive them fast in her car, with the windows down and her favourite music on the radio, waking up and knowing he could pick up his bike and meet Nikolai in front of his house, just a few blocks away, listening to Nadia complaining about work at dinner or guessing the answers to the wheel of fortune while trying to match Ivan genuine interest. He misses the sun coming through the colourful window of his room in his and Alexei's old flat, the pizza place they'd stop by when Alexei got his checks or Ilya got a good grade, and sometimes even for bad ones, as he does trying to match Alexei's strides as they walked back home after a long day, while skipping the cracks on the sidewalk and recounting his day like a story out of a movie, just to make him laugh.

But Russia?

What has Russia that he could miss apart from what now are only memories?

"I don't think so, probably not." He considers, bringing his beer to his lips to take a long drag "It's nostalgic, I guess, but nothing more."

Will hums "I guess it makes sense. But, you know, after that, you can always come home."

Ilya tries not to let it show on his face how the simplicity of his statement got to him. It is that simple, he figures, until it really isn't, but the flight he has already booked to get back to Edmonton says enough. He discretely squeezes back the comforting hand Will set over his, invisible in the darkness of the room to prying eyes, before smiling up at him with what he hopes is a good enough grin.

"I know." And that, fortunately, is not a lie "Also, about the other thing-"

"Hey, we're good." Will interrupts him, transparently honest, making Ilya sag a little in relief "I kind of expected this to be a break up kind of meeting." He admits, retreating his hand, with an accomplice smirk “I gotta know, though, is the Russian love machine finally settling down?"

Ilya blinks at him "What?"

"C'mon, we've known each other for years now, and I don't think I've ever seen you this... docile." Will says, pouting, like the absolute menace he is "We didn't even play dirty footie under the table, and I consider that very platonic for your standards, so... who's them?" He asks again, propping his chin on his joined hands over the table.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're blushing, honey."

"Russians don't blush, your prescription needs an update."

"I see way better that you might think." Will quips, rolling his eyes "But keep your secrets, I guess, as long as you invite me to the wedding."

The thought of standing at an altar makes Ilya almost snort, then choke around his next sip, when the traitorous picture of Hollander standing in front of him with his face relaxed in a teary eyed smile makes its way through his mind.

And Ilya is not stupid enough to try and pretend that maybe breaking his and Will's routine is not about Hollander, in some way, but he can't help but shift uncomfortably in his seat at Will's implication.

Settling down

He and Hollander shouldn't even be friends.

His phone chooses that moment to vibrate against the table. Both his and Will's eyes shift to it like magnetically bounded to, but Ilya is quick to turn it upside down as Jane's contact brightens up the screen.

"Alright, I'll pretend I haven't seen that, how's that?" Will says slowly, calculating stare pointedly back into Ilya's evasive one, before chugging the last of his drink and ushering Ilya to stand up "But you're doing karaoke with me, up you go, you owe me this one."

Ilya doesn't know whether to be relieved or not, but at least he'll be too busy trying to remember the lyrics to Ariana Grande's Honeymoon Avenue to care.

Hollander's text stays unseen, but that Ilya has to try a little more to not think about.

The Olympics turn out to be the worst games Ilya has ever played in his entire career.

Ilya has known it was going to be a lost cause ever since the first round of practice, but what he hadn't imagined, or wanted to imagine, was loosing to a team arguably worse than whatever Russia's roaster had demonstrated itself to be. Nikolai hadn't been far off in his predictions, while talking Ilya's ears off on their flight to Sochi about the clear incompatibility of pushing together players that, albeit valid on their own, were known to not play as an unit even on their own teams.

Ilya still feels distraught as he works through getting his skates off back in the locker room, counting back the time it'll take them to get back to the village.

The team is not doing any better, talking in gritted whispers while coming and going through the showers.

Nikolai is mostly silent in the nook beside his as he goes through his routine; left skates off, right next, then the shoulder pads, in the same order, like some ritualistic consolation that might make him forget about the loss.

Ilya doesn't registers it at first, the spirits moving to heated and rageful, up until Nikolai straightens beside him, turning to where Serov, that Ilya faintly remembers being an old teammate of his, back when he used to play in St. Petersburg, cuts loudly through the locker room, over the rest of the general commotion.

"- and maybe if Morozov hadn't acted like a fucking princess on the ice, we wouldn't have lost." Serov says through gritted teeth, then turning to come up and dig his pointer into Nikolai's chest "What the fuck was that?" He snarls "Latvia's forwards already had the puck and you had one job: don't let them fucking score. A little softer and yours could be considered pushes on a playground instead of checks."

Blood boils in Ilya's veins as he wills himself still while Nikolai stands up to full height to crowd over Serov, a scaringly cold wall over his face "I think you missed the part where I was helping Ozolin’s sorry ass from being beaten up to death by Kalns. If any of you knew not to pick fights you cannot finish, maybe then we wouldn't have lost." He says, pushing Serov's hand away from him with a shove. His glacial stare surmises the whole room before settling back to the fuming man in front of him  "I would suggest you start learning how to play hockey from the ice and not the penalty box, before talking shit."

"He's right." Ilya supplies, in the coldness of the locker room, arms folded over his chest plate "There is no point in tossing the blame, everyone sucked tonight and now it's too late to do anything about it, so suck it up."

Ilya wants to go back to his room and sleep the game off until dinner with Nadia and Ivan, when he'll let the wine deal with his disappointment. Fuck Serov and all the other idiots on his side, Ilya has heard way worse than his stupid chirps.

And maybe he'd hoped that a diplomatic answer would do the trick and let the spirits settle, instead he's met with Serov's sneering laugh.

"Suck it up." Serov repeats "We just lost to five points to Latvia, this shit is humiliating. But of course you don't care, fucking Americans." He says, taking a step towards Ilya "You come here thinking you are so good just because you're in the NHL, like that makes you better than us, and then you try to pretend like that doesn't make us different. Two years and Morozov already forgot how to land a fucking punch, costing us the damn Olympics, and you're telling me to suck it up?"

Ilya jaw is clenched as he meets him in the middle, rage taking over any other glimpse of rationality "If you have something to say, fucking do it."

"I don't think someone like you could take it." Serov says.

For a second, it feels like the world has stop turning

And Ilya feels it, the way his gaze flicks to the holes in his ears, the too thin chain of the necklace poking out of his shirt, with a certain dose of smugness that makes his anger spike underneath the tight lipped smirk he sends back.

"Oh, but I'm your captain and I'm all ears for complaints. So go on, say another word about him, I dare you."

With the corner of his eye he can see Nikolai shake his head "Ilya, don't-"

"Yes, Ilya." Serov coos "Why don't you listen to your boyfriend and sod off?"

Ilya can feel his fists itching to get a bruise in the shape of Serov's face, and really, he probably would have given in the urge if, in a move way faster than Ilya could have ever anticipated, Nikolai hadn't taken a hold of Serov's jersey, to pin him against his cub. Serov feet struggle to find the ground at first, just as surprised by the outburst.

"Let get this straight, because we're all adults in here and I think you can take this." Nikolai says, his knuckles white where they tighten roughly at the hem of Serov's jersey, who's looking up at him with badly veiled surprise as he gasps for air "I don't give a shit about whatever problem you seem to have with me, If I cared less I would be dead right now. This is not the time or the place to argue like kids, and, personally, I can't say I'm happy with you as much as you are with me, either. So now we're gonna finish up here, get back to the village, and then we'll have all the time in the world to hate each other from different sides of the world. Was I fucking clear?" Ilya hears him say, as he watches, awed, the unshaking build of his back as he straightens back up and leaves Serov stumble backwards to the bench.

It takes a couple on intense minutes of staring, but, probably sensing Nikolai isn't going to falter anytime soon and that it wouldn't be wise setting himself up against a man a whole foot taller than him, Serov finally gives a curt nod, clearly still furious, before turning back to get his gear off.

He's fast to recover "Well, now that the show is over, fucking hurry up everyone. Or does someone else have something to add?"

The team quietly resumes to their tasks, dividing between the showers and finishing to pack their bags.

Ilya's hands are shaking, with rage or the badly concealed tangle of emotions and adrenaline rushing through his body, he doesn't know, but he's the first coming out of the showers and leaving the locker room, hair still dripping on his shoulders.

He wishes he hadn't cut it, and even more he wishes he hadn't done it just to escape the judging stares in the locker room. Ilya feels naked, bare, as he all but runs away the moment his shoes are back on his feet.

He roams the stadium like he's lost, careful of prying stares and cameras, after the horrible thirty minutes he's already had to endure after the game. The security doesn't bat an eye when he turns for the higher stands, Ilya can't but be grateful about it as he falls into a seat, legs feeling like jelly and mind clouded.

Ilya doesn't know how long has passed, but the stadium has already been closed to the public to let the figure skaters get a feel of the ice before their short programs event, when a body drops right in the seat next to his, in practiced silence.

"You didn't have to defend me." Nikolai says,  his voice rough, cutting through the silence. There is a faint red line under his eyes, but probably no one would tell he's been crying, no one that hasn't known him as long as Ilya has, anyway.

Ilya should have been there with him, not sulking on the bleachers of the stadium, but everything... everything had felt like too much back in there. And Ilya knows very little about figure skating, but it's mesmerizing, the lightness the men skating for warmups on the ice, almost seem to fly with their jumps and their spins. Finding a quiet and lonely corner up there in the stadium had done wonders to let him wallow in his self deprecation while he ignored the texts lighting up his phone.

"I barely did anything, anyway, you were the star of the show."

Nikolai blushes slightly, coming up to sit on the closest seat and unbothered by his mood.

"Serov is a jerk and doesn't know what he's talking about." He states, fidgeting with his hands in his lap "He's always been like that, since our rookie season. He's just jealous."

"Jealous."

"The KHL is a good league, but the NHL is the best in the whole world. Hard to fit in if you suck."

Ilya whistles "That is just straight up mean, Nikki."

"Fuck off, you know I'm right. He's too hot headed and just dives into wherever the puck is, without thinking. He's always had a too high penalty score."

"I'm still impressed, you were very badass in there." Ilya teases him, even though it is, the truth, and Ilya feels weirdly proud other than angry and frustrated.

He thought... Ilya didn't know what he'd thought. Coming back to Russia had felt daunting enough already, but it was the Olympics, how could have Ilya ever refused to play? So he'd taken the C on his chest and had tried to make the most of it, trying to convince himself he was fine, he felt fine, and he just needed to chill.

If Nikolai could, there was no reason Ilya couldn't too.

But maybe he really was his brother's child, in some way, because the paranoia hadn't left him ever since the plane for Boston took off and only intensified at the sight of the military by the gates of the village.

Or, perhaps, he is just a coward, after all.

"Don't tell mom." Nikolai groans, hiding his face in his hands.

Ilya chuckles, before giving a quick look over around them "Are you okay? You know it wasn't your fault, the game."

"Yeah." Nikolai nods, emptily, following the movements of the skater during his program, flawlessly gracious "It wasn't yours either."

"Yeah, well, apparently it doesn't matter."

"I thought you didn't care about anyone else's opinion."

"I don't. But he had no right talking about you like that. I'm your captain, I had to do something."

"It's fine, I'm used to it."

Ilya grits his teeth.

He's had the displeasure of having to play against Dallas Kent way too many times not to know it. When Nikolai had been traded to Toronto, a really shitty move on Minnesota's part considering the shiny Stanley cup he'd brought them (which Ilya is still very sore about), Ilya had rightfully had his concerns: Wyatt's stories had been already enough to consolidate the general idea Ilya had about the team, the strained smile on Nikolai's face as he recounted his first day of practice even more.

He'd been glad to know that at least they could rely on each other.

Ilya still plans of smashing Kent's face in as soon the chance arises, though, even more than he already did.

"Right."

Nikolai attempts a smile, knowingly "It's fine." he insists "You know I don't care."

Ilya doesn't know if he's saying it to convince him or himself, but either way, from staring into him, Nikolai's eyes find a point behind him, then, filled with recognition "Isn't that Hollander?"

It takes Ilya all the restrain he can master to turn around slowly, to meet, indeed, the both confused and quite annoyed stare of Shane Hollander himself, moving between him and Nikolai like a pinball, as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

Fuck.

There are very few things in his life he hasn't told Nikolai: that he's the one that lost his special Charizard card back when they were kids, that he accidentally stole his favourite purple tape the last time he was in Russia, and anything that could remotely hint at whatever he and Hollander had been doing for the past four years.

And if Hollander wants to keep it that way, Ilya needs to find a way to make Nikolai go, because, for as much as Ilya can try denying it to himself, this thing he has for Hollander, there are very high chances he might not be able to do it to Nikolai's attentive eyes. And this cannot happen, whether it's Nikolai or not, and especially not in Sochi, of all places in the world.

That is just how things are supposed to go, and Ilya had thought Hollander knew that too, after their conversation on the stair rail of his condo. But Hollander had still texted him after their next game, right when Ilya had finally decided that their weird friendship needed some line that he could know not to cross, a way for him to detox from Hollander in some way.

His fingers had still itched to answer Jane's offering text, up until he'd to lock his phone into his nightstand not to give in the urge, just like he's done for the past few days at the village.

"I'm texting you when mom and dad get here, meet me outside when you're done." Nikolai says then, miraculously without further questions, but Ilya barely registers him leave with his eyes firmly stuck into Hollander's.

He looks good, almost small for a man of his build, tucked like he is into a Canada's fleece jacket. Ilya's heart is beating miles as he hears him come closer.

And Ilya is not proud of the clipped and dry tone of his words, the fear he tries so hard to mask while looking around them like someone might come up the bleachers any moment. But someone might, and if maybe they did they would know, Ilya thinks, as he pushes him away, hands tight in his lap to stop himself from pulling him closer instead, like they've been burning to ever since Ilya left his building. The building Hollander bought for them.

I don't think someone like you could take it

They know, they know, anyone could know

But Ilya can take it, Hollander's rage, for the sake of keeping their secret, to keep himself in one piece. It's better like this anyway, Hollander will realize it too.

It still takes him longer than he would like to admit to leave his seat, after Hollander is long gone and the only sound is the music coming from down the rink, where a lonely skater stands in the middle of the ice waiting for his cue.

His phone lights up with Nikolai's text.

Ilya takes a shaky breath before leaving the bleachers.

The next few months, Ilya does all he can to try and get Shane Hollander out of his head: the team is absolutely done with him by the end of every practice, groaning in exhaustion as they drag their feet back to the locker room after hours on the ice, with sore legs and hands barely able to hold their stick. The time he doesn't spend cooped up at the rink he does calling home, entertaining himself with Yulia's babbles and lispy recounts of her day with Berkley, as she holds Niamh's phone too close to her face to stare into Ilya's eyes with a seriousness unbecoming of a toddler, or catching up with Niamh and Alexei as he attempts meal prepping for the week, even though he's pretty sure the team's nutritionist is not going to be pleased.

The rest of the season is a rush as Ilya throws himself into the game more than he probably ever has, his brain completely unplugged from anything that is not hockey and the strike to win.

But it is all worth it, he tells himself, as he gets to stand on the ice with the Stanley cup raised into his arms and tears running down his face, while the team comes barrelling into him.

He's done it. Ilya has fucking done it.

He thinks that must be everything he's ever dreamed of: a cup, his family down on the ice with him, rounds and rounds of free alcohol and girls plastered to him, but all he can think of as he waits for Alexei to pick him up from the bar, after leaving the pretty girl with glossy black hair and hooded eyes at the counter, is Jane's silent contact.

It's not like Ilya was expecting anything, he drunkenly thinks, stubbornly refreshing the message app like it might be just an error of connection. Hollander's contact stays intact, though, and so does the frown on his face, throughout the whole drive back, and at Alexei's useless advice.

He's never had a girlfriend before Niamh, anyway, whatever does he even know about girls?

And Hollander is not one either way, his mind supplies next, as he stumbles in bed.

Hollander will get over it.

Ilya will get over it

That's what he repeats to himself in a dusty closet of the Wynn Showroom, as he tries composing himself before going up on stage with fucking Shane Hollander, Hollander who  Ilya hasn't seen ever since the Olympics, to present some award that he can't even remember the name of.

His body is buzzing, his script tight in his hands.

Ilya just has to play it cool, he can play it cool, he's an awesome liar, after all

So he does, just as planned, ignoring Hollander's dig before walking up behind the mic stand.

Their scene is blocky, but the public eats it up like the thought of them being civil is just so hilarious, too absurd to be real. He does feel like a clown, truth be told, as he takes their pictures like a couple of tourists on vacation, leaning into his accent like instructed, to not incur in whatever fine the management can't wait to make him subject to.

Frankly, Ilya feels fucking miserable.

Still, when Hollander flees the backscene, he can't do anything but follow.

"Well..." he trails off, after what feels like hours of interminable silence, as he leans back against the sinks of the pristine bathroom of the hall. He chuckles, against the odds, almost at loss of what to say.

"What? What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?" Hollander says, glaring "You pretend I don't exist for months and now you want to what exactly? talk? You are way too late for that." Hollander says, in a clipped tone.

The harshness of his words catches him off guard at first.

I'm sorry, he wants to say, I was scared, I didn't mean it.

"I want you to suck my dick." He says, instead, going against all of his morals. But at the end of the day, sex has always made things easy between them, and maybe part of him wishes it could also be what will fix them, if he tries hard enough.

Ilya can at least try to end this civilly.

"You are unbelievable," Hollander scoffs, eyes glistening under the bathroom lights "and absolutely crazy, if you think you can just ignore my texts for six fucking months and then- then come here and ask- you suck my dick." He says, loudly, a testament to how angry he must really be, if he doesn't care about anyone hearing them.

Is for that same reason that Ilya doesn't drop to his knees right there, though, in front of Hollander's parted legs.

"You will have to ask way nicer than that, if you want me to get on my knees on this nasty floor." He still says, taking a step towards him, hands coming up to fix the lapels of Hollander's suit.

Hollander warm breath tickles his chin as he exhales roughly, contrite "Please." He pleads "Please, get on you knees and suck my dick."

Ilya can't help the way his fingers tighten in their grip, just as he can't the way his body automatically slots closer against Hollander, blood buzzing in his veins as he caresses the freckles on his cheekbones. It takes every bone in his body to not lean in and press their lips together "No."

He can feel the moment Hollander registers his words. He tenses against his neck, breath itching over his pulse, where he'd been nuzzling, dazed, hopefully unaware of how affected Ilya's body is by the strong smell of his cologne. It's musky, fresh, it makes Ilya almost lightheaded when Hollander leans back from their weird embrace, betrayed.

"No-?"

"Not here." Ilya says, tangling his fingers in the soft hair at the base of his neck "Here is the deal: what are we going to do now is go back to watch this boring show, and then, after I'll get my prize, you're going to come up to my room, and maybe, maybe," he insists, slotting his leg in between Hollander's, against the bulge of his groin. The soft moan he gets in response makes Ilya even harder than he'd already been "I'll do way more than just suck your dick. Consider it my generous prize to you."

Hollander shivers, a breathy sigh filled with confusion and rage, as his glassy eyes follow the shape of Ilya's lips "What if I win, asshole?"

Ilya chuckles  "No chances, kotenok."

It's hard to break them apart, but Ilya thinks he wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking back his words if he really got to get a taste of him. He can be patient, he decides, even if losing the warmth of Hollander's hands around his waist makes him wish they didn't have to worry about listening ears, prying eyes. Still, he indulges into letting his lips brush softly, maybe too tenderly, against Hollander's ruddy cheek.

"See you later, Hollander." He winks, subtly adjusting himself into his pants before walking out of the bathroom.

And so Ilya waits, later that night, head thrown back on the headrest of his queen sized bed, a tumbler of vodka in his hand and another trophy somewhere into his suitcase, trying not to imagine the sinful picture of Hollander spread out over the same sheets, under him, begging for release, for Ilya. This will be the last time, Ilya promises himself. It'll be the last time and then he'll get back into himself, find someone, a girl, a boy, anyone, that won't make him risk to get his heart broken. Alexei doesn't know what he's talking about, anyway. This is how things were always supposed to be within him and Hollander, and Ilya needs to finally deal with it.

What Ilya is not expecting is for Shane Hollander to never show up.

The vodka tastes bitter as he downs the rest of the bottle. He doesn't even register the moment it falls from his hand and to the ground shattering in pieces, but even then, it doesn't make him feel any better.

It's in his drunken haze that he realizes then.

They didn't even kiss.

Chapter End Notes

Yahoo!

A lot happened lately, glad I could finally give yall this.

I'd have a lot to say about the chapter, it was very emotional to write tbh, but I think I'll leave yall to it.

Also, i did a lil of a timeline in my phone notes (which is also where I write my chapters, and the app kept crashin out 16k words in. Don't judge.) and the final chapter count shouldn't be higher than 9, but I am a yapper, as you have had the chance to see, so who knows.

Wondered a lot about if I should have divided this, but I think it needed the continuity, even though beta reader dissed me about posting miles long updates T T, hope I didn't bore you.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Lily: Im sorry about-

Lily: I thought we were on the same page-

Lily: can we talk about th-

Ilya stares at the screen, his fingers faltering over the keyboard.

Nothing.

He shifts on his stomach, legs stretching over the couch, but his mind stays blank of words, just like it has been all summer, as busy as it'd been.

For Yulia's birthday that year, Ilya had flown the four of them out to Anaheim. Teagan had called it cheating at the aunt and uncles games, and truthfully Ilya could kind of see where she was coming from, in the glee painted on Yulia's face as they walked through the themed park, her tiny legs kicking at Alexei's chest where she was perched over his shoulders, wearing a pair of Mickey ears bigger than her head and a mile long miles.

Well, if those games actually existed, Ilya would have already been points ahead of either Rory or her, anyway, ah.

On their third and last day in California, for Ilya's birthday, Alexei had insisted (forced him) to let him pay for dinner out of the resort, before dragging Ilya out for drinks while Niamh and Yulia made the way back to the hotel, one too tired to even keep herself straight on her feet any longer and the other eighteen years too short to enter a bar.

They'd drunk, played pool, and Ilya had easily convinced Alexei to drive up to the nearest beach for a sobering stroll, after, pushing him into an uber.

"You know, you don't have to do this every time." His brother had said, laying his elbows  over the dock's handrail. His curls were loose and frizzy from the humidity, cheeks sunburnt, despite all the sunblock Niamh had made sure they were smothered in everyday. Looking at him, all tipsy and relaxed, Ilya couldn't help but smile as he turned back towards the ocean.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"C'mon: first is LA, then New York, and now this. I don't know if Yulia will remember any of it someday, but even if, you don't have to go all out every time you're back. I think you could come up with carton boxes and she'd still be the happiest little kid in the world."

"Who says I'm doing this for her." Ilya had said, kicking softly at his shin "Maybe I just thought going to Disneyland alone would be depressing."

"It probably would have." Alexei considered "If that was it, I'd be glad we came then, you looked pretty bummed already before we got here. Everything good in Boston?"

"Sure." He'd lied "You know me, I just feel very useless after the season. Where can my awesome talent go when there is no games to play? And I just like making my niece happy, is it a crime now?"

Ilya had more money than things he could spend them on, anyway. He had a nice house, shiny cars parked inside of his garage, but this, using them on his family, at least gave him some purpose, from where he was stuck on the other side of the continent.

"Yulia just wants to spend time with Uncle Ilya." Alexei had said, rolling his eyes, the corners of his mouth bent in a half smile, like he had him all figured out. He had ruffled Ilya's hair "You being in Boston most of the time just makes it even more special for her. But I'm not going to complain if you choose Hawaii next year, just so you know."

They'd both known it was an awful lie, but it had made him laugh anyway, warm.

That hadn't absolutely subdued his intentions of keeping Yulia spoiled rotten, especially not when Niamh had admitted to wanting to sign her up for skating classes that September.

The two of them had often joked about it, but Yulia, for a three year old, did not skate that bad at all, in Ilya's professional and so not biased opinion.

That was gonna be very interesting in a few years, but, up until then, Ilya had all the right to splurge his money on little hockey sticks and gear, over his brother half hearted exasperation.

Ilya had flew in to Toronto later that July, on what had originally been justified as a wellness check, but ended up to be a whole week of bar hopping, touristy sight seeing and getting destroyed at NHL14.

Toronto's last game in that year’s playoff's had gifted Wyatt a compound fracture in his collarbone and a twelve weeks prognosis, after a pile up that had sent all three of Vegas' bulky forwards stacking up on top of him against the goalposts. His arm being in a sling hadn't stopped him from dragging Ilya's ass across the digital ice, though, throughout that week.

"Who would have ever guessed: Toronto apparently can win a game after all." Ilya had pouted, earning a pillow to his face.

"Yeah, yeah, cry about it." Wyatt chuckled, leaning back against the couch and pushing the controller in Nikolai's hands as he yawned "This painkillers are killing me, I swear. I feel loopy as fuck."

"Do you? Or is just excuse to see pretty doctor?" Nikolai had said pointedly, without taking his eyes off the screen.

"Pretty doctor? What pretty doctor?" Ilya had perked up.

"I come in to help get him home from hospital one day, and Hazy is blushing all over very cute doctor and giving her big puppy eyes."

"S'not true." Wyatt slurred, crossing his arms across his chest "Lisa was just doing her job and I was being polite."

"Lisa." Ilya cooed "She's Lisa now?"

"Because Hazy keeps going back to see her- er- fix his meds." Nikolai had nodded, ignoring Wyatt squeak of disapproval, and effortlessly throwing the puck inside Ilya's net "She says 'you should email your referral doctor, Mr. Hayes,'" he parroted, in a high pitched voice "But then helps anyway and tells him to call her Lisa, and Hazy still hasn't found balls to ask her out."

"That is weirdly very believable."

"I would know, I got uber to hospital for us three times." Nikolai said, knocking his foot against Wyatt's knee with a wolfish smile "how about you let Ilyusha drive you? So he can see pretty Lisa, too, this time."

Wyatt had flipped both of them off before walking proudly to his room to take a nap.

Nikolai had flew back to Russia the day before Ilya left, after Wyatt's umpteenth reassurance that he could survive without a babysitter until he got back. Still, Ilya had felt pretty bad boarding his own plane back to Boston for training camp, the next morning. Wyatt did keep his promise of updating on his life status on their group chat, at least, which was consoling enough and a little funny, if Ilya had to be honest, with all the pictures they’d got of him doing peace signs around the house.

Back in Boston, there had been very little to distract himself with, and so Ilya had resolved to do the only reasonable thing left: train.

The calendar hung up in the locker room felt almost mocking every time he walked back in from the showers, after hours spent inside the gym or on the ice. 

And Hollander eyes on him, on the first game they ever played against each other that season, after Vegas, had felt just like another reality check.

Ilya doesn't know what he had expected back then, skating up to the middle of the ice for the face off, but it surely hadn't been the rapid way Hollander had adverted his eyes like he couldn't even hold up his gaze.

Ilya had lost the face off, the game, and a little of his sanity trying to get him to just look. Not all the checks in the world had made Hollander give him any further acknowledgement than a shove back.

He'd walked back into the locker room feeling utterly pathetic, even more after the realization than only half of it was from having their ass completely obliterated by fucking Montreal.

Sex had only partly been able to fix the hole dug in his sternum, especially when the only thing he could think of as, the random pretty girl he picked up at the bar writhed under him was how her long bangs didn't fall over her eyes the way Hollander's did, how the flush of her cheeks seemed empty without a splatter of freckles written on her skin, over the lithe expanse of her shoulders, her back.

Ilya was going absolutely crazy, more and more with every game, every shrug, every stare not met across the ice.

And he worst thing is, even now after all those months, Ilya could actually do something about it.

He has Hollander's number, right there, on a thread that got stuck in time after his  'are you ok?'.

I was not. I am not. Not like this.

He has the pixels pretty much engraved behind his eyes for how much he's stared at it. He probably doesn't deserves to text back any of the half finished drafts listed in his notes, he thinks, not even his attempts at an apology, because what would he do after that? What would Hollander say? Would he ignore it, just like Ilya did?

Ilya doesn't know if he could take it, after all, and that makes the perspective of texting him even scarier.

He doesn't know why he still keeps opening his contact anyway, or look at the pictures he’d got of them in Vegas, hidden in a locked folder inside his phone, just as he doesn't what kind of inspiration he's waiting to be struck by, now, while staring pointlessly at the keyboard.

"Something on your mind, cherí?" Jean asks then, while walking into the living room, still in her coat and with two full paper bags in her arms. Alexei is helping Niall in the garage, fixing god knows what on his truck, while Niamh and Teagan brought Yulia to the mall for what they’d claimed as a ‘girl trip’. Ilya had been very affronted by it, the absolute discrimination.

With Rory unavailable too, stuck in Los Angeles for a project, Ilya has had way too much time that afternoon to sulk, alone, so stuck inside his head that he didn't even hear Jean coming back from the farmer's market.

Fucking Shane Hollander.

Ilya stands up to help her with the bags, even though Jean doesn't show any sign to be struggling under their weight, plastering a grin on his face as he tucks his phone inside his pocket "Nah, just a stupid text from Marly."

Jean pats his cheek affectionately despite the scolding look on her face, before leading them to the kitchen. In all those years, Ilya has come to discover that she has a very uncanny ability to sniff out lies. That's what inevitably comes after raising three kids, if Ilya had to guess. It still feels less threatening than being the subject to Nadia's accusing stare, that is for sure.

"What did you get?" He asks, curiously, peeking into the bags as he settles on a stool at the isle.

"Those apples Yulia likes, some vegetables, and Niall said to get jam for the pirog." She says, while washing her hands by the sink "He wants to make them again for New Year. I hope strawberry is good, they didn't have apricot, this time." She adds, questioningly.

"It's perfect." Ilya nods "Either way, if Niall is the one to make them they're probably going to be to die for." He adds, seriously, as he empties the bags over the counter to put the groceries away.

Jean only smiles softly at him "You want to help me with dinner? I could need some help chopping."

This is a routine Ilya knows very well, and he’s glad to still get to enjoy despite being away from home most of the year. Jean taught him most of the things he knows about cooking, anything more complex than sandwiches and very creative pasta dishes anyway, and he's always liked the simplicity of getting his hands busy as they chatted while seamlessly moving around the kitchen. Doesn't matter if he's not a clueless sixteen year old anymore, Jean listens to all the hockey drama he can lists off the top of his head as he chucks the diced potatoes into a tray, like Connors' latest fight with his wife or why Carmichael almost got cancelled on twitter for never knowing when to shut up in interviews.

"Well, did he apologize to twitter?" Jean asks, tossing the salad.

Ilya chuckles "Our management made Maya draft a statement for him, or else we would have probably risked another scandal. All this for just a joke about socks."

Once everything is inside the oven, the only thing that's left is checking it from the glass as it cooks while nursing hot chocolate at the isle, and, as most traditions go, Ilya soon finds himself smuggling an handful of mini marshmallows inside his cup, as Jean watches amused, from the opposite stool.

"And you?" She asks, then "Always so many stories about your teammates, but none about you."

"I am an open book." Ilya says, still chewing, earning himself a fond scowl. He wags his eyebrows up and down "What you wanna know, madame?"

"I guess I've just been wondering if something happened. You have been pretty quiet lately, beau, and you keep looking at your phone like you are waiting for something." She says, curling her hands around her cup.

He hums around his next sip, carefully choosing his words "I was a- uhm- a bad friend to someone and now I'm trying to fix it. I mean, it's probably better off like this." He confesses, circling the rim of his mug with his thumb "I just don't know what to do."

"Oh, is this about your Jane girl?"

"I have the slight impression that you all gossip about me a little too much, when I'm away." Ilya grumbles.

Jean chuckles, nudging his cheek with her knuckles "What else could we do, cherí? With such an exciting life."

"Yeah well, but Alexei-"

"He worries." Jean interrupts him, not unkindly.

"I'm twenty-three. Maybe he should worry about the actual toddler he's raising."

"Ah, that is not how it works, I'm afraid." She shakes her head, smiling "All of my babies are grown up now, more than you, and I still worry. You cannot escape it." She says, making Ilya groan into his cup in desolation "I used to call Rory everyday when he first went to LA, and with Vi's job I'm always scared something might come up. I was so glad when Teagan said she wanted to open a bookstore." She admits, fiddling with the rings on her fingers "but the feeling never really disappears."

"Great." Ilya huffs, still weirdly touched "It could be about her." He says then "But it's nothing to worry about."

Jean smiles wistfully, patting his arm "Alright, cherì. Whatever you'll do, a fight doesn't mean things are just over. And I hope Jane knows she's a very lucky girl."

Yeah, he wouldn't know about that.

Ilya's attempt at answering is stopped by the sound of the front door opening and small feet running towards the kitchen "Mémé! Uncle Ilya! Look what mama got me!"

Ilya catches Yulia in his arms the second she's between reach, her arms raised already to be picked up. She's holding a tin box bigger than her head in both hands, one that Ilya has to dodge before getting smacked into the face with. Jean laughs at the scene, leaning in to see the box full of cards.

"These are so cool, Yulechka." Ilya muses, as she scrolls through the cards "We have to show them to Uncle Kolya so you can trade your doubles."

God knows the day Nikolai made a nerd out of his niece.

Ilya thinks he can accept it, though, seeing the enthusiasm with which she asks him to open the packets for her, happily kicking her legs in his lap.

Ilya doesn't think back to Jean's words up until he's back in Boston and to ignore anything not concerning hockey, which, for the record, still makes it very hard not to think about Hollander. At least that is up until the news of Nikolai Morozov getting traded to the Boston Bears breaks out on every sport panel, and a very little detailed mail from his coach joins the others inside his inbox.

"What the fuck!" Is the first thing he says, when Nikolai finally answers the phone. His enthusiasm comes to a quick halt as soon as he gets a better look on him, once the camera finally comes to focus "What the fuck?"

"You're so eloquent." Nikolai mumbles, grimacing as the action pulls on the crusted over cut on his lip. There is a bruise on his jaw, faint, but unmistakably shaped like a fist, and eyebags going miles under his eyes, like he hasn't slept in days "Morning to you too, I guess."

"What the hell happened to you?"

Ilya knows Nikolai came out unscathed from his last game two nights ago, against Tampa, and overall there is no such reason why he should look like this now. It does make Ilya's brain do jumps, though, as he reads the coach's email again, as if it could say any more than it did just ten minutes ago.

"I may have punched Kent, at practice." Nikolai gives in at last, propping up his phone against the blender as he moves around in his kitchen to make breakfast "He- uhm- I knocked him out."

And that, Ilya thinks, answers to why the motive of the trade was kept so much under wraps. Toronto had no business trading Nikolai for a couple of rookies and a third liner wing, not in the middle of the season. But this? Yeah, this make definitely more sense.

"What happened?"

"Lisa came to the rink on her day off for practice because her and Wyatt had a date after, yes? She was just watching from the bleachers and Kent started being his usual asshole self. A fucking coward too, he didn't even have the courage of saying it to Wyatt's face. But it was just too gross, I had to call him out. He punched me first, though." He says, stopping in his pancake-flipping to stare deeply into the phone, like afraid Ilya might not believe him "I just finished it." He shrugs, self conscious.

"You punched him back" Ilya repeats, gleeful.

"Yeah."

"Was it bad?"

"I don't know, I haven't seen him since." Nikolai admits, then, with a small smile "Wyatt said I knocked a tooth out."

"Fucking asshole deserved it!"

"I think the management didn't think as much, since they fucking traded me as soon as they could." Nikolai mumbles, stabbing into his eggs. He gives Ilya an half mouthed smirk "That's why you called, right?"

Right.

"Yeah! How did this happen?"

"I just told you how-"

"No, I mean, I knew we had a place to fill since Johnson went to Calgary, but this is crazy." He says, leaning back on his couch after having almost walked a hole in his living room.

"Oh, I have no idea." Nikolai admits "Sergei dealt with most of it, I just agreed to the final draft of the contract. It was either Boston or Seattle, and google said that transportation sucks there. It's frankly ridiculous that you need a car for everything in America, that's why people are so-"

"Alright, city boy." Ilya interrupts him, decidedly not pointing out how he's probably be weird one for not having a license at his age, instead "When do you start?" He asks, eager.

"Monday, I would have told you after getting the plane tickets." Nikolai says "I don't have a lot to pack here, Vetrov said he would take care of it, I just need to find an hotel room while looking for a flat."

Ilya waves him off "What do you need an hotel room for? You're staying at mine."

"Ilya, I can't just-"

"It's Captain for you." He sing-songs "And since rookies are my responsibility -"

"I've literally played more seasons than you, who are you calling a rookie?"

"And we have to acclimatize you with the guys, like a little kitten with a pack of wolves-"

"What does that even mean-" Nikolai huffs.

"I have too many empty rooms at the penthouse, just take one. At least until you find a place." He says, coercively looking into the camera.

That's how Ilya finds himself, exactly a week later, pushing one of two heavy luggage to his car, the most boring one he owns, anyway, just to make everything fit in the trunk. Nikolai follows behind, with a pair of dark shades on and a tired quip in his step, from what Ilya presumes must have been a good farewell, the night before, with Wyatt and Lisa.

Ilya wishes he could say it takes him some time to get used to share his space again, after that, after years of having his very own fortress of solitude.

Instead, it feels great to have someone to come back home with after practice, sat in the passenger seat of his car and fiddling with the radio as Ilya drives them back to the penthouse, to share meals, laundry and cleaning duties, or watch the game and throw popcorns at the tv for every lost goal opportunity with someone other than his own reflection on the screen.

It's not like he and Nikolai have never shared a house, either. After all this time, their old arrangement still works somehow, in the things that matter at least, which do not involve, for example, Nikolai's habit of opening every damn window in the house early in the morning to ‘make the air flow’, even with minus ten degrees outside. Ilya absolutely loathes it.

He can deal with it, though, if it means filling in part the deep loneliness he hadn't really realized he still carried behind. Ilya is not a rookie anymore, but sometimes it’s still hard to ignore the loudness inside of his head within the quiet empty halls, and even harder to find something to take the edge of it down with.

Nikolai blends well with the team too, not that Ilya ever had any doubts he would: he has always been a versatile player, which makes it unsurprising to see him adapt so quickly to their plays, their formations. The team seems very pleased too, and the air is particularly light in the locker room after Nikolai's first day of practice, even more so once the real reason for his trade comes up, and the whole room falls into surprised laughter.

"Fuck yes, Man!" Connors says, re-emerging from the hole of his shirt "That kid is a fucking asshole."

"You tell me." Nikolai huffs "He is good center but head is empty inside."

"Well, Toronto is going to fucking regret it." Andrews snickers, as he ties up his shoes on the opposite bench.

"Andy is right." Ilya solemnly announces, hands coming up to Nikolai's shoulders to shake him side to side, under the loud cheers from the rest of the guys "We're going to destroy them in two weeks and they'll see then, what they just lost."

It's definitely up in Ilya's list of priorities to humiliate Dallas Kent on the ice, but the knowledge of having to play Montreal just two days prior to flying out to Toronto is not half as exciting to think about, and it only serves to make Ilya order the team around more tightly every day of practice.

He wants to win that game more than he's ever wanted anything in his life.

Whatever he and Hollander had it's in the past now, Ilya needs to move on, and this might as well be his best chance at finally putting a dot on it and file it in a corner of his mind.

Or, at least, that was the plan.

Two weeks later Ilya's phone buzzes inside his pocket, ten minutes away from their hotel in Montreal. Everyone's half asleep on the bus, exhausted by the flight and the perspective of a brutal game the following night. Ilya's own eyes feel heavy as he slowly dislodges his arm from under Nikolai's head, to grab his phone from his pocket.

Jane: 4084

No fucking way.

Ilya has to blink several times to ensure he's not imagining it, that the text actually exist, with the day's date, and it's not just an hallucination.

His fingers hover on the screen for a couple of seconds, but then again, he thinks as he opens their thread, ignoring everything he's been trying to convince himself with for the past few weeks, it would be very stupid to worry about seeming desperate right now.

Lily: ok.

Ilya barely sleeps that night, still looking at the numbers like they might just disappear.

Maybe it's only a ploy to throw him off before the game, he reasons, the next day, as he gears up, adrenaline already pooling up in his body.

But Hollander wouldn't be crouching so discretely near him as he does his stretches, pretending to be fixing up his laces, head low and voice even lower, if that were the case.

"Are we still on for tonight?"

He nods firmly, even though there are so many things he wishes he could ask him, beginning with a solid why?.

Boston wins the game by the scrape of its teeth, with a 3-2 score and after interminable seconds of overtime. Ilya feels elated, bumping his fist against his guys', as they retreat to the locker room.

He hasn't played a game this good in months, he can't help but consider, smirking at the memory of Hollander's determined frown as they stood for the face off.

They were always meant for this, after all, the two of them.

Ilya doesn't know what to make out of that thought.

"You go out with team later?" Nikolai asks, as he steps into his dress pants. His skin is still flushed from the shower and there is a fair glint of satisfaction in his eyes, one that Ilya can only associate with the thrill of a win.

He's about to respond when a loud laugh breaks from Nikolai's other side.

"Out?" Marleau says, patting Nikolai's back with resonating force "We're in Montreal, Neeks!" Nikolai's eye twitches at the appellative, but he doesn't outright correct him. Ilya figures it would be a lost cause, anyway  "The only out Captain will do is of his hotel room and into Jane's."

"Jane." Nikolai repeats, as Ilya pretends to look for something into his hockey bag.

Stupid Marleau and his blabbering mouth.

"Who is Jane?"

"Oh, none of us ever met her." Carmicheal steps up, while towelling his hair off "Big Roz said he didn't know who she's either. But whenever we're in Montreal..." a low chuckle surmises the whole locker room "yeah, go get it, Tiger!" He says, clapping his hands on both of Ilya's shoulders.

Ilya will have all of them run drills until they'll beg him for mercy once they'll be back in Boston, all of them.

He can feel Nikolai's eyes burn holes into the back of his head as he gets dressed, as fast as he can, because, for as much as it pains him to say his team of idiots is right, he is meeting Jane, only that this time he has no idea whatever to expect from it.

He waits up until Nikolai gets dragged out of the room by Connors to find his way through the hotel, down to the fourth floor.

...4021...4022...4023...4024.

It's only when he finally stands in front of Hollander's door that Ilya realizes how nervous he actually is.

He should knock, anyone could pass by and see him standing there like an idiot while looking at the door like it personally offended him, but Ilya does feel a little justified into his apprehension.

In the end, he finds that it's pointless to worry about it, because the door suddenly swings open and Ilya is left to meet Hollander's unimpressed eyes from the other side of it, before getting ushered inside.

The room is a carbon copy of his own upstairs, if only for the lack of a second bed by the window. Hollander has nothing with him, evidently, but there is a pair of keys over the dresser, with a little puck keychain hanging from it, and his shoes are lined up on the wall by the door. Ilya toes his own off, too, as Hollander closes the door behind him.

For a few seconds, they just stare at each other from opposites sides, taking each other in like two cornered animals.

Hollander looks good, in a simple pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt, standing awkwardly with his hands inside his pockets, despite the clear conflict going on behind his eyes.

This is the moment Ilya should apologize, or, god forbid, find something to cut through the tension hanging over them like a too heavy weighted blanket with.

"I'm sorry." It's Hollander that says instead, then, effectively shutting up the tangled mess of thoughts running through Ilya's head, from the absurdity of it all.

Maybe there will be a day when Hollander will finally stop surprising him, but it's apparently not that one.

"What?"

"For Vegas." Hollander specifies, crossing his arms across his chest while looking away from him, to the covered windows on the other side of the room "The Olympics, actually. We had an agreement, I think I can understand why you acted like that. And Vegas... I- I was too drunk, after the show. That's why I didn't come." He admits in a tiny voice, as his words settle over the room.

"You were too drunk." Ilya repeats, speechless "You're messing with me."

Ilya must be dreaming, he tells himself, because there is actually no way that Golden Boy Hollander got wasted, not in this universe or any other for that matter, Mr. 'Just a Ginger Ale'. Ilya has watched that stupid documentary way too my times that summer to forget Hollander's embarrassed laugh at the admission of having the most bland tastes in the whole universe. That's what Ilya had heard anyway, while trying to ignore his body's natural response to Hollander in skimpy shorts and his legs folded up in way too indecent Yoga positions.

"I am not." Hollander grits out, a pink flush across his cheeks "I was very angry and, uhm, Hunter and Bennett invited me to do shots after the awards. We got a bit overboard and I- I only woke up in the morning." He confesses, reluctantly.

Scott Hunter, Ilya thinks faintly. Ilya got blueballed and emotionally terrorised by hockey methuselah Scott Hunter.

Ilya is going to make him wish he chose retirement that season, their next game against New York.

"You could have texted." Escapes him, beyond his control.

"Yeah, because you would have answered?" Hollander huffs, glaring at a spot behind him "I was embarrassed, alright? And still pretty pissed."

That Ilya has no trouble believing into.

And yet, he gulps quietly as he asks "About what, exactly?"

They're standing inches apart, but to Ilya it feels like they might as well be pressed together with the way his body is on literal fire, burning from withdrawal, like it knows the object of his addiction is just in between reach, that everything could stop hurting if only he only leaned forward to take it in.

Hollander locks their eyes together, finally, hands tight in front of him as he searches Ilya's face like he's trying to decide whether he can trust him. Ilya can see the hesitation pooling in them, as he ponders his words "The fact that even though you were an asshole," he says, slowly "I still wanted to see you."

Ilya hopes it doesn't show on his face, the way his chest flutters, despite everything, the sudden hope taking over the rational part of his brain begging him not to take that step forward and tuck Hollander's chin between his index and his thumb. Hollander sighs softly, eyes fluttering close, as if his admission hadn't just rocked Ilya's world.

I still wanted to see you

"I'm sorry, too." Ilya says, voicing months of unsent text and regrets "I'm not- proud of what Russia gets out of me." He says, clearing his voice "And I really was, an asshole." He chuckles half heartedly, thumb hovering over Hollander's bottom lip, too scared to touch. He feels bare, then, under Hollander's gaze, as he asks, a little desperately "Can I make it up to you?"

Hollander's answer comes in the form of his lips attaching forcefully against Ilya's, rigid like he's waiting for him to push him away. Instead, Ilya all but sighs at the contact, drawing him closer and closer with the hold he gets of hips, to burrow against his warmth.

He feels electrified, blood singing with the way their lips move against each other's, only separating as they gasp for air, their foreheads still stuck together.

It's Hollander that pulls Ilya towards the bed, that grasps at his sweater like it personally affronted him, and it's also him the one to cage Ilya under him, once they fall over the sheets, halfway naked and connected from head to toe.

But, well, still- "We don't have to do anything, tonight." He says, between one grunt and another, as Hollander sucks at his pecs, over his belt.

Hollander makes out what Ilya can only interpret as a growl, looking up with wet, blown out eyes, scrunched up in a glare as he undoes Ilya's pants to push them down his legs "Shut up."

If Ilya weren't already bricked up from making out like a goddamn virgin, that alone would have done the trick, hands down. What it means for Ilya now, though, is being worryingly close already, as he watches Hollander chuck both their pants somewhere behind his back, with no care in the world, so uncharacteristically of him, and straighten up in his lap to pull his shirt off by the neckline, revealing the sea of freckles hidden underneath.

Ilya's hands are gripping his sides when Hollander comes back up to connect their lips again, licking into his mouth and biting down his moans, but his attempt to flip them over is promptly blocked by Hollander's hands flying over his, firm, legs planting at the sides of Ilya's hips to keep him still under his weight.

"No." He pants, dragging Ilya's hands to rest over his thighs, flat. His concern is quickly brushed off the moment Hollander grinds down over his crotch, confident and so fucking hot. Their moans come together in the little space that divides them, as Hollander starts to whisper against his lips "You said you wanted to make it up to me?" He asks, rolling his hips "Then we're doing it my way."

Ilya is so shocked for a second, that he barely registers him lifting himself up and off his lap, only to come back with a packet of lube and a condom extracted from the back pocket of his jeans.

"Thought you would get lucky?" He wheezes out, as Hollander reclaims his spot once again, fully naked this time, red and aching over his stomach. Ilya lets him, following the silent order written in his eyes, and places his hands back on the thick meat of his thighs, lax.

Hollander snorts "Kind of."

"If this is your way of telling me you think I'm easy, Hollander-"

His words are cut off by another wet kiss pressed over his mouth "This, is my way of telling you to shut your mouth for once." Hollander says, before opening the lube and squeezing a generous amount over his fingers.

Ilya is expecting (hoping) Hollander will finally touch him then, but watching him reach his own arm behind his back to open himself up, right in Ilya's lap, beats any fantasy he could have ever had instead.

Hollander looks not unlike a god, like this, with his head thrown back and lips parted in sweet relief, his gasps covering the wet sound of his fingers moving inside him. Ilya wants to reach and take their place, but at the first sign of his hands moving, Hollander's body stills, with a shiver and a groan of disapproval.

"You move your hands from there and I stop." He threatens.

"Wouldn't that be worse for you than it would for me?" Ilya says, mouth dry.

Hollander lowers his gaze to where Ilya's cock is pathetically begging for release between them, wet with both their precums and rock hard. His lips curl up, meanly "Would it?"

Oh, Ilya is not going to come out of this alive, isn't he?

"Fuck, Hollander." He grunts, gripping his thighs tighter in his hands as Hollander resumes his work, pairing the practiced movements of his wrist with slow and deep thrusts against him, that have Ilya gasp under his breath.

Hollander's rhythm doesn't take long to start faltering. Sweat covers his hairline as he leans over Ilya's chest for support, his breath grows ragged, and Ilya still can't find it in himself to think about anything but how beautiful he looks like this, strong and powerful as he curses behind his teeth and moans Ilya's name in between a litany of words.

"You're doing so good," he tells him, Russian slipping past his lips as his thumbs dig into his skin "C'mon, sweetheart."

"Roz," Hollander cries, legs quivering, before stopping completely. He does a fast work with the condom, easily slipping it over Ilya's sensitive head, and then, with only a brief nod of confirmation, he's sinking down on Ilya's cock, right until their hips are one, smashing their lips together to muffle their moans.

Ilya's nails are practically embedded into his thighs by this point, but he doesn't dare move his hands, not when Hollander finally starts moving, up and down, in a wet and mind-blowing alternation of thrusts and grinds that have Ilya almost go cross eyed to not lose a single  moment of this.

Hollander's brows are held in a tight frown, eyes closed as he gives in to pleasure, both hands caging Ilya's head as he does the ride of Ilya's life. He looks fucking divine.

Ilya kisses everywhere he can reach: the slope of his nose, his cheeks, his neck, where there's just the lightest sign of stubble, whispering words of encouragement in any language he can master but that Hollander barely seem to hear anyway, if not for the way his breath stutters whenever his mouth comes close to his ear.

"Let me touch you," Ilya can't help but ask, plead, strained, as the next thrust sends him right over Hollander's prostate, only deeper and deeper "Fuck, fuck, just- let me-"

"God, need- need you," Hollander pants, lips pressed against Ilya's forehead "alright, yes, yes, yes,"

Ilya doesn't hesitate to plant his feet over the mattress and his hands on Hollander's hips, before meeting his next thrust with the same amount of force. They both cry out, delirious and desperate, after months dry of each other.

He feels like he's going to explode with emotions, pent up frustration, lust, a cocktail that he can see reflected in the wetness of Hollander's eyes, as he finally flips them over, still inside him, and wraps one of his hands around Hollander's cock.

He strokes him with every grind of his hips, every itch of his breath, up until he's coming, coming, coming, and Ilya can't do anything but follow him over the edge, completely lost in the warmth of him, the pain of Hollander's nails dragging over his back as he throws his head back against the pillows.

With Hollander's hands still gripping his shoulders, Ilya can't do anything but collapse over his chest, face resting in the crook of his neck as they catch their breaths.

Hollander's legs are shaking, his body slowly uncoiling as he comes down the high. Ilya can feel the tension dissipating while he mouths gently at his neck, burying his face in his freckles. God, his freckles.

"You killed me Hollander." He says, softly biting down just to be annoying "Me and my dick. What the hell was that?"

Hollander's chuckles. His laugh resonates into Ilya's own ribs, where they're pressed together "I kinda improvised. Glad to know I didn't make an ass out of myself."

"Would have never guessed Shane Hollander was actually a certified freak."

"You're the one talking, you leech." He huffs, gripping Ilya's hair to pull him away from giving another nip at his collarbone and squirming, ticklish "Stop it."

Ilya falls even more boneless against him when the grip dissolves and his fingers hesitantly start to card through his hair.

"You cut it." Hollander says then, breaking the comfortable silence they'd fallen into, in consideration.

"Mhm," he hums "What, is it not pretty anymore?"

Hollander rolls his eyes "I just thought you said you liked it long."

Ilya did, he does, he's been growing it back out ever since the Olympics, and he still can barely tie the top out of his eyes without looking ridiculous.

"Sometimes you have to do things you don't like to keep out of stupid people's opinions." Ilya says, as nonchalantly as he can.

Hollander doesn't answer right away, but his hand falters against his scalp.

"Meanwhile, you are still as boring as ever." Ilya says, to fight the awkwardness "But a little less than usual maybe, that was very hot."

"Ah-ah."

"I'm just saying, all the porn sweet angel Hollander must watch finally showed its results-"

"Oh, fuck you." Hollander spits back.

Ilya already knew he missed this kind of banter, watching Hollander's face grow red with outrage and annoyance to mask the amusement behind every dry quip, but he still can't help but smirk as they fall into it, until the stickiness between them becomes too uncomfortable to ignore anymore and sensitivity catches up to them.

It's never been this tender between them, Ilya thinks, as he pulls out slowly to clean them both with a towel, before hopping inside the shower, alone.

The team's flight to Toronto is early in the morning the next day, so there is very little else he can indulge in that night. He already gained way more than he expected, anyway.

Still, as he walks back into the room to find his clothes, with Hollander's bleary eyes following every one of his movements, Ilya wishes he didn't have to cut this so short, not after all those months.

Ilya is probably biting down more than he can chew, but, for the first time in almost five years, he finds that he can’t quite regret it.

"So," he says, pushing his hands into his back pockets. Hollander doesn't look as flushed anymore, but there is still some post-sex haze clinging onto him as he meets his eyes from where he's still sat against the headboard, beautifully naked "I guess we'll see each other at the All Stars?"

Hollander only gives him one of his half mouthed smiles "We'll see each other at the All Stars." He confirms, unconsciously making Ilya sag a little on himself, in relief.

He grins back "Bye, Jane."

"See you, Lily."

It is extremely hard to fight the smile off his face as he takes the elevator three floors up to his room, even under Nikolai's calculating stare.

He's still in the dress pants he wore to the club Marleau dragged the rest of the team to, shirtless as he lazily swipes through his phone. A lit up cigarette balances over the rim of a glass by his bedside.

"Well, Marleau was right, look at you: you're glowing." He says, taking a drag "Maybe we should bring Jane on all of our road trips."

Ilya steals the half smoked cigarette from his lips before closing himself in the bathroom, under Nikolai's protests.

*

Montreal and Boston play exactly two games against each other before the start of the playoffs, and both times end up with him and Hollander tangled together, with a kind of urgency and hunger Ilya had never thought he could even feel.

The laser focus with which he looks forward to their games should be concerning, but Ilya has never felt this good. It's everything: the charged wait in between every game, the rush and the thrill of doing something they absolutely shouldn't, the way their bodies still fuse with one another every single time, anyway, as they fall back in the mess of sheets and sweat that smells just like the both of them.

It seems obvious enough that something had to ruin it.

"Fuck, that hurt." He coughs, trying to take in everything but the blinding pain in his leg as he gets lowered onto the couch.

"Ah- sorry," Nikolai grimaces, helping him settle with less jostling as possible, not to disturb his casted leg, propped up over the coffee table.

"You are so dramatic." Svetlana informs him, walking back into the room with a big bowl of popcorn.

"Yeah, you get checked by three-hundred pounds of Swedish defenceman to the other side of the rink and then we can talk about being dramatic." Ilya grumbles, reaching for the bowl as soon as she curls up on his side.

Ilya had a plan for the playoffs: win every round until he and Hollander met again on the ice, win their game, fuck him about it, and then beat whoever reached them for the final and take his second cup home. His leg betraying him, after what could probably be defined as the most brutal check he ever got in all his years of hockey, definitely wasn't part of it.

So now Ilya can only watch as Montreal takes their place in the final against Vancouver, frowning at the television from the seat of his couch.

"Yes, yes," she says, bored, curling a strand of Ilya's hair around her fingers "Nikki dear, would you be so kind and get the beer from the kitchen?"

"What, your leg's broken too?"

"You're so rude to your girlfriend." She pouts.

"Yes, Nikki, where are your manners, this is no way to treat a woman. I know you wouldn't know but-"

"I hate you both, so fucking much." Nikolai states, before raising a judging brow in his direction "and you shouldn't even drink, you're on blood-thinners."

"Who are you, my brother?"

Nikolai rolls his eyes before walking out of the room to retrieve the six pack Svetlana brought with her, when she appeared at their porch earlier that day to watch the finals.

By now, usually Ilya would already be back in Edmonton, watching the game at Niall and Jean's house and complaining at the unfairness of it not being him on the screen. With his leg like this, boarding a plane would have required way too much hassle, so the tradition had to be forgone.

Alexei had cared very little about the finals opposed to Ilya's shin being broken in two, and had promptly made sure to make Ilya aware of that, when he'd woken up at the hospital to see his brother sat at his bedside, obliterating Nikolai at uno while using the corner of the bed as a make shift table.

Alexei's presence in Boston had made that first week back from the hospital a little easier to bear, at least until Ilya finally got his way on how to walk on crutches instead of only relying on leaning off his and Nikolai's shoulders. It had taken Nikolai promising he would take on babysitting, to make Alexei finally accept that he did have a job and duties to get back to, over Ilya's offended grunts.

And alright, Ilya was pretty useless, still is, if he has to be honest, but that didn't make it any less insulting.

The arrangement did have it's logic, though, with Nikolai still living at the penthouse. Truthfully, neither of them had spoken about it in the past few months, too busy with roadies and the playoffs to actually spend more than just a few days home, anyway, but Ilya can't say that’s a conversation he really wants to have. He likes sharing an apartment way more than he thought he would, and he guesses that it might not be that much different for Nikolai, after all, if the way he hasn’t brought up any house visiting in ages is any giving.

Nikolai and Svetlana are still bickering, now armed with beers, when the whistle signs the start of the first period. Ilya shushes them loudly, falling back against the cushions as the camera zooms on Hollander skating to the middle of the ice to crouch in front of Vancouver's centre.

It's too far for Ilya to see, but Ilya can clearly imagine Hollander's face, all scrunched up in concentration, as he positions for the face off, before easily bypassing Grayson for the puck and leading the chase to the goalposts.

Ilya has played Hollander for years now, watched hundreds of his games, whether from old tapes from the junior's league in the darkness of his room or after their debut in the NHL, he thinks he should have grown accustomed by now to see him like this, in his natural habitat. But there's just something so mesmerizing into watching him move with such confidence, speed, effortlessness, moulded by years of strict regimens and hard work, that makes it always feel like the first time somehow.

And so, despite the bitterness of having to watch this from his couch in Boston, Ilya can't help but think Hollander deserves to be the one holding the cup high over his head, sweaty and tired, but so unbelievably happy like Ilya thinks he's never seen him be before.

Nikolai and Svetlana are still commenting the game, in between popcorn being thrown at each other over Ilya's head and what would actually be pretty accurate points, if only Ilya were able to focus on anything but the television, Hollander's wide smile as he talks into the microphones thrusted in his direction during the post game interviews, still in his under armours and leg pads.

The smile on his own lips would be very hard to deny if it ever came to it.

His hands itches for his phone, to give a begrudgingly deserved round of congratulations, because only Shane fucking Hollander could have taken the cup home with a goddamn hat trick to add to it.

And so, Ilya is already typing on his phone when the door to the en-suit bathroom closes behind Svetlana. They'd called the night quits after a second round of beers and one too many yawns. Nikolai had helped Ilya to the master room before retreating into his own, on the opposite end of the hallway, but not before pointedly reminding both of them of the little thickness of the walls.

Svetlana had only wagged her eyebrows at him before leaving a playful kiss on his cheek and pushing him out by his shoulder, under the sound of his gagged whines.

Lily: Can't believe i have to say it but congratulations, Jane

Lily: I win a cup, you win a cup

Lily: but of course you also had to show off while you were at it

Surprisingly, Hollander's answer doesn't take long to come through.

Jane: maybe that isn't showing off, just me being a better player than you.

Ilya snorts.

Jane: thanks, though.

Jane: it feels unreal.

Jane: you watched the game, then?

Lily: couldn't wait to see mtrl getting its ass kicked

Lily: you made me loose a lot of money fyi

Jane: lucky me.

Jane: how's the leg?

Ilya wriggles his toes, snapping a picture of his foot and a thumbs up.

(picture attachment)

Lily: still broken but attached

Lily: bruises hurt, though

Lily: shouldn't you be celebrating?

Jane: I did. We got drinks.

Jane: just skipped the strip club.

Lily: let me guess, ginger ale?

Lily: and what a good girl you are, Jane

Jane: fuck off, It wasn't.

Jane: and I wasn't the only one.

Lily: doesn't change anything

The text bubble appears, then disappears, and so on for a couple of times, enough to make Ilya wonder if Hollander had a stroke mid typing, until his next message comes through.

Jane: and maybe I thought I could find other ways to celebrate.

Ilya shifts onto the mattress, cock stirring inside his pants.

Lily: what a way to make me eat my words

Lily: dirty, dirty girl, Jane

 Lily: you kiss your mother with that mouth?

Jane: no, but I kiss yours.

Lily: baby's first chirp, very impressive

Lily: and people say you're not funny

Jane: who does?

Lily: me, of course

Ilya gives the bathroom's door a considering look, before sighing to himself and, regretfully, to his dick.

Lily: sadly i still have company over tonight :(

Lily: guess you'll have to wait next season for your reward

Lily: but think of me when you make yourself come tonight, will you?

Jane: I won't.

Lily: lying never suited you, Jane

Lily: but have fun, you deserve it

"Who're you texting?"

"Niamh." Ilya says, without missing a beat, leaving his phone over the duvet as he watches Svetlana come up to the bed. Ilya's shirt, one of many he knows she stole throughout the years, brushes over her thighs as she walks, hair still damp but brushed out behind her ears.

She looks effortlessly beautiful, always has, he thinks, as she climbs up next to him.

"I owe her twenty bucks. Stupid Montreal."

"C'mon, you really thought Vancouver was going to win?" Svetlana says, laying back against the pillows.

"A man can dream."

"Not when it involves financial suicide."

Ilya merely huffs, turning as far as his leg allows "She even got Yulechka matching jerseys, they're conspiring against me."

She mimics his position "Poor baby."

"This is emotional warfare."

"What will you ever do?" She teases, a smirk drawn on her lips.

"Oh, you find it funny?" He asks, eyes wide in exaggerated shock, before digging his fingers under her ribs and pulling a gleeful squeal out of her "Don't you know any loyalty, Sveta?"

Ilya is still smiling when he falls asleep, hours later, with her nestled under his arm and her body warm against his side.

They don't have sex before Svetlana has to fly over to New York for a business trip. Ilya wants to believe that there is no other reason for it besides his leg being out of commission and barely allowing any movement that is not sitting down and standing up from the couch.

With the more time that passes, he grows more and more annoyed with the stupid cast, and consequentially Nikolai grows more and more annoyed with him.

So it's a literal saving grace when, six weeks after the incident, Ilya is finally cleared to fly by the team's PT and the cast gets switched for a new fancy boot that Yulia is incredibly disappointed to discover she cannot draw on, when her and Niamh pick them up from the airport.

It's not hard to cheer her up, as soon as his carry on opens to a well fair amount of gifts that he hadn't expected to not being able to give her in time for her birthday.

In his conditions he can’t do much but watch from the couch as Nikolai shows her how to hold onto the new stick he got her, right into the middle of the living room, but, as unfair as that is, he still makes sure to film it on his phone to send on the family group chat, encouraging her with every smooth pass.

Any evidence of broken objects that may have arose is quick to get hid into the trash and replaced, too, for Niamh and Alexei's peace of mind.

That summer he spends trying his best to get back in shape for the season. The first month of physical therapy makes him want to tear his hair out, but the more his leg regains its strength and the less he finds himself limping around, make the sacrifices worth it, even though he is not cleared for the start of the season and forced to watch the games from the box, sulking.

That doesn't mean he has to miss on other things, though.

"Fuck- Roz." Hollander moans, stilling under him as he comes, staining the sheets in white.

Ilya doesn't take long to follow, his forehead pressed between his shoulder blades as he pants, spent.

The team took the victory home earlier that night, on a winning strike that Ilya can't help but be proud of, despite only having been able to direct the plays during practice time. Hollander hadn't seemed too peeved about the loss when Ilya had let him inside the hotel room he'd booked, just for the occasion, but Ilya probably wouldn't have noticed even if he were, too busy grabbing at everything he could reach, greedy and already half-hard, at least ever since Hollander checked their rookie onto the glass, right in front of him, earlier that night, before skating away with an uncharacteristic smirk.

Ilya makes a quick work of cleaning both of them off, before collapsing into bed beside him. The gin sloshes dangerously into the glasses as he offers one up to Hollander.

"How's your leg?" Hollander asks, holding the glass into his lap.

"Could be worse." He shrugs "Our PT said I should be able to come back for our next roadie." He says, downing the glass to turn onto his side and facing him. He gives him a sly smirk "What, you miss me?"

"You wish." Hollander huffs, setting his still full glass aside to shift against the covers "I guess it's just a little weird not playing against you."

"Don't worry Hollander, I'll be back before you know it." He muses, caressing the smooth skin of his thigh under the messy sheets "Do get used to loose, though, it'll be even worse once I'm cleared."

Hollander's eyes light up, as he rolls over him "Not a fucking chance."

It's hard to kiss when they're both smiling. They make it work anyway.

That year Montreal ends up taking the cup once again.

Ilya is extremely put out, only for the part where he's not, not completely at least, because Hollander is absolutely on fire the week after, when they meet up in the penthouse he got them, on the highest floor of the hotel the NHL awards got presented at.

Two years ago Ilya laid on a bed in a room not too dissimilar from this, alone, thinking he would never get to have this again, the feeling on Hollander's body against his, of his hands in his hair and digging into his shoulders. Now, they're both laughing as they wrestle under the sheets, sweaty and drunk with need.

Ilya makes sure to kiss him at the door before walking back down to his room.

Chapter End Notes

Heyo!

I know, this is shorter than usual and should have also been the last one of the HR arc, but it was getting way too long and with exams this week I didn't know whether I could find the time to work on it.

I also had to change the rating of the story because there was definitely way too much sexy time to be considered mature any longer, whoopsie.

The hair being a foreshadowing for homosexuality wasn't intentional at first but its a hill ill die on.

This being said, hope you liked it and thank you for all of your kind comments and kudos,

Cyaa

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Maybe it shouldn't come off as much of a surprise as it does, to him, being in love with Shane Hollander.

It starts with Nikolai's grandma's funeral, or, well, the fact that Nikolai has to fly back to St. Petersburg to attend, which means that Ilya has the penthouse all for himself when they're scheduled to play their third game against Montreal, that season.

But, most of all, means that Ilya doesn't think twice about sending Hollander their address, while they're texting about meeting up after the game.

He buys groceries, debating way too long in the soda isle before grabbing a twelve pack of Canada Dry, the Canadian one (because if there is something more disgusting than Canadian ginger ale, it's the American one), and then spends the rest of the day before their game running up and down the house to get everything that could imply someone else living with him closed off inside Nikolai's room, in between doing laundry rounds and picking up after himself, where he left the mess to pile up in that few days spent cooped up alone.

It's bordering ridiculous of him to even worry about it, not when the risk of Nikolai turning up while he's there it's close to zero, but he doesn't want to take any chances.

All things considered, Ilya should have known that he would have found a way to ruin it, anyway.

It takes him longer that he would like to admit to get up from the couch, after the unmistakable sound of the front door closing shut behind Hollander's back.

If there weren't still traces of the last few hours all around him- the plates and cans of soda on the coffee table, Hollander's strong scent lingering on his own skin, Ilya's scalp still burning after Hollander's hands had run through his curls and tugged as he moaned into his mouth- Ilya would think he'd just imagined it: the mind-blowing sex, the warmth of Hollander's back tucked against his chest, the soft sound of his breathing as Ilya took his time watching over him, after waking up to a sight he'd only allowed himself to imagine.

Ilya had been absolutely gone on him.

And maybe that's why his chest feels like it's being carved open now, as he packs the first things he can find inside his closet, trying to ignore the still rumpled sheets, the white shirt folded neatly over the dresser.

Nikolai won't be back until Monday for practice, and the last time he heard from Svetlana she was in New Jersey to sign off a deal for a formidable rookie fresh out of the draft. But even if they were here, Ilya realizes, he couldn't tell either of them anything.

And if he could, what would he even say?

That he was stupid, maybe, that he was greedy, that if he could have only stopped himself from asking for more and more and more, maybe he wouldn't be feeling like this now, broken in pieces, only because he let six years of hooking up mean more for him than they ever did for Hollander.

And the worst is that, for a few seconds, Ilya had thought it wasn't only him, while gripping onto the pathetic hope that his name coming out of Hollander's lips wasn't a fluke.

What a fucking idiot.

Ilya spends all the time stuck on the flight back to Edmonton repeating himself that, and throughout the whole thirty minutes it takes the uber to leave him in front of his brother's flat.

Alexei can fix it, he hopes desperately, or at least he can give Ilya enough of a distraction not to wallow in his self deprecation on a weekend he had imagined spending tangled in the sheets reminiscing.

And it works, at first, being home: he plays tea party with Yulia, helps Niamh make brownies to bring down to the station for her shift, Alexei with grocery shopping, before heading out to Niall and Jean's place for the guys' birthday, early that Saturday.

Everything is going exactly how it should, up until he sees Hollander and Rose Landry holding hands as they run from paparazzi on the way out of a club, right there on television, at dinner, in a place where he thought he could escape all of it.

Instead, Ilya finds himself gripping the sides of the bathroom sink not to punch a hole into a wall, to compensate the one burned through his heart.

Ilya had never thought loving someone could feel like the worst thing happening to him, not after his mother died, anyway. And he guesses he cannot even blame Hollander much, for it, when it was Ilya that slowly crossed the only boundary he'd set on his own, while trying to convince himself that it wasn't happening, that he could maintain his distance and still get to have him.

There wasn't a moment in the past six years he wasn't falling for him, and now Ilya's bound to pay the consequences of his own curiosity, for indulging into something that he was never allowed to want, to begin with.

He can only try his best to keep himself together in front of his brother, but he must not be doing a great job at it if Alexei deems it necessary to host a whole pep talk while driving him to the airport that Monday, or when the first thing coming out of Nikolai’s mouth as he wheels his carry on inside the house is a very confused and worried "Why did Lyosha call me to ask if I knew something happened?"

Ilya can only scoff before retreating to his room.

There's a pause, as Nikolai follows him upstairs.

"And why's there all this stuff in my room? Ilya!"

Apparently, the rest of the world does not share Ilya's complete disinterest towards Hollander and Rose Landry's relationship. It's everywhere: printed up on magazines, on twitter, on every screen Ilya finds himself staring at, and, funnily enough, is the team's new favourite topic of conversation.

"Jesus, how did Hollander even fucking bag Rose Landry?" Carmichael whistles, folded over his phone, while he should be getting dressed for practice, like Ilya has made a point of telling him when he first got into the locker room, already late.

Ilya can feel Nikolai's eyes on him, from the stool next to his, as if waiting for him to tell Carmichael off, or just to say something. He doesn't, though. Ilya has decided he'll be pragmatic about this and just sulk on the inside, when no one else can hear him screaming out his lungs out of jealousy.

"I don't know, but she's a beauty." Connors says, while lacing up "Great of an actress too, right, Marls?"

"Fuck, yes. We went to see her last movie when it came out, the one with the zombies. I still have chills."

Carmichael waves his phone under Nikolai's nose "What do you think, Mozzy?"

"Don't call me that." Nikolai grumbles, before taking a look at the screen. His nose scrunches up "Meh, not my type."

At least someone is still in Ilya's corner, he thinks, doesn't matter if the mere reason a woman like Rose Landry is not Nikolai's type is because she is, in fact, a woman.

A win is a win, though.

The locker room explodes in groans.

"Oh, c'mon, now you're just taking the piss." Travis says "She's a walking wet dream, man."

Resolves be damned, Ilya has to put a stop to this.

"You kiss your wife with that mouth?" He asks, closing his locker with too much force.

The locker room falls silent.

"For every minute I'm spending alone on the ice while waiting for each of your asses, you'll take double the laps after practice." He announces, retrieving his helmet to stalk towards the tunnel "I would suggest you stop talking about women that would never even look in your direction and get a fucking move on."

Twenty minutes.

That's exactly how much Ilya makes them skate back and forth across the rink, up until one of the rookies falls flat on his face and the coach takes enough pity on them to call the day off. Ilya has no remorse whatsoever when the only thing sounding up inside the locker room is sore moans instead of schoolgirls' chitchat.

He can't shake the heaviness of Nikolai's worry on him, though, once they're back home, only muted by Nadia and Ivan flying in and the house being even fuller than usual, with the addiction of Niall's brother and his family coming from somewhere down in Ireland that Ilya doesn't think he can even pronounce.

But he should have known that he wouldn't let it go this easily.

Ilya has drove them to the lake that afternoon, after promising Yulia they would help with her passes and try the new gear she got for Christmas. An hour in, with Yulia distracted by the neighbours' kids skating up to say hi, Nikolai pounces.

"So, is this is a bad time to ask what the fuck has been wrong with you, lately?"

Ilya leans on his stick, mildly kicking the puck around with his skate "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe you don't, but if my legs weren't attached to my body they would have fallen off already, after the shit you have been pulling during practice."

"C'mon, you've had worse."

"But not the rookies. You made Kingston throw up, with all that bag skates."

"The kid has to learn."

Nikolai huffs, sliding his stick under his and effectively making Ilya loose his balance. From standing upright, he finds himself glaring up at him, now sat on the wet, cold ice of the lake "What the hell-"

"No, I don't want to hear it." Nikolai interrupts him, harshly "I've heard more complaints about you in the past month than I ever have since I was made an alternate. You are running the team dry and it's been me and Marly covering for your sorry ass, if you haven't noticed, but even he is scared to take it up to you, so guess who took the job? The least you could do is give me an explanation."

Ilya grits his teeth.

"Listen-"

"No, you listen." Nikolai says, dropping onto the ice in front of him. His cheeks are red from the cold and anger, but his eyes are also full with concern when he grips Ilya's face to force him to look back at him "I don't know what's wrong, but I also can't do anything to help you if you don't tell me what it is. And if you don't want to, that's fine too, but it needs to stay off the ice. It makes everyone play like shit, it makes you play like shit, and also a danger to yourself and the team."

And Ilya knows he's right, he really does, the bruises on his ribs and the brutal lost they got against Buffalo less than a week ago are proofs of it, but it doesn't make it any less hard to fight the humiliation of having to be called out to realize just how fucking low he got.

Ilya sniffs, wiping his sleeve under his nose "Yeah. Alright, yes, you're right. Are you happy?"

"Of course I'm not." Nikolai scoffs bumping his stick against his leg "I hate to see you like this and the guys do too. They love their captain, even when he's being an asshole idiot."

"Asshole idiot. Isn't that a bit much?"

"You made the kids cry, I think it's not nearly enough."

"You're a goddamn softie."  Ilya grumbles, still accepting his hand to stand up.

Nikolai shrugs, a small smile on his face as he checks on Yulia, still playing with the other kids "Maybe," his stick reaches over to where the puck had slid away earlier, as he skates backwards, both eyebrows raised at him expectantly "But I'm a softie with the puck, now. What are you going to do about it?"

Ilya gives himself a second to chuckle before chasing behind him.

Ilya tries keeping the promise he made Nikolai, he does, but it's not enough to make them win against Montreal two weeks later, just as not all the preparation in the world is able to keep him from feeling like he's going to burst, as the jumbotron zooms in to Rose Landry in the private box, in a Hollander jersey, all perfect smile and red hair as she waves down to the ice. 

Truthfully, nursing the heartbreak with alcohol hadn't seemed like a bad idea at the time, while he was trying to shower off the residues of sweat and rage, despite Nikolai's whines about being too tired to go out.

Now, watching from the bar as Hollander shifts from foot to foot in what is a pitiful attempt at dancing, his arms wound tight around Rose Landry, he doesn't feel so sure anymore.

There is very little going through his head as he dawns the second and third shots Marleau sits in front of him, before finding himself plastered over the back of the first girl that smiled at him from across the bar. His body is sizzling as he grips her waist, moving their bodies with the beat, while he does his best to focus on the soft curve of her hips and her hair tickling his chin instead that onto the knowledge of Hollander being only a few feet away, on the other side of the room. With her.

But just as Ilya hadn't been able to keep his eyes off of him on the ice earlier, like he's never been able to ever since they were kids, it's impossible not turn. Sadly enough, Ilya doesn't think there's a universe where he wouldn't turn.

He can only take their eyes meeting across the dance floor for a fleeting second, though, one that feels like torture, before he's spinning the girl (janice? Janine? Jannette?) in his arms to plant his lips on hers, too scared of what he could find inside of them.

Hollander is not there anymore when he opens his eyes again, and Ilya is way too tired by then to lead the pretty girl with freckles on any longer.

Nikolai finds him thirty minutes later in the back, on his third consecutive cigarette. It goes back and forth between them as Ilya burrows under the arm he wraps around his shoulders, before letting him led them back to the hotel.

*

Ilya has always liked All Stars games, ever since he was rookie. There is a lot of great satisfaction into getting to beat men among the best players the NHL has to offer in one single game.

As of now, he's pretty accustomed to how the whole thing is orchestrated, or at least he thought he was, because finding himself on the same roaster as Hollander feels like the cruellest joke the NHL, the universe, fucking anyone, could have done, right now.

"Hollander as in your arch nemesis, Hollander?" Will asks, settling back against his towel with a pleased groan.

The beach they'd ended up at after grabbing breakfast is mostly empty at this time of the day, if not for a couple of runners every now and then and the more early risers out for a walk. The sun is still not the highest in the sky yet, but, despite it being only February, Ilya knows he's going to end up with his shoulders and face red and sore. He loves Florida, but this he would rather go without.

"Arch nemesis is quite dramatic-"

"I'm just saying it like you said it."

"I most definitely never said that."

"Yeah, well, that's what I heard, anyway. Arch nemesis or not, Mr. Cosmopolitan surely is a hottie. Just what rights does he have being both so pretty and a hockey player?" Will huffs, popping his sunglasses back down on his face "We're talking about the same person, right?"

"Yeah." Ilya scoffs.

"Well, if you allegedly don't hate him, I don't see the problem there."

"It's just- you have to admit that it's weird. They've always put us against each other and now for some reason they decided not to?" He says, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Alright, yes, pretty weird." Will admits "But I guess that, in terms of publicity, it could be a good move for entertainment. They probably expect something big to come out of it."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, you clawing each other's eyes out?" Will smirks then, wagging his eyebrows up and down under his shades "Maybe crazy butt sex in the middle of the ice?"

"Yeah, totally." Ilya plays it off, trying to keep his brain from conjuring any traitorous picture in his head, at least before Will can catch on anything compromising. He’s too good at sniffing that kind of stuff out, Ilya knows him way too well by now "A notoriously homophobic organization is definitely waiting for a big gay scandal."

"It's completely unrealistic of them to think gay players don't exist, anyway." Will says, scrunching up his nose "And even if it meant nothing for them, it definitely would for others."

"Seeing two dudes getting off together on the ice?"

Will gives him a small smile "Who knows?"

Just the thought is enough to bring a spike of apprehension run down Ilya’s spine. He turns back to look towards the shore, where the waves crash against the land "I guess. Don't know what difference would that make, though."

"Maybe none." Will concedes "But any flame needs a spark to burn, doesn't it?"

Ilya doesn't really know what to respond to that.

"That was so lame, even for you."

"It's the love, babe." Will laughs, crossing his arms behind his head.

Ilya finds himself smiling, against all odds "You and Riley?"

"Was it that obvious?"

"It was. I also follow you on Instagram, though."

"You saw what he did on Valentine's day? He's such a sweetheart." Will sighs, happily, tanned cheeks just a tad pinker than usual "And to think I used to totally hate him for always forgetting to throw the trash away."

Ilya gladly lets him yap about everything he's missed, filling in with laughter and sly comments every now and then. He can't find it himself to be bitter, jealous of his happiness, not when the object of their discussion pops up to whisk him away for their plans, and Will's face simply crumbles in delight at the mere sight of him, shrugging the sand off his clothes before meeting him in the middle for a chaste kiss.

Well, maybe he is a little wistful, but that he keeps for himself, as he waves back before turning to walk the way back towards the residence.

This love thing, sometimes it's bound to work, at least.

It's not another weird management move that surprises him next. Instead, it's Shane Hollander sliding into the seat next to his at the counter of the pool's bar, unfairly good in his white suit, enough to make the whole room turn to look. Ilya's eyes had snapped on him as soon as he walked in, like a needle pointing to north, a little awed.

Maybe that's what a relationship with a movie star does to you.

Ilya needs another beer.

As if he heard him, Hollander gestures to the barman, and two fresh Corona's soon find their place in front of them. Ilya eyes him with the corner of his eyes as he brings the bottle to his lips.

"They were out of ginger ale, Captain?"

"I guess I'm just feeling a little wild." Hollander says, eyes crinkling with his next sip, in clear disgust "So, this should be fun, huh? I've always wondered what it would be like to play on the same team."

"Have you?"

"Of course." Hollander nods "Pretty nice it was in Florida, this year, isn't it?"

Ilya nods, his mouth opening before he can really stop himself "Did you bring anyone with you?"

Very slick. Good job.

"I was going to invite my parents." Hollander admits, with a small smile "but they already had plans for next week and logistics were tight. Plus, I didn't really feel like being managed, this weekend."

"Ah." Ilya hums, unhelpfully.

"Did you? Bring anyone, I mean"

Perhaps it's something in his tone, what Ilya has grown to identify as the clue that he's genuinely interested in his answer instead of asking out of politeness, that brings him to look back towards him. But Hollander surely wouldn't- "Nope."

Hollander nods to himself, a small smile on his lips as he looks Ilya up and down, unaware of what the knowledge of his eyes on him rouses in him.

"Nice shirt."

"I like to get into the spirit."

"You're probably the only one that could pull it off."

He has to shake his head the absurdity of the situation "What about you? That's a very fancy suit. Someone took you shopping?"

Ilya tries not to imagine it, Rose Landry dressing him up to her tastes, fixing the lapels of his jacket with a warm smile on her lips, before leaning in for a-

"If I-uh- If I tell you something, would you promise not to tell anyone or make fun of me?"

The pain from biting down on his tongue is not enough to get the worst case scenarios out of his head. He tries giving him his best smirk "Ah Hollander, you know I can't promise you that."

"Seriously." Hollander insists. Their forearms brush together over the counter, the fabric of his suit scratching at Ilya's wrist, in what feels like a suffocating grip. He nods, faintly.

I love her

I don't think we should talk anymore after this

We're getting married

"I hired a stylist."

His next sip gets stuck in his throat as he registers his words. Ilya pats his chest, before doing something ridiculous like spitting it back up or have it come out of his nose. It's hard to contain a snort of laughter after that.

"You said you wouldn't make fun of me!"

"Yeah, I didn't think it would be this, though. What, you got tired of looking like shit?" He chuckles, voice hoarse.

"Wearing athletic stuff doesn't mean looking like shit." Hollander rolls his eyes. It doesn't look that much annoyed considering the smile crossing his face.

"Quite debatable."

"I shouldn't have told you."

"No, no. I love it. Proves you are just as human as the rest of us. I wouldn't have taken you for the fashionable type, though."

Hollander’s lips quirk mischievously "What, unlike you?"

"Have you seen me?" Ilya says, pointing out at his shirt and shorts "I'm European, your little Canadian sensibilities cannot compete with this."

"Good thing I hired someone else to do it for me."

Ilya would be lying if he said he's not confused by all this. After Hollander left his house, they didn't text each other, they didn't speak in interviews, nor on the ice, and now Hollander comes in looking like... well, this, and talking like everything is back to normal, like it never changed. It's hard to remind himself that this is exactly what caused all of it, that he already knows how this is going to end.

But at this point Ilya is already in love, already got hurt, what exactly does he have to loose, in indulging in this again?

Your sanity, his brain supplies.

Ilya has always been good at ignoring it, anyway.

"So, this has nothing to do with Rose Landry?"

"No. Well, I mean, kind of. She always dressed so well, her friends too, but I just really wanted to stop looking like I was always going to the gym."

Ilya thumbs nervously at the sticker of his beer "So you and her are not...?"

Hollander's stare is heavy as he turns a little on his stool. The tips of their shoes touch under the counter "No, we're not. She's great and all but, uhm, we're just not compatible."

"Compatible." If Ilya hadn't already been looking at him, he would have missed the way his eyes flicker down to Ilya's lips. It's just enough to send a shiver down his spine.

Hollander throws back the last of his beer. Ilya hadn't even noticed he had kept drinking it "Yes, compatible."

After having spent all the years he had living in between Canada and the States, Ilya hardly ever has problems with his English nowadays, at least not with the vocabulary that is to be expected from a hockey player.

'Compatible' does seem like the kind of word able to throw him off because, for the love of god, Ilya has no fucking idea of what Hollander means by it, scrolling through the Oxford English Dictionary online while waiting for Alexei to call him, with his heart beating miles in his chest and a hopeful stupid grin on his face.

What he knows, is that if he had to describe them playing together on the same line, 'compatible' actually is a word he would use.

Ilya is not really used to play wing, more like he never had to fight anyone to play centre, actually, but he thinks he must not be doing that bad of a job as Hollander tucks the puck through the net, with a loud crack that has the whole stadium jump on their seats.

Ilya doesn't care if they're sweaty and gross, doesn't care about his stupid heart or the cameras pointed at them, everybody watching, the adrenaline is so high that he barely thinks before stamping an exaggerated kiss over Hollander's ear, right where it meets the shell of the helmet.

Hollander's cheeks flush ever redder over the exhaustion, but it's probably not that noticeable from anyone that hasn't spent years classifying his face inside their heads.

Despite this... truce, Ilya doesn't really expect Jane's contact to text him, on their last night in Florida, and neither he does Hollander asking for his room number, 'to talk'.

Ilya is only a weak, weak man.

Hollander looks way too rigid as he walks into his room, and Ilya doesn't know if it's only for the obvious awkwardness clinging into the air or because what he's clearly bottling up is going to be even worse.

"And here I thought it was going to be a nice conversation." He says, crossing his arms across his chest.

Hollander's hands fold into his lap as he looks up, unsure "Really?"

This man "No, not really. I hoped it would be, though."

"I mean, it's not- it's just complicated, I guess." Hollander clears his voice. There is a certain vulnerability in the coziness of his clothes, the way he's folded a bit into his shoulders, as if trying to make himself smaller "I just- It's not just me, right? The last few times we saw each other, they were different."

Ikya can feel bile pool up in his stomach "Oh, you mean the part when you run away? That was a turn of events, for sure."

Hollander scoffs, jaw tight "Yes. I mean, no. Listen, I'm- I'm sorry if I freaked out but-"

"Freaked out over nothing."

"It wasn't nothing." Hollander says, firmly, glaring up in his direction "Fucking stop it, this is hard enough without you being an asshole."

It wasn't nothing

"Please, can we just talk, like adults." Hollander all but begs, inciting Ilya to sit down.

Flabbergasted, Ilya complies. The desk chair creaks as he turns it in the direction of the bed, where Hollander sits, waiting.

"What is it?" Ilya asks, leaning forward on his elbows "Frankly, I don't think you owe me any explanation for it. We're not anything, Hollander. This doesn't need to be complicated." I already made it too complicated "We get together, we fuck, and that's it. And maybe you freaked out, but if it's forgiveness you're looking for, there you have it." He says, clapping his hands together "Simple, isn't it?"

"Simple." Hollander repeats, lips twisting like the word tasted bitter on his tongue.

"Simple for me."

"That's fucking bullshit," Hollander says, fingers tightening on the hem of his shorts.

The silence feels suffocating as they stare into each other's eyes.

"I- I think I'm gay." Hollander says then, tilting his head down to his knees.

Despite everything, Ilya can't help the quiet chuckle leaving his lips "What- what makes you think that? Were the socks on for sex a no-homo kind of thi-"

"Oh, fuck off."

"C'mon, it's been years, and my dick in your ass wasn't enough of a clue for you?"

"You are not gay." Hollander retorts, biting.

"No, not completely. I'm bisexual."

"Yeah well, I'm gay, completely."

Ilya sighs, running an hand through his hair as he tries to make sense out of what is definitely the weirdest conversation he's ever had to endure "Hollander, I'm- why are you telling me this?"

Hollander's breath itches, then. The sound echoes loudly through the four walls of the room "Who else am I gonna tell?" He says, quietly, discouraged "It's not just me being gay, it's everything: me, you, this. One thing is being gay, another is fucking your alleged rival."

"Alright, but this is not any news to you, isn't it?" Ilya says "It's why it's a secret."

"Yes, but- last time, before, uhm, before I left, it was nice, wasn't it?"

It was. Ilya still wakes sometimes with the illusion of Hollander's warmth pressed against him, in between his arms, only to wake up and realize it was just his imagination.

"And it felt like we were something." Hollander continues, shifting on the bed. Their knees touch, like this, in a comforting light pressure that Ilya finds particularly scary other than grounding, as he repeats Hollander's words inside his head.

"We can't be something, Hollander." He says, slowly, trying to collect himself.

Hollander's voice sounds wet to his ears, as he asks "Alright but, am I wrong to think that you would want to be, if we could?"

"We can't."

"But that's not what I asked."

"Why do you care anyway?" Ilyas bursts out, holding his head up in his hands "What's the point of this?"

"The point is that I'm tired of pretending I don't like you." Hollander bites back.

Ilya's head snaps up like he just got pulled forward by a leash, directly in Hollander's hands "What?"

"I like you."

"No, you don't."

"I think I like you a little too much, actually."

"Hollander." Ilya says, pleads "Don't do this. Just don't. Please. I'm not-"

Because Ilya maybe can bear holding the weight of loving him from afar, but he can't the knowledge Hollander feels even half of what he does for him just as well. It was never just a matter of feelings, but they can only make this be even worse when Ilya knows that they’re not allowed to have it-

"This is bigger than just you and me, alright? I could never go back, if this came out, ever. Do you get this?"

"What- to your family-?"

"Maybe. I don't know. But I meant Russia, Hollander, I could never go back to Russia." He says, hands shaking his lap "I don't want to found out what would happen if I did."

"Alright but- what about your brother? Your parents?" Hollander stutters.

"It's complicated." He shakes his head, tiredly "My aunt and uncle know, but they're back there. I cannot risk telling my brother, he's the only thing I've left from before, before everything. And if I did and he hated me, I wouldn't be able to take it." He admits, turning his head away.

Ilya is way too aware of the tears running down his face, of the scalding trail they leave on his cheeks. Even warmer, though, is the feeling of Hollander's calloused hands brushing them away, gently, like Ilya were made of glass.

His apologies die between them as Hollander climbs over the little space that divides them. The chair creaks under both their weights, but neither of them pays it any mind as Hollander's fingers curl behind his nape and Ilya hides his face in the crook of his neck. The smell of his cologne is intoxicating where he's nestled. Ilya wants to bury himself under his ribcage, but there is no way to get them even closer than they already are, like this, with Hollander's thighs parted on each side of him and their chests pressed together.

Ilya should draw back, he should ask Hollander to leave. This is just gonna hurt them even more than it already did.

But he doesn't. He lets Hollander whisper kind words against his skin, swallows his sighs when they part just enough so he can press their lips together. He allows Hollander to undress him, more than he already did, until Ilya feels stripped of any piece of his armour, all of his secrets.

The last time they did this, it was different, but this is even more. And deeply inside of him he knows this is what will ruin them.

He watches Hollander unfold the clothes he left over the desk, get dressed once again, drinking in the sight of him as much as he can.

"Goodnight, Shane." He says, indulgent, just to feel his name roll off his mouth.

Shane smiles "Goodnight, Ilya."

The door clicks closed behind him. Ilya falls back against the pillows with a heavy sigh.

He needs to close this off.

 *

Ilya would be lying if he said this is his first time coming back to his father's house. Well, what was his father house. Because the asshole now is dead, apparently, and, unlike nine years ago, Ilya is twenty-five now, an adult, and walking up that same driveway gives him even more sorrow that it did back then, as a naive kid.

Truthfully, Ilya had though his father must had moved, that day.

It was Ilya's first time coming back and that week had felt already emotional enough to think too much about the inevitability of having to fly back to Edmonton, sooner rather than later. He and Nikolai had been biking through the same roads they used to back when their houses were still only a fifteen minutes drive away, chasing each other up on the sidewalks and empty roundabouts. He couldn't help the way he had braked after realizing where exactly they'd ended up at.

Nikolai had stopped his bike beside his, as Ilya stared at the front door, the lights on in the living room and the football laying on the porch. Ilya could hear the sound of a kid crying coming from inside the house.

Nikolai had sent him an hesitant look out of his good eye, the one not beat shut "Are you okay?"

That house hadn't been his home in years, ever since his mother died. In that moment, Ilya had hoped that despite it, it could have still been someone else's.

He had shrugged, trying not to let it show on his face how affected four walls and a ceiling could make him, before pushing himself off the ground and yell to his back "First to get back?"

Ilya regrets not paying more attention now, walking up to read the name on the mailbox or throw a look through the curtains, where he knew the latch on the window always failed to close all the way in. Because if he had, he would have known that the house had stayed very much the same, including who lived in it, for the exception of a woman that wasn't Ilya's mother and a kid made to replace them.

He fucking replaced them.

Back then, Ilya hadn't wanted to believe that their father would really marry again, at least out of the little respect that he and their mother must have had at some point for each other, but, frankly, after leaving he'd also been sure that none of it would've ever got to be his problem, even if he did. He hadn't thought he would care so much, either.

But Ilya does, god if he does, and now, as he stares down at the kid, he feels completely blindsided, unsure of what to do.

He'd told Alexei that he would try, at least, but Ilya genuinely feels like right now it would be easier for him to learn how to send a fucking rocket to the moon rather than do this.

"Do you, uhm, do you want to play Tekken with me? I have the new one." The kid, Isaak, asks timidly, after too many seconds of intense staring.

Tekken.

Yeah, Ilya can do that.

"Sure."

It's incredibly awkward as they sit down in front of the tv. The controller Isaak holds into his hands looks barely used, stiff a little dusty from having stayed inside a cabinet for a long time, opposed to the one he hands him as he starts up the game, the one, he figures, he actually uses to play when he's alone.

He doesn't have a lot of friends, kids pick fun at him at school

Ilya's grip tightens around the joystick.

They're silent the first two rounds. Ilya would like to say that he's been holding off to not let him win, but Isaak sends his character flying across the screen way more easily than he would like to admit. Both times. And a third too.

As the fourth starts, with no trace of Alexei and Polina in sight, Ilya breaks the silence.

"Your mom said you play hockey."

Isaak nods, fingers moving flawlessly over the joystick.

"What position?"

"Defenceman."

"Uh." Ilya would have never guessed, truthfully, mostly because Isaak looks like a stick with legs, too thin to stay on his feet after a check.

Isaak must sense the incredulity in his tone, because his eyes harden, jaw tight "You don't have to tell me I don't look like one, I already know."

"You're what? Eleven? you'll grow into it. I was a small kid too, at your age." Ilya mutters, in the hope to fix where he already fucked up.

Isaak shifts on the carpet "Really?"

"Maybe even shorter than you." Ilya confesses, leaning onto his elbows as the second round begins "What club are you in?"

"The Bolts, near the-"

"The ski lift? I used to play there when I was a kid. Is Rakhymov still the coach?"

"Yeah, he's the best." Isaak says, pressing his lips together "He brings candy for after games."

Ilya snorts. Old softie.

"Yeah, sounds like him. Tell him I said hi, next time you go."

"Okay."

Ilya loses a sixth game, a seventh, and by the eight, when his character goes down again, Ilya groans loudly as he leans his head back against the couch, hurt in his pride "This game is rigged. How is this even possible?"

"Maybe you just suck at it."

Oh well.

Isaak too looks thrown off by his own words, like a deer in headlights as he looks back at him, as if expecting Ilya to- what? Yell at him? Tell him he doesn't want to play anymore? Ilya doesn't know, but, as he stares into the startling blue of his eyes, he can't help the amused smile taking space on his face.

"Oh is that how is gonna be? Bring it on, kid. You'll be crying for your mama, when I'm done with you." He states, signalling him to restart the game with a nudge of his foot.

Isaak lips twitch, faintly "Alright, old man."

It's less tense, after that, and Ilya discovers to his own disappointment that it's really hard for him to find a reason to hold up his grudge, when Isaak is genuinely not that bad of a kid.

"It's because you don't press the combos."

"well, you didn't show them to me, did you?"

"You looked like you knew how to play."

"I'll have you known that I have a job." Ilya says, pointedly "I can't just play videogames all I want like a snotty kid."

Well, it is only half true, but Isaak doesn't need to know that.

"Oh, yes, your tiring nine to five." Isaak deadpans, rolling his eyes at him, the little shit "Forgive me for assuming."

Eventually, even Isaak grows bored of beating Ilya's ass, especially after he simply decided that the best strategy to win was to sabotage him by digging his elbow into his ribs and throw stray pillows in front of his eyes as a distraction.

Mario Kart is more in his strings, anyway, he thinks, as he build up his car.

"I have one back home that looks identical to this one. Well, minus the parachute." He tells Isaak, carefully looking over the wheels menu "Can go over two hundred miles per hour, it's a beauty."

When Isaak asks to see, Ilya lets him scroll through all the pictures he has of his garage into his phone, smirking proudly at the awe in his eyes.

"I take it you like cars?"

"A bit." Isaak says, eyes firmly stuck on Ilya's new Spyder, just a couple of months old.

"I used to have a lot of little toy ones when I was a kid. Yulechka has them now, she likes to run her barbies over with them." He says, chuckling at the slight horror on his face.

"Who's that?"

"Lyosha's daughter." He reaches to tap on his phone, still in Isaak hands, to open another folder on his gallery. He clicks on the first one: it's pretty recent, from that Christmas, Yulia is proudly showing the goalie pads Uncle Wyatt got her (completely against Ilya's will), still in pyjamas and with her curls aloof, giving a toothy smile to the camera "Well, your niece too, I guess."

Isaak crinkles his nose, like the thought is just too weird to grasp. Ilya can't really fault him. He points curiously at the pads "She plays hockey too?"

"She does. She's going to move up to the Mites next season."

"I don't know a lot of girls that play hockey." Isaak admits "There isn't a league here."

"It's pretty different in Canada." Ilya nods, pursing his lips "Our national team is very good, we won at the last Olympics, and there are a lot of programs for kids, too. Niamh, Alexei's girlfriend, she played up until college."

"That's cool." Isaak says, sounding sincere "I have a few of them too. Cars, I mean." He adds then, as he hands Ilya's phone back. "I don't play with them anymore, maybe you can give them to Yulechka." The nonchalance in his voice is betrayed by a little blush of self consciousness spread onto the top of his cheeks, but Isaak commits to the bit and simply turns back to grab his joystick before thrusting Ilya's back into his hands.

He's trying to impress him, Ilya realizes then, no- more like make a good impression, like he wants to earn it, Ilya's attention, or he thinks that if he didn't, Ilya would simply walk away.

And that brings back memories that Ilya had thought he could forget, an hard task when being thrown back into this place.

He thinks of a kid that learned to fight on the ice just to get his father to look at him, pat his bruised back and tell him he did a good job, that that was how men earned their place in the world, by proving they were worthy.

Now, while sat down into a house that saw history repeating itself one too many times, Ilya can't help but think that maybe they're not as different from each other as he'd thought, after all.

Ilya wishes he had been proven right, instead.

He ruffles up his hair. Isaak doesn't pretend to hate it "That's nice of you. I'm sure she'll be happy to have them."

Isaak nods, shily, eyes firm on the screen "I'll show them to you, later."

All things considered, Alexei looks undoubtedly better than he'd been the day before, as they sit down for lunch, even including the bruise the size of Alberta on his face. Ilya too, despite everything, can't help but feel reassured by the thought of flying back home in less than twenty four hours, now that everything has been signed off and back behind closed doors.

That night had left him spent after closing his call with Shane, barely able to close his eyes and find some sleep. He has a lot of it to catch up on during all the flying it’ll take to get to Edmonton, that is for sure.

They keep conversation light: Alexei asks Isaak about school, how hockey is going, while Ilya and Polina discuss the inevitable hassle that will be looking for a place in a city as busy as Moscow. Fortunately, Ilya knows just the guy.

"I wouldn't want to disturb." Polina tries to refuse, while Ilya is already scrolling through his contacts to send Vetrov her number.

"Trust me, you'll make his day." Ilya says, waving her off "He needs this kind of enrichment, every now and then."

Alexei and Polina's boring adult talk falls silent to his ears as he answers Isaak's questions about the season, filling in with stories that maybe are not exactly that kid-friendly, but that Polina doesn't seem to mind enough to interrupt. Ilya doesn't miss the relief in her eyes at seeing the three of them interact, just as he doesn't the smugness Alexei doesn’t even try to hide behind his glass.

A damn know-it-all, that's what he is.

They both follow Isaak upstairs when Polina refuses any help with cleaning up in the living room. In retrospect, Ilya wishes he had insisted, instead, all the small pettiness leaving his body as he takes in Isaak's room,  a carbon copy of what Ilya left fourteen years ago.

Alexei doesn't hover, his face tight. Ilya wonders if he's thinking about it too, all the nights he'd spent by his bedside to bring him back from nightmares, on that same rug Isaak sits cross-legged over now, to show Ilya Ilya's old plastic soldiers.

The bed creaks as Ilya sits down on it, the bedpost the one he and Nikolai engraved their initials onto when they were ten, somewhere under the slates.

For someone that couldn't wait to get a new family, Grigori Rozanov could surely be a sentimental bastard.

He wills himself to stay normal at the sight of unsureness crossing Isaak's face, the light dimming in his eyes as he must take in Ilya's reserve. He doesn't want him to think he's mad at him, not if he can help it, but it's hard to make himself relax, when he can barely form a thought other than how much he wants to leave.

"Show me your cars." He offers, not unkindly if not in dire need of a distraction.

Isaak bites his lower lip, moving from one foot to the other at the shift of mood, but dutifully walks over the windowsill to retrieve the line of little cars the best he can in his hands.

Some of those Ilya remembers from his childhood, which is not that much of a statement by now considering, well, everything. There is a little a Mustang among them, one of its front wheels crushed from the one time Alexei stepped on it, while begrudgingly leaning in through the door to call Ilya down for dinner. Alexei had truly been apologetic after, Ilya remembers. Maybe because before they were Ilya's, they had been his too, or just because six year old him had bawled his eyes out enough to make himself sick that night.

Ilya is not that gullible to not be aware he had a pretty sheltered childhood, with their big house and the perfectly curated garden in the back, all enclosed off by picked white fence, in one of the richest neighbourhoods of Moscow. And despite this, their father couldn't even give Isaak his own room among all the empty guests rooms downstairs, his own toy cars to line up by the window, and tried to mold him into a little bit of both of them, him and Alexei.

Maybe that was another thing Isaak had to earn, being himself.

Ilya feels like throwing up.

"Don't you want to keep some?" He asks faintly, as Isaak thrusts all of them into his hands, before linking his hands behind his back like waiting for a verdict.

"No. I told you, I don't play with them anymore." Isaak says, looking down at his socked feet.

Ilya presses "Not even one?"

Isaak hesitates. He looks down at Ilya cupped hands and the small toy cars like there must be a right answer to his question. He picks up what Ilya thinks is an awfully good reproduction of an F1 car, a little scratched on the sides, setting it up over his nightstand without meeting Ilya's eyes.

Damnit, the kid has good taste too.

"Happy?" He grumbles.

"As a clam." Ilya answers, poking him in his stomach. As Isaak huffs, outraged, Ilya gives the room another pensive look, until his eyes fall over Isaak's skates' bag, the Moscow Wolves patch sewed on the side of it. He stuffs the cars left into his pockets "You have your sticks here, right? If the driveway is still slippery, we could do some passes, what do you think?"

That is evidently the right thing to say, because Isaak scrambles to grab two hockey sticks from his closet and then Ilya's arm to usher him downstairs, in a demonstration of strength hardly associable to someone built like a twig.

They play hockey for the rest of the afternoon, exchanging the rubber puck between them flawlessly enough to make Ilya feel weirdly proud. He asks about his favourite team (The Wolves, of course), if he wants to keep playing hockey in the future (Yes, duh), throwing in the first questions that come up to his mind to try to sort him out in his head.

It's easy with hockey as a middle ground, he thinks, slipping the puck between his legs before whooping loudly and lean down for a theatrical bow.

Isaak sticks his tongue out to him before retrieving the puck.

He shows him how to toss and retrieve the puck on the blade of his stick, too, per his request, playfully making fun of the frown of his face as he tries to figure it out, lanky and still a little childishly uncoordinated.

Isaak is an incredibly good sport about it, probably sensing Ilya doesn't really mean half of it. He still keeps trying and trying, though, while talking back, dry and feisty, up until the puck makes a perfect arch in the air, falls on his blade, still, barely leaving Ilya the time to realize it happened before Isaak sends it past his side and against the garage door, with a loud metallic sound.

They stare at each other in silence for a couple of seconds.

Polina's head pops out of the kitchen window, then, definitely unimpressed "Izya! Not at the garage door."

Isaak gulps, guilty "Sorry, mama."

Ilya's snicker is promptly stopped by one of Polina's cutting brows, raised in his direction. He suppresses a shiver "Yeah, uh- sorry."

He still high fives the kid once she's out of earshot.

Alexei is awfully condescending, later that day, as they make the drive back home, while smirking down at him from his seat.

Maybe he was right, but Ilya is absolutely not going to tell him that.

Pockets filled with toy cars, Ilya rests his head against the window.

This could work, after all.

*

Ilyushka: can you sign one of ur sticks from rookie yr and send it to ur house?

Ilyushka: Auntie knows what to do from there.

Ilyusha: tx

Nikki:???

Nikki: is this your way of telling me you've finally gone mad?

*

Ilya stands by his mother's grave, the next morning, with a lightness in his chest he thinks he's never felt before, all those times he's come to see her.

That could be why he doesn't recognizes himself talking at first, still half asleep and with a clock ticking over his head with anticipation for their flight back home, in less than two hours.

"- and Nadia is doing fine, she's going through a big case right now, but you know her, she's too tough to crack under the pressure. Nikki too. He took from her more than I thought he would, growing up, but he still blushes like a little kid when it's time for interviews. He's happy I think, in Boston, you would be glad to see it."

He smiles, crouching down to caress the cracks in the stone "Maybe it wasn't that bad of a thing, coming back. I think I needed this, getting to know it's over. God, you would have been so mad to know the bullshit he said after we left, but who cares about their opinion anyway? We're doing fine. Lyosha just needs to chill a little, but when doesn't he?" He can't help the small chuckle leaving his lips "You know, I didn't use to believe you when you said that we would get to be friends someday, when we'd be all grown up. Considering you knew us way more than we knew each other, I should have trusted you a little more than that. I'm glad I was wrong. I hope you're proud of us."

It's like a dam finally overflowing. Ilya can barely contain it to make his words make any sense before they get carried away from the wind.

And he talks and talks and talks: about Yulia, Niamh, their life back in Canada. He tells her about the season, the new song he's been trying to learn on his guitar and that earned him one too many threats of eviction from one very grumpy Nikolai (as if it wasn’t Ilya who bought the house), how Niall's borsch tastes just like the one she used to make, now, after years of practice.

It's a little inevitable to tell her about Shane too, when the past ten years of his life have been orbiting around him more often than not.

He thinks of his voice on the phone, the other night, the gentle lull of it, arguably the only thing holding him together at the time as he sniffled tearily, rolling his cigarette between his fingers while he leaned out the window and hoping the night could take away his sorrow too, other than keep the secret of his confession.

"You would like him." He decides, bittersweet "Well, not us, that I don't think you would approve of, but him, as a person, I think you definitely would." He corrects himself, gripping at the cross around his neck "I'm sorry if that's not how you had imagined it, but I can't really help it, loving him."

And if he could, Ilya thinks he probably would have still fallen for him hundreds of other times.

He snorts to himself. Shane fucking Hollander.

What does he know about what his mother would have thought anyway?

In his head, she's smiling down at him right now, while listening to him talk, brushing his hair away like she used to when he was a kid, telling him that it's ok.

Ilya wants to live in the fantasy just a little longer.

"I don't think it could work between us, for whatever it's worth, but maybe we could find a way to still be friends after this. I don't know what I'll tell him, yet. I have a little over a week to still think about it. If you have any advice, it would be very much appreciated." He jokes, before giving his watch a rapid look.

"I think I should go, now." He says, clearing his voice and fixing the flowers over the ground one last time, before standing up to wipe the melted snow off his hands "We have a plane to catch and I bet Lyosha wants to say hi, too."

He lets his fingers brush against his lips, then her grave, in a ritual he knows very well by now "I love you. Wish me luck, will you, mama?"

As he walks back to the car, hands in his pockets, Ilya can't help but sigh to himself.

There is only one thing left to do now.

*

When Ilya finally turns his phone off, it's way past midnight.

Everything aches as he falls back on Rory's bed, hands on his face, to cover the hysterical smile painted on his lips.

Fucking Scott Hunter kissing a man in the middle of the ice was the last thing he had expected coming out of the playoffs. And he guess he hadn't expected coming out too, for that matter.

They must love each other, malyshka.

There had been such tenderness in Alexei's voice, then, as he smiled down at Yulia, in the unsure look on his face when he'd turned to look up at him, that Ilya had felt like suffocating.

He knows, he knows, he knows

The room had felt both too big and too small. Ilya had needed out.

In retrospect, he should have known Alexei would follow him outside.

Ilya doesn't think he's ever cried as much as he did into his brother's arms, just a few hours earlier on the Callahans' porch.

Alexei knows, Alexei knows and he doesn't care a single beat, and Ilya's head still struggles to wrap his head around the fact that he's just allowed to exist now, that he doesn't have to keep his secret anymore, not from his family at least, especially not from him. The thought brings a new round of tears to his eyes, as he chuckles, incredulously, into the darkness of the room.

When Alexei had walked back inside, Ilya had already been reaching for his phone, hands shaking.

Shane had answered on the second ring, voice thick.

"Hey, I tried calling you earlier, did you see-"

"I'm coming to the cottage."

For a couple of seconds, no sound had come through the speaker. Ilya had been about to remove his phone from his ear to check if it was still on, but then Shane had released a deep, long sigh of relief, hitting Ilya right into the chest.

"Oh, thank god."

"Thank-?"

"You didn't answer." Shane had said, a little accusingly, a little scared "I thought that maybe- maybe something happened or you- I don't know. Sorry, I'm blabbering. It's been a crazy night."

"Yeah." Ilya had laughed weekly, dropping his head on his knees as he wrapped the blanket closer around his shoulders "Scott Hunter, huh?"

"I would have never guessed."

"That he's gay or that he would do something like this?"

There was a pause.

"Both?"

Ilya snorted "Yeah, fair."

"This is so fucking big." Shane said "My mom said it's everywhere and it's only been only like an hour or something. Do you think his team knew already?"

"Didn't look like it. Some maybe. I didn't really stop to see the rest." He'd admitted, propping himself up against the handrail.

"Hey, are you okay?" Shane had asked then, worried "Can you switch to video?"

"Ah, I'm really not that sexy at the moment, Hollander-"

"Oh, shut up." Shane had huffed. There was some rustling, the sound of a door closing, then Ilya's phone had buzzed into his hand, with a forwarded request for a videocall.

Ilya already imagined how he would look, face blotchy with tears and with his hair plastered against one side of his face, from when Alexei's fingers had carded through it as he cried, but he couldn't help but grimace as he met his own face in the little box on the bottom of the screen. Shane had gasped.

"Ilya-"

"I'm okay." He'd interrupted him, softly, thumbing soothingly at his cheek on the screen, even though Shane wouldn't feel it "I just- I talked with my brother, after- after the game."

Shane's eyes had crinkled with sadness, then "Oh. He didn't-?"

"No, no, it was- it was good. Very good actually." He'd hurried to explain, smiling wetly "He already knew, kind of."

Shane's shoulders had visibly sagged as he leaned back against the headboard. His arm was out of its sling, Ilya figured he must have already gotten back home from his parents' house. He only pouted a bit at the barely visible freckles on his face. Shane's cute frown had compensated his disappointment "He did?"

"Apparently. He heard us talking when I was in Russia. Only me." He'd specified, for his peace of mind, still a little embarrassed.

"Oh."

"My family is very nosy. He said it was accidental but I know he also likes to gossip like an old lady."

Shane chuckled, is smile softer "But it was fine, you said."

"It was. Very emotional. I cried, he cried, it was a ball."

Well, Alexei didn't really cry, but Shane doesn't need to know that.

"He does know about Jane, though. I mean, he already knew that too, but now he knows that it's a man. Not that it's you, of course." He added, already expecting the shift happening on Shane's face.

"It's okay. I get it." Shane had said, like trying to convince himself "I'm just glad it went great."

That Ilya could believe, if the wet glint of his eyes wasn't already telling enough.

He smiled back "Me too."

"So... the cottage." Shane said then, an hopeful look on his face, changing the subject "You're really coming?"

If you love this guy, it’s just not worth it to let him get away

Maybe Ilya deserved to be a little selfish.

He also didn't need the camera to know just how lovesick he looked, as he nodded "I wouldn't miss it for the world, zaychik."

He'd let Shane talk about his little corner of paradise for all twenty minutes they'd stayed on the phone, eyes growing blearier and drowsier with the soft sound of his voice, already imagining it: just the two of them for a week, maybe two, completely alone if not for each other.

The texts flooding his phone could wait until tomorrow while he daydreamed about it. 

Perhaps he should have made sure to be a little quieter into his maniacal giggling, because one moment he's drying up the last of his tears, reaching on his bedside for his pack of cigarettes, just to get the edge off, the other he's turning towards the door, after the unmistakable creak of the handle moving.

It's not his brother, nor Niamh, but Yulia's tired and squinting eyes he meets. Ilya jumps up on the bed, searching for tears, a weird cough, a bloody nose, anything, but finds nothing as she pads pretty blindly towards the bed and into his open arms "Everything alright, Zvezdochka? You should be sleeping, it's very late."

Yulia rubs at her eyes with a yawn, her little face smashed against his neck "I heard you crying, 'yadyushka. Are you sad?"

Ilya's worry melts away as he lowers both of them over the bed. He leaves a kiss on her forehead, brushing the hair away from her face "No, no. It's fine, kiddo. I wasn't crying."

"But you look like you're cryin'"

Ilya huffs, fondly. Nosy, all of them.

"It's happy tears, Yulechka. Something really good happened."

"Really?" She slurs.

Ilya chuckles "Really."

"Oh." She says quietly, cuddling even closer against his side "Okay. Tomorrow you'll tell me. But papa and mama always cuddle with me when I cry, so can I still stay here tonight?" 

Who is Ilya to argue with her logic?

His arm curls gently around her as he nuzzles into her soft curls, reaching for the single sheet to rest over the both of them, just so she won’t get cold "Of course. Thank you, Zvezdochka. Sleep now, yes?”

By the time Ilya has finished talking she's already snoring softly in the crook of his neck, her arm thrown over his chest and one of her legs propped up on his stomach.

He's probably signing himself off to getting suffocated in his sleep, he thinks, sighing sleepily.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

*

If someone had told him, shy of three months ago, that he would find himself walking through Ottawa International airport, Ilya would have laughed at their faces. Or have a crash out.

Chances were he could have done both.

Back then, Ilya had been all but ready to cut things off with Shane. He had a speech practically written off in his head, after one too many all-nighters, a game he planned to win and a room already booked to meet him into, at the same Hotel the Voyageurs were staying.

They never made it to that room.

One second, it had taken only one second of Shane turning to look at him over his shoulder with stars in his eyes, for him not to see Marleau coming for the puck.

The loud crack of Shane's helmet over the ground had plagued Ilya's mind all night. His body, unmoving and still over the cold ice, was a picture too vivid behind his eyes, too similar to something Ilya had already seen before, that he still did, sometimes, in his dreams, only to wake up drenched in cold sweat, shaking from head to toe.

Nikolai hadn't said anything when he'd slipped into his bed that night. Maybe he had already imagine it would go like that, after being the one having to physically remove Ilya from the ice,  he hadn't known, but his weight along his back had helped him greatly with remind himself that he was alive, his mother wasn't, and Shane Hollander, as Montreal's team had stated, was now owner of a hell of a concussion and a broken collarbone, but alive nonetheless.

And yet, Ilya couldn't wait for Shane to text it back himself.

Walking through Boston Medical Center had been risky, everyone knew where Hollander had been taken to after the game. Ilya hadn't exactly been led by rationality there, clearly, but everyone liked a good act of sportsmanship and getting through the main desk had been concerningly easy, after all. Ilya supposed the nurse must've either really realized who he was or he'd just painted a pathetic enough picture for her to take pity on him.

Shane was loopy, way more out of it than Ilya had imagined he would be, but breathing. His cheek had flushed when Ilya, not able to resist, had reached to caress it between his fingers, his smile stretched as he babbled incoherently about missed chances, stupid Marleaus and things he couldn't wait to ask him.

"Sh, you can tell me later, zaychik." He'd whispered, as Shane took his hand into his own.

"No. I had a whole plan for this." He'd slurred, frowning endearingly "I was gonna ask you: will you come to my cottage, this summer? I know you said you wanted to go to Russia but maybe when you come back, we could be together, for a while-"

"Hollander-"

"Just you and me." Shane had sing-sung, swinging their hands weakly between them "That's what I want, more than anything else."

"Shane." Ilya hadn't known what to say apart from his name, as all of his resolutions cracked underneath him. In the end, he'd chosen the more cowardly road "Maybe. I'll think about it, okay?"

Shane had hummed happily, nuzzling on their joined hands.

Chances were he was probably going to forget about it with all that anaesthetics, anyway.

Shane hadn't, though, but hadn't also pressed when Ilya repeated his answer, a couple of weeks later, torn and conflicted.

But then Scott Hunter had kissed his boyfriend on national television, and Ilya's life had taken a turn that he can barely still believe nowadays, while looking for Shane's SUV among hundreds of others boring cars lined up into the airport's parking lot.

It doesn't take long to spot the only driver completely still into his seat, that holds his hands dutifully on 10-2 even with the engine off and keeps checking into the mirrors like paparazzi might jump out the nearest bushes.

"Nice car." He tries, as he slips into the passenger seat, heart beating miles into his chest.

He hasn't seen him since their last game, not like this, at least, and the urge to pull him closer to brush their lips together, like he'd seen a couple he'd surpassed walking through the parking lot do, makes his skin itch with want. He can't, though. Instead, he focuses on pulling his belt on.

"What? It is, it's good in the snow, too." Shane says, confused, turning on the engine.

Ilya doesn't deem that worthy of an answer.

The air is so thick it could be cut with a cut with a knife, at first. He's not the only one nervous about this, he realizes, watching the tight line of Shane's shoulders as he drives and stutters about groceries, the jet skis he'd got for the deck, the trails up and around the cottage.

Ilya decides to spare him "Shane." He settles one hand over his on the gear shift, reeling in the way Shane flips it over to interlock their fingers before laying their joined hands over Ilya's thigh "Relax."

"Relax." Shane repeats, as if stating an impossible task, before sighing loudly "yeah, I should, shouldn't I? I would like to relax with you, for once." He admits.

Ilya squeezes his hand.

Shane lasts exactly five second into the new silence.

"Did anyone recognize you? At the airport or anything."

"No, I don't think so."

"Cool. Yeah, that's good. The cottage is super private, you don't need to worry about anything." Shane hesitates "Your family knows you're here?"

"My brother is not going to think I got kidnapped and send police at your door, if that's what you're worrying about." Ilya smirks. Then, more seriously "They know that Jane invited me to spend a couple of weeks together, that's about it."

The sniggering look exchanged between Alexei and Niamh from opposite sides of the couch had been bordering annoying, when he'd told them about it earlier that week, after dinner, all three of them filled with maybe too much wine after closing up what had been an incredibly embarrassing call with Nadia and the guys, at least for him and Nikolai. Ilya had made the thoughtful decision to start to worry about what to pack, after that, throwing a middle finger at his back as he walked back into his room, an undeniable smile on his face.

Ever since the playoffs, they'd both made a great deal about proving that they were more than okay with it, with him, mostly by not actually making a big deal out of it, with simple offers of consideration that had made his heart soar in his chest.

Ilya had hardly known what to expect the day after the game, when coming downstairs for coffee, nursing the headache of a century and sore ribs from one of Yulia's feet kicking his side during the night, but Alexei had simply nodded in his direction, settled a plate of waffles in front of him and got back to comment the newspaper with Niall, with a gentle brush of reassurance on his shoulder.

Everything was just as ordinary as it had always been.

Ilya had hid a grateful smile behind his cup before joining in the boring talk about inflation.

He might have cried a little about a stupid plastic pin Niamh had left on top of his bed, after the station's annual contribution to the city's parade, but that is between him and the four walls of his room.

"What about your parents? They live here, right? In Ottawa." He asks, tilting his head.

"They won't bother us. I told them I was on a silent retreat, like a meditation thing."

He can't help but snort.

"What?" Shane asks, sounding genuinely put out "Does it sound fake?"

"Considering it's you, maybe not that much, actually." he laughs, caressing his knuckles.

"Oh, because I'm boring?"

"Mhm, among other things."

Shane only smiles before turning his eyes back to the road.

The cottage looks exactly like Ilya had imagined it would (with the visual contribution of one documentary Ilya might have watched way too many times), and it feels like Shane, in all the ways that matter, unlike his building in Montreal.

Ilya turns on himself to take it all in; the curated furniture, the wooden stairs, the tall glass doors that give out to the back and the deck, the crystalline lake in the distance, all surrounded by a thick stretch of trees.

"-the water here is really good too. I have my own well, you can see it from here. Just, uh, in case you're thirsty."

Ilya doesn't think water can solve his kind of thirst, though.

His lips are on Shane's in a matter of seconds, soft but needy, as he cups his face in his hands. Ilya can't help but sigh in relief when Shane parts his lips, pliant, to let him in and grips his waist just as fiercely. They fall on the couch in a tangle of limbs, laughing in each other's mouth like kids. Shane's weight on top of his, as they fall backwards onto the couch, is warm, inviting and absolutely magnetic. Ilya's hands reach for his back, his shoulders, tracing his sides and all the little skin poking from under his shirt.

The kiss grows heated and charged, and he can't deny the small huff leaving his lips as Shane pulls slightly away "Wait-"

The hand Ilya had halfway down his shorts stills immediately, taken aback.

Shane's already breathing heavily over him, mussed and flushed "I might not last long, it's, uh, it's been a while."

"Yeah, same. But we have two weeks." Ilya reasons, aware of the smile it brings up to his lips as he knowingly presses down on his groin.

Shane whimpers quietly, but he must be way less affected than Ilya thought it was if he's still able to talk "Yeah, yes- w-wait, same?"

Ilya does not whine "Shane-"

"You said 'same'." Shane says, incredulous as he searches Ilya's eyes and pulls even more away with a goofy grin on his lips "You haven't slept with anyone else?"

"Well, I'm trying right now, aren't I?" Ilya scoffs, emptily, feeling his own cheeks growing warmer "You are not making this easy, Hollander, so if you could-"

"Not since-?"

"No." Ilya says, firm but not unkind, once it becomes clear Shane isn't going to drop it, throwing his head back against the couch with a sigh "Not since, so-"

Shane chuckles. The sound goes right to his heartstrings, hitting that warm and mushy spot Shane has unconsciously claimed as his.

"I haven't either." Gentle fingers push Ilya's hair out of his eyes, knuckles brushing across his cheekbone. Shane's eyes look mesmerizing in the natural light coming from the windows. Ilya wants to drown in them "Not since the last time." He says, sliding further down his body. He holds his head up on his hand, looking both enticingly handsome and satisfied for someone that is even harder than Ilya is right now-

"I have an idea." Shane says, swatting at Ilya's chest when his groan echoes loudly over the room.

His arms link more tightly around Shane's waist as he swallows his laugh with his lips. He's still giggling when they part "Alright Einstein, hit me up."

"We have two weeks here, together." Shane says, scratching lightly at his scalp. If his goal is to butter Ilya up with it, he thinks, melting against the couch, he'll definitely succeed "Let's just be honest with each other. About what we think, what we- what we feel." He adds, more timidly, searching Ilya's face with rounded eyes.

 If Ilya were to be honest, he would have already told him that he hasn't actually slept with anyone that isn't him in more than a year, that being here, with him, elates him just as it makes him scared shitless, for reasons he can't even begin to explain, and he would have already told him that he loves him, since way longer than he himself can admit to knowing.

He has given Shane so much of himself, in the past few months, in the past few years, that hesitating like this should be pointless, anyway.

This is different, though, he can see it in the way Shane keeps biting down on his lower lip, waiting patiently.

But even then, when has ever been able to deny him anything?

"I'll try." He says, cupping his cheek in the palm of his hand. Shane sighs quietly against it, his weight shifting in his lap. Which reminds him- "I'd do anything that would make you touch my dick, right now-"

Shane's back on him in a matter of seconds, their laughs meeting in the middle. He tastes of hunger, of lust, of an happiness so big Ilya feels he could be crushed by it.

He smiles against his lips.

Ilya is exactly where he wants to be.

*

Ilya has never had a dream as beautiful as this one, he thinks, and especially not one where he gets to wake up every morning and see Shane plastered against his chest, still asleep and dishevelled.

But there is no such feeling as realizing that it has not been a dream at all, that past week; waking up to the sun coming through the windows, with their bodies still flush together and warm with sleep, cooking side by side and getting to crowd Shane in his arms as he fiddles with the stove or watch him hoist himself up on the deck and out of the water, tanned, freckled skin glistening and wet, painting a more than mouth watering picture.

The domesticity in it, getting to be themselves in this little oasis cut out from the rest of the world, it's something Ilya has never thought he could have.

But it's real, all of it, from the board games now permanently stuck on the coffee table, in front of the tv, for when they're both still too knocked out from swimming all morning but not enough not to argue about the rules of monopoly, to the moments of quietness allowed between each other, noisier than a walking band, while tangled on the couch, or in bed, on the swing in the back.

And the sex.

The sex somehow gets even better.

"God, Ilya-" Shane moans, his head thrown back against the shower's tiles.

Ilya can barely hear his voice with the sound of the water crashing on the floor, but he has the first row seat to watching it fall in rivulets down his chest, stick to his eyelashes and mix with tears while he sucks harder around his cock, humming at the feeling of his fingers intertwined in his hair.

Ilya has hardly ever had to shower alone in the past week, in between the sex, the swimming, all the sweating from laying under the sun, lathered in the sunscreen Shane had insisted he put on(and why would Ilya ever say no to his hands on him?), or playing football in the back. Well, a very handsy version of it, but who cares?

He's already mourning having to go back to Boston in just a few days, to his less than impressive and lonely shower, just like he is the picture Shane paints underneath the water stream, all flushed from heat and arousal as he comes into his mouth, his lips parted with a gasp.

Ilya just watches him for a couple of seconds, still on his knees on the cold and wet floor of the shower as he catches his breath, while Shane stands in all his beautiful glory on shaky legs.

Fuck if he's going to miss this.

All of it.

"Kinda reminds me of camping." He admits, later that night, eyeing the bonfire, the trees all surrounding the property and the path leading to the shores of the lake "But campfire is not as boring. Electricity is a perk, though."

"Ok, boy scout." Shane huffs, from where he's laying in front of him, their feet pressed together in the middle of the outdoor couch "I still find it really hard to believe you enjoy camping, by the way, you're so squeamish."

"I am not." He says, an hand splayed over his chest "How dare you?"

Shane lips quirk up "You were screaming bloody murder over a spider yesterday."

"Well, it caught me off guard."

"You ran away and yelled 'oh god, kill it, please, kill it'." Shane quotes, monotone, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He's wearing a sweater, Ilya's sweater, looking maddeningly cozy as he perks his eyebrow up at him, amused.

And alright, maybe that hadn't been among Ilya's greatest moments, but the fucker jumped.

Ilya clears his voice "It had no business being in pantry, and you're more used to them and their viciousness."

"Viciousness."

"Yes, Sh-" his phone ringing from somewhere under their legs it's a perfect intermission, even more so when he sees who's calling "Would you look at that, my beautiful future sister-in-law. You can't make a bride wait, you know?"

Shane sticks his tongue out at him as he stands up from the couch. He can't resist leaving a kiss on top of his head "Gimme just a sec."

The saccharine smile Shane sends back makes his heart do backflips inside his chest.

The glass door has barely closed behind him when Ilya answers the call, only to be greeted with the top of Yulia's face, framed by a cascade of blond curls "Uncle Ilya, hi!"

"Oh, hi, Zvezdochka." He waves back, smiling "What a pleasure hearing from you. Is your mama there?"

"Nope." She says, chewing on a piece of hair. Ilya can kind of see the walls of her room behind her, freshly painted in sage green earlier that summer and covered up with new frames, even through the darkness on her end of the line. It's hard to be sure though, with her being mostly hidden under a blanket "She and Uncle Kolya are watching a movie."

"Without you?" Ilya gasps, dropping onto the living room plush armchair.

"No, they just fell asleep and it got boring." She pouts, then, her brows furrowed "And I miss you."

Ilya's chest tightens "Oh kiddo, I miss you too. But we're seeing each other soon, yes?" He says, giving her a small smile through the screen.

Yulia grumbles, clearly not happy with the reasoning, but doesn't fusses much more.

"What is papa doing?" He says, hoping to distract her.

"He's with Uncle Finn, his sink broke." She says solemnly, before looking curiously into the camera "Are you still with your friend?"

Ilya can't help but chuckle. Alexei had told him he could tell Yulia whatever he preferred when explaining why he wouldn't be spending the rest of the summer home, mostly due to the knowledge of kids being clumsy and often running their mouths.

Being given the choice, Ilya hadn't found it in himself to lie, not after having kept the secret for so long already, and not to Yulia, to whom he could barely tell no when walking past a toy store.

Maybe he hadn't known what he and Shane were back then, and he barely does now, frankly, despite this idyllic play pretend they've been doing for the past week, but edulcorating it into something more child friendly hadn't been too hard, all things considered.

"Yes I am. We were outside, I just got back in to answer to you."

Yulia lowers her eyes, apologetic "Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Yulechka." He says, smacking a loud kiss over the camera, just to hear her giggle "I will always answer when you call, yes? That is our deal, you cannot separate us. My friend understands it."

"Can I meet him?" She asks innocently, eyes full of expectation.

Ilya's smile turns a little sadder, but he's quick to cover it up "Ah, kiddo, he's very shy, you see? Not now, but maybe someday." He says.

Yulia tilts her head, knowingly "Ah, when he'll be your boyfriend?"

Ilya snorts "Hopefully."

"If he does become your boyfriend, maybe you can show Uncle Kolya how to get one too, after." Yulia considers then, happily, as if Ilya weren't currently digging his nails into the palms of his hands not to laugh his ass off.

Roasted by a six years old. He can't wait to tell Nikolai.

Nikolai who had taken all of that situation in stride, against all expectations.

Ilya likes to think that now, at twenty-five, Nikolai is not the same as he was when he first moved to the States, just as he isn't quite the teen that swore off from anything that wasn't hockey to not get his heart broken, and even less the kid who told Ilya he wished there could be a way to fix himself, that he was a mistake.

And in hindsight, when answering Will's texts, the day after the finals, after finally calling Nikolai back, he couldn't help but think that he'd been right, after all, all that months ago in Tampa.

It had matter for some people.

"I just never thought you could have both." Nikai had confessed, sniffing into his Bears hoodie. Nadia had told him he had barely said anything after the game, simply closed himself inside of his room and didn't come out until breakfast the next day, just as silently. But out of all things he had expected, the calculating calm written on his face had definitely not been on the list "Hockey and, uhm-"

"Yes." He'd nodded, because as far as a few months ago, he didn't either "I know."

"I heard he'll hold a speech at the next awards. Hunter, I mean, and he's probably gonna get MVP, anyway. I think I'll tell Sergei I'll go, after all." Nikolai said, twisting the strings of the hoodie between his fingers "You wanna come?"

Vetrov had already insisted they went, when the subject had first arose, and Ilya hadn't had nowhere to be later that week, anyway "Yeah, why not?"

And go they did.

Vegas in the summer was humid and just as crowded as ever, and the after party was somehow even more packed, definitely making looking for someone in particular a ‘needle in a hay stack’ kind of situation. By that time of the night, though, for a man as requested as Hunter was, Mr. MVP, that usually meant a tactical retreat to the bar to escape all of it.

Ilya hadn't been that surprised to be right, when they'd found Hunter at the counter, surrounded by fellow players, plus ones, suited up men chatting over the quiet music played on stage.

"Scott Hunter," Ilya had said, pulling a still flustered Nikolai along by the cuff of his suit "the man of the hour."

"What are you doing here?" Hunter had asked, surprised.

"Came to say congratulations, of course." He rolled his eyes, grabbing the barman’s attention for two glasses of scotch "Your old age is not only affecting hockey, anymore, I see."

"Yes, er- congratulations, Mr. Hunter." Nikolai had nodded, way more professionally, offering his hand up for an handshake.

Hunter's annoyance had melted a bit at Nikolai's politeness "To you too, Morozov. the Norris, you must be proud."

"I did not expect." Nikolai admitted sheepishly, scratching at his jaw. And it was true, it really was, because while Vetrov had remembered to make sure they got to Vegas, he had weirdly enough forgot to inform either of them as to why he had insisted so much to begin with "My agent, he thinks he is funny." He grumbled.

Hunter had chuckled, patting his shoulder "It was still a nice speech. Good job, kid."

Nikolai's blush, nearly evened out after he got off stage, burned back fiercely. Ilya had chuckled as he held a glass up in his direction "Told you so."

"Shut up." Nikolai glared, probably aware of his face having been posted on the family group chat right the second they both realized it was not, in fact, a joke "But, uhm, thank you, Mr. Hunter. I also liked your speech too, very much." He had said, exhaling quietly, as he gave a quick look around them, to all the people too lost in their own conversation to listen in "It is-uh- I know it is hard to grow up in hockey when you're different. Maybe- maybe it can change now, maybe it won't, but thank you. I wish you and your partner well."

That wasn't what Ilya had expected him to say, and Hunter evidently hadn't either, as he stared back at Nikolai, where he was wiping his sweaty hands on his slacks while waiting patiently for his response, green in the face as if the implication in his words hadn't quite been as intentional as it came out.

Ilya'd shaken himself out pretty quickly, though, sending Hunter and expectant look from over the rim of his glass.

"You don't, uhm, there is nothing to thank me for." Hunter finally said, eyes a little misty from the alcohol, or maybe the weight of Nikolai's admission, Ilya wasn't sure "That is how it should have always been. I love hockey but... some things are just more important."

Nikolai hadn't seemed too sure about that, but still nodded.

"Ah, I'm afraid Nikki here loves hockey a little too much to shit on it." He'd said, wrapping his arm around Nikolai's shoulders "But he is right: Is good. What you did. It will be good for…others." Ilya couldn't keep the gratefulness to chime into his tone and he found that, for once, he didn't particularly care.

Hunter's gaze had jumped between them for a couple of seconds before he raised his glass in a silent invite, a small smile on his face "Let's hope so. Now, I think some of the guys are still around here, you two want to join us for some shots?"

Sober Nikolai, the next morning, didn't remember cooing and tearing up over an even drunker Hunter showing them picture of him and his boyfriend Kip, but he definitely did needing to tell Vetrov off, who only offered a loud laugh on the phone before hanging up to send both of them their boarding passes.

Maybe that had been for the best.

"Oh yes, Yulechka, don't worry. Maybe you can help me finding him a prince charming, yes?"

"Mh-mh." Yulia hums, before breaking out into a yawn.

"I think you should go to sleep, kiddo." He chuckles.

"I'm just a little tired."

"But is better now than when you'll be big tired, isn't it? And you'll have a longer dream to tell me tomorrow if you go to sleep now." Ilya reasons, watching as Yulia ponders his words, her eyes bleary behind her glasses. She probably won't remember to take them off before conking out, Ilya can't help but think, but oh well, Alexei probably keeps an emergency pair just in case, knowing him.

"Can you tell me something?" Yulia whispers.

That Ilya can definitely do.

"Hey."

Shane is typing on his phone when Ilya walks back out to drop beside him on the couch, after a great recount of the movie they'd watched the night before. Yulia had fortunately fallen asleep right before the part they'd managed to get quite distracted during. Ilya really wouldn't have known what to say anymore, after.

"Sorry it took so long." He says, head tilted in his direction "It was Yulia, a little trouble sleeping."

Shane's smile is warm as he lowers his phone on his lap, reaching for Ilya's hand "Don't worry about it, really." His eyes crinkle "You are very sweet with her."

"She's my niece."

"Still."

The tender silence that follows is only interrupted by the sound of Shane's phone going off. His face lights up with the screen as he reads the text.

"What?" He can't help but ask, nosily.

Shane takes his hand back to type on the keyboard "Oh, nothing. Just Rose."

Ah.

Ilya is way too aware of the frown on his face, as he is the knot sitting on top of his stomach "And what does Rose want?"

"Just checking in. She'll be in Ontario next month for an Ad, asked maybe if we could meet up." Shane says absentmindedly, unaware of the way his words hit Ilya straight through the chest.

Of course.

Ilya has got to discover more about Rose Landry by Shane in a week than he ever has in the past few months, while obsessively scrolling on VIP news. 'Not compatible' his ass, Ilya thinks, pettily, especially so when they seem still so close despite it having been months after their breakup. But it's fine, Ilya can deal with it, how hard could it ever be, right?

But maybe his contemplating silence is not as subtle as Ilya thinks, because next thing he knows Shane's eyes are flickering up to him, suspicious "You okay?"

"Yes." He grits out, retreating into the cushions "You're just talking to your ex-girlfriend, everything seems normal, why wouldn't I be?"

"You're not... jealous, are you?" Shane asks then, slowly dropping his phone to inch closer and bumping their legs together.

"I don't know what you're talking about. But I guess that with all the 'Rose did this', 'Rose did that', it's fair to wonder if you forgot you're gay or something." He huffs, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I think it's you that forgot, actually." Shane says, chuckling incredulously as he pulls Ilya in to lay sideways with his head in his lap. Ilya's eyes flutter close when his fingers tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, rubbing gently on his scalp.

"Well apparently not too gay to fuck Rose Landry."

Shane tugs at his curls "We slept together only twice and trust me it definitely wasn't something she would find worth repeating."

"Jeez." He snorts, hopefully not giving away how incredibly relieved that just made him "You know, I think the least you could do after that, as her gay boyfriend, is finding her a straight one." He considers next, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible "Like, I don't know, Niamh's brother, for example; he's a very big fan, and also rich. Pretty hot too, and older than her. In Hollywood terms they are a step away from the altar."

Oh, Rory will owe him so much after this.

Ilya can feel the smile in Shane's words as he says "really?"

"Yes."

"And you would be okay with it if they dated?"

"They can date, get married, have an army of red headed children together, I don't care."

Anything that would make her lay off of you-

"You do know that this would make you and Rose kind of related, right?"

Well, fuck, Ilya hadn't thought about that.

He can feel Shane's chest flutter behind him as he laughs, over the quiet crinkle of the fire.

"Shut up."

"But why?" Shane asks, in mocking shock "You're right, after all, they would be perfect for each other. Can't wait to tell her."

"Hollander." He warns, turning in his lap to glare at him. He must not be doing that good of a job from the way Shane keeps biting onto his lower lip, to keep himself from laughing.

"Rozanov."

"Shane." He says, awfully too soft to make a point "If you text Rose Landry again I'll throw your phone into the lake."

"You won't." Shane says knowingly, tugging on his earring while his other hand moves suspiciously to the side.

Ilya jumps to his feet, reaching for the phone, just as Shane gives up his facade and pushes Ilya off his lap to do the same. Ilya's hand closes around the phone first, a twinge in his back as he raises his arm over his head, victoriously. Shane stands in front of him on his tiptoes, trying to steal his phone back from his hand. It would probably be a good tactic without the few inches between them, but Shane doesn't bother about playing fair, anyway, digging his fingers in between Ilya's ribs, under his armpits, cheating.

But even then, they're both laughing too hard for that to work.

Ilya's free arm soon finds his way around Shane's back, to pull their bodies close. Their breaths come out in pants in between giggles, and Ilya feels just so lost in the sea of his eyes, as they speak in hushed tones, their foreheads pressed together and their lips only inches apart, that the loud, piercing wail cutting through the silence makes him literally jump, right out of Shane's arms.

Shane's phone falls out of his hand, but he can barely worry about it when there is fucking wolf lurking somewhere in the distance.

"What the fuck was that?" He asks, gulping, eyes stuck on the nearest edges of the trees.

He's not expecting Shane to laugh, as he leans down to retrieve his thankfully still intact phone and slip it in his pocket "That's a loon."

"A loon?" Ilya repeats, astounded "You're telling me that's what a loon sounds like?"

Shane face twists with the visible strain to not laugh in his face "What sound did you thought it made?"

"I don't know Shane, I did nursery school in Russia and there are no stupid Canadian wolf-birds there to learn the sound of. What the fuck."

"You thought it was a fucking wolf?"

Ilya tries not to take Shane's laugh to the heart, but it is really hard when there are literal tears in Shane's eyes as he leans off Ilya's forearms to stay upright.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want. Fuck you and your loon!" Ilya mumbles.

"What about all of your camping?"

"Well, Alberta is not filled with meat hungry beasts."

"It's a duck."

Ilya doesn't like the twinkle in his eyes then, as he watches him bring his cupped hands to his mouth to make the most inhuman call Ilya's ever had the displeasure to hear. And that has already happened twice in only a span of ten minutes, Jesus Christ-

"Oh, of course he speaks bird too." Ilya scoffs, falling back over the couch with a groan.

His hands immediately find Shane's waist when he slips on his lap, fingers splayed over Ilya's chest, looking so bright to make the flames burning behind him pale in comparison. Ilya's heart skips a beat, a few maybe, as he simply stares back.

"I'm fluent in bird, no accent."

"I hate you so much." Ilya says, not even trying to hold himself back from smiling.

Shane doesn't either "No, you don't."

No he doesn't.

Once Ilya crashes their lips together, it's very hard to concentrate on anything else but them.

*

The idea doesn't seem to want to leave his head once Ilya actually gives it a little more than a simple sliver of consideration.

Play for a Canadian team. He could do that, he thinks, it's not like he'd never thought about it either, more as of a plan for near retirement mostly, but still.

He surely never thought he would bring it back up from the back of his mind for Shane Hollander, but here he is, all because his brain cannot fathom to stop conjuring pictures of the two of them together, like this, living together, maybe more.

It's all Alexei's fault, really, him and the wedding, and the way Ilya cannot stop to fucking think about he and Shane dressed in matching suits at an altar now. But he told his brother he would take care of this, which also means that laying in bed with Shane cannot serve as a distraction. Doesn't mean Ilya couldn't use some help.

"What do you think?"

"These look identical, Ilya."

"They do not." He squawks "this is a slim fit, while this is a regular."

Shane furrows his brows where his head is laying on Ilya's shoulder. His glasses dig into his skin, but Ilya doesn't really mind when they make him look like this, soft and cozy, while pressed against his side "No, I don't see it."

"No wonder, Mr. 'I hired a stylist'."

"Oh, fuck you." Shane grumbles "Why it's you choosing this, by the way? Shouldn't your brother try these on first to decide?"

Ilya scoffs "My brother couldn't care less about the type of suit he's wearing. This is more Niamh's request than his."

"Okay, but, what about tailoring?"

"Ah, Vetrov has it covered." Ilya waves him off, pretty aware that it must not make that much sense to Shane's ears, but way too focused on lapels to explain himself.

Shane doesn't seem to mind much, still offering his awful opinions on the matter when asked, while blinking lazily at the screen of Ilya's iPad.

"Have you ever thought about getting married?" He asks then, at some point, after Ilya has finally finished sending a draft flagged as urgent to Vetrov's inbox and dropped the iPad on his nightstand.

Ilya jostles them, sliding better under the covers so they're face to face, his arm trapped under Shane's neck.

More than you would think.

"I guess, yeah." He says, thumb drawing circles over his hip, after slipping past his shirt "mostly for citizenship." He jokes.

Shane eyes scrunch up in confusion "What?"

"I'm kidding you, I know it's illegal."

"No, I mean, you don't have citizenship? But I thought-?"

"Well, I had the requirements to ask for it a little after I turned eighteen, but I already knew I was going to play in the States and these things take a long time. My PR card was going to expire, anyway. I didn't have any reason to not wait, back then." Ilya admits, shifting his bare feet under the covers to push them up between Shane's sock clad ones "Me and my Vetrov thought it would be more convenient to wait it out and see where I would be as a free agent. I have a green card, but officially I'm still a Russian citizen."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Aren't you eligible to ask for it now? In the states, I mean."

"I could. But, you know, my family is in Canada, I grew up there. I never really thought I would play for the Bears forever, either."

"You are afraid you could be traded?" Shane asks, as if it's the most ridiculous thing he heard in a while.

Ilya snorts "No, I guess not. I think I want to go back someday, though, maybe play for a Canadian team so I could work my way back for citizenship there and get to see the guys more."

Shane hums against his collarbone "If you played for another team, a Canadian one, it would be… big. This- the rivalry wouldn't be that big of a deal, anymore."

And isn't that what Ilya has been stuck on thinking ever since the thought first rose into his head? "Eventually, nobody would care about us, probably."

Ilya is not that stupid to think that it would solve things, but maybe- maybe it could be a start, at least.

"You would really leave Boston?"

Ilya takes a second to ponder his answer. Would he? Boston has Sveta, Nikolai, a house that is never empty, that makes it easy forget the little times it is, and a team Ilya pretty much built with his own hands, making sure everyone fit like pieces of a puzzle. But Canada is home, there is very little to argue there about it, and it also means Shane, now, if Shane will have him.

I love hockey but... some things are just more important

"I think so, yes." He whispers, through the cozy silence "to be together."

Shane's eyes glisten in the pale moon light coming from the windows "Oh."

"Yes, oh." Ilya repeats, a little flustered "At least that would be legal."

"It's- yeah. You shouldn't marry just for citizenship." Shane says lowly, his leg coming up to wrap around Ilya's hip, closing the space between his bodies.

"I know, not very sensible of me. I don't even know any nice Canadians that would want to marry me."

"I'm sure you would be able to find one."

"Ah, but I have this problem, Hollander." He sighs, nuzzling his nose against Shane's "I could think about any woman I want, kids, a nice house and an even nicer car parked on the driveway, but this problem just will not go away."

Shane shifts into Ilya's arms, pressing their foreheads together "Mhm?"

"Yes, such an annoying and little know-it-all problem. Drives a terrible car, always wakes up too fucking early, even on holiday, and makes me drink terrible smoothies. Very bad problem."

"But?"

"Oh yeah, he has a lot of that too."

Ilya can't help but chuckle when Shane's hand tugs at his hair, as he glares half heartedly at him, lips curled in a hint of a smile.

"But... I don't think I ever want this problem to ever go away." Ilya confesses, closing his eyes.

"Good," Shane whispers. Their lips meet in a gentle pressure, slow and painstakingly soft. He cups Ilya's face, delicately as if he were touching glass "We'll figure something out, okay?"

"Okay."

*

This needs to stop happening to him, Ilya thinks, holding Shane's hand over his thigh as the other drives them to the Hollanders' house.

That had been such a wonderful morning, at first; they'd gone out for a run, at a socially acceptable hour for once, made breakfast together, and lazily laid over the deck like a couple of lizards, soaking up the sun after hours spent swimming after each other.

Ilya had walked back in hungry. Resisting the sight of Shane in tiny shorts was not a job for the weak and that wouldn't have been the first time Ilya found himself completely trapped under Shane's spell.

He doesn't think he can be biased much either about crowding Shane up against the window, hand already slipping past the elastic of his swimsuit to wrap around his cock, because they should have been alone.

Shane had assured him they would be.

Instead, while propping his head up to reach for his lips, Ilya had had the pleasure of meeting David Hollander's quite pale face, only to jump back like burned.

Neither of them had the time to react further than that before Shane's dad was out the door, practically fleeing the scene.

Oh well, Ilya now knows who Shane got that from at least.

Shane who, Ilya has to give him that, has barely freaked out since then, considering the situation, the only sign of nervousness being the way his fingers keep tapping over the steering wheel and the deep frown hidden behind his sunglasses.

Ilya's heart aches seeing him like this, tense and coiled, after almost two whole weeks of lax smiles and contentedness.

"Okay." Shane finally says, after turning off the engine "Just... let me do the talking."

"Sure."

Shane exhales weakly "Fuck, maybe- maybe you should wait in the car?"

Ilya raises both eyebrows at him.

"Never mind, alright. Let's go."

It feels incredibly awkward to be stared up and down as Shane does the honour of introductions, eyes firmly stuck over the rug by the entryway, as if his parents didn't have any clue of who Ilya is.

The last and only time he'd seen both of them, Ilya had barely had the time to ask for their names and thank for their help before Mrs. Hollander ushered both him and Alexei in the backseats of a cab. Now it's pretty much inevitable to stare back, as he holds their son's hand, trying to understand whether the reserve on both of their faces is more due to the shock of him being Ilya Rozanov than him being a man.

"-he's been visiting." Shane says, tensely "We're, uhm..."

"Lovers." Ilya can't help but cringe as soon as the words leaves his mouth.

Yeah, maybe he should have let Shane talk.

"No, Ilya, that's gross." Shane grimaces, shaking his head. The hold over his hand tightens imperceptibly.

"But you hate him." Mrs. Hollander says, eyes wide in an expression otherwise familiar, coming from her son's face.

"No, I don't. I mean, yeah, kind of, but not like that. I actually, uhm, I love him."

Ilya has to bite down the inside of his cheek from smiling.

Shane loves him.

That had been a new development as of two nights ago. Ilya had woken up to hands shaking his shoulder and Shane's face looking down at him with barely contained excitement.

"I have an idea."

"-time is it-?"

"Who cares? Listen-"

Admittedly, Ilya hadn't really understood what any part of Shane's rant meant at first, still half asleep, but when it had finally clicked, the leading silence on his part mostly came from his mental attempts at figuring out what to say back.

That wasn't an idea, it was a plan, a long term plan at that. They both had years left to play until retirement but Shane had already thought of everything. He wanted he and Ilya to get to that, together, while moulding everything in their favour so that one day they wouldn't have to hide anymore.

He wanted Ilya.

And it's not like Ilya wasn't used to being wanted; people lusted over his body, his fame, his money, they always did.

But Shane didn't want any of it but Ilya himself.

And god, if Ilya wanted him back.

The tears had ran down his eyes before he could do anything to stop them, falling between them as he kissed up Shane's neck, his face, his lips, whispering words he'd never thought he would say out loud.

"I love you."

He'd only realized it wasn't Russian he'd been speaking in when Shane's eyes had suddenly widened, his body gone still underneath him.

Ilya had been on the verge of taking it back, somehow, after the most agonizing wait of his life, when Shane finally finished registering his word.

"Holy shit. I love you too."

The world had stilled, somehow, in the seconds it took Ilya to let it sink and fall limp in Shane's arms, with a choked out "Fuck, Hollander."

Shane Hollander loved him, wanted a future with him.

“Fuck, I love you so much.”

Ilya had spent the rest of the night making sure Shane knew how much he did just as well.

The same Shane that didn't hesitate to repeat it to his parents just now, that he loves Ilya, despite the anxiety visibly clinging onto his shoulders.

"Can we just sit down, please?"

Ten minutes later Ilya is sat at the living room table, on Shane's left side, drinking out of a glass that he is pretty sure is filled with the same brand of vodka Nadia sends Alexei every Christmas. He doesn't exactly know how to feel about this, but the alcohol surely does seem to help all of them settle.

"-the All Stars game." Mr. Hollander is saying, nodding to himself like he just figured out a puzzle "You two had so much chemistry, there."

Shane shifts uncomfortably beside him, fingers tracing the rim of his can of soda "No, it was, uhm, before then."

"How much before are we exactly talking about?" Mrs Hollander asks, eyes shifting between both of them, clearly thrown off.

Shane hesitates "Since our Rookie season?"

Ilya frowns.

"Your rookie season?" Mrs Hollander repeats, surprised.

"No, it was the summer before." Ilya says, hissing quietly as Shane's elbow digs pointedly into his side.

"Not helpful."

"You've been in love since-?"

"Oh, no, no, no."

"No, more like..."

"We were just-"

"Lovers?" Mr. Hollander finishes, chuckling as he leans back into his chair.

Ilya had hoped they'd forgot about that. Shane looks ready for murder, but doesn't outright correct him, as he sighs "Kind of."

"Wow." Mrs. Hollander says, clasping her hands over the table "I really- how could this ever happen between you two? Weren't there any nice men in Montreal, Shane?"

Despite everything, Ilya can't help but snort a little into his glass, refraining himself from telling her just how much Shane prefers him when he's not that nice, actually.

"Probably." Shane says, sending an unimpressed but knowing look in his direction while still giving Ilya's hand a squeeze under the table.

Mrs Hollander face twists into something more akin to horrified, then "You didn't ever let him win, right, Shane?"

Alright, Ilya might just start to get offended now "He doesn't have to let me win-"

"Mom, we've been playing against each other for more than a decade now, how could really think that?" Shane huffs "Would you ever let dad win at Yahtzee?"

Mrs Hollander deflates, a more understanding look on her face "Of course not."

"Yeah, exactly."

There is a pause.

Mr. Hollander quietly clears his voice "Does, uhm, does someone know? Your teammates, I mean. About Rozanov."

"Ilya." He corrects, gently.

"Ilya it is, then."

"They don't." Shane says, crossing his arms across his chest "Nobody does."

"My family only knows I'm seeing someone, not that it's Shane." Ilya adds, at the evident question in both Hollander's eyes "It's pretty recent, like, not even a couple of months kind of recent." He continues, for their peace of mind.

"I would have told you, too" Shane says, desperately, clear conflict written on his face "I just- I couldn't find the right time to."

"It's okay." Mrs. Hollander says, her expression melting into something kinder, a little sympathetic, before pressing her lips together in a tight line "You, uhm, is your plan to keep all of this a secret? How long would we be talking about? I imagine it must be hard enough already."

The league, all the secrets, the distance- hard would be way too reductive, probably.

chair "It is." He shifts uncomfortably on his chair, pondering the looks on their faces.

It's going that terribly, after all. Overall, the Hollanders seem more reasonably surprised about the whole thing, rather than hostile or worse. He guesses he can probably understand when they're coming from, in their worry, and even the apprehension in their eyes as he nods, when indirectly asked, sometime around his second glass "Yes, it's not untrue. I'm bisexual."

"It means he likes both." Shane supplies.

"Oh." Mrs. Hollander hums, more quietly, as if unsure of how to follow that up.

Ilya just wants to make one thing clear "I won't lie to you; I've been with many people, women mostly. But I've only ever been in love with one person. And that's your son." He says, hands closing more forcefully around his glass.

Shane's eyes are glassy as they meet his "Same here."

When Mrs. Hollander excuses herself from the table, Ilya is not really surprised to see Shane standing up to follow her, but it does feel pretty awkward to being quietly subjected to Mr. Hollander's collectedness, while the other surveys him from the other side of the table.

It quickly rubs off of him, though, probably thanks to the alcohol.

"This is nice vodka." He tries, breaking the silence.

"I know. Your brother sent us a couple of bottles last Christmas." Mr. Hollander says, sipping quietly and completely straight-faced despite the dry and bitter taste of the vodka. That must not be where Shane’s boring comes from, after all "I thought it would help."

Ilya can't help but chuckle "Good thinking."

"Well, I should start on lunch," Mr. Hollander says, then, standing up from his chair "but, please, make yourself comfortable."

"Or I could help, maybe." Ilya offers instead, nipping at his lower lip, a little self conscious at the idea of being left alone in the room and in desperate need to do something useful "I, uhm, I'm not half bad?"

Visibly surprised, Mr. Hollander nods towards the kitchen, a small smile on his face "Suit yourself."

Turns out that the last thing Mr. Hollander wants to talk about is hockey.

Instead, he asks Ilya how he's liking Ottawa, if everybody's good home, how the wedding planning is going, and Ilya can't help but relax into this new level of expectations, where he can simply show Mr. Hollander, David, pictures of the venue on his phone while looking over the sauce, and not think too much about being in literal enemy territory with all the Montreal knickknacks on the living room's shelves, pictures of Shane in his jersey, at the draft, as a kid.

But it's one in particular that catches his eyes, as he does his snooping while on the way back from the bathroom. Shane must not be older than sixteen in it, all gangly limbs and freckles, leaning down for a face off. And in front of him, in his white and red Flyers jersey, is Ilya. It's hard to see from the distance the picture was taken from, preferring to frame Shane's face, but Ilya is pretty sure it must be, considering the teal coloured tape wrapped around the handle of his stick and the few golden curls escaping from the ponytail at the back of the kid's head.

They look so... young.

There is a glint in Shane's eyes, brows drawn in a furrow Ilya is most definitely familiar with, by now, his lips curled in a boyish smirk. And Ilya is sure that if there was a take of his face, of that same moment, it would be reflected on it too, the same thrilling adrenaline.

Sometimes it doesn't really register in his head how much time it has been, how he's known Shane Hollander even longer than he's known some parts of himself. Ilya snorts to himself. Looking back to it, fifteen-year-old him, the kid that would spent nights rewatching tapes from Hollander's old games, would probably have a stroke if he knew there now were posters of him splattered around all over North America, an half naked Shane posing for Calvin Klein, with how obsessed-

Uh.

Ilya gives himself a couple of seconds to lose the blush rushed to his face, while he vows to take all of it to the grave.

David is telling Ilya a funny story about a Steve from work suing Target for a defective grill, when Mrs. Hollander and Shane walk back into the house, a little red around the eyes, but holding onto each other's arms.

Are you okay? He hopes his eyes convey, as he tilts his head in Shane's direction.

Shane copies him, smiling shyly. It's okay.

He smiles back. I love you.

He wants to reach for him, draw him in his arms and dip his head right where his cologne is the strongest, giving in to that part of his brain longing for Shane, Shane, Shane.

"Everything's good here." David says, popping his bubble and picking the hand towel Ilya was using to dry the pans they already washed from his hands "Why don't you show Ilya around while we set the table, Shane?" He says, patting Ilya's back with a knowing look "Me and mom have it covered."

The moment the door to Shane's room closes behind them, Shane's on him, arms reaching up for Ilya's shoulders. Ilya gladly lets him position them into the hug until he's settled, sighing heavily against his neck.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm just- I think I'm freaking out a little."

"Why? Everything's good, isn't it?" Ilya tries to rationalize, caressing his back "Your parents seems to have taken it pretty well, all things considered. I think your dad might like me, actually, and since he's the one that walked in on my hand on your-"

"Okay." Shane stops him, beet red "Jesus, don't remind me. I want to bleach that out of my head."

"Hey, now, we're both very attractive men-"

"Ilya, that's my dad.""Yeah, I'm talking about me and him. I've seen his picture at your parents wedding, Hollander. Now I know it's definitely not just your mom's looks you got, Mr. Cosmopolitan."

"Ah- ah." Shane mocks, but he's smiling when Ilya separates them just enough to cup his cheek in his hand.

"It went well." He says, reassuringly, brushing the hair on his forehead "Your family loves you, your boyfriend loves you. In my book that's a great situation to find yourself in." He considers, jokingly.

Shane blinks, eyes hazy "My... boyfriend?"

His hand stills.

Ilya should really stop running his mouth.

"I mean. I think so. Probably?” he says, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

Shane only chuckles at that, his forehead bumping against Ilya's collarbone, while he's stuck staring at a point in the wall.

"Oh I see how it is. I open my heart to you and now you're laughing at me."

Shane laughs harder  "I'm sorry, I just-"

"Well, ouch." Ilya says, seriously, before cracking.

They're left standing, right in the middle of Shane's childhood bedroom, holding onto each other while trying to muffle their laughs, like they didn't just had the weirdest day ever. Ilya wants to inject this moment into his veins, just to make sure to never forget it, the happiness written in Shane's eyes as he leans forward to kiss him.

It tastes sweet, like everything Ilya's ever wanted and more.

"Boyfriend's good." Shane says, when they part, lips glistening with spit.

Ilya grins "Yes?"

Shane's hums, beautifully content in his arms. He can't resist stealing another kiss, not when he looks like this and just offered Ilya what he's been craving for months, them.

There is a very loud knock at the door.

"Shane, you guys can come down when you're, uhm-"

The skin of Shane's cheeks turns incandescent under Ilya's palm.

"Dad, we're not-!"

Ilya laughs. Seems fair.

Mrs. Hollander folds her hands together over the table like a woman on a mission, as soon as they sit down for lunch.

"So, what's the plan?"

Ilya lets Shane explain everything: the trade, the charity, things they've mostly only sketched while whispering to one another in the darkness of their room, but all of it must not sound that unpromising if the calculating look in Mrs. Hollander's face is any giving.

"Doesn't sound too bad." David admits, leaning his elbows over the table.

"We would need a statement in case anything leaks, something we can play in our favour just in case, classy and slick." She considers, behind her wine glass "I could reach out to our major brands in the meanwhile, there is a world of opportunity there and if they could wrap their heads around it-"

"Mom." Shane sighs "You know I'm not gonna come out, right? lets just take a few steps back. We just want a future, right now, not to be gay idols for Nike."

"Hey, speak for yourself." Ilya says, pointing his fork at him "I could go with free sponsored shoes."

"You're literally rich."

"It's not really about the money, Hollander." He tuts "We would look pretty good together on a poster, don't you think? Maybe I want to hang one over my fireplace."

"And I want you to stop enabling my mom." Shane huffs, kicking softly at his shin under the table.

Ilya only chuckles, reaching for the parmesan.

"So… you would play for Ottawa?"

His hand stops halfway. This is probably how it feels to be on trial, he thinks faintly, when meeting Mrs Hollander's eyes across the table. He quietly promises to himself to have never have her and Nadia be in the same room together "And leave Boston? For Shane?"

He doesn't hesitate, composing himself "Yes. We would be closer and that'd also be better for the charity." And Ottawa... Ilya doesn’t really know anything about the city, apart from "They need a star centre and could probably afford me, so..." they also need a miracle, he quietly adds in his head, even though Mrs. Hollander is probably thinking the same.

"But don't you have any loyalty to Boston?"

Wow.

"Mom!"

"What!" She says, raising her hands at her sides.

"Are you serious?"

"Well, they drafted him and loyalty is important!"

"He's trying to be loyal to me not Boston." Shane turns to Ilya, apologetic "If you hadn't noticed, my mom cares a little too much about hockey."

"Oh yeah, I see where you get that from." He chuckles around a mouthful.

"Have you talked to Scott Hunter?" David asks next, curiously, when filling in their glasses.

"No."

"I did."

Shane frowns "you did?"

"Mhm, after NHL awards."

Mrs. Hollander leans closer, interested "And what did he say?"

"Nothing. I mean, I didn't tell him about me and Shane, but what he did, it helped us." He says, reeling in the way Shane's hand finds his underneath the table, their feet bumping against each other's, in quiet support "It changed things, for everyone hopefully."

Ilya can see the Hollander's exchange a look between them, from the corner of his eyes, hear the low whisper of their voices, but it's pretty tough to concentrate on anything that isn't the softness in Shane's smile.

He gets to have this, he thinks, and even though it'll take years before anyone will know that Ilya is the luckiest man alive, Ilya thinks he can be patient for once.

He squeezes Shane's hand.

This has only just started.

*

"What was your mother's name?" Shane asks, once they're cuddled up in bed, Ilya's head on his chest as he twists his hair away from his face.

Ilya can barely believe the last twenty four hours just happened: driving away from Shane's parent's house, their hands joined over the gear stick, the sure and calm tone in Alexei's voice when asking him to bring Shane's home with him, and Shane accepting, nodding to himself like he was trying to be brave, for Ilya, before kissing away the lines of worry on his face.

The question brings him back to reality, out of the haze he was ready to get lulled to sleep by, in the way a gentle pull on his sleeve would.

He should have probably have expected it, he guesses, when Shane has spent all afternoon asking questions about Alexei, Niamh, Yulia, soaking it up like he was going to get graded on it.

Ilya can't even pretend to be bothered by it, not when it's obvious how nervous Shane is about making a good impression. Truthfully, he finds it quite adorable coming from Canada’s golden boy, as if Shane needed to be anything more than himself to be likeable.

"Irina." He whispers back, drawing circles over his hip.

"I was thinking, maybe, that's how we could call it."

"What do you mean?"

"The charity. 'The Irina foundation'." Shane says, heart stuttering under Ilya's ear "I know we talked about what we wanted it to be about and- what if we raised money for mental health organizations? Suicide prevention, maybe."

"You'd want to do that?" Ilya asks, a little choked, butterflies in his stomach.

"I think it could be a way to honour her memory." Shane says, knuckles brushing over Ilya's cheeks, so earnest "But, of course, only if you and your brother are both okay with it."

Would Alexei be?

Ilya can hardly find a reason why he wouldn't, but, on the other hand, Alexei's always carried his grief closer to his chest than him. Announcing the foundation would mean uncovering way more than he ever did to the public, then, a story that’s not just his. He can see Shane’s reasoning, after all "We'll ask him, lyubimyy."

Shane hesitates "Do you- do you think he'll like me?"

"You colour code your socks the same way, there are very high chances."

"Be serious."

"I'm being serious." Ilya insists, propping his chin up on his chest "You even have the same opinions about the stupid dishwasher."

"That is just common knowledge: you can't put the cups on the fucking bottom-"

"And you know a great deal about bottoms, do you?" Ilya smirks, reeling in the annoyed huff it drags out of Shane as he pushes his face away. Chuckling, he leans in to leave a kiss on his pec "You worry too much. My brother is not any scarier than your mother is, I can assure you, maybe not even half."

"She wasn't that bad." Shane tries.

"'But Rozanov, don't you have any loyalty?'" Ilya quotes, splaying over the other half of the bed, hand on his forehead. He peaks suggestively at him from between his fingers.

"Okay, maybe that was a little over the top." Shane admits, the corners of his mouth quirked up to contain a laugh. When he shifts, Ilya moves with him, their bodies finding the other's under the covers. Shane's skin feels warm under his hand when he pulls him closer by the dip of his waist.

Ilya hums quietly "She loves you, I wouldn't have expected any less." And, truth be told, Ilya had been glad to see it, the clear devotion both Hollanders have for their son, even if it meant having to earn their trust with him. He doesn't think he did that bad of a job when the day ended with David and Yuna's numbers saved into his phone and the promise of dinner together before Ilya's flight back.

But now Ilya is due to stay over until the end of the month, another week of this, Shane in his arms, looking up at him with sleep-tired eyes, minty breath from brushing their teeth side by side in front of the bathroom’s mirror, and skin still pink from their shower, earlier, after one of many great rounds under the sheets.

Shane leans his head over his elbow "How was your mom like?"

Ilya turns on his back, eyes stuck over the ceiling, as he waits for the words to form into his head "Before- before she got worse, she... she was everything. She could be very stubborn, hardly let anyone walk over her, my father too. But she was also kind, generous, safe." Ilya can almost remember the feeling over her arms closed around him, after a nightmare, of her fingers combing through his hair to get him settled back to sleep. He smiles weakly "She was the one the got me into hockey. Always loved to skate." If she hadn't, Ilya thinks, he wouldn't be here now, maybe, with Shane, who keeps looking at him like he hung the moon and all the stars of the milky way up in the sky.

Ilya wants to think they would have found each other anyway, but still gives a quiet 'thank you' to nothing in particular as he fidgets with his necklace, closing his eyes.

"I was very young when she died, I don't remember much from when I was a kid, but some things stuck, I guess."

Ilya tells him about how she'd bring him to skate over the frozen river at the park further down the neighbourhood, when he first started to play hockey, how she taught him to brake, swerve, fall and get back up, on and off the ice. He tells him about the gifts hidden under his bed for his birthday, the afternoons she spent running after him in the driveway while teaching him how to ride a bike, the loud music coming from her stereo when their father wasn't home and she'd get him to dance with her in the middle of the living room, his feet over hers as they glided across the floor, laughing wildly.

That's who Ilya wants to remember, after all, to one up all the times she'd forget to pick him up from school, that last year of her life, the bursts of anger and the silence that came from the lowest points of her depression.

But Ilya had loved her anyway, even then, even if it had taken quite a bit to forgive her at the end, after piling up one childish excuse after the other.

She was still his mom.

"She sounds beautiful" Shane whispers, softer than a whisper, thumbing at the wetness at the corners of Ilya's eyes, his own glassy despite the small smile on his face.

Ilya smiles back, reaching to tangle their fingers together over his chest "She was."

"I wish I could have met her, too."

Ilya is so taken aback from the simplicity of his statement that he can't help but place a reverent kiss on his lips. Shane melts instinctively, humming in protest when Ilya turns to taste for his phone over the nightstand.

"Wait, I want to show you something."

Ilya has seen these clips thousands of times (the afternoon at the pond, Ilya's tenth birthday, smaller grainy tapes recorded during games-), when nostalgia and longing hit the hardest. They feel sacred, private, but there is very little hesitation in the way he adjusts them so that Shane's head can rest over his chest, before hitting play.

Shane's gasp is still audible over the sound of his mother's laughter.

"-you were close, baby, try again!" She's saying, while helping him adjust the nerf gun over his shoulder.

Ilya remembers that fair. It was right after his ninth birthday or something, Alexei and one of his friends from school had wandered by themselves as soon they'd arrived, while the rest of them stuck together through the stands and the big crowd moving in between them. Ilya had happily walked ahead as his mother, Nadia and Ivan chatted over the loud music coming from the speakers and Nikolai stuck to his father's side like a barnacle, eyeing the swarm of people like it could have bitten him.

Ilya hadn't taken long to make him loosen up, pulling him along through every attraction, up until they'd ended up at a shooting stand.

While Ivan looked over a scarily self sufficient Nikolai, a bit horrified by his bullseye, now more akin to a slice of Swiss cheese, his mother was helping him balance to reach the edge of the shooting counter, talking encouragingly.

"Ilyusha closes his eye, that's why he's off, Auntie." Nikolai quips in a tinny voice.

"I don't." Ilya huffs back. Ilya thinks Shane probably doesn't need any translation of the pout settling on his face, pretty self explanatory, as he gently pulls Ilya's phone closer to his eyes.

In the background, Ilya can hear Ivan and Nadia bickering about the parenting choice that was allowing a nine year old to browse the videogame store by himself ("C'mon Ivan, it's one game, he's not gonna want to rob banks after this." "So you're telling me that the fact that he looks so comfortable holding a shotgun does not concern you at all?"), while Nikolai shows Ilya how aim, holding the stuffed tiger the vendor handed him, pretty appalled himself, close to his chest.

Ilya's next shot pierces through the second inner ring, then, making all three of them whoop loudly, in the kind of glee Ilya can hardly associate to the picture painted in his memories of her. It’s nice to see her like this, he can’t help but think, so much that is hard to get his eyes off the screen, offer Shane any translation of the scene in front of him, even if he could probably recite all of them by heart, by now.

The video cuts right to Ilya's smiling face as his mother leans down to leave a kiss on top of his hair, holding a giggling Nikolai under her other arm tight against her side.

"My aunt, the one I told you about, she made a lot of those video while we were growing up." Ilya says, voice rough, dragging his lips across Shane's forehead. Shane is quiet as he stares at the screen, listening "She stopped after mom died and we all pretty much forgot about them. It's nice, though, to have them keep her memory alive."

"It is." Shane agrees, his hand joining his over his crucifix "But she'd always be alive within you, regardless. You look very alike." He considers.

"Mhm, yes, that is how genetic works usually."

"You think you're so funny." Shane says, pinching his hip, before rewinding the video, a little frown on his face as he squints "Who's the other kid, anyway? He looks kinda familiar."

"Yeah, that's Nikolai." Ilya replies, absentmindedly.

Shane shifts slightly in his arms "Nikolai as in-"

"Morozov." Ilya nods, confused "what?"

Shane blinks, surprised, propping himself up on Ilya's chest "I didn't know you knew each other when you were kids."

"What kind of stalker are you?" Ilya complains "So obsessed with me and you still lost months of our management milking this story?"

Truth be told, that is probably the most public piece of knowledge Ilya has ever let leak on the internet, per his own volition. Alexei had always been very wary of being paparazzied around and, after Yulia was born, Ilya had wanted to respect that as much as possible. But, well, Nikolai had been already on everyone's lips after being traded to Boston and the medias had long caught on them being friendly during games,  so that was just the cherry on top in the form of a very cute childhood story released on the Bears official Instagram account, when he first joined.

"Well, first of all, I'm not obsessed with you, asshole." Shane grumbles "Second of all, I don't really use social media."

"Ah, I almost forgot you could mentally be as old as Scott Hunter, sometimes." Ilya sighs, shaking his head mournfully under Shane's grunts of annoyance "But yes, he's my oldest friend, we met in the mites. My aunt and uncle, they're his parents."

"Oh." Shane says, sitting up despite Ilya's pout, his hands limp in his lap "I- I had wondered, at the Olympics. You seemed very... close."

"Shane Hollander." He gasps, then, amused  "Were you jealous?"

Shane gulps, avoiding both his eyes and his question "Does he know about you?"

"He does. Has for a long time" Ilya says, calmly "Not about us, though, obviously."

Shane nods, stare lost over the covers, but doesn't shy away when Ilya scooches closer to cup his face in his hands, straddling his thighs "Hey. What's on your mind?"

"Nothing." Shane responds automatically, before sighing at Ilya's unimpressed raised brows "Just- he's a hockey player, a Russian one at that, and I gather he took it well, right?"

The more subtle question in Shane's words makes Ilya's chest tighten.

"Yes." He says, carefully, locking their eyes together "But that's because it would have been very hypocritical of him not to."

Shane's lips part, eyes wide "He's-?"

"I shouldn't have told you that. Please, don't ask me anything else about it." He asks, already feeling the guilt come knocking. But he trusts Shane, maybe more than he probably should anyone. "But, uhm, somebody told me once that sometimes is worth to give people the benefit of the doubt, you could be surprised."

Shane looks so vulnerable while staring up at him, his fingers curled gently around Ilya's waist, even more as he asks, timidly "And how's that been working for you?"

Ilya can't help but think of Alexei, of the last fourteen years, everything he lost and gained coming to Canada, and he thinks of Shane too, of all the things that brough them there, unpredictable like a jump into the void.

He smiles "I think it's been pretty good so far, actually."

But even if won't, by now Ilya is sure they'll have each other.

That's enough.

*

The thing about Ilya Rozanov is that he has always liked weddings.

He likes the premise of a large crowd of people, the embarrassing toasts at the reception, the heart sickening vows on the altar, and he's been to a lot of them by now, at twenty-eight, thanks to Niamh's numerous amount of relatives.

What Ilya Rozanov currently doesn't like, is the Shane shaped empty space beside him as he sits in his name plated seat, watching his brother and his newly acquired sister-in-law slow dance under the low dimmed light of the dancefloor.

It's beautiful, Ilya thinks. The whole wedding has been, really.

They'd slept at Finn's the night before, sprawled haphazardly around his living room floor with pizza cartons and a six pack of beers. Not usually what Ilya would consider a blasting bachelor party, but after months of seeing his brother stressing about flower arrangements, maybe it had been for the better.

Alexei has been jittery ever since Ilya drove them to the venue, that morning. If he hadn't looked on the verge of puking his guts out, Ilya would have found it amusing, the thought that his cool and collected older brother could be so nervous about marrying the love of his life.

"It's just Niamh." He'd told Alexei after his fourth round of pacing around the room, grabbing his shoulders in a solid hold "Everything is sorted, Jean and Nadia have been running this place like the military ever since we arrived. You need to chill."

If Ilya's words hadn't helped, the vodka he'd poured him after sure did. Ilya had totally nailed this best man thing.

Standing behind his brother at the altar, with Yulia safely tucked in front of him in her pale blue flower girl dress, as they watched Niamh walk down the isle, Ilya had felt like witnessing the perfect end to a movie.

Alexei was already bawling his eyes out when Niamh walked up the last steps, beautiful in her white gown as she hugged her father tightly, before standing straight in front of him. Her hair had been braided in a complicated twist behind her head, pinned with glittery pins that made her glow under the September sun.

Ilya couldn't have denied being teary eyed himself, even if there weren't pictures of the whole ceremony testifying it, as well as of the reception, when he'd stood up after Rory and Teagan's speech, taking their place behind the microphone stand with ease.

Admittedly, if Ilya hadn't known how whipped Alexei was for Niamh, he would have found the request of making a speech for their wedding very weird. It wasn't something you did in Russia, loving out loud like this, with words. And sure, by that point Ilya had lived more than half his life between Canada and the States, they were far from a traditional family in any sense, but he was still a Russian man at heart, and more so was his brother, which had made listening to Alexei practicing his vows very entertaining.

The things you do for love, Ilya had considered fondly.

There had been no kind of stage fright or embarrassment on his part, however, when he started talking.

"As most of you may know, Alexei raised me for most of my life. He was just nineteen and took a responsibility that many people would far from consider at that age. It wasn't easy, we were both still very young, but he never let me miss anything; birthday gifts, someone to talk with when things got tough, that would fight for me when I couldn't, who made me the person that I am today." He'd said, finding his brother’s eyes among the crowd. Alexei's were still red rimmed from the ceremony, but his jaw was clenched as if he was trying to keep himself from tearing up again. Niamh, leaning her head on his brother's shoulder, had sent a thumbs up in his direction with a wobbly smile.

"My brother is the most selfless person I know and I'm glad that I can share him with someone just as special, like Niamh. I've known she would be part of our family someday ever since I met her. A week after my brother did, maybe?"

A faint sound of chuckles spread over the crowd at that, especially at the newlyweds answering flip off and Yulia outraged squeak as Alexei's other hand came up to cover her eyes.

"When we arrived in Canada we only had each other to rely on, but you gave us your love, a family of our own." He continued more seriously, eyes roaming over the room, at people that he'd learned to treat like his own, before going back to Niamh, voice just a little rougher "This marriage is just a formality for me, because you have been my sister ever since I could remember. You took care of my brother, you took care of me, and I feel honoured to have had the opportunity to see you fall in love and build a home for each other."

Ilya had given her a playful wink as she cursed him weakly, while wiping off the smudged mascara before it could ran down her cheeks with stray tears.

"Sometimes love finds us in the most uncommon places, when we're least expecting it, but something that I know for sure is that once you find a love like the one my brother and Niamh share, it is forever. Love you, guys, thank you for only making us wait ten years for this." He had joked, raising his glass as he stepped away from the stand.

Now, sat on the sidelines while people swarm the dancefloor, Ilya can't help but feel a little jealous of the couples dancing to Rory's finely selected wedding band, of Alexei, who's holding his world into his hands as he spins both Yulia and Niamh on each arm, only a few feet away, smiling like he’s never seen him doing before, at peace.

He’s being ridiculous, he knows he is, because his brother deserves this, all of it, and it’s far from his fault if Ilya is not currently busy in holding Shane in his arms, swaying to the music by the edges of the room, where it’s quieter, more private, but he can still love him in plain sight. Ilya just can’t, just as he can't help the green eyed monster in his chest and to hate himself for it.

His brother is happy, Ilya has a wonderful boyfriend he'll still get to see in just a couple of days before flying back to Boston, and friends and family filling in the room, laughing and making up for lost time. Things couldn't be better.

But why does he still feel so empty?

"Beautiful wedding, isn't it?"

Ilya barely startles, as he turns his head to meet Polina's warm eyes.

She looks content, Ilya can't help but think, clad in an elegant pastel yellow dress, more than he remembers from his father's funeral anyway. Her dark hair sway over her shoulders as she takes the next seat beside is, eyes glassy from the champagne.

"It is." he agrees, truthfully "Having fun?"

Polina smiles, in what Ilya presumes must be her own version of shyness, so different from what he's come to learn being her usual levelheadedness the few times they'd spoken on the phone in the past few months, about life, Isaak, hockey, in the few minutes before Isaak would interrupt to tell Ilya about practice, too big eyes endearingly looking straight at him through the phone.

"Your family is very kind." She says, brushing her hair behind her ears. He can't help but snicker a bit at the memory of her overwhelmed smile as she went through the warm greetings of Niamh's family back at Niall and Jean's house, a couple of days ago, when they'd drove over for dinner, not used to being smothered by a crowd of rowdy Canadians "And your barman makes great drinks."

"A friend of ours knew a guy," he winks, cryptically. If he had to be honest, Ilya has no idea how Finn and the burly looking man behind the counter know each other, but sometimes it's just better not to bother with details. Plus, he is a very good barman indeed "I'm glad you could come." He adds then, not that much surprised by now about how genuine that feels coming out of his mouth "It's a long way from Moscow, I know Alexei and Niamh really appreciated it."

"I am glad we did, too." Polina admits, hands resting elegantly on her knee "Izya was very excited. I'm thankful for what you did for us."

Ilya can see Isaak from where they're sat, leaned over Nate's, Niamh's not-so-little-anymore cousin, shoulder, as the other shows him how to work his console, or at least attempts to, in a mix of horrible Québecois French and stilted English. Isaak doesn't seem particularly fussed by it, but Ilya does wonder if he's nodding because he genuinely understands him or out of mere politeness.

He looks so much like Alexei, like this, in a little black suit and with his curls pushed back, that it's almost creepy to think about.

"Wow, y’all’s parents really did hit copy and paste, didn't they?" Niamh had said, when they'd picked them up at the airport, too surprised to mind her English, before kneeling down to officially introduce a very curious Yulia and a stand off-ish Isaak after months of peeks through a screen, in her endearingly wonky Russian, and ripping a laugh out of Polina as they stood in the middle of arrivals.

Ilya couldn't fault her much, the resemblance is uncanny, so much that even Nikolai gaped a little at the sight earlier that week, while Isaak visibly vibrated under Ilya's hands on his shoulders with the restrain to ask for an autograph.

Brothers, just a bunch of traitors. Go figure.

Ilya waves her off "It's just plane tickets. You're family, I am rich, not a biggie."

That was probably the right thing to say, because Polina simply shakes her head, fondly "Still. With everything that happened, I didn't quite imagined it would be like this. Izya really looks up to you, if that hadn't been clear enough already." She chuckles.

"He's a smart kid." Ilya smirks "Already knows who's the better brother."

"You spoil him."

"I'm making up for lost time." And, Ilya thinks, for being a little too hostile at first. He guesses Polina is right, under this aspect: Ilya hadn't imagine it would come to this either, back then. Now, as he watches Isaak being coaxed by Yulia into a weird dance just a few feet away, he can't help the small smile stretching over his face "I really wanted a little brother when I was a kid. It kinda serves to heal my inner child, if you would prefer to consider it as such."

"It doesn't change the fact that now I have double the stuff to pick up off the ground when he comes back from practice." She says pointedly.

"Eh, what can you do." He sighs, before finally shaking himself out of his misery and stand up, to offer out his hand with a grin "I'll make myself forgiven."

She just rolls her eyes with a smile of her own before letting him drag her over the dance floor.

Maybe he just has to try a little harder to fill on the empty spaces, he thinks, as he piggybacks an half asleep Isaak back to the car, while Polina and Nadia lead them out of the venue, Ivan and Nikolai walking behind them and talking in hushed whispers to not disturb neither him or Yulia, passed out in Alexei's arms.

For now, everything is as it should be.

And when has Ilya ever walked out of a challenge, anyway?

Chapter End Notes

Yahoo!

So, we went to the cottage!

This chapter was an emotional rollercoasted even for me ngl. Totally loved writing it, though, especially with the knowledge that I don't have to keep track of a timeline I would inevitably forget about right after writing anymore. No, but i'm super excited to get into The Long Game. It's going to be a journey.

Yes, Scott Hunter totally believes Nikolai and Ilya are fucking, it was too hilarious not to imply it. Warning: will use as a weapon.

I love writing Ilya and Shane completely whipped for each other, if it wasn't clear enough already and I was so giddy writing Alexei and Niamh's wedding, tbfh, my shaylas.

This being said, hope this yall liked this brick of a chapter. Thanks for all of your comments and kudos, they really make my days.

C ya for what comes next ;)

 

Update 05-18: Yall are crazy, Break The Chain just got to 20k and I think I'm gonna cry a little ngl... really thankful ❤️

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

 The tattoo parlour Marleau recommended is deep into the centre of Boston, only a handful of minutes from the rink. Their hair is still damp from their showers after practice and despite the tiredness in his muscles, Ilya can't stop shaking on his feet from excitement. Nikolai strolls casually beside him, sipping on his obligatory post-practice matcha latte from a shop across the Garden, as Ilya leads them towards the place.

"You still set for the creepy duck?"

"Creepy duck." Ilya confirms, smiling giddily.

When Ilya had strolled into their kitchen a week prior announcing he wanted to get a tattoo, Nikolai had barely even startled from where he'd been sitting at the isle, scrolling through twitter and eating dry cereal from the box, like a heathen. Overall, Ilya thinks he's said way weirder things at only seven in the morning in all twenty years they've known each other, so that had been a fair reaction. Nikolai hadn't been impressed by his choice of design.

"Ilyusha, this is a duck."

"Nuh-uh, it's a loon. They are way creepier than ducks and make weird wolf noises."

"You find ducks creepy?" Nikolai had asked, frowning "Since when you like birds so much, anyway?"

Ilya had smirked behind his cup of coffee "I've always been passioned about birds, Kolyushka, in fact I know a lot facts about co-."

"Jesus, shut up." Nikolai had cut him off, blushing faintly into his cereal "You do know these things are permanent, right?"

"Of course I do."

Perhaps he'd been too smiley about it, because Nikolai's expression had resolved into a knowing grin, the one that usually said he had him all figured it out "Is this about Jane? Really?"

Ilya had simply took his coffee and left to get his morning cigarette in peace, but pointedly not denied it. There was no use in it anyway.

"Are you really sure this is a good idea?" Nikolai asks as they cross the street, shivering into his coat "With your thing for blood and all."

Ilya waves him off "I don't have a thing for blood."

"Ilya, I was there when we watched Terrified." Nikolai deadpans, judgingly.

Alright, so maybe blood isn't among Ilya's favourite things, but is it anyone's? And it's not even like Ilya faints at sight, he's had nosebleeds and split lips way too many times in the past twenty-six years of life, thank you very much. He just would like for it to stay on the inside of his body as much as possible. 

"Are you here only to talk slander?"

"I am here because you said you would pay for dinner after, if I did." Nikolai says, taking another loud sip off his latte "Also, Lyosha asked for a video of you crying."

Asshole.

"Speaking of, do you remember when you used to have a huge fat crush on my brother?"

Ilya has barely the time to laugh at the blush spreading over Nikolai's cheeks before having to avoid getting tripped on the sidewalk.

The bell over the door rings softly when they make their way into the shop. It's a nice place; frames and pictures of all sizes are stuck on the walls like a walk through memories, photos of people, drawings, certifications and employers credentials, hung at the front of the shop. Blood red couches have been pushed against a corner and around a small coffee table, in a little waiting area that gives to a short hallway. Ilya can hear the buzz of a tattoo gun and voices coming from the only lit up room at the very back of it, from where a lithe dark haired man comes out to greet them.

His steps are accompanied by the clinking sound of the thick silver chains hanging around his waist and neck, over dark layered clothes, but as threatening as that is, the guy wears an easy and dimpled smile. There are two little rings on both sides of his lower lip and his earrings (are there too many earrings a person can have?) sparkle prettily under the deemed lights of the shop.

Ilya hears Nikolai suck in a breath.

"Hey!" The guy says, folding the sleeves of his flannel over his elbows. His forearms hold a black and red pattern that twists all the way up to where it disappears under his sleeves "You're my four o'clock? Rozanov?"

"One and only." He nods, glad of the lack of recognition on his face "Just Ilya."

"Super! I'm Jude." He says, offering his hand up for a shake. His green eyes look past Ilya and over to Nikolai, observant and curious. Ilya thinks he looks kind of like a puppy like this, with his head tilted sideways as he unashamedly checks Nikolai out. Still, Ilya isn't expecting his next question to come as innocently as it does "You're the boyfriend?"

Oh, he really has no idea who they are. Ilya is awfully delighted by this, even more by the simplicity of his words, despite already being aware of their safe-place policy from all the browsing he’d done on the shop’s Instagram page.

"No, no we not." Nikolai says, a bit too loudly, stumbling through his words "Not because- but I'm just, uhm, support?"

"Well, you didn't have to say it like that." Ilya grumbles "This is Nikolai, by the way, ignore his awful manners, he's usually a charmer." He winks at Jude's amused expression as Nikolai grumbles, embarrassed, at his side, before following him down the hallway.

In their brief exchange of texts that week, Jude had managed to send him not one, not two, but three different designs that had made Ilya feel extremely conflicted about his final choice, but he can't say he regrets his decision when he sees the raw stencil placed over his right shoulder.

"So, we're doing just plain black and white, right?" Jude asks, snapping a pair of gloves on as he sets up a tray. Ilya is too busy keeping himself from tracing the carefully applied stencil with his fingertips to really care about all the prep work, but from the reflection in the mirror he can see that Nikolai looks weirdly entranced by the whole ordeal, following every movement of Jude's tattooed arms on the station.

"Yes. I'm also open to other ideas, though, if you have any."

Jude makes an appreciative noise, discarding his gloves to retrieve his iPad "I love when people say that."

The next thirty minutes they spend going over every other version Jude sketched around the original stencil, in vibrant and thick stripes of colour. Whichever he'll pick, he can't wait to show Shane, that is for sure, he thinks, lips parted in wonder.

"What do you think?" He asks Nikolai, urging him closer. Jude must have gotten the gist of it, because he shuffles sideways to let him look at the iPad.

Nikolai shily leans over their shoulders to take a look at the screen "I like the one with the kind of sun behind it, it's really pretty."

Then, Jude shocks the both of them, perking up as he flawlessly says "That's my favourite too, actually."

The room falls silent.

"You speak Russian?" Ilya asks, surprised at the ease of his words.

"My mom is from Siberia." Jude explains curtly, before looking worriedly between them "I should have said that earlier maybe. I just thought this might be more comfortable for everyone, but I don't want to assume-"

Nikolai interrupts him gently, still starstruck "No, thank you. I, uhm, I appreciate that."

Ilya, to be honest, kind of does too. After so many years living in the states it's nice to speak Russian with someone that is not family. He misses that about home, the ethnic shops and restaurants just a couple blocks from their old flat, the mouthwatering blinis Alexei used to bring home from the nearest street cart after work, to eat on the couch as the latest game played on the tv.

Ilya doesn't know if that means missing Russia or just home, there is still guilt into thinking they've not been the same for a long time.

"That one, then." He nods, eyes transfixed where the dark lines meet the vibrant red of the background.

It's only when he's laying on the adjustable bed with his arm out and Jude's steady hand is just a few inches from his skin, that he catches a glimpse of the buzzing gun and the needle that it's about to poke Ilya for the foreseeable hours. His breath catches in his chest.

"So, just for the record, is this going to hurt much?"

"Do you need a moment?" Jude answers, then, concerned.

Ilya has never quite been on the other side of that question before, in any given context, but he can't help feeling grateful for it when it gives him enough time to flip Nikolai and his phone's camera off and take a deep breath "Just do it."

Jude just chuckles before pressing the gun on his skin.

It's the worse two hours of Ilya's life. The pain totally beats that one time he broke his wrist and the doctor set it straight without any painkillers, especially the last twenty minutes of their session, when Jude goes to change the ink to white to go over the already raw and bloodied skin and Ilya has to bite down his tongue not to grunt too loudly or worse, gag. Nikolai, weirdly enough, has taken the role of answering Jude's question for the both of them while he suffers in the bed that divides them, watching Ilya's shoulder getting mauled with a little too interest as he carefully picks his words.

"We work in, uhm, sports." He says, like a liar, pinching Ilya's calf as a snorts leaves him, followed by a low hiss of pain.

"Could have bet my life you were jocks." Jude chuckles, not unkindly, tapping his foot to the beat of the music coming from the speakers "I get a lot of big guys like you coming in here for my services." He comments slyly.

If Ilya weren't going through the most painful moment of his whole existence, he would already be laughing his ass off at Nikolai's face.

"Oh, t-that's nice."

"You don't seem the type, though. Ever thought about it?" Ilya hears Jude ask then, while closing his eyes in a vain attempt to resist the pain, mildly curious.

"Getting a tattoo? Oh, no. No, no." Nikolai snorts, then backtracks, probably sensing how that just sounded like "I mean they're cool, t-they looks so good on you, your-" he stops himself, clearing his throat "I mean, anyone, other people, but uhm, my mom would probably kill me?"

Jesus Christ, Nikolai.

"Mhm. Yeah, I think I get it." Jude considers, mirth in his eyes.

Ilya's shoulder feels like it's on literal fire when Jude dries up the last excess of ink from his skin, but he can hardly think it wasn’t worth it, as he admires his work, permanently etched over the expanse of his upper arm. The lines are clean, crisp, dipped in colour. Ilya gapes a little.

"I take it you like it?" Jude chuckles, taking the black mask off his face.

"I love it." Is the only thing Ilya can manage to say, before getting his hand swatted away.

He hadn't even noticed he was reaching for his shoulder.

"No touching." Jude warns him, pointing his index at him "Only with your hands clean and after washing with anti-bacterial soap. Not scented, preferably. I'll leave you with all the instructions, but you can always text me if you have any questions."

Ilya pouts, but dutifully nods, before walking back towards him and the menacing plastic wrap he's holding in his hands.

Nikolai looks pretty fascinated as Jude goes through explaining the goriest things that Ilya had not known came from a healing tattoo (blood, way too much blood. What the hell does shedding even mean?), while ringing him up. Ilya is grateful at least one of them is listening attentively and Jude on his part definitely doesn't seem to mind, leaning over the desk as he looks up at him with big black rimmed eyes.

"- whatever happens, if you notice it fading just come back here and we'll ink back over. It's completely free." Jude finally says.

Ilya feels himself pale a little "It can fade?"

"Not like... dramatically." Jude tries, in a clear attempt to be reassuring "But the shading could need some touch ups, depending on how the skin will heal. It's a fairly big tattoo, so..."

Going past the dreadful perspective that is the possibility of having to go through all of this again, Ilya stuffs the tip jar full after tapping his card on the reader, over Jude's appalled protests.

"I cannot accept it, that's way too much, man."

"It's my money." Ilya tuts "The costumer is always right and yadda yadda. Buy you and the guys dinner with it, yes?"

Jude gapes "Dinner? At a Michelin restaurant, maybe. Not to be crass, but that's my rent in a jar." He turns towards Nikolai, earrings catching into the light with every movement. Maybe Ilya will text him just to ask where he got the cool sword looking one piercing through the top of his ear  "Is he always like this?"

"Stubborn as a mule? Oh, yeah. But, uhm, the tattoo came out great, just take it, you deserve it." He says, offering a timid smile "He won't take it back, anyway."

Ilya grins widely, nodding.

Jude only sighs, a small blush on the top of his cheeks, before handing Ilya his receipt.

Ilya walks out the shop with his hands stuffed with pamphlets, a sore shoulder hidden under layers and layers, wrapped up in uncomfortably tight plastic, and a big smile slapped on his face.

Nikolai walks beside him, looking down at the business card Jude had slid in his direction with a playful 'Just in case you change your mind', that had left Nikolai red in the face and a stuttering mess.

The embarrassment doesn't stop him from being incredibly perceptive, as always.

"So... can we stop pretending that there is nothing going on now?" Nikolai says, after thanking the waiter for their drinks, lazily laying his head on the palm of his hand. He looks at Ilya from behind his beer, expectantly.

"What do you mean something going on?" Ilya repeats, cluelessly, eyes stuck on the burger section of the menu.

"Ilya."

"Nikolai."

"Don't give me that." Nikolai insists.

Ilya bites the inside of his cheeks, as he ponders his words. Well, it's now or never, he supposes, that's why he brought them there, anyway. He closes the menu.

"I asked for a trade." He finally admits, straight to the point, fingers tracing the rim of his glass "This is going to be my last season in Boston."

"But-" Nikolai stutters, confused "A trade? Why? To where?"

"To Ottawa."

"You're kidding, this is a joke." Nikolai states, laugh cut short. He looks even paler than usual under the pub's cheerful lights "Fuck, you're not joking."

"No." Ilya confirms "I've, uhm, I already signed for next year. With coach, we decided to wait until after they play offs to announce it to the team but I wanted you to know first."

Ilya can see the numerous questions going through Nikolai's head, but what he's not expecting him to ask is just as a straightforward and pointed "Is this for Hollander?"

Ilya's beer almost gets stuck in his pipe wind "What? What does Hollander have to do with any of this?"

Nikolai scoffs "I have been telling you for years that the walls at the penthouse are fucking thin, moron. D'you know how much phone sex I had to hear only in the last six month? Too much, Ilya. The answer is way too much. If I could bleach my ear canals, I would have already done it."

"You-" Ilya can't help but gawk a little, stuck between awfully amused and deeply horrified. Well, there is really no reason to deny it at this point. Shane will forgive him. Ilya hopes, at least "How long?"

Nikolai looks awfully unimpressed "Dude, you've never shut up about him ever since you met the guy. When you came out I started to think that you were just on your way to get your heart broken, but then Sochi happened and all that bullshit about Montreal Jane." He says, rolling his eyes "You can fool the team all you want, but I know you, Ilya. I get why you wouldn't tell me before." He presses, lowering his eyes to the table "but I still thought that you would, at some point." 

"It's not just my secret." Ilya reminds him "I wanted to, I really did, but I couldn't do that to Shane. He wasn't even out to his parents until like, last summer." He says. And he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. That is another thing he’ll have to tell him, Ilya thinks, reluctantly.

"How about now? Do they know about you?"

"They do." Ilya nods "He, uhm, he met Alexei and Niamh, too."

Nikolai scoffs, laugh incredulously "Wow. So, it's serious now."

Despite everything, Ilya can't help the smile stretching on his lips, thumbing at the sticker of his beer "It's been for a while."

"I can't believe you." Nikolai says, and if Ilya didn't know him as well as he does, he would probably start to really think he's not taking it as well as he'd hoped. But Nikolai's eyes are glistening under his lashes, and there is definitely a hint of a smirk in the way his lips are pressed together as he sniffs. Always such a cry baby, Ilya thinks, fondly "So, Ottawa. It's for him, isn't it?"

"It is." Ilya says, bumping their shins together under the table "It'll better for seeing each other."

"What's next? Coming out?"

And so Ilya tells him: about the foundation, Shane and Yuna's strenuous planning, everything waiting for them the next summer and his trade. Nikolai listens quietly, his hands folded in front of him on the table, sipping from his beer every now and then.

"Well," he says, impressed, once Ilya deflates in his chair, finally free of a long carried weight "Sounds like you really put your mind into it."

"I did."

"Does Vetrov know about this? Hollander, I mean." Nikolai asks then, warily "But I can't imagine the trade thing being that nice of a conversation either, to be honest."

Ilya nips at his bottom lip.

He had spent a whole evening buttering Vetrov up with wine, around two month prior, the last time he'd managed to catch him in Boston between their busy schedules. Nikolai was off to a baseball game with Wilde, after much coaxing from their teammate, who had always had a little of a soft for him and also found his lack of knowledge on any sport that wasn't hockey quite horrifying. It had to be then.

"Tell me this is your last concussion talking." Vetrov had said, lowering his fork, while staring into him like Ilya might have just gone absolutely crazy.

"Eh, no."

"Ottawa, you said? You're sure? The same Ottawa that hasn't made the playoffs once in almost two decades?"

"That one, precisely."

Vetrov had waved to a quite scared looking waiter, before downing the rest of his wine down and gesturing for another bottle. Ilya had wished he'd waited until the second one got opened before dropping the bomb, but by that point it didn't really matter anymore.

"And, pray tell, does your choice of career suicide have a reasonable explanation?"

Ilya had taken a deep breath "I want my Canadian citizenship. I don't want to wait anymore."

"Why?" Vetrov pressed "The Bears are more than willing to renew your contract, your VISA is not running any risks."

"It's not just that." Ilya admitted, picking at his handkerchief "I want to be closer to home, too."

"And out of all the teams in Canada you chose the worst?" Vetrov had said, appalled "You're just trying to piss me off." He laughed then "Very funny, Ilyusha. That’s why Kolya didn't come, right? The kid would have already cracked-"

"I'm not joking." Ilya stopped him, seriously "I know that it might seem weird, but I've really thought about it and that's what I would like to do for the next season."

Vetrov had leaned back in his chair. Despite what many could have thought seeing Vetrov in his normal vests, wearing the flamboyant and sly smile he served to clients, the higher ranks of the chain, he was far from stupid, scarily so even. No man that ever managed to build an empire like his was, and especially so not one that could read people as well as Vetrov could. Off the ice, he was still a goalie through and through, only that now the game was just life and the players his pawns.

Ilya couldn't help but lower his eyes at the intensity of his stare.

"If the distance is the problem, I have many contacts within the Edmonton Oilers, you know that already. They would take you in a heartbeat, maybe with an even bigger check than you get now. People love you there." Vetrov considered, twirling the wine inside his glass "But you keep insisting about Ottawa, which I frankly cannot see the appeal of. You are worth way more than that and I know you're not that idiotic to think that even with your talent and an insane dose of Nightingale syndrome, you could make that big of a difference alone. So why?"

Ilya had already surmised every part of his argument before even considering the idea of asking Vetrov to meet, but he still found himself struggling to find the words in his head to make them make any sense.

"Well, I want to stay in the division." He said "And also-"

"You didn't get anyone pregnant in Ottawa, right?" Vetrov interrupted him, then.

"No."

"I'm your agent, I should know these things-"

"It's not that, old man, stop it."

"Mhm, yes, your brother would have probably popped a vessel if that was the case." Vetrov considered. His eyes tracked the tapping of Ilya's fingers over the table "But maybe it is for a girl, yes?" He asked next, deliberately "Or you wouldn't be so stuck up on Ottawa."

"It's a nice city." Ilya tried.

"You live in Boston. Ottawa is a shithole in comparison." Vetrov had scoffed, before setting his lips into a tight line "So?"

Ilya had sighed "Would you believe me if I told you it wasn't like that?"

"You would have already denied it, so probably not." Vetrov said.

Fucking goalies.

"It's a big commitment, a trade." He added, seriously "You must love her."

Ilya hadn't been able to stop a small smile from crossing his face "Is it bad?"

Vetrov hummed "Well, as your agent, I have to make sure you know that it's a very debatable choice: Ottawa is a shitty team and this will cost you a lot of great money, even though I'm pretty sure they'd sell out a good chunk of their roaster just to afford you. As your friend..." he had considered then, caressing his thumb over the metal of the golden band wrapped around his ring finger "Well, I guess it would be hypocritical of me to tell you that you shouldn't."

Ilya was barely a baby when Sergei Vetrov's retirement broke through the NHL.

He'd been fresh of a gruesome trading battle, only made worse by the imminent dissolution of the Soviet Union. In the end, he'd ended up playing exactly one season for the Boston Bears, winning his first and last Stanley Cup, before hooking up the skates at barely thirty-one, following his wife's accident.

Svetlana had opened her eyes for the first time to a world that was already privy of her mother. It was on every article from that fateful year, every piece of information about Vetrov's career and it's unfortunate end.

Ilya had always wondered how Vetrov did it, after that, take care of a child while mourning the loss. They'd had so little time together and yet a love that had tangled their lives so much that, almost thirty years later, Vetrov still bore it like a sign of pride on his right hand, too unthinkable to part from, maybe too hurtful, too.

Or maybe not, considering the small quirk of his lips, as he shook himself back, breaking the quiet haze that had dropped over the table "And here I thought the beast couldn't be tamed." He laughed, taking out his phone from the pocket of his jacket "Prepare yourself, because it's gonna be a very interesting few months, Ilyusha. And for the season... who knows? It's nothing we couldn't fix, but losing an iron contract like yours? Hope you won't regret it." He had considered absentmindedly, as if stating a simple fact.

"Did you?" He couldn't help but ask, curiously.

The silence that had followed had felt interminable, as Vetrov raised his eyes from his phone to stare into his, inscrutable. His face had morphed into something softer, then, earnest like Ilya had hardly ever seen him "Never."

"It wasn't that bad actually. He doesn't know about Shane, no, just the foundation. He and his agent already started working on a draft for our statement. We'll probably announce it after the summer."

"Uh." Nikolai hums "Well, I'm glad to hear it. He's good with this kind of stuff." His eyes lower to his hands with a small frown, then, after setting his beer back down from his lips "It will suck not playing together anymore, though."

"Yeah." Ilya agrees faintly, sighing wistfully "I wish we could have worked on getting that cup before it happened."

There's a pause.

"Why the hell would you say that." Nikolai whines, tossing his napkin to Ilya's face, as he laughs loudly, uncaring of the heads turning in their direction "There is still this year's playoffs, don't you fucking jinx it, man. What the fuck-"

"God, I hope they won't give your spot to Carmicheal: we’d be fucking doomed." Nikolai mutters around his cigarette, rubbing his hands together as they wait for their car right outside the pub.

The rest of dinner had felt lighter, freeing, as being able to talk about Shane always is, when he rarely can, usually while calling home. It's different though, doing it with someone that understands, probably even more than Ilya himself can admit to.

Ilya has to still his face from smiling, only half succeeding as he cups his hand over his cigarette to shield the flame of the lighter from the wind. He had forgot to mention a key part, earlier, after all "Oh trust me, that won't be a problem, Captain."

Nikolai's head snaps in his direction with what Ilya is sure must have been a painful twist "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"No, I'm pretty sure I didn't- you just said-"

"Coach wants you to take the C." Ilya nods, stopping Nikolai in his tracks "And before you can say anything: the only thing I had to do with this was giving the stamp of approval after everything was already decided. You got this fair and square." He reassures him, patting his arm over the table  "Coach said I could tell you, but this needs to stay a secret until after the play-offs, too, obviously."

Nikolai's mouth opens and closes a couple of times, wordlessly, cigarette nearly falling to the ground.

"Of course." He stutters, wide eyed "You're not joking right?" He asks next, accepting the lighter from him with a weak shake in his hands.

"Nope, this is all yours, Nikki. Coach was very impressed after New York and you're already an alternate, practically made for the job. He believes you can do it and I do too." He says, wrapping an arm across his shoulders with a smirk "Just lay it off the guys a bit at first, they are not ready for full Captain Morozov, yet."

"You coddle them." Nikolai sniffs, bumping their heads together.

"Are you crying on me? You're such a softie."

"Oh, Fuck off, asshole." The other huffs, pushing him away with a wet scoff.

"Dork." He bites back, before sending a sly look in his direction "So, what did you think about Jude?" He doesn't have to wait long for the flush to take over Nikolai's face, too warm to blame Boston's wind "Quite incredible, isn't he?"

"I mean," he coughs, straightening himself up "he's, uh, fine, I guess? Why do you care?"

"He was flirting with you." Ilya informs him, as if that weren't clear enough already.

Nikolai shifts on his feet "He was not. I mean, yeah, he was, but with both of us? I think that's just... him."

Alright, that's fair.

He also didn't look at Ilya like he wanted to climb him like a tree, though.

"He gave you his number, you should call him."

"He gave me the studio's number. For a tattoo. Which is his job." Nikolai corrects him, lighting up his cigarette and handing Ilya his lighter back "There is a big difference there."

"You should ask him out." He still says, shrugging "Thought you said you wanted to start putting yourself out there."

"That's not what I said." Nikolai complains "Stop putting words in my mouth. I just meant that maybe, if I- if I wanted to, with how things are now with the league, there would be no need to be this... careful."

After their last game in New York, one of the best games they'd played all season up until then, still filled with adrenaline and beer from celebrating the win with the others at a club in Brooklyn, Ilya had packed both of them in a cab on the way to Manhattan, to Scott Hunter's gay bar.

Ilya had heard a lot about it and a pretty buzzed Scott Hunter himself, at their hotel bar during the last All Stars, had personally hinted that they'd be welcome to join in after their next game, patting Nikolai's back with a look that Ilya, on his fourth shot of the night, hadn't really been able to decipher. Not after the promise of good alcohol, at least.

Usually, the few times that Nikolai allowed Ilya to bring him out to gay bars, the tensed anticipation of being recognized was a constant buzzing underneath his skin. But nobody would have really questioned their presence there, at the Kingfisher, a sports gay bar, especially not after a game, and he could see how much that thought served to make Nikolai more at ease, while they walked through the crowd and up to the counter.

"Well, hi handsome, what can I get you?" The barman, a cute looking guy with sandy blonde hair and charming eyes had asked, looking the both of them up and down.

"A beer." Ilya said, turning towards Nikolai "Long Island?"

"Sure."

The barman, Kyle, had chatted amicably while making their drinks, over the music. Nikolai was bobbing his head to the beat, embarrassedly chuckling at Kyle's playful advances, when Ilya saw Scott Hunter himself walk up to the counter, his arm around a built dark haired man, with a pleased smile on his face.

"Look what the wind brought."

"You already forgot you invited us?" Ilya had tutted "Alzheimer is a bad beast, Hunter."

"Hi, Mr. Hunter." Nikolai waved. His glassy eyes widened, then, moving to Hunter's left. Maybe coercing him to another drink hadn't been that great of an idea on Ilya's part "Is he your Kip?"

"We come from another party." Ilya said, carefully picking the more than half empty glass from Nikolai's hands, as Hunter and, well, his Kip, laughed "This is enough for you, buddy."

"Kip Grady." He'd said, offering his hand to the both of them.

"God, Hunter, you're a real cradle robber." Ilya said, dramatically stunned "I'm sorry if you have to deal with his geriatric nonsense." He added, holding an amused Kip by the shoulders "Blink three times and we'll get you out of here."

"Okay, that's enough-" Hunter huffed, rolling his eyes, his arm sneaking possessively around Kip's waist to pull him back in as Kip laughed freely, unbothered by all the people walking past and around them.

Armed with both their drinks, Ilya had followed Hunter as he led them to a booth by the corner of the club, up into the VIP section.

"Morozov, they should really make you a saint. How do you put up with him?" Hunter had said, sitting down on the opposite seat from him, Kip halfway over his lap.

Ilya had found it awfully adorable, not without a little hint of envy. If Shane had been there, he would have probably made sure to sit all the way away from him, as if the possibility of them being together wouldn't have seemed as far from possible as it did to a horde of hockey players.

"He makes me waffles every morning." Nikolai sighed, dreamily, laying against Ilya's arm resting over the back of the couch.

"That's so cute." Kip cooed "How long have you two been living together?"

"Since he got traded, four-ish years now." Ilya answered "We already knew each other from Russia, grew up together. Why get another flat when he would have been at the same one most times, anyway?"

Hunter raised both brows, surprised "Fuck. It had been a long time coming, then. I wouldn't have figured from... well, you, Rozanov."

"Just because your humour died with the rest of the dinosaurs, doesn't mean mine cannot be appreciated by anyone born after the industrial revolution." Ilya had smirked behind his beer.

"I could hardly define it as humour."

"It's okay, grandpa, I know how hard it's for you to keep up with it."

"You weren't wrong." Kip quipped to his boyfriend, eyes filled with delight "You really are something else, Rozanov."

"Glad to be of service."

As the next song picked up from the speakers, Kip managed to drag a pretty wasted Nikolai to the dancefloor. They made a funny pair, but on the other end a buzzed Nikolai hardly had any restraints when the lights were off and there was good music playing.

"How has it been for you guys?" Hunter had asked, then, taking his eyes off his boyfriend and Nikolai dancing together a few feet away.

"Season's been good." Ilya said, lazily tracing the rim of his glass "But I don't have to tell you that, we obliterated you tonight."

"Ah-ah." Hunter deadpanned "You both played good, though." He added, more reluctantly "Morozov was on fire tonight, Carter will nurse that shoulder for at least two weeks."

Two assists and a goal. Ilya had literally charged on him when the buzzer signed the end of the third period.

"Could have been worse?" He only offered, grinning gleefully.

Hunter had shook his head, a small smile on his lips "And how about... you know, the rest?" He'd given Nikolai, currently singing back to back with his boyfriend, with a metaphorical microphone in his hand, a considering look "He seems to be doing good."

Ilya had leaned more into the cushions, humming pensively "I think he is. It's always been hard for him, ever since we were kids. Russia is... well, I'll let you imagine it. Moving did him good, and since your little stunt it's definitely been easier on him." He admitted.

"Do your guys know? About you two?" Hunter asked, curiously.

"Nikolai is a very private person." Ilya had said, a little put off by his wording "I don't think they'd really have any problems with it, though."

"I mean, apart from that, you guys have been together for years now, if it hasn't jeopardized the team since, I don't know what will." Hunter considered, unaware of the internal turmoil he had just caused him.

What the fuck.

"Together." He had repeated, astounded.

"I'm glad you kids had each other. Going through all of that alone... it's a hardship-" Hunter continued "Being on a team together must be pretty neat, too, no distance and all that. With Kip it's always a little difficult to work around it, between his shifts and my games."

"Uh-uh."

"I know we're not like, friends, but we could go out sometimes when you’re in the city, all of us. A double date of some sort-"

Ilya had let him talk, lips pressed together to contain his laughter, nodding every now and then at the surreality of it all. Jesus Christ.

How bad would it have been to not tell Nikolai and wait for him to figure it out by himself?

Ilya had still been battling that thought when they'd scrambled into a cab back to their hotel, until-

"Kip is fun." Nikolai had said, sprawled in his seat and with his head throw back on the headrest, looking at Ilya through heavy lidded eyes "He and Scott are cute. Is nice they can just... be. Nobody cared about them." He mumbled, incoherently. Ilya had thought maybe he should have gotten him to drink some more water before leaving the bar "I could too, maybe. I can just pretend. You think people would notice if I just... didn't make a big deal of it?"

"You want to throw a Hunter and make out with someone in the middle of Dock Square?"

Nikolai giggled "Yes. Yes just... like I was anybody but me. It could be nice. Maybe I should. I want that. Other players came out after Hunter." He'd said, contemplating the cab's fares written behind the driver's seat.

"You want to come out?" Ilya asked, clearly failing hiding his surprise while indulging way too much in his drunken thoughts. He also refrained from adding that the only players he knew that publicly came out after Hunter also quit the NHL, too, not long after.

"If I had a reason, maybe. Eventually." Nikolai had slurred, more asleep than not "Like Kip for Scott. Kip is really nice, by the way." He added again, endearingly, before snapping back awake with an enviable spurt of energy and turning into his seat, big smile on his lips and spirited eyes "You won't guess what he told me: Scott Hunter is a fucking freak in the sheets-"

Ilya is surprised Nikolai even remembers that conversation, to be completely honest. He wishes he didn't, kind of, at least to forget the ugly image Nikolai had stuck in his head after that. Still-

"I didn't say you have to marry the guy." Ilya says "He wanted to fuck you, you clearly want to do the same, with all that giggling and hair-twirling-"

"I didn’t-"

"- maybe you could get at least some fun out of it. But I have to say, I didn't think he would be your type." Ilya admits "Is it the piercings? The tattoos? You just like them a little rugged, maybe?"

Or just literally anyone that would make both his parents faint on the spot, he thinks, amused.

Nikolai groans "Jesus."

"There was the married guy, the stoner, the one with the kinky pet lizard, or the foot fetishist..." Ilya stops himself with a considering hum "You know, I could go on, but Jude might really be the least problematic one on the list, actually." Until proven wrong, at least "Where did you even picked half of those guys from?”

"Jude is not on the list." Nikolai says, throwing his hands up and cowardly ignoring Ilya's very fair point "And he won't be, because I won't call him. Just cut it out."

Ilya sighs.

A drastic situation calls for drastic measures.

"Alright. You do you, I guess."

Nikolai, who probably hadn't expected Ilya to give in so easily, gapes a little at first, before nodding resolutely "Exactly, yes. Thank you."

"Putting yourself out there is a little intimidating. I understand if you're scared, considering... well, everything."

"Damn righ- Wait- I'm not scared-"

"There's no need to lie, I'm your best friend, man, I just know these things."

Nikolai glares down at him "And I know what you're doing. Stop it."

Ilya makes a questioning sound, tilting his head innocently "Doing what? I'm just saying: it's okay if you're not ready, you should go at your pace."

"I loathe you."

"Ah, you wound me, Nikki. There is no need for that." He pouts, stubbing his cigarette under the sole of his shoes as a white cab pulls up just a few feet away "It happens to the best of us. Hang in there buddy." He says, patting his back condescendingly before moving towards the car.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, he hears Nikolai scramble behind him "It's not- oh, fuck off. Ilya-!"

He's going to have so much fun these last few months in Boston.

*

Ilya has barely closed the door to his room when Shane answers his call, laid out on his bed in Montreal, hair dishevelled from resting his head against the pillow and glasses prodded up his nose, chest fully in display. Ilya wants to bite him.

"Hey, baby."

His heart somersaults in his chest, just as it has been doing every time Shane allows tenderness to seep into his words, in the quiet intimacy of the little time they get to spend alone.

"Hey." He whispers, voice a little hoarse "What are you doing?"

"I was reading. Niamh sent me a copy of Jackson Frays' biography, it even has a-"

Ilya lets him talk, letting Shane's voice uncoil every knot on his shoulders as he lays the phone over the bed, camera pointing at the ceiling while he works on shrugging off his clothes, mindful of his shoulder.

Shane's voice abruptly stops "Hey, where did you ended up to?"

Ilya chuckles "I'm changing. You wanted a peak? A strip tease? I always knew you were a pervert, Hollander-"

"Shut up." Shane frowns "It's just weird. You jerked off in front of me in a public shower and now you get shy?"

"If I remember correctly, It was you that got hard in front of me in a public shower, first."

"Well, you started it-"

"Maybe I have a surprise for you?" Ilya interrupts him, smirking at the little flush that visibly starts to spread over Shane's cheek, the interested sparkle of his eyes.

"You do?"

"Mhm, yes." Ilya says, now bare chested, picking up his phone and walking in to the bathroom, camera carefully covered by his thumb.

For the first time in weeks, he can feel a little of self-consciousness settling over the bottom of his stomach.

It hadn't been exactly an impulsive decision, the tattoo, or well, it had been at first, but after that Ilya hadn't simply found any reason to why not to go through with it. It feels just right now, to have the loon guarding over his shoulder, right where Shane's hand places every time he leans over for a kiss, where Ilya can first feel the heat of his desire, his love.

And so when Shane had sent him a picture of the same loon now branded on his body from the last time they'd been at the cottage together, one of the only pictures he'd allowed them to take while they sat over the snow cleared deck to watch the sun disappear behind the line drawn by the trees surrounding the cold waters of the lake, Ilya had known he wanted that moment of peace to stick more than a mere memory could.

Marleau walking into the locker room with a fresh new tattoo inked over his wrist, only a month later, had given him just the right idea.

But what if Shane won't like it?

They haven't been together for long (in the most literal sense, at least), even though Ilya can hardly say to have ever had any kind of relationship, if a relationship at all, last as much as theirs has.

It's probably too late to worry about it now, though, Ilya reasons, taking an encouraging breath before flipping the camera and turn quietly to let the light hit right over where the plastic cover is wrapped around his upper arm.

Shane's breath itches.

"Is that-"

"Yes."

"You-" Shane stutters, blinking as if he can't really believe his eyes, even with his glasses on. Ilya watches him bring the phone closer to his face, practically flush with the tip of his freckled nose.

"Do you, uhm, do you like it?"

Shane's teeth dig into his lower lip, eyes glassy and blown out "It's beautiful. You look- wow."

Ilya can feel relief mix with the hot rush Shane's attention on him always fogs his head with "It's for you. All of it. I know it's early, but... I'm yours, Shane. All of me."

Shane's lips part with a shaky sigh "Ilya."

"What is it, lyubimyy?"

"I need you. Please, I- can we-?"

Ilya is already halfway to his bed, feet scrambling underneath him, but then, just as he's finally set his phone over the tripod and got Shane moaning for him on the other side of the screen, a thought nudges his mind.

"Wait- Shane?"

Shane, now completely naked and leaking over his stomach, makes a confused noise, hand stopping in its trail down to his crotch. Ilya bites back a curse at the sight.

"What is it?"

"I have to tell you something."

Shane glares at him "Now?"

"I really think you would like to know, before we do this." Ilya insists, with a frustrated grunt.

Shane looks particularly sinful like this, frowning, with his arms crossed over his chest and skin flushed from arousal. Ilya probably shouldn't find him so hot while pissed off, but he never admitted to being sane.

Ilya decides that's it's better, for his own wellbeing, not to beat around the bush "So, Nikolai knows."

Shane stills, rigid, gaping at him "What? You told him?"

"Not exactly." Ilya says, pressing his lips together "He said he already knew. He guessed, I think, but... I may have also underestimated how much you could still hear from the other side of the hallway?"

"No." Shane says, covering himself up with the sheets, not unlike a Victorian maiden, eyes wide "You're not saying that-"

"I'm afraid I am. So, yeah, there's that."

"Fuck." Shane lets out, after a couple of seconds of tensed silence, covering his face with his hands "Oh my god, I can't believe this is my life. So he heard-"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Probably, maybe, I don't know," Ilya admits, somewhat sheepish "If it could make you feel better, he was just as embarrassed."

Shane glares at him through his fingers "No, Ilya, it does not make me feel better. How couldn't you figure it out?"

"Kolya doesn't like bringing people here, It's not like I had first hand experience." Ilya protests "I thought he was just being dramatic when Sveta used to come over."

That evidently wasn't the right thing to say, if the way Shane's expression twists with badly concealed rage is any giving. It's not that far off from the face he pulled when Ilya finally remembered to inform him that he didn't live quite as alone as it may have transpired, when Shane had suggested meeting up at his house after their game, earlier that season.

Ilya got ridden so hard after that, it took him a whole twenty minutes to see straight again.

This time though, chances are he really is going to get killed, and it will be by the hands of a criminally handsome and pissed Canadian. What a life.

But then, just as Ilya really starts to think he might need to start sending Alexei his last words, Shane's shoulders start to shake, chest heaving as he breaks with laughter.

"Fuck." Shane hiccups "Ilya I can never show my face to him again. How did we never realize?" He says in between fits.

"It could have been worse. Imagine if it had been my brother."

"Don't even joke about it."

Ilya chuckles, still, the sound of their laughter mixing into the quietness of the night.

"How did it even come up?" Shane asks then, after wiping stray tears from the corner of his eyes, way too covered in Ilya's opinion.

"I told him about the trade." Ilya explains, settling against the headboard with a huff "I didn't want him to know from someone else. He asked if it was because of you and gave me a very long list of reasons why he thinks he knows me better than me. Unbelievable."

"How did he take it?"

"Well, I think." He admits "Just kind of bummed. It was kind of a dream playing together in the league someday in the future when we were kids, win a cup together... kids things, you know."

A shadow passes over Shane's eyes, so rapidly Ilya wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't always so keen on trying to get everything he could from their calls, to satiate his longing "Are you okay?"

"Yes." Shane tries, before quickly relenting at Ilya's clear scepticism "I just... are you sure you're okay? With this, I mean, the trade. I know we already talked about it but I- I know it was a lot to ask of you and..." Shane rubs his eye under his glasses, lips curved in a grimace "You love your team, I know you do. Is this... worth it to get traded? Give up a dream?"

Am I worth it?

Ilya wishes he could be there, with him, brush the frown away from his face with his fingertips, show him that there was never a moment, while they planned all of this, where he thought that even the littlest chance of getting to be with him wasn't. He can't, though. Ilya hates it more than rationally allowed.

"Dreams can change, dorogoy." Ilya says, instead, forcefully "You are my new dream, Shane. That is worth more than a Stanley cup ever could. This not to say Montreal won't get its ass handed in the playoffs by us, of course. What an end to my last season here." He adds, just to see the feisty spark make its space through the tears glistening in Shane's eyes.

"Plus, if we had really followed anything on mine and Nikolai’s list, we would be still in Russia, loaded with money and living like the Kardashians or, I don’t know, Jeff fucking Bezos. Pretty unrealistic don’t you think? This is way better. Trust me, I really want this trade." Ilya continues, locking their eyes together "I'm right where I want to be. No more doubting, okay? I love you, Shane."

Shane smiles wetly. Ilya can tell there is still something troubling him, but he can let it go for now, he thinks, as Shane nods back "Okay. I love you, too."

Ilya kisses the camera with a loud smack that has Shane snort a laugh, before laying back with a sultry smile "Now, where were we."

"You're crazy if you think we're ever doing this again wherever Morozov can hear." Shane hisses, appalled.

Ilya groans loudly, throwing his head back against the pillows "Oh c'mon, lyubymyy. What difference does it make at this point? I could send him to sleep at Marly's? Would that make it better?"

"To have phone sex? That is just cruel."

"Or maybe we could speak French. Can you moan in French? is that a thing?"

"That won't fix the problem and also you couldn't speak French to save your life." Shane says, unimpressed.

"I could too." Ilya pouts, pretty aware that he could, in fact, not. Not enough to have sex about it anyway, if he could even get it up from the trauma of hours spent banging his head over textbooks "I got to a B in senior year, for your information. You try learning two stupid languages at once and then we can talk about it."

"Mhm, you're so smart,”

"Yes, I'm glad we're acknowledging it."

"-but I'm still not going to have sex with you."

"All this chatting would make much more sense if you weren't still hard." Ilya informs him, pettily "Just for the record."

"I'm not." Shane denies, as if Ilya couldn't see him shifting under the covers, trying to hide the obvious tent underneath. Ilya can feel himself salivating.

"Mhm, lying doesn't suit you, zaychik."

Shane blushes, the heat trailing all the way down to his chest "Fuck off."

"What if I put on earbuds?" Ilya suggests, as a last hope, because he is getting a little desperate there. Sue him, he hasn't seen Shane in more than a whole month, their next game is not scheduled until three more weeks from now and Ilya's starving, completely and undeniably, for a piece of him, whatever he can get "He won't hear you."

"He'd still hear you." Shane points out, but not uninterested.

"Yeah well, we grew up together and we live in the same house. He's heard me jerking off, before." Ilya rebukes, blood singing at the way Shane's stare darkens "He's heard your name on my lips so many times already, Solnyshko, how good you make me feel, what's one more? We could give him a show. He knows I'm yours, anyway." His hand hovers on the plastic cover splayed over his arm, the itchy patch of skin bearing his devotion.

Shane breathing is rough at the edges while hesitantly considering his words. He wets his lips as he follows his motion with his eyes "I guess it would be... okay, with headphones. You'll just have to be quiet. You think you can do that?" There is a distinct note of challenge in his tone, the way his lips quirk just enough to let Ilya know he's in for a game, one they've long acquainted with, that Ilya feels he will never get tired of.

Ilya smirks "How about I show you?"

Nikolai will simply have to suck it up, he decides.

*

Ilya doesn't exactly know how he did it, but with Easter falling on a weekend that year, managing to orchestrate a hit-and-run back home had somehow been fairly easy.

Yulia jumps into his arms as soon as they get sight of each other through the arrivals. She's almost seven, he ponders, awed, while crouching down to catch her. If she didn't look taller and taller every time he sees her again, in the few breaks in between every season, he wouldn't be able to believe it. The day he fails to pick her off the ground and in his arm will be the day he dies, he decides, throwing her up in the air once before hugging her giggling self against him, luggage abandoned behind him.

"Ah, kid, what do they feed you? You're getting as big as Uncle Kolya here."

Yulia laughs, her glasses askew on her face "Am not!"

"Are too!”

"No, he's clearly right, Yulechka." Nikolai says, poking her ribs, before taking her from Ilya's arms and sitting her up on his shoulders to tower over both of them "See?"

"Someday one of you will pull a muscle doing this, I swear." Niamh says, once she finally catches up to them, before giving her daughter an half-hearted scolding look "Baby, what did I tell you about running in places full of people?"

Yulia pouts, linking her arms under Nikolai's chin "That I shouldn't do it?"

"It was for a good cause." Ilya intervenes, pulling Niamh under his arm with a bright smile on his lips.

She only rolls her eyes before leading them all out to the her car.

"My brother?" Ilya asks, getting comfortable in the passenger seat.

Yulia is currently showing Nikolai videos from her last game on Niamh's phone, excitedly recounting everything that lead to her goal as Nikolai listens attentively to her ramblings.

"Dad's truck broke on the way back from the store. Lex went to pick him up and see if they could do anything about old Jessie." Niamh replies "But God, that truck is older than me and the guys. I really think her time has come."

"Ah, shoot."

"I know, dad is pretty bummed." She says "Lex didn't sound too hopeful about its conditions but he's done miracles before so who knows."

"He did drag six more years out of Finn's car." Ilya considers.

"My same thought." She laughs, tapping her fingers over the steering wheel.

It's a nice weekend; they stay over at Niall and Jean's place for the most. Ilya helps Alexei with trying to salvage what they can of Jessie as Nikolai and Yulia play with a rubber puck in the driveway, clapping his hands at every one of her good passes and booing whenever Nikolai gets a hold of the puck, just to hear her giggle, under his brother's amused hums.

Rory is somewhere in Europe on tour with the band, but Teagan does come by for lunch that Sunday, after closing up at the shop. They catch up as they help Jean in the kitchen, about her last disastrous dates, horror stories from working in retail, Ilya's games and the playoffs, all while being tutted at by Jean for dipping their fingers in the pasta sauce.

It must be sometime around ten PM in Moscow, when Nikolai's phone rings with a call from his parents.

Ilya's not that surprised to see Polina with them as well, armed with a glass of wine as she waves to the camera. He'd kind of suspected Nadia got a soft spot for her ever since they met at Alexei's wedding, and he was not that wrong, after all, from all the updates he gets every now and then. He's glad her and Isaak got someone in Moscow to rely on, and he's also pretty sure that Nadia and Ivan are just as happy to have company over more than once in a blue moon, as unconventional as their family must be.

"Hey, little bro." He says, once Isaak takes a hold of the phone. Yulia waves happily, where she's folded over the back of the couch, one arm strangling his neck "Hi, Izzy!"

"Hi!" Isaak smiles, giving Ilya a full view of his new hockey trophy, a chipped front tooth that Polina hadn't quite been as enthusiastic about, the last time they heard from each other "'Sup?"

At some point Ilya just leaves the kids be, escaping to the back for a cigarette. The snow has almost completely melted in Edmonton, but the air is still cutting on his cheeks as he cups the flame of the lighter away from the wind.

The door creaks as it opens once again. Alexei cracks his back before sitting down on the next step of the porch.

"Mind to share?"

Ilya hands him his pack with an amused smile "Thought you quit?"

"I did." Alexei grumbles, trying to work the lighter "You try keeping up with the stupid PTA and not need to start again, though."

Ilya turns to face him, crossing his legs underneath him "What was it this time?"

"The kids for some reason needed to all dress in red for their recital, but apparently crimson is not the same as scarlet and fucking Mrs. Davies complained to the other moms that I must be that sleazy of a parent not to notice." Alexei says, dragging one hand down his face.

Ilya chuckles "Damn."

"I didn't miss any of this shit after you graduated, I swear to god." He groans, leaning his back on the handrail.

"Hey, look on the bright side, it's just going to be eleven more years of it."

"Don't fucking remind me." Alexei grumbles, aiming for the ashtray "Yuna has been giving me advices, she was the head of the PTA at every one of Shane's schools, apparently."

"I can see it." He nods, mildly terrified. He's had to deal with Vetrov complaining about Yuna's insistent prompts on their statement often enough the past month, he can totally see her bossing around a gaggle of gossiping moms.

He's also pretty sure that Vetrov has figured him all out, by now, but neither of them has breached the subject yet and Ilya is surely not going to be the one to start it. Vetrov not dropping him all of a sudden is enough of a relief for now.

"She's a saving grace." Alexei considers "Nadia said she wants to meet her." He mentions then, "I guess it might be not that great of an idea, though. Her and Ivan still don't know, right?"

"No." He shakes his head, refraining from adding how Nadia and Yuna meeting could be a potential hazard to the whole world "Nikki does, though."

"He does?" Alexei takes a visible sigh of relief "Thank god. I was afraid Yulia would let it slip, somehow. We're still working on not broadcasting we know Shane Hollander, at school." His brows meet into a frown, perplexed  "But I thought you weren't going to tell him?"

Ilya hums around his cigarette "It wasn't planned. He figured it out by himself."

Alexei's face shifts into something knowing "I guess if someone could, that'd be him."

Ilya hopes the wind will be enough of an excuse to the blush he feels rising to his cheeks. Alexei definitely doesn't need to know what gave it away, at least if Ilya doesn't want to be mocked till death "Mhm, yeah."

"I'm glad, though." Alexei says, pushing the hood of his hoodie up to keep his hair out of his face, with an annoyed grunt. Ilya doesn't understand why he just wouldn't cut if it's been bothering him so much lately, but then again, Alexei doesn't do half measures and he doesn't want to end up under Niamh's wrath by pointing it out "This not telling people, it must be hard enough already. How is Shanya doing? We heard from him after his last game and he sounded pretty off."

Ilya still cannot believe this is his life now, one where his brother weekly rings up his boyfriend to catch up, where Niamh hosts their own two-people book club about old and boring older players' lives and his niece has even started to call him 'Uncle Shane'.

He gives his brother a small smile as he stubs out his cigarette, before sighing.

"I think he's a little stressed. With the playoffs, the team and just... the whole thing about the foundation. He's been putting a lot of work into making it perfect, but I don't know how it could be even better than what we already planned."

"Mhm. I can understand that. It's a lot of responsibilities he has."

"I just wish there was something I could do to make this weight less on him, you know?" Ilya admits, leaning his elbows over his knees and staring absentmindedly at the gentle rock of the porch swing "I don't know how, though."

"I think you could start with asking him." Alexei prompts, very usefully, with that same look he always gave Ilya when the answer to a math problem was right in front of his eyes and he was just too caught up in complaining to see it "Just talk to him, Ilyusha."

And well, now that Ilya thinks about it, he hasn't really... done it, ask Shane what he needs from him, for this, apart from the hundreds of papers he's already dutifully signed and shipped back when asked.

Huh.

Sometimes it can be that easy maybe. Not that he'd ever tell Alexei he might be right.

"I beg you to never start a help line, you would suck at it-"

For Game three of the playoffs, Montreal steps onto the ice of the Garden just as aggressively as usual, if not even more, with the stakes playing against each other always brings with it, the knowledge of what it would cost to lose.

Ilya loves the booing coming from the blue painted bleachers, the cutting brutality of checking for the puck, laughing at the snarls answering to his chirps. But what Ilya particularly loves about playing Montreal is, well-

"Good afternoon, sir, would you like a tissue for when we'll leave y'all crying on the ice?"

The ref sighs "Rozanov, are you going to be a problem?"

Shane's lips curl with the hint of a smirk around his mouthguard, sending sparks fluttering in Ilya's chest "When is he not?"

Ilya winks at him before winning the face off.

They're already a point ahead, after a well used power play, and with the little time left in this last period Ilya feels pretty confident about their chances, which only serves to make it even more fun, chasing Shane across the rink.

"This is weirdest kind of foreplay I've ever seen in my entire life." Nikolai comments, deadpan, in the few minutes between rotation, as he squirts water through the cage of his helmet. Their last game against buffalo had left him with a nasty ice burn over the top of his cheekbone, still held together by strips of tape, along a mild concussion Nikolai insisted wasn't enough to keep him off the ice, when arguing with the medical team. Trying to convince Nadia she did not need to come all the way to Boston, when she'd called while they were still at the hospital, after the game, had been way more difficult, though.

Ilya only smirks gleefully at him, knocking their helmets together before jumping over the boards to get back in for the next face off.

Winning always makes Shane cockier, confident, more biting every time they fall in bed, between kisses and the urgency of taking the clothes off one another.

But losing, somehow, riles him up in a way that Ilya would have never expected from someone like him, always aiming for the top. Ilya is already thinking about finally having him in his arms, underneath or on top of him he doesn't particularly care much, of the brash feeling of his teeth digging into his lip, the trail of his fingers down his back, as he drives he and Nikolai back from the rink.

Nikolai has been texting on his phone ever since they left the locker room. Ilya kind of understands now Alexei's complains about feeing like an uber driver, back when he used to bring him to practice. In the end, it's Nikolai that breaks the silence.

"You can make Hollander come over tonight, if you want. I'm going out." He informs him, tucking his phone back into his pocket. His leg keeps jumping over the car floor, to the beat of the music coming from the radio, or maybe from the clear annoyance that Boston's traffic always brings out of him, as if he were the one driving through it. The audacity.

"Thought you said you wouldn't join the guys?"

Nikolai usually wasn't one to refuse to go out after a win, in the name of team spirit, so it had been quite unusual to see him letting down the invite, after Ilya got his usual nagging about quitting for his Jane.

"I'm not. I have a... kind of a date?" Nikolai responds, clearing his voice.

Huh. Interesting.

"Kind of a date? With who?"

"That's none of your business." Nikolai promptly replies.

"Just for that, next time you lose your keys you can go and have a sleep over at Mick's, for all I care." Ilya huffs "Where did you even find them, anyway? We looked fucking everywhere."

Truth be told, Ilya was surprised to discover Nikolai actually kept up with bringing them around with him since they always drove back home together and would inevitably use his, at least enough to lose them and have them search through the rink, the car, pretty much every stop they'd made that past few weeks.

Nikolai is fiddling with a stray thread of his ripped jeans, when he answers, apparently nonchalant "At, uhm, Rybak's. Jude's studio."

"You went back?" Ilya asks, surprised. Then, frowning "You went back and you didn't tell me?"

"I just went to look for my keys." Nikolai rolls his eyes.

"And?"

"And they were there."

"Nothing else happened?" He prods, put out, pressing on the gas as the light turns green. Maybe he was wrong, then, after all.

Nikolai sighs "Jude was on lunch break and asked if I wanted to get coffee together, okay?"

Nevermind.

Ilya smirks "That's cute."

"He kept my keys safe, it would have been rude to refuse."

"Uh-uh. Did he pay?"

With the corner of his eyes he can see Nikolai grit his teeth. It clashes with the smile he's clearly trying to repress "He did."

"A gentleman. So this 'kind of a date'... it's with him, isn't it?"

"Don't you have anything better to do than annoy me?" Nikolai says "like not going over the speed limit. Hollander's dick won't disappear if we're not home in the next three minutes."

Ilya offers him a well deserved middle finger before turning the radio all the way up and keep on driving.

Nikolai is in and out of the house way before Ilya hears the bell ring, to find Shane standing on the other side of the door, hands in his pocket and a shy smile on his face.

Ilya doesn't even wait for the door to completely close behind him to pounce.

Shane's nose is cold and red from the wind when his face meets the crook of his neck, as Ilya brings him flush against him, tight in his arms, now wrapped around his shoulders. Ilya buries his face in his still damp hair, breathing in the gentle scent of his shampoo, the layer of cologne staining his clothes.

Ilya can't help the way his whole body melts, from the relief of knowing he and Shane are just an inch apart.

He's missed this more than words could possibly articulate, and, considering the solid hold of Shane's arms around his waist, he must not be the only one.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Ilya cups his face in his palm, thumb caressing over his cheekbone. He can't resist leaving a soft kiss over his freckles, reverently, then one over the tip of his nose, red from the cold outside, and finally his mouth, curled into a smile against his.

He feels a little pathetic for the low sound escaping from deep down his chest, when Shane parts his lips to grant him more access, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. He allows the kiss to stay chaste, though, leaning his forehead against his once they part for air.

"Missed you." Shane whispers, hands coming up to cross behind his neck. His fingers dig into the hair poking out his half-up half-down, scratching at his nape.

Ilya sighs "Don't tell me."

After shrugging off his shoes and jacket, Shane picks up his offering hand, allowing Ilya to lead him through the house, up the stairs, all the way into his room, between kisses and childlike giggles, every time they find themselves tripping over their legs, bumping against the furniture.

Ilya takes his time to open him up once they're finally in bed, swallowing every sigh, every whine leaving Shane's lips, and trying to permanently implant the memory of their bodies crashing against each other's in his mind, where he'll be able to reach for it when the distance will inevitably be too much.

It's probably not normal, how much he feels for him, he thinks, heart warm and sated as he drags Shane to lay over him after cleaning both of them up, what feels like hours later.

Shane's eyelashes tickle his chest as his eyes flutter open and shut, in the bliss that comes after a first, second and third round, depleted of all desperation and eagerness. Ilya smiles giddily in his hair.

He twists a dark strand between his fingers "It's getting long." He considers, absentmindedly.

"Was thinking of growin' them out for the playoffs." Shane admits "My beard is too patchy, I look ridiculous."

"Not ridiculous. Just..."

"Like an eighteen year old rookie trying to look like an adult?"

Ilya chuckles, not unkindly "A little. Still beautiful. You were when we were eighteen, and you're now."

Shane leaves a kiss on his pec, another on the small part of his tattoo not hidden by the sheets "Sap."

"For you."

Ilya could lay like this forever, if allowed, with Shane in his arms and no other preoccupation but making sure he has everything he wants most.

Someday he'll get to have it, he thinks, leaning down his head to make their lips meet again.

Shane nuzzles back in his neck "I'm glad we could meet here. The hotels make it feel too much like before."

"Mhm, me too. Kolya had his own hot date to get to, won't be back until tomorrow, I think." He says, nipping at his shoulders "No need to worry about being loud." He teases him.

Shane's breath is hot against his skin as he huffs "Fuck off."

"We did that already, dorogoy."

"Very funny."

"I know, I'm hilarious."

"Debatable."

Ilya pulls him up on his chest, their faces only inches apart as he smirks "You love it." He accuses him.

"I love you." Shane pleads guilty, meaningfully, before crashing their lips back together.

Ilya falls asleep cradled in his arms, what seems like hours after Shane, finally lulled by the sound of his breathing under his ear after fighting the drowsiness in the hopeful illusion of making it last just a little longer.

The next morning, Ilya wakes up to an annoyingly lukewarm spot beside him and his arms empty of two-hundred pounds of a hockey player. The clock signs only seven AM and is extremely unlikely Shane left without a goodbye. Or his pants, Ilya thinks, eyeing the folded clothes sitting over his dresser.

They have maybe another couple of hours before Shane has to leave to get on the bus, and Ilya is not going to waste it.

There is no sound coming from the bathroom, but a distinct shuffling from downstairs. With a groan, Ilya gets himself out of bed, cracking his back on the way to the door.

He is not expecting Shane's voice to mix in with another's, over the sound of the coffee machine running. Ilya hadn't even heard Nikolai come back last night.

"-Comeau plays too injured. Your D-line is over the place with him. I wouldn't put him on first. He's good with your sixty-five, uh, Ryder?"

Ilya rolls his eyes. Of course. Try putting hockeytron3000 and hockeytron5000 into the same room and not expect them to talk about hockey. He still listens in, leaning behind the wall.

"I know, right? He and JJ don't really work together, but until we find another consistent goalie we can't do really anything about this rotation. Harper is retiring next year and Justin is still a rookie. We need someone to teach him the ropes."

"Mhm, yes. Harper wouldn't know difference between a pitch and a fork. Maybe he teaches rookie how to tie his skates, if you're lucky. He's overdue retirement. Wasn't too bad goalie, though."

"He's a good man, I billeted with his family during training camp, my rookie year. He's just a little, uhm... weird."

"He's goalie."

The room falls silent but for the rumbling of the coffee machine. Ilya's about to take the last steps down the stairs before Nikolai speaks again.

"I know that you know, about me. Ilyusha told me."

Oh.

"Yeah, I umh, I know. It wasn't- I'm so sorry. I was kind of spiralling in that moment, he only wanted to put things into perspective-" Shane rambles, making Ilya's heart ache.

"I know. Is fine, Hollander."

"...you're not- mad?"

Fuck, if Nikolai had been, that night. And rightfully so, Ilya thinks, remembering the cold shoulder than had followed his admission for the next two days, not that shy of a couple of weeks ago. Ilya doesn't think he's ever felt as bad of a friend as he did then, and still can't quite believe they'd managed to work it out that fast. It's not like he didn't think they would, eventually, hopefully, but Ilya had to be grateful nonetheless.

"Oh, yeah I was. A lot. Is shitty thing to do, to anyone. But I also- it's different now than it was before, yes? With you two, I mean. Ilyusha kept my secret for years, through everything, I know he didn't have bad intentions. Is also hard to stay mad when we're the same, Hollander."

"Yeah, uhm, I get that."

"Plus, Ilyusha talks very good of you."

"He... does?"

"Every time, always has. Even when he was in denial."

"Denial." Shane repeats, like it's a foreign word.

"He had very big crush on you, when we were kids. Was very obvious. To me, at least."

Ilya refrains from groaning into his hands. Thanks, Nikolai.

This is karma coming back for him, it has to be.

Shane chuckles, embarrassed "Oh. Yeah, uhm, Alexei said so. It's kinda weird to think we've known each other that long, you know?"

"Mhm, yes. He loves you very much. I'm glad it turned out good, for him."

"I'm too."

"Always saw it coming, I think."

Shane scoffs "You would be the only one."

He hears Nikolai hum "Don't know how. You two are very weird for each other."

"... thank you?"

"It is compliment. Is good someone is as obsessed as him. Ilyusha... he has very big heart, Hollander." There is a pause, the sound of a cup being let down over the counter "You break it again, I'll toss a coin to decide which leg of yours to break first. You get me?"

Ilya is stuck between feeling extremely touched and floored with surprise.

Maybe he should still actually intervene, though.

"-now, how you take coffee, Hollander?"

"Shane doesn't drink coffee, only ugly smoothies." Ilya supplies, walking into the kitchen.

Shane head snaps in his direction with a visibly relieved sigh.

He's sat at the isle, dressed in a pair of Ilya's sweats and what looks like one of his old Comets shirts, hair tussled from sleep and paler than usual. His eyes jump between him and Nikolai, who's leaning over the counter, just in his shorts like he just came back from a run. He looks awfully relaxed, which says a lot about the kind of night he just had, Ilya guesses, amused, as Nikolai sends him a just as knowing look. Ilya will take his sweet time ribbing him later.

"It seemed too weird for you to buy kale at nine in evening. Surprised you even know what that is."

"You see how he treats me, solnyshko?" Ilya sighs, coming up to leave a kiss over Shane's head.

"He's not wrong." Shane considers, shuffling in his seat.

"See?" Nikolai says, gingerly, as if he hadn’t just threated the man with a possibly career ending injury, plugging in the blender, as Ilya walks over the fridge to retrieve the, admittedly unusual, kale and greens he got delivered the night before.

"Oh, you don't have to, coffee is good-"

"Shut up, Hollander." Both him and Nikolai chime in, before bumping their fists together across the counter.

"When's your flight?" Ilya asks, while mixing pancake batter, even though he already sadly knows the answer to his question.

Shane gives the clock a pensive look "Ten. I should try and get back to the hotel before nine so I can make the bus. Hayden is covering me with coach."

"Pike knows about you?" Nikolai asks, surprised.

"Yes. I, uh, I came out to my team." Shane says, playing with the straw of his smoothie, hunched in his shoulders "He figured us out on our last game."

Ilya huffs as he makes their plates "His only two braincells eroded after that one last thought, that's why he plays even worse now."

"Ilya."

"What? It's true. He's only Montreal fifteenth best hockey player because Drapeau and benchwarmers exist."

"Stop being an asshole." Nikolai frowns. A hint of a smirk makes space on his face, then "Pike still got better assist points than you, puck hog."

As Ilya gawks at him, truly and utterly betrayed, Nikolai turns back to stare curiously at Shane, perhaps a bit guarded "How did your team take it? They don't look the most, uhm... open."

They aren't, they've never been, Ilya thinks, watching Shane's face sour. As much as Shane can continue to insist that everything is fine, Ilya finds it genuinely unbelievable, as sad as it may be, to think that the same players that just less than ten hours ago spat the most awful slurs on the ice could ever be really accepting of their captain. Even worse, Ilya can't help but at least be glad Pike stayed his friend through all of it, despite the jealousy knowing that he has to rely on him to cover Shane's back, instead of being able to do it himself, always brings out of him.

Him jealous of Hayden Pike. What a turn of events.

"They just need to wrap their heads around it." Shane, sweet Shane, says, tentatively "They never said anything about it to me, anyway."

Nikolai doesn't seem that convinced, but doesn't ask any further at his sombre look.

"As long as it keeps off the ice."

Ilya doesn't agree with that logic at all, but Shane looks grateful of the out. He finishes the last of his pancakes, before brushing his fingers over Ilya's arm, soft as a feather "I'll go get dressed."

Ilya waits until he's out of sight to turn to face Nikolai.

"So, what's this thing I heard about legs getting broken?"

Nikolai doesn't raise his eyes from his phone "I don't know, Ilyusha. It sounds pretty painful, though. The fate of an unlucky bastard." He says, licking stray maple syrup off his thumb "Not getting your ten hours of sleep must be getting to you. Don't you have a boyfriend waiting for you upstairs?"

Ilya does, in fact, have a wonderful boyfriend upstairs, one that will have to leave in the next hour if he doesn't want to irate the hockey gods, so letting the subject go does seem like the best idea for now, despite how fucking hilarious the idea of Nikolai, who still cries every single time when watching Finding Nemo with his niece, feeling in his depth enough for a shovel talk is.

"You know what? I do actually" he says, leaving both his and Shane's plates in the sink to deal with later "And I'd suggest you find a good pair of ear plugs while he's still here." He adds as he walks past him, winking slyly, before running towards the stairs, out of Nikolai's aim and the water bottle thrown in his direction.

*

Getting kicked out of the playoffs is not a fun ordeal for anyone.

Ilya walks back into the locker room, after what has just been his final game as a Bear, dragging his feet, but feeling weirdly lighter.

It was a good game, all things considered, Ilya cannot say he has any regrets about passes he should have done, checks he didn't go through with, but Florida had been just too spirited to do anything about it in the end.

But there is still the weight of having lost on home ice hanging over all of them, as the team scrambles to their lockers, just as defeated, and, obviously, for the announcement he's once and for all ready to do.

"Alright, everyone come here." Ilya says, clapping his hands loudly to gather the team's attention. Some only clad in towels, fresh off their showers, others still fighting against the adrenaline of the game and working on getting their gear off, the guys gather closer, tired and sore from the remains of three brutal periods.

Satisfied, Ilya clears his voice, carefully looking over all of them "I know you're disappointed, I am too, this is what it means to lose a game. But we did not get down without a fight, tonight. I am proud of all of you, for how you played and kept your heads straight even when the game seemed lost. Fuck Florida." He scoffs "They're not going to last another game out there, anyway. But the effort you put into playing, that defines you way more than any win could. I don't want to see this long faces. We had a hell of a season, and you guys have all the cards to    flip the odds for the next one."

"Fuck, Cap." Tyrell, second line forward, sniffs from the opposite bench.

"What a fucking poet, Rozy." Marleau says, despite his glassy eyes "You already know we will, brother." He states, turning to the others "Together, am I right?"

Ilya meets Nikolai's eyes over the roars raising through the room.

Right.

"Yeah. About that-"

If telling Nikolai had been a hit or miss, watching the team's faces fall more and more as he speaks is undeniably the expected crash.

"Well," St. Simon announces, over the stunned silence "This fucking sucks."

"Ottawa." Carmichael snorts "Wow. That pussy must be really goo-"

Marlow's hand slaps itself across Carmichael's mouth "That's it. You're in fucking time-out until you learn how to behave."

"But who's gonna be captain then?" Travis, third line defenceman, asks, lost.

Ilya goes to open his mouth, but then-

"It's gotta be Mozzy, dude." Jackson, the youngest of the two rookies they got after the last draft, blushes on his feet as the attention shifts to him. And well, it's not like he's wrong, but Ilya finds the fierceness behind his statement quite hilarious, considering the way he's been following Nikolai across the ice like a lost puppy all season.

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, now that you say that-"

"Fuck, that makes sense-"

"If it isn't dad it has to be mom." Wells, their rookie goalie, supplies, nodding to himself.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Nikolai huffs, crossing his arms across his chest.

Ilya snorts behind his hand.

Marleau laughs loudly "C'mon Mozzy, you treat the kids like they're your own ducklings-"

"I do not."

"You kind of do, man." St. Simon quips up "You remind them to grab Gatorade after every game, buy them lunch after practice, and I definitely saw you tying the kid's skates up once-"

There's an affronted squeak coming from the other side of the room "Fuck you, I am twenty, not a kid-"

Nikolai glares at poor Jackson "Hey, watch it, that is your senior-"

"Alright." Ilya interjects, extremely amused. Definitely not a way to prove a point "This was not how I had imagine this going, but yes, you bunch of weirdos: from next season on, Kolya is going to be your Captain." He says, clapping his hands on Nikolai's shoulders and giving him a solid shake "Treat him right, will you?"

Ilya takes a step back to watch from the sidelines as the guys swarm Nikolai with big smiles on their faces, proudly.

In some way, Nikolai had already always been kind of their captain too, the lines blurred where the A on his chest was overcome by his austerity on the ice. There wouldn't have been anyone more fit for the job, he thinks, as he watches him ruffle the rookies hair, accept fist bumps and hand shakes from the older players, guys that already have so much trust in him to make the clarification of a mere spot just a matter of words.

Ilya will miss playing with his best friend, but this is also something that makes it all worth it. He know he will have fun playing against him just as much.

"We're getting trashed tonight." Marleau yells over the chaos of the locker room "And it's all on cap, the traitor." He says, dragging Ilya's head down for a noogie "Lets just hope Mozzy won't leave us for a girlfriend, too, yes?"

Ilya shrugs him off with a laugh and a roll of his eyes, but as he's about to regretfully nod, Nikolai clears his voice.

"Actually, uhm, there is something I want to tell you, too." He says, crossing his arms across his chest.

That wasn't in the script, Ilya thinks, at least not the one they'd planned while driving to the rink earlier that afternoon. He feels a little blindsided by the green look on Nikolai's face at first, crashing against the strong look in his eyes as they surmise the locker room.

"We play good, have been for years now, and I consider us family, yes? Even rookies." There's a murmurs of assent at Nikolai's words. Ilya nods too, dumbly.

Nikolai sways on his feet, restless "I want to be the best player I can for team, good captain. This doesn't change things for me, I hope it won't for you too, but... I don't want to lie to you anymore."

Ilya goes completely still at that.

Is he-?

Nikolai doesn't leave him wondering much, after that "I'm gay."

Fuck. Alright, it's happening, Ilya thinks, hoping it's not showing on his face how surprised he is about all of this, and settling quietly on Nikolai's side. He takes in the guys' reactions, the shock and the confusion, nervously picking at the skin of his arms, back straight like a needle. He bumps their feet together. They'll reap what will come out of this together.

"Wow." Marleau says then, jumping up the bench to clap Nikolai's back, a wide smile on his face "That's a way to make an announcement, Mozzy. Congratulation, man."

Relief soon floods Nikolai's face as the rest team follows, coming up with big grins and similar words, and soon Ilya finds himself uncoiling from the guarded pose of anticipation he'd assumed too, watching the scene with an undeniable warmth spreading through his chest.

Maybe it's actually going to be fine, Ilya thinks, fighting back the small pressure behind his eyes as jokes and laughter fill the locker room.

For all but one, though.

"Fuck, Moz." Carmichael grumbles instead, snapping out his wide eyed stare and turning to dig into his duffle with an annoyed growl.

For a second, everything seems to freeze.

Ilya can see the smile melting off Nikolai's face as he tenses beside him, as well as the rest of the guys straightening up like waiting for lightning to strike. He clenches his fists at his sides, heart hammering in his chest, as they wait. For what, Ilya doesn't know exactly, but it seems almost unreal to be standing there and watch Carmichael take out his wallet from his bag and wordlessly pick out a couple of bills with a deep frown.

"Right. Pay up, asshole." St. Simon whoops then, dislodging himself from where he had wrapped Nikolai's head in a playful headlock, to snatch the crisp hundred dollars from his hand "So proud of you, buddy, I'm buying you a round at the pub with this later." He says happily, to Nikolai's gaping face.

"What the fuck." He says, eyes jumping between the two of them "How- you bet on me?"

"Oh, it was a hunch." St. Simon admits, stuffing the bills into his wallet "Mick here thought you were still too hung up on your beautiful Russian friend to date, but there's only so much Gaga you can listen to while working out before a guy starts to wonder. Oh, and I saw you at The Alley once, that time my, for the record, very hot cousin, came here for his birthday." He says, wagging his eyebrows up and down suggestively.

That he most definitely wouldn't have expected coming out of this and, judging from Nikolai's face, pale and twisted between endeared and a new level of scared, he probably hadn't either.

His mouth opens and closes around nothing for a couple of times "How long?"

"I don't know, maybe a couple of years?" St. Simon considers, tucking the money into his pocket "What do you say, Mick?

Carmichaels scoffs, rolling his eyes "You fucker. You absolutely cheated." His face then twists with a frown as he gapes at the locker room "Wait- y'all thought I was homophobic? Is that the impression I give off?"

Ilya pats his back, finally letting himself relax into his cheerful self  "Don't worry, Mick, we know you're just an idiot. You've always been out and proud with that." He jokes, making the rest of the guys holler with laughter.

"Oh, fuck you. All of you." Carmichael grumbles, before coming up to leave a weak punch on Nikolai's chest, as the others are back to their cubbies to finish dressing up, buzzing on their feet by the promise of a good night "I'm cool with it, man, live your truth. You owe me a Benji, though."

"In your dreams, Mick." Nikolai says faintly, thrown off. His eyes are glassy, dazed, Ilya can tell he's only waiting for a single moment of privacy to let it all out, the overwhelmed mess of feelings he's trying so hard to push back as he pulls on his suit.

He wraps his arm around his shoulder once everyone has left, bumping their head together as they look over the empty room one last time, together.

Nikolai is in safe hands and that's the only thing that matters now.

"Has your all... you know, got something to do with a certain someone?" He asks, teasingly, once they're safely packed into a cab, later that night "I gotta say, I wasn't really expecting it, but it was very impressive."

Nikolai, smiles lazily as he leans his head over the window, drowsy from all the alcohol the guys had pushed in his direction throughout the evening.

"Maybe."

Ilya hums, a small smile on his lips. Maybe, as if he hadn't found a very distinct pair of chains in between the couch's pillows less than a few weeks ago. It's surely been an interesting couple of months.

In all the years they'd spent living together, Nikolai never brought anyone home, perhaps not to deal with Ilya's teasing the next morning, or because it was simply easier to pack up and leave, brush everything else aside, like a silent boundary he'd vowed to respect for his own good. With Jude, Ilya is pretty sure Nikolai must have broken way more than just one rule of his.

Ilya slaps his thigh, a little giddy himself, fondness slipping out with every one of his words "You know, I'm proud of you. And I'm glad, so much. I know how much this meant to you."

"I can't believe I fucking did it." Nikolai slurs, drunkly giggling to himself, burying his face behind his hands.

"But you did."

"I really did."

"For Jude." Ilya sing songs.

"Yeah." Nikolai's shoulders shake with the force of his laugh.

"Well, you should bring him out with the team, when you're ready. I think the guys would like to meet him. I'm not flying back until June, we could do something for the playoff's final." He says, confidently.

Now that every card had been turned over the dealer's table, the guys had been pretty enthusiastic, a little too enthusiastic, maybe, probably also due to the round after round Ilya made sure would be delivered to their table. With the loud music and the hundreds of drunk people flooding the pub, fortunately that hadn't been that much of a problem. Kind of.

"Clara's Yoga instructor." Wilde had proposed, swiping through his phone, sometime after the third round of drinks "He is very fit, keeps up with hockey and I know he has a thing for you." He said, before pushing his phone right in front of Nikolai's nose.

Nikolai had grimaced "Finny, it's fine, I don't-"

"What about James from management." Hart, one of their forwards, objected "He has very great skin, he could be gay."

"I don't think having a great skin makes you gay." St. Simon frowned, before humming under his breath in quiet consideration "But my lil cuz does have great skin and he is gay... Mozzy, I'll send you my cuz's number, wait-"

Ilya had hidden his laugh behind his beer at the alarm written on Nikolai's face. To be honest, Ilya would've been wary of any of St. Simon's relatives too, in his place.

But now, in the place of that same alarm, which Ilya guesses he could understand, Nikolai's face twists with what he can only identify as guiltiness.

Uh.

"What?"

"What, what?"

"What's up with that face?"

"'s just my face, I don't know what you mean."

"Kolya."

Nikolai purses his lips, pulling on the string of his hoodie with uncoordinated fingers "Well, Jude, he, uhm- he can't meet the guys."

Ilya raises his eyebrow, suspiciously "Why not?"

"Because he doesn't know I'm a hockey player?" It comes out of Nikolai as a sole word, but Ilya's hearing has always been top notch, maybe too much even. He kind of wishes it wasn't now, because at least he could pretend that Nikolai surely wouldn't be so stupid.

"What do you mean he doesn't know?"

"He just... doesn't." Nikolai says, closing his eyes "I didn't tell him. It's not like- I mean, he knows that I travel a lot for my job and it's within the league but... not that I'm part of the league?"

Ilya blinks blankly at him.

"But what about the injuries-"

"I still told him I play hockey but like... as a hobby?"

"A hobby." Ilya can't help the incredulous laugh from leaving his lips. Hockey hadn't been a hobby not even when they used to be less than five feet tall and played at a barely funded rink "I can't fucking believe you."

"It wasn't on purpose, not at first." Nikolai whines, hiding his face in his hands "We didn't really talk much, then-"

"Ah."

"About work." Nikolai glares, before turning to look out the window "Listen, I know I should tell him, I really do, but- telling him would mean setting expectations and I- I like that there are none, when I'm with him."

Expectations. Yeah, there's a lot of them, he supposes, watching Nikolai slump in his seat.

"I don't want to hide anymore, Ilya, I'm so fucking tired of it. It's all I've been doing my entire life." Nikolai says, tongue loose by the booze, flushed cheek one with the cold fog of the glass "Jude- he's great. He's so smart, talented, and he does this thing with his tongue-"

"Please, focus."

"I don't know how Hunter did it." Nikolai admits, absentmindedly "Every step ahead it feels like I'm taking three backwards. I'm trying so hard to not care about it, but I can't even take the guy I like out without feeling like I'm betraying my career." He sighs tiredly. The sound goes straight to Ilya's heart, cutting at the seams.

"I'll tell him." Nikolai promises, to Ilya, to himself, closing his eyes "I just want it to be easy a little longer."

Ilya helps him out of the cab and all the way to his room, after that. It's hard to make their way upstairs with a half-dead weight of an hockey player leaning off his shoulder, but Ilya makes it work, until he finally gets to lay Nikolai down in his bed and get his shoes off.

He doesn't bother to help him with his clothes, Nikolai has always been sensitive to cold anyway, but just as he's ready to head down to his own room, Nikolai's voice stops him, quieter than a whisper.

"Sleep here?"

In years of knowing each other they've shared a bed more times than Ilya could begin to count: on sleepovers, after a night out, when nightmares plagued him and he couldn't just call Alexei while he was working, on the whole other side of the world, when home just felt too far away.

So Ilya doesn't hesitate to slip into the other side of the bed, after shrugging off his shirt and throwing on some random pair of shorts found in Nikolai's closet.

They don't need to say anything else from there.

Ilya lets their shoulder brush, in quiet acknowledgement, as Nikolai's eyelids grow heavier and heavier. He shifts on his side once his breathing turns steady, staring into the darkness of the room.

It shouldn't have ended as it did, that night, with the sombre shadow of reality hovering over them like a trap ready to close its latch, but with that small victory for once.

Every step ahead it feels like I'm taking three backwards.

Ilya wants to believe this will be the exception to the rule. He's too fucking tired of it.

*

The sun is blinding when he breaks back through the surface of the lake. Ilya loves the feeling of being surrounded by the water's embrace, on a hot summer day, the lightness that comes by staying afloat. It kind of reminds him of the few times their mom brought them to the public pool, the walks to the small lake beach Ivan insisted about doing just to get him and Nikolai away from the console, when the heat became too much to even consider stepping foot outside.

"One day you're going to slip doing that and crack your head open on a rock." Shane scolds him, where he's sitting over the deck, legs dangling into the water. The hem of his swim shorts barely reaches past his upper thigh and shirt is fully opened, giving Ilya the delicious picture of tanned freckled skin in all of its glory.

He sticks his tongue out at him, shaking his head and sending droplets flying in every direction, under Shane's noises of complaint "Buzzkill."

Shane huffs, wiping the water off his sunglasses "I'm sorry if I don't want to have to call 9-1-1 because my boyfriend almost killed himself while doing a fucking backflip off my deck."

Ilya swims back over, threading water with a sly smile on his face "You love to say 'I told you so', it's pretty unbelievable." He says, settling in the space between his parted legs and puckering his lips "Gimme a kiss."

Shane still doesn't hesitate to lean down, despite the roll of his eyes, hand splayed over Ilya's shoulder to steady them.

Ilya takes advantage of it to pluck his sunglasses from his face and settle them over his own eyes, before pushing himself back up over the deck. Shane lets him bring him down with him as he lays back on the towel, only weakly protesting about wetting his shirt when he plops his head over Ilya's arm and leaves a small kiss on his loon.

They should be going over house listings, as Yuna (and Vetrov) keeps reminding them every time they stop over for dinner, but Ilya thinks that they both deserve this break, at least until the impending season.

"Mom sent me another place to check out later." Shane says promptly, as if reading Ilya's mind. "I think you'll like it: the neighbourhood is pretty quiet, it's not too far from the rink and it has a big garage."

"I sold most of my cars." Ilya reminds him, not with a little pang to his heart. Ottawa is not like Boston, the winter would have been too rigid to drive most of them safely enough. So, instead, Ilya had found a good deal for the least sentimental ones, picked the cars he wanted Vetrov to have delivered to Ottawa for him and closed a pretty cool piece out of his collection in a deposit, well ahead of time for Isaak's eighteenth birthday, shrugging off the voice in his head, too similar to Alexei's, pointing out that Polina will probably really have his head. Ilya has a good six years still before having to worry about it.

"Still." Shane says "If you, uhm, were to get new ones, they'd fit."

"What about 'they're not good with the snow, Ilya. You're going to crash in a dig, Ilya'."

Shane pokes him in the stomach, meanly, definitely not aware of how the care behind his words always manages to make his heart throb, but, as he rolls them to straddle his legs, Ilya is pretty willing to forget the affront in the exchange of a kiss.

"Good change of subject, yes?" He whispers slyly, brushing their noses together, head spinning at the sigh that leaves Shane's lips when leaning his head forward to chase him back.

Shane's prediction turns out to be right, though. Ilya goes to check out the place with the estate agent (sadly) alone, two weeks later, and tries to picture it as she walks him through the house: cooking side by side at the marmite counter, lazy around the cozy looking living room, make a good use of all the rooms upstairs. He could build a play room for Yulia, maybe, he thinks, for the times the guys would visit, and the basement could make a great place to set up a pool table and plush couches to watch the playoffs at, in front of a big screen.

It all comes together in his head, so easily that there is very little hesitation when he signs the papers for the down payment, before driving back to the cottage, ready to show Shane the pictures he took and his vision.

Moving is a family affair.

Nikolai is a big help in packing up what's his at the penthouse and, with Jude's help, they get everything done in less than a week, right before the start of training camp.

Ilya is wiped when he finally drops over the living room's couch, careful to not spill his beer.

"Fuck, man." Jude moans, in a similar predicament "How many trophies can a person have? Jesus Christ. My arms are burning."

Ilya laughs, laying his arm across his eyes "That's twenty years of good hockey, for you. They're not even all of them." He teases him, wagging his brows.

"Show off." Nikolai huffs, sitting down next to his- boyfriend? Ilya feels pretty confident into assuming it, now, watching how Jude's tattooed arm automatically sets itself across Nikolai's shoulders, to pull him closer despite the August's heat.

"You're one to talk, captain." Jude says, eyes twinkling at the embarrassed blush spreading over Nikolai's cheeks.

"You said we wouldn't talk about that anymore." He grumbles.

Jude leaves an unbothered kiss over his temple "But this is so fun, why would I ever?"

Ilya chuckles, taking a sip out of his beer.

Not too short of three weeks earlier, the news of his trade had broke out, just as had the announcement of Nikolai's new captaincy. In a city like Boston, who loved hockey and their team, that had meant that his face had been pretty much slapped on everything and everywhere and, for Nikolai's misfortune, right on a billboard next to Jude's studio.

Ilya (and so Shane) had been roughly woken up from a nap, while sprawled on a sunbed in the cottage's backyard, by panicked texts and calls flooding his phone.

He had spent all afternoon trying to convince Nikolai that 'no, you can't move to fucking Mexico to avoid talking with the guy you're seeing after lying to him for months'.

He'd been glad to see it all worked out for them, in the end, probably thanks to Jude's generally very laid back personality and the big ass crush he has for his best friend. Only a fool wouldn't be able to notice it, Ilya thinks, snorting behind his beer as he lays back into the cushions and lets their soft bicker wash over him, not without wishing Shane were right beside him.

The guys fly in all the way from Edmonton, once every box is finally delivered to Ottawa.  Ilya finds himself subjected to the joint force of Alexei and Yuna's strict regimen, too many trips to furniture shops and very little privacy, but as they all sit down at the long dinner table he and David assembled earlier that afternoon, Ilya thinks he couldn't have asked for more.

For all the pictures he wishes he could take, like of Shane drawing with Yulia in front of the tv, he and Niamh playing chess at the kitchen isle, or even the most bland selfie of them, laying together on the couch, he makes sure to stamp the memories of that summer close to his heart.

*

Ilya hadn't really known what to expect when walking into Canadian Tire Center for the very first time, but what he had surely not was the bubbly man currently leading him through the halls of the rink, towards the offices. Harris, Ilya has come to learn in the past fifteen minutes, is very talk-active, but he can't say he quite minds, after the too silent night spent in his new home alone.

Alexei and the girls had caught a flight back home the day before and, reluctantly, Shane too had to drive back to Montreal for practice. Yuna and David had stuck around for dinner and Ilya, would have rather be caught dead than refuse David's cooking, gladly had them over until late in the night.

The wine they'd drunk had definitely caught up with him that morning, but that was nothing a cold shower couldn't fix.

"- I haven't been here for long, but I think you're going to like it." Harris babbles, after making Ilya leave his bag into the locker for practice later "The guys are very nice, it's a good team. Just don't agree to let Dikstra pick the music for the locker room and it'll go swimmingly." He says, nose twitching in disgust.

Ilya chuckles "I'll have to trust you on that."

Harris winks "I know my players."

Harris tour ends right back in front of his office, where Ilya had been instructed to meet up with him in the email he got from management "We're still on hold for a coach." Harris had admitted. Then, more cheerfully "So you get the full Drover experience!"

Ilya, who had already decided he like Harris just from the colourful pins on his jacket and the vibes oozing out of him, hadn't minded at all.

"You probably already read it in one of the emails we sent you, but management requires every player to have an Instagram account for team announcements and reposts." Harris says, as they walk back into his office.

"Oh, I'm pretty active everywhere." Ilya waves him off "Not going to be a problem."

"I like when y'all make my job easier." Harris grins, before waving at a dark haired woman "Hey, Gen! This is Ilya, Rozanov, our new recruit."

"This isn't the army, Harris." Gen quips, amused, barely raising her eyes from her computer as she salutes them.

"She's a gem, don't make her attitude fool you." Harris whispers loudly behind his hand.

Gen's middle finger has both of them laugh.

"So," Harris says, once they're back at his desk "As I already told you I'm the social media manager for the team. There's this thing we've been trying out with the guys, just to have a little more interaction with your fans, and it basically consists in a Q and A, I don't know if you're familiar?"

"Of course."

"Would you be up to record one? There is no rush." Harris promptly adds, as if afraid Ilya were to flat out refuse "We could schedule it for a week from now, after practice-"

"Or we could do it now?" Ilya proposes, shrugging "Practice is in an hour, still." And without a coach to debrief with, Ilya wouldn't really know what to do otherwise until then.

Harris whole face brightens up "You and me are going to be the best of friends, Rozanov."

This is how, not less than fifteen minutes later, Ilya finds himself sat on a stool in front of a white wall, Harris' phone's camera and a ringlight pointed at him, as he introduces himself to, well, no one.

"You make these questions to everyone?" Ilya asks curiously, poking at his microphone as Harris scrolls over his phone's (another one, how busy is this guy exactly?) notes.

"Oh, no. It wouldn't be fun if you all answered to the same ones. I usually pick based off things people ask more about you on the internet, surveys, random trends... stuff like that."

That seems... incredibly meticulous. Ilya probably shouldn't mess with Harris, if the occasion ever arose.

"Bring it in then, sergeant." He says, straightening up in his stool and giving the camera a full toothy grin.

Harris’ firsts couple of questions are pretty tame, like asking about hockey always results into: he asks Ilya about who is favourite player growing up was (Ovechkin, no doubt, did you see the guy?), if he has any rituals before stepping on the ice (I use this, uhm, specific teal tape for my stick. My aunt sends it from Russia for me, it's an old thing. And I have my lucky socks.), if he has a favourite song to listen to before a game ('Course I do, It's Thunderstruck by ACDC, real banger. Hey Harris, can we put it as an intro to this thing?)

Then, things starts to get more creative-

"What would you bring on a deserted island that could possibly lead to your survival?" Harris asks, completely serious.

Ilya blinks at him "A knife? No, maybe a lighter to start a fire with. Do I get to this Island with something on me already or-?"

"No, you don't."

"So I'm naked?"

"It's you, your clothes and the Island."

"And the sea."

"And the sea." Harris confirms.

He hums quietly "A knife, definitely a knife."

Harris nods from the other side of the camera, scrolling down with his thumb.

"So, I was surprised to see it, but the world apparently really wants to know what your favourite colour is."

Ilya snorts, eyeing the camera "You people are so boring. It's yellow."

"Aw man, c'mon." Harris laughs, pins clinking against each other as he leans over to fix the camera "You're a Centaur now, this is going to be bad publicity."

"So I should lie?" He gasps, pulling his hand to rest over his heart "What about my rights? My freedom of speech? Does that mean nothing to you, Harris?"

"Wow."

"By the Canadian Charter of rights and freedom, I have-"

"Alright." Harris stops him, eyes sparkling with mirth "I think the internet will have to deal with it."

Ilya nods to the camera "Yes, internet, deal with it. My niece said our new favourite colour is yellow and I cannot disappoint her, you see?"

Harris just shakes his head with an half- hearted sigh before moving onto the next question "if you could eat only one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?"

Ilya perks up "My sister in law used to make this Banana sandwiches all the time when she was pregnant, they're to die for. Get a pen and a paper, internet, I'm going to rock your world-"

Harris asks about his favourite season (Hockey season, duh, Harris), his favourite animal (Definitely dogs. They'd make a cute mascot, right?), if he has any woman athlete he admires (Ava Diaz, wing for Boston's Fleet. She's a beast on the ice and at beer pong. Diaz, if you're seeing this, you owe me a rematch.)

Ilya is having an awful amount of fun recording this, especially so seeing Harris' face twist with the knowledge that Ilya is, in fact, going to be a mediatic problem, the more he answers.

"What's the first thing you bought with your first NHL money?"

"I got my brother a bike." Ilya confesses, shifting on the stool with a small grimace "My sister in law almost killed us both. It did pay off for a nice car, though."

Sue him, Ilya had been eighteen, with a new generous amount of money in his bank account and definitely too much access to it than should have been allowed to an homesick kid that had just discovered the joy of being able to always afford brand named products. Vetrov had banned him from any financial decision involving more than three zeroes, after that.

"She didn't like the bike?"

"She's a paramedic." He explains "She said we would break our necks and then she'd have another reason to end us. The donorcycle lasted a very honourable week." He says, mournfully.

Alexei had loved that bike, though, Ilya is pretty sure of it. He totally nailed the birthday gifts' department.

Harris chuckles "Poor you. Well, your brother."

"Eh, he was fine. He still has the car we got selling it, and it's a really nice car." He adds with a wink.

"Alright Roz, we're almost done." Harris says, reading off the screen "Your number has become iconic in the league and sources tell us you've been wearing it for a long time, now."

"Ever since junior league."

"Exactly. So, why eighty-one?" Harris asks.

Ilya hums, carefully picking his words "My mother- she and my brother share a birthday. Just the day, the eighteenth. We're all very close. There was already an eighteen on the team, though, so..."

There's a pause, Harris probably expects him to elaborate a little more on it, but ultimately accepts that Ilya isn't going to, in the end, nodding as he tucks his phone into his back pocket. Ilya watches him fix something behind the tripod.

"Alright, this is your final question. You did very good." He calls out with a thumbs up "Your trade was unexpected but we're all very thrilled to have the legend himself here. But now the real question is: what do you expect from this season, captain?"

This Ilya doesn't have to think twice about.

He smirks to the camera "To win, obviously."

That was never going to be a question.

Ilya is a good amount of tired when he finally sets foot back inside his new home, just as quiet and perfect as it had been when he left it that morning.

Harris hadn't been wrong about the team: the lack of a coach guiding practice had been easily forgettable when Boodram, assistant captain, made all the honours of introducing the wide eyed group of guys, back into the locker room and on the ice, and show Ilya their training routine, their formations.

Ilya wouldn't say they're a bad team, to be honest. The problem with Ottawa, in Ilya's humble opinion, had always been the too fleeting streak of coaches they've gone through with every season, and the fact that after loosing so many games, they've maybe convinced themselves too that it just wasn't worth it anymore.

Ilya will have none of that. There are good bases to work with and god forbid he won't make the best he can out of them. If Ottawa needs a miracle, that is exactly what Ilya will give them.

There is just going to be a lot work to do before that. Like, really a lot.

He leaves his hockey bag by the door, his shoes over the rack, hangs his jacket on the coat hanger, and then he just... he looks around himself, a little lost at the empty halls, the dead silence coming from within the place.

There's no one to debate what to get for dinner with, to nag him about dirty dishes and socks laying around the living room. There's no sound of little feet coming up to greet him by the door, or someone who'll ask how practice went in exchange of their own stories. Everything is just quiet. Maybe a little too much.

But Ilya is twenty-seven, a full formed adult who can live alone in his own house after politely declining Boodram's invite to a drink with the team after practice, before remembering Shane would be out for dinner at the Pike's that night and that it might’ve been too late at night to call home, anyway, once he got back.

He still sags into his shoulders.

What is he supposed to do now?

Chapter End Notes

yahoo!

It seems totally legit to update right on the start of pride month, but it's still pretty hilarious ngl.

I'm so glad I finally found the time to finish this, very thilled to introduce Jude's character (i'm not a tattoo artist and I've only ever got a tattoo once so there might be imprecisions with the process, just laying it down) and to finally start up this new arc of the story once and for all (yes, the chapter count went up again, don't judge me).

Alexei mortal enemy being the PTA will always be funny to me, there's no escape from it, and also loved writing about Hollanov being absolutely lost for each other.

I think Ilya actually gets his tattoo the year after this, but oh well, I already used canon like a jumping rope, who cares about it anyway.

This being said, hope you liked this chapter! thanks for all of your kudos and comments, they're always a gem to read, especially theories and what not <3

See you next time!

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Their first game of the season makes Ilya want to bash his head against the boards. Repeatedly. With no helmet on.

Usually he wouldn't have been so apprehensive about playing against Buffalo, but this was officially his first ever game as the Centaurs’ captain, the stakes were much higher than Ilya felt in a long time and so was the need to win it.

They didn't, in fact, win, on home ice to make it even worse, with barely a point to pride themselves with and that costed Ilya being the victim of a rough pile up made of two of Buffalo's forwards and three-hundreds pound of goaltender.

His whole side throbs as he drags himself under the shower spray, to try and wash away the mix of disappointment and sweat.

But it's fine, he tells himself, as he makes a weak attempt at a locker room speech. It was just one game, he reasons, while driving himself home.

It's not just one game.

It becomes a routine, to stand in the middle of the ice and hear the buzzer sign just another loss, one after the other, while panting, sore and still filled with adrenaline, only to end up walking back into the locker room for another empty speech.

Ilya is not sure what he's doing wrong and Peterson, their coach, some guy he genuinely doubts knows a single thing written down in a hockey 101 handbook, seems to even less. It doesn't stop him from sighing sternly from the bench at every missed pass, chance lost, and proceed to rib him like Ilya personally responded for all of it.

"We're going to win the next one." Boodram says, while fixing his tie, after they got practically mauled by stupid Detroit, of all teams.

He's a nice guy, an even better player, but Ilya sometimes wonders how he can take all of this, every loss, without wanting to rip the smile off his face and scream into his locker until his throat is raw.

And sure, the season has just barely started, Ilya is probably being way too overdramatic, but he wishes he didn't have to see the sad smile Yuna always greets him with at the Hollander's door, after a game, or hear Niamh's carefully picked words through the phone, on the guys' check-ups, when the subject inevitably turns to hockey.

No one expects a team to flip its chances in less than a couple of months, and Ilya surely isn't the fairy godmother of hockey, but god knows what he will do to Dykstra's speaker the next time he'll play his shitty sad country music into the locker room.

This time, though, when he lets himself into his house for a long awaited bed rotting, he finds the lights already on and a mouthwatering smell coming from the kitchen.

Ilya doesn't even take his shoes off before dropping his bag and run through the hallway.

Shane is standing in front of the stove, in Ilya's clothes, stirring eggs into a pan with a small frown on his face, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Ilya just watches him for a couple of seconds, not really able to believe his eyes.

"Shane?"

The wooden spoon slips out of Shane's hand as he jumps on his feet, alarmed "Fuck." He says, breathless. A small smile grows on his lips as he takes Ilya in "You scared the crap out of me."

"You said you were coming tomorrow." Is the only thing Ilya can master to say, too aware of the clothes he'd left laying all over the couch to fold later on, the pile of dishes crowding the sink and waiting to be washed and, well, everything else he'd barely had any time or will to do after their last roadie.

The plan had been for Shane to drive up from Montreal the following morning, for their press conference, giving Ilya the perfect amount of time to brood another loss and make both the house and himself presentable. But Shane's here now, instead, looking like he doesn't care one bit about having walked into a tornado and the mess he must look like to him. It makes Ilya have to fight harder against the pressure building behind his eyes.

"Surprise?" Shane chuckles "We finished practice earlier today. I watched the game with mom and dad and came here after dinner." A little flicker of hesitation settles on his face "Was this okay? I didn't want to impo-"

Ilya doesn't let him finish before walking the last steps between them and gather him in his arms.

He smells like him, probably took a shower after driving all the way up to Ottawa. Ilya buries his face in the dip of his neck, inhaling roughly against his skin, as the restlessness slowly washes away from his body with the gentle rock of their hug.

"It was perfect surprise. Thank you." He whispers.

"I thought I'd blown my cover. You didn't see my car parked outside?" Shane whispers back, confused.

Ilya barely even remembers anything between turning off the engine of his own car and walking up to the door for that matter. He just shrugs, straightening up to press their lips together.

The feeling is heavenly: it pulls right on his heartstring, soothing the heaviness in Ilya's chest and the bruises littering his body. Ilya thinks he wouldn't need anything else to nurse back to health but Shane's fingers threading through his hair and smoothing out his hurt.

Shane splays one hand over his chest once they part, not without leaving one last kiss at the corner of his lips "C'mon, go grab a shower and come back here. I thought you might be

hungry and made you something, but dad also gave me pasta salad to deliver." He says knowingly.

Ilya throws his head back with a moan "Yes, talk dirty to me, sweetheart."

"Gross." Shane mumbles, not without an endeared snort, before ushering him towards the stairs.

Ilya is back down in record time, but not before grabbing one of Shane's shirts from the duffle he's left at the foot of his bed, their bed, and brushing his teeth to get the last traces of the cigarette he'd passively smoked while walking back to his car earlier, one that Shane had egregiously not mentioned, thank god, off.

They end up sprawled on opposite sides of Ilya's couch, his feet in Shane's lap as he happily downs David's pasta and the scrambled eggs, too suspiciously green to be just eggs, Shane made.

"-I think we could drive up to the press conference together tomorrow." Shane is saying, drawing circles over his ankles, after Ilya insisted it wasn’t his job to fold his laundry too. Him showing up is already more than what Ilya thinks he deserved "I mean, everyone already knows it's a joint statement, no one will care, right?"

"Mhm, probably not." He nods between bites "Also pulling up in the same car hardly make us gay, too."

"You're hilarious." Shane huffs, pinching lightly over the hem of his socks.

Ilya grins at him, cheeks stuffed.

"We could rehearse our speeches later. I know you're worried about the French part, maybe it could help." Shane continues, pulling on a stray thread poking out of Ilya's sweats.

"I will throw up if I have to read through that again before tomorrow." He admits, only half joking.

Truth is, Ilya is a little nervous about it, but his sloppy French might actually be the last of his problems. It's the anticipation, he thinks, the knowledge that this is just another step forward to something greater and long lasting. It makes the skin of his arms crawl with excitement just as he can't help but be intimidated by all of it. It's crazy, he thinks, to be scared of something he's been wanting as much as he does, and completely irrational, but Ilya can't really help it, to be honest, for reasons he can't even begin to explain to himself.

But Shane looks already stressed enough for both of them, so much that it feels unfair to unload his own baggage on him too. If he needs a rock to hold himself onto, that's what Ilya will be.

He leaves his empty plate over the coffee table before rearranging them, dragging Shane's whole body to rest over his, like the warmest weighted blanket alive.

"We did all he could, tomorrow will be perfect." He murmurs sleepily against his hair, hands moving up and down his back in practiced movements.

Shane relaxes under his touch, snuggling closer with a yawn of his own "We did it, Ilya."

Ilya smiles "We did, solnyshko. Let's go to bed, now, yes? It's a big day tomorrow."

Watching Shane make his speech in front of hundreds of reporters and cameras, the next day, in that polished and professional way of his, makes Ilya feel hotter than it should be allowed.

Maybe it's the fact that that's their future he's presenting to the whole world, or just his body's natural response to seeing him so much into his element, like when he's on the ice, even through the nervousness. Either way, Ilya doesn't think he could ever love him more than he does now, as he leans forward to speak in his own microphone.

"I'm afraid my French is not going to be as perfect or pleasant to hear as Shane's, you all will have to bear with me." Is the first thing he says, in faux sheepishness, making the audience cackle. He stills his face into something more serious, exhaling quietly "When me and Shane began to talk about the idea of building something together, something that, in the world we live in now, could do even the littlest amount of help, I was grateful to have a friend like him that made this cause just as important for him as it is for me. This wasn't in the notes but... well, the foundation was named after my mother." The papers in his hands rustle faintly as he fidgets with the corners, while surmising over the room.

There is a warm pressure over the top of his forearm, then. Ilya doesn't have to look to know it's Shane, his sweet, beautiful Shane, reaching to squeeze back where the cameras won't see. He gives the crowd a small hesitant smile "She battled with depression for longer than I can remember, many years where she had no help, nothing and no one to rely on, until it was too late. She died when I was barely twelve. What I hope this foundation will help with, is to make sure that nobody will have to fight alone like she had to, that it will make a difference. For everyone that sometimes feels like the world is too big for them, like all hope is lost, you're not alone."

He tries being as clear as he can when repeating all of it in stilted French, cursing himself for not thinking about writing any of it down before the press conference, but nobody laughs or snickers in the crowd. Soon enough, the last words leave his mouth and he finally allows himself to lean back into his seat, heart thundering in his chest.

When he turns, Shane's there, his eyes glistening as he gives him a private smile "Thank you, Ilya."

He nods, folding his hands tightly together over the table, before doing something stupid like reach for his lapels and kiss him in front of the whole room.

Instead, he presses their feet close under the table, like two kids sharing a secret way bigger than them.

This is just the beginning.

*

The one good thing about Ilya's last disastrous game is that he gets to fly back home after, sore and still nursing a healing rib, but quick to fall into the pleasant distraction of festivities.

So it's with a luggage full of gifts and wearing a pretty flashy sweater under his coat (one that Shane defined as 'the most horrible thing I've ever seen in my entire life', on their last call, while he was packing up) that he meets Alexei outside the airport, on December twenty-third.

It's fine, Ilya is fine, and now that he's home he'll be even more fine, he thinks, sprawling into the passenger seat of his brother's car with a sigh, only a little guilty about turning down Bood's invite to the team's Christmas Eve dinner. Ilya is not even sure how he could make barbeque work with three feet tall piles of snow outside, but Bood hadn't seemed too concerned about the logistics of it, if only mildly disappointment at Ilya's already made plans.

"You good?" Alexei asks, popping his sunglasses on and starting the car.

Ilya hasn't seen him ever since the move, not any closer than from behind a screen, at least. He looks like he always does, a little sleep deprived, maybe, but when has that ever been a news? Despite this, there is something Ilya can't quite put a name onto in the happy tap of his fingers over the steering wheel.

"Sure." He says, slow and a bit suspicious. He can hold off the questions for later, he decides "Did the guys already arrive?"

"Yesterday. Nadia is pretty excited." Alexei shares, an amused smile on his face "Something about Nikki bringing someone with him? You probably know more about it than me, to be honest."

Right.

When Nikolai had called, about a couple of weeks earlier, looking like he was deeply regretting his whole existence on planet earth, Ilya already knew something was up.

Truth be told, Nadia and Ivan had lasted five more months than Ilya'd given them any credit for, before ambushing Nikolai into finally letting them meet his boyfriend. Although, he'd reasoned then, the chances of them showing up unannounced in Boston for that same reason, in case of a negative response, probably still weren't close to zero, especially considering he wasn't quite sure if Nikolai had told them anything about Jude, back then.

It's going to be an interesting week, that is for sure.

"Oh, yeah." Ilya smirks, helping himself with an opened sour patch kids bag left under the console "Jude is a cool dude, you'll like him. He's just... not what you might expect."

Alexei's eyes narrow "You're not going to give me anything else?”

"Where's the fun in that?"

The moment he steps foot into the Callahan's house, he gets immediately swarmed by a little blonde tornado of energy.

"Uncle Ilya!"

"Hey, munchkin." He greets back, roughly pushing his carry on in his brother's hands to hoist her up on his hip. He kisses her cheek, heart melting at her little laugh as she tries escaping from the tickling feeling of his stubble "I missed you so much, kiddo."

Yulia wraps her arms around his neck "Missed you too."

"And I missed not being used like a bellboy." Alexei huffs half-heartedly, ushering Ilya further into the house to close the door behind them and toeing off his shoes, before incurring into Jean's wrath for having dragged snow all the way in.

The twins are all sat around the coffee table in the living room, playing Monopoly, out of all games. But among them, Ilya is not expecting to find Isaak, too, dices in hand, which he promptly drops to run up to them, dark curls flowing in every direction.

"Ilya!"

"Hi." He says, confused but not unhappy, drawing him into his other unoccupied side "What are you doing here? I thought your mom had to work?"

"Auntie said to lie to you." Isaak shrugs, accepting a fist bump.

"Alright, that's mean." He whines, to both kids laughter. He turns towards both his brother and sister in law, brooding "You two knew?"

Alexei waves him off "Don't think too much about it."

Ilya makes his round of greetings, from Nadia, Polina and Jean chatting in the kitchen, as dinner cooks on the stove, all the way to where Ivan and Niall are playing pool in the basement, a couple of beers already opened and propped over the edge of the table.

"Well, good evening to you too, sirs." He jokes, coming up to accept Ivan's hug "Has the tournament already started?"

"Hey! How's it going, kid?" Niall asks, happily patting his back. He points at the table "Fancy to join? Your old man here might need a little help."

"I cannot play, Ilyusha." Ivan nods, sheepishly "Do me favour."

Ilya chuckles, calling out for his brother upstairs as he cracks his fingers, before reaching over the wall for a stick "Let's make it even and see what we can do, shall we? But you shouldn't have accepted to play, Uncle Ivan, Niall is a tough nut-"

One game becomes two, then three, up until Ilya ultimately gets bored and convinces Teagan to switch places as he runs back upstairs, dodging the kids playing on Isaak's Nintendo and Niamh's red houses she’s been so not politely throwing at her brother’s face.

Alexei was right, Ilya can't help but consider, as soon as Nadia drags him into the little circle her, Jean and Polina have made around the isle, a bottle of wine already opened in the middle and glasses half-empty. Ilya doesn't fight it, but he is a little unsettled by the spirited look in her eyes.

"Hey, when's Kolya coming-?"

"You'd have told me if Nikki's boyfriend had any kind of criminal record, right?" She interrupts him, making Polina cough into her glass with a loud snort. Jean must already imagine the topic of the conversation, if the smile she’s tries hiding behind her next sip is any giving.

Ilya stares at her, floored "What?"

"There is no other explanation why he wouldn't tell us anything." She insists, throwing her hands up in the air "So either he's a criminal or- or I don't know, but Kolya is hiding something and it has been driving me crazy."

"Jude is not a criminal." He hisses, because what the fuck "Nyet, no."

"What Dusya wants to say, is that she worries." Polina says, in English, fingers tapping over her glass "No picture, no stories, no nothing. He is mystery man."

"Yes. Thank you." Nadia nods "Kolya gets home for summer, keep smiling at phone and only tells us he has boyfriend when has one foot on plane already." She huffs, angrily taking a swing from her wine "It's been months, and I only know he exist." She stops, frowning at him "He exist, yes?"

Ilya doesn't even bother answering to that.

"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about, Nadia." Jean says, calmly "Nikolai is a fine young man and I know his boy will be just as much."

"He is." Ilya presses, for the sake of Nikolai's mental stability. And Jude is, as a matter of fact, a really nice guy, he's... he just probably doesn't look like the one Nadia is expecting "But please, be as open minded as you can when you meet him. Nikki is already nervous enough." He says, seriously, locking his and Nadia's eyes together.

"What do you mean?" Nadia asks, confused.

"I'm just saying- just don't focus on the outside."

"Oh, he is ugly, then." Polina says then, nodding to herself "That's why no picture, yes?"

"Why does Kolya think I care if he's ugly?" Nadia says, crossing her arms across her chest "If he loves my Nikki, he can be like Balachko and I won't care."

"That's very sweet, but there's really no need: Jude is pretty cute." He snorts.

Nadia exhales "Oh, thank god."

"And for what is worth it," He continues, amused "I really think you don't have to worry about him loving Nikki. He's whipped. Badly, Auntie, very badly."

"Whipped?"

"It means he really likes Nikolai. A lot." Jean supplies, warmly, reaching for Nadia's hand "And that's the important thing, no?"

Nadia smiles back, reassured "It is."

Fatally, Nadia's in the bathroom when the doorbell rings. Ilya runs to the door with a quip in his steps, only to be met with the sight of a shivering Nikolai, holding onto way too many gift bags, and Jude, gloved hand tight in his free one, and looking way more relaxed than one would expect from someone destined to his same destiny.

"Hey, guys!" He grins, reaching to relieve Nikolai of his weight, before dragging both of them in for a half armed hug. He ruffles Nikolai's hair "Took you long enough."

"The flight was late." Nikolai protests, swatting him away.

"And there was so much fucking traffic." Jude adds, vaguely surprised.

"It's Christmas." Ilya shrugs "Just for the record: Auntie is already on a war path and two glasses of wine in."

Nikolai sighs, unwrapping his scarf from his neck "Fuck my life."

"It's going to be fine." Jude, always the optimist, quips, standing up on his tippy toes to leave a kiss on his temple.

Ilya grimaces "She asked me if you have a record."

"That's fair, I do have a record." Jude deadpans, making both of their heads snap in his direction. He gives them a sheepish smile "I guess that from your faces it was a bad time for a joke?”

"Of course it was-"

"Ilyusha, is it Nikki at the door?"

Before Ilya can even begin to form a response, Nadia peaks out of the living room, smile widening as her eyes fall over her son.

Nikolai makes a strained huff as she charges him to bring him down into a hug, but dutifully wraps his arm around her, just as tightly. He probably hasn't seen either her or Ivan since that summer, Ilya reasons, leaning over the doorstep of the living room as she rambles about stupid airlines, traffic, and the ridiculous costs of Ubers nowadays.

There is something in Jude's eyes, as he stands just a feet away from Nikolai and Nadia talking in hushed whispers, that Ilya can't quite decipher. It's longing, almost envious, but so soft that it makes Ilya wonder-

"You look so thin, baby," Nadia's arms tighten further for a couple of seconds around Nikolai's shoulder before she's leaning back once again to hold him at arm length, with a small, concerned frown set on her eyebrows "Are you eating enough? We'll take care of that. You're just in time for dinner-"

"Mom, it's fine." Nikolai says, embarrassed. He doesn't shy away from her affections, though, at least not until it's Nadia herself to remember about their guest. She turns, expectantly.

"Hi, ma'am." Jude says, snapping out of his haze, still armed with a bottle of what looks like very fancy wine and a smile that could make even the grouchiest old man swoon.

Ilya smirks. He definitely knows what he's doing, and Nikolai must too, considering the lovesick and yet surrendered look on his face as he finishes hanging both their coats over the rack.

Jude's red checkered shirt does only so much to hide the tattoos up to his wrists, but Ilya thinks that wasn't the point, anyway. The stud on his eyebrow, the rings pierced through his lips, all the jewels on his ears and fingers are still there, like a statement, as is the genuine and polite way he shakes the hand of well shocked Nadia.

"Hi." She says, at a loss of words, unlike Ilya has ever seen her. She accepts the bottle into her arms, distraught "You- you are Jude?"

"Yes, ma'am." Jude nods, just a tad more hesitantly then.

Nikolai's arm wraps comfortably around his waist, like a shield, despite the small blush the action brings to his own cheeks. Ilya blames it on being right in front of his mother's radar, a fair consideration since Nikolai has never introduced anyone to his parents before, let alone somewhere Ivan wouldn't act as a buffer.

Nadia's eyes being solely stuck on the tattoos peaking out the collar of Jude's shirt must not be making the whole situation any easier for him.

Ilya should probably be sending Alexei an SOS text to ask Ivan to meet them upstairs, instead of just hovering, now that he thinks about it.

"Just Nadia is fine." She offers, a tentative smile on her lips "I'm happy to know you. Nikki did not say much to us."

"I asked him not to." Jude confesses, unbothered and with a small twist of his lips, tucking his hands into his pockets and leaning into Nikolai's side. They share one of the grossest look Ilya can say to have ever seen on Nikolai's face, at least directed to anything that wasn't an ice rink or a puck "I like to leave my own impression."

Despite everything, Ilya can clearly see Nadia is somewhat pleased by his answer.

Ilya smiles. It’s going to be fine.

Alexei's mouth only hangs open for a couple of seconds once they make their way downstairs, as he comes up to shake Jude's hand.

"You were right: he's definitely not what I was expecting." He whispers to him, then, as they both watch him introduce Jude to Ivan, looking only mildly surprised on his part, if Ilya had to say. Alexei gives him an impressed look over "So that's Nikki's type, huh?"

He snorts "You don't know the half of it."

Not that Ilya had any doubts about it, as he'd repeatedly told a panicking Nikolai weeks ago, but Jude fits into their lovely mess of a family with swimmingly ease.

He's charming with the hosts, crouches down to speak with the kids and lets an amazed Yulia poke at his tattoos at her polite request, and, even though he's still learning to decipher hockey talk, he listens interestedly to Niamh and Teagan yelling at the game playing on tv, cuddled up under Nikolai's arm as he quietly fills him in to what's happening on the screen.

Years ago it would have been impossible to imagine Nikolai with someone that didn't speak that same language as him. Now, it's almost natural to look up from the game of bridge Rory had lured him into and see him look so smitten, when explaining the difference between tripping and hooking to a man that seems to hang off his words.

And Ilya... he's happy for him, for Nikolai, he really is, because there is no one that more than him deserved to finally find peace after everything life threw at them, but it's hard to swallow down the green feeling in his chest, the shame pooling in his guts. Because Jude is here and Shane is somewhere in Ottawa, hidden like the dirtiest of secrets, and Ilya can't do anything about it but wait for his phone to light up with his texts for a little solace.

Ilya wishes there was him playing with them, sat beside Niamh to comment about Buffalo's shitty defence, or being awfully Canadian and polite to his family-

"Focus." Rory sing songs, snapping him back to reality.

"Yes, please, Ilyusha. I want to win." Isaak pouts.

"Why are you even playing with us, you're like five." He grumbles, playfully pushing his face away. Isaak, the menace, only attempts to bite at his fingers "We're going to lose anyway, Lyosha is playing. Brace yourself."

"Damn right." Alexei agrees, counting points.

"So, how has it been in Ottawa? I feel like I haven't seen you in ages, man." Rory says, leaning his elbows over the coffee table.

It's true, Ilya considers: between the guys' tour and the season, the fact that Ilya barely left Ottawa after moving, a little for Peterson insistence at being available even on fucking thanksgiving and days off, for impromptu practice rounds that didn't make any sense anyway, because he ‘is the captain and can’t ditch the team only for a little homesickness’, and the new movie series the band had been involved into, Ilya could count on the fingers of one hand the few times they'd actually had a moment to catch up.

"It's been fine." Ilya shrugs, perhaps too absentmindedly to make it believable.

Alexei is showing Isaak how to shuffle the cards, some too complicated way Ilya will never understand the need for, when Rory nudges his foot under the table "Up for a smoke? Lets get some air. We can talk outside."

Ilya gratefully accepts the exit, grabbing his coat from the hanger and following him outside.

"Fuck, it's freezing out here." Rory complains, leaning over the handrail.

Ilya accepts his lighter "You should see Ontario. I had to dig the ice out of my windshield to drive to practice last week."

David's suggestion had worked like a charm, at least. Ilya didn't need Peterson on his ass for being late too.

"The guys say that LA made me forget how to be Canadian," Rory laughs around his cigarette "Like they're any better at keeping up when we jump cities every other day.”

"Tour is over, right?" He asks him, leaning beside him, to watch the snow settle over the already knee high white blanket covering the driveway.

Rory nods "Thank god, yes. I love it, don't get me wrong, but it's tiring as fuck. And with this project I get to come home more often."

That does sound nice, in fact.

"What is it about?"

"Oh, I haven't read the script."

Ilya's eyes automatically narrow "How do you know what to write, then?"

Rory waves him off "It's some kind of introspective-tripping movie. It would have been pointless, anyway. The actress they hired agreed to do some recording session with the group so we can discuss it." He explains, a small vague smile on his face "It's been going pretty good, so far. She's very talented."

"Is she?" Ilya teases him, knocking their shoulders together.

Rory picks at his fingernails, bashful "I mean, I already knew, it's not the first time we work together."

Ilya wags his eyebrows at him.

"You're worse than my mother and the girls combined." Rory objects, rolling his eyes.

"We just don't want you to die alone." He pouts.

"Hey, I'm only thirty five."

"And a rockstar. It's kind of unbelievable you're chronically single. Where are the scandals? The gossip?"

"Yeah, like that one time someone rumoured we kept human remains at the studio?" Rory deadpans "I totally miss that, you're right."

Ilya throws his head back with a laugh.

"Alright, enough about me." Rory huffs, smoke curling around his head like a halo "How is it really going?"

Ilya exhales "It's fine. Everything is still too new to say, to be honest. I know you're not into hockey, but..."

"The team sucks?" Rory grimaces "Yeah, I watched your last game."

"You did?" Ilya stares at him, surprised.

"Of course I did. I watch all of your games." Rory says, matter of factly.

Oh.

Ilya didn't know that. He shuffles on his feet, unsure on how to respond.

"And as much as it doesn't look like it, I am still Canadian, thank you very much." Rory chuckles "I can appreciate a good game every once in a while."

"Well, sad to disappoint." He says, voice rough, rolling his cigarette between his fingers.

"It's only the start of the season. I'm sure you'll do good to the team." Rory waves him off. He's always been pretty observant, so Ilya is not too surprised when he goes to change the subject then "You know, you haven't sent me any updates in a while. How is your study journey going?" He asks, pulling the ashtray closer as he burrows further in his leather jacket, a bold choice for Edmonton’s winter.

Ilya hums around his cigarette. Truthfully, he doesn't know the last time he's picked up his guitar, currently in its case and buried into his closet, only waiting for him to remember it exists, strings rusty and gross from time.

Everything has blurred lately, in that way life tends to, so much that the good days and the bad days hardly matter anymore when the only things he does are going practice, lose games and deal with the itch of loneliness in the four walls of his house.

Nikolai didn't use to complain much about it, and now that he lives alone there's no one he could bother with it, anyway, but Ilya doesn't know why he can't bring himself to play anymore.

It used to clear his mind, despite the deep annoyance struggling with Rory's books always brought with it. Now, Ilya thinks it would probably only make him miss home even more. What would be the point anyway?

"It's going." He lies "I, uhm, I'm still figuring that CAGED thing."

Rory hums "Yeah, it's kinda tricky. But once you get it, trust me, it's all downhill. Text me if you have any problems with it."

"I will." He promises, emptily. He plasters a smirk across his face "And I expect to see you on TMZ with that actress of yours in a few months, but call me up to tell me in advance, yes-?"

Dinner might as well be the general rehearse for what's to come at Christmas, with the overcrowded round of chairs around the table and the minimum wiggle space, but Ilya wouldn't have it in any other way.

When he was a kid, meals were quiet but for the sound of cutlery scraping against ceramic, like they were all waiting for a bomb to drop. The buzz of conversations overlapping across the table, the laughter and the playful teasing, even just the way his brother kicks his shin after a bad joke, a smile on his face, it has nothing to do with it, it makes Ilya full in a way he'd never thought the premise of family dinner could.

"Nikolai didn't say you were Russian." Ivan says, somewhat appreciatively, from Ilya's right, twirling wine into his glass, after what Ilya roughly understood as a long and boring discussion over a book he never heard of.

To this, Ilya listens in, tuning Niall's latest fishing story happening on his left aside for the moment.

"I'm not, not really." Jude, sat at Nikolai's side on the opposite end of the table, explains, shifting in his chair "My mom and my dad's parents are, but I was born in Boston."

"I would have never guessed, your pronunciation is really good."

"They're very traditional, it was important for them."

"They must be disappointed you're not spending the holidays with them." Nadia considers then, apprehensively. Despite the distance, they've all mostly always managed to spend the holidays together, but when they couldn't, a call could only do so much. Ilya understands where she's coming from, but Jude just shakes his head, smile faltering slightly.

"No, they- it's just me and some friends, usually."

Nikolai's hands, already covering his over the table, gives it a firmer squeeze.

Ilya watches Nadia's eyes grow increasingly sadder as she and Ivan share a look through the new found uncomfortable silence, not unfamiliar with the slight pull at his chest.

Being home, surrounded by people who accept him and Nikolai just as they are, sometimes makes it difficult to remember that not everyone might have been just as lucky, like Kristie, like Jude.

Ilya has a multitude of reasons to be grateful for his life, just as he did for his sorrow, when  Nikolai briefly told him about it after he innocently made her same question.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No, no, it's okay. We're just not... we don't have that kind of relationship anymore." It's what Jude settles with "It's been a long time, now. Really, it's fine." He adds, trying to be reassuring, as if embarrassed for having involuntarily brought up a quarrel. It comes and goes, though, and Jude's face soon twists back into something more genuine "Plus, I'm happy to be here. Nikolai talks a lot about you and I- I really wanted to meet you, too." He confesses. He gives Nikolai a soft smile "You have a wonderful son."

Nadia nods, her expression softened "We're very proud of him."

Jude grins "Yes, I am too."

"Please stop." Nikolai mumbles, face flaming red.

"How did you meet?" Ivan asks, knowingly offering him an out "Nikolai didn't say."

Nadia nods in agreement, still definitely annoyed by the lack of... well, everything.

Ilya couldn't count on the fingers of one hand the times she's tried extorting it out of him in the past few months.

He and Nikolai share a look from across the table. There it goes

"At Jude's studio."

"I'm a tattoo artist." Jude adds, at the question in their eyes.

"You got a tattoo?" Nadia bristles then, head snapping towards her son.

Nikolai may have as well turned the same colour as the plastered walls, in the blink of an eye. Ilya would deem it impressive if the situation didn't call for help "No. It was when Ilya did, the duck-"

Ilya scoffs "It's a loon."

"And I made it." Jude concludes.

"You said it was very pretty." Ivan reminds her, then, after a couple of seconds of tensed silence, definitely not as fussed and a little teasingly. Jude perks up.

"It is." Nadia conceides, albeit reluctantly.

She'd also told Ilya he didn't need to look like a member of the Bratva to play hockey, but still.

"But, uhm, since it came up, I did get one. After." Nikolai confesses, rapidly, probably in fear of being interrupted. Ilya gets him, to be completely honest "Before Ilyusha moved. It's very small, we got it together."

Ilya struggles to get his pant leg rolled up, as stuffed as he is between Rory and Ivan, but he proudly shows off his ankle, where a thin and simple outline of a lightning bolt is pressed over his skin in vibrant blue, matching the one on Nikolai's wrist.

The idea had sprung upon them, well, Ilya, while watching a video Polina had sent him of Isaak's last round of practice before the summer. They'd still been knees deep into throwing his life into boxes, fighting against the bittersweet feeling of going through years of accomplishments, of memories. Sue him, he'd had all the rights to be sentimental, and, judging from the way Nikolai hadn't fought too much at his proposition, he hadn't been the only one.

A lightning bolt, for twenty years of having each other's backs, on and off the ice, for where it all started.

A similar idea must be running through both Morozov's heads, at least from the mollified purse of Nadia's lips.

"You did those too?" She asks Jude, softly, her eyes a little glassy as she folds her hands together over the table.

"Yes."

"You must be very good artist. You can do simple and difficult both." She continues, eyes narrowed, but not unkindly "Is different, yes?"

"Kind of. I try my best." He chuckles, the top of his cheeks warmer with the praise "I, uhm, I'm usually more for bigger pieces like Ilya's, but-"

"I wouldn't have trusted anybody else." Nikolai pitches in, firmly, his thumb running over the ridges of Jude's knuckles.

Nadia leans into Ivan's side with a small, approving hum.

He gets her, because it's sweet, terribly sweet, and it makes Ilya almost forget the horrible twenty minutes that had been watching Nikolai and Jude eye-fuck on the studio's chair, as he waited for his turn, thrown off by the lack of anything more than a flinch on Nikolai's face as the gun dragged over his skin.

Show off.

Ilya had drove home alone, after that. Thank god.

"No way, man." Rory interrupts then, eyes wide "You did Ilya's tattoo? That's so sick. I had something in mind for before the summer, you think you could give me an opinion about it? The guy I talked with said it wouldn't look good but-"

For someone as confident as Jude, the way he stumbles through his words as Rory circles the table to kneel by his chair to show him the picture on his phone is quite hilarious.

"You didn't tell me you're related to Rory Callahan." Jude had hissed earlier, after pulling Ilya aside on his way to the bathroom. Ilya could see Nikolai talking with Alexei over the pool table, obliviously distracted "Why didn't you?"

"Sorry?" He'd said back, puzzled "Is it a problem?"

"I have a poster of his face over my bed- God, I used to write fanfiction about him when I was thirteen and hormonal and my ringtone- of course it's a fucking problem." Jude whispered, not that far from panicked.

Ilya frowned "You used to what?"

"That's what you're focusing on?"

His commitment to not freak out has truly been a journey to witness, and especially so the frown on Nikolai's face as Jude flushes at Rory's attention, now, ever so professionally pointing at the screen as they discuss Rory's new tattoo.

Ilya hides a smirk behind his glass, before moving to Rory's chair to listen in to Niamh's last horror story from work and steal a chip from Isaak's plate.

The jolly happiness of holidays is extremely easy to fall into, in between gifts getting opened, helping the kids making snowmen in the backyard and obligatory trips to the lake.

Yulia makes it her personal mission to teach Jude to play hockey, as they divide into teams, holding his hands as they wobblily glide across the ice. And Jude... he tries, but he's much more content to just sit in front of the goalposts they made out of sticks than actually skating, putting all of his effort into catching the puck rather than staying upright.

Nobody fortunately ends cracking their heads open that afternoon, but Jude taps out after falling into Nikolai's already waiting arms for the fifth time in a row.

"You almost got it." Ilya encourages him, skating circles around them.

"Oh, fuck you." Jude laughs, flipping him off.

Ilya ends up calling Shane that night, after everyone's gone to bed, bundled in a blanket as he sits under the porch.

"Hey."

Shane's voice is like a healing balm to Ilya's ears, soft and soothing.

"Hi, sweetheart."

"I don't know what that means." Shane chuckles over the line.

"I just called you my lawnmower."

Shane huffs "Asshole." There's some rustling, the clue of Shane getting more comfortable in bed, then a hum "How has it been?"

Ilya smiles "I already texted you all about it."

He did, like he always does, sending pictures of the gingerbread houses they made, of the stands at the Christmas market, a video of Isaak and Yulia chasing each other for the puck at the lake.

He can hear Shane's smile through the phone "Tell me anyway."

And so Ilya does: he tells him about Christmas, Niamh's overzealous family, drinking eggnog in front of the fireplace and all the cheating at Monopoly he did while playing before dinner.

"-Yulia loved the gear you got her." He says "She wanted to try it on right away."

"I'm glad. She'll need them if she wants to play defence." Shane's evidently satisfied. He can imagine him, all proud as he leans back on his excessive amount of pillows.

"I can't believe I got betrayed by my own niece." Ilya groans, throwing his head back against the handrail "Isaak, I could understand, it was already too late when I met him, but my niece, my flesh and blood-"

"Don't you think it's a little dramatic?"

"I cannot believe it: I am a center, Niamh was a center-"

"She's a kid, she might change her mind."

"it's still an injustice! I know Kolya has got something to do with it-"

"Alright." Shane stops him, amused.

"How about you?" He asks, then, fishing for a cigarette.

"It was fine. We went to see my grandparents. It was horrible. My grandma still has her opinions about my mom."

"Yuna is a joy to be around, fuck her."

"You know what? Yeah, fuck her." Shane laughs "Dad lasted about an hour before making us leave."

"Did David Hollander get mad?" Ilya makes an exaggerated gasp.

"He so did."

"Hot."

"Ew, that's my dad."

"Hot."

"Ilya."

"Just here stating facts." He says, wrapping his arms around himself, fingers hovering on the tattoo over his shoulder, longingly "Men who stand up for their families? Instant boner."

"I'm going to throw up."

"And then I am the one being dramatic." Ilya teases him.

"Yeah, well- wait, are you smoking?"

Ilya's hand, the one holding the lighter, carefully lowers "No?"

"I heard a sound. Like a lighter."

"It was probably your imagination, it's pretty late."

"If you get lung cancer, I'm going to kill you." Shane threatens.

"You're so mean to me." He pouts, exhaling.

"Oh yes, I'm so bad for wanting you to put your health first." Shane is probably rolling his eyes now, Ilya just knows it "So, uhm, have you thought about it? The cottage, I mean. I could squeeze up a couple of days before our next roadie."

Ilya wishes they could go back to Shane's nagging, but he dutifully responds, sighing around his cigarette "I don't think I can. Peterson wants to meet me and Bood for... honestly I don't fucking know. He's a shitty coach. Do you need to study to become one, if you weren't a player? I don't think he did. I mean, it feels like he's never stepped foot on an rink before."

"Oh." Shane says, clearly disappointed.

Ilya grits his teeth.

It's unfair, even more than it ever was before in some way. From Boston, at least, the chances of casually meeting up were pretty thin alone, but like this, with only two hours dividing them, it feels like emotional torture.

"I hope he'll leave next season. Everyone fucking hates him. He made a rookie cry two weeks ago, after Buffalo."

"Johnson? The one that missed the powerplay?"

"Yeah. I mean, it was his shitty idea to send him in for it, anyway."

The silence is not exactly uncomfortable, but Ilya feels the weight of it right upon his shoulders.

"Do you... do you regret it?" Shane asks then, catching him by surprise.

Ilya's eye stings where it met the smoke he just coughed out "What?"

"Your trade. I know it has been a rough season so far for you and with Peterson on your ass for everything..."

And Shane is not wrong, because he is not. He hates losing every fucking game, he hates Peterson and his stupid plays, but regret it?

"I don't. Shane, I really don't." He says firmly "It's... tough, but I already knew it would be. This is nothing I didn't signed up for. I'm here for the long game. Fucking Peterson just has to try coming up between us, I'll kick his ass."

Shane snorts "He's your coach."

"Me and Bood could do a better job alone sharing one braincell."

"Wow."

"Don't worry about me. I'm fine." Or he will be, at least, he just needs to figure this out, he thinks, stubbing out his cigarette. He can work his way on the list of things he has to fix, and soon enough he'll be fixed too, not quite as angry, as jealous, or as any other messy emotion he's feeling right now. He will, for Shane "What you should worry about is Pike. What was his deal on our last game? Jesus Christ-"

That eggs Shane on enough that Ilya doesn't have to think about the rest anymore apart from the sound of his voice, finally peaceful.

Ilya can hardly find any sleep that last night in Edmonton.

Nikolai and Jude already flew back to Boston earlier that morning, just in time for the Bears' game against Detroit. Nadia spared none of them from the force of her tackle, to Jude evident surprise. Ilya doesn't know what she'd whispered to him, but he'd caught up fast, touched, before shaking Ivan's hand with eyes just a little teary still.

The guys' flight back to Russia won't leave until the end of the week. Ilya wishes he could have stayed longer, too, even through January's mundanity. Ottawa means having to go back to deal with Peterson, a house where he can't hear Jean and Niall banter from the kitchen, his brother helping an annoyed Isaak with his homework, Yulia's laughter or the twins fighting over Uno's rules.

But Ottawa also means responsibilities he cannot ignore, the fleeting chance of seeing Shane before having to drive back early in the morning, and staying up at David and Yuna's place to watch his games.

It's not all sunshine and rainbows, but Ilya can make that feel like home too, in it's own ways.

By the hundredth failing attempt at counting sheep, and the realization that that's just not going to work, he quietly retrieves his pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his bag, before padding out of Rory's room and downstairs, for some air.

The house is dark, all but for a faint light coming from the kitchen. Ilya moves swiftly down the stairs, careful of every creaky steps, before curiously peaking from the doorstep.

It's Niamh, dressed in a fairly new set of Montreal sweater and sweats (thank you, Shane), and looking down into a cup of- tea? Coffee? Ilya has no idea, but the affronted way she keeps frowning at it is definitely something.

"Hey."

She doesn't jump as he walks in, offering him a small and wiped smile instead, dark circles stark under her eyes in the pale lights of the kitchen.

"Troubles sleeping?" She asks, patting the stool next to hers.

Ilya leaves his goods on the counter, sitting down with a sigh "I guess."

"We should have melatonin gummies in the bathroom, if you need them. Mom keeps getting them for Lex but they just make him more restless." Alexei could survive on coffee and spite, he's not exactly surprised "Everything okay?"

"Sure." He says, propping his head up on the palm of his hand "Just one of those nights. Why are you up for?"

Niamh's fingers trace over the rim of her cup, absent "Just one of those nights." She echoes back.

"You want to talk about it?"

To be fair, Ilya's had his own suspicions since being back. Just a hunch, if he has to be honest, mostly due to the queasy look she's been carrying around all week, her reluctant refusal to skate with them a couple of days ago, and the emotional support Canada dry cans she's been carrying with her everywhere. Paired with the expectant look on Alexei's face, that could only mean one thing.

He guesses it's fine they've been waiting to announce it, but god do they suck at keeping secrets.

Niamh sighs, pushing her hair back behind her ears, evidently too tired not to break "Something happened and I'm, uhm, I'm probably thinking about it way too much. It's nothing serious, but Cap keeps insisting and with Yulia and Lex-"

What does Rivers have to do with it?

Ilya frowns, confused. Maybe he was wrong, after all.

"Wait, you're not pregnant?"

Niamh's eyes grow impossibly wide in a blink "What? No. No, no, what the hell. The oven is closed, has been for a long time. You aren't getting another giant Rozanov baby out of me-"

"Hey."

"- where did you even get that idea from?"

"I mean, both you and Lyosha have been weird all week. You didn't skate with us, and- and the ginger ale!" Ilya reasons, throwing his hands up defensively "Sorry for assuming."

"I sprained my ankle on a call two weeks ago, and-" Niamh drags one of her hands down her face "Okay, yeah, I get why that would send the wrong message."

Ilya nods, increasingly worried by the tired note in her voice "Are you guys okay?"

"No, Ilya, it's not- we're fine, really." She reassures him, landing a comforting hand over his forearm.

"You sure?" Ilya insists "I can't be a child of divorce too, my first set of parents is already dead, Niamh-"

"Oh my god." She snorts "You're terrible."

"And you laughed, so what does that say about you?" He points out, satisfied at the now smile twisting up her lips.

It doesn't last long, though, and her face sets back into a conflicted frown "You can't tell the guys what I'm about to tell you, okay? Not yet. I'm still... processing."

"Sure." He nods, just as serious "Now please tell me, this is killing me."

Niamh takes a deep breath "I got a job offer. It's a promotion. The commissioner said that if I wanted to, there's a spot open for a captain position at another station."

Ilya's jaw may as well been hitting the floor "You're fucking kidding me."

"I'm not. Rivers set me up." She laughs, embarrassedly. She squeals when he pulls her close, arms tight around his shoulders as he lifts her off her feet.

"This is so good, Niamh, what the hell! Congratulations!" He yells-whispers, setting her back down with a big smile.

But as flattered and happy as she might look, there's something else harbouring that Ilya can't quite put a name on.

"Yeah, uhm, there is a catch, though." She says then, because no, as a matter of fact they cannot have nice things, lowering her eyes back on her joint hands "The job is in Vancouver."

Suddenly, it feels like the floor just slipped from underneath his feet "Vancouver?" He repeats, lost "Vancouver as in... Vancouver, British Columbia?"

"Yes." She sighs, dropping her head on her open palms "I got the email yesterday. He said the active captain there is going to retire by the end of next month and they need someone to fill in as soon as possible. I still haven't told Lex. Not the Vancouver part, at least."

"Why not?" He stutters.

"We both know what he would say." She says, with a small, sad smile "'we'll go, if that's what you want, solnyshka, of course I will drop everything and uproot our life just for-"

"Alright, alright. I get what you mean." He stops her, biting down a laugh. It's not like she's wrong. Her accent is not that far off either "Lyosha... yeah, he does that. But this is big Niamh, he needs to know."

"He doesn't if I'm not going to accept." Niamh considers.

Ilya stares at her, appalled "Why wouldn't you?"

"I can't just ask Alexei to quit his job to move to Vancouver, Ilya. Yulia is in second grade already, everything she knows is here: she has her friends, a routine, and- and hockey. And what about my parents? They're not getting any younger and Teagan has the shop to look after, too. What if something happens?" She babbles, fingers curling around the edge of the isle "We would need to find a new house, a new school, and a babysitter... there are so many things to consider, but of course Graham wants an answer by next fucking week and-"

"Niamh." He interrupts her, planting his hands over her shoulders "Breath."

She lets him guide her through the same breathing exercises she taught him so many years ago, when panicking for his French final. It has the desired effect: her chest stops heaving and she leans back into her chair, tired as if she'd just ran a marathon, but finally lucid.

"I think you should really consider it." He says, then "Or at least tell Alexei and figure something out. You're right, it's not that easy, but you deserve this promotion, Niamh."

"I could wait for a spot to open in Edmonton, though. It would take a while, sure, but... I can wait." She insists, a little teary eyed.

"Fuck waiting." Ilya bursts out then, more forcefully than intended. Niamh seems just as taken aback as she straightens up on her stool "You- what if this was your only chance? You can't just let it slip away because it's scary, Niamh."

Silence falls over them, tense and heavy.

"Sorry." He sighs, rubbing at his eyes, after thoroughly collecting himself "I shouldn't have raised my voice. I'm tired. But the point still stands Niamh: talk with Alexei. You can't live with the regret of not taking this chance without really thinking about it, at least. If you still choose not to go, it's another story, but... scary doesn't mean you can't do it. Home will still be here when you'll want back. And this I know for a fact." He adds. It doesn't sound as humorous as he'd hoped for, but it does drag a sympathetic smile out of her.

"Okay... yes, I'll talk with Lex." She promises, nodding as if trying to hype herself up. Her hand reaches for his across the isle, concern in her eyes "But, uhm, are you sure you're alright, kid?”

"Why shouldn't I be?" He asks back, perhaps too defensively.

"Eh, just an impression."

"I'm fine." He insists, lowering his head on his folded arms. He feels Niamh's fingers come up to brush the hair away from his forehead.

"Has something happened with Shane?"

"No. No, we're good. It's just... the season." He attempts. It's not like it's a lie anyway "It's been pretty stressful lately." He adds, committing to it.

Niamh hums, lifting his chin up to lock their eyes together.

She doesn't seem convinced, Ilya would know after all these years, but she lets it go as he nods in confirm.

Ilya wouldn't know what to say either way. That he hates his house? That he hates Shane being still so far away? That dragging himself to practice has never felt more like a chore than it does now?

What would be the point?

He already hates himself enough for not being able to hold it together in front of her, this tantrum of his, but burdening her with his own problems too wouldn't do her any favours right now.

"What about I make some other tea while you go putting Ghostrider on in the living room?" Niamh proposes then, softly, as if Ilya were still a fifteen year old kid mourning a lost game and not twenty-seven and a mess.

He might need it more than he would like to admit, though.

Ilya smiles weakly "You know what? Add popcorns and it's a deal."

*

Ilya walks into his house dragging his carry on behind him with little care, the package he just retrieved from the mail box tucked under his coat.

He leaves the luggage by the door, mindlessly toeing off his shoes as he shrugs his coat, before running up the stairs.

His room is how the cleaning service left it, pristine and smelling of ammonia, cleaned up to every surface and anonymous but for the few pictures over the nightstand, his old Boston Jersey hung upon the wall and an empty spot beside it he's been procrastinating to fill.

He pads to the closet, carefully picking up the dusty case of his guitar among the few boxes he still hasn't found a place for.

Ilya peels the stubborn tape of the package with his teeth, sending a mental apology to his dentist, before digging for the square bag of new guitar strings.

He feels empty, drained, even though all he did was catch a plane to get back to Ottawa and try to sleep the exhaustion away on the flight. There is still boneless tiredness dragging him down, head filled with things he should do and a heart too heavy for his chest.

Ilya watches his reflection on the slick finish of the wood as he lays the case open over his bed, before tucking the new strings in the crook between the neck and its body.

He'll change them, he'll play again, he promises himself, fingers hovering over it, the few music sheets he'd last practiced with tucket on the top of the case.

CAGED.

Funny choice of words.

He fixes the snaps with a sigh before closing the guitar back in his closet.

Ilya has practice to get to now.

*

Ilya taps his foot over the ground, his cigarette burning out slowly as his eyes search over the crowd of people coming and going through the doors of Ottawa International Airport.

It's cold, but it's easy to shrug it off when Ilya can barely contain his excitement.

Not that he will ever let Wyatt forget that he made him wait for him under the snow to retrieve his sorry ass on a frigid January Thursday.

"Roz!"

Ilya is barely in time to turn when a whole hockey player comes crashing against him, bringing both of them down against the hood of his car.

"Hazy, what the fuck!" He laughs, not fighting the bear hug he just got dragged into.

"Aw man, it's been so fucking long." Wyatt says, knocking their heads together, too roughly for a no helmet situation, before waddling back and offering Ilya a bright smile, hands still holding onto his shoulder "This is gonna be epic."

"So, where's your prettier half?" He asks, while driving them back to his own house. Wyatt's trade had been impromptu, way too sudden for him and Lisa to find a place and move in the short span of a week, but Ilya wasn't going to let either of them sleep in a hotel for the foreseeable future. Shane’s schedule was packed anyway, Montreal would soon leave for a road trip, so he could host, Ilya'd told himself. Maybe having somebody else over apart from his self loitering might actually do him some good.

"Are you saying I'm not pretty?" Wyatt pouts.

"Never babe, you know you're the only one for me."

Wyatt chuckles "Lisa still has work to sort, sell the house, all the shitty parts of moving. I told her I could skip practice this first few days to help but she wouldn't budge, you know her. Thank you for letting us crash at yours." He adds, earnestly, big green eyes nothing but grateful if not a little sad "We weren't really expecting this."

"Toronto fucking sucks." Ilya huffs "They barely let you get any time on the ice and then throw you out for a kid who doesn't even know how to tie his shoes, fucking unbelievable."

Wyatt deflates in his seat, sighing  "Yeah."

"And what would I be if I let an old friend deal with it on his own?" He says, leaning over to pat his chest with the back of his hand "Just stay away from my score on Beat Saber and you're good."

Ilya's missed this, the easiness of laughing with someone over the stupidest things, while driving, grocery shopping, or play videogames on his obnoxiously big tv as they down the equivalent of their weights in sugar. And he missed Wyatt, specifically, too.

After his wedding, almost a whole year ago, they'd barely managed to see each other, apart from their carefully picked gaming evenings, harder to manage with all three of them playing for different teams, now, anyway.

Well, that won't be a problem anymore, Ilya considers faintly.

If someone had told fourteen year old him that someday they'd be playing on the same questionable team, he'd have probably never believed them.

Funny how life works, sometimes.

"How did Lisa take it? The trade?" He asks, once they finally collapse back onto the couch, controllers left over the coffee table. He offers him the bag of hot Cheetos, nipping at his fingers.

Wyatt hums pensively "Well, our families and friends all live there, it was a big hit for everyone. I had only one year left before being a free agent, you know? And I know the team is... well, most of the guys sucked, okay? We are all aware of that. But it was safe. I thought I would retire there. Now everything is a bit of a mess." He admits, cracking his back "The only positive thing about all of it is that Lisa already found a hospital hiring here. She's starting next month. Oh, and thank your agent for us. As soon as Lisa gets here we're gonna start looking through his recommendations. We'll be out of your hair before you know it."

"No biggie. Sergei is good with this shit, you'll probably like them." He nods. Ilya gives him a small smile "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here, I'm just sorry it had to happen this way, though."

When Nikolai had been traded, the suddenness and the anger had melted away fairly soon. Apart from Wyatt, he didn't have anything holding him back to Toronto, and very little respect for a management that discarded him with no thoughts. Wyatt's situation makes Ilya extremely grateful for the no trade clause in his contract.

Wyatt, who has barely played a game in the past year, despite Ilya knowing he is a much better goalie than stupid Walters. They're going to show them, Ilya decides. The odds might be turning in their favours for once.

"You know what? I'm glad, too. Fuck Reynolds and Kent and all the rest of them. Not Gina, though. The social media manager. She was very nice."

"Just wait. You're going to love Harris." He says, nudging his knee with his foot.

"What about you? It's only been a few months since you got here." Wyatt considers then. He gives the modern style living room an appreciative look "And look at this. This place is kind of like your own fortress of solitude, isn't it? Must be nice."

Fortress of solitude. Ilya can't help but snort. Wyatt is not that far off, after all "I guess. The neighbourhood is nice. Close to the rink. I wouldn't suggest you to move here, though, I will steal your wife." He teases him, barely dodging the pillow coming for his face.

"It’s too late for that. You snooze, you loose." Wyatt says, sticking his tongue out at him before settling back against the pillows "How's home? I haven't seen the guys in forever."

"Good. I mean, busy with the move but could be worse. Lyosha and Yulia are still in Edmonton, at least until his resignation goes through and they sign Yulia up for school there."

"Niamh settling good?"

Despite having to deal with the change in shifts, the new load that came with her position and the house hunting, Ilya would say good, overall. Something that he's completely sure of, though, is that his brother has been going through all stages of grief in her absence.

"I don't know how you can hold this up with Shanya all year around." He'd told him the last time they'd called, dark circles under his eyes and a, honest to god, pout on his lips, as if his wife had moved to the other side of the world and not a two hour flight away.

Yeah, Ilya doesn't either, to be honest.

"I think so. She's pretty busy. The guys at the station seem cool and Niamh was made for the job, but looking for a place has been stressing her out."

Let's just say Ilya hadn't been too surprised when Vetrov called to tell him he would be in Vancouver for the following few weeks. For Alexei to have been the one to ask for the favour… well, that hadn't exactly been on his bingo list for the year. Considering Niamh's texts, all concurring for the biggest freak out of the century, he can't say he doesn't get why, though.

Wyatt hums, in what Ilya supposes is a form of firm agreement, as he takes a long sip out of his beer in sympathy "Can fucking relate." He says, cracking his fingers.

He levels Ilya with a look that means business, not that daunting when there's Cheetos' dust smeared across his cheek.

"So, how's the team? Apart from the obvious, I guess. Is it normal that I'm nervous for tomorrow? This feels like seventh grade all over again-"

Wyatt warms up to the team fast enough. Ilya is not surprised, if not a little relieved. It does feel a little like seventh grade, but only for the fact that now Ilya has no language barrier to blame for his poor socializing skills with the team and using Wyatt as a buffer should definitely be considered cheating.

But it does work, or, at least, Bood stops looking worriedly in his direction any chance given, like on their first loss of the new year, just a couple of weeks after Wyatt's transfer.

Ilya had only wanted to drive home, wait for Wyatt to be asleep and call Shane (with headphones, because he did learn his lesson) or maybe his brother, and have Yulia's little voice tell him about practice and all the playground gossip. Instead, Wyatt's idea for the night had been to bully him into his own car and driving them himself to the bar Bood had sent him the address of.

"Look who the wind brought." Dykstra says, evidently surprised to see him walking right behind a skipping Wyatt.

"Yes, yes, it's me. Don't cream your pants." Ilya mumbles through Bood's friendly hug and the copious handshakes from the rest of the team, just as shocked.

And alright, fair, Ilya hasn't been that great of a captain as of lately, he knows this, but... it's not that great of a consideration to deal with when met with the obvious hesitation in the guys' chirps, jokes from outside the locker room that Ilya doesn't get, ribs he can only wonder the meaning of.

"Cap, you in for pool?" Lefevre, one of their rookie, asks, big brown eyes flying in his direction.

Ilya doesn't know how rookies can manage to look more like scared little kids with every passing year (he surely didn't look like that at nineteen, not even Shane did), but it would be pretty impossible to refuse his expectant look, especially not with the way his face breaks out in a wide starred smile at his nod.

From Wyatt's side, Bood gives him a solid thumbs up.

Ilya rolls his eyes as he accepts a cue stick.

It's a good night after all: the more alcohol flows, the more everyone seems much more distracted by the novelty of him being there and Ilya gets to go through pieces of lore he had no idea even existed, like the rookies all sharing a flat and their absurd boys-next-door experiences (I swear cap, she's was so fucking hot-), Dillon's wife being pregnant (again, Jesus fuck, as Bood had insisted through a coughing fit) or Harrison's latest questionable purchase (a snake print jacket that Ilya wishes he hadn't had the pleasure to see a picture of).

How the hell did Ilya miss any of this?

When Wyatt, painfully sober and smug as he whistles along the radio, drives them home after, Ilya can't do anything but lean his forehead against the freezing glass of the window.

This could work, he thinks. Ilya just needs to do better.

*

They don't make the playoffs that year. Not that anyone was expecting them to, to be honest. And frankly enough Ilya can't say he's too bothered by it, will all the preparations they're supposed to be doing for the first year of the Irina Foundation's camps.

"Later, Ilya." Shane says, very rudely, while folded over a very thick tower of papers in his studio at the cottage.

Ilya, who has spent the last ten minutes folded over him instead, leaving kisses down the column of his neck, his nape, huffs outragedly in the crook of his shoulder.

"You said that already three hours ago."

"It was thirty minutes ago."

"Same thing." He says, way too close to a whine.

"You're insatiable."

"For you." He whispers lowly in his ear.

Ilya watches as a shiver runs down Shane's back. For all his talk about duties and responsibilities, Shane's been hard ever since he started running his hands down his sides, tasting the hard ridges of his stomach with feather light brushes.

"We already had sex this morning. Twice. And in the shower."

"Is it a crime to be in love with my boyfriend now?"

"No, but if one of the kids goes into anaphylactic shock because I didn't look over these forms, someone might sue us."

"Details, details." Ilya tuts, hand sneaking underneath his shirt to squeeze around his pec.

Shane's breathing falters "Stop."

"I don't think that's what you really want." He says, just in time for Shane to turn into his chair and crash their lips together.

Ilya is well aware he's been way too clingy during that past week, ever since Shane walked into the cottage, but he can't find it in himself to be self conscious about it. Weeks of not seeing each other, months of watching the guys wave at their partners through the glass at their home games and come back home to silence... he feels justified for wanting some undivided attention.

Shane is just as bad at pretending it’s not affecting him that much, being finally able to sleep wrapped up in each other and wake up in the luxury of not having to rush out of the door to drive back to Montreal.

"The guys are going to be here in an hour." Shane pants against the shelves Ilya has got him pressed to, as he lowers to his knees, pushing his shirt up to leave unhurried kisses down his stomach, past the elastic of his shorts.

He licks a sultry stripe over the cotton, right on the tent forming under his hands, dragging a moan out of him. Ilya smirks "You better hurry up then."

"- and she's allergic to peaches, her EpiPen is in her backpack. You remember how to use them, right? Blue to the sky, orange to the-"

Ilya rolls his eyes as he takes the bag from his brother's hands, to push it up his shoulder "I know, Lyosha. Jesus, chill. I used to change the kid's diapers and you think I suddenly forgot how to take care of her?"

Alexei presses his lips into a tight line "You're right. Yes. Sorry. I'm just... not used to her being away, okay?" He says, pushing a stray tuft of hair out of his eyes.

"It's gonna be fine." He assures him, more softly "It's three weeks of hockey camp, not the army. Me and Shane will be there, Kolya and Wyatt, too, just as lots of medical staff. She's in safe hands, okay? Now go back to your wife and enjoy the honeymoon, please. You need a fucking break." He adds.

Two years, they've been married for two years. It's been way overdue, Ilya thinks, watching his brother nod, eyes stuck to where Shane is crouched down to talk to Yulia, not quite that small anymore to need it, Niamh standing behind her and probably giving Shane a run down of everything Alexei has already blurted out to him in the past fifteen minutes.

The camps had been the perfect excuse: Ilya gets to see his niece for the summer and they finally get some time for themselves and hopefully some relax. With the move, the job hunting Alexei had procrastinated to do while trying to make everything fit into their new life in Vancouver, there'd been way too little time for that. When Shane'd proposed the idea, a month prior, as they made a run down the applications for the first turn of the foundation's camps in Ottawa, Ilya had taken the chance right off the bat.

Yulia had been way too ecstatic at the idea not to wrung both her parents down, in the end. At least Ilya's wedding gift, two weeks of an already paid backpacking around Europe, finally found its purpose.

"Yeah." Alexei sighs "We probably need it."

"Have fun." He sings song "But not too much. And use protections."

"Fuck off." Alexei says, shoving his shoulders. His face twists into something more open, then, as he gives him a small, still way too nervous for Ilya's tastes, smile "Thank you, by the way. I know how little time you guys get together, a kid on top of that is not the ideal."

"She's a delight, don't even joke about that." He waves him off "And Shane babysat for Pike enough, he's an expert. He kid-proofed the whole house already."

"How is all of this gonna work, anyway? With you two being a secret and all that." Alexei asks, doubtful.

Ilya shrugs "Shane has a plan. I learned not to question him too much."

The general gist is that they'll drive in different cars, even though Ilya is not quite sure how driving back and forth together could be a sign for something, and will probably have to try and be as far as possible from each other, because he doubts he will be able to keep anything off his face when being less than five feet apart.

Heart eyes, Pike called it once.

Ilya doesn't think it even begins to explain what he feels for Shane.

"Call, I mean it, for anything." Niamh says, as Ilya ushers both her and his brother to their rental car, already packed for the airport.

"If apocalypse strikes, we will. Now get off your phones and go have some damn fun, you two." He scolds them, kissing her cheek and closing the car door behind her.

Niamh only shakes her head as Yulia giggles, from where she's standing in front of Shane, his hands on her shoulders. He gives both of them a wave, both nodding at the last of their preoccupations before the car finally moves out of the driveway, up to the road.

Only then Ilya turns towards Yulia and Shane, a bright grin on his lips "Time for some fun, isn't it?"

It's going to be a great summer.

Camp, as far as Ilya's concerned, goes as smoothly as they both could have imagined. With both Shane and Yuna to coordinate the whole thing, Ilya wasn't expecting anything less.

Yulia takes their game of spies very seriously, disguising herself through the gaggle of kids in Nikolai's group and addressing Shane by his name only, doesn't matter if they'd been collecting seashells by the lake together just the morning before or he's been the one creatively packing her lunch for camp everyday.

Ilya loves it probably a little too much, this domesticity, waking up in the morning to them making breakfast together in his kitchen, the three of them playing board games at the isle while dinner cooks, Yulia's laugh as Ilya presses over the gas just enough to make the car seem to fly over the road (but in a safe way, Shane, of course), as they drive to the rink. God forbid he really tells his brother the next time the guys call.

Getting a moment to themselves is difficult with a kid sleeping just on the other side of the hallway, especially one that inherited his brother's propension to not sleep through the night and wake up at dawn, like a sociopath. But when night falls and Ilya gets to have Shane in his arms, in the quietness of their room, it's way too easy to forget about the rest.

By the end of the last day of camp in Ottawa, Ilya is more than positive about Montreal.

The staff's dinner is filled with laughter and good stories. Yulia seats between him and Nikolai, swinging her legs from the chair as she tells Max, on the opposite of her and wearing an encouraging smile on his face, all about her new friends from camp, the braids Ilya worked so hard to make earlier dishevelled from the wind. Maybe taking the convertible hadn't been that great of an a great idea, but oh well.

Shane is by the other end of the table, chuckling at something Pike is showing him on his phone, freckles painted like stars across his cheeks.

Ilya wishes he could stand up from his chair and kiss him, just because, like he'd seen Max do with Leah outside the restaurant when they arrived, surreptitiously only a few minutes later than Shane, or even just being able to hold his hand over the table, sit beside him and pretend they're like any other couple out with colleagues.

But he can't.

Instead, he asks Nikolai about Nadia and Ivan, as if anything could have changed from two days ago, when they had called them together from his couch while Shane was out for groceries, and one of the few times he stayed over for dinner and not at the foundation's accommodation.

He asks how Jude moving in is going, how's Boston, the team.

He and Shane had watched them win the playoffs at Yuna and David's house that year. Ilya had known they would win pretty much as soon as they'd stepped onto the ice and the cameras had turned to show Nikolai's face from the bench, a wall of steel.

He'd been happy for them, he really had been, but he would be lying if he said it didn't stung a bit. Acknowledging it had only made it worse, though, and Ilya couldn't afford or even find it in himself to be petty when met with the tears streaking down the guys' face on the screen of the Hollander's television, or Nikolai's smile when he'd called him back the morning after, on top of the world.

"Oh, and I don't know if I told you, but Jude has been teaching me how to drive." Nikolai adds then, absentmindedly, now in Yulia's chair after Kaylee, Montreal Victoire's Captain and center, offered to go with her to the bathroom.

"You fucking traitor." Ilya gapes at him "I offered to teach you so many times and it was always 'what do I need a car for, we have the subway'" He mocks, ignoring the glare from the passing waiter. He isn't making any more chaos than the rest of the table of hockey players, anyway.

Nikolai flushes "You try telling him no, when-  oh, fuck off, alright?"

"What?" Ilya insists, suddenly way too interested, like a dog to a bone "No- no, now you finish that sentence-"

*

"You want to know what your daughter told me." Ilya cries into the phone, still hovering his weight over Yulia's squirming body, just enough to not let her escape "She said she doesn't want the other kids to know I'm her awesome uncle and wants to be with Price's army of kids this time around! Can you believe this?"

First was Nikolai, and that he could understand, but now Price? Unacceptable.

"Yulechka, papa has never been more proud of you." Alexei says, getting another round of giggles out of the ungrateful kid trapped under his weight.

"It's your fault for teaching her nepotism is wrong." Ilya huffs.

The sound of keys turning into the padlock has both their heads turn towards the door.

Shane gives them a questioning look as he takes his earbuds out, all sweaty and awfully handsome. Ilya has to remind himself of the innocent eyes in the room before saying something incredibly crass.

"Hi?" Shane says, questioningly, while lining up his trainers on the rack, next to Yulia's smaller, light up shoes.

"Uncle Shane! Help!"

"No, Shane! Yulechka is in bench time for being an annoying little kid."

"Bench time." Shane repeats, in that tone of his that probably means he's pondering whether intervening or let them sort this out between themselves. He's definitely had some time getting used to it in the past almost two weeks, that is for sure.

Ilya can imagine his brother rolling his eyes on the other side of the line "Bench time, really?"

"And... she's the bench?"

"Yes, that is how bench time is done. You're annoying, you're the bench."

"Is it safe?" Shane questions, watching Yulia squirm and huff.

Ilya tickles her foot, making her squeal, affronted "Super safe. I was in bench time all the time when I was a kid and look how good I turned out!"

"Is this why you like the penalty box so much?" Shane deadpans.

Ilya sticks his tongue out at him as Yulia giggles.

"It wasn't all the time." Alexei grumbles instead, like a liar. It had taken five year old Ilya far too long to understand that it wasn't a game, but just Alexei's way to keep him from snooping around his room like a tornado when he wanted peace. Which is saying a lot from a kid.

Maybe he shouldn't find it as hilarious as he does, but there is truly some genius work behind it, and to think that it came from a twelve year old... Alexei can say all he wants, but they have always been more similar than he thinks.

"Oh, hey, Alexei." Shane says, waving endearingly at the phone like Alexei might actually see him "How's Paris?"

"Hi, Shanya." Alexei greets back, more jovially "All good but for French people. Ilya, can you pass the phone to the actual adult taking care of my child, please?"

"Oh, fuck off."

"Swear jar!" Both Yulia and Shane quip.

"That is two more minutes of bench time." He informs Yulia.

She just pouts at him. Or at least Ilya thinks she is. He can't really see her face like this.

"I make you a deal." Ilya leans down to whisper in Yulia's ear, as soon as Shane is distracted enough by nodding into the phone to whatever his brother must be currently saying, walking in the direction of the kitchen "You convince Uncle Shane to get McDonald's tonight, and bench time finishes now, what do you think?"

Yulia hums "And you'll get me a shake?"

"All the shakes you want, Yulechka."

"Deal!" She says loudly, before crawling from under him to jump off the couch, in the direction of where Shane disappeared with Ilya's phone just a few seconds.

Ilya stands up to watch from the doorstep, hands crossed over his chest and small smile on his face as Shane's defences clearly quiver in front of Yulia's glistening puppy eyes.

The scene makes it hard not to think of a future, many years ahead from now, where there are kids that look a little like each of them chasing each other around the house, with high pitched giggles, throwing their arms up in victory like Yulia's doing now before running up to Ilya with a bright tooth-gapped smile.

Someday, he thinks, picking her up upside down on his shoulder over the sound of her laughter. He walks up to leave a kiss on Shane's forehead then, as his brother amusedly chastises his boyfriend for caving in to a grown man and his own kid.

Someday this it's going to be their lives too, and he can't wait for it.

Chapter End Notes

Yahoo!

I know, a chapter this short after I literally threw bricks at yall for the last three updates? I swear there's a reason for it. It genuenly would have been way too charged if I unloaded all the rest too, lmfao (did this sound like a threat? hopefully not)

I so hated the fact that the books didn't talk about Ilya's first year with the centaurs and this was the perfect chancr tbh, considering the circumstances.

So, Ilya's feeling it, a lot of things happening in this chapter and I'm afraid it's going to be like this up until the end, but I'm so pumped.

'this is why we can't have nice things' was a mood, to be honest.

I'm completely submerged by exams so if I disappear until July it'll probably be due to that, hope that this lil thing can hold it up up until then.

This being said, thank you so much for all of your comments and kudos, genuinely stunned by your kindness every time I get feedback.

See you next time!!!

Update 6/07- I hit 20k+ for chap eleven and this thing is getting too sad to unload it all at once, so you get two separate chapters. I'm so considerate.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Truthfully, Ilya didn't think a wedding would be the reason he'd find himself in therapy.

A fake wedding, to be precise, his and Shane's, officiated by the Pike kids in their living room, innocently and with the childlike belief that things could be that easy: just the two of them, standing for a little crowd, together.

Well, actually, Ilya wouldn't address that as the sole reason, more like as a catalyst, the fire of a gun, one that he probably should have expected to have its trigger pulled at some point, despite not knowing who was holding it in their hands.

Maybe it was Ilya himself.

It had been a hard season, both of them, if he had to be honest. Ilya couldn't name a single thing that happened through the past year, though. Days had started to melt into one another so fast that he'd barely noticed, maybe too derealized, tired or heavy. But he'd pushed through it, every practice, every game, holiday and event, because that was what was expected of him.

Up until the new season had started, his third one in Ottawa by then, and the restlessness had started to become like an itch under his skin, persistent and stubborn.

Ilya dreaded it.

It made get out of bed feel like attempting to climb a mountain, it made him angry and mouthy, the worst version of himself, one that he could barely recognize when looking at himself in the mirror.

Still, Ilya had slapped a smile on his face, through calls back home, hangouts with the team, grabbing drinks with Nikolai and the guys after getting his ass whooped on the ice. He'd get over it, he'd told himself.

Then, just a few weeks into the new season,  Jackie Pike sprained her ankle and what should have been one among hundreds of babysitting evenings, set off way more than Ilya had expected it to.

They couldn't have that, could they? He'd thought, while slipping the glittery purple ring over the first knuckle of Shane's ring finger.

When they would retire, perhaps, if Shane would have him, but they still had so much to give hockey.

Shane had become a three times Stanley cup champion earlier that year, the youngest player to have ever achieved that on an almost consecutive strike. Ilya had watched the game from his brother's couch in their new flat in Vancouver, still black and bruised from the latest loss, unsure of the tangled mess of feelings in his chest as he smiled crookedly to the screen.

Shane was alone on the ice while raising the cup high over his head, a team that just two years prior would have jumped on him, pretty much ignoring him like the plague while congratulating each other in the back.

Ilya'd wondered if he felt it too, like something was amiss, as the guys' families joined onto the ice and he stood by himself with a too heavy cup in his hands.

The worst thing about all of that, was that the season at least had started with the right foot: their first round draft pick, Luca Haas, was a good player, maybe too shy and hesitant still, but the kid was barely eighteen and thrown to the wolves of the NHL from the other side of the world, nobody, and definitely not Ilya, had expected less, just as for the other two kids that they'd signed up through the next rounds.

Ilya doesn't mind Wiebe either, their new coach. He's soft, in that way usually coaches aren't, probably because he was a player himself and a good one at that. Ilya remembers watching him on the screen of their tv, his head in Niamh's lap as she threw popcorns to the screen every time Montreal's goalie let his hits pass through the net. His early retirement had been, in Ilya's humble opinion, one of the reasons Ottawa had rapidly declined through the next fifteen years. At least they used to win some games before that.

Even though the bar Wiebe stood in front of had been pretty low, they’d all surely felt the upgrade.

Their lines getting better hadn't been enough, though. Nothing, throughout that past few months seemed like it.

And then Halloween came.

Ilya never hosted parties at his house, mostly due to team events usually falling right onto the few days he and Shane both got off, but that shouldn't have been one of them. He'd been trying so hard to reconcile both part of his life, his secret and duties as a Captain, and that party should have been a trial run, something that Ilya had actually looked forward to.

But even in a full house, Ilya had never felt more alone, watching his teammates dance with their partners in the middle of his living room, all in horrible costumes and having the time of their lives swaying to the music.

The weed hadn't helped much, either, as it didn't refreshing his and Shane's chat for messages he thought he missed but that were never sent.

"Bood said they’re driving Lisa home. I'll help you clean up, buddy." Wyatt had said, accepting the joint back while waving off any attempt at refusal.

Ilya, thoroughly exhausted, hadn't insisted further and handed him a trash bag after everybody else left.

They'd just started clearing out the living room of cans and plastic plates when the bell rung.

Ilya had imagined it would be one of the guys, drunk and apologetic for forgetting something (like the thong Ilya had found in the downstairs bathroom, which, what the fuck), not Shane, flustered as he looked over Ilya's still costume clad body with blown out eyes.

Eyes that had soon flown to Wyatt, peaking in from the living room.

"Hollander? Hey man, I think you might be a little late for the party." He'd heard him say, too shocked to do anything but stare at Shane, right there in front of him on the doorstep, not unlike a vision. If Wyatt hadn't been there, he might've thought he was just a fragment of his imagination. Maybe missing him had really made Ilya crazy.

"Hi." Shane said back, stunned. He turned back to Ilya, face drained of all colour "You didn't answer my texts. There weren't cars in the driveway and-" he stuttered, head moving between them "I- I was just in the city and thought to come and say hi?"

He drove to Ottawa to see him, Ilya realized, that's why he took so long to text, he was driving. He had made all the way from Montreal, even though Ilya knew he would have practice first thing in the morning and he was already tired from staying late at the rink for a team meeting. But, for once, Ilya wasn't alone.

Fuck.

"Come in." He'd offered back, tripping over his words "There is still beer left, Wyatt is just helping cleaning up. He's chill." He insisted.

Stay. Please stay.

I need you to stay.

Wyatt probably wouldn't have questioned the whole situation. He'd coached at their camps for the past two summers, he and Lisa came to every one of the foundation's press conferences and events, they were both used to seeing them not jumping at each other's throats. If Shane showing up at Ilya's door in his normal clothes, on Halloween, at almost one AM, hadn't thrown him off, nothing else probably could.

And fuck if Ilya's whole body weren't itching for Shane to get closer, to hold him, didn't matter if it were in the quietness of his house, in front of Wyatt, or the whole world.

Just touch me.

"I don't know if it's a good idea." Shane whispered back, like it pained him.

"We're all friends here, Hollander." Ilya, not so far from pleading, said, trying to keep his hands to himself. Then, more pathetically "You just got here."

Shane wet his lips, before shaking his head "I-I should go. I have practice tomorrow, anyway."

Ilya had felt Wyatt coming up and lean off of him, one arm wrapping around his shoulders "C'mon man, you shouldn't drive so late at night. I swear I'm not mad about all the pucks you shot at me last time." He joked, curls bouncing as he wagged his brows at Shane.

Ilya could have kissed Wyatt right there and then, while watching Shane pondering his words. But, ultimately, he sent both of them a wry smile "I'm going to be fine. I might crash at my parents'. You guys have fun, though." He added, emotionless almost.

Ilya had to watch him walk back to his car, a kink in his steps, and drive away, his face carefully void to stop the pressure behind his eyes from bursting and make it look as if he hadn't just taken a knife to the chest.

Shane was gone.

"Damn good of a player but kind of a weird guy, isn't he." Wyatt considered out loud, head tilted, as Ilya stared into the empty driveway.

"Yeah. Listen, I'll, uh, I’ll clear out the rest tomorrow." He finally said, after closing the door behind his back "We're almost done anyway. Just pick a guest room, Wy. I can take you home in the morning."

Not for the first time that night, Wyatt gave him one his obnoxiously observant looks, concerned "You okay, man? You seemed off all night."

"Ah, I haven't smoked in a while, it's probably creeping up on me." He tried to play it off "Just need to get some sleep."

Ilya had waited until Wyatt settled upstairs before closing himself into his room and burst into tears. The metal parts of his costume dug into his skin as he crumbled against the door, face hidden between his knees to muffle his sobs, the raw cough coming up his lungs.

He hated it, all of it: the distance, the secrecy, the fact that at the end of the day, they couldn't even be friends, didn't matter how many sacrifices they'd both made to make it work. Shane probably did the right thing, he kept thinking, because Ilya just wouldn't have helped himself. They'd gotten so good at hiding that the lines had blurred and now Ilya wasn't sure anymore of how to stay beside him and act like it didn't faze him, like he didn't love him.

And it hurt, it hurt like nothing else ever did.

When his tears finally dried up, after what had felt like hours, he’d decided he couldn’t do it alone anymore.

"- I think there must something wrong with me, at this point."

Galina, the therapist he picked through hundreds of LinkedIn resumes, and the only one that spoke Russian on top of that, slightly tilts her head, in a silent question.

Ilya's been rumbling for the past forty minutes, ever since he sat down and they went over what he wrote her when booking the session; the trials and tribulations of Ilya Rozanov, in twenty-nine acts.

Galina had asked about his mother first, among all things. Ilya doesn't think he's ever consecutively  talked that much about her, not to a stranger, but he supposes that transparency was the very baseline of therapy. God, if it hurt, though.

"I just don't get it." He admits, laughing humourlessly, where he's folded over his knees "She died. She died and now it has been so many fucking years that it's crazy for it to still be messing with my head. What does this even have to do with the rest of it? I moved past it, I did." He insists "I had a good life, after that, despite that. And I don't- I shouldn't feel like this."

"Why do you think that?" He hears Galina ask "She was your mother. Your grief for her doesn't have an expiration date."

"Because then it would mean that everything else has been pointless, wouldn't it?" He considers, dragging his clammy and shaking hands over his thighs "We moved here, we built a life. I have a family that loves me, people that care about me, and this- this feels like pointing out that in the end it didn't matter anyway. I'm still rotten." A sob escapes him. And maybe, if Ilya hadn't already cried enough to fill a river, he'd feel more ashamed of it, as he shakily reaches for a tissue. He doesn't wipe the tears away, though, holding it in his hands like a lifeline, spent "I can't do this to them. To my brother."

Alexei, who Ilya hadn't told anything about this, too scared of what he would have thought of him, just like he hadn't told Shane, worried that he would see right through him, how broken he was.

"I don't think that makes you rotten, Ilya." Galina says, gently, linking her hands over the desk "Rather that after going through such an horrifying thing, you're allowed to still carry that baggage. Some things we just cannot pretend didn't happen, and there is no shame in it. Adding joy to it doesn't erase the past, I'm afraid."

Ilya nods, miserably, not that convinced after all, rubbing tiredly at his eyes "I think I'm done for today. Is it okay?"

"Of course. How do you feel now?"

Ilya snorts a wet laugh, straightening up in his chair "It was a lot."

"It was." Galina agrees.

"But I think it helped, a little. I would like to do this again." He says, earnestly.

Same time next week, they agree, coordinating between her other sessions and Ilya's practice, as he composes himself and works on throwing the pile of tissues in his lap into a bin.

He hesitates then, hand on the doorknob "Do you- do you think I might be like her? Like my mom? Depressed, I mean. That it's going to get worse?"

Ilya barely remembers a time where she wasn't, feels stupid for not catching the signs, all of it, the more time that passed and he felt like a plant left to dry under the scorching sun or in the closed pages of a book, hidden and wasting away.

It crushed her and maybe Ilya is afraid that it might crush him too.

"I don't think I can give you an answer this early on." Galina says. The sincerity in her voice, despite everything, makes the knot in his guts unravel, the embarrassment at his childish question dissipate. She gives him a small smile "But you're here now. It's a long pathway but every step is important and this was a big one already, the most important even."

Ilya leaves her studio hoping that, at least, he chose the right direction to walk on.

*

After walking around Ottawa with nowhere in mind, Ilya finds a bench to sit on right in front of the water, his phone already clutched nervously into his hands.

Ivan answers on the third ring, from what Ilya supposes is his studio considering the lack of any other sound coming from his side of the line. It's night there in Moscow, but he'd assured Ilya he would wait for his call.

"Hey, kiddo."

Ilya sniffs "Hi. Everything good, there?"

"You know, just a long day. Dusya already went to bed. This case is dragging and she's gonna in be court all day tomorrow."

"I don't know how she does it." He admits.

"Neither do I. She likes arguing maybe a little too much." Ivan chuckles, bringing a smile out of him "So, how did it go? Are you okay?"

Ilya ponders quietly, for a couple of seconds, laying back to stare at the three branches hovering on top of his head "I feel awful. Is it supposed to be like this?"

"Mhm, I'm afraid so."

"God, you all talk the same, don't you?"

"Of course, it's a mandatory class, that one." Ivan says, without missing a beat "I know it's hard." He adds next, more seriously "But I'm proud of you for trying it. You're very brave, Ilya."

"I don't feel like it." He says, pinching the bridge of his nose with a grimace.

Calling his uncle had been the very first thing he'd done that morning, after driving Wyatt home and answering Shane panicked texts.

He'd barely slept that night, but waking up to them had soothed his headache and most of all his heart. Especially the part where Shane admitted to have flown away because the thought of sitting on the couch for the foreseeable hours, with a plug in his ass and Wyatt staring into his soul, felt agonizing. Yeah, Ilya could understand and mourn it at the same time.

He loved Wyatt but fucking hell.

Still, while finally acknowledging the mess he'd left into his room, he'd made the call. Ivan had let Ilya rant and rant and rant, until he longer had the voice to talk. He knew he was asking a lot of him, to not disclose any of it to Nadia, to Alexei, but the relief he'd felt when finally laying back onto the still unmade bed had been heavenly. He hadn’t know how much he'd been yearning for Ivan's calm voice to tell him he was going to be okay, until tears had sprung back to his eyes and he'd found himself sobbing, again, while holding the phone to his ear with shaking hands.

Ilya had been a little reluctant at first, at Ivan suggestion of finding a specialist right there in Ottawa, wary even, but he too had to admit that Ivan had a good point.

"I don't want you to think that I'm pushing you to talk to a stranger because I don't want to do it myself." Ivan had said, voice crinkled with sadness "But it wouldn't be ethical of me, I'm too biased. We're family. We can look for someone together, would that be alright? And for whatever, and I really mean it, Ilyusha, for anything, I am here. Always."

When Doctor Galina Molchalina's profile had popped up, it had seemed like a sign of some sort.

Russian was a language closer to his heart, in a way Ilya wouldn't be able to explain with words. It seemed fit for the purpose of it to find some closure, as Ivan had pointed out later, when he'd sent him her profile.

"I know." Ivan says "And I get it. But asking for help was the bravest thing you could do."

Ilya nods, even though Ivan is not there to see it "I got another appointment for next week. She seems good."

"I'm glad. Trust is important, and I know that with your... situation it might be even more."

Ivan hadn't seemed too surprised when Ilya told him about Shane. Well, not Shane, but his boyfriend, another player. Ilya had probably unloaded too much stuff on him to get a fair reaction, but, even then, Ivan had not asked questions Ilya wasn't ready to answer, merely adding by the end of their call a simple and heartfelt "Can't wait to meet him someday, kiddo."

"Yeah." He sighs "We, ugh, we didn't talk about that. She wanted to know about mom."

"I can understand that. You feel okay?"

Ilya nips at his bottom lip "I guess. I'm just tired."

"You don't have practice today, right?"

"No, it's my day off."

He hears Ivan hum "Good. Now I don't feel too bad about saying that this feels like something that calls for ice cream."

"I'm not twelve anymore, uncle Ivan." He huffs a laugh.

Ilya can almost picture him behind his closed eyes, looking at him across his desk with an amused smile "Who said ice cream is only for twelve year olds?"

He chuckles faintly into the speakers as he stands up from the bench. Yeah, maybe he deserves one. With sprinkles, even, the hell "Fair enough."

*

There is something into cooking together with the person you love that makes Ilya's skin buzz pleasantly as he and Shane move through the kitchen, like an unit.

Ilya leaves kisses on top of his head, his cheeks, everywhere he can reach as he moves behind him to get to the fridge, reeling at the closeness and the blush raising to Shane's cheeks.

"I know we already talked about it." Shane says at some point, while bringing the pasta sauce to simmer "But I, uhm, I'm really sorry about the other day. I should have just called you."

Ilya, who has been pretty happy to just sit on the isle after finishing off his own tasks, makes space for him between his open legs, with an inviting look. Shane hums contentedly when tucking his face against his chest, as he runs his hands down his back.

"It's okay. It should have been a surprise. I loved the initiative."

"It was pretty shitty of me to leave."

"I understand why you did."

"I still hate it."

Ilya's heart throbs in his chest. Sometimes, only sometimes, he'd been finding himself wondering if it was just him to feel the ache of all of it. Shane has always been better at compartmentalizing, that's just how he is programmed, but it makes him hard to read at times, enough to make that quiet confession more meaningful that he probably thinks it is.

Ilya cups his face between his hands, brushing his thumbs over the freckles littering his cheeks "It's fine, Shane. It was... not good." He admits, shifting closer "I mean, I felt bad at first, but- can you imagine what would have happened if you popped a boner in front of Hazy?" He asks then, keeping himself from snorting "He would have been scarred for life."

"I wouldn't have." Shane huffs.

"You totally would have. I looked really hot in that costume." Ilya presses.

"Fuck, you did." Shane groans.

"It's good that you didn't stay." Ilya considers, hands edging Shane closer "Hazy doesn't deserve to see your boner."

"Because he's straight and that's borderline creepy?"

"Because you're mine." Ilya says, very seriously, squeezing his ass in his hands as he leaves a peck on his lips, before pushing him back, with way more self control than expected "Sauce is ready. C'mon, I don't want to miss any part of the story of our lives."

Shane snorts, but turns to turn the stove off "It's just a stupid documentary. And it's gonna be very unreliable." He says, waving the wooden spoon at him.

Considering it's missing ten years of them meeting up behind closed doors and all the things Ilya, for obvious reasons, couldn't tell the very nice lady that had come to interview him for the show, Ilya is not expecting anything less.

"I still want to hear all the nice things you said about me." He states gingerly, hopping down to reach for the plates.

"Attention whore."

That's definitely Niamh's doing.

Ilya grins "Your attention whore."

They cuddle up nicely as the documentary picks up, Ilya sprawled on top of Shane as he runs his fingers through his hair, in a soothing motion. Combined with the not-so-interesting show, Ilya is really starting to consider just closing his eyes and nap, when suddenly he hears Shane suck in a breath, jostling them.

Ilya can easily understand why.

"You shouldn't look at this." He says quietly, eyes on the screen, where he's angrily waving at the medical team to fucking hurry, just a few feet away from Shane's crumpled body.

"Hey, I'm okay." Shane reminds him, softly, hands caressing down his back. Ilya hadn’t even noticed he'd coiled up like a spring "I don't remember half of it before waking up in the hospital." He admits "Was I awake?"

"No." Ilya says, burrowing his face in his jumper, to whisk away the picture behind his eyes, still so fresh "I don't know. I couldn't think of anything else."

He hears Shane exhale quietly "How could they not know? Everyone saw this but- how didn't they notice?"

Ilya hums "Lyosha- he said that's how he did. He said he could see it on my face."

Ilya watches as Nikolai holds him back from Marleau, as he yells and thrashes to get a glimpse of the stretcher being pushed away from the ice. He gets it now.

"Oh." Shane says, shifting underneath him "That explains a lot, actually."

"Mhm?"

"He didn't look too surprised to see me when we visited. You didn't find it weird?"

Ilya hides the warmth on his face in the crevice of Shane's collar "I thought maybe I wasn't subtle enough. Before."

"About your crush?" Shane says, like an asshole, poking his cheek.

"Oh, fuck you. You don't have to believe anything Alexei says."

Shane snorts "Why should he lie about that?"

"To embarrass me!" He huffs.

"That sounds like a too articulated lie to be fake."

"That's what he wants you to believe."

Ilya loves this, Shane's laugh ringing in his ears as he pokes and prods him with questions, ever so curious and finally distracted by the stupid documentary, as he closes his arms around Ilya like he cannot bear the so little space left between them.

For the first time in weeks, his mind shuts down, locking everything that's not Shane, Shane, Shane, behind locked doors. Ilya wants to get better for him too, he has to, he promises himself, even if it'll have to mean kicking down both doors and have to deal with the aftermath.

*

"-on our last session we talked about your mother. I thought maybe we should talk about your father, too."

"My father was a dick, nothing worth remembering." Ilya states, twisting the cap of his water bottle, safely nestled between his knees.

Truthfully, he should have expected the ambush. The joys of therapy, apparently.

Galina doesn't look extremely perturbed, neither by the crassness of his words nor the content of them.

Ilya sighs, then, at her inquiring stare. Guess he's not escaping that one "I'm glad he's dead. That's what you wanted to hear?"

"Not quite, but that's a start." Galina says, ringed hands folded on top of her desk "He died a few years ago, right?"

"Yeah."

"But you weren't in contact, you said."

"No. Not after we left home."

"I know the circumstances weren't probably the best, but that must've been hard for a kid. You had just lost your mom." Galina considers.

Ilya lowers his eyes to his knees "I guess. Not really, actually. We were never that close. He was married to his job more than he ever was with my mom and- I don't know, I always got the impression that he didn't really wanted me, you know? I wasn't like Alexei."

"What do you mean?"

"My brother... he's a good soldier." Ilya says, carefully "When we were kids, my father used to parade him around like a doll. He wanted him to be a cop like him, everybody thought he would, and Alexei probably did too. You couldn't really tell my father no, anyway."

He was afraid of him, of the repercussions, and for how it all ended, rightfully so, even more considering that him not complying, back then, would have probably meant that it would've been their mom to take the hit, too.

"Were you sad to not have the same expectations set for you?"

Ilya actually stops to think about it, before shaking his head "I don't think so. I was relieved, in some way. It meant I could stay with mom while they did their things."

"It sounds like you were very sided, even at home."

"We were. My father went to Alexei's games, mom to mine. He used to drive him to practice, school, and mom did with me, until we got old enough to deal with it ourselves."

"This distance, did you and brother perceive it?"

Ilya snorts "How couldn't we? Mom loved Alexei, but I think she was scared he would really turn out like our father. I don't want you to think she was a bad mother, but she just... she stopped trying, after a while, you know, as he got older. And then her depression got worse and-" Ilya trails off, sniffing into his hand "She never got to see how wrong she was."

Or maybe, if she had lived, nothing like that would have happened and their father would have only proved her right, after all. The thought makes him feel almost nauseous.

"You said your father remarried, right?"

"He did, uhm, around a year after we left. We found out when we went back for his funeral. He also had another kid."

At that, Galina does look a little more surprised, before getting back into her neutral self "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Are you in contact with them?"

For the first time ever since the session started, Ilya finds himself smiling "We are. They're great. Isaak wants to be a hockey player and I can see it, he's very good. I flied him in for our camps last summer, and he really hit it off with the other kids. He's a reliable player. He turned fifteen back in October."

"You know, usually when the father remarries, especially if the mother died, kids tend to resent his new family. You seem quite close, instead. I'm glad to hear it." Galina smiles.

Ilya smiles back "I mean, it was a journey." He admits, with a low chuckle, shifting in his chair "Alexei took it way better than I did, at first."

"Why's that?"

And so Ilya tells her everything: about walking back into that old house, the vague sense of stabbing familiarity and the creepiness of finding himself watching his little brother live a life Ilya'd walked himself, step by step. He can almost feel it still, the uneasiness of being stuck in between the past and their life outside of his father’s house, out of Russia, only by voicing it all to her.

"-Polina said our father wasn't really that involved in Isaak’s life, much like he wasn't with mine." He says, grinding his teeth "He would come to some games, act like the pretentious asshole he always was to keep up appearances and then go back to his own shit. Isaak never talks about him. Sometimes I think it's because, at the of the day, he was the only one that out of the three of us got the kindest side of him."

Or maybe Isaak just god lucky enough that Grigory was far too old and weak by then to do anything more than raise his voice.

"He did that a lot, your father, try to keep up appearances." Galina inquires.

"He was a powerful man, he had to. Or at least that's what he used to say. Alexei used to play in one of the richest football clubs in the city, with kids whose fathers drove Porches and threw money to have them kept on the team. Some were politicians, others our father’s colleagues and part of the military. I always had new gear, the best, skates that costed an arm and a leg. He signed checks to my mother for no other reason than to make sure we looked superior to others."

"That's a big statement."

"It's the truth." He shrugs "The only gifts we ever received weren't really for us. It was a bargain, but me and my brother had nothing to do with it. He couldn't even admit that he kicked us out or that my mother killed herself to escape him." He laughs, bitterly "Appearances. That was all he cared about."

"Then why do you think he kept all of your things?" Galina asks "You say that he didn't care about you, nor your brother, in some measure, but he kept the house a shrine to his old life, even after making himself a new family."

"I should be the one asking you that." He huffs, crossing his arms across his chest "I have no clue. Maybe he felt bad or he regretted it. But he knew where we lived, he made sure to let us know, and if he had really wanted to make amends back then, he could have." He grits out, brushing angry tears out of his eyes "Instead, he got himself a new wife, a new kid, and he treated them with the only thing he didn't grace us with: his absence."

Galina only stares back for a few seconds, probably processing the woes of his life, before speaking up again "I think that your father was already pretty old when you and your brother left. Old age, it messes with the brain. It makes us think back of all the things we did in life, how good or bad we were. Maybe he thought he could redeem himself marrying again and having another kid, or, as you said, keep up a facade of normalcy, but preserving memories like that is not something that usually constitutes of great resentment. If you think about it, why would he give Isaak your room instead of your brother's, if he was his 'favourite' son? You'd think he wanted him to emulate him, not you." She considers.

Ilya would lie if he said the question hadn't kept him up at night, years ago. It didn't make any sense, did it? Why would his father push Isaak into Ilya's standards when all he could do while he was a kid was showing how much he hated his brashness, that he couldn't keep still, that he fought back? Isaak had admitted he was the one that showed him his first ever hockey game, when Ilya clearly remembers he would only take interest in his games, or hockey at all, when they lost them.

"I don't know." He says, quietly "I- it doesn't make sense."

"Some things never do." Galina says "But, maybe, even if he didn't want to acknowledge it himself, there was still some grief."

"The devil can feel grief?" Ilya quips, not so jokingly.

Galina visibly suppresses an amused smile "Perhaps. Depends where you stand, I guess. So, I think it was enough for today-"

Ilya flees the studio like he's being chased, after that.

Picking up the memories left of his father had left him more upset than he'd thought it would, he thinks, angrily putting his car in reverse to drive himself back home.

Ilya hates it and he hates even more the fact that he'll never get answers about it. If he really had followed his career, if even only part of him had been proud of it, why not say anything? A man that wanted to, could have a found a way to get back in contact with his sons, ever so easily with all the privileges and the money one like his father had.

But perhaps it is for the better than he never did, because Ilya wants to believe that not even a good Samaritan like his brother would have ever forgiven him.

Ilya does what he's best at after that day: try not to think about it.

That means watching Ghostrider before bed and wake up at six sharp to go to practice.

Their next game is not until a couple of weeks yet, but Ilya likes being the first one into the locker room, on the days he actually doesn't snooze his alarm until he has to speed miles over the limit to not be late.

Wyatt skates up to him ten minutes into his dribbles, announcing himself loudly "Hi, princess!"

"Honeybunch!" Ilya greets him, knocking their helmets together "Someone with you?"

"Boody and Dykstra are suiting up." Wyatt nods, stretching his arms over his head with a groan "Jesus, I need a break. I'm too old for this."

"We're the same age."

"Semantics." Wyatt waves him off, sitting down onto the ice to push himself into a split. Ilya grimaces. Goalies "You going to Boody's barbecue on Friday? Before the roadie." He asks then, before leaning down until his chest is one with the floor, like a psycho.

Ilya quietly wonders the logistics of it, with all that padding.

And if Shane would be able to get into that same position. Yoga can do miraculous things, after all.

But getting a boner is probably far down on the list of considerate things to do during practice. The HR conference they had to sit through, after the rookies decided slapping each other's asses at every good assist was a good show of motivation and support, was enough to last a life time.

Wyatt flicks his calf "Dude.

"Right. Uhm, I don't know. I'll let you know."

"Ah, c'mon man." Wyatt grunts, sitting back "You should live a little, get out of that house."

"What if I got plans?"

"Do you?" Wyatt looks up, doubtful.

Ilya does, in fact, have plans, which involve driving to Montreal right after practice that morning and hopefully find Shane still lazing around his apartment, in cozy knee high socks and sweats.

Not that Wyatt can know about it.

"I have a meeting with Vetrov and I need to call Hollander for the foundation's gala." He lies smoothly.

It's not that far from the truth, to be fair. Shane will probably insist about looking through the catering and the guest list for the umpteenth time at least once, as if Yuna, the only one out of the three of them that will actually attend anyway, because of the season, hadn't already sorted everything out. But maybe Ilya can coax a couple of rounds out of him before that, if he's lucky.

Wyatt blows him a raspberry "Bummer. You should come around more often. We have fun at those things, you know? Since when did you get so boring?" He teases him, accepting Ilya's hand to stand back up on his feet.

Ilya smiles conspitorially, reaching back for his stick "Hollander rubbed off on me." He says, just in time for the rest of the team to join them on the ice.

But even then, all that boring is probably what makes Shane outstanding on his own and, to Ilya, the least boring person on planet earth.

It's a good weekend, that one, just like any time he gets to spend wrapped up into Shane's arms can be. For all the times he's made the two hours drive to Montreal in that past few years, Ilya couldn't name five things around the city, apart from the patisserie near Shane's flat, from where he buys Ilya's breakfast every time he spends the night.

He has to give that to the French: damn good pastries.

The man delivering them right into their bed might be the best thing about it, though. Ilya’s very biased.

He drives back to Ottawa that Sunday morning sated, rounded at the edges, which, apparently, is way too tempting for the universe to not strike again.

Ilya lasts approximately ten minutes after setting foot into his house, twenty after his phone started buzzing into the car's dashboard support with strings of texts from the team's group chat, before dialling Nikolai's number, fuelled by rage.

"Dude, did you see this shit?"

Nikolai, who's been down with apparently the world's most lethal cold for the past few days, makes a congested noise of confusion as his pale and sickly green face pops up on Ilya's screen.

"What?”

"Barrett just got traded. Toronto Troy Barrett. To Ottawa."

Nikolai gapes, looking up from the cocoon of blankets and tissues he's got going on onto his bed "What the fuck."

"My thoughts exactly." Ilya huffs, throwing himself back onto his couch "Do you think it could be because of the Kent thing?"

"Frankly? I wouldn't be surprised." Nikolai admits "They traded me for a quarrel, but Barrett also accused him of rape, Ilya. The video is fucking everywhere."

The news had flown through the internet fast. Ilya had already very little respect for Dallas Kent, number one homophobe and misogynist, but that had put the bar officially through the ground. Now, with even Barrett against him, Ilya had just another thing to add onto the pile of reasons he should risk a penalty just to hit him, on their next game.

Ilya scoffs "As it should. I don't know how people could keep denying it. Fucking hell, anyone who has ever spent more than ten minutes in a room with him knows that he's revolting. If not even Barrett could take it anymore..."

Nikolai hums in agreement, before clearing out his voice, definitely uncomfortable. Ilya doesn't think it's about the sick strain of his voice this time though, nor the occasional sniffles "Listen, about that... you, ugh-" his face twists into something reluctant "Go a little easy on Barrett, yes?"

Ilya can't help but gape at Nikolai through the camera, shocked "You're fucking with me, right? He and Kent have been best buddies ever since they were rookies and now, just because he gained some clarity and turned his back on him, I'm just supposed to forget?"

"That's not what I meant." Nikolai says, nibbling on his lower lip "But he's, uhm, I don't know how to explain it but it's not really how it looks from the outside. Barrett's always been a quiet kid, it was the locker room that made him... like that. He was more of a sheep, in that sense, just let himself be led wherever."

Wyatt's own opinion wasn't that stray from that, but still-

"This is even worse-"

"What I am trying to say is that I would give him a chance. It's been years, he's not a rookie anymore, I know, but people like this usually do not stray far from the source. This is pretty odd." Nikolai says.

"I think Ivan finally brainwashed you with this psychology stuff."

"Maybe." Nikolai agrees "But I also think- I can't say for sure, of course, but, uhm- he kind of used to check me out a lot when I still played for Toronto, okay?" He blurts out then, cheeks growing even redder from his cold "I don't know how he thought I wouldn't notice but, yeah."

Ilya could take Troy Barrett being secretly queer (kind of), but what he could not would be-

"You haven't fucked Troy Barrett." Ilya says, horrified "Tell me you didn't. I need you to expressively say-"

"Oh fuck off, you know I didn't." Nikolai cuts him off, visibly disgusted "The point is that it's hard to find your place somewhere you know you're not going to be accepted, it's survival. And yes, he was an asshole, but I really doubt that he would hijack his whole career just for the fun of it. They're literally eating him alive online. This shit is big, Ilya: with enough proof and Barrett's statement, Kent risks more than just a fine and a slap on the hand from the commissioner." He makes a wheezy sound as he exhales "Jesus, I can't wait to fucking see it."

"He should have already been arrested, the bag of shit." Ilya huffs, crossing his arms "And alright, I guess. I'll give your little baby gay the benefit of the doubt-"

"He's not my anything-"

"But at the first mistake, I'll make him do so many bag skates he'll wish he'd just retired earlier." Ilya says, dead serious, just in time to hear the sound of keys announcing Jude's return, visibly armed with enough cough syrup and Benadryl to take out an horse.

Barrett doesn't take long to disappoint, after all.

They're in Vancouver that week, before flying out to Minnesota. Ilya'd skipped the team's dinner to walk home, struggling with the Maps app on his phone but too stubborn to just call an uber.

He still had to get used to it, finding his way around the city, unused to the atmosphere of a much bigger city. The guys flat was closer to the center, technically only a fifteen minute walk from the rink, but all the trouble to reach it had been blown away when walking in through the door and being checked by a nine year old bullet of energy and Niamh's dimpled smile.

They'd played cards while waiting for his brother, had dinner all together, and, after remembering to retrieve the jumper Yuna had gotten him for Christmas that past year from his room, Ilya had called an uber to get back to their hotel.

If they hadn't had another practice round early in the morning, he would have stayed the night and probably wouldn't have ended up buying another pack of cigarettes from the convenience store by the corner of the street, to smoke in the quietness of the balcony of his room, and he wouldn't surely have met Troy Barrett by the elevators, holding a suspiciously heavy brown bag in his hands and looking even more worse to wear than Ilya himself felt.

He could let it go, Ilya ponders, before releasing a long dragged sigh. Barrett is a teammate of his now, though, isn't it?

"Solo party?" He asks, slipping into his same elevator before the doors close and successfully making him jump up on his feet.

"Rozanov." Barrett pales, gripping the bag closer to his chest with guilt written all over his face "I wasn't-"

"We have a game tomorrow." He reminds him, calmly, pressing the button to the sixth floor.

Barrett clenches his jaw "I know."

"Doesn't seem like it." He says, eyeing the tag of the bottle of cheap vodka poking out the top of the bag "You do this a lot?"

"No." Barrett shakes his head, furiously, a look of horror passing through his face "I promise it's not- Please, don't tell coach."

Ilya presses his lips together in fake consideration, as the doors to the elevator open once again "Maybe I won't. Come with me."

Barrett seems too surprised to question him as Ilya leads them to his own room, at the far end of the hallway, just as he is when Ilya kicks off his shoes at the door, before taking the bag off his hands.

Ilya examines the label with a grimace "Ew. This might as well be pure gasoline, what the hell. You wanted to get wasted with this shit?"

"Not wasted." Barrett protests weakly.

He rolls his eyes "Sure."

Ilya retrieves two clean glasses from the room's cart, pouring two fingers each under Barrett's unsure gaze as he stands there, in the middle of the room, petrified.

"Oh my god, just chill." He huffs, offering one of them to him.

Truthfully, Ilya doesn't really know what he is doing, but still leads them to the canopy chairs placed on the balcony, sitting down with a groan as he fiddles with his new lighter, feet lifted up onto the glass table.

Barrett sips quietly out of his glass, still tense.

"What- what is this?" He asks, then, sometime around the last drags of his cigarette, scrunching up his nose as the wind blows the smoke towards his direction.

Ilya waves the cloud of smoke away "This is your captain making sure you don't make stupid choices two weeks after being traded. A glass? Maybe. A whole bottle? Well, I don't think you could've made it through but... still idiotic."

Barrett exhales "Yeah. I get that now. This sucks."

"You're rich and still got a five dollar bottle, what were you expecting?"

"Taste was the least of my worries"

Ilya snorts "Clearly."

Barrett sits back in his chair, burrowing into his sweater "Thanks for, uh, stopping me?"

"I didn't do it for you." Ilya says, stubbing out his cigarette into the ashtray. He'll have all of tomorrow to repent, he decides "We're a team. You perform like shit, we all pay the consequences. The chance of loosing tomorrow was already high enough without you being hangover."

He doesn't look hurt by his words, if not even more pathetically sorry "I guess."

"I just don't get why drink yourself to sleep on a Tuesday." He adds, rhetorically really, because for as much as he might be curious about Barrett's clear distress (maybe he is just like the rest of his family, after all), his cigarette of shame surely didn't need added self deprecation.

And sure, he did tell Nikolai he would go easy on him, but that didn't classify as such.

"My dad called." Barrett admits then, frailly.

Ilya shifts in his chair, knowing the tight tilt of Barrett's words way too well.

"Did he?"

"Yeah. He wants to meet up after the game."

"I take it you would have rather got alcohol poisoning than do it." Ilya considers, not that unserious.

Barrett purses his lips "Kind of. It's complicated."

"Fathers are." Ilya sighs, bringing the glass to his lips. The vodka burns unpleasantly down his throat "But your personal life stays off the ice, always. If it doesn't affect your game, nobody will care, especially not Wiebe."

Ilya's come to like him, those past few months. He's fair, actually helpful, and a good figure for the team to look up to. He also doesn't care if Ilya doesn't show up to optional practice to drive up to Montreal, every now and then. Well, not that he's aware of it.

"I won't tell him." He continues, for Barrett's peace of mind. Then, more firmly "Not this time."

Barrett's relief is short lived, but he nods, just as solemnly "There won't be a next one."

They finish their glasses, then Ilya escorts him back up to his own room, both lucid but, in Barrett's case, a little glassy eyed from the alcohol.

"Thank you." Is the only think Barrett says, more honest than Ilya's ever seen him since first meeting him in the locker room back home, two weeks ago “Really.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, softly closing the door behind himself.

Ilya sighs as he makes his way back to his room to finally call Shane back. Maybe he and Barrett might have more things in common than he'd thought. This is all Nikolai's fault.

*

When Ilya sits down in Galina's office that day, he's already on the verge of an emotional shut down. He can feel the tiredness clinging onto his bones, in an exhausting push and pull that makes him wish he'd just rescheduled instead of dragged himself all the way there. But then again, that is why he has to keep going, isn't it?

Shane had come over that weekend, with a duffle bag full of clothes he’d never had the chance to put on all two days he'd been in Ottawa and a smile that could rival the sun in brightness. If possible, Ilya'd felt himself fall even deeper, but he wouldn't be able to put a timestamp on it between all the sex they'd done.

He'd hoped that would have made it more bearable for him, to walk him out when the inevitable moment of him having to go back to Montreal finally came. It hadn't.

Ilya had spent that morning before practice laying under the dimming lights of his home gym, Shane's spare yoga mat, the one he'd bought for him for when he stayed over,  digging into his back as he tried taking a hold of himself.

"How has your week been?" Galina asks, as soon as he's settled.

"Normal. Lost some games here and there, read at least five different papers about the shitty season we're having and did you know that apparently I'm secretly engaged with one of the Olsen Twins?"

"Oh yeah, I read about that." Galina admits, mirthful

Ilya snorts "You accept a modelling offer once and that's what you get."

Not that Ilya would have ever had the courage to say no to one of Yuna's offers. Shooting with Shane, back that summer, surely had been fun, though. Ilya catches himself before a dumb smile can cross his face.

"So," Galina says then, leaning back into her chair "I thought maybe we could talk about your relationship with your brother today. You're very close from what I gathered."

Ilya nods "We are. He took me in when we got kicked out."

"He was very young himself." Galina considers.

"Yeah, only nineteen."

"That seems like a tough situation to be in for two kids.

"It was." Ilya admits, folding his hands together into his laps "Alexei used to work the craziest shifts, odd jobs wherever he could find one. Our aunt and uncle helped us a lot that first year. Then we moved to Canada."

"How was it, that first year?"

"I mean." Ilya sighs, trying to gather up his thoughts "Before- before my mother died, me and Alexei weren't... close. At all, actually. It took a bit of time to get used to it, you know? To know each other. Then we moved in together and while it got better, in some ways, it definitely got harder in others."

"Like what?"

"Money, mostly." Ilya says "We never had to worry about bills, before, or getting food on the table for example. It was just something we all took for granted. I was still a kid, but Alexei had to figure all of that out on his own, mostly. It used to stress him out a lot, especially while we were still waiting for my guardianship to go through."

"It must have been a hard transition."

"It was. I didn't make it easy for him, either, at first."

"How so?"

Ilya wets his lips "I was... angry. All the time. And he kept acting weird. He would disappear through most of the day, even on the weekends, after leaving me at our aunt and uncle's place. He started showing up: to my games, school events, PTA... everywhere. He wouldn't complain if I did homework in his room or played with his Xbox while he studied, even if I was being too loud. My brother- he's always had problems reading. Dyslexia. He got himself diagnosed only years after we came to Canada. You can understand how much the distraction didn't help his case." He chuckles, dragging a smile out of her.

"I wasn't used to having his attention. I would- God, I did the worst things to him: hid his keys, his tapes, stuck all of his stationary on the ceiling with duct tape-" he lists, before quickly growing out of fingers to count on "- but yeah, I was a jackass to him, that first few months." He concludes.

"You were testing him." Galina says, privy of judgement.

"Pretty much. I know it sounds crazy but-"

"It's actually not." Galina interrupts him, gently "Testing boundaries is a normal part of a child's development, from the very early stages of life. You said you weren't close before your mother died. I would say that, for how distorted that might sound, it was a way to assert how committed your brother was to make it better."

"Maybe. I don't know. I just wanted to know he would still be there, even if I made it too hard for him to." He confesses, not really aware of the words coming out of his mouth until they're out there in the air.

Therapy has had Ilya feel more naked in three session than he's ever felt while undressed in front of strangers, but this in particular leaves a sour taste on his tongue, a sense of insecurity and self-consciousness Ilya had thought he'd left behind long ago.

If Galina is surprised, she doesn't show it, simply pushing a box of tissues in his direction.

Ilya lifts his hand to his damp cheek. He hadn't even realized he'd started crying "Sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I feel like an idiot. He obviously did stuck around. We're fine now."

"He did. But I think there's more to it than that." Galina states, deliberately "Your brother gave you stability, became your primary caretaker after your mother died, but your trust needed to settle onto something solid first to accept it. You can love him and still have doubted he would."

"I guess." He whispers, not really knowing what to say, as he wipes away his tears.

"You said you used to be angry a lot." Galina says then, after giving him a moment to collect himself "Did it start after your mother died?"

"Kind of." He says, shrugging into his shoulders "I- it was hard. At home, everyone seemed to act like she had never been there, like it didn't matter she was gone. My father made it clear that he wanted to remarry pretty soon. He wiped her out of our house: pictures, her journals, her clothes... he threw everything out." His hand reaches up to his cross, fingers twisting into the chain "It felt like I was the only one that couldn't live without her. I knew he didn't love her, but-"

"But she was still his wife." Galina concludes.

Ilya nods "Yeah. I thought that after- that he would- I don't know- at least feel bad? That he would care. But he never did. He wouldn't even allow us to speak about her, not where he could hear."

"Did you, you and brother, talk about her?"

"No." Ilya sniffs "Alexei- I mean, he had a lot on his mind back then- but, he- I was mad at him too." He admits.

"Why?"

Ilya lets out a teary laugh "My brother is a martyr, always has been. I think he thought that if he acted strong it would be better for me. I was not- good. I had nightmares almost every night, fits, and- he was there, after every single one of them. He slept beside my bed for months, to wake me up before our father could hear. I thought it was because he felt bad and I hated that he only cared because he pitied me. He had so much shit going on, but it looked like he'd already moved on and he was just humouring me."

"It hurt you."

"I was already hurt." Ilya corrects her, shaking his head "That only made me more angry. I wanted him- I wanted him to feel like I did, too. To- I don't know- yell at me for being annoying or an asshole, anything, just to give me a reason to yell back. He never did. He was always more patient than me.”

"What did you do with that anger?" Galina asks.

Ilya remembers afternoon spent yelling into a pillow in Ivan's studio, the silliness of his uncle’s demonstrations, that always ended up with laughter, and the lightness that followed as the knot in his guts loosened up. And there was hockey, of course. Ilya never got as much penalties as he did that year, not even after going pro.

Galina smiles "You and your uncle sound close."

"We are." Ilya says, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves "He's the only one that knows about, uh, this. He was the one who suggested I tried it out."

"I'm surprised. Russia is not well known for believing into this kind of professions."

Ilya offers her a sympathetic grimace "Yeah. But he's a therapist, so I don't know how much that counts."

"I'll have to take to take it back, then." Galina says, chuckling.

"I don't think I would have agreed to see someone back then, or that we could have afforded it, for that matter." He admits "but, uhm, even just talking to him helped a little, with everything."

"That's the important." Galina states "Does focusing on hockey help now, too?"

Ilya picks at his words "Not really. Since my trade it's been... harder to cope. I don't know if it's because we're not, you know, that great of a team or it's just me that got worse but- I didn't use to feel like this, not all the time." He confesses.

Hard days were always lurking behind a corner, usually in that frame of the year surrounding the anniversary of his mother's death, but Ilya could put a name on it, at least, back then. This feels like the snap of a rubber band on the wrist, hitting whenever he's not too busy to forget he's wearing it.

"What do you think changed? Did you use to do anything differently?"

"Well, uhm, when I was younger there was sex." He says, bluntly "It was an escape, from all of it."

Galina leans into her chair "Younger as in...?"

"Old enough. Mostly after moving out, so nineteen or twenty." He says "It was easy. I used to live with an old friend who was in college, at the time. I kind of lived it through her, if you know what I mean." He adds, clearing his voice.

Galina's lips twitch "I think I get it. So, parties?"

"Among other things." Ilya hums, before taking a possibly very ill decision "I could go out at night whenever I wanted to, pick up a girl or a boy and shut my head for a while."

Galina only twists the cap of a pen between her fingers, eyes void of judgement, in a way Ilya’s grown pretty grateful of, despite it being her literal job "May I ask if that was when you found out you liked... both?" She asks, for confirmation.

Ilya nods "It wasn't. I had known for a couple of years already. I didn't go looking for it as much as I did with girls, but there were some, mostly one, a friend I could trust. It was too risky outside of it."

"I can imagine." Galina says "You had just started your career. Was it hard, to accept it? You had already lived in Canada for quite a while, but things where pretty different back then from how they are now, even if it wasn't Russia."

"I wouldn't say hard." Ilya admits "It wasn't really a matter of accepting myself, more like knowing that no one else could know, because of hockey. And for my family... that was also pretty complicated. This is not something you really talk about at dinner, you know? Especially not if you're a family of  Russian immigrants. They know now, all of them, even my brother's in-laws, but it was... it's pretty recent."

"How recent, if I can ask?"

"My aunt and uncle are the one that have known the longest, they, uhm- I told you about Nikolai, right? Well, they found us... indisposed. It's a long story" Ilya brushes it off, bashful "And I, uhm, I told my brother and the rest of my family a little over three years ago, after Hunter came out."

"I remember that." Galina nods.

"Alexei... he already suspected from-" Ilya quietly wonders again how much the confidentiality of their sessions can hold, for a couple of seconds, but then again, he's not forced to share everything exactly "He had heard me talking on the phone with my current partner."

"You're in a relationship?"

"Yeah."

"With a man." She guesses.

"Also yes."

"How long has it been?"

"Officially? Almost three years. Unofficially? Ten, give it or take."

Galina blinks blankly at him, surprised as he's never seen her "That's... long."

Ilya chuckles, a stupid smile making space on his face "It was on and off, at first, but a long time coming, at least on my part."

Galina lips twist in a smile of her own "How does your relationship work now?"

"He lives... not too far away. We see each other on the weekends, holidays sometimes, when we can. Mostly the summers." He explains, before he can stop himself.

"After the season." She says, in understanding.

"After the season." He confirms, roughly.

Galina doesn't inquire further. If she has her own idea of who his boyfriend might be, and Ilya really thinks she must do, at this point, after he told her he spends more than half of each summer running his and Shane's camps, during one of their first sessions, she doesn't say, merely acknowledging it with a tilt of her head.

"Does anyone know?”

"Our immediate families, ugh, a couple of friends of his and Nikolai."

Galina's blue eyes linger into his "How do you live this situation? You've hidden yourself quite a while, but a distant and secret relationship must be pretty difficult to deal with, especially with the only people knowing being that afar."

Ilya hesitates "We- we manage. Of course it's hard but what else could we do?"

"There are players or ex-players that are out." She considers.

"It's different. We- I mean, I-" Ilya sighs. Guess they do have to acknowledge it, after all "Our position is more complicated, with having been rivals for so long."

"Rivals?" Galina repeats "I thought that had died a long ago. You have a charity together, no?"

"We do." Ilya allows "One of the reasons why we made it was to bring it down a little but you can't really erase ten years of playing against each other."

"I guess you can't." She agrees, just as gravelly "So you've agreed not to tell anyone for the time being?"

"Not until we retire."

"That's quite a few years from now."

"I know." He snaps. Guilt floods just as rapidly, after that "Fuck, sorry."

Galina shakes her head "Don't worry. It's a touchy subject, I gather. You don't seem particularly on board with it."

"I am. On board." He mumbles, rubbing at his eyes "I just…hard."

"I can see why."

"And I- I hate it." He quietly admits "I hate that I have to be on board with it because there's no other option. I thought- I thought going to Ottawa would solve it, that the foundation would at least allow us to being seen with each other in a place that wasn’t my house or his. But it only feels like another reason why we should be careful, and I'm fucking tired of being careful."

"I think maybe that's a conversation you two should have." Galina says "If you changed your mind, you could reconsider your plan."

"There nothing to reconsider." Ilya sighs "It's either we keep hiding and wait for retirement or come out and have to put everything else on jeopardy."

Galina hums "What do you think it's the worst-case scenario?"

"I just got my residency card. I wouldn't be deported if I lost my job, I don't think so, at least." Ilya had spent hours on the phone arguing with the immigration office, that past two months, up until Vetrov had taken the situation into his hands and worked his magic. Ilya doesn't usually like playing the 'I'm famous' card, it's never really felt like an accomplishment worth to be waved around in hope to get a road cleared for him, but he really had to admit that he hadn't felt as bad, in that moment, when finally holding the plastic card back in his hands, with no more waiting to be done.

Ilya had grown up in Canada, lived between home and the states for more than a decade. The last time he'd been in Russia was for Isaak's birthday a year ago, but there was nothing deeper that tied him there, anymore, apart from the guys. It's not that he's not proud of being Russian, whatever that might mean, but it would be a lie if he said that he doesn't feel as far from it as he's been doing for years now.

Canada is home, doesn't matter whether it's Vancouver or Edmonton, Ottawa even, it just took a while to let it finally sink.

"But I could loose hockey." Ilya continues "And I deserve to have the career I want, that I have, regardless of who I am with, because I've earned the right to. But if I had to choose, I'd choose him." He states, stubbornly angry. Then, more quietly, as he deflates in his seat "But I shouldn't have to choose."

"You shouldn't have." Galina agrees "What do you think could be a best- case scenario, instead?"

Ilya's shoulders hang low as he considers it. In his mind, he and Shane play hockey together, matching wedding bands hanging around their necks, protected and cherished. They're smiling, the crowd is roaring, and they stand there, side by side, together and unashamedly seen.

He opens his eyes, snapping back to a far much sadder reality "Nothing happens. We come out and it's no big deal, we can just... be."

And chances are it will never happen, but he hopes Shane would want the same, if it ever came to it.

Chapter End Notes

Heyo!

So, this should have been longer. Dunno if some of you saw the update on the previous chapter's notes, but it got so long and heavy that for both of our sanities I just had to break it in half. Good thing I like ending my stories on odd numbered chapters.

Getting to finally explore TLG helps a lot with picking apart the differences between my Ilya and his most canonical version. I tried and will continue trying to pour a lot of attention to the parts regarding ilya's therapy sessions. I'm no psychologist nor will I pretend to be one, just trying to be as respectful and accurate as possible, and also keep it close (but not really) to how it is in the books.

Ilya's going through it and I'm doing the same with my exams, please send help.

But as always, thank you so much for reading and all of your feedbacks!

See you for the next one ;)

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

I wrote this while listening to Olivia Rodrigo's new album (i'm not okay).

TW: reference to panic attacks, blood, suicide (Irina's) and outing.

That week, in Ilya's book, hadn't been going that badly. There had been no nightmares to wake up from, quieted down by the frenzy of a packed sequence of games, Harris bringing Chiron to the rink during practice, the team's visit to the children hospital and many rounds of Mario Kart he'd pretended to lose, unless it was Barrett or Wyatt, any of the guys really, holding the other joystick. Ilya did have a reputation to uphold, after all.

And then, they’d got to Toronto.

Honestly, when talking with Wyatt earlier that week, sprawled on the Hayes’ couch as they tried kicking Nikolai's ass on Mortal Kombat with very little results, they'd agreed pretty fast to the fact that it was going to be an hard road trip. With everything that had happened with Dallas Kent, Barrett's stubborn and angry playing in Edmonton only a couple of weeks prior, it felt like they all had to expect a bomb to drop at some point.

What Ilya couldn't have imagined, was to be the one to bite his gloves off first and hit Kent right across the face, leaving the imprint of his knuckles right on his ugly smirk.

"- did you take a break from fucking Hollander to shove your dick in Barrett's-"

Ilya had found very little to be sorry for, as the medics rolled Kent off the ice, his words still repeating into his head like an echo. Next time he'd learn to keep Shane's name out of his mouth, he'd told himself.

As shitty as it was, rumours had been spread through the league after Shane came out to his own team. Ilya still remembered Shane's call after his meeting with the commissioner, the subtle and backhanded threat in the old man's words, as Shane recounted every one of them. It had made Shane scared, it had made Ilya scared even more.

And maybe punching Kent wasn’t the right answer to his frustration but it surely helped, then, even though he knew he would be getting an earful from both Yuna and Alexei. Still, totally worth it.

They hadn't won, but seeing the small relief on Barrett's face had been enough for Ilya to know his not-choice hadn't only been self-gratifying.

Sue him, maybe he's really become just as a softie as he always taunts Nikolai to be, but he's come to not mind Barrett as much, and seeing him deal with Kent's chirps, the boos from the crowd, it had become to much at some point even for him as he watched him squirm on the ice.

Ilya wants to think that's the reason why, the night after, he's leading the both of them to the Kingfisher.

Barrett looks much like a deer caught in headlights as they enter the bar, filled to the brim and as chaotic as Ilya remembers it from the last time he’d been there. Bennett and Hunter renovations had done it good, Ilya thinks, winking to Kyle as he leaves their beers in front of them at the reserved table he’d made sure to book before their trip.

Ilya hides his own smile behind his beer at Barrett's obvious awe, the moment Hunter and Bennett sit down at their table, the easiness with which they greet their partners, before both Kip and Kyle retreat to their jobs.

Missing the looks between Barrett and Harris would have meant having been blind all along, that past few weeks. Ilya could see what Nikolai meant, after all, in the way Barrett's usual stuck up grimace melted into softness every time Harris loud presence joined into the locker room, the little smile on his face as he proudly tucks what looks like a very colourful pin into his pocket while walking back from the counter with the next round of drinks.

His cigarette burns under the pale moon light as they make the walk back to the hotel later that night. It's quiet or, well, as quiet as New York city can be late at night, but Ilya can feel Barrett's stare on him, unrelentless, even after a drink and the shots Hunter called for the table. They still had a game to play the next night, after all.

"You seem like you want to ask something." He reconsiders "Or tell me something."

Barrett caves in pretty quickly.

"Why did you punch Kent, yesterday?"

"Oh, there are many reasons: first of all, he's an annoying asshole. Secondly, his face looks just so punchable-"

"Yeah, alright, but-" Barrett interrupts him, hesitating "why now? I thought it was because he implied- because of what he said, but you brought me to a gay bar, so I'm pretty confused right now."

Ilya snorts around his cigarette "My ego is not that fragile." And, for once, Kent was half right anyway.

"Most players would hate being called gay."

"I look like most players to you?" He asks, stopping in his steps as he quietly considers the situation. The words leaves his mouth pretty quickly after that "And I've never said I was straight."

Barrett's eyes widen as he gapes at him, not subtle at all "What?"

"Stupid people assume what they want to assume. Like Kent, like most of the league. I don't need to prove myself to anyone, I did enough to earn my place already. But Dallas Kent couldn't form a decent thought if it costed him his life, and there should be no space for people like him, who talk without knowing shit."

"That's him, yeah." Barrett whispers.

Ilya smirks "As I said, very punchable face. Always glad to be of service."

"Can you keep a secret?" Barrett blurts out, then, a little pale in the face as he burrows further down his coat.

If only he knew, Ilya thinks wryly "Very well."

For a second, Ilya is really afraid Barrett's going to puke, after all, before he finally speaks again "I'm gay."

Ilya nods "Okay."

Barrett exhales weakly "Okay?"

"You haven't told anyone?" He asks back, a little thrown off. He guesses he already knew that Toronto wasn't the safest place to come out, but had Barrett not had anyone to talk about it with at all?

"Not really, no." Barrett admits.

"It must have been hard in Toronto."

"It wasn't easy."

"So this was your first gay bar?" Ilya asks, trying to move the subject to something more cheerful.

Barrett's expression turns sheepish "Yeah."

"Jesus Christ." He laughs, shaking his head before resuming walking. He's a couple of steps in when he hears Barrett following along "What did you think of it?"

"It had more hockey players than I thought it would." Barrett confesses, laughing along, somewhat hysterical.

"But it was okay?" He asks, more seriously. Maybe it was a bit of an ambush on his part, on second thought, but how could he have known?

"It was. I'm not a bar kind of guy but- I would go again."

"I think the team would be okay if you told them, whenever you're ready." He considers then, turning back to look to the road "They're good guys."

Ilya's known for a quite a while now, he supposes. The team loves Harris, there's no denying it, and everyone had been pretty psyched when finally meeting Kristie, that one time her and her family had come visit the Hayes for thanksgiving.

Ilya hadn't seen her in years, but Wyatt's updates couldn't compare to seeing her and Eve hand in hand with their son, as they greeted each of the guys walking in.

"Oh my god, Rozy!" Kristie had squealed, before jumping in for a hug. Ilya had gotten a mouthful of blonde hair, barely breathing in her boa grip, but he hadn’t cared much as he laughed against her shoulder.

"Hey, Kriss-Kross."

"You got fucking big, what the hell. How's home? Jesus, Wy sent me a picture of Yulia a couple months ago and she's so grown up,  now." She'd rambled, among other things, at speed light, big green eyes bright just like he remembered "We have so much catch up to do-"

Ilya hadn't minded the team knowing all about him and Wyatt being awkward and embarrassing teenagers, not while making faces to little Isaac in Eve's lap and wishing life could be just as kind with him and Shane, someday, surrounded by people who would accept them.

"I know." Barrett says, sighing softly "But I don't know if I want to, yet. I'm not really into that kind of attention."

"Fair." Ilya agrees, before smiling coyly in his direction "But I bet there is someone you wouldn't mind to tell."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"Oh so you haunt the offices at the rink just for fun, usually? Stalker much."

Ilya can see Barrett's face turn rapidly pink at the dig "I am not- fuck. Is it that obvious?"

"No, I don't think so." He says, like a liar "Not to someone as painfully straight as an hockey team, I think. I'm just that perceptive." He winks.

Barrett groans, hunching in his shoulders "I just like him." He tries.

"We all do, it's Harris. We also wouldn't kiss him, though, not like you want to,"

This is so fucking fun, he thinks, poking at him as they make their way through the busy streets of New York, disguising themself through the crowd.

"So, you're not straight?" Barrett asks, just as they're about to make the left turn for the hotel, more settled in some way, like he just got a weight lifted off of him. He looks over expectantly, if not a little careful.

He nods "I'm bisexual. It's not anyone's business, but yes."

Barrett nods back "I heard the rumour that Shane Hollander is gay." He adds then, brows meeting up in the middle "I don't know if it's true but-"

Ilya's smile freezes on his face "Did you?"

Fuck.

Barrett give's him a considering look. Ilya can feel it burn holes through his head as his lips twitch "You guys are close, huh?"

"I think we should practice what you will tell Harris when we're back home, my very young and inexperienced gay padawan. Did you always like them cute and sunshiney?" Ilya says instead, wrapping his arm around his shoulders as he starts to walk them faster "Because you know, I'm a really good friend with Morozov- you remember him, righty?- and-"

*

"So you told your teammate." Galina says, later that Thursday, as Ilya makes a resume of his week, dragging his thumb over the crusty skin of his knuckles with a smug smile.

"Just about me. I think he needed to know that he's not the only one." He says "I mean, we all know about Hunter but he's like... a far concept. Not many other players are out and I don't think he ever met someone else who can relate, somehow."

"You didn't owe to him."

"I didn't." He agrees "But I wanted to."

Galina smiles "That was kind of you."

"I'm plenty kind." He says confidently, stretching over the plush couch of her studio "Ask my friends."

"You have a lot of them?"

"Tons." He frowns, a little offended "I am the king of friendship."

"I meant as in people you trust." Galina explains calmly "That you can confide in."

He would say he and his team are on good terms, after all, even if Ilya might not be the best captain in the league in terms of presence. And sure, being in different countries makes keeping up with Svetlana's life harder than it's ever been before, and Nikolai has his own team, now, a relationship, to take care of, instead of texting twenty-four-seven with him, but who doesn't? Surely not Will, who he hasn't heard from in ages, now that he thinks about it, not after they last saw each other in Edmonton, when he brought Riley home for Christmas at his parents'.

That is just how adult life works, Ilya thinks, there's no one to blame it on.

Galina nods at his half assed explanation. Ilya doesn't know how to interpret the way her pen swiftly flies over her notebook as he speaks, uselessly trying to peak. He's not really that comfortable with letting her think he's just some pathetic loner, to be honest, as much as that may or may not be the truth.

"So what do you do outside of hockey or when your boyfriend isn't there?"

"Not much." He says, subtly leaning back into the cushions "I stay home, watch tv. Sometimes Wyatt comes over after practice and we play video games. And I call home, I guess."

"Is that what you used to do too, back in Boston?"

"Not really."

"How?"

"Well, I didn't live alone." He reminds her "Apart from chores and stuff, sometimes me and Nikki would go out, pick up some company. I used to have a lot of sex."

"But now you're in a monogamous relationship?"

"Yes." He says, firmly "I don't miss sleeping around. It was fun back then, but uhm, even then I only ever wanted him, really, so..."

Ilya locked down Shane fucking Hollander after ten whole years. Who would miss sleeping around after that? Ilya sometimes still gets baffled at the idea that Shane is his, but, as selfish as that might sound, he can't say he would ever be open to share him, in any way imaginable.

"We're happy together." He says, wetting his lips.

"And when you're apart?"

Ilys sighs "I'm miserable." He admits "More than him, I think."

"Why do you think that is?"

Ilya scratches at his jaw "I don't know. I guess he is... closer to people that know about us, to his parents. Maybe he doesn't feel the distance as much as I do, because of that."

"You've made a lot of changes in your life for him."

"For both of us." He argues, hands clenching on his lap "It was my idea to go to Ottawa."

"Of course. But is there something that maybe has been just for you, both before and after your trade?" Galina asks "Something that it's just for Ilya, and doesn't relate to hockey, sex or your boyfriend."

"Shane." He corrects her quietly. It's not like they haven't been tiptoeing around it ever since Ilya brought him up in the first place.

"Shane, yes."

Ilya has to stop to think about her question "I had my cars, back in Boston. I sold most of them when I moved. It was too inconvenient to have them all brought up here and some I wouldn't have been able to drive throughout the winter. And I-" He bites down his lip "Rory, Niamh's brother, he gave me a guitar my first year away from home. I used to play, sometimes."

"Used to? You don't like it anymore?"

"No, it's not that." He admits, tapping his fingers together "Sometimes I feel just... heavy. I think about so many things I could do, but I end up doing none. Playing is one of them. Maybe I'm just getting lazy." He tries brushing it off, but Galina doesn't laugh.

Her pen dots the end of a sentence on her note pad "Lazy is not something I would use to describe you at all." She says, earnest "How did playing use to feel, in Boston?"

Ilya hums "It was relaxing, I guess. Well, not that relaxing, I totally sucked at it. The first time I tried changing the strings alone, one of them snapped right back on my face. It hurts like hell." He informs her, grimacing at the memory. Svetlana had laughed her ass off taking in the scene in front of her eyes, after rushing into his room at his cursing screech. Ilya finds himself smiling.

"It used to annoy Svetlana so much. Again, I wasn't good, but who is at first? I didn't become an Hendrix or a Slash, but it got fun, after a while, even if it was frustrating sometimes. I was very homesick, back then." He confesses "But it got my mind off of it, or, I don't know, at least made thinking of home less sad. Music had always been more of Lyosha's thing. He got it from mom."

For being such a religious woman, she liked the eardrum shuttering screams coming out Alexei's tapes way too much, Ilya thinks fondly.

"He's a maniac, nobody uses cassettes anymore, that's what we have Spotify for, yes? And we all share the same plan! He messes with my gym playlist all the fucking time."

Galina smiles "Did you felt closer to your family while playing?"

"Maybe." He says "I guess I just didn't realize how much I would miss home until I moved away. I was happy to play in New York and lucky, definitely very lucky, but it was hard."

"Would you say it still is?"

Ilya exhales "Yeah. I'm away most of the year. I miss so many things; birthdays, sometimes holidays. Would you believe me if I said I've never actually been to one of my niece's games? It's rough. It feels like time is ticking only on their side while I'm stuck here. I should be used to it, but I'm not."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. It didn't use to be so bad, before. I thought getting to be with Shane more, being closer to home and finally getting back for my citizenship, that it would feel like winning the lottery. But it didn't change anything about it. It made it worse." He admits, holding his head in his hands "I'm a grown adult, I know it's stupid, but..."

"It's not stupid." Galina states "If it were, it wouldn't bother you so much, wouldn't it?"

"Probably not."

"Have you talked with anyone about it?

"I come here to not talk with anyone about it." He grumbles, frustrated "Who would I tell? My brother and Niamh, that have their family to think of? Nikolai or-or Sveta, who I barely see during the year?"

The only person he's been having the guts to talk about it with is Ivan, Ivan who lives all the way in cold, far away Russia. It kind of defeats the point.

Galina tilts her head "Maybe Shane?"

Ilya shakes his head "I don't want to be a burden. He would probably blame himself and I don't want him to. This is my problem. I just need to figure it out and fix it."

Galina doesn't say anything for a couple of seconds, just enough to make Ilya's burst simmer between them. Ilya sniffs quietly, the start of an headache forming at the back of his head.

"What do you think Shane would say, if he heard those words? If he knew that you don't want to burden him or that you think you're not enough as you are?"

Ilya's face breaks into a sad smile.

His Shane. He could imagine it, the confused twitch of his lips and the frown lines spreading around his concerned eyes "He would curse me out, say that I'm wrong, that I'm perfect for him. But he wouldn't- he wouldn't understand. There are some things I can't tell him."

"I understand not wanting to share everything we have been talking about in our sessions." Galina says, gently "But letting him believe you're fine when you're not, it's not going to do both of you any favours. Secrets build walls we can try to cling onto, but we're still humans. Sometimes we fall."

Ilya despises this talking in riddles, but he's too struck by her words to really feel any kind of annoyance.

Sometimes we fall.

He thinks of the past few months, of all the waking up soaked in sweat after only a couple hours of real sleep, the slow weight building up with each step every passing day, the ones he spent laying in bed, motionless and with his head spinning.

Maybe Ilya has been doing the falling for a long time already.

"Ultimately, it's your decision." Galina reminds him "But I think you should talk to him. Does he know you have been seeing me?"

Ilya shakes himself out of his head "Uh, no. No."

Ilya has done all he could to make sure he wouldn't, after all, despite how much lying to him could feel dirty and low of him.

A few months ago, Shane had told him he would support him if he ever wanted to talk to him or to somebody else, with that worried glint in his eyes Ilya's well acquainted with, by now. But that's the point, isn't it? Ilya doesn't want him to worry, not about this, not about him, and not if he can help it.

Sometimes we fall.

Maybe Ilya should work on that too, after all.

"That might be a good place to start." Galina suggests, offering him an open look.

"I'll try."

It's as far as he can promise, he supposes.

Ilya's still thinking about it as he drives himself home, after their session.

Ivan had been quite supportive of the idea, as far as Ilya could understand while munching on the cookie-dough Ben and Jerry's cup he'd spotted in the freezer section at convenience store, while picking up groceries on the way back. Eating ice cream at five PM in a store's parking lot probably wasn't what a well-adjusted person would do. Ilya had deliberately decided not to care while dialling Ivan's number.

The thought, though, is just enough to make him queasy as he accepts Shane's call, later that evening.

That's probably why, after trying so hard to find the words in his head, while making dinner and keep up with Shane's questions and stories from the rink, he ends up giving up, nodding along even though Shane cannot see him, and finally snapping out of his head as he works down the pile of dirty dishes he'd left piling up in the sink that past few days.

He'll tell him, Ilya promises himself. He just needs to find the right moment to.

*

"- because Jenny is a puck-hog." Yulia finishes, scrunching up her nose "She thinks that because she's a center she's the only one that can score, but I was free and the net was right there! We would have won if she hadn't wanted to show off."

"Tough luck, kiddo." Ilya says, sympathetically "But you don't hit your teammate just because they do stupid things."

"I didn't hit her!" She protests, squirming in her seat "She got riled up by the other team and I tried to help. I just missed." She mumbles next, pouting to the screen.

Ilya wouldn't agree with the statement that women's hockey is not a violent sport. And the girls U12's? Apparently even less so, at least from the casted arm Yulia's sporting now, filled with doodles and 'get well soon's, where it rests hanging over her chest in a bright blue sling.

"Reminds me of someone." Alexei coughs, sarcastic, from behind the camera, while setting a plate down in front of her, overly conscious of not bumping against her cast.

Alexei always had his thoughts about hockey, ever since Ilya was a kid. When Yulia's coach had proposed to bump her up into the U12 at only nine years old, he'd almost had a stroke. Ilya had always known Yulia had great potential, despite the disappointment that has been not being able to personally see it play in a game, and had greatly supported Niamh insistence into trying to convince him. After all, Yulia wasn't that much shorter or capable than the other girls on her new team, but he can still imagine how freaked out Alexei must've been, though, driving up to the hospital after Niamh's call.

"Hey. I always knew where to pick my fights."

"Liar."

Ilya huffs "So, how many days of jail did you get?" he asks Yulia then.

She glowers "Two weeks."

Ilya whistles "Damn. For some roughing?"

Alexei peaks in, looking pointedly between the two of them "No. That was an accident. But someone told Jenny's mother to fuck off after the game. I think we were pretty fair, actually."

Ilya's coke gets stuck in his windpipe from the surprise. He can't laugh. He shouldn't laugh. But fucking hell.

"She was yelling at mama!" Yulia says petulantly, probably not for the first time after that weekend, her braids cutting the air with the sudden and outraged way she turns towards him and then Ilya, as if to send along the message.

"And mama was taking care of it." Alexei argues back, calmly "That's her job."

"She was an ass to her."

"She was. But she was also scared because she thought Jenny broke her nose. We all act like asses when we're scared." He says, tugging on her ear "Next time you get your rock hard head near someone else's don't aim for the bullseye, yes?" He jokes, but it doesn't quite land as hoped. Yulia doesn't answer, stabbing through her salad with her only available hand.

"It'll be fine, Svedochka." Ilya tries cheering her up "You take care of that arm for three weeks and you'll be back on the ice before you know it. I'm a professional at broken bones by now."

"But not in time for Christmas." She complains, her bottom lip jutting out "We were supposed to go skating together. We do it every year."

Ilya exhales, trying to find his brother's help through the screen "I'm doing Christmas with Uncle Shane in Ottawa this year, Yulechka. Did you forget?" He asks slowly, tense and fairly confused.

"Fudge. I'm sorry, it's my fault." Alexei says, cursing under his breath as Yulia's face falls "Uncle Ilya texted while you and mama were at the game." He explains, apologetically "I forgot to tell you at the hospital."

Yulia looks right at him through the camera, sadness and confusion painted on her face "You're not coming back?"

"No, kid." He denies, still trying to give her his best attempt at a smile "But Kolya and Izya will be there. Maybe you can convince your papa to play, even. He's not me, but with some imagination-"

"It's not the same." She frowns, dropping her fork. The rattle of the metal against her plate has him flinch less than the subtle sniff coming from the other side of the line "You always come back for Christmas."

"I know. I'm sorry, but Yuna and David invited me a few weeks ago and we've already made plans."

"Can't you all come here?" She asks, turning to look pleadingly in Alexei's direction "We can ask mémé and papi, they'll say yes."

Alexei tucks her bangs behind her ear, in a naturally soothing response at her distress. Ilya can perfectly picture the conflicted smile he must be giving her "They don't know about uncle Shanya, baby. And there's going to be all of our family there. I think space might really be a problem this time around, regardless."

They barely squeeze in on Christmas day as they already are, Alexei is not quite that far off, he thinks.

"You'll still have fun." Ilya promises her weakly "There'll be presents, and mémé's eggnog, and we can call and text every day, whenever you want."

Yulia's face sours, jaw clenched, in that same way he's seen his brother do so many times to restrain his bite. Her eyes are cloudy, the colour of the sky before a storm, and the faint glassy glint of them is what delivers the final stomp on Ilya's chest "Yeah. Sure." She whispers "Can I go to my room, now, please?"

Neither of them knows what to say at first.

"You don't want to eat anything else, baby? We just sat down."

"I'm fine."

He hears his brother sigh, after a deliberate pause "Alright. Get your plate to the sink and you can go."

Ilya watches her flee the room, silence fill the empty space where she'd been sat at, heartbroken.

It would be rude now to call Shane and blow up their plans, would it? That was going to be the first holiday they'd spent together and, for as much as it wouldn't be the first time he's been over at the Hollander's, with or without Shane present, it mattered, to the both of them in fact.

But now Ilya is not too sure if that was the right move.

Alexei twists his phone in his own direction, giving Ilya the full view of the conflict going on inside his head.

"She's mad at me."

Alexei nips at the inside of his cheek "Not at you. It's been a rough week for her."

Ilya snorts, heart in his throat "Yeah. Right."

"If I had told her earlier she might've taken it better." Alexei shakes his head, gravelly "And the accident surely didn't help. Really, it's not your fault."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"She just needs some time to stew it off." Alexei tries "She understands why you and Shanya can't be out, but she's still a kid. I'll check up on her before bed."

Ilya can't really ask for more, he supposes. He'll just have to suck it up.

He rubs at his eyes, trying to will the overgrowing pressure behind them away "Okay."

He can almost feel Alexei stare at him all the way from Vancouver "You look tired. Is everything okay there?"

"Well, apart from my niece hating me now-"

"Ilya."

This probably is the right moment, he realizes then, as they make eye contact through the screen. Ilya should tell Alexei about everything, therapy, all the things about him that just don't work as they should, and that, for as much as he's trying, he can't seem to be able to work around of.

Alexei won't judge him, he thinks, but he would worry, that's what he always does. His brother, that now has a kid to console because Ilya disappointed her so much to make her go bunk into her own room not to see him.

How would telling him now be fair?

"I'm okay." He whispers "I'm just- I still have to get Yuna and David's gifts. I don’t know what to do yet. Shane's unhelpful."

Alexei doesn't take the bait "Kolya said you were weird the last time you played."

Ilya lifts his arms at his sides "We had just lost. Should I have been happy?"

"You always lose." Alexei considers, matter of factly. It shouldn't dig as much as it does "What's one more?"

Ilya bristles.

"Listen, I'm fine." He bites through gritted teeth "All good, peachy, better than I've ever been. Get off my back for fucks sake and ask me yourself instead of go fishing from Nikolai."

"Well, I would if you told me the fucking truth for once." Alexei argues, frustrated "Every time I call you, you act like everything is good, but you look like a wreck. I know you, and I know something is going on." His hands fists up over the table. He looks almost pleading when he speaks again "Just give me something. I've tried giving you space, but I'm worried about you. Is it the nightmares again? Or something going on with Shane?"

Has Ilya always been that easy to look through?

He sits there paralyzed, his heart beating miles inside his chest.

He feels cornered as he looks for words that just don't seem to want to come up. He's breathing, Ilya is aware he is, but the air just isn't enough, or he wouldn't be gasping, would he?

And Alexei keeps looking at him like he's waiting for something, maybe for a confirmation that Ilya is a mess, that he doesn't know what to do with himself anymore.

The thought echoes through his head, humiliatingly devastating.

You look like a wreck.

And what if Ilya really is?

"Mind you fucking business." He stutters, before doing something stupid like starting to cry "I don't need you to come and tell me I'm doing a shitty job at life-"

"That's not what I meant, at all-"

"-and I'm not some pitiful project you have to put together to feel better with yourself." He hisses, his voice breaking halfway through.

He regrets his words as soon as they're out of his mouth.

Alexei's wounded eyes don't leave his as he reaches with shaky hands to hang up the call.

Ilya sits at the isle, arms limp at his sides, as his phone lays silent over the countertop.

What has he just done?

*

To say Ilya has been having a shitshow of piling days would be an understatement.

And, rationally, the idea that it's all his fault, only serves to put him into a worse mood by the time Christmas rolls around.

Every gift he'd already sent to Edmonton as soon as he'd realized he wouldn't be home that year to deliver them himself, but he'd still tried to keep his promise to Yulia, checking in on Christmas Eve to at least open them together, and trying to ignore the tense air everyone apparently seemed way to aware of.

Niamh had texted the morning after her shift, after coming back to a disappointed kid and an angry husband. Or at least, that's what Ilya has imagined she found, after ignoring Alexei's text all throughout a sleepless night spent laying on his couch, not brave enough to drag himself to bed and discover what his head would have for him if he dared close his eyes.

Ilya's answer had been vague back then, but nobody could deny that, even through the phone, it feels now like they're all walking on eggshells.

And Shane, carefully out of the camera eye, surely is not one to miss it. But he doesn't question it, merely reaching his legs over to brush their feet together in a comforting attempt, probably because they've been snapping at each other ever since he got to Ottawa.

The whole situation had surely done wonders to poke at the cracks of what normally would have been stupid arguments flying between them, that day. Shane has not hold back, either, for that matter, irritably glaring into his smoothie all morning as they got ready to go to his parents' house.

"I'm sorry." He finally finds the courage to say, feeling like a corpse in the passenger seat of Shane's car, his mouth filled with cotton "I know you have been putting up with me since you got here. It shouldn't- it's not your fault."

Shane seem to unwind a little at that, reaching over to tangle their fingers together as he carefully looks over the road through the tinted window of the dashboard "It's okay. I know it's been hard for you, lately. You and Alexei fought?"

He snorts tiredly "What gave you the impression?"

Shane ponders his answer, before giving in "He texted me a couple of days ago. Asked if I could keep an eye on you, letting you know we're here."

Ilya's head already hurts from barely sleeping, the tears he's been trying to keep at bay at least until his next appointment with Galina, after the holidays, but that feels like another nail hammered right where it aches the most. His brother, always the martyr "He did?"

"Mhm, yes. I think he sent something to mom, too. Dad is making pryaniki."

Ilya exhales weakly "Mhm?"

"You know I love you, right?" Shane asks then, rhetorically, because how could Ilya not know, after all. He entertains him, though, nodding and squeezing his hand back.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, but I'm sure you and Alexei will make up." He tells him, fully convinced "Niamh said you guys always do after fighting."

"I said... something very bad to him." Ilya whispers.

"It's nothing you can't fix."

"What if he doesn't want to hear me out?"

What if Ilya fucked up so badly that Alexei never will?

"I don't have siblings." Shane says "But I also have never seen people that do and that are as close as you are. I know he will, or he wouldn't have asked me to check up on you, no?"

Ilya doesn't answer, pressing his forehead over the ice cold glass of the window as he brings Shane's hand to his lips in a silent thank you.

Christmas with the Hollanders is not bad, just different; the doorbell stays silent throughout the morning, because there is no army of french-canadians coming in and out the house, whether it's to help setting up the living room for a literal feast or to tend to the grill outside and look over the kids playing in the snow in the back garden. There are no head splitting shrieks, chatter and laughter coming in from every side of the room, the table being used for a poker tournament, or the aunt- committee Ilya always enjoys getting the family’s gossip from, despite it being told in awful quebecois, everything that Ilya's come by now to associate with family, as overwhelming as it might sound.

But, for once, Ilya enjoys the quietness of being just the four of them and getting to see Shane in his natural element, inside the four walls of the house he grew up in.

That and stuffing his mouth full with pryaniki. God bless David Hollander's magical hands.

Ilya's plenty relaxed when they finally get to open presents. Shane's foosball had be a delightful surprise, even though Ilya hadn't been in the spirit to really enjoy it, but they couldn't have brought it over to open it with the rest of them, so that had to do.

Ilya's pretty proud of himself, though, when, after making a round of all two Hollander seniors (both pleasantly happy with the spa reservation he'd got them and matching cooking aprons), he finally delivers his gift to Shane from the bottom of the tree.

Ilya finds his seat back by Shane's feet, head resting halfway on his thigh as he watches him tear open the rainbow coloured wrapping paper he'd maybe got just to mess with him.

Shane's face falls in awe as he picks up the picture frame in his hands.

"This is-"

"Uh-uh."

Ten years ago, they stood in front of each other and dozens of cameras for a photoshoot that had ended up signing the start of a whole new chapter in both of their lives, one only about them.

Shane is a horrible person to shop for and maybe Ilya was feeling way too reminiscent and pathetically sappy when he finally got the idea, but from the way Shane's fingers press over his cheek in the picture, leaving fingerprints he usually would be too careful not to, Ilya knows he's hit jackpot.

"How'd you get this." Shane whispers, as he passes it off to Yuna and David to coo over, on the opposite couch.

Ilya leans his head into the palm of his hand "I asked Vetrov if he could find me the photographer's email. I asked if he still had those and picked the one I liked most. I can show you the rest later, if you want."

Shane leans down for a kiss that tastes like the wine they had for lunch and a sweetness nothing else could ever drip with.

"You were so young here." Yuna comments fondly, nestled under David's arm "Could we have a copy, Ilya?"

He nods, happily reaching for another cookie.

"It never occurred to me those existed." Shane admits, accepting the frame back like he still cannot believe his eyes "I'm surprised he still had those."

Ilya had been too, to be honest. Ten years, that's how long it has been, and yet the proof of them still lingers in more than memories. He and Shane have maybe three pictures together that doesn't portray them ready to tear each other down, and maybe this one shouldn't be considered one of them, on a later thought. But when Ilya looks at himself, at the crinkle in his eyes as he stares up at Shane's giddy smile, he doesn't see the origins of a decade of rivalry.

He sees two kids that had to learn how to love each other.

That's worth everything that had finally brought them there.

"I love it." Shane says, as soon as his parents are back into the kitchen to open another bottle of wine and bring over the dice trail for Yahtzee.

Ilya smiles up at him "I'm glad."

"I'm going to bring it up to the cottage next time we're over." Shane adds, collecting the wrapping paper to protect the glass, unaware of Ilya's face falling behind his back.

Right.

He knew it was a fool's hope to wish that that would be something not meant to be hidden at least from the two of them, in the privacy of Shane's apartment, to be begin with. It still stings, though, the way Shane doesn't seem as affected by it, while securing the tape shut around the frame and covering it away from prying eyes.

And maybe that should have been enough of an answer to a question Ilya has been harbouring ever since he got Bood's text, a couple of weeks prior, reinforced by Wyatt's clockwork reminders.

Still, Ilya finally breaks some time after lunch on Boxing day, sitting down next to Shane's over his couch after closing one call home that had left him more empty than not, in a way he'd never thought it would.

"Bood is having a party tonight." He says, as casually as he can, trying to brush off the nervousness.

Shane frowns "Boodram? He's having a party on Boxing day?"

"There's always a good reason to party." Ilya jokes, dragging his clammy hands over his thighs "It's, uh, it's a small thing. Just the team and their partners. And Harris."

"Oh." Shane says, holding his book down on his lap as he stares up at him in confusion "Do you want to go or something? I could stay here, I guess, or get back early-"

"No." Ilya says, hurriedly "I thought maybe we could go together."

Shane folds the book closed, leaving it over the coffee table as he turns over to face him fully, uncertain "You want me to go to a party with your teammates? Why?"

Ilya wishes he didn't sound as repulsed at the idea as he does. God forbid he wants the people he works with every single day to meet his boyfriend, regardless of them knowing.

Is it too much for him to ask to not have to let one side of his life down just to be with the other for one fucking time?

Ilya is way too tired of it.

"They're good guys, you might not hate it."

"But... wouldn't it be weird if we showed up together?"

"Your family lives here." He shrugs "And we're friend. I get invited to a party, you're in town, so I invite you too. I don't see why that'd be weird."

Shane looks like he's really thinking it through for a couple of seconds, but Ilya knows him too well, unfortunately, to think that it won't end in a dismissal.

"Maybe a little weird. I don't think it's a good idea."

Ilya is expecting to be disappointed, but to still accept it and move on, because really, what else could he do about it?

What he's not expecting is the anger that spikes up his veins, maddeningly infuriating.

And this, the precarious balance they've been on for the past few days, months, it wouldn't survive it, not if he'll let it speak words he knows he will regret.

Shane has always been way too stubborn to learn when to let things go, though.

"You can go, Ilya. I never said you couldn't." He says, following behind him as he stalks away.

"Wow. I guess I should thank you, then." He snaps, holding himself up at the counter.

"What-?" Shane circles the isle, looking for his eyes through his confusion. It's so genuine that it only serves to make Ilya even angrier "I don't get you."

"Yeah, welcome to the club."

"No, Ilya." Shane presses "I can't read your mind. If you don't tell me what's wrong I can't-"

"What isn't wrong?" He laughs, in disbelief.

Shane throws his hands up "What does that even mean?"

"That I'm tired, Shane." He sighs "That I have a boyfriend that doesn't want anyone to know I am his boyfriend and it's fucking killing me."

Shane eyes widen "Did I- did I miss something? I thought we were on the same page about this."

"Well, we're really not. About anything."

"Could you please explain to me what the fuck is happening right now? The last time I checked this was the plan: we don't go to each other teams' parties, we don't tell people about us." Shane lists, walking around the isle to face him, fire burning in his eyes.

"And that's enough for you?" Ilya asks "You want to tell me that it doesn't bother you at all?"

"It's not easy for me either, you know" Shane hisses "We're both hiding, we've both made sacrifices-"

"And what for!" Ilya cuts him off, pacing towards him "We've done so much and you still won't even be seen in public with me because it's 'weird'! Flash news, Hollander, the only one that is worrying about you looking gay is you."

"Do I have to remind you that both of our careers are at risk?" Shane snaps "We could lose everything for a single wrong step, but I'm sorry for being the only one worried about that instead of being too caught up smoking weed with my teammates in between losses."

Ilya barely lets the comment run, clenching his fists by his sides "Everything?"

"Well, not everything, but hockey is pretty fucking important to me." Shane rolls his eyes, his arms crossing over his chest, like a shield.

That's what it always comes around to, in the end, isn't it?

Hockey.

Ilya has left everything he knew, he took a leap of faith for them, moving teams when, with the bears, maybe he would still be on top of the world right now. He could have won cups, break records, win awards, not watch his career being judged over every single sport panel like a derailed train ready to be dismantled.

He'd chosen Ottawa because it meant giving them a chance, because it was closer to Shane and to a life that Ilya yearned to live with him.

But what had always mattered in the end, was apparently fucking hockey.

Ilya deflates "You wouldn't even choose me, would you?" He asks, even though he already knows the answer "If it was between me and hockey."

Shane gapes at him "What? I- of course I would."

Ilya takes a step back, his own arms coming up to wrap around himself against the sudden freezing cold of the room. Shane looks like he wants to chase him, but he stays put, standing in the middle of Ilya's kitchen like he doesn't know what to do next "No, Shane. Would you?"

"Well, would you choose me?"

And the funny thing is, Ilya doesn't remember a moment where he has not. He left Boston with a childish dream, for a house that he hates and a team that cannot win, all because of Shane. And he choose him, over and over, because there has never been someone that would have made any of it as worth it as Shane does.

He can't help the quiet whimper escaping his lips "You should go."

"What?" Shane flinches, his body shaking with rage "No, fuck that. Answer the question."

Ilya shakes his head, breathing heavily "No. Go home. We'll talk... later."

Ilya doesn't know what he would say if they did now. He's already made enough stupid decisions that week "I can't do this now. Please just- I don't want to look at you. I don't want- you need to leave."

He should've known Shane wouldn't have let him have the last word. His eyes are veiled with tears as they meet his again, tearing him open.

"Would you choose me?" He asks again.

Ilya laughs. It's almost maniacal, raw, pained in a way it shouldn't be allowed to be considered a laugh, but an horrid cry "I already did, Hollander."

Ilya has already banged the door to his room shut when he hears the defeating sound of the front door closing behind Shane.

*

"This- this is not working." He says, pacing around Galina's studio like, Ilya can admit, a real maniac. He hasn't slept one bit in the past twenty hours, barely managed to keep anything down as he drowned in his misery, and yet, his body still feels like ready to snap, as if Ilya hadn't already reached his limit throughout what can be only considered the worst week of his entire life.

"Our sessions, you mean?" Galina asks, walking around him and to her desk. He can feel her eyes taking him in, from the unkept bun he'd stuck his hair in to be seemingly presentable and the eyebags digging under his eyes, bloodshot and skittish.

"Yes. I- I feel worse than ever and I-" Ilya gulps tearily, crashing down over her couch "I fucked everything up."

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" She proposes, holding out a tissue in his direction.

Ilya doesn't reach to take it.

"Ivan said this was supposed to make me feel better." He says instead, angrily, dragging his hands down his face to brush away his tears "You're supposed to fix me, but it's not fucking working. Why is it not?"

"You've been coming here for less than two months." She says, calmly, not really hiding her interest behind a polite facade "I'm good, but not that good."

"What is that supposed to mean? I can't get worse than this." Ilya hisses "I fucked everything up with my brother, I am basically on first nomination for worst boyfriend on planet earth, and I cannot do anything about it if I am still this sad. I need you too tell me what the hell is wrong with me." He practically begs her.

Silence falls over the room, the only sound being Galina reaching over her desk to pour water into a glass, before pushing it into his direction "Ilya, drink something. Take a minute to breath."

Ilya wants to fight her, because he doesn't need to be fucking coddled by his therapist while his world is quite literally burning down in front of his eyes, thank you very much, but he's too exhausted to do anything but humour her.

The water sooths his throat, raw from all the yelling he'd done into his pillow the night before, in the attempt to make his head shut up for just one minute. Ilya shifts against the back of the couch, just a little less tense, glass shaking in his hand as he sips at his water quietly.

He's halfway through it when Galina speaks again "You have a lot of responsibilities on your shoulders, and a stressful job that requires you to be under the spotlight while trying to keep a secret bigger than you. You are still carrying way more trauma from your childhood than you allow yourself to accept and maybe process more healthily rather than bottle it up. You were never taught not to be yourself when you were a kid, but you're scared to do it now that you've realized that it means acknowledging things you've been tried to repress while battling with a clear fear of abandonment."

Ilya blinks at her, only faintly aware of the water dripping off his chin and on his sweatshirt from the surprise. Well, fuck.

"Is that all?" He squeaks.

"On our first session you asked me if there was a chance you could be depressed, like your mother." Galina reminds him, folding her hands on her lap "I think now that it could be a possibility, yes."

Ilya lets out a breath he hadn't know he'd been holding. Maybe he should be relieved to have even the littlest answer from her, for the months, years, of feeling like shit, for no apparent reason. Instead, her words make him freeze, his heart fall from his chest.

"Y-you mean that I- that's it's going to be like-"

"No." Galina stops him, firm "Not necessarily. Depression is not an illness that manifests the same in every person, just as there are many ways to treat it."

"My mom took drugs, for a while." Ilya whispers, the hair on his arms straightening up as he wraps his arms around himself. He can almost feel the sensation of that same pills digging in his knees at the memory.

Ilya urgently gulps down the rest of his water.

"That's one way." Galina says "Antidepressants may work for some people, they may not for others. This, being here, is another thing that can help. Some people respond well to things like exercise, too."

Ilya snorts "I don't think I could exercise more than I already do."

"Maybe not." She agrees "But it doesn't have to necessarily be about hockey, just like it doesn't have to be a sport at all. It could be painting, pottery, playing an instrument... you are already familiar with that." She considers.

"Barely anymore."

She raises her brows, amused "It could be a good reason to start again. Now," She says, taking a hold of the conversation once again "You want to tell me what happened since our last session?"

Ilya sigh "I fought with my brother. Before Christmas. We were catching up; Yulia got hurt during a game and-"

Ilya ends up telling her everything, a whole rundown of that night, from Yulia's storming out to their discussion. The tissue Galina had pushed over in his direction finds its way into his hands, only to be ripped in pieces as he talks and keep his hand busy, all while he fights against his headache and the burning of his eyes.

Galina doesn't interrupt him, only looking away to scribble down on her note pad every once in a while.

"-I hurt him." Ilya finishes, miserably "And I- I have no idea on how to fix it, now."

"Have you talked with him since?"

Ilya nibbles at his bottom lip "No."

Galina's look is telling enough.

"I know." He grumbles "But you weren't there or- or when we called after, at Christmas eve. He didn't want to talk with me either."

Or, at least, he had been quiet enough to make Ilya deduce it by himself, as he tried smiling to Yulia and her enthusiastic shriek as she opened the new Fifa20 he'd got her.

"I think maybe this is something you should ask him." Galina says "He can't read your mind as much as you can't read his."

"Yeah. That's what Shane said." He grits out.

"You told him about the fight?"

"No. Well, yes. It's not like he couldn't notice something was weird but- he said it when we fought, yesterday." Ilya admits "That he can't read my mind."

"He can't." She agrees "I suppose that was the point of the argument?"

"I don't know what the point was." He scoffs "I- it started with Bood's party."

"Your teammate?" Galina asks.

"Yeah. He invited the team over for Boxing day." Ilya explains, suddenly embarrassed "I asked him to go together. As friends. And I guess, alright, we've never done something like that and it would have looked ridiculous to bring him but... I wanted to. And maybe I wanted to introduce him as my boyfriend, too."

Galina's eyes widen imperceptibly "That would have been a big step. One that would require some serious discussion beforehand."

"Well, we didn't discuss. He said no and I got angry."

"I take it that Shane is not ready to come out to the public."

"I am not either. I don't think so, at least, but- It's just unfair." Ilya grits out "Sometimes I think I'll scream or die if I have to keep this secret any longer or have to pretend we're nothing."

"And did you tell him that?"

Ilya sags into his shoulders "Sort of. I didn't tell him about coming here or much about the rest, but I think he got that I'm unhappy with this. But what am I supposed to do now?" He asks "I don't know when I'll see him again, our schedules are a mess for at least the next couple of weeks. I shouldn't have mentioned that stupid party."

"Do you think maybe that was your way to push his limits and see where they would set?"

Ilya can't say he's really understood what she meant.

"Maybe you didn't directly tell him you wanted more, but you were trying to see whether he would take the bait or not." Galina explains.

Ilya gapes at her "So I am what? A controlling asshole, now?"

"You're someone who is hurting." Galina corrects him "And sometimes when we're scared of the answers we might get, we circle around things we want to say."

Ilya lowers his eyes to his hands, gripping the tissue confetti scattered across his lap "I asked him if he would choose me. Against hockey." He whispers.

Galina nods "I take it his answer didn't end up being the one you wanted."

"He hesitated." Ilya confesses, voice bitter, before relenting "But... I caught him off guard, I think. We'd already been arguing all day for stupid things and we were too tired and angry with each other by that point to, you know, be lucid. I don't know if he meant it."

"I think you two should have a real talk, this time." Galina says, only a little pointedly, ripping a tired smile out of him "And with your brother too. I know it will be a tough conversation, but I bet it'll make all parts involved feel better."

"I hate that it makes sense." He informs her, bluntly.

"Tough luck." She agrees, amused, but in some implicit encouragement that's enough to make his heart settle.

It's a long pathway.

Yeah, Ilya is starting to finally see it now.

*

Truth be told, Ilya procrastinates the whole thing a little.

He can barely keep his eyes open by the time he's parked into his driveway and it's only hours later, when he finally wakes up after passing out from exhaustion, that he remembers about the session again.

His phone feels like a minacious presence, even a whole two feet away from him, on the nightstand, as he tries pretending to be watching the wheel of fortune instead of thinking about Shane, just two hours away and probably getting ready for their road trip to Toronto.

But then, when he finally realizes the program has long since finished and he's been passively watching a crime series he doesn't even know the name of for the past twenty minute, Ilya finally decides it's time to do something at least more proactive.

And so, after forty minutes in the gym, an hour spent looking through impossible recipes to replicate with his half empty fridge and one Doordash order, he's back inside his room, his guitar case propped open by his feet as he carefully works on replacing the strings.

Galina did say that it could only do him good to get back to it, after all.

It's been years since he last picked it up, pretty noticeable from the build up of dust in between the frets, but, after only a couple of technical hiccups, nobody would be able to say it's been abandoned for months.

He tries some chords first, just to see whatever he can remember, simple phrases he's curiously never deleted from his mind, and then he picks up the first song that comes to mind, hoping he won't butcher it too bad.

It's fingers aches, not used anymore to the way the strings dig into their tips, but the callouses from hockey surely help him find some balance as he moves down the neck, not as hesitantly with the knowledge noone will be able to hear him anyway.

Ilya remembers the first time Alexei found him cross-legged on the floor of Rory's room, one of his old guitars propped up in his lap. He had Rory's permission, after all, he'd made sure to tell him that, as he sat down in front of him and asked him to show him.

By then, the only two people that had heard him play were Rory himself and a not so honoured Svetlana, but he had agreed, embarrassed by the way his hand shook on the fretboard under his brother's calculating eyes.

Alexei hadn't said anything through any of it, didn't leave for no other reason than to pick up some drinks from the kitchen, before walking back in to lay on Rory's bed and scroll through his phone, even though Ilya knew he wasn't really paying attention, from the way his foot tapped to the rhythm of the metronome.

He could have spent that time with Niamh, helping the Callahans around the house, or have done literally anything else but listen to Ilya play the same melody over and over again until perfection.

From then on Alexei didn't ask to stay anymore, hanging around quietly as Ilya did his things, and only laughing mockingly every time he lost his patience and laid back on the ground with a pout.

He'd told Galina playing helped with not being sad about being away from home, because, in the end, that's what he associated with every time he did.

Ilya's fingers miss the next note.

But now he and Alexei don't talk. It's been a week of silence, on both parts, apart from Niamh's daily and badly veiled texts, wondering what the hell has been going on.

And what could Ilya tell her?

That he got so lost in his head that he finally got mad and lashed out, out of nowhere, when all Alexei had wanted to do was help?

His right hand slips, the strings shriek.

And he wouldn't be surprised if his brother finally decided Ilya was too much, after all those years, after months of being skittish and irritable and a real pain in the ass.

His strums pick up more frantically as he starts again.

But there is still Niamh and Yulia, if Ilya really managed to get himself forgiven for letting her down, only because he never knows when to stop being greedy-

The pain snaps him back to reality, but it's the blood dripping down his hand, the guitar, his sheets, that pushes him away from pretending it doesn't exists "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

Ilya cradles his finger closer, where the string cut deep along his nail, breathing heavily as his stomach twists and turns.

Maybe it's the sight of blood, because, alright, maybe Ilya does have a thing for blood after all, or perhaps is the simple realization than in less than a week he threw his whole life away, that he might have lost everything that made it worth it, that made playing fun and not torture.

He gags around his finger as tries stopping the blood from flowing, tears running down his face and the body of the guitar in hot rivulets, where they meet the splatters he'd left on the plate.

Ilya has to do something.

He only manages to smear it even more with his free hand, until that too ends up coated in red. It's a stupid cut, he thinks, panicked, it shouldn't bleed so much, and yet Ilya can still feel the metallic taste of it in his mouth as it doesn't make any sign of wanting to stop.

Ilya quickly pushes the guitar off his lap, standing on weak legs. It makes a violent crack as it fall onto the ground, but he barely registers it as he scrambles for the bathroom, fighting against the nausea.

He can't think of anything better than push his hands under the sink, and hope it will wash everything way.

He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs, but it feels like it's barely doing anything.

Ilya still feels dirty.

He wraps his hand in a towel, trying to keep the pressure on the cut firm despite how weak his whole body feels, as he drags himself back to his room.

It's a mess; the bed was already unmade from when he and Shane left to drive up to his parents', but the sheets now are painted with drops of red. The guitar lays where it had collided against the desk, the body cracked and bent, laying above clothes Ilya should have thrown into the hamper and trash that had fallen from the bin when he'd accidentally kicked it on his way to the bathroom.

Ilya kneels at the foot of his bed, near the ruins of his guitar.

His hands hurt, his chest does even more, as his laboured breathing turns into heaves and the only things Ilya can do is cry like a child throwing a tantrum after the consequences of his actions finally hit him square in the face.

He wants to call his brother, he wants to apologize and beg him to let him make it better. Ilya just needs a little time to figure it out, how to live with this.

Was this how his mother used to feel back then, when she laid over her bed with vitreous eyes looking out the window, too weak to even walk down to have dinner with the rest of them?

And Ilya loved her, he still does now, but he can't bear the idea of being that similar to her like that, too.

He could never do that to his brother, to his family. He could never do that to Shane.

He reaches for his phone with shaking hands, before he can stop himself, but it's only when the first ring goes through that he finally realizes what he's doing: calling his brother in the middle of the night, without prompt, while choking on his sobs.

He hangs up just as fast, before throwing his phone back over the bed.

Ilya passes out right there on the floor that night, with no tears left to cry anymore.

*

The first thing Ilya is aware of as he stirs, from the first dreamless night of sleep in months, is someone calling his name. The second one, though, is a slap delivered right across his face.

"-what the fuck...?"

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, thank God."

Ilya squints, groggy and a little disoriented, his cheek stinging against the breeze coming in from the window. He hadn't opened the window the night before. And he was also alone, the night before, for that matter.

The culprit is easy to locate as the first thing he sees when opening his eyes is his brother, crouched down in front of him as he... check's Ilya's pulse?

"What are doing?" He mumbles, trying to sit up.

Alexei doesn't allow him to, finger pressed shakily over his wrist "Did you take anything?"

Ilya is not quite following "Shouldn't you be in Vancouver?" He asks, confused, as he takes in his state.

He looks, frankly, like shit, and Ilya knows a few things about it; his hair is messy, like he just rolled off of bed and followed to dress in the dark, and his eyes bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept a bit, which kind of would also explain why he keeps searching frantically over the floor, around Ilya, Ilya himself, for something he cannot quite place.

"Alexei-"

"Did you take anything?" Alexei repeats, on edge.

"Anything?"

"Pills, drops, the whole shebang. Did you take anything?"

That's what finally kicks Ilya's brain into start "What are you talking about?"

"Listen." Alexei says, urgently, his chest raising furiously with every breath "Whatever it is, you can tell me, but in case we need to go to the hospital-"

"You think I took drugs?" Ilya asks, distraught, pushing him away just enough to sit up, despite his brother's protests.

He must look awake enough to let the accusations dissipate, at least, if the way Alexei sighs in relief is any giving, as he drops onto the floor in front of him.

Ilya stares at him, dumbfounded. If it weren't for his face still aching, he would think this is all a dream, but his brother really is there, looking at Ilya like he's the one convinced his eyes are deceiving him. Ilya slowly reaches out for his hand, limp on his lap, before bringing it up to his own chest, where his heart is beating like a maniac.

"I'm okay." Ilya says, squeezing his wrist "You feel it? I'm okay."

Alexei's eyes shake "You're okay." He echoes.

"And you're in Ottawa." Ilya considers, baffled "Why are you in Ottawa?"

It's then that the relief on Alexei's face twists to unadulterated anger "Why am I in Ottawa? Are you fucking for real?" He growls, before lowering his hand, after half a second of hesitation "You- you called me last night, you remember that?"

Ilya does, shamefully, remember it, just like he does everything that came before then "Yeah, but-"

"You called me, in the middle of the night, and then you didn't pick up when I called you back. Not the first, nor the second, and not the third time." Alexei grits out "And I thought maybe it was by mistake, I was worrying too much, but you hadn't answered one text in a week and then called at two fucking AM out of nowhere. So I get on the first plane I can find, go through a six hour flight to stupid Ottawa thinking..." His breath itches as he turns his head away, jaw clenched "And after I had to get myself in because you won't answer the doorbell, I find you on the floor, unresponsive and- and why's there blood fucking everywhere?" He blurts out hastily.

Ilya stares at him, the cogs turning in his head as a devastating picture starts slowly taking form. Alexei thought he-

Ilya looks down at his right hand, the cut still red and angry, running until the end of his first knuckle but thankfully closed "I cut my finger playing." He whispers "I fell asleep, I- that's why I didn't answer. I didn't realize it was that late, I didn't want you to worry."

Alexei scoffs wetly "Yeah, congratulations. You did such a great job."

"I swear I didn't-"

His brother stops him with one hand. His voice cracks "I know. But you still scared me to death."

Ilya doesn't know what to say to that. Guilt pools in his guts, hot and fierce, but Alexei doesn't give him time to apologize. He exhales weakly, wiping his hand under his nose before standing up "I'm going to make coffee." He announces, firmly "Take a shower, you reek, and then come down. We're going to have a talk, whether you like it or not. No more hang ups, not 'I'm fine's, or I swear to god I'll throw your overpriced skates into the North Saskatchewan."

Ilya nods dumbly, but Alexei is already halfway through the door to see it.

Well, what would be the point of arguing now?

And, he thinks, dragging himself to the shower, Alexei does deserve some answers.

Ilya has a day of grime, blood and sweat to wash off. He soaks under the scalding water until his fingers don't catch on knots anymore and he's finally, unmistakably, awake.

When he walks out of the bathroom, what feels like ages later and not a mere thirty minutes, the bedroom is spotless. The sheets have been changed, the bed made, everything that littered the floor picked up and the hamper empty. The broken guitar lays over the duvet, in all his pieces.

Ilya usually would roll his eyes at this kind of nagging. Right now it only serves to make his chest ache.

Alexei is in the kitchen when he makes his way downstairs, bare feet cold over the wooden floors. He gestures Ilya to seat, before pushing coffee and a plate of toasted white bread in his direction.

"Thank you."

His brother doesn't answer, fingers twitching around his cup in a nervous gesture.

Ilya reaches for the cup first, downing half in a gulp. It's sweet, and the milk makes him way more bearable than the coffee they serve at the rink. Because his brother knows him, better than Ilya does, probably. He was there when Ilya learned how to walk just like he's here now, when keep going forward feels like the hardest task he could be asked for.

"I'm sorry." It's the first thing he says, raising his eyes from his coffee to meet his, where he's been analysing him from the other side of the isle "For the scare and... for what I said, the last time we talked. I didn't mean it. I was- I don't know how I was, but it was uncalled for and you didn't deserve it."

Alexei nods, stiff "It was. But I went too far. You were right." He says, sighing "You're an adult and you know what's best for yourself. I shouldn't have insisted when you didn't want to talk."

"I overreacted."

"I said your team sucks."

"My team does suck, everyone knows that."

"Well, there was no need for the reminder."

Ilya snorts into his cup "Maybe not."

"For what it's worth it, I don't see you as a project. I never did." Alexei states, pushing his hair back behind his ear. His lips set into a grim line "But you don't know how you looked, how it has been for months. Niamh said you'd tell us when you were ready, if there really was something going, but I- you know I can be overbearing."

"You worry, that's not a bad thing." Ilya considers, hiding in his shoulders "Plus, you weren't wrong to be." He adds, in a whisper.

Alexei stays silent, waiting.

And so Ilya tells him: he tells him about the unshakable loneliness he's brought with him all the way to Ottawa, of being sad and angry and caged in the world he'd to cut out between being a hockey player and being Shane's boyfriend. He tells Alexei about Galina, their sessions, what he'd thought he could control and that had inevitable ended up holding the handle of the knife back against him.

His brother doesn't interrupt him, but Ilya can see the effect of his words on him, the hunch of his back and the way his eyes keep flying over him, as the air in the room thickens.

Alexei's voice is brittle when he opens his mouth again "And you- you dealt with it, all of it, by yourself? You didn't tell anyone? Not even Shane?"

"No." He clears his voice, sniffing "Well, Ivan knows. He's uh, he helped me look for a therapist."

Ivan, who had texted Ilya right after that disastrous call on Christmas, a cryptic text that now Ilya feels pretty confident about interpreting as a 'Call your brother', right under videos of the guys playing pool and a selfie of he and Niall grilling in the back.

"And for Shane- I didn't want to put this on him, too. Not when I thought I could... fix me."

"Fix you." Alexei repeats, astounded "You fix a dog, not a person, Ilya. You aren't broken."

Ilya can feel tears burning at his eyes as he tries looking away. Alexei doesn't make it easy for him, rounding the counter to kneel next to his chair. His hand finds the back of Ilya's head, in a solid and comforting grip.

"When- when mom died, I promised to myself that I wouldn't let anything happen to you." He says, exhaling roughly "And I know I already failed, too many times, but I'm here now. I want to be here." He presses, thumb running soothingly over his ear "And if it means getting through your thick head that this doesn't make you anybody less than yourself, I fucking will."

A sob escapes his lips "You don't know everything yet, I-" he gulps, struggling to find his words "Galina said I- that I'm like mom. Depressed. We haven't looked through it yet, but-"

Alexei's eyes shine with tears "You'll never be like mom." He croaks "She was alone. She didn't have... help. But you get to have that, Ilya, you just have to ask." He begs him "I don't care if I'm all the way in Vancouver, Edmonton or fucking Russia, God forbid. You say the word and we'll make it work, all of us."

"I can't ask that of you." He sniffs "You have a fucking life, Alexei, you can't be my babysitter, too"

"I'm not your babysitter, I'm your brother." Alexei corrects him, firmly "And if you're struggling I want to be there. Even when you're being a self sacrificing asshole."

"Takes one to know one." He tries saying, but the word mix up on the way out with the tears he's been trying not to let down ever since they started talking.

Alexei's arms wrap around his back as he stands back up to pull him in. Ilya falls easily, body shaking with the force of his sobs, as he lets it all out, the fear and the anger, everything that has been harbouring in the pits of his head, leaving behind a shell of himself.

His brother cradles him like he's a kid again, waking up from the same nightmare, over and over again, but Ilya knows this is not just for him, this time. He feels it in the shake of Alexei's shoulders, the way his fingers tangle in the damp hair of his nape, like he's afraid Ilya might disappear. It makes Ilya only cry harder.

"I'm sorry." He murmurs, after what seems hours later.

"It's okay."

"I broke my guitar."

"I'll buy you another."

"And I fought with Shane."

That does get his brother's attention.

He gently pulls away, holding Ilya at arm length with a small frown on his face "What happened?"

"I was an asshole." He admits, wiping at his eyes "I'm- I hate hiding, Lyosha." He hiccups "I hate that we can't be like normal couples and that the guys can't know and- I'm sorry that Yulia had to get dragged into this."

"Hey, you don't have to worry about that." Alexei says. His sleeve catches the wayward tears falling over Ilya's cheeks "It's not ideal, yes, and you know what I think about the whole hockey thing but- Yulia wasn't mad."

"Of course she was-"

"Ilya, she's nine." Alexei chuckles "She wasn't mad, she was sad. She loves you and she was disappointed, yes, but she's also a kid. She doesn't understand that while we are your family, you're also allowed to go out and make your own. One Christmas with Shanya's parents doesn't change anything." He says, poking his cheek "And by the way, Yuna sent me a picture of what you got Shane. You two make me sick."

"Oh, shut up." He grumbles, landing a weak punch on his shoulder "Like you and Niamh have ever been any better."

Alexei's smile turns into something more serious, then "Shanya loves you. A fight is nothing. But what you got to do now, is call him and have a talk. A real one."

"Galina said the same thing."

"She's a smart woman. Probably too underpaid to work with stupid hockey boys."

"Very funny." Ilya huffs.

Ilya feels like someone took an hammer to his head, but he finds it hard not to finally relax into his chair. His brother doesn't hate him. Alexei, who flew in just to make sure Ilya was okay, that always stood up and surely isn't going not to, this time, and that now keeps looking at Ilya, expectantly.

"So?"

"What?"

"You need a formal invite to call your boyfriend? The fuck are you waiting for?"

"You mean now?" Ilya is not half prepared for it and- "I have practice." Ilya says, automatically, before sending a panicked look to the kitchen clock "Fuck, I do have practice."

And in less than an hour, how the hell did Ilya forget?

Alexei scoffs, unimpressed, looking at him up and down "You sure you want to go? Can't you sit this one out?"

Ilya stuffs his face with another piece of bread before rushing out towards the stairs "We have a game on Friday, I really can't!"

"Fucking hockey." He hears Alexei sigh "Alright, I'll drive you."

*

"Lex? What the hell, man! How you doing?" Wyatt says, skating up to the boards to meet them, while Ilya finishes lacing up his skates on the bench.

With skates on, they're about the same height, but Alexei still reaches over to ruffle Wyatt's hair "All's the same, kid. You and Lisa doing good?"

"You know it." He smiles "Roz didn't say you were coming." He adds, jokingly accusing.

Ilya tenses slightly, glad to be out of his sight, blocked by Alexei's legs.

"Surprise visit. My boss said I had some leave days piled up." Truthfully, that wouldn't be hard to believe knowing his brother.

"How long are you guys staying?"

"Oh, no, it's just me. Niamh had to work and Yulia stayed up in Edmonton with the in-laws since Isaak and the guys will be over until New Year. I'm picking her up on the way back. I'm leaving before your roadie."

In three days. Ilya couldn't quite believe it when Alexei told him, while driving both of them to the rink. Perhaps he should have at least tried to pretend to be bothered by that kind of indulging, that he still had some dignity left, but he won't dare look a gifted horse in the mouth.

The team looks thrilled to finally meet Alexei. It hadn't occurred to him that, in all three years he's been in Ottawa, they never did for one reason or another. Ilya can accept their teasing, though, in between breaks. It makes practice light, even if he feels like he got run over by a truck. But nobody comments on it, too distracted by the novelty currently chatting with Wiebe and Harris on the sidelines, as Ilya leads practice.

He falls heavily into the passenger seat of his car later that afternoon, tired to the bone but more settled, like he hasn't been in a long time. Still, he can't fight the nervousness throughout dinner, even with Alexei's offering distractions as they try guessing the answers to Family Feud.

Ilya retires to his room early that night, his phone clutched in his hands like a ticking bomb.

He needs to do this, he tells himself, sighing heavily. For them, for himself, he decides, before pressing on Shane's contact.

"Oh my god. Hi." Shane says, his face popping up on the screen, after only a couple of rings. His voice is tight, eyes worried as they search Ilya's face, while he lays against the headboard of his bed in an old Montreal stretched out shirt.

Shane looks just as exhausted.

"Ilya, listen I-"

"It's okay." He cuts him off "Listen I- I think we should talk."

Shane's face crumbles, lips parting with a quiet whimper "You're not- are you breaking up with me? I know that I was- but-"

Ilya has maybe slept twelve hours in the span of two days, spent the whole past two sweating cold while trying to make a sense out of the words he wants to say to him, while Alexei drove them back from the rink. But even then, he can't help the hysterical laugh surging out of him.

"What the fuck are you laughing about?" Shane growls, glaring at him.

"You- you think I want to break up with you?" Ilya hiccups through his fit, tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. This ridiculous man. His ridiculous man "Sweetheart, they'd need to get over my dead body to pry me off of you. What are you even saying?"

Shane's relief is so palpable Ilya wishes he could reach over, to smooth the preoccupation written in the lines of his frown with his fingers.

"This is not what's going on." He promises him, caressing over the pixels of his face. Now comes the hard part "We need to talk because I haven't been honest with you about- about something and I'm sorry for how the other day ended. I shouldn't have asked you to leave."

"I get why you did." Shane shakes his head, biting down on his bottom lip "I was an ass to you. I told myself everything was fine, that we'd go through it, but I took all you've done for us for granted and I forgot to check if you were still okay with it."

Ilya smiles sadly at him "I'd do more. You'd only have to ask."

"But I don't want to you." Shane presses, lips parting, affronted "God, are you okay? I know you hate me asking you that, but I'm so fucking worried right now."

This is it, Ilya thinks "I know you have a lot of questions but... I can't take all of them right now. So, uh, don't interrupt me. Please."

Shane only nods, dragging the desk chair closer to where his phone must be perched on the table "Okay."

Ilya nods back, palms suddenly clammy "Okay. Thank you." He inhales deeply, trying to find some courage "I've been seeing a therapist."

Shane looks surprised, confused a bit, and clearly like he does want to ask something, but he only makes a sound of acknowledgement, pushing him to continue.

"It's been... hard, lately. It's something I should have done earlier." Ilya says, scratching at his jaw "I started a couple of months ago. It's been good so far, I think. I don't know. But the point is I'm trying to get better and I'm- I don't want you to think that this is because of something you have done or because I have regrets about us, about my trade. It's way more than that. That's why I didn't tell you." Ilya whispers "I didn't want to put this on you too. I get now why it was probably a bad idea but... therapy is different. Some things you cannot help me with and it's okay, but I want you to know that I never want it to end like it did ever again."

Shane doesn't say anything at first. His face is carefully blank as he processes his words "I don't either." He says, a little shakily "And I- I'm glad you're getting help and that you found someone that can give that to you."

Ilya smiles, apprehensively "Even if it's not you?"

Shane sighs "Yeah. Even if it's not me. I get why that'd be different, you're right. You, uh, you like your therapist?"

Ilya chuckles "She's married with kids, Shane."

"That's not what I meant, you asshole."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. She's good." He assures him "And Russian. It's easier like this."

It could have been worse, so far, Ilya thinks, indulging into Shane's held back questions, as if he’s afraid of pushing to far. But now there's another thing he needs to get off his chest.

"There's another thing you should know." He says, picking up his attention "She knows about us. I told her."

Shane sucks in a breath "Like, with my name and everything?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry but... I didn't want to lie there too." He admits.

"Okay. Yeah, I- I mean, she's sworn to secrecy right? That's her job. It should be fine." Shane nods, probably to convince himself more than to reassure him, but Ilya will take it anyway.

"Yes." He assures him "She won't say anything."

Shane hesitates then, fingers tapping over the wood of the desk "Can I ask what made you decide to see a therapist? You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but..."

"It's not that I don't want to tell you." Ilya says "But not now, maybe. Not on the phone. Is it okay?

"I get that."

"But really, I'm sorry I made you leave. It was a nice Christmas with your parents and I'm sorry I wasted the time we could have had together."

"And I'm sorry for everything I said. Like, really fucking sorry." Shane sniffs quietly "I love you, Ilya."

"I know, lyubimyy." It doesn't erase the pleasant warmth spreading inside his chest, though. Ilya will never get tired of hearing him saying that.

Shane grins "I know that one."

"Oh, no." Ilya sighs, mockingly "So you know my secret then."

"That you love me?"

"Yeah. I do." Ilya says, now more serious "I love you, Shane. This... it didn't change anything for me."

"For me neither." Ilya watches him look at a point over the camera "Fuck, I'm gonna be late. I have to go."

"Okay."

"I wish our schedules weren't fucked. But maybe a little distance is good right now?" Shane asks, timidly.

"I think so, yes." Ilya begrudgingly agrees "We'll talk next time we're together, yes?"

Shane is about to say something, a sad and sappy smile on his face, when the sound of his brother calling for him from downstairs interrupts him "Is that... Alexei?"

"Long story." He waves him off "I have to keep you on your toes, you know?"

"Ilya!"

"One fucking minute!" He yells back, rolling his eyes as Shane laughs "You better not win too many games." He tells him.

Shane smirks "You too."

"Baby, we never do." He winks, before smacking a kiss on the camera and hanging up, lighter than he's felt all week.

He stares at the ceiling with a giddy smile on his face, his phone face down on his chest.

Things are not fixed, but this is way more than Ilya could have imagined for himself not even twenty hours ago. It's progress. He can do progress.

He throws himself off the bed with a jump, aiming for downstairs as Alexei calls out again.

Ilya rolls his eyes, taking the last steps down to the living room "I swear to god, if it's not a matter of life or-"

His brother's face stops him in his tracks.

He's pale, almost green, as he looks at his laptop, open in his lap.

"Tell me someone didn't really die." Ilya tries joking. Neither of them ends up laughing.

"This might be worse." Its the only thing Alexei says, gesturing him over, before propping the laptop over the coffee table for him to look at.

It's an twitter post.

Ilya's mouth hangs open in horror as his eyes scan over the screen.

In the picture it's unmistakeable, from the jagged line of the scar on Nikolai's brow to his lips pressed not so chastely on Jude's, as they dance pressed together in the middle of a busy crowd of a club. The caption over it qualifies as the most disgusting text Ilya's ever had to read online.

It's everywhere, the more they look: reposted all around Instagram, magazine covers and articles popping up by a simple google search.

His blood is running cold into his veins as he dials Nikolai's number, hands shaking.

Nikolai answers on the third ring, voice wet and hoarse "Ilya..."

He exhales, putting the call on speaker "You saw it."

"It's kinda everywhere."

"Does Vetrov-"

"He knows." Nikolai sniffs "He- he already knew about Jude. I told him the last time he and Sveta visited. He's working on a statement with the management."

"You already heard from them?" He asks, biting on his nails, already raw, and ignoring Alexei's stern look.

Nikolai sighs weakly "Yeah. They- they kind of already knew. I brought Jude in for a couple of games, you know the guys love him. He- he was with Santy's wife at the cup's final, came down the ice with her." He rattles between hiccups "I already signed for seven years but- if they walk out the contract and I'm not traded again I could loose my Visa."

He would have to go back to Russia.

He and Alexei share a look, petrified.

"Nikki, have you called Nadia and Ivan already?" His brother asks then, taking a hold of the phone. Ilya can only be grateful, it probably would have fallen onto the ground with how unsteady he feels, as his thoughts ran wild through his head.

If Nikolai is surprised to discover they’re together, he doesn’t show it.

Nikolai sobs "No. I- I don't want to scare them, they should be at work right now."

"Is Jude, anyone, there with you?"

"He, uh, had a couple of sessions booked, the last one ran late. He- he hasn't read my texts yet. Some of the guys are here."

"- Hi... Roz?" Marleau's hesitant voice comes faintly through the speaker.

"Hi!" St. Simon echoes, sombrely, followed by Wilde and Carmichael.

"It's Alexei." Alexei informs them "How's the situation?"

"We know very little." Wilde admits wryly "I don't think they're going to go as far as to trade him, to be honest, less of all cut him off. I mean, we've qualified for the playoffs all three years he's been captain and he won us cup. What does him being gay matter to them, anyway?"

"We've hosted a lot of pride nights after Hunter came out." St. Simon considers "And I think Bridgers' daughter is a lesbian-"

"The hot one?"

"Mick, how the fuck is that relevant right now?"

"He has five fucking kids, how should I know-?"

"Shut up." Marleau barks "Get back to the point, you idiots. We sure ain't going to wait for Bridges to get his priorities straight."

"Don't do anything stupid." Alexei says. Ilya can almost see the clogs in his brains turning as he leans into the phone.

"Lyosha is right. I know you have good intentions but... this is big, guys. I don't think the news have arrived in Russia yet, but God forbid Nikki's Visa expires and he has to go back. They will do a background check and it won't be good."

Ilya is not even sure he's safe in the States either, right now, for that matter.

"Fuck." Marleau mutters "We all hate fucking Eric, can we all agree with that?"

He scoffs, scrolling through the blank twitter profile "Who is he anyway?"

"Just a guy that 'accidentally ended up in a queer club and found the Bear's captain making out with a twink'." Nikolai growls "If I come out of this alive, I'm suing his ass into the stratosphere.

"Roz, can one of you confirm that wasn't a death threat, perchance?"

"That's not what perchance-"

"The answer is no, anyway."

Ilya wouldn't be in any better conditions if it were him and Shane, after all. He's only just got his PR card again, not without bribes on top of that, and he can only imagine what a scandal like that could lead to.

"Nikki, you have a green card, right?" Alexei asks then, shutting up the murmurs coming from the other end of the line.

"I sent request a couple months ago, after my Visa got upgraded. Vetrov pressed for it after knowing about Jude. It didn't go through yet, though." Nikolai says, miserably.

"But you're on top priority." Alexei states, as if that were just common knowledge "And- just in case things escalate- if you asked for Asylum, it would fasten things up."

"Asylum?" Marleau repeats, dumbly "You think they would grant him that? Isn't it like for refugees?"

"Not only. Technically he would fill the requirements." Alexei says, a pondering look on his face "You'd have to ask Vetrov, but I think it could work."

"But-" Nikolai stutters, voice breaking "what about mom and dad? They're still there. I- I can't go back anymore, Lyosha. Never. I-"

"Hey. Hey, I know. We'll find a way, I promise." Alexei sooths him, in that gentle and soft tone Ilya's watched him use with Yulia so many times, reassuring and so earnest, one that Ilya knows too well himself. His own shoulders break from their tension and he listens to Alexei whisper in Russian over the phone "- it's going to be okay. We'll make it better, Kolyushka. You guys wait for Vetrov to call. When Jude comes back, fill him in. I call the guys, yes? And don't open social media, it's just a big load of bullshit.

St. Simon hisses lowly "Might be too late for that, Big-Roz."

"Already? You guys couldn't last more than two hours?" Alexei says, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Ilya bites down a chuckle, after all.

"Not me. I'm still banned from twitter." Carmichael announces.

Ilya sighs "Good riddance."

"Yeah, uhm, with the guys, we reported all the articles we could find and posted on the team's account. Maya helped. Coach was okay with it." Wilde confesses, perhaps a little afraid of Alexei's reaction.

Nikolai makes a startled sound "What do you mean? When? You- you didn't have to do that."

"You're our captain, Mozzy." Marleau says, firmly "You're also one of our own and we stand up for each other. Always."

Ilya is glad they cannot see his face, right now, the tears springing up to his eyes and clouding his sight.

He hates himself for not being there, loathes the unfairness of a single picture possibly ruining Nikolai's life, that any choice of disclosure was taken from him by some power-hungry homophobic asshole.

Guess that if Morozov didn't want his picture taken, he shouldn't have flaunted being a fag around.

What makes Nikolai so different from the rest of the people dancing in that club that he shouldn't be allowed to live just as freely? Would everyone think the same if they knew how fucking long it even took him to consider a life that wasn't hockey, because of that same judgement Ilya's seen while scrolling through his feed, to allow himself to love somebody else without the fear of having to choose between his career and himself?

The answers linked to the post are not all bad, among the hate there's much more support, fans and not that, just as the guys, are allegedly trying to get the tweet down. But the damage has been already done.

And Ilya can only watch uselessly as it spreads.

Ilya stays on the phone with the guys as Alexei stands up to retrieve his phone and call Nadia. He can hear him pace as he explains the situation, but he's way too into his head to commit to either their arguing or the stupid jokes the guys keep cracking to get Nikolai to lighten up.

It's probably pointless, but Ilya can only be glad he's not alone right now.

It takes hours for Vetrov to call Nikolai back. There is going to be a public statement, the guys refer, probably a lot of media restriction, but Bridges, at least, doesn't seem anywhere close to wanting to get rid of one of his best players, whether it goes against the commissioner's will or not.

Ilya sags against the cough with a sigh he'd been holding all throughout the evening, even after Jude arrived and the guys started to leave, one by one.

Jude doesn't sound as angry about himself being outed to the world as much as he does for Nikolai, to be honest, if only a little put out by the uncomfortable knowledge of his face having been splattered everywhere across the world.

"Well, I own being a twink, jokes on him." He comments as he reads the post.

"We'll need to media train you a little." Nikolai sighs, fondly, pulling him closer by the waist.

They'd switched to facetime after the team left, and, as much as seeing the devastation on Nikolai's blotchy face had only managed to make him see even more red, while typing out the longest Instagram post of his life, it's nice to being able to see him lax now, as Jude runs his ringed fingers through his hair. At least he doesn’t look on the verge of crying his eyes out anymore.

"Why would I need that?"

"When they'll know who you are, they might find the shop's page. I don't like the idea of someone going after you while you're at work but... we have to take that into consideration." Nikolai says, voice low and bitter.

"He's not wrong." Ilya agrees sadly "People are crazy."

"Jesus." Jude whistles, in time for Alexei to get back into the living room, his steps trailing heavily behind him. He holds two beers in his hands. Ilya gratefully accepts the one held up in his direction.

"You talked to them?" Nikolai asks him, nervous.

"Just got off the phone with Ivan." Alexei nods, looking queasy as he sits by Ilya's side and in front of the laptop's camera "They're... okay."

"Don't lie to me."

"Alright, they're fucking angry." Alexei sighs "And they're scared. Can you blame them?"

Nikolai makes a pained noise "No. I guess not."

"But the team is keeping you. That's a good thing, yes?" Jude tries to cheer him up.

"It is, but... I don't think I'll relax until I know the case is closed." Nikolai admits.

"Vetrov is working on it." Alexei assures him "Given the circumstances, getting your greencard might take maybe another couple of months? Depends on the judge."

Nikolai groans "Still?"

"I know." Alexei says, dragging one hand down his face, exhausted "But it's our best shot."

"What if we got married?"

Ilya sputters around his beer, hitting his chest. Alexei's eyes widen, not so differently from Nikolai's as he stares up at Jude, who on his part looks genuinely curious.

"I mean." Alexei clears his voice "Even if, there's still a long time frame you'd have to wait for the citizenship to be granted, I think. It wouldn't be faster, by any means."

Jude scoffs "Is there something you don't have to wait for in this stupid country?"

"You- you'd want to marry me?" Nikolai stutters, instead.

Ilya sends Alexei a panicked look. They definitely shouldn't be here for this. But then again, Jude surely won't-

"We've been together for four years, living together for three. We have a cat with both of our names on his vet's chart." Jude chuckles "What do you think?"

"Guys, hold on a second-"

Nikolai's eyes are glassy as he leans into the palm of his hand "Yeah but... like this?"

"No, I wouldn't marry you just for citizenship." Jude agrees, humming as he pushes his hair away from his face.

"Yeah, because that's actually illegal-"

"But I love you." Jude continues, smiling down at him "And that is a reason I'd marry you for, whether it's now or someday in the future. But maybe sooner rather than later, alright?" He says, as an afterthought, patting his chest before standing up from Nikolai's lap with an enviable nonchalance "It's late. I'm going to shower. Thanks guys, for everything." He adds then, smiling earnestly to the camera.

He proceeds to leave a kiss on Nikolai's forehead, whispering a quiet, not so quiet "Join me when you're done", and walk out the room.

Nikolai stares at the point where he just disappeared from, his lips parted in shock. He's flushed, completely mesmerized "I'm not like- crazy, you guys heard it too, right?"

Alexei pinches the bridge of his nose "The last part, I wish I hadn't."

"Dude, what the hell are you waiting for, a sign from high up?" Ilya asks instead, smiling from ear to ear. What the fuck "We'll talk tomorrow. Don't think, just go get your man, you idiot."

Nikolai stumbles to close the call, and then it's just Alexei and Ilya, staring at their own faces in the reflection of the screen.

"What did just happen?" Alexei asks, carefully still.

"I think they might have just gotten engaged. Kind of?" Ilya laughs, shocked "Nadia is going to kill them."

Alexei cracks too, fondling his pockets for a cigarette and his lighter "Our family is so fucking weird."

It is, Ilya thinks, as he follows him out to the porch. But maybe they're going to be okay, after all.

*

The team leaves Ottawa early on Friday morning. Alexei packs both of them in an uber, his own duffle laying on top of Ilya's carry on and hockey bag, ready to fly back to Edmonton.

It's been a weird couple of days, that is for sure. With everything that happened, Ilya would have been more surprised if they hadn't.

The press conference the Bears' management had set for that following morning, after Nikolai and Jude got outed, had gone as smoothly as everyone could have hoped for. There were very little occasions where Nikolai wasn't as timid in front of a camera, all related to hockey, and that had been no exception, especially when fuelled by that much spite.

Ilya had watched his speech from his living room, salty for not being able to fly in, as he leaned his head on Alexei's shoulder and commented angrily over the absurd questions coming from the crowd of journalists. But he'd been also proud, more that words could ever express, watching his best friend take his freedom back.

"I don't think I need to justify myself." Nikolai had finally said "If it had been any other player, a straight one, we wouldn't be here. But I can't say now I am sad it ended up like this, because, even though no one deserves to have their life posted against their will, it gave me chance to finally live mine the way I've always wanted to." He stated, before leaning back in to the microphone, a smirk on his face "So thank you, Eric. But either way you're not invited to wedding."

Nikolai had left the stage to allow Bridges to close the conference, under the journalists yells of disappointment.

"Can you believe this is the same kid that used to get too embarrassed to ask for ketchup at the restaurant?" Alexei had asked, in disbelief.

Ilya had been too busy laughing his ass off to answer.

"Take care, okay?" Alexei asks now, stopping a few feet away from where Ilya can already see the guys ready to walk in for the check-in "Whatever you need, just call."

Ilya nods, a bit self-conscious but ultimately grateful. He feels a little like a toddler being dropped off at kindergarten, to be honest, but he can't not admit that having his brother over, to fill in the holes even for just a while, had helped him more than imaginable. He definitely has a lot to tell Galina at their next appointment.

"Okay. It's going to be fine, Lyosha."

Alexei pats his shoulder, pulling him in for an half armed hug "I know. You're not on your own, kid."

Ilya believes it now.

"Look at you, getting so sentimental." He teases him, leaning back with a tearful smile "Go back to your wife, sap."

"Oh, I will." Alexei smirks, pushing his face away "See you, weirdo."

Ilya walks towards his team, his heart full.

Ilya can't quite believe he's standing there, by the goal line, after having just dumped in the puck that got them their first win of the year, and against Carolina, even.

The locker room is filled with yells and roars, and he's all sticky with champagne that he doesn't really want to question where the guys got it from, after being carried on Bood's and Wyatt's shoulders all the way to his assigned cub.

Their first three games, one of which on home ice, had predictably ended up with them having to tend at their wounds, but maybe that had been what finally sparked that resoluteness. Their lines had been growing stronger and stronger, they were starting to click together, just as he'd hoped they would, but Ilya doesn't want to be preposterous, not as much as he wants to finally enjoy the thrill that comes with victory.

"New year, new energy." Bood yells "We're going to be unstoppable, baby!"

Ilya hopes so with all of his heart.

He likes seeing the team like this and he vows to keep that going for as long as he can.

"Still haven't told him?" He whispers to Troy, digging into the locker for the pants of his suit after finishing to scrunch gel into his damp hair.

Troy, who has been giving Harris the biggest heart eyes Ilya's ever seen, since he first discovered he would join them for their southern road trip, shakes his head.

"Not going to, either."

"Oh, c'mon. This is your chance." He insists "What's more romantic than a trip to Florida? The sun, the beaches, you get to show off that six pack in front of him all you want, with that heat." He says, slapping his stomach with the back of his hand.

Troy's cheeks grow a light pink "Fuck off, Roz."

"Oh, I know someone you'd like to fuck more." He sniggers, picking up his phone.

There are texts from the family group chat, congratulating him for the win, a picture of Yulia in a bright red Centaur's jersey sending two thumbs up with a smile bigger than her face, and a single heart emoji and a trophy from Shane.

They hadn't talked much since their phone call, and while he missed him, it was probably for the best, just as they'd agreed. Still, he smiles at the small acknowledgement, before getting back to suit up for interviews.

With Alexei's check-ins and the generous distraction offered by the roadies, Ilya can say it's been easier, for that past week, to deal with the rest, as he makes a mental list of everything he wants to tell Shane as soon as they'll finally see each other again, even if it'll be the hardest conversation of his life.

They're all in good spirits as they board the plane, later that night.

Ilya sits alone by the window, headphones on, watching the guys laugh and joke across the isle, mocking Bood's faceplanting on the ground at the first turbulence.

Wyatt slips in the seat next to his, stealing one bud off his ear and sighing deeply as he makes himself comfortable.

"What a week, uh?"

Ilya laughs "I know, right?"

"Niko is engaged, we just won a game and now we're headed to fucking Florida, princess." Wyatt snorts "Feels like a fever dream."

"Would you have ever believed it, when we were kids?" Ilya teases him, steading his can on the tray at the next powerful shake.

"No chance." Wyatt says, matter of factly, before being cut off by a loud bang.

The plane creaks, rocking violently to the right, and Ilya barely has the time to push his arm in front of Wyatt's chest to brace him from knocking his head over the facing seat before the plane starts to drop.

The screams are louder than any Ilya has ever heard. His own throat burns as he grips the arm of his seat, eyes closed like it could make any difference as they plummet to death.

Is this how he's going to die?

Ilya has a wedding to go to, he thinks, deliriously, and he still has to talk with Shane, to bring Yulia to the pond lake so they can skate together. He had promised Isaak he would secretly teach him how to drive, next time they'd see each other, and Niamh that he'd help her look for the unfindable vinyl she wants to get for Alexei's birthday, later that year.

Ilya can't die, he can't, not now that everything was finally starting to get better.

The plane levels out with a shudder, sending all of them crashing against the backrests of their seat. The screams stop, replaced by eery silence.

His heart is beating too loud to hear the Pilot's announcement, but he shakily reaches for the seatbelt, fastening it around his waist, as the lights turn off and the plane starts to shake again.

Emergency landing.

The plane is on fire.

One hand still being strangled by Wyatt's, Ilya curls down in his seat, trying to make his other one to collaborate enough to unlock his phone.

He only half knows what he's doing, murmuring prayers he didn't even thought he remembered from when he was a child, as he taps on the screen, the more the plane rocks and tilts, in a maddening precarious balance, as they descend.

There are whimpers, whispers, all joined by the sounds of the back-up engines roaring and clanking, as the plane cuts through the air.

There's a cracking sound from the speakers. Wyatt's hands shakily leave his arm as he leans forward. Ilya grips the cross around his neck until his knuckles turn white.

"I-Ilya- get up- next seat-"

Ilya doesn't hear him, though.

There's a violent thud. The next thing he knows his phone is slipping from his hands and being sent flying violently against the floor, before, with a sharp hit on the back of his head, Ilya gets knocked down.

*

Ilya: Lyosha

Ilya: smth is wrong with the plsne

Ilya: thank you for everything. For you and Vi and Yulia.

Ilya: please tell Shane that i love him. I am with him. Whatevre happens

Ilya: if i could go back id do everything the same

Ilya: ill keep you safe with mom

Ilya: i love you. Im sorry

Chapter End Notes

Yahoo!!

I'm spoiling yall, two chapers in four days? Crazy (it was already more than half written and I had a way too big committment to finish it)

So, we've about reached the end.

This is so bittersweet for me, to be honest. It started like a silly idea to distract myself from exams and now here we are. The story evolved, me flunking exams didn't much, but that is another story.

Sorry for the cliff hanger (even if we all know how it will end).

Describing Ilya crashing out was genuenly one of the hardest things I ever had to write, both as a concept and in actual words. I tried giving it all of myself and hopefully I didn't butcher it too hard.

Did I put the guitar thing thinking about this scene? Actually not, but I'm glad I did cause while I guess it would make sense for Shane to be solely hockey focused, it wouldn't for Ilya, and I play so I thought maybe this time I could actually write about something I know (I really tried getting hockey rules but im just not brained for that).

I made Alexei going through the whole five stages of grief and y'all just gotta wait for after the plane crash, my poor neurotic flower. But I made it better!!! That's what counts.

Yall thought Nikolai's suffering was done but I really think this was a necessary end to a life long debate. He's gone through so much, finally found happiness, and this last push through felt like completing a circle, kind of. He's alright people, but fuck all the Brads and Erics out there (not you bennett, my babygirl).

I'm genuenly so shook everytime I get comments about Nikki cause I was very wary of putting so much content about his character at first, since he's an OC and everything (yall are here for Shane and Ilya after all). Seeing so many of you connect with him was heartwarming, just as with all my other silly characters. Loved writing about his narrative arch, though, and I truly believe that no matter how your story starts, you can always get the happy ending you want.

Canon showing Ilya text flawlessly while the plane was shaking and falling into nothingness was highly absurd imo. I committ to him texting like a frat bro personally, so, even if, I had to fix it. I don't know how it got even sadder, somehow, but my boy was scared asf.

Btw, I realized that this whole series came out of my playlist and thought 'why not make one just for this?'. So, if I ever understand how to link it here (and if you have suggestions, PLEASE, i'll take anything), I have a lil playlist of songs I listened to while writing or that relate to it, for one reason or another. Thought it might be a cute idea :)

This being said, thank you so much for reading, liking and commenting, sending kudos back to every one of you putting up with my chapter-bricks.

See you for the final one ;)

Update 12-07: this work just reached 10k hits, what the hell yall. Im gonna cry and its gonna be all of your fault omg.

Chapter 13: At the end of the day, I know there are worse things than being alive

Chapter Notes

Ilya opens his eyes to a blinding light and a sharp throb at the back of his head. He closes his eyes again, a pained hiss escaping his lips as he tries again, stubbornly, before giving up and fall back into the pillows.

Uh.

Pillows?

There's something wrong with it that Ilya can't quite place.

It feels like his brain got thrown into a blender. Ilya can almost feel it move inside his head every time he shifts under the covers.

Is that normal?

What if it starts leaking out of his ears?

That surely wouldn't be normal, Ilya decides, trying to roll on his side.

The movement makes his stomach twist. He probably shouldn't wiggle that much if it's only going to make him sea-sick. Which- weird, he doesn't remember getting on a boat. Like ever.