Chapter 1

And it is devastating in the worst way, because despite all this, despite finally finding some semblance of normal, all Shane can think about are Ilya’s hands and his stupid fucking tuna melt. “It’s okay,” Rose repeats. Reality comes back into view, bathing his girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?) in golden candlelight. The room feels way too still. “Really. I can’t imagine how hard it must be already.” “It isn’t,” Shane says automatically. He winces at the way Rose quirks her eyebrow at him, her lips downturned in what Shane can only describe as dubious. “I mean, yeah…I guess it is,” he amends. Her eyes soften. Rose slides her hand across the table, resting them atop his. They’re warm. Familiar. But not the same hands that he imagines when he teeters on the edge of consciousness. The pale, calloused ones that grip his shoulders so deliciously and splay over his ribs when he’s close to oblivion. Shane blinks, swallowing. “I’m sorry,” he says. It almost hurts more because he means it. Rose smiles. “Don’t be. I like you, Shane. I really do.” She squeezes his hand. It helps a little, somehow; shaves off just a bit of the tension. He still finds it difficult to breathe. Rose continues, “I just don’t think it’s healthy for you to pretend to be something you’re not. We both know this isn’t going to work between us.” “I tried—“ “I know,” she says. Rose scrunches her nose, peering up. It should irritate him, should make him angry and livid and all those other terrible things, but he feels…strangely relieved? He shifts uncomfortably, the wooden chair creaking beneath his weight. Her earnestness makes it all the more confusing. “Are you mad?” he asks, finally. “Like, insane? Maybe a little.” She shrugs, pulling back to sit up straight. “But mad at you? No.” “Why?” Rose glances off to the side with her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not sure. I thought I would be, but I don’t know. I mean…” She looks back at him, head tilted. “You didn’t go into this knowing it wasn’t for you, right?” “No, of course not,” he says. This time it comes out immediately because it’s the truth. Never had he planned on intentionally hurting her. Rose, who had only ever been kind, gentle, and understanding with him. Even now, she’s breaking up with him because he can’t find it in him to be there for her. Because she doesn’t call him “Hollander” with a dumb Russian accent or tease him before games or whisper hotel room numbers to him on the ice. Because he’s Shane and she’s not Ilya fucking Rozanov. He sighs, dropping his head to his chest for a moment. “You’re too nice to me,” he murmurs. Rose tips a finger under his chin, bringing his gaze level with hers. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I think you’re too mean to yourself.” The rest of dinner goes smoother than it has any right to. Shane tries to thank her again multiple times, but Rose, as if psychic, artfully steers the conversation whenever the words attempt to crawl out of his throat. She makes the whole thing feel shockingly normal, makes him feel normal even though he knows he’s anything but. Sick. Vile. The perfect partner and I’m still fucking it up. “I’ll get this,” Shane says, snatching the bill before the waiter is able to place it on the table. “Shane—“ “No. Please,” he adds. She doesn’t interject this time. “Today was…It gave me a lot of clarity. And I know paying for dinner isn’t much, but at least let me do this for you. As thanks.” Rose sighs, a crease in her brows. She taps her finger on the table once, twice. “Okay. If it’ll make you feel better.” “It will.” Walking away from the table feels a bit like tilting his world on the wrong axis. It shouldn’t, really. The waiter is perfectly polite as Shane swipes his card. Smiling. Sociable. But they are also all the things Shane can’t find it in himself to be right now. His skin itches. Do they know? Did they hear? Is it obvious to them, to the entire world, what he is? It had barely been a month with Rose and she had plucked out his deepest secret—one he hadn’t even been willing to admit to himself. Shane shoves his wallet back into his pocket with more force than necessary. “Do you need your receipt, sir?” “Uh, no. No thank you,” Shane mutters. The wooden counter is a more amiable conversation partner. “Of course. Have a great evening.” Shane clears his throat and prays he sounds more put together than he feels. The waiter’s eyes —he’s staring, he must be staring—needle into the side of his head. “Thanks. You too.” If Rose notices the slight stumble in his step as he returns to the table, she says nothing. He’s cognizant enough to offer her his hand, some fleeting, learned instinct of courtesy possessing him through the haze. Her hands, despite not being the ones that made him those tuna melts in Boston, ground him enough to make it out the door. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Rose says, her hair swaying in the breeze. In another universe, Shane might’ve fallen in love then and there. “I won’t.” “I’m serious. You can talk to me about…you know.” She gestures vaguely, adding, “Or anything at all. I want to be there for you.” Shane falters. It’s a kind offer, a good one. But it’s also a lot to ask of his ex-girlfriend who is breaking up with him because, as she said, their “parts” don’t work together. “Shane.” Rose tugs at his sleeve. She has that expression on her face again—the one where her eyes are narrowed and her mouth is set a little too tense. “Okay,” he says, because what else can he say? “Okay, I will.” She studies him for a beat too long, unmoving. It’s paralyzing. It’s freeing. “Okay,” Rose echoes, a small not-sad smile curving her lips. She leans up on her toes, pressing a kiss onto his cheek. It’s oddly final, this goodbye, but Shane knows in that moment that Rose will keep her promise no matter how guilty he feels about this whole thing. Rose lands back on her heels, her eyes glittering under the street lights. “My car’s here, so I’m—“ She gestures vaguely over her shoulder where an SUV pulls up. Shane jerks his head in acknowledgement. “Good night, Shane,” Rose says, walking backwards. She waves at him, earnest. Kinder than he deserves. “Text me! I’ll be very mad if you ghost me, just so you know.” “Okay,” he says, waving back. It feels rude not to, and so he does, even though he’s sure he looks like an idiot. It isn’t until Rose’s car disappears around the corner that Shane lets himself leave.

***

Everything is fine. Everything is just absolutely fine. This is what he continues to tell himself on the entire drive home. The silent, not deafening, simple, boring drive home. If the last word inspires a very specific twist in his gut because he’s used to hearing it said in a flat, slightly mean Russian accent, Shane pays it no mind. He can use other words. He knows other words. Words like benign, or dull, or tedious, insipid, uninteresting, banal, mundane. He doesn’t have to use boring words like boring. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Get a fucking grip, Hollander.” Shane pulls into the parking garage way sooner than he would’ve liked. It feels a chore to even shut the engine off, much less getting out of the car. Going back to his apartment—his cold, sterile, isolated apartment—is a fresh hell he’d much rather not experience. God, what the fuck was he thinking, buying a place in the middle of nowhere just so he and Ilya could fuck? He exhales, throwing his head back against the headrest. Ilya. Everything always comes back to Ilya. Even when he isn’t actively thinking, actively planning with him in mind, some tiny part of his brain makes sure to include Ilya in his interests. Shane is not a selfish person—in this, he is sure of—but a fact, or at least what he had always considered a fact, is that there is no truth for him other than hockey. ”Are there any, like, gay hockey players?” Rose had paused before quickly amending, ”I mean, yes, obviously, there are, but are there any openly gay players?” Obviously. Obviously, there are, she had said. But is it obvious? Is he obvious? Shane pulls up his phone, clearing all of his notifications. He knows this, knows everything there is to know about the NHL, but he has to check. Just in case. His fingers tremble as he types it into the search bar. are there any out players in the nhl In the split second it takes for his phone to load, the blank white screen threatens to swallow him whole. The NHL stands alone among the Big 4 men’s pro team sports with no out gay players, active or retired, in history. Shane blanches. Breaking records, winning titles—he’s good at that. That’s who he is. Shane Hollander, generational talent. But this…this, he knows he cannot do. He absolutely cannot be the first openly gay hockey player. He exits the tab and wipes his search history. No one can know, no one can come even close to knowing. “Fuck,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Some way, somehow, he makes it up to his apartment. It’s that weird feeling again—the one where the world fades in and out while he floats outside of his body. It used to help, at times, when he was on the ice and laser focused on the game. His body knows hockey, knows what to do even when his brain isn’t all there. But lately (the past three months, the voice inside whispers unhelpfully), that terrible, nebulous, foggy feeling has been haunting him even off the ice. Sabotaging his life. He stares blankly in front of him while curled up on the couch. Logically, he should not be freaking out. No one knows. Well, Rose Landry knows. But she would never—she would never out him like that. She had promised, and Rose is not the type of person to betray her word. And so it’s fine, right? His coach doesn’t know, Hayden doesn’t know, the rest of his teammates don’t know, his parents don’t know. Fucking Scott Hunter doesn’t know. Ilya Rozanov knows. Well, Shane has never explicitly said it to him, exactly, but— He snorts despite himself. They’ve been fucking for nearly a decade. Of course Ilya Rozanov knows. The world comes back into view, just a little bit. The leather of his couch soft beneath his palms. It had been soft underneath his back, another time, when Ilya visited his condo back in October. It feels like a lifetime ago. ”We will, ah, how do you say? Christen new apartment, yes?” Ilya had been adamant that they start with the couch. The ugly, puke colored couch, he called it. Shane told him he could take it up with his interior designer. Ilya then said that the only person taking anything up that night would be Shane, and it certainly wouldn’t be his interior designer. There wasn’t much talking after that. That was how it always was between them. Never too much talking. Never too much thinking. It was always meant to be a simple thing. They fuck, they play good hockey, and then they go their separate ways. Whatever happened in between was fair game, until it wasn’t. He ran, the last time. Back in Boston. In Ilya’s penthouse. It was already unprecedented territory for them, that day. Ilya—foul-mouthed, asshole, king of shit-talking Ilya—had asked him to stay. Shane doesn’t know what crazy thing had possessed them in that moment, but Ilya had asked, and Shane had said yes. Why had he said yes? Why did he let Ilya hold him, dote on him, make him a fucking sandwich, call him Shane and not Hollander— And why—why can he not see anything but Ilya’s face, stricken with a terrible sort of grief as Shane, not Hollander, sprinted out the door? Shane stands abruptly from the couch, his body dizzy from the sudden change in position. Danger, his brain wails. Whether the sirens going off in his head are meant to warn him about the physical nausea or the metaphorical sickness of re-examining what had happened in Boston, he cannot say. He stumbles to the kitchen, yanks open a cabinet. The glass he pulls out nearly slips from his hand. Water. He needs water. Shaking, he fills the glass to the brim, drinking greedily from it like a dying man. Maybe he is. Dying, that is. Feels an awful lot like it. Shane groans, dropping the cup on top of the counter. He turns around and braces himself against the edge, scrubbing his face with the heels of his palms. He doesn’t know why it never occurred to him before. Well, no—that’s a lie. He knows why. Thinking too hard about that day, that last time between them, always stung in a bone deep sort of way. It was simply easier to not think of it at all. But now that he’s started, now that that vision is in his head, etched into his brain like some sick, slo-mo replay… “I need to call him,” Shane says, and something clicks into place amidst the awful mess inside his chest. Call, yes. He needs to call Ilya. Talk, sort it out, clear things up. Apologize. Shane’s vision zeroes in on the coffee table where he had tossed his phone. Faintly, he remembers wincing at the noise it had made before he crawled pathetically onto the couch. If he had broken it, if it no longer worked and he couldn’t reach Ilya— He lunges for it, nearly trips over the edge of the carpet. The screen lights up, and his parents’ smiling faces stare up at him. He squints at the sudden brightness. 10:43, the time reads. No new notifications. Do Not Disturb: On. He unlocks his phone, clicks through his contacts. Scrolls until he sees Lily. Shane’s mouth goes dry. Fuck, what would he even say? Would Ilya even want to talk to him? Would he even pick up? He stares at the contact card, stares at the call button. Maybe if he stares hard enough the answer will jump out of the screen and fill him with all the right words and apologies and things to say to the man he’s in love with after hooking up with him for a decade. Brilliant. Splendid. Abso-fucking-lutely fantastic. Shane exits the contacts app before he can do something dumb. He puts the phone to sleep, slapping it face down on the couch before he can do something stupid. God. He’d rather suffer public humiliation at the hands of some second rate team like Detroit than deal with this. He unlocks the phone again, this time pressing into his messages. Ilya’s text thread is buried deeper than it usually is, the last text between them sent back in October. In Boston. I’m here. is the last thing Shane had said. He remembers sending it from inside his Uber, timing it meticulously so that he could minimize the time spent outside waiting for the door. That visceral fear of being seen back then throbs like an old scar. If he does this, if he addresses them, then that fear could become his new reality. Shane worries his lip between his teeth. His leg bounces, impatient. Hi, he types. Deletes. Too casual. Can’t wait to see you at All stars next week. No. He grimaces. No one gives a shit about All Stars. I miss you. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I have feelings for He starts deleting that one before he can even finish the sentence. Shane exhales and leans over, bracing his forearms against his thighs if only to stop the incessant movement of his leg. “What the hell am I supposed to say?” he whispers. “What would he want to hear?” Shane tries to think. Comes up blank. He knows Ilya on the ice—knows his plays, his shot, the glint in his eyes before he goes for something crazy. He knows Ilya in hotel rooms and the stolen moments before their games. But beyond that? An ache curls deep in his ribs. They’ve been sleeping together for the better part of ten years, sure, but Shane doesn’t actually know Ilya Rozanov. How does he like his coffee? What temperature does he keep his house? Does he have a sweet tooth? What does he think of The Beatles? Shane Hollander doesn’t know any of these things about Ilya Rozanov, but he sure as hell wants to learn. He stares a little harder at the blinking cursor in the message box. It taunts him, like it holds the key to all the answers he craves. And in a way, it does. All he has to do is send one message—the right message. Shane bites his tongue until it hurts. Can we talk? I have something to tell you. He hits send. An odd sort of peace fills him at seeing the delivered underneath his text. The hardest part is done, the situation no longer under his control. All he can do is wait, pray that it isn’t too late — His phone buzzes. Shane barely manages to keep himself from dropping it, his hands clammy as he swipes into his messages. Lily: Okay. when? Shane blinks. Blinks again, when the message doesn’t disappear. Blinks one more time, for good measure. Next week, he types. All stars? It’s too far away, he knows, even as he sends it. He’s going to have to wait the whole fucking week, stew in his misery for seven whole days. 168 hours for him to conjure up some reasonable speech he can give to Ilya who, by some grace of the universe, is willing to listen. The three little dots pop up on Ilya’s side of the screen, loading, loading, loading. Lily: are u at home? Shane furrows his brow. Yes. Lily: I fly to Montreal. be there tomorrow His heart thuds so hard that Shane can scarcely register anything else. What? No. You’re crazy, he sends, even as his blood sings with glee. Tomorrow. He could see Ilya tomorrow. Lily: your address is same, yes? Shane looks away, presses his forehead into his knuckles. He shouldn’t. This is a bad idea. Terrible, even. One of the worst ones he’s had in years. People could see. People could talk. His career as he knows it could be over. But—and he peeks back down at his phone, where the cursor pleads with him again, eager, this time—this could also mean a new beginning. A new era for him and Ilya. It isn’t sure by any means, but…they can try. They can try to try. His thumbs hover over the keyboard. Yes, he sends again. Ilya replies so quickly that the dots don’t even show up. Lily: see you soon See you soon. Shane screws his eyes shut. God, he’s so fucked.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary “I’m sorry,” is what he says first. “I’m sorry for freaking out and running away in Boston. I’m sorry for not talking to you about it after and hurting you. I’m sorry for dating Rose Landry.”

Chapter Notes

genuinely this chapter was not supposed to exist but it felt unfair not to write it so...here we are. please enjoy friends <3 If asked, Shane could probably recite the entirety of the NHL’s team rosters throughout the years alphabetically, by wins, by losses, by the exact amount of assists. He knows off the top of his head who holds exactly what records, who held them before, and when the next opportunity (when he could take them for himself) will arise. Shane knows all of these things, and he knows he knows them because his brain won’t shut the hell up and let him go to sleep. 3:06, the clock at his bedside mocks. 3:06 in the fucking morning. He groans, turning over on his back. Maybe if he doesn’t look at it it’ll move faster. Like— like those creepy monsters from the show his dad likes. Weeping angels, or whatever the hell they’re called. “This is crazy,” he says aloud. Verbalizing things is supposed to help, right? “I'm crazy.” That part he already knows is true. He certainly feels it—insane enough to fill up an entire wing of a psych ward, that is. Still, his own measure of insanity must pale in comparison to Ilya Rozanov, who is probably on his way to the airport right now so he can hop on a plane to Montreal and show up at his apartment later—like a few hours later—because they had promised to talk and oh god, what the hell is he supposed to do about that? Maybe they can be roommates at the psych ward. Him, one wing. Ilya, all the others. Yes. That sounds like a good plan. Shane sits up, propping himself against the twelve pillows his interior designer had insisted on. He doesn’t know why he agreed in the first place—he doesn’t give a shit about pillows and Ilya had only turned it into yet another thing to make fun of him for. They take up so much space on his damn bed and make laundry day ten times more difficult than it has any right to be. Fuck the pillows. He’s going to throw out all the pillows tomorrow. He flings half of them on the floor. Rose liked the pillows, his brain supplies unhelpfully, suddenly, and good grief Shane might volunteer himself for a lobotomy this very second. But no. He can’t do that. Ilya is coming tomorrow. Ilya is coming right now. Shane breathes so deep his lungs hurt.

***

He spends the morning cleaning. Or at least, whatever the word for cleaning when there isn’t anything to actually clean is. Ilya had texted a ”landed” text a little over an hour ago. If customs wasn’t busy, he had probably breezed through and hopped into a taxi within half an hour, which meant that he should be pulling up to the apartment any second now. Shane glances down at his phone where it sits, untouched. 26 minutes, navigation blinks up at him. Arrive 11:43 AM. Lighter traffic than usual. His attention jumps to the time. 11:39. Shane fists the rag in his hand. He doesn’t think it’s possible for his counters to get any whiter than they already are, but he scrubs at them anyway. His cleaners might be the happiest people on the planet. They probably come here, pretend to wipe his floors, laugh, and lounge on his couch. Do they find it appalling too? That brown-yellow, slightly off, mustard-that’s-gone-bad color? He should get rid of it. Replace it with something more agreeable, like cream or grey. He tosses the rag into the sink and checks his phone again. 11:41. Two minutes. Two minutes since he’s checked and two minutes before Ilya is supposed to arrive. Shane paces to the bathroom, bracing himself against the counter. The cool marble is barely a relief when his palms are so clammy. He turns on the faucet, cold as it’ll go. It almost stings —the water, icy against his face—but he welcomes the sensation. The sight that greets him in the mirror is…not pleasant. Dark circles, dry lips. He looks haggard, he notes distantly. Not even after that one triple-header did he look so unwell. “Get it together,” he says firmly. It isn’t even that serious. Ilya’s going to arrive, he’s going to knock, he’ll come in, and they’ll talk. That’s it. Arrive, knock— A sharp, impatient rap sounds from his door. Shane looks at himself one more time in the mirror. It feels a little too much like preparing for war. The thirty seconds between leaving his bathroom and letting Ilya in is a bit of a blur. His hand is on the doorknob and he's thinking, absurdly, about whether he remembered to put the rag away, whether the counter is dry, whether Ilya will notice the— And then the door is open, and Ilya is opposite him in the middle of his apartment, leaning on the back of that couch he hates so much. “How was your flight?” Shane asks. He steps back until the edge of the kitchen island is in the way. His first instinct had been to step behind it, put more distance between them, but that feels like it goes against the whole point. Ilya stuffs his hands into his pockets. “It was okay.” “Okay. Good.” Shane pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “Do you want water? Um, a coke, maybe?” “I’m fine.” Shane nods slowly. So this is going spectacularly. He risks a glance at Ilya—his shoulders are drawn tight and slightly hunched in, like he feels out of place here. Shane’s stomach churns. He drums his fingers on the stool next to him, looking anywhere but Ilya’s face. “So—“ he starts at the same time that Ilya goes, “Why did you—“ Shane clears his throat. “Maybe, uh, maybe you should go first. We can sit? You’re probably tired from traveling, and I—“ “Hollander,” Ilya interrupts. Shane flinches. It feels like get boarded, the way he says it—flat and inflectionless. Distant. As if he had hopped on the soonest flight to Montreal just to break his heart. Which is fair. Shane had done the same thing, essentially. Maybe this is Ilya’s way of getting revenge. He didn’t plan on doing this like that, but if Ilya wants to jump into the deep end, then who is he to say no? Shane forces himself to speak. It feels a bit like gravel leaving his mouth. “Why did you come?” he asks. Even if Ilya has come to end this once and for all, even if this is going to crack him open, Shane wants to hear it directly from the source. Uncertainty flickers across Ilya’s face before it’s quickly tucked behind a neutral expression. He shifts against the couch. “Why did you ask me to come?” he says. “Why—because. To talk,” Shane sputters. Ilya shrugs. “We are doing that, yes? Talking.” “Yes, but—“ Ilya’s gaze is piercing. “But this isn’t—this isn’t…” Shane trails off. Fuck, this is so much harder than he had imagined. A million scenarios that had run through his head and this was not one of them. Ilya sighs, works his jaw, his eyes darting to the side. “What do you want me to say, Hollander?” The words are rough, low. Tired. I love you. I miss you. I forgive you. Shane blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes and says none of that. He turns on his heel. What was he thinking? He can’t do this. Facing Rozanov on the ice is one thing, but this? Facing Ilya in his apartment in front of that godforsaken couch? No. No, he can’t do this. “Hollander,” Ilya starts, his hand grabbing for Shane’s wrist. Shane shrugs it off. “This was a mistake,” Shane mutters. “I shouldn’t have said—“ “Shane.” He freezes. “Shane,” Ilya repeats, and this time he is pleading. It tugs violently at the knot in Shane’s chest. It takes everything within him to not hide or turn around or fall into the bottomless pit that he wishes would open up beneath him. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t. He stays rooted in place. “What?” he grits through his teeth. Ilya lets out a long breath, exhaling so harshly Shane can feel it feather across his tricep. Goosebumps light up his skin. Fuck, he hates this. Why does his body always have to betray him? “You are running. Again. Is what you do when you are scared.” Heat surges up the back of his neck all the way up into his ears. His vision goes hazy for one dizzying second. “I’m not—That’s not what this is.” Liar, his brain accuses. “Isn’t it?” Ilya must turn around, his voice further away when he speaks next. Shane imagines him, pacing the length of the living room like a predator. “I am not sure what you want from me, Hollander. You say you want to talk, I say okay, I fly to Montreal, I come to your apartment. Now I’m here and you—you talk around and around. In circles! Fuck.” Shane screws his eyes shut, presses his lips together until it stings. Still, he cannot move. “Like Boston,” Ilya says. Shane feels like a live wire. “I make you a fucking sandwich, we watch TV together like normal people—“ Like a couple, goes unsaid. Like we mean something to each other. “—I think maybe we are—maybe we finally—“ Ilya’s voice wavers and he swears something harsh under his breath. Shane can’t breathe. Why the fuck can’t he breathe? “Rose Landry,” Ilya says suddenly. Shane’s eyes snap open. The kitchen island stares back at him contemptuously. “What?” “Rose Landry. You’re still dating her? She is still—still your girlfriend?” Ilya spits the word out like it offends him. “No,” Shane says. He latches onto the question like a lifeline. “No, we broke up last night.” Ilya barks a bitter laugh, so loud it echoes off the walls. “So what? Things do not work out with Rose Landry and you call me? Your girlfriend dumps you and you come crawling back to me. Your dirty little secret.” Shane whirls around, fire flooding his veins. “Do not—Don’t say that.” How dare he? “Say what? Your girlfriend dumped you? Is true, yes?” Ilya cocks one annoying, perfectly groomed brow. It nearly blinds him, the sudden proximity. “You broke up with Rose Landry? No. I don’t think so.” “What? Yes, she did break up with me, but that’s not—that’s not the point.” The heat returns to the tip of his ears. Are they even having the same conversation right now? “What’s so unbelievable about me breaking up with Rose?” Ilya apparently doesn’t think that even dignifies an answer, snorting as he shakes his head. His arms are folded against his chest, his knuckles bone-white where they flex and grip his elbows. Shane looks away, his face flushing for a completely different reason he can’t afford to name right now. He huffs and tries to catch his breath. Quietly, he says, “I don’t like it when you call yourself that.” Silence presses into the air between them. Even as Shane refuses to glance back up, the weight of Ilya’s regard is almost tangible. “Hollander—“ It carves into him every time he uses that fucking name, makes him feel so alone even though they’re just a few feet apart. Forces him to look, just to make sure Ilya’s still there. “—Stop. Stop saying these things.” Ilya presses both hands into his face, fingers carding through the roots of his curls. “I am so bad at being mad at you, you know this? Fuck. Is so unfair, when you say these things.” “These things are the truth.” “Then, fuck, I don’t know. Lie. Don’t share. I don’t want to know.” Ilya’s voice does that thing again—the one where it wobbles under the weight of what’s being said. Shane hurts, knowing he’s the cause, but fuck. If he doesn’t get it all out now while he can, he never will. “I asked you here to talk, didn’t I? And you came,” Shane reminds him. “So no, I won’t lie. Not this time.” God, he doesn’t know where all this bravery is coming from. He prays it’ll choose to stay a little longer. Shane swallows. Takes a deep breath. Ilya is so still opposite him that he’s not sure he’s even listening, but for once, he does not interrupt. “I’m sorry,” is what he says first. “I’m sorry for freaking out and running away in Boston. I’m sorry for not talking to you about it after and hurting you. I’m sorry for dating Rose Landry.” Ilya’s face remains schooled, but the edges around his eyes soften just the slightest bit. Shane continues, his voice stronger. Steadier. “I don’t really know when things started being more for me. But they did, and I—I got scared. I’ve never felt this way about anybody.” He pauses because it feels like the right thing to do. Also because wow, that’s the first time he’s ever said that aloud and damn if it isn’t fucking cathartic. “Do you…” The next few words roll around in his mouth uncomfortably, but he knows he must say them. Owes it to both himself and Ilya. “Do you feel the same?” He can’t look, can’t watch as the question leaves his mouth. But Ilya is magnetic, and so he stays frozen, the two of them stuck opposite each other. “Say something,” Shane whispers. “Please.” His plea breathes life back into him—Ilya takes one shaky inhale that reverberates through the tense lines of his shoulders. “Hollander. Shane,” he corrects. “Why. Why are you asking me this? You must know the answer already, yes?” Shane might have an inkling. Some small, terrifying hopeful inkling. But that’s not what they’re really talking about, is it? Shane nods anyway. Ilya locks his arms in front of him again like a shield. It stirs something wrathful in Shane. “I cannot do this,” Ilya says. Shane blinks. His jaw aches. “This. Us. You don’t want it?” Ilya pinches the bridge of his nose, his head in his hands. Is this another answer that he feels should be obvious? Because to Shane, it doesn’t feel real fucking obvious. “If you don’t want me, Rozanov,” and oh his voice is shaking. Why is it shaking so hard? “— then just say that. Say no so I can try to let go.” “No. Yes.” Ilya makes a frustrated noise. “Is not—is not about wanting. I want. I have always wanted you,” he adds, quieter. “But I cannot. My father, my family, Russia—if I do this, I lose everything.” Under the soft lights of the living room, Shane becomes acutely aware of the sheen in Ilya’s eyes. He looks so small, so vulnerable that Shane can’t take it. His feet move of their own accord, unsticking him from the floor and sitting on the back of the couch next to Ilya. Shane clasps his hands in his lap. “Your family. They wouldn’t take it well?” I have always wanted you echoes in his head. It fills him, threatens to overwhelm him even, but they’re not done talking. Ilya tsks. “No. We are Russian,” he says, like that explains everything. Shane supposes that in a way it does. “But your parents—“ he presses anyway. “My father, he is very old fashioned,” Ilya says. “Your mom?” “Dead.” Shane startles, his heart jumping into his throat. His own mom’s face flickers in his mind, a deep sense of loss spreading through him for a woman he doesn’t know. “I’m sorry.” “I was young,” Ilya says as if that’s supposed to make it better. He fidgets, crossing and uncrossing his ankles. Shane doesn’t know what the hell to say to that. The same thought must occur to Ilya, for he continues, “My brother is police. My father is police too. Does not matter, since he is sick. But police all the same.” Fuck. This is giving him whiplash. “Sick like crazy?” Ilya jerks his head once to the side. “Mm, I guess that too, a little, but no. Sick more like…” “Cancer?” “Dementia.” Shane’s gaze cuts upward. Ilya’s face is turned away, but not enough to hide the tear streaking down his cheek. Again, his body moves on its own, closing the distance between him and Ilya until their thighs are pressed together. “Hey,” Shane says softly. He hooks his hand on the far side of Ilya’s jaw, even as Ilya resists. “Sorry,” Ilya murmurs. Shane ignores him, clambering over Ilya’s legs until he’s standing in between. What the hell does he have to be sorry for? Fucking nothing. With his palms framing Ilya’s face, he leans in. This—kissing Ilya, feeling his breath warm his lips, all the hard edges of him pressed against his body—is a relief. A revelation, every time. This, Shane Hollander knows how to do. He slides his hands up into Ilya’s curls, his mouth chasing after his once, twice more. It’s a different sort of kiss than he’s used to, with Ilya’s tears salty against his lips, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Ilya pulls away first, his eyes still shut as he leans his forehead against Shane’s. He buries his face into Shane’s shoulder, silent sobs wracking his frame, and all Shane can do is hold him a little tighter, pull him a little closer. “I’m here,” Shane says. “It’s okay.” Ilya shakes his head but says nothing. And so they stand there, wrapped up in each other, rocking back and forth. Shane closes his eyes. He’d been so focused on his own fear, his own shame, that he never stopped to consider what it might be like for Ilya. His brain conjures up another image of a younger, more reckless Ilya. One that had shouted, ”not everything is about you!” on that rooftop from so long ago. He was right then, and he's right now. Shane opens his eyes, and presses a little deeper into their embrace. Ilya’s fingers curl against his back. “I’m sorry,” Ilya says at one point. His voice is hoarse, the words scraping out of his throat. Shane scratches at the baby hairs on the nape of his neck. “Don’t be,” he says. Ilya is almost boneless under his touch. A strange reversal for them, but not one he dislikes. “I want—“ Shane stops. Starts again. “You don’t have to do that. The apologizing. Not with me.” Ilya shifts, pulling away just enough to see him. His eyes are rimmed with red, wet lashes clumped together. He looks young like this—an echo of the same memory in Shane’s head. Vulnerable in a way that makes his chest ache. “Thank you,” Ilya whispers. Shane hums quietly in acknowledgement. They stay like that, foreheads touching, Ilya’s breath warm on his collar. Shane thumbs at Ilya’s jaw absentmindedly, tracing the sharp edge of it from behind his ear all the way down to his chin. Ilya’s eyes flutter closed. The apartment is so quiet that Shane can hear the buzz of the refrigerator. He’d have to deal with that another time. Another time, when Ilya isn’t falling apart under his hands and they can sit and browse appliances together. Couples do that, right? And that’s what they are… kinda. Shane focuses on his breathing, inhaling and exhaling in time with Ilya’s slowing, even breaths. A discussion for later. “Better?” he asks, voice low. Ilya huffs a small laugh. “A bit.” His hands, bracketed against Shane’s hips, squeeze a little tighter. His eyes, too, have dropped down to Shane’s mouth. “Hi,” Shane says stupidly. Ilya’s lips twitch. “Hi.” It takes everything in Shane not to kiss him. He never gets to see Ilya like this, so soft, so open— Oh, what the hell? He darts forward, pressing his lips against the corner of Ilya’s mouth. Ilya smiles, turns just a bit to meet him. He grips Shane’s chin, gently, angling them so their noses aren’t in the way. Shane’s hand tightens in Ilya’s shirt without his permission. He breaks away to breathe, a dopey sort of smile taking over his face. “Is different again, this time,” Ilya says, after a beat. His chest heaves heavier too, his eyes so dark they’re almost grey. Shane nods. Words feel like too much right now. Or not enough. For all his bravado about talk, cobbling the words necessary to convey his love for Ilya is a task he feels woefully unprepared for. But they did talk. Enough, at least, so that the rock that settled in his chest from the moment he left Boston until now has finally lifted. He pulls back, and Ilya lets him. Slowly, Shane runs both of his hands down the front of Ilya’s chest, cataloguing every inch of him by touch. Hard muscle flexes beneath the pads of his fingers. Ilya, silent still, watches him with eyes that burn. God, he still can’t believe he’s here. In front of him. Touching him. Wanting him. Had he hallucinated that bit? He’s not sure. He doesn’t think his brain is capable of such vivid hallucinations. “You’re thinking too loud.” Shane drags his gaze up to meet Ilya’s. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but the spark in them is familiar, his lips set in that wry not-smirk. “I’m thinking too loud?” “Yes. So loud I cannot hear my own thoughts. Like Metros’ fans at home game. Is distracting.” “That’s what’s distracting you?” Shane frowns, flattening his palm over Ilya’s sternum. “Not this?” Ilya tilts his head, looking off to the side in mock contemplation. “Mm, not really. I have endured worse. You should go lower, if you want to distract me like that.” Shane laughs—truly laughs, for the first time in months—and it earns him a kiss on the hand that was, apparently, not low enough. “Why are you laughing? Is not funny, you teasing me like this,” Ilya says gravely. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes tell a different story. “I didn’t know you could be so cruel, Shane Hollander.” Shane snorts. “Shut up, Rozy. You tease me all the damn time and I never complain.” “Rozy?” Ilya narrows his eyes, tugging Shane back in by his waist. Heat licks at his belly, that familiar pool of warmth rushing downwards. “I am Rozy, now?” “Yes—“ Shane gasps as Ilya palms him through his pants. “Fuck, Ilya.” Ilya makes a pleased noise, his lips curving into that annoying ass smirk. Shane can’t decide if it’s hot or irritating. Both, probably. “Much better,” Ilya praises. Shane swears again. Both, definitely. His eyes nearly roll into the back of his head when Ilya starts using his fingers more purposefully, cradling the length of him within his palm. “Wait—wait, wait, wait,” Shane says. Pants. He bats listlessly at Ilya’s wrist. They have to talk, they’re not done talking— Ilya slows down and leans over, the top of his curls flopping over onto his forehead. “What? What is it?” His brows are drawn in concern. Shane could kiss him if it wouldn’t derail this whole thing again. “Nothing, it’s just—“ Shane swallows, blinking hard. “We should—we should finish talking. First.” “Talking,” Ilya repeats. His cheek twitches. “We talked, yes? We did a lot of that already. Did you hit your head?” Ilya’s hands grip the sides of his neck, tilting him side to side as if checking for an injury. “Did I kiss you too hard?” “No, asshole. I mean—“ Shane catches Ilya’s hands, stilling them. “I mean talk about…what happens next. With us.” Ilya’s face goes blank. Unreadable. He shakes his head. “There cannot be an us.” Shane balks, letting go of his hands. “Are you serious? After all that?” “I told you,” Ilya says, his expression still stony. “I told you why I cannot.” “You’re fucking kidding.” Ilya says nothing, his arms now limp at his sides. Shane stares at him. Really stares, because there’s no way what he’s hearing makes any sense in conjunction with what just happened moments ago. And the things he sees: the little tick in Ilya’s jaw, the hard line of his brow—the picture becomes a lot clearer. “Ilya,” he starts, and the way Ilya flinches is clear as day. “I’m not asking if you can or can’t. What do you want? Because if you want this, if you want us, then…I want to try.” Ilya looks away. “Shane,” he says quietly. Shane doesn’t know if it’s meant to be a plea to stop or continue. “Ilya,” Shane repeats. “Please. What do you want?” Silence, and then Ilya swears in Russian before his face crumbles. “Fuck. Fuck, okay. Okay,” he says, pressing his forehead into his hands. Shane strides forward, pulling him into an embrace. Ilya’s arms wrap so tight around him Shane thinks he might melt. “Okay?” he whispers. His brain, for once, has nothing to say. No statistics, no arguments, no worst-case scenarios. Just that one word. Okay. Like it's that simple. Like it could be that simple. “Yes. Okay,” Ilya echoes. He noses at the side of Ilya’s throat. Okay. They’re going to try. There’s going to be a them. “Is so dangerous, how I cannot say no to you,” Ilya says. The bob of his Adam’s apple bumps against the side of Shane’s face. Shane wants to crawl into his skin. “Fuck off, you say no to me all the time,” he murmurs. “Mm, is not true.” “Is too. Like that time in Vegas, in that stupid bathroom—“ “Okay, so I say no that one time.” Ilya runs his hands up and down Shane’s back before he dips his mouth to his ear. “But you had a good time after, yes?” Shane flushes, his cheeks hot at the reminder of what, exactly, they had done in Ilya’s room that night. “I hate you,” he says instead. “No, you don’t,” Ilya says, and there’s a disgusting amount of bliss wrapped up in that one sentence. So much so that it’s nauseating. Sickening. Shane smiles. “No, I don’t,” he agrees. Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!