Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

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

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, cute foxes, No beta we die like Grigori, POV Alternating, Homophobic Language, but literally once because I hated writing it, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Mild Smut, Barely any smut. just the locker room scene FOR THE PLOT, Happily Ever After, minor character injury, it might seem like soulmate AU but I tried to make it not, Idiots in Love, Half coming out on your own terms half forced outting, Identical daemon, they’re Damon are ruining their lives but also helping, Canon Typical References to Suicide

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-20 Completed: 2026-03-26 Words: 65,720 Chapters: 18/18

Foxfire

Summary

Shane glanced at his fox, Akane. Still between Rozanov’s legs.

Dark eyes staring back at him. Akane didn’t have dark eyes. She had hazel eyes, brilliant, multifaceted gems that glimmered playfully in even the dimmest light.

That was Rozanov’s daemon. Of course it was.

Rozanov’s daemon was identical to Shane’s. The same body shape. The same small white diamond above the nose. The same deeper red blaze along the spine. But he still should’ve been able to tell it wasn’t Akane.

Who can’t recognize their own daemon?

Notes

Hiii!!

My therapist told me that I needed a creative outlet, and 60000 words of Shane and Ilya daemon fanfic exploded out of me. I have never written fiction before, so this has been new and fun. I wrote this all before I started posting, which is how I got it up so quickly. It's not AI.

If anyone wants to give this a proper beta\copy edit, please reach out. I am correcting all the typos I find, but I'm sure there are more

Some notes, I have read His Dark Materials, but it's been a while, and I likely made up my own rules. If you haven't, I think that's fine. Basically, your daemon is your soul or an extension of it. They take on an animal form that's usually symbolic to you as a person. And there are *rules* about how to interact with others' daemons.

This first chapter is a bit of world-building. if it's not your thing, you can skip it. It's not crucial, or you could read the "intro" and get the gist and move on!

Chapter 1

Substack: The Making of Modern Myths

The Mythic Double: Why So Many Cultures Tell Stories of Mirrored Souls

Every few months I return to a familiar question: why do certain story patterns appear everywhere?

Not the ones that travel easily—dragons moving along trade routes or saints absorbing local spirits—but the ones that seem to emerge independently in cultures separated by oceans and centuries. Myths that arise again and again not because they were copied, but because humans keep reinventing them.

This series examines those patterns. Past installments have explored the possible realities behind vampire legends, the environmental history behind flood myths, and the archaeological debates surrounding cities remembered only in scripture. The aim is not to prove the supernatural, but to understand what stories preserve: fragments of history, traces of memory, and sometimes truths about human psychology that are easier to express through myth than through scholarship.

This essay looks at one of the stranger recurring motifs: the mythic double—two people whose souls mirror one another so closely that they share the same daemon.

In most traditions, a daemon, spirit animal, or companion soul reflects something unique about the individual. Yet scattered throughout world mythology are exceptions: stories in which two people possess identical spirit counterparts. The implications vary widely—lovers, rivals, siblings, enemies—but the core idea remains the same. Two people share the same spiritual reflection.

Across cultures, that is rarely treated as coincidence.

A Motif That Appears Everywhere

One of the most recognizable examples appears in the Chinese legend of Butterfly Lovers. In the story, the scholar Liang Shanbo and the disguised student Zhu Yingtai only find union after death, transforming into a pair of butterflies who finally fly together. Later versions of the tale sometimes interpret those butterflies as spirit companions—matching daemons that recognized one another long before the humans did.

Northern European traditions contain a similar idea in the fylgja, an animal spirit believed to follow a person throughout life. Most accounts treat the fylgja as unique, yet several Icelandic sagas mention people whose spirit animals appear in identical form—often foreshadowing conflict or kinship between them.

Mesoamerican traditions present another parallel through the nagual, a spiritual animal counterpart believed to share a person’s fate. The idea becomes particularly vivid in the story of the heroic twins Hunahpu and Xbalanque from the Popol Vuh. While they are literal brothers, later interpretations sometimes describe their spirit companions as reflections of the same cosmic essence expressed through two lives.

Even traditions without explicit daemon lore preserve similar patterns. Greek philosophy offers one famous version in Plato’s Symposium, where Aristophanes proposes that humans were once whole beings split in half by Zeus, leaving us forever searching for the other half of ourselves.

Across these stories, the language differs—spirit animals, twin souls, celestial doubles—but the structure remains strikingly similar: two people share a metaphysical reflection.

What that reflection means, however, is far less consistent.

Lovers, Rivals, and the Problem of Interpretation

Modern readers often interpret the motif romantically. Shared daemons become evidence of destined lovers, and many stories support that reading.

The tragic lovers Orpheus and Eurydice are sometimes described in later folklore as possessing mirrored spirit companions—an explanation for the depth of Orpheus’s grief when he loses her in the underworld. Similarly, the Persian romance Layla and Majnun depicts a love so consuming that later storytellers described the pair as sharing a single spiritual nature expressed through two lives.

But romantic destiny is only one interpretation.

Matching daemons appear just as often in stories of rivalry or catastrophe.

In Egyptian mythology, the divine brothers Osiris and Set embody one of the oldest sibling rivalries in recorded myth. Some later traditions claim their spirits were once reflections of the same essence before jealousy fractured the bond.

The Persian epic Shahnameh offers another tragic version in the battle between Rostam and Sohrab—a father and son who unknowingly face one another across a battlefield. In some retellings, their identical spirit animals recognize the truth long before the men do.

Across cultures, the mirrored daemon signals connection without guaranteeing harmony.

More often it signals encounter: two lives that will intersect in ways that permanently alter them—sometimes privately, sometimes at the scale of kingdoms or cultures.

In many traditions, the pair cannot remain together. Social order, tragedy, or cosmic law intervenes.

What remains is the recognition.

The unsettling realization that someone else in the world reflects you with uncanny precision.

The Trope in Modern Storytelling

The motif has not disappeared completely from contemporary storytelling; if anything, it has quietly resurfaced.

A widely discussed example appeared in the telenovela Sangre de los Dos Reyes, which followed two rival cartel leaders whose identical daemons betrayed a connection they both fought to deny. The series avoided romantic resolution entirely, focusing instead on the grief and isolation produced by a bond neither man could acknowledge publicly nor escape privately.

Even mainstream television has flirted with the idea. A memorable storyline in Once Upon a Time reinterpreted Beauty and the Beast through the trope: a cursed prince searching for the one person whose soul—and spirit companion—could match his own before the enchanted rose lost its final petal.

In both cases, the appeal lies in tension. Two people recognize something profound in one another, yet remain unable—or unwilling—to resolve it.

Historical Rumors

Whenever a myth appears across cultures, the question inevitably arises: did it begin with a real event?

Unlike lost cities or ancient floods, the mythic double leaves no ruins to excavate. At best we find scattered anecdotes.

Some supposed examples dissolve quickly under scrutiny. Claims that Pocahontas (Amonute) and John Smith shared identical spirit animals appear only in later colonial narratives—stories that often served to romanticize conquest rather than record it accurately.

Other rumors are more ambiguous.

Speculation surrounding John F. Kennedy Jr. and Lem Billings, his closest friend who lived in residence at the White House, cites photographs suggesting both men possessed identical hound daemons. Unfortunately, the images are too distant to determine whether the animals were merely similar breeds or truly identical.

Other rumors surface from time to time: two Arctic explorers reported to share white wolf daemons during a failed expedition in 1912; a pair of revolutionary poets in early twentieth-century Buenos Aires said to possess identical kestrels; a Korean independence activist and the Japanese officer assigned to hunt him, both allegedly accompanied by the same pale crane.

None of these claims have been conclusively verified.

But the persistence of the rumors is telling.

The Silence of the Digital Age

Perhaps the strongest argument against the existence of matching daemons is the present.

If such phenomena were real, the age of smartphones and social media would likely reveal them. Billions of photographs circulate online each day, and amateur investigators routinely identify distant mountains or obscure aircraft with remarkable precision. And yet no confirmed cases of identical daemons have emerged.

Still, the digital era represents only a moment in human time. Fifteen or twenty years of near-constant documentation may feel historically significant to those living through it, but myth operates on a far longer scale.

If the stories are correct about the rarity of such encounters, it is entirely possible that we simply have not lived long enough—yet—to see one.

What the Myth Might Actually Mean

Perhaps the real question is not whether matching daemons exist.

Instead, the myth asks something more human: what does it mean to encounter someone who reflects you so completely that the recognition feels immediate and unavoidable?

Across cultures the mythic double rarely represents comfort. It represents disruption—the realization that identity may not be entirely solitary.

Even when the stories end in tragedy, they return to the same unsettling idea.

In another person, we sometimes glimpse something startlingly familiar.

And in that moment, however briefly, the world can feel a little more like home.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

In the first few chapters, obviously a lot tracks onto the books & show. I pull dialogue from the show directly. I didn't search the books to pull exact quotes, but there are definitely influences of book happenings and dialogue, so obviously all credit to Rachel and Jacob for those moments. We'll start to diverge a lot more after a few chapters.

Also this is an absolute Frankenstein('s monster) of book and show cannon but it shouldn't ruin anything if you haven't read the book and plan to.

notes at the end about translations and things

December 2008 Regina, Canada

The grey sky faded into a sunset of lackluster oranges and yellows in an indifferent sort of way that only winter can manage. The diffuse lighting seemed reflected back in the cinderblock building, grey asphalt, and bare trees. Shane Hollander appreciated the brief flash of color and sight of the sun in a week where he beat the sun to the rink and left after it had set. The only other color–a splash of vibrant red in the no-smoking sign next to a door.

Even the roaring crowd inside felt muted by the apathetic weather to Shane’s ears, the tied match down to the final minutes in the third period. All of it background to the arrhythmic click of a lighter refusing to catch. Perhaps heeding the sign when its wielder would not.

Shane approached the lighter’s owner with a similar stuttering step.

“Ilya Rozanov?”

Shane was pretty sure he’d pronounced Ilya correctly– ee-LYAH. Two syllables. Not the three that most English speakers stretched it to. He’d looked it up. He knew it mattered.

“I, I wanted to introduce myself.”

He raised his hand out. Shane took in Rozanov’s face. He had a warm glow despite it being the dead of winter, and a crown of dirty-blond curls flattened across his forehead by a hastily donned toque. But Shane’s eyes lingered longest on his perfect mole and dangerously attractive crooked smirk across his full lips. Rozanov was just a little taller, just a little broader than Shane. He looked like a man. Shane had never felt so young next to someone he was pretty sure he was technically older than.

Rozanov raised his eyebrows, cigarette finally catching.

 “Oh, I’m not sure…”

But the words died on Shane’s lips. Not even the faint burn of cigarette smoke creeping into his lungs could lessen the shock of red fur and white-tipped tail–his daemon–wrapping itself through Rozanov’s legs. He thought Akane was waiting around the corner as they’d discussed.  

It had been so long since someone else had touched her. His mom used to, when he was young. Akane-chan, she’d croon, helping to comfort Shane after a tough loss. But she’d stopped when Akane had settled. Not Akane-chan anymore. It was a sign of respect, she’d told him.

He missed it sometimes.

Shane remembered how it had felt, though.

And he felt nothing right now. Actually, his whole body was numb. He didn’t think he could feel anything besides panic.

“Wha… what?” was all he could stutter out.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Take a breath. Hollander, yes? You are Hollander?” Rozanov said.

Shane nodded weakly.

“You need air, I think.”

Shane tried to, but it was a mistake. A gust of wind drove the cigarette smoke directly into Shane’s face. It filled his nose and lungs. A horrible, acrid burn that invaded his very cells in stinging contrast to the bitterly cold air.

He couldn’t stop coughing.

“Боже мой. Ребенок.”

Rozanov stomped out his cigarette, but the damage was already done.

Eyes watering, struggling to catch his breath, Shane realized his hand was still outstretched. He lowered it slowly as Rozanov looked down at him, bemused.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Shane glanced at the fox. Still between Rozanov’s legs.

Dark eyes staring back at him. Akane didn’t have dark eyes. She had hazel eyes, brilliant, multifaceted gems that glimmered playfully in even the dimmest light.

That was Rozanov’s daemon. Of course it was.

Rozanov’s daemon was nearly identical to Shane’s. The same body shape. The same small white diamond above the nose. The same deeper red blaze along the spine. But he still should’ve been able to tell it wasn’t Akane. Akane wouldn’t do that.

Who can’t recognize their own daemon?

Just the eyes, he thought. They look like–he made himself tear his gaze away from her. From them–he mentally corrected.

You can’t assume his mom has always told him.

Now he was staring at Rozanov.

“Beautiful, no?” Rozanov looked at him closely.

He didn’t know if Rozanov was talking about his daemon or himself.

Shane’s mouth was completely dry.

“No, erm yes. Very beautiful. It’s just–”

How did he explain this? Did he need to?

But then he felt the familiar sensation of a tail wrapping around his leg. He looked down to see Akane by his feet, eyes down, wary of strangers. And it was Rozanov’s turn to freeze. His cocky smirk remained in place. Only his sparkling eye betrayed his surprise–going flat. Only for a moment.

“Лиса… I see”

“Yeah” Shane said dumbly.

Rozanov started laughing, head tipped back, mouth wide. Shane saw a gap where he was clearly missing a tooth.  

“This is why you panic? Лиса”

Shane just glared up at him. Dark eyes sharpening into the mask he’d developed for face-offs.

“You have never seen another Лиса?” Rozanov said, gesturing at both their daemons.

“Other foxes?” Shane asks.

“Da, yes. Foxes,” Rozanov tried out the word. 

“Oh, I mean, of course I have. It’s just. I was just surprised, okay?”

Foxes weren’t exactly uncommon, but he’d never mistaken another one for Akane.

Rozanov’s laughter died away as Akane glared at him, eyes meeting his for the first time. Rozanov continued to stare at Akane, far longer than was polite. He didn’t seem to find anything funny now.

Rozanov’s daemon turned around quickly and, almost as fast, put their front paws up on his thigh. Rozanov seemed to pick them up unconsciously and began to stroke their fur. Shane thought he heard them whisper something.

They stared at each other. Did Rozanov see it too? The similarities, but almost as important, the differences?

He noted the small, almost involuntary step Rozanov took toward him before he shifted the movement to lean on the building. He pulled his jacket tighter around him, and Shane stared with fascination at the tendons in his broad hands flexing.

Shane cleared his throat, still trying to erase the smoke.

“Well, okay. I should go. Good luck in the tournament.”

He held out his hand again, red and stiff from the wind.

Rozanov quirked an eyebrow and shook it. Shane’s hand felt small in his even though they looked to be almost the same size.

Shane started walking away. Akane shadowed him.

“You will not be so nice when we beat you,” Rozanov called after him.

Shane stopped and turned. Akane growled. Perhaps not loud enough for Rozanov to hear it. But based on his gleeful expression, he might have.

“That’s not going to happen,” Shane called back and forced himself to keep walking.

---

Fall 2004 Ottawa, Canada

Akane hadn’t always been a fox. As a child, she could shift forms into any animal. He had fond memories of climbing trees with her as a cat and tossing balls into the air for her to catch as a peregrine falcon. Shane remembered the morning when Akane settled into a fox, though.

Shane usually woke up before his parents. But that day, the clatter of dishes and the smell of breakfast, eggs, rice, and butter wrapped its way up the stairs.

Akane was already awake. Tail twitching anxiously.

He knew that look. And he took her in.

“This is it, then?”

He’d been waiting for her to settle with almost equal anticipation to his voice no longer breaking.

She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.

He wanted to pet her, but wasn’t sure if the contact would help.

Better not to risk it. Sometimes, someone touching him was what set him over the edge.

Though she had been taking a fox form more often the past weeks, no one was more surprised than him that she stayed in this form.

He carefully padded down the threadbare carpet barefoot, just one on the long list of delayed expenses in favor of new hockey pads, private coaching, or club fees. He passed the collage of photos, moving backward through time as he descended. The top was all hockey, but softened into a time of family vacations and other sports Shane was too young to really remember playing.

His mom heard him and stepped into the living room. The green sectional and earth tone rug were slightly on the wrong side of broken in. They were still comfortable enough for his dad’s lynx to curl up in the soft morning light, and Shane anticipated having to fight her for a spot on the couch soon. He looked away to meet his mom’s eyes.

“She settled.”

He remembered the ripple of surprise and confusion across his mom, Yuna’s face. The expression struck even Shane, who often missed subtle emotions.

Even her daemon looked ruffled, dancing from foot to foot on Yuna’s shoulder until she realized what she was doing, immediately preening her black feathers into shiny perfection while Yuna put on her happy face.

His father, David, looking up from the New Yorker in his cozy brown recliner, showed none of his mom’s surprise. He congratulated Shane and Akane.

If his father was surprised, it wasn’t enough to wake his daemon.

But David didn’t grow up with fox tales like Yuna did–ones she had in turn passed on to Shane.

Shane squirmed, mouth turning down at the corners, assuming what his mom was thinking.

Foxes were tricksters.

Liars

Seductresses

They tricked men into marriages and left them ruined.

Logically, he knew that foxes were in equal measure divine messengers, bringing luck, and protecting people. The seeming contradiction aligned in the fox’s extreme intelligence and ability to shapeshift into whatever form the tale demanded.

They were revered historically. Shane remembers passing through the hundreds of torii gates to the top of Inariyama, with the kitsune spread around protecting it. He’d carried a handful of rice to leave for them.

Not that he believed in fox spirits–who did these days? But they were inescapable.

“I’m proud of you,” she said with a smile. “And I think it fits. You are exceptionally smart and quick-footed. It’s one of the reasons you’re so good at hockey.”

Shane thanked her and told himself he was imagining the curious look in her eye.

Yuna and David stayed in the living room, discussing some political developments on the news that Shane had no context for.

Shane walked into the kitchen for breakfast. He assured himself for the first time, but not the last, that cultural context only went so far in shaping a daemon’s form. Some people ended up with daemons that didn’t exist where they were from.

Akane spoke for the first time that day. She was reluctant to speak in front of others, even his parents, most of the time.

“Are you disappointed?”

Are you mad at me?

“Of course not. I love you. I just… I don’t know what it says about us.”

“Who says it has to mean anything?”

He let the question linger.

“You heard mom. We’re clever, quick on the ice. What more does it need to mean?”

Was she lying to him?

He’d never had a reason to doubt her before.

Could she lie to him?

Akane’s ears twitched restlessly.

He felt uneasy, and the smell of scrambled eggs and butter turned his stomach despite how loudly it had growled before.

He wasn’t a trickster.

He barely went along with locker room pranks.

He definitely wasn’t a seductress.

 He wasn’t.

---

June 2009 Montreal, Canada

The room spiraled out in front of him. The ever-escalating hum of conversation faded together as Shane unfocused his eyes. Just for a moment. He felt more than saw the champagne flow around him, easing the partygoers’ edges in a way he wasn’t sure he’d felt for one moment in his life.

He leaned into the blur. Just for another moment. His eyes softening the sharp tailoring of the man’s suit just across from him into something closer to the bulky, wrinkled suits of many of the boys around him. All of them hazy, doubling into a wash of blacks and greys against the beige walls and faded carpet. Like this, nothing could reach him. It was all soft.

“Shane. Shane.”

His mom calling his name snapped him back to himself and his eyes into focus. Clearly, the last comment was directed at him. Did he remember what was said?

“I'm still in shock, but, uh, I--I'm so excited’ he replied vaguely.

He hoped that was the right answer. The man, the GM of the Metros, the team that had drafted him, had been saying something about being happy that Shane was Asian and that had been the last straw that before he needed to disassociate.

The whole day had left Shane feeling on edge and wrung out at the same time. Hypervigilance pushing to the brink of mania.

Shane had spent almost a decade of his life imagining draft day. He knew he’d be nervous. He was self-aware enough of his anxiety to know how worried he’d be. He never imagined that worry would be about anything other than what draft pick he was and the city he’d have to move to.

Instead, he was almost equally concerned that someone else would recognize that his daemon and Rozanov’s were identical. He was afraid of what they might assume if they noticed–what that might mean for them.

Them? There was no “them.” Shane was worried about what it might mean for him. If people made those kinds of assumptions.

Shane spent the whole time trying to avoid a situation that would put their daemons close to one another, generally. But he specifically made sure that his mom never got too close to Rozanov or his fox. He knew her keen eyes would spot the truth in theirs.

Being first and second draft picks meant taking a lot of pictures together. But Akane waited far from Shane, and he asked his mom to get him some medicine from her room while it happened.

No one else noticed. Akane spent most of her time tucked between Shane’s legs and the tablecloths draping the standing tables, working her way into the folds and away from prying eyes.

Who could really tell the difference between two foxes? Shane supposed he should’ve thought of that earlier. Even if he thought his mom’s raven looked identical to another daemon, wouldn’t he assume that’s because all ravens look identical to him?

But he’d never mistaken Akane for another fox before.

So the minutes passed, and his worry lessened but never truly abated.

Though he could occasionally tune out the party around him, he couldn’t ignore the dark eyes staring at him for most of the event. Though Rozanov himself rarely seemed to glance over at Shane, his fox didn’t often look away, following either Shane or Akane in the rare moments she was visible, as they swam through the relentless sea of congratulations and consolations about his second-place finish.

Shane tried desperately to think of anything else, but failed more often than he succeeded.

Made a fool of himself when meeting Rozanov. Strike one.

Lost the Juniors championship to him. Strike two.

Came in second in the draft to Rozanov. Strike three.

If he played baseball, he’d be out. But in hockey, this was only the beginning. He’d face Rozanov in the tournament again in December and then several times a year when the Metros played their arch-rivals, the Boston Raiders, the team that had drafted Rozanov. Had drafted him first.

He was determined to even the score.

---

Later that night

Shane’s resolution to stop thinking about Ilya Rozanov and his stupid face and his coincidentally matching fox was not going well.

He felt like someone had run a live wire into his brain. He couldn’t turn off his hypervigilance, following every shifting shadow as cars pulled in and out of the parking lot, marking every footstep and bump from the neighboring rooms. He imagined the people surrounding him on all sides, their sounds landing like drum beats in his ears.  

The hotel sheets that were perfectly comfortable the night before were scratchy. He felt like they were trying to scrape off his skin. And the air was too dry; each breath felt like his nose was cracking and bleeding.

He sat up, knowing there was no way he would sleep at this point. Akane was pacing on the floor.

“Akane,” he called affectionately, trying to force a calm he didn’t feel. “Let’s go for a run.”

They couldn’t actually run outside like they would both prefer, but he knew there was a gym in the hotel. He changed, nabbed his room key, and headed down.

The gym was small. Only a few treadmills, one elliptical, and a few free weights. It smelled strongly of sweat-infused rubber, steeped over many years. The sharp scent of disinfectant was simply layered on top of it instead of removing it.

The treadmills faced the wall of mirrors; it should’ve made the space feel larger, but instead seemed to amplify the enclosed, boxy feeling of the dark walls. The bottom of the mirror was flecked with droplets and handprints. The top of the mirror looked like someone had spent less than 30 seconds cleaning it, leaving Shane with little to look at besides his own streaky reflection.  He took a moment to wipe down the treadmill before he turned it on.

Once he’d gone through his warm-up, Shane set a pace that he could maintain for a while, knowing he needed to put in the time if he wanted to quiet his brain. He’d left his headphones; his head was already so full of noise. He needed to run himself into a quiet place.

Akane had joined him on the treadmill, slightly bigger than the standard size to accommodate a daemon. Foxes weren’t distance runners, but Akane wasn’t really a fox. She was him. And they needed to run.

They had done this enough that he never worried about her getting caught underfoot. When they moved, they were in perfect sync. Both athletes in peak physical condition.

She obviously wasn’t on the ice during games or serious practice. But in shinnies growing up and before practice began, Akane would play with him, chasing the puck up and down the ice, synchronizing passes back and forth.

Shane was approaching the quiet he craved, which is probably why he didn’t notice Rozanov enter the gym until the treadmill directly next to him started to move.

Never mind leaving a polite gap. But then again, when had Rozanov ever done anything polite, Shane thought?

He nodded at Shane, starting his own warmup. His daemon didn’t join him.

Shane studiously avoided looking at Rozanov’s daemon, but heard them playing with something in the corner.

He kept running, deeply annoyed that all his efforts to find calm had been completely disrupted. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rozanov increase the speed of his treadmill, just slightly faster than Shane.

Akane, sensing what was coming, licked Shane’s calf–her signal she was tapping out. Shane assumed she’d curl up in the bed by the door meant for daemons.

Shane increased the speed of his treadmill.

He heard Akane, on the opposite side of the room than he expected, approaching Rozanov’s daemon, who’d been chasing a yoga ball around the open space. Shane turned his head. Akane watched, cautiously curious, tail twitching. Until suddenly, the other daemon sent the ball flying over to Akane.

Using all her quick reflexes, Akane jumped to meet the ball, four paws landing gracefully against the ball to jump off it almost laterally. The move was more fun than an effective redirection. Rozanov’s daemon peeled in delight, chasing after the ball.

Shane faced forward again and saw Rozanov increase the speed.

Game on.

Shane and Rozanov kept upping the ante, each time by slightly wider margins. The daemon frolicked, there was no other word for it. First, sending the ball back and forth, then abandoning it entirely to play with each other. Running, leaping, and nipping at each other’s heels.

Shane was determined to win. He felt like his was glowing. His chest felt warm and expansive. All thoughts of finding calm abandoned in pursuit of a greater feeling: winning.

They worked the treadmills up to a dead sprint. Shane barely felt his feet hitting the machine, his legs threatening to discover a new state beyond turning to jelly.

Finally, he hit the emergency stop, rolling off the treadmill and collapsing into a crumpled heap next to the wall of mirrors.

Rozanov ran only a few more paces before stopping his own machine and sprawling out across from Shane with little more grace.

Their daemon padded over, tongues lolled, mouths foamed from exertion.

Even if Shane could form words at this moment, he wouldn’t have spoken to Akane. She gave him a knowing look and lay down next to him, not quite touching.

Rozanov apparently had breath to spare, and his daemon had no such compunction about speaking in front of a stranger. They spoke excitedly in Russian, so perhaps the freedom came with knowing they wouldn’t be understood.

“Whew!” Rozanov exclaimed. “What a fucking day.”

“Yeah, totally”

“Mmm. It is everything you dreamed of?” Rozanov asked.

“Almost”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

The silence stretched out between them. Not charged like the last time, but heavy with sweat and deep breathing.

Shane struggled for a safe place to look. Rozanov was glistening in a way that felt dangerous, his daemon was no better.

He settled for stroking Akane’s fur.

“They had fun,” Rozanov said, gesturing between the two daemons.

“Oh, yeah. Yoga ball. Who knew?”

Shane tried not to stare at Rozanov’s throat or his eyes. He remembered the too-familiar glimmer in them.

“They will, uh. They will be seeing each other a lot, is good to get along.”

“They will?” Shane queried. “What, at like games? They’re usually kept separate, aren’t they?”

Ilya’s eyes darted away, staring at the foxes.

“Sure, but Лиса… uhhh fox. Sneak off. Make mischief together.” Rozanov gestured between them playfully.

Shane flushed, his body reacting to the suggestion faster than his brain could keep up.

Rozanov lifted his water bottle, and Shane stared openly this time, noticing how dry his own mouth was.

He held the bottle out to Shane.

“Thanks, I’m good.”

“For it,” Rozanov said, gesturing to Akane.

Shane stiffened, instinctually. The word hit sharply. Akane lifted her head and glared.

He wasn’t sure how good Rozanov’s English was. Intended or not, the word landed like a gut punch.

“Sorry. Sorry. I say something wrong?”

“Them would be better. ‘For them,” Shane relaxed slightly. “It… it is not for... people. Things are it.”

“Hmmm,” Rozanov murmured appreciatively.

“For them?” he tried again, shaking the bottle.

As he reached forward, he surprised himself.

“Her. For her.”

He didn’t usually offer any information about Akane. He didn’t hide her gender; most people he saw regularly knew. But he rarely went out of his way to clarify anything. Though it was equally common to have a different gender daemon, everyone always assumed men had a male daemon.

Rozanov brushed his hand, and Shane felt it through his entire body.

“Same,” Rozanov said, glancing at his daemon. “Her.”

Trying to keep his hands steady, he poured some water into his palm and held it up to Akane. She usually turned up her nose at anything but a clean bowl.

Rozanov gestured for Shane to drink to, and he did appreciatively.

Shane tossed the bottle back. He didn’t–couldn’t–want Rozanov to touch him again.

“I should go,” Shane said, hoping his legs could back him up.

He stood up, and Rozanov mirrored him. They both headed for the door with their daemon playfully dodging and weaving around them.

Chapter End Notes

So I tried to keep words in other languages to a minimum because I know bad translations pull people out. But there are a few, especially in the beginning for Ilya. In Shane's POV, if he is speaking not English (mostly French) it's in italics. Same if Ilya is speaking Russian in POV, it's all in italics. If Ilya is speaking Russian to/at Shane, then it's not translated, because we're in Shane's head and he doesn't know what it means. You can translate it (I would!) but that's my rationale. Again, there's not a ton of other languages. I used DeepL for Russian and French, but any japanese mistakes are on me as I try to learn (though I did try to verify with google translate!)

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

CW for homophobic language but this is the only time I used it because I hated even typing it. Implied/References to physical abuse

Like I said, this is my first fiction, so I decided not to add writing sex scenes onto it, but the shower scene is important FOR THE PLOT. So obviously it's here, pretty much just out of the book/show.

Fall 2004, Moscow, Russia

The day his daemon settled was the day Ilya was sure his father hated him.

He was pretty sure before.

But he’d held on to some childish hope he could make his father proud until that day.

A fox

The absolute worst animal for a wolf father.

Another way Ilya had shamed him.

A long list Grigori had carved into Ilya’s skin.

When Ilya finally made his way out of his room the morning it happened, Zarya glued herself to his calf, nose, tail, or paw in constant contact with him. She never broke contact despite. He tried to walk normally down the stairs. The floorboards creaked in all the usual places, and he tried to ignore the dirt he felt even through his socks.

The cold indifference of the concrete building pressed in around Ilya as if the agony already present in the house wasn’t enough for him to bear. Ilya could feel the decades of misery the walls had slowly absorbed until they were saturated, and it came oozing back out.

Ilya took a deep breath at the bottom of the stairs, cigarette smoke and boiled cabbage wafted in through the drafty gap below the front door. He felt the cold wafting in from the empty fireplace. It had been a year since there had been a fire in the hearth. Now it didn’t even have ashes that remembered the warmth.

Ilya found his father at the table, floral oilcloth covered in grease and crumbs from last night’s dinner. His breakfast was fried eggs half-eaten and tea in his favorite glass, resting in a metal podstakannik that had belonged to Grigori’s grandfather. His posture was immaculate, and his wolf sat straight at his feet, glaring at Ilya before Grigori even had the chance.

Alexei had just sat down with his food, but as soon as he saw Ilya, he got up and left, tossing his plate into the small mountain growing in the sink. Ilya glanced around the kitchen. No eggs left for him. For the past year, his breakfast had mostly been whatever tea was left in the pot and a cigarette if he could bum one.

Ilya didn’t tell his father that Zarya had settled. He was hoping to disguise this fact for a week or so, unsure how much attention his father paid to him.

But Ilya’s ability to read people came from somewhere.

Grigori somehow knew, looking up from his eggs with a sharp inhale. He didn’t look at Ilya. He never did anymore. But still, he’d sensed it, glaring at Zarya. He folded the newspaper sharply and slammed it down next to him, rattling the dishes on the table and in the laminated cabinets nearby

Zarya never spoke in front of Grigori. Another lesson they’d learned early. But he felt her tail tapping against his calf, each touch a match strike trying to burn the shame trying to encase him.

The look of rage and disgust on his father’s face lay plain.

It was an expression Ilya was well familiar with, but at a depth he’d never seen before.   

“I knew you were weak,” Grigori spat. “No son of mine is a faggot.”

Grigori didn’t hit him. Not this time.

Ilya wondered if that would’ve been better. At least it’d be over.

Instead, he raged around the house; the path of destruction impossible to tidy behind, as much as Ilya tried. Each of his steps shook the crystal glasses and shining military metals displayed proudly in the hutch. His wolf prowled his own circles, tail knocking over an abandoned water glass onto one armchair and sending papers flying across another. The wolf’s claws dug threads out of the heavy rug on the floor, its snout knocked over a heavy mug, adding a new scratch to the coffee table. It looked wanton, but Ilya knew it was carefully calculated.

It’s how he knew it was no accident that the wolf hit the ceramic vase in the corner, knocking it into the fireplace. Ilya had removed the last bouquet his mother would ever arrange. All that remained was the pearl glaze gently painted over intricate swirls, empty of life.

Ilya watched it bounce once, hitting the bricks, before it shattered into nothing.

Another piece of her–gone.

Ilya schooled his face into nothingness, his mind into nothingness. Zarya left the room, taking all the warmth with her, seeking the quiet comfort of her makeshift den in the kitchen.

“Who would find pride in such a sly little bitch?”

Grigori stopped. He donned his police jacket that was hung carefully in the closet, straightening the medals pinned to his breast. Ilya had stopped counting the number of awards he’d bribed someone for but still had to attend every ceremony. As he fixed the last one, medal catching the light to flash in Ilya’s eyes, Grigori said to his wolf,

“Unreliable. He’ll have none of this,” and Grigori opened the door briskly and slammed it behind him.

Unreliable, another word written into his skin.

Ilya touched the gold cross under his shirt. It felt colder than it should. Zarya came back, and Ilya felt the burning relief like the first drag on a cigarette, overwhelming the rest of his senses.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Are you mad at me?

“There’s nothing to apologize for Zarechka. You’re very cute.”

He winked at her. Her tail curled around his leg.

He continued putting the house back in order. Books and cushions returned to their normal state of benign neglect that came from a house with only men, boys, really, each in their own way, who never expected a time when they’d have to look after the house themselves.

He left the vase smashed on the floor.

A cleaner was coming later today. The crumbs and dust could be wiped away, but the gouges in the rug and the darker shade of paint on the shelf where the vase once rested told a story that couldn’t be tidied away. 

His brother, Alexei, finally came back downstairs, thumping loudly in his heavy boots, already in his police uniform. His daemon, a German shepherd close at heel, nails clicking off the wood in a steady rhythm. The dog sat squarely by the door, spine rigid. Zarya kept her eyes on him. Alexei stopped on the last step to glare down at Ilya, but avoided his gaze with the same practiced manner as his father. Another reason Alexei resented him.

“What have you done? Don’t you know how this looks?”

Ilya didn’t realize he’d frozen mid-step until Zarya nudged him gently.

“You’re supposed to control her. Or will your whole life be run by this fox spawn?” Alexei spat.

Ilya forced himself to stay calm, keep moving as if Alexei hadn’t spoken at all. He sensed Zarya next to him, though her footsteps were silent, lithely moving at his side. He set the mugs down in the sink with a clatter and realized he was running late for school.

He shoved his feet into his shoes, toes curling up against the ends. They’d been too small for several weeks.

But there was no one left to care.

---

July 2010 Toronto, Canada

Ilya had his own reasons for arranging the CCM photoshoot with Hollander. It wasn’t to get under his skin after losing the bout at the World Junior’s finals last December, though he was sure that was what his agent thought.

It wasn’t even because he couldn’t stop thinking about Hollander and how much he wanted to pin him to the ground in the gym that night, though that was what he told himself. As if that was somehow better.

He wanted to see Hollander’s daemon again. See her eyes peering up at him again. Something he thought he’d never see again.

He wasn’t sure where she’d be during the shoot. He’d barely caught glimpses of her on draft day until the gym, and he didn’t see her at all during the juniors tournament. He still felt the sting of disappointment.

Ilya wanted to know her name and wasn’t sure why he felt entitled to it, why she felt like his.

It’s just the eyes, right?

A coincidence, he tells himself a little too quickly. An uncanny one, but a coincidence nonetheless.

Plenty of people had hazel eyes that glimmered with such depth, probably.

He didn’t have a monopoly on beautiful, sparkling eyes. He could barely remember that shine. It dulled as his memories became clearer until the spark was extinguished.

Still, Ilya showed up early, knowing enough about Hollander to guess he would too. That was his best opportunity. He was early, but it still seemed as if he was the last one there. The far side of the ice was filled with people running around on the carpet covering the ice. Cords were being laid out while the camera rigs were assembled. Lights flickered as they tested the flash, and Ilya heard the art director talking about the order of the coverings for the stadium’s usual sponsors.

The other half of the ice was untouched, still in a peaceful contrast to the flurry everywhere else. Ilya smelled the familiar scent of mineral-heavy rink ice and old sweat permanently etched into the stadium, but without the familiar addition of popcorn and beer from the crowds.

The scrape of blades across the ice and the echo of the puck hitting the boards, along with the bite of cold air in his lungs, calmed Ilya. Seeing Hollander, his daemon trotting along in his wake, stepping onto the ice made Ilya loosen his shoulders. It was too far away to see the freckles across the bridge of his nose or the square cut of his jaw. Ilya felt his face relax into a comfortable, easy smile. Zarya chirped playfully.

Hollander’s daemon turned around, but the man didn’t seem to have noticed them. When Ilya caught her eye, he felt his breath catch; her gaze pierced him like a splinter under his skin.

Ilya watched them play, catching the rhythm of the game while lacing his skates. His daemon flung the puck in all directions for Shane to chase while she caught up with him and attempted to steal it back. Only to fling it away once she had it.

Their movements were a careful dance. Hollander never hit her with the stick. He actually used the stick to help anchor her when her claws couldn’t find enough purchase in the fresh ice. Based on the way she scratched and bit at the stick, he guessed that this was a spare, perhaps reserved for just this purpose

Ilya didn’t have a spare stick with him. But he also didn’t care.

He stepped out, and Zarya flew past him, after Hollander like his own daemon. Ilya chased them like the sun racing toward the horizon.

Despite Zarya’s head start, Ilya picked the puck away from Hollander first.

Though the foxes’ padded paws helped them withstand the cold of the ice and their claws provided some grip, they weren’t designed to stop and start quickly on an artificial surface.

Hollander smiled up at him. Just a quick grin before he flew forward, eager for the puck.

Zarya anticipated Ilya’s pass and worked to keep the puck away from the other fox. The foxes’ scrabbling movements and relative inaccuracy were made up for with their eagerness and an unerring awareness of where their partner was.

The game of keep away quickly picked up in intensity. Neither Hollander nor Ilya was in their pads, nor would they risk an injury by truly slamming into one another, but they each kept one toe on the far side of a friendly bout. Ilya loved that Hollander always seemed half a step ahead and pushed Ilya to use his speed and size to keep up.

The foxes were gentler, but only barely. Knocking into each other and sending one and then the other skidding across the ice.

“Boys,” the director called out. “If you get so sweaty that you have to shower, it’ll delay the whole shoot. Hair and makeup are ready for you.”

---- 

“You look pretty,” Ilya murmured as they bent into the face-off position, making sure to hold himself slightly above Hollander.

Ilya wondered if he imagined hearing Hollander’s daemon’s growl. He must have. He was pretty sure the two were still playing in the tunnel leading out to the rink. Zarya had found a wadded-up wrapper that the two were batting around with more enthusiasm than a piece of trash warranted. Even if it still smelled like a hamburger.

“You’re wearing makeup, too,” Hollander protested, cocking his head to the side ever so slightly.

“Yes, but I am not pretty.”

Hollander glared, eyes lighting up like flint being struck.

Ilya felt his blood heat at that look.

“That’s perfect,” the director called, voice alight with enthusiasm.

Ilya tried to maintain his cocky indifference. He really did. But he couldn’t quite contain the joy bubbling up in him. He didn’t understand where the feeling was coming from. But then he felt an unfortunately familiar tugging in the core of him, nestled next to the welling joy, and realized it was coming from her, his Zarechka.

She must be running farther than they usually would be separated, even during a match. He noted distantly that it wasn’t as painful as it often was when they pushed the boundary. 

“A little more intensity in your eyes, Shane,” the director called.

Ilya wondered if Hollander was feeling it too. The joy or the tugging. He noticed Hollander was breathing harder than he should have. They were holding the face off the position longer than they ever would in a game, but nothing that should have winded someone in Hollander’s condition.

“Let’s reset, boys,” the director sighed. Ilya heard the fond exasperation in his voice. He was clearly used to dealing with unserious hockey players. 

“ここに来て” Hollander called out fondly.

Coconi? Coco something. Was that his daemon’s name? Ilya doubted Hollander was comfortable revealing his daemon’s name to so many strangers.

What language was that even? Ilya wasn’t sure. Wasn’t his mom Japanese?

Regardless, a daemon popped out of the tunnel. That wasn’t Zarya, was it? Why would she respond to Hollander?

It had to be the distance messing with him. Who confused their daemon with another?

The other fox popped out a moment later, bright spotlights hitting her like sunlight, but no one else even turned around to see them. Zarya, he thought fondly. Ilya would never admit, even to himself, that he wasn’t sure.

“Let’s go again,” the director said.

“Behave,” Ilya called to Zarya in Russian. But it was no use. The foxes continued their game. Ilya was pretty sure they found an actual puck to play with.

Ilya hoped the director got in another usable round or two before he cracked. As he slid into the face-off position, again, he caught Hollander’s eye, an unusual-for-him, yet familiar playful glint there, and Ilya lost it, laughing, unable to contain the giddiness he felt welling up from his daemon.

The director told them to try again. Ilya took a few deep breaths. “My love, this is very unprofessional,” Ilya called, still in Russian.

Unfortunately, Zarya knew Ilya didn’t care about being a professional and didn’t even pause the game.

“Okay, okay. I can do it.” One more deep breath.

He could not do it.

Through a few more takes, Ilya kept laughing, causing Hollander to break too, the two of them doubling over, eyes crinkled and tears welling in the corners.

The director gave up after that and moved on to Hollander’s solo shoot. No one was paying attention to Ilya, and he intended to take advantage of that fact.

Ilya skated over to where he’d first dropped his stuff. The daemons had finally tired themselves out and were sitting in the tunnel on a heating pad that Hollander had clearly left out for his fox, fortunately big enough for two.

Ilya rummaged through his bag, carefully unzipping through the section where the teeth were slightly crooked and another spot where the zipper was starting to separate from the bag. He pulled out a water bowl and filled it up.

Zarya nudged the other fox, who got up and drank first. When she’d finished the bowl, she returned to the heating pad and Zarya took her turn.

“Did you have fun, my fire fox? You know you made my life very difficult. You are lucky I am so handsome; they cannot possibly replace me. Hollander is too boring without me. Everyone would fall asleep during his commercial.”

Though he was speaking to and petting Zarya, and it was her wild, fresh-air scent that reached his nose despite the rink’s odor, he couldn’t take his eyes off the other fox. She was staring at him. There was a heat to it. Ilya thought he could stare into the fox’s eyes forever.

His mother’s eyes stared back at him.

Gazing into them, he could almost hear her cheering him on from the bleachers.

Illyusha! You’re doing so well!

Ilya had spent hours, days — months, maybe — convincing himself it was impossible. Hollander’s daemon could not have his mother’s eyes. They were just hazel. Just bright. Just an indifferent universe fucking with him again.

He wasn’t sure he remembered how to blink. Would gladly forget to stay in this moment.

“Rozanov,” Hollander said, an annoyed edge to his voice. “They’ve been calling you. You’re up.”

Hollander looked between his daemon and Ilya.

“Are you having a starting contest with Ak–“

Hollander choked. “Wi--, with my daemon?”

Ilya had no idea how to explain what he was doing, but had noted with some surprise that Hollander seemed to have almost said his daemon’s name; the first syllable felt like fire to him. Deciding they both deserved a pass from that mess, he stood up and flashed his sexiest smile at Hollander, enjoying the immediate flush that came to Hollander’s cheeks and the pulse he could see flashing in his neck.

Ilya felt it again. That fire building between them, burning up the coolness of the air around him. Ilya felt increasingly sure that Hollander would have enjoyed being pressed into the floor of that gym a year ago.

He decided to push his luck. He stepped forward, only a hair’s breadth from colliding; the other man took half a step back, but Ilya put a hand on his shoulder and the other on his waist. Ilya leaned down and whispered in Hollander’s ear.

“You’re in my way.”

And he deftly pivoted Hollander 90 degrees while smoothly stepping past him and onto the ice, not looking back.

Ilya skated toward the bright lights and told himself the feeling tugging him backwards was only from leaving Zarya behind.    

----

Ilya walked resolutely toward the locker room to clean up. His footsteps echoed loudly in the tunnel like the single thought in his mind: getting Shane Hollander’s phone number. Ilya knew what he wouldn’t admit before the shoot; once wasn’t enough. He wanted Hollander, and he needed to see her again. He couldn’t keep arranging photoshoots; plus, he was hoping for something more intimate for their next rendezvous.

But he knew if he just asked, Hollander would likely refuse. The media was already playing up their rivalry. It would be weird if it got out that they were friends. So, Ilya had a plan. Well, as much of a plan as he ever had.

Ilya knew he couldn’t just come on to Hollander in the shower. Ilya would probably never get within 5 meters of the guy off the ice again if he did that. But he could show off a little. Nothing flashy, just there.

He was about to reach the locker room door when Zarya darted in front of him, blocking his path. Ilya looked down, catching the sharp, dark eyes. In the dim light, it was difficult to tell the difference between the iris and pupil.

“You’re being kind of creepy, you know,” Zarya said in Russian, somehow managing to give him a side eye even though she mostly had to look up to make eye contact.

“Oh, hush, you saw his blush. He’s into me. I just need to get his attention again.”

“You think everyone is into you.”

“Because everyone is! Look at me.”

She did not.

“Ilyusha,” she sighed.

“Don’t you want to play with her again? When was the last time you had so much fun?”

“Of course I do. But I don’t need you for that. Idiot.”

Ilya had no idea what she meant by that. That wasn’t how it worked. He set that thought aside.

“You’re not gross,” she added. “Don’t start pretending like you are now.”

He huffed, and Zarya moved out of the way. He knew Hollander was attracted to him. He might joke with Zarya, but Ilya knew how to read attraction. Ilya was still trading excuses around in his head about why he needed Hollander’s number as he pulled open the door.  

He could hear the water running and the familiar sound of little nails clipping on the tile as they ran and leapt. Ilya set down his worn bag at the other end of the aisle of lockers that Hollander was using. He disrobed quickly and made his way to the open showers.

Zarya kept her tail touching Ilya’s calves as he approached, nose up, scenting the air.

The other daemon was splashing in the water while Hollander ran his hands through his hair, likely rinsing out the last of his shampoo. Ilya smelled seaweed and wished it were his hands running through the thick, dark hair. The daemon stilled as they approached, eyes darting nervously between himself and Zarya.

Ilya picked a shower a little too close to Hollander, but the man didn’t look over. His shoulder stiffened, and his chest stopped rising as deeply. Ilya couldn’t quite tell if he was holding his breath or not.

You’re not trying to pick him up. You just want his attention, Ilya reminded himself. He stepped under the hot water, using his hands to move the water around, making sure to flex gently while he did. He’d kept his back to Hollander and began lathering up the soap to rub across his back. He would bet his signing bonus that Hollander was staring at him. He could practically feel the attraction radiating off of him.

Finally covered in suds, he turned to rinse and caught Hollander’s gaze.

Bingo

Ilya got the blush he was expecting, but Hollander didn’t turn away. He looked like he had his leg caught in a trap, but wasn’t entirely mad about it.

Until this moment, Ilya had kept his gaze soft, generally at Hollander’s face. But if Hollander was openly staring at him, he was more than happy to return the favor. He wanted Hollander to notice the slow perusal of his body.

He had not expected to find Hollander growing hard as he continued to stare.

Ilya’s gaze flew back up. He smirked and cocked an eyebrow suggestively.

“Like what you see?”

That finally seemed to snap Hollander out of it. He turned around quickly.

“Fuck off. It’s nothing. I was thinking about something else.”

Ilya let the lie linger there for a few moments.

He’d already gotten much more than he wanted. But Ilya had his scent now; if Hollander was going to get scared off, he would’ve been already.

Ilya felt himself getting hard.

“What were you thinking about then?”

Hollander whipped around and glared. But far from getting himself under control while his back was turned, Hollander was even thicker.

He was so flustered, Ilya didn’t think he’d noticed that Ilya was in a similar state.

Ilya wanted to make sure he noticed, so he wrapped his hand around himself and began pulling lazy strokes.

Hollander gasped, nostrils flaring and pupils dilating.  

“You,” Hollander whispered, or shouted.

Now, Ilya was sure Hollander was holding his breath. The man’s gaze was too innocent and open to be coy. He looked hungry, like a starving man brought to a buffet with no idea where to begin.

“Do you want to touch me, Hollander?” Ilya took half a step forward in invitation. Ilya had grown since they first met. Hollander, it seemed, had not. Ilya was not close enough to tower over Hollander, but he did lift his chin to look up, jutting it out defiantly.

Hollander’s entire body was flushed; his hand spasming at his side like it was taking all his effort to control it.

“Not here.”

Ilya nodded, knowing he’d found Hollander’s limit. A reasonable limit, and Ilya was annoyed that Hollander was right. But the risk was half the fun.

Ilya turned off the water and wrapped his towel around his waist. He’d have to take an actual shower and wash his hair for real if he wanted any hope of managing his curls, but that was never what this was about.

Zarya and the other fox had walked toward one another. Steam clung to both of their fur, hazing the edges. They were sitting next to one another, fur almost touching one another, tails moving in an uncoordinated rhythm that sometimes meant they nearly brushed one another.

They weren’t playing. He couldn’t even really say they were interacting. They were just there, sitting with their eyes closed.

Together.

For a moment, Ilya couldn’t tell which one was Zarya.

He blamed the steam and looked away quickly.

More uncomfortable than he’d been all day, he headed back to his stuff on the bench. Zarya rubbed her whole body against Ilya’s leg, shot him a playful look, and shook herself, flinging water droplets everywhere. His leg was absolutely covered in fur.

“You did that on purpose,” he said as he began towel-drying Zarya with the rough material. She didn’t tolerate it for long. She preferred to be blow-dried, saying it made her coat shinier. Diva, he thought. Ilya started drying himself off. He squeezed his curls, trying to at least stop them from dripping, and slicked his hair back. It was the best he could manage at the moment. Ilya got dressed slowly. If Hollander thought he could wait out Ilya, he was wrong. Hollander would get cold and have to cave long before Ilya gave up.

About five minutes later, Hollander returned, head down and flush absent from his cheeks. He’d apparently already helped his daemon get dry and began dressing as quickly as possible. She looked quite frizzy, having apparently been subjected to a vigorous towel dry herself.

Ilya waited until Hollander had most of his clothes on before he approached, saying nothing. He wanted to see what Hollander would say before Ilya picked a tactic. But he knew there was an opportunity here and didn’t want to settle for a phone number when he was pretty sure more was on the table.

“Look, man, we can just forget that happened in there, okay?” Hollander said. Ilya assumed he was trying to sound neutral, but it came out breathless. Ilya was really beginning to like seeing the flush rush in under Hollander’s freckles.

Ilya had not fully gotten dressed, wearing only his boxer briefs and dark wash jeans that he’d conveniently not gotten around to buttoning yet.

“Is that what you really want?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah,” he squeaked.

His voice dropped a register.

“Yes, of course,” he tried again.

“Wow, you are a really bad liar. What is your room number?”

“1410,” Shane responded immediately.

Ilya felt himself flush in triumph.

“So if I knock on 1410 around nine o’clock….?”

“I might open.”

“I might knock.”

Ilya tried not to swagger back to his stuff. He didn’t want to look too cocky, but the exasperated twitching of Zarya’s ears let him know he likely wasn’t succeeding.  

He tossed on his shirt, buttoned his jeans, grabbed his packed bag, and left before Hollander could panic and change his mind.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Zarya said.

“I will take that as a compliment.”

He stuck out his tongue.

“You know, he might still change his mind. He seems the type to panic.”

Ilya laughed.

“He does. And he might. We will not do anything he doesn’t want to do. But I will be in his room, maybe more. And I will get his number. There’s always next time.”

Zarya chortled, but then grew serious.

“Be careful, Ilyusha. I don’t want to see you get hurt by this.”

“We share a secret, and also, he is very private. You saw how his daemon hid all draft day. He does not want attention, let alone that kind of attention.”

“You have more at risk than he does. But you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Ilya didn’t miss a step even though it felt like the floor dropped out from under him. He kept walking.

“I never thought I’d see them again.”

Zarya rubbed her face on his leg gently.

“I know, sunshine.” Then in English, she added, “I know.”

Ilya looked down into her rich brown eyes and saw beautiful freckles in his mind’s eye.

He glanced at his watch. He had seven hours until he could knock. Ilya pretended it didn’t feel like a lifetime.  

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Still pulling pretty heavily, especially dialogue, from the book and show.

Shane ran his hands through his hair again. He was honestly surprised he wasn’t pulling out more strands. He wasn’t sure which would wear thin first, his hair or the laminate floor below him that he was currently pacing a track into. The hotel around him was generic. He knew it would blend into the hundreds of hotel rooms he’d already stayed in for hockey, the thousands he would during his career if he followed his plan.

Akane was curled on the chair, red fur making her look like a flame against the light and dark brown chevron. The bumpy texture was unfortunately perfect for her to catch her claws on with every movement. Her tail was twitching too quickly to be relaxed, but she seemed more amused than anything.

“You’re lucky your hair is so thick,” Akane teased. “Wouldn’t want to be patchy when he shows up.”

“I’m not going to answer the door,” he protested. “We’re going to leave or just, just not open.”

“Oh, so you showered, again, shaved, and brushed your teeth to ignore him?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. I liked to be clean.”

“You have on a button-down and a tie,” she exclaimed. “You are ironing your suit jacket.”

God, what was he thinking?

“Listen, answer the door or don’t. It’s up to you. But if you let him in, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Okay. Of course you’re right.” Shane took a deep breath. “I don’t want to do anything. I’m not, not like that, okay?”

She looked at him softly.

“Either way, Shane, tabarnak, take off that suit and put on normal clothes.”

He unplugged the iron and fought the ironing board to close. The screech it made while folding back together made him jump, even though he was the one making the sound.

Shane changed. He wasn’t sure what normal clothes even were. He put on a pair of navy shorts and a Henley. Shane preferred wearing cargo shorts, liking all the pockets, but his mom made him stop and bought him “nicer” clothes when he’d started talking to brands about sponsorships.

“Reebok won’t want you in cargo shorts,” his mom had claimed. Shane couldn’t imagine how it mattered. It wasn’t in the contract she was in the middle of negotiating. He’d read every page. Ultimately, he decided it was easier just to go along with it. As long as the clothes were comfortable, he didn’t actually care what he wore.

Shane turned off the overhead lights and turned on both lamps by the bedside, the standing lamp by the couch and chair in the TV area, and the little desk lamp. None of them matched, and they looked silly together. The room was hit with the last vestiges of sunset. Only a few red streaks remained on the horizon.

He turned on ESPN. A baseball game was being played. Shane didn’t actually care about baseball. He didn’t really care about any sport besides hockey. Sometimes he felt like an imposter “jock.” He didn’t want to watch sports or play in fantasy leagues. He liked to play, though, and became competitive in any physical activity.

Still, he could appreciate the show of athleticism. Watching the players’ elegant muscles move as they ran toward the base or swung their arms to connect the bat with the ball. He told himself it was just their athletic prowess that kept his eyes glued to the TV. It made him disappointed that Rozanov’s form was hidden under a pile of pads while he played. He’d like to see his muscles ripple as he skated, thick legs flexing powerfully as he launched himself across the ice.

Shane shifted on the couch uncomfortably. He should not be thinking about Rozanov or his perfectly shaped ass.

STOP.

Staring at that ass, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to touch it or ask him for his workout routine more. He wondered if he could do both.

STOP!

Shane knew he needed to talk to Rozanov. That’s what he intended to do when he opened the door. He needed to make sure whatever had happened in the locker room never happened again. He might as well just throw a grenade into his career plans if he did something like that again.

He wanted to make a plan to ensure that their daemons were never close enough for someone to see how similar they were or that they wouldn’t try to do something crazy like sneak off together during the game.

Shane had a plan for his life. He had to stick to it. He couldn’t deny how dangerously close to veering off it he’d felt all day today. He could not afford this. His mom constantly reminded him that he was held to a higher standard than other hockey players.

It didn’t matter that he’d never seen Akane so drawn to another daemon, but then again, she’d never spent any time around other foxes. He told himself it was normal that they seemed so attached since they were the same species. In the same environment.

It made sense. It didn’t mean anything.

He was just good at flustering people. He’d already heard him make some really clever chirps. You have to be smart to make jokes and use wordplay in a language you aren’t even fully fluent in. Rozanov got under their skin in wildly inventive ways, and even baited other players into making fun of themselves before they realized what they were saying.

Time flowed around Shane, racing through rapids and slowing through eddies. Shane’s thoughts followed, racing in and out of rabbit holes and anxious spirals. He sat on his hands to keep them out of his hair. His leg bounced up and down relentlessly until Akane came and sat on his lap.

“You’re going to get fur all over my clothes,” Shane protested, but he was glad for the weight of her.

“Somehow,” she drew out the word, “I think he’ll be used to it.”

That shut Shane up.

The minutes of the game ticked by, and Shane felt his world narrowing into one inevitability. One knock on the door. He hated how much he wanted to hear it.

Desperate to distract himself, he blurted out:

“Do you think it’s weird?”

“Do I think what is weird?”

“It. This whole thing. Her. You.”

She looked at him, expectantly.

“Do you?” she queried.

“Of course.”

He hesitated.

“No. No. We’ve met other foxes before. It’s fine.”

Akane didn’t respond. She just nuzzled her face into his chest and lifted her chin so he would scratch under it. He buried his nose in her fur. Stranding tickling it uncomfortably, but he breathed in her familiar aroma. He could never quite describe it. There was something warm and wild about her, a scent that had gotten stronger after she settled as a fox. Its smokiness burned through his anxiety and grounded him in his body. He continued to breathe her in, trying, in vain, to place the other scent; the one he could never describe. Had never quite smelled it anywhere else. Whatever it was, it smelled like home.

---

Shane glared at the clock as if it had personally insulted him.

9:06

No knock.

Maybe he backed out. Shane pretended he felt relieved, thinking Rozanov wasn’t coming.

9:07

The sharp rap at the door made Shane jump out of his skin.

Heart immediately hammering like he was in double overtime, Shane raced toward the door and pulled it open. It slipped from his grasp and slammed into the side wall. Rozanov stepped past him, his daemon quick at his heels.

Shane felt stuck in the same trap as earlier and wondered how he was so caught off guard by someone he had been waiting for hours to see.

As Rozanov slid past him, he narrowly avoided brushing their shoulders together. Shane saw the red hairs clinging to Rozanov’s tight black shirt. The fabric looked soft. Shane wanted to touch it. He had a deep, warm scent that announced itself without being too much. Did he wear cologne? Shane had expected him to smell like cigarettes, but this was a familiar, comfortable scent.

Shane turned, swallowing the saliva coating his mouth. Why was his mouth doing that, he wondered.

He hadn’t said anything. How long had Rozanov been in his room? 30 seconds? 30 minutes?

Shane needed to say something.

He could not remember a single word in any language.

Akane walked over to him and sat on his foot. He realized guiltily that he had unceremoniously dumped her on the floor when he raced to answer the door.

Rozanov was gleeful, clearly enjoying waiting for Shane to speak.

Shane hoped a sinkhole would open up and swallow him.

“Hello,” a quiet but not timid voice called from his foot.

Shane thought his knees were going to buckle.

Akane had never, not once voluntarily talked to anyone besides his parents.

“Why hello, Лисичка,” Rozanov called back.

Shane thought he saw a quick twist of some complex emotion cross his face before his expression settled into something more open and delighted than his usual cocky indifference.

Realizing they were all in one hotel room together gave Shane something else to panic about entirely.

Oh no. What did daemon do when people were hooking up?

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about that before.

He’d had sex before, of course. He had a girlfriend in high school, and he had sex with her because that’s what you did with your girlfriend when her parents were gone. And he enjoyed it, mostly. But it had been a big house, and Akane had left the room and hopped out an open window to curl up under a bush outside.

Shane told himself the somewhat painful tugging he felt from her absence was what stopped him from fully enjoying himself.

But leaving wasn’t an option here.

Oh god

“Something on your mind, Hollander?”

Shane would never admit how much he liked hearing Rozanov say his name with his accent.

Akane wrapped her tail around his legs and raised it up and down soothingly.

He swallowed what he still felt like was entirely too much saliva, but found his voice.

“Well, I think we should talk.”

Rozanov walked up to him, leaving only about a foot between them. Shane should be annoyed by how often he invaded his personal space. Shane hated people crowding him. He definitely hated that Rozanov had continued to grow while he’d stayed stuck just shy of six feet. He hated the way he instinctively looked up at him. Hated how good the heat felt. Hated the way the shirt clung to his biceps. Hated that stupid, perfect mole.

Rozanov gazed into Shane’s eyes, and Shane wondered if a look could burn him alive.

“You invite me up here to talk?” Rozanov managed to make it sound suggestive.

“Yeah,” Shane struggled to keep his voice steady. “We uh, can’t do this. It’s too… too dangerous.”

“Can’t do what? We are doing nothing. Talking.” The crooked smile returned.

Shane didn’t say anything.

Rozanov seemed to lean it without actually moving. Shane felt those hazel eyes on him; he felt like someone was seeing him for the first time.

“That’s what makes it fun, yes?”

Shane put his hand on Rozanov’s bicep, squeezing instinctively. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to hold him off or pull him closer.

Suddenly, his back was against the wall, and Rozanov’s lips were on his. Shane felt like he was taking his very first breath.

After a beat, Rozanov pulled back. A questioning look in his eye.

“Still want to talk?” he drawled.

“No,” Shane breathed out. It felt like a plea.

And then Rozanov’s lips were on his again, hands in his hair, tugging Shane’s head back and deepening the kiss so he could slide his tongue into Shane’s mouth.

Shane realized his hands were under Rozanov’s shirt, and he could feel the densely packed muscles all along his spine. He moved his hands down, toward Rozanov’s belt buckle and paused.

The other man broke their kiss and looked down at him.

“You have not done this before, with a man.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“No, I, uh…” Shane trailed off. “Have you?”

“Yes, my coach’s son, back in Russia.”

“Wow, you do like trouble.”

Rozanov flashed him that crooked smile, but it seemed warmer.

“Relax, Hollander. You will have fun.”

He leaned in and kissed Shane again, a little more gently this time. A warmth grew in Shane’s core and spread through his entire body. He knew the spark between them had finally caught, but rather than feel consumed by it, he felt like it was feeding something inside of him.

---

Shane was going to remember this hotel room for the rest of his life. Burgundy blackout curtains, their hems dusted in red fur, framed the parking lot below. Shane wanted to capture this moment as he watched Rozanov slip into his jeans, the streetlight catching on the gold cross he wore on his neck. Shane now remembered he’d seen it in the shower too, though he hadn’t really been paying attention at that time.

He turned his head around, soaking in the scene. The two foxes were still curled up together on the dark brown couch that had felt too stiff in the back and too broken in the seat at the same time.

Shane took in the whole scene–the gray walls and gray floor that seemed to be the new trend. The mismatched lamps spread across the room that somehow seemed like perfect touches now.

He stared at the blank stretch of wall next to the door where Ilya had pinned him. Shane remembered flipping Ilya to pin him against the door until Ilya had manhandled him onto the bed. God, that was hot.

He thought about how the linen duvet, felt beneath his knees and shins when he’d taken Ilya into his mouth and again on his back when Ilya had done the same.

He didn’t think his head had ever rested on a more perfect pillow.

It was absurd.

He’d just had the best blow job of his life from a man. From Ilya fucking Rozanov.

He wasn’t even sure if he liked the guy.

The guy who beat him in everything.

Fuck, he was even better at giving blow jobs than Shane.

Shit.

Just another thing for Rozanov to hold over his head.

ohgodohgodohgod

He stopped scanning the room and narrowed in on the duvet again; a few threads were loose in the corner. He started to pull on them.

“Hollander, ебать, I can feel your panic. You throw it at me.”

Rozanov sat on the bed by Shane, hand on his thigh. Shane’s thoughts evaporated. Rozanov was fully dressed, but Shane had only managed to pull on his boxers. He felt more exposed than when Rozanov’s mouth was around him.

“No one can know about this,” Shane said.

“What, you think I am going to tell?” Rozanov teased.

“I’m serious.”

Rozanov looked more serious.

“I will not tell anyone, Hollander.”

“And no one can see them together,” he said, glancing over at the foxes. “They might get the wrong impression.”

“Impression?” Ilya asked, trying to make his mouth fit around the word.

“The wrong idea. They might think something about us if they see how similar they are.”

“Plenty of people have foxes. Not big deal.”

Did Ilya really not see it? Well, if Ilya wasn’t going to acknowledge it, Shane sure as fuck wasn’t either.

“I just think it would be easier. Less distracting. For everyone.”

Ilya shook his head noncommittally.

“Seems sad for them,” he said. “They like each other. We must arrange a time to play.”

“For them?” Shane asked incredulously.

“Yes. We play in Montreal in October. If they can’t run around during the game. She will be so sad. I must make it up to her. Make time after the game.”

Shane squirmed.

“We can’t. I don’t want to do that,” Shane protested.

“Hmm, yes. Very boring for me too. Must spend time with Hollander. I must come up with something to do to pass the time.”

He winked, and Shane felt his whole body flush and knew Rozanov saw it too.

“Give me your phone,” Ilya demanded.

“What?”

“You have phone. Give.”

Shane handed it over, watched Ilya scroll through, and thumbed something in.

He handed the phone back to Shane. Rozanov had added his number and texted himself.

He saw the fake name Rozanov had added.

“What should my name be? Shannon?”

Lily

Today 9:52 PM

You

hi

Lily

i had fun tonight jane

Shane rolled his eyes

“I have an early flight tomorrow. I need to go.” Rozanov sounded like he was genuinely sad about that.

“Yeah, sure. No worries.”

Rozanov walked toward the door.

“See you on the ice,” he called, turning back just enough for Shane to see the heated look in his eye.

After the door clicked shut, Shane lay back and closed his eyes. He needed another shower, but the anxiety about the photoshoot had bled into anxiety of seeing Rozanov and settled into bone-deep exhaustion.

Akane’s claws clicked gently on the floor before her weight hit the bed by his feet. He felt her step onto his stomach gently, trying to avoid scratching him with her claws. He usually wanted to have a shirt for that reason, but right now, he needed to feel her against his skin.

He wanted to replace the feeling of Rozanov’s chest hair pressed against his pecs, his hand running down his stomach, but Akane’s fur only heightened it.

After a while, their breathing synced. Shane felt more normal. Not riding the high in the afterglow, nor the anxiety spiral that followed. Just normal. He thought he might regret what happened, but he didn’t.

“So, it seemed like you enjoyed your conversation,” Akane said mildly.

“Oh my god. Fuck off. We did talk.”

“I heard a lot of words, but I don’t think I’d call most of it a conversation.”

Shane refused to respond to that.

She tried again.

“I’m happy for you. I like him.”

“Do you? Because I don’t think that I do.”

“Yeah. You seemed real unhappy over there,” her hazel eyes sparkled and–fuck–it felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

“Hey,” she said, bumping her forehead into his gently. “It doesn’t mean anything that you don’t want it to mean.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. She whined. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her.

Her weight on his chest felt different, like it might try to drag him beneath the waves, and he wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to fight it.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

August 2010

The first time a giant camera flashes in Shane’s eyes, he panics. Frozen like a deer in the headlights.

Shane was out for a run in his neighborhood in Montreal. The neatly trimmed trees dotting the sidewalk were a deep, rich green, and the steady early-morning headwind kept him from overheating. It was early enough that the sidewalk was mostly empty and not yet radiating the midday heat back at him.

He’d just moved in a few weeks ago and was still trying to find a new rhythm, being on his own for the first time. He was just rounding the corner at a café with a few tiny, round tables and chairs that were only occupied by a few cups with coffee stains and crumb-laden plates. Shane was admiring the pastries in the window when the large camera’s flash went off. He’d had his headphones in, so the owner could’ve been calling his name too, but he hadn’t heard.

It took him a moment to even process that someone was taking a picture of him specifically. It’s only when the flash goes off the second time that he fully understands what’s happening.

He’s been running the same route each morning this week, trying to get more comfortable in his new city.

Shane’s face flushed with helplessness and rage. He put his hand up and head down and started running again, picking up his pace. After he was far enough away from the photographer to look a little more comfortable, he felt a sharp tug in his chest. He looked around and didn’t see Akane.

He had a feeling she had spotted the photographer, and ducked into the alley that ran parallel to the road. He ran even faster to try to catch her on the other side.

She was waiting for him at the mouth of the narrow road.

He squatted down next to her. He glanced around. People were walking by, but no one was paying them any particular attention

“Are you okay?” he murmured.

“My paws are disgusting. That alley is basically one giant dumpster.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think that would happen.”

“So modest. Why would anyone want a photo of Montreal’s hottest hockey player?”

She quoted a local magazine that had run a profile on him that had just come out. He’d sat for the interview, but didn’t know that would be the headline. Akane had refused to be included in any way, even going so far as to stay in the car outside.

He turned as red as her coat.

“Did you really not want your picture taken that much?”

“You know I don’t, but I didn’t wade through dumpster juice just to avoid it.”

“Why then?”

“I did it for you.”

Shane didn’t understand, but he sensed this would be a conversation better finished at home.

“Do you want to find a washroom somewhere or just get cleaned up at home?”

“Home, please. If my paws are wet on this sidewalk, I’ll likely end up in worse shape.”

They kept running. Shane’s mind finally caught up to what Akane had put together weeks ago.

Rozanov and his fox had already been papped a dozen times in the past few weeks. He was providing the hockey world with a lot of preseason entertainment. Being seen out with a new model/actress or actress/model most nights.

Shane was already getting stopped by diehard fans who recognized him on the streets.  But this was the first time a random photographer had taken his photo, and he couldn’t believe he’d deluded himself into thinking that it would be enough to keep the daemon apart at games.

If Shane had stopped to think for one minute that paparazzi might take his picture, he would’ve realized what a problem this would quickly become. There was no way he could keep her out of pictures forever. It was only a matter of time.

Everyone would know.

As he ran, his mind put together a list of increasingly bad options.

There had to be a solution here that they could both live with. Akane genuinely hated the spotlight. She only sat in family photos to humor Yuna.

When they got back to his apartment, he wiped her paws with the wet wipes he kept by the door for exactly this purpose. It had been a routine as long as he’d been able to remember. Clean paws inside.

“Full shower or just the paws?”

“Just the paws. Didn’t even work up a sweat today. You’re getting slow.”

Shane huffed.

They padded across the grey, wooden floor. When he’d toured the play with his parents, the agent had made a point to emphasize the sustainable hardwood and said they would apply an extra scratch-resistant coating before he moved in. That had offended Akane. She was far too careful to ever scratch the floor.

Shane’s eyes took in his apartment. It was nice enough, and came fully furnished. The kitchen, living room, and dining room were all open concept, flowing into one another as he crossed through the space into his bedroom in the back.

The whole place was grey. Grey walls, grey floors, grey furniture. The agent had called it a “clean, modern aesthetic.” Shane had nodded like he understood what that meant. He couldn’t understand what was supposed to be clean about the absence of color. But everything was brand new, so it was technically very clean.

When Shane was signing the lease, the agent had asked which style of wall art would best suit his taste. She’d paused longest on the “Asian fusion” wall art options, glancing at him expectantly. He’d stammered until his mom picked one. He’d agreed without looking.

The big windows were nice. The sunlight that streamed in every morning was lovely, but the view wasn’t particularly interesting, just other buildings over a not-too-busy street.

His bedroom was better. He’d bought a few plants that could go a while without being watered and brought photos and trophies from his house–his parents’ house, rather–in Ottawa. This space felt like him.

He turned on the shower, letting it heat up, and started filling the small tub meant just for Akane. He only filled it up a few inches and added a splash of her favorite soap, and its pine scent filled the air briefly, but didn’t linger when he capped the bottle. Instead, her slightly smoky scent wrapped its way to him.

Shane cleaned himself off, and when he was almost done, he heard her splashing around in the water. He shut off the rainfall shower and wrapped a towel around himself. He grabbed the soft microfiber towel next to the tub and began a deeper clean of her paws.

The bathroom wasn’t large, and the steam hung heavy in the air. The mirrors and small window were completely fogged over. The light from the windows was diffuse but still hit Akane’s fur enough to give her a burnished gold appearance through the haze.

The warm water and task of cleaning Akane had briefly distracted him, but now all the panic he’d felt building during his run hit him full force.

This situation felt like a ticking time bomb.

He should just quit the team now, instead of waiting for it all to blow up in his face.

“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”

He looked at her. He didn’t need to say anything.

“How long have you been holding this back from me?”

“Since they asked if I wanted to be in the magazine.”

Two weeks ago. She’d been waiting for him to catch up to her for two weeks.

“What do we do?” his voice broke on the last syllable.

“What can we do?”

“People will notice. It’ll be all they talk about. Photos of you two will be everywhere.”

Their one difference would be clear as day. Shane didn't know how exactly people would interpret it. But they would know there was something there. A huge story.

“It doesn’t mean anything you don’t want it to mean,” she told him again.

“That’s not true,” he snapped at her. “Once this gets out, it’ll mean whatever they say it means. The media, my teammates, my coaches, my parents. I won’t get to decide ANYTHING.”

“They don’t get to define you.”

“Hockey defines me. And they define hockey. So yes, yes, they do.”

He broke, sobbing, grabbing onto Akane’s fur. He leaned down, and she hooked her head around his neck. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way. The steam had cleared, and the water had evaporated from Shane’s body. Her fur was wet with tears, turning it a deep, dark red that reminded Shane of the final gasp of sunset.

He didn’t feel better when they broke apart. He simply had run out of tears.

---

Half the kitchen cabinets were left ajar, and Shane was standing in front of the open fridge, looking for… something. He couldn’t remember. He knew it was in the kitchen.

Lunch? Had he eaten lunch? He vaguely remembered eating miso salmon and greens, but couldn’t tell if it was a memory from yesterday or moments ago. He wasn’t hungry, so he assumed he wasn’t looking for food.

Shane looked around his apartment for inspiration, but his grey walls reminded him more of an asylum than anything else.

The TV caught his eye. Rose Landry was running through the streets in a bright red evening gown. He’d already watched this movie a few days ago and had enjoyed it. He hadn’t sent the Netflix disk back, so he’d hoped the fast-paced action and attractive woman would hold his attention, but it seemed like nothing would at this point.

Akane had been sleeping on the bed since the bath. Or trying to sleep. Shane wasn’t sure she’d be able to with how keyed up he was, and he felt guilty about that. Maybe he should try to meditate, but he didn’t really know how to. Maybe there was a YouTube video about it?

Akane jumped up next to him on the couch. When had he sat down?

He glanced at her miserably.

“What do you want to do?” She asked.

“What can we do?”

“Shut up,” she barked. “Panicking’s not helpful.”

Shane remained silent. His brainstormed list of solutions started with keeping Akane in her carrier backpack anytime they went out in public for the next 20 years and ended with him murdering Ilya Rozanov.

“I have an idea,” she sounded resigned.

He waited.

“You could dye my fur. If the diamond is covered and my tail has a smaller white tip, no one will look at either of us any closer. We’re just two foxes.”

He blanched.

“No way, I’d rather kill Rozanov.”

She flattened her ears.

“You’d rather do what?”

“It was on my list of solutions to this problem.”

She glared at him.

“Well, it wasn’t high on the list.”

 She continued to glare.

He shuddered. Soul alteration. It was done. By anyone, not unless they were desperate. Or lost.

“You can’t mean that. I couldn’t.”

“You could. It was my idea. It’s kind of the perfect time. You haven’t met your new team yet. There are hardly any photos of me anywhere besides the house. No one will notice.”

“Mom and Dad will notice.”

He took a shallow breath. 

I’ll notice,” he added, quieter.

He looked around, maybe hoping to find an answer tucked behind the cabinet doors that were still open. There wasn’t one.

“Would it hurt you?” he asked.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

He didn’t know if he believed her.

He shook his head, tears welling in his eyes again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He reached out, brushing the white diamond above her eyes.

The tears fell again, and with them came a sense of calm that hadn’t been there since the camera flash.

He wasn’t sure if he was crying from relief or guilt— only that for the first time all afternoon, he could breathe.

---

Shane and Akane sat on the bathroom floor again. There wasn’t any warm steam enveloping them this time, but the air still felt heavy. He laid out a bunch of newspapers to protect the floor, and it crinkled awkwardly as he shifted uncomfortably. Dully, he realized the newspaper print was rubbing off on his socks.

Shane had already been to a beauty supply store and told the woman he wanted to dye a streak of his hair to match his daemon. She raised one eye before schooling her face into something more professional. The woman told him to go to a salon since his hair was so dark, but he insisted. He had to buy a bottle of bleach, which he didn’t need since her fur didn’t require bleaching.

Shane looked at Akane, trying to soak her in.

The diamond on Akane’s face started at the bridge of her nose, between her eyes, and extended up through the curve of her forehead, slightly more rounded at the top like a gem in a setting. He always thought it looked deliberate– As if something had reached down and pressed a thumbprint there.  The diamond itself was dappled, silver-white fur interspersed with red, but it stood out. The rest of her forehead and cheeks had almost no silver. The pure red coloring continued between her ears and down her back. On her sides, the silver fur returned until yielding fully to the white of her belly.

He had already brushed her stomach and used the shed fur to test the color. It was slightly darker than her fur, so they talked about taking the color past the diamond to between her ears, hoping that would make the color fade out.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

He didn’t ask if she wanted to change her mind. Wasn’t sure what he’d do if she did.

“Yes,” she said steadily.

He put on the cheap plastic gloves and grabbed the small brush.

Shane had never excelled at any sort of art, but his hand was mostly steady. He dipped the brush into the dye and met her gaze. She closed her eyes, and he tried not to think about when he last saw their twins. For a moment, he swore he heard the heavy hotel room door click shut again.

He brought his left thumb to her forehead and brushed the white diamond one last time.

The fur was softer there. It always had been.

It won’t be forever, he thought.

But it felt like a life sentence.

Gently, he removed his thumb and touched the brush to her fur and watched the dye transfer.

His whole body shuddered, and her face tightened.

He pulled the brush away.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered so quietly he wasn’t sure if she would hear him.

“No, it just feels…”

Her nose wrinkled.

Wrong.

Acid rose in his throat.

“Take a deep breath.” Somehow, she was the one comforting him. “Keep going. I don’t want to drag this out.”

Shane moved quickly, running the brush over her nose and forehead. As the brush ran out of color, he moved it backward, between her ears, hoping it wouldn’t be too streaky.

Done

Shane set a timer. Akane kept her eyes closed.

They didn’t speak.

When the time was up, Shane tilted her head back and very, very carefully began rinsing out the dye, ensuring none of it got in her eyes.

He gently patted her dry, running the cloth between her eyes over and over.

He finally moved the cloth away and took her in. He dry heaved.

“That bad, huh?” she inquired.

“You look fine.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Do you want me to get the mirror?”

“No,” her voice shook.

She kept her gaze down. None of her wild, warm scent reached him — only the sharp chemical tang of the dye. He felt like someone had poured acid on his skin.

Still lithe and graceful, she carefully stepped around him and slipped into the bedroom. Shane heard the faint rustle as she slipped under the bed skirt.

When he was little, he kept a cushion under his bed for her, so she could retreat when she felt overwhelmed. She hadn’t needed it for many years.

Shane forced himself to get up, grabbed workout clothes, and headed to the gym two floors down. It was farther from her than was truly comfortable.

He was feeling such a whirlwind of emotions that the persistent tugging on his soul didn’t register as acutely as it usually did.

He hopped onto a stationary bike and rode for far longer than he should’ve. Development Camp starts next week, and he should’ve been training smarter. But he didn’t care. He needed the burn, as if he moved his legs fast enough, he could hope to outpace everything that was plaguing him.

Instead, he added a calf cramp to his growing list of mistakes that day.

---

September 2010

Development camp had provided a much-needed distraction to the unease that covered every surface in his apartment. He’d never lived somewhere that felt so tense and artificial.

During camp, he had officially secured a spot on the Metros roster for the 2010-2011 season. It wasn’t a surprise but was still a relief.

Dying Akane’s fur turned out to be a prudent decision. That photograph that sparked it all was only the beginning. Though he was rarely followed by actual paparazzi, since he never did anything overly interesting, he was getting recognized more and more. He did his best not to mind the constant interruptions and behave politely to his growing fan base.

 He had already had to touch up the dye once. It had started to fade slightly at three weeks.

Today was the day he dreaded the most. He’d avoided seeing his parents since he’d dyed Akane’s fur. It was the longest he’d gone without seeing them. He had claimed exhaustion and stress of starting training as his excuse, but he couldn’t put him off any longer. The first game of the season was tomorrow night against Ottawa. They always went out to dinner the night before his first game.

He was pretty confident his mom would literally cave in his door if he didn’t let her in today. He knew the fallout would be bad. Half of him wished Akane could just stay in his bedroom for their whole visit, but dinner was too far. Plus, he knew they would notice eventually. Akane had already been caught in a few photos. He wanted to get it over with.

They knocked as they opened the door, and Shane felt the dread settle in. He went to them and was greeted in a flurry of hugs and cheek kisses. His mom had brought him another plant that she said would look perfect hanging in his window. His mother’s raven hovered overhead, and his father’s lynx walked ahead to claim the spot on the couch still bathed in sunlight.  

He heard Akane padding up behind him. His parents turned to greet her.

“Hey there Akan– ”

She dropped the plant.

Her daemon swooped to her shoulder.

Both his parents gaped at Akane.

Shane stared at the floor, eyes stinging with tears.

“お日様, what happened?” his mom asked.

Shane flinched at his childhood nickname. He hadn't heard it in so long that he forgot what it actually meant.

“Hey, son. It’s okay. Just tell us what’s going on,” his dad said, while putting a hand on his shoulder.

Shane couldn’t remember his carefully rehearsed explanations. He’d had some media training and had learned how to use a bunch of words to say almost nothing.

“It was my idea,” Akane cut in.

His parents waited, the silence cutting into all of them.

“I felt too… exposed. Showing the world something that isn’t for them. We were trying to remove a distraction.”

Shane could feel how carefully she chose her words. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

“I understand the attention can be overwhelming, but surely there’s another solution,” his mom said reasonably. “Any reputable news source wouldn’t use photos of Akane if you made your preferences known.”

Shane stiffened. He’d expected this.

“I know, Mom. It’s not enough.”

“But,” his mom began.

“Stop!” Shane felt like he was on the verge of shouting at his parents for the first time in his life.

“Neither of you knows what it feels like. The invasion of seeing photos of yourself online that you didn’t even know were being taken.”

His mom was maybe going to say something, but his dad put his hand on her shoulder.

“I just want to play hockey.”

“That sounds tough, Shane,” his dad said. “You’re right. We don’t know what it’s like. I won’t pretend I understand this choice you too have made, but I love you.”

“We both do,” his mom added. “I love you so much. Whatever you need.”

He wanted to tell them the rest, the whole truth. But how could he explain something he couldn’t begin to understand?

 His dad changed the subject to how much ice time Shane thought he would get in the first game, and he started telling them about his teammates as they made their way to the couch. Even as they talked casually, he could feel their watchful gazes, like they were seeing him for the first time. Absently, his dad turned on the Boston vs New York game, and Shane hoped like hell none of the coverage would include Rozanov’s daemon.

Chapter End Notes

The foxes' diamond above the bridge of their nose is partially inspired by my childhood cat who had fully had a white diamond on her forehead. Fox markings seem to be a bit more subtle, so I used this photo as inspo (https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQZWurF_vPFTR8bn_YLDeAej4F0ygILvwwIMg&s) obviously that fox has a lot more white on its face, but that bit between the eyes is what I'm imaging. Also aww cute fox. I'm pretty sure this image isn't AI but it's so hard to tell these days.

Chapter 6

October 2010

“Rozanov, take the face off.”

Ilya didn’t pretend not to enjoy the crowd at the Bell Center booing him when he stepped onto the ice. He waved to the crowd and put his hand against his helmet, by his ear, hoping to drive them to a frenzy. 

It didn’t take much; Montreal hated Boston, and he was quickly becoming the face of Raiders' hockey. 

Ilya soaked in the crowd’s energy. He felt it pouring out of them, all directed at him. Love or hate didn’t matter as much. It all made him feel more alive. Turning slowly, he saw most people were on their feet, faces a sea of vitriol. One man near the front held both his middle fingers toward Ilya. Ilya blew him a kiss.

The game was tied 2-2 with a little under 5 minutes left.

This was the first Rozanov vs. Hollander face-off of their NHL career, or as the media had been calling it, “the Foxfire Rivalry.”

The roar of the crowd faded out as he locked eyes with Hollander. There was no blush under his steely, dark eyes.

“Shane Hollander, will you disappoint them?”

“Nope.”

The puck dropped.

---

Ilya tried to relax his jaw and shoulders, but he’d failed to do that for the past hour. He was pissed. He’d been pacing outside the locker room and snapping at his teammates when they invited him out after the game.

First, he’d lost the face-off to Hollander. Then they’d lost the game in overtime. Hollander had scored the winning goal.

He didn’t blame his team; they’d played well.

He could almost hear the growl in his ear, “It’s your job to win.”

But the cherry on top was that Hollander was not texting him back. Before the game, he’d texted Hollander a picture of the yoga ball in the hotel gym, cheekily asking if he should bring it later. He didn’t make much of Hollander’s lack of response. He was probably getting ready for the game.

But once their media appearances were over, he’d texted again-already breaking his no double texting rule–asking for Hollander’s address.

Ilya wanted to call him, but didn’t want to seem desperate.

Fuck

He was desperate.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been ignored by a hook-up before. It wasn’t like he ever had a hard time finding someone else.

But this felt different, personal somehow.

Fucking Hollander. There was no way he was leaving the arena without a way to find him.

Ilya needed a plan.

---

Ilya headed to the parking lot, following a few Metros players from their locker room to see where they parked. The Bell Center made Ilya’s skin crawl, as if, as a Boston player, he was allergic to the M logo and fleur-de-lis.

Ignoring the repulsion he felt radiating all around him, he managed to feel pretty pleased with himself. He’d ambushed his coaches with a tale of homesickness and trying to connect with an old friend from Russia who was at the game. He’d let just enough of his very real desperation creep into his voice to sell his story.

They’d let him skip the team bus ride back to the hotel, but told him curfew was strict. He only had a few hours. It’d have to be enough.

He scoped out the parking lot. It was a nondescript gated lot with tall, chain-link fences surrounded by hedges providing privacy in the staff-only lot. The stars above were blotted out by the clouds hanging high in the sky. They weren’t quite thick enough to block out the thumbnail moon’s hazy glow, though the fingernail sliver provided little light.

He surveyed the cars. The lot was quite full, meaning he likely hadn’t missed anyone leaving.

 Which one was Hollander’s?

The lot was littered with brightly colored sports cars and lifted trucks that seemed more hazardous than practical. Ilya examined a bright red Audi he had debated ordering himself and wondered if he should reconsider getting one.  

None of those would be Hollander’s. Ilya found the most boring car in the parking lot and glanced in it.

Car seat.

Not Hollander’s.

Second most boring?

Black, nondescript Jeep. Check

Incredibly clean. Check

Ontario plates. Check

Ilya heard another group of players approaching, dragging footsteps weary from exhaustion at odds with their raucous energy and loud plans to celebrate. He stepped behind a large truck so he wouldn’t be spotted.

This was roughly the extent of Ilya’s plan. He wasn’t sure what he would do if Hollander were with a group. It wasn’t like he could just walk up to him in front of a bunch of people. They were supposed to hate each other. Right now, he kind of did hate him.

Maybe he could use Zarya to get his attention?

“You’re being creepy again,” Zarya said in Russian.

He scooped her up briefly, burying his nose in her fur and rubbing her head in a way that was more of a noogie than a pet. He breathed in her clean, fresh scent that was at sharp odds with the petrol that lingered.

“I’m doing this for you,” he replied tersely.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

 Ilya didn’t have to wait long. He heard Hollander approaching, alone, judging by the sound of the steps, saying something in French that Ilya couldn’t quite hear.

“…ne fonctionnera pas,” he heard the daemon say.

Ilya moved so that he was leaning against the passenger side door when Hollander approached and looked up.

“Jesus Christ, Rozanov,” Shane said shakily. He looked pale, eyes wide with shock. His fox was tucked behind his bag, almost completely hidden.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I think you know,” Ilya feigned nonchalance he didn't feel. Ilya’s heart leapt at the blush creeping under those beautiful freckles. Ilya wanted to reach out and touch each of them individually.

“You can’t take a fucking hint? I don’t want to see you again.”

Shane was nearly shouting, his words echoing off the nearby building. He glanced around nervously, shoulders stiff. The lot was mercifully empty.

“But she was so sad,” he said, gesturing to Zarya. “I told you. I have to make it up to her. She was good girl all game.”

Shane started moving toward the car again.

“Fuck off.”

Shane started opening the door for his fox and getting in the car. Ilya, never one to do anything by half, did the same.

Hollander’s car smelled new. Ilya practically rolled his eyes at how boring it was. Hollander had already put down his all-weather mats, though they appeared unfamiliar with the concept of dirt. Not even a ring on dried condensation in a cup holder.

Hollander’s jaw dropped; his eyes were harder than Ilya had ever seen them on the ice. Ilya wondered if Hollander was about to punch him. Ilya felt a profound sense of uneasiness he couldn’t place.

The passion written across Hollander’s face shot straight to Ilya’s core. He returned Hollander’s fervor, biting his lip. Hollander’s gaze lingered on his lips, eyes losing none of their intensity, instead adding a hungry heat.

“Get out of my car.”

Ilya leaned across the console.

“I don’t think is what you want,” he said while bringing his palm to Hollander’s face, thumb brushing his cheekbones. Ilya didn’t remember deciding to touch his face like that. He watched Hollander’s pupils blow wide.

Hollander lunged at him, lips colliding inelegantly. Hollander grabbed a fistful of Ilya’s jacket, tugging him closer while Ilya slid his hand to the back of Hollander’s head, feeling his still shower-damp hair wind between his fingers, to press them together.

The kiss didn’t last long. They broke apart, both already panting.

Ilya raised his eyebrows.

“So should I suck you off here, or…”

Shane didn’t say anything, some mixture of emotions crossing his face too quickly for Ilya to parse them. Ilya slowly dragged the tips of his fingers up Hollander’s thigh. He felt the other man shudder.

Hollander didn’t say anything, just put his car in reverse and exited the parking lot.

They didn’t say much on the drive. The streets blended in a blur of chain restaurants, on ramps, and street signs. Hollander asked which hotel Ilya was staying in and navigated to another one nearby.

Half of the lights were out in the hotel’s neon sign, and the parking lot was scattered with trash. He told Ilya to get a room and text him the number. Ilya was half afraid that Hollander was going to drive away once Ilya was out of eyesight, but there was a knock on his door a few minutes after he sent the number. Based on the state of Hollander’s car, if he’d spent half a second looking around the room, he would have been disgusted. The carpet was stained and visibly worn. The bedspread was likely older than either one of them, and the room’s ceiling and paint clearly remembered the time when smoking inside was allowed.

But Hollander didn’t look around. Ilya had hardly opened the door when Hollander flew in, stepped out of his shoes, and threw himself at Ilya. He felt his own face flush at how riled up Hollander was. The inexplicable feeling of wrongness had followed him to the hotel. But he had Hollander’s lip between his teeth, drawing angry kitten noises out of him. Ilya wanted to see how far he could push him.

“On your knees,” Ilya commanded.

He expected Hollander to tell him to go fuck himself or something and felt a flicker of surprise at how face Hollander sank down and started undoing the belt on his dress pants. He heard Zarya’s rumbling growl cut through the room. It was drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

---

Before Ilya’s heart had stopped pounding, Hollander had sprung out of bed and was looking for his clothes. Ilya was still surprised by their state. The first time they hooked up, Hollander had folded all of his clothes when he took them off. This time, though his underwear was dangling at the foot of the bed, his pants were kicked inside out by the desk, and his shirt, somehow, was on a chair on the opposite side of the room. Ilya was uncomfortable with how much the sight bothered him. He reached over and tugged on Hollander’s arm with enough force to maybe knock him a little off balance, but not enough to actually pull him over.

Hollander fell back into the bed anyway, landing awkwardly on a pillow in the middle of the bed, bristling slightly at the scratchy sheets beneath him.

“What’s the rush?” Ilya asked. “They have hardly had time together.”

Ilya’s attention moved to the daemon for the first time, finally registering the feeling of profound wrongness that had been plaguing him. The room was dark; they hadn’t paused to turn on any lights, so the only light was from outside, filtered through the gauzy curtains. It was enough for Ilya to see that the two foxes were curled into tight balls at the opposite end of the couch.

Ilya moved to hit the light switch next to the bed.

“Stop,” Hollander said, and lunged at Ilya.

He wasn’t fast enough, and the lights clicked on. The fluorescent lights momentarily blinded Ilya, but his body was reacting before he could even fully tell what he was looking at.

Bile rose in Ilya’s throat. He was sure that if he’d eaten since the game, he would’ve been sick.

“Impure,” Zarya said in Russian.

He couldn’t force air into his lungs. Something was profoundly wrong with Hollander’s daemon, but it took him a moment to figure out what.

Blinking, his eyes finally caught up with him, and he saw the conspicuous lack of a white diamond on her face. He studied her carefully. The eyes hadn’t changed, but that wasn’t as much of a relief as he expected it to be.

Ilya turned sharply to Hollander, who had frozen halfway through his lunge across the bed. Ilya scrambled up and away from him.

“What did you do to her?”

Nothing

“Why would you do such a thing?”

Still nothing.

Hollander met his gaze, but his eyes were empty.

Ilya’s knees were weak. He felt as if someone had reached in and cleaved his soul in two.

Zarya rubbed her face into his calf, tail twitching violently against the carpet like a spark trying to catch.

“He doesn’t speak Russian, sunshine,” Zarya said.

Some emotions, it seemed, didn’t need words to be understood. Ilya saw the tears welling in Hollander’s eyes.

His daemon jumped on the bed and moved close to Hollander, but not touching. Ilya saw his hand twitch toward her, but stopped and seemed to think better of it.

The fox looked him directly in the eye. He was getting what he had schemed and planned for but in the worst possible way. Ilya could practically smell the chemical dye seeping through the heavy smell of sex and old carpet.

“We did this. We made a choice,” the fox explained calmly. “We did this in part for us, but in part for you.”

Ilya’s vision turned red. He fought his brain for English and his body for calm.

He lost both fights.

“ME?” he gasped. “I never... I don’t ask.”

He took a shuddering breath.

“It is wrong,” he declared, voice still trembling.

Hollander had sat up on the bed and turned to face away from Ilya.

“I know,” he whispered.

Ilya could barely hear him, and that only enraged him further. Where did he get off acting like the victim in this? Not when he’d–Ilya couldn’t finish the thought.

“Why,” Ilya said, more a demand than a question.

“Why do you think?”

Ilya couldn’t think. His body was still flashing hot and cold.

“They’re identical. People were going to notice. I had to do something.”

Ilya sat down on the bed, vaguely aware his naked ass was half on the bedspread that likely hadn’t been washed this decade. Zarya hopped up next to him, and he ran his thumb over the bridge of her nose, up between her ears. Her fur felt soft and warm under his fingers. Ilya had always thought she was so warm and vibrant; she must truly have foxfire within her. And Hollander had sealed his away.

“They might still notice. The eyes,” Hollander’s voice broke on the last word.

Ilya stiffened; his toes curled into the carpet, trapping loose fibers between his toes. He was so angry at what Hollander had done, but beneath that, he felt unbearably grateful. The rumors about their connection that would circulate if this got out would likely prevent him from ever going back to Russia safely. But it might also be enough to cost them their careers, which would mean he would have to return to Russia. He tried to shove down this foreign tenderness toward Hollander and focus on the anger.

He shivered. He didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t want to reveal too much.

Hollander, however, didn’t seem to need any encouragement. The words poured out of him.

“There’s already so much fucking scrutiny on us, comparing every aspect of our games and our lives. It would take everyone to fucking seconds to notice we have identical daemons with fucking swapped eyes.”

Ilya only caught about half of the words at Hollander’s clipped speed and understood even less of them.

“Swapped eyes?” He asked, wanting to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“YES,” Hollander roared. “Stop pretending you don’t see it. She has… My daemon has…”

He didn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence. Ilya was glad he was still facing away from Hollander. He dug his feet into the carpet again.

He was still moving his thumb across Zarya’s face. His other, he realized, was digging into his own thighs.

The words seemed to claw their way out of Ilya’s throat.

“She has my mother’s eyes,” his voice shaking with the betrayal.

His whole body was shaking, in fact. Zarya crawled into his lap, wrapping her tail around his torso and gliding it gently up and down his back.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Rozanov?” Shane somehow sounded angrier than at any other point that night. “Please tell me you’re not that fucking stupid.”

Zarya growled at the same moment the other daemon let out a whine.

Hollander took a deep breath.

“Don’t,” Ilya pleaded.

“They’re not your mom’s fucking eyes, Rozanov. They’re your goddamn eyes, staring at me every day of my whole fucking life.”

Ilya felt a crack widen inside himself that had been there since he first saw his mother’s too pale arm dangling off the bed.

There was a reason his father and Alexei had barely met his eyes once in the past seven years. Ilya looked like his mother. Had her hazel eyes.

He’d seen the truth every time he looked into Zarya’s eyes and saw Hollander’s freckles looking back at him.

He just needed it to be his mother's.

To feel like he had some real connection to her besides the cross he wore around his neck.

Ilya didn’t realize Hollander had moved to sit next to him on the side of the bed until he felt a hand on his shoulder, warm and dry, rough calluses scraping pleasantly on his skin.

“Is your mom…” Hollander let the sentence hang.

“Yes. Dead.”

Ilya turned his face away to hide the hot tears leaking down his cheek. Hollander made a sound like he was going to continue speaking, but saw Ilya was crying. He felt Zarya shift off his lap and hop down from the bed as Hollander straddled him, wrapping his arms around Ilya and rocking slowly.

The wrongness still sat under his skin, raw and buzzing, but it dulled in Hollander’s arms. He didn’t shed many tears, but they stayed like that for a long time. Ilya adored this feeling, and for just a moment, allowed himself to fall into the unguarded comfort that Hollander offered him.

Hollander pulled back and gazed into his eyes. Ilya brought his hand to trace his freckles. Hollander leaned into his hand for a moment and then placed a tender kiss between Ilya’s brows.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into Ilya’s forehead.

He then peppered his face and neck with kisses, eventually working his way down Ilya’s body.

Afterward, Ilya was pulling on his clothing and watching Hollander do the same with no small amount of regret. But he was already pushing curfew. He saw Hollander finally surveying the room, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Ilya looked between the foxes. They had sat closer together, but not like the first time.

“I will bring a yoga ball next time,” he said to Shane’s daemon, and she smiled back at him sadly.

“I’d like that,” she said.

Zarya stood on the couch and stretched, weight shifting backward into a down-dog position, before shifting to tilt her head up and straighten out her back legs, one at a time.

“Next time?” Shane said with what Ilya felt was an insulting level of incredulity.

“Don’t make me find you again. Or you will be in big trouble. I have plans for you.”

Ilya saw his throat move in an almost-audible gulp and felt the rush of wariness and arousal slam into him.

“Plans?” Hollander whispered.

“Big plans,” and he glanced lewdly down at himself. “I think you’d like it.”

He saw Hollander’s breathing pick up.

“I would?” he cleared his throat. “I uh, okay, I guess…”

Ilya winked at him and was rewarded when Hollander turned as red as his fox.

---

Dec 2010

Steady bright lights shone in Ilya’s eyes as he approached the media scrum. He sat down in a chair that seemed unreasonably squeaky. He had to hold himself perfectly still, or the mics would pick up the creaking. He never understood how the team could pay him millions of dollars and not replace a fucking chair.

The intensity of the lights meant Ilya couldn’t really see the reporters in front of him. But he could feel them. Their eagerness, their expectation thrummed into him. It excited him and set him on edge at the same time.

Though the room was large, it was hot under the lights, and the air conditioning was turned off so the cameras wouldn’t pick up the noise. He felt sweat bead on his brow and one drop run down the back of his neck, under his white shirt collar.  

“Ilya, tonight is the second round of the so-called Foxfire rivalry. You lost the first round to Hollander and the Metros. How are you feeling about facing him again tonight?”

“He is goalie now, yes?”

The reporters laughed, and the questions kept coming, pelting him. All were trying to chip away at him, seeing if they could get under his skin.

Eventually, Maria, the media director, cuts in and says time is up.

“My hero,” Ilya says into the mics, bowing in her direction.

---

After the first period of the game is over, Zarya doesn’t find him like she usually would. He suspects he knows, if not where she is, then at least who she is with. He wonders if Hollander will be pissed.

On the bench, Ilya feels invigorated from the crisp smell of ice still present despite the inescapable scent of twenty sweat-drenched bodies marinating in heavy padding. The roaring support of the crowd fills his ears, and he can’t help the smile creeping onto his lips. He lives for this.

A few minutes into the second period, Ilya heads back onto the ice. To the home crowd’s delight, he wins the faceoff against Hollander.

Racing down the ice, he feels Hollander breathing down his neck but manages to keep control of the puck until he can connect a pass with Marlow.

The tugging he feels in his chest told him Zarya was far. But like the last time she snuck off with the other fox, it’s duller than it would normally be. And nestled next to the pulling is a rapidly expanding tapestry of ecstasy and peace, only slightly marred by threads of uneasiness scattered throughout. 

Ilya is almost untouchable for the rest of the game. The only person who can keep pace with him is Hollander. They take turns slamming each other into the boards and scoring. Each time they're on the ice together, Ilya feels the current between them grow stronger, like a field repelling everyone else until they might as well be alone on the ice.

Boston wins the game.

When Hollander texts him a room number and the name of a hotel, Ilya can’t decide if he prefers the version of Hollander flush with victory or angry from defeat in his bed, and wonders uncomfortably if any version of him wishes he could stay. 

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

I meant to include this note earlier, but here we are. Obviously, show canon Shane canonically has autism, and book Shane is autism coded, but IMO not necessarily an intentional depiction of a character on the spectrum. All this to say, I didn't go the autism route directly, instead giving Shane my flavor of neurodivergence, which still has a lot of sensory overwhelm and anxiety, but is different than ASD. But if this seems like an inaccurate or halfhearted attempt at depicting the spectrum, it's because that's not what I was going for. The feedback I kept getting on Shane's chapters was "too much sensory detail," and I was like I KNOW!! THIS IS MY LIFE. But I did tone it down for readability.

June 2011

Shane’s rookie season had settled into a predictable rhythm.

Workouts, dinner with parents, practices, travel for games, dyeing Akane’s fur, hooking up with Rozanov.

Rinse. Repeat.

All completely, totally normal things that everyone does, he told himself in the rare instance he had a moment to stop and think about it.

He hadn’t learned to ignore the wrongness he felt with Akane, but he had learned to live with it.

He had even been selected to go to the All-Star Game this year.

The Metros had barely secured a Wildcard spot in the playoffs for the first time in four years, but they lost in the first round. Shane felt the disappointment from the fans, his coaches, and his team like a lead balloon in his chest. Every game. Every missed pass. Every goal not scored. It piled together. He couldn’t put it down.

To distract himself, his mind wandered down a well-worn path. After the debacle with Rozanov seeing Akane’s dyed fur for the first time, Shane truly wasn’t sure if he’d see him again. But Rozanov had been relentless in texting, or if he was honest, sexting Shane.

The texts were bold and direct, just like the man himself. He told Shane he wanted to fuck him the next time they met, and Shane pretended to let Rozanov talk him into it, feigning nonchalance that he knew Rozanov didn’t buy.

When they had met the next time, Rozanov had been so gentle that Shane was almost astonished he was with the same man who slammed him into the board and caught him with an illegal high stick just a few hours before. He felt an unbearable fondness when he thought about how patient Rozanov had been. He teased Shane, but it had been kind, and Shane was surprised at how good it felt to be vulnerable with Rozanov.

But even thinking about that too much left him uneasy with the feelings he couldn’t name, and horny. But mostly uneasy. He kept trying to go on dates with women and get over whatever was happening with Rozanov. But he had yet to meet a single woman that he wanted to spend more than one night with.

Shane had lived all season with the sinking shame of counting down the days until their next game against Boston. He couldn’t overlook it, nor could he ignore the anxiety circling above him, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop when he was unsure when the first one had even fallen.

He had hoped the anxiety would pass when the season ended, but it only intensified when his parents insisted on coming to the NHL awards in Vegas. Shane was nominated for Rookie of the Year, and he knew nothing would stop them from attending.

Shane had known, realistically, that at some point his parents would see Rozanov’s daemon. They followed hockey too closely and were too involved in his life not to. He was surprised it had taken this long, but Rozanov, in a surprising show of modesty, had also asked for his daemon not to be shown by the media. As such, only trashy tabloids had photos of her, he assumed, and his parents didn’t read those.

The day before the event, he’d texted Lily, “Don’t talk to my parents.” He had debated about the reverse psychology of it all and knew there was a distinct chance that text would ensure Rozanov approached his parents with his daemon.

Still, Shane was excited about the awards. His pulse picked up every time he thought about winning the award, and though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone besides his parents, he had written a short speech in preparation.

---

The awards hall was full of men in expensive tuxedos talking at a volume more appropriate for a roaring stadium than a black-tie affair. Shane wished he could put in earplugs. On the ice, he felt removed from the roar of the crowd, but these noises hit him. The lights began to dim as the stage illuminated, meant to signal to the guests to take their seats. Most of the men were paying more attention to their drinks than to what they were supposed to be doing.

Shane approached the table in the awards hall, flanked by his parents. The table looked ridiculous. A fake leafy green arrangement surrounding a crown comprised of hockey sticks with pucks as gems. Even Shane could tell it was tacky. He was sitting with the other rookies on his team, including Hayden Pike, who was his closest friend on the team, and Hayden's dad. The other men greeted him jovially, and he still felt their affectionate back slaps as he sat down.

The show dragged out slowly, the way time does when something immensely exciting is just over the horizon. One presentation droned into another until all Shane heard was a steady buzz of male voices through a microphone, indistinguishable from one another.

Eventually, though, it was time for the Calder Award. His mom squeezed his hand under the table, and his dad rested his hand on Shane’s shoulder. The contact cut through him and seemed to amplify all the sound around him. He knew a camera must be on him, so he tried to force his face into his media-trained smile. He couldn’t tell if he succeeded.

In the pause after the announcer said, “Calder Memorial Trophy for the player selected as the most proficient in his first year is...” Shane was sure he’d lived through a geological age.

But then he heard his name. His dad pulled him to his feet under the guise of a hug and felt both his parent’s arms wrap around him before receiving another round of back-slapping hugs from what felt like all of his teammates.

He almost missed the moment the other shoe dropped. As he was making his way to the stage, the camera cut back to Rozanov, looking bored while clapping politely, but the camera operator hadn’t realized that his daemon had crawled into his lap and rested her chin on his chest, nose pointing up at his face.

The feed switched almost immediately back to Shane, but he knew the damage was done. His whole body recoiled, stopping mid-way up the steps. He hoped he could pass it off as nerves. His jaw locked up, and his vision swam as the lights on stage engulfed him.

He didn’t remember a single other thing about the rest of the awards except the look of concerned confusion his parents couldn’t hide.

---

A few hours later

Shane had never wanted to be drunk in his entire life until that night. And of course, he was in fucking America, where he couldn’t legally order a drink. Even if he was old enough, he didn’t have a spare second to get one with what felt like every single person in the entire NHL, and every person they had ever met in their entire lives coming up to congratulate him.

After the show had ended, the lights turned to a neon fuchsia, which was reflected in the mirrors spaced evenly along the walls, interspersing the delicately detailed golden wallpaper. With each person who stepped toward him, Shane took a step back until he was almost pressed up against the chair rail on the lower half of the walls.

He watched how the crowd moved chaotically. He saw drunken elbows collide with drinks in the split second before it happened, and he winced when he saw the back of a woman’s gown tear when someone stepped down on it as she walked away.

He tried to enjoy it. He’d earned this award. But he had to remind himself to unfurrow his brow every few minutes and smile. Shane was never going to forgive Rozanov for ruining this night for him. Shane cast his eyes around the room, scanning for a head of golden curls, but once again came up empty. Perhaps he’d realized what Shane’s parents had also clearly put together and had fucked off.

Shane resented the gratitude he felt for that.

Resented the way he wished Rozanov was here even more.

Shane was drowning in a sea of warm wishes without a lifeboat in sight.

“That better just be ginger ale, rook,” Scott Hunter, captain of the New York Admirals, said to him.

“It is, Mr. Hunter. I wouldn't indulge in front of you,” Shane replied.

“Congrats, man. Uh, what would you say if, uh, me and some of the other old fucks wanted to do some shots with the three rooks? Would you be into that?”

Hunter was only three or so years older than Shane, but a strong beard and being his team’s captain made him feel much older.

“Fuck, yes, I would,” Shane said.

“OK. Then where's your boy, Rozanov?”

“My what?”

“No, I mean, not your boy.”

“Just, like, it's always, uh, Hollander and Rozanov, foxfire rivalry? I just thought...” Hunter trailed off

“I don't know where he is,” the panic building in him escaping as he said it. “We're not, like, friends or anything.”

“No worries. I'm sure someone else grabbed him.”

Shane let Hunter guide him to the bar with an arm around his shoulder, fending off the people trying to stop him for more congratulations.

Hunter put a shot glass of clear liquid in his hand. The weight of the heavy shot glass was a comfortable grounding sensation.

He took the shot and tried to hide that some of it had gone up his nose and made his eyes water. Someone handed him a lime, which cut the burning flavor of tequila, but didn’t help his nose. Trying to subtly wipe away the snot from his nose, Shane set down the glass on the bar.

Carter Vaughn, another Admirals player on Hunter’s line, waved the bartender over for a refill.

Shane took a second shot and couldn’t disguise his cough this time. The other players chirped at him while Hunter slapped his back. Shane felt like his entire back would be one purple bruise by the end of the night, with how many people had slapped him there this evening.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mom exit a conversation with a defenseman from Philadelphia and start making her way over to him. Someone pressed another drink into Shane’s hand, clear and bubbly with a lime floating in it. He took an immediate gulp and tried to disappear into the crowd.

Shane knew that with her raven likely circling overhead, feathers shining iridescently as they caught the light from the glittering chandelier that dominated the middle of the room, he hadn’t really escaped her gaze, but she let him go. He joined a conversation with Hayden, speculating on the coming year’s draft picks. Despite the two shots and a half-finished drink, Shane was still the most sober person in the conversation, though he doubted he’d be able to follow it regardless.

Eventually, he’d had enough and needed air. He made his way onto the roof. He noticed the heavy door was already propped open and made sure it guided the door gently back onto the rock.

The blast of hot, dry air, even at this time of night, was not the refreshing sensation Shane was looking for. It was at least quieter up here. The noise of drunken parties and traffic was a distant hum.

When he looked up, he saw the outline of the curly head he’d been searching for all night, haloed in a cloud of smoke.

Silhouetted against the neon lights of Sin City spread out 20 floors below him, Rozanov was leaning on the railing, arms spread wide, with his shoulder hunched.

“I don't know if it's worth jumping over,” Shane called.

Rozanov didn't even turn to look at him

“Party all done?” Rozanov asked, stamping out his cigarette.

“No, I just need some air.”

“You are drunk,” Rozanov teased, but it lacked its usual warmth.

“I'm not.”

“Good for you.”

“Big night for you.”

“You couldn’t just let me have one night.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Hollander?”

“I win one fucking thing, and you still found a way to fuck with me.”

Rozanov was silent. Shane had never seen him without a quick retort before. Shane didn't feel the satisfaction he'd hoped for. He shifted his feet restlessly, hearing his shoes scrape against the debris.

Shane opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say.

“What the fuck do you want?” Rozanov spat at him

“Nothing. I just wanted to see the view and get some air.”

He wanted Rozanov to look at him.

“And what? Here is fucking view, Hollander. Check it out. Fuck!”

The dark air stilled between them. Shane could see Rozanov’s jaw clench and neck strain.

“I go home in three days,” Rozanov said.

Shane hoped it was a truce.

“OK. That must be nice,” he said neutrally.

Rozanov turned on him sharply and finally met his gaze. There was no spark behind his eyes.

“Fucking nice? Nice, Hollander?” Rozanov practically yelled the last words at him. “Do you know how much I have to hide when–”

They both turned when they heard the heavy door scrape, hit the rock, and bounce slightly.

Yuna Hollander stood there staring at the two of them, raven swooping over to get a closer look at Shane, letting out a loud caw as she reached him.

It finally occurred to Shane to wonder where Akane was. He could sense she was somewhere close on the roof, but he couldn’t see her. He recognized the other feeling in his chest from playing against the Raiders. She was with Rozanov’s daemon. The uncurrent of wrongness from her that he’d mostly learned to live with was highlighted by the rightness that came from them being together.

That feeling was probably the only reason Shane hadn’t exploded. His heart was racing so hard in his chest that he was sure it would free itself from his rib cage. The rest of his body felt like it was floating away from him.

His mom began walking toward him, which Rozanov seemed to take as his clue to leave. He walked a wide arc around her, but she turned to follow him with her gaze as he reached for the door. Shane saw her put her hand on her chest when Rozanov’s daemon slipped from the shadows and through the door. The fox was only visible for a split second, but it didn’t matter. She already knew.

“Shane, baby,” she said, walking toward him cautiously, like he was a wild animal.

He couldn’t look at her.

“お日様, talk to me,” She pleaded. “When did you realize this? How long have you been dealing with this all alone?”

“There is no this mom,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s nothing, just like a cosmic coincidence.”

“But, Shane.”

“But nothing, Mom. You wanted to know why I did it. Now, you know. I didn’t want to have to deal with this.”

“Did he make you do this?”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut. He felt his hands clench at his sides.

“No, Mom. It was our choice. He wouldn’t–he’s not like that.”

“He was yelling at you just a moment ago.”

“Yeah, well, he’s still an asshole.”

“Shane, there’s nothing you could tell me that would make me love you any less.”

Shane felt his heart squeeze. Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes.

“There is nothing to tell, Mom. Nothing. I’m… tired. I need to go to bed.”

Shane walked around her, not as wide of an arc as Rozanov, but avoiding the hug he was sure she wanted to give him.

He made it back to his hotel room in a blur, taking the stairs all the way to the third floor. He flopped down miserably on the bed, too tired to do more than strip despite the sticky booze, sweat, and desert dust coating his entire body.

He lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering if he remembered how to use his legs or even blink.

His phone buzzed. Two hours had passed since he was on the roof.

He saw he had a text from his dad, but it was the other message that caught his attention. He sat up, finally remembering how to communicate with his body.

Lily

You

be there 10 in

Today 12:19 AM

Lily

how much did you drink

You

2 shots and half a drink. Why?

Lily

are you still drunk

You

No. I have a headache.

Lily

1293

Lily

I have something that will help

Lily

bring water

Lily

;)

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Okay there are *references* to Long Game Character, but they are not going to be major parts of the plot (sorry!) But this means that there won't be spoilers for anything in the Long Game, I swear. They're more easter eggs and a general signal that things have shifted for the Metros.

At the end, there are a few articles. I had fun dusting off my pretend journalism credentials from high school and college. I wanted to experiment with some different writing styles, but these will be the only other articles in this piece!

June 2014

“This is the last time I’m helping with this Ilyusha.”

Ilya rolled his eyes and grinned at Svetlana. That was what she’d said the last time he had moved, but here she was again, helping.

Ilya was moving for the third time since he arrived in Boston, and each time he’d hired people to move everything but his trophy room. He wouldn’t trust anyone else with these things, especially his brand-new Stanley Cup ring. That one wasn’t even getting packed. He had it in a ring box in his pocket.

Her sable daemon and Zarya were playfully popping bubble wrap in the corner. Ilya had bought an extra roll just for this purpose. He was wrapping an absurd amount of dish wrap and bubble wrap around the puck from his first NHL goal. It probably didn’t need any protection, but he did it nonetheless.

He really hoped this place would stick. The first place he had rented sight unseen and fully furnished. It was fine for a year, but he felt more like he was living in a hotel than his own house. After that, he’d bought a place in Fort Point to be close to Seaport nightlife. He picked that unit because it had a large brick fireplace, but Ilya had been disappointed to learn after he moved in that the chute was bricked up. The place was quite chic, with high exposed ceilings, restored brick walls, and white marble counters, but it never felt like it fit him. The building had once been a bottling factory, and some part of it still was. He could feel it in the walls—the low, constant hum of something that had never really stopped. Not noise, exactly, but momentum. Ilya could never quite shake the feeling that the place expected something from him—the drive to do. It wasn’t a space that let him just be.

He was also a much higher-profile persona in Boston than when he first bought the place. And he’d brought enough people home over the years that everyone generally knew where he lived. Ilya wanted more privacy.

This time, he bought a new build in Chestnut Hill, where all the houses were hidden behind hedges, and the streets were lined with trees. He’d put a huge bar in the basement for parties, and finally had enough space to have a full-size gym too. Ilya was looking forward to making his own mark on the place instead of living with ghosts. He had worked with his usual designer, but Ilya had a hard time articulating the style he was looking for. She’d shown him many different design styles, but nothing captured him. His only clear idea was that he wanted the place to look like home. When she’d asked if that meant look more Russian, he had shut that down quickly. That was the last thing that he wanted. Bad enough he had to spend his summers there. He just wanted his house to be his home. This place, at least, had a working electric fireplace.

“When is the housewarming party?” Sveta asked him. “Do I need to be the hostess with the mostest, again?” She switched to English for the idiom.

Ilya threw a ball of tape at her.

“You have said you don’t want to be my WAG. So no. I will order several kegs and cater from Oleana.”

Sveta had been his closest friend for his entire life. She made it seem like a happy accident that she’d also ended up in Boston for school, but Ilya knew she’d done it on purpose. She attended many team functions with him, and the other partners had tried to get her to join their group chat, but she’d steadfastly declined. Their relationship lived in this delicate space between sexual chemistry and platonic soulmates. Most didn’t understand it, believing they were in an open relationship. But it made sense to them.

“And we will hide the good vodka this time.”

Ilya shuddered. At his party last year, the rookies had found his stash of good, Russian vodka he’d just returned with and polished off half of it. He made them do bag skates until they puked at the next practice.

“Who is on the invite list?” She asked.

Ilya raised an eyebrow at her.

“Jane, maybe?”

Ilya raised both eyebrows at her.

“No, Jane will not be invited,” he said neutrally.

“You have been texting for years. I thought maybe it was serious.”

“No, nothing like that.”

She laughed in a huff.

“I see your face when Jane texts. If you can’t invite him to the party, at least invite him over to meet me.”

Ilya sighed. He wasn’t surprised that she had put it together.

He shook his head slowly.

“It’s not like that, Svetika.”

“You are usually a better liar, Ilya,” she said in English.

He rubbed his neck. Jane was the last person he wanted to be thinking about right now. Ilya needed to pack Jane away at least for the summer. Realistically, he should never unpack that particular box again. Leave Jane in this apartment, along with the other things Ilya didn’t have room for in his new home.

Sveta placed his MVP trophy in the box and came over to lean against him. Ilya felt himself release some of the tension in his shoulders. The room was nearly packed, and that meant there was nothing more to do besides start packing for their flight back to Moscow tomorrow night.

She knew what he was thinking about, with him having to say it aloud. The same way she didn’t placate him with false optimism that captaining his team to the fucking Stanley Cup and winning the MVP award would be enough to make his father proud. His memory had been slipping more and more recently. He might not even remember that Ilya had won, but he knew it wouldn’t matter either way.

July 2014

Shane set his phone down on the counter. He tried not to admit that he was checking if Rozanov had responded to his message, a check-in, disguised as a chirp. He knew Ilya didn’t like going back to Russia in the summer, but he’d never tell Shane why. Anytime he’d asked, Rozanov deflected either by kissing him or kicking him out of his room.

He sighed. He knew Rozanov would get back to him eventually, but he wished it would be soon.

Hayden walked into the living room, glancing around Shane’s cottage as if he expected more people to be there.

“Your phone’s on silent, right?” Hayden asked. “The girls finally fell asleep.”

Ruby and Jade, Hayden’s six-month-old twins, had been screaming for the better part of an afternoon. Shane, Hayden, and Jackie all took turns trying to soothe them until Jackie finally got them to nap and promptly fell asleep herself.

Shane didn’t exactly regret inviting Jackie and Hayden to stay, but the screaming children were a bit more than he bargained for. He was immensely glad that his bedroom was not near any of the guest rooms. It was Jackie and Hayden’s first time getting out of the house together since the girls had been born. The season barely left enough time for Hayden to be home, let alone go anywhere.

Truly, he was happy to have the Pikes as his first real guests at his cottage. He was hoping it would make it feel more like home. He had built this place with plans to spend his summers here until he retired and then live here full-time.

The house was beautiful. His architect had really outdone herself. The front was a beautiful stone façade. The interior was warm, exposed wood and floor-to-ceiling windows. Shane had hardly needed to decorate with the abundance of natural beauty. He’d had a fireplace put into every room, planning for cold winter months. All of them except the one in his bedroom were electric. He’d thought about making that one electric too, but he loved building fires and was excited to have a place to do that inside when it was too cold for the outdoor fire pit. There was a neat pile of wood in the hearth, waiting for him to light it.

Shane wasn’t sure when he’d get the chance, though. He had no time to come up here while it was cold, and in the summer, the house heated up from all the sunlight, and the thick windows held the heat in well through the night.

He went with Hayden to play the latest NHL game on his PlayStation. They fought over who got to be Montreal, and bet that the loser of this game had to play as Boston during the next round. They were both yelling and shushing each other in turn. Hayden’s rabbit was with them on the couch, occasionally chattering with Hayden, but Akane had stayed in the room for most of the Pike’s visit, lying on the cool bricks next to the empty fireplace. Shane wondered if they would pick up on something being off about her with such close contact for an extended time. He could almost ignore the unpleasant sensation now. Almost.

Hayden had been his best friend since he’d practically adopted Shane during their rookie season. Shane still appreciated how Hayden had managed to see past Shane’s superstar image to find another intimidated rookie trying to navigate a professional career at 19. And when Hayden had met Jackie, Shane slotted comfortably into their lives as a third wheel, and now uncle to their kids.

“So, have you invited anyone else up this summer?” Hayden asked.

“Well, you know I invited JJ, but he’s in Europe most of the summer and going to party in LA for the rest.”

They both laughed fondly at their friend and teammate.

“So, no Lily this summer then?”

Shane stiffened. He desperately tried to act natural and unclench his teeth.

“Lily?” he asked with feigned ignorance.

“Yeah, Boston Lily. Don’t pretend like you don’t go see her every time we’re in Boston.”

“I don’t!” Shane protested.

“Whatever, dude. It’s not a big deal. I just figured you liked her.”

“I don’t. It’s not like that. It’s not… it’s nothing.”

Hayden looked at him askance.

“Well, if it’s nothing. Jackie has a friend. She’s a yoga instructor. She’s super hot.”

Shane groaned and threw a pillow at him.

----

June 2015

The Rot at the Root: Why a Stanley Cup Can’t Save the Montreal Metros from Themselves

By Marc-André Lefebvre June, 2015

MONTREAL — It should have been a summer of parades. Instead, Montreal finds itself doing something else entirely: taking a hard look at what, exactly, it just celebrated.

Just days after the Montreal Metros ended a twenty-year drought to hoist the Stanley Cup, the champagne has turned to ash. The "Inner Circle" group chat—a leaked digital record of the team’s private conversations—has pulled back the curtain on a locker room culture that wasn’t just "old school." It was toxic.

The screenshots, verified late last week, don't just show a few bad apples; they show a systemic failure. While the city was falling in love with this roster, the players behind the scenes were allegedly trading in the kind of derogatory, racist, and homophobic language that the modern NHL claims to have outgrown.

A House Cleaning in Progress

General Manager Alain Desrosiers didn’t mince words on Friday, though his actions spoke louder than his press release. The immediate casualty was Patrice Drapeau. The goaltender, who just a week ago was a Conn Smythe candidate, was unceremoniously placed on waivers Saturday. Sources within the organization say the decision was "instant" once the depth of Drapeau’s participation in the chats became clear.

He isn't the only one headed for the exit. The Metros are reportedly aggressively shopping forward Luca Bianchi and winger Evan Mercer. It’s a stunning fall from grace for two pillars of the championship run, but the message from the front office is clear: the cost of keeping them is higher than the value of their goals.

Meanwhile, center Gilbert Comeau, who was in the chat but not an active participant, remains on the roster for now, though "internal discipline" is a shadow hanging over their training camp.

Absent from the group chat is star center and Captain Shane Hollander. Hollander’s team released a statement saying he was unaware of the group chat, saying “… that language has no place in hockey. I look forward to working with the coaching staff and players to build a more respectful, inclusive team dynamic next season.”

The Coach in the Crosshairs

The most uncomfortable seat in Montreal, however, belongs to Michel Theriault. The head coach’s initial defense of the messages—dismissing them as "private locker room talk"—has aged like milk.

The fallout has already claimed assistant coach Raymond Gagnon, who stepped down Monday, citing "philosophical differences." In his place, the Metros have brought in Brandon Wiebe. Wiebe, once labeled a “difficult” player before it became clear he refused to go along with typical locker room behavior, is being viewed by many as the "babysitter" hired to fix a room that Theriault has clearly lost control of. Theriault remains for now, but his leash is non-existent.

The Arrival of Wyatt Hayes

In the midst of the carnage, there is one beacon of hope for the fans: the acquisition of Wyatt Hayes from Toronto.

At 24, Hayes is a gamble on paper—he has limited NHL minutes and big shoes to fill. But Hayes isn't being brought in for his glove hand alone. Hayes represents the polar opposite of the culture Drapeau left behind. He is well-liked, famously kind, and carries a reputation for standing up to the very "boys club" mentality that has just detonated the Metros' reputation.

“We’re taking this seriously,” Desrosiers said. “Winning a championship doesn’t give you a pass on being a decent human being. If anything, it makes the standard higher.”

The Metros will raise a banner in October. But as the roster shifts and the investigations continue, the question remains: will anyone in Montreal actually feel like cheering?

---

November 2015

FOX-Y BUSINESS? Rumors of Secret Backstage "Playdates" Between Rozanov and Hollander Have Us Spiraling

By: The Buzzer | November 18, 2015

Everyone knows the deal with the Foxfire Rivalry: Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander hate each other. Not “media narrative” hate—real, snarl-at-the-face-off level hate. They genuinely, 100% cannot stand each other. We’ve seen the hits, we’ve heard the post-game snarls, and we’ve watched them turn every Raiders-Metros matchup into a literal on-ice war zone. It’s the best "fiery feud" in the league.

“They don’t even pretend to be civil,” one league staffer told us. “Go back and watch them present at the awards in 2014. Hollander looked like he was one second from decking Roz.”

So why didn’t the players’ daemons get the "we hate each other" memo?

Because lately, the stories coming out of the tunnels are making zero sense. We aren't talking about a quick passing glance in the hallway. We’re talking about sightings that have even the most hardcore "Foxfire" fans scratching their heads.

WHATS HIDDEN IN THE BACKROOMS?

Word is spreading through the arena grapevines—staff, security, guys who see the stuff the cameras miss—and it’s getting weird. A Metros equipment staffer (who obviously wants to stay anonymous so he doesn't get fired into the sun) told us he heard a "commotion" near the visitors' locker room last week.

"It sounded like a frantic chase," he said. "I thought two strays had gotten into the building. But when I turned the corner, it was two red foxes—Rozanov and Hollander’s daemons—tearing through the hallway like they were in the middle of a game of tag. They weren't snarling. They were playing."

Wait, what? PLAYING? Since when do the daemons of two guys who want to kill each other decide to have a mid-game romp in the service tunnels?

DELETED PICTURES WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

If you were on Twitter for those ten minutes last Tuesday, you saw it. A fan posted a shaky, 5-second clip from the practice facility that showed two white-tipped tails curled up together in a corner. Not fighting. Not snapping. Just... chilling.

The video was scrubbed faster than a bad penalty, and the fan account @RaidersBehindTheScenes Instagram account posted—and then immediately nuked—a photo of those same two foxes disappearing behind a VIP door.

Funny how fast that disappeared, right? If these two hate each other as much as the PR teams say they do, why are their daemons acting like they’ve been best friends for years?

DOTH THEY PROTEST TOO MUCH?

Look, we’ve all seen the chemistry on the ice. They read each other perfectly. They know exactly where the other one is going before they even get there. We all called it "rivalry instinct," but now we have to ask: Is it something else?

How do you keep up a "bitter rivalry" when your souls are literally playing tag in the basement? Either these two are the greatest actors in the history of professional sports, or there is something seriously scandalous going on behind those locker room doors.

Publicly, it’s all "no comment" and icy stares. But the shadows don't lie, puckheads.

So what is it—the greatest rivalry in hockey… or the worst-kept secret? What do you think—is the rivalry a total fake, or are the foxes just rebels? Sound off in the comments!

Chapter End Notes

All convos between Ilya and Svetlana are in Russian. This is the photo is used as inspo for how the foxes were caught "https://in.pinterest.com/pin/90775748734396882/"

Chapter 9

November 2015

Shane’s apartment hadn’t changed much since he first moved in. After a year, he replaced the provided furniture and purchased his own. Or rather, the interior designer he hired had purchased it. She had taken time to talk to him about his “personal style,” which he didn’t have. He cared about the couch and chairs being comfortable and everything being easy to clean. As long as it wasn’t more grey stuff.

Now the couch was a beige microfiber, overflowing with pillows, but it was comfortable. There were little bowls and baskets filled with wicker balls or fake plants, interspersed with big coffee table books he’d never opened. These “personal touches” littered his coffee table, counters, and a short cabinet his mom insisted on calling a credenza.

Despite living here for six years, it still felt like someone else’s apartment.

Shane’s phone buzzed where he’d set it down on top of the book Call it Home. Brown book on a brown end table.

Shane stood up and paced while he read the article from The Buzz. He slammed his phone down on the counter.

Akane winced, tail twitching like a jumping flame, ears flying backward. Shane had a deep flash of the discomfort that came from her dyed fur, but shoved it back into the box where he could hide it.

“What is the point of all this,” he said, gesturing to the newly-purchased bottle of red dye he’d returned with moments ago. “If you are going to keep brazenly sneaking off with his daemon?”

Her eyes flashed playfully.

“How does one ‘brazenly sneak?’”

“Shut up. You know what I mean. You keep getting caught. This is like the fourth article this year about you two. You need to control yourself.”

“Oh, like you control yourself?” Her tone was playful, but her tail was twitching in agitation.

“Fuck me, please Rozanov,” she mimicked his voice.

Shane turned away from her, knowing she’d seen him turn bright red anyway.

“But no one is writing articles about that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Then end it with him,” she snapped. “If you do, I will too.”

“That’s not the point.”

I can’t.

How many times had Shane sworn to himself that this was the last time? How often had he tried to ignore a text from Lily only to cave minutes later?

It doesn’t mean anything that you don’t want it to mean.

Akane’s words had become like a mantra to him over the years.

“That’s what I thought,” she smirked. And–fuck–it reminded him of Rozanov, constantly teasing him.

He looked back at his phone and saw the time.

“It’s time to go.”

His body buzzed with anticipation the way it only did before games against Boston, palms itching for the chance to score, to prove himself once again.

As they headed out the door, he tried one last time.

“Please don’t let anyone see you tonight,” he pleaded. “You know how much scrutiny the team is under this year after all those texts. The locker room is so much better now, and the last thing we need is a new scandal.”

Akane walked ahead of him and blocked the door.

“It’s a much better team, Shane. Even Theriault seems to be slightly less of a dick this year. You don’t need to be so afraid.”

Shane reached down and scratched her behind the ears.

“I’m not afraid. I just want to win another cup. Prove we don’t need those assholes to win.”

He felt his skin prickle uncomfortably as he ran his hand over her dyed fur. She bristled.

Her hazel eyes pierced his.

“Is that really what will make you happy, Shane?”

He side stepped her, reaching for the door.

“We really need to leave. I don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”

---

The itching in Shane’s palms only intensified as he bent for the face-off. Everything else faded away as he locked eyes with Rozanov. He could only hear the other man’s breath, smell his distinct smoky and something else Shane couldn’t place but knew like the back of his hand.

Rozanov took a deep breath, and Shane swore he could hear Rozanov’s heart beating in his ears instead of his own.

“Still renovating?” Rozanov asked, eyebrow quirking up.

He felt the words like a punch to the dick.

He won the faceoff anyway.

As the first period got underway, Shane felt the familiar sense of electric well-being, and he knew Akane had found Rozanov’s fox. It was this exact feeling that made games against Boston so good. But with the recent spate of articles, confined to the disreputable side of the internet but still, it had begun to feel like a creeping horror.

Sometimes it surprised him that he still didn’t know the other fox’s name, but didn’t know why he would. It wasn’t like Rozanov and him really talked. He had picked up the word Rozanov used when referring to Akane, “лисичка.” He said it meant “little fox” and Shane enjoyed the way Rozanov’s eyes glimmered when he fumbled his way through the word.

He watched Hayden steal the puck from St. Simon. Shane eyed the other defenders as he moved up the ice. He could predict their movements a second before they made them, allowing him to weave around them to take Hayden’s pass. Much was made of his “high hockey IQ” but it was always simpler than that for Shane. People telegraphed how they were going to move. It was easy for him to read. It wasn’t exclusive to hockey, but his skills were best honed on the ice.

In the second period, Montreal was up 3-1. Shane had scored once and assisted another. Rozanov had also scored once. It was shortly after Boston’s goal that pain shot through him as Rozanov slammed him into the boards. He could practically feel the bruises blooming up and down his side.

Rozanov held them there a beat too long. Shane tried to push him off, but he had little leverage and was well aware that Rozanov was strong enough to pin him down effectively. So Shane tried a different approach.

“Ты скучал по мне?” he asked.

He felt Rozanov’s whole body slack for a moment. It was long enough for Shane to slip away, snag the puck, and pass to Hayden.

Did you miss me?

Shane skated around Boston’s defense with a genuine smile on his face.

__

Ilya stepped into Hollander’s strange condo. When they had first started meeting here, the place was almost completely gutted. Only one bedroom had been finished and furnished. The rest was drywall and plywood floors. Each time he’d show up to see a little more work done. New floors and the smell of varnish. Cabinetry and the smell of sawdust. The fresh paint smell had been overwhelming until they opened all the windows despite the cold December air.

That was several years ago. Now, when Hollander opened the door in front of Ilya, it smelled of nothing. The place felt alien. There was no life, no energy. Just a blank canvas. Ilya had been excited to see a fireplace installed just before the appliances, but they’d never used it. He wasn’t sure if it worked.

Ilya felt the wrongness from Hollander’s daemon. At first, Ilya only felt it when he was directly in their presence. But as he continued to see Hollander, the feeling had started to linger. First, a few hours after they parted, then a few days. Now the feeling never fully left him. But it was always strongest face-to-face.

Ilya couldn’t understand how Hollander lived like that. He’d never managed to express the gratitude he’d felt that Hollander had made that choice for them. Ilya didn’t think he could have gone through with it, even knowing how much it would cost him for the world to realize the truth.

But the discomfort of the daemon and the hollow apartment were never enough to keep him away.

“Who taught you Russian?” Ilya turned on Hollander as they walked up the stairs.

“My other Russian hook-ups. I have a type.”

Ilya felt his cheeks heat. He loved it when Hollander was bold and teasing like this.

“What else they teach you?”

Ilya heard his accent thicken. He didn’t often drop words and articles anymore but Hollander always did this to him. He watched Hollander’s jaw move, imagining his tongue rolling in his mouth as he rehearsed the words.

“Трахни меня,” he said slowly.

Ilya stilled as a fire sparked inside of him, low in his stomach. He imagined Hollander memorizing the words phonetically. Ilya could practically feel himself growl as he lunged toward Hollander.

Fuck me, Hollander had said.

“Да… думаю, так и сделаю,” Ilya responded.

---

After Rozanov had done just what Shane had asked, but before either of them had moved to shower and get dressed, he turned to Shane, fingers idly tracing patterns into Shane’s chest.

“So, how are the renovations?” Rozanov teased.

Shane had purchased this building five years ago as an investment. It also happened to be a convenient place to meet with Rozanov when he was in Montreal. Far less risky than a hotel or his apartment, where people could notice their comings and goings. All three residential spaces were unoccupied, and the kitchen retail space on the ground floor closed hours ago. 

“Uh, done finally. I’m going to sell it. It’s just a bad time in the market,” Shane said, avoiding eye contact.

Rozanov tipped his head back and laughed at the obvious lie. The sound echoed through the mostly empty bedroom and white walls. Shane loved that genuine laugh more than he would ever admit. It was possibly his favorite sound on earth. Maybe second favorite.

Before Shane could defend himself, an alert pinged on his phone, set next to his folded clothes on top of the empty dresser. The alert was for mentions of Akane. His mom and his agent had nearly perfected the art of cajoling sites into taking down photos and articles of her. It was one of the only notifications that could cut through his do-not-disturb mode.

He groaned, but figured it could wait until Rozanov was gone. But then it dinged again. And again. And again.

“Mr. Popular,” Rozanov teased. “Your other Russians missing you too?”

Shane barely heard him, panic already invading his brain.

Hands shaking, he reached for his phone. His phone brightness was all the way up, and Shane squinted, trying to turn it down so he could read the article.

He was dimly aware that Rozanov was talking, but the buzzing in his ears drowned it out.

Someone had posted a photo on Instagram of Akane and the other lisichka cuddled together. Each rolled into a tight ball, tails intertwined, the other fox’s head resting entirely on top of Akane’s. Both were fast asleep. 

 It wasn’t a well-lit photo, but it was far more damning than the grainy, blink and you’ll miss it photos and videos that had been accumulating.

This was a disaster.

He felt a warm, broad hand on him, moving gently on his back and arms, and felt his phone lifted out of his hand.

He felt Akane’s cool nose nudge at his hand, and he absently lifted it to gently stroke her face. He was absolutely furious with her, but couldn’t resist the grounding feeling of her fur.

The moment he touched her, he felt Rozanov’s hand grip his bicep quickly and painfully. It jolted Shane out of his shock. Rozanov could be commanding and forceful, but he never hurt Shane.

Shane turned around to look at Rozanov, and the man was white as a sheet.

He felt Akane gingerly stepping onto his lap, and he pulled the sheet over his naked lower half. She crawled the rest of the way onto his lap. The comfort was there — but threaded with something deeper and unfamiliar.

He turned to look down at her, wanting to yell at her and sink his face into her fur at the same time.

Dark eyes framed under a white diamond stared back at him.

The tug in his chest was still there.
Fainter. Steady.

Akane was still downstairs.

---

A few moments before

Ilya felt his heart beat through his entire body.

Трахни меня still echoed through his head.

It wasn’t the phrase he would use, and his accent was terrible, but it was the hottest moment of Ilya’s entire life.

Okay, maybe second hottest.

The hottest was the night that he won the MVP award, and Shane put on a show for him.

Those memories crashed into one another. He was touched that Hollander would go through such effort for Ilya. He felt his heart swell, alongside his dick.

Ilya absolutely lived for the moments when Hollander let go of his inhibitions and asked for what he wanted. He’d felt an almost unbearable fondness for this vulnerable side of Hollander. He knew how hard Hollander worked to protect himself from the world, and watching him strip away those layers when they were together was more precious to Ilya than he had words for. It left him unsteady, so he retreated into one of his other favorite activities, teasing Hollander. Ilya rolled to face him.

Hollander’s phone started dinging loudly against the grey wooden dresser. Once. Then again. Then relentlessly. Ilya hoped he’d ignore it. He didn’t.

As Hollander glanced at his phone, his phone illuminated his face, washing out his freckles in the crisp, white glow. Ilya wondered if Hollander was sleeping with other people. He was clearly teasing about the Russians, but the thought still ached. Hollander had every right to, of course. Ilya had slept with another woman two nights ago. He didn’t care.

He just thought about it constantly.

Over the years, Ilya had seen Hollander spiral more times than he could count. He’d done it a lot when they started hooking up, and Ilya had taken that as his sign to get the fuck out and let him have his privacy.

But leaving him like that had left Ilya feeling increasingly bad. So Ilya stayed and figured out pretty quickly that if he could say something rude or shocking enough, he could bait Hollander out of it. And those moments of panic lessened as the years went on.

Small freak-outs usually had Hollander running his hands over his face and hair constantly. Bigger problems made him pace.

The moment Hollander picked up his phone, he started pacing, sweaty, bare feet audibly sticking slightly to the laminate wood with each step. 

Full-blown meltdowns made him freeze entirely.

So that’s how Ilya knew Hollander was in full collapse when he stopped moving and stared blankly at his phone.

Ilya knew he needed to intervene.

“I will teach you better Russian than your mediocre lovers. Something useful. Like ‘fuck me with your fingers.’ Or maybe your favorite– ‘harder, sir.’”

He didn’t actually call him “sir,” but Ilya was confident that’s why it would rattle him.

Hollander didn’t even seem to hear him. Instead, he half sat, half collapsed onto the bed. Ilya started rubbing Hollander’s back and arms and gently pried the phone out of Hollander's vice-like grip.

Had someone died?

Glancing down at the phone, he saw the two foxes curled up together.

The image was basically perfectly engineered to go viral. Cute animals cuddled together against the backdrop of one of the most legendary rivalry in sports.  

An adorable scandal, already breaking the internet — and one that might have just made returning to Russia impossible.

He heard his father’s voice, “Western degenerates,” snarling while he was sitting in front of their empty fireplace. His father forgot more things than he remembered these days. But his favorite rant was about all the duplicitous, foreign agents who had betrayed their homeland. Just like you.

Even if there was some spin that saved their hockey careers, back home, it would be different. Photos of his daemon curled around another man’s would not be interpreted as harmless. It wouldn’t even matter if he denied it. The image would be enough. In Russia, implication was often all it took.

Ilya’s mind flashed to the stories he’d read about other traitors, eroding Russia’s traditional values from the state media.

In his shock, Ilya hadn’t registered that Zarya had entered the room and hopped on the bed.

But he felt it the moment Hollander touched her.

Didn’t he realize—

The thought disintegrated.

It felt like stepping into a banya in the middle of February. Warmth coated him. He sank into it.

Ilya hadn’t felt this feeling since he was small enough to still be picked up by his mom, who would scoop up both of them when Ilya was hurt or upset. Until his father put a stop to that.

It should feel like a violation.

It felt like coming home.

Like everything Ilya had been missing his entire life. He had never registered the absence until this very moment.

Hollander turned sharply to him. Ilya realized his fingers were digging into Hollander’s arm, likely adding to the bruises Ilya had already given him on his hip and the scrapes on the side of his knee from the game.

He relaxed his hand, felt all his muscles slacken until his whole body jolted again as the contact increased. Zarya was crawling into Hollander’s lap, her tail wrapping around him like a flame around a log.

Ilya saw the moment Hollander put the pieces together. Every muscle in his body went rigid, a study in contrasts to Ilya’s languid form.

Hollander threw himself backwards, but it didn’t actually dislodge Zarya. Ilya reached out instinctively to steady her, but sure-footed as she was, she didn’t really need it.

She was still on Hollander but now perched awkwardly on his knees and shins. His legs were covered in angry red claw marks.

“Zarya, are you okay?” He asked in Russian, but her eyes darted to Hollander.

Recognition flickered in his dark eyes. He shouldn’t have been able to pick out Zarya’s name from the rest of the Russian words, but he felt deep inside of him that Hollander had somehow. That some things couldn’t be hidden behind another language.

“Zarya,” Hollander said with reverence in his voice. He pronounced it almost perfectly. Like he’d said it a million times.

Zarya inclined her head but didn’t speak.

She moved and curled up between them, head on Hollander’s thigh, tail on Ilya’s. It was the strangest sensation of Ilya’s entire life. He never wanted it to end.

After what felt like mere moments but was likely several minutes, Hollander called out

“ここに来て”

He had heard Hollander call his fox like that many times.

Not knowing what else to do, he asked

“You speak Japanese?”

“少し” Hollander seemed to reply automatically.

“Only a little. Barely. I can mostly read a menu and order food. And tell my grandparents about hockey. They speak English, though, and I’ve barely been back to Japan since hockey got intense.”

“Ah. No interviews then. Nice to know you aren’t perfect at everything. Do you have an accent when you speak?”

“Less than you,” he quipped.

The teasing comforted Ilya strangely. It was familiar, warm like a well-worn leather jacket.

Ilya heard the other fox before she reached the room. She didn’t look surprised when she surveyed the scene. He wondered if they’d planned this when they felt Hollanders panic. Or if they’d let the photo be taken in the first place. Would they do that?

Ilya realized with yet another jolt that it didn’t even feel strange to assume Zarya had sensed Hollander’s panic the way she sensed Ilya’s.

He wasn’t sure how many more surprises his nervous system could take at the moment. As if trying to help him out, Hollander reached out to silence his phone, which Ilya just processed had essentially been buzzing this entire time. 


“What now?” Hollander’s little fox asked.

–––

“What now?” Shane hissed, hands fisting in his hair. His breathing was ragged.

“You got us into this mess. How could you be so irresponsible? Now we have to fix it.”

Zarya moved to sit next to Akane, twin flames in the dark room. Their wild scent didn’t reach him the way it usually did when they were together, providing no comfort.

Neither responded.

“What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Both foxes remained silent, a synchronized twitch of their ears the only sign they’d even heard Shane.

Shane switched to French:

“This was the one thing I asked of you,” he fought to keep his voice under control.

Shane turned away as he spoke, staring at the blank stretch of wall and blackout curtains pulled securely across the window while methodically pushing his hair forward and backward with both hands.

Akane replied in English:

“You have asked a lot of me.”

“We made a choice. To protect ourselves.”

“To protect YOU,” Akane had never yelled at him before. “But now you’ve both won the cup. You are the face of your franchise. The locker room is so much better now, Shane.”

Rozanov went completely still next to him.

“This wasn’t yours to decide,” Shane felt himself shaking and was surprised at how steady his voice sounded.

Akane turned and walked downstairs silently. Zarya’s tail twitched furiously like a spark leaping from the fire, but she remained in the room.

“Ты лишила меня дома.” Rozanov said with a tone Shane couldn’t interpret.

Zarya departed in the same manner.

Shane rubbed his temple with his index and middle fingers while running his ring fingers over the bridge of his nose. He felt his feet moving of their own accord, barely registering the contact with the smooth floor

“How could they be so irresponsible?”

He didn’t really expect a response.

“Foxes are tricky,” Rozanov said soberly. “I do not think this was an accident, Hollander.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your fox knows where to hide in the stadium, yes?” he asked rhetorically. “But they fell asleep in brightly lit hallway? Suspicious, I think.”

Shane felt the truth of it seep into his bones.

Not an accident.

“I’m not tricky,” he said like it pained him.

“Anyone who plays you in hockey would say that’s not true.” Rozanov raised his eyebrow, but his eyes were completely flat. “Neither would the man you’ve been sneaking around with for six years.”

Shane opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It felt completely dry.

Shane abruptly realized he was still naked and started putting on his clothes. Rozanov was doing the same. He sat down on the bed and felt the bed sink on his right as Rozanov sat too. He let himself lean into the pull and rested his head on Rozanov’s shoulders.

He felt Rozanov run his hand through his hair soothingly.

“I think I need to call my mom,” Shane said.

“I think I need to call a lawyer,” Rozanov replied.

“A lawyer?” Shane asked somewhat incredulously. 

He saw Rozanov smile again, but there was no warmth. He didn't say anyting. 

"Why?" 

Shane saw his lips form a tight line as he closed his eyes. 

“Are you going to sue everyone on Twitter?”

“Well, that too maybe, but no. Raider’s immigration lawyer. This will be complicated for me.”

Shane's panic for himself morphed into something more like concern for Rozanov.

“Complicated, how?”

“In Russia, it–they could try to make an example of me.”

Shane had been to the 2014 Olympics in Sochi and knew generally about the anti-LGBTQ propaganda laws that some athletes had protested.

“But you’re safe in the US. The Raiders won’t drop you for this. You’ll have your work visa or whatever.”

Ilya grimaced.

“Yes, but my passport expires in 10 months. They could make it hard. No passport. No visa. No job.”

Shane felt like someone had poured ice water over him. Why had Rozanov risked so much? Shane knew he had plenty of other people to sleep with. He could’ve stuck to women and stayed safe.

“You’d have to go back to Russia.”

Rozanov gave one terse nod.

“Is that safe? What would they do to you?”

“I don’t want to find out.”

Shane heard his voice break and felt like that sound had crushed him.

“I’m so sorry. I feel like this is all my fault, or really Akane’s fault.”

The name slipped out of his mouth like the most natural thing in the world. He might not have noticed if not for Rozanov’s reaction. He saw the name roll over him the way Zarya had earlier that night.

Shane saw real warmth return to Rozanov’s eyes.

“Is a nice name. Also Japanese, yes?”

“Yes. My mom’s daemon doesn’t have a Japanese name, so both of them were surprised.”

“Mmmhm. Okay, call your mom. Is too late for me to call a lawyer now.”

“What with you in the room?”

“Talk to her in French or something. I don’t care. I am not going downstairs right now, and the other rooms are emptier than this one.”

Rozanov flopped down fully on the bed. He heard a faint whooshing sound of all the air forced out of the down pillows as those golden curls crashed into it.

“Oh, okay. No, I can talk to her in English. We probably need to coordinate this anyway. But I’m uh, not going to tell her that you are here.”

Rozanov just rolled his eyes at Shane.

Shane picked up his phone and was incredibly glad that the Metros’ media manager had made him turn off all the notifications from his social media. He already had more emails than he could handle.

His phone felt hot and heavy in his hand.

Shane could just imagine his mom sitting there next to her phone. She hadn’t blown up his phone waiting. One call and two texts.

Call when you can, sweetie

Love you

Yuna picked up on the first ring.

“お日様、Shane, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Where are you? When we saw the pictures, we went to your place, but you weren’t home.”

Shane saw Rozanov lift his head to look at Shane, lips tipped up into a wide smile, eyes mirthful

“I’m out. I can’t come home quite yet. Did you leave?”

“We’re at a hotel nearby in case you needed us. And I set up a call with your agent in the morning to discuss what, if anything, we’ll do about this. You don’t have to decide anything right now.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Shane meant it. She could often be overbearing, but he never had to wonder if she had his back.

“Are you able to get in touch with Rozanov? If not, I’m sure Farah can reach out to his agent tomorrow. It would be nice to make sure we’re on the same page.”

Given that Rozanov was currently rolling on the bed, shaking with laughter, Shane said:

“Yeah, I can get in touch with him… I think”

“Great. Do you know what you want to say if we decide to comment?”

“Uh, not really, no. I was pretty surprised. But I think this might look worse for Rozanov, since he’s Russian. So, probably whatever is best for him.”

Ilya cocked his head, taking in Shane’s words.

“I see. Yes. Shane, can I ask? I thought the whole point of doing…” she trailed off awkwardly. “Doing what you did was to avoid this kind of situation and the attention.”

It wasn’t really a question, so Shane didn’t respond. But yes, that was entirely the fucking point.

“Have you asked Akane about it?”

“Kind of, not really. It wasn’t… pleasant. I had asked her not to.”

“But Shane, she wouldn’t do something that you didn’t–”

“I don’t know why she did it, Mom. I really don’t. I don’t understand this at all.”

“Okay,” his mom didn’t sound convinced, though. “Get home safe and get some rest.”

 Shane let out a long sigh and flopped next to Rozanov. Shane was grateful that he’d opted for the same soft bamboo sheets he had on his own bed. The expense felt absurd at the time, given that they didn’t always even make it to the bed, and the sheets were the last thing he noticed when they did.

“Can you text your agent. Maybe we can all meet together in the morning. Start figuring this out. What time is your flight?”

“Early. I will tell my agent I need to meet with you; she can talk to the team. Maybe I take a later flight back.”

After Ilya finished talking to his agent, Shane said, “ugh I can’t think about this anymore. We should go.”

“No, stay. Let me help,” Rozanov said, running a hand up Shane’s thigh. Shane felt grateful for the temporary distraction, knowing he was in for a restless night.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Random Yuna POV in here for fun. I was hoping to include more of her POV, but this was the only place it really made sense

In this chapter and maybe the one before it, my brain started typing "bears" instead of "Raiders." I think I caught all the errors, but if you see one, let me know.

Also, I realized after I posted this that Ilya's agent is unnamed in HR until things happen in TLG. And I think Barry is the name of Ilya's agent in so it's gonna be forever by lilamac. I guess this is a reference to that. Barry's not a major character so it's also more an easter egg.

November 2015 (The next day)

The morning meeting gets pushed to the afternoon, as it gets swept up in a larger meeting with the NHL. The Raiders had originally wanted Ilya to fly back with them regardless, but the league itself requested that he stay.

By the time Shane stepped into the stuffy conference room, most of the attendees were already there. He saw their curious glances, sure they were just as confused as everyone else: what the hell was going on with Shane and Rozanov?

No one asked him. No one spoke to him at all.

Shane took in all the business casual attire and raised his hand to his hair. His mom cut him a look, and he froze his hand. She had just tamed his hair in the elevator after he’d run both hands through it.

The smell of slightly burned coffee mixed with the paper and warm electronic scent suffused through the entire floor. At the opposite end of the oval room from the wooden door was a projector screen already displaying an NHL-branded slide deck titled “Media Strategy.”

Rozanov and his agent walked in and moved to the side of the table with the Raiders’ media team. Shane watched Rozanov make a beeline for the doughnuts next to the coffee. Shane thought they looked rather dried out, but that didn’t stop Rozanov from shoving half of a pink frosted one in his mouth. Shane considered the fact that he didn’t get any crumbs on his suit a miracle.

The last NHL representative slipped into the room alongside someone Shane vaguely recognized from the Metros. There was a shuffling and scraping as everyone moved and sat down.

A man in a grey suit and a white button-down stood up and started the meeting. He looked like he woke up every morning ready to step in front of a camera, clothes sharp, salt and pepper hair neatly coiffed, and a smile like a shark.

He was the same man who had introduced himself as Bill Esson, director of something Shane couldn’t remember and asked Akane and Zarya to wait outside. At first, Shane thought all the daemons wouldn’t attend. But it seemed almost anyone else whose daemon was small enough had their daemon present. Most curled up under the table or in laps, but a few sat on the table itself, clearly paying attention. His mom’s raven was one.

“Well, boys, it seems like the Metros aren’t done making waves.” His tone was not amused.

---

In the end, the meeting was relatively straightforward. Bill, and by extension, the NHL, declared the only acceptable option was to ignore this.

Shane didn’t understand how everyone else was fine with this. How could they allow speculation to stand and the media cycle to move on? He heard all the explanations. The Metros had gotten enough press, the NHL wanted to maintain the league’s most compelling storyline, the teams wanted everyone focused on hockey, and the agents wanted to protect their personal brand, which was heavily supported by this rivalry.

Shane wanted a better option. How could they talk about media cycles when Rozanov might not be able to go home? Why didn’t that bother anyone else?

His mom and his agent hadn’t been able to talk him out of it all morning until Rozanov himself cut in and said his personal lawyer had told him not make public statements about sexuality at all and not confirm or deny anything in a way that creates an official record.

How could Shane argue with that?

Shane felt desperate to undo the mess he’d made. He needed to talk to Rozanov more. There had to be something that they could do. Shane barely heard the end of the meeting. They discussed scripted answers to media questions that were all variations of “No comment” and “I’m focused on hockey” to respond to any reporters who ignored both teams’ indications that they wouldn’t be commenting. They were also told in no uncertain terms to stay off social media until told they could post again. Shane didn’t really post anyway, so none of this was a problem for him.

---

Yuna:

Unique is almost always used improperly, modified in ways that diluted the meaning. If unique truly meant one of a kind–unlike anyone or anything else, then saying something was “very unique” was wrong. It was either the only one in existence or it was rare. Or maybe uncommon.

But unique was meant to stand alone. Anything else cheapened it.

Even things that were supposed to be unique (full stop) weren’t. Like fingerprints. Everyone knows your fingerprints are unique. No two are ever alike. Right?

Yet for all their supposed uniqueness, they come in three set patterns. Whorls, the most common, looping through the pad, ridges that looked like little hills, and spirals, the rarest.

Only three versions of something considered the bastion of individuality.

So, if you consider the fact that there are 8.3 billion people, each with slightly more or less than 10 fingers, it starts to feel less and less believable that two of them out there aren’t a pretty damn good match.

And two people randomly having matching or almost matching fingerprints wouldn’t mean anything about them. It’d just be some funny coincidence. Maybe someone would write a journal article about it that no one would really notice, to go along with the one that said fingerprints don’t actually live up to the mantle of “unique.”

Shane was uniquely gifted at hockey. Everyone told David and Yuna that long before Yuna stopped calling him Shane-chan.

He stood at the top alone– more talented than his peers on his travel and juniors teams.

Yuna often wondered if he was lonely, but Shane seemed content with his lot, so Yuna tried to be too.

At the first world juniors competition, Yuna realized that Shane was no longer alone—no longer unique. But, then, neither was Rozanov.

He was supposed to stand alone at the top, but they would always be there together. They would keep climbing until no one else could reach them, but it would always be together.

Could two people be unique together?

Yuna wasn’t sure, but she spent a lot of time thinking that if fingerprints weren’t unique, was anything? And that if two people having matching fingerprints didn’t carry any cosmic significance, then neither did having matching daemons.

And Yuna maybe could’ve made herself believe that if not for the eyes.

The first thing Yuna did when she got home from the NHL award in 2011 was to gather every photo of Akane she could find and search out every photo she could find of Rozanov’s daemon.

She didn’t think seeing the daemon for a third time would surprise her more than the first two. But she hadn’t seen the eyes those times.

She had called David over as soon as she found a photo that included the other fox’s eyes, and together, they stared at their son’s eyes looking back from the fox. Yuna saw the echo of her father in there, too.

And a deeper, side-by-side comparison had shown her that the daemons weren’t similar. They were the same. Down to the individual white hairs on their diamonds.

Could the extent of their sameness be considered unique?

Yuna could never answer that question, so she put it aside. And did what she does best, she made a plan and executed. Shane clearly didn’t want anyone to know this, and he definitely didn’t want to talk about it.

She put all the photos of Akane in a locked folder in her home office, and she scoured the internet for photos of Akane. She had always studiously avoided the spotlight, but Yuna wanted to be sure. She went through every photo that any of Shane’s friends or teammates had posted since they joined Facebook. She asked them to take down any photo of Shane or Akane, whether or not he was tagged. She didn’t tell Shane and told everyone else that his sponsors had requested it.

Then, she spent the morning after every Montreal game scanning the internet for photos of Akane. There weren’t many, but she had every one taken down that she could. She a few minutes most days searching for photos of Rozanov’s daemon. There were a lot; the man seemed to love being photographed. Usually with a beautiful woman on his arm. Still, his daemon wasn’t often caught. But when she was, Yuna contacted her proxy to request that those be taken down as well.

Shane didn’t have to talk to her. Yuna would help him regardless.

But she wished he would.

She and David had both pushed a few times after the awards, but Shane had stonewalled them each time, insisting there was nothing to it.

“Doesn’t mean anything” was all he’d say. He claimed he’d never talked to Rozanov about it. He didn’t talk to him at all, really.

But how could it not mean something? The situation was unique.

Eventually, they had stopped pushing. Telling him they loved him no matter what. He could tell them anything, and nothing would change.

Shane said, of course, he knew that. But Yuna knew when Shane was lying.

Still, Yuna watched the internet. She saw the trickle of articles about the daemon being spotted together start to flow. She had as many articles and photos taken down as she could without actually suing. She wasn’t sure if they were true or not.

With all her planning and attention, she didn’t expect to be surprised when the alert she’d spent five years waiting for finally lit up her phone. She had never imagined seeing Akane cuddled with Rozanov’s daemon in a million lifetimes. It was difficult to imagine her touching anyone besides Shane-chan.

Shane. Just Shane. She mentally corrected. Shane-chan was a rare indulgence that she only allowed herself in her mind. And this wasn’t the time for it.

Her plan wasn’t a complicated one—decline to comment. Deflect. Shane didn’t even want to talk to her about it. She was sure he wanted to comment on it publicly even less.

When Shane finally reached out that night, she wasn’t trying to trick him into revealing anything when she asked if he could get in touch with Rozanov. He had always fastidiously maintained that they had no contact. The question was automatic; as it was coming out of her mouth, she was confident he would say no. No problem, his agent could find Rozanov’s agent.

But then Shane had said yes.

She was floored. Maybe they’d been on some emails together? But Rozanov was likely out partying and not checking his email. She didn’t expect Shane to get back to her quickly.

But then, within 10 minutes of getting off the phone, he texted Rozanov's agent’s number. Told her he was expecting Yuna or Farah to reach out.

By early the next morning, the meeting she and Farah had planned was getting swept up into a broader conversation with the NHL. She was surprised they were weighing in, but this did involve one of the league’s biggest, steady revenue streams.

Yuna keeps an eye on Rozanov during the meeting. He was much quieter than she expected. He didn’t speak unless he was asked a question, and didn’t look at Shane, who’d sat across from him.

She was surprised by how strongly Shane wanted to issue a public denial or deflection. He seemed to want some strategy that would allow Rozanov to return to Russia. Farah, the Metros reps, the NHL reps, and Yuna herself hadn’t been able to convince him to let it go. Shane usually went along easily with whatever Farah or Yuna suggested for these kinds of things. He hadn’t even read the statement they issued after the group chat fiasco. Only Rozanov, stating that his lawyer had strongly advised him against issuing any type of public statement, especially a denial, derailed Shane. Rozanov elaborated that it could hurt any potential asylum case he might make.

That stopped Shane in his tracks, and Yuna saw the way the other attendees and daemons recoiled or bristled at the words. One tiny, spotted wildcat actually crawled into the suit jacket of the Metros rep.

Yuna could tell Shane had completely checked out of the meeting after that. Wherever his brain was, it wasn’t in the overcrowded conference room. His gaze stayed down, and he pulled at his eyes like he’d done when he was young and trying not to cry. That was how Yuna was sure he didn’t catch the thinly veiled threats about making sure that something like this never happened again. How it would be “costly for everyone.”

Yuna was affronted on Shane’s behalf.

She filed the warning away. There were always more plans to make.

---

Yuna stood in front of the elevator with Shane, Rozanov, and his agent. His agent, Barry, looked exhausted. His clothing was rumpled and retained some of that recycled air scent from an airplane. He’d clearly flown in just before the meeting. Yuna was surprised that he’d flown all the way here, but then considered how much Shane paid Farah and reconsidered.

The two foxes had rejoined them. Yuna saw them come out of an empty office together. Not the office where Shane had left Akane. They didn’t interact. Just sat at the elevator doors next to one another, tails moving aimlessly. The slightly shorter tuft of white on the end of Akane’s tail did little to disguise their similarity from the back, despite Shane’s efforts. Yuna stepped in front of Akane, happy for her wide-legged slacks. She was usually grateful to have a small daemon, but right now it would be helpful.

Yuna clocked all the eyes on them as they waited. Two middle-aged men watched them openly, but most of the people Yuna caught at least pretended not to stare. They were subjected to a constant stream of eyes flickering here and away, and low conversations that were clearly only a pretense for trying to overhear theirs.

“Sorry, kid,” Barry said. “I’m commandeering a desk here for the rest of the day. Back-to-back meetings. I’d walk you out to your taxi, but well…”

He trailed off, gesturing toward his tiger. He always needed the oversize elevator. And in most places, that was just the service elevator.

“Is fine,” Rozanov said. “I can manage an Uber to the airport.”

They shook hands briefly, and the elevator door dinged open.

Yuna half expected Shane to wait for the next elevator, but the three of them stepped in together.

When the doors closed, she turned toward Rozanov, seeing the two foxes still sitting like statues next to each other in the back of the elevator. He was standing stiffly, hands clasped in front of him, shoulders narrowed, and feet together.

“Mr. Rozanov, I’m Yuna Hollander,” she said, extending her hand forward.

His eyes flashed with surprise, and Yuna fought to stop herself from recoiling at the familiar hazel glimmer there. She had known, of course, but it was uncanny.

He shook her hand firmly. It was warm and calloused.

“Yes. We met,” his eyes danced as he added, “a little.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you properly. If we can help, please–”

“We can give you a ride to the airport,” Shane cut her off.

Her daemon, Rosalind, let out a low caw. Rozanov turned and cocked one eyebrow at her son. It wasn’t his usual taunting expression that Yuna was used to seeing on screen.

“It’s okay, Hollander. I have Uber.”

“Sorry, I know you do, but it’s really no trouble.”

“Always sorry with you,” Rozanov teased, but Yuna noted it didn’t have the same heat that he usually brought to dig into Shane.

“We’d love a ride,” the other fox said with the same accent as Rozanov.

The man cut her a sharp look, but then both boys–men, she corrected–glanced over at her.

“I’d be happy to. It’s more or less on the way back to Ottawa from here. Barely a detour.”

She glanced at Rozanov, seeing his backpack. “Do you have more luggage?”

“Ah, no. The team took it.”

Yuna felt like she had emerged from the elevator into the Twilight Zone, where Ilya Rozanov accepted a ride in her car instead of chirping her son relentlessly. Yuna did not have a plan for this.

Watching Rozanov fold himself into the back of her car, she winced a little. She had a mid-sized SUV, but he was a tall man.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s a short ride at least. 20 minutes. 25 if there’s traffic.”

“I am fine. Thank you for the ride, Mrs. Hollander.”

“Yuna,” she corrected.

His daemon and Akane hopped up behind him as he slid across the seat. They both fit in the little basket designed to keep them safe in the car, since it was big enough to hold David’s lynx. Rosalind had always refused to sit there, preferring to stay perched on the top of whichever seat she was in.

Shane kept his gaze forward and asked,

“What are you going to do?”

Yuna knew he wasn’t asking her. She disliked that Rozanov was right behind her, and she couldn’t see his face. She knew Rosalind was watching. She would be filled in later

“I am going to drink bad vodka at this airport, and then, put Scott Hunter into a retirement home tomorrow night.”

Shane huffed, and Yuna could practically feel Shane roll his eyes.

“You can’t just be okay with this. It’s your home.”

“Okay. Not okay. It doesn’t matter, Hollander. I told you this.”

When had they spoken about this, Yuna wondered.

“But–”

“No, but Hollander. I will do what lawyers tell me to do. What Raiders tell me to do.”

The silence lingered uneasily.

“My mom had another idea. A distraction.”

Yuna had told Shane that a bigger story would make the media move on faster. But she didn’t think Shane would do it. He didn’t enjoy attention.

“If I were to do something, like date someone publicly, everyone would focus on that, instead.”

Rozanov laughed, but he didn’t sound amused.

“Sure, Hollander, go date a movie star if you want.”

“солнышко, don’t––” the other fox stared. Yuna pressed her lips together, forming a tight line as she saw the other fox’s eyes in the rearview.

“I don’t want. It would just be to make this go away,” Shane interjected tersely. Then he added, “You’ve done it too much for it to be an interesting story.”

“Jealous, Hollander?”

Akane laughed, but it didn’t sound like her usual, playful one.

“Jesus, no,” Shane replied quickly. “I’m trying to help.”

Yuna didn’t recognize that tone, and she was too focused on getting onto the exit ramp to see his face.

“Do not lie for me.”

Shane’s head whipped around.

“I told you it’s not…” Shane cut himself off, and Yuna saw his head turn to her out of the corner of her eye.

“I was not careful enough,” Rozanov said. “This is not your fault.”

“You were careful.”

Both foxes growled and said something apparently to each other that was too low for Yuna to hear.

Another question for Yuna to add to her list.

She pulled up to the curb and parked. Turn around, she saw the two foxes cuddled together just like they were in the picture. It really was sweet, but also profoundly confusing.

Yuna felt a cold shiver go through her when she realized that, with their eyes closed, she would not have been able to pick out Akane if she still had her diamond.

Rozanov’s fox stretched and nuzzled the other fox’s face before hopping onto the car’s floor.

“Do what you want, Hollander. It will not make a difference to Russia.”

He paused and seemed to make an effort to add some warmth to his voice when he added.

“Thank you for the ride, Mrs. Hollander. I really appreciate it.”

“Any time. Let me know if we can help you.”

He nodded and closed the door.

She continued driving. Shane was riding with her back to Ottawa for his next game. She saw his gaze keep darting over to her.

She decided to break the silence.

“It’s very nice that you care about him, Shane.”

“I don’t,” he said forcefully. “It’s just not fair. He didn’t do anything.”

She glanced back at Akane in the rearview, still curled up, seemingly asleep.

“How long have they been… close?”

“I don’t know mom. We don’t understand it either.”

Yuna hummed as she took in the “we.”

She thought perhaps unique had never meant alone at all.

Chapter End Notes

Study discussing how fingerprints aren't quite as unique as we thought: https://www.science.org/doi/10.1126/sciadv.adi0329

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Apologies for somehow posting the same chapter twice yesterday! I have no clue how that happened.

The chapter count might change only because I think I miscounted my chapters in my doc. It's not because I'm doing any major rewrites. I just can't count, I guess.

November 2015

After his mom died, and after living in Boston for seven years, Ilya thought he fully understood the meaning of the quote he’d once heard that you can never go home again. The place changed without you, and the people and ways of being that felt eternal slipped away.

He never thought he’d understand the phrase so literally when it had already cut him so deeply. Russia was no longer a place of soft blonde waves and simmering stuffed cabbage. It was a place of disappointed dreams and broken vases by a cold fireplace. Ilya hadn’t been able to return home for years before he ever left Moscow.

All that was left in Russia was a father who had forgotten everything except how much he loathed Ilya, and a brother who wouldn’t let him forget a single bill. They tried to take everything from him except the one thing that he ever wanted to give them–someone to be proud of.

So really, Ilya should feel good. He should feel relieved that Alexei hadn’t called him to remind him to send the money that was due today. But he couldn’t. How would they afford his father’s medication without it?

He’d send the money, of course. He never needed Alexei to remind him. He checked his phone again anyway. Sending the money and not dealing with Alexei should be the ideal situation.

But none of this was ideal.

His lawyer told him at this point it was impossible to know if it would be safe for Ilya to return or if they would cause issues for him when renewing his passport. Right now, nothing had been officially reported in the state media. But he knew he’d never risk returning.

Ilya pondered why something that should feel like freedom felt like its own prison sentence as he picked up his crappy beer that was free in the airport lounge. The coaster stuck to the bottom, and Ilya stared at it through the pale, yellow liquid as if looking long enough would reveal the solution.

The airport buzzed around Ilya with its usual jumble of emotions. The frantic energy of people who’d just left home, starting their dream vacation, crashed into Ilya, refusing to mix with the weariness he felt from others who were awake for too many hours, eager to return to their own beds.

Ilya could feel the waves of it sloshing inside of him like two seas meeting without mixing — deep blue pressing against muddy brown in a jagged line.

The energy usually fed Ilya. Now he felt more like the world-weary travelers than the ones just starting a trip.

Home

Everyone was leaving home. Confident they’d be back soon. Or going home, into loving arms and warm smiles.

And Ilya? Ilya was going to Boston.

In fairness, he did usually think of Boston as home. Anywhere you’d lived for six years had to become a home of sorts. And Boston loved Ilya. Perhaps not as much as Montreal loved Hollander. Hockey simply wasn’t as popular in America.

Still, it was a city full of people who cheered him in the streets. Ilya wondered whether anyone there besides Svetlana really knew him. He had a nice house there. Most days, he thought it was his home. But he’d never felt like the place had warmed up to him.

Ilya picked up the tepid dregs of the beer again and again, testing how many times he could lift the glass until the coaster unstuck itself from the cup. Was the weight of gravity not enough? How was simple condensation enough to keep them clinging together?

Perhaps gravity didn’t work as well in Montreal. Maybe that was his problem all along. Allowing things to stay together that shouldn’t. Perhaps the pilots would have an easier time today. But if that was the case, why couldn’t Ilya lift his head and relax his shoulders?

So there he stayed, bowed by a force that was weaker than a disintegrating coaster.

---

Ilya checked his phone again when he landed. He couldn’t think of a single time his good-for-nothing brother had missed a chance to harass him for money. He checked his email and read the wire transfer confirmation again. Alexei would spend most of it on coke or his mistress, but he knew some of it would help his dad and his niece’s school fees. It would have to be enough.

He pocketed his phone. He needed to go straight to the rink if he had any hope of being on time to practice. Zarya hopped into the Uber behind him; she’d usually sit in his lap, but this time she went into the basket. They still hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t apologized, and Ilya wasn’t interested in hearing anything else from her. Not when she’d cost him so much.

Ilya sat uncomfortably in the back of the car, mind racing from Moscow to Montreal and back again. The uncanny discomfort that always accompanied seeing Hollander’s altered daemon hadn’t faded at all. Ilya felt like she was still in the car with him. He shifted constantly in the leather seat, as if he could find a physical position to alleviate the disquiet that consumed his mind.

Even getting back on the ice did nothing for him. Practice was awkward, and Ilya knew it was his fault. If he’d been able to act like his usual self on the ice, his teammates would’ve followed his lead. Instead, he saw them constantly glancing over to Zarya in her usual spot, watching practice. Their uneasiness pelted Ilya like a hailstorm of suspicion–cold and impersonal. Clinical wariness of men trained to find and exploit weakness.

When Ilya finally made it home after a frank discussion with the Raiders’ GM, he heard the man’s words, “You’re not paid to make friends,” rattling in his head as he fell asleep on top of the blankets.

He awoke the next morning to the beautiful sight of Sveta making bacon and french toast in his kitchen, her sable curled around her neck in his usual manner.

When they heard him coming, they both turned their heads, but Sveta kept flipping the bacon. Barkhat slid off of Sveta’s neck, onto the counter, and vanished. Looking for Zarya.

Ilya wrapped his arms around Sveta, chest to her back and rested his chin on her shoulder. The smell reminded him of cold mornings in front of the fire as his mom cooked.

“I’m sorry, Ilyusha,” she murmured. “What did your lawyer say?”

They’d texted briefly over the previous two days.

“Nothing more than yesterday. He will stay in touch with his government sources. We will start trying to renew my passport in a month or so, when this has blown over. And you will let me know if you hear anything.”

“I’ll decide who I have to seduce this summer to make this go away for you.”

“My knight in shining armor. I hear the new Minister of Sport is very attractive.”

Sveta gagged. “His daemon is a pig.”

“Sveta, you wound me. You’d do anything for me — except fuck a pig?”

They descended into a fit of giggles, and Ilya felt something loosen in his chest.

The bacon was charred at the edges. It was the best thing that Ilya had eaten in days.

---

Sveta left just after lunch, and Ilya got ready for practice. He was resolved to act normally today. He had to show everyone that nothing was wrong. He felt Zarya enter the room, but didn’t react. Once his backpack was packed, he heard her take a deep breath.

“How long will you ignore me?”

“How long will you keep me from my home?” He snapped back.

“Russia has not been your home for a long time. It is not safe for you.”

“And whose fault is that?” he asked coldly.

“That’s not the safety I meant. It has been cruel to you for longer than it was kind.”

“Russia is more than just my father and brother,” his voice broke on the last words.

“Not for you, sunshine,” her paws hit the wood softly.

“You’ve taken the chance for it to ever be anything else,” he roared.

He forbade tears from forming. His chest was seizing as he wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing. He took short, shallow breaths until he was able to draw longer ones.

“There will be no new memories. No chance to make it better,” he hated how his voice broke. Weak

“Ilyusha, you don’t want that,” her voice was even and quiet, but Ilya felt as if she were shouting at him. “If you truly wanted to go back, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. You know how it works between us.”

He said nothing. He didn’t want to abandon his family. He wasn’t capable of such a thing. Zarya nuzzled his calf with her snout.

Greedy, lazy, dishonorable words snarled at him his whole life. Coming true before his very eyes.

“You are free of it now. You can choose yourself,” she murmured into his leg.

But all he heard was: selfish.

Another truth his father had carved into his skin.

---

January 2016

Ilya’s life fell into a rhythm once again. Not the same as before, but a close parallel.

He went to practice. He won games. He was booed around the country.

He did not text Hollander.

Alexei dodged his calls. He checked in with his lawyer. He curled up with Sveta on the couch.

He did not text Hollander.

He went to parties. He took shots. He danced late into the night.

He did not text Hollander.

It wasn’t as if they talked often. But Ilya had never ignored him. Hollander had sent him a few messages in the weeks after the meeting. He’d tried to check in with Ilya and then send him his usual hockey observations.

He had been moved by how fiercely Hollander had wanted to do something to help Ilya. But not talking to each other anymore was the best way to help Ilya. He knew he should explain that to Hollander, but couldn’t bear the thought of saying the words aloud.

The media had moved on. Ilya hoped Hollander would too.

They’d both stuck to the script.

“No comment. Next question.”

No one from the Raiders had said anything else to him after his initial warning, but he felt the scrutiny. Montreal was playing in Boston next week, and it felt like the building itself had eyes on him. Everywhere he went, he heard whispered conversations that cut off abruptly and too-cheery smiles from people who used to chirp him as much as he used to chirp them back.

Each time he felt the uneasiness around him, he felt like he had added another plate to the bending barbell on his back, digging into his traps and back. Already past his PR–the silence from Russia, the messages from Hollander. Each look, each awkward shuffle threatened to break the bar, or perhaps Ilya himself. Yet there was a stadium full of people waiting to see him plant his feet, squat low, and drive up again.

Over and over.

Up and down.

Lower next time, Rozanov. Past parallel.

Drive up faster; you’re too slow.

No spotters. No rack.

Just Ilya and the weight that he was certain would snap his spine.

The day before the game, Ilya told Zarya, in no uncertain terms, that she would not see Akane during the game. And he would not see Hollander after the game.

“This is not what you want, sunshine,” was all she said, not unkindly.

“What I want is not to be sent back to Russia and fall out of a window,” he yelled at her. “So yes, this is exactly what I fucking want.”

In the end, she agreed. It felt like another weight on the bar.

---

Shane stared at his texts to Lily.

Four blue texts in a row. None of them was long, but enough to bury Lily’s last response.

No words, but the message from Rozanov was clear.

Shane knew he must hate him now. Shane didn’t even blame him for it. He knew he probably would, too, if the situation were reversed.

It didn’t make it hurt less.

It was over.

He didn’t think he could be angrier with Akane than he was after he saw the photos, but he hadn’t realized what it would also spell the end for him and Rozanov, so as the weeks went by, his simmering anger slowly began to boil in a pot that didn’t seem to run dry.

Shane didn’t realize he was holding onto any hope that he would see Rozanov again until after the game.

The game itself had been miserable. Seeing Rozanov again had been acutely awful, which had been compounded by the fact that he could tell their daemon hadn’t found one another. He missed the electric thrum from battling Rozanov while knowing he would see him later, and the feeling of rightness that filled him with Akane and Zarya found each other.

He and Akane were hardly speaking as the silence from Rozanov grew louder. Before the game, they hadn’t said a single word to each other all day until the hotel room. Hayden had gone out to meet the team for a drink, but wouldn’t be gone long.

“Are you happy now?” he snapped at Akane. “Is this what you wanted? No contact? No them?”

He was unaccustomed to the alternating rage and despondency he felt. Worse than the pain, somehow, was how unfailingly kind she was to him. She didn’t say much, and she didn’t apologize. She took it and still curled against him when he broke. He didn’t cry so much as collapse into the bed.

He took the momentary comfort before tearing himself away, refusing to be comforted by the part of him that cost him so much.

Akane didn’t look at him as she crawled away, curling up under the bed. She knew the effect her eyes would have on him in that moment.

Shane stayed crumpled on the bed as the night grew dark around him. Hayden got back and flicked on the lights. Shane scrambled to recline normally and act as if he’d just been on his phone. Hayden had raised one eyebrow at him, but said nothing, settling down on the bed with his rabbit.

Perhaps sensing Shane’s mood, Hayden asked if he wanted to watch a movie. When Shane had agreed, Hayden picked one. He knew Shane well enough to know he didn’t actually care and would only half pay attention.

About 20 minutes into some action movie of a secret service agent trying to rescue the US President, Hayden looked over at Shane.

“So, uh,” he began awkwardly. “No Boston Lily tonight?”

“No,” Shane replied flatly.

“That sucks, man. I know how much you look forward to seeing her.”

“I don’t,” Shane denied automatically.

“Did you guys like, break up or something?”

Shane just huffed in response.

“Okay, dude. We don’t have to talk about it. But I’m here for you, man. You can talk to me.”

“I know, Hayd. Thanks.”

The movie continued. Things blew up. Bad guys were shot.

Shane’s mind wandered. He had half expected Akane and Zarya to find each other during the game. Even get caught together again. He’d asked her not to so many times, but she’d never listened before.

Zarya. Thinking of her name filled him with a sense of profound beauty and desperate sadness.

He’d looked up the name after dropping Rozanov at the airport. Google Translate told him it meant dawn.

Not all daemons’ names meant something. But Zarya meant a lot of things, apparently. Zarya, in Russian tradition, was two goddesses of dawn and dusk who stood on either side of the Sun’s throne. Shane wasn’t really one for folklore, but found the name beautiful.

Hayden again interrupted Shane’s thoughts. He usually appreciated that Hayden could pull him out of a thought spiral, but right now he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

“Sucks we lost tonight, but at least the foxes behaved, right?”

The glow from Hayden’s phone had lit his face from below. Ominous in the dark room.

Shane laughed darkly.

“I guess,” he said. “It only took years,” he added in French, which Hayden didn’t speak.

“What was that dude?”

“Nothing. They caused enough trouble last time. So, I’m glad,”

Something big exploded on TV. Hayden’s rabbit woke up from the bed, immediately alert. He sniffed Hayden’s foot quickly and then began hopping around on the bed.

“Shane. Can I ask you something?”

Shane groaned.

“What, Hayden?”

Shane decided he was going to feign sleep after this conversation. He was over it.

“You didn’t just see Boston Lily in Boston.”

“Hayden,” he tried to say sternly.

Akane rustled the blanket that had slipped over the end of the bed, peeking her nose out.

Hayden continued, “She’d come to Montreal sometimes.”

“Hayden, no, she wouldn’t,” he sounded desperate, and he knew it.

“Oh my god. Yes. She was always there after Boston games. SHANE.”

Hayden flipped on the lights between their beds, the lights too bright and white to be nice bedside lighting.

His rabbit jumped onto Shane’s bed, hopping around madly, nose twitching furiously.

Akane had retreated under the bed again.

“Is Boston Lily? God, I can’t even say it. There’s no way. Tell me I’m crazy.”

“You’re crazy, Hayden,” he put as much conviction in his voice as he could.

His blush betrayed him. He was, he was sure, beat red.

“Holy fuck, I’m right. Boston Lily is Rozanov?”

The room felt very small.

Shane didn’t–couldn’t–say anything.

Akane growled from under the bed.

For a while, Hayden didn’t say anything. He just kept mumbling “Holy fucking shit” under his breath.

Shane pulled his hood over his head and tried to bury himself in the pillows. Hayden did not let that stop him.

“You are having sex with Ilya Rozanov.”

“No. It’s not like that, Hayd,” Shane lied.

“Dude, don’t even. I have four kids. I know what it looks like when someone gets laid.”

Shane had nothing to say to that.

"But what happened? I mean I'm fucking glad you're not seeing that asshole again, but like why?"

"I don't know, Hayd. Please drop it."

"But how did this even start between you?"

Shane put on his captain's voice.

"Enough, Pike"

Hayden stopped asking questions, but did nothing to stop the myriad reactions on his face. The movie continued, forgotten in the background.

“I owe Jackie $100.”

“What did you bet on?” Shane was aghast.

“Jackie was pretty sure you were into guys. I said you were too obsessed with Boston Lily to be gay. Oh fuck. She’ll kill me for telling you. Sorry, dude. We were only curious because we love you. You know we do.”

Akane’s growl was continuous at this point.

“What a way to come out for the first time.”

Hayden choked a bit at that.

“The first time, Shane? No one knows?”

“No”

“Not your parents?”

“No, Hayden, no one knows.”

“I'm sorry, dude. But, like, Rozanov knows.”

“Well, we never talked about it. And you don’t have to be gay to sleep with men. So, I don’t know what he thinks. He’s clearly not.”

“Definitely not, I saw this photo of him last week with this hot Russian chick...” he trailed off awkwardly.

Shane didn’t think Jackie would have the chance to kill Hayden because he was going to do it first.

---

Early February 2016

“Hey, man. Let’s go out tonight. Find something fun to do.”

“No thanks, Hayd. I’m not really in the mood.”

“I know, dude, but you gotta get your mind off things,”

The locker room was a riot to Shane’s senses. Someone had brought out a cooler, so the sounds of cans cracking, beer hissing, and slurping rang from every corner. His teammates yelled over the French Afro beats blaring from the speaker, making plans to celebrate.

This year’s team was so different from the one he’d known for the first six years that it was hard for Shane to believe it was more or less the same team. He hadn’t known how bad it had gotten until he saw the contrast. Still, it wasn’t perfect; Theriault was a hard ass, and Comeau muttered vile shit under his breath, but without the rest of the “inner circle,” the tone had shifted.

“Amazing saves tonight, Hazy,” J.J. “Your drinks tonight are on me.”

Whoops rang out across the room.

“Only one drink tonight, boys,” Wyatt Hayes said cheerfully. “And Lisa’s coming. It’s one of the rare nights we both have off. I’m not spending much more of it with you.”

J.J. clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good man. Maybe I’ll meet my Lisa tonight. Does she have any friends? I’m into hot doctors, so maybe…”

Shane lost track of the conversation, thinking back on the game they’d finished. Montreal had won in overtime against Boston. Shane had played well. Not as well as he used to against Rozanov, but his usual good hockey.

He was as miserable as he had been after they lost.

The smell of so many sweaty pads, combined with the musky haze from the rookies who had yet to learn that Axe was a chemical weapon, assaulted him. Usually by this point, he was nose-deaf to the familiar aroma, but today he couldn’t block it out.

Even as the captain, he never felt fully comfortable in the locker room, but that was slowly changing. He really liked this group of guys and wondered for the first time what it would be like to tell them that he was gay. A year ago, that would’ve been unthinkable. But now, he thought of Weibe, Hayes, and even Hayden, who had really stepped up as alternate captain to call out bad behavior. He still felt nauseated at the idea; maybe one day. Maybe if he were seeing someone, it would be worth it.

He still hadn’t talked to Rozanov since they’d dropped him off at the airport. Akane sat quietly on the bench next to him as he dried off and got dressed in the locker room. He put on his favorite after-game outfit, all soft, natural fibers that soothed skin that had been battered all night.

The other players moved frantically around him, sneakers and wet feet squeaking on the ground. He saw the casual way they navigated around one another, negotiating the shared space. He saw how J.J. would dodge Hayes but then bump into Dozer, making him drop his phone a few seconds before it happened.

He turned back to Hayden.

“Watch it, man,” he heard Dozer call out across the room.

Hayden was still looking at him expectantly, waiting for Shane to agree.

“Okay, but I don’t think going to a club is going to help. You know I hate that stuff.”

“Not a club. J.J.’s friend is having a fancy party for the opening of his restaurant. No loud music and no dancing. It’s perfect for you.”

“You have to come, Hollzy,” J.J.’s voice boomed across the room.

J.J.’s peacock strode over to where he was sitting.

“It’ll be fun,” the bird said. Shane had never gotten used to how outgoing he was.

“C’mon. We got a babysitter, so Jackie will be there too,” Hayden added.

Shane glanced at Akane. “Okay, we’re in,” she said.

He made himself leave his phone in his car.

--

The next morning

The grey predawn light woke Shane a few minutes before his alarm. It didn’t matter to his internal clock that he’d been out past midnight. It was time for his morning run. Akane was on his heels and hopped up on the treadmill. He missed running outside. She didn’t join him often anymore.

He hoped he’d be able to run until he was tired and then fit in a nap before lunch with his parents and practice.

As he ran, he turned over the previous night. To his surprise, it had been fun. Not enough to entirely distract him from the knot in his chest, but he’d still had a nice time. The music hadn’t been too loud, and the finger food was amazing. He’d even been able to effectively nurse a beer all night, so no one gave him shit about not drinking.

The real highlight was that he met Rose Landry. Most of the cast of the X-Squad movie was at the party, but she was the only one he really talked to. She was surprisingly kind and easy to talk to for a world-famous movie star. He was excited that he’d made a friend outside of hockey. It seemed healthy.

When he excitedly told Hayden about it on the way out, he’d grabbed Shane’s arm.

“I thought you said you were gay!” His rabbit hopped excitedly, nearly knocking into Akane. Akane growled softly.

“Jeez Hayd, I don’t think they heard you two blocks down. Say it a little louder.”

“Sorry, sorry. But seriously, man. You gave her your phone number.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Shane protested.

“Rose Landry. I can’t believe you’re too gay to sleep with Rose Landry.”

“Don’t be gross. She’s really nice. I like talking to her.”

On the treadmill, Shane burned with embarrassment. He hoped he hadn’t led Rose on. He did want to get to know her better. He still hadn’t checked his phone since before the game.

He didn’t get the nap he was hoping for. Instead, he had to go to the store and get the ingredients to make lunch with his parents. They were making spring rolls. It always seemed like a simple meal, but it took so much chopping. Shane was just washing his hands after chopping peppers when he heard the door open.

David washed his hands to help Shane chop the rest of the veggies, while his mom put on Planet Earth for the daemon. With David Attenborough’s voice humming pleasantly in the background, his mom sat at the island, and they recapped last night’s game, trading insights and speculating on playoff seeding.

“You said you went out after the game last night? With Hayden. What did you do?” David asked.

Shane filled them in on the party, including meeting Rose Landry.

“Hold on, son. Rose Landry asked for your phone number. Has she texted you?”

Shane squirmed a bit uncomfortably. She had messaged him, and he hadn’t responded. He wasn’t sure what to say. He assumed that if he told her he only wanted to be friends, she would immediately assume he was gay. She was, objectively, gorgeous. And he didn’t want to come out to a near stranger, but he did want to talk to her.

“What’s the problem, Shane?” David asked. “You had no problem talking to her last night you said. Texting’s not too different.”

“I didn’t think she was interested in me like that last night! I thought we would be friends.”

His parents smiled at him kindly.

“You are too modest, Shane. You are a very handsome man. Just text her. Maybe you’ll end up dating. Maybe you’ll make a friend. Don’t put pressure on it,” Yuna said.

Akane laughed loudly, and everyone in the room turned to stare at her. Shane saw that playful glimmer in her eyes that he loved and hated in equal measure.

Shane took a deep breath. He kept his eyes focused on the mint, plucking leaves from the stem. Akane had jumped onto the back of the couch, watching with her tail gliding slowly back and forth in the air.

“He doesn’t want to date her,” Akane said plainly.

His mom raised one eyebrow, but her eyes were soft. His dad’s face remained passive, focused on chopping spinach. Shane set down the stem he was holding.

He put his head down. Index and middle fingers on his temples, ring finger on the bridge of his nose, the scent of mint soothed him a little.

“I’m gay.”

He heard his dad put down the knife and felt a broad hand on his back. His dad ran his hand up and squeezed his shoulder, and Shane stepped toward him. He was taller than his dad by a few inches, but he put his head on his dad’s shoulder anyway. He heard purring from his dad’s lynx, who had come to stand close by him.

He heard his mom’s soft footsteps as she walked over to them, saying,

“We love you so much, Shane. Thank you for telling us.”

Her raven let out a low caw from the counter.

Shane didn’t cry, but his eyes burned.

Shortly after, lunch was ready. The conversation turned to summer plans. His parents had booked a trip to Japan and Vietnam. Shane was planning on spending his summer at his cottage. He thought longingly about his quiet retreat. He’d only ever been there in the summer. He wondered how many more years it would be before he got to use the fireplace in his bedroom. He thought that would finally make the place his home.

His attention snapped back as his mom laughed while David updated them on his new coworker, whose daemon was an elephant, and the subsequent office redesign.

Eventually, though, Yuna turned her keen eyes back to Shane.

“So Shane, have you been seeing anyone? You’d never mentioned anyone before.”

Shane felt the weight of the implication in the air.

He ducked his head.

“Uh. No… Not really. I, uh, can’t. You know?”

Akane huffed loudly and rolled her eyes. She didn’t say anything, though.

He glanced at his phone on the counter. His father looked at him sympathetically. His mother’s gaze was sharper — knowing — before she softened it.

Chapter End Notes

Again, all the conversations between Ilya and Zarya and Ilya and Sveta are in Russian. Also, if you haven't looked up what a sable is, PLEASE. They are so cute, I couldn't pick just one to link here.

Chapter 12

Chapter Summary

Ilya contemplates hell and biting Shane during the All-Stars Weekend. Zarya and Akane get up to their usual shenanigans. And once again the best laid plans of mice (Foxes) and men go terribly awry.

Chapter Notes

Look at me remembering to include a chapter summary.

Ilya is in full drama queen form. He is messy, and I love it for him.

Mild content warnings in the endnote.

Mid-February 2016, Toronto

Ilya hadn’t spent much time wondering what hell would be like. But caught somewhere between homesickness and patriotism in his first year in Boston, he’d picked up the only book in Russian from his local bookstore, The Brothers Karamazov. He wasn’t sure why he’d never read it before. His father owned three copies.

He tried to abandon it several times. When Ilyusha bit Aloysha, rejecting his friend, he threw the book across the room. Ilyusha was a weak, sniveling boy returning to his repugnant father time and again. But the depiction of hell kept him crawling back to the pages.

Hell wasn’t a nice bonfire below ground. It was a place of cold egos and endless woe. The inability to love and be loved.

He suspected Dostoevsky had not intended to depict the All-Star Weekend so accurately, but considering how fucking cold Toronto was in February, Ilya felt he was trapped in a very Russian hell.

At this point, Ilya might take the Christian hell over this fucking weekend. He was weighing the merits of an eternity on fire or one more day in Toronto when he saw the puck slip behind him, the pass coming a moment too late.

Fucks sake, was Carter Vaughn really as old and slow as Hunter now?

Ilya cut sharply and turned around to give chase. But Hollander was already on it. Skating up effortlessly to poke the puck right off the other man’s blade. Ilya was already moving as Hollander shot it back towards him, like they were magnetized together.

Ilya had moved to right wing for the game to play on a line with Hollander. It was all anyone could talk about that weekend. For their entire careers, the league had separated them at these things, playing up their rivalry as much as possible.

They played on a line like they’d been doing it their whole career, and they had not spoken to each other once.

Sure, they’d spoken around one another, discussing strategies and plays, but always with other people as buffers.

And once they’d got on the ice, they didn’t need to talk. A stick tap or flick of the head was enough.

They just knew.

Ilya had spent more time watching footage of Hollander play than any other player in the league. Probably more than multiple others combined. Ilya knew Hollander had likey done the same.

Ilya also knew that wasn’t why he was playing with Hollander like he was born for it.

They both knew what was happening.
The simultaneous joy and wrongness could only mean one thing — him, or Zarya, in Akane’s presence.

He'd lost Zarya somewhere between the hotel and the area. He felt they must be somewhere in the arena, but he didn't have time to look before the game.

Ilya kept trying to remind himself that he was exceptionally angry with Zarya and ignored the sense of well-being that flooded his chest.

Ilya was skating up the center, straight into a crowded net. He dropped a pass to Hollander without looking as he faked a shot to the left. The defenseman was still moving to the non-existent puck on his blade, and the goalie followed his fake shot. He didn’t see Hollander’s shot, but he heard the goal horn.

He turned sharply and saw that Hollander was already facing away from him. Ilya clapped him on the shoulder, worried he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back if he touched him more. He wanted to bite Hollander’s neck.

The game ended. His team won—probably. Ilya wasn’t paying attention.

He needed to get out of here and find Zarya. She’d disappeared before the match, and he hadn’t been able to find her. Neither had Hollander, based on the way he was glancing around nervously

In the locker room, Ilya ignored his teammates making plans to go out, stuffed his wet hair under his beanie, and stepped into hell or Toronto. It was the same to him.

---

Ilya felt like the cold of the ice and the winter around him had seeped into his bones, even though it was only a few meters from the arena to the hotel. The pain in his chest had grown worse. He suspected the foxes had left the arena and snuck back into the hotel. He certainly felt a bit better as he entered the lobby.

After an hour of searching, his skin was warm, and his hair had dried. But a coldness had settled into him that no number of layers or running around looking for Zarya couldn’t shake. He was following the tugging in his chest. Like a visceral game of hot and cold. But no direction was actually any warmer.

He poked around dark corners and searched as many broom closets and bathrooms as he could find. He also caught a glimpse of Hollander doing the same. Ilya paused, sitting on the miserably cold metal steps in the stairwell, listening to the howling wind needle its way through the gaps in the door’s seals. He finally admitted that he wasn’t going to find her until she wanted to be found.

There was an English expression for this: “outfoxed.”

Apparently, the language had planned for this.

Ilya rolled his eyes and gave up. He went to drown his sorrows in shitty Canadian vodka and the raucous energy of drunk hockey players. Walking toward the bar didn’t change the pulling in his chest. The vodka didn’t make him feel any warmer. He could only hope Zarya would find him before he passed out at the bar. Ilya examined the room. It was all dark wood and wallpaper with deep colors. He noted the empty fireplace on the opposite side of the bar, velvet armchairs still occupied despite the bleakness of the hearth.

He looked through his phone again. No calls from Alexei in months. Their only contact was a string of wire transfers. On an impulse, he called his brother for the first time in years. No answer. He wondered if he’d had his last-ever conversation with him. He didn’t even remember it. But he did remember the last time he talked to Aloysha; the last time he really talked to his real brother and not a parasite who resented its dependence.

It was a few days before their mother’s funeral. Aloysha had found him crying in his room and had held him until both their tears ran dry. Their father found them like that flew into a rage. Ilya was never sure what broke in his brother that night, but when Ilya tried to get him to stay with him, the German Shepherd daemon had bitten him, and the next morning, Aloysha was gone.

The remnant of vodka burned in his chest. He was finishing his first drink when Hollander walked past him, getting a drink, ginger ale, farther down the bar. Ilya took his empty cup and sat next to him, waving the bartender down. Ilya could feel the tension — anger flecked through it — lapping at him from Hollander.

“Vodka, please,” he said. He turned toward Shane but kept one eye on the glass as the bartender filled it from the well.

Hollander didn’t look over at him, but Ilya could almost feel him breathing down his neck.

“You played good today,” Ilya remarked,

“Oh, now you’re talking to me?”

Ilya inclined his head. He picked up his glass and tipped it back. He tapped the empty glass on the bar and set it down, exhaling loudly through his teeth.

He still felt colder than vodka. America was making him soft.

“Well, if it’s so annoying to you, why don’t you go somewhere else?” Hollander hissed.

Ilya turned his full attention on Hollander, seeing his white-knuckle grip on his ginger ale. The rest of him projected indifference, face neutral, gaze fixed ahead, shoulders barely tense. But Ilya could feel the façade. Ilya didn’t need to try to know what he was feeling. He caught himself watching the line of Hollander’s throat as he swallowed.

The urge to bite came back—sudden, irrational.

The book hit the wall, pages creasing as it landed on the floor. He left it there for days.

He killed the memory, forcing his gaze back to the bar.

“Have you seen them?” Ilya asked.

Hollander’s hands tightened more around his drink. Ilya wondered if he could break the glass.

“No… but at least no one else has.”

Ilya hummed in agreement.

They took another few sips when Hollander said he was going to go talk to a few other guys.

The bar started to empty; everyone was exhausted after a long weekend. Ilya ordered another vodka. He saw Shane fidget with a coaster while he talked to Hunter. They both knew they were waiting for their daemon to show up, fruitlessly. As the crowd thinned, it would be easier for someone to notice the absence. They were lucky no one had spotted it so far.

The bar was stuffy. Ilya had removed his coat, but he still felt chilled deep inside. He knew he needed to leave. If the vodka and drunken enthusiasm were going to make him feel better, it would’ve happened already. He wanted to pass out, but even the thought of getting in the elevator without Zarya made him want to puke. His room was on the 11^th floor, no way he could go that far. Where was Hollander’s room?

As he pulled out his phone to text Jane, he thought that Dostoevsky would approve of Toronto.

---

Shane was staring at the fucking weird wall art that had hung above his bed all weekend. It was a very buff, very shirtless man’s torso. He had a basketball propped on his shoulder, his arm curled up to hold it there, showing off his bulging biceps. Shane wanted to run his hands down the deep indent of the man’s spine–feel the muscles ripple around it.

It had been mocking him all weekend. He wondered if Rozanov had the same art. If it made him think of Shane the way it made Shane think–the knock startled him. It was sooner than he expected.

He opened the door, and Rozanov was rubbing his hands together slowly, like he was trying to get the feeling back. His skin looked pale.

Shane’s annoyance slipped away when he saw the tight pinch between Rozanov’s eyes and the downturned corners of his mouth. Shane felt himself mirror the expression.

“They are far from us. It… hurts.” He didn’t meet Shane’s eyes.

“Hopefully, they’ll find us soon. It’s just as painful for them.”

Shane realized that his hand had been rubbing the center of his chest. His sweater was starting to pill under the friction. He stepped into the room to let Rozanov in.

Ilya kicked off his shoes without bothering to untie them.

An uncomfortable silence descended on the room. The painful, tearing feeling in his chest had dulled his senses. He wished he could use Rozanov as a distraction, but he knew they were both too uncomfortable.

Rozanov sat on the far bed. It was the one Shane had been sleeping in. Both beds were made, but he wondered if Rozanov knew somehow. He watched the man sit cross-legged, tucking both his feet under his legs. He’d never seen him sit like that before. Were his feet cold? He looked like he’d been sweating.

“Have you been able to renew your passport?” Shane cursed himself. They were both uncomfortable enough without talking about this.

“No. Not yet. Have started, but is… slow. Not impossible, maybe, my lawyer says.”

“Well, what will you do if you can’t?”

“Enough, Hollander. I will do whatever Raiders tell me. I will score goals and not fraternize with the enemy.”

“They said that to you?”

“Da.”

Shane sat on the other bed; it groaned in the same way he wanted. He faced Rozanov, leaning over and resting his elbows on his knees. He spoke to the brindled grey carpet on the floor.

“Is that what you think? I’m your enemy. I made your life harder.”

Rozanov took a deep breath. He shook his head slowly, curls subtly swaying.

“You have never been my enemy. Opponent, maybe yes.”

Rozanov paused. He turned to face Shane, knees folded together.

“And you made my life much easier for many years. You are very easy for me, you know?”

Shane glared at him, not taking the bait. His eyes returned to the carpet. He saw a face in the pattern. A woman in profile. She looked kind.

“You must have thought about it, too. It’s not just me, right? What do you think it means?”

“What, what means?”

“Oh fuck off. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Shane’s eyes shifted. He looked for the face again, but couldn’t find it. Only jagged grey lines.

“I don’t know. We are similar, maybe. More than people think,” Ilya conceded.

“You think we’re the same?”

“No, I am not boring like you… Gah. Just maybe connected somehow. Inevitable.”

Shane raised an eyebrow.

Rozanov beat him to it

“I know. Big word. I play Scrabble now.”

“Do you?” Shane asked, somewhat charmed at the thought.

“No, Hollander, I just told you I’m not boring.”

Shane noticed the pain in his chest lessening. He heard Rozanov take a deep breath. He had more color than when he entered the room. His hands were fidgeting in his lap, but it wasn’t the same way he was rubbing them when he entered.

“Inevitable how?”

“Gods of hockey?”

Shane saw Rozanov’s signature crooked smirk and realized he’d missed it.

God, that stupid crooked smile.

“I’m serious.”

Shane tried to refocus the conversation.

“Так бывает. I don’t know. Probably it means nothing.”

Shane looked up and caught Rozanov’s gaze for the first time that night. He felt the man’s hazel eyes scorching into him, like sunlight amplified through a glass.

“No one will believe it means nothing.”

He felt his usual defenses burning up under Rozanov’s gaze. He wished it would just burn off his clothing like usual.

“They don’t decide, Shane. You decide. I decide. Not NHL. Not Twitter. It is not for them.”

Shane. His first name rattled around his head, stunning him. He felt split open.

“You called me Shane,” he said, stunned

“I know Akane’s name. I think Shane is not so big of a deal.”

He had a point, but it didn’t feel that way to Shane.

“What do you want it to mean?”

There was a scratching at the door. For a moment, Shane’s fury with Akane returned violently. He wanted to leave her out there, but knew they would be seen together, and it would be another disaster.

Both foxes trotted into the room seemingly without a care in the world. Shane could not deal with it right now. He’d have to yell about it later.

Rozanov stood up.

“I should go,” he said.

Shane couldn’t let him just leave. Not after months of nothing. Not after feeling his eyes on him again.
As he tried to walk past Shane, he grabbed Rozanov’s arm.

“Ilya,” his voice stuttered a bit on the name. “What do you want it to mean?”

Shane saw heat in his eyes once again. His skin was flushed.

Zarya put her paws on Ilya, stretching her front feet up his body. Shane could see the way he tensed, like he wanted to step back and break the contact. He didn’t, though

“Talk to him, солнышко,” Zarya pleaded. Shane wondered if his eyes looked like that when he was desperate.

“Ты для меня всё.” Ilya mumbled.

He ran his thumb across the bridge of Shane’s nose and his cheekbones. It felt like a brand. Shane cocked his head. He thought he understood the weight of the words, if not their meaning. His grip tightened on Ilya’s arm.

The other man ran both his hands down his face.

“It can’t mean anything, Hollander. I can’t. My asylum case is not strong. Is a mess in America. Citizenship takes years. I must keep quiet, renew my passport, and play for Raiders. It is the only choice.”

Shane’s eyes and throat burned. He released Rozanov’s arm and used his hand to pull his eyelashes, trying to stop the tears from spilling over. He’d never felt so naked before. It was like torture.

“I want it to mean something, Ilya,” Shane whispered.

Ilya froze, head turned away from Shane. His mouth was tight, eyes closed.

Shane reached out toward Ilya’s chest, just brushing his rough-spun sweater with the tips of his fingers. He felt Ilya’s chest rise. Akane brushed against the denim of his jeans, and came to sit next to Zarya, each fox on one side of their tentative embrace.

Ilya turned his gaze back to Shane. Shane held his eyes through a teary haze.

Ilya practically melted into Shane, kissing and nipping at every inch of his neck as he murmured “я тоже, родной.” Each kiss, each bite felt like the heat of the summer’s sun.

---

March 2016

The locker room buzzed around him, a particular pattern that Ilya only felt in Montreal. The hype of a team about to take on their rivals and a rightness and wrongness that was uniquely his own. Or perhaps to him and Shane.

Marlow was telling some dumb fucking story about his night out last weekend. It involved Carmichael, three women they met that night whose daemons were all big cats and, inexplicably, an actual alpaca. Ilya wasn’t following it, following the cadence of the guys around him to know when to laugh. Marlow’s bat was hanging upside down from his stick blade. Despite the animated way Marlow described trying to get this alpaca into a truck, he held the stick perfectly still.

Ilya’s mind was on his phone. He was ignoring a message from Sveta; she wouldn’t expect a response from him this close to a game.

Jane

You

you like it

You

🍆💦🍑

Jane

fuck off

Today 5:13 PM

Jane

I’ll keep A somewhere that Z can’t reach for the game. So no one will see

You

It won’t be too far?

Jane

No it’s close. Not really farther than when she’s in the stands. But my parents can’t make this game.

You

Okay

They hadn’t made specific plans to meet after the game, but after their night together at the All-Stars Weekend, Ilya couldn’t continue ignoring Shane. He knew if Shane asked, he’d walk straight into that creepy sex condo without a backward glance.

Ilya wondered what Shane’s actual house was like. He’d tried to picture it over the years, wondering what kind of life he led behind those walls. He desperately wanted to see it, and knew going anywhere Hollander actually lived would be a huge mistake. He’d be too close to a life he could never have.

---

It was Ilya’s favorite kind of game.

The Montreal crowd was dialed up to 11. He’d been called every name he could think of in English—and just as many he couldn’t understand in French. The fans screamed themselves hoarse, and it set him on fire. He’d scored two goals already and assisted the third. Hollander was keeping pace, with a goal of his own and two assists. The game couldn’t be closer with ten minutes left in the third.The Metros’ frustration poured into him with every hit and every curse. The game was getting dirty—especially for the Metros. With Shane as captain, they usually stayed disciplined. Fights were rare. But that decorum was starting to crack. The Metros were taking penalties. Ilya had scored his last goal on the power play.

He slammed Shane into the boards and shouted “Hat trick!” over his shoulder before gliding away with the puck.

Then he was gone.

Even Shane couldn’t catch him. Shane was the better stickhandler, but Ilya had always been faster. He could feel Shane closing in behind him, but he kept the puck just out of reach before sliding a pass to Carmichael.

Carmichael fired.

Fuck.

Hayes blocked it.

Boiziau scooped up the rebound and turned up ice, sending the puck ahead to Shane.

Shane exploded into the rush, weaving with the puck up the left side.

Ilya pushed hard after him, but Marlow was already closing the gap.

For a moment, everything slowed. The crowd’s cheers faded into a dull roar as all the blood rushed out of Ilya’s head.

Shane was scanning the ice, looking for Pike. He twisted slightly, starting to pass. In that split, Marlow hit him at an ugly angle, ramming into his chest.

Shane went flying into the boards, right shoulder making first contact.

He ricocheted off–crumpling to the ground.

He didn’t get up.

Ilya was the first to reach him; Marlow’s momentum sent him careening past.

Ilya was kneeling over Shane as he heard Pike shouting at Marlow. He sensed fights breaking out around him. The sounds of whistles, refs, and players rang around Ilya in concert with the people gathering around, but all he could focus on was Shane.

He knew he shouldn’t touch him, but wasn’t sure how he could stop himself. He was bending over Shane’s face. His eyes were closed, but his lips were moving. He curled into himself, grabbing his right side.

Shane was gasping for air, but through all his pads, Ilya couldn’t tell if he could actually breathe.

Ilya felt his own lips moving and realized he was shouting. He wasn’t sure what he was saying or even what language it was in.

Hands were tugging him backward. He struggled against them.

Finally, someone, one of the medics, got in his face.

“Back up, Rozanov. Let us work.”

Ilya was still yelling. His throat felt sore.

Again and again.

No one was answering him.

He was still on his knees, outside of the scrum of medics. He stood up to get a better angle. Hollander was in a neck brace and loaded onto a backboard.

Ilya could see his lips moving, but couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“Shane,” he yelled.

Shane couldn’t hear him.

As the medics started raising the backboard, he saw a red streak dart across the ice and hop onto Shane’s legs.

Ilya winced at the force of the contact, but Akane would know how to avoid hurting him. He felt relieved that she’d been able to reach him. He just remembered Shane had put her somewhere. Someone must’ve let her out.

He saw the fox’s white-tipped tail wrap around Shane’s body.

He felt a deep pang as he watched Shane leave. It felt wrong. Ilya wanted to go with him. He felt like he had to go with him.

But the medical team was moving full tilt off the ice and disappeared into the tunnel. Ilya moved to follow them unconsciously, but someone put an arm on his shoulder, holding him back.

The game had gone to commercial, and both teams were taking the time to regroup. Ilya knew he should be rallying his team. The game was theirs for the taking. But he also knew if he got close to Marlow, he’d punch him. Ilya skated to the bench and sat down.

He felt wrong. Deep in his chest, a thorn had lodged, and he could hardly concentrate through it.

The game resumed. He should’ve been on the ice, but he could hardly hear his coaches talking to him. The crowd’s furor didn’t invigorate him. It felt like nails against his skin. He could see how the plays would unfold in front of them, just a split second of insight that he would exploit if he were out there.

He couldn’t sense his coach’s emotions like usual. Were they mad? Were they worried?

Ilya pushed it all down. Locking it away.

He’d had his break.

He needed to shake off this funk and fucking score.

He looked at the clock. It had only been a minute plus another commercial break.

Still five minutes left.

More than enough time for a hat trick.

----

Ilya did score a hat trick. Apparently. He didn’t remember much of the rest of the game.

He remembered that he could predict, almost to a fault, how everyone would move around him, but that knowledge flowed out of him after he’d executed. It left him with a blur of memories.

Marlow was avoiding him, but Carmichael told him it was the best five minutes of hockey he’d ever seen. He’d been unstoppable.

He’d never felt more off kilter. Like he wasn’t living in his own body–his skin didn’t fit. Something was wrong.

He was worried about Shane.

That was all.

He could admit that.

Seeing Shane go down like that had been fucking terrifying. He needed to get out of here and see if Shane was okay. Maybe call him. It had been a late game. He didn’t think visiting hours would start until the morning. Ilya didn’t know if he could wait that long for an update.

He grabbed his phone. Nothing useful. Just the same text from Sveta.

He was the first one in the shower, half dry and changed before most of the other guys had even left the shower. As he raced out the door, he heard someone yell, “Where are you going?” He was supposed to take the bus back to the hotel, but he didn’t care. He needed to get out of here. He didn’t know where Zarya had gone. She wasn’t in the locker room, but he was confident that she would sense his urgency and appear.

He’d just started looking for a side door when one of the Raiders’ communications team found him.

“Roz. Media in 5.”

He turned to tell them to fuck off when a red flame flew by him, brushing his leg as it went.

Ilya was racing after it before his brain had caught up with him.

What was Zarya doing?

He couldn’t catch her until they reached the emergency exit doors. His breath was labored as he reached the doors. His legs were burning.

As he opened them, he reached down to scoop her up; no way he’d let her take off again.

When he grabbed her, he felt it immediately. His momentum carried him into the latch bar of the door, and they stumbled into the cool night air. He barely managed to keep his balance as he tumbled out. When he straightened, he knew one thing for certain.

Shane’s daemon was in his hands.

The world around him was a riot of sensation, but they were all drowned out by the feeling of Akane in his hands. Her fur was incredibly soft. Ilya’s fingers tangled into it instinctively as he held her against him. She felt so good. Her wrongness was less palpable. Ilya noticed a few of her white hairs on her forehead were glinting in the light. She hadn’t been dyed in a few weeks.

“What are you doing here, little fox?” Ilya whispered to her. “Why aren’t you with Shane. Is he okay?”

She growled at him, trying to shake out of his grasp.

“I was LOCKED AWAY, as you well know. I couldn’t reach him. I know he’s hurt. But he’s too far away.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed. He held on a little tighter, making sure not to squeeze her.

“But you went with him.”

“I did not,” she emphasized the I. “Someone just opened the door of the room I was in.”

He felt his stomach plummet, and he almost dropped Akane.

“Zarya. My god. But she is so far. Shane is so far. How is it…?”

She nuzzled his chest. Ilya felt his breath even out a little.

“We are together. It is enough.”

Ilya didn’t know how to respond. His mouth opened uselessly. He put her down.

He needed to find Shane right now before anyone noticed what happened.

Ilya started googling hospitals in Montreal. Montreal General seemed closest to the arena and was the first result when he looked. That was where his teammates were taken if they got injured here. He called an Uber. He’d go to every damn hospital in Montreal if he had to.

But how would he reach Shane once he was at the right place? They probably wouldn’t tell him even if he was in the right hospital.

Fuck. Shane said his parents weren’t at the game. That meant they likely weren’t at the hospital. They were the only ones who would likely realize it wasn’t Akane with Shane. Ilya wasn’t sure if that was helpful or not.

Who would go to the hospital?

Ilya was pretty sure Shane was close with Hayden Pike. He’d never really talked to Pike off the ice.

He texted one of the smaller Raiders’ group chats. Just guys he was actually friends with. He told them to get Hayden Pike’s number right now.

His Uber came quickly, and it was less than 10 minutes to the hospital. He had to sit in the waiting room for one of the guys to get back to him.

It was agony. Not in the way hospitals often were for Ilya. The unrelenting anxiety of people awaiting news and the frenetic energy of overworked nurses didn’t reach him. Instead, the harsh chemical smell of disinfectant and too-bright fluorescent lights grated on him. It felt like everyone was shouting in his ear.

He tried to breathe, but each breath drove the antiseptic scent deeper into his lungs. Akane curled on his lap.

“Are they here?” he asked.

“I think so, but I can’t really tell.”

Akane paused, ears twitching gently.

“Can you feel her?”

Ilya searched his chest. His senses were so overwhelmed.

“I can’t tell. Maybe. It is so bright.”

Akane smiled at him faintly.

“It won’t feel that way when we’re all together.”

Ilya nodded. He dipped his face into her fur. She had the same wild scent as Zarya, but mixed with wood smoke, and Ilya saw a flash of his mother sitting in front of their fireplace in the evening, warming her hands. He felt his shoulders relax until his phone buzzed. Carmichael had gotten Pike’s number.

Ilya debated whether to text or call but thought Pike might just hang up on him.

It took him a long time to wheedle Shane’s room number out of him. Shane was asleep, and Ilya had to promise to stay for less than 5 minutes before he was told where to go.

Pike was waiting for him outside the door.

“What the hell, Rozanov? Are you trying to fuck with him while he’s asleep now, too?”

Ilya sneered down at Pike.

Pike, to his credit, wasn’t cowed.

“Seriously, why are you here? Are you just trying to rub his face in it? He’s been a mess since…”

Hayden turned red as he trailed off.

“Since what, Pike?”

Hayden shot him a significant look

“Since Lily dumped him.”

Akane growled and took a few steps forward. Hollander had told him?

“Well, I think your information is wrong,” Ilya said indignantly. “Is not like that. And even if not, he will be glad we are here. Is the fox in the room with him?”

Pike doubled down on his anger. Ilya had never seen him look so cross on the ice.

“Get the fuck out of here, Rozanov. Don’t make me call security.”

“I said five minutes. Give me five minutes. I will not touch him.”

“I’m not giving you one second alone with him. You shouldn’t even be here.”

Pike puffed out his chest. He wasn’t a little guy, but he was quite a bit smaller than Ilya.

“I know. Shane would want me here. If he was awake. He wouldn’t want you to see this.”

Hayden looked irate. His rabbit stood up on its back legs, nose sniffing wildly as if it could scent Ilya’s intentions.

“See what? I’m his best friend.”

Ilya sighed. He really hoped Pike was as good a friend as Shane thought he was.

“Fine. Come or don’t. I do not care. He will be upset either way, I think.”

Ilya pushed past Pike into Shane’s room. Zarya perked up her head and stared at him as he entered. Ilya felt his lips curl up into a smile.

Ilya felt an immediate sense of relief when he stepped into the room. All his tensed muscles relaxed, and he felt like he’d come back to his body. He sensed Pike behind him and could sense the wary anger radiating off him in a way he hadn’t moments before.

There were several monitors hooked up to Shane, but the beeps had been muted, and the lights were dimmed. Ilya felt all the pressure building in his nervous system relax.

“I told you he’s fucking asleep. He wouldn’t want you here.” Pike hissed.

Ilya ignored him. He closed his eyes. He knew Shane would hate for Hayden to see this, but what choice did he have?

“Zarya, you old fox. Come here,” he said gently in Russian.

He glanced down at Akane.

“You will be the death of me,” he murmured.

She glanced up, fondly, and rolled her eyes at him before heading toward Shane.

As she passed Zarya, they brushed their snouts together and let their bodies rub alongside one another as they passed.

Ilya shivered at the pleasant but intense goosebumps down his spine.

He turned around to see Pike’s jaw nearly on the floor. His eyes were wide, and pupils fully dilated.

Ilya glanced down to scoop her up, letting her wild and fresh scent drive the disinfectant out of his lungs, finally. He tried to pass Pike, but he stepped in the way.

“What is happening here?”

“I think you know,” Ilya said calmly.

“She wasn’t his? How? It shouldn’t…”

“I do not know Pike. His fox couldn’t reach him. Mine went.”

“That’s not possible.”

“That is life,” Ilya responded in Russian. “If you are friends with Hollander, then you know he will not want to talk about it. You do not need to tell him I was here. I will come by in the morning like a good captain, and you will not tell him.”

Ilya stepped to hover above Pike, using his height to its greatest advantage.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Pike argued. “You don’t just get to decide this.”

“Yes, I do. And if you tell Hollander, he will also tell you not to talk about it.”

Ilya let the silence linger as Pike clearly struggled to comprehend what he had just learned. Ilya noted the vein popping out in Pike’s forehead. His fingers were balled into tight fists, and Ilya knew he wanted to take a swing.

“She will tell him,” he added, nodding to the fox now curled at Shane’s side.

Akane nodded once.

With that, he successfully pushed past Pike. Zarya on his heels this time.

When they were out of the room, he turned to her.

“How is he? Will he be okay?”

Zarya filled him in on what she’d learned. She couldn’t follow the medical jargon any better than Ilya, but it seemed like he had a broken collarbone and cracked ribs. No concussion, but he was on a lot of painkillers.

They were holding him overnight to make sure his ribs didn’t puncture his lungs and get a specialist to look at his collarbone in the morning. They were hoping to avoid surgery.

Ilya made it back to his hotel room, turned his phone on sleep mode, and actually slept rather well, blessedly unaware of the shit storm brewing online.

Chapter End Notes

This is the chapter for mild character injury. It might seem like Shane is more injured than his concussion in the books, but he is actually less injured (or no head injury at least)

Also let it be known that the weird basketball image from Shane's hotel room IS REAL. It's in a hotel directly across from the arena in Toronto. I was looking at the hotel room for some inspo since we've been in so many hotel rooms, I was running out of ideas. https://web.archive.org/web/20260214044223/https://www.germainhotels.com/en/le-germain-hotel/toronto-maple-leaf-square/rooms/the-classic

Chapter 13

Chapter Summary

Hockey and RPF Twitter briefly unite to try to figure out what the actual fuck is going on with these foxes.

Chapter Notes

This is really more of an interlude than a full chapter. It is again me having fun with different writing styles and imagining what was going down on Twitter as they saw Ilya have a meltdown and then play amazing hockey.

If you're not into reading social media stuff. That's fine, I'll have a tl;dr down at the bottom for you. You can essentially skip this without much issue.

I did think about coding this as actual tweets, but then I remembered that I don't hate myself, so it's mostly plain text. Respect to all the people who can pull that off!

@ShilyaTruth
Boston in Montreal. whos ready for these two to slam each other into the boards a little too often.

@ArenaSeat314
@shilyatruth Mom help. she doesn’t even go here.

@ArenaSeat314
oh Hollanders down. Not getting back up. Even rozzy looked worried.

@Hollanovis4real

----

@RaidersBreakaway
Rozanov looking for a hat trick. Absolute monster game.

@Shanesgirlf
Literally who gives AF. that was NOT Hollanders fox with him. NO ONE HERE BELIEVES ME I AM HIS GIRL I WOULD KNOW.
There are only like 2 blurry pics of this fox and I HAVE THEM MEMORIZED

@ArenaSeat314
@Shanesgirlf MY WIFE TOO i’m literally at the game and that fox came from behind the Raiders bench

@PuckBunny420
im sorry WHAT do you mean “not his fox”
that literally not how it works it HAS to be his fox

@TapeToTapePodcast
Not speculating but there’s some chatter it wasn’t Hollander’s daemon with him when he was taken off the ice. Probably camera angle.

@ShilyaTruth
BAD ANGLE????
be serious

@GoalieInterference
counterpoint: every fox looks the same

@DaemonLore
they absolutely do not #notallfoxes

@PuckBunny420
why is hockey twitter suddenly wildlife twitter

@HollanderDefenseSquad
you people are insane. hollander just got concussed.

@Hollanovis4real
Here is my breakdown of the differences between the foxes. https://64.media.tumblr.com/3026c9....

@ArenaSeat314
I regret every life choice that brought me to the shippers.

@ShilyaTruth
welcome to the fam honestly fox swap was such a deep cut even I didn’t think it was real

@HockeyNightFeed
clip circulating of Rozanov kneeling over Hollander immediately after the hit

@TapeToTapePodcast
why is he yelling “SHANE”

@GoalieInterference
lol if hockey players call each other by first names, they legally have to add “no homo”

@PuckBunny420
are we sure he’d not yelling “shame?” This seems more like rozs style

@Hollanovis4real
@GoalieInterference you don’t if youre in looooooooveeeeee

@GoalieInterference
ugh the RPFers are here

@ShilyaTruth
we never left we are everywhere

@GoalieInterference
there are literally 2 of u gtfo

@HollanovArchive

@SportsMediaGuy
is anyone even watching this game any more? Or is everyone just googling foxes now is the game over

@PuckBunny420
@sportsmediaguy googling foxes my man. im with the shippers now

@GoalieInterference
even if it was true. It is not. But there HAVE TO BE OTHER EXPLANATIONS.

@HollanovArchive
@golieinterference literally name one this shit makes no sense even to me.

@SportsCenter
Rozanov records a hat trick in the Raiders win over the Metros but does not appear for postgame media. Hollander is taken to hospital following third-period collision. Fan videos seem to confirm that Rozanov did not leave the Arena with the team.

@MetrosUnofficial
WHERE IS HE????? SORRY WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW

@PuckBunny420
hospital. He had to go to the hospital to get his fox back

@ Hollanovis4real
with his husband at the hospital

@GoalieInterference
please do not say this under a sportscenter tweet

@HollanovArchive
i rest my case this face

that man thought his husband died

@NeutralZoneTrap
delete the app

@ArenaSeat314
new angle clearly shows the fox that hops on Hollander emerging from behind the Raiders bench
JUST LIKE I TOLD YOU ASSHATS

@MetrosUnofficial
WAT

@GoalieInterference
oh my god

@TapeToTapePodcast
that is literally his side of the ice
no way Hollanders daemon was hanging out behind the raiders bench and no one cared

@NeutralZoneTrap
maybe the fox panicked

@HollanovArchive
@NeutralZoneTrap NOT HOW IT WORKS AND YOU KNOW IT
THERE IS NO REASONABLE EXPLANATION HERE

@ShilyaTruth
@HollanovArchive
DAEMON
SWITCH

@shayden
hayden would never allow this for his bb

@MetrosUnofficial
STOP SAYING THAT

@HollanovArchive
THREAD

fox identification guide because this app has lost its mind

1️⃣ differing lengths of white tail tip
2️⃣ forehead diamond

that’s it. those are the only differences.

@GoalieInterference
this is the worst thread i’ve ever seen

@HollanovArchive
ENHANCED THE CLIP

THIS IS HOLLANDERS DAEMON. NOT THE ONE IN THE VIDEO

@NeutralZoneTrap
that image looks like a microwave burrito

@GoalieInterference
that is a jpeg from 2004

@PuckBunny420
@HollanovArchive I’m on your side but my guy posted 8 pixels and called it evidence

@PuckStatsNerd
ok wait separate weird thing
rozanov gets photographed CONSTANTLY
clubs, airports, paparazzi

why is his daemon in almost none of those photos

@MetroGossip
this man has paparazzi photos shirtless in three countries
but somehow not a single clear fox photo exists

---

@LeagueInternAnon
my boss just asked

“please tell me daemon switching is not trending”

@GoalieInterference
it’s #3 in canada

@ ShilyaTruth
we have broken containment

---

@GoalieInterference
WHY ARE DAEMON SCIENTISTS ON MY TIMELINE

@DaemonBehaviorPhD
Because you people summoned us.

@ComparativeDaemonics
Thread:

If the fox that left with Hollander belongs to Rozanov, two possibilities exist:

1 unique daemon anomaly
2 profound metaphysical bond

@MetrosUnofficial
sir this is a hockey game

@Hollanovis4real
PROFOUND BOND

@ComparativeDaemonics
not anymore it isn’t

@HollanovArchive
@DaemonBehaviorPhD @ComparativeDaemonics what does this mean for my boys

@DaemonBehaviorPhD
@HollanovArchive IDK I LITERALLY HAVE TO RIP UP MY DISSERTATION

@shayden

@DaemonBehaviorPhD

@MetrosFilmRoom
serious question, and I can’t believe that I am asking this
if that is rozanov’s fox
why didn’t he react when it left
WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING????????/??/?

@hollzyhockey
just got off the plane and catching up on hockey news like

@GoalieInterference
OH MY GOD

@TapeToTapePodcast
everyone focused on the fox leaving
no one noticed
ROZANOV DIDN’T REACT
HE PLAYED SOME OF HIS BEST HOCKEY

@DaemonLore
You would absolutely notice your daemon leaving.

@ShilyaTruth
UNLESS

@NeutralZoneTrap
NO

@ShilyaTruth
THEY ARE

ALREADY

USED

TO

IT

@HollanovArchive

@GoalieInterference
i’m turning off my phone

@hollanovarchive
the 1st time they switched was likely after their first game. Sources says rozanov was in the parking lot waiting for shane after the game.

@shayden
ugghh why do I believe you. Send me ur fav ao3 tags for hollanov or is it shilya?

@ ShilyaTruth
shilya they use each others first names

@hollanovarchine
were not doing this again. BIGGER FISH AND ITS ALWAYS BEEN HOLLANOV

---

@LanguageHockey
translation update

Rozanov is repeating:

“Shane.
Tell me he’s okay.”
multiple times

@TatianaTranslates
No, he says “скажите мне”
formal plural
which makes sense because he’s yelling at medics

@RusHockeyFan
he wouldn’t say скажите in that moment he’s saying скажи

@RaiderBear81
native russian here
WHO THE FUCK CARES OUR NATIONAL HEROS DAEMON FUCKED OFF WITH ANOTHER MAN.
Stay away from tall building roz.

@LanguageHockey08221
final translation attempt:
“Shane! Tell me he’s okay. Tell me he’s okay.”
Repeated several times.
Then finally, 
"I need him. I need more."

 @PuckBunny420
that is somehow worse than i expected

 @NeutralZoneTrap
great now the linguists are shipping them

---

@MetrosUnofficial
this started about an injury
how did I end up with the shippers?

@ShilyaTruth
because the truth is out there

@NeutralZoneTrap
THE TRUTH ABOUT WHAT

@ShilyaTruth
SHILYA IS TRUE

Chapter End Notes

tl;dr

-General updates about the game and Shane's injury
-A few people start to claim that it wasn't Shane's daemon that left with him
-Hollanov RPF is its element
-People start to translate what Ilya was saying on the ice, repeating "Shane" and "Tell me he's okay."
-The fox is seen definitively emerging from behind the Raider's bench, leading most people to believe that it is Ilya's daemon who left with Shane, and that Ilya didn't notice, both things should be impossible

Chapter 14

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya wake up to in a very different world and try to make sense of it. Ilya has a lot of big choices to make.

Chapter Notes

If you read the previous chapter before March 25, I didn't indicate that the game in Montreal where Shane was injured was in March 2016. You were promised no beta, and you are getting no beta! Anyway, I've updated that now, and this chapter picks up the next day in March 2016.

Also, Ilya says a lot of words in Russian to Shane here. Since it'll be in Shane's POV and Shane doesn't know Russian, this is typically where I would include the words in Russian for you to translate or not. However, this is a big block of text that I did not trust to DeepL or Google Translate. I know crappy translations can really break the immersion. So, instead, I've just included it in English at the end because I need to know what Ilya was saying, and I'm making it your problem too. Also, it's like *thematically important* or whatever. Mostly I just LOVE a dramatic Ilya.

Lastly, SCROLL through the texting here. This code almost killed me and then my husband but he's a miracle worker. adding this 2016 phone style broke the old iphone coding I had in previous chapters and it got a little messy. so thank you husband! <3

March 2016, The next morning

Ilya woke to the sound of his phone buzzing, but it wasn’t his usual alarm pattern. Someone was calling him. Only two people could get through his do not disturb. Alexei was one.

His lawyer was the other.

“Hello —” he realized he was speaking Russian. “Hello?”

“Ilya. We have a problem.”

“Fuck. What’s wrong?”

“You were asleep? Have you been online?”

He groaned. Zarya yawned loudly and burrowed under the covers.

“Ilya, you have a serious problem. Everyone on the internet thinks your daemon went to the hospital with Shane Hollander. Combine that with you skipping your media appearances and disappearing from the arena, it looks pretty damning.”

Bile rose in his throat. He ripped the blankets off —suddently sweating. The cold air on his skin made him shiver.

“People could tell?”

He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. Zarya looked at him reproachfully and burrowed in once again.

“So, it’s true? I don’t actually know if it would matter if it wasn’t true. The story is out there. It’s trending in Russia too. They translated what you were yelling at Shane.”

Ilya had no clue what he’d been yelling at Shane, but knew it couldn’t be anything good.

An icy calm descend on him. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first picture went viral. His mind felt clear, but more like he was watching himself than reacting in the moment.

“What do we do now?”

“There’s no way Russia is going to quietly renew your passport now. This story is too big, too confusing. No one understands what’s going on, but they know enough. We need to talk about other options.”

“My case for asylum is strong now, I think,” Ilya asked, too numb to really be hopeful.

“Yes, but in the US, asylum laws are under huge scrutiny—the election, you know. If you can even get started, it’s a giant mess and could take years. Depending on who wins… it could get ugly.”

His phone was on speaker, but he couldn’t hear what his lawyer was saying. His ears were ringing. He reached under the covers and ran his hands down Zarya’s fur.

“Ilya? Ilya, can you hear me?”

He looked down. Had he dropped his phone?

His hearing returned to him in a rush.

“Yes. Sorry”

“Ilya. Do not leave Canada. Do not get on a plane. If you go back to Boston, you're betting your life on a US judge and a Russian passport that expires in five months. If Russia cancels that book, the US will deport you. In Canada? Once if you file this paperwork, you are 'protected.' You aren't a Russian hockey player anymore; you're a person under Canadian protection. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Stay in Canada.”

“Good. I’ve got a call set up with an asylum lawyer there in a few hours. In the meantime, do not make a statement. Tell me what the Raiders say when you talk to them. I’m getting in touch with their legal and comms departments, but it’s still early there.”

Ilya didn’t know what else to say. His mouth was just hanging open.

“Oh, and Ilya? The paparazzi are probably already lined up outside your hotel. But since it’s early, there won’t be many. You might consider switching hotels if you can get away easily.”

“Okay,” was all Ilya could manage.

“I’ll be in touch soon.”

Heavy dread worked its way through Ilya’s gut. He looked at his phone. It hadn’t blown up yet. Just a text from Sveta checking in, and one text from Jane. His agent hadn’t even reached out yet. He probably wasn’t even awake yet.

Jane

Today 4:32 AM

Jane

Are you awake? Have you seen the news?

Jane

Is it true?

Today 4:54 AM

You

Yes

You

to everything

You

how are you

Jane

I’m fine.

Jane

I’ll be leaving soon.

Jane

Where are you?

You

Hotel

You

already cameras here I think

You

I will try to leave

You

find new hotel

Jane

You won’t fly home with the team?

You

lawyer says to stay in Canada

Jane

Tell me where you are. I’ll pick you up.

Jane

We can go to the condo.

You

you cannot drive

You

ill meet you

Jane

I have a car service. Send me your location.

He threw his clothes in his bag, gave his teeth a perfunctory brush, and tucked all his hair into his beanie. Would he have to start calling a toque now if he had to stay in Canada?

Leaving his room, he found a window in the hall that faced the front of the hotel. A few people were waiting with cameras despite the negative temperature. Ilya texted his coach, saying he was leaving the hotel to avoid the media circus. At this point, he figured he should beg for forgiveness instead of asking permission.

Ilya felt he had a lot of begging coming due.

Ilya slipped out the side exit. It was more or less out of view of the cameras. He cut across the trees in the back of the hotel and ducked into a Tim Hortons. The smell of strong coffee and Timbits hit him. It was blessedly empty, though the drive-through line was long.

Ilya ordered a coffee. Sipping it, he made a face. He preferred Dunkin’.

The place would probably get busy soon, someone would come in, and he would be spotted. He hoped Shane would be here quickly. He hadn’t given a timeframe.

He opened his email and filtered for one from the Raiders and skimmed without responding. Like his lawyer said, it didn’t really matter if it was true. It was what everyone believed. They were trying to move up the team flight to get him back for a meeting. Ilya ignored them.

As he sat there, the calm that had overtaken him began to ebb. He saw his future stretched out in front of him, and he wondered where all those so-called dissidents who’d disappeared were taken. He wanted to pace but couldn’t risk drawing more attention to himself.  Zarya was curled at his feet, tucking herself under the coat pooling on the ground as much as possible.

Right now, he was relying on the sleepy indifference of the undercaffeinated to hide him. He tried to assure himself that he wouldn’t have to go back to Russia, but it felt too much like he wouldn’t ever get to go back to Russia. Even though they likely hated him there now, and he hated Russia in turn. But hating Russia felt like stabbing his own heart. It was home.

Ilya reminded himself that he hadn’t been home since he was 12. But he would always be Russian. He didn’t want to be anything else. It was why he’d never pursued residency before. Russia was so much more than its intolerant policies; the people were his people. The pelmeni and blintzes, the icy winters and warm banyans, the love of his mother and the indifference of his father. It left grooves in his heart that Boston could never fill.

 He tried to imagine a new home. In America or possibly Canada. Could he keep playing for the Raiders if he claimed asylum in Canada? What would home be now?

Ilya wondered whether anything could fill the gouges Russia had left in his soul. He closed his eyes and delved deeper–feeling new impressions made gently and hesitantly over time. Soft ones that soothed the jagged edges of his native land. Ilya didn’t know if ginger ale and freckles could soothe his wounds, but he thought he’d be willing to try.

---

Shane heard the lock click as he closed the door behind him in the condo. When they were in the stairwell, Ilya had gotten a call from his lawyer and had headed to the bedroom to talk. Shane wandered around the kitchen aimlessly. He was tempted by the beer in the fridge but settled for ginger ale since he was still on pain meds. It had taken him a while to reach Ilya. His parents had insisted on taking him home, and he’d had to rush them out the door before he could call the car service for them.

He tried to take a deep breath to settle his nerves, but pain lanced through him. He couldn’t even effectively brace his ribs since his right arm was immobilized. He sat down on the couch and ordered an absurd amount of Chinese takeaway. He didn’t know what Ilya liked to eat, so he opted to get a bunch of options.

As he sat, both foxes curled up together and rested their chins on his leg. He ran his fingers through Akane’s fur. He wanted to do the same with Zarya, but didn’t want to distract Ilya in an important meeting. He was exhausted. His whole body felt heavy from the pain and lingering medicine. He’d switched to Tylenol and Advil in the morning, wanting a clear head, but he hadn’t slept well in the hospital and had been woken by early morning rounds into an absolute shitstorm that he had no memory of.

He let his head lean back on the top of the couch.

He had no idea it wasn’t Akane with him as he was carried to the hospital last night. He’d been in too much pain to feel anything except relief that she’d somehow gotten to him. He didn’t even know Ilya had come to the hospital to switch them.

He was trying to remember anything else about being carried off the ice and the hospital ride when he heard his name being whispered.

He felt a warm, calloused hand on his cheek and leaned into it instinctively until he realized the cool feeling on his cheek was drool that he was rubbing into Ilya’s hand. He opened his eyes, cheeks heating with embarrassment. He tried to pull away, but Ilya moved his hand with Shane.

Ilya gazed down at him, eyes softer than Shane had ever seen them. The playful glimmer was present but immensely warm.

“Sorry,” Shane said.

Ilya examined him closely. He tried to sit up more, but stopped because of the pain. He had to use his good hand to brace on the couch to avoid using as many core muscles.  It was still uncomfortable.

Ilya gestured over to the kitchen island.

“The food is here. Are you expecting company?”

Ilya raised one eyebrow.

“No, I just. Didn’t know what you liked and figured you hadn’t eaten yet.”

“Thank you. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” Shane he said shortly.

“He’s lying,” Akane said without opening her eyes.

Ilya furrowed his brows and crossed his arms.

“Try again.”

“My ribs hurt. I’m exhausted, but I’m fine. How are you? What did your lawyer say?”

He turned to Zarya, curious.

“Can you feel his pain too?”

She took a moment, considering, and met Akane’s eyes as she answered.

“Not exactly. Not like with you,” she tilted her head toward Shane. “But I can tell.”

Shane looked between them and then shook his head.

“Ilya, what did your lawyer say?” He looked at Zarya as if she’d force the answer from him.

“Food first,” Ilya said. Then added, glancing over at Shane. “Maybe nap too.”

Ilya extended a hand to help Shane stand. Shane gingerly scooted forward on the couch and grabbed Ilya’s hand.

Shane figured that didn’t mean anything good, but didn’t want to press.

“He’s stalling,” Zarya said.

“Yes, but he’s not wrong. Food first,” Akane said, placating the murderous look in Ilya’s eyes. Shane glanced between them and wondered if he would ever grow used to their shared feature. 

They ate in a comfortable silence, both of them picking up their phones frequently to respond to, in Shane’s case, his mom, Hayden and JJ. Hayden and JJ had both checked in on his injuries and prognosis in their group chat.

“I, um, need to tell you something. I hope you won’t be too upset… But, well, Hayden knows about you. About us.”

Shane rushed to get the rest of the words out.

“I didn’t tell him. He figured it out. When we were in Boston, he made a comment about how I wasn’t going to see Lily. I seemed upset, I guess. But then he said, at least our foxes behaved, and I guess it sort of clicked for him. Apparently, he and Jackie had wondered if I was gay. They bet on it, actually. Oh, Jackie’s his wife. I tried to tell him it wasn’t true but…”

Ilya snorted.

“You’re still a bad liar… Your friends bet on your sex life?”

“You’re not mad? About Hayden. And well, Jackie too. He’s definitely told her. But they won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

“I saw Hayden in the hospital. He was there when the foxes switched back.”

Shane mulled that over. His head felt like it was full of cotton. He didn’t love that Hayden had seen that, but he already knew most of the truth anyway.

Shane was full but Ilya was still eating. Shane blushed as he made a rather suggestive gesture with his chopstick. So he did what he had stubbornly resisted for years. He googled swapping daemon. He hadn’t been willing to do look it up before because that meant there was something to look up. But he’d seen the clip, just like the rest of the world. Even though his mom was hiring a PR firm to scrub every corner of the internet, the video would never truly go away.

He didn’t find much: a Reddit thread on pre-daemon settlement force convergence experiences, a Substack article, and one unsettling folk story. Not useful. Nothing explained why Zarya was able to go to the hospital with him. Ilya should’ve collapsed on the ice.

It should not have been survivable.

Nothing he found explained why the rules didn’t apply.

He tried to take a deep breath to let it go. Breathe in for four, out for six. Calming breaths. His heart continued to race.

The anxiety didn’t budge, so he shoved it down. Shane turned to Ilya, and even that hurt. He really needed to stop moving. Stop thinking, but they needed to talk.

“Enough food, what did– “ his words were cut off by a yawn and then another groan as he breathed too deeply. “What did your lawyer say. What are your options?”

Ilya sighed heavily, and one of the foxes let out a low chirp from the couch.

“He said many things. Too much English. We will sleep. Then talk.” Ilya’s accent was stronger, th sound dropping into ds, the edges of his consonants sharpening.

Ilya followed Shane up the stairs, hands raised like he was ready for Shane to topple backward at any moment. Shane wanted to be annoyed, but was taken by how sweet he was. When they reached the bed, Ilya pulled the blankets back and helped Shane out of his sling, propping pillows to support his arm.

Ilya curled himself behind Shane. He rested his hand on Shane’s hip and buried his nose in Shane’s hair. The foxes curled together against his shins, and Shane couldn’t ever remember being more comfortable.

He woke what felt like a short time later. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but he felt marginally refreshed. He knew he should get up, but was grateful that between Ilya, the foxes, and his injury, he was effectively stuck. He allowed himself to enjoy it.

With his eyes closed, he reached down to pet Akane, who had shifted closer to his stomach while he slept, but faced away from him. Her fur was so soft.

Ilya woke with a start. Sitting up quickly and glancing around, confused.

The sharp movement jostled Shane, sending a bolt of pain through his chest and arm. He grunted in pain, trying to move away from Ilya in case he kept moving.

At the sound, Ilya froze and looked over at Shane. His features relaxed as a mesmerized look crossed his face. Shane followed his gaze and saw he was, in fact, petting Zarya.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” his words trailed off as he struggled to catch his breath through the pain.

He slowly removed his hand from Zarya and immediately missed her warmth.

“No, I am sorry, sweetheart. I hurt you. Are you okay?”

 Sweetheart. The word was like a balm on Shane’s aching ribs.

He didn’t quite know how to respond. He rolled onto his back and reached out with his good arm. He wanted to rub his fingers through Ilya’s stubble, but could only reach his bicep. He squeezed, and Ilya covered his hand with his own.

“I’m okay now. But I’d like to sit up.”

Ilya helped Shane sit up and arranged pillows behind him so he could recline. He slipped the sling over Shane’s neck and gently put his arm back into it. The foxes moved away from Shane to lie together at the foot of the bed.

When Shane was comfortable, Ilya leaned in and gave the softest kiss as if he was scared he would break him.

They broke apart, and Shane smiled at him.

“You can’t make me breathe too hard. It hurts!” he protested playfully.

Ilya returned his grin.

Shane felt his smile falter as he geared up for what was certainly going to be a fraught conversation.

“So, is your brain ready for English?”

Ilya harrumphed. “Never. Stupid language.”

Shane ran his fingers through Ilya’s curls.

“What did your lawyer say. What are your options?”

Ilya looked away. His spine was straight, but he tilted his head back against the headboard as he rubbed his neck.

“Two options. Asylum in America or asylum in Canada.”

Shane blinked, stupidly.

“Canada? That’s an option for you? But you live in the US.”

“Da, but I am in Canada now. Would be different if this happened in Boston. But since I am here, I can make claim here. Is why my lawyer told me not to leave. Raiders want me on the flight in a few hours, but if I leave, then only America as option.”

Shane had somewhat heard about the turmoil south of the border–it was an election year, and politicians were ramping up the anti-immigrant sentiments, promising restrictions on people immigrating, but he barely paid attention to Canadian politics, let alone another country.  

“Couldn’t you make a claim in America? Would they deny you?”

“Probably I could. I am famous and white. Is helpful. But I am Russian, so is complicated. My lawyer doesn’t think they would turn me away at the border, and Raiders say they have lawyers who can help, but my lawyer says they cannot promise.”

“If they turned you away, would they send you back to Canada?”

“Nyet. No.”

Shane inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to ignore the stab he got with every breath. Akane growled, and Zarya turned to nuzzle her. Shane felt a warm rush over his skin.

“What are you going to do? When do you have to decide?”

“I don’t know, but soon.”

“If you get asylum in Canada, can you keep playing for the Raiders?”

Ilya shook his head noncommittally.

“Not this year. Maybe next year. If Raiders don’t trade me since I will not ‘comply with their orders,’” he used air quotes around the last words.

Shane wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“If you stay in Canada, could you play for a Canadian team?”

“Process in Canada moves faster than America. More LGBTQ friendly,” he pronounced each word carefully. “Probably would be able to travel next fall. America is much slower. Can take months to even apply for work permit.”

Shane swallowed. He still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that his season was over and was now realizing that Ilya’s was too. None of his options would let him travel in the immediate future. They could both be in the same place together, months stretching out before them.

He shifted nervously. Ilya still had his eyes squeezed shut. With his head tilted back, Shane could see the tendons in his neck and his quickened pulse. Shane felt other eyes on him. He turned his head the other way and saw both foxes staring at him, faces with the same mask of quiet curiosity.

“How are you feeling? This is a lot. You can talk to me. I want to help.”

Ilya opened his eyes and smiled at him. It was a kind look, but the warmth didn’t reach his eyes.

“I don’t know. Is…” Ilya turned his hand over in the air as if hoping he could grab it from the ether. “Is too much.”

Shane was hit with an idea.

“Tell me in Russian, if you want. I won’t understand… Unless you want to go get my phone and use the translate app.”

Ilya lifted his head and looked at Shane appraisingly.

“No app. I will just… talk.”

Shane nodded.

Ilya slowly got out of bed, beginning to slowly pace the room.

It wasn’t the pacing of an angry man, but of someone who had too much to hold to be still.

Shane closed his eyes as the words washed over him

The words sounded anguished but warm. It was a different tone than Shane was used to hearing from Ilya. It was also the longest he’d ever heard him speak at one time. It made Shane realize how much Ilya used his body to communicate, all crooked smirks and winks to hide behind.

While Ilya was talking, Shane’s head was filled with images of the two of them. The feeling of Ilya’s warm hand at their first meeting. The burn of his lungs on the treadmill the night they raced. The taste of Ilya’s lips the first time they kissed. The burning desire of their night in Vegas. The first time he touched Zarya.

A thousand more memories, divided neatly into an hour here and there.

It was beautiful and not nearly enough.

“Okay. I am done, I think.” Ilya said.

“трус,” Zarya murmured.

Shane opened his eyes. He felt more solid, more present in his body than he had been since he was injured.

“Thank you. That was beautiful. I love hearing you speak Russian.”

Ilya smiled at him. He looked lighter than when he had been sitting next to Shane.

“Because I don’t have such a ridiculous accent?”

Shane paused and looked up at him seriously.

“Your accent isn’t ridiculous,” Akane cut in, grinning like the devil.

“No?” Ilya kept his eyes on Shane. Shane met his eyes briefly and then looked away

“No," Shane felt his cheeks heat. "It’s– it's sexy.”

“Shane Hollander. You have never called me sexy before.”

Both foxes chuckled and nipped at each other.

“What? But I must have.”

“No. I would remember.”

Ilya was glowing like he was spun from gold

He took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow and fought against himself to keep his eyes locked with Ilya’s.

“I think you should stay in Canada. I… I want you to,” he paused, somewhat awkwardly, and finally had to look away. “If that’s what you want. America seems too risky. This situation is so unfair to you. You shouldn’t risk getting deported for the Raiders. They should understand that.”

Shane felt a wet nose nuzzling under the hand he had pressed firmly into the bed. He lifted it up and began petting her. He glanced down and saw it was Zarya. He ran his hands over her head and down her back, scratching slowly along the way. He felt an intense burst of pleasure in his chest as Ilya did the same with Akane.

“You want me to stay?” Ilya asked so softly that Shane hardly recognized his voice.

Shane wanted to make a joke of it and fight off the vulnerable feeling, but the warmth of Ilya’s hand on Akane helped soothe his anxiety.

“Yes. Stay in Canada. It would be nice to have you… closer. Both our seasons are over, I think,” he felt his lips turn down as he said it. “You can stay here as long as you need. Or… well, I spend most of my off-season at my cottage. It’s a few hours from here. You could come there with me for a week or two. Or as long as you want.”

“Я хочу быть там, где ты” Ilya said.

“Ilya?”

“Dа?’

“What’s that mean?”

He shifted from foot to foot, slowly but clearly uncomfortable.

“I want to stay too.”

---

Their window of domestic bliss was cut woefully short, in Ilya’s opinion, when the reality of the choice he had to make collided with the fantasy they had begun to sketch upstairs. His afternoon rapidly filled up with Skype meetings. First, he met with his American lawyer and his new Canadian immigration lawyer. The new lawyer was a predictably polite but intense Canadian woman. He admired how tightly she had slicked back her curly brown hair into a neat ponytail, something he had never quite managed so neatly. He wondered how long it took her to do that or if it was a wig.

“Ilya.”

“Sorry,” he said in a small voice.

She smiled at him kindly.

“It’s okay. This is a lot. My team and I will do everything we can to make sure you’re back on the ice next season. It’s a lot more fun watching the Metros win when it’s against you.”

Ilya felt some hope flicker in his chest.

“Not a chance,” he quipped. “Metros cry when they see me.”

His eyes met Shane’s across the room, and Shane flipped him off. Akane nipped playfully at Zarya ears while she quietly laughed.

Shane moved upstairs to meet with his agent and his mom, while Ilya met with his agent. Ilya and his agent then met with the Raiders team. It was an uncomfortable call. To use a word Ilya had just learned, they were incensed. The Raiders were confident that they would be able to sort out enough of the paperwork to have him traveling by early in the next season. And in the meantime, he could still train with the team and play games in America. Ilya stood firm by the advice of his lawyer, saying he was making a claim in Canada. By the end of the call, Ilya knew they would trade him. Losing their star player and captain right before the playoffs with an uncertain timeline was untenable.

The final meeting was with the same group from the NHL as last time. They had opted out of in-person meetings since the media was already intense, and the NHL wanted to keep everything quiet.

The message was the same as last time; overtly, they seemed focused on taking care of Shane and Ilya. They would handle the media response, along with their respective teams. They would work to quietly facilitate a trade and help Ilya’s asylum case. But like last time, Ilya felt the threat laced through it. Shane and Ilya were expected to stay silent and, more importantly, to the NHL, “eliminate unauthorized contact” between them. The NHL was implementing strong league-wide restrictions on daemons’ locations during games.

They weren’t even allowed to talk to their team about it, and the Metros, and Ilya’s new team, would be told the same thing.

Great for team bonding, Ilya thought sardonically.

All in all, it was an exhausting afternoon. The perfect mix of talking to boring people in suits, struggling to translate their complicated words and double meanings, all beating against a backdrop of nearly relentless terror that his claim would be rejected and he would end up in Russia facing, at best, mob justice against their fallen hero. The logical part of his brain knew that wasn’t likely, but that message didn’t make its way to his nervous system.

 What Ilya really wanted to do was take Shane upstairs to bed and hold him while they fell asleep, but Shane said that his mom would call the police if she didn’t see him soon. They were meeting Shane at his apartment. Shane had invited Ilya, but Ilya was too exhausted to make polite conversation. Instead, he helped Shane bundle up in a jacket while he grumbled about not being able to tie his own shoes. Shane planned to eat quickly, get his parents out the door, and gather some clothes and toiletries to bring back to the condo.

Ilya missed him as soon as he walked out the door to the car waiting to pick him up, but he fell asleep not long after. He woke briefly, hours later, to Shane’s grunt as he tried to get into bed. Ilya helped him settle in and then drifted off peacefully.

The next morning, Ilya woke up to the feel of Shane nestled against him, but already awake. The foxes had already gotten up and Ilya could hear their pleasant rabble downstairs.

“Are you still mad at them?” he asked Shane.

“Yes. Maybe,” Shane said. “I don’t know. It’s hard to feel mad when I get to wake up like this. But it feels so selfish. It has cost you so much.”

Ilya understood the sentiment.

“Zarya would not have done it if I wanted to go back. It hasn’t cost me anything I have had to pay eventually… I think.”

When they went downstairs and greeted the foxes, what he felt flow between them was not so much forgiveness as acceptance. An acknowledgement of a truth neither of them was willing to look at until they were held to the fire.

He didn’t need to say anything to her. She looked at him and said,

“It’s okay to be a little mad. There were no perfect choices.”

---

They passed a week quietly in the condo. Occasional meetings with their agents or, in Ilya’s case, his lawyer. Shane said he felt like he was squatting in his own building. They didn’t have plates or real utensils, eating out of whatever takeaway containers their food came in. They bickered about where to order food from–Shane usually won, ordering from vegan restaurants or grain bowl places, but Ilya occasionally badgered him into ordering from somewhere edible. The foxes were rarely more than a few feet apart, napping together and playing with balled-up foil or plastic bags.

The silences that fell between them were comfortable, but heavy. Ilya could feel the weight of the words he’d only managed to say in Russian. They leadened his tongue with their impossibility. He knew Shane cared about him. He’d asked him to stay in Canada. He wanted him safe and wanted to spend more time with him.

Shane had his perfect family, his beautiful homes, and the adoring fans of the team who he led to a Stanley Cup. And Ilya had a golden cross, belongings in boxes, strewn across three countries, and temporary residence in an empty condo. No longer Russian. Not yet Canadian. Would he ever be?

Ilya looked up as Shane walked in the door, realizing he had stopped folding his shirt halfway through and was staring at it.

Shane nodded at the shirt, abandoned on the bed.

 “I know you don’t have a ton here, but you do actually have to pack if you want to leave.”

Ilya picked up a shirt and snapped it open dramatically. He’d ordered a few more things to help bridge the gaps in his wardrobe, but it still took less than 10 minutes to get it all into his now overstuffed suitcase. He wanted to leave his Raiders’ swag, but didn’t yet have enough clothes to abandon his layers in the still-freezing March weather.

Ilya carried all the bags down to the car that Pike had been kind enough to drive over.

On the ride to the cottage, Ilya insisted that Shane play some of his favorite songs from Russia, like Moscow Never Sleeps by DJ Smash and Never Gonna Get Us by t.A.T.u. Ilya told Shane to put on some of his favorite things to listen to, and Shane put on the ScuttlePuck podcast. Ilya blew raspberries at him until he switched to the radio.

When the radio switched to commercial, Ilya rested his elbow on the console and tangled his hand with Shane’s. The foxes were already intertwined in the back, lost in their own quiet conversation.

“Have you told your parents that I am coming to the cottage?”

“Oh, um. No. I told them you were staying at a property I own, though, for a bit.”

“Okay,” Ilya inclined his head. “You don’t want to tell them?”

Shane shifted in his seat, wincing as he irritated his ribs. He withdrew his hand from Ilya’s. Ilya didn’t want to let go, but instead moved his hand to Shane’s thigh, gently moving his thumb over the linen.

“Well. They know that, well, that I’m gay,” he paused, and Ilya saw his ears turning pink. “They know about our daemon. So they might assume… well, what everyone is assuming, I guess.”

Ilya hummed appreciatively.

“I always wondered if you liked girls. I thought not”

“Not like you do,” Shane said–pouting somewhat.

Ilya flashed a wicked smile.

“Yes. I like girls. They are so sexy. Some even have freckles.”

He shifted his hand up Shane’s thigh a bit, suggestive but not quite seductive.

“But I like you more.”

He gave Shane his most devastating wink.

He heard a low sound from Zarya “веснушки. He’s obsessed.”

“It’s his smile, for Shane,” Akane added.

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Such a dick. All of you. Keep your eyes on the road, Ilya.”

“You like it.”

That earned him a glare.

Ilya laugh softly and looked over.

“Have you told many people about you?”

“No,” Shane said quickly. “Only Hayden. Well and Rose.”

“Rose, who is Rose? Why don’t I know her?”

“Rose Landry. We’re, uh, friends.

Ilya turned fully in his seat, looking at Shane over the bridge of his sunglasses. Zarya squealed with delight.

“You. Shane Hollander. You are friends with Rose Landry.”

Shane met his eyes and then knocked his hand away from his leg.

“Well. We met at a party. I really liked talking to her. And she asked for my number. So when she wanted to hang out again, I had to explain why I wanted to see her but not, you know… date her.”

He grimaced.

“And the only way I could think of not insulting her was to just tell her the next time we hung out.”

Ilya burst out laughing. Tears blurred his vision briefly. He had to remove his sunglasses to wipe his eyes.

“Too gay for Rose Landry,” he said between breaths. “That is super gay.”

Shane ducked his head, face burning. Akane had stood up and was glaring at Ilya.

Ilya reached over and hooked two fingers under Shane’s chin, gently lifting his face so he could see him.

He stole a quick glance from the road.

“You are perfect, Shane Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

What's an HR retelling without an Ilya Russian confession? Anyway, here's mine. If you DO speak (write) Russian and want to send me a translation, please feel free. I'd love to drop it into the story as I have been doing.

"Sometimes I wonder if I have ever had a home. A true home that holds all of you.

Mama was my home, but she left me. She left me in a place with only broken things. My father was already broken before she met him, I think. But I do not think I was until she left.

I must’ve been whole once.
I must’ve had a home once, right?

I can’t remember anymore.

Russia was my home once too. I thought. It is the blood in my veins. The language on my tongue. But it is no longer the air that breathe. I think it never will be again.

And that is no home at all. Home does not have limitations like that.

I was so mad at Zarya. I thought she took Russia from me-taking the only home I thought I had. Russia never knew me. It did not love me—not all of me. It was only always a cage I could never fit in.

Home does not let only half of you in.

So if mama wasn’t home and Russia wasn’t home, have I ever had one?

Can I ever have one? I would like to, I think.

You have many homes I think. Maybe one is big enough for me. Maybe Canada could fit the whole of me.

You—my own—are the home I want. What I feel for you was so foreign to me I did not recognize it.

Can home be a place you’ve only been for a few hours at a time?

I love you. I think from the first moment I saw your freckles I knew what you were to me.

Maybe I will know home if you let me stay."

Chapter 15

Chapter Summary

Shane's google search results

Chapter Notes

Anyone else interested in that Reddit thread and random myth Shane found while finally googling stuff? (The substack is obviously chapter 1 of this story)

I'm addicted to worldbuilding. But I'm 99% sure this will be my last social media/world building hi-jinx for this story.

Who's ready for some tonal whiplash. I have no transition, so just hold on.

r/DaemonTheory

Posted by u/SettleWatch (2 hours ago)

Title: okay can we talk about "convergence" experiments without the brainrot for five seconds?

u/SettleWatch (OP):

not naming names because I don’t need the sports stans collapsing my inbox, but we’ve all seen the clip from last night’s game. the "swapped" daemons? the lack of collapse when they part? it’s weird. it’s really weird.

but before this spirals into "omg they're destiny" again, can we talk about something that actually has historical precedent: forced convergence.

people forget how dark daemon research got from the late 40s through the early 60s. there was this whole movement of "pre-settlement engineering." basically, they wanted to know: can you "program" a daemon’s settlement?

and i don't mean just guessing what they'll be. i mean forcing two unrelated souls to mirror each other so perfectly that they settle as identical forms.

the "methods" (aka the stuff they scrubbed from the ethics reports):

• Matched Profiles: They’d find two kids with similar temperaments and literally force them to become the same person. and before you ask obviously they also used real twins and siblings too but also randos.
• Total Synchronization: i’m talking synced sleep schedules, mirrored meals, identical schooling, and physical training. if one kid did 50 pushups, the other had to do 50. if one ate an apple, the other ate an apple. zero individuality allowed.
• Controlled Social Circles: complete isolation from anyone who wasn’t their "twin."  they wanted to eliminate any outside influence that might cause the daemons to diverge.
• Mirrored Stress Exposure: this is the worst part. they would trigger "stress events" (trauma, basically) at the exact same millisecond for both kids. the goal was to make their nervous systems identical so the daemons would react identically.
• The "Heavy" Stuff: sensory deprivation, isolation tanks, and yeah... "chemical stabilization" (aka drugging them to keep their moods in sync).
• Look up the daemon stuff on your own: I won't even describe what they did to the daemon because this post will get nuked if I do. there used to be a whole sub dedicated to it but they shut it down now that stuff is only on like 8chan

The idea was basically: if you can make two humans live the exact same life, their souls have to settle the same way. they weren't trying to make friends—they were trying to create a "shared soul" where the humans were interchangeable.

everyone sees that hockey clip and thinks it's a miracle. i see these unhinged lab rat’s wet dream come true.

[MOD NOTE]: Thread Locked & Under Review

This post is currently locked and several comments have been removed. We are receiving an unusual amount of DMCA takedown notices and "privacy complaints" regarding specific active athletes mentioned in the thread. Please keep the discussion focused on historical theory. If this keeps turning into a "which player is which" thread, the whole post will be taken down.

u/BlueLineWatcher [+342]
"not naming names"
lmao op you literally described the most viral 5 minutes of hockey in history. we know it’s the foxes. just say it’s the foxes.

u/SettleWatch (OP) [+156]
@BlueLineWatcher i'm trying to keep the mods from banning everyone whos ever opened this, okay?? i said i didn't want this to turn into a sports thread. i didn't say i expected you guys to be illiterate.

u/ArchiveGrad [+215]
Honestly, thanks for posting this. People treat the mid-century stuff like it was just "quirky fringe science." It was a literal human rights nightmare.

Most of the Convergence data got quietly buried in the 70s for "obvious ethical reasons" (read: the subjects kept losing their minds). There’s a reason modern daemon research doesn't go anywhere near pre-settlement intervention anymore. The field is basically radioactive.

u/ThreadbareFox [+128]
"Doesn’t go anywhere near" = "isn't allowed to get caught doing it again."

You really think some billionaire owner or government agency stopped wanting "synced" pairs just because of some ethics papers? Look at that clip again. That wasn't an adrenaline spike. That was a shared nervous system.

u/ArchiveGrad [+92]
Or—wild idea—maybe we collectively decided as a species that running psychological experiments on toddlers for the sake of "soul-engineering" was a bad look? Not everything is a secret lab conspiracy.

u/impeacheveryone [+22]
some octogenarian whos been in power since Reagan in America is watching their cold war nightmare play out as a Canadian and Russian converge

u/naijaprinceabv [+102]
“my enemies have succeed” – ted kennedy, probably

u/GlassTeeth [+310]
The "close but not identical" cases are the ones that keep me up at night.

If you look at the few high-res photos of those two that haven't been scrubbed by the legal teams yet... the fox bodies are uncanny. Like, down to the hair-follicle identical. Except for the eyes and face.

In a "failed" convergence, you usually see one daemon trying to mimic the other but the "soul" resists. If those foxes are actually identical...and i know how this sounds but that one fox forehead looks dyed... we aren't looking at a "failed" study. We're looking at a successful one that's being hidden.

u/ArchiveGrad [+40]
this post is just full of conspiracy nuts. Okay something IS going on but like identical daemon is wackadoodle even for reddit

u/naijaprinceabv [+102]
have you watched this clip? your eyes must be for decoration

u/[deleted] [-209]
[removed]

u/bettyhollanova [+102]
[removed]

u/illshipanything [-23]
[removed]

u/puckerup921 [+394]
this is all deeply unhinged

u/bettyhollanova [-10]
[removed]

u/naijaprinceabv [+103]
wisdom chases, but you are faster

u/not24 [+10]
Would both of them training their whole lives and dedicating nearly every moment to hockey be enough to cause this?

u/SettleWatch (OP) [+8]
no way bro. there are like 700 active NHL players who all did this and theres no similarities between athletes daemons within the same sports or even athletes in general. that’s kinda what all these studies proved. no meaningful correlations

u/not24 [+3]
there are 692 active players as of this morning

u/INALbutIamYourLawyer [+6]
plus if a bunch of NHL players all had the same or similar daemon that would be a discrimination lawsuit waiting to happen. daemon identity is a protect class in US and Canada

u/SettleWatch (OP) [+5]
oh like when that MLM got sued for only taking people with cat daemons

u/INALbutIamYourLawyer [+3]
imagine wanting to join an MLM so much you have to sue about it

u/deepbreather4 (MOD)
everyone in this thread is making my life shorter by the moment. Stop talking about real people or you will get permabanned. 17 lawyers are threatening to doxx and subpoena me if I don't keep taking things down. I have defend my thesis next week so help me I will take down this subreddit with me.

The Tale of the Inverted Crown

In the days when the Tuatha still lingered in the shadows of the oaks, there lived a woman of Tlachtga whose soul walked beside her in the skin of a red deer. By day, her daemon was her shadow and her breath; but by night, when the moon hung thin like a silver sickle, the woman’s dreams took her to the high, grassy ridge of the hill.

In these dreams, a stag would emerge from the mist. He was the image of her own deer—save for the crown. Where her daemon’s were near symmetrical perfection, his were its very mirror. An impossible inverse noticeable only to one who knew their every bend. And yet her own hart was nowhere to be seen nor sensed.

Six nights she dreamed of the Inverted Crown. Six mornings she woke with the scent of damp earth in her hair.

She would turn to her daemon, grazing in the morning light, and ask, "Who is the king with the heavy head? What does he seek from the marrow of my sleep?"

Her daemon would not look at her. He would only stir the grass and whisper:

"The wind brings no message the heart does not invite."

On the seventh such dream, she brimmed with determination and challenged the daemon.

“What ails thee? Where is thy heart?”

“Tlachtga holds her.”

Disturbed by the riddle, the woman swore never to set foot upon the hill while she still drew breath. But an ask must have an answer. So the nights grew long, the cattle were brought in, and Samhain arrived—the night when the veil is as thin as a moth's wing.

The Great Fire was lit at Tlachtga. The village gathered to witness the dying of the year. As the flames roared toward the stars, the woman felt an awakening in her chest. From the heart of the white heat, the stag of her dreams stepped forth. He did not burn. He moved with a heavy, rhythmic grace, his antlers shimmering like blackened silver.

The crowd fell back in terror. The woman’s mother reached out, grasping her daughter’s shawl. "Do not look, child! It is a puca, a trick of the ash!"

But the woman looked. She saw the stag’s eyes—her own eyes, staring back from a face of fur and bone. She saw how the mirror was not a deformity, but a key; they were shaped for her.

The fear that had lived in her for seven nights vanished, replaced by a quiet knowing. She understood now. The dream wasn't a warning, but an invitation she had already signed in her sleep.

"It means what I have asked it to mean," she whispered.

She stepped away from her mother’s hand, as one returning home. She and the stag stepped together into the white core of the Samhain fire, the village saw them merge—not into smoke, but into a single, shimmering shadow that the flames could not consume.

Chapter End Notes

if you saw the chapter count go up, NO YOU DID NOT.

I had to do something fun after feeling like I needed to bash my head into the wall trying to get those phone skins to work because once I commit to a bit I have to finish it! Only it backfired on me as now I've been up way too late formatting this reddit thread.

Chapter 16

Chapter Summary

They make it to the cottage, cook food, and start fumbling their way through actual conversations

Chapter Notes

All roads lead to the cottage.

Thanks for the comments and kudos. I genuinely had no idea if anyone would find this fic in the sea of HR, so thank you!

March 2016

The rest of the car ride to the cottage passed quickly. They talked about the upcoming playoffs, and each insisted their teams would make it farther without them. Ilya loved seeing Shane’s more playful side as they verbally sparred. Zarya had almost as good a recall of stats as Shane did.

Then Akane baited Ilya into a game of hot or not before declaring the entire Raiders team as “nots” except for Marlow.

Ilya was a bit stunned when he took in the size of this cottage. He'd assumed Hollander was allergic to the fancy excesses of most millionaires.

“Maybe I’m worse at English than I thought, but this looks big for a cottage,” Zarya notes dryly.

Akane bumped her playfully as she passed.

“Cottage is just what we call it here,” Shane mumbled as he opened the trunk. Ilya was admiring the building when he heard Shane let out a hiss.

Ilya whipped around and saw Shane trying to haul the bags out of the trunk.

“Fucking stop, Hollander. You have multiple broken bones.”

Ilya heard Akane growl and realized it was directed at Shane and not him.

She rolled her eyes at him, “He’s trying to be a good host and is going to take himself out in the process.”

Shane grumbled something in French at her.

He turned to Zarya

“Well, two can play the speaking in other languages game,” he said wryly.

“You’re going to have to actually speak to him in English if you want this to go anywhere.”

“Ouch,” he said in English.

He got the bags as Shane unlocked the door. Warm wood and earth tones with touches of red and orange accents greeted Ilya as he stepped inside. The place felt warm to Ilya–lived in. He could feel Shane everywhere, but there was an undercurrent of something. Ilya let his mind linger on it.

Loneliness laced with unease. Not strong but present. Shane may have felt at home here, but the unyielding wrongness of Akane’s alteration followed him even here.

Ilya didn’t understand how he sensed the feelings that quietly hung in spaces. He just knew that if feelings were big enough or lasted long enough, they stayed.

And the comfortable loneliness lingered. Ilya wondered how often Shane invited people here.

“I can give you a tour if you’d like. Or it was a long drive. You could take a nap if you’re tired.”

“You can just say you want to cuddle,” Akane teased. He flashed her an embarrassed grin.

Ilya smiled at him kindly. He glanced around the space, seeing a luxurious kitchen, a solid wood dining table, and a seating area facing an electric fireplace.

“You have a TV? We could watch a movie? I think the new X-Squad movie is out.”

He schooled his face into an innocent mask. Shane met his gaze defiantly.

“It is. I was supposed to go to the premiere with Rose, but…” he gestured to his sling.

“Mr. Movie Star,” Zarya laughed.

Shane chuckled and then led him to a “media room” with a TV that took up most of a wall.

Shane got the movie started and was asleep in the first 15 minutes, tucked carefully into Ilya’s side. Akane was curled up against Shane’s leg in a tight ball with her tail resting on his lap.

Ilya knew he should let Shane rest. He was uncomfortable the entire drive and needed sleep, but Ilya couldn’t keep his hands off him, running them through his hair, tracing the sides of his arms, and, most of all, running his thumb over his freckles.

“You are running out of excuses not to tell him,” Zarya stated flatly.

Ilya sighed and glanced at Akane. She seemed to be genuinely asleep, but as Ilya had seen time and again, foxes were tricky.      

“He still has a lot to lose. And I might not get signed to another team if we are together.”

Zarya put her paws on his bicep and nudged his ear with her cold nose. She turned slightly to nuzzle his face, and Ilya didn’t mind the way his claws dug in.

“Telling him and telling everyone are not the same thing. You owe it to him. You don’t owe it to the world.”

Ilya leaned his face into hers and breathed in her scent. He noticed that he could not particularly pick it out from the smell of the cottage around him.

---

April 2016

Shane wasn’t sure how long Ilya would want to stay at the cottage. It was a huge change of pace for him. No clubs. No fancy restaurants. No fast cars. No sex.

Shane was dying for it, and he knew Ilya was too. His ribs had improved in the past three weeks; deep breaths had been downgraded to merely painful. He was hoping that by next week, he would be well enough for some more strenuous activities. But that would also mean he wouldn’t need Ilya’s help anymore. He could already move his right arm enough to drive and settle himself in bed, not that it had stopped Ilya from arranging his pillows each night.

Ilya didn’t seem bored. Shane just figured he must be; itching to return to city life, at least. They’d settled into a comfortable routine for the past few weeks. They slept in later than Shane ever had in his adult life, cooked breakfast, then Ilya would work out while Shane walked on the treadmill, and after the three of them would play foxes vs Ilya on Shane’s indoor practice rink while Shane cheered, always for the foxes. In the afternoons, they’d watch hockey, play video games, and talk to their friends. Ilya talked to Svetlana nearly every day when Shane checked in with his parents, Rose, and Hayden. They made wildly elaborate dinners. Ilya was constantly touching Shane, which Shane found very distracting while trying to chop or stir, but he could never bear asking him to stop.

Ilya made borscht for the first time in his life, though he said the Canadian sour cream options were barely worth eating. Shane made his ō bachan’s Niku Jyana and only had to call his mom twice while making it. Ilya finished off the sake Shane didn’t need and patiently listened to him explain the difference between the kombu he should use and the nori sheets he’d been able to find in the local store. Shane made him swear upon pain of death he’d never tell either his mom or grandma about the substitution, and saw the glimmer in Ilya’s eyes as Shane thought he imagined spending time with his family.

But after their third week in the cottage, the heaviness of Ilya’s unknown departure started to weigh on him. He woke up in the night and wondered why the past month together felt like no time at all when before they’d only had hours together.

Wouldn’t Ilya get sick of him soon? He told Shane he was boring often enough. The thought broke Shane’s heart a little. He tried not to think about it. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject and didn’t want to disrupt the easy pattern they had settled into.

While he was making a vodka sauce pasta, Shane let his mind wander. Ilya had a mini-meltdown trying to decide whether to let Shane use the “good vodka” he’d ordered or the cheap vodka that Jackie had left the previous summer. The decision was ultimately made for him when they discovered that Jackie’s was actually whipped cream flavored vodka, and Shane had kicked him out of the kitchen after he determined Ilya was not literally having a stroke like he appeared to be.

He imagined Ilya coming with him to the Pikes for dinner. Or the family visiting both of them at the cottage. He imagined his parents coming to dinner too, eating the food he and Ilya had made together. Maybe they’d grill burgers and chicken skewers and eat on the deck while the Pike children ran in the yard. He was certain Akane and Zarya would join the kids and their still-shifting daemons, playing whatever game they’d invented in the moment.

Shane realized he was grinning wildly when Ilya came back to the kitchen, apparently having showered. “What are you smiling about, родной?” Ilya asked as he sat at the bar. Both foxes looked damp, and Shane suspected they’d had fun playing in the water alongside Ilya.

“What does that mean? Did you call me a name?” Shane wrinkled his nose and moved his tongue around his mouth, trying to grasp the syllables.

Ilya tilted his head and raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“Is it dirty? What is it, Ilya?”

“It means, um, like.. what is word… natural? No... native!” he said triumphantly. “Like you belong here.”

Native?  Shane cocked his head, wondering what that was supposed to mean, when Zarya cut in.

“солнышко, that’s not what it means,” she turned to Shane. “He’s lying to you.”

Akane flicked Ilya with her tail and exchanged a knowing glance with Zarya.

“Am not. It does mean that.”

“But that’s not how you meant it, Ilya.”

She let the words linger there. Shane was looking between the foxes and Ilya, trying to make sense of what was happening between them.

“So, what else does it mean?” He wasn’t sure if he was asking the fox or the man. But Ilya walked up and wrapped his arms around Shane, still gentle on his injured side.

“Also, like, dear? Sweetheart, too, probably.”

Shane felt the words that had been haunting him bubble up in his chest, but kissed Ilya fiercely to keep them in. They broke apart when they heard the splashing sounds of the pasta water boiling over, so Shane drained it and added the pasta to the sauce.

---

A short time later, they sat eating off trays, watching Montreal play Tampa at home. They’d quickly learned to watch their teams’ games on mute to avoid hearing more speculation about themselves. Between the four of them, they provided better commentary anyway. As long as Montreal played reasonably well, the team should be able to make the playoffs. Boston was facing more of an uphill battle, but stood a good chance of getting a wildcard spot still.

Ilya was just bringing his water to his lips when Shane hit him with,

“When were you planning on leaving. Or…?”

Ilya was confident that if he had been taking a drink just then, he would now be drowning. His hands squeezed around the glass.

Leave?

He wanted him to leave?

Already?

What had he done?

“Oh, Shane,” Akane said. “Of all the ways to phrase that, this is the one you went with?”

She started coughing, but Ilya thought it sounded wrong. More like a laugh.

He turned to Zarya to run his hands through her fur. She looked up at him, pleadingly. Just like Hollander.

Fuck.

He looked away, eyes not quite taking in the commercial on screen.

Tension radiated off Shane, and he could feel both sets of dark brown eyes on him.

“ お日様, try that question again, please,” Akane pleaded.

Shane let out a noise that could’ve been in French, but Ilya suspected was nonsense. Ilya turned to meet his brown eyes. He could see tears building behind the waterline.

Ilya’s throat burned. He swallowed down the rising lump.

“I had not thought about it. I wasn’t planning on… but I can, whenever. I know you are better and like to be alone here.”

Shane shook his head slowly.

“You weren’t planning on what? Leaving? You want to stay, like all summer?”

“I like it here,” Ilya fought to keep his voice even.

“I like having you here.”

Ilya felt like his spine had been removed. He collapsed toward Hollander, resting his head in his lap. Shane’s hands moved into his hair, gently teasing the curls, and Ilya’s toes curled in pleasure. They watched the rest of the game quietly, with both foxes curling up in the crook of Ilya’s knees, whispering to themselves.

A few hours later, Shane was asleep. He’d pulled away from Ilya slightly. Ilya loved that he knew that Shane was like a furnace at night and had to keep his feet out of the covers, which meant he had to fully remake the bed and re-tuck the edges each morning. Ilya was restless. He hadn’t burned off enough energy during the day, despite a heavy lifting day and several rounds of “hockey” with the foxes, which Akane had taken to calling “fockey” because it made Shane scrunch up his nose like it was a dirty word.

He carefully scooted away from Shane and started for the kitchen. The moonlight hit the bricks of the unlit fireplace. Ilya stepped closer and saw the carefully stacked logs. He looked at the surrounding stone. It was clean in a way that suggested it’d never been lit. Even when his fireplace in Russia hadn’t been lit in 10 years, it still looked marked and charred inside. The memory of ash could never truly be removed. He wondered why Hollander didn’t use it, or if he didn’t know how to properly start a fire like Ilya.

He couldn’t light that one, but he’d seen an electric fireplace in the living room. He wasn’t in the mood for more TV. He didn’t know what he wanted. Well, if he was honest with himself, he did. He wanted sex, but he didn’t think Hollander was up for it yet; sitting up still took some effort, and what Ilya wanted to do would cause an intense flexing of his core muscles. So, he was fine waiting, really. He cared about Shane’s comfort more than his own impatience. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle it himself. It wasn’t the same, though, so he was restless.

He thought Hollander had said that the fireplace had a remote, so Ilya started snooping. There were a few end tables with drawers. He found a remote to a sound system Ilya didn’t know this room had and made a note to figure out how to connect to it.

He was still poking around when he heard the floor creak quietly.

“Rozanov, what are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep. I wanted to sit in front of a fire, like a boring Canadian.”

Shane grinned at him, and the playful look in his eye went straight to Ilya’s dick. He groaned. This wasn’t helping.

“I think I have a better idea to help you sleep. Come back to bed.”

Shane approached him, hovering a scant few centimeters away. He tilted his head up to look into Ilya’s eyes. The heat in them was visible even in the low light.

Ilya made a very Russian sound in the back of his throat.

“Do not tease me, Hollander. I have been waiting so long to have you in your own bed.”

“I know it’s been weeks. Months almost. I'm fucking dying.”

“Years,” Ilya said. “Years I have wanted you in your own bed.

Shane pulled back and pinched his eyebrows in confusion.

“Years? But…”

He trailed off, clearly at a loss for words.

Ilya shifted uncomfortably, but stepped the remaining distance, closing the gap between them while wrapping his arms around Shane.

“I would think about what your bed looked like. What color your sheets were. How many photos of me you had.”

“You asshole.”

Ilya nuzzled his hair, adding:

“What kind of things you would do in your bed when you were alone.”

“Hmmm. Come back with me, and tell me more about these things you would imagine.”

Ilya practically skipped back upstairs.

--

The next morning

Shane woke up slightly surprised to see Zarya curled up against him with Akane seemingly nowhere to be found. Ilya was still snoring lightly next to him. The casual touches between them and both foxes had morphed from electric jolts into a warm and pleasant glow, so he didn’t hesitate to reach out and pet her. As his hand made contact, he felt a familiar sensation and saw Akane’s hazel eyes peaking open at him. He realized with a jolt that her dye had nearly faded entirely.

It hadn’t even occurred to him to dye her fur. Usually, he stocked up on everything he needed before he left for the cottage. He thought about dying her again, and his stomach turned.

He hadn’t noticed the ever-present thorn of her alteration slowly coming loose. His body was finally able to bring it to the surface and let it go like shrapnel from an old wound. He could feel the scar it had left, but it was nothing compared to what it had been like.

How had he not noticed? He supposed he’d been so consumed by spending time with Ilya that it had overwritten everything else.

Akane didn’t stir, but Shane knew she was awake. Shane heard soft claws on the hardwood and then felt the bed shift as Zarya jumped up. She walked over him, with little regard for what she stepped on, to curl up almost on top of Akane, heads on top of one another like the photo that had started this all, but now with two identical white diamonds on their face.

A sense of peace flowed through Shane that he wasn’t sure he had ever experienced before.

“There’s no real point in continuing to dye her fur,” Zarya spoke quietly. “No one has noticed our eyes, but they will soon. There are too many people paying attention.”

Shane groaned. He knew she was right, but it didn’t change the sinking feeling in his core. It would be yet another shred of evidence to prove… what? They were connected? Destined? Some grand cosmic joke? They hadn’t talked about what they were–even how they felt–but they were definitely something. But Shane wasn’t sure for how long.

“It feels like it was all pointless since this all came out anyway,” Shane said, running his hands through his hair.

“No, not pointless,” Ilya said in a deep, sleepy voice. “It gave us time to… choose. Decide for us. Not have story told for us.”

Ilya rolled onto his back and found Shane’s hand under the covers. He tangled their fingers together and squeezed gently.

“But they are; they’re telling all kinds of stories online and in other locker rooms,” Shane protested, his hand making another trip through his hair. “The PR people and lawyers can only do so much.”

Shane felt his hand squirm in Ilya’s grasp, but he didn’t let go. Shane rolled toward Ilya, bringing their joined hands to his chest and putting his other hand on top of Ilya’s stomach. His warm skin and the rise and fall of his breaths soothed Shane.

“No,” Ilya said, voice still deep but more awake. “They don’t get to decide. Only us.”

“Do you really think we got to choose? Or do you think this was inevitable, the way–the way we feel.”

He turned his gaze to Ilya, who was glancing thoughtfully at the ceiling, lips turned down slightly.

“Did you open the door to me that first night because you felt like you had to? Like you had to put my dick in your mouth because of the Лисичка?”

Shane blushed and buried his head in Ilya’s bicep.

“No. No. Not–not like that. But like our attraction to one another. Did we have a choice?”

Ilya let go of Shane’s hand and shifted so that his arm was under Shane, and Shane’s head was on his chest. He rubbed his back gently. Shane moved his hand to scratch at Ilya’s stubble and run his thumb across his lips.

“Does anyone control who they are attracted to? Maybe not. But we choose to be here. You gave us time to figure it out. You were very strong. I could not have.”

Shane’s hand halted in Ilya’s hair.

“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I was a coward.”

“No родной. You protected me for many years. We are not rookies they can bully so easily. You are the second-best hockey player in the league! They are lucky to have you.”

“So that makes you third, then. Who’s first? Scott Hunter?”

Ilya howled in pain and flipped them quickly, putting himself on top of Shane, pinning his good arm down, but leaning off to his left to keep most of his weight off of him.

“Take. It. Back.” He punctuated every word with a kiss. “Is not true.”

“Fine, I’m the best. My stats don’t lie. You are second best.”

Ilya growled as Zarya laughed.

“He has a point, Ilyusha,” she said.

He looked deeply into Shane’s eyes. Shane felt the yearning he saw course through his whole body like a spreading flame. His cheeks turned the red of a deep sunset.

“I will make you regret this.”

Ilya leaned down and kissed him, and by the time they were done, Shane had absolutely no regrets.

Chapter 17

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya get better at actually talking to one another and the foxes continue to call them on their BS

Chapter Notes

April 2016

Ilya stared at the fire in front of him. It wasn’t fake in that there was no flame. Just that the logs weren’t burning. Like a gas grill. It still cooked your food, but it couldn’t replicate the taste of charcoal.

He’d been looking long enough to see the pattern of the flames repeat. It wasn’t identical each time, but it would jump and retreat predictably.

There was no crackle. Nothing to tend. It never needed more logs. But it was still warm.

Ilya had long lost track of what Zarya and Shane were debating. Or perhaps they were in agreement. Their conversations had the same animated tone regardless.

The oven opened and closed, and a moment later, Shane sat on the couch by Ilya. He was supposed to be emailing his agent with his top teams to play for in Canada. He didn’t have as much choice as if he were a free agent, but he had some protection in his contract. His agent would make sure the transfer was also in his best interest and not just Boston’s. But he didn’t really know what to say. He just hoped any team would want him now.

Shane nudged him playfully.

“So my parents want to watch the Metros play New Jersey next week. I haven’t seen them in a while. Since they both work, it would need to be at their place.”

That made sense to Ilya. He knew Shane regularly saw his parents and wondered if this was the longest he’d gone without seeing them.

“You will go? Maybe stay the night?”

Ilya saw Shane clasp and unclasp his hands a few times. The anxiety rolled off of him.

“Shane, what is it?”

“I was hoping you could come. That we could tell them about us.”

Ilya felt his heart race. Meet his parents? Ilya had dreamed about meeting the Hollanders properly. His mom had seemed cautious about Ilya but kind. Ilya had been so in his head at that moment that he wasn’t sure what kind of impression he had made.

“I would like that. What do you want to tell them about us?”

“That we’re together, right? That’s what this feels like. I know we probably can’t tell many people, but I want to tell them. I think my mom thinks I have a crush on you anyway.”

Ilya felt his lips turn up as he looked down at Hollander.

“You do have a crush on me,” he winked.

“Shut up,” Shane mumbled.

“But yes. We are together.”

Shane beamed at him, and Ilya felt his heart swell.

“So, we will tell my parents, and Hayden basically already knows. Rose knows that I’m gay, and maybe seeing someone. Are there people you want to tell?”

Ilya turned his gaze back to the fire in time to see the flames leap on the left before receding, watching as a gap opened in the middle before a large flame rushed in. The warmth rolling off of it was a bit much, with the heat on. But Ilya couldn’t bring himself to turn it off.

“Yes, Svetlana, Sveta, is my best friend. She knows about Jane and that Jane is a man, but that is all. I will tell her, though.”

Shane made a face. It wouldn’t have been obvious to many, but Ilya saw the slight furrowing of his brows and pinch of his lips as he turned his head away from Ilya, staring impassively at the fire.

“Yes, I know Svetlana. Svetlana Vetrov, right? Sergei Vetrov’s daughter? Your best friend that you are constantly photographed with,” Shane tried to act unaffected, but “best friend” dripped with venom.

“Vetrova,” Ilya corrected without much thought.

“What?” Shane asked.

“Her last name is Vetrova.”

“Oh, uh okay.”

Shane moved to stand, but Ilya pressed a hand down on his thigh. He didn’t apply much force. Shane could easily continue his upward motion but didn’t.

“You are jealous, Hollander.”

Shane blushed, eyebrows were fully furrowed, and nostrils flared.

“There is nothing to be jealous of,” Ilya said calmly. “She is my best friend from growing up. She knows everything about hockey and likes to go to parties. We go out, and she meets new people to sell fancy cars. Sometimes we would have sex, but lately not so much.”

“She sounds perfect for you.”

Ilya reached over and pulled Shane to lean against him.

“Almost, but has never been like that. For either of us. You will like her. She knows more about hockey than you.”

“That might actually be true,” Zarya confirmed. The foxes had curled up on the armchair together, occasionally mumbling, keeping a keen ear on the conversation.

“But like. I don’t know. If you were with her, you could become an American citizen. It would be much safer than asylum.”

Ilya leaned back from Shane and tilted Shane’s chin up to look into his eyes. Ilya could see the tears he was holding back and felt the tension in his body where he was pressed to his side.

“Is maybe true. And she did offer.”

Shane tried to interrupt but Ilya wouldn’t let him.

“I said no. Unless I was going to be deported, which won’t happen, Shane.”

Shane didn’t say anything. Ilya could feel how tense and still he was. He wasn’t pulling away, but he wasn’t touching Ilya back.

Ilya let out a frustrated sigh. English was such a stupid language for expressing affection. Like and Love. Those were the options. He did not like Sveta. He loved her, but it was different. Love was so different. Such a small word to mean so many things. And people used it so frivolously. Marlow got dumped by a woman who told him that she loved him but wasn’t “in love” with him. And everyone was just supposed to understand the difference in the same word.

“In Russian, we have better words. English is stupid. In Russian we have ‘Я её люблю, но не влюблён’ but люблю translate to love and влюблён also translate to love. In love, I think. But sounds the same in English, but is not. Different words. Different feelings. Love is right word and wrong word for Sveta.”

Shane nodded slowly, and Ilya saw understanding flicker across his face. His right eye was still somewhat angled toward the fire, and Ilya saw the flames dancing in it.

“I understand. In French we say, ‘Je l’aime, mais je ne suis pas amoureux. Different words, but they just translate to love and in love.”

Ilya smiled and saw Shane’s eyes move to his lips. He grinned harder.

“Yes, French is much better for love. But I will not be learning French for this stupid country. I know English. It is enough.”

“I want to learn Russian. I’ve learned more than just those two phrases.”

Ilya hummed appreciatively.

“More dirty talk, Hollander?”

“Something like that.”

Shane’s hand began moving tenderly on Ilya’s thigh, and he lowered his head back to Ilya’s shoulder.

“Tell me, what else did you learn? Are you letting the bird teach you Russian? You will sound stupid.”

Shane didn’t say anything.

“Tell me one thing you know, родной.”

Shane took a breath and sat up, eyes quickly darting between Ilya and the fire until he seemed to settle on Ilya’s gaze. The words came slowly, with deliberate care.

“Я тебя люблю”

I love you. I’m in love with you.

Ilya thought maybe he had gasped–kept staring at Shane as if waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something that made sense. He wasn’t sure how long he stared at Shane, but it was likely too long without responding because he saw the tears welling in Shane’s eyes as he broke eye contact and started to mumble, “sorry.”

But Ilya didn’t let him get the apology out and met his lips with a kiss. He pulled back enough to ask:

“Did you learn this one? Я тоже тебя люблю? I love you too.”

The tear spilled over in Shane’s eye. Ilya wiped it away and threw himself on top of Shane, pulling his legs onto the couch and then down so Ilya could rest on his left side.

“I love you so much,” Ilya breathed into Shane’s chest. He felt hands in his hair and gingerly ran his hand up Shane’s right arm. It was much warmer from facing the fire.  

“Finally,” Akane said.

“Took long enough,” Zarya added.

Both foxes left the chair and hopped onto the couch and then insisted on crawling onto Ilya’s back. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it felt perfect.

---

Ilya stood in the Hollander’s living room, taking in the scene. Meeting Shane’s dad and seeing his mom again had been slightly stilted, but they were welcoming. Ilya knew that his mom suspected something and was using a significant amount of restraint to not interrogate her son.

The downstairs told Ilya a love story in a confusing jumble of new and old. Not aesthetically confusing. Everything warm and homey, pleasant earth tones peppered with blues and greens. It was tastefully put together in a comforting, if suburban way. No, what interested Ilya was that everything seemed to be either older than him or almost brand new.

The brown suede couch looked like it had been delivered that morning, but the throw pillows, though clean, were well-worn. The chairs next to the dining table had clearly been recently reupholstered, but the table itself was coated in a patina of a long life, ring stains from drinks, impressions from pens used too firmly, and various nicks that had darkened with age. The pattern repeated everywhere Ilya looked. The living room rug was immaculate; the carpet running up the stairs looked nearly worn through in spots.

The love shown in the time between these items came into their home. How David and Yuna had held onto items their neighbors would have replaced decades ago in favor of travel to away games and club fees. He knew if Shane had his way, he would’ve remodeled everything in the house. He probably would’ve bought them a new house if they’d let him. But the threadbare carpet and worn pillows told him that they likely refused him at every turn, having given him everything gladly and only wanting his love in return.

“Please have a seat,” David gestured to the sectional, a large portion of which was already taken over by his lynx.

As he sat, David handed him a beer from his favorite local brewery, that was apparently named Bicycle. Ilya did not understand the hipster craft beer scene in North America well, but he appreciated the beers occasionally. He raised his eyebrow as he saw the name of the beer, Jane.

He threw his head back and laughed. He felt David’s slight confusion.

He called out to Shane, who was in the kitchen helping prep dinner. He leaned into his accent and Russian’s lack of “sh” sound, so that when he called out:

“Shane,” it sounded much more like “Jane” than it usually did.

Shane poked his head into the kitchen. Ilya cracked open the can.

“You must try this beer. Your dad has excellent taste.”

“What are you talking about? You haven’t even had it yet.”

He held the can out, and Shane squinted at the label. Then he burst out laughing too.

“Clearly I’ve missed a good joke,” David said, eyes warm with delight.

Shane flushed slightly and said that he would explain later.

Ilya and David only had to make small talk for a few minutes, primarily about David’s work for the government. David told Ilya about the history of Russian and Eastern Bloc countries immigration to Canada and how Ilya might fit in there.

“Toronto might be a good fit for you. There is a lot of diaspora in North York. Though Ottawa is not without its Russian influences from the embassy and university. There’s a Russian tea room and a grocery called Lakomka that we sometimes order pelmeni from at work. It’s not too far from the stadium, actually.”

“Hmmm. I will make Shane take me there. Judge if the pelmeni are worth having to play for Ottawa.”

“Harsh, but fair. I’d love to support our hometown team a bit more, but between the two life-long Metros fans and the Centaur’s record, it’s a bit tough.”

Ilya laughed. “If I play for them, they will be good. You can cheer for me.”

David chuckled, and the slight pinch of his brows reminded Ilya so much of Shane that he missed him. It didn’t pass Ilya by how absurd it was to miss someone who was actually in the next room but he didn’t care.

“Cheering for Ilya Rozanov. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“DAD!” Shane exclaimed. “Traitor. You drink one beer with him and suddenly you’re on his side?”

David and Yuna both laughed, and Ilya waggled his eyebrows at Shane.

Shane set the dish he was carrying on a trivet on the table. Yuna followed with a salad, and the four of them sat down to dinner. It was a recipe for Bolognese that was one of the first things Yuna’s mom had learned to make after immigrating. 

As they ate, Ilya had to stop himself from reaching over and touching Shane several times, redirecting his hands to grab more garlic bread or parmesan. Ilya wasn’t entirely sure that he had fooled Yuna, but she didn’t comment.

The conversation flowed easily, mostly centering on hockey and predicting whose year it was for the cup, and if Ottawa’s latest plan for rebuilding was going to be any different than their last five rebuilding plan failures. The oddity of Ilya’s presence in the house hovered at the edge of conversation. It wasn’t hostile, but Ilya knew they were all waiting for Shane to address it.

It was, once again, Akane and Zarya who forced the issue. When they had arrived, the two immediately ran around the house to the backyard and the small copse of trees to explore Akane’s old hideouts, but they came back in during dinner.

When they saw the foxes enter the kitchen through the back door, Shane got up and immediately grabbed the wipes to clean their paws. Yuna had instilled this habit in Shane as soon as he was old enough to take off his own shoes at the door. And Shane had been doing this for both of them for the past several weeks at the cabin, so he automatically cleaned Zarya’s paws after Akane’s.

When Shane touched Zarya, Yuna dropped her fork, staring at her son while the raven kept its eyes fixed on Ilya, no doubt monitoring his reaction, or really, lack thereof.

“お日様,what’s going on here? You’ve stopped dyeing her fur, and you touched…”

Yuna trailed off, gesturing at the other fox.

Shane glanced between his parents.

“It seemed pointless to keep dyeing it, and I couldn’t do it with my arm in the sling, and Ilya wouldn’t.”

They hadn’t really talked about it, but Ilya had told him several times that he wouldn’t have been able to make that choice, even knowing what it would mean for him in Russia.

Ilya shuddered nonetheless.

“He is very diligent about cleaning their paws. I just bought Roomba and let it worry about the dirt.”

David chuckled, but Yuna hadn’t taken her eyes off Shane.

“So are you two, together?” Yuna asked.

Ilya wanted to let Shane steer the conversation, but could plainly see the panic building in him.

“Yes, we are… lovers.”

“Eww, Ilya. Gross.”

Ilya tried to shoot him a confused look. Were they not in love? Intimate? That made them lovers. Shane looked determinedly at the foxes. Stupid language. Akane laughed and looked up at Shane.

“Oui, ton amant,” she teased.

“I hate both of you.”

He looked up, not quite meeting either of his parents’ gaze, instead looking between them at Ilya.

“We’re together. Dating. Ilya’s been at the cottage basically since the accident.”

“And is this new?” David asked. “Since the accident.”

“Erm, no. It’s been going on longer than that.”

David and Yuna glanced at one another, communicating something Ilya couldn’t decipher with their backs mostly to him. Shane moved around the table, coming back to sit next to him. Both the foxes wrapped themselves around their feet. Ilya traced a knot in the wooden table, though he couldn’t feel the texture through the layers of varnish.

“Since the All-Star game? You two played so well together.” David tried again.

Shane did look at his dad this time.

“No, since before that. Our, uh, rookie season.” 

“No, not true. Since summer before,” Ilya added.

He knew it probably didn’t help, but he couldn’t resist telling their story. He moved his hand from the table and rested it on Shane’s leg.

“Your rookie season? But you always said you weren’t in touch with him.”

“I know. I just. I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t deal with all of it. But I am now. I love him.”

Yuna’s mouth twisted into a tight smile.

“You’ve been in love since your rookie season?”

 Shane said, “No. No. Definitely not.” At the same moment that Ilya, said “god no.”

Laughter rang out from below the table, and Ilya could feel the vibration in his feet.

“They are lying,” Zarya said.

“They absolutely have been,” Akane added. “They are idiots, though, so they didn’t know.”

Ilya had never had the impulse to kick Zarya before, and he didn’t really now, but the thought flashed through his mind for a moment.

David and Yuna laughed, though.

“Sounds complicated,” David said kindly.

Zarya crawled into Ilya’s lap, her head and shoulders visible above the table.

“They did make it complicated. But so did NHL, so did Russia. No not complicated options, really.”

Yuna set her shoulders and turned to Shane.

“Okay, so what’s the plan. Will you two come out? I can reach out to Farah and start crafting a statement. It will be complicated. There’s no precedent for this, but we can manage.”

Ilya noted her smile didn’t quite meet her eyes. She was concerned, but Ilya couldn’t tell if it was about the public fallout or him specifically. Shane glanced at Ilya before answering.

“No statements. We don’t plan on announcing anything. Right now, the waters are muddy. People think there’s something there but don’t know what, exactly. I don’t want any more attention, and Ilya’s immigration status is in limbo. We don’t want to confirm anything while we’re active.”

David nodded, but Ilya saw Yuna’s maternal heart peak through her brand manager’s mind.

“Oh, but that’s so sad. You’ve already hidden so much.”

Shane shrugged.

“We know. But I mean. What choice do we have?”

“NHL has been nice but not really… threats but they don’t seem like it,” Ilya said.

“Yes, very passive-aggressive. Very little in writing–nothing actionable,” Yuna agreed.

Ilya nodded solemnly.

“We will tell the people who matter,” Ilya gestured to David and Yuna. “I will tell my friend Sveta. She has been my best friend since childhood. She knows I have been obsessed with someone for a long time.”

Yuna raised her eyebrows. If she kept up with hockey gossip half as diligently as she was said to, then she would’ve been aware of the tabloid gossip about the two of them.

“But do you feel like you have to be together? Because of this,” David asks. “Forgive me, but Ilya, do you even like men? You have quite the… well, Yuna sees all the pictures of you out with women.”

Ilya thought of what she would have seen over the years. Though he was careful about Zarya and the few men he met; he was not careful about any other photos. He’d refused his agent’s advice about his social media until the Raiders stepped in and all the players got media training and a strict hand.

If Ilya weren’t Russian, he would think he was blushing right then. It wasn’t that he was ashamed. He’d always been very clear about who he was and what he was offering to his partners. But never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he would be sitting across from people he secretly hoped would be his in-laws who would have followed all of it in real-time. Still, the question wasn’t outright judgmental or hostile. It was curiosity and wariness from two people who would clearly do anything to protect their son.

Yuna squeezed David’s hand, wanting him to stop talking. Ilya geared up to answer their questions, but Shane beat him to it.

“You what, Mom?”

Ilya didn’t think Yuna was capable of looking flustered, but he was wrong. He felt grateful for the moment to collect his thoughts.

“You make it sound like I was stalking him. I wasn’t. I didn’t know what was going on with you two, but I knew Shane and probably you, too, Ilya, were going to great lengths to keep people from finding out about your daemon, so I sent takedown requests for photos of your fox along with Shane’s.

“Oh,” was all Shane could manage.

“You did this? For me?” Ilya was touched that this woman he barely knew was looking out for him so consistently.

“Mostly for Shane, but yes for you too.”

He met her eyes,

“Thank you,” he felt choked up and realized it had come out in Russian. He tried again, this time in English, he was pretty sure. “Thank you.”

He cleared his throat.

“But to answer your question. Yes, I like men too. I am bisexual. But was not safe for me because of Russia.”

He paused, wanting to make sure the words came out right.

“But I do not love him because of his little fox; I love him because he is Shane. I would love him even if he had a wolf, I think.”

Yuna and David both looked at Ilya like they’d never seen him before. Probably they hadn’t, really.

“A wolf?” Shane asked quietly. Ilya turned to him and saw Shane pulling on his eyebrows, trying not to cry. Ilya felt a tear well up in his own eye and blinked quickly to dispel it. He flashed a grin at Shane.

“Ah, in Russia, wolf and fox do not get along. Wolf beats up fox. Fox tricks wolf. Many stories about this.”

Zarya turned to face him and rubbed her face into his chest. Ilya didn’t pet her, but held her tightly in place.

Yuna cleared her throat, and David rubbed her back.

“That is very sweet, Ilya,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes reflected a similar depth of feeling Ilya recognized from studying Shane’s expressions so closely.

“I have to ask, because I can’t really tell them apart, except for the eyes,” she asked. “Did this fox here really go with you to the hospital?”

The question sat heavily on the table, like it was adding a new layer to the varnish.

“Yes,” Shane said finally. “I don’t really remember much of it. But, they feel… the same. Kinda.”

Ilya rolled his head on his shoulders, remembering how off he felt after Zarya left.

“After she left, I felt weird. Everything was too loud, too bright. But not like if she had really been so far from me. But I cannot tell them apart.”

Akane huffed from under the table.

“Well, we don’t confuse ourselves. We look the same. We are not the same, exactly.”

David had a puzzled look on his face while Yuna and her raven openly studied Zarya.

Shane shook his head.

“We don’t understand it either. That wasn’t a lie. Truly. Maybe it’s destiny. Maybe it’s a huge coincidence. It doesn’t matter to me anymore. We just know that we love each other.”

“I think we have all wondered about this for a long time,” Yuna finally said. “I don’t know how to make sense of this, but I’m glad you two have each other. Suprising as that still seems to me.”

Ilya laughed softly, and he felt warm all over.

“Me too,” he said.

David picked up his fork and began twirling his pasta, reminding everyone that they hadn’t finished eating. The rest of the meal passed in quiet conversation. The awkwardness had fled, and Ilya realized he was eating his first family meal since he was a child. He primarily listened to David and Yuna tell stories about Shane growing up, the first time he tried to lace his own skates, and their family trip to Disney World, and how excited Shane had been to meet Aladdin–how much he’d cried when Jafar arrived.

Ilya laughed and said:

“You’ll have to show me this movie later.”

Shane looked positively bewildered that Ilya had never seen Aladdin and thought that if anything but a Metros playoff game was about to start, he would have put it on immediately. Ilya made a note to tease him more about this later.

“Well, let’s go cheer on the Metros,” David said cheerfully.

Ilya leaned over and kissed Shane’s forehead.

“I will be rooting for New Jersey,” he said playfully

Chapter End Notes

Let it be known that the Jane beer referenced in this is a real beer that Bicycle Craft Brewery actually makes. I was just looking up the name of a craft brewery in Ottawa when I saw this and it's too perfect not to include. https://web.archive.org/web/20260115013242/https://bicyclecraftbrewery.ca/collections/beer/products/jane-german-pils

Chapter 18

Chapter Summary

Smoothies, stars, and fireside chats.

Chapter Notes

This chapter is for the canon typical discussion of suicide. The conversation follows the book/show pretty directly.

Thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed the ride 🦊💜

May 2016

Shane turned off the blender for his smoothie. He’d given up trying to get Ilya to drink one too and heard him poking through the fridge for leftovers to reheat.

He couldn’t quite forget how Zarya had reacted when Ilya mentioned the wolf and fox story in Russia; he’d seen her do it a few times before, when Ilya was stressed and trying not to show it. A subtle tic he couldn’t quite control.

“Did you think Zarya would settle as a fox when you were little?”

Ilya froze, tupperware in hand, midway to the microwave. He looked across the room as if searching for Zarya, but the foxes were up to something in the trees outside.

“No, maybe I was not surprised when she did. I didn’t think about it much, but it was not what I would’ve guessed.”

“Did you hope for something else?”

“Hmmm. I think a bird. I always liked that. To feel part of you fly. My mom–she had a beautiful crane.”

Shane briefly remembered when Akane had taken a bird form. Usually a raptor. The stomach-dropping sensation from aggressive diving was fun, but the heights made his palms sweaty.

Ilya’s food sputtered as the microwave hummed. Shane had at least gotten him to use the plate cover regularly since he didn’t pay for a cleaning service for the cottage. It felt too invasive here.

“Were you expecting a fox?” Ilya returned the question.

“Absolutely not. Sometimes I’m still surprised that she’s a fox, if I think about it.”

Ilya’s lips tipped down slightly.

“Why? Foxes are clever, no? You are quick and clever.”

Shane sighed as an uneasy feeling permeated his core.

“It’s, I don’t know. Complicated. In Japan, they have, like, a dual nature. And they’re tricky in Canada, too, but that’s more like indigenous stories. Those are the ones are what I grew up with.”

Shane glanced at Ilya, whose cheeks were stuffed with a comically large bite of chicken.

“Kitsune, female foxes, like, lie to seduce men, trick them into getting married, and then make them sick or steal all their money. Those aren’t the only fox stories; foxes are good too, but it… I don’t. It feels weird sometimes.”

Shane could almost see the lump of food move down Ilya’s throat like a snake.

“Oh, so that has been your plan all along? Marry me for my money?”

Shane shoved him and stole his fork.

“You’re going to choke. And I make more money than you, asshole. I know how much your contract is for.”

Ilya shrugged.

“Okay, so then no problem. You seduced me, but not for my money. It’s okay.”

Shane felt his eyes go wide as he froze.

“You’re joking, right? You seduced me. You literally started touching yourself in front of me.”

Ilya slid up behind him and wrapped his arms around him.

“Only because you got hard first.”

Shane tried to struggle away, but Ilya didn’t let him go, leaning his weight onto Shane to help pin him to the counter as he plucked the fork back and set it down.

Shane felt fur on his bare feet. He wasn’t sure when the foxes had come back inside. He hadn’t heard the “foxhole” open, as Akane called the special door she could use.

Zarya stretched up the side of Ilya’s body, and he scooped down to pick her up without completely breaking contact with Shane.

He heard her say softly,

“Being a fox was hard for a long time. Grigori has a wolf.”

Shane shook almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t known Ilya’s father’s name until that moment, but it was clear in Ilya’s stricken look.

“Foxes trick wolves. Wolves beat up foxes. That’s what you said, right?” Shane tried to keep his voice steady.

“Da,” Ilya replied.

“But they’re just stories, Ilya.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, point taken,” Shane admitted his hypocrisy.

Ilya took a breath, put Zarya down, and leaned back into Shane.

“Just stories didn’t matter to my father. It looked bad. I embarrassed him.”

Zarya whined as she sat on both of their feet.

“I’m so sorry Ilya.” He didn’t know exactly what embarrassing his father cost Ilya, but the weight of it was still present in the tension of his muscles.

“It is okay. I am happy she is a fox. It fits me. You too, I think, but not the same. They are good for us.”

“Yes,” Shane whispered his agreement into Ilya’s shoulder as he ran his hand up and down his back, massaging the knots as best as he could from the awkward angle while his smoothie sat melting on the counter.

June 2016

The playoffs were winding down. Shane was disappointed, but not surprised, that the Metros had only made it to the second round, although he didn’t know how he would’ve felt if they’d won the cup without him. The Raiders didn’t make it past the first round, so after their teams were out, they watched games that were interesting but didn’t follow too closely.

Shane had fully recovered, and the weather had warmed up, so they were able to get out on the lake. Ilya always wanted to take out the jet skis and complained that Shane didn’t own a boat. Shane occasionally talked him into canoeing, and they had several nice picnics on the little islands that dotted the lake. After ending up with pine needles in his ass after the first picnic, Ilya made sure he always packed a very thick blanket for them.

Yuna and David had come by several times, and Svetlana had come to stay for a long weekend before heading to Russia for the summer. Shane, despite his best intentions, did actually like her a lot and was grateful she had visited. And not just because she had brought Ilya a lot more clothes and personal items from his house.   

This was how Shane had always imagined living at the cottage would be. Not just passing a few weeks here between seasons, sponsor events, and the NHL awards, but actually living here, with someone. But the looming specter of Ilya’s trade kept them one foot in their complicated reality.

They were sitting on the deck, looking at the stars as they wound through the conversation again.

“You could win another cup in Toronto,” Shane said for the hundredth time. “It’s a fun city, and it’s only four and half hours away. We could see each other often. You could win in Calgary too, probably.”

Ilya scoffed.

“You don’t want me to win another cup.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Боже мой,” deploying a phrase he’d picked up. “Of course I do. After I win four more, you can win as many as you like.”

“Ottawa is closer,” Ilya said. “And I don’t want to win a cup for Dallas Kent and Troy Barrett.”

“You are better than Ottawa. If not, Toronto, then Calgary, Edmonton, and Winnipeg would trade every player’s firstborn to get you.”

“Oh, so I’m not good enough for Vancouver, then?”

“Fuck, Ilya, go to Vancouver if you want. But they don’t need a star center.”

“Hmmm. I hear Metros do. Their center was stupid and missed the playoffs. Trade him away and get best player in the league.”

“Asshole,” Shane kicked at him from his adirondack. “The fans would burn the city if they traded me, and you know it.”

“Calgary, Edmonton, and Alberta are far.”

Shane sighed.

“I know, but we could make it work. We’ll see each other as much as possible. And it will help our rivalry to die off.”

He twisted his ginger ale bottle in his hand.

“I don’t know,” Ilya said.

It was where they always ended this conversation. Shane knew every Canadian team would put together deals for Ilya, simply because he was Ilya Rozanov.

“Well, have you talked to your agent? There are only two or three more games left until the cup is over, and then trading will be open season.”

Shane kept trying to meet Ilya’s gaze, but Ilya kept his eyes fixed upward at the constellations. He wished Zarya were here to try to knock some sense into Ilya, but the foxes were asleep inside.

“I am thinking.”

Shane wanted to throw the ginger ale at him and scream. He was sick of this conversation and wanted Ilya to say what he actually wanted. But then the sticky residue on the deck wouldn’t be worth it.

“But you haven’t given her a list. What’s the point of your modified no-trade clause if you don’t put together a list?”

Shane felt like he might as well get modified no-trade clause tattooed on his forehead with how much he’d been saying it these past few months. Shane only heard the sound of Ilya’s steady breathing. He kept looking, eyebrows raised, waiting for anything. Any clue what he actually wanted.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t talked about Montreal as an option. It was just that all Ilya said was that they would trade Shane for him, and then moved on to other teams. But moving to Montreal felt like painting a spotlight on their relationship, and Ilya would have to play second line. Anywhere else, he’d be first line and likely captain within a few years if not immediately.

Ilya pointed up to the stars.

“These look like ones you have on your back.”

He leaned way over in his chair and traced his hand across Shane’s shoulder blade.

“Which one? Wait, don’t distract me.”

Ilya this time poked his shoulder, indicating, Shane assumed, where the freckles were. Shane’s shirt was on so he wasn’t sure how Ilya knew where they were.

“The Ковш, uh, big spoon?”

“The Big Dipper?”

“Dipper? What the fuck is a dipper?”

“Actually, that’s a good question. Spoon is probably better or like ladle?”

“Ladle? Now you are making up words, Hollander. Big Dipper. I could always see this one out of my window in Moscow. All year, always right there for me.”

Shane melted a little bit into Ilya’s hand on his back. He knew Ilya was trying to change the subject, and Shane kept letting him.

“What else could you see?”

Ilya told him about his view from his window at home, and Shane pointed out the other circumpolars he likely would’ve also seen out his window. They stayed outside until the air cooled the skin enough that they pretended they needed the excuse to crawl under the blankets together.

---

Ilya bolted upright in bed, his brain playing catch-up to his body’s reaction to the smell of wood smoke and faint footsteps padding on the ground. It was dark outside; he could see the moon and stars reflected on the lake through a few gaps in the trees, but not much else.

He tried to get out of bed quickly to find what was on fire, but his legs were heavy. Both foxes were curled up on his shins and giving him death glares through slitted eyes.

He glanced up to see his boyfriend shuffling in front of his fireplace and then taking a deep breath and blowing on the red sparks in the hearth. The fire was at least where it was supposed to be, but was Shane trying to put it out?

“Shane. Shane? You trying to blow out fire? Should I get water?”

He slipped his legs to the sides and stood up quickly.

“Hmm? Oh no. I’m trying to light it. I’m giving it oxygen.”

Ilya was pretty sure blowing on flames put them out, but decided Shane likely knew what he was doing.

“Okay, родной. Why are you lighting a fire in the middle of the night?”

Shane kept feeding little bits of something into the fire, and the flames were growing. He spared a glance over at Ilya.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking, and I guess I was still cold from sitting outside.”

Ilya hummed.

“No, I think I warmed you up very well before you fell asleep. What are you thinking, родной?”

The fire was bigger now. Shane seemed satisfied to leave it for the moment.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’ve had this place for years, and I’ve never used this fireplace. I’m only here when it’s warm, except for this year. I mean, we were here during a blizzard, and I still didn’t light it. I realized it was one of the last cool nights, and I didn’t want to waste any more time.”

Ilya sat on the couch and appreciated Shane’s silhouette against the glow. He thought back to his mom crouched in a similar position, long hair tied back from the flames and fingered dusted with soot.

He patted the seat next to him, and as Shane moved out from the front of the fire, Ilya was hit with its heat and the stronger scent of wood smoke. Shane curled into his side as they both watched the flames work their way up the biggest logs.

Ilya noticed that it was earlier than he thought. The horizon outside had taken on the aura that hinted sunrise was approaching. He moved his gaze back to the flames, trying to catch the moment when the entire large log was engulfed. Zarya walked over and lay on the bricks around the fireplace. Akane mirrored her on the other side.

As she settled in, Zarya said:

“I haven’t felt a real fire in so long.”

Ilya added, “My mom would light our fireplace. After she died, my father wouldn’t let any of us. He hated the smell.”

Shane turned toward him.

“Have you spoken to your family in Russia at all?”

Shane had asked him this when they first got to the cottage, but he’d only ever said no and redirected the conversation.

“No, my father has, um, dementia, so he doesn’t remember me. And my brother sucks. So I don’t want to remember him. I send him money for my father.”

Shane reached up and started running his fingers through his hair.

“Oh, even if they suck, you must miss them. My parents are so great. I–I wish you had that too.”

“My mother didn’t suck.”

Ilya wished he hadn’t said anything because he knew Shane would ask,

“How did she die?”

Zarya got up and crawled into his lap. She faced Shane and nudged his other hand so he would scratch under her chin. Shane carefully moved his hands through Ilya’s curls and Zarya’s fur. The touch let Ilya say what he’d never told anyone before.

“An accident. She accidentally swallowed a whole pack of pills.”

Shane’s hands stilled as he took in a sharp breath.

“Ilya, I’m so sorry. How old were you?”

Zarya moved her chin around to restart Shane’s hands moving, and Ilya savored the sensation.

“Twelve,” Ilya said.

 “We found her,” came Zarya’s soft voice.  

Shane’s hand left Ilya’s hair and wiped a tear he hadn’t noticed falling down his cheek. He didn’t say anything. Ilya knew there wasn’t really anything to say. Nothing would make it better.

Instead, Shane shifted down the couch and pulled Ilya and Zarya with him until they were all three horizontal, with Shane at his back and Zarya at his chest. He felt the heat of the fire press in on his front side and Shane’s body heat at his back. It should’ve been too warm, but it felt perfect.

Ilya felt small feet on his shins, and Akane stepped over him and into the crook of Shane’s knees.

Shane ran his arms up and down Ilya’s side and into Zarya’s fur, still wiping the tears from Ilya’s eyes as they leaked out.

They stayed like that for a long time. The sun was rising in earnest now, peeking up from the horizon, casting a deep red glow over the lake.

The fire danced in front of him, and he remembered staring into the empty grate in Moscow for years until he nearly forgot what it looked like when it was lit. As the wood started to burn low, Shane got up to add more logs. Ilya watched him stack them neatly so they didn’t smother the flames. He realized how quickly they’d burned–how fast everything could change.

Ilya sat up, and Akane, seeming to sense the shift in Ilya, crawled into his lap. Zarya returned to her spot on the bricks.

“I’m going to Montreal,” Ilya said simply. “I want to be as close to you as I can.”

“Ilya,” Shane started, but Ilya cut him off.

“No. This is more important,” he said, gesturing between them. “I don’t want to waste any more time.”

“It wasn’t wasted,” Akane countered. “Look at what you accomplished.”

“Ilya, you’ll be second line in Montreal. They can’t afford both of us at what we’re worth.”

Zarya headbutted his knee as Akane said,

“Shane, how much is being together worth to you?”

Ilya could see Shane’s blush even in the low light.

“I mean, of course, it would be amazing. That’s my dream. I’d take a lower contract easily. I just… I would never ask you to do that.”

Shane sat back down on the couch, turned to face Ilya.

“I am offering. Plus. I will not be second line for long.”

Ilya winked at him.

“Asshole. There’s no way. But there’s also almost no way Montreal doesn’t take you if that’s your top choice. They’d be crazy not to.”

Ilya privately agreed. Barry could figure it out. He could see Shane running logistics.

“I bet they’ll trade Comeau and obviously the draft picks,” Shane mused. “If they trade Hayden, I’ll be pissed at you.”

Ilya screwed up his face in mock pain.

“Pike, for me? I thought you said you loved me. How could my родной insult me like this? Akane, do you hear him?”

She laughed. “Hayden is a good player. The Raiders would be lucky to have him, but he also has some trade protection, unlike Comeau after this summer.”

Shane grabbed both of his hands. Ilya looked at him closely and could see the panic in his eyes.

“Only if you want this, Shane. I do not want to hide. I do not think I can hide how much I love you. But if you are not ready, I will move to Alberta or Ottawa, and we will figure it out.”

Shane met his gaze, and the fear was still there, but so was the love.

“The NHL is going to be pissed with us. If we’re on the same team, we won’t be able to hide this for long.”

Ilya had considered this and asked his lawyer, albeit indirectly, about any issues playing on the same team as Shane could cause them.

“My lawyer says that they cannot discriminate against us for what our daemons look like or for being queer. Both are illegal in Canada.”

The acknowledgement of these facts settled into Shane, and he relaxed a little.

“I’m scared.”

Ilya felt it too; the career that felt like his birthright sat fragile in front of them. Ilya pulled him into his chest, slightly squishing Akane between them.

“Ssh, Shane, it is scary. But you are brave.”

“What if they can’t make it work? You’re worth a lot, Ilya. You deserve a lot.”

“My boyfriend is very rich. I will be fine.”

Ilya could hear his voice break as he asked:

“What if we never get another contract again?”

“One thing at a time, お日様,” came Akane’s slightly muffled voice. She slipped out from between them and sat by the hearth.

“You are Shane Fucking Hollander. You keep telling me every team will want me. You really think it would be different for you?”

Shane’s face was buried in Ilya’s chest, so he felt the vibrations when he said,

“Even if they know I am gay?”

“Probably some teams are homophobic. We will ruin them. But you said Montreal is good now. But it doesn’t matter–together we will win the cup with any team. Even a whole team of Pikes. Even Ottawa couldn’t lose with us.”

Shane gave a wet laugh and tried to scoot closer to Ilya.

“I don’t want to hide either. You’d really come to Montreal?”

“Da. I’ve dreamed about playing on the same team since All-Stars.”

Shane lifted his head and hit Ilya in the chest.

“You’ll have to actually talk to me this time. I’m still mad at you for that!”

Ilya pursed his lips then said,

“Sorry, captain.”

Shane’s eyes blazed, and Ilya leaned in, hovering just centimeters from his lips.

“Oh, you like that? Do you?”

Shane blushed furiously. Akane laughed softly.

“No. Shut up.”  

“Yes, captain.”

“No. I’m not doing this. Be serious. I still don’t want to make a statement or anything. I just want to be us.”

He considered this and said:

“Okay. No announcement. We just let people notice. Probably we’ll have to say something eventually, or Yuna will have to have all of Twitter taken down.”

Shane laughed softly.

“Only we get to tell our story. We decide what it means. I’ll learn to ignore the rest.”

“Easy to say now. But we will play such good hockey, everyone will forget anything else,” Ilya said with the utmost confidence. How could they lose?  

Shane beamed like the rising sun.

“The Hollander-Rozanov Dynasty.”

Ilya scoffed.

“Rozanov-Hollander sounds better.”

Shane flicked his ear.

“I love you so much,” Shane said.

 Ilya pulled Shane into his lap, rubbing his back while he heard the fire crackle.

“I love you, too, родной.”

Ilya thought about the first time that he had called Shane родной. It had slipped out like the most natural thing he could say. He wondered if Shane would prefer to hear it in English. But родной meant so much more than dear could ever hold. Yes, it meant sweetheart, but that word meant felt hollow. And the chasm between the two words was everything to Ilya. The gulf between a house and a home. It was belonging. My own.

Ilya poured all his feelings into Shane’s lips, kissing him as lovingly as he’d only ever dream of doing. Shane sighed into his mouth and then nuzzled into his neck, eyes slowly blinking shut again. Ilya glanced around the room, his room too, he felt, and he saw the fox’s tail flickering like the flames dancing across the logs. He looked back at Shane and saw the sun fully risen across the lake, making them glow in the early orange light. Faintly, he heard a familiar voice like it had been carried in with the sun, calling him родной.

Chapter End Notes

Okay my book club and I have very strong anti-epilogue sentiments and think that they generally ruin good stories (IMO!) But now as a writer, I completely understand the impulse, so you can have my head canon for how this goes if you want.
-Comeau does get traded for Ilya or thrown into a volcano. IDGAF he's gone either way.
-More would-be centaurs join the Metros.
-Yuna plans an excellent soft launch for Shane and Ilya and no one is surprised by the time they officially announce their engagement.
-Yuna uses her powers for "evil" and sows the seeds of discord online after Shane stops dyeing Akanes fur, and now the internet is so confused about what she even looked like in the first place and if her appearance somehow changed or was always like that. It's messy.
-The Metros get too gay for Thierault (or however you spell it) and he takes an unfortunately generous retirement package
-Shane and Ilya have a beautiful outdoor wedding where the sun is shining bright, and it rains just a little (raining while the sun is out is called a fox wedding in Japan)