Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Figure Skating, Figure Skater Ilya Rozanov, Russia, Politics, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Texting, Non-Famous Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Suicidal Thoughts, Angst, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Nobody is Dead, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Introspection

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-28 Completed: 2026-03-03 Words: 15,808 Chapters: 3/3

Stars

Summary

Ilya lies on the ground and looks up at the stars and waits to die.
The pavement is cold.
Ilya wonders if his mother was cold when she died. He thinks maybe not, since she didn’t die in a deserted alleyway in Vancouver. But she did die at home, and maybe that was even colder.

In a world where the Cold War ended but the Iron Curtain never fell, Ilya Rozanov is the most promising figure skater in Russia. At only 19, he’s an easy candidate for gold at the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver, one of the only times Russia allows its citizens to leave the USSR.
And then one mistake means Russia will never let him come back. Hollander won’t stop trying to talk to him, but the last thing Ilya wants to do is talk to the man who ruined his life. He might be stuck in Canada, a refugee, for the rest of his life, but that doesn’t mean he has to talk to Hollander ever again.
He wanders Vancouver aimlessly and doesn’t think about Russia, or Hollander, or the ice that can never be home again.

Notes

Hmmm am I writing another fic? yes. Do I have the time? no. Oh well.

If possible, this work is even less edited than my previous one (and that's saying something)

Chapter 1: Cold

2010

Ilya lies on the ground and looks up at the stars and waits to die.

The pavement is cold.

Ilya wonders if his mother was cold when she died. He thinks maybe not, since she didn’t die in a deserted alleyway in Vancouver. But she did die at home, and maybe that was even colder.

Ilya’s mother had told him lots of things about the stars. He blinks the haze out of his eyes and tries to remember. 

They walked home from the rink darkness after practice, and his mother told him all the great stories he learned in school, but better. She made everything better. She pointed at the stars, and told him their names. Ilya never remembered the names.

She never got mad at him for forgetting.

Instead, she started telling him about the parts that actually mattered. 

Laika. The space dog. The first in a line of brave cosmonauts to sacrifice for Russia. A hero.

“Where is Laika now, mama?” he asked. His mother had a far away look in her eye. Ilya was too young to understand what sacrifice meant.

“She is still up there, Ilushka,” she said, and Ilya had frowned.

“All alone?” What a sad life that seemed.

“No, my love,” his mother murmured, her hand on his head, “she is playing among the stars. She is not alone.”

Ilya nodded and smiled up at the night sky. He waved, and imagined the space dog barking back at him. 

His mother paid no mind to the sky, her eyes only on him. She carried both their skates and the weight of the world and he didn’t notice either.

The pavement is cold.

The first time Ilya cried to the stars, he was nine years old. A State official got word of his talent and decided he was going to Moscow to train with “real coaches”. With people who weren’t his mama. 

His father was angry in that quiet way he sometimes got because if the State wanted something, nothing else mattered. His father hated Ilya then, and probably still does. Grigory despised seeing Ilya skate, probably because it wasn’t his idea.

Ilya’s mother was sad. Sad that she couldn’t come with him. Sad that this was his future, now, this was his life, even though he was nine years old with no clue what he really wanted. Ilya’s mother was also, probably, sad that he was good enough to leave their small town while she was stuck there. 

Ilya wasn’t sad or angry. He wasn’t anything, really, and didn’t understand why he was even crying at all. Skating was always fun. He loved the breeze on his face as he executed jumps and flips with grace beyond his years. He loved the way his mother would beam at him afterwards. But his mother was sad and his father was angry and he was leaving for Moscow in a week and so he stepped out into the backyard and cried to the stars like it would fix anything.

Ilya’s crying now.

Everything hurts. 

He thought he knew pain, but this is beyond anything he’s felt before.

The worst pain, before this, was when he was twelve years old. 

His coach pulled him aside after practice and informed him that his mother was dead. 

“It was an unfortunate accident, Ilya,” the man said, casually as he might have reported the weather. 

Ilya didn’t understand, not at first. It simply wasn’t a sentence that was supposed to exist. 

“Can I go home?” he asked, already knowing the answer. The Soviet Union Junior Skating Championship was the following week. He was Moscow’s best shot at gold in the boy’s under 16 category.

“No,” his coach said harshly, “do not be silly. She would have wanted you to work hard here, and win.”

Ilya didn’t argue, because he didn’t know what she would have wanted. Aside from a few phone calls and frequent emails, he’d only seen his mother once a year since someone decided he was a prodigy. 

He won gold at the Championship, and it didn’t even matter. Not when she wasn’t there to cheer him on. 

Ilya had learned young that no matter how good he was, no matter how strong a routine, no matter how hard he tried, it would never be enough. 

Ilya’s least favourite part about dying is that he has to do it in Canada, where the stars are all wrong. His mother’s star is nowhere to be seen.

He gave her a star one cold night aged fourteen, when he realized his heart was no longer a safe place for her to live. I

Ilya tripped on a move that should have been second nature, and his coach slapped him across the face. It was a new coach, Sergi Bazov, and he was a lot more creative with his punishments than any coach Ilya had known before. 

Bazov cornered him in the dressing room and screamed until Ilya was past the point of tears. Then, he made Ilya repeat every comment back, to prove he learned.

He had. 

Ilya learned that to survive the world, he had to harden his heart. He had to push aside any emotion that wasn’t a part of the performance. 

He had to keep his mother’s memory somewhere that the cruelty of Bazov and Russia and life couldn’t hurt her.

Ilya stepped out of the rink and, numb, he looked up at the sky. The star he picked wasn’t anything special, but he poured his love into it anyways. He decided to keep all the tenderest parts of himself there, in the sky, where it was safe.

Ilya wonders through the fog in his brain how Bazov will explain this to the authorities. It won’t be easy to explain how Russia’s star figure skating prodigy would up beaten to death in the Olympic village. 

Ilya remembers the first time someone had called him that. Russia’s figure skating prodigy. It was said like it wasn’t a curse. Like it didn’t mean he was property. 

He was seventeen and in Belarus and Bazov had clapped him on the back.

“Yes,” he replied to whichever judge had made the observation, “Ilya is extremely promising. It is still some time away, obviously, but we are already in discussion with the Ministry about the Olympics.”

The judge looked shocked at that.

“They are in the West next, yes?”

“Yes, Canada. If the Ministry allows him to compete, Ilya will show those Western idiots a level of excellence they can’t even dream of.”

They weren’t even been speaking against the government, really, but the three of them still glanced around nervously. Ilya felt his pulse skyrocket. If Bazov thought it was a genuine possibility that the Ministry would let him go…

Ilya was seventeen and he knew three things.

He knew that, as a high performing Russian athlete, he had the eyes of his country on his every move. This wasn’t bad. He’d always been the good boy the country wanted him to be.

Except the second thing Ilya knew was that there was something deeply wrong with him. With the way he looked at the guys he skated with, and against. There was something deeply wrong with how much he wanted them.

The third thing, and the one Ilya knew with the most certainty, is that eventually somebody would figure him out, and then his career would be over. He would be jailed. His family would be disgraced. 

He had never been so naive to think he could keep the secret forever, but he had at least thought he’d be able to last a little longer.

There’s something in his mouth and Ilya spits it out. Blood. It’s the same deep red as the costume he had worn when he won his Olympic gold medal. Was that only yesterday? It doesn’t feel like it.

The pavement is cold.

Ilya was at home for the first time in three years when Bazov called to say he was going to the Olympics. 

Aside from the rare diplomat, Russia only let its citizens leave the Soviet Union for extremely special circumstances. Usually, they had to be athletes or musical geniuses. Ilya was one of only twenty three Soviet citizens to be granted exit permits. Even his father, perpetually uninterested in his life, had made it clear: when the State allows you to leave, you do not fuck it up. Anything less than gold and Ilya would never get another opportunity.

When he got the news, Ilya pretended that he was only excited for the competition element. Pretended the politics didn’t even interest him. Pretended he had never watched a bootlegged and badly subtitled copy of Fast and Furious, mouthing along to the words until they didn’t feel foreign on his tongue, just in case. 

The worst part of dying on the cold concrete is that Ilya doesn’t have any regrets about how he got here. Maybe it was always going to end this way, dead at twenty years old like his life meant nothing. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe his mother will be waiting for him. 

Ilya thinks about the best bad decision he’s ever made. 

He was smoking against the wall outside the rink, gold medal on his chest. It was his first quiet moment since it was placed on his chest. A man turned the corner abruptly, bumping into him. 

“Shit, sorry,” the man said. Ilya’s secret obsession with illegal American movies comes in handy, “didn’t see you there.” 

Something about the man was oddly familiar, but Ilya knew they had never interacted before. Then it clicked. A Calvin Klein advertisement he had pretended not to stare at in the Vancouver airport. A billboard he definitely didn’t stare at out his hotel window.

“Shane Hollander?” he asked, and the man looked at him in surprise.

“Yeah,” a smile, “I didn’t know you guys got our hockey… uhh. You know. Back home.”

Shane Hollander, Ilya realized with an unwarranted level of fondness, was incredibly afraid of offending him.

“We do not,” Ilya said, hoping his English was comprehensible, “but your face is all over this country.”

“Oh,” Hollander replied, a short laugh. That should have been that. It wasn’t. “You’re Ilya Rozanov, right? I watched your programme just now. It was… beautiful.”

Ilya shrugged. 

“Was alright.” That, then, should have been the end of it. But Ilya was riding the high of his gold medal and this was Canada. And if it was going to be the only time he ever got to leave Russia, he was going to make it count. “You, though…” he said with a small smile.

“Me?” Hollander asked.

“Yes. You are beautiful.”

Maybe it was a bit forward. Ilya didn’t really know how people flirted in Canada. He didn’t know if Hollander was into guys. He had taken an altogether idiotic risk.

Hollander’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Ilya chose to read it as interest. 

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“They’ve got us in a hotel nearby. The Marriott. I’m in room 1410,” Hollander said, a flash of hesitation, before adding, “and I don’t, uh, have a roommate. So you can come by whenever.”

Hollander looked just as terrified as Ilya felt, but he had smiled a little, and the wave of endorphins that provided was almost better than winning gold.

Ilya wonders if Hollander is afraid now. He thinks of what he’s learned about the man in the twenty-four hours since they’ve met. Hollander plays in the NHL when he isn’t in the Olympics. He’s the youngest person to ever play Olympic hockey, and the youngest person to be an NHL captain, out in Montreal. Hockey, Ilya thinks distantly, is probably a sport his father would have approved of.

Ilya is afraid.  There is blood in his mouth and he chokes on it.

Ilya knocked on Hollander’s door at eight pm, and the other man opened it immediately. 

“This is a bad idea,” he said. Ilya agreed, but also Hollander’s eyes were so pretty and his freckles looked like stars and so instead of leaving, Ilya kissed him.

Kissing Shane Hollander was so incredible that Ilya reconsidered if he was broken at all, because nothing that felt so good could possibly be as sinful as he was raised to believe.

They didn’t do much more that night, just spent time in each other’s arms making out and not talking about all the reasons it shouldn’t have been happening. 

Ilya looked at Hollander’s perfect face and his perfect body and felt his perfect lips and listened to his perfect voice. He took in the man in every possible way because he knew that this was probably the closest he would ever get to love again.

Ilya pretended it was just a hookup. Everyone hooks up at the Olympics. 

If he wasn’t about to die, Ilya would choose a star to hold all his memories of Shane Hollander. It seems fitting. They barely know each other but Hollander is this tender thing that wouldn’t be safe in his heart. Since Ilya’s heart is about to stop anyway, he doesn’t bother. He can keep this one thing. He can be selfish. 

The pavement is cold.

Ilya was selfish earlier today as well. He was selfish when he went to watch the Canada - Finland gold medal hockey game while everyone else took a minute to relax. He was selfish when he had sought Hollander out in the aftermath, hands shoved in his pockets. He knew it was a horrible idea. Hollander had no reason to want him there. He did it anyway. 

Ilya pulled the hockey player into an equipment room and dropped to his knees before he could protest. He took Hollander into his mouth like he’d been too scared to do the night before. Hollander threaded a hand through his hair and pulled just on the right side of too hard. 

Even once they came to their senses about the sheer stupidity of trading blow jobs in Olympic equipment rooms, they barely separated. They stumbled through the village with their hands all over each other and anyone could see. Anyone could have, but it was dark and Ilya, drunk on the feeling of freedom, couldn’t bring himself to care. Hollander was scared, too, which was almost comforting. At least Ilya wasn’t the only one taking an insane risk for another handful of minutes. 

Hollander pulled them into a nook in between two buildings, pushing Ilya against the wall. Grinning, Ilya flipped them around, shoving his tongue down Hollander’s throat in a filthy kiss. He pressed his leg between Hollander’s, slowly kissing his way down the other man’s (phenominal) body. And then. 

And then.

Ilya worries that he might not die after all. That might be the only thing worse than dying, actually. Because if he’s dead, at least it’s over. At least he can be in the stars. If he survives, Russia will drag him back. They will call him a traitor. They will be right. Russia won’t care about the gold medal he won yesterday, but they will care about everything that’s happened since and Ilya will be done. 

The pavement is cold and Ilya can’t breath for the blood in his mouth.

Prison, probably. One of the brutal ones where they put all the political dissidents. Even there, if what Ilya did gets out, he’ll be dead. Probably in a similar way to this. Beaten on the cold ground. 

At least the stars would be right. 

Ilya didn’t even hear the words Bazov yelled. Not really, anyway. He understood the sentiment. Frozen in place, his eyes darted up to meet Hollander’s. Hollander, whose face reflected Ilya’s own terror right back at him. 

That was the moment Ilya had realized he was going to die.

“Run,” he said, panic flooding his brain so abruptly he wasn’t even sure he spoke English. He must have, though, because Hollander runs.

Gone in a blink.

Ilya missed him.

Ilya was glad nobody would have to witness what was coming next.

Bazov called him pathetic. A traitor. A disappointment. Disgusting. Horrible. Dishonourable. Unworthy of Russia’s trust and respect. On, and on, and on, in the way he always had but a million times worse. 

Ilya expected to be made to repeat the words back. It would have been fitting. 

Instead, Bazov hit him, hard. Ilya was frozen in the wake of Hollander’s departure. Wholly unprepared. He hit the ground easily, head colliding with concrete in that horrible way that makes the world go fuzzy on the edges. 

Bazov didn’t stop. Fists and boots rained down on Ilya’s body and he didn’t fight back. Didn’t feel  like he deserved to.

Something in his chest snapped, probably a rib, and suddenly breathing became hard and painful. Ilya thought distantly to a boy he had known who had taken a bad fall and broken a rib, which had punctured his spleen. Maybe that was what was happening.

 His coach stomped on Ilya’s knee with all his weight and there was a sickening crunch.

And then there was only white hot pain. 

Bazov seemed to come out of his anger-filled trance at the sound of Ilya’s career ending. Gave him one last hateful look. Spat on his body where he lay on the ground.

And then he left Ilya. Like it was nothing. Like one moment was enough to erase years of achievements. 

Ilya knew more than he knew anything else in the world - it was.

Ilya wonders if there was any amount of gold medals he could win that would have saved him. He thinks probably not. 

The pavement is cold. 

Ilya is dying.

The stars might be all wrong, but they are still beautiful. At least he has that.

Ilya blinks the tears out of his eyes but the stars don’t get any clearer. What a disappointment. 

He’s a disappointment. 

He’s destroyed everything for a stupid Canadian boy with pretty freckles and an adorable smile, that he doesn’t even know beyond the feel of skin on skin, and it’s going to be the reason he dies, and he doesn’t even regret it. 

There are muffled sounds coming from somewhere and Ilya can’t bring himself to care.

The pavement is cold. So cold. He wishes he didn’t have to die feeling cold.

Oh well. 

He had only lived in the cold. In the calm cold of the rink and the harsh cold of Russia and the artificial cold of his heart

I will see you soon, he thinks to his mother, and he looks at the stars for one last time.

And then there are hands on him and somebody says “holy fucking shit,” and there are more hands and the hands are warm.

And then Ilya isn’t on the ground anymore.

And that means he might survive this after all. 

***

When Ilya opens his eyes again he isn’t in any pain. He’s lying somewhere soft, and he’s surrounded by brightness and oh, he thinks distantly, this is probably a hospital.

It’s the nicest hospital he’s ever seen. There is an IV in his hand and an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. Altogether he doesn’t feel terrible. But then, unwanted, his mind reminds him of the crunch, and he is a thousand times more awake. He looks to his knee. It doesn’t look horrible - no obvious metal pins or anything like that, just a wrap of bandage underneath a sturdy brace. “Hey, kid,” says a gravely Canadian voice, and Ilya jumps, wincing at the movement. He whips his head around and thinks, vaguely, that he knows the man sitting in the room. “Shit, sorry,” the man says, “didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Ilya blinks slowly, brain translating on a horrible delay. “Who…” he trails off. The man laughs good naturedly.

“Yeah, sorry. Wouldn’t expect you to recognize me. I’m Cliff Marlow.”

And, Ilya finds, he does know Cliff Marlow. He had placed nineteenth for his short programme. Bazov had said he was so old, even that was a miracle. Bazov had assured Ilya that he wasn’t a threat to gold. Bazov…

Bazov knows. 

Ilya is shocked for a moment that he was able to forget at all. Bazov knows. All it would take is one phone call and Russia would excommunicate him. Or worse, they would take him back to Russia just to throw him in prison to be killed. And Bazov would do it, too. Ilya knows. He had betrayed not just his country, but his coach. 

Cliff Marlow is still sitting in his room, and Ilya realizes that he still has absolutely no idea why.

“You are here for…” Ilya hopes Marlow can understand what he’s asking.

“Oh, yeah. Umm,” the man looks almost nervous. “I was just worried about you, you know. You hear about the gold medalist getting, well,” Marlow gestures at Ilya’s state, “and you worry. And then there was the footage of your coach running away from where they found you, and well. It doesn’t take a genius to put it together, even if I don’t understand why he would do it. And so I’ve been dropping by. Didn’t think you’d exactly have many other visitors. The nurses called me to say you were waking up.”

Ilya stares at him. He had caught most of the story, pieced together what he missed from context.

“How long was I out?”

“Two days.”

Fuck. Two days. And, apparently, people know he got beat up, even if they don’t know why. That's good, for Hollander’s sake. But two days was more than enough time for the State to find out. 

On the monitors, Ilya’s heart rate increases steadily upwards. 

76…83…98…103…124

“Hey, Rozanov, kid, hey you’re fine, okay?” Marlow says, but he’s wrong. Ilya shakes his head and the room spins and breathing starts to hurt.

“Not fine,” he says finally, embarrassed to notice that his eyes are wet. “Russia…” he adds, and implores Marlow to understand. Thankfully, it seems to work.

“Oh, yeah, uh, some guy dropped this off for you,” Marlow says, handing Ilya a piece of paper. The words are blurry, and it hurts his head to read them.

“Can you?” he asks, waving the paper around a little. Marlow grimaces.

“Sorry kid, but I don’t have a fucking clue what that says.”

Oh, right. Because everyone in this stupid country speaks English. Ilya groans. 

“Does anyone in Canada speak Russian?” he asks. 

“I can go ask a nurse,” Marlow offers, “I’m pretty sure they can get you like a translator or something.”

Ilya nods, squinting back at the paper. It is decidedly not what he had expected. 

Notice: Nullification of Citizenship

Mr Rozanov, 

Due to your violation of the terms laid out in your travel visa, including the pursuit of homosexual relations, the United Soviet Socialist Republic has been forced to revoke your citizenship. 

Due to the nature of your violations occurring abroad, and the lack of an extradition agreement, the State has chosen this option to preserve the nation, and protect those who remain in its borders. 

You are forbidden to return to Russia, or the United Soviet Socialist Republic. Should you return, you will be arrested for your crimes. 

After that, there was more on the specific legal regulations the notice had followed, and the exact sections of the criminal code Ilya had been accused of violating. He stops reading. It’s probably important, but he can’t.

Ilya can’t do this. It’s too much. It’s all too much. 

One fucking mistake, one phone call from his coach, and it doesn’t even matter that he didn’t do anything wrong according to Canadian law. 

And now he’s been kicked out of Russia. His home. 

He had always assumed that they would at least want to take him back, if only to punish him, but no. Russia isn’t wasting their time and money to fly him back across the ocean and put him in a prison, because that’s how little he matters. 

The State has cast him away like he was nothing, like they hadn’t spent a decade building him into the man he is. 

Ilya looks back at his knee. Maybe that’s why they don’t want him anymore. Even not knowing what exactly is wrong, Ilya knows his body. He knows that it’s bad. Maybe Russia got the news that he won’t be winning them any more medals any time soon, and abandoned him here.

Eventually, Ilya gets himself a translator.The translator gets him a social worker. The social worker introduces him to a very nice immigration lawyer, and suddenly Ilya is learning new and horrible English phrases like stateless person, and political refugee.

It’s been a week since Ilya’s life was ruined. Things are not looking great. His knee is fucked up: two large surgical scars run up the sides from where surgeons tried to put him back together, filling in the missing pieces with metal rods and pins. Skating at the level he had before is off the table, forever. Maybe skating altogether, but it’s too soon to say. 

If that were the extent of Ilya’s problems, he’d be fine. As fine as one can possibly be, at least. Instead, when Ilya isn’t talking to doctors, he’s talking to lawyers and Canadian government workers, everyone trying to figure out what to do with him. 

The good news is that they won’t kick him out of Canada, and he has a decently easy route to permanent residency on account of Russia disowning him. The bad news is he doesn’t know anything about anything that isn’t Russia or skating. His English is rudimentary at best, and with his head injury, he isn’t at his best. He looks at the pamphlets provided by the social worker, and he realizes just how screwed he is. He never graduated high school, has never worked a job, and the one thing he used to be able to do well has been taken from him.

Of course, the media has also found out about this. When Ilya was hospitalized, some local paper found out about it, and ran a small story that nobody outside of skating really cared about. When the Russian contingent left without him, some bigger journalists caught wind of the story. Worse yet, somebody leaked why, exactly, Bazov did this to him. 

So the whole fucking world knows his deepest secret now, and everyone has an opinion. According to Cliff Marlow, who apparently lives here in Vancouver and for some reason will not leave him alone, most Canadians are on his side. Ilya wonders how much of that is just their hate for his home country. The only good news is that nobody seems to have learned who Ilya was seen “engaging in intimate acts” with. 

Good for Shane fucking Hollander. At least only one of them had their career destroyed. Hollander is already back in Montreal, and he plays his first post-Olympic game today. Ilya pretends he isn’t going to watch it. Ilya pretends he doesn’t even care about Hollander anymore. 

Five hours later, Ilya sits on his bed and stares at the box in his lap. He’s just finished a grueling PT session, and his body hurts in ways he isn’t used to. In a day or two, they are going to discharge him. Cliff, because the man insists they use their first names, has offered Ilya his guest room until he can get himself adjusted to his new life. It is terribly, unnecessarily kind, and Ilya doesn’t know where to put the emotions it stirs within him. He accepted the offer because he didn’t really have an alternative. 

Russia has frozen his accounts. Until he gets a job, he can’t really afford to live anywhere else, and he can’t get a job until he can communicate. His social worker has gotten him into English classes and a GED program, both of which are supposed to give him the skills to be a functional member of Canadian society. His social worker has also gotten him a phone. 

Ilya stares at it in the box. It’s not like he doesn’t know how to use the technology, he had a phone in Russia, but it had been different. More buttons. Less sharp edges. It feels like just another way that Canada is different from everything he’s ever known. Ilya’s trying really hard not to see that as a bad thing.

It takes him five confusing minutes to switch the operating language to Russian, and from there it gets easier. He logs into the email he had set up for the GED program, and downloads a translation app and three language learning apps and then, on a whim, Instagram. Because that seems like something Canadians did. Most of the athletes he’d met at the Olympics had Instagram accounts, and had seemed surprised when he hadn’t been familiar. 

He finds a picture of himself with his gold medal from the internet, and makes it his profile picture. He leaves his bio empty. Follows Cliff and a few other people who he’d met in Canada. Instagram recommends he follow Shane Hollander. Nope. No, no,no,no, no. Ilya slams the phone down on the bed. 

But Hollander has fifty thousand followers. There’s no way he’d notice if Ilya was one of them. Surely. He turns the phone back on, and Hollander’s profile stares back at him. It’s a good picture, an action shot. It’s annoyingly hot in a way Ilya wants to think is unintentional. He hits follow, shuts the device off entirely, and lies back, closing his eyes.

The next day, Ilya wakes up to Cliff telling him about the guest room. Apparently it’s the only one on the first floor, which, thank god, because Ilya won’t be doing stairs any time soon. He leaves the hospital in half an hour now, and it’s good. Ilya thinks it’s good. Ilya hopes it’s good.

Ilya hopes he isn’t lying to himself when he thinks it’s good.

Cliff is going to take him to pick up a few pairs of clothes and some other essentials. Russia took all of Ilya’s things back, and the clothes he had been wearing that night were gone, so he well and truly has nothing. 

A nurse goes to get the discharge papers, and when she returns, Ilya signs them without even trying to read them. Cliff helps him into the wheelchair he’ll be stuck in until his ribs heal enough for crutches. He checks his phone. An enrollment confirmation from the English classes place. Some resources from his social worker. A useless notification from a game he downloaded just to see what all the hype was about. And, oh shit oh fuck oh no, two Instagram DMs from Shane Hollander.

Ilya’s hand shakes a little, but he clicks on it.

S: Hey - Saw that you made an account, and I didn’t know how else to reach you, but I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry. For everything. If you ever want to talk, I'm here.

S: And please don't say anything about me

Ilya runs it through two different translators, just to be safe. He thinks of a million possible responses. Even starts typing them out. Thanks. Go fuck yourself. Can I see you again? Every idea is worse than the last and so he sends nothing.

He leaves Shane Hollander, perfect fucking golden boy of perfect fucking Canada, on read.

Chapter 2: Hot

Chapter Notes

Moderate (?) smut included here. beware.

2012

Ilya always hates and loves waking up on the first day of the month. Every other day, he can pretend that everything is okay. In the two years since his life ended, he’s built a new one. He doesn’t entirely hate it. It feels like treading water. He works nights at the bar, makes good tips, and flirts with the patrons. More often than not, he brings someone home. The hookups never mean anything. 

He fills his days volunteering. It’s supposed to make him a better candidate for citizenship. He helps newcomers navigate the system and envies the fact that they came here by choice. Ilya doesn’t hate Canada anymore. All things considered, it’s a very lucky country to be stuck in. It helps that he can hold a conversation now.

Ilya still gets a beer with Cliff once a week, listening to the man talk about the young skaters he’s been coaching. Cliff always tries to get Ilya’s input, and sometimes, on good days, Ilya will look at a clip on Cliff’s phone and provide his opinion. Sometimes just the thought of skating makes him want to cry. 

He’s been cleared to try it again for months now, but the closest he’s gotten was lacing up a pair of skates before his breathing grew erratic and he nearly passed out on the rubber floor. Skates make him think of practice which makes him think of Bazov which, well, reminds him why he’s in therapy.

But the first day of the month is always complicated. The first day of the month is the day Ilya wakes up to a DM from Shane Hollander. Every month, without fail, for two years. Ilya always opens the message, and never responds, but he never blocks Hollander either. He wishes he knew why. 

S: I’m sorry that the only permanent thing between us might be the damage.

Well, fuck. Yep. That feels about right. Hollander’s messages are always quick and to the point and emotionally devastating. Ilya wishes he would stop. Ilya needs him to never stop.

Ilya’s feeling particularly masochistic this morning, and so he lets him scroll up and read a few more messages again. Because Hollander does that to him.

S: I never meant for anyone to see us. I never meant for him to catch us. I never meant for you to get hurt.

S: I didn’t think about your country. I didn’t think about what would happen when you went home. I only thought about how you smiled at me.

S: You told me it was dangerous. You said it quietly like it was just the weather. Like you weren’t really afraid. I should have listened.

S: I would do anything to fix this. I don’t even know what “fix” looks like but I’d do it.

S: If you hate me, I get it. If you never want to see me again, I get that too.

S: I’m sorry I let myself want you more than I wanted you safe.

S: I’m sorry. You don’t owe me a reply. I just need you to know I never meant for any of this to happen.

S: Please just tell me you’re okay. One word. Anything.

S: I’m so sorry I made you feel like we were invincible. We weren’t.

S: Please. Just tell me you’re alive. I can handle you hating me. I can’t handle not knowing.

S: I’m sorry I ran. I don’t even know how to say that without hating myself.

S: I’m trying to apologize in specifics because “everything” feels like I’m hiding behind a word.

S: I’m sorry I keep messaging. I don’t know how else to carry this.

S: I’m sorry that my apology can’t give you your career back.

S: I wish I’d slowed it down. Asked more questions. Listened more. Instead of just wanting you.

S: I’m sorry I treated a few stolen moments like they were worth gambling your entire future.

S: I’m sorry I didn’t earn your trust before asking you to risk everything.

S: If I could trade places with you right now, I would. I mean that.

S: I heard what he did. I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have run. I hate myself for running.

S: I don’t even know if this is really you, but I’m hoping it is. I’ve been trying to find a way to say something that doesn’t make it worse.

S: Please don’t tell anyone

S: Hey - Saw that you made an account, and I didn’t know how else to reach you, but I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry. For everything.

By the time Ilya gets back to the first message he’s crying. He wishes he understood why. It’s not just about Hollander and his freckles and his eyes. It’s not just the fact that still, two years later, Hollander still cares enough to text. It’s not just the fact that Hollander seems to think it was his fault. 

It’s not about the skating, either. Ilya has grieved his career properly, made his peace with it. His gold medal is wrapped in a pair of socks in a box with the rest of the things he doesn’t like to think about.

Ilya stares at the messages again. Hollander’s been sending them like clockwork for two years, but he’s never sent one while they’re in the same city before. Has never been playing Vancouver on the first of the month. Until today. 

Hollander probably doesn’t even know Ilya still lives here.

His hands hover over the keyboard. Those moments with Hollander were the best bad decision he’d ever made. Maybe…

Before Ilya can convince himself that this is remarkably stupid, he’s typing.

I: 308-566 East 44th Ave. Come after your game. If you want.

Send.

Fuck.

Ilya looks around his apartment. It’s not shabby, by any means; he gets good tips, works long hours. But it is a third floor walk up with a broken radiator and chipped kitchen backsplash. Nothing that would impress Shane Hollander, face of Canadian hockey. 

A ping.

S: Yes

S: Yes of course

S: I’m so glad to hear from you

S: I didn’t think you’d be in Vancouver

Ilya sighs. Well. No chance of deleting the stupid message now.

I: It’s as good a place as any

He looks at the takeout containers on the counter. He should deal with that. And then sweep. And then maybe clean the bathroom, just in case. 

It’s an afternoon game, so Hollander will be in his apartment by around six pm. The thought alone is enough to almost send Ilya into a panic.

This is stupid. This is so, so, so stupid.

Ilya grins. Stupid is kind of fun.

Montreal beats Vancouver and Ilya will pretend to be outraged about it at work tomorrow. He takes a shower, calming his raging nerves in steam. When the hot water runs out, he stands in front of the bathroom mirror and takes himself in. 

His scars from where doctors cut open his chest to save his punctured lung are faded now, much less noticeable than the puckered angry lines on his knee. Spiraling around the left side of his chest, over a hundred tiny stars cover his peck, reaching around his shoulder, collar bone, and rib cage. He gets a new one every time he survives something that feels impossible. He’ll get one for tonight, Ilya is sure. 

There had been weeks where Ilya would wander into the tattoo shop and get nine or ten stars at a time, catching up on all the ways life had been horrible to him since the last time he had the cash to spare. These days, it’s usually just one or two a month. He likes the sting of the needle when he misses home or his mother or the life he thought he’d have. When he thinks too much about Shane Hollander, a man he doesn’t know well enough to miss, but misses anyway.

Too soon, there’s a tentative knock on the door. Ilya’s in decent jeans and a comfortable hoodie that used to be Cliff’s before Ilya had gotten it in a box of the man’s second hand clothing. It’s for some kids skating charity event from 2003. It’s soft.

He makes himself get up off the couch where he’s been staring at nothing for the past twenty minutes, and feels a flash of pride when his knee doesn’t even hurt a little bit. He lets out a breath and opens the door.

Shane Hollander is, annoyingly, still the most breathtaking person Ilya has ever laid eyes on. Cameras simply do not do him justice. His freckles mirror the stars on Ilya’s chest, scattered across cheekbones. His eyes are deep brown and unintentionally expressive. His mouth-

Focus.

“Hi,” Ilya says, because that’s what you say when you’ve invited someone to your house.

Hollander is looking at him like he’s shocked Ilya is actually there. His mouth is open a little, and his eyes are wide. Ilya thinks there might be some hopefulness in Hollander’s expression, but elects not to read into it.

“Hi.” 

“Come in,” Ilya offers, stepping aside. He walks deeper into the apartment and Hollander follows. This silence is thick, leaching air out of the room.

He ignores the way Hollander’s eyes glance over the space. Ignores the way Hollander’s gaze lingers on the bottle of Tramadol on the counter and the immigration paperwork on the fridge. 

“I’m-” Hollander starts, but it sounds like the start of an apology, and that’s not the reason he’s here. Ilya doesn’t know why Hollander is here, beyond reckless impulsivity, but he hopes to figure it out soon. He cuts the other man off with the first thing that comes to mind.

“I am making hot chocolate,” he says, “you will have some too.” Ilya moves to the stove, turning on the burner and placing a pot with milk on the heat. He begins scrounging through his cupboards for a chocolate bar. Hollander is staring at him still, and it’s unnerving. “Sit, Hollander. You just played a hockey game, you are tired,” he points to the chair in front of the kitchen island, “sit.”

Hollander sits. Ilya finds some chocolate, breaking it into smaller pieces before placing it in the pot. He gives it a stir. Closes his eyes deliberately. 

“Thank you,” Hollander says softly, looking at his hands. Ilya quirks an eyebrow.

“For what?”

“Inviting me? Texting back? I don’t know…” Hollander hesitates, “when you actually responded I- I thought that maybe it wasn’t your real address. Or that you just wanted to punch me in the face. Or- I don’t even know.”

Ilya stirs the hot chocolate. It’s almost ready, he thinks. He adds a touch of cinnamon. Goes to grab two mugs from a drawer. For Hollander, he chooses a red mug with a dog in sunglasses. For himself, the chipped one that he bought in a thrift store in Surrey last month because it reminded him of one his mother used to have. 

There’s an art to hot chocolate, and Ilya is no master, but he is learning. The warm creamy liquid does not spill all over the counter as he pours it between the two mugs, and that is a victory over his skills from last year. He wishes he had whip cream. 

They’ve been silent for a few minutes, Hollander’s words still echoing in the space like ghosts. Finally, hot chocolate prepared, Ilya slides the mug across the counter.

“Drink,” he says, and Hollander looks for a moment like he might argue. He doesn’t. Ilya walks around the counter to sit beside him, and takes a sip from his own mug. It’s alright. 

“What is this?” Hollander finally asks, and he’s desperate, Ilya thinks. It's surprising, but also it isn’t.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually, and Ilya can tell it’s not a good answer. Hollander scoffs.

“You’re the one who invited me here.”

“You’ve been texting me for two years, Hollander,” Ilya says, and he can hear how exhausted he sounds. Because two years is a long time to send messages to a void shaped like a man you barely know. It’s too long.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Hollander says, like that could possibly be the whole truth. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” and suddenly Ilya is angry. It comes from nowhere and hits him like a truck. “Of course I am not fucking ok.” 

The words come out harsher than he means them to, and Hollander flinches. Ilya feels a stab of guilt, and takes a deep breath. Softer, then, he adds, “that does not mean I want you constantly apologising to me.”

“Oh.” Hollander replies, “you could have said. I would have left you alone.” 

Ilya sizes the man up, and it’s clear that he very much would not have left Ilya alone. He doesn’t know what to do with that information. Ilya doesn’t know why he’s never blocked Shane Hollander. The messages have never once failed to make him feel miserable, but he’s never really wanted them to stop. Not in his heart.

“I  didn’t say I wanted that,” Ilya whispers, and the confession lies somewhere between them. Hollander’s expression shifts from one incomprehensible thing to another.

“I just thought…” The sentence is never finished. Ilya takes a sip of his hot chocolate, and Hollander mirrors him.

“I do not regret it,” Ilya says, and it’s even more confident than he could have hoped for.

“What?” Hollander asks, and his face is suddenly readable. Confused.

“What happened after, I regret,” Ilya explains, “but I do not regret kissing you.”

On the table, their hands clutch their mugs. Ilya moves his a fraction closer. Hollander exhales roughly. Their eyes meet, and Ilya tries to remain unaffected by it. Hollander looks pretty even when his eyes are wet. “That was maybe best thing I have ever done.”Ilya lets his volume drop further still, the words so low he worries Hollander might miss them. 

“Really?” Hollander’s face lights up. It’s refreshing and hopeful and Ilya loves it. He never wants to see another expression on the man’s face. 

“Yes,” Ilya says calmly, not at all like this simple truth has been the only thing he’s known for years.

Hollander’s hand twitches, and their fingers brush. Ilya doesn’t move away. Their breaths synchronize without even trying.

“Why didn’t you ever text back?” Hollander asks, voice shaking, “I thought you hated me… I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Ilya admits, “first because of the English, and then because there was so much time. But do not think-” he changes course, “I have never hated you. I don’t think it is possible.”

“Oh,” Hollander says, and Ilya lets out something that might have been a laugh.

“Yes, oh.”

“So, what now?”

“I do not want you to stop texting me,” Ilya answers, “but please stop apologising for something that wasn’t your fault.”

“I mean…” Hollander starts, but stops when Ilya stares him down, “okay. Well, if I’m going to text you more, it’d be nice to get a response more than just once every two years."

“I don’t know,” Ilya grins, “I have many attractive hockey players in my DMs, it can be hard to keep up to date on all of them, you know?

“Fuck off,” Hollander replies, and Ilya tries not to let the fondness laced in the words get to his head. “I just-” a beat, “I’ve tried. I’ve tried really fucking hard, Rozanov, but I can’t make myself forget you. And we barely even know each other! That’s the stupidest fucking part of this.” Hollander looks up from their touching hands to meet Ilya’s eyes, “I barely know you, we haven’t seen each other in years, and you are the only thing I ever think about.”

Oh. 

Ilya swallows. Hollander’s words ring true. 

Ilya slowly reaches for the other man’s hand, intertwining their fingers. He pictures kissing Hollander. He’d make sure it was soft and tender and gentle.

And then Hollander’s other hand is in his hair, dragging him forwards, colliding their mouths in something that isn’t anything near soft, tender, or gentle. 

Kissing Shane Hollander is, unsurprisingly, a thousand times better when it’s not a federal crime.

Unburdened by fear, Ilya can properly appreciate the layout of Shane’s teeth in his mouth, the warmth of his face, and the curvature of his jaw. Ilya lets himself truly listen to the little gasps Hollander makes as Ilya devours his mouth and neck, working his way down to the man’s chest.

They lose their shirts in a rush, migrating to the couch, and Shane brushes his fingers over Ilya’s chest in a way that makes him feel too seen. He copes by latching his mouth to one of Hollander’s nipples, laughing to himself at the muttered, “oh fuck,” he illicits. 

Then Hollander’s hand is on his belt, a silent question in his eyes, and Ilya is nodding like a dying man offered survival. 

When Shane falls to his knees on the floor, seated between Ilya’s thighs, mouth open and eager, Ilya thinks yes, this is salvation. Hollander’s eyes are huge and glassy and breathtaking. He takes Ilya impossibly far into his mouth, barely even gagging. This is going to be over all too soon if he keeps it up, so Ilya reluctantly pulls him off. Shane whines a little, lines of spit and precum still connecting them. “Bed, now,” Ilya pants, and that seems to make Shane happier because he’s on his feet in an instant. 

They stumble into the bedroom, and Ilya pushes Shane backwards onto the bed, watching with fascination as he tugs off his pants and underwear in one go. Ilya collapses next to him, half covering Shane’s body with his own. The hum of skin on skin contact is electric, and Ilya kisses Hollander like he needs it to live. He slowly kisses a line down Hollander’s chest, running his tongue along defined muscles. He tastes good. Ilya wants more. When he reaches Hollander’s dick, he hums, pressing a kiss to the shaft, before taking the head in his mouth, sucking gently. “Fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander moans, arching into the contact. Ilya’s hands drift, mapping the plains and valleys of his body. 

Shane Hollander isn’t the only man Ilya’s done this to, but he was the first. As this is reminding him, Shane Hollander is also the best. 

“Fuck, wait, stop, stop, stop,” Hollander suddenly is pulling Ilya up and off, and Ilya frowns.

“Whats wrong?” he asks, and Hollander shakes his head.

“Gonna cum if you keep that up,”

“That is what I was trying for, yes,” Ilya smiles at him, amused, “sex is usually more fun that way. But if you do not want to…”

“Shut up,” Hollander mutters, “I want to. I just-” he stops.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You just what, Hollander?”

“Would you…” Hollander looks down at him, almost nervous. Ilya’s hands slow on his body, his head drops to bear weight on Shane’s stomach. He can be patient. “Would you want to fuck me?” Hollander finally asks, and Ilya almost can’t believe his ears. The best hockey player in Canada wants Ilya to fuck him. 

“Hollander,” he says softly, “what kind of question is this? Of course I want to fuck you.” Ilya rolls them so he’s underneath Shane, and brings a hand around to ghost at his hole. Shane drops his head on Ilya’s collarbone with a groan. “Have you ever?” he asks, because he might want this more than he can say, but he is going to make sure it’s good for Shane. 

“Just-” Hollander’s face flushes, “just alone.”

“Is okay,” Ilya presses a kiss to the top of Shane’s head, “We go slow.” 

Shane nods against him. Ilya can feel his grasp of the English language slipping away, but he can’t bring himself to care. He reaches to grab a condom and lube from a drawer and decides that this can still mean nothing, if Hollander wants it to mean nothing. This can just be two people who like each other having sex. 

Shane welcomes his fingers easily, rolling his hips to take them deeper. Once he’s nice and loose, pliant against Ilya, the fingers come out.

“How do you want it?” Ilya asks. Shane’s eyes go wide with the choice.

“On my back- please. I want to see…”

“Okay, okay.” Ilya breathes, flipping them again. His knee only protests a little when he kneels between Hollander’s spread thighs, lining himself up. “You still want?” he confirms. 

Shane nods eagerly. “Please.”

The best and worst part of fucking Shane Hollander is that Ilya discovers yet another way the man is irritatingly perfect. His body is tight and warm around Ilya, and he wears a little blissed out smile that is impossible to resist kissing. 

Neither of them are going to last long, too wrapped up in the layers of arousal and attraction and pent-up desperation that have been simmering for two years. Ilya doesn’t care. He picks up the pace, hitting Shane in all the right places, reveling in the little punched out gasps that make their way unbidden from both their mouths.

Shane comes first, pulling Ilya down into a filthy kiss as his body shakes. Ilya isn’t far behind. It’s good. It’s really fucking good. It’s good in the way that makes Ilya’s brain go quiet on the edges. 

He pulls out with a satisfied sigh, tying and tossing the condom in the direction of a trashcan. “Wait here,” he whispers, getting up to grab a cloth. 

Ilya passes the cloth to Hollander, who takes it gratefully, cleaning his chest. 

“Fuck,” Shane says eventually, laughing a little like he can’t quite believe what just happened.

“It was good, yes?” Ilya asks jokingly.

“It was…” Hollander looks at him carefully, “it was good. It was so fucking hot.”

“I cannot believe you came here tonight thinking I hated you,” Ilya teases.

“You never texted me back, what was I supposed to think?” Hollander’s tone is joking, but his words are not. Ilya does him the favor of answering honestly.

“I am sorry, for that. But what was I supposed to say? ‘Thank you for unnecessary apology’? It does not quite fit, I think. And for a long time, things were… not so good. I did not want to have to tell you about it.”

“Oh,” Shane says, a small frown on his face, “are things… still not so good?”

Ilya shakes his head. “No,” he replies, “things are okay now. I have decent work, hobbies, friends. I miss home, sometimes, but, well, that is just life I think.”

“You miss Russia?” Shane seems confused, “even after everything? Even now that you aren’t…” the sentence isn’t completed. 

It’s Ilya’s turn to frown. Hollander is doing the thing people always do when they learn where he’s from. Pity. They think he’s brainwashed. That he doesn’t see the faults in the system. They think control over actions is the same as control over thoughts. They don’t know the half of it.

“I miss the stars,” he says instead of lecturing Hollander on how government control works, “they are different, here. Because of the Earth. They are not the stars I grew up with.”

Hollander’s fingers dance across the stars on Ilya’s chest.

“Is that why you got these?”

“Some of them.”

They drift in that state of not-quite sleep for a while, lazy hands on skin, legs tangled together. Ilya doesn’t ask what it means. He knows that this release they’ve found in each other is temporary. He might be out, but Hollander isn’t. Hollander is still a professional athlete in a sport that would never allow them this, not in public. Hollander lives across the country, and leads a busy life of ice, training, and brand deals and everything Ilya could have had, in another life. Eventually, he falls asleep, Hollander in his arms. It’s the best he’s slept in years.

When he wakes up, he is alone. Ilya frowns, and the bed is cold. Shane must have left a while ago. It’s only seven in the morning. He gets up, stretches, and pads into his kitchen. There’s a note on the counter and it makes his heart jump into his throat.

This was a mistake. Sorry. -S

There it was. The proof again, that no matter how good Ilya was, it didn’t matter. It would never be enough. People would always abandon him. Like his mother. Like his country. Like, apparently, Shane fucking Hollander. 

At least there’s one way Hollander isn’t perfect.

Ilya wishes he could be surprised, but even after their conversation last night, even after the promises to be better and the rare allowance of emotion that he had granted the other man, he had never truly believed it was real.

It was real to him, of course.

It just wasn’t real to Hollander. And, really, why would it be? 

Hollander could get anyone he wanted, could find someone who isn’t broken like Ilya. Last night had probably just been a combination of morbid curiosity and guilt that Ilya had mistakenly interpreted as meaningful.

He opens Instagram to send Hollander I understand or What did I do wrong? or Stop fucking apologising. He can’t. 

Not because he’s afraid. Not because his brain won’t decide what message is least humiliating to send in this circumstance. 

Ilya can’t text Shane, because Shane has blocked him. Which. Well. 

Fuck.

Chapter 3: Warm

Chapter Notes

2014

Ilya grins as he rounds the bar, tying his black apron behind his back.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Sevetlana jokes at him. He lets her, because aside from Cliff, she’s his best friend. She got him this job when he could barely hold an English conversation and still needed to use his cane every day, claiming that he was “made for the work”. Ilya doesn’t know if bartending is the kind of work anyone is really “made for”, but he likes it, and he’s good at it, and the tips are good.

Svetlana understands the Russia of it all, which helps too. Her parents had escaped while her mother was pregnant, before the borders closed completely. They had said they were taking a vacation, and simply never came back. Sveta has offered to introduce Ilya to her parents, but he always declines the offer. It still, after four years, stings a little, how quickly he was tossed aside. Today, though, it certainly stings less. 

“Oh yes,” Ilya says, “I had a very important appointment today, it went well.”

“Really? Do share Ilya,”

“Well,” Ilya leans against the bar countertop, pretending to wipe at a patch that is definitely clean, “it was actually a long and boring appointment. But it ended quite nicely.” 

Sveta rolls her eyes, “Are you actually going to tell me, or am I supposed to guess?” she asks, exasperated.

Ilya had been planning to play the game for another minute or two, but he suddenly can’t contain himself. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, sliding it across the bar. Sveta takes it with a curious smile. When the paper is unfolded, her jaw drops and her eyes light up.

“Holy shit, Ilya!” she wraps her arms around him in a crushing hug, “I didn’t even know you took the test!”

He shakes his head, unable to get the ridiculous smile off his face. “I didn’t want to say anything, maybe jinx it, but yes…” he trails off, looking fondly at the paper. Certificate of Canadian Citizenship. 

In a few weeks, he’ll have a passport too, and then, maybe, he could travel. Visit America or Brazil or Nepal or anywhere, really. The thought stirs something in him that feels like real excitement. 

“Well, we have to celebrate,” Sveta declares, “I’m buying you a drink later.”

“We’re closing, Sveta,” Ilya reminds her, “We’ll be lucky to get out of here by two AM.”

“So?” 

“So some of us have plans tomorrow that don’t include being hungover and sleep deprived.”

“Ugh, Ilya,” Sveta teases, “ever since you started being a respectable member of society, you’re no fun.”

Ilya just rolls his eyes. She’s right, of course. Six months ago, Ilya had finally been able to lace up a pair of skates without feeling like he was going to die. Four months ago, he had been able to execute a few spins and jumps without his knee collapsing on him. Three months ago, Cliff had invited him over for beers and informed him in no uncertain terms that Ilya would start coaching at the local club. 

He had been scared, at first. Ilya’s experiences with coaches had been far from ideal, and he had been terrified of messing it up. Cliff hadn’t let him back out, though, and it had been for the best.

Now, Ilya regularly volunteers at the club twice a week, usually working with the same handful of kids. It’s not the most competitive group, everyone there more for the fun than anything, and it’s refreshing. It’s helped Ilya start to rebuild his relationship with the sport that defined his childhood, without the crushing fear of failure. Mostly. 

Tomorrow, though, is something new. He and Cliff have been talking for months about developing a more professionally-focused program to work with the club. They want to create something that could help young skaters reach their full potential, but, crucially, at minimal cost. Vancouver isn’t a cheap city to live in, and they aren’t strangers to the many expenses that come with excellence. Ilya had floated the idea first, maybe a year ago. They could hold fundraisers throughout the year, and then put the money into a consistent, dependable program. 

It matters to Ilya, not just to be able to finally start contributing to his sport again, but to do so in a way he can be proud of. The scholarship program wouldn’t just focus on building strong skaters physically, but emotionally as well. It’s a sport that is rife with body image issues, stress, and perfectionism, and that is often focused on kids. Teens. 

They’re calling it the Irina Foundation. An affiliated, but separate entity from the skating club. It’s named after his mother, the best skater he knew. Thinking about how the mental health support could have saved her makes Ilya want to cry. His mother would have been proud, maybe. If she could have gotten over the whole bisexual Canadian thing. 

Ilya isn’t well known, though he probably could have been, had he tried. Probably still could be, really, all it would take is a social media post telling his life’s story. As it is, the Vancouver skating community knows who he is, and he likes to bring around his gold medal for kids to try on. He tries to be a normal person. 

In the past half year, Ilya’s life has drastically improved. He’s done being afraid. He’s done grieving the life he could have had. He’s done-

“Hey, Ilya,” Sveta calls, jerking him out of his thoughts, “your favourite hockey player is on TV!” she jokes, sarcasm dripping from her words.

Ilya looks up and, sure enough, there is Shane Hollander, flush from a game against Boston. 

“Change the fucking channel, Sveta,” he yells back, workplace professionalism be damned. 

Sveta doesn’t know anything, really. She knows that he can’t stand Hollander, and probably doesn’t believe Ilya’s excuse of “he’s really annoying”, but has never pried. Thank god. Ilya has somehow managed to go three years working in a sports bar without anyone asking him what he thought of the Montreal captain. Two years since Hollander blocked him. Two years since the best sex of Ilya’s life. Ilya’s poker face is good, but not that good. He closes his eyes briefly, and then goes to serve a customer, pushing aside any thoughts that aren’t about drinks, food, or small talk.

Ilya’s done thinking about Shane Hollander.  

2016

“Fuck, I’m going to miss you,” Sveta says into Ilya’s shoulder, face in his shoulder. They’re standing outside airport security, surrounded by Ilya’s bags. 

“I’ll miss you too,” he says, “but don’t worry, we’ll keep in touch.”

It’s a conversation they’ve had a million times in the last month, ever since Ilya told her that he would be moving to Ottawa. It’s a hard goodbye, but Ilya is excited, too. He and Marlow had decided that it was time to build a formal Foundation office in Ottawa. In only two years, it has expanded massively, with branches in Vancouver, Calgary, Ottawa, Montreal, and Halifax. They’ve gotten so big that federal grant money is starting to play a big part in the operations, and so it was time to have a more serious administrative team. A team that, despite being endlessly unqualified, Ilya has found himself in charge of. 

It would have made more sense for Marlow to take on the title of Director, since he was the one with the connections that got them off the ground, but Marlow wants to stay in Vancouver, and from simply a time zone perspective, BC is not a great place to have a national headquarters. So, Ilya. Ottawa. CEO of a fucking charity foundation. 

***

Ottawa, Ilya has decided, is the most Canadian place on earth. Everyone is bilingual, every street looks like a postcard, and they turn an entire fucking canal into a skating rink just for fun. He’s been here three months and he can’t tell if he likes it yet.

The work is good - it keeps him busy, and he’s passionate about it, and all it takes is a hint of his own tragic backstory to get most grant committees to open their checkbooks. 

The nightlife is bad, but he doesn’t mind. And Ilya is in Montreal often enough to get his fix of deafening music and bad dancing every few weeks.

On good days, which are much more frequent than bad days, Ilya goes for a run. It’s not the same as skating, too much friction, too choppy, but it’s what he can manage. On the ice, even now, Ilya isn’t graceful like he once was. He can usually manage slow laps of a rink, maybe something more complicated if he’s willing to pay for it later. 

Today, his run takes him alongside the canal. Winter is slowly fading, but it’s cool enough that Ilya wishes he had worn gloves. He’d missed the cold in Vancouver. In his headphones, Ilya listens to some synth-pop garbage that Sveta put him on. It's the worst thing he’s ever subjected his ears to, but he listens anyway, telling himself that as soon as he finishes his run he can stop.

Some methods of self-flagellation are healthier than others. 

After the run, Ilya showers quickly before heading to the office. Traffic is light, and he’s in a good mood. They got a massive donation yesterday from a high profile Toronto business, and today Ilya will be spending most of his day deciding how to spend the large sum of money. Admin work can be evilly, horribly boring, but it can also, he begrudgingly admits to himself, be fun. It’s especially fun when the Irina Foundation is the largest receiver of charity donations out of all sports non profits in the country. 

When Ilya steps into the office, his three employees are all gathered around a phone. “Holy shit,” Danielle, their legal advisor says. Ilya wanders over to their huddle.

“What’s happening?” he asks.

“Just look.”

Ilya looks. On the screen sits Shane Hollander. Linen button down shirt and jeans, hair longer that it was when-

Hollander sits in a leather chair with a stiff back and high armrests. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. His eyebrows are pinched together, nervous, maybe. He had looked similar when he knocked-

He’s saying something about teamwork and authenticity which strikes Ilya as strange, because there isn’t an iota of Montreal merch or branding in the room. It looks almost sterile. Hollander talks about authenticity to the team and the game and then-

“And so, with all that said, I wanted to be a bit more authentic to myself. I’m gay.”

Well, damn.

“Hockey hasn’t traditionally been a place where queer voices are heard or respected, but after eight years in the NHL, I'm grateful to have finally found the courage to say something about it.”

Fuck.

“Hiding who I was never made me a better player, or captain, or person. Coming out is scary, especially in this sport, but I hope I can pave the way for more players to find that bravery in themselves.”

Shit.

Good for Shane fucking Hollander.

Ilya steals the phone from Danielle as the video loops again, scrolling through the comments. There are the assholes, obviously, but the overwhelming response is positive. 

Hollander won’t lose his career over this. Or his family. Or his home.

Or maybe he’ll lose one of those, and the risk was just worth it given the safety net provided by the other two.

Ilya wants to smash the phone on the ground. He wants to scream. He wants to never have to think about Hollander again, because clearly the man had been going through some shit, and it’s not his fault, but a tiny part of Ilya is still irrationally heartbroken about what happened four years ago. The beating that ended his life was almost easier to get over than the note Hollander left. 

Ilya can’t smash the phone, though, because he’s in a position of power here, and the work the Irina Foundation does is not unrelated. And Hollander is the first NHL player to come out, ever, so it is something of a huge fucking deal, Ilya’s personal crisis aside.

“Put out a statement of support,” he tells TJ, their communications intern, “something about ice being for everyone. Make it tasteful and,” Ilya thinks about the almost deliberate lack of Metros branding again, “don’t mention his team. Just Hollander and hockey, no Montreal.”

“Sure thing,” TJ says, “why no Montreal?”

“Just a feeling,” Ilya replies.

That night, for the first time in years, Ilya pathetically checks his Instagram DMs to see if Hollander still has him blocked. He does. Great.

So Ilya was right then, in the assumption he had made years ago. Hollander could have anyone in the world, and he didn’t need to settle for Ilya. Even if Ilya had his life together now. Hollander obviously came out so that he could find someone he loved without having to hide anymore, or maybe he already has. Ilya is not going to be jealous. He isn’t.

***

Two weeks later, in a move nobody but Ilya seemed to see coming, the Montreal Metros announced they were trading Hollander to Ottawa.

Ilya’s first thought is that it was a blatantly homophobic move, to trade your near-decade long captain to the worst team in the Eastern Conference, half a month after said captain comes out as gay.

Ilya’s second thought is what the fuck, because Shane Hollander is going to be in his city. All the fucking time. Hollander might not know Ilya’s moved there yet, but the skating world and the hockey world overlap. There are only so many rinks in a city. Eventually, for one reason or another, they will meet. 

He will be professional, of course. Ilya will smile politely and shake Hollander’s hand and only talk about the fact that they were at the same Olympics if someone else brings it up first. He won’t mention that Hollander had been the reason he was abandoned by his country and nearly killed. He won’t mention the way Hollander had texted him every single month for years. He won’t mention the promises they made to be honest and real, or the way Hollander disappeared in the light of day.

Svetlana thinks it's the funniest thing ever.

Sveta <3: Hollander coming to Ottawa like four months after you will never not be funny I’m sorry Ilushka 

Sveta <3: Like you spend years with this random one sided beef against the guy for literally no reason and then he moves to your city

Sveta <3: It almost makes me want to come to OTT just to laugh at the pissy face you’re definitely making

Ilya frowns at the last message.

Ilya: You should visit me - the weather won’t even be that bad in a few weeks

Ilya: And I do not make a pissy face

Sveta <3: You totally do but ok

Ilya: Shut up

2018

Ilya runs down the hallway, shoots of pain radiating through his leg, and regrets the day he agreed to organize this stupid gala. It had seemed like a good idea. Raise money. Help kids. Spread awareness. 

And then, suddenly, the RSVPs had started coming in. It had been overwhelming. In the past, the Irina Foundation had played a supporting role in the charity work of other organizations, helping in the background where they could. Ilya had been under the impression that, typically, something like sixty percent of the rich people invited to these things wouldn’t be able to make it.  

By some cruel twist of fate, every rich person in Ontario and Quebec seemed to be free this weekend. They had had to put in a rush order with the caterers for twice the amount of food they had planned on. They had to upgrade the venue, too. And then TJ had forgotten to tell the decorators, who had gone to the wrong spot. And then the sound guys were late. 

Ilya had to stay to walk them through the events of the evening, meaning that he is now late to the meeting he was most terrified for.

Hollander almost definitely won’t be there. Hollander probably doesn’t know Ilya is even the one running this disorganized mess of a gala. But Ilya is on his way to meet the Ottawa Centaurs social media director, and that alone feels like flying too close to the sun.

The Cens had found out about the gala thanks to one of the GMs being high on the invite list, and some how, without Ilya’s knowledge, the team is expected to give the largest donation of any organization. Danielle only told him about their involvement two days ago. She had also said that a "handful of players” would be there. So another thing for Ilya to stress about then: will tonight finally be the night his luck runs out and he has to shake Hollander’s hand like they haven’t sucked each other's dicks?

But Hollander won’t be at this meeting, this is just a friendly chat with the team social media guy, Harris, Ilya’s brain reminds itself, as they talk about what content the Foundation is comfortable with the Cens posting. He wishes he could just tell Harris to post whatever fit the angle the Cens had for donating such an obscene amount of cash, but unfortunately he is the CEO of the Foundation and so he does care quite a bit about how they’re represented.

Running down this hallway without a brace had been a terrible fucking idea, Ilya thinks belatedly. He should have just accepted that he would be late, and walked like a rational person. He’ll be limping for the gala, now. Might even need his cane. And that’s fine - Ilya isn’t ashamed or anything, not like he once was, but it is a bit annoying.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says as he opens the door to the conference room, grimacing internally as he notices the apology roll off his tongue like second nature. Fucking Canada rubbing off on him.

“No worries, Mr. Rozanov,” says the man who must be Harris, “I can imagine it's a busy day.”

“Ilya,” he corrects, because it feels more human if they use their given names, “and yes, very busy.” He rolls a chair away from the table so that it feels less like a business meeting. It is, but Ilya doesn’t like to feel like it. “But,” he claps his hands together, “let’s talk about how we’re going to make your people look good for giving my people a lot of money, and making us all very happy.”

Harris laughs, “absolutely, I have so many ideas.”

Ilya sees Shane Hollander for the first time in six years, and he’s wearing a powder blue suit that makes Ilya want to throw up. Or that might just be Hollander’s general presence. Hollander hasn’t seen him, Ilya doesn’t think, but he is giving the opening address in ten minutes so that isn’t going to last long.

“You got this, Roz,” Cliff says, clapping him on the back. Ilya is grateful he was able to make it out for this.

“You fucking know it,” Ilya replies, projecting more confidence than he feels. His knuckles are white on the handle of his cane. Cliff spares it a glance,

“You could use it up there, you know,” he says, nodding at the stage area where Ilya will give his speech in a few minutes.

“I know,” Ilya replies, “And probably I should. But no. No this… I do not want anything to take away from the real focus tonight. The kids.”

“Roz,” Cliff raises an eyebrow, and he doesn’t have to say anything else. Ilya already knows. He knows that what they are trying to do is make skating more accessible, in every form. He knows that as the foundation has started running programs for not just figure skaters but hockey players and speed skaters, that has only become more important. But he also knows that, for whatever stupid reason, Hollander is here tonight. And for what is likely an even stupider reason, Ilya doesn’t want Hollander to think that he’s usually like this. He wants Hollander to think he’s happy and well adjusted and living his best life. Not that these things are untrue, per say, because Ilya is happy.

That's the problem, actually. Because he is content with the life he’s built, the career he’s built, the friends he has. Ilya has no fucking reason to still care what Shane Hollander thinks of him. And yet.

And yet the sight of Hollander in a powder blue suit, flanked by two other hockey players Ilya recognizes but can’t name, freckles visible even from here, makes Ilya want to rip out his hair and scream. 

Ilya wonders for the millionth time in his life if he hates Hollander or loves him. He wonders which one would be better.

The lights dim, and Cliff gives his shoulder a quick squeeze. Ilya passes his friend his cane, and mostly succeeds at not limping as he ascends the two stairs, and walks to where the microphone is centered on the platform. 

Ilya catches the exact moment Shane Hollander realizes who he is.

Hollander had been talking amicably with his teammates, sipping his drink. When the lights dimmed, he had set it on the table at which he was seated, clasping his hands together and letting the conversation die. He had looked, properly, at Ilya, but he clearly hadn’t had any idea who he was looking at for a split second before something in his brain must have kicked in. Hollander’s eyes had widened almost comically, and his mouth had dropped open in shock. The pamphlet he had been holding fell to the ground and he hadn’t moved to retrieve it.

Ilya doesn’t look at him properly, only observing through the corner of his eye. Professional.

“Hello, everyone, and thank you all for coming out today,” he says. A smattering of applause. Hollander is motionless. “We have many people joining us tonight who have not been to one of our events before, so I will quickly tell you the story of the Foundation, and then we can all eat good food and sign big checks, yes?” The crowd laughs. Hollander is blinking now, as though trying to figure out if Ilya is real. “There are many ways I can start the story of how the Irina Foundation came to be, but I like to start it with my mother. She was a very beautiful woman, and very kind. A very good figure skater, back in Russia,” Ilya calls it Russia, at these types of things, never home, because that was a puzzle he wasn’t going to make a room full of strangers untangle, “and, tragically, she passed away when I was twelve years old. It was…” Ilya pauses to collect himself. Cliff gives him a nod. “It was a difficult time for me, because I was unable to return for the funeral. All I was told was that there had been an accident. It wasn’t until I was finally allowed to visit her grave that I learned what the accident was.” He looks at the back of the room for this next sentence, hoping that it will feel less raw if he does it like this. “She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills.” The room was silent. Ilya doesn’t look at Hollander. He doesn’t want to see whatever the man’s face would tell him.

“Eight years ago, I suddenly found myself in a frightening new country. I barely spoke the language, I knew nobody, I was alone. Cliff Marlow saved me. He let me stay on his couch, helped me build a life, and told me to get my head out of my ass when I thought I wasn’t good enough to do this job.” Marlow is smiling at him now, and Ilya smiles back. They hadn’t discussed this, but it was an important part of the story. “It was Cliff’s idea to name the Foundation after my mother, Irina. We wanted to create a space where athletes could train at the professional level, and receive the mental health supports they need.”

“When we first started, we ran training sessions once a week out of a rink in North Vancouver. We were small and scrappy and determined. Today,” Ilya laughs lightly, “as you can see, we have grown a little bit.” Another appreciative chuckle from the room. Ilya lets himself look at Hollander again, out of the corner of his eye. He is leaning forward in his chair, a hand over his mouth. Ilya wishes he understood what that means. “Today, we have figure skating programs for kids age five and up, we have professional trainers every day of the week, and we also have started working on programs for speed skating and hockey.”

“We are trying,” Ilya says confidently, appreciating how his voice echoes in the hall, “to create a community where everyone is welcome. When cost isn’t a factor, youth can thrive. When their mental health is prioritized just as much as their mental health, youth can thrive. When they are surrounded by people who believe in them, youth can thrive. So we are trying to build this community, and we are succeeding.” Ilya looks at Hollander one last time. Hollander looks right back. Their eyes locked across the room. Time slows. Time speeds up. Time does something silly where it forgets to exist at all. “Thank you,” Ilya calls, and the room erupts in applause. Hollander claps this time, a small smile on his face. 

Ilya realizes that they will have to break eye contact once he leaves the stage, and does so reluctantly. What the fuck?

“Great fucking speech,” Cliff says, handing him back his cane. Ilya takes it gratefully. 

“Can you tell I did not write it?” Ilya asks jokingly.

“Who did? TJ?”

“It is what we pay him for, yes? He is communications intern, he helps me communicate.”

Cliff laughs. “You communicate just fine Rozy. The only difference is that if you had written that speech, every third word would have been fuck.”

Ilya makes a non-committal noise. Cliff is right. As it is, this was undoubtedly the longest speech he’s ever made in English. His mouth hurts a little from the way he’d been trying extra hard to pronounce everything with as minimal an accent as possible.

“Come on,” Ilya says finally, “let's eat our fancy food and charm millionaires out of their lunch money.”

Dinner goes fine: Ilya is seated with Cliff and some of the richest people in the country, and by the time the waiters bring out dessert, Ilya has successfully convinced at least half of them to make sizable donations. 

From his seat, Ilya can see the back of Hollander’s head, but he tries not to look too frequently. Hollander doesn’t look for him. Whatever their eye contact had meant, it’s just another blip of meaning in a sea of nothingness. That's all he and Hollander had been, really. Momentary blips, fractions of moments carved out of their lives. Ilya doesn’t even know the man.

He hates that he wishes he did.

After dinner, the tables are moved aside, and people begin to dance to the band. The music is slow, and Ilya needs a fucking drink if he’s going to survive another hour or two of this. He walks up to the bar and takes a seat, asking the cute bartender for a beer. Ilya considers taking someone home tonight. He hasn’t hooked up more than a handful of times since moving to Ottawa, but maybe…

The beer is cold and for that, Ilya is grateful. He takes a swig from the bottle, picking at the label as it peels from condensation. This is the first moment he’s had to really breathe all day, and while he should, probably, go back to the center of the room and make small talk, he doesn’t. If anyone calls him out, he’ll say he just needed to sit down for a minute. It wouldn’t be a lie.

The stool next to Ilya’s is pulled out, scratching unpleasantly on the floor. He doesn’t look up from where he has been studiously inspecting the bottle. Somebody sits down.

“Um, hi,” says the person, and Ilya flinches subconsciously because the voice sounds a lot like Shane Hollander’s voice. His eyes shoot up, and the person’s face is also Shane Hollander’s face. Shane Hollander’s beautiful, freckled face. Because, of course, the first time Ilya has a second alone, Hollander finds him. “I, uh, I didn’t know you were the one running this,” Hollander says when Ilya doesn’t react, “I mean, I probably should have put the pieces together, I knew the guy in charge was some Russian ex-figure skater and how many of those can there be, really, but you know…”

And Ilya doesn’t know what to do with this version of Hollander that is tense but excited. He doesn’t know what to do with this version of them where neither of them have any reason to be afraid. He thinks back to the plan. Professionalism. Hollander is here because he is a rich hockey player, and they have a history, and not because he cares. 

“Thank you for coming,” Ilya says stiffly, “it is very good for the Foundation to have star athletes come out and support us.”

Hollander bites his lip, eyes squinting a little. “You have to know that's not why I’m here”, he whispers, and Ilya almost misses it over the noise of the band. “Well, at this gala, yeah. But that’s not why I’m here.” Hollander indicates the bar.

“Then why are you here, Hollander?” Ilya asks, and his voice shakes a little, professionalism stripped from him in only seconds of being in Hollander’s presence after six years apart.

Hollander, at least, is similarly affected. He looks emotional. Ilya has never seen Hollander emotional. 

“Because it's been eight years since we met and six since we kissed and a day hasn’t passed that I don’t think about you.” Hollander spits out, the words seemingly exploding out of him. He looks almost embarrassed. He looks angry, maybe. “I miss you. Which is so stupid, because we don’t even know eachother. Fuck. I thought coming out would make it better, easier, to not have you, but it’s only made it worse.” Hollander’s eyes are wet, now. Ilya can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. This doesn’t fit with the story he’s told himself.  “And you have no reason to want me, I know I ruined your fucking life, but I just,” Hollander exhales into a hand over his mouth, elbows propped on the bartop, “I had to tell you.”

Ilya swallows. He digests the information Hollander has just thrust upon him. Holy fuck. And it could be just like the time in his apartment in 2012. It could be another opportunity to leave Ilya lost and confused and angry. But it could also be true. It could also be real.

“What if I did?” he asks, voice gravelly. It’s a risk, admitting even this much. He’s exposed to this man who, despite meaning nothing, means everything. Hollander won’t look at him now, but Ilya watches the way his face is pinched.

“What?” Hollander asks breathlessly, eyes flicking up to meet Ilya’s.

“Want you,” Ilya replies. 

“Do you?”

And that’s the question, isn’t it? Because on instinct, no, Ilya doesn’t. Hollander spent two years building something between them, and ran when it became tangible, and Ilya still holds the right to be angry about that. But it’s been a long time. Long enough for that anger to fade, and for him to remember what drew him to Hollander in the first place. Long enough, almost, to remember when he had been young, stupid, and willing to risk it all for this guy he didn’t even know.

“I don’t know, Hollander,” Ilya admits. Hollander’s face falls. 

“I-” he starts, “Okay. That’s okay. Well, you know now, and I’ve made a fool of myself, and this a big night for you so I’ll- I’ll just go.”

Hollander gets up, pushing his stool back in, and he starts to leave and Ilya doesn’t know what he wants, but it isn’t this. He gets off his own stool, quickly reaching out to grab the other man’s wrist.

“Hollander,” Ilya says, and he freezes in Ilya’s grasp, turning back. “I don’t know if I can do this if you are just going to run again.”

“Oh,” a moment, “I’m not. Not if you don’t want me to. I’m not scared anymore.”

“Okay,” Ilya breathes, “Okay. I have to go host. You have to go talk to your boring teammates. And then…” And then what, really? “Meet me on the roof in an hour,” Ilya says, “there is an elevator to the patio. We did not use it because of the weather, but it's not locked.”

Hollander looks at him searchingly. He must find whatever it is he was hoping to, because he nods. “Okay,” he says, “see you in an hour.”

Ilya lets Hollander’s wrist slip through his fingers and watches him walk away. 

One hour. He downs his beer and orders a vodka.

Ilya lets himself smile at the drink for a moment, stealing himself to be normal for the next fifty-eight minutes. Hollander didn’t apologise. He’s learning.

Fifty-five minutes later, Ilya pushes the door open to find Hollander already standing there. The air is cold, and their breath is visible. It’s dark. Light comes from the city below, and above, the stars. Ilya spares them a glance. Calms himself. 

Hollander’s hands are shoved awkwardly in his pockets. “You’re not going to throw me off, right?” 

Ilya doesn’t know if it’s a joke or a genuine concern. He shakes his head in a way that could work regardless. 

“No, would be bad look for the Foundation if I went to prison.”

Hollander laughs, some of the tension leaving him. It’s a wonderful laugh. Ilya wants to hear it again. He walks towards Hollander, who doesn’t move away. 

“I’m sorry,” Hollander whispers, now not even a foot away. “I’m sorry for how I handled everything, back then. But especially for running. I was just-” he cuts himself off. Ilya sighs. So much for not apologising.

“Scared?” Ilya asks, voice gentle. Hollander nods. “I understand scared, Hollander. You must know this.” 

“I do, I did, it was just. It was a lot. I was a lot. A mess, really.”

“You didn’t think I could handle it?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“Hollander,” Ilya says, and suddenly they are even closer, impossibly, their breath mingling in the cold air, “I wanted to. And, after, I was angry, but I am not so angry now. Now I just…” he feels the sentence die on his lips as Hollander takes another step towards him. Their chests touch.

“You just?” Shane breathes into his lips, and that’s it, it’s over, he’s done pretending either of them want anything different. 

Ilya grabs the back of Shane’s head and slams their mouths together, pouring out six years of frustration and longing and anger and attraction and something he isn’t quite ready to call love.

It’s messy, and not technically very good at all, but Ilya couldn’t care less. Shane’s hands are grabbing at the lapels of his suit jacket, and Ilya uses the hand not in his hair to wrap around his waist. 

Ilya feels want rush out of him in waves, wanting Shane's hands and mouth and body. And Shane gives it to him. It feels like Shane would give him whatever he wanted to take,  and so Ilya gets greedy and he takes more, takes what he wants, biting Shane’s lip harshly. They’re making out on a rooftop and Ilya hasn’t been afraid of this part of him in years, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t nerve wracking. Ilya pulls them apart, and Shane tries to follow his mouth as it draws away, a small whine spilling out of his mouth.

“Hollander,” he says softly, “this is okay for you?” 

“Obviously,” Shane breathes, an adorably irritated look on his face. Ilya tilts their foreheads together, breathing hard. Good. He had to check. Had to make sure Shane wasn’t scared either. 

Shane pulls them back together this time, eagerly pressing his tongue into Ilya’s mouth. He tastes vaguely sweet. Their arms wrap around each other and finally, finally give in to the magnetic forces that have been inexplicably pulling them together since they first met. It feels like breathing, natural and instinctual and necessary for survival. 

Things aren’t resolved, magically. There are conversations Ilya absolutely needs to happen. But this is good. This is nice.

The night is dark, the stars are bright, and Ilya looks at them reverently. He thinks of his mother. Ilya thinks of how he sent her memory into the sky to keep her safe. Safe from Russia, and pain, and the harsh truths that Ilya internalized in order to survive. Shane is in his arms, now, and his heart doesn’t have to stay hardened anymore. His mother’s star isn’t visible, not in Ottawa, but he knows she’s out there. He opens his heart and lets her back in. 

The relief is immediate. His body feels like his own for the first time, maybe ever. He is not a captive of Russia or any coach or his grief. 

Wrapped in Shane, he is home. 

The air is cold, but together they are warm. 

Chapter End Notes

Might eventually write a part two for this AU but this is where I initially envisioned it ending so we;ll just leave it for now. Thanks for reading!