Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-06 Completed: 2025-12-12 Words: 7,378 Chapters: 4/4

первый лёд | First Ice

Summary

Centuries pass, nations rise and fall, names change, but Ilya remembers.

--

Hasegawa Shigeru opened his mouth to reply, but Ilya was lost.

No longer warm, an icy wind cut through rough clothes to bite at the patches of skin that he’d bared to the elements. White snow and black, tall trees. A man trudged beside him, his hood up, his feet sure in the snow. He turned and smiled and Ilya’s heart tipped over with love. Hasegawa Shigeru. It was Shigeru, but dressed in clothing in a style much older than those Ilya had worn on his own shores, but still undoubtedly home.

Shigeru spoke to him, but not in a language he knew. Old words and old clothes, and an old love, so deep that it brought tears to Ilya’s eyes.

Chapter 1: Lyshevo. Winter, 865

Chapter Notes

Thank you to my housemate and partner in crime IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou for the beta.

If you know anything about Japanese and Russian (Rus) geographical settler patterns in the 9th century, no you don’t.

Lyshevo. Winter, 865

Morning frost flowered the edges of Ilya’s cloak as he walked steadily through the birch trees, his breath pluming in the air. He moved without thinking, boots finding the half hidden trail he’d walked since autumn. The forest was quiet after last night’s storm and he walked lightly through the newly fallen snow.

His first snare was tucked under a fallen branch where rabbits liked to run. Ilya crouched beside it, gloved fingers brushing away the fresh powder of snow. The loop was still open: nothing. He checked the cord for fraying, tugged it once, then reset it with a practiced twist of his wrist. The second trap was further down, where the trees thickened. A fox had been there, the prints crossing the path in a neat line. Ilya followed them until he reached the deadfall—a flat stone balanced over a stick and bait. The stick was knocked aside but he already knew what he'd find. He knelt down into the comfortable cradle of snow and leaves and sniffed: no blood. The fox had stolen the bait and slipped away before the stone fell. A smart creature, one who deserved his prize. He reset the deadfall, steadying the stone with one hand while he positioned the stick with the other.

At the third trap, he found what he was looking for. A rabbit lay with the stillness of death, half buried in snow. Ilya lifted it, murmuring a brief thanks to the forest spirit under his breath the way his mother had taught him when he was a child, his hands too small to tie the noose. They were steady as he re-tied it now, slipping the rabbit into the leather bag slung around his waist.

He’d taken only two steps when he caught a glimpse of fur under a snowdrift. It was a second rabbit with what looked like a broken leg, frozen with black eyes turned up to stare at Ilya. This thanks was more heartfelt. He didn’t believe like old woman Malusha did, but being grateful didn’t do any harm.

Darkness was already falling when he came out of the last clutch of trees. As he neared his hut, a shape resolved into something large huddled in the doorway. Ilya looked up at the empty grey sky, but it was unlikely that it had snowed heavily in the time he’d been in the forest. He went closer, half expecting one of the village children to jump out at him.

It was a man. A man so strangely dressed that Ilya hesitated before instinct took over. He lifted the hide with one hand and pulled open the door, half-dragging the man inside. He was soaked, his clothes finely woven and his cloak a sodden mess. Ilya dumped him next to the hearth and began to strip him, first of his wet socks, then of his fine layers, each wetter than the last. Putting a hand on the shocking cold of his naked shoulder, Ilya felt a frisson of familiarity, as if he’d met this stranger before. He shook it off, turning to pull two wolf skins from his bed and tucking them under the slighter man. Only then did he shed his own outer clothing, coming back to take the stranger’s hands and put them under his top layers, grimacing at the way they leached the warmth from the center of him.

Steam was already rising from the man’s long dark hair, his face bare of any beard. He looked young, his eyes a pleasing shape and his cheeks round as apples. It was a good face, but not one Ilya had ever seen before, he was sure. A stranger from a strange land, a gift from the forest, perhaps, or even the rolling sea that some men spoke of.

Two logs burned right through before the man started to rouse. Ilya was more relieved than he’d expected to be, abandoning the stew he’d been cooking to sit at the man’s side.

“You’re safe,” he told him. “My name is Ilya, son of Grigori.”

The man blinked up at him, fear and confusion suddenly hidden by an expression so neutral that Ilya almost doubted the emotion he’d seen. The man looked around, struggling to move his legs so that he was kneeling, the wolf skins pulled tight by one, trembling hand.

He spoke, his voice raspy but the strange words clear, each one dropped into the warmth of the hut without meaning.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya told him. “I don’t understand you.”

The man looked back at him and Ilya knew then that there was no common language between them.

The weather stayed clear until the moon was nearly full again, which was unusual this deep into the winter months. No understanding was forthcoming, but Ilya was almost sure his visitor’s name was Shun, a word that had been accompanied by a charcoal mark he’d drawn on the hearthstones that’d smudged away by sunrise.

Malusha had come to visit first, followed by Borislav and Velimir. They had left puzzled, but not displeased with their new addition to the village.

“You're lucky,” Ilya told him, once they were alone again. “They’ve decided you're a good omen. They probably won't throw you back out in the cold. Not that I'd let them.”

Shun gave him a small smile, likely more at the tone of his voice than the words. Ilya sounded just as gruff to himself as ever did, but Shun seemed to hear a shift no one else noticed.

He had recovered well, keeping all his fingers and toes despite the cold that had burned them. Dressed in Ilya’s spare set of clothes, he was hemming a pair of trousers that Ilya had traded for with quick, neat stitches, which he showed to Ilya once he was done, casting a knowing look at the uneven seam of the trousers Ilya wore.

“Well, you can do these too if you think you’re so much better than me,” Ilya told him, making to take them off.

Shun laughed and shook his head, holding his hands out in a gesture that seemed to mean no, or no need.

Ilya hadn’t taken him out to the traps yet but, through a series of gestures and finally some very poor drawings, Shun had indicated that he could fish. He’d been stymied by the thick ice, but had quickly made a well-woven net once Ilya had shown him how to carve through it. He hoped that by the time the nights were the longest, he’d have enough smoked fish and game to trade for a cloak for Shun.

He didn’t need it to chop wood though, Ilya leaving his own outer layers off for the hard work. Shun carried a knife in his belt, but he was clearly new to the heavy axe Ilya used. He nearly swung it into his own leg, saying something that must have been an apology over and over as Ilya berated him for his carelessness.

After that he improved rapidly, splitting logs with easy force, until he was wiping sweat from his brow, his long silken hair sticking to the dip of his throat. He shaved the hair from his face almost every week, his skin pink and raw in the morning light. Ilya should be out in the woods already, but he lingered long enough to catch Shun’s grin as he split a log as least as large as Ilya could manage. If he didn’t leave now he never would.

He made a list as he checked his traps of things he knew about Shun: he liked to put things in their place, folding clothes just so; he was unselfconscious about nudity when washing, but guarded about his personal space; he loved the sweet mash that Ilya had made from berries in Autumn; he could turn anything into a competition.

And he was beautiful. Ilya snorted to himself: anyone could see that. Malusha had made a sly comment about warmed beds last time he had taken her some fish, but Ilya had simply ignored her. They had shared a bed for nearly two months but, for all Shun’s smiles, Ilya didn’t know if anything else would be welcome, nor were his drawing skills up to the job of communicating his question, though he snorted at the thought.

Two of his traps held game: a rabbit and a fox, this one not so clever as his brother, had been felled by the deadfall. It was enough meat for a cloak, at last, and Ilya decided to give Shun his good one and take the traded one for himself.

He presented the cloak to Shun that evening, folded in the way that Shun liked to fold everything. Shun gestured at himself, then at the cloak.

“Yes,” Ilya told him. “For you.”

Shun took it in two hands, bowing his head as he often did in thanks. Ilya copied the motion this time and Shun looked at him with wide, surprised eyes before smiling. He said something in his language and bowed again.

“You’re welcome,” Ilya told him.

It was cold enough that night that Ilya was grateful for both cloaks, hung over the door to keep the drafts at bay. Shun was facing away from him, his shoulders, corded with muscle, visible only vaguely under the furs.

Ilya wanted him.

He placed a hand on the thin shirt Shun wore, between his shoulderblades. Shun stilled, then turned over, his eyes dark and serious.

“Yes?” Ilya asked.

“Ilya,” Shun said, the word shaped into something beautiful and new by his accent. “Yes.”

Pressing his lips against Shun’s, Ilya could hardly remember the last time he had kissed someone. It felt as if this intimacy should only belong to Shun, to his arched back and strong hands. They moved against each other with increasing urgency, Shun spilling first, making a mess of them both. Ilya pressed his face into the darkness of Shun’s shoulder, stifling a sob as he came. It was so good, so much better than anything he had imagined.

He cleaned them up as best he could then came back into Shun’s arms, tucked into the warm curve of his body. Shun pressed a kiss to his brow, his nose, his lips.

“Yes?” Ilya asked, once more.

“Yes,” Shun murmured.

They had taken the skates from the communal store, Shun running clever fingers over the worn bone and straps. Down at the river’s edge, Ilya tested the thickness of the ice, walking carefully along the edge, listening for the sharp crack of danger. The ice only complained in thin creaks and groans and, across the other side, a stoat darted out of the undergrowth, scattering a rush of waxwings into flight.

Ilya bent down to fasten the skates onto Shun’s soft leather shoes, one knee on the ice for balance. He looked up and winked at Shun who flushed and looked away, a smile caught at the edge of his mouth. With his own skates on he led them onto the river, showing Shun the wide push of stride needed to move.

Shun caught on quickly, a frown shadowed between his brows as he concentrated hard. Ilya showed off a little, skating backwards like the village children did sometimes, glad none of the elders were there to see him behave in such a way. When he looked back to Shun, he was already moving carefully, skating a slow circle across the breadth of the river.

“Come!” Ilya called. “We can go up to the bend.” He gestured further up where the ice was thick enough to have swallowed most of a felled tree, branches reaching for the cold blue sky.

The gesture was enough for Shun to understand and he started in that direction, keeping speed with Ilya and then pulling ahead of him, as fast as a bird in upward flight, his hair a coal-dark stream behind him.

Chapter End Notes

Yeep! I wrote this in a day!! What am I even doing here?? Anyway, I have two more chapters and an epilogue outlined.

Chapter 2: Ushitsu, Japan. Winter, 1610.

Ushitsu, Japan. Winter, 1610.

Kichibei tapped Ilya on the shoulder. “Come on!” he said. “I’m hungry.”

Ilya coiled the rope he’d been repairing neatly then followed Kichibei to the largest lean-to on the beach, big enough for all the labourers to take their midday break.

Some said thanks for their food but most just started in on the dried fish and pickles. Ilya hadn’t had any breakfast that morning and he ate hungrily. One of the younger men came and gave him some rice, his eyes on the ground. Ilya thanked him as well as he could, then looked over to the head fisherman who would have ordered the exchange and offered a slight bow. He’d been embarrassed and baffled the first few times but now he understood it was simple necessity: he was one of the strongest men on the beach so he was valuable, especially in winter. They kept him warm and fed the same way they cared for their best dogs.

It had taken him years to realise that fishermen were worse gossips than Pomor grandmothers. He never joined in, but listening had greatly improved his ability to understand them. Today they were talking about someone’s nephew who was being sent from another village—he didn’t catch the reason.

“Who?” he asked Kichibei.

“Hasegawa Shigeru,” Kichibei replied. “He’s the son of Hasegawa from Akasaki. His mother is from here. He’ll live with her brother, the net-maker.”

Hasegawa Genzō, the net-maker, lived up the slope, above the drying racks with his wife, their two young girls and an elderly woman who was likely Hasegawa Genzō’s mother. Their home was well-kept with a thatched roof, two paper-covered windows, and chickens scratching in their front yard. Ilya couldn’t remember the last time he’d had eggs.

He passed his bowl to a young boy who was collecting them up, listening hard as the conversation moved onto the tax man’s arrival from Nanao next month.

That evening he went and sat with Kichibei for a while, listening as he sang an old song to himself. Kichibei had lost both his boys to the sea a long time ago. His wife, O-Yone, joined in as she sorted the dried fish and they ate a simple meal of millet and pickles. He had given up trying to give her something in return: she only told him he’d kept her husband alive with his hard work.

His own hut was cold, the embers having gone out. He lit them again carefully, banking the fire so that it would be still warm tomorrow, then climbed onto his rough bedding, lying so as to avoid the escaping straw. He dreamt he was back in Kichibei’s small house, but this time O-Yone was singing in Russian: something his mother had sung when she’d been alive.

Баю-баю… люли, люли…

He woke before dawn, first on the beach as always.

Time was uneven in Japan, days were measured by the length of the light, not the fixed hours of Ilya’s homeland. Even now he was occasionally caught off guard, holding the net taut for what felt like hours, while the weaver asked him not to move just until the shadows deepened.

The master net-maker, Hasegawa Genzō sat not far away, weaving while occasionally looking up to offer some advice to his nephew. Hasegawa Shigeru had arrived a few days ago, but this was the first time Ilya had met him, and he was weathering Hasegawa’s bright-eyed interest as well as he could.

“Your hair,” Hasegawa said in an undertone, glancing at his uncle. “Why is it so round?”

“All my people have hair like this,” Ilya told him. He had never seen another person here with curly hair, so he wasn’t even sure if there was a Japanese word for it.

“The same colour too?”

“No, many people have blue-green hair, or purple.”

“Iriya-yo, stop teasing my nephew,” Hasegawa Genzō instructed without looking up, though his tone was light.

Hasegawa Shigeru gave him a wounded look and Ilya hid his grin. He could only be a few years younger than Ilya to be such a skilled weaver. His uncle only had daughters, so perhaps he was to be adopted as an heir. If Ilya’s Japanese was better he would likely be able to find an indirect way to ask that—everyone was indirect here, except for Kichibei, who was old enough to say whatever he was thinking.

They worked in silence then, Hasegawa Shigeru only asking him politely to rest or begin again, though he looked at Ilya at least as much as he looked at his work. He was pretty enough, but Ilya wasn’t stupid enough to proposition him. He had hired a few sex workers in his time in Ushitsu, awkwardly negotiating with the inn-keeper. It was only the last time he’d realised he could hire men. That had been a revelation: far better than the furtive exchanges he’d had on the Sviatoi Nikolai.

All those men were dead now, drowned, most likely, or perhaps washed up on a shore less welcoming than Ushitsu had been. Not that Ushitsu had been particularly welcoming: only his size had saved him. He could haul a beached fishing boat by himself, carry a full sake barrel, or flip a loaded fish-drying rack.

“How did you come here, Iriya-yo?” Hasegawa Shigeru asked, sitting next to him at the midday rest.

On Ilya’s other side, Kichibei peered around him to unsubtlely listen in.

“I was a trader of—” Ilya searched for the right word, then gave up. “Animal skins, their hair, you know?”

Hasegawa made an interested sound, but didn’t offer the correct word, which Ilya was grateful for. He needed to hear a word many times before he remembered it, so hearing it only once was useless to him.

“Our ship was in bad weather, very bad. We came to Japan but an accident. Only me on the beach.”

“The world is—-,” Hasegawa told him, the last word a mystery. “It is good you are alive.”

“So it is,” Ilya said, falling back on one of the formulaic replies used in conversation. It had gotten him through his first year in Japan, when he’d been limited to yes, no, and so it is.

“Yes, very good,” Kichibei agreed. “He pulled six boats ashore in the storm last month. Six!”

“Kichibei-yo is too kind,” Ilya replied, having learned quickly it was extremely impolite to accept praise.

Hasegawa continued to seek out Ilya’s company, and Ilya did nothing to either encourage him or dissuade him. He was old enough to decide if he wanted to risk his reputation by spending time with a stranger, and Ilya couldn’t be anything other than glad at the company. He had realised long ago, once it was clear he was going to be allowed to stay, that he would always be lonely here. How could he not: surrounded as he was by people who had no knowledge of his language or culture, and no inclination to draw him closer to their own. It was a strange kind of loneliness, laughing with Kichibei at a joke but still so far away inside of himself.

God had let him live: he would be grateful for that.

The hot spring was up a steep scree, not far from Ilya’s hut. It wasn’t often used due to the uncertainty of the footing along the cliff, especially in the grey winter evenings, but somehow Hasegawa had invited himself along that evening.

They stripped quickly in the frigid air, folding their clothes over a nearby rock and stepping down into the pool, Ilya first, so Hasegawa would know the best place to put his feet. Hasegawa was soon wading past him, apparently as competitive in this as he was in everything else. He’d nearly broken his back last week trying to lift the same barrel as Ilya had. Everyone had laughed except his uncle, who had scolded him soundly.

They crouched down in the warmth, backs against the rocks. The sea rocked steadily against the shore, the crash of the waves so constant that Ilya barely heard them anymore. The lamp Hasegawa had bought jumped in a sudden breeze, dropping them into darkness, before dancing alight again.

“You can call me Shigeru, if you want,” Hasegawa offered into the quiet between them.

“Can’t,” Ilya replied, turning away slightly to hide his smile.

“Why not?”

“You can’t pronounce my name, so I can’t say yours.”

Hasegawa gaped at him, then shut his mouth with a scowl. “Teach me,” he demanded.

“Il-ya”

“I-ri-ya.”

“You added another sound. Try again.”

“Irya.”

“Close enough,” Ilya told him, which made Hasegawa turn an interesting shade of pink. It was also as close as anyone had ever gotten, as close as Ilya would likely ever hear his name spoken again. Against everything he had learned in his four years in this little village, he reached out to touch Hasegawa’s bare shoulder. “Thank you.”

Hasegawa opened his mouth to reply, but Ilya was lost.

No longer warm, an icy wind cut through rough clothes to bite at the patches of skin that he’d bared to the elements. White snow and black, tall trees. A man trudged beside him, his hood up, his feet sure in the snow. He turned and smiled and Ilya’s heart tipped over with love. Hasegawa Shigeru. It was Shigeru, but not. They had the same dark eyes and hair, but their faces were different: Shigeru’s cheekbones were sharp where this man’s were round. It was him though, Ilya could feel it as truly as he felt the snow under his boots. They were both dressed in clothing in a style much older than those Ilya had worn on his own shores, but still undoubtedly home.

Shigeru-who-was-not-Shigeru spoke to him, but not in any Japanese he recognised. Old words and old clothes, and an old love, so deep that it brought tears to Ilya’s eyes.

“Irya!” this Shigeru was saying urgently, crouched directly in front of him as the warmth of the water seeped back into his bones. “Irya!”

“In Rus,” Ilya told him. “You were in Rus with me. Do you remember?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Shigeru said, still staring.

Ilya said it again in Japanese, looking for any recognition on Shigeru’s face.

Shigeru made a light dismissive gesture, moving back in the water. “I’ve never been across the sea.” He gave a small smile. “Perhaps you can take me one day.”

Ilya shook his head and got out of the water, shivering in the shock of the cold air. Shigeru had brought drying cloths and Ilya began to dry himself off, swallowing hard against the tears at the back of his throat.

It wasn’t possible. It was a dream, a vision brought on by the heat. He felt it though: love for the man who was slowly getting out of the water, love for the man who had walked through the forest with him, half a world away from where he now stood.

“Do you believe people are born again? That they can live more than one life?” he asked, his voice rough.

“I’ve—I’ve heard of such things.”

“Do you think—” Ilya plowed on. “Do you think we knew each other in another time?”

When Ilya looked up Shigeru was pink with the heat of the water, wearing only his kosode, loosely belted. “That is something you should say to a woman,” he mumbled.

Ilya wanted to reel him into his arms, to kiss his way down the hot blush of skin to his narrow hips, as he had done so many times before to Shiregu’s other self. He couldn’t remember the name Shigeru had borne then and he was so struck with shame that tears pricked his eyes. He didn’t speak on the way back down, almost losing his footing enough times that Shigeru gently drew him back to walk behind him. At his hut, he turned to say goodnight to find Shigeru watching him closely.

“Would you invite me in?” he asked, bold despite his lowered gaze.

Ilya only stepped backwards, pushing the light wooden door open with his back as Shigeru followed him in, placing his lamp down and moving so that his kosode was brushing against Ilya’s.

Ilya reached for him.

The breeze that slipped under the door was cold but not freezing, but still Ilya was quick with the cloth, wiping away the camellia oil as carefully as he could. They rarely had enough time to linger, but Shigeru was unconcerned today, kissing the side of Ilya’s head as he tried to clean himself up.

“Shigeru,’ Ilya chastened with a smile. “You will have to go home soon.”

“Yes, but soon you will be closer.”

“I will? Have you become a rich man? Have you built me my own house?” Ilya joked.

“No, but my uncle has picked a bride for me,” Shigeru said, kissing Ilya’s forehead.

Ilya froze, unable to hide his reaction and Shigeru frowned up at him.

“Don’t worry, Uncle made sure she is sensible, she won’t mind that you’re there as well.”

Ilya ran that through his head once more, wondering if he had understood. “I’m there as well?”

“Of course. Uncle has only daughters and this hut is too far and too cold. When my future wife comes, we will build a room for you, a better room, and you will eat with us in the evenings. O-Sae and O-Hana love you already, and my children will love you too.”

Of course Ilya had seen this happen before: Japanese households were not about blood-kin the way Muscovy ones were. But Ilya was not Japanese. He could live among them, work beside them, learn their language, and still never belong. That had been clear from the beginning, and every time he stepped outside the place they had set for him, someone quietly pushed him back.

“I can’t, Shigeru. I would bring shame on your household.”

“You think you have no place here. You do: I am asking you to stay.”

The sun would be setting over the sea outside, the same light that had broken over their previous selves falling behind the horizon. Real or a dream, he remembered them growing old together.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, his voice breaking. What else was there?

Chapter 3: La Pointe-de-Bouleau, Innu Territory. Winter, 1715

Chapter Notes

It was genuinely embarrassing to realise how little I know (knew?) about Canadian history. I had to do less research when writing about 9th century Eastern Europe.

La Pointe-de-Bouleau, Innu Territory. Winter, 1715

The Innu traders arrived mid-morning, approaching across the snow, their snowshoes whispering over the packed surface of the river. Pierre called out greetings and jogged down the slope to meet them. Ilya stayed where he was, lifting a crate onto his shoulder. One of the older men gave him a brief nod, then turned to speak to Pierre. The cold was familiar, but sometimes he felt as if he’d come to the end of the world. It would be appropriate for a coward such as himself.

“L’Russe!” someone yelled.

Ilya looked up to see Baptiste, the newest addition to their tiny outpost, waving at him from further inside the compound. “You speak Dutch, right?”

“Nope,” Ilya replied, popping the last sound obnoxiously.

“Shut up, yes you do.”

It turned out that Baptiste needed to know if the barrel he was about to open was salt pork or blasting powder. Ilya told him it was salt pork, then added ‘maybe’ once he’d started to open it right next to the fire.

Baptiste froze with the crowbar wedged under the rim.

“Maybe?” he repeated.

Ilya shrugged, hands deep in the fur at his collar. “My Dutch is not so good: I already told you.”

“That says ‘spek’!” Baptiste hissed.

“It also says ‘droog’. Could be ‘dried’. Could be ‘dry’. Could be ‘dried meat’. Could be something else.”

Baptiste turned his head very slowly toward the fire they had going, its sparks drifting up into the sharp winter air.

“Ilya,” he said. “If this explodes, I am going to haunt you.”

Ilya tipped his head to one side. “Difficult word, not in my French.”

With a growl, Baptiste hauled the barrel well away from the flames before prying the lid the rest of the way off. The smell of cold brine and pork fat rolled out.

He sagged with relief. “Salt pork.”

Ilya peered over his shoulder. “Told you.”

“You said ‘maybe’.”

Pierre came by, calling for Sanson.

“Everything okay?” Baptiste asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Just if we miscount again, the Company will have our hides.”

Sanson Hébert came out of the main building, his light brown hair pulled back neatly under his hat and his ever-present leger under one arm. He nodded politely at Baptiste and Ilya as he went past, his good boots steady in the slush.

“Think he’ll notice if we take some of this salt pork?” Baptiste asked in an undertone.

“Yes!” Ilya and Pierre replied in unison.

The game had barely begun and already it was going the usual way. Ilya was on the opposite team to Sanson as Sanson was always more interested in beating Ilya than playing with him and well, Ilya wasn’t about to let that happen. No one ever tried to put them on the same team anymore. Matshu and Auenik were skating circles around everyone as usual, passing their own puck made of frozen ice to each other.

The second puck was a frozen lump of leather that someone had cut from an old scrap of hide. It bounced unevenly, skipped once across the surface, and rolled right to Ilya. He swung his massive branch hard, and the leather ball shot across the ice and slammed into the sandbank on the far side with a dull, satisfying thud.

Groans rose from both teams: someone shouted that he had killed the puck again and Matshu laughed so hard he doubled over on the ice, his propulsion sending him, still laughing, into Jean-Luc.

Sanson pushed hair out of his face with the back of his glove and glanced sideways at Ilya. Something in the set of Sanson’s mouth made him grin and, as Sanson went to retrieve the puck, Ilya was already moving.

He cut across the ice, boots slipping a little on the rough patches, sliding past Sanson with ease. Sanson yelled a warning, too close, and collided with Ilya, pushing him down onto the ice hard enough to force the breath from his lungs.

“You okay?” Sanson asked.

“Yes, yes, fine. Get off me.”

“I’m not on you.”

Sanson had lost a glove somewhere and the back of Ilya’s head was sore. He sat up gingerly, blinking in the grey-white light. Sanson reached out and Ilya flinched, but he only touched soft fingers to the side of Ilya’s head.

“Hey,” Sanson said, concern in his voice. “You’re—”

Ilya woke up and reached for Shun. No, that wasn’t right.

He rolled over and found Pierre, sitting on a stool he must have scrounged from somewhere, reading a newspaper dated a week ago.

“Shigeru wa doko ja?” Ilya asked.

Pierre stared at him blankly. “Fucking hell, Ilya, how many languages do you speak?”

Ilya searched for something that wasn’t Japanese and found his French. “What happened?”

“You hit your head pretty hard. You seemed fine but then you just went down. Sanson thought he’d killed you.” Pierre seemed to consider that for a moment. “That part was pretty funny, actually.”

Ilya wasn’t listening. He rubbed a hand over his chest, as if he could drive away the pain in his heart. Sanson. He had been here for nearly a year and he hadn’t known that the person who’d followed him across lifetimes, the man he’d grown old and died with, had been right here with him.

He put his hand over his face.

“—okay?” Pierre was asking.

“Yes, just tired. I’m resting,” he said, then lay back down, his back to the room.

There was a pause, then the rustling of the newspaper and Pierre’s steps moving further away.

Ilya pressed his fist hard against his mouth as he sobbed. He was going mad, or had gone mad. How could he feel so much, remember such detail, about lives he couldn’t have lived? He had been so isolated for so long after fleeing the war that had killed his brother. He had expected to die alone, surrounded by strangers who didn’t speak his language.

Did Sanson know? He hadn’t remembered the last time, but maybe this time Ilya wouldn’t be alone with these visions. Or perhaps this was finally his punishment for leaving his country and kin, for escaping the war that had killed so many of his countrymen.

The language was slipping away from him, but everything else remained sharp and clear: Shigeru’s daughters; his strong son who had hated net-making but had never shrunk from his duty; the well-built room that he had shared with Shigeru most nights: fucking or laughing or fighting. God, they had fought sometimes. More than with Shun, who had been bright in his anger, but never loud.

How could it be real? How could Sanson be that man? And how could Ilya have been him—the one who turned from God, who gave himself to a man? And yet, he still wanted, with everything he was, to pull Sanson into his arms and claim him as his own. To kiss him and fuck him and make him cry with wanting.

The door opened, bringing in a blast of cold air that made Ilya shiver.

“Hey, Russe,” Jean-Luc called from the doorway.“If you’re not dying, maybe you want to get back to work, eh?”

Sanson came over that evening and gave Ilya an apology that Ilya was barely able to tolerate, grunting something vague in reply. He could sense the other’s unease at his rudeness, but if he even looked in Sanson’s direction he felt as if he would fly apart.

He had noticed Sanson before, of course, it was hard not to notice a pretty man when there were no women to turn his head. Sanson was a gentleman though, an assistant clerk with a competitive streak a mile wide. Many a time Pierre or Jean-Luc had egged him into doing something stupid—the camaraderie between the French-speakers stronger than the class and language lines that separated Ilya from the rest of them.

He managed only a week before he gave into temptation. He told himself that they couldn’t continue like this: the post had only seven men there on a permanent basis, including himself. If you fell out with someone then you sorted it out with words or your fists and then forgot about it.

He found Sanson in the office that served as his bedroom, crouched over a ledger, a pencil in one hand.

“Ilya,” he said, surprised as Ilya closed the door behind him. “What can I do for you?”

“May I kiss you?” Ilya asked, then stood his ground, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

Sanson stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. “Are you joking?”

Ilya shook his head.

“I mean—no,” Sanson blustered. “Did Jean-Luc say something to you?”

“No.” But now Ilya wanted desperately to know what Sanson had said to Jean-Luc that would cause that question.

“Well, I’m still sorry for the other day,” Sanson told him, getting up from his desk and going to an overflowing bookshelf, where he pulled first one ledger out then put it back, then did the same with another.

He was close enough to smell him, the scent of his skin half-buried under the stink of furs and fire that they all carried. Ilya put his hand on Sanson’s back, who went still. Slowly, so as to give him time to pull away, Ilya moved his hand up to the back of his neck, under the light press of his tied-back hair.

Still slow and careful, he took the ledger from Sanson’s hand and put it on the bookshelf, lightly pressing against one shoulder so that Sanson would turn and face him. He was taller than Shun and Shigeru had been, but not by much. He was as beautiful, though. As beloved.

“May I kiss you?” Ilya asked again, and Sanson nodded.

Ilya leant down to press their lips together, once, twice, then opening Sanson’s mouth with his own, tangling one hand in his hair.

Sanson made a high, wanting noise and whatever hesitation he had fell away. He pushed Ilya’s jacket out of the way, fumbling with his shirt even as he led them towards the bed at the back of the room. Ilya pulled Sanson on top of him, undoing the buttons of his breaches while Sanson continued to kiss him, messy and unpracticed.

“Ilya,” Sanson breathed, and Ilya rolled them over, careful in the tight space.

With some fumbling he was able to get his own trousers and leggings down far enough so that they were skin to skin.

“Shh, sweetheart. You need to be quiet,” Ilya told him in Russian, having no words for affection in French.

He kissed Sanson again, taking his moans into his mouth as they moved against each other. Sanson came first, writhing and clutching at Ilya. His passion sent Ilya over the edge and he grit his teeth against the sounds that were caught in his throat.

“Is this real?” Sanson asked as they lay panting together.

Ilya kissed his brow. “Yes. It’s real”

“Why now? I’ve been here nearly a year and you never—” Sanson made a gesture that seemed to take in their semi-nakedness.

“I saw us together,” Ilya admitted. “Like a vision. In Russia, many years ago, then again in Japan. We loved each other: built lives together. When you touched me on the ice, I knew I had found you again.”

Sanson touched soft fingers to Ilya’s cheek, wonder in his eyes. “It sounds like a dream. A good one.”

Sanson’s small room wasn’t really big enough for two pallets, but when the Company sent another man six months ago no one had blinked at Ilya moving into the office. He and Sanson had already been working more closely by then, Ilya having painstakingly learned how to bind ledgers and cross-check shipment labels.

It was early, but Sanson had wanted and Ilya had given it to him, doing their best to be quiet as Ilya fucked him on a mess of furs on the floor.

“We have been together a year today,” Sanson told him in the grey pre-dawn light, warming his cold hands on Ilya’s stomach.

“The first of many,” Ilya told him, kissing his nose and brow.

“We will build a cabin in summer, by the river. It’s a good route: we can trade with the Innu and Cree and it’s too far out for the Company to care much.”

Ilya smiled at the idea but shook his head. “You’re dreaming. I’m no trapper, and you’re a gentleman. What would we do?”

Sanson tilted Ilya’s face down to meet his serious gaze. “You said we lived together before, that we grew old together,” he spoke almost too quickly for Ilya to understand, his tone clipped. “Don’t you want that for us too? Or don’t you love me as much as your ghosts?”

Ilya drew him into an embrace. He had loved this man for three lifetimes, he would follow him anywhere.

“I want that too.”

Sanson sighed against him, then began to list the trades they could make and the supplies they’d need. He’d likely written a list already, neatly numbered in terms of importance.

He listened vaguely, some of the vocabulary going over his head. Pierre would let them take their fair share of furs, and some of the tools had been used by Ilya for so long he could likely lay claim to them. They would need to trade for good snow shoes, not the flimsy shit the Company sent them.

Maybe they could even skate in the winter, when the river froze.

Chapter End Notes

Now with a cover! I'll post the epilogue tomorrow and I've already started a hurt/comfort fic ☺️

Chapter 4: Saskatchewan, Canada, Winter 2008

Chapter Notes

Hey! English! People are speaking English for the first time in this whole fic!

Saskatchewan, Canada, Winter 2008

Ilya fiddled with his lighter, giving it an impatient shake. It served him right for buying a cheap ten pack at the first place he’d seen when he’d gotten off the plane. In his defense, the cigarettes themselves had been obscenely expensive and covered in inexplicably graphic images. Apparently Canadians really liked making money off smokers, but they also wanted them to feel extremely guilty about their disgusting habit.

The cigarette caught just as someone said his name from behind.

He turned and found none other than Shane Hollander himself, smiling as he came closer.

“Shane Hollander,” Shane Hollander said, as if this was new information. “I—I wanted to introduce myself.”

Well, he was certainly as pretty in person as he was on TV.

Ilya looked down at the hand Hollander was holding out, expectant. He hesitated, then shook himself: it was only a handshake.

He reached out and took Hollander’s hand in his own.

On their second year anniversary Shane gave him a thin file.

Ilya looked at him over the top of it. “If this is a list of chores, I will be mad.”

Shane’s smile was fond, but he didn’t say anything. Ilya opened the file to find a few loose pieces of paper: a photocopy of something in French and—

He froze, his heart suddenly beating double time. It was a photocopy of an old ledger, one of the letters a long scrawl and the spacing uneven. Under was an English translation with an incongruously neon post-it note stuck to it, signed by a Dr someone or another:

C’est peut-être lui.
Spelling varies.
Let me know if you want cleaner scans.

And then, the translation itself:

Sanson Hébert, Clerk, Wage 15 ₶

It was one among many names, none of them his own, but there was Pierre, and Jean Luc, Baptiste and Jean. The names blurred and a drop fell onto the page. Shane had come up next to him at some point and took out the next page, placing it over where Ilya held the first in shaking hands. This was another photocopy, this time in Japanese. Underneath was a neatly handwritten translation:

From a kyōdoshi, a local history book

“The Hasegawa family has been present in Ushitsu since the early Edo period, traditionally working as netmakers and fishermen.”

There is no way to identify individuals from that period, but the lineage existed. If you wish for any further assistance, please do not hesitate to reach out.

Shane took the file out of Ilya’s hands as he bent forward, overcome.

It was real: they had existed.

“Why?” he demanded in Russian, to a God he didn’t believe in. “Why me?” he asked Shane through his tears.

“I don’t know, but I’m glad. I know I shouldn’t be: it must be so hard for you, but fuck, I believed you before but this-” Shane touched the file, reverently. “-this is so much more than I thought possible. You love me so much, we love each other so much, and I—” Shane broke off, wiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry I don’t remember,” he choked out, and Ilya pulled him close.

“You believe me and we are together. What else is there?”

“We’ll have our own children this time,” Shane told him, tears still rolling down his face. “And your name will be recorded next to mine when we marry, so if, in the future—”

Ilya hushed him. “Don’t worry about that, there is only now.”

Shane nodded, leaning into his embrace. “Only now,” he agreed. “And only us.”

Chapter End Notes

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