Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Series Rewrite, Trans Ilya Rozanov, Cis Shane Hollander, Because Russia, Figure Skater Ilya Rozanov, Friends to Lovers, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Brief mentions of internalized transphobia

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Always This

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-13 Completed: 2026-03-22 Words: 47,242 Chapters: 4/4

nothing in the world belongs to me, but my love

Summary

In one universe, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are locked in a heated rivalry. In another, they met under different circumstances.

Ilya is a former Russian figure skater turned Canadian hockey player. Shane is the undisputed 'prince' of hockey. However, after their first conversation, they find themselves on a path of becoming deeply connected and irrevocably in love.

Notes

All our gratitude to maevedarcy and wishingonalightningbolt for being our third and fourth pair of eyes on what is an absolutely unconscionable word count. All our love, we could not do this without you!

Translations: Hover over text on desktop or check the end notes.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

December 2008 - Saskatchewan 

Ilya grits his teeth as he pushes his way out of a nearby side door into the cold. It’s been cold as fuck today, but the anger heating his blood acts as a buffer against the frigid wind. His mind is racing over the past few hours. He had thought that with all the work that he had put in over the years, he was the obvious pick for team captain. He was one of the best—if not the best—on the team. And yet. Alternate Captain. Alternate. For all of his work, that’s all he’s gotten. Meanwhile, the captaincy went to Shane fucking Hollander.

He slouches against the nearby brick wall, rubbing at his sore chest, and pulls out his lighter and a cigarette while he replays that particular decision in his head. Shane Hollander. You would think he’s the fucking prince of hockey with the way that people speak of the boy. Ilya thinks he’s decent, although has a weak backhand. It feels unfair.

“You’re supposed to smoke over there,” a voice breaks through his thoughts. Well, speak of the fucking Devil. “I’m surprised you smoke,” Hollander says.

Of course he is. Of course perfect True Born Canadian Prince Shane Hollander does not smoke. He probably doesn't drink either.

“Okay,” Ilya says, trying not to roll his eyes. Or spit.

“I wanted to congratulate you on the A,” the other boy says before stepping closer to offer his hand.

“Yes,” is all he says in return. He does not say congratulations back. He does put his cigarette between his lips and shakes his hand because he’s not an animal.

“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Hollander says, looking happy and...eager.

“I know,” he says. “Coach does not agree.”

Hollander scrunches his face. “What makes you say that?”

Ilya does roll his eyes this time and motions at the boy in front of him who will be his captain.

He cannot tell if the flush on Hollander's cheeks is from the cold or from Ilya's comment. Either way, it does nothing to hide the freckles that cover his cheekbones. They are striking, and Ilya kind of hates that his mind has decided to fixate on them. It makes it just a little bit harder to hate the other boy. But just a little.

“Right, yeah… But you got Alternate Captain!” Hollander reminds, as if that is supposed to be helpful. To Ilya, it only feels like salt in the wound.

“Yes,” is all Ilya responds with. Because what else is he supposed to say?

Hollander, realizing that the topic has fallen dead in the water, clears his throat and tries a different tactic. “Are… Are your parents here with you?”

“No,” Ilya responds. The answer causes a slight pang in his chest that has nothing to do with his binder and everything to do with the guilt and grief. And in the moment, he wants to call Galina and tell her the “time heals wounds” adage is bullshit, because it still fucking hurts.

“Oh, that... That must be hard right? With Christmas?”

He sniffs once and shrugs. “It is fine.”

The truth is that he had only shared one Christmas with his mama, a real one like the ones he'd seen in the movies. She had gotten a visa and had spent the whole winter with him. They had gone to look at all of the lights in the streets and walked around the shops to look at the displays. It was magic. It had been the last time he ever saw her.

He takes another drag from his cigarette as he rides out the latest wave of grief. There is one thing Ilya refuses to do and that is to cry in front of Shane Hollander. Hollander has not taken the hint that Ilya came out here to be alone and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He leans up against the wall, next to Ilya. For lack of anything better to do, Ilya looks down at him, just watching him for a moment.

“You know, next year this tournament is going to be in Ottawa. My hometown,” Hollander continues. Ilya wonders how long he's going to try to keep up the conversation. In a moment of insanity, he wonders if Hollander had come out to comfort him. But he dismisses that. Either way, he seems determined to talk to Ilya, so...perhaps he could make an effort. They are on the same team after all. For now.

Ilya nods. “Is where I live too,” he admits.

Hollander leans forward, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

He hates that habit of North Americans. The double checking. Incredulous people. Who would lie about Ottawa?

“Yes.”

“That is so cool, I thought you lived here, since... I mean I just heard there was a large Russian population in Saskatchewan but that's...probably a super rude assumption.”

Ilya lets out a small hum. He is not offended by the assumption. Had never put much thought into what other people thought about him outside of his ability to perform. That is what matters. So, to Hollander's comment, he simply shrugs and changes the topic.

“Your parents are here,” he comments.

A smile crosses Hollander's face and now Ilya's brain cannot decide whether to look at the damn freckles or the pull of those pink lips.

“For this? Yeah. They're here. They always try to come see me play wherever I go.”

“That is nice for you,” Ilya comments, feeling a slight stab of envy. Why does it feel like Hollander has everything that Ilya has wanted? It pisses him off.

Maybe Shane Hollander is not very smart. He can't be good at everything right? Maybe Ilya is smarter than him. He got into college, Shane probably didn't even apply. Ilya couldn't risk not having a back up. If he was clever he would have gotten the hint that Ilya doesn't want to talk to anyone, much less the boy who took his C. And he smiles, soft and kind and right at him. Silly western non-stop smiling.

“Hey, if you don't have anything going on, why don't you join me and my parents for dinner?”

Immediately a part of Ilya bristles at the invitation. It's angry and prickly and wants to hiss at Hollander that he does not need pity. That he can fuck off with his smiles, stolen C, and those damn fucking freckles. That they don't need to interact off the ice. Instead, he takes another drag off his smoke and considers the invitation. Tries to take the kindness at face value, like Galina would tell him. From the corner of his eye, he takes in Hollander's expression, and Ilya finds himself huffing and dropping the butt of his cigarette into the snow.

“It would be okay for your parents?” he finds himself asking. It's not a yes.

“I'm sure they would be fine with it. After all, we're on the same team, right? And getting a letter is worth celebrating. And besides, it's Christmas,” Hollander practically rambles, his look even more hopeful.

He's genuine. Of course he is. He does not need to be bitter or petty or mean, because he won. This time.

“Okay,” he finally says, wrapping his arms around himself because it's fucking cold and the ache in his chest is becoming obnoxious, “if they say yes.”

“Great.” Shane nods and moves away from the wall. He fully faces Ilya again, which gives him a better view of the smile and the freckles and hopeful dark eyes. “I'll go inside and ask them. They've been waiting for me. I'll be right back,” he promises.

“...Okay,” Ilya responds. He watches, anxiety pounding in his chest, as Shane slips inside.

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

His dad is the first to spot him and raises his hand to greet him. “So how was he?”

He tucks his hands into his pockets and gnaws at his lip. “Fine. Yeah, um. He's from Ottawa!”

That makes his mom perk up. “Really?”

“Yeah. Oh, I... I asked him to come to dinner with us. His parents aren't here and I mean he should get to celebrate the A right? I don't think he's really gotten to know anyone on the team.”

“You know, Shane? That is a lovely idea,” his mom compliments, giving a slight nod. “It would be a good opportunity to get to know your fellow captain and really build a solid team dynamic.”

“And he could be a good friend,” his father adds, trying to balance out his mom's fixation on hockey, “He's more than welcome to join. Have someone else to celebrate with other than just us.” He offers a smile.

“Why don't you go back and grab him, we'll meet you both at the car,” his mom says, reaching out to squeeze Shane's arm.

He smiles, his nerves about the request dimming. He does as his mom instructed and steps out, finding Rozanov working on a second cigarette. It's bad for him but the guy obviously knows that. He decides not to mention it again. Today. He's leaning against the wall, still, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. He looks...angry. Maybe.

“Hey, are you ready? We can meet my parents in the car out front.”

Rozanov almost seems to jolt. He looks over at Shane, the light catching his hazel eyes in a way that makes the green stand out. It looks like he processes what Shane says and gives a slight nod. He disposes of his second cigarette and pushes off from the wall. One hand stays in his pocket, but he uses the other to gesture to Shane to go ahead. Shane nods and starts leading him toward the front of the center. During games and practices, Rozanov chirps. A lot. But now he’s quiet, and Shane wonders if that is because of the potential anger. Or maybe Rozanov is different on the ice than off. He isn’t certain.

“So, what kind of food do you like?” Shane asks. He earns another shrug from Rozanov.

“Am not picky,” he responds. Which…is an answer. Though it doesn’t exactly answer the question he asked.

He wracked his brain for what to say or ask next. Small talk tends to be torture on the best of days, but usually the other person is really good at it and Shane can just follow their lead. All he knows about Ilya is that he’s good at hockey, he’s Russian-born, and he's here on his own.

Thankfully, Shane is saved by the fact it is not a far walk to the car. As they approach, he sees his parents smile.

“Mom, Dad, this is Ilya Rozanov,” he introduces. Though, maybe that’s a little unnecessary. They already know who he is.

“Hello,” Rozanov says, holding up a hand. Shane wonders if Rozanov feels as awkward as Shane does.

“Hello,” his mom responds kindly with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you officially, Ilya. I’m Yuna, and this is David. We’re glad that you agreed to join us for dinner. Congratulations on your A.”

“Thank you,” he says, with a small tight smile and a nod that looks like he's ducking his head. It's strange because Shane thought he was angry about not getting the C and now he looks shy about the A. He makes sure not to frown in his confusion.

“Are you alright in the backseat, Ilya? There should be plenty of leg room.”

“Is fine,” he says before clearing his throat. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course,” his mom continues. “It’s always nice to have one of Shane’s teammates join us. And it’s a matter worth celebrating.”

The thing is…Shane does not remember the last time he and his parents had one of his teammates join them for dinner. Outside of big team dinners, Shane doesn’t think he’s ever had a singular teammate join in on a meal that was supposed to be him and his parents.

“So, Shane tells us that you’re also from Ottawa. How long have you lived there?” his dad asks.

“Since I was teenager,” Ilya answers.

“Did you billet?”

Ilya does an interesting wiggle with his head. “Sort of. I mostly lived with my coaches until I had passport and then I billet. Was complicated. Did not want to...make complicated for host family.”

Shane’s parents seem to take this into consideration, both of them nodding. He can see the way that his mom’s brows furrow in slight concern, but she doesn’t say anything. Yet. Though he does know that eventually she’ll likely try to get to the bottom of what was “complicated.”

“Are you looking forward to the tournament?” Shane’s mom asks instead.

“Yes,” Rozanov responds, firmly. “I am hoping it goes well.”

Shane has to agree. The tournament is their chance to show off to the NHL coaches and influence their potential draft pick. Shane is pretty sure he’ll be picked. And after playing with Rozanov, he’s fairly certain that Rozanov will be chosen too.

“You’ll be playing against Russia this week,” his dad points out. “Is that going to be awkward for you?”

“No,” he says simply, leaving an awkward silence which he seems put upon to correct when he adds, “I will win; will be fine.”

His dad chuckles softly. “That's a healthy amount of confidence, Rozanov.”

Rozanov seems to pause for a moment. It’s brief, but it’s almost like he’s lost about how to respond. His lips pursed just slightly and with a note of hesitance gives a slight nod.

“I’m fairly confident between you and Shane that Canada will win this tournament. You two seem to play well off each other on the ice,” his mom comments.

“Hollander is focused player, aware of his team all the time. He will be good captain,” he says, not sweet in tone but not begrudgingly either. He just says it simply, plainly, like it's true.

It’s enough to fluster Shane, and he can feel his cheeks warm slightly. Especially since he hadn't expected Rozanov to say anything like that with how upset he had seemed. And maybe it's because Shane's parents are there, but he didn't have to say anything, right? His eyes meet Rozanov's for a moment across the backseat, the taller boy seeming to be watching him. And Shane feels his face heat just a little more. He plays it off as embarrassment from the attention.

“And you're a great center,” Shane responds in turn. “And you always seem to be able to be right where someone needs you. I don’t think we would have made as many goals as we have without your skills.”

Rozanov makes a humming sound and leans back lightly in his seat. Thankfully, the restaurant is just a few minutes away. They take their seats and Shane thinks, the way his brain does sometimes, that he likes how this feels—filling the whole table.

A waitress comes by to get their drink orders. His mom and dad order wine. Shane asks for his usual ginger ale. When it comes to Ilya, he asks for a Coke. And Shane does remember that he has frequently seen his teammate frequently drinking from a can of the sugary soda after practices.

“So, Rozanov,” his mom prompts after a moment. “Do you have any plans for Christmas?”

“Ah...no. Just the tournament. Christmas...Christmas is not big deal in Russia,” Rozanov answers. There is a small polite smile on his face. But Shane notes how Rozanov's fingers almost pick at the edges of the menu. Like he's nervous or uncomfortable.

His dad seems interested in that. “Is that so?”

“Mmm, is normal day. Some people go to church,” he says with a shrug, “and is in January so.” He shrugs again and waves his hand lightly, a dismissive gesture.

“That's very interesting,” his dad acknowledges. “Are there bigger winter holidays for you?”

“New Year’s is...big. New Year's is more like Russian Christmas,” Ilya answers.

“Are you going back to Russia at that time to celebrate with your family?” Shane asks, curious.

“...No. No one to celebrate with,” Rozanov says, a little quiet. He takes a sip of his Coke, as if he wants to avoid saying more.

Shane knows his face must be red and shocked so he also looks away from Rozanov but only for a moment. He sees the look in his mom's face, sad first and then determined. He knows this determination on his mom's face very well.

“You'll spend New Year's with us,” she says. “We're all in Ottawa for the break, aren't we?”

Rozanov has completely sat up on his chair. He is blinking at Shane’s mom. Slowly there is a shake of his head. “I couldn’t—”

“I insist. It would be no trouble at all. What do you think, Shane?” his mom prompts. Shane feels those hazel eyes heavy on him. Waiting.

“Yeah, that's—it's a good idea,” Shane agrees with a smile. “We normally just watch the fireworks, but it's fun. Do you do other things? Or did you when you were, um, home?”

Ilya takes another drink of his Coke and then he shrugs. “There are some things similar to your Christmas. A decorated tree and exchange of gifts. There is a toast with champagne and we…we write our wish for New Year’s and burn the paper. And…and we watch traditional holiday movies. There is also lots of food.”

Shane nods. “That sounds really cool actually.”

“Well that makes me more excited about New Year's,” his dad says. “I tend to just get sad about stuff and cry at the fireworks.”

His mom smiles and takes his hands. “You do get sentimental on New Year's. I think this will be a happy change of pace.”

Then she turns her smile to Rozanov. “Whereabouts Ottawa do you stay?”

“I live in Centretown, but closer to Sandy Hill,” Rozanov answers.

“That’s perfect. I actually don’t think that is very far from where we are,” his mom responds.

The waitress returns and takes their orders. Shane takes the opportunity to study Rozanov’s face. He looks...dizzy. Overwhelmed. The restaurant is fairly quiet though, so maybe it's the lighting in here.

As it usually happens, the conversation returns to lighter topics. A lot of it is about hockey, which Rozanov seems to be more open to talking about, once he seems to recover from the onslaught of Hollander questioning. Shane finds himself watching his teammate half the time, almost cataloguing his reactions and expressions. Eventually dinner arrives and things settle into a quiet that is oddly comfortable.

“You know some of the newsletters have been murmuring about the two of you as prospects,” his mother comments as she takes a drink. “Everyone thinks both of you will be high up in the draft if you both make it.”

Rozanov nods. “One and two probably.”

Like most of the things he's said about hockey so far, it is both cocky and matter-of-fact.

His mom grins. “You think so? Which will be which?”

When Rozanov smiles this time, it's different, like a half smile—maybe a smirk?

“I think it will be rude to say and I will not be rude at your table, Mrs. Hollander,” he says, “even if is restaurant.”

Shane narrows his eyes at Rozanov’s insinuation. Is he suggesting that he will be first? It would be in line with his cocky attitude, and…well, Rozanov is his match when it comes to hockey. But still, Shane cannot help but feel a swell of competition sweep through him. Rozanov seems to notice Shane’s stare.

That half smile is there and he inexplicably winks at Shane. “Do not worry, Captain. I am certain many coaches are hoping to draft you.”

“Well, aren’t you the charmer?” Shane’s mom smiles. She looks amused and looks at her husband. “You know a dose of competition could be good.”

Shane feels heat on the back of his neck. He's not embarrassed exactly but he feels a surge of determination. Rozanov is so sure under that cocky smirk that he's better than Shane. He thinks he deserved to be made captain and he thinks he's going to be picked first overall. Shane will just have to prove him wrong. When the check comes, Rozanov makes a move for his wallet, which is polite but also unexpected.

His dad tilts his head with an amused expression and shakes his head. “Once you two are making NHL money you can pick up the check,” he says.

All hints of the cocky side of Rozanov disappear once again. He blinks at Shane’s dad. His hands slowly move away from where his wallet would be, though they stay hovering close. Like he’s expecting Shane’s dad to—what? Change his mind? Make Rozanov pay for his share?

“I… Thank you, sir.” He gives a small tight nod. His eyes then dart over to Shane’s mom. “Thank you, Mrs. Hollander.”

Shane can't help but smile. He's like Shane and his friends when he was in elementary school. They used to race to thank the parents who had invited them out and then preen about being the most polite. Rozanov is an asshole while chirping on ice but maybe he isn't one overall.

When dinner is done, they bundle back up into the cold and make their way back to the hotel.

“I’ll see you at practice and the game tomorrow?” Shane prompts.

He gets a grin and a nod from Rozanov. “We will… How is it said? ‘Kick their ass’?”

Shane grins. Despite how the evening started, he thinks he likes Rozanov. A lot. “Yeah, we're going to kick their ass. See you in the morning, Roz.”

“Good night, Hollander.” Rozanov gives a final nod and disappears into his hotel room.

Shane makes his way back to his own hotel room, a suite he’s sharing with his parents. His mom seems to have swept herself up into researching something. His dad is reading the book that he had brought with him.

“I'm going to get right to bed,” he tells them. “Goodnight.”

They both look up and smile.

“Get your rest sweetheart,” his mom says. “You'll need your energy to win.”

“Goodnight, kiddo.”

The following day brings practice and another game, which Canada wins. They keep winning. Shane thinks some of these wins can be attributed to how he and Rozanov play off each other. Because Rozanov is a good center. If he’s not making a goal, he’s there for the assist. And vice versa. To Shane, it’s like he finally has a player on the team who isn’t just keeping up, but is actually reading his mind.

As December comes to a close, they finally face off against Russia. It is a difficult game, especially since the Russian team seems to play dirty. It is during the second period of the game where Shane starts to realize that they particularly seem to be targeting Rozanov.

 “Roz,” he says, skating close. “You alright?”

Rozanov looks incredibly pissed off, and he isn't particularly sensitive to chirping. “Fine,” he dismisses.

Shane watches carefully as they continue and he can tell the other team is closing in on him in particular. They don't exactly have enforcers on the team but he motions for a few more of the guys to keep an eye on the situation.

When they’re both at the bench for a moment, he takes the opportunity to lean in. “They're playing dirty.”

“They know they will lose,” Rozanov mutters back. “They decide to blame me. Traitor.”

Shane frowns. “Because you’re playing for Canada rather than Russia.”

“Mm.” Rozanov nods as he takes a drink from his water bottle. “To them, I should have stayed in Russia and brought them glory. Playing for their biggest national competitor? Is unforgivable.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Shane says lowly. “Maybe they should just get better at playing hockey.”

This earns him a surprised laugh from Rozanov. The sound to Shane feels a little bit like a win.

“You are right. Either way, we will win.”

He doesn't usually—never has before—but he turns and taps his helmet to Rozanov's. It’s an easy, automatic gesture of camaraderie. “Yeah, we will. And we're going to be really fucking nice about it too. You know why? Cause we're Canadian.”

That makes Rozanov laugh, which makes Shane's heart squeeze. Then they're back on the ice.

They do win. Despite the targeted attacks and the dirty playing, Canada wins the final tournament. Shane, like all the previous games, attributes a lot of this to having good teamwork with Rozanov.

Things are tense as they line up for the handshakes. The Russian team is angry. And it seems that they are not done with their negativity toward Rozanov. At least one of them sneers something in Russian to Rozanov, who Shane can feel tense behind him.

“…Good game,” is all Ilya responds with.

He's a little surprised that he isn't giving it back to them in Russian, almost like he's ignoring the language altogether. Once they're back in the dressing room and celebrating, Rozanov's mood is back to the usual cocky and fun. Not for the first time he notices that Rozanov is very private for someone who is so extraverted. He never chats while he's changing, always facing away from the rest of the guys. Then, when he's changed and comfortable, he's back to ribbing everyone and planning parties.

“Hey Roz, are you still interested in New Year’s?” Shane asks when he finally gets a moment to talk to his alternate captain.

“I do not want to disappoint your mother,” Rozanov says with a grin. But, maybe because Shane has spent some time with him lately, he picks up that the expression is more shy than the others he’s shared.

Shane nods. “She has been doing a lot of research and planning. Even my dad got looped into it. Mostly the cooking parts. He likes trying new recipes.”

“Your father is cooking?”

He nods. “Yeah he's really good. I can't promise the food will be authentic but they're trying.”

“What is this word?”

“Authentic? Oh, like, um... Like the real thing. They're going off recipes on the internet.”

Rozanov looks vaguely uncomfortable, shy all over again. “This is not necessary—”

“Yeah,” Shane cuts him off, “but they want to. I'm looking forward to it too.”

That look is back. And the best word that Shane has found for this particular look that Rozanov gets whenever it comes to interactions like this, especially when it involves Shane’s parents, is lost. It’s almost like he doesn’t know what to do with genuine interest or care or positive regard. Shane supposes a lot of that has to do with being an orphan.

“…Did they find The Irony of Fate?” Rozanov finally asks. And the question is so quiet and soft. Like the laugh, it feels like something has been won.

“Yes, actually. Found it in a video store here,” Shane answers. “The owner rambled about it for about 30 minutes. She seemed really excited that we’d be watching it.”

“Is...classic,” he says, his face still soft. “Maybe you will like it.”

Shane smiles at him before the team starts tugging at them to join them in going to celebrate.

Rozanov is back to his usual bombastic self during team celebrations. When Shane says no to another drink, the Russian blows a raspberry at him, but then plunks a glass of ginger ale in front of him later.

“For Captain Responsible,” Rozanov teases.

“I honestly just don't like it,” he says, accepting the ginger ale.

“I know.” He winks playfully. “One day we will find you favorite drink and you will dance on table.”

“This is my favorite drink,” Shane argues, gesturing to the ginger ale.

Rozanov grins. “Favorite alcoholic drink. Ginger ale will not make you dance on table.”

“I don't know, Roz, maybe the perfect can of Canada Dry might do the trick,” he jokes.

“This is commercial,” Rozanov says, shaking his head. “Yuna write this for you.”

Shane laughs and shakes his head. “Nope, that’s all me.”

“Ugh, you are so boring.” Rozanov rolls his eyes. But there is a hint of a smile along his lips and a glint to his eyes that speaks more to something kinder. “Fine, I will ply you with ginger ale and expect you on the tabletop.”

Shane shoves at him lightly and then Rozanov turns his attention back to the rest of their teammates. Eventually, after plenty of socializing and merry-making, Shane decides to excuse himself. He's almost to the elevators when Rozanov calls after him.

He turns back and finds the Russian looking flushed, drunk obviously, and pointing back to the hotel bar with both arms. “You did not dance!”

“Rain check,” he huffs as he calls for the elevator. “Maybe.”

“What? I have to wait for rain?” Rozanov asks, and if Shane didn’t know better he would think the other boy is pouting.

“No, it just means that I might do it later,” Shane answers. The elevator dings, announcing its arrival. “Have a good night, Rozanov.”

“Good night, Hollander,” Rozanov responds, “I’ll see you on the 31st.”

Rozanov calls something out in Russian but the doors close and he knows that the other guy is drunk and that Shane himself is...tired and over excited from the win. He decides to just go to bed.

 ◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈ 

December 2008 - Ottawa 

Ilya shows up to the Hollander household on December 31st. He double checks the address that he had gotten from Yuna before they had left Regina. This is it. He does his best to balance the gifts he’s brought for each of the Hollanders—a perfume for Yuna, luxury chocolates for both her and David, and a book and an NHL-branded thermos for Hollander. Illya spent all morning wrapping them. Nervous, he knocks on the door and waits.

He's done things much, much more frightening than visiting a nice family for a holiday, but his heart is pounding in his chest. Not too long after he knocks he hears steps approaching and then the door opens to a warm bright inside. Mrs. Hollander is there smiling as if she is happy to see him.

“You're here! Come in, come in, the boys are in the kitchen. Can I take some of that off your hands?”

“No, no… I am… It is okay,” he says.

“We can put them under the tree,” Mrs. Hollander suggests. She gestures to the tree that is in their living room. It is obviously decorated for Christmas, but seeing it does bring some warmth to Ilya. He dutifully sets them down, noticing other presents. Then he returns his attention to Mrs. Hollander, who leads him into the kitchen.

“He’s here!” she announces.

Mr. Hollander turns with a bright smile. “There he is!”

“Hey, Roz,” Hollander says from beside him and—God. Seeing him makes Ilya’s stomach flip. It makes him nearly dizzy, Hollander’s smile, his freckles. The way his eyes always show his feelings like billboards. Hollander is happy to see him.

“Hello, Hollander,” he responds with a nod of his own, accompanied by a smile Ilya wishes was more charming or confident. Toward the elder man in the room, Ilya says, “Hello, Mr. Hollander.”

“We are currently trying to mix one of the salads. The Olivier one,” Mr. Hollander answers.

“Would you like help?” Ilya offers.

“If you promise not to be offended by our very Canadian attempt at your food,” he says. “I promise our heart is in the right place.”

“Looks amazing,” he says as he steps forward to help. It's been so long that he has no interest or need to compare meals. More importantly, the idea that this whole family has made New Year's about him, that they'd let him in and make him a guest of honor, is more than he has any English words for.

They maneuver around the kitchen, making a variety of salads and desserts. Mr. Hollander seems to be attempting blinis. It is half cooking, half socializing. It is the most that Ilya has felt a sense of something like home in a long time. He has to remind himself that he’s still just a guest at the end of the day.

“When should we pop in the movies?” Hollander asks.

“At any time. Back in Russia, television plays all classic movies during day,” Ilya answers. “And it stays on through supper.”

“It's really like Christmas then.” Shane smiles. “I was reading about it. It's cool right? I mean we all just want to have special food and watch feel-good movies with our families when it's cold. The actual holiday is, like, whatever.”

Ilya gives a nod and a smile. “I suppose that is true.”

He doesn’t know what to do with all of this, with how much it warms him that Shane was reading about Russian cultures and holidays.

“We will watch fireworks tonight?”

“Yeah, we figured we’d, like, combine traditions,” Shane says with a nod. “If you’re okay with that.”

Ilya copies his nod. “Yes. I'm okay with...everything. Thank you.”

He almost jumps when he feels a small hand on his arm. Mrs. Hollander says, “We're happy to have you. Come, help me set the table.”

Ilya follows her and her instructions to set their table for four. It looks like it seats six and he wonders if they do this often, take in players who are alone for the holidays. That makes sense. The Hollanders are kind and they meet lots of boys far from home. He nods to himself—this is normal for them.

Supper draws closer and Mr. Hollander and Shane start bringing in the dishes that have been made. And it is even more than what Ilya expected. Seeing it all laid out, his throat tightens just a little.

“I… Mrs. Hollander, where is the washroom? I would like to wash up before supper,” he says. Mrs. Hollander directs him and he slips into the bathroom, just as he loses his fight against the tears.

He knows if he doesn't let it out it'll be worse and uncontrollable later, so he just tries to stay quiet as he sits against the floor and cries. He has not seen a New Year's table laid out since he was so little. His home was never as warm as the Hollanders’ but Mama always tried so hard to make the day happy, to make sure Papa didn't shout. She deserved so many more New Year’s days and much happier ones too. He gets up and turns on the faucet, splashing water against his cheeks as he tries to make his face look normal again.

A couple cooling splashes to his face, some deep breaths, and finally he feels mostly back to normal. He thinks he looks okay and not like he had a near emotional breakdown over New Year’s celebrations in the bathroom. He makes his way back out and joins the Hollanders at the dining room table.

“It all looks good,” he compliments.

It turns out that it tastes amazing too. He really doesn't remember what it's supposed to taste like, so he tells them how much he enjoys it and they should not worry about him comparing it. After they finish eating, he and Shane are clearing the table while his parents set up the movies.

“I'm really glad the food turned out okay,” Shane says quietly.

“You were worried it would turn out bad?” Ilya asks.

 “Well, they’re new recipes for us. And I… I’d feel bad if we messed up one of your traditional dishes,” Shane says. It is sweet.

“Hollander. The effort is worth more than the taste. It could be far off from traditional and I would still appreciate it,” he says.

Shane's cheeks are pink and Ilya won't think about that too much for his own sanity. From the other room, Mrs. Hollander tells them to hurry up and they do. On the couch she is reclined with her husband, a blanket draped over them. There are two more blankets on the couch.

“Get cozy,” she says. “I've been curious about how much the video rental girl wanted us to watch this.”

Ilya takes a seat on the coach, grabbing one of the blankets. Shane takes the seat between Ilya and his parents, curling up with the other. There are snacks on the coffee table. Both of the sweet and salty variety. Ilya grabs one of the cookies and settles in. The Irony of Fate starts playing, and Ilya is hit with the usual nostalgia of it. His lips pull into the smile it always causes and he has to keep himself from speaking along with the movie, lines so deeply ingrained in his memory. The English dub throws him off slightly, but it is still the same in all the ways that count. Though, he does find a new point of enjoyment with this rewatch: the Hollanders’ reactions. Particularly Shane’s.

He realizes he's never seen this with someone who hasn't seen it before because there was no one in Russia who had never seen it before. It was like they played it for the entire population as infants and no one really remembered watching it for the first time. But the Hollanders are watching it with brand new eyes and he finds that at some point he's watching them more than the movie itself.

They seem to be enjoying it. Laughing at the same parts that everyone finds funny. Mrs. Hollander does seem touched at the romance that blooms between Zhenya and Nadya.

“I don’t think it’s very safe that the locks are the same,” Shane mutters at some point.

“…You think they cared about safety?” Ilya raises a brow. “You saw the cartoon.”

Yuna laughs and adjusts herself in her husband's arms. Ilya turns to Shane and finds him looking at his parents with a smile. He swallows back another surge of melancholy. This is nice and happy and the years ahead will be hard. He should not taint a memory like this with his sadness.

He returns his focus back onto the movie. Like all romance and comedies, it has a happy ending.

“Now I see what the fuss was about,” Mrs. Hollander says. She turns her attention to Ilya. “Thank you for bringing this movie to our attention.”

Mr. Hollander checks his watch. “Jeez, it's only 8:30?”

“You're such an old man,” Mrs. Hollander laughs. “We'll watch another movie. Ilya, have you seen When Harry Met Sally?”

He shakes his head. Sure he's seen that one part everyone knows and he's heard it mentioned, but he's never seen it.

“Well then, you'll get some of our classics as well. But why don't we give you your gifts first?”

Ilya blinks. He thinks he will be constantly surprised by the Hollanders for as long as he will know them. Yes, he had heard of their research. But he did not expect that they would buy him gifts.

“I… Yes, we can do gift exchange,” Ilya agrees. They migrate over to where the presents sit under the tree. David pulls out presents, handing two over to Ilya. One from Yuna and David. The other from Shane. The others, the gifts Ilya brought, are given to their respective recipients.

“You really did not—”

“Have to,” the three Hollanders say as if practiced.

Shane laughs and shakes his head. “We know. We wanted to, I promise. This is fun.”

Ilya nods his head and motions for Mrs. Hollander to open hers.

She smiles and opens the small box. Ilya can clearly see the surprise that crosses her expression when she sees what it is. Reaching in carefully, she pulls out the small bottle of perfume. When Ilya had smelled it at the store, he thought it matched Mrs. Hollander. Graceful and respectable and a little bold.

She touches a hand to her chest and then reaches forward to hug Ilya. He freezes but she doesn't notice because it is so quick, so natural to her.

“Oh, this is so lovely,” she coos. “It has an actual little puff like in old films. Thank you so much, Ilya.”

Mr. Hollander is impressed with his gift as well, saying he hasn't had these particular chocolates in years. Shane goes next and actually hugs the gifted thermos to his chest.

“It's like a good luck charm,” he says, rubbing his thumb lightly over the NHL logo.

Ilya smiles and tilts his head in acknowledgment. That is exactly what he was hoping to get across with this gift for Shane. Luck in his upcoming career, because he knows that Shane has a future with the NHL.

“Now, open your gifts,” Shane tells him. “This one is mine. I wrapped it this afternoon.”

Ilya takes the gift in hand. The wrapping is neat and pretty.

“I must say, I appreciate the excuse to wait on wrapping until the day of,” Mr. Hollander mentions. Ilya nearly stops his unwrapping when he realizes that the Hollanders had not only made the evening resemble a Russian New Year's for him. They had gone ahead and done everything they found out about even when he was not there to see it, including wrapping gifts on the day. When he finally opens the gift he finds a black and grey scarf with the NHL logo embroidered on it.

“We had the same idea,” Shane grins, holding up his thermos.

“Thank you,” he says, but it comes out almost whispered as he pulls the scarf out and hangs it over his neck.

Shane’s grin seems to grow even more. Ilya cannot look away. It’s like that first actual conversation outside practice. He plays with the fabric between his fingers, finding it soft. He thinks it will keep him warm no matter where he goes.

“I’m glad you like it,” Shane says, quietly. Ilya then reaches over and takes the present from Mr. and Mrs. Hollander into his lap. It is rather large and he pulls the wrapping from it. He has to take a deep breath to keep himself from crying (once again) when he sees it. It’s a black duffle bag, solidly made. One that he has seen other professional hockey players carry. What fills him with that achy emotion is that it is embroidered with his name.

“Open it up,” Mr. Hollander suggests. Confused but curious, Ilya unzips the top zipper. Instead of finding the paper and cardboard that usually helps a bag keep its shape, there are…snacks. All of the snacks that he had grown up with. Candies that his mama would sometimes pull from her pockets, a sweet treat for him after a good practice.

“Спасибо” he says, because he is too overwhelmed for English at this moment.

Mrs. Hollander reaches out and rubs her hand over his arm as if trying to warm him up or comfort him. Fuck. Fuck, he's crying—he can feel it on his cheek and she's going to see it.

“Thank you so much,” he says, pretending to rifle through the snacks even though his sight is blurry.

“David, Shane, why don’t you go try to find a good bottle of champagne,” he hears Mrs. Hollander suggest to the other men.

“What?” Shane starts to argue. “But—”

“Two pairs of eyes are better than one, kiddo,” Mr. Hollander’s voice intones. Ilya hears their footsteps and even though he doesn’t see it, he knows that it is just him and Mrs. Hollander in the room now.

“It's okay,” she says softly. “Hey, it's okay.” He shakes his head in protest, but she whispers, “Yes, it is. You're far from home and you don't have your parents. I know what that's like. I had them for a long time but not long enough. Now there's a country far from here that has a piece of them and a piece of me but this is my home. It's hard, Ilya, and it is okay for it to be hard.”

He feels childish. He wants nothing more than his mama. His kind and beautiful but sad mama. Part of him wants to turn and hug Mrs. Hollander, who is also as kind and as warm as she had once been. But she is Shane’s mother. She is not Ilya’s to turn to and seek comfort from, even if she seems to be genuinely offering it.

“You never go back?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing there for me.” He can see her nod in his periphery. Her hand is a steady pressure on his arm. He slaps at his face and takes a frustratingly shaky breath. “I am sorry.”

“Come,” she says, standing. “I'll show you to Shane's room where you can put your gifts and take a minute to yourself. The boys and I will make more popcorn and get the next movie ready.”

He looks up at her with his stupid watery eyes, confused. She tilts her head and looks at him with some sass.

“You don't seriously think I'm sending you back to your hotel after midnight. You'll stay with Shane and we'll drive you back to your hotel after you have a long morning and a ridiculously huge breakfast. Come on.”

It is enough to break the dam. He gives into the urge and leans in with what could be considered as a half hug. “Thank you,” he quietly says.

“Anytime,” she whispers back to him. They get up and Mrs. Hollander leads him to Shane’s room.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” she tells him and closes the door behind her. He sets the bag and the scarf onto the floor and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He takes in Shane’s room and he is amused to find that it is very Shane. It’s filled with anything a hockey fan and player would want. It’s very neat and organized as well.

There are a lot of books on hockey, as if Shane were trying to get a degree in the sport rather than a spot in a team. There are no clothes laying around or nonsense on the dresser. In fact the only thing on there aside from some cologne and two watches is a picture of him and his family. He looks about 5 years old and adorable, swimming in his overly large hockey gear, his mother and father on either side. Ilya takes a few breaths and thankfully the room has an en suite so he can wash his face and get a hold of himself again. God—he is embarrassing himself thoroughly. If Shane wanted to ruin his reputation as a cocky jerk on the ice he absolutely could.

Though, he thinks after a moment, he does not think the other boy would do that. Shane is…well, he is kind. Yes, he does chirp from time to time, and does rib some of his teammates. He just doesn’t seem to get caught up in the gossip and drama that some of the other players have.

Ilya takes another steadying deep breath and steps out of Shane’s bedroom. Returning to the living room, he finds the Hollanders have resettled on the couch. Mentally, he does note that Shane seems to sit up a little more when Ilya returns, his eyes practically taking stock of him. In return, Ilya saunters over, sits down and steals some popcorn from his bowl.

“Do you want me to make you a bowl?”

He leans into the couch and reaches into Shane's bowl again, eyes on his. “Nope.”

Shane frowns at him and gestures to the bigger bowl of popcorn on the table. “There is plenty enough for you to have your own bowl,” he points out.

Ilya grins. “Yes, but yours is right here.” He reaches for another handful.

Shane swipes it away, holding it out on the opposite side. “Get your own, Roz,” Shane chastises him.

“Will not be the same, this has Annoyed-Hollander Sprinkles,” he says with a grin. Shane huffs and serves a second bowl before shoving it at Ilya, and Ilya sighs dramatically as he accepts it. “Fine.”

He scoops some M&Ms and sprinkles them on the popcorn. Hollader blinks at him in abject horror.

“What.”

“Nothing.” Shane blinks. “Just...nothing.”

“You're so boring, Hollander,” he chuckles, grabbing a handful of his popcorn and chocolate mix.

The next movie, as Mrs. Hollander has suggested, is When Harry Met Sally. He finds that he immediately disagrees with Harry’s stance. He has had experience of just being friends with someone and the sex part not getting in the way. It reminds him that he will need to text Svetlana sometime tonight to wish her a happy New Year. However, he does find himself enjoying the unfolding of Harry and Sally’s friendship, and then romance. A quiet part of him hopes that eventually he does find something like that. Something that grows naturally from just…spending time together and getting to know a person. But for now, he is just open for fun times.

The movie has a running theme of years passing and New Year's and at the end it makes perfect sense why it's a favorite at this time of year. When it ends it is much closer to midnight, much to Mr. Hollander's relief.

“Well let's get our coats, the best view of the fireworks will be at the park,” he says as he gets up.

“Sometimes we see them from the yard but it's just glimpses,” Mrs. Hollander says as she folds up her blanket and lays it back down on the couch. Ilya notices it is just the same as Shane has done and he follows suit.

“Is the park far away?”

Shane shakes his head and grabs the champagne. “We walk.”

Ilya nods, grabbing his coat and follows the Hollanders out into the cold. He notes some people are already out, setting up on their lawns to watch the fireworks. It is not a far walk and the Hollanders claim one of the picnic benches, setting out four glasses. David reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a notepad and some pens.

“I remember you saying that you tend to write down your wish and burn it.”

“I… Yes, that is true,” Ilya confirms.

“Is drinking the ashes with the champagne necessary?” Shane asks, which makes Ilya laugh and shake his head.

They all write down their wishes. Ilya hesitates. Almost every year he had something he was afraid of, something out of his hands, that he asked God for on this night. But now, when the future is in the hands of his skills he finds that he isn't sure what to ask for. The Hollanders are seated around him, scribbling on their own pages, Mr. Hollander already working with a lighter. Some others around them have music playing, lively and excited, people hug and mill about. More of this, he decides, even if it is greedy and selfish. Please God, he writes, let me have more of this moment.

He folds up the paper and pulls out his own lighter. Midnight approaches closer until Ilya hears people start to count down. The Hollanders around him join in. Finally when it gets to about one, Ilya burns his wish and then drinks his champagne as around him he hears people cheer about the New Year. The first pop of fireworks go off, and as he finishes his drink. He takes in the sight. But it's only for a moment until he feels eyes on him. His eyes meet with Shane's who gives him a wide, warm smile.

“Happy New Year, Rozanov!”

“Happy New Year, Hollander,” he replies with a smile.

Then, just as his mother had done, Shane surprises him with a hug, quick and hard. Then he turns to his mother and father and kisses each of them on the cheek, congratulating them and leaving Ilya stunned.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Hollander also congratulate Ilya, Mrs. Hollander even patting Ilya's hand. They stay and watch the fireworks. Well, Ilya finds himself torn between the fireworks and how the lights dance across Shane's face. Eventually, the colorful explosions come to an end and the Hollanders announce it is time to return to their home.

“We're heading to bed, boys,” Mrs. Hollander says as they take off their coats. “See you two in the morning.”

They wish both of them goodnight and then for the first time all evening he and Shane are completely alone.

“That was nice, yeah?”

Ilya nods. “Yes, it was. This has all been... Thank you, Hollander. I know that you wanted to, but...it means a lot that you wanted to do this for me. So thank you. I won't forget this.”

“Of course,” Shane says with a smile. “It was fun. And...I'm glad that you decided to share it with us. Maybe we can even do it again next year, since we have one more year of World Junior Hockey?” he suggests.

Ilya brings his hand up to clench the cross he wears under his shirt and gives a silent thank you to whoever heard his wish. “...I...yes. That would be nice. If… If your mother and father are still okay with it.”

“Honestly, I think this is the most fun they've had with New Years in a while,” Shane says. There is a long stretch of silence before Shane asks, “What are you going to do, now that championships are over?”

“I have plans to visit Toronto. Friends who live there. And then...train? Practice? Prepare for the draft, definitely.” Ilya shrugs.

“Same,” he answers, though Ilya doubts that their ideas of fun are the same.

 He clears his throat. “I... Your mother said I should stay.”

“Yeah, I mean obviously,” Shane says, smiling. “It's late and New Year's day. We usually sleep in late, have a big breakfast, spend the day reading; we go on a lunch walk and say hi to the neighbors.”

“Should we...”

“We could watch something else? I thought, um—some of the movies we rented are subtitled instead of dubbed. Do you want to watch something in Russian?”

The surprises keep hitting Ilya. He should have suspected this, given his growing...whatever it is happening with Shane. Still, it is another touching accommodation that one of the Hollanders have made since this acquaintance began.

“Yes. I would like that. The dubbing, it is...not bad, but it does not capture the emotion so well.”

Shane nods. “Yeah, I've... I've read something written in French translated to English and it’s fine. It's just—hard right? Emotion. Words. I don't know.”

Ilya nods. “Yes.”

“I hope it isn't...too much? All of this. I know it can be, we can be... I just hope we didn't make things awkward for you,” Shane says as he walks back to the TV room and moves over the blankets.

There is no use in denying it. Ilya tilts his head and settles down into the couch. “It was...not awkward. Just...a lot. It has...been a long time since I got to experience anything remotely close to what I would have at home. I enjoyed myself but it brought certain emotions that were also...hard.”

“So...kind of like nostalgia?” Shane asks.

“I am not familiar with this word, 'nostalgia,'“ Ilya tells him.

“It's… It's something that's both happy and sad? It's the way we describe something that we remember that was in the past or doesn't exist anymore, especially something that brought us happiness. It's also a type of homesickness,” Shane describes. Ilya decides it is a good word, even if he is unsure if it accurately describes what he is feeling.

But instead of getting too deep into it, he simply nods and says, “Even if I got...overwhelmed, it was good, Hollander.”

Shane nods and sits, patting the space next to him. If Ilya sits only slightly closer than he had been before he doesn't allow himself to think about it. They decide to watch The Irony of Fate again, this time with subtitles. It feels like a warm drink hearing the movie in Russian and Shane comments quietly and close to his ear that the acting comes across much better this way. Ilya turns to agree with him and finds him so very close that he can see the pattern of his freckles as if they were shining.

“Yes,” he says—or he thinks he says, he isn't sure. 

It feels like an eternity as he and Shane hold eyes. Then a musical cue in the movie breaks the tension and Shane clears his throat, returning his attention to the TV. And suddenly for the first time ever in his life, Ilya isn't sure whether to be grateful or to greatly dislike the movie.

He isn't sure when but at some point he is waking up which means at some point he has fallen asleep. The sun is drifting in through the window, still white and cold and not bright enough for anything except waking him. He breathes and stretches and finds his heart stops when he realizes that Shane has fallen asleep right on top of him on this couch.

He does not know what to do with this. Yes, he has had some experience in being physically close with both boys and girls. But never in such a...casually intimate way. He has never fallen asleep next to someone, outside maybe Svetlana and those were sleepovers where they each had their own sleeping bag. And of course, the first thing his brain decides to fixate on is Shane's damn freckles and how the shadows of his eyelashes play against them. He needs to move. Now. Very, very carefully, he does his best to get out from under Shane and perhaps move to the other side of the massive couch.

Shane, however much shorter than he may be, is still a fully built hockey player who is dead asleep and it is not easy at all. Eventually Ilya manages it and slips off to the nearest bathroom to get ahold of himself for the third time in this impossible house.

Covering his face with his hands, he sits down on the toilet and mentally berates himself. He cannot do this for a number of reasons. It's not safe for one and there is no indication that Shane would even be remotely interested in guys, let alone him. They're just...friends. Or even just teammates. After about 10 minutes of collecting his body's reaction and getting his brain under control, he makes his way back out to the living room. Shane is still fast asleep, so Ilya goes to the other side of the couch and turns the TV on quietly, reading the closed captioning to get context for what is happening. At some point, he must fall back asleep, because he is woken by the sound of footsteps. He opens his eyes to find Mr. Hollander making his way into the kitchen. Likely to start making breakfast or maybe just wake himself up with a pot of coffee.

He pulls the blanket closer up around him, deciding to just pretend to be asleep until people start talking. Eventually, Mr. Hollander and Shane are whispering in the kitchen so he gets up and heads over there.

“Morning, Roz,” Shane greets with a big smile, “were you alright on the couch? I guess we just passed out.”

“Was fine,” he says. “Coffee?”

“Just about ready,” Mr. Hollander says. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Ilya echoes back. He takes a seat at one of the counter stools and waits. As promised, the coffee is ready soon and Mr. Hollander pours him a mug.

“Anything you want in your coffee?” “Sugar. And milk please,” Ilya asks.

When Mrs. Hollander joins them a half hour later, they have the promised enormous breakfast—pancakes and fruits and yogurts and juice and much more coffee. Ilya isn't sure how long is too long, if he should thank them for the thousandth time and leave. But he wants to stay as long as possible so he doesn't say anything when they tell him to put on his coat and come on the first walk of the year with them.

They return to the park where they watched the fireworks just a few hours ago. Ilya thinks that it is a beautiful park and enjoys the walk. While it is cold, it wasn't freezing like Saskatchewan. He notes they are not the only ones already at the park this morning. His attention is particularly stolen for a moment by watching someone play with their dog in the big patch of open field.

The Hollanders wish their neighbors a happy new year and introduce Ilya as Shane's friend. By the end of it they stop at a shop for coffee and Ilya finally suggests that maybe he should go.

“We'll give you a ride back to your hotel,” Mr Hollander says. “Save you the cab.”

“It's—” He stops himself as the three of them give him that identical amused look. Instead of arguing, he takes a deep breath and gives a nod. “Thank you. I would...appreciate that.”

“You're welcome.” Mrs. Hollander gives him a smile.

They make their way back to the Hollander's home and climb into their SUV, which Hollander tells him is good in the snow. It is not a long drive back to where Ilya has been staying. Just as he goes to unbuckle, Shane stops him for a moment. “I was thinking, since we're friends...we should have each other's numbers, right?”

Ilya has to stamp down the slight flutter that happens in his chest. He would blame it on discomfort from his binder usually, but he had instead decided to wear a massively oversized sweater to the Hollanders and so had gone without. “I… Yes. That is...good idea. Give me your phone, I will program number in.”

Shane sends him a “hi :)” as soon as he hands his phone back and Ilya saves his number as well.

“It was so wonderful sharing new year's with you,” Mrs. Hollander says. “You're welcome back any time.”

“I… Thank you, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya says.

“Please, call me Yuna,” she instructs.

“And you can call me David,” Mr. Hollander adds.

“Okay,” is all he can say to that, because once again he is getting overwhelmed by that warm feeling that the Hollanders seem very capable of eliciting in him.

“Have a good rest of your holiday. Goodbye,” he wishes and then jumps out of the car, jogging up the stairs of the three-story motel and making his way to his current 'apartment' for now.

On the other side of the door, still clutching a duffle bag he can't afford emblazoned with his name and a scarf that's the softest thing he now owns he lets himself collapse. This is dangerous. It's so tempting. It's everything he has ever wanted presented to him, maybe just to remind him that he hasn't earned it yet. Someday, maybe. But not yet. First he has to be the best at something. Then maybe. Maybe.

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

 June 2009 - Los Angeles

Shane has to blink away the flash of the camera light as another round of bulbs go off around them. One of the photographers asks him to get closer to Ilya. Their arms brush against each other and they are now practically pressed against one another. There’s another player on Ilya's side, a defenseman named Sullivan, who had been drafted third by Phoenix. Ilya had been drafted first. Just as he had insinuated all those months ago.

Shane is happy for his friend. He is. Ilya deserves for his talent to be recognized. It's just… It doesn’t feel good to come in second place. Especially when Shane is used to always coming first in hockey. Of being the best. Being the captain. Still, to be drafted second overall isn’t awful. Ilya had been just as congratulatory over the phone when Shane’s name had been announced so early, even if his smile was just on the side of smug that made Shane want to smack his friend. And Shane will get to play for the Montreal Metros, which had been his wish.

He knows he’s so lucky, but he still can’t shake the anger at himself—the frustrating nagging feeling that he could have done more and been better. Even after the congratulations and the hugs from his parents and that smile Ilya had given him when he'd shaken his hand, he still can't sleep, vibrating with how upset he is with himself. So he heads down to the hotel gym and tries to get rid of it by riding the stationary bike as if he's trying to win the Tour de France.

He gets so lost in his exercise that at first he doesn’t notice when someone else joins him in the gym. It’s only when he basically feels someone takes the bike next to him that he looks up. It’s Ilya, who gives him a raised eyebrow and a smile before turning his attention back to the bike. Shane wonders why Ilya is down here so late. Or…well, so early. Ilya had seemed on top of the world today. He can’t imagine that the other boy had been struggling with sleep. Then again, based on the history of their texting, Ilya’s sleep schedule is usually all over the place.

Maybe he’s working off excitement in the same way that Shane is working off disappointment, but when Shane looks up and sees his reflection he finds that Ilya is staring right at him. He can't read his face at all, has no idea what his expression means, but he feels his stomach tighten and the back of his neck warm up. At some point he finds that they're obviously racing, which is ridiculous on stationary bikes in a hotel gym, but he's not going to quit first.

Ilya’s lips pull up into an amused smile as he starts adding tension to the bike. Something sparks in Shane’s head and he turns up the tension a little higher as well. More and more is added in response to one another. And Shane’s legs are burning. Eventually it’s too much and he needs to stop. He takes his feet off the pedals, panting. Practically drenched in sweat.

Ilya seems to stop almost at the same time and he won't stop looking at Shane; he finds himself slumping on the floor across from him, by the mirror. Their feet are nearly touching and Shane, seemingly possessed, taps the tip of his sneaker against the tip of Rozanov's.

“Congrats again,” he pants out, because now he's just so tired and spent that he can't feel the frustration anymore.

“Thank you,” Ilya hums, leaning his head back against the wall but keeping his eyes pinned on Shane. “Montreal hmm? I know your mama is proud.”

Shane breathes deep and nods. “She is. They both are.”

“Are you proud, Hollander?”

He closes his eyes for a moment and finds that his body's exhaustion has quieted the nagging in his mind. He nods and opens his eyes again. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Ilya says with a smile, half up half down, before leaning forward and offering his water bottle.

“I'm okay,” Shane breathes out. Ilya raises an eyebrow and shakes the bottle again. So Shane takes it.

As he takes the bottle from Ilya, he feels the tips of their fingers touch just briefly. It sends the same odd thrill through him, the same weird impulse that had made him tap his foot against Ilya’s. Shaking himself mentally, Shane quickly squirts some water in his mouth. Ilya continues to watch him. There is an odd tension in the air. It reminds Shane of that night of New Year’s Eve. He and Ilya just looked at each other for a moment as the movie played in the background. It’s this odd buzz and it seems to be pushing Shane into doing…something, even if he doesn’t know what that is. Instead, he passes the water bottle back to Ilya. This time, Ilya’s fingers seem to brush against Shane’s wrist on purpose. It’s just a brief touch, just like the last one. But it also feels like it goes on forever.

Ilya takes his own drink but he won't take his eyes off Shane, as if he's trying to make sure Shane isn't going anywhere. Which he isn't. He doesn't want to be anywhere else at the moment. In fact, if he followed the path his mind laid out for him, he wanted to move across the room and lean close to Ilya the way they had on the couch at New Year's — he wonders how his heartbeat sounds now and if it's the same rhythm it had been when Shane had woken up on his chest in the middle of the night. Maybe the same but sped up, like a song on fast forward.

He’s overwhelmed at this moment. He feels hot in a way that has nothing to do with the exercise they just did. A part of him thinks that he should be freaking out, half-hard as he sits across from his friend. Wanting something that he doesn’t think he should want. And he’s freaked out that he’s not. It becomes so much that Shane makes himself stand up.

“Iiiiii…should probably get some sleep,” he announces. His voice sounds loud even to his ears.

Ilya's face dances between surprise and something else before it settles into a flatness that Shane doesn't like. He wants to take it back but he needs to get away.

“I'll see you? Yeah. Congrats again, Roz,” he says, as he walks out of the gym. He thinks he might be about to faint by the time he gets back to his room and looks at the door with the deadbolt even though he knows his parents are very much asleep.

He practically stumbles his way into the shower. As he steps into the hot spray, and with a great amount of shame, he takes himself in hand. A gasp escapes his lips. Maybe he should be thinking about one of his ex-girlfriends, or any girl. But no, instead he finds himself jerking himself off to the thought of his friend. Images of red, wet lips pulled into a warm smirk or a smile. His dark stubble. And God, these hazel eyes that just seem to be able to see all of Shane.

He comes so hard he forgets where he is, much less to feel any guilt about the clear image of Ilya's splayed legs across the gym floor when he lost it. When he stumbles into the perfectly made hotel bed wearing his towel and his embarrassment, he takes a moment to feel grateful that he at least broke up with Jessica before he came to this mortifying moment in his life. He closes his eyes and tells himself that they'll both leave this place in the morning and have no reason to cross paths again for ages, until it's time to prep for World Junior's again. But, he thinks, he'll know. He'll know how tonight felt like electricity was buzzing between them downstairs, he'll know that Ilya is in Ottawa only a short drive away at any time during the year. And he'll know, for the rest of his life, that he spent the night of his NHL draft into the Montreal Metro's thinking about him. 

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

December 2009 - Ottawa

Shane thinks whoever said time makes things easier is a liar. Since draft night, things have gotten worse. First: he found himself noticing men. Just…random men at the airport, the cafe, or the grocery store. Actors as well. However, his brain always came back to Ilya. Curls damp, hazel eyes regarding him, the brush of fingertips against his wrist. He doesn’t think it helps that during the hiatus, he had been texting with Ilya on and off. By the time the World Championships had rolled around and they were back on the ice together, Shane felt like a live wire. For example, he’s here at this hotel to celebrate New Year’s with his teammates. And his attention keeps coming back to Ilya. Ilya who is currently perched on the edge of a couch, ribbing their goalie about something or other, a grin so wide that it makes him practically glow.

Shane feels both distracted by the sight of him and annoyed that Ilya is grinning at the goalie which is deranged, if he's honest. He also can't stop thinking about last year and how soft and comfortable and different Ilya had been. Here amongst the team he is loud and hilarious and a total asshole that everyone hates to like. Shane isn't sure if the Ilya he met last year is still in there or if the first pick of the NHL draft had worn away at him. He doesn't really think so, Ilya was kind of a dick before New Year's at his house too. It's like a coat, he figures, or maybe more like padding.

“You alright Captain?” He turns to find Jackson, his right winger looking at him a little concerned, “I don't think Rozy's too drunk or anything if that's what you're worried about.”

“No, no…it’s not that,” Shane shakes his head. In fact, maybe because he’s been too obsessive, he knows that Ilya has maybe only had half a glass of champagne—the one he’s holding now—and the rest has been some form of cola.

“I’m fine. Just…a lot on my mind, you know? Championships and everything.”

“Well, tonight is the chance to unwind from all of that. We’ve been killing it this season,” Jackson says. Which he isn’t wrong about. But the comment makes Shane think of why they’ve been doing so well and then he starts thinking about Ilya again. So, Shane gives Jackson a smile.

“You’re right. I’m…I think I’m going to get another drink. Maybe get some air to clear my head. I’ll be back,” he says.

He's over by the drinks table contemplating if getting drunk would actually help when he hears the voice he can't stop hearing in his head when he tries to go to sleep every night.

“If you pour ginger ale in champagne glass, everyone will think you are cool and not boring, Hollander,” Ilya says, standing right fucking behind him.

“Hilarious,” he mutters, “having a good time?”

“Always,” Ilya says, coming around to lean back against the drinks table and look him up and down like he's looking for something.

“What,” he finally says.

“You are so tense, Hollander, is party,” he says, eyes still on him while he takes a drink of his very real champagne.

“It's... loud,” he shrugs. It's true, anyway, he hates the volume of parties. It's so much different from the roar of the crowds when he's on the ice. Here there is nothing to concentrate on, just noise.

“Is about to get very very loud,” Ilya mock whispers, pointing at the clock. Fuck, he's right, it's just a few minutes to midnight. On the bright side, no one is going to notice if he slips away once the screaming starts.

“Right,” he says instead, “I think I'm going to go out and look at the fireworks then.”

Ilya frowns, “Is no firework show at hotel.”

“I know, but there must be somewhere in town, I'll go up to the roof terrace,” he says.

“Okay,” the other man nods, turning to pour himself more champagne before filling a second glass and turning back to him.

“What,” he says again, probably sounding like a total moron. Ilya raises his eyebrows in that are you stupid expression of his, “Let's go. I go with you, we go look for fireworks.”

“Don’t you want to stay with the party?” Shane asks.

Ilya gives what looks like a casual shrug. But something in Shane tells him that there is nothing casual about it at all.

“Party is getting kind of boring,” he waves his hand. Then he digs something out of his pocket. It’s a small piece of paper.

“Besides, I do not think hotel would be happy if I burn this in here. So, we are going now?”

Shane doesn’t particularly know how to feel about this. It’s like there’s a tornado of butterflies that have taken up residence in his chest. But he finds himself nodding and they manage to slip out of the room. They make their way to the elevators, taking a quiet ride up to the rooftop terrace. Which is blissfully and terrifyingly empty.

He holds on to his glass of champagne like it's the only thing that makes sense.

“I have extra, if you want,” Ilya says casually, pulling out a hotel notepad and pen which he probably grabbed from beside his bed.

“Yeah,” he nods, because he thinks he'd agree to absolutely anything if it meant not having to think a single thought. Then, of course, presented with a white piece of paper meant for a wish and the presence of the man who has been haunting him a few inches away, thinking becomes important again. At first he thinks, maybe if I wish for it to it'll go away, the feelings the dreams the fucking...want. But then he feels cold, colder than the December night and he thinks no, no he doesn't want it to go away. Instead he wishes for a good rookie season. It's a solid wish, a real one, and he can say much more important than asking for whatever his body does around Ilya or thoughts of Ilya to just disappear.

He writes down the wish and folds it up. By this point, Ilya has found a glass, likely from the rooftop bar. He’s not entirely certain, nor does he think he can find it in himself to care. Because out here on the terrace, he can immediately tell that something in Ilya has shifted. That padding, the gregariousness that he’d seen inside has more or less fallen away. He looks more quiet and thoughtful, like he had a year ago in Shane’s childhood home. Ilya pulls out his lighter, setting flame to his wish. He gestures for Shane to hold his out and touches the flames on his paper to Shane’s. They both allow them to fall into the glass, the paper being consumed and turning into ash.

“Do not worry, I will not make you drink these ones either,” Ilya teases, and the tone is soft and quiet.

“Good,” he says quietly, but his eyes are kind of stuck on the way the ashes of both wishes mingled into one little pile at the bottom of the glass.

“You look worried, Hollander,” he says with that ridiculously smooth voice of his.

“Worried? No just... tired,” he says with a half smile, “boring, I know.”

This earns him a small smile and a laugh.

“Yes, well, that is because you are good boy,” Ilya jokes. And Shane knows it’s supposed to be a joke, but something in him reacts to the words ‘good boy’ as they are directed toward him. “Eat all your fruits and veggies, exercise every day, go to bed at responsible time—”

Several things happen in quick succession and the first is that fireworks go off much closer than Shane expected them and in every direction. The next is that Shane throws back his champagne as if there was a fire in his throat that needed putting out. And last but most importantly is that he drops the glass and grabs Ilya's face, kissing him like maybe his lips are on fire too.

Ilya makes a noise that almost sounds like surprise. Shane begins to move back. To apologize, to tell Ilya to forget about it. However, just as he’s about to break the kiss, Ilya’s hands come up to Shane’s face and keep him there. Ilya kisses back with about just as much hunger as Shane had felt. And with that fire being met, Shane continues to reciprocate. He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Seconds, minutes, hours? It doesn’t matter. In this moment, it is only him and Ilya and that deep devouring want. Fireworks go off around them and Shane has the stray thought that this is how they should have started 2009, back on that couch.

Ilya's hand is on his lower back somehow, strong and warm and holding him as he pushes Shane against a wall. His lips start to travel, first to the edge of his lips and then lower to the edge of his jaw and down to his throat where Shane cannot stop the high gutted whine that he makes.

Ilya mutters something against Shane’s skin in Russian and continues to press kisses to Shane’s neck. And it’s good, it’s so warm and— A thought strikes him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he stutters out. The kisses on his neck stop. Ilya straightens just a little to look at Shane. His lips are red and wet from the kiss, his brow furrowed.

“What?” He asks.

“Don't... they...” he shakes his muffled head and motions at his neck, “everyone is downstairs.”

Ilya's pretty lips frown, “You think I would mark you.” Shane swallows and nods because yes — even though, God ,that sounds so hot — it would also be disastrous. Ilya's eyes jump around his face. His hand comes up slowly and Shane freezes. He feels Ilya's fingers push back some of the hair near his face.

“I would not do this,” he says somberly. Shane feels like he means more than a hickey but he cannot parse what.

“I'm sorry,” he says quietly in the crowded warm space between them.

Ilya pins him down with just his eyes, “You are sorry you kiss me or you are sorry you stop me?”

Shane doesn’t know how to answer that. Both, maybe? Instead he answers, “I just…I don’t want to ruin things you know?”

“Ruin things?” Ilya asks.

“You know! Our…our friendship. Our dynamic! I’m your Captain for God’s sake. I shouldn’t even be,” he gestures between himself and Ilya.

“…Oh,” Ilya says, as if he has come to understand. And suddenly that warmth is being filled with the cold of January air, as Ilya steps back. He is looking down at his feet for a moment, hands that had been on Shane, now firmly in his pockets. Then suddenly he’s looking up and Shane is on the end of a kind of smile that Ilya directs at everyone else on the team.

“Do not worry. Maybe was just champagne talking, yes?”

“Roz —”

“Our secret,” he says, still smiling but not at all with his eyes, “I promise, Hollander, you are safe.”

“I... Roz I'm not —”

He nods, maybe a little too fast, “Yes I know. My boring little Captain, should have brought your ginger ale. Let's go back to party - yes? Team will be missing us.”

Shane wants to say something, but he has no idea what. His heart is in his throat and he feels like he is losing hold of something he doesn't understand the shape of. He reaches out before Rozanov can turn completely and walk away from him.

“Are we okay?”

He nods once, “We will kick Russia's ass and have legendary rookie year. We are okay.”

Shane wants to tell him that isn't what he meant, to ask if they're still friends or if he's ruined things between them forever. But it's too big, too much, and Ilya is being so generous already. So he nods back.

“Okay.” Ilya walks away, not to the elevators but to the staircase. It's seven flights of stairs down to where the team is gathered. Shane doesn't follow him, he heads towards the elevators and tries to blame the champagne.

Chapter End Notes

“Спасибо” → "Thank you"

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Just a general note that Ilya has his own relationship with being Trans that is positive and casual but sometimes includes internalized transphobia. This will be sporadic and not a major part of this story but please be aware it occurs. Tag added for this purpose!

January 2010 - Ottawa

Ilya will simply not think about this, he decides as he gets to the floor he was looking for and stops to control his breathing. He will go back into the party and drink until he can fall asleep without thinking about it and then he will sleep the whole day to recover and then he will wake up on the next day and he will be a good center and wait until the third period to beat the shit out of whomever decides to look at him wrong when his patience finally runs out. And then they will celebrate again, he will take the team out to a club and then leave them there and find somewhere safe to get laid. That is it, all he needs to do. Sleep, win the championship, fuck someone, and get the hell out of Ottawa. Then he will not have to see him but one more time this year. He can do this. He has done much harder things, but walking into that room again feels like hell. The team is in the throes of their drunken party and he wants to join them, wants to lose himself in it, wants to forget.

“Where have you been Rozy?”

“Here,” he lies, “where the fuck have you been?”

“Damn, I must really been in it if I lost track of you and Holzy both! Happy new year, Rozy!”

He smiles, tight but as best he can, “Happy new year.”

He suffers another twenty minutes of this, keeping his eyes well trained away from where he knows that Shane is in the room, where he can hear the chants of Captain coming from. Eventually, he's gotten back to the doorway and makes his escape, back to his room.

Sleep is fitful that night, and he wakes up the next morning for the game against Russia with an already bad mood. He takes a taxi over to the rink and prepares for the game. The rest of the team filters in and Ilya does his best to pull on his usual facade of the cool guy, getting a few good natured 'fuck offs' from the more hungover teammates for his chirping. Shane has arrived at some point and he seems so awkward around him. Like he doesn't know how to act. And it hurts, it does. But he has to accept that Shane likely wants nothing from him. And that is okay, just fine. Ilya has plans. Plans that are separate from Shane Hollander and his freckles and his big brown doe eyes and fuck.

He can't let this distract him, because if he does, he will lose and he cannot lose. Ilya is fighting a battle no one else is looking at, but he must win nonetheless. So he decides, if Shane Hollander can be a distraction then he can also be a motivator. He'll stay steady and play hard, he'll show Shane that everything is fine - that he doesn't need to worry about a cold rooftop and too much champagne - they are here to win.

The game starts well before Shane ever has a chance to talk to him one on one. Which is good, because Ilya needs to focus on the game. Their names are called and there are cheers from the crowd. Ilya spots Yuna and David Hollander and it is nice to know they are here. Then the Russia team comes out and suddenly the game is on. It's a rush and Ilya is putting all of his attention and focus into playing the game. And he is doing well. They are winning. And he's even managing to ignore some of the chirps from the Russian players. It is when the second period is close to ending when it goes down hill. He's fighting over the puck in a corner when the player hisses,“Как ты вообще попал в эту команду, Розанов?” 

Ilya does his best to ignore him, but the idiot seems to have more to say.

“Ты отсосал у капитана? Держу пари, что да. И, наверное, он тебе это позволил. Ты ведь достаточно симпатичный, почти как девушка.” 

He checks him hard and Ilya feels as if he's frozen in place for hours but it is only a moment of cold panic. He shakes himself off and continues, trying his best to think of nothing but the next shot. It goes well and they are so far ahead that the game is theirs. That's probably why the same asshole as before decides to spew shit at Shane in Russian as if that would have any effect at all. He's happy to ignore it until he can't, when he says something absolutely repulsive about Shane's mother. He turns his skates forward and throws his gloves down before the brick house of a man even sees him coming.

The punch is satisfying as it cracks against the man's face. There is a sound of a whistle in the background, but all Ilya knows is red. He moves to punch the guy again, to make sure he never says another thing about Yuna Hollander, when he feels several hands pulling him back.

“Roz,” Shane's voice breaks through the haze and he's doing his best to block Ilya's view of the other Russian. His eyes are wide and confused and maybe a little concerned.

He is so lost in his anger that he doesn't even realize what language he's speaking as he tries to convince Shane to let him go, “Я научу его не упоминать имя твоей матери.” 

“Go take a breath, Roz,” he says firmly, his eyes looking deep into Ilya's own, “go.”

He huffs out a breath through his nostrils and nods, tucking himself into the penalty box with the satisfaction of seeing how much blood he pummeled out of the bastard.

When he is finally released, about 10 minutes later and 10 minutes away from the end of the game, the coach waves him over.

“Rozanov...what the hell was that?” he asks, shaking his head. He seems mystified. Which Ilya does not blame him for since usually Ilya is not the type to play the role of enforcer and none of what happened was in English.

“Kozlov was spewing too much shit on ice. Especially about teammates. Thought I would shut him up,” Ilya mutters. “Remind him he is here to play hockey, not exercise his jaw.”

“Alright,” coach says, nodding slowly, “you'll need to curve that, Rozanov, you are a star center not an enforcer. You don't want to catch a reputation. But alright. I trust you if you say it was necessary.”

“It was,” he spits.

“Okay, get in there,” the man sighs.

Ilya is relieved that he is allowed to continue playing. Part of him thought that he would be benched for the final part of the game because of his outburst. Instead, he is able to steal the puck from another Russian player, and with the help of the right wing, complete his hat trick. The final buzzer sounds and everyone goes to hug the goalie, who did an excellent job in helping shut down the Russian team.

He manages to get down the handshake line without falling for any of the bait every single one of the Russian team spews at him, but that doesn't mean he isn't shaking with rage by the end of it. And then Shane is there, circling him and putting a hand on the back of his head to pull their helmets together.

“Thank you for having my back,” he says.

Ilya breathes heavily from excitement, exhaustion, and something unnameable.

“Always, Hollander.”

Then a wide grin splits Shane's face.

“Guess what?”

“Hm?” Ilya asks, practically vibrating.

“We're World Junior Champions. We got the gold,” Shane reminds him. And it makes everything all the much sweeter. They won, he won. And he'll be starting the NHL with two World Champion golds.

He laughs in relief and joy and claps a hand on Shane's shoulder and everything, for now, feels just right.

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

It is a few weeks after the championship and the following celebration that he hears from Shane again. Sooner than Ilya had been expecting. His phone dings with a notification and he opens it to find a text from Shane.

Shane: Are you going to the NHL mixer this week?

Oh, yes. The mixer that the NHL was hosting. It was their hope to help ease the rookies into the organization. To get to know one another and some of their future teammates.

Ilya: Maybe? Might be interesting.

Ilya: Are you going?

Shane: I think it would be a good opportunity.

Shane: But if we're both going...I was thinking that maybe we could meet up beforehand? You could come over and we could have lunch. Then get ready and go over together.

He blinks at the message. Rereads it to make sure that he is actually reading it correctly and that his grasp of English is not failing him. But no, it really does read as Shane inviting him to spend time together.

Shane: And my parents would love to see you!

Well...how is Ilya supposed to turn down a chance to spend time with Yuna and David Hollander? Well...and Shane, but at this rate it is practically a given. Even after Ilya has made a few attempts to get the other boy off his mind, somehow he cannot stay away for too long.

Sounds good, he texts back. Shane is happy, he can tell through his oh so casual texting about schedules and timing. He tells himself that this will pass with distance. Soon he'll be in Boston, there will be plenty of beautiful people to distract him there. Beautiful, discrete, uncomplicated people who don't play for rival teams and don't panic about kissing boys, let alone boys like him. Soon. So for now, he can bask in the incomparable pleasure of Shane's sun bright company knowing it is as finite as it is glorious.

On the day of the NHL Rookie Mixer, he takes a car to the Hollander house with his suit in hand. He makes his way up to the door and knocks on it. It swings open to reveal Yuna Hollander. She smiles widely and warmly at seeing Ilya — in a way that makes Ilya recognize that Shane definitely got his looks from his mother--and sweeps him into a hug.

“Добро пожаловать,” she tells him. Ilya blinks in surprise and is speechless for a moment.

“You...know Russian?” he asks, feeling something curl up in his chest, wary but hopeful.

“Not really,” Yuna says apologetically. “I am trying to learn some basics though. I'm guessing I got the pronunciation right?”

Somehow that is even more of a vice around his heart. That this woman who has her own perfect child to lavish attention and love on has taken time out of her life repeatedly to make him feel at home. He leans in and tries to not be awkward as he hugs her again just trying to say how much it means to him when he has no words.

He feels a hand gently pat the back of his head, much like he remembers his mama would for him. The hug ends and Yuna tilts her head. “Let's get you inside, hm? David is cooking and Shane is trying to figure out what to wear.”

She takes the suit from his hands and presumably takes it away to hang somewhere. He hears her call Shane to stop fussing about his outfit and come say hello. David greets him with a smile and points to the drawer where they keep the cutlery, asking him to set the table. When Shane does come out of his room he has a tense frustrated look about him, like he wants to shrink into his hoodie.

“I hate formal events,” he huffs.

“Next time you let me pick suit,” Ilya says from where he's setting the table, “you have the style of retired accountant.”

The slightly outraged face Shane makes is adorable. “I do not,” he argued back.

“You are right. That is not accurate. You have fashion sense of hockey player who dreams of accounting,” Ilya smirks, teasing.

“Why did I invite you over?” Shane crosses his arms. But Ilya can tell he’s not really that mad.

“Because I am delight,” Ilya grins.

“You are,” David says as he sets the food down on the table, “look how neat his place settings are.”

Ilya snorts, “Ah, so it is from you he gets it.”

“Get what?”

“Neatest stall in dressing room, like general will come to inspect,” he tells them as he takes a seat.

David lets out a chuckle, “I suppose I am at some fault for that. Though I think Shane just naturally prefers keeping things neat.”

“It’s easier to find things,” Shane answers. “Unlike the chaos your stall is, Roz.”

“I know where things are,” he says easily, “under things, between things, I always find.”

Shane rolls his eyes, “So what are you wearing tonight?”

Ilya shrugs, “I only have one suit, Hollander. It is good suit. Fits good, looks good, not complicated.”

“You only have one suit?” Shane asks. His brows are furrowed.

“Yes. Am not being paid by NHL yet,” Ilya answers. Money is…a complicated topic for him. And he doesn’t particularly like talking about it. Because it makes people look sad or pity him. “And yet, still more fashionable than accountant suit.”

Yuna looks up from the plate she is serving for herself and tilts her head, “Ilya have you not signed your ELC yet?”

Ilya blinks at her while Shane looks up at her looking very scandalized, “Mom!”

She turns her eyes to him sharply, “Mind your volume, Shane.”

“You can't ask Roz about his contract,” he hisses.

“I just did,” she says before turning back to Ilya, “sweetheart, have they not disbursed your signing bonus?”

Ilya blushes, “Boston set the signing for next month.”

She sets her plate down, “You start training next month.”

“Yes, will be fine.”

“It will not be fine, where are you supposed to live?”

“Hotel,” he shrugs, “it is a lot of money after.”

“And you need a lot of money now,” she says looking incensed, “you need to set up a home, trainers, the clothes they expect you to wear to their events. And they want to sign you after you've already moved countries? What about your US work visa?”

“Work visa is in progress,” Ilya says. It was one of the first things he started taking care of. It was the most familiar process to him, having done it before. He pushes around some of the food on his plate, anxious. Because even with that part done, he does recognize Yuna has a point. Of course Ilya has thought of all of this. But, he also does not want to start out his rookie season by being too demanding.

Yuna sits, obviously bothered.

“I'm okay,” he tells her, and he means it, this is the least of his worries.

She seems to disagree.

“I want to speak with your agent after lunch,” she says decisively.

“Mom!”

“Your mother is right, Shane,” David says, sounding more serious than usual, “you have always had your mother looking after this type of thing. You have no idea how much these organizations will screw you over without someone looking over their work.”

“I do not have agent,” Ilya mutters.

“What?” Yuna asks, leaning in. Apparently not having heard Ilya.

“I…do not have agent yet,” Ilya says, just a little bit louder and avoiding eye contact. He knows it’s not smart, not having one. He’s had an agent before getting into hockey who explained the importance of her job. Knows that he needs someone to cover his interests. But again, he was just more focused in establishing a foundation for his new life.

Besides, an agent is not someone he can lie to and the idea of finding a complete stranger that he can trust with his life is not compelling. An agent can get him more money, better deals, make sure he does not get 'screwed over' as David says, but he does not need more millions. One would be enough, he thinks. He just wants to play and be safe, he doesn't need more.

“I’ll take care of it,” he hears Yuna say.

His head snaps up to look at her. “What?”

“Mom, you’re not going to —”

“No, I’m not going to be Ilya’s manager. However, I do think there might be someone who would be great,” Yuna says. “I’ll reach out and give her a call.”

“Is not necessary,” he says, bewildered.

“Yes, it is,” she says, obviously still fuming, “and I am going to find out who in the Raiders' organization thought it was a good idea to try to sign you without representation.”

“Okay,” he says, realizing there is no use in arguing, “if you think I should.”

“Yes, I'll make some initial calls and then of course you will get to make the final choice, but you are not leaving Canada without representation.”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees once again. He is intimidated, impressed and deeply touched by Yuna’s fierce determination to apparently take care of him. At least that feels like what she is attempting to do. It is a lot, and he thinks he’ll be eternally grateful to this woman. Lunch continues, moving onto lighter topics. Ilya asks questions about Boston, because he was only there once, during a layover, and he spent most of that time in a hotel room.

David is a big fan of Boston (the city, not the team) and tells him all about the Aquarium, the museums, and something called a duck boat.

“Duck like bird?”

“Yes, I think it's better if you just experience it,” he laughs softly. “Do you have plans for your move?”

Ilya wiggles in his seat, “Not much too move, I will stay in hotel until I find an apartment. Buy furniture there.”

Yuna seems displeased with this but doesn't say anything.

“Maybe we should go down to help you get settled,” David suggests, “after Shane is moved into his place in Montreal.”

“That is not—”

“Necessary, I know,” David gives a warm and fond looking smile. “I—We,” he corrects, taking Yuna’s hand, “just want to offer, because moving is hard and having support can do wonders.”

Ilya knows, he knows how hard moving is. He knows about holding everything you own in two bags and sleeping in an empty place and feeling like you're starting at zero again.

“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat, “really.”

“You are always welcome,” Yuna tells him, and there’s such deep meaning in her tone and her eyes, “Now…why don’t you go help Shane with picking an outfit or else you two will never get to the mixer.”

Ilya feels a little bit relieved to be away from the table, not because he is uncomfortable but because as seems to be the case with the Hollanders, he is overwhelmed.

“I'm so sorry,” Shane says as soon as he closes his bedroom door behind him, “she really shouldn't —”

He raises his hands to calm him, “Is okay I... I really appreciate it.”

“It's so much —”

“It is and... it is. But I do not have much. I think, too much can be nice, sometimes.”

Shane looks at him with those big brown eyes of his. They are so sad, and it makes Ilya feel uncomfortable. He begins to say something. To ease the knot that is forming in his chest. And suddenly he’s being hugged.

“You deserve nice things, Roz,” Shane says quietly, still hugging him.

God having him this close is devastating. He had been doing so well keeping the memory at bay, at least in daylight hours. He had done his best not to think about his lips or the warmth of his skin or the smell of him. But now here he was, in his space, in his arms. He cannot help but pull him too close, to ask for more when he already has more than he deserves.

Eventually, they pull away from the hug. And Ilya, frustrated at himself, already misses the feeling. It’s like there is some force that is trying to pull Ilya into Shane’s gravity. Terrifyingly, he thinks it might be a losing battle.

“I just wanted... I wanted us to be okay, that's why I invited you today. And now mom is trying to take over your whole career,” he says, mostly joking if his huffy laugh is any indication.

“I do not mind,” he says, “and we are okay, Hollander.”

“Okay…okay. I just…I didn’t feel good. About how we had ended things on New Year’s. I was worried that…I don’t know,” Shane says and bites his lip. “I had this…nightmare that after you moved to Boston, you’d never want to talk to me again.”

“You had nightmare?”

Shane nods, looking down at his feet, “I don't have a lot of friends. I... maybe focused on hockey so much I wasn't a good friend to have or...maybe I'm too boring.” Shane laughs softly but still won't look back at him, “And I know that's not a problem you have. So it would make sense if after I... after what I did ...”

“I did not think you wanted to talk about it, Hollander,” he says, looking at the wall behind Shane where a Metros pendent hangs, “I told you it is okay. Not your fault. I will not tell, will not put you in danger. Never.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. I know you wouldn’t,” Shane says. And it’s so earnest. “I…I thought you would hate me. Or like…like I was taking advantage. Because…because even before I drank the champagne the…the thought was…,” there is a long sigh, “It wasn’t the champagne.”

Ilya breathes out slowly and turns his eyes back to Shane. It's a mistake of course because all of the plans he had for forgetting all about it fly away.

“It can be if you want,” he says carefully, “it can be the champagne.”

“But it isn't true,” he says. He says it like it matters very much that something is or isn't true.

“Yes, but if it is easier. If it will help you sleep, yes? Make you not look so scared. It can be the champagne. Until the grave.”

“But it wasn't,” he insists, “not for me. Was it for you?”

Ilya swallows and looks away again. He could lie. It is very easy, he does it all the time. But it is so important to Shane that things be true.

“No,” he admits, “was not the champagne.”

There is a small shuddering sigh that escapes Shane. From the corner of Ilya’s eyes, he can see the other boy’s head nod up and down. “Okay. Okay. So…what…what does that mean?”

Ilya shrugs. How is he supposed to answer that? He knows what it means to him and he knows that it is silly and childish. But he has no idea what it means to Shane. Or what Shane might even want to do with the events of New Year’s.

“Whatever you want it to mean, Hollander,” he answers. “Could just be heat of the moment, never to happen again.”

“…Is that what you want it to mean?” Shane asks quietly. “Do you not…?”

“What do you want?” Ilya retorts back, almost a snap. He feels agitated. “Why so many questions about me when you brought topic up?”

“Because I don't know what I'm doing,” Shane whispers.

“And what makes you think I do? You kiss me,” he says, “You stop me. You talk about it. So what do we do, you tell me.”

“You're right,” he says, taking a step back and making Ilya feel cold in the warm room.

“Okay?”

Shane nods too fast, “I kissed you because I wanted to. I couldn't stop thinking about you and I feel guilty because you're my friend and I'm making a mess of it because I can't I can't stop —”

Ilya crosses the distance and pulls Shane into a kiss. It is the only thing he can think of to stop his friend from falling down into the spiral. Not only that, but because Shane said that he had wanted to kiss Ilya. And Shane needs to know that he’s not alone in this want. That he’s not the only one whose thoughts constantly cycle around the other boy.

In a moment they mirror that night, Ilya pushes Shane softly against the door. He had wanted, that night, to pin Shane down and not let him float away like a dream. He does it now, and just as he had before pulls his lips away from Shane's to kiss along his jaw and down his neck, the stretch of skin that has possessed his every thought.

Shane makes a more muffled sound he made that same night. A helpless, almost needy little whimper. Ilya looks briefly up to see that Shane has covered his mouth. Maybe to keep anyone else in the house from hearing him. However, unlike that night, Shane does not stop him. If anything, Shane pulls Ilya closer, his hands tangling in Ilya’s curls, making sure that Ilya continues his kisses. There is an urge to bite, but Ilya had promised no marks.

Marks would expose him and Shane who can barely name his desire is not to be exposed. But Ilya is allowed somehow to have him here, all to himself, to trace open mouth kisses from one side of his neck to the other, to capture his chin and pull his lips back to his own. He has been allowed to take so he will.

They continue to make out until Shane finally has to pull back to breathe. His lips are wet and slightly pinked and Ilya already feels the urge to see how dark they can get. To see how far that flush goes down Shane’s body.

Unfortunately, the break also allows for other things to interrupt. Still a little breathless Shane reminds, “The mixer.”

Ilya wants to say fuck the mixer. That he and Shane stay here and finish what they’ve started. But Yuna and David are probably expecting them out of here soon, with Shane’s suit picked out.

He nods and steps away, but not before Shane chases his lips for one more kiss. He pulls back and bites his lip, blushing beautifully.

“Can we... can we do that again though? After?”

Ilya leans forward, leaning over Shane and resting his hand over him on the wall.

“After, Hollander?”

Shane nods, “Yes, after. I think you should be pretty tired after the party. Spend the night?”

Ilya tilts his head, considering. He brings a hand and trails down the front of Shane’s shirt, before leaning in and pressing a light peck to Shane’s lips.

“I think I could be convinced,” he teases. He means yes.

Apparently, Shane takes it both as a yes and as a challenge at the way his eyes light up and the smile that grows on his lips.

“Y-yeah?”

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. “Now…let us get ourselves dressed. We have a mixer to get tired from.”

They stay well away from each other during the party, but it does not have a feeling of cold wrongness. Instead it feels a bit like they are dancing on either side of the room, orbiting in a way no one else but them can see.

He does get to meet the captain of the Boston Raiders and learn more about his team. He learns when training will start, and some of the dynamics of the team. It does make him excited. But not more so than what this evening is likely to bring for him. Even in this moment, he can feel Shane's eyes on him, even though Ilya knows when he looks, he won’t be able to meet his eyes.

The cab ride back to Shane's house is both short and eternal. It's past one in the morning and Shane promises that his parents will be asleep but Ilya's heart is still pounding in his chest for more reasons than getting caught awake past midnight by Yuna Hollander.

When they get into Shane's room, Shane pulls him into a kiss that Ilya is eager to return. However, Shane pulls back much too quickly for Ilya's preference.

“We should probably dress for bed,” he suggests.

Ilya shakes his head and smirks, pulling Shane back into a kiss. Using his height and weight, he walks Shane backwards toward the edge of the bed. He pushes him down, pressing a kiss to his jaw and neck as he stands between Shane's legs.

“I...have much better idea,” he counters. Kneeling, he begins unbuttoning the suit jacket, pushing the garment off Shane's shoulders.

“Oh,” Shane breathes out. Then he tries to reciprocate which is not something Ilya has in mind for tonight.

“Nuh uh,” he says as he presses another kiss to Shane's lips. “I am NHL draft number one pick, yes? Not you. I unwrap you.”

Shane sputters, “You asshole!”

“Mmm maybe, now let me unwrap you, Hollander,” he mutters against his skin. Shane is still annoyed but he does let Ilya unbuckle his belt so he does.

He unbuttons Shane's dress pants and begins to pull them down.

“Lift your hips,” Ilya instructs, bringing a hand to help guide Shane. The other boy beautifully responds, which...Ilya wasn't 100 percent expecting, but he is enjoying it. Especially with how Shane's body also seems to respond.

And the way he gasps when Ilya tells him, “Good boy.”

Looking up at Shane through his lashes and giving him a shark-like grin, he lightly presses his lips against where his erection pushes against his boxers.

He can see Shane swallow and close his eyes, and he pulls away slightly to tut at him, “Hollander.”

Shane's eyes snap open.

“Eyes on me,” he orders.

Shane swallows and nods. Ilya rewards him by sliding his boxers down, eyes on his as he takes him into his mouth. Shane hisses and his eyes flutter but he is, at his core, a good boy — so he keeps his eyes on Ilya.

This is not the first time Ilya has done this particular act. But it is entirely different doing it with Shane. He thinks that it is the reactions. The way that Shane reacts as Ilya licks and sucks. How his chest is flushed and rises and falls with his growing arousal. Biting his lips and covering his mouth to muffle the groans that escape him. Ilya is curious about how loud Shane could get, if given the opportunity. God, it--all of it--turns him on so much.

Shane starts pushing back against his shoulders, trying to warn him. Maybe he takes it as a bit of a challenge, because he just holds on to him tighter. Shane practically doubles over him as he comes.

Ilya runs his hands soothingly along Shane's obliques as the other boy basically shakes apart. Meanwhile, he manages to swallow down Shane's spend. This itself seems to make Shane practically whine. Maybe due to overstimulation. But instead of pushing him off, Shane's fingers curl into the hair at the base of Ilya's neck and in the shoulder of his suit jacket. Finally, after a long moment and one more lick, Ilya pulls his mouth off of Shane.

He gets back on his feet and pulls Shane close, shivering at the way the other man just curls into him, still trembling.

“Come on,” he says, ushering them toward the bed. Shane kisses his chin, his cheek, his mouth, slow and unfocused. He feels pride in making Shane so drunk when he drank ginger ale all night.

He helps Shane get into the bed and softly chuckles at the way Shane tries to pull him in after.

“I have to get undressed. Sleeping in suit is uncomfortable,” he says. Though, it's not the only thing that would be uncomfortable if he doesn't change.

“I will be back.”

“Promise?” Shane asks him, eyes barely open.

“Promise,” Ilya responds.

He digs through Shane's drawers to find the biggest shirt he can find. Then he pops into the bathroom to take off his suit and binder. He breathes in relief at the unbinding and slips on the giant shirt. He pauses to breathe it in, because it smells just like Shane, only to mentally berate himself for his stupid yearning.

When he gets back to the bed Shane is already mostly asleep mumbling something or other. Ilya finds one of the multitude of pillows comfortable and soft enough to fit between them and then wraps his arms around the pillow and Shane.

“I didn't,” Shane mutters, “you didn't. M'so rude.”

Ilya chuckles, “Next time.”

Shane simply nods, far too out of it to argue. Which is admittedly, doing something for Ilya's ego.

“Nex' time,” he agrees. Which settles something in Ilya, because he was afraid with orgasmic clarity that Shane would freak and never want anything to do with this again.

It does not take long, but Shane quickly falls asleep. Oddly adorable. Ilya smiles and presses a kiss to the back of Shane's head. Then, he allows himself to fall asleep.

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

July 2010 - Toronto 

Shane wakes up on what should be a very tedious Wednesday with the same thrill of a game day. Two weeks ago his mom told him he was going to do a shoot for CCM which is fine. Two days ago he found out he was doing the shoot with Ilya, and he hasn't slept since then. After that night Shane still can't quite believe there hadn't been the promised next time. They'd woken up and scrambled to act normal during breakfast, after which his mom had swept Ilya away to speak with the agent she had in mind for him. In the days following he'd had to concentrate on his own move to Montreal. Then training and before he had a chance to see him again, Ilya (and Shane's parents) were in Boston getting him moved in. They texted the whole time, especially when Ilya had caught some horrible bug that kept him in bed for two whole weeks and out of training even longer than that. But that night in Ottawa, impossible as it was, was the last time they had been together.

And now there was today. A completely boring Wednesday in July except for the fact that he'd finally get to see Ilya again.

Shane spent most of the time that the crew took to set up skating. Mostly he was just waiting for Ilya to show up. Then, he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be working up a sweat, since he was wearing makeup. It felt weird and kind of gross on his face, but he was told it was necessary. But deciding not to undo all of the hard work and have more applied, he made his way over to the bench and waited.

He was so busy looking around for Ilya, that he didn’t realize that the other man had approached from the other side. Until suddenly Ilya’s face was just hovering above his shoulders.

“You look very pretty,” came Ilya’s teasing voice, right by Shane’s ear.

He huffs, blushes, forgets his own name, and finally mutters, “Shut up, you're wearing make up too.”

“Mmm yes,” he agrees, “but I don't look pretty like you.”

From anyone else, Shane would have hated the comment. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s been called a ‘pretty boy’ while playing hockey and it’s always annoyed him. But this is coming from Ilya and if anything, it makes his heart flutter just a little. Instead, he just bumps his leg against Ilya’s when the other sits next to him.

He turns to look at Ilya. And with the makeup, Shane agrees, Ilya does not look pretty. He looks stunning and handsome. More scruff has built up around his jawline. And looking down at Shane with a grin, his hazel eyes were nicer than any gems Shane had ever seen. Though, what hits him the most is how much he’s actually missed seeing Ilya’s face.

The shoot is tedious but after the tenth or twentieth take they both start falling into laughing fits at having to repeat the same move over and over while the director asked for intensity.

Thankfully, the directors seem to recognize that they are not going to get much more out of Ilya and Shane out of this particular photoshoot. They each teasingly blame each other for the laughter, while they set up for the filming. Thankfully, that part of the endorsement is much easier as it is mostly a chance to show off their skating prowess. Eventually, they were dismissed and were allowed to escape into the dressing room.

He went into the showers and tried to make quick work of it and very pointedly tried not to think about Ilya's smile or his laugh or the broadness of his shoulders when he stripped off his padding and skated around in his undergear.

But then that voice is there again and Shane is not completely sure he isn't hallucinating it.

“You washed off all your pretty make-up, Hollander,” Ilya says.

Shane takes a deep breath and turns to face Ilya. His friend’s face is also free of makeup, but he is no less stunning. Some of his curls are damp from the face wash.

What attracts most of his attention is that Ilya is shirtless. Shane had never seen Ilya without a top on before. A golden crucifix hangs between his pecs and Shane wants nothing more than to touch.

He bites his lip and it isn't even on purpose but Ilya chuckles at him all deep and cocky, and Shane snaps his eyes up at him and glares. Tries to glare. Then he realizes that Ilya is leaning back and just raking his eyes over Shane's entirely naked body.

“Not here,” he chokes out, turning around to shut off the shower.

This seems to make Ilya’s smile grow more, but he does give a nod.

“Okay,” he says easily. He gives Shane one more look, pointedly staring at Shane’s growing arousal, before turning around. “Will meet you in dressing room, Hollander.”

Shane watches him walk away, half hard and heart pounding in his chest. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he finished his shower, wrapped himself in a towel and made his way back to the dressing room.

In the dressing room, Shane tries to tamp down his paranoia. It's not like they're going to do anything. And they're alone, because CCM has the arena and they are the only two athletes in the whole place which means they have the dressing room to themselves —

“You think very loud, Hollander,” Ilya says as he leans on the lockers across from him.

Shane swallows and lets the panic take over, “We can just forget the whole thing.”

“Is that what you want?”

He nods and looks away, hating the dread in his stomach, “Yeah, sure.”

“You are terrible liar, Hollander,” Ilya says, stepping closer and then even closer to lean down and whisper in his ear, “ and you are hard.”

Shane blushes and glances at the front of Ilya's pants and then blushes harder, “And you're not so —”

“Do not worry about me,” he whispers into Shane's other ear, “what do you want, Hollander?”

Shane swallows. There’s lots of things that he wants to do. From as innocent as just talking with Ilya to the more risqué. Parts of Shane have wondered if he and Ilya could go farther than they had last time, but then he feels embarrassed for even thinking about it.

“I…” Shane starts, his eyes once again taking in all of Ilya’s bare chest. He’s at a loss for words.

“What is your room number?” Ilya asks instead.

“Fourteen ten,” Shane immediately blurts out.

Ilya smirks. He looks over his shoulder before pressing a kiss to the corner of Shane’s lips.

“Would you like me to pay a visit? Maybe around nine?”

Shane nods too much and too fast and Ilya looks smug yes but also incredibly pleased. Shane feels dizzy as he watches him walk away.

He does everything but calm down while he waits for nine to come around. He at one point in a full fledged moment of mania, puts on an entire suit and tie as if he were about to go meet with Rolex reps about contracts and not possibly have secret sex with his - if he is perfectly honest - best and only friend.

Thankfully, he has a moment of clarity and changes back into regular clothes. However, he also does end up tidying up the room for what feels like the third time, brushes his teeth, flosses and rinses with mouthwash. He paces the room, only to then force himself to turn on the television. He checks himself in the mirror again.

He’s saved from his downward spiral when a knock at the door comes. It’s only a few minutes after nine. Shane checks the peephole, and sure enough it is Ilya. He turns off the television, suddenly thinking it was stupid that he even turned it on in the first place. With another deep breath, he opens the door to let Ilya in.

Ilya himself looks like he’s changed, perhaps put some extra thought into this. His black button down is open collar, showing off that crucifix and some of his chest. His curls are more tamed than Shane has ever seen them, outside of one adorable one that escaped and settled on Ilya’s forehead.

“Hello,” he greets, warmly.

“Hi,” he whispers, stepping back and checking back behind Ilya to make sure the hallway was indeed empty. He closes the door behind him as he steps in and inevitably shivers when their arms brush.

They stand in front of one another for what feels like hours until Shane can't take it anymore and throws his arms around Ilya's neck, crashing their lips together.

Shane feels Ilya’s smile against his lips, as the taller man returns the kiss. It’s as dizzying as each time before. Ilya’s fingers thread into his hair and his tongue traces the outline of Shane’s lips. Shane immediately allows entry, leaning into Ilya. He practically groans into Ilya’s mouth when he feels the Russian wedge a knee between his legs, Shane’s arousal brushing against his thigh. Giving into an earlier urge, Shane slides his hand under Ilya’s shirt and slides his palms up Ilya’s chest.

He hisses and Shane is afraid he's hurt him somehow before Ilya walks them back toward the bed and falls to his knees.

“No wait I...,” he closes his eyes but pushes past his embarrassment, “I won't last if you do that again.”

Ilya looks entirely too proud of himself, “Was your first blow job, Hollander?”

“No! Just...”

“Just what,” he says, tracing his fingers over Shane's thighs.

“Just good.”

“Good?”

“It was the best, okay? I blacked out,” he grits out of his teeth in frustration.

Ilya grins, “I know, I was there.”

“Asshole,” Shane mutters, but it doesn’t make him any less aroused. “We said next time that I would…do something for you.”

A complicated expression crosses Ilya’s expression, but he does tilt his head in acknowledgement.

“Mmm, this is true.” He runs a thumb across Shane’s cheek bones and rubbed a thumb against his lips. It makes Shane’s lashes temporarily flutter. “What were you imagining, hm?”

“Well,” Shane swallows, his mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara.

“…I…I was kind of thinking I could do the same for you? That you did for me?”

“And what would that be exactly?” Ilya asks, coy. It both pisses Shane off and turns him on all the more in a way he doesn’t fully understand.

“I want to give you a…a blowjob,” he finally forces out.

Ilya’s eyebrows furrow and he nods. His eyes don’t exactly meet Shane’s and instead, his attention seems to be on his own hand. Ilya is stroking Shane’s inner thigh, each sweep getting closer and closer to Shane’s dick. Distracting him. And if Shane didn’t know better, he would say that Ilya looked…scared. But he couldn’t even begin to imagine why.

“Well, if you want to suck a dick,” Ilya starts, his tone slow and almost hesitant, “…then I have come unprepared. Would have to return to hotel room and get it from bag.”

Shane is thrown from a state of complete arousal to one of complete confusion. He cannot even parse what Ilya is trying to say, maybe this is where the language barrier bites them in the ass? He doesn't have any response for such a strange statement which is the wrong response by the way that Ilya looks up at him like a hunted animal.

“What?”

Ilya looks away again and sits back on his heels, his fingertips dragging down his thigh like a goodbye before he sets his hands on his lap and stares at the closed window to their left.

“Ilya?”

“I thought you saw,” he says in that flat, annoyed-at-reporters voice, “in the lockers.”

Shane tilts his head in bewilderment, “Saw what?”

Ilya brings his hands up to his face and covers it, taking a very deep, very frustrated breath and saying something that is totally a string of cursing in Russian.

“Ilya, saw what?” Shane asks. He has no idea how they’ve come here, what has even happened.

“The scars!” Ilya says. His accent is heavier than Shane has ever heard it. “I know they are small but they are there! I thought you would see and you would know and it would be okay.”

Ilya is practically curled in on himself at this point. He mutters some more in Russian, and not for the first time, Shane wishes he had spent some time learning the language.

“I don't... I don't know what you're talking about,” he says softly, apologetically. It isn't like Shane doesn't know things go over his head sometimes, but the thought that he missed something that would hurt Ilya so much that he seems to be on the verge of tears is mortifying.

“Obviously,” Ilya says with a croaking laugh before he lunges himself back to his feet, “is okay. Go to bed, Hollander.”

“Roz, wait, what is happening!”

“Nothing. Nothing is happening,” he says, absolutely refusing to look at him, “I go back to my room and stay there; you stay in your room and stay here. That is all.”

“Please tell me what I did wrong,” he whispers, trying not to break down into tears, “please.”
Ilya lets out a small laugh that is devoid of humor and shakes his head.

“You did nothing wrong. Is…is me. I am wrong,” he answers, which makes even less sense. But it sends the hair on the back of Shane’s neck on alert.

Knowing he needs to do something, or else he may never see his friend again, he gets up and crosses over to where Ilya has ended up, lightly but firmly grabbing his wrists.

“Hey…no, no. I don’t think that’s true. I just…I think we missed a few steps. I just…I need you to explain it to me, clearly. Please…stay?”

Ilya takes a deep breath and then nods once, sitting down and still stubbornly refusing to look at Shane.

“Roz,” he whispers, “you're not wrong.”

Shane knows that intrinsically, he knows that there are any number of things he can't imagine but that none of them in any way would make perfect beautiful glorious impossible Ilya be wrong.

“Many would disagree,” he says flatly and shrugs, “but my therapist would agree. So.”

“You have a therapist. That's why you think... that? Lots of people go to counseling, hockey is high pressure —”

But Ilya is already shaking his head, “No, no, no. I get therapist so I can get paper signed so I am allowed to have fancy surgery with tiny scar that is not useful to avoid this fucking conversation.”

Shane frowns, more confused. He’s not exactly familiar with why someone would need to go to a therapist in order to get surgery.

“Why would that—” he begins to ask.

“Oh my fucking God,” Ilya interrupts and drops his face into his hands. It’s obvious that he’s more agitated than before, but at least this time he’s not getting up and walking away. Out of the room and out of Shane’s life. “Surgery was to get rid of tits. Tits that were great, but I did not ask for and did not want anymore.”

“You... what?”

“Hollander, if you do not stop saying what I will punch your teeth,” he grits out.

Shane blinks and nods and tries to actually put together a coherent thought before he opens his mouth again, “You had...”

“Tits,” Ilya emphasizes, like he's angry about the individual vowel and once again making his way away from Shane and toward the door, “and now they are gone. But I did not get a cock, wasn't two for one sale. So there is nothing for you to suck. There. Are we done? I think yes.”

Even if Shane is busy trying to wrap his mind around the information that has been dropped on him, he can absolutely see the way things would play out if he let Ilya leave the room. Ilya would go back to his room and completely write Shane off. They would no longer be friends and then Shane would only see him during games between Boston and Montreal and Ilya would hate him. And the idea makes Shane’s heart ache so badly, that he doesn’t care about anything else.

He gets up and intercepts Ilya, this time one hand around his upper arm and the other resting right as his collarbone.

“Okay…okay…so you had surgery and now you have a flat chest—which admittedly I was more distracted by and that’s probably why I didn’t see the scars. And…and I know you wanted to avoid that conversation but…thank you…thank you for trusting me,” he practically rambles. “And maybe…maybe you don’t have a dick, but I’m sure that there’s other things that we can still do. If you want!”

He can feel Ilya vibrating under his hands but he has no idea if he is angry or nervous, maybe Ilya doesn't know either, but he will not fucking look at Shane and is driving him insane because until Ilya looks at him he can't know, can he? How much Shane means it.

“Roz,” he whispers, “look at me?”

He swallows and does not so Shane pleads, which always seems to work with him.

“Please, look at me?”

Ilya does relent when Shane asks that way, the maybe-anger maybe-frustration is in his eyes as well.

“This is not what you signed up for, Hollander. I thought you knew. I would not have... tricked you.”

“I know! I know, of course, I know,” he says quickly, “and it isn't... it's not a trick to be — to have something that you don't tell people. But you ... you trust me right, Roz? That's why you told me?”

Ilya sniffs and averts his eyes again, “I tell you because I am idiot.”

Shane shakes his head in a way that he feels like he’s almost given himself whiplash.

“Now, I know that’s definitely not true. You’re not an idiot. I’m an idiot who doesn’t even know this kind of stuff. But…but I’m still here. And I still want you here. I don’t feel tricked.”

“I should go still,” Ilya says, still frighteningly flat, “give you time to process.”

“I don't need time to process, you told me now I know,” Shane says and he means it, there isn't anything to discuss. Ilya's body is not what he had imagined, but when he thought about him in bed he thought about his lips and his eyes and his voice and all of that works in tandem with everything else that Ilya is and Shane wants.

Ilya glares at him but it is not anger, it is... a challenge. He has never been in a face off with Roz on the ice but he thinks he's in one now.

But if there is anything Shane is good at it is meeting a challenge. He stares back at Ilya, determined. He’s not going to budge. Not unless Ilya actually says he wants to go and isn’t running away. “I’m okay, Roz. We’re okay,” he tells the other man.

“We're okay, mmm,” Ilya says, still rough, still challenging , “all good yes?”

“Yes,” he says, jutting his chin at him. Ilya takes it and pulls him in, firm and a little rough, kissing him hard and bruising. Shane feels himself melt in relief, wrapping his arms around the back of his neck and giving as good as he's getting, biting at his lip and then soothing over it with his tongue.

They continue to make out. It feels almost like a fight, but there’s also something desperate. At least on Ilya’s side. Shane pulls Ilya closer and once again, runs his hands over Ilya’s flat chest. One of his thumbs runs over the nipples, and a small sound of surprised turned moan escapes Ilya. It makes Shane practically lose his mind. He hopes the way his body reacts shows Ilya how much he appreciates Ilya’s attention.

He pulls them onto the bed and Ilya holds himself over Shane's body, tense maybe with concern or want or both.

“Forget what I imagined,” he says, taking them back to the start of this twisted road of a conversation, “tell me how I do something for you.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, “Shane Hollander never ate a girl's pussy? I refuse to believe you were raised that way.”

Shane rolls his eyes right back and puts his hand on Ilya's cheek to make him keep his gaze on Shane.

“Sure I have,” he shrugs, “a couple girls. What's that got to do with eating out hot Russian men?”

Ilya stares down at him for a long moment. Like he’s trying to process exactly what Shane said. Then Shane is pulled into the fiercest kiss he’s ever received from…well, anyone.

Then, Ilya pulls back, pulling off his pants. He takes Shane’s hand and presses it right to his center. The fabric there is practically soaked and that fact makes Shane the most turned on he has ever felt. He did that to Ilya Rozanov.

The challenging look in Ilya has given way to something different, something determined and cautious at once.

“Is still okay?”

Shane nods and reaches up to kiss him again, “Yeah. Show me.”

Ilya does, he shapes Shane's hand into the way he wants his fingers to be held and then presses his pliant hand in the motions he wants and he pins Shane down with his eyes the whole time, even when he cuts himself off with a moan.

“Okay,” Shane nods and because he takes instruction well, he repeats the motions exactly as he was shown twice and harder on the third time which makes Ilya groan into his neck, before he thumbs at the waist band of Ilya's boxers, “yeah?”

Ilya takes what seems to be a turned on but steading breath and nods, “Yeah.”

Shane slips the boxers off of Ilya’s hips. He folds them, earning a head cock and bemused look from Ilya, and drops them onto the bedside table. Then he returns his hand into the original position Ilya showed him, and begins to press in.

Ilya lets out a cry and grabs Shane’s wrist. At first Shane is afraid he’s done something wrong, but then Ilya growls out to keep his fingers there. Instead, he starts moving his own hips against Shane’s digits.

Shane makes sure his hand keeps the shape Ilya had molded it to and loosened his wrist so that he had more range. Ilya thumbs at Shane's bottom lip and it feels like silent praise.

As Shane continued his ministrations, meeting Ilya’s hip movements, he was able to pull more and more sounds from the Russian above him. In turn Ilya pulls Shane’s shirt up and starts pressing kisses to Shane’s chest and paying extra attention to his nipples.

Ilya grazes his teeth over the pebbled peak of it, making Shane lose his pace and throw his head back in a moan he can't hold back. Ilya rides his fingers for just a minute longer before he pulls away and flips Shane onto his stomach. He goes without question, whining softly as Ilya kisses down from his shoulders to the center of his back, licking and biting down his spine.

He gets to the base of the spine, pressing a kiss right at the small of his back. Then he asks, his lips still pressing against Shane’s skin, “Tell me, do you want my fingers? Or my mouth?”

“Yes,” Shane breathes out because both sound like exactly what he wants. Ilya chuckles against his skin and traces his fingers over Shane's ass making him shiver.

“Yes, I thought so,” he says sounding very pleased, “okay. Both.”

Ilya reaches a hand up, holding fingers out to Shane.

“Be a good boy and suck for me?” He asks, his voice practically a purr. Shane’s cock jerks slightly at the words and with an eagerness that surprises even him, wraps his mouth around Ilya’s offered fingers.

Meanwhile, he feels more kisses along the swell of his cheeks, before he feels Ilya gently pull at one of them and something wet prods at Shane’s hole.

The noise Shane makes doesn't seem like something that could come from him, sharp and high and from his gut. He claws at the sheets and probably drools on Ilya's fingers, it isn't as if he has any idea where he is except in between his wet tongue and his hot hand.

Then Ilya’s fingers slip from his mouth and an almost whine escapes him. “Shhh,” Ilya strokes along his oblique.

“Will be better in a second,” he promises. And as he says that, Shane feels another intrusion against his hole: Ilya’s finger. A real whine escapes him at the intrusion and he grinds his hips against the mattress.

“You are doing wonderfully, Hollander,” Ilya compliments, his thumb brushing against the curve of one of Shane’s hips, his free hand now holding him there.

“Roz,” he pleads. He isn't even sure what he's asking for, but Ilya does, bringing his fingers deeper and curling them forward until Shane sees stars and maybe passes out for a few seconds.

When he comes back to consciousness, Ilya has brought his second hand around Shane, pumping along his dick.

“I think you’re trying to kill me,” Shane groans.

“Mm. No. Well. Maybe. Just little death though,” Ilya answers and his fingers give another mind blowing curl.

But Shane can't let this stand anymore than he could Ilya out scoring him. As loose and uncoordinated as his limbs feel he manages to twist away from the delicious hands and dive head first between his legs. He'd never been great in the past, not at this or any of it, with any of the people he's been with before. But Ilya makes him feel like he's made of molten lava, like he's good at sex because he has to be, because he needs to make this man feel even a fraction of the pleasure he makes Shane feel.

It feels like a win when he makes Ilya cry out. His thighs tighten slightly around Shane's torture and those hands were now twisted into Shane's hair. Ilya is practically curled over him and the words escaping his lips are a mix of English and Russian. Feeling confident, Shane brings up a hand, brushing against the bundle of nerves he knows will likely cause the same mind-blowing effect Ilya had caused for him.

There's more cursing and a guttural grunt and Shane can feel the tension of muscles around his tongue. Ilya pulls his hair so tightly Shane knows it's involuntary and it feels like praise, like a stinging applause.

“Hollander, Hollander,” Ilya calls out. And it feels part warning, but also like a prayer. Shane finally gets what he wants when Ilya fully doubles over him, crying out from orgasm. Shane gives Ilya a couple of more licks and the Russian actually whines.

Shane falls into Ilya’s arms and the other man pulls him in close, kissing the top of his head with a breathless chuckle.

“Not bad, Hollander,” he murmurs.

“Shuttup,” Shane mutters back, nosing at Ilya's neck. He's addicted to the taste of his skin.

“Really, seemed like you knew what you were doing,” Ilya continues.

Shane nips at his neck, just lightly.

“You're an asshole,” he says with practically no heat.

“And you are fantastic,” Ilya retorts back.

Shane closes his eyes and tries to get his bearings between traded orgasms and the intoxicating feeling of being pressed close to him, Shane still feels the pull of curiosity and dares to ask.

“Hey, does anyone else know?” Ilya tenses but doesn't move away.

“My ex-coach and her husband. Friend from Moscow. Agent your mama found for me. Raider's team doctor.”

“That's it?”

“And Shane fuckin Hollander,” he drawls. Shane nods for a second.

“I'm...I'm glad you told me,” he says quietly. Then another question comes to him. “Ex-coach?”

“Did not always play hockey, but have always been athlete,” Ilya says.

“What sport?”

“...Figure skating,” Ilya answers, his tone very careful.

“Really?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, “Why do Canadians do this? Americans too. Really? Like everyone lies always.”

Shane blushes but nods, “It's just hard to imagine. Were you good?”

Ilya breathes deeply, “Depends on who you ask.”

“Well, I'm asking you,” Shane counters.

“I...I think I was good. Could have been better,” Ilya says. There is a long pause. “I got bronze in the Olympics.”

Shane shoots up in the bed and blinks down at him.

“You fucking what?”

Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Women's Singles Bronze, 2006,” he says, “best I could do.”

“Oh that was just the best you could do was it? Be an Olympic medalist?”

“Was not good enough for some people. In Russia, it is gold medal or nothing,” Ilya says. It brings a frown to his lips. One that Shane leans over and tries to kiss away.

“Well, I think it's really cool that you got an Olympic medal in...wait? 2006? You were a 15 year old Olympic champion?” Shane says. “That's amazing.”

“Mmm a little amazing yes,” Ilya agrees.

“And this is your second pro career. And you're 19,” Shane confirms.

“Hollander you are getting turned on again,” Ilya teases.

“Um...yeah. Yeah I think I fucking am,” he laughs.

“I am that impressive?” Ilya jokes, but underneath it...there is a hesitance there. He can see it in Ilya's eyes.

“Yeah kinda,” Shane agrees. “It's very...sexy to know someone with that much talent is into you.”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya says softly and it takes Shane a moment before he starts blushing realizing that he's talking about Shane.

“I don't have Olympic medals yet,” he murmurs, moving in to nose at Ilya's cheek again.

“Yet,” Ilya agrees. “Yet.”

“You think I could get one?” Shane asks.

“Sure. After all, I am not playing for Russia in Olympics,” Ilya gives him a grin. Shane makes a sound of fake outrage and lightly pushes him. “This is answer you get for...what is phrase...fishing for praise?”

“Think we'll win one together in 4 years?”

Ilya shakes his head, “No. Maybe in 8.”

“You don't think you'll be asked in 2014?”

Ilya breathes out and says, “I don't want to talk about this.”

It's different from when Ilya had tried running before, not panic, just a calm seriousness.

“Okay,” Shane says quietly, “alright.”

This earns him a quiet, but grateful smile.

“Thank you,” he says. He lets out a long hum. “...I am craving cigarette.”

“You're still smoking?” Shane asks.

“No...I quit to help with surgery. Wanted it to heal right,” Ilya says.

“Can I look? I swear I didn't see the scars at all —”

“Good. Was fucking expensive,” he says but he takes Shane's hand and runs his finger just under his pecs, a small raised line. Shane doesn't press but Ilya still hisses.

“It hurts?”

“A little. Is sensitive,” he says.

“Does it... feel strange?”

“Feels good,” he smiles, laying back against the pillows, “I like being shirtless all the time now. Fucking binder I wanted to burn it.”

“I always wondered why you were always so private in the dressing room,” Shane admits. “I would have assumed you were shy, but...”

“Me? Shy?” Ilya snorts.

“Yeah, I know. Silly me,” Shane grins. “I admittedly was very distracted seeing you shirtless for the first time.”

“I know,” Ilya smirks, smug.

Shane hums and traces his fingertips over Ilya's chest well away from the sensitive scars. He lays his head over Ilya's heart and listens, like putting his ear to a conch trying to hear the ocean.

“I should go,” Ilya whispers.

Shane frowns up at him, “Why?”

“Have early flight,” he says, “you also.”

“Doesn't mean you can't stay,” he says, trying hard not to sound petulant.

“Oh and Yuna will not be knocking at five in the morning?”

“No, why would you even think that?” Shane asks. Though he already knows that is a lie and his mom will be here at 5am knocking on his door. He just really wants Ilya to stay.

“I say this with all the utmost respect for Yuna Hollander, but your mom is momager. Momagers wake you up at 5am for more business,” Ilya answers, calling his bluff. He leans over and presses another kiss to Shane's lips before he sits up and grabs the underwear from the bedside table. “So...will be best if I leave. Unless you want awkward conversation with your mother.”

Shane can't really argue with that even if he kind of wants to cry when Ilya's ass disappears into his underwear.

“Are you going back to Ottawa before Boston?”

“Yes, but not before you leave to Montreal,” he says, pulling on his pants. Shane swallows and sits back, contemplating that for a moment. They won't see each other again until they play against each other.

“It could be months,” he says out loud, “like a lot of months.”

“Yes, this is true,” Ilya nods, pulling on his pants. He pauses as he seems to think, mouth pulling into the slightest of frowns. “But...we could talk on phone. Like normal.”

“Sure, but...it's not the same,” Shane says. And now that he knows what things can be like with Ilya, how is he supposed to go even longer without seeing him?

Ilya comes close and kisses him softly.

“You will be busy, you will not even notice. And there will be other people,” he says with a wink, “even if they are not as good as me.”

“Other people?” Shane asks, a little confused.

“It would be unreasonable to ask you to go without for months. Might even be chance to get more experience. I will not mind,” Ilya says.

“Are...are you going to...be with other people?” Shane asks. Ilya cocks his head at Shane, his expression neutral.

“Would this bother you?” he asks.

He shakes his head fast and hard so that he doesn't say that yes absolutely the idea of someone else touching Ilya makes him sick.

“No I...you're right I can't ask you to not...”

Ilya gives a small nod and finishes getting dressed. He pauses to give one more kiss to Shane's lips.

“I will see you soon, yes?” he asks. Shane nods, though he privately thinks it will not be soon enough. He watches as Ilya quietly leaves the room. When the door finally closes, Shane falls back onto the bed.

Chapter End Notes

“Как ты вообще попал в эту команду, Розанов?” → How did you even get into this team, Rozanov?

“Ты отсосал у капитана? Держу пари, что да. И, наверное, он тебе это позволил. Ты ведь достаточно симпатичный, почти как девушка.” → Did you give the captain a blow job? I bet you did. And he probably let you. You're quite attractive, almost like a girl.

“Я научу его не упоминать имя твоей матери” → I'll teach him not to mention your mother's name.

“Добро пожаловать” → Welcome

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

September 2010 - Boston

Everything after the last night he spent with Shane is a whirlwind. His new agent is not unlike Yuna Hollander, protective and productive. The money that his ultra private extremely cutting edge mastectomy had drained had been replenished and doubled in a couple of months under a deluge of brand deals and fashion shoots. It seemed a strange avenue, fashion, not that he was opposed to it. But he was a rookie hockey player who hadn't even had his first year.

“You keep your eyes on the next game, Rozanov,” she said as she clacked away at an email with the kind of vigor men assembled riffles with. “I keep my eye on the next fifteen years of your life. Deal?”

Ilya gives a slight nod, “Yes. Deal,” he agrees. It is easy enough to do so. He's already begun to trust that Tessa has his best interests in mind and that she has everything sorted. It's not like he would know what to do for the next fifteen years, let alone the next few months. Nor does he want to. That kind of thinking takes a lot of effort and Ilya is lazy.

Still the mention of the next game makes him smile. Boston will be playing against Montreal, and Ilya is excited. Not only to see Shane, but to play against him on the ice. It will be a real challenge, and he wants to prove to the world that he is the best hockey player. Not to mention, if he does beat Shane, then he will have that adorable disgruntled face and then they can use that passion for much more enjoyable things later.

They text often, almost every day, but there's not much they can say in writing other than “good game last night” and “how have you been”.

Boston is a good city, easy to shine in or disappear into as needed. Locals are not starstruck but they do act like they know him which has good days and bad days. He has been lectured by more annoyed Italian grandmothers about his toe drag than he has patience for.

He imagines that in Montreal, Shane is treated like a prince. Like how no one could shut up about him in Ottawa when they were in the Junior League. Ilya smirks at the idea of how awkward Shane probably would be about that kind of treatment.

Thinking about him, Ilya gives into the urge to text the other rookie.

Ilya: Looking forward to losing to Boston?

He grins, pocketing his phone. He cannot wait to see how Shane will respond.

Shane: Not gonna happen.

Ilya grins at the straightforward response.

“Boring,” he murmurs to himself. God but he misses him. It should not be possible to be this overcome with want after just one night together. But Shane was more than a bathroom stall hook up, he was Ilya's friend. Ilya's friend who was possibly the best player of their generation, who was kind and gentle-hearted, who was so breathtakingly beautiful.

He knows how he feels isn't how it's been with other people. No, this is far, far more dangerous. Certainly falling into territory where Ilya could get hurt. But another true thing about Ilya is that he likes trouble. Shane Hollander, despite how boring he can be, is also trouble. It will be irrevocably painful when things eventually end.

Still, Ilya will take what he can get. And so far, Shane has not gotten tired of him. Has not been disgusted by him. It is more than what Ilya had ever expected and better than what he has wished for.

He just hopes that he gets more of Shane before the end, before inevitably he finds someone who makes sense for him. Someone who doesn't play for an opposing team, for one, and who doesn't make Shane's obvious grappling with his sexuality even more complicated. Because that's what Ilya always is, in the end, complicated.

October 2010 - Montreal

By the time game day comes and he is in the locker room, he is practically vibrating. He is mere minutes away from facing off against Shane for the first time. He cannot wait. What was a bit of healthy competition between best friends (with benefits). Ilya is already thinking of what he wants to ask for his reward should Boston beat Montreal tonight. Which they should.

“Nervous, Rozy?” He looks up at Marleau and shakes his head, “Nope. Ready.”

Marleau claps him in the back and grins, “That's what I like to hear.”

Ilya grins and finishes getting ready for the game. He checks his phone one more time, but as expected, there are no texts from Shane.

They are called to get ready to come out onto the ice. Announcements are made and, finally, Ilya is face to face with Shane.

They're in the face off because of course they are, the league has been very obvious about casting them as rivals. They've been obvious about casting Shane as the hero and Ilya as the villain. He's willing to play that up for them.

Shane smiles at him, way too soft, “Ready to play, Roz?”

“Shane Hollander,” he drawls out and then winks, “Ready to lose?”

He wins the face off.

Despite the initial high, it is unfortunately Montreal who takes the win at the end. And Ilya finds himself pulled between two warring emotions.

He’s angry at himself—not the team—for losing his first match against Shane. He’s supposed to be better. The winner.

But he also found that he had enjoyed himself. He had loved playing against Shane, who had presented an actual challenge. Ilya loved taking the puck from him, loved slamming him into the boards, skating around him. And his favorite was playfully teasing his friend, as it would make this intense fire burn in Shane’s eyes.

Currently, Shane was on television, being interviewed. He looked adorable, all sweet and boyish, flushed and proud. And answering questions in perfect French. It was certainly doing things for Ilya. Ilya pulled out his phone and texted Shane.

Ilya: English and French? Stop being a show off 😉

Shane: It's important here, official language and everything.

Ilya: Perfect, no accent.

Shane: How's your hotel room?

 Ilya smirks at the absolute lack of subtlety.

Ilya: Spacious. Marleau says he'll be back in the morning.

Shane: He has a key though.

Ilya: And your parents are across the hall from you.

There is a long pause between texting. He can practically imagine the gears turning in Shane’s head. The way he bites at his lip or sweatshirt strings when he is unsure. Ilya decides to give him some slack.

Ilya: 625

Shane: What is that?

Ilya: Room number.

Shane: What about Marleau?

Ilya: Will be fine, come.

Shane: Okay

Ilya grins at how quickly that had gone, how much Shane must want to be here, maybe almost as much as Ilya wants him to be here. He pulls up the other chat he has on hand.

Ilya: Don't come back tonight, like you said. Not before breakfast.

Marly: GET IT ROZZZYYYYY 🍑

He chuckles slightly and closes the chat. Getting up from his bed, he does go into the bathroom to freshen up a bit. He is in the middle of trying to tame a stubborn curl when there is a knock on his door. Going over to check, he sees Shane in the peephole. With a grin, Ilya opens the door and allows Shane to come inside.

“Hell —”

He is immediately cut off by Shane pushing Ilya up against the wall and pressing a kiss to his lips.

He laughs against Shane's mouth because it's a little funny, yes, but he is also so happy. Happy to have Shane pressed up against him, to have his eagerness to confirm that Shane is his still, for now.

“Feeling proud of yourself, Hollander?”

“Yeah,” he mutters against his lips, “won against the best.”

“So you admit I am best,” he answers, nipping at his lips.

Shane moves down to mouth at his neck, “One of the best.”

“Hmm, I will take it,” Ilya allows, running his fingers through Shane's hair as he revels in the attention Shane is showering on him. “I take you missed me?”

“Now who's fishing for praise?” Shane counters back, but the answer is still an obvious yes.

“Tell me you missed me,” he says, like a challenge but also an instruction — Shane likes both so much.

“I missed you,” he concedes before looking up at him through his eyelashes, “did you miss me?”

Like a limb, he thinks.

“Maybe a little,” he says, “little parts of you.”

Shane hums a little displeased and a little confused.

“I missed your tongue,” he starts, “and these three fingers here. And your hair falling on your face. And your little fucking whimpers.”

Shane's face pulls even more into that adorable annoyed look.

“Розанов,” he says, his tone exasperated but softened by the look in his eyes.

Ilya about has a heart attack with how much his heart flutters at that. In fact, he is so overcome by the sensation of hearing Shane say his name in his language that he switches positions, pushing Shane up against the wall, pressing his body close. “How'd you learn that?”

“Hmmm? Isn't it your name?” Shane asks, all fucking coy and heating every part of Ilya's body.

“Yes, but you said it correctly,” he says, eyes wide, “I mean... you said it in Russian.”

“It can be hard to switch pronunciation when I'm speaking English but I can, I will if you want me to,” he says, so serious again, always so serious when he thinks it is important.

“No, you cannot be saying my name like this in public,” he mumbles as he moves in to kiss him again, “I will suck your dick on the ice.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Shane shakes his head, but there is a small laugh.

“Would,” Ilya counters. “I would be so overcome, like now, that in moment I would have to show my appreciation.”

“Then…when we’re not on the ice?” Shane says.

“Yes…because then I could suck your dick with no interruptions,” Ilya tells him. “In fact,” he muses, and trails his hand down to the front of Shane’s pants.

He doesn't go slow, feels emboldened and wanted and he shows it to Shane with his enthusiasm. Shane deserves a reward after all, and even though Ilya hates to lose he loves to have Shane the prince of hockey Hollander falling apart for him. It is a different kind of winning. Shane makes every delicious noise he made last time and then some. He cries out in distress when Ilya pulls away and leaves him hard and wet and aching.

Shane wants to say something but he seems to be shaking with the effort not to come and Ilya decides generously not to laugh at him.

“What do you want, Holzy?” Ilya asks, using Shane’s old hockey nickname both for nostalgia’s sake, but to also tease him. “Tell me what kind of reward you’ve earned.”

“You could...” he starts bravely before swallowing down the rest of the words and blushing a deeply concerning but beautiful red.

“I cannot if you do not tell me,” he says, laying barely there kisses along Shane's jaw.

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, “With your tongue?”

He drags his lips over to Shane's ear, “Do what with my tongue, Holzy?”

Shane whines a little, not involuntary this time, just petulant.

“Fuck me,” he grits out, shy and angry all at once.

Ilya hums and presses a full kiss to Shane’s lips. “Good. Let us get you undressed then, yes?” He says, unbuttoning Shane’s trousers.

Shane immediately starts to pull down his trousers. Though, like he did last time with Ilya’s boxers, he takes the time to fold them. Which Ilya finds adorable, especially when Shane then does the same with the shirt.

When he’s mostly naked, he looks to Ilya. “What about you?”

He sticks out his tongue and lifts his arms, “Is already out.”

“Rozanov take your fucking pants off,” Shane growls softly.

“You are bossy, Hollander - are you trying to become Captain again?”

Shane narrows his eyes and once again uses Ilya’s last name in Russian. Which is absolutely unfair with how attractive it is. Someone has given Shane a powerful weapon.

But two can play that game. Ilya winks and begins to take off his pants. "Anything you say капитан.” 

He leaves his shirt on for a moment, just long enough for it to irritate Shane who surges forward and starts pushing it off of him. He likes the impatience, the bossiness, the petulance, but he also has to give Shane what he actually needs. So he shoves Shane back into the bed, onto his stomach and climbs over him.

“You are, I think... pent up, капитан,” he says against the back of his neck, “could not find anyone in Montreal?”

Shane lets out a small gasp below him.

“I tried…with one,” he admits. Ilya immediately feels a flame of jealousy spike in him. He does his best to tamp it down, because it would be hypocritical and he told Shane that he could.

“And?” Ilya asks.

“Wasn’t…wasn’t the same…barely went anywhere,” Shane says. Which brings a swoop of relief through Ilya. And also some smugness.

“Stop it,” Shane says, which means he can feel the smugness even though he can't see him.

“What, is a compliment no?”

“Shut up.”

“And I haven't even fucked you yet,” he murmurs.

“…That’s…that’s possible?”

“Mm, anything is possible,” Ilya responds, kissing between Shane’s shoulder blades and pressing another one to the middle of his back. “Especially when there is a collection of toys. If you are good…maybe I use one or two on you.”

He feels Shane shake underneath him and he presses a kiss to the small of Shane’s back.

“You like this idea?”

“I…I don’t know…maybe?” Shane answers, his hands clenching into the sheets. There is a moment and then he asks. “…Are…was there anyone else? For you?”

He could lie, in either direction, but ... but Shane thinks the truth is important.

“A friend,” he says lightly, “when she is in town, if nothing good is on television.”

And even then, his hook ups with Svetlana have been fewer and fewer. Most of the time, they do end up just watching hockey on television. Svetlana’s knowledge could rival Yuna Hollander’s, after all. She’s given him odd looks, but he’s been able to avoid the conversation for now.

As for others…well, yes, he has gone out to clubs and made the effort to look like he’s going to hook up. Has danced with girls and then escorted them back to their homes or hotels with his teammates assuming something more will come of it. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone from his usual places in a while though. It just…didn’t feel the same.

Maybe because he is on a popular NHL team where even the queer community watches, so that sense of anonymity he was looking for has more or less disappeared. Makes him feel less safe. No other reasons.

Shane turns so that they're much closer to kissing than Ilya anticipated. He looks serious in a new way, tinged with curiosity.

“And you fuck her?”

Ilya nods, “Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I want you to fuck me,” he huffs as if Ilya should have followed that train of thought.

“I thought that is what we were going to do,” Ilya points out. “You asked if I could use my tongue,” he reminds him.

“No…well, yes,” Shane tilts his head. “But I mean…how you would with her.” He flushes a little bit. But the look on his face is still serious and determined. “With…with the…toys you mentioned.”

“You're sure,” Ilya asks. He is teasing a little but he's serious too, “Will be faster if I used my tongue or my fingers. Both? You liked both.”

“No,” Shane says in a huff, “I mean, yes, I'm sure.”

“Will take my fingers and tongue to open you up,” he says lower and closer, not a challenge but a warning, “you will probably come from that long before I fuck you.”

Shane practically pouts, but gives the slightest determined nod. Ilya can practically imagine that the other man will try to do whatever it takes to not orgasm before Ilya gets something bigger than his fingers in him.

“Okay,” Shane says.

“Okay,” Ilya echoes back. “Now, turn over so that I can give you what you asked for.”

Shane does turn around, but not before pressing another kiss to Ilya’s lips. Smirking—not smiling—Ilya returns his attention back to Shane’s backside. Like before, he lightly bites at the swell of Shane’s ass, before spreading him open and pressing his tongue to the ring of muscle there. He delights in the moan he receives, but has to keep a firm hand from keeping Shane from breaking his nose at how hard his hips jerk.

He has no confidence in Shane being able to keep from coming while he prepares him, but that doesn't mean Ilya can't make him do it again. It will take time, but he has time. He has until morning.

For now, he focuses on taking Shane apart with his tongue and fingers. He pauses long enough to grab the lube he had brought. But apparently that is too much for even Shane, who makes a discontented noise. Ilya soothes him by rubbing a thumb across his hipbone and pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade.

“Making sure this is as mind-blowing as every other time,” he promises.

He coats the fingers of one hand liberally with the lube. He returns his attention back to Shane’s entrance, but this time pressing a single finger slowly into him. This earns him a moan, Shane whispering his usual nickname reverently.

Once he has an angle that he can work with he lifts himself up to stay close to Shane's face and whisper his praise and encouragement. His eyes are closed in pleasure and concentration.

“More…more,” Shane demands. Or perhaps begs. It is hard to fully tell given how his voice practically croaks around it and the broken moan that interrupts the first. But Ilya is nothing but a giver, so he adds another finger.

He really isn't trying to torture Shane, he absolutely grazes his prostate by accident making him curse and pull the sheets off the corner of the mattress.

“Sorry,” he says lightly, kissing Shane's shoulder, “should I stop?”

“No,” he groans softly, “no, no, don't stop. I can take it.”

Ilya doesn't pull his fingers out but he does pause his movements, “Shhh, Hollander you do not need to take it, is not bag skates,” he murmurs, “we do something else.”

Shane shakes his head, “I've done it before I... I have a thing.”

“A thing?”

“A dildo,” Shane clarifies, sounding a little bit embarrassed.

The thought of Shane fucking himself with a dildo makes Ilya’s brain short second for a second. God, it’s hot. “What color?”

“Fuck you,” Shane whines

“No, no, I want to compare!” Ilya says.

Shane drops his head down, maybe too overcome or too annoyed to fight with Ilya at this point.

“At least tell me how big,” he murmurs.

“You pick,” Shane mutters, “now give me another finger, Roz.”

“Because you ask so nicely,” Ilya lightly teases him, but does indeed add another finger. He does he best to avoid Shane's prostate, since Shane seems so adamant about lasting long enough to be fucked. Shane continues to moan and breathlessly curse.

“Okay, I think I'm ready,” Shane says, practically panting after another minute or so. “Please...please...fuck, Roz.”

He keeps a hand on Shane's back, soothing and constant, while he reaches for his choice. Shane did leave it up to him and that trust of his is intoxicating. He makes sure it's properly lubed and tries to keep very quiet as he fits in the flexible side into himself. It's not that he's shy about it, he just doesn't want to distract Shane just when he's gotten relaxed enough.

“Okay?” Ilya then asks Shane to ensure that he is still willing and ready for this.

“More than,” Shane responds.

Content with the enthusiastic consent, Ilya starts to ease the other end into Shane, slow and steady. It elicits a whimper followed by a long moan from Shane. Meanwhile, the end inside Ilya rubs just right against him, causing him to let out his own responding moan.

He moves slowly, the piece he chose is meant for close and slow, which is exactly what Shane needs right now. Everything that he wants and needs, Ilya wants to give him.

“Roz,” Shane whimpers, “more.”

“Shh patience, Holzy,” he breathes out, “I have you.”

Ilya starts to build a consistent rhythm, still keeping the pace slow. His target for this particular moment is to continue to stimulate Shane's prostate. Which he has been very successful with, given the near desperate noises that seem to be escaping Shane.

The other added benefit of this piece is that he also gets his own pleasure with every movement he makes. Getting pleasure by providing it, as it should be. He is practically doubled over Shane, pressing kisses and small bites to Shane's spine. He murmurs positive praise in Russian, telling him how good he is, how good this is.

He is just a bit too in his head about the parts of him and the parts of Shane and how he can make him feel as amazing as Ilya does.He startles when Shane reaches for his hand and brings it to his chest, bringing Ilya all together closer.

“You've been so good,” Ilya whispers, “so good for me. You want to come now, yes?”

Shane nods, his head practically a bobble head with the movement. Ilya focuses a few more thrusts against Shane’s prostate. It seems to be enough as Shane practically sobs as he comes. Meanwhile, the other end of the dildo hits just the right spot in Ilya and his own orgasm crashes over him.

He holds himself still and once he's caught his breath he slowly pulls himself away. Then carefully, rubbing his hand over Shane's side, he slides it out of him as well. He kisses away the hiss of discomfort and throws the piece in the general direction of his bag to deal with later. He thinks Shane would hate that if he were at all aware of his own name at the moment.

Instead, Ilya moves so he is lying beside Shane and pulls him into his arms. His fingers come up to run through Shane’s hair as the other man comes down from the rush of endorphins and other hormones running through him. Letting Shane come back to himself slowly.

“Rozy,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.

“I'm here,” he hums, “you are okay?”

Shane's face eases into a smile, eyes closed he looks like he is having a pleasant dream.

“M'so okay,” he says as he leans closer still.

“Good,” Ilya says.

Shane finally leans close enough to where his lips basically slip against Ilya’s in a tired approximation of a kiss.

“Do you need anything?” Ilya asks. He’s fondly amused at how cuddly and docile Shane seems to be at this moment.

The other man shakes his head and lays down on Ilya’s chest.

“All gooood right here,” he says.

Ilya covers them both up and reaches for his phone as Shane mutters a light complaint, maybe about being tucked in while sweaty or maybe about Ilya moving at all.

There's a text from Marly telling him he found a girl to give him shelter and that he owes him Starbucks in the morning. He smiles and sets his alarm for 4:30 because as much as he wants to keep Shane until the sun rises, Yuna will be knocking on that door 3 floors up at five sharp.

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

January 2011 - Nashville

Shane was in the hotel lobby that was hosting the All Stars game. He felt like his head was on a swivel and there was electricity coursing through his veins. While this part was about socializing, there was one person in particular he was looking for.

He hadn’t seen Ilya since their game in Montreal. They had spent another mind blowing night together and then Shane had to leave early in the morning. He’d been kind of grumpy about it. Part of him, even understanding the reasons why he had to leave, wanted to stay.

Of course, he and Ilya had texted. But that was different. Shane felt like he couldn’t talk about all the things he wanted to over text. And phone calls, while marginally better, wouldn’t let him see his best friend’s face.

So, when he had learned that not only were they both going to All Stars but that they would be on the same team? Shane was the most excited he’d ever been. Now if only Ilya could show up.

He was distracted from his search when Scott Hunter of the New York Admirals came up to semi-introduce himself.

Shane obviously already knows who Scott Hunter is and has looked up to him for years, but it is another thing altogether to have him in front of his face and know they're about to play together in a few days.

“You're something, Rook,” the man smiles. Shane has another one of those bolts he's had lately, where he can see and feel how attractive a man is only for the wave of missing and wanting Ilya to take over his body.

“Thank you, Mr. Hunter,” he says, “I'm looking forward to hitting the ice with you.”

“You as well,” Scott returns. “I am curious as to how this year will go.”

“What do you mean?” Shane asks.

“I mean, playing with Rozanov on the same team,” Scott says. His lips pull into something of a grimace at the mention of Ilya.

“Rozanov is an excellent player,” Shane says, trying not to sound rude but also kind of not giving a damn if he is.

Scott looks startled, “Oh absolutely. But he's also - you know - got a personality.”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Not like that kid,” he chuckles, “I mean look, you're a star of a rookie yourself and you're not an asshole about it.”

Shane frowns slightly. Because, yes, sure Ilya chirps quite a bit. And sometimes even Shane has called him an asshole. But that’s always been playfully, and realistically, he’s not more of an asshole than Shane can sometimes be. Hell, Dallas Kent is a bigger asshole than Ilya is, yet everyone seems to talk more about Ilya. And quite honestly, Ilya does have the skills to back up his confidence.

“Rozanov is just more extroverted,” Shane states.

“Sure, that’s a word for it. But…well, you’ve played against him. You know how he can be,” Scott says. It’s delicate and polite and it still grinds Shane’s gears. Because yes, Shane knows how Ilya can be. Better than anyone in the NHL.

“Speak of the devil,” Hunter mutters into his drink, just a moment before Shane smells the familiar cologne he's becoming conditioned to.

“Hollander, there you are,” Ilya says, a little too loud as if he's saying it to the whole room, “are we - what is the word, Holzy? Honoring the elders? Hello, Hunter.”

“Rozanov,” Hunter replies back, already looking vastly more annoyed than he had just moments earlier.

“Hey Roz,” Shane greets, already feeling happier that Ilya is here. “Hunter and I were just talking about how we thought this year’s game will go.”

“Oh easy. We will win,” Ilya responds with his easy confidence.

“There is you and me…and even Hunter is decent player when he remembers he is playing.”

Hunter looks downright irritated by that, which Shane kind of understands but it's a very standard chirp and Ilya enjoys needling people. Okay, maybe that's what Scott is referring to but it's hardly a personality issue.

“Be nice,” he says softly.

Roz rolls his eyes and lays his hands on Shane's shoulders, “Come, they have ginger ale in back. I convince bartender to find it.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Shane says.

“Da, was necessary. Still need to find the ginger ale that makes you dance on table,” Ilya jokes.

“We will see you at dinner, Team Captain,” the Russian gives a slight salute to Hunter.

The bartender apologizes that the ginger ale is not cold and Shane cuts off whatever Ilya is about to say to the poor man.

“That's perfectly fine, a glass with ice would be great.” He gets one without any further fuss and half smiles at Ilya, “I can drink other things.”

“So? You should not have to if there is what you want,” he says simply.

There is a warmth in Shane’s chest and he wonders if this is sometimes how his dad feels when his mom makes a correction on his behalf.

“Well, thank you. I do appreciate it. Still, I don’t like the idea of you…bullying service staff—”

“Was not bullying—”

“—just because I prefer ginger ale.”

“I just…you should be able to enjoy yourself. Even if enjoyment is boring ginger ale.”

“I like how it tastes,” he says.

“You do not need to explain why you like what you like,” Ilya answers and until that moment Shane hadn't really thought that was what he was doing, “you are allowed to have preference.”

“It can be... an odd preference. Different from what people expect,” he says, looking down at his glass of ginger ale and knowing in a second they had stopped talking about it.

“So what, you will drink beer instead and be boring in a way people expect? That will make everyone happy will it?”

“I mean…beer is okay. I can drink it,” Shane shrugs.

“Yes, that is way to live life. Doing what is just okay,” Ilya counters, raising an eyebrow. He lets out a long sigh. “If beer is what you want then…okay. But…if ginger ale makes you happy…then have ginger ale. If other people do not think you should…is not their taste buds.”

Shane smiles because yes obviously, it's something he knows but maybe he doesn't always believe it.

“What if my mom gets me a beer endorsement?”

Ilya looks aghast, “Yuna Hollander would never do this. Bad example for all the little children who look up to Shane Hollander.”

Shane rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder against Ilya’s. Though, ultimately Shane does know that Ilya is right. His mom is very careful about his endorsements and wouldn’t make him support a product that he barely tolerates.

“In fact, maybe Yuna should get you Canada Dry endorsement. All the ginger ale you could want,” Ilya grins.

Shane sighs, “She approached them but they don't really do endorsement.”

Ilya looks actually seriously offended by this, “Do they not know who you are?”

That makes him snort, “Shut up.”

“One of best rookie hockey players in league, forty-one goals and they are like ‘no, not interested?’ Mistake,” Ilya shakes his head.

Shane can feel a bemused smile come to his face when he realizes something.

“You know how many goals I’ve made?” Of course, he knows how many Ilya has made, which is 38, but…that’s different.

“Yes, if I am to prove I am best, I need to know what number to beat,” Ilya answers. Though Shane is pretty certain that is not the only reason.

After the initial reception the day is mostly full of meetings with the league representatives, a short practice skate mostly just for everyone to get a feel for the ice, and a lot of pictures of the teams in suits that would only really circulate among the stakeholders and owners newsletters. Before he realizes it's time to meet up with everyone for the team dinner - the one chance they'll have to really try to mesh as a team when they're thrown together from across the entire league.

Shane knows he should probably socialize with other people, expand his group of acquaintances. However, he still finds himself sliding into the seat next to Ilya. Ilya in turn gives him a grin and nudges his foot just briefly against Shane's. It's nothing compared to the things they've done, but it still causes Shane's heart to skip just a little.

Dinner starts with drinks and there is conversation going on. Shane does engage in brief conversation with some of the other members of the North American team. However, every so often he will observe Ilya. It's interesting to note that he is not chirping as often as Shane assumed he would.

Suddenly someone asks, “Rozanov, I was curious. Why are you with the North American team? I thought you were Russian.”

Shane tenses, unsure of whether Ilya will be upset by the question. By and large Roz always avoids talking about Russia, even if he does appreciate a proper pronunciation of his name when they're alone.

“Was born in Russia, yes,” he nods calmly, “but have been Canadian for many years.”

“Oh,” the other player - Kingston from Tampa he thinks? - says as if he doesn't quite get it but isn't willing to push it.

“You'll probably be asked that tomorrow at the press conference,” Scott says across the table from them, “they told you right? They want you and Holzy on either side of me.”

“I am certain they will. Reporters ask all sorts of questions that are not their business,” Ilya says, taking a sip of his cola. This actually earns a wry smile from Scott, who gives a slight nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, they kind of do.” Shane can see the way the nearby players watch this conversation with interest. They look...fascinated, maybe?

“And sometimes use overly complicated words to ask simple question,” Ilya adds.

From the other side of the table someone he can't really see agrees, “They do!”

“Was hard when I was younger,” Ilya says before looking like he regrets his words.

Scott tilts his head, “The language? Your English is great.”

“Wasn't always,” Ilya says simply before taking an entirely too huge bite of his burger.

Shane, concerned, taps his foot against Ilya's. Some of the tension eases from his shoulders. Barely, but there's a change. Ilya taps his foot back. Ilya clears his throat.

“Holzy here is the linguist.”

“Shut up, I am not,” Shane says, flushing.

“Says the man who can speak fluent French,” Ilya retorts back.

“My mom and dad are from Montreal, I play for Montreal, it's expected,” he says with an eye roll.

“You are not from Montreal, you are from Ottawa,” Ilya says, which makes something bounce in his stomach. Something about Ilya knowing him, even a simple fact like his birthplace.

“You two seem to know each other well,” says one of the players beside Scott. Shane cannot exactly place the name, but thinks the man plays for Chicago.

“We played on the Canada national team together,” Shane answers.

Beside him Ilya seems preoccupied, maybe he's tired or distracted. Sometimes Shane gets zoned out when there are too many people around but Ilya isn't usually that way. He bumps their feet together again and Ilya shakes himself a bit and smiles.

“We won with the Canada team, twice,” he says, “and we'll win again now.”

“Well...I will say it's nice to have your confidence in our team, Rozanov,” Scott says.

“Do not worry, team captain,” Ilya grins. “You deserve a win before you retire.”

Scott rolls his eyes and huffs. But it seems that this particular chirp has not earned Scott's usual ire. Maybe it is the environment or maybe the earlier agreement about the press eased some of the tension between the two. Either way, Shane is glad for it. However, he remains concerned about Ilya who has gotten a little more quiet during the dinner.

Thankfully, the dinner passes fairly quickly and eventually it is time for them to call it a night. Many of their temporary teammates had imbibed several drinks and stumbled near drunkenly to the elevators. Hunter leaves him and Ilya in the lobby, wishing them a good night, as he helps one of his fellow New Yorkers back to his room.

Shane leans back against a column in the mostly empty lobby.

“So, um, we should rest up,” he says.

“Mmm, yes. Sleep is good idea,” Ilya says, which is not what Shane expected but is objectively true. He tries really hard not to seem disappointed as he nods back.

“You are so easy to lie to, Hollander,” Ilya smirks, “I got room next to yours.”

“What?”

“I told front desk we need to go to gym early, easier if we are close. I have room next to yours, will not be strange to anyone,” he says.

Shane feels his chest tighten slightly and cannot help the smile that comes across his face. It's the second time in only a few short hours where Ilya has done something that he thinks is sweet. Sure, maybe in this case it was a benefit to both of them, but...it still considered Shane's comfort.

“Well...then we should...probably head up, yeah?” Shane suggests, tilting his head toward the elevators.

“Go,” Ilya says, “I have to make phone call.”

Shane nods and clears his throat, hands in his pockets, “Okay yeah. I'll see you there.”

From the elevator vestibule he can see that Ilya is actually on the phone with someone, though from here he can't even begin to guess what the tone of the conversation is. He heads up to his room and tries to relax with a quick shower, though he leaves the en suite door open so he can hear if Ilya knocks.

It is about 20 minutes later when the knock on his door finally comes. Shane immediately gets to his feet and opens the door. Ilya pushes Shane deeper into the room, the door closing shut behind him, and up against a wall. His lips meet Shane's. It's hot, passionate and...a little desperate.

Ilya presses closer, his hand snaking under Shane's shirt and splaying his palm as if he's trying to touch as much skin as he can. Shane digs his own hands into Ilya's hair and pulls him closer before tugging his head lightly away.

“Hey,” he pants out, “hey you alright?”

“Will be better when you are wearing less clothes,” he says, not meeting his gaze but tugging at Shane's shirt with clear annoyance.

Shane lifts his arms and lets Ilya throw his shirt carelessly off to the floor before ducking down and pressing hot open mouth kisses over his chest.

Ilya continues his trail downward before getting to the hem of Shane's pants. Ilya looks up as if asking for permission. And Shane wants to say yes. He does. He's been...well, he's been craving Ilya for months. But...there's something different about this time. Every time before, Ilya has taken his time with him. Putting Shane's pleasure almost above his own.

And yet now, even a breath away from taking Shane into his mouth and giving him the pleasure he's been dreaming about, it doesn't seem to be about Shane at all.

“Come up here,” he whispers, “please.”

The please seems to crack something in the haze of heat in Ilya's eyes and he rises to his feet and kisses him, much softer, as if he too were taking a step back.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

“Will be more okay when you —”

“Roz, just stop for a second, look at me,” he insists.

There is some hesitation there. But after a long moment, Ilya does make eye contact with him. And now that Shane is looking at Ilya, there is still a tension there. In his shoulders, in his jaw. A slight crease between his brow. Something is bothering him. Has been bothering him since dinner.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks once more, his tone more firm and insistent.

“...My mind will not be quiet,” Ilya finally says.

Shane knows that feeling, when there are too many angles to analyze. When there are too many eyes on him, too many thoughts about and around him that he cannot know.

“Come to bed,” he says quietly, “take your shoes off first but come to bed.”

Ilya listens, removing his shoes and his pants and setting them aside, not folded but over the back of a chair. He pulls his shirt off too but climbs into the bed in his boxers and immediately hugs a pillow.

He sighs into the pillow, “We can still fuck, Hollander, I am good at multiple tasking.”

“Multi-tasking?”

“Yes this thing,” he nods.

Shane shakes his head and climbs into the bed with him.

“If we're going to...do this...I want you to be present,” Shane tells him.

“I am present. I am here,” Ilya gestures to himself.

“You know what I mean. I mean...I don't want what we do to be a distraction from your mind.,” Shane says. “...Maybe I'm not explaining it right.”

Ilya is still looking at him with confusion, so Shane tries again.

“I know that... it's just fun but... but I also think it's good because it's us? I've... I've been with girls just to be with them and it's not — it wasn't right of me to do that to them. To be with them when I didn't want to be, when I just wanted to get out of my head and not think about what was bothering me. I shouldn't have done it. I don't want you to do that to me.”

Ilya's expression turns … considering. Introspective. Then finally he meets Shane's gaze again and nods.

“I...I am sorry,” he quietly says. “Perhaps I should...” his eyes dart toward the door.

“No. Stay. We can still be here together,” Shane tells him. “We...don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. But...you have been quiet almost all night.”

“Is fine, will be fine tomorrow,” he says, moving to leave the bed.

Shane wraps his hand around Ilya's arm, “I know you will. But you aren't fine now. Or... at the very least you've got stuff on your mind. Maybe I don't want you to use my body as a distraction but I can distract you. We can talk about anything you want. Or nothing at all. We can watch shitty reality TV or just... lay here. Let me help?”

Ilya looks back at him for a long moment. He seems...torn. But then to Shane's relief, he stays on the bed. His back is against the headboard and he lifts his knees to his chest.

“Okay,” he says. It sounds like an agreement. A hard won concession.

“Do you want to talk? Or watch TV?” Shane asks, still keeping his eyes on Ilya. “...If we watch TV, we could find a reality TV show and just...poke fun at the drama.”

Ilya nods and Shane does just that, settles beside him and finds something mindless for them to watch. Ilya makes a few comments, but mostly holds himself tight and keeps his gaze long and unfocused. During a commercial break, Ilya takes the remote and mutes the TV.

“I am afraid of the question,” he finally says.

Shane tries not to call too much attention to the sudden change of heart, since it seems they're talking about it, “Which question?”

“Why I play for this team and not Europe, why am not good Russian boy? Do you hate Russia, Ilya? Do you turn your back? I know what to say, Tessa told me what to say and it is good. But it is not everything.”

Shane nods, though he doesn't think he can fully understand. After all, he was born and raised in Canada. Loved it and never thought of leaving it. He couldn't imagine what it could have been like to leave the place you grew up and never return. In this moment, he wished he knew the right thing to say. “You think they'll judge you?”

“...I am worried that they would want to dig. The why. What they would discover,” Ilya says.

That is more understandable. The insatiable appetite of the press. Especially those who wanted to know things past the sport. Personal life information. He thinks for a long moment and finally says, “...Well, maybe Tessa's statement won't cover everything. But...they don't need everything. They aren't owed everything. Like you said...they ask things that aren't anyone's business but your own.”

Ilya is quiet for a long time. The show comes back on but Shane leaves the TV muted. Eventually Ilya speaks again.

“I do not know if I love Russia or I hate it. I think maybe both,” he says at last. “That is the truth for now. But I cannot say this. Instead I must say Canada is my home and has been for many years. I will always be proud to represent them. This is true also. I asked Tessa to write something that is true. But still. The questions will come. More and more the better I get.”

Shane acknowledges that this is true. The longer they are in the spotlight, the more likely people will try to dig into their lives. But he also remembers what his mom has told him, “Then...you repeat the same thing. Until you find a new truth that you're okay with sharing. And if...if your feelings about Russia stay complicated...I think that's okay too.”

He lets the silence sit between for a while, even though he's nervous that Ilya will decide he doesn't want to listen to him anymore. Eventually Ilya nods once.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Shane asks, not entirely sure what conclusion Ilya has come to.

“Okay,” Ilya echoes. He settles further into bed. His body language seems...softer. There is still some tension in his brows, but it doesn't look as intense. Slowly he reaches out a hand and rubs a thumb over Shane's hand.

Shane smiles to himself, he feels like he did something good, something to feel proud of. He can't stop the press or untangle the way Ilya feels about the place where he was born, but ... he can give him a place where he doesn't have to pretend it doesn't hurt.

The rest of the night passes by with less tension. They end up continuing to watch reality television. At some point, they have curled closer to one another, sharing their commentary about the dancers on the television. He doesn’t know when it happens, but at some point he looks over to find that Ilya has fallen asleep.

He's curled into Shane's chest, his face relaxed in sleep with his pretty mouth slightly parted. Shane always wants Ilya, when they're together and when they're apart - he feels it like hunger - but right now he feels completely satisfied. The pressure of Ilya's body against his, the rhythm of his breath.

He reaches up, lightly brushing at some of Ilya’s curls. Turning off the TV, Shane sets the alarm for both of them, before settling back in against Ilya. It was, perhaps, the most comfortable he had slept in months.

Chapter End Notes

Розанов → Rozanov

капитан → captain

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone! This is the last chapter in this part of the story but not at ALL the end of the story, this is a full series re-write! Subscribe to the series for the next fic drop.

Ilya wakes up to the chiming bell of Shane's alarm. He's warm and comfortable and feels deeply rested in a way he didn't know he needed. Shane is already awake, leaned up lightly and reading.

“Time?”

Shane looks at him over his book, “It's 6:30, team breakfast is at 7:30 so I figured you might want to go get changed?”

“You are reading,” he hums, “is not sunrise yet.”

“Yes, it is,” Shane smiles, “and I wake up at five.”

“Of course you do,” Ilya mutters against the pillow. It is such a Shane Hollander thing. Boring. He is nothing like the boys Ilya would usually go after. And oddly, that does not bother Ilya.

Ilya stretches and tries to find the motivation to leave this nice, warm bed with Shane to go get dressed in his own room.

Shane gets an actual bookmark, not a receipt or a random piece of paper, and places it in between his pages before setting the book down. He scoots and leans down to place a kiss on Ilya's shoulder, “Hey.”

“Hmmm?”

“Whatever they say to you today, I have your back. Don't forget you're Илья fucking Розанов, okay?”

As it happens every time Shane uses Russian, particularly using the proper pronunciation of his name, Ilya's brain short circuits. Or maybe the entire way it is structured changes. He is not sure. Either way, he is so overcome, he moves so he is straddling Shane and kissing him.

“We should start getting ready,” Shane pants out as the kiss breaks.

“Forget team breakfast. Am hungry for something else,” Ilya says.

Shane swallows harshly as Ilya kisses down his neck and toward his chest.

“If they see us leaving the same room —”

“I come to borrow cup of sugar from neighbor,” Ilya says remembering the silly phrases from his English practice book as he thumbs at the waistband of Shane's boxers, “you will let me have some yes?”

“We need to be quick,” Shane says after a long moment, acquiescing quite easily.

“Well, that is up to you,” Ilya says, with a wink. Then, after another kiss to Shane's stomach, Ilya pulls down Shane's boxers and takes Shane into his mouth.

Shane lets out a sharp broken ah sound and grabs tight hold of Ilya's curls, so he doesn't think this will take very long at all. He was already half hard when Ilya got down here but the feeling of him growing fully hard against his tongue has him grinding against the bed.

Ilya puts the majority of his focus on Shane. He brings a hand up to fondle at Shane’s balls, which makes Shane practically cry out. The other hand he uses to pin Shane’s hip to the bed, just to keep Ilya from being accidentally choked.

It's a good call because Shane's hips have force and his reactions are sharp and involuntary, but Ilya manages to keep his lower half down flat on the bed even as Shane curls almost double over Ilya moaning and cursing as if he's shocked that he is about to come.

His orgasm seems to hit him hard, and he spills into Ilya’s mouth. Like the first time, because Ilya is a gentleman, he swallows it down. Shane pants above him and Ilya slowly pulls off.

However, as soon as Ilya is starting to sit up, he is being pushed back rather quickly by Shane. Shane’s hand stops right at the top of Ilya’s boxers. It only takes the smallest of nods before Shane slips his hand inside and his fingers are entering Ilya in the way he was taught.

“Fuck…fuck, Holz,” Ilya barely breathes.

Shane bites his lip and mewls as if he's the one getting fingered so firm and tender.

“You're so warm,” he breathes out which is not what he usually hears and he doesn't mind when a partner talks about him being wet but this is different, maybe because it's Shane trying to remind him that he understands.

“More,” he asks, demands, commands. Shane takes direction perfectly as he does everywhere. He adds another finger and goes deeper, still keeping the pace and angle that he was taught months ago.

And because Shane is attentive, his thumb caresses that wonder bundle of nerves. Ilya cries out against Shane’s shoulder and presses opening kisses there.

“Hollander, Holzy,” Ilya calls. He can already feel his climax approaching.

Shane understands the importance of consistency and intensity and he does it so, so well. When Ilya starts to tense and tremble, Shane moves up to kiss him. His hand is practiced and determined, his kiss is desperate and uncoordinated and perfect in the complete opposite way.

A few moments later and some very skillful finger work, Ilya half cries, half moans against Shane’s lips. When he comes down from his orgasm, he slumps against Shane, all tension leaving his muscles.

Ilya presses lazy kisses against Shane’s lips and cheeks. Across his maddening freckles.

“Ты идеальна,”  he mumbles.

Shane's smiling and his cheeks are red as he noses at Ilya's face, “I haven't learned that yet.”

Yet, he says. It makes Ilya's stomach tighten and jump.

“Mmm, I know,” he smirks, “okay I go shower now.”

“Here?” Shane asks.

“Of course. Is time to shower and sneak back to my room,” Ilya says. “Most of team is nursing hangovers, I think.” Then he smirks. “I would invite you to join, but…I do not think you want to be late.”

Shane nods and by the time Ilya is showered and ready to jump over next door, Shane is standing outside the bathroom wrapped in blankets and looking too delicious to be accidental.

“Hollander?”

“Let me look outside before you go,” he says, “just in case.”

Ilya rolls his eyes but nods. And then, Shane leans forward and kisses him - soft and slow.

Ilya kisses him back, savoring it. Admittedly it is nice to have a slow, easy morning with someone. Though a small voice in the back of his head does warn him these are dangerous thoughts.

The kiss breaks and Shane goes over to the door, peeking his head out.

“You’re good,” he tells Ilya.

“Okay. I will see you at breakfast,” Ilya tells him.

Shane nods, his cheeks like strawberries all freckled and pink. He takes his time getting ready, finds a suit that he feels he can stand to look at when he inevitably re-watches the press conference. By the time he arrives at breakfast the team is mostly gathered.

There is an empty seat diagonally across from Shane. He slips into it with a grin.

“Did I miss anything?” He asks, all casual.

“Where have you been?” McKendry from Vancouver asks.

“Preparing for press conference,” Ilya lies. Well, it’s more of a half-truth. He was preparing for the press conference but that is not why he is late. Not completely.

“Looking good, Roz,” Brophy says, nodding at maybe his tie or something.

“Meanwhile, Holzy here looks like he's about to be an usher at church,” Casey chirps while throwing a hand over the back of Shane's head and giving it a squeeze before attacking his plate of what looks like three stacked omelets.

Shane does not look like he belongs in a church, but maybe that is simply because of how he had looked just a few minutes ago in bed with him. He does, however, look like the suit is wearing him. Maybe he should show this to Yuna, she would not have it.

Granted, Ilya knows how much Shane dislikes suits in general. Knows that the other man would want to live in athleisure wear if he could. So, maybe even if he gets a suit that is better fitting for him, he will still be unhappy in it.

“Mm, better usher of church than school principal,” Ilya says, shooting a joking grin to Scott Hunter. Admittedly, Scott does look good in his suit. Like he stepped out of a Hugo Boss ad.

But he gets a chirp nonetheless, and it's not going to help morale if he asks to see how the cut compliments the curve of Hunter's ass.

“Shut up and eat, Roz,” Scott huffs, poking at something with a bunch of spinach on his plate. Beside it though there's an enormous blueberry muffin.

“Where is this,” Ilya points.

“Big ass basket next to the orange juice,” Brophy points out.

Ilya practically fist pumps. He gets up and goes to get one of the muffins and gets himself an omelette while he is at it. When he gets back to the table, he takes a bite of the muffin, delighting in the sugary bread treat.

“You got a sweet tooth, Rozanov?” Bennett, another Admiral and their goalie asks.

Ilya shrugs, because he does. But it’s likely he shows more appreciation of it than others would because, for a time, he had denied himself such a thing. To keep the perfect athlete’s body, he had told himself at that time. Not to mention, for a time, Ilya’s skills and food intake were the only two things he had felt in control of at the time. However, now that he is in hockey, he has decided that he is going to enjoy things.

“Just like good things. Sweet, salty, is all good. Poutine proof God exists.”

“Well what do you know, he is Canadian,” Bennett chuckles.

“Of course. Is why I am on North American team,” Ilya grins back.

The rest of breakfast goes by smoothly. Ilya maintains a conversation with several of his temporary teammates, including Bennett. Every so often, he will feel Shane’s eyes on him and he’ll look up briefly to see Shane smiling before the other man returns to his conversation with Hunter and another player.

As breakfast comes to a close and the press conference draws nearer, Ilya can feel some of his nervousness begging to rise up again. He tries to remember what Shane had told him last night and this morning. He can do this, and the details are no one’s business.

He sits to Hunter's left and Shane is to Hunter's right. It's pretty ridiculous but the league loves the dynamic as they call it although more and more they call it a rivalry.

Hunter gets the bulk of the questions about the actual game, about preparing a team with such a quick turn around, about playing against some of his best friends on the Admirals. Then finally, about captaining the two rookies that are causing such a stir in the sport.

“I think the whole team feels incredibly lucky to get the best of both worlds on our roster. Hollander brings focus and follow through, and Rozanov has a grace and intensity that translates to goals. I'm very proud to have a chance to be their captain.”

It is actually a very kind sentiment that Hunter shares. He may not exactly like Hunter, for reasons he’s not entirely sure of, but his respect for the man increases. Another reporter then turns the attention to Shane and Ilya.

“Everyone has talked about the budding rivalry between the two of you. I’m curious, what is it like playing on the same team? Do you think it will change how you play against each other in the future?”

Ilya leans into his mic and tries to look at the reporter with more confidence than intensity but maybe it's a bit of both.

“No.”

The room chuckles and Shane leans into his own mic, “I think everyone is forgetting Rozanov and I started our careers together in the Canada Juniors - and won. Both times.”

Another reporter seems to jump up at that and Ilya can feel it before it hits the air, “Ilya, I think a lot of fans are surprised to see you in Team North America for the ALL-STARS. Is there a reason you are playing on this team and not Team Europe with the rest of the Russian ALL-STARS?”

He hangs on to the words Tessa put together for him so simply and carefully like a child holding a blanket, “Canada is my home and has been for many years. I will always be proud to represent them.”

He knows immediately that the room is not satisfied, that the words were not enough to keep him safe just like a blanket cannot protect a child from being struck.

“Yes, of course, but many other Russian players — even those who play for Team Canada at the Olympics — are on Team Europe for these games,” the reporter presses, “why not you?”

He feels frozen and stupid and like his hard earned English has entirely left his body, but the honest answer that will not put his life in danger will not come.

“Actually, with Rozanov's permission,” Shane says, looking at him across the table past Hunter. Ilya nods, visible and stiff and quick.

“Um, most of you know this but my grandparents were Japanese. They came here for their own reasons, which they never shared, not even with my mom. Canada was their home, if it ever came up they answered without hesitation that they were Canadians who were born in Japan. And I think when I was little I thought they didn't like Japan or liked Canada more. I'll never really know. But... they named their daughter Yuna because she was as beautiful as the country they had come from. I know you didn't ask me but I think that every Canadian who is born somewhere else gets to make their own decision about how they relate to both countries, for their own reasons, Canada gives them that liberty and every Canadian should defend it.”

Ilya is practically breathless at the solid defense that Shane has provided for him. He gives a tight nod and leans forward into his own microphone.

“Yes, what Hollander said,” he says, which earns a few chuckles. “I felt it best that since I had begun my hockey career in North America and made a home here, it only made sense that I continue on with that.”

The reporter and the room overall are satisfied with that and move on to asking about strategy and how Scott plans to wrangle the team into a win. When it's over, it feels a little like he's run a marathon and came to an abrupt stop.

“You did good out there,” Hunter tells them. “The both of you. Especially when they pushed about the Russian issue.”

“Thank you,” Shane gives a slight nod and smile.

Ilya gives a small hum. He thinks he recovered okay. But if it had not been for Shane, he thinks he would have embarrassed himself up there. Which is a feeling that does not settle well for him.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, there is no time to dwell. Instead, they are expected to go out there and compete in the All Stars Skills competition. Ilya participates in the shots and beats the record…only to have Shane beat him by just a few seconds.

Ilya blows a raspberry at Shane as he comes back. “Show off.”

Shane shoots back a smile, looking flushed and happy. And it does ease some of Ilya’s irritation. However, like the night before, he can start to feel some negative thoughts start to claw at him. It gets to a point where he is so busy trying to get himself to focus, that suddenly the competition is over and it’s time to return to their rooms to prepare for the final game tomorrow.

Shane tries to talk to him before they each go to their rooms, but then the rest of the team seems to manifest and decide to hang out directly at the hallways, so they look at one another with a promise for later and go into their separate rooms.

It’s later that night, at around 9 or 10, when everyone else has gone out to party or find a hookup, that there is a knock on his door. Getting up from his bed, Ilya goes over to look through the peephole. On the other side he finds Shane, as expected. He opens the door and lets the other man in, closing the door behind him.

“Hollander,” Ilya greets. He wants to kiss Shane, but he doesn’t want a repeat of the previous night either. And Ilya thinks if he kisses Shane in this moment, it might not be just because he wants to.

So instead he leans back against the entry wall and looks at Shane.

“So you're fast, Hollander,” he says.

“You knew that already,” he answers, leaning back on the wall opposite, “just like I knew you'd shoot like a sniper.”

“Oh? You have been watching me?” Ilya asks. It’s a bit of a tease, but the compliment—along with Shane’s mere presence—has improved his mood.

“Maybe a little,” Shane coyly responds, tilting his head. “I mean, hard to miss when those kinds of shots have been a saving grace and a pain depending on whether we’re playing with or against each other.”

“Is good balance no? Rivals. Dream Team. Keep them guessing,” he shrugs.

Shane smiles softly, “Yeah. But always...”

“Always what?”

Shane motions his hand back and forth between them, “Always this.”

Ilya cannot help the small smile that does pull at his lips. For all of Shane’s goody-two shoes nature, he is also unfairly charming. He seems to have a secret ability to slip through Ilya’s walls.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Always this.”

Shane comes closer, just a few steps.

“Are you okay?”

“I am better,” Ilya responds. It is the truth. He is better than he was yesterday. Better than he was just an hour ago.

He reaches forward slowly, laying his hands on Shane's hips.

“Better but still...,” he swallows tightly and reminds himself about Shane and the truth, “still in my head.”

Shane frowns slightly and wraps his arms around Ilya’s neck. Like wrapping him in a loose hug.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It is nothing different than yesterday. Just…irritated. I froze,” Ilya sighs.

Shane's hands come up to hold his forearms, the way they're touching each other almost seems as if they might dance.

“It was a weird thing to ask you, to begin with but you knew they would and you prepared. They shouldn't have pushed, it has nothing to do with the game,” Shane says.

Ilya breathes deep, “It does. It can do. Is silly to think you can just play hockey in a.... empty space...”

“A vacuum?”

“Yes. But ... I don't want them to ask. I do not know the answer. And now that they have asked once they will not stop.”

“I mean…you could always tell the next person who asks that it’s a stupid question and just ask for the next question,” Shane says. The tone makes it seem like he is trying to joke.

But…he has seen other people, celebrities and the like, use that tactic. And…sometimes it works. Not to mention, Ilya has been building a reputation as a charming asshole.

“I could,” Ilya agrees.

He rubs his thumbs over Shane's skin just under his shirt but doesn't move his hands further.

“Thank you,” he says finally, “you didn't —”

“Have to,” Shane whispers, “I know, Rozy. I know.”

“You work hard to be seen as just Canadian player and you reminded them, opened yourself to them to ... cover me.”

“Ilya, I was never going to escape the whole Asian-Canadian reputation. It’s one of the first things that one of the coaches said. And…it’s worth it, because you’re my best friend and you’re important to me,” Shane says.

Shane looks at him and his eyes go a little wide and round.

“I...I know I'm not yours. Your best friend that is. You have friends,” he laughs nervously, “but you are mine, Roz. And I'm always going to have your back.”

Ilya blinks as he processes what exactly Shane has said. There was the use of his first name, and the proclamation of Ilya being Shane’s best friend. Honestly, Ilya had started to suspect that Shane’s best friend was Hayden Pike with the way Ilya’s seen them during games. And then there’s Shane’s nervousness, which is only more charming and there is a lightness in his chest that he cannot help but chuckle.

“And I have yours. Because, somehow, you have become my best friend,” Ilya says, playfully rolling his eyes.

“You must know cooler people than me,” Shane laughs.

“Ah, so I am best friend because I am so cool, yes?”

Shane rolls his eyes, “No. You just are.”

“You just are,” Ilya responds.

This earns him one of his favorite smiles from Shane. It lights up his face and his brown eyes practically gleam and—no, that is another dangerous trail of thought. Then, Shane leans up and presses a kiss to Ilya’s lips.

Ilya pulls him closer, tugging at his hips until Shane is leaning close and wrapping his arms around Ilya's neck. He pulls Shane deeper into the hotel room and onto the bed, alternating kisses between his lips, his neck, his shoulders.

Shane takes his time unbuttoning Ilya’s shirt, running his hands along Ilya’s sides. Then one of his hands comes to the top of Ilya’s trousers, and with a sound of approval, pops the button. Ilya slides out of his trousers and boxers. What surprises him is when Shane starts maneuvering down the bed. Ilya only gets the idea of what he’s doing until Shane’s face is parallel with Ilya’s cunt.

“What are you doing there, Hollander?” he asks with a smirk, knowing exactly what he's doing.

“I want to try something,” Shane calls back with a determined tilting to his voice as he lays his hands over Ilya's ass, “come on.”

Intrigued and absolutely turned on even at the thought, Ilya lowers himself down until he is straddling Shane’s head. He lets out a gasp, followed by a long moan when he feels Shane press his lips to his entrance, followed by the feel of Shane’s tongue.

He doesn't feel shy, exactly but he is uncertain. He's not sure if he should be moving his hips or not but the movement of Shane's tongue is teasing and encouraging in a way that makes him want to.

Finally, he gives into the urge when he feels Shane’s hands on his hips. Not in a way to hold him into place, but almost as an urging to move. So, Ilya gives Shane what he—what both of them—wants.

He presses himself down, trusting that Shane is perfectly able to throw him off if he's uncomfortable or unhappy or can't breathe. If anything Shane seems to redouble his efforts, the drags of his tongue slow and firm, his hands massaging at Ilya's ass as if encouraging him.

“Fuck, Holz,” Ilya breathes, keeping up with Shane’s pace. If he keeps this up, Ilya’s climax will come quick and hard. “So good, you’re so good,” he praises.

He grabs hold of Shane's hair, firm but not pulling just...holding him in place, just right, right there. Shane moans into him, so loud Ilya can hear it and feel it reverberate through him.

Ilya lets out a curse in Russian and grinds a little bit harder against Shane’s face. Just for a moment, almost as encouragement to continue. Which he does. It actually takes a moment, but he starts to recognize Shane is groaning things in French every so often.

He let's go of Shane's hair to hold himself up, hands splayed on the mattress. All he has any lingering control of now are his hips moving at as even a pace as he can in concert with Shane's mouth. And then, just then, one of Shane's hands moved from his ass. Shane makes a shy, almost questioning motion with his thumb over Ilya's clit and everything goes white and bright behind his eyes.

Ilya is certain that he is saying something to Shane between the moans that the man below him has started pulling from him. Especially when Shane starts to become more confident in his attentions toward Ilya’s clit. Ilya isn’t entirely sure if what he’s saying is coming out in English or Russian. But it is all praise for Shane, about how good he is with his mouth, about how he could do this everyday for the rest of time if they could.

His legs are strong, they're the strongest part of him, but he feels the way they want to tremble as his orgasm builds like a rolling wave. Shane must feel it too, and Ilya can't describe what his tongue does but it sends him over the edge screaming out wordless and loud.

As Ilya comes back to his body, he realizes that Shane has continued his ministrations through the orgasm. Ilya has to bite his lip to keep from whining at the overstimulation, and he taps at Shane’s cheek. Shane moves, after Ilya barely lifts his hips, so he is now sitting. Ilya is now in Shane’s lap.

“Well?” Shane asks, breathless and flushed, his lips red.

“Full points,” Ilya praises. “Successful power play, капитан.” 

Shane curls into him laughing into his neck, “That's so dumb.”

“Is clever, I'm so clever even after coming so hard I go blind a little,” he mutters.

“You also stopped speaking English,” Shane points out, and he does sound a little smug about it.

“I figured English was no longer needed when you started speaking French,” Ilya retorts.

“You seemed really into it,” Shane points out.

Ilya slides his hand down the back of Shane’s pants, grabbing a handful of Shane’s ass.

“Yes, was very sexy.”

He grinds down against Shane's hard cock, through the too harsh fabric of his pants. His cunt is so sensitive that he hisses with it but he does it again. Shane's eyes close, his arms tightening around Ilya's waist.

“It's fine —”

“Shut up,” he says, biting at Shane's lip, “want me to fuck you?”

“Yeah cause you're going to leave this bed and go get your cock,” Shane says with entirely too much attitude for someone who is rock hard below him.

Ilya gives him a light smack on his ass for the comment and underneath him, Ilya feels Shane’s cock give a slight jerk. A grin grows across Ilya’s expression as he learns this, and Shane stares at him with his eyes wide.

“What was that, Holzy?” Ilya says, keeping his voice soft and even, keeping his lips just a few centimeters above Shane’s. “Is that how you ask for something you want?”

Shane makes an annoyed little noise that turns into a mewl when Ilya grinds down on him,

“Ask nice, Hollander.”

“Please,” he says, eyes closed and head tilted back, “please.”

“Please what?” Ilya asks.

“Please…go get your cock,” Shane starts.

“And…do what with it?”

“…And…fuck me. Please,” Shane practically whines out, especially when Ilya grinds down again. Ilya smiles and tilts Shane’s chin back down just so he can press a kiss to Shane’s lips.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Ilya teases. Shane makes another adorably annoyed sound and Ilya relishes in the revelation that Shane might be a bit of a brat. “I will be right back,” he whispers against Shane’s lips.

Shane whines again as Ilya gets out of the bed.

“Stop whining and get naked,” he says as he heads over to his bag. He muses over his options maybe a bit longer than necessary, because Shane could stand to wait. He decides he's too sensitive for the double sided and Shane deserves his full attention, so he chooses a simple classic strap and looks over his shoulder at Shane as he adjusts it on.

Shane is propped up on all five hundred of the hotel bed pillows, looking eager but patient.

Ilya notes with some amusement that feels far too fond that Shane’s clothes are once again folded and he’s still wearing his socks. That amusement turns into arousal when he sees the way Shane’s eyes widen and take in Ilya’s appearance, focusing on the strap.

Spreading lube over his fingers, Ilya tells Shane, “Turn over. On your stomach.”

Shane doesn't hesitate, not for a moment. He slips easily onto his stomach and even lifts his hips. Ilya moves towards him and gently but with as little hesitation starts to work Shane open.

The other man is so beautifully responsive, letting out small sounds of arousal. Quietly, nicely asking for more. More please. Ilya gives him praise as he adds a second finger, and then a third. When he is content, Ilya pours more lube onto the strap and lines it up with Shane’s entrance.

“Ready?” Ilya asks, double checking for consent.

Shane gives him a little moan back in response and he tsks.

“Words, Holz,” he reminds him.

Shane turns his head to glare at him over his shoulder, “Je suis prêt, arrêtez de me faire attendre.”

Ilya grins. He doesn’t fully understand the words, but he gets the sentiment. Instead of answering, Ilya pushes in. He is gifted with a long moan.

He leans over Shane, covering his back and feeling as much of him as he can as his hips move. Shane will want more soon, faster and harder, but Ilya likes the slow pace he keeps now, the way he can hear every stutter of Shane's breathing as he drags in and out of him.

For his part, Shane seems to start meeting Ilya’s thrusts. Perhaps his own attempt to pick up the speed. Ilya grabs him by the hips and keeps Shane at the pace he is setting.

“Shh, you're going to be a good boy and let me take care of you, yes?”

Shane makes a punched out little sound, “Yes.”

He leans down to kiss Shane's shoulder, to show him how pleased he is with him and his easy acceptance. He does eventually pick up his pace, until neither of them can speak, only moan and breathe and reach for any part of each other they can touch. When Shane comes, his whole body shudders but his cry is quiet and breathless, Ilya can only hear it because he's pressed so incredibly close to him.

Ilya holds him through the orgasm, letting him come down at his own pace. He does start to maneuver them so they can lay on their sides.

However, Shane grabs for Ilya. His eyes widened a little bit with fear. Like he thinks Ilya is leaving.

Ilya settles back and presses kisses to Shane’s neck, “I was trying to get us more comfortable.”

Shane's shoulders drop and he relaxes, “Sorry.”

He noses at Shane's neck, “You think I would leave you like this?”

Shane takes a deep breath like he's still trying to catch it, “We have a game tomorrow.”

“Okay?”

“I don't know,” Shane shrugs, eyes closed, “I don't know. Thought you might go. You can if you want to.”

“I am not that much of an asshole,” Ilya says. “Game is not until late morning. Do you want me to go?”

“No…not yet at least,” Shane says. The second part feels almost tacked on. It has the same feeling to it as Shane’s ‘you can go if you want.’

He runs a hand down over Shane's side and smiles, because Shane is beautiful. Like a warm breathing sculpture, sweat glistening over his skin.

“I have big tub in this hotel room,” he says.

Shane looks at him with his eyebrows furrowed, “So?”

“I'll be right back,” he says. He kisses his shoulder and lifts the blankets to cover him before heading to the bathroom. It's not something he thinks about too much. He lowers the stopper and starts filling the tub with warm water because Shane needs it. He's been with people who need extra comfort after sex and he's gotten very good at it. He enjoys it, like an extension of sex, taking care of the person he's taken apart. When he comes back to the bed he finds Shane is pouting and curled up in the blanket.

“Come,” he says softly, unwrapping him gently, “bath is ready.”

“What are you talking about Roz,” he complains softly.

“You want me to carry you?”

“You can’t carry me,” Shane frowns. To prove a point, Ilya slips his arms under Shane and, indeed, picks him up off the bed. Yes, Shane is heavy and there is some strain. But that doesn’t matter. Instead, he starts carrying Shane over to the bathroom.

“Roz, what…what the fuck?” Shane asks, a little wide eyed.

“We already fuck,” he says as he pushes the bathroom door open and backs into it, “now I carry you. What is confusing?”

“Roz, I swear to God if you drop me in that water,” he says.

“I will not drop,” he says, “put you in gently, like little duck.”

“What are you even doing?” Shane asks. He’s still practically clinging to Ilya.

“Having a bath. You do not like to be sticky and sweaty in sheets. And will help you relax,” Ilya easily explains. Carefully, he helps guide Shane into the bathtub, smiling slightly as Shane soaks in the warm water. Ilya debates with himself for a moment whether he should join. However, he thinks it will be easier to continue to care for Shane if he is also in the bath. So, he steps in, slipping in behind Shane.

Shane leans back against him instantly, letting Ilya lazily run soapy water over his chest.

“Can I stay over here?” Shane asks as the water starts to turn tepid, “We can wake up early and dress for the gym and even if... we can just say I came over early to get you out to the gym.”

“Of course,” he says, maybe too quickly, “yes.”

Shane hums in obvious contentment.

“Good. Glad,” he answers.

They stay there together for a little while longer, before Shane says, “Water’s getting cold. Let’s go back to bed.” Ilya nods and drains the tub. He helps Shane out, wrapping him in a towel before taking the time to dry himself off. They make it back to the bed moments later.

“…Hey so…after this…we have the season. And…I want to keep texting with you about…everything. But…it doesn’t feel safe,” Shane says.

“Ah yes the dangers of texting,” Ilya teases.

“I'm serious,” Shane insists, “sometimes Hayden is like really close and can see my phone - JJ totally just hangs off my back sometimes. Someone could see your name and... a text that doesn't sound like... what I mean is someone could see.” Ilya watches as Shane starts getting worked up, undoing all his hard work in relaxing him.

“Give phone,” he sighs.

“What?”

“Give phone, I fix made up problem,” he huffs.

“Made up problem?” Shane asks, sounding a little insulted.

“We play sport where guys slap each other on ass. Could always play off comment as joke,” Ilya says.

However, he continues to fix things. Going into the contacts, he changes his contact name to ‘Lily.’ It makes his heart ache a little to write the name out, but it will suffice.

“Lily,” Shane reads out when he hands him back the phone. It's strange to hear it from his lips. It doesn't hurt or burn like he thinks it might if Svetlana said it. Maybe it is because he doesn't know. Or maybe it is for a reason Ilya cannot know himself.

“And what's my name on your phone then?” He reaches for his own phone and rolls his eyes as he changes Shane to Jane before showing him.

“That's so boring,” Shane groans, “how come you got to choose both?”

“I did not,” is all he says, “but problem solved now.”

Shane looks at his phone for a moment longer, before setting it on the bedside table. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I know you think it’s dumb but—”

Ilya sighs interrupting him. “Hockey is important to you and NHL is not so friendly about things. Besides…might be helpful.”

“It's important to you too,” Shane says.

“Yes but I am asshole, no one looks at my phone,” he grins, “come, time to sleep now.”

The lights are turned off and Ilya settles down into the bed. Almost cautiously, as if unsure where they stand, Shane curls up next to him, head laying on his chest. Rolling his eyes, Ilya wraps an arm around Shane, pulling him closer.

“Good night, Hollander.”

“Good night, Roz,” Shane wishes quietly.

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

They win, of course they win, because when he and Shane are on the ice together they are unstoppable. Hunter is fine, also. After the game there is more press, but it is individual and — thankfully — focused on the actual hockey.

The All-Stars weekend had officially come to a close. While happy about how it turned out, Ilya is now beginning to feel the disappointment of it ending. Most of it focused on how he will miss Shane Hollander. Yes, they will continue to text (maybe even sext now?) and there will be the Montreal and Boston games. Still, it’s hard to say goodbye after the weekend they had.

He smiles down at his calendar on the plane, because the next game in Montreal is not far away at all. He's received back at the Boston locker room like a conquering hero, with Marleau trying and failing to lift him onto his arms.

“Our fucking Russian Sniper,” he laughs before shaking his head and tapping Ilya's forehead with his own, “no, no, our Canadian Sniper, fucking Rozy, you're a star.”

Ilya grins and pats Marleau on the shoulder.

“Of course,” he easily agrees. It does warm him that Marleau is on board with the whole Russian-Canadian thing. “And we are going to win this season.”

His team is like a warm blanket over his shoulders. He loves them, especially Marleau, and he thinks on some level they feel the same about him. It makes something small and nervous curl in on his stomach knowing that if they knew it might all unravel, his blanket falling away from him.

He shakes his head at himself. Everything is fine. There’s no point in thinking about what ifs. Taking a breath he refocuses back in on his team, ignoring the feeling. He is back with his team and he will see Shane soon again. That is what matters.

They play strong, a winning streak all the way into February where Ilya is watching a snow storm push their take off to Montreal further and further away.

Sitting in the airport, Ilya sits just hoping for good news. His leg is jumping and he cannot help but check his phone. Unfortunately it gets to a point where they are told that the plane is grounded and the game will be cancelled. Ilya, upset, sends a text to Shane.

Ilya: I never hated snow this much

Jane: Shit, are you snowed in?

Ilya: No flights out tonight.

Jane: Oh. Well. Next time, yeah? Ilya tries not to imagine Shane's disappointed eyes.

Ilya: Yeah.

Marleau looks over at Ilya with a sympathetic smile.

“Your Montreal girl will wait for you, I am sure.” Ilya nods slightly, doing his best to give back a smile.

“Thanks. I will see you at next game,” he says. With a clap on his back from Marleau, Ilya makes his way out of the airport and back home.

He opens the door to his new place. Placing his equipment on the floor, he turns on some lights on the way to the kitchen.

“Сюрприз”  Sveta calls, jumping out from the darkness and scaring the shit out of him.

He jumps back and throws a hand over his hammering heart,“Иисус Христос, Света! Ты что, хочешь меня убить? Ты понимаешь, что ты указана в завещании, и ты хочешь заполучить мой пентхаус?” 

“Shut up,” she says in English, “are you not happy to see me? I will go.”

“No, no…just…I did not expect you,” Ilya says. He is glad to see her. Having his other best friend here lifts his spirits. Even if he is still disappointed overall.

“They announced the cancellation of your game, so I thought I would cheer you up,” Sveta tells him.

He touches his forehead to hers and grins, “You know exactly how to cheer me up hmm? What is this you're wearing?”

“Your jersey, moron,” she rolls her eyes.

“Anything else?” She shakes her head and starts walking back toward the bedroom, “Nope.”

Ilya smirks and follows after her. Sveta sits on the edge of the bed, looking as regal and graceful as ever, regardless of her state of dress. Ilya steps forward, stepping in between her legs.

He and Sveta know one another's bodies as well as their own, their sex evolving with their bodies since they were barely figuring out how to make them work. They rarely use toys and are just as likely to stop mid orgasm just to be mean. It's fun and easy and never had one ounce of romance in its vicinity. She comes with a laugh as she usually does, as if she's won something.

As they come down, she trails a hand across his pecs. “I still cannot believe you have cut them off. You have committed a crime.”

“I tried to have them donated to you, but I was told that wasn’t possible,” Ilya retorts. She laughs and shakes her head. Regards him for a moment. Ilya can see her mind working, analyzing. So he waits to see what she comes up with. “…So, who is she?” She finally asks.

“Who?” 

She leans up on her elbow and rolls her eyes at him,“Илюшка”

“What she? There is no she,” he says, his eyebrows high, “you are wrong.”

“Oh, okay,” she says with an even bigger eye roll, “so who is he?”

Ilya frowns at her, at her nosiness. If anything, her asking reminds him that he is not in Montreal with him.

“Nobody,” he mutters, knowing it will not suffice.

She throws herself dramatically back on the pillows, “Fine. Do not tell me.”

“I won't,” he agrees.

“But it shows,” she says, “you were distracted.”

“I was not,” he argues back.

“Mm, you were. It was fun as usual…but your heart was not in it,” Sveta says, not unkindly.

He stares at her in disbelief, “My heart wasn't... my tongue was in your guts!”

She laughs and runs her fingertips over his cheek, “And it was good, but you are a very focused loyal player, Илюшка. I have no doubt you are your usual excellent self with whomever they are not.”

“You make it sound that I am in love,” Ilya says. Something in his chest flip-flops as he says this.

“Maybe it is not love yet…but it is obvious he is what you want,” Sveta says. “Whoever they are…is very lucky.”

“Света, ты же знаешь, это не так... Я не могу так думать. Это опасно.”

“You are not a coward,” she says firmly, “you are the bravest man I know.”

Ilya snorts and shakes his head. “Hardly.”

“You are. You could have stayed as you were, but decided to be yourself. That is brave,” Sveta says.

“I ran away,” Ilya retorts.

“You did what you had to,” she argues back, “what others are not strong enough to.”

He recoils and sits up and away from her, “Svetlana.”

She looks chagrined and nods, “That is not what I meant but I am sorry.”

He huffs and nods, accepting her apology but feeling the need for space. And clothes. He gets up and pulls his boxers back on.

“I could not have done it without her,” he whispers. 

“I know. I know Ilyushka I did not mean that,” she repeats.

“It is fine,” he tells her. It actually isn’t. He feels like a wound has been clawed open. Once again, he is a twelve year old, coming home only to find his favorite person cannot welcome him back. But he would rather not get into it. He sits on a nearby chair and brings his knees to his chest, setting his chin in the cradle his kneecaps make.

And because he cannot seem to help himself, and is determined to rip the wound deeper, he asks, “How are they?”

She shrugs his jersey back on and mirrors his posture.

“Alexei is, you know... himself. He hasn't got money for coke anymore so that is good news yeah? Doesn't stop him from trying though.”

“I thought Emiliya would change things,” he says staring forward at the wall, “is she well?”

“She is healthy,” she says gently, “I think her mamma does what she can.”

“What she can,” he nods, “if it were enough.”

There is a heavy silence and then Svetlana comes closer, takes his hands.

“Your father is... different,” she says, “not himself.”

“That could be good, yes,” Ilya smirks bitterly, “would maybe be open to a second son?”

“No,” she smiles sadly, “not like that. He um - he seems confused about things.”

“Confused?” Ilya asks, not fully understanding. Sveta takes a deep breath.

“He asked if I had seen you. If you were still in training,” she says.

“He...forgot,” he says slowly.

She nods, “Said things like that all through dinner. Just... forgot things. Believed things that are in the past.”

Ilya looks off to the side. Trying to comprehend what this means. Though deep down he knows. There is really only one thing that it could be. For a man as sharp as his father, there would only be one reason he would start to forget things. Which…only means it is a matter of time before Ilya truly is an orphan. Because there is no way Alexei would step up to take care of his father.

He knows he must look frightened because Svetlana throws her arms around him as if he were a crying child.

“Ilushka,” she murmurs, “it is not your responsibility. He was not a good father. He has the son he deserves.”

Ilya supposes she has a point. His father and Alexei had not been a good family. But they are still family. It makes him feel guilty anyway. Especially when he thinks about his little niece who has done nothing to deserve whatever struggle she is already facing.

“When do you return to Moscow?”

“In the summer,” she says.

He nods, “Will you take her a birthday present? From you of course?”

“Mmm from her auntie's best friend who brings her the kisses from heaven,” she whispers, “that is what I tell her.”

“So young for lies,” he huffs, “but what else is there?”

“Well, one day when she is old enough to understand and smart enough to keep secrets, I will tell her about her uncle who loves her very much,” Sveta tells him.

Ilya smiles at the thought. It is a dream, having a relationship with his niece. Still, it feels impossible.

He chokes a bit at the thought that he loves this little girl, a world away, that he never has and may never yet meet.

“Come to bed,” Sveta whispers, “we will watch stupid television and drink the good vodka.”

“I have only the good vodka,” he says, but lets himself be pulled along anyway.

The rest of the night is spent sharing a bottle of good vodka with Sveta. Some sort of ridiculous, dramatic reality show following a rich family is on the television. He and Sveta spend most of their time talking about the latest updates in her life since they had last talked, in between trading snarky comments about the reality TV show family.

She doesn't want to spend the night, so she gets dressed around two in the morning.

“Let me drive you,” he insists.

“It's Uber Black, Ilya they will not kidnap me. I'll text you when I'm home,” she says.

He sighs, annoyed and worried, but there is no convincing her when she makes decisions.

She gives him a sweet lingering kiss, “If that was the last time we fucked, Ilushka, I am glad you found something real. I'll see you next week in New York, yes?”

Ilya rolls his eyes, but nods. He wants to tell her that this won’t be the last time. But he also knows that’s a lie. And he cannot lie to Sveta. Well, not about this.

“Yes, I will see you in New York. Get home safe,” he tells her.

And with that, she makes her way out to the car waiting outside. Meanwhile, Ilya returns to his bed. Now that he is alone, his mind starts turning his thoughts over and over again. His brother, his father, his niece. And of course, Shane Hollander.

He grabs his phone. It's almost 3am and Sveta is home. Shane is asleep, he knows he is.

He types.

I wish you were here.

He stares at it. Deletes it. He types.

There is so much of me you do not know

He stares at it. Deletes it. He types.

I want to go home but I have none.

He stares at it. Deletes it. Shuts his phone completely off and closes his eyes so tight the darkness might be mistaken for sleep.

◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈◆◈

June 2011 - Las Vegas

It was the NHL Awards and Shane was flying high. He had just won Rookie of the Year award. It had been a tight competition, between himself, Ilya and one other player. Though ultimately, it had been between him and Ilya who had both scored sixty-seven goals through their first year. Ultimately, it had gone to him. And he was so excited. When celebrations started, he turned, looking around the crowds to try to find his best friend. Yet, Ilya was nowhere to be seen. Throughout the entire night, it was like Ilya didn't exist. It was actually starting to piss Shane off a bit.

Of course he would also have been bummed out if he had lost, but he would have found Ilya and congratulated him, taking this completely acceptable opportunity to hug him in plain sight of everyone. At this point he wasn't even sure Ilya hadn't left the venue altogether after Shane won. So yeah he was angry and hurt. Mostly angry.

At some point, the party itself starts to become overwhelming. He's overheating and there are far too many people here. He tells his dad, who is off in a far corner drinking a Sprite, that he's stepping out for air. In turn, his dad says he's about to convince his mom to go back to the room. Shane wishes him goodnight and makes his way to the elevators. He presses the button for the rooftop. While he waits, he's left to stew in his irritation toward Ilya. What the hell was his deal? Shane had thought they were good and now he goes and sulks because he lost an award? The doors open and Shane goes to a quiet corner of the roof. It seems to have a beautiful view of the city. It takes him a moment to recognize that he's not alone out here.

“Rozanov,” he says, calls out more like. He startles a bit and looks over his shoulder.

“Hollander,” he nods.

He frowns at him, “Have you been up here moping since I won?”

Ilya's expression shifts just slightly. It's too dark to really determine, but he thinks Ilya becomes more upset about Shane's accusation. However, Ilya turns his face away after a moment and mutters something in Russian.

Anger still in his veins, Shane demands, “What was that?”

“Not everything is about you,” Ilya snaps. His shoulders then drop, now just looking...tired. And sad. Those hazel eyes look back out at the Las Vegas skyline. “What are you even doing out here? You should be celebrating your win. Which … congratulations.”

“Yeah thanks I can really tell you're happy for me,” Shane snaps, “I wouldn't be this fucking pissed off if you'd won. I get being bummed, but I would still tell you that I'm... that I'm happy for you.”

Ilya curses in Russian again. Shane can tell it's cursing because it's very obvious.

“I am happy for you, Shane,” he says, clearly annoyed, stepping back to the glass railing and leaning his arms on it, “can you go back to your party now?”

Shane takes a moment, recognizing this is the first time Ilya has used his first name. Which...feels at odds with this conversation. He feels wrong footed now.

“You...don't seem happy for me,” Shane tells him. Taking in Ilya's position he asks. “You're not going to jump over this, are you? It's not worth it.”

There is a long stretch of silence. He almost thinks Ilya isn't going to respond. Until, quietly he says, “I wouldn't do that to the people I care about.”

It makes Shane's blood run cold and all of a sudden he feels very stupid about how whiny and petty he is being. Maybe this meant more to Ilya than he realized. And he would never... of course he wasn't serious.

“Roz?”

“Please enjoy your night, Hollander,” he says, still looking out at Vegas, “you earned this.”

“It could have gone to either of us,” he says, carefully stepping closer.

“It went to you,” he answers, sounding...defeated.

“Well, yes...but who knows how any of this is decided. I mean...we both had excellent seasons,” Shane says, coming up to be beside Ilya, “...I don't even really care about the reward. It's nice, of course. I had...I had just hoped that it could have been a chance to celebrate together.”

“I do not think I would be good company right now,” Ilya says.

He leans his own arms on the tall glass railing and bumps his elbow against Ilya's, “What's going on?”

He shakes his head, “I came here to not ruin your night, Hollander.”

“Yeah, well, not having you there kind of did that, so let's fix it yeah? Talk to me?”

Ilya is once again quiet for a long time. Once again, Shane is fairly certain that Ilya might not even answer him.

Then, Ilya finally says, “My father is not well.”

Shane blinks, because that is not at all what he had expected. In fact, he was fairly certain that Ilya had been an orphan.

“Your…dad? But I thought…you told us you didn’t have a family.”

“I do not. Not really. Is…complicated. I am sure you could imagine some of the reasons,” Ilya huffs, gesturing to himself. “I have not spoken to him since I was 15. Still, he is my father.”

“He's in Russia?” Ilya nods.

“Will you go see him? I mean... even if things are strained —”

Ilya laughs, harsh and ugly and bitter, “I cannot.”

“You can't go to Russia?”

Ilya shakes his head, “Complicated.”

“I know,” Shane says quietly, “you've... I know it's complicated. But I'm pretty good at following complicated things.”

“Things…things are not safe for people like me in Russia. People like me…crimes are committed against them. And police do nothing. At best,” Ilya explains. “And…and in order to be me…we had to make my family believe I was dead.”

“Your... father?”

He nods, “Yes my father and my brother.”

“What about your mom?”

Ilya tenses and then breathes deep, “Dead.”

“Oh,” he says, small and stupid, he reaches out a hand to lay on Ilya's shoulder. There isn't anything to say to that.

“So, you said…that your dad isn’t doing well?” He says after a long moment.

“Da, a friend…she said he is confused. Forgetting things,” Ilya tells him.

“He's older?”

Ilya nods again and then sniffs hard, “Hollander, I am okay. I will not... I am okay. Please go back to party, you mamma will be sad if she cannot find you.”

“They're already going back to their hotel,” Shane tells him, “and everyone that wanted a piece of me for a picture or a handshake had their chance. I'm here with you now.”

Ilya runs a hand over his face, “I am being bad friend right now. I owe you celebration, yes? Another day.”

“No, hey, it's... like you said it's not about me,” Shane says.

“It is a little bit about you,” Ilya says, “just a little. I just thought... if I am the best. Then it is worth it. If I am the best I am not a shit for everything I have done. But I am not the best. So I am just... selfish.”

Shane frowns slightly. It’s…well, that kind of confirms that Ilya had been sulking. But maybe not for the reasons Shane had assumed. He feels even more like an ass. Especially since, if he is honest with himself, maybe he would have slightly similar thoughts.

“Roz, you were up for Rookie of the Year. You shot over 50 goals like you said you would. You have an Olympic medal,” Shane argues. “You’re not shit at anything.”

“But I am not the best,” he says. And it isn't angry or frustrated or even loud. It's quiet and small and... sounds maybe like a small child with a bruised knee, wanting someone to hold him. So he does, he pulls Ilya away from where he is clenching the glass barrier and pulls him into his arms. “So stupid,” Ilya says against his chest, “you earned this, Hollander. You are the best.”

“One of the best,” Shane easily responds. “And if anything, you helped push me. Playing against you actually makes hockey a challenge. You’ve…you’ve made it fun again. So…in my book, that makes you the best.”

Ilya takes a deep breath. Stupidly, Shane wonders if his cologne is pleasant. Ilya steps away and holds Shane's arms.

“This time, you are the best. You do not share this with me. Next time, I will beat you. Then eventually you will beat me again,” he says, like it's written in stone.

Ilya holds his hand over Shane's chest, “But always this, yes?”

Shane finally feels the first real smile of the night since getting the award. His heart fluttering at the agreement they had back in Nashville.

“Yes,” he nods, covering Ilya's hands with his own, “Always this.”

Ilya takes a look over his shoulder. Then, Shane feels himself being walked backwards, until his back hits the wall. Before he can say anything, Ilya is pressing a firm kiss to Shane's lips.

Shane missed Ilya so much that the press of his lips is stronger than any anxiety about how wide open the space they're in is. He pulls him close, biting at Ilya's lip and asking silently for entry. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and whines softly when Ilya opens his mouth for him. They kiss until Shane can't breathe anymore and he pulls away, dizzy and full of want.

“We shouldn't here,” he says weakly, “anyone could...”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, “and is your big night. I cannot... I would not be there, like you want. I should be alone tonight.”

Shane thinks that's the worst idea he's ever heard. Even if Ilya isn't in any kind of mood, even if they just lay side by side and watch the ceiling or The Bachelor, Shane doesn't want Ilya to be alone tonight.

An idea strikes him. It's a play from Ilya's own book.

“Since it is my night...don't I get to choose how I want to spend it?” he challenges.

“Well, of course, but--”

“But nothing,” Shane shakes his head. “It's my night and I want to spend it with you. Just spending time together, whatever that looks like.”

“Will not be very fun, Hollander,” he sighs, but he presses another stolen kiss to his lips here on this wide open rooftop.

“Good thing I'm boring,” Shane answers, “let's go back to my room.”

Ilya still looks a little reticent. However, he does end up taking Shane's hand and allows himself to be led back to the elevators.

“Before we get to my room, do you want to stop by yours to get some clothes?” Shane asks. “That way you have something other than your tuxedo?”

“You are very prepared, Shane Hollander,” Ilya says, leaning back against the elevator wall and pressing his floor, “like Beaver Scout.”

“Excuse you,” Shane lightly bumps Ilya's shoulder with his own. “I would obviously be a Rover Scout.” Though he was actually never a scout. He had always been too focused on hockey for any other hobbies or clubs.

Still, his response finally earns him the slightest hint of a smile from Ilya for the first time of the night. His eyes are fond. Another win, perhaps even more precious than the Rookie of the Year award.

“Obviously.”

Shane steps out with him at his floor, three down from Shane's own, but waits by the elevators.

“Just in case,” he says. Ilya takes some ten minutes to come back with what Shane recognizes is the dufflebag his parents gave him years ago.

He smiles seeing it. It’s nice to know that Ilya has kept the duffel bag and has kept it in good condition. Reminds him of how quickly Ilya became almost…another integral piece to his family. Briefly, he wonders if Ilya has kept the scarf that Shane had gifted him. Ilya seems to notice Shane’s gaze and shrugs the bag higher on his shoulder. His cheeks have taken on just the barest hint of pink.

“Is a good bag,” he says.

Shane smiles lightly and calls the elevator again.

“Did they let you take it to your room?”

“What?”

“The Calder,” Ilya says.

“You know they didn't,” Shane says with a roll of his eyes, “I took some pictures and they took it away.”

“What is point of getting award if you do not get to keep it?” Ilya asks, and Shane thinks that this question is rhetorical. Even if it wasn’t, Shane doesn’t think he would have a good answer outside of what the representatives would say. Honestly, he does kind of agree with Ilya, but he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful.

Instead, he shrugs. “Do you want to see the pictures?” He offers instead.

Ilya looks at Shane as if he has asked a stupid question. “Yes, I would like to see pictures.”

They get back to his room and wordlessly strip down to their boxers and clamber onto the bed.

“Mom took a few and sent them to me,” Shane says as he pulls out his phone, “but I'm sure the professional ones are better.”

“I am sure they are not,” Ilya says as he thumbs through them, “Yuna knows your good side.”

“I don’t think my mom would take better photos than someone whose job it is,” Shane argues.

“Why do you insult your mother this way, Hollander? Yuna Hollander is very talented,” Ilya defends. “Besides…pictures taken by mothers…they have specialness to them that cannot be captured by others.”

Shane knows that he is mostly teasing, but knowing now for a fact that Ilya's mother is gone makes the words mean so much more.

“I guess you're right,” he concedes.

Ilya hands him his phone back, “Do you want blowjob?”

“Roz!”

“What.”

“I thought you said we shouldn't —”

“I can do congratulations blowjob, Hollander is not difficult,” he says with an eye roll.

“Do you want to?” Shane asks.

“Mm, well…being in same bed as competent and impressive hockey player is very sexy,” Ilya tells him. “And I would not offer if I did not want to.”

“Okay,” Shane breathes out. And it shouldn't shock him anymore, how smoothly Ilya can wrap his lips around him without any hesitation but he still gasps. It feels different though, slow - no - unhurried. Ilya isn't teasing and cupping and hollowing his cheeks to make Shane come as soon as possible, no. He's slow and steady, nearly...maybe...savoring. His eyelashes look so pretty against his cheeks but they're nothing compared to the way his eyes look when he flicks his gaze up at Shane.

“You're so beautiful,” Shane can’t help but say, laying his hand against the side of Ilya’s face.

Ilya’s eyes close at the touch, leaning just slightly into the touch. He then opens those hazel eyes again, and returns his attention to Shane’s dick. However, he has reached a hand up and covered Shane’s hand with his own.

It feels impossibly close, intimate, and so much more than just a blow job for fun. But that's what this is, what it's supposed to be. Best friends who care about each other and have sex for fun.

Still, it is difficult to hold onto that thought as Shane arousal builds and builds, his body working toward orgasm. It comes over him like a crescendo. Grand, intense and oddly moving.

He's in equal danger of laughing or crying, so he closes his eyes tightly and tries not to do either as he leans back into the pillows. He can feel Ilya climb over him, leaving kisses trailed from his thighs to his stomach and up his chest until he's got his lips against the pounding pulse of Shane's neck.

There Ilya mutters something against Shane’s neck in Russian. It sounds soft and almost sad.

“What was that?” Shane asks. He hadn’t gotten that far in his Russian language learning. He was honestly still working on greetings and learning the alphabet.

Ilya shakes his head, “Is nothing important.”

Shane thinks it probably was, but Ilya was so sad on that rooftop, maybe digging at what hurts right now isn't what he needs.

“I feel very congratulated now,” Shane says instead, smiling smug and lazy as he wiggles himself further into the covers.

“Good,” Ilya says, pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder, “you deserve this.”

“Congratulations?” Shane asks to clarify.

“No, very good blow job from very attractive Russian,” Ilya deadpans, before he rolls his eyes. “Da, congratulations. Being recognized for talent.”

Shane flushes slightly. Yes, he’s been the guest of honor all night. Plenty of his fellow hockey players wished him congratulations. But, Shane secretly thinks that this is the best he has received. It is perhaps the only recognition he had wanted outside of his parents’.

Ilya presses a kiss to his cheek that is positively startlingly innocent given he's just come his brains out as usual, “I am sorry I was not there before.”

“It's okay I... it was an emotional night. And you're here now,” Shane whispers back.

The expression on Ilya’s face makes it seem like he is about to argue. Shane pulls Ilya into a kiss to preempt him.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “While I would have liked to hug you immediately when it happened, this is good too. Maybe even better because we’re not in a stifling, hot, loud ballroom.”

“My boring little капитан,”  Ilya grins, “hates parties and fun.”

“No, I don't, I love fun. This is fun. I don't think parties are fun,” he huffs.

“Then you are going to wrong kind of parties,” Ilya retorts.

“Maybe I am,” Shane agrees. He doesn’t like giant social gatherings, where the music is loud and people are getting drunk. Unfortunately, that seems to be the thing that he’s often invited to. He’d rather have a small group that gets together and just enjoys their time. Like…that first New Years he did with Ilya and his parents. That was fun…and technically a party.

“You are probably thinking dinner parties,” Ilya teases.

He thinks back to dinner with Hayden and his girlfriend Jackie. He'd felt a little like a third wheel but Jackie really wanted to meet him and Hayden is his closest friend who isn't Ilya and it had been really nice. They'd had dinner (and Hayden had brought a little six pack of ginger ale to Jackie's apartment), talked, played cards, and watched a show before Shane headed home. It had been nice and pleasant and fun and his head didn't vibrate the rest of the evening.

Not really disagreeing, Shane gives a sheepish smile and a shrug. “They can be nice. And I know that sounds boring. But…I just…I think it’s more fun when you can actually hold a conversation with someone. Or…even just be able to hear your own thoughts. Or just…be there with the people you want to be around.”

“Mmm yes is boring,” Ilya says, “but good. Boring is good on you, Hollander. Relaxed. Happy. Good.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” Shane half-jokes. Though it is good to know that Ilya does seem to like Shane for who he is, rather than expecting him to be like…well, everyone else.

“You are very different from the others I used to be with,” Ilya quietly tells him.

Shane feels that spike of guilt. But there is also curiosity. Both because he is interested in further understanding how Ilya sees him, but also it’s the way it’s phrased. Used to.

“Oh?” He quietly prompts.

“Yes,” Ilya says. And then he doesn't elaborate.

“Well? Different how? Like you only hooked up with girls before?”

Ilya shakes his head, “No.”

Shane raises his eyebrows at him, urging him to continue. Ilya seems to think about it and rolls his shoulders while he does.

“You are very ... искренний,”  I do not have good word for it. Honest. But...in actions.”

Shane thinks about it and isn't sure what word Ilya means, “So... these other people were... not honest?”

Ilya huffs slightly, “Is not right word.”

“Okay, then…how else would you explain it?” Shane asks.

“They are fun…but it is not…there are no conversations like this,” Ilya says. “They know my first name, but they do not know about my favorites or my medal or about my father.”

Shane wants to pry so much. He wants to ask why, what made Shane different, why did Ilya trust him and not others? Were the others different or was the way that Ilya felt about them that differed? And did Ilya still want them? Fun and not boring?

Ilya seems to recognize that his answer might not be sufficient. Or maybe he's unhappy with his explanation.

“...Other people are like...alcohol. Fun for the moment...but maybe not...not good for long run. And especially when I could still have...have fun, maybe even more fun with...just Coca-Cola.”

He doesn't mean to laugh because Ilya is trying to explain something serious and it has been an emotional night, but he is silly with how good he feels and Ilya is comparing him to the wrong fizzy drink.

“That is so wrong, Rozy, I'm not Coca-Cola. It's American and too sweet,” he huffs.

“What? You think I should say Canada Dry? Is not my drink of preference,” Ilya crosses his own arms. “Besides, you are very sweet. When you are not being asshole about choice of drink.”

Shane throws a leg over Ilya and holds himself over him. It works to shock Ilya, which is what he wanted, even though he doesn't know why. Maybe just to see if he could. He's straddling him now and there's no real intent behind it, he just wanted to hang over him and look at his shocked beautiful face.

“What are you doing up there, Hollander?”

“Rewarding myself,” he says, “I'm Rookie of the Year. I do what I want.”

“Oh, and what is it that the great Shane Hollander wants?” Ilya asks. His expression is neutral, but Shane can see amusement and interest dancing in his eyes.

“A kiss,” he says, decided on a whim but so so true.

Ilya furrows his brow, “Kiss? Okay.”

He starts leaning up but Shane presses a hand to his chest and pushes him down.

“No,” he says, “I want to take my kiss. It's mine.”

Ilya gives a slight huff that sounds like a laugh, his eyebrows now raised. Incredulous.

“Wow, you get one award you don't even get to keep and suddenly you are in charge?”

“I'm just doing what you told me I could,” Shane argues. “You agreed that tonight was my night.”

“It is,” he agrees again.

“Okay so, I'll take my kiss how I want it,” he says.

“And how do you want it, Hollander?”

“I want... I want you to call me Shane,” he says, his voice wavering a little. He can see the way Ilya swallows tightly before he nods.

“Okay,” he says softly, “Shane.”

It feels better, Ilya saying it now. Not up on that roof when he was obviously upset. But here, in a bed that they are sharing together. Where Ilya's eyes are soft and warm and watching him so intently, and his lips are just ever so curled up into a smile that looks both hesitant and content. How could Shane do anything but kiss him?

So he does, he takes not one kiss but dozens. Pecks to Ilya's cheek and jaw and throat, over the well healed scars on his chest, brushes of their lips dry against each other, and then a kiss that Shane thinks he might melt into. Slow and tender like a dance, Ilya's tongue teasing and light.

This, Shane finds himself considering once again, is the highlight of tonight. Not getting the award, not the after party. This. He presses himself closer, tangling his fingers into Ilya's hair. Ilya's own hands have come up to frame his face, his thumb brushing against Shane's cheekbones.

They kiss for what feels like ages, but it's slow and steady and it isn't asking for more. It isn't a prelude to more sex. It is just for the sake of itself, because Shane wanted to kiss Ilya and Ilya wanted to let him. He nuzzles at the edge of Ilya's jaw, kissing and wanting to bite, wanting to mark him. But he remembers that first time, how earnestly Ilya had said that he wouldn't do that because it wouldn't be safe...

“Earnest,” he says at complete random against Ilya's pulse, “the word you wanted. Earnest. It means... to show that you are sincere.”

It startles a laugh out of Ilya, and there is that grin. It's maybe one of Shane's favorites. Because it's not the grin that he gives in the NHL. This one is fond and a little crooked and has only been used around anyone with the last name Hollander.

“Earnest...yes, that is a good word. You are very earnest,” Ilya says.

“I guess I am,” Shane says, and he brushes their lips together one more time before he pulls away.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Shane says, “I got my kiss.”

“So boring,” Ilya huffs and Shane can see the edges of his smile.

Shane smirks, “Still the only drink you want.”

“I am leaving.”

“No, you're not.”

“...No. I am not.”

They lay side by side and Shane wants to ask, he does, if he's really the only one. If the others were really people he used to be with. Shane knew he hadn't had any interest in trying anything with other men, even if sometimes he looked at the men who did catch his eyes. The desire, the need, wasn't there. He only ached to be pressed close to Ilya again. But he can't. He can't ruin this with trying to make it more than it is. Roz probably has a whole roster of people back in Boston. Who is Shane to ask him not to touch them the way he touches him?

“I can hear gears turning in your head,” Ilya accuses.

“I'm...just thinking about what I'm going to do this summer. And...what next season might look like,” Shane tells him.

“Yuna Hollander does not have entire summer planned out for you?” Ilya asks.

“I get a couple of weeks,” he admits, “and it's usually good plans. Fun plans. She found this cool meditation retreat —”

“Shane Hollander, cool meditation retreat is not real thing,” Ilya says, seriously.

“No, no, hear me out,” Shane turns to look at him. “It's supposed to be really relaxing and a good chance to reset and prepare for the next season.”

Ilya blows out a raspberry. “Is this kind of meditation retreat to...what is it, 'disconnect.'“

“What do you mean?”

“Are phones allowed during retreat?”

“Um, not during most of the programs, no, we leave them in lockers or our rooms.”

Ilya looks distinctly annoyed.

“What.”

“So we cannot text for two weeks this summer,” he says. 

“I mean no like...I can still use it when the programs are done and I'm in my room at night.” 

Ilya huffs out a long breath, “Is like prison.”

“It's not like prison. It's supposed to improve mindfulness. Increase focus,” Shane defends.

“I could do plenty to keep your mind full,” Ilya retorts. “But no, instead doing uncool retreat.”

“What are you doing this summer, then?” Shane pokes at Ilya's side.

Ilya shrugs, “I do not make plans. Plans just...happen. probably Sveta will come see me for a while before she goes to Moscow. I will maybe go to New York, make sure Hunter knows I am a train ride away, he must never rest.”

Shane does not understand Ilya’s thing about Scott Hunter. Though, he is beginning to think the media has identified the wrong person as Ilya’s rival. Not with the vehement way Ilya seems to want to torment Scott. Shane would be jealous if he hadn’t spent the past hour being the center of Ilya’s attention. However, his brain focuses in on the mention of a name he’s never heard before. “Sveta?”

“Oh…Svetlana Vetrova. Her father is Russian minister and previously goalie for Soviet Russia. She is childhood friend,” Ilya tells him.

He knows instantly but he asks anyway, “She's um. Your friend in Boston?”

Ilya leans up on his elbow and thumbs at the side of his nose like it itches or he's thinking or he's wasting time, “She is my friend everywhere.”

“O-oh,” Shane says. His thoughts begin to drift back to Ilya’s choices and options. “And…she’s coming to visit you?” Ilya looks over Shane for a long moment. He then lets out a long sigh.

“Yes. Just to visit. She and I are only just friends now.”

“Right I... what?”

Ilya looks up at the ceiling as if deciding if he wants to say more and then doesn't, but Shane can't let it go.

“What do you mean only just friends now, though?”

Ilya sighs, big and dramatic and put upon, “Usually we fuck, it's fun. Fun friend fucking. But Sveta says ... anyway we talk about it, we are not doing that anymore. Just so you... when I talk about her to you, you know. We are not. Anymore.”

Shane stares at Ilya for a long moment. Trying to wrap his mind around what this means. What has changed? He does know that he feels relief. Which maybe is a little bit ridiculous because he doesn’t own Ilya.

Just because he's no longer friends with benefits with Svetlana doesn't mean he's not having lots of sex with lots of other people in Boston. There are lots of beautiful people in Boston, men and women, who Ilya could be having uncomplicated not-best-friends sex with. Oh God, does him stopping the sex with Svetlana mean that he'll stop with Shane too?

“Okay, what is it this time?”

Ilya’s voice breaks through Shane’s train of thought.

“What?”

“You are in your head. I can see it on face. And do not tell me it is about summer or next season, because that is bullshit,” Ilya says.

Shane hates how easily Ilya reads him. It makes his heart race to be seen like that.

“Why did you decide to stop?”

Ilya tenses a little, his jaw clicking, “This is between Sveta and me.”

Shane swallows, “Right. No, of course. It's not my business. Not everything is about me, right?”

He means it as a joke, a light hearted call back to the tension on the rooftop, but Ilya looks distressed. Is he distressed about the rooftop conversation? Or…or maybe this is where Ilya tells him that things need to end between them as well? And the distress is because, well, maybe Ilya doesn’t want to hurt Shane. They are still best friends after all.

“What’s wrong?” Shane asks. “Just…tell me please?”

It would be like ripping off a bandage. Painful, but then they could move on. Ilya covers his eyes with his arm.

“…Sveta told me that my mind was elsewhere. That is why we stopped.”

“O…oh,” Shane stutters. “And…where…where was your mind at?”

There is a long pause of silence. Ilya swallows and Shane can hear the click in it.

“Montreal,” is the whispered response.

Shane feels his heart jump to his throat and Ilya is still hiding under his own arm, nothing visible but his working clicking jaw. His whole body is tense but posed as if he were relaxing, and Shane can see his chest rising and falling and he tries to match his breathing, maybe calm himself enough to speak.

“You will say nothing and let me die here,” Ilya deadpans.

“I don't... I don't know what to say,” he breathes out.

“Okay.”

They lay there in silence for a long moment. Shane’s brain is practically buzzing with this piece of information. He’s still not entirely certain what this means for the both of them. But maybe this is part of the ‘always this.’ Quietly, he tentatively reaches over and grabs Ilya’s hand.

It's the one that is laying clenched over his stomach, he leaves the one that is occupied in the covering of his face alone for now. Shane thinks he's been there before, when you're physically holding yourself together so your emotions don't make you shake apart. So he pries Ilya's hand open slowly, with effort, and holds it.

Thankfully, Ilya does not pull away. It takes a moment, but eventually his fingers lace with Shane’s own. His thumb making gentle strokes against Shane’s fingers.

Shane closes his own eyes and lets his buzzing mind center on just that, the feeling of Ilya stroking a soft constant rhythm against Shane's fingers. He swallows and gently lowers himself to lay against Ilya without disturbing their hands. He presses a kiss to Ilya's side and feels the stutter of his breath against his lips. The soft strokes continue for a moment or an hour and eventually, Shane feels Ilya's arm - the one that had been hiding him away - lower onto Shane's shoulders and pull him close.

They stay curled up together in silence for the rest of the night. It’s heavy, but in the way a blanket can be, warm and comforting. Eventually, he finds himself falling asleep, still holding Ilya’s hand. 

Chapter End Notes

Илья fucking Розанов → Ilya fucking Rozanov

Ты идеальна → You're perfect

капитан → captain

Je suis prêt, arrêtez de me faire attendre. → I'm ready, stop making me wait.

Сюрприз → Surprise

Иисус Христос, Света! Ты что, хочешь меня убить? Ты понимаешь, что ты указана в завещании, и ты хочешь заполучить мой пентхаус? → Jesus Christ, Sveta! Are you trying to kill me? Do you realize you're in the will and you want my penthouse?

Илюшка → Ilyushka

Света, ты же знаешь, это не так... Я не могу так думать. Это опасно. → Sveta, you know it's not like that... I can't think like that. It's dangerous.

искренний → sincere