Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Ilya Rozanov & Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son & Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Brandon Wiebe, Luca Haas, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Roger Crowell, Rose Landry

Additional Tags:

Reconciliation, Slow Burn Romance Speed Run Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Medical Trauma, Past Abuse, Past Suicide Attempts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Everyone Needs a Hug, Autistic Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Protective Shane Hollander, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hockey Coach Ilya Rozanov, Misunderstandings, Chronic Pain, Alexei Rozanov is the worst, Fuck the Metros, Dumb Hockey Boys, Soft Hockey Boys, Disordered Eating, Shane's Very Intense Training, Homophobia, Hurt Ilya Rozanov, Protective Cliff Marlow, Angst with a Happy Ending, I might play rough with my toys but I promise I glue them back together at the end!, Brain Injury, BAMF Shane Hollander, Blood and Violence, Thriller, Heavy Angst, Headaches & Migraines, Happily Ever After, But Boy Do They Go Through It

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-16 Completed: 2026-07-16 Words: 279,247 Chapters: 36/36

Chernobog

Summary

The week before the 2017 All-Star Game, Ilya Rozanov is placed on IR. Ten days later, he disappears from the league entirely. Boston says nothing, and for once, a notoriously fickle league closes ranks.

Every attempt Shane makes to find him hits a wall. In one last desperate, life-altering bid to reach him, Shane comes out to the world, only to be met with Ilya’s silence.

By the time the 2020/21 season begins, Shane has nothing left but hockey and regret. He builds a dynasty, guts his life, and pins the last scraps of his hope on the Metros’ newest transfer, the dangerously hot-headed Cliff Marlow.

Stepping back into the public eye after the worst three years of his life, all Ilya wants is to find some kind of purpose. Shane is done with him, he made that much clear. Ilya isn't about to try to convince himself otherwise. He just wants to prove he still has some use left in him.

Fortunately for both of them, they're still fucking stupid for each other.

Notes

The bullshit continues!

I won't be updating this one as often as I have been, I'm very sorry! I do have to write the grown-up stuff that pays my bills, and I can't get away with procrastinating as much as I have been... The aim is Mondays/Thursdays.

If you've read any of my other stories, then you'll know I get a bee in my bonnet about Consequences. Which is to say I do love reading h/c where the Bad Things Happen and they're quickly cuddled away with no further drama, but I am incapable of writing them because my brain is weird like that. Tonally, this is half-way between Duty of Care (in which all the worst things are in the past) and Holding Patterns (in which you have to face up to how trauma intersects the lives of everyone around you and often comes with life-long consequences).

It IS a HEA. These two idiots are stupidly in love, always, they're just in very different places, and I wanted to write all the yearning.

Chapter 1

The last time Ilya was at the Canadian Tire Center in Ottawa, he left in a champagne-soaked haze of triumph; a hat-trick under his belt, and the giddy knowledge that Shane fucking Hollander drove two hours on his night off just to try to swallow his cock whole.

Three years and change, and it’s a little less impressive without those rose-tinted glasses.

On the upside, Sveta is with him this time. She’s not exactly thrilled about it, but he can’t really blame her. “This is truly an ungodly fucking hour.”

It’s 7. am. He’s made her coffee to go in the matte chrome Stanley mug he bought her back in the summer of 2014, when it seemed only fair she have her own mini version of the trophy she’d encouraged him to win. It’s battered as fuck now, but she won’t let him buy her a new one.

“Something worms, something bird?” he offers. He’s had his one and only coffee for the day already.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” As if she’s not set her own alarm at five just to drive him to a workplace she doesn’t need to be at until 9. am.

She hustles them through the concrete concourse, talking as she walks. “They’ll have you do all the pissing-around admin before the staff meeting. Theresa wants a photo for the press release, so try not to traumatize the intern.”

Ilya thinks back to his notes. Theresa is… Director of Communications. He has a photo of her on a Post-it on his closet door. He also has one for Sveta labeled Director of Hockey Operations. She scowls at it but doesn't make him take it down.

Security is two dudes at a booth in the lobby, one of whom Ilya vaguely recognizes from his last go-around in Ottawa. The other’s built like a dockworker from the fifties and gives him a once-over that’s mostly curious. Sveta flashes her badge with a little twirl of her wrist, and the older guy grins like she’s the only person to ever bring him joy.

“Director Vetrova. Bright and early,” he says, then clocks Ilya at her elbow. “And you must be the infamous Mr. Rozanov.” Time was, and he’d be able to tell if the lilt at the end of the sentence was enthusiasm or wariness. Now he kinda has to hope for the best.

“The most infamous.” Ilya offers a handshake.

He gets back a grip just tighter than polite and a frankly embarrassing dimpled smile. “Big fans here. I mean, don’t tell anyone, Boston sucks yada yada, but fucking hell, you were an artist,” dockworker says. “Everyone’s real excited to have you.”

“He’ll find his chill, I promise,” says the other guard, handing over Ilya’s security pass and access card. The photo on it is the one lifted from the internet. It looks like him. Mostly. His hair is longer now.

“Chalky,” Sveta supplies, “and Levi.” She’s softening around the edges now, folding into her small talk mode. “They’re the only reason any of us make it to the building without being shivved by a teen on a Razor scooter.”

Ilya lets himself be motioned through the metal detector, charmed in spite of himself when Sveta and Chalky lapse into old-friend banter about whether anyone’s let a raccoon in the HVAC this month yet. She’s only been with the club since May, but Sveta makes friends wherever she goes. She’s impossible not to like.

The machine shrieks at his belt buckle, which is maybe the only thing louder than the blood thrumming behind his ears. He needs to calm the fuck down.

“Welcome to the Centaurs,” Levi says, waving them off. Ilya’s too old and too tired to get emotional about things, but fuck... the old him would crack a joke. This version nods and tries not to look like he’s considering violence. That dead-eyed stare works on the ice, works against an opponent, but he can’t fall back on it here. He wants to fit in. He wants people to like him.

The two of them walk together through the endless tunnels, Sveta steering him with a hand at his elbow like he might wander off and get lost. He might. She brings him to a glassed-in office with a sign taped to the door: Team Services.

He knows Ashi Jian already. She’s swung by the loft often enough in the past few months with some task for Sveta. He usually sticks to his room on the rare occasion they get visitors, but she’s sweet enough, if a little high-strung.

Ashi’s already at her desk, lightweight laptop open, glossy lips pursed in that tireless concentration you can only really perfect under the age of twenty-three. At the sight of them, her face lights up, and she hops to her feet like she’s about to undergo an inspection. “Director Petrova! And Coach Rozanov! You’re five minutes ahead of schedule. I owe you a muffin.”

Sveta rolls her eyes and carefully untangles their arms. “Don’t spoil him. It’s day one. He’ll expect adoration at every turn.”

There’s a cue that she’s leaving him. Ilya thinks for a second. “I only require two blood sacrifices a month.”

“Two,” Ashi chirps, actually writing it down on the legal pad next to her laptop. “Got it. Do you need anything? Coffee, protein bars, more muffins?” she asks.

“He’s not allowed coffee after eight or he vibrates through the drywall. Are you ready for the onboarding circus?”

Ashi perches back on her chair and clicks her touchpad absently. “Ready, but heads up: Coach and Roger Crowell are already going at it over the phone. The vibe is a little…turbulent this morning.”

Sveta sighs, like she’s been expecting the report. “Of course it is.”

“Honestly, I think T’s like… this close to pulling the wifi and claiming a powercut.

Ilya has lots of notes on Brandon Wiebe. His only note on Roger Crowell’s picture is the word ‘CUNT’ scribbled across his face courtesy of Sasha.

“Do we have to wait until the fireworks are finished?” Ilya asks. He’s not anxious, per se, but the longer he waits to see Wiebe in person, the easier it is to convince himself that he’s misread the entire situation and the job offer is actually a court order to stay the fuck away from everyone.

Ashi checks something on her phone. “Nah, these things only really last for fifteen minutes or so before Croweel has to go take his ramipril. Should be any minute. Harris is going to grab you for media after lunch so I'll send him your way later.”

Ashi starts to float toward the hallway, then remembers her job and rifles through a banker’s box by the printer. She pulls out a glossy folder, passes it to Sveta, and ducks her head. "I spoke to all the hotels, and they’re good for accommodations, with the exception of Buffalo because they are the total worst, so I can’t get the room you wanted me to get, but I can-” Ilya loses track of what she’s saying halfway through the run-on sentence. By the time he catches up, Sveta is shaking her head crossly.

“We’ll talk about this later,” she says, shutting the topic down.

“Right! Yes! Sorry!” It’s Ilya Ashi is looking at, her eyes wide. “Shutting up now. Coach, if you want a real tour later, I’d be honored. If you’re not busy.”

He’s pretty sure he’s going to be busy whether he likes it or not.

“I’ll take you up on it,” he says, a little softer. He probably won't, but Sveta nods approvingly. See, he can be nice. He can make friends. 

“Holly… Holly! Dude, slow the fuck down!”

Shane pulls his headphones out, muting the autobiography on Vladislav Tretiak that’s keeping him company during his run. He doesn’t stop the treadmill, just drops his pace down to 15k/ph so he can pay more attention to J.J. “What’s up?”

J.J. is one of the few people who talk to him for reasons other than work, but he rarely does so in the team gym. The rest of the boys are making a pointed effort to pretend they’re not listening in. “Coach wants to see you.”

Shane is grateful for a good excuse to wrap up, anyway. He slows, then stops, and drapes a towel around his neck. His heart is annoyingly slow. He’s joining to have to up the incline if he wants to get anything new out of his runs.

He wipes his face on his sleeve before heading for the exit. The handful of guys at the dumbbell rack glance at him and look down again, afraid he might try to talk to them if they make eye contact. That’s fine, honestly. It’s mutual.

When some fresh faced journalist with no interesting questions remembers they're talking to Shane Hollander, Gay Hockey Player, and asks about ‘locker room culture’ instead of his plans for Cup number 5, he can honestly say “I’ve never had an issue with homophobic language from the boys” and it’s true, because they don’t ever say anything at all, not so much as a hi.

It leaves a lot of room for self-reflection. He’s probably meant to feel either lonely or proud, but mostly he feels like a ghost, basically made of muscle and lactic acid and silence.

Coach Theriault’s office is upstairs, through a gauntlet of motivational posters (HARD WORK IS A HABIT, NOT A PHASE) and a trophy case full of awards Shane’s won for them. He knocks politely, because despite the ‘open door policy’, Theriault sometimes gets pissy about privacy. There’s a pause, a shuffle, then Theriault hollers, “Come in!”

As Shane enters, Theriault is at his computer, holding the mouse in one hand and clicking furiously at something on his screen. He looks up. “Hollander. Sit. Good timing.”

The other man in the room is familiar in the way that all league players are familiar with each other. Cliff Marlow takes up space without meaning to. He’s aged a lot in the past three years, but he’s still got that tall, dark, looming leading man thing going for him that’s made Rose declare him as the second hottest player in the league.

Marlow looks up at him, his expression surly, and grunts. “Hollander.”

“Marlow.”

Theriault’s fingers drum fast and mean against his desktop before he stops himself, then narrows his focus onto Shane. “Transfer is final, just got the call. No appeal window left. So. That’s what you wanted, yeah?”

Marlow’s brow ticks up, then goes carefully still. Not even a flinch. That’s impressive, actually; most guys would have tried to tear Theriault’s head off at the idea of a rival captain being the driving force behind their transfer.

Shane nods, not bothering to hide the fact that he’s ruthless enough to make this happen. It’s pointless to pretend, and honestly, he’s fucking earned it. He doesn’t want drama, but he does want something, and after three fucking years, he’s finally found a way to get it. Montreal doesn’t have to like having a gay man on the roster, but they do like winning, and there’s no one on the planet better at that than Shane.

He wants something - start a war, kill the pope, transfer a man the entire league wants canned - someone up the chain will do it, no questions asked. He’ll pay for it some how, he always does.

Theriault leans back in his chair. “Listen, Marlow. Frankly? I didn’t want you. I don’t like the way you torched your last three years. I don’t like the way you can’t keep your fucking nose clean. But we need a body we can throw in the blender, and since Hollander here is still king of the mountain, he gets what he wants.”

Cliff’s jaw clenches, but otherwise nothing. He’s the perfect statue of a fucked off bruiser.

Taking his personal motivations out of things for a second, Theriault can say what he likes, but the double punch of having both J.J and Marlow on the powerplay with Shane and Hayden is a solid fucking sell.

Theriault’s gaze slides back to Shane. “You’re responsible for him.” The way he says it manages to be both a compliment and an insult. “You make this work, or it’s your ass. Got me?”

“Yes, sir.” There’s never a right answer in these meetings. Anything he says is a lose-lose, so he just keeps his calm and tries not to look at Marlow’s hands knotted on the armrest.

Theriault shrugs like he’s tossing the world’s smallest, shittiest bouquet. “Okay then. Marlow, get your shit sorted and see Medical for baseline concussion. Hollander, after this you’re headed to PR. Comms have picked out our Pride Game and I want your face on every fucking print-out.” The word ‘pride’ comes out like a slur.

This’ll be Shane’s second Pride Game as the Token Queer Guy. Setting fire to the building in the hope of avoiding it is not an option, according to his mom.

They’re dismissed. Marlow is out of the chair before Shane even moves, boots hard and hollow on the tile. Shane doesn’t look after him. He knows better. There’s some instinct in the back of his skull that wants to chase, pick at the wound, but he’s old enough to let it sit and fester on its own if it’s going to. He has time. He can be patient.

Theriault’s head tilts. “You like him?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have to like him.”

“You think he’s what we need?” Like Shane hasn’t had this same fucking conversation over and over and over again while making his case.

“He’s exactly what I need.”

Coach nods, and for a half-second there’s something he once used to dream of as respect underneath the slab of skepticism. “Don’t fuck this up.”

“I don’t intend to.”

Sveta leaves Ilya outside Coach Wiebe’s office at 7:30 am with a squeeze of his elbow. “Swing by my office at lunch?” She’s nice enough to phrase it as a request, but he does pretend for a second that it is.

“Yeah.”

There’s a poster board with a hand-drawn bracket next to Wiebe’s office, marker lines still a little damp. The door’s open. Ilya’s hand hovers at the threshold, then knocks, once, light, and just polite enough.

Wiebe is already on his feet, half out of his chair, in a windbreaker with the team logo and a streak of coffee on his cuff. “Ilya Rozanov!” He says it like he’s announcing a Powerball win, and crosses the room to shake, clap, and herd Ilya in with a kind of crosstown-dad energy that Ilya’s never seen in any coach he’s worked with before.

Ilya shakes his hand, getting a firm squeeze and a jolt of coffee breath. Wiebe is not yet fifty, but he looks younger, something warm and cheerful in his eyes that weirdly puts Ilya at ease. He’s liked the man well enough over Zoom, and Sveta has nothing bad to say about him, for all that she thinks he’s a bit toothless. It’s easier, though, at least for Ilya, if he can look someone properly in the eye. Very few people are good at hiding there.

“Good to meet you in three dimensions, finally,” Wiebe says. “Forgot how tall you are in real life,” He gestures to a chair, then sits, propping an ankle on his knee. It’s all ease, except for the way he rubs his palm on that same cuff, waiting for Ilya to follow.

Ilya sits, his posture rigid. It’s not really nerves; he’s just not sure how much personality he’s allowed to show.

Wiebe leans in, elbows on his desk, no less enthusiastic for the lack of willing audience. “I’m thrilled you’re here. You’ll probably hear it from twenty different people before the end of the day, seriously. The boys are far more excited about you than they were me.” He doesn’t sound in the least bit offended.

Ilya gives him the small, noncommittal smile that usually keeps things faintly awkward. Wiebe, though, just ramps up his own volume. “Let’s not beat around the bush. I’ve got a team that isn’t vibing, a Captain who spends more time on IR than the ice, and a handful of what I think might be the next big superstars in the league if we can figure out how to help them get there. Now I don’t care what Montreal says about Hollander, far as I am concerned, there hasn’t been anyone-”

Ilya stops listening. Not bad, he supposes, making it thirty whole minutes before hearing that name.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about Hollander; it’s that all conversations about hockey always, inevitably, point toward him. Ilya could be at the world’s worst hotel continental breakfast in a country that's never fucking heard of hockey, and someone would bring up Hollander.

It’s… honestly kinda nice. A private, inside joke just for him, because being in stupid, agonizing, unrequited love with Shane Hollander is sometimes the only emotion he actually knows how to feel. It’s the weirdest thing, being locked away in the dark echo-chamber of your own head, then suddenly, violently remembering the beautiful, brilliant, boring fucking asshole who broke your heart.

There’s Hollander, saving Ilya’s life, as thoughtlessly, riddiculously, obnoxiously good at that as he is literally everything else he does.

He gets in trouble sometimes, at three am, with the lights out and the duvet up to his nose like a child. It should be easy. Hockey documentaries are practically liturgical: prodigy, adversity, victory, product placement, soft-focus shots of the captain tying his skates… Ilya watches with the giddy longing of a teenager sneaking off to watch porn, gleefully accepting the consequences of fucking with his sleep schedule and only a little regretful when it takes Sasha and Sveta the rest of the week to get his stupid fucking head back on track.

He won’t be able to do that now. But he can watch Hollander all he likes under the guise of strategy, and he’ll see him from a distance at least three or four times. More if they make the playoffs. Montreal will. Ottawa… haven’t in a very long time.

Hollander… with the “C” burned onto his chest. He is bigger now, more squared off in the jaw and shoulders, and it’s bewildering how his face has not aged at all, still so ethereally, impossibly beautiful. When Ilya watches him, he doesn’t lie to himself about why, and he thinks that’s a good thing. Does it matter that it makes things inside of him ache when it's proof that those things still exist?

“…the kid’s got raw talent but he jumps at his own shadow, and I worry that Bood is never going to be able to step it up while Mercer’s still got the C, and so if you’re you’re up for it I really think that’s the right way forward-” Wiebe is looking at him, bright, like Ilya’s hiding the secret key in his sleeve.

Fuck.

“Sorry, can you repeat?”

“Shit,” Wiebe rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. Too fast, or-” or is Ilya stupid?

He shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I just had thought about strategy.”

Wiebe just waves it off and looks delighted.

"Beautiful. That's why we got you. To think. Means more to me than whatever Crowell's yelling about these days.”

“Crowell yells at everyone,” Ilya offers. "In Russia, we have a saying,” he says it in Russian first, just to prove to himself that he can switch back and forth without bursting a fucking blood vessel, then translates, “Empty barrel rattles loudest.”

Wiebe snorts. “Can I tell him you said that?” He’s teasing, mostly.

Ilya shrugs. “Yes, sir.” He gives less than a fifth of a fuck about that asshole.

"Brandon. Don't 'sir' me," he says, catching Ilya's reflex to do exactly that. “The rookies make me feel old enough as it is.”

Ilya nods, then flees for a safe answer. “Brandon. Got it.”

"While I'm at it, before the front office eats your soul, wanted... I mean... I gotta say there's a couple of logistical things that HR flagged just so you're not, uh…" and now it's Brandon, just the tiniest tick off his natural game, watching him very kindly and very carefully, “…caught off guard.”

Ilya blinks and tries not to tense. He already knows. Sveta and her ‘not negotiable’ fussing. She must have sent her bullet-pointed email at some godforsaken hour. “Really, it’s not a big-"

Brandon shakes his head, but not like he’s disappointed, more like he expected it. “Listen. You’re not the first guy I’ve worked with who has a TBI, and you sure as hell won’t be the last. If we sometimes have to swap out some bulbs because you can’t handle the fluorescent lights, that’s what we do. You’re worth a few exceptions, Ilya. Just can’t always promise we’ll nail it every time.”

TBI… it sounds nicer than the truth. Hockey players get TBIs all the time. Thank fuck for Canadian employment law.

Ilya’s ears burn, then his chest, and it’s the worst for having expected it. He tries to tough it out, but the flush is already crawling up his neck. "The doctors say I am fit to work," he says firmly.

Wiebe shrugs, a little less force to it now. "No doubts there. And look, you’ll still have to sit boardside, and I can’t guarantee what that looks like if a game goes to shit, or that the boys won’t do something moronic in a bus at two am. But I gotta kill the Bon Jovi and whatever the fuck Dykstra thinks is music to get you a little downtime, I can do it, no fuss. They all should take up meditation, anyway.” He smiles, this time toothy, and the light in his eyes could power most of Ontario.

“Thank you, sir. Brandon.”

“Besides, while I don’t know what the deal is with you and Svetlana, nor will HR allow me to speculate, let alone ask, I am mildly terrified of her.” It’s a joke, meant to put him at ease, but all it does is remind him of a time when people were mildly terrified of him. More than mildly.

Ilya thinks he’s probably staring when Brandon gets to his feet and claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go meet the rest of the team.”

Monday night, Shane meets his parents for dinner. That’s the rule until the season kicks off. If he’s not in another city, then come six thirty, he’s sitting down with them at La Sirène de la Mer. He’s been going there for so long now that he doesn’t have to look at the menu. The kitchen serves him something bespoke that his nutritionist approves once every quarter.

They make him a white fish with sumac and fresh tomato, nothing fancy. His dad gets the same. His mom’s palate is delicate; she goes for the grilled zucchini platter with an iceberg salad and lime.

It’s always like this. Some weeks it feels ceremonial, like a performance for the benefit of whichever Metros fan is watching through the plate-glass window, but tonight the rain keeps most people away.

There’s a rhythm to these dinners he can follow blindfolded: five minutes of perfunctory updates about his health, his sleep, his non-existent love life, then the main course, then the postmortem on his last match. Tonight, though, mom's too excited to pace herself. She signals for the waiter for more water, her phone already out. “Shane, you’ll want to see this.” She pulls up an email thread, the subject line all-caps: HOLLANDER x ADIDAS: PRIDE THEME COLLAB. “We’re doing a limited jersey run for the Pride game. It’s all signed off with legal, and Jerry’s done enough with the team’s channels to offset the chaos with anti-LGBT trolls - don’t roll your eyes, I won’t have a repeat of the puck drop fiasco.” She slides her phone over for him to review.

He’s already seen the pitch deck, several renditions in fact, but he skims it anyway while his dad attempts to spear a lemon slice into his sparkling water without success. His mom runs over the schedule, and how with Shane’s indisputable dynasty, it would be “practically negligent” not to amplify the Metros’ visibility as front-runners in inclusive culture.

Across the table, his dad watches him with the unblinking focus of a man who spent three decades balancing ledgers and now finds himself with nothing left to tally but Shane. “You in there, kiddo?”

Shane looks up. “Sorry, was thinking about Marlow.” He forces a small smile.

“How’s that going?” Dad asks. “Must be weird for the poor guy getting traded after all these years.”

“He’s lucky they did trade him,” Mom shakes her head and twirls her fork in the salad. “I don’t know how anyone can justify the way he’s been playing.”

“Guess Rozanov had him on a tighter leash than anyone knew.” He cringes as soon as he speaks, looks at Shane, then mom, then back at Shane.

Shane breathes heavily out of his nose. “Guess so.”

It’s possible, sure. It’s what most people think. Marlow doesn’t help himself. Every time the big idiot opens his mouth, he’s either growling, snarling, or trying to start a fight. That’s not a bad thing, not when he’s got the skill to back it up, but he’s notoriously inconsistent and is likely to lose his team a game as he is to win it for them.

“You really think you can get him in line?” It’s dad who asks, because mom thinks there’s nothing Shane can’t do, while he thinks there’s probably a load of stuff Shane shouldn’t do.

He nods again. He’s sure, because he’s fairly fucking certain Marlow has the same problem he does.

Rozanov had him on a tight leash, yeah, that’s the narrative. Shane thinks it’s something else entirely, because when anyone is stupid enough to ask Marlow about Rozanov, there’s a split second where he looks as fucking destroyed as Shane feels.

“Holy shit!” Mom exclaims, back on her phone. “Speak of the devil, and he shall appear… did you know about this?”

She tilts her phone so the screen faces him: ESPN. The headline is all-caps.

THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNS

He stares at it.

Shane wants to laugh, but instead he pushes his plate a centimeter away with the heel of his hand. He studies the photo anchoring the piece. It’s not one he’s seen before. Not… Ilya’s hair is longer than Shane remembers, his cheekbones sharper, but it is him. Shane’s fucking haunted by those eyes every time he closes his own.

He swipes for the article and skims: “Rozanov, once regarded as one of the league’s last true superstars, has been a figure of intense rumor and speculation ever since his abrupt withdrawal from the 2016/2017 season and subsequent vanishing act.”

Vanishing act just about covers it…

He hands mom her phone back, absently digs through his wallet to throw down his credit card, and says, “I have to go.”

He’s not doing this in public. He absolutely can’t.

Mom calls his name once, then again, but he's already up, jacket off the back of his chair, card in the waiter's hand. Sorry. He says sorry to her, to the table, to the rain-blurred window, and then he's outside and the cold hits him full in the face and he just… walks.

He has his phone out before he's even turned the corner and it takes less than ten seconds to find the article. If the group chat is blowing up with the news, he doesn’t know, well aware that there’s a whole new channel he’s not part of. It helps keep distractions limited at least. He keeps his thumb on the photo of Ilya and doesn't let the screen go dark.

Ilya’s not smiling. Shane’s not that lucky, but fuck.... his hair is long enough now to tuck behind one ear, and it's the most devastating thing Shane has seen all year, which is frankly a lot of competition. He spends a horrifying amount of time scrolling through the private reel of pictures he’s assembled from years of obsessive googling. Every time he discovers a lost gem is like fucking Christmas. Someone on Twitter unearthed a picture from a Boston Raider’s NYE party back in 2015, and Shane cried for a solid fucking hour.

He walks the eleven blocks home instead of driving. He doesn't know why. The rain seeps under his collar. He can’t even feel it.

There's a specific kind of stupid that Shane Hollander is, and it is this: he is fully aware that Ilya Rozanov isn’t his to love. He had that chance, one he only even recognizes now thanks to Rose, and he blew it. And despite every effort, every fucking intention to fix things, to tell Ilya the truth, to crack open his whole fucking chest and see if Ilya’s interested in what’s inside…

He had a plan. One he never got to execute.

And most days he tells himself that’s all this lingering obsession is. Details formulated and structured with no subsequent purge from his system. The tactical analysis he applies to a game is great because once it’s done, it’s done. This, this desperate fucking urge, has nowhere to go, so just sits under his skin like a fucking cyst.

Ilya doesn’t want to talk to him. Whatever shit he’s dealing with, Shane lost the right to be part of his life and support him through it. Three years of read receipts make that pretty fucking clear.

He knows all of this. And he is still walking home in the rain with his thumb pressed to a photo of the man he's still fucking in love with like he can hold him there if he just doesn't let go of the screen.

His building is a four-digit code and a fob and an elevator he doesn't use because if he enters from the back, he gets to pause on the step at the bottom and replay the memory of Ilya kissing him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He stops on that step and sinks down. Zooms in on Ilya’s face and wishes to god he’d been brave enough when he needed to be.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Lovely to see so many familiar faces! And the theories are coming in strong already!

I promise I won't be keeping the boys apart for long! They need each other!

Content warnings: Shane's totally blase attitude to the league being the absolute worst with their homphobic bullshit.

“-sooner he retires, the better.” The soft clatter of ceramic from the kitchen pulls Ilya back to some semblance of awareness. It’s too early to sleep if he wants to get through the night in one go without a pill, but the idea of doing more than he currently is brings with it a sharp stab of refusal from the base of his skull.

He shifts a little on the couch. The hand that’s slowly rubbing circles into his skull pauses for a second before continuing. Sasha is a decidedly less comfortable cushion than Sveta, but he makes up for it by draping one of his hands over Ilya’s eyes, blocking out the already dim light in the loft. The other makes a valiant effort to ward off the shitty combo of muscle cramps and nausea that rise when his head gets fucked off with him.

It’s probably fucked off because Ilya is fucked off. He’s spent months working up to his first day. For weeks he’s managed some combination of company, exercise, and focus. It’s irritating as shit that he’s laid out already. Fucking scary, too, because today’s easy compared to the shit down the line.

He breathes in through his nose. Sasha's thumb traces another slow loop at his temple.

"He's been there sixteen years," Sveta is saying, from the kitchen. She’s on cooking duty, which is a relief when Sasha’s idea of cooking involves maybe a protein smoothie and half a pack of cigarettes. He’s good at making Ilya eat, but they’re all pretty sure his taste buds curled up and died in his teens, so it’s always hit and miss as to whether anything he makes is actually palatable. Ilya can cook. Would be cooking if he could stand up without puking. "Sixteen. You know how many contracts that is?"

"No," says Sasha, flat. "I don't care."

"Four and a half. Which means the front office has been too scared to touch him for four and a half contracts, even when he's been playing forty percent of his capability-"

"Still don't care."

"I'm telling you anyway."

Ilya breathes out. Sasha's hand is warm and heavy and smells faintly of the cedar soap he's been using since they stayed in one fancy hotel back in 2006, and he decided to make it part of his personality.

"Mercer," Sasha says, like he's tasting something unpleasant. "The captain, yes?" He knows Mercer is captain. He’s made several unfavorable comments about the picture on Ilya’s Post-it wall. He’s not wrong. Mercer is one of those guys who looks like he’s been playing professional hockey for nearly two decades.

"The captain," Sveta confirms. "Who has, last season alone, logged more time in sports therapy than on the actual ice. And who plays like a man trying to remember a game he learned like, eighty years ago, which-"

"Which he did."

"-which he did. And who," she continues, her voice taking on the precise, clipped cadence of someone who has had multiple arguments on the topic, "is sitting in the way of no fewer than three players who should be having the seasons of their lives."

"Bood," Ilya says.

It comes out softer than he intends, a little frayed around the edges. Sasha's hand doesn't pause.

"Bood," Sveta says, and even from the kitchen he can hear the satisfaction in her voice. He likes their loft. It’s big and open. Lots of space. Fewer walls. They all leave the bedroom doors open. "Exactly."

"Who is Bood?" Sasha says, also not a question. Bood’s on the wall, too.

"Zane Boodram. Left wing. He’s on his eighth season." Ilya doesn't move. He's talking at the ceiling, essentially. It's fine. "He's good. People like him more than they like Mercer. He’d have more points if he had someone half decent to pass to." Instead, he’s on a line with Mercr and Dillon. Dillon’s kinda shit, too. he thinks, for a second, how Bood might play with Ilya on Center and quickly shoves the thought from his mind with a groan.

Sasha’s fingers dig harder.

"That was almost a compliment," Sveta snorts. “We need new blood. It’s not like we don’t have the Cap.”

"Sure," Ilya says. His voice is steadier now. Good. "Wiebe knows it. The Coven knows it." He pauses. "Crowell probably knows it and hates it." Crowell wants to make money. Ottawa… doesn’t make money. Not the kind of numbers he’s looking for, not even close.

"Crowell is a cunt," Sasha says waspishly. Sasha holds the grudes Ilya is too tired to. He shuffles, turning sideways, his cheek still on Sasha’s knee, and bats at the hand that’s covering his eyes. From the smell in the kitchen, food isn’t far off. He needs to readjust his eyes with enough time that he doesn’t waste Sveta’s efforts.

Not that it’s really bright. Sveta has the counter lights on, the huge open-plan kitchen/living room giving her the space she needs to work without setting a rocket off behind Ilya’s eyes. Sasha has the big, ominous blue floor lamp next to the couch. It’s soft and muted and kinda fucking useless as a source of light.

Ilya likes the loft. But it is a little like living in a morgue. Fuck, maybe that’s why.

"Crowell is a problem," Sveta corrects, checking her hip against the kitchen island with a dish towel over her shoulder. She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. "But not our problem tonight."

Ilya's problem tonight is the specific, grinding pressure behind his left eye that means he's been clenching his jaw without knowing it. He makes himself stop. Forces his molars apart and breathes.

He should be fine. He was fine. The morning was hard and the afternoon was harder and the lights in the media office are exactly the kind of aggressive white that make the inside of his head feel like a construction site, but he got through it. He sat through Wiebe’s - Brandon’s - staff meeting, and about a hundred introductions, and the roster overview and the seven and a half hours of ‘holy fuck, you’re Ilya Rozanov!’.

He's not fine now because he’s stopped, and that's the fucking problem with stopping.

"Haas," Sveta says.

Ilya doesn't move.

"We haven’t talked about Haas," she says.

Sasha says. "I don't know who Haas is." He does. And it’s fucking irritating that he’s pretending otherwise. It’s even more irritating that it takes Ilya a second to put a face to the name, even though the kid has spent the entire afternoon watching him with the eyes of a hopeful puppy.

"Luca Haas. Winger. French. No…” not French. Fuck. Wait. “The chocolate one. Swiss. He's a fucking infant."

Sveta turns back to the stove. "He's got potential."

Sasha makes a sound that is not quite a word. He shifts slightly under Ilya's head, resettling his weight, and Ilya has to lock every cooperative muscle he has to keep still and not apologize for being a deadweight on his friend's lap.

"Food's up," Sveta says, from the kitchen. Not a question. "Both of you."

Sasha makes a noise Ilya feels in his soul.

"Sasha."

Another noise. Ilya pushes himself upright, slowly, cataloguing the protest from the base of his skull. Not terrible. The room doesn't tip. He sits for a second on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on the middle distance while the blood in his head figures out what it's doing.

"Up," Sasha says, which is rich coming from the man who just spent twenty minutes refusing to move, and then his broad hand is at Ilya's back, steadying without asking, and they make it to the table in stages.

Sveta's made something with rice and soft-cooked vegetables, nothing aggressive in the smell department, nothing that requires much effort to eat. She sets a bowl in front of Ilya and one in front of Sasha and sits down with her own, and for a minute nobody speaks.

Jesus, he used to fucking like food. If they’re calling this food, which is maybe half the problem. Hollander would have a great time with-

The first mouthful is fine. The second is less fine. He sets the spoon down, picks it up again, tells the part of his stomach currently staging a coup to go fuck itself, and keeps going. Sveta doesn't watch him. That's the trick of it. She's looking at Sasha instead, who looks bored out of his mind.

Three more mouthfuls. Four. The nausea sits at the back of his throat like a polite but insistent guest and he breathes through it, in through the nose, out slow, and takes another bite.

"So," Sasha says, not looking up from his bowl. "What about the coaches?"

Ilya doesn't say anything.

"The coaches," Sasha repeats, as though Ilya might have missed it. "You will work with them, yes? Every day? These people?"

"Kinda how it works."

"And they are all insufferable assholes."

"I'm a coach."

Sasha looks up at him. The expression on his face communicates, with remarkable efficiency, that this is not the point he is making. Sveta refills her water glass.

Ilya takes another small spoonful and replays the days. "Brandon’s not shit." He means it. He's too tired to be generous with people he doesn't mean it about. "We’d have eaten him alive when we were kids.” He’s a nice guy. Kind. Ilya would’ve made his life hell even without meaning to. He’s still not sure how it will play out or if it will turn the second-worst team in the league into anything noteworthy, but he’s self-aware enough to know that restarting his career under the kind of coach he’s used to would end badly.

“Russo's the goaltending coach,” he says, the repetition for his own benefit, not theirs. “He said maybe four words to me all day."

Sasha grunts. Apparently, this is acceptable.

"Four words total?" Sveta raises her eyebrow. “I didn’t know he knew that many.”

“Hmm. Hayes is good,” Ilya admits. Nice guy. Their new goalie is maybe a little too observant for his liking, but it’s his job, and having a decent guy on goal is the only reason they’re not even more shit.

“Is he the hot one?” Sasha asks.

“The hot married straight one,” Sveta reminds him.

Sasha shrugs. “That’s his problem, not mine.”

“Do not fuck anyone on my team,” Ilya says tiredly. Though there’s a conversation there that Ilya needs to have with him at some point. With both of them, actually. He’s a monk for fairly obvious reasons. The self-enforced celibacy thing the two of them have going on can’t be good for their health. Christ, they aren’t even sleeping with each other, let alone him, which is objectively tragic because they’re both incredibly fucking beautiful.

Sasha waves the warning away lazily and drops his fork in his bowl.

“How’d you find Gervais?” Sveta taps her nails on the table in one of the only indicators she has that she’s nervous.

Ilya found him not nearly dead enough. Gervais is as much a problem as Mercer. Old school, unapproachable, and stubbornly resistant to working with a player’s strengths instead of just trying to bend them at their weakest. He’s not in the least impressed with Ilya, either by reputation or by way of the accommodation he now needs.

Ilya is going to have to deal with him quickly and with more delicacy than he’ll need to wrangle Mercer. Gervais is an Associate Coach, which gives him more clout than Ilya.

Sveta doesn’t need to know that. She has her own job to worry about. And Sasha will probably just key his fucking car.

“He doesn’t like Brandon,” Ilya admits.

“Can’t imagine why the seven-hundred-year-old Associate Coach hates his new younger boss,” Sasha rolls his eyes. He doesn’t miss what Ilya isn’t saying. Sveta’s hockey IQ might be up there with Ilya’s, but Sasha is the one who taught Ilya how to read people.

“Brax is okay, though,” Ilya pushes the conversation along. Of the three of them supporting Brandon, it’s Braxton Ilya will probably have to endure the most, as he’s in charge of video and pre-scout. He’s pretty sure the kid is on meth the speed he runs through things, but he’s also so fucking oblivious that Ilya’s short temper will hopefully fly right over his head.

The coaching staff he has a handle on. Medical and performance… that’ll come. Hopefully. The team...

Sveta refills his water glass without asking, and the sound of it is almost too much. He stares at the table. Forces another spoonful. His bowl is maybe two thirds empty and the math of the remaining third is making him feel slightly insane.

"Finish," Sveta says, without looking at him.

Ilya doesn’t respond. He can bitch at her later. Multitasking is beyond him right then.

He finishes the bowl. He does it mechanically, the way he used to force himself through the last leg of a hard practice lap, just by refusing to let any thinking happen in the vicinity of the action. Spoon up, spoon in, breathe, repeat. The nausea doesn't get worse, which is something.

He sets the spoon down and Sveta takes the bowl before he can do anything with it, and he watches her carry it to the sink and feels something very specific and very embarrassing that he absolutely is not going to examine.

"I'll do those." He's out of his chair before he's decided to be. The scrape of it against the floor makes him wince. He makes it to the counter anyway and reaches for the bowl, and Sveta gives it up without argument.

He runs the water. The temperature calibration on the tap is still a bit off - something in the boiler that the building super keeps promising to sort - so it comes out lukewarm, then scalding, then finally right. He rinses the bowls. Sveta passes him hers. Sasha throws his fork in the sink from two feet away, because he is a fucking asshole.

"There's a dishwasher," Sveta says.

"I know there's a dishwasher."

"For the dishes."

He glares at her because fucking christ he's capable of doing dishes. 

She holds her hands up in a small, patient gesture, and goes to sit back down. He hears her say something low to Sasha, too quiet to catch, and doesn't ask. He stacks the dishwasher once he's rinced everything. It takes longer than it should because Sasha loaded it last and he puts things in at angles that make no fucking sense. Ilya has to take half of it out and start again, and his hands are a little unsteady, but that's fine, that's just. Fine.

He gets the tablet in the dispenser and closes the door and presses the button and stands there with his hand on the counter for a moment while the machine starts its cycle. Gold fucking star for Ilya.

"Sit down," Sasha says, from the table.

“Fuck off,” Ilya grumbles.

He lets go of the counter. He goes and sits back on the couch, where the lamp is still doing its soft, useless thing, and he can just about convince himself they’re not all living underwater.

Sasha comes and sits beside him without being asked. He doesn't say anything, just drops down onto the cushion next to Ilya, who leans sideways into him a little without meaning to and doesn't correct it.

Sveta leaves them alone, moving through the loft to the soft percussion of her evening routine. When she comes back, she's in her good robe, the dark green one, and she's carrying three glasses of water along with Ilya’s pill organizer. No matter how fucking bad his hands sometimes shake, neither she nor Sasha will just present him with his pills. They also sit with him every week when he sorts them all out, but that’s a seperate fucking thing.

He takes his meds. Drinks his water. Another gold star for Ilya.

He loses the rest of the evening in pieces. He's aware of Sveta turning the documentary off at some point and putting music on instead, something ambient and structureless. He's aware of Sasha getting up to smoke on the balcony, the brief cold shunt of air when the door opens and closes. He's aware of his own hands in his lap, very far away from him, doing nothing.

"Bed," Sveta says, eventually. Not an escalation, just a fact.

Ilya says, "Mm."

He doesn't remember taking his clothes off, but he’s in his pyjamas, and he doesn't remember if he brushed his teeth, though he suspects Sveta would not have let him past the bathroom door without doing so. There are chunks of the evening that are just texture, just the sensation of moving through air, Sasha's shoulder against his own, the soft resistance of the mattress as he sinks down.

He's in bed. Sveta's lamp is on, the orange one she found at a market in Paris and made Sasha carry in his hand luggage. It gives off approximately the light of a single candle. It's enough. More than enough.

She's already on the right side, which means Sasha will take the left, which is how it works on the nights they do this, which isn’t often. They used to, years ago. Ilya sleeps better when someone is in bed with him, sure, but he’s learned by now this is more for them than him.

It’s probably not even ten. They should be thinking about maybe heading out to a bar in the next hour or two…

He hasn't said thank you. He should say thank you.

Sasha slides in behind him, an arm around Ilya’s waist. Sveta curls up against his chest, the silk of her hair wrap cool under his cheek. He loves them, he loves…

Shane doesn’t sleep. He does go for his run, but then he also skips breakfast, which is a shit call on all accounts and explains why he wants to peel Andropov’s face off when they bump into each other in the hallway outside the locker room. Andropov is one of the ones who doesn’t like being a dick to Shane because Shane is his captain. He’s also one of the ones who does it anyway because that’s the common consensus. It makes Shane dislike him even more than he likes Comeau, who is at least upfront and honest in his efforts to be a total asshole.

It’s early, though, which means most of the boys have yet to show up, and Andropov is on his way to PT for the calf he never fucking stretches out right. Shane’s fully expecting to have the locker-room to himself while he gears up for an early skate.

He needs to get on the ice as soon as physically possible. He needs to get out of his head before he does something stupid, like get in his car and drive to Ottawa and try break into the grounds of a rival team just to see his one-time… whatever the fuck Ilya is, or was. Or...

The locker room is empty, which is fine, which is good, which is exactly what he needs. Shane pulls his bag off his shoulder and drops it on the bench and stands there for a second with his hands on his hips, doing the thing his dad calls grounding and that he calls standing very still until his brain shuts the fuck up.

It doesn't shut the fuck up. It runs the ESPN headline on a loop. It runs Ilya's face on a loop. It runs the specific, precise memory of the last time Ilya smiled at him, which was right before he pulled Shane into his arms and started stroking his hair, and right before Shane panicked a little and tried to veer them back towards sex, and right before he panicked a lot and ran out of Ilya’s house with come still wet on his thighs. It was a beautiful smile. One he can recall with perfect clarity. One he falls in love with every time he thinks of it, if he's not careful.

He is not being careful right now.

He’s also not alone. The showers are running.

That's fine. That's allowed. Someone else got here early. He doesn't need to know who. He strips his shirt off, folds it in his bag, and starts pulling his kit out in the order he always does. He has a system. The system helps. The system is load-bearing.

There’s no sound of movement from the shower.

He’s not a nosy man. Hayden likes to say Shane will be the one person in the team to survive a horror movie because he’ll hear something suspicious and decide it’s absolutely none of his business getting involved.

Which is true, and it isn’t, but…

He goes to check because he is captain and that is the job, and for no other reason.

The shower room is a wall of steam and the overhead lights are harsh enough that he has to blink twice before his eyes adjust. Cliff Marlow is sitting on the tile bench along the far wall, still in yesterday's clothes with the shower running full blast onto nothing, hot enough that the whole room is basically a sauna. He's got his elbows on his knees and his head hanging forward, and he looks like something that washed up after a shipwreck.

Shane's brain does a fast, flat inventory. Fully dressed. Shower running but not in it. He's got a bruise coming up under his left eye that wasn't there yesterday.

"Marlow."

Cliff's head comes up. Slowly. He blinks at Shane, and there's a lag in it, a beat too long between the stimulus and the response.

"Hollander." His voice sounds like he's talking through wet concrete, but his grin is lazy and soft. He straightens up, or tries to, and the effort of it is visible in a way it absolutely should not be in a man built like a structurally integral wall.

The steam is doing something unpleasant to the inside of Shane's throat. He breathes through it.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Just." Cliff waves one hand. The wave goes slightly wider than he seems to intend. "Just sitting."

“Are you injured?” The bruise worries him. He doesn’t exactly have the best expectations of the boys, but Boston or not, transfers happen all the time, and Marlow’s never personally offended any of them enough for it to cross over into a grudge.

He broke Shane’s collarbone once. And Hayden’s wrist. But that’s just hockey.

“Nah,” Marlow says lazily. “S’all good, don’t worry.”

Shane was born worrying, fuck him very much. Maybe he got in a fight in town? That’ll be a great start. Fuck, he should’ve spoken to the burly asshole last night.

"Are you hungover?" It comes out flat, not a question exactly, more a thing he's putting the idea front of Marlow to see what he does with it. Shane’s worked too damn hard to get Marlow here to risk the idiot getting suspended over a barfight.

Cliff's grin widens. "No."

"Okay." Shane doesn't move. He stays in the doorway with the steam curling around his ankles and watches him before realization hits. “Fucking hell, Marlow, are you drunk?”

“That one,” Marlow nods, aiming finger guns in Shane’s direction.

Shane turns the shower off. "Okay," he says. "Get up."

Marlow looks up at him with the slow, beatific expression of a man who has made a series of choices and not yet arrived at the part where he regrets them. "I'm good."

"You are not good." Shane picks up his shirt from where he dropped it on the bench and pulls it back on. He does it mechanically, one arm then the other, smoothing the hem flat. "You are drunk in the team shower at six forty-seven in the morning on your first day. Get up."

"Technically," Marlow says, holding up one finger, "second day."

The finger is not entirely steady.

"Get up, Marlow."

Marlow gets up. It takes him two attempts, and he has to catch the wall on the way, and Shane watches him do it and keeps his face very, very still. He picks up his bag. He does not help Marlow walk. He does stand close enough that if the man actually goes down, he'll be in a position to do something about it, but he doesn't touch him, because if he touches him right now he will say something he can't take back.

Marlow is probably a solid six inches taller than he is, which makes the spare clothes Shane bullies him into look a little ridiculous, but they’re dry, and Marlow’s ego isn’t really his problem. Once they’re both dry and back in civvies, Shane steers him out of the locker room by scowl alone. Which works because Marlow is drunk and not because Shane has any particular authority over him outside of the technical.

The security desk at the side entrance has a different guy on it from the overnight shift. He glances up. Shane meets his eyes and gives him a look that means this is handled and not your problem, and the guy looks back down at his screen.

There is a McDonald's four blocks away. Shane knows because he has run past it approximately eight hundred times and never gone in, because there is nothing in a McDonald's that belongs in his body during the season, or honestly at any other time. He knows the distance because he has measured it, not deliberately, just by virtue of being someone who notices things like that without meaning to.

Four blocks. He can manage four blocks with a drunk man who outweighs him, in the rain, before seven in the morning.

He starts walking.

Marlow follows, which is something. He's not weaving badly, just softly, like a large man who has made peace with the ground being slightly unreliable. Shane walks. Marlow walks. The rain is that fine, cold mist that settles on his face and the back of his neck and does nothing to improve his mood.

He holds the McDonald's door open. Marlow ducks through it.

The smell hits him immediately, grease and salt and something sweet and deeply synthetic underneath it all. He breathes through his mouth. He's been in worse places. He has been in hospitals and penalty boxes and press conferences with Theriault glaring at him from two feet away, and he has survived all of those, so he can survive a McDonald's and whatever shitty music they are playing. Even if he does want to claw his eyes out a little.

He steers Marlow to a booth at the back, away from the two teenagers huddled over a phone and the guy asleep over a coffee cup by the window. The seat is orange plastic, aggressively bright, and the table has something sticky near the left edge that Shane identifies immediately and then decides he is simply not going to think about.

Marlow drops into the seat across from him like his strings have been cut. He puts his forearms on the table and looks around with the mild, wondering expression of a man experiencing his own environment as a pleasant surprise.

Shane goes to the counter and orders fast, because he’s already decided what Marlow is getting before they walked in, because Shane Hollander does not stand in front of a McDonald's menu board at seven fifteen in the morning and deliberate. Two McGriddles. Four large hash browns. Orange juice. Water. He gets himself a black coffee and he gets it in the largest size they have because he is going to need it.

Marlow looks at the food. Then at Shane.

"Eat," Shane says.

"I'm not-"

"You're drunk. Eat the food."

Something about the selection does far more than the rain to sober Marlow up. He blanches, looks a little queasy, then slumps his shoulders. “Fuck.” He finishes half the McGriddle and reaches for the orange juice. Good.

"So," Shane says.

Marlow looks at him over the cup.

"Is this your plan? Every morning?" He keeps his voice even. He is very good at keeping his voice even. He’s had years of practice. "Because I need to know now if this is a pattern."

"It's not a pattern." Marlow sets the cup down. His voice has a little more traction in it now. The food is doing something. "It's a one-off."

"Okay." Shane doesn't ask him to prove it. "What happened to your face?"

Marlow's expression closes like a door. "Nothing."

"That's a bruise."

"I know what it is."

"Did someone here do that?"

Marlow looks surprised. "No."

Shane looks at him for a second. He believes him, which doesn't make it better. He picks up his coffee again. The song changes. The new one is marginally worse. "Do you hate it here that much?"

Marlow picks up the second hash brown and bites into it. He doesn't answer.

"I'm asking you a question," Shane says, trying to be stern.

“Here’s better than nowhere,” Marlow shrugs.

Shane drinks his coffee. It's too hot and it tastes like the floor of a gas station, and he drinks it anyway because it gives him something to do with his hands.

Here's better than nowhere.

Shane runs that against everything he already knows about Cliff Marlow, which is: good player, historically, when he's not trying to break the record for penalty minutes. Statistically inconsistent. Disciplinary record that reads like a man systematically dismantling his own career. Four years under Ilya, and his points were some of the highest in the league. Then they weren't. Then he's here.

Shane puts the coffee down.

"You were a good player," he says carefully. Not a compliment, exactly. He’s not great at giving those.

Marlow stops chewing. "Yeah?" he says.

"In Boston. Your numbers were solid. Above average, actually, in terms of possession and zone entry efficiency." Shane stops. He is aware that he is talking about metrics to a drunk man and that this is not the point he is trying to make. "You played well. Something happened."

It's not a question. He doesn't mean it as one. He means it as: I have looked at the data and the data does not explain this, and the thing that is not in the data is the thing I need.

Marlow stares at him for a long moment. Then he makes a sound that is not quite a laugh. It comes up from somewhere low and unhappy. "Shane fucking Hollander," he says. "Didn't have you pegged as a gossip."

"I'm not a gossip."

"No?" Marlow leans back in the booth, and the orange plastic creaks under his weight. He's sober enough now to remember how big he is, and probably mad enough and miserable enough to think it’s worth trying to hold that over Shane. Like Shane doesn’t step onto the ice every fucking game knowing he’s twice the target he was when the world thought he was straight, and with significantly less protection from his team. "Then what do you call it?"

"You're not stupid, Marlow. Or not that stupid, at least. You know what you're worth when you're actually on form. So." Shane keeps his voice level. He keeps his hands flat on the table where he can see them.

“Just ask me about fucking Roz already,” Marlow says darkly. Shane's whole body does something involuntary and specific that he would describe, if pressed, as a systems failure. Like when a skate catches an edge wrong and for a half-second you don't know which way you're going to fall.

”I don't know what you mean," he says.

It comes out fine. Reasonable. He is extremely good at fine and reasonable.

Marlow looks at him with the particular, bleary clarity of a man who is still drunk but not drunk enough to miss being smacked in the face by a brick. "Yeah you do."

"Your numbers dropped after the 2016/17 season," Shane says, because this is a factual statement about hockey and not about anything else. "I'm trying to understand the context."

"Context." Marlow reaches for the orange juice again. "That's one word for it."

"Was it injury?"

"No."

"Was it coaching?"

Marlow's mouth twitches. Not a smile, not quite. More like the ghost of one, if the ghost were deeply fucking set on making Shane's life harder. "This how you win all those trophies?" he asks. "Annoy the fuck out of everyone until they just hand them over?"

"I'm asking about hockey."

"You're asking about Roz."

Shane breathes in through his nose and tries not to feel like he’s going to die right this second if he doesn’t get an answer. "I'm asking about your game."

"Same answer."

The teenagers laugh. The guy asleep over his coffee shifts and settles. The fluorescent strip above their booth flickers once, buzzing low, and Shane clocks it with the part of his brain that clocks everything whether he wants it to or not.

He could ask. He is aware that he could just ask, that there is a question sitting in his chest like a stone and the most efficient thing would be to say it out loud, but the most efficient thing is not always the correct thing. He knows that. He's learned that.

"Boston's power play ranking went from fourth to seventeenth in one season," Shane says. "That's not just one player."

"No," Marlow agrees. He's watching Shane with something that is either a desperate plea to keep pushing, or a thinly veiled warning to back the fuck off before he gets violent. Shane’s not great at knowing which is which, but he’s better than he used to be. Has to be, now most of the league wants to knock his teeth out just for being in the same room. Which is fine. He has a great dentist.

“They improved,” Shane says slowly, because they did. Yeah, Boston tanked hard after Ilya went AWOL and didn’t come close to making the playoffs. They got better the year after. Never the same, but nowhere near as bad. “You didn’t,”

“And what does Shane Hollander, Boy Genius, make of that?”

"I think," Shane says, "you had a bad few years."

It's the most he's willing to give. It's already too much. He knows it the second it's out.

Marlow looks at him. The bleary clarity from before sharpening into something more calculating. Shane keeps his face still. He is a champion at keeping his face still. He's been keeping his face still for three fucking years years.

"Huh," Marlow says. He turns the orange juice in a slow circle. "Understatement of the fucking decade."

"It's an observation."

"Yeah." Marlow's mouth does the almost-smile thing again. "It's a pretty specific observation."

"I look at numbers for a living," Shane says.

"Right." Marlow stops turning the cup. He looks at it instead of Shane. "But you didn't ask about numbers. You asked about Roz."

"I asked about context," Shane says irritably. 

"You asked about Roz," Marlow says again, pleasantly, like he's correcting a minor factual error.

"I'm asking about what happened to your game," Shane says. "Because you have a chance here and I'd like to understand what I'm working with."

He doesn’t even know why he’s circling so hard. Marlow’s here, right fucking here, and all Shane has to do is say Ilya’s name…

"Such a good captain."

"Marlow…"

"Very responsible. Very professional." Marlow leans his elbows back on the table. He's in Shane's clothes and he's been drunk in a shower stall and he's looking at Shane like he's got all the time in the world, which is the most offensive thing about this whole morning. "You always this thorough with the FNGs, or-"

"Yes." It comes out flat. True.

Marlow tilts his head. "Even the ones you had transferred in yourself?"

Shane doesn't say anything.

"Because that's a thing that happened," Marlow says. "Isn't it. You pulled the strings." He doesn't sound angry about it, which is somehow worse. He sounds like a man who found out something he was waiting to be told. "So I'm just wondering what the fuck you actually want.”

Fuck it. “Did you get drunk because of Ilya?” he blurts. “Because he’s back?”

Marlow looks at him. The look goes on for long enough that Shane has time to regret every word of that sentence individually.

"NDA," Marlow says.

Shane blinks. "What?"

"N. D. A." Marlow picks up the last of the hash browns, examines it, then puts it down, seemingly done. "Signed one. Can't talk about it."

The fluorescent strip buzzes. Shane sits very still.

"You signed a non-disclosure agreement," he says, because he needs to hear it out loud to understand what his brain is doing with it, which is currently nothing useful.

"Yep."

"About Ilya."

"About a lot of things," Marlow says almost musically, his smile less drunk and closer to manic. "Which I can't talk about. Because of the NDA."

What the actual fuck.

"Who made you sign it?" he says.

"Can't say."

"Seriously-"

"That falls under the NDA."

“Fuck,” Shane drags his hands through his hair. “What the fuck?”

Marlow chews at the corner of his thumbnail. “So yeah, sucks for you. All that effort and no cigar.”

“I don’t smoke,” Shane says tiredly.

Marlow blinks at him, then starts to laugh. “You could just call him.”

Shane scrubs the heels of his palms into his eyes. Sure. Just call. It’s not like the line between genuine concern and stalking is a thousand and one missed calls instead of a thousand. “That would require him to pick up.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Aaah! I am obsessed with your theories!

Also small update: I lasted less than a month on threads before noping out entirely. I'll be sticking to tumblr, where the only drama that comes my way are anon messages as the fandom gods of old intended!

Content warnings: homophobic language, use of a slur.

Insert 'I have known Luca Haas for two hours, and if anything happened to him' meme...

Working with the rookies has always been one of Ilya's favorite things. It's not something he can make a big deal out of, not publically at least, but it's a point of pride on any team he's Captain of that the kids know no one is going to push them harder than Ilya is. They don't have to like him, fuck, few probably do, but they respect him a lot, and fear him just enough. Striking that balance between stoking a kid's ego and giving him enough of a trench mentality that he'll go the extra mile for his team is an art Ilya strives his entire career to perfect.

If they can survive Ilya Rozanov on a tear, they think, then they can take anything anyone else can throw at them. Works better with the guys from Canada and America than it does with the Europeans.

It's different now he's no longer a player. Easier in some ways, harder in others. He's young enough that they still see Ilya fucking Rozanov. Strong enough, fast enough still that the things they've been told about why he no longer plays - the bare minimum and some degrees less - don't line up with what they see on the ice.

Like now... Luca Hass follows Ilya around the ring in a slow, lazy loop, sticking so close that the grace the kid usually displays is all that stops him from colliding with Ilya every time they loop back.

It's like Haas has been designed in a lab to make Ilya feel old and washed up. He can't even begrudge the kid, not without feeling like he's kicking someone's puppy. He looks like he's twelve. There's no way Ilya ever looked so fucking young. Not even when he was twelve.

Day two of career 2.0, and it hinges on a baby-faced twenty-year-old. If there's ever a sign that Brandon plans on letting Ilya actually do his job instead of serving as a mindless automaton of his will, it's here. In this. In Ilya's instincts, three years slow, half fucking blended and untested, set upon his career, Brandon's, and Haas's.

"You want me to what?" Haas says when Ilya pulls him aside during their 1-2-1.

Ilya leans back against the barrier and lets the heel of his blade rest against the ice. "You heard me."

If the kid's eyes get any wider, they might pop right out of his head. "I heard you say you want me to play center."

Ilya nods. "You've done it before."

"Sure," Haas nods rapidly. "But not here."

Ilya flashes him a lazy grin. "Technically, you've done fuck all here yet, so I wouldn't worry about it."

Haas opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. He looks like a very pretty fish. "But I'm a winger."

"Yes." Ilya pushes off the barrier. "You were also a center until you were sixteen, so let's not pretend this is coming from nowhere."

The look on Haas's face is spectacular. It moves through several distinct phases: confusion, the dawning of comprehension, something that might be flattery, and then right back around to mild panic. "You looked at my-"

"Your development files, yes." Ilya picks up a puck with the blade of his stick and passes it to Haas, who takes it on reflex. He's got good hands. Fast. "I do that. It's my job."

"Right." Haas looks down at the puck. "Right, yeah, okay. I just-" He looks back up. The wide eyes are back. "Mercer's out out?"

"Mercer is out." Ilya starts skating slowly, and Haas falls in beside him the way he has for the last hour, some instinct for proximity that Ilya suspects the kid isn't even aware of. "Mercer will probably be out for a significant portion of the season, which is not a conversation I have had officially with anyone, so you did not hear that from me."

"I didn't hear anything," Haas says immediately.

Good kid. "So we have a hole at center. And we have you."

"We have lots of people."

"We have several people," Ilya corrects. "And I have watched all of them for two days, which is not long, but I have also watched tape for three months, and what I have is: Tessaro, who is a center by position and a disaster by inclination; Marchetti, who is thirty-two years old and has the hockey IQ of a reasonably athletic golden retriever; and you."

Haas makes a sound that is almost a laugh. "That's-"

"Accurate." Ilya cuts the corner, and Haas mirrors him. "You're a two-way winger. You already think like a center. You already play like one half the time without knowing you're doing it." He pauses. "Which is either a compliment or a critique, depending on whether you start doing it on purpose."

Haas chews on that for a moment. He's quiet when he's thinking. Ilya likes that about him. The ones who talk through everything are exhausting.

"There's a reason I don't play center," Haas says finally, and looks pretty broken up about it, which is ridiculous.

"Yes. You suck at faceoffs."

"I don't… I mean, I take draws sometimes, but not-" He's not the go to. He has to know how to take them, yes, but that doesn't make him the default, and he knows it.

"You win forty-one percent of the ones you take," Ilya says. "Which is bad."

Haas winces. "Yeah."

"Fifty percent is the baseline. Sixty is the goal. There are four or five draws per shift on average, and if you're losing them consistently…"

"Is this supposed to be encouraging?" Haas asks, wilted at the edges. Ilya tries not to wince. Gentle. Gentle.

"You think we'd be having this conversation if I didn't think you could do it?"

Haas is quiet for a moment. Then: "No," he admits. "I guess not."

"Correct." Ilya stops skating and turns to face him, which has the immediate effect of Haas nearly colliding with him and having to execute a fast little pivot to avoid it. He manages it cleanly. Good edges. "So. Faceoffs first."

Haas looks like a man being handed a bill he wasn't expecting. "Now?"

"Did you have somewhere else to be?"

"I just-" Haas gestures vaguely at the empty ice around them, at the net, at the implicit suggestion that there was a practice plan and this is not it. "We were doing the cycle drill."

"We finished the cycle drill."

"We did three reps."

"We did seven." Ilya raises an eyebrow. "You stopped counting."

"I…" Haas blinks and looks around the rink. "Huh." He skates back a pace, those big eyes fixed on Ilya. "You're good at faceoffs." Bless the fucking child for the present tense.

"I'm great at faceoffs," Ilya agrees. "Lucky for you, you don't have to face me."

"No. Just Hollander. And Hunter. And Kent. And-"

Ilya waves a lazy hand. "Kent is a cunt. He is very flashy and is easy to piss off."

"Chriping isn't really my-"

"I will teach you this, too," Ilya vows. "Dallas Kent is not your problem. Hunter is-"

"Insanely good-"

"Insanely old. Like shark." Who can outskate, outscore, and outperform Ilya. Who is still playing hockey and still probably, if he's bitterly honest with himself, has another good few years in him if he wants them.

"…are sharks old?"

"Older than dinosaurs. And trees. And rings of Saturn." Ilya's watched a lot of documentaries over the past few years. It was a way for Alexei to keep him quiet for a while, but he genuinely likes them, and he likes how much Sasha and Sveta hate them even more.

"Huh…" Haas tips his head to one side, deep in thought. "Okay, but Hollander…"

You're never going to be as good as Hollandeer is. No one will. Hollander is peerless. Hollander is-

"You don't need to be better than Hollander," Ilya says calmly. "You need to surprise him."

Ilya's never been stupid enough to think he's a better player than Hollander. Technically, there is, has never been, and possibly will never be, a better player, technically, than Shane Hollander.

What Ilya's always had in his advantage is an inate knowdlege of his body, his skill level, and a willingness to fuck with both for the edge. The times he beats - has beaten - Sh- Hollander… those are because he's caught him off guard, physically overpowered him, or, rarely, managed to wriggle his way under that titanium shell.

"Surprise him?"

"Yes. And you'll only do it the once. You have to make it count. Then find another play."

"Easy," Haas says faintly. "No problem."

"No problem," Ilya agrees.

He sets up the dot on the left side of the centre circle and drops a puck at Haas's feet.

"Pick it up," he says.

Haas looks at the puck. Looks at Ilya. "With my-"

"Stick."

Haas picks it up. Reasonable speed, decent blade angle, but he telegraphs it. Ilya can see the whole intention of the movement a full half-second before the execution. He files it away.

"Again."

Haas drops it and picks it up again. Same thing. Same tell. His wrist rolls out just slightly before the blade commits.

"You do that in a faceoff, Hollander reads it before you've decided what you're doing."

Haas looks down at his own wrist like it's betrayed him personally.

"Don't look at it," Ilya says. "That's worse."

"How am I supposed to fix it if I don't-"

"By taking draws until it stops." Ilya skates around to the other side of the dot. "Ready?"

"You're going to take a draw with me."

"Brilliant deduction." Ilya gets into position, stick low, weight centered, and watches Haas arrange himself opposite. He's got the instinct, at least. Feet shoulder-width, good knee bend. His grip is slightly too high on the shaft, which will cost him leverage, but Ilya doesn't say that yet. One thing at a time.

"You're going to lose this," Ilya tells him pleasantly.

Haas's jaw sets. There it is. Competitive. Good.

Ilya drops into the motion and wins it clean, sweeping the imaginary puck back to a nonexistent defenseman with the economy of movement that is, if nothing else, still entirely his. The mechanics of it live somewhere beneath thought. Muscle, not brain. He can be grateful for that, at least, that whatever the fuck happened to the rest of him left this more or less intact.

Haas stares at the space where the puck would be.

"Again," Ilya says.

They do it six times. Haas loses six times. He gets fractionally closer on the fifth and sixth, which is something, but his grip is still too high and he's still thinking about it a beat too long.

It's impressive, though. Ilya doesn't have to tell him how to fix things. He watches, he observes, he adjusts.

"Good." He poretakes his position across the dot from Haas, who scrambles to mirror him. "You know what your problem is?"

"...my faceoff percentage?"

"That is a symptom." Ilya rolls his shoulders. The muscles at the back of his neck are tight, but this is about the most relaxed and at ease he's been since he started. Being on the ice is good for his soul, he thinks. His body can fuck right off with any complaints. "Your problem is you think too much about your hands and not enough about where the puck is going."

Haas frowns. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"No." Ilya taps the dot with his blade, once, sharp. "Ready?"

Haas gets set. He's watching Ilya's hands, which is the exact wrong thing. Ilya wins the draw before Haas has finished processing that it's started, sweeping backhand, clean, puck skating three feet behind him to where a center would have a winger waiting.

Haas stares at where the puck went. Then at Ilya. "That was-"

"Again."

They go again. Same result, different angle. Ilya wins it on his forehand this time, quicker, and Haas actually gets his stick on it but too late, the leverage already gone.

"You're reading my hands," Ilya says.

"That's what you're supposed to-"

"You're reading my hands," Ilya repeats, "instead of my hips."

Haas straightens up. He's breathing a little harder than he should be for two faceoffs, which is nerves, not fitness, and Ilya knows the difference. "Your hips."

"Hips don't lie." He watches Haas try and fail to suppress a smile at that. "Don't laugh. It's true. A man can fake with his hands. He can't fake with his weight. If you know where I'm transferring, you know where the puck is going before I touch it."

Haas processes carefully. He's a careful kid, which isn't a bad thing. He's got good instincts and he's lightening fast, which is no doubt what's got him this far. Ilya can take him further.

"You must be pretty good at reading Hollander's hips," Haas says innocently. The full shutdown of Ilya's brain has nothing to do with the fact that parts of it are mush and everything to do with the technicolor fucking replay of said hips bucking underneath him while Hollander pants his name.

"Hey, coach." Ilya jerks himself back into focus as Zane Boodram skates over. His got that easy, natural charm lining his smile, and an affable, laidback calm Ilya doesn't fully trust. "Rook. How's it going?"

"I'm terrible," Haas laughs. He sounds more bashful than anything, but Ilya's goal isn't to crush his confidence.

"You're not terrible," Ilya says. "You're learning."

Boodram looks friendly enough to make Ilya mildly suspicious. It's that kind of friendliness that comes in two flavors: genuine, or tactical. Ilya hasn't been here long enough to know which this is.

"You're not terrible," Boodram confirms to Haas, easy and confident like he's been standing there every time Ilya kicked the kid's ass. "You're way better than I was at your age."

"You're a winger, too," Haas points out.

"Sure, but I still have to take draws sometimes. We all do, especially when it goes to shit. And fuck, we go to shit a lot." Boodram grins. Ilya intends to do something about that, because holy fuck he is not wrong. Calling some of the games the Centaurs have played over the years a clusterfuck is far too generous to the concept of fucks in general." I was catastrophically bad at them. Mercer used to make me do them till I cried. Was fun."

Ilya files the information away under things that explain several things about the offensive zone statistics from last season. Does anyone on the team actually like faceoffs? How can they not when it's litterally Ilya's favorite thing to do in life after sex. Or was, at least. Not that he's done either in a long time.

Haas looks at Ilya, then back at Boodram, a puppy checking that it's permitted to relax on guard duty before he's fully trained. Ilya pointedly pretends not to notice.

"Again," he says instead, and turns back to the dot.

Haas scrambles back into position. This time, he watches Ilya's hips. It's clumsy and he overcorrects, lunging left when Ilya goes right, but he gets there a full beat faster than the last six attempts. The puck doesn't end up where Ilya wants it.

Boodram cheers from a polite distance.

"Better," Ilya says.

Haas straightens up and looks like he's been handed something he wasn't expecting. "Yeah?"

"Worse execution. Better read." Ilya taps the dot again. "So: better."

"That's the nicest thing you've said all morning," Haas tells him.

"Don't push it."

Boodram laughs. It's a good laugh, easy and unself-conscious. For a second he's back in Boston, calm and easy and confident in his space, with his people. He watches Boodram watching Haas and revises his earlier read slightly. That kindness isn't tactical. Or not only tactical. There's something protective in his expression that's genuine. The kid's got someone looking out for him, which is either good for his development or going to get in the way of it. Too early to know, but it's the better of two problems to have.

Ilya's seen plenty of kids like Haas go either way. Raw talent gets your foot in the door, but what follows is almost impossible to predict. Given the right support, he might blossom.

Or he might become just like Ilya.

"He giving you hell?" Boodram asks Haas as they wrap the session.

"He's very nice," Haas says earnestly.

The face Ilya pulls sends Bood into a fit of booming laughter that attracts the attention of the rest of the guys on the ice.

"Ilya Rozanov is nice," Bood shakes his head with a grin. "Who the fuck knew?"

"I will run over you with Zamboni," Ilya tells Haas seriously.

Haas flashes all his teeth as he beams. "Yeah, but then who's gonna take the faceoffs?"

Oh, Ilya likes this little shit. He holds one hand to his chest, aghast. "Clearly I am too nice! One little compliment goes right to your head! Laps! All of the laps!"

Haas looks mortified. "I wasn't! I didn't mean-"

Ilya winks, then smacks him on the thigh with his stick. "Go! Go! Go!"

"Yes, coach!" And off the kid goes to a howl of playful catcalls.

Boodram catches up with him at the boards while Haas is still burning out his lungs on the far end. He leans his forearms on the top rail like he owns the place, which, given that he's been here eight seasons and Ilya has been here approximately forty-eight hours, is arguably accurate.

"Hey," he says, "you eat yet?"

"Yes," Ilya says, which is technically true if you count the protein bar Ashi pressed on him before the second meeting of the morning, which he does, because he was in no state to argue.

Bood gives him a look that suggests he's not entirely convinced. "There's a place two blocks over. Patio, good grilled stuff. Some of the guys usually go after morning skate." He pauses. "You should come."

The 'you should come' hangs there with the cheerful confidence of a man who's never been told no by a lunch crowd in his life. Ilya almost says yes. The word is basically formed. He can see the shape of the afternoon from here: decent food, the particular low-stakes banter that happens when guys are off the clock but not yet home, the specific pleasure of sitting outside in the early fall before the cold sets in properly.

"I've got tape review with Brax," he sighs. And a bento box he's sharing with Sveta, who he's absolutely not caught watching their practice from the box during the open skate.

Bood's face communicates, with remarkable clarity, what he thinks of tape review with Brax when food is an alternative. "He can wait."

"He really, genuinely, cannot," Ilya snorts. "He vibrates."

Bood laughs again. It's starting to feel like a personal attack how fucking relaxed this asshole is. "Okay, fair point." He straightens up, rolling his shoulders back. "What about tonight, then? Boys come round mine sometimes - I've got a place out past the Glebe, good yard. Nothing fancy, just some food, beers, whatever. You should come."

There it is again. You should come. Same tone. Same easy certainty. Whether he's using it as an opportunity to fish for information, or he genuinely wants Ilya's company is the bigger question.

The light reflecting off the barriers makes his head aware of itself in the low, distant way that means the morning has cost him. Not bad, as such. Not crisis-level. It's just his body now keeps a running tally and he'd like to be present and fucking aware when the invoice is issued.

He wants to go. That's the stupid, irritating, inconvenient truth of it. It's incoherently stupid, feeling lonely the way he does. Stupid, and ungrateful, and nasty. He spends almost every minute of his free time genuinely enjoying the company of two people who don't just love him, they love him enough to bulldoze their entire lives for him.

"Maybe another time," Ilya offers.

Bood shrugs his big shoulders. "Offer's open." He doesn't force the issue, and he doesn't hang around and make things awkward, which Ilya appreciates.

Even if it does leave him alone on the ice with Gervais when the rest of the team makes a mad rush for food. He's a grizzly redhead who reminds Ilya of the straw men they used to put out in the fields to scare the birds where his grandparents lived. And he has an attitude to match. "Don't coddle the kid," he tells Ilya.

Who is just irritable enough after turning down Bood that he purposely lets his accent thicken and the disdain settle on his face. "Yes, you are right. Better to pull his fingernails out with pliers. Will not make mistake twice."

He leaves Gervais wondering if he's dumb, an asshole, or sarcastic as shit, and hopes he settles on a combination of the three.

Training with someone drunk, or hungover, or whatever the fuck Marlow manages to be by the time they roll onto the ice, is a test in patience Shane isn't used to being forced to endure.

The aim isn't to have Marlow on the first line with him, Hayden and J.J, but on the second, with Andropov and Taylor. It's a humiliating demotion, from a Captain and first line winger to where Marlow's at now, and it probably goes a long way to explaining why he went out and got wasted.

Shane says nothing when the Associate Coach gives Marlow hell for the state he's in, and pushes hard when he swaps Hayden out to work with the rookies. Two hours of drills with him and J.J. is enough to sober anyone up, and he'll give Marlow credit for not puking halfway through.

Besides, it gives Marlow something to bond with the rest of the team over. No one likes Shane's drills. That's half the point. If they like them, then they're too easy.

The shower block empties out in stages after practice, the way it always does, guys peeling off in clusters based on who they like and who they tolerate and who they're actively avoiding. Shane is in the last category for most of them, which means he gets the corner bench and the leftmost shower and relative quiet while he goes through his post-ice routine in the same order he always does it. He's methodical about it. It helps.

He's pulling his shirt on when the particular frequency of guys trying to be quiet and failing, cuts through the chatter. That low, conspiratorial register that carries in a tiled room whether they want it to or not. Schneider's laugh, which has a specific nasal quality Shane has catalogued without meaning to. Comeau's voice underneath it, and Taylor's, and then someone else, lower, that takes him a second to place as Marlow.

Good. That's good, actually. Marlow integrating is the entire point.

He keeps his back to them and focuses on his Reeboks. He's got a system for this too. Left over right, loop, through, same as his skates. He's been doing it the same way since he was four years old and his mom sat him down on the kitchen floor and told him to pay attention.

"-honestly, man, you get used to it," Comeau is saying, which is interesting phrasing. Shane unknots the lace, works it loose, starts again. "He's always like this. Drills are like that every time. You think it's bad now-"

"He's a machine," Schneider says. "Doesn't even know anyone's in the room. You could drop dead and he'd just step over you and keep running the drill."

Shane manages not to laugh. That might be one of the nicest things any of them have said about him in months. He accidentally catches Hayden's gaze across the room and quickly looks away before he takes it as an excuse to try, for the hundreth time, to convince Shane to come over for dinner.

In his quiet moments, Shane misses Hayden so much it fucking hurts. He misses Jackie, and the kids, and he knows they miss him because Hayden fucking tells him they do, right between birthday and Christmas cards with 'we love you Uncle Shane' in colorful, childish scrawl.

But he doesn't know how to do anything by halves, and he doesn't know how to function with a broken heart, so it's easier to pretend he simply doesn't have one at all.

"Just, like. Don't take it personally. He's not- it's not that he doesn't like you specifically."

Shane mostly stops paying attention in favor of running through his tasks for the evening. Call Rose and convince her he's still alive. Call his parents and appologize for abandoning them before the first dish. Review The Admiral's last tape ahead of their first pre-season game. Talk to his lawyers about ways to break an NDA. Hire someone to break Roger Crowell's kneecaps because this has his grubbing fingers all over it and… okay, probably not the last one. Yet. No. Never. He doens't need to stoop that low. He can just send his mom in.

Of course, that means telling her about Ilya. Rozanov. Which… no.

"Right," Marlow says, part of the background noise.

"He's just like that with everyone," Taylor adds, helpfully. "Like, it's not a you thing."

Shane zips his jacket. He has his bag. He has his keys. There is no reason at all to still be standing here.

"He's got a thing about the new guys," Schneider says, and there's a laugh in it that doesn't quite land, because Schneider's laugh is fucking weird. "Especially the ones from, like-"a pause that Shane can hear the work going into, "-other teams."

He stills.

"What?" Marlow says.

"Just, like. Guys who don't know what it's like playing with someone like him. He's… "Schneider does something he probably thinks is subtle. "He's very... hands-on. With guys he likes."

Shane doesn't like any of them.

The silence that follows is about two seconds long, which is long enough for Shane to understand exactly what is being communicated and to feel something go very flat and very cold in the center of his chest.

"It's weird, I get it, playing with a fag, but like" Comeau says, with the casual beneficence of a man doing someone an enormous favor, "if he ever makes you uncomfortable, you can-"

"Dude! Shut the fuck up," Hayden snaps, which is sweet that he still tries, and pointless, because no one is listening, because Marlow's response is to punch Comeau in the face.

Okay… that's… new.

Nobody moves for about a second and a half.

Shane turns around.

Comeau has his hand over his face, bent at the waist, and Marlow is standing over him with the expression of a man who has done something deeply unremarkable and is prepared to defend that position. He's still a little grey around the edges from this morning. It makes the whole thing somehow more impressive.

"What the fuck?" Schneider yelps.

"Yeah," Marlow agrees, without particular emphasis.

Comeau straightens up. His nose isn't broken, Shane can tell from across the room, but it's going to swell. His eyes are watering, which isn't crying, it's just what faces do when they get hit. He looks at Marlow. He looks at Shane. Then he looks at Marlow again, which is the smarter instinct, all things considered.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"That how you fuckers talk about your fucking captain?" Marlow asks, all lazy drawl and thinly vieled disgust. "Always knew you were a bunch of fucking pussies, but didn't figure you for disloyal." It's weird how 'disloyal' sounds like the worst insult. Weird how it makes Shane feel.

"I don't wanna be here," Marlow grunts. "But I am, so fuck it, you shitheads are my team, and Hollander is my fucking captain, and you talk shit about my captain, I will break your fucking face." He leans in, all viciousness and teeth. '"And I don't just mean where I can hear you fuckers. I've got ears in the fucking walls."

"You're fucking crazy!" Schnieder says, but he's smart enough to know Marlow can break him in half without really trying.

"Yep!" Marlow says cheerfully, throwing his bag over his shoulder. "You boys have a good fucking day!"

Shane takes that to mean Marlow plans on skipping the afternoon session.

The locker room door swings shut behind him, the whole room in total silence.

Then Hayden says, "I like him," and the room erupts. Shane doesn't stick around to hear what's said.

He catches up with Marlow in the parking lot.

He doesn't mean to. He means to go back inside after a moment of fresh air. He has a full afternoon. He has a system.

Marlow is sitting on the hood of what Shane can only describe as a vehicle that has given up on itself, much like its owner. He's got a cigarette going and he's looking at the middle distance with the particular vacancy that Shane associates with men who have been awake too long and feel too many things.

Shane should leave. He's standing in a parking lot in the rain talking to a man he's known for approximately thirty-six hours, and his afternoon is scheduled, and that schedule is the only thing keeping him functional right now. He knows this. He is fully aware of this.

"You didn't have to do that," he says instead.

"No," Marlow agrees. He flicks ash onto the wet asphalt.

He did it anyway. Shane turns that over. Marlow has no loyalty to him, no history. He's been traded somewhere he didn't want to go, he spent this morning drunk in a shower stall, he's got a bruise under his eye and an NDA apparently tattooed somewhere on his conscience, and he still turned around and punched a man in the face for talking shit about Shane.

Maybe… maybe he feels like he owes Shane for the transfer? If that is how he feels, Shane would rather he break his NDA than punch someone in the face.

He's trying to figure out what to do with that when Marlow says, "Don't make it weird."

Yeah. It's weird. He doesn't know how Marlow feels about him being gay, and honestly isn't really interested. He'll take a wild guess, now, and say he's probably just fucking ambivalent about it. It would be so much easier if everyone else was, too.

"I'm going to go," he says, before one or both of them loses their minds.

"Hmm."

He goes.

He gets as far as his car, a black Range Rover that is clean and orderly and contains exactly one protein bar in the glovebox and a phone mount and nothing else, because Shane does not accumulate things in his vehicle, because accumulation is a kind of chaos. He gets in. He puts his bag on the passenger seat and sits there.

If Marlow is willing to throw punches for a captain he's known for less than two days, what would he do for Ilya? For the man he played with for four years? The man who won him a Stanley Cup?

A lot, he suspects.

What the fuck happened in Boston?

What the fuck happened to Ilya?

Shane presses the heel of his palm flat against the center of the steering wheel and breathes out slowly through his nose.

He puts the car in gear. Fuck it, he's going home. He needs to sleep.

It's a fifteen-minute drive to his apartment.

Two hours later, he arrives in Ottawa.

Between Brax, who doesn't need to breathe between monologues, and Haas, Ilya's head is spinning when he steps out into the parking lot. Sveta has another twenty minutes on a vcall before she can escape the building for the day and continue her work back at the loft. Ilya needs the fresh air. He can wait for her outside.

The downside is that it leaves him wide open to the attention of Haas, who is leaving with the rookie defensemen, two burly Canadian twins he can't tell apart. They have a combined height of over thirteen feet, and a combined IQ of the same number. Nice guys, from what he's seen. he doesn't trust either of them with scissors.

Haas peels away from the twins, who lumber toward what Ilya assumes is either a truck or a small aircraft carrier, and doubles back with the specific energy of a dog that has spotted someone it likes and decided, unilaterally, that this is now a social occasion.

"Coach!"

Ilya keeps walking. It does absolutely fuck all to deter him.

"Coach, hey! Are you coming tonight? To Bood's thing?"

He aims to let him down gently. "No."

He misses his mark entirely. Fuck.

Haas falls into step beside him. He's got legs like a newborn giraffe and no apparent concept of personal space. "It's just a barbecue. He's got a really good yard, apparently. Dykstra said there's-"

"I said no." Like that's any better. His social battery is clearly fucking depleted. He sounds like Sasha.

"Right, yeah, but." Haas pauses, recalibrates, and tries a different angle. The perseverance is encouraging for his performance on the ice. Less so for Ilya's peace of mind. "It'd be good for team bonding? Like, we're new, and the guys are-"

"Haas."

"Yeah?"

"I know what a barbecue is."

"Okay, but-"

"I also know what no means." Ilya stops walking, turns, and looks at him. Haas stops too, blinking, those ridiculous eyes wide and hopeful and entirely undeterred by the expression Ilya is wearing, which has, in the past, caused grown men to reconsider their life choices. Even Marly used to stop to engage his few remaining braincells at that look. Christ, how the fuck does Haas have less self-preservation than Cliff 'I'm gonna touch it' Marlow? "You should go. Have a good time. Eat something that isn't a protein bar. Don't get so drunk you end up with a tattoo."

Ilya resumes walking. Haas resumes following, because Ilya has apparently, without any input or consent on his part, adopted a puppy. He should have let Gervais at him with the thumbscrews. Would've been kinder in the long run.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You're going to regardless."

"How did you find it?" Haas asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Moving. Like, from Russia. To Boston."

Ilya glances sideways at him. The kid isn't being sly about it - there's no angle, no agenda, just genuine, slightly clumsy curiosity. He's not even sure Haas knows what he's actually asking. Unless… oh. Yeah, that'll do it.

"Fine," Ilya says. Fuck, he has a better vocabulary than this. In multiple languages.

"Fine like actually fine, or fine like you don't want to talk about it?"

"Fine like I had a good team." He stops at the curb and checks his phone. Sveta's still on her call. Shockingly enough, time still doesn't speed up just because he wants it to. He puts his phone back in his pocket. "When you move somewhere that is not home, the team is home. You understand this, yes? You're not from here."

"Zurich. I… it's very different here."

"Sure," Ilya agrees. "Doesn't have to be a bad thing. You have good people around you. Distractions when it gets lonely."

Ilya had good people, too.

He had a good team. Genuinely.

The Raiders were the kind of good that sneaks up on you because you're too busy being an asshole about everything to notice it happening.

Guys who'd skate through a wall for him, and guys who'd skate through a wall for the team, and guys who'd skate through a wall because they thought it was funny, and somehow the math of all of that had added up to something that worked despite, and perhaps even sometimes because of Ilya.

He misses them in the particular, grinding way he misses most things he's not allowed to have anymore, which is: constantly, and quietly, and without any useful outlet for it.

And then there were the distractions. One distraction, if he's being precise about it, which he is, always, compulsively, even when precision is not doing him any favors and he likes to pretend he's the opposite. One very specific, very stupid, very six-foot, two hundred pound distraction with the hockey IQ of a supercomputer and the emotional range of a beautifully carved fucking marble column, who Ilya misses the way you miss a limb. Not metaphorically. Literally. The phantom-pain version of a person.

The reaching for something that isn't there anymore and feeling the absence of it all the way up into your chest.

He's aware this isn't the point Haas is making. Not unless he's missed the kid finding, fucking, falling in love with, and losing his rival in a speedrun of Ilya's not-so-ilustrious career.

"You find your people," Ilya says. He keeps his voice flat and his eyes on the traffic jam across the way. "Takes time. But you find them."

Haas nods with the earnest gravity he seems to apply to everything. "Did you know right away? Like, with your team?"

Ilya thinks about Sasha, nine years old, bony and furious, sitting across from him on the bench at Krylatskoye and telling him, with complete seriousness, that if Ilya took his tape again, he'd lose the hand. He thinks about Sveta, who he didn't know properly until she was already the kind of permanent that doesn't require explanation.

He thinks about a locker room in Boston that smelled like Gatorade and liniment and somebody's inexplicable decision to bring a diffuser to combat the smell of sweat, but only resulted in lavendar scented body odour and a strongly worded lecture from maintenance.

He thinks, briefly and against his will, about a hotel room in Toronto and the look on Hollander's face right before he kissed him that very first time.

He does not think about that. He is absolutely not thinking about that.

Hollander had the softest lips. The roughest hands. The sweetest, most devastatingly beautiful eyes. And those fucking freckles…

Once, about a year ago, before Sasha and Sveta found him, he'd sat and cried for half a fucking day because he could no longer remember how many freckles are dotted across Hollander's cheeks.

He has Google again now. He can pull up a photograph from one of Hollander's many, many sponsorship shoots and torture himself in peace like the totally sane human being he is.

"No," he says, not thinking about Hollander at all. "Usually you hate them first."

Haas almost smiles. "Is that what's happening with us?"

"You are twenty years old, and you cannot take a faceoff." Ilya looks at him sideways. "Ask me again in six months."

"I mean, I can take a faceoff, I just can't… that's a yes, isn't it?"

"That is not even close to a yes."

"It's a soft no," Haas insists, and the grin is fully out now, bright and guileless and irritatingly hard to be genuinely unpleasant about. Ilya looks away before it does any more damage.

His gaze lands square on the man standing in the middle of the lot, hands at his side like the obnoxiously awkward little robot he is, and Ilya's half a second from fumbling for his phone and calling Sveta in a cold-sweat panic because if he's hallucinating then odds are he's about to have another fucking siezure, and that's sure as shit going to traumatize the fuck out of Haas, and he's so fucking close to going long enough he can get his fucking drivers license back and-

"Holy shit," Haas says, and oh. He can see it too, which means… "Is that-"

Ilya clears his throat and meets the gaze of a man he's dreamed about for three fucking years. "Shane Hollander."

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

I was gonna say 'in their defense, they are xyz,' but honestly, there is no defense. They're just two fucking idiots with barely enough self-esteem to fill a thimble.

Ilya Rozanov is fifteen feet away in a parking lot in Ottawa, and Shane is standing there like a fucking idiot who drove two hours without a plan and is somehow surprised to find the man he's looking for right exactly where he's hoped to find him.

Ilya looks…

He looks different. That’s the first thing, the thing Shane’s brain latches onto because it’s safer than the alternative, which is that he also looks exactly the same, which is so much worse.

His hair is longer. Golden curls brush the back of his neck and tuck behind one ear, and Shane has the specific, deranged thought that he wants to pull one straight and watch it spring back. His face is sharper than Shane remembers. His jaw, his cheekbones... someone has taken the version of Ilya that lives in Shane’s memory and carved him down to the essential structure of him, taken away everything soft. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there three years ago, or maybe they were and he just never had the sense to look properly.

Which is possible because Shane has historically been catastrophically bad at looking at Ilya directly and not losing his mind.

He’s pale, and that’s the thing that tugs the most uncomfortably behind Shane’s sternum. Ilya’s always been pale, but in that slightly golden way of someone healthy and hydrated and who spent almost enough time topless to counter it.

Now he’s the pallor of someone who has been inside for a long time, who has not been sleeping, who has been-

Shane stops that thought. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t get to know. He no longer has that right, which doesn’t explain why the fuck he’s here…

There’s a kid standing next to Ilya. Luca Haas. Shane’s studied him during the draft. Montreal never stood a chance of signing him, but he’s a promising player.

Too young for Ilya, he thinks. Hopes.

Three years, and here Ilya is, and Shane wants to touch him so badly his hands are shaking.

He clasps them together in front of himself and tries to find the right words to respond with when Ilya looks him up and down and says, in that beloved voice, “Shane Hollander.”

Shane’s seventeen again, and Ilya’s as beautiful as he was the day they met.

Hello is probably acceptable, right? Or Hi. How’re you doing? Long time, no see.

Where the fuck have you been? What happened to you?

I love you, please god let me prove it.

Yeah. No.

“Hey.”

Ilya doesn’t blink. He doesn’t do much of anything. Maybe ‘Hey’ was the wrong call?

Christ, what is he even doing here? Ilya doesn’t want to see him. It’s obvious Ilya doesn’t want to see him, what with Shane living two fucking hours away. What with him not returning a single text or call in the past three years.

Forcing his hand doesn’t work well, historically, and Shane is hardly what you’d call a master strategist when it comes to navigating the complexities of anyone, let alone Ilya.

But fuck, so what if Ilya tells him to fuck off? So what if he ignores Shane entirely?

He’s right here. All his limbs in tact, breathing, looking almost but not quite the same. If this is all Shane is allowed, better he gets it now, where he can go and cry in his car right after than on the ice, looking at Ilya behind the bench.

How the fuck is that even going to work? Ilya Rozanov belongs on the ice. With Shane. Or not… not with Shane, but there, in his orbit, a zig-zagging meteor of chaos that Shane needs to clock every second and every move. It’s one thing to leave hockey completely, to step away from it all, but to come back in what should be his prime and not fucking skate?

He circles right back to What happened to you?

The silence stretches long enough that the rookie starts to twitch. “Er, hi, Mister Hollander…” Haas looks back and forth between Ilya and Shane, their rivalry no doubt all he fucking knows of them, and angles himself in the way every player does when aiming to deflect a hit from a high-value target.

Haas thinks Shane is a threat. To Ilya.

“Have fun with Bood,” Ilya finally speaks. He doesn’t look away from Shane.

Haas frowns. “Are you sure you don’t-”

“Is okay. Go on.” Ilya doesn’t tell him to fuck off or mind his own business, but the dismissal is clear. Shane holds himself perfectly still as the little thrill of pleasure courses through him.

As ever, Ilya’s attention, positive or negative, is enough to override all his common sense.

Shane could just walk up to him and kiss him. He has nothing left to lose.

But Ilya’s not out. He hasn’t even acknowledged that Shane is.

And Shane won’t do that to him, no matter how frustrated, how desperate he is.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Coach?” Haas asks Ilya, his eyes on Shane. If he’s trying to intimidate Shane, he’s going to have to try a lot harder and look a lot less like a kicked puppy to pull it off.

Shane stares back. He’s not trying to be intimidating. He unnerves people; he doesn’t scare them.

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Go have fun.”

Reluctantly, Haas scuttles off. Have fun, Ilya says… there’s not a chance in hell the entire team isn’t going to be talking about Shane Hollander showing up in their parking lot.

Three years ago, that would’ve terrified him.

He has nothing but disgust and disdain for the boy he was back then. What did he know of fucking fear?

The parking lot is suddenly very quiet.

Shane’s hands are still clasped in front of him. He makes himself unclasp them.

He makes himself breathe. Neither helps.

Fifteen feet. He could close that in a heartbeat.

“You drove,” Ilya says.

“Yes.”

“From Montreal.”

“Yes.”

Ilya looks tired. Up close he looks so tired. And the line of his shoulders under his jacket is wrong, too tight, too high. He looks like he’s in pain, and he carries it with far less ease than he used to.

Shane wants to put his hand on the back of Ilya’s neck. Wants to work out the tension he can see from all the way over here. He wants it with a desperation that’s almost embarrassing.

He also needs to not do this here. That’s the thing. That’s the only coherent thought he has. There are windows behind him, and a building lot full of people who know exactly who both of them are, and Ilya is not out, and Shane might be desperate, but he’s not reckless and-

“Is there somewhere we can go?”

It comes out too fast and slightly wrong, like he’s asking for directions and not standing here wanting to put his hands on Ilya so badly that it translates into a full-body problem.

His jaw is tight. His shoulders are tight. Everything is tight. They’re at least matched in that much.

He doesn’t say anything. He looks at Shane, then past him, at the lot, at the building, at something Shane can’t see. He looks back at Shane.

Then he says, “You’re driving.”

Shane breathes out through his nose. “Okay.”

“Give me a minute.”

Shane nods. He goes and stands by his car, because standing next to Ilya for another thirty seconds without doing something catastrophically stupid is not a risk he’s prepared to take. He gets his keys out. He puts them back in his pocket. He gets them out again.

Ilya pulls out his phone, types something, and puts it away. He doesn’t look over. Shane watches the side of his face and tells himself to stop watching the side of his face because he’ll only linger on the places he wants to kiss, and watches it anyway.

Two minutes. Maybe three. Then Ilya walks over, hands in his pockets, and stops in front of the passenger door.

Shane unlocks the car.

They get in.

Ilya pulls the door shut. The sound of it seals them in, and Shane is immediately, acutely aware of how small a car is. How close they are. The smell of Ilya’s leather jacket, cedar and cold air, and underneath that something that is just specifically and recognizably him.

Shane puts both hands on the steering wheel and looks at the windscreen.

“Where do you want to go?” he asks. It comes out nonchalantly. Good. Great. This is going great.

Ilya gives him an address. Shane types it into the dashboard computer and follows the navigation with an almost religious zeal.

It takes them to a part of the city that was once urban and overstuffed with factories and warehouses. Gentrification has hit hard, but there are enough original features to give Shane something to focus on as they ride a metal elevator up to the top floor in stone-cold, awkward silence.

When Ilya rubs the back of his neck, Shane stops and wonders if he’s maybe as fucking nervous as Shane is.

The elevator opens directly into the apartment.

No hallway, no threshold to speak of, just the doors parting and then the space is there, immediate and vast, and Shane steps out after Ilya and tries to do what he always does, which is look at the details. The details are helpful right now. He needs them.

Industrial bones. Exposed concrete ceiling, ductwork running the length of the open space. It’s got that unpolished roughness that costs a lot more money than most people think. The windows are enormous, warehouse-scale, but the light coming through them is muted, the sky outside grey and soft, and the interior lighting is low.

It’s not what he’s expecting.

He doesn’t know what he’s fucking expecting.

He’s expecting something more Ilya, maybe? Glossy and sharp and sparse.

But everything that should be cold and harsh is somehow not. There are thick rugs strewn everywhere. The couch is buried under a mountain of cushions.

There’s not a single rough corner in sight.

He stops in the middle of the open space and tries not to look as awkward as he feels.

Last time he was in a place Ilya called home, he fucked everything up.

“You want water?” Ilya asks.

“I’m fine.”

Ilya goes to the kitchen anyway. Shane watches him fill a glass and set it on the counter and then turn and lean back against it with his arms crossed, and the posture is so familiar. How many times has he watched Ilya lean against something and cross his arms and look at him like that?

“So,” Ilya says.

Shane looks at the water glass on the counter.

“Why are you here, Hollander?”

It’s not aggressive. It’s not cold. It’s the most direct question anyone has ever asked him, delivered in the most reasonable tone, and Shane’s no fucking idea how to answer it without asking a thousand questions of his own.

He doesn’t have just the one answer. That’s the problem. He has seventeen answers and none of them are the right one and all of them are true and he’s standing in the middle of Ilya’s apartment with his hands at his sides and his jaw so tight it’s going to crack a molar, and Ilya is looking at him across the kitchen counter like he’s got all the time in the world, which he doesn’t, which neither of them do, which is the whole fucking point and…

Because you vanished. Because I looked for you. Because I’ve dreamed about you every night for three years and I still can’t…

Because I am so tired of not knowing if you’re okay.

Because I love you.

“I don’t know,” Shane says, which is the most honest thing he’s said out loud in years and also completely useless, and he can see in the slight shift of Ilya’s weight that it isn’t what he wants to hear, and there’s a very specific, seizing pressure building inside him that has no release valve, that just sits and sits and builds and builds and screams Ilya’s name in a fucking loop and-

He crosses the kitchen, drawn to Ilya by an impossible force of gravity. There is no avoiding the collision.

He doesn’t want to. Or he does, but the decision happens somewhere beyond thought, beyond the part of his brain that runs drills and manages line changes and keeps everything ordered and functional. The part that’s been bare-knuckling it since the moment he left Ilya on that fucking couch….

He gets one hand up to Ilya’s jaw, tilts his face, and kisses him.

It’s the last thing Shane has left after three years of having absolutely nothing, and Ilya makes a sound against his mouth… surprise, maybe, and then he kisses back.

And everything just… goes quiet.

There are klaxons screaming in Ilya’s head.

Not metaphorically. The pressure behind his left eye graduates into something operatic, and his pulse is doing something wildly horrifying in his temples, and the world is soft at the edges in a way that means he has approximately no business doing anything other than sitting very still in a dark room with a cold cloth over his face.

Instead, he’s kissing Shane Hollander with everything he has.

The sound Hollander makes against his mouth, low and wrecked, is the last of something quiet giving way, and then he’s pressing forward, and Ilya takes his weight because he’s never not going to catch Hollander.

And because this is one thing, the one fucking thing in three years that his body has not had to be poked, prodded, coaxed, or forced into. He braces against the counter, and Hollander presses him hard against the edge, and Ilya’s head is going to split open, and he doesn’t care at all.

Hollander’s shaking badly enough that it trembles through his jacket, through both layers of whatever disciplined, orderly armor he wraps himself in. His hands are on Ilya’s face, and they’re not steady. Not even close. The precision that defines every single thing Hollander does is nowhere to be found.

He’s kissing Ilya like something terrible will happen if he stops

Ilya understands completely. Last time they stopped, everything terrible that could happen, did.

He pulls Hollander closer and tries to keep him still.

He gets an arm around his back, and the other hand moves up into his hair, and he just holds, absorbs the shaking into himself, tries to be steady enough for both of them. His head is a fucking construction site. His knees are holding him up through sheer stubborn force of will. The counter is the only thing keeping him vertical, and Hollander is the only thing keeping him present, and Ilya decides very quickly that if everything falls apart right this second, he’ll be okay with that.

If this is the very last moment he has on earth, if kissing Shane Hollander kills him on the spot, he’s okay with that.

The world tilts.

Not dramatically the way it does when he’s genuinely going down, but enough to freak him out. Enough that he has to shift his weight against the counter and let Hollander’s body do some of the work, which is humiliating in ways he’s only just starting to come to terms with.

Hollander pulls back just enough for them both to breathe, foreheads pressed together. He’s crying. Completely silent, those big, beautiful eyes wet with tears that cling to his lashes and inflict their own kind of devastation against Ilya’s soul.

Fuck, he’s never been able to handle those tears. It doesn’t even matter that this time he’s not the cause of them, that Shane left him, not the other way around.

Ilya’s heart fucking breaks, and he doesn’t look away.

He should.

He knows what seeing Hollander like this does to him. He has no poker face. Never has. A life of cultivating a wall of total impenetrability and Hollander standing in front of him with tears in his eyes just... dismantles everything. Without any fucking effort at all.

He was always fucking peerless at that, too. God forbid he ever does anything with less than total and complete commitment.

The throbbing behind Ilya’s eye is now a full orchestral production, brass section and everything, and he’s acutely, miserably aware of how much he’s going to pay for this tomorrow. He can’t, won’t call in sick, which means… he doesn’t actually know what it means, because he’s never had to do anything more taxing than lie in the dark and try not to cry.

Fuck it.

He breathes carefully through his nose and finds the fixed point in the universe he can use to drag himself through.

Shane.

It’s Shane. It’ll always be Shane.

Shane’s hands are still on his face.

The tremor in them hasn’t stopped. Neither have his tears.

Unlike before, Ilya now has to run a very specific set of calculations.

The column of debt on one side: the screaming in his skull and the soft wrongness of his vision, the knowledge that if he tries to do anything at speed in the next thirty seconds, he’ll end up on the kitchen floor and not be able to explain why.

The column on the other side: Shane Hollander, here, real, warm, shaking, crying silently with his hands on Ilya’s face and three years of absence pressing between them like a bruise.

The math is not complicated.

He gets one hand in the front of Shane’s jacket and pulls him back in.

Shane makes that sound again, low and wrecked and desperate. His hands tighten in Ilya’s hair as he kisses Ilya slower this time, more deliberate, which is somehow worse, or better, or both, and Ilya doesn’t know what to do with the tenderness of it except let it happen, because it’s been three years since anyone touched him like this, three years since he wanted to be touched like this, and if Shane stops now he might just die.

Shane pulls back to breathe and Ilya pulls him back in, and he makes a sound that goes straight through Ilya’s sternum and lodges there… and Ilya thinks, distantly, that he’s about to do something very unsexy, like pass the fuck out.

He moves his grip to Shane’s collar and walks them backward, which is either genius or catastrophically stupid given the current structural reliability of his own legs, but it works. Shane moves with him, hands dropping to Ilya’s waist, steadying, and Ilya hates how much he needs it and takes it anyway.

The bedroom is at the far end of the loft. It’s not a long walk. It feels like one.

His bedroom is the one room in the loft that Sveta has managed to get right on the first go. Everything is soft, cool, and calming, and the heavy blinds keep it in a state of almost perpetual darkness.

He stops at the edge of the bed.

The room tilts, gently, a slow and terrible rotation that has nothing to do with Shane. He sits down before his body makes the decision for him, and pulls Shane down with him.

They end up sideways across the bed, both fully dressed, Ilya’s shoulders not quite on the pillow and one of his legs half off the mattress, and none of that matters because Shane is pressed against his side with his face tucked into Ilya’s neck and his hands fisted in Ilya’s shirt.

Ilya stares at the ceiling and breathes and tries to take a quiet inventory of everything that is currently wrong with his body.

The brass section has added percussion, which means he’s already past the point where he should have taken something, and that’s going to be a problem in a minute… just, not yet.

Not yet.

Shane’s breath is warm against his throat. He’s not crying anymore, or not actively, but the remnants of it linger in the way he breathes. Ilya knows it well from the inside. Less well from the outside.

He wraps his arm around Shane’s back.

It’s the only thing he can think to do that isn’t going to cost him, and it’s the thing he wants most anyway, so. Fine. He pulls him in, and Shane makes a sound that Ilya is going to be thinking about for the rest of his life.

Shane’s pulse is wild beneath Ilya’s fingers. It’s not slowing down the way it should be if he were settling, and Ilya knows what that means because he’s been making a study of Shane Hollander since he was seventeen years old.

Shane is going to think.

That’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.

He’ll lie here for another thirty seconds and then the machine will kick back on and he’ll start running the numbers on what he just did and what it means and what the correct tactical response is, and Ilya will lose him to the algorithm of his own fucking brain before he’s even had a chance to-

He tightens his arm around Shane’s back. Pulls him in another half-inch.

Shane goes still.

Good. Fucking stay.

Okay… Okay, he can do this. He can give Shane what he wants, what he needs… he can scratch an itch that must be so desperately extreme to drive him to Ilya’s arms when he’s out and proud and the whole world gets to see who he really is, every beautiful facet of him.

He can be, for once in this new fucking nightmare of a life, useful.

He moves before he can think about it, which is the only way anything gets done anymore.

He rolls, gets his knee between Shane’s thighs, gets his weight over him, and pins him flat against the mattress. Shane makes a sound that isn’t quite a protest and isn’t quite anything else, hands flying to Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya looks down at him and tries to hold the room in place through sheer concentration.

Shane’s eyes are very wide. His mouth is still wet from kissing. He looks wrecked and confused and so fucking beautiful that Ilya’s got the perfect excuse to press his face into Shane’s neck and kiss him there. easier not to look. Easier to hide how fucking dizzy he is.

Shane’s pulse jumps under his mouth.

Ilya feels it against his lips, fast and unsteady, and he works his way up the line of Shane’s throat. His hands find the hem of Shane’s shirt and work it up, and Shane’s stomach contracts under his palms, and god, he’s still so warm. Has always run warm. Hard muscle and soft skin and heat.

He gets Shane’s shirt up far enough that he can put his mouth to his sternum and delights in the shudder that runs through him.

He can do this. He can absolutely do this. The room is a little liquid at the edges but the fixed point is still there… Shane, warm and real and present beneath him… Ilya anchors himself to it and keeps going.

Shane’s fingers curl in his hair. It’s long now. Needs cutting. Sveta’s offered, but the last time they tried it, he freaked out, and Sasha had to coax him down off the ceiling like a feral fucking cat.

Ilya works his way down the hard line of Shane’s abdominals.

That’s maybe the only place he’s different. The body he remembers is a strong one, yes, and solid, but both of them are supposed to be carefully designed to survive a hit, which means a little flesh is essential to protect the muscle below. Neither of them has that now, and it breaks Ilya’s heart a little imagining Shane lost in the endless cycle of gym, game, gym, game.

He goes slowly, because he wants to, and because slow is the only speed currently available to him without consequences.

Shane makes a sound every time Ilya’s mouth finds new skin that he wants to catalogue and keep. Low sounds, rough-edged, like he’s trying to be quiet out of habit and failing. Shane’s never been loud. Even at his most undone, there’s a restraint to him that drives Ilya mad. A necessary evil he really fucking hates.

Does it matter now how loud Shane is? Sasha’s not due back until tonight, and Sveta’s going to Bood’s. He’s only lied a little, and only by omission. They'll forgive him, or maybe they won't, but they won't punish him for the choice.

He gets his hands on Shane’s belt.

Shane’s grip in his hair tightens.

He wants to be good at this.

The want sits behind everything, quiet and a little pathetic and entirely true. He wants to be good enough that Shane remembers why he drove two hours all of a sudden. Good enough that when this ends - and it will end, because everything ends, because Ilya has a truly spectacular track record of losing things - Shane will have gotten something worth the trip. Will maybe decide not to wait another three years before coming back for more.

He used to be good at this. He used to be good at a lot of things.

He gets Shane’s sweatpants down to his calves, and his hands to Shane’s hips, pins him down flat, and takes him in his mouth.

The sound Shane makes is beautifully obscene.

Ilya closes his eyes.

The room is still moving.

It doesn’t stop. That soft, terrible rotation, slow as a tide, and Ilya breathes through it and keeps his eyes closed and concentrates on Shane. Just Shane. The weight of him, the warmth, the sounds he makes. How fucking good it feels to bring him pleasure.

Shane’s fingers tighten in his hair, and then tighten again. Ilya can feel the tension climbing through him, through every carefully maintained line of him, all that discipline coming apart at the seams.

Ilya takes him deeper, and Shane exhales a sound that isn’t a word.

He’s not going to last. He knew that going in. Ilya works him slowly, deliberately, because he wants this to mean something, wants Shane to feel every second of it, wants to make something good out of whatever this is before it collapses.

And it is going to collapse. He’s acutely, miserably aware of that.

The percussion behind his eye has found a rhythm. It matches his pulse. It’s getting worse, not better.

Not yet.

Shane’s thigh shifts under his palm and Ilya pins it back down.

Shane makes a sound that breaks in the middle.

His grip in Ilya’s hair goes sharp, almost painful, and Ilya takes it, anchors himself to the sensation of it, uses it to hold himself in the room. Shane says his name, just his name, in a voice that has completely lost all structural integrity, and then he comes apart.

It's quiet the way he does everything, but his whole body is shaking with it, and his hand in Ilya’s hair goes slack.

Ilya stays very still for a moment with his cheek pressed to the inside of Shane’s thigh.

The room tilts again.

Not gently this time.

He breathes. In through his nose, out slow, the count he does when things start to go wrong, four beats in and four beats out and the world is just about manageable if he doesn’t move too fast.

Not yet. Not yet.

He starts to push himself up, working on instinct, because thinking about it will only make it worse, and Shane’s hands find his shoulders before he’s halfway there, and then it’s Ilya who is on his back, and Ilya who is, entirely without notice, hard and leaking in Shane’s hand.

Shane’s hands are at his hips, pushing his shirt up further, and Ilya lifts slightly to help, which costs him, which sends the room into a lazy half-revolution that he breathes through with his jaw clenched and his eyes pressed shut.

Not yet. He’s not going anywhere yet.

Shane presses his lips to Ilya’s stomach. He stays there for a second, warm and still, like he’s listening to something. Then he keeps going, and Ilya’s hand tightens in his hair, not guiding, just holding, just needing something to hold.

He wants to watch. He’s always wanted to watch. In the version of this he’s run in his head for three fucking years, he watches every second of it, catalogues it, keeps it.

He can’t open his eyes. He tries once and the ceiling comes back and he squeezes them shut again and breathes through his nose and tells himself this is fine, this is absolutely fine, he is fine.

The sound he makes is not quiet. He doesn’t have Shane’s discipline, never has, and the three years of nothing before this have apparently stripped what little restraint he’d managed to develop. His head falls back against the pillow and his hips jerk and Shane’s hands press him down and hold him there and Ilya goes completely, gratefully still.

Fuck, he’s a little surprised his dick even remembers how to work.

“You gonna come for me, Ilya?” Shane asks him.

Ilya runs headfirst into a memory and shouts out a cry that might be Shane’s name…

Good job, he thinks hysterically, not sure if he’s proud of himself or Shane or the fact that they’ve made it this far without cutting each other.

But he’s not sure if he comes or just blacks out.

Somehow, he gets the impression Shane isn’t going to be happy with him, either way.

He’ll try again. When he wakes up. If Shane is still there.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Use your words, boys!

No... no, not those ones... not in that order... not like THAT

That said, there is a lot going on in this chapter. Content warnings for medical trauma. Also multiple references to suicide because Ilya's sense of humor is dark.

The world finally makes sense again. He’s where he’s supposed to be.

Forget hockey. He was made to worship Ilya Rozanov, and worship he fucking has. Shane lies there for a minute afterward, not moving, not thinking… his head on Ilya’s thigh, his hand curled around his calf, and sure, maybe he’s missing the feeling of those strong fingers stroking through his hair, but so long as he stays exactly where he is, the noise in his head will stay silent and he can pretend for another minute more before the guilt creeps in.

He manages maybe half a second. Just acknowledging the future arrival of his own embarrassment and shame is enough to bring it to his doorstep.

He shifts, lifting up onto one elbow so he can look along the long lines of Ilya’s body and try to make a guess at what he’s thinking.

Ilya’s eyes are closed. His lips are slack and open. And for a second, Shane thinks he’s just taking a minute, overwhelmed, maybe, as Shane is overwhelmed, but he doesn’t move and doesn’t run his mouth, and Ilya always does one or the other.

“Hey,” he whispers, crawling up until he’s lying along Ilya’s side. '“Hey-” he cups Ilya’s cheek, tender, and with increasing fear. “Ilya-”

Ilya groans and screws up his face. He blinks open his eyes, then immediately screws them shut again with a hiss. “Fuck,” he mumbles in Russian. Shane knows that one well enough.

Shane sits upright. Okay, so… no second-guessing that one. This has to be the fastest Ilya’s regretted falling into bed with him. It… it has to be the first time he’s regretted it, right?

Ilya’s hand collides clumsily with his wrist and grabs on. “Sorry,” he mumbles, still not opening his eyes. “Fuck, sorry.” That’s all Russian, too. Shane’s hardly what you’d call fluent, but he’s built an apology on the bones of three years alone, and he’s carved them in Russian as well as English.

Shane swallows down the lump in his throat. “Pretty sure I kissed you first.” As ever, they are equally to blame for their poor impulse control.

“Hmm,” his eyes are still closed, but there’s a hint of a smile curling the edge of Ilya’s mouth. “Ti moya pogibel.”

“I don’t know what that one means,” Shane admits.

“Ya vse yeshche lyublyu tebya,” Ilya mumbles, turning his face into the pillow. The freeze Shane in place. More words he doesn’t fully understand, but enough that he does.

Ilya’s not really with it, that much is obvious. He never speaks to Shane in Russian, not outside the odd curse words when they fuck.

And he’s never said the words ‘I love you’ in any language.

Shane reaches up and cups his cheek, alarmed by how hot his skin feels. “Hey, hey, Ilya! Open your eyes for me.”

Ilya is very polite when he says, first, in Russian, and then with a concerted attempt in English, “No. Thank you.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Shane demands, feeling for the thread of his pulse.

Ilya leans into his touch. “Shush,” he says, his voice soft. “Let me stay with him a little longer.”

“Who?” Shane asks. “Ilya, what’s wrong?”

“Mm.” The sound is too soft.

Ilya’s pulse is fast. Too fast for someone who’s lying still, and faster than it should be even accounting for everything that just happened. His breathing is shallow and even, which is the one thing Shane can find to hold onto right now while the rest of his brain starts circling the drain of panic.

“Ilya.” He keeps his voice level. His Captain voice that gets through noise and chaos, and the particular deafness of a locker room that hates him. “Open your eyes.”

Ilya’s brow creases. He turns his face into Shane’s palm, and the heat of his skin against Shane’s hand is alarming enough that Shane’s first instinct is fever, which means illness, which means he needs to know when it started, what the symptoms are, whether he’s been drinking enough water-

He looks around the room. There’s a glass on the nightstand. He leans across Ilya to check it. Empty.

“I’m going to get you some water,” he says, to Ilya’s face, because Ilya needs to know where he’s going. “Stay here.”

It’s a stupid thing to say. Ilya is not going anywhere. That is abundantly, terrifyingly clear.

Shane gets up and shrugs back into his pants, none of the self-consciousness that used to follow some of their more fraught hookups, but none of the confidence that followed the others, either. He crosses the loft to the kitchen on autopilot and fills the glass from the tap, then stands there for thirty full seconds doing nothing, which is thirty seconds he can’t account for and can’t afford.

Ilya is exactly where he left him. His arm is thrown across his face now, shielding his eyes, and from a distance, Shane can spot the things it’s easy to miss up close. Ilya is curled up, rigid. He’s in pain.

The words Injury Reserve pop up in his brain, so fucking helpful now the damage is done.

Ilya was benched. Ilya was injured so severely that he had to quit hockey.

Could be a back injury. A shoulder injury. Knee. Calf. Any one of a number of things Shane possibly fucked up by trying to climb him like a tree less than five fucking minutes after getting him inside alone.

“Hey.” Shane sits back down and puts his hand on Ilya’s shoulder, terrified he’s about to hurt him worse. “Hey, I’ve got water.”

Ilya makes a sound.

“You need to sit up a little.”

“No,” Ilya says, very firmly, into the crook of his own elbow.

Shane sets the water glass on the nightstand and covers Ilya’s hand with his own, just for a second. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Open your eyes.”

Nothing. Or not nothing…

Ilya’s jaw tightens, and he makes a small sound low in his throat that is the closest thing to protest Shane has heard from him.

He tries a different angle. He gets his hand flat to Ilya’s forehead. Definitely fever. Not catastrophic, not the kind that means emergency room right now, but still enough to freak him out. His skin is dry and too warm under Shane’s palm and he doesn’t pull away from the contact, which is the thing that scares Shane most of all. Ilya pulling away from things is his default state. Ilya leaning into them means something is genuinely wrong.

Shane moves his hand to Ilya’s cheek. Cups it, and tilts his face gently toward him.

“Hey.” Softer now, because the Captain voice isn’t working and he doesn’t have anything else rehearsed. “Please.”

Ilya’s eyes open. Barely. Slits of blue, pupils uneven in a way that tugs his heart directly into his throat before he forces himself to look again, properly, and decides they’re close enough to the same size that he’s not going to catastrophize. Not yet. The light in the room is low. That’s all it is.

“Hey.” Shane keeps his hand where it is. “There you are.”

Ilya looks at him. Through him, maybe. His gaze tracks across Shane’s face with enormous effort, and then he smiles again. “Hmm. Hi.”

“Hi,” Shane says back, and his voice is as ruined as his heart.

He keeps his hand on Ilya’s face. He can’t make himself remove it. Ilya’s eyes are tracking better now, more present, but the lines around them are too tight, and too pained, and Shane needs to know what he’s looking at before he does anything else stupid.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” It comes out quieter than he intends. Closer to begging than he’d like. He doesn’t care. “Ilya. Tell me.”

Ilya’s eyes close again. “Head,” he says. Just the one word, barely there, blurry at the edges. He shifts against the pillow and then goes immediately still, jaw locking up against whatever it triggers. He looks faintly nauseous.

His head. Okay. That’s something he can work with. That’s a thing with a solution, a thing he can do something about, and he needs something to do right now, or he’s going to fall apart, and that helps exactly nobody.

“Do you have anything you can take?” He watches Ilya’s face carefully. “Medication?”

Ilya is quiet for long enough that Shane starts to think he hasn’t heard, or that the answer is no, and he’s already running the math on the nearest pharmacy, what time it is, how long he’d have to leave him alone-

“Nightstand,” Ilya says.

Shane leans across him, slow and careful, trying not to jostle the mattress. The nightstand drawer is slightly open already. Inside there's a phone charger, a tube of chapstick, and a prescription bottle with a pharmacy label he doesn’t read because that’s not his right, not yet, possibly not ever. He picks it up and shakes it once, gently.

One pill.

He turns it in his hand. One pill, rattling around at the bottom of an otherwise empty bottle. He turns back to Ilya.

“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice level. “Here.” He gets the cap off, tips the pill into his palm, and reaches for the water glass. “Come on, sit up a little-“

“No.”

Shane stills. “It’ll help.”

“I know what it does.” Ilya’s voice is very quiet. Not aggressive. Just… flat in that particular way of someone who has made a decision and intends to die by it.

“Ilya.” He keeps his voice soft. “It’s one pill. It’ll help with the pain.”

“No,” Ilya says firmly, and he sounds angry now. He tries to push himself out of Shane’s arms, and it’s not sure which of them is more freaked out by the fact that he can’t, not unless Shane lets go, and he’s far too terrified that if he does, Ilya’s going to…

Going to what?

“Put the pill on the table,” a man’s voice says coldly from the doorway. “And get off the fucking bed.”

Shane’s so preoccupied with Ilya that it takes him a second to even notice that they’re not alone. Then he spirals rapidly through the cold dread of panic at being caught in such a compromising position with another man, to the terror of being caught with Ilya, to the wild, almost hysterical realization that this is, actually, not at all what it looks like.

It might’ve been, five minutes ago. It very much isn’t now.

“Luylya,” the man says, and then everything immediately, and all at once goes to shit.

Shane tries to look less incriminating right at the same moment Ilya tries to physically get up. They both fail spectacularly when Ilya fucking sways, goes grey all over, and slumps into Shane, right as Shane is trying to put some distance between them.

It also doesn’t help that Ilya’s pants are still round his fucking ankles…

Fuck.

“The fuck is going on?” That’s another voice. A woman’s. And then there are four of them in the room and on some part of the bed before Shane’s panicking brain can follow one step to the next.

The woman comes for Shane. She’s very pretty, and looks vaguely familiar, and despite being willowy and slender, has a grip like iron when she takes his arm. “Shane Hollander,” she says, and either she knows him because of Ilya, or she knows him because he’s Shane Hollander, or some third, terrible option which triggers Shane right back into trying to help Ilya.

Which brings him into the firing range of the angry man from the doorway. “Let him go,” he growls at Shane, “or I will break both your fucking legs.”

He’s a tall man, and looks strong enough, but he doesn’t have Shane’s build, strength, or reflexes. He does, possibly, have the moral high ground.

“Sasha!” The woman snaps, then follows through with a string of irate Russian, which she ends with. “Not helping!”

Shane’s knowledge does cover enough to know that Sasha responds with something along the lines of “Fuck off, Sveta.”

Okay. Okay. So… Russian. Probably friendly. To Ilya, if not to Shane. Damily, maybe, or-

“Shane,” the woman, Sveta, tugs on his arm until she gets his attention. “Did he take the pill?”

Of all the questions she could ask, this isn’t the first he’s expecting. He shakes his head. “No,” he says, holding out his palm and the little pill for her to see. She plucks it between her fingertips and tugs him until he moves enough for her to crawl up beside Ilya.

Who is half hanging from Sasha’s arms, half trying to crawl his way back onto the bed.

He looks… he looks fucking broken. Terrifyingly unlike the man Shane knows.

All of the adrenaline leaves him in a rush as he watches helplessly as Sasha and Sveta manage to prop Ilya up between them. Sveta then crawls into his lap, kisses both his cheeks, and whispers softly to him as she strokes his hair, seemingly coaxing him back to awareness.

After a minute, Ilya stirs, slumping entirely against Sasha. Sveta holds up the pill for him.

Ilya takes it with trembling hands and turns it carefully over, studying each side with narrowed eyes.

“Okay, yes?” Sveta croons. “Yes?”

Eventually, Ilya nods and swallows the pill. She hands him the water and holds the glass while he manages a sip, then opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue like they do in cop shows when someone’s trying to prove they’re not hiding drugs behind their teeth.

Sveta guides Ilya’s chin up gently with two fingers and studies his eyes the way a doctor would. She says something low in Russian, and Sasha answers, and neither of them are talking to Shane.

He stays where he is. He’s backed himself up against the wall beside the nightstand without deciding to, and he’s standing there with his arms at his sides and his palms flat against the plaster, and he is watching the three of them like he’s watching something through glass.

He should do something. The need is sitting in the center of his chest, heavy and useless. An absolute conviction that he should be doing something, and the complete absence of any idea what that something should be. He has a system for most things. He doesn’t have a system for this.

Sasha has Ilya’s weight against his shoulder, one arm around his back, the other hand flat to the side of his head, pressing gently. It’s the practiced ease of it that undoes him the most. Sasha finds the exact right thing to do, without asking.

And Ilya lets it happen, his head tipping slightly into the contact, eyes still closed.

Three years. Whatever happened in three years, these people were there for it.

Shane wasn’t.

He breathes through his nose and keeps his face still.

Sveta says something low in Russian, her thumb moving in a slow arc across Ilya’s cheekbone. Ilya responds with something softer than a whisper. Two or three words, barely there. Sasha makes a sound that is not quite a grunt and not quite a word, information he already knew and didn’t want confirmed.

Shane doesn’t ask what was said. He doesn’t have the right, and he’s not sure he could handle the answer.

He’s not going to cry in Ilya’s bedroom in front of two people who hate him. He’s absolutely not going to do that.

Sveta looks at Shane the way a person looks at a problem they have not yet decided how to classify. Not hostile, which he’s grateful for, and not warm, which he deserves, but assessing. Whatever she concludes, she keeps to herself.

“Living room,” she says. Not unkind. Not negotiable. “Please.”

It’s the please that gets him. The deliberate courtesy of the request, and the effort she makes to soften what is, structurally, an instruction to leave.

Shane looks at Ilya.

His jaw is slack, head still against Sasha’s shoulder, the line of his throat pale and exposed. He looks very young and very far away and nothing at all like the man who kissed Shane in the kitchen, which feels like only minutes ago. Shane wants to say something. He has no idea what.

He goes.

The loft is very quiet outside the bedroom. He should sit, but can’t. He wants to pace, but that feels rude. He ends up standing uselessly in the center of a plush, feather-patterned rug. It’s nice. Long fibers. Cool, complementary colors. Probably very soft to touch. It clashes with the industrial vibe in a way he doesn’t completely dislike, which is maybe the whole point and-

“Would you like some tea?” Sveta asks, slipping out of the bedroom. It’s only now that Shane notices the embroidered Ottawa Centaurs emblem on the sleeve of her sports jacket. “Coffee?”

“What happened?” Shane demands. “Is he okay?”

“I will have coffee,” Sveta says, passing him on her way to the kitchen. “I like the creamer you get in Canada. We do not have it in Russia. Sometimes, if we are feeling very indulgent, we will add condensed milk, but it is very sweet. Ilya likes it.”

“Right,” Shane says awkwardly. “But is he-”

Sveta potters around the kitchen, fetching mugs and turning on the stove. “And tea. You have tried zavarka, yes? If you make this, you must sweeten with varenye. No exceptions. And you must not serve it naked.”

Shane stares at her. He’s not in the habit of serving anything naked, thank you! If he’s in the kitchen, he’s wearing clothes.

“So?” Sveta turns around and waves two mugs at him. “Which one?”

“I don’t want anything to drink,” Shane says flatly. He’s not trying to be rude, but fuck, this is hardly his priority right now. He turns, fully intending on going back to Ilya.

“I would not do that, Shane Hollander,” she calls after him. “It is hard to get him settled when he is in that much pain. If you disturb him, Sasha will kill you, and that rug you are standing on is Bazaar Velvet.”

What the fuck is wrong with you, is what he wants to ask.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” is what comes out.

Sveta sets the mugs down and cocks her head to one side. “The technical term,” she says slowly, “is acquired hypoxic-ischaemic brain injury with persistent neurocognitive sequelae and secondary seizure disorder.”

Those… are a lot of words. A lot of words he doesn’t fully understand, and two he absolutely does.

Acquired hypoxic-ischaemic brain injury.

Ilya has a fucking brain injury.

Shane stands there and says nothing, because what the fuck do you actually say to something like that? Head injuries happen in hockey. They happen to every player eventually, in some form or other. Rarely like this.

Rarely with players like Ilya Rozanov.

Shane’s own brain takes those words and starts doing something with them that he can’t describe as thinking, exactly. More like trying to unshuffle a deck of cards after flinging them around a room.

Hypoxic. He knows that one. They all have mandatory concussion protocols. He does his own extra reading, just as a precaution. Every professional hockey player does at some point when the hits start adding up, and the headaches don’t go away as fast as they used to. Hypoxic means not enough oxygen. Not unheard of, but pretty fucking rare.

Ischaemic. He’s less sure of that one. Something similar. Something to do with blood flow?

Brain injury.

Obviously, he knows those words. He knows them in the specific, physical way that comes from having had his own bell rung enough times that he’s had to sit in a white room with a neurologist and answer questions about what day it is, who the current prime minister is, and whether he can track the light. He knows what it feels like when the world goes sideways and stays there. When fluorescent lights become a personal attack. When looking at your phone is suddenly an exercise in endurance and an excuse for your mom to start yelling at you.

He knows what that is, at the minor end. The low-grade version.

He tries to extrapolate upward from there, and his brain refuses to cooperate.

Persistent neurocognitive sequelae.

Persistent. That one he doesn’t need a medical dictionary for. That one is just a word. A word that means ongoing, or not over. It means still. It means this is Ilya’s reality and has been for three years, maybe.

Sequelae. He doesn’t know that one. He files it somewhere and keeps going.

Secondary seizure disorder.

He’s pretty sure he didn’t give Ilya a seizure. He thinks he’d fucking know if he did.

Then he decides that the thought of giving someone a seizure with a blowjob is utterly fucking insane.

And then he feels guilty as shit.

He drops down heavily onto the arm of the couch.

Ilya has a brain injury. Ilya has fucking brain damage. Permanent.

He tries not to laugh, and he tries not to hate himself for the way he immediately fixates on those Russian words 'I love you' and finds a perfectly reasonable explanation for hearing them in the fact that Ilya's quite literally not thinking right.

Sveta passes him a glass of water. “It all sounds very scary, yes?”

Shane nods without thought.

“Good. It is terrifying. If you got what you came for, then leave now, and we will pray he doesn’t remember this when he wakes up.” There’s nothing unkind in her voice, but Shane gets the distinct impression that Ilya not remembering is her preferred outcome.

“Is… is that possible?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It is hard to predict.”

Sasha steps out of the room while Shane tries to get his head around the idea. He’s going to remember the shape of Ilya’s smile against his until the day he fucking dies.

“Why is he still here?” Sasha demands, scowling at Shane.

She shoves a mug into Sasha’s hand and scowls right back before snapping at him in Russian.

“This is Aleksandr. Sasha,” Sveta introduces him to Shane. “I am-”

“Svetlana,” Shane bursts. Fuck, he’s slow on the uptake. “You’re Ilya’s…”

Ilya’s what? Girlfriend? Fuckbuddy? The former is likely to get him kicked in the balls, and the latter… probably the same thing.

“Yes,” she nods. “We are Ilya’s. So were you, I think?”

“I… no, we weren’t…” He has no right to call himself Ilya’s anything. Fuck, he isn’t even sure he can admit the two of them would sleep together.

Though it’s probably hard to deny it at this point. Fuck. Fuck.

“What do you want, Hollander?” Sasha demands. “Why are you here?”

He’s not sure if it’s fear or anger or simple, unrestrained jealousy that makes the hairs at the back of Shane’s neck stand on end.

He doesn’t know these people, but they clearly aren’t exactly shocked to see him, which means… means what? Ilya talked about Shane with them? Before his fucking brain injury? After?

He doesn’t know. That’s the honest answer. He doesn’t know what he wants, doesn’t know what he’s doing here, doesn’t know what to do with the information that’s sitting in his chest like a hand grenade with the pin already pulled.

“I wanted to see him,” Shane says. It comes out flat. Factual.

Sasha makes a sound in the back of his throat that communicates, with remarkable efficiency, exactly what he thinks of that.

“You saw him,” Sasha says. “You saw plenty of him, I think.” His English is accented and precise, and the implication in it lands exactly where he intends it to.

The heat that moves up the back of Shane’s neck is not embarrassment. Or it is, but it’s also something else, something that sits underneath the embarrassment and has significantly less patience. “I didn’t know,” he says. “About his…I didn’t know.” No one fucking told him.

And fuck, no one knows what happened. Ilya fucking disappeared, and none of it makes any sense, because there was no catastrophic event during a game. When a player is permanently retired because of injury, everyone knows about it, fuck, everyone talks about it. And when that player is one like Ilya, not even in the prime years of his career yet…

But no one knows. Does… does Marlow? Is this what he can’t talk about?

Not as if Shane can ask him for answers, either.

“No.” Sasha’s voice is like gravel under a boot. “You didn’t.”

“Sasha…”

“You need to go,” Sasha says, not to Sveta, but to Shane. Directly. Which Shane will give him credit for, at least, even as he hates yet another person standing between him and Ilya. “You have caused enough damage today.”

“I didn’t-“ Shane stops. Starts again. The pressure building behind his sternum is pressing outward now, looking for a seam to burst through. “I didn’t know!”

He didn’t know, and Ilya didn’t fucking tell him.

“And if you had known? You would have been more careful? You would have…what? Called ahead?” Sasha sets his mug down on the counter and Shane watches his hands, because Sasha’s hands are large and currently doing something tense and deliberate that reads as a man deciding whether or not to use them. “You show up. You just appear, like you have the right-“

“Sasha,” Sveta, sharper this time.

“-like three years is nothing. Like he has not been-“ Sasha cuts himself off. He picks the mug back up, puts it back down, and turns away from Shane, which is either him gaining control of himself or deciding Shane isn’t worth looking at. Shane can't tell which.

He is getting very tired of not being able to tell things.

“You said he might not remember,” Shane says to Sveta. He keeps his voice level. It costs him. “When he wakes up.”

Sveta wraps both hands around her own mug. “It is possible. Unlikely, but...” She pauses. “If he doesn’t… make an appointment. Give him time to prepare himself.” The idea that Ilya needs that, needs time to prepare for Shane, like he’s some kind of horrific task to be endured…

Shane’s going to be fucking sick.

“And if… if he does…” if he opens his eyes and looks at Shane the way he did when he kissed him, if he remembers wanting Shane as much as Shane wants him…

Sveta rolls her eyes. “Then you will be here waiting for him even if I have to handcuff you to the table.”

Shane wants to run for the fucking hills and he wants to kick Ilya’s door down and curl up around him and protect him and he wants not to have gotten in his car today, and he wants to not have lived through the last three years and he wants to go back to that sundappled couch in Boston and to the second Ilya breathed out his name like a prayer and he wants to have said ‘I want this I want you I want us I want forever’.

But what he wants doesn’t matter.

Ilya lives in a room that is very bright. Everything is white, the windows high up and long, smattered with sunbeams or raindrops and as high above him as the stars.

He lives in a world that is very quiet, and very calm. He doesn’t know what day it is, what week, what year. He doesn’t know the food he eats, or the water he drinks. He doesn’t know the pills they pass him three times a day, or the injections they give him when he’s not quiet and calm.

He lives in a world that is warm, and soft, from the socks on his feet to the blanket on his lap, to the pillows under his head and the straps they sometimes have to use when he’s not quiet and calm.

It’s a nice world, with nice people, and nice voices, and only a faraway sense that he isn’t sure any of these things are what he wants.

He doesn’t really listen to the things said to him, or around him, or for him. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t have his own thoughts on these things.

Ilya lives in a room that is very bright, and very soft and very warm, until he doesn't. He closes his eyes and drifts away and wakes up in his childhood bed.

He wakes up and-

“Fuck…”

When he finds the asshole who set a fucking nuke off behind his eyes, Ilya is going to kill them.

He thinks he might be the asshole, though, which makes the entire thought pretty fucking hilarious.

The pain is there. It always is, when he wakes up, good day or bad.

But it’s muted in the particular, cottony way that means someone has gotten medication into him, which means he was probably a fucking asshole about it, and also probably means Sasha and Sveta had to fight him for it. Again.

Fuck.

He lies still and takes a slow inventory. Head: present, accounted for, throbbing at a manageable four out of ten instead of the eight or nine that precedes the cotton. Eyes: closed, which is correct, because the light filtering through his eyelids is already doing its best. Body: horizontal, which is also correct. He’s in his bed. He knows his bed. The smell of it, the specific give of the mattress under the particular weight of him.

He hopes he wasn’t a complete bastard about the pills. He can be.

It’s a shitty thing to know about yourself, especially when it’s something that you hate and can’t quite stop,

His body has apparently decided that pain is preferable to losing the edges of himself to medication, which is insane, genuinely certifiably insane, but try explaining that to the part of him that claws and spits when someone tries to get anything past his teeth.

He’ll apologize. He’ll make breakfast, or whatever meal is appropriate to the time of day, which he doesn’t know yet. He’ll be good.

Ilya breathes carefully through his nose and thinks about moving.

He just thinks about it, at first. That’s the rule.

Think, then commit. Don’t rush the doing because that’s when you fall on your face.

He has maybe a fifty/fifty success rate there. Doing still comes naturally enough that he plays a nearly daily game of fuck around and find out. He finds out a lot.

His mind does its slow, foggy re-assembly.

Work. Haas. Boodram’s easy laugh. Sveta in the box, pretending she wasn’t watching. Come to lunch. Come to my BBQ.

The parking lot.

He hopes he didn’t-

He stops.

He hopes he didn’t freak Shane out.

He lies completely still.

That’s-

That’s a thought with a name in it. A specific name that has no business being in the sentence he just constructed, because Shane Hollander is not here.

Shane Hollander is in Montreal. Shane Hollander has been in Montreal and various other places that are not near Ilya for three years, and the medication does things sometimes, blurs the line between what he wants and what is real, and he knows this, has been told this, has experienced it enough times that he has a whole system for checking and…

And he has no idea how he got to bed. Or why he’s wearing his t-shirt and hoodie but only his boxers and socks.

He doesn’t remember how he got home, but he does remember…

Ilya opens his eyes and looks across the bed. Shane’s not there. Why would he be?

Ilya closes his eyes again.

If he made Shane up, it’s the most pathetic thing his brain has ever produced, and his brain has produced some genuinely embarrassing material in the last three years. He’s dreamed Shane Hollander into rooms before. Hospitals. The back seat of a car he doesn’t recognize. Once, memorably, in the middle of a session with the occupational therapist, which he’d like to never think about again.

But this time feels different. Textured in the right way. The smell of rain and cold asphalt and Shane’s specific, completely unmistakable presence. His hands clasped in front of himself, sweet and awkward and-

Is there somewhere we can go?

So either Shane left, or he was never here, and Ilya genuinely can’t decide which is worse.

Option one: he hallucinated the entire afternoon, which means the medication needs adjusting and Sveta will be insufferably kind about it, and Sasha will be insufferably not, and Ilya will have to sit through the neurologist saying things like dissociative episode and sensory misattribution while he nods and pretends he isn’t devastated.

Option two: Shane was real. Shane was here, in this bed, in his arms, warm and shaking and saying his name like it was the only word left in him. And then Ilya-

Ilya went down.

In front of him.

Half undressed, head splitting, going grey and useless in Shane Hollander’s hands like a fucking…

He sits up too fast and has to stop, both palms flat on the mattress, breathing through a wave of nausea. The medication takes the edge off enough that it passes in under thirty seconds, which is something. He waits it out and then sits there in the quiet of his room and takes stock of the damage.

He gets his feet to the floor.

It takes longer than it should, which is the thing he hates most, more than the pain, more than the cotton, more than any of it. The gap between wanting to move and being able to. His body making him negotiate for things that used to be automatic.

He gets there.

Socks on the rug, both feet flat, and he sits for a moment with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging and breathes through the adjustment. The room is steady. Or steady enough. The medication has done what it does, taken the orchestra down to a single instrument playing at a reasonable volume, and he can work with that.

Ilya crosses to the door.

He gets it open, and immediatly hits a wall of voices.

“-don’t give a shit what you think you’re doing here-“ Sasha, definitely. In English, which means it’s not for Ilya’s benefit. “-or what he said to you, or what you think that meant-“

“Which is between Ilya and me!” That’s Shane... He’s real. He was real. He’s still here. Ilya still has a chance to unfuck everything he’s already fucked.

“Sasha.” Ilya’s probably the only one who can talk Sasha down when he’s this angry, but Sveta always tries. She has more luck now than she did when they were kids.

“He has no right-“

“He has every right! Ilya invited-“

“Ilya is not well! Fucking hell, did you even talk to him before dragging him into bed-“

“Again, none of your fucking business!”

“He is a grown man.” Sveta’s voice has gone very precise, which is a warning sign Sasha should know by now. “Who has made a decision. Which we will respect!”

Ilya’s pretty good at one-to-one conversations. He’s not even bad in groups, so long as everyone is fucking civil about things. But when people talk over each other, he loses parts of sentences here and there as his stupid fucking brain tries to label which words belong to which person.

“He doesn’t know,” Sasha says finally, quieter. “What it was like. He doesn’t know any of it, and Ilya is going to-“

“So tell me!” Shane snaps, and the three of them finally snap into place as Ilya’s vision focuses. “Tell me what happened to him!”

There’s Sveta and Sasha and the aching, desperate warmth of love he has for both of them.

There’s Shane, who could ask him now to cut out his heart and hand it to him and Ilya would thank him for the chance to bleed on him.

He looks so fucking beautiful.

So angry. And so sad. His eyes are wet again, his bottom lip trembling, and Ilya remembers once, a long time ago, Shane soft and saited and warm beneath him, a bust lip and a black eye from a fight he didn’t start and never got the chance to finish. “It’s not that I don’t like fighting. I don’t like getting mad," he’d laughed when Ilya pressed kisses to those bruises, “I cry when I’m angry. Not exactly intimidating.”

He remembers thinking at the time that if he ever played a game against Shane and Shane got so angry he cried, he’d probably try to cut his throat with someone’s skate.

That probably won’t help anyone right now.

Shane meets his eyes, and Ilya holds open his arms, and Shane has nothing to lose by stepping into them now, so he does. He tucks his chin over his shoulder and holds on until Ilya’s ribs ache, and he fucking stays.

“Is nothing,” Ilya whispers against his ear, his fingers sinking into Shane’s soft hair. “Is okay, it’s nothing you have to worry about.”

He meets Sasha and Sveta’s gaze over Shane’s shoulder, weighs up his love for them verses his need to protect Shane, and betrays every ounce of kindness and grace they have ever shown him.

In that second, he wonders if this is how his father felt. It’s a question Ilya can ask him in hell.

“Just an accident,” Ilya whispers to Shane. “It was just an accident.”

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Don't you just love it when two people have one conversation about two totally separate things?

No joke though, Ilya's POV is exhausting to write, so good luck...

Given the tags, I am not sure I need to warn about discussions of suicide; however, please proceed with caution. Also a small warning for a mild act of self-harm.

Shane is never letting Ilya out of his arms ever again. He’s done that once, and apparently Ilya nearly fucking died, so yeah. Not happening. He’s staying right here, wrapped tightly around him, until the end of time.

There’s a string of irate Russian behind him, then there are hands on both his and Ilya’s shoulders as they’re gently herded towards the couch. “Sit the fuck down before you fall down, zhopa.”

It’s impossible to give even the smallest degree of a fuck that there are witnesses to his weakness, to his crushing adoration for the man in his arms. Not when there’s a world in which Ilya’s dead.

God, Ilya could be dead. He could be dead, because that’s what happens when a human brain doesn’t get enough blood or oxygen. He could be dead, and this nightmare of emptiness Shane’s lived in for three years would just be… endless. His heart forever broken, and perhaps never to know why.

Ilya could be dead. He could be dead, and Shane left him. He could be dead, and Shane didn’t fucking look hard enough. He could be dead and-

“Hollander,” Ilya’s voice tugs him from the edge of the vortex before it can pull him under. “Breathe. Is okay.”

“Fuck you,” Shane chokes. He has no idea how the hell he’s ended up sprawled over Ilya’s lap and an equally negative amount of desire to remove himself. “Fuck you, Rozanov… oh my god.”

More Russian grumbling from Sasha is followed by a growl that reverberates through Ilya’s chest. “It’s my fucking apartment!” Sasha exclaims in English after a string of what Shane half-translates as curses. Shane makes a mental note to hire a Russian tutor the second he’s back in Montreal. Which might be never… “Fine! Don’t come crying to us when you fall and scramble the rest of your fucking brains.”

Shane’s a second away from turning around and throwing a punch when Ilya chuckles. “Don’t mind Sasha. He handles life by being a bitch.”

Maybe it’s those missing three years, maybe it’s just them, but Shane doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to make a joke about Ilya’s injury without wanting to throw up. He’s about to say as much when he clocks both Sasha and Sveta passing the couch behind Ilya’s shoulder. Wait, they’re leaving?

On the one hand, he greedily wants Ilya to himself, always, on the other-

On the other hand, they know things Shane doesn’t. Critical, practical, possibly life-saving things. And they’re walking away, and what if something happens? What if Ilya loses consciousness again? What if he has a-

“Wait.” He untangles himself from Ilya before his brain can give in to the panicked urge to cry again, ignoring the sound of protest from below him. “Wait, I need to-“

“Hollander,” Ilya says, sounding very unimpressed.

“Give me two minutes.” Shane is already on his feet, crossing toward where Sasha and Sveta have paused near the elevator. He doesn’t look back. He can feel Ilya looking at him, which is a sensation he’s cataloged in the base of his skull since he was seventeen years old, but he keeps moving. “What do I do if he goes down?”

Sveta tilts her head. Her expression is careful, reading him in the way she’s been doing since she found him in Ilya’s bed and apparently decided he wasn’t worth killing immediately. “I’m sorry?”

“If he has a seizure.” He keeps his voice even and practical, the same way he talks to team doctors, equipment managers… anyone who has information he needs. “What do I do? What are the steps?”

There’s silence from both of them.

“Shane,” says Ilya, from the couch. “Come back here.”

“In a minute.”

“Now.”

“No.” He turns just long enough to say it directly to Ilya’s face, because he deserves that much, and then turns back. “Please,” he adds to Sveta, because she responded to please the last time, and he’s not above using that. “Walk me through it.”

“You could just ask me!”

Both Sveta and Sasha bark out a single, perfectly choreographed laugh. Sveta’s smile is small and sharp and entirely at Ilya’s expense. Sasha’s is less a smile and more a brief, involuntary relaxation of his scowl, which maybe amounts to the same thing.

“Phone,” Shane says. He pulls his out. “Numbers first. Who do I call, and in what order?”

“This is stupid,” Ilya says irritably from the couch. “I am not about to drop dead like fucking fly.”

Shane doesn’t turn around. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, aiming for a playful reminder that Ilya is fucking awful at communication.

Then, from Sasha, something in Russian that sounds, against all probability, like the beginning of a laugh he doesn’t want to give in to.

Sveta looks at Shane’s phone. She looks at Shane. Then she takes the phone from his hand, which is not what he expected, and types a number in. “This is me,” she says.

“Okay.” He watches her hand the phone to Sasha, who looks at it like it’s personally offended him, then types in a second number with two fingers and resents it so much even Shane can tell.

“Never call me unless it is emergency,” Sasha says, and hands it back without looking at Shane.

“Who else?” Shane asks. “Doctor? Neurologist? Is there a-“

“There is a team,” Sveta says slowly, her gaze darting back and forth between Shane and Ilya. “But you call us first. Always us first, before anyone else. We will make the other calls.”

“And if I can’t reach you? If neither of you pick up?”

Sveta’s expression shifts into something he can’t fully read. “We will pick up.”

That’s not good enough and she knows it. “Okay,” he says anyway, because arguing that point will cost him the goodwill he’s currently operating on, which is thin. He’ll come back to it. “What do I do while I’m trying to reach you? If he goes down. Step by step.”

“You don’t move him,” Sveta says immediately. “If he falls, you make sure he doesn’t hit anything, you put something under his head if you can, and you do not move him. Not until it passes.”

That explains all the rugs. God, how often does it happen? The whole fucking building is subtly arranged to reduce risk, which means…

The world goes a little blurry, and he has the hysterical idea that he might be able to trust the padding of those rugs firsthand. Jesus fuck…

“He is right here!” Ilya grumbles. Shane would feel guilty if this weren’t so important, but Ilya downplays everything, and he is fully incapable of having this conversation with Ilya without losing all of his shit.

“How long does it take to pass?” he asks, ignoring Ilya’s complaint.

Sveta is the one who answers. “It depends.”

“Average.”

She looks at him steadily. “Two minutes. Sometimes less. Sometimes more.”

“And if it’s more? If it goes past-“

“Five minutes. Or he has more than one. Then you call emergency services.” She pauses. “But you do not leave him alone while you do it.”

“And his medication?” Shane asks.

Sveta and Sasha both go very still. Sasha is back to looking thunderous.

“What about it?” Sveta asks.

“He only had one pill left,” Shane remembers. “I’m assuming there’s a prescription? Refill schedule, dosage, what triggers the need for it versus what he can manage without-“

“Shane.” Ilya’s voice has gone very flat.

Sveta’s small smile disappears. “You do not give him medication,” she says. “Under any circumstances.”

Shane looks back at Ilya, who is pointedly looking in the opposite direction. “I understand that, but if you’re unreachable and he’s-“

“Under any circumstances,” Sasha growls, and while it sounds like it’s not up for discussion, and Shane has heard that tone from coaches and GMs and his own father, and he respects it, he is also not going to let it just sit there without context.

“If he’s in pain and I’m with him and I-“

“No.” Sasha takes a step forward, and he’s large enough that it registers as a physical fact. “You do not touch his medication. You do not give it to him. You agree that now, or you get the fuck out.”

Shane agrees immediatly and Sasha looks as surprised as Shane feels. “Okay,” he says. “I won’t.”

He means it. He’s not performing compliance to buy goodwill. He means it completely, and the reason he means it is sitting right there in the back of his throat where panic lives: seizure.

Not the injury, not the diagnosis, not the technical cascade of syllables Sveta rattled off with the quiet ease of someone who has said them so many times they’ve been sanded smooth and no longer cut her.

Seizure. That one is short and blunt and horrifying.

He’s terrified of the wrong thing. He’s standing here cataloging medication and response times and emergency contacts like it’s a line change, like he can manage this into something orderly, and underneath all of it is just that word, and the image of Ilya going grey and slack in his hands, and the specific, terrible helplessness of not knowing what is happening. Of knowing it might be worse, and a brain that’s already hurting is going to take another beating he can’t prevent.

He’s panicking sideways. Burning through the fear at an angle because looking at it directly is something he apparently can’t do yet.

He’s an asshole… and maybe he’s cruel, too. He looks back at Ilya and almost wilts with shame at the sight of him, head bowed, defeated in a way he’s never seen before.

“Okay,” he says again, quieter. “I understand.”

Sasha looks at him for a long moment. Then he turns to Sveta and says something in Russian, low and short. Sveta answers, and Shane catches nothing except the shape of it, which sounds like it might be an argument.

Then they’re both looking at Ilya.

Sveta moves past Shane like he’s furniture, crosses to the couch, and crouches in front of Ilya with her hands on his knees. She speaks in Russian, and her voice has a different register now, softer and more deliberate, the careful cadence of someone choosing each word. Ilya looks at her with his jaw set and says something that sounds like it starts as a dismissal and ends as something more tired than that.

Sasha goes around the other side of the couch. He doesn’t crouch. He stands with his arms crossed and says something that Ilya answers without looking at him, staring at a fixed point somewhere above Sveta’s head. Sasha responds. The tone of it isn’t soft. It isn’t the voice he uses with Shane, either, that cold, compressed fury.

Shane stands where he is and looks at the wall. Fuck… fuck, he’s doing this all wrong.

The conversation between the three of them reaches some kind of conclusion, or at least a pause that functions like one. Sveta straightens up. Sasha uncrosses his arms. Neither of them looks particularly happy about whatever has been decided.

Sveta looks at Shane over her shoulder. “One hour,” she says. It’s not a question, and it’s not a request. “We will be back in one hour.”

“Okay,” Shane says, and he gets the feeling he’s lucky to get even that much.

Sasha’s expression communicates, with the economy of a man who has perfected the art of the withering look, that one hour is sixty minutes too many and Shane should be grateful for every one of them. He says something to Ilya in Russian that Ilya answers with a single syllable that sounds like it means fine, or whatever, or something in the neighborhood of both.

Then Sveta touches Ilya’s face, just briefly, her palm to his cheek, and says something very quiet that Shane doesn’t try to hear. Ilya closes his eyes for a second and nods.

They leave. The elevator takes them, and then the sound of it drops away, and the loft is quiet.

Shane is still standing in the middle of the room.

He is aware, with a clarity that is arriving about four minutes too late to do him any good, that he has spent the last few minutes talking about Ilya like he’s not sitting six feet away. Like he is a problem to be briefed on, a medical history to be annotated in the rolodex of Shane’s memory. He’d done it with Ilya right there. Within earshot. Fully conscious and sharp enough to be annoyed about it, which he clearly is.

Shane can’t crawl back into his lap. He’s forfeited that. He stood up, crossed the room, and turned Ilya into a subject of conversation, and the fact that it came from terror rather than maliciousness doesn’t make it less of a thing he did.

The fact that Sasha and Sveta let him means… he doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know what any of this means. Every time he tries to think he spirals right back to Ilya nearly died, Ilya could be dead, Ilya-

He goes to the couch and sits down, not close enough that it’s presumptuous, not far enough that it’s a statement. Somewhere in the middle, which is the honest answer to where he is right now in almost every sense.

Ilya doesn’t look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Ilya grunts. “I’m used to it.”

Jesus, that’s…

“I really am,” Shane says earnestly. “I panicked and-”

“You were talking like you plan to be around a lot,” Ilya says abruptly. He sounds so unhappy.

Shane struggles not to cry. “I… I want to be.” Ilya scoffs and shakes his head, then winces, and Shane’s shame grows. “Is it bad?”

“No,” Ilya says immediately.

Shane reaches up slowly, telegraphing the movement the way you’d approach something skittish, and gets his fingers into Ilya’s curls. They’re soft. Softer than he remembers, or maybe it’s just the relief of Ilya not being fucking dead that makes everything infinitely more. He works his hand through them gently, seeking the tension at the base of his skull, and Ilya goes very still.

“Is fine,” Ilya says again. Quieter this time, like he’s trying to convince both of them at the same time.

“Liar,” Shane says, just as quietly.

Ilya doesn’t argue. No deflection, no sardonic smile. He just sits there under Shane’s hand and says nothing, and the silence of it is somehow both the saddest and the most honest thing that’s happened between them all evening.

Shane keeps moving his fingers through his hair. Slow, even strokes. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, exactly, or whether it helps, but Ilya doesn’t move away from it, and right now that’s the only data point that matters.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says again and it still doesn’t feel like enough. It probably won’t, for a long time. Maybe ever. “For now. For before. For… for last time.”

Ilya makes a sound that isn’t quite dismissal.

Shane tugs, gently, just a slight pressure at the back of his neck, and Ilya lets himself be guided down. It takes a second, and then Ilya’s weight settles across his thighs, his head in Shane’s lap, and since Ilya can’t see Shane from that angle, it doesn’t matter if he cries.

He keeps his hand in Ilya’s hair.

Ilya’s eyes are closed. He tucks one arm up against his chest and the other hangs off the edge of the couch cushion, and he looks exhausted. The medication has done some of the work; the lines around his eyes are slightly less carved than they were an hour ago, but not enough. Not nearly enough. There's a blanket over the back of the couch that Shane tugs down and tucks over them.

Shane looks at him and tries to catalog only the practical things. The color coming back into his face, fractionally. The steadiness of his breathing. The steady thrum of his pulse.

Shane knows how to cry silently. He knows how to lock down everything but the tears.

He’s dreamed about this for so many years. Dreamed of one day getting past Ilya’s defenses far enough and long enough to hold him like this, to be tender with him the way he’s always craved but known Ilya’s never wanted.

It feels so deeply, profoundly unfair that this is the only way he can get it.

There’s no grand lowering of a drawbridge, no cheerful decision to begin deconstruction. He’s here, and Ilya’s here, only because Ilya is too exhausted and in too much pain to not cave in to Shane’s greed.

He keeps his touch light. One hand in Ilya’s hair, the other on his shoulder. he doesn’t let his fingers wander, doesn’t brush the curl of his ear, or the line of his jaw, doesn’t run his thumb over Ilya’s lips, or slip his hand down the neck of his hoodie.

He takes only what Ilya so reluctantly bestows, and considers himself lucky.

He’s fucked things up twice now. By jumping into bed with Ilya, by handling the terror of uncertainty so poorly.

There will not be a third time. He will do whatever Ilya wants. He will be whatever Ilya needs.

He will take what he can get and know how close he came to not having even that, and he will cherish every second.

Time is not something Ilya has the best track of these days. He follows the routes of other people and the persistent buzz from his phone reminding him to eat and drink and take his pills. He’s not looking forward to winter, when he won’t even have the weather for a gauge on whether it’s morning or afternoon, just grey, grey, grey.

Then he thinks of Sasha, who used to survive the months of November to March by fucking off to a yacht in the Caribbean, and Sveta, who no longer drinks until her blood is mostly vodka and thus incapable of freezing. He won’t complain.

There’s a blanket over his legs, and a hand in his hair, and it’s not Sveta, not Sasha, but Shane, who is, by some miracle, still here. Who is holding him.

Even now, Ilya’s humiliating display in the bedroom so quickly compounded in Shane’s quick, analytical mind into the knowledge that Ilya can’t even be trusted to know what to do when things go to shit. Shane hasn’t even tried asking him directly. Hasn’t pushed for more information or tried to challenge Ilya’s feeble reassurance.

His body is so fucking treacherous he can’t even lie to Shane Hollander anymore, let alone please him, yet Shane is still here. Still offering the grace and comfort of his presence.

Ilya should get up. He should make Shane something to eat, offer him something to drink, or fuck, order something in, his budget be damned. But he can’t. He’s too tired. And tomorrow he has to go into work and find some way of clinging to the thin veneer of competence he’s only had two days to establish, and right now the very idea of it is terrifying.

Stupid enough to think there’s enough left of Ilya Rozaonv to try find some lost pieces in hockey, let alone believe he gets to have Shane as well.

“Has Marlow always been a hothead?” Shane asks all of a sudden. He shifts slightly, resettling his weight and tucking Ilya closer.

Ilya’s head is clear enough to know it isn’t really clear at all. That particular self-awareness is one of the gifts of the last three years, though he uses the word gift loosely.

“Hmm?”

“He punched Comeau in the locker room.”

Ilya considers this and has to think for a minute. Comeau is Montreal defense, yes? Why is Marly in Montreal’s locker…

Oh. That’s right. He read about that. Transfer. He has a vague memory of being equally pleased and jealous. Shane needs someone like Marly in his corner, someone who will punch first and ask questions if and only if HR makes him. Marly needs someone like Shane to take under that oversized wing of his. It’s a good transfer. But fuck both of them for getting to be in the other’s orbit.

“Good.” Comeau is, as far as he remembers, a bit of a fucking dick.

Marlow punching Comeau is good. Marly punching anyone, really, is good. He has a gift for it.

Ilya tries to pull up a cleaner memory of him and gets the usual thing, lately, which is impressions rather than pictures. His laugh, too loud and too frequent, and completely sincere. His ability to take up an entire doorframe just by walking through it. The smell of his gear, which was up there with the meteor that killed the dinosaurs in terms of catastrophic and something Ilya complained about at length and never once managed to change.

Four years in Boston. Four years of Marlow being the most reliably chaotic constant in his professional life, which is saying something given that professional hockey is not an industry that attracts the emotionally stable.

He tries to remember the last time he saw him.

He knows the Cup. That’s a fixed point, bright and specific enough to hold. The weight, the noise, Marlow crying while he tried to pretend he wasn’t. Ilya had kissed his cheek and Marly had shoved him and then grabbed him back and held on for an embarrassingly long time, which Ilya had allowed because he was also crying and it seemed fair.

But that was years before.

He needs after that.

He finds pieces. Flights that blur together. Hotel rooms, and training sessions, and one bar after another. Patiently wingmaning him through one failed relationship after another because he liked the idea of a girl in every port, but the reality of it just made him sad. His hand on Ilya’s shoulder, both of them too drunk to stand upright. That fierce, boundless loyalty that had him always coming to Ilya’s defense even when Ilya was very much in the wrong.

He can’t find the last time.

He looks for it the way you look for something you know you’ve put down somewhere and simply cannot locate, that low, grinding frustration of knowing it must be there, you just had it, it was just here-

It isn’t there.

Shane’s hand moves through his hair. Slow. Even. It’s doing something deeply unfair to Ilya’s ability to maintain any kind of composure whatsoever. “You played together a long time.”

“Four years.” He remembers that much. The best four years of his life.

“I know.” A pause. “I watched you.”

Of course he did. Ilya watched Shane too, every chance he could get, which he’d never once admitted and isn’t about to admit now while lying with his head in Shane’s lap like some kind of convalescing Victorian housewife who needs a trip to the ocean.

“He’s good,” Shane says, still talking about Marlow.

“Yes.”

“I think maybe he’ll settle now,” Shane says, and it’s hard for Ilya to tell if he’s speaking slowly or the words are just filtering through treakle. “He’ll be glad you’re back.”

“Hmm.”

“Have… have you seen him? Recently?”

“No.” That last time is still elusive.

Shane’s fingers still. The whine Ilya makes is humiliating and entirely involuntary, but it prompts him to start again. “Was… was he there? When you had your accident?”

His face is hot. He’s glad Shane can’t see it from this angle.

He doesn’t like to think about it. That’s the honest truth, stripped down to its bones. Not because it’s painful, not exactly, or not only. It’s that there’s almost nothing there to think about. A gap where memory should be, smooth-edged and absolute, like something removed rather than forgotten. Before, and then after, and between them a blankness so complete it frightens him more than any image could. He doesn’t know what he looked like. He doesn’t know what he said, or if he said anything, or if there was anyone there to hear it. He doesn’t know if he was afraid.

He suspects he was.

The only thing he knows with any fucking certainty is that he didn’t do it right, and now he has to live with it. Which is about as cruel and unusual a punishment as you can probably get.

Of course, he can’t say any of that out loud. Not to Sasha, who goes white and furious when anyone gets too close to the subject. Not to Sveta, who becomes very calm and very careful in a way that is somehow worse. Not to the neurologist, who he likes and almost trusts and lies to anyway, because some things are not for other people’s hands, even kind ones.

Definitely not to Shane, who is currently waiting for an answer to a very simple question based on a seismic lie, and doesn’t know that he’s just walked them both into the part of the story Ilya doesn’t have.

He’s silent for long enough that it makes Shane squirm and stroke a thumb over Ilya’s shoulder. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer. It’s probably pretty traumatic.”

Was Marlow there? No. Yes. Maybe? He knows someone found him, but only in the abstract sense of well, obviously, or you’d be fucking dead.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if Marlow was there.

And he doesn’t know what Marlow saw.

“Is fine,” Ilya says, which is what he says when he needs to close a door quickly and doesn’t have the energy to do it properly. “Don’t remember much.”

Shane’s hand moves again, slow and even, and Ilya keeps his eyes closed and tries to breathe through something that is not quite panic but is heading in that direction if he lets it.

Marlow is now in Montreal. In Shane’s locker room, in Shane’s orbit, eating lunch with Shane’s teammates and punching them in the face, apparently. Who has Shane’s number, probably. Who is loyal to a fucking fault and drinks too much and has never once in his life been able to keep his mouth shut about anything that matters to him.

Who was in Boston when it happened.

Ilya doesn’t know what he knows, which is genuinely fucking terrible. He can construct a version where Marlow wasn’t there at all, where he found out later, secondhand and only the topline ‘Rozanov is done’, the way everyone else did. He can construct a version where Marlow was there after, when the worst of it was already done and tidied away into the clean, clinical language of medical reports and Ilya was already too far fucking gone for help.

He can also construct a version he doesn’t let himself finish imagining.

The gap is the problem. He can’t know what Marlow saw because he can’t see it himself, and the not-knowing is a specific kind of horror he’s gotten practiced at sitting with but never comfortable. He has lots of those moments of not knowing. How or where or when or for how long.

If Marlow was there.

If Marlow saw.

Then Marlow is sitting in Shane’s locker room, and no lie Ilya can convince the world, or Shane with, is going to last.

Shane will know, and any hope Ilya has of earning him back is about as fucked as he is.

But… but he’s not said anything, yet. He’s either completely in the dark, or he’s keeping Ilya’s secret, and he doesn’t know which it is or why, and that bullish, childish thing he told himself before stepping back into the desaturated, knock-off version of his old life doesn’t actually hold water now he’s in Shane’s arms.

He hasn’t spoken to Marlow since coming to Canada. Not even a text.

He’s thought about it, late at night, the phone face-down on the blanket. He could ask Sveta to find his number, and he knows she would, but then he imagines every possible version of the conversation, all of which end with Marlow as thoroughly horrified by the version of Ilya that survives as Ilya is himself.

Marlow was always the best guy in the room, always the first to lift you up out of your own self-hate and buy you a burger and a round and tell you to stop being a little bitch about things. Ilya doesn’t want him to see him like this, and not just because he’s so much less than he was.

He’s ashamed. Monumentally, apocalyptically ashamed.

Not in the oh, I got caught jacking off in the shower way, but in the they made a statue of you and now it’s covered in pigeon shit and bits of garbage and you have to stand right next to it while tourists take photos of the decline way.

What can he even say to Ilya now? Does he believe Ilya can do the job they’ve given him, or is it going to be another sad, patronizing “You’ll do great, buddy!” smothered in concern and pity? Is that enough for him to break any silence he might be keeping?

Maybe… maybe Ilya needs to talk to him? Find out what he knows, if he knows, and… and what, exactly?

Bribe him? With what money?

Blackmail him? The man doesn’t have a single shred of self-consciousness.

Appeal to his better nature? Yes. Maybe. Cliff’s a good man. He’s not…

Okay, so, next question. Does he wait until the Centaurs play the Raiders… Metros? It’s not for over a month, which is a whole lot of time for Shane to ask questions with those big, pleading eyes of his. More than enough time for Marlow to claim allegiance and loyalty to a new Captain.

No then. He needs to go to Montreal. Which is easier said than done, because he can’t fucking drive and he doesn’t have a car, and if he ‘borrows’ either Sasha’s or Sveta’s they will kill him, and only if he survives the trip without his brain shorting out because he’s overtaken by a flashing light.

Of course, if he’s dead, then this isn’t a problem he has to worry ab-

Sveta might drive him. She might also decide Marlow’s a problem she needs to solve, which is a dick move on his part if Marlow doesn’t know anything, and an escalation Ilya can’t really predict if he does.

Sasha’s not an option. He’s the opposite of an option.

He could take a bus, maybe? Train? Tell the team he’s staying at home, tell Sveta and Sasha he’s working, and then…

Then nothing. He’s got nothing.

Or…

He rolls over and looks up at Shane.

“Maybe I come to Montreal next time,” Ilya says, clinging to every ounce of disinterested calm he once had down to a fucking art. “If you want.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure. We are not rivals anymore. We could be, ah, friends? Maybe?” Of course, there’s every chance Shane doesn’t want even that much. If Ilya has nothing to offer him when it comes to sex now, he’s even less of a clue how to be Shane’s friend. “Or would that be, ah… what is spying for work?”

“Corporate espionage?” Shane says wryly.

“Hmm. Yes.”

“I'd like to see someone accuse me of cheating,” Shane scoffs.

He sounds so adorably indignant Ilya has to smile. “Maybe you are helping me cheat, no?”

“I don’t care how good you are, Rozanov; it would take more than you and me combined to get the Centaurs out of their rut.”

“Well, that’s rude.” He reaches up to poke Shane in the arm only to end up holding Shane’s hand instead.

Shane spends a long time looking at him, silent, fingers drifting slow along his scalp. The suggestion, absurd as it is, seems to please him a little. “We’d have to be careful,” Shane says, “about… I mean, being seen in public.”

Ilya blinks slowly. "Why?” he asks, genuinely confused.

The way Shane is looking at him is a little soft and a little frightened. “You… you know I’m out, now, right?” He asks. “I mean… if people see you with me, they’ll speculate.”

“Okay. So?”

“You don’t care if people think you’re gay? Because believe me, no one will be subtle or cool about it.”

There’s something there Ilya should maybe push back on, but it’s hard enough holding onto one stream of thought.

“They would be wrong,” he says, closing his eyes again. “I am bisexual.”

“Ilya…” He keeps saying Ilya’s name, and it’s the very best thing he’s ever heard. Worth not dying just to hear it said with that little huff of exasperation.

“What can they say?” Ilya says, genuinely confused. “I like cock, so what? Hardly worst thing about me now.”

“Might be one of the best things about you,” Shane says with a little smile.

“Hmm,” Ilya agrees. “Next time I promise not to pass out on your dick.”

“Next time?”

“Yes… If you’ll let me? I am, ah, out of practice, is all.”

“Let you?” Shane says, pitched in a way that goes right through Ilya’s skull. He expects the warmth in his chest to burn away, give way to the old fear or shame or at least familiar, wet, self-loathing. Instead, it stays. Simmers against the raw edge of his embarrassment. Maybe the drugs are making everything a little extra soft-focus, but he keeps his hand in Shane’s and lets himself look. Lets himself want. Lets himself imagine doing it again, and again, enough time to get it right.

Shane is… Shane is kind, and he’s patient, and maybe he will be patient with Ilya in this?

In letting Ilya…

Fuck. He’s veered off course. Montreal. Marlow.

He digs his thumbnail into the palm that is not pressed against Shane’s and tries to focus.

“I will make it worth your while, promise.”

Shane rubs his thumb over Ilya’s. “I could… I could send you a car? Or my parents could drive you? And I can come here anytime you want me to. Fuck, I can come pick you up or-”

Ilya’s too fixated on the word ‘parents’ to focus on literally anything else Shane has just said.

“Do they… do they know about me? Your family?”

Shane blinks. “No. Of course they don’t.” Like it’s obvious, like it never occurred to him it could be otherwise.

Ilya feels something empty out behind his ribcage. Funny, how every nerve in his body can fire ‘pain’ and yet his chest feels less than nothing. Why would Shane want to tell anyone about Ilya. It’s not like… it’s not like they were anything before.

“But,” he swallows… “but you would be okay now?”

“Well, yeah,” Shane says quietly. “We’re… friends now, right?”

Friends, yes, that’s what Ilya said. “Hmm.”

“Maybe… maybe me and Marlow can come visit?” Shane offers. “I’m sure he’d love to see you again.”

Yes… yes, that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? Was there a reason he didn’t want Marlow here? It’s so much easier than trying to get to Montreal, and Sasha and Sveta will like him, he’s sure…

“Hmm.”

“Ilya?” Shane’s voice warps a little, slides into silence, and for a moment Ilya thinks he’s fallen asleep, except he can still feel the hand, palm warm at the back of his head, the rhythm of thumb and fingers just barely moving. Maybe he's the one who's fallen asleep?

He can’t remember the question, now. Or if there was one at all. Maybe it was just: Ilya? Maybe that is the only question he’s been asked, or answered, in his entire life.

He is not, Ilya thinks, a good patient. He is not, he suspects, a good version of anything. He is tired in some essential, planetary way, and the only thing he’s ever been good at is getting to the very end of himself and still finding some reason to keep moving.

There are things he wants to say, but the words curl up and die under the weight of wanting to be useful, to be something Shane wants to hold onto. Then he fucked that up, too.

He thinks he's done what he set out to do. Keep Shane a little longer. Find a way to Marlow. Pretend.

He’s so tired.

Chapter 7

Sorry for the fake out! I am not sure I’ve ever done this before, but given the general mood today I wanted to make a quick note to you all.

I’ve been in fandoms for a very long time. I was there, Gandalf, in the early days of the MCU… 😅 (and let’s not talk about the early Supernatural days on LJ…)

There’s some weird vibes in this fandom at the moment, but I want to thank all of you because you’re without a doubt one of the most kind, generous and engaged community I’ve been part of.

There’s always some drama of some kind, but I’m lucky enough, for the most part, to be in a lovely little bubble of kindness and empathy and you’ve no idea what that’s meant to me these past few months. One of the most incredible things has been seeing you engage together (with ideas often way smarter than anything I can come up with!).

So thank you again. I feel very lucky to be in this space with you all, and I take your affectionate threats of bodily harm if I don’t fix the boys very seriously, promise!

Also please consider this as encouragement (and a reminder to myself to do so for others) to show a little love to your favorite writers today!

See you Monday!

Boop

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Shane has 99 problems, and he's going to ignore every single one of them to hyperfixate on solving someone else's (whether it's needed or not).

And to be more cryptic and either help or hinder all your brilliant theories, there is ONE thing in the (TV) canon timeline I have shifted. As in, there is an event that occurs in the show that does not happen in the same order as canon, but some weeks earlier... yes, we will find out more later, but I wanted to give you that breadcrumb at least. That, and to say to anyone asking what Sasha does (other than scowl at Shane) that yes, we will also learn this, and yes, it is Important To The Plot.

Thank you for all your wonderful messages! Thank you for the wonderful bubble of positivity! I crashed pretty hard over the weekend and slept entirely too much, but it's been incredible catching up on everything!

Ilya’s breathing evens out somewhere between one slow exhale and the next, and Shane knows the exact moment he’s gone under. The heaviness of his body, warm against his legs, his hand slack, their fingers still curled together.

Shane doesn’t move.

He doesn’t move for a long time, just keeps his hand in Ilya's hair, looks at the ceiling, and doesn’t think about anything useful for maybe five minutes. Then his brain, which has never once in his life given him peace, starts working.

Accident.

That’s what Ilya said. Just an accident.

He’s a literal-minded person; he has been told it often enough in enough different tones that he’s stopped worrying whether it’s a criticism. He takes words at face value because they are the only reliable data he has to work with, and Ilya said 'accident,' which means something unintended. Something that happened to him rather than something he chose.

The brain needs oxygen. Specifically, it needs oxygenated blood. If that supply is interrupted, even briefly, cells begin to die. The damage is proportional to the duration of the interruption. He knows this in the abstract, the way he knows plenty of medical things involving one of the most high-risk injuries in his profession: well enough to be frightened by it, not well enough to understand the full shape of it.

He stares at the ductwork running along the ceiling and thinks. What causes a healthy man in his mid-twenties, a professional athlete whose entire career has been built on the meticulous maintenance of his body, to go without enough blood to his brain for long enough to cause permanent neurological damage?

The list isn’t long.

Cardiac arrest. Drowning. Severe trauma. Obstruction of the airway.

Shane is still in Ilya’s hair, so he starts moving again, because stopping feels like something Ilya will notice even in his sleep.

Cardiac arrest is possible. It’s rare, sure, especially for someone under such intense medical scrutiny, but life sometimes happens that way, and perfectly healthy people have something lurking deep, deep down in their bodies that pops up out of nowhere with catastrophic consequences.

A heart attack could do it. If it was bad enough.

Drowning, too. He doesn’t know enough to know if Ilya’s a bath guy, but he does know he had a pool in the basement of his Boston place. Maybe he slipped and hit his head and went under? Maybe… maybe he was drunk, and… that would be an accident, right? Ilya likes to drink, and though Shane’s never seen him drunk, he’s not stupid enough to believe it’s never happened.

Maybe he drowned.

Which… he’s never gonna be able to look at a body of water again without picturing Ilya lying face down in it… fuck.

Severe trauma. That one is trickier. Something like a car crash, or a fight, or fuck, a fall, but that takes him more down the TBI route and not… unless it was his neck, maybe? He choked on something? Fell and injured his windpipe. In that scenario, Ilya’s awake and choking and terrified and-

He has to close his eyes and take a breath for a second. He has to listen to Ilya breathing, in and out, slow and steady and smooth.

So that’s obstruction of the airway covered, too.

What else?

Accident.

Accidents happen in hockey. They happen all the time. On the ice. Off it. Shane knows dozens of guys he grew up with who no longer play because of an injury - and accident - they received in play, or training, or by pushing something further than the expectations of an elite sport already demand.

He knows guys who no longer play because they got into a crash, or on the wrong end of a brawl, or a hundred other perfectly normal, if tragic, ways to end a career.

Fuck, he knows guys who’ve fucking died in accidents.

And that’s kinda the problem. He knows. About all of them.

Why wouldn’t he know about Ilya? Why would Marlow be forced to sign an NDA?

That’s not… it’s not normal.

And where the fuck has Ilya been?

He loses track of too much time, circling that one question in his head over and over until he blinks, and it’s no longer just him and Ilya in the room.

Sasha ducks down, presses a large hand to Ilya’s forehead, then tucks it under his arm and around his chest.

“I can-” Shane offers, unable to stop himself from curling his fingers tighter into Ilya’s hoodie.

“Don’t push me, Hollander,” Sasha says flatly, hauling Ilya off the couch. He gets him to his feet, but Ilya’s clearly not with it, slumping fully into his side, held upright only by the arm around him. Sasha says something, low and gentle, then guides him away from Shane.

Shane could just carry him. He can do it, he’s strong enough. Why disturb his rest?

Sasha disappears into the bedroom with Ilya and pulls the door behind him.

Sveta steps into his line of sight and rests her hands on her hips. “It is time for you to leave now.”

Right. Right, okay, but-

“I don’t want him to think-”

“You can’t stay,” she shakes her head. “He's worked too hard for what he has now for you to rush him.”

“I don’t… I don’t wanna rush him!” The best he can manage is, “I want to be here when he wakes up,” which falls so short of reasonable that it sounds stupid the second he hears it out loud.

“Do you have his number?” she asks in a low voice.

Shane blinks. “What?” Of course, he does; he’s had it for so long. He rereads their last messages obsessively, but only after he makes himself reread three years of his own unanswered stream of consciousness.

Sveta’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “His new one.” She holds out her hand until Shane puts his phone into her palm, his head spinning.

“How… how long has he had a new number?”

It takes Sveta less than a minute to program the new number into Shane’s phone. “Oh, a while.”

That’s not much of an answer. There’s a brief crack of fire-work bright hope that explodes in his chest. Maybe… maybe he’s not been ignoring Shane. Maybe he’s… maybe…

That’s too much to hope, isn’t it?

He awkwardly rubs the back of his neck and takes back his phone.

“Text him tomorrow,” she tells him.

Shane wants to text him now, but he nods.

Sveta’s smile is a soft, slightly wry thing. “This isn’t how I planned on meeting, Shane Hollander. I have heard good things about you. I expect them to be true.”

She means… she means he has to do this right. He wants to. God, he fucking plans to. No more mistakes.

“I won’t hurt him,” he vows.

She calls the elevator and doesn’t say another word.

The elevator ride down is slow and mirrored, his reflection distorted in the dull metal wall opposite. Shane looks at his own face and hardly recognizes it; bleary eyes, red-rimmed and redder in the low overhead light, nervous energy thrumming through his jaw and shoulders like too much caffeine.

He is not sure what his plan was, or is, or will be, beyond the bright dead end of Ilya’s head on his thigh, the drugged weight of him, and the way he agreed to a next time like all Shane has to do is show up and Ilya will welcome him in.

In the lobby, he opens his phone and stares a little at the name Sveta's entered. Not Lily, but Ilya. For the first time, just Ilya. If there’s a reverent way to open a contact, that’s how he does it.

It’s a blank slate. He can say whatever he likes, and… and he has to say it right. He starts with ‘thanks for tonight’ then deletes it and doesn’t send anything at all. Pathetic.

Ilya’s sleeping, though, so it hardly matters. He has all night to think of the right words.

The air outside should brighten him up. It doesn’t. It’s damp and close, last-night’s rain still draining in small rivers along the curb, and the inside of his car is frigid in that way that feels like a vacuum, all the heat pulled out the second the doors open.

He sits in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the steering wheel.

He could drive back to Montreal. He should. It’s not a bad drive, only two hours, and he has practice tomorrow. There’s a game Saturday, even if it’s only a friendly. He tells himself he’ll do it, then replays the afternoon and evening in his head and realizes, with a bone-deep horror, he’s never been less useful in his life.

Everything he thought was structured is inadequate. He’s good at one thing, and that thing is hockey, and how the fuck can that help him here? Ilya is… is hurt, and he’s always going to be hurt, and despite his promise to Sveta, he knows he might not be able to keep it. Look how easily he hurt Ilya by accident today?

He wants to scream or laugh or cry. Instead, he puts his phone in the console and fires up the engine.

He should dive back to Montreal, but it turns out he has no control over his driving today and doesn’t even realize where he’s going until he’s pulling into his parents’ driveway.

It’s late, but not so late they’ll be sleeping. He lets himself in, calls out a greeting, and finds Mom and Dad sitting together at the kitchen table. Mom’s on her laptop, and both have a glass of wine. They look up shaprly when he walks in.

“Shane, oh thank god!”

They’re both on their feet before Shane even closes the door behind him. His mom beelines, arms open, and he stands there awkwardly while she hugs him with a force that is both comforting and profoundly mortifying.

His dad takes a couple of steps toward them, then just stands there, hands on hips, maybe looking as awkward as Shane feels.

He’s reminded, acutely, of every time he skated off the ice with an injury that he was convinced was minor, and dad’s face signaled a prognosis long before any trainer did.

“What happened?” He asks, putting his hands on mom’s shoulders and gently pushing her back. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her this worried. “Are you guys okay?”

Already half-way still in crisis mode, he spins through a cycle of things that might make them look so worried, starting with some minor ailment and rapidly ending with one or both of them having an incurable disease.

“We’re fine, kiddo,” Dad says.

“We’ve been texting you all afternoon,” mom adds. She’s lifts her hand to his hair, smoothing it back in a way she’s not done since he was very little. “Why haven’t you answered? Hayden called and said you left practice.”

He opens his mouth, but what comes out is nothing. His brain is Swiss cheese, leaking all the wrong parts out the holes. He’s forgotten all about practice, and he’s honestly not sure what it means that Hayden called his parents.

He opens his phone and sees the missed calls and messages he’s not noticed while preoccupied with Ilya. Looks like there will be hell to pay tomorrow.

Once upon a time, that would’ve been enough to ruin his whole week, but then, once upon a time, the idea of leaving practice halfway through would’ve been enough to have headed straight to the doc to check for a fever.

“You look like a ghost,” his dad says, not unkind, but not delicate either. He gestures at the table, and Shane reluctantly sits down with them.

“I’m fine,” Shane shakes his head. Which is not, apparently, enough to convince either of his parents, who have synchronized their ‘we are on your side but worried’ faces in a way that would be funny if it weren’t so alarming. “Really.”

It doesn’t work. Dad just keeps waiting, and his mom doesn’t join in, doesn’t offer him any out.

Finally, when Shane looks up, his dad says, “Hayden also mentioned the locker room’s been… rough on you. That it has been for a while now.”

His mom’s voice comes in soft but sharp. “Honey, why didn’t you say anything? It’s completely unacceptable behavior. Coach should be holding everyone accountable and-”

“Mom, I don’t care,” Shane cuts her off. He’s not interested in talking to her or anyone else about any of that. He has bigger things to worry about. Things he needs their help with. “I need to hire a neuropsychologist.”

That seems to stun them. “What?” Dad asks.

“And a driver. Someone based in Ottawa. On-call, preferably. Maybe… maybe an occupational therapist.” He tries to think of what else he needs. The driver is for Ilya, obviously, because he clearly can’t drive if he gets seizures. The rest are for him. Ilya has a team already, that much is clear, and Shane doesn’t want to interfere there, but he absolutely needs to know what risks to be aware of and what precautions to take, which means he needs a specialist. Specialists.

But it's as if the words are spring-loaded; they tumble out before he’s even decided what order they should be in. He can already see the look on his mom’s face, that eagerness to help blurring with the anxious need for more information. His dad blinks and leans back.

His mom circles the island and touches his arm, light pressure, as if prodding the truth out of him. “Sweetheart… are you okay?”

“I said I’m fine.” He’s not, but he doesn’t want to think about it. He just needs names of people who have handled things like this before, who will have protocols, checklists, a step-by-step fucking plan he can follow without having to pester Ilya or make demands of the people around him. People who will help him figure out what else might be needed, because he can’t afford to be wrong a third time. He shouldn’t have even needed a second time, and yet here he is, scrambling.

“They have to be the best. They have to be discreet.”

His dad, always the practical one, picks up on the holes in what he’s saying. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s not for me.” Shane stares at the table top, where his hand has curled into a claw around nothing at all. “I want to know… what the risk factors are. All the resources. All the… I just… I need information, Dad.” He can’t say it’s for Ilya. Wouldn’t even know how to if he tried, not after years spent pretending Ilya was a topic best left unopened. It feels like treason to bring him up here. Even now. Even if he desperately wants to.

Mom shifts, uncertain. “Is this about one of your teammates?” There’s hope in the question, a relief that if it’s not about his head, it can be about someone else’s. “Is there something the team isn’t supporting? Do you need-”

“Just names.” She manages everything, and it’s going to be impossible to keep things from her in the long run, but… but Ilya’s his again, just for a little bit, and he jealously wants to keep it that way until he knows for sure he can protect them the way he’s failed to in the past.

His mind runs ahead of him, past the table, past his mom’s fluttering hands, past his dad’s increasingly narrow eyes, and out to the manicured suburban lawn, the ‘for sale’ sign across the street, the relentless insistence of ordinary life. While the world ticks forward, Shane is still half-stuck in the darkness of Ilya’s bedroom. Ilya, lax and heavy beneath him. Ilya, warm and alive in his arms.

“You’re scaring us, honey,” Mom says softly.

“Mom, it’s fine. I’m fine. Please.” The word is sharper than he means, but he doesn’t know how to soften what he needs to say when no one is actually listening. “You always taught me to stick things out, right? So this is me, sticking it out. I just need information. That’s all.” He nods, more emphatically with each word, as if it’ll hammer the point home.

She cups her palm around his jaw, thumb brushing under his eye, like she can wipe the fatigue away if she only tries hard enough. “Sweetheart,” she says, “if you’re not happy, or…” A look slides between her and Dad, a silent parental semaphore, one he’s spent his whole life trying and failing to decode. “I know there’s a lot of pressure on you, and a lot of that is on me, but-”

Dad leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “If your coaches, or teammates, or anyone… if they’re making your life difficult, if they’re being hostile, or… you don’t have to protect them.” He holds Shane’s gaze, careful and steady. “Just because you can take it doesn’t mean you should.”

It’s all familiarity and frustration. The more they want to talk about him, the more the real subject he cares about - what happened to Ilya - pulls further out of reach, tail-finned and slippery in his hands. He never learned how to talk about feelings in the abstract. Only as something to analyze and work around, like a notch in the skate. “That’s not what this is, I promise.” He hears himself and immediately recognizes how unconvincing it sounds. “It’s for a friend.”

“Is this about…” She looks at Dad, then takes a deep breath. “Is this about Ilya Rozanov?” Mom asks, voice pitched so soft it’s practically a whisper, her hand on his wrist an anchor to stop him from floating straight into the atmosphere.

All the air gets sucked out of the room, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice when he asks, “What?”

“You got upset,” Mom says gently. “About the article.”

Dad leans forward. “You get upset whenever anyone mentions his name.”

Shane gets the slightly hysterical feeling of existing outside his own body. “What?”

“You can tell us anything, Shane,” Dad adds. “There’s nothing you can say that could disappoint us.” The words hit with the full weight of a body check. He can’t think, can barely fucking breathe.

Mom’s face is naked with worry. Dad, next to her, says nothing, just nods, like it’s obvious, like of course this is what’s been killing him, like every day for the last three years he’s been waiting for Shane to say it out loud.

Shane shakes his head, but there’s no force behind it, not even the muscle memory of denial. “I…” It’s right there, but it sticks in his chest, ancient and ugly and stitched up for so long it barely recognizes oxygen anymore. “He’s not- we’re just-” Friends, now. They’re friends.

“Shane,” Mom says softly, hand tightening on his arm. “It’s okay.” She seems to mean it.

He tries to picture what would happen if he just came out and said it. Not that he’s gay - bitter fucking joke, that, it’s been old news for years, and with the right search terms you can find half a dozen more or less articulate statements to the press, to the team, to the league. That part is public domain. No, what’s unsayable is the rest. The quiet, personal fallout that comes attached to the second part of the equation.

The simple truth that the only person worth all that fallout is a man who’s ghosted him so thoroughly that Rose once drunkenly suggested finding an Ouija board.

He pushes the heel of his hand hard into his eye, chasing away the sting of tears. “I’m not… there’s nothing to talk about.”

Dad breathes out. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want.” He waits, patient and steady as he's always been.

A long silence unspools. He lines up all the words and all the excuses, places them in a neat little order that’s best designed to take them off the subject of his feelings for Ilya and back onto the more pressing matter of what he needs for Ilya, then opens his mouth and says:

“I love him.”

Mom’s eyes fill with tears, but she’s smiling, and she squeezes his hand tight. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”

He waits for the follow-up, for the humiliating questions of ‘does he love you back?’ and ‘why him, of all people, why him?’ but gets only another watery smile. Mom squeezes his hand a final time, sniffs and rubs her eyes, then sits back, shoulders strong and settled into action.

“What do you need from us?”

Shane’s eyes are burning and he’s still not sure he can breathe, and he loves them both so much he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I need to hire a neuropsychologist. And a driver. And an occupational therapist. And… and maybe a nurse.” He needs to know what to do and how to do it and when to do it and-

“Okay,” Dad says. “We can do that.”

They want him to stay overnight, but the idea of doing the drive first thing in the morning makes his skin itch, and he’s still wide awake. Mom hugs him, and Dad claps him on the shoulder, and they have a plan to talk tomorrow after they’ve done some research and started to pull together some names.

He asks a lot of them, he knows he does, but he trusts them in a way he can’t trust anyone else.

He’ll tell them more, tomorrow. About Ilya. About…

Ilya won’t mind. He asked Shane if they knew about him, and Shane was honest in his answer because he would never have outted Ilya to anyone, not for anything, not even them. But Ilya doesn’t seem to care anymore, and Shane trusts them. And they guessed.

More than that, he’s just so fucking tired of lying to everyone about everything. He’ll take what Ilya is willing to give him and be greatful, yes, but after three years alone and with the prospect of maybe, if he’s not careful, losing Ilya all over again, there’s a part of Shane that is so desperately relieved someone knows, just so that when it’s over he can turn to them and ask, and know that it was real, even if it was fleeting.

So his parents. And maybe… maybe Rose.

She knows, and he knows that she knows, but he’s denied, and obfuscated, and she’s never asked, never said Ilya’s name out loud.

She deserves the truth.

And maybe… maybe Hayden…

No. No, not Hayden. Fuck, that’s a stupid idea. Hayden and J.J. are the only people in his room who don’t hate him, and even if Ilya is retired from hockey, he’ll always just be Ilya Rozaonv to them. Selfishly, Shane wants to keep some small reminder of a time before he was a fucking pariah.

Hayden phoned Shane’s parents. He still cares, even if Shane is nothing but shitty to him. That will change if anyone finds out that not only is Shane in love with Ilya fucking Rozanov, but that everything that’s blown up in Montreal is inextricably linked to that love.

So not Hayden.

His parents. Rose.

Cliff Marlow?

Fuck. He’s going to have to tell Marlow, isn’t he? He’s promised Ilya he’ll bring Marlow to him, and okay, sure, he might not be the sharpest blade in the skatebox, but he’s got eyes, and Shane… Shane’s not sure he can be in the same room as Ilya and not broadcast everything to the whole fucking world. He's apparently not as subtle as he thinks. And hell, he and Ilya didn’t make it five minutes before they were in bed together.

Maybe he should let Ilya handle that one?

Despite everything, the thought makes him smile. Yes, he can let Ilya handle it, because Ilya is back in Shane’s life again, and maybe everything is terrifying, and maybe Shane’s whole future is going to come down to something that isn’t hinged on hockey for once, but…

But they have a chance. A real chance.

And that… god, that’s something he’s going to take and fucking score with, and god fucking help anyone who gets between him and the net.

Ilya’s used to waking up to someone’s touch. They’re all soft now, and careful. They haven’t always been, but it’s easier than it used to be, following those careful summons. This morning, it’s Sasha who pulls him from the edge of sleep and into the mutted morning light. Ilya squeezes his hand in a silent acknowledgment that yes, he is in fact still alive, then lies there for the next ten minutes while he slowly lets the parts of himself come back online.

He’s… functional. There’s a low-grade ache in his skull that has permanent residency, but there’s no orchestra, no jackhammer, no rolling bout of nausea. That’s good. That means he can move on to the next step.

By the time Sasha comes back, Ilya’s sitting upright on the edge of the bed, filtering the world slowly to the point where he can focus on the next steps. He's heavy in a way that he knows means he's slept hard, and under the influence of the heavy lifters.

It takes him another ten minutes to use the bathroom, then Sasha steps into the shower with him, which means he’s passed out at least once in the past twenty-four hours. It’s a big enough space that they can both wash up without getting in each other’s way, and it means that when Ilya stands a little too long and too still under the heat, when his legs try to move faster than his brain tells them to, there’s a strong hand on his elbow that nudges him closer to the wall and the rail added when they moved in. There’s a long, flat shelf built into the far side that can double as a seat, but Ilya doesn’t like using it. If he sits down, it's a hell of a lot more effort to get back up.

He can shower alone just like he can sleep alone. Sasha being in there with him is less about Ilya and more about him. Sometimes it’s Sveta, but she’s not strong enough to catch him if he goes down. They've learned that lesson the hard way.

He can live with it, mostly. His body and the negotiation that goes with it. He’s better at it now than he was a year ago, and that’s good enough.

He dries off and dresses mechanically: loose sweatpants and a hoodie, his hair still damp. The loft is quiet, Sasha silent beside him as they move in parallel through the small routines: deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste… Sasha thwacks him on the shoulder with a tube of overpriced cream. Ilya will die before admitting that it actually feels really nice on his skin and helps ward off the pink-cheeked chill of being on and off the ice in a building run on recycled air.

There are more steps to Sasha’s routine than Ilya’s, but it takes Ilya longer, so they are done at pretty much the same time.

Sveta is in the kitchen when they join her, a moca of coffee brewed and ready to be poured. There are three pots of the bannoffee breakfast pudding Ilya made a batch of the week before. Their freezer is packed with them, all different flavors. Ilya, who has never been a chia/oat/whatever the fuck fan before, likes that he can claim to have made breakfast, even on days he’s so fucking wrecked just sitting at the table takes all of his energy.

Sveta actually likes them, and Sasha will eat whatever’s put in front of him. Ilya vaguely remembers that Sasha is not a breakfast person. Or a morning person. But Sveta will yell at him if he doesn’t eat, because if he doesn’t, Ilya will be petulant and complain that he has to. Annoying Sasha is about eighty percent of the fun he has these days.

“It’s nice outside,” Sveta smiles at them. She’s wearing a pretty green blouse that matches her eyes and pants with a crease down the front so sharp that Ilya gets distracted trying to figure out how the hell she’s made it. “You want breakfast upstairs?”

“Yes,” Ilya says immediately. He’s steadier on his feet now and insists on helping transfer all the various factions of breakfast upstairs to the roof.

There’s no lift access, only a narrow metal staircase that leads out onto the roof of the building. Sveta goes first, then Ilya, then Sasha, and she’s right, it is nice outside. The pinks and golds of a rising morning sun cut through a pale blue sky. It’s not warm, but it’s not yet cold, either, and there’s no wind.

The rooftop is Ilya’s favorite place. It’s long and flat, but there’s a glass-topped canopy that offers shelter directly above the door to the stairs, and they’ve stacked the place high with soft couches and low, wide tables. Sveta hung garlands of twinkling lights, and Ilya is very proud of the plants he’s grown that spill out of pots scattered all over.

Ilya is only ever up here with company, and the access door is the only one in the loft that's ever locked, but there are few things he enjoys more now than pottering slowly and carefully while Sveta curls up and reads, or Sasha strums on the guitar he’s finally decided to learn how to play.

And while the barriers ringing the whole space are high - taller than Ilya, even - they are glass, which means they can see so much of the city. The river is right there, Quebec opposite. The city is to the east, the lush greens of the park to the west, and they have their own little space of the world that is not disconnected from either.

He can’t actually see all the way to Montreal, but on a clear day, when there’s nothing to do but sit and wonder, Ilya likes to think-

Shane.

Shane was here. Shane was here, and-

He manages to set everything down onto the table before he drops it, a bubble of breath rising in his throat that might be elation, might be panic, might be…

Sveta reaches over and hands him his phone.

He unlocks it on instinct. One new message, in the preview bar.

Shane Hollander: ‘Thanks for last night. Hope you’re having an okay morning. You’re kind of amazing, by the way.’

Ilya stares at it for a full twenty seconds, jaw hurting from the smile he absolutely failed to suppress. It would be better, he thinks, if Shane had sent something snarky. Something neutral, efficient, businesslike. Practical, the way he knows Shane can be.

But this is sweet, and guileless, also the way he knows Shane can be.

And it says ‘Shane’ at the top of his screen, not ‘Jane’. Shane messaged him, despite everything, and he’s kind, which… which of course he is kind, Shane isn’t a cruel man, but still, fuck, still…

He can’t even try to school his face. He’s grinning now, a stupid, wide, carnivorous grin that shakes something loose that’s long been left to gather dust on the shelf behind his heart. Sveta catches it, sips her coffee, and blinks fondly behind her lashes.

Sasha is less subtle: “You're being gross,” he announces, digging into his bannoffee pot. “Stop it.”

“Blow me,” Ilya says, and types: 'You also kind of amazing.' He hits send without thinking, and it's followed, immediately, by a little spike of panic. It’s one thing for Shane to say that, but is it weird for him? That’s too open, right? Too clingy and desperate and-

His phone vibrates in his hand before he can start to freak out.

'How are you feeling? Have you had breakfast?'

Ilya laughs out loud. It’s embarrassing. He laughs so rarely now, and never for anything like a text, but he can’t help it. The thought of Shane, alone or in the company of anyone else, typing such nice things with his neat and careful thumbs, makes Ilya feel like he’s drunk too much champagne and is now more bubble than man. How is he so fucking giddy over something so innocent when he's spent years teaching Shane how to sext?

“Ilyusha?” Sveta asks, soft, but he can’t pretend he didn’t hear her, even when he snaps a picture of his very healthy breakfast that Mr. Very Healthy Hollander will appreciate and sends it to him.

He looks up, and she’s still watching, gentle and precise and steady as only she can be. “Yes?” he says.

“The pudding is good this morning,” she says. “You put cinnamon in?”

He nods absently.

“Disgusting,” says Sasha, loading his spoon with a huge mouthful. Ilya ignores him.

His phone lights up again.

“Go slowly,” Sveta murmurs, which is like asking the sun to pace itself when rising. It'll do it in its own fucking time, thank you.

“Eat your breakfast, zhopa,” Sasha grumbles. He’s wearing his cranky face, which Ilya knows is entirely for show.

Ilya does eat his breakfast. Mostly because he wants to keep texting Shane, and if he doesn’t eat or drink enough, his fucked up head stages a protest. He can’t stare at a screen if his brain is bleeding or he does something fucking dumb like pass out again. So yeah, he eats his breakfast, and he drinks his water, and he savors the one and only cup of coffee he’s allowed every day and doesn’t begrudge the fuck out of his limitations the way he usually does.

He takes his medication when Sveta slides over his pillbox.

It’s going to be a long day, and he knows he has to be careful. There’s ice time, and replay time, and another ninety-minute meeting where everyone will talk over each other, and at some point he needs to call his lawyer, and according to his phone schedule, he has to record his baselines again for the pharmacists and…

His phone buzzes again.

And he really doesn’t care.

He’s still grinning when he and Sveta pass security. He can’t help it, not when Shane messages him with the words 'Going for a run, talk in a bit,' as if Ilya has either the right or need to know the details of his life.

“You keep smiling like that, Luchik, everyone is going to know,” Sveta teases him. He looks at her over his shoulder and frowns. “What?” she laughs. “You think the entire team doesn’t know you got in a car with Shane Hollander last night?”

That’s… a fair point. Still…

“We’re friends,” he points out. “Friends can be… friendly.” A fucking plus English there, Rozanov…

“Uh huh.”

“You like him, admit it.”

“I like that you’re smiling again,” she admits. He gets a glimpse of something lurking behind her own smile and melts a little, just for her. She’s small in his arms. Tall, yes, but it brings to mind the warm sunny days of their childhood, back when they were young enough that everything felt simpler.

“Vorobushek,” he teases, drawing her close and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She thumps him in the arm the same as she did when they were children, the indignity of a girl told she was a princess relegated to a little sparrow by the boys in her life. Of course, Ilya and Sasha treated her like a princess, even if they teased her like one of the boys. She’s bossed them both around all their lives, and they love her for it. “You worry too much.”

“I worry enough for the both of us,” she tells him. “I worry enough to tell you to be smart.”

“Not careful?”

She cups his cheek gently. “I think you have to be careful enough with other things now, just… we love you.”

“I love you,” he says immediately. And he does. He loves her, and he loves Sasha, and he knows they love him. He also knows what loving him costs people.

There’s a soft little cough ahead of them. Ilya looks up, Sveta still tucked under his arm, and finds Ashi poking her head nervously out of the office.

“Do you need something?” Sveta asks, flicking Ilya repeatedly in the arm until he chuckles and lets go.

The poor kid looks like she’s about to combust and can’t meet either of their gazes. “Sorry, boss! I didn’t mean to, but like, I figured he’d want to know and-”

“Ashi-”

Ashi flashes all her teeth in a pained grimace. “Roger Crowell’s here to see you, Coach.”

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

So no one is having a particularly great morning...

On the plus side, you do get some answers! Some more questions, maybe, but some answers at least!

Content warnings: discussions of suicide, attempted and implied coercion and duress, implied confinement, medical trauma, PTSD, and Alexei (he's his own warning), mention of SA i.e. Dallas Kent

Shane gets the bare minimum amount of sleep he needs, then goes for a run. It helps him clear his head and gives him the time he needs to focus on what comes next.

The route is muscle memory. Olmsted Path from Peel, the long curve west toward the reservoir, then the Beaver Lake loop and back. Thirteen point seven kilometers, give or take, with enough elevation change to activate his glutes and enough flat to let his lungs warm up. He’s done this route so many times that the pavement knows him.

His feet find the rhythm of the run before his brain does.

Okay. Work first.

Saturday. Toronto. It’s a home game friendly, which is something. He’s hardly looking forward to spending time on the ice with Dallas Kent and his cronies, but he’s not exactly worried. He does think it’s a bit of a fucking joke that he’s the more controversial figure in the sport than a man with a list of sexual assault accusations longer than his leg, but he’s no longer surprised by the ways in which people can turn out to be disappointments.

It’ll be a good game to see how Marlow’s settling in. He’ll catch up with Coach when he gets in and run over the game strategy before they present it to the team that afternoon.

He finishes the first circuit of his run and checks the time. Hardly a PB, but he’s got time for a second loop. It’s still dark outside.

Opting for a more sedate speed, he checks his headphones and dials Rose’s number. She’s in Malta shooting something with swords and sandals, so hopefully she’ll be hitting her lunch break soon.

After six rings, he’s about to hang up. On the seventh, she answers, breathless. “Hey! Oh my god, you are still alive!”

“I’m alive,” he confirms, checking his pace and settling into the second loop. “Is now a good time? If you’re busy-”

“I will shut this entire production down, Shane, I swear to god. I haven’t heard from you in three weeks! Three!” There’s something in the background, a scrape of chairs and a burst of Italian, and then a door closes, and it goes quieter. “Do you know how many times I’ve texted you?”

“A lot.”

“More than seventeen. Less than a hundred, because I’m worried, not weird.”

“Nothing to worry about,” he can’t help but smile a little. Rose fusses like no one he’s ever met.

“Oh my god,“ She breaks off, and he can hear her trying not to laugh, which is the best thing about Rose; she’s incapable of staying annoyed at him for more than thirty seconds. “You are the most infuriating man I have ever met, and I once spent three weeks on a press junket with Jared Leto.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you owe me an apology and a new pair of shoes.” She pauses, the line a little static. “Are you running? Are you calling me while you’re running?”

“I can multitask.”

“Bestill my heart, that makes you like the only guy on the planet who can.”

He’s smiling. He didn’t realize until now how much he needed to hear her voice. It slots something back into place and reminds him that yes, occasionally the world outside of hockey does actually exist. “How’s Malta?”

“Hot. Dusty. My costume has actual chainmail in it. Do you know what chainmail does to your armpits in forty-degree heat? It’s a war crime. I’ve filed a formal complaint.”

“With who?”

“With God, primarily. And with wardrobe, but some kind of deity seems more likely to act.” She takes a breath. “It’s actually fantastic. So pretty! Andy’s is brilliant and I want to marry our DoP. He’s doing this thing with the light in the third act that.. I swear, I have never looked better. We are totally coming out here next summer, okay? We’re gonna borrow Sebastian’s boat and sail around the island. I can dive now! You’re gonna like, relax and work on your tan and make everyone swoon and - oh! Oh my god, so no spoilers, but you have never seen Cassidy look this badass before and-”

That’s the thing about Rose. She complains at length and with great creativity, and underneath all of it she loves everything she does with a fierceness that makes Shane feel straightforwardly fond every single time.

“The cast is good?”

“The cast.” Her voice shifts. He catches the particular frequency of it, something that isn’t quite casual, and his pace slows slightly. “The cast is very good. There’s a guy playing my love interest, Matteo, have you heard of him? He was in that Spanish thriller that blew up in Venice last year.“

“Uh, maybe? The one with the cars?” He watches a lot of movies on flights, but after a while, they all kind of blur together. He still isn't sure he can separate the plots of the last three X-Squad movies.

“That’s the one! Anyway,” she continues, and he can hear the smile in her voice, the particular brightness she gets when she’s trying to sound offhand and failing completely, “he’s very sweet. And very handsome. And he keeps asking me about you.”

Shane’s pace holds steady. “About me.”

“About you! He saw that piece in GQ, the one from February, and he was like, Rose, is that your friend, the hockey player? and I said yes, and he said, tell me everything, and I said, well, there’s not much to tell because he doesn’t talk to me anymore-“

“Rose.”

“-and he said, I would love to meet him, and I said, well, good luck with that because he lives in a cave and communicates primarily through press releases-“

“I don’t live in a cave.”

“Shane. Honey. You canceled on me twice over the summer, you didn’t come to Priya’s birthday, you missed the Gala thing-“

“I was in New York for the Gala thing.”

“You were in New York because you scheduled yourself to be in New York!” She is not wrong. He had, in fact, requested the shoot specifically because the alternative was attending a charity event in a room full of people who would want to talk to him about things he didn’t want to discuss. “My point is, Matteo is gorgeous, and kind, and he has this laugh, Shane, this big ridiculous laugh that comes out of nowhere, and he keeps finding excuses to ask about you, and I think you should let me give him your number.”

He rounds the top of the lake path and the city opens up below him, the early morning light just beginning to stain the skyline. “No.”

“Shane-“

“The last time you set me up with someone, it ended with a tabloid piece and a very uncomfortable conversation with my publicist.” Then he’d had to spend an entire weekend trying to talk his mom out of tanking the guy’s fledgling acting career. To this day, he still has no idea what she has on CAA that they’ll all drop everything the second she snaps her fingers.

“That was not my fault! I didn’t know he was going to post that, I specifically told him you were private-“

“And before that, the guy who wanted me to join, and I quote, ‘The Hollywood Satanists Sex Club’.”

“They don’t actually worship Satan,” she says weakly. “I think they just call themselves that for the tax write-off.”

Yeah, weirdly enough, the Satanism part wasn’t the thing he had the issue with. “Right.”

“Okay, yes, that was a misjudgment on my part, I fully admit-“

“And before that-“

“Shane!” She makes a sound that is somewhere between exasperation and a laugh. “That is a list of two people across, like, the six whole weeks you let me try and set you up with someone before you went full hermit on me.”

And what a fucking awful those six weeks were. Half a year out of the closet and fully resigned to the fact that blowing up his entire life clearly meant fuck all to Ilya, so sure, why not try the dating thing?

It’s the fastest Shane’s ever quit anything in his entire life.

“I’m not a hermit.”

“You’re a hermit crab,” she says firmly. “You have a shell, you live in it, you carry it everywhere you go, and any time someone tries to knock on the door you pull your little legs in and wait for them to give up. It’s adorable and it’s also going to kill you.”

He doesn’t say anything. He focuses on the path, the slap of his shoes against the pavement, the cold air that’s starting to bite at his cheeks. “I know,” he says.

Rose goes quiet. It’s a different kind of quiet than her usual breath-gathering pauses between complaints. “Babe...”

“I’m not a hermit,” he says again, which is not what he means to say.

“Shane.” Softer this time. “Did something happen?”

The path curves east. He follows it. His breath fogs in the cold air, little white clouds pulled apart by his speed, and he watches them dissolve and thinks about how to put everything into words.

“I saw him,” he says. “The guy.”

The silence stretches out long enough that he counts his footfalls. Twelve. Thirteen.

“Oh wow, okay,” Rose says carefully. “How did that go?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Right.” A beat. “Is he... are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He rounds the south end of the lake. The water is flat and dark in the early light, the trees along the bank still. “He’s not, really. He’s been through something. Something bad.”

“How bad?”

The question sits in his throat the same way it did last night, heavy and hard and not going anywhere fast. “Pretty bad.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know everything.” Which is true. “He’s hurt. Like, really hurt. It’s going to take time.”

“But you’re going to see him again.”

It isn’t a question. He doesn’t answer it like one. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Another calibrated pause. “Okay, that’s... I mean, that’s good. Right? That’s what you wanted.”

“It’s not like that.” Except it is exactly like that, and Rose has known him long enough to know when he’s full of shit, so he corrects himself. “It is like that. But I have to go slowly. I can’t fuck things up again.”

“You,” Rose says, with the very specific tone of a woman who has watched him grind himself into the ice over and over again in pursuit of a single objective, “are the most patient man on the planet. You can do slow. And you know what I think about that whole ‘fucking things up’ bullshit.”

He’s told her, in as much detail as he can without telling her really anything much at all. She thinks he was right to leave Ilya that day. She says she would’ve done the exact same thing. She’s wrong, but it’s a little nice, knowing she has his back.

When he doesn’t answer her, she sighs. “Are you still running? How do you not sound out of breath?”

“Years of practice,” he says. “Some of us don’t spend our mornings in chainmail.”

“Some of us get paid very well for it, thank you.” He can hear her shifting, the scrape of something, and then she’s quieter. “I’m glad you saw him. I’m really, really glad.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Even if it’s complicated,” she adds. “Even if it’s slow and it’s hard and it takes forever. I’m glad.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Me too.”

They stay on the line for another few seconds, in a comfortable kind of silence that only works with people you’ve known long enough to relax with.

“Okay,” Rose says finally, businesslike again. “Okay. You have to call me more. That’s not a request, it’s a condition of our friendship. Weekly minimum.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good.” She pauses. “I’m going to wrap in about three weeks, and then I have a press thing in London, but after that I’m completely free, and I thought maybe I’d come to you for a bit? Just for a week or so. I could stay at yours, we could do all the things we keep saying we’re going to do, and you could introduce me to-“

There it is.

He times his breath around a slight incline and buys himself a second. She hasn’t said Ilya’s name. She won’t, he doesn’t think, not unless he says it first.

“You’d be bored,” he says. “I’ll be in the middle of a season.”

“So? I’ll come to your games, we can screw with the paps and your super gross teammates and make everyone fall in love with me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Babe.” The warmth in her voice sharpens slightly, the way it does when she’s decided to stop pretending they’re talking about something other than what they’re talking about. “I just want to see you. That’s it. I want to see that you’re okay.”

“Okay,” he agrees, laughing as she cheers. Maybe he will be able to introduce her to Ilya by that point?

“Yay! Okay, go be all fit and healthy, you weird boy. Love you!”

"I love you, too," he says, and he means it. He'll do better by her. By her, by Ilya, by everyone.

Keeping to a slower pace means he doesn’t get to stay as long in the shower as he’d like, but he’s still on time to practice, which is the main thing. It’s one thing to blow off a session entirely, but if he’s late for anything, it ruins his whole day. Not the mood he wants to be in for this.

He’s fully expecting to have to hunt Marlow down after they wrap for the day, but he’s there again, perched on the hood of his sorry-looking ride, a cigarette between his fingers and a look of abject misery on his face as he stares at the main door with something Shane recognizes as his own form of dread.

He can’t do much to help Marlow settle in, and he knows he’s hardly the warm and fuzzy type. The welcoming committee is always Hayden’s thing, so he makes a mental note to suggest some kind of ‘Welcome to the Team’ drinks or a BBQ or something. He’s happy enough to keep his distance and not go if it means the rest of them settle the fuck down.

Hayden will give him that sad look of his, but he’s used to it by now.

That ticked off, there is one thing Shane can do for Marlow. One thing he knows would help him if their situations were reversed.

“Hey,” he says, jogging over to join Marlow.

Marlow doesn’t look at him. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, exhales slowly, and stares at the door.

“Hey,” he says back, flat.

Shane comes to a stop a few feet away and tries to figure out how to do this. He’s not Hayden. He doesn’t have the easy warmth, the instinct for the right angle of approach.

He tries anyway. “How are you feeling? After yesterday?”

Marlow gives him a sideways look. “Fine.”

“Good.” Shane nods. “Good.” He should probably stop saying good. “Listen.” He pulls out his water bottle and buys himself a second. “I went to Ottawa yesterday.”

Nothing from Marlow. He takes another drag.

“I saw Rozanov.” He keeps his voice neutral. “He seems-“ he’s not sure what word fits, exactly. Okay feels like a lie. Good feels worse. “He’s there,” he settles on. “He’s working.”

Marlow drops the cigarette and grinds it under his heel. “Okay.”

Shane waits. Nothing follows. “I thought maybe you’d want to know.“

“Cool,” Marlow says. Shane frowns. He thinks it doesn’t mean cool. It means stop talking.

Shane stops talking. For about four seconds. “I have Sunday free,” he blurts. “If you wanted to come with me. To Ottawa. We could-“

“No.”

The word is so fast and so flat that Shane actually pauses mid-sentence and has to process it. “You don’t want to see him?”

Marlow pulls his keys out of his pocket, turns them over once, and looks at the door again. “No.”

“He’s right there,” Shane says, because he can’t help it. “It’s a two-hour drive.”

“I know where Ottawa is.”

“You played with him for four years.” You’ve been fucked up since he left. Shane doesn’t say that part out loud.

Marlow’s jaw clenches. “Good for me.”

Shane tries once more, because he genuinely doesn’t understand. He’s not being obtuse. He’s trying to follow the logic, and it isn’t there. “You haven’t seen him in three years.”

“Yeah.” Marlow looks at him for the first time, and his eyes are very flat and very dark, and Shane doesn’t know him well enough to know what that means. He doesn’t know him at all. “I know.”

“And you don’t want to-“

“I’ll see him when we play Ottawa.”

Shane opens his mouth, and Marlow cuts him off before he can start.

“Look.” He’s not shouting. He’s very calm about it, which is somehow worse. “You and me aren’t friends. Okay? We’re teammates. That’s a different thing.” He picks up his bag, adjusts the strap over his shoulder and meets Shane’s eyes. Shane wants to look away. “I’m not gonna be a dick to you. I’m not gonna let anyone else be a dick to you either. But that’s not the same as being buddies. I don’t need a buddy.”

Shane stands there.

“So you can save the whole,” Marlow gestures vaguely at him, “whatever this is.”

He doesn’t move for a second. He just stands there on the asphalt and watches Marlow walk toward the door, and tries to figure out what he did wrong.

Then he follows him. Not because he has more to say, but because the door is where he’s going anyway.

“I wasn’t trying to-“ he starts.

“Drop it.” Marlow doesn’t look back. He hits the door with the flat of his palm and holds it open, not for Shane exactly, but not not for him either.

“I just thought-“

“Drop it.” He stops then, one hand still on the door, and turns enough that Shane can see his face. He looks pissed now. “And stay the fuck out of my business.”

Shane closes his mouth.

Marlow goes inside. Shane follows him in, awkwardness curdling in his stomach.

The locker room is the usual pre-practice chaos. It gets a raised eyebrow, him and Marlow walking in together, but weirdly enough they don’t give Marlow any shit, and just ignore Shane like usual. Normal. Shane moves through it on autopilot, finds his stall, starts the mechanical process of getting changed, and tries very hard not to think.

He thinks.

What is he going to tell Ilya?

Marlow’s here. Marlow’s two hours away and Ilya knows it and he won’t come. He doesn’t want to see him. Why the fuck does he not want to see him? Shane wants to see him right this very second.

Fuck… not even twenty-four hours, and he’s already letting Ilya down again.

“Hey buddy,” Hayden steps into his space, all soft voice and worry, like he’s afraid Shane’s going to bolt. He’s not. Where would he even go? “You-”

Shane grabs his kit bag and slings it over his shoulder. He’ll finish getting ready on the bench.

“I’ll see you on the ice,” he says to Hayden, and leaves before he can say something Shane isn’t gonna be able to handle hearing.

Roger Crowell is the last person Ilya wants or expects to see standing in the office on day three of a job he is still not entirely sure he deserves.

Crowell is in his sixties, silver-haired, built like a man who was athletic once and tries to cling to that status as best he can. He’s wearing a suit that costs more than Ilya’s monthly salary, which he knows, because once upon a time Ilya had his own version. He likes to think he wore it better, but Crowell looks comfortable and easy, like he owns the club, Ilya, and everyone else in the building. Which he doesn’t, technically, but technicalities don’t mean shit when there’s this much money involved.

Ilya doesn’t like him. He’s never liked him. He’s spent a limited amount of time in the man’s company, which is probably the only reason he’s never actively thought much about him at all. Crowell is old-school, and old-fashioned, and in Ilya’s experience, both tend to make the kind of man that makes lives difficult, not easy.

Though… thinking about it… the last time he saw Crowell was a pre-season gala four years ago. He’d made some speech about ‘respecting the opinions of all players’ in response to the homophobic bullshit that came out of Toronto following San Jose and Dallas making a second shot at rolling out Pride Nights.

He and Marlow had spent the better part of an evening filling Crowell’s car with balloons sourced from a children’s birthday party in the hotel’s east wing. It had taken forty minutes and a lot of swearing on Marlow’s part. Tying balloons is a lot fucking harder than either of them expected and he’s had a whole new appreciation for those fancy ass arches ever since.

Fuck, he misses that dumb sonovabitch. No one enabled his chaos quite like Cliff Marlow.

Crowell had not, as far as Ilya knows, ever found out it was them.

And he’s smiling now, which is worse than if he were angry. Not that Ilya’s given him any reason to be angry. Recently, at least.

“Ilya.” Crowell extends his hand. He says Ilya’s name the English way, flat in the middle, but he’s making an effort, which Ilya clocks and files and doesn’t give him any credit for. “Good to see you, son.”

Ilya shakes his hand because refusing would be A Whole Thing, and he doesn’t want Things, not on day three, not when he’s still figuring out how to make it through a day without his brain melting. “Commissioner.”

“Roger, please.” He says it like they’re old friends, which they are absolutely not. “You’re looking well.”

Ilya says nothing to that. He is not, particularly, looking well. He’s looked better. He’s also looked significantly worse, so he supposes it’s a matter of framing.

Crowell’s smile doesn’t waver, which is its own kind of unnerving. Ilya has been smiled at by people who don’t mean it for most of his adult life and he’s developed what he considers a fairly reliable internal alarm system. Right now it’s ringing low and persistent, like a smoke detector in another room.

“Do you have a few minutes?” Crowell asks. “I won’t take up much of your time.”

There’s no sign of Brandon, or any of the others. Ilya’s not sure he feels he has the right to offer ownership of the space he shares with Gervais and Brax and Russo, but they’re not here, so… he waves his arm to the cluster of chairs set up around the large TV stationed opposite Brax’s desk.

Crowell settles into the chair closest to the door, and Ilya wants to scream a little. He doesn’t. He sits opposite and waits.

“Three days in,” Crowell says, pleasantly. “How are you finding it?”

Ilya looks at him. “Fine,” he says.

“The staff treating you well?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good.” Crowell nods, as if Ilya has told him something meaningful. He laces his fingers together, elbows on his knees, and gives Ilya the particular look of a man who has practiced listening so thoroughly it’s become indistinguishable from performance. “Wiebe is wet behind the ears, but he’s got potential. I’m sure he’ll benefit from your experience.”

Yes. Ilya’s three whole days of experience. “Coach Wiebe has a solid plan for the season,” Ilya says carefully. He’s never been loyal to anyone but Boston before, but the Centaurs are his, now, which means he’s dying on any and every hill he has to stand on in their defense. “I look forward to helping him put it into action.”

Crowell flashes him a wry grin. “Always forgot how much politer you were off the ice.”

On of the funnier side effects of your brain dying is that one of the hangovers, at least in Ilya’s case, is the physical manifestation of that nauseous feeling you get around folks like Crowell. Nauseating becomes a literal thing. He wonders if Crowell will think him so polite if he pukes all over his Stefano Riccis? Seriously, who the fuck wears bespoke Italian leather to a fucking hockey arena?

“Yes, sir,” Ilya says, offering the same dead-eyed smile he’s given people in Crowell’s position all his adult life. “I try.”

It sails right over the asshole’s head. “And the setup here, the facilities, the… is there anything you need? Anything we can do to make things more manageable for you?”

There it is. Smooth as a knife slipped neatly between his ribs.

Ilya keeps his face exactly where it is. “No. Thank you.”

“You sure? Because we want to make sure you’ve got everything you need to do the job well. Whatever that looks like. We can be flexible.”

“I’m sure,” Ilya says. “There is nothing. The team is very accommodating.”

Crowell holds his gaze for a beat longer than is strictly comfortable, then smiles again. Wide, warm… very fucking unnearving. “Fantastic. Really. I mean that.” He sits back in his chair. “You know, I have to be honest with you, Ilya-“

Oh, here they go… ‘I have to be honest with you’ is the preamble of a man about to say something he’s carefully prepared in advance and wants to sound spontaneous.

“-I’ve been thinking about you.”

Ilya waits.

“Real tragedy what happened to you, son. Hit all of us pretty hard. Can’t say I liked seeing you like that.”

“Wait,” he says. His voice comes out level. He’s proud of that. “You were there?”

“Of course,” Crowell says it the way you say of course I came to your graduation, easy and unremarkable, just stating the obvious. “Flew in same night. Think I beat the sun up.”

Ilya stares at him.

Why the fuck would Roger Crowell, the Commissioner of the MLH fly out to his bedside? He knows LeClair must’ve been on site. Maybe someone from the Players Association…

“I didn’t know that,” Ilya says.

Crowell waves a hand. “Didn’t expect you to.” He lets out a small laugh. “You weren’t exactly in a position to know much of anything.”

The static gets louder.

Ilya forces himself to breathe. Four in. He doesn’t get to four out before Crowell keeps going.

“Doctors had you on everything, of course. Tubes, machines, the whole picture.” He says it almost fondly, the way you’d describe a complicated renovation. What a picture that was. “Couldn’t get a straight answer out of anyone for the first twenty-four hours. Critical this, hypoxic injury that. A lot of too early to know.” His mouth pulls sideways. “I’ve sat through a lot of medical briefings in my time, but that one…” He exhales through his nose. “That one was something else.”

Crowell sounds like he attended a funeral. He’s respectful and faintly self-congratulatory in the way of someone who wants credit for showing up. “Terrible business. Terrible. The doctors weren’t even sure you’d make it... they didn’t say that, of course…” He exhales through his nose. “Well. You know how doctors are. Very careful with their language.”

Ilya does not, in fact, know how the doctors were. He knows how doctors have been, subsequently, in the months and years that followed. He does not know what they said in Boston, because he was not there for it.

He was there. He just wasn’t there.

“Didn’t look like you,” Crowell continues, and there’s something almost gentle in it, which is somehow worse than if he were clinical about it. “I’ve seen you play, what, two hundred times? Three hundred? And lying there, you just looked...” He trails off and picks it back up with, “Small. That’s the word. I kept thinking, that can’t be my superstar!”

He’s not wrong, there. Crowell’s superstar, if that’s what Ilya was, was well and truly dead by that point, along with some fairly important parts of Ilya’s grey matter.

Crowell lets out a heavy sigh and looks at Ilya with a directness that makes him want to squirm. “I imagine it must have felt like a pretty huge betrayal, being sent back home.”

“No,” Ilya says, because there isn’t much else to say. He’s never imagined Crowell being the one to send him back to Russia, but he knew it was someone. LeClair, he thought. It ultimately doesn’t matter. Why wouldn’t they get rid of him once it became clear he no longer served any purpose?

All players have a baseline they must return to after any head injury if they want to be back on the ice. The damage Ilya did… it probably didn’t take them more than a few days to realize that baseline was never going to be something he’d reach again.

Crowell laces his fingers together and rests them on his knee. “We did our due diligence, of course. The Serebryany Institute got flying colors from our docs, and your brother worked a miracle getting you a place there so quickly… how is he doing, anyway? He must be excited to see you back in the thick of things. Relatively speaking, of course-”

A hand clamps down on Ilya’s wrist. He jerks back, the world tipping out of focus. He blinks and catches his breath. Crowell still has his hands folded together. There’s no one else in the room with them. “I… yes. Of course.”

Alexei might know. He probably knows… but Ilya doesn’t like thinking about that, because then his mind starts wandering down hallways that lead to dark places and-

He closed the office door behind him. Is it locked? Can he get up and check without looking like a freak?

Crowell continues on. “Real happy you’re on the mend, son. Real happy. Can’t say I ever expected to see it, but they make you Russian boys outta stern stuff!”

Ilya ate breakfast. He’s hydrated. He’s had his morning meds. He slept. He’s not… there’s no blaring lights of screaming music, so there’s no reason to feel as dizzy as he does.

He swallows hard. “It is a privilege to be part of the league again,” he says, oh so carefully.

“Yes,” Crowell nods. He gets it. “Listen, son, there’s one more thing I’d like to discuss.”

Is that what this is? Is he discussing something?

“Yes?” He can’t call Sveta. He’s not that fucking pathetic. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“It wasn’t easy,” Crowell says, and he sounds sterner now. “Keeping your… indiscretion private. Cost us a lot of money,” he laughs and shakes his head. “You cost us a lot of money. Every penny well spent, of course. We protect our own. But I’m sure you can appreciate the need to protect the hockey community just as much. You had a lot of fans, Ilya. Lots of very young, impressionable fans. Suicide is a scary topic of conversation. One that should be left to parents to have with their kids at the appropriate time. It’s not a word we need to be associated with.”

Suicide.

“I didn’t…” Ilya mumbles, “It was an accident.”

Crowell stands up. Ilya follows, slowly. He has to lock every muscle in his legs down hard not to sway.

“Atta boy!” Crowell says, clapping Ilya on the shoulder. “That’s a message we can live with. Nobody needs to know the details.”

Ilya shakes his head. “No…”

“I’m sure folks will be lining you up to ask all kinds of questions. Let’s stick to the one story, yes? No inappropriate conversations for us, no Twitter pundits saying shit like, ‘ha! What does this rich, privileged, good-looking guy have to try to kill himself over?’ for you. Everyone can get what they need.”

Ilya finds himself nodding. “It was an accident.”

Crowell reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out an envelope. “I trust you, son. But I’d feel a lot better for both os us if you’d sign this for me.”

There’s a pen between his fingers and a hand wrapped around his own, and Alexei’s expensive new cologn makes him dizzy, “Just sign here, Ilyusha, then you can go back to sleep. I’ll put that weird Canadian architecture film on you like…”

Ilya twitches and stares at the envelope.

“Just sign here, Ilyusha.”

He blinks hard.

Not Alexei. He’s in Ottawa. He’s in his office. He has a job. The door isn’t locked. He can leave if he wants. If his feet will work…

“Take your time,” Crowell says, in the voice of a man for whom time costs money and therefore cannot be wasted. He holds the envelope out another inch.

The door opens.

Brandon comes through it first, clipboard in hand, talking before he’s even fully in the room. “Hey, Roz, you ready to hit-“ He stops when he clocks Crowell. “Commissioner. Didn’t realize you were on-site today.”

Sveta comes in behind him. Of course she went for backup. Ilya’s locked too tight to be mad or relieved or humiliated.

“Mr. Crowell,” she says warmly, and she’s already crossing the room with her hand out. “Lovely to see you again.” She shakes his hand before he can redirect his attention back to Ilya, and her grip, Ilya knows from experience, is a hell of a lot firmer than most people expect from someone of her stature. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Crowell says. He’s smiling again. He looks at Ilya. “Just wrapping up. If Ilya could take a moment to-“

“Sorry, Rozy,” Brandon says, and there’s an apology in his voice Ilya’s almost impressed by. He sounds genuine. “I actually need you on the ice. We’ve got a timing issue with the line drills, and Haas has decided you’re his good luck charm. He and the rookies might stage a mutiny without you.” He taps his clipboard. “Right now, if you can manage it.”

Ilya lowers his hand. He puts it flat against his thigh and presses, just to feel something solid.

“Of course,” he says.

Crowell’s smile tightens by a fraction. He looks at the envelope in his hand, then back at Ilya. “This will only take a minute.”

“Happy to help with that,” Sveta is all warmth and all professional courtesy, all her sharp edges wrapped in silk. “We have excellent people here. Whatever the paperwork is, they’ll turn it around quickly. Make sure we’re dotting all the i’s.” She says that last word with particular care. “Isn’t that right, Coach?”

Brandon, to his considerable credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely. And they’re fast. But right now-“ he looks at Ilya, and the look is direct and practical and does not contain a single gram of pity, which is the only reason Ilya can meet it “-I genuinely do need you on the ice. You know how twitchy those kids can get.”

Crowell looks at the envelope in his hand.

There’s a beat where it could go either way, and Ilya is aware of it the way you’re aware of a car that’s slightly too close on the highway, a proximity that hasn’t yet become impact but is applying itself in that direction.

Then Crowell tucks the envelope back into his breast pocket.

“Of course,” he says, easy as anything. “We can sort this next time we see each other.” He smiles at Ilya, and for the first time, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t let me keep you, son. Go do what you do.”

He extends his hand again.

Ilya shakes it. His own hand feels like it belongs to someone else, but it does what he tells it to, which is nice.

“Good to see you, son. Real good.” Crowell buttons his jacket. “Take care of yourself.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says. “Commissioner.”

Crowell says something else, pleasantries, something directed at Sveta, who answers him with the same warm professional fluency, steering him naturally toward the door. Brandon holds it open. And then Crowell is through it, and his footsteps are receding down the corridor, and the particular pressure of his presence in the room is gone.

The door swings shut.

Ilya stands where he is. “I… I will go get changed,” he says, extra careful with his words. The idea of putting skates on right now is terrifying. He’s not sure how he’s still upright, and the idea of being on the ice like this is… fuck, he can take solid ground betraying him, but not the ice. He needs that to be normal. He needs it to be safe. But fuck, he has a job to do… “If… if you could tell Haas I will be there-”

“Haas and all the other rookies are running bag skates for the next half an hour as punishment for getting fucked up on whatever moonshine Dykstra’s started brewing in his bathtub. You’re not needed anywhere right now. Sit down.”

Ilya drops down into his chair.

“I’m sorry I let you get ambushed,” Brandon continues. “I’m going to go make sure the good commissioner doesn’t get lost on his way out, then I’m going to go have a word with his office.”

“Save some for me,” Sveta says fiercely. “No one ambushes my fucking staff without coming through me first.”

Ilya has the vague memory of her wanting to come with him. He shut her down, determined to prove something to someone and… stupid, really, and selfish. He’s looked at her as Sveta, his friend and babysitter, not as Svetlana, Director of Hockey Operations and therefore one hundred percent the person legally and professionally responsible for Ilya while he’s working.

“You gotta let me at least get the first punch in,” Brandon rolls his eyes. “They already think I’m scared of you.” Sveta arches one elegant eyebrow, and he clears his throat. “Which is entirely accurate. Ilya, you do what you need to, and I hope to see you after the staff meeting.”

Ilya starts to protest. “I should be-”

“I'm canceling it today,” Brandon says kindly. “I want to get some more time with Haas, Dillion, and Bood on the line before we discuss, and there’s no point even trying to figure out the mess that is the third line until those idiots shake off their hangovers.”

It’s a kindness Ilya doesn’t fucking deserve, but he takes gratefully.

Brandon nods. “Lana, I’ll catch up with you later this afternoon.”

Sveta nods, but her attention is now all on Ilya. Brandon leaves and takes the air in the room with him.

The door doesn’t lock. It has a lock, but it’s never used when people are in the building. Only at night. It’s not night.

He knows this.

He also knows that the envelope is in Crowell’s breast pocket and not in his own hands, which should feel like a relief, but instead feels like a stay of execution, which is a very stupid and unhelpful way to feel about a piece of paper he doesn’t even know the contents of.

Just sign here, Ilyusha.

The chair he’s sitting in has arms. He puts both his hands on them and presses down. There’s soft fabric under his palms, not hard plastic or vinyl. It’s stable and sturdy, no wheels…

Ottawa. He’s in Ottawa. He’s in the Centaurs’ facility, which is his facility now, or at least partially his, in the sense that he belongs here in a professional capacity and has every right to be sitting in this chair and every right to get up out of it whenever he fucking wants to.

He can’t quite make himself do that last part yet.

“Ilyusha,” Sveta’s voice comes from very close. He didn’t hear her move. That happens sometimes, the gap between registering sound and locating it in space. She crouches in front of him, which puts her below his eyeline, which is deliberate. “Look at me, Luchik…”

He looks at her.

Her eyes are green. He’s known the shade of them since they were children, and he still finds it steadying, that particular green, the color of birch leaves in early summer. She has both her hands resting on her own knees, not touching him. Waiting to be invited.

“There you are,” she says softly.

He tries to say something, but what comes out is a controlled exhale that isn’t quite steady.

“The door isn’t locked,” Sveta assures him. “You can walk out whenever you want.”

“I know,” he says. His voice comes out thinner than he intends.

“I know you know.” She tips her head slightly. “Say it back to me anyway.”

He breathes. “The door isn’t locked.”

“Good.”

Sveta crawls up into his lap.

Her weight is slight and familiar, and she tucks herself in against his chest with her knees drawn up and her head under his chin, and wraps both arms around him, and holds on.

Ilya closes his eyes.

He doesn’t mean to make the sound he makes. It comes out of him before he can stop it, something low and cracked that he’d be ashamed of if he had the resources for shame right now. He brings his arms up around her and pulls her in, and she lets him hide his face in her curls. It’s easier, knowing she can’t see his expression. It’s easier, pretending he’s the one comforting her, not the other way around, and it fills him with an astonishing level of self-loathing when he thinks, just for a second, how very badly he wants Shane to be the one he’s holding.

“Did you know?” He asks her, not sure when he started rocking them.

“Know what?”

“That Crowell was there at the hospital.” He still can’t get his head around the idea.

“Yes,” she says softly. “Or, well, we suspected.”

“I don’t remember,” he admits. She knows he doesn’t. They’ve talked about this. He’s no fucking clue why he’s being such a pussy about it now.

She shifts until she can curl a hand around the back of his neck and stroke her thumb over the ridge of his spine. “I know,” she says gently. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He holds her tighter. “Not your fault.”

“I should’ve been there.”

She wasn’t. She was in Monaco, selling fancy cars to fancier people at one of the most prestigious events in the fancy car calendar year.

She didn’t know until the rest of the world did, because Ilya was fucking stupid, and careless, and the club was his medical proxy until someone could reach his father, and his father…

“Okay, fuck, enough.” He pulls back enough to press a kiss to her forehead, then gently nudges her to slide off his knee. “I am bored of being fucking sad.”

Sveta hesitates for only a moment before she summons him a smile and nods. She reaches up and straightens the neck of his hoodie, which he thinks is more for her benefit than his. “Okay. Just…take a minute, yes?”

“Yes, Boss,” he teases, still shakier than he likes.

She leaves him with a cup of tea from the station he didn’t ask for and doesn’t want, set on the edge of his desk within easy reach, and the door pulled almost-but-not-quite closed behind her.

Crowell’s cologne is still in the room. Or he’s imagining it. He’s not always reliable on that front.

Suicide is a scary topic of conversation.

He doesn’t think about it. He picks up the tea instead, wraps both hands around the mug, and focuses on the heat of the ceramic against his palm.

He’s okay.

After another minute, he actually believes it enough to reach into his pocket for his phone.

Shane’s last message is still on the screen from this morning, sitting above the little string of back-and-forth that Ilya has been rereading at intervals like a man with a compulsive disorder and absolutely no shame about it. The photo of his breakfast. Shane’s response, which was three separate messages sent in quick succession: that looks good actually, then wait, did you make that, then send me the recipe?

Ilya had sent back a shrug emoji and felt like a teenager.

There’s a new one. Sent fifteen minutes ago.

He opens it.

Hey. Bad news, sorry. Marlow can’t do Sunday.

Can’t, or won’t? Fuck… okay, so he needs to come up with a Plan B. He's not even close to having the capacity to do that right now.

A pause in the message thread is indicated by the timestamp. Then, a minute later:

I still want to come if that’s okay with you? I’d really like to see you.

Ilya reads it twice. Then a third time. Look at that… Shane Hollander asking for something that isn’t Ilya’s dick.

I’d really like to see you.

He types yes and deletes it. Types of course and deletes that too. He’s not going to pretend he isn’t desperate, but he doesn’t need to perform it quite that nakedly.

Sunday works, he sends.

His phone buzzes almost immediately. I can come to you? Or we can go out somewhere?

Go out somewhere. They’ve never been out anywhere.

Who are you and what have you done with Shane Hollander?

The angry face Shane sends back is an almost perfect digital replica of his cute little scowl. Before Ilya can respond, Shane adds, We don’t have to. That’s not what you need right now.

What Ilya needs is Shane. Preferably in his bed, and preferably when they are both fully conscious. Next time, Ilya responds. He does want to… go out with Shane. Fuck, he wants that in a way that makes him feel kinda stupid. But also, I don’t want to share you.

Those three little dots appear, vanish, appear again, and then, a whole two minutes later, Shane answers. I can be there for eight.

Montreal has a friendly on Saturday evening. Ottawa has one on Friday. Ilya’s probably going to need all of Saturday to recover, and normally, the idea of getting out of bed so early on a day he doesn’t have to be somewhere would fill him with irritation. What the fuck does Shane Hollander do to him that he looks at the time and just feels giddy, knowing they’ll have the whole day together?

Yes, he sends back. Okay.

An immediate ping. It’s a date.

Chapter End Notes

So apparently you want Ilya's Banoffee Breakfast Recipe...

Date Caramel

5 Medjool dates - pitted
3 tbsp almond butter
½ cup (120 ml) milk
pinch sea salt flakes

Blend all this together.

Oats

4 tbsp (40 g) chia seeds
1.5 cups (160 g) rolled oats
2.5 cups (590 ml) milk
1 sliced (1) banana
½ cup (120 g) yogurt

Combine all these, leave in the fridge for at least 4 hours (or overnight)

If you want to make it pretty (and get a better balance of yumminess) layer the oat mix with the slices of an extra banana (so 2 in total) and the caramel. You can eat straight away, or let it chill a little more. You can swap any of the dairy options for a non-dairy alternative (soy works pretty well), and use gluten-free oats.

Lots of protein and fibre so probably Shane approved as well.

Sprinkle raw cacao powder and/or cinnamon, enjoy!

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

So this is a pretty Ilya-heavy chapter and, uh, I'm gonna go... over there.

Thursday's chapter will be more Shane-focused.

I'll also be posting it from the literal middle of nowhere with only a satellite for help, so while everything is loaded and ready to go, it is all at the mercy of the connectivity gods.

Warnings for: homophobic language, show typical violence, a pretty mean cliffhanger...

There’s maybe one upside, in Ilya’s opinion, to the whole brain injury thing. The concept of ‘big emotions’ might make him feel like a toddler, but it’s kinda true. If he doesn’t want his head to start pounding, or worse, to have a full-on meltdown like said toddler, he has to be really disciplined with just how much time and energy he gives to each emotion he feels at a time.

He might be the only person to think that counts as an upside, but fuck, he’s the one living it.

It might mean it will take him days to work through his feelings about something instead of minutes, but it also means he has space to process only one big thing at a time if he wants to remain functional.

Today’s thing: the sheer fucking terror he’s feeling in facing his first game.

The rest of it, the pride and the sorrow and the rage and the grief… they’ll kick in at some point down the line, probably when he least wants them to, but for now everything is fixed on managing that fear.

Step one: armor. Life has taught him that you need armor if you want to escape a battle unscathed. He doesn’t have his kit, the custom-made shields he can physically slide between his body and the outside world, but he does, at least, have something to fall back on.

Sveta is responsible for his suit. He has no idea what happened to his old clothes in Boston, but they’d need tailoring anyway, so Sveta’s contribution to the war chest is a closet full of pieces she’s had made for him. He has to look professional. He has to look smart. It reminds him, in many ways, of being a child. He had a uniform for school. A uniform for hockey. A uniform for being out in public with his father, always on show, always an extension and representation of his family. It used to be something he hated, something quickly cast aside in favor of the expensive sportswear brands would send him in the hopes he’d be seen wearing them… comfortable and breathable and silky, sleek, soft…

Funny that he’s finding comfort in the suits now. Funny how the things hated in childhood end up being the most perverse of comfort blankets as an adult.

Step two: earplugs. Sasha gets the win on those. They’re small black disks that sit right in his ears, mostly hidden by hair he purposely doesn’t slick back. They don’t stop the noise, just mute it enough that he can focus on the conversations around him without worrying that the sudden blast of an airhorn is going to make his nose bleed.

Step three: sunglasses. Everyone already thinks he’s a douchebag. The Ray-Bans will just remind them of that. And maybe, if Ilya’s lucky, they’ll get him through all three periods. He takes his meds just the same.

He’s been to a game since coming to Canada. Many of them. He’s watched from the stands, testing out different techniques, different aides. So far, this is the best combo.

But there’s something very different between watching a game and helping run one. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that this is a test. Forget the whole world… It’s his team who are going to be watching, Brandon, most of all.

Can Ilya hack it? Can he actually do his job?

Hence… the terror. Of failure. Or humiliation. Of triggering another seizure, of the pain he knows is going to follow regardless, and the knowledge that if he wants to actually make a career out of this, he’s going to have to just accept it as a consequence because he’s never going to get better. Of what that means…

It’s fine. Better this than anything else. Better this than-

“Coach!”

Haas has been twitchy all day, through the pre-game briefing and the warm-ups, and is still vibrating in his skates when Ilya enters the locker room to join Brandon’s final rundown.

The kid is waiting by the whiteboard, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a way that would make Ilya nauseatingly dizzy if he weren’t drugged to the fucking eyebrows.

The rest of the team is rolling through their rituals: headphones, sticks, maybe a mile or so of tape combined, and the standard Centaurs issue of utterly flavorless electrolyte drinks. Brandon’s running through last-minute reminders with the lines posted on the board in all caps, blocking off every permutation of disaster to a T and making sure everyone’s accounted for.

Ilya slots into position just behind the goalies, to the left of Brandon, and waits for the run-down to finish.

It only takes two minutes for Haas to whip around and pin Ilya with that wide-eyed look of panic.

“Coach,” he whispers, voice pinched tight as he leans in. Ilya doesn’t flinch. He props a shoulder to the cinderblock wall, tucks both hands behind his back, and tilts his head.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Haas isn’t breathing. It takes effort for Ilya not to smile, but the effect would be lost behind the sunglasses anyway.

“Tonight’s just a friendly,” he says. “Time to take what we’ve been doing in practice and get some proper feedback to work with.”

Haas looks like he’s about to faint. “I just- I don’t want to, uh, ruin the-”

“Haas,” Ilya cuts in, low and level. “Arena is half-empty. All the real fans are still at home, waiting for the game to matter. Even if it goes to shit, no one cares. Not even the stats guy, and that bastard gives way too many fucks.”

“It’s my first game.”

“Here, yes. Not ever. How many have you played? Fifty? Hundred?”

Haas bounces his knees. “It’s your first game.”

Ilya snorts. Like that's going to make the slightest fucking difference when he's not on the ice. “And if you’re counting on me to score, we are more fucked than any of us thought.” He drops his hand to the heavy padding on the kid’s shoulder.

Haas looks unsure. “So… I should just… go for it?”

Ilya nods and lets a smile crack his mask. “You are fast, yes?”

“Yeah?”

“Outrun everyone. Score as many as you can. Try not to lose every face-off.”

This gets a snort out of Haas, which is about as much as Ilya expects. He rolls back a step, reassured, and Ilya gets to check off Handled One Child for the day.

Haas fidgets a beat, then asks, “Did you ever feel like this? About a friendly, I mean. Like you couldn’t fuck up or you’d get sent back to, uh, Russia?”

The laugh sneaks out of Ilya before he can lock it down. “No, Haas,” he says, shaking his head. “You will not get deported if we lose to the Admirals. We might get booed, but bad noise is still better than no noise.”

“And would you…” he looks down, then back up at Ilya. “Would you treat it as a friendly? Like extra practice?”

Ilya sighs. “Half the team is injured. The other half is either shiny new or rusty old or hasn’t had a good line to play on for too long. It is practice.”

“But…”

“But I would want to go out there and make Scott Hunter cry?”

Haas bites his lip. “You don’t like Hunter?”

“I don’t believe in abusing the elderly,” Ilya shrugs. “Made it hard to play at full capacity, no?” That makes the kid laugh. Goal to Ilya. Metaphorically speaking. “Go for his knees,” he shrugs. “They need replacing by now anyway.”

“Jesus,” Haas flushes.

Fuck, Ilya’s working with infants.

Dear god, is this what Hunter feels like?

“Have fun,” he tells Haas, now wanting to go lie down in front of the Zamboni. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You can’t fucking tell him that shit,” Boodram hollers from across the room. “Our insurance ain’t that high.”

“Yes,” Ilya shouts back, because he’s a fucking coach. “I fucking can!”

The game is…

Well, the game is loud, and bright, and fast, and chaotic, and they take an absolute fucking battering at four nothing to the Admirals.

But Haas wins one of his lineouts against Hunter (then loses the rest), and more importantly, Ilya doesn’t puke, pass out, or have a seizure.

As games go, it’s a small one. Hardly any crowd, no home team celebration… they’ll get worse.

But it's is a win in his books.

When he catches up with Sveta, she can’t look too happy, not at the loss. Sasha just looks bored as he trails after her, but that’s one of his default expressions.

Everyone is disappointed. Ilya’s not sure why. Miracles don’t happen overnight.

“You’re off the hook for press,” Brandon tells him quietly after the debrief. “Can’t keep them at bay forever once the season kicks off, but you’re good for tonight.”

Ilya nods, grateful. They’re coming for him and he knows he can’t avoid that. But…

But yeah, he’s fucking done. He needs to be in a cold, dark room and total silence for a few minutes (hours).

“You did good,” Brandon adds. “And you’ll get better.”

It’s kind of him to say. Inaccurate, but kind.

Ilya doesn’t really mind. Not when he checks his phone on the way to the parking lot and sees a message from Shane.

You suck less than you did last season :)

Ilya’s at capacity for bright anything, but it’s worth the spike of pain behind his eyes to text back.

Fuck you, I suck great.

Toronto is a boring team to play. Kent is… not an awful player, unfortunately, and Barrett could be great if he ever pulled his head out of Kent’s ass. They have a half-decent goalie who makes up for their shitty defense, but all in all… they’d be better, both individually and as a team, if they got a little fucking creativity and put some damn work into their game instead of just relying on cheap chirps.

Shane doesn’t give a fuck. He did, once, back when he had something to lose, something of himself left to protect, but that’s long gone, so the string of homophobic bullshit that comes out of their mouths means jack shit to him. It all sails through one ear and out the other while Shane focuses on outskating their sloppy footwork and exploiting the fact that Kent has one - admittedly fucking excellent - move, and Shane can shut that shit down, no problem.

It leaves them nothing but brute force to fall back on, and they have to catch him first.

They have better luck getting a rise out of Shane’s teammates, who hate the implication by proxy that their captain is a gay man. And one who doesn’t have Scott Hunter’s All-American Whiteness going for him.

What’s interesting, this time around, is the addition of Marlow. Or, weirdly, what the addition of Marlow does to the Metros. After the whole locker room situation with Comeau, Shane’s already given Marlow the warning that blowing his cool on the ice won’t be tolerated, but it’s not actually Marlow who starts the first fight.

It’s Comeau, who, right when Kent asks Shane if he looks so tired because he’s been out all night sucking cock, turns around and punches Kent in the face.

Shane’s probably more surprised than Kent is.

Comeau skates past him on the way to the penalty box and glares. “I’m not fucking disloyal!”

Shane just has time to blink and nod before the whistle goes again.

Over on the bench, Marlow has his mouthguard clamped between the biggest shiteating grin Shane’s ever seen.

Ilya crawls his way out of bed and onto the couch just in time to catch the first puck drop of Shane’s game. Sveta is the one who puts it on, leaving Sasha to bitch and moan before ultimately flopping dramatically onto the couch and pulling Ilya’s head down into his lap.

“I hate both of you,” Sasha moans. “My entire fucking weekend lost to hockey.”

He wants to complain, too. His body is a solid block of pain and exhaustion. He’s slept, but badly now for the second night in a row, and the compound interest is a bitch to handle. He’s slept all fucking day, and while he knows Sveta is going to insist he eats something at some point, as soon as the game is done, he’s going right back to bed.

He’s a cheap date now, if nothing else.

But he doesn’t really mind that much, being in pain, not when there’s Shane on the screen, slightly awkward in his warm-up but still beautiful, and it’s a minor miracle how little it takes to make his whole fucking day better.

He allows Sveta to tuck the blanket around his knees and leaves the loft a hazy blur around him, his gaze fixed on the TV. They have the settings all on low, low contrast, low res, low sound, low brightness, but he’ll be lucky if he can actually last the whole game without having to close his eyes and just listen.

“Your boyfriend is going to lose,” Sasha announces after the first intermission, his hand pressing steady circles into Ilya’s skull.

“S’not my boyfriend,” Ilya mumbles.

Sveta stretches out her legs, prodding Sasha with her toe. “They’re leading by two,” she points out. “Are you blind as well as stupid?”

“Maybe I just don’t give a fuck? And since when do you like Montreal? I thought they were all whiny cunts?”

Ilya frowns, annoyed that Shane is no longer on screen as some perky actress tries to sell them a new brand of cider.

He hates Montreal because he plays for Boston.

Played. Played for Boston. “They are?” He’s missing some context.

“Ask your boyfriend,” Sasha hums beneath him, the sound rolling through Ilya’s chest.

“S’not my boyfriend,” Ilya says again. “What’s wrong with Shane?”

“Other than his hair?” Sveta teases. Ilya flaps around until he can grab a cushion, then throws it in what he hopes is her general direction.

“I like his hair,” he defends, because he does. It’s so soft and so silky and it’s like running his fingers over rabbit fur. It doesn’t matter to Ilya if it’s short and spiky, or longer enough to fall down over his pretty eyes.

“Oh, we know,” Sasha teases. “And his freckles and-”

“Say one bad thing about the freckles,” Ilya warns, “and I will bite you.”

“He’s very cute,” Sveta straight-up laughs at him.

“In what world is that man fucking cute?” Sasha demands. “He’s a fucking beast.” Now back on screen, Shane takes that precise moment to check one of Toronto’s guys hard into the barrier.

Ilya remembers what it’s like to be on both sides of that hit. They’ve done damage to each other over the years, then fucked right after, bruises fresh and mouths still bloody. Fuck, there was one game in Montreal where they’d both been fucked off about something, though he can’t remember what. Ilya almost put his back out holding Shane down while he’d thrashed and kicked, and Shane had left a set of teeth marks in Ilya’s shoulder that had been real fucking awkward to explain to the team docs.

Shane had actually broken his diet and ordered takeout because they were both too wrecked to move, but he’d still scolded Ilya for getting rice on the bed while they ate naked and huddled under the sheets.

He probably can’t do that now. He’s worked real fucking hard to gain back the muscle he’s lost, but he’ll probably never make it back to the body he had before, and even if he did… no way in hell will he have that kind of stamina again.

Shane liked that Ilya was strong. Liked that Ilya could hold him down with force and weight. It’s what he needed, that feeling of helplessness and the safety net that went with it…

Maybe… okay, maybe Ilya can’t give him that, but… but Shane is out, now. It’ll be easier to find those things from someone else, and Ilya can just… lose his fucking mind and suck it up and be grateful for everything he does get. All of Shane’s little texts, his attention, his I want to see you.

Sveta’s hand curls around his ankle, her fingers gentle and cool. “You’re missing your boy.”

They’re halfway into the second. Fuck.

It’s all getting messy. Toronto, to the shock of no one, plays like frustrated assholes. By eleven minutes in, Shane has taken three or four bad checks; Ilya counts them and cross-references the number against how many times the commentators call it “a good, clean hit.” He wants to put his fist through the television. Christ, he hates Toronto.

It’s not like he’d be able to protect Shane if he were still playing, but he would be able to get his own back at a later date. Now he just has to watch.

Marly’s there, though. Marly helps. It’s weird, watching them play together. He misses them both…

He tries to keep up with the game. He really does. He listens to the play-by-play, but it’s hard not to get lost. There’s this kinetic, barely-bridled energy under every one of Shane’s shifts, a desperate urgency to every pass. It makes it feel like there’s a second game under the one on the screen: a current of hope and dread that Ilya can’t tune out and can’t quite keep pace with.

He loses focus. He lets his eyes close for a second, voices blurring, and when he catches the thread again, it’s the commentators setting up a piece on the Metros upcoming season. Dynasty etc, can they really win another cup under Shane Hollander, and what about Pride Game…

He blinks and sits up a little. Sasha grumbles, dramatic as ever, but lets him up to turn up the volume.

This will be the second year Montreal is hosting an annual Pride Game, all in support of their Captain…

Ilya listens. There’s a little burn in the center of his chest, something he recognizes as a kind of pride, hot and powerful.

When they cut to interview footage, it’s Shane stuck in a media scrum, looking tired and pressed off the ice by a dozen mics, but he doesn’t look pissed. If anything, he looks… he looks like it’s nothing at all, like he could do this in his sleep, for hours on end.

The biggest dynasty in modern hockey, and they all answer to Shane, who is changing the entire fucking world…

Ilya loses his breath for a second.

“Are you crying?” Sasha pokes him in the ribs. “Oh, gross. He’s crying about his boyfriend.”

“I am not crying,” Ilya says, and then, when his voice comes out not even a little steady, “And he’s not my boyfriend. Shut up. I want to hear this.”

Sveta turns up the sound even higher. She is better about these things. Her hand is still on his ankle, her thumb rubbing gently over bone. She doesn’t know she does it, that back and forth across raised skin, thoughtlessly trying to soothe away the ache that scar tissue traps beneath the surface.

It makes his skin crawl, but he doesn’t say anything.

They’re back to the third. Montreal is three up now, and there’s a brawl every couple of minutes. Shane doesn’t start any of them, but he finishes a few, and the minutes blur into one. Congrats, Rozanov, you’ve stayed away for all of… two fucking hours.

He’s dimly aware of being moved, of Sasha, then Sveta, wriggling out from under him, then settling him back on the couch. He drinks the drink put in his hand, swallows his pills, each one taken from his little box and laid out on the coffee table so he can run his fingers over them before swallowing.

He makes it another hour, drinks a smoothie that tastes like fake bananas but contains just enough calories to keep his brain functioning until he can manage something more substantial. Tomorrow, maybe…

Shane is coming tomorrow… okay, yeah, real food is a necessity. He’ll get up early, see what’s in the fridge, figure out what he can cook…

Eight am. Jesus, okay, okay…

He sets his alarm for six. Sasha loudly announces he’s sleeping in his own bed, and if anyone wakes him up that early, he’ll kill them. Sveta yawns and nods in tired agreement.

Both of them will wake up when Ilya does.

Before he crawls back into bed, he kisses them both. Sveta curls her arms around him immediately. Sasha grumbles and huffs, but he hugs them both and kisses Ilya fondly on the brow before wrapping his arms around Sveta and hauling her up into the air. Her peal of laughter is a pretty good sound to end the night on.

He leaves them to it, knowing Sveta will probably watch a movie and Sasha will likely crawl down to his cave like the troll he is to do some work.

He’s okay with sleeping alone tonight. It kinda feels like he should, with Shane coming tomorrow.

A pillow replaces the body he’s used to having pressed against his chest. Tomorrow, Shane will be here, and he’ll let… Ilya can hold him, maybe? Just for a little while.

It’s a nice thought. Something to dream about.

He closes his eyes…

By some miracle, Ilya doesn’t throw his phone clean across the room when his alarm, a gentle ‘morning sunrise’ little melody, drags him awake.

He opens his eyes, grinning. His brain is… there. Maybe not fully awake yet, but so far, so good… his stomach is… actually really fucking hungry. Also good.

Okay. Okay, he’s good. He’s more than good.

Shower. Shower and clothes, and wait, will Shane have had breakfast? He’ll probably have had breakfast, right? So Ilya should eat because he has to make up for yesterday, and he knows that’s one of the things he needs to be careful with.

Only… only if Shane hasn’t had breakfast, then he’ll be hungry, and Ilya probably won’t be able to manage two meals, which might make Shane feel awkward, eating alone, or worse, worried that Ilya feels sick or-

“Jesus fuck get in the fucking shower,” Sasha says grumpily from the doorway. “I can see the fucking steam coming out of your ears.”

“Blow me,” Ilya says cheerfully. The obvious solution is to just fucking text Shane. Who will be driving, yes, but maybe also the kind of guy who has the whole phone integration thing set up in his boring car.

There’s already a message, sent forty minutes ago. Leaving soon. See you in a bit. There’s a fucking kissing emoji at the end.

Sasha makes a gagging noise, which Ilya supposes is because of whatever thing his face is doing right now.

Okay, protein shake after his shower… then something grossly healthy when Shane gets there.

It still takes him over an hour to actually go through the motions. Closer to an hour and a half, because he keeps stopping and looking at his phone.

Maybe forty minutes of that time is spent staring at his closet.

He should… dress up a little bit, right? Not fancy or anything, but sweatpants on an athlete say ‘off-duty uniform’. On someone like Ilya, they might read ‘invalid’.

Jeans. The nice white henly…

“I need to cut my hair,” he tells Sveta when he makes it into the kitchen. “I look like a fucking clown. Why are you dressed?”

Sveta has her travel mug out and her hair tied up. “A very cute clown,” she agrees. “We can try it later this week if you want. And I’m going to the spa. I’ve told Sasha he has to stay in his cave and not third-wheel you.”

“Again,” Sasha shakes his head, loading a plate up with carbs, which means he’s serious about staying the fuck away. “I am banished from my apartment.”

“I love you a lot,” Ilya offers him.

“I suppose you’re mildly tolerable,” Sasha sighs. “When is His Royal Highness getting here? I want to threaten him again.”

“The fuck you will,” Ilya grumbles, checking his phone, “and in five minutes.” Shane Hollander is nothing if not totally punctual. “So go away.” Sasha lifts a spectacularly bitchy eyebrow. “Please,” Ilya adds. “Go terrorize someone else.”

“Fine, fine, please don’t die having sex,” Sveta says. She and Sasha head for the elevator. Ilya flips them the bird as they go.

“We’re not gonna have sex,” Ilya yells back. Not only have sex at least. “We’re gonna talk.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to talk with a dick in your mouth,” Sasha lets Sveta into the elevator first, then closes the door behind them before Ilya can finish yelling.

“Fuck off.”

“Take your meds at lunchtime!” Sveta yells through the door, then the rumble of the elevator descending takes them both away.

He’s a little surprised they’re leaving, if he’s honest. Or, well, Sasha’s still in the building, yes, but they don’t really know Shane. Their trust is surprisingly touching.

Okay. Two minutes now. He runs his hands through his hair again, then isn’t sure what to do with them. Fuck, fuck, why is he this fucking nervous?

It’s Shane. Who… well, it’s Shane. Enough said, he guesses.

He goes to wait on the couch. From there, he can see the parking lot through the big window opposite, and he’s close enough to the buzzer to not leave Shane waiting too long outside and also not look like he’s just stood ready to hit the button as soon as it goes off.

The clock on his phone hits eight, then crawls to ten past, and it weirdly gives him a little thrill, because Shane is punctual. He gets so cranky if traffic is bad or if something knocks him off track. Ilya’s not seen that perfectly adorable, angry little expression in so long. He thinks about kissing the little crease Shane gets on his nose when he scowls, then those freckles, and his soft cheeks. He thinks about kissing Shane until the annoyance drains out of him and he’s boneless and warm in Ilya’s arms.

That little daydream keeps him occupied until eight fifteen, eight twenty… eight thirty. He checks his phone. No message since the one this morning. Shane said he’s coming…

By eighty forty, he stops lying to himself and starts to worry. If Shane were running this late, he’d call or text. Fuck, he did that before, back when they were nothing…

He hits dial.

Shane’s number rings and rings before going to voicemail.

Okay, okay…

He heads to the TV and turns on the local news. Maybe… maybe there’s been an accident? Not Shane, obviously, but something to delay him, and he’s not got his charger and…

Nothing interesting on the news.

At nine fifteen, he tries again. He’s worried.

Still nothing on the TV.

Nine fifty, ten, ten forty five…

At twelve, his phone buzzes, jerking him out of the vaguely nauseous daze he’s slipped into. He’s not sure when he sat on the floor, but his back is fucking killing him.

HYDRATE! And take your meds xxx

He can see them, over on the kitchen counter. The days pills, all set out for him in a little bowl. They’re a long fucking way away, and he might miss something if he stops staring at the screen.

Maybe… maybe he should call Sasha. Only… only Sasha and Sveta seem to like Shane, and if… if Shane is just running late, they’ll fucking hate him.

He won’t… he’s not going to call, because maybe Shane has changed his mind, but he’s not going to make a fuss, either.

He’ll just wait right here.

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

A little early to make up for Monday's cliffhanger.

This was exhausting to write and will probably be exhausting to read, but on the upside, no cliffhanger.

Content warnings: discussion of suicide and its impact on loved ones, panic attack, discussions of caring for someone with chronic illness, misplaced anger, and guilt. No one is in a great place at the start of this part.

P.S. I post Mondays and Thursdays. I love and appreciate your enthusiasm, but that’s as fast as I am willing and able to update.

Shane leaves the house at five fifty-three. At this time on a Sunday morning, that should get him to Ilya’s place just before eight. He doesn’t want to be too early. He’s done some reading over the weekend and knows routines must be important for Ilya. He might like to be punctual, but this is about what Ilya needs, not his obsessive timekeeping.

His car is parked in the closest spot to the back door of his apartment, but now there’s an extra shape sprawled out behind it, half-shadow and half-puddle, at first glance a heap of wind-thrown garbage bags. Closer, and it resolves into a human form. Slumped against the back left tire of his Land Rover, head propped against the bumper, hands collapsed in his lap, knees splayed wide.

What the fuck is Cliff Marlow doing outside his apartment?

He’s soaked through, hair limp on his forehead. There’s a mostly-empty bottle of rye in one hand, the cap lost somewhere in the puddles around him. He’s not moving, but Shane recognizes the total way he’s let go of his own verticality from that morning before training: a blend of deliberate self-destruction and long, practiced misery.

“Marlow?”

No response. Shane takes a few steps closer and checks for signs that this isn’t a medical situation he can’t handle. Marlow’s breathing is slow and shallow. He’s not dead. Not obviously concussed. Not bleeding everywhere.

He crouches down, winces at the stink of whiskey mixed with wet leaves, and taps the edge of Marlow’s shoe with his hand.

“Hey. Wake up.”

Marlow grunts. He pries his eyes open, all red and swollen, and looks right through Shane for a few seconds before blinking slowly. “Oh, hey,” he says. “That’s mine,” and gestures vaguely at the bottle as Shane takes it out of his hand and sets it down just out of reach.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shane is cold. He’s mostly annoyed, but he can’t deny he’s worried, either.

“‘S’a a good spot for a nap.” Marlow coughs, and a fine spray of saliva mists the sleeve of his coat. “Supposed to be for the residents, but I figure, honorary team member association or whatever.” His lips are almost blue. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand, winces, then looks at his own palm like it’s a snake.

Shane could leave him here. Fuck. He should. He should lock the car, get in, drive away, and let Cliff Marlow spend the next few hours soaking up gutter water and bad choices, but it’s not going to happen because he’s pathologically incapable of slacking on the job and as much as he hates it, Marlow is the job.

Okay, so, new plan. Get his newest headache inside, get him dried out and warmed up, leave him on the couch to sleep off what promises to be an epic hangover… text Ilya, let him know he’s going to be late and…

And then he spots the tire Marlow is leaning on.

It’s flat. As is the one opposite. When he circles the car, all of his tires are flat.

No, not flat… fucking slashed.

Marlow grins, lazy and dazed, and pulls a heavy-duty box cutter out of his pocket. The blade, fortunately, is covered. “Whoops.”

Shane’s not really a yelling kind of person. He doesn’t fly off the handle or slam things or say stuff he doesn’t mean. But this? This just about does it.

“You slashed my fucking tires?” The words are out before he can throttle them down. He’s so loud it rings his own ears, which is pointless when Marlow’s drooling on himself and barely conscious.

Marlow shrugs, or tries to, ends up slumping further toward the gutter, a boneless lump of sodden misery. “Had to,” he mumbles. “S’what I shoulda done before. Sabotage, sabotage the-” He gives up on the sentence and tilts his head back, eyes rolling. “Just doing my job.”

“You asshole,” he hisses, grabbing Marlow under the armpits and hauling him up, none too gently. “What is wrong with you? You could have… fuck.”

Marlow is heavier than he looks, and he looks like a fucking tank, all dead weight and slouched dignity. He’s completely soaked through, jeans smeared in greasy streaks from the street. Shane drags him upright, gets a whiff of the rye and whatever else he’s tried to pickle himself in, and has to bite down on a gag reflex.

“Let’s go,” Shane mutters, and with more violence than necessary, half-carries, half-shoves Marlow toward the door of his apartment building. The morning is frigid. The drizzle is now proper rain, pinging off the trash cans and his car. Inside the vestibule, Marlow slumps against the wall, smirks with drunken satisfaction, then tries to slide down into a puddle on the tile.

“Up,” Shane barks, all patience gone. He peels Marlow off the wall, steers him towards the stairs and shoves him until he stumbles to the top.

Marlow doesn’t fight him. He’s loose, his head bobbing, like it costs him nothing to let Shane manhandle him. If anything, he seems pleased. “S’for your own good,” Marlow says, barely above a whisper.

Shane almost launches him face-first into the couch, but instead drops him hard, ignoring the swearing that follows. He stalks into the kitchen, grabs two glasses and fills them both with water, then heads back and shoves one into Marlow’s hand. “Drink.”

Marlow attempts a toast, then tries to drink, but misses and dumps half the glass down his chin and onto Shane’s rug. He doesn’t care. Shane wants to rip the glass from his hand and throw it at the wall, but instead sits on the opposite end of the sectional, fists clenched tight, his own glass abandoned by his feet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Marlow rubs his hand across the back of his neck. “You can’t go to Ottawa,” he says. “You can’t. You gotta leave it alone.”

Every cell in Shane’s body wants to pick Marlow up and throw him off the balcony, or better, shake some fucking answers out of him, but instead, he sits on his hands, jaw clenched so hard his molars squeak. “Why do you care?” he spits. “What the fuck does it matter to you if I go or not?”

Marlow might not want to see Ilya, but nothing on earth is stopping Shane.

Marlow lurches upright on the couch, wipes his mouth, and blinks at Shane with a slow-building, ugly clarity. “It’s not-” He tries again, slurring less. “It’s not about you.” He looks miserable, nothing left of the swagger that radiates from him on the ice. “You think this is my job? Babysitting you and your-” He stops, something wobbly in his face, and shakes his head.

Shane isn’t in the mood for games. He’s already fifteen minutes behind schedule, and here’s this asshole, destroying his Sunday and his car and- “Then what? What is it?”

Marlow glares, but there’s no conviction in it. “He’ll never get better if you keep fucking with him.” His voice is ragged. “You’re like… like a fucking disease. Just… fuck, leave him in peace.”

What the fuck? “A disease?” Shane barks out a laugh, incredulous. It tastes like bile. It tastes like tears. “And what, you’re his doctor now? That’s not your choice. It’s not your fucking business-”

Fuck it. He doesn’t have time for this. He pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Marlow twitches. “What are you doing?”

“Calling a fucking service,” Shane snaps. What does it look like? He needs someone out to fix his damn car and he needs to text Ilya and let him know he’ll be late and-

Marlow moves fast for a guy as big and drunk as he is. He dives forward, snatches Shane’s phone, and throws it across the room.

It hits the wall with a shattering thud and clatters to the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Shane jumps to his feet, tense and ready for a fight.

“You’re not listening to me!”

“And you’re not making any sense! What is wrong with you?” Shane wants to shake him.

And he’s more than a little freaked out. It’s not the first time someone’s squared up to him since he came out, but he doesn’t fancy actually having to fight Marlow.

“I dunno. Maybe I’m fucking drunk, huh? How bout you? What’s your problem, Jane?”

Shane freezes, every part of his body going very still. The blood drains from his face, replaced by something cold and bright and sharp. “What did you call me?”

Marlow laughs, a shredded noise. “God, you really don’t know? Fucking priceless. Roz was so stupid for you, man. Jesus.” He doubles over, limp with bitter amusement. “For her. I mean, him. You. She… fuck. How the fuck did we all miss it?”

All the air goes out of him, a punch to the gut that comes with a tang of terror that no longer even matters. “Tell me,” Shane orders, because there is only one way Marlow could know about Jane and it’s unthinkable. Ilya would never tell him. “How do you know that name?”

Marlow slumps further and pushes the heels of both hands hard into his eyes. “I saw how he’d get when he texted her… you… Jane… Shane… fucking stupid.”

That’s not the fucking point.

“Start making sense!”

Marlow laughs, empty. He rubs his eyes again, harder this time, like he can snuff the memory out between his fingers like a candle. “Fuck… we used to fucking joke about it, you know? Had a whole fucking group chat and everything. The ‘Roz Suicide Watch’. He was such a fucking bitch whenever you guys fought…”

Something cold starts to uncurl in Shane’s chest.

He’s not sure if the words are supposed to be funny or if Marlow’s just too wasted to realize what he’s actually saying. Roz Suicide Watch. There’s nothing funny about it.

“He was my best fucking friend, and I fucking missed it,” Marlow barks, his red eyes glassy.

Shane has the strange, slightly surreal feeling of being suddenly and violently shoved out of his body.

His mouth is open, but his mind is somewhere else, perched on the ceiling looking down at the two of them, at the man slouched forward on the couch… at himself, standing there, hands useless at his sides, mouth working silently, incapable of forming the words ricocheting around his skull.

It doesn’t feel like watching television; it feels like watching a very worn, very grainy old game tape, the frame rate off, everything a split second behind itself. The sound reroutes from his ears to something behind the back of his skull.

There’s no noise in the room except Marlow’s fitful breathing. Shane’s own breath should be loud, but nothing comes out. Maybe he’s stopped breathing himself.

A lightbulb pops behind his eyes, a little white-hot burst of pressure, and then nothing for several seconds, just the placeholder image of the room the tips and blurs at the edges until it melts into Ilya’s face.

That's all Shane can see. Ilya’s face… his wicked, teasing little smirks, and that soft smile he would hide in the curve of Shane’s neck.

The look he’d given Shane all those years ago in Boston. A look Shane has spent increasingly deranged cycles convincing himself both was and wasn’t total adoration… or love.

The look that followed when Shane scrambled away from him.

He’s going to be sick.

He’s going to fucking die.

There’s no edge to the world for a while. It sits in his periphery, smeared like rain on a windshield. All the detail falls away, everything but Marlow’s voice, which plays in a loop, skipping the crucial bit, never quite landing.

He’s a fucking bitch whenever you guys fought…

Roz Suicide Watch.

Shane is aware, on some level, that his body is in the chair opposite Marlow. His hands should be gripping the edge of the couch…he can feel the clench of muscle, the press of knuckle-bones blanching out white, but he’s stalled behind his own eyes. Trapped in amber.

He’s lost time before. There are entire games he can’t remember except through after-action slide shows: here’s the bench, here’s the glass, here’s the clock stuttering down to the last minute, here’s the bruise that only makes sense when the coaches replay it for him on iPads. He’s never lost time off the rink, though. It doesn’t feel like forgetting, just a hard reset, like some cord reached through his brainstem, yanked him out of the lineup, and threw him into the stands to watch himself from a safe, bright distance.

He’s not breathing. He remembers, somewhat distantly, that he should probably try. In. Out. It doesn’t work; nothing moves. He’s all held breath. Some kind of invisible exoskeleton locks him up, and he’s more statue than man, waiting for the right words to bring him back.

“Hey,” Marlow says, a shadow on the other side of the coffee table. “Hey, fuck… fuck!” A hand, sharp-edged and shaking, waves in front of his face.

Shane blinks. The room stutters into higher definition. Marlow, hunched forward, knuckles pressed tight under his chin. Pale light from the east window. The hazy smell of spilled rye.

He tries to say something, but his jaw is cemented, and when it fractures back open, it’s with a sound he doesn’t know how to own. “Did he…” His throat rasps over the words he can't say. “Did Ilya…”

It was an accident.

Shane almost laughs, the weird little hiccup so sharp he wonders if he’s about to cry or scream or pass out. Accident. Of course. Ilya’s not… he’s not like that. If anything, Ilya’s the opposite. So full of life that sometimes it’s too much for Shane to bear, too brilliant and relentless and clever, always wanting to win at every single thing, even the things that don’t matter. Ilya would never, could never, do that.

Except… Marlow looks like a man who’s been haunted for a long time. Not that Shane gives a fuck about his feelings right now. He wants facts. Wants a printout. A box score, a blue folder, a goddamn incident report. He wants something he can file and shelve and point to so he can stop running these endless, broken playoff replays inside his head.

He’s not getting enough oxygen, and it pierces the bloodless silence in his head with a sharper pain than any body check. The edges of the world recede, contract around Marlow’s face, and Shane’s lungs work, but it’s not enough, nothing’s enough.

That’s what happened to Ilya, he thinks hysterically. His brain didn’t get enough oxygen and-

He sucks in an agonizing breath and stumbles from the couch towards his shattered phone.

He needs to hear Ilya’s voice.

He needs to know these past few days are just… just a fucking psychotic break he’s finally had because the man he loves killed himself three years ago and…

The phone’s fucked. He’s tempted, for a second, to shove the entire thing down Marlow’s throat and watch him choke on it, but that doesn’t help anything.

And fuck, Marlow’s maybe worse off than he is. He’s rocking back and forth, either from the booze or the thing lurking behind it, head bowed, hair straggly against his unshaven face. “He was so fucking still… he’s never that fucking still.”

Marlow keeps talking, but it’s muffled, pointless; none of it gets through to Shane. Everything - himself, the couch, the three years of blue-sky mornings and brutal locker rooms and hollow, frozen nights - is collapsed to a single screaming point: Ilya, not breathing. Ilya, hands slack and eyes empty. Ilya, gone.

Ilya, dead.

He staggers to the window, his feet barely finding the floor, and braces himself against the glass so hard he thinks he might shatter it. This city is full of air. So much fucking air, and every single molecule of it is closer to Ilya than Shane is now.

He drags a palm over his face, but his skin doesn’t belong to him. He’s burning, and freezing, and the world keeps pulsing in and out of focus. Air. In. Air. Out. Like an idiot, he tries to count the breaths, keep them steady, but he’s never been so bad at something so simple.

He stares through the streaked window at the parking lot below, his car, ruined, the rain smashing itself to pieces on the rooftop. Somewhere in that gray distance, Ilya is…what? Eating breakfast? Laughing with Sveta? Sunlight in his hair, shadows under his eyes doing nothing to dim their brightness, excited, maybe, to be seeing Shane...

Abandoned, because Shane isn’t there, his body as limp as it was in his bed the other day.

All the ways Shane’s examined in his head of how Ilya might have injured himself now take on and new, horrifying genre.

Ilya wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. Shane can picture a thousand ways the world can break, but he cannot, will not, imagine a world in which Ilya chose that. Not with that bright, unkillable furnace in his chest, not with every last thing he was, even when he was cruel, even when he was reckless, engineered toward winning at whatever the cost.... He wouldn’t give up.

He didn’t give up on Shane, not when he should have, not when Shane all but begged him to.

If Ilya is still here, still alive enough to smile at him through a call, to banter about breakfast, then the story Marlow is telling is a lie. Or a mistake. Or something that happened to someone else.

Still. The words crawl inside his head and nest there, spinning webs across whatever clarity he has left.

Roz Suicide Watch.

Saw how he’d get when he texted you.

Fucking missed it.

He was so fucking still…

It’s not real, but it must be. Why else would Ilya vanish? Why else would the man Shane loved disappear for three years without a word? Why would Boston close ranks around him? Why would any of this happen if not something so catastrophic it’s threatening to rewrite Shane’s entire understanding of the universe?

Every bone in him rejects it, but the picture is already there, flickering behind his eyelids in awful, high-def detail: a dark room, a silent phone, Ilya’s hands empty and open and cold.

He won’t cry. He can’t. The idea is unthinkable, absurd, but his chest heaves and his head spins, and the pressure in his throat is so solid he could choke on it. It can’t be true.

It can’t… it just can’t.

The world tips and sways and for a second, he’s in another reality. Another world… and the grief of these past three years stretches out endlessly before him. A life loved and a life lost, and Shane alone, forever, broken, forever, because he’s living in a world without Ilya in it.

Even at their rockiest, Ilya has been that one constant point of light in the galaxy. Every step forward Shane has taken on his own path is just another step closer to the orbit of his twin star.

When a star dies, the universe collapses around it.

If Ilya were dead…

The car is so cold that the sweat on Shane’s skin freezes instantly, brittling him from the inside out. There’s no thought at all in his head for several long seconds, just a constant high whine behind his teeth and a pulse so hard he feels it pounding in his ears, his temples, the base of his throat. He doesn’t know if he’s sitting or standing. The world is made entirely of vibration. His hands are on the wheel, then the dash, then splayed so tight on his thighs that his nails leave crescents through the denim.

He doesn’t remember getting in the car. Doesn’t remember Marlow leaving (did he leave?), or if he’d locked the door, or if he’d screamed. Maybe he did, maybe it was another kind of noise, something that only happens when the floor drops out from under you, and what remains is just the shape of your absence and your heart in your throat. He looks at the time: it’s nearly eleven.

He doesn’t know how he lost those hours. He doesn’t know why his whole body aches.

Ilya will be worried. Ilya will be…

Safe, right? Sasha and Sveta are with him? They’ll look after him, they’ll…

The world is waxy, viewless, a fish-tank stilled by the threat of a coming earthquake. He has to move, or he’ll never move again.

He almost falls out of the car. It’s not like he can drive it with no fucking tires.

The desperate need for action fights with the fact that there is no action to take; everything, all contingency, all the elaborate plans he’s building, are built around the concept of saving Ilya from now, not from then. If it happened three years ago, there is no save, no recovery, just the slow seep of loss into every bright thing afterward. It’s impossible. He can’t accept it, so he doesn’t. He focuses only on the next step, the next freezing breath, the next calibrated, automatic movement.

“Please,” he says, maybe out loud, maybe not, “please, please.” He doesn’t know who he’s speaking to. God, Ilya, the cold electric void that now lives in his chest. He only knows what it feels like to beg, to try to swap the entire inventory of his life for one moment of having the truth go back to being a hypothetical. He can’t picture the world without Ilya in it. When he tries, he gets a negative: a photo overexposed to the point of violence, rimmed in black that turns into white at the edges.

Okay, okay, no. No, there is something he can do, and that’s get to Ilya. He needs to get to Ilya now.

It takes him only five minutes to run far enough to find a place where he can hail a cab.

The driver’s polite, professional smile freezes the second he catches Shane’s reflection in the mirror. “Holy-”

“Hi,” Shane says, his voice sounding far away. “I will pay you five grand to drive me to Ottawa.” He’s not actually taken a cab in Montreal forever, but he knows he’s paying well over the asking price. He checks his back pocket. Yep, his wallet is there.

“For five grand, you can have the car,” the driver snorts. “But you got it.”

He considers asking if he can borrow his phone as well, but it’s not like he knows anyone’s number, even Ilya’s. He just… types them in, and that’s the last the digits mean anything...

He hopes Marlow is okay. He hopes Ilya isn’t too worried.

He hopes… he hopes to god he can keep himself together for the next two fucking hours and not fall apart and let everyone down again.

He hopes.

It takes just over two hours to get to Ilya’s place. The rain clears over Ottawa, sunlight haloing the city. The traffic is worse than it would have been earlier. Shane leaves a tip on the five grand and stumbles out of the cab towards the big metal door at the entrance to Ilya’s building.

It takes a lifetime from when he rings the buzzer to the door opening, and longer still to call the elevator and ride it up.

It’s not Ilya, waiting for him, but Sasha.

Shane doesn’t know what to say. He wants to shove right past him and tear through the loft until he finds Ilya and can hold him in his arms.

But Sasha is the gatekeeper to Ilya’s life. He’s just about rational enough to know that, and to know that he can’t afford to pass this test.

He knows so little about them, Sasha and Sveta, and he’s wondered about them, their love for Ilya that makes them so devoted, so protective… he’s not given either of them enough credit. If he were in their place, he’d never let Ilya out of his sight. He’d murder anyone and everyone who came close to him. He’d…

There’s no sign of Ilya. Or Sveta. Just Sasha, who is taller than Shane, but not broader, and whose gaze is as cold as the freeze following a blizzard. “You are late.”

Shane opens his mouth to explain, as fucking crazy as his excuse is going to sound, but Sasha holds up a hand and shakes his head. “I don’t care. You will listen, and then we will decide what happens next.”

Shane says nothing. Sasha can say whatever he likes. Berate him, scold him, threaten him. Shane doesn’t care. He can endure any of that if it gets him to Ilya.

“The man you think you’re in love with is dead,” Sasha says flatly. Shane’s heart skips. “He’s gone. Not coming back. There are some days you might see him again. Good days, when all goes right. This-” he touches his chest, “this is still there, not changed, but this,” he taps his forehead. “This is all different now. He is not Ilya with a bad headache.”

"I… I know that.”

“I don’t think you do. He is never going to be able to live alone. To work how he wants. To do the things he used to be able to do without even thinking about them. He can’t skip meals, or water, or his meds, but there will be days when he doesn’t want any of them, and it’s on you to decide whether to push and scare the shit out of him and make things worse or hope they just reset themselves before he does too much damage. There will be days he will hate you for having that much power over him.”

“I don’t care.”

Sasha’s expression doesn’t flicker. “He will fall apart. Often. Inconveniently. He will forget what he was talking about, or what he said, or what you said. He’ll get frustrated and angry and stubborn and push himself too far… he will need someone to be with him when it happens, and to care for him after.” Shane nods, barely keeping his breath level.

“He will hurt,” Sasha continues. “He will always be tired. You think he’s okay because he walks and talks and makes breakfast and can fuck you, but it’s not like a broken leg. No matter how much you try, the bone will never set right.”

Shane looks down, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“He will hurt you,” Sasha says, voice so matter-of-fact that Shane almost doesn’t clock it. “He will be thoughtless and cruel, and you’ll never be good enough, and then sometimes you will. He will love you desperately, then not know you at all. He will break your fucking heart.”

Shane looks up, ready to challenge at least some of this, but Sasha’s face is a brick wall.

“You will never get a day off. And every time you fuck up, you’ll wonder if this is the one he won’t come back from.” Sasha ticks off all the horrors in a steady monotone, facts in a list. “You’ll think about it every day. You’ll be terrified every day. Can you handle that, Shane Hollander?”

Sasha’s not as cold as he maybe wants to be. Shane can see the places in his face where the lines have set too deep, the exhaustion around his eyes, the twitch of muscle at the jaw.

Shane nods, because that’s all there is to do. He can handle it. He will handle it.

“You think you know him, because you used to fuck, or because you played against him? You know parts of the old Ilya. This one is-” Sasha waves a hand, searching for an English word and possibly finding none, “-more what he was, and less.”

Sasha’s quiet for a while, and the loft settles into the kind of silence that could be measured in minutes, if Shane had a clock running.

“I can take care of him,” Shane says, when it’s clear Sasha expects him to talk. The words taste naive in his mouth, but he means every syllable. “I…”

There’s more he wants to say, more questions, so many fucking questions, because if Ilya’s condition is so unstable, so fragile, why the fuck is he working? Why is he putting himself in situations almost designed to challenge every aspect of his recovery?

There’s still so many answers he needs, but right now, there’s only one he can bring himself to ask.

“Why are you telling me this?”

If he were Sasha, if Ilya is truly at that much risk…

The hard lines of Sasha’s face soften, just a little, and his shoulders slump. “Because they took everything from him. And if there’s a world where he gets something back, I am going to make it fucking happen, whether you like it or not.”

They? Who the fuck are they?

Sasha turns away and gestures for Shane to follow. It’s not a request, but it’s not really hostile either. Shane follows obediently, and the concrete hallway of the building gives way at the end to a metal staircase he hadn’t noticed before, tucked behind a painted door.

This isn’t the way to Ilya’s room.

By the time they reach the first landing, Shane’s lungs are burning again, and not from climbing stairs. He wipes a hand over his face, willing the world to narrow to just the scrape of steel under his shoes, the thin rattle of the guardrail as Sasha takes it two, sometimes three steps at a time.

They come out onto a rooftop.

Shane steps out and blinks. There’s so much color: green and riotous, the whole terrace a wild curlicue of potted things and planters, twining vines carving their way up lattices and overtaking the furniture. The sun is bright here, the sky a warm autumnal blue, but it’s all tempered by the movement of leaves, the soft scatter of refuge for city birds, the wind. The sound of traffic, distant and strangely calming, plus the whir and burble of an untended fountain near the door.

Sveta is on the couch, paper cup in hand, one bare foot curled beneath her. She looks up, makes eye contact with Shane, and narrows her eyes. Far from being the more friendly of the two, it seems she and Sasha have traded places.

She isn’t so much watching Ilya as she’s keeping guard.

Ilya is on the other end of the couch. He’s sort of… splayed. Languid, but wrong, the way a toy is wrong when someone’s bent the joints backward. He’s wearing nondescript jeans and a white top. His head is tipped back, jaw pointed skyward, eyes half-closed to the sun.

For a second, Shane thinks he’s asleep. Then his fingers twitch, and that illusion’s over.

With it shatters any and all restraint he’s managed to cling to. Ilya is right there, and Shane needs to be with him.

He rushes across the roof, not even registering the resistance of Sasha’s palm when it slaps his chest, not slowing for the tight corridor of Sveta’s glare.

He needs to feel Ilya alive, now, needs to get there before the next second ticks over and makes it real… the thing Marlow told him, the thing he can’t believe, can’t even let himself think.

Ilya doesn’t look up when he drops to his knees in front of the couch, doesn’t seem to see him at all, but there’s warmth in him, there’s blood under his skin, there’s light hitting the curve of his jaw. His chest rises and falls slowly.

He puts his forehead down against the denim at Ilya’s knees and holds on.

Not his finest moment. Not the performance he’s built his life around, but the only thing his body is capable of.

Ilya moves so slowly it doesn’t register at first. His fingers uncurl and land softly in Shane’s hair, sifting through the strands with a gentleness Shane knows he doesn’t deserve. The weight of his hand is as steady as his heart, that impossibly fragile, gloriously strong organ, and Shane shivers under the shock of it. He’s alive. He’s here.

He wraps his arms around Ilya’s calves and lets himself be small, just for a second.

There’s a sound above him. Sasha’s voice, a low buzz in the direction of Sveta, then the scrape of movement as they both back away. Shane doesn’t look up. He can’t, not yet. He’s spent, wrung through, and everything left is a liquid suspension of misery and relief.

“Hey,” Ilya says, and the word is so soft it might be imagined.

Shane nods against his knee, and the movement jolts a whole new wave of tears that he doesn’t bother to suppress. He holds on until the shaking in his hands eases, until the world steadies itself around the shared gravity of Ilya’s presence.

The hand on his head moves, shifting lightly down to his jaw. Ilya’s palm is cool and dry. Shane finally looks up.

Ilya’s pupils are blown, a ring of pale blue around a night sky. There’s a little crack in his bottom lip, a crescent of blood darkening where the skin gave way under a fuss. The first word that comes to Shane’s mind is shellshocked; the second is beautiful.

He’s not sure what to say. He can see his own devastation reflected back, too raw to be mistaken for anything but what it is.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, and that seems to be the sum of his life, doesn’t it?

Too late today to spare Ilya this.

Too late before to save his life.

Too late being brave. Too late with the truth.

Ilya frowns. “Why are you…?” The words catch, slow and thick, like Ilya’s tongue briefly forgot how to move. He blinks it off, focusing hard on Shane. “What happened?”

He’s not prepared for a response, Shane can see that. It’s not a test, not a trap, just dazed confusion and a small, visible struggle to push back into the present.

Shane’s hands shake, and Ilya’s thumb brushes under his eye, chasing the tears he can no longer hide, making a little exasperated sound when it comes away slick. “Shane,” he says, softer.

Shane can’t answer. He’s too far past the neatness of words. Everything is loud, bright, echoing, and there’s the urgent, devastating need to hold every piece of Ilya together, as if his hands alone can knit flesh and neurons, can fix what three years and the entire fucking world decided was irreparable. He opens his mouth to say I’m fine, but it comes out a sob.

He wants to apologize, but his jaw just trembles, mouth open with nothing good in it. There’s a shift on the couch, the cotton of Ilya’s jeans rough against his cheek and under his palm.

Ilya’s arm moves around him, slow and deliberate, fingers cupping the back of his skull, and it’s only then that Shane lets go. The tears are ugly and childish; they come from a place he doesn’t recognize in himself, the rawest scrape of grief and relief braided in misery.

He’s not crying in the normal way, facedown and muffled. He’s looking up at Ilya, face twisted, eyes swollen, and says nothing, just tries to keep him real and alive in the blast radius of his stare.

Ilya seems to clock it, or maybe the confusion simply yields to instinct, because he pulls Shane up, up and into his lap, unsteady, until their foreheads touch and he’s breathing against Shane’s face.

“You’re okay,” Ilya says, the syllables heavy with his accent and the dull side of exhaustion. “You are okay… You are okay…” Shane shakes his head. Not in disagreement but because the entire world is vibrating in place, and it needs to move.

He clutches Ilya tighter, knuckles white, face wet, nose pressed under Ilya’s jaw. He’s alive. He’s here. He could be dead and he’s not and all Shane has to do is stay with him, this close, forever.

He wants to say something that will make sense of everything. He wants to say: I’m sorry. He wants to say: I never should have left you. He wants to say: You should hate me; I should hate you; I don’t care; we’re not doing this ever again. But the only thing that forms is a hiss of breath and a gibber of apology, repeated a few times until it loses meaning.

Ilya doesn’t shush him now. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t say, ‘Hollander, you’re embarrassing yourself.’ He draws slow, steady circles with his palm along Shane’s ribs and waits him out, patient and calm. Maybe, even, a little proud. Shane doesn’t care. He can feel the words inside his own head, feral and terrified:

Don’t die. Don’t leave again. Don’t ever, ever.

He’s a joke. He’s not strong. He’s not the one who takes the hits, not off the ice. He’s a little boy who never got better at understanding how to handle the world, who needs, needs, needs and can’t handle how complex it all is.

He takes a ragged breath, claws his fingers into the hollow of Ilya’s shoulder, and only then does the shaking ease.

He looks up and meets Ilya’s eyes. It feels like waking up underwater. Worlds reduced to color and motion, sound like a distant song. “Ilya,” he says, and there’s nothing capable in it. His voice is child-thin, and he hates the sound but can’t stop: “I can’t do this…” A gulp. “I can’t…” He tries to find the words. Any words.

Ilya’s thumb brushes the edge of his ear, soft, grounding. “Is okay,” he murmurs. His voice is ruined. “You are okay. We are okay.”

Shane tries to string a reply together. He can’t think in sentences, can’t tell if the mess behind his eyes is making it to his mouth at all. “Please,” he says, because it’s all there is, “I just… you… you’re not allowed to leave, okay? Not again.” He can’t look away. Ilya’s face is the only thing keeping him together, and he tries to memorize every part of it. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, “if I fuck up, just… tell me, I’ll get better, I’ll do whatever you want, just please don’t… don’t go.”

He expects Ilya to make a joke, to tease, to distract, but instead, Ilya crushes Shane to him so tightly it hurts. The pressure is enough to force the air from his lungs, to pin Shane’s broken heart between them.

“I will not go anywhere,” Ilya says, like he can will it into truth. “Not if you want me.”

Shane clings to him like a lifeline, breath caught halfway between need and apology, and he just wants… god, he wants Ilya. Wants to be good for him, wants to be better, wants something warm and simple and right that doesn’t have to be performed or proven. He tips his head up, hands gentle on Ilya’s jaw, and finds his lips with his own, not soft exactly but trembling with a sweetness that surprises even him.

He’s never kissed anyone like this, not ever. Not with all the armor off, not without second-guessing the choreography - should I, is this too much, does he want this, does he hate me - just moving. He needs the world to stop for a second.

It does.

Even the sound bleeds out: just the hush of wind, the heat of their mouths, the steady beat under his palm as he cups Ilya’s face.

He means it as comfort, but Ilya opens for him, and Shane is lost. He surrenders to it, the press and the slide, the taste of him. He doesn’t realize he’s crying again until his own tears salt the seam of their lips.

He tries to laugh. Fails. Gathers himself. Pulls back, just far enough to look at Ilya and see the wrecked mess of his own want and love and fear mirrored back at him. He wipes the heel of his hand under his nose, breathes, tries again. “I want you,” he says, because it’s the only thing that keeps surviving the panic over the word love.

Ilya’s smile is so fucking tired and radiant at once that Shane wants to cry all over again.

“I want you,” Shane says, unable to stand the thought that Ilya might not believe him. Unwilling to risk it. “I want you. Ilya…” he leans in, his kiss a communion, and whispers. “I love you.”

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Don't come to me over the Vancouver comment! The Canucks are my team, and they're fucking terrible. I live in hope...

Content warnings: discussion of suicide, heavily implied medical trauma, PTSD, coercion, violation of privacy, and implied medical abuse.

Another Ilya heavy chapter, so his headspace is a rollercoaster of angst, BUT there's a lot of snuggling, some semblance of communication, and the first stirings of what will be a prevailing theme in the rest of the story, aka Shane motherfucking Hollander.

Now, about that missing phone...

A lot of Ilya’s time these days is spent somewhat removed from sensation. Or, in the total opposite, where he’s utterly saturated and can’t really tell what’s happening in the world around him beyond the immediate.

It’s usually one or the other. Sometimes in rapid, disorientating succession.

In this case, it is just the one. Just sensation. Just Shane, in his arms, warm and limp against his chest. His cheeks are wet as he trembles, and Ilya’s aware, somewhat distantly, that he should probably be offering something more substantial than whatever nonsense noise he’s making.

He’s expected the rush, the satisfying collision of want and memory. He hasn’t expected to be so fucking overwhelmed by Shane, or by what it feels like to hold him like this. Shane’s bones are dense and his muscles hard, but everything in him is so yielding, so perfectly pressed to Ilya that he can’t seem to separate the pounding under his skin from his own heartbeat.

He’s never been any good at subtlety. He doesn’t want to be, not with Shane. Not now.

He slides his hand up Shane’s back, under his stupid, ugly jacket, fingers splaying over the nape of his neck, to find the pulse under his skin. Shane’s face is a muddle of salt and red and unfiltered need, and there’s nothing in him that isn’t aimed directly at Ilya, as if Shane has spent the last three years saving up for the moment he could say these sweet things and mean them.

It’s enough to make Ilya shake. It’s everything. Always has been, always will be. Wrapped in this vibrating, neurotic, beautifully sweet, utterly glorious man who can’t even get his own shoes tied straight without a plan, and yet who, with three words, can rearrange the structure of Ilya’s entire brain.

He rocks them both a little, and Shane burrows even closer, his hands clamped to Ilya’s shoulders so hard it might bruise. He hopes it does. He used to love the marks Shane left on him. Used to crave the reminders he could return to days later, the blossoming colors of truth that proved Shane’s desire.

The words keep bouncing around inside Ilya’s skull.

I want you. I love you.

Shane tucks his face under Ilya’s jaw, and Ilya can’t help but try to soothe him, even if he has nothing to offer but pressure and warmth, the old muscle memory of being the one thing in the world that Shane trusts enough to fall apart on.

He’s not sure how long they stay that way, breathing in sync, the world on mute. The sunlight is warmer now, the last clouds of the morning chased away, and it feels like something ridiculous, out of a fairytale.

When he pulls back, it’s only by fractions. Less separation than a breath.

Maybe a minute passes. Maybe an hour. Shane is crying quietly, and it’s not the pretty kind, even if he’s still so beautiful. His tears are wet and raw, sharp little shudders that shake through that tense, overstressed body of his.

Shane doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens further. He’s making ugly, apologetic noises, chin trembling like he’s a child. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, “I’m so fucking sorry. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t-” He cuts himself off, pressing his face harder into Ilya’s neck.

I love you.

How long has Ilya dreamed of those words? Of holding Shane in his arms and whispering them back. He longs to, now, each syllable waiting hopefully on the tip of his tongue, but it would be a cruel thing to do, and Ilya has been cruel enough.

He doesn’t need to ask why Shane is so broken-hearted. He’s not callous enough to claim Shane doesn’t care for him, as much as Ilya is something to be cared for. They’re friends, and even if they weren’t, Shane’s heart is tender behind those walls.

Ilya can only assume Marly’s told him. It’s a miracle that it’s taken so long.

It’s almost a relief that it’s out there. That he doesn’t have to hide.

Mortifying, yes. Horrifying, even.

But Ilya is very good at adapting to situations forced upon him. Less so than he is when things are in his control.

It’s no surprise he’s not been allowed this secret when so many others have been pried from his grasp.

Silly, really, to fear Shane’s disgust, his condemnation. Not now he’s holding him. Not now his tears stain Ilya’s skin.

Of course Shane is sad.

He touches his lips to Shane’s cheek, a brush of damp skin and salt, then pulls back far enough to catch his eyes. Shane tries to look away, but Ilya won’t let him. He wipes another tear away with his thumb, then cups his face, brings their foreheads together, and sinks them both into stillness.

The city is a dream around them. The wind, the leaves, the low hum of life below this rooftop: none of it matters. Just Shane, his face open and desperate and wet, and Ilya, who aches for him in a way that is ancient and bottomless.

“Say it again,” Ilya pleads, because if it’s going to be a memory, it should be something beautiful to haunt him.

He holds Shane’s gaze, and there’s a flicker of confusion in those bottomless eyes, a note of something raw and unsteady, as Shane licks his lips and tries to speak. But the story is already told; Shane’s said it once, and now he’s locked in. Even if he wants to walk it back, he can’t. That’s not Shane. Not with Ilya’s hands on him, not with the air soft around them.

“I…” Shane’s voice is thinner than the wind, but his hands are steel on Ilya’s arms. “I love you.”

Ilya kisses him for it. Sinks into him, steals the word from his tongue, takes as much as he can get and then some. If his whole life is just this moment, this joint failure of reason and restraint, then fuck, he’ll die a happy man. The taste is bitter with tears and the aftermath of panic, but it’s Shane, it’s Shane, alive and real and trembling in his arms.

He doesn’t let it last forever. Even he’s not that selfish.

He tears himself free with a groan and presses his cheek hard to Shane’s. Breathing him in, holding him together. “You don’t love me,” he says quietly, a secret, a confession. “You feel bad for me. For what happened. You’re scared.”

Shane tries to shake his head, but Ilya holds him in place. “No. Listen,” he breathes, and forces himself to say the rest. “I… I know this, this feeling here-” he presses a palm between their bodies so he can cover Shane’s heart. “It feels like dying, no? Like you hope maybe you say the right words and things will be different.”

“Ilya-” Shane sounds so broken. Ilya did that, and he’ll never be able to undo it, so he kisses him again, as gentle and sweet as he knows how to be.

“My mama, she… she and I were not so different. I found her.”

Ilya knows exactly what Shane is feeling, because it’s the same black hole that has lived in his own chest.

The ache for rewind, for the magical undoing, the silent bargaining with every power, known and unknown: give her back, take anything else.

He’d have sold body parts. He’d have bled himself dry. He’d have made deals with the very worst devils, and sometimes he fears he may have done so anyway.

He recognizes in Shane’s desperate hands, in the way his voice shreds itself raw, that same panic.

Please, anything, just don’t let it be true.

He wants to tell Shane that nothing he says now is real. It’s not nothing, not with Shane, it never is, but panic is a potent liar, and the mind will say anything to close the void.

Ilya’s still not sure he’s forgiven his own brain for what it put him through in those months after, how easily it convinced him there was a backdoor out of pain, some trick of fate that would let him teleport back to a life where she was there, still holding him with her gentle hands and her impossible capacity for living.

Some things, you don’t come back from. He knows this now.

He touches Shane’s cheek, and he’s not gentle, not this time, because gentleness is for later. “You mean it,” he says, low, a little hoarse, “but you don’t mean it forever.”

Shane shakes his head, but it’s the faint, watery shake of someone who can’t imagine a world beyond the one he’s in. He tries to choke out another I love you, but Ilya hushes him with another kiss.

“I don’t want it. I don’t need it. You don’t have to say these things to me. I won't leave you.” The whole time, his thumb is tracing the edge of Shane’s jaw, holding him firm.

He says it so Shane will believe it, and because he wants to believe it himself. If it’s a lie, it’s the best one he has.

Shane presses his forehead to Ilya’s, so hard it aches. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Please don’t. Don’t do that. I mean it. I love you,” like a child, like something magic will happen if he says it three times in a row.

“It's okay,” Ilya says, and if it’s not the truth, it’s close enough. He leans in and kisses Shane, hard, teeth scraping, all the feeling he doesn’t have words for. His brain is a fucking colander, all the thoughts leaking out the holes, but this… this is his real language, all the ways he used to say love when he was still allowed to have it.

“Fuck… Ilya,” Shane gasps, voice half-ruined, soft with awe and disbelief and something that Ilya thinks is want. He pulls Ilya up by the shoulders and kisses him, biting, then softer, as if learning restraint is something he has to do from scratch every time.

Ilya lets him have it. He lets Shane grab his shirt, his arms, his ribs, holds them both upright while the rest of the world tilts at the edge of his vision and spins away. It’s raining sunlight on the rooftop, and the taste of Shane’s mouth is all he’s ever wanted, and this… this is what forever should have been: safe and warm and the certainty that he does, in fact, want to stay alive with this man, for as long as he possibly can.

Shane noses in against Ilya’s neck, then mumbles, “I don’t pity you,” with such unyielding, ridiculous intensity that for a moment Ilya’s not sure if he should correct him, or thank him, or laugh.

He runs a slow hand down Shane’s arm, thumb skating over his forearm, careful to avoid the places where, once, bruises lived. “You are very stubborn,” he says, a little fond, a little exasperated. “Always, this, you want to win the argument.”

Shane shakes his head, a miserable, wet denial that’s half-protest, half-shake. “Not arguing,” he mutters, then, as if stung, looks up and blurts: “I’m going to prove it, you know. I’ll convince you.” The set of his jaw is nearly heroic, the force of his promise bursting through the sadness with something halfway to indignation.

This is familiar. This, his secret, favorite thing about Shane: that impossible, unquenchable fire. It sparks a warmth spreading in his chest, so bright and so heavy he has to look away for a second.

“I let you win sometimes,” Ilya reminds him, and the words are a proxy for the ones he can’t say.

“Liar,” Shane manages, voice steadier. “You never let me win shit.”

“Hmm. No. You must be very bored without me.”

Shane, strangely, doesn’t say anything to that, just nuzzles closer.

Suddenly wary, Ilya has to ask, “Just because I don’t say it back-”

“No,” Shane cuts him off. “When you want. If you want." Obviously, Ilya wants. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You probably have to go back to Montreal. They will not know how to play without you. I don’t think Pike even knows what the puck looks like.”

Shane snorts against his throat, and Ilya feels a thrill of satisfaction at making him laugh.

“Yeah, well, that’s… for later. I’ll come back. You’re gonna be sick of me. It’s gonna be a problem.”

“The worst problem,” Ilya agrees, that thrill growing brighter. He wants to push a little, be greedy with what he’s been given, and he’s comfortable enough to dare. “You will make, ah, wagging tongues? You didn’t want that.”

“I changed my mind,” Shane blurts. “I don’t care.”

“Shane-”

“I don’t care,” Shane pushes himself up so he can glare down at Ilya, that little crinkle of annoyance on the bridge of his nose that tricks a hopeless smile into Ilya’s face and only makes the scrunch worse. “People can say whatever the fuck they want about me, and if they say shit about you, I’ll fucking sue them.”

Ilya is so in love with this, with Shane’s absolute, almost self-annihilating certainty, he thinks he might actually die from how sweet it tastes. Every line of him aches to test it. He wants to break something open in Shane, watch the light pour out, not as cruelty but just to see what’s burning so hot it makes him say things like this and mean them.

He’s a greedy thing. He knows that. But even a greedy thing can marvel at the gift in his hands. Ilya turns Shane’s face toward him with a gentleness learned through much hard practice and studies the mess he’s made, the flush and the tears, the ugly hope in him that will not be stamped out.

Shane looks back with the determination of a man preparing to win yet another cup, and Ilya feels something close to delight.

“Okay,” he says, and it’s as much a dare as a concession. He draws Shane down and fits their foreheads together, savoring the pulse that jumps under the skin at Shane’s temple and the way his breathing evens for a moment before shooting high again, like a heart rate monitor going off the chart. “It’s not easy,” he warns. “I’m not easy. Sasha says I’m terrible.”

“Don’t care,” Shane mutters, lips barely moving except to press hard into Ilya’s hairline.

“You will,” Ilya tells him, affection wrapping around the words like velvet and a little acid. He can feel the tears drying on both of them. He can feel the sunlight settling on his face, and the warm hush of the city below. “But you are welcome to try.”

Shane’s hands cup the sides of Ilya’s face. He’s not rough, but there is a desperate, unglued energy in the way he holds on. “I will,” he says, no humor in it at all. “Prepare to be wooed, Rozanov.”

He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, as if asking Ilya not to fight is like asking a leaf to drift or a dog to eat. Ilya laughs, low in his throat, and lets himself sink back into the embrace, the pressure of Shane’s arms, the contradiction of being both the thing held and the thing doing the holding.

“Russians are not so easily won over,” Ilya warns him, delighted. He tugs Shane in by the collar, a quick, sharp gesture to disrupt the gravity of their sadness, to remind them both why they’re here at all. Their kiss is brief, a pressed seam of longing and promise.

He feels… fuck, not quite real to himself. More vivid than he’s been in months, but at the same time, less like a man and more like the outline of one, made flesh only because Shane believes so fiercely in the shape of him.

He likes that. He doesn’t care if it’s borrowed, doesn’t care if it’s just adrenaline and trauma-logic and the leftover scaffolding of what used to be them.

I like danger. He said those words to Shane once, a very long time ago.

Danger has taken on a whole new meaning to him since. proved him a child back then, with a child’s ignorance of the world, but this is such a specific flavor of danger. Far more reckless, maybe. Shane can undo him, shatter him, and there will be nothing left.

It’s a risk, but then so is everything else. Ilya doesn’t have the energy to guard against everything. Not when he wants. Not when he needs.

He’ll happily keep Shane here, pressed chest-to-chest, fierce enough to bruise the air out of their bodies. For the first time in months, maybe years, the pull to keep fighting loses to something else, something softer, unsettling in its sufficiency.

Ilya holds on. He’d keep him here forever, if his traitorous body didn’t surrender to warmth and calm so quickly. His eyelids shut under the weight of sunlight and Shane’s hands. Not asleep, not really, he isn’t that self-indulgent. Just resting. Letting himself enjoy it.

He’s not sure how much time goes by before Shane shifts, careful and feather-light. Ilya’s head rolls off his shoulder, then lolls back; he’s too heavy to fake a real response, so he just lets it happen.

The sun is higher, and heat radiates off the rooftop tiles. He’s perfectly content to sprawl like a lazy cat. If Shane wants to move, then Shane will move, and Ilya will make a performance of protesting, but he doesn’t. Shane’s arms are a cage, and Ilya, who fought so long to break out of every one, can’t imagine ever wanting out of this one.

“Hey.” Shane’s voice is sheepish, pitched for their two-person bubble. “Did you have lunch?”

Ilya considers it. “Probably?” He honestly can’t remember. He’s not entirely sure how he ended up on the roof if he’s honest. But he’s had his pills - Sasha insisted - so yes, probably, even if only a banana. “Maybe.”

In the crook of his neck, Shane huffs. “You’re supposed to eat.”

“I know.” Ilya sinks boneless into the couch cushions, stretching his legs until his toes brush the green-painted edge of a planter.

“Do you have a dietician?” Shane’s palm cups Ilya’s scalp, fingers playing at his too-long hair.

“Why would I have a dietician?” Ilya mumbles. He’s not an athlete anymore. Yes, he has to be sensible, but no one is really counting his macros anymore. Shane pulls back. Just a bit, enough to look at him. His eyes are still a little swollen, red around the edges, and it hits Ilya all of a sudden that he’s never really seen Shane in sunlight like this before. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes.

Shane flushes pink, all the way across those freckles, but his mouth stays pouty. “Don’t change the subject.”

“S’a good subject,” Ilya says, and kisses him, slow and deliberate and, well, maybe he’s making a point.

Shane pulls away, a fraction impatient. “Nice try.” Ilya narrows his eyes. He’s about to suggest something appropriately filthy or dramatic, but Shane’s already on the next thing. “Can I borrow your phone?”

It’s been a long time since a question has surprised Ilya, but this one does. “Why?”

That flush grows. “Mine is kinda… broken. Part of why I was late.”

Ilya blinks, rather delighted by the idea of a clumsy Shane Hollander. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Don’t look at my photos,” Ilya warns. “There are some good nudes in there.”

There aren’t. Nor are there the pictures he’s spent years and years carefully transferring from one device to the next, of him and Shane on that stage in Vegas.

“I guarantee none are as good as the ones in my head,” Shane deadpans.

“Pervert. What are you doing?”

Shane shuffles between Ilya and the back of the couch until he can properly tap at the screen. “Ordering food. You still like sushi, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya says slowly.

“Cool. I’ll get enough for everyone.” Ilya is about to open his mouth and make… he’s not even sure what kind of protest. He can stretch to sushi… then Shane says, “I’ve added my credit card. Feel free to abuse it.”

Then Ilya’s mouth does open, and the only thing diverting the sudden burst of extreme defensiveness is, “How the fuck do you just know your credit card number?”

Shane doesn’t look at him, just keeps poking at the screen. “How the fuck do you not?” He freezes, genuine mortification replacing that flush, and he looks at Ilya with wide, wet eyes. “I didn’t mean-”

Yeah, Ilya knows he didn’t mean. “Hollander,” he says slowly, mostly to derail the spiking worry in Shane’s eyes. “I have never just known my credit card number. Who the fuck just knows it?”

“Everyone?”

“Literally no one.”

Shane’s evidence gets shakier as he tries to defend his inborn nerd-ism, but he’s so cute about it Ilya wants to put a pillow over his face and bite him until he stops talking. The flush lingers on Shane’s cheekbones, a warm bloom that seems to pulse in the sunlight, and Ilya stretches, feline, taking up more than half the couch. Shane shifts, settles, then hits send on the delivery order with a victorious little hum.

The silence after is good. Heavy, but not with the weird, echoing loneliness that he’s used to. He lets his head loll to the side and watches Shane, who’s busy processing a thousand things, his face open and so easy to read, Ilya is tempted to tease him, just to see what else will come out.

Instead, he asks, “You will get a new phone?”

“Hmm,” Shane nods. “I’ll pick one up in the morning.”

“It… will have the same number?”

“Should do. I think it’s just a hardware issue.” Ilya nods to himself, not even sure what he’s asking beyond a general, low-level thrum of anxiety at not being able to text Shane anytime and remind himself that they do this now. Shane tilts his head. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

Yes. Good. That’s good. “After six?” Tomorrow is going to be a long day, but it will be worth it, and if he does crash after, at least it will be with Shane’s voice lingering in his ear.

“That works,” Shane agrees, then he hesitates. “I know… this is a lot. I’m a lot. But…” he takes a deep breath and looks Ilya down as if he’s facing a firing squad. “Just… tell me? If you want space and I’ll do that, okay? I’m not good at reading people.” He looks down for a second, then back up through his lashes. “Especially not you. I never have been. I don’t want to fuck up again.”

Ilya sighs and brushes his thumb over Shane’s cheek. “You didn’t. Why would you stay? What reason did I give you?”

Shane’s earnest smile turns brittle, stuck on the wrong side of cautious. “That wasn’t… I wasn’t talking about that.” Whne he trails off, Ilya lifts an eyebrow as a prompt for further explanation. His memories between Shane leaving and after are pretty fucking jumbled, but he doesn’t think there’s anything else even remotely qualifying as a ‘fuck up’. Other than the Rose Landry thing, the less said about her, the better.

Shane looks down, his lashes wet again. “I mean after. After you... I kept texting.” He flushes again. “I was worried. Then I was pissed. Then I was worried again. Then just… I wasn’t cool.”

“You’re never cool,” Ilya responds on instinct, everything else fucking spiraling.

“Fuck off,” Shane’s answer is just as fast. “But seriously. I get why you didn’t respond. Fuck, you had enough to deal with. Just… sorry. For the shit I said.”

“I never got texts,” he says carefully. “I don’t know where my phone went. After.” There’s a lot of shit that just grew legs and walked off while Ilya did the coma-sedation hokey fucking pokey.

His phone. Mama’s cross. All his fucking money…

“Oh,” Shane says, the syllable flat with confusion and a dawning awareness he’s missed something important. “I thought...” He grimaces. “Sorry. I just, I kept sending them…” he jerks his head to one side. “So who has it?”

“No fucking clue,” Ilya says honestly. If it's not in a landfill somewhere, it will have been stripped, reset, and sold on. “Why?”

“Well, someone’s been reading your messages.”

Ilya doesn’t breathe for a full five seconds. The line in his head, not for other people’s hands, even the kind ones, is suddenly more tangible than the air in his lungs.

There are things he’s said, typed, blurted into voids over sleepless nights and ill-concealed longing that exist only in that endless chat log with Shane. There are also things he’s never admitted to another living soul, not even Sasha or Sveta, and the idea of them being seen by someone else is...

He blinks, hard. The blue dot of messages, the ones he thought went into the trash fire with the rest of his American life, are still alive out there somewhere. Not just read. Read. With context.

He closes his eyes, sets his head against Shane’s collarbone, and lets the sun bore into the backs of his eyelids. He tries to picture the exact shape of what’s out there, a digital shadow of years, the arc of a whole fucking relationship in two-sided texts.

He can imagine the jokes, the fights, the times he tried to be cruel or dismissive and failed, all lined up for anyone with the patience to scroll. He doesn’t care about the sex.

Shane is out. He’s a public figure. There’s nothing in that log that can threaten that, and he wants to be with Ilya, so he’s safe there too…

Okay… okay… so it’s not dangerous that someone else has clearly seen their history. Not the way it might once have been. Even the risk to Ilya is mitigated, hilariously, by the sheer fact that if he did somehow end up back in Russia, he wouldn’t be considered sane enough to stand trial for his deviancy.

It’s just… that’s their history, His and Shane’s, and not only has Ilya failed to protect him from the pain of all this, he’s allowed something so deeply private, something meant only for them, to be stolen.

The shame is breathtaking.

He can’t even articulate the shape of it, the mortification that needles under his skin, but Shane doesn’t let him drift down into the spiral. “Hey,” he says, soft, as if he can read it in the hunch of Ilya’s shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. I mean it. None of that matters now.” He says it with a certainty that dares Ilya to contradict him.

They’re both quiet, a long, slow moment, so full it could break if not for the gentle, anchoring weight of Shane’s hand at the back of Ilya’s neck.

He expects it to be awkward, or at least barbed with the embarrassment of all the things he can’t take back, but it’s nothing like that. Shane just brushes his hair off his forehead and looks at him, like Ilya is something rare and precious and breakable, and Ilya can’t hold the gaze for more than a breath before he’s ducking his head, half-laughing, half-something else.

Shane runs a thumb over his cheek and kisses him. It’s a light, quick thing, a punctuation mark, but it unlocks something anyway. The heat in Ilya’s face flares up until he can feel it prickling all the way to his ears.

When his phone finally buzzes to announce the arrival of their food, Ilya starts to sit only to be pushed back into the couch. “Stay put,” Shane tells him.

“Or what?”

“I’ll tell your friends you’re pushing yourself too hard,” Shane smirks.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes, and it will be you they throw off the roof, not me.” He’s still kinda stunned no one is bleeing yet. Sveta and Sasha are not quick to make friends, but they’re sure as shit fast to pass judgement. This is all a little too easy.

Shane ducks back to kiss him on the lips, just a quick peck. “So stay, and I’ll bring everything up.”

Fine, fine… he holds up his hands and slumps back on the couch.

See, I can be good.

Shane looks delighted. “Five minutes,” he promises.

It’s a good job it’s sushi he’s ordered because it sure as shit won’t be five minutes. Either Sveta or Sasha will corner him for something.

He could go down and play mediator, but things have been okay, so far, and the more stressed they think he is, the more likely they are to blame each other.

He’s not stressed. He’s having the best fucking afternoon of his life.

His entire fucking relationship with Shane is someone else’s business now, but Shane is being weirdly, freakishly calm about it, and Ilya’s pretty fucking used to all the aspects of his life being violated in some form or other.

It’s Sveta who has won the fight to square off with Shane. Sasha appears on the roof only a minute after he leaves.

Ilya stays where he is on the couch, eyes closed against the sun. “You’re being nice. It’s creepy.”

“Fuck you too.” Sasha perches on the arm of the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his shoulders curled. He’s going to fuck his back up one of these days, Ilya keeps telling him. You spend that long at a computer every day, your spine starts to hate you. “He’s on thin ice.” He must be. They try to stick to English during the day to limit the back and forth Ilya has to do. If he’s speaking Russian, it’s because he doesn’t want Shane to understand him if he hears them.

Ilya takes a beat and switches gears.“You like him.”

“He serves a purpose.” Sasha agrees.

Oh no. Not a chance. They're not bringing Shane into their military level scheming.

“No. You’re not involving him in this.” Ilya turns fully toward him, splays his arm along the couch back.

Sasha pulls a face. “You think you can keep him out of it?”

“He knows enough. He knows what I did.” Shane has been kind enough not to ask for the details, which is great, or why, which is even better, because I don’t know is a terrible fucking answer to both.

“Does he know the rest?” Sasha asks because he already knows Ilya’s answer, and that makes Ilya want to crawl out of his own skin.

“He’s already so…” The word is gone, fluttered away before he can catch it. Ilya will own up to his part in the pain he’s caused Shane, but the least he can fucking do is try and shelter him from the rest of it.

“Fucked up about you? Yeah, I noticed,” Sasha says, more gently than Ilya expects. “But it’s worse if you lie.”

“I’m not lying,” Ilya protests. He means it. He’s not fucking lying. He’s just… not telling everything. It’s not the same.

Sasha gives him the look he’s been giving Ilya since they were both six years old. “What happens when you have a bad night, idiot?” Sasha asks. “When you have a bad day and he’s the one there?”

Ilya shakes his head. “He won’t see it.” He’s careful. He takes his pills. He can even get through a whole night, sometimes, without… without a thing. If he’s careful. “I won’t let him.”

“Yeah,” Sasha drawls, “that always works out for you.” He leans forward, arms on thighs, and in the stripe of sunlight his face looks carved from stone, a coarseness there that Ilya used to covet that now makes him ache. This Sasha is so changed from the flighty, flirty, reckless boy Ilya knew. It’s his fault, these changes. This new hardness. “You want him or not?”

A flicker of irritation stirs in him. “You think I would let-” It’s a little too loud, so he lowers his voice, cuts the edge off it. “You think he would stay if he knew?”

Shane can maybe, just maybe forgive Ilya a moment of weakness, of stupidity, but he doubts that forgiveness would stretch across the following years. Sweet Shane, so stubbornly determined not to pity Ilya… what would he make of the fragile, drooling, stupid fucking shell he’d been?

He’d be horrified.

Sasha snorts, then laughs. “It is good to know you are still as fucking stupid as you were before you blended your brains.” Sasha is also the only person on the planet who will directly poke the poorly healed wound of Ilya’s folly. It’s weirdly reassuring.

Ilya drops his head back and stares at the sky. There’s a jet cutting across the upper blue, the line of white behind it completely straight, completely even, and he wants to put his thumb to the horizon and smudge it.

He can hear Sasha rolling his eyes. “He’s not weak. If you want to keep him, keep him. Don’t fuck him up by dropping bombs on him every time you melt down. Tell him, now, so it’s not a surprise when it happens.”

“He’s already…” Ilya closes his mouth on the words. He doesn’t know how to finish. Shane is not okay. He doesn’t do well with change, and they’re on a fucking speedrun of upheaval. Enough is enough.

“Tell him,” Sasha says. “Or next time he’ll be prying you out from under the bed. Think that will go better?” His voice, usually a practiced drawl when they’re alone, grinds around the words.

Sasha has the uncanny ability to edge a thumb into the healing knuckles of his self-respect. “It’s been months. Fuck off with that,” Ilya scowls. “And I’m not scared of Shane. I’m not scared of anything except-“ but he doesn’t finish, because even now, saying it out loud would be like naming the thing in the dark and inviting it for tea.

“You’re not scared of Sveta either,” Sasha points out mildly, voice very close to actual sympathy, “but that doesn’t always help when you bail.”

That stings, because it’s true, and because Ilya doesn’t want to picture Shane’s face when - if - he ever loses it.

Ilya’s done having this conversation. “You’re very invested in my love life,” he says sourly. “Go get one of your own.”

“In Ottawa,” Sasha shudders. “No, thank you. I still say we should have gone to Vancouver.”

“Vancouver sucks,” Ilya reminds him. Somehow, they suck even more than Ottawa, which puts them at the bottom two of the whole damn league. “Do you think Alexei has my old phone?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and it clearly knocks Sasha off balance. Ilya doesn’t talk about Alexei. They don’t talk about Alexei within his hearing.

“Why do you ask?”

“Shane says he messaged me. My old number. Someone was reading them.”

Sasha’s mouth pulls in sharply, a muscle in his cheek twitching like a slow cramp. He says, “I can try to find it,” but the offer is a non-answer. “I’ve never looked.”

Knowing what country it’s in would be a start. It’s not something any of them has really thought about. There have been more pressing issues, and he really did think it would have just been thrown out with everything else that didn’t get sold.

It feels kinda petty to be hung up on a phone of all things, but everything of Ilya’s old life is gone. If someone has this little sliver of it, he wants it fucking back,

Sasha pulls out his own phone. “It will only work if it has power,” he warns. “But I should be able to get a last known location at least… please tell me you have a different password now.”

“Nope.”

“You’re a fucking security risk,” Sasha grumbles, tapping away at his phone. Ilya’s not awful with tech, but he isn’t at Sasha’s level of competence. “This is why you’re not allowed the Netflix password.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“I fucking hate you.” In the world of Sasha’s phone, there is no friction, just a flurry of taps and swipes and the periodic, punctuating curse word as he grumbles at Ilya’s apparently poor digital hygiene.

Ilya lets the sunlight press against his closed eyes, head tilted back to absorb every gradient of warmth while Sasha prods the layers of digital memory that still exist under Ilya’s name.

He can sense, more than hear, the moment Sasha gets what he’s looking for. The typing halts.

“Okay,” Sasha says, voice flat and a little impressed despite himself.

Ilya opens one eye. “Was it the password?”

Sasha snorts without looking up. “Yes, you still have the same password you did when you were fifteen, congratulations.” He flicks his thumb across the screen again, scrolling, scanning. “Your phone is still active.” He pauses to adjust his wrist, then raises an eyebrow at Ilya. “I thought the US bank was closed?”

And emptied. “It is.”

“Somebody’s paying your bill.” Sasha smooths a palm down the back of his head, as if to align his thoughts. “The good news is, I don’t think your brother has it.” No shit. Alexei would turn off Ilya’s life support if it saved him a ruble. Luckily for Ilya, he missed his chance.

“Bad news?”

“It’s here. In Ottawa.”

Chapter 13

Chapter Summary

I was tempted to address some of the less fun things that have been flung my way this last week, but that's a terrible use of my energy, so instead I'd much rather say thank you all so, so much for the incredible comments, amazing speculation, gentle threats, and overall wonderful energy you bring to this stressball of a fic! You're amazing! I can't believe there's an actual bookclub...

It feels like the perfect way to repay your kindness by being my usual, terrible, self, so, er...

Content warnings: mention of past child abuse, implied captivity and restraint, heavy discussion of suicide, and yet another of my evil cliffhangers.

One thing at a time.

Practical solutions only.

Food first. That’s a straightforward enough task, with measurable results. Both for Ilya and himself. He’s spent so long sticking to such a strict routine that he can really feel the difference in how he thinks and reacts, even after only a small deviation.

Shane has a very chill dietitian/personal chef who has spent a long time scouring menus to pick out the places and items best suited to his diet, and from that he has a favorite place to order sushi from when he’s in Ottawa, one that uses brown rice instead of white and low-sodium soy sauce.

He makes sure he has a large selection of tuna, salmon, mackerel, and yellowtail sashimi for Ilya. Fatty fish is rich in Omega 3, which is essential in reducing inflammation and supporting cognitive function. It helps that Ilya likes sashimi, so hopefully that won’t be much of a fight.

He gets a couple of the restaurant’s sharing boxes, packed with nigiri and their special rolls, so Sveta and Sasha can have something to choose from.

In the notes, he leaves a message for the chef, signs it with his name, and tags on a 100% tip for a priority delivery.

The bag he’s handed at the bottom of the elevator is stuffed full. He’s maybe gone a little overboard, but Ilya used to have an insane appetite, and he has no idea how much or how little the others eat. Better to cover his bases than fail at the first hurdle by being underprepared.

When he’s back in the loft, Sveta is waiting for him by the kitchen island, her arms crossed. Shane hesitates.

She’s got a Centaurs fleece on, despite the warmth of the loft, and there’s something steadying about it. He’s used to facing down hockey management personnel, used to the way their questions move in zigzags, playful or sharp, never quite where you expect. Sveta, whatever her other qualities, is very much a hockey director. They all have a certain way about them, her included...

If he can handle getting dragged into Roger Crowell’s office like an errant schoolboy, he can handle her. Fucking up the first encounter carried the risk of losing his career. Fucking up the second will mean possibly losing Ilya.

He is not a man accustomed to or prepared to fucking lose.

It’s a little easier to slow his heart when he’s doing something useful. Shane unpacks the sushi on the kitchen island, opening the bags so the fragrance of briny, fresh fish and vinegared rice fills the air. He checks the labels, slots rolls, and nigiri into logical groupings in a quiet, focused way, organizing the chaos so he doesn’t have to dwell on the too-loud thoughts from the morning still echoing in the back of his head.

Ilya tried to kill himself.

He lines everything up in rows, double-checks the temperature of the miso, disarms the bags of wasabi and ginger, and tames the riot of chopsticks with the one hand that isn’t trembling.

Ilya tried to kill himself. He cut off the oxygen and the blood to his brain.

Sveta glances at the food, then at Shane. “So. Are you dating Ilya or not?”

No warm-up, just the line on the ice. “Yes,” he says, because it’s true. He is. He desperately hopes he is. He can barely think of anything else. “I mean, I’d like to. It’s up to him.”

Ilya tried to kill himself. He cut off the oxygen and the blood to his brain. He nearly died.

She leans in, elbows on the counter, all business. “Good. I need to teach you the rules.”

“The rules,” he echoes, caught off guard.

“Americans don't know how to date Russians,” she says, like this is the most basic of hockey fundamentals.

“I’m Canadian,” Shane protests. She waves a hand as if to lump him in with all of North America by default. He’s a little offended.

Ilya tried to kill himself.

Sveta inclines her head, like a teacher deciding whether it’s worth explaining a concept to a failing student. “First, you pay for everything. Always. You pick him up, you make the arrangements. He never goes anywhere alone with you unless we know you will get him home safely.”

Shane doesn’t protest. “I can do that.”

“Second,” Sveta says, “you introduce him to your parents. His parents are dead, so you must deal with Sasha and me instead. We are his family now.”

“I didn’t know that,” Shane says softly. He knew Ilya’s father was maybe unwell, context cues picked up from the call he overheard back in Boston, and his mother… he hesitates, then says, “He said… that he and his mom were similar. Did she…”

“Kill herself?” Sveta says flatly, her eyes narrowed. “Yes. She had a terrible accident when he was twelve and swallowed a whole bottle of pills.”

The whole kitchen lurches around Shane so quickly that he has to grab hold of the counter.

Ilya tried to kill himself. He wanted to die.

“Third,” she says, like she hasn’t just triggered a fucking landmine, and now the line of her lips grows amused, “if you buy flowers, and you will buy flowers, you must do it properly. None of this-” she waves a hand “-half dozen from the gas station. In Russia, good men know the kind of flowers to buy and how many; odd numbers, for celebration, never, except for funerals. You send the wrong number to him, I will haunt your fucking walls.”

Shane almost laughs. It’s that or burst into tears. He’s not about to do that in front of her.

Ilya tried to kill himself. He wanted to die. He nearly succeeded.

“His mom…” He tries to picture Ilya at twelve, and can’t. Not without something short-circuiting. Then he tries to remember if he’s ever heard anything about suicidal tendencies being hereditary.

“No yellow flowers,” Sveta ignores the question. “Roses are preferable. Tulips or lilies are acceptable.” Shane’s mouth twitches involuntarily. Well he knows what he’s getting Ilya first…

“His dad…”

“Also dead, yes,” Sveta says abruptly. Fucking Christ... “His family was old-fashioned. Traditional. I will be traditional in their stead. You will learn Russian.”

Shane nods before he realizes he’s doing it. He doesn’t say yes immediately. He says, “I’m already working on it.”

He’s working on a lot of things.

“I’m going to talk to a neurologist… someone familiar with hypoxic injuries…” He ticks the points off on his fingers, cataloging them like he’s running the list in a locker-room drill. “And a neuropsychologist. For advice on cognitive rehab. Maybe an occupational therapist. I thought about a dietitian. A driver, if he wants to get around without having to rely on someone else. Not,” he adds quickly, “that he can’t rely on you. That’s not what I am saying at all!” He stops, not wanting to say it in case it gets back to Ilya, and he feels caged.

“You want to be the best at boyfriending, so you must train with the best?” Sveta arches a delicate eyebrow. He’s not sure if she’s pleased or annoyed. She has that same ability to stare right through him that Ilya does. They must teach it to tiny Russian babies.

Ilya tried to kill himself. He wanted to die. He nearly succeeded. He was twelve when his mother did the same.

“Yes,” Shane says, because it’s easier than explaining how nothing has ever devoured him like loving this man, and he’d rather admit to being neurotic than admit to being scared. “And I want him to be happy. That’s your next follow-up, right? So do I. Whatever he needs.”

Now she’s definitely smiling… a slow, dangerous thing. “He is never good with routines,” she says. “You will have to not let him get distracted. He hates being told what to do.”

“Yeah, well, he also does a lot of shit just so he can say he told me so. I can work with that.”

“That is a lot of commitment.”

Shane nods, unable to trust his own voice. His hands have gone numb. He’s not sure if blood is moving in or out.

She taps her polished fingernail against the counter in a rhythm that grates on his nerves. One, two, three, four, five in a rapid flurry, then one, two, three, slow and purposeful. “Why?”

He has to drag his focus away from the noise to her. “I love him,” he says, and the more he says it, the more people he says it to, the more addictive the words become.

She almost laughs at that, then shakes her head. “Add to your list a trauma therapist. And a really, really good lawyer.”

Ilya tried to kill himself. He wanted to die. He nearly succeeded. He was twelve when his mother did the same. How did he do it?

He doesn’t even get past the word lawyer before his skin goes hot and cold with the certainty that he’s missing something, something mammoth, something that’s waiting to tear his feet out from under him.

Ilya had never been in trouble with the law, not that Shane knows of, and even if he had, what would a lawyer do now? Unless she means some sort of medical proxy? Power of attorney? Or-

Ilya tried to kill himself. He wanted to die. He nearly succeeded. He was twelve when his mother did the same. How did he do it? Did he swallow pills like her?

Shane rubs his thumb over the edge of a chopstick packet, trying to slow his mind down, but he’s accelerating instead, spiraling, ping-ponging between factual conference-room guilt and something darker, a black velvet curtain drawn over the specifics.

It seems silly not to immediately think of bringing someone in who can help Shane understand the lingering issues of Ilya’s failed attempt.

Forget whatever leads up to such a thing, what follows… fuck, what follows has got to be some kind of nightmare, right?

The physical effects, the ones he’s still living with, are surely no more or less brutal than the emotional ones?

Ilya’s been gone a long time. Shane doesn’t know any of the details. What even happens to people who try to end their lives? He assumes they don’t just sign their name on a piece of paper, so whoops, sorry to have troubled you, and just waltz back to their old lives.

He knows for a fact that Ilya didn’t.

Then he thinks of him sitting in a plastic chair, at the end of a long table, pale and hunched and hurting and frightened, answering questions issued by someone not interested in him, only the things he says.

He thinks of Ilya, beautiful, proud, defiant Ilya, alone and hurting and so fucking desperate he thinks there’s only one, final solution-

Ilya tried to kill himself. He wanted to die. He nearly succeeded. He was twelve when his mother did the same. How did he do it? Did he swallow pills like her? Did he hang himself from that stupid fucking beam Shane had admired when he went to Ilya’s home…

-and after, when it didn’t work. Was he relieved? Was he angry? Was he disappointed?

Did… did he try again? Will he try again?

Trauma therapist. It’s on the list. It makes sense.

As for a lawyer…

Did somebody hurt Ilya, after? Is that why he needs a lawyer? For protection? Or is it some clause, buried in the collapsed scaffolding of his old career, waiting to detonate the second he drew attention to himself by not dying?

He forces himself to ask, “Why a lawyer?”

Sveta fixes him with a look so flinty he wonders if he’s supposed to try to make a spark with it. “For when you need them,” she says, as if this is trivially obvious, as if the rest is either not his business or not Ilya’s, and either way, he’s not getting more information.

Shane wants to press, to insist, to do something performative about his love for Ilya because he wants so badly to keep him in the world and keep the world from ever, ever hurting him again, but he says nothing. He repacks the thought, neat and trembling, in the box at the back of his brain reserved for all the things he isn’t allowed to talk about, and adds lawyer to the list.

Ilya tried to kill himself.

But he failed. He’s alive. Shane is going to fucking keep him that way.

The food goes over well. He’s nervous at first - he’s watched too many gangster movies on flights where sharing food is the prelude to a hit, or at least the passing of judgement - but Sveta helps him carry everything to the terrace on trays and pours cold tea for everyone, and even Sasha joins at the table, wolfing down spicy tuna rolls with the sulky entitlement of someone who would rather be doing anything else, but at leats plans on getting food out of the situation.

Shane settles back next to Ilya, craving the warmth of his arm against his own.

Eating with three other people shouldn’t feel like a team-building exercise, but the table is so quiet that Shane is convinced that if he makes a single wrong move, someone will have to write it up in the incident log. He tries to make Ilya laugh by offering him the biggest slab of toro, but Ilya’s eyes are far away, fixed on some point just beyond the edge of the table, and when he drops a slice into his own bowl, he doesn’t even blink as it breaks the surface of the soy sauce. He just watches it sink.

Sasha is a competitive chewer. He goes through three rolls in as many minutes, his attention divided between a chess game on his phone and innovating new ways to lick wasabi off his fingers. Sveta, for all her runway-model stature, is the hungriest of the bunch, vanishing five pieces in quick succession.

Ilya tried to kill himself.

The combined effect is a lunchroom at a particularly depressing boarding school.

Shane’s tactician’s brain is shrieking at him: break the ice, break the ice, break the fucking ice, but he can’t think of a single topic that doesn’t risk detonating a land mine in someone’s family history. He’s not a man of safe small talk, and even the weather seems like a delicate subject in this company.

But this is about what Ilya needs, not what Shane needs, and ilya needs a peaceful, stable environment, so he tries anyway. “How do you like Ottawa?” he asks Sveta, because she is, in some ways, the most dangerous presence, and he’s an idiot about wanting to impress the people likely to kill him.

Sveta’s eyes actually crinkle. “Very much,” she says, though her accent does a little somersault over the second word. “Cold as balls in winter, but very beautiful once you get used to it.”

Sasha snorts, not looking up. “Less beautiful if you drive in it.”

Ilya finally stirs, turning his gaze to Shane, and there’s a flicker of something grateful in his face. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just picking up the cue to rejoin the land of the living. “You have to see Sveta drive,” Ilya says, voice raspier than Shane remembers it. “It’s terrifying. She thinks she’s in video game. Red shells go boom.”

“Worse in Toronto,” Shane says. “Montreal’s not much better.” He almost launches into the famous story about being rear-ended by a delivery bike while trying to parallel park on St Catherine, but Sasha’s already rolling his next bite in enough wasabi to raise the dead and he gets lost in the bewildered horror of watching him not even twitch.

“Where were you before you took the Centaurs job?” Shane asks, reminding himself it’s stupid to care, that he only wants these people to like him because they matter to Ilya, not because he is looking to make friends.

He has a vague - crystal clear - memory of Ilya saying she worked in Boston, but he’s pretty sure - totally fucking certain - he said she did something with cars.

Ilya tried to kill...

“I sold very fancy cars to very rich men,” Sveta snorts. Ilya’s a rich man who likes fancy cars… only maybe not so much now if he can’t drive. The thought sprinkles salt into the weeping wound in his heart.

“Then how’d you end up running hockey ops for the Centaurs?” It’s a high-level job, and she can’t be much, if at all, older than Ilya.

“Ah,” she looks up at him through thick lashes, and he gets a wild sense that maybe he’s supposed to find her attractive. She is pretty, in like… an aesthetic sense. “Nepotism, mostly. And a very short skirt.” She says both things without any sense of shame, apparently comfortable with the privileges she was born with and more than willing to put them to use.

“Her father is Sergei Vetrov,” Sasha adds for context. “He was Russian goalie, back in the glory days.”

“The club is owned by an old-money Ottawa family,” Sasha adds. “One of them married a friend of Svetik’s papa.”

“Is not true,” Ilya says, waving a piece of salmon sashimi in Sveta’s general direction. He looks at Shane, his face bright again, his lips working to keep a wry smile down. “That isn’t why she got the job. She knows more hockey than anyone. Maybe more than you.”

“More than Sasha at least,” she laughs, summoning a look of utter disgust from Sasha.

The easy familiarity between the three of them suddenly grows a new limb to smack Shane across the face with. “Wait. You’re his coach’s son.”

“Telling tales about me, were you Lyulya?” Sasha drawls lazily.

Ilya tried to...

Great, so… that’s great. He’s not only trying to prove himself to Ilya’s ex-girlfriend and his childhood best friends but also to the man he lost his virginity with. That’s just…

No. No, fuck it, he’s not doing this here.

And he’s not good at reading things, so maybe… maybe he’s missed something, but there’s not been anything he’s seen between any of them that he, with his admittedly fucking poor observational skills, really reads as sexual.

Doesn’t mean he fucking likes it, though.

Fine. That’s fine. He’s used to competing for everything, and Ilya’s worth a whole lot more than any cup.

“Sasha hates hockey,” Ilya says, ignoring the jibe Sasha throws his way and picks at the remaining food on his plate.

“Yet here I am,” he sighs, looking very put upon. “Surrounded by hockey, day and night and forever. Is not even an attractive sport. Most hockey players look like they were beaten with ugly stick.”

Shane’s lip twitches. He’s not exactly wrong. Back when he first came out, Couillard mockingly asked Shane if he was hitting on him, and Shane, half surprised to be spoken to at all, had replied he’d rather eat toenail clippings. That hadn’t helped settle the vibe in the locker room.

“So what do you do?”

“Oh no,” Sveta cuts in, rolling her eyes. “We don’t talk about Sasha’s work.”

Shane bypasses the moment with a sheepish cut of his hand through the air. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to-”

But Ilya’s already grinning, his eyes crinkled at Sasha in that way that’s both fond and perfectly positioned to antagonize; the kind of smile reserved for people you spent too long with as a child. “Go on. Tell him. Be fucking mysterious.”

“I work with computers,” Sasha says. He doesn’t look up from the chess puzzle on his phone, and for a second Shane thinks this is just normal contempt for civilian curiosity, but then he glances up through his fringe, a flash of interest suppressed so quickly Shane wonders if he imagined it.

He isn’t going to press. He’s outnumbered on the board, and even if it’s just Ilya and his social python handlers, he can feel the coils tightening: every time he asks a question, he loses a little more ground.

Sveta grins at him. “He thinks he is a spy.”

“I’m not a spy,” Sasha says with the forced patience of someone who has to say the same thing very regularly.

Ilya barks so much laughter into his mouth that a nugget of rice nearly chokes him. “That’s what a spy would say, no?”

Ilya tried...

Shane has no idea if they’re joking. He’s going to assume they’re joking…

Sveta spares Shane the work of trying to untangle everything.

“He works in cybersecurity,” she says, like that’s the end of it. “He’s very good.”

“Oh.” Shane feels Ilya’s knee tap his under the table; it’s not an accident. He glances at Ilya, whose eyes are still dancing, but there’s gentleness there, too. He bumps back. “Are you Canadian?” he asks, returning to safer territory.

“Do we sound Canadian?” Sasha sniffs, like he’s just tasted something sour.

Shane tries not to cringe. “No! No, I mean… why Canada and not the US?” Oh, that sounds accusatory, even to his own ears. Ilya’s leg lines up with his, so they are touching from knee to ankle, and he’s ashamed, furiously so, that he needs Ilya to compensate for his own inability to hold a normal fucking conversation.

Before the silence can grow awkward, Sveta jumps in, “I am half-American. My mother’s from New York.” She says it with a crooked, sly smile like it’s some inside joke between her and the universe. “But after the, um, political stuff...” She shrugs, then makes a twisting motion with her wrist, drawing a spiral through the air. “It was not so simple to just move to America.”

Sasha grunts, “We like Canada better anyway. US isn’t so friendly to Russians right now. Even if you have perfect English.” He looks at Shane as if to dare him to disagree, then goes back to his chess game, unimpressed. “And, like Sveta said, we have friends here.”

Shane feels a small, mean flash of relief that he’s not the only one haunted by invisible politics. “Makes sense,” he says, aware of Sveta’s gaze, the knives in it blunted this time by something almost like approval, or at least understanding.

He wants to ask, so badly, about the why of it. Not just why Ottawa, but why coaching, why this job for Ilya, when he could be doing practically anything else in the world, anywhere else, with no one to answer to and no crowds watching his every move. But that would be a bridge too far, one question too many, and if Shane’s learned anything at all in the last twelve hours, it’s that being gentle is more important than knowing everything all at once. You can’t just poke at a knotted muscle and expect it to give way. You have to roll it out, warm it up, and gently work down to the depths to untangle it.

“I’m glad you came,” he says instead. “Even if Ottawa does suck right now.”

Ilya pokes him in the back of his hand with a chopstick.

Ilya...

“We won’t suck forever,” Sveta says firmly. “We’re making the playoffs this year,” she says, dabbing a grain of rice against the edge of her plate. “We’re not the worst team.”

Shane smirks. “The season hasn’t even started yet.”

“Wait and see,” She wipes her mouth elegantly and gives him the sharpest, most surgical smile he’s ever seen off the ice. “Maybe we will give the great Shane Hollander a challenge this year?”

He really doesn’t want to be Shane Hollander here, not now, but he inclines his head as if to say, bet.

Ilya slouches, more or less leaning into Shane’s side, his chopsticks resting idle. He’s got that look again, half spaced out and unfocused.

“Ilyusha’s going to turn us into a top-six team, aren’t you?” Sveta asks, and the sweetness on Ilya’s name is enough to cut through the rising ache in Shane’s chest.

“Hmm?” Ilya’s voice is liquid, almost asleep.

Shane nudges him under the table and says, “She’s got you pegged for a playoff run.”

Ilya stares at him for a full three seconds, then smiles, slow, crooked, his eyelids heavy as a hangover. “You want to come to practice Monday? I’ll show you.”

Shane laughs, and it feels like being thrown across a rink at full speed, a little scary and a lot exhilarating. “I think both our MGs might have something to say about that.” He says it as a joke, but the way Ilya’s eyes widen tells him that maybe the offer was earnest, which probably isn’t a good sign.

The table’s mood shifts, or maybe just the light. Sasha clacks his phone down and stands. “That’s enough domestication for one day. Time to go home, Shane Hollander.”

Ilya tried to kill himself...

Shane opens his mouth, the protest more instinctual than anything, but Ilya fully bristles.

He hates the idea that Sasha’s got a point… that Ilya’s already crashed and is now running on fumes. He hates more that he can’t fix it. The only way out is to take Sasha’s hint and get the fuck out while they can all still save face.

He doesn’t want to cause a rift between them. He doesn’t want Ilya to push himself…

“Yeah, I should probably head back,” Shane says. His voice sounds steady. He’s grateful for it. “Got some work back home I have to do before tomorrow.” Find out if Marlow is still on his couch for one… and start looking through the list of specialists his mom’s probably emailed over by now.

“More sponsorship work?” Ilya says, with a sly with a tired little lilt to his voice. “Mr. Commercials.”

Sasha folds his arms and leans against the counter, ready to glare Shane out of the building. It’s obvious he’s itching to drag Ilya into a dark room and lock him away from the world—or possibly from himself; Shane can’t tell. Sveta, on the other hand, just sips her tea, one eyebrow arched, the proctor at an exam well underway.

Shane looks at Ilya. Face-to-face, separated by a lacquered table and the millions of words they haven’t yet said. “I’m going to call you tomorrow,” he promises. “After six. You’ll pick up, right?” Fuck, he sounds pathetic, doesn’t he?

Ilya smiles, slight and solemn, then glances sideways at Sveta. “If I don’t, she will.”

Shane nods, suddenly desperate to seal the promise into something more tangible than words. He gets up, gathers the trash, stacks the trays with a nervous struggle for calm that would make his mother proud, then circles back around to where Ilya’s still sunk into the couch. He kneels down, finds Ilya’s hand, and, keeping things light, even if the whole world is tilting beneath his shoes, and says, “Can I…?”

It’s a little thrill, asking permission even if it’s for totally innocent reasons, and Ilya clearly knows it, tilting his chin down like he’s plotting a crime and giving Shane a little half-smile that says go on then, impress me.

He kisses Ilya on the lips, quick, warm, and meant to be nothing more than a sweet farewell, but Ilya catches his wrist and reels him in.

This kiss is nothing like the first. It floats something down Shane’s spine, so gentle it’s almost unbearable, and by the time Shane pulls back, he’s certain some new law of physics has been written just for them.

It takes him a second to realize Sveta is still there, watching with open, faintly predatory amusement. “This is the cutest shit I’ve ever seen,” she declares, and it’s the warmth in her voice, not the disbelief or the challenge, that makes Shane’s face turn pink.

Sasha looks up from his phone long enough to do a slow, sarcastic clap, then snorts. “You can go now.”

Ilya ignores them both. He squeezes Shane’s hand once, hard, then lets him go. He walks Shane downstairs to the elevator and reels him back in for one more kiss.

"I love you," Shane says, as the doors slide closed.

"Okay," Ilya smiles back.

Shane is still floating, untethered from every form of reality, by the time he steps out into the parking lot, alone, and only then remembers he needs to go find a cab.

Ilya tried to kill himself.

It’s all whiplash after Shane leaves. Ilya thinks the sun itself might be a little whiplashed, too, because as soon as the elevator doors swallow Shane’s broad, beautiful shoulders into the bowels of the building, the light in the loft stops being so honeyed and nice, everything twice as bright and twice as tedious. He leans for a minute against the back of the couch, still sunk in the couch, still clutching the ghost of Shane’s hand, and feels like a peeled prawn. If Sasha were a cartoon villain, he’d have a magnifying glass ready.

“I hate you.”

“You’ll get over it. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Because, for once, it’s not Ilya who’s restricting what they do and when they do it. Or not just Ilya. “The fuck you will. I’m coming with you.” Ilya snaps, the words tearing out of him. He pushes himself off the couch, the movement too fast, making the room tilt. He locks his knees, refusing to sway. “You’re going to find my phone. And I’m coming with you.”

Sveta’s head whips toward Sasha, her elegant features tightening with confusion. “His phone? What are you talking about?”

Sasha’s jaw works, a muscle flickering. He shoots Ilya a look that’s pure warning. “His old US phone. It’s active. In Ottawa.”

Someone has it. Is reading his messages.

A fresh, sickening humiliation washes over him. His private life, Shane’s, both their fucking hearts, laid bare for some stranger.

It’s been brewing all through the meal, that rising anger, that cold, bitter helplessness that turns him mean and defensive.

Hiding it from Shane has cost him more than he wants to admit. He used to be so much better at smiling through his anger.

“Absolutely not,” Sveta says immediately, her voice cutting through his rising panic. “You’re in no state-“

“It’s my phone!” The shout rips from his throat, raw and too loud in the quiet loft. The force of it makes his head pound, a percussive beat behind his eyes. He doesn’t care. “You don’t get to decide! You don’t get to hide things from me and then tell me to sit quietly while you clean up the mess!”

He takes a step toward Sasha, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The protective cotton-wool feeling is gone, burned away by a fury so clean and bright it’s almost a relief. “I am going. Come with me, or leave me the fuck alone.”

The headache is a low, throbbing bass note behind his eyes, turning the world gauzy at the edges. He feels weightless and untethered, a ghost haunting his own skin, and the frustration of it boils over, hot and acrid.

“I am not a fucking child to be put down for a nap,” Ilya snarls, the words sharp and brittle. All the golden warmth Shane brought with him, all the love, seems to have sped through the crack beneath the elevator on his way out. “This is my life!”

Sasha doesn’t flinch. He just watches Ilya, his expression carefully neutral, a stone wall Ilya wants to punch until his knuckles bleed. “You are being a child. A tired, stupid child who knows full fucking well how shit this is gonna go.”

“Fine, I’ll fucking stay here. Lock the door on your way out, or do you just want to strap me to the fucking bed and be done with it?”

The silence that follows is thick enough to taste. Sveta turns her face toward the window, her shoulders tight, and a wave of sickening guilt washes through him, so potent it makes his stomach clench.

He is being cruel. He knows he is being cruel.

But the need to know, to have some small piece of his own agency back, is a physical ache in his chest.

Sasha’s face is blank, but his voice is terrifyingly even. “Fine. You want to go? We go.”

The concession is so sudden it leaves Ilya off-balance. He nods, the motion making the gauzy edges of his vision swim.

Sveta turns back, her face a careful mask, though her eyes are a little too bright. “I’m coming,” she announces, her tone leaving no room for debate. “If you two go alone, one of you will end up in jail and the other in the hospital. Probably you,” she adds, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at Ilya.

She sweeps past him to grab her purse and keys, brisk and efficient, and doesn’t meet his eyes.

The silence in the car is fucking awful.

Ilya keeps his eyes squeezed shut, the darkness behind his lids doing nothing to quell the slow, sickening roll of his stomach. Each turn of the wheel is a fresh wave of nausea, and the low thrum of the engine vibrates through his skull, amplifying the dull ache that’s been building since he lost his temper. He hates this. Hates the helplessness, the way his own body betrays him. Hates himself even more for the sharp, ugly words he threw at the two people who have done nothing but love him.

The leather seat is cool against his cheek where he’s pressed it to the window, but it’s not enough to ground him. The motion is relentless. He can feel Sasha’s displeasure in the tight, efficient way he handles the car, in the occasional frustrated sigh that he doesn’t bother to hide. Sveta’s perfume is a sharp, floral spike in the close air, and her fingers haven’t stopped their restless tapping against the door handle since they left.

When the car finally slows to a stop, the relief is so profound his shoulders slump. He dares to open his eyes, the world swimming into focus through a film of exhaustion and self-loathing.

The street is quiet, impossibly pretty. Neatly trimmed lawns, mature trees casting long shadows in the low evening light. The houses are all well-kept, with warm light glowing behind curtains. It’s the picture of placid, suburban normalcy. A streetlight flickers on above them with a soft hum.

Sasha kills the engine. The ensuing silence is absolute.

Ilya stares out the window at the house they’ve stopped in front of. It’s a modest, two-story home with a tidy garden. Perfectly ordinary. Utterly baffling.

He looks at Sasha, who is staring straight ahead, his expression grim and unreadable. Then he turns to Sveta in the back seat. Her brow is furrowed, her head tilted as she studies the house, her confusion a perfect mirror of the disorientation churning in his own gut.

What the hell are they doing here?

His phone is here. He’s not crazy. If he acts like this is normal, maybe the universe will start to believe him.

He gets out of the car. His knees don’t buckle, but they entertain the idea. Each step up the front path is a dare. The last time he did something like this, he was twelve, running away from home to knock on Sasha’s door after his father lost his temper and put his hand through a wall. This feels exactly the same, only slower, heavier, every part of him resisting the forward motion of his feet.

He rings the doorbell.

For a second, there’s nothing. Then light flares behind the curtain, and he hears a woman’s voice calling, “Just a minute!”

The door opens.

The woman in the frame is maybe in her fifties, long dark hair pulled into a twist, wearing a low-key cardigan, but makeup just perfect enough to say that even on a Sunday evening, she’s ready for anything.

She is pretty, pretty enough to inspire envy, but the thing that brings Ilya up short is the freckles.

Her eyes skim over Sasha, bounce off Sveta’s glare, then land on Ilya.

Who is going to fucking pass out, because he knows her.

“Mrs. Hollander?”

Chapter 14

Chapter Summary

Okay, so...

1. Sveta is not being flippant with the things she raises about the Institute. If she says something didn't happen, it's not something you need to worry about having happened.

2. You guys are the absolute best. I don't think I have ever been so lovingly shouted at before in my life. Thank you so much for all your passion and engagement, and yes, you're welcome to send me your therapy bills.

This is the low point. It gets better, I promise.

It takes Shane maybe twenty-five minutes, and what feels like nearly as many weird looks from the people he passes on the street, before he finally manages to gather some of the frayed seams of his mind together well enough to find a cab.

He thinks about going home. To his cold, impersonal apartment, and his glossy, hollow life, and holds it together long enough to spit out an address.

He’s officially too old to be running to his parents, but… but there are so many reasons he goes to them.

Not the least of them being his mom, who looks up from her armchair when he stumbles into the living room and goes very, very still when Shane almost folds himself double so he can wrap her in his arms.

Ilya lost his mom when he was twelve. Shane can’t comprehend being without his mom for that long. Fuck, he’s not sure he’d even be here without her, and just that thought alone is enough to make him cling on that much tighter.

He can’t really remember the last time he hugged her. That… fuck, he’s a terrible son, isn’t he?

So terrible that this is enough to freak her out.

“Shane, honey? What’s wrong?” God, she sounds so confused,

What’s wrong?

His mom is surprised he’s hugging her.

The man he loves tried to fucking kill himself.

Shane isn’t fucking equipped for any of this.

He can’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer, or the right flavor of answer, or even the right language in him for it. He stands there, clamped around her, conscious of the fact that he’s taller and heavier and probably hurting her back, but can’t let go. She doesn’t push him away. She just sits there, arms a little awkward at first, then rising to rub slow circles between his shoulder blades.

She smells like her peony perfume and the hint of peppermint she takes in her tea, and his spine tightens at the thought of her not being here. He can’t make his mouth do anything but gasp for breath, so he resorts to shaking his head, hoping that communicates enough by itself.

Dad, who Shane would bet actual money is awkwardly hovering just out of eyeline, finally pipes in with a concerned, “I’ll put the tea on.”

Tea, in their household, is the universal ‘fix-all’. It’s met its match here.

They’re going to ask questions, and he doesn’t know how to answer them. Doesn’t know if he can even say anything. What right does he have to share Ilya’s secrets?

Only… only he wants his parents to know the man he loves. He wants to - as Sveta put it - win at Being A Boyfriend, if only because having all the people he loves together in the one place, knowing each other and being known, is the closest thing to paradise he knows how to think of.

And he doesn’t know if it’s fair to expect Ilya to do the emotional labor of having that conversation with people he doesn’t know. People he likely wants to impress.

He should’ve asked. Hi, can I tell my folks about his deeply personal, totally horrifying moment in your life that has left you permanently changed, and in need of a level of care they’re going to have to know about if we want a life together…

In what fucking world is he even close to being the person trusted to get this right?

Reluctantly, he peels himself from Mom and ends up slumped awkwardly on the floor next to the couch. She nudges him and tugs on his arm, rising from her chair so she can push him down into the cushions and take her place.

Then she brushes his hair back from his forehead, and he feels like a little boy again.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “We’re going to have tea, and then you’re going to tell us what happened.”

He nods. That’s about all he can manage.

She’s about to head to the kitchen when the front doorbell rings. Shane goes to stand on instinct, only to be pushed back down again. His body feels like rubber, and he obeys without much thought.

She heads to the hall, fusing with the lights. “Just a minute!”

The door opens as Dad brings in a tray of steaming mugs. Shane stops paying attention in favor of focusing on the heat of the ceramic pressing into his palms, and the calming floral aroma that floats lazily through the rising steam.

The tea works as well as it did when he was a child. Muscle memory and instinct kicking in.

He takes a breath, finds a moment of calm, and then watches as it launches itself out the window when Mom comes back into the room with Ilya, Svete, and Sasha on her heels.

Shane sets the mug down on the kitchen table with a surprised thud. “Wha-”

If he’s surprised to see them, Ilya looks devastated to see him. He weaves sideways, braced by Sasha’s hand on his elbow.

If Shane thought he and Sveta had been stern and judgmental with him when they were all in the loft, he now has to wonder if he’s seriously underestimated just how angry they can both look.

Sasha’s gaze moves from Mom to Shane to Dad, then back and forth again, never settling on one of them for more than a few moments at a time.

Sveta stares at Mom, unblinking and ferocious.

“If you knew about this, Shane Hollander,” Sveta says fiercely, “I promise you’ll regret it.”

“Please don’t threaten my son in my house,” Mom says before Shane can even open his mouth. She has that perfectly reasonable tone she uses when the people she’s using it on are being the opposite of reasonable.

“Know about what? What are you doing here?” Shane asks, his eyes now only for Ilya. “You’re supposed to be resting!”

Ilya opens his mouth, then closes it again, saying nothing.

It’s Sasha who answers. “You asked him about his phone. I tracked it. It brought us here.”

Shane’s already shaking his head. “No, that’s not possible - Ilya, sit down, fuck - you’ve got it wrong.” He starts to stand, ready to physically maneuver Ilya onto the couch if he has to, but Sasha does the job for him, and Ilya goes down like a brick, all his strings cut.

Shane ends up perched on the edge of the chair, his elbows on his knees, everything clenched tight. There is no way, absolutely no way, that Ilya’s old phone is in his parents’ house.

It’s a non-starter of a proposition, makes less than zero fucking sense, and yet the look mom and dad share across the room is not exactly shocked.

Not what he’d expect if three Russians materialized in their entryway and accused them of theft or whatever the fuck this is.

They are, if anything, embarrassed.

Shane can’t get a word out before his mom says, gently, “Go get it,” to his dad, and dad grimaces, nods, and leaves the room.

“No…” Shane shakes his head.

“We can explain,” Mom promises.

Shane expects some kind of protest, or at the very least an accusation, from either Sveta or Sasha, if not Ilya himself, but the three of them stay eerily silent.

Mom fetches more mugs from the kitchen and busies herself pouring tea, offering it to Sveta and Sasha, who stare her down with blank, predator eyes, then to Ilya, who by now looks like he’s about to lose consciousness onto the flat of the table.

Sveta, perched beside him, curls her fingers over his knee and squeezes until he blinks slowly back into awareness.

Shane diverts himself from the yawning horror of what potentially lies ahead to focus, just for a minute, on how fucking stupid it is to bring Ilya here, where anyone could have been waiting, when he’d been practically ready to pass out when Shane was still with him.

He’s not sure if it’s reassuring, this small sign that they’re not perfect, not infallible, or terrifying proof that they can’t actually protect Ilya from everything.

He wants to say as much, but thinks that might tip one or all of them over the edge.

He braces for the next act instead.

His dad is gone for a full minute or more. In the silence, only the clock ticks.

When he returns, he’s holding what is unmistakably Ilya’s old iPhone, stickered up and beat to shit, but the same one Shane remembers from Boston and that sunny afternoon before everything went to shit.

He sets it on the table, gently, the way you’d handle a precious relic or a grenade.

Shane feels the air leave the room. All of it.

Sasha’s hand whips out, but Ilya intercepts it, his movements slow, not tentative exactly but deliberate, as if the possible weight of the small device might break his wrist. His thumb hovers over the home button, then presses.

The screen lights up.

Ilya’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, breathing, the phone in his palm, his thumb circling over the glass.

“How?” he asks after a moment, voice so thin Shane almost asks him to repeat it.

How is such a loaded question. How did they get it? How long did they have it?

Have… have they always had it? Have they always known?

“Is this about Ilya Rozanov?”

Oh god… he’s going to be sick.

His parents look at each other again. It’s his mom who says, “It came by courier last week.”

Ilya nods very carefully. “You knew it was mine?”

Shane stares at his mom. He’s not breathing. He might never breathe again.

“Not at first,” she admits. “But yes, eventually-”

“You read our messages?” Shane doesn’t recognize his own voice.

Mom shakes her head furiously. “Not all of them!” She looks over to Ilya, then back to Shane. “I swear. When I realized who was sending-”

“So you don’t want to invade my privacy, but it’s fine to violate Ilya’s?”

“Shane.” Both Ilya and Mom say his name at the same time. Ilya is gentle. Mom is pleading.

Only the coffee table separates them, low and sturdy, its corners far sharper in Shane’s mind’s eye than he’s ever noticed before.

It feels like an ocean. If he reaches for Ilya now, he’ll just fall further and further away, go to whatever far-off place his eyes are fixed on.

Dad hovers in the doorway, a strange, slightly awkward twin to Sasha, who looms menacingly behind the couch. Sveta and Mom flank Ilya and Shane, respectively, equally bristly with the need to protect.

Ilya’s phone sits innocuously on that dangerous coffee table.

“There is explanation?” Ilya asks slowly. It’s less of a question and more of a desperate need. Shane’s there with him. “Who sent it…”

Shane’s head is full of static.

“There was no name on the package,” Mom says, folding her hands around her mug, “but I’d put money on it being Roger Crowell.”

Shane can’t puzzle through the thousand ways something so random, so invasive, so fucking vile is possible. It’s not possible. He tries to connect the dots but the pieces prod too hard, bursts of panic behind his temples. “Crowell?” he says. “Why would Crowell-?”

The duo of Sveta and Sasha turn, if possible, utterly arctic in their stillness. That quiet moment before the blizzard hits and decimates everything in its path.

Mom keeps her eyes on the table. “He visited me,” she says. “After… after you came out, Shane.” Her voice wavers, her fingers coiled hard around the handle. “I honestly thought it was going to be some kind of threat about your sexuality. Some of the messages I got back then were obscene-”

Ilya makes a soft, low sound at the back of his throat, his fingers twitching. He meets Shane’s eyes across the coffee table, but for the life of him, Shane can’t understand what he’s thinking.

Roger fucking Crowell has read their text messages... all the things they've said to each other over the years, all the things Shane has said since...

Mom’s face pinches, her disgust plain. “He asked if I knew about you and Rozanov...” She looks at Ilya, pale and hunched and unable to meet her eyes, and it costs Shane everything not to weep.

This isn’t what he wanted. This isn’t how he wanted them to meet, this isn’t…

“Is this about Ilya Rozanov?”

“You knew,” he chokes, shoving himself out of the chair and stumbling towards the window, his chest so tight he needs more space around him just for his lungs to expand. “All this time.”

“Honey-”

“We didn’t want to force your hand,” Dad says softly. “We hoped you’d come to us… Tell us. When you were ready. If… if you were still serious-”

“Oh my god…”

“I didn’t tell him anything!” Mom swears. “I didn’t know anything!”

“How did he know?” Sveta demands.

Mom shakes her head frantically. “I don’t know, really! I told him I wasn’t interested in his speculation, but…” she looks down, her eyes bright. “But Shane, it came out of nowhere! Your coming out. And we love you, and we want to support you no matter what you decide to do, but you were scaring us!”

Shane stares at her. Has he ever seen her this upset before?

“Scaring you…”

Dad takes over. “Kiddo, you were on autopilot. You didn’t have any kind of life outside of hockey-”

“It’s my job!” Shane snaps. “A job you’ve both encouraged!”

“I know,” Dad says gently. “And we didn’t help you the way you needed to be helped back then and-”

“I didn’t need help!” Shane snarls. “I needed him!”

Ilya doesn’t look at him.

Shane’s jaw is trembling. He hates how little control he has over himself when he gets upset. He hates crying when the last thing he wants to do is show anyone his tears.

“All this time…”

“As much as I give zero fucks about your family drama,” Sasha drawls, “can we please go back to Crowell? This was what, two years ago? Eighteen months?”

“About that, yes,” Mom nods. “He said he was worried about you, which was bull-“

“Bullshit!” Shane snaps. “All he worries about is money.”

“I think there’s a little old-fashioned homophobia in there,” Dad says mildly.

Mom’s hand slices through the air. Her fingers twitch toward Shane, then curl into a fist that drops to her side. “He asked if I knew about Rozanov,” she repeats, her gaze boring into Ilya, “and what he did.”

Ilya’s shoulders jerk as if she’s struck him.

“You will be very careful with what you say next,” Sveta warns. The room temperature plummets.

Mom’s throat bobs as she nods, her eyes glistening. “I told him it wasn’t any of my business.” The words barely escape her trembling lips. “And it’s not, but he said he had proof that the two of you were... intimate, and...” Her knuckles whiten around her mug. “He feared that maybe Rozanov had... had led you astray-“

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Shane’s pulse hammers in his ears.

“Shane-“ Mom reaches again, desperation etched in every line of her face.

“Oh my god...” His stomach twists violently. What the fuck is happening?

“Kiddo.” Dad steps forward, his shadow falling across the coffee table. Shane backs away, chest heaving.

“We didn’t want to get involved. There wasn’t anything to get involved with by that point, what with Rozan...” Mom’s gaze darts to Ilya, who’s curled in on himself like paper burning at the edges. “With Rozanov being back in Russia.”

“We thought we were doing the right thing.” Dad’s voice breaks. “Giving you space. Letting you figure things out on your own, only…“

“You were so miserable, honey.” Mom’s words tumble out faster now. “And it was only getting worse. We did try, later, to make contact with you-“ She turns to Ilya, who shrinks further into the couch, muscles coiled tight as if bracing for a blow. “-but the Institute said you’d been discharged and-“

“What the fuck do you know about that?” Sasha lunges forward, teeth bared.

Mom recoils, tea sloshing over her fingers. She doesn’t seem to notice the burn.

“Institute?” The word tears from Shane’s throat, raw and bloody. The room spins around Ilya’s hunched form, his chin pressed to his chest, swaying slightly like a man at the gallows.

“How do you know about that?” Sveta’s fingers dig into Ilya’s knee, bloodless and rigid, her face a mask of cold fury.

Mom and Dad lock eyes across the room, a silent current of dread passing between them. “We were told…” she pauses and clears her throat, “that’s to say Roger Crowell told us…” she seems unable to finish her sentance, so Dad steps in.

“That you hurt yourself,” he says gently, his eyes soft on Ilya. “And that, as a consequence, you were unable to return to hockey. He said you asked to go back home to Russia, and were checked into a specialist care facility.”

“I asked…” Ilya murmurs.

Sasha snaps something furious in Russian. Shane doesn’t care to try to translate.

He wants to scream.

He wants to demand to know what great universal law made it okay for his parents - his parents! - to know where Ilya was, to know he was alive, and say nothing. Not a word. Not when Shane was hollowed out from the inside, not when he paced these same rooms, burning his own skin with how much he missed Ilya, not when he would have done anything for a sign.

He can’t even look them in the eye.

His mother is already talking, already preparing for his anger. She sets down her mug and holds her hands up, placating. “There was nothing we could do. It was over. There was nothing to be done but put it behind you.” Her voice wobbles, and she folds her arms like she’s freezing to death, even in the warm house. “We weren’t supposed to know anything about him, and you never mentioned him! Not once! You never let anyone in. You just… you put your life in a box and taped it shut.”

He wants to tell her it isn’t her business.

He wants to tell her that it’s all his business, all the years of ache and anger and need that wrapped around him until he could barely move. He wants to… but he can’t. Because she’s always wanted to help, and she’s saying all the right things, and it just makes it worse.

He looks at Ilya. Ilya doesn’t meet his eyes, just flicks his thumb around the surface of the dead phone, on-off, on-off, a rosary for the damned.

“But last year, when you were… honey, you weren’t well. We wanted to fix it. Help you get some closure.” She glances at Ilya, and every inch of her tries to fit three years’ worth of apology into a single, abashed look. “I called The Institute. But they said you were no longer a patient, and we should contact your next of kin, and-”

Ilya is up like a shot.

For a split second, Shane thinks maybe he’s going to hit someone, but then he’s on the move.

He is halfway to the door before Shane even thinks to move.

This is a house Shane has known since birth, but the living room seems a thousand miles wide between them and the front hall. Ilya’s shoulder clips the door frame. He staggers and steadies himself on the entryway table. He doesn’t so much open the front door as tear it out of the way and then vanish into the dusk.

Sasha is after him, moving with the heavy purpose and speed of someone who knows how to corral a man who wants, desperately, to vanish. Sveta is up too, then, and for a moment Shane’s parents are left blinking, still in the aftershock.

Shane stands. The violence in his own chest is an actual physical presence, a bone-deep panic that he can’t name except as the certain knowledge that if he doesn’t intercept, he might never see Ilya again. He launches for the door.

But Sveta blocks him, her hand fast on his wrist and her gaze arrow-sharp and unsparing.

“No.”

He could go through her. She’s half his size. The temptation is horrifying.

Sveta stares him down, her eyes narrowed like she knows what he’s thinking and doesn’t care if he goes through with it. She doesn’t take her eyes off him when she asks his mom, “Did you speak to Alexei?”

“Who?”

“His brother. His next of kin.”

“Oh. No, no… I didn’t know how, and…” she trails off, sensing now that there’s something more here, something they have both become a part of no matter what their intention. “I didn’t… I haven’t said anything. To Crowell. About the phone. Or anything.”

“We don’t plan to,” Dad adds, stepping up to her side and putting a hand on her shoulder. “You have our word. For what it is worth.”

“You will not mention the Institute, or Alexei, or Ilya to anyone,” Sveta says firmly. “We have worked too hard and for too long to keep him safe for you to fuck things for us now.”

“Safe?” It’s good Dad asks, because Shane doesn’t know where his voice is. “Safe from what?”

Sveta’s lips narrow.

“It…it looked nice,” Mom says hesitantly. “This… Sereyan-'“

“The Serebryany Institute for Neuropsychiatric Recovery,” Sveta corrects her. “Yes. It is one of the most expensive private hospitals in Russia. It is where everyone rich and famous sends that difficult relative they don’t want to talk about. Very nice, very clean. The patients are not starved or beaten or molested like they are in some places. They looked after Ilya very well. Only sedation and locked doors. Only restraints when he’d tell them he wasn’t crazy and he wanted to go home.”

The floor drops out from under Shane. He stares at Sveta, at the empty space where Ilya was just standing, and the world contracts to a single, terrible point.

“Wait,” his mother says, her face draining of color. “Sends... he didn’t check himself in?”

Sveta’s laugh is sharp enough to cut. “He was unconscious when they decided they were done with him. Sedated when they took him from the country. And when he landed in Moscow, he was conveniently deemed to have impaired capacity for consent.” She ticks each point off on her fingers, her expression never changing. “All very nice and neat.”

Shane’s legs give out. He hits the edge of the couch, slides to the floor, and doesn’t feel it. The numbness spreads through his chest, up his throat, into his mouth. He can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.

Ilya’s hurt, yes, but he’s not… he’s not that. He’s still sharp, and smart, and funny, and… and…

“I don’t understand,” Mom whispers. “Why would they… the league have a responsibility to their players… he was…“

Sveta shakes her head. “You will tell me if Crowell speaks to any of you about Ilya again. Otherwise…” she looks away and sighs, disappointment curling her usually proud shoulders. “I will be in touch. Not tomorrow. Tomorrow will be…” she breathes in slowly.

Instead of finishing, she just turns around and leaves, not sparing another glance for Shane or his parents, no goodbye, no threat.

The front door is open, flat against the wall, a cold insinuation of air already settling into the trim.

Shane doesn’t follow them out immediately. He wants to, he fucking needs to, but his body isn’t responding, not even to the hard press of the floor punching up through his spine and hips.

There’s a ring of wild screaming in his head, a claxon warning him of an impending collision too fucking late to be useful.

Mom’s standing very still, hands floating at her sides, his dad exhales a single, stunned, just-audible “Jesus.” The three of them are as paralyzed as crash test dummies in the moment after impact.

When he finally manages to lever himself upright, his knees don’t quite work. He claws the edge of the couch to get his feet under him. “Ilya…” he chokes, voice rough behind his teeth.

Mom takes a step toward him. “Shane-”

He holds up both hands, not trusting them to stay steady if he doesn’t. “Don’t. Please.” He watches his own hands, fingers splayed and pale, and only then realizes how much he’s shaking. “I’m sorry. I’m not… I need to…”

He tears past her, this body under his control again.

The street outside is empty except for the flash of Sasha’s taillights at the turn. It’s stupid to even try to keep up, but Shane breaks into a sprint anyway, lungs scraping their way through his terror.

He makes it two blocks before his body reboots into full-on panic again, and it’s only by force of will that he doesn’t crumple, right there on the curb, and throw up.

Instead, he doubles over, hands braced on the knees of his jeans, and drags great heaving breaths through his nose until he can stand upright.

Ilya’s gone. Again.

Ilya doesn’t know how he gets home. He doesn’t remember the drive or how badly he’s shaking. He’s scarcely aware of the press of bodies alongside his own, bracing him, holding him upright for the trip from the car to his bed.

He can only lie there, useless, utterly disconnected from his body, as someone tugs off his sneakers and peels him out of his clothes. They tuck him under soft, cool sheets, and he opens his mouth on autopilot when they tip pills onto his tongue.

He takes a drink and proves to them he’s swallowed. They’ll be happy then and leave him alone.

They don’t leave him alone. They curl themselves around him, warm and strong and familiar.

He’s not… he’s not in Russia. He’s in Ottawa.

He blinks, and it’s Sasha’s t-shirt he’s pressing his face into. Sveta’s fingers curled around his own.

God, he’s tired.

“Shane?”

Sveta kisses his shoulder.

He’s not in Ottawa. He is. He is, but he isn’t. The ceiling above him is not the pure white of the Institute, but it’s close, at least until his vision blurs, and then it's all wooden panels and plaster. His body, too heavy to lift, can only list to the side of the bed where the light falls in a stripe just below a window he knows isn’t there.

He is close enough to the edge to roll off and smash his head into the wall, but Sasha’s hand, big and warm and sure, is tight around the side of his skull. It should hurt, but it doesn’t.

There’s no wall. He’s in the middle of the bed, surrounded on all sides. The floor is carpet and tile and wood and…

Someone is talking. The words are mashed up, like a tape recorder that’s been dropped and then cranked, voices overlapping in ugly little harmonies.

It takes him a long time to realize it’s three conversations, all impossibly out of sync, but the one he locks on to is the thump of a fist against a wall, hushed, furious. It’s his mama and the colonel arguing in the hallway outside his room.

No, not his father. The man in the memory is too big, too loud, the vowels too slurred. Alexei. And Katya.

Alexei and Katya and Mama and Papa and they’re all arguing about Ilya.

He wants Shane, and calls for him again.

Someone is crying. Mama… no, Sveta, and Sasha is so tense. Scared. He’s supposed to comfort them. That’s his job. Sasha’s life is a nightmare, and Sveta is too small for the eyes that follow her, and it’s his job to protect them both, only…

Only he’s so fucking tired.

That’s not an excuse. He’s always tired. His alarm will go off in a couple of hours, and Mama will drive him to the rink, circles around her eyes, and he’ll skate and skate until he’s earned them both a night free from criticism and complaint.

He’s always tired. It doesn’t matter, he can push through it and…

“Please,” Sveta weeps, shaking against his back, “Please, Ilusha, please go to sleep.” Her gasps are strong and shuddering and shake all three of them and…

Oh. No. She’s not crying. He is.

He screws up his eyes and pictures a bed he’s not slept in for years. Blue sheets. Thick, plush pillows. Shane warm in his arms, peaceful and content and happy and…

Ilya sleeps.

Shane’s apartment is empty. The cab ride was… he doesn’t actually remember how it was. He just stared out of the window, watching as the dark crept in.

It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t have a phone. He wants to call Ilya and… and what? What, exactly, is he supposed to say?

The only evidence of Marlow’s presence that morning is on the kitchen island: a brand new, shrink-wrapped phone in a box.

He sets the new phone down without opening it, sheds his jacket, and stands in the kitchen with his hands braced on the counter’s edge, waiting for the expanding sense of emergency to coalesce into something he can act on.

The silence holds him in place. It’s like being benched: all that kinetic charge and nowhere to put it. More than the loss, more than the horror of seeing Ilya’s armorless heart, what undoes him most is this sudden, absolute absence of immediate crisis.

The damage is all done.

He’s supposed to want Ilya to be safe, but all he can want now is to see him, touch him, hold him, ask: are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay?

He’s supposed to have a plan, but there is nothing in the world less equipped to plan than a man who doesn’t know what he should be fixing.

His parents… no. No.

Instead: triage. He pulls the phone from its packaging, transfers his number, starts downloading all his data and apps, watches himself reflected in the black mirror of the screen, the flashlight-white of his face, and feels like a ghost haunting his own life.

He tidies up.

Takes one of his meal prep boxes, all of tomorrow’s nutrition, out of the freezer and sets it in the fridge.

He can’t sit still. He doesn’t want to think, but the inside of his head is a cement mixer.

He changes into running clothes, ties his laces too tight, and turns on the treadmill in the second bedroom that’s supposed to be an office but will always be a gym.

He runs five kilometers, then five more. Then another five. He could go until he falls apart, but after repeat number four, his knees pulse with an old, hollow ache, and his calves seize up with lactic memory. He’s not a kid anymore.

The human body, even the best-built, keeps a record. Shane probably broke his a couple of devastations ago.

He shuts it all down.

Shower.

He stands under the water for a long time, face up, wishing his thoughts would just rinse away.

He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the tile floor, knees drawn up, water sluicing over his shoulders.

Ilya’s been here, in this shower, with him. A long time ago. So long ago…

Ilya tried to kill himself.

He almost succeeded.

And when he was vulnerable and alone… when he needed someone…

Shane was the last to know. His parents knew first.

He leans his head back against the tiles, remembers the last time Ilya was here with him… that coy little smile, the heat in his eyes, his strong hands holding Shane together, taking him apart, rewiring every part of his body and soul…

He closes his eyes, tastes salt in the water that pours down his face, and lets himself drift.

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

Not going to lie, this part has two of my favorite scenes in the whole story!

Behold the two softest boys on the planet, and the very last of Shane's fucks leaving the building.

It’s the middle of the morning in Europe, and Rose answers on the third ring.

“Oh, thank god,” she says, sounding exhausted, “a sane, normal human being.” In the background, someone is bellowing across a tannoy.

“Shit,” Shane sighs, well aware that right now he is neither sane nor normal. “I shouldn’t have called, sorry-”

“If you hang up on me, Shane Hollander, I am going to tell the internet you’re a Swiftie.”

That brings him up short. “A what?”

“I have failed you as a friend.” There’s rustling down the line and a sound his brain translates as the rustle of armor or chainmail or whatever her costume is as she gets comfortable. “Okay, talk to me. How’s it going?”

“I… fuck.” Where does he even start? Shane doesn’t even remember dialing her, but his thumb must have navigated the contact by instinct. He’s sat behind the seat of a rental he doesn’t like the smell of, trying to decide if he has the energy or fucking will to even put the car in drive.

“I’m assuming we’re talking about The Guy. That doesn’t sound promising.”

“I-”

“Is he being shitty again? Because I’m not kidding, you give me the go-ahead, and I will mobilize the masses and destroy his chances of ever getting laid again. I have influence!” She says the last part with self-deprecating cheer, as if she’s not ended more than one person’s career with a very sweet little Tweet and a strategically sourced stylist. His stylist has tried to explain the use of weaponized accessories to him more than once, but after three years has apparently given up on him as a lost cause and just sends him a new wardrobe every season with carefully detailed instructions. Most of the items are still in their bags at the back of his closet.

“No. It’s not… fuck, he’s not done anything wrong.” His throat is tight, and his words are thick as wet concrete. “It’s not about last time, it’s…” She knows enough to guess the rest, and he can’t tell her more, not without betraying every confidence he has left, but he needs someone with a brain and a soul equipped for the darkness of what’s in front of him.

Rose, a professional empath, doesn’t say anything for a second. She’s maybe the nicest person Shane knows, but she, like him, is at the top of a ruthlessly competitive career ladder and knows what it takes to stay there. “Jesus, Shane. You sound like a hostage in one of my movies. Are you okay? Like, are you in danger?”

He stares at the slow bloom of condensation on the window. “No,” he says finally, “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

There’s a rustle on the line. She’s probably getting up, possibly tripping over the fancy ‘historically accurate Schiaparelli’ she laughs about in every fourth text. “Do I need to kill him?”

He almost laughs, despite the pit still gaping in his stomach. “I think this new role is getting to your head,” He wedges his knuckle under his jaw, and tries to reset himself. “But okay, if… If you found out someone hurt someone you cared about, like, really hurt them badly. Maybe like… criminally badly. And then a lot of people helped cover it up. What would you do?” He doesn’t know why he asks it like a riddle when she already knows parts. Maybe because the truth is too big for the screen in his mind, and he needs to break it down.

He’s not an expert, obviously, and he’s still missing some pieces of the puzzle… timelines, players… but he’s been in the professional hockey world his entire adult life, and he knows a thing or two about contracts. More specifically, he knows how much control - and responsibility - a club has when it comes to making decisions on a player’s behalf when they’re incapable of making it themselves. Especially when it comes to international players.

There were ten days between the announcement that Ilya was placed on IR and the statement that he was leaving the league entirely. And okay, he doesn’t know when Ilya was put on a plane to Russia, but he believes Svetlana when she said he was still unconscious when the decision was made, but sedated when he was transferred. He’s going to take that to mean that at some point, Ilya woke up.

Ten days is nothing. Maybe, maybe the hospital made a call that Ilya might never return to his baseline. That’s possible, sure. Who knows what kind of state he was in back then?

What he can’t accept, what makes no fucking sense, is anyone, let alone Boston, a team with all the money and resources under the fucking sun, just deciding to wash their hands on any player less than two weeks outside of an injury of any kind.

Boston fucking adored Ilya. He probably generated the club similar additional revenue to what Shane does for Montreal. No one just abandons an extra four or five million dollars just like that. That kind of call would be Board level only, and no CFO worth their salt would agree to it without trying to claw back some of their investment first.

He’s not going to suggest that Ilya was in any condition to make a call on whether or not to go back to Russia, not in that kind of timeframe. And yes, it’s possible he did agree, not knowing what would happen when he got there.

But he’d bet good money that Ilya didn’t. His life was in Boston.

Which means, regardless of reason or rationale, he was taken against his will and locked up. He was… he was fucking kidnapped, and the people who were supposed to be looking out for him, at best, abandoned him, or at worst, made it fucking happen.

Rose is very quiet, then there’s a soft “huh” from the other end. She knows it isn’t hypothetical. She’s Rose Landry… she’s seen the live documentary version of a similar scenario and probably played the lead. “I mean, honestly? There are a lot of people I’d watch burn if I could.” Her voice ticks up a notch, brittle under practiced calm.

“Yeah.” He picks at the edge of the phone, annoyed that the slight dent in the corner from when he dropped it in the gym is no longer there for him to worry at and keeps his eyes fixed on the neon bleed outside the window. The city is waking, late and lethargic. “Maybe I can.” It should worry him how true it feels… that with the right leverage, the right crack in his foundation, he could bring every institutional wall down by hand.

Ilya is instrumental to the infrastructure of Shane’s heart. The crack is already sinking deep.

“If you do that… and I’m not saying you shouldn’t!” Rose adds quickly, before he can protest. “But if you do, just… learn from the mistakes of others, mainly me, and like… make sure your friend has a good system in place around them, because if we’re talking about going up against the kind of people I think we’re talking about, things will get really nasty, especially if they end up in court and-”

“Who said anything about ending up in court?” Shane’s not subjecting Ilya to that kind of stress and scrutiny. Not a fucking chance.

“Well, it’s not like you’re gonna hire a hitman or-” Rose trails off for a moment. “Shane…”

“Obviously not,” Shane says spitefully. “If they’re dead, they can’t suffer.”

“That bad, huh?”

He could lie. He could. But Rose’s whole deal is seeing through people, and he’s always been especially transparent to her. “Worse.” He blows out a breath.

“Okay, so yeah, make sure Ilya has a good therap- or not Ilya! The non-Ilya person! This is a hypothetical, and I totally don’t know who we’re talking about-”

“Rose…”

“Babe…” Rose sounds so fond, and he really wants to put his head through the steering wheel. “I would’ve taken your secret to the grave. I’m ready to take his.”

He suddenly, desperately, needs Ilya and Rose to meet. “A month, yeah?”

“Not even,” she promises. “So here’s what you’re gonna do. Get your game plan sorted, get your players in place, and the minute I’m free I will be on your couch with vegan ice cream and alcohol free margaritas and we will figure out what the two of you are gonna do next.”

Shane hesitates. It’s never been the two of them. Him and Ilya. Not in the daylight, not in the real world. “We’re not-”

But Rose just laughs, and he can hear her rolling her eyes. “You’re talking like you’re gonna go to war for that man. Just marry him and accept your fate.”

“I’ll settle for taking him out on a date, first,” Shane says, feeling kinda faint.

“Sure, but think long term.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Atta boy! Okay, I gotta run. Hydrate. Go slam some homophobes into barriers, and we’ll talk more later.”

Shane’s never been particularly driven to addressing his problems physically, but since he’s apparently been pretty fucking shit at handling them any other way, fuck it, maybe Rose has the right idea.

Ilya is… on the floor?

He had a shower, was mostly dressed, and then… floor?

The world is all texture and tinnitus, every surface a fresh insult to the senses. The floor is too cold. There’s a hard seam digging into his hip through his sweatpants; he can smell his own sweat, harsh and sour, mixed with something sweet and metallic. No piss though, or shit, so gold star there.

There’s a blanket tucked in around his legs, and his head is propped up on the throw pillow from the couch, so, at least, he wasn’t left on the tile to aspirate on his own tongue. Not that he expects it, not here.

He peels an eyelid open. The light in the apartment is gelatinous. Some trick of the shade makes everything jaundiced.

Sasha is sitting cross-legged a few feet away, unshaven, his hair six weeks past needing a trim and a little too long for his face, clumped and greasy at his temples. His head is braced in his palms, shoulders hitching in shallow little jerks.

His eyes are bloody-red. He looks about as shit as Ilya feels.

“Four minutes eleven seconds,” Sasha croaks. It takes Ilya a second or two to understand. That itself is an indication of what’s happened. If it had lasted much longer, it would mean rescue meds, and he’d not be waking up sore and stiff on the floor.

The sounds in Ilya’s head recede from an ornate, orchestral clusterfuck into a merely enthusiastic one-man band. He’s never not amazed at the way a full body seizure hits reset on the rest of him. His mouth tastes like burnt toast, and all the muscles in his arms have been replaced with twine. He stretches his fingers. They work, but there’s a lag, like the commands are running through old copper wires, not real nerves.

He tries to sit, but Sasha’s hand lands firm at his chest and presses him back. “No,” Sasha grunts, “don’t. You’re leaking.”

Ilya closes his eyes. There’s a sticky itch at his lip; he peels it away with the back of his hand, and when he looks, his fingers are smeared with blood. There’s a hot spike of mortification so intense it almost tops the physical pain. “Fuck off,” he manages.

Sasha doesn’t. He gets a damp towel and dabs the blood. After, Sasha wraps it in his fist and doesn’t move: just sits there staring at nothing, working the towel tighter and tighter, until the fabric puckers.

“I’m going to practice,” Ilya says. Or he tries to. 

“Sure. Pass out on the ice, traumatize the rookies,” Sasha grunts.

“I have to.” It’s a non-negotiable. It’s his first day back after a game. He needs to prove to everyone, to himself, that he’s not fucking useless. That they didn’t make a mistake hiring him. He can’t call in sick in his second week.

“Sveta’s handled it,” Sasha says tiredly. “It’s after ten.”

That actually explains the ache. If he’s been conked out where he fell for the past few hours, it’s no wonder everything hurts.

But Sasha’s not moved him, which is something. He usually won’t after a seizure. Not if Ilya’s safe. It freaks everyone out when they happen, and they’re always terrified of triggering another or making things worse for him.

And honestly, Ilya would rather crawl back to bed on his hands and knees than be manhandled when he’s unconscious. "I can still go in..."

Sasha leverages himself to his feet, moves stiffly to the kitchen, and pours two glasses of water. He comes back, sets one on the coffee table, and drinks half of his in a single go. Ilya doesn’t touch his. He stares at it, watching the little wakes and tides on the surface. Even his vision swims, a tremor he’d rather not name for fear of inviting a second visit.

After a while, Sasha speaks: “Nope.”

Ilya snorts. “It’s not a contact job.” Sometimes, if he gets annoyed enough, he can trick his body into full sentences.

“You’d eat shit coming off the bench. Be all-fucking-over the internet before you hit the boards.”

“I don’t care,” Ilya says. “It’s my job.” He manages to get his elbows under him, groggy strength slowly returning. “I can do it.”

“Yeah, well, you can try tomorrow.” Sasha is looking at him with a mixture of irritation and exhaustion that probably mirrors Ilya’s own expression. “You’re not getting up a flight of stairs right now, let alone skating.”

Ilya grinds his heel into the floor, then hooks a hand on the couch and drags himself into the depths of the cushions. Every movement is a negotiation, a wager against whatever still works. He’s not going to argue; there’s never any point. Instead, he sits on the edge of the cushions, breathing through the fog, and stares at the glass of water until his nausea recedes enough to drink it.

What’s the point of being alive if you’re only ever able to exist at the polite margins? He used to throw his body at anything and everything. Now, even a Monday morning is a gauntlet.

He wishes, fiercely, that he had a cigarette. He would give anything for the filth in his mouth, that little burn. He’s not allowed them anymore, not allowed anything fun anymore.

He thinks about texting Shane, then thinks about how fucking useless that would be. What would he even say? Sorry, I fucked up your life, dragged your whole family into my bullshit, and didn’t tell you I’m a medically certified fucking lunatic.

He hates his body. Hates it more than any opponent, any enemy, any imaginary fucking slight, any of the millions of things that have been stacked against him since he was a kid. The effort of moving, of thinking, is no contest at all for the anger that coils, live and venomous, in the pit of his stomach. What’s the point in any of this, if they have to patch him back together every time he tries to live like a person? What’s the point in pretending?

He rubs his face hard, then gives up and rests his chin on his knees, knees pulled up tight like he can hold the anger in his chest if he compresses himself small enough.

He sits there, pouting at the rim of a glass of water, the aftershocks sluicing through his muscles in unpredictable spasms. All the progress he thinks he’s made, the stories he tells himself about resilience and grit, all trashed in a four-minute eleven-second burst of uncontrolled fireworks that leaves him filmed in sweat and shame, salt on his lips, and a bruise on his dignity.

The next days or weeks will be a minefield. Sasha will treat him like a porcelain doll. Sveta will hover. If Coach finds out, which he will if he doesn’t already, then he’ll have just as much hovering there as he does at home, if they don’t just fire him outright.

Can they do that? He doesn’t think they can do that? He can’t remember…

He’s already on the world’s shortest leash with everyone he cares about. If it gets any tighter, he’s going to suffocate, and wouldn’t that be fucking ironic?

The silence in the apartment hums between them. Sasha scrolls his phone, thumb flying across the screen. The muscles in his jaw work, tight and regular, same as always when he’s debating how to phrase something difficult. Ilya waits. He doesn’t want new information. He wants to move time forward by hours, by barreling through the shit. He picks a single flake of dried blood from the corner of his mouth and rolls it between his fingers.

He can’t even blame them. It’s terrifying; he knows it is. He is terrifying.

But if he wants everyone to stop treating him like glass, he has to start by not shattering himself to pieces every time the world lines up against him. It’s just… easier said than fucking done, isn’t it?

The loft buzzer rings through the silence.

Sasha looks at him, and Ilya raises an eyebrow. Expecting someone?

Sasha doesn’t move at first. His hand stays splayed across his phone, like he’s weighing the value of whatever notification is there against the value of getting up and walking to the intercom. Then, with the deep sigh of a man whose patience is best defined by his chronic disappointment in the universe, he lumbers up, shooting Ilya a look that lands somewhere between don’t die while I’m gone and stay fucking put.

Ilya stays put because he wants to. Not because he is still questioning the integrity of his knees.

Sasha’s gone for several minutes. When he comes back, he’s cursing.

The bouquet of lilies he deposits on the coffee table is roughly the size of a small child.

“The fuck?” Ilya stares, absently accepting the little red envelope Sasha hands him.

“I know it’s been a very long time since we’ve fucked,” Sasha drawls, dropping back onto the couch with a thud. “But I don’t remember you being that good.”

Ilya demands his body summons enough coordination to flip him the bird.

Then he opens the note.

One for every month since I walked away, plus one more for luck. It won’t happen again.

I love you,

S

He has to read it several times before the individual words start to compute. “What the fuck is happening?”

Sasha peers over his shoulder at the note and makes a begrudging sound of approval. “So he can take instructions, that’s good.”

“Instructions, what instructions?” Ilya demands.

“Sveta briefed him on expectations,” Sasha says, picking a lily from the bouquet and inspecting the stamen like he’s planning to snort it.

“Expectations,” Ilya says flatly. “For what?”

For the first time in a long time, Sasha looks genuinely entertained. “Courting you,” he says, flashing Ilya a grin.

Ilya stares at him and likes to blame the lingering malaise of the seizure for his inability to understand what the fuck is going on. “Courting… did you negotiate my fucking dowry while you were at it?”

“Not yet, but I think we can probably get half a goat.”

“Fuck you, I’m worth at least two goats,” Ilya protests, then shakes his head in bewilderment. “Why the fuck is he courting me?”

Sasha picks at the lilies, plucking off a stamen and flicking it at Ilya. “Because he is hopelessly in love with you,” he says, purposely slow. “Obviously.”

Ilya frowns at the note, which is… Christ, it is actually sweet. Embarrassingly sweet. He pats himself on the groin and makes a show of lifting his waistband and looking underneath.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“Checking to see if my dick is still attached! What the fuck do you think I’m doing?” Ilya complains. “I’m not a fucking woman. I don’t need courting.”

He’s supposed to be buying Shane flowers. Shane, who is also not a woman and probably wouldn’t appreciate them, but still. Fuck.

“No, but you’re pretty like a woman, you bitch like a woman, you-” Sasha is having far too much fun at his expense and no, he doesn’t deserve to, traumatic morning or not.

“I will beat you to death, I swear to Christ-”

“Sure,” he drawls, sprawling back lazily, “I’ll give you a couple of hours to warm up first.”

That’s… unfair. Ilya can kill him if he wants to. In two to four business days, maybe. “I’ll get Sveta to do it.”

“This is her fault,” Sasha reminds him. “But back on the topic of your adorable Canadian-”

“I wish I were still unconscious,” Ilya slumps down heavily into the cushions and lets himself go lax. Shane fucking Hollander bought him flowers.

“He could help,” Sasha points out, never one to let a subject drop if he can avoid it.

“Fuck, maybe,” Ilya mutters, mostly to shut Sasha up, but even saying it out loud feels like giving away state secrets. He wants Shane, yes, and he wants to protect him even more. “You think he’s going to skip practice and come hold my hand while I puke for twelve hours?” He closes his eyes and imagines just that. He can’t imagine Shane would relish the opportunity, not when he’s so very pedantic about cleanliness. Ilya’s eighty percent gross bodily fluids on bad days.

“Not on the couch,” Sasha warns, as if they didn’t buy one with washable covers for that very reason. Pro-tip: Coke is great for getting the smell of vomit out of fabric.

“Was a figure of speech, idiot.” But his stomach does loop the loop at the thought.

But Sasha is relentless. “I know you don’t want to talk about Alexei, but-”

“Don’t,” Ilya says, cold. He presses his knuckles to his mouth and waits for the spike of nausea to pass.

Sasha lets up, but only for a beat. “Marry Hollander.” He says it so flatly, Ilya almost laughs.

“Is that how it works now?” he mutters, voice raw.

“Yes,” Sasha says, triumphant. “You get PR, he can sponsor your citizenship. He’s Canada’s Golden Boy; he can probably phone the Prime Minister and call in a favor.”

Ilya’s lips pull into a sour smile. “New plan, then. I get married, skip the citizenship line, and next time Alexei wants to drag me across international borders, you can set the RCMPs on him. And they say romance is dead.”

“Beats the alternative.”

Ilya keeps his eyes closed. The alternative sits there anyway, patient and ugly, behind his eyelids.

“Sure,” he mumbles. “Just saddle him with a husband who needs a full-time fucking nursemaid-”

“Speaking as your full-time nursemaid…”

“I’m not gonna do that to him.”

“Please stop being so fucking difficult,” Sasha groans. “I’m begging you.”

“Only part of my personality I got left,” Ilya reminds him. They took everything else.

“No,” Sasha disagrees. “You’ve still got all your annoying left.” A cool hand drifts over Ilya’s brow, and he presses into the soothing comfort. “Painkillers?”

“Hmm.”

He’s mostly gone by the time Sasha gets back. Registers the glass pressed to his lips, tips his head forward, and swallows. Sasha says something he doesn’t catch. The lilies are overwhelming and then they aren’t, and then there’s nothing at all.

Shane’s later into the locker room than he usually is, by which point most of the guys are already changed for practice. Shane dumps his bag in his locker, finds his target, and storms across the room to Marlow, who looks, if a little worse for wear, at least sixty percent more sober than he did the day before.

“Outside,” he snaps, pointing at Marlow and then at the door. Most of the room goes silent around them.

Marlow doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Practice in ten, Cap,” he says, like Shane has all the time in the world. Like Shane hasn’t just spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of perpetual panic. Like Shane can wait, even for a second, for anything or anyone anymore.

Shane grabs him by the sleeve and pulls, and he doesn’t care that the rookies are watching, that Hayden’s mouth is already half-open from the bench like he’s waiting for the starting gun on a shit show. “Now.” He jerks his head to the hallway.

Comeau, from his spot next to Marlow, makes a disgusted little sound in the back of his throat. “Take your fucking lovers spat outside, Christ, none of us wants to see it-”

And yeah, Shane’s done. He’s been clinging to the last of his fucks with a death grip, and just like that, it’s wriggling free and slipping out the fucking window.

He lets go of Marlow and rounds on Comeau, seething. “I’m never going to fuck you,” he snaps. “And I’m sure as shit not letting you fuck me. I hate to break it to you shitheads, but none of you are my type, so get the fuck over yourselves, get the fuck out of my face, and find something else to be a dick about.”

There’s a moment of complete silence, then Marlow lets out a rough bark of laughter and says, “I’m everybody’s type!”

Shane points at the door. “Outside!”

He doesn’t wait for Marlow to respond. He hauls him up by the collar of his practice jersey and steers him out the doors, flanked by the silent, stunned stares of their teammates. Hayden’s eyes are round as Loonies, but he keeps his mouth clamped shut.

The hallway outside the locker room is cold and so bright it makes Shane’s head throb. Marlow moves only when forced, a mass of unwilling inertia. He stinks of detergent and his sour hangover breath is proof he’s barely keeping his shit together.

“Okay, here’s how this works,” Shane says, pulling him into one of the unused meeting rooms. He lets go of Marlow’s jersey and waits for him to rebound off the door as it closes before adding, “I am gonna make some educated guesses, and if I’m wrong, you’re gonna tell me something about the weather.”

Marlow rubs the spot on his chest, laughs like it’s a dare, but his eyes are gleaming furiously. 

“You found him.” The words taste like battery acid and dead air. He keeps his voice low enough not to echo into the rink, but it’s shaking. Marlow doesn’t blink.

“You knew about us before.”

“Probably gonna rain this afternoon,” Marlow doesn’t break eye contact. Every fucking instinct Shane has wants to look away, but he forces himself to endure.

“After then…” But if Ilya was unconscious, then… “You had his phone.”

Marlow’s jaw clenches. He looks…

Fuck. “You told Crowell?”

Talk about the rain, talk about the rain, talk about the fucking…

Marlow says nothing.

Shane wants to punch him, but he keeps his arms folded, bracing himself with the pressure alone. He can’t afford to lose control, not yet. “Why?” he scoffs before Marlow has a chance to answer. “Right, sorry. NDA…”

Marlow half-smiles, then gives up. He glances up and down the hall, toward the exit and back, licking his lips like they’re dry to cracking. Sweat beads along his hairline. “Can’t talk about him,” he says gruffly. “Doesn’t say shit on talking about you.”

“So… so it’s not to cover up our… relationship?” Non-existent at the time. A disease, that’s what he’d called it. Shane was a disease.

Marlow shrugs. “Didn’t know it was you. Figured… figured it was maybe another player. Then you came out and,” he shrugs again. “Jane. Shane. Fucking stupid. He’s supposed to be the smart one.”

So Shane gave the game away. He provided the missing piece. Of course he fucking did.

Fuck, okay… fuck it. Fuck everything.

Plan B.

“You know NDAs aren’t legally binding if they’re being used to conceal criminal activity,” Shane tells him.

Marlow’s tongue darts out, catches a bead of sweat on his lip. The dilated flicker of his pupils is almost more honest than his face. For a full five seconds, he’s slumped, not sure if Shane has lobbed bait or a grenade.

“Fuck you talking about, Hollander?” Marlow says, finally, a laugh, a scornful one, curled into his words. There’s a blank sheet of resolve and something a hell of a lot uglier under it.

“You found him,” Shane stresses again, then says the words he’s yet to acknowledge, the words he wonders if anyone has said. “You saved him.”

He wonders what Marlow saw. How he found Ilya… what Ilya looked like.

“He was so fucking still… he’s never that fucking still.”

Was Ilya still breathing then?

Marlow sways, then swallows. “I didn’t-”

“You saved him.”

Marlow’s jaw trembles. His bloodshot eyes are glassy and bruised, and it strikes Shane then that they look the same as Sveta and Sasha’s.

“Hollander-”

“You saved him,” Shane says a final time.

Marlow stands there, refusing now to look at anything but the wall behind Shane, and Shane feels all his righteous fury evaporate, leaving only the hollow ache of confusion and exhausted, propped-up gratitude.

He could push. He needs to; he needs answers only Marlow can give him.

But… but he thinks of Ilya, and the hollow ache in his heart that was so painfully close to being permanent.

He’s waited this long. There’s little mercy left in him, and he spares it all for the man who saved Ilya’s life.

“Thank you,” Shane says, the words shorn down to their essence, no embellishment or shield.

Marlow’s eyes are rimmed with red, and for a second Shane thinks he might spit in his face or swing at him, but he just pivots, fumbles back through the door, his shoulder bounding off the frame, and disappears into the raw outside light. The door slams behind him, but it’s a limp echo, not the bomb it should be.

Shane leans against the table and feels the shape of the conversation, a jagged, misshapen thing rattling around the cage of his chest. He wants to scream at Marlow, at the world, at the fluorescent bulbs skull-fucking his retinas right now, but does nothing. When he finally gets his breathing to normal, or close to, he wipes his face and goes back to the locker room.

Hayden sidles up as he comes in, far enough away to look casual, close enough to get a word in. “You okay?”

“Fantastic,” Shane says, not even sarcastic, just emptied out.

Hayden hesitates, seemingly trying to decide if he wants to take punt ten thousand at waving that olive branch. Then he takes his breath and sets his shoulders square. “We’re going for lunch.”

“I’m not-”

“Not a negotiation,” Hayden says firmly. “I’ll kidnap you if I have to.”

Shane flinches hard. “Hay’d-”

“Please,” Hayden begs.

Shane’s too fucking tired. “Tomorrow,” he promises.

Hayden blinks, starts to say something, then aborts with a tight-lipped nod. Shane gets the feeling that if tomorrow comes and he bails, Hayden might resort to desperate measures.

He glances at the bench where Marlow should be. His spot is just empty, and it stays that way for the rest of the day.

No one else talks to Shane unless they’re on the ice. Shane doesn’t talk to them, either. His phone rings eleven times. Nine from Mom, two from Dad.

He blocks their numbers. Not forever… not… just… for a bit. A little while.

At six, after practice, when he’s home and dressed in something more appropriate, he dials Ilya’s number.

It’s Sasha who answers. “Hollander.”

Momentary terror grips him by the throat. “Is he-”

“Sleeping,” Sasha says calmly. “He had a seizure this morning.”

He thinks about Marlow, finding Ilya so still, and wonders how he even functions. “Fuck… fuck, is he-” He can’t remember how to breathe. “Okay, okay, I can be there in a couple of hours and-”

And do what, exactly? What can he do that someone else hasn’t already done?

Sasha says nothing, then the screen tucked under Shane’s ear buzzes. He’s switching them to FaceTime.

Sasha’s face looms up, as if he’s holding the phone three inches from his nose. He stares down the camera, eyes sharp. In the background, Shane glimpses the soft-lit gloom of Ilya’s bedroom, the neatness of the bed and the stack of battered paperbacks beside it.

“See?” Sasha says, and then the phone pivots, the view a tilting and feathering motion-blur as it zeroes in on the sleeping shape on the mattress.

Ilya’s curled up at the edge, hair in his face, and arm crooked around a pillow like a life ring. He looks… fragile isn’t the word, but there’s something in the angle of his wrist and the slackness of his jaw that hollows out Shane’s stomach.

“Can I-” The shame is immediate. He’s not even sure what he thinks he’s asking. Can he hear me? Can you just leave the phone there all night so I can watch him breathe and just be sure? “Just for a minute?”

Sasha sighs. The sound is intimate, like a parent deciding whether to allow another hour with the video games. Then he picks up the phone and leans in to prod Ilya gently on the shoulder.

“Zhopa,” Sasha mutters. “Wake up. Your freckled Canadian wants you.”

Ilya’s eyelids flicker, heavy and reluctant. “Shane?” he slurs, not even trying to hide his confusion. He blinks, then frowns at the phone.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Shane tells him. “Hi.”

“Hmm. Hi.”

“How are you feeling?”

Ilya doesn’t reply at first, his breathing slow and steady.

“Answer the man,” Sasha’s voice sounds off-screen.

“Hmm,” Ilya says again. “Mushy. How’s practice?”

“I probably traumatized the locker room,” Shane admits. He decides not to mention Marlow.

“You can rest,” Shane says, keeping his voice soft, steady, as if the pressure of his own longing can somehow reach through the phone and smooth the edge off the day for Ilya. “I’ll call again tomorrow. Or you can call me. I’ll pick up. Every time.”

There’s a stretch of silence. Shane holds his breath.

Then, softer than the buzz of the line, Ilya whispers, “Stay?”

“Yes.” Shane’s already moving, pacing the length of the kitchen. “I’m here. I wish I could hold you.”

“M’gross,” Ilya mumbles, his eyes still closed.

“I share a locker room with Couillard. I’ve seen grosser.”

Ilya’s lip twitches. “Thank you for flowers.”

Shane manages not to preen. “Glad you like them.” He’d wanted to buy a lily for every day they’d been apart, but had been informed by a slightly harassed sounding florist that he might have been overcompensating and wiping out the entire Ottawa supply of lilies was maybe a little excessive.

“Full points in Boyfriend,” Ilya teases, softer now. “I need to catch up.”

“Season hasn’t even started yet,” Shane assures him. “Wait until we get to the playoffs.”

But Ilya, only half-conscious, says, “M’sorry about your parents.”

Shane stops pacing. “I’m sorry about my parents,” he admits. “Fuck…”

No. This isn't going to work.

He kills his camera. Ilya’s got his eyes closed anyway.

He’s already grabbing his keys off the counter before he’s made the decision. Away bag from the closet. Shoes on the wrong feet, fixed in the elevator. Tonight he can drive. He’ll come back in the morning, charter a daily helicopter if he fucking has to.

“Shane?” Ilya mumbles.

“I’m here.” Shane shoulders out the lobby door into the cold. “Want me to tell you the plot to Rose’s last movie?”

“Rose Landry?” Ilya manages to pout even half asleep. “Your girlfriend Rose Landry?”

“My ex, Rose Landry, who knows I am very gay.”

“Hmmm… okay. Does she die?”

“No,” Shane laughs, unlocking the car.

“Boo.”

“She never dies,” Shane says, focusing on the glare of his windshield and the evening splintering around the cones of his headlights. “I think it’s in her contract. But in this one, she plays, get this - an astrophysicist who finds a new planet and then has to convince the world it isn’t fake news.”

There’s no response, just faint breathing through the phone speaker. He keeps talking, filling the silences Ilya always chewed through with sarcasm or humor.

“Her name is Dr. Juliette Summer, and she names the planet, uh, Summer World. Scientists aren’t very creative, I guess. But the first time Summer World circles around, it throws every satellite in orbit out of whack, so Rose - Dr. Summer - has to go to Washington and warn everyone. Which sounds easier than it is, because half the world is like, fake news, and the other half is like, let’s nuke the new planet. It’s a real documentary of modern times, honestly.”

He glances down at the phone on the console, but the FaceTime window is dark. Ilya must’ve let the phone fall away, or he’s asleep, or just listening in the background, the world’s only audience for Shane and his nonsense.

“And there’s a side plot with her ex-husband,” Shane goes on, trying to inflect the words with something like irony, or humor, or at least the sense that he’s not falling apart at the seams. “He’s a Navy SEAL. Which is kinda trite, but… anyway. He helps her break into a government facility, because obviously, the fate of the world depends on her getting to the antenna array before Summer World blackouts the whole continent.” His hands are utterly steady on the wheel, knuckles wide and pale under the dash lights. “There’s this chase scene, and the SEAL guy does hand-to-hand combat with a Secret Service dude on top of a Humvee, which is not very realistic, but Rose says it’s the best part.”

He half expects Sasha to interrupt and tell him Ilya’s asleep, or to hang up, or maybe just start heckling him for the plot quality. But there’s only the soft, slow rasp of the phone speaker and the hum of the engine. It’s so easy, in moments like this, to imagine that it’s three years ago and he’s making the drive not to Ottawa, but to Boston, and when he arrives, there’ll be just Ilya’s wide smile and nothing bad will ever happen to either of them.

He tells the story all the way to the turnoff, his voice hoarse in his own ears. “So anyway, in the end, she wins, the world doesn’t explode, and the SEAL doesn’t get the girl, because she is married to her job.” His throat closes around the last words. “But she’s happy, anyway. She’s good. She gets to name three more planets, which, obviously, she picks the other four seasons.”

He checks the clock. He’s run out of plot, and Ilya’s obviously asleep, and Shane is shit at filling silence with anything meaningful, but he picks another of Rose’s movies, starts from the top, and focuses only on the certainty that when Ilya does wake up, it’s going to be in Shane’s arms.

Chapter 16

Chapter Notes

Firstly, I am sorry this is a little late. I hit a pretty solid wall when it came to editing this one, which will probably become fairly obvious when you get to it.

Some serious notes: I don't typically like to name medications in fics unless it is contextually relevant to the story. In this case, it very much, for multiple reasons (which will also become obvious). I will state very clearly that this is not an indication of my personal feelings on any one particular medication (and I'm on or have been on a few of the ones we're going to come in contact with). I am not stating that everyone who ever uses any one or combination of the drugs listed will have some, any, or even a degree of the same experiences Ilya has. More often than not, it is entirely the opposite, and they see marked improvements. Most importantly, I am categorically NOT saying this is the right (or wrong) combination of drugs for any one condition.

I am not an expert, and I will happily hold up my hand and admit to that and take correction where appropriate, but I always do my very best to approach things with sensitivity, and I research fairly obsessively.

Which I think is perhaps my very long-winded way of saying that this part will deal heavily with the experiences that have been hinted at happening to Ilya in Russia, and before you come for me saying I am sacrificing plot for angst (as some of you like to do) please try give me a little benefit of the doubt, because it's probably likely I've made that choice FOR the plot and I will do my best to deliver.

And all THAT is an even more long-winded way of me saying here is a fluffy blanket and here is an axe, you may distribute as you feel necessary. Shane's had his Low Point; now you get to see what Ilya's was like.

Ilya often dreams of Shane. Sometimes those dreams are whispers of memories, crystal shards of times and places he knows with certainty are things they shared. Others are wistful lamentations of a world that has never existed. In his dreams, he stands with Shane at the edge of the blue waters of Baikal, holds him close and tight in one of the narrow bunks that make up the cabins of the Krasnaya Strela as it races across the countryside. They walk hand in hand down a narrow street in Venice, and sit together under the stars that shine bright atop Blackcombe. Shane is always relaxed, always happy and safe, and Ilya is holding him. Maybe, he likes to think in those dreams, Shane is all those things because Ilya is holding him.

He drifts between worlds and stirs with his face smashed into someone’s neck, the air charged with a sweet-familiar cocktail of sleep, warm skin, and fresh linen.

Shane.

One of those dreams, then. Wishful thinking and new, everything blurry at the edges. He’s heavy. Heavier than he’s supposed to be. When he wriggles his hand up from between their pressed-together bellies, his knuckles find the prickle of stubble under Shane’s jaw, and a tired, blissed-out gravity sinks deep behind his breastbone.

Only… he’s never in pain when he dreams. All the consequences of his selfishness leave him blissfully unharassed in those moments, and he’s happy, always, and…

His fucking head hurts, which means…

Fuck, it means he’s not dreaming, doesn’t it? It means Shane really is here.

It’s a joke how badly Ilya wants to stay, wants to freeze time, wants to fall back into the syrupy dark and wake up to this over and over until one of them dies. He could get used to this… no, he already has.

The room is quiet except for the slow, deliberate breaths against the side of his neck. The sleep-heat of their bodies is trapped beneath the covers, and Shane’s arm is heavy around his waist, holding him in place. There are worse places to be. Christ, there might not be any better.

He can’t remember the last time he was this warm, or this safe, or this sure of the present tense.

He lets himself doze, coming up only for small lungfuls of air, surfacing again and again into the gentle rocking of Shane’s uneven sleep. At some point a hand slips under the hem of his shirt and clamps against his ribs, greedy and desperate to confirm he’s still there, still real, still not about to vanish into the night like a bad dream.

It’s the neediness of the grip that sends a line of pure, cold pleasure up Ilya’s spine. He wants to turn and wrap his arms around that need and devour it, but it’s easier to just lie still and let it happen, let himself matter in the quiet, secret way he never allowed before.

He wonders if he lies here long enough, if Shane would ever let him go.

He’s not about to test it, so he lets himself float. It’s still late, he thinks, or early perhaps, he can have this… only he breathes too heavily, or not heavily enough, and Shane stirs, blinking open those bottomless eyes, all soft concern and immediate relief. “Hey,” he whispers, shifting his head on the pillow they’re sharing so he can look at Ilya more closely.

“Hmm,” Ilya says. “Hello.”

Shane crowds closer, a thousand-watt stare blazing from four inches away. The intensity of Shane Hollander’s undiluted focus has always been a supernova. “You need water?”

“I’m good,” Ilya says, voice still thick with sleep and the lingering hangover of the drugs that come with it.

Shane gives him a once-over, then nods, a little too deliberate, like he’s ticking boxes on a checklist. “How’s your head?”

“Still attached.”

Shane hums, noncommittal, but shifts his weight so their feet tangle. “Do you want Sasha? Or Sveta?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Ilya closes his eyes. “Yes.”

Shane lets the silence stretch, but not far enough to become awkward, and then, “Do you want me to get you anything?”

Ilya shakes his head. He could live on this, on Shane and the quiet and this small, thrumming, guilty joy, for the rest of the day.

“You sure?”

He huffs, “Yes.”

Shane cuddles in closer, and Ilya is finally able to get his arm up and his fingers into that perfectly soft, dark hair. He likes to think it settles both of them.

“I just wanna help?”

“You help,” Ilya murmurs, a smile twitching even as he starts to drift back under again. “You and your lilies.”

He doesn’t need to see Shane’s smile to know it’s there, but he cracks open his eyes just enough to drink it in anyway. “I’ll get roses next time.”

“You don’t have to try so hard,” Ilya says, risking a glance up. Shane’s expression is open, almost vulnerable in its lack of defenses. “You’re already getting damaged model. Should not pay full price.”

Shane’s mouth twists, then he leans in, less a kiss than a brush of lips against Ilya’s, gentle as air. “I’d be worried about your injury being a lot more severe than anyone realized, but I think you’ve just always been a bit of an idiot.”

“Rude,” Ilya grumbles. “M’not idiot M’very smart in Russian.” Or he was at least. He’s probably less so, now, in any language.

“Maybe,” Shane concedes. “I did warn you. I’m just getting warmed up.” Ilya tries to look away, but Shane’s hand is already on his jaw, guiding his gaze back up with steady pressure and that unrelenting, unwavering commitment he usually reserves for winning Cups.

Ilya isn’t sure he’s worth of it, but he can’t deny it’s making him really want to try to be.

Mostly, that probably means being better at all the things he used to do that drove Shane away before.

At talking. At opening up. Two of his least favorite things in existence.

But he strokes Shane’s hair and picks a place to start, even if he does need to close his eyes again. “Have you talked to your parents?”

That whole confrontation is a little fuzzy in places, but unluckily for him, his intermittent memory loss seems to be either entirely the result of his meds or tied a hell of a lot closer to those moments his brain stages a rebellion. Disassociating is a little different, like… he doesn’t remember leaving Shane’s parents, but again, that rarely comes out of nowhere anymore. He’s gotta reach a limit, fluctuating though they can be. Hearing his brother’s name tends to drop the bar a lot closer to hell.

So he remembers enough. And he’s clear-headed, or at the very worst only a little cloudy, which means he can focus in on the things that sit like niggling little worms under the surface of his skin.

Shane’s parents. And the things they said about Shane.

He’s not sure why, but the question seems to surprise Shane. He gives a little huff and ducks his face, lashes fringing puffy, tired skin. “I, uh.” A hesitation, the air in his chest prickling. “I blocked them.”

Ilya’s first instinct is to say nothing, and he executes it at the highest level possible, because what is he supposed to say? Don’t, it’s your parents, or do, because I hate anyone who causes you even a fraction of pain? In his experience, the worst thing a parent brings to the table is themselves, even when they try very, very hard not to.

All the same, the idea of Shane without those two huge presences behind him is… not natural. You can love someone and still hurt them, yes, Ilya is living proof of that, but what entitles him to a second chance and not them? Or is this one of those whimsical time will heal all wounds things that they like so much in the West?

He wants to ask if this is something that happens to other people, this moment of unplugging from family, or if it’s just freaks like them.

Instead, he finds himself fascinated with the shape of Shane’s mouth, how the line of it tightens as he tries to decide if an explanation is required.

He’s braced for some chill, practical rationale, but Shane’s face doesn’t make a good show of being unbothered. “I just… I’m so fucking angry.” He takes a quick inhale of breath, sharp and clear. “They should have told me about Crowell. About... fuck, about you. Maybe I could have found you earlier.” He says it with a baffled directness that strikes through all of Ilya’s old armor.

He’s had those dreams, too. Dreams of Shane somehow, magically, riding to his rescue. Those dreams he fucking hates. Ilya’s supposed to be able to save himself.

Sometimes he thinks that’s why it’s so easy to be angry with Sveta and Sasha.

He stares at Shane, trying to process the idea of a world where that actually happened, and the unexpected stab of grief that comes with it.

Grief that has a mirror in Shane’s quietly devastated expression.

Shane, who never gets angry for himself, only on behalf of others. Shane, who is always a rock, even when he is bleeding on the inside, always trying so hard, always giving the world everything he has, then scraping the barrel for more... The thought of that pain, sharp and hot and hopeless, probably aimed at people he loves, isn’t a clean burn. It’s ugly. The self-hatred in it is too familiar, and more than he ever wants Shane to feel.

“I am here now,” Ilya promises him. “And… and you can ask Sasha. What it took for them to find me. How they did. He will show you. You couldn’t have changed anything.”

And as much as Ilya might resent it, Sasha isn’t wrong. If Shane is here and willing to stay, Ilya owes him the truth in all its messy shades.

“But I-”

Ilya presses a finger to Shane’s lips, then chases it with a kiss, slow and searing. “Enough. You did enough.” With that brings another squirm of discomfort, one he’s ashamed to say has taken him too long to identify. “You didn’t come out because you were ready to, did you?”

Shane doesn’t answer, and in the quiet, Ilya starts to realize how stupid the question even is. Of course, he wasn’t ready. Nobody is ready to be themselves with the whole world looking on, least of all with a million-tonne bomb dropped on their own locker room and every idiot with a Twitter handle aiming their vitriol at the softest parts of them. Maybe that’s the only way anyone does it: like falling, just letting go, arms and legs out, not thinking about the ground.

“No,” Shane mutters at last, so miserable that Ilya has to push him back and settle himself along the line of his chest, a weighted blanket of comfort he knows Shane thrives under. Strong arms wrap around his back. They’re both probably too warm. Ilya’s curls feel a little damp, but Shane still holds him regardless. “It was fucking… I don’t know. Dumb. I got mad and then I did it and then I had to lie and say it was what I wanted and I was… I guess I was just used to saying whatever made everyone else feel better.” He takes one slow inhale that rattles in the echo chamber that is Ilya’s heart. “But I thought-”

He cuts himself off and presses his cheek to the top of Ilya’s head, cradling him close so that with enough combined effort they might fuse into one being and never have to struggle through the world apart again. “I thought if you saw it, you’d be pissed enough to call me. Or maybe you’d get how important it was, that it meant you could do it too.” He rubs his eyes, hard. “Or maybe just that I was ready, if you ever…” He shrugs, which is a lie in a gesture, as if it didn’t hollow him out to even admit this much. “I know that makes no sense.”

It does, though. Ilya can see every step: the raw nerve, the explosion, the immediate, absolute regret, followed by making the best of the worst thing you’ve ever done and hoping someone, anyone, sees through the smile you fix on after. The way you reach for something huge just so the world can’t ignore the part of you that’s bleeding. It is so Shane, and so… him, too.

“I saw it after,” he says. “When I was out of Russia.” He drags a rough little laugh out of his throat. “I was proud. I was so fucking proud of you.”

Shane laughs, wet and a little hopeless, all the tension draining out of his jaw. The curl of his mouth is ugly with relief, ugly and beautiful. “At least someone was.”

“People were assholes about it, yes?” Ilya asks, angry with himself for even trying to pretend otherwise. “You will give me their names. I will vomit on them when we have game.”

He builds an elaborate fantasy of it, the revenge. Gets as far as picturing the press conference, the outrage and panic, the bloodbath of lawsuits and PR denials it would unleash on hockey’s executive class. The revenge is a balm, cold and clear in his mind, and it helps to have a plan for once, even if it never happens. But the idea of Shane letting him do something so impulsive and gross is sort of hilarious, so he lets the fantasy play out and then lets it go. If Shane ever does give him a list, Ilya will probably fall in love with him all over again for being so petty.

Shane’s tracing circles on his back, through the thin tee. He’s not letting him go. “Would you be okay with-” he starts, then falters, catches his lip between his teeth, and shakes his head. “If people knew?” he asks, low and raw. “I mean, obviously, they know about me, and we can deny their speculations. Fuck, I’ll sue them-” He laughs, which isn’t a laugh at all, just a dry, splintering sound. “I just don’t want to put you at risk. You’re supposed to avoid stress, right? This feels kinda stressful.”

“You,” Ilya pushes up to kiss him, slow and careful, deep, until he’s breathless and Shane bleeds out that blossom of budding anxiety, “are the least stressful thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Wow…” Shane kisses his brow and tucks Ilya back beneath his chin. “That was almost convincing.”

“If you want me,” Ilya whispers his confession into the warmth of Shane’s chest, “then I will consider every second it took me to get here worth it.”

Shane trembles beneath him, his heart wild against his ribs. “You… you won’t be able to go back to Russia, though, will you?”

Ilya has no intention of ever setting foot in his homeland again. Not alive. “Tell the world everything or nothing, whatever you want, I am yours.”

He says it with the urgency of someone who knows he might never get to say it again, and it is almost embarrassing how badly Ilya wants it. How much he has wanted it, every day, in every version of tomorrow he lets himself imagine, even in the versions where the whole world burns around them.

Shane’s thumb circles the curls behind his ear, rubbing slowly and carefully, grounding Ilya in the present more than any medication ever could.

They lie there, cheek to cheek. Ilya listens to Shane’s heart under the hush of blankets and the ambient hum of the street below. He lets the words settle in his mouth: yours. It feels right even with the thousand little humiliations that have rearranged the molecules of his body and left him, by any objective standard, unfit for this kind of devotion.

Shane is so serious. He’s always been serious, but now Ilya is learning that Shane’s seriousness is a kind of madness, a competitive urge harnessed not just for hockey but for everything he gives a shit about. He wants to win at loving Ilya Rozanov. It’s a problem and a privilege, especially when Ilya is so fucking bad at being loved.

He could spend all night memorizing the feeling of Shane’s hand at the base of his skull, the weight and warmth of it, the way his thumb moves in slow, absent circles against the place where his headache lives. He doesn’t want to think about tomorrow, or next week, or what will happen when they inevitably run out of luck. But Shane is telling him, with every centimeter of touch, that tomorrow is not the point.

Shane shifts, barely enough to tilt his head back and look Ilya in the face. His eyes are open and bright, searching. “I want a future with you,” he says, so ridiculous and so sincere Ilya wants to smother himself with a pillow, or crawl his way inside Shane’s body and never leave it. “I want us. I want… to make this work. I’m going to make this work.”

“Okay,” Ilya agrees.

If Shane wants to get back to Montreal in time for practice, he should leave at five am.

At six am, Ilya is still sleeping in his arms. There’s a light rap on the door, and Sveta sticks her head inside. “You alive in there?” Her voice is softer than her words.

“Go away,” Ilya mumbles. “‘leep.”

But he’s not, quite. He’s alert enough to shift closer, fish for Shane’s free hand, and tangle their fingers together at the linen border between sleep and daylight. His hair is an explosion of curls, and his mouth is puffy and soft from sleep, and Shane, who should never, ever be allowed to own beautiful things, wants to devour that vision, memorize it, and gnaw the edges with his teeth.

Sveta rolls her eyes with almost the exact same expression she wore when Shane appeared on their doorstep in the late hours of the night. “Shower. Shane can help you if he promises to behave.”

“I can help,” Shane quickly agrees, and has to angrily force himself not to regret that when he learns that ‘help’ involves coaxing a very lethargic Ilya out of bed and into the shower. Then staying in there with him. It turns out that until he’s really awake, Ilya can handle conversation or movement, and doesn’t really combine to two. The trek to the bathroom is an almost gargantuan task, and he has to stop himself from hovering, or just offering to sweep Ilya up in his arms and carrying him because he can do that, he can help…

And never just showered together.

It’s not sexual, but it is intimate. Too intimate. Shane stands behind Ilya, pressed flat and careful, bracing for some protest. It doesn’t come. He’s not sure if it’s mercy or exhaustion, but he palms Ilya’s hip and holds him upright, feeling the soft heat of his damp curls where they brush Shane’s jaw.

Shane’s seen Ilya naked plenty, but always as a spectacle, a performance; a striptease in low-watt hotel room light. Never like this: raw, unfiltered, afloat in nothing but the slow steam and a tiny wedge of hope.

Ilya’s body is a relic. His broad, martial shoulders are less bulky now, deltoids keened down to clean, sharp lines. There’s a dip where once a collarbone was half-buried in flesh, now a hard edge bisecting skin. His chest is still thick, still impressive, but there’s just less. Shane’s seen what being a professional athlete does to a human being, before and after retirement, but the rest of it, the visible consequences of the past few years, make him want to kill someone.

He pushes the urge aside to focus only on Ilya’s needs right now.

Which is something so far from sensual it kills any associated arousal before it even stirs. It’s not that he’s not attracted to Ilya, fuck, if that ever happens, they can just bury him six feet under, just that for the first time, something takes precedence over lust. And with Ilya not starting anything, Shane wouldn’t dream of instigating himself.

He doesn’t have to bathe him, though Ilya does all that himself, mostly by rote, his eyes closed. Shane keeps time, uses the products Ilya has stacked up in the stall, and guesses he’s there to ensure he doesn’t fall.

It leaves him feeling a little uncomfortable, and a lot terrified picturing Ilya unconscious on the tile, bleeding and bleeding and-

He dresses in the spare set of clothes he brought in his go bag while Ilya pulls on the uniform of a hockey coach - sweatpants, t-shirt, Centaurs hoodie.

Over breakfast, Sveta sits at the head in a cable-knit navy sweater, reading emails on her phone; Sasha with a French press; Ilya slouched sideways, hood up, nursing a quarter glass of orange juice as he chews on a bowl of steel-cut oats with blueberries and honey.

“You look like shit,” Sasha says, pouring off a splash of coffee into a second cup and sliding it across the table to Shane. “Sit. Drink.”

The mug is chipped and weirdly clean, smells like cardamom and burnt sugar. Shane sinks into the seat at Ilya’s right, brushing his chair close enough that their knees are an inch from knocking. If anyone notices, they say nothing.

Sveta sets her phone aside and zeroes in on a plastic pill organizer. She pops open the morning set, lines up four pills with the care of a jeweler handling diamonds, and pushes them toward Ilya with the pad of her index finger. The act is ritualistic but not unkind; if Shane had to bet, this is at least as important as the meal itself.

Ilya doesn’t touch the pills right away. He waits, as if swallowing them in front of Shane might force some confession nobody is ready to give. Finally, with a sigh, he organizes them by size, then lifts the first and downs it with an impressive gulp of plain water.

“Venlafaxine,” Sveta narrates, not looking up from her phone. “Extended release. It works slowly. It is a mood stabilizer.”

Ilya’s hand hovers over the next, a white lozenge cut with a tortoiseshell stripe. Sasha’s gaze darts up, then away, and he grunts, “That’s for the seizures.”

“Levetiracetam,” Sveta confirms. She slides a finger along the trackpad, absently keeping tally. “Twice a day. It was a higher dose when we got him home, but it made him mean as shit.” She slants a look at Shane, just for a fraction of a second. “We like him better now.”

Ilya snorts, not entirely unamused. “I am still mean as shit.”

The third pill looks faintly chalky. Ilya hesitates, then drops it into his palm and rolls it with his thumb. “Clonazepam,” he says, in the tone of someone reading aloud a parking ticket. “Is for ‘panic and agitation'. Sometimes I wait,” Ilya tells Shane, his eyes a little glassy. “If is good day, I don’t take. If is bad, better earlier. Today is…” he shrugs. “Fifty-fifty.”

He pops the pill, and chases it with another mouthful of water.

The last capsule is a shiny white thing, a little bigger than the rest. Ilya flips it into his mouth with a practiced flick, not even looking at it first.

“Paracetamol,” Sveta supplies, voice softer.

“That one is boring, no?” Ilya snorts.

No, not really, not when that means he’s in pain. Shane takes a sip of his coffee to buy himself some time to control himself. “What else?”

Ilya shrugs and goes back to picking at his oatmeal. “More painkillers at midday if I need them, more Clonazepam if things are bad bad, Levetiracetam again at night, Amitriptyline, Quetiapine… sometimes more Clonazepam.”

“Jesus,” Shane says, without even meaning to. That’s… that’s a lot of pills. A lot of heavy pills. Even if he’s not taking multiple doses of Clonazepam every day, that’s still… Shane’s pretty fucking sure he’d be a zombie on that kind of cocktail. Levetiracetam and Quetiapine aren’t drugs he’s come across before, but you don’t hang out with friends of an A-list movie star without someone mentioning Clonazepam, and he’s been given Amitriptyline himself in the past when he hit a crazy rough patch of jet-lag. 

He finds himself looking at Ilya’s friends with a whole lot less charity than he felt a second ago. Sasha stares him down.

“Is a lot,” Ilya says softly, lashes on his cheeks casting shadows as he looks down, ashamed.

“Whatever you need,” Shane says quickly, squeezing Ilya’s knee under the table. He's not about to pick a fight with Ilya over his medication, but he sure as shit wants facetime with his doctor. Surely he can't be that at risk... Jesus, what if he is? What if he forgets his pills or-

“I am surprised you’re still here,” Sveta says to Shane. “Or does practice not matter when you have so many Stanley Cups?”

“I have a late session,” Shane says carefully, clearing his head. He doesn’t. He will go in later and get his time on the ice because he does have a game in three days, but the fucks he used to give about most things are buried pretty deep under his current priorities. He’ll square things with Coach in the afternoon, and if the team wants to bench him then… good fucking luck to them.

He squeezes Ilya’s knee under the table again. “I’ll come back again tonight,” he promises.

Ilya finally looks up. “You can’t spend all those hours driving.”

Yeah, he can, but Ilya won’t like it phrased like that. “I will get a car, and I can catch up on some paperwork while someone else drives. No different from me doing the same thing at home.”

“Shane-”

“Be here by eight if you want to eat with us,” Sveta says.

“Or I can cook something when you get here,” Ilya shoots her a sideways glare, his face still turned to Shane.

Shane can’t convince himself to leave, not right away, despite the increasingly pointed looks from Sasha, despite the fact that both Ilya and Sveta are heading to work and he is left there with the world’s most hostile co-chaperone and a growing sense that he’s on borrowed time. It doesn’t matter. It’s his time, and he’s going to use it. He can’t keep up with Sasha’s changing moods and isn’t going to try.

He stands, tugs his jacket into place. Ilya, already gathering his bag, meets him at the elevator. For a moment, it’s just the two of them in the sun, glass panels smudged with morning condensation, the faint glare on Ilya’s face almost making him look healthy. Human. Not breakable at all.

“We don’t have to meet in here next time,” Ilya says, which is as close to a proposal as Shane’s ever been given. He closes the space, for once not caring if witnesses see, and presses his lips to Ilya’s forehead, then catches him just at the edge of the jaw, soft, not urgent. “I can come to Montreal,” Ilya continues, finishing the suggestion with a kiss, as if that’s going to persuade Shane to make Ilya’s day longer for no good reason.

“We can talk about it,” Shane promises, already putting together a plan for how the fuck he’s going to make a four-hour daily commute work before he even starts to worry about away games. “Tonight.”

Ilya kisses him again, hungrier this time, and it costs Shane every ounce of self-control not to melt and fall to his knees at Ilya’s feet.

“We’re going to be late,” Sveta calls, smiling again now, and she, like Sasha, confuses the fuck out of him.

Reluctantly, Ilya pulls himself away.

The elevator’s arrival chimes. Ilya, in that peculiar trick of his, melts away without another word. Sveta, not even looking up from her phone, is gone in a sweep of perfume and sharp footfalls.

Shane stands for a breath, forcefully dragging himself back into focus. Only then does he turn to face Sasha, already looming by the couch.

“Ilya said I should ask you how you found him.” The words almost catch in his throat, but he gets them out. Sasha nods, not bothering to pretend surprise.

They ride the elevator in silence once it makes its slow return from dropping Ilya and Sveta in the foyer. It’s odd, the two of them together, as if the steel box is too small for them both, or the air too fraught. Down at the level below the loft, Sasha leads him inside a utilitarian office: mismatched chairs, computers banked against one wall, and a mini fridge almost overflowing with empty cans of diet soda.

Sasha gestures for him to take a seat. Shane sits, keeps his hands flat on his thighs, and tries not to let the smell of cold coffee and printer ink trigger every locker room reflex he’s ever cultivated.

Sasha sits across from him but doesn’t immediately speak. Instead, he opens a drawer and pulls out a battered manila folder. “Read this. If you don’t run for the hills, we will discuss the rest.”

“His meds-”

“Read it.”

Shane’s hands aren’t shaking when he flips open the cover. His hands never shake when he can’t afford to make any kind of mistake.

He runs a finger over the first page of typed notes. “It’s in-”

“I assume you can read French,” Sasha scoffs.

Yeah. Shane can read French.

Receiving Assessment

28 August 2019, Urgent Private Medical and Psychiatric Assessment

Patient: Ilya Grigorovich Rozanov, DOB: 15.06.1991

Reason for referral:
Patient presented for urgent private assessment following extraction from the Russian Federation after prolonged confinement and coercive control. Transfer into France was undertaken outside ordinary institutional, family, or policing channels as there was credible concern that disclosure of movement or location would expose the patient to immediate interception or retaliatory action by associates of his closest relative, Alexei Rozanov, who was understood to retain meaningful law-enforcement-linked influence and access beyond legitimate family authority.

The accompanying caregivers reported that the extraction had to be carried out quietly and at speed, as any attempt at formal handover or open travel arrangements would have created an unacceptable safeguarding risk. Based on the information currently available, that concern was clinically and contextually credible.

Background as presently understood:
Patient is a man in his late twenties with a known history of catastrophic hypoxic-ischaemic brain injury following self-harm in January 2017. He is reported to have spent a period of time within the formal orbit of the Serebryany Institute for Neuropsychiatric Recovery in Moscow, followed by an unknown period in a more direct family-controlled environment.

One presenting concern is a prolonged deprivation of liberty combined with coercive sedation, repeated restraint, intermittent physical assault, opaque medication practices, probable use of non-prescribed sedative agents, and systematic erosion of autonomy.

General presentation on arrival:
The patient arrived in poor condition.

He appeared physically depleted to a degree not readily explained by ordinary supervised convalescence. He was visibly underweight relative to baseline, markedly deconditioned, tremulous, weak during mobilization, and showing indications of exhaustion.

At first contact, he was: slow to orient; delayed in recognizing that the immediate environment had changed; physically weak enough that unsupported standing was unreliable; visibly dizzy on postural shift; hypervigilant to doorways, windows, and sounds in the corridor; frightened by ordinary approach; cognitively slowed under even mild pressure; visibly braced for force during routine examination.

Physical condition
General examination was limited by patient distress, fatigue, and impaired tolerance for handling, but sufficient to establish serious and immediate concern. The patient was: underweight and physically run down; markedly deconditioned, with reduced muscle bulk and poor postural endurance; unsteady on his feet, with impaired balance and rapid exhaustion after minor effort; tremulous, especially when approached, handled, or questioned; carrying bruising in multiple stages of resolution, including upper arms, forearms, lateral ribs, thighs, and around joints; in posession of a circumferal or near circumferal injury to the left ankle; marked by superficial abrasions, healed pressure areas, and skin changes consistent with previous forceful handling or restrictive measures; complaining of frequent headache, dizziness, sensory overload, and periods of lost time; presenting with poor sleep, poor appetite regulation, and obvious chronic stress loading

Hygiene and grooming:
The patient also showed clear evidence that hygiene and grooming had either been neglected or rendered deeply traumatic. Findings included: poor skin condition; neglected nail care; visible discomfort around washing-related contact; signs that ordinary self-maintenance had not been supported in a consistent, dignified way; severe distress when discussion turned to bathing, assisted washing, or examination of lower limbs.

Medication and immediate medical concern:
A major clinical issue on arrival was that the patient’s medication situation was unsafe and unclear. The accompanying caregivers were unable to provide a reliable recent medication schedule as: medication had reportedly been administered in opaque, coercive, or unexplained ways; the patient himself could not consistently identify what he had been given and when; there was concern that sedative agents had been used repeatedly to suppress resistance or facilitate confinement; there was no trustworthy handover establishing continuity of neurological or psychiatric prescribing; there was credible concern that some agents used in the later domestic-custodial phase were not medically prescribed, but obtained through unathorized third parties.

Anticonvulsant continuity:
Given the patient’s known brain injury and seizure vulnerability, any disruption in anticonvulsant routine represented an urgent risk.

Sedative overuse:
The patient’s presentation strongly suggested prolonged over-sedation or irregular sedative burden. He appeared physiologically worn down by a system in which medication had been mis-or inappropriately administered.

Psychiatric under-treatment:
There was no evidence on arrival of a coherent psychiatric regimen designed to support recovery from depression, trauma, or cognitive instability. Instead, the pattern described was one of sedation, without proper therapeutic continuity.

Possible exposure to off-book or non-prescribed agents:
Patient history raises concern that in the later phase, under the closest relative’s direct control, medication may have included diverted benzodiazepines, informal sedatives, alcohol-assisted sedation, or injectable agents administered outside any legitimate medical framework. This has obvious implications for tolerance, withdrawal risk, cognitive instability, and the patient’s extreme fear of all medication-related encounters.

For these reasons, the accompanying caregivers were advised immediately that this was not a situation in which observation alone would be sufficient. Emergency medical intervention was required to stabilize the patient using a transparent, clinically rational regimen.

Neurological and functional condition:

The patient’s pre-existing brain injury remained clinically significant and appeared to have been worsened functionally by the conditions in which he had been kept. He was capable of coherent speech in short bursts, but organization deteriorated quickly under pressure. He tired rapidly. He needed repetition, a slowed pace, and frequent pauses. His body and mind both appeared overtaxed.

Mental state and trauma presentation:
The patient was frightened, ashamed, and acutely mistrustful, but not psychotic. There was no evidence at this assessment of primary psychosis or formal thought disorder. Instead, his presentation was dominated by: severe hypervigilance; marked startle response; anticipatory fear; shame-driven minimization; confusion under pressure; appeasement behavior; profound mistrust of medication, confinement, and authority; fragmented recall consistent with trauma layered onto brain injury. He repeatedly scanned exits. He sought reassurance, both direct and indirect, that no one connected to his closest relative had been informed of his location. He recoiled before contact with the lower limbs. He became visibly distressed when examined. He showed the same pattern when bathing or assisted hygiene was mentioned. These responses are consistent with trauma linked not only to confinement but to the bodily management of confinement.

Safeguarding context:
The manner of extraction is clinically relevant to future care. The patient was transported covertly due to credible concern that open movement would expose him to interference, return, or retaliatory pressure through the reach of his closest relative’s law enforcement-linked associates.

Evidence suggestive of confinement and coercive control:
At this stage, the patient was unable to provide a coherent narrative of confinement. That does not reduce the clarity of the pattern. The following emerged with sufficient consistency to be clinically meaningful: he did not believe he had been free to leave; he had been restrained; he had been physically injured; he had been kept in conditions where privacy and choice were absent; he was frightened not only of his closest relative but of people connected to him. When offered ordinary patient choice during examination, he became tearful and did not initially seem to understand that the offer was genuine. That reaction is one of the clearest indicators of prolonged coercion observed during this consultation.

Clinical impression:

The working formulation is: acquired hypoxic-ischaemic brain injury with ongoing neurocognitive sequelae, including slowed processing, memory impairment, headache burden, imbalance, exhaustion, and seizure vulnerability; severe complex trauma response arising from prolonged confinement, repeated restraint, coercive sedation, chronic fear, and intermittent physical abuse; substantial medical destabilization related to prolonged misuse of medication, including excessive or poorly supervised sedation, probable exposure to non-prescribed sedative agents, and absence of coherent psychiatric treatment continuity; acute local soft tissue injury and likely infection of the left ankle, consistent with prolonged or repeated restraint at that site; profound compromise of trust in medical and institutional systems, such that care itself has become contaminated by prior coercive use; immediate safeguarding risk due to credible fear of retrieval, interference, or retaliation by the patient’s closest reation or associates.

Suggested tritation approach:

Urgent reconciliation of current and recently used medication where possible; immediate re-establishment of a safe anticonvulsant routine; careful withdrawal from unnecessary or excessive sedative burden; wound assessment and treatment of the infected ankle lesion; psychiatric review for the reintroduction of appropriate treatment under conditions of informed consent; close observation for seizure activity, withdrawal phenomena, rebound agitation, autonomic destabilization, and worsening infection.

Further recommendations:

Immediate establishment of a safe and transparent medication plan under direct medical supervision; Urgent neurological review; non-disclosure of patient location beyond the necessary clinical circle; full documentation of physical findings where tolerated; trauma-informed treatment; restoration of ordinary consent practices in all possible interactions.

Prognostic note:
Despite the severity of his presentation, there are important positive signs. He responds to explanation before touch, to honest identification of medication, to open doors, and to the presence of a trusted person who does not override him. This indicates that his current collapse is not best understood as fixed psychiatric deterioration, but the understandable presentation of a neurologically injured man with accute trauma response to outside stimuli.

There are a dozen more pages below the document in Shane’s hand.

He’s shaking now. Sasha meets his gaze unflinchingly. “Still want to know the rest?”

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

Enter Shane Motherfucking Hollander, and Ilya 'if you're going to cheat, cheat fairly' Rozanov, Stage Left.

See previous chapter for notes on drugs, and I promise, THAT reunion isn't far away.

“You’re killing me, kid,” Ilya sighs, trying to decide for maybe the sixth time that morning if it’s worth the trek to the med center and throw himself on the mercy of Hannah, the team’s nutritionist. They’re banning sugar. And soda. And anything else that gets his rookie high as a fucking kite.

Haas is still giddy after his first game, fizzing with all the energy and enthusiasm of potential, and clearly overflowing with the delayed need to tell Ilya all about it.

Brandon hasn’t had the time to do much more than give Ilya the careful once-over of a worried teacher, and the day, thus far, has been a very long cycle of team meetings, video replays, and thinly veiled bitchiness from Gervais, who hasn’t been the least bit impressed by Ilya’s absence the day before. Ilya ignores him, tries not to lose focus during Brax’s hyperactive presentation, and is pretty fucking proud of his very upright and conscious self.

Being on the ice helps a lot. It’s healing, always has been. Or therapeutic. Something. It’s always been a balm to his soul, and if his hated body can be credited with anything, it’s that it respects the order of the universe well enough to lend him a little more balance on a blade than it does his own two feet.

He lets Haas ramble, the words pinging off his helmet in a humming chorus as they finish up the last round of on-ice drills. Kids learn by talking sometimes, and it’s amazing how many of them believe it’s possible to will themselves into confidence just by repeating “I can’t believe I scored, I can’t believe I scored,” until the universe retroactively agrees that yes, this was fate all along. Far be it from Ilya to squash that enthusiasm.

“I’m just saying, Coach-” Haas hops a little from foot to foot, “- if you’d told me two weeks ago I’d drop one on Scott Hunter, I would’ve said you were high. Like, literally high.” He grins, bright and open and probably on the wrong side of twenty for this much intensity.

“Scott Hunter is geriatric. Admirals keep him for the nostalgia, like an old dog no one wants to put down.” Ilya deadpans, checking the fit on the rookie’s helmet.

“Didn’t they win the cup-”

“Not relavant. Was a fluke.”

“I’d like that kinda fluke,” Boodram yells as he skates past.

“We will do better than fluke,” Ilya huffs. “We will beat Toronto, and then we will beat Montreal and-”

There’s a snort of laughter from Dykstra, who isn’t paying nearly as much attention to Gervais as he probably should be. “I’ll take any excuse to beat the shit out of Kent,” he grins, shaking his head, “but I think we’re a way off from being ready to hand the Terminator his ass.”

It’s beautiful. Ilya savors it.

He bites back a wide smile and watches Haas, who is still bouncing on his blades, practically vibrating with the need to know exactly how Ilya plans to defeat Shane, as if there’s a cheat code buried in Ilya’s brain only Haas can uncover.

Keen little bastard.

“Why, are you scared of Hollander?” he asks, just loud enough for three separate defensemen and most of the second line to hear it.

Everyone pretends not to eavesdrop. Haas, not yet wise to decorum, shrugs. “Cos he’s terrifying.”

Well, yes, and it’s a thing of genuine beauty. They should hang him in the fucking Louvre. Still… “He is teddy bear.” A big, brawny, doe-eyed teddy bear that Ilya is magically allowed to cuddle to his heart’s content.

Maybe he’s still a little giddy about that, because the collective ears of the whole fucking team seem to perk up. Haas looks half ready to start asking questions he shouldn’t on the topic of Shane Hollander, and Dykstra isn’t far behind. Ilya allows himself a moment of genuine amusement. It’s like watching a dog try to figure out where the ball went after you fake a throw.

He shrugs, makes a show of stretching, and lets the blade of his sarcasm shine a little. “He is very boring now. Used to be exciting, but now he’s got all the cups, nothing left to strive for. He has no competition. Is very sad.”

Haas narrows his eyes. “So, you’re saying you’re the only one who could keep up with him?”

There’s a chorus of knowing oohs from across the ice, and Ilya doesn’t hide his grin. “That is because the rest of you are very bad at hockey.”

“Fuck you,” Dykstra laughs.

“Don’t worry, I am here to help," Ilya says cheerfully.

Haas chews on his lip and riskily, adorably, asks, “So, like… were you his enemy or his friend?” The hush that skates out from that question actually slows the drill. No one says it with malice, but Haas is as subtle as an axe to the face.

Ilya pretends to consider the question seriously, then cocks his head. “Yes.”

Boodram, nearby, cracks up loud enough to get a look from Gervais, who is still pacing with hands crossed behind his back like a minor villain.

Dykstra, always angling for drama, slaps his stick on the ice. “Yeah, but come on, what was he like? Is he… like… an actual psycho? Those playoff interviews, man, he looked like he’d rip someone’s spine out with his bare hands. And he never hangs out at any of the social stuff.”

No, because Shane used to hate those things even when Ilya was there to distract him. The only fun he ever had was letting himself get wound up into spirals of adorably freckled annoyance so he could let his inner bitchiness fly while Ilya fucked the stress out of him.

Ilya is very glad to infer that no one else has been allowed that privilege, but it makes him sad,thinking of Shane’s isolation.

Wyatt Hayes, who is always pretty quiet, lets out a bark of curdled laughter. “Why the fuck would he want to hang out with a room full of assholes who hurl homophobic abuse at him every chance they get?”

For all Ilya’s threats to throw up on people, he does intend to be a little more proactive on that front. He’s just not about to say anything to Shane, or, god forbid, Sveta. “What do they say?”

It’s a good gauge for how honest and open Ilya can be with them, and for how much extra drama he’ll bring if and when Shane goes ahead and takes them public. He likes these guys, they’re good guys, but he liked the guys in Boston, too, and he wasn’t about to wave a rainbow flag in that locker room or anywhere else.

“What don’t they say?” Dillion frowns.

“Not suitable for infant ears,” Bood says, skating behind Haas and covering the side of his helmet until the kid squirms out of his grasp.

“Montreal are bad?” Ilya taps his heel against the ice and imagines the blade is sinking into someone’s face.

“Everywhere’s bad,” Dykstra shrugs. “New York maybe not, what with Hunter and all, but Toronto threw a whole fucking tantrum last year when that whole Pride tape thing happened.” Ilya has no idea what ‘that whole Pride tape’ thing is, but he can picture it. Tell a bunch of superstitious homophobes they have to adjust part of their routine for something they already hate and watch the fireworks. Which fucking idiot thought that one through?

The funny part is, he’s almost certain Shane would pitch a fit if someone told him he had to use different tape. God love that man’s beautifully paranoid brain.

“Toronto are assholes, this is not new,” Ilya points out.

“Dallas Kent is also an asshole,” Haas offers.

“Not wrong.” Ilya produces the grave, long-suffering nod of a man who has spent hours and hours watching every game Kent has played, mostly for research, but sometimes for pleasure, and never, not once, for the pleasure of Kent himself. He was an up-and-coming headache for Ilya, one who seemed to have ‘adopted’ Ilya’s reputation for being an asshole in the vacuum and taken it to actual assholery levels. “He is also cheating bitch.”

“Ain’t that the truth. He’s not even that big,” Boodram points out. “Just really fucking dirty.”

Ilya doesn’t disagree. “He will try every trick. He likes to piss you off, because if you are angry, you make mistakes. That is why we do not let him piss us off; we make him angry first. Yes?” He looks at Haas, who is nodding so hard his face is in danger of unscrewing from his neck.

“So… we’re playing psychological warfare?” Dykstra says, like he’s hoping for a yes. God help the lack of killer instinct this team has, Jesus Christ…

Ilya is not above a little sabotage. Especially when it reflects so, so well on his own specific brand of mentorship. “You want to beat Kent, you have to out-asshole the asshole.” He raises his eyebrows, and lets the whole team savor the idea.

“We gonna out-asshole the asshole?” Haas parrots, wide-eyed, as if this is an actual strategy and not just the fever dream of a man held together by caffeine and a lot of heavy drugs.

“Yes,” Ilya says, and means it. “But we do it smart. You, Haas, you want to beat him?” He points the stick right at the rookie’s chest, and the kid glows, all red cheeks and need.

“I wanna crush him,” Haas answers, which Ilya can work with. “But isn’t he, like, the next big thing?”

Ilya tries very hard not to roll his eyes. “He was. Now that is you.” He takes a step, then another, closing in on Haas and lowering his voice a notch. “You want to beat a player like Kent…” he twirls his stick, the center of their rapt attention. “You have to study him, learn his weaknesses, memorize every habit until you can predict, with your eyes closed, how he’ll try to fuck you over.”

“Like you did with Hollander?” Dykstra calls, then immediately mimes zipping his lips as if he’s gone too far, but everyone laughs and the tension on the ice melts just a little.

Ilya lets his mouth twist into a sarcastic smile. Kent is nothing like Shane, but they’re not wrong, persay, at least not about strategy. He just had a lot more fun with Shane than he thinks anyone will ever have with Dallas fucking Kent. “Like I did with Hollander.”

“What if he fights dirty?” Haas says, which is almost too easy.

“Then you fight dirtier,” Ilya says, keeping a straight face.

Wyatt Hayes, dry as a tax return, slides by at the edge of their huddle and deadpans, “Careful, Coach. Someone’s going to tell the brass you’re teaching us how to cheat.”

“I will teach you how to cheat fairly,” Ilya calls after him, and Hayes shoots him a thumbs-up, which in the currency of professional hockey affection is basically a marriage proposal.

Gervais blows his whistle. “Rozanov!” he barks, voice echoing, “when you’re finished running your stand-up act, can we get the last group through the transitions?”

“Don’t let me keep you!” Ilya shouts back, then winces, because holy shit the guy is right there. He waves the stranglers over to Gervais, then turns back to his cohort. “Step one: less yapping, more scoring!”

The boys scatter to the line, chattering amongst themselves. Across the rink, Brandon waves Ilya over.

Here it is. The disappointment. The ‘sorry, but this just isn’t going to work’. He thinks Brandon will be kind about it, but doubts that will help.

He does think about how bad things can get if he fucks this up. He’s just tried not to think about it too much. He’s learned a certain animal cleverness: don’t let yourself look at the thing, or it’ll get shy and slip away, or worse, see you looking and devour you. Still, the truth paces at the edge of his awareness every day. If he loses the job, there’s not just the guilt of tearing up the life Sveta and Sasha have duct-taped for him, and the acceptance that he was selfish and stupid to even think he could try, but the more elemental terror built into his bones: without a job, his visa dissolves into thin air, and if that happens, there’s only ever one place left for people like Ilya. The good place for men who fail, and the bad place for men who can’t stop running, and sometimes they’re the same place.

He doesn’t say any of it while he follows Brandon into the office, of course. He can’t even look up at the wall and the charts and the way it makes a fucking museum display out of every failure that walks through. He sits in the chair opposite his desk, less than two fucking weeks since the first time, and braces his knees at a right angle, hands palmed together, eyes on a point just past his laces.

“I am sorry for missing yesterday,” Ilya says, quick and flat, before Brandon’s even pressed the door shut. “It will not happen again.” Only it probably will, and the shittiest part is the more Ilya tries to stop it, the more likely he is to hasten its arrival. “Was not professional. I should have-” He waves a hand at the mess of himself, and is dimly aware how irritatingly melodramatic he sounds, but Brandon just waits. Should have what? He wasn’t even conscious to call in sick himself. He needed Sveta to do it, like he needs Sveta to drive him here, and check that he eats, that he takes his pills, that he doesn’t shatter his skull against the ice by accident or design…

He presses through. “I know I am not good in meetings. Sometimes… I am not fast. I know this is problem. But I-” His tongue refuses to call it a disability, even now. It’s a chain he wears, yes, but one he refuses to name out loud. “I will work harder. If you need to fire me, I-”

Brandon blinks, eyebrows shooting up, and for a second there’s a flash of… not quite anger, but something close. “Roz, no one’s firing you.”

That’s worse, somehow. Ilya stares at the roster sheet tacked behind Brandon’s head and tries not to drown in relief. “Okay.”

“Was it the game?” he asks quietly. “Svetlana didn’t go into any detail,” he raises his hands in something like surrender, as if to say ‘and I’m not stupid enough to have pushed’.

“No,” Ilya shakes his head. “I had… bad news, I suppose. It… makes things worse, sometimes.”

Brandon leans back, catching the edge of his desk and folding his arms. “You’re handling things a hell of a lot better than I did my first two weeks,” he says, and there’s a note in his voice that makes Ilya glance up despite himself. “You’re here to teach these guys how to think like winners. Nothing I’ve seen yet says you’re not doing that.” The word floats there a moment, innocent and dangerous.

Ilya’s tempted to look away, but doesn’t. Instead, he focuses on how Brandon keeps his hands visible, muscles loose, with no surprise or edge. It’s as if he’s carefully peeling the power out of one side of the room and leaving it in a pile for Ilya, should he need to pick it up.

“I have made mistakes already,” Ilya tries. He means the missed day, but also the other thing, the way he fears his body betrayed him with the team watching. If anyone sees it, no one has said anything to him, but shame has a way of expanding to fill every space before proof catches up.

Brandon waves it off, easy and generous. “That’s all part of the honeymoon period. And besides, no one is ever prepared for their own second act. You’re getting more of a response out of these guys than anyone expected. Including them.”

Ilya doesn’t believe it, not entirely, but Brandon sounds like he does.

“We’re going to have rough days,” Brandon says. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not a good fit.” He half-smiles. “You buying into this team, even a little, has got more eyes up so far than anything I can give them. No one expects anything from them.” But they expect something from Ilya. Brilliance, or disaster. “Something,” Brandon says wryly, “is better than nothing.”

It’s strange, to be wanted for the thing he’s always tried to hide: the ugly, hungry scrap of self that keeps fighting even when the rest of him wants to sleep for a year.

Brandon lets the silence stretch, then adds, “It’s a hard shift. What you’re doing. I don’t want to throw you into the deep end and watch you drown just to see if you come up swinging.”

Ilya gives a dry laugh. “Right.”

Brandon grins. “I like the way you coach. And I like the effect you have on the boys. Nothing you’ve shown me is a red flag, so maybe give yourself a little slack?”

He isn’t sure what to say to that. He already owes Sveta and Sasha more than he can repay in ten lifetimes. And if he adds Shane to the ledger, there’s nothing left of him to give. He feels himself flinch, which is both infuriating and proof that Brandon has him dead to rights.

“I think we’ve maybe both seen the shittier side of the league.” Brandon’s voice is calm. “Half these kids were battered out of other teams or had to claw their way back from IR. Other half have never won more than two games in a row. We can build something here. Something good, I think. That doesn’t happen overnight.”

Ilya swallows. “They are good people. Maybe we can make them okay players.”

Brandon throws his head back and laughs. “I will take okay for a first step!” He leans forward and smiles. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, okay. You’re gonna work hard, just like you promised-”

“Yes, sir. Brandon,” Ilya says quickly.

“And we are gonna fulfill our legal obligations as your employer to accommodate your medical condition, however that presents itself.” He says the words drolly, but there’s something careful in his expression. Ilya’s pretty sure there’s a limit to exactly how much accommodation they have to give him, which just means he has to not push his luck. He doesn’t get seizures often these days. If he’s careful, really careful, he can keep his sick days for those days and push through the rest.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “I… I will not let you down.”

“We finished last season at the bottom of the barrel. You help us land even one place up from that, and I’ll take the fucking win.”

Ilya nods. Yeah… yeah, he can do that.

BOSTON RAIDERS MEDICAL DEPARTMENT

Player: Ilya Rozanov (C)

DOB: 1991

Prepared by: Team Medical Lead

Distribution: CONFIDENTIAL

10 January 2017

Player was reviewed following concerns regarding low mood, poor sleep, reduced appetite, reduced stress tolerance, apparent emotional depletion, and diminished recovery between routine team obligations. These concerns had been raised in a diffuse, rather than crisis-specific, way, and largely through observations of altered affect, reduced resilience, and increased fatigue, rather than any singular dramatic event. At the time of review, player remained fully engaged in scheduled team activity, continued to attend required obligations, and did not present as behaviourally disorganised or psychiatrically uncontainable in the interview setting. On direct questioning, he denied active self-harm intent. He admitted mild emotional strain and impaired recovery but did not disclose a concrete plan to harm himself. Impression at this stage was a depressive episode with anxious features. Pharmacological treatment was considered appropriate. Follow-up advised.

11 January 2017

Player remained available for training and associated team responsibilities. Additional low mood and sleep disturbance noted in brief contact. No acute behavioral disturbance observed. It was the view of the medical department at this stage that the player’s difficulties, while significant, remained within the broad range of outpatient-manageable depressive illness rather than requiring immediate removal from the team environment.

Management sought informal reassurance that player was medically able to remain involved in routine structure. That reassurance was provided with the understanding that active monitoring would continue. No urgent psychiatric referral initiated at this point.

12 January 2017

Venlafaxine XR was commenced. This was selected in light of the player’s depressive presentation and anxious features. Standard discussion covered the expected adjustment period, the delayed onset of therapeutic benefit, and the possibility of side effects during initiation. Player was encouraged to reduce alcohol intake and improve sleep hygiene, both of which were identified as complicating factors. No acute safety concern was elicited during the consultation. Player remained future-oriented in relation to fixtures, team obligations, and medium-term plans.

13 January 2017

No formal full review undertaken, but brief follow-up contact indicated continued poor sleep and ongoing emotional strain. Player remained in circulation. No new disclosure of suicidality made. He continued to present for obligations, and there was no indication at this stage that he was unable to continue in a structured setting.

14 January 2017

Player reported that he felt the medication was not yet doing anything beneficial and described himself as tense, physically uncomfortable, and not sleeping well. These complaints were noted. As he remained in the early phase of treatment, no immediate alteration was made. He was reminded that benefit may take time and that early treatment can be uncomfortable.

15 January 2017

Formal review undertaken. Player reported that sleep remained poor and that he felt more “on edge.” Internal restlessness was described. Mood remained low. No active self-harm disclosure made. As he remained early in treatment, the decision was taken to continue the current regimen and reassess after the upcoming travel block if symptoms persisted.

16 January 2017

Given the persistence of symptoms and limited early response, dose was increased. At this time, this was considered within ordinary clinical practice for a player whose depressive and anxious symptoms remained substantial and functionally relevant. No legal threshold for compulsory intervention was identified. Player remained engaged with team activity.

17 January 2017

Staff feedback suggested increased irritability and emotional lability in and around training environment. Functional performance nevertheless remained preserved. He appeared tired and less resilient but was not absent, incoherent, or behaviourally unmanageable. Symptoms were interpreted as consistent with ongoing depressive burden, situational stressors, and possible early medication adjustment. No change made.

18 January 2017

Management sought update regarding likely suitability for continuing travel and participation through the next block of obligations. Medical response was that player remained distressed but that structure may be beneficial, particularly as he did not appear to improve when more isolated. No recommendation was made to remove him from team environment at this stage.

19 January 2017

Player reported ongoing insomnia, racing thoughts at night, and inability to settle. He also disclosed increased alcohol use off-hours “to get some sleep.” The importance of reducing alcohol while adjusting to antidepressant medication was reiterated. He denied intent to harm himself. Continue to monitor.

20 January 2017

In view of ongoing sleep disturbance and agitation, adjunctive nighttime medication was discussed, and Zopiclone was prescribed in order to improve sleep and reduce activation symptoms. Sedation risk discussed. No suicidal disclosure made during review. Core antidepressant plan maintained.

21 January 2017

Seen briefly pre-travel. Player appeared exhausted and described himself as “feeling wired.” Ongoing anxiety, poor sleep, and difficulty calming were documented. He denied immediate risk to self. Current impression remained severe depressive episode with agitation. Review planned after completion of the next fixture block.

22 January 2017

Travel day. No major behavioral incident. Informal staff feedback suggested player was more manageable in routine than when left to his own time. This reinforced the existing view that maintaining structured engagement was not necessarily contrary to his interests. No formal alteration to treatment made.

23 January 2017

Informal team-side observations suggested worsening impatience, pacing, and difficulty sitting still. No overt behavioral disruption or acute safety event occurred. Functional play remained intact. Concern remained focused on unresolved anxiety and insomnia. Adjunctive nighttime medication was increased. No psychiatric emergency referral initiated.

24 January 2017

Sleep remained markedly impaired despite adjunctive support. Mood described by the player as unchanged. No suicidal disclosure made. Continued pharmacological plan maintained pending further review.

25 January 2017

Player reported no meaningful improvement in mood. Sleep intermittently improved but waking remained unrefreshing. Persistent internal agitation continued. He appeared highly distressed though guarded in interview. No active intent declared. Continue present plan and monitor response.

26 January 2017

Management again sought assurance regarding whether the player remained suitable for ongoing travel and participation. Medical view remained that structured engagement was preferable to complete withdrawal at that stage, given his apparent worsening in more isolated periods. No formal recommendation made to suspend player from all obligations on mental-health grounds.

27 January 2017

Phone contact requested by player overnight was not completed until morning due to staffing and travel logistics. On morning review, player stated he felt “worse at night” and unable to manage thoughts when alone. He was strongly encouraged to seek urgent contact if symptoms escalated. No formal escalation initiated at this time as he denied immediate plan or intent during direct review.

28 January 2017

Ongoing severe insomnia, anxiety, and low mood documented. Affect constricted and visibly fatigued. Question raised in note as to whether presentation reflected dose response versus evolving symptom burden. No psychotic features elicited. No active self-harm intent stated. Continue current regimen pending reassessment.

29 January 2017

Staff concern that player appeared increasingly withdrawn off-ice, reactive under stress, and not recovering well between obligations. On direct review he minimised severity and again denied immediate intent to self-harm. Impression remained high distress without disclosed acute suicidality. Continued close observation through team environment considered appropriate.

30 January 2017

1. Seen between obligations. Player reported inability to sleep without alcohol or medication support. Described persistent physical agitation and “not feeling right.” No change in low mood. No active self-harm statement made. Family contact discussed in broad terms. Review advised if deterioration continued.

2. Player remained significantly distressed though still participating within team structure. Recommendation made to maintain current pharmacologic plan through the early treatment period. No urgent psychiatric referral initiated. No formal overnight companioning or welfare-watch structure ordered.

3. Emergency services contacted following discovery of player unresponsive at home. Severe respiratory compromise and depressed consciousness reported on first attendance. Emergency resuscitative measures initiated on scene. Player transported emergently to hospital.

4.Player arrived in ER in critical condition. Immediate priorities included airway support, circulatory stability, oxygenation, and assessment of likely hypoxic injury. ICU-level care initiated.

31 January 2017

Player remained in intensive care. Sedation was maintained as clinically required for medical stabilization and airway tolerance. Neurological prognosis guarded. Early charting appropriately focused on critical care variables. Next of kin notified.

1 February 2017

On partial reduction in sedation, player exhibited severe distress, poor orientation, limited tolerance of stimulation, and inconsistent command-following. Capacity for complex independent decision-making not established. External inquiries redirected through designated channels.

2 February 2017

Ongoing cognitive impairment, emotional lability, and poor tolerance of stimulation documented. Reduced stimulation recommended. Multidisciplinary review suggested likely prolonged rehabilitation need. Family involvement in planning increased.

3 February 2017

Neurological sequelae increasingly apparent. Recovery no longer considered likely to be short-term. Access by non-family contacts restricted on clinical and privacy grounds. Organizational awareness of sensitivity around the case increased.

4 February 2017

Persistent distress and cognitive compromise continued. Notes increasingly emphasized the need for a structured rehabilitation environment and continuity planning. Return to prior professional level in the near term is considered doubtful.

5 February 2017

Case recognised as medically complex and highly sensitive. Communications tightened. Family preference for specialist continuity of care noted. Privacy and reputational concerns explicitly factored into handling.

6 February 2017

Transfer planning initiated in earnest. Documented rationale included neuropsychiatric complexity, prolonged rehabilitation needs, poor tolerance of current environment, and requirement for structured specialist setting. Patient continued to lack meaningful independent capacity for complex discharge planning.

7 February 2017

Sedation strategy for movement reviewed due to distress, poor stimulation tolerance, and cognitive impairment. Independent discharge capacity remained absent. Internal handling remained tightly restricted.

8 February 2017

Receiving facility confirmed. Transfer framed as continuity-of-care measure. Administrative documentation is formalized. Sedation agreed on transfer to limit risk to player and accompanying medical team.

9 February 2017

Player transferred under medically supervised conditions to specialist neuropsychiatric recovery facility for ongoing care and rehabilitation.

There’s no more vodka left in the glass when Shane sets both it and the report on Sasha’s desk. It seems to magically refill itself while Shane carefully sorts through each and every one of the emotions that shatter against the back of his skull.

“What the fuck was that?” He looks to Sasha for some kind of explanation that might make any sense, because the thing he’s just read is absolute- “Bullshit. That is bullshit.”

Once he’s done refilling Shane’s glass, Sasha takes a swig directly from the bottle. “Right?”

“How the fuck did you even get that?”

Sasha shrugs one shoulder. “How is less important than when.”

"Okay... when?"

Sasha sets the bottle down so hard it chimes. “Yesterday. Got it yesterday. I wasn’t looking before,” he adds quickly, “but with Crowell sniffing around Ilya-”

“He talked to Ilya?” Shane’s voice cracks.

“Showed up at the rink a few days ago, all smiles. He had a thing for Ilya to sign, just a formality, he said. Sveta was there. She is good at scaring men; it is a talent.”

Shane is pretty sure he can feel his own blood pressure. It’s that same brute thud he has when he plays through cracked bones in his wrist and ankles. That throb-throb-ache of pain. “What was it?”

“Not sure,” Sasha admits. “But between that and the phone…” he sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “We knew they wanted him out of the way. After the… after that…” there’s something haunted in his eyes that Shane feels reflected in his soul. “Sveta went to Boston as soon as she heard what happened, but no one would tell her anything. It was a total shutout. We figured they wanted to save face… not deal with the fallout of a player like Ilya doing something like that.” For all that he makes seemingly cruel jokes with Ilya about his injury, Sasha is more reluctant to put words to it than Svetlana is.

Shane picks up the glass and stares at it. He can’t remember the last time he drank.

Okay, he can. But it’s been a long fucking time.

“I mean… I guess? It would’ve been a clusterfuck, but it’s not like it’s never happened before.” Shane can think of at least two players in the past two decades who have taken their own lives. None as high profile as Ilya, perhaps, but it’s happened. Everyone makes a statement, wears a black band for a game or two, donations are made, very sad, important conversations need to be had, etc. “But that…” he nudges the rile with a ringertip, unwilling to touch it with anything more significant. “That’s not what his file is supposed to look like.”

Shane knows. He has his own. All players do. There’s something way too defensive, something too inconsistent… the wording is all over the place, and what is in there is still fucking damning.

Ilya tried to get help. He was in pain, and he was suffering, and knowing he tried to do something about it is almost as much agony as the idea of him enduring it all alone.

Shane doesn’t need to be able to read between any lines to see that what he got was a poor fucking substitute for support.

“I went digging,” Sasha shrugs. “While he was sleeping. Just to see if there was anything of interest.”

“You never looked before?” Shane demands, desperate to lash out at someone.

But Sasha is used to Ilya’s moods, and just scowls right back at him. “I’ve been a little fucking preoccupied,” he snaps, and Shane thinks of the file before this and the picture it’s built in his head of Ilya, so fucking traumatized he couldn’t stand anyone touching him. Ilya loves to be touched. “And like I said… we figured it was all just the usual media-shy closing of ranks. We never…” His hand moves from his hair to press against his eyes, and he looks so exhausted that Shane can’t be angry with him.

“You know how this reads, right?” Shane asks quietly.

“I know it’s been edited,” Sasha answers instead. “There are things in there dated a few weeks back.”

“There’s gotta be more,” Shane pleads. “Fuck… doses, or, or…” something terrible and bright blossoms in his chest. “Do you think… do you think it was a fucking accident?” You don’t mix alcohol with medication like that, even Shane knows that much. “Maybe… maybe he didn’t-”

Sasha shakes his head. “I can’t-”

“But-”

“No!” Sasha snaps, launching himself from the desk to pace around the room. “You have no idea what it’s been like. What he’s been like. He doesn’t know why he did it. All he’s got is a story we’ve pieced together on fucking scraps, and the knowledge that everything since that night has been fucking hell. If I can give him something, anything… I’m not fucking with his head. If there is something that can give him even a fucking hint of closure, I’m not doing it until I’ve got all the facts and no one can question it. I tell him it’s not his fault, and it turns out I’m wrong…” he shakes his head, his eyes furiously bright with tears he’s somehow holding at bay. “We don’t let him out on the roof alone. We hide his pills, I lock all the knives away, all the chemicals… fuck, even the mirrors are fucking shatterproof.”

Shane doesn’t have Sasha’s ability to fight against the tears that burn his eyes. They slide down his face, silent and slow. “He needs to know…”

“Yeah,” Sasha agrees. He drags his hands down his face, and when he comes out again, everything broken in his expression is gone. “And he will. I’m gonna keep looking.”

“What about the files from the Institute?” Shane suggests.

Sasha snorts. “Yeah, they make their money by being a nice, quiet hospital with nice, quiet patients. Ilya probably shared a floor with half the political malcontents in Moscow. They’re paranoid as fuck and keep all their records written by hand.”

Great. That’s fucking…

“Okay, so we go to the source.”

“LeClaire retired. I’ve got his address, I’ll go see him, but I don’t know if he’ll have the proof we need to-”

“No, I’m talking about someone a little closer to home,” Shane says grimly. “Did Sveta talk to Cliff Marlow?”

Sasha looks thoughtful for a minute, then says, “Yeah, she said he was useless. Drunk off his ass, didn’t know a thing.”

“He found Ilya,” Shane says, surprised to know something Sasha apparently doesn’t. He and Sveta seem so fucking calm and confident that it’s hard to remember they’re both his age, and not fucking omnipotent. “He’s the one who called it in.” There’s such sparse detail on how Ilya was found in that bullshit report. Marlow’s got the missing detail. He may have more than one. “Crowell made him sign an NDA.”

“Okay,” Sasha says slowly, nodding as he moves back towards his computer. “You have his address? I can dig into his-”

“Yeah, no, I’m just gonna beat it out of him,” Shane says flatly. He doesn’t think he’ll have to try very hard. Marlow loves Ilya; that much is obvious. Shane tells him even a fraction of what he fears was done to him by his own fucking team, and it’ll be a fucking task to stop him from killing Crowell before Shane gets to him.

“You don’t need to get involved in this, Hollander,” Sasha tells him, proving he’s stupid under all that fucking smart. “I told you so you know what Ilya needs from you, not to involve you in-”

“You told me,” Shane says very carefully, “because you love him. So do I. Now you’re gonna tell me the rest. All of it. Everything you know. And you are gonna let me fucking help.”

Shane’s hands are already fisted so hard his palms hurt. This rage, practical and steady, is the kind that’s gotten him through countless playoff losses and years of relentless, vicious hatred, and now shakes somewhere under his sternum, right in that hollow where he keeps all the things he’s not supposed to talk about. He wants to hit something, destroy something, find anyone who has ever conspired to lay a fucking finger on Ilya and make them answer with their own blood. He wants to howl, but he stills himself instead.

He keeps his gaze fixed on Sasha, who is watching him not so much with challenge as with a predator’s dead calm, the sort of patience that says: I have already decided what I will do if this goes badly, and I am not afraid of following through. Shane doesn’t know if he respects Sasha or wants to throw him off the roof. It’s probably both. He’s never felt closer to him.

“You just showed me evidence that Ilya went to his team for help, and at best, they were grossly negligent in their duty of care, at worst, they actively played a role in an event that’s left him permanently disabled. And instead of taking care of him, they drugged him, put him in a plane, and sent him to Russia, where apparently the least fucking traumatic thing to happen to him was getting locked in a padded fucking room!” Shane’s voice is climbing steadily higher. “They gave him to a man who fucking tortured him, and stole all his money and-”

Because that had been Sasha’s oh so simple answer to Shane’s horrified demand to know why anyone, let alone Ilya’s own fucking brother, would keep him locked and chained and drugged. Money. Just money. The best and worst possible reasons to have done any of this.

He takes a steadying breath. “I will never be able to repay you for what you’ve done for him-”

“Fuck you,” Sasha snaps. “He’s my family.” Better than Ilya’s actual family, apparently.

Shane does what he always does and ignores the bait. “But you need my help. Take it.”

“Sure, just leave us your credit card.”

He waves the taunt away. “Money isn’t an issue. Whatever you need, you can have. That’s not how I can help you.”

Sasha almost looks pitying. “What are you going to do, Hollander? Ride in on your white horse, save the day, avenge him. All I want to do is give him back some of the things they took from him. We pick our battles; we can’t fight everyone.”

Shane sinks into that quiet calm he lives in right when the last few seconds are on the clock. “Oh yes we fucking can.”

Chapter 18

Chapter Notes

So, er... cliffhanger warning?

There's also a title-related Easter Egg for those of you who are curious.

But, uh, I'll show myself out...

“You got another minute?” Harris Drover is a sweet man. A little too enthusiastic, maybe, but he’s a big softie. Ilya’s been on his very best behavior, recording all the social media content he’s wanted during training, and has finally sat down to do a ‘60 Seconds With’, which has taken nearly an hour to actually make.

Now he’s tired, and a little cranky, and he really wants to get home so he can have a proper shower and maybe a nap before Shane arrives. If Shane arrives. Which he will, because he said he would, but he shouldn’t, because that makes his day so fucking long…

“Eh, yeah, sure.” He drags a hand through his hair and grimaces at the tangle of curls. He’s letting Sveta cut it this week. Fuck it, worst-case scenario, he can just take enough of his pills that he’ll be too zoned out to give a fuck.

Harris beams like Ilya’s just given him the best news of his life, then bounds over to his office where Ilya can see Rebecca, the new marketing intern Sveta is convinced is crushing on Ashi, but he’s not paying a huge amount of attention, at least not until Harris returns and deposits a small, squirming ball of sunshine yellow fluff in his lap.

She lands on him like a cannonball, wriggling on his thighs. Ilya has to catch her with both hands as she immediately launches into a face-first assault, tongue lolling and soft fur colliding against his chin as she makes a solid attempt to climb him.

He says she. He has no fucking clue when it comes to dogs, but a quick check and yeah. “Hello, little one…” Small, sharp little puppy teeth clamp onto his thumb and hold on for dear life.

“Ah, ah,” Harris scolds gently. “We talked about the teeth!”

“It is her thumb now,” Ilya offers. “She can chew it as she likes.”

She does let go, though, then slithers across Ilya’s thigh toward his elbow, leaving a trail of damp noseprints on his sleeve, then executing a move that can generously be called a tumble onto the floor. Ilya’s heart judders, already braced for disaster, but she bounces immediately back with another tail-wagging cyclone.

“You have to be careful!” Ilya tells her, sliding off his chair to sit with her on the floor. “Take it from person who knows: fast collisions with floor are no fun.”

The puppy pounces on his hand and finds a new target for her teeth in his sleeve. Looks like that’s her now, too.

“She’s a little clumsy,” Harris admits with a laugh. “Not grown into those paws yet, have you, sweetpea?”

In response, she tries to climb back up Ilya’s arms and rolls off with a little bounce, tail still wagging. Ilya scoops her up before she can get into another fight with gravity. “Nonsense, she is very picture of grace and elegance! She is Anna Pavlova reborn!”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Russia ballet dancer,” Ilya says absently, letting her play with the toggle dangling from the neck of his hoodie. “What is her name?”

Harris sits down cross-legged opposite him. “She doesn’t have one yet,” he smiles, scratching behind her ears as she nuzzles into Ilya’s arm. “But she’s a very special girl. Gonna have a real important job when she’s grown up.”

“You train dogs?” Ilya asks, curious. Harris has the rustic sort of apple-cider, Canadian lumberjack vibe going, for all that he likes to cover things with bright stickers and pins. He’s also the first openly gay man Ilya thinks he’s ever worked with in hockey. If he gets to be that and hang out with dogs all day, Ilya is going to be a little jealous.

“Kinda,” he nods. “Mostly when they’re puppies. Socializing, basic skills, that kind of thing, then they go to spend time with a specialist. My family lives on a farm, so… lots of outside space. You’re welcome to come visit sometime. Hang out with the dogs.”

Ilya pretends to think about it for all of two seconds. Yes, of course he wants to hang out on a fucking farm and play with dogs, Jesus he’s not a monster! “I will consider.”

Harris grins like he’s just said yes. “You know… she does need a name…”

“She is Anna Pavlova,” Ilya reiterates firmly, because it’s not her fault she’s so little! It took Ilya ages to grow into his feet as well. “Little Anya!”

“Anya it is,” Harris says, still grinning. He’s by far the happiest person Ilya has ever met. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re not hiding yourself.

He sets her down again when she wiggles and rolls over to play with her better. She tries her teeth on Ilya’s palm, snuffling and greedy, and he lets her, of course, alternating between gentle wrestling and scritching at the delicate pink whorls of her ear. Her fur is so new it feels like velvet, still ringed with soft down at her belly.

He wonders what it would have been like growing up with a dog. In their childhood, the only dogs he knew were police or military or the kind that barked behind fences, always on the edge of attack. This little one has no idea what a fence is. She’s all flop and want and the giddy delirium of existence.

Anya. Yes. It’s a good dog name.

She can’t keep her feet on the floor, so he seats her against his chest, where she burrows into the crook of his arm. His throat feels weirdly tight, and it takes an effort not to just… keep her. Run off with her. Build her a little nest in his apartment and teach her to sleep through the night and go for walks and say hello to the neighbors, and maybe she’d bark at Sasha because she’d know it would annoy him, but he’d love her, and Sveta would call her plemyannitsa.

She tries to bite his nose. Her jaws can barely pierce his skin, but she tries like hell, tiny scrambler, tongue darting out to taste him between attempts. For a while, he forgets about hockey, about everything. He just gives her his hand and lets her nibble and fall off it, over and over, tail wagging on the tile.

“Oh, I see,” Sveta says, from the door, “this is work, is it?” He doesn’t look up, but he does grant her the satisfaction of seeing his face, full-softened by dog, his defenses stripped away by this grenade of affection in his arms. She leans against the door frame, arms crossed, the curve of her mouth stretching between fond and exasperated. “Is this how you wrangle the rookies?”

“It’s puppy,” Ilya says. “Was nothing I could do.” He lifts the bundle of yellow up for inspection; Anya tries to gnaw on his wrist in response.

Sveta comes closer, crouches beside them, and considers the puppy with a practiced, maternal skepticism. “She’s cute,” Sveta says, after a beat. “But not as cute as you think she is.”

“Impossible,” Ilya tells her. He rotates Anya, who immediately squishes up into a complicated doughnut and goes after the buckles on Sveta’s very expensive boots. “See, she likes you. She likes me more, obviously.”

“No. She just recognized weakness and exploited it.”

“How dare you? We are both ferocious, aren’t we, Anya?” Ilya makes a play of baring his teeth. Anya… does not.

Sveta lifts an eyebrow. “Anya?” She looks at Harris, who wriggles a little, just like the puppy does, all excitement and joy.

“Ilya gave her a name,” Harris nods. Sveta sighs and shakes her head, but she’s got that little smile of hers that tells him she’s not at all annoyed. Even if she is technically his boss, and he’s rolling around on the floor like an idiot. He’s off the clock.

“Anya, huh?” She strokes her fingers over Anya’s little ears. “I hope you are a clever girl.”

“Of course she is!” Ilya defends her. “The most clever.” Anya yawns sleepily. Oh yeah, he feels her on that, too. “And she’s going to grow up big and strong and graceful like her namesake-” Sveta looks to Harris, who holds up his hands. “And then help people who need her.”

The whole concept of a seeing eye dog is pretty cool. There was a woman named Jasmin and her son, who came to every Boston home game with her dog Bobby. Ilya never pet him because he was working, but he did hang out with them for a few minutes after a game sometimes. She used to tell him he was very handsome, and when he laughed, she said Bobby told her so.

He wonders how she’s doing now.

The look Harris gives Sveta is some kind of silent managerial secret, but Ilya’s got a puppy right up to his face so he doesn’t really care; when he surfaces, Anya has latched her paws around the drawstring of his hoodie and is flailing at his jaw as if she can climb inside. It’s perfect, and it’s sad, and for thirty seconds, the world is only the soft, cuddly affection of this tiny yellow ball of sunshine.

He lets her crawl over his lap and gnaw at his finger. Possibly she will tear a hole in his hoodie, but possibly that’s an act of love. He wraps her in his hands, brings her up to his face, and says in his serious coach voice, “I will miss you, Anya. You be good, yes? No biting Harris’s shoes. Only allowed to bite him.” The puppy blinks at him with utter fascination and then sneezes in his face.

“Bless you,” Sveta says, at almost the exact same time as Harris. They both laugh, and Ilya looks at them and feels, for an unreasonably sharp second, that the world is lined up exactly as it should be: Sveta smiling, Harris knitting his big hands together over his heart like this is the greatest show of sentiment he’s ever seen.

He doesn’t want to stand up. He could hold this dog until time ran out, but Sveta makes a gentle throat-clearing sound and straightens. “We should head off,” she says, then, “We can pick food up on the way back. You want pierogi or sushi or something else?”

He lifts Anya above his head like an offering to ancient gods. “Anya wants pierogi,” he announces. Will Shane like pierogi? Fuck… is pierogi macrobiotic? Fuck, no. It’s probably the opposite of macrobiotic. Shit, okay… maybe he should cook.

Harris grins. “Good taste, Anya.” He strokes the puppy’s haunches, voice a little bit gooey. “My work here is done.”

Ilya tucks the puppy inside the crook of his arm and gets to his feet. The world pins itself a click to the left, and he waits for it to catch up. Harris stands, too, and his smile lingers when he glances from Ilya to Sveta and back again. He’s dying to ask something, to know something, but is doing the Canadian thing and only doing the dying nice and politely on the inside.

Everyone in the org probably thinks he and Sveta are together. There’s no version of her existence that isn’t generous and radiant and utterly designed to distract from the failures of her men; if he were a different man, if he’d never fallen head over skates for Shane Hollander and his Weapons Grade freckles, wouldn’t it be easier to say yes, this is my bright and tragic love, she is the reason I live and the reason I suffer? Maybe he would be believed, or maybe, like everyone else, Harris wouldn’t care either way. But fuck, there’s nothing simple in his life, is there?

Or hers. This is, he knows without a shadow of a doubt, the single longest she has ever gone without dating someone. Sasha, too. He really does need to get them laid.

Harris is gay… and he’s not heard of a boyfriend which me-

He starts laughing out loud at the idea of Sasha and Harris. Absolutely the fuck not. God, can you imagine? Sveta stares at him, maybe questioning the remaining crumbs of his sanity. What? He thinks he’s funny.

“You will bring Anya back to visit, yes?” Ilya asks hopefully, reluctant to hand over his new best friend.

Harris’s eyes crinkle. “You kidding? This little hellion is already obsessed with you. Plus-” he leans in, lowers his voice conspiratorially, “-I have another pup I’ll bring in next week. Little older than her, but a total ham, and he needs someone who gets what it’s like to fall down a lot.” Harris grins wider. “You wanna help break him in?”

Ilya can feel his face stretch in a genuinely idiotic smile. “Yes. All the puppies. Bring them all. They can be Centaurs, too.”

The pride that radiates off Harris could light up the rink. “We honestly might stand a better chance this season if we make some swaps.”

“Eh, I have suggestions,” Ilya insists. He wants every version of gentle chaos, the wet noses and tongues and the frenetic survival strategies they share, man and beast alike. It’s a better plan than what most of his life has been lately.

“Next practice, I’ll bring her by your office. You can debrief each other.”

“Perfect,” Ilya says, and he means it, only breaking his heart a little when she looks at him with the biggest, most soulful eyes and-

Shit. That’s Shane’s trick, isn’t it?

Sveta tugs at his elbow, her keys already in hand. “Time to go, Bylun. She’ll see you soon.”

He presses his face to the puppy, inhales the sweet, warm scent of her fur, and passes her to Harris. “Poka, Anyusha. Remember your Uncle Ilya.”

She sneezes at him again.

In the elevator, Sveta glances sideways, her tiredness visible, but she keeps her jaw set. “So. How was your day?”

He shrugs. “Anya puppy is more mature than half the defense and Haas is going to get himself killed by Dallas Kent if I don’t build him new bones by Thursday.” He sags against the brushed-steel wall. “But my brain is still working, so...” he shrugs a little.

She watches the floor numbers tick down. “That’s good.”

“I’m gonna cook,” he then says, making sure to stand up straight and look like he’s not falling over. “Shane’s diet, you know?”

“Hmm, okay.”

“What about you? Your day’s been…?"” he asks, his voice casual, but he’s tracking every micro-movement of her hands on the steering wheel thirty minutes later. If she’s white-knuckling, the day was dogshit. If she’s loose, it’s safe to ask more, to push a little.

Tonight she’s tense. “The usual,” she says when he finally prods. “Pre-season drama wrapped in budget panic and triple-distilled in that gaping hole we have where a Captain should be.” She spits the last part like a pit from a bitter cherry. “MG thinks we should give the C to Boodram and be done with it.”

“You don’t,” he asks bluntly.

“Not my call.”

“No, it is not.” She’s not wrong. Boodram is a good player and a solid AC. Saying he’s not Captain material isn’t a slight against him or his ability. You just need to bring a very specific mindset to the role, and Bood, who has played for the Centaurs since his draft, has never had it, nor been around it. Not his fault.

“Would be a hell of a lot easier if I’d not put my brains in a blender, huh?” Ilya teases. Her knuckles turn white around the wheel, and she actually turns to glare at him. “Sorry, sorry…” so one of those days then… “I doubt I’d be enough to turn them around in a season even if I was still on the ice.”

“You wanna know what I think?” Sveta says, with the wry edge of someone who’s been thinking it for days and is waiting for him to catch up. “There’s not a man on earth who could right now. But it’s a moot point.” She checks the rearview, shifts lanes. “The team needs a new captain. And you, my little secret weapon, are going to talk to your boyfriend about it.”

“Excuse me.” Ilya doesn’t even try to muffle the hoot-laugh that gets stuck in his throat. “Wait, wait… you only let me see him so I can steal him for Centaurs?”

Sveta’s grin flashes in the mirror. “I wouldn’t say only. I can multitask.” She flicks her eyes sideways, then back to the road. “And what does he have left to do in Montreal? He already won all the Cups. His team is a pack of assholes, and they hate him.”

Ilya’s chest squeezes tight against the thought. If Shane were here, if they had the luxury of routines, small, stupid things like which side of the bed or who uses the last clean mug, if they could do this, maybe it would hurt less to want for a future. Or maybe he would not panic every time he got near happiness.

Ilya shrugs like the idea means nothing, even as it carves a hole through his sternum. “Next, you’ll tell me to bring Marlow, too.”

“Why not?” She’s only half joking. “Marlow is the kind of problem that solves itself. Dykstra would love him. Centaurs have a tradition of thick defensemen with very little brain activity. We could make them best friends and watch them fight over who brings breakfast.”

It’s not a bad plan, honestly. It’s also impossible. But some things are nice, even as impossibilities.

“Why would Shane want to leave the kind of dynasty he’s built in Montreal to join a team that have, at best, a lot of enthusiasm and not much else?”

“I can think of a six-foot, somewhat good-looking, occasionally tolerable reason,” Sveta shrugs.

Ilya snorts. “Right.” He can buy Shane wanting to be with him for some wild reason, sure, but giving up everything he’s built in an Original Six team to slum in fucking Ottawa…

“I like Ottawa, cos it’s my hometown.”

What a beautiful fucking daydream that would be.

He pictures a little yellow puppy like Anya, with the same sunbeam fur...

Fuck. This is ridiculous, but he likes it: a fantasy where he and Shane keep a dog, something that smells like joy and leaves bits of itself in the carpet and on the couch. Maybe Shane yells about the fur, but in this future, he’s only pretending to care. Ilya brings the dog to practice, the little terrorist, and all the boys are obsessed with her, and everywhere Ilya goes, he’s followed by a trail of love and chaos.

He lets himself build the day out. They have a morning, for once, where neither of them wakes up in a panic, no alarms except the hopeful thumping of tiny paws and the clatter of nails on hardwood. Shane is up first, and makes up a Moka that could raise the dead, and Ilya comes out blinking, his eyes puffy, and he gets a good-morning kiss and a mug half milk because Shane won’t let him drink it any other way. The dog jumps up, nails gouging Ilya’s thighs, and he pretends to hate it, and Shane laughs. They walk together down the block, the leash wrapped in a braid between their hands, and Ilya gets the feeling of his hand held even when Shane is a pace ahead, because there’s a connection that’s physical and not, strong as bone but never tender.

Sometimes, in this future, Sasha and Sveta show up for dinner, and they all eat and argue, even though Shane is Canadian and has no right to judge the authenticity of Russian food. They argue about whose city is the best, Montreal or Ottawa, and the dog chews her way through three socks and a kitchen towel, and no one even yells, except when Sasha tries to teach her to bark for treats. They put on a game, and when it’s time to clean up, Shane kisses Ilya’s hairline and flutters his eyelashes in a way that says ‘go rest, I’ll do it’, and Ilya, who never believed that he’d be allowed to rest without shame, does. Sometimes he falls asleep on the couch. Sometimes he pretends to doze, just so he can savor the squeak of sneakers in the hall and the heavy thud of Shane’s careful steps when he comes back to check on him.

He likes this world. He realizes the only reason he can imagine it is because Shane is a fixture in it, not an accessory. He keeps running the tape forward, into months, into the rhythm of a season. Sometimes Shane is away for days on some sponsorship thing, and Ilya hates every single one of them and is not ashamed. The dog misses him more. Then Shane is home, and even on the days when Ilya wakes up with his body uncooperative and his head underwater, there’s always a way through it because Shane has made a religion of routine, and Ilya can worship at that altar just fine.

They live together, work together, travel together, never apart. He’s never, ever alone again because Shane is right there. even when he’s not.

Ugh… he crosses his arms over his chest as they pull up in front of the loft. The lights are on upstairs, which means Sasha’s not pulling another of his Gollum impressions. “You ask him,” he says to Sveta as they head to the elevator.

“Well, he doesn’t want to suck my dick…”

And now he has an image of Shane on his knees, looking up at him and- “You are a terrible human being,” he tells Sveta, who knows she’s managed to break him and smirks the entire elevator ride up.

Maybe Ilya can mention it. In passing. Casual and-

Ilya makes it all of two steps into the loft before he’s almost tackled off his feet.

He freezes, jerks, and it’s only the instant wave of ShaneShaneShane that stops him from doing something stupid like shoving the man in his arms away.

He barely has time to register the bulk of Shane before it’s pinning him, arms cinched so hard his ribs pop, mouth catching the bone of Ilya’s shoulder. For a split, jagged second, his whole system fizzes with don’t react, don’t react, which is followed by the kind of idiotic, inborn relief at being clung to like this: nobody in the world has ever wanted to hold him as badly as Shane does right now.

“Shane?” he starts, only to end up with half a mouthful of Shane’s hair.

Shane is supposed to be in Montreal, at practice, or at the very least still driving from practice, and definitely not ambushing people in their own entryway. Fuck, has he even left?

There’s a muffled inhale against his neck. He wants to see if Shane’s crying, or dying, or something, but the arms don’t loosen, and only after Ilya’s fingers find the waist of Shane’s hoodie does he process that he’s shaking. Not delicate. Not fragile. More like an animal that’s just come through a fire and doesn’t know if it’s still burning.

For a long, dumb moment, he just stands there, letting Shane hang off him, and then he puts his own arms around Shane’s back. One palm curls carefully around the back of his neck, the other slides lower, fistful of hoodie, and the hard, alarming thrum of Shane’s heart jumping in the hollow of his back.

Even then, Shane doesn’t speak. He just holds on, as if whatever he’s surviving hasn’t quite ended yet. Ilya stands with him until the elevator doors slide shut behind Sveta. She walks past them into the loft and sighs heavily. “The fuck did you do to him?”

There’s a dull clunk from over by the couch. Ilya looks over Shane’s shoulder to find Sasha sprawled out with one of his laptops perched on his knee and a half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. There are two glasses…

“Shane,” Ilya gently peels Shane’s face from his shoulder and cups his cheek. “Are you drunk?”

“I fucking wish,” Shane mumbles, his eyes red and wet. “God, Ilya, fuck…” and he goes right back into hiding his face in Ilya’s throat.

Okay, Ilya’s not doing this standing up. He walks Shane backward until he can position himself against the cushions and draw Shane down onto his lap. Then he starts to rock them, just a little, when Shane sinks his fingers into Ilya’s hair and fucking clings to him.

“You told me I could tell him,” Sasha shrugs, pouring both him and Shane another drink. Like this is Ilya’s fault. Which… okay, technically it is, but not the fucking point.

Oh. Oh… of course. That’s… he supposes he’d be upset, too, if it were Shane. Not that Shane would ever put himself in such a stupid position. But if… yeah, if. He’d probably cry. Then end up in jail. At least he doesn’t have that to worry about.

He strokes his hand down the back of Shane’s head and scowls at Sasha over his shoulder. “I didn’t mean now.” Or all at once!

Sveta drops down tp perch on the coffee table and takes a swig right out of the bottle. “How far’d you get?”

Shane untangles himself just enough to press a fierce, desperate kiss to Ilya’s lips. Ilya, who will give him anything, lets himself wash away with the taste and feel of him before shaking some sense into himself when Shane sobs against him.

“Hey, no…” he manages to get a hand on Shane’s jaw, holding him carefully and forcing the eye contact Shane is so quick to avoid. “Is okay. I’m okay now, yes? All my fingers and toes. Head is still attached.”

“Ilya.”

In truth, Ilya’s less freaked out that Shane is so upset than he is that Shane is so upset in front of people. He’s so private, so painfully careful with how and who he shares his emotions, and it feels like the worst kind of trespass to let all this unfold here, in front of other people.

For the first time, Ilya’s actually really fucking glad it’s taken this long for him to get Shane back in his arms. If he’d seen Ilya a year ago, he’d have probably given himself an ulcer.

“It’s okay,” Ilya promises him. “I’m okay. You’re okay. It’s all behind now, no?”

Shane drops his head forward until their foreheads touch. “I love you,” Shane whispers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I didn’t save you, I’m sorry-”

“Whoah, hey,” Ilya kisses him again, quick and light, then his cheek, then tucks him back where he clearly wants to be and lets himself enjoy the warmth of Shane’s breath against his throat. “Not everything is about you, Hollander,” Ilya teases him. “Not your fault. Nothing you could’ve done.”

“You’re fucking cooking,” Sveta tells Sasha irritably under his breath in Russian.

If there is anywhere left in the world he doesn’t want to be seen, it’s here, on his own damn couch, with the entire operating committee of his fucked-up afterlife getting front-row seats to Shane’s breakdown. It’s fair they get to see all his ugly sides, but he will protect Shane’s tender heart if he can.

He glances at Sasha, who’s mostly disinterested, more focused on tapping at his keyboard, and Sveta, who looks like she wants to walk into her shower and stay there for a week. At least they’ve had practice managing Ilya’s own detonations. Shane’s a whole different physics.

Ilya tightens his hand in Shane’s hair. He whispers into the shell of his ear: “I could do with some fresh air.” Said low, meant for her, but also a warning to anyone too in love with the vodka to get up.

For a second, he thinks Shane won’t move. But then, with a tight breath and an even tighter grip on Ilya’s clothes, Shane lets himself be guided up. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he seems to recognize that he’s been somewhat unofficially given a task and sets about completing it with his usual focus. He curls his fingers with Ilya’s and leads them both over to the roof stairs.

Outside, the sun is setting, and the timers on the lights kick in, turning Ilya’s favorite little hiding place into something that feels magical and safe. Instead of sinking back down onto the couch, he pulls Shane into a low maze of potted flowers and presses them together.

With his arms looped around Shane’s hips, he sways them side to side and closes his eyes.

Shane’s whole body is soft and lax in his arms. “What’re you doing?” he mumbles, cheek on Ilya’s shoulder.

“We’re on a date,” Ilya tells him, his eyes still closed. “Soft lights, music, dancing…”

“There’s no music, Ilya,” Shane chuckles wetly.

“Want me to sing?”

“Can you sing?”

Ilya has the singing voice of a particularly frought alley cat if it were being chased by a herd of chainsaw-wielding cattle. “No.” He can hum, though, so does that, and the two of them sway side by side, in a perfect little bubble of peace. He waits for Shane’s heartbeat to steady, his breathing to even out, then continues to sway and pretends not to notice the subtle shift in Shane’s arms, or the way he’s not fully holding his own weight anymore.

Shane’s strong, and he’s warm, and this is nice.

“Better?”

“Fuck. Yes. I’m sorry. Fuck, I keep doing this.”

“Doing what, exactly?” Ilya asks. “Being boring Canadian and apologizing for breathing?”

“Not apologizing,” Shane says, voice hoarse. “But…can I, uh. Can I hold you?”

Ilya laughs. “You are holding me.”

Shane laughs a shaky: “No, I mean, like…. can I hold you?”

He’s about to joke about Canadians being needy when he notices the shine in Shane’s eyes is still not just the wind. So he softens and lets himself fall into the space between them. “Yeah,” he says, bumping their noses together. “You can hold me.”

They flop down onto the nearest couch, Ilya too heavy and slow to control the descent, and it ends up with him half-draped across Shane’s lap, legs splayed, an arm crooked lazily across his chest. Shane gathers him in like an oversized, over-engineered memory foam body pillow, one hand in the disaster of Ilya’s hair and one spread flat right over his heart, grounding them both. He snuggles Ilya in, tucks him up in his arms, and somehow, in the manly combat of lap vs. lap, it’s not even a question who should be where.

It’s weird. Not bad, not uncomfortable, but… new. Like borrowing someone else’s jacket and finding it weirdly heavier than yours, weighted to what the previous owner carried in the pockets. Sasha and Sveta hold him all the time, but not like this. Not so… so intimate and… He should hate it, should squirm out until the illusion crumbles and they go back to their roles - Shane the unbudgeable, Ilya the gravity-bound satellite - but instead he just breathes and lets himself sink and spill and be held.

Shane rubs his cheek into Ilya’s curls, then just holds still for a while, long enough that Ilya would worry, except he can feel every increment of tension in Shane’s chest as it softens and releases.

It’s not so bad.

After a while: “I’m proud of you,” Shane says, not quiet but not loud either. “For not giving up.”

Ilya’s pretty damn sure that giving up started all this, but it’s nice to hear anyway.

He can’t think of a way to say thank you that isn’t embarrassing. Instead, he wraps his arms tighter around Shane’s waist.

Shane is a good man. The best, maybe. Stupid and stubborn and sometimes so intent on fixing things that he misses the way they’re already beautiful, but always with his whole heart. And Shane could have given up, too, could have stayed safe and distant and left Ilya to fade out quietly into the life he’s clinging to with his fingernails.

“Just cos I haven’t said it,” Ilya says slowly… “I do still… always, really.”

“Yeah,” Shane sniffs. “Me too.”

“You didn’t go to practice today.”

“No.”

“Shane…”

“All the things I used to be scared of… the reasons why I didn’t… all came true. Thought it would be the worst thing that could happen to me.” He shudders and kisses the crown of Ilya’s head. “I didn’t feel any of it. Just… this void. This… this fucking grief. Knowing what was happening to you… what you were going through… never again. I’m gonna keep you safe.”

He knows the grief Shane’s talking about is a very particular kind, but Ilya feels his own version of it for the lie Shane’s been forced to endure, and the knowledge that he was right to be afraid of it all along. He hates that he wasn’t there. Couldn’t hold Shane’s hand through it all and spit in the face of anyone who dared look down on him for the crime of simply being.

“And I will kill your teammates. And anyone else you don’t like.”

Shane chuckles beneath him. “Not even worth the effort,” he whispers.

Bah. Ilya’s crazy. On paper and everything. He can totally go on an off-the-wall murder spree.

“Want me to come to your first game?” he offers instead. “I can wear your jersey… we’d probably kill your Coach.” And probably get chased out of town with pitchforks in the process…

“Maybe dinner first,” Shane says dryly. Ilya wants to preen a little. He’s still got the magic touch. He can still tease Shane Hollander out from the shadows in his head.

“Well… you know I’m broke now, so you better be okay with McDonald's.” He’s testing the waters a little, shame spiking bright, but Shane just clutches him tighter.

“I’d rather starve. Do like the idea of you wearing my jersey, though.”

“That would make me a WAG, yes?” He thinks he’ll look better in it than Rose Landry did.

It makes Shane laugh a little breathlessly. “There’s a fucking visual…”

He’s still curled in Shane’s lap, half-wrapped in his arms, when Sveta emerges onto the roof, Sasha on her heels. He guesses that means they’ve been up there for longer than he’s realized, and it’s time to eat, but then a third figure follows after Sasha, and he immediately pushes himself out of Shane’s arms.

Shane lets him, but all the tension floods back into his body as he sets a tense, worried hand on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya makes an attempt at standing and doesn’t get his knees to obey him even a little.

It’s not late, as such, but it’s outside of normal working hours, which means there’s no good reason for his lawyer to be standing on his rooftop. No good reason for the pinched expression on Sveta’s face, or the rage on Sasha’s.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Ilya,” Nora Branwell is, in Ilya’s mind, a very Lawyer kind of lawyer. She wears her hair neat, and her pantsuit neat, and her expression neat. She’s competent and diligent and by far his favorite thing about her is that she knows what she knows about him and doesn’t talk to him like an invalid or an infant. Fuck, even when he didn’t have a mangled brain, most lawyers talked to him like he was a dumb jock.

Nora’s gaze darts to Shane, who isn’t the least bit intimidated or ashamed to be caught sitting so close to Ilya.

“Shane Hollander,” he introduces himself in the flat tone of voice he uses with reporters he doesn’t like. Then, reluctantly, he looks at Ilya. “Do you want me to-”

Ilya doesn’t want Shane to ever stop touching him and thinks he might scream if he tries. he shakes his head. Shane squeezes his shoulder tightly.

Sveta gestures for Nora to take a seat on the chair opposite the couch. Both she and Sasha remain standing.

Another thing Ilya likes about Nora is that she doesn’t fuck around with things for no reason. She jumps straight to the point.

Usually.

“I’m going to start,” she says carefully, “by saying this is not something I want you worrying about.” Okay, well, now he’s immediately fucking worried. “This doesn’t mean anything, and I promise you, you are safe here, okay?”

Well, that's fucking ominous... He’s going to fucking throw up.

“Wh- what’s going on?”

“Are you aware of something called the Substitute Decisions Act?” Nora asks him.

Ilya shakes his head.

“Okay, so it mostly deals with guardianships in Ontario.” He gets the feeling that she’s dumbing it down for him, which is… which is fucking great because the whole fucking rooftop is starting to look a little black around the edges. Sveta needs to change the light bulbs.

“We don’t need to go into the details now, but there’s something within it called Section 86, which provides a legal mechanism for recognizing foreign guardianship within the province.”

Shane’s grip on his shoulder is starting to fucking hurt.

Nora leans forward. “I’m going to say this again: I do not want you worrying, okay? I’m here to let you know what is happening, but this is longer than a long shot. In thirty years, there has not been a single foreign jurisdiction that has been prescribed. I have no concern at all that this is anything other than malicious abuse of process, and it is not automatically enforceable.”

There’s a lot of big fucking words in there. “What are you saying?”

“Your brother’s a fucking cunt, and I should have shot him in the head when I had a chance,” Sveta says waspishly.

Nora blinks and tilts her head. “With some paraphrasing, that’s not far off,” she says dryly. “Alexei has filed with the SCJ for control over your personal care here in Ontario on the grounds that in Russia, he was granted legal guardianship.”

“We’re not fucking in Russia.” That’s Shane, snarling in his ear. His hand on Ilya’s shoulder, holding him safe.

Holding him steady.

Holding him back.

Holding him down.

The door’s not locked. The chain… it’s unfastened, which means-

Ilya launches himself to his feet and runs.

Chapter 19

Chapter Notes

Maybe... maybe this makes up for the last few eps?

And okay, yes, I know Mr. Millionaire Hockey Star has a proper accountant who is not his dad, but there are enough OCs to juggle that I'm suspending the rules for the special case of David Hollander.

Ilya has always been fast. Even now, over three years out of play and rebuilding the muscle Shane knows he’s lost to neglect and abuse.

He’s fast. All panic and kinetic energy exploding from his legs and powering him forward. He’s fast.

Shane is and always has been faster.

He’s also painfully aware that they’ve just stepped on a fucking landmine, and while he’s shit at reading expression and emotion most of the time, he’s really fucking good at reading body language in one particular scenario, and that’s violence. He knows when a play is about to get rough. He knows when someone’s ready to drop their gloves. No facial expression needed for that.

Sasha’s been ready to move since Alexei’s name was mentioned. He’s not as fast as either of them, but he doesn’t need to be. Between the tension in Ilya’s body and the fear coiling and twisting Sasha up, Shane beats his PB for reaction time by a fucking landslide.

He moves sideways, loops his arm low around Ilya’s waist, and uses both their momentum to dump himself right back in Ilya’s lap and them both on the couch.

Ilya, predictably, doesn’t handle it well. But he doesn’t come up swinging either, caught by surprise and not so much manhandled as course corrected. Shane isn’t about to pin him down. Wouldn’t fucking dream of restraining him. But he needs Ilya not to be running scared when he’s already unsteady, not when there’s a pretty brutal set of metal stairs for him to slide down headfirst if he loses his balance.

He doesn’t want to imagine all the awful, violating ways Ilya’s been held down over the years. He can picture it just from the lines peppered through the various reports Sasha’s given him. Always framed under the guise of protecting him from himself, just like Shane wants to do now.

God fucking help him if this backfires, but he’s going to take a wild guess that neither the professional staff in any of the medical settings Ilya’s been restrained in, nor his fucking piece of shit brother, has ever tried to just… hug him calm.

It’s a truly terrible idea, but he follows his instincts, already straddling Ilya’s lap as he wraps his arms loosely around his back, tucks his chin over Ilya’s shoulder, and starts to rock them back and forth with a slightly more forceful version of the same move Ilya just pulled on him.

Granted, Shane wanted the contact, and Ilya might not, but fuck it… lesser of two evils by far.

“Hey,” Shane breathes, low and steady, the same gentle certainty Ilya gave him when he had no right to expect comfort. “Stay with me, Ilya.”

He’s aware, somewhere near the back of his brain, that the others are quietly marshaling a perimeter. But mostly there’s Ilya, shock-stiff, arms hanging loosely at his sides, every muscle in his torso locked in a fight between surrender and flight.

The priority here is containment, not control. He’s careful, so careful, holding Ilya like a bomb with a shivering fuse. He keeps his own grip loose, lets gravity do most of the work, and rocks them both until, by millimeters, Ilya stops trying to shake apart. Shane pulls back just enough to see his face.

He’s always been a beautiful man, but right now he looks carved out of wax: all sheen and pallor, jaw loose, eyes foggy and dark. Shane can taste the bitterness on his breath, and he remembers all the vile details from the Paris report… the sensory overload that fractured at the lightest touch. Ilya blinks, once, twice, and it’s not clear if he recognizes anything at all: Shane or the city or his own name.

“We’re on the roof,” Shane tells him, careful to keep everything in the present tense. “It’s late September, sky’s clear. I’m right here, Sveta’s here, Sasha’s…” he glances at Sasha, who’s standing sentry, mouth a grim slash, “Sasha’s here. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you.” His heart breaks on the word that doesn’t follow. Again. That there even could be an again, that Alexei’s reach could run from a courtroom in Moscow to a rooftop in Ottawa, and that it would be enough to drop Ilya right back into hell.

Ilya’s breathing is all wrong: shallow, high, somewhere between hyperventilation and asphyxia. He doesn’t answer or look at anyone. He sounds like he’s dying. Sounds like he maybe did when he was dying.

He wishes, so intensely it hurts, that he could take all of the pain instead, wedge himself between Ilya and the whole world, catch every threat and every stray thought and just absorb them, let the poison gather in his own organs and spare Ilya even a second. He can’t. He can only hold. So he gentles his hands even more, one splayed against his back, trembling with each shallow breath, the other braced across Ilya’s shoulder blades, pressing warmth into the cold soak of terror.

Sveta is there, she must be, because something soft and scented brushes the side of his jaw and then steadies on Ilya’s wrist. Then her voice, firm but velveted in Russian starts to whisper. She’s a miracle worker, hellbent on prying him back from the edge with only the brute force of her care. Shane lets her take over, doesn’t try to compete, just ducks his head and shelters Ilya from the reality of the world and whatever awful threat has just detonated inside him.

Over the sound of Ilya’s ragged, clattering inhale, Shane can hear Sasha cursing and chairs scraping, but he doesn’t look up. He can’t. He couldn’t bear to see the judgment, or the pity, or even compassion. He can’t bear anything that might dilute the singular focus on Ilya’s panic and the way it’s eating him alive.

“Hey. Hey, hey,” Shane whispers, mouth against the sweat-damp temple, “He’s not here. He’s never coming near you again. You’re safe.” He doesn’t know if that’s true, if safe is a state that exists anymore, but he knows for a fact that if Alexei ever shows his face, he won’t be wearing it for long.

Shane isn’t a violent man. But he is the very fucking best at a very violent sport. Ilya might have started more fights on the ice, but Shane fucking finishes them.

He kisses Ilya’s jaw, his cheek, his throat, and hums the same little tune Ilya hummed to him.

“Breathe for me,” Shane whispers. “Breathe for me, and then we can go wherever you want. Anywhere you want. I’ll take you to the fucking moon if I have to, okay?” Ilya’s fingers tentatively curl into Shane’s hoodie, and then his arms are a crushing force around his waist. He shudders and presses his face into Shane’s shoulder, trembling as Shane combs his fingers through his hair. “I’ve got you. Tell me you want me to let you up and I’ll move.”

He figures if Ilya can string that much of a sentence together, then he’s focused enough for them to give him some space more safely.

Ilya says nothing, just stays in Shane’s arms until all the tension drains out of him and he slumps, lethargic, between him and the couch.

Shane’s seen him crash now enough to know that this isn’t him just succumbing to tiredness. He’s switching off. Zoning out. Awake, but maybe not so aware.

That kind of adrenaline crash is rough on anyone, let alone someone with both the physiological and psychological scars Ilya does. Shane eases him down and settles him more comfortably against the couch.

“I am so sorry, Ilya,” Nora says regretfully. “This was never my intention-”

“Not on you,” Sasha grunts, his face bloodless. “What’s our next move?”

“I tell him to go fuck himself,” Nora says flatly. She isn’t looking at Ilya anymore, but Shane gets the impression that’s more of a favor than an oversight. “I’ll use stronger words, obviously. Given his resources, he can afford to make a nuisance of himself, but I honestly can’t understand what his endgame is here. He’s already drained all the assets he can.”

Shane keeps one hand on Ilya’s side, letting it rise and fall steadily with Ilya’s slowing breaths. He does three things as quickly as he can, then he sets the phone down.

“You got a retainer on you?” He asks Nora. His mom might handle the majority of his legal needs, but he’s practically grown up around contracts and lawyers. If she’s any good, she’ll either have the paperwork on her or be able to email it to him.

“I can have my office send one to you in the morning,” she says, watching him carefully. Okay, so smaller firm, maybe. Not necessarily a bad thing, per se, but if Shane calls his lawyer now, the bloodthirsty bastard will be on his doorstep within the hour. From Montreal.

He looks at Sasha. “You got a pen and paper?”

“Do I look like someone who uses a fucking pen?” Sasha snarls. Which is… okay, fair.

Nora does have a notepad and pen on her, though. She hands it over to Shane, who dates it, signs his name, and $100,000 above it, then hands it over. “Do until then?”

“Why do I get the feeling I am not going to like where this conversation is going?” She asks, raising a fair eyebrow. Shane stares at her until she sighs. “In a pinch.”

He nods. “His brother’s lawyers Canadian or Russian?”

She leans back and crosses her arms. “Throwing money at me doesn’t mean you have any right to the details of Mr. Rozanov’s legal affairs, and I’m not convinced he’s in an adequate state of mind to authorize you to know any more than you currently do.”

Okay, fair, Shane doesn’t hate her for that. “Fine. We’ll have another conversation tomorrow. Until then, get everyone who fucking works for you back in the office and figure out a way to drown him in red tape. Bill me for the overtime.”

She looks at Ilya, who isn’t focused on anything at all, then Sveta, who shrugs her shoulders. Her lips twitch. “To be continued, then.” She does then turn back to Ilya, her expression softening. “I promise you I am going to make this go away.”

Ilya blinks slowly and tilts his chin to look up at her. He nods, and while it’s such a small thing, Shane is overcome with the urge to hold him again.

Nora leaves the roof with Sasha, Sveta staying behind to crouch down by Ilya’s head and gently touch his cheek. The words she whispers to him are so low he can’t hear them, even this close. Ilya shakes his head again, and closes his eyes.

“Stay with him,” she tells Shane as she drags her hand over the back of her neck. “He’s better when he’s outside. I’ll go get some things.”

Of course he’s better when he’s outside. How often was he allowed out of his room in the Institute? Was he ever allowed out with Alexei?

He checks his phone. The messages he sent have been read. It’s a waiting game, now.

When Sveta comes back, it’s with a bottle of water and a blanket she has to hold with both arms. She hands it over to Shane, who almost drops it when he realizes how heavy it is. He lifts a curious eyebrow, trying to get his head around the idea of someone who has been repeatedly restrained and held down finding comfort in a weighted blanket.

Shane lies down on the couch alongside Ilya, drapes the blanket over their legs, then decides to pull it up all the way to their chests. It compresses him with a strange, sudden force… a weight that weirdly doesn’t suffocate, but makes everything else seem to matter less. He glances at Ilya, waiting for the punchline or the barely-restrained mockery, but Ilya only closes his eyes and lets the blanket keep them where they are.

Shane’s never understood the appeal before. But underneath it, the invisible vibrations of dread and anger finally dampen and smooth out. The soft brush of Ilya’s hair tickles Shane’s cheek as he presses against him. Shane keeps one hand on the top of Ilya’s head, gentle pressure, combing through his curls in slow, regular cycles.

He stays on the outside edge of the couch, one foot braced against the floor in case they need to spring into action. He wants to check if Ilya’s still conscious, and the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket is steady. Not particularly deep, but not panicked now, either. He’s not sure if Ilya is out or in that fugue state he seems to slip into when his brain needs a time-out from the onslaught of everything around him.

It’s unsettling, and more than a little heartbreaking. The Ilya he remembers was so sharp. Not just clever, but fast, and it’s not that Ilya is less than he was, but Shane can’t pretend that he isn’t changed. That those moments when he’s so very much the man he remembers come with a cost, and that cost is fucking heavy.

Still… a year ago… fuck, a year ago…

It’s a fucking miracle Ilya is doing as well as he is. In his position, Shane’s not sure he’d be a functioning member of society, let alone ready to hold down a job.

In his peripheral vision, the soft yellow of the hanging light strokes the terrace and lays dappled circles across the table. Ilya’s arm is tucked against Shane’s chest like he’s anchoring a lifeboat in a storm. Shane hopes his heartbeat is soothing, not manic.

The longer they stay there, silent and together in their little cocoon, the more something ugly and hard uncoils in his gut. He can’t lose Ilya again. He can’t even imagine trying to exist in a world where that’s a risk, where a signed piece of paper could make the last few days, the last few hours of holding Ilya in his arms, just an elaborate hallucination. He feels like a kid again, all helplessness and pure, undiffused panic.

He’s not going to let it happen.

He presses his face against the mess of Ilya’s hair, breathes in the smell of sweat and cedar soap, and makes himself into a wall between the man in his arms and everything else. He’s never been this angry in his life, and he’s never been this clear.

He meant what he said to Ilya before. All the fear he feels… none of it is for him. Not anymore. Shane has lived the worst nightmare of his teenage years and come out the other side with nothing but the knowledge that he'd do it again and again and again just for the chance to change the course of their lives.

There’s nothing anyone can do, or say, or subject him to, that comes close to touching on the gaping hole of pain Ilya left behind. And now he knows what he does? Now he knows what was happening to Ilya while Shane was sat at home nursing a broken heart…

Under the blanket, Ilya stirs, presses his face further into the curve of Shane’s shoulder, then whispers, “Sorry.”

“Shut up,” Shane grumbles, which is what he’s always said when Ilya’s been an idiot, but this time he adds a little punctuation mark with a kiss, knowing that people have probably said a lot of very unkind things to Ilya in the past. Maybe even before Shane loved him, if his brother is fucking evil enough to do what he’s done.

“She’s right,” Shane whispers to him, soaking in the warmth and surety of the long body pressed against his own. “He’s not coming anywhere near you. Ontario courts are a pain in the ass for Canadians, and they’re even worse for everyone else.” He’s close enough to rub their noses together and breathe in the same air together. “Besides… anyone comes near you, I’m putting us both on a plane to Nunavut.”

“‘fuck is Nunavut?” Ilya asks, keeping his eyes closed.

Shane feels the knot in his chest loosen a little. “It’s like basically in the Arctic Circle. You have to get a special plane into most places. Super remote.”

“So no hiding somewhere tropical?” Ilya asks, the edge of his lip curling up. Shane holds him a little tighter.

“We can buy an island surrounded by sharks. They can eat all the intruders.” Shane can buy Ilya and an island. Fuck, he can buy several islands.

“Wouldn’t be fair to sharks.”

“Hmm.” Death by shark would be too quick for the likes of Alexei Rozanov. Still, it’s a nice mental image. “I mean it though-”

“-sharks?”

“-that you’re safe.”

Ilya shifts a little, and Shane is suddenly hyper-aware of his whole posture, looking for signs he feels caged in or vulnerable. He just repositions himself, then settles again, and finally opens his eyes.

“I know,” he says quietly. Shane’s never been great at eye contact, but he can’t look away. “Is just… head is slow sometimes. Makes me feel… not so great.”

Yeah, no kidding. He’s clearly fucking exhausted, and normally Shane would feel like shit asking - fuck, he does feel like shit asking, but he’d rather feel that way himself than move forward without Ilya’s input.

He’s just… he’s not a good liar, and he’s not fucking devious, but he really, really needs Ilya onboard here. He’s going to do what he’s going to do regardless, but after everything that’s been done to him, Ilya has to be part of it.

Shane takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Will you… will you do something? For me?” Christ, he’s an asshole, he’s such an asshole, he knows Ilya, and he knows there’s no world in which Ilya says anything other than:

“Yes. Anything.”

“Let me take care of you? Let me… let me fight for you.”

“Shane…”

“Please.” He wants to say so much more, to try and put into words the insane fucking need that exists beneath his skin, but he’s not good with them, and Ilya doesn’t need more stimulation on top of what he’s already handling.

And please... is enough. It’s always been enough.

“Okay,” Ilya breathes out.

Out on his roof, swaddled under forty pounds of blanket and safe in Shane’s arms, Ilya goes heavy and still, his eyes closed, lashes a dark smudge against his cheeks. He just focuses on the present drama of keeping Ilya’s breathing regular, feels the slow return of muscle uncoiling, and the compact warmth of Ilya’s long body calming fraction by fraction against his own.

When this is all done, when they get some time, Shane is taking Ilya to the cottage. All that peace, all that open space… they can sit together by the lake, warm under the sun, with no intrusions, no obligations. No closed doors, wide, panoramic views. He thinks… hopes… Ilya would be happy there for a little while. Safe.

Ilya’s breathing is easier, but the whole world is lined up against them. Shane wants to memorize just this moment: the fan of Ilya’s lashes in the half-light, the gentle part of his lips, and the soft brush of warmth as he exhales. The fact that he trusts Shane, after everything he’s been through. That he’s letting Shane fight for them when he knows how sufficient, how proud he used to be.

He wants it fixed inside him, a remembered taste for the coming war.

He could stay here all night, but he thinks of Sasha and Sveta, patching up the rest of the world so Ilya and Shane have room to breathe. He’s never been more grateful. Just below all the desperate gratitude, though, rage burns in his chest. A feral, crystalline want to break the world open and make it pay for what it did to Ilya, to make it bleed for every second he spent locked in a room waiting for rescue that came years after it was needed.

Maybe it would have scared him once, the ways in which they are both so different now, but there’s no going back, so he’ll build on what they have. Ilya’s bravery, unchanged. Shane’s obsession, its focus shifted.

He’s going to fix this. He’s going to fix all of it.

Ilya is mostly dozing when the roof door opens again, maybe an hour later. Shane wishes he could stay that way, safe in a quiet place of rest, but he’s already going to be pushing the limits of that wondrous trust; Ilya needs to be awake for this, even if he’s not up to participating.

Shane wakes him with a kiss, and he smiles, eyes still closed, just for a second until the world creeps back in and he remembers where they are and why.

Until he realizes they’re not alone.

Shane’s parents hover awkwardly opposite them as he swings himself off the couch into a sitting position and helps Ilya lever himself up to do the same. The heavy blanket pools itself between them and the floor

Ilya’s eyes dart warily between them and Shane, not saying anything. He’s letting Shane take the lead, and Shane… Shane allows himself a single look at his parents, pale, rumpled, sleepless, and so very hopeful, before he hardens his heart.

Behind them, Sveta and Sasha hover, looking the most off-balance Shane has really seen them. He starts there.

“I don’t think we did introductions last time,” he says, before Mom can say anything. “Svetlana, Sasha, these are my parents, Yuna and David.”

Sveta, as ever, is the more charming of the pair, but even she only manages a very flat, “Hello.” Sasha doesn't bother speaking.

Dad is the one who looks away from Shane to glance at them. “It’s good to properly meet you,” he says.

Mom takes a half step forward. “Shane-”

Shane doesn’t flinch, but he thinks that is only because Ilya is a solid presence at his side. He takes a breath. “You’re not here as my parents. You’re my manager,” he says to her, trying not to acknowledge the ache when Mom does flinch, “and you’re my accountant.”

Dad’s chin dips just a little. He clears his throat, eyes bright. “What do you need?”

The relief that hits Shane comes out of nowhere. He’s not sure what he’s expected. Pushback, maybe? Protest? Their usual urge to fix at a time when he can’t even start to unpick how he feels for the knowledge that once he starts, he’ll be too fucking wrecked to do the important shit he has to.

Maybe they get that. Get him.

Under the folds of the tangled, heavy blanket, Ilya squeezes his knee.

Shane’s got this.

He turns his attention to Sveta. “If I wanted to transfer to-”

“Yes,” she says immediately, prompting a soft snort of amusement from Ilya. She pulls out her phone and holds it up, ready.

He’d say it’s flattering, but he knows his worth as a hockey player, if nothing else. This all kinda depends on it.

Mom looks between the two of them, her brows furrowing as she catches up. She, too, seems almost relieved to have the buffer of a common language to settle into. “You’re not a free agent.”

“No,” Shane agrees. “It’ll need to be a trade.” He has another year left before he has the option to pick and choose his team. There’s no fucking way he’s allowing a two-hour distance between him and Ilya when there are people actively trying to harm him. Not for a year. He won’t be of any value to everyone if he’s in a constant state of panic over Ilya’s safety.

“Montreal will never agree to a trade, Shane, you know that,” Mom shakes her head.

“They will when you tell them I’m going to file a workplace harassment and discrimination case with the MHLPC.” Ilya goes very still beside him.

From over Mom’s shoulder, he can see Sasha turn away, but not before he catches the start of a growing smirk.

He’ll give mom credit: she doesn’t immediately hit the roof. Just takes the same deep, calming breath she taught him how to do, then carries on like Shane hasn’t just threatened to torpedo fifteen plus years of her hard work. “They’re not going to risk the reputational damage, even if you do have a valid claim-”

“Which we believe you do,” Dad says quickly.

Mom waves her hand dismissively. “Of course you do, no one is doubting that. All I’m saying is this could get really nasty. There’s too much money at stake, and you know you won’t get any support from the league with Crowell in charge.”

Of course he won’t. And realistically, he’s not expecting a huge amount of support from the MHLPC. They’ll have to take him seriously and protect him from a legal standpoint, but Shane will be setting a precedent they’re not going to want to see if he escalates that far. It’ll be unpleasant for everyone, from every angle. It’ll probably end his career entirely in one way or another.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “So make it clear we’re talking mutually assured destruction here. The easiest way forward for everyone is for me to waive my no-transfer and for them to do a clean trade. I'll finish out the contract in Ottawa. If they can’t afford me-”

“We can,” Sveta cuts in.

It’s really not her call at all, so Shane continues. “-then I’ll buy out the deficit.”

“That could be a lot of money, Shane,” Dad says softly.

“We can afford it,” Sveta stresses. “I can get you an offer in fifteen minutes.”

Right. She knows the owners.

Mom is still shaking her head. “As your manager, it’s my job to tell you this isn’t a solid career move.” He gets the impression she’s saying it because she has to. Her focus slides from Shane to Ilya, who still hasn’t said a word.

“Noted.” He’s not going to budge.

“If they don’t go for it-”

“Then I’ll be out on IR while an investigation is conducted,” Shane shrugs. “They can spend a fuck load of money and have Laine as their starting center.” Both mom and Sveta shudder at the idea.

Sasha reaches into his pocket and withdraws his phone, then heads over to the door and vanishes down the stairs. Shane mentally crosses his fingers.

“Okay,” Mom nods slowly. “I’ll… figure it out.” She hesitates, then adds, “It’d be nice, having you closer to home.”

Shane doesn’t, can’t answer that yet.

Ilya shifts beside him. “I can’t - we can’t… we can’t be together,” he says, ever so softly. “If I am your coach.”

“There’s nothing in the MHL rules that says that,” Mom frowns.

“No,” Dad agrees, “but their employment still sits inside a unionized workplace and discipline process, even through the CRA framework. There’s an inherent power imbalance between a player and a coach, so there are pretty stringent guidelines in place. It’s not illegal, but the team would be opening themselves up to some high-risk HR issues if another player put in a complaint.”

“I’ve already thought about that,” Sveta says.

“Of course you have,” Ilya mumbles. When Shane looks at him with curiosity, he shrugs. “She was bear trapping you.”

“Honey trap,” she corrects, smiling. “You were a honey trap.”

“She told me this today,” Ilya adds. “I think maybe next time I should know sooner, no?”

There’s absolutely not going to be a next time. “I… don’t know how I feel about that,” he admits, baffled.

“Flattered,” Ilya says dryly. “Is safest way. I learn that when we are children.”

“So what’s the solution?” Mom asks, clearly keen to focus on solutions to the problems Shane keeps throwing at her instead of the strange relationship between Ilya and his friends.

“Brandon coaches you,” Sveta says. “Ilya has no say in your ice time, usage, or evaluations; it all goes through him. And you disclose your relationship to HR in advance of the signing. Of course,” she pauses, looking slyly at them both, “it would be more straightforward if you were, ah, committed...”

“Okay, so about that-”

For once, the universe has a perfect sense of timing. Sasha returns to the terrace with a bewildered expression and a delivery bag. “I am your errand boy now, Hollander?”

Shane grabs the bag and rips it open, well aware of the looks he’s attracting. He sent two texts from his phone and placed one delivery order, dropping a fifty-dollar tip on a single candy purchase. Mom and Dad look even more shocked. When was the last time he was caught clutching Haribo? His teens, maybe? Before that?

He finds what he wants, then tosses the rest of the bag onto the table.

He slides down onto one knee, his heart rate ramping up from less than forty to something maybe in the high thousands.

“The jewlers are closed,” he explains sheepishly, looking up into Ilya’s stunned face. “Marry me?”

Sasha’s sudden bark of laughter is the least romantic soundtrack to the least romantic proposal in history.

Ilya’s expression is completely blank for the first full three seconds, then morphs into something so comically alarmed it's almost endearing. There’s a weird, stunned silence, and then Ilya says - in a voice that sounds slightly strangled - “What?”

Shane clutches the orange Haribo ring in fingers that are sweaty for the first time he can ever remember.

The others might as well not exist, but he can feel every pair of eyes on him, and his knees hurt, and his chest hurts, and somehow it’s the most alive he’s ever felt in his fucking life. “I mean it,” he says, pitching his voice low but sure. “Marry me.” Ilya looks at the candy, then at Shane, then at the candy… then at Shane again.

His hands are pressed flat on his own thighs, like he’s afraid anything he does might set off a domino effect that demolishes whatever’s left of his sanity. His mouth works, opens, and closes. The first sound he makes is just air, like an engine failing to turn over. “We’re not-” He looks up, mouth tipping open, and makes a low, shocked noise. “Shane, I… is too fast for you, no?”

His heart’s pounding so heavily it’s a single sustained vibration, but he forces himself onward. “If we’re married, no one can touch you. You and me, together, and no one gets to take you away.” The conviction is so total it’s a physical force, something he could probably use as a weapon if it comes to it.

That practicality gets through. It’s visible, a critical turn of Ilya’s head, a hitch that’s equal parts terror and hope, but then he shakes his head. “That is terrible reason to get married.”

“Yeah? Okay, so how about the fact I’ve loved you since I was nineteen and losing you was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me?”

And he knows it’s not the same for Ilya. That an absence of Shane doesn’t come close to the horrors he’s lived through, but he believes Ilya when Ilya says that he’s Shane's, even if he can’t say the words Shane longs for. He believes him. Believes them.

And fuck it, even if he didn’t, even if this was only to protect him, Shane would fucking do it.

Ilya is very quiet, but at some point, Shane realizes the focus of the room has shifted to him. The entire rooftop, it seems, is holding its breath. After a weightless, shuddering pause, Ilya stands up, lets the blanket drop, and crosses the short distance to where Shane’s parents stand together.

Sasha and Sveta go still, like they’re watching a tightrope act and have only just remembered that you’re not supposed to exhale until the performer touches the other side.

Ilya stands, feet planted, careful and upright. For a second, he just looks at Shane’s parents, and then at a point slightly beyond their heads, not like he’s checking exits but like there is simply no version of this where he can look them in the eyes and still deliver what he means to say. He works his hands against each other, then he drops them to his sides.

“I know… this is probably not what you wanted.” His voice is hoarse and veering in and out. “Am not best choice. Am not even a good one.”

Mom’s face twitches, but she doesn’t interrupt.

Ilya presses on, each word a carefully articulated skate blade edge. “In Russia, we have saying. Pro sto-pro sto-” he frowns, frustrated, then blinks and starts again, “About how you judge a man by how he treats your child?” His accent is thicker now; he’s abraded through his supply of English, and maybe it’s a struggle to really focus. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do this the right way. Shane is-” He falters and makes an involuntary motion, as if to gesture toward Shane, but aborts it at the wrist. “He is the best thing I ever had, and I want to try to be good for him, even if I… even if I’m not really… if I am burden.” The words get stuck in his teeth, then come out in a rush. “I will try.”

“You’re not a fucking burden,” Shane snaps, daring either of them to disagree.

“You don’t have to prove anything to us,” Mom tells him. Her voice is so soft it doesn’t even have the decency to echo. “And we really, truly regret the way we met. The role we played in everything.”

Ilya’s head bobs, not quite a nod, just loosening the tension that’s locking his neck at an unnatural angle. There’s still a little haunted edge in the way his mouth is pulled, like he’s bracing for a punch.

She sets her hand on her own chest. “And we’re sorry, too. For… for never giving both of you a safe space to come to us.” She flashes him a narrow smile, almost private, and Shane feels something in his vein go cold and then warm again, because she’s not embarrassed, she’s just afraid of making things worse. “We should’ve…” she says, trailing off.

He can hear Dad clear his throat softly, a sound that anywhere else would be a call to be tough, but here, now, it’s a white flag. “We are just so glad you’re alright,” he manages. Alright is fucking relative, Shane thinks, but he’s here. He’s alive.

“You aren’t a burden, Ilya.” She gestures to Dad, and then to Shane, who can barely breathe. “Shane loves you. You’re family. Or at least, if you want to be.”

Ilya nods slowly even as Shane bites back his tears. He turns around and flashes him a little smile, a shade or two fainter than the one Shane remembers from Boston, but just as lovely.

“Okay, Hollander,” he says. “I will marry you.”

“Seriously?” Okay, not what he meant to say. “Holy shit.” And that isn’t any better. Fucking hell, Hollander, get it together…

“Yes,” Ilya’s smile grows. “Probably. I think so.”

At the exact moment the words leave Ilya’s mouth, Shane’s brain does something he’s pretty sure is illegal in three provinces. It’s so intense and overwhelming, it’s almost a full-body, full-probability event. His heart tries to hammer its way out of his chest. He’s lucky he isn’t standing; he’d absolutely pass out cold if gravity asked anything more of him.

Ilya’s still processing, his smile curves up a little more, all fine trembling at the edges, and for a guy who used to dominate the world on an almost nightly basis, there’s a spark of old, familiar surety in his eyes.

Shane’s not sure what to do with his hands, so he keeps the gummy ring pinched between his thumb and index finger, then, thinking he’s supposed to, stands and reaches for Ilya’s right hand. That’s the Russian way, right? Not that he’s looked, he just… read it somewhere. Years ago.

Ilya’s hand is cold, and his own is clammy, and together they make a strange, steadier hybrid. He slides the candy ring onto his finger, and there’s a little burst of laughter from Ilya, who recognizes the total insanity of what they’re doing and starts to properly grin.

“Wait!” Mom calls, fishing out her phone to snap a picture of their hands. “What?” She asks, all mock surprise. “You’re going to have to launch this relationship eventually. This is cute.” Shane has a vaguely horrified mental image of her bullying Haribo into sponsoring their wedding.

He can’t breathe. Or he can, but it’s all up in the top third of his chest, all pressure and no release.

He blinks, and in that split second, the world organizes itself. It places Ilya at the center, shining, hand held in Shane’s. There’s a dot-to-dot arc of faces behind him: Sveta, eyebrows up and mouth curled, utterly delighted; mom, blinking fast; dad, his smile all in his eyes; Sasha, muttering in Russian, standing off to the side with his jaw set and his arms folded, serious, except for a flash, Shane could swear, of a smile.

It’s only when Ilya shakes his head in what looks like mild despair that everything else catches up.

Ilya’s eyes are flickering with something stormy, something hungry and electric, and Shane knows that smile, he’s always known it, but he’s never seen it pointed at him like this, not in front of people. There’s a crowd, but Ilya’s hands are already on either side of his face, and then he’s being kissed, hard, reckless, right there on the fucking rooftop.

The force of it is enough to make his knees weak, which are, to be fair, not all that steady as it is. He’s been weak for Ilya since he was a kid, and now here they are, and every time he tells himself he’s going to stop being shellshocked by the sheer miracle of a second chance, he’s immediately proven wrong in every possible way. Ilya’s laughing into the kiss, but it’s a little wild, and it vibrates straight through Shane’s jaw, his teeth, his bones.

Someone, maybe his mother, lets out a very faint “oh wow,” but there’s nothing else in the world except Ilya’s mouth and the trembling break when they come up for air. They’re both breathless in the literal sense.

He has maybe one second of blank mental static before Ilya, the bastard, takes his hand and tips it up at the camera, flexes his fingers around the Haribo ring, and laughs, “Look at this, Hollander, we are engaged now. The whole world will know.” Then he kisses him again, softer, and Shane nearly melts. “Wait-”

Ilya grabs the bag of candy and plucks out another ring that he rolls onto Shane’s finger.

Shane’s grin feels stupid now, reckless. “Better.”

“Well, this isn’t how I expected my evening to go,” Sasha says dryly. “Fuck this up, Hollander, and I’ll ruin your credit score.”

Dad immediately bristles, the professional in him horrified by the threat. Shane finds it a little funny, more used to Sasha’s weird sense of humor now, and his usual skittishness softened by an industrial hit of pure fucking joy. Still… it’s a reminder that this, important as it is, can’t be the end of their night.

“I need you to show them what you showed me,” he tells Sasha, while rubbing his thumb back and forth over Ilya’s knuckles. They need to understand. The lack of protest they’ve made about the radical shifts in his life no doubt comes from a place of guilt, but Shane doesn’t want them guilty; he wants them as fucked off as he is. He needs them there with him to do the rest of it.

Ilya seems happy enough to focus on the way their candy rings press against each other to raise any complaints.

Sasha nods carefully. “Downstairs,” he agrees. They shouldn’t do it in front of Ilya.

“We’ll talk more after,” Shane promises his parents. “But for now, start the ball with Montreal. And dad…” he angles himself to better face his father. “We’re going to need cash. Liquidate what you can,” he can tell the instruction is disconcerting for both of them, but they say nothing and just follow Sasha from the roof.

Sveta hovers for a moment, then closes the gap between them to press a light kiss to Shane’s cheek. Then she gently tugs Ilya into a hug. He almost doubles over, wrapping himself around her to hold her back.

When she finally steps out of his embrace, she leaves them with a parting smile.

Shane is alone with Ilya. His fiancé.

Holy fuck.

He wants to say a thousand things. Like how he’s going to learn how to do this properly, and not just freak out or bulldoze through everything, or how he’s going to get better at surprises, or how he’ll buy an actual ring. He wants to promise Ilya, out loud, that he’ll do everything right, but he can’t, not yet. He’s still learning, always a step behind, but determined as hell.

He kisses Ilya’s cheek, then his lips, then the tip of his nose, then says, very low so only Ilya can hear it, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, but I swear I’m going to figure it out.”

“Hmm,” Ilya’s broad palms spread across his back, holding him close. “You are not so terrible.”

“Hardly romantic, though.”

Ilya’s smile takes up all the space between them. “No, you marry me only to save me from evil family,” he deadpans, and then, grinning, “Just like fairytale, yes? You are handsome prince, and I will be tragic damsel with many issues.”

“You’re not a damsel,” Shane snorts. “You’re a fucking knight.”

“Oh, so I am peasant? No noble title for-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane laughs, tugging him back down onto the couch and crawling. “Holy shit, we’re getting married.”

“You did ask,” Ilya points out.

“Yeah, but you said yes!”

“Was I not supposed to? You prefer I change my mind and-”

Shane kisses him until he stops being such a little shit.

Shane’s never had any idea what to do with his hands during emotional emergencies, so he just keeps running his fingers along every part of Ilya he can reach. It’s not soft enough to tickle, just the slow, repetitive drag of skin on cotton and the steady thump of a heart he’s sworn to keep safe.

For a while, it’s quiet, then Ilya sighs and butts their foreheads together. “Is too bad I am not full person right now,” Ilya says, voice a little thick. “I would very much like to fuck my fiancé.”

Shane laughs, a weird snort, a little too close to a sob, which is embarrassing because Ilya will probably tease him for it. “You’ve got your priorities in order, Rozanov.”

“I have best priorities,” Ilya says. “Regret nothing except maybe not doing that before you propose.”

Right. Because they haven’t done more than they did that very first day… less than two weeks ago. And now they’re getting married, which is absolutely the right thing to be doing. And probably the craziest.

Shane presses his mouth to Ilya’s, a soft promise, then swallows. “I, uh-” It’s so embarrassing, but he decides to just get it out: “I’ve always kind of wanted to try… you know… I liked waking up with you. So. First thing. Like, morning sex?” He’s not sure what Ilya is going to be able to manage, but he knows it would be reckless to even try anything like that tonight.

Ilya’s face splits into a wide, delighted grin. “You want to make love to me in sunlight, Hollander?”

“Please never say it like that again,” Shane begs, but his chest hurts in a perfect way. “But, yeah. I mean, we could try it. Or not. i just… This is about as far apart as I ever want to be.”

Ilya looks so happy. He holds Shane more tightly, his arms warm, and says, “That is not so practical. How will you score goals if we are like, ah, baby koalas?”

“You questioning my bona fides, Rozanov?”

“I would never.” There’s a tiny, careful pause. Ilya’s voice drops, hesitant in a way that makes him ache. “You know I am not easy, yes? I am hard work. I am maybe not worth all this trouble.”

Shane laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but it’s the funniest thing anyone on earth could ever say. He squints at Ilya and wonders how to express that he’s spent his whole life being hard work, being hard to know, being impossible, and now all he wants is to be with Ilya. “Don’t talk about my fiancé like that.”

The smile on Ilya’s face collapses from something tentative to tearful. He blinks, and the smallest shiver runs through him, then he buries his face in Shane’s neck. It’s all Shane can do to gather him up, long limbs and all.

He presses his mouth to the side of Ilya’s head and closes his eyes so he only has to feel, not see.

Then, muffled, almost lost in the chorus of their heartbeats… “Ya tebya lyublyu,” soft, as hallowed as a prayer, whispered over and over into his skin.

Shane’s breath catches in his throat. He should say it back in Russian, but all he can manage is, “God, I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a thin whine, so instead he cups Ilya’s face in both hands and rocks them, back and forth. They stay like that for long enough that Ilya’s breathing evens out… long enough for the adrenaline to start bleeding out around the edges.

From behind them, a dry throat clears.

Shane is slow to part from Ilya. He already knows who it is. Even before he looks, his hand finds Ilya’s and holds on, knowing it might be one step too far but committed and ready to catch him if it is.

Cliff Marlow is standing at the edge of the terrace with Sveta, both of them bathed in the gentle yellow light from the lights.

Marlow looks as destroyed as he did that morning in Shane’s apartment. He’s clean and looks mostly sober, in black jeans and a leather jacket, but his face is drawn out, mouth a hard white line, and he radiates loss in a way that makes Shane’s stomach dip.

His gaze snags on the pair of them, the two men spilled across the couch, Shane’s hand tight around Ilya’s, and for a horrible second, Shane expects anger or disgust or disappointment, but his interest in Shane lasts only so long as to run a risk assessment.

Then he sets his gaze on Ilya, and his jaw fucking trembles. “Hey, brother.”

Chapter 20

Chapter Notes

So you might have noticed that there's an extra chapter in the overall count. Originally, this chapter was half of a much longer one. For reasons that will become pretty obvious fairly quickly, I wanted to give it more emotional balance, but the longer I spent with it, the more I felt it kinda had to stand on its own. Also, I don't like odd numbers.

Things are turning a corner, and I promise we have Revenge Kick Shane & Co firmly engaged from 21 onwards, as well as some of my fave scenes with the Centaurs.

We (me, maybe, or certainly Ilya) just need to lance a wound first.

I think if you've made it this far, you know what to expect when it comes to topics of suicide and suicidal ideation (and we all know by now there's more to the story in this case), but this part is probably the heaviest on the subject. There's also mention of domestic violence in relation to Irina. On the plus side, no cliffhanger! And you get something you've been wanting for a while!

Okay, I'll stop rambling. Writing this may have broken me a little (or a lot). Grab some hydration of your choice and something to cuddle. If you need a hug after, come find me on tumblr (boopifer) or threads (boop_writes).

On a happier note, thank you so, so much for the insane outpouring of love, especially in the last chapter! Haribo wedding rings ftw!

Ilya doesn’t think about Cliff Marlow very often. It’s a conscious choice, that enforced distance. That need to not dwell for the knowledge that if he does he’ll be unable to wind himself back. He’ll veer off the safe path of memory and warmth and end in a place he’s not equipped to handle.

When he does think of Cliff, he’s always wearing that smile that crinkles in the corners of his eyes. He’s sprawled out lazily on Ilya’s couch, or draping those long limbs of his into Ilya’s locker space, needling him into another pointless argument about food. He’s hanging off Ilya’s neck singing loudly off-key in a bar, or they’re deep into the late-night hours in the tenth hotel room of the month, comparing pillow firmness and talking about their mom’s: Ilya’s dead, Cliff’s absent.

Cliff Marlow was his first friend in Boston, and the only person he’s never fucked he could tolerate falling asleep around. A giant among men, a good man, and someone Ilya desperately, shamefully, wanted to live up to. He teased Ilya relentlessly and annoyed the fuck out of him twenty-two hours out of every day, and once, very drunk, with a fresh C on his chest and an A on Cliff’s, Ilya allowed himself to imagine a world where he’d grown up with a brother like him instead of the one he had.

It’s a foolish thing to think about. Pointless. Can’t change what is. Can’t change what was. Can’t change much, apparently, except the way Cliff looks standing on his rooftop.

Ilya stands, refuses to let his knees buckle, and squeezes Shane’s - his fucking fiancé’s - hand. Fuck, he’s not even started to get his head around that, let alone this. He’s honestly not sure how much he’s got left in him, but he knows he has to try  

Shane’s sticking close, protective, and wary of his own teammate. Sveta is equally close to Cliff. He’s not sure what to make of that, either.

He stops close enough that he could reach out and touch, if he wanted to. He’s not sure he does.

Cliff doesn’t look sure himself. He looks, fuck-

“You look fucking terrible,” Ilya tells him, because he looks worse than Ilya feels, and Ilya is mostly made of fucking jello at this point.

Cliff grunts, his dark eyes scanning him up and down, critically assessing. “You ain’t exactly so fucking pretty yourself.”

Ilya can’t stop himself from laughing, and a second later, he’s being fucking smothered to death. It’s a crushing hug. All unconscious strength and the weight of a man who seems as unsteady on his feet as Ilya is. A big hand clamps down on the back of his neck, the other around his ribs, and there’s a split second where his heart ping-pongs between terror and relief before he’s being pushed back and braced hard by the top of his arms.

“Motherfucking asshole!” Cliff yells, shaking him a little before hugging him again. “I should fucking kill you!”

“Okay, enough,” Shane barks. “Marlow, back the fuck off.” It’s rare that Shane gets that hard edge to his voice. He usually goes flat and cold, but there’s pure heat and anger in him now, and that’s enough of a surprise that Marlow actually eases up.

“Is okay,” Ilya tries to reassure both of them, patting Cliff awkwardly on the arm and looking sideways at Shane. “Is Boston for ‘hello’.”

Sveta rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Cliff, looking a little bewildered, lets go and takes a step back, allowing Ilya to set his heels down and then immediately lose his next fight with gravity.

Shane gets an arm around him when he sways and puts him back on the couch in a way that’s both incredibly gentle but very fucking clear he expects Ilya to stay put and not be an idiot.

Ilya’s only a little irritated, and then more with his stupid body than he is with Shane.

Sveta swats Cliff over to one of the chairs opposite before perching on the arm while Shane sits next to Ilya.

He looks at Cliff, who seems a little deflated, and Sveta, who is making very careful eye contact with Ilya. He arches an eyebrow, and she glares at him.

Okay then… putting a fucking pin in that one.

“You made good time,” Shane says, sounding a little more like his usual awkward self, hands clasped in his lap. Feeling brave in the face of his nerves, and already knowing it’s not like Cliff can think worse of him, Ilya reaches over and places his hand over Shane’s.

Cliff doesn’t blink. He does, however, look kinda fucked off. “You sent me a fucking address and told me Roz was in trouble. The fuck else was I supposed to do?” Of course he came running. Big fucking idiot has taken doors off hinges in the past, thinking someone needed his help. “Are you in trouble?”

“No,” Ilya says, shaking his head.

“Ilya!” It’s going to be a problem, isn’t it? He’s never going to survive being married if his reaction to his husband’s angry face is the desperate urge to smother him in kisses. Then Shane softens, and it’s even worse. His big eyes fucking gleam in the hanging lights, dark and glossy and so fucking sad.

It’s hard for Ilya to stop looking at him. He’s always beautiful to look at, but the effort he’s putting into keeping still, keeping calm, seems impossible, every muscle in his body under direct supervision. There’s a certain violence in the way Shane holds himself together, like all his self-control isn’t native, but an invasive organism barely tolerated by its host. Ilya wants to tug at those knotted roots and carefully peel them away from the tender flesh they are constricting.

“Shane…” the last thing Ilya wants is to bleed on the people he loves, but he has the distinct impression he’s been hemorrhaging for a long time now and, as usual, he is the last to know. Shane turns his hand over so they can lace their fingers together.

“Someone has been reading all the messages on your phone,” Shane says carefully, looking only at Ilya. “Roger Crowell tried to get you to sign something, and Marlow signed an NDA. And…” his gaze darts away towards Sveta, who inclines her head just a little.

“Sasha found something. After we got your phone back,” she continues for him. Ilya has to pause a second because fuck, he hasn’t even thought about that. There’s so much he’s not been able to process these last few weeks, and now he’s getting married, and Shane is transferring to Ottawa, and everything is changing, and it’s good, yes, obviously, but he knows there’s only so long he can sustain this level of upheaval for.

He’s suddenly got everything he could want - or as close to it as is possible now. He wants to push forward into that future, not lose himself to everything in the past.

But that doesn’t stop Sveta from continuing. “We’re pretty sure someone on the Raiders’ team doctored your medical records in the run-up to…”

“Me trying to kill myself?” Ilya says sardonically. watching for the flinch in all of them and only getting it from Cliff. The barb is aimed at Sveta, but he knows that as soon as he says the words, they will hurt Shane. It does, but the hurt is all in his eyes, and nothing cracks the expression on his face. Somewhere in the last few years, Shane has learned how to hide himself far better than he ever could as a teen. The grief of that steals all the remaining energy from his bones.

He’s hurt Shane enough. Fuck, he’s hurt all of them enough. Let them say what they have to say. Let them do what makes them feel better. He will oblige.

“What do you remember from the weeks before?” Shane asks him, their fingers still entwined. “After I left. After… after we saw each other in Montreal.”

“I-”

That’s a good question. The… event… itself is a blur, and so is everything around it, but it’s not like he can’t remember anything. More like the bits and pieces of his memory exist without context. He can remember games, training, travel, whole conversations… just not where they exist in the vortex of time. That flight to Florida might have been to Minneapolis, the stewardess who dropped coke on his lap and nearly burst into tears might have been in December, or she might have been from a whole year before that.

All he remembers with any clarity is being tired. So fucking tired. He’s tired now, always, but this had been different somehow. The sharp pain of a freshly broken bone, not the ongoing ache of a bad set. “Was just regular season. Travel, holidays… busy. Like usual.”

He finds himself looking at Cliff. If anyone would know differently, it would be him.

Instead of jumping in, Cliff looks to Sveta. “Edited how?”

Right. His medical records. Which he would have because all players do, and which would need updating - editing - because who the fuck wants to admit they missed their star player’s messy suicide attempt? It’s hardly their fault. Ilya’s good at keeping secrets. It’s not like anyone knew or-

“I talked to them,” he says slowly. “Jody and, um… Horny, no, Randy.”

“Team doctors?” Sveta prompts. Ilya nods his head. He typically avoided them like the plague. He was fit, healthy… did his checkups like clockwork, his bloods, ECGs, orthos… he spent more time with the physios and the trainers than anyone else, but he had the same medical obligations as anyone on the team. The thing they talked about most was-

“I wasn’t sleeping?” Always a red flag for players mid-season. He never needed as much sleep as some of the others did, but he had a baseline even he didn’t fuck with for recovery between games. “Wasn’t at my best.”

“You were playing fine,” Cliff says quietly. “You were just a fucking asshole to live with. Never seen your temper so short. Fuck, everything set you off. You made O’Brien cry, and I thought they removed her tear ducts when they put her in charge of logistics.”

He doesn’t remember doing that. It turns him small inside. He likes - liked - O’Brien. She was the only person on the team who could come close to beating him in a staring contest, and they used to fuck with the rookies on the buses.

“They put you on anti-depressants,” Shane adds, pulling Ilya’s attention back. “And sleeping pills. Apparently, they didn’t help.”

Ilya’s been on some combination of medication now for so long it’s hard to remember a time when he didn’t need one pill to keep his brain from exploding, another to clear his head enough to masquerade as a human being, and then another to knock him the fuck out before everything melted together at the end of the day.

Obviously, he’s not always been like that. He’s just struggling to remember when it started. When he took his first dose.

His kitchen, maybe? Or bathroom? No. No, it was his kitchen, in that brief window of winter light when the world remembers it doesn’t exist only in darkness. In his kitchen, the pill in the palm of his hand, wondering if taking it would make him more or less of a failure. Wondering if Mama ever had the same thoughts. He cried right after, or… no. Not after. Later, when six hours of sleep in three days left him wanting to crawl out of his skin, and he’d nearly taken Connor’s arm off after their game because he startled Ilya mid-thought, and he was back in a very different kitchen trying to scrub mama’s blood off the floor before she came back from the bathroom and got upset at herself for making a mess.

“-ya? Ilya?”

He manages not to have the same reaction to Shane when gently pulled back into reality. Everyone is staring at him. He doesn’t meet their eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Say again?”

There’s a little furrow between Shane’s brows now, but his voice is even and calm. “Do you remember being given anything to take?”

He nods. “For sleep,” he remembers, “and for-” he flaps his free hand as if to try to encapsulate every other deficit aspect of himself.

Cliff says nothing, his own frown etching deeper as Sveta continues.

“They didn’t help.”

He’s not sure he’s ever really tried to look back and remember sleeping before, but when he does now, he gets only the memory of an itch under his skin, a frustration so unassailable it had driven him half mad. “No. It was, um… when you’re so tired you’re not tired.” That’s probably not the best way to explain it, but it’s all he’s got.

“And they never pulled you from play?” Shane asks. Ilya isn’t sure. They might have.

But Cliff shakes his head. “No. You were a fucking demon on the ice. Kinda… high strung off it, maybe. You’d stare into space a lot, then chew our fucking heads off when we talked to you.”

“Sorry,” Ilya mutters. He’s not a huge amount of fun to be around now, given everything, but it’s nice to have the excuse of Reasons, and not just the simple truth that he’s an asshole to blame.

“Nah, bro, it wasn’t…” Cliff looks down at his knees, his shoulders hunched. “We shoulda done something. We didn’t even know about the pills and stuff back then. Just… figured you were going through like-” his gaze darts to Shane for a second, “-a real shitty breakup.”

Shane’s brittle besides him, and Ilya knows what he’s thinking, what he keeps circling closer and closer to. He’s fucking been there himself. Of course he knows. Shane, Sveta, Sasha… Cliff. What if they’d done something different? Said something different? Been somewhere else at another time. Been someone else.

He squeezes Shane’s hand as hard as he can and rejoices in the ache when Shane squeezes back. “It wasn’t… not that.” Or not just that. Even not remembering, even not knowing, he is certain.

He thinks that even now, if he were put in exactly that same spot with all those old feelings, it wouldn’t be Shane driving him to the edge of the cliff, but the inescapable knowledge that there’s just something so fundamentally wrong with him that renders him unlovable. Maybe even unknowable.

Irreparable.

That’s not on Shane. It’s not on anyone.

Fuck, it might not even be on Ilya. Sometimes things are flawed, either by design or a mistake on the part of nature, and no matter how much you try to buff away the imperfections, they’re still going to be there, buried deep.

“You found him,” Shane has to clear his voice between the words, but he gets them out, brave where Ilya is not.

“I can’t-”

Shane looks at Ilya, something pleading in his gaze. Ilya doesn’t know how to tell him that there’s nothing Ilya will ever refuse him. He draws Shane’s hand up to his lips and kisses his knuckles instead, then folds their hands into his lap and tries not to sink right through the couch.

Instead of Shane, it’s Sveta who follows up. “You never asked where he ended up? You never tried to find him?”

“I wanted-” Cliff protests, raising his chin defensively.

Sveta pushes herself off the arm and takes a pace. She’s tense in a way Ilya’s not seen in a while. Tense, and scared. He wants to go to her, to hold her, but he’s not entirely sure his knees still belong to him.

“But you didn’t!”

“Of course I fucking didn’t!” Cliff snaps. He’s purposely not standing. He’s a big fucking guy, and it took even Ilya a while not to tense up when he got fucked off. “You think I was gonna risk doing more damage?”

That draws all of them up short. “What… what damage?”

There’s a weird, almost surreal moment where their eyes lock, and Ilya swears he’s looking back at his own reflection in the mirror when Cliff swallows, and his bruised eyes fill with self-hatred. “I broke your fucking ribs,” he says, the words hitting from almost out of nowhere. “I knew you were fucking spiraling. I knew you were miserable. And we all made shit jokes about how much of a fucking nightmare you were being, and I broke your ribs and-” he lifts his hands from his lap and stares at them in horror.

“What are you talking about?” He’s pretty sure he’d remember something like that.

Ilya’s hand is starting to tingle in Shane’s grip.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Cliff whispers, speaking more to the universe than any of them. “And I… I swung by your place to check in on you, and…”

Ilya’s heard this story before. He’s lived this story before.

He’s walked through the bones of a house far quieter than it’s supposed to be, felt that squirming sensation under his skin that’s told him just enough to know something isn’t right, but not enough to stop. He’s followed that invisible thread that fastens to your ribs and draws you onwards, calling out for the person who is supposed to fill a space with life by presence alone.

“You were on the bed…”

So is she. It’s the middle of the day, but she’s so tired. Father will be back from work shortly. He’ll wake her up so he never knows, and he can help her cook, and-

“I thought… fuck, I thought you were sleeping…”

Her eyes are closed, and she’s so still. The windows are open, though, and she’s probably cold. He wants to let her rest a little longer-

“You’d taken like… a bunch of sleeping pills. Washed -em down with vodka…”

The little ceramic pill box Baba gave her is on the bedside table, open and empty. Ilya’s not allowed to touch it, even when he hurts himself on the ice. They’re her pills, ones to help her sleep. She’s usually so careful with them, cutting one up in half and popping it under her tongue when she thinks no one is looking. Maybe she’s even more tired than usual-

“-t breaking, so I called 911 and did… did CPR, only like…” he lifts his hands again. Big hands. Strong hands. Probably wouldn’t take much force to break bone. Alexei broke his wrist when he was eleven, ease as pie. Just a little too much force and snap.

He wants to rub his chest, push down an ache he’s not recognized until that very second, but Cliff is already on the verge of tears, and Ilya is still somewhere else, past and present intertwined. He wonders what he looked like, lying there, not breathing. If he looked peaceful, like her, and if-

She doesn’t wake when he calls her name. Doesn’t stir when he shakes her shoulder. She is so still, and so cold, just like he fears, and Father will be home any minute. He climbs up on the bed and lifts her arm around him, so much heavier than he remembers, and calls to her again and again, his heart pounding. Even the cross she wears is cool against his skin. If Father comes back and she’s still in bed, Ilya will tell him that it’s his fault. That she’s doing what she used to do when he was little and wanted to be held. She’s not going to wake up, he knows that, really, but just in case, just if-

He knows CPR now. He didn’t then. He wonders if it would have saved her.

Everyone but Ilya is crying now.

He doesn’t know what to do. How to fix anything.

He’s younger than mama was when she died, but not by much. She’ll always be perfect in his memory, because perfect is all he has and all he wants, but he wonders, abstractly, shamefully, if it’s less about want and more about need. She has to be perfect, because if she is any less, she’s flawed, and if she’s flawed, she’ll like Ilya, and she’s broken the people she loves the most.

She would be so disappointed in him.

In that second, he’s so cripplingly, achingly exhausted.

He’s sat on his bed in Boston, and he’s so fucking tired he can’t stop crying. He’s going crazy, and he just wants to fucking sleep, and one pill isn’t enough, but maybe two will be. Or three. Four to be safe. Five? No. He’s only had two. So three will be okay. Does it matter what he washes them down with when vodka’s the same as water?

He’s not trying to fucking kill himself. He just needs to sleep for one fucking night so he can think without the walls closing in on him.

And if he never wakes up, that’s not the same thing.

He blinks, and he’s in someone’s arms. Not Shane’s. Cliff’s. And his ribs ache, and his heart hurts, and he’s still so fucking tired.

Someone is sobbing his name, and he’s trying to soothe them, his arms as heavy and cold as he remembers Mama’s being, and he hopes he does a better job of forgiveness when he hears himself whisper, “It’s not your fault.”

Then he’s back in Shane’s embrace, and he’s fucking freezing. He’s one foot, then the next, down the stairs with Shane in front of him and Sveta behind. There are voices all around him, but for the life of him, he can’t pluck a single one out of the din to focus on until he finds himself staring into Shane’s eyes. “You got this,” he says with a soft smile.

Ilya nods, not sure what he has.

“I’m sorry, this was too much all at once. Not your fault, I just need you to lie down, okay?”

That’s Ilya’s line, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter he supposes. Not when Shane’s stroking his hands through Ilya’s hair, one arm around him, weight-bearing, as he set on the edge of a bed. His bed? Boston? He can hear the rumble of Cliff’s voice, so yes, but Shane is the one talking to him, so… no?

Shane is trying to get him to drink something from a plastic bottle with a wide straw. It smells like strawberry, or the approximation of strawberry that comes from a lab and is more cotton candy pink than anything resembling an actual fruit. The taste of it makes his stomach turn, but the concern in Shane’s eyes makes something else in his gut clench.

“Hey,” Shane says, so soft Ilya can barely hear it over the rush of noise in his own head. “You with me?” He squeezes the back of Ilya’s neck, a little pulse of pressure, steady and anchoring.

Ilya nods, which is maybe the biggest lie he’s ever told, but he has to let the world keep spinning. There are too many people in it who depend on him to keep still for long enough to catch their own breath. He can’t see any of them other than Shane, but he can feel them, just outside his vision, holding up the edges of the web that’s always threatening to collapse and turn the whole world into a sticky, irretrievable mess.

“You gotta get something in you,” Shane says, barely moving his mouth. “No meds on an empty stomach.” He has a grim determination in his voice that Ilya recognizes, but he feels a little like a scolded child being sent to bed.

Ilya takes the straw between his lips. He hates it. He hates everything about all of this, but if it gets Shane to stop looking at him like he’s a fault in an enemy's defense in need of exploiting, it’s worth it. He sucks down two mouthfuls before his stomach revolts and he pulls away, mortified at the idea of puking on top of everything else.

Had he thrown up when Cliff found him? He can’t remember exactly what was said. He presses a hand to his ribs and wonders if there are ridges in bone that have calcified wrong. Maybe that’s why it’s so much of an ache to breathe sometimes?

How many ribs has he broken in his life? Enough to know that’s not how it works…

A hand smooths over his hair. “Easy,” Shane murmurs. “Easy. Okay. Just a little at a time.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. The word barely comes out. He’s still cold. He’s not sure if it’s the air or his blood.

“Can I give you your meds?” Still quiet. Still careful.

He nods. Like he’s ever going to be able to say no to anything any of them ever ask him again.

“Okay, stay here a sec-” Shane kisses him and leaves him propped up against the pillows.

He stares at the open door for a long time, not sure what the next input will be, but prepared to follow whatever the world wants of him, no matter the cost. After a minute, Cliff steps in, shoulder hunched up around his ears.

He always makes the rooms he’s in look small. The air gets pressed out of all the space and replaced with something denser. He keeps his hands loose at his sides, the opposite of fists, but even the absence of a fist is, in Cliff, a kind of threat. Not to Ilya. Maybe to the universe.

He stands at the end of the bed for a few seconds, looking at Ilya with all the hope and sorrow of an abandoned dog. Ilya can’t force himself to meet his gaze for more than a second, so he stares at the band of light on the floor, radiating from the hallway.

“That was… a lot. Sorry,” Cliff says. His voice sounds different from what Ilya remembers. Less of the gruff, carefree edge, more measured, each syllable sounded as not to shatter glass.

Ilya shrugs, mouth brittle. Sorry for what? Sorry for finding him, for saving his fucking life? For breathing for him when his own lungs forgot how? Sorry for the ribs?

He shakes his head. The amplitude of the movement is off, but it gets the message across. Cliff sits at the end of the bed, bracing his elbows against his knees, his head lowered in his hands.

“I did wanna see you,” Cliff says softly. “Know it maybe doesn’t look that way. They told me you were some place that was gonna take care of you.” He drags a palm over his stubble, then looks directly at Ilya, pinning him to the wall with the raw effort of it. “Shoulda asked. Shoulda… shoulda done a lot of things. Fuck. I wanted to see you then. Now.”

He says it like being seen isn’t the worst thing in the world sometimes, but Ilya, who has spent a lifetime being watched - on the ice, in the locker room, on TV, by coaches, by doctors, by fucking Alexei - feels only the itch to disappear. He wants to be a dog, or a fox, something that can dig its own burrow and never be found by the human world again.

“I missed you,” Cliff says. Ilya will never fucking forgive him if he makes him cry. Only he’ll have to, won’t he? he owes Cliff his life. He broke something in him that doesn’t ever get fixed. Ilya isn’t family to Cliff, but he doesn’t think it really matters who someone is to you when you find them like that. When their breath becomes yours and yours theirs. When you haunt them. “I missed you every fucking day, brother.”

Ilya closes his eyes. It’s painfully earnest. It’s not what they do. He’s supposed to make a joke, pretend he doesn’t know who Cliff is, or say he hasn’t thought about him once. “I missed you, too.”

There’s a thump, then Marlow’s heavy, rough hand at his ankle, just pressing. He opens his eyes and sees Cliff grinning in a miserable, wet, lopsided way. “Here,” he says, raising his hands to the back of his neck. “Shoulda, I don’t know, mailed it to you before. They gave it to me at the hospital, and I… guess I was being fucking selfish, wanting to keep you close.”

A gold chain flashes in the low light as Cliff unfastens it from around his neck and holds it out to Ilya.

“This was my mother’s. I was not much older than you when she gave it to me, and said I should wear it and always remember three things: first, that you are loved so very much. Second, that you will never be abandoned. And third, that no matter what happens, you must keep your heart turned toward what is good. Sometimes bad things happen, my love, and the world can be scary, but you are brave.”

Mama’s cross is warm when it lands in his palm, kept that way by the blood under Cliff’s skin. Another thing he’s saved.

He once thought losing her was the worst thing that would ever happen to him, and maybe it still is, and maybe that’s why none of the rest of it touches him the way it should sometimes.

She would be so disappointed in him.

Or maybe… maybe she’d understand. She was tired, too.

Maybe she just wanted to sleep. Maybe if she didn’t wake up, it wasn’t the same as choosing to leave.

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. For both of them.

Maybe it doesn’t matter now. He’s here, and so is she, in some way.

He is loved, somehow, and against all understanding. Shane wants to fucking marry him.

He’s not been abandoned. Sasha and Sveta came for him. Cliff wore his cross over his heart. Shane blew up his whole life trying to reach him. All of them are here, trying to find a way to fit him into their lives, to care for him when he has nothing to offer them in return.

And there is still good in his life. He’s found it. He's working towards it every day. It’s not the future he once hoped for, but it’s his, and he’s willing to fight for it.

It’s all fucking terrifying, all so precariously fragile, but he has people to be brave for.

Cliff tugs him forward with a hand around his shoulder.

Ilya leans in, closes his fist around the chain, and bursts into tears.

Chapter 21

Chapter Notes

Okay this is a LONG one. Sorry for the delay in posting; work made me actually work, which is super rude of them.

Warnings for mentions of drugs (not the medical kind, past), gun violence (past), and the many less-than-legal ways Sveta and Sasha went about trying to find Ilya, including sex and bribery.

There are a LOT (but not all) the missing pieces getting laid out in this one.

When Ilya sleeps, he doesn’t look like a man who has been through the things that he has. He looks peaceful. Settled. Shane knows now he is neither of these things.

He’s done this before, done it tonight, even, but there’s something different, watching the slow rise and fall of Ilya’s chest with Marlow’s words echoing in the back of his mind.

Ilya died. Marlow needed to do CPR, and he knows the statistics. Ilya is here by such a thin margin of luck it’s almost too fine to measure. He’s here because Marlow was in the right place and the right time, and he didn’t give up.

It’s not the first time Shane’s had to reckon with the knowledge of how close he’s come to losing Ilya forever, but it is, perhaps, so much better and worse now he has a full visual to play over and over on repeat.

Only the knowledge of how badly Ilya needs to rest and how dangerously close they are edging to something far more critical than exhaustion stops Shane from reaching out and shaking Ilya awake. He wants to see the life in his eyes. He wants to hear the rough rumble of his voice.

Ilya is so still like this, so quiet. He could just stop breathing at any second. He won’t. Shane knows, logically, that he won’t.

Doesn’t really help much.

The night is still and decently warm for the time of year, moonlight dusting the frayed edges of the dark blanket tucked over the bed, peeking in from beneath blinds not fully closed.

Ilya’s breath is soft and regular, the color in his face is healthy, yet Shane can’t stop seeing him the way Marlow described: his body pale, his mouth slack, his bones so breakable that love's sheer desperation shattered them to pieces.

He places the back of his hand against Ilya’s forehead. It’s pointless. All the damage inside Ilya is the sort that runs deeper than a fever, but he leaves his hand there anyway in case the weight helps keep him anchored. For all that he longs for Ilya to wake, a larger part of Shane wants to stay like this and keep the night safe and unbroken. Keep Ilya from waking into the reality of everything waiting for him. For them.

He lingers a little longer, unwilling to leave, wanting to crawl into bed beside him and hold him until morning. He wants that forever.

There are just a few things he needs to get done first.

Ilya’s hair is long enough to tuck behind his ears. It falls across his brow in loose, slightly chaotic curls Shane can brush back with his fingertips. When he does, Ilya unconsciously turns to his touch.

Shane kisses him on the brow, then he stands, only closes the bedroom door enough that he can still see the bed through the gap, and heads out to the living room.

They’re all there: Sasha at the table, a bottle of something expensive in front of him, glass already empty; Sveta curled up on the end of the couch, feet tucked neatly beside her, a sheaf of paperwork open in her lap; his mom, perched on a dining chair, hands wrapped around a mug, eyes rimmed red but perfectly composed; his dad, standing by the window, arms crossed, staring out into the night.

And Marlow, sitting hunched on the opposite end of the couch, elbows on knees, his hands clasped together around the back of his neck. When he looks up, his eyes are red and swollen.

It’s taken nearly thirty minutes to get Ilya settled after breaking down in Marlow’s arms. It’s also maybe the first time he’s actually seen Ilya as upset as he has every fucking right to be.

Shane joins Sasha and accepts a glass of the gross, expensive vodka. At this point, he really needs a coffee. He needs to eat, period, but if he tries, he’s going to throw up, and his headache is preferable to nausea.

“He okay?” Marlow asks, his voice rough.

That’s a fucking open-ended question, isn’t it? Shane just nods. Ilya is, in this second, as okay as he can possibly be.

The vodka goes down harsher than he expects, even after trying it earlier. He can feel the burn crawl down his throat and bloom outward, speeding up his pulse and sharpening all the edges around him. There’s no buzz. No mellow. Just the acidic snap of clarity, as every single person in the room avoids eye contact with the others.

“We’re laying it all out,” Shane clears his throat. “Full timeline. No more secrets, no more need to know bullshit.” He takes a deep breath and does what he’s always tried to do, both as a player and a Captain: he leads by example. “Ilya and I started hooking up the summer before our Rookie Year-” he’s watching mom when he speaks: her eyebrows climb sharply in surprise. “We’d get together on and off for the next six years.” He doesn’t mention the months Ilya ghosted him after Sochi, or the years Shane spent equally confused and thriving under Ilya’s shameless pursuit.

“I… called things off. Start of the 2016/2017 season. It was… getting serious. For both of us. I didn’t…” He rubs the back of his neck and refuses to let himself cry. Ilya’s told him more than once that none of this happened because of Shane, but even if he believes that, he knows he would never have let Ilya spiral as badly as he did. At least that’s what he tells himself. “I didn’t really know how to handle it.”

Over on the couch, Marlow coughs awkwardly. “Sorry about the, er… poison thing.”

“You can call me whatever the fuck you want for the rest of time,” Shane says dryly. If Marlow’s fucked his liver up with all his drinking, he can have Shane’s. “Anyway,” he takes another sip of vodka and grimaces hard enough that it makes Sasha snort. “I had a whole plan to try to win him back at the All-Star Game, but…”

Obviously that never happened. He waves a hand in Marlow’s direction. Tag, he’s it.

Still waxy and pale, Marlow looks like he wants to puke. “I…” his gaze darts to the bedroom, and his chest hitches with the stirrings of panic.

“After,” Shane says quickly, not needing to hear Marlow repeat the story of finding Ilya, nor wanting to subject him to something clearly fucking traumatic. “You went with him to the hospital?”

Marlow doesn’t look much better, but he does nod. “Yeah. I called Coach. I didn’t… I didn’t say anything to the boys. Didn’t want to scare them. Didn’t…” he trails off, then says, “the rookies fucking idolized him.” Of course they did. Hell, many of them still do, despite his retirement. “I, er… I was gonna call you. Or Jane, at least, but…”

Shane frowns, remembering the barely coherent string of words Marlow had thrown drunkenly at him that Sunday morning. “You said you thought I was another player?”

Sveta stirs on the couch, curious.

“Yeah,” Marlow nods. “You gotta… he’d get this look on his face when he was texting Jane. You. Sappiest motherfucker. We all figured he’d done something stupid and fucked things up when he started getting bad. I tried to talk to him about it. You know, help him come up with a plan to win you back or at least get the fuck over you, but-”

“Nobody knew about you both?” Mom asks, sounding sad in a way Shane can’t help but find funny.

“I knew,” Sveta says from the couch. When everyone looks at her, she flaps her hands a little. “What? He wasn’t subtle about it.”

“Wasn’t he?” Shane feels a little faint. He’s spent years wondering if he was alone in his hopeless infatuation, and here’s both Sveta and Marlow making it clear Ilya was right there with him for years.

“Oh yes. He’d watch all your games, all your documentaries… then come up with the most pathetic excuses. It was very sweet.”

Like Shane never did the same. Like he doesn’t still get giddy with excitement when he finds something he’s not seen before.

It’s a little embarrassing how much he wants to hear what Marlow is going to say next, how it feels like he’s starved for this particular thread of history, even though it’s his own.

He wants to bask in the private, heartsick joy of having been loved so obviously, but he can’t, not when Marlow’s voice grinds onwards. “He was pretty on-brand about it, you know? Wouldn’t say a single fucking thing about you. Bit our heads off when we asked.” He rakes a hand over his cropped hair, eyes clenched shut. “Except… so I go to see him, right? Before. Try get him out of his funk. I’ve seen him properly drunk maybe three or four times? Man can hold his spirits. Only not so much. First time he talked to me about you.” Marlow winces, aiming the words at his knees. “He slipped up. ‘She’ became a ‘he.’”

The silence billows, heavy and weirdly formative. Shane’s not sure whether he wants to cry, or laugh, or maybe punch a wall, but he just sits there, clinging tight to the dregs of his vodka, the tips of his fingers white and aching, numb with the story of how close he and Ilya came to missing each other forever.

Marlow coughs. “Figured, okay, maybe a translation issue, y’know? Only…” he shrugs his shoulders again. “I thought about it. And you know he fucked a lot of pussy-” he freezes and goes beet red “-er, I mean he, um, entertained many-”

“Move along, debil,” Sasha huffs.

Marlow looks vaguely faint, his gaze darting mostly between Shane and his parents. “Right. So I figured, you know, not gay, but er… if he was hooking up with another player, it might explain some shit, right? I mean, if you were just some chick… why all the cloak and dagger shit?”

“Right,” Shane says dully.

Mom pipes up with, “And you never suspected it was Shane?”

Marlow shakes his head rapidly. “No! Dude! Half the reason everyone said they’d swap bases for Hollander is cos we all thought he was like, Super Straight.”

Shane stares at him. People said what now?

They thought what now?

Marlow laughs weakly at his expression. “Yeah, you triggered a few internal spirals when you came out. Pretty sure you could still swing a good few of them if you wanted to, though. You’re Shane fucking Hollander. Not me, though. Bros before ho… other bros?” Stupid bastard looks like he’s in need of a full reboot.

Shane raises his glass, finds it empty, and looks pleadingly at Sasha.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” Sasha says with a mocking smirk, filling his glass obligingly when Shane scowls.

“Okay, back on track-” Shane grimaces through another sip. “You didn’t call.”

“No,” Marlow says, his shoulders slumping miserably again. “I was kinda freaking out. They wouldn’t let me see him, but they gave me his personal shit. You know, phone, the necklace. Shit he had on him. Coach was there; called his agent, his family. We wanted to keep things quiet, you know?” Marlow doesn’t seem sure if he’s trying to convince them or himself. “He was gonna be fine. Fucked off at all the attention.” He drags a hand over the back of his neck. “Then the fucking commissioner turned up with legal, and you know how fast they’ll lock shit down.”

“I still can’t believe nothing ever leaked,” Dad says from the window. “When Shane broke his collarbone-” he looks quickly at Marlow, “-we were battling off reporters left and right.”

They’d been on the cusp of the playoffs at that point. Montreal’s chances were almost entirely balanced on Shane’s shoulders. There hadn’t been that level of urgency when Ilya had his accident, but still.

“I mean the doctors have that hippo shit,” Marlow sighs. “Rest of us… We just wanted to keep the heat off of him, right? Woulda been a shit-show if it came out that Ilya Rozanov tried to kill himself, and…” he looks back at Shane. “I told them. Coach and Crowell. About Jane. And what I thought. I wasn’t trying to out him or anything,” he rushes to add. “I was just freaking out that some bitter ex would come out of the woodwork and try to make a quick buck.”

Shane is also pretty sure Marlow was in a serious state of shock. He would have been in his place.

“He wouldn’t blame you for that,” Shane tells him, moved to sympathy by the sudden gleam in Marlow’s red eyes. “You gave Crowell his phone?”

Marlow nods, not looking at any of them now. “He said he’d take care of it. Look after him.” His face screws up in abject misery, and he drops his head into his hands, hunched over. “I fucked up.” That explains who had Ilya's phone all this time. Not necessarily why it was sent to his parents. Crowell might have put two and two together by that point, but what exactly did he hope to achieve by bringing them into it? Shane plans on asking him and doesn't plan on being poilte about it.

Sveta, who up to that point has been curled up in her corner, untangles herself from the cushions and her files and crawls over so she can perch on the back, tall enough there to wrap both her arms around Marlow's shoulders. Shane’s never really thought of her as much of a hugger before, but Marlow leans gratefully into her knee and swallows. “They had all of us sign shit. Didn’t want anyone talking to the press. I wasn’t… I just wanted to see him. I didn’t even fucking read it.”

“Because you were stupid,” Sasha scoffs. “And you were scared.” Shane is about to protest on Marlow’s behalf when he then shakes his head. “I have been there.”

“Okay.” Shane is fucking exhausted. He wants to crawl back into bed, wrap himself around Ilya, and stay there until the world ends. “So… timeline. He goes to the team in January. LeClair would know about that. We know Boston doctored his file after he was transferred to Russia.”

“What?” Marlow raises his chin, still in Sveta’s arms.

“They gave him antidepressants and sleeping pills,” Shane says.

“Yeah, I have a question about that.” They’re all surprised when Shane’s dad speaks up. “Had he ever been on antidepressants before then?”

“No,” Sveta says. “Why?”

Dad turns his back to the window, his brow furrowed. “I’m not an expert, but… I know a few friends who take them. Never knew anyone who started out on Venlafaxine. And you sure as hell don’t give Zopiclone to someone you know is drinking. I know you think-”

Sasha clears his throat.

“-know that file’s been edited, but I can’t understand what they were thinking. Or what they're trying to hide.”

“We know Venlafaxine can fuck with sleep,” Sveta admits. “It’s why he takes the other drugs at night.”

Dad tries to look non-confrontational. “I’m not saying you haven’t done miracles for Ilya,” he says to Sasha and Sveta, “but I really think you need to get another opinion on his medication. Some people just don’t tolerate certain drugs. From what I've read I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if they didn't play a significant role in what happened back then.”

Shane’s ready for the backlash of bristled offense, but to his surprise, Sasha just slumps a little against the table. “Yes. It is… not easy. He is terrified of doctors.” Yeah, not shit. “We can push him for some things if he thinks it will help him function, but tests, visits…” he looks away.

“He broke Sasha’s nose,” Sveta says, very quietly.

“He didn’t mean to,” Sasha snaps. ”We would be frightened if we were him. He was very upset after.”

Shane can only imagine. “Leave that with me, yeah?” He thinks he’s got a few options open that Sasha doesn’t. He’s also got better reflexes. And he knows he’s stronger than Ilya right now. Sasha inclines his head and goes back to his drink.

“I’m sorry,” Mom cuts in. “I have to ask. Where the hell was that boy’s agent?” That’s a good fucking question. “Let’s call a spade a spade here for a second and assume Boston was in some way responsible for what happened. Neglect or malpractice, call it what you like. Even if we assume that homophobic prick Crowell was on board with helping cover it up-”

“Crowell’s homophobic?” Marlow asks Shane. He looks a little murderous. Shane tries to remember how many fucking concussions he’s had over his career. One too many, maybe. He waves the question away and gestures to Mom to continue.

“-Now I believe what you told us about his brother,” she says to Sasha. “But in what world does his agent just let that happen? There were millions on the line. No one would ever sign off on cutting the cord in that short a space of time.”

Sasha starts to laugh. It’s an ugly sound.

“She was there,” Marlow frowns. “Showed up a day or so after. I don’t remember how long. Hadn’t really fucking slept. Russian woman.”

Makes sense that Ilya would still have his Russian agent, and that it would take her a day or two to show up. Ilya is loyal, and flights to Russia are long.

“Ah, yes,” Sveta’s expression is hateful. “Katya. She was always so invested in Ilyusha’s career. Very good at knowing how much he got paid and when, so she could tell her husband and he could phone demanding money.”

Shane’s obviously missing something, because that sounds a lot like-

“His agent was his brother’s wife?” Mom demands. Yeah, that’s what he heard as well.

“Hockey is a very incestuous world back home,” Sasha says darkly. “She had a good deal. A cut of all his money direct, and a cut of everything Alexei squeezed out of him.”

“Well fuck that,” Mom says, outraged. “He was in America! Agents would have been falling over themselves to represent him! Why wouldn’t he-”

“Family is everything in Russia,” Sveta cuts her off. “There is an expectation that if you leave and earn money, especially the kind of money he was earning, that you send support back home. Even if there wasn’t, he is very loyal. Alexei did not deserve it, but Ilya loved him.”

Shane isn’t sure there’s a way to make the betrayal any worse, but somehow it’s there in those words. Ilya loved him. He loved him, and even before all this happened, he was being exploited by someone who is supposed to protect them from things like this. Someone who is family... the sheer level of hatred that hits Shane leaves him breathless. No wonder they jumped at the chance to have him totally under their control. Jesus fuck.

Sveta startles as Marlow pushes himself off the couch.

“Where are you going?” Shane demands tiredly. “We’re not done.”

“Russia,” Marlow says, as though it should be obvious. “I’m gonna fucking kill them.” It’s all very matter-of-fact and reasonable. Shane’s almost tempted to let him.

“Sit down,” he sighs.

“No,” Sasha waves him on with an imperious flick of his wrist. “No, I say let him.”

“You’re welcome to fucking come with me,” Marlow says, part genuine invite, part scorn for not having committed a small act of murder already.

Sasha contemplates the dwindling supply of vodka in front of him. “Can’t. Love to, but can’t. Will get very much arrested.”

Shane looks at Sveta, whose chin is held high and proud. Surprised, Marlow sits back down. “You know,” Shane says slowly, “You never actually told us how you got him out.”

“No,” Sasha agrees. “We have not.” Shane’s Russian isn’t the worst, but he can’t make out the quiet words Sveta says next. “Tell them what you like. I don’t care.”

Dad takes a seat at the table, waiting next to Mom. They’re all watching Sveta.

She chews at the corner of one painted nail, the most uncomfortable Shane has seen her look. “I was in Europe when it happened. I called him. Left messages. I saw the news that he’d been put on IR, obviously, but I was working and…” she takes a slow inhale. “I was worried, but he can go a month sometimes without texting, especially during the season. I had vacation coming up, so I waited… planned to fly to Boston when I’d finished up the event. I missed him by a day.”

The narrow window of luck that saved Ilya’s life has been equally as cruel in its timing. She missed him by a day. Shane by a week.

“They’d all closed ranks by then. Anyone who could tell me what happened wouldn’t.” Marlow bows his head in disgrace until she reaches out and squeezes his knee.

“They said he was being looked after,” he says brokenly. “I just wanted everyone to leave him alone. I did push,” he swears. “Coach was pissed, but he said if some of it got out, all of it would. I couldn’t-” Yeah, why doesn't that surprise him? Everyone was just looking out for themselves.

“Not your fault,” she tells him. “I knew Alexei wouldn’t tell me shit, but I was able to get the name of the Institute. My father still had friends in Boston, and I didn’t take no for an answer.”

Shane has seen how fierce she is in Ilya’s defense. He can imagine her being more so with him fucking missing.

“But all I got on his condition was brain injury, and that could have happened on the ice, in training… I didn’t think… not at first." She looks away. “I didn’t want to.” Marlow closes his big hand over hers. “I went back to Moscow and, surprise, I was not on the approved visitor list. I did try everything,” she looks up at Shane, as if somehow he has any right to judge either success or failure. “I fucked the doctors, I bribed them-” Jesus fucking christ, does Ilya know that? Shane hopes to god he doesn’t. “No one would tell me anything, so I tried breaking in. Turns out I am not a very good burglar.” There’s a hint of dark amusement in her voice that Shane can’t get his head around.

“Papa got me out of trouble. He was very angry, obviously. Told me to leave it alone, but…” her eyes fill with tears. “It really wasn’t an awful place, not like it could have been, but… but it was not the place for my Ilyusha.” Angrily, she rubs her eyes and sucks in a sharp breath. “That is when I went to Sasha.”

“I was in Paris,” Sasha says, surprisingly soft as he takes over her story. “I didn’t know what had happened. I made it my business not to pay attention to hockey. Or him.” His jaw clenches before he continues. “Sveta came to me. It took her a while to get me on board.”

“You didn’t want to help?” Marlow demands.

Sasha flashes him a smile that’s all teeth. “No, I was fucked off my head on coke and meow. I had very limited uses.”

“Coke and what now?” Shane blinks.

“Rose Landry has done you no favors,” Sasha says darkly. “Mephedrone. Chemsex,” he then clarifies. “Paris me was a lot more fun than Ottawa me.”

“Oh,” Shane says, not sure how to follow that up.

“It took a while, but I was able to get enough to forge the credentials we needed to get in. By this point, Alexei had already gotten a court order. He had full say over all of Luylya’s medical decisions. He controlled everything. What he couldn’t do was just drain his bank accounts. Not in the US. Even his Russian accounts. The Institute is very good at making difficult relatives disappear, yes, but they are a hospital, and by all accounts, they operate fully within the very grey areas of the law when it comes to mental health. They could keep him locked away indefinitely, yes, but under their supervision, any money that left his accounts would need a credible reason. Alexei could use it to pay for his care and expenses, and there’s a lot of wiggle room in that definition, yes, but still. It served a purpose in getting him out of the country. Especially now we know what we do about Boston. But it also gave him some degree of protection.”

“By the time we got in, Alexei had taken him out,” Sveta adds. “It was very expensive, and once he had Ilya alone…”

“Fuck this,” Marlow stands up again. “I’m going to Russia. Motherfucker!”

“Sit the fuck down, “ Shane snaps at him. Then, back to Sasha, “Continue.” He needs to know the rest. And Marlow can get in fucking line.

“Yeah, well… we didn’t have a fucking clue where he was being kept. It was easy enough to get into Alexei’s place: piece of shit likes his coke even more than I did, so it was a simple in. He wasn’t there. Or his apartment, which was already up for sale. We followed him, I got into his accounts… he’d quit his job, obviously. Everyone knew he’d suddenly come into a fuck load of money. Everyone knew it was Ilya’s…” Sasha trails off in disgust.

“How did you find him?” Shane’s voice breaks, caught on the horror of what Ilya must have been suffering. Of what Alexei might have done to him to get control over everything.

Sveta sniffs. “He got out,” she says softly. “Alexei had him locked up in their father’s place. One day he wasn’t paying attention. Ilya made it out onto the street before Alexei caught up with him.”

Shane’s heart clenches. Ilya never gave up. He never stopped fighting.

“One of the neighbors saw,” Sasha adds. “Called the police. Obviously, he paid them off, but I was watching.”

“We didn’t know what state he would be in,” Sveta continues. “Or how we’d get him out of the city, but we knew we couldn’t leave it any longer. Eventually it would be more trouble keeping him alive.”

Both she and Sasha go quiet for a moment, clearly caught in the memory of those horrifying days.

Dad says, “You said you can’t go back to Russia?”

“Hmm,” Sasha agrees. “We planned on going in while Alexei was out, but Ilya was in really bad shape. We needed his meds, his passport.” He shudders. “Alexei had him chained up like an animal in his old bedroom. Just left him to rot, really.”

“We tried to find everything,” Sveta says urgently. “But-”

“It took longer than expected. Alexei walked in on us.” He lifts his chin definitely. “I shot him.”

“I shot him,” Sveta snaps. “You’re not taking the blame for that.”

“Fine,” Sasha rolls his eyes. “Sveta shot him in the leg. I chained him up. We grabbed Luylya and ran. He didn’t have a passport, so we drove to St. Petersberg. He kept seizing in the back, so…”

“We found a doctor,” Sveta takes over. It’s like neither of them can quite get the story out alone. “Paid them to stabilize him as best he could, but Ilya didn’t know where he was, or who we were-” tears finally start rolling down her cheeks. “He kept screaming and trying to fight us-”

“-I paid someone to forge his passport,” Sasha says quietly. “We made the crossing in Belarus. It was one of the safer ones, and the guy who sold it to us knew one of the patrol officers there would be open to a bribe.” He suddenly looks very young and very haunted. “We had to keep Ilya quiet. I thought… I thought we’d killed him at one point.” With a tiny, bitter laugh, he adds, “This is Luylya. He always finds new ways to make bad situations worse.”

Cliff’s hands are shaking. Shane might be too, but he’s occupied with counting the time between Ilya’s escape from Moscow and their arrival in Paris, and the answer keeps coming out wrong, like some variable in the equation is imaginary or not real. They couldn’t travel all at once; they had to hide, wait for the right windows, bribe the right people, and all the time, Ilya was confused and terrified.

“It took days,” Sasha says, “to even get to the border. Then another two because we had to stay low in Minsk. He was a handful. Then Poland. Germany. Eventually back to Paris. I had favors there, so I called them in. Paid for the best doctor I could find. Money was tight by that point.” Shane has no idea how much it costs to forge a fucking passport. Let alone bribe someone.

“It was a long time,” Sveta says. “He didn’t know us. Not really. He’d have okay days and then…” She trails off, but Sasha jumps in.

“He got better every day. We kept him on the meds the doctors said he needed. Made sure he slept. Ate. The shit Alexei gave him made things worse, I know they did.”

“And then you came to Ottawa?” Mom asks, her voice hollow.

“He didn’t speak any French,” Sveta explains. “And the better he got, the more he understood had been taken from him… hockey was always his escape. We knew by then what had happened. Alexei made it clear he’d tried to kill himself, just like his mama, and we were so-” she doubles over, finally giving into a gasped choke of sobbed tears.

Sasha pushes himself away from the table and wraps himself around her. Shane wonders how often they sat like that watching over Ilya. “We were scared he would try again. So we promised we would give him back what we could. And it was safer for him. Better.”

“Safer how?” Dad asks.

“We attacked his brother. We locked Alexei up, and then, as far as the law in Russia is concerned, we kidnapped a mentally incapacitated man from his home, and his guardian, and smuggled him across international borders. None of the things we did to find him were legal. Not one.”

“But-” Marlow starts. “It wasn’t right-”

“Doesn’t matter if they were right,” Sasha snaps. “Right and the law are not fucking friends. Alexei got what he wanted out of Ilya. There wasn’t much left to drain. He would have killed him eventually; it is too big a risk not to. That is what this bullshit filing is about. He doesn’t want control now, he doesn't need it; he wants to scare the shit out of him, and when it fails in court, he will come to Ilya somehow, and he will make threats against us, and Ilya will go to him.”

Yeah, of course he will. Loyal Ilya, who loves his friends, who Shane hopes to fucking god knows only a fraction of what they’ve done for him… he’ll never allow them to be hurt, not if he thinks he can handle things alone. Even before his injury, Shane could predict that response. Now, Ilya is so much more vulnerable to that kind of manipulation.

Sasha is still rubbing his hand up and down Sveta’s back. “In Europe, it is not so hard to get to him. Here, it is safer. He has a job. And he has a public profile. We have friends we haven’t yet burned. Alexei can’t just make him disappear again.”

“Too fucking right he can’t,” Marlow snarls.

Shane has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. The thought of anyone trying to come near Ilya again, to so much as brush against the life he’s fought so hard for, detonates something behind his ribs. He can see it all, the sequence and pattern: Ilya, finally upright, reassembled, patched up, and then the same fucking hand that tore him down making another attempt.

Not a chance. Not fucking ever.

He looks around the room, sees his mother’s hands whiten on her mug, the bone-white jawline of his father, and the way Marlow can’t unclench his fists, and finds a grim, wild comfort in the knowledge that he’s not alone in this.

None of them are. Not Ilya. Not the people who have sacrificed everything to save him.

He grabs onto the first possible lever. “You’re right,” he tells Sasha, voice steady. “Right and the law aren’t friends. But they’re not enemies, either.” He looks at his mom. “You got that list I asked for?” That feels so long ago, and the wry suggestion of ‘Find a good lawyer’ that crawls up his throat like bile.

Mom nods, chin tight, and says to Sasha, “I’ll put a call in to Dainbourg tonight. Everything you have, legally obtained or otherwise, we need. And maybe don’t do any more of the illegal things for now?” Her mouth is a thin line of anger.

Dad’s already pulled out his phone and started drafting emails. “I know a good forensic accountant,” he says. “Might take years to claw anything back, but if we can find a way to get Alexei’s assets frozen in the meantime…”

“Shane, you charm the socks off that boy,” Mom adds, then to Sveta, “I have all the specialists he needs lined up and ready to go.”

Sveta isn’t crying anymore, but she does shudder when she takes her next breath.

Shane’s never been so grateful for his parents’ particular flavor of ruthless.

He feels a breath of relief flick through Sasha and Sveta, so quick it might be imagined, but there’s a slouch, a sag, air coming back into a pressure-sealed room.

Sveta says, quietly, “He will be difficult. Don’t… don’t be angry with him.”

“Yeah, I’m never gonna be angry with him,” he promises. “We’ll take care of it.” There’s a part of him that wants to run, right this instant, sweep Ilya up and disappear up north, the both of them subsisting on fish and firewood and foraged blueberries. But he tempers it, knows that what matters is the long game now. It’s not the first move, but every one after it.

“He is very lucky to have you,” Mom says to Sveta and Sasha. Shane waits for the same fuck off he got, but both of them just look done. Stretched out and exhausted.

“Get some sleep,” he says gently. “There are still things we need to discuss, but they can wait until the morning.” They’re still missing details, he’s sure of it, but he plans on throwing every resource he has at each and every problem until it is solved.

“We’ll be going to work,” Sveta warns him. “We have a game coming up. He won’t want to miss practice. I don’t want to leave him alone.” Yeah, he gets that. Not just for health-related risks, but for everything else. Shane isn’t going to breathe for the hours Ilya is out of his sight.

“Get me that offer,” Mom says grimly. “I have Shane on the team by next week.”

“That’s a little opti-” Shane starts.

Her gaze narrows. “Or sooner. We’ll be around in the morning to go over everything we need to.”

“I’d offer you one of our rooms,” Sasha says dryly. “But since I imagine Hollander will want to stay with Ilya, and these two will do… whatever they’re trying to pretend they haven’t already done, we don’t have one spare.”

Shane looks back and forth between Marlow and Sveta, confused. He does want to go to Ilya. Right fucking now.

“We’re not far,” Dad says. “Get some rest. Shane-”

“Tomorrow,” Shane says. He knows they want to talk, but he’s done.

Dad nods, and suddenly there’s nothing keeping Shane from being where he wants to be.

He strips down to his boxers and his t-shirt and crawls under the blankets to wrap himself around Ilya. Ilya doesn’t stir, but Shane likes to think he settles deeper into sleep once he’s in Shane’s arms.

He half expects to spend the next few hours spiraling, staring at the ceiling, and replaying all the awful things he’s just heard over and over again. But once the warmth of Ilya’s skin starts to seep into his own, Shane is out.

Ilya is awake when Shane opens his eyes, and the first thing he does is run his fingers down Shane’s cheek. “Good morning,” he mumbles, everything about him so achingly soft.

Shane can’t stop himself from smiling. “Good morning.” He leans into Ilya’s touch, his skin tingling.

He melts for Ilya, now and always. The sunlight is kind, pale, and undemanding, broken by the half-closed blinds. It pools lazily over the bed, painting Ilya with a golden warmth that lingers in soft curls and lovingly brushes color across his cheeks. He’s propped on his elbow, close enough that Shane can see every individual lash and the faint, dark shadows under his eyes. His hands are everywhere: in Shane’s hair, on his jaw, gentle. Shane just lies there, letting himself be kissed and adored.

“I have morning breath,” Shane warns, his protest more of a token than a complaint.

“I’ve had tongue in your asshole, remember?” Ilya says, far too crude for such a sweet moment, and tipping Shane into a mortified laugh. He kisses him again, longer, the years they’ve lost a whole life’s worth of starvation they can never sate. Ilya moves slowly, deliberately, tasting every part of him. It’s a little desperate, maybe, and Shane can feel their heartbeats through the palm pressed to his neck, fluttering together as they move.

Shane runs a thumb over the line of Ilya’s jaw. There’s a tug in his chest to climb inside Ilya’s skin and stay there, stitched together so nothing in the world can ever pry them apart. He knows it isn’t rational. He knows bodies have their boundaries, that love is not a cure, but he wants so badly to eclipse Ilya’s pain and replace it with pleasure.

He lets his hands roam a little, down the neck of Ilya’s t-shirt, along the firm plane of his chest. He aches to touch him everywhere, all at once.

Ilya makes a noise in his throat, a warning, or a threat, or a promise, Shane doesn’t know, isn’t sure he needs to. He’s barely awake and already so hard it’s uncomfortable, straining uselessly against his boxers.

He thinks: Okay, we can do this. We can have this, too. It’s up to Ilya. He wants, yes, but never enough to take stupid risks.

He’s careful, mindful of last night, and of all the nights before that Ilya was left at the mercy of someone who neglected and abused him. He moves slowly. He lays his palm on Ilya’s hip and tries to convey with touch, "Is this all right?”

Yes, because Ilya is already moving into it, arching a little, the impossible warmth of his body pressed to Shane’s ribs, his thigh already between Shane’s knees. That’s all it takes to send another pulse of need through him.

Ilya kisses the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, and makes a soft, self-satisfied sound.

Shane’s barely controlled, a grind against Ilya’s thigh that makes Ilya’s lips part and his breath catch. He’s smiling, not his usual wolfish smirk, but something dazed and love-drunk. Beautiful.

Shane grins back, shy, “Sorry, I-”

“Hmm, you talk too much, Hollander.”

“You're… you’re okay? To-”

“You worry too much, too,” Ilya says, kissing him again, no faster or more intense than last time. He kisses Shane like he plans on doing the same thing every day, every morning, for forever. When he lets Shane up for air, he presses their foreheads together. “I will not pass out on your dick again, promise.”

Shane can’t stop grinning. “Appreciate that, thanks.” He ducks his head to nose at Ilya’s jaw, then down the column of his throat, braced for laughter or a comeback, but all he gets is Ilya’s fingers clenched tight at his side and his hips rocking forward.

Shane wants badly enough that his whole body tingles and the heat between them is combustible, but it’s all bound up with a new, hypersensitive caution. He’s not going to push too far, or ignore the rules, or… fuck, he’s already done that once, and he’d rather die than do it again.

He’s careful. He’s so careful. He glances up the line of Ilya’s neck, catching the flutter of his pulse above the notch of his collarbone, the hint of sweat already beading there even though it’s been seconds. “You’re sure?” Shane asks.

“You think I would let you kiss me like this if I didn’t want?” There’s a huff in Ilya’s voice, but his face says that he likes being told that his consent matters; he shows his teeth, all white and sharp as a wolf, then rolls himself so they’re side by side and the hard heat of him lines up against Shane’s thigh.

Ilya’s fingers drift, a lazy sweep just under the hem of Shane’s t-shirt, and it’s… it’s not like it used to be. Shane feels every minute of those missing years. He needs to make Ilya feel safe and wanted, to let him set the pace, whatever that is.

He lets his hand find Ilya’s hip, just a brush, then stills, letting Ilya decide if he wants more. Ilya’s hand comes up, covers his, and presses it in, a silent acknowledgment that this is wanted, too. Then he leans in and, with a gentleness so far outside his usual range as to be almost comic, kisses Shane again. The perfect, devastating sensation of muscle and the memory of every time before, all the old ways fitted to new realities.

Ilya’s heartbeat is so fast it registers on Shane’s tongue. He licks over the skin, a single, gentle arc, then looks up for confirmation. “Yeah?” he says.

Ilya nods, fierce, then grins, then tangles a hand in Shane’s hair. “I am not so broken I cannot fuck my fiancé,” he says firmly.

Fiancé. Shane's.

“You’re not fucking broken,” Shane says, not smiling, and Ilya rolls his eyes, but he kisses Shane again. Gentle, right up until it’s not.

Their kisses deepen, and it’s not like they are teenagers anymore, all that wild, desperate passion. When Ilya shudders and says his name, Shane tastes salt on his lips and isn’t sure which of them is crying.

They fall into a rhythm, not quite tandem, but close enough that one is always on the edge of quiet giddiness. Shane expects it to go further, for hands to slip under clothes, but after a minute, Ilya’s mouth gentles, neither of them in any hurry for the end. Shane could stay here all day if it means the world doesn't crash through the walls again.

It’s Ilya who stops first, breathless and blushing. “I do not have…” he gestures toward the bedside cabinate, then shakes his head. “Anything. Since I got here. I haven’t. Not with Sasha or Sveta. Not with anyone.” He glances away, suddenly uncertain for reasons Shane can’t comprehend. “I wasn’t… I haven’t done this, since…” he says, and shrugs.

It takes Shane a second to process. “No one?” he blurts, and immediately feels like an insensitive asshole because obviously he’s been fucking preoccupied trying to rebuild his life, but Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Wasn’t anything there. No need. No… want. Until you,” he says, dry and flat. Then, seeing the look on Shane’s face, he bumps his forehead gently against Shane’s and adds, “Think my dick is always pleased to see you, Hollander.”

“Wow,” Shane laughs, shaking his head. “Tell your dick I’m flattered.” Then he pulls Ilya closer, heat surging through his entire body. “Same. I mean, god, I tried, but it was never…” He trails off. There’s no shame in the truth, but it hurts, saying out loud how he’s gone years, substituting frustration and loneliness with work and more work and too much time in the gym, all the while dreaming of the man now pressed up against him.

Ilya looks, for a second, both pleased and sad at the same time, as if he likes being trusted with the knowledge while also wishing Shane’s loneliness hadn’t been so complete.

He cups Shane’s jaw. “You were made to be worshiped. Is criminal you have been neglected for so long.” He drops a fond kiss to the tip of Shane’s nose. “Okay, you will stay.”

Shane raises an eyebrow.

Ilya’s lips brush Shane’s, a feather-light test of ownership, and then he’s gone. Shane hears the quick prowl of his feet on the hardwood as he sneaks out of the bedroom, and then a muffled, very unconvincing attempt at not laughing as a bottle thuds on the counter. A second later, Ilya’s back in the bedroom, waving a bottle of olive oil like he’s presenting a trophy.

“You cannot tell Sasha. He will be very cross, this was very expensive,” Ilya says, eyes wicked. He flashes a canine smile, pops the cap with his thumb, and cradles it between both hands, like a sommelier ogling a rare vintage. “He spent one summer in Greece when he was sixteen, and now I get lectures on cooking oil.”

“Yeah, weirdly enough, I’m not in a rush to discuss our sex life with either of your exes,” Shane says dryly. Though maybe he’ll have to if this all goes wrong and Ilya keels over halfway through and-

Ilya leans over him and kisses him hard. “Stop,” he says firmly, pulling back only far enough to grip Shane’s chin between his fingers and angle him up to better meet his gaze. “I am okay. I would not do that to you.”

“I know,” Shane says, softer than he plans, “I just. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ilya’s gaze is solid and intent, anchoring Shane in a way nothing and no one else does. “I will take care of you,” he vows, pleading and threatening at the same time. “Let me?” Somehow, Shane gets the impression that this is even more essential to Ilya than it is for him.

He nods, already melting, anticipation lighting up parts of him that have been captured in amber and hardened over time. Ilya brushes a thumb along the line of his jaw, then kisses just under his ear, and the way he lingers there, breathing in, turns him molten.

He closes his eyes, trying to remember a single time in his life he’s felt so safe and knowing that was with Ilya, too. Ilya is slow as he guides them on. It’s almost like he’s reluctant to part with any fraction of skin, like a collector unwrapping a priceless artifact. Shane’s shirt rucks up, then flutters to the floor when Ilya eases it over his head. His own hands itch to do the same to Ilya, but he waits, pinned in place by the surity of his gaze. He can wait as long as Ilya wants.

When Ilya finally draws up, he’s pale in the morning light, eyes huge and focused. He crawls over Shane, nestling their bodies together, and the gentle pressure of Ilya’s chest and hips is enough to make him dizzy. Shane loops his arms around Ilya’s back, holds him carefully, and he’s so keyed up that the brush of lips on his neck is enough to draw a long, shivery exhale.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers, all he’s capable of articulating.

Ilya’s hand snakes down, knuckles against the waistband of Shane’s boxers. He moves gently, undressing him, and when Shane is bare and trembling, Ilya sits up between his knees and runs his hand up and down Shane’s thighs, mapping muscle, following the grain of hair. He’s not in a hurry as he undresses himself. He holds the bottle of olive oil and pours a thin trickle over his palm, then slicks his hands together.

Ilya’s hands are gentle. He spreads his fingers wide, like he wants to memorize the whole span of Shane’s hips, the line of his thigh, from quads to knee. It’s the slowest, most deliberate thing Shane’s ever experienced. They’ve had fast before, desperate, sometimes even rough. They’ve had every variation of immediate, but even their first, perfect time, so full of tenderness and care, feels rushed in comparison. Ilya meets him in the stretch of each moment, wound around the incremental ramp of their pleasure.

His skin is hypersensitive, every inch aware of Ilya’s attention. The oil is warm from his hands. Slick, but not messy, and when Ilya runs it up the inside of his knee, over the line of his shin and down to the arch of his foot, it’s so soft it makes him moan. He’s not supposed to be this fragile, but there’s no other word for it. Even his bones feel delicate; the only things holding him together are Ilya’s steady hands and the heat of his body.

He’s trembling by the time Ilya comes back up, hand cradling his dick, then running just under, palm fitted perfectly to cup him. It’s like Ilya’s recommitting him to memory, how every piece moves and reacts, and Shane’s only job is to lie there and let it all happen to him. He can’t describe how good it feels. If he were to come apart, at any second, there would be no judgment, no impatience, just Ilya with every single piece of him gathered and pressed back together by those loving, gentle hands.

With his next breath, he pulls Shane into a kiss that’s all warmth and keeps him there. Shane can’t keep track of how long. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. All the clocks in the world are on hold, paused by the movement of Ilya’s hands and mouth.

Ilya draws Shane onto his side and spoons up behind him, the length of his body hot and solid against Shane’s back. They fit together like they always have, a lifetime of collisions and rebounds has hammered every awkward edge smooth. It’s just skin and trust. Ilya’s arm wraps around Shane’s waist, palm heavy and warm, and Shane wants to stay here forever, held tight, untouchable.

Ilya’s mouth is slow and patient at his neck, behind his ear, soft and delicate. Shane lets himself fall apart into the containment of Ilya’s embrace. He gets lost in the gentle scratch of stubble on his skin, the measured drag of fingers across his ribs, the slide of a knee between his thighs. All that patience makes something in him crack wide open.

They make no sound at all, not even when Ilya presses a finger inside of him. It’s careful, impossibly slow, each movement a negotiation. Shane’s breath is high and tight, and his hands fumble for something to grip: the sheet, Ilya’s other hand, the pulse in his own throat, or the heat of his own hardness between his legs. He can feel Ilya’s little hitches of restraint as he holds back, making sure, again and again, that Shane is okay. So much so that Shane almost wants to scream with how good it is, with how much he missed this, but he stays silent, matching Ilya’s breathing and holding himself perfectly still as his body remembers what it is to be known so intimately.

The length of Ilya hard against him is a wild pulse of satisfaction under his skin. Stupid, really, but still.

It aches at the edges: the years, the loss, the unfixable thing between them. They should be desperate, but they aren’t. It’s complete, like resuming a dream after a long sleep; their story picking up exactly where it left off, with none of their old insecurities weighing them down. Ilya’s free hand slides under Shane’s jaw, tilting his head up for a kiss that’s more a brush of breath than anything. “Yes?” He asks when they finally part.

Shane nods, then knows better and gasps, “Yes!”

Neither of them is in any hurry. Ilya stays slow as he finally eases himself inside of Shane, unyielding, rocking them together with perfect tenderness. The only sounds are the shift of sheets and the staggered rise and fall of their breathing. Shane doesn’t know how it’s possible to feel so safe and so raw all at once, to want to crawl even deeper inside someone who already knows everything dark in him.

Ilya is undone behind him, all sharp, broken hitches in his breath and an almost pleading need to the kisses he presses to every part of Shane he can worship with his lips.

It’s not possible to be closer, but Shane wants more. He is greedy for every part of Ilya he can claim, twisting his shoulders until he can reach back and sink his fingers into Ilya’s hair. He’s not sure if it’s a silent demand for more or the need to shelter and protect something so vulnerable, but Ilya leans into his touch, the same as he always does.

Shane closes his eyes and lets go, lets Ilya lead, lets the world narrow to a single point of warmth kindling along his spine. He’s forgotten how much peace there is in letting someone else be the engine and the anchor at once. He presses back, not much, just enough to meet Ilya’s pace. He wants to be ruined, to lose every last scrap of himself inside the slow, all-consuming ache of being loved like this.

The press of Ilya’s body, the catch and release of slick skin, the arm banded across his chest holding him steady… He’s not thinking. He’s not anything but the trembling pitch of nerves and devotion, every touch a spark, every lazy grind of Ilya’s hips a slow ignition of pleasure that never tips over into desperation.

He comes first, spasming with too much pleasure, face pressed into the crook of his own arm to keep the noise in. Ilya grinds against him through the aftershocks, chasing his own ending. He finishes with a long, muffled exhale, face buried in the mess of Shane’s hair, body trembling and tight.

When Shane floats back, it’s to the knowledge that Ilya is still pressed up behind him, one hand over Shane’s heart.

He doesn’t ever want to move. If he were braver, if he knew how to talk about it, he’d say he just wants to keep Ilya wrapped in his arms like this for a week. Maybe forever. Just a hand over his chest, and Ilya’s wild heartbeat ticking against hism. But he can’t lie still, because Ilya’s skin is so soft and he wants to touch every inch of it, the luxury of it, the fucking miracle of him, and so he turns and kisses over the moles on Ilya’s throat, the one beneath his jaw, the damp curve of skin where his hair curls against his neck.

There isn’t even a path to follow, exactly, just the next patch of warm skin and the one after that. He noses into the hollow at Ilya’s clavicle, and then does the same twice more, following the constellation of freckles and moles from one shoulder to the other because it makes Ilya laugh. Shane wants to make him laugh. He wants to put so many good things in him that the memory of anything else can’t get in edgewise.

He lays Ilya flat across the sheets. It’s careful, the opposite of what he ever was in the hotel rooms or his apartment during all those wild years of firsts and fights. He doesn’t want to pin him. He wants to lay Ilya down and kiss him, full stop.

He’s gentle, but doesn’t coddle. Ilya’s body is strong, even now, leaner than it used to be, but dense with the memory of a lifetime of hard work. There’s a sharpness to him, muscle hugging closer to bone, but when Shane runs his lips down the line of his abdomen, he feels every twitch and shiver, each one a live wire. That’s not new. Ilya’s always been sensitive in the soft places the world doesn’t get to see.

It’s only when he reaches Ilya’s ankle that he stops.

He’s read the report. Can conclude, with the evidence of experience and the words presented to him, that Ilya might not be without scars. It’s just… There are scars from flesh splitting under a blow, scars he has himself, ones you can pretend came from normal, everyday things if you really need to.

This one is hard to see as anything other than what it is. Angry and deep, not fresh but not faded. It circles most of the joint, a ring of tissue dense as a burn.

Shane doesn’t mean to freeze, but he does. The image in his head is nothing like the Ilya stretched out here, relaxed and soft and wanting. It’s of a pale, half-dead man with wild hair and a bony, unfamiliar face, ankle cuffed in steel, alive but barely, and not really living. The image surfaces so fast it makes him sick, a sudden tide of horror bleeding up into his throat.

He bends over that scar and kisses it, gentler than the others, and then a second time, and a third for good measure, and it’s only when Ilya tugs him back up to lie along the line of his body that Shane even realizes he’s crying.

Ilya’s strong hand curls protectively around the back of his head, like Shane is the one who needs saving from all the harsh realities of the world.

“I am here,” Ilya assures him. “It is okay.”

It’s not. It’s never going to be okay what they did.

Shane hides his face in the space between his neck and shoulder and tries to cover as much of him with his body as he can.

There will be a reckoning, so fucking help him.

Chapter 22

Chapter Notes

Once again, I will reiterate the notes from previous chapters on the drugs mentioned in this story. Ilya's experience is not universal.

There’s technically no set length of time it takes to trade a player. Even in Shane’s case, whose contract has another season on it before he becomes a free agent. The minute he waives his no-trade agreement for Ottawa, there’s only the details standing in their way. When a player expresses a genuine desire to leave as he has, it’s rare for their team to outright refuse. Rare, but not unheard of. It usually comes down to the money. Ottawa can afford him. Montreal don’t want the drama of a disrupted locker-room, which is kinda funny when Shane stops to think about it. And they really don’t want him to go to the MHLPC.

The fastest trade in MHL history that he can think of was back in 2018, when a twenty-minute conversation between the Buffalo and Florida MGs resulted in Jacob Spirit being traded twice. Mom doesn’t work quite that fast, but true to her word, it’s all but done in less than forty-eight hours.

The first day is almost entirely Montreal just losing their shit, which is expected. Shane does as he’s told and ignores all incoming calls. When he gets tired of trying to make his own while constantly sending people to voicemail, he goes out for a run and buys a second phone on his way back. He thinks about calling Hayden. Or J.J. He transfers their numbers to the new phone, but that's as far as he gets.

The second day is all about details. Or rather, it’s all Marlow. Shane traded a lot of social capital to get Cliff transferred in the first place. Now Shane is leaving, they want him gone. “It’s mostly pettiness and spite,” Mom says to Cliff, clearly worried he’s upset by the vitriol.

He’s not. He doesn’t care. He, like Shane, is going nowhere, hockey or no fucking hockey.

Montreal raises the issue on the second day, as if they think they can guilt a different response out of Shane. They’re all clustered around the table in the loft, chugging coffee by the gallon when the email comes in. Ilya’s not really awake, and Shane hasn’t really slept. By the end of breakfast, Cliff fires his agent, signs with mom, and after a day of bouncing between the lawyers for the Metros and the Centaurs, everything is agreed in principle.

“Your mom is terrifying,” Ilya says, his eyes wide as he picks slowly at the evening meal in front of him, watching as Mom and Sveta pace in the kitchen. Mom has the phone tucked under her ear and is berating the poor bastard on the other end of the line in a string of furious Québécois.

“I like her,” Sasha says, digging into his own food. Shane’s paid for his nutritionist and chef to pull together an extended plan for Ilya and do enough meal prep to cover everyone in the household. Those of them not officially on the clock for long hours are spending all their time assembling something that is slowly starting to resemble the X-Squad. Having their meals delivered saves all of them time and effort, and means Shane doesn’t have to spare the energy on spiraling when his brain looks for an excuse to panic and decides his macros are a suitable topic of anxiety. He’s even got them to recreate the little overnight oat pots Ilya likes to make.

“She’s good,” Shane agrees, and she is. She’s a qualified lawyer, has to be to do her job as well as she does, and she refuses to back down when overpaid, middle-aged white men try to drag her into their power-trips. She’s also got something to prove. Both she and Dad do, which is why he’s sat at the end of the table with his laptop, alternately poking at a spreadsheet and eating one-handed.

“Shame it won’t be in place for tomorrow,” Sveta says, sliding into the empty seat next to Ilya.

“I’ll be on the team by the time the season starts,” Shane shrugs. That’s less than a week away, which is good, because they’ve been lucky so far with home friendlies. That’s not going to last. Soon, Ilya will be on the road, and none of them has any idea how, or even if, he’s going to be able to handle it.

At least now Shane will be traveling with him. Sveta won’t have to deal with things on her own.

After dinner, he and Ilya end up on the roof again. It’s Ilya’s favorite place to be, even with the weather turning. The glass canopy keeps off the rain on nights like this, and there’s a fire pit for them to light. In only a few days, they’ve already found a routine. They shower and have breakfast together, then Ilya and Sveta go to work while the rest do their own work on the floor below. When Ilya comes home, he’s usually exhausted and will nap on the couch until dinner while Shane continues to work. He doesn’t ask what Shane is doing and often says little at all. They’ll eat, they’ll come up to the roof, and Shane will set down his laptop or phone so they can curl up together under the lights. Ilya usually makes it an hour or two before he’s falling asleep again. They’re in bed by ten, sometimes earlier. Shane will hold him until he’s asleep, then he’ll sit up, crack open his laptop, and get another three or four hours in.

They’ll wake in each other’s arms and repeat the day. It’s more than a little heartbreaking how fucking exhausted Ilya is, always. More so when he takes his pills, lethargic and heavy, then clings to Shane until either sleep or sedation pulls him under.

They do it again that night.

Shane presses through their sequence. He helps strip Ilya down and into a set of flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt. Ilya’s never been a man who likes to wear anything to bed before. He no longer enjoys the casual nudity he once did, preferring to burrow into soft clothes before sliding between the sheets. Shane is prone to overheating, so he sticks to his boxers when he lies down and gathers him into his arms, finding the rhythm of his breath and the slowing race of his pulse as the pills settle in.

Ilya folds into him without any of his sharpness. Shane curls around him, nose to the soft coil of curls at Ilya’s neck, and waits him out, long and slow, until the last resistance drops from Ilya’s body and his breathing evens, deep and slow and finally unconscious. The day is gone, and Ilya’s safe, which is an outcome worth everything.

Shane waits an extra twenty minutes, just to be sure, then disentangles them and pulls his laptop off the floor beside the bed. He keeps the screen dim even though Ilya has his back to him.

In the… fuck, two days since putting everything on the line, no one has been idle. Ilya’s lawyers are focusing on untangling the shitshow that is Alexei’s latest mind-fuck, while Shane’s - now also Ilya’s - focus on literally everything else. Sasha has given them everything he has, including everything he and Sveta have been doing since they left Moscow. It’s all being gone over with a fine-tooth comb as people Shane pays nearly a thousand dollars an hour pull together the tangled threads of Ilya’s life since Boston.

There are some things they need to address urgently, namely Ilya, Sveta, and Sasha’s legal status in Canada. Sasha is on an IEC thanks to a dual citizenship with France. Ilya and Sveta are both on work visas sponsored by the Ottawa Centaurs. For now, with those jobs secure, they’re in less of a rush to upset those immigration apple carts. Once Ilya and Shane are married, they can push through his PR. It’s a process that can take a year or more, but as both mom and Dainbourg, his unholy asshole of a lawyer, say, he is Shane Hollander. He’s got the PM’s private phone number. He’s never once considered using his influence outside of hockey to gain special treatment, but if winning Canada two gold medals gets Ilya safely out of Russia’s reach, then fuck it, he will use and abuse every contact he’s ever made.

Besides, now there are lawyers looking at everything from Ilya’s time with Boston onward, and Shane is under stern orders to stay away from everyone involved. Which means no getting on a plane to New York to beat some answers out of Roger Crowell. Or doing the same in Boston with LeClaire. Sasha is also under orders not to get involved, and he is just as pissed about it as Shane is.

As a peace offering, and because Shane can’t fucking sleep without thinking of him and Sveta trying to smuggle a terrified Ilya out of Russia, Shane has his dad set up a company for the sole purpose of hiring Sasha and putting his skills to use. He doesn’t know what, yet, but he’ll feel better knowing he’s got some sway in protecting Sasha’s right to stay in Canada, especially if things do get messy.

So, with that being the extent he’s able to involve himself with the legal side of things, he’s focusing his attention on the important stuff. Namely, Ilya. Or specifically, Ilya’s health.

In the morning, before Ottawa’s game against Toronto, Shane has booked a home visit with the neuropsychiatrist he’s lined up. He’s had the woman carefully vetted. She works with her wife, Galina, who is a trauma psychologist. They both speak Russian, and Marguerite specializes in the overlap of brain trauma and PTSD. In an ideal world, Ilya will see both of them, but Shane isn’t about to overwhelm him right out of the gate.

Baby steps. One thing at a time. He's expected more of a fight if he's honest, but Ilya's agreed to almost everything Shane's asked of him. The only thing he's pushed back on, the only thing he wants any say over, is planning their wedding. Shane's all set to just drive to the closest Officiant and sign the papers. He's already filed for a license online.

But Ilya's asked. He's asked for this one thing, so Shane will give it to him.

Ilya will take care of the wedding. Shane wll take care of everything else.

Ilya’s restless on the couch when Sasha shows Marguerite in. Sveta’s at the arena already, and everyone else is downstairs in Sasha’s office, continuing to plow away at whatever ridiculous scheme Shane has them focused on. The game isn’t for hours, but Ilya doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be on the ice, where it’s cool and he can focus. He wants to get into the headspace he needs for the game, not spend all his energy focusing on shit that no one can change.

But Shane asked, and Ilya’s promised, so here they are, fingers interlocked, side by side on the couch.

Marguerite is nothing like the parade of white coats Ilya’s learned to despise since Boston. She’s a little older, in her late thirties maybe, short in a compact way, with curly dark hair and a calm, steady presence. She doesn’t even wear a white coat; just a navy blazer, fitted jeans, and soft-soled shoes, as if she intends to run laps around the entire apartment building once they’re done. She has a little bag with her that she sets down next to the chair. Sasha hovers menacingly behind her, but she ignores him.

Still, it’s routine, this tableau: her with the folder, him on the end of a couch, a watcher - Shane, in this version - hovering close by. There is always a witness, and it never makes a difference. Shane’s fingers grip his knee, sometimes drifting up to squeeze his hand, but Marguerite is sharp and notices everything.

It does make a difference. Shane won’t let her hurt him. It’s stupid to even be scared of her. Even like this, so much less than he used to be, he’s bigger than she is. She can’t overpower him like the others could.

“Thank you for seeing me, Ilya,” she says immediately, with a hint of an accent. She doesn’t look at Shane, only at Ilya. “I imagine this might be stressful for you. Would you prefer we speak in Russian?"

If they do, Shane might not understand. It's probably better he understands than Ilya, who is hardly reliable.

He breathes out carefully. “English is fine,” he says.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

He shrugs. “Shane wants. So...” he answers. It’s both true and a complaint.

“Fair,” she says, and gives him a smile that isn’t condescending. “Shane is worried.” Ilya takes that to mean that Shane has made a nuisance of himself in his search for her.

Shane shifts on the couch. He is always worried. It’s the only thing he seems able to do, lately.

“Who isn’t?” Ilya says, with a casual sarcasm that he knows is defensive.

“Do you know what it is I do?” Marguerite asks.

He doesn’t, not exactly. He assumes it’s some combination of shrink and pharmacist, same as the ones who talked to him (not to him) in Paris and again in Ottawa. “Ask me questions,” he says. “Give me more drugs. Is usually what they do.” He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, but she makes no outward sign of offense.

She nods. “You’ve been through a lot of transitions.”

“Sure.” He can feel her tiptoeing closer to whatever she actually wants to ask. He can always feel it, the spiral as they circle in on what’s broken, only she’s not poking at the tenderest bruise… at least not yet.

“And you’ve gotten very, very good at managing,” she says. “Yes?”

Not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Then let’s assume I’m not here to treat you,” Marguerite says. “Let’s assume I’m here to help you understand what’s useful and what’s noise. Is that okay?”

He doesn’t know what that means, but the way she says it makes him want to say yes. “Okay.”

She leans in, elbows on her own knees. “I am a neuropsychiatrist. That means I work at the point where brain, mind, and behavior meet. You have a hypoxic brain injury, a seizure disorder, a very complicated medication history, and a period in which other people made decisions about your body and treatment. And while I am not here to make any formal diagnosis of conditions like PTSD, my job is to work out what belongs to what, what is helping, what is harming, and what will make you safer and feel more yourself.”

“Is fine,” Ilya huffs. “I'm fine.”

She nods. “I’m happy to hear that. I’m not here to make you feel worse. What I do want to do is separate things as best we can so that no one is at risk of misreading your symptoms. Neuropsychiatry services specifically deal with psychiatric concerns arising in neurological conditions, including things like epilepsy and brain injury, because the overlap is so clinically difficult to define.”

Shane squeezes his hand encouragingly. Ilya waits for him to say something, but realizes he’s not going to. He doesn’t mean to tense, but he thinks it’s pretty fucking unfair of Shane to insist on sitting down with this woman if he’s then going to force Ilya to be the one asking all the questions. He doesn’t have any questions. He feels shit, always, but the alternative is that he goes crazy and tries to kill himself, so really...

That’s fine. He can sit here. He can be quiet.

Marguerite doesn’t seem phased. “Thank you for giving me your permission to read over your medical notes.” Like she even needs his permission, but whatever. “I understand that we don’t have a complete picture, but I do want to talk to you about your current stack of medication.”

“What about it?” Ilya asks sullenly.

Here we go. Time to up the dose. He’s done nothing but fucking cry and freak out since Shane came back into his life, so maybe that’s even the right call.

It’s just… it’s already so hard.

“Well,” she says carefully, “I am concerned that you’re not on the most optimal combination of drugs, for a start. There’s no question that you are genuinely ill; I’ve seen your scans, but that doesn’t mean you’re not overmedicated. Those two things aren’t opposites.”

Overmedicated?

He realizes how tightly he’s holding Shane’s hand and loosens his grip. Shane doesn’t do the same.

“Let’s look at some of the things we might be dealing with. There are symptoms associated with the aftermath of hypoxic brain injuries-”

“The sequelae.” He still thinks that’s a stupid fucking word.

“That’s the one,” Marguerite agrees. “Things like depression, emotional lability, processing speed, attention, dizziness, headaches… all things we might expect you to be experiencing. Those things are also side effects of some of the drugs you’re on. What I want to understand is how much of what you’re feeling is the long-term effects of your injury, and how much is down to your medication.”

“The…” Ilya pauses, trying to find the right words to explain himself. “They’re supposed to make me better, no?”

Marguerite smiles. “That’s the endgame,” she nods. “But if we’re not careful, they can end up feeling like a chemical straightjacket.” Ilya flinches. He doesn’t want to go there…

Shane moves the hand not held in Ilya’s from his knee to his back and rubs soothingly.

Marguerite takes a moment, then says, “Do you know that not everyone processes medication in the same way?”

Ilya isn’t really sure how the fuck to explain to her that they don’t really talk about these things back in Russia. Or if they do, then certainly not in households like the one he grew up in. They’re shameful. He doesn’t know anyone else who takes the drugs he does, but even if he did, they’d never fucking tell each other.

He settles for shaking his head.

“When someone is diagnosed with depression, for example, we put them on something we call titration. That means we test different drugs in different doses until we find the best fit. Have you ever done that?”

“I… in Paris?” He looks up at Sasha, who nods.

“Levetiracetam,” Sasha offers when Ilya doesn’t continue. “We started out high. He was having multiple seizures a week at first, but when they settled…”

Ilya was mean, that’s what he and Sveta say. He doesn’t really remember much about those early days in Paris, but he hates to think what constitutes as mean for them. He’s never been brave enough to ask for the details.

“That makes sense,” Marguerite scribbles a little note on her pad. “Often when we’re dealing with a crisis, we’ll take steps needed to address the most critical issues first, then figure a way forward from there. What about the others?”

“I don’t think so, I…” he frowns, back in Boston, staring at those sleeping pills. Not the only ones they gave him back then. “The, um, the Venlafaxine. I think I started out lower, but it wasn’t really working.”

“That’s actually one of the drugs I wanted to talk to you about. Can you remember being on any other antidepressants?” Ilya shakes his head. “Do you know why that was the one given to you?” He shakes his head again.

“We found a bottle of it with him. Back in Russia.” Sasha’s arms are crossed tightly over his chest. “We didn’t want to risk fucking around with things when we knew it was one of the few legit drugs he’d been given.”

She adds something else to the book. “Okay, I understand. Ilya, I would very much like to run something called a pharmacogenetic test. I have some concerns about some of the drugs that you’re currently taking, and would like to rule out any metabolic mismatches.”

For the first time, Shane speaks up. “What does that mean?”

“A pharmacogenetic test is designed to look at how Ilya’s body is genetically set up to process certain drugs. Before we start making any adjustments to doses or drug types, I want to know for certain that the medication currently being prescribed is the right fit.”

“You can tell with a test?”

“Yes,” she nods. “Processing time is usually two to three days with the lab, then we can go from there. Think of it as laying out all the puzzle pieces before you start assembly. We want to make sure none of the pieces are missing, and they’re not from other sets.”

“You think what?” Shane frowns, his freckles dark against pale cheeks. “The Venlafaxine is a problem?”

“It’s not what I would have initially recommended for a man with Ilya’s symptoms,” Marguerite says. “It’s quite possibly there’s a very obvious reason why you were given it, but without knowing for certain, I’d just like to be sure.”

“If it was bad drug,” Ilya says slowly, “why is it not… I am not like I was back then.”

“That’s a fair question, and I am not saying it is a bad drug, not at all. But it can be a rough one to start, especially if it’s a bad fit. As for why you feel different now than you did back then… targeted sleeping aids can leave you feeling very tired, yes, but your current regimen might be leading to something we call cumulative sedation. What that means is you’re stacking three separate drugs with sedating qualities throughout the day. If it turns out that Venlafaxine is causing some of the more extreme side effects, it is equally likely that your other doses are smothering those reactions.”

Ilya shifts uncomfortably. He’s not really following everything she’s saying, but it sounds like she doesn’t want him to take the only things that get him through the day. “If I don’t take them, I get…”

“Anxious? Restless? Agitated? Feeling like you don’t want to be in your own body?”

All of the fucking above. “Da. Yes.”

“All of which might be a result of your injury, or an anxiety disorder, or a combination. Or they might be side effects of a bad fit with the Venlafaxine. This is why I want to start separating everything out. If it is the Venlafaxine causing the problem, then we can transition you onto an alternative, and maybe you won’t need so many sedatives.”

It’s not that simple. It can’t be that fucking simple.

“What if it’s not?”

“Then there are still things we can do to help you improve your quality of life.”

Ilya bristles. “What improve? I am getting married. I have job. I have nice place to live.” He can feel his heartbeat start to spike. “Is better than it fucking was!” He sounds so fucking stupid, half his words missing, and he fucking hates that she’s probably going to add that to her fucking list.

“Hey,” Shane soothes, rubbing his hand between Ilya’s shoulder blades.

He glares at the rug. “I am not a child.” He means it as an argument, but the hollowness in his chest is pure panic, and he can’t catch his breath except in shallow, staccato snatches. “I’m fine.”

Marguerite just nods, unhurried. “Of course you are. You’re incredibly high-functioning, Ilya. But it is possible to have a brain injury, manage your life, and still be overmedicated in a way that actually makes things harder, not easier.” She folds her hands neatly on her lap, notes set aside. “I’m not here to take away the things that keep you safe. Just to make sure you’re not having to fight for every scrap of energy it takes, day after day, when there might be a better way.”

“Better way how?” He tries to quiet that itch under his skin, but he can feel it already stirring, the beginnings of a stress reaction he’s tried to leave in Russia and not quite managed.

She catches it, or he thinks she does, and her voice is softer. “I know you’ve had a lot of doctors, and you’re probably tired of being the test subject. My only objective is to help you narrow the variables so you don’t lose more time to feeling unwell. If the drugs you are on are perfect, great. If they can be improved, even a little, I’ll help you do that.”

A muscle jumps in Ilya’s jaw. “It won’t help.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just…” He shrugs, feeling the room close in. “Doesn’t matter what I do. Still the same.” Useless. Broke. Limping forward by inertia and shame, burning through the patience of everyone he cares about. “Is my fault I make everything harder for them.”

He doesn’t mean to look at Shane, but the hand on his back is the only thing convincing him not to leave the fucking room.

Shane’s thumb presses slow, even circles just below his neck, silent a long moment. Then, level, he says: “You don’t make anything hard for us.” It’s not even a good lie, but there’s nothing but earnestness in Shane’s eyes.

Ilya waits for the contradiction, the ‘but,’ only none comes. No conditions, no lectures, just a persistent, infuriating warmth.

Marguerite settles back in her chair. “Can you tell me a little about the days when it’s worst?”

He thinks about last year, less than a year, and what it felt like to try to run through sand. Light-headed, vision closing in at the edges, his thoughts fracturing apart until only the loudest, most horrible ones survive. It’s better than it was, back with Alexei.

“Is hard to do anything. Sometimes is headache, sometimes is all my muscles go soft, sometimes…” He looks at Sasha, feels his face get hot and refuses shame. “Sometimes I just want to sleep for a week and never wake up.” he freezes, then scrambles to add: “Not, not die. Not that!”

“No one is saying that’s what you want.” Marguerite’s voice is very gentle. “But okay, how about this? Let’s run that test and then go from there. I don’t want to bombard you with any more hypotheticals until we have a clear idea of how we can move forward.”

Ilya is very tired. He just wants to sleep. He’s got… maybe two hours before he has to go to work. “Okay.” He starts pulling off his sweater so he can show her his arm. At one point, it was all a mess of collapsed veins and little red-black lightning bolts of bruises running from his wrist and elbow. Alexei never changed his cannula as often as he was supposed to.

“Oh no,” Marguerite says, holding out her hand. “I don’t need blood.” She opens her little bag and produces a sealed plastic packet. “Cheek swab. If you’d prefer to do it yourself, you can.” She offers it, and for a second, he stares, not understanding. The whole room’s slowed to half-time, and he’s lost the cadence of this particular ploy.

It’s a trick, right?

Shane’s hand never leaves his back. His grip is gentle, stroking in lazy arcs, a mindless comfort, but every pass draws out a creeping, tingling ache that’s worse than pain. He tugs Ilya’s shirt down, smoothing the edges, then continues his soothing pattern. Ilya tries to anchor to his hand, or to her voice, or to the colors coalescing as the sun glances off varnished hardwood… anything, really, to keep from spinning off his axis.

Marguerite says something about the swab, the steps, the barcode, but it’s all noise. Her voice has the pitch of someone not expecting interruption, which is good, because Ilya’s skin prickles with a childhood dread of being quizzed and found wanting. He cracks the sterile package, tries to be delicate with the little stick, and when it is in his hand, he presses it so hard to his cheek that he’s sure he’ll bend the stupid thing in half. She says, “Gently, just roll, that’s right,” and he does, really slowly, while she talks. He can’t hear her, not really. Everything’s settled into a deepwater hush. He counts, in Russian, under his breath. His tongue stings.

Shane’s fingers press a little harder at the base of his neck. Ilya pushes back into the touch, but can’t quite match the rhythm. He finishes the swab and hands it out, not sure what to do with it, but Marguerite takes it from his hand and tucks it away into a tube with a neat little flick of her fingers. “Done. Thank you, Ilya.”

He breathes out. Marguerite folds her hands back in her lap and asks, soft as a lullaby, “Would you like me to wait until after tonight’s game before we talk next steps?”

Ilya shrugs, which is about as decisive as he gets now. “Don’t care.” His tongue is thick, his voice blurred at the corners. He’s aware of how small he’s making himself, shoulders hunched in, chin close to his chest. It’s not how he’s supposed to look, never has been, not as a Captain, not as a lover, not as a man, but it’s the shape his bones take now when someone asks something of him he can’t refuse.

“All right.” Marguerite stands, smooth and quick, and thanks both him and Shane. “I’ll send an update once the results are in and we can go from there. I’ll leave you to the rest of your day.”

Sasha shows Marguerite out, muttering pleasantries in a voice that’s double-wrapped with professional hostility and a weird, unwilling respect. The door closes with a hush. Ilya holds very still, waiting for his heart to stop hammering, hating how much he cares that someone might see his hands shaking. Shane doesn’t wait for him to settle; he turns into Ilya, kneeling over the space between them on the couch, and leans his full weight forward onto Ilya’s lap.

It’s like a blanket pulled up over his head in a cold street, the way the world quiets under Shane’s touch. He buries his face in Ilya’s shoulder and nuzzles in. Shane’s hand comes to rest at the back of his neck, thumb tracking tight, even strokes up the line of his scalp.

Ilya goes pliant, lets his forehead fall to the crown of Shane’s head, breathing in the faint citrus and linen of whatever Shane washed with that morning. Shane’s a small furnace, radiating anxious energy even when he’s still, and Ilya lets himself soak up as much as he can, arms wrapped as tight around Shane’s ribs as his dignity will permit. He wants to shrink down and hide in Shane’s clothes. He wants to crawl inside Shane’s chest and line it with his sharpest bones, just to be close to the heat of him.

Minutes tick, slow and syrupy, the fire in Ilya’s gut gradually ebbing as it is replaced by a sense of delicate, exhausted satisfaction. Okay… that… that was okay. He didn’t disgrace himself completely. He gave Shane what he wanted.

Shane’s hand abandons his neck for a moment, then comes back with a fistful of t-shirt, gathering up the back of Ilya’s collar and tugging him even tighter in. Ilya squeezes him once, hard, a warning squeeze, and thinks, thanks.

The spell breaks only when the sharp, tinny ring of a phone cuts through the air from the kitchen, and Ilya tenses, but Shane doesn’t move. They stay fused together until the sound dies away into its own echo.

Shane is the first to speak, voice pitched very soft, mouth against Ilya’s clavicle. “I wish I could come to the game tonight,” he says. “I wish I could cheer you on in person.”

Ilya laughs weakly. It’s all he can manage. “You can watch us lose from here.”

“You’re not gonna lose,” Shane says, with a confidence that sounds rehearsed. “And even if you do, it’ll be the last time once I join the team.”

Arrogant little shit. Fuck, Ilya loves him.

Flattering. Still, Ilya hopes it will be true. For everyone. For the boys, who deserve better, and for Shane, who will only grow to resent him if they don’t. He wishes a lot of things, but Shane’s arm around him is a pretty good substitute for most of them. He’s too tired to be clever, so he just keeps his cheek pressed into Shane’s hair, careful not to squeeze him so tight Shane can’t breathe.

Shane is quiet for a minute, then says, “I could sneak in. Wear a disguise.”

“Hmm, fake beard.”

“I think I could pull off a beard.”

“Can you even grow one?”

“Fuck off,” Shane huffs, a quiet laugh, his thumb rubbing the seam on the inside of Ilya’s elbow. “It won’t be like this much longer.” He says it quickly, like he’s afraid that if he waits he’ll lose his nerve. But his hand is steady, pinning Ilya in the moment. “The paperwork’s moving. Mom’s got everything ready. Soon as they rubber-stamp it…”

“You still want?” Ilya asks, hating himself for how much he needs the reassurance.

Shane kisses him, light and sweet. “I still want.”

The home crowd is a little bigger this time around. Not by much, but maybe another hundred or so. Ilya looks around at the empty seats and tries to imagine them full.

They will be. The second Shane and Cliff’s signing goes public, there’ll be a fucking brawl for seats. Shane’s an Ottawa boy. They’ll turn out for their homegrown talent if nothing else. Forget the number of cups he’s got, or the inherent drama that’s going to follow his signing.

It feels, maybe, like this might be the last moment of calm before the chaos.

Weirdly, he’s okay with that. He feels better just being here. Sure, he’d rather be on the ice, but if this is the closest he can get, so be it.

The boys are warming up as the crowds finish finding their seats. Ilya is dressed up in his game-day armor, suit, earplugs, and sunglasses. He probably looks like an idiot, but Haas was fucking vibrating when he stumbled gracelessly onto the ice, and he’s calmer now that Ilya’s run over their game plan again.

Poor little shit’s going to lose his mind having Shane on his team. Brandon’s come this close to crying already. He’s one of the few people who know.

Of course, there are rumors already. Not about Ottawa, perhaps, but Shane’s absence from practice has been noted. Ilya doesn’t bother with the internet these days, but he can imagine Twitter is having a meltdown. If he needs to know something, someone will tell him.

He doesn’t even have Twitter on his new phone. And he’s not sure he’s ever going to be ready to turn his old phone back on. He’s not even close to ready to know what messages people sent him. Or didn’t. He’s not even sure if what he’ll see is going to be real. Who knows what Crowell’s deleted? Or used his name to say?

“Hey! Coach!” Ilya looks up at the voice over his ear. Levi’s just as pleased to see him as he was the first day Ilya set foot on the grounds. He holds out a large box. “Delivery for you.”

Ilya stares at it. “Does it tick?”

The security guard throws his head back and laughs. “Nah, we ran the tests, X-ray, and all that shit. Says it’s from someone called Jane.”

Ilya’s eyebrow climbs. What is Shane up to now?

Despite the fact that they’re supposed to be warming up for a game due to start in less than fifteen minutes, he ends up attracting a crowd of players all circling the barrier.

“Who’s jane?” Haas asks, the only one who can get away with such a blunt question, because Ilya apparently has a spine like a fucking chocolate bar in the sun.

Ilya peels the tape, and the top of the box cracks open with a plastic pop and a small hiss of stale air. It’s filled, to the absolute brim, with bags and bags of Haribo gummy rings. Yellow. Red. The weird blue-green kind. The inside smells like diabetic homicide. Ilya almost drops the whole thing when he bursts out laughing.

Jesus, he’s marrying a fucking lunatic.

Bood gives a low whistle. “That’s, um…”

“Ooh!” Dykstra's already reaching for a bag.

Ilya fends him off with the lid. “No sugar before game,” he says, fighting a smile.

“You must really like Haribo, huh?” Haas says, grinning. It’s half-insult, but also half-pleased, the way puppies will bark at something because it both confuses and delights them.

“I do now,” Ilya says, and then, because why the fuck not, he adds, “They are from my fiancé. He has terrible sense of humor.”

It’s a guess as to which catches them off guard the fastest. He’s suddenly met with a wall of stunned, slightly stupid-looking expressions. Ilya stares them down, still smiling but ready to lay down the law if they’re shits about it.

In the end, it’s Boodram who manages a weak: “I have so many questions.”

Ilya can work with that. “You can ask one for every goal you score,” he allows.

Dyktstra puts his hand on Haas’s shoulder. “Kid-”

“I am on it,” Haas nods furiously, unblinking. “First quadruple hatrick ever, yes?”

“Let’s start with one,” Brandon says dryly. “Boys.” That’s his cue to stop fucking gawking, and they all scatter, most of them looking back over their shoulder at Ilya.

“Interesting tactic,” Brandon snorts.

“Is outside of box,” Ilya nods, then hands over some of the candy to his boss.

So they don’t win.

But they do put points on the board. Three of them. Bood gets to punch Kent. Bood and Dykstra both punch Barrett when he nearly takes Haas out at the ankles.

Ilya nearly gives himself an aneurysm trying not to start screaming in pride when Haas puts the puck in the net, and then again when he beats Kent in every face-off the two of them take.

They’re all packed into the locker room after the final whistle: Bood still vibrating, sweat freezing in his hair as he howls along to Dykstra’s fucking awful music at top volume. Hayes on the bench re-enacting Haas’s first goal for anyone who’ll witness it, complete with sound effects and enough expletives to warrant a suspension in any other context. Dykstra is smiling so wide his eyes have almost disappeared, towel around his waist, and mouth full of Haribo, proudly showing off the gummy rings with chipped-tooth grins. It’s not even a real game… they didn’t even win, but they’re riding a fucking high.

Ilya stands with his back to the door, arms crossed and sunglasses still on, trying not to look like the inside of his skull is currently hosting the entire Moscow Philharmonic. He still doesn’t know how to celebrate in a way that doesn’t feel like a mockery of the part of himself that expects everything to go to shit at any second. Doesn’t help that the boys are watching him out of the corners of their eyes, waiting.

He is not prepared for this, for being the focus of their joy. He’s always preferred to do the work and then fuck off into whatever quiet hole he can find, but there’s nowhere to go now, not even the bathroom. He can hear the showers running, the hot fog drifting in a wall of chlorine and sweat, but the locker room is still packed, and the volume is only getting louder.

“Coach!” Haas yells, like he’s bracing for enemy fire, “Three questions! We got three fucking questions!”

“Careful,” Bood says cheerfully, “Chouinard can’t count that high!”

“Fuck off!”

Ilya shakes his head, fighting off a grin. He’s got a gummy ring on his finger, sticky and sweet. “You can ask me a question when you’ve had a fucking shower,” he says, and wades through the gauntlet of grinning idiots to the whiteboard where he’s got a little more space.

He’s about to call for a team huddle just to get it over with when Brandon elbows his way through, less emphasis on coach authority these days and more on not spilling the water bottle balancing atop his tablet.

“Rozanov,” Brandon calls, “got someone asking to see you.”

Fuck his life… “Press?”

“Nope, you’re good. Out on the rink.”

Ilya is immediately met with a volley of groaning protests when he starts to move.

“He promised us answers!” Bood brays, towel flapping dangerously as he attempts to lasso Haas with it. “Come on!”

“Three questions!” Haas yells again. “You can’t deny us our questions!”

“Patience, young Padawan,” Ilya fires back.

He flees before they can trap him, weaving through the musk and steam and the grinding reek of BenGay as if survival depends on it. He leaves the roar of the locker room behind, shoulders straightening with every step into the cool hush of the corridor. The fire doors hiss soft, parting for him like the sea.

The arena is empty now, no spectators, just the odd member of sanitation doing their rounds.

He expects maybe one of the management team, or worse, some fuckwit keeping tabs for Crowell, so it knocks the air right out of him to see Shane in the middle of the ice, gliding on skates in slow, precise figure-eights. At first, Ilya thinks it’s another hallucination brought on by his last dose, but then Shane stops sharply, ice haloing his boots, and waves with both hands.

He laughs, loud enough to startle a gaggle of janitors two sections over. “Hollander! Did you break in?” The words echo, as ridiculous and ringing as they deserve.

Shane doesn’t answer, at least not out loud. He turns, skates a perfect backward sweep, and then lopes tight and dashes for the side of the rink. Where he’s left a duffel bag, bright orange and bulging at the seams, right on the boards like a bribe.

He’s not supposed to be out here. Maybe this is Sveta’s doing? There’s no sign of her…

Shane is already there, one foot braced on the low step of the gate. He’s leaning back, all long muscle and easy grace, a static charge of anticipation shivering off him. It’s agony how fucking beautiful he is in profile. Every line is perfect. Every tiny shift of his body is precise.

“Players just have to ask,” Shane says, grinning. He gestures at the duffle, then arches a brow, slightly wicked. “Come skate with me, Rozanov.”

He blinks. “Player?” It’s weak, but it’s the best he can do, stuck in this moment where the air in the whole goddamn rink is cut glass. It’s stupid… they’ve talked about it. They talked about it today, it’s just… Ilya’s not sure he believed it.

“It’s done,” Shane says softly. “We signed tonight. PR goes out in the morning.”

Ilya laughs, bending to tug his skates out of the bag Shane’s brought out for him. Of course it’s already done. Like everything, when Shane wants it enough.

He drags a palm over his face, tries to school the smile. “Really?”

“Really,” Shane promises. The second Ilya’s skates are fastened, Shane yanks him out onto the ice, full speed, centrifugal, two hands now, wheeling him like a dancer. Ilya’s feet scramble, and for one terrifying second, he thinks he’ll eat the surface, but Shane’s grip is iron, and their spin snaps wide and tight.

“Showoff,” Ilya says, too breathless to be angry at Shane’s enthusiasm.

He’s so fucking alive.

The way Shane moves, it’s like the old days, when they were both nothing but movement and velocity and the certainty that wanting could be a force of nature. They set into a pace, side-by-side, stride after stride, warming up the cold and the silence. There’s a point at which it isn’t awkward to take someone’s hand on the ice. For them, it’s the point they lap the blue line a second time, and after, when Shane laces their fingers together, the hesitation gone. He laughs when he spots the candy ring.

They've never done this before. Not once. Never skated together outside of a game, never just been two men on the ice, alone. The closest they ever got was that fucking commercial, when a director told them where to look, what to do with their hands. Back when all Ilya had of Shane was the knowledge of how he smiled when nervous.

He’d been just about the prettiest thing Ilya had ever seen that day. Now, impossibly, he is even more beautiful.

The rink is lit up like daylight, but the seats are empty, the air echoing, and beneath that perfect, biting cold is a silence so private Ilya could scream and no one would come.

He doesn’t want to scream.

He wants to catch Shane by the sharp line of his jaw, grind their knuckles together, and kiss him so hard it leaves a mark.

So he does.

He slides with an abrupt shudder to a halt, turns on his left foot, and drags Shane into the boards hard enough that they thud, chest to chest, weight to weight, not a fraction of anything between them. The contact makes Shane’s shoulders tense, makes his hands fist in the fabric at Ilya’s waist without even trying for subtlety. Ilya grins, wide and savage, and then kisses him. It’s greedy and loud and a little clumsy, noses knocking, teeth scraping, the sound of it sharp and wet in Ilya’s own ears. Shane makes a noise, surprised, then gives back twice as hard. There’s a moment of struggle, not even pretending to be tender, where they muscle into each other the way they used to, trying to win, to outlast or out-hunger or out-want the other.

Shane’s eyes are wet, his hair curling at his nape with sweat or maybe the cold, and Ilya can’t stop himself from pressing his mouth to every part of his face: cheek, eyelid, the scattering of freckles across his cheeks. He takes Shane’s hands and lifts them, puts Shane’s knuckles to his own mouth, kisses everyone, then threads their fingers together, and it’s not gentle at all, it’s not the slow, fragile thing from their bed, it’s electric and shaking. Like it used to be.

“Say it again,” he demands.

Shane is panting, a flush up his neck that makes him look half-mad, drunk, alive. “I signed,” he manages. “I’m yours. I’m here.”

Ilya shakes his head, says, “No. Say you want me,” at the same time every cell in his body wants to crawl under Shane’s skin and stay there forever.

Shane’s voice is fucked up, rough, all the emotion jammed up behind his teeth. He says, “I want you, Ilya,” and then, bracing their foreheads together so they are a single, quivering thing, “I love you. I never stopped. I will never stop.”

He can feel Shane’s heart beating straight through his own chest, and there is nothing left in Ilya that can resist anymore.

He closes his eyes, sways, and lets Shane hold him upright.

Both of them are lost in their own little world when a loud shout of “I fucking knew it!” shatters across the ice. Shane’s grip turns protective, and Ilya has a startling sensation of being pushed behind him as they turn to face the intrusion. Haas, Dykstra, Bood, and Hayes stare back at them from behind the benches. Haas is all but hoping foot to foot. “I told you I saw Shane Hollander!”

Bood shakes his head, slowly starting to grin in wild bemusement. “Well, that’s one less question we gotta pick from.”

Chapter 23

Chapter Notes

Well, this one was a bitch to write.

Shane is actively avoiding Harris Drover, who is hovering with intent, his mom, who somehow already has taken over one of the guest meeting rooms and texts him updates on a terrifyingly punctual fifteen-minute interval set, and Luca Haas, who is… possibly not old enough to even be out of school, let alone playing professional hockey.

Harris, he is courteous but distant with. Yes, he understands there’s a lot of traction online right now that the team wants to capitalize on, and yes, of course, he will absolutely make himself available once he has fulfilled his other obligations to management. Harris is a sweet man, but Shane has no idea what to make of the assortment of pride-themed pins and stickers he wears so proudly. He doesn’t really relish the idea of going through another round of ‘Gay Hockey Player Shane Hollander’ type YouTube videos, but if it takes the heat off the other things that are happening right now, he’ll suck it up and deal. Just… not this second.

Mom is… doing what she usually does, and overcompensating, which is useful, sure, and it does settle his constant urge to know what is happening at all times, but it’s also building in an awkward little side effect when his watch tells him his heart rate has spiked a whole minute before the next update in his due. Maybe… maybe twice an hour is enough.

And yes, fine, Haas is a grown ass fucking adult, but Shane is starting to feel like he’s adopted an abandoned puppy. Everywhere he turns, the kid is right there, wide eyes and toe-bouncing enthusiasm, excited to get out on the ice. Shane isn’t exactly known for being warm and cuddly with anyone, and the rookies back in Montreal usually gave him a wide berth. Only the very brave or very stupid attempted to actually talk to him outside of the ice.

On points one and three, Ilya is finding Shane’s predicament hilarious. He doesn’t know about point two, and Shane intends to keep it that way.

The press release goes out at nine am on Friday. By nine oh-one, Montreal has their statement out.

They’re sad to see Shane go, wish him all the best on his new team, and look forward to pursuing the new season with J.J. Boiziau. It’s hardly Mercel’s finest work, but it ticks all the necessary boxes. Marlow is a footnote, transferred out before he’s played a single game in the season.

Mom releases a statement on Shane’s behalf, one which is carefully neutral: “I am grateful to the city of Montreal and the Metros for their incredible support these past seasons. Personal circumstances have made it impossible to pass up the opportunity to play for my hometown team in Ottawa at this time. I look forward to the season ahead, and I wish my former teammates nothing but success going forward.”

He wishes them apathy at best. All of them but Hayden and J.J., who will make a good captain. Better than Shane, probably. If they manage not to be racist fucks to him. He probably should call him. Both of them. Explain. Apologize. Something. Only all his avoidance before suddenly seems petty now that the hammer has fallen, and he’s left with only a deep, abiding sense of shame and sadness. He owes them more than anything he’s given them.

And he misses them. Hayden especially. He misses Jackie and the kids. He’s just… there’s always been a ‘later’, and now he’s not sure there is, not when he’s left without saying a fucking word.

He keeps his old phone turned off, texts Rose a simple:

Will catch you up over the weekend.

It’s Shane, btw.

Hollander.

She immediately sends him back a long string of !!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK SHANE !!!!!!!!! that he doesn’t have time to answer, because the season starts next fucking week.

Mom’s next update pings. His watch tells him his heart rate is pushing 70, which is 25bpm over his usual baseline.

But Ilya is out on the ice, trying not to look as pleased as Shane knows he is, and the sight of him settles the panic in his chest.

The whole team is there, kitted up and ready to get to work. Shane’s done the introductions already, hence his very enthusiastic Swiss shadow, but it’s the first time he’s actually been out with them.

It’s also the first time his hockey brain kicks in, and he remembers that the Ottawa Centaurs are, in fact, really fucking terrible.

“I know this is a little unexpected,” Brandon says, his vibe totally different from Theriault or St Pierre or McCann. The vibe in general is different. Shane isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing. Ilya says good. Ilya is biased. “But Shane, Cliff, it’s good to have you boys on the team.”

“It’s fucking great to have you on the team,” Dykstra says, sounding weirdly enthusiastic. Several of the boys nod along enthusiastically.

“I am very excited,” Haas speaks up, almost vibrating on the spot.

“Ah,” Ilya calls out, “this is not getting you out of faceoffs.”

“You put in a good show against Kent,” Shane encourages, a little amused when the kid almost falls on his ass.

“I’ll say it one more time,” Brandon says dryly, cutting through the cackle of affectionate mockery that follows Haas’s pink cheeks. “This is an unusual situation. We’ve not had a player-coach relationship to juggle on the team before, and I want to make it clear that you can raise any concerns with HR anonymously, and they will be investigated seriously. We won’t tolerate any bigotry or homophobia, but likewise we recognize the inherent risk to team dynamics and want to ensure everyone has an equal voice.”

Shane stays very still. That all sounds nice on the surface, but all it takes is one person saying Shane - or fuck, Ilya - makes them uncomfortable and suddenly equal means relatively fuck all.

“Anyone says shit, I’ll hit them in the face with a high stick,” Boodram says dryly.

“Not helpful, Bood,” Brandon sighs.

Boodram just holds up his hands. “This is like, a serious shot at not coming bottom of the league,” he protests. “You guys can fuck at center ice for all I care!”

Shane clenches his fists, but doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure if Ilya will, or if he’s trying to play it safe himself.

They both look surprised when Brandon straightens, and all the easy gooding chill drops like a brick. “Shit like that isn’t gonna stand here.” He jabs a finger in Bood’s direction, face like thunder.

Shane expects Bood to get equally as angry right back, but instead, he does the opposite. He pales and looks rapidly back and forth between Shane and Ilya. “Fuck, no! Not what I meant! Sorry, sorry, got a little carried away! Shit thing to say! Don’t care where you guys have sex. Fuck, no, wait-” he adds, when Brandon opens his mouth. “I’m not thinking about my teammates or my coaches having sex at all.”

“The HR point stands for everyone,” Brandon says to Shane, shaking his head in genuine despair.

“Really fucking sorry!” Boodram says, holding up his hands. Shane, who doesn’t know him and isn’t the best at judging these things anyway, looks at Ilya, who is visibly trying not to start laughing.

Okay, that’s okay.

Then it’s Haas who pipes up. “If you ruin my chance to play with Shane Hollander on the first day, I will murder you in your sleep.”

“I’m sorry!” Boodram says again. “Really, really not cool of me. I’m excited! I don’t-”

Marlow, who up until this point has been a silent, hulking figure over by the boards, skates forward. “Hey,” he says to Boodram, saying that usual jock-nod of acknowledgment. “I’mma punch you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Boodram says dejectedly. “Fair.”

“I don’t think that’s neces-” Shane starts.

“No, no,” Ilya says cheerfully. “Bood learns best when he uses his head.”

“Really sorry,” Boodram says again. “Hollander. Coach.”

“It’s fi-”

“Okay,” Brandon cuts in. “We’re losing time. Bood, get your ass in gear. Marlow, if you catch him, you can hit him. Once.”

“Wicked,” Marlow’s grin is all teeth. Boodram doesn’t even try to avoid what is obviously a very pulled punch.

“So good start,” Ilya skates over to haul Boodram up by the arm. “Suicides, yes? Well volunteered!”

And just like that, Shane is tense all over again. He wants to tell Ilya not to punish the team, because shit like that will inevitably come back to bite them in the ass.

But it’s not Shane the boys glare or groan at.

Ilya winks at Shane as he skates over to talk to Brandon. Shane wants to go to him, hold him, be reassured by him, but that’s never going to be something he will ever do, so he skates after the rest of the team, keeps pace, sets a new Centaurs record, and makes it another hour before he tells Boodram to please fucking stop.

“I heard far worse back in Montreal and they never apologized for shit.”

“Cool,” Dykstra says, pausing to take a water break where Shane, Boodram, and Marlow are waiting to run through another drill. “So we’re gonna kick their asses next week, right?”

“Have we ever beaten Montreal?” Boodram asks. “In like, the past ten… fifteen years?”

Twice. Shane checked. Ottawa really does suck. Both times were before Shane was on the team for Montreal, who also sucked back then.

“We’ve never beaten Hollander,” Dykstra calls out cheerfully, ignoring the glare he’s getting from Gervais for not paying attention. “Hollander is one of us now!”

“You gonna sit around braiding your fucking hair all day?” Ilya barks from across the rink.

Bood, who is practically fucking bald, shouts, “You’re one to talk, Goldilocks!” It’s true, Ilya’s hair is a lot longer than all of theirs. He’s gonna have to start tying it back soon.

“Less talking, more skating!”

It’s Marlow who barks a laugh, but Boodram who, almost shyly, asks, “Is he like this off the clock?”

No. He’s not. He’s exhausted and in pain. Here, on the ice, is the closest thing he is to the Ilya of before.

Shane just smiles.

Marguerite has her hair pulled up from her face when she next takes a seat across from them on the couch. It makes her look all business, which Shane appreciates. He’s diverting all his energy into not vibrating on the spot. Ilya is doing that for him. He fidgets nervously, his knee bouncing as he picks at his thumbnail with his fingers or scratches his ear. When he spots someone watching, he goes very still, a prey animal caught in a predator’s sight line, instinct telling him he needs to attract as little attention as possible. Shane fucking hates it. Ilya’s made to light up a room, to fill it with sunshine and humor and a little bit of chaos.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Marguerite says to Shane, giving Ilya a moment to settle. “The City of Ottawa is lucky to have you.”

The City of Ottawa has lost its damn mind by the sound of things. There are grown men crying in the fucking parking lot. Apparently, that’s a good thing, Ilya says. Shane isn’t sure how, but he’s also not sure he cares. The transfer is all that matters. Ilya is all that matters. The rest is noise.

“You have the results?” Shane gets right to the point. He doesn’t know if he wants there to be any major red flags in there. He wants Ilya to have a win, for there to be some way of improving things in his life, but he’s equally uncertain of what it will mean if there’s an ‘easy’ fix everyone has somehow missed.

Marguerite doesn’t seem offended by his bluntness. She probably has to deal with worse. That doesn’t excuse him. Fuck, fuck…

Ilya’s hand curls around his. “You are more nervous than I am,” he mumbles, squeezing tight.

Marguerite looks between them, then smiles gently. “I’ll jump right to it. When we spoke last, I told you I wanted to run a pharmacogenetic test to see if your current stack of medication had any chemical red flags.” Ilya nods out of the corner of Shane’s eye. Shane isn’t sure he’s breathing. “Well, it came back with a couple.”

“Is that bad?” Ilya asks, chewing on his thumbnail before stopping himself and settling his hand on his knee. Shane squeezes the other.

“It’s not good or bad, it’s just data. One of the things we looked at is the enzymes in your liver. Think of them as one of the body’s chemical workers. Their job is to break down certain drugs so you can use them properly or clear them out of your system. There are lots of different kinds of enzymes, and they interact with different chemicals in different ways. What I was particularly interested in is something called the CYP2D6.” She’s staying fairly slow and even in her explanation, presumably to give Ilya time to process in English.

“Okay…”

“Your test came back showing that you are a CYP2D6 poor metabolizer. That means one of the liver enzyme systems that helps process certain drugs doesn’t work for you at the usual rate. It is not an illness. It is just the way your body is built. But it does have an impact on the medication you take. I understand that Boston prescribed Venlafaxine when you went to them with your concerns?”

Ilya nods slowly. They’ve told him they’ve recovered some of his files from Boston. They‘ve told him they think they’ve been doctored. But they haven’t been able to give him any answers beyond that. Not yet. Sasha wants to know for sure if their poor excuse for care played a part in what happened… Shane is pretty fucking sure that’s what Marguerite is saying.

“Venlafaxine is one of the drugs that depends heavily on that pathway. For somebody who is a CYP2D6 poor metabolizer, that means that you’re particularly vulnerable to some of the harsher side effects. I don’t know what your starting dose was, but I do know it was increased far more quickly than I would ever be comfortable with, even in someone without your metabolism.”

“What does that mean?” Shane’s voice sounds very far away to his own ears.

“Among other things, if your body can’t process Venlafaxine properly, it may not treat symptoms of depression as intended. It can lead to insomnia, agitation, anxiety, akathisia-”

“I don’t-” Ilya swallows heavily and shakes his head. “I don’t know that one.”

“Restlessness,” Marguerite says kindly. “The need to keep moving parts of your body.” Ilya, whose knee is still jumping, goes very still again. Her gaze darts to Shane, almost in warning, before she continues. “You remember I told you that your current medication might be suppressing some of the worst side effects?” Ilya nods. “Well… another side effect, one that is more common in the early stages of treatment, or when doses are changed, can be increased suicidal thoughts and behaviors.”

Jesus fucking Christ…

“So what,” he chokes, clinging to Ilya so hard his fingers ache. “What are you saying?”

She addresses Ilya directly. “I’m saying that if a patient came to me with your symptoms after you were admitted to the hospital, knowing what I know from your pharmacogenetic results, knowing what medication you had been prescribed, and the fact that you had access to alcohol, I would be looking at a chemical root case before an emotional one.”

Shane hears nothing but the flutter of his own pulse against his eardrums. The room is a vacuum.

His hands skitter, cold and damp, over Ilya’s. Ilya is staring at the table, lips pressed into a hard white line. For a horrible, bottomless second, Shane thinks he's going to fold right off the couch, but he stays upright, even as the whole world tips toward the edge.

Ilya tried to kill himself. That’s the central truth they’ve been circling around for so long now. Weeks for Shane, and that’s been almost more than he can stand.

Ilya tried to kill himself, and failed, and that one act has led to years of almost incomprehensible suffering. It’s left him permanently altered, vulnerable to the kinds of exploitation and abuse Shane’s never imagined another person capable of.

It’s taken everything from Ilya. If not for the people who love him, it might have taken even more, might still be taking more, and… and it was one thing, finding a target for all that anger tangled up in the knowledge that his proud, stubborn, self-reliant Ilya was in enough pain that he sought help and was let down so badly.

It’s something else to hear Marguerite say those words and know that maybe, maybe, none of this ever would have happened if they'd made a different call.

That instead of simply failing to stop it from happening, the steps Boston took led him down that path.

The sob that crawls up Shane’s throat wedges in there tight and catches behind his jaw. Beside him, Ilya’s shoulders hike up, a protective shell, and he stares at Marguerite with a look like he just needs her to say it plain. “It… it was accident?”

Shane forces himself to swallow and almost throws up.

It wasn’t a fucking accident. This was something done to him.

But he knows that’s not really what Ilya is asking.

What he’s asking, with the broken hope of a child who has held that word tight to his chest since he was twelve years old, is if the thing he’s hated himself for really isn’t his fault.

Marguerite, with a professional’s distance, maybe doesn’t know that. It’s important that Shane gets there first. He wraps a hand around the back of Ilya's neck and tips him in sideways until he can press his lips to Ilya’s crown and smooth his hand through his hair.

“Yes,” he says firmly, trying to infuse every ounce of authority he’s ever possessed. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Ilya lowers his head, the line of his shoulders locking up, the only thing keeping him on the couch the anchor of Shane’s arm around him. There’s a stricken, pre-cry rasp in the hitch of his breath, but he doesn’t break. He forces it down, starves whatever’s trying to crawl out of his chest, and nods once, sharply. Shane can’t see any real relief in him, just the blank, stunned muscle memory of a man who’s practiced hiding misery for decades.

Shane waits. He would take it on himself, every shard, if he could. But the best he can do is grip Ilya’s hand until Marguerite’s voice floats back into the space between them.

“So… what happens now?” he asks Marguerite, careful to keep the wretchedness from his voice.

Marguerite’s gaze holds steady. “Now we make a plan. Venlafaxine is a rough drug to transition in the best of circumstances and -”

“I… I have to work,” Ilya shudders, pulling himself reluctantly from Shane’s arms so he can face the choices head-on. Shane has no fucking clue how he does it. He’s half a breath away from folding in on himself like a dying star and taking all of the world out with him when he implodes.

“I appreciate that,” Marguerite nods. “A leave of absence is out-”

“-of the question,” Ilya snarls. “I don’t care if it is shit. I can do it.”

“Okay, well, I’m not going to propose anything drastic for now. We’re going to start transitioning you onto a metabolically safer alternative, such as Sertraline. What I’d like to do is slowly start reducing the Venlafaxine - and I do mean slowly, this isn’t something I’d be comfortable rushing in anyone, let alone someone with your co-morbidities. For the first week, we are going to taper your dose by a couple of milligrams, and if everything looks good, we’ll start you on a microdose of Sertraline and increase it as we lower the Venlafaxine.

“That could take months,” Shane frowns, knowing Ilya’s dose. “If it’s that bad a fit-”

“We’ll monitor as we go, but this is something that could take twelve weeks or more, yes,” Marguerite agrees. “My biggest concern is the seizures. This isn’t going to be an easy process, and the last thing we want to do is compromise the balance you’ve already got. The Venlafaxine isn’t my only concern, and there will be consequences in the changes you need.”

“Like what?” Shane demands. “What other concern?”

“Shane,” Ilya says softly. Shane shudders and forces himself to lean back.

“We're not going to touch your seizure management. Levetiracetam stays. That’s not negotiable. Right now, your safety is paramount. Amitriptyline, however, is another drug you can’t metabolize well. That is something I want to phase out once we’re confident you’re holding stable coming off the Venlafaxine. That’s likely going to take us to the end of the year. Deepening how you’re feeling, we will either wait until then, or we can explore options earlier, but I am going to strongly recommend we reduce both Clonazepam and Quetiapine as soon as safely possible. There’s nothing wrong with how you tolerate either of them, but they are heavily sedating, especially in a stack. As your body starts to regulate itself without the influence of the Venlafaxine, it is likely both these drugs in their current dose will heavily contribute to your feelings of fatigue and struggle focusing.”

“So,” Ilya starts, hesitant and hopeful, “if I do this, and stop the drugs, I will be better?”

Marguerite leans forward, her elbows on his knees. “You still have a brain injury, Ilya. With the best will in the world, there’s no changing that. But what I am certain of is that we can find you a better quality of life. It’s going to be hard, but you’re possibly the toughest man I’ve met so I have no doubt you can do it. Things won’t go back to the way they were before the… accident, but they can be better.”

Ilya nods, rapid and silent. “I will work very hard,” he promises her. Shane has to turn his face away from both of them.

“I’m certain you will,” Marguerite says warmly. “But that does lead me onto the next thing I would like to discuss with you.” Shane turns back, forcing himself to focus. “You have been through some of the most traumatic experiences a person can survive, Ilya.” She sets her hands in her lap, the movement measured, then meets his gaze directly. “Most of your recovery has been spent surviving, just keeping yourself alive and functional. But now that your situation is more stable, we need to talk about your mental health. Not just as a function of medication, but as a response to what you’ve endured.”

Shane feels a ridge of tension form in his spine. He wants to say Ilya’s managing fine already, but that would be bullshit. He can count the things Ilya has lost: his mobility, his career, his safety, his confidence... his trust in his own body and mind. The only thing not on that list is his stubborn, furious refusal to give up, which is the only reason he’s even sitting here.

She gives a little tilt of her head. “I strongly recommend trauma-focused work. It may be that you can do it with my wife, Galina, who is a Russian-speaking colleague who has experience working with patients suffering both acquired brain injury and post-traumatic stress, or I can recommend a number of other professionals who work in the field if you’d feel more comfortable. We don’t need to assign labels to everything, but it is very likely you are experiencing some symptoms of PTSD.”

Ilya makes a sound. Not a protest, not really, just a defeated rush of air. Shane is surprised he doesn’t shake his head or laugh it off. Maybe he saw it coming.

Or maybe it’s just exhaustion. Shane’s exhausted, and it’s not his fucking life being turned inside out.

Marguerite temporarily turns her focus to Shane before returning to Ilya. “The reason I’m recommending this now,” she says, carefully, “is because as we reduce the sedating medications, you're likely to experience a resurgence of things you've maybe been numb to. Not simply the post-injury symptoms we’ve discussed, but also the emotions and traumas that have been dulled by the pharmacological stack. This isn’t a bad thing, but sometimes it can be overwhelming.”

“It’ll get worse before it gets better,” Shane translates, voice gentle.

Ilya shrugs his right shoulder, like that’s already a foregone conclusion.

“I didn’t say that to frighten you,” Marguerite clarifies softly. “Only to give you context, and to say that anything you do feel, or remember, or struggle with during this period… none of it is a sign of failure. It’s normal to react with anxiety, with grief, even with physical agitation. We need to monitor it, and you need to have support in place appropriate to the challenge.”

She doesn’t say what Shane already suspects: Ilya is about to walk through the fire on legs made of straw, and maybe he’ll come through, or maybe Shane will spend the rest of his life holding pieces with nothing to glue them back together. That’s his fear, anyway. He thinks of the Paris Report once again, and the confused, highly traumatized man Sveta and Sasha rescued in Russia.

He has no fucking clue how he’ll be able to handle it if Ilya were ever to be that scared of him.

It’s this, not the promise of months on end of chemical tornadoes to endure, that turns Ilya mullish. “I stayed inside for a few years. Not traumatic, just boring.”

“Ilya…” It’s Shane’s turn to sound pleading. It costs him every fucking ounce of self-control to remind him of the scar on his ankle from where his fucking psychopath of a brother had him in fucking chains.

“Shane.”

“It’s not something you need to decide on now,” Marguerite says. “How about I send you over some information on your options for you to review, and we focus on getting your prescriptions sorted for today?”

Ilya turns his head away, refusing to answer. After a long moment of silence, Shane sighs. “Sure, thanks.”

“If you’re happy to share your upcoming schedule for the season, I can structure our reviews to be in-person, with calls while you’re traveling. I’d like to keep them daily for the first few weeks, which might seem like a lot, but once we’re both happy you’re coping well with the transition we can adjust that schedule, does that work for you?”

Ilya just nods shortly.

Shane has already signed a retainer for her time, and that covers any and all medication, tests, or services Ilya might need.

“I’d also like to suggest something for you, Shane,” she adds. Shane blinks and stares at her.

“Me?”

“I’d like to suggest you speak to a psychotherapist.”

It takes him a second to realize she’s still looking at him. “Me,” Shane repeats, cautiously. “Why?”

She doesn’t flinch. “It’s not uncommon when a partner or family member goes through a sudden health change, especially one involving brain injury or mental health, for the caregiver to need a little extra help. In your case, given the significance of the changes to your work and living situation, I think a support structure is prudent. If you’d like, I can refer you within my network.”

He’s not sure whether to laugh or be offended. “Am I not managing?” he asks, too fast.

Her smile is kind and measured. “I suspect you’re managing by working twice as hard as you need to. That’s both admirable and risky. You’d never go into a season at less than peak physical fitness, yes? Think of this as setting a baseline, so you’re at your best mentally as well.”

Ilya, through it all, looks at him with a curious glint, the faintest edge of a smirk fighting through the exhaustion. Like he’s scored a goal in an empty net, and he wants the world to see it, even if he’s too tired to celebrate. “Ha,” he mutters, “so competitive, Shane Hollander.”

“Fuck you,” Shane responds, without even thinking, and it makes Ilya snort quietly.

Marguerite looks pretty fucking amused herself. “Having the support of a caring partner can’t be overlooked in cases like these. If you want to look after each other, that means taking care of yourself, too. Both of you.”

“Fine,” Shane mutters. “Send me the details?”

Marguerite nods, businesslike, and gathers her things. “I’ll pass on recommendations to both of you. There’s no obligation, just options. And with your permission, I’ll share these updates with the rest of your team.”

She’ll give her reports to the lawyers, that’s what she means. Solid, biological, irrefutable proof that Ilya was put on a drug he couldn’t tolerate. The expert-witness testimony lurking beneath the surface says Boston should bear full fucking responsibility for what happened next, and the only thing worth arguing about is intent.

Ilya’s staying out of those conversations. He doesn’t understand the point, not right now. He’s letting Shane do what he wants and not expending the energy where he doesn’t have it to spare. Maybe that will change, now he knows. Once he really understands.

Once there is someone to blame other than himself. Shane fucking hopes so.

When Ilya nods, just a tiny jerk of his head, that hope blossoms.

Marguerite leaves with the same quiet softness she brought in, and the silence settles around them. Shane’s aware of every inch between his hand and Ilya’s, tense as a tripwire. He waits. He’s getting better at waiting.

He just… doesn’t know what to say. Having Marguerite to keep them on topic might’ve helped delay reality long enough for Shane not to tip into an immediate panic attack, but now she’s gone, there’s nothing at all between them but the harrowing understanding of the truth.

“I didn’t…” Ilya says quietly. “I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to…”

Shane’s used to crawling into his lap and crowding his space and surrounding him with his body, the same pressure and reassurance he gets in that blanket that puts him out like a light. This time he does the opposite, and draws Ilya into himself, and Ilya, who is still so broad in the shoulders, with his long legs and long arms and big hands, curls up small in Shane’s lap.

“I know.”

Shane holds him, cradling his weight in the cage of his arms, rocking him absently in a slow circle. Ilya is stiff at first, cold and braced and unyielding in the muscles of his back, but when Shane murmurs his name, he shudders and the tension splinters.

There’s no wild sob, none of the animal noise that sometimes comes when you squeeze the last resistance out of a person. Instead, Ilya just sags until Shane’s chest is taking more and more of his weight. His head bows forward, curls tickling Shane’s ear, and for a few minutes, all he does is breathe in these shallow, frantic sips, trembling so hard Shane feels it in his own teeth.

He wants to say something fucking reassuring, but his mind is a churn of useless whitewater, none of the words he needs making it to the surface. “Not your fault” seems so fucking empty.

Instead, he presses kisses to Ilya’s shoulder, his temple, the top of his head. He moves his hand up and down Ilya’s back, a palm-wide sweep, careful not to hover too long in any one spot. Ilya doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he needs the persistent contact, because slowly, tears leak through the fabric of Shane’s t-shirt. He lifts his hand and clutches at the small gold chain at his throat.

“I didn’t mean it,” Ilya mutters, not in English, just a hoarse, confused coil of Russian. “Didn’t want to. I didn’t try, I wasn’t-” His voice collapses, and the hand at his throat goes white-knuckled on the cross. “I wasn’t - wanting-” It cuts off. Another shudder. “I don’t want to go. I never want to go. Not even then. Not ever.”

Shane shakes his head and holds him tighter. “I know, baby, I know.” He barely recognizes his own voice. “It’s not-”

But the words die at the threshold. How the hell can he tell Ilya that he believes him? How can he explain that there’s a difference between blame and responsibility and bad fucking luck? That even if he did mean it, that doesn’t mean he deserves everything that has happened to him. That pain and depression and hurt aren’t fucking moral failures, some flaw to be rooted out and punished? That he’s enough, as is? That the world is full of people who love him and would take his pain on themselves if they could?

How does he say any of that when there’s so much else to it? How does he explain to a man who has been abused and betrayed by his own fucking family that the world doesn’t even have to be malicious to be cruel? How does he help Ilya unpack any of that, how does he convince him there are people who won’t hurt him, who never would, without offering up the bones of Sveta and Sasha’s sacrifice, or the proof of his own broken heart, or Marlow’s shattered life? How does he direct the blame for any of that without eroding the little trust Ilya has left?

Fine, he needs a fucking therapist.

Then Ilya, in that same wounded, confused voice, says, “-an accident, mama,” and Shane fucking loses the ability to be rational. He knows what the word means to Ilya, but that isn't what this is.

He shifts Ilya around until he can put a gentle palm on both of his cheeks. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says furiously, his eyes wet and his voice broken, “but it wasn’t a fucking accident. Your fucking doctors did this to you. They saw you were in pain, and they gave you the wrong fucking drugs, and they watched you get worse and worse, and instead of stopping it, they gave you more. And your fucking Coach knew. Your management knew.” Shane’s pretty sure his agent knew as well, but that’s a step too far even for now. “They did this, and they’re going to fucking pay for it.”

He expects Ilya to retaliate, to spit something cutting back, but instead he just bows his head, soft coils of hair hiding his face, and nods. Not even a full nod, just a single, shamed drop of his chin. There’s no fight left in him, not now. Shane’s own anger can’t find ground without Ilya as an equal and opposite force. He tries to calm down, but there’s nothing but Ilya to focus on, so he keeps on, voice lower but no softer. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Ilya doesn’t answer, though his chest is hitching less and his hands are steady and slack. Shane slides his hands up to Ilya’s shoulders, holds tight, and draws him in, rocking them both in an arc that’s more of a cradle than an embrace. It’s the closest he can come to making things right.

If he’s honest, he didn’t know what to expect from the results of the test. Maybe relief. Maybe vindication. Maybe some clean, cold verdict that would explain or reverse the last three years.

He’s wanted something to blame, some easy fucking redirection of the terror that’s lived behind his ribs, one that ignores all of Ilya’s reassurance and says, “You did this. You left him. You broke him. You drove him to this.”

Here it is. Something tangible to point at and lay the blame.

And it makes no fucking difference. He doesn’t feel any fucking better.

His rage, which he’d thought would burn white hot for a minute and then evaporate, keeps boiling without release. It burrows into his bones and settles, ugly and immutable, into a new part of him. If he could rip out those snippets of medical records, hunt down every fucker who signed off on them, and force them to stand here and admit what they did, he would. But it wouldn’t matter. It won’t give Ilya back the years he's lost, and it won’t give Shane back what he should have been able to save. Nothing will, and he’s only now starting to appreciate the permanence of it.

Ilya, maybe, gets there first. He blinks his eyes open, not all at once, but in tiny shivering shifts. He looks… not better, but exhausted past the threshold of humiliation, returned to that strange, bleak composure. He mouths a silent apology, then nestles closer, relying on Shane for ballast.

The sound he makes is almost a laugh as much as it is a sob. “You will never let go, will you, Hollander?”

“Never,” Shane says, and means it. He’s not sure whether he’s holding Ilya together, or vice versa.

There’s a thick, marrow-deep silence. Shane could try to fix it, fill it, but that would be for his sake, not Ilya’s. He runs his hand down the broad slope of Ilya’s back, just to keep the circuit closed, and waits.

Finally, when all the energy has drained to a steady, battered zero, Ilya says, with a little shudder, “You want story?” His voice is scraped raw. “Mama used to tell me story.”

It doesn’t take a genius to guess at the thoughts running through Ilya’s head. His own fate, sure, but now the impossible-to-prove idea that maybe his mother shared exactly his fate. Another accident.

Shane wants to say yes, but nods instead, chin bumping Ilya's curls. He keeps stroking, gentler now, fighting the urge to press his lips to Ilya’s jaw and never come up for air. He’s afraid that if he speaks, the walls he’s jammed into place will shudder and collapse.

Ilya’s voice is very quiet. “Before I was born, my brother told her, ‘No boy. You will have a girl.’ Even doctor said. It will be girl.” He gives a tiny, bitter huff. “But when I am born, it is me. Papa was happy, he wanted more sons.”

Ilya’s never spoken about his mom, not really. Shane has no idea what she looked like or who she was, but the fondness in Ilya’s voice makes him picture an angel. Someone kind and beautiful and entirely without flaw.

“She said I was born under a lucky sun,” Ilya whispers. “Said Belobog was smiling on me, the moment I came into the world.” He gives a shaky little laugh, and his shoulders roll, the heat of him huddled close.

Shane has to check himself, the word unfamiliar. “Who?”

That cracks the smallest, most brittle smile on Ilya’s lips. “Belobog. White God. Old pagan thing. My mother’s baba was very superstitious. In Russia, there is Black God, and White God. Chernobog and Belobog. Good and bad fighting forever.” He makes a vague gesture, hands nearly still in Shane’s lap. “If winter is hard, and you survive, is Belobog’s doing. If spring is cruel, and you die, is Chernobog. They live in us, she say. Competing.”

Shane’s spent enough time around other hockey players to know that rituals and omens live in the marrow. “So you’re the lucky one?”

“Hmm.” Like it’s all a matter of science, clean and proven. “Handsome, funny, good at hockey-”

“Super humble,” Shane snorts.

“Yes, that, and most perfect man in the world is in love with me.”

Shane kisses him, slow and deep. He doesn’t disagree, but he’s not sure he agrees, either.

“She would call me Belun… means the same thing.” His voice drifts a little. “Sveta does too, sometimes. She knew me back then and… and maybe it was a better fit, I don’t know. When she died… I didn’t feel so lucky.”

All Shane can do is hold him tighter. He doesn’t know what Ilya is trying to tell him, or even if there’s more to this than just a redirection of this latest hit.

“I thought I cannot be this thing, this good luck, not when I make everything worse always. I must be opposite.”

“Name one fucking thing you’ve ever made worse?” Shane protests.

“I made mama sad, disapointed my father, my brother hates me, I broke your heart… I destroyed Cliff and Sveta and Sasha’s lives, I let everyone down and-”

Shane kisses him, hard and determined, just to make him fucking stop. He mashes their mouths together, bruising and fierce, his hand in Ilya’s hair and the other flat against his back, trying to crowd out the words before they can multiply. He lets go only when Ilya melts against him, lips slack and open.

“None of that,” he mutters, right against Ilya’s skin. “Not one fucking word of that is true. You didn’t ruin anything. That’s not on you.” He curls his fingers into Ilya’s hair and tilts his head, forcing him to meet his eyes.

Shane kisses him again, pushes in until the pressure in his jaw hurts, until he’s sure the boundaries of their bodies must be permanently fused. “There’s nothing dark about you,” he says, and it comes out cold and technical, that familiar analytic slant that’s deepest in him when his heart is in his mouth. “You’re not evil. You’re just… you’ve had shit happen to you. That’s all.”

Ilya’s laugh shakes through him, a short, ugly vibration that settles in Shane’s chest. “Chernobog isn’t evil. He is darkness, yes… but he isn’t evil. He only makes the world bad for those who deserve it.”

Shane doesn’t blink. “Who decided you deserved it?”

“Shane-”

“I’m serious! Not to like, shit on your cultural beliefs or-”

“is superstition, not belief-”

“Tomato tomato,” Shane grumbles. “I’m just saying bad shit happens to good people, and good shit happens to bad people, and it has fuck all to do with them, it’s just, like, a fluke of the universe or-”

“Whim of gods?”

“Ilya!” God, Shane is in love with an impossible, ridiculous, infuriating man! “This isn’t your fucking fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re not cursed or unlucky or bad or evil or any of those fucking things, and even if you were, none of that would make what’s been done to you okay!”

“But-” Ilya’s eyes are so wide and so bright. Born under a lucky sun, maybe not, but born to be loved by one and the same.

“No buts. No argument. You didn’t deserve this. It wasn’t your fault.”

Ilya looks at him, unblinking, for an endless, silent stretch. He tries to look away, but Shane cuts him off at the pass, steady palm at his jaw, thumb catching at the hinge so there’s nowhere else to go but here.

He’s shaking his head, the denial writ so hard into his face it threatens to score into bone, but his mouth doesn’t open. He can’t argue. There’s nothing left to give.

A single tear rolls, etching a new path through the high color of his cheek. Shane catches it, presses his thumb hard enough under Ilya’s eye to pin the pain in place, and says, again, “You didn’t deserve this.” He says it until it’s all that there is. Louder than his heartbeat, until it’s the only thing left. “You didn’t. You didn’t. You didn’t.”

Ilya closes his eyes. He doesn’t shudder, doesn’t sob, just lets gravity have its way with this rising tide of his heartbreak. He’s so silent with it, so angry and contained, that when Shane finally pulls him in for a kiss, the taste of salt on his lips is fierce and shocking.

He holds Ilya’s face and kisses him as if nothing else can matter, as if it’s enough to chase the dark myths of his childhood from the room by sheer force of will. He’s never been superstitious, but for all the things he can’t fix, all the ways the system failed, he’d give up every rational, scientific thought in his head if it meant some god would show mercy. If any power out there had eyes to see, it would know: Ilya is what’s good in his world. He is hope and fire and stubborn, terminal belief in something better. He’s not the darkness, never has been, never will be. If there are any gods, Shane wants them to see: this man is untouchable, and Shane will fucking die before letting anyone else lay a hand on him.

He cradles Ilya’s face, forehead to forehead, breathing together until the tears slow and stop, and the only sound is the residual tremble in Ilya’s chest.

He knows it’s not over. It will never be over. Not so long as the people who did this to Ilya wake up in their safe little beds and don’t fear the consequences of their choices. Even then, it might never truly be over.

If it takes the rest of his life, if he has to destroy every last one of them personally, so be it.

He doesn’t believe in gods. His superstitions are practical. But for a minute, he lets himself pretend that he does. That the figures whispered into being by a mother who loves her son are real and work exactly as Ilya believes they do.

If Chernobog brings suffering only to those who deserve it, then let Shane be his fucking sword.

Chapter 24

Chapter Notes

Sorry this is a little late. Work was working a lot today.

And I am sorry in advance for the end. All I'll say is that it had to happen at some point, and it does lead to (at least) one good thing in the next chapter.

Content warnings: seizures, vomiting, and other bodily fluids.

“Shane! That was a hell of an opening game! You’ve got everyone sitting up and paying attention to Ottawa for the first time in years. How do you feel about that?”

Shane’s done thousands of these over the years. They’re part of the job. Weirdly, he almost prefers them to some of the other social and publicity-centered things that are expected of him, both as Captain and as Shane Hollander. Yes, the press can fling some shitty questions at him, and they ask him, a gay, non-white player, things they’d never ask someone else, but he’s trained for it, and he knows how to field the things he’s willing to talk about and the things he’s not. More importantly, there’s a rhythm and a set of rules that are fairly straightforward to follow. They want to know how he’s going to win things, why he’s not winning things, and maybe a spicy soundbite to generate a few hundred hours of content for the pundits to dissect between games. That's basically it.

“I think tonight is a good indication that the team has a lot to offer. We’ve a solid mix of highly experienced veterans and promising new players. It’s early days, but I’m excited to see where the season takes us.” Maybe when they’ve had more than a handful of hours together to practice, things won’t be so messy.

Yes, they won. And yes, a great deal of it was down to Shane, who scored two of their three goals. But it’s also down to Marlow, who’s maybe played the best game of his career in three seasons, and Haas, who scored his first goal of the season in his first game of the season and was nearly squashed to death under the huge pile of players who tackled him gleefully right after. It’s down to Hayes, who is ten times better in goal than the best goalies Shane’s ever played with, and Boodram, who has the uncanny ability to know exactly where his teammates are at all times. And Dykstra, who has never had a track record for brawling before tonight, and has clocked more minutes in the box in this one game than he has in his entire career, just putting himself between Shane and anyone coming for him.

There are some players who are going to have to step up their game, sure. Dillon isn’t fast enough to keep up with Haas, and the kid will need a stronger second line if he’s to really flourish. Their defenders are solid individually, but don’t gel as a unit. And there’s simply not enough belief in the fact that they aren’t exactly as bad as everyone tells them they are, which ironically makes them far worse than they really should be.

Shane’s not stupid, nor is he one for false modesty. Today’s game is a win, yes, because everyone is hyped up on adrenaline and excitement, and Shane is strong enough of a player to carry the weight of a team that doesn’t have much drive. It’ll be the next game, and the one after it that counts. It will be their first loss, and how they recover.

There’s room for improvement, and that’s… kinda exciting. For so long, hockey has been the one and only thing keeping him afloat, and he’s missed it, somewhere, that moment when genuine love for what he does just became a frantic desperation to cling on to something familiar.

He’s just played the messiest, scrappiest, most chaotic game he’s played in the best part of a decade, and it was fun.

“We’ve gotta ask,” of course they do. Shane stays perfectly still and waits them out with the lock of polite interest mom trained in him at thirteen. “You’ve had the kind of career we all expected Ilya Rozanov to have. What’s it like having him as a coach, and did that play any part in your transfer?”

That stings; he won’t pretend it doesn’t. He’s expected the questions. They’re inevitable, given his and Ilya’s history. It’s just harder not to glare the reporter down and tell him that Ilya would have had exactly the same kind of career Shane has had if he had not been fucking betrayed. He can’t say that, obviously.

“Ilya Rozanov was one of the best opponents I ever faced on the ice,” Shane says instead. “We obviously have very different styles of play-” that gets a ripple of laughter from the room, “-but it’s a privilege to learn from his experience. Coach Wiebe has big plans for us as a team, and I’m confident that we’ll see the benefit of that experience on the ice. As for my move, I know there’s been a lot of speculation. The internet has… many theories. But I’m afraid it’s all pretty boring. My family is in Ottawa, and I want to be closer to them.”

Shane isn’t the best liar, much to Ilya’s amusement, but he is really fucking good at walking those narrow lines of half-truths and obfuscation.

“There’s rumors coming out of Montreal that your previous locker room was deeply divided, and things were pretty tense with the team. Any truth to them?”

Theresa, their Director of Comms, starts to intercept the question, but Shane answers before she can. He has to address it once if he wants to avoid adding fuel to the fire. He doesn’t envy J.J. having to wrangle his own questions after his game tomorrow.

“Montreal was my home for a long time,” Shane says truthfully, “and I think our track record as a team speaks for itself. I wish them nothing but the best for the season.”

“What about reports of-”

“Let’s stick to tonight’s game, please,” Theresa cuts in. There’s a quiet rumble of discontent from a room that clearly wants more gossip, until the question inevitably comes as to whether Shane thinks the team has a chance at winning the Cup this season.

“Never say never, but maybe let’s aim for the playoffs first…”

There’s more laughter. Ottawa is happy, the team is happy, and Shane… yeah, he’s pretty happy, too. They’re gonna wrap this up, and he’s gonna go find Ilya and help him pry Haas off the ceiling, and then they’re gonna go back to Ilya’s place and sleep together side-by-side.

Everything else is shitty and scary, and there’s more anger than lactic acid in his body, but this, at least, is something good.

So the plus side of having Shane on the team - or one of many - is that they’ve actually won a game. Their first game of the season, which is obviously fucking awesome.

The downside of having Shane on the team is that the whole fucking arena is packed. If their pre-season games have been a lot, it’s absolutely nothing compared to the sound, chaos, and wild overstimulation that comes with a ravenous home crowd, especially when their team is captained by the Crown Prince of Hockey himself, and fucking wins.

Obviously Ilya loves Shane, and he very much loves winning, too, but they won 3-1 which means Shane didn’t technically need to score his second goal, and the sound team didn’t need to blast their third victory song, and Ilya’s brain didn’t need to drag his ass out of the tunnel between the second and third period so he could go puke his guts up.

He’ll feel differently later he’s sure, but all his lingering energy has gone directly into encouraging the boys as they’ve bounded around the locker room in dizzying circles of glee and now he’s fifty, maybe seventy-five percent dependant on the wall he’s leaning on to keep him upright.

Marly, who, bless him, has won enough games by now that he’s not nearly as hyped up as the rest of them, gives him that patented half-scowl stare that means he’s both worried and annoyed. Ilya has to fight the urge to flip him the bird. Can’t do that now he’s a coach.

He’s never been the first to leave a locker room, never wanted to be that guy, the pussy who can’t hack the heat, but the decibel level is crawling up the base of his skull and his vision is fencing itself off into smaller slices every time Brandon calls instructions over the postgame blare. Haas is singing, or maybe it’s yodeling, he can’t even be sure, and every time someone yells “fuck yeah!” it spikes through Ilya’s eardrums so sharp it’s almost sickly. Wincing is out of the question; he just keeps his jaw locked and his expression even, nothing but good-natured amusement for the way Boodram is trying to dump a water bottle down the back of Dykstra’s jersey. By the time the attendant comes in with the postgame stat sheet, the white noise is so thick it hums in Ilya’s bones.

He digs his nails into the palm of his hand, leaves crescents he can focus on for a second, and threads the names on the stat sheet into a litany. The numbers come easier than the sounds; they line themselves up in his mind without effort, building a little dam against the chaos. Bright spots, small stabilities.

“Hey!” That’s Cliff, arms folded. “You good?”

“Fine,” Ilya says, hoping it comes out neutral, not the dead air the answer is actually drifting in. He doesn’t say “Fuck off,” because again, he’s a coach now, not a player, but without that defense mechanism, he’s circling closer to a spiral of panic.

Cliff looks back at him the way he always used to after a two-game road trip, measuring what’s left. The same intuition. He nods, barely, and nudges Haas out of his lane with a colossal arm. “Hey, Coach,” he says, just loud enough for Ilya to track through the ringing. “I wanna talk about that shift change second period. I don’t think I handled it right, you got a minute?”

“Leave the man alone, Marlow,” Brandon warns, but then he seems to change his mind and waves them both away.

Ilya shrugs and follows, and pretends he doesn’t actually need the hand that’s on his back for balance as they leave, pace slow until they’re behind the door and halfway up the first flight of stairs, then even slower. Every meter away from the main cluster of bodies strips five percent off the volume; by the time they hit the third floor, Ilya can breathe through his nose again.

Then that comes with a wave of mortifying dizziness that nearly pitches him right back over, and it’s only Cliff’s arm wrapping around him to physically haul him the rest of the way up that gets him to the top.

It’s an active effort not to flinch. Even when Ilya was at his fittest, Marly was bigger, and he’s sure as shit stronger now, and it’s different with Shane, even if he can’t quite describe it. All he can really think of while he’s being half-carried up the stairs is that there’s no one else around. The state he’s in, if Cliff wants to hurt him, he’ll probably do just as much damage to himself trying to avoid it. Better to just go lax and stay quiet and -

He’s set gently down in the big, soft leather couch that sits opposite Sveta’s desk in her office. The lights stay off, and it’s quiet up here, just a low rumble of sound far, far away, and Cliff down on his knees next to him, worried and pale.

The fuck Rozanov? In what fucking world would Cliff ever hurt him? This is the man who literally saved his life. Shame rises fast and comes with a wave of nausea that has Cliff scrambling for the trash can just in time for Ilya to start wretching violently. He’s down to bile and stomach acid, which tastes and smells fucking disgusting. Cliff just waits him out, then grabs a little bottle of water from the mini fridge and hovers until Ilya drinks a third of it.

“Fuck,” Ilya groans, letting him take the can and set it aside, “sorry.”

“Eh, how often did I puke on you back in Boston, huh?” Cliff sidles closer, his presence a dark shadow breaking up the perimeter of Ilya’s vision, and leans in with a low, “Jesus, you about to pass out?” It should be an insult, but the hand that lands on Ilya’s shoulder is solid and careful.

“No,” Ilya starts to shake his head and immediately regrets it. He only needs to see one of Marly's ugly mug. “Is fine, just-” he flaps one of his hands in a way he hopes explains ‘a lot’.

“Why’re you doing this, Rozy?” Cliff asks, his voice soft. “You don’t got shit to prove to anyone.”

“No,” Ilya grumbles. “I should just stay inside in dark and quiet and do nothing but breathe and sleep and take up space.”

“Did I fucking say that?” It’s weird, but for a man as notoriously hot-headed as he is, Cliff’s pretty fucking patient with him and always has been. “You can do whatever the fuck you want. I’m just trying to understand why you’d want to do this when you clearly feel like shit?”

“So…” Ilya says, pulling a roll of mint gum out of his pocket because this isn’t the first, hundredth, or last time he’s needed to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. He takes a swill of water and spits into the trash can, then starts to chew furiously. “You’ve clearly been here before.”

“Nice. Subtle.”

“You and Sveta.” Ilya rolls the gum to the other side of his mouth. “Tell me.”

“Make me.” Marlow scowls at him from the arm of the couch, then answers anyway. “You were in fucking Russia. We got sad, we got high, we fucked. End of.”

“Right,” Ilya says flatly, watching him carefully. Because they’re so cozy together now after one meaningless night together…

“We’re not changing the subject.”

“Want me to puke on you next?”

“Can you stand up without passing out?” Cliff tilts his head. “Because I don’t think you got the range.”

“Gimme an hour, and I’ll get back to you.”

“I mean it.” Cliff folds his arms, unimpressed. “Why are you doing this to yourself? Stay at home. Be a WAG. Don’t make yourself fucking sick.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Ilya scowls, staring at the ceiling. He’s not even sure he understands.

“So explain it to me!”

“Learn Russian,” Ilya tells him. “English words don’t work so well to make it make sense.”

“Sure.” Cliff stands, rolling his neck. “Give me five to fifty business years, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Can we not today? Please?” Ilya closes his eyes for just a second. “I’m fucking tired. Just… let’s have a win, yes?”

Marlow hangs his head. “Fuck, fine.” He grabs his jacket off the desk. “You promise not to die if I go find Hollander?”

“Cross my heart, I will do my best to god and scouts and whatever the fuck.”

“Jesus, sit tight.” Cliff leaves the room with the trash can. Ilya, feeling guilty, drags himself off the couch and over to Sveta’s desk, looking for the little bottle of scent she likes to spritz after the room has been ‘invaded by gross, sweaty men’.

Jesus, this is game one. One of many. He’s not sure he can do this. He feels like he’s been hit by a fucking train.

But what can he do? This is what he wanted. This is the life people have begged, borrowed, and stolen to get him. The one people have stepped on landmines to clear a path for him to take.

And now Shane has thrown away his team, his city, and his life, to be here with him. Marly too. He owes it to them to at least see it through for a season. He can’t quit. He won’t.

He just has to be sure he’s not made to quit.

There’s a little executive bathroom next to Sveta’s office. He drags himself to it, digs the spare toothbrush he knows lives under the sink out, and cleans his teeth. He checks his reflection, hard to see without turning on the light, grimaces, and splashes water on his face.

Tie straight. Shoulders straighter. He doesn’t lean on the wall on the way back to her office, just takes one slow, careful step at a time.

He wants to crawl under her desk and stay there until morning, but he has places to be, and people to smile for. Just a few more hours. Then he can handle tomorrow. And the day after that.

Shane knows where Sveta’s office is. He’s glad Ilya’s found somewhere quiet to wait after the chaos that was the locker room.

The lights are off and he doesn’t bother turning them on, knowing he’ll find Ilya on the couch. Everything smells overwhelmingly of pine trees. It makes his eyes sting a little, and he startles when a large hand presses against his sternum and pushes him up against the wall.

“Hmm, that was very hot,” Ilya mutters against his throat before biting at Shane’s earlobe. It makes him shiver, the warmth of Ilya’s hands settling at his waist familiar and exciting.

Okay, so… he’s okay. Thank fuck. Ilya sucks his earlobe between his teeth until Shane shudders. Better than okay maybe…

“Two messy goals were hot?” He aims for casual and misses by a mile.

“You winning is always hot.” Shane isn’t sure he’s always felt that way, especially when playing against him, but then he’s always found Ilya unfairly attractive even when he’s beaten Shane. Fuck, sometimes especially when he’s beaten Shane. “Know what’s even hotter?” Most of his weight is pressed right into Shane, his body pitched forward so they’re pressed together from the knees up.

“What?” One day, Shane won’t turn into a puddle at the sound of his voice. One day. Not today.

“Being able to cheer for you in public,” Ilya murmurs, and oh fuck yeah… that’s really hot. Ilya’s wins are his wins, his wins are Ilya’s.

Shane shivers all over. “Fuck…”

“Hmm, yes. I think so.” Large hands cup his ass and squeeze. “Time to congratulate my Captain proper.”

Shane has to push him back, both his hands on Ilya’s arms. “If you make me come in my pants,” he hisses, fighting the urge to squirm, “I will never forgive you.”

Ilya looks inordinately pleased with himself. “You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you? Without my hands… without my mouth. You’d come for me if I told you to.”

There’s literally nothing Shane wouldn’t do if Ilya told him to. He’s sure as shit not admitting that now.

Shane’s a little in love with the ache that persists, post-game. He’s never felt so fucking alive, not since Ilya left Boston, not since before they were both ripped out of each other’s orbits. It’s a wild, giddy thrill that lives inside of him whenever he and Ilya share the same space, and there is a puck between them. It’s old and familiar and thrilling. If he closes his eyes and lets himself hide in the dark, then he can pretend for a second that it’s the two of them, the way they’ve always been, the taste of sweat and blood and excitement all they need to push them both over the edge.

He can pretend nothing has changed.

“Yes,” he breathes pathetically. “God, Ilya…”

“Hmm,” Ilya sounds so fucking satisfied, so pleased. Shane gave him something he’s wanted, gave him the win, and that hopeless part of him needs only to be anything and everything Ilya wants from him. “Would be very awkward then, sitting in a car with everyone.”

That draws Shane up short. Right. Because he doesn’t live alone right now, he’s just… crashing in Ilya’s place. Alongside Svetlana, and Sasha, and Cliff fucking Marlow. Shane’s never had roommates in his life, and now he’s got a fucking gaggle of them and not a single one of them has any sense of fucking boundaries. Sveta drove all four of them, and she’s going to drive them back, and they’re going to eat a meal together because that’s what he does now, he’s sociable, and… at least he's already said good night to his parents.

He needs to buy somewhere. Or make Marlow buy somewhere. And both those options mean disrupting the very delicate ecosystem of support that has been built around Ilya, and there’s no way in hell Shane can do that to him now.

“You’re an asshole,” he tells Ilya, who knows well and good that he’s gotten under Shane’s skin without any intention of delivering on it for another few hours at least.

“You would like for me to be fucking you over Sveta’s desk?” Ilya asks him, all sweetness and light.

Shane likes Sveta, and he already can’t look her in the eye most of the time. He won’t be able to be in the same room as her if Ilya does that.

“I hate you so much.”

“Yes, but you are so pretty when you are angry.”

Shane isn’t really angry, but he gets the impression that Ilya just enjoys any kind of reaction he can provoke. “Fuck you,” he says, because that’s what he always says.

And Ilya kisses him, because that’s what Ilya always does. He tastes overwhelmingly of mint.

“We will go home,” he says, and it’s maybe not home as in the sense that it’s Shane’s, but it really is home in the sense that it’s with Ilya. “And we will have boring food, and I will take boring drugs, and we will talk boring things, and then we will get into bed, and you will hide that pretty, angry face in my pillow, and I will eat you out until you cry.”

Shane’s brain does a hard reboot.

Still, he has to ask… “Tonight was a lot. We don’t have to…”

Ilya bites his bottom lip gently. “I’m not saying I am up for Olympic gymnastics, but I am pretty sure I can make you come on my tongue without passing out.”

There’s a thumb on his chin, and a purr to Ilya’s voice, and it’s everything and more than they used to be. Ilya’s doing okay, and Shane hasn’t disgraced himself in the eyes of the entire hockey community, and maybe it’s okay to have this if they’re sensible.

He nods, swallowing hard.

Ilya flashes him a grin and smacks him on the ass. It’s not as hard as he might’ve done in the past, almost sweet instead of taunting.

He makes sure he walks a little behind Ilya as they head out of Sveta’s office and down the hall, then in front of him as they go down the stairs. Ilya isn’t fast, but then Shane’s thighs are pretty much done with him for the day already, so it’s not like it’s a problem for either of them, and the joy of a good night is enough to distract him from the discomfort of his semi-hard dick when he regroups with Sveta and Cliff at the car. Thank fuck for good tailoring and a strategically positioned gym bag.

He lets the two of them stay together up front and sits in the back with Ilya, who puts his hand on Shane’s knee but is otherwise very well behaved on the drive back.

Sveta gives Ilya her usual once-over when they all climb out of the car, and now Cliff has started to do the same, but Ilya just waves them both off impatiently. It gives Shane a little thrill.

Once they’re inside, Sasha, who has his laptop open as always and his spine arched in a horrifying curve as he leans over it, just grunts at them. “I assume you didn’t lose.”

“Like you weren’t watching on TV,” Sveta mocks. She and Cliff head over to the kitchen counters and start fishing out some of the meals they’ve got prepped. “Go get changed,” she calls back to Shane and Ilya, “be ready in five.”

Shane’s ready to be out of his post-game suit, and he’s ready for Ilya to be more comfortable. He looks insanely good in smart tailoring, but Shane knows he prefers softer, loser things.

It takes maybe thirty seconds for Shane to strip off the suit and shirt, folding them with the care he’s inherited from his dad’s side of the family. His fingers are clumsy getting the button undone on his slacks, nearly cramping with the leftover adrenaline still running wild in his forearms. He’d brought exactly five changes of clothes with him since the transfer, all of which hang neatly next to Ilya’s in his closet. Shane is a little obsessed with looking at them hanging side by side.

He makes a note, between the boxer-briefs and the hoodie, to figure out how to get more shipped over. Maybe next week. Maybe this weekend, if he can pawn off the task onto the assistant Mom is determined he will hire. Ilya curses softly as he wrestles with his tie, tugging it loose and leaving it hanging over the corner of the bed. Shane picks it up and hangs it for him.

“Be back in a sec?” He’s not so much asking if he can leave as he is asking if Ilya’s going to be okay for a few minutes. Ilya doesn’t answer, more preoccupied with scowling at his watch.

Shane ducks into the bathroom to pee. He’s gone for maybe three minutes.

When he gets back, Ilya’s sprawled out on his side, one shoe still on, his shirt half unbuttoned, breathing deeply.

Shane's heart jumps to his throat. He dives forward, checking for a pulse beneath the open collar. Ilya’s brow furrows, and he pulls away from the touch, not awake, but not unconscious either.

“Ilya?” Shane reaches up and brushes the hair back off his brow. This time, Ilya leans into his touch. The mumbled words he manages are in Russian, slurred enough that Shane only really gets the sense of protest.

His heart is still pounding, but he keeps things practical. He unfastens Ilya’s second shoe, then peels off his socks. He carefully tugs off his slacks and manhandles him up to get him out of his shirt. Ilya wakes up enough to try and help, which only results in Shane trying to wrestle a man who is all uncoordinated arms. It’s fucking difficult, and kinda frustrating, and honestly would be easier if Ilya just let him do it, but he’s not awake enough to register that he’s making things harder.

It’s frustrating, but then maybe it’s not really Ilya he’s frustrated with. Of course he’s exhausted. He’s exhausted on a day where he does little more than stay awake for a few hours at a time. He’s been up and functioning in a high-pressure, wildly overstimulating environment for hours now.

It’s just…

He’d been okay, hadn’t he? Did Shane miss something? He’s seen Ilya crash often enough now. He wasn’t like that. He was flirty and teasing and fine.

He throws back the sheets on one side of the bed, and instead of trying to wrangle him under them, lifts him up and carries him around to the other side so it’s easier. Ilya goes slack and still the minute he’s in Shane’s arms. Shane doesn’t want to let go, but he does.

Once he’s safely tucked under the covers and Shane’s convinced himself he’s breathing that deep, even way he does in sleep, he pulls the door half closed behind him and steps into the living area.

“He’s out,” he says, not to anyone in particular.

Marlow has his mouth full of carrot when he answers. “Not surprised. He was puking his guts up in Sveta’s office earlier-” his gaze darts in her direction. “I left the trash can out for cleaning, don’t worry!”

Sveta doesn’t seem concerned. “I have lost track of the times he’s thrown up on me,” she shrugs, plating up the freshly heated meals. She pops one back in its container and leaves the lid ajar for the heat to escape.

He takes a hesitant step closer, feeling weirdly out of sync with the rest of them. “He seemed okay. Earlier.” Was that before or after he ‘was puking up his guts in Sveta’s office’ he wonders. After, most likely. That’s where Shane found him.

Sasha snorts. “Luylya is always fine until he’s not, and he will hide it from you if he can. I told you, he is very difficult.”

How the fuck is he meant to look after Ilya if he can’t tell the difference between normal-exhausted and actually-in-trouble? It’s not like Ilya is about to help him out by saying, ‘hey, warning, I am running out of juice and about to faceplant.’ Even Sveta, who has mastered every micro-expression on Ilya’s granite face, seemed to miss it tonight. Or maybe she just knows the drill: unless Ilya’s actively dying, they are all going to pretend he’s not. Shane’s supposed to spot the warning signs, but it would fucking help if Ilya didn’t actively try to hide them until it’s too late. Or maybe he doesn’t, and they’re right there for him to see, and Shane’s just not good at reading them.

He’s not sure where he fits here, if Sasha and Sveta are supposed to be the designated parental units, and he’s some kind of… well, he doesn’t know. It’s not like he’s never dated someone with an entourage before, but even Rose Landry doesn’t come with a staging area for collapsing after a night at work.

“I didn’t realize he was so good at hiding it,” Shane says, quietly, more to the open fridge than Sveta. “It’s normally more…” Obvious, he wants to say, then feels guilty, because maybe obvious just means so fucking bad Ilya can’t hide it anymore.

Only a day ago, Shane stood in this same kitchen and helped Sveta decant pill organizers for the next week. Ilya watched both of them carefully, his eyes tracking the new doses from Marguerite, each pill crushed, measured, and decanted into little capsules in the most regimented personalized routine Shane’e ever seen. It felt like a win, being allowed so much involvement. Sasha even talked him through the rescue meds Ilya needs if a seizure goes on for too long. He knows how to use the little syringe now. He has his own to keep on him, just in case Ilya loses his. It’s in a little case that makes his wallet way too bulky for his pockets now.

He’s prepared himself as well as he can for every eventuality, knowing that today of all days might be bad. That the game is the biggest and the most intense one Ilya’s been at yet, and that he’s only two days into a new medication plan.

Between them all, they were ready for anything.

This… isn’t bad. He’s fucking glad it’s not bad. This is exactly the kind of anticlimax he likes. It’s just… for a second there it felt better than just ‘not bad’. It felt like before.

Ilya is safe. He’s sleeping. He’s just fucking tired, and that’s not bad. It’s good! It’s…

He picks at his dinner absently. Should he wake Ilya up now, or later? He needs to eat, needs to take his meds…

Marlow takes away his empty plate. He doesn’t recall a single thing he ate.

Sveta and Cliff both lean into Ilya’s room to check on him, then head up onto the roof.

“It’s a marathon,” Sasha tells him, still focused on his laptop. “Not a sprint. Take the fucking wins where you can find them.”

Shane doesn’t know how to explain that he is without sounding like he’s lying. He decides not to try.

“What are you doing?”

Sasha pokes at one of the keys in annoyance. Shane’s spent a decent amount of time with him now, working in the same space, and it’s gone a long way to undoing all his Hollywood notions of what a hacker actually does. He seems to spend most of his time complaining to himself and poking at the same few keys. Maybe once or twice a day, he’ll make a little ‘aha’ noise, but apparently that doesn’t mean anything.

“Convincing myself not to mail Alexei a gallon of moose shit,” Sasha grumbles.

“Don’t let me talk you out of it,” Shane shakes his head. He moves close to peer over his shoulder, which just makes Sasha flap his arm like Shane is a fly. It doesn’t make any difference when everything is all in little boxes of code or Russian. “But I thought you were supposed to be staying hands off?”

“I am hands off. I’m not touching his accounts, because that would be breaking several international laws and your expensive lawyer will frown at me.” Shane raises his eyebrow, waiting him out. Sasha might be capable of staying silent for long periods of time just to spite people, but he’s got nothing on Shane. “Fine! Your father and his gang of militant accountants are having the exact same problem I have always had.”

“He said the banks were being difficult,” Shane nods. Obtuse is the word dad used, wearing a frown that pulled his eyebrows together.

Sasha’s already done a huge amount of the legwork when it comes to tracking down the various accounts Alexei has used to siphon money from Ilya over the years, but between the court order giving him legal guardianship and the fact that Ilya’s been sending his family frankly astonishing amounts of money throughout his entire career, the red tape waiting to tangle them all up is seemingly unending.

Their best bet is and always has been to attempt to have Alexei’s assets frozen before he can offload everything. Shane’s still a little surprised that he hasn’t, at least until dad’s explained, or tried to explain, Russian financial systems.

“It would be difficult enough coming from within Moscow,” Sasha admits. And they have that already. Both lawyers and forensic accountants and three separate investigators, all poking the machine that is Alexei and Katya Rozanov from every angle they can. “But they really don’t like západnik interfering.”

“So you’re trying to… what? Send him one of those Nigerian Prince emails in the hope he just hands over his logins, and we can steal it all back?”

“Tempting,” Sasha grins. “But no. I don’t know what I’m doing. Giving myself a bad day, maybe.” He drags his hand through his hair tiredly.

“So Russia is the problem?”

“Isn’t it always?”

“No, I mean…” Shane is thoughtful for a second. “So in hockey-”

“No hockey analogies!”

“Just… hang with me,” Shane pleads. “You played, I know you did, so you know what I’m talking about.”

“Hollander-”

“If we’re trying to break a team’s defense, we have two options. We lure them out so we can take advantage of the extra space on the ice, or we make the space that they’re occupying so inhospitable and overwhelming that they have to move to survive the onslaught.”

Sasha frowns at him. “What are you saying?”

Shane shrugs. “I don’t know, I’m not… this is not my area of expertise, but if you’re telling me Russia is the problem, then let’s just take it out of the equation. Lure him out, or make it impossible for him to stay where he is.”

“We can’t lure him out. He’s got everything he wants.”

Shane isn’t so sure, but when the only thing he possibly could want is Ilya, he’s sure as shit not about to test the theory. Besides, he knows what tactic he wants Sasha to settle on.

“So we drive him out of Russia, that’s what you’re saying?”

Shane shrugs one shoulder. “You think it’s an option?”

The bark of laughter that escapes Sasha’s mouth is a sound he’s starting to hear more often. “I think I can do something.”

Ilya’s meetings with Marguerite are at different times daily. When he’s in Ottawa, and they’re training, they’re scheduled for early morning, before he even heads to the arena. On game days, they’re just after lunch, giving him time to sleep in longer. On travel days, they are entirely at the whim of Sveta’s scheduling.

It’s the end of week one. He’s been… mostly okay? Not sleeping so well, maybe, not at least not feeling as rested when he wakes up, which is kinda grim because he’s not exactly felt rested before. He’s maybe a little more bouncy, often finding his knee or his fingers or his arm folded into Shane’s big hand as he squeezes and grounds him.

The headaches are shit, as always. The dizziness is shit, as always. He’s been throwing up more, but then he’s been doing a lot more, too, and that always leaves him nauseous.

But today he’s been… mostly okay. He slept fitfully, which means Shane slept even less, and he feels bad about that, but overall... he doesn’t feel half as bad as everyone is worried he will.

The worst of it is just falling asleep in weird places. He lasts only a minute or two in the car before he’s out, his head against the window, or Shane’s shoulder. He’s fallen asleep standing up and only avoided falling flat on his face because Cliff wedged him between a shoulder and the wall. He falls asleep in his breakfast twice and has to change his shirt.

He sleeps a lot, but then that’s nothing really new, either.

He says as much to Marguerite, gets his gold sticker for the day, and her sign-off to shave another two mg off his dose next week. She promises him that if he can go the month creeping down a fraction at a time without fucking himself up then they can look at decreasing the dose by 5 whole mg.

Look at him go!

So now he’s got the shrink stamp of approval on his fucked up body and can pretend to be normal for twenty fucking minutes before Shane is back from whatever he’s doing with his parents and his lawyers, and they have to get themselves ready for the drive to Montreal.

First away game of the season and it’s against them. Go figure.

Shane’s saying absolutely nothing, which Ilya knows means he’s refusing to think about it.

He really, really hopes Montreal finds just a scrap of fucking decency and doesn’t make the night miserable for everyone.

Nor fucking likely, though, is it?

So he has a plan. Or the start of a plan at least. Not to make Montreal better, but to show Shane he has something outside them that's better. Sprawled out on his stomach, his cheek on Sveta’s though, he delivers his orders to Marly, who obligingly writes them down on color-coded post-it notes and arranges them on the inside door of Sasha’s wardrobe. Sasha, hunched over his laptop on the stool by the window, is refusing to be any help beyond offering up the odd sarcastic note of feedback.

“I don’t know,” Cliff shrugs one of his shoulders, neatly writing the words ‘WATER/LAKE’ on a blue note. Blue is for ‘venue’, not ‘water’. “Hollzy doesn’t strike me as the overly sentimental type.”

“Shows what you know,” Ilya grumbles, directing him to add the sticky note to the top of three columns. He has really neat writing for someone whose hands are the size of dinner plates.

Cliff hums, amused, and slaps the note next to another blue labeled ‘HISTORIC CASTLE?’ He’s broken one of Sveta’s favorite pens, fidgeting with it, the cap’s plastic torn jagged where his teeth got to it. “Far be it from me to rain on your parade, but isn’t this supposed to be his thing? The OCD organizational shit? You sure he’s okay with you doing all the planning?”

“You think Shane wants to plan a wedding?” Ilya asks, raising an eyebrow. Shane’s too busy plotting revenge plans that won’t lead anywhere. Ilya’s happy enough to just let him burn it all out of his system. You don’t try to stop a man like Shane from doing something once he’s set his mind to it; you just wait until he loses enough steam for you to divert course. “If it were up to him, we would sign a form in the courthouse and call it a day.” He knows this because Shane’s said exactly that, relieved and content to have his future signed and certified with zero fanfare because he cares less about marrying Ilya and more about Ilya not being swept away in the night by his shithead brother and his brother’s shithead friends.

Which… Ilya also doesn’t want, so yeah, he’s totally on board, but…

But he doesn’t want zero fanfare. He wants… he’s not sure, exactly, but it needs to be good enough for Shane. It needs to be worthy. If that means inflicting a little forced romance, so be it. Shane’s not got the monopoly on mushy. When Ilya still had all his brain cells, he was one epically romantic guy. Kinda. He wanted to be, at least.

So yes, Shane’s marrying him so he can get a better Visa, and yes, Ilya is marrying Shane so he can get a better Visa, but also they love each other and want to be together forever, and he will be dead and fucking buried before one more person takes one more good thing away from them.

“He’s a control freak,” Cliff says, not unkindly. “Not sure he’s really a ‘show up and be surprised’ kind of guy.”

Ilya stretches an arm up and fumbles a yellow sticky from Marly’s palm. “Shane has other things to control,” he says, “so he trusts me to make this epic. Or at least… not a disaster. Also, if I am working on a distraction, I will not spend every minute freaking out over Montreal.” He doesn’t intend to voice this last bit, but Cliff just gives him a look that says ‘I know, idiot,’ and scribbles ‘PRIVATE’ on the sticky with star-shaped bullet points.

“Besides,” Ilya continues. “He thinks he’s the control freak. But secretly love when someone does heavy lifting. He wants to be swept off his feet with a big, embarrassing gesture, I know this.” He says it like it’s a grave, cosmic secret and not the simplest thing in the universe. Obviously, they all know this about Shane. Or they should. If they had eyes that they used.

“Sure,” Sasha drawls, not looking up from his laptop, “so the answer is to make us look at color themes for an hour.”

“Was five fucking minutes,” Ilya tries to scowl at him, but his head is at the wrong angle. “And cohesion is not optional,” Ilya says, rolling to press his other cheek to Sveta’s thigh, because she is warm, and the pressure helps the way the world keeps tilting whenever he’s got his eyes open too long.

“So go with red, black, and gold,” Sasha tells him. Ilya wants to crow a little because he pretends not to care a bit about hockey, but he knows all the different team colors.

“I am not having a Centaurs-themed wedding.”

“I could get corporate to sponsor it,” Sveta muses.

“No.” Ilya is putting his foot down. Metaphorically.

“Well, we ain't going with blue, that’s for sure as shit,” Cliff rumbles.

“We are not getting married,” Ilya stresses. “I am getting married. To Shane Hollander. The best and most beautiful hockey player in whole world.” He gets a giddy thrill that he can say that out loud.

“And I am your fucking party planner, dipshit,” Cliff reaches over to stick an unmarked pad to his forehead. Ilya flicks it off, misses by an inch because his depth perception is fucked, then flaps at it like a particularly fucked off cat. “Okay, let's park the colors. Catering?”

“You can’t have a macrobiotic wedding,” Sveta shudders.

“Yes,” Ilya says firmly. “We can. If it’s important to Shane, it is important to me, and if I have to eat sawdust wedding cake, you must also suffer with me.”

“Must we?”

“Yes.” He may need to get two cakes made. One for responsible people like Shane, and one for people made up mostly of caffeine and sugar, like Haas. Obviously, no one who is not boring will want the responsible cake, which means Ilya can give Shane a whole cake just to himself.

Can frosting be macrobiotic?

Ilya will not have beige tablecloths. Ilya will not have chafing dishes rimmed in curling pink-and-white tulle, or bouquets of fat droopy flowers that smell like a funeral parlor. They will not get married at a function hall or a ‘riverside chalet’ that is really a cement box with a deck. The city’s a sea of places like that, marinated in the aesthetic of a wedding as seen through a thousand sitcoms, every element forcibly optimized for Instagram.

If Shane is going to be stuck with him until the end of time, the least he can do is drag the man through something as ridiculous and over-the-top as he’s always wanted for himself.

All the more reason to do this with style: a proper, real, ridiculous wedding. He wants gold-leaf desserts and weird menu translations that make Cliff squint over finger foods, and a suit that’s not even a suit but some mythical hybrid of disco and early-aughts minimalism, and for Shane to stand at the front as the most handsome, best-dressed man in the world, freckles under a special spotlight. He wants Sveta to sniff helplessly while pretending not to be moved, and for Sasha to unwind his spine enough to have fun again. He wants them all standing together for a photograph, and he wants it to be a thing they remember. Them, together, as family.

He’s not sentimental. His entire emotional landscape is paved over with painful silences and the panicky fear that any moment of happiness will come with a booby trap. But he is greedy, and he wants more than a courthouse. He wants a fucking parade. Just a little one. An excuse to stand up tall and point at Shane and say, “Yes, look, he loves me, and I love him, and he’s mine.”

“You’re being so picky about the food and the colors,” Sasha mutters, blowing a strand of hair from his forehead without looking up, “you might as well go all-in. Rent out one of those art deco hotels, get a big band, make everyone wear tuxedo.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, a little too fast. “But not art deco. Is… too cold.” He wants warmer, wants old wood paneling and somewhere the echo of heels on marble means something, like the world is a cathedral built for people like Shane. “Maybe Drake. Or… what is one with big staircase?”

“Fairmont?” Sveta hazards.

Ilya nods. Shane needs a staircase, obviously, to complete his transformation from the shy, insecure man who didn’t fit in his own skin, to Captain Hollander, wrecker of franchises and holder of Ilya’s heart. If Ilya is being honest, he wants to see Shane come down that staircase at least once in his life, dramatic and impossible. Preferably into Ilya’s arms, with a thousand eyes and at least two dozen photographers to commit it to memory for everyone who’s ever doubted Shane’s importance.

Or fine, like, at least ten people and someone with a decent iPhone.

Somewhere between the two.

“You’re very extra,” Sasha says, side-eyeing the pile of post-its growing on the table. “Your boyfriend would marry you in a fucking McDonald’s if you asked.”

Cliff shakes his head rapidly. “That’s a no on the Mackies,” he says, grimacing. “He dragged me in one to sober me up, and he looked like he wanted to peel his own skin off the whole time.”

“No McDonald’s,” Ilya says firmly. “And no Timothy Hortons.”

“I think it’s just Tim-” Sveta laughs.

Ilya scoffs. “I have not met him despite playing hockey in Canada many times.”

“He’s super dead, bro,” Cliff laughs.

“Is shit excuse,” Ilya huffs.

“I am just saying-” Sasha cuts in before Ilya can derail them. Focus, Rozanov. He pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger. “Hollander would marry you in a gas station. You don’t need to worry.”

Ilya wishes his hands were steady enough to throw a pen at Sasha’s head. He settles for mashing his face deeper into Sveta's leg. “Shane is only saying that because he thinks he is not allowed to want anything nice,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “If someone else is excited about it, then he will be excited, too. And then he will admit he wants the best wedding, and then we will win.”

“Jesus fuck, you two assholes are the most competitive fuckers I’ve ever met,” Marlow laughs.

“Yes.” Ilya agrees. “But I am most competitive.”

There’s a coach to take them to Montreal. It’s better than flying, which is on the docket for the end of the week when they play a game in Philly. Ilya’s only flown once since leaving Russia, and that was on the flight from Paris. None of them is really sure how he’s going to handle it. Shane’s main plan is to just stick to him like glue and wave a water bottle in his face every few minutes because dehydration makes everything ten times worse than it already is.

But today, it’s fine. Just a nice, calm, two-hour drive with a bus full of obnoxiously loud hockey players.

To keep up some semblance of professionalism, Ilya takes a seat at the front between the window and Sveta. He has his hoodie pulled over his head, sunglasses on, and a little earpiece in.

Shane sits two rows back so he’s properly with the team. He takes the aisle seat, though. He plans on making a nuisance of himself if necessary.

“Right!” Brandon says, clapping his hands cheerfully as the coach pulls out onto the road. “New on-the-road ritual.”

Everyone perks up, hanging on his every word. After their last win, Shane’s pretty sure Brandon could introduce mandatory facial tattoos, and they’d be lining up eagerly.

Shane pays attention because he knows what’s coming.

He braces, expecting some kind of initiation for the FNGs, or a mandatory team bus karaoke, but Wiebe surprises everyone by holding up a little bronze bowl and announcing, “Mindfulness. We’re doing a team meditation before we hit Montreal.” The bus collectively groans. Brandon ignores it.

“Look, you all know I’m a new man this season, right?” he says, tapping a little metal rod on the bowl. “We’re never gonna take playoffs if we’re hopped up on Red Bull and TikTok brain rot every second. And before anyone groans - yeah, I see you, Dykstra - it’s not just me. You think Shane Hollander over here-” a head-jerk in Shane’s direction, “-is popping off with two goals a game just on whey protein and dead lifts alone? No. He meditates before every game.” Brandon says it with such conviction that even the rookies look interested.

Shane does meditate, technically. It’s less ‘clear your mind’ and more ‘forcibly occupy your brain with a single thought so you don’t have to think about any of the others.’ He’s never called it that, but it doesn’t matter. Brandon’s selling it, so: sure, fine, he meditates. He’s not about to argue in front of the team.

“Here’s how it works,” Brandon continues. “We go for twenty minutes. Phones off, eyes closed, nobody speaks, nobody moves. If you have to fart, hold it in. If you sneeze, you ruined it for everyone and have to buy the next round. Deal?”

Even Marlow plays along, peeling off his headphones and giving Brandon a ‘you’ve got three minutes before I fall asleep’ look.

“Let’s go, then,” Brandon says. “Find your happy place.”

Shane closes his eyes because that’s what’s expected. Immediately, every muscle in his back is aware of the sticky vinyl of the seat, and the ambient bus noise ricochets around in a way that’s impossible to block out. He tries the breath thing he does in yoga. It’s supposed to slow your heart and convince your lizard brain that everything’s fine.

If the past taught Shane anything, it’s that his lizard brain cannot be tricked.

He gets to the fourth inhale before the anxious itch returns, insistent: Montreal. The place where he spent seven years building a life. The place he never really left so much as evacuated. He didn’t tell any of the guys he was transferring. He hasn’t spoken to anyone. Not a single person. He’s not sure if that means he owes them more or less of an explanation.

They’ll be gunning for him. They’ve already anticipated that. Hell, Shane’s whole line is under strict orders to do whatever’s necessary to keep Shane clear.

He wouldn’t put it past some of them to play dirty just for a little payback. Fuck, they left him wide open to attack when he was their Captain sometimes. Now they have a legitimate excuse to try to break his knees.

“Om,” someone says loudly from the back. Shane doesn’t know them well enough yet to know which one it is.

“Get zen, fucknuts,” Boodram snaps.

“Bite my hair balls you-”

“Breathe in,” Shane says loudly, not opening his eyes, “and count to seven.”

The quiet is good for Ilya. It’s less fun for Shane, but you can’t really stack shitty thoughts up against a brain injury, can you?

He can deal with it.

Twenty minutes is a lot longer than he remembers.

They end up doing it three times. About fifteen minutes into the first set, someone lets out an enormous belch. Wiebe has them reset.

The second time, they only make it to five minutes before Haas gets a case of the nervous giggles, and it takes nearly ten minutes to calm everyone the fuck down.

Wiebe doesn’t yell at them. It’s not his style.

They could maybe do with a little yelling.

The third time is better.

After that, they all just naturally fall into their little groups, doing their own thing, scrolling on their phones, talking, reading… whenever they get too rowdy, Wiebe chimes his little bowl.

Shane needs to get one of those.

By the time they get to the hotel, it’s early afternoon. They have a couple of hours to check into their rooms, settle in, and then head into the arena.

Shane feels a little like he’s going to be entering the Collusium.

The only upside is that he gets to share a room with Ilya. He’s not sure how Sveta’s wrangled it, but he’s grateful.

The kid she works with, Ashi, he thinks she’s called, is handing out room allocations. Ilya is standing in the middle of the lobby, his back to Shane. Waiting, Shane presumes, to be handed their keys. Shane’s got both their bags, one over his shoulder, the other in his hand.

Everything is second nature by now, but he’s got half an eye on the glass lobby doors and the hotel’s rotating cast behind the check-in desk. There are reporters pressed up against the revolving door; a couple have cameras. Even with all the noise, it’s weirdly peaceful. Like just before puck drop, when the stadium hushes for the anthem. The boys are less hyped up, already calming into that pre-game focus now they’re here, and Shane is no more or less able to rid his minds of circling ‘what-ifs’ then he was before.

Then, in the space between one shuffle and the next, Ilya sags forward. It’s both slow and horribly abrupt, nothing really noticeable until it’s all happening at once. Sveta tries to grab him, but Ilya’s already collapsing. He doesn’t stumble or flail: he just crumples, knees buckling, shoulders concave, straight down to the floor.

Marlow, who is closest, manages to snatch his arm and catch him before he clips his chin on the marble, but it’s not enough to stop his impact entirely.

It’s not what Shane expected. He’s imagined, sometimes, lying awake in the dark, running through disaster scenarios because he can’t help it, what it would look like: Ilya thrashing, biting down on his own tongue, bones snapping, blood everywhere. He’s done the training with Sasha and scoured the internet, watched hours of YouTube videos laying out all the instructions, but in his head it’s always a red-alert situation, apocalyptic. Sirens and screaming.

Ilya just… drops, like someone unplugged him. No wild flailing of limbs. No warning. His cheek bounces on the smooth tile, and then he’s there, left hand twisted under his chest, right curled against the floor. His mouth sags open, but nothing comes out, his eyes half open and showing only white.

For a second, nothing happens. Even Sveta is frozen, kneeling with her hand lifted mid-reach. Then everything detonates. The whole team moves as one organism. They’re shouting, but Sveta’s voice is louder than all of them: “Back! Step back!” She’s on her knees at Ilya’s side, steady hands on his shoulders, telling Marlow to turn him, gently, as she pulls off her sweater and lifts Ilya’s head just enough to slip it between him and the floor.

Cliff’s face is drawn, white-knuckled as he leverages Ilya onto his side, keeping his head from bumping again as the seizure kicks in.

It’s so… contained. They’ve always been so much more dramatic and violent in Shane’s mind, but this is so far away from what he’s imagined.

That violence, such as it is, is locked inside the cage of Ilya’s bones. He shakes and shudders, his whole body stiff, heels occasionally scrapping the floor.

The rest of the team, all of them physically gifted, all of them trained for violence and chaos, are standing helplessly off to the edge, like penguins ringed around a hole in the ice.

Time fractures. Shane knows he needs to move, but can’t. He’s outside his own body, arms dumb at his sides, while some animal part of his brain screams at him. He can’t make his feet work. Sveta tells Cliff, “Start timing.”

He fumbles for his phone, voice trembling as he says, “It’s been like, what, ten seconds?”

The team doc Terry is there a second later, but he doesn’t do anything Sveta isn’t.

“Keep counting,” she says, rocking forward and switching to Russian. “You’re safe, sweetheart, it’s okay, I’m here.”

He wants to get down on the floor, push through, and touch Ilya’s hair, his hand, anything, because he’s not sure Sveta’s sweater is enough to protect his terrifyingly fragile head from more damage, but he’s still stuck in molasses, watching the whole thing from the opposite end of a telescope. He’s never felt so inept in his life.

People are talking… hotel staff, probably, someone’s calling 911 even though they all know it isn’t necessary, it’s just what you do, isn’t it, you call for help even if help won’t come any faster. The voices pile up, echoing off glass and stone, but they’re nothing compared to the sound that comes from Ilya.

It’s a kind of ragged, pained breathing, not a gasp, more like a whimper strangled off at the root. He has no color, lips nearly white, skin wet and slicked.

The world is so small and loud that Shane doesn’t notice the pain of his knees connecting with the marble, only the vibration that runs through his shins all the way to his teeth. He’s in the huddle now, half-crouched over Ilya like a human shield, his voice coming rough and too-sharp: “Why isn’t it stopping?”

He has to force air over his tongue to keep from shouting the question. Ilya’s body is still locked up, neck corded, jaw clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek looks about to rupture. His lips are a shocking, sick color now. His hands curl in on themselves, nails bitten short but still threatening to cut into his own palm.

“Ilya… Ilya, come on, you’re okay, you’re okay… Sveta,” Shane says, louder, “it’s not stopping.”

She’s already digging in her purse, the zipper splitting open, hands steady as machinery. She doesn’t answer him, doesn’t look up, just comes out with an orange-capped cylinder in one hand and the little folded card in the other. Her thumb snaps the plastic, and she tears it free of its wrapper with her teeth, not even bothering to check the dose.

Four minutes, thirty-four seconds, someone’s saying. Cliff, he thinks, but maybe it’s just someone from the team echoing from far off. The world has funneled down to the length of Ilya’s body and Sveta’s arms, to the slow, paradoxical way time bruises itself open and then bleeds out in half-seconds that each last a year.

Shane tries to make himself small, out of the way, but he can’t stop. He wants to run his hands everywhere, to convince himself of pulse and breath and bone, but his fingers keep snagging, static with terror. He ends up just curling them into his palms and leaning all his weight on them to stop himself from reaching out.

“Five,” Cliff calls, white as the stone breathe them, but still somehow focused. Of course he is. He’s been in a situation like this before and saved Ilya’s fucking life.

“Ilya, please.”

Would Shane have just stared at him on that bed, numb with terror, unmoving for so long that the precious seconds needed for a miracle slipped him right by?

Sveta turns Ilya’s face gently toward her, thumb splitting the line of his jaw so that his mouth opens. She jams the little orange cap against his gum and depresses the plunger, quick and brutal. For a second, nothing happens. Ilya’s cheek bulges, then the medication starts to seep out the edges, foam-pink at the corners. Has he bit his tongue? Is he choking on blood? Fuck, is he-

He shudders once, all the way up from the base spine, and his legs jerk violently against the floor. Shane’s chest is so tight that it feels like his own ribs might break.

“Is he…”

“It’s okay,” she says, voice lower and meant just for him. “Give it a minute.” Her hand is on Shane’s shoulder, grounding, an anchor against the panic. “You did everything perfectly.”

He wants to scream because he hasn’t done anything; he hasn’t done a thing except watch the worst five minutes of his life.

He counts every second after Sveta’s dose. One, two, three. Nothing. Ilya’s hand still trembles, fingers hooked, white at the knuckle… a minute, two, then suddenly his whole body jumps, rigid and terrifying, and his head slumps sideways onto the balled-up sweater like a broken doll.

Sveta slumps back on her heels, already starting to tremble herself. Marlow has to put his head in his hands.

Shane doesn’t wait another second. He shuffles forward, cups Ilya’s cheek, and carefully pulls him into his arms. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You’re okay… you’re okay.”

He’s not sure what he’s been expecting.

He’s not sure why it’s not this.

The world around them resolves in layers. The marble tiles, the cold seep in Shane’s shins, the damp spot on his sweatpants where liquid soaks through Ilya’s own, sharp and acidic. Shane holds him tighter, as if somehow his touch alone can shelter him from the pain and humiliation.

Further out, there’s a circle of their team; their shoes make a ring of color at the edge of his vision. Their voices are muffled, as if they’re underwater, but then one, maybe Brandon’s, breaks through and says, “Fuck’s sake - some privacy, people!”

Hotel staff are trying to help. Lots of people are trying to help. Shane looks up. There’s a perimeter now, a fence of bodies, his team making a wall between Ilya and the crowd that’s begun to gather, faces hungry. Some have phones out already, recording.

He bows his head. He doesn’t know what to do. This isn’t how either of them wanted to do this. To have the last thing left to them thrown out of the world in the most invasive way possible.

But here they fucking are.

Shane presses his palm to Ilya’s cheek, sheltering him, protecting him the best he can with the bulk that’s done fuck all to help them up until now.

Terry is guiding someone over. Someone’s calling his name.

“Let him go, Shane,” Sveta’s voice is soft in his ear. “Let them help.”

Shane lets go. It’s not like he’s been any fucking use himself.

Chapter 25

Chapter Notes

This update brought to you between a breakdown in an airport and a literal meet-cute... it's been a weird week.

Content warnings: homophobic language and online behavior, bloody imagery, and brief body horror.

That said, there is no cliffhanger, and I think you're going to be happy where we end up (if maybe not quite how and why)

SO I FORGOT HOW HOCKEY WORKS FOR A HOT MINUTE. WHOOPS!

No one particularly likes hospitals, and obviously no one likes seeing their loved ones in the hospital, but there’s something perversely calming in being able to watch Ilya’s heart rate tick steadily across the monitor beside the bed. He can stare at Ilya, or he can stare at that, and be reassured by either the gentle rise and fall of his chest, or that clear pulse on screen.

Ilya's okay. Not every seizure that requires rescue meds necessitates a trip to the ER, Sveta has reassured him, but Ilya did hit his head, and the midazolam is rough, and with the changes to his medication and the overall risk, no one has suggested even for a second that he shouldn’t be here. But overall, he's okay.

They’ve done their tests, their scans, hours of them, while Ilya is so groggy he can barely answer, and so ashamed he won't meet anyone’s eyes when he does.

They’re keeping him overnight for observation. Marguerite has been and gone, driving all the way over the minute Sveta called her. She’s spoken to the doctors. They have a plan. She's come the closest any of them have to getting a response out of Ilya. 

Shane’s only plan is to stay right here, with his fingers and Ilya’s entwined, because they’re not fucking married yet, which means anyone could just come and talk him away like they did last time.

No one can. Everyone from his parents to his lawyers to the hospital itself promises him that. But… but Shane doesn’t believe them. He can’t.

He doesn’t know what time it is. He’s not even sure he remembers what day it is. Nothing exists for him outside this room.

There’s an IV running into Ilya’s arm. Shane’s morbidly fascinated by the blossom of color already stretching out across the skin around it. He’s never really noticed it before, but Ilya bruises easily.

It’s different during a season, where they’re constantly battered day in, day out, and one or both of them was usually a little bit black and blue whenever they hooked up. It’s more obvious, without that excuse. There’s a blossom of color smudged in the imprint of Marlow’s hand on his arm below the sleeve of his medical gown, and a lurid paint of rising damage stretching out across his cheek where he hit the floor despite those best efforts. Shane half-wonders if he’ll leave his own marks from holding Ilya’s hand so tightly.

A light rap at the door stops him from working himself into a state over that.

Sveta and Wiebe enter the room.

“Hey Shane,” Wiebe’s got kind eyes, but his face is lined with stress as he drops into one of the spare seats. “How’s he doing?”

Shane has to clear his throat to speak. “Sleeping now,” he says, swallowing hard. “Shit, is it time for the game? Sorry, I’ll-”

“Game’s done, kid,” Wiebe shakes his head.

Shane blinks rapidly. Fuck. Fuck.

“I’m sorry, I-” he looks back at Ilya.

“Family emergency,” he says, shrugging. “It happens. You’re okay. We didn’t even lose.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

“But the game-”

“Shane,” Wiebe moves closer, leaving Sveta to circle to the opposite side of the bed and place a gentle hand on Ilya’s brow. “You were where you needed to be. You think I’d have even let you on the ice?”

Theriault would’ve. The only way Shane ever got out of anything was by simply not turning up. Which… he’d never done before Ilya.

“I’ll be good for practice tomorrow,” he promises. “And the game against Phily, obviously, but-”

But Ilya won’t. He might pretend he is, might force himself through, but this is a brutal reminder of just how very delicate a balance he walks with his health, and they’re firmly on the wrong side of okay right now.

“Yeah, about that,” Wiebe takes a seat opposite the end of the bed. “Been talking to management. They’re aware of Ilya’s condition, obviously. It’s been agreed that he needs at least a week to recover before we start bringing him back in on light duties. Director Vetrova and I have convinced them of the merit of allowing him to do so in the presence of his fiancé.”

Shane stares at him, not sure what he’s saying.

Sveta picks up the rest. “You’re both on leave for the next seven days. He needs to rest, and he does that best around you.”

“And I’ve known you for five minutes and can tell you’re not going to give me your best if you’re worrying about him,” Wiebe says, his voice wry.

“That’s not how this works,” Shane responds flatly. He’s been signed to play games. He’s just fucking started. In what world does anyone give him a week off after a single game?

“Think of it as us protecting a long-term investment if you like,” Sveta shrugs.

“If you want to be pragmatic about it,” Wiebe adds, “then I’d rather bench you for a week at the start of the season when we’ve time to make up any damage than have you crash out on us right before we win that inevitable Cup.” He’s chuckling. Sveta isn’t. Shane gets the impression that she’s fully committed to the delirious idea of Shane somehow turning their fortunes around in one season.

“Don’t be a martyr,” she clarifies. “Take the time.”

Shane isn’t used to concessions. There’s little Montreal would’ve denied him, but that always came with the expectation that he was on top form every single game, unless he was actually physically injured.

He’s taking the time.

“Thank you.”

Wiebe looks pleased, and a little relieved. “I’ll update the PTB. Anything you need in the meantime, you let Svetlana know. Whatever you boys need,” he says, squeezing Shane’s shoulder and taking his leave.

When he steps through the door, Mom slips in. She’s got her hair pulled up, which means she’s been arguing with someone.

“Hey, honey,” she says as she takes the seat that Wiebe just vacated and glances at Ilya. “How’re you both doing?”

“He’s sleeping.” Shane rubs his thumb over the back of Ilya’s hand, the motion soothing and even in the hopes of keeping him resting and under.

“Nothing unusual,” Sveta reassures Mom. “He’ll probably be out for most of the night now.”

“I’m not leaving,” Shane says stubbornly, warding off any attempt Mom might make at forcing him to rest.

She just shakes her head. “No one is expecting you to,” she promises. "You stay right here. I'm just going to send some emails and keep you company."

"Is it... should i be worried? About everything that-"

"All you should be doing," she says, a little gentle and a little stern, "is right what you're doing now. Everything else can wait."

Shane doesn't need to be told twice. He's running on empty, and all he has left is for Ilya. 

Ilya squints open heavy, aching eyes and blinks up at the painted ceiling above his head. The old, delicate moldings etched into the plaster are cracked with age, peeling in places where the paint is chipping. He rolls his head on the pillow and tries to remember the last time it was cleaned.

A week ago, maybe? More? They only really remember when he has an accident, and it’s been a little while.

His head keeps on rolling, searching out the place his detached mind tells him he's hurting.

There are bruises, lurid and deep, stained across his left arm. The latest cannula is dug into the thin skin on the back of his wrist, the flesh around it swollen and sore. It took Katya twenty minutes to get it in, the rest of his arm a mess of collapsed veins. After this one, she’ll have to go back to his right arm.

At least she’s better at it than Alexei. No more or less gentle, but she has steadier hands and doesn't miss the vein as often.

He pulls the blanket over his head and lies very still, the chain scraping at his ankle with every breath. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, not anymore, just itches where the skin’s grown raw and desperate. He can unspool it the length of the room, almost to the window, can lurk in any of the four corners if he has a mind to, but the chain means he can’t reach the door, which is the entire point.

Last time, he almost made it. He’d be free if he’d picked oblivion over escape and pitched himself down the stairwell instead of stumbling down each step.

The key to the door is long gone. Every other way out is barred or bolted, except the window, which hasn’t opened since his mama was alive and papa went around hammering nails into the frame, then threatened to put one through her hand for the inconvenience.

He tried, in the sleepless animal phase of the first months, to get out that way, but he never had the strength to break the glass.

Now, he doesn’t try. Now he lies in bed where the mattress sags to the depression of his hips and stares at the ceiling.

On the opposite wall, a small, flickering TV plays the same docu-series on repeat. Alexei caved back at the start, when Ilya began to realize that being taken from the hospital was less a rescue and more a relocation. He’d pleaded for something, anything to pass the hours he was awake.

Being sick, permanently sick like he is now, is mind-numbingly boring. Alexei got him a TV and a little stick that plugs into the back, which means he can watch American shows. He likes documentaries. Homes of the rich and famous, though he’s not really sure why, other than perhaps masochism.

The cannula hurts. His arm aches. His whole body. God, he’s so fucking tired.

The cannula itches hot beneath his skin. He tries to ignore it, pinching the meat of his arm with his thumb for distraction, but it heats up and up until his thoughts only orbit that one single point of pain. The stickiness of the gauze draws sweat and soaks pain into the half-healed scabs around the cannula. If he can just get it out, even for a second, the hurt will break itself apart into smaller, easier pieces.

He digs at it with his nails, picking at the tape. It peels in little shrouds, white and gummy at the edges. His fingers are clumsy, control leaving him, and returning again in stages. The longer it takes, the more it hurts, until suddenly it’s unbearable. Of all the bones he’s broken and flesh he’s split, this one little thing is somehow the most intolerable. He gives up on the tape, curls his fingers around the little plastic port, and pulls.

“-my favorite place on Earth-“

He yelps. It hurts more than he expected, a punch of pain that blackens the edges of his vision. It’s not out yet. The tube is only so long, he knows. How many of them have sunk into his body over the years now? It’s less than the length of his finger.

It’s not even metal. The needle is long gone.

Only he pulls, and pulls, and keeps pulling, and it’s still inside him. He curls bloody fingers around the thin little tube and tugs harder, panic rising as it unspools across his chest in endless coils.

God, he needs it out. He can’t stand it. It’s wrapped around his veins, nestled between muscle and bone, and he can’t get rid of it.

How much is there? It’s longer than the chain around his ankle. Longer than the flights of stairs he failed to throw himself down. Long enough maybe to reach all the way across continents and oceans and-

“Ilya!”

A hand closes over his, stopping him from ripping more of it free. It’s big and warm, calloused and gentle, and oh, Ilya is screaming.

He doesn’t remember starting.

He’s dizzy. He curls around the pain, knees to his chest, fingers pressed to the wound, terrified that the hand wrapped around his own has come to pin him down and thread another needle into his arm. To stitch him to his bed, in this room, and leave him to rot away like the disintegrating paint and moth-bitten curtains.

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay! Ilya, look at me. Look at me!”

That’s… that’s not Alexei. Not Katya.

“Shane?” He blinks, and the peeling ceiling washes out to those tiles they use when they don’t want to be bothered rewriting the lights into concrete or brick.

He’s not in Russia. He’s in Ottawa.

No. No... he’s in Montreal. They have a game. He’s-

Shane’s lovely face is blotchy and pale, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion. He looks like Sveta and Sasha do after Ilya does something stupid, or he has a…

He’s in another hospital. The cannula he’s trying to dig out of his arm is fresh and hooked up to a line of clear liquid.

Shane’s here. Shane won’t let them drug him again. Shane won’t let them take him.

Shane probably saw everything.

Ilya's breath catches in his throat, and the sound that escapes him is ugly and wet. He tries to pull away, to curl in on himself, but Shane's grip on his hand is steady and warm. Ilya's body betrays him by going slack instead of fighting.

"Don't," Shane murmurs, and his voice is so soft it cracks something open inside Ilya's ribs. "Don't. You're okay. You're safe."

Ilya's arm is throbbing. Blood is smeared across his fingers, across the white sheets, across Shane's knuckles where he's holding Ilya back. The cannula is half out, the tube glistening with red, and the sight of it makes his stomach roll.

Fuck, he’s making a mess of everything.

“It’s okay. Just an accident." Shane shifts, reaching for the call button on the side of the bed. He keeps his hand over Ilya’s despite all the blood, no doubt afraid that the second he lets go, Ilya will be fucking stupid again.

He didn’t mean to. He thought he was back…

“I’m sorry,” he croaks.

Shane wipes the blood away with a corner of the blanket, gently, and with not even a wince as it streaks across his skin. He strokes the inside of Ilya’s wrist, thumb pressing softly on the pulse point. His hand is warm. Strong enough to keep hold, but not to hurt.

Ilya’s horror angles sharp, bones on the inside trying to wrench themselves apart.

“I was dreaming,” Ilya whispers. “Sorry... was not… on purpose.”

“Don’t care,” Shane says. “Just don’t want you hurting, okay?”

That’s a laugh. That’s the funniest thing Ilya’s heard in a long time. But Shane is still here, still holding his hand, so he tries a smile, and it must look like absolute shit because Shane just presses Ilya’s knuckles to his lips for a second, as if he can erase his pain through a kiss alone.

There’s movement at the end of the bed, and a nurse appears in the haze, examining the bleeding with professional serenity that’s almost soothing. She has peroxided hair and eyebrows drawn on at knife-point angles, which Ilya finds reassuringly fake and very normal. She says something he doesn’t pay much attention to, and then she’s cleaning him up and somehow changing the sheets without evicting him from the bed. She takes out the old cannula, swabs away the blood, and sets another in place on the opposite arm. He barely feels it.

Shane doesn’t let go once, even when he’s in the way. She works around him, unconcerned by all the inconvenience he creates.

Shane should be at the game. He can’t be late, and he can’t be distracted.

He must make a sound, because Shane sits on the edge of the bed and leans all the way in, tucking the blanket up around Ilya’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, and when Ilya lets his eyes close, the weight of Shane’s hand on his chest is enough to pin him in the goddamn present. His breath eases.

“The game…”

“We won,” Shane assures him. “You were out for a while.” He pauses, then adds, “I didn’t leave, not even for a second, I promise.”

He’s missed the game. Shane’s game. His first game in Montreal since… well, since.

He gets his tongue wet enough to form the words. “What about…” It burns out before he manages more. He’s so fucking tired. His arm is sticky and stings. He wants to sleep, to disappear, to melt right into the mattress below him and pretend for a second he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of the only parts of his life that are still normal.

Shane just presses their entwined hands tighter. “No chance in hell I was leaving you, Ilya. Not ever again.” He says it so simply that Ilya almost feels like an idiot for even doubting him.

He lifts his head, just enough to see over Shane’s shoulder. There’s a jacket draped over the spare chair, a yellow scarf thrown on top. At the end of the bed, arms folded across her chest, lips pressed together, is Shane’s mother.

For a second, Ilya is sure she’s going to hate him. Not dislike, not disapprove, not just wish her only child had made a more practical choice of partner... he thinks she’ll truly, deeply hate him for the way he is systematically destroying Shane's life.

Her gaze doesn’t slide away. She regards him with a business-like calm, as if she’s awaiting the results of a routine test she already knows will be borderline. “I’m glad you’re awake, Ilya,” she says, after a second. “How are you feeling?”

Yuna Hollander scares him a little. She’s not been unkind to him, quite the opposite. She makes him tea sometimes when he wakes up from a nap, and mostly keeps herself to herself. They talk at dinner when Shane is there to be a buffer, but mostly she doesn’t seem to know what to say to him, and he has no idea how to take the lead with either her or her husband.

He wants them to like him, obviously, but the best way he has of getting them on board is to be as little an imposition on their time as possible. Especially since they’re so heavily involved in Shane’s schemes.

Ilya doesn’t have space in his life for much shame left, but he feels it with his future in-laws. In so many ways.

“Am okay,” Ilya says, keen to prove that he’s not going to make Shane’s day worse. That the damage Ilya is doing to his career is at least mitigated for now. He turns his gaze back to Shane. “You should play. Other games. In future. If I am… if I’m sick.”

It’ll happen again. No matter what he does, it’ll happen again. He’ll humiliate both of them again.

Shane kisses him on the brow. “Don’t worry about that now.”

“We can leave,” Ilya says, his worry growing for the exhaustion ringing Shane’s eyes like bruises. “I am okay now, really. We can go home. You should sleep.”

He’s so fucking tired he’s not sure he has the energy to stand right now, but he’ll do it if it means Shane can rest.

But Shane just shakes his head. “They want to keep you in for observation for a little longer,” he tells him, brushing the curls back from Ilya’s face.

“I’m fine.” Ilya doesn’t want to stay here. He wants to go home. He wants the dark and the quiet and the promise that no one can just walk into his room. He wants to be away from people who will smile and give him drugs and tell him he’ll feel better soon when he knows he won’t. “Really. Please. I don’t… I don’t want to stay.”

“Just a few more hours.”

“Shane-“

“I know. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s so beautiful, and his eyes are so soft, and Ilya trusts him, but he’s not sure even that’s enough.

He can’t argue. Not after the trouble he’s already caused.

But he suddenly can’t look at Shane, either.

He tugs his hand free, curls tighter into the blanket, and turns over on his side. If he presses himself hard enough into the pillow, he can pretend he’s somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away, where sunlight streams through glass, and the world is green and blue, and the sky stretches on forever over his head. 

Shane makes a soft, pained little sound, then steps away.

Ilya should apologize.

He doesn’t. He can’t.

Ilya sleeps some more.

Shane doesn’t. He sits in his uncomfortable chair, elbows on his knees, and does what he does after every loss. He replays each step in his head and, from there, looks at his own actions and decides where he fucked up, where he did the best he could in the situation, and where he did the right thing but needs to improve.

The first part is easy. He fucked up by letting Ilya get on the bus in the first place. The ease and compassion with which the team has so quickly and easily decided to offer up an unprecedented week of rest makes it clear he should’ve encouraged Ilya to seek out those accommodations in the first place. They know he’s high risk right now. They know his med balance is extra precarious. To hell with Ilya’s stubbornness when he knows he probably could have convinced him to rest if he really tried.

As for doing the best he could… he’s not fully sure there’s anything that can go in this category.

But there’s for sure stuff he did that he can improve.

Stick closer to Ilya in the first place, obviously. Be there to catch him, to stop him hurting himself and necessitating a stay in what’s clearly a high-stress, triggering environment.

Act faster. He froze for far too long, standing there like a fucking idiot. He likes to think that if Sveta and Cliff weren’t there to take the lead, he might’ve jumped into action sooner, but he doesn’t know for sure, and that uncertainty is unforgivable.

Lock down the scene. This one is more complicated. He can’t look after Ilya and ward off spectators at the same time, but there needs to be some step he can take to limit the fallout for any future public incidents.

There’s a video online already. He’s not shocked. Angry, yes, but not shocked. They’d probably have recorded any stranger just for clicks online, but Ilya is famous, with his team, and already surrounded by an impossible air of mystery.

Add Shane, Shane’s reaction, and the recent transfers, and you’ve a recipe for the kind of clusterfuck they’re facing.

On the one hand… he and Ilya are officially public now. On the other…

He’s not sure what the other hand is right now. Hopefully it will come to him.

It’s better, maybe, that Shane’s already out. That’s one less shock. And Ilya is no longer a player, so it’s not like they’re rivals still, but the speculation is…

Varied.

There’s the people who are pissed Shane missed the game because of Ilya. (So unpro-fucking-fesional). They’re fighting with the people who are pointing out that Shane wouldn’t have even been playing for Ottawa if not for Ilya. (Everyone say thank you, Ilya!)

There’s the Montreal crowd pissed Shane left them for Ilya. (Cocksucking traitor. Glad we’re rid of him). If there’s anyone in Ottawa mad that Shane transferred for Big Gay Love and not a burning desire to be part of the second-worst team in the league, then their comments are being removed by Harris’s militant social media machine before Shane sees them.

And of course there’s speculation on how long they’ve been together. (Holy shit were they hooking up before Hollander came out?) On if this is a new thing, or something rekindled, and where oh where has Ilya been all these years? (New theory: Russia threw Roz in the gulag you’ve seen how they treat gay people right?!)

Curiously, the outrage at someone recording Ilya at his most vulnerable (Jesus Christ you people are sick) is going a long way to shut down those grossed out by the fact that Shane was comforting him after. (No but seriously who had Hollander down as cuddly?! He’s so sweet!). Some people are outright refusing to believe that it means anything more than Shane is a half-decent person comforting a long-time colleague after a medical incident (get your pervy heads out of the gutter, they’re coworkers). They’re running into the crowd Shane likes to think of as the ‘state the obvious’ folks. (HE KISSED HIM ON THE FUCKING FOREHEAD CLIVE!)

Ottawa has put out an official statement both condemning the recording, wishing Ilya a swift recovery, and announcing Shane’s exclusion from the coming week’s lineup.

Another mixed bag of comments there.

Montreal has said nothing.

Boston, oddly, has replied to Ottawa’s post (get well soon, Cap). Shane doesn’t know what to fucking think of that.

Shane should… probably say something.

He doesn’t know what he can say that doesn’t end in ‘fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou’.

“Thought you didn’t do Twitter,” a voice from the doorway drags Shane’s attention from his phone.

Hayden is framed in the bright hallway light, two black eyes dark on his face.

“What happened to you?” Shane asks, bypassing the three fucking years of conversation he’s been avoiding with Hayden and trying to shove down the rising panic in his chest.

Mom is quiet in her seat, but she flashes Hayden a little smile, which is more than he’s got from Shane in… too long.

The smile Hayden flashes back at both of them is wry and a little pained. “Your new team doesn’t like us much. Can’t imagine why.”

“Hayd-“

Hayden shakes his head, tipping his chin towards Ilya’s slumbering form. “How is he?”

That’s it. No anger, no exclamation. No confusion or outrage that Shane has thrown everyone and everything aside for the men the whole world just assumed he hated.

Shane scrubs furiously at his burning eyes.

“Aw, buddy…”

“Fuck. Fuck…”

Hayden steps forward and tugs Shane out of his chair. “Come on. You need coffee.”

“I can’t leave him.”

“He looks pretty out of it,” Hayden says easily. “Your mom is here, and there’s a whole honor guard outside and-“

As if on cue, Marlow leans around the doorway. Shane gets the impression he’s been there the whole time Hayden has been.

“Lurch keeps breathing down my neck so-“

“Don’t test my fucking patience, Pike. You’ve had your sixty seconds.”

“I literally had to beg,” Hayden says with a heavy sigh.

“You’re lucky Sveta thinks Hollander needs enrichment,” Marlow grumbles. Shane raises an eyebrow. Enrichment? He’s not a fucking lizard in a tank, Christ.

“That’s a real big word, Marlow, you need me to explain it to you?” Hayden glares at him. Hayden’s about as intimidating as one of those little axolotls.

“Boys,” Mom cuts them off before they can continue bickering.

Shane follows up. “If either of you wakes him up…”

Hayden holds up his hands. “I’m sorry. I just want… let me buy you a coffee, Shane. Please.”

“Go stretch your legs,” Mom encourages. “You know he’d want you to.”

Ilya would, if he were thinking straight, but he’s scared and hurt, and he’s not.

Marlow steps inside. “I’ll come get you the second he wakes up.”

Shane really isn’t sure what his game is. If he wanted to keep Hayden out, then either he or Sveta would have just spoken to the front desk. But he’s hardly Hayden’s biggest fan, either.

Either way, Hayden is here, and Ilya is sleeping, and Shane really could use the coffee. “The second-“

“Minute Sleeping Beauty stirs, I’ll light the beacons of Gondor and send up the Bat Signal.”

“Dude, that’s too many mixed-“ Shane tugs Hayden out of the room before he can spin himself any deeper into a cycle of despair.

Once they’re in the corridor, Shane does a quick scan. It’s a straight line down to the vending machine. He’ll be able to keep an eye on the door the whole time.

“How did you even get in?”

“J.J.” Hayden shrugs. “Said he wanted to offer our support, captain to captain. “He’s, uh, fitting with the nurse’s station. You know I suck at that. And we figured… maybe you’d talk to just one of us.”

“Hayden…”

“I’m not here to give you a hard time, I swear. I just wanna know you’re okay.”

God, Shane has been the worst fucking friend. He sniffs back tears.

“I’m okay.”

“Heard what happened. Didn’t watch the video, obviously, that’s messed up. But yeah…” he rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Jackie’s dad is epileptic. It’s really scary. I’m sorry you guys are dealing with that.”

“It’s not… not epilepsy,” Shane whispers.

Hayden nods slowly. If he's curious, and Shane knows he must be, he doesn't let on. “Were you… you and Rozanov… have you always been…” he doesn’t finish the sentence. Shane doesn’t really know how to explain. Not now, not here, not when everything is so complicated.

So instead he just gives the best version of the truth he can. “You’ve never known a version of me that’s not been in love with him.”

“Oh wow…” his eyes are enormous. Shane waits for the reproach and busies himself with the coffee machine so there’s an excuse not to look at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t make you feel, ah, safe enough to talk to me about him.” It’s so kind, and so earnest, and so much more than Shane deserves, but… but fuck, Shane can’t stop the slightly hysterical little laugh that escapes from the back of his throat.

“Jackie tell you to say that?”

“Oh my god!” Hayden throws his arms in the air and narrowly avoids colliding with a steaming paper cup of black coffee. “Yes! You have no idea! We roleplayed this shit!”

Of course they did. Because they’re good friends. Friends he’s not just neglected, but outright ignored.

His laughter collapses at the edges, turns miserable, and the next thing he knows, he’s being pulled into one of Hayden’s big hugs. It’s like being hugged by a dad, a big brother, and a best friend all at once. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, but he is.

Hayden doesn’t let go, even when Shane stands there limp and miserable in the crook of his arm, coffee sloshing over the edge of the cup, burning his hand without even registering the pain. He’s not sure if what he feels is grief or guilt or just the slow, sinking relief that comes from finally letting someone see the mess. Hayden just stands there holding Shane up until the shaking leaves his body, and he can breathe again.

“I’m sorry, dude,” he mutters finally. “You didn’t sign up for my fucking crisis.”

“I mean, what’s a little crisis between friends?” Hayden asks, squeezing once more for good measure, then stepping back to give Shane a little space.

“We’re still friends?”

Hayden rolls his eyes. “You know you’ve gone so fucking stoic and quiet these past few years, I forgot how much of a comedian you are. Jackie says-”

“Jackie says what?” He’s terrified to know.

“Jackie says you’re allowed to disappear if you need to, but,” Hayden points at Shane’s chest, “you can’t be mad when people come find you.” He shrugs. “She also says it’s not your fault you’re built this way, but you could try checking your phone once in a while.” The shot’s gentle, less a dig than a little buoy to keep his head above the descending shame.

He can’t even argue. They both know exactly how long it’s been since Shane returned a single one of their texts. He doesn’t even remember the last time he left a comment on a picture of their kids, let alone spoke to them outside of a game night.

“I’m sorry.” He owes that, at least.

“Yeah, me too. For you know… abandoning my duties to morality, decency and like… basic human dignity for the comfort of a regular paycheck instead of you know, drop kicking the entire team off a mountain when they started being all gross and homophobic.”

“I don’t think you’re responsible for-”

“I shoulda done more,” Hayden says, weirdly serious now. “And I didn’t, so I can’t be mad you didn’t trust me with what you were going through. J.J. and I are super pissed it took Marlow only three and a half seconds to punch Comeau. Like what the fuck? In what world is that overgrown caveman a better friend than your literal friends? Unless, like, I guess if he knew about you and Rozanov?”

“Not exactly,” Shane shrugs. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Fuck, that’s even worse. Cliff Marlow is a better person than I am. I need to totally reevaluate my life.” He’s mostly trying to cheer Shane up, but there’s a note of seriousness to his voice Shane doesn’t like.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, we can argue about this all night-” Shane glances back towards Ilya’s room. “Or… next time we play, we get dinner. Catch up. Can just be you and me, or like, you me and Rozanov, or… fuck, invite Marlow if you have to, or I can bring Jackie. And the kids if you want...”

“I probably owe them a trip to Disney,” Shane says, full of guilt. “Do they even want to see me again?”

“They like you more than they like me, remember?”

A lump rises in his throat. “I miss you guys,” he says, and the truth of it is so simple and bare that he wants to peel off his own skin and start again.

“I miss you too… fuck, even more now you’re in Ottawa. It’s for him, right? You must really fucking love him to transfer to Ottawa.” Shane does. He really fucking loves Ilya. Maybe it shows on his face. Hayden gives a lopsided grin, one of those expressions people always read as laidback, but Shane knows it’s Hayden at his most tentative. “So….” He thumbs behind them to the closed door, “He's gonna be alright? He looked, uh… he looked rough.”

Shane nods, unsure how much is the truth and how much he’s just repeating the litany Sveta offered him in the quiet after the ambulance. Safe. Stable. Not at risk. A week’s rest and then they see. “He’ll be okay,” Shane says, though his tongue sticks hard to the dry roof of his mouth.

“I, uh, hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Hayden says, lowering his voice and nudging Shane’s shoulder with his own, “but I’ve literally never really hung out with Rozanov outside of a pre-game handshake. You two have a history, I get it, but I’ve gotta admit, I don’t really see the appeal.” He shrugs, not unkindly, just a faint edge of bewilderment. “He’s got that perpetual ‘about to break something’ look. Kinda like you after a bad loss.”

Shane laughs, or tries to, but his jaw aches, and the sound gets stuck coming out. “He’s kind,” Shane admits. “And funny. And sweet. And fucking annoying and he’s just… he sees me. He always has.”

“Sounds like I need to see this for myself,” Hayden says softly. “Maybe when you guys are up to it.” Hayden’s gaze is locked in and clear, something like a dare behind it. “And I know shit’s a bit crazy right now, online and everything, but I’ve got your back. You play it close to the chest, I’ll keep my mouth shut. You wanna go loud and call out Montreal and the MHL for being performative, bullshit-spewing woke-washers, then I’ll back you up. J.J. too. Whatever you want.”

Shane sips his cooling coffee, tastes the bitterness, tries to decide if it’s in the coffee or just in his mouth. He isn’t used to being asked what he wants, yet here Hayden is, ready to raise hell at his word, or say nothing at all.

“I don’t know what I want,” Shane says, which is true, but also not the whole truth. He wants the world to get off Ilya’s back. He wants to have chosen right, for once. Wants, for an hour, the story to not be about what he owes everyone. “I’m not thinking that far ahead right now.”

Hayden tilts his head, dissecting that for hidden truths, then apparently decides it’s sincere. “Okay. But when you do, just say the word.” He puts out a closed fist, sudden and childish, and bumps Shane’s shoulder. Once they get to the door of Ilya’s room, he hesitates. “Look, I’ll leave you guys in peace. I just wanted to see you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry. For not telling you I was leaving.”

Hayden shrugs. “Don’t know what I’d’ve said if you did. Maybe best you didn’t. It’ll work out.”

It’s that, more than anything, that prompts Shane to pull his phone out of his pocket and type out a text. Hayden’s phone pings with an incoming message.

“New number,” Shane admits. “Give it to J.J. I promise I’ll answer this time.”

The grin that blossoms over Hayden’s face is bright. “Hell yeah, you will. Tell Rozanov I’m glad he’s not an asshole. And tell Marlow he is an asshole.”

“I’m right here, dipshit,” Marlow growls, appearing in the doorway like a horror movie jumpscare.

“Jesus! Good to see you too,” Hayden says, rolling his eyes, but Shane can tell it makes him smile. “See you around. Don’t be a stranger.” He gives Shane a quick thump on the shoulder, and nods once at Cliff. His footsteps echo down the linoleum hall, then fade.

Shane slumps back down into his empty seat and takes Ilya’s hand back in his own. Marlow drifts out of the room, scowling at his phone, and everything is quiet again for long enough that he almost forgets his mom is there.

“I don’t want you worrying about any of this,” she says, her voice pitched low so as not to disturb Ilya, who is still sleeping despite Marlow’s general volume. “The press, or the teams, or anything from Crowell’s office.”

“Is he-” Shane is banned from talking to the Commissioner about anything strictly outside the bounds of his own career until the lawyers are done with their shit. At which point everything will get very messy, very quickly. Sometimes he wonders if they have any idea the storm that is coming. He almost hopes they do. He hopes they’re losing sleep the same way he is.

“They’re being pretty quiet. There’s not a huge amount they can say without fanning the flames on either side of things, so I’m almost not expecting them to. But I’ve got a statement ready to go if they do.”

Shane’s too tired to do more than nod his head. “Okay. Thanks.”

She leans forward. “And… I’ve been talking to Svetlana. She and I both agree you boys need a break. Some time together, just the two of you.”

“Mom, no, what if he has another seizure… I was useless!”

“No, sweetheart, you did exactly what was needed. And if it happens again, you’ll manage it just fine. Your dad and I can pop round if you need us, and it’s easy enough for Marguerite to come out and keep doing her check-ins. Your dad’s stocking up the kitchen and airing everything out for you.”

“You’ve thought about this, huh?”

“We all have,” she says kindly. “You know we love you, and we support you, but you boys have had almost no time to yourselves. You deserve a little peace while you can still get it, because Shane, you know what’s coming. It’s going to be a lot. For both of you.”

Yeah. He knows. It’s not a bad idea. Fuck, it’s a great idea actually, he’s just… “What if he needs something I can’t give him?”

“Then you call us, and we’ll be right there, I promise.”

How often has he wanted to do just this? Bundle Ilya into his car and just go. Take him away from the chaos and the stress and spend days together just curled up in the sun, warm and safe. They might be a little too late for the sun this time of year, but eveyrthing else…

“Okay,” he nods, taking a gulp of his coffee. “Okay. I need to stop and get his things, his meds and-”

“Sasha’s already on his way. He’s packed everything Ilya will need.”

Of course he is. “He’s driving all the way to Montreal to deliver things we can pick up on our way to Ottawa?”

Mom’s smile is a little menacing. “We’re giving him time to cool off, so when he does whatever it is he does with his computers, he’s getting us the info we need to sue the pants off everyone instead of sending their home addresses to organ harvesters on the dark web.”

“Mom!”

“His words, not mine!”

They really need to get Sasha a new hobby. That said, it is a little tempting in this case…

The hospital gets Ilya’s discharge paperwork ready just before seven in the morning. Shane manages to get a few hours of sleep curled up awkwardly around the bed, his neck stiff and sore but his brain considerably more engaged after another two coffees. Mom tags out shortly after two am, letting Dad cover the rest of the night. Sveta’s popped in and out, caught between work and worry in a way that frees Shane up to stay right where he is. Marlow just seems to haunt the corridors, avoiding the nurses, then charming his way out of trouble when caught.

They’re getting far more consideration than he thinks they maybe should. Perks of being Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, he supposes. Or the result of his mom and Sveta scaring the shit out of everyone in the hospital.

By the time they’re good to go, Shane helps a fully monosyllabic Ilya to dress, then hangs back while Sveta kisses Ilya’s cheek and whispers to him softly in Russian. Marlow grunts and gives him a brief, one-armed hug like he’s not been climbing the walls all fucking evening. Mom and Dad don’t hug them, but they do that awkward, encouraging smile thing while standing side by side, tired but trying to be supportive. Sasha scowls in the doorway, only occasionally looking up from his phone. 

Ilya doesn’t say anything to any of them.

The hospital lets them use a different exit to avoid the press camped outside. Shane’s still on high alert during the transfer from the room to the vehicle and doesn’t relax until Ilya’s strapped in and he’s checked that the bags have been properly loaded into the trunk. There’s a bag of clothes for Ilya, alongside another, smaller bag filled with all his meds and a printed binder full of instructions. Shane has everything he needs waiting for him already.

When they’re on the road, Shane hesitantly raises the subject, realizing only then that he’s not exactly asked Ilya if he’s okay with fucking off on an impromptu field trip when he’s fresh out of the hospital.

“You up for a little adventure?” He asks, trying to keep his tone light. Ilya doesn’t answer. “There’s somewhere I want to take you. Somewhere we can be together. It’s private. We can have a week alone together. If you want that.”

Again, Ilya says nothing.

“I need you to talk to me, Ilya. I’m not just… fuck, I’m not just gonna drive you somewhere.”

It’s a long time before Ilya says anything. Maybe he’s fallen asleep, not that Shane could blame him. He’s angled the passenger seat way back, and the sunrise is low enough behind them that Ilya can keep his face tucked into the crook between the window and the seat.

Shane gives it almost ten minutes before he glances over and tries again. “We don’t have to go. Just say the word, and I’ll turn around.”

He waits and figures he might be for a while. Ilya’s clearly not in the mood to talk.

His voice, when it comes, is so thin it barely qualifies as sound. “Whatever you want,” he rasps, a breath more than a word, and his mouth twitches once in what might be a smile.

“What I want is for you to be happy. Comfortable.”

“Yes. Okay. Is fine.”

If that’s all Shane’s going to get out of him... It’s enough. More than. He drums the steering wheel and tries to think of something light to say, something to clear out the heavy air between them, but he’s got nothing.

He keeps his focus on the road instead, like he always does. Speed limit, one hand on the wheel and one braced against the gearshift. It calms him, the little rituals of driving this particular route.

A road sign whips past, and the distance starts to count off in his head. In the passenger seat, Ilya hunches up tighter.

“Try to get some sleep,” he says, voice quiet. “We’ve got a bit.”

Ilya grunts. Maybe he’s listening.

He used to be able to drive this stretch of highway with his eyes closed. Every line of trees, every billboard advertising cheese curds is a notch burned into his memory. He’s almost soothing himself the way he does post-game, until the world shrinks to just the car and Ilya and the grey ribbon of road ahead.

It’s raining by the time they arrive. Just a light drizzle. It turns the water of the lake a soft, steel colored grey. Shane nudges Ilya gently awake with a hand on his elbow.

“Hey. We’re here.”

He’s not really sure what kind of reaction he’s expecting. He’s never brought anyone here before. Never wanted to. Ilya stares through the rain-spattered window at the glass and wood representation of Shane’s whole understanding of home and safety, and says nothing.

Ilya opens the door and steps out onto the pebbled drive. He stands there a full moment, shoulders hunched against the damp, the drizzle soft enough to bead along the edge of his jaw without running down his face. For a miserable flash, Shane thinks Ilya’s going to get back in the car and shut the door, and that’ll be it, months of fantasy collapsing into one contraction of muscle group.

But Ilya smells the air, deep, and looks up through the trees to where the low clouds scrape by, and then he starts a dazed, loping drift toward the porch.

Ilya is unreadable. He reaches the porch and for a moment just stands, both hands on the post, fingers skimming the grain. When Shane jogs over to unlock the door and shoulder through with their bags, Ilya only follows at a lag, pausing on the threshold. Everything smells fresh and clean, and there’s fresh fruit piled up high in the bowl on the kitchen counter. They both slip off their shoes and continue inside.

The cottage is Shane, built from imagination and need, carefully designed to give him the openness he wants with the structure and comfort of a glass shell around him. It feels weirdly like letting Ilya see into his soul, and he’s more than a little terrified it will be found lacking.

“There’s a well… out back. All the water is fresh, I mean, and I know there’s a lot of windows, but I checked the weather and it’s mostly overcast, and there are blinds in the bedroom if it gets too much, and the den downstairs and-”

Ilya walks past him, the tips of his fingers trailing over glass.

"I had it built. A few years ago. It’s really peaceful. No one will bother us. But Marguerite will still be checking in, obviously, and my parents are only ten minutes away if we need anything, and-”

And he doesn’t know what else to say.

Please like it? Please be happy here? I love you, are you okay?

Ilya drifts through the cottage as if his bones have been replaced with fog. He doesn’t look at Shane, or speak, just traces his hands lightly over every surface, sometimes pausing to press his palm flat to the glass. Shane tries not to hover but fails, shadowing Ilya’s movement from the entryway, through the living room, down the short hall where the bathroom and bedroom branch off, then around the spiral to the open kitchen. Ilya’s gait is off, a little loose, maybe the aftereffect of the drugs or just another weight pressing his spine down, but it’s mesmerizing, watching him rabbit from point to point as if searching for traps. Shane hears the faint click of the Sekisui panels under Ilya’s bare feet, and the gentle smack and release of his fingertips against the bleached wood.

He stands a little outside the kitchen, holding back, pulse pounding in his neck and wrists. The rainy gray of outside leaks through every side of the cottage. There’s almost nowhere inside not visible from outside, a deliberate design decision he’s now reconsidering, seeing how ghost-like Ilya moves through each frame.

He wants to say something reassuring, but feels stupid. He’s spent years perfecting comfort routines for himself, but he’s not sure which are transferable. Ilya finally stops by back the kitchen island, both hands closing around the lip. He leans in, breathes out, and for a minute Shane can see the tension ripple through his shoulders, bunched up under the old black hoodie, as if he’s deliberately channeling every ounce of will into just standing up.

Then Ilya’s head bows. Shane’s not sure, at first, what’s happening, just that Ilya shrinks down so suddenly it looks like he’s folding himself out of existence, and the sound that comes from him doesn’t match anything Shane’s heard before. It’s low, soft, but sticking… the sound of the world getting stuck on a single phrase and refusing to move forward. Shane steps in, tries to take it slow, but by the time he rounds the kitchen island, Ilya’s knees are bent and and tembling and he’s pressing his forehead to the edge of the counter, clutching at the wood so hard his knuckles are ghost-white.

He’s crying. A loud, wounded animal sob, the kind built up over years of hoarding pain. His jaw is locked, his mouth wrenched open but struggling to admit the sound out into the air. There’s nothing graceful or cinematic about it. It’s ugly with effort, like finally prying the rusted lid off a pressure cooker. Shane’s never seen Ilya cry like this before.

“Ilya,” he says quietly. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he puts them on Ilya’s shoulders, gently, kneading the tension with his thumbs. All at once, Ilya’s sagging into him, taking them down in a semi-controlled descent to the ground as he hunches over and lets out something halfway between a sob and a scream. “Hey! Hey… we can go! God, we don’t have to stay here! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

Ilya shakes his head violently, one hand clutching at Shane, the other clawing at the edge of the counter as if he’s half expecting to be dragged away.

“Okay, okay… we’re just gonna…” Shane gathers him closer and starts to rock them back and forth. It helps, he knows it helps. It’s helped before. Both of them.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He doesn’t understand what it is about this place that’s pierced through the bubble of exhausted pragmatism that Ilya seems to use to push through any and every hardship.

Maybe it’s just… maybe it’s just timing? He’s reached his limit, and now they’re alone there’s no one to pretend for.

“It’s okay,” Shane murmurs, which is meaningless, but he continues anyway. “You’re okay. It’s safe here, I promise. It’s okay.”

Ilya cries like his heart is breaking. Shane holds him and tries to catch all the pieces.

Chapter 26

Chapter Notes

Content warnings: discussions of past abuse and imprisonment, Ilya's frankly horrifying concept of 'not bad', Shane's not-so-illustrious dating life, and implied homophobia/poor dating etiquette (The actor whose career Yuna tanked fully deserved it).

If you are reading this all in one go, please take a break! Hydrate! Sleep if you're supposed to be sleeping. It will be here for you when you wake up, I promise.

It’s over an hour before Ilya stops crying. He stays curled in Shane’s arms for long enough that they probably both go numb from the waist down. With a bit of shuffling and a whole lot of gentle coaxing, Shane manages to get him onto the couch, where he stays, silent now, unwilling to respond to either encouragement or comfort. There’s no TV in the spot Shane designed primarily for reading and watching the world outside, so that’s what they do. Shane runs his hands through Ilya’s hair, and together they watch the rain fall grow from something light and misty to a heavy downpour. As the sky grows darker, the cottage fades with it, until it’s just the two of them and the rain painting low-lit patterns on the wide expanse of glass.

Ilya’s awake, but he seems fully incapable of anything more strenuous than watching water slide soothingly down glass.

Eventually, Shane shuffles out from beneath him so he can prepare them something to eat. Dad has stocked the fridge and the freezer, so there are plenty of meals ready for them. Shane tips two containers into a hot wok and heats up the mix of rice, veggies, and king prawns. Ilya stays exactly where Shane left him, not even moving an inch.

It’s a mission to get him to eat anything, and equally as hard to convince him to take his pills. Ilya’s not difficult, or resistant, just not… there. He’s somewhere else, lethargic and quiet.

The evening passes just as quietly. Shane lights the indoor fire, pulls Ilya’s head back into his lap, and just enjoys being with him here, where everything is slow and simple and so very peaceful. Ilya falls asleep as the faint rays of light blink themselves out for the evening, and Shane carries him to bed. It’s a little awkward navigating the few stairs thanks to Ilya’s long legs, but he manages, and he gets them both settled easy enough.

There’s nowhere on Earth Shane sleeps as well as he does at the cottage. Something in his brain just switches off and takes all the stress and tension with it. Even now, hyper-alert for any sign Ilya might need something, that doesn’t change anything. He snuggles up close, tucks his head into the space by Ilya’s shoulder, and places his hand over the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and he’s out.

It’s not exactly late, but he’s not slept much at the hospital, and the weeks before that have been poor for so many reasons.

He wakes just after dawn. The world is a shade away from winter. The sky is scored with rain, the color of a fading bruise, and the scent of the world outside, familiar and rich, drifts through the open inch of the bedroom window. Shane blinks, reorienting his brain from the deepest rest he’s had for as long as he can remember.

The blankets are tucked carefully up to his shoulders, his limbs wrapped around a negative space where Ilya should be. He’s still in the t-shirt and boxers from last night, the fabric clinging at the hip where the covers have twisted. For a minute, it’s peaceful. Then the other half of his brain slots into place and reminds him that alone is not the idea.

He sits up and listens: the cottage is silent except for the patter of rain on glass. At first, he thinks Ilya’s in the bathroom, but there’s no muffled running of water, no sound of a door or even breathing. He’s just… gone.

Shane tries not to let the worry sink its teeth in so early. He’s not very successful.

He checks the kitchen first, because that’s a logical place to start. Ilya hasn’t eaten much in the last few days, just enough to settle his meds without feeling nauseous. Maybe he’s hungry. Shane’s a little peckish himself.

There’s a wet spot on the floor next to the door, as if someone stood there, uncertain, dripping rain from their fingers. Shane glances out at the deck. It’s still so early that the light outside can’t decide if it’s ready for the day or still clinging to the memory of night.

He sees movement down the slope by the water, on the outcrop of rock that cuts into the lake like a kneecap. Ilya is there, hunched in the oversized outline of his sweater, knees drawn to chest, chin locked behind them like a barricade. He’s just sitting, letting the drizzle fog his curls and bead along the line of his nose. Shane watches without moving, transfixed by the sight of him sitting there in the haze.

The weather isn’t ideal, obviously, but everything else… god, how often has he pictured something just like this? Ilya here with him in his house, peaceful in the safest place Shane knows. There’s not another living soul for literally miles. No one will find them here. No one will find Ilya.

After a moment, he heads to the living room, pulls the first blanket off the couch, and drapes it around his shoulders. Then he hesitates. Should he bring something else? Tea, maybe, or a clean towel for when Ilya comes back in, soaked to the bone. Instead, he’s drawn forward by the inevitable gravity of the man he loves.

Ilya doesn’t startle when Shane reaches his side and loops the blanket around him. He only moves to catch the edges between his fingers and tug Shane closer, until he rests between Ilya’s legs and leans back into his chest. The bubble of warmth he creates when he wraps both himself and the blanket around Shane is worth the cold stone.

“Did I wake you?” Ilya’s voice in the morning is one of Shane’s favorite sounds. It’s a little rough at the edges, but smoothed with enough drowsy affection, it slides over his skin like a caress.

Shane shakes his head. “No.”

Ilya is quiet for a few minutes, just watching the ripples drift lazily across the lake. Then he says, “I'm sorry. For yesterday.”

Shane is shaking his head before he even finishes. “Don’t be. I should’ve told you where we were going. Fuck, maybe I should’ve just driven us back to Ottawa and not sprung something so big outta nowhere.”

“You did not spring,” Ilya says very quietly. “I’ve been here before. In my dreams.” Shane tries to turn around, confused for a minute, and worried. There are gaps in Ilya’s memory, but to the best of his knowledge, he doesn’t create whole new scenarios. He worries what that means. Maybe the hospital missed something? Maybe the seizure did more damage than they know.

Ilya’s arms tighten around him, holding him in place. “Stay like this? Please. I will… I will tell you, but I can’t-” he trails off. Shane gets it. He struggles to look people in the eye on a good day. It’s so much harder when he’s feeling emotionally vulnerable, and there’s no doubt in his mind that Ilya is hurting right now.

He squeezes Ilya’s wrist and waits, patient and still.

Ilya doesn’t speak for several minutes. Just holds Shane around the middle and breathes in and out, so softly that Shane wonders if maybe it takes this much quiet to get the words lined up in his own head before he can pour them out.

Eventually, in a voice so small it barely counts, Ilya says, “I thought they were coming to save me.”

Shane says nothing, lets him unfold at his own pace.

He doesn’t give the names, but Shane already knows them. Ilya doesn’t need to say Alexei’s, doesn’t need to say Katya’s. Their outlines fill in all the negative space around the words.

“I was sick,” Ilya starts again, pressing his forehead into the back of Shane’s shoulder. “But not… not so bad. I was getting better. I could walk, I could talk. I would tell them is okay now.” He pauses. “They weren’t… they were not cruel. They didn’t beat me for fun or anything.” As if that’s the fucking bar. That’s all it takes for Ilya to assess his treatment as humane. “But I didn’t understand things. Why I was there. Why I couldn’t leave.”

“You have a brain injury.” The softness Shane manages to keep in his voice is offset by the image that forms in his mind. The physical manifestation of Ilya’s condition is frightening enough that it’s hard to remember the wider implications of what happened. Ilya’s English is maybe that mix of overly formal and equally straightforward, closer to what Shane remembers from the earlier days of their relationship as opposed to the heights of ‘I read the New Yorker, now’, but he speaks two fucking languages. He’s holding down a job that requires complex pattern recognition and physical dexterity, and yes, sure, it exhausts him, but he can do it. He can do so many things that it’s easy to forget that, in itself, is something of a miracle.

Ilya’s working fucking hard for his recovery, and he’s fighting for every inch of ground gained. But in those early days, in a strange place, surrounded by people who neither knew nor cared for him… he was hurting and scared and alone and confused, and Shane aches with the urge to hold him in his arms.

He unlatches one hand from Shane’s chest and traces the knit of the blanket like a worry stone. “They thought I’d hurt people. Nurses. Or me. So sometimes they’d… not all the time. It wasn’t all the time.” The syllables start to crowd together, as if Ilya needs to use them all up before they escape him.

“Ilya…”

“Alexei didn’t tie me down like that. Not… not at first.”

But he did, Shane thinks furiously. He chained Ilya up like a fucking animal, and that’s worse than the words Shane doesn’t need to hear Ilya say aloud to understand. He understands what can happen to patients who are perceived to be physically dangerous. Ilya’s a big man. He lashes out even among friends. It… makes a sick kind of sense, he supposes, his stomach rolling, that instead of taking the time to soothe him, to calm him down and convince him that he was safe, they’d just strap him to a bed, hike up the drugs and be done with it. It's so very wrong, but he knows it happens.

“I don’t remember much from being there,” Ilya admits. “It was all the same, and days… is hard sometimes, knowing the day even when they are not all same.”

During a season, Shane’s only sense of time is tied to what game he’s playing in what city. Beyond that, the specifics escape him. It’s not nearly the same thing, he knows that, but he can empathize with the sense of disorientation.

“Then I woke up, and I was home. My parents’ home. My old room. Thought I was dreaming, but…” he trails off, and Shane wonders what it must be like, waking up in a place so far removed from the clinical oppressiveness of a hospital into a place with so many emotional triggers.

They’ve never really talked about it, and fuck, now’s not the time, but Shane gets the sense that Ilya’s childhood was very different from his own. With what happened to his mother, obviously, but just… some of the things he says sometimes, some of the things Sveta and Sasha say in response, or the ways they react… Shane already has to close his eyes and picture the Ilya he knows and loves now while he’s in pain. He’s not sure how to even start to wrap his head around the idea of him as a child in anything even remotely similar.

“The door was locked,” Ilya says after a while. “But that wasn’t… papa locked them, years ago. Mostly at night. I thought… I did try. Not to stay. I know I am lazy and sleep all the time but I did try-”

“Jesus, Ilya, you’re not fucking lazy!” Shane doesn’t mean to snap, but he can’t help the sudden pop of anger that bursts in his throat. “You’re hurt. You’re on enough fucking drugs to down an elephant. I think you’re fucking incredible, doing what you do.”

Ilya hides his face in the curve of Shane’s neck and goes very quiet again.

“Please don’t think that,” Shane begs him. “I can’t stand to hear you say those things about yourself.”

“I would dream about you,” Ilya admits. “And Alexei, he let me have television-” there’s nowhere on the fucking planet Alexei Rozanov can go to escape Shane. Not a single fucking rock he can hide under. Let him. “-I would watch your documentary.”

Shane’s done a lot of those over the years now. Most of them pretty boring, either focusing on the game, or on…

Oh.

The cold is only skin deep. Everything else about Ilya is warm, from his breath on the back of Shane’s neck to the heart that beats inside his chest. He hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder and slots them even closer together.

“I would pretend,” he continues, his voice a whisper that fades in the breeze. “That I was watching you. Give interview. I was watching from up there-“ he tilts his head and guides Shane’s gaze around to top of the steps. “I was waiting for you to be done.”

His thumbs stroke little circles on the back of Shane’s hands where their arms wrap together. “And then?”

“Then you would come inside. I would make fun. So serious, my Shane. Then we would kiss, and I would cook food for us, and we would just…” he lets out a sigh that is more dreamy than melancholy. “Be together. Was stupid, I know. I stopped,” he’s quick to add, as if Shane needs the reassurance, “when I come to Canada. I know it wasn’t mine. To pretend.”

Ilya doesn’t want to look him in the eye. It kills Shane a little, but he stays as they are. “It’s yours now. No pretending needed.”

“I know we weren’t anything,” Ilya sniffs, ignoring the promise, and the back of Shane’s neck is hot and wet now, his own tears twins on his cheeks. “But it was nice, and I liked it here. The room was dirty and it smelled and… and I would imagine. In my head. Being here with you.”

He waits, heart hammering. The world is white noise and the lingering agony of words Ilya’s pushing out, one and then the next. Shane keeps expecting him to run dry, to lapse back into silence or drift off, but there’s a reservoir in there, black and viscous, enough to fill both of them to drowning.

Ilya’s voice buckles, but the hands on Shane’s waist stay fixed, a promise. “You were always there. Even when I wasn’t supposed to think of you, I did. Sometimes… sometimes I would see you by the water. Like a ghost, but I knew it was you.”

“Ilya-”

“You saved my life.”

Shane’s brain stutters, trips over itself, and gets caught trying to process the words properly. He wants to protest because what the fuck did he actually do? It’s Sveta and Sasha who saved him. Fuck, Ilya has done more to save himself than Shane has, but the way Ilya says it, flat and obvious, is immune to protest or debate.

“I dreamed about you every day,” Ilya goes on. “Sometimes it was not so nice. Sometimes you hated me.” His laugh is bitter, but not entirely humorless. “But those were not the dreams I wanted to keep. Then I found you here and I wanted-” He crushes Shane closer, as if the pressure can impress their bodies into one and somehow explain what words couldn’t. “I wanted you to be happy. So I would come here and pretend and it was easier than being there.”

Shane can’t stand it anymore. He wriggles free and turns in the loop of Ilya’s arms until he can press his palms to Ilya’s cold cheeks, mindful of the bruises, and kiss all the sadness from his voice.

“I have never hated you,” he chokes. “God, I couldn’t even if I tried.” He doesn’t even know where to start with everything else. This is his sanctuary, yes, and he’s fantasized about sharing it with Ilya someday, but the idea that maybe he has helped, even in such a small, unintentional way, is more than his heart is capable of enduring. “I was so scared I’d fucked up for good back in Boston. That I’d lost you forever.” And then he nearly did, in ways he never could have imagined. “But you have no fucking idea… I had a whole plan to win you back, you know?”

Ilya tilts his head to one side, inviting Shane to continue. “I did! I hired a stylist and a got whole new wardrobe, including pants you would have loved, by the way-” predictably, Ilya’s hands drop low enough to give his ass a little squeeze. Still, it’s somehow not sexual, just intimate. An in-joke for the two of them. “I was gonna get you to talk, and tell you how much I liked you, and I wasn’t gonna leave you in peace until you kissed me or told me to fuck off.”

“I would’ve kissed you,” Ilya promises, pressing a faint little touch of his mouth to the corner of Shane’s lips. “I would’ve given you anything.” His face crumples, and he leans in closer so he can hide against Shane’s neck. “I’m sorry I couldn’t wait that long.”

Shane curls his hands into Ilya’s hair and holds him steady. “That’s not your fault. You did everything right.”

“If I’d been stronger, if I’d-”

“No,” Shane gently tugs his head up and presses a finger to Ilya’s lips. “No, fuck that. The outcome sucks, and I hate that, but asking for help was fucking strong.”

“Hmm.”

“Ilya…”

Ilya drops a kiss to the tip of his nose. “You are cute when you’re grumpy.”

“And you’re not changing the subject,” Shane says, feeling sterner than usual.

“But you’re cold.”

“I’m Canadian. I’m fine.”

“Fine,” Ilya pouts. “I am cold.”

He’s about to call Ilya out for the previous, “I am Russian, Russians do not get cold,” line he’s pulled in the past, but he is actually fucking freezing, and wet, and so is Ilya. Neither of them can really afford to get ill right now, so he makes a show of sighing dramatically and letting Ilya think he’s won some imaginary battle.

Ilya preens a little as Shane tugs him by the hand back towards the cottage. All of his sadness is packed back away again, hidden from sight as quickly as it has been allowed to breathe air. It’s probably all he can manage to face at a time. Or he thinks it is all Shane can manage.

Maybe both are true. Shane’s not sure he’s going to be able to leave now, and the idea of removing Ilya from the cottage might actually give him a panic attack.

He’s played it down so much, barely put words to define the things done to him, but how fucking bad must it have been to drive him inside his own head to find sanctuary? Ilya is the most present, most alive man he’s ever known. He belongs in the real world, in the sunshine, surrounded by the people who love him.

Once they’re inside, they drip little puddles onto the floor, despite the blanket. Shane’s about to hustle them both into the shower when he has an idea. “Hold on,” he says, squeezing Ilya’s wrist and jogging over to the little wooden cabinet by the door. When he comes back, Ilya is right where he left him, soggy and smiling, so peaceful in the glass shelter of the cottage Shane might well have designed it just to give his heart a home outside his own chest.

Carefully, he pulls the cross from under the neck of Ilya’s damp sweater. “I’m not taking it,” he says, reaching behind Ilya’s neck to unfasten the chain. Ilya doesn’t move, just watches him with those wide eyes that now look the same exact color of the lake outside, more gray than blue.

The chain bounces a little against Ilya’s throat when Shane slides on a new addition and closes the clasp.

“It’s the key,” he says, watching Ilya’s hand drift to touch the extra weight. “It’s yours. Everything here is yours, always, and-”

Shane’s been swept off his feet before. By Ilya, and physically. It’s not quite the same, Ilya maybe doesn’t trust himself to try, but the sensation is just as dizzying. His head spins wildly as Ilya wraps him up in his arms and kisses him breathless, peppered whispers of Russian devotion searing into his skin between each hungry demand to crawl inside Shane’s skin.

“Shower,” Shane manages to gasp, because they’re cold, and wet, and he needs to get Ilya warm again, which means he needs to keep his head for another few minutes at the very least.

He grabs Ilya’s hand and hauls him to the bathroom as soon as he can stand to let go of the embrace, teasing, “Get undressed before you turn the whole place into another lake.” Which is maybe not the sexiest thing he’s ever said, but Ilya gifts him a tired, crooked grin, anyway.

Wet clothes slap the tile in a pile, and Shane peels off his own shirt, boxers, toes cold against the heated flooring. Ilya’s sweater and joggers stick to him in clammy layers. Underneath, he’s all angles and sharp muscle, but he’s still built like he could break someone over his knee if he needed to. His skin is marbled, blue and purple bruises over his hip and elbow, the ugly bruise where the IV went in on his left arm still raw, and his cheek swollen.

Shane doesn’t waste time staring, because the marble in Ilya’s limbs says he’s freezing. He nudges him toward the walk-in shower, hitting the digital control and cranking the heat up slowly, careful not to knock the delicate equilibrium of Ilya’s balance and focus by veering wildly from one temperature to the other. He waits for the water to go from tepid to hot and everything to acclimatize before pulling Ilya under with him, and the first seconds are glorious, dense steam billowing instantly to fill the little enclosure, fogging out the world until it’s just them, sealed in their own private greenhouse.

Ilya’s head is still ducked, his long curls already flattening into wet commas against his face, but he’s shivering from the sudden change. Shane won’t have it. He gets his arms around Ilya’s waist and pulls them together, side to side, until they’re both in the direct blast. He palms the back of Ilya’s neck, rubs gently to get blood flowing, then runs his cheek up the stubbly line of Ilya’s jaw, kissing all the cold corners. Ilya lets his head tip forward, water sluicing over his face in a curtain, and gives an audible sigh. The goosebumps running down his arms start to fade.

“Okay, next time we hang outside, you’re wearing a toque,” Shane murmurs, voice soft under the waterfall of the shower. If Ilya wants to be outside in the clean, fresh air, on the edge of the wide, open lake with the cottage safely guarding his back, that’s fine by Shane, but he’s going to need to invest in some more outdoor heaters. Maybe a little gazebo…

“Next time?” Ilya answers, chin still down. But when he looks up, his pupils are blown and hungry, and a slack smile cuts across his mouth. The relief of being warm seems to have cracked something open again, made him reckless, or brave, or both. He lifts both hands and cradles Shane’s face, tilting it up, insistent, until their mouths are level. When he speaks, it’s all in a whisper. “Kiss me.”

Shane does as he’s told. He pushes into Ilya’s mouth with a groan; the taste of lake air and rain and the warmth of Ilya’s tongue. They kiss with the clumsy heat of people who’ve spent too much time lately holding back, mouths open and urgent, Ilya’s teeth catching Shane’s lower lip and scraping lightly. Shane feels the heat all the way to his toes, which, okay, yes, he can still feel them; that’s something, until the last of the cold is boiled out of both of them.

Ilya is gentle at first, letting Shane run his hands anywhere he likes, but after a minute, he gets impatient, the way he always does when he decides he’s done waiting for something he wants. He fits two hands flat to Shane’s chest and marches him back a step, pressing him between the tile and his own hard body, pinning him in place.

“Fuck,” Shane says. The water’s boiling now, streaming twin rivers down his neck and spine, but Ilya’s hands still come to warm him, tracing lines over his ribs, down. He buries his face in Shane’s throat and breathes deep. His nose is freezing against Shane’s pulse. The shudder that goes through him isn’t quite a chill. He makes a sound, half groan, half laugh, but won’t let up.

Shane keeps an arm braced around Ilya’s lower back, using the heel of his hand to rub slow, wide circles because he doesn’t want to press too hard while Ilya’s still got that fragile look to him. But Ilya keeps crowding close, taking up all the space like he wants to be everywhere at once.

Their next kiss is angled and messy, water running into both their mouths. Ilya bites his lip, a little, and when Shane flinches (not because it hurts, just startling, the sharpness of it) Ilya does it again, harder, just to see what happens.

“Careful,” Shane says, voice rough. He means for Ilya to be careful with himself. He can be whatever he wants to be with Shane.

Ilya only grins, a little wolfish, and slots a thigh between Shane’s, grinding lazy, dirty against the length of him just to prove he’s fine. Not dizzy and not fragile. His body tells another story. He’s clearly tired, the bruises raw, the little tremors that come and go in his left hand when he’s not aware of it, but his eyes have that fire, the old Ilya, undiluted.

They kiss again. It’s endless and a little desperate, easy to lose track of everything else except the rhythm of Ilya’s mouth and the palm cradling the back of Shane’s head. Neither of them is talking, but the meanings run wild over their skin, in gestures and grips: I missed you, I love you, don’t let go. Ilya is always more careful than he pretends to be, but the first time he tightens his hand in Shane’s hair just to anchor them both upright, he gets a low moan for his trouble, and he’s pretty sure that the satisfied sound Ilya makes is going to live rent-free in his head forever.

It’s so fucking stupid how quickly he’s at the edge. He has to brace a palm against the tile and the other flat against Ilya’s back, just to hold himself together. Ilya’s rocking against him, using the cage of his arms and legs to show Shane exactly what he’s got planned, and when Shane drops his forehead to Ilya’s collarbone, the groan that escapes him is humiliating in its honesty. He wants to come, right there under the hot water, but more than that, he wants to make it last; wants to draw out every minute, wants to keep Ilya here with him and nowhere else.

Ilya nudges his thigh up so the pressure lands exactly where Shane’s leaking all over them, then clamps both hands around his ass, grinding harder, and Shane has this wild thought that he’d let Ilya break every part of him if it meant hearing the way he laughs when Shane starts to shake, helpless under his touch.

He wants, but he also knows it would be deeply, cosmically stupid to try and do this here, against wet tile, with Ilya’s knees shaking and his arm bracketed with soreness where the IV went in. The floor is too hard, the consequences are obvious: one slip, one bad spasm, and it’s back to square fucking one.

He bites down on Ilya’s shoulder, a hard press of teeth that says, Stop, wait, hold on. Ilya grunts, but the hands on Shane’s waist pause just enough for Shane to slip away, a millimeter of cold in the air before he locks his own arms around Ilya.

“I wanna ride you,” he mutters, brushing his lips over Ilya’s ear so he feels every word as the smallest possible vibration. “In our bed. In our home.” It’s maybe a teeny, tiny bit manipulative, but Ilya’s a force of fucking nature even on a bad day; Shane needs every weapon in his arsenal just to survive.

“Fuck… yes.” Ilya’s still breathless, pupils blown, mouth pink all over.

“Yes,” Shane can’t even look at him without his whole ribcage flipping inside out. “Can we… fuck, can we just get out of here, and then you let me-” he can’t say the words out loud, not with Ilya’s eyes on him, so he just tilts his hips, lets their cocks line up, skin on skin, and holds it there, the way Ilya always asked for but would never explicitly say.

Ilya’s hands go slack around his waist for once. “You want that?” The tone is pure invitation, but something else is there: relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Hard to tell, because if Shane’s any judge, they’re both two seconds away from embarrassing themselves. He just nods, biting the inside of his cheek at the sheer relief of it.

“Will fuck you any way you want,” Ilya murmurs, voice a little shaky but low enough to roll right through Shane’s body.

“Yeah,” Shane rasps. “Just need you.”

He tries to keep his hands steady as he kills the shower, but everything’s slippery, and he’s more concerned with making sure Ilya stays upright than anything else. He claws victory out of the jaws of an undignified defeat, then towels them both off, taking his time with Ilya in something that feels close to an act of worship. He scrunches the water out of his hair, then dries each limb reverently, his arms, his chest, then down onto his knees so he can do the same to his legs. Ilya rests his weight against the towel rail to hold his balance, then drags Shane up with a rough grip in his hair and kisses him again, open-mouthed and hungry.

“No olive oil this time,” Ilya chuckles as he makes a controlled collapse onto the bed. They’re making the best of the situation they can, and it gives Shane a greedy little thrill just knowing that they still have options.

“Nope,” he crawls up Ilya’s long legs so he can straddle him and reach into the bedside drawer. He pulls out a bottle of lube and pops the cap off with his teeth.

“You have toys, too?”

“Maybe.”

“Fuck, Hollander, you kill me. You will show me later, yes? Put on, ah-” Shane coats his fingers and spares no extra time starting to work himself open. Ilya’s big hand clamps down hard on his thigh. “No… slow. Go slow… I want to see…”

Okay, so when Shane said he’d do anything Ilya wants… fuck. Fuck, fine… trembling in ways that have nothing to do with the temperature, he swings his leg over and repositions himself so he can lean forward and give Ilya the show he wants. He uses one hand to brace himself, his fingers curling around Ilya’s knee, surreptitiously pressing over the pulse point under his skin.

He’s not an exhibitionist by nature, but with Ilya, it’s different. It’s always been different. There’s an intensity to being watched that makes his hands go slick, a different kind of pressure than a game or a press conference. It’s not even about being looked at, just about being for Ilya and creating a show that’s nothing but want, filtered through his gaze.

Working himself open is a ritual, a pleasure and a test. He wants, fuck, he wants so bad to be perfect at this for Ilya, even if the part of his brain that isn’t dizzy with want is still snickering at the ridiculousness of ‘perfect bottoming’ as an objective ideal. He presses in, gentle at first, then firmer, slicked fingers stretching past resistance, heat flashing through his spine. It’s not the same as Ilya’s hands, never will be, but the memory of it helps. He looks up over his shoulder and meets Ilya’s eyes. Ilya’s pupils are blown wide, his gaze so direct it forces Shane to look away for a second, chin to his chest.

“Look at me,” Ilya says, the words so steady there’s no room for them to mean anything but command. Shane looks. Ilya’s mouth is parted a little, bruised from kissing, and his hands are clenched on the duvet like he’s fighting the urge to touch, or maybe fighting not to.

The angle’s a little awkward at first. He has to shift, bracing with a hand on the mattress, to get what he wants with the right leverage. The friction ghosts up the back of his knees in a way that feels both raw and ineffably sweet, a reminder that his body is ready and hungry, that he’s never wanted anyone like this.

He curls his fingers, finds the spot that always makes his brain static out, and shudders when the bolt of sensation races up his spine and splotches his vision with white. Ilya’s breathing harder now, shallow and erratic, watching Shane press and twist and gasp through it.

If Shane listens hard enough, he can almost make out the little Russian phrases he mutters when he gets like this, words Shane can’t quite make out but can half guess at by tone alone. The beauty of it isn’t the language, but the way Ilya’s voice pulses in the air, creating a kind of current between them. He’s not even touching himself, just watching like it’s oxygen, not moving, waiting for… what? For Shane to say please?

He’s not ashamed of wanting, not with Ilya, but it’s still hard to ask for things, even if he knows Ilya will crawl over glass to give them to him.

Did Ilya picture this in his dreams? The two of them making love here? Is this everything he’s wanted? Is it enough?

“Please,” Shane sobs, suddenly unable to stand the emptiness that grows in his chest. “Please, please, Ilya…”

He can’t even say the words again, can’t articulate anything but the ache of wanting to be filled, to be wanted, to be so completely claimed it’s not up for negotiation. The tension in him is louder than his heartbeat.

He expects Ilya to grip his hips, to pull him back around or shove him down or do any number of the savage, lovely things that usually define their fucking. He expects to have to protest, because they can do this, yes, but he’s still fucking worried, and Ilya’s a day out of the hospital, and Shane’s the one who needs to keep them both on some course of self-preservation.

Instead, Ilya draws him back, so Shane is laid flush against his chest, both of them looking up at glass and cloud, then guides the head of his cock to press against his opening with a slowness that borders on worship. Shane shudders and clings to Ilya’s thigh, his breath stalling as Ilya enters him, solid and huge, a fullness so sharp with relief it makes his arms shake.

The angle’s weird at first, not their usual, and Shane has to brace both hands on the mattress behind him to keep from losing his balance. Everything hangs in the balance of his thighs' strength and his arms' steadiness, made worse when Ilya bends his knees, nudges Shane just a little more open, then relaxes, supine, beneath him. Shane can’t find a single thing to protest in what he’s doing. Ilya’s lying on their bed, supported by pillows and doing nothing more strenuous than holding onto a little self-control and not coming inside Shane straight away.

His breath is hot against Shane’s ear, and his amusement somehow even more so. “Look at us, being so sensible,” he purrs. “We are both lying down and everything.”

Ilya is lying down. Shane is lying on him and clinging on to balance with every fucking muscle in his body, but fine, whatever. He’s not complaining.

When he tries to shift for balance, there’s a bite of stretch that borders on pain, and it’s perfect. Shane likes the ache, the reminder that he’s alive and wanted and here, in this bed, in this place that belongs to them and nobody else. He likes it even more that Ilya just knows to wait for Shane to catch his breath before rolling his hips, just the smallest nudge. Shane could come like this, no touch at all, just the sense of being utterly enveloped, fucked open and held in place.

He sags, nearly losing the last of his strength, but Ilya’s hand comes from behind and fits around his throat, not tight, just holding, a promise of control. The other hand covers Shane’s hip, anchoring him in place, fingertips searing through his skin. Shane rocks back instinctively, eager, and Ilya groans, low in his chest, and shoves deeper.

Shane tries to move, to speed up, but Ilya’s grip tightens on his throat. “No,” he rumbles, voice raw as weathered stone. “Slow.”

So that’s the game. Shane swallows, shivers at the command, and starts to grind back, pushing himself onto Ilya’s cock with as much force as he can manage, greedy and reckless.

If he were riding Ilya, he could set the pace, but like this, there’s only so much he can do before even his muscles start to tremble and he has to go as slow as Ilya wants. There’s something to be fucking studied in the way Ilya always knows how to take the upper hand. Shane will follows his orders, yes, willingly, gleefully even, but on his back, spread open the way he is with no real leverage to do more than raise is his in small, helpless, fitful thrusts, he feels overpowered in all the ways Ilya used to be able to fold him over the nearest surface, hold him in place, and fuck him exactly how he wanted while Shane whimpered and squirmed beneath him.

It’s the opposite of anything they’ve ever done, and yet somehow exactly the same.

“Move,” Ilya orders, sucking on his ear.

“I, fuck, I am,” Shane gasps, managing to raise his hips before gravity drags him back down.

“We will be here all day,” Ilya growls. “If this is all you can manage.”

Shane is okay with that. All day, every day, only they do need to eat, and Ilya does need to take his meds, and he might go fully crazy if he doesn’t come sometime soon.

“Please, fuck - let me ride you!”

“You are,” Ilya chuckles, low and dangerous. “See? I am helpless beneath you, no?”

Ilya’s as helpless as a fucking lion. He gives Shane’s throat a gentle little squeeze, not even close to restricting his air, just a casual, heavy reminder of ownership, and Shane nearly sees stars.

He tries to move faster, wants to bounce on Ilya’s cock like a fucking piston, but his thighs are jelly, and it’s all he can do not to collapse. Every grind down is its own little defeat, and Ilya knows exactly how little power Shane actually has in this configuration: he’s got the engine but no steering, just brute want and nowhere to put it but down, and down, and down again.

“Fuck it,” Shane mutters, planting his feet on either side of Ilya’s hips and arching his back into something that feels, at least, a little more athletic. He can feel Ilya’s body flexing under him, the pleasure ricocheting up in the sounds he makes, but the bastard won’t let him push faster, not even a single, glorious thrust.

The hold at his throat slackens just a little, enough for fingers to start a slow, rhythmic drag up the line of his jaw, and that’s somehow worse, because it means Ilya’s got both hands back and isn’t even using them to control the pace; Shane’s fighting his own body now, every motion a deliberate surrender.

“Ilya,” he whines, and hates how desperate his voice sounds.

“Shhh,” Ilya soothes. His voice is sandpaper and sunshine, just a little bit cruel. “We are being so very sensible.”

“I want… fuck, I want…” Shane breaks off, not sure if he wants to finish the sentence, because he’s not even sure himself. He wants it hard, and fast, and mean, wants it slow and gentle and everything in between so long as it’s Ilya, and he also wants to stay like this - held and consumed and full - for the rest of his natural life.

“What do you want?” Ilya demands, voice right in his ear. He’s not even winded, just watching Shane wrestle with the limits of his own muscle.

“Want to come...” Shane chokes. “Need you to fuck me. Now, please-“

There’s a moment - a heartbeat, an infinitesimal pause - where Shane can feel the decision happening behind him. Then Ilya clamps both hands on his hips, hauls him up and slams him down, and every little inch of composure Shane had left melts like air.

He’s loud when he comes. It’s not voluntary; the noise tears itself out of him, a ragged, broken shout that leaves the end of the word unfinished. He’s got nothing left, no energy or balance, so he just lets go, sagging back into Ilya’s waiting arms as the orgasm pulses through him, wringing him dry.

He comes all over his own chest, warm and slick and shockingly immediate. There’s a second or two where everything fades, and all he can hear is the blood howling in his own ears, and then he’s back, panting, soft-limbed, draped across Ilya’s torso with no dignity at all.

lya’s still hard inside him… hasn’t come yet, or isn’t planning to. “Did you…” He mumbles, but Ilya just hugs him tight, then rolls them both over until Shane is pinned beneath him. Ilya’s hands are trembling, so Shane threads the closest one with his own, squeezing and holding on tight until Ilya spills inside him.

“Fuck… Shane…”

Shane’s response defies categorization. There are words in there somewhere, he’s sure of it.

Ilya kisses his shoulders, the back of his neck, and then he falls sideways, slumped out on the bed alongside him, eyes closed as he catches his breath.

Shane just about manages to find his words. “Good as you pretended?” He means it sincerely, but Ilya chuckles regardless.

“You are always better than imagining. And I’m imagining you as best ever in world.” Oh yeah, Ilya’s done. Sex drunk and clearly happy, which is everything Shane wants for him right this moment in time. Ilya reaches up and wraps his fingers around the key and cross hanging at his throat.

It’s still early, and if the difference from before is that Ilya’s too flat to take charge and clean them up now, it doesn’t matter, because he’s already given Shane something he didn’t even know he was missing.

He finds his second wind and his feet, cleans them up with a damp towel, then tugs the sheets around them both, telling himself that it’s more important to rest now than it is to worry about any stains to the bedding. Ilya’s breathing is soft and even, and his hair is going to be an unmitigated disaster when he wakes up, but he’s in their bed, and right now the only things in his mind are good things.

He sleepily tugs on Shane’s fingers and pulls him into his arms, snuggling into him like Shane is a favorite teddy bear.

“Love you,” he mumbles into Shane’s skin.

Shane clutches him back and reminds himself of all the good things that exist in this one, precious moment.

Ilya sleeps. He does. In a few hours, Shane will wake him, make sure he takes his meds, and then they’re going to pile the fireplace up high, open the doors, and Ilya is going to spend the rest of the day without a single wall seperating him from the world he belongs in.

There would be something very irresponsible about tying Shane to the kitchen counter with those stupidly fluffy, long woolen scarves hanging by the door. For one, Ilya’s absolutely positive he’s not up for any more sex any time soon, and for another, Shane would never forgive him if Ilya keeled over in the kitchen and cracked his head open on the floor while he was stuck there. So. No impromptu bondage.

But despite all the noise Shane’s made to the contrary, Ilya clearly didn’t fuck him well enough if he’s still up to being such a fussy mother hen.

There’s a little emotional whiplash going on in his head right now that he doesn’t really want to examine. He’s feeling a little morbid and a lot giddy, and between one second and the next, he’s either going to melt into a puddle of contentment or burst into really confused tears.

Shane’s probably at his capacity for handling Ilya’s hysterics, so contentment it is.

But he’s had a nap, slept better than he thinks he has in nearly four fucking years, fucked his fiancé, and been given the literal keys to paradise. Metaphorically and literally. There’s only one thing standing in the way of him straight up transcending into a higher state of being, and that’s Shane Hollander’s internal stress regulator.

Ilya is willing to conceded that Cliff ‘crying is healthy you emotionally deregulated fucking doorknob’ Marlow maybe has a point. He feels lighter than air.

He also feels very raw and very bruised and kinda like one of those cats that get startled by their own reflections in mirrors, but anyway.

He’s whispered bad things to Shane outside, where the wind can carry them far away. They, and by association all the shit that goes with them, have no place here, in what is quickly shaping up to be a place Ilya’s not sure he is ever going to willingly leave.

Which means positivity. And sunshine. And cooking fucking breakfast for the most perfect annoyance in existence.

“Please sit down,” Shane all but begs as Ilya roots through his refrigerator. “I have stuff already prepped, I can have it heated in like five minutes.”

“You sit down,” Ilya grumbles, trying to understand how the most boring man in existence can also have the most boring supply of food. “I am cooking.”

“You’re supposed to be resting!”

“I rested.”

“Maybe having sex was a bad idea…” Shane is mostly talking to himself, but Ilya sets one of his stupidly expensive pans down on the counter loud enough to startle them both and draw a flush of embarrassment to Shane’s cheeks. “Okay, that’s not what I mean.”

“Was I not very well behaved?”

“No! You were a fucking menace!”

“Who lay very still and let you do all the work. How is asshole, by the way?”

“My asshole is fine, apparently,” Shane scowls that little kitten scowl at him. “Ok, fine, then at least let me help.”

“I don’t think you can cook,” Ilya shakes his head, back to the fridge to gather ingredients. “You have cook.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t use to have a private chef?” Shane says with a kiss swollen pout and a proper full body cross of his arms.

Yes, obviously Ilya did. “That was before. This is today. Today, I am cooking my future husband breakfast.”

Shane is being weird, which is, admittedly, Ilya’s fault.

He’s following Ilya around the kitchen island, shadowing over his shoulder as Ilya locates the blender and investigates its arcane mechanisms. Shane tries to be subtle about his hovering, which only makes it worse. Like he expects Ilya to drop dead at the sight of a carrot, or accidentally spiral a hand into the spinning blade, and then bleed out all over the polished wood.

Yes, Ilya is covered in bruises. Yes, he’s just bared his soul and made it very fucking clear how fucked up and broken he is, yes. He’s two hospital-grade band-aids down, and the red-hot afterburn of sex with the only man who’s ever successfully put up with more than three of his bullshit personality traits at once.

But if he doesn’t get to cook Shane Hollander breakfast at least once in his life, what has this all been for? What’s the point of any of it? There’s a whole fridge full of ingredients, and so help him Christ, he is making eggs.

There is no butter in the cottage, which is criminal. He has never even attempted to cook without butter. Yes, there’s olive oil, California-grown, which, as far as Ilya is concerned, defeats the whole point, but butter? Gone. Maybe it’s some kind of self-flagellating Canadian health habit. Maybe Shane ate all the butter just to force Ilya to use the fancy oil, maybe this is a test, a flex as domestic as it is perverse. He stares at it and remembers sinking into the warmth of Shane’s body and-

And now he has an erotic response to olive oil.

He eyes the bottle, which is dark and squat and probably cost more than some of the cars parked in the hospital lot last night. Fine. He’s a grown-up adult. He shakes a serving out and turns up the heat. The sizzle is immediate and greedy, which is deeply satisfying, so Ilya adds another glug, just to watch it foam and spit.

“What are you even making?” Shane is still hovering, arms crossed so hard he’s nearly self-strangling. “Because if you’re doing anything more complicated than eggs, I’m really gonna have to insist you-”

“I am not eggs peasant,” Ilya says, which barely makes sense, but he likes the sound of it. He hunts for an onion. There is no onion. There’s a box of vegetables labeled shallots, which he slices open with an enthusiasm that sends the papery skin everywhere.

Shane leans against the fridge, jaw ticking as he watches. “You’re going to end up back in the hospital.”

Ilya turns with the sharpest knife he can find and points the tip toward the stove. “If you come closer I throw this in your general direction. I have key now, no? So is my kitchen. There is no backseat cooking in my kitchen. You will sit still and be pretty and drinks coffee. Go.” He flicks the knife at the little cup Shane snatches up and clutches to his chest like a charm against evil. “Sit with your coffee or I start throwing everything.”

There’s a beat, and then, remarkably, Shane obeys. He retreats to the table and sits, all grumble and twitch, but he sits. His neck goes red, which is the most Shane thing; all that duty boiling right there just under the skin. Ilya fills the pan with garlic, then slams the shallot on top and stirs. Shane’s house doesn’t have the right utensils (no wooden spatulas, only silicone), so he improvises. A tablespoon works well enough.

By the time he’s got the first flavors going, Ilya is trembling a little with the effort, but it’s good. All the best food comes from exhaustion or rage. He finds more eggs, cracks four directly into the mess without even checking for shells because why care about shells, shells are calcium, and they’ve both been through much worse. He slings in another glug of oil. It is beginning to look like breakfast.

Shane stands up, one hand braced on the table, and opens his mouth to protest. Ilya cuts him off. “If you try to help, I will tell Sveta we spent whole trip having marathon sex and she will hide all your lucky tape.”

“I don’t think she’s allowed in the locker room,” Shane reluctantly starts to smile.

“Marly is. He is stupid for pretty face. He will be her secret weapon.” Some time soon, Ilya is going to have to find the energy to figure out a way to read them the riot act individually. On the one hand, Marly is his best friend, and literally saved his life, but Sveta is his family, and Marly would be the first man she’s fucked Ilya hasn’t immediately wanted to stab in the head. On the other hand, there’s nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for Sveta, up to and including acts of murder, but Marly is a big, dumb, loyal softy, and his heart gets broken far too easily.

Maybe he should just get them an upgrade at their next hotel and one of those in-room spa packages? Send chocolate and a taser.

“That actually smells really good,” Shane admits reluctantly.

“Yes, obviously.” He dithers for a little, whisk in hand, eggs scrambling up to a perfect wobble. There is not a single drinking glass in this house that isn’t designed to make you feel like a feral animal for touching it with your peasant hands. He pours two glasses of water and immediately, instantly, gets fingerprints all over them. The joy is immense.

When the pan is done, he plates the eggs and roughly strews the rest of the sauté from the pan over the top. The effect is masterful, if Ilya says so himself (and he does), and would not be out of place in the finer restaurants of his youth. He adds a perfectly sliced shallot on the side, then, after a moment of defiance, presses more into a smiley face in the eggs. He’s not sentimental, he just likes it.

He sets the two plates on the table and then, dramatically, sits himself in what’s clearly Shane’s favorite spot, the chair with the lake view. He gestures to the opposite seat.

“Good morning, chef,” Shane says, voice dry but his mouth already leaking a hungry grin. He sits, loading up a huge forkful without any of his usual routine of cutting things into perfect little cubes.

“Is hot,” Ilya warns.

“Can handle it,” Shane mutters, already chewing. When he swallows, he goes glassy-eyed for a moment, then recovers, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the napkin. “Fuck. That’s actually really good.”

“Of course it is really good,” Ilya says, shoveling two more forkfuls into his mouth, whiskey-warm and ferociously happy. “I am a fucking genius.”

They eat. Sometimes Ilya pretends not to watch, but he never tires of the way Shane’s face changes when he enjoys something: a crinkle at the eyes, a softening around the jaw, the briefest glint of greed when he thinks nobody’s watching. Shane insists he doesn’t like rich food, but it’s a lie. Shane likes good things and just wants to suffer nobly for it. That’s fine, Ilya can be sneaky.

He needs another nap first, but he can plot while horizontal.

That’s all of his energy used up on one task - two if you could fucking, which both is and isn’t a task - but he manages to keep everything down, then takes his pills and reluctantly allows Shane to bully him over onto the couch while he cleans up.

“Only because I cook,” he says, yawning. “Not tired.”

He wakes up three hours later to Shane’s distressingly beautiful ‘I fucking told you so’ stare.

The rest of the day is nothing but naps, cuddles on the couch, and Shane reading aloud from the Unauthorized Scott Hunter Biography and pretending to get annoyed with Ilya’s commentary.

He lets Shane make lunch. They somehow manage to pull themselves together to make burgers - wrapped in rabbit food for Shane because he’s in season, with buns for Ilya, because he ‘needs the carbs, asshole’ - and before he knows it the sky is dark, and the rain is heavy, and there’s a crackling fireplace that leaves him feeling cozy and lethargic all at once. Shane is in his arms, and Ilya’s back to wanting to cry again.

With happiness this time, he thinks.

He strokes his fingers through Shane’s hair and delights in its softness. He’s always loved it, even those terrible little bangs he used to have. Being able to hold him close and just enjoy this, unhurried and peaceful, is enough to make him a little giddy.

“You really didn’t be with anyone?” He’s not sure where the question comes from. Maybe a little sprinkle of unease that this doesn’t mean to Shane what it means to Ilya. And by this he means here.

Shane doesn’t seem to take offense. He shifts a little and cuddles in closer, his hand resting over Ilya’s heart.

“I tried,” he admits. “Not sure how hard, but I did try.”

“You would be beating them off with sticks, I think.” Shane is so fucking beautiful, so incredible. Plus he’s rich and famous and successful. The hockey world might be shortsighted when it comes to lusting after those things, but everyone else… not so much.

“I didn’t really notice.”

“They did not jerk themselves off in shower in front of you, you mean?” Sometimes he thinks of that shy, uncertain boy and is still amazed by the man he’s grown to be. All that sweetness is still here, but he’s so very fucking strong. Kind still, despite the coldness and cruelty he’s been forced to endure. Ilya couldn’t love him more if he tried. And he does try. Every day. If he can find just another morsel of himself to give, he will.

“Fuck off,” Shane laughs. “I just mean I wasn’t really looking. Not until I was, and then…” he squirms a little, but doesn’t try to move from Ilya’s arms. “I mean... you read my texts.”

“Oh… no. Not yet.”

Shane does move then, pushing up just a little so he can look at Ilya. “Really? Why not?”

Ilya looks away and sniffs. “I don’t know. It is before. Past. Doesn’t matter what you said then. If you hated me. You love me now, yes?”

He does need to look at them, he knows he does. He’s just… not scared, so much as not brave. Sasha and the lawyers have it now, but he knows if he asks…

If he asks, Sasha will probably tell him, and he’ll be kind about it, which Ilya will hate.

Shane kisses him, slow and sweet. “I loved you then, too,” he says. “I was just…” he doesn’t finish. Yes, Ilya knows about just.

He pulls Shane back to his chest. “Tell me about when you looked?” He’s not sure if he’s looking to feel jealous, or if he’s just greedy for every little spec of information he can get.

Shane is quite for a minute, maybe asking himself the same question. “I guess I figured fuck it, right? I was out. I was alone… maybe I could go on dates. Rose tried to help. I think she hoped maybe me and Miles would become a thing.”

“I do not like Rose Laundry,” he says churlishly. Shane snorts.

“You’ll love her.”

“No. Who is this Miles?”

“One of her co-stars from the X-Squad. He’s a nice guy. Really funny-”

“Hot?”

“Well yeah…” Shane’s tracing his fingers up and down Ilya’s stomach now. It tickles, but not enough to distract him.

“So this hot, funny, nice guy was not worth dating… why?” Ilya’s a little offended on Shane’s behalf.

“Oh! Well, uh… I mean I think he thought I’d be more… you know?”

“No. I do not know.” In what world is Shane Hollander not everyone’s perfect man? Ilya would rather he not be, but he’s a pragmatist. Besides, he’s pretty sure he does know, but he’s absolutely not about to pass up on the chance to make Shane squirm a little.

“I don’t think we were all that…” he clears his throat. “I mean, I guess we had different expectations of what…”

Even from this angle, Ilya can see the pink blooming under those beloved freckles. “He thought he found himself big, burly, handsome hockey man to fuck him through the floor?”

Shane is pretty, yes. Beautiful, really, in a way that is scientifically proven to make Ilya kinda fucking stupid, but he’s not a small man. That’s honestly one of the sexiest things about him.

“Anyway,” Shane says a little louder, glowing brighter, “we hung out a couple of times, but that’s it. He’s married to a director now. I missed the wedding because of the playoffs, but the pictures were nice.”

Shane Hollander… his gentle, kind, sweet Shane. Ilya drops a fond kiss to the top of his head. “What about others?”

“A couple of other actors… they didn’t go so well.”

Ilya stops running his hand through Shane’s hair and holds very still. “No?”

Shane chuckles. “No. Rose is officially banned from matchmaking.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“What? No! No, nothing like that. I mean, one of them was kinda an ass when I wouldn’t sleep with him but-”

Ilya is starting to stand before Shane has even finished speaking. It makes Shane huff and gently push him back down. Ilya glares at him. “What? You think because I am sick I can’t break his fucking face?”

“I think you don’t even know his name!” Shane laughs, shaking his head. “Relax. He called me a worthless cocksucker - which I hadn’t actually sucked his cock so you know… kinda rude, but I kicked him out and mom tanked his career so…”

“You are a very good cocksucker,” Ilya grumbles, his hand back in Shane’s hair. He makes a note to ask Yuna next time he sees her. No one gets to treat Shane with such disrespect. “And I like your mother.”

“Thanks,” Shane says dryly.

“He should not have talked to you like that,” Ilya has to be sure he knows that. Shane’s dating pool is shallow and kinda terrible by the sound of it. Ilya has to be clear. “You only deserve, um…” the word fucking escapes him. “Admiring? Only admiring.”

Shane tilts his head and presses a kiss to Ilya’s chest. “Lucky I’ve got you then.”

“Hmph.”

“What about you?”

Maybe not the time for a joke, but Ilya tries anyway. “I didn’t exactly fuck anyone in Russia. Not even the orderlies.” The effect is not what he intends. It’s a low, ironic rasp when it leaves his lips, but Shane goes so still, and the blood seems to flee his face.

He curls closer, head bowed, and mumbles into Ilya’s ribcage, “That’s not… I wasn’t…” and it hits him that he’s said the wrong thing.

Ilya smooths his hand down Shane’s back, gentle, wanting to prove he’s not trying to make it sad. “It was joke.”

“I know,” Shane says, muffled and fierce at once, “I wasn’t…fuck, Ilya, I didn’t mean…”

He squeezes Shane’s shoulder, still petting. “I spent all my time trying not to be a burden. Or, at least, not an extra one.”

“That’s kinda what I mean. You and Sasha, or Sveta… you were with them before. But not after.”

It’s Ilya’s turn to squirm now. “I told you… I wasn’t… There was no want. Until you.” And why on earth would either of them want him?

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” Ilya assures him. “It is not like that between us.” He is suddenly back on another couch, with Shane in his arms, and is overcome with the need to explain himself better this time. “I love them, yes, and we used to have fun. But not dating. Just sex. With friends. Who I love. But not… not like I love you.”

“Hey… hey,” Shane twists a little so he’s lying fully against Ilya’s chest, and there’s nothing stopping them from kissing, slow and sweet. “I’m not… I’m glad you have them.”

“They like you,” Ilya admits. “Even Sasha, and he doesn’t like anyone.”

“Sasha, for sure, wanted to kill me at first, right?”

“Yes, but only because you are…” Ilya takes a second to run a hand over Shane’s hair. “You are very important.” He watches his own fingers, restless and stupid with happiness, slide behind Shane’s ear. “Sasha and Sveta. We are always… I don’t know. Family.” He stops and tries again, slower, wanting Shane to grasp it, wanting him to know he’ll never be on the outside of them, not now. “We are from the same, um, family circles? All of us.” That seems so important, suddenly, and it’s embarrassing that it’s never come up before, like a crumpled piece of memory left at the bottom of a drawer.

“Yeah?” Shane looks up, more intent than before. “Since you were little?”

“Very little,” Ilya says. “It is different, in Russia. Our families were…” and it is the past tense now. Ilya’s family legacy is in ruins. Sveta has turned her back on her own and broken her papa’s heart in the process. Sasha’s is nonexistent since Ilya took care of things for him. He’s not sure how to explain any of that to Shane, and they’re not his stories to tell either way. “Anyway… we are family, that is all. You, too, now.”

Shane starts to squirm again. “Speaking of families…” Ilya waits him out, patient when he’s in his arms. “I know you want to plan the wedding, and you still can! I am down for anything you want! However you want!”

Ilya runs his palm down Shane’s side, calming him. “But?”

“But at the hospital… I wasn’t family. I wasn’t next of kin. It was okay, because Sveta was there, but if she’s ever not…”

Ilya understands what he’s saying. It’s partly why he reacted so shamefully while confined to that bed. Without Shane to protect him, anyone could have come in.

Even with Shane… if Alexei turns up one day, can he just override him?

“What are you asking me?” Ilya squeezes him tighter, trying to ward off the anxiety building inside him.

Shane raises his chin and meets his gaze, firelight dancing over his cheeks. He looks like something magical, born of light and warmth, so soft and so loving, gentleness and fierceness coiled around a soild foundation of goodness. “We can still have the big wedding. I’ll tell the whole fucking world I love you. But marry me now. Here. Before we leave. I don’t want to go back to the world if you’re not my husband.”

Ilya wants a wedding because he wants everyone on the face of the whole fucking planet to know how important Shane is.

But he wants this… them… here… he wants that more. “Now?”

Relief turns Shane luminous. “Okay, not this actual second. But tomorrow? The day after?”

Ilya takes a moment to think about it. He tucks Shane’s head under his chin and hums. “Okay, but I have problem?”

“What’s the problem?” Shane asks breathlessly.

“I have no idea what to do on my last night as deer.”

Shane pushes back and blinks up at him. “Deer?”

“Is what is called? No… Americans are bachelors.”

“Do you mean stag?”

Does he mean stag? “Mini horse with fucking horns,” he amends, feigning irritation in the hopes of another of those adorable nose crinkles.

He gets one. Shane throws his head back and laughs, delighted. “Okay, well, I can think of a few options.”

“Hmm… are they kinky?”

“I have jigsaw puzzles downstairs,” Shane grins.

Ilya stares at him, utterly besotted, and so terrifyingly, wonderfully in love he can't quite believe that all this is real. “I am marrying most boring man on planet.”

Chapter 27

Chapter Notes

Another long one! I think we run the full gauntlet of emotions here. Thank you for your patience while I worked through things last week, and for all your messages both here, on tumblr and on threads.

Content warning: discussions of past abuse, suicide, and domestic violence, discussions of murder/attempted murder, and past underage sex. And, uh, the cliffhanger in this one is a bit different... that said! There is also one of my favorite Yuna and Ilya scenes, so it's not all terrible!

“Well, your blood pressure is a little low, but it’s headed in the right direction.” Marguerite has driven over to the cottage on Shane’s direction and plans on doing so every day they’re there. Shane’s not fucking around with anything, no matter how much the cottage seems to be doing miracles for Ilya’s mood.

She’s perched on the arm of the chair opposite them, tablet balanced on her knee, and her tone is that now familiar brand of professionally warm that Shane’s come to recognize means she’s genuinely pleased. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding.

Marguerite tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear and glances down at her notes. “All your baselines are stable. That’s excellent. We want to keep them exactly where they are.” She looks up, her gaze settling on Ilya with a kind of gentle focus that doesn’t feel invasive. “How are you feeling? The numbers are good, but I want to hear from you.”

Shane threads his fingers through Ilya’s, where their hands are resting on the couch cushion between them. Ilya’s thumb drags across his knuckle, absent and reassuring, and Shane squeezes back before he can stop himself.

Ilya shifts, his shoulder pressing more firmly into Shane’s. “Okay,” he says. “I am sleeping. But not so…” he makes a small gesture with his free hand, fingers fluttering near his temple. “Not so… agitated. Is good. Being here.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she says. “The environment we’re in matters. If being here is helping you feel more settled, that’s a huge piece of the puzzle.”

Shane finds himself talking before he’s fully planned it. “He’s been on top of his meds. All of them. I’ve got the binder, I’ve been keeping track.” He can hear the eagerness in his own voice, the way it pitches a little higher than usual, and he makes himself dial it back. “He’s been doing really well.”

Ilya’s thumb stops its slow drag. He glances sideways, and Shane meets his eyes for a half second before Ilya looks away again, something complicated and fond moving through his expression too fast to catch.

Marguerite smiles. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” She taps something into her tablet. “Keep doing what you’re doing. If anything changes, if anything feels off… You call me. Doesn’t matter what time.”

“Okay,” Shane says.

“Okay,” Ilya echoes, quieter.

“When you get back, I’d like us to revisit our conversation about therapy, but for now, please just enjoy the rest. Both of you. I’d say you’ve earned it.”

She tucks the tablet under her arm and stands. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. Same time.” She pauses at the door, one hand on the frame, and looks back at them. Shane realizes, with a small jolt, that she’s not looking at Ilya alone. She’s looking at both of them and the way they’re curled into the couch… at their joined hands, at the easy press of Ilya’s shoulder against his. Her smile goes a little softer at the edges.

“Rest,” she says, and then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her. Ilya leans into Shane’s shoulder.

“Gold sticker,” he mumbles. “Maybe she will forget about therapy.”

Shane is pretty sure she won’t, but he’s not starting that conversation now. Ilya seems to swing back and forth on his decision to go with one of the names Marguerite has suggested, find someone on their own, or just… not bother.

“I’ll get you a chart.” The fire pops in the hearth. Shane stares at it for a beat, then two, then lets his head drop back against the couch cushion. Ilya’s weight is warm and solid against him, and the key at his throat catches the firelight every time he shifts.

“So,” he says. “Mom and Dad are coming over before lunch if that’s still okay?”

Ilya makes a small sound against his shoulder. It’s not quite a word, but it is an agreement.

“Dad’s bringing some stuff. And Mom wants to... I don’t know. Talk. Help.” He clears his throat. “The officiant - the woman who’s doing the ceremony - she’s arriving at three-thirty. That’s what Mom said, anyway. Three-thirty.” He’s starting to get nervous, and he has no idea why.

The fire pops again. Ilya doesn’t move.

Shane’s fingers tighten around Ilya’s. He looks down at their joined hands, at the pale freckles across his own knuckles, at the darker moles on Ilya’s wrist. He thinks about the last time he stood in front of a room full of people and made a life-changing announcement. He’s fairly sure this is going to go better.

“Three-thirty,” Shane repeats, quieter. His voice sounds strange in his own ears. Thin. It belongs to somebody standing a few feet away. “That’s... that’s when we’re getting married. At three-thirty.”

Ilya’s thumb starts moving again. Slow and deliberate, dragging across the ridge of Shane’s knuckle and back again.

“Okay,” Ilya says.

Shane turns his head. Ilya’s cheek is pressed into the cushion, his curls mashed flat on one side, and his eyes are half-lidded and heavy with something that isn’t quite sleep. He looks peaceful.

“Okay,” Shane echoes.

He should feel something more than this. Something bigger. He’s been turning it over in his head since the hospital - the logistics, the paperwork, the phone calls his mother made while he sat in the chair beside Ilya’s bed - and now the thing itself is right in front of him, hours away, and his chest feels... quiet. Not empty so much, but like the lake out past the glass when the wind drops. Still.

He’s getting married.

He’s getting married.

He has real rings in his pocket. Ones not made out of candy. Ones Sasha helped him pick, back before the hospital.

“You’re worrying again,” Ilya murmurs, tucking Shane’s head down to press against his chest. “You still want?”

“Yes,” Shane says quickly. He still wants. More than anything. He angles his chin to press a kiss above the key at Ilya’s throat. “Always.”

They have a few more hours. The rush they’re in to get this done is on a different timeline today.

Ilya shifts a little so he can pick up the book resting on the arm of the chair and skips through it until he gets to the part Shane left off at. “Much to the confusion of the modern science community, Scott Hunter is actually older than the pyramids. Studies are being carried out to see-”

“That’s not what it says,” Shane closes his eyes and grins.

“Hush, I am reading, you are listening.”

“Uh huh.”

“Is believed his knees are little curly fossil snails, which is why he is so slow to cut-”

Shane is never going to be able to look Scott Hunter in the eye ever again.

If Ilya’s spent little time with Shane’s mom, he’s spent even less time with his father. He has the natural tendency to distrust all fathers in general, having never met any he considers in any way representative of what several years of exposure to Disney and superhero movies tell him fathers are supposed to be (fallible and goofy and possibly not to be trusted with scissors, and/or trampled to death by herds of wild animals). Even Sveta’s father, who indulged her to the point of lunacy, has proven to be, at best, unreliable or, at worst, maliciously incompetent. The less said about Sasha’s father, the better, and Ilya’s…

Well, Ilya’s father liked him more when he had little memory or context of who or what Ilya actually was. And was maybe left to die in a locked by his brother, so hey, at least they have that in common now.

Point being… he’s not sure what to make of David Hollander, who doesn’t speak much, but who is poring through Ilya’s bank records with a fine-tooth comb, and whose eyes are pale and reflective where Shane’s are deep and soulful, but still somehow look just as soft.

He probably should have more of an opinion about the man who is going to be his father-in-law, but opinions require context and exposure, and in Ilya’s experience, the more people gain regarding him, the less they like him.

He really does want David Hollander to like him.

“Sasha says you like chess,” David says, setting a board down on the table in front of Ilya.

Sasha can suck Ilya’s-

“Yes. I used to…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. The board is real wood, with dark squares polished to a dull shine, and the pieces are weighted and smooth. Ilya’s fingers itch for the pawns, a muscle memory he hasn’t flexed in a long time.

David takes the seat opposite, folding himself down with the same unhurried economy Shane has. “That’s fine. I’m not very good.”

The lie is so transparent Ilya almost laughs. He doesn’t, because David’s face is open in a way that makes him nervous.

“I was okay,” Ilya says, because that much is true, or was. “Before. I don’t… the thinking part is different now. Slower.” He gestures at his own head with two fingers, in a vague little tap. “Probably not worth your time.”

“Mm.” David doesn’t argue. He just starts setting up the white pieces on Ilya’s side, turning each one so the face points forward. “My therapist’s a big chess guy. He’s been on me about it for a while.”

Ilya’s hand, hovering over the rook, freezes. “You go to therapy?”

He doesn’t mean it to come out the way it does, sharp and a little too fast, the question stripped bare before he can drape it in something more polite. David glances up, and those pale eyes catch the light from the window and hold it steady.

“Twice a week,” David says. He picks up a knight, weighs it in his palm, then sets it down. “Started a couple of years ago.”

Ilya doesn’t know what to do with this information. He glances toward the kitchen, where Shane’s pretending to be very interested in helping his mom make lunch.

David must see something in his face, because he sets the last pawn in place and leans back, hands loose on his knees. “It’s not a crisis,” he says quietly. “I just... spend maybe a little too much time in my own head.” He pauses, and his mouth twitches into a little smile. “I have a tendency to fixate on things that maybe aren’t the best for me. Or my family. I want to show up for them right.”

Ilya knows about those. He knows about them the way he knows about gravity. They live inside him in ways he doesn’t have to think about to feel.

“It’s not a big secret,” David adds, reading the shape of Ilya’s silence.

“Okay.” Ilya’s voice comes out rough. He clears his throat. “Okay. Yes. Is good. That you go.”

David’s smile twitches again. “I’m glad you think so. Not sure my old man would’ve agreed.”

Ilya can’t help the snort of agreement there. “I think my father wouldn’t know who to kill first,” he says wryly, “me or doctor.” But hey, he’s dead now, so it’s not an issue.

“Parents can be weird about things like that,” David says, waiting for Ilya to make the first move. Ilya keeps it simple. Mama always favored Petrov’s defense. “But I am glad I do it.”

Ilya doesn’t intend to be mean, but it just sort of slips out. “I see where Shane gets his lack of subtlety.”

Instead of being offended, David just laughs. “Yeah, probably.”

“I’m subtle!” Shane calls over his shoulder.

“No,” both David and Yuna say at once, “you’re not.”

“Wow…”

Ilya turns back to the board. David’s made his first move, an Italian opening, clean and unhurried. Ilya responds without really thinking, muscle memory doing most of the work. His finger lingers on the knight after he’s set it down, and he waits for the familiar rush of patterns, the cascading branches of possibility that used to light up behind his eyes like a city seen from above.

They don’t come. Not the way they used to.

What comes instead is slower. A dimmer light, a narrower corridor. He can still see the shape of the game, but the details blur if he tries to hold too many of them at once. It’s like trying to read through fogged glass. He knows the words are there. He just can’t quite make them out.

David doesn’t rush him. He sits with his hands folded loosely in his lap, watching the board and not Ilya’s face, which is a kindness Ilya didn’t know to ask for.

“You should take the bishop,” Shane says from the kitchen. He’s got a wooden spoon in one hand and a dishtowel slung over his shoulder, and he’s leaning around the island with the kind of earnest confidence that makes Ilya want to kiss him and also maybe shake him gently by the shoulders. He should bishop his ass.

“Shane.” David doesn’t look up.

“That’s a trap, Shane,” Ilya says, because it is. A very obvious one.

“Oh.” Shane’s mouth pulls to one side. “Well. I tried.”

“Don’t,” Yuna says from behind him. She doesn’t look up from whatever she’s chopping. “You’ll make it worse.”

Ilya moves his pawn. David moves his knight. The trap is still there, waiting, patient. Ilya sees it now, properly this time, the whole shape of it laid out like a map. It takes him longer than it should have, and his jaw tightens around the shame of it, but he sees it.

He doesn’t spring it. He moves around it, and David’s pale eyes flick up once, fast, then back down, and they continue on in easy silence for a while.

“You know,” Yuna says eventually, setting a cutting board on the counter beside Shane, “I think you should castle.”

"Honey-"

“She’s right,” Shane says immediately. “Castle.”

“You cannot castle,” Ilya says, very patiently, because he’s trying not to be rude.

“Oh.” Shane looks at the board. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Okay.” He heads back into the kitchen, then reappears a moment later with two glasses of water, which he sets on the table at an equal distance from each of them, like a referee placing markers. “Just in case.”

“You did not teach him Chess?” Ilya asks David, trying to understand how a man so inherently gifted at strategy can be so painfully bad at the game of strategy.

“Oh, I taught him,” David laughs, taking one of Ilya’s pawns. “He just wasn’t very interested.”

“Not enough violence,” Yuna hums.

“I like a more physical element to my gameplay,” Shane protests. Ilya opens his mouth to respond, then remembers he’s sharing the space with Shane’s parents. Shane seems to know what he’s about to say anyway and looks over at him in warning. Ilya holds up his hands. He is the most innocent.

David’s next move is pretty aggressive. Ilya appreciates that and has to sit with it for a beat longer than he’d like, turning the board over in his head, peeling back the layers of what David’s actually setting up versus what he’s pretending to. The knight on f6 is bait, he’s pretty sure. The rook is the real threat. He slides his bishop across.

“Nice.”

Ilya’s chest turns all stupid and warm.

“You should eat something,” Shane says from the kitchen. He’s materialized at Ilya’s elbow with a plate. There’s half a bagel on it, cream cheese already spread, because Shane is Shane, and apparently, if Ilya doesn’t eat carbs at regular intervals, he’ll just drop dead.

“I ate breakfast.”

“That was four hours ago.”

“It was two.”

“It was three and a half.” Shane sets the plate down on the corner of the table, not next to the board itself, which is its own small act of diplomacy. “Just. You know. In case you get hungry.”

“I am in the middle of a move.”

“You can eat and move. I’ve seen you do it.”

He can, actually. He used to be able to eat and play simultaneously, back when his brain could run the game on a separate track without him thinking about it. He picks up the bagel half to make Shane stop hovering and takes a bite, and he retreats, satisfied, back to the kitchen, where he’s pretending to help his mother.

“Castle,” Yuna says.

“Mom, we already-”

“I mean, I think you should castle, David.”

“You can’t castle,” Shane says, and Ilya almost chokes on his bagel.

“Right.” Yuna nods. “I always forget which one is which.” She’s almost as bad a liar as Shane. It’s ridiculously endearing.

David moves his queen instead, which is the right move, and Ilya has to put the bagel down because his left hand needs to be free for the piece he wants to pick up. The patterns are coming a little faster now, or maybe he’s just adjusting to the dimmer light of his own thinking. He can see three moves ahead, maybe four, which is a fraction of what he used to manage but enough to keep him in the game.

“You know,” Shane says, leaning around the island again with a dishtowel now draped over both shoulders like a cape, “if you move the little horsey to that square, you could-”

“The knight.”

“The knight, yeah. You could take his bishop.”

Ilya stares at him. “That is a very, very bad idea.”

“Okay.” Shane holds up both hands, dishtowel flapping. “Just trying to help.”

“You’re helping the wrong person,” David says mildly.

“I’m Switzerland.”

“Switzerland is neutral, Shane.”

“I’m Switzerland with a vested interest.”

Yuna snorts, and Ilya takes another bite of the bagel.

They don’t get very far into the game, even without pausing to eat the elaborate bowl of salmon, rice, and vegetables that ends up in the middle of the table. Ilya eats what he’s told, and more importantly, Shane does too. They seem to find some kind of middle ground by annoying each other to take another bite, even when Shane grumbles about macros and Ilya’s stomach gets a little agro.

“Hold that through,” David then says as Shane drags him outside to ‘finish up the preparations’. Ilya’s not fully sure what they’re up to, but he’s also quite happy to stay right where he is, ponder chess, and let everything settle.

Before he gets married. Today.

Now’s one of those times he really misses alcohol.

“Hi…” Yuna takes a tentative seat next to Ilya by the fire and sets her hands neatly in her lap. She looks supremely awkward, which is, in itself, epically fucking weird given the fact that Ilya is about to marry her son. “How’re you feeling?”

“Okay,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Marguerite says the drug stuff is going well."

“I’m glad,” she says, “but no, I was meaning… how are you feeling about the wedding?”

Is that her way of saying she wants him to call it off?

“Good,” he says, too quickly, and then immediately regrets it. He picks at a thread in the cuff of his sweater, pulling it free and winding it around his finger until the tip turns white. “I mean… is good.”

He can feel her watching him. Not unkind, exactly, but with the same careful attention a doctor gives a wound they’re not sure has stopped bleeding. He knows what she must be thinking. What both she and her husband must be thinking.

They’re two people who barely know him, who’ve been polite and made tea and kept their distance, and who are only here because Shane has already proved that he will choose Ilya over them if he has to.

Shane has done harder things than cut his family out of his life, and he would do it again, and that knowledge sits in Ilya’s chest like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward through every thought.

She’s only here because she doesn’t want to lose him. That’s the whole of it. Shane told them without words, and they heard him just the same, and now they’re pretending this is something they want. Because the alternative is losing their son. Because Ilya is the alternative.

He tightens the thread until it bites. The pain is clean, at least. Clearer than whatever this is.

“It’s… okay if you’re nervous,” Yuna says. Her voice is measured, the way Shane’s gets when he’s trying very hard not to say the wrong thing. “I’d be nervous too.”

Ilya almost laughs. Nervous. Yeah. He’s nervous. He’s also fairly certain he’s the worst thing that has ever happened to her son’s life, and that the only reason she’s sitting on this couch next to him instead of driving him to the nearest bus station is that Shane has already made it clear she doesn’t get a vote.

So he sits. And he watches the fire. And he waits for the moment Yuna stops being polite and starts being honest.

“Shane told me,” she says, and her voice is careful, “that your parents are gone.”

The fire pops again. Ilya’s jaw tightens, and he can feel the muscle jump under his skin, a little tremor that runs from his ear to his collarbone.

“Yes.”

“And that you lost your mother very young.”

Ilya tries not to stare. He isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to say to that? Yes, his mama died a long, long time ago. Ling enough ago that Ilya was far too young to picture himself getting married to anyone, let alone what it might look like when he was done. It’s funny, really, how fast that changed. Zero concept of what it is to be in an adult relationship, beyond the abstract knowledge of one day he’s going to get old and do those things. Then two years later, he started having sex and hasn’t really stopped until he decided to engage in Schrödinger’s Suicide Attempt.

It’s not exactly been intentional, this prolonged drought broken only by Shane, but he can’t say he hates finding himself here, now.

Yuna’s waiting for a response.

“Oh. Yes.” He clears his throat and forces himself to pay more attention.

She shifts a little in place, another of Shane’s awkward little mannerisms he can’t help but find endearing.

“I tried to look it up online,” she starts, meeting his gaze carefully. “If there was something mothers are traditionally supposed to do for weddings in Russia. I don’t think I had much luck… I couldn’t really find much for the things they’d do for their sons. Mostly-”

“Daughters,” Ilya offers as she gets more uncomfortable. “Yes. Russian weddings are not for two men. But parents do parent things. Say they are happy, say they hope new couple has luck… that is all.” He’s not sure he wants to get into the more traditional side of things, not with her, not when they’re reminders that his mama’s traditions were so important to her. This way, he gets to pretend that she’d be happy for him, and that she’d want this for him, and not spiral into the what-ifs of trying to align the sepia colored memories of her with the reality that her faith might have stood in the way.

“I’m not really doing a great job here, I don’t think,” Yuna shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I’m usually better at this.” She briefly closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, she looks less uncertain. “I know no one can ever replace your mom, but you’re marrying my son, and I want you to feel like you’re part of this family, so if there’s something I should or could be doing to show you that, then I hope you feel like you can tell me.”

She really is so very much like Shane. Or Shane is like her, he supposes. So incredibly kind, and so very earnest. He shakes his head quickly. “Oh. No. Thank you. We are not in Russia, there is no need to do things Russian way.”

He’s surprised to see she looks a little disappointed. “Are you sure? I mean, I know you’re not a bride. And neither is Shane. You’re grooms. Both grooms! But I did do a lot of research into curly hair just in case and-”

Ilya blinks. “What?”

“I read somewhere that moms are supposed to comb the bride’s hair for luck? Not that you’re a bride! Again! I just mean… shoot. I just mean it was the only thing I could find that didn’t involve salt.”

Ilya’s been finding Shane charmingly hilarious since he first waddled over, all bundled up in winter wear and introduced himself. Of course he gets it from somewhere.

The laugh that bursts out of his chest seems to put her more at ease. “You want to help with my hair?”

“Yes! No! I mean…” Yuna looks up at the ceiling and seems to be trying to stop her life flashing before her eyes. “I just went down a bit of a rabbit hole. When I couldn’t find anything else. Shane doesn’t have curls, and David is… not the most, um, interested? In these things? So I emailed a salon that specializes, and they sent me a whole bunch of YouTube videos and-”

In what fucking world is Shane’s mom watching curly-hair tutorials so she can fix him up for the shotgun-wedding visa Ilya’s about to have with her son?

He almost folds himself in half trying to hold back his glee. She just makes a pained little noise and flaps her hand. “Oh god, I’ve offended you, haven’t I? I’m so sorry! I’ll-” Run away screaming and not be able to meet his eye for the next six to eighteen months if she’s anything like Shane.

“No! No, it is wonderful, really!”

The laugh fades from his chest but leaves something warm in its wake, a little flicker of courage he didn’t know he still had. He shouldn’t ask. He should let it go. He should smile and nod and let her off the hook and pretend he doesn’t want anything at all.

But she’s watching him with Shane’s careful, hopeful eyes, and she watched the tutorials, and she said part of this family, and he’s so fucking tired of not asking for things just because asking means someone might see what’s wrong with him.

“Do you...” He stops. Tries again. “Could you... cut it? My hair?” The question comes out smaller than he means it to. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he has to swallow before he can finish. “It is too long. And I...” Want to take a photograph the day he marries Shane, even if it’s not going to be the wedding.

Yuna goes very still beside him. Her hands, folded in her lap, tighten around each other and then relax.

“I...” She opens her mouth, closes it. “I’m not a professional, Ilya. I just watched some videos.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t... I don’t want to mess things up.”

You won’t. He wants to say it. The words are right there, balanced on the edge of his teeth. But his pulse is already doing something stupid behind his sternum, a quick, panicked flutter he can feel in his wrists and his throat, and if he opens his mouth right now, he’s not sure what will come out.

He nods instead. Once. Short.

Yuna looks at him for a long time. Then she nods back, slow and careful, like she’s making a decision she knows is bigger than either of them is saying out loud. “Okay. Okay, I can do that. Where do you want-”

“Here. Is fine.” He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to give his body a single excuse to bolt.

She hesitates another second, then stands, smoothing her hands down her slacks. “Let me go see what Shane’s got in the bathroom. He used to trim his own bangs, you know?” She stops herself, shaking her head in mild despair. “I’ll be right back.”

She disappears down the hallway, and Ilya sits very still on the couch and tries to breathe. Part of him wonders if he should call Shane, but he’s outside with his dad.

Okay… okay, so the couch really isn’t the best spot, but he can grab one of the stools from the kitchen and make himself a little more accessible.

He does that, finding a spot in the middle of the room where it will be easy to clean up. The weight of his palms under his thighs is solid, grounding. He presses down until he can feel the bones of his knuckles dig into the wood, and he doesn’t let himself lift them.

Yuna comes back with a towel draped over one arm and a pair of small silver scissors in her other hand. She’s also got a wide-tooth comb that Ilya’s sure Shane wouldn’t own himself, and a little bottle of something with the world ‘curls!’ stamped on the side in squiggly letters. He wonders if she bought them for him. She sets everything on the counter behind him and arranges it with the same careful deliberation Shane uses when he’s lining up his tape before a game.

“Okay, I think we’re set,” she says, and her voice is steady now, which helps. “There’s a mirror in the bathroom I can go get if you want to check as I go.”

“No mirror,” he says, too quickly. Then, quieter, he adds, “Is okay. I trust you.”

She doesn’t make anything of it, just nods, picks up the towel, and drapes it around his shoulders. The weight of it is negligible, a cotton towel, dry and warm, but he has to lock his jaw against the memory of a different weight, a different texture, a different body standing behind him. He doesn’t let himself dwell. The cottage is warm, and the fire is crackling, and the rain is painting lazy stripes down the glass, and none of those thoughts belong in this place. He focuses on the lake outside and the way the light changes when a gust of wind ripples the surface. Safe. He’s safe.

“Can I comb it out first?” Yuna asks, and she’s holding the comb up where he can see it, like she wants him to approve it before she touches him. “It’ll be easier to cut if it’s not tangled.”

“Yes.”

She comes around to stand behind him, and he can feel the warmth of her body without her actually touching him. There’s a careful inch of air between her hands and his head, and she waits there, patient, until he gives a small nod.

The first touch of the comb is so gentle he almost doesn’t feel it. She starts at the very ends, working upward in small sections the way the tutorials must have taught her, and she doesn’t yank. Even when she hits a snag, she stops and works it free with her fingers before the comb goes through again. He sits very still, watches the rain, and tries to keep his breathing even.

“Shane used to hate having his hair brushed when he was little,” she says, and her voice is conversational and light to fill a silence so he doesn’t have to. “Drove me insane. I’d have to bribe him with extra practice time to sit still long enough for me to do anything.”

Ilya huffs a small breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but close. Every time he thinks of Shane as a child, he’s overcome with the bewildering urge to hug his arms to his chest and just grin. So small, so serious, so perfectly, delightfully precocious.

She works through another section of his hair, slow and methodical. The comb drags through the curls, and each pass lifts a little of the weight from his scalp. He didn’t realize how heavy it had gotten. The length of it has been sitting on the back of his neck for months now.

“You sure you still want me to do this? I’ll never forgive myself if you end up lopsided in your wedding pictures.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, despite just wanting to nod. “Please.” If he nods, he’ll mess things up for her. He doesn’t want to do that, and he’s not sure he can move now, even if he wants to.

“Here we go then…” She does something to part his curls, then there’s a little snip right beside his ear. He screws his eyes shut, finds himself slumped against cold tile, and quickly opens them again.

“Okay?” Yuna asks, and her voice is right there, steady and close, and he can feel the faint heat of her breath on the crown of his head.

“Yes.” The word comes out rough. He clears his throat. “Yes, is fine.”

He keeps his eyes on the lake. The wind is picking up, turning the surface into a field of tiny silver ripples, and pushing a low cloud across the far shore until the trees blur into a single dark smudge. Good. That’s good. He can look at that.

He can focus on the way the light catches the water and the way the cottage holds the warmth inside it like a cupped hand. The glass is solid. The wood is solid. The stool beneath him is solid. He is sitting on Shane’s stool, in Shane’s cottage, and Shane is outside with his father, and no one is going to hold him down.

The scissors snip again, near his temple this time, and a curl falls past his cheek and lands on the towel. He watches it drop. It’s dark, almost brown in the firelight. Just hair. Just dead cells that grew too long and needed trimming.

“There we go,” Yuna murmurs. She’s working in small sections, the way the tutorials must have shown her, and she keeps her hands light, her fingers barely grazing his scalp as she separates one curl from the next.

She works in silence for a minute, just the snip-snip of the scissors and the crackle of the fire and the rain. Then she says, very carefully, “I think this is the longest I’ve ever seen your hair.”

“Yes,” he agrees, knowing she must’ve looked at him the same way his father looked at Shane. No… not the same way. His father always hated Ilya losing anything, but he hated Ilya losing to Shane the most. For numerous reasons, he has no doubt, and all of them unkind. She probably didn’t think those kinds of cruel thoughts, but she’ll have watched him, he’s sure of it. She’s protective of Shane, and Ilya was… well, Ilya was always held up as a threat, wasn’t he? “Not since Russia.”

To her credit, she doesn’t deviate from what she’s doing. Nor does she let him off the hook. “That can’t have been much fun, I’m sure.”

Fuck it will you hold fucking still? You rather I fucking leave it like this?

“My brother was not the best stylist, no.”

The rumble of disapproval Yuna makes is for Alexei, he’s sure. He thinks. He hopes.

He isn’t sure why he says anything. The words just come, the way they did with Shane outside by the lake, tumbling out of him before he can catch them and stuff them back where they belong.

“After the accident,” he says, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears, thin and far away, “my hair... it mats. With the curls. I couldn’t wash properly, and the drugs made it worse, and no one...” They had an obligation to keep him clean, and he fucking hated it. Hated the necessity. Hated the helplessness. Hated how fucking scared he was all the fucking time.

The scissors pause for half a second, then resume. Snip. Snip.

I don’t want to hurt you, Iluyshka. Be good now, we wouldn’t want to mess up that pretty face. Don’t just stand there, Alyosha…

“So they cut it out,” he continues. He watches a curl drop past his knee and land on the towel. Just hair. Just dead cells. Nothing to cry over. Not like mama did.

He stops. His throat closes around the next word, and he has to swallow twice before he can breathe again.

Yuna’s hands are still. She’s not pulling away, just... still. He can feel her hovering behind him, the warmth of her body so close, the comb still resting lightly against the back of his head.

“Hands,” he says, and the word comes out in Russian first, then in English, and neither one of them sounds like enough. “In my hair. To hold me down so they can...”

The fire pops. Somewhere outside, faint and muffled, he can hear Shane’s voice, too far away to make out the words, just the shape of it, the low steady rumble of him talking to his father.

“Not had anyone else cut it. Since.”

The silence stretches. He expects her to say something. Sorry, probably, or that’s awful, or one of the hundred small useless things people say when they don’t know what else to do. He braces for it. His shoulders have crept up toward his ears without him noticing, and he forces them back down, one vertebra at a time.

Yuna doesn’t say any of those things. She sets the comb down on the counter behind him, and for one terrible second, he thinks she’s going to leave, and his whole body goes rigid against the stool, waiting for it.

But she doesn’t leave. She circles around him, and perched on the stool as he is, they’re almost eye to eye.

She’s close enough that he can see the freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose. They’re Shane’s freckles, but lighter, faded with age. Her eyes are the same color and she doesn’t flinch from looking at him.

“You are,” she says, and her voice is quiet but clear, each word placed with care, “the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

Ilya opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I mean it,” she continues. “But I don’t think you know that, do you?” She holds up the scissors, and he can see her hand is trembling, just slightly, the way Shane’s does when he’s trying very hard not to get overwhelmed. “This takes a kind of strength I don’t think most people have.”

He wants to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, that he’s not brave, he’s just tired. He’s so fucking tired of being afraid all the time. But his throat won’t cooperate, and his eyes are burning, and he can’t look away from the woman who gave Shane to the world and made everything it it better just by doing so.

“You’re so strong,” she says, softer now. “And I am so, so glad you are.”

He nods. It’s all he can manage. It’s not enough, not by a long shot, but it’s all he’s got, and she accepts it with more grace than he deserves.

She looks down at the scissors in her hand. Then she does something he doesn’t expect.

She turns them over, holds them up in front of her own face, and without ceremony, without even really aiming, takes a chunk of her own hair between her fingers and snips.

The sound is sharp in the quiet of the cottage. A hank of dark brown hair, now shorter on one side than the other, drifts to the floor.

Ilya stares at her. “What are you-”

“Now you have to fix it,” she says, and there’s something almost playful in her voice that cracks the careful composure she’s been wearing all afternoon. She tucks her hair back behind her ear and meets his gaze with a crooked little smile that is so entirely, devastatingly familiar that something in his chest lurches sideways. “When I’m done with yours. You can neaten this up. Make me presentable.” She gestures at the lopsided mess she’s made of her own hair. “I’ll look like my high school yearbook photos if you don’t.”

Ilya can’t move.

The scissors are still in her hand, and a chunk of her hair is still on the floor, and she’s standing in front of him with one side cropped to her shoulder and the other side long, and she doesn’t look like she’s about to cry. She looks like she did something perfectly ordinary. Like she trimmed a stray branch off a houseplant. Like the thing she just cut off wasn’t attached to her head for God knows how many years.

Mama cried.

He remembers it the way he remembers most things from that time in his life, not necessarily in sequence, but in snapshots, bright and terrible and burned into the backs of his eyes. Mama standing in front of the bathroom mirror with her hair in her hands. Father behind her with the scissors because a man at church had told her she was pretty.

She cried for three days. Wouldn’t let anyone see her. Hid under scarves and behind doors and behind her own hands when Ilya tried to climb into her lap, and father told him to leave her alone, she was being stupid, it was just hair, it would grow back.

It did, but her smile got lost somewhere along the way.

And here is Yuna Hollander, with her hair lopsided and ruined, and she’s smiling at him.

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, and the firelight swims back into focus, reflections in the glass.

“Come on,” she says gently. “Let me finish you up. Then you can help me find a devastatingly chic new look.”

He nods. He can’t trust his voice. He’s pretty sure he’s going to be worse at cutting her hair than she is with his. Hers is like Shane’s, silky and straight with no room for error.

She moves back behind him, and the scissors pick up their rhythm again - snip, snip, snip - and this time the sound doesn’t make him flinch. Maybe she can tie it up for now, and he can pay for her to go to a nice salon back in Ottawa?

She works in silence for a while. He can feel the weight lifting off his scalp section by section, curl by curl. She’s careful with the back, trimming it shorter than the sides, and when she moves around to his temple, she tilts his chin with two fingers under his jaw, light, so light, just enough to guide, and he lets her. He doesn’t stiffen. He doesn’t pull away.

“There,” she says finally, stepping back. She holds the scissors at her side and studies him, looking pleased. “I think that’s even. Want to feel?”

He lifts his hands from his thighs. His fingers are stiff, the knuckles white from gripping, and he flexes them once before bringing them up to his head.

The curls are shorter than they’ve been in years. He can feel the shape of his skull through them, and the way the hair curves around his ears and tops at the nape of his neck instead of curling over his collar. He drags his fingers through it and doesn’t catch on any snags. Under Yuna’s gentle guidance, he’s escorted to the mirror that hangs in the hallway.

He looks…

Not great, maybe, but he recognizes himself in the mirror in a way he’s not sure he has now for a long time.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

She leans in so her head rests briefly against his shoulder. “Clearly, I have many talents,” she grins.

“Shane had to get it from somewhere,” Ilya agrees, shaking his head until the loose curls at his temple fall into place. He needs to wash it to get rid of the fluffiness, but he can’t deny she’s done a good job.

“Oh no,” Yuna brings him back into the kitchen and starts to spritz him with whatever curl thing she bought. It smells like coconuts. “No, Shane is exactly like his dad,” she laughs. “Do you think I could pull off a pixie cut?”

Ilya stares at her in horror. “A what?” Jesus Christ he’s going to disfigure his mother-in-law…

“I’m kidding!” She holds up her hand and perches on the stool. “Maybe a bixie…”

“This is English?” Ilya finds himself holding the scissors and wondering if it’s possible to will them sentient.

Then she winks at him, and he decides he might be the least crazy person about to join this odd little family. And he’s been locked in the loony bin…

He takes the scissors. His hands aren’t steady, not even close, but he doesn’t drop them.

“Sit,” he says, and the word comes out steadier than he expects. “I fix.”

Yuna sits. She tucks her hands under her thighs the way he did a few minutes ago, and the mirror image of it makes something in his chest pull tight. She’s trusting him with this and letting a man who’s never cut anyone’s hair in his life take a pair of silver scissors to her head.

He stands behind her and studies the damage. It’s not… terrible. Sveta taught him and Sasha how to braid her hair when they were teenagers, so it’s not like he’s in completely uncharted territory.

Ilya lifts the comb and works it through the longer side, slow, the way she did for him. Her hair slips through his fingers like silk, nothing like his own curls. No resistance, no snags. He has to be careful. Every mistake will show.

He starts at the back, where the cut is most uneven, and trims along the line she gave him. The scissors feel alien in his grip, too small, too delicate for his hands. He holds them the way he holds a pen, careful and precise, and stubbornly refuses to let his fingers tremble.

“It’s funny,” Yuna says, her voice quiet beneath his hands. “I haven’t had my hair cut by anyone but a salon in twenty years. I’ve had the same style since Shane was born! So has David. He can rock a good beard, though.”

The comb catches on nothing. He trims another half-inch, checks the line against the other side, and it’s almost even now. Not perfect. Not by a long shot. But presentable. Ish.

“You know how we met?” she asks, and the shift is so casual, so seamless, that he almost doesn’t notice it happening. “David and I?”

Ilya hums, focused on the angle of the scissors. “No.”

“McGill.” She says it like the name is supposed to mean something to him. “He was playing hockey. I was studying pre-law and pretending I wasn’t the most boring person in every room I walked into.”

He snorts. “You are not boring.” He’s heard her threaten at least six separate people in two different languages. It never fails to astound him that he left Paris, where he couldn’t speak French, for a city that speaks even more complicated French.

“Sweet of you to say, but I was. Glasses, cardigans… terrible haircut…” Ilya scoffs. He is not letting her have a terrible haircut ever again, even if he has to find a way to convince Shane it’s essential to his health that he learns whatever the fuck a bixie is. “He was so handsome and athletic and popular-”

“Oh, so Shane is marrying his father?” Ilya says before he even thinks. Yuna bursts into a fit of giggles that force him to put a gentle hand on her shoulder just to keep her on the stool. “No moving! I am not giving you tragic hairstyle!”

“You can’t tell him!” Yuna laughs, meeting his gaze in the glass.

“Which him?”

“Either of them!”

“Our secret,” Ilya promises. Okay, so she’s mostly level now…

Their reflections in the glass blur as Shane and David head back inside. There’s a brief swing of chill that curls through the air before they both step inside, close the door, and stare at Ilya and Yuna.

Shane’s gaze moves from his mom’s new style, up to Ilya’s return to form, and his bottom lip trembles. David takes one look at them, then Shane, then seems to come to the conclusion that this is a completely normal thing to walk in on. “Tea?” He asks.

“Ilya takes his with the jam in the cupboard,” Shane instructs him, also ignoring the tapdancing elephant in the room in favor of something that makes more sense.

“I know, kiddo,” David chuckles. “Not the first time I’ve made it.”

“Oh! It can’t be naked,” Shane follows him. “Which I googled and apparently means we have to serve it with cookies or something.” He looks back at Ilya with an apologetic shrug. “Sveta told me.”

“Oh,” Ilya combs through the final side of Yuna’s hair. “This is before or after she sold me to you for goat?”

Shane stares at him. “Why is there a goat involved?”

"You were courting me, no?”

“Should I be buying you a goat?” Shane looks mildly panicked and equally terrified. “Where would you keep a goat? Do we need a farm?”

His sweet, literal-minded, adorable-

“We could lease an extra plot of land on the other side of the lake,” Yuna offers thoughtfully.

“No one is leasing land these days, honey,” David shakes his head as he starts to boil the water. Shane has a proper kettle. “We could probably put an offer in with the Daniels and-”

“I do not need a goat!” Ilya says, slightly louder than necessary. “Goat is metaphor!” He sets the scissors down on the counter, satisfied that Yuna looks presentable, and turns to face Shane. “Flowers,” he says, and lets the word sit there in the warm air between them.

Shane blinks. “What?”

“You buy me flowers. So many flowers.” Ilya counts on his fingers, ticking them off one by one. “You buy me food. You hire army of lawyers and accountants and very scary doctor! You carry me to bed like I am princess.” He watches Shane’s neck go that slow, gorgeous shade of pink that starts at the collar of his sweater and crawls upward. “You give me key to your house. You make tea with jam. You are…” He pauses, searching for the right word, and finds it with a flourish of his hand. “Sweet. Too sweet.”

“I-” Shane’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. His gaze flicks sideways to his mother, who is very pointedly trying not to keep laughing. “I’m not - that’s just- ”

“I am very pleased to hear,” Yuna says, without looking up. The smile in her voice is audible. “That we raised him right.”

“Mom!”

“Your dad courted me with a Tupperware of lasagna and a coupon for a free car wash,” Yuna continues, conversationally, and Ilya wants to kiss her on both cheeks. “So the standard was pretty-”

“That was my grandmother’s lasagna, and you told me it was better than sex!” David protests.

Shane looks like he’s about to pass out. “Oh my god, what the hell is happening?”

Ilya grins. It feels strange on his face, like a muscle he’s forgotten how to use, but Shane is standing there turning the color of a cooked beet, and Ilya can’t help it. He’s going in for the kill. “And who is romantic one in this relationship, hmm? Me. It is supposed to be me.”

“It’s not a competition,” Shane says, which is such a Shane thing to say that Ilya laughs out loud. Everything is a competition and he knows it.

“Is not competition, is fact.” He steps closer, close enough that he can hook his thumbs in the loops of Shane’s jeans and hold on. The pink has reached the tops of his ears now, and there’s a little furrow between his brows that Ilya wants to smooth away with his lips. “I am supposed to buy you fur coat.”

“A-” Shane blinks. “A fur coat?”

“Yes. Fur coat. Long, expensive. With big collar. And maybe hat.”

“I… don’t need a fur coat.”

“You need fur coat.”

“I live in Canada,” Shane says, and the earnest confusion in his voice is so genuine that something in Ilya’s chest does a slow, warm flip. “We have, like, Arc'teryx.”

“Which you’re supposed to be wearing more often given you’re sponsored by them,” Yuna shakes her head in mild despair.

“I will buy you sable. Or mink. Or beaver.”

“No beavers!” Shane yelps. “Please just drink your tea.”

Ilya does drink his tea, mostly because it is excellent tea. And it's something to do with his hands when Shane steps closer and runs his fingers through Ilya's shorter curls. He needs to go shower out the little stray strands of hair before... before they get married.

"I like the new cut," David tells Yuna, because he is a sensible man who knows how to keep his wife happy, and because the men in this family seem to all be kind. Shane drops a kiss to the curve of Ilya's ear and keeps one arm looped around him as they finish their tea.

——

A few hours later, the officiant arrives on the dot, and Shane feels a little like he’s existing outside his own body when he takes Ilya’s hand on the bank beside the lake and slides a ring - a real one, hammered tungsten and gold - onto his finger. It’s raining again, that fine drizzle that perpetuates October, but his dad and he hastily put together one of those temporary little gazebos for shelter, then spent an increasingly fraught hour trying to get it somewhat level while Mom and Ilya decided to cut each other’s hair.

This isn’t what he’s dreamed of, not even close, really. When he’s pictured this day, it’s always been impossibly sunny, and the world has been unfailingly kind, and they’ve existed in a little bubble of idealized reality where there’s been no hardships to overcome, and no barriers to their happiness. Ilya’s always had a nameless, faceless family who show up with their nameless, faceless selves and smile so happily for him because of course Shane is exactly the kind of man they’ve wanted for their precious son. The hockey world hasn’t cared one bit - no - they’ve celebrated. Hayden and Jackie and the kids were there, along with every friend Shane has tried and failed to keep over the years. It’s been happy happy happy. And perfect.

Instead, the world is terrifying and small. The only people with them are Shane’s parents, and even then it’s only because they need witnesses. Shane’s honestly a little uncomfortable that it’s them and not Sveta and Sasha.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It means everything.

It’s just a piece of paper.

It might be the most important piece of paper Shane is ever going to sign.

He’ll give Ilya anything and everything he wants, marry him, spoil him, show him off to the world, anything… This is little more than a step towards that end result, something that gives them both some peace of mind in the short term.

But fuck if Shane is not really fucking angry that it’s necessary. How utterly fucking insane is it that they need to jump the gun just to put a roadblock in the path of Alexei’s latest fucking mindgame with his brother?

Ilya was free, and safe, and out of reach. Protected by the public scrutiny of a curious crowd that fests on a mystery like ravenous beasts, and happy, for the most part, just to try and get his life back on track that vaguely resembled what he lost.

Now everything has spiraled beyond the very worst of Shane’s imagination. And maybe Nora is right, maybe this is just psychological warfare for the hell of it, but a part of Shane is still stuck in that hospital, sick with the knowledge of how limited his ability to protect Ilya currently is.

So here they are, hand in hand, both happy and not. Mom and dad stand together, arms hooked, and yes, they’re smiling, but it’s not the smile Shane’s fantasized about.

They say I do and pledge themselves forever, and it’s easy for Shane’s gaze to slide from Ilya’s face to the space on the horizon over his shoulder because the shadow smudged at the side of that tree could be a new growth of foliage, or it could be a person.

They don’t write their own vows. There’s no point. In sickness and in health is all that matters.

Ilya kisses him the moment the word husband leaves the officiant’s mouth, and Shane melts a little, finding a stability in that moment that’s been missing the whole time. Mom takes photos of them with the lake behind them.

But then they separate, and it’s done, and they’re married, and Shane is still fucking terrified.

Maybe even more so now, because his fucking husband is looking so unguarded, so overwhelmed, with the pinch between his brow that tells Shane his headache isn’t great today, that he’s tired, and none of this is happening the way they want it to.

Before the ceremony, while they were balancing parts of the gazebo and Shane was remembering why he hires a professional for literally everything he possibly can, Dad said he was proud. Of Shane. And what he was doing. What he was taking on.

Proud really isn’t the word he wants. He wants ready. He wants capable. He wants the kind of steadiness his dad has always had, one that won’t crack under the weight of someone else’s life. He doesn’t feel steady.

The kiss ends, and Shane lets his forehead rest against Ilya’s for a second longer than the moment calls for. His skin is cool from the drizzle, and there’s a faint tremor in the hand that cups Shane’s jaw, so slight that no one else would notice it. Shane curls his hand over it, squeezing. Mom takes more pictures. The officiant congratulates them both.

They pull apart, and Ilya’s smiling, and Shane’s chest is fucking painful because that smile is all Ilya at his most unguarded, and it’s his to protect now in a way it wasn’t ten minutes ago.

Legally. Officially. On paper to be filed somewhere in a county office.

Shane keeps smiling because Ilya is smiling, and because his parents are watching with expressions he can’t fully read from this distance, and because if he stops smiling, he’s going to have to explain why, and he doesn’t have the words for it.

We’re married.

The concept keeps sliding sideways in his brain, refusing to settle into a proper groove. He’s married. To Ilya Rozanov. The man he loved at nineteen, lost at twenty-five, and nearly lost again at twenty-nine. Married. Legally bound. Next of kin.

That means something different now than it did an hour ago. An hour ago, Shane was a boyfriend with a nervous disposition and a lot of very expensive lawyers. Now he’s a husband with a nervous disposition and a lot of very expensive lawyers, and the distinction shouldn’t matter this much, but it does, because the law doesn’t care about boyfriends. The law cares about paperwork. About rights. About who gets to make decisions when someone is too sick or too scared to make them.

And Shane is that person for Ilya now. He’s going to keep a copy of their marriage certificate in his wallet. And make Ilya carry one in his. And see if someone will tattoo his phone number on the inside of Ilya’s wrist… if lost please call…

That’s maybe a step too far.

He guides Ilya back toward the cottage with a hand at the small of his back, enjoying the warmth of him through his sweater, calmed by the way Ilya leans into the touch just slightly, just enough. They’re both wearing sweatpants to their wedding.

They duck under the gazebo’s edge, and his mom reaches for Ilya first, both hands on his arms, and says something Shane can’t quite catch over the patter of rain on the canopy. Ilya ducks his head and smiles, soft and a little shy. Dad claps him on the shoulder, and then they both hug Shane and take more pictures, and then…

Then they’re inside. Left in peace. Alone. And married.

“This feels a little like balloon,” Ilya says, settling down onto the couch. “That goes -ppffft.” He blows out a raspberry. It startles the weird, almost empty sense of malaise right out of Shane, who decides the only place he wants to be right now is in Ilya’s arms.

“It is kinda anticlimactic,” he admits. “But the next one will be better, I promise.”

“Next one,” Ilya huffs, cuddling Shane close and curling them up into the cushions. “I am married for five minutes and already my husband is thinking next one.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean!”

Ilya’s laugh is warm against his collarbone, but it fades quickly into something quieter. He doesn’t pull away, just settles deeper into the cushions, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Shane’s ribs through his sweater. The fire casts everything in amber, and the rain keeps its steady, mindless rhythm against the glass, and for a few seconds, the only sounds are the crackle of the wood and the soft catch of Ilya’s breathing.

“Hey,” Shane murmurs. “You still in there?”

“Mm.” Ilya’s chin bumps the crown of his head. “Yes. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I didn’t.”

“You literally just did.”

Ilya huffs a small laugh, warm against Shane’s hair. “Hmm, nope.”

“Liar.” Shane tilts his head back just far enough to catch the line of Ilya’s jaw, the soft, freshly trimmed curl at his temple, the bruise on his cheek that’s faded from purple to a sickly yellow-green. “You okay?”

Ilya’s hand stills on his shoulder. His thumb resumes its circuit a moment later, slower. “I don’t know,” he says, and the honesty of it catches Shane off guard. Ilya’s voice is soft, stripped of its usual armor, that teasing flatness he wears like a second skin. “Doesn’t feel very real.”

Shane waits. The rain keeps its steady percussion on the glass.

“The ring,” Ilya continues, quieter. “The paper. Your parents. This whole place.” He pauses. “Like... like I’m watching from over there, you know? On the steps. The way I used to in my head.”

Shane’s throat tightens. He presses his palm flat to Ilya’s chest, right over the key and cross, and holds it there.

“I thought it would feel different,” Ilya admits. “More... solid.”

“It’s okay.” Shane turns his face into the hollow of Ilya’s throat, where his pulse beats slow and steady against Shane’s cheek. “We’ve got time. We’re gonna do it again. Properly.”

“I know.”

“When you’re ready.” Shane pulls back enough to look at him properly. Ilya’s eyes are half-lidded, the color of the lake in the grey light, and there’s something tender and a little lost in the set of his mouth that makes Shane want to gather him up and hide him somewhere safe. Which he supposes he already has, but the feeling remains, and it leaves him all the more adrift. Where can they go if not here? What else can he do if not this?

Ilya’s thumb finds the edge of Shane’s jaw and traces it, feather-light. “You want to know what I have planned?”

Shane goes still. “You’re planning?”

“Of course I am planning.” There’s the faintest edge of offense in it, just enough to make him sound like Ilya again. “I’m not barbarian!”

“Okay.” Shane props himself up on one elbow, studying Ilya’s face. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Is a surprise.”

Shane stares at him. “You want to surprise me.”

“Yes.”

“And you remember that historically I am not the best with surprises?” That feels like a bit of an understatement.

“You will work on it,” Ilya says, and his voice is so quiet it nearly gets lost in the crackle of the fire. His thumb hasn’t stopped moving along Shane’s jaw, that same absent, grounding little stroke. “Is my turn now. To be romantic.”

Shane opens his mouth to protest, and Ilya presses the pad of his thumb against Shane’s lower lip, gentle, just enough to stop the words before they form.

“My turn to buy you flowers,” Ilya says, and there’s something almost teasing in it, something that sounds like he’s daring Shane to argue. “My turn to make you breakfast. Or tell your scary chef to make you breakfast, whatever. I will buy you fur coat. And then more flowers. And more things. You just have to-” He pauses, and his eyes go soft in a way that makes Shane’s pulse do something embarrassing, “-stop being tiny Napoleon.”

Shane’s mouth drops open behind Ilya’s thumb.

“I’m not-” He sits up, Ilya’s hand sliding off his face, and stares. “Napoleon? Really?”

“You speak French.”

“I think there needs to be a few more qualifying factors than the ability to speak French.”

“Very bossy.” Ilya’s gaze is warm and indulgent, the way it always is when he’s winding Shane up on purpose and knows he’s about to win. “Always with the plans. Always with the lists. Tiny-”

“I’m six foot tall, Ilya. We’re the same height.”

“I am six-three,” Ilya flashes him a grin.

“Sure,” Shane snorts. “And your cock is nine inches-”

Ilya digs his fingers into Shane’s ribs until he squirms. “Stop changing subject, tiny Napoleon,” Ilya repeats, louder, and the grin that breaks across his face is so bright it makes something in Shane’s chest catch. “With his little maps and his little-”

“Ilya.”

“-his little spreadsheets-”

“Ilya, I am absolutely taller than Napoleon.”

“That’s what he said too, I’m sure.” Ilya’s grin widens, and he rolls onto his back, hands clasped behind his head, looking so fucking pleased with himself that Shane wants to throttle him and kiss him in the same breath. “He was also very defensive about it.”

Shane stares down at him. The firelight catches the line of his throat, the soft curl of hair at his temple, the gold and tungsten glinting on his right hand, because that’s how Russian men wear it. His husband. His actual, legally recognized husband, lying on their couch and calling him a tiny dictator in the softest voice Shane has ever heard him use.

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says, and his voice comes out fond in a way that undermines every syllable.

“Mhm.” Ilya’s eyes are half-lidded, lazy, the way a cat looks when it’s got exactly what it wants. “But I am right.”

“You are not right. I’m tall. I’m objectively tall. I’ve been objectively tall since I was thirteen.”

“You have also been objectively Napoleon since you were thirteen.”

Shane opens his mouth and closes it again. “I don’t think he had access to Microsoft Excel.”

“That is your sticking point?”

“Napoleon? Really?”

“I stopped going to school at fifteen,” Ilya shrugs, cuddling closer. “You can pick Canadian control freak if you want.”

“I’m not a control freak,” Shane huffs, not sure if he should be offended.

“You are,” Ilya closes his eyes. He looks supremely satisfied. “Is very sexy.”

“So me being bossy is sexy?” Shane feels like he needs some clarifying questions here. When Ilya nods, he continues. “So why do you boss me around?”

“Because that is even sexier,” Ilya says, like the answer should be obvious. “And because we have, ah, equal opportunity marriage.”

It occurs to Shane that they’re well off the topic of exactly how Ilya plans on surprising him. He really has married the person who knows him better than anyone else, hasn’t he?

“Marriage,” Shane whispers, letting go of all the anxiety that’s still under his skin so he can curl closer into Ilya and not be a discomfort to him. He’ll be asleep soon enough, Shane knows the signs. “Wow.”

“Best dream,” Ilya whispers.

Shane thinks that maybe they have different ideas of what it is to dream, but it’s his job now, one he cherishes more than anything else, to keep making those dreams a reality.

Shane is by far the best pillow Ilya has ever had. He’s also… not supposed to be here.

Or rather, he has never been here. Not to Russia. Not to Ilya’s childhood home. Not to the room he’s locked inside.

But he’s right here, holding Ilya in his arms, keeping him warm, keeping him safe. Ilya’s not really sure what that means. Usually he goes to Shane. He would never bring Shane to him. He would never bring Shane here.

But here Shane is. Ilya isn’t really sure what to do.

Shane tucks a curl behind his ear, tender and sweet. “It’s okay,” he promises. “We’re not going to stay here long.”

“Shane…”

“Only good dreams, right?”

There’s no possible scenario this is a good dream. Not when there are voices outside, loud and growing even more so as they get closer.

Shane doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He wasn’t there. This is all just in Ilya’s head.

But it’s easier to turn his face into the warmth of Shane’s shoulder and breathe in the warm, clean smell of pine and cedar and smoke. It’s less confusing for him to unpick the Russian from the English he speaks with Shane.

It’s less frightening when the hands in his hair hold him and stroke up and down the curve of his skull.

“-then stop acting like this is some great fucking horror show! You had no problem with him dying back in Boston.” That’s a woman’s voice. He can’t place it. It doesn’t belong with the feeling of being in Shane’s arms.

“It would have been done! Quick! Not like this. Not this… this suffering!” Now a man’s voice. Just as familiar. Just as hard to put to a face.

“Oh, so now you don’t want him to suffer?”

“I could have-”

“Could’ve what? You didn’t have the fucking balls for it. You proved that with your father.”

“That was different! Polina-” Oh. Ilya knows that name…

“Stop blaming every single fucking woman in your life for the fact that you’re a pussy! You don’t want to deal with baby brother the fucking vegetable, fine! Do something about it! Anything! Just stop fucking whining!”

Shane’s hands are warm. They’re strong. He holds Ilya close while Ilya tries to decide if this is a memory or a fantasy.

Brother…

Yes. Alexei. He argued a lot. With Katya. His wife. About… about Ilya?

“What do you want me to do?”

Ilya thinks he’s annoyed with Alexei on Katya’s behalf.

“I don’t give a fuck! I did my bit already, and you still nearly fucked that up!”

“His team-”

“Oh fuck his team and fuck you. Figure it out!”

He remembers her now. She wears high heels that click against the floor. That’s how he knows if it’s her coming or if it’s Alexei. Father hated it. Bad manners that would scratch the antique surfaces. They fade away and go silent for a long time before the door unbolts, one, two, three.

Ilya stays very still. He has to. If he doesn’t…

If he doesn’t...

Shane squeezes him tighter.

Alexei fills the frame the way he always does, too big for the doorway, too big for the room, too big for every space he occupies. His shadow stretches across the floorboards and pools at the edge of the bed where Ilya lies curled in Shane’s arms.

Shane doesn’t move. He’s warm and solid beneath Ilya, one hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades, the other threaded through his hair. Ilya can feel his heartbeat against his skin, steady and slow, a metronome keeping time in a room where nothing else is keeping time at all.

“Don’t,” Shane whispers. The word doesn’t move Ilya’s hair. It doesn’t disturb the air. It lives inside his skull, quiet as a held breath. “You know what happens next.”

Ilya knows. He nods into the hollow of Shane’s throat. He knows, and he waits.

Alexei doesn’t look at him. He never looks at him, not really, not like a person looks at another person.

His breathing is ragged. Ilya can hear it from across the room, that wet, angry sound of a man who has been arguing and hasn’t been able to finish. His shoulders are up around his ears. His hands keep opening and closing at his sides, loose fists that want to hit something and haven’t decided what yet.

Ilya watches from under his lashes. He keeps his breathing shallow. He keeps his body still. He has done this before.

Alexei comes in. Alexei is angry, and the only thing he can do to offset that anger is to make Ilya’s life miserable and remind himself that he’s better off than his brother, and then he will leave, and the bolts will go down, and Ilya will be alone again.

That’s what happens. That’s what always happens.

But the door…

The door is open.

It’s wide open. It gapes into the hallway, and beyond that, the living room, and beyond that, the front door of the apartment, and Ilya can see the strip of yellow light from the fixture spilling across the hall carpet. Alexei didn’t close it. Alexei came in angry and frustrated and working himself up toward something, and he didn’t close the door.

Ilya’s pulse kicks up against his ribs. He presses back into Shane’s chest, and Shane’s hand slides from his shoulder blades to the nape of his neck, fingers splayed, holding.

Katya is still in the apartment, but he can’t hear her.

“You have to run,” Shane whispers.

Ilya knows that. He knows because this has already happened. And he knows what’s going to happen next.

Alexei should kill him, but he doesn’t. He could’ve before, but didn’t, and Ilya’s always fooled himself into thinking that it’s maybe some tiny little crumb of affection he once had that’s staying his hand.

But it’s not, is it?

Alexei hasn’t killed him because he’s a fucking coward. Because he’s soft, like mama, and cruel, like papa, and he’s not picked a side between the two, so he’s always going to stay stuck there in the middle.

Alexei turns, reaching for the drugs he keeps locked up. It would be so fucking easy to kill Ilya. He’d barely have to get his hands dirty at all…

Ilya can stay, and trust in his brother’s cowardice, and spend the rest of his life locked away in this room.

Or he can run.

He knows he’s going to run. He knows he’s going to get caught. He knows that all this is going to get worse as a result.

But he runs anyway. He has to. There’s something he needs to tell Shane…

Alexei drops the vial beside the bed, cursing as he ducks to pick it up.

In his dream, Ilya runs.

And in reality, in the space Shane has made for him, the space Shane keeps safe for him, with his husband’s ring on his finger, Ilya bolts upright.

Chapter 28

Chapter Notes

Another long one.

Let's not pretend we're heading into the home stretch here, so just blanket warnings in place for everything we've already covered. Stay hydrated, take breaks where you need to, and remember there's a HEA on the horizon...

Head-butting the floor isn’t Shane’s favorite way to get woken up. Nor does it give him much time to orient himself when Ilya crashes out on the other side of the bed and makes a break for the door. Shane’s up and trying to scramble to his feet so he can ward off any intruder before they get anywhere near his fucking husband, which means there’s a good thirty to forty-second delay before his brain is finally online enough to understand that there is no fucking intruder, and that the blood he can taste in his mouth is more than likely thanks to Ilya. Who is already stumbling out into the night.

Shane trips over his own feet trying to catch up and nearly takes himself out at the ankles when he skids outside onto the wet stone.

It’s pitch black, and Ilya’s fucking silent in his retreat, but Shane doesn’t need to see him or hear him to know where he’s headed. He’s already shown Shane the place he feels safest.

Down by the lake. Where the water lapping against the rock is loud enough to drown out the hammering of even the most frantic heartbeat.

The rain hits his face before he’s even halfway down the path, and the cold of it shocks the last of the sleep out of him. His feet are bare against wet stone, then wet grass, then wet mud, and he can’t feel his toes but that doesn’t matter, because Ilya is somewhere in the dark ahead of him and Shane is running on nothing but the shape of the terrain he’s memorized over years of coming here.

The moonlight and stars Shane is used to navigating by are all hidden behind clouds, but the lake always seems to possess something of its own inner presence, drawing him closer. He doesn’t know if Ilya’s awake, or if he’s still somewhere in whatever nightmare just tore him out of their bed, but either way, he’s disoriented, and the path is slippery and uneven. He needs to put up some railings. He’s already spoken to a contractor about making some small adjustments to the cottage… he should’ve pushed it through faster. If Ilya falls and hurts himself, Shane has no one to blame but-

He slows when the trees thin and the lake opens up ahead of him, a vast, dark nothing broken only by the faint white curl of water against the bank. The rain is louder here, drumming on the surface, and for a second, Shane can’t see anything at all. He squints into the dark, breath coming hard through his nose, and his hands are shaking from the cold.

Then he sees him.

Hunched and low against the big flat rock at the water’s edge, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. He’s folded himself into the smallest version of himself Shane has ever witnessed, and he’s sitting in the rain with his bare feet in the mud and his face pressed against his knees, and he’s not moving.

For a long minute, Shane stays where he is, catching his breath and counting how many ways he’s going to fuck this up. He doesn’t want to startle Ilya, he doesn’t want to do anything that scares him, but it’s freezing, and Ilya’s soaked, and the last thing Shane needs is his husband getting sick on top of everything else.

His husband. Their first fucking night together as a married couple, and he’s failed in such a fundamentally profound way that Ilya, who has every reason under the sun to see terrors in his sleep but is usually so deeply under that he never surfaces, has been pitched into a nightmare here. Where he’s supposed to feel the safest.

He doesn’t know how he’s fucked up, but the proof of it is in Ilya’s huddled form.

He steps closer, slow, feet squelching in the mud, working his way closer like he’s sneaking up on a wounded animal. His throat burns, and his lungs ache, and neither makes sense in a body carefully honed for both stress and exertion, every cell in his body already braced for whatever’s about to happen next. He crouches beside the rock but holds back a careful distance. Ilya’s knuckles are white where he’s hugging his knees. His ring glints, a cold little spark in all the dark.

“Ilya?” Shane says, softer than he even thinks he knows how to be.

It’s impossible to tell if Ilya’s shivering from cold or from something deeper, something that started in another life and still hasn’t worked its way out of his system. There’s no telling how much of him is here and how much is locked in the dream he left behind. Shane wants to put a hand on his shoulder, offer the only comfort he knows how to give, but he thinks of all the people who have held him down and feels sick.

He squats there, maybe a foot away, until he can’t stand the cold biting at his own skin.

“We should go inside,” he says, quieter still. “You’ll freeze out here.”

The rain’s up, relentless and icy, soaking through the knees of his sweatpants until he can’t feel them. Ilya’s curls are slicked to his skull, and there’s mud all up his calves.

He waits another fifteen seconds, maybe twenty. The urge to just scoop Ilya up and carry him is a scream in Shane’s chest, but he’s run the numbers already, and he knows physically carrying Ilya could end a half-dozen ways, most of them bad: Ilya panicking and fighting him off, Shane slipping and dropping them both…

He edges around until he’s in front of Ilya, still crouched, and lowers himself to the same rock, so they’re face to knees. Up close, Ilya’s shoulders are vibrating in tiny micro-shakes.

Shane leans in, voice low. “It’s just me.”

The tremor stills, very slightly. That’s all the invitation Shane needs. He slides a hand to Ilya’s elbow, slow and telegraphed, then, when Ilya doesn’t jerk away, he cups Ilya’s forearm, skin so cold it feels almost waxy. Shane wants to shake him and shield him at the same time. Ilya’s shoulder tenses in his grip, and even though he doesn’t flinch away, it’s worse than anything he can think of. He knows, rationally, that Ilya isn’t scared of him. But this isn’t fucking rational for either of them right now. Shane slides his other arm across Ilya’s back, a promissory note of warmth, and rubs a hand up and down, friction failing to do even a fucking little to warm him up. He’s ice.

“I know it’s scary,” Shane whispers, dragging the words out of somewhere near the bottom of his own chest. “But we have to go inside. Please.” He can’t risk touching Ilya’s face, so he aims for the curve of his ribs instead, and waits until Ilya’s head tips up. His eyes are glassy and wild in the dark, but there.

“Come on,” Shane says, and with a little leverage, he’s able to get Ilya up and moving, momentum doing most of the heavy lifting. Ilya’s body is all resistance and then suddenly none at all, collapsing against Shane’s side hard enough that he nearly takes them both down.

They stumble up the bank, hand-in-hand only because Ilya’s got a death grip on Shane’s wrist, and the cold on Shane’s bare feet is nothing compared to the numbness in Ilya’s. They leave bloody little half-prints on the flagstone, and Shane throws caution to the wind. If Ilya cuts himself running, there’s no way in hell Shane’s letting him make it worse. It’s awkward, carrying him when he’s awake, because Ilya isn’t lax enough to be malleable or coherent enough to be helpful.

He just about manages to nudge the half-closed door open with his foot, swinging it wide to the warm and humid air inside, then carries Ilya over the threshold. That’s something they should’ve done earlier, right? Something you do when you’re married.

Shane’s tempted to set Ilya on the counter, where it will be easier to check his feet, but he pictures him losing his balance and Shane not being fast enough to catch him, so he sets him down on the couch instead. He can get it dry-cleaned. Every blanket in reach is pilled up on top of Ilya, until Shane’s satisfied he’s not going to freeze to death.

Ilya stays where he’s put when Shane dashes into the kitchen, collects a handful of dish towels and a bowl of warm water, and carries them back over. Kneeling on the floor, he wets one of the towels and gently pats it over the sole of Ilya’s left foot. He has to clean away the mud in order to find where he’s cut himself, moving from left to right when he’s left with only pale, unbroken skin.

No cuts. Shane’s pulse eases back a little from the ledge of panic it’s been hovering on. He’s imagining it. Catastrophizing, as he’s prone to do, and making everything worse in his head. Which is kinda horrifying, because he doesn’t need to do or think anything to make the awful things in their life any more painful.

He’s soaked through, shivering and shaking, and running on pure adrenaline when Ilya goes limp in the cocoon of blankets. The only thing Shane can think of is warmth, more warmth, so he half-drag, half-carries Ilya down the narrow staircase to the garden-level bathroom that never gets used, but is the only one with a tub.

Ilya’s eyes are open, fixated on a patch of the ceiling, his body slack. He’s not dosed to the gills on drugs the way Shane has seen before, but knowing that doesn’t make him feel any better. Probably more the opposite. Shane dumps the blankets and turns on the tap, as hot as it will go, then, with hands that don’t quite feel connected to his body, starts stripping off what’s left of Ilya’s clothes. He peels his clammy t-shirt up and over his head, tugging gently at each wrist, fighting off the urge to apologize with every bump and jostle. Ilya’s skin is almost blue in the low lighting, blotched red at the knees and elbows, and ashy white everywhere else. Nothing new, nothing alarming. Nothing he can’t fix.

He sits Ilya on the rim of the tub, draws both hands through his curls. He doesn’t bother getting undressed. All that matters is getting Ilya in the water.

He tugs Ilya to standing, steadying him by the waist as he steps one leg, then the other, into the tub. Compared to the chill in his bones, the water probably feels too hot, but Ilya just lets Shane lower him until he’s curled in the bottom, knees still drawn up, shoulders hunched around his ears.

It takes a minute for the heat to penetrate, but when it does, Ilya’s entire body convulses, a massive, full-body shudder that splashes water up the side of the tub and onto the floor. Shane holds tighter. Not a seizure… it’s not a seizure. More like a factory reset. Ilya comes back to himself slowly, then all at once, and flinches hard.

“Hey! You’re okay, we’re just getting you warmed up.”

Ilya’s voice is a rough, chilled croak of confusion. “Shane?”

“Hey,” Shane tries to smile, but it clearly fails on all fronts.

Ilya fixes on Shane’s face, then flinches so viscerally it splashes fresh water up the tile. His hands clamp down on Shane’s wrists, hard enough to hurt, and his lips part, his voice stringy and thin. “Shane, you are-” but it chokes, and what comes next isn’t words but sound, a moan threaded through with a scream, panic boiling over.

“Ilya, hey!” Shane starts, but Ilya jerks away from his touch, crab-scuttling backward until the tub’s curve halts him. There’s not far for him to go.

Shane holds his hands up, palms open and careful. “You’re okay. You’re safe. It’s-” He glances down, desperate for something to offer, but his brain trips over the sight of scarlet along his own forearm, a streak so vivid it pulses like a beacon from the center of his universe. What the fuck…

There’s a sheen on his skin that runs thin over his knuckles and pools in the creases. His tongue is thick with the cloying taste of copper. It’s not Ilya’s blood: it’s his own.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters, and tries to sweep his mouth clean with the back of a shaking hand, but it just smears, a kid’s fingerpaint red, across his cheek and up toward his eye. He tastes pennies and the metallic whoosh of embarrassment, acute and blinding. It’s not even that deep, already clotting, nothing to be dramatic about. “It’s fine,” Shane says, moving slowly, wiping again this time with a towel, gentling his voice to something a step above a lullaby. “I’m not hurt. It’s fine, really.”

He expects Ilya to settle, but the opposite: his shaking ramps up, hands fisted into his own thighs, and his mouth pulls wide with soundless horror. Shane’s never hated anything more in his life than the expression on his husband’s face right now.

A wet gasp, a retch, and Ilya’s twisting to the side, catching himself with both arms on the edge of the tub just in time to keep from being sick. Water sluices up, soaking Shane’s knees. For a moment, there’s nothing but the splatter of bathwater, and then the gasping, hiccuped effort of Ilya’s breathing. “I hurt you.”

Shane’s already shaking his head, his protest hitting an extra level of complication when Ilya leverages himself up enough to get a closer look, then freezes, as if there’s ever a world where Shane doesn’t want his touch. “Ilya-”

“What the fuck happened?” Ilya demands, wide eyes turned on the tiled floor and the smudges of mud, water, and blo-

Ah. Okay, so it’s probably his foot that’s bleeding.

In Shane’s defense, he can’t really feel his fucking toes right now, so how was he to know?

Ilya’s ability to ping-pong between total dissociation and laser focus is disorientating on the best of days, and Shane’s hardly operating on top form right now.

The sight of the blood seems to bring the entire world back into sharp reality. He’s fucking freezing, and all he can taste is copper, and his face hurts, and his heart hurts, and his right foot hurts in that annoying fucking way that something he knows instinctively is probably very small has no right to hurt at all.

And Ilya, who is big, yes, but leaner than he used to be, not nearly as strong as he was, either, and without the balance or stability they once both took for granted, somehow hauls himself up to his knees in the tub and drags Shane in back in with him. There’s a tidal wave of water as Shane lands unceremoniously against Ilya’s chest. The back of his head bumps Ilya’s shoulder, and while he doesn’t go underwater even for a second, it does take him a beat or two to understand why the world’s just tipped sideways.

“You’re freezing!” Ilya scolds him, both arms wrapped around Shane’s chest.

“I’m - Jesus - I’m fine!” Ilya is the one who just straight-up glitched his consciousness into another plane of being and scared the shit out of Shane in the process. In what world does he get to make it out like Shane is the one need of care right now?

Ilya gets a towel for Shane’s face and brings it up carefully under his chin. He dabs at the cut on Shane’s lip, gently wiping away blood in slow little arcs. There’s nothing left of the ghostly panic from minutes ago: he’s laser still, his mouth bowed in a frown that’s all apology and concentration.

Ilya pulls the towel back, inspects it, and then, with wet fingers trembling in the air, he orders, “Turn to me.” The words are wrecked by shame, but they’re a structure, and Shane’s always best inside structures, so he obeys. Peacock blue tiles flicker in his peripheral vision; he can see both their reflections in the wet-glossed bathroom wall, the patchwork of Ilya’s pale nakedness next to his own sodden form. The world is bizarre, and nothing matches up, but Ilya is there, bare and alive, and that’s all that matters. Shane manages to bring his legs up so they fall on either side of Ilya’s, his back to the opposite end of the tub. It’s a tight fit for two men of their size.

Ilya, of course, is already spiraling: “I did not mean, I did not… I would never…” His voice gives out. He fumbles for the towel again and draws Shane’s foot into his lap. “I would never want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t. I probably just stepped on a rock.” Shane’s own voice sounds foreign in his ears.

“Right. And you hit rock with your face.” Already, Ilya has Shane’s ankle in both hands, turning it, holding with a delicacy that’s always a surprise given the size and strength of his hands. He presses the towel to the ball of Shane’s foot, and Shane can’t help but let out the smallest hiss.

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m-” The waver in Ilya’s tone matches his hands, and Shane wonders, sharp and sudden, if this is how it felt for Ilya all those times in the past. Bleeding, and the only thing to do is let someone else try to fix it for you. “Is not deep. I don’t think you need stitches, but maybe-”

“I’m fine,” Shane repeats, but it’s lost in a flutter of Russian, something Ilya rattles off under his breath. “I’ve got antiseptic, and Terry can take a look when we’re back if he needs to.“

“Marguerite is here in morning,” Ilya mumbles. “She will look.”

“I don’t think she’s that kind of -”

“Doctor is doctor!” There’s an edge to Ilya’s voice that tells Shane he’s really not in the mood to get into semantics.

“I really am fine,” Shane tries to reassure him, but it dies when Ilya starts kissing his ankle, soft, like he’s making an apology to the skin itself. Then Ilya’s mouth finds the arch of Shane’s foot, the delicate spot just below the bone, and stays there, pressing a slow, desperate meditation. For the first time in a long time, Shane lets himself be cared for. His head tips back, and suddenly his face is wet with more than just the bath water, and everything is upside down and thresholdless.