Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Troy Barrett/Harris Drover, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Wyatt Hayes, Troy Barrett, Zane Boodram, Evan Dykstra, Luca Haas, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Alternate Timelines, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Shane swaps places, Alternate timeline - Shane doesn't get a boner, Panic Attacks, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Sexual Tension, I am sorry to Mr Rozanov for what i put him through, Ilya Rozanov Gets A Hug, Ilya gets all the hugs, Hockey Husbands, First Husbands of Hockey, follows book canon over show, Internalized Homophobia, Anal Sex, Explicit Consent, Blow Jobs, Playful Sex

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-07 Completed: 2026-05-29 Words: 47,892 Chapters: 12/12

When The Universe Intervenes: Into The Bonerverse

Summary

[Edit]: I changed the title because the subtitle is too funny not to add.

The Centaurs win the cup and celebrate late into the night. In the morning, Shane wakes up in an alternate universe - one where he never got hard in the shower and he and Ilya never hooked up.

------------

And Shane, not for the first time, thinks even farther back. To that day in the showers after their CCM campaign shoot. Alone under the spray, and confronted with Ilya’s perfect body, Shane’s body reacted. And truthfully, he’s always been quick to react when it comes to Ilya.

But to think… if he could just control his dick, none of this would have happened.

This perfect life he’s living. Married to the man of his dreams. Living and playing in his hometown, with his parents only 10 minutes away. With his sweet puppy, Anya. Celebrating his fourth ever Stanley Cup win. All thanks to one wayward boner.

For a wild second, Shane thinks about saying that to Wyatt.

That’s how he knows he’s drunk.

Chapter 1: The Rager

Chapter Summary

The Centaurs win the cup and party hard.

Chapter Notes

Boner Universe:
Ottawa, Thursday 17 June 2022

The roar of the crowd is deafening. Shane doesn’t think this arena has ever been so thundering, not since the day it was built. He swears he can feel a tremor in the ice under his skates from the force of the stomping and jumping in the stands as he passes the puck to Troy.

Troy takes it and flies down the ice. There’s a blur to Shane’s right as Ilya flashes past, heading up near the empty goal, getting in position for a pass as a tidal wave of Phoenix players chase after Troy. They’re running out the clock, less than a minute left, but an empty goal net would be a delicious topper to their 4-2 lead.

There are two Phoenix defensemen in the way, but Troy chips the puck over to Ilya before they can snatch it away. A smooth flick of his wrists and Ilya sinks the puck into the empty net with 18 seconds on the clock.

The crowd is going absolutely wild now.

18 seconds and they’ve won. Ottawa will have their first Stanley Cup. Ever.

Joy and adrenaline pulse in Shane’s veins as he skates to his husband and slams their bodies together in a crashing hug. He kisses Ilya on the cheek as Troy crashes in to join them, slapping both their backs.

“We’re doing it, boys!” Troy shouts.

Shane isn’t sure he’s ever seen Troy this excited.

The scoreboard is a beautiful 5-2 now. Shane has never seen such a pretty sight.

“18 seconds left. Let’s go! We got this!”

There’s a time out called. Shane follows Ilya over to the bench where they sit and squirt water into their mouths and grin at each other like fools. Soon enough they’re back on the ice and Shane is facing Phoenix’s star center, Keith, at face off.

18 seconds and it’s all over.

Phoenix wins the face off, but Dykstra is quick to get in his way, which lets Ilya in to steal the puck. And then there’s 15 seconds of Ilya, Troy, and Shane playing keep-away until they hear that beautiful siren call of the buzzer.

They did it.

They fucking did it!

Shane catches Ilya’s eye across the ice as helmets and mitts go flying in all directions. Again, they crash into each other, each skating a little too fast as they race into each other’s arms. Ilya wraps his arms over the bulk of Shane’s shoulder pads and practically collapses into the embrace. The sudden weight of him nearly pulls them both down to the ice, but this is exactly why Shane does so many balance exercises. To catch his exuberant husband when they win their first Stanley Cup together.

It is incredibly awkward to kiss with their mouth guards in, but it’s probably good they still have them in because the rest of the team starts piling on around them in a massive group hug that knocks Ilya into Shane hard enough he might have lost a tooth. Everyone is screaming. At least half of them are crying. Haas is so red in the face he looks like he might pop.

The crowd is going so nuts they’re shaking the rafters. They’re pulsating with energy in the stands. Not only did the Centaurs just bring home their first ever Cup, but they did it on home ice, here in Ottawa.

Honestly, Shane wouldn’t be surprised if mild-mannered, political town Ottawa rioted tonight.

He wouldn’t blame them if they did. This is Shane’s hometown. And he just helped bring them a Cup.

The Centaur huddle starts to break up, and it’s not until Shane is standing on his own, and some cool air hits his face, that he realizes he’s full-on crying too.

“We did it. We really fucking did it,” he hears himself say. Or, more like shout, because that’s the only way to be heard right now, above the cacophony of the arena.

He locks eyes on Ilya again and reaches out for a fistful of his jersey, dragging his husband back in close. “That last goal was so fucking sexy.” He shouts it into Ilya’s mouth, which turns up in the corner in that dead sexy crooked grin of his.

“Sexy enough to get down on your knees here on the ice?” Ilya shouts in Russian.

Shane was already hot – he just played a championship game for fuck’s sake – but now he’s broiling. And he knows how hot Ilya must be. How sweaty. Drenched in it. He probably stinks so good.

And it just so happens; Shane has prepared for just this occasion. “Sexy enough I’m going to clean you with my tongue,” he says. Also in Russian.

The reaction is instantaneous. The way Ilya’s eyes go dark. The way his smile goes feral. The way his hands land on Shane’s hips.

The way Bood’s hand comes out of nowhere and pushes the two of them apart.

“Nuh uh. No. We’ve talked about this. No Russian on the ice.” The comment is directed at Shane, and he can feel his face heat with embarrassment. They have talked about this. Not that Ilya can’t speak Russian on the ice, but Shane can’t. It gets Ilya too worked up.

“Oh! Come on! You’re a cock block, Bood!” Ilya whines dramatically. But he lets himself get pushed back another few feet, giving Shane a sexy, lazy grin before nodding off to the side where Phoenix is gathered, waiting to line up for the handshake.

Boodram says something else to Ilya as they skate off, but Shane doesn’t hear it. He takes a second to breathe. To think past the lust his husband always inspires in him. To sit in this moment and let the cheers of his fellow Ottawans wash over him. The crowd is frothing at the mouth. Everyone is on their feet. Screaming. Shouting. Banners waving. He can see several with his name on them, some with Ilya’s, and some with “Shayla” and “Hollanov,” which appears to be the two most popular mashups of his and Ilya’s names.

Luca Haas skates past and gives Shane a thump on the back on his way by. His smile is so wide it looks like it hurts.

They line up for the handshake and then wait for them to bring out the cup.

When the officials finally bring it out, Ilya makes grabby hands at it. “My baby! I haven’t seen her in so long,” he cries out dramatically, making everyone laugh. He’s such a goofball, even now. And Shane’s heart trips as he watches Ilya take the cup and kiss it.

He’s so happy. He looks so happy. And Shane is so happy with him.

They did it. They knew they would. The both of them on a team, how could they not? And with Wyatt, and Troy, and – everyone, really, they are basically unstoppable. They nearly had it last year, too. But a slog of a game 7 against Pittsburgh took them out in Round 3.

It’s hard to believe that this was one of the worst teams in the league just a few years ago. Until Ilya came and breathed life into it. God, he deserves this win. He deserves the world, but he especially deserves this.

Shane is low-key tearing up as he watches his beautiful husband skate around the rink, Stanley Cup held high.

Ilya passes the cup off to Bood and turns on Shane with a glint in his eye.

“No.” Shane says firmly, shaking his head. “No,” he says again as Ilya skates closer.

But he’s grinning. He can’t keep the smile off his face as Ilya scoops him up into a hug, lifting Shane off the ice and spinning him. Their kiss is searing hot and Shane melts into it.

They’re pulling focus again, which makes Shane go a bit pink in the ears. But the rest of the team is laughing and whooping at them when Ilya finally puts Shane down, so Shane thinks it’s okay.

“We all get a kiss, captain?” Wyatt asks, coming grinning up to them, and Ilya pulls him into a hug and gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Yes, kisses for all the Stanley Cup winners!!!”

They all take their turns skating with the cup (and getting increasingly cartoonish cheek kisses from Ilya). Then the ice floods with family and the rink turns into chaos. Everyone is there. Shane’s parents. Rose and Svetlana. Hayden and Jackie and all the kids. JJ and his new girl.

Literally, everyone except for Anya. And Shane knows that Ilya would have had their sweet girl here on the ice with them if he could. In fact, he had to talk Ilya out of bringing her. She’s a good dog with crowds, but she’s never been around a noise like this. They didn’t want to stress her out.

The press is also on the ice. They want to talk to everyone, but they also really want to talk to Shane and Ilya. The Stanley Cup Spouses.

There’s a rager already started in the locker room by the time Shane and Ilya are able to shake off the press. Bood and Dykstra are pouring champagne from the Cup into/all over Luca’s open mouth. Behind them, Troy is shirtless and pressing his husband Harris up against one of the lockers and they don’t look like they’ll be coming up for air anytime soon. Wyatt somehow has two fresh bottles of champagne foaming in his hands, and he takes a glug out of one and then the other with a crisp “Ahh!” at the end.

“Hazy!” Ilya shouts. He sort of dance-shuffles over to the goalie and opens his mouth for Wyatt to pour champagne into it.

Shane shakes his head. At least take your skates off, first, Ilya. But he keeps that thought to himself. He knows it’s going to be that kind of night. Hell, this is going to be more intense than any of Shane’s previous Cup wins, because this time it’s him and Ilya together.

By the time they’re stumbling into the showers, Shane is sticky from champagne and giggling at something Wyatt said that Shane didn’t understand about a superhero Shane’s never heard of. He’s got one arm slung over Ilya’s shoulder, and Ilya turns to lick some of the sweat and booze from Shane’s skin. Their eyes meet and immediately go dark with lust when they’re interrupted by a “Nope, nope, nope!”

Troy swoops in then, wrapping his hand around Ilya’s arm and yanking him away, down deeper in the line of showers. “If Harris isn’t allowed in here, then you two aren’t allowed near each other.”

Shane opens his mouth to protest – he wasn’t even going to do anything! – but Ilya wiggles his eyebrows as he’s being pulled away and gives an obvious look down to Shane’s cock. He looks too delighted; Shane must already be at half-mast.

“Shit.” Shane spins right and marches himself to the first nozzle in the row to wash himself up without making things too indecent.

He’s towelling off when he hears Ilya shouting “Party at our hoooooouse!!” Ilya comes running into the room with his arms in the air, only a towel around his waist.

“Party at our ho-USE!” Shane echoes, cupping his hands around his mouth for extra volume.

A small fleet of black SUVs take the team and the Cup back to Shane and Ilya’s house and the party kicks into high gear. They’ve already fully stocked up for this, with a line of bottles and mixers on the counter and a fridge that’s two shelves beer and one shelf non-alcoholic beer. Someone gets the music going – not Dykstra, because the beat is heavy and there’s no banjo – and Ilya gets the lights half-dimmed, and the party starts in earnest.

Shane is in the kitchen, picking through the array of bottles and mixers when Ilya comes in. Ilya doesn’t say anything, just grabs one of the 0-proof beers from the fridge and leans back against the counter, looking at Shane over the top of his bottle as he takes a long, slow swig. He doesn’t always drink non-alcoholic, but with his pills he can’t drink like he used to, and over the last few years he’s found a few good beers that he likes.

Ilya watches with dark eyes as Shane touches a bottle of gin, then a bottle of rye, before finally grabbing the vodka. Shane can practically feel Ilya’s approving smile as he sloshes the clear liquid into his cup. And then, biting back his smile, Shane grabs the cranberry juice. He turns to watch Ilya’s loving gaze turn into a glare as Shane fills the rest of his cup with juice.

“Don’t come near me with that,” Ilya warns, raising a hand like he’s going to physically bar Shane from entering his space.

Shane can’t hold back his grin now. “What’s wrong?” he asks, holding the drink up to his lips. There’s a cheeky sway to his hips as Shane sidles up to his husband.

“You drink that, and I will never kiss you again,” Ilya threatens.

It’s the most ineffective threat in the history of the world and they both know it. Just to prove it, Shane takes a long drink from his cup, still moving closer, until Ilya’s outstretched hand is pressed against his chest and Shane is pushing against it to get closer and closer.

“Ahh!” Shane smacks his lips together. They’re sweet from the cranberry juice. And he wonders if they’re already red from it, or if Ilya is locked-in on his lips because he’s always looking at Shane’s lips. “Delicious.”

“I fucking hate you.”

Shane pushes close enough that the hand on his chest is awkward, and Ilya slides it down and around his body to grip at Shane’s ass instead, pulling them close and then closer.

“You love me.” Ilya’s eyes are still locked on Shane’s lips, and Shane gives them a little lick just to watch Ilya’s pupils dilate. Shane’s already half-hard, because he always is when it comes to Ilya, and there’s enough heat brewing between them he thinks it’ll only take a little nudging to get them both there.

“Not when you ruin good vodka with your boring antioxidants.”

Their lips are touching now, but Shane’s smile is spread so wide it can’t really be called kissing.

“Did you want a taste?” he asks.

“Jesus, you two!” Hayden’s voice comes from beside them, and Shane turns just in time to be flashed by the bright light of the fridge as Hayden yanks it open. “Shouldn’t the honeymoon phase be over by now?”

“Ahh, give ‘em a break, Pike,” Evan Dykstra says from the other side of the kitchen island. “They just won the Cup.”

“So did you. I don’t see you making out in the middle of the kitchen.”

Dykstra grins at that. “Once Cait gets back from checking on the kids we’ll show you boys how it’s really done.”

Shane is forced off of Ilya as the kitchen crowds with everyone looking for a drink. They split up for a while as the party gets underway. The rest of the night goes by in a blur. There’s drinking and dancing. A bong gets packed and passed around outside on the deck. And some of the younger players hotbox the bathroom in the basement.

Ilya and Harris manage to get Anya perched carefully in the top of the Stanley Cup and they spend half an hour cooing and taking pictures and videos of her and her little red and black Centaurs bow.

Somewhere around 3 in the morning, Shane wanders outside for some air and finds Wyatt Hayes stretched out on the grass. He’d think the man had passed out, except for the red glow of a joint and the puff of smoke exhaled out into the night air.

“Hey, Hazy,” Shane greets, wandering over to his friend and joining him on the grass. “You alright?”

“Peachy keen, jellybean,” Wyatt says around the joint in his lips. His eyes are locked up at the stars, though only a few are visible through the lights of the city. “Supposed to be a big meteor shower tonight. First time this one will be in our skies in a century, or something like that. Wanted to see if I can catch it, but,” Wyatt shrugs and passes Shane the joint.

Shane takes it and coaches himself to breathe, not swallow. He only takes the smallest puff before handing it back. Weed isn’t really his thing, though he did like that one time he and Ilya did edibles together at the cottage.

“You were on fire tonight.” It’s true. Wyatt made some incredible saves tonight. Ones for the highlight reel for sure.

“We were all on fire tonight.”

Ilya was on fire. He was breathtaking on the ice. He always is.

Wyatt passes the blunt back and Shane waves him off. They stay in silence for a few minutes, Wyatt lying on the grass, Shane sitting, leaning back on his hands. They both stare up at the sky and the few stars that shine through the ever-present glow of the city.

“You ever think about alternate timelines?” Wyatt asks, completely out of nowhere.

“What?”

“You know, like different dimensions, alternate realities.” Shane doesn’t respond, so he keeps going. “Like Superman and Bizarro Superman. Or like the Spiderverse.”

“Oh, like Everything, Everywhere, All At Once?”

“Exactly!” Wyatt waves the joint happily before finishing it off. “Different versions of our world, where things are the same except for one thing that’s changed. I have these Superman/Batman socks. You wear Superman on one foot and Batman on the other.” He wiggles his feet, but it’s too dark for Shane to see what socks he’s got on. Plus, he’s probably talking about game socks, and he wouldn’t still be wearing the those. “I put Superman on my left foot today, and most of the shots came in on the left today. Maybe if I wore them the other way around, we would have lost.”

Shane huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I think you’re good enough it wouldn’t matter. Besides, Batman can hold his own.”

“True enough. But then, you know, I go back a little farther. If Rozy didn’t sign with the Centaurs, we wouldn’t have been going for the cup in the first place. And if you and Rozy weren’t so sweet on each other, he wouldn’t have come to Ottawa at all. Just makes me think.”

And Shane, not for the first time, thinks even farther back. To that day in the showers after their CCM campaign shoot. Alone under the spray, and confronted with Ilya’s perfect body, Shane’s body reacted. And truthfully, he’s always been quick to react when it comes to Ilya.

But to think… if he could just control his dick, none of this would have happened.

This perfect life he’s living. Married to the man of his dreams. Living and playing in his hometown, with his parents only 10 minutes away. With his sweet puppy, Anya. Celebrating his fourth ever Stanley Cup win. All thanks to one wayward boner.

For a wild second, Shane thinks about saying that to Wyatt.

That’s how he knows he’s drunk.

“I’m glad it all worked out for us, Hazy.” Shane flops back into the grass and looks up at the stars with his favourite goalie (don’t tell the other one).

“Me too, Hollsy.”

And up, above the skyline, and above the light pollution, where Shane and Wyatt can’t see, a meteor shower streaks past the night sky.

Chapter End Notes

WOW! It feels a bit crazy to be posting fic again! But I caught the HR bug just like the rest of the world and now I am obsessed!

I wanted to keep to the book canon for at least this first fic to help try and keep things straight in my mind a bit. Especially since this one relies heavily on TLG for this first chapter. And it's so fun to write all the boys playing together and teasing Shane and Ilya. I really enjoyed this!

And I will say, I am not a hockey girlie (if anything I am an anti-hockey girlie, and my love for this show/series is a huge outlier in my life) so if the hockey doesn't make sense, don't come after me. Though, you can go after my sister, who helped me with the hockey stuff so I wouldn't sound too out there with it.

For those of you who don't know me, I'll just let you know you can expect consistent updates from me. This fic is already fully written, and I post every second Friday(ish). It's currently 2:30 am on Saturday, lol, so I'm not super strict on it actually being Friday. But I usually upload before I go to bed on Friday, at whatever time that may be.

I'm really looking forward to posting this, and I hope you all like it. I've been loving all the HR fics I've been reading, and they really inspired me!

And, I'll link you my tumblr and bluesky. I'll be honest, I'm not on them much, but maybe I'll get back into them now that I'm posting again... we'll see!
Tumblr: WatermelonTuesdays
Bluesky: @WatermelonTuesdays

Chapter 2: The Morning After Pt 1

Chapter Summary

Shane wakes up in his old bedroom and mildly freaks out.

Chapter Notes

Boner-less Universe:
Montreal, Friday June 18 2022

The light streaming through the windows rouses Shane, but it’s the eerie quiet that wakes him up.

Sure, they partied until the wee hours of the morning, and they desperately need a good, long sleep after weeks of playoffs and a night of partying. But still, there should be some kind of noise on the go. Anya, at least, should be wanting her morning walk. But Shane doesn’t hear the tippy tappy of her toes. Not in the bedroom, and not down the hall.

With the house this quiet, he should be able to hear her even if she’s downstairs.

Unless Ilya took her out for her walk already?

It is possible. Ilya didn’t drink too heavily last night, though he stayed up as late as Shane. He might have gotten up and snuck out without waking him. It is feeling awfully empty in this big bed.

Shane buries his head into his pillows, hiding from the light, and stretches his hand across the expanse of the bed. It’s very empty. Cold enough that Ilya must have gotten up ages ago.

It’s kind of weird Shane doesn’t smell coffee yet, if Ilya has been up this long.

Okay. Time to stop fretting over the weirdness and go investigate. Shane cracks an eye open to gauge how bad this is going to suck.

…

…

The bedsheets are blue.

And the window is on the wrong side of the room.

Shane sits up and blinks in the sunlight. What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” he says out loud.

He’s in his Montreal apartment. The one he sold two years ago. Almost exactly two years ago, because that’s when he signed with the Centaurs. Why the fuck is he in his old apartment? How did he even get here?

Why does it look exactly like it did when he lived here?

His first thought, no matter how wild and impossible it sounds, is that he has a stalker who bought his old apartment, recreated it, and then kidnapped him. Like an extreme Misery situation. But there’s no way someone else could recreate the apartment so perfectly.

Shane gets up and steps over to his dresser. Yup, it’s got an old, framed polaroid of him and his childhood best friend on the ice, back long before Shane had been recognized as a talent. Exactly where it always was. You can’t recreate that. No one else could have a copy.

A quick hunt around the apartment yields no more answers, but it does increase Shane’s conviction that this is his apartment.

So what is this then? Time travel? Alternate –

Alternate Timelines?

No. No, that’s stupid. That was just something Hazy was talking about while he was high. And drunk. And Hazy is a big comic book nerd anyway. Comics are full of shit like that. This is real life.

Shane returns to his old bedroom and sits on his bed, biting his thumbnail. He needs to be calm. He needs answers. He needs – he needs Ilya.

There’s no sign of Ilya at the apartment at all. But then, there never was. Unless he was physically here within Shane’s four walls, there was no trace of him. God, that had been so sad, and Shane hadn’t even known it at the time. Looking back on it now, though, after two years of living with Ilya, sharing their space and their bed, having all their extra time together, he can’t even believe how bleak his life had been before.

“Okay,” Shane says to himself, because someone needs to talk him through this and he’s the only one here to do it. “We need information. When is it. What’s going on. Was it all a dr–” Shane cuts himself off there. It wasn’t just a dream. It can’t have been just a dream. He didn’t dream the last two years of his life, moving to Ottawa, marrying Ilya, joining the Centaurs, fighting for the cup and winning.

His phone is sitting on its charge pad on top of his bookshelf, like it always did. It’s not good to have your phone next to your bed, it can affect your sleep schedule.

The first thing Shane checks is the date. June 18, 2022.

Okay. So it’s not time travel.

That leaves him with dream and alternate reality. And an intense Misery situation – he shouldn’t rule that out entirely just yet. Just in case.

His phone unlocks for his face, and Shane swipes to his texting app when he freezes.

He’s not wearing a wedding ring.

Shane’s heart clenches in his chest and then it starts pounding. He’s filled with a cold dread, and he shivers in the bright afternoon sunlight.

Recent messages. Ilya should be one of the top.

Top message is from his mom, congratulating him on winning the cup.

Next is his father, doing the same.

Then Rose sent a gif.

Then Hayd messaging about a party at JJ’s.

JJ messaging him to bring jager.

Coach Theriault messaging about meeting times.

Shane scrolls and scrolls. There’s nothing here from Ilya. Nothing even from Lily.

Panicked, he swipes over to his phone and runs through his contacts. Nothing. No Ilya. No Lily. No Rozanov. No Rozy or Rosy or Rosie. No nothing.

He flips up to the search bar and punches in Ilya’s 343 number. Then he wracks his head to remember the old 857 number. Neither show up, under any name.

Shane’s hands are shaking so hard he almost drops the phone as he desperately opens up Google and searches for Ilya Rozanov.

“Boston captain, Ilya Rozanov, comments on Round 3 loss to Montreal Voyageurs – May 2022”

“Sports’ 30 Most Eligible Bachelors – January 2022”

“Ilya Rozanov – Wikipedia.”

Okay. Okay. Shane takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds before slowly letting it out. Ilya exists.

Shane spots one last article.

“Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov: Hockey’s bitterest feud – October 2021.”

He can’t help but click on it.

The article starts with a bunch of nonsense about being the greatest rivalry in hockey history, then it jumps into a timeline of their careers. It starts out recognizable. The World Junior’s matches. Canada’s loss in 2009, and then Russia’s loss in 2010. The ad campaign for CCM where they were professional and polite.

Then things go quickly off the rails. 2011, their public comments about each other turn nasty. Culminating in a shouting match after Boston beats Montreal out of the playoffs. 2012, they break the record for most fights between two players in a playoff season. 2013, they break that record again.

2014, they make a scene at the NHL Awards, arguing loudly and throwing a few punches at the after party.

It keeps going from there. Fights. Name calling. Game misconducts getting them both sent out of the rink. Shane has to scroll through it quickly. It makes his stomach churn just to read it.

This isn’t a rivalry. This is hatred. What the hell happened to them?

Shane thinks back to last night. To that talk with Wyatt. And his thoughts afterwards. Did Shane’s dick not get hard? Is that what happened? Shane somehow avoided a boner, and he and Ilya never hooked up?

God, that’s tragic.

Shane looks around the room in a new light. There’s still no sign of anyone else in his life. Not a photo. Not a knickknack or trinket. Not a thing out of place. No new name in his phone, either. And if there’s no Ilya here – if this is his life without that massive secret love – what is this Shane even living for?

It’s barren.

Flopping back onto the bed, Shane glares out the window at the bright, June sunshine. The light stabs his brain, but that’s preferrable to the deep ache in his chest and the ice in his veins. Shane misses his husband. And he has no idea how to get back to him. There’s nothing he said or did to bring himself here, except for maybe that conversation last night with Wyatt, and that’s not something Shane can really recreate to see if it’ll send him back.

If this were a movie, then some magical being will step in to send him back. Or maybe after he learns some lesson. Or does some good deed.

But there are no guarantees this will work like a movie. And if Shane tries to tell anyone, he’ll come off as certifiably insane.

Hell, he might be certifiable!

It sounds insane. Shane knows it does. Even to himself, sometimes, he can’t believe it’s real. That Shane would marry Ilya Rozanov?!

Honestly, this reality makes more sense. That they would take all that aimless sexual chemistry and tension and turn it into anger. Into goals and rivalry and hatred. On and off the ice. But Shane knows the truth. He knows what’s real. And what he and Ilya have is real.

And if he is going to be stuck here – well, Shane’s going to be stuck here with his damn husband.

Settled on the course of action, Shane gets to work. He showers and dresses, buying plane tickets on his phone while he quickly packs a suitcase with his best summer clothes. Nice things that he can wear to a club, cool things for the Boston heat, those running shorts that make Ilya go wild.

A text comes in while Shane is sitting in the back of a cab, rushing to catch his flight. It’s from his mom, checking in with him. Asking if he’ll be heading to the cottage this weekend, or if he’s waiting till after his turn with the cup.

Shane: Sorry, Mom. Something came up and I need to go to Boston for a bit.

Mom: Boston!?!

Shane: I’m heading out now. I’ll text you later.

The cab pulls up to the departure gate and Shane steps out with his luggage and takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t have a plan. Hell, he doesn’t even have a hotel room. And that’s nerve wracking. But he knows, once he sees Ilya, it’ll start to work itself out.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading! And thanks for the comments on the first chapter and all the kudos!

This chapter is incredibly short, even for me and I tend to like short chapters. But I didn't want to drag out these first chapters too much. And I want to keep each chapter with one person's POV.

Also, is it OOC for Shane to accept he's travelled to another world so quickly? I mean, yeah, probably. But also I feel like this is too obviously weird for him to be able to bury his head in the sand and pretend it's not happening. It is more important for him to find Ilya than it is to worry about WTF is happening. He is very action oriented.

AND I'm thinking of changing my posting schedule. Every 2 weeks feels really long and far apart, so I think I'm going to switch to every Friday. I used to really like having two weeks between each chapter, but I'm not really feeling it this time around, so for this fic at least I'm going to do weekly updates.

Next chapter is going to be longer, and meatier. And start with some of the angst. ^-^

You can follow me on the various apps. I have not been super active anywhere, but I have been really liking Threads for all the HR content. I just made myself a proper fic account there so I might start posting there more?
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Bluesky: @WatermelonTuesdays
Threads: @watermelontuesdays

Chapter 3: The Morning After Pt 2

Chapter Summary

Ilya wakes up having a great day, and then it gets dramatically worse.

Chapter Notes

Boner Universe:
Ottawa, Friday June 18 2022
Afternoon after winning the cup.

Ilya wakes up to a mouthful of hair, just like he does every morning. Only today, his mouth is extra dry from the champagne and beer he had last night; plus maybe from that bit of vodka cranberry he had licked out of Shane’s mouth when they had snuck upstairs for a bit of fun mid-party. And today, Ilya is pinned to the mattress by his loving husband, sprawled out across the bed like a drunk octopus.

Not that it’s unusual to wake up with Shane in his arms, it’s just that usually Shane is a bit more elegant about it. He likes to curl up in Ilya’s neck and breathe hot and heavy until Ilya needs to stick a leg out from under the blanket for temperature regulation. It’s an ideal position, because it lets Ilya wrap Shane up in a hug the moment he wakes, pulling his husband close and breathing in the scent of him (once he’s delicately spat out the wayward hair).

Today, Shane is using Ilya’s chest as a pillow, and he’s sleeping in a full diagonal across the bed, arms and legs kicked out at weird angles.

He’s still naked. And the blankets are doing a poor job of covering him.

They do an even worse job when Ilya gently tugs on the duvet, slowly revealing inch after inch of bare skin, until one cheek of Shane’s perfect bubble butt is exposed to the open air. He leaves it there, giving himself just a glimpse of what he plans to soon be biting into.

Mission accomplished, Ilya smiles into Shane’s hair and gives the top of his head a kiss. He strokes light fingers up and down Shane’s spine as he waits for him to wake.

Shane is pretty slow to wake. He does it by degrees. First there’s a twitch in his legs. Then he rubs his cheek against Ilya’s pec. Then a hand comes up to Ilya’s chest, which Ilya can’t help but take in his own and lift to his lips, lining kisses along the back.

These hands helped win a Stanley Cup.

Well, of course they have. They’ve done it several times before. But this time it was Shane and Ilya. The two of them, together against the rest of the NHL. No one else stood a chance. Together, there is literally nothing they can’t do. They’ve taken on the world together and come out on top. And now they get to share their life together. Get to share their wins and losses. And their mother fucking Stanley Cups.

Ilya lays in the dappled afternoon sun, with the love of his life in his arms, and the thrill of a win in his veins. What he feels right now, in this moment, is more that just happiness. More than contentment. This is satisfaction.

Deep, deep in his bones. Right down to the very core of him. Ilya is satisfied.

And right now, there’s no cutting edge to that. No lurking darkness crowding around the corners of his mind. Part of that is his pills. Part of that is the beautiful consistency of waking up every morning with Shane. And, yeah, part of that is temporary brain chemistry. Ilya is having a good day.

He’s had a few good days, lately, to be honest. And while he knows that won’t last forever – it might not even last the week – he does his best not to wait for the shoe to drop. He just wants to enjoy the now.

Shane kicks a leg to one side and turns away from the curtained windows, burying his face in Ilya’s side. He makes a grumbly kitten noise that makes Ilya’s smile turn wobbly and disgusting.

Ilya strokes down his husband’s spine with a little more pressure.

“Good morning,” he says, knowing full well it’s nearing two in the afternoon. He flips Shane’s hand over and places a wet kiss at the center of his palm.

Sure, they got off twice together last night, but Ilya is pretty sure he can work this Cup win into a very lucrative arrangement that lasts most, if not all, of the rest of the summer.

Shane stills in the bed. Almost freezes. He must have one hell of a hangover.

“How’s your head?” Ilya lowers his voice down to a whisper. He drops Shane’s hand to his chest and runs his fingers over Shane’s scalp, giving a light massage just behind his temples. It’s too much to wish for a ‘haven’t had any complaints’ response, as much as Ilya’s tried to teach him the joke.

Slowly, Shane looks up. He blinks at Ilya, eyes weirdly wide, and then suddenly he’s out of the bed and tumbling down onto the floor on his ass.

“What the!” Ilya asks, shocked more than anything. “Are you okay?”

“What the Fuck?!” Shane yells, actually yells, from the floor. He scrambles up to his feet, snatching at the blankets and holding them to his waist as he does.

First instinct, for Ilya, is to laugh. Shane is being weird, and that’s usually adorable, so his lips start to stretch into a smile. But then he sees the way Shane is looking around. Whipping his head back and forth like he doesn’t know where he is.

Like he’s terrified to be here.

“What the fuck, where am I? Rozanov? What the fuck!?”

He’s pulling fists on Ilya, while still trying to keep the blanket in place.

What the fuck is happening right now?

Ilya has no idea what’s going on, but Shane is freaking the fuck out. Ilya raises his hands up in a surrender. “Hey. Hey, hey, hey,” he says softly.

Shane looks at him in a way he’s never looked at Ilya before. It’s pure malice. He opens his mouth like he’s about to verbally destroy Ilya when his eyes flicker down to see Ilya’s naked body, and his mind visibly short-circuits.

“WHAT THE FUCK WHERE AM I?!” Shane bellows.

Ilya is at a complete loss. “You’re home. You’re here, you’re home. In Ottawa.” He speaks so quickly, he thinks his accent gets worse than normal. But he doesn’t even care. He has a flashback to his father, to the confusion of dementia. Did Shane somehow hurt himself and Ilya didn’t know? “You’re okay here, moya lyubov. You’re safe here.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Ottawa?” His eyes glance out the window like he’s expecting to see parliament just outside. “What did you do to me?” He says it so fast, Ilya almost doesn’t understand it.

Almost.

Ilya has no idea what’s going on, but he absolutely deflates at the accusation.

“You know I would never hurt you, Shane.” His voice sounds so small. It feels small in his throat.

Ilya feels tiny. Miniscule. Insignificant.

“Like fuck I do!” Shane practically spits the words, but his eyes look less certain. They look almost like the confusion is starting to outweigh the rage. But he shakes it off, pulling the blankets closer around him as he searches the floor. “Where the fuck are my clothes?”

“They are in the closet.” Ilya nods at the closet. He has the feeling that gesturing might set Shane off again.

“The – ?” Shane turns on his heel and marches into the closet.

“Underwear is in the dresser. Under our wedding picture.”

He says it because he’s hoping it will catch Shane’s attention, and it does. He comes stomping out of the closet like a hurricane.

“Wedding picture?” He sounds like Ilya is crazy.

Ilya bites back the tears of fear and confusion. He watches Shane grab at the framed picture and hold it like it’s diseased. Shane looks at it in horror, and Ilya’s heart couldn’t be more broken if he tried.

He wishes this were a cruel joke. But he knows Shane would never, ever, joke like this.

“What the fuck is this?” Shane whispers. He stomps over to Ilya and pushes the picture into his face. “What the fuck is this, Rozanov? Did you make this?”

Never in his life has Ilya felt so useless. He doesn’t understand what is happening and doesn’t know how to help. He can see that Shane is panicking, and he wants to wrap him in a hug until he calms down, but he knows that’s a bad idea. Shane is like a cornered animal right now. Deadly and vicious.

Ilya shakes his head.

“I don’t know why you don’t remember us.”

“‘Us’? I remember ‘us’ plenty. That black eye you gave me in Vegas. The bruised ribs in 2018. The fucking concussion last year that took us out of the playoffs.”

Ilya just keeps shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s going on. But that was not me. Shane, sweetheart. You have to believe me. Look at the picture. I love you.”

It’s not clear if the words or the sincerity are more shocking, but Shane stumbles backwards and falls back on his ass for the second time this morning. Ilya doesn’t move.

“Look at your hand. You wear my wedding ring.”

Now Shane shakes his head. “This is some kind of prank.” His eyes are glued to the ring shining on his finger.

He doesn’t believe – or doesn’t want to believe. How can Ilya prove himself?

“Your phone is on the dresser. You can google. We were married in the summer. July 21, 2020. There are articles about us. Interviews. Videos of us kissing.”

Shane looks sick at the idea. But he secures the blankets around him once again and picks himself up off the floor. He picks up his phone and unlocks it with his face. He looks around for a place to go and reluctantly creeps over to his side of the bed and sits down.

“What’s the noise?” Shane asks, tapping furiously at his phone.

Anya has been barking and scratching at the door since Shane first started yelling. They don’t often lock her out of the bedroom, but they had this morning, when the last of the stragglers left, and Ilya was desperate to get Shane undressed and sloppy.

“Our dog, Anya. She’s worried about us.” Ilya stands, naked, and walks slowly to his own dresser. He pulls out a pair of shorts and slips them on. “I’ll put her outside.”

Shane just grunts, now fully absorbed with his phone.

Ilya exhales a deep sigh. “Hello, sweet girl,” he says, opening the door to let Anya in. The dog scampers into the room, takes a quick look around for signs of danger, and then follows Ilya downstairs to the back door and rushes out into the yard. Ilya slides the glass door shut behind her and presses his forehead against the cool glass.

He takes a deep breath and tries to hold it, but the sobs come too strong and too fast. Ilya crumples to the floor, arms around his knees, head pressed against the unforgiving glass. His chest heaves for breath between each wracking sob. Tears stream down his face. He hasn’t cried this hard in a while.

There’s no understanding things here. No logic.

The memory loss stinks of dementia – of his father that last summer Ilya was home before he died. But this is different. This isn’t Shane forgetting, or slipping back into a past from before they met, or confusing Ilya for someone else. Shane listed events that never happened. Black eyes? Bruised ribs?

Sure, Shane’s had both of those before, but never from Ilya. Even in the height of their so-called rivalry, even in the early days when Ilya had convinced himself he hated Shane, he would never hit hard enough to bruise ribs.

No.

No, something else was going on here. Something weird and spooky. Like one of those Freaky Friday movies or whatever that Shane liked to watch.

Ilya sniffs, and the tears start to subside as he thinks this over. It’s like his husband was replaced in the middle of the night. Swapped with some other Shane. And there’s no way Shane is making this up or faking it for a prank. (He’s too boring to even think about something like that, aside from the fact that he would never do something so cruel.)

There has to be something else going on. There has to be. And until they can figure this out, Ilya just needs to be calm.

That man upstairs is not Ilya’s husband. That man is a stranger. He looks like Shane. Sounds like Shane. But he’s not Ilya’s Shane. He’s a Shane that has never known Ilya – not really.

“Ugh,” Ilya groans, flopping over onto his back and laying spread eagle on the floor. He needs a plan. And some patience.

And breakfast.

One of those things is more actionable than the others. And Ilya thinks that Galina would approve as he picks himself up off the floor and heads to the kitchen.

Ilya opens the fridge to find it stocked full of beer and he sighs. Right. Most of the real food was moved to the fridge in the basement in anticipation of the party. It takes a few trips to swap everything back to its rightful place, but Ilya works quickly. He pulls out eggs and cheese and bread for himself and then stops, casting an unsure glance up at the bedroom above him.

Not-Shane is probably hungry too.

Making food for him could be a bit of a gamble. Not just because he’ll probably accuse Ilya of poisoning it, but also because if this Shane is anything like His Shane, it’s basically a 50/50 on whether he’ll eat regular foods or if he’s health food only.

Ilya purses his lips as he considers. He’s got lots of Shane’s bird food in the fridge right now. The stress leading up to the Cup had him falling back on some old habits, so there is plenty of kale in the house. And probably right now, it’s a fair assumption that this Shane is feeling a lot of stress at the moment.

Decision made, Ilya gets two frying pans out. One with butter to fry some eggs, and one with water to poach some. He blitzes up some of His Shane’s gross green juice and reheats some leftover quinoa. And then, because there’s just a bit of kale left over that wouldn’t fit in the blender, Ilya chops that up into a salad with some of the other veggies His Shane had left.

It all comes together relatively quickly and Ilya plates it up and sets it at His Shane’s usual stool at the breakfast bar. Ilya looks at his handiwork for a second, considering, then turns and grabs a snickers bar from his secret stash (emergency snacks for appeasing a stressed-out Shane). He places it between the green juice and the bowl of quinoa and eggs.

He’s working on the construction of his own breakfast – a fried egg sandwich that he then grills in butter like a grilled cheese, and a bit of the kale salad – when he realizes he doesn’t know how long this Not-Shane is going to be up there. Poached eggs don’t really reheat that well. Not without ruining the beautiful soft poach that Ilya got on them.

But before Ilya can make up his mind about maybe bringing a tray of food upstairs, he hears the bedroom door open. Not-Shane shuffles slowly down the stairs, head on a swivel as he takes in his surroundings.

He’s wearing Shane’s clothes – of course he is – and Ilya’s stomach swoops with nerves. This looks so much like his husband, and all he wants is for this morning to be a bad nightmare and for this to be his husband. But the timid, almost scared look on his face clearly shows that this is Not-Shane.

“This is a… nice place you have here,” Not-Shane says, eyes sweeping the living room and catching on the Stanley Cup sitting on the coffee table.

He’s so nervous, he’s practically vibrating. It reminds Ilya of when they were young, when His Shane was so tightly wound. When the only time he unwound were those stolen moments with Ilya in a hotel room.

“You don’t have to be nervous. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m not nervous.” Not-Shane flings the words out so fast it makes himself flinch. He eyes Ilya like he’s expecting a fight.

“I made breakfast,” Ilya says instead, gesturing to the bowls he set out. His sandwich is done, and he slides it from the pan to his plate. Usually, he would sit at His Shane’s side, but today he thinks it’s best to keep the counter between them. So, he stands beside the stove and digs in. “Don’t worry, it’s good to eat.” He winks because he can’t help himself. And he bites back a grin when Not-Shane goes red.

“Oh. Uh… thank you, I guess.” He sits awkwardly and glares down at the food in front of him. Like he’s trying to dare it to hurt him.

Then he notices the snickers bar. He looks genuinely shocked as he picks it up.

“That’s my favourite,” he says softly. “How did you know?” he rips it open and shoves fully half of it into his mouth in one bite. Then his eyes do the little fluttery thing they do when Shane’s eating something delicious for the first time in a while.

Ilya has to look away.

This isn’t his husband.

“I know what you like,” Ilya says into his sandwich.

Not-Shane doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he shoves the other half of his bar into his mouth and chases it down with green juice.

That also makes Ilya look away, but for a very different reason.

They sit and eat in silence for a long time. Not-Shane eats his eggs and quinoa and picks at his salad. Eventually, he says, “So we’re really married?”

Ilya nods, then tilts his head to the side, adding in some doubt. “I’m married to My Shane,” he says.

“You don’t think I’m your Shane?”

“Do you?” Ilya cocks an eyebrow at him. He can see how Shane’s lips want to quirk up into a smile, but he pulls them down into a frown instead.

“I don’t understand what’s going on. Last night I was in my apartment in Montreal, celebrating our fifth Cup in eight years. This morning, I’m naked in Ottawa and I’m married to you and I play for the fucking Centaurs?” His voice gets more incredulous and pitchy as he goes.

“Hey, we’re a good team, now.”

“How?”

Instinct would have Ilya reply with ‘they have me’ and a wink. Maybe add that cheeky grin that His Shane is weak to. What he says instead is, “They have us.”

“Your Shane must not be very good if that’s what he got signed for,” Not-Shane grumbles quietly.

Of course, Shane looked up the contract details with Ottawa. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. Ilya would bet that the second he saw that Shane signed with Ottawa he stopped all research on their marriage and went immediately to the contract.

“He came to Ottawa for love,” Ilya says, dreamily. “And because he could not stand to be with those unsupportive fuckers from Montreal anymore.” His voice gets curt just thinking about it.

“Hey, my team’s supportive!”

“Oh really, and are you out to your team?” It’s a complete stab in the dark, but Ilya is already starting to piece some things together here based on his own knowledge of Shane and their history together.

Not-Shane, expectedly, goes burning red. “What do you mean, ‘out’? I’m not –” He cuts himself off at Ilya’s sharp look.

“I’m your husband. I think I’d know if you’re gay.”

Not-Shane looks down at his bowl. “Right.” He shoves in a mouthful of quinoa.

Ilya watches him for a long moment, then he sighs. “So, you’re not out. And you hate your Ilya. What else is different?”

Anya scratches at the door and Ilya lets her in, crouching low to give her kisses and ear scritches while Not-Shane thinks it over.

“I don’t know. I’ve won more Cups than your Shane.”

Ilya rolls his eyes down at Anya. This Shane might be even more hockey-obsessed that his own. He guesses that’s what happens if you don’t have an Ilya in your life to spread joy and light and orgasms.

“Did Hunter come out?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah, back in, like 2017.”

Ilya nods. Hunter’s big gay Stanley Cup kiss was a huge catalyst for him and His Shane’s relationship, but they had been something to each other for a long time before that. That couldn’t be the change that led to fist fights and bruised ribs. It would have to go back farther.

Not-Shane seems to be thinking along the same lines. “How did you two get together?”

It’s weird to hear Shane, or what looks and sounds like Shane, talk about himself as if it’s somebody else. But then, if we’re listing things that are weird about this, Ilya might never stop.

Ilya thinks back. Where did it truly start? There were many times where they flirted without flirting. Brushing up against each other but never making contact. He sits on the floor, pulling Anta into his lap. He closes his eyes and thinks back to those early days.

“We were always circling each other. Always stood out to each other. A handshake, a look. Little moments that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, at the World Junior’s, at the draft.” Ilya can picture Shane sitting on the floor of the hotel gym, panting from their exercise, squirting water into his mouth because he was too timid to put his lips to Ilya’s water bottle. God, they were such kids back then. “We raced each other on the treadmills after I got first pick in the draft. And afterwards we sat on the floor together and made boring small talk while thinking about kissing each other.”

Silence.

Ilya cracks an eye open and he can see that Not-Shane has gone very pale.

“That, uh, that happened. I guess.” He looks anywhere but at Ilya.

Ilya and His Shane talked about this once. What did Shane say? “You wanted to lick the sweat from Your Ilya’s neck. Push him down and kiss him.”

This Shane looks gutted. His hands shake. But he nods.

What was next? What came after the draft? Another World Juniors, more nothing between them. And then – “Ah. The commercial. With CCM. They made us hold that ridiculous pose for so long, and we couldn’t stop laughing.”

“Yeah, we did that too.” His lips quirk up a little at the memory.

“And then My Shane got hard for me in the shower. That night I snuck up to his room and showed him how to suck dick.”

“Wh-what?” Not-Shane’s jaw is on the floor. And now his cheeks are starting to burn a dark red. “No! That’s not!”

Bingo. Ilya should have known. That was their first real step together. Something more than just looking and wanting. And he can imagine how frustrated he would be if all he had ever done with Shane is look and want. How not being able to touch Shane would have buried under his skin like shrapnel.

“So what did happen?”

“I don’t know,” Not-Shane’s brow furrows as he thinks. “I barely remember it,” he scoffs. “But I definitely didn’t get hard, dude. You came in – I mean My Rozanov – ugh, I mean the other Rozanov – came in, and then I left. I don’t think we even said anything to each other.”

That’s interesting. Is Not-Shane’s dick different that it doesn’t get hard as easily as His Shane’s? Or..? “Did you not look?” Ilya gives the crooked smirk His Shane loves. “Is Your Ilya not as handsome as me?” He nods down to his bare chest and watches this Shane go a shade darker, eyes doing another lap around the room to look at anything but him.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

I'm curious if you saw the hurt coming when Ilya was in bed with a sleeping Shane? Or did it surprise you like it surprised him? It was writing this scene when I realized how much it was going to hurt Ilya in this story. I really didn't set out to make him miserable, I thought it would be a funny and fun little story, and then I got writing and suddenly Ilya is crying on the floor with no idea what is going on. So, whoops!

But don't worry. There will be happy endings. We just have to get through some growing pains in the meantime.

Next chapter we'll be getting back to the Boner-less universe and checking in with Shane and his hunt for a husband.

Thanks for the comments and the kudos. They warm my heart and help fuel future fics. One of the things about holding off on posting until a fic is finished like I do is that I don't get to share my excitement for what I'm writing with people. But reactions for this fic helps me stay excited for what I'm working on now.

And you can find me and follow me on several of the apps. I don't post a lot (though I'm starting to get more active on threads) but I always post updates.
Tumblr: WatermelonTuesdays
Bluesky: @WatermelonTuesdays
Threads: @watermelontuesdays

Chapter 4: Truce

Chapter Summary

Shane finds his husband in Boston and quickly reassesses his lack of a plan.

Chapter Notes

Boner-less Universe
Boston, Friday June 18 2022
Evening of Shane’s arrival in Boston

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s only in the seconds of silence after the knock that Shane considers that maybe this is a god-awful idea. But he’s here now. He’s committed.

Knock, knock, knock.

“All right, all right!” Shane hears from the other side of the door, getting closer. “What the fuck do you want, Gladys?”

The door bursts open and there is Ilya, looking beautiful and soft in the evening light. It’s only been a few hours since Shane last saw his husband, but the relief he feels on sight of the man is incredible. He wants to collapse forward and sink into his arms.

Ilya’s face, upon opening the door and recognizing Shane goes from irritated, to shocked, to confused within a second.

His name is on Shane’s lips, when a crude and confused “Hollander?” cuts Shane off.

Right. There’s no way they’re on a first name basis here.

“What the fuck are you doing here? How did you even get here? You know where I live?”

“Can I come in?”

Ilya’s brow pinches, and just like that the confusion is replaced by anger. He glares at Shane in a way that Ilya never has before. Shane’s stomach does a little back flip. This was a terrible idea.

“No. How did you get into my building, Hollander?”

I remember the passkey from sneaking in here several times a year for multiple years. In another universe.

“A guy let me in when he was leaving. Listen, I want to talk. Are you going to make me stand out here in the hallway all night, or can I come in?”

“Talk about what?” He says it like they have nothing they could possibly say to each other.

“Let me in, Rozanov.” Shane has to grit his teeth. This is already going terribly. The coldness he’s feeling from Ilya is setting him on edge. And there’s antagonism in every look that makes Shane want to fight back.

Yeah, he can see why this universe’s Shane and Ilya hate each other.

But Shane isn’t here to fight. “I just want to talk.”

Ilya purses his lips as he considers it, eyes roving Shane’s body in that assessing way he does. Only there’s no light in them. No tease. No barely-contained interest to make Shane hot under the collar.

Finally, he rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He steps back. “What? Are you moving in?” He asks as Shane drags his suitcase in through the door.

Yes. But maybe not just yet.

“I’m in town for a few weeks. For a…” Shane really should have come up with a plan, “family thing.” There’s no way that His Ilya would fall for that obvious lie, and from the way this Ilya’s eyebrows twitch Shane doesn’t think this one is convinced either. But he doesn’t call Shane on it.

Shane walks into the penthouse, dropping his suitcase by the dinning room table and making for the couch. He looks around the place. The furniture, the paintings, they’re all the same. There’s a single framed picture of Ilya with his Stanley Cup win and no others.

Everything is the same.

There’s no sign of anyone else living here. No woman’s touch to the décor. No photos with anyone else. Not even a dog toy on the floor.

Shane always sort of thought that if they didn’t get together, Ilya would find someone else. That he’d find a woman to marry. But looking around at his penthouse, it’s pretty clear that Ilya, like Shane, is as alone as he pretended to be when they were a secret. And for some reason, that stings.

“Hmpf,” Ilya snorts, following Shane into the living room. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” It should sound teasing, but it doesn’t.

Shane said he was here to talk, so he had better say something. He takes a breath, and looks up at Ilya, standing over him a safe distance away, hands in his pockets like he needs them to keep himself in check.

For the first time, Shane actually looks at Ilya. Beyond that first, incredible relief at seeing his husband again, Shane properly looks at him. He’s barefoot and lounging in track pants and an oversized shirt. It’s maybe 5:30 on a Saturday but there is no sign he’s going to go out tonight.

There’s nothing obviously out of place with him, but a little warning bell rings in Shane’s mind. Ilya struggles with depression. And if he’s been alone – if he’s not had someone else supporting him – then there might be more going on under the surface.

“Are you okay?” The words are out of Shane’s mouth before he even thinks about it.

Ilya scoffs. “Fuck off. What, you think I’m sad because you won another Cup? Why the fuck are you here, Hollander?” He’s getting mad now, his voice raised, his shoulders tense.

There’s an aura around him, here. Anger. Resentment. Frustration. It’s dark and violent.

In this world, their tensions are resolved with fists. Shane can see Ilya’s pockets bulging, hiding his clenched fists.

Shane considers what to say. ‘I’m your husband from another dimension’ is officially off the table now. There’s no way this Ilya will be receptive to that. He’ll probably have Shane committed.

“Well?”

“I want to bury the hatchet,” Shane says quickly. He watches Ilya’s brow furrow again, not understanding the turn of phrase. “I want to stop fighting,” Shane explains before Ilya starts shouting. “This has gone on long enough. I don’t want to fight you anymore, Il–Rozanov. I’m here in Boston for, for family things, and I thought maybe we could spend some time together and try and get past this.”

“You want to spend time with me.” Shane can’t tell if that’s a question, or if he’s just repeating it back so Shane can hear how stupid it sounds. Ilya laughs, but it’s not a friendly laugh. It’s mean. “You’re tired of me always beating your ass, and now you want to come and beg for mercy from your bully? Fuck you, Hollander. You start shit just as much as I do. Don’t come here and pretend like you don’t want to rip me apart too. You’re not some victim here.”

“I’m not a victim. I know that.” Shane actually doesn’t know that. He has no idea who instigated what. But he knows enough about himself, about his everlasting obsession with Ilya Rozanov, that yeah, he probably does start their fights as much as Ilya does. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m saying I want to end it. We’re not kids anymore. Don’t you think it’s time we grow up?”

“So what? We shake hands, suck each other’s dicks, and never fight again?” He’s being crude on purpose, trying to get a rise out of Shane.

“Basically, yes.”

Ilya is stunned. He stands across the living room, towering over Shane, utterly speechless. Quick as lightning, so quick Shane wouldn’t know it happened if he didn’t know Ilya so well, fear flashes in Ilya’s eyes.

Shane longs to reach for him. That’s their go-to for resolving things between them. Touch. Soothe each other. Comfort each other. Sometimes fuck it out. But that meter and a half distance between them might as well be the Grand Canyon.

“I want to spend some time with you. Actually get to know you. So we can put all the bullshit aside and just – I don’t know, be in the same room as each other without fighting? Aren’t you tired of it?”

“Russians never tire.”

“Cut the bullshit. I know you hate this too.” They lock eyes and the tension between them pulls tight. Shane has to take a breath and close his eyes, letting his emotions settle back down. “Look, we don’t have to like each other. I just want to make it through an awards night without a fist fight.” Then Shane gets an idea. He smiles up at Ilya, locking their eyes again. This time, he lets that tension snap and crackle between them. “Unless you think you can’t do it?”

“What?” The word is fast and sharp, cutting through the air.

“No, I get it. You can’t control yourself around me. You know you’ll snap.”

Ilya is across the room in two strides, reaching to pull Shane to his feet, but Shane is already up. “You think I have no self-control?”

“I think you can’t spend a day without hitting me, let alone a week.”

Ilya bears down on Shane, fists tight in Shane’s shirt, and Shane leans up into it. They are bare inches away from each other now.

“A week? I’ll never touch you again!”

God, the electricity pulsing through Shane’s body right now is insane. The urge to push Ilya down and jump on that dick, ride it till morning, is excruciating.

“Prove it,” Shane goads.

The anger that Ilya pours into his glare is not something Shane has ever encountered before. But he can feel the hidden heat of it too. The desires buried just under the surface. The tension that hatred is trying to mask.

Ilya is locked in on Shane’s eyes, holding them, standing so close. They probably do this so much – him and the other Shane – just lock on each other, let that tension and frustration burn at them until the only release is violence. But Shane knows what this could be, if Ilya would just let it.

Shane lets his gaze drop. Down to Ilya’s lips. Those lips that are so close, and even when pulled into this angry scowl still look so deliciously tempting.

He leans a little closer.

There’s shock and fear in Ilya’s eyes when Shane looks back up. His eyes are wide. Like a deer stuck in headlights. His fists squeeze harder on Shane’s shirt, and for a moment it feels like he’s going to pull Shane in. But then he throws Shane back down to the couch.

“Get out,” he says, low and deadly. Shane blinks and Ilya’s across the room again, with an armchair between them.

“Are you in?” Shane presses. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

“Get out of my house, Hollander.”

“Eleven o’clock. I’ll come at eleven o’clock.” Shane doesn’t rush but he moves very quickly and efficiently out of the apartment, pulling his suitcase along behind. It’s cool and quiet out in the hall, and he stops there to take a breath.

That probably went as good as he could have hoped, given the circumstances.

Now, next order of business is to find a hotel nearby. And invent some family to ‘visit.’

The next morning, Shane is standing in that same hallway at 10:58 am, waiting for his watch to strike 11 so he can knock on the door. He’s been here a few minutes already, too anxious and excited to wait in his hotel any longer.

The door opens and there is Ilya, crossing his arms and looking judgemental.

“Why are you just standing there?”

“I said eleven. It’s not eleven yet.” He checks his watch again to confirm. Yup, still 10:58. Ok, now it’s turned over to 10:59.

Ilya just stares for a long time, his body blocking the door, not letting Shane in. Finally, he rolls his eyes and steps back. “Oh my god, Hollander, you are so boring.”

Shane bites back a triumphant grin. Oh, he is so in. Ilya has already lost; he just doesn’t know it yet.

Chapter End Notes

He called him BORING!!! <3<3<3<3

Thanks for reading!

This is another short chapter. I think it's the last of the short chapters until the epilogue.

How are you liking our time in the Boner-Less Universe? This Ilya has more bite. Though, I do think his wariness is very warranted. If my nemesis showed up at my door like a stalker, I would probably be pretty cranky about it. But Shane is feeling pretty confident about his chances.

Also, we never hear of or see Gladys again, but I have a whole thing in my head that she's an older woman who lives below Ilya and likes to complain about the noises coming from his apartment. And they have a combative but familial relationship where they give each other grief, but also if the power goes out he goes down to check on her.

Next chapter we're back in the Boner Universe, baby! And Ilya has some plans to make Not-Shane comfortable. ^-^

OH! And I don't know if you've noticed but I changed the title of the fic lol. I really like "Into the Bonerverse" as a title, but I felt it's too silly for the tone of the fic when I was picking a title. But then I couldn't stop thinking about it, so I added it as a subtitle. I hope you enjoy it, because it gives me joy. <3

Also, why is titling a fic the WORST part of writing? Some people love it, but I'm so freaking bad at it. Oh well!

I really appreciate all the comments and kudos. As I've said, they help feed my future fics (by feeding my ego). Replying to them gives me joy, and I love to see people's reactions.

And you can follow me on the places, if you like. I always post about fic updates. And sometimes about other things.
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Chapter 5: The Fight

Chapter Summary

Ilya wakes up with a plan to get Not-Shane to relax a bit. It goes pretty well, until it doesn't.

Chapter Notes

Boner Universe:
Ottawa, Friday, June 18 2022
Later that night.

Ilya stares at his phone quietly in the half-light of the lamp. He’s been avoiding his messages all day, but he knows if he doesn’t answer soon, he’ll get a call. Or worse, a visit.

It’s such an innocuous message. Just a check in.

David: Hey, are you still planning to head to the cottage tomorrow?

Ilya stares at it and bites at the pad of his thumb.

Not-Shane is not ready for the cottage. Ilya isn’t ready for him to be there either. The cottage is their sanctuary, their week there before the hockey camps is a reprieve, where they relax and reconnect after a busy playoff season. They make their own little bubble of paradise for a day or two, completely alone, before they invite David and Yuna or anyone else.

Bringing Not-Shane to the cottage right now will destroy that.

They spent the day talking. Filling each other in on their life stories. Ilya tried to get as many details as he could, but Not-Shane doesn’t give him much. Honestly, it sounds like he doesn’t have much going on in his life outside of hockey. But he was full of questions about Ilya and His Shane. He wants to know everything, though he gets uncomfortable when Ilya speaks about his love for Shane. And he freezes like a baby deer when Ilya mentions anything sexual.

He’s argumentative, and not in a fun way. This Shane deeply distrusts Ilya. And though it’s clear he wants to trust, wants everything Ilya says to be true, he won’t let himself. He’s like a man starving and the first meal he finds is a five-course feast; it’s too good to be true and he’ll starve himself more rather than take the bite he desperately needs.

He needs time with Ilya, and also time with family – but not at the cottage.

Ilya: I think we will delay the cottage by a few days.

He thinks about it a moment.

Ilya: Will you be home Sunday? Supper at your place?

The reply is instant. David: Of course! It should be nice out, we can bbq.

Ilya smiles and hearts the message. He hears the sounds of Not-Shane finishing up in the bathroom and glances up to the closed door as his phone buzzes with one last message.

David: Everything ok?

That’s a loaded question. And it’s tempting to lay it all out for David right now. It’s been tempting to reach out to them all day, get him and Yuna in here, let them help him. But Ilya needs a bit more time. Ilya: Things are a bit strange, but we are ok. I will call you tomorrow and explain.

Not-Shane enters the bedroom as Ilya sends the text. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt and still towelling off his long hair.

“What the fuck?” he says, freezing in the doorway of the ensuite.

Ilya puts his phone down. What is it now?

“Where am I supposed to sleep?”

There are guest rooms here. Not-Shane would have seen them earlier when he was poking around the house – he had been very excited by the home gym, and clearly jealous of the shared trophy room. If he doesn’t want to share a bed with Ilya, he doesn’t have to. But that’s not why he’s making a stink over it now.

God, this man can’t ever just act on what he wants. He’s worse than Ilya’s Shane for that. Worse even than His Shane back when they were young and fighting their connection tooth and nail.

“Sleep where you want. The floor is comfy.”

“Fuck you, why do you get the bed?”

Ilya gives him a flat look. “Because it is my bed. You can sleep on the bed or on the floor, I don’t care.”

Not-Shane takes a hesitant step forward. “You won’t…”

Now Ilya gives him a proper glare. “No. I won’t touch you.” Then his lips curl up in a smirk, because he knows Shane, whether it’s His Shane or Not, Ilya knows him. “Not until you ask me to.”

“I won’t.” Shane doesn’t sound sure of that.

Ilya just shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Not-Shane takes his time crossing the room. But then he lifts the covers and slips in quickly. He keeps his back to Ilya, laying at the very edge of the mattress. Ilya just rolls his eyes and flicks off the light.

“Good night, Shane.”

“Good night,” he hesitates, “Rozanov.”

Ilya wakes up early the next morning with a game plan. He slips out of bed quietly, not wanting to wake Not-Shane, who, he notes, has kicked off half the blankets in the middle of the night. Ilya knew he’d be too warm in those sweatpants. He didn’t say anything, because if Not-Shane thinks he needs an extra barrier to keep himself from crawling on Ilya’s dick, then let him.

He pads quietly downstairs, Anya hot on his heels, and checks the cupboards for breakfast ingredients. They’re running a little low on some of the essentials, in part because nobody’s doing groceries the final weeks of the playoffs, and in part because they were expecting to be leaving for the cottage today, but they have everything Ilya needs for his plan. It’s early enough in the day that Ilya throws on a light sweater before he takes Anya out for a walk. They just take a quick lap around the block, but it’s enough to make his sweet girl happy.

“We’ll do a proper walk tonight, moya milaya,” Ilya whispers to her as he wipes her paws clean before removing her leash.

Their timing is absolutely perfect, because Not-Shane is walking down the stairs as they enter the living space. And he’s got clean sweats on. Perfect.

“I was thinking of hitting the gym,” Ilya says. “Nothing too hard. Maybe some cardio? I have your balance ball.”

Shane lights up at the chance for a workout. He’s a dork in every universe.

They go downstairs together and Shane heads straight for the blue ball, while Ilya exercises restraint by not immediately making blue balls jokes. Instead, he grabs a jump rope and starts an easy rhythm, letting his brain sink into the gentle tap, tap, tap. Anya takes her place in her dog bed they keep for her in the corner. They do some squats and lunges. Ilya does a few burpees, even though they suck. This makes Shane do some, which, naturally, makes Ilya do more. So Shane does more.

It works, though. By the end of it they are both panting and grinning at each other.

Ilya reaches over and gives Not-Shane’s shoulder a gentle tap. “Come on, I’ll race you.” He nods over to the dual treadmills standing along the back wall.

They start running at a decent clip, and Ilya is already grinning because he knows what’s about to happen. It’s unavoidable. And of course, because he’s an instigator, he starts it.

Beep, beep, goes the treadmill as Ilya punches the speed up by two. And sure enough, a second later, there’s the sweet beep, beep of Shane doing the same. Then there’s a third beep from Shane’s machine – he can’t resist doing one better. They catch each other’s eyes as Ilya brings his speed up by one to match Shane’s.

Shane laughs and shakes his head, feet pounding the treads, hand ready to push himself even faster the moment Ilya tries to pull ahead.

Ilya gives him a wink. Then reaches across to Shane’s machine and ups the incline by two.

“Ohhh, fuck you!” Shane says, sounding breathless and joyful. He groans as the treadmill whirs into position.

Then his hand reaches out, quick as a viper, and turns Ilya’s up too.

They do it again, Ilya reaching out, increasing the difficulty, and Shane snapping back and doing the same. And this is exactly what Ilya wanted. Fun. Challenging each other. Getting Shane out of his head for a moment. They push and push at each other until neither of them can breathe and they slow their treadmills down to a walk, lowering the incline back down as their heart rates return to normal.

Shane drops to the mat like an anchor, slapping his hands against the cushioned rubber and exhaling a loud “Haaa!”

Ilya sits a comfortable distance away and gets straight into his stretches. He can feel Not-Shane’s eyes on him, checking out his long legs, clinging t-shirt, and damp curls. Ilya strategically does not make eye contact as he rolls onto his back, feet planted, and lifts his hips, holding the position in pulses of five. He just lets Shane look.

When he’s done, Ilya does a few, quick toe touches, then he spreads his legs wide and curls his body forward, feeling the pull along his inner thigh.

Now, he catches Shane’s eye. Not-Shane’s face is still red from the exercise, but the flush darkens as he realizes he’s been caught, mouth open, eyes drinking Ilya in.

“Help me out?” Ilya asks, innocently.

Shane makes a croaking noise. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

He moves on his knees over to Ilya. His hands are warm and firm on Ilya’s shoulders as he gives a gentle push.

“Mmm. Da,” Ilya purrs. “Harder. I can go lower.”

“Jesus,” Shane whispers to himself. He pushes Ilya more. Pushing lower and lower, until Ilya is almost in a full splits, face just inches from the ground.

“Ohh, that’s good.”

He can feel a little squeeze on his shoulders – Shane always loves to know he’s doing good. Such a good boy. He just wants to please.

Ilya lets Shane hold him in position a little longer than he normally would before he pushes back against Shane’s hand. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Shane releases him quickly, then scurries out of the way as Ilya sits up straight. But he’s not fast enough, and there’s a brief moment where Ilya’s back is pressed against Shane, the heat of their bodies swelling as it’s trapped beneath them.

Ilya grins, revelling in the beautiful tension for a moment before he breathes it away. He looks over and Shane is already stretched out beside him, bent over in the full splits that Ilya wasn’t quite able to do. Of course he does that stretch, that position hides his cock, and Ilya is immediately convinced that this Shane’s dick is just as reactive as His Shane’s. Maybe even more so, because this Shane’s poor dick has probably been ignored for the better part of thirteen years.

Anya can sense the minute Ilya is done with his workout, and she jumps up from her bed and rushes to her dad’s lap, jumping up to give kisses to his sweaty face.

“Oh! My sweet girl! My lovely baby,” Ilya coos to her, before switching into Russian and showering her with more endearments. He scrunches at her neck and scratches behind her floppy ears, kissing her snout and the top of her lovely head.

Anya basks in Ilya’s love until Not-Shane finishes his stretches, and then she jumps over Ilya’s legs and into Shane’s lap.

“Wuh?” Shane says in surprise, looking over to Ilya like he doesn’t know what to do.

“Pet her, you monster,” Ilya teases. “She’s a good girl and deserves all the pets. Don’t you girl? Yes, you do. You rule this house, don’t you, my little tsaritsa?”

“Tsaritsa?” Shane asks.

Right. Of course. This Shane doesn’t speak Russian. Why would he?

It shouldn’t be surprising, but the reminder that Not-Shane is, in fact, not Shane makes Ilya’s gut twist.

“Like, queen. You know the word tsar, yes? She is tsaritsa.”

Ilya gives the two of them a minute to get comfortable, watching as Not-Shane slowly warms up to Anya, his touch becoming more loving by the second. Watching them makes Ilya’s stomach twist even more. It’s cruel to have to watch the man he loves reintroduce himself to Ilya and Ilya’s world. To watch a stranger walk around in his husband’s skin and clothes.

The sunlight streams in through the basement windows and it lights up the freckles on Not-Shane’s face. They are the same freckles. Identical.

Ilya could map out His Shane’s freckles better than he could map the constellations. He knows them better than he knows where the puck is going to go when he passes it down the ice. You could airbrush them off of Shane’s face and Ilya could draw them back on – he knows, he’s done it. There’s a Sports Illustrated somewhere in the house where some idiot editor photoshopped the freckles out of every picture in Shane’s article, and Ilya went in with a brown sharpie and added them all back in.

These freckles are the exact same.

The dark little one just under Shane’s left eye. The little trio at the side of his nose. The four sweet, faint ones hidden among the darker ones on Shane’s right cheek, so pale you wouldn’t see them unless you’re looking very closely.

God, Ilya misses his husband.

The reminder alert on his phone shakes Ilya out of his daze.

“What’s that?” Shane asks, looking around as Anya dances out of reach and heads for the stairs and Ilya pulls himself up to his feet.

“Pill time.” Ilya offers Shane his hand and pulls him up. “Come on. There are leftover lemons to use from the party. I was thinking lemon ricotta pancakes for breakfast.”

“Pancakes?” It’s a good sign that there’s only a hint of judgement in the word.

“Ricotta pancakes. Full of protein. You will be fine.”

Upstairs, Ilya takes his pill while Shane showers off. Ilya takes a quick shower of his own, and then the two of them make the pancakes together. After breakfast, Ilya lets Anya out to play in the back yard while he challenges Not-Shane to a Smash Bros tournament in the den.

They spend most of the afternoon at that. They’re pretty equally matched at the game, and the constant back and forth of winning and losing keeps them both heavily occupied.

Ilya can feel Not-Shane starting to loosen up. The trash talk between them gets more fun and less heated as the day goes on. And now they’re starting to elbow at each other and kick at each others’ shins as their competitiveness takes over. It’s easy touching, something Not-Shane doesn’t have to overthink. Showing him that they can be friendly. That Ilya is not the Ilya that he knows.

They’re making good progress.

Really good progress.

Not-Shane is smiling at Ilya. Rubbing his shoulder against Ilya’s as he brags about the Final Smash his Mario is unloading on Ilya’s Sephiroth.

“How d’ya like that?” Shane crows.

“Oh, we’ll see how you like it, next game,” Ilya retorts as he watches Sephiroth fly off the screen for the final time this battle. Before they can start up another game, Ilya hears a scratch at the door. “Ah, Anya misses me.” He jumps to his feet, and calls over his shoulder, “More ginger ale?”

“Yeah! And another dog, if there’s any left.”

Ilya is already out of the room, so he makes his fake, shocked gasp extra loud. “You would dare to eat my beautiful Anya?!”

He can hear Shane laughing all the way down the hall. Ilya lets Anya in, giving her a treat for being a good girl outside, and patting her head. Then he heads to the kitchen where there are three cooked hotdogs leftover from their lunch. He tosses all three of them into the microwave and pulls out the buns. He does one with ketchup, mustard, onions, and relish for Shane. One with sauerkraut and onions for himself. He plates up one dog per bun and then rips the end off the remaining hotdog and tosses it to Anya. He puts the rest in his mouth and awkwardly eats it while balancing the plates and the two cans of pop.

Not-Shane isn’t sitting on the couch when Ilya returns. He’s up at the wall, looking at the shelf that runs full length beneath the windows. There’s lots to look at, there. Video games, dvds. A few of those Pop Vinyl figures of characters they like (not any of Shane or Ilya, those are in the trophy room). And a few various nerdy knickknacks they’ve accumulated over the years.

Ilya doesn’t even think twice to see Shane looking at it all. He wonders how much of it is familiar to Shane. Probably not a lot. This is their collection, things that they like together. Not just Shane’s or Ilya’s things.

It does get a little curious, though, when Ilya puts the plates and drinks down and Not-Shane hasn’t even moved.

“Your hotdog will get cold.”

“What is this?” The tone in Shane’s voice makes Ilya go still. His eyes flash up to Shane, trying to see through him to whatever he’s looking at.

“What is what?”

Not-Shane turns, holding a little decorative wooden box, decorated with wood burnt stars and a moon.

Ah. That box.

“What is this, Rozanov?”

Ilya winces at the name. “I think you know what it is, Shane.”

It’s a small box. Just big enough to hold a small bottle of lube and a few condoms. One of many hidden around the property.

“Why the fuck do you have this in here?” His eyes are flat and angry, his hands shaking. “Is that why we’re in here? You’re trying to seduce me?”

“What?” Ilya’s hands go up. “No, I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to get you to relax.”

“Oh, so I need to relax, do I? Relax all the way into your fucking bed!” Shane picks up the lube and throws it at Ilya.

“No. I want you to relax so you can relax. I’m not trying to do anything.”

“Then why do you have that here?”

“I have them everywhere!” Ilya gives an incredulous little laugh. The fact that he has to explain this now, to this Shane. What has his life become. “Check all the rooms, Hollander. They’re everywhere!”

Shane is shaking his head now. Gritting his teeth. “I knew it. You’re some kind of pervert, aren’t you?”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Ilya says. His patience is holding on by a thread here, and he can feel it threatening to snap. “Yeah, it’s all on me, huh? Big scary Russian man, hiding lube all around the house. It can’t be because you like it. Because you can’t wait long enough to get up to the bedroom.”

They’re face to face now. Ilya doesn’t remember moving, but here he is, glaring down at Shane.

At Not-Shane.

The anger and restrained arousal brewing in Not-Shane’s eyes is suddenly overpowered by fear. Not fear of Ilya, or anything Ilya might do to him. But a fear that Ilya is right. That he would want it. Does want it. And doesn’t want to wait to get up to the bedroom.

All the fight drains from Ilya’s body, leaving him hollow.

“I said I wouldn’t touch you, and I meant it.”

He can’t read what is going on in Not-Shane’s eyes right now. There’s too much of everything, and it’s swirling around too fast for him to make out.

There’s an apology on Ilya’s lips, but before he can make it, the doorbell rings.

Chapter End Notes

Whoops! A cliffhanger! My bad

Who do we think's at the door? David and Yuna? One of the Centaurs? An Amazon delivery person with a fresh order of dildos? A secret fourth thing?

Thank you all for reading! It's been so fun seeing your comments and reactions, and getting the kudos emails. They always brighten my morning. It's been really awesome to see you liking my fic. <3

Next chapter, we're back in the Boner-Less Universe, and I don't want to give too much away, but there may be some arguing going on there, as well. And maybe some sexual tension???? As a treat.

Also can you believe I originally forgot to tag Anya in this fic? She's practically a main character! I did not mean any disrespect to her or any dog (real or fictional), and the issue has been rectified.

And, as always, you can follow me at the places. I have been throwing some thoughts on Threads lately, so that's been fun. And I've been lurking Tumblr more these days, too.

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Chapter 6: Bubble Burst

Chapter Summary

Ilya goes through a lot of emotions in a short amount of time. Also, we earn our "E" rating.

Chapter Notes

Boner-less Universe:
Boston, Saturday June 19 2022
That morning

“So… my family – uh my cousins – they live here in Boston. They’re, uh, on my dad’s side. And I’m visiting. It’s like, a family thing.”

There is a smudge on the wall about three feet left of Hollander’s head and Ilya stares at it. Shane Hollander has been in his house for nearly half an hour now, and he has been babbling this weird made-up story about his family the entire time. Ilya doesn’t know why he’s trying – the man cannot lie.

Ilya is tense in his seat. He’s sitting in the armchair in his living room, and he’s actually not sure if he’s ever sat here before in all the years he’s lived here. But Hollander took the couch, and Ilya stayed a safe distance away. He just can’t trust himself around Hollander. Especially not with this weird bet they have not to fight.

But Hollander is already trying Ilya’s patience.

“Bethany,” he says. Ilya doesn’t need to google search it to know Hollander doesn’t have a cousin named Bethany. “And Mark. My cousins.”

Hollander looks oddly comfortable in Ilya’s space. He sits with one leg tucked under the other, and his arm spread along the back of the couch, turning himself towards Ilya. It’s unexpected. He’s usually so tense around Ilya, almost vibrating with aggression, like a snappy little dog. But he’s relaxed.

The only thing that’s awkward is this endless lie he’s telling.

“We’re doing a family picnic later.” Hollander picks at a fluff on the back of the couch and flicks it away.

Finally, Ilya snaps. “Oh my god, you’re killing me, Hollander! What do I care about your stupid cousins or your boring picnic? Why are you here?”

He starts to say “A family thing,” for the fortieth time and Ilya nearly screams.

“Here?” Ilya asks. His tone of voice is getting away from him. He can feel the frustrating surging in his limbs. It makes him want to move. “Why are you here? In my house?”

Ilya doesn’t really remember getting up, but he’s standing now, arms outstretched. Almost like he’s pleading for an answer. But he is not. He would never plead. Not to Hollander.

He doesn’t forget how Hollander sidestepped his question yesterday about how he even knew where Ilya lived.

“I told you; I want to be friends.”

Ilya curses in Russian and Hollander flinches. Ilya has to move. Has to do something. So he steps away, striding the length of the apartment with long strides, then turns on his heels and marches right back. “And this is how we become friends, hmm? You talk about your family picnic? We braid each others hair? Sing that American campfire song with the weird lyrics?”

“Kumbaya,” Hollander offers.

Ilya stops and just glares at him. His jaw is so tense it hurts.

This is so weird. It’s so weird and Ilya doesn’t understand it, or why it’s happening. Or why it’s happening now!

“Look, I don’t know what to do here, either.” Hollander is calmer than Ilya’s ever seen him before. It’s like he’s an alien or something. Like in Men In Black when that farmer gets worn like a suit by that big bug.

Hollander stands, and Ilya takes an immediate step backwards.

Ilya has never, never backed down from a fight. Especially not against Hollander. But as soon as Hollander is on his feet, Ilya remembers last night. That moment between them. And he can’t handle that. He can’t have that again.

That had felt like Hollander was going to kiss him. Or wanted him to kiss Hollander.

“Why must we do this? Can’t we just fight each other like normal?” This is insane. Fighting is what they do. It makes Ilya feel more alive than he does all the rest of the year. Hollander loves it too. He can’t stop any more than Ilya can. Why should they try now?

“Come on, there’s got to be some kind of common ground here. Something that we don’t hate about each other.”

Hollander takes a step closer. Moving right into Ilya’s space. Ilya’s heart pounds, his fight or flight instincts kicking into gear – only he promised not to fight, and if he flees back another step it will make him a coward.

Plus, there’s something in Hollander’s eyes that catches him. Makes him freeze.

“I can go first.”

Ilya’s mouth is dry. He can’t listen to this.

His eyes dart around the apartment, looking for a way out. Praying that someone pulls the fire alarm. Hell! Praying that someone starts a fire in the building. Anything to get him out of here.

Hollander is close enough now that Ilya can smell his cologne.

“The way you skate,” Hollander’s eyes don’t ever leave Ilya’s, and Ilya can’t breathe, “is powerful. And it’s beautiful.”

Ilya’s knees tremble, but he fights it. He’s desperate to look away, to break eye contact with Hollander, but he can’t.

And also, some horrible, awful, masochist part of his brain is hoping for a repeat of last night when Hollander broke their gaze for the first time in their lives. He broke their gaze and he looked at Ilya’s lips.

Fuck! Now Ilya is looking at Hollander’s lips.

They’re so nice and pink. He definitely uses lip balm on them. Probably some fancy, organic thing that’s environmentally conscious. And they have such a nice, fat curve to them.

Ilya drags his gaze back up to Hollander’s eyes and he knows he’s been caught. But Hollander doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he destroys the mood between them with a cheery, “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

He claps Ilya on the shoulder once, and steps back to return to his seat on the couch. As he does, his fingers draw down Ilya’s arm. It’s a light touch – barely there. But it sends shivers through Ilya’s entire body.

Just like that, Ilya is an absolute puppy.

He follows Hollander to the couch, sitting just barely out of reach. He mirrors Hollander, tucking a leg under himself and turning.

So stupid. Ilya is being so stupid right now. This is going to end in disaster, but he can’t help himself. Just like he couldn’t help but let Hollander in. Or couldn’t stop himself from checking the peephole before eleven am.

“Now you say something nice about me.”

A thousand things fly in Ilya’s head all at once. Unsorted. Unfiltered. They swirl around him like a tornado. He tries to grasp at one. Something easy. Something innocent. Something safe.

His eyes land on those freckles, and his tongue goes thick and stupid in his mouth.

And Hollander, goddamn Hollander, he gives a little look, and a smile, and a tilt of the head like he knows exactly what Ilya’s thinking about.

Is this… Is this flirting?

What an insane question to even think. Ilya prides himself on his ability to clock sexual and romantic interest in others. He’s incredibly good at it, maybe even better than he is at hockey. Just spend a minute or two with someone and he can tell who they want and how badly. And he can always tell when people want him.

Shane Hollander is the only exception.

Ilya cannot read the man. Not for himself or for anyone else. One night, years back, they were in the same club together (one of the very few nights they didn’t argue or brawl at all). For a minute or two, Ilya got an unfettered view of Hollander and his then-girlfriend Rose Landry. Ilya’s only thought, after watching them both, was that Hollander had zero interest in that woman. But he was clearly wrong, because they dated pretty seriously for over six months. There were rumours of an engagement before scheduling conflicts made them break it off.

Plus, there’s the whole, you know, rivalry of it all. There have been times over the years – brief, fleeting instants – where Ilya thought he sensed desire from Hollander. A look on the ice. A glimmer before a punch. A crook of a smile as they accidentally wrestle each other into broken glass. But that can’t be real. That’s just the addiction of their hatred for each other. Or wishful thinking from the deepest darkest corners of Ilya’s mind playing tricks on him.

Just because you want something bad enough, doesn’t mean you get it.

“Ilya?” Hollander says, soft like a caress. It pulls Ilya out of his own wandering thoughts and slams him back into himself.

“I like when you lose games against me.”

“Asshole!” Hollander shouts. But he’s grinning.

“What? Is true!” It’s deeply true. When Ilya beats him, Hollander makes this grumpy face, his nose all crinkled and his frown so deep his mouth is basically an upside-down u. It’s the best face.

“Come on. Think of something better than that,” Hollander says, giving Ilya a little push.

“There was that time I checked you into the boards and you belched. I loved that!”

“I did not!” Hollander looks affronted.

This feels incredible. For the first time in their lives, Hollander is laughing with Ilya. He’s not getting mad when Ilya teases him. Not puffing up his chest and escalating things. The laughter diffuses the tension.

Somehow, conversation starts to come easy between them.

They pick and razz each other, and it’s easy. Why is it so easy?

Could it always have been easy?

Time rushes by, and Ilya is practically boneless against the back of the couch, watching Shane’s hands move through the air as he tries to explain Ilya’s own move back to him. It feels like there’s an air bubble sitting in Ilya’s chest, making him weightless. He’s floating.

His phone rings, and the bubble pops.

Ilya looks at the time before he answers it. It’s 1 in the afternoon now. Which means it’s 9 pm in Moscow. The party is probably just getting started.

“Andrei,” Ilya greets flatly. “What do you want?” He should probably take this in another room, but he doesn’t want to leave Hollander’s bubble on the couch. But he’ll be speaking Russian, so it should be fine. So long as they don’t start shouting at each other, Hollander won’t know.

“Always so testy, little brother. Fuck. Relax. Can’t I check in with you without you turning it into a shitshow?” Ilya can hear people in the background laughing. We wonders if his brother’s wife knows where he is or who he’s with.

Ilya can feel Hollander’s eyes on him. He makes an effort to keep his face neutral.

“You only ever check in on me if you want money. How much is it this time?” He keeps his tone light and pleasant, and Andrei picks up on it.

“Oooh, did I catch you at a bad time? Are you with one of those nasty little hockey sluts?” Andrei’s voice drips with filth. He’s so gross about women. Especially women who might be interested in Ilya. “Or do you have one of your faggot boys with you, waiting to suck your cock?” He says this part loudly, so everyone can hear it. He laughs like a donkey while his gross friends laugh and shout, encouraging him. If he thought Ilya ever actually slept with men he would never make that joke.

“What the fuck do you want, Andrei?” Ilya is losing control is his tone. And his facial expressions. One glance up and he can see the way Hollander is looking at him, brows pinched together with concern.

Hollander’s eyes look too sharp. Like he sees what’s really happening here.

But no, he can’t. Ilya is just on edge because he’s here and he’s witnessing Ilya be insulted by his own brother.

“Do you think insulting me will make me open up my wallet to you? Fuck you!”

He goes to hang up, but a “Wait, wait, wait!” from his brother holds his hand.

Ilya puts his phone back to his ear. For a moment, Andrei doesn’t say anything, but Ilya can hear the background noise fade away like his brother has moved to a quieter room.

“Listen,” Andrei says, serious now, “the boys and I have this opportunity, and we want you in on it with us.”

Jesus Christ, it’s always something with Andrei.

“What is it this time?” Ilya doesn’t even try to keep up with the bad investments his brother has made over the year. He’s blown more money on these wild schemes than he’s spent on anything else – including cocaine.

“No, no, no, don’t be like that. This is legit this time. It’s solid. No risk, big reward.”

With every word Ilya’s gut sinks deeper and deeper.

“What is it?” He’s exhausted now. He doesn’t have time for this bullshit when he could be maybe-flirting with Hollander on his couch.

“Not over the phone.”

“What?!” The word is so sharp and loud that Hollander jumps a little on the couch. Ilya tries to give him a reassuring smile.

Give him a reassuring smile?? What even is Ilya’s life right now? This can’t be real.

“They want to see you in person. Give a proper pitch. I’m telling you, Ilya, this is the real thing. Professional. They have slides, numbers, everything. And they don’t want just me. They want you, too.”

My money, Ilya thinks. Maybe his name, too.

“Christ,” Ilya pinches his brow. It feels like a headache brewing. “Just tell me how much.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not like that. Look, it’s off-season, yes? You haven’t been home in years. Why don’t you come to Russia. You can meet them. They can give you the pitch.” Ilya hesitates, and Andrei presses harder. “You haven’t seen your family in ages. You could fly out tomorrow or the next day, stay a week or two.”

“No.” Ilya says it softly at first. A faint nyet. Andrei keeps talking. “No.” He says, firmer. “I am not going to Russia this summer. And I’m not investing in your newest scheme.”

Andrei starts talking faster. Louder. Trying to push his point, bully Ilya from across the world.

Ilya’s patience has worn out. “Goodbye, Andrei.” He hangs up.

Hollander is still watching him. Fuck, Ilya should have taken it in another room. Should have burst that happy bubble himself. It’s ruined now anyway, and worse because now it has the stink of Andrei all over it.

Ilya takes a long, deep breath through his nose, holding it until his chest burns.

There is the lightest nudge against Ilya’s knee, and his gaze flashes down to see Hollander touching the tips of two fingers gently to his knee. “Are you okay?” Hollander asks.

“Fine,” Ilya lies.

He’s stressed. And he’s angry.

Angry at Andrei for asking to return to Russia. Angry at himself because he was so tempted. Ilya knows – he knows – that if Shane Hollander weren’t sitting on his couch right now, promising to stay for a week and learn not to hate each other, that he would be booking his ticket right now.

‘Family.’

It’s such a joke, they aren’t family. But it’s so compelling. It’s all Ilya wants.

“I didn’t realize you still talked to your brother.” Hollander says it so quietly, it almost doesn’t register with Ilya at first.

He doesn’t talk to his brother very often. Every time he does, he always regrets it. He’s told himself a hundred times that he’s cutting Andrei off. But then sometimes he gets so lonely here in Boston, that when the phone rings, he answers it.

Slowly, Hollander’s words sink in. He didn’t realize Ilya still talked to Andrei.

Why would Hollander be surprised he talks to his brother? How does Hollander even know his brother’s name?

“How did you know that was my brother?”

There’s no anger in Ilya’s voice, not yet, but Hollander’s eyes widen and his back stiffens. Like he’s afraid. Like he’s been caught with something.

“I – you said his name.”

“How do you know my brother’s name, Hollander?” It feels like there is a storm brewing inside Ilya, and he’s standing at the center of it, waiting for it to touch down.

“I’ve googled you.”

That’s a lie. Ilya doesn’t know how or why Hollander is lying, but he knows it’s a lie.

Something is off about Hollander. He’s different. Like winning another fucking Stanley Cup has addled his brain or something.

“You googled me. What, you are a stalker, now? Huh? You look me up online. You come to my house unannounced. You sneak into my building.”

“I didn’t – I’m not – It’s not like that –” Hollander clamps his mouth shut, face going red as he gets flustered and frustrated. “Don’t act like you haven’t looked me up.” His volume is starting to rise. Good. This is what Ilya wants. What he needs.

Fight me, Hollander.

This visit. This truce. That phone call. That “family.” It all presses down on Ilya and he would love to punch someone about it.

“I don’t know where you live.” Ilya leans closer, letting his height and his bulk physically intimidate. Hollander doesn’t cower, though. He never does. “I don’t show up at your goddamned house with a suitcase like you’re moving in.” The anger is building, and Ilya lets it. Hollander is still protesting, but Ilya ignores it. Fuck their bet. Fuck this whole friendship business. They are fighting. Right here, right now. And Ilya is going to make Hollander throw the first blow. “You’re a disgusting, dirty stalker, Hollander. Aren’t you?”

They’re so close now that Ilya can feel the air from Hollander’s gasp brush against his lip.

Hollander swallows back a growling noise.

His hands move, and this is it. This is what Ilya’s been waiting for. He’s going to get punched. Fighting Shane won’t ever have felt so good.

Warm fingers are rough as they slide into Ilya’s hair and hold tight, but they don’t hurt. They don’t hurt at all. And then Ilya is pulled forward. Their lips crash together with enough force that their teeth clack. Hollanders lips push and roll against Ilya’s for a moment as Ilya catches his bearings, and then they’re off.

Ilya presses his tongue into Hollander’s mouth and it’s hot. It’s hot, it’s so hot. And sweet.

God the man is delicious. Ilya growls for it. He moves forward, hands gripping Hollander’s waist. Ilya pushes and pulls at the same time, flipping Hollander underneath him and pressing him down into the couch.

Hollander is already hard against him. Christ, and he’s moving. Rolling his body. His hands pull at the back of Ilya’s clothes. A quick motion has Ilya’s shirt off and flung across the room.

In the moment their lips are separated, Hollander reaches for his own shirt. But he only gets it halfway up before Ilya is pressing him back down and sucking on that fat lower lip. Hollander struggles, arms half-caught in the shirt, but Ilya is pinning him, grinding him down into the cushions.

“Let me take this off, you asshole!” Hollander grumbles.

He doesn’t sound mad now. He sounds horny.

Fuck, this is so hot. Every inch of Ilya’s skin that touches Hollander’s is scorching. They should have been doing this for years. Why have they not been doing this for goddamn years?

Hollander finally gets an arm out of his shirt and he shoves Ilya away. He flings the shirt to the floor and shoves Ilya again, harder this time, pushing Ilya onto his back.

“Asshole!”

For a moment, Ilya thinks maybe they really are fighting. But then Hollander is straddling his lap and twisting his hips into a dirty grind that makes Ilya swear in Russian. His hands find their way to Hollander’s waist, and he squeezes tight, helping pull and circle Hollander over him.

“Fuck, that’s good!” Ilya groans, throwing his head back.

Hollander uses that as an opportunity to lay himself over Ilya and suck on his pulse.

“Da,” Ilya sighs. A hand strokes down Hollander’s back and slips under his pants and underwear, getting a handful of perfect, plump ass. Oh, Hollander has a great ass. Most hockey players do, but Hollander’s is the kind to drive a man wild.

Ilya still remembers the first time he saw it. That day, back before their rookie season, when they shot a CCM campaign. He only got a glimpse. Hollander had been in the shower, and the second Ilya walked in he rinsed off and walked out. But in the few seconds in between – it was glorious. So round and perky. The kind Ilya just wants to slap.

If Ilya thought that Hollander might fight any attempts to turn him into a bottom, the thought is absolutely obliterated. Because as Ilya squeezes that perfect handful of cheek, Hollander’s whole body reacts. His back arches like a whore’s, and he pushes his ass back into Ilya’s hand, encouraging two of Ilya’s fingers to slip down between his crack and touch at his hole.

Hollander moans. Honest to god moans. He lifts his mouth from Ilya’s neck and practically purrs as Ilya teases him with two, dry fingers.

“Where’s the lube?” he asks moments before pushing his tongue into Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya waits for break in the kiss, hips rocking up to slide his hard cock against Hollander’s, before he answers. “Bedroom.”

Now, Hollander scoffs. “That’s so far away.”

“Well, it’s not like I hide it around the apartment so I can fuck hockey players on my couch.”

Hollander makes a weird face at that, something Ilya can’t begin to read. Then he heaves a longsuffering sigh. “Take me to bed, then.”

A part of Ilya doesn’t want to move. A large part of Ilya (a throbbing, pulsing, leaking part of Ilya). He wants to just stay right here, in this new, horny bubble they’ve made on the couch, and rut himself up against Hollander’s cock until he’s creaming in his shorts like a virgin. He bets he could make Hollander come like this – just a dirty grind and a dry finger teasing him. Hell, it would probably be the best orgasm Hollander’s ever had.

But when Ilya takes too long to move, Hollander makes the call by pulling off Ilya’s lips with parting nip and getting up. He stands over Ilya, shirtless, and towering from this angle. His lips are pinker than ever, and his eyes are black with desire. Hair rumpled. His shorts are crooked from where Ilya’s hand was in them.

And those shorts are tented beautifully.

Ilya could just open his mouth. Guide Hollander by the hips until he straddles Ilya’s face and finally gives him the taste he’s been wanting for more than a decade.

But Hollander takes Ilya’s hand in his own, and just like before, Ilya is a puppy.

He gets up slow, because his blood is rushing so many places right now, he feels almost dizzy with it. And Ilya lets Shane lead him into the bedroom.

How does Shane Hollander know where Ilya’s bedroom is?

Hollander’s shorts hit the floor as they enter the bedroom, and suddenly Ilya doesn’t care about anything but his hard cock and that sweet, sweet ass. Ilya kicks his own down his legs, nearly tripping himself in his rush.

There’s too much space between them. Ilya needs his hands back on that perfect buttocks more than he needs air in his lungs. He leaps forward. Ilya scoops Hollander up into his arms and drops him, bouncing on the bed. He pounces and they wrap around each other. Hollander is laughing, and it’s so fucking gorgeous it steals Ilya’s breath.

Stick-roughened hands grip over Ilya’s back, pulling Ilya in close. Tight.

Their cocks line up and for a beautiful moment Ilya is grunting and stupid. And then Hollander’s grip turns firm and he’s turning and lifting and rolling. He flips Ilya onto his back like a practiced wrestler – and god if that isn’t the sexiest thing a man could do.

Except it’s not, because now Shane is pressing all his weight down between Ilya’s legs, rutting his cock along Ilya’s, and biting his lip. And that is now the sexiest thing a man can do.

Hollander doesn’t stay in one place long. Ilya is still reeling from being flipped and grinded on, and Shane is already sliding down Ilya’s body, trailing bites and sucking hickeys down Ilya’s torso.

“Oh god,” Ilya gasps as he realizes where this is going. He watches, unblinking, mouth dropped, as Shane Fucking Hollander takes his cock in a loose fist and rubs the flat of his tongue over the tip of Ilya’s cock. “Oh fuck!” His legs jerk against the bed, and it’s all Ilya can do not to blow his load right now. This instant.

He can’t look away as Shane circles his tongue around the tip once, twice, and then sinks down over Ilya’s length.

Shane Hollander can suck cock?

Shane Hollander can suck cock!

He does it like a fucking pro. It’s everything Ilya likes. The perfect speed and pressure. Filthy and wet in all the right ways.

God. Christ. Is this even real? Is Ilya having a mental breakdown and hallucinating this?

He can’t look away. He’s scared to even blink. Because Hollander is getting dangerously close to choking on his cock, and Ilya doesn’t dare to miss a second of it. Hollander looks up. Watching the way Ilya is watching him. Those doe-brown eyes look up at Ilya through long lashes, that beautifully freckled face, lips stretched tight around Ilya’s cock.

“Stop,” Ilya practically yelps the word, suddenly realizing he’s seconds away from blowing his load in his rival’s mouth.

And he wants it. God, Ilya wants it so bad. But he wants Hollander’s ass even more.

Hollander pulls off Ilya’s cock and just hovers there. Lips swollen and dripping spit and precum. Long hair dishevelled from the fingers Ilya didn’t even realize he was twisting into it. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are lidded. He looks the very picture of sex.

And he’s looking right back up at Ilya.

Ilya could probably nut right here. This is every fantasy he’s ever had.

“Get up here.” Ilya is reaching for Shane before he even consciously thinks about it. He pulls Shane up his body and seals their mouth together.

Christ, if he thought Shane tasted good before, it’s nothing compared to now, with the taste of his dick on Hollander’s tongue.

“I still don’t see any lube,” Hollander teases, his hand pressed against Ilya’s cheek, holding him close so their lips brush as he speaks.

Somehow, Ilya thought Hollander would be a blushing, bumbling virgin. Someone shaking and scared to have his butt touched. That’s ridiculous, of course. A wayward fantasy. the reality is so much hotter.

Ilya flips Hollander back onto the bed so he can get the lube from the bedside table, but he’s distracted along the way by kissing those lips and nipping at Shane’s ear.

“Lube,” Hollander reminds him.

“Okay, okay.” Ilya takes one last kiss, then ducks into the crook of Shane’s neck and blows a raspberry over his collarbone. He’s rewarded with a laugh, and a playful push off the bed. Then Ilya finally gets back on task.

He returns triumphant with lube and condoms.

Hollander gives the condoms a funny look and opens his mouth like he’s going to ask why they need them.

“No, Hollander, you can’t get pregnant,” Ilya explains it in an annoyingly sweet voice, like he’s talking to a child. “But it’s still good manners to wrap up tight.”

“I’ll show you tight.”

Hollander fists Ilya’s cock and gives a slow, tight pull. His other hand grabs Ilya by the scruff of the neck and pulls him down into a tumble of legs.

How is it that Ilya is moaning and laughing at the same time? Why is this so fun? It was supposed to be angry. Ilya had been angry. If they weren’t going to fight, they were going to have nasty, aggressive sex. But now Hollander is holding Ilya so blindingly tight. And he’s so warm and soft underneath him. And Ilya is pressing kisses into Hollander’s cheek and neck like an excited puppy. And they’re laughing and grinding.

“If I don’t get my dick in you soon, I’m going to explode.”

“Then open me up, Rozanov.” Hollander spreads his legs and Ilya falls between them.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Ilya’s pulse thunders in his ears as he settles between Shane’s legs and coats his fingers. His whole body is thrumming with excitement. He’s got over a decade of pent-up lust absolutely buzzing under his skin. He reaches down and touches two fingers to Shane’s hole. He’s ready to push in when he suddenly comes back to himself.

“Shit. Is this okay?” Ilya holds his fingers at the precipice. He can’t believe he was about to just force his way in. He doesn’t even know if Hollander’s done this before. Or recently.

“Yes. Please. I can handle it.”

“Fuck, Hollander.” He pushes one finger in, and it slides in nice and easy, up to the knuckle.

“More. Want you in me.”

There goes the last of Ilya’s restraint. His brain quiets down. There is nothing in the world but his hand, his fingers, and the tight grip of Hollander’s asshole as Ilya pulls out and pushes two back into him. He opens like a dream, stretching quickly up to three of Ilya’s thick fingers.

He looks absolutely stunning like this. Dark hair spread out over Ilya’s blankets. Long body twisting and writhing in the sheets. His cock is hard and drooling over his stomach.

Hollander’s heels dig into the mattress, his hips rolling to meet the rhythm of Ilya’s fingers.

“You’re ready for me, huh? Hollander?”

Shane lifts a leg and hooks his heels behind Ilya, pulling Ilya closer. “Yes. Fuck. I’m so ready for you. Please.”

He whimpers – fucking whimpers! – when Ilya pulls his fingers free. God, Ilya is so amped. His hands shake as he grabs for the lube. He almost lubes himself up without the condom, but Hollander is there, ripping it open, sliding it over Ilya’s throbbing erection so Ilya can douse himself.

“So polite,” Ilya teases. Or – he tries to tease. His voice isn’t quite coming out the way he wants it to right now, and he sounds too sincere. “Are you going to thank me, later, too?”

He’s holding himself between Hollander’s legs now, just barely holding himself back from plunging in. But Ilya wants more. He wants to hear Shane say he wants it, again. Wants to record it and play it on loop. Listen to it every night before bed.

“Fuck you,” Hollander says. His voice is also coming out wrong – there’s no bite to it at all. If anything, he sounds charmed. Maybe smitten. But no, that’s just Ilya’s own delusion. “Give me something worth thanking you for.”

The challenge makes Ilya throb.

Ilya rubs his tip against Hollander’s hole, and they make identical, needy sounds. Ilya is hesitating, but he doesn’t understand why. He tries not to let it show on his face, he forces a grin to try and look cocky and teasing, as he circles himself over Shane’s hole again.

“Please.” Ilya’s eyes flash up to Shane’s face. Shane is looking at Ilya with an expression he’s never seen before. It’s so soft. So knowing. Like he sees Ilya. “I want you.”

Lightning burns through Ilya’s veins. Shane’s words make him feel powerful. And lightheaded.

Ilya doesn’t wait another second. Shane wants him – Shane will have him.

That first push in is a revelation. Hollander is hot and tight. He clenches in a way that’s inviting, urging Ilya deeper. And if that wasn’t enough, his legs wrap around Ilya, squeezing him, heels pushing into Ilya’s lower back, forcing him deeper.

Hollander’s hands are in Ilya’s hair again, squeezing the back of his neck, pulling him down till they’re lip to lip.

“Fuck me good, Ilya. I can take it.”

Ilya.

His name on Shane Hollander’s lips.

Ilya doesn’t think he could go slow if he tried. He loses all control, all sense of restraint as his body plunges into Shane’s again and again. He grips Hollander’s shoulders, holding him in place while his hips work up a frenzy, encouraged by the sharp sting of Hollander’s heels on his backside.

“Right there! Right there!”

Shane is clinging to him now.

Everywhere.

Every part of Shane Hollander is clinging and gripping and squeezing. His nails scratch down Ilya’s shoulders like he’s trying to pull Ilya closer, but it’s not physically possible. They are as close as two people can possibly get.

They’re grunting and groaning together. Lips squished close, breathing together. It’s hot and humid. Absolutely delicious.

“Kiss me,” Ilya demands. That’s not a conscious request from his brain; it comes from somewhere much deeper. Ilya doesn’t even realize he’s said it until he hears the words.

Shane’s lips are sweet. He kisses Ilya deeply. Like this means something to him. And Ilya loses himself to it.

He’s weak to this. To this strange, sweet Shane. The Shane that touches him. Holds his hand. Kisses him.

Tell him he wants him.

It’s a dumb, dumb, stupid idea, but Ilya is too far gone to think about that now – he reaches for one of Shane’s arms, pulling it away and pushing it back onto the bed. He follows the line of Shane’s arm down until their fingers slip together. Then he holds on for dear life.

Shane’s other hand stops digging into Ilya’s shoulders and moves up to cup the back of Ilya’s head. His thumb brushes just below Ilya’s temple.

“Ilyaaaa,” he drawls out. “Yesssss!”

Suddenly, everything is different. The way he moves inside Shane. The way they kiss. It softens. Deepens.

It’s still hot. It still feels incredible. And Ilya is keeping the same pace. But it’s different now. They’re not fucking, they’re –

“Ilyaaa!”

“O-oh! Shane! Fuck!”

Ilya can’t tell who started coming first. His balls clench at the same time that Shane pulses around him. He can feel Shane’s cum spurt between them, making them messy and sticky. He rides out the high in Shane’s tight embrace. He keeps going until they’re twitching and it almost hurts, and then he stills.

He keeps holding himself above Shane, fingers locked together, lips bare millimeters apart.

This was incredible. Literally the best sex of Ilya’s long and sex-filled life. His heart feels like it’s bursting.

Ilya doesn’t want to pull out, but after a few moments he realizes he has to. As much as he might want to, he can’t stay inside Shane Hollander forever. He drops to Shane’s side and lets the beautiful afterglow wash over him. Feels the satisfaction in his body, down into his bones.

Beside him, Shane starts to get antsy, and he sits up suddenly.

“I need to wipe up,” he says, like he has to explain himself. Well… maybe he does, because Ilya can feel his stomach drop at the thought of Shane leaving this bed. “I’ll be right back,” Shane promises. He seals it with a kiss, and then he’s scampering off to Ilya’s bathroom.

It’s a nice little kiss. It lingers on Ilya’s lips as he lies there. A quick brush of warmth to Ilya’s already heated lips.

It’s not the kind of kiss that Ilya is used to, honestly. So sweet, so fleeting. It’s almost… habitual.

Shane Hollander kisses Ilya like it’s normal.

Shane Hollander calls Ilya by his first name like it’s normal.

Shane Hollander knows where Ilya’s bathroom is. Where his bedroom is. Where his fucking house is.

The afterglow quickly turns cold as Ilya’s brain shifts into high gear. What the actual fuck is happening right now? Nothing makes sense. Hollander hates him. He doesn’t hold Ilya’s hand or kiss him softly in parting.

All of his reactions are weird. He takes Ilya’s teasing at face value without getting mad, something he’s never done before. He’s here, in Ilya’s house, trying to mend a relationship that was never meant to be mended. That he has never showed any sign of wanting to be anything more than bitter hatred and rivalry.

By the time Hollander returns to the bedroom, throwing a wet cloth across the room that lands with a splat on Ilya’s chest, Ilya is in a full panic. He doesn’t have thoughts anymore – not coherent ones, anyway – just endless screaming and alarm bells.

“You should clean yourself up,” Hollander says, climbing onto the mattress and sitting at Ilya’s side.

Ilya doesn’t move or react. He lets the washcloth lay on his chest, feeling the warm dampness turn cool.

Slowly, he turns to look at the man beside him. This stranger who has never been so strange to him, even though they were just closer than he ever thought possible.

“Who are you?” The man opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. “I don’t think you are Shane Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

It is very fun for me that Ilya is such a perceptive character, because it meant I got to keep throwing out little pieces that he's noticing and noticing until they finally overload and he realizes something very wrong is going on!

I also got to play with dramatic irony here, because Shane knows every thought in Ilya's head and every word of that Russian conversation, but Ilya doesn't know he knows, but we know he knows. It's very fun! I can see why people like putting it in stories.

This chapter doesn't quite end on a cliffhanger, but it definitely feels cliffhangery. I hope you don't mind that I did that two chapters in a row lol

Also, this is the chapter that inspired the tag "I am sorry to Mr Rozanov for what I put him through" because OUF BUDDY his life is hard, and everything about that call with Andrei made me Big Time Sad. And I am very sorry for writing him into such a sad and lovely universe.

Next chapter we finally get to see who's at the door, back in the Boner Universe.

Thank you so much for reading! And for all the lovely comments and kudos! I always love seeing the emails come in and hearing people's thoughts and enjoyment of the fic. Since I never start posting until after the fic is done, when I'm writing I'll be like "oh! the people are going love this... I hope!" but I don't get to know until way later. And it's cool to finally post and get to see if I was right.

And you can follow me on the places, if you like.
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Chapter 7: Hayden

Chapter Summary

Shane gets an unexpected, but much needed, visit from his best friend.

Chapter Notes

Boner Universe:
Ottawa, Saturday June 19 2022
Moments after the doorbell rang

“Hayden, what are you doing here?”

Shane stands awkwardly at the end of the entryway, looking over Rozanov’s shoulder. He perks up at his best friend’s name.

“Jeez, Rozanov. Lighten up. I thought you’d be halfway to the cottage by now.” The cottage? That’s right, playoffs just ended, Shane should be heading to the cottage by now. And presumably, in this world, Rozanov would be going with him. But before Shane can really think about it, or consider the implications of cottage vs no cottage, Hayden pushes his way in past Rozanov, pulling Shane’s focus. “Hey buddy.” He nods to Shane and then pauses, looking between him and Rozanov. “Something going on?”

Shane couldn’t even begin to explain all of what’s going on. He can’t even believe it himself. Luckily, Rozanov steps in.

“Why are you here?” Rozanov asks.

“Yeah. Did Jackie leave her apple watch here the other night? She’s checked everywhere, even made me go check the lost and found at the arena for it. We can’t find it.” Hayden walks in and starts poking around tables and under couches as he talks. “She’s like, 2000 steps away from beating Deb in her Mommy And Me fitness club, and she’s desperate to get it back.” Now he looks up at Shane. “I tried to call you, like, a thousand times. I wanted to come yesterday, but I figured if you’re ignoring your phone that hard, then I probably don’t want to be anywhere near the house.” Hayd gives a little wink and Shane feels himself freeze in place.

His phone has been shut off upstairs since sometime yesterday, after googling about himself and this universe’s life nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.

“I thought you’d be on the road already by now, but then I saw your cars in the garage.”

Hayden stands from where he was crouched down, pawing through the dog’s basket of toys like he’s going to find the apple watch there. He looks at Shane like he’s just realized Shane hasn’t said a word.

“Hey? You okay?” Hayden’s cheeks turn pink. “Wait, did I interrupt something?”

Shane’s gut drops down to his knees. “No!” Shane says, loudly and forcefully. “No, man. We were just playing Smash.”

“Ooh! You were smashing, were you?” Hayden grins. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

This is weird. This is so fucking weird.

Like, the fact that Hayd even knows Shane is gay – when that’s not something Shane is even really willing to admit to himself most days. But then to, like… talk about it?! To make sex jokes?! Seriously, what the fuck? Shane doesn’t talk to Hayden about sex with anyone. Not the secret and rare sex he has with men, or the rarer unsatisfying sex he’s had with women.

Still in the entryway, Rozanov laughs. He’s fucking laughing while Shane is trying desperately to get words out. Any words.

“God, Hayd, no!” Shane finally spits out. “Gross!”

“‘Gross’?” Hayden looks at Shane like he’s the one being weird. “That’s your husband, weirdo.”

Shane can feel his brain shutting down. This is too surreal. His husband? And Hayden being so casual about all this. Just casually walking into Other Shane and Rozanov’s house, chatting with them about smashing, rifling through their things.

Oh god! Oh god! What if he find one of those hidden boxes of lube? Rozanov said they were everywhere!

Ilya comes in with a save, pulling focus back to the task at hand. “Doesn’t Jackie have that Find My iPhone thing? Could you not look it up?”

“I, uh…” Hayden has moved over the couch, lifting cushions and checking beneath. He becomes suddenly focused on his search, looking embarrassed. “It was charging beside me when I took my nap before the big game, and it kept beeping from notifications, so I put it in airplane mode. And I kinda forgot to turn it off. And you can’t find something in airplane mode.”

“Ahh. So, you’re an idiot.” Ilya smiles his patented I’m-an-asshole-and-I-love-it smile. It sets Shane’s teeth on edge.

“Oh, fuck off, Rozanov!” Shane growls at the same time that Hayden laughs a little, “Pfft, basically.”

Hayden’s reaction makes Shane spin on the spot. What the hell is up with this universe? Shane has spent so much of his life defending Hayden, and their friendship, from Ilya Rozanov’s cruel remarks. Shane can’t remember what started all of their fights, there have been too many to ever list, but he knows a big chunk of them were from Rozanov being an absolute ass to Hayden, knowing Shane will always jump to defend his friend.

But here’s Hayden just laughing it off. Like it’s nothing.

“Whoa!” Hayden looks at Shane like he’s just as weirded out and confused as Shane is. He even puts a hand out on Shane’s chest like he’s sensing how coiled up and ready to pounce Shane is. “Chill, man. What is going on with you? Are you two fighting?”

“No,” Rozanov says quickly. His face looks pinched, and he glares at Shane, but it’s the wrong kind of glare. There’s no gasoline in it. Nothing to fuel Shane up into a wildfire. “Jackie was out on the deck, I think. During the party. I will check there.”

Rozanov walks quickly through the living room and out to the door.

Quiet descends in his wake.

“What the hell was that?” Hayden asks. He’s stopped searching the couch, he’s just standing there, holding the cushion, looking at Shane.

“He was being an asshole,” Shane shrugs. That should be enough of an explanation.

“Well, yeah. He’s Rozanov.” Hayden says it like it’s obvious. “Isn’t that what you like about him?”

“Why would I like that?”

That’s the question that’s been burning in Shane’s mind for the last 24 hours. (Or, more like the last decade, but that’s a whole different matter.) Why the hell would this Other Shane fall for Rozanov? Marry him?

“Come on, it’s not like he means it.”

Shane doesn’t think he’s ever wanted someone to keep talking more in his entire life. “What?”

“Sure, I mean, he’s blunt. He likes to cut right through the bullshit. But his heart is in the right place, or whatever.” Hayden starts to look uncomfortable, ducking his head as his cheeks flush. “I dunno, man. You’re the one you married him. You get it.”

Slowly, Shane shakes his head. “No, Hayd. I don’t.”

“Are you – ” Hayden steps closer, his voice lowering to a whisper, “Are you having second thoughts or something? What’s going on, I thought you two were solid? I know marriages kind of go through their own Terrible Twos, but…”

“No, Hayd. No,” Shane interrupts. “Listen. Do you have time? Can we talk?”

“Sure, buddy.”

Hayden drops the couch cushions and Shane pulls him down the hall. He glances at the closed doors here on the first level, he doesn’t know where to go. Not the gaming room, that’s for certain. There’s a bottle of lube on the floor in there that Shane does not want Hayden to see.

Shane picks a random door and pushes Hayden through it.

“Okay,” Hayden says slowly. “Why are we in your laundry room?”

“Shut up. I didn’t know.”

Hayden’s brow furrows. “You didn’t know it was your laundry room? Shane. What is going on?” He has genuine concern written all over his face.

“This is going to sound crazy,” Shane starts. He’s never said anything so true in his life. This is going to sound batshit crazy. “But something happened the other night. After the final game. I went to bed in my world, and I woke up in this one.”

For a moment, Hayden looks like he wants to laugh, but when Shane doesn’t break his gaze, his lips pull down into a frown instead. “What do you mean? Like, you’re not Shane?”

“No, I am Shane. Just not the Shane from this world.”

Shane does his best to explain everything to Hayden. It’s hard to make any of it make sense because none of it makes sense to Shane. He has no idea what happened. Why or how he ended up here. All he knows is that he’s here.

It takes a long time for Hayden to get on board with his story. He keeps trying to insist this is some kind of prank. Or that it’s some kind of payback.

“Payback for what? You haven’t done anything to me.”

“I don’t know. For the FanMail?”

“Why would I care about your weird FanMail account?”

“Because I…” Hayden stops himself. They’re sitting on the washer and dryer now, since there was nowhere else to sit in the small, dark room, and Hayden has to lean and twist his neck to get a good look at Shane. “You don’t remember the FanMail thing?”

“What’s there to remember? I’m telling you, I’m not that Shane.”

“You look like that Shane.”

“Of course I do.” Except no, not exactly. “Well, there is one difference. I don’t have the scar on my side here.”

“What scar?”

Shane draws his fingers along his right side, just above his hip, where there should be a faint line of a scar. “Few years ago, Rozanov and I went to the same club after a game one night, by accident. We fought in the bathroom and smashed up a mirror. Cut the both of us pretty bad. We both had to go to the hospital.”

It had been an accident. Neither of them had meant to push each other into the full-length mirror, or to wrestle on the broken shards. But they were drunk and grappling, and one of their feet slipped. The media had had a field day.

The whole thing had put a breather on their rivalry for a while, and they avoided each other like the plague for the rest of the season. But the truce didn’t make it very far into the next season. Once they were on the ice together again, pushing each others’ buttons… it was like they couldn’t stay away from each other.

Shane could never seem to stay away from Ilya Rozanov.

And now, looking at that under the new light of this world, Shane feels dizzy and sick to his stomach. Like vertigo.

“Lemme see,” Hayden says, reaching for Shane’s shirt.

“It’s not there,” Shane says. But he lifts the shirt anyway, so Hayden can see the nothing on his skin.

They’re both quiet for a moment. But Hayden had better say something soon, because if he doesn’t then Shane is going to start thinking about other things. About this new Rozanov he’s found. About that moan he made when Shane stretched him out this morning. About that sunshine smile he gives to his dog as he speaks to her in Russian. About that bottle of lube sitting on the floor of the gaming room.

Oh god. There’s not one stashed here, is there?

Shane starts to search the room with his eyes when Hayden drags him out of his panic.

“And you don’t know anything about the FanMail thing?” He’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees now, fingers steepled together like a freaking movie villain.

“No, I don’t know anything about any FanMail video. Why is that important?”

Hayden turns and inspects Shane’s face one last time. Presumably looking for any sign that Shane is lying and knows exactly what he’s talking about. Shane doesn’t.

“Haaa,” Hayden sighs. “I am the reason you two got outed,” he says at last.

“What? How?”

“You guys were over at my place, and I made a video where you guys were making out in the background. I didn’t know you were there, and I didn’t see it until after I had sent it to the fan and the fan had spread it to the whole world.” He mutters a, “fucking Brad.”

In their conversation yesterday, Rozanov had said they had been outed by accident, but he hadn’t given Shane the particulars. And now that Shane thinks about it, one of the videos that had come up when he googled “Shane Hollander Ilya Rozanov” yesterday had a thumbnail with Hayden on it. But Shane hadn’t clicked on it. He didn’t want to watch kiss videos of himself and Ilya Rozanov. Just the thought made his stomach churn.

“Hey, you okay?” Hayden asks.

Shane didn’t realize he’d gone quiet again.

“Yeah, man. Honestly, I’m still reeling over the whole Shane Hollander marrying Ilya Rozanov thing.”

That makes Hayden laugh. “I hear ya. It took me a long time to get used to it. A long time.”

“It’s weird to think that he knows you. That he goes to your house and what? Eats your food? Drinks your beer?”

“Mostly, he plays with the kids. The girls adore him. And, honestly, I think Arthur is a little smitten. He always wants to be in the same room.”

Shane can’t picture it. Not even a little. Rozanov with kids? Being good with Hayden’s kids?

Or… well… maybe he can’t picture the Rozanov from his universe. But this one…? The man who kisses his dog and calls her a beautiful queen, the man who playfully adjusts Shane’s treadmill to an ungodly incline, the man who happily shouts as he’s getting his ass handed to him in Smash Bros… maybe Shane can picture that man with the kids.

“I know who I always thought he was,” Hayden says, slow and serious. “The playboy Russian asshole. The guy who never takes things seriously. Who lives to get under other peoples’ skin. And maybe there is a part of that in him. But that’s not who he is, and that’s not what you – or I mean what my Shane – sees.”

“What does he see? The other me?” Shane isn’t sure he wants to hear it, but he has to know.

“I think he sees a man who cares deeply about the people around him. Who knows when to lighten up a room and when to call someone out. Someone who has been through his fair share of shit and wants to make the world a better place.

“Listen, far be it for me to say all he’s done with you to help fix the hockey world. But he’s been putting in the work to make hockey safe and inclusive and fun. You both have. And that man loves you. That I have no doubt. He would go to the ends of the world for you. Twice.”

Hayden gives him a soft smile and Shane tries to return it, but it sticks halfway across his face. “Not me. The other Shane.”

“I don’t know, buddy. Are you and my Shane really all that different?”

By the time they leave the laundry room and step back into the living room, Shane’s stomach is rumbling. It must be suppertime by now; he and Hayden were in there for a long time.

Rozanov is sitting on the couch, throwing a bouncing ball for Anya in the quiet. He makes eye contact with Hayden.

“So, he told you.” It’s not clear if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yeah. Crazy stuff. Sorry that took so long.”

“No, is all good. He needs a friend. And it gave me time to make a call. Oh, and also,” Rozanov leans and pulls an apple watch out of his pocket.

“Awesome!” Hayden bounds forward and takes it from Rozanov. “Where did you find it? Was it outside?”

“It was in downstairs bathroom, hidden behind the soap.”

Hayden looks curious for a moment. “Ohhh! Right! Bood’s wife does this thing where she can take a huge rip off a bong, then down three shots, and then slowly blow out the smoke. We were using the watch to time how long it takes her to do it. It’s sick, man. It was like, over a minute.”

“Well, so long as you were doing something productive with it,” Rozanov quips.

Hayden laughs, then quickly goes serious. “Don’t tell Jackie.”

Rozanov waves him off as Hayden’s phone starts to ring.

“Hey, babe! Guess what, I found it. Yeah, it was at Shane and Ilya’s.”

Shane jumps, literally jumps, hearing the name “Ilya” come out of his best friend’s mouth. He hides the movement by walking away, moving around the living room and over to the kitchen where he grabs a glass of water, suddenly thirsty.

“Yes, no, no, yes,” Hayden continues. “Sorry, I know, I’ve been gone a long time. Listen, some stuff came up with Shane that I had to help with. But I’m on my way now. Right. I’m leaving now. Okay. Love you. Yup. Okay. Love you, bye.” He heaves a sigh of relief as he hangs up the phone.

“How is Jackie?” Rozanov asks.

“She’s good. You know, tired of being in a hotel in Ottawa, but it looks like we’re staying one more night. The hotel has a pool with a water slide, and the kids are obsessed with it. They never want to leave.”

“Just get them a pool with a water slide. Then they will never leave home, yes?”

“Ohh, don’t even get me started on that,” Hayden says, and it makes Rozanov laugh.

Something about watching the two of them getting along makes that churning feeling start up in Shane’s gut again. He chugs the rest of his water and goes back to the fridge for more. And while Shane has his head stuck in the refrigerator, pouring a glass of water, he hears Hayden ask a quiet, “How are you holding up, man? You doing okay?”

“I am okay,” Rozanov replies, just as quiet. “I think, maybe, my therapist and I will have lots to talk about next time.”

“Hey, I’m here if you need me. So is Troy and the team.”

At that, Illya harumphs. “A Shane that doesn’t know me. It’s a good thing Troy has Harris, or I might have to beat him back with a stick.”

Hayden laughs, and that’s when Shane decides he’s been hiding in the refrigerator long enough.

“Well, I better get going. Jackie is going to need help getting the girls out of the pool for supper.”

A few minutes later and Hayden is gone, and the two of them are alone again. Looking for something to do that’s not staring at the back of Rozanov’s head, Shane opens the fridge again and pokes around.

“I think there are enough veggies left for a stir fry.”

“Sounds good,” Rozanov says, getting up from the couch. “I think there is shrimp in the freezer. They will thaw quick.”

He sidles up to Shane and pulls the freezer open. Shane peeks at the bag as Rozanov takes it out. Atlantic cold-water shrimp. Shane’s favourite. It’s unnerving how good Rozanov is at clocking all of Shane’s favourite foods, starting with that Snickers for breakfast yesterday.

It makes it really hard to ignore how well cared for the other Shane is. How well cared for Shane could be, if he would let him.

The two of them work together to make supper, chopping veggies side by side, and helping each other mix a sauce blend for the stir fry. Their silence becomes less awkward and more companionable as they go.

They eat sitting side by side at the island.

“I’m sorry I flipped out, earlier,” Shane says quietly into his bowl.

“Mmm,” Rozanov swallows his bite. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have yelled. I know is hard for you.”

“No. Well… yeah. But I was being childish. I don’t know why I assumed it’s all you doing that stuff, not the both of you. I guess I just thought, you know, you’re bigger, and bolder. You must be the one instigating things. But that’s dumb. Even back in my world, you, he doesn’t start every fight. We both do.”

“Yes,” Rozanov says, and Shane isn’t looking, but it sounds like he’s smiling. “Fighting and fucking. Two sides of the same coin. Two solutions to the same problem.”

That makes Shane look. “The same problem?”

There’s a twinkle in Rozanov’s eye that makes that clenching return to Shane’s stomach. “The tension, hmm? You want to touch. You want to bite. You want to make him scream.”

Shane’s face feels like it’s on fire. “I – I don’t think the other Rozanov would say fucking is a solution.”

Rozanov’s eyebrows fly up in disbelief. “No? I think that’s all he wants.”

Shane turns back to his meal and shoves his mouth full of food. It’s safer than trying to come up with any kind of response.

“Oh, we are having supper at your parent’s house tomorrow. Or Shane’s parent’s house.” Rozanov says, later, as they’re washing up. “I talked to them today while you were with Hayden.”

“They believed you?”

Rozanov shrugs. “As much as they can. They will believe more when they see you.”

“Because I’m so different?”

Rozanov gives Shane a long, considering look. “Not so different, no. But they know you are a terrible liar.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Shane says flatly.

Rozanov looks like he has something else to say, but he shakes his head. He turns back to the dishes, then suddenly stops.

“Where is Anya?” She’s nowhere nearby, which does seem unusual for her. “Anya! Where is my sweet girl?” Rozanov calls.

The dog doesn’t come running, so Rozanov sets off looking for her. Shane follows.

They find her in the gaming room, happily chomping on the last of the hot dogs they forgot about hours ago. There is a two feet circle around her of breadcrumbs, and an overturned plate from where she knocked it off the table.

“Anya!” Rozanov sounds genuinely shocked. “You greedy girl!”

Two full hotdogs seems like a lot for a little dog. But like… dogs can eat hotdogs, right? That’s like, a normal thing? Shane’s never had a dog before, but tv makes it seem like dogs eat hotdogs. “Is that bad?” He’s literally only known this dog for a day, but he already feels concerned for her.

Rozanov picks Anya up to keep her from finishing off the last bites.

“Onions are not good for dogs, but there were not so many onions that we should worry. But maybe I will google about the sauerkraut. To be sure. But she’s definitely going to have a big belly tonight. Good thing we were already planning for an extra good walk.” Rozanov’s use of ‘we’ makes Shane’s gut feel weird again. And somehow it doesn’t feel any better when Rozanov says, in his puppy voice, “Weren’t we, precious? Didn’t Daddy promise you a good walk today?”

Shane remembers there being a broom in the laundry room, so he runs to grab it while Rozanov continues cooing to the dog elsewhere in the house. Shane returns, ready to clean, when he spots the little bottle of lube sitting on the floor just on the outskirts of the crumb circle. He can’t leave it there. But he doesn’t want to touch it. So, he quickly kicks it under the couch – out of sight, out of mind – and gets to work sweeping up the detritus of Anya’s meal. Rozanov returns just as Shane is getting the last crumbs.

“All good. Sauerkraut is fine for dogs.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Yes. We are getting ready for our walk now. Do you want to come?”

“I could walk.”

The sun is still high and bright this time of year, and it’s perfectly warm, with just a light breeze outside. It’s absolutely beautiful.

They walk down the sidewalk of their subdivision with Anya’s leash held between them, and they stop often to let the dog sniff and mark her territory as they do a wide circle around their street. There are a lot of people out and about this time of year, soaking in the sunlight while it’s here, and most of them give Rozanov and Shane a happy smile or a wave as they walk by. Some even shout congratulations at them for their Cup win.

It’s weird to be seen with Rozanov. Weird to be with Rozanov in the first place. But definitely weird to just be walking down the street with him like it’s not a big deal.

Hell, it probably isn’t a big deal. They’re married here. They live on this street. They have a dog together. This is probably a daily occurrence. Just two hockey All-Stars, living their best gay lives, walking their cute gay dog.

(He shouldn’t assume Anya is gay just because she has two dads. That’s probably homophobic.)

Rozanov’s knuckles brush against the back of Shane’s hand by accident, and it strikes Shane that they probably hold hands on these walks all the time. That, if he wanted to, he could probably reach out and take Rozanov’s hand now, and it would all be fine.

He’s not going to do that. Obviously. But he could.

This is a universe where no one would batt an eye. And yeah, Shane knows that his universe has Scott Hunter. That it’s fine to be a gay hockey player there, and Shane could be out if he wanted to be. He’s just never really wanted to be. He’s never had a reason to come out.

Or a person to come out for.

By the time they are swinging back around in sight of Rozanov’s house, Shane is feeling very normal about this. Everyone was nice. It was chill.

It fills Shane’s chest with a hopeful little bubble. Like maybe, if he ever gets home, he can try and have some of this himself.

Be out.

Love a man. In public.

A door slams, startling Shane out of his reverie, and two children come racing out of the house across from Rozanov’s.

“Shane! Ilya! Shane! Ilya!” The kids shriek, running full tilt down the grass

“Brace yourself,” is all the warning Shane gets. And then a child launches himself up and into Shane’s unprepared arms, nearly knocking them both to the pavement.

“Congratulations!” The boy shouts in Shane’s ear. The girl is in Rozanov’s arms, getting swung around and around in a circle as she screams, “You won! You won!”

Thinking to match Rozanov’s energy, Shane gives the boy a delayed-reaction spin, making him giggle and shout until Shane puts him down.

“Willa, Andrew, good to see you,” Rozanov says, cluing Shane in on the kids’ names.

“Did you like our sign?” Andrew asks earnestly, pointing up to a huge banner hanging from the tree.

Hollanov wins Holla-Cups!!!!!!

“I love it!” Rozanov is enthusiastic and bright.

“It sure is… something,” Shane says, sounding far more restrained. He’s not even sure he fully understands it. Then he smiles. “They used more of my name.”

Rozanov gives him a look that is unimpressed, but playful. Like he’s only pretending to hate it. “Yes, they knew I would put in more work, so they had to give you more space on the sign. So, you don’t feel bad.”

“What?” His voice comes out angrier than he meant it to in the presence of children, but the kids just giggle and start running in circles around them. Completely unbothered.

“Well, I did get that last goal, winning the cup.”

“Whatever. The score was 5-2, you were winning anyway.”

Rozanov leans in closer, “Still. Is sexy, yes?”

Chills creep up Shane’s spine. He doesn’t react, but maybe his sudden stiffness is a reaction on its own because Rozanov looks at him like he knows all the secret thoughts in Shane’s mind. Even the ones Shane hides from himself.

They don’t stay too long with the kids before they wave goodbye and head inside. Anya is tuckered out from her big meal and the long walk, and she makes a beeline for her bed and settles in. Rozanov heads to the gaming room, leaving Shane to his own devices until bedtime. Shane picks a good book from the small collection in the living room, then curls up opposite Rozanov on the gaming room couch.

And later that night, Shane crawls into bed beside Ilya Rozanov, and it’s almost not weird.

It’s almost as if none of this is weird.

Chapter End Notes

Gasp! It was Hayden at the door! Shout out to AELAN and EricaYO for correctly guessing it was our pal Pike.

And this is our first chapter with Not-Shane's POV. We get to see his anxious mind at work, and he's kind of just reeling about everything all the time, poor man.

The exciting new for next chapter is we're going to get Boner-Less Ilya's POV up next! I think it's possibly my fav chapter coming up next.

Thanks so much for reading! And for the kudos and comments. It's been awesome to see people coming back each week for more chapters and sharing their thoughts. <3 <3 You fill my little heart!

And I've been posting more and more on threads and tumblr. It's been a lot of fun! I do love throwing the random thoughts that will probably never make it into full fics out into the wilds of the apps. You can follow me on any of the places, if you like.
Tumblr: WatermelonTuesdays
Bluesky: @WatermelonTuesdays
Threads: @watermelontuesdays

Chapter 8: Comfort

Chapter Summary

Ilya adjusts to his new world view. And there is a lot of crying and cuddling, and then more crying and more cuddling.

Chapter Notes

Boner-less Universe:
Boston, Sunday June 20 2022
The next morning

Ilya is still awake at 5 o’clock in the morning. He and ‘Shane Hollander’ talked the day away yesterday. ‘Shane’ explained everything he could, which was not very much, and then he explained it again, and again. And then he explained it in fractured Russian.

It’s crazy.

Absolutely crazy. But…

Call Ilya crazy too, because he believes it.

Or at least he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell when you’re lying in bed on the wrong side of 5 am. Maybe he’s just sleep deprived. Maybe it’s easier to believe in fairytales when it’s dark and the windows are just starting to tint with dawn light.

A different world. Different reality. Different Shane.

The story shouldn’t make any sense, but how else do you explain the last 24 hours? Hollander was acting so different. Like all the fight and anger he had towards Ilya had been sucked out an airlock and sent into space. And he knew things. Things no one knows.

Ilya’s chest hurts like he’s being stabbed just thinking about it.

Sometime yesterday, after they had scrambled into clothes, and Ilya had stormed them back out into the living room because he couldn’t stand being in his bedroom with ‘Hollander’ another minute, Ilya had demanded proof. If everything ‘Hollander’ said was true, then he should be able to prove it. He should be able to tell Ilya something only Ilya would know.

He had been angry when he said it. Furious.

And he’d felt weirdly triumphant coming up with the idea because he had been so sure ‘Hollander’ wouldn’t be able to say anything.

“I only know for sure what happened before our timelines split,” ‘Hollander’ had said. He was trying to warn Ilya. Trying to cushion the blow. But there was no cushioning this. “I know about your mother. Irina. You found her.”

It was a stab to the heart.

No. A stab would have been gentler. Merciful. This was worse.

Hours later and it still hurts. Knowing Ilya’s biggest secret is out there, living in someone else’s brain, is possibly the most painful thing Ilya has ever felt.

But also…

There’s a relief in knowing that someone else knows. Ilya doesn’t remember everything Shane had said after that, there was a long time where he was too overwhelmed to even listen. But they had been nice things. Sweet. And he had touched Ilya gently. Pulled him to the couch and curled around him while rage and fear and sorrow stormed inside him.

So, yeah. Ilya thinks he believes the impossible. That the Shane Hollander he has always known has disappeared and was replaced with a different Shane who loves Ilya dearly.

Well, not Ilya. He loves a different Ilya. The one from his own world. But he treats Ilya like he loves him, and that’s already more than Ilya ever thought he could have.

Ilya pretends to sleep for another hour or two, until his bedroom is bright with morning sunshine. Then he gets up and heads down to the building’s gym to try and work his racing thoughts into submission.

The world changed yesterday. Twice. And Ilya doesn’t know which one has destroyed him more. Was it the reality-bending discovery that there are, in fact, multiple universes, and apparently one of them is identical to this one except for a single boner that utterly altered the trajectory of Ilya’s life? Or was it finally, finally, getting Shane Hollander in his bed, after a lifetime of yearning, and discovering that actually they have the most mind-blowing, devastating, soul-crushing chemistry.

How is Ilya supposed to go back to his life now?

Is he supposed to find someone in a club and bring them home for meaningless sex now that he’s had a taste of Shane Hollander?

Is he supposed to settle for a fun time and an orgasm-to-go, after he’s held hands and sank deep into a loving embrace, emptying himself into the love of his life?

Because Ilya can’t hide it anymore. He can’t lie to himself, pretend like his obsession with Shane is just hatred. Just a stupid fucking hockey rivalry. He’s in love. He’s been in love.

He shouldn’t be – there’s absolutely no reason for him to be – but he is.

All they do is fight. They bicker and yell at each other. They drop gloves and throw punches and send each other to the hospital. And then they go home and obsess over each other. Or, at least Ilya does. He thinks about Hollander constantly. What he’s doing, what he’s thinking. If there’s a corner of his mind devoted to Ilya, the way there’s a corner of Ilya’s devoted to him.

He has no reason to love that man. But he looks at him, and his heart races. Hollander is so easy to rile up. So fast and beautiful on the ice. Quick to stand up for his friends, too. Ilya learned that early in their careers – if you start to pick on one of his teammates, especially his precious Pike, Shane will come swinging and hold nothing back. It’s a surefire way to get his attention.

Ilya has always loved his attention.

Running full tilt on the treadmill does nothing to clear Ilya’s mind. Neither does lifting weights. Or his cool-down stretches.

He goes back to his penthouse, showers, and eats. He turns on the tv, but he doesn’t watch it. He is still thinking about everything. Reassessing his life.

Ilya doesn’t admit to himself that he’s watching the time, but as soon as it hits 10:55 in the morning, he gets up and walks to the door. He checks the peephole, and sure enough, Shane Hollander is standing on the other side.

They didn’t say they’d meet again today or set a time. Still, Ilya knew that Shane would be back, and that he’d stick to the same schedule.

His heart flutters as Shane steps into the apartment.

At first, it’s awkward. They stand near the door and look at each other and blush.

Shane looks good. He’s got tan shorts and a pink-red geometric buttoned shirt worn open over a tight white tee. The look accentuates his waist, and Ilya wants nothing more than to get his hands on Hollander and pull him close, feel those trim lines of his body with his own hands.

The desire must be written all over Ilya’s face, because Shane huffs a little laugh and steps forward. Getting right into Ilya’s space. Ilya gets what he wants, letting his hands rest on Shane’s hips, fingers curling over his back.

Their lips are already touching when Shane pauses. “Can I kiss you?”

Now Ilya laughs. He answers by pressing his lips to Shane’s. It’s not a long kiss, and by Ilya’s standards it’s chaste. But it steals his breath anyway, and he finds himself falling forward, chasing after Shane’s lips as Shane pulls away.

A hand touches Ilya’s cheek, rough from years of hockey, but somehow softer than it has any right to be. Shane tilts back a bit to take a look at him.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“How do you get your skin so soft?” Ilya nuzzles into the touch, dodging the stupid question. He blinks and suddenly it’s a struggle to open his eyes again because his eyelids are so heavy.

“I moisturize.” Shane lets Ilya nuzzle for another moment before he tugs Ilya away from the door. “Do you want to sleep?”

“No. I’m good.” Ilya forces his eyes open. They have their hands on each other, both trying to steer the other in opposite directions, Shane to the bedroom and Ilya to the couch. Ilya wins by virtue of having almost a foot on Shane. Though Shane still seems to get his way when they reach the couch and suddenly Ilya is being pushed onto his back.

Ilya grumbles in argument. “I’m fine. I don’t need to sleep.”

The grumbling stops when Shane stretches out alongside him, using Ilya’s arm as a pillow and fitting his knee over Ilya’s thigh. His hand rests on Ilya’s chest and it’s the perfect weight.

So warm. So firm. Like a weighted blanket. Only, Ilya can also feel Shane’s breath and the beat of his heart.

“I’m not sleepy,” Ilya says again. It’s probably not very convincing because his eyes slipped closed again and he can’t seem to open them.

“I know you’re not.”

There’s a sleepy quality to Shane’s voice too, now that Ilya is paying attention.

“You did not sleep?”

Shane’s shrug makes his shoulder press briefly against Ilya’s arm. “I was worried about you. It was a lot to absorb.”

“Absorb,” Ilya repeats. Such a stupid sounding word.

“A lot to learn,” Shane rephrases. Then, in Russian, “A lot of knowledge.”

God! Shane Hollander knows Russian! It’s not perfect, but the accent is good. It makes Ilya’s insides all warm and wiggly hearing it. He can’t help but grin.

Ilya turns his head, eyes still closed. He finds Shane’s forehead with his nose, feeling his way down till he can rub his cheek all over Shane’s face. It makes Shane laugh and fight weakly against him, before tipping up and letting their lips find each other.

They kiss and then they kiss again, until Ilya feels decently awake and alert. Enough to open his eyes and find Shane’s gaze.

Never in Ilya’s wildest dreams did he think it could be like this. That this could be so good. This open and loving. Ilya is falling, and he’s falling hard. Plummeting past the speed of sound.

“You know,” Shane says softly, running the backs of his fingers along Ilya’s jaw, “when I read up about your history here in this world, I thought this was going to be much harder. I thought you were going to fight me. But look at you, you’re a kitten.”

Ilya shakes his head just a little, not enough to interrupt Shane’s touch. “I am tired of fighting.”

“I know. You’re the same, sweet man that I know. I’m sorry the me who’s been here hasn’t seen it yet.”

There’s a lump in Ilya’s throat now, but he forces it down. “He doesn’t need me.”

If the real Hollander comes back, and Ilya has to go back to how life was before, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He doesn’t think there’s a way he’s going to survive that.

“He needs you. He needs you badly.”

Ilya really shakes his head now, squeezing his eyes closed. He can’t listen to this. No. No, it’s a miracle that this Shane wants him – he can’t even imagine the other Shane, the one that belongs to this world, the one who fights Ilya at every turn, could want him too.

“Hey. Hey,” Shane soothes. His fingers slip into Ilya’s curls and squeeze softly at the back of his neck. “I’ve been here a few days now; I’ve seen his life. I know him – he’s me. He needs you. You’re better together. You take care of him, you make him laugh, you make him stronger and better. You calm him down, and you make him loosen up.”

Ilya is crying now, his air jerking in starts and stops as he tries to breathe.

That’s not him. It’s not. That’s the other Ilya. Not him. He isn’t like that. He’s mean. He’s angry. He’s cruel. He only makes everyone worse.

Ilya’s fingers dig between Shane and the couch cushion, pulling until he finds bare skin. He strokes up Shane’s right side until he finds it, just where he knew it would be, where he saw it last night. Ilya feels the puckered edge of the scar, and his tears come harder.

This is what Ilya is. This is what he’s done.

He doesn’t deserve Shane, or any of this softness he’s been given.

He deserves to be alone.

Ilya tries to explain, but he’s crying too hard now for any of his words to make sense. Shane doesn’t seem to mind. He just wraps his arms tight around Ilya’s shoulders, pulling Ilya into his chest, and he lets him cry it out.

Even this is too good for Ilya. It’s more, so much more, than he should ever have.

But damn it, if Ilya can’t let go.

He doesn’t deserve this kindness, but if Shane is going to offer it, then Ilya is going to soak it in while he can.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Ilya repeats it enough times that Shane eventually figures out the words, even if they are in Russian.

“What are you sorry for, moya lyubov’?”

Ilya can’t answer with words, but he strokes the line of Shane’s scar, and he seems to understand.

“I read the report. It was an accident, yeah? You didn’t mean to hurt me.” He says it like there’s no question that Ilya would ever want to hurt him.

Ilya has hurt him, many times. But he never wanted to hurt Shane like that. He still regrets that night to this day. Still dreams about it.

One of Shane’s hands drops to Ilya’s side and reaches around to touch at Ilya’s matching scars.

“You have one, too. I’m sorry you were hurt. I know he didn’t mean it, either.”

Slowly, Ilya nods.

That is true. He knows neither of them meant to hurt each other. They were drunk and lost in their own world as they fought. They didn’t notice the mirror until it was too late.

“I promised myself I would stay away,” Ilya says, voice broken and weak. He sniffs and sniffs and tries to get a hold of himself. “I wouldn’t fight you anymore.” He’s speaking to the wrong Shane, but he can’t care about that right now. “But I couldn’t. I tried so hard, but you’re always there. You on the news and on the internet. And you’re at the games. And in my head. You’re always in my head.”

“I know,” Shane says into Ilya’s hair. “I know, sweetheart.”

“I can’t keep away.” The tears suddenly redouble, and Ilya is back to a crying, shaking mess.

“I know,” Shane says again. “He can’t keep away either. I can’t keep away, too. It’s always us. You and me.”

Shane doesn’t move an inch as Ilya cries himself out. He holds Ilya tight, petting his hair, kissing his forehead, whispering sweet words, until Ilya falls asleep.

He wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a mack truck. He’s too hot. His arm is asleep. His eyes are drier than the Ryn Desert. His chest feels hollow even under the weight of a sleeping Shane Hollander.

Ilya stretches. He tries to do it gently, without disturbing Shane, but as soon as he shifts, he feels Shane rouse.

“Mmmpf?” Shane asks, then “Good morning.”

“I think it is afternoon, now.”

“Fuck.” Now Shane stretches, arms reaching to the end of the couch, his whole body shifting against Ilya’s. There’s a temping little inch of bare skin at the edge of Shane’s shirt and Ilya’s fingers find it. He leans in, nosing for a kiss, but Shane stops him with a hand over Ilya’s mouth. “Have to brush my teeth first.”

Ilya whines and clings when Shane tries to get up. And they spend a good few minute’s bickering over whether Shane has to brush his teeth or not, before Ilya finally relents.

“Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

Ilya has several. You never know when someone might stay over, and so far, there’s never been anyone who’s stuck around long enough for him to bother clearing out his stash. Some got close, maybe. Svetlana was one Ilya really liked. He thought maybe he could love her. But it never really clicked, and then she got her new job. They keep in touch, but not very well. He thinks she might be married now. Or engaged?

Once their teeth are brushed, Shane lets Ilya push him up against the nearest wall and kiss him breathless. They would do more – in fact, Ilya is seconds away from picking Shane up and carrying him to the bedroom – but then one of their stomachs start to growl (they’re pressed so close Ilya genuinely can’t tell whose it was) and they break apart for food.

“Every universe,” Shane sighs dramatically as he pokes through Ilya’s cupboards, “you eat like a child.”

“It’s summer vacation. Relax, dad.” As if to prove his point, Ilya pulls two pogos out of the freezer and puts them on a plate for the microwave.

Shane makes a disgusted face at that. “Seriously? At least put them in the oven.”

“Why? You are scared of the microwaves? You think they will turn you into a mutant?”

“No,” Shane glares, “they get a nicer crust in the oven.”

Ilya is thrilled by this new piece of information about Shane. He’s grinning like a fool as he transfers the frozen corndogs to a baking sheet and sets the oven.

They don’t just eat pogos. Shane finds some frozen broccoli in the back of the freezer and they heat that up to go with the pogos and some leftover pizza Ilya has in the fridge.

After lunch they wind up back on the couch. Shane sits first, sitting in the same corner he did yesterday, which Ilya is already starting to think of as his spot. There’s a moment where Ilya hesitates on where to sit. He knows where he wants to be, and so far, Shane has given him everything he wants, but at the same time he’s nervous for the inevitable moment when he finally steps too far or pushes too much and all of this crumbles into dust.

But as Ilya slowly approaches the couch, trying to bully himself into going after what he wants, Shane lifts an arm for him.

It looks like a completely unconscious move – Shane has the remote in his other hand and he’s flicking through the channels, not really paying attention to himself or Ilya. He just lifts his arm like he expects Ilya to snuggle in at his side.

Ilya can’t refuse an offer like that.

Man, but that other Ilya must have it good. To have this all the time. Shane says they’re even married. They’ve been together for years.

Ilya’s heart hurts for longing. But he’ll take all he can get now.

So, Ilya goes for what he really wants, laying back on the couch with his head in Shane’s lap. Automatically, Shane’s hand finds Ilya’s hair and starts to slowly pet through his curls. The touch sends tingles through Ilya’s whole body. It’s almost meditative, and it soothes something in Ilya that hasn’t been soothed in a very long time.

Shane puts on Antiques Roadshow, and Ilya teases him for being boring, but soon enough Ilya is invested. He and Shane try to guess at how much something is going to be worth and they argue about it, though Shane turns out to be surprisingly good at this and wins more often than not. In this one instance, Ilya doesn’t mind losing so much. Between the head scritches, and the playful banter that isn’t escalating into a true argument, Ilya thinks he might be in paradise.

After two episodes of Roadshow, some dull history show comes on, and Shane turns the volume down low.

“Do you think we should talk?” he asks.

Dread sinks into Ilya’s stomach, but he plays it cool. “Talk about what?”

Shane’s fingers don’t stop their slow back and forth along Ilya’s scalp. “I think we should have some kind of plan.”

“Plan?” Ok, now Ilya is interested enough that he rolls onto his back, looking up at Shane from below. He looks sort of funny like this, upside down. He’s all chin, from this angle.

“I think we need two. I don’t know how long I’m going to be here – I don’t know how I even got here – I might be here forever, or I might just be here for a little while.”

Ilya doesn’t like the sound of that. If this Shane leaves and his old Shane returns… he doesn’t want to think about that.

It looks like Shane can read that in his eyes, because he quickly says, “If I switch back, I want you to find me – him – whatever. Shane.”

Ilya really doesn’t want to refuse Shane anything, but he’s not sure he can promise this. He starts to shake his head, but Shane goes on.

“I know it’ll be hard. I don’t know where he is or what he’s going through. He might not remember any of what’s happened here. But I know he needs you. Just as much as you need him. I don’t want either of you to be alone. And I know you can do it. You can find a way to talk without fighting – to argue without punching each other – and you can make it work. Make a new reality for yourself. I hate the thought of you being here alone again.”

Even from this angle, Ilya can see the way Shane’s eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“Okay,” Ilya promises. “I will find him. And I won’t fight.” He smiles, trying to lighten the mood, “I will fuck him into submission instead.”

It works, and Shane laughs. “Your tried-and-true method.”

“Excuse me!” Ilya fakes offense, “Who kissed who yesterday? You are the one who initiated sex to calm me down.”

“I learned from the best.”

Ilya reaches for Shane’s side and tickles him. Shane’s body jerks forwards as he laughs, but he reaches down and retaliates, and soon Ilya is practically sitting in Shane’s lap as the two slap at each other’s hands and try to tickle each other. It ends with a kiss that neither of them initiates because they’re both moving together like magnets, pulled under the same immutable force.

“See?” Ilya asks, just a little breathless. “You started it.”

“You started that one.”

“I did not!”

Shane stops this argument with another quick kiss. Ilya is sitting sort of crossways over Shane’s lap now, with his butt parked on one side of Shane’s legs, and his back stretched over them to lean on the arm rest. Shane’s arms wrap around Ilya’s waist, warm and secure. While one of Ilya’s arms rests on Shane’s shoulder, his fingers sort of absently stroking at Shane’s jaw and rubbing at his ear.

Ilya lets the moment settle between him before he brings the conversation back to what he really wants to know.

“And what is the other plan? The one for where you stay?” He looks at Shane’s lips because he knows if he looks in Shane’s eyes, he’ll give himself away. He wants this too much.

Not that he doesn’t want this world’s Shane, he always has. But these last 36 hours or so have utterly changed him. This Shane gives him everything he’s ever wanted.

“That’s what we’ll have to come up with,” Shane says evenly. “I don’t want to force you into the plan we had before, in my universe. And the situation is different now, anyways. There are more NHL players out – Troy is out here, yes?”

“Barrett? Yes.”

“Okay. And we don’t have a decade of secrets working against us here, either. So, we have options, you know? We could do something similar to what we did back home, where you go to Ottawa, and we start a charity and a friendship. And then, eventually, we come out. Or we could do something completely different. We could come out publicly, but separate. Let the media and our teams and everyone get used to that. And then start to be a bit friendly together. Let everyone assume the anger is turning into love naturally. Let them wonder. And then we come out.”

Shane keeps talking, going over some of the pros and cons of both options, but Ilya stops listening. He stopped listening the moment the word “love” was thrown out there. So casual and easy.

Like it’s so fucking normal for Shane to say it.

Hearing it relieves something deep within Ilya. But it also stabs him. Because that love still isn’t for him. It’s for the other Ilya. This Shane has only known him for a day, maybe two. It can’t be love – not yet.

Ilya is just benefiting from someone else’s efforts.

His father was right. He is lazy. He didn’t want to put the effort in with his own Shane and now he’s reaping the rewards of some other Ilya’s devotion.

Ilya is completely lost in his spiraling thoughts when he’s drawn back up to the surface by a light stroke along his jaw, tilting him up to look at Shane.

“Hey, there you are. Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere.” Ilya can’t quite bring himself to meet Shane’s eyes for that particular lie, so he looks at the dark freckle just under Shane’s left eye.

There’s a long stretch of silence between them that Ilya doesn’t know how to fill. He should tell a joke, but he can’t think of anything funny or distracting right now.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Shane’s voice is so quiet. Just a whisper. And it’s so gentle, Ilya has to close his eyes, because he can’t stand to hear this soft tone with them open. “But you can tell me anything. And I just want to say… My Ilya, back home, he struggles with things too. He speaks to someone. A therapist, who speaks Russian. He takes pills now.” Shane’s touch trails feather-light from Ilya’s jaw up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, then down to curl behind his neck. It’s a loving touch. One that doesn’t make Ilya feels fragile, but it makes him feel precious.

“I’m not trying to push you,” Shane continues. “But no one would think any less of you if you need help. You’re not alone out here.”

“Not even if you’re gone?” Ilya can’t help the words, or the way his voice breaks saying them. He’s only barely fighting off another round of tears.

“No, because if I go, you’re going to find Shane. Right? You promised.”

Ilya nods. And he sniffs. And he buries his face in Shane’s neck where it’s dark and warm and smells like him. And he overloads himself with the feeling of being vulnerable and held.

Chapter End Notes

Well, I promised no cliffhanger this week, and I think I delivered.

Ilya has been having a time this chapter, and not necessarily a fun one. But I think a necessary one. He's got some baggage to work through, and Shane is here to help carry some of that (he is a bellboy, after all).

I hope it doesn't feel all too fast for you. In my mind, Boner-Less Ilya is already primed and ready to fall in love with Shane, he's just been waiting for the opportunity, and so of course he's going to fall fast and deep.

Next chapter, we're back in the Boner Universe with Not-Shane, who will be using the word "weird" so many times it might lose all meaning. ^-^

And thanks as always for reading! It means so much to write something and share it and have people actually read and enjoy it. I love all the kudos and the comments I get. And it really does help me work on new things. I usually try and keep my WIPs to one or two fics at a time, and right now I have 4 started. Oops! But I'm close to done 3 of them. Hopefully soon. Because I keep coming up with more ideas but I refuse to start another WIP until at least one of the 4 is finished.

Though, some of the ideas I come up with, I've been sharing on tumblr and threads. If you want to check them out, you can.
Tumblr: WatermelonTuesdays
Bluesky: @WatermelonTuesdays
Threads: @watermelontuesdays

Chapter 9: Weird

Chapter Summary

Shane winds down after a very weird day visiting Not-His-Parents.

Chapter Notes

Boner Universe:
Ottawa, Sunday June 20 2022
Evening

Shane has had a very weird day.

They went to his parents’ house. Or, well, this universe’s version of Shane’s parents’ house. They went early, before lunch, and stayed the whole day and into the night. It’s eleven o’clock now and they’re just getting back. Poor Anya is tuckered out because Ilya and Yuna spent hours this afternoon throwing a ball for her in their back yard.

As soon as she gets into the house, Anya drags herself over to her nearest bed and curls up.

“Are you still up for a bit? Want a drink?” Ilya asks, going to the fridge. He pulls out a can of coke for himself and waits with the door open for Shane’s answer.

“Sure, yeah.” Shane stands awkwardly behind the couch while Ilya brings him the drink.

Ilya.

That’s just part of the weirdness of today. That he’s become Ilya in Shane’s mind now – not Rozanov.

Shane isn’t even really sure when that happened. If it was the hugs his parents greeted Ilya with, or the quiet hour Ilya spent working on a puzzle with David, or watching Ilya and Yuna argue for twenty minutes over the use of Russian words in a game of Boggle.

Or maybe it was the way Ilya kept checking in on him. Not always with words, but with looks and gestures. Handing Shane a water when Shane was thirsty. Passing him the relish before Shane asked for it.

“You don’t drink?” Shane nods to the coke in Ilya’s hand. He noticed it at his parents too, how Ilya drank lemonade and pop all night long.

“Not much anymore. It doesn’t go great with my pills.” He looks at Shane for a moment, right in Shane’s eyes, as if he’s deciding what he should say next. “Alcohol is a depressant, and I do that fine on my own.”

Shane doesn’t have a response for that, and the way Ilya turns away makes him think it’s not expected.

“It’s a nice night out, did you want to build a fire?” It surprises Shane to hear himself suggest it. But he wants to do it. He’s not ready to the day to end yet.

He feels like he’s really close to figuring something out, and the only way out is through.

Shane is in his head as they step out into the backyard. Anya perks up when they open the door, and she slowly clicks her way over, following on Shane’s heels out into the night. Ilya adds some wood to their firepit and Shane smiles to see it’s properly laid out to allow optimal airflow – David, or the other-Shane, must have taught him that.

They light the fire together, then sit on the short bench, with Anya curled up between them.

It’s a peaceful night.

Not exactly a quiet one, with the crickets and June bugs, and the odd car driving by, but peaceful.

Ilya is quiet. He sits and stares at the fire, one hand slowly brushing Anya, ear to tail. Shane thinks Ilya is trying to give him space to think – he seems to be really good at figuring out what Shane needs. Like that snickers bar. Or time with Hayden. Or dinner with his parents.

Even if they’re not really his parents, it was so good to see them.

Though at the same time… it was weirder.

That’s the word Shane keeps getting hung up on. Weird. It’s all so freaking weird. Like… those are his parents, but they’re not. Shane knows his mother well and Yuna Hollander is the only person in the world who hates Rozanov more than Shane does. But not here. Here, she gives him an extra scoop of ice cream with his pie and musses his hair and has heated discussions about the rules of Boggle.

Right from the jump, Shane could tell everything was different. Because the second they got in the door, Yuna pulled Ilya into a hug. Then she stepped back, looked at him, and pulled him right back into another hug. And that one lasted almost a full minute.

His parents don’t just tolerate Ilya. They don’t just bear with him because this Shane married him and they’re stuck with that bad decision. They care for him. They love him.

Shane could see it everywhere. The wedding pictures on the wall. The coke in the fridge. The extra pair of slippers at the door in his size.

It all kind of freaked Shane out a bit.

So far, he’s only been in this house with Ilya. This Ottawa house that Shane had never seen before he woke up here a few days ago. So even though it was strange to see the pictures of him and Ilya on the wall, it was fine because it wasn’t really his space. It was the other Shane’s space.

His parents’ house was a different story.

That house, Shane knows. He knows it well. He was born and raised in that house. He knows where everything goes. And he knows that it should be his 5th grade class picture hanging above David’s favourite armchair, not Shane and Ilya in matching Centaurs uniforms. And the big one by the tv – that’s supposed to be Shane’s graduation picture, not a wedding picture.

So, yeah, it was weird. Bordering on uncanny valley; the familiar turned on its head. All these constant reminders of a life that Shane didn’t live. A life he has no frame of reference for.

But the weirdest part. The weirdest part. Is that none of it felt weird? None of it. From the little nods Ilya gave him when he wanted to check in that Shane wasn’t freaking out. To the quiet way Ilya spoke to his father as they hunted for puzzle pieces together. To the easy, casual hugs and touches Ilya shared with Yuna and David. It felt right.

It felt like a puzzle piece within Shane was sliding into place.

Like he was seeing a dream in front of his eyes, one that he never even thought to wish for.

It all finally hit home into Shane’s thick skull that what he and Ilya have here in this universe is real. It’s not some hoax or a joke or a lie. It’s not some passing whim or a phase everyone is waiting out. They love each other. They are a family together.

Ilya is not the man Shane thought he was.

Shane turns from the fire to look at Ilya in the flickering glow. He can see the pieces of his Rozanov in this Ilya. The joking, the teasing. The argument with Yuna over Boggle – he knew exactly how to press all her buttons, and he did so with glee.

It’s exactly like the Rozanov from Shane’s universe. And it strikes Shane now that the difference isn’t with Ilya, it’s with them – their reaction to the things he says. They know he’s joking, so even when he riles them up, they don’t overreact. They don’t escalate. They laugh and they tease back.

Laughing with him is like Rozanov-armour.

Are the two Ilya Rozanovs perfectly identical? No. There are things that Rozanov has said about Shane’s mother that this Ilya would never say. But that’s also coming after a decade of hostilities, while this Ilya had a decade of acceptance.

And, obviously, Shane isn’t identical to this universe’s Shane, either.

Thinking about it – about what Shane missed out on – that hurts.

Look at this man. This beautiful man, curls shining golden in the firelight, petting the dog he dotes on. He cares so deeply. Not just about Anya, but about Shane. Even this Shane, who came into his life kicking and screaming and accusing him of kidnapping. He gives Shane so much thought and care.

It feels like Shane went through the looking glass. Like he’s stepped into a world where all his most secret wishes came true.

Shane thinks it might finally be time to admit it. Ilya is not the villain that Shane has made him out to be. And this obsession Shane has had for Ilya Rozanov is more than just a misguided attraction born out of proximity, anger, and sexual frustration. Shane has pretended for years that all he feels for Rozanov is hatred. And he’s pretended to himself that any attraction is just poor judgement and a lack of available partners.

But it’s more than that. It’s always been more than that.

Shane has always wanted more. Wanted to dig deeper, get to know Rozanov. Take him apart and see what makes him tick. Burrow into his brain and see if Shane can’t figure out what is so goddamn irresistible about him. Why can’t Shane ever stop thinking about him?

He is not in love with the Ilya Rozanov from his universe. But he’s as close as he can be without knowing a damn real thing about the man.

And this Ilya.

This Ilya sitting beside him. Who is open and sweet and caring. And funny – they’ve had so much fun together in just a few short days. This Ilya, Shane is in love with.

“Whoa.” It’s a quiet exclamation. Shane leans against the back of the bench and lets his head fall backwards, looking up at the stars. This is a fucking trip, man. Shane’s never done drugs ever in his life, but this must be what drugs feels like.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t even know,” Shane laughs.

“It’s been a lot for you. Sorry.”

Shane shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. It’s been a lot, yeah. But you’ve done a lot to make it easier. It’s helped.”

“It has?” He sounds surprised.

“It’s been a big help, yeah.” Now that they’re talking, Shane is getting out of his head again, and the revelations of a few moments ago don’t seem so big all of a sudden. He watches Ilya pet Anya for a moment, then reaches out and joins him. Shane takes over stroking down her back and Ilya scratches behind her ears.

“I’m glad to help. It hurts to see you so scared and stupid.”

“Stupid?” Shane side-eyes Ilya, who gives him a tentative smile. He’s been holding back his teasing and insults, Shane knows he has. “And I’m not scared.” He gives it a little more bravado than he might usually, trying to play along.

“Oh, you’re not?” Shane’s fingers brush against Ilya’s as he pets Anya, and he has to force himself not to jerk his hand away. “You threw a bottle of lube at me because you’re brave?”

“I was surprised! Not scared,” Shane argues. As if to prove his point, he brushes his fingers over Ilya again, intentionally this time. “Do you really hide them all over the house?” Shane hasn’t had the time or guts to actually search.

Ilya shrugs. “It is easier than having to go fetch it all the time. I am too sexy. Hard to resist.” He wiggles his eyebrows so many times it makes Shane laugh. And he keeps on doing it until Shane reaches out and pushes Ilya’s face away. “See? You can’t help but touch me.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

They go back to staring at the fire in silence and petting Anya, but the mood is lighter now. Their fingers brush a few more times, each one an accident, and each one sending sparks up under Shane’s skin.

He thinks casual touch must be a part of their relationship – this Ilya and his Shane. Yesterday was full of those light, easy touches. Stretching together on the mats in the morning, little directional touches as they shared a kitchen making pancakes, elbowing each other as they played games. It felt natural, like Ilya did it all without thought.

Today felt like there was a lot of thought. Specifically, that Ilya did a lot of thinking to keep himself from touching Shane. There were several moments today when Ilya would step close and then suddenly move away. Or when his hands would flutter on the edge of Shane’s vision like he was about to reach out but then didn’t.

It was probably the lube fight that did it, too. Ilya had already said he wouldn’t touch, and he had been sticking to it – Shane understood what type of touching Ilya had meant when he said it, and it wasn’t those little casual things – but that fight seemed to make Ilya put some of his walls up.

What would it feel like if he just reached out and slipped his fingers between Ilya’s and held his hand?

He thinks about it and thinks about it, and he tries to force himself to move. To take that step. It would hardly be any more than brushing Ilya’s fingers, which he’s already done a few times now.

But he can’t. He can’t bring himself to do it.

It’s too much. Too big.

Shane is a chicken. Ilya is right, he’s scared.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me.” Shane flinches at his own words.

Ilya doesn’t look at him. “Yes.”

“Not until I ask.”

“Yes.” The crickets seem so loud in the silence that follows that short, clipped word.

“‘Until’, not ‘unless’.”

“Yes. I know what I said, Shane.” Ilya still won’t look at him; eyes focused on the fire. But his hand has stilled where he was scratching Anya’s ears.

“You think I’m going to ask for it?” Shane doesn’t really know why he’s being stubborn about this. He’s already proven himself a chicken.

“I know you’re going to ask for it.”

Shane’s heart lurches in his chest. “How are you so sure?”

Now, Ilya looks at him. His hazel eyes burn golden in the firelight and Shane can’t breathe. “You are my rodnaya. My soulmate. You will always ask for me, and I will always ask for you.”

“I’m not him.” It’s so quiet, Shane can barely hear it.

Ilya shakes his head. “You are the same in all the ways that matter.” He lifts and hand and presses it over his own heart. “Here, you are the same.”

Shane’s tongue is thick in his mouth as he says, “Will you kiss me?”

There’s no hesitation. Ilya leans into the space between them. He stops with his nose touching the tip of Shane’s, and he stays there, shifting just enough to rub a little circle there.

“Are you sure?” he asks. His breath ghosts over Shane’s lips.

Shane doesn’t answer. He closes the distance between them and lets their lips touch softly together. There’s a charge between them, light and tame, like static sparking between their lips. And then Shane goes in for another kiss, his mouth opening ever so slightly, Ilya tilting into it, and suddenly it’s a lightning strike. Shane feels it all the way down to his toes, lighting up his every atom.

He moans, opening more, his hands grabbing at the back of Ilya’s head to pull closer, to hold tight, to keep from flying apart under the forces rocketing through his body.

Ilya’s tongue touches the tip of Shane’s, and he nearly launches off the seat and into Ilya’s lap. The only thing that stops him is Anya scurrying off the bench with an insulted yip when Shane knocks into her.

They break apart with a wet smack, and Ilya turns, laughing, to watch Anya trudge away.

“Poor girl, you startled her.”

Shane doesn’t look. His hands are still buried in Ilya’s hair, eyes locked on those perfect lips, panting for breath. All he wants is to pull Ilya back in and kiss the living daylights out of him. He’s never wanted anything, or anyone, like this before. And suddenly Shane understands with perfect clarity why Ilya has lube hidden everywhere, because if it is always like this, then his Shane must be begging for it. Daily.

Hourly.

God, all they’ve done is kiss and Shane is rock hard. He might be leaking. It should be embarrassing, but there’s no room in his brain left for embarrassment. Only Ilya.

Ilya turns back to Shane, smiling and clearly about to say something amusing, but he stops when he sees Shane’s expression. His eyes go dark as he takes Shane in.

“I know that look,” he says.

Shane can’t help the needy sound he makes. His fingers clench over Ilya’s neck, closing the distance between them.

“What is it you want, moy baklazhan?”

So many possibilities swirl through Shane’s brain, from the tame to the depraved. He can’t possibly pick one, can’t parse through them all, can’t choose. All he knows is that there is pure need pumping through his veins right now, chasing that lightning high of Ilya’s tongue against his own.

Shane tries to pull Ilya into another kiss. Kissing is so much easier than answering any question. But Ilya pulls just out of reach. His thumb and index finger curl just under Shane’s chin, holding him in place, forcing Shane to stop, to slow, and to look at him.

“Not until you ask, sweetheart.”

Pinned under Ilya’s heated gaze and by that gentle yet commanding touch, Shane cracks open.

“I want it all. Everything. Ilya, I want you to show me how good loving you can feel.”

Ilya growls, low and possessive. He holds Shane in place and leans in, pressing his lips to Shane’s and prying him open. The kiss is deep and consuming. It steals Shane’s breath – steals his thoughts.

“Bedroom. Now.” Somehow, Ilya manages to command him while biting Shane’s lips.

“But…” The bedroom seems so far away right now. All the way inside and up the stairs. Shane is throbbing in his pants, and he doesn’t want to stop kissing Ilya for even a second. Why have all that hidden lube if they’re not going to us it?

Ilya growls again, and he breaks away from the kiss to scrape his teeth over the fluttering pulse at Shane’s neck. “I need a bed for all I want to do to you tonight.” He slides from the bench and presses between Shane’s legs. Heat surges between them and Shane opens wider, letting him in, letting them rub together. “You want me to love you, and for that I need soft things and all the time in the world. Not a quick fuck in our backyard while the birds watch.”

Shane almost protests that the birds are asleep, but Ilya’s hands have dropped down to dig into his thighs, and then Shane is being lifted up into Ilya’s arms.

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane moans as all of his weight bears down where their erections press together. He grips Ilya’s shoulders, partly to sturdy himself and partly to keep from coming in his pants right here.

They aren’t far from the door, and Ilya walks them there quickly, slamming Shane’s back into the wall and chasing after his lips.

Christ, Shane has never felt like this.

He’s had hookups before. Maybe not that many with men, but a few. Enough. And he’s had rough sex. But he’s never had anything like this.

The electricity running through his body right now is insane. He’s never had anyone turn off his brain like this. Consume his every thought, so that there is nothing in his head but meeting Ilya’s lips, licking into his mouth, matching his fervor and stoking it higher.

Shane is pinned against the house, and he’s curling his hips against Ilya’s. Fast and frantic.

He’s making noises he’s never made before. Whining into Ilya’s mouth. Fingers digging into Ilya’s shoulder and neck trying to pull him impossibly closer.

And Ilya is doing the same. Grinding Shane into the wall like he can bury himself under Shane’s skin.

Shane is so close. His balls clench, ready to shoot and fill his pants.

His whines hit a new pitch, and that must be something Ilya recognizes because he suddenly rips his mouth away from Shane’s and drops him down onto unsteady feet.

“Fuck,” Ilya curses, “wait.” He puts both hands on Shane’s chest, holding him at arms length. Shane whines again, panting for breath. He reaches for Ilya and strokes his arm. They were so close.

Ilya catches Shane’s eye and gives a crooked little grin, and suddenly they’re both laughing.

“Fuck.” Shane says it this time.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. He takes another step back, his hands falling away from Shane’s chest. “Bedroom now, yes?”

Shane nods, but then the fire catches his eye. “We should put that out, if we’re going in.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Mood killer.”

Now that Ilya is out of arms reach, Shane can feel his brain coming back online. “It’ll be a bigger mood killer when the house burns down.”

“It’s safe, it’s got a cover.” But even as he argues, Ilya walks over to the hose and quickly sprays down the remaining logs. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

Ilya steps back into Shane’s space, who hasn’t moved an inch, back still pressed against the vinyl siding of the house. “Ecstatic,” Ilya repeats, his lips sliding against Shane’s. He kisses Shane again, and then once more before pulling away and opening the door.

He lets Anya through the door first. Then Shane. He closes and locks the door. And then he shouts, “First one there gets his dick sucked!” and he takes off at a dead sprint, shouldering his way past before Shane can even react.

“As if!” Shane follows, hot on his heels.

They thunder up the stairs together, pulling and shoving at each other. They slam into the doorframe, both trying to squeeze through at the same time, shoulders slamming against the frame as they elbow and try to push each other back.

Ilya breaks free first, pushing off the wall with such force he stumbles and nearly goes headlong into the bed. Shane watches him trip, and he’s following so close behind he nearly smashes into Ilya. At the last moment, Shane catches himself. He grabs Ilya around the middle, and while Ilya is still trying to stabilize himself, Shane lifts and throws him to the bed.

“You cheated!”

“Oh! How did I cheat, huh?” Ilya rolls and flops out on the bed, grabbing the numerous throw pillows and tossing them at Shane’s head. “Being faster isn’t cheating.”

“It’s cheating if you’re already running before you even announce the race.” It’s hard to speak through the laughter, especially while Shane is getting whomped by pillows. “Sto-op!”

“Oh, I need to announce it, do I? You want a fucking headline in the papers!”

Ilya is out of pillows to throw, and Shane lunges forward. Ilya tries to roll out of the way, but Shane gets a hand around his ankle and pulls him down the bed

“I do,” Shane jokes, “I need at least a week’s notice so I can prepare. Get my head in the game.”

“I’ve got a head you can play with,” Ilya says. Shane isn’t sure it makes sense, but even if it doesn’t, Ilya makes his meaning clear by grabbing the bulge in his shorts. “I believe you owe me.”

Shane climbs up Ilya’s body, pressing his wrists down to the mattress and straddling his hips. “Make me,” he urges.

Ilya’s grin in response is so sharp it nearly cuts Shane through. Within seconds, Ilya’s arms are free from Shane’s grasp, and the world is tilting around them as Shane is flipped and pressed down into the blankets. Ilya has a good 40 lbs on Shane, plus Shane isn’t really trying to get away, and so he is pinned quickly under Ilya’s bulk.

That lightning is back and shooting up and down Shane’s spine as Ilya presses him down into the covers and kisses him so thoroughly Shane almost forgets how to breathe. He’s working on pure instinct now, with no input from his conscious brain. Ilya shifts and Shane opens his legs so Ilya can press his full body weight down between them, making Shane moan into their kisses.

Shane fists and pulls at Ilya’s shirt enough that they break apart so Ilya can throw the offending material across the room. Then Ilya bullies Shane up and out of his own shirt to launch it to the floor as well. A firm hand on Shane’s bare chest pushes him back down, and Ilya follows. They’re skin to skin now and it’s electric. Shane palms at Ilya’s chest, feeling his heart race in time with Shane’s.

This is unbelievable.

Even in his most secret dreams Shane could never have imagined it would be this good. Something in Ilya lights Shane up inside, brings all his feelings to the surface of his skin and sets them on fire.

Ilya kisses his way across Shane’s jaw and over to his ear, where he whispers, hot and heady, “I won the race. I want my prize.” He punctuates the words with a dirty grind between Shane’s legs. Then he licks at Shane’s earlobe. “You know you want to taste me.”

Shivers run down Shane’s spine and land in his throbbing cock. He already feels so close to coming – just a few more of those dirty grinds and he’ll be there – but Ilya is right. Shane wants to taste him.

Actually, now that Ilya’s suggested it, it’s all Shane can think about. How soft and smooth he’ll glide over Shane’s tongue. How musky and salty he’ll taste. Fuck, he wants it so bad.

“Please.”

Shane pulls at Ilya, urging him up the mattress till he’s straddling over Shane’s face.

Tented shorts are in the way, and Shane almost whines as he drags the elastic waistband over Ilya’s fat ass to free his cock. It springs forward and nearly smacks Shane in the face, but he doesn’t mind that. (In fact, maybe he likes it a little bit too much.)

Ilya holds his cock steady as Shane opens and sucks the tip into his mouth. His hands squeeze at Ilya’s rump, feeling the muscle against his palm and urging Ilya in. Deeper. And deeper still, until Shane is resisting the urge to gag as he swallows around Ilya’s hard cock.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya gasps as he starts to work his hips. “Who taught you to use your mouth like this?”

Shane wants to grin, but his lips are spread too wide, so he settles for making a needy noise in the back of his throat that makes Ilya groan and fuck just a little harder. It’s not long after that Ilya is pulling back, his cock dropping from Shane’s lips with a wet pop, gripping his cock by the base to keep himself from coming right there.

For a moment, Shane is almost disappointed. How hot would it be to get a face-full of Ilya Rozanov’s cum?

But he wants to ride that dick more than he wants a facial.

Feeling cheeky, Shane watches Ilya’s face, waiting for the moment of relaxation that comes after fighting off an orgasm, and then he leans his head forward and runs his tongue over the tip of Ilya’s dick.

“Oh, so you like trouble, huh?” That’s all the warning Ilya gives before he attacks. He wrestles and tickles Shane at the same time. Shane howls a laugh and gives it right back to him. They roll around the bed, pushing and grappling with each other. Also grinding.

It’s filthy and silly and so fun that Shane almost laughs himself hoarse.

Did he know sex could be this fun?

Sure, Shane has had some really hot sex over the years. Not super regularly, but enough. It’s always sort of secretive and sexy. It’s never really been playful.

But now Ilya has him, once again, pinned to the bed, and he’s blowing raspberries over Shane’s chest and stomach while a firm knee between Shane’s legs gives him something to writhe against.

Somewhere in their rolling and fighting, they’re both stripped naked. And now the sweet press of flesh against flesh is working Shane up. Fuck, he can feel the hairs on Ilya’s leg slide against his cock as Shane’s hips rut forward.

Ilya blows another raspberry over Shane’s pec, then takes Shane’s nipple into his mouth.

God, what Shane wouldn’t do to ride this man’s cock right now.

He holds Ilya there for a moment, letting him suck and nip and make Shane go crazy with lust. Then he spins them one last time, forcing Ilya on his back, and straddling over him to grind that hard cock against Shane’s waiting hole.

“I need…”

“I know what you need,” Ilya says. His hand wraps, hot and perfectly rough, around Shane’s cock.

It’s tempting to just shift his hips and take Ilya dry, but Shane knows that’s a terrible and painful idea. “Where do you hide your lube here?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Is bedroom. What do I need to hide it for here?” Then he gestures to the bedside table on Shane’s side of the bed. Shane crawls over and opens the drawer. He’s immediately accosted by an assortment of multicoloured toys of various sizes and shapes, plus at least three different types of lube and a mostly empty box of condoms.

“Jesus.” It’s not lost on Shane that this is his side of the bed. “Maybe I am a pervert.”

His dick throbs in an interested, but also vaguely scared, kind of way as he looks at the size of some of the butt plugs and dildos in there.

Meanwhile, Ilya laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Is true. You are. Moy izvrashchenets.” Shane can guess at what the Russian meant and he doesn’t want a translation.

He shakes his surprise off, grabbing the lube bottle with the more basic looking label (no cartoon cherries or snowflakes on it) and one of the condoms. Soon he’s back in Ilya’s arms, groaning as Ilya stretches him on three fingers while letting Shane fuck into a loose, lube-covered fist. Shane opens easily – he’s getting a clearer and clearer picture about how much this universe’s Shane fucks.

Once he’s ready, Shane wraps Ilya’s cock and douses it in lube, then he lines himself up and slowly lowers himself onto Ilya’s hard cock.

Ilya moans as Shane slowly drops over him. His head pushes back into the pillows, his soft curls dark and messy in the lamplight. He breathes out a long string of Russian that sounds like deep, devotional praise, and Shane eats it up.

It feels so good. Sitting in Ilya’s lap. Feeling Ilya split him apart, pushing deeper and deeper inside him. That electricity is back, sending volts through Shane’s limbs.

Shane leans both hands onto Ilya’s chest, grounding himself, connecting them. They’re connecting in so many ways right now. Ilya’s hands rub up and down Shane’s sides. They’re not pushing, or pulling, or trying to make him go faster. They’re just touching him to touch. And they feel phenomenal on Shane’s heated skin.

Once Shane is fully seated, connected at deep as he can get, he pauses – just for a moment. Just long enough to catch Ilya’s intense and heated gaze.

Ilya speaks in Russian again, and this time Shane knows it’s a love confession. He doesn’t know any Russian words, except maybe da and nyet, but he can tell from the unfiltered look in Ilya’s eyes exactly what the man is saying.

Shane feels it too. He feels it deep down in his core.

He doesn’t say it, but Shane knows there’s no hiding what’s in his own eyes right now.

Ilya gives him the softest smile. One hand reaches up and holds gently over Shane’s heart.

Shane just nods. Then he folds himself down, lips seeking until he meets Ilya in a tender kiss.

For a moment, they just stay together like that, Shane holding Ilya deep within him, sharing sweet kisses filled with emotion. But then Ilya tilts his head to break the kiss, pressing his smile into Shane’s cheek.

“Are you going to just sit there all night, or are you going to fuck me?”

“Asshole!”

“No, it’s your asshole I want to feel.” Ilya gives Shane’s ass a squeeze and then a gentle tap.

“Fuck you, Rozanov.” Shane pulls away from their kiss, getting back up on his knees.

“Yes. Exactly. Fuck me.”

Shane rolls his eyes. He lifts himself up as high as he can, till Ilya is almost falling out of him, and then he slams back down as hard and fast as his body will allow. “Better?”

“Da. Yes. Fuck, I missed this.”

Ilya’s hands on Shane’s ass helps him to set a brutal pace. Fast and hard. It rocks the bed, making a clanging noise as the headboard smacks against the wall.

“It’s only been three days.” Shane is riding him so fast, he knows he’s not going to last much longer. The feel of Ilya inside him, hitting him right where he needs it, is too much. But judging by the way Ilya’s eyes keep rolling shut and his head keeps pressing back into the pillows, Shane would say that he’s not far off either.

“Three days too long. God, I want to live in you, moya lyubov.”

Nothing has ever sounded more perfect. Shane never wants this to end. He’s splitting himself open on Ilya’s cock and he would happily stay here forever.

Shane gives him a squeeze, and he can feel the pulsing reaction through Ilya’s entire body in response. “Fuck!” Ilya cries, his hands squeezing at Shane’s ass. “I’m so close!”

He drops one hand to fist at Shane’s cock – tight and perfect. And there go all thoughts of staying like this forever because Shane isn’t going to last another minute. Ilya is hitting him just right, and with that fist! Oh, Shane is already leaking so bad. He can feel his balls starting to clench, his orgasm rushing upon him.

“Fuck! Ilya!” Shane practically shouts it, squeezing down around Ilya again.

It’s so good. So fucking good.

And then it’s even better, and Shane is exploding all over Ilya’s stomach, crying out from the force of his orgasm. Shane doesn’t slow, and a moment later Ilya is clenching at his hips, fucking hard up into Shane, and groaning, head writhing in the pillows.

When the pulses of pleasure finally run their circuit, Shane nearly collapses onto Ilya. At the last second he remembers the mess sprayed across Ilya’s torso and changes course, bouncing to the bed at Ilya’s side instead. Ilya chuckles like he knows exactly what just went through Shane’s mind.

“How was that, huh?” Ilya reaches and gives Shane’s rear a gentle smack. Like a ‘good game’ in basketball, only he lingers, his hand warm on Shane’s skin. “Best you ever had?”

It was, but Shane is not about to admit that out loud. “It was incredible.” He aims for sarcastic. With his breathless voice and awed tone Shane probably isn’t fooling anyone.

The bed is so soft and comfy, and it’s so nice and warm at Ilya’s side – even though they are on the wrong sides of the bed – Shane’s eyes are getting heavy. He really needs to get up. He doesn’t want to sleep like this. And Ilya needs to clean up, there’s no way Shane is letting him sleep with a cum-splattered belly. Hell, the bedding probably needs to be changed as well.

Once again, Ilya anticipates his needs.

“Shower?” he asks, giving Shane’s ass another squeeze and a little wiggle. “Us both?”

“That sounds perfect, actually.” Shane has an immediate vision of Ilya all soaped up in the steam, and Shane rubbing his hands through the suds all over that torso, getting it nice and clean.

“Come.” Ilya gives his ass one final smack and gets out of the bed with an over-exaggerated groan. Shane waits in the bed, just long enough to watch that perfect, fat ass bounce its way to the shower, before he gets up and follows along behind. Ready to make his dreams a reality.

Chapter End Notes

Wellllll, what do we think?

Did you expect Shane to give in and ask for sex? He took longer than Boner-Less Ilya, but only by like, a day or two? Three days is still pretty fast to fall in love.

Boner-Less Shane really flourishes with help from his support system. Seeing other people interact with Ilya helps him come to terms with everything and shows him that Ilya is safe to be around etc. Honestly, this didn't occur to me until right ow, but it is very much like when you have a dog and you're introducing it to a friend or family member for the first time, and how if you go and hug the friend while the dog watches, they are way more likely to warm up to that person quickly. You show them that the person is safe, and they will trust more easily. And Boner-Less Shane is that dog. He needed Hayden and his parents to show him that Ilya isn't that scary before he could accept the reality of the situation.

We are getting into the final stretch here. Two more chapters and an epilogue. That seems wild that we're getting close to the end already. But I guess time marches onwards.

Thank you all for reading! I'm so happy to see people coming back each week. My kudos emails every morning fill me with joy. And I love to see all your comments.

And here are the links to the places where I post chapter updates and also sometimes thoughts and ideas that don't make it into full fics.
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Chapter 10: The Shower

Chapter Summary

Shane gets an informative phone call from Hayden, though he is a bit distracted at the time.

Chapter Notes

Boner-less Universe
Boston, Monday June 21 2022
Late afternoon

Shane can’t catch his breath. Or, well, he could if a certain Russian demon would let him. But apparently, they are making up for lost time. Which means that even though Shane literally just came, quaking and crying and strung out on Ilya’s dick maybe two minutes ago, his softening dick is being licked thoroughly clean in Ilya’s scorching mouth.

It feels incredible!

He’s being gentle with it, playing with the edge of oversensitivity but not crossing over, which is the only reason Shane isn’t pushing him away.

This Ilya is a beast. Not that Shane’s Ilya back home, his husband, isn’t a beast. But something about being denied the man he truly wants for more than a decade and then having that man at his complete mercy has turned Ilya into a sex-crazed, insatiable monster.

Not that Shane’s complaining.

But he is probably dehydrated. And he feels sore like he just played a playoff game. And they’ve definitely tested the limits of how much he can come in a single afternoon.

“Okay. Okay, enough,” Shane pants to the ceiling. He gives Ilya’s head a little push to the side, which only makes Ilya drop his cock and start licking his way up Shane’s cum-splattered and sweat-soaked chest. It should be gross, but whatever. It feels nice.

The phone rings at the bedside table, and Shane is just close enough to stretch and reach it without displacing either of them. From the way Ilya’s hands tighten around Shane’s sides, like he’s scared Shane is going to run off somewhere, it seems like a good thing the phone was within reach or Shane might never have answered it.

Shane glances at the name on screen before he answers.

“Hey Hayd.”

Ilya makes a whining sound in the back of his throat and starts licking his way over to Shane’s nipples. Suddenly, Shane is struck by the memory of their first summer at the cottage, back before Hayden ever knew about Ilya. Though this can’t be a repeat of that day because Shane is TKO’d; which is his flimsy justification for not pushing Ilya’s hot mouth away.

“Hey buddy, how’s it going? You’re at the cottage, right?” In typical Hayden fashion, he jumps quickly over his own questions without needing an answer and gets to the point. “So, Jackie was reading this article this morning about some meteor shower that’s coming that’s like, super rare or fancy or something. And Arthur is going through this whole space phase lately and Jackie thinks it’ll be a great experience for him and the girls.” Hayden doesn’t really need any prompting, but Shane hums along to indicate he’s listening. A hum that may or may not hide a moan as Ilya’s tongue (and teeth) find his nipple. “So, we were wondering if you would mind if we come up to the cottage tomorrow for some Uncle Shane time, so we can see the comets…”

“Meteors,” Shane hears Jackie correct in the background.

“Right, meteors,” Hayden confirms, “without all the city lights in the way.”

“Well,” Shane starts, hand fisting into Ilya’s curls and pulling him up to kiss at Shane’s neck so he can speak without sounding like a pervert. “I’m not actually at the cottage right now, but you’re welcome to go up.”

“You’re not?” Hayd sounds genuinely surprised. “Where are you?”

And Ilya, of course, quickly gets bored with sucking hickeys on Shane’s neck and starts travelling up Shane’s jaw, aiming for a kiss. Shane knows it’s a bad idea to encourage him – but when has he ever been able to resist encouraging Ilya Rozanov?

He tilts the phone away and leans in for a quick kiss before answering.

“I’m in Boston for… a family thing.” Now Ilya is sucking on his ear lobe making it really hard to remember his bullshit cover for why he’s in Boston. It doesn’t help that Ilya giggles at the mention of the ‘family thing.’

“Boston! Shit. Better keep your eyes open there. You don’t want to run into that psycho Rozanov. You don’t need that headache the week after winning the Cup.”

Ilya must hear what Hayden said because he pops up from Shane’s ear with a wide grin.

“Don’t worry, dude. Rozanov’s not a problem.” Rozanov definitely is a problem, and Shane has to move the phone away again because he’s pressing in for another kiss, and this one’s a little dirty. “Mmm,” Shane has to physically push Ilya away to get himself back on track, “But yeah, you know where my keys are, right? Or if you want, I can get Mom and Dad to come out and let you in.”

“That’s okay man, I know where the key is.”

There’s silence between them for a second, and Shane lets himself get distracted by another kiss.

“Hey,” Hayden’s voice gets quiet and conspiratorial, “are you with someone right now?”

Ilya is biting and pulling at Shane’s bottom lip when he says, “No,” so it’s not at all convincing.

“Nice, dude! I won’t keep you. Give my best to whatever girl you’re with, and I’ll see ya soon, buddy.”

The call disconnects and Shane lets it fall into the no-man’s-land of the mattress. “Asshole,” he accuses, rolling Ilya onto his back and laying on top of him. Shane’s dick might be down for the count, but Ilya’s is half-hard against Shane’s thigh – the man’s a fucking beast.

But it has been at least an hour since Shane last had that dick in his mouth so…

He reverses the order that Ilya used to climb his body, trailing down jaw, throat, chest. By the time he gets low enough, Little Rozanov is almost fully hard, and it only takes a second in Shane’s mouth for him to fill out the rest of the way.

Ilya moans, hands covering his eyes, head thrown back, and he murmurs a long string of Russian that sounds almost like a religious blessing. Shane doesn’t catch all of the words, but it’s definitely about his mouth and tongue – so not too religious, then.

It’s not until later that night, when the two of them have showered, and napped, and they’re lazing around on the couch eating popcorn and zoning out to a Fast and the Furious movie that Shane processes what Hayden was saying earlier.

A meteor shower. A rare one.

Didn’t that just happen the other day? Isn’t that what Hayes was talking about out on the lawn?

Shane’s memory of that night is pretty fuzzy, but he remembers leaning back in the grass and looking up at the sky for shooting stars that he never ended up seeing.

He takes his phone out and googles for meteor showers in Ontario and a few recent articles come up, all saying the same thing. Rare meteor shower, that comes once in a hundred years, flying over Eastern Canada Tuesday night. There’s nothing about any shower happening last Thursday after the cup. Is that another thing that’s different between the two universes?

The information spins around the back of Shane’s mind for the rest of the night, like a hamster on a wheel. He doesn’t have any answers on how he got here or why, and he doesn’t expect to come up with any. If this were a movie, he would have scientist friends who would help him figure it out. Or magic shaman friends who would know things. But Shane’s just been going on vibes and a deep-seated need to be near Ilya Rozanov.

If you follow the vibes, though… this looks like a sign.

A meteor shower happened in his universe and the next morning he woke up in this one. It’s possible the same meteor shower will send him back.

They’re crawling into Ilya’s bed together later that night when Shane finally decides he needs to say something. Just in case.

Honestly, it feels crazy to say to someone “hey, I think this random meteor shower is going to let me move through different realities,” but it would be so much worse if Shane didn’t say anything. If Ilya woke up Wednesday morning to a different Shane. One that doesn’t know the strides they’ve taken these last few days.

Oh god! If that happened, Shane thinks it would break Ilya.

If it happened to his own Ilya, back in his own universe, it would be bad enough (something he’s been avoiding thinking about the last few days). But at least that Ilya has a support system. Has Galina and Shane’s parents, Anya, the Ottawa team, antidepressants. This Ilya has nothing and no one. He doesn’t even seem to have Svetlana here. Just a cokehead brother who hits him up for money every few months and calls him slurs.

So Shane reaches across the bed and takes Ilya by the hand, wrapping it in both his own and holding it to his chest as he tells him about the meteor shower.

“So, you think you are leaving,” Ilya summarizes, after patiently listening to Shane’s rambling theory. Shane can hear the unsaid ‘leaving me’ in his words.

“I think your Shane will be coming back, yes.”

Ilya sighs. He blinks up at the ceiling for a moment and then turns away. Like a turtle pulling into his shell for safety. But a light touch to his cheek has Ilya turning back and leaning into the comfort of Shane’s arms instead.

“You’re gonna make it work with him, remember? You promised you’ll go after him.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything, but he nods into Shane’s shoulder. It breaks Shane’s heart to see him so scared of being alone. He hugs Ilya even tighter, running a soothing hand up and down his side.

“I think it’ll be best if I go back to the hotel tomorrow night.” Shane says it softly, trying to cushion the impact of the words. It doesn’t really help though; he can feel the way Ilya tenses. But it’s for Ilya’s own good. “We don’t know where he’s been these last few days. I don’t think it would be good if he wakes up here.” Ilya nods again. His face is practically buried in Shane’s arm pit. He’s not crying, he’s not saying anything, and the silence is getting a bit worrisome, but Shane presses on. “He’s going to love you. Just like I love you. I know it – there’s no universe out there where we can stay away from each other. I promise you.”

Shane would never make a promise he can’t keep, especially not one to Ilya when he’s this upset. But he knows he can keep this one. He doesn’t care what the articles say about them. What their history is like in this world. There’s no way Shane Hollander doesn’t fall for this sweet, beautiful, infuriating, heartbroken man.

“Let him see you. The real you. And fuck him instead of fighting him.” That, at least, gets a little laugh out of Ilya. “He’s going to be so addicted to your dick. Trust me.”

Somehow, that’s what finally knocks Ilya’s tears loose. He shudders and starts to shake in Shane’s arms, gulping for breath.

Shane hates how much he’s made Ilya cry these last few days. But it feels necessary. It feels like he’s been purging something. Like they’ve just speedrun the first eight or nine years of their relationship from back home into the course of a long weekend. Shane can feel how desperate Ilya’s been. Desperate for connection. Desperate to be understood. To be held and loved.

All the other Shane needs to do is not fumble this.

Ilya clings to Shane for the rest of the night. Shane isn’t sure how much actual sleep either of them gets, but Ilya is drooling on his shoulder when he wakes from a doze early in the morning, so Shane tries not to worry too much.

They spend all of Tuesday in each other’s arms, mainly in the bed. They alternate between fucking and cuddling, because Shane finds he can’t refuse his touch-starved baby anything. And then at midnight, Shane gives Ilya one final, parting kiss – an absolute knock-out, back bending kiss – and he rolls his suitcase out the door and over to his new hotel room.

In the morning, Shane wakes up in his bed in the cottage, wrapped up in Ilya’s arms. A quick touch to the hand curling around his side confirms a wedding ring on Ilya’s finger.

Ilya snorts and then jerks as he wakes up, his other hand lifting to rub his nose and pull Shane’s wayward hair from his mouth. Just like always.

“Good morning,” Ilya mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Shane’s head.

Shane responds in imperfect Russian. “Good morning, my love. I have missed you greatly.”

The response is immediate. Ilya’s eyes grow wide; he shivers with excitement as he lifts up on an elbow to get a good look at Shane. “You are back?!”

His grin is so big and infectious, Shane can’t help but mirror it. His cheeks almost hurt it’s so big.

“I’m back. I’m home.”

They haven’t brushed their teeth yet, but Ilya pushes Shane to the mattress with such fervor, and Shane missed his husband so much, that this one time he’ll allow a deep and consuming kiss between them. His body is flush with relief and joy to be back in his husband’s arms.

There’s also relief hearing that Ilya knew he was gone. Knowing that he woke up naked in Ilya’s arms. It gives him hope for that other universe, that he didn’t leave his other Ilya alone with a Shane who is starting from zero. Instead, he’s getting a Shane that’s been warmed up by his husband.

Actually…

That thought brings everything to a grinding halt.

Shane pushes Ilya away, hard, as the weirdest flood of jealousy takes over his system. Shane freezes as his mind wars between being upset that the other Shane was with his husband and recognizing that he himself had been with the other Ilya without issue.

Ilya watches, looking a little wary, as Shane holds him at arms length, mind whirring. There are hickeys all across Ilya’s chest. And Shane can’t abide that.

“Brush your teeth,” Shane demands. “Right now.” He starts pulling at the blankets with an energy that might loosely be called manic. “And then I’m kissing every inch of you that he touched. I’m reclaiming what’s mine.”

“Da, moy komandir. I will also reclaim what’s mine.”

Shane ends up spending yet another day in bed being absolutely worked over by Ilya Rozanov. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chapter End Notes

Another short chapter here, but it covered a fair amount. Shane is back in his own universe now! Back in bed with his husband and ready to reclaim what's his!

How excited are you for next week? The Boner-Less Boys are going to be back together!

I hope you enjoyed this update, even if it is a shorter one. We're really coming up on the end of the fic now. We have one more chapter and an epilogue. And then I was looking at what I'm going to post next and it's going to be a Hayden/Shane/Ilya horny little one-shot I wrote. So there's more to look forward to.

Thanks all so much for your support. The kudos and comments really mean a lot to me! <3

And you can find me in the places. I'm WatermelonTuesdays everywhere. ^-^
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Chapter 11: Fucking Not Fighting

Chapter Summary

Shane wakes up in yet another strange room to find - of all things - a letter from himself.

Chapter Notes

Boner-less Universe
Boston, Wednesday June 23 2022
Morning

For the last four days, Shane has woken up to the bright Ottawa sun glinting off the river and shining through the big windows of Ilya’s bedroom. So when he wakes in the dull and muted light of a hotel bedroom, his heart sinks.

Where the fuck is he now?

At least this time there’s no man in his bed for him to freak out about, but goddamn if Shane doesn’t wish he had some kind of inkling about what the fuck is going on with him. Is this just his life now? Hopping between unknown realities? Waking up in strange rooms and being left to figure it the fuck out?

Last night, he and Ilya had had a candlelit dinner at the cottage. They sat and watched the fire and listened to the loons and the frogs and the crickets. And then they laid each other out and made sweet and passionate love to each other late into the night. Shane can practically still feel the imprints of Ilya’s hands and teeth on his body, even though he instinctively knows this isn’t the body that he was in last night.

It feels unreal.

He looks around this unrecognizable hotel room and tries not to feel like he’s gone totally insane.

His phone is on the nightstand, sitting on top of a folded piece of paper with his name on it, written in his own handwriting.

Okay, what the fuck is that? Shane can’t deal with the mindfuck of a letter written to himself right now, so he grabs the phone first.

He checks the date first and it looks like time is still moving normally, at least. Just underneath the date, the weather reading shows information for Boston. His maps app confirms, Shane is in Boston.

Okay. Boston. Okay.

That’s where Ilya Rozanov lives in his universe. That might be a good sign.

Next is google, where he puts in his own name and Ilya’s. It doesn’t take long to confirm. This is his universe. The Wikipedia article on their rivalry confirms it. So does every other headline he scrolls past. His final confirmation comes from running a hand up his side. His fingers find the puckered skin of a scar that hadn’t been on the other Shane’s body.

Ok. So he’s home.

There’s something relieving about being back in his own world. But also devastating.

Shane got a taste of something in that other world. One that he hates to give up.

A weight that feels oddly like grief sits in his chest as he lets the phone drop down to lap.

It’s a few minutes before he can bring himself to take the letter off the bedside table, and even then, he just holds it for a bit, looking at it. It definitely looks like his handwriting. Neat and even. The way it looks when he takes his time with it, not when he scribbles his signature for an autograph.

A deep breath, and then he opens it. It’s a full page, and luckily Shane’s printing is small or this would probably be multiple pages.

Hi Shane, it’s Shane. But you probably already know that.

Oh god, is Shane actually a dork? Hayden’s been saying he is for a decade now, and Shane always thought it was just teasing, but looking at this greeting, he thinks it might be for real.

He keeps reading.

I don’t know where you’ve been the last few days while I was running around in your life, but I hope it was somewhere good. I kind of hope you were in my life seeing how amazing Ilya Rozanov can be. But just in case you weren’t, I wanted to write you this letter.

I won’t pretend to understand everything that went on between you and Rozanov in this world, you’ve got a lot of history. But I know that you can’t go a day without thinking about him. I need you to get over yourself a bit and give him a chance to show you who he really is. Ilya likes to put up walls, and act like an asshole to hide how deeply he cares for people.

He needs you, Shane. He needs you so badly. You need him too. You probably think your life is fine the way it is, but I’m telling you, if you let Ilya Rozanov in it’s going to be so much better. You can’t even imagine how good it is to love him. It’s so much better than fighting him and fighting what you feel for him.

You’re here in Boston right now. I told people you’re visiting family. Ilya lives just down the street, he knows that the last few days were me and not you, and he wants to get to know you. He’s going to be waiting for you there at 11 am today. Though, honestly, he is probably going to wait all day, or for the rest of his life. So please Please! don’t let him down. Give him the chance to talk without a fight, just once, and you’ll see how amazing he truly is.

For both your sakes, please. Take the chance to fall in love with him. Be brave. He’s worth it.

Regards, Shane.

And then it gives Rozanov’s address and the code to his front door.

It’s been such an impossibly weird couple of days that this letter almost feels normal. Why wouldn’t Shane’s alternate reality version of himself write a letter encouraging him to fall in love with his lifelong enemy? Though, that’s probably no weirder than the fact that Shane is already on board with this plan. He’s already half in love with Ilya Rozanov. That taste of the good life he got is too sweet to ever give up.

Shane skims the note again and he can’t help himself, his eyes naturally fall to that line, “he wants to get to know you.” His stomach gives an anxious twist.

It’s only been four days. Can so much have changed in four days that Ilya Rozanov wants to know him? Is waiting for him?

Obviously yes, right? Four days was enough for Shane. It was enough to open his eyes to what they could be.

At ten minutes to eleven o’clock Shane walks up to an unknown building and starts punching in a code to enter. It feels like breaking and entering, sneaking up to a building he’s never been in before with a code he shouldn’t have. But that ‘he wants to get to know you’ rings in his mind.

The thought doesn’t really calm him. But it distracts from the anxiousness of walking into a building he has no right to be in by overriding it with the anxiousness of meeting Ilya Rozanov in private.

A week ago, Shane would have considered this a death sentence. The two of them, alone, with no CCTV or security to keep them in check? They’d kill each other! Not that Shane is scared of Rozanov, but, well, they were alone in a club bathroom for less than five minutes when they were both sent to the hospital for the cuts on their sides.

There are so many different reasons to be nervous, and they all chase each other around Shane’s gut as he takes the elevator up, up, up to the top floor. And then he’s standing in front of Ilya Rozanov’s door. Not the one from the other universe who baby talks to his dog and makes protein-rich pancakes and works on puzzles with Shane’s dad. This is the one who calls Hayden a waste of space, who has dislocated Shane’s shoulder and bruised his ribs more times than Shane can count, and who has only ever escalated all of the worst anger in Shane. They make each other terrible. They’ve always made each other terrible.

They push each other to greatness on the ice. But off the ice they are combustible. Dry tinder and a match. Gasoline and a spark. C4 and a detonator.

It’s three minutes to eleven and Shane is standing in the hallway doing deep breathing exercises (the ones that have never once helped him when it comes to Ilya Rozanov) while he imagines his roots spreading into the hallway tiles and branches spreading up to the sun.

The door opens and Rozanov stands there wearing an expression Shane has never seen before. It’s not quite surprise and not quite awe. If anything, Shane thinks it might be hope. His gut clenches in an entirely new way, his heart thudding in his chest.

They don’t say anything, but Rozanov opens the door and steps aside in a clear invitation. The penthouse is bright and open, with kitchen leading into living and dining room. It’s well planned, a beautiful space, with huge windows looking out over the Boston skyline. The décor is nice too, though Shane immediately notices it’s not as homey as the Ottawa house had been.

Rozanov shuts the door and steps closer, still leaving several feet between them, and they just look at each other.

The silence between them is heavy. It presses down on Shane’s shoulders. It fills his lungs and makes it hard to breathe.

They’re just looking at each other. Like fucking idiots.

The painful awkwardness is another reminder that this isn’t that Ilya who made everything so easy. Who knew Shane so well. This is the asshole Rozanov who’s standing here looking at Shane like Shane is supposed to know what the fuck they do from here.

And, of course, Shane breaks first.

“Well?” he snaps. He feels stretched tight like a balloon, filled with too much air and seconds away from explosion.

“I did not think you would come.”

He says it soft. Gentle. It takes all the air out of Shane’s anger without popping that balloon.

Shane looks at Rozanov and it’s like he can see the Rozanov he’s always known merge with the Ilya he met four days ago. Rozanov’s shoulders are hunched, like he’s trying to be smaller. Tense, like he’s trying to keep Shane from getting angry.

“Of course I came.” Shane’s tone is still off. It’s better than it was, but it’s too heated. Shane takes a breath; he can be calm. “I owe it to myself.” Another breath. “And to you.”

“Do you…” Rozanov stops himself. “Where were you?”

“I was in his universe,” Shane jerks his head like he can point to the other universe. “With his husband.”

Rozanov nods.

It’s unbearably awkward here. Just standing out in the open by the door.

“Do you want something to drink? I have ginger ale.”

“Why–” Shane cuts his own question off. He knows why Rozanov has ginger ale on hand. Because the other Shane was here. They spent the last four days together.

What exactly did they do together? What did they talk about? Did they sleep together, too?

“Sure,” Shane says. He doesn’t really want a drink, but it’ll give him something to hold.

Rozanov gives him a can and leads him to the living room where Shane perches on the very edge of an armchair. He rolls the unopened can between his hands and stares blankly at the floor. Rozanov sits across the room, filling Shane’s periphery. That silence presses down on them again.

Shane doesn’t know how long they sit like that. The nervous energy builds in him until he finds himself cracking his can open and sipping at the ginger ale just to have something to do. He has almost run from this apartment, from this intolerable awkwardness, three times already. The only thing stopping him is that damn line in that stupid letter.

He wants to get to know you.

With that damn underlined ‘you.’

“Can you please just say something?” Shane says, still snappish.

“Something.”

At least that gets Shane to look up, though he only does it so he can glare daggers at Rozanov. “Fuck you.”

“What? I did what you asked.” Till now, Rozanov’s face has been carefully blank, but now his lips quirk up at the side in that stupid grin of his. The one that makes Shane bite the inside of his cheek because it’s equal parts sexy and infuriating and right now Shane is trying to be good.

“I didn’t ask you to be an asshole.”

Rozanov shrugs. “You knew I would be.”

“That doesn’t mean I want it.”

“But you are still here.” He says it like a simple statement, but it feels like an accusation.

Anger, and a sudden overwhelming fear, surge through Shane and he jumps to his feet. “Not any longer,” he says. Practically shouts.

But he doesn’t get two steps before a hand around his wrist stops him in his tracks.

“I’m sorry,” Rozanov says to the back of Shane’s head.

Shane doesn’t turn around. It feels easier now that they’re not looking at each other. Or maybe it’s that Rozanov’s hand is warm on Shane’s skin.

“I don’t want to make you angry. But maybe, I don’t know how to not do this.”

Shane takes a breath. “I don’t know how to not be angry either.”

There’s another long stretch of silence, the both of them standing in the living room, connected by a hand on Shane’s wrist, not looking at each other.

“Maybe we need to try the other Hollander’s plan.”

That piques Shane’s interest. “What plan?” The letter didn’t mention any plan. Plans are good.

He can hear the crooked grin in Rozanov’s voice when he says, “Every time we want to fight, we fuck instead.”

“Gross.” Shane yanks his arm back on instinct, turning on his heels to push a finger in Rozanov’s face. His anger is cut down, at least in part, when he sees that Rozanov is not being fully serious. There’s a joke dancing in his eyes that reminds him of the way other-Ilya harassed Yuna over Boggle.

The anger dissipates the rest of the way when Shane realizes how extremely close they are now. He just got full up in Rozanov’s face; there’s barely two inches between them. He can feel the buzz of static electricity between them, and he’s reminded of the other universe, the lube hidden everywhere. ‘Two different solutions to the same problem.’ Maybe it’s not a bad plan…

“Maybe… maybe let’s start with a kiss?”

“Really?” Ilya Rozanov has never looked more like an excited puppy in his life.

Oh no. Shane is going to fall so hard, so fast, isn’t he?

“Shit,” he mumbles to himself, “I’m completely screwed.”

“Only if you want to be.” Rozanov’s hands reach slowly for Shane, giving him time to pull away if he wants to. Instead, Shane takes a step forward, so their chests press together. His hands stay down at his sides while Rozanov’s curl around his neck and over his hip. “A kiss. So we don’t fight.”

Shane nods, just a little. He tilts so their noses don’t bump together as he leans in.

The first brush of their lips together is so painfully soft it makes Shane gasp. His hands fly up on instinct, grabbing Rozanov’s shirt and pulling him down into a second kiss, this one firmer and hungrier than the last. Rozanov tastes divine. His lips are powerful, possessive.

Shane pulls back and Rozanov chases him. He nips at Shane’s lips and Shane bites him back. And then they’re groaning into it. Clinging so tight that Shane is nearly lifted off his feet, Rozanov’s hand on his ass pulling him up to the tips of his toes, Shane’s arms slung over Rozanov’s shoulders, helping him lift.

Why the fuck did they ever fight each other?

They could have been doing this the whole time?!

Rozanov leans into Shane like he’s trying to get closer and it bends Shane backwards, trusting his weight to Rozanov’s firm grip. Shane hooks a leg over Rozanov’s waist, and Rozanov’s big fingers follow the movement and hold Shane’s thigh there. Shane’s erection – because of course he’s hard already – rubs over Rozanov’s hip and if they don’t stop now, they really will be fucking.

It takes every ounce of willpower in Shane’s body to push himself away and stand on his own two feet.

“I said a kiss, asshole.” Shane wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What a kiss!”

Shane glares and Rozanov smirks. Then he licks his lips and Shane feels himself waver.

He wants to pin Rozanov down and demand every drop of pleasure he can squeeze from his body. Shane has to ball his hands into fists to keep from acting on impulse.

“Shouldn’t we talk?”

“Probably.” Rozanov doesn’t seem that concerned.

His intense gaze locks with Shane like a challenge. The kind of challenge that, historically, leads to black eyes and missing teeth between them. Slowly, Rozanov reaches a hand down to himself, cups his cock, and adjusts himself to the left. His dick is visibly hard, and Rozanov gives it a light stroke as he moves his hand away.

Somewhere deep in his gut, Shane feels the last of his restraint snap.

“Fuck it.”

He launches himself at Rozanov and they land haphazardly on the armchair, knocking it backwards several inches. One of Rozanov’s long legs is caught over on the arm of the chair, but Shane doesn’t give him time to right himself. He’s too busy clawing at Rozanov’s clothes and licking into his mouth.

Soon, they’re half-naked and sideways in the chair, and they’re caught between laughing at each other and growling. But both their dicks are free and pulsing in Rozanov’s big hand, a palmful of both Shane and Rozanov’s spit slicking the way.

“Fuck, Rozanov!”

His hand is so rough. He’s pulling so fast. Shane’s balls are already feeling so tight, he’s ready to burst.

It’s like being caught up in a windstorm.

“Feels so good.” Rozanov is getting breathless. He sounds as fucked-out as Shane feels. “Always wanted to do this.”

It’s shocking to hear. Almost as shocking when Shane agrees. “Me too. I’ve wanted you to fuck me. Think about getting you so mad you lose it.”

“Ahh!” Rozanov throws his head back, his eyes half-lidded but he doesn’t look away from Shane. “Yes. Think about ripping that uniform off you and fucking you on the ice. Think about finding you in bar and pushing you into stall to make you choke on my dick.”

“Fuck,” Shane moans, “Fuck!”

He tries to keep his eyes on Rozanov but he’s coming so hard, he can’t help the way they roll back.

“Fuck, Hollander!” Rozanov agrees. And then Shane feels his cock pulse too and they’re both emptying out onto Rozanov’s belly.

That evening, they’re naked on the couch, wrapped up around each other under a fuzzy blanket that Shane is willfully ignoring as Boston’s colours. They’ve nearly made it to the bedroom several times today, but somehow never seem to get past the couch.

It hasn’t been all blowjobs and ass eating (and one particularly ill-advised 69 hanging upside down on the couch that made all the blood rush to Shane’s head), they’ve talked a fair bit too. A little about the last few days and what they got up to with their married counterparts. Mostly about their past, rehashing some old fights, giving awkward but much needed apologies to each other.

Going over the fights has led to most of the sex.

“You know, it’s a crude method, but I have to admit it works,” Shane says, resting his head on Rozanov’s pec.

“What is?” Rozanov has a hand curled under his own head, and from the sound of his voice he’s halfway asleep.

“Fucking not fighting.”

“Yes,” Rozanov’s chest bounces with a silent laugh, “We should have thought of it much sooner. Luckily, the stars know better. They fix.”

“What do you mean?”

Rozanov makes a vague gesture with his other hand. “The shower.” He waves his hand. “Stars fall. It brings other-Shane here. Sends him home.”

Apparently, Rozanov’s English gets worse when he’s tired. A few weeks ago, this would have been ammunition for Shane, but right now he only finds it adorable. But also, what the fuck is he saying?

“A star shower? Like a meteor shower?”

“Yes. Meteors. Other-Shane, he says meteors come to his world after Cup win. Only come every 100 years. But then Hayden calls and says they come Tuesday here, so other-Shane, he thinks maybe they send him home. Gets hotel for you.”

Shane blinks up at Rozanov’s sleepy face. “Is that what happened?” He really didn’t expect to get an actual answer on what the fuck occurred.

Rozanov shrugs and it jostles Shane. “I guess so. He is gone. You are here again.”

“Do you…” Shane hates the question the moment he starts to ask it, his stomach filling with lead. “Do you wish it were still him?”

The sound Rozanov makes in answer says all it needs to about how complicated and nuanced that answer is. “What about you? You wish you were still there?”

Shane probably should have expected the question to turn around on him. He goes quiet as he thinks his way through it, pressing his lips together flat, considering.

He takes so long that for a moment he thinks Rozanov has actually fallen asleep, so he shifts atop Rozanov to make sure he’s listening.

“I think that other version of Ilya was sad without his husband. I think he shared something with me that he didn’t have to share, to show me what I was missing. What I could have, if I put in the effort to get to know you. It was like a dream, but… I didn’t know him. They had such different lives, a whole other history, and I felt like a visitor. It wasn’t real. So…” Shane pauses, thinking through his thought before he says it. “I’m glad it happened, but I’m happy that I’m here. With you.”

“I’m real?” The question is so soft, so delicate. Shane hardly hears it and he’s literal inches away from Rozanov’s mouth.

They’re so close that Shane has to lean back in order to find Rozanov’s eyes. His eyes are such a stunning hazel colour, almost golden on the edges, and then deeper towards the center; and they’re brimming with unshed tears. The look he gives Shane is so open, so raw – it’s not anything Shane would have ever believed Ilya Rozanov capable of. The weight of it hits Shane like a freaking meteor. And it drops all of Shane’s defenses.

“You’re very real.” Shane can feel Ilya’s heartbeat against his own chest. “I think you’re the most real thing that’s ever happened to me.”

It’s dizzying how many steps they’ve skipped over. In less than 12 hours they’ve gone from bitter rivals (practically mortal enemies, honestly) to whatever this is. Lovers? It’s a gross word, but Shane can’t really think of one better.

This feels like love.

And Shane is pretty sure that Ilya can read that love in his eyes right now. He’s reading it, and he’s reflecting it back at Shane tenfold. Like two mirrors turned to each other, making an endless tunnel Shane can’t escape.

Overwhelmed, Shane drops his head down and buries it safe in the crook of Ilya’s neck. It smells like Ilya here, potent and sexy from all their activity, and it’s oddly calming.

“Are we insane for this?”

“For what?” Ilya’s hand finds the back of Shane’s neck and rests there, fingers spreading over the base of his skull.

“Isn’t this too fast?”

This time, Ilya’s shrug is just a barely-there movement. Hardly noticeable if Shane weren’t literally on top of the other man. “Is nearly twelve years. Seems slow to me.” Shane smiles into Ilya’s neck. “Plus, we had magic meteor shower. Speeds things up.”

Shane chuckles. “I guess so.”

It’s warm in Ilya’s neck, but it’s a good kind of warm. All of this is the good kind of warm. Skin to skin, cuddled under a fuzzy blanket with the AC blasting. Laying together like this, they’re breathing in unison. Nice, slow inhales and exhales.

Ilya’s chin touches to Shane’s head, bringing his attention back to their conversation.

“And you want this, yes? To put in the effort? Fuck till we don’t fight anymore. Become something more. Together?”

Slowly, Shane nods.

Then, because this is probably more of a face-to-face conversation, he lifts himself back up.

All those years of glaring into each other’s eyes and Shane never once let himself admire them. They’re so beautiful. There are little striations in the colour. Thin lines that run to the center like those polished rocks people use for meditation. Tiger’s eye.

Ilya Rozanov has tiger eyes.

“I do. If you do.”

“I do,” Ilya says quickly. His eyes dart quickly away, looking into the empty space somewhere over Shane’s shoulder. “I am alone here. I have my team, but we are not close. And I have a brother but…” he pauses for a long time and then sighs so deeply it feels like he and Shane are sinking into the couch. “He is horrible. He hates me and loves my money. I should cut him off, I want to, I would have, but – sometimes,” Ilya’s voice goes whisper quiet, “he is the only person who calls.”

Shane’s heart breaks.

Ilya’s eyes are still fixed, looking at nothing, and Shane watches his jaw clench again and again, lips pursing like he’s trying to muscle down any emotions. The tears slip down his cheek anyway, and Shane brushes them away.

Shane understands loneliness. Though he, at least, has family and friends who check in on him. But still, most nights he goes to bed feeling deeply, deeply alone. He can’t imagine what it must be like for Ilya.

Rather than say anything, Shane dips his head and gives Ilya a soft kiss. A sweet one. He thinks back to the alternate reality. To how seamlessly that Ilya had folded into Shane’s family. To how cared for he was.

Shane wants to give this Ilya that as well.

It will take more work, sure. Their history is more volatile. But Shane has never been scared of hard work.

“We need a plan.”

Ilya blinks at him like going from kissing to planning gives him whiplash.

“We need time together,” Shane goes on. “As much of it as we can get if we’re going to get to know each other. We have this summer, but once the season starts, it’ll be hard. In the other world they had you go to Ottawa, but I don’t think that will work here. You’re locked in with Boston for a few more years, eh?” He waits for Ilya’s nod.

“I have two more years on my contract.”

Shane nods and frowns, thinking hard. “And there’s no teams close to Boston that I could go to.”

“The other-Shane talked about a plan. That since we are new, we treat it as new. You come out publicly as gay, I come out publicly as bisexual, we stop fighting so much in public and start to be friendly. Let the world ship us.”

“Ship us? Where would they ship us to?” Is this like, deportation? Oh god, would they deport Ilya?

“No, ship like shipping. Like romance characters.” Ilya’s tone is light, almost laughing, like they aren’t discussing a serious topic. Shane is utterly confused.

“What?”

Ilya makes a frustrated growly noise in the back of his throat. “Shipping. When people take two characters they like and try to smush them together so they kiss.”

“Where are you getting this from?”

“I don’t know where it’s from, only how it’s used. You are the English expert here. Or are you not?”

“Shut up. You’re just making this up, aren’t you?”

“No! Google it if you don’t believe me.”

They shuffle on the couch together until they’re squished side by side, Shane’s phone in front of both their faces as they read the results for ‘ship people.’

“Huh,” Shane says at last. “I have never heard of this before.”

“Because you never go online. But is maybe for the best. Don’t go on twitter, your virgin eyes can’t handle it.”

“Virgin!” Shane elbows Ilya hard in the ribs. Hard enough the phone slips from his hand and falls to his chest. “I’m not a fucking virgin. You should know.”

“What do I know?” Ilya rolls half onto Shane, leaving him precious little space over the edge of the couch. Luckily, a firm grip on Shane’s ass keeps him from rolling to the floor. “You give me nothing.” He shakes Shane’s ass like it owes him something.

Shane can guess what Ilya thinks he owes him.

“I had your dick in my mouth twenty minutes ago, Rozanov.” Shane tries to glare, but he’s smiling so wide it’s ruining the effect. Ilya is grinning too, wide and toothy like a shark about to frenzy.

“But I want my dick where no man’s gone before.” He presses his face to Shane’s neck and kisses over the pulse there. The way he leans over Shane to do it pushes them both closer to the edge, and Shane has to wrap his leg around Ilya’s waist to keep himself secure. Or, that’s at least what Shane tells himself when he does it.

“Then you’d better send it to the moon.”

“I know exactly where to ship it.”

As previously established, the condoms and lube are in the bedroom, which feels about as far away as the moon at this particular moment. There’s no way Shane is extracting himself from Ilya’s embrace now – and not just because doing so is a guaranteed one-way trip to the floor.

Shane is already hard against Ilya, and he can feel Ilya’s growing hardness pressing against his own cock. He squeezes around Ilya with his leg and it rubs them both together, making Ilya moan over Shane’s throat, his hand digging into Shane’s ass. A thick, rough finger slips between Shane’s cheeks, circling his hole and rubbing against his taint.

“Ohh, yes. Do that some more,” Shane moans, squeezing his leg again and curling his hips up against Ilya’s.

They’re so close to the edge of the couch, but there’s something so viscerally hot about the way Ilya holds him in place as they grind against each other. It’s trust, Shane realizes with a shock that goes straight to his dick. Trust that Ilya has him – won’t drop him.

He fucking trusts Ilya Rozanov.

Fuck that’s hot.

Shane relaxes, just a bit. Just enough to feel Ilya move in response, grip securing Shane in place, pulling Shane’s hips forward to continue their slow grind.

“It’s not virgin territory,” Shane says, low and seductive in Ilya’s ear, “but maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you plant your flag.”

Ilya groans, loud and long, like a dying man. He presses his face into Shane’s chest.

Then, suddenly, they’re rolling. Shane’s arms flail as Ilya tips them over the edge.

There’s a moment where Shane is hanging, sure he’s about to fall flat on his ass as Ilya rolls over top of him into nothing. But then he feels as Ilya plants his feet, arms wrapping secure around Shane’s bottom. The next thing Shane knows, he’s being hoisted into the air like it’s nothing – like he’s not 200 lbs of lean muscle.

“Ilyaaa!” Shane shouts. He squirms to fight the hold as Ilya marches him towards the bedroom. He’s not fighting very hard though. Really, he’s just rutting them together and making things difficult.

“Is this good enough, Hollander?” Ilya only actually makes it to the bedroom door before he’s pressing Shane up against the doorframe and licking into his mouth, stealing any response right off Shane’s tongue.

Shane is breathless, his cock leaking like a faucet, when they finally break away. His body is on fire, and he needs Ilya Rozanov inside him yesterday.

His fingers find those beautiful curls and fists them, pulling just enough to make Ilya’s eyes go dark and ferocious.

“Make me fucking scream, Rozanov.”

Ilya doesn’t answer. He spins them away from the door and slams Shane down to the bed, boxing Shane in with his big, hairy body. He presses Shane down into the mattress, pinning him, and grinds his hips slow and dirty.

“Gonna scream my name, Hollander?” Ilya holds Shane by the chin while his other hand frantically digs through his bedside table.

Electricity crackles between them. They stare at each other so intently it’s practically a glare. Shane’s heart pounds behind his chest, and his cock throbs against Ilya’s. The way Ilya moves his hips over Shane is criminal, Shane’s stomach is filthy from the way his cock leaks under Ilya’s cruel, twisting, grind.

“Maybe. If you earn it,” Shane challenges. It makes Ilya laugh, a rich, deep sound that Shane feels in his own chest. It makes him feel warm all the way down to his toes – a different kind of warm than the blood-rushing inferno already taking him over.

Ilya tosses lube and condoms to the bed at Shane’s side, but rather than do anything with them he bites at Shane’s lips and sucks the bottom lip into his mouth. Shane moans, his fingers tangling back into Ilya’s curls as he tries to pull Ilya closer. He tastes so good. And he really knows how to fucking kiss. Shane would be utterly lost to Ilya’s mouth, if it weren’t for those sinful hips reminding Shane what they’re here for.

“I’m not screaming yet,” Shane teases when they pull apart. Ilya responds by using his knees to spread Shane’s legs wide and rubbing his cock over Shane’s.

Ilya grabs the bottle of lube and holds it between them. “You want? Or should I?” he offers.

It’s an excellent question. Shane knows deep in his soul that if he lets Ilya Rozanov finger him open, he is going to blow his load in a matter of seconds. Ilya was too good at eating his ass earlier, if he gets fingers in Shane he it going to use them to blow Shane’s mind. It’s both tempting and a terrible idea because Shane wants this to last.

On the other hand, if Shane opens himself up, he can be quick about it. Nice and efficient like usual. Providing he doesn’t freeze up, get embarrassed, or get distracted by Ilya watching him do it.

Or: he could do the secret third option.

He is still nice and loose from their earlier adventures in rimming, plus whatever it was that Ilya and the other-Shane got up to before they switched back (judging by the amount of hickeys scattered around Shane’s chest and thighs he’d say they got up to a fair amount).

“Fuck me open.” Shane says it with his full chest, and he’s rewarded by Ilya’s dumbass, jaw-dropped look.

“You’re sure?” The shock is quickly replaced by excitement, and Shane can feel Ilya’s cock jerk between them at the very idea. If he wasn’t sure already, he is now.

“Very sure. Come on, Rozanov. I wanna feel you.”

Ilya growls as he sits back on his heels. He rips the condom open with his teeth and rolls it on with quick, confident motions like this is second nature to him.

Fuck he’s so hot. Even the way he flicks open the bottle of lube before dousing his cock is so fucking sexy.

“You’re ready?” Ilya checks, working the lube over himself with a loose hand. He looms larger than life like this, on his knees between Shane’s legs. He’s so tall. So big – in every sense of the word. Hairy and masculine. And god Shane needs him inside him now!

Shane spreads his legs even wider, opening himself up. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“You’d better get my name on your lips now, because you’re not going to remember anything else.”

Shane can’t respond because Ilya is pushing in so beautifully slow. He’s thick and hard, stretching Shane so perfectly. “Fuuuuck!” Shane drawls, his head tilted back and writhing into the blankets, his back arching as he feels himself start to split open.

Ilya takes his time with it. He fills Shane a little at a time, working himself back and forth, almost like he’s playing.

“Is okay?” Ilya’s voice cracks, drawing Shane’s attention back to the man himself and not just the feeling of his fat dick sinking inside him. Above him, Ilya’s jaw is tense, his vein bulging along the side of his neck. The hands that grip Shane’s hips are almost white-knuckled.

He is the picture of restraint. The very image of a man holding himself back. Forcing himself to be slow and careful.

“Okay,” Shane reassures him.

Then, fighting the bruising grip on Shane’s hips, Shane rocks his body, urging Ilya deeper, faster.

“I can handle it. Give me more.” Shane reaches for Ilya, he seems so far away despite being literally inside him. He pulls Ilya down so they’re chest to chest, and Ilya is tucked into Shane’s neck. “I can take it. I want more.”

One fluid roll of their bodies together and Ilya is fully seated inside of Shane. Deep. Thick. Hot.

He hits Shane right where he needs it and the pleasure zips up Shane’s spine like a firework. “More,” Shane gasps, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s back and digging his fingers in. Ilya obliges, pulling out and then sliding back in and filling Shane again. “More!” Ilya does it again, rougher. “Fuck! More!”

Shane can feel it when Ilya finally lets loose. No more holding back. No more careful consideration. He turns wild and rough, fucking Shane down into the mattress so hard that the massive bed starts shaking and banging against the wall. They get a good rhythm, working the springs of the mattress to bounce them as Ilya pummels himself into Shane over and over.

“Fuck! Yes! Rozanov! Ohhhhh! Ilya! Fuck!” Shane rolls his body to meet Ilya’s thrusts, lost to the rough pleasure.

Ilya feels so good inside him. Around him. His soft and warm skin under Shane’s hands. The writhe of their bodies together. The steaming breath in Shane’s ear.

It’s almost violent, but it’s a beautiful violence. They work together, taking each other apart. Ilya rocks Shane so hard he does start screaming. Pure bliss is running, hot and wild and addictive, through Shane’s veins, urging them on. More. Harder. Faster. More. More. More.

Lost in the heat and the churn of their bodies, Shane hardly even notices when his teeth sink into Ilya’s shoulder. Not until Ilya is suddenly cursing, loudly and in Russian, hips absolutely jackhammering into Shane so hard and fast Shane nearly whites out from it.

The orgasm that’s been pressing at Shane’s spine and deep in his balls shatters forward, wracking through Shane’s whole body. It’s a back-arching, toes-curling, all-encompassing kind of orgasm that steals the breath from Shane’s lungs and the thoughts from his head.

Ilya rides him through it, slowing for his own pulsing orgasm after Shane has already become liquid in the sheets, arms draped overhead, eyes too heavy to keep open. He’s got a stupid smile on his face – he knows it must be so dumb looking because Shane has not a thought in his head except for how good and sated he feels. And Ilya leans down and kisses it.

“Hey,” Shane grumbles when Ilya pulls away after just the one kiss. He grumbles again, this time without real words, when Ilya delicately pulls out of him.

“Oh, I get it now. You are princess,” Ilya says. His tone is smug, and Shane cracks an eye just to get a glimpse of the cocky, self-satisfied grin Ilya gives him. Ilya is still kneeling between Shane’s knees, and he rubs soothing thumbs along the inner length of Shane’s spread thighs.

“Fuck off. I’m not a princess.”

Ilya answers with a slow look that takes in exactly how boneless and relaxed Shane is right now, stretched out on the bed. He must look well-fucked, because that’s exactly what he is.

“I’m not,” Shane insists. He still hasn’t moved from his comfy spot on the bed, which, admittedly, is princess-like behaviour. But right now Shane is comfortable and happy, and he knows if he moves even a little, he is going to feel the wet spot at his back and be uncomfortable and unhappy.

“Sure, sure.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Ilya leaves the bed with a parting grin and disappears into the attached bathroom. “Jesus christ!” his voice echoes in the tiled room. “You’re not a princess, you’re a freaking dragon!”

He returns a few seconds later, one hand holding a damp cloth, the other lightly touching the edge of a bright red bite mark on his shoulder. Shane covers his face, his cheeks burning, utterly mortified from his own behaviour.

“I’m sorry,” he says into his hands. He reaches one out to accept the face cloth, but Ilya brushes him aside and starts to wipe Shane down himself. Shane lets him, which is also maybe princess behaviour. But one crisis at a time.

“Don’t be sorry.” Ilya sits at Shane’s side, his body weight shifting the bed so everything feels like it’s tilting towards him. “It was hot. I like being marked by you.”

“You do?”

Ilya nods, looking serious. “I thought you were maybe all bark, but now I see you have bite, too.” He grins and then giggles as Shane throws a pillow at his head.

And Shane has the fleeting thought that this is how fun and easy the rest of his life could be.

Chapter End Notes

Shoutout to jammyreading for guessing that Shane would leave "himself" a note. I love it when people are clearly working on the same wavelength as me.

This was a good, long chapter to end with. This is it for the main plot! Next week is going to be the epilogue and then the fic is over. Which seems WILD because it feels like I just started posting it.

How are we all feeling about the Boner-Less Boys and their happy ending? (Though, as a hint, the epilogue is focusing on the Boner-Less Boys again, to give us all a final look at their lives going forward). I hope you've enjoyed it. Re-reading this chapter I think it's a really hot one. I had a lot of fun making them have fun together. The Boner-Less Boys are just so juicy to work with!

Thank you all so much for joining me on this ride! I really appreciate it. And all your lovely kudos and comments <3 <3 <3 <3

And in fun news, I FINALLY finished one of my 3 main WIPs I've been working on for the last several months, which feels really good. I get to add that to my posting schedule. I love doing that because fanfic writing needs to be stress-free, and having the schedule is how I maintain my stress-free life.

You can find me on the socials. I'm trying to keep the hornier stuff to tumblr because I don't like having to censor for threads. And if you go looking, I did a horny Centaurs-orgy post on tumblr that literally no one has liked so far. So if it interests you, you could be the first! ha ha ha

Tumblr: WatermelonTuesdays
Bluesky: @WatermelonTuesdays
Threads: @watermelontuesdays

Chapter 12: Epilogue: The Hollanders

Chapter Summary

Two years later, Ilya is finally meeting the parents.

Chapter Notes

Boner-less Universe
Ottawa, End of June 2024
Mid-afternoon

Ilya is standing in a Tim Hortons bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror as he quietly takes several deep, calming breaths. He has to be quick, he doesn’t want his boyfriend Shane to catch him, or to even guess at what he’s doing. Though they’ve been together for years, Ilya still clings to the cool-guy image he had once perfected, and he doesn’t want Shane to know how nervous he really is.

It’s been two years now since his life turned upside down. Since Ilya was visited by a Shane from another dimension who barrelled into his life and kicked all his walls down. Since he and his Shane decided to bury the hatchet between them and take a real chance at happiness.

That first summer had been a dream. Shane had stayed with Ilya for as long as he could, soaking each other up, learning how to be near each other, learning who they are, both separately and together. Once the season started, they were forced to split, but they stayed in contact. Daily calls and texting. And a whole lot of video sex.

In the fall, they both came out to their teams, and a few weeks later Shane came out publicly. He used a boring, PR-approved post like the good boy he is, then sat back and watched the internet scream about it.

Just before ‘American Thanksgiving,’ as Shane calls it, they launched Ilya’s dramatic coming out. They enlisted the help of one of Shane’s out Hollywood friends, Miles, and Ilya took Miles on a very public (though secretly platonic) date. If you thought the internet had screamed about Shane’s coming out, it was nothing compared to the chaotic fervour of Ilya’s fans reacting to the ‘scandal’ of hockey’s number 1 ladies man revealing he is also hockey’s number 1 mans man. By Christmas, he and Miles had also had a very public break up, though they have stayed friends (which has the added bonus of annoying the crap out of Shane).

After that, it was just a matter of slow steps to change public opinion. First, they stopped fighting in public. Then they stopped fighting quite so hard on the ice (they still had to fight sometimes, it is hockey, and they both know exactly what buttons to press to set each other off).

Then they started being seen together outside of hockey. They orchestrated a few club nights with their teams where they just so happened to both go to the same bar. And then some club nights where the two were spotted chatting. Being friendly. And eventually, being a little cuddly.

After that it was being photographed in each other’s cities. Grabbing lunches together. Going to each other’s games on the rare occasion that their schedules allowed it.

The internet has been eating it up. It’s been two years of slowly planting those seeds, building the story between them. And credit where credit’s due, most of this has been orchestrated by Shane’s evil-genius best friend Rose Landry, who could teach a masterclass in manipulating public opinion.

Now they’re at the final hurdle. The world now thinks they are in the beginning stages of a slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers romance, they’ve soft-launched long enough. It’s time to hard-launch this bitch.

Which means, it’s time to finally meet Shane’s parents.

Thus, the slow, calming breaths in a Tims Bathroom.

Ilya is fresh off the plane, but he doesn’t look too rumpled. His curls are neat and tidy. His shirt isn’t badly wrinkled. He’s maybe a bit damp from the cramped plane, but it’s also nearly 30 degrees outside so that’s not going to get much better. Ilya wets his hands and gives his face and neck a quick pat down before heading back out to Shane, who is waiting for him with a large coffee full of cream and sugar, just how he likes it.

They head back to the car and Ilya practically skips his way back, throwing open the back door of Shane’s ugly jeep to find the best boy waiting patiently for his return.

“Muffin! Did you miss me, sweet boy? Papa is so cruel, locking you away in the car all by yourself. And after such a long flight!” Muffin, full name Blueberry Muffin, a fuzzy Pomeranian-mix, dances a happy circle on his seat and then jumps into Ilya’s arms. Or, at least he attempts to jump, he is not the best jumper, but that is okay because Ilya is always there to catch him.

“We were five minutes and the AC was running the whole time,” Shane says practically, reaching out to scritch Muffster’s neck while Ilya covers the dogs head in kisses. “And he’s so good at travelling.”

“Yes,” Ilya says seriously. “He is the best, probably.”

Ilya got Blueberry, AKA Blue, AKA Little Boy Blue, a year ago from a local shelter, and he and Shane are in a tight competition for best man in Ilya’s life. He is a sweet, good boy who likes to be in Ilya’s arms or on his lap, doesn’t pull on his leash, and is very good for the ladies at the Doggie Hotel where he stays during Ilya’s road trips. Though, he is so well-behaved, and so beloved by the Bears, that he is often allowed to fly on their chartered flights and come on the road trips, so long as the hotels allow dogs.

Shane helps clip Muffy’s leash to his collar (blue, of course) and they take him for another quick walk along the strip of grass that separates the Tims parking lot from the A&W on the other side before they're back in the car and Baby Blue is clicked into his car leash in his little bed that straps onto the seat.

They turn a few heads as they leave, and Ilya is pretty sure there are some young guys hanging out in the parking lot who recognized them and snapped a few pics, but that’s all for the best.

Because this is it. If today goes smooth, they’re hard-launching. All they need is Yuna and David’s approval. And Shane seems confident they’ll get it.

Shane reaches across the center console for Ilya’s hand as he drives down the Ottawa highway. He gives it a little squeeze and Ilya can’t help the small smile it brings to his lips.

“It’s going to be fine,” Shane says. Ilya isn’t entirely sure if he’s saying that for Ilya’s benefit or his own. Shane has been a real trooper through all of this, but the slow progression and constantly baiting fans and paparazzi into taking their pictures has played havoc with his anxieties.

Though, it’s a good reminder of how committed Shane is to this. To him. Every step has had Shane riddled with nerves, but he’s pushed through for them. For the happily ever after they both see on the horizon.

“Mom and Dad know you’ve changed. They’ve seen it. And we’ve talked about you a lot. They know we’re good. We’re solid.”

“Hard as rock?” Ilya can’t help it.

“Fuck off.”

Ilya loves the way Shane tells him to ‘fuck off’ these days. There’s absolutely no heat in it. It’s sweet. Fond.

Not that it isn’t fun when he gets a real ‘fuck off.’ He loves to get under Shane’s skin and drive him mad (in every sense). But sometimes he can’t help but think of where they were just a few years ago, running so hard and so fast from their attraction for each other that they couldn’t even be in the same room. They used to hurt each other so much; not just physically. And they hadn’t even realized it was killing them. Not until fate intervened and showed them what they were missing.

Ilya still thinks about them, now and then. The other versions of himself and Shane, living in that other world where they’re already married. Sometimes he’s jealous of them, and all the time they’ve had together that he’s missed out on. Sometimes he’s just thankful that they exist at all, and that the other-Shane visited him. Only four days with that Shane and it completely changed his life for the better. It gave him hope and a blueprint for what happiness can look like. Even just planting the idea that Ilya should get a dog changed everything, let alone giving him Shane Fucking Hollander.

Not that they’re trying to make their lives look exactly like what the other-Shane and other-Ilya had. They’re finding their own way.

They steal any moment together they can get. They’ve spent the last two summers together between Boston and Shane’s cottage. They go out, meet each other’s friends, chat with teammates (who aren’t thrilled but are slowly coming around to the idea). The Voyageurs are starting to get used to seeing Ilya around after games, but more importantly they see that Shane does not treat Ilya any different on the ice. They have convinced the world that they are slowly falling for each other; watching that in real time seems to have helped ease Shane’s and Ilya’s teams into accepting them more readily, avoiding some of the pitfalls that the other dimension’s Shane and Ilya went through.

They’re building a community. Together. With Rose and Miles, and Cliff and Svetlana, and Hayden and Jackie and JJ. And soon, hopefully, with Yuna and David.

Having that growing support system has made everything easier. It’s helped Ilya to ignore those predatory phone calls from his brother, eventually changing Ilya’s number entirely so Andrei can’t contact him at all. Besides, so many people call him these days, so many people check in with him. So many people show love in ways Ilya is still learning how to accept.

It’s not too long before Shane pulls them off the highway and they start winding through the streets of suburbia.

Yuna and David are waiting on the steps when Shane backs into their driveway.

Stress clenches down on Ilya’s gut when he sees them there. He takes one last, slow breath. He can do this. They love Shane and he loves Shane. He’ll apologize for his past behaviour. He’ll be polite. He’ll get through this.

Shane gives Ilya’s hand a squeeze before he jumps from the car and steps into his mother’s arms. By the time Ilya gets Mister Blueberry on his leash, out of the car, and around to the others, Shane has hugged both of his parents and all three of them are standing together, looking at Ilya.

“Ah, hello,” Ilya says. Uncharacteristically gentle. He has spoken with them before, on the phone when they’ve called Shane. They don’t know all of the truth of him and Shane, but they know they’ve been more serious than they’ve let the press see. “Nice to meet you.”

He lifts a hand to Yuna first, because as far as he can tell she is the true ruler of the family, but Yuna just slaps it away and lifts up on her toes to wrap Ilya in a hug.

“It’s good to finally meet you too,” she says.

“Shane’s told us a lot about you,” David adds. He waits for Yuna to step aside before he pulls Ilya into a hug of his own.

This hug has Ilya biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from emoting. He did not expect this – not even in his wildest dreams did he even consider it. Not a hug, and especially not one from Shane’s father.

Fathers, in Ilya’s experience, do not hug.

“All good things, I hope.” Ilya ignores the crack in his voice, and he hopes the others do the same.

“Well,” Yuna says, drawing the word out in a singsongy kind of way, “recently, yes.” She’s already crouched down, with Berry jumped up, his front paws on her knees, looking for pets and offering kisses in return. His little curly tail wags like he’s trying to throw it off his body.

Right. Recently. Best to just dive right in, then. “Yes,” Ilya nods. “I am sorry for how I acted before. And the things I’ve said about you both, and Shane. It was very wrong with me.”

Ilya doesn’t feel how stiff his body is, how formally he’s standing, like he’s facing a military drill sergeant – not until Shane slips a hand into his own. His body relaxes on instinct, and he gives Shane a grateful smile.

Yuna and David give him long, assessing looks. Yuna’s gaze is sharp and studying. Her eyes scan Ilya over like she has terminator vision and she’s clocking every single thing about him, especially all his weaknesses. David’s gaze is softer, more contemplative. But Ilya feels the way he lingers on Shane’s hand in Ilya’s and Ilya has the chilling impression that David is the one who truly sees him.

“Well, I can’t say I never said anything bad about you, either,” Yuna says at last, waving her hands like she’s brushing away the past. “How about we all start fresh?” She stands, and David takes a turn crouching down to introduce himself to Bluey.

Ilya feels his shoulders relax even further. He gives Shane’s hand a little squeeze.

“Yes, please.”

“Come on,” David says, tilting his head towards the house, “you must be tired after your flight. Let’s head to the back and we can have a drink and get to know each other.”

Shane doesn’t let go of Ilya’s hand as they head into the house, leaving their shoes at the door. He pulls Ilya through the kitchen to the living room, Muff-Muff hot on their heels, where there’s a sliding glass door leading outside, a neat row of slip-on sandals lined up to the side. Shane points out which ones Ilya can wear, and then he tugs Ilya through the door and back out into the sunshine.

They spend the rest of the day talking. The afternoon is relaxed and lazy, they sit together in the sun and chat about nothing important. They all take turns with Blue-Berrius on their laps or throwing a little ball for him to chase around the enclosed yard. For supper they barbeque, and Ilya helps David man the grill, while Shane and Yuna pretend they aren’t whispering about Ilya behind his back. They head inside to eat, and David pours Ilya a glass of good Russian vodka.

Conversation turns more serious over supper. They talk about the future, and about Shane and Ilya’s plans. This is where they take the final leap, following that blueprint given to them by the other world’s Shane and Ilya.

“We, uh… we’re thinking we want to be closer,” Shane says, broaching the topic.

“Closer?” Yuna repeats, her tone giving away nothing.

“We’ve been easing the world and our teams into it, so that we can be out, together. It’ll make it easier to see each other, which is great. But it would be even better if we lived closer together.”

Yuna leans across the table at this, giving her son the most serious look Ilya’s ever seen. “Shane, are you talking about a trade?”

Shane flinches.

“No, not a trade,” Ilya steps in, “not for Shane. I am free agent this summer. My contract with Boston is done.” Ilya looks at Yuna and David across the table, then his eyes drop to his plate, unable to look at them for this last part. “I am asking for Ottawa.”

It’s their town. Their team. Their son. And Ilya is asking for all of it.

He might be asking for too much. He knows that. But he can’t help but ask for what he wants. And he wants this. Deeply.

“You’d play for Ottawa?” Yuna’s tone gives away nothing. Though, it seems a bit cold to Ilya.

He knows he doesn’t have to go to Ottawa. Just because that’s where the other Ilya found happiness, doesn’t mean he has to do the same. But this is where Ilya wants to be.

“I would.” He looks up to find Yuna locked in on him.

“We’ve talked to most of the Ottawa players, and they’re really nice,” Shane says. “Accepting.”

“Well, yeah, they’ve got Troy Barret,” David says. “And didn’t Luca Haas come out recently too?”

“They have a good team now, but they still need a star center,” Shane adds. “He could make them great. Bring home the cup.”

Yuna is still focused on Ilya. Her eyes are raptor sharp across the table. “You would give up Boston?”

“I would,” Ilya says firmly. He watches Yuna’s lips turn down at the corners. “I want to make a home, and Boston cannot do this for me.”

“And Ottawa can?”

Shane shifts in his seat like he’s about to say something in Ilya’s defense, but Ilya stops him with a touch to his arm.

“My home is with Shane, and Shane’s home is Ottawa and Montreal. I cannot go to Montreal, but I can maybe go to Ottawa.”

“So, you’re serious about this? About Shane?”

“Very serious.” Ilya takes another deep, steadying breath. “I am in love with your son. We did not have a good start, I know. We misunderstand, and we fight. But we are not the same people we used to be. I love him. More than anything or anyone. And I want to make a life and a home with him.”

The silence between them stretches so taut it could be a violin string. But finally, Yuna’s lips quirk up into a smile.

“Well, then I think Ottawa would be very lucky to have you.”

Relief rushes through Ilya like a tidal wave. Shane reaches a hand across Ilya’s shoulders and pulls him in for a quick kiss.

After that, things calm back down into less serious conversation.

And late that night, when the June sun is finally setting and casting the world in long shadows, Ilya steps outside for a moment to himself. He pulls out his phone and messages Farah, the manager he and Shane have shared since his “accidental” coming out.

Ilya: Hi Farah. I would like to go ahead with the Ottawa plan. Thank you.

~ End

Chapter End Notes

Wow!!! It's done! I kind of can't believe it!!! What a ride!! Thank you so much to everyone who has followed along, reading every week! It's really meant a lot to me! I hope you've all enjoyed, and you liked my little ending here.

And I hope you loved Blueberry Muffin!!! I'm not going to lie, I now love and would die for this fictional dog!! Shoutout to smokeydokey for commenting on an earlier chapter hoping they'd see Anya in the Boner-Less Universe, which sent me on a spiral that led to me adding Blueberry Muffin into the epilogue. I would have loved to give Ilya Anya, but I couldn't make it work since the two universes are parallel, and I couldn't have Anya be homeless for, like 4 years waiting to Ilya to come. So trust me, she was happily re-homed in Ottawa.

Coming up next:
- Next week will be Shane, Ilya, and Hayden getting close in a closet 😉
- Week after I will be posting my 100th fic on this account!! It's very exciting, and I'll be posting a VLD fic that week (since VLD currently accounts for 93 of my 98 fics, so I wanna celebrate with another fic for that fandom). It's a dark, murder husbands fic.
- Not sure what's on my list after that, but it should be back to Heated Rivalry.

I'm at my parents house this weekend and posting this in my phone, so I'm too lazy to hyperlink to my social media accounts. But you can find me on tumblr, threads, or blue sky, and I'm WatermelonTuesdays everywhere.

Thanks again for reading and commenting and kudosing!!

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cover for When The Universe Intervenes: Into The Bonerverse by WatermelonTuesdays by zepampez