Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happily Ever After, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Autistic Shane Hollander, Medical Inaccuracies, Idiots in Love, Exhibitionism, Under-negotiated Kink, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time Blow Jobs, Shane Hollander is a Virgin, how is that not a tag?, popping cherries, wtf thats not a tag either, Shane Hollander Is Bad at Feelings, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, they are stupid but they figure it out, mention of boat, Hurt Shane Hollander, Panic Attacks

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of the whump series

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-01 Completed: 2026-06-08 Words: 39,659 Chapters: 3/3

when you stay

Summary

shane hollander has spent the last six months learning how to survive. he did not account for how much harder it would be to learn how to live.
__
or, shane's pov immediately picking up from where everytime i leave left off.

Chapter 1: part one

The first thing Shane felt when the automatic doors slid open was sunshine. 

His feet stopped moving without meaning to, and for a moment he just stood there with his eyes closed, feeling the warmth on his skin as it awakened all the senses that had been so dulled after six months confined in a hospital. He’d been so used to recycled air and daylight filtered through thick glass that he’d forgotten how it felt when the sun touched you. 

That was what caught him off guard more than anything else. Not that it would be different but that he'd actually forgotten. The sky was doing something with the light that no ceiling had ever done and the sound was coming from everywhere at once with nothing to contain it—traffic and someone's music in a passing car and a woman's voice and birds—not a single monitor beeping anywhere.

And then the breeze came.

It moved against his face slowly, carrying that faint salt smell with it from picking up off the water somewhere. Shane closed his eyes. It touched his cheeks and hair and the back of his hands and he just stood there and let it. 

It was the first thing that had touched him from the outside world in six months that wasn't clinical or careful or asking something of him. 

It was just wind. It didn't know anything about him.

"You okay?"

Shane opened his eyes. Ilya was watching him with that specific intensity he had, the one that meant he was paying attention to everything. Shane had seen that look a hundred times in a hospital room under fluorescent lights.

He had never seen it in the sun before.

It did something completely unfair. Turned his eyes this outrageous shade of blue that had no fucking business existing, caught gold in his curls that Shane hadn't known was there. He looked like a different person and exactly the same person, and Shane's brain short circuited trying to reconcile both at once. The chain at his throat caught the light and Shane made himself look away.

"Yeah." Shane cleared his throat. "Fine."

"Oh, wait—" his mom said from somewhere behind him, already fumbling for her phone. "Both of you, stay right there."

Shane rolled his eyes, whining, "Mom."

"Just one, it'll take two seconds—" she was already backing up, squinting at her screen, waving her hand to reposition them without looking up.

Shane looked at Ilya, who was already moving to stand beside him with the easy compliance of someone who had clearly spent enough time around Yuna Hollander to know resistance was a waste of energy. His arm came around Shane's shoulders, familiar and slightly too tight in the way that meant Ilya was being careful about his own incision without drawing attention to it. Shane could feel the warmth of him all down his left side and had to concentrate very hard on looking at the camera.

"I look terrible," Shane said flatly.

"You look great, honey," his mom said, not listening as her phone’s camera clicked away, taking a ridiculous amount of pictures in less than twenty seconds. She paused to shield her eyes to take a peek and then frowned at Shane. "Would it be that hard to smile?" 

"I've been in a hospital for six months."

"Exactly, so you should look happy!"

"Hollander," Ilya said quietly, close to his ear, his arm falling away to wrap around Shane’s waist with a gentle squeeze. "Smile."

Shane shivered from the hot breath against his skin, feeling heat rush to his cheeks and hoping to god the camera didn't capture any of it. He forced himself to smile.

"Perfect!" his mom said. "Okay, one more but let’s move over here by the sign—"

"Yuna," his dad said mildly from beside her, resting his hand on her shoulder. 

"Okay, okay, I’m done." 

She lowered her phone but didn't put it away, already looking at the screen with an expression Shane recognized—the one that meant she was trying very hard not to cry and had chosen to focus on something small and manageable instead, like photo composition.

His dad had already pulled the car around to the entrance, a rental Shane had never seen before, and Ilya opened the passenger door and waited. He just stood there holding it as he adjusted his ball cap, before glancing at Shane and tilting his chin, silently telling Shane to get in.

Shane wanted to argue on principle, but instead he bit his tongue and carefully slid in.

The seat was warm from the sun coming through the windshield and Shane pressed his back into it carefully, the seatbelt crossing his chest and making him aware of his incision. He'd gotten used to that over the last couple of weeks, the constant consciousness of it, adjusting without thinking, the new vocabulary his body had developed for how to exist around something healing.

What he hadn't gotten used to was the way it felt when Ilya would press his palm there. Gentle and steady, like he was trying to add his own layer of protection from the outside.

"Alright, gang," his dad said, putting the car into gear as seatbelts clicked. "Let's go home."

It wasn't home. It was an Airbnb his parents had been renting since November, a place he had never been before. And was going to continue being their home through the summer. He’d only just found that out after his surgery, that they couldn’t go home yet. Ottawa was too far from his medical team, from the people who knew what his bloodwork was supposed to look like and what it meant when it didn't. 

Secretly though, there was a very large part of him that wasn't ready to leave Boston…or Ilya. 

Shane looked out the window as they pulled away, squinting against the light bouncing off the hospital glass, watching it slide out of frame behind them. He'd spent six months dreaming about this exact moment, but now it felt weird, being on this side of those walls.

"The woman at the desk cried," his mom said from the backseat. "Did you see that? The redhead."

"Cassidy," Shane said.

"She really loves you."

"She loves Ilya," Shane snorted. "He always brought her treats."

"Twice," Ilya corrected, from behind his seat and Shane could feel his foot tap against it. "Maybe three times."

"Aisha gave me a card to give to you, Shane, I think it’s from everyone on your floor. I’ll give it to you when we get home."

Shane swallowed thickly, saying quietly, "That’s nice."

The conversation moved without him after that and he let his head fall back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He was already tired. Just from the hallways, the goodbyes, the elevator ride, the sunshine, ten minutes in a car. He hated it in that way he'd learned not to say out loud—not because anyone would make him feel bad about it, but because saying it made it more real. Six months of fighting to get here and his body was exhausted by a car ride. Fucking great.

His mom was talking, then his dad, then Ilya said something that made his dad laugh. Shane listened without really hearing, just the sound of all of them in a small warm space, and tried to stay there instead of wherever his brain kept trying to take him.

He didn't notice the radio right away. It had been on the whole time, low enough to be background noise, and he'd been tuning it out the same way he tuned out the sounds of the hospital floor at night. But then a name cut through everything else and his brain snagged on it before he could stop it, pulling him back into the car. 

He opened his eyes.

"—remains one of the bigger mysteries heading into the offseason. The Bears have been tight lipped, citing only personal reasons for Rozanov's sudden disappearance from the lineup in the final stretch of round one—"

The car grew silent as Shane stared at the dashboard, unblinking.

"—and whatever the reason, the impact was undeniable. There's been speculation of course—was it an injury they were hiding? Something that happened in game five? He took a hard hit in that game, came back, played through it—"

"Which would be very on brand for Rozanov," a second voice added.

"Exactly, exactly, but then just—gone. No explanation. Personal reasons covers a lot of ground and the Bears aren't budging. Eliminated in round two, four straight brutal losses to the Canes, and the consensus across the league is that without Rozanov that team simply isn't the same animal. The question everyone is asking heading into the offseason—where did Ilya Rozanov go, and does Boston get him back—"

"David," Ilya's voice broke through the noise, gentle but firm. "The radio."

His dad's hand moved without a word. It cut out mid sentence and left nothing but road noise and the hum of the engine and his own breathing, which was too fast and he knew it.

And then Shane felt Ilya's hand come over the back of the seat and settle on the nape of his neck, rubbing his thumb in comforting little circles. 

Shane reached up, hooking a couple of fingers around Ilya's and didn't say a word for the rest of the drive.

__

"I have your room all set up, honey," his mom said as they all piled into the entry hall of the townhome, "it's on the first floor so you won't have to go up any stairs."

Shane kicked his shoes off slowly and just stood there for a second while everyone moved around him. His dad passed with his arms draped with totes full of Shane's things from the hospital room. Ilya was trailing behind him, arguing that he could have carried some.

It smelled like home. That was the first thing—before he'd even properly looked at anything, before his eyes had adjusted to the light and the space—it smelled like the candle his mom kept on their coffee table in Ottawa. He hadn't expected that.

"David–" Mom called out, bending down to pick up Shane's shoes and neatly line them up with the rest of theirs, "that orange tote is laundry, can you take it downstairs?"

"I can," Ilya quickly volunteered, reaching out to slide it off his dad's shoulder. "Please."

"You can't lift anything yet, Ilya," his dad sighed, as if this was something they regularly bickered about.

"Ah, no, that is not true, I can lift three hundred and fifty-five pounds—"

Their voices trailed off down the hall and Shane let them go, still standing in the entryway, just looking.

There was a coat rack by the door. His dad's jacket, the navy fleece one that he always wore to rink to watch Shane practice. His mom's favorite grocery tote hanging off a hook. And next to them, Ilya's Adidas jacket that he always wore, hanging between his parents' things like it had always been there.

Shane had known Ilya had stayed here for a few days after he was discharged. His mom had told him—he shouldn't be alone, I insisted—and Shane had said of course, obviously, relieved that someone was making sure Ilya was eating and resting and not doing anything stupid. But seeing the familiarity of Ilya's things mixed with his parents' made his throat tighten. Not in a bad way, just in a way that made him feel a little homesick, like he'd missed out something. 

He also knew that Ilya had since gone back to his own apartment, and now Shane didn’t know how to ask if he’d stay again without it being weird. 

"Do you want something to drink?" Mom asked once they stepped into the kitchen, already reaching into a cabinet to grab a glass for water. 

"I'm okay," he said, but she slid it towards him anyway. 

"Okay so—" his mom was already at the fridge, pulling a small marker from somewhere and uncapping it. There was a magnetic calendar on the door, Shane noticed. Dates already filled in, whole weeks mapped out in his mom's neat handwriting. 

"Tuesday you have labs at eight, so we'll need to leave by seven thirty to park—" she was writing as she talked, though Shane didn’t know if it was more for herself than him, "—Dr. Palmer on Thursday at ten…"

Shane's eyes drifted from the calendar to the fridge door.

There was a photo, held up with a magnet shaped like a lobster that he'd never seen before. Shane in his Kingston jersey, the C on his chest visible, stick raised over his head mid celebration. His mom's favorite—she'd had it as her phone wallpaper for a year. He looked like someone who had no idea what was coming.

He looked like a hockey player.

The fridge opened and Shane blinked, not even realizing Ilya was back in the room until he reached past his mom without interrupting and pulled out a can of Coke. Shane watched him crack it open and take a long sip. His eyes caught on the line of Ilya's throat as he swallowed and he looked away immediately.

His parents didn't drink Coke. Shane knew every item that typically lived in their fridge and Coke was not one of them, had never been one of them. Which meant someone had bought it. Which meant it had just become a thing, Ilya coming here, Coke in the fridge, another small ordinary fact of the life that had been running without Shane in it.

He wondered what else he'd missed. Then decided he probably didn't want to know.

"—Shane?" his mom glanced over her shoulder at him.

"Yeah, sorry," he said, his eyes meeting Ilya's instead, who was watching him carefully and immediately making Shane feel like a bug under a microscope. "I'm listening."

Tired? Ilya mouthed, while his mom's marker squeaked against the calendar.

Shane nodded briefly. The concern was right there in his face, the way it always was. He couldn't wait for the day Ilya stopped searching him for something wrong. He just didn't know if it would come because he got better, or because Ilya would get tired of looking.

Setting the Coke down, Ilya walked around the island towards Shane, his hand brushing the small of his back as he said, a little louder for his mom to hear, "I'll show you your room."

Ilya's hand was warm and Shane wanted to lean into it.

He missed being touched. Missed the ease of it, the way it had been before everything got bad—the two of them tangled up in that narrow hospital bed, unhurried, learning each other in the dark. Ilya's hands had never been uncertain then.

They were uncertain now. Shane hadn't said anything about it. But he felt the difference every time Ilya reached for him and then pulled back slightly, recalibrated, handled him like something that might give way under too much pressure.

He understood it. He just wished it would stop.

"I'm thinking we could order in tonight—Shane, do you want pasta or fish?"

"We can figure out later, Yuna," Ilya called, already steering Shane down the hall.

The room was at the end of the hall, door already open, and Ilya nudged it wider with his shoulder and let Shane go in first.

Shane took it in slowly—the big windows with afternoon light coming through in long warm panels across the hardwood. The walls were blue and everything was nautical themed, until Shane started noticing familiar details. The pillows on the bed were the plaid ones from his bed back home, the flat ones he’d had for years and his mom always threatened to throw out. His bluetooth speaker. The teddy bear with its little maple leaf scarf. A framed photo of the three of them from two summers ago, on the dock at the cottage.

Outside, the narrow gap between buildings framed a single tree growing up through it, level with the glass, leaves catching the light. He stood at the window for a moment and just looked at it.

"Good?" Ilya asked from behind him.

Shane turned around. Ilya was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching him. He looked tired too. The recovery had taken something from him that wasn't fully back yet, like the version of Ilya that knew exactly how to take up a room had been quietly set aside for the time being.

Shane crossed the room at the same time Ilya did, meeting in the middle, and pressed his forehead against Ilya's chest without saying anything.

Instantly, both arms came up carefully, wrapping around Shane's waist and pulling him in, and Shane felt the tension he'd been holding since they left the hospital finally, finally let go. His whole body exhaled and it made him want to cry in relief. 

They stayed like that for a while, nothing but the sound of their shared heartbeats between them. 

"Okay?" Ilya murmured into his hair, his palms soothing up and down Shane's back.

Shane shook his head against his chest.

"No?"

Shane shook his head again but Ilya seemed to understand. He pressed his lips to the top of Shane's head and left them there.

After a while, Shane pulled back and tipped his head up, his gaze drawn to Ilya’s mouth. Ilya’s hand came up, gently cupping Shane’s chin and holding him perfectly still before dipping his head. 

Ilya's mouth was warm and familiar and somehow still surprising, the way it had been every time before and apparently wasn't going to stop being. He inhaled Ilya's exhale and parted his lips, and Ilya's tongue found its way in like it always did, like he simply couldn't help himself. Shane softly moaned when Ilya’s hand moved from his jaw to hold the back of his head, threading his fingers through Shane’s hair.

Eventually, they pulled back slowly and Ilya bent his head down until their foreheads touched.

"Hi," Shane whispered.

"Hi," Ilya said back, just as quietly. 

"I really am tired."

"I know," Ilya said, opening his eyes. "Nap time."

"You'll stay?"

Ilya looked at him like that was the most unnecessary question Shane had ever asked. 

"Where else would I be, Shane." 

__

He woke up and didn't know where he was.

Shane lay still for a moment and listened to nothing. No beeping, no low hum of machines or footsteps, no shift change voices carrying through the wall. Just the fan turning slowly overhead and somewhere down the hall his mom's voice, low and unhurried, talking to someone on the phone.

When he turned his head against the pillow, he realized that Ilya was gone. The space beside him still held the shape of him, the blanket pushed back and the pillow slightly dented. Shane pressed his hand into the spot, it was still warm. 

Shane rolled his head back, staring up at the ceiling. 

He felt okay. That was the first thing he checked every time he woke up—a quick internal inventory, running through the list his body had taught him to keep. Nausea. Temperature. The ache that meant something was wrong versus the ordinary ache that just meant his body was working. He sat up slowly and pushed himself to the edge of the bed, his feet finding the floor. 

The bathroom was small, just off the bedroom, and he switched on the lights above the mirror before pulling his t-shirt off slowly, one arm at a time, the way he'd learned to do on his own. The stretch still caught him across the middle if he wasn't careful, a tight pull that wasn't quite painful but was enough of a reminder. He dropped the shirt on the edge of the counter.

Shane looked at himself for a second. He'd lost weight he hadn't had to spare, his face sharper than it used to be, the freckles standing out more than normal against skin that was still a shade too pale. His eyes looked tired in the way that had become so familiar he'd stopped really seeing it. His hair was going in three directions at once so he ran his fingers through it, pulling it off his forehead. He really needed a haircut, but he figured that was already on his mom's ever-growing agenda for him.

Then he looked down.

He'd seen it before, obviously. But there was something about a bathroom mirror in a new place with the light coming through the window that made it different from the clinical awareness of it, the nurses changing his dressing, the careful not-looking he'd been doing when he could get away with it.

The incision ran along his upper right abdomen, still pink and raised, still held together by staples and making him look like Frankenstein experiment. 

Shane raised his hand slowly and pressed his palm flat against it.

Ilya's liver was underneath his hand right now. A piece of a living person, taken out and put inside him, his body slowly accepting it as its own. Nobody prepared him for that part, the enormity of someone else being a part of him now. 

After a while he took his hand away and turned the shower on.

__

"Happy birthday!"

Shane stopped dead, hand freezing mid-air where he'd been running it through his damp hair.

The kitchen looked like a party outlet store had thrown up in it. A banner stretched across the cabinets—HAPPY BIRTHDAY in bright yellow letters, little gold stars between the words—and every cabinet handle had a balloon tied to it, the knots uneven and the ribbons different lengths in a way that had Ilya written all over it. There were flowers on the island, perfectly arranged. A fruit tart on a cake stand, strawberries and kiwi across the top, a single candle in the center.

Shane stared at all of it. Then raised his gaze to all of them, taking each of them in one at a time before landing on Ilya, belatedly realizing he was wearing a birthday cone hat on his head and Shane had to bite back a smirk. It was so stupid and he wanted to look at that goofy grin for the rest of his life.

"It’s not my birthday."

"We know," his dad said brightly, who for whatever reason had a lei around his neck. 

"It was May tenth," he said slowly, trying to understand why the fuck he was looking at birthday decorations. 

"We know, honey," Mom added, "but we didn’t get to properly celebrate."

Shane looked at the fruit tart again. Someone had written happy bday shane on a little card propped against the cake stand in what was clearly Ilya's handwriting because the letters were slightly too large and the a's looked wrong.

"Why is there a fruit tart?"

"Because you won't eat real cake," Ilya sighed, gesturing at it with profound disappointment. "Is very sad, birthday cake with no cake in it."

"You helped pick it," his dad interjected.

"I did not say I agree with it," Ilya shot back, leaning over to glare at him. "I say it is what Shane would want. These are different things."

His mom made a sound like she was trying not to laugh and failing, clearly used to the playful banter between them. His dad put his arm around her and squeezed. 

"The candle is going to burn down," Shane said.

"So, make wish," Ilya gestured at the dwindling flame, "and blow it out."

"I don't want to blow on the cake directly, that's gross."

"Oh my god, Hollander." 

Ilya reached over the island and plucked the candle out, holding the bottom carefully and cursing under his breath from the hot wax. He held it out to Shane urgently. "Blow."

Shane blushed, looking away from Ilya's face quickly before leaning forward and blowing it out.

"Did you make wish?" 

"Oh," Shane glanced over the three of them, and then shrugged, "I didn't need one."

The smirk on Ilya's face softened into something Shane couldn't really read but he didn't have time to, his mom immediately launching them into song. They sang happy birthday slightly out of tune, his mom loudest, his dad a beat behind, Ilya doing something that definitely wasn't English, and Shane stood there in his socks in a strange kitchen and felt so full he didn't know what to do with it.

His mom cut the tart into four pieces and they all stood around the kitchen island to eat. Ilya accepted his with the expression of a man who had just been given a prison sentence, poking the corner with his fork before taking the tiniest bite and practically dry heaving. 

"Blegh," Ilya said, then holding up the kiwi on his fork, "You eat this? Is eatable?"

"Edible," Shane corrected. "And yes, Ilya, it's a fruit."

Ilya grimaced and then pointed his fork at Shane, which sent the sad piece of kiwi to the counter. "Next year, we are having real cake, never again with this fruity shit."

Inexplicably, Shane could feel heat travel from his neck up to the tips of his ears in the casual way Ilya said next year, like he was so certain that they'd be celebrating together again. 

"Okay," Shane said quietly, ducking his head before Ilya could see it morph into something embarrassing. 

"When is your birthday, Ilya?" Yuna asked from the other side of the island. 

"June fifteenth," Shane and Ilya said at the same time.

Ilya pushed his plate away and leaned across the counter, resting his chin on his hand and looked up at Shane with eyes that had no business being in the same vicinity as Shane's parents. 

Shane looked back for exactly one second too long before he stuffed the rest of the tart in his mouth.

__

They spent the rest of the day hanging out under the pretense of celebrating Shane's nineteenth birthday, ordering enough food to feed an army when he couldn't decide what sounded good. Having more options than bland hospital cafeteria food was overwhelming, so in true Yuna fashion—and to Ilya's absolute delight—they'd gotten Thai, Italian and Korean barbeque. 

His parents gave him presents after eating, things his mom had clearly been accumulating—a couple of new hoodies and sweats in his size, a book he'd mentioned once months ago that she'd remembered and ordered. His dad had slid a couple of cards across the table without much ceremony, one from him and the one that Aisha had given them.

Shane opened the one from the hospital first, slowly read through all the notes everyone had left him, smiling softly before setting it aside. Then he picked up his dad's. After reading it, he pressed his lips together and looked very hard at the ceiling for a moment, blinking back tears.

When he looked back down, his dad was watching him with those familiar kind eyes, and Shane had to look away again.

"Thanks, Dad," he managed.

His dad just nodded once and reached over to squeeze his arm briefly before letting go, and that was that.

The movie had been Shane's choice, When Harry Met Sally, which Ilya had complained about for the first thirty minutes on the grounds that it was old and also boring and also old. He had then watched the remaining hour in complete silence, which Shane chose not to comment on. 

Cards went the way cards always went, which was Ilya cheating in ways that were technically unprovable and Shane calling him out every single time. His dad found the whole thing very entertaining while his mom won three out of four rounds, beating them all.

It was the most normal day Shane had had in over half a year. He kept anticipating an interruption—a nurse, a monitor alarm, someone coming in to check something—but instead it was just his mom, getting up quietly during a slow part of the movie to retrieve the pill organizer from the counter and silently handing him what he needed. He took all of them without comment. She had it more figured out than he did at this point.

By ten o’clock, his dad was collecting cups from the coffee table, the universal signal that the night was winding down. He squeezed Shane's shoulder on his way past. His mom pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Shane let them fuss over him, because he understood by now that most of this was for them. After everything they'd been through that seemed like it was the least he could do, even if all the attention was kind of embarrassing.

"Are you staying the night, Ilya?" His dad asked from the foot of the stairs after his mom had already gone up.

Shane wasn't even the one being asked and he still felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He kept his eyes on the television.

"I—" Ilya started, then stopped and Shane could feel his gaze on him, probably searching for the answer. "I do not want to impose."

"You're not imposing," his dad said, already climbing up and calling out, "Guest room's made up, you know where it is."

"Thank you."

The living room went quiet.

Shane looked up. Ilya was sitting in the armchair across from him, forearms on his knees, looking at Shane with an expression he couldn't quite read. The birthday cone hat was long gone and his curls were getting long enough to be unruly, falling wherever they wanted across his forehead, and Shane's hands wanted to do something about it. 

"You don't have to," Shane said quietly. "Stay, I mean. If you don't want to."

"I want to," Ilya said, matter of fact. And then he dropped his voice, "with you."

It's not like his tone was suggestive at all, or that his parents didn't know that Ilya had spent a few overnights with Shane the last couple of weeks. But the idea of it happening now, without any middle of the night intrusions, made Shane blush. 

"Okay," Shane said, a little unsteady as he pushed himself up from the couch. His body ached in that way that meant he'd been upright too long. He stretched carefully, under the heavy gaze of Ilya's eyes.

He made it two steps before Ilya said, quietly, "Shane."

Ilya stood up from the armchair. He crossed the room in a few steps and stopped in front of Shane, close enough that Shane had to tilt his head up slightly, and looked at him for a moment without saying anything. Then he brought his hand up and cupped Shane's jaw, tilting his face up with his thumb, holding him there for a moment like he was figuring something out. He did that a lot, Shane had noticed early on, like he was trying to read Shane's face before he even knew what he was asking.

"May I stay with you?"

Shane narrowed his eyes at him. "Don't ask stupid questions, Rozanov."

That dumb crooked grin spread slowly across Ilya's face and he dipped down to brush his lips against the corner of Shane's mouth. "Okay. Let's go to bed."

__

Shane was sitting cross legged on the bed in his pajamas when Ilya came out of the bathroom and his brain just…stopped.

He'd known, in an abstract way, what was under Ilya's shirts, obviously. He wasn't an idiot—it was also technically a google search away, Ilya having done a shirtless photoshoot for CCM last year that Shane had absolutely never looked at more than once. 

But knowing and then suddenly being in a small lamp lit room while Ilya fucking Rozanov stood there in just his low slung sweatpants, scrubbing a hand through his damp curls, were two extremely different things.

Shane looked at the wall. Then the ceiling. Then his cuticle beds.

Ilya crossed the room toward the bag that he'd carried in earlier, and Shane took the opportunity to look again because he was only human. The moles he'd only ever seen scattered across Ilya's forearms continued up his arms and across his shoulders and back like a work of art. 

And then he turned around, and the scar was there too. Low on his right side, pink and still healing underneath staples. Shane's eyes caught on it and slid away quickly, something catching behind his own ribs.

Ilya dropped onto the bed across from him, cross legged, knees touching Shane's. Completely unbothered and holding out something small.

"I have something," Ilya said. "For you."

Shane raised his eyebrows and took it, asking, "What is it?" It wasn't wrapped or anything, just a book with a soft cover and Cyrillic letters across the front.

"Is word search, in Russian." Ilya shrugged one shoulder when Shane looked up at him. "To help with your Russian."

"My…Russian," Shane repeated slowly, blinking.

Ilya hummed, "Mmhm."

And then Shane felt his face heating, thinking about the app on his phone because yes, okay, he had maybe started learning Russian when he was bored in the hospital. But he had no idea how the fuck Ilya knew that, unless it was just a lucky guess.

But then the corner of Ilya's mouth did something small and insufferable.

"You know about that?" Shane's voice cracked, which just added to the embarrassment.

Ilya tilted his head. "Da, ya znayu."

Shane closed his eyes briefly. "Oh my god."

"Bozhe moy," Ilya corrected, clearly enjoying himself enormously.

Shane swatted at him but Ilya caught his wrist without even looking, easy as anything, and then did something completely unfair—turned Shane's hand over and pressed it flat against his chest, right over his heart, and just held it there.

He could feel the steady thud of it under his palm, warm skin under his fingers, and Ilya just looked at him like Shane was the most interesting thing in the room, like he wasn't currently dismantling Shane's entire nervous system with a single gesture.

"I don't actually know how to say anything yet," Shane confessed, not taking his eyes off his hand and the way it was rising and falling slowly to the pattern of Ilya's breathing. "I only know like five words."

"Malysh," Ilya said, not teasing anymore.

Shane's nose scrunched, his cheeks growing warmer before raising his gaze slowly and whispering, "I know that one."

He wasn't sure which one of them moved first, but suddenly they were both shuffling forward until Shane was settled in Ilya's lap and kissing.

It started slow, Ilya's hands warm at his waist, their tongues languidly exploring each other's mouth like it was the first time. Shane's fingers found the back of Ilya's neck and Ilya made a quiet sound that traveled into Shane's mouth.

He shifted closer, chasing more contact, and Ilya's grip on his waist tightened, pulling him in, and the kiss deepened into something with more heat behind it. Shane tilted his head and Ilya followed, his mouth moving with a kind of focused intensity that made Shane's brain go very fuzzy and his hands pulled at whatever they could reach. 

Eventually, Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes dark, and Shane answered by closing the distance again, harder this time.

His hands found Ilya's shoulders, his chest, finally touching skin he'd only ever imagined—and there they were, the moles he'd only just seen, small and warm under his fingertips. He traced them, his hands mapping what his eyes hadn't been allowed to yet, while his mouth stayed on Ilya's, swallowing every soft sound they were making.

Ilya's hands pulled him in tighter at the same moment his hips shifted and Shane nearly blacked out at the feeling of his hard erection pressing against his ass, both of them reaching for more at exactly the same time—

"Oh, shit, fuck—"

"Blyat—"

The sounds came out simultaneously, before either of them had processed why, and then the pain caught up—sharp and sudden, shooting through Shane's right side in a way that made his whole body contract around it. He heard Ilya's breath hiss out through his teeth at the same moment and felt him go rigid underneath him.

Shane looked at where Ilya's hand was pressed against his side and Ilya looked at where Shane's was. Neither of them said anything. They just dropped their foreheads together and breathed through the pain.

After a while, Ilya carefully lay back against the pillows, bringing Shane with him, and they rearranged themselves slowly into something that didn't hurt, Shane's head on his chest, Ilya's arm around him loose and careful.

"We have time," Ilya said quietly, into the dark, turning his head to kiss the top of Shane's head.

Shane could hear Ilya's heartbeat against his ear, still thumping faster than normal, the adrenaline slowly wearing off.

"Yeah," he said. "We do."

He lay there listening to it until it slowed down, Ilya's breathing evening out beneath him. His side ached. Ilya's probably did too. They were both a mess, honestly, figuring out how to exist in bodies that were still catching up to everything they'd been through.

But Ilya's arm was around him and there was no beeping, no footsteps in the hall, no door about to open.

Shane closed his eyes. Despite everything, it felt like home.

__

"How's the tenderness been this week?"

Shane was looking at the wall as the nurse asked, the paper on the exam table crinkling under him as he shifted. "Fine," he said. "Pretty normal."

She pressed gently along the edge of the incision. "Any sharp pain? Pulling sensation when you move?"

"Sometimes, when I—" he stopped, blushing furiously when his brain suddenly supplied him with the image of straddling Ilya's lap from a few nights ago. He cleared his throat. "When I move wrong."

His mom looked up from where she was typing away on her phone.

"That’s expected at this stage," the nurse said, not looking up. "The internal healing takes longer than the external. You’d be surprised how many patients push it too soon." She made a note. "Who’s been handling the wound care at home?"

"I have," his mom said, before Shane could open his mouth.

"And you’re cleaning it how often?"

"Every morning," his mom said. "The way you showed us before discharge."

"Perfect. And your medications—" she glanced at her clipboard, "—tacrolimus and mycophenolate in the morning, prednisone with food. Who’s managing those?"

"I am, but he knows what he’s taking," his mom added, which was generous. Shane knew the pills by sight and by the particular rattle of each bottle. That was the extent of his knowledge.

"Any side effects you’ve noticed? Nausea, headaches, coughing…anything unusual?"

"No," Shane said. Then, "Tired sometimes. But I don’t know if that’s the meds or just—" he gestured vaguely at himself.

"Probably both," the nurse said, not unkindly. 

The nurse snapped her gloves off and reached for the blood pressure cuff. "Let's check your weight before Dr. Palmer comes in. Any concerns you want me to flag for him today?"

"No, I'm good."

His mom said nothing, which meant she probably had approximately half a dozen concerns she was saving for Dr. Palmer directly and Shane was going to have to sit there while she listed them. 

His weight was up slightly from last week. The nurse said something approving about it and Shane looked at the number and felt—okay, actually. Good, even. Which was weird, because a year ago that number going up would have sent him straight to the gym. Now it just meant his body was doing what it was supposed to do and that felt like a win.

Dr. Palmer came in twelve minutes later, which Shane knew because he'd been watching the clock. He was a big man, broad shouldered, somewhere in his forties or fifties, with reading glasses that were always crooked and the kind of unhurried energy that made you feel like he had nowhere else to be even when he definitely did. He'd been at Boston Children's long enough that the whole floor seemed to run on his frequency, and he had a laugh Shane had heard through closed doors on some of his worst days that had been, inexplicably, a comfort.

He stopped just inside the door and looked at Shane sitting up on the table like an actual person and just took a moment with it.

"Shane," he said warmly. "You look considerably less terrible."

"Thanks," Shane snorted. "Really nice."

"I'm a doctor, not a poet." He crossed the room and shook Shane's hand, then held onto it for a second longer than a handshake strictly required, squeezing once. Then he turned and took his mom's hand in both of his, giving her a fond smile. "And you look like you've finally gotten some sleep."

"I have," she said, smiling and reaching out to squeeze Shane's thigh. "First time in a while."

"Good." He pulled his stool over and sat down, flipping the chart open. "Alright Shane, tell me everything."

Shane went through it the way he'd learned to—organized, specific, no editorializing. Appetite up, energy better, sleeping more but waking up feeling like it actually counted. 

Palmer listened the way he always did, eyes mostly on Shane, pen moving occasionally. He asked questions that cut straight to the chase in the way Shane liked and Shane found himself answering more honestly than he usually did because Palmer had a way of making honesty feel like the easier option.

"Activity level?"

"Walking," Shane said. "A little more each day."

Most of those walks were with Ilya, who set the pace without being asked and never once suggested they go further than Shane’s body was ready for, even when Shane pushed for it.

Palmer set his pen down and stood, stepping closer to the exam table. "Look down for me."

Shane looked at the floor while Palmer lifted his eyelids briefly with both thumbs, checking the whites of his eyes. 

"Good. Can you lift your shirt for me?"

Shane did, and Palmer leaned in to check the incision site the same way the nurse had, pressing gently around the staples. "Any tenderness here when I do this?"

"A little," Shane said. "Not bad."

"Healing clean," Palmer hummed, and Shane pulled his shirt back down. Palmer picked his pen back up and settled back onto his stool. "Labs from Tuesday looked good—levels are right where we want them, liver function is stable. We’ll keep the current doses and check again in two weeks."

"Okay."

"You know what to watch for."

"Fever, abdominal pain, dark urine, yellowing, confusion," Shane recited, a bit robotically. "Call immediately, not tomorrow."

"Good boy." Palmer clapped Shane on the knee. "Alright. Mental side of things, how are we doing there?"

"It's weird," Shane said, sort of hesitating to try to figure out his words. "I mean, it's okay, but I don't know—" he paused, his shoulders deflating a little. "I guess okay."

"He's been a little blue," his mom added.

Shane looked at her and had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. And she looked back at him with an expression that said she wasn't apologizing for it. He sighed, "I'm fine."

"You can be both," Palmer said simply. "Fine and a little blue. Your body has been working incredibly hard just to keep you here, Shane. That takes a toll that doesn't just disappear the moment you walk out the door. The anxiety, the stress—that needs somewhere to go too." He tapped his pen against the chart once. "Are you seeing the counselor we referred you to?"

Shane stared at the wall, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"We're working on it," Mom said when Palmer glanced at her.

"Strongly encouraged before your next visit," Palmer said, giving Shane a look over his glasses.

Shane nodded, dropping his gaze.

"Good." Palmer sat the chart down on the counter beside him, and then asked casually, "How's Rozanov doing?"

Shane felt it immediately, the warmth crawling up his neck. "Fine," he said. "I mean, good."

"He's been staying with us," Mom offered from her chair, and for some reason that made Shane blush even more.

"Glad to hear it. No family around, right? Just him out here."

"Just him," his mom confirmed quietly.

Shane already knew that, of course. Anyone with Google knew that. But he'd been trying to piece more of it together the way he pieced most things about Ilya together—quietly, from the edges. The phone calls he watched go unanswered. The way his whole body changed when certain topics got too close. The one time Shane had pushed too hard about Russia and Ilya had snapped, and Shane had backed off and hadn't gone near it since.

He didn't know the full shape of it yet. But he was learning the outline.

"Overall you're doing great, Shane," Palmer said, smiling warmly. "Keep doing what you're doing." And then he turned to his mom and gave her his undivided attention. "Alright, Yuna. How many questions do we have today?"

She held up her phone, flashing her notes app at him, her other hand reaching up to pull her glasses down from the top of her head where they'd been sitting the whole appointment. "Just seven."

Palmer chuckled and crossed his legs. "Let's hear it."

Shane took the opportunity to slide off the exam table, grabbing his phone that had been sitting beside him and stuffing it back into his pocket. "I'll be in the waiting room."

"Coward," Palmer teased, without looking up.

"Yep," Shane agreed, and slipped out the door. "Have fun."

__

"I found this the other day," Ilya said, dragging Shane along as they rounded a corner in the neighborhood in a direction Shane hadn't been yet. "I think you will like."

The park was small, tucked between two rows of brownstones like someone had forgotten to build something there and eventually just gave up and put in some grass and a swing set instead. 

"See?" Ilya turned around, with his arms spreading wide as if to show off the space, looking extremely pleased with himself.

Shane looked around before meeting his gaze. "It's a playground."

"Yes. Very observant, Hollander."

Shane looked at him then, at the way the last of the evening light was catching the gold in his curls and that stupid crooked grin on his face, the unguarded one that Shane had been quietly cataloguing for months. He looked younger somehow, like the last couple of weeks had put something back in him, even though he'd had something taken out of him.

"Come," Ilya said, already turning toward the merry-go-round and hopping up, making the metal groan and sway slightly under him. He extended a hand back toward Shane without looking.

"I don't want to get dizzy," he said warily, taking Ilya's hand.

"We do not spin it." Ilya braced his other arm around one of the poles and used his weight to help pull Shane up, and Shane came easier than he expected, his feet finding the metal and free hand catching Ilya's shirt when the whole thing tilted slightly.

Ilya just kept hold of Shane's hand and guided them carefully toward the center. They lowered themselves down flat, feet pointing outward in opposite directions, heads ending up side by side in the middle, the crown of Shane's head almost touching Ilya's shoulder.

The sky was turning above them, pink bleeding into blue, the clouds going gold where the sun was dropping behind the rooftops.

Shane looked up at it and didn't say anything for a while. Neither did Ilya. The metal was warm underneath them from the day, everything soft and distant, like the volume of the city had been turned down just for them. 

"Staples come out on Thursday," Shane said, for lack of anything better to say. 

"Yes, for me, too."

"That'll be nice." Shane paused. "Five more weeks until you can start skating again."

Ilya made a sound that wasn't quite agreement or excitement, but Shane understood. Ilya was built to go full speed at everything and being told to ease into it was probably its own specific brand of torture, like being handed something you'd been starving for and told you can only take a tiny bite.

After a few minutes of silence, Ilya's arm reached up to scratch at Shane's scalp, fingers threading through his hair lazily and Shane leaned into the touch, his whole body sighing.

"Is nice, yes?" Ilya asked quietly.

Shane turned his face to look at him. Ilya's face looked different in this light, the sunset doing something to the lines of it, and Shane noticed the faint freckles scattered across his cheekbone—barely there, nothing like Shane's own, the kind that only showed up when the sun drew them out.

"What?" Shane said.

"The park," Ilya said, turning his head and nearly brushing Shane's nose with his lips from this upside down angle. His blue eyes dipped for a moment, catching on Shane's mouth before meeting his gaze.

"Oh," Shane said, not taking his eyes off Ilya's lips. "Yeah. It's nice."

Ilya smiled softly, then gently pressed a kiss against the tip of Shane's nose.

Shane's eyes fluttered closed, shivering slightly from the touch, which was sort of embarrassing. When he opened them, Ilya was still looking at him.

"You look very pretty."

Shane went still. He'd heard that word his whole life, spat across the ice at him like a slur, usually followed by something worse. A chirp, a way to get under his skin, to make him feel small before a hit came. His brain had filed it away into a negative category a long time ago and hearing it now took a second to land in the right place.

Ilya's hand moved from Shane's hair to his jaw, fingers warm against his skin, gently stroking. Shane realized slowly that there was nothing behind it except exactly what it was. Just an observation. Just Ilya looking at him in the pink light and saying whatever had crossed his mind.

Heat crawled up Shane's neck and into his ears. "Shut up."

"Your parents think we are exercising," Ilya said, his accent thicker than usual. Shane had begun to understand what it meant when it sounded that way, heavier…darker.

"We walked here," Shane said, shrugging, looking into Ilya's eyes earnestly.

"Mmhm."

"We have maybe forty minutes."

Ilya's mouth curved, brushing his nose against Shane's. "Then we should not waste it."

He tilted his face as Shane tilted his, and they met somewhere in the middle, upside down and slightly sideways, Ilya's mouth finding Shane's and parting around it instantly. Shane's hand slid into Ilya's hair and held on.

Ilya kissed him slowly, his hand moving Shane's face just slightly before catching Shane's upper lip between his and sucking on it gently. Shane's grip tightened in his hair and Ilya made a small sound and so he did it again, just so he could hear it over and over.

Eventually they pulled apart, both of them breathing a little unsteadily against each other's mouths. The sky above them had gone deep blue, the first stars beginning to show up. Ilya rearranged himself so that they were lying in the same direction now, one arm propped under Shane's neck, while the other slid to rest on top of Shane's incision over his clothes.

"Can I tell you something," Shane whispered, watching the leaves rustle quietly in the breeze.

Ilya just hummed, burying his nose in Shane's hair. 

"When I heard the Bears were coming to the hospital—" Shane stopped to clarify, "The day we met, to visit the little kids—"

Ilya snorted softly. "Yes, I remember."

"I got out of bed," Shane said to the sky, feeling bolder. "And I went downstairs. I told the nurse I was bored. But I wasn't. Bored."

Ilya pulled back just enough that Shane immediately felt his eyes on him, but he continued to stare straight ahead.

"I'd been following your season, which I guess you already know," Shane continued, quieter now. "But when I heard your team was coming, I just—" he exhaled. "I wanted to see if you were with them, to see what you were like." Fuck, this was actually super embarrassing, but he couldn't exactly reel the words back into his mouth at this point.

"And?" Ilya said, after a moment, sensing Shane's hesitation. 

Shane finally turned his head. Ilya was looking at him, close enough that Shane could see everything moving through his face, not even trying to hide any of it like he was.

"You were leaning against a wall looking like you wanted to be anywhere else," Shane paused, biting his lip and dropping his gaze. "And then you looked at me and I forgot what I was going to say."

Ilya was completely silent, which only made Shane grow more horrified by sharing, his face burning up.

"So," Ilya finally said, and Shane could hear the smile in it, "you were stalking me."

Shane scowled, moving his eyes up to Ilya's and seeing the amusement dancing in them, even in the fading light. "I wasn't stalking you."

"You jumped up and ran out of bed—"

"I slowly walked downstairs—"

"And dramatically dragged IV pole across hospital—"

"I wa—" Shane sputtered, "I wasn't dragging it. I had to take it everywhere. It was normal."

"—to find me," Ilya finished, raising his brows at Shane incredulously, "This is stalking, Hollander."

"I wanted to meet you, like, on a professional level." 

"Professional," Ilya repeated, biting back that famous cocky smirk of his. "Ah, no, I think you saw my naked CCM shoot and want to see for yourself. I understand, I am very good looking. It is not every day you can meet your hero and celebrity crush."

"You're such an asshole," Shane grumbled, even though his cheeks were pink.

"And then you forgot what to say, blinded by my sexiness," Ilya said, reaching up to tap the tip of Shane's nose. "Very cute."

Shane swatted at his hand and tried to shove him away, but it was half-hearted. He could hear how pleased with himself Ilya was, in a way that had nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with Shane. And it was making it very difficult for Shane's ability to stay annoyed about any of this.

"Shut up," Shane muttered.

"I did not say anything."

"You're gloating very loudly."

Ilya laughed, and Shane felt it through the metal of the merry-go-round. His hand found Shane's in the dark, fingers lacing together, and didn't say anything else.

They stayed until the sky went completely black, and then a little longer. 

__

The staples came out the following week, and it was as anticlimactic as Shane had expected and somehow still felt like something big. His body slowly becoming his again, one small staple removed at a time.

June settled in around them. The days got longer and warmer and the routine that had taken shape in those first weeks became something solid. Appointments spaced further apart. The walks got longer.

Ilya stayed. And kept staying. And at some point Shane's mom stopped leaving his folded laundry on the guest bed and started bringing it to Shane's room instead, which was about as much acknowledgment as anyone was going to offer on the subject. His dad started recording the Great British Baking Show, because somewhere in the first couple of weeks he and Ilya had watched three episodes together while Shane was napping and now apparently that was just something they did.

Shane didn't have a word for what Ilya was to him exactly—it had never felt like something that needed one. He was just there, the same way the Coke in the fridge was just there, the same way his sneakers were just there by the door next to everyone else's. A fact of the household. Unremarkable in the best possible way.

His parents weren't weird about it, which Shane was more grateful for than he'd ever say out loud.

But as June stretched on, Ilya was getting restless.

Shane could feel it slowly beginning to simmer under the surface—the way he'd disappear for a couple of hours without explanation, or how he watched the final round of the playoffs on television with a clenched jaw and somewhere else behind his eyes. The way he sometimes stood in the kitchen doing nothing, like an engine left running with nowhere to drive.

And then there were the phone calls.

Shane had noticed them for a while, but they were getting more frequent now. Vibrating on the coffee table during card games. Going off at dinner. But the worst was at night, when Shane would surface from sleep to feel Ilya reaching across him in the dark to silence his phone, or shut it off entirely, and then lie back down and say nothing, and Shane would lie there in the quiet pretending he hadn't noticed.

He never asked, and Ilya never explained.

It was on Ilya's birthday when it all came to a boil.

The restaurant was the kind of place that had candles on every table and a wine list the size of a small novel, which his dad had taken his time choosing from. There were three forks at Shane's place setting and he tried not to overthink which one he was supposed to use. Ilya had protested coming here—is not necessary, we can just go to normal place—and had been completely ignored, which Shane had found very satisfying.

But even with his protests, Shane could tell Ilya felt honored by it. His mom had claimed it was because he was turning twenty and that was apparently some kind of milestone worth cloth napkins, so they all just went with it.

Their plates arrived and Ilya did that thing he did when food excited him—an unconscious little shake of his shoulders, there and gone in a blink—that Shane had noticed early on. He scarfed down two thirds of his dinner before Shane had even made a dent in his pasta.

"This place is amazing," Ilya announced, to no one in particular.

"I'm glad," his mom said, pleased with herself. "They received a James Beard award two years ago."

Ilya raised his brows, looking impressed, glancing over at Shane and nudging his elbow. "This James Beard—he is very good chef."

Shane pressed his lips together.

"Something like that, yes," his mom said fondly, not correcting him.

"What was your favorite meal back in Russia, Ilya?" his dad asked, refilling his mom's wine glass.

"Kotlety," Ilya said, without missing a beat. "My mother used to make it after practice. With potatoes." He made a motion with his hands. "Is like meatballs, but better."

"We'll have to try making it sometime," his mom said, with the warmth she had that made things sound like promises and not pleasantries. And then she added, "She must miss you."

Ilya’s body went rigid, like a burst of cold air next to Shane. For a moment, he said nothing. And then he smiled tightly, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. "Yes."

Shane frowned but kept his mouth shut, knowing better than to pry.

His dad asked about Seaport after that, whether Ilya had found good places to eat around Boston during the season, and Ilya quickly bounced back—talking with his hands about the sandwich place two streets from some park, the coffee that had ruined him for all other coffee, the taco truck that only appeared on Thursdays that a teammate had introduced him to in his first month.

"So," his dad said, at the mention of a teammate, "when does training camp start?"

Ilya chewed slowly, taking his time. "First week of September."

"That's not far off."

"No." He glanced slightly in Shane's direction. "Not very."

His dad said something about the Bears' prospects for next season, his mom asked about the schedule, and Shane just twisted pasta around his fork.

He hadn't been letting himself think about it. About Ilya going back to being Ilya Rozanov—the one who existed before all of it, before him. The one Shane had derailed.

That was the thought he'd been keeping at the back of everything. Behind the ordinary days, behind the walks and the evenings and falling asleep holding hands. Behind the months before that too—the hospital visits, the Christmas tree and the stupid bear wearing a scarf, all the things Ilya had quietly shown up and done before Shane even understood what was happening.

Ilya had been a star before Shane. Would be one again after. And somewhere in between he'd given up a playoff run and part of his liver and more than Shane knew how to quantify, and Shane still didn't know what to do with that except carry it quietly and try not to let it show on his face.

"You will all be back in Ottawa by then anyway," Ilya said casually, somewhere in the middle of the conversation, to his dad, like it was just a logistical fact being sorted out loud. Like it was obvious and required no further discussion.

Shane set his fork down and pushed his plate away slightly.

Ilya knew how much Shane missed home, had watched him miss it all year, and was probably just trying to acknowledge that things would go back to normal eventually. That Shane would get his life back. It was a kind thing to say.

It was just that he hadn’t known, until this exact moment, that Ilya had already thought about it. Had already mapped out the calendar and placed Shane back in Ottawa in his head like a piece moved back to its starting square. 

He looked at his plate and tried to remember what it tasted like and couldn’t.

Under the table, Ilya's hand slid onto his leg, long fingers wrapping around his thigh and staying there.

"Rozanov?"

All of their heads turned. Shane recognized him immediately,  player stats already running through his head like a Times Square marquee.

Cliff Marlow was huge in person, towering over their table, looking at Ilya in disbelief like he was staring at a ghost. Tall, dark haired, broad in the way of someone who had spent years in professional hockey, his expression cycling through confusion and relief and something approaching outrage all at once.

Ilya's hand disappeared from Shane's thigh, but Shane couldn't really blame him. He'd do the same thing.

He watched the rest of it happen in real time—just a slight straightening of Ilya's posture, something behind his eyes shifting. The ease that had been sitting on him all evening, loose and unguarded, quietly reassembling itself into something more contained. Shane had seen it before, on television, in postgame interviews where Ilya would lean into microphones and say as little as possible with complete confidence. 

He'd just never seen it happen this fast, or from this close.

"Marly," Ilya said, standing.

"What the—" Marlow grabbed him into what Shane would generously describe as a bear hug. "I have been calling you for six weeks. Six weeks, Roz. I thought you were dead."

Ilya snorted. "And you did not come to my funeral?"

"Shut the fuck up," Marlow said, a little too loud, making a few heads turn. "I'm serious, half the guys think you're in witness protection and the other half think you got hurt in game five and they're covering it up and you're just—" he stopped, something changing in his expression as he looked Ilya over. "You look fine. You look completely fine."

"Yes, I am fine." Ilya rolled his eyes. 

Marlow glanced at the rest of them—at Shane's parents, at Shane, at the chicken parmesan, back at Shane—apparently trying to assemble a picture from pieces that didn't fit together. He stretched a hand out toward Shane's mom.

"Cliff Marlow, Boston Bears." 

Shane scrunched his nose at the dumb greeting, as if he was some kind of presidential candidate.

"Yes, we know who you are," his mom said, shaking his hand with a warm smile. "Yuna Hollander. My husband David, and our son Shane."

"We were just talking about the upcoming season," his dad added pleasantly. "I'm sure you'll be glad to have Ilya back."

Marlow snapped back to Ilya at that, getting even louder. "So you are coming back."

Ilya looked embarrassed, which was a new expression Shane hadn't seen before. He glanced around before saying, "Cliff—"

"What? You disappeared and haven't returned a single call and now—" his eyes moved over Ilya again, harder this time. "You look fine. We lost the fucking playoffs because of you—"

"Marlow." Ilya said it firmly, in a way that Shane could feel in his bones. And then he leaned in and said something Shane couldn't catch, too quiet to carry, before straightening up.

"Excuse me," he said to the table, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. "One moment."

And then he was moving, hand briefly on Marlow's shoulder, steering him toward the entrance. The restaurant noise swelled back around them like water filling a space.

Shane looked at the empty chair beside him, then toward the front windows. Outside through the glass he could barely see them, just Ilya’s hands moving as he talked, and Marlow's rigid back.

"He'll be fine," his mom said quietly, cutting through the static in Shane’s head.

Shane nodded. Of course Ilya was fine. That was the thing. He was here, and he was fine, and he'd chosen to be, and he'd never once complained about anything or made Shane feel like a burden. Which somehow made it worse.

We lost the fucking playoffs because of you.

__

They got home just before nine, the four of them quiet in the way of people who had all been thinking separately on the drive back and hadn't found a way to bridge it yet. Marlow had eventually left—Shane didn't know what Ilya had said to him on the sidewalk, only that Ilya had come back inside looking resigned and not wanting to talk about it. His parents had given him a card, which he read very slowly and blinked a lot afterwards, his smile wobbly as he just nodded before tucking it away.

And then they'd just quietly finished dessert and gotten the check. 

His mom squeezed Shane's shoulder at the door. His dad said goodnight to them, like it was any other evening. Then they were gone, footsteps on the stairs, and the house went still.

Ilya was by the door, feet planted in place with an unreadable look on his face. Shane nervously fidgeted with the sleeve of his dress shirt, trying to figure out how to make things feel normal again.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" he finally asked, raising his eyes to Ilya’s briefly. "We could go down to the park."

"I think—" Ilya started, and then stopped. His hand dragged through his hair, loosening up the curls he’d styled for dinner. "I think I am going to go home tonight."

But it’s your birthday, Shane thought, it’s your birthday and I don’t want you to leave me. 

"Okay," Shane said, nodding once.

Ilya finally raised his gaze to Shane’s and it was almost too painful to look at. He looked guilty, which was ridiculous considering it should be Shane who felt guilty. Ilya opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"It's fine," Shane said, before Ilya could try to explain. "Seriously."

Ilya looked at him for a long moment, the moonlight coming through the windows doing absurd things to his eyes. Shane held his face very still and gave him nothing to worry about.

"I just have not been home in awhile and I—"

"It’s really okay, Ilya," Shane interrupted quickly, his voice sounding too high. "I understand."

They stared at each other, and Shane didn’t know how long he had before his face cracked open. But finally after a minute, Ilya closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around him. Shane wanted to hold him there forever and also push him away before he could see him cry.

"Happy birthday," Shane mustered, the words muffled against Ilya’s chest.

"Just one night," Ilya promised, squeezing one more time before letting go.

And then the door clicked softly behind him and Shane was standing in the hallway all alone, hugging his arms to himself and trying to contain the warmth that Ilya had left there.

He was fine.

He was completely fine.

__

The waiting room was smaller than the ones he was used to.

No television mounted in the corner cycling through daytime programming. No pamphlets about hand washing or infection prevention fanned out on a side table. Just four chairs, a small plant that looked like it was doing its best, and an abstract print on the wall that Shane had been staring at for the past eight minutes trying to figure out if it was supposed to be something or just shapes.

His mom was beside him, scrolling on her phone. She'd been very casual about this whole thing. Oh, your therapy appointment's Wednesday, don't forget. Shane hadn't forgotten or said anything about it for four days because saying anything about it would have made it a thing and he'd been very busy lately not making things into things.

Ilya had been gone for six days.

Shane looked at the painting again. It was definitely just shapes.

His phone was in his pocket and he was not going to look at it. He'd texted Ilya two days ago, something small, a stupid meme because he didn't really know what else to say that wasn't when are you coming back? And Ilya had responded with another meme and Shane had typed something back and deleted it, and that was fine, too.

"Shane Hollander?"

His mom looked up from her phone and Shane looked at her, unsure of what to do. 

"I'll be right here, honey."

Shane nodded and followed the woman through the door and tried to remember why he'd agreed to this. 

The office was small and comfortable in a way that felt slightly calculated—a worn couch that had clearly been sat on by a lot of people, a bookshelf with an odd mix of titles Shane didn't have time to read, a fidget thing on the side table next to the tissue box. A small succulent on the windowsill that was doing significantly better than the one in the waiting room. No overhead lighting, just lamps, which was nice.

Her name was Dr. Reyes. She was younger than Shane had expected, maybe early thirties, with long dark hair and brightly colored nails. She sat across from him in a plush chair and slipped her shoes off, which Shane chose not to have an opinion about so he just looked away.

"So," she said, picking up her paper coffee cup and settling back, "what brings you in today."

"My transplant surgeon strongly encouraged it and my mom drove me here."

Dr. Reyes smiled, looking sort of amused. "Okay. And what do you think about being here?"

"I think it's probably fine," Shane shrugged. "They obviously think I need to be here, so."

"That's honest," she said. "Can you tell me a little about yourself?"

Shane stared at the abstract print on her wall, which was different from the one in the waiting room but equally inconclusive. "I'm nineteen. I'm from Ottawa, Ontario. I was playing junior hockey before I got sick." He paused. "I have autoimmune hepatitis. I had a liver transplant a couple of months ago."

"How long were you in the hospital total?"

"Six months."

"That's a long time."

"Yeah."

"What was that like?"

Shane thought about it. "Fine, mostly. Boring. Scary sometimes."

"What do you remember most about it?"

He thought about his old room—the monitors, the ceiling tiles, the smell of it, the way the days blurred together after a while. And then underneath all of that, cutting through it, the thing his brain kept landing on.

The chair beside his bed. How it was never empty for long. How he'd wake up and Ilya would just be there, reading something on his phone or watching film or doing nothing at all, like the room was a perfectly reasonable place to spend an afternoon. 

"It was just a hospital."

"When was it scary?"

He looked at his hands. "Before the transplant. When they weren't sure—" he stopped himself. "I honestly don't remember a lot of it towards the end, just like fragments."

She nodded slowly. "That's actually really common after a serious medical event. Your brain protects you from some of it. What fragments do you remember?"

Shane was quiet for a moment, pulling at a thread on the hem of his hoodie, thinking of everything he remembered in those final days before surgery. 

Ilya's fingers in his hair. The weight of him in the bed behind him, pulling Shane in as close as he could get. His face buried in Shane's neck in the dark, trying very hard not to show how scared he was. Feeling wetness against his skin from tears that weren't his.

And then his parents' voices, high and urgent in a way he'd never heard before, sneakers squeaking against the floor, lots of shouting. His bed moving fast down a hallway, lights overhead going past like frames. Someone saying his name over and over.

Then nothing.

Shane shrugged, "Not a lot."

"Okay," Dr. Reyes said simply, moving on, and Shane felt simultaneously relieved and like he'd left something unfinished sitting in the middle of the room.

"What does a normal day look like for you right now?" she asked.

"Walks. Appointments. Reading. Watching television with my dad," Shane sighed. "A lot of waiting, I guess."

"Waiting for what?"

He looked back up at the painting on the wall, his eyes going a little unfocused, as if the shapes would morph into something that made sense. After a moment, he said quietly, "To feel like myself again."

"What did that feel like? Before you got sick."

He'd been a hockey player. He'd been someone with a trajectory, a plan, a body that did what he asked it to. He'd been someone who knew exactly who he was going to be, someone he would never have the chance of being now.

"Different."

Dr. Reyes nodded slowly. "Do you want to talk about what's changed?"

Shane looked out the window. Somewhere across the city Ilya was in his apartment doing whatever Ilya did when he was alone, which Shane realized he didn't know what that even looked like.

"Maybe next time," Shane said, dropping his eyes.

Dr. Reyes smiled. "Okay," she said. "Next time."

__

That night, dinner was quiet in the way dinners had been lately. The table felt like it had the wrong number of people at it, which was a strange thing to notice when it was the same three people it had always been his whole life. Shane's dad had put something on in the background, some documentary about birds, and for a while it was the only thing filling the room.

Shane had left his phone in his room on purpose, because he was tired of looking at it and finding nothing there. So instead he just watched the TV without really watching it and chewed his food and said nothing.

"How was the appointment this morning?" Mom asked eventually.

She had been dying to ask all day, he could tell. After the appointment that morning he'd put his headphones in before they'd even reached the car—his universal signal for wanting to be left alone—and she'd held off through the drive home and the whole afternoon and somehow even the first half of dinner, which was honestly impressive restraint for her.

But the headphones were off now.

"Fine," Shane said.

"Did you like her?"

"She was fine."

His mom waited, expecting more but Shane just stabbed at the salad on his plate and didn't keep going.

"What did you talk about?"

"Stuff."

"Shane—"

"Mom."

"I'm just asking—"

"I know," Shane said, setting his fork down with a loud clatter. "It was fine. She was nice. We talked. That's kind of the whole thing."

His mom opened her mouth, but his dad cut in first, reaching out to rub her back. "Yuna."

The documentary said something about migration patterns and Shane was trying his best to follow along, eyes glued to the screen as his appetite vanished.

"Shane." His dad said gently after a few minutes, no pressure behind it. "Is everything alright?"

Shane's eyes dropped to his plate and he could feel the lump that had been living in his throat the last few days begin to swell. 

He thought about the empty side of the bed that morning and how he'd lain there for an extra twenty minutes because getting up meant starting a day that Ilya wasn't in. The walk he'd taken alone, past the park, turning around at the entrance without going in. The soda in the fridge that nobody was drinking.

He looked up and arranged his face into something that passed.

"Yeah," he said. "Sorry. I'm fine."

__

Shane was jostled awake in the middle of the night when his bed dipped. And he knew before he was even conscious, knew by the weight and warmth of arms and the way they pulled him close. Just like that, all the tension he'd been carrying for days evaporated. 

He turned his hand over when Ilya's found it in the dark, lacing their fingers together, pressed against his sternum, just above the scar that had begun to fade. Neither of them said anything for a long time as their breathing synced, chests rising and falling in the same steady rhythm. 

"You said one night," Shane whispered, into the dark.

Ilya's arm tightened around him. "I know. I am sorry."

Shane stared straight ahead, watching the shadows dance across the walls from the tree outside his window. 

"I missed you," he said eventually, which was possibly the most honest thing he'd said all week.

Ilya turned his face into the crook of Shane's neck, his nose pressing warm against Shane's skin, and stayed there. His breath came out slow and uneven in a way that said more than anything he could have put into words.

"I missed you too," he said, muffled against Shane's skin. "Very much."

Shane turned in his arms then, carefully, until they were face to face, close enough to feel each other's heartbeats. Ilya's eyes were open, catching just enough light to be readable, and what Shane saw there was the thing Ilya rarely let through—unguarded and exhausted and so, so relieved.

Shane kissed him. Soft and slow, tilting his chin just enough to find Ilya's mouth in the dark, slotting his lips around his bottom lip and sucking on it gently until Ilya made a sound low in his throat that Shane felt more than heard. He tasted like cigarettes and mint, which was a new combination. 

He pulled back just enough to breathe and then went back, because he could, because Ilya was here and warm and six days was a long time. Ilya kissed him back with both hands now, one at the back of Shane's head and one spread warm between his shoulder blades, holding him in place like he was worried Shane might change his mind.

He wasn't going to change his mind.

Eventually Ilya buried his face back in Shane's neck, his lips moving against Shane's skin. "Moy lyubimyy," he murmured, so quiet Shane almost missed it.

Shane didn't know that one yet. But he stored it away anyway, the way he stored everything about Ilya, in the growing pile of things he intended to understand eventually.

Shane wrapped both arms around him and held on, feeling the full weight of him, this enormous person making himself small against Shane's chest. He pressed his lips to the top of Ilya's head and left them there.

"Don't do that again," Shane said quietly.

Ilya huffed something soft against his neck that was probably both a laugh and an apology.

"Okay," he said. "I won't."

__

Shane woke up to sunlight and Ilya's arm still across his waist and the sound of his mom moving around in the kitchen down the hall. He turned his head to watch Ilya sleep, the morning light turning everything golden as he breathed quietly through his parted lips, looking more peaceful than Shane had seen him in weeks.

Eventually Ilya stirred, making the low unintelligible sound he made when he was waking up that Shane found endearing.

"Morning," Shane said, scratching at Ilya's scalp, then his shoulder. "Do you want breakfast?"

Ilya just made the sound again, not opening his eyes.

They made it to the kitchen thirty minutes later, after sleepily brushing their teeth side by side in front of the small bathroom sink and grinning stupidly at each other. Which had then turned into Ilya licking the side of Shane's face and leaving behind a streak of toothpaste, which should have been grosser than it was.

Shane was wearing one of Ilya's hoodies and Ilya was looking at him in a way he shouldn't have been, and his mom looked up from the counter and just reached for a mug and handed it to Ilya. His dad glanced over the top of his newspaper, looked at both of them with a small smile, and went back to reading.

Ilya sat down at the island like he'd never left.

__

The transplant clinic ran forty minutes behind.

Shane had known this going in—they almost always did, something about the way the morning appointments backed up and then the delay just multiplied through the day like compound interest—but knowing it didn't make the waiting room chair more comfortable or the fluorescent lights less bright. He sat there with his mom and did the crossword on his phone and didn't complain about any of it because complaining made it take longer somehow.

The nurse had been thorough. Labs first, then incision check, then the medication review. His levels were good. His weight was up again. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be and it still took two and a half hours out of his day and by the time they got home he was exhausted.

He'd eaten dinner. He'd helped do the dishes, which Ilya had tried to stop him from doing and Shane had ignored him because he wasn't an invalid. And then he'd sat on the couch for twenty minutes before his body made its case.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," Shane said quietly. His parents were hunched over the dining room table working on a puzzle and his mom gave him a little understanding smile. 

Ilya looked up from the TV at the clock that was hanging above the mantle. It was barely eight thirty. 

"Okay," Ilya said, already standing and folding the throw blanket neatly, the way his mom always did at the end of the night.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," Ilya said, and followed him anyway.

They'd been lying in the dark for a while. Shane was doing that thing where he was mostly trying to sleep but his mouth was still running slightly, sentences that trailed off before they finished, thoughts that didn't quite connect.

"—but I looked it up and tacrolimus was actually discovered in Japan," Shane said, turning slightly to shuffle closer to Ilya's warmth. "From soil bacteria. That's what's keeping me alive. Dirt."

"Mm," Ilya hummed, his hand finding Shane's hair and scratching at his scalp lightly. 

"Weird," Shane said.

"Yes."

A few minutes passed and Shane's eyes had been closed for a while. The tree outside the window moved slightly in whatever breeze was left of the night. Shane was most of the way gone when Ilya's phone started vibrating on the nightstand.

The hand in Shane's hair stopped moving. Then carefully, quietly, Ilya slipped out from under the blanket. Shane heard his feet on the floor and the soft click of the bathroom door. 

He lay there in the dark and listened to the muffled sound of Ilya's hushed voice through the walls. The words were Russian, all of them clipped and fast and none of it carried clearly enough to understand even if Shane had known the language. But the tone was a language of its own. He'd heard Ilya chirp opponents on the ice and he'd heard Ilya whispering against his neck in the dark and this was neither of those things.

Eventually the door opened again. The covers pulled back, the bed dipped, and then he was being dragged in—Ilya's arms coming around him and pulling until Shane's back was pressed flush against his chest. Ilya exhaled heavily, like he'd been holding something tight since he walked out of the room and Shane's body was the thing that finally let him put it down. 

"Who called you?" Shane asked quietly, after a few minutes of lying there deciding whether or not to say anything. But after weeks of pretending to be asleep while Ilya silenced his phone in the dark, he couldn't hold it anymore.

Ilya didn't answer right away. His breath was warm and slow against the back of Shane's neck. Shane had almost decided he wasn't going to respond when he did.

"My brother."

Shane knew Ilya had a brother. Wikipedia had told him that, back when he was going down every rabbit hole available to him. It was a vague summary though that had little to no detail. And Ilya never mentioned his family—never volunteered anything, steered away from it when it came too close. This felt different though, like a door left slightly open.

"Is he the one who usually calls?"

Shane resisted the urge to turn around so he could read Ilya's face. He had a feeling this was easier this way, with neither of them having to look at the other.

"Mm. Mostly, yes."

"What does he want?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment. His thumb moved once against Shane's stomach, an absent motion, like he was considering how much to give.

"My father," Ilya said finally. "He calls because my father asks him to. Because I do not answer when my father calls."

"Why don't you answer?"

"Because I do not want to hear what he has to say," Ilya said flatly. 

"Oh." Shane chewed on his lip, knowing he was pressing his luck, but Ilya wasn't stopping him yet. "Why?"

Ilya exhaled slowly and the minutes dragged by in silence, his chest pressing against Shane's back in every slow rise. After a while, he said quietly, "He is angry. About the playoffs. He does not know why I left. I could not tell him."

Something cold moved through Shane's chest, the way it always did when the playoffs came up. The guilt that lived dormant underneath everything else that he'd been carrying since the moment he found out Ilya had been his donor. And now knowing his father was furious, his teammates resentful, Ilya's name attached to every offseason headline about the playoffs they'd lost—and at the center of all of it was Shane. The reason no one knew about. 

"What about your mother?"

Ilya went very still, in a way that felt like Shane had finally overstepped and he immediately wished he could pull the words back.

"She is dead," Ilya said before Shane could start apologizing. "I was young."

Shane didn't say anything. He just lay there feeling the weight of those words and the grief of a boy who had grown up without a mother and having no idea what that would be like. 

"Ilya, I—"

"Enough," Ilya sighed, his hand moving up to Shane's chest and giving it a light squeeze. "It was long time ago. It does not matter."

It felt like it mattered a lot, but Shane kept that to himself.

Instead he shuffled around and Ilya let him, turning his body until he could slip his leg in between Ilya's and see his face. It wasn't very readable in the dark, though. His eyes were closed like Ilya was guarding himself. Shane reached up and cupped his face, brushing his thumb along his cheekbone. 

"I'm sorry."

Ilya's eyes opened, and the pain in them caught the moonlight in a way Shane hadn't been prepared for.

"For what?" 

Shane's throat felt tight and he tried to swallow the lump down. "For all of it. You gave up a lot. Because of me."

Ilya looked at him for a long moment. Then he reached up and wrapped his hand around Shane's wrist, holding it there.

"Shane," he whispered.

"Ilya—"

"I would do it again."

__

The TV was on but Shane had stopped watching it approximately one and half episodes ago.

He was lying along his end of the couch with a blanket pulled up to his waist, which had seemed like a normal thing to do when they'd sat down. The blanket was just doing its job.

It had just also acquired a second job, which was hiding Ilya's hand.

It had started on top of the blanket—just resting there, warm and heavy on Shane's shin, the way Ilya touched him sometimes without seeming to notice he was doing it. Then it had shifted underneath the blanket, finding the bare skin of Shane's leg and settling there. Then it started moving. Slowly up and down, fingertips trailing from his calf to the back of his knee and back again, like Ilya was thinking about something else entirely and his hand was just keeping itself occupied.

Shane glanced over.

Ilya was slouched so far down the couch he was practically horizontal, head tipped back against the cushions, his free arm draped lazily over his head, eyes half closed on the TV. The absolute picture of someone with idle brain cells.

Then the hand drifted higher. Fingertips skimmed the hem of Shane’s shorts before slipping underneath, the fabric bunching as Ilya's hand slid along his thigh. He exhaled carefully through his nose and thought stop in Ilya's direction.

The thumb traced a slow circle, catching on Shane's briefs. 

Don't stop, he also thought, immediately and against his will.

And then Ilya's fingers moved just a fraction higher, dancing lightly against the skin at the very top of his inner thigh, and Shane's breath caught in a way he couldn't control and his hand found the edge of the couch cushion to hold onto. His whole body was hot and his brain had stopped producing coherent thoughts and he was staring at the television screen seeing absolutely nothing but static.

His mom's footsteps came down the stairs first, his dad's a beat behind, and Shane had two seconds of warning before they appeared in the living room doorway. Ilya's hand stilled, but it stayed exactly where it was, fingertips digging slightly into the meaty flesh because he was apparently an agent of fucking torture.

"We're heading out, boys," his mom said, pulling her bag off the hook by the door. "There's leftover pizza in the fridge if you're hungry and your medications are on the counter Shane."

"I know," Shane said. His voice came out completely normal. He was extremely proud of this.

"—and the number for the after hours clinic is on the calendar in case anything—"

"Mom."

"I'm just saying. And Ilya—" she paused, already halfway out the door, "—I have a load in the wash, could you switch it to the dryer in about an hour?"

"Of course," Ilya said, glancing over at her with an easy smile. "I will take care of it."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"We'll be a few hours," Dad said, ushering her out the door. "Call if you need anything." He glanced at the boys over Mom's shoulder, face completely neutral, but Shane still blushed.

"We will," Shane said, clearing his throat. Ilya's fingers twitched.

"Have fun," his dad called, the door clicking shut.

Shane turned his head at the same time as Ilya. They looked at each other in the quiet of the room, the afternoon light coming through the curtains. Shane felt something shift in the air the same way it had in the supply closet all those months ago—that same spark catching low in his chest, the one that had first lit up in the dark with Ilya's hands on his waist and his mouth at his neck and nowhere to go. 

Except this time there was no IV pole between them, or parents down the hall, or visiting hours counting down and nowhere either of them had to be.

The lazy casualness was completely gone from Ilya's expression now, replaced by something that made Shane's brain go very quiet and his mouth go slightly dry. His hand was gone from Shane's thigh a second later, and then he was hauling Shane up by the front of his hoodie before the sound of his parents' car had even faded from the driveway.

"Oh, fuuungh—" the word was shoved back down his throat the second Ilya's mouth smashed against his. 

The kiss was weeks of careful and managed and nowhere near enough, all at once, Ilya's hand fisting in Shane's hoodie and Shane grabbing the front of his shirt and neither of them that concerned with being gentle about it.

They made it off the couch. Barely.

Shane's back hit the wall before they'd cleared the living room, Ilya's mouth still on his, and he didn't care, just pulled him back in. Ilya kissed the way he did everything—completely, without apology, like once he'd decided something was his, there was nothing left to negotiate. 

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya murmured against his mouth, his hand sliding to the back of Shane's thigh and pulling it up, wrapping his leg around his hip and pressing in closer.

Shane's head fell back against the wall, staring at the ceiling and understanding now why people wrote songs about this kind of shit. 

"Yeah," he breathed, which was not a complete sentence but was the best he could do right now.

They stayed there for a while, kissing the way they hadn't been able to all day, for weeks, months…Shane's fingers twisting in Ilya's hair and Ilya's other hand at his jaw tilting him exactly where he wanted him. 

"Bedroom," Shane panted.

"Yes," Ilya said against his mouth, and then his lips were gone from Shane's entirely, trailing down his throat, following the line of his pulse like he knew exactly where it was going. When he found the spot where Shane's neck met his shoulder, Shane's whole body went sideways, his hands flying to the back of Ilya's shirt and gripping like that was the only thing keeping him on the planet.

"Ilya, please."

"I am thinking about it."

"What is there to think about—"

Ilya moved back up and kissed him again, and Shane forgot what he was saying.

They made it four more steps before Ilya had him against the opposite wall, and Shane actually laughed, the kind he hadn't heard from himself in a long time.

"Ilya," he managed, as Ilya's hand shoved under his hoodie and found bare skin, "bedroom. Now."

And then before he knew it, he was airborne, Ilya's arms hooking under him and hauling him up like he weighed absolutely nothing, and Shane's legs wrapped around his waist on pure instinct and held on.

"Oh my god—" Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya's neck, despite saying, "put me down, Rozanov, I can walk—"

"You are too slow."

"I'm recovering from a liver transplant—"

"Yes, and my liver is inside of you, so you should be fast like me."

"Fuck you."

Ilya kicked the bedroom door open and deposited Shane onto the bed with considerably more care than the journey suggested. Shane bounced once against the mattress and looked up at him, cheeks aching from a smile he couldn't quite get rid of.

Then Ilya put his hands and knees on the bed.

The smile faded.

He crawled up the mattress slowly, holding Shane's gaze the entire way, and Shane's brain supplied the word predatory and then stopped supplying words altogether. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat.

Shane opened his mouth—to say something, anything, some last shred of composure—and then Ilya's face was right there, close enough that Shane could feel his breath.

"Still okay?" Ilya murmured, brushing his lips against Shane's.

"I swear to god if you stop right now—"

Ilya kissed him, slow and deep, one hand braced beside Shane's head and the other sliding under the hem of his shirt, palm flat against his stomach. Shane sighed in his mouth when Ilya’s tongue slipped in, and his hands found his shoulders, his neck, grasping onto his hair and pulling him closer because there was still too much space between them.

Ilya's mouth moved to his throat, finding that spot again and staying there this time, sucking the skin into his mouth until Shane could feel the blood rushing to the surface. His teeth dragged across it just enough to make Shane's whole body forget what it was supposed to be doing. His back left the mattress, a sound pulling out of him from somewhere deep that he'd never made before and had absolutely no control over.

"Okay," Shane gasped to the ceiling. "Okay. Yeah. That's good."

"Yeah?" Ilya said against his skin, and Shane could feel him smiling before kissing the bruise one last time and pulling back to admire his work.

"Don't be smug about it."

"I do not know this word," Ilya said, attempting to look innocent but his eyes gave him away. "Smug, what is this?"

Shane rolled his eyes. "Idiot."

"Shane." Ilya looked at him earnestly, his thumb tracing a slow line along Shane's ribs. "Can I take this off?"

Biting his lip, Shane slowly raised his arms up over his head and waited. 

Ilya peeled the hoodie up and off him slowly, like he was unwrapping something he didn't want to damage. He dropped it somewhere off the side of the bed.

And then he just—looked.

Shane fought every instinct to cross his arms over himself, to say something dry that would cut the moment in half before it could get too heavy. He made himself hold still instead, letting Ilya look, even though his whole body felt like it was on fire from the attention.

Ilya's eyes moved over him slowly. His chest, his stomach, the sharp lines of his ribs where the weight loss still showed. And then lower, where the scar ran pink and raised along his right side, still new enough to catch the light.

Shane watched his face. There wasn't pity or the practiced clinical neutrality Shane had gotten so used to seeing whenever someone looked at his body. It was just open. Something quiet and enormous moving through it that Ilya wasn't bothering to hide.

He reached out first, fingertips trailing from Shane's collarbone down his sternum, the flat plane of his stomach, following the curve of his ribs like he was learning the geography of him and intended to remember it. His mouth followed the same path—lips pressing to Shane's chest, the soft skin below his pec, moving down without rushing any of it.

When he reached the scar he paused. His fingertips traced it first, one end to the other, and then he lowered his head and dragged his tongue slowly along the length of it. Shane's hand flew into Ilya's hair and gripped, fingers twisting around his curls and holding on.

"Ilya," Shane whispered, and his voice came out completely wrecked.

Ilya lifted his head, resting his chin on Shane's stomach. His eyes were wet when he lifted them, which Shane hadn't expected. And something about that—about seeing Ilya carrying it too, the same impossible weight of what they'd been through together—made Shane understand for the first time that he wasn't meant to hold it alone.

Shane reached out and pressed his palm against Ilya's cheek. Ilya turned into it, his eyes closing, and just stayed there for a moment, breathing. Shane could feel the wetness at the corner of his eye under his thumb and didn't move his hand.

Eventually, Ilya pressed his lips to Shane's palm, and something shifted, like they'd acknowledged something really big without using any words. 

"Hey."

"Hello," Ilya said softly, his accent thick and raspy and full of so much emotion.

He moved up and kissed Shane, slower than before but no less certain, and Shane pulled him in and stopped thinking about anything except this. The weight of him, the warmth, the very specific and undeniable fact of being very much alive.

"Ilya," Shane said, in between kisses, "can we…"

"Whatever it is, yes."

That made Shane smile, even if it was a little nervous. He reached up to run his fingers through the messy curls that had fallen across Ilya's forehead, pushing them off his face and gripping them. 

"I was just going to ask," he paused, dropping his gaze, "if maybe, we could…take our clothes off."

He felt a puff of breath hit his chin and he dared to look back at Ilya's face, to find him holding back a laugh. He tugged on his hair and pouted. "Don't laugh at me."

"No, no, no. Never. Is very cute."

"Stop calling me cute."

"No?" Ilya dipped down to kiss Shane's chin, his hand running along Shane's side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. "Then what should I call you?"

Shane thought about it for a moment, then blushed. "I like it when you call me malysh." He scrunched his nose, embarrassed at his pronunciation. 

"Malysh," Ilya repeated slowly, pressing a kiss under Shane's jaw. "I like that, too."

"Can we get naked now?"

Ilya laughed and Shane felt it against his throat.

"Yes," Ilya said, already sitting up, but then his eyes flicked to Shane's nightstand, and he paused. Confused, Shane followed his gaze and realized what it landed on. 

Reaching out, Ilya flipped the framed photo of Shane and parents down, a sly smile spreading on his face as he looked back at Shane and winked. "Do not want to shock them."

Shane blushed, but quickly got distracted as Ilya reached and pulled his shirt over his head in one swift movement. Shane's eyes went straight to the scar that mirrored his own, sitting there in the afternoon light and somehow looking so beautiful on him. 

It was a little awkward after that, the way first times probably were—elbows in the wrong places, waistbands that didn't cooperate, Shane nearly elbowing Ilya in the face getting his shorts off—and then suddenly there was nothing left to take off and they were just looking at each other naked.

Shane had no idea where to put his eyes. He was trying not to stare below Ilya's waist, which was difficult because his peripheral vision was doing him absolutely no favors. It's not like he didn't know that Ilya was big, he'd felt it before, after all. That information had been filed away a while ago and revisited more times than Shane was going to admit. But seeing it was a different situation entirely. A slightly terrifying one, if he was being honest.

He kept his eyes very carefully on Ilya's face.

Ilya, on the other hand, was not keeping his eyes on Shane's face. He was blatantly looking at Shane the way he'd looked at him earlier, that same unhurried attention, and Shane felt the heat of his eyes everywhere they landed.

"I do not know," Ilya said, fingers reaching out and tracing a line from Shane's sternum down to his naval, and then lower, just barely skirting around Shane's very obvious erection. "How you are so perfect."

Shane's breath caught. "Ilya—"

"Mm." His fingers ghosted along the length of him and Shane's head fell back, a sharp exhale punching out of him before he could catch it.

"Fuck, Ilya, you can't just…oh god." His words turned into a moan when Ilya wrapped his hand around Shane's cock, giving him a slow, deliberate pull. 

Before he had a chance to get used to things like being called perfect and having Ilya's giant hand stroking him, Ilya bent down and replaced his hand with his tongue, swirling slowly around the head. Shane might as well have blacked out.

Ilya didn't stop, spurred on by the sounds Shane was making, and then he opened his mouth and sank down in one devastating move, taking all of him, tongue flat against the underside and adding pressure as he began to move, dragging his lip up Shane’s cock before sinking back down. Over and over.

"Oh, fuck, unnngh, god, Rozanov—" 

He'd already been close to death once. He knew what it felt like to be on the edge of something with no guarantee of coming back. But this—Ilya fucking Rozanov's throat contracting around his cock—was going to finish the job considerably faster than any organ failure.

His hands flew into Ilya's hair and pulled hard, forcing his mouth to slide off with a slick pop that Shane felt shoot up his entire spine.

Ilya looked up at him, lips parted, chest heaving, eyes dark and patient, looking at Shane like he was awaiting instruction. Fuck, he really was going to kill Shane.

"I—" Shane's face was burning. He looked at the wall. Then the ceiling. Then the wall again. Inhaling deeply, he let the words spill out on the exhale. "I've never done this before."

Silence.

His anxiety had fully launched itself into orbit by the time he forced himself to look down at Ilya's face, braced for something he didn't want to see. But there was nothing to be braced for. Ilya's expression was steady, his hand warm on Shane's hip, squeezing once. And then again, when Shane still wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

"Yes," Ilya said.

Shane squinted at him. "Yes?"

"I know," Ilya said, turning his head to press his lips to Shane's inner thigh.

"You…know?"

Ilya just shrugged, like this was the most casual conversation in the world. "Yes. I think it is obvious."

Shane's mouth fell open. "Obvious? Do I—is it—do I look like a virgin?"

"Little bit," Ilya said, mouth curving into that crooked grin.

"Oh my god." Shane covered his face with both hands. "That's mortifying."

Ilya laughed a little, pulling his hands away. "No, no, Hollander, it is not."

"You could have said something," Shane groaned.

"And say what?" Ilya raised his brows. "Hello Shane, I think you have never sucked a co—"

Shane swatted at his head, scowling. "Okay, no, you're right, don't say it out loud."

Ilya stifled a laugh into Shane's thigh, higher this time, and Shane's train of thought derailed completely. And then Ilya looked at him in the way he did when he wanted Shane to know he had his full attention.

"We go at your pace," he said seriously, soothing his hands up and down, all over Shane's skin. "Whatever you want. Whatever you do not want. You tell me."

Shane held his gaze for a moment before whispering, "Okay."

"Okay." Ilya pressed another kiss, this time to the soft spot right above the light dusting of hair above Shane's groin. "So. What do you want?"

Shane swallowed. His ears were fully on fire. But he was Shane Hollander, and he had already decided this a long time ago, and he was not going to be a coward about it now.

"Everything," he said, forcing himself to hold Ilya's gaze. "I want everything."

Ilya looked at him for one long moment. Then he smiled—not the smug one, not the crooked teasing one, but the real one, the quiet one that Shane had never seen him give anyone but him.

"Okay," Ilya said softly, nodding once. "Then we start from beginning."

And just like that, Ilya's mouth was back on him, with even more purpose than before, swallowing Shane whole like a man starved. Shane's mouth fell open and nothing came out, all the air trapped somewhere in his lungs with nowhere to go.

Ilya was relentless, doing things with his mouth that made Shane's vision go white. For one brief terrifying second Shane's brain supplied the thought that there was absolutely no way he could ever reciprocate at this level which was an alarming realization to be having right now, with Ilya's tongue doing what it was doing.

But Shane had never once in his life watched someone be better at something than him and not immediately set about closing the gap. That was simply who he was. And he had never met a challenge he didn't intend to match.

"Oh, god—Roz—Ilya, I don't know if I'm going to last, oh fuck—"

Ilya moaned around him and the vibration alone nearly finished Shane off right there. His hands flew out and fisted the sheets, hips jerking up until Ilya's hands clamped down on them and pinned him down, forcing him to be still. 

Shane could feel his orgasm building fast, crackling up his spine and behind his eyes, every nerve ending he had lighting up at once—and then Ilya fed Shane’s cock even deeper until he was choking on it. Shane could feel the tight heat of his throat closing around him, and that was it.

His arm flew up to his face and he bit down on his forearm so hard it nearly broke skin. His entire body was shaking through it, and Ilya just stayed there, taking every single ounce of Shane's load like it was nothing. 

When he finally pulled off, Shane was boneless, overstimulated and blissed out of his fucking mind.

It could have been minutes or hours. Shane had no idea. He was aware of coming back to himself in pieces—his heartbeat first, then the sound of his own breathing, then the warmth of Ilya's mouth moving up his thigh, his hip, across his stomach. A soft press of lips to his scar. The wet heat of his tongue at his nipple that made Shane's oversensitive body twitch helplessly.

And then Ilya's mouth was at his, kissing him once, twice, patient in a way that had no right to exist after what had just happened. Shane kissed back eventually, or tried to. Mostly he just let Ilya do it, his lips barely moving, his entire body a warm useless thing that had forgotten how to participate.

Ilya settled beside him, propping his head up on one hand and looking down at Shane with an easy smile. "So," Ilya started. "Was okay?"

Shane considered this. Every bone in his body was mush. His forearm had a bite mark on it. He was fairly certain he'd made sounds that were not human and would need to be processed privately at a later date.

"Yeah," he said, keeping his eyes closed. "It was okay."

Ilya hummed, reaching out to push Shane's hair off his forehead. "Just okay?"

Shane turned his head to look at him, squinting an eye open. "You're fishing."

"I am not fishing," Ilya said in mock-offense. "Where is my boat?"

"Oh my god," Shane snorted. "You're so dumb."

"Mm, so dumb you were screaming my name five minutes ago."

"I wasn't screaming, fuck off."

"Then I will have to try harder next time." 

Shane looked at Ilya for a second, and then let his gaze drift down his body, over the muscles of his shoulders, his hard pecs, the defined ridges of his abdomen and the trail of hair that led…

He swallowed.

Okay. Okay, that was—it was just staring at him. A cock that wasn't his own, which had never happened before, at least not this close, or outside of a locker room. Even then, he always kept his eyes to himself. 

Shane took one slow determined breath through his nose, the kind he used to take before a faceoff, and started shuffling down the bed with the coordination of someone whose skeleton had liquefied. 

Ilya's hand caught him by the arm before he got very far.

"No," he said, shaking his head.

Shane looked up at him, eyes wide. "I was going to—"

"I know."

"I want to."

"I know, yes." He pulled Shane back up the bed and tucked him against his side like that was simply where he lived. 

Shane opened his mouth.

"Not now," Ilya said, in a tone that was gentle and completely immovable, his hand settling warm at the back of Shane's head and tugging at his hair until they were face to face.

Shane blinked up at him slowly, memorizing every detail—the curl falling across his forehead, the freckles and moles, the shade of his eyes in the afternoon light—in the way someone memorized something they were terrified of not having forever.

"Okay," he agreed quietly.

Chapter 2: part two

The days and weeks that followed were, objectively, the best and most frustrating of Shane’s life.

Best, because something had changed after that afternoon and neither of them had put it back. The careful distance was gone, replaced by something that had no distance in it at all, and Shane was still getting used to the way that felt—like a constant low hum underneath everything, present in every room they were in together.

Frustrating, because his parents were always in those rooms.

There was the Tuesday his mom had a call and his dad was on a walk and Ilya had Shane pressed against the bathroom wall with his hand down his shorts and his other clasped over Shane’s mouth to keep him quiet. Which he’d managed, barely, right up until his mom knocked on the door to say labs were in twenty minutes and Shane had to answer her in a completely normal voice.

"Coming," Shane called out too loudly, which was both true and not true, and Ilya buried his face in Shane’s neck and shook with silent laughter.

There was the Thursday evening his dad fell asleep in front of the television and Ilya pulled Shane into his room by the front of his shirt and they had eleven minutes and used every single one of them. Shane emerged looking like he’d gone to war and seen some things. Which was also sort of true.

"Hey boys," his dad had greeted them, and Shane tried not to overthink the fact that he had woken up and wondered when he’d woken up and also, how good was his hearing? 

"You have jizz in your hair," Ilya had whispered in his ear once they were settled back on the couch, which had sent Shane flying back out of the room in horror. 

There was Ilya’s hand finding him under the dinner table in a place that would be considered inappropriate, thumb moving in slow circles while Ilya maintained full eye contact with his dad and discussed the merits of sourdough bread with complete sincerity. At one point Ilya squeezed his thigh and Shane accidentally said that yes, the crust really does make all the difference, which earned him a weird look from his mom.

There was the night his parents went out to dinner and they had the living room to themselves and Shane had mounted Ilya’s lap and wanted to make it his new permanent residence.

"We should do that again," Shane said afterward, mouth pressed against Ilya’s throat.

Ilya squeezed his ass. "Which part."

Shane felt heat crawl up his neck. "All of it."

"Okay," Ilya said, like it was very simple, because apparently to him it was. "All of it."

It was good. It was so good it was slightly alarming, what his life had become—lying in bed at night taking inventory and finding everything fine, everything better than fine, his body doing what it was supposed to and Ilya one foot away breathing slowly. He felt like he’d finally gained back some part of him that he’d lost after things got bad, and he wanted to hold onto it forever.

A distant part of him also thought that he’d spent his entire life letting hockey consume everything, and now that hockey was gone and Ilya was here, it turned out that part of him had a lot of catching up to do. 

In other words, he had never been so fucking horny in his life.

And it wasn't like the nights were lacking, because they weren't. The problem was that Ilya had apparently decided that wasn't enough and had taken it upon himself to keep Shane in a permanent state of low grade insanity during the daylight hours as well. He knew exactly what buttons to push and he really enjoyed pushing them.

Ilya still wouldn’t let him anywhere near his cock with his mouth, but Shane had gotten excellent at handjobs in the meantime, if Ilya’s body language had anything to say about it, and he felt proud of that accomplishment.

"When is appointment?" Ilya murmured, shoving Shane’s t-shirt up and licking a long stripe up to his belly button. 

"In an hour," Shane gasped when Ilya’s teeth sunk into the fleshy part of his stomach. He’d gotten used to finding bite marks and bruises there, and had to go to great lengths to make sure they stayed hidden. "My mom is in the kitchen—"

"She is busy," Ilya said against his skin, his fingers hooking into the waist of Shane's shorts, pulling them down just enough to suck at the sensitive spot beneath his hip. "Is fine."

"Sound travels through the vents, she could—"

"Shane."

"What."

Ilya looked up at him, his curls already a mess from Shane's hands buried in them. "Stop talking about your mother."

"Right," Shane said. "Sorry. Yes."

Ilya's mouth resumed its path and Shane's head fell back against the pillow. And then Ilya began using his teeth to pull Shane's shorts off, which was a talent he had no right possessing, and Shane was thirty seconds from losing his mind when the door swung open.

They both froze.

His mom walked in the way she always walked into Shane's room—without knocking, because she never had to knock, because nothing like this had ever been happening on the other side of the door before in Shane's entire life.

She had her phone in one hand and what looked like a folded piece of paper in the other and she was already talking before she'd fully crossed the threshold. "Shane, I need you to look at this form from Dr. Reyes—"

She stopped when her gaze drew up.

Ilya had his face buried in Shane's stomach and was not moving. Shane was breathing way too hard for anything to be considered relaxing. The situation required absolutely no interpretation.

His mom looked at them and Shane looked back at her, his eyes so wide they felt like they were about to pop out of his fucking skull. The only saving grace was that fact that Ilya was lying on top of him like a two hundred pound blanket, shielding both Shane and Yuna from a lifetime of trauma therapy.

"I'm going," his mom said, in a voice doing an extraordinary amount of work, and backed out of the room pulling the door shut behind her.

Shane stared at the ceiling. "Ilya."

"Mm."

"You didn't lock the door." Shane said, because that felt like the most important fact currently available to him.

"Oh, so this is my fault," Ilya pinched him. He had the audacity to look only mildly concerned. "You could have locked it, too."

"You're the one who walked in last!"

Ilya pressed his lips together. Something moved through his expression that was dangerously close to the beginning of a laugh and Shane scowled.

"Is fine, Shane," Ilya sighed, crawling up Shane's body and bracing his arms on either side of his head. "I do not think your parents think we are in here reading bible."

"Oh my fucking god," Shane pinched his eyes shut. 

"I mean," Ilya continued, bending down to kiss the tip of Shane's nose, "sometimes it does sound like you are praying, though."

"Rozanov. Shut up."

__

The drive to Boston Children's was eighteen minutes of Shane staring out the window and wishing he had the ability to dissolve into the seat. His mom had the radio on at a volume that was abnormally loud but still did nothing to fill the awkward silence. Shane watched the city go past and thought about moving to a different country.

They made it all the way to the waiting room before she said anything.

His mom sat down beside him, crossed her legs, and then after a moment said, very casually, without looking up from her phone— "I'll start knocking."

Shane stared at the wall, but he could feel his skin overheating. "Please stop."

"We may need to set some rules—"

"Mom. Stop."

Thankfully, they didn't have to wait long before he was called into the exam room and for the first time, he really wished his mom wouldn't follow. 

Palmer had gone through everything like normal and Shane had answered every question on autopilot the way he always did, grateful for the familiar rhythm of it and that he had something clinical to focus on that had nothing to do with what had happened this morning.

And then Palmer sat back on his stool and said, "Any other concerns or questions?"

Shane was already sliding off the exam table, mentally halfway out the door, when his mom spoke up.

"Actually," Yuna said, with the same even tone she had when she brought up questions about his tacrolimus levels, "I did want to ask about activity."

Shane went very still, his eyes darting to her. 

"Activity," Palmer repeated, nodding. "Something besides walking? What kind of activity are we talking about?"

"Cardiovascular exertion," his mom said, not looking at Shane. "What Shane can physically handle at this stage."

A weird noise got caught in Shane's throat when he realized what was happening and he was suddenly rendered speechless, unable to stop it.

"Well, we want to avoid anything that puts significant strain on the abdominal area, so sustained exertion would depend on the—"

"What about, the kind that might involve," she paused, choosing her words slowly, "repeated motion." As emphasis, she raised a suggestive eyebrow at Palmer.

Shane was going to kill himself. 

"Ah," Palmer said, setting his pen down with the careful deliberateness of a man getting his expression under control.

"Mm," his mom hummed.

"I think," Palmer said, looking at Shane briefly before turning back to his mom,  "Shane and I can take it from here."

"Absolutely," Mom said, immediately standing and grabbing her bag, "I’ll just be in the waiting room."

His mom stood, patted Shane's shoulder, and walked out without another word. The door clicked shut and Shane began searching the room for something he could use to impale himself with.

"Well," Palmer said.

Shane took a seat back on the table and looked at him, feeling dead inside.

"For what it's worth," Palmer said, picking his pen back up and tapping it against the chart in his lap, "she clearly just wants to make sure you're okay." He paused, clearly trying to smother a grin. "In all respects."

"I almost died once." Shane deadpanned, looking directly at Palmer.

"You did," Palmer agreed, nodding seriously.

"I may not survive this."

"Probably not, no," Palmer said, and he actually sounded like he was enjoying himself. "Alright, let's just get through it."

"Do we have to?"

"Your mom will ask me out there if we don't." He dropped the chart on the counter and sat back, crossing his arms. "Alright. Sexual activity. You're cleared, technically, but there are some things worth going over given where you are in recovery. Are you currently sexually active?"

Shane didn't respond, but he was guessing the flush on his face was an answer enough. Thankfully, so did Palmer.

"I'll take that as a yes. Single partner?"

"Yes."

"Good. And how’s your libido been generally? Some patients find it takes a while to come back after a transplant, and especially because of the immunosuppressant you're on."

"Fine," Shane said, his brain unhelpfully supplying an image of Ilya's tongue hanging out of his mouth, looking at him with dark eyes as he waited for Shane's load to shoot all over— "It’s fine."

"Good," Palmer said, then paused, smirking a little, "Being nineteen is probably on your side with that one."

For the eighty-ninth time that morning, Shane wanted to die.

"Any history of STIs?"

"No."

"I’ll order a panel anyway, just to be thorough." 

"I—" Fuck, he had no choice but to say it, so he just blurted, "I haven’t. I mean, I’m—you know."

"Okay," Palmer nodded, mercifully picking up what Shane was laying down, "and is your partner?"

Shane shook his head, keeping his gaze averted.

"Has your partner been tested recently?"

He genuinely had no idea, which now felt a little foolish, it was probably a conversation they should have had. But they were kind of good about avoiding bigger conversations in general. And this was certainly not one he'd ever anticipated having with anyone, let alone his transplant doctor while his mom waited on the other side of the door.

"I know this isn't exactly a fun conversation," Palmer said, when Shane still hadn't responded. "But your immunosuppressants leave you more vulnerable to infection than most, so unfortunately it's not one we can skip."

"Okay."

"How about we just get you both scheduled at the same time," Palmer said, already reaching for his pen to write the order. "Easy breezy."

Oh god, a joint testing appointment. This was getting more mortifying by the second.

"And you’re comfortable with all of it? Not pressured in any way?"

"No," Shane said quickly, shaking his head. "Not pressured. At all." And then he blushed.

"Good. And what kind of sexual activity are we talking about—I only ask because what's safe at this stage of recovery looks different depending on what you're doing."

Shane opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His ears were on fire and his heart was doing something loud behind his ribs and he was acutely aware that he had never said this out loud to anyone before—not a doctor, not a parent, not anyone, and Palmer was looking at him with that steady patience of his that made it impossible not to be honest to.

"It's with a man," Shane whispered, glancing down at his lap.

Palmer just nodded once, like it was no big deal. It was remarkably less dramatic than Shane had anticipated and he felt something loosen in his chest that he hadn't realized was braced.

"So not penetrative yet?" Palmer asked, in the same way he'd ask how the temperature was outside.

"No," Shane said, which came out a little croaky, so he cleared his throat. "Not yet."

"Okay. When you do get there, take it slow, pay attention to what your body's telling you, and stop if anything pulls or causes sharp pain."

Shane closed his eyes and prayed to any higher fucking power that this would end. "I understand."

"Good." A beat passed. Palmer looked at Shane with that assessing look that meant he was about to say something that wasn't strictly medical. "Is it Rozanov?"

Shane's face shot up, surprised by the question and met with a soft, all knowing look. 

"It's none of my business and you don't have to tell me," Palmer quickly reassured. "Just—he was here every day for six months and then he gave you half his liver, which doesn't really seem like a casual thing to do for a buddy." He lifted one shoulder. "Connecting some dots."

Shane held his gaze for a moment, the word casual getting stuck in his mind. 

"Yes, it's him," he finally said quietly. 

Palmer smiled, for whatever reason seemed pleased with that answer. "Any further questions?"

"Fuck no."

Palmer chuckled, and made no further comment. He uncrossed his legs and stood.

"Want me to go out first so your mom and hound me without you around?"

Shane deflated, puffing out his cheeks in a loud exhale. "Please. And then tell her to leave me alone."

Palmer laughed. "I'll see what I can do, but she's kind of a terrifying woman." He was almost at the door when he paused, turned back, and crouched down to open the last cabinet drawer, digging around for something in the back.

Shane watched him warily.

Palmer stood back up and held out his hand.

Shane held out his hand automatically, and then looked down at what had been deposited into his palm. A strip of condoms. At least a dozen, all various colors. Just sitting there in his open hand like that was a normal thing to be holding in a pediatric hepatology office.

Palmer gave him a look over his glasses that was completely serious. "Always use protection, Shane."

"Oh my god."

"Every time, non negotiable."

Shane groaned, staring at the ceiling, "Will you please go?"

"Take care of yourself," Palmer said, patting his shoulder once, and opened the door. "And tell Rozanov to take care of you, too."

Jesus fucking Christ. The door clicked shut and Shane stuffed the condoms into his pocket.

__

They were lying in bed on a Monday afternoon doing nothing in particular, Ilya on his back and Shane on his side facing him, their hands loosely tangled between them. Ilya was turning Shane's fingers over one at a time like he was counting them, every so often lifting one to his mouth to bite it which Shane pretended to hate.

"I got you something," Shane said, "For your birthday."

Ilya turned his head with a look of confusion on his face. 

"I know it’s really late but I didn’t know what to get for a while and—" Shane trailed off, not really knowing what else to say. "It's in the nightstand."

Ilya looked at him for a moment, then leaned across him to open the drawer. Shane realized his mistake half a second too late. Ilya's hand came out of the drawer holding the strip of condoms between two fingers like evidence.

"Happy birthday to me?" Ilya's stupid crooked grin spread across his face as he wiggled his eyebrows, clearly delighted by the horror on Shane's face.

"Oh my god, that's not the present."

"No?" Ilya examined them with great seriousness, holding them up one by one. "Is very nice. Many flavors." He looked at Shane. "I could suck your cherry flavored cock."

"Shut up," Shane groaned. "I didn't buy them, my doctor gave them to me, I just didn't know where to put them."

Ilya burst out in laughter. "Shane. Why the fuck would your doctor give you condoms."

Shane tried to grab them but Ilya held them out of reach, and he pulled himself up higher with a grunt, "It's because he told me we have to get tested before we…" 

"Before we what, Hollander?" Ilya's brows raised to his hairline, holding the condoms above his head. And then that smug grin returned. "You tell your doctor you want to be railed by big strong Russian?"

"Rozanov—"

"Is very thoughtful gift," Ilya said gravely. "I am clean, they do test before surgery. But we could do one together, make fun day out of it, maybe buy you a dildo after."

"Fuck off," Shane scowled and then he lunged.

They wrestled for a minute before Shane accepted that he was never getting those condoms back through force and changed tactics, rolling sideways and reaching into the drawer himself, pulling out the envelope and sitting up with it.

He tossed it at Ilya's head. "Here. That's your actual gift, dickhead."

Ilya winked and dropped the condoms on the nightstand, grabbing the envelope that had fallen on his chest. He was just starting to carefully tear open the seam when Shane started panicking again, this time for a totally different reason. 

"It's something I saw once in a magazine," Shane said. "One of those airplane ones, the ones nobody actually reads and I know it sounds super weird—I mean it's probably really dumb actually, but I just thought—well, I don't know. But I looked into it, it's not one of those scam ones, the coordinates are real and there's a star chart on the back that shows exactly—"

"Shane," Ilya said, looking up from the thick piece of parchment in his hand. His face was drawn into a much more serious expression that Shane had no idea how to read so he tried not to look at him.

"I know sounds insane but I thought—"

"Shane."

Shane stopped, looking down at his lap.

"What is this," Ilya asked genuinely. "I do not understand."

Shane swallowed, feeling so stupid, but there was no going back now. He took a deep breath and explained slowly, "It's a star. You can officially name them. It's registered." He paused and dared to look up into Ilya's eyes, adding in barely a whisper, "I named it after your mother."

The room went very quiet.

Ilya's face did several things in quick succession, like something opening and then trying to close and then giving up on closing entirely.

"I know I don't know anything about her," Shane said carefully when Ilya continued to stay silent. "And I had to do a lot of digging to find out her name, and fuck, I probably should have asked before I did this, I'm really sorry. I just thought—I don't know. That she should have something with her name on it wherever you go. Since you can't…visit her grave."

Ilya still hadn't said anything. This was a fucking disaster and Shane was beginning to regret ever getting on that stupid website.

"It's weird," he kept going, because apparently he couldn't shut up for once in his life, "I know it's weird. You don't have to—"

"It is not weird," Ilya interrupted, his voice thick and low.

Shane snapped his mouth shut.

Ilya looked at the certificate for a long time, his jaw clenching. He turned it over and looked at the star chart on the back, at the tiny circled dot that was for her, and then he set it down carefully on his thigh and stared at it.

"She liked stars," Ilya said quietly. Like he was telling it to the certificate more than to Shane. "When I was small she would take me outside at night. She knew all the names." He paused and then inhaled sharply, "I had forgotten that until right now."

Shane's throat felt tight. He reached over and put his hand over Ilya's where it was resting on the paper. Ilya looked down at it, and then turned his hand over and laced their fingers together.

Something moved through Ilya's face—not grief exactly, something quieter than that, something that had been sitting dormant for a long time and had just been given somewhere to go. His eyes were wet when he looked up and he didn't try to hide it.

Shane held his gaze and whispered, "Now she can watch over you."

Ilya looked at him for a long moment. Then he pulled Shane in by the back of his neck and kissed him, murmuring against his lips, "Thank you."

__

The Bears practice facility was across the city, forty minutes in morning traffic, and Shane sat in the passenger seat drumming his fingers against his knees as he tried to figure out if this was a good idea. His pros and cons list had pretty much flown out the window once there was no turning back, though.

He was happy for Ilya. That was true and real and not complicated.

Everything else was complicated.

Ilya glanced over after merging off the freeway, his eyes dropping to Shane's hands for a moment, and then without saying anything he reached across the console and laced their fingers together. The facility appeared at the end of a long access road—all curved glass and clean lines, the Boston skyline reflecting off the exterior in a way that made it look like the city was built around it.

The car had barely rolled to a stop in the empty lot before Ilya was already opening the door. Shane got out quickly and watched him haul the gear bag out of the trunk.

It was a big bag. The kind that smelled like a rink and rubber and old sweat even from where Shane was standing. Ilya slung it over his shoulder in one easy movement like it weighed nothing and something about the sight of it—Ilya with a hockey bag on his shoulder, finally, after everything—made Shane's chest do two completely contradictory things at once.

First of all, the sight of him carrying the bag wearing his track pants and tight fitting black t-shirt was really fucking hot.

But somewhere underneath that, and not something Shane was going to say out loud, was the grief of someone who knew exactly how that bag felt on their own shoulder and understood they might never feel it again.

He fell into step beside Ilya and didn't say anything about either of those things.

"Okay?" Ilya asked, glancing over. The early morning sun was catching on his curls, golden like his skin.

Shane nodded. "Yeah, of course."

Two people were waiting just inside the doors. The first was a rugged man in his forties with the kind of lean face that suggested he’d been training for marathons his entire life. His name was Parker, Ilya had told Shane. He was the Bears’ athletic trainer, who had apparently been in communication with Ilya for weeks coordinating his return and knew everything. The second guy was younger, with a skating coach's body that was oriented toward the ice at all times, busy typing away on his phone without looking up.

As soon as Parker saw Ilya his whole expression brightened. "There he is," he said, grabbing Ilya's hand and pulling him into one of those half-handshake half-hug things guys liked to do. "Christ, it's good to see you."

"Mm," Ilya said, patting his back once. "Is one time I am okay with seeing you too."

"Yeah, yeah, everyone hates the trainer." Parker pulled back and looked him over. "You look good though. Genuinely."

"Yes," Ilya agreed flatly, like this was obvious. "I know."

Parker rolled his eyes. "Still annoying as hell, some things haven't changed." He clapped him on the shoulder and turned to the skating coach beside him. "This is Demko. He's going to run you through some things today since Larsen is gone for the summer. Make sure you don't do anything stupid."

Ilya looked at Demko, who only looked up for a split second to show some kind acknowledgement before going back to his phone. 

"So my babysitter."

"Take it or leave it, Rozanov." Parker's eyes moved to Shane with mild curiosity. "Hey," he said, extending a hand. "Jacob Parker."

Shane pulled his hand out of his pocket. "Shane."

He followed them through the building, down halls and finally into the locker room but as soon as they crossed the threshold, Shane's feet stopped on their own. 

He'd never been in an NHL locker room before and it was a lot nicer than the ones he'd grown up in, better equipped, each stall marked with a name. Ilya dropped his bag in front of his and started unpacking like he had never left. Parker and Demko talked near the whiteboard in the shorthand of people who lived in this world, and Shane found a bench near the wall that wasn't anybody's and sat down on it.

He looked around at the stalls, the equipment, the sticks lined up along the wall, and felt a lump swell in his throat and a pinch in his chest that he knew he should have been more prepared for.

Even though it was bigger and shinier, it used to be Shane's world, too. He'd spent more hours of his life in rooms like this one than he had anywhere else, practically learning how to skate before he could walk. It had been the most natural place in the world to be. And now it felt like somewhere he was visiting now. Like standing in a house you grew up in after someone else had moved in.

Shane put his hands in his hoodie pocket and breathed through his nose.

Ilya glanced over from his stall and Shane met his eyes. "You hang out in stands?"

Shane nodded. "Yeah, that's cool." 

Something flickered across Ilya's face as he pulled the plain practice jersey over his head—he went still for just a moment, the fabric half over his face, and when it cleared he was looking directly at Shane across the room. Shane raised his eyebrows once, a small deliberate I'm fine that Ilya received and didn't entirely believe and chose not to challenge. And then he reached for his helmet and Shane looked back at the floor.

__

Shane found a seat in the bright yellow stands, a few rows up behind the boards and watched Ilya skate out onto the ice.

The first stride was careful. Almost cautious, which was not a word that applied to Ilya in most contexts. And then the second was less careful, and the third less still, and by the fourth something in him just let go—moving fast and fluid, blades cutting into the surface as he made his way around the ice, familiarizing himself with each movement. Shane was immediately struck with how beautiful he looked, back where he belonged. 

He held onto that and stuffed everything else down and just watched.

After a while, Demko positioned Ilya at the top of the left circle for a shooting drill, the kind Shane had run so many times it lived in his body before it lived in his brain. The approach, the weight transfer, the release. He watched Ilya run it and felt his own muscles do something faint and involuntary in response, the ghost of a movement pattern that was itching to crawl out of his skin.

Shane shivered and rubbed his arms. The rink was cold. He pulled the hood up over his head and told himself the tightness in his chest was just from the temperature.

Ilya ran the drill again. The puck cracked off the post and the sound bounced around the empty rink and Shane felt it ricochet off his brain and take him somewhere he was trying very hard not to go. 

Back to Kingston. Just Shane and his coach running the same drills that one fateful morning last September before the rest of his team showed up. Because that's what Shane did, he never stopped training, he always showed up before anyone else, his blades guided him better than his feet did. Until his legs stopped working and he woke up in the ICU without a single memory of how he'd gotten there.

Shane pulled himself back, looking at Ilya and swallowing thickly, trying to focus. Ilya was getting the puck back from Demko, saying something, his breath coming out in small clouds in the cold air. The sun was coming hard through the glass walls now, flooding the ice in a way that made everything look overexposed—too bright, too open, nowhere to look that wasn't sharp with light. Everything was fine. Shane was safe. Ilya was on the ice.

His heart was beating a little too fast. But that was a transplant thing. Palmer had mentioned elevated heart rate episodes while his body was still recalibrating, completely normal, nothing to flag. Shane filed it under normal and watched Ilya take another shot, cleaner this time in the top corner, and Demko said something that made him laugh.

Shane was so genuinely happy Ilya was here.

He pressed his palms flat against his thighs.

Around the forty minute mark Demko had Ilya doing edge work, long clean arcs across the ice. Shane became aware that he was gripping the armrests so tight his knuckles were white and his palms ached, not even remembering when he'd grabbed hold of them. He made himself let go and flexed his fingers. The cold air came in and his chest didn't quite expand the way it was supposed to, like something was sitting on it from the inside, and he breathed out and tried again and got the same result.

His vision had gone slightly blurred at the edges so he blinked and rubbed his eyes.

Ilya came to a stop at the boards below the stands, taking a water break, and looked up at Shane. Just checked on him, the way he did, quick and unobtrusive. Shane met his eyes and attempted what he hoped was a smile and Ilya held his gaze, his brows slightly pulling together for a second. But then he pushed off the boards and went back to Demko and Shane released a long breath.

Shane could feel his hands shaking. Not dramatically, just a fine tremor, the kind you wouldn't notice unless you were looking directly at them. He was looking directly at them.

He barely remembered standing up. Ilya was at the far end of the ice with his back to the stands. Shane walked down the steps and through the corridor door and let it swing shut behind him and then he was moving faster, following the signs on the wall, finding the bathroom and getting inside and locking the door. His back hit the wall and he slid down to the floor.

And then he put his head between his knees.

It would pass. It always passed.

He breathed, or at least he tried to, and waited. It would definitely pass soon. He knew that, he just had to wait.

Shane didn't know how much time had gone by when he jumped at the soft sound of a knock on the door beside him. 

"Shane," Ilya's voice sounded like he was talking into a tin can and Shane's eyes wouldn't open. 

"Shane, please," he pleaded, "are you in here?"

It took an extraordinary amount of effort, but he somehow managed to say, "Yes."

"Can I come in? Please, Shane."

Shane reached up and unlocked it without standing. Ilya pushed the door open and took in the scene—Shane on the floor, head between his knees—and came down beside him without a word, skates and all, and put his hand on Shane's back and kept it there. The warmth and weight of his hand wasn't enough, Shane wanted more but he didn't know how to ask for anything.

He knew Ilya was talking, but at this point Shane felt like he was underwater and he couldn't make out anything Ilya was saying. His hand was moving up and down Shane's back, and he focused on that instead, counting the strokes because it gave him something to focus on that wasn't the racing beat of his heart.

Eventually, it worked. 

Slowly, things began to come back. The cold of the tile under him, the smell of cleaner in the air, the sound of skate blades scraping slightly against the floor every time Ilya shifted. Then Ilya's voice surfaced slowly into something Shane could actually hear—low and steady, filling the silence with sound the way you'd fill a dark room with light.

"Hey," Ilya said, his hand moving up to Shane's neck and giving it a careful squeeze. "You are back?"

"Yeah." Shane swallowed, turning his face against his knees to look up at Ilya. "I'm okay."

"No." Ilya's eyes moved over him slowly. "I do not think you are okay."

"Ilya—"

"Shane."

Shane exhaled, but it kind of choked him on the way out. "I will be."

Ilya held his gaze for a long moment, deciding something. Then he nodded once and didn't push, and Shane was relieved not being asked to explain, being allowed to just sit here and breathe. 

"You didn't have to come off the ice," Shane said after a few long minutes.

"You scared me," Ilya whispered, his blue eyes sharper against the fluorescent lighting.

Shane looked at him, still in full gear, hair damp from sweat and watching Shane like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be.

"I'm sorry."

Ilya made a sound low in his throat and his hand tightened at the back of Shane's neck.

"Don't," he said quietly with a quick shake of his head. And then before Shane had the chance to say anything, Ilya shifted and pulled him in roughly, like there was an urgency that he couldn't contain and Shane's hands found the back of his jersey and held on.

And something in Shane just gave way.

The sobs came from somewhere he hadn't known he'd been holding, his whole body shaking with the force of them. He didn't know what they were for exactly. There were too many things to choose from and none of them were separable anymore, just one enormous accumulated weight that had finally found a way out.

Ilya held him through all of it, his hand moving slowly through Shane's hair, his chin dropped to the top of Shane's head. Not saying it's okay because it wasn't okay, not saying you're fine because Shane wasn't fine, not saying anything at all except staying, which was the only thing that mattered.

Eventually the sobs slowed, then stopped. 

Ilya pressed his lips to the top of Shane's head and left them there, and Shane felt something he hadn't expected. Like Ilya had quietly reached in and taken some of the grief Shane was carrying and put it in his own pocket without being asked.

__

That night dinner was warm and easy, Ilya talking with his hands about the ice, his accent thickening the way it did when he was excited, Shane's parents leaning into it the way they always did. Shane ate and listened and let it wash over him, grateful nobody pushed him for more than that. Every so often Ilya's eyes would find him. Shane would meet them briefly and look back at his plate and Ilya would pick the conversation back up without missing a beat.

Later, when his parents had drifted off and it was just the two of them on the couch, Ilya pressed his lips to the soft spot under Shane's ear and said quietly, "I want to take you to my home."

Shane turned his head. Ilya was right there, close enough that Shane could feel his breath, and the look on his face left absolutely no room for misinterpretation on what he was suggesting.

He didn't know if Ilya had chosen tonight deliberately, if what happened at the rink had something to do with it—if this was just Ilya's way of giving Shane somewhere else to put everything he was carrying. But whatever the reason, it was working, and Shane wasn't going to question it.

His face went hot. "Yeah," he managed, his mouth suddenly going dry. "Okay."

"Yes?"

"Yeah." Shane looked back at the wall, trying to tame the butterflies that were rioting in his stomach. He cleared his throat and rubbed his nose before attempting to sound normal. "Good luck with my mom."

Ilya's mouth curved into that stupid crooked grin. "I am very charming."

__

The key clicked in the lock and Ilya pushed the door open and stepped back to let Shane in first.

Shane’s jaw dropped when he stepped inside.

It was enormous. The exposed beams and brick, the floor to ceiling windows that framed the entire Boston harbor like someone had hung it there on purpose. The city was glowing with dusk, all gold and water, and Shane stood in the middle of it and felt very small in a way that had nothing to do with the square footage.

Then he looked at the rest of it.

Boxes were everywhere—stacked against the walls, pushed into corners, a few open with things half pulled out and then apparently abandoned. A dark couch that looked like it had been sat on twice, a kitchen that was chef quality and had never seen a utensil in its life. And on the brick wall to his left, the only decor in the entire place, was Ilya's jersey framed and centered. His own name and number hanging right above the massive bed.

"Is a little messy," Ilya said, from somewhere behind him.

"It's fine," Shane said, which was an understatement. He let his eyes explore the space slowly, taking it all in. He shouldn't have been surprised—Ilya's contract was public information, had been dissected across every hockey forum Shane had ever visited, and Ilya Rozanov was not the kind of person who did anything by halves. Most rookies split a place with a teammate their first year. But Ilya was not like most rookies.

"I have not been here much."

"I know," Shane said. He did know. He knew exactly where Ilya had been instead.

When they had left earlier, his mom had hugged him for slightly too long at the door, said goodbye like he was going off to fucking war. She'd gotten dangerously close to a birds and bees conversation—because apparently this was his life now, being fucking mortified by how much his parents knew about his sex life—before his dad appeared with his hand on her shoulder and saved everyone. Then they had finally, mercifully, been allowed to leave.

Shane walked further in, past the boxes, to the windows, and stood there and looked at the harbor. A ferry was cutting across the water, small from up here, leaving a white line behind it. 

"You thirsty?" Ilya asked, dropping his gear bag near the door.

"Not really."

"Good," he opened the fridge and immediately grimaced at whatever was inside before closing it again. "Do not open that. Is hazard."

Shane turned from the window to look at him. "I didn't come here for a drink, Rozanov."

Something shifted in Ilya's expression. The last of the sunset was coming through the windows behind Shane, turning everything warm and amber, and Ilya held his gaze and crossed the room. Shane took a step backward and hit the window with a soft thud.

Ilya grinned. "What did you come here for, Hollander?"

Emboldened, Shane tilted his chin up. "You know what."

Ilya was looking down at him with that expression that still managed to do catastrophic things to Shane's cardiovascular system no matter how many times he'd been on the receiving end of it.

"You want my cock?"

"Jesus Christ," Shane breathed out.

Sometimes he forgot how blunt Ilya could be when he really wanted something, and as jarring as that could be, it was also really fucking hot. Shane’s entire body felt like it'd been lit from the inside out, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He looked up through his lashes and dragged his teeth slowly across his bottom lip, watching Ilya's eyes drop to his mouth.

Ilya braced one hand against the glass beside Shane's head and let the other trail up his side to his ribs, his arm, his neck—and then he gently wrapped it around Shane's throat.

Shane stopped breathing.

Ilya didn't move. Just held him there, his palm warm against Shane's pulse point. He watched Shane's face with darkened eyes, no shred of urgency, like seeing Shane slowly come apart was the intention all along.

Shane's heart was going very fast. He was fairly certain Ilya could feel it.

Then Ilya’s hand slid up to his jaw. He tipped Shane’s head back against the glass, slowly pressing his thumb down against Shane's lower lip and forcing his mouth open.

"Ilya," Shane panted, his tongue catching the pad of Ilya's thumb as it dragged across his lip.

Ilya said nothing. Just kept watching, like he was assessing exactly how much Shane could take before he gave him anything at all.

Then his thumb pressed in and Shane closed his lips around it reflexively, sucking hard. Ilya hummed and pressed deeper and Shane just took it, eyes rolling shut. He pressed down on Shane’s tongue and Shane felt himself make a sound around it beyond his control—desperate and muffled and embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the apartment.

"Good," Ilya praised quietly, almost to himself, his free hand coming up to smooth Shane's hair back from his face. "Just like that, Hollander."

Shane's knees were not doing their job. The only thing keeping him upright was the glass at his back and Ilya's body heat in front of him and the knowledge that if he went down right now he wouldn't come back up. But he had to prove to Ilya that he could handle it.

He hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder, his eyes fixed on Ilya's face, watching for it—

And there it was. Something gave way behind Ilya's eyes, his jaw clenching as he exhaled through his nose, fast and uncontrolled.

Shane dropped to his knees.

He didn't even try to mask it— the want, the impatience, the way his mouth went bone dry as he leveled with Ilya’s crotch, the already hard outline of his cock pressing against the front of his joggers.

Shane hooked his fingers into the waistband and shoved them down in one motion. Then he just looked, for a second, because he could, because Ilya's hands were in his hair and going nowhere and because Shane had wanted this for so long that he was going to let himself have it.

When he finally leaned in and dragged his tongue across the head, he wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it did surprise him. Just how good Ilya tasted.

Ilya's whole body shuddered. His grip in Shane's hair tightened and Shane felt the warm satisfaction of it shoot straight through him. He licked the head again, curiously, watching from under his lashes as Ilya's jaw flexed and his chest heaved and all of that careful self-possession started cracking away.

Shane grew bolder, wrapping his lips around the tip and staying there, sucking softly. The noise it drew out of Ilya was entirely new, and sparked right through Shane’s veins.

He took more slowly, adjusting, zeroing in on what worked by the way Ilya’s breathing changed above him. And it changed a lot. Every small thing Shane did landed somewhere—a sharp inhale, fingers scratching his scalp, the choked sound of Ilya trying and failing to keep quiet.

Shane found he had absolutely no interest in making it easy for him.

He hollowed his cheeks and sank deeper and felt Ilya's hips stutter forward involuntarily before he caught himself. The hand in Shane's hair tightened almost painfully, and Shane made a sound around him that surprised them both.

"Shane." Ilya's voice was rough and thickly accented.

Shane looked up at him.

That was apparently the wrong thing to do—or the right thing, depending on how you looked at it—because Ilya's eyes darkened, his top teeth digging into his lip. Shane held his eye and took him deeper, nearly choking when the tip of Ilya's cock tapped the back of his throat.

He breathed heavily through his nose and stayed there, getting used to the weight on his tongue and the fullness in his mouth. His dick twitched in his pants, and he was dying to touch himself, but instead he wrapped his hands around the back of Ilya's thighs and pulled him closer, taking him as deep as he possibly could.

"Fuck, Shane—"

Shane sputtered when his own spit was about to choke him, pulling off and panting. But when he looked up at Ilya through his watery eyes, what he saw made him reach right out and feed it right back into his mouth. This time he knew better on how far he could go, and the renewed confidence in his movements elicited a string of curses above him.

Shane could feel it building in the way the hand in his hair gave up on any pretense of carefulness, and the way his Russian got more broken until it wasn't even language anymore. He kept going. This time when Ilya's cock hit the back of his throat, he could taste the precum, and he moaned.

"Enough, blyat," Ilya gritted out, "enough, enough." He gripped Shane's hair so hard he yelped as Ilya’s cock popped out of his mouth, a string of saliva holding on for dear life between them.

"Bozhe moy," Ilya groaned, slamming his palms flat against the glass behind Shane, the sound of it echoing through the apartment.

Shane couldn't take his eyes off Ilya's cock. It was so hard and red and slick with Shane's spit. Couldn't look away if he tried. He felt loose and liquid and so wound up he could barely think straight, and all he wanted was to close the distance again. So he leaned forward, tongue sliding out—

Ilya jerked back sharply. "No."

Shane scrabbled at Ilya's thighs, looking up at him with absolutely zero dignity and not one ounce of shame to make himself care. "Please."

Fuck, he'd never begged for anything in his life.

Ilya made a sound low in his throat and grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him up. Shane's back hit the glass hard, and then Ilya’s mouth crashed into his own. He kissed hungrily now, abandoned by his usual self-control, and Shane felt the difference everywhere.

He chased it, hands clasping at Ilya's shoulders, his neck, his hair, anywhere within reach, his hips rolling shamelessly against Ilya's thigh for any semblance of friction.

"I want to fuck you," Ilya said against his mouth.

"Yes," Shane whined. His leg came up and Ilya caught it, hauling him higher against the glass until he was pinned up by Ilya’s body alone, his other foot barely skimming the floor.

Shane had spent years building his body. Discipline and early mornings and pushing past the limit of physical pain. He knew exactly what he was capable of, what he could take, what he could do. Even now, after months of being stagnant, he knew he could still take a lot.

And then there was Ilya, who made all of that feel irrelevant. Who held him against a wall like he weighed nothing, who could shatter him into a thousand pieces and was the only person in the world who knew how to put him back together again.

"Ilya," he managed. It came out like a question and a surrender at the same time. "I need you."

"I know," Ilya said against his jaw, pressing a gentle kiss there, slowing them down. 

Ilya kicked his joggers and briefs off from where they had been tangled up at his ankles, and then his hands found the backs of Shane's thighs. He lifted Shane with ease, so Shane wrapped his legs around his waist and clung on.

The city was on fire outside the windows, the harbor lit up like the world was ending, and all of it paled in comparison to the blaze raging in Shane’s chest.

Ilya walked them to the bed and sat them down on the edge of it, Shane in his lap, and Shane made certain their mouths never disconnected, not even for a second.  

He had his hands in Ilya's hair and Ilya's arms locked around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer as his kisses grew more insistent and desperate.

"Do you," Ilya gasped as he pulled back, resting his forehead against Shane's, "or can I—fuck—sorry, English is very hard right now."

Shane pulled back just enough to look at him. Ilya's mouth was swollen, eyes glassy, and his chest was heaving. He looked fucked and they'd barely done anything yet.

"Then stop talking," Shane whispered, grinding down and pulling at Ilya's hair until his head fell back.

Ilya swore and shoved Shane's pants down, just below the curve of his ass, and they both moaned when his cock slid in between Shane’s cheeks.

"This what you want, Hollander?" Ilya's voice was low and rough and barely recognizable, his hands gripping Shane's hips so hard he'd feel it tomorrow. "Want me to fuck you open right here? Sit you down on my cock until you can't take anymore?"

Shane's forehead dropped to Ilya's shoulder.

"Yes," he whimpered. "God, yes."

Ilya flipped them.

Shane hit the mattress, and Ilya was on him before he'd finished bouncing, planting one hand beside his head and using the other to drag his pants the rest of the way off. Their shirts came off in a haste. Shane was pretty sure the neck of his t-shirt ripped when Ilya yanked it over his head, but he didn't care, not when he was looking up at Ilya, completely at his mercy.

Ilya reached for the nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom, and at the sight of them, Shane felt his chest clenching. Because—yeah, okay. This was happening. This was actually happening and Ilya was huge, Shane knew that, had known that, had been thinking about that on and off for weeks in the privacy of his own head. And Shane had never done this before and Ilya had almost certainly done this many, many times before and those two facts were suddenly more apparent to him than they’d ever been.

He didn't say anything. Still, something must have shown on his face because Ilya paused.

He set the lube down and looked at Shane, gently tracing his knuckles over his cheekbone. "Hey."

Shane blinked at the ceiling, pressing his teeth together. "I'm fine."

"Shane."

"I'm fine, I just—" He stopped to inhale. Then exhale. "I know it's going to hurt."

"A little," Ilya replied honestly, dropping down next to Shane on his side. He soothed his hand over Shane’s stomach, brushing over the scar and staying there. "At first."

"And you've done this before."

"Yes."

"With a man?"

Ilya's mouth twitched. "And some women."

"Jesus, nevermind, I don't want to know." Shane shook his head. "Okay. I just needed a second."

"You can have as many seconds as you want," Ilya said, and kissed him softly, and Shane felt his shoulders come down from somewhere around his ears.

"Okay," Shane said against his mouth. "Okay. I'm good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Shane pulled him back down, and Ilya's tongue slid warm into his mouth. They made out for a while, until their hands grew restless, wandering, and Ilya eventually shifted to hover over Shane again.

When Ilya reached for the lube this time, Shane didn't freak out. Just watched him coat his fingers, unhurried, and felt own his breath go shallower in anticipation.  

Their eyes met.

It wasn't the first time Ilya had touched him there. There had been nights in the hospital and then later at the Airbnb, hands fumbling under covers in the dark, quiet and careful and never quite enough. But this was different. This was Ilya's space, his bed, and Shane knew exactly where it was going.

At the first press of Ilya's finger, Shane's breath snagged in his throat. By the second, he pinched his eyes shut. And by the time Ilya had worked his way up to the third knuckle, he was whimpering out loud.

"Breathe," Ilya whispered.

Shane hadn't realized he'd stopped. He exhaled hard.

"Good." Ilya kissed Shane's inner thigh and then without warning, wrapped his lips around Shane's cock, and it was almost too much all at once. 

He added another finger as his mouth sank lower, and Shane flung an arm out into the sheets, curling them up in his fist. The stretch was—a lot. Not unbearable, just consuming, impossible to think around, and Ilya watched his face the entire time as he bobbed slowly up and down Shane's cock. 

"Still okay?" he asked, sliding off Shane's erection with precum glistening on his lip. It was so fucking obscene and Shane couldn't do anything but nod.

Shane was just starting to get used to the feeling when Ilya curled his fingers upward and out of nowhere, entirely out of his control, his entire back arched off the mattress.

"Oh, fuck—"

"Is good, yes?" Ilya asked conversationally, as though he’d just stumbled upon the spot at random rather than ground his finger into it with purpose. If it wasn’t so intensely pleasurable that he couldn’t think well enough to talk, Shane might want to call him out on it.

"Do not talk to me right now," he said, his voice three octaves higher than usual.

Ilya did it again. And again. Shane reached over his head and grabbed the headboard.

"Holy shit, Rozanov—"

"Mm."

"Oh, uhmfffucckkk—" another curl of his fingers and Shane's hips rolled up hard, the headboard creaking, and he gave up trying to form words altogether. He was reduced to reflexive noise, whatever wanted out, and mouthing out the shape of Ilya’s name, over and over.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya doubled down, "you have no idea how you look like this."

With his free hand, Ilya grabbed the back of Shane's thigh and pushed it higher, tilting his hips up off the mattress. The shift in angle hit Shane so hard that his vision whited out momentarily, his knuckles going bloodless against the headboard.

"Fuck, you’re—Ilya, you're going to make me come," he managed to get out, releasing one hand to shove it into Ilya's hair and pull roughly. "You have to—stop."

Ilya pulled his fingers free and the sound Shane made at the loss of them was so pitiful he had to take a second to close his eyes and scrub it from memory. Meanwhile, Ilya began to kiss him; on the knee, then his inner thigh, and the sensitive spot where his leg met his hip. He dragged his lips slowly up Shane's stomach, his chest, his throat, until he found his mouth and slid his tongue in warm and slow.

"You still want?" he murmured against Shane’s mouth.

Shane opened his eyes. Ilya’s eyes were so soft it made his chest ache, looking at Shane like he'd waited his whole life to be right here.

"Yes," Shane whispered, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile. "I still want."

Ilya kissed the smile right off his face. Then he reached for the condom and tore the wrapper open with his teeth, and Shane bit his lip and filed that away as another ordinary thing Ilya did that was unnecessarily hot.

He watched Ilya roll it on, watched his hands move with that same focused efficiency he brought to everything, and his stomach flipped in a way that was equal parts nerves and want. Ilya was a lot to handle. He'd been aware of this since the day Ilya walked into his hospital room and never really left. 

But knowing it was a far cry from actually feeling it, being right here—lying naked under Ilya Rozanov, with part of his liver and all of his attention.

Ilya moved over him, settling his weight carefully between Shane's thighs, and looked down at him. They stayed like that for a moment, and Shane focused on Ilya's curls falling across his forehead, his eyes dark and steady.

Then Ilya began to push forward. He was careful and slow, giving Shane every opportunity to say stop and making it clear he would without question if he did.

Shane wrapped his hands around Ilya's biceps to anchor himself, and when he felt the first press of Ilya’s cock inside, his eyes started to flutter shut—

"Eyes on me," Ilya demanded.

Shane kept them open.

He held Ilya's gaze through the burn of it, the stretch, through the slow overwhelming pressure of Ilya pushing forward inch by neverending inch. At some point his eyes had begun to water, but he didn't realize it until he felt the tracks of it on his face. Ilya didn't stop; he just leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to Shane's cheek, kissing it away.

Then Ilya pushed forward one last time, bottoming out, and they both stilled.

Shane’s whole body had stopped knowing what to do with itself, and Ilya wasn't moving either. His forehead came down to rest against Shane's, his breath ragged and his whole body was trembling slightly with the effort of staying still. Shane could feel his heartbeat everywhere they were touching.

And then Shane's eyes dropped, to see where Ilya was buried inside of him, and his breath caught. Because there, now in the moonlight, were their scars, perfectly aligned; Ilya's low and silvery against his hip, Shane's raised along his abdomen. Mirror images of the same thing from opposite sides.

Shane reached out and pressed two fingers to Ilya's, gently tracing its path and watching the way it made Ilya's breath stutter.

"Malysh, malysh, malysh," Ilya whispered, hiding his face in the crook of Shane's neck, the way he liked to do when he was feeling too big of things and didn't want Shane to see. And Shane always pretended he didn't know that. Shane turned his head and pressed his lips to Ilya's temple.

"Ilya," he murmured. Ilya hummed against his skin in response. "Fuck me."

Instead of responding, Ilya pulled back and looked at Shane, his hand sliding slowly up his stomach until it wrapped around his jaw and tilted his head back. Then he leaned down and pressed his lips just below his ear as his hips began to move.

It did hurt at first. Not badly—more like Shane had never felt so full in his life and his body didn't quite know what to do with that yet. But it didn't take long before the ache gave way to something else entirely.

Ilya moved slowly, giving Shane time to feel every drag and push, and he felt it fucking everywhere. 

"Oh my god," Shane moaned, losing the will to hold back anymore. He didn’t know his body could feel this good.

Ilya's pace stayed measured even as Shane got louder, even as his hands found Ilya's hair and his hips started rolling up to meet him. And then on one particularly deep thrust Shane cried out, embarrassingly loud, and immediately slapped his hand over his mouth.

Ilya grabbed his wrist and pulled it away, grounding their joined fists into the mattress above Shane’s head.

"I want to hear you." His voice was completely wrecked.

Shane stared up at him. He was doing that. He was the one making Ilya sound like that.

"You feel—" Shane started, and then Ilya thrust deeper and the sentence broke off. "Fuck, you feel so good—"

Ilya's mouth crashed into his and swallowed the rest of it. His free hand traveled up the back of Shane's thigh, finding his knee, bending it back slowly until the angle shifted and Shane's vision whited out again.

"Oh my—fuck—" Shane's fingers twisted hard in Ilya's hair, pulling, "—right there, don't stop, oh my god—"

Ilya thrust his hips forward, leveraging himself higher as his pace quickened, until Shane couldn't focus on anything but the relentless drag of his cock, Ilya's muscles coiling and releasing with every thrust.

"Rozanov—"

"Yeah?" Ilya panted against his jaw, his pace rougher now, more demanding, the headboard beginning to bang against the wall. "You going to come for me, Hollander?"

"Yes," Shane gasped, which came out more like a sob. "Yes, don't stop—"

Ilya didn't stop.

He drove forward again and wrapped his free hand around Shane's cock, and Shane's back bowed clean off the mattress, his hands scrabbling for purchase—Ilya's shoulders, his hair, the headboard, anything—his whole body chasing it.

And then he realized he really was crying.

"Look at me," Ilya said. Shane did.

Ilya was right there, looking down at him with an intensity Shane felt like a physical presence, his jaw tight, sweat gathered at his temples, completely undone and focused entirely on Shane.

"I have you, Shane."

It hit all at once and kept going, his whole body locking up and shaking through it, Ilya's name tearing out of him in a way that didn't sound like his voice at all. His hands fisted in Ilya's hair and Ilya kept moving, kept driving forward, drawing it out until Shane was trembling and oversensitive and couldn't take any more and even then Ilya didn't stop, his own breathing ragged and his hips stuttering.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya panted, "I'm going to—"

"Do it," Shane managed. "C'mon, Rozanov, come for me."

And then Ilya buried himself deep and went rigid above him, making a sound Shane was going to be thinking about for the rest of his life. He collapsed forward, burying his face into Shane's neck.

Neither of them moved for a long time.

Ilya's lips were at Shane’s throat, mumbling something low in Russian against his skin, the same words over and over, soft and not meant to be understood. Shane tried to hold onto the sounds, to memorize the shape of them, but his eyes were already heavy and getting heavier, and eventually he stopped trying and just let them wash over him until he was gone.

__

Shane felt different when he woke up.

He lay there for a moment before opening his eyes, taking stock the way he always did—except this morning the inventory was slightly different. Not temperature or nausea, not the incision. 

This was the pleasant ache that started low, the kind that had nothing to do with recovery and everything to do with the fact that he had now, technically, hosted two different parts of Ilya Rozanov simultaneously in his body at the same time. Which was a thought so absurd that he had to press his face into the pillow for a moment.

So that had happened. That was a thing that had now happened and his body felt like evidence of it and Shane was just going to lie here for a moment and not think too hard about any of it.

He couldn't stop thinking about all of it.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it, already knowing.

Good morning honey, just checking in. Don't forget you have Dr. Reyes at 10. Your medications are in the side pocket of your bag and you need to eat something with them. Love you. Did you sleep okay? Text me when you're up. Or call, if you want!

Shane rolled his eyes, equal parts annoyed and fond, then put it face down on the nightstand.

"Good morning," Ilya mumbled beside him.

He was on his stomach, one arm thrown out toward Shane's side of the bed, face half buried in the pillow, curls in a state of complete and total disaster. Shane looked at him for a moment the way he looked at things he wanted to keep, then reached out and twisted one curl around his finger. Ilya's eyes stayed closed but the corner of his mouth moved.

Then Ilya's phone buzzed.

He groaned and reached for it blindly, cracking one eye open to look at the screen. A beat passed. Then he snorted.

"Is your mother."

"Oh god," Shane said.

"You have therapy at ten," Ilya read slowly, in a solemn voice, "and your medications are in your bag. You must eat something. She says to call when you are awake." He put the phone down and looked at Shane with both eyes open now. "I am surprised she did not ask me if we use protection."

"Oh my god," Shane's eyes blew wide and he punched Ilya in the shoulder. "Shut up."

"Or if I make you see god when I make you co—ummmfff—"

Shane smacked him in the face with a pillow.

__

Shane had not anticipated losing his virginity the night before his therapy appointment. Not that he'd had a particularly strong opinion about the timing, it just seemed like the kind of thing that should be noted. 

He sat in the waiting room for over ten minutes and spent approximately all of that time convinced that Dr. Reyes was going to take one look at him and know. She was a professional. Professionals could probably tell these things. She had a whole degree in reading people.

Ilya had found this very funny when Shane said it out loud in the car on the way here.

"She cannot tell," Ilya had said. 

"You don't know that."

"Shane. She cannot tell."

"I'm just saying—"

"She is therapist, not pyscho."

Shane stared at him.

"What? Do you mean psychic—" he got cut off when they pulled up to the building and Ilya was already getting out of the car.

Now, Shane was sitting down on the same old worn couch across from Dr. Reyes and doing everything he could not to look at her. 

"You look different," she said.

Shane's eyes immediately shot up. He fucking knew he looked different. "Wh–what?"

"Relax, Shane," She chuckled, crossing her legs. "It's a good thing."

"Oh." And Shane very much wished he'd taken a longer time looking in the mirror to have an idea of what she was talking about. 

"So," she started, "how have things been?"

Shane thought about everything that had happened since he'd sat in this room. Unfortunately, it kept getting stuck like a record scratch on last night and he could feel his face heating again. 

He cleared his throat and settled with, "Fine."

Dr. Reyes smiled, repeating, "Fine."

"Yeah."

She made a small sound and wrote something down. Shane had learned that sound over the last few weeks and it usually meant she didn’t believe him but wasn’t going to push yet. 

"Sleeping okay?"

"Better." 

"Eating?"

Shane refrained from rolling his eyes. "My mom makes sure of it."

The corner of her mouth moved. "And your body—how does it feel these days? Not the clinical version."

Well, he couldn't exactly tell her that his body felt sore in places it had never been sore before and the reason for that was manspreading his giant ass body in one of the overstuffed chairs in the waiting room right now. Ilya had insisted on coming with to wait for Shane during his session, which he hadn't thought would be distracting. It was.

"You always ask me that."

"And you always give me the clinical version."

Shane exhaled. He couldn't exactly leave for the next fifty-five minutes so he might as well talk, since that was allegedly the point.

"It's fine," he said, keeping his eyes in his lap.

She let that sit for a moment without saying anything and Shane picked at the frayed thread on the seam of his jeans. "Can I ask you something?"

Shane looked up, cocking an eyebrow. "Isn't that your job?" And then immediately felt bad, because it sounded a little bitchy.

Dr. Reyes didn't react, her face masked with that trained therapist's patience and continued, "When you say you're fine, what are you actually feeling?"

Shane opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He'd been asked some version of that question his entire life and he'd never once had to actually answer it because fine had always been enough to make people move on. His mom would push a little and then let it go. His dad would nod. His teammates had never asked in the first place. Even Ilya, who saw through it better than anyone, had learned when to wait and when to let it be.

Dr. Reyes was not letting it be.

"I don't know."

"I think you do," she said, shifting in her seat a little. 

Shane found something to focus on, which was the slightly crooked frame on the wall that was housing some kind of certificate. "It means I'm handling it."

"Handling what?"

He didn't answer.

"Shane." Her voice was even and painfully patient. "What are you handling?"

He looked back at his hands. They were very still in his lap, which took effort he hadn't realized he was exerting.

"Everything," he finally said quietly. "Just. Everything."

She nodded slowly, like that was exactly what she'd expected him to say. "Okay," she said. "Can I try something?"

Shane looked at her warily. "Depends."

"Close your eyes."

"That's not ominous at all."

"Close your eyes, Shane."

This felt like a stupid exercise but Shane closed his eyes anyway. 

"If you picture feeling completely like yourself again," she said, "what do you see?"

He knew what the answer would be. It had always been the same one. It had never once in his life required any thought at all. He opened his eyes after a minute, and with it came a feeling of resigned sadness that felt like an anvil crushing his chest.

Dr. Reyes was watching him quietly, tilting her head the longer Shane stayed silent. His gaze drifted to the window, catching on the slow trail of a plane somewhere up in the blue.

After a while she asked, "What did you see?"

Shane looked at her, but said nothing.

__

They went back to Ilya's after therapy. Shane hadn't suggested it and Ilya hadn't asked, just took the turn toward Seaport without saying anything, and the radio filled the silence between them at a low hum while Shane sat there and felt like everything was turning upside down. He wanted to itch at his skin until it peeled like a sunburn.

Dr. Reyes had opened a box he kept a very tight lid on. He was good at keeping lids on things—he'd had a lot of practice, had gotten efficient at it, could feel something coming and have it filed and sealed before it fully surfaced. It was a system that worked. It had always worked.

Except now the box was open and he couldn't figure out how to close it again and everything that had been living inside of it was just—out. 

It was almost August. He knew what August was supposed to feel like. He'd known since he was six years old—the restlessness of it, the way his body would start waking up earlier without trying because it knew something was coming. This should have been the best time of year. Gear getting broken in. Early skates. Walking back into Kingston as captain for his final year, the one that mattered most, the one the scouts were going to be watching.

The World Juniors in December. Canada across his chest.

The draft in June.

Everything he'd worked toward since before he could remember working toward anything.

Instead he was a passenger in Ilya Rozanov's car, in a city that didn't know him and he had absolutely no idea what came next. 

Shane reached over and turned the radio up, just so he could drown out the static in his head.

When they got back to the apartment, Ilya dropped his keys on the counter and pulled his shirt over his head in one motion and Shane watched him move across the room with that easy physical certainty he'd always had. 

Sometimes it would catch Shane off guard, the way Ilya took up a room—like he was something that belonged in a museum and every room he walked into was designed to show him off. Even his scar looked like it belonged there, the way it cut across his skin, catching the light like a seam of gold pressed into marble. It was overwhelming to look at for too long.

Shane moved towards the window and squinted against the sun's reflection on the water.

Ilya came and stood beside him without saying anything. His fingers found Shane's at his side and he felt knots loosen when they laced with his, like Ilya just knew. 

After a while, Ilya said quietly, "You are very far away today."

Shane's mouth opened, the deflection right there on the tip of his tongue, ready to say he was fine, like he always did. But instead nothing came out. Because he wasn't fine, and he was just beginning to realize how not fine he really was. Fuck Dr. Reyes.

"Ilya…" he started slowly, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. It took a minute, but he finally managed to turn his gaze to look up at him. When he saw the look in Ilya's face, the last of resolve evaporated. 

"I—I don't—think—" Shane's breath caught, and then he broke, "I'm not going to play hockey again."

As soon as the words fell out of his mouth, Shane gasped for air and felt like he was free-falling off of a cliff. 

"Oh my god—" he choked back a sob and Ilya grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him in before he could collapse.

"Shhh," Ilya pressed his mouth against Shane's ear. "Is okay, I have you, just breathe…"

Shane buried his face against the warm skin of Ilya's chest and listened to his heartbeat, trying to mirror it. He didn't cry. He wanted to and couldn't, which was its own kind of awful—the grief sitting right there behind his eyes with nowhere to go, too big to swallow and not quite finding its way out. 

"Everything is okay," Ilya continued to whisper into his ear. "You are alive."

Pulling back, Shane was surprised to see that it was Ilya who had tears in his eyes. He hadn't expected that. He frowned, reaching up without thinking and catching one with his thumb before it could get very far.

"Why are you crying?" 

Ilya shook his head, like he didn't want to admit that he was, even while being so devastatingly beautiful with such unguarded emotion on his face. When he finally met Shane's gaze, he had never looked so sad. His hand moved to Shane's chest, resting right over his heart. 

"You are alive," Ilya repeated, his voice breaking on the last word. "Do you not get that?"

Shane didn't know what to say, so he just reached up and placed his hand over Ilya's. 

"You almost died, Shane, I can not—" Ilya cut himself off, blinking up at the ceiling. 

"Ilya, hey," Shane reached for his face, pulling his head down until their foreheads met. "Hey."

It took a few minutes, but eventually Ilya's breathing evened out against his hair and Shane stood there holding him and thought distantly about how easily they moved back and forth between who was falling apart and who was holding the other one together. Like it was just something they did. Like it had always been the arrangement.

They were so stupid. Monumentally, catastrophically stupid.

And Shane was so in love with him.

Fuck. He'd never admitted that to himself before. 

Ilya tipped his face up then and all the words Shane couldn't say just dissolved into his mouth, swallowed down before they could do any damage. 

He grabbed at Ilya's hair, fingers twisting in his curls, and he must have been using more force than he realized because Ilya made a noise against Shane's lips that sounded painful. But he didn't stop Shane, instead he switched them and walked backwards until it was Ilya against the glass and Shane pressing into him. Shane's fingernails dragged down his skin, leaving track marks in his path, and Ilya just let him. 

"Fuck, Hollander—" Ilya gripped the back of Shane's thigh and hoisted it up, rolling his hips forward at the same time, and Shane's eyes fluttered close. 

"Oh god—" the friction alone was enough to short-circuit his entire nervous system. 

For a while that was enough. Almost enough. Shane's whole body was telling him it could end right here and that would be fine. But he wanted more, needed more, needed something that would push the box all the way out of his chest and replace it with something he could actually feel.

Ilya's hands slid under the waistband of his track pants. When his middle finger found its way between Shane's cheeks Shane moaned into his mouth, and when the tip of it pressed against his hole Shane didn't even have to think about relaxing. His body just opened, already Ilya's, and Ilya broke into a stream of breathless Russian words against his throat.

Shane’s pants were shoved down and Ilya gripped the backs of his thighs and hoisted him up. In one urgent movement, Shane was slammed against the glass, and somewhere in the back of his rapidly deteriorating mind he registered that his bare ass was twenty-two floors above Boston with nothing between it and the city but a pane of glass. 

And then Ilya's finger slid all the way in and every remaining thought evaporated.

"Oh god— Rozanov, please—"

Ilya curled his finger and bit the side of Shane's throat. "Please what."

Shane let the back of his head hit the glass, feeling dizzy. Ilya was working him relentlessly from the inside, his free hand wrapped around Shane's cock, and Shane couldn't decide if he wanted more or less of any of it, just squirming and chasing and trying to get away all at once.

"Make me—" the sentence dissolved into a moan.

"Make you what?" Ilya pressed his mouth to Shane's throat, his Adam's apple, the hinge of his jaw, teeth dragging slowly.

With great effort, Shane managed to open his eyes, looking at Ilya and feeling drunk off him.

"Make me forget everything."

Something moved across Ilya's face that Shane didn't have the capacity for right now—too much in it, too much care—and Shane shook his head slightly, silently pleading for whatever Ilya was thinking, wherever that concern was coming from, to be stuffed away. At least for now. 

"Okay."

And finally, for once, Shane forgot his heart had been slowly breaking for months. Since last September, since the moment he fell down on the ice and never got back up. Because Ilya had reached in and was quietly holding all the broken pieces together since the day they met.

__

"Shane, did you hear that?"

He blinked, pulling his focus back into the room. There was a weird ringing in his ears and his movements felt sluggish as he pulled his gaze to his mom's face. She was smiling so big it looked like it hurt.

"Sorry," he cleared his throat, looking between her and Dr. Palmer. "What?"

Her hand found his knee, squeezing gently. "It's great news, isn't it?"

He caught Palmer's expression for just a second—that careful quiet concern etched there, watching Shane in a way that was adjacent to pity—before his mom's voice pulled him back.

"We finally get to go home." She said home like it was something she'd been holding in her mouth for months, waiting to say it.

The ringing got louder. Shane looked down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap and tried to find the smile that was supposed to be there, the one that matched what this moment was supposed to feel like. Because this was what he'd wanted. What he'd cried about in a hospital bed for weeks, homesick in a way that had felt bottomless.

When had that word changed meaning?

Behind his eyes came glimpses he hadn't prepared himself for. Dark blonde curls and a crooked smile. Fingers tangled together and pressed against dark sheets. Morning routines and two reflections in a bathroom mirror grinning stupidly at each other. Russian words murmured against his skin like they could be tattooed there forever.

He inhaled sharply and nodded once. "That's great, yeah."

__

He didn't tell Ilya.

It wouldn't happen until the end of the month anyway, so there was no rush. And by then training camp would be in full swing, Ilya would be back to being Ilya Rozanov in the way that had nothing to do with Shane—back on Bears ice, back in the headlines, back to being the thing every hockey podcast couldn't stop talking about. It would probably be easier that way. For both of them. Cleaner, somehow, if Shane was already gone before the season swallowed Ilya whole.

Shane was very good at believing things that weren't true when he needed to.

The practice facility had become familiar enough that Shane knew which vending machine ate your money and which section of the stands had the best sightline to the left circle. He'd been coming with Ilya most days. Not because Ilya asked, Ilya never asked, just tilted his head toward the door and waited for Shane to follow. The apartment felt too quiet when Ilya wasn't in it and the Airbnb felt too full of his parents and the rink was somewhere Shane could sit and watch Ilya be exactly who he was supposed to be and distract Shane enough from his own mind. 

Ilya was running puck handling drills, moving it through the cones Demko had set up, and Shane watched him with his hands wrapped around a coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. 

It had gotten easier coming back here after that first time. Like Shane had just needed the one big meltdown on the bathroom floor and now his body had learned how to exist in the presence of a rink again. He wouldn't say it was fine—apparently that was a bad word now, courtesy of Dr. Reyes—but it was something.

"Hey."

Shane startled badly enough that his coffee nearly went over the seat in front of him. He grabbed it with both hands and looked up to find Cliff Marlow standing there, which did not help his heart rate.

"Sorry, do I need to move?" Shane was already half standing, reaching for his bag, but Marlow put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

"Relax, kid. Just saw you up here and thought I'd join you." He dropped into the seat beside Shane with enough force to rattle the whole row, his knee nearly colliding with Shane's as he stretched his legs out into the row ahead. He had the physical ease of someone who had never once in his life worried about taking up too much space. Shane found it mildly exhausting.

They watched the ice for a minute. Shane pressed his lips together and tried to think of small talk topics.

"He looks good out there," Marlow said.

"Yeah," Shane agreed. "He does."

Ilya was seamlessly handling the puck on his blade, moving around the net like he'd never left. Which Shane supposed, in every way that mattered, he hadn't. The ice had just been waiting.

"So," Marlow said, still looking at the ice, "he saved your life."

Shane was surprised by the blunt statement, but kept his eyes forward. "Yeah."

"Pretty big thing to do for a friend."

He didn't answer that. He turned his coffee cup slowly in his hands, the paper sleeve starting to peel at the edge where his thumb had been working at it.

As if knowing he was being discussed—and Shane had come to believe that Ilya always knew, somehow—Ilya's eyes found them in the stands. They moved past Marlow without stopping and landed on Shane, a quiet you okay in his eyes. Shane dipped his chin slightly. Ilya's expression softened almost imperceptibly before he turned back to Demko.

"Or not a friend," Marlow said, quietly enough that it wasn't really directed at Shane so much as the air between them.

Shane's thumb picked harder at the sleeve. He wasn't sure what Marlow was looking for—confirmation, maybe, or just a reaction—but it didn't feel threatening. Just curious in the way of someone who had known Ilya long enough to have learned there was always more going on than Ilya was saying.

"He has a big heart," Shane winced at himself as soon as the words stumbled out. It sounded like something a grandma would say.

"And half a liver," Marlow said with a huff of laughter, like it was funny. 

"Well no," Shane shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his brows furrowing, "not anymore actually. They regenerate pretty quickly. He wouldn't have been cleared to practice again if it wasn't fully—"

"I'm messing with you, kid." Marlow knocked his elbow into Shane's, sending his arm off the armrest. "I know how it works. Roz explained it."

"Oh." Shane felt his ears go red. "Right."

"Must be something, having an organ from the number one draft pick. Maybe you'll magically wake up able to play."

Shane's stomach knotted. He kept his expression neutral, pulling his arm back onto the armrest. "I used to play, actually. Juniors. Kingston."

Marlow looked at him properly for the first time, dark eyes doing a quick sweep that Shane recognized as the unconscious assessment of someone who had spent years reading bodies. Shane knew what he saw. A year of illness had taken away a decade of building. Now he just looked like a nineteen year old who'd had a very bad year.

"Ah. You're Canadian," Marlow said.

"Yeah."

"You like living here?"

"I don't. Live here, I mean." Shane said it too quickly, and looked down at the disintegrating sleeve in his hands before adding, "I'm going back to Ottawa in a couple of weeks."

The silence that followed was long enough that Shane looked up. Marlow was watching him with an expression Shane couldn't fully read—something careful in it, something that had heard more in that sentence than Shane had meant to put there.

"Does Roz know that?"

Shane looked back at the ice. Ilya had his head thrown back, laughing at something Demko had said, cheeks flushed, curls damp at his temples. He looked the way he always looked on the ice, completely and entirely himself, like every other version of him was just an approximation. Hockey gave him that. 

"No," Shane said quietly.

He felt Marlow's eyes on the side of his face and made himself hold still under them.

"Please don't tell him," Shane whispered, glancing over, the lump in his throat making it impossible to swallow.

Marlow didn't say anything for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose and looked back at the ice, and Shane got the sense that Cliff Marlow had seen enough in his career to know when something wasn't his to interfere with.

"Alright," he said, looking back at the ice.

Shane looked back too, his body aching in a way that was entirely new and out of his control. He was so in love. And he was leaving in two weeks. And Ilya didn't know either of those things.

__

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—"

Shane threw his hand up to grip the headboard, using it to push back as Ilya locked his arms around his waist and drove deeper. His head dropped forward, neck giving out completely, and Ilya set a new pace behind him—harder, shorter, each thrust punching the air out of Shane's lungs.

"God, Hollander," Ilya breathed, barely holding himself together, "you are so perfect." He punctuated each word with a sharp snap of his hips, and Shane stopped trying to muffle anything.

This had become its own kind of routine alongside the ice time. Ilya came off the rink wound up in a way that had nowhere else to go and Shane didn’t mind letting his body be the thing Ilya took it out on. They'd gotten greedy about it, both of them, needing more faster than they were getting it. Shane had also developed a much greater appreciation for what all the fuss was about. He'd say he had years to make up for, but he had a feeling that that had more to do with Ilya than with time.

"Oh god, Ilya—" Shane's arm was shaking where it braced. He reached back blindly with the other one and caught Ilya somewhere in the face with his elbow—a solid, accidental crack that Shane felt all the way up to his shoulder.

Ilya made a short sound, more surprise than pain, and then his hand shot out and caught Shane's wrist, roughly pinning it against the small of his back.

"Sorry," Shane panted.

Ilya grunted something that Shane didn't understand.

Shane's forehead dropped to the pillow. He had been dealing with a lot of self-discovery lately. Some of which was that he liked it like this—a little rough, a little restrained—and Ilya had somehow figured that out before Shane had even finished figuring it out himself.

Ilya's grip tightened on Shane's wrist, and Shane felt the helplessness of it shoot straight through him.

"You like it like this."

Shane pushed his forehead further down into the pillow and whimpered, "Shut up."

Ilya's hips rolled forward slowly, a punishing drag that made Shane's thighs shake, and then he stopped moving entirely.

A genuinely embarrassing sound crawled out of Shane's throat. "Ilya—"

"Say it."

"Fuck you—" another slow roll and Shane's hand fisted in the sheets, "—yes, okay, yes, I like it, don't stop—"

"I know," Ilya said roughly against the back of his neck, his mouth finding the skin there and biting down just hard enough that Shane's whole body lurched into it. Ilya's free hand slid around to Shane's stomach, his chest, dragging him back against him until there was no space left between them, Shane's back flush against Ilya's chest, both of them breathing like they'd just gone round after round doing drills.

"Yes," Ilya said into his hair, wrapping his long fingers around Shane's cock. "Let go, Hollander."

That was all it took. Shane's whole body seized, his hand white-knuckled on the headboard, and Ilya worked him through every last tremor, until he had nothing left and collapsed bonelessly against the sheets.

Ilya slid out and Shane winced at the sudden emptiness, turning his head back just in time to watch Ilya strip the condom off and toss it, hovering over him on his knees, already working his own fist fast and purposeful. His lips were pursed, curls hanging damp across his forehead, every muscle in his arm and stomach coiling with each stroke. 

Their eyes locked.

And then Shane tilted his hips backwards, angling his body in a way that would put his ass right in the line of fire. 

"Oh fuck, Hollander." Ilya came hard, a rough groan tearing out of him as the first stripe landed across Shane's cheeks, his lower back, and Shane bit down on his lip and watched over his shoulder, feeling feral.

Before he could think too hard about what he was doing, he reached back and grabbed Ilya's cock and pushed the tip back inside.

Ilya went completely still.

Shane felt him twitch, felt the way his whole body shuddered at the oversensitivity of it. Then Ilya's thumb found its way to where Shane was stretched around him and pressed in alongside, and they both made a sound at the same time that bounced off the walls of the apartment.

"Oh my god—" Shane's head dropped back, his hips moving in small helpless circles, just enough to feel him everywhere. Ilya said a lot of things in Russian, but Shane couldn't be bothered to make sense of any of it. 

They stayed like that until neither of them had anything left, shuddering apart in slow increments, limbs going slack, Ilya's weight coming down over Shane's back like a blanket. Shane lay there completely wrecked and stared at the dark sheets and thought distantly that he was never going to recover from this person.

They were still catching their breath when Shane looked over. He reached out and brushed his thumb under Ilya's closed eye. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

Ilya squinted his other eye open. "What?"

The skin around Ilya's eye socket was already going red, the kind of red that meant purple by morning, a clean arc of it from his cheekbone up. Shane frowned. "I got you really good."

"Mm." Ilya touched it briefly with two fingers, assessing, then found Shane's hand and interlaced their fingers across his chest. "Is fine. I have had much worse."

At first Shane's brain went straight to hockey—obviously, Ilya had more fights on his record than some veterans twice his age. But then Ilya opened his eyes, and something clouding them was telling a different story. The way he'd said it, offered up and immediately closed off, the way Ilya closed things off when they got too close to something real.

And suddenly Shane realized he wasn't talking about hockey at all.

"Ilya…"

Ilya's eyes closed again. He squeezed Shane’s hand once, which Shane had learned meant leave it. So he did.

He shuffled around until they were facing each other and wrapped his arms around Ilya, and Ilya came without resistance, burying his face in Shane's neck the way he did when he wanted to hide. Eventually his breathing evened out and Shane lay there wide awake, staring at the shadows on the walls, making a quiet vow to never let anyone hurt Ilya again.

And immediately terrified that he was going to be the one who would.

__

Shane's last appointment with Dr. Palmer was in the last week of August, and his parents made a big deal about it, both of them picking him up from Ilya's to take him one morning while Ilya was at the rink. Despite the fact that it was a scorchingly hot and humid day in Boston, he wore one of Ilya's hoodies, one that he had no plans on giving back.

Now they were all sitting in the waiting room, and he was flanked in between them, his leg bouncing for reasons that had nothing to do with the appointment and everything to do with the fact that he hadn't told Ilya it was his last one.

"Should we go to that Thai place that you like after this?" His mom asked, pulling her glasses down from where they'd been perched on top of her head as she looked at her phone.

"I don't care," Shane muttered, slouching a little more in his seat.

"What time will Ilya be done with practice? I can text him and see if he can meet us."

"Probably not for a couple more hours."

"We could get Pad Thai for him to go," his dad offered, not taking his eyes off the TV airing a muted episode of some HGTV show on the wall.

"Oh, and the dumplings he likes," his mom added.

Shane didn't know why, but he wanted to cry. He pinched the skin on the inside of his wrist and exhaled slowly.

Thankfully, his name was called next.

His parents both came into the exam room with him, which made it extremely crowded and harder to breathe, but he didn't protest. He knew this day was just as big for them as it was for him. When Palmer opened the door, he paused, taking them all in over the rim of his glasses with a big smile.

"Gang's all here," he said warmly, shutting the door behind him and leaning against the counter. "How are we all feeling today?"

His mom spoke up first, her hand finding Shane's knee. "It's a very exciting day."

Palmer raised his brows at Shane, teasing, "I can see someone is just bursting at the seams with joy. Try to contain it, Shane."

Shane rolled his eyes, but his face cracked a little despite himself.

They went through the motions like always, Palmer going through the labs with his usual unhurried manner, asking questions Shane had memorized the answers to months ago. He'd spent so much of the last year wanting to be done with all of this but now that he was here he didn't know how to feel about it.

"Alright," Palmer said eventually, setting the chart aside and crossing his arms, looking at Shane properly. "You know what I'm going to tell you."

"Never miss the medications," Shane said automatically. "Always go to the appointments in Ottawa, watch for the usual signs. Don't push it."

"All of the above." Palmer smiled. "You've done really well, Shane. I mean that." He let that sit for a second before adding, "And I know that's not the version of this year you planned for. But you've done remarkably well, best case all around."

Shane nodded, picking at the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

"Now." Palmer uncrossed his arms and pulled his stool a little closer, settling onto it. "Before we wrap up, I want to make sure we've covered everything. Is there anything you want to ask me? Anything we haven't talked about?"

There was a beat of silence, and then his dad spoke up quietly, "I know we all maybe know the answer, but I don't think we've fully discussed it," he hesitated, glancing at his son and putting a hand on his shoulder, "But is there any kind of future for Shane and hockey?"

Shane inhaled sharply, going rigid underneath his dad's hand, and stared straight ahead.

The room went very still. Shane kept his eyes on the wall and felt his mom's hand tighten on his knee and heard his dad exhale slowly after he said it, like he'd been holding the question in for months. Which he probably had. They all had. It was the thing nobody had said out loud, not officially, not with Palmer in the room and a chart in his hands and nowhere to look except at each other.

Palmer looked at Shane first, like he was checking. Shane gave him nothing.

"Competitive hockey at a high level isn't possible going forward," Palmer said directly, the way he always did, because Shane had never responded well to vagueness and Palmer knew it. "Not with the immunosuppressants, not with the contact, not with what your body has been through. Your liver function is excellent and we want to keep it that way—and the way we do that is by not putting it at risk." He paused, looking at Shane until he looked back. "That's not a recommendation, it's a fact."

Shane nodded once. The fluorescent light above him was buzzing very slightly, which he hadn't noticed before and now couldn't stop noticing.

His mom opened her mouth to say something, but Shane interrupted quickly, "Can I use the restroom?" 

Palmer nodded, and there was a look of pity on his face that Shane didn't want to acknowledge. "Of course."

Shane slid off the table, not looking at any of them. He found the door handle and the hallway and he followed the sign on the wall. He pushed into the bathroom and stood at the sink with both hands braced on the edge of it and looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked completely normal. That was the strange part. His face was doing nothing weird, just existing above Ilya's hoodie, the same dark eyes looking back at him like nothing had happened. He didn't look sick, or weak, but he still didn't look like the version of himself that he'd always known. 

He turned the tap on and let the water run cold and put his hands under it and stood there. It's not like Palmer just revealed new information. He hadn't told Shane anything he hadn't already understood, hadn't already known for months.

But there was knowing something and then there was sitting in a room with your parents while a doctor said isn't possible moving forward that felt like the last gap of the door closing.

And then the door behind him opened. He saw his dad's reflection in the mirror and didn't turn around. He came and stood beside him, looking at Shane in the mirror the same way Shane was looking at Shane in the mirror and neither of them said anything for a while.

"I keep thinking," Shane whispered eventually, to his own reflection, "that I should be over it by now."

His dad's brows furrowed. "Over what?"

Shane's eyes moved to his dad's in the mirror. "Hockey."

"Oh, Shane." 

His dad put his arm around Shane's shoulders and pulled him in without saying anything else and that was what did it. Shane buried his face in his dad's shirt and just let it happen. It was the worst kind of sobbing, the kind that came from somewhere too deep and rattled everything loose.

"I don't know who I am without it," he said, muffled, his voice breaking. "Hockey was the only thing I was ever good at—" his breath snagged, "—it was supposed to be my whole life, Dad."

His dad's arms tightened around him. "I know."

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now." He stopped and pressed his hand over his mouth. 

His dad waited for the sobs to subside. He didn't try to fix it or say anything until Shane had gone still, getting the worst of it out. Then, after a few minutes, he asked, "Can I tell you something?"

Shane pulled back slightly, wiping his face with the sleeve and nodded.

"Hockey was so much," his dad said, looking Shane in the eyes and holding him there. "From the moment you could skate it was just—everywhere, completely consuming. Every morning, every weekend. And you were extraordinary at it, I'm not saying you weren't. But I don't think you ever had to find out what else was there."

Shane sniffed and tried to look away, but his dad grabbed his chin gently and forced him to keep eye contact. 

"You figured out how to be a leader before you were ten years old," his dad continued quietly. "You taught yourself two languages just because you were curious and wanted to be able to communicate with teammates. You notice things about people that most adults never figure out. You were brought into a hospital on a gurney and walked out of it on your own two feet—"

"Dad—"

"No. Listen to me. You almost didn't make it," his voice started getting shaky as he kept going, "And every single day since then I wake up and you're still here and I think—" he stopped himself, taking a deep breath. 

Shane's face crumbled, everything blurring. 

"Hockey was never the best thing about you, Shane. It was just the loudest."

__

Shane saw him before his parents did.

Ilya was sitting on a bench just outside the hospital entrance, elbows on his knees, wearing a soaked through tank top and shorts, like he'd sprinted here straight from the gym. His face was flushed with trails of sweat falling from his damp curls, glistening in the sunlight. And then he looked up and found Shane immediately, the way he always did.

Neither of them moved for a second, and instantly Shane could feel his body trembling from the look on Ilya's face. He looked fucking furious.

Shane heard his mom make a small sound beside him and then felt his dad's hand briefly on his shoulder and then somehow, they were just gone—footsteps retreating toward the parking lot without a word.

He walked over slowly and could feel his pulse racing as Ilya stood up, and they just looked at each other for a moment in the August heat, hurting from the inside out.

"Your mother texted me." Ilya's voice was low and controlled. "She said it was your last appointment."

Shane looked down at the pavement and tried to swallow down the lump forming in his throat.

"You did not tell me."

"I know," Shane whispered.

"How long have you known?"

Shane didn't answer.

"Shane."

"A couple of weeks," Shane said quietly, raising his gaze.

Ilya exhaled through his nose. He glanced away for a minute and Shane watched the muscles in his jaw flexing from how hard he was clenching it. 

"I was going to tell you—"

"When?" Ilya spit out, his accent thicker than usual, his eyes darting back to Shane's instantly. "When you were back in Ottawa? When you take all of your things out of my apartment and say, oh, by the way, Ilya, I am gone back to Canada, nice to fucking know you."

"Fuck you," Shane blurted, his face feeling hot, because fuck—was that actually what his plan had been? It sounded so mean when spelled out in front of him. 

"I am so mad at you, Hollander."

Shane's throat closed completely. He pressed his lips together and looked at the ground and nodded once because he didn't trust his voice, or any of the words that would come out of it.

"You were going to just leave," Ilya's voice was filled with more emotion than Shane knew what to do with and it was breaking his fucking heart into pieces the longer he stood here realizing it was his fault. "Without saying anything."

"I thought it would be easier," he said weakly.

"For who?" Ilya yelled, making Shane flinch.

He didn't answer that either. Because the honest answer to that one was me and he was only just now understanding how little sense that made. 

He forced himself to look up, hoping his eyes could say everything his words couldn't, and something must have registered, because Ilya swore under his breath and took a step closer. Shane almost stepped backwards, but his feet were rooted in place. And then Ilya's hand came up and found the back of Shane's neck, and Shane felt his whole body exhale, melting into the touch.

"I am not going anywhere," Ilya said quietly, knocking his forehead against Shane's. "You do not understand this? Ottawa is not—" he stopped, searching for the words and saying something in frustrated Russian. After a minute, he continued slowly, "Distance is not same as over, Shane. Why would you think this?"

"I don't know," Shane's voice cracked, his hands reaching up to grip the hem of Ilya's shirt. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Why did you not just ask me?" he asked, and he sounded genuinely confused, his anger replaced with something more vulnerable as his thumb brushed along the nape of Shane's neck. "Whatever it was you were afraid of. Why did you not just ask?"

"Because I didn't know what you'd say." Shane's eyes were stinging again and he was so tired of crying today, but he couldn't stop himself. "It was easier to just decide you'd say no."

Something shifted in Ilya's face. He didn't say anything for what felt like forever, long enough that a family walked past them and they had to shuffle out of the way, giving them a much needed moment to breathe. Then Ilya pulled him in again and Shane went willingly, burying his face into Ilya's shoulder as his strong arms wrapped around him tightly, fingers slipping underneath his hoodie and pressing into his skin. 

"You are so stupid sometimes, Hollander," Ilya murmured into his hair. 

"I know," Shane said, muffled against his collarbone.

"Really very stupid."

"I know."

Shane felt Ilya's lips on the top of his head, leaving them there. They stood like that for a while, neither of them breaking the embrace, letting the rest of the city move on without them. Eventually Shane tipped his chin up until their lips met, soft as ever, and Ilya smelled like sweat and tasted like salt and it was the best thing in the whole fucking world.

"So," Ilya said finally, his voice rough. "Ottawa."

"Yeah," Shane said, keeping his eyes closed and rubbing his nose along Ilya's.

"And then what," Ilya asked, kissing Shane's cheekbone.

Shane pulled back just enough to look at him. "I don't know, but I think—I'd like to figure it out. If you want to."

Then the corner of Ilya's mouth moved into something softer than the usual crooked grin. "Yes, Hollander," he said quietly. "I want to."

The words that had been living in Shane's chest for weeks were right there, pressing up against his ribs, and with the way Ilya was looking at him he was almost certain that if he said them, he'd get them back. He was working up to it, mouth already opening—

"I love you."

Shane's lips parted. The words had come out in a thick Russian accent and it took him a full second to understand that Ilya had just beaten him to it.

"What?" Shane whispered, searching Ilya's face for some kind of glitch, or a chance to take them back. But Ilya just lowered his forehead to Shane's and shook his head and murmured something in Russian.

"You—you do? Love me?"

"Hollander," Ilya groaned, acting like he was annoyed, but his eyes were sparkling. "For being so smart, you are really very dumb."

"Stop calling me dumb," Shane scowled.

"Then stop being dumb and say it back."

"I love you," Shane said immediately, his arms tightening around Ilya's neck, "obviously, I love you, you idiot—"

"How would I know?" Ilya shoved gently at his chest, brows raised incredulously. "You were going poof, back to Canada, not even a word—"

"I was going to tell you—"

"I give you organ with lifetime guarantee and you want to turn into ghost—"

"Oh my god," Shane beat his forehead against Ilya's chest, "are you never going to let this go?"

They pulled back enough just to lock eyes, both smiling so hard it was almost embarrassing, and Shane's face actually hurt from it, he couldn't remember the last time his face had hurt from smiling.

Ilya leaned down and kissed him, and said against his mouth, "No, never."

Chapter 3: epilogue

Chapter Notes

Six Years Later

"Hold still."

"I am holding very still."

"You are absolutely not holding still, you keep—oh my god, stop, Ilya—"

"I am not moving."

"Your shoulder is moving."

"My shoulder is attached to me. If I breathe, it moves. This is how body works, Hollander, maybe they did not teach you this."

Shane pressed two fingers firmly into the joint and felt Ilya's sharp inhale with considerable satisfaction. He was halfway through the pre-wrap, the soft foam unspooling in neat overlapping loops, and every time Ilya shifted, the tension changed. 

"They did teach me that actually. They also taught me that if a certain someone had come in two weeks ago when he first felt this, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I was fine."

"You have never once in your life correctly assessed whether you were fine."

"I think you just like pretending to know more than me—"

"I literally have a degree that proves I know more than you."

Ilya sniffed indignantly. "Piece of paper."

Shane tore the pre-wrap with a clean snap and reached for the tape, pressing each strip flat with the heel of his hand. He could feel Ilya considering his options in the silence, which was always a dangerous amount of time to give him.

"You’re going to make me look bad one of these days if they think I allow injured players to—-"

"Okay, let's make a deal," Ilya started, and Shane snorted. He'd been making deals with Ilya for over five years to know better. "If I let you—"

"Let me?" Shane scoffed. 

"Is my body, my choice, Hollander."

Shane ignored him, keeping his thumb pressed firmly at the anchor point just below the shoulder cap, tearing strips one-handed and laying them down in overlapping diagonals the way he’d done this a hundred times.

"Hold your arm out," Shane said. "Slightly forward. Don’t rotate it."

Ilya didn’t move, instead he narrowed his eyes at Shane. "What do I get in return?"

"You get a functional fucking shoulder for Thursday's game."

"And…?"

"That's it. That's the whole offer."

Ilya made a sound of profound dissatisfaction. Shane kept working, his hands moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who had worked on this shoulder countless times and knew every knot and complaint of it by memory. 

He also knew very well what the arms attached to these shoulders were capable of handling off the ice, or how they could still lift Shane up and slam him into walls like he weighed nothing. Which was maybe not the most professional thing to know about a player on the roster, but that was neither here nor there.

"You have very cold hands," Ilya said, finally raising his arm like he was told.

Shane didn't respond.

"I could warm them for you."

Their eyes met. Shane attempted a glare, which would have been more effective if Ilya's face wasn't four inches from his own. It was a problem he'd been dealing with for years now and it had never gotten easier. 

If anything it had gotten considerably worse, because time had been doing something genuinely unfair to Ilya Rozanov—the boyish softness of him sharpening into something that stopped people in their tracks, that had earned him stupid titles like the NHL's hottest player under thirty, which he brought up constantly and with zero shame. 

The curls were still unruly. His eyes were still that outrageous shade of blue. But now there were smile lines at the corners of them, and a permanent scruff along his jaw that Shane's thighs were very acquainted with, and something in the way he held himself that said he knew exactly what he was doing to a room at all times.

Like he was doing it right now, in the Bears PT room. 

Ilya's mouth curved into that slow grin, the one that had been making Shane blush since he was eighteen years old.

"Stop it," Shane muttered.

"I am just sitting here," Ilya said, spreading his legs a little wider on the table in a way that was entirely on purpose, "being very cooperative patient."

"Wow, big word, Rozanov," Shane said dryly.

"You know what else is big?"

Shane ignored him as he smoothed the last strip down against Ilya's shoulder blade and checked the tension. 

"Rotate for me," Shane said.

"Mm, keep talking dirty, it is so sexy."

Shane sighed, looking up at the ceiling, "Ilya. We don't have all day."

"And whose fault is this? I told you practice was optional."

"My job isn't optional." Shane swatted at Ilya's arm. "Now rotate your fucking shoulder."

Ilya made a face but rolled his shoulder slowly, forward and back. Something in his expression shifted, the faint resistance softening into something more grudging and reluctant, meaning Shane had done his job well. 

"Okay," Ilya said.

Shane stood up straighter, watching Ilya's movement carefully. "Okay it feels better, or okay you're going to say okay and then go do something stupid with it in warm-ups?"

"Okay it feels better." Ilya rolled his eyes. And then, because he was constitutionally incapable of leaving it there, "And okay because I will do something stupid in warm-ups."

Shane stepped back and started putting away the excess tape in his cart. "I'm still mad at you for waiting two weeks."

"You are not mad."

"I am professionally disappointed."

"Mm," Ilya turned around fully on the table, watching Shane with lazy attention and wiggling his eyebrows. "I could make you feel professionally satisfied to make up for it?"

Shane looked up at him over the frame of his glasses.

The crucifix catching the fluorescent light between his pecs. The definition of his stomach, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband, the scatter of moles across his skin that Shane knew by heart. The scar, faded now and silver, that Shane knew better than his own.

"No," he said, and went back to cleaning up his area.

Ilya’s foot swung out, hooking around the back of Shane’s knee and trying to tug him closer. "Ah, come on, Hollander, don’t be boring," he said in Russian, knowing full well the effect his native tongue had on Shane.

"Not here, Ilya," Shane grumbled back in Russian, but his own body was betraying him as he tumbled a little closer. He glanced around the room in reflex, even though they were completely alone, which was never a good thing. 

He sighed and stepped in between Ilya's legs, immediately drawn in, Ilya's strong hands gripping his waist and pulling him forward until there was no space left. Shane couldn't help the smile on his face. 

"Happy?" 

Ilya leaned forward, capturing Shane's bottom lip with his teeth and tugging on it. "Yes, very."

"You're going to have to take it easy, Rozanov," Shane clicked his tongue. "That shoulder isn't going to get better if you keep overexerting it."

"Mmm," Ilya hummed, using his nose to make Shane tip his head to the side and softly biting at the skin beneath Shane's jaw, eliciting a small shiver. "Guess you might have to do all the work then, Hollan—"

"Hollander, Coach wants to know if Roz is—oh for fucks sake." 

Shane jumped back at the sound of Jacob Parker's voice entering the room, immediately grabbing his clipboard while Ilya just leaned back on the table and smiled broadly. 

"Hello, Parker, here I am."

Parker sighed, long and exhausted by years of dealing with—well, them. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I'm going to tell him you're almost done and I mean that in the most clinical sense imaginable."

"A lot of things can be clinical," Ilya said pleasantly. "Shane is very thorough. Very hands on—"

"Ilya," Shane warned, "Door. Now."

Ilya hopped off the table, testing his shoulder with a small movement before shooting Shane one last look as he followed Parker out the door, mouthing love you with a wink.

Shane stood there for a second, listening to the ice through the walls—blades, a whistle, the echo of a puck off the boards that his body still recognized before his brain did.

He thought about a boy who had dragged an IV pole down a hallway just to see if he could catch a glimpse of a mouthy rookie, having no clue that that shy introduction would change the rest of his life. A boy who had walked out of a hospital and spent a long time after that not knowing who he was. 

Turned out it was this.

__

"—and look, we've had this conversation before but I don't think people fully appreciate what they're watching in real time. Back to back Cups, back to back Conn Smythe. Now once again leading the Bears into another playoff run. There is genuinely no ceiling in sight."

"None."

"And what kills me is we're not even having the dynasty conversation yet and we should be."

"We're having it right now."

"People keep saying Gretzky this, Gretzky that, and you don't throw that name around lightly—"

"You really don't—"

"—but I'm sorry. At twenty five. What Ilya Rozanov is doing right now at twenty five years old—"

"It's a different category."

"It's a completely different category, bro. And something clicked somewhere along the way, like a switch flipped, because five, six years ago this is the guy who just vanished in the middle of a playoff run, which led to the Bears getting absolutely torched without him. Still to this day one of the most brutal exits in recent NHL history. Everyone had a theory."

"Someone on this podcast, who will remain nameless, said he was hiding from the Russian mafia."

"That was a completely reasonable theory given the available information—"

"You watch too many documentaries."

"He’s Russian! He’s rich! He disappeared! Connect the dots!"

"Well whatever happened during that time, whatever he was dealing with—he came back stronger than ever. And he’s never talked about it publicly, which, respect, but—" 

"You know I have to say it."

"Oh god, please don't—"

"Nooo—"

"The fucking trainer theory—"

"Okay but hear me out. The same guy has been rinkside at every single game since he joined the staff, he's on every road trip. Rozanov won't let anyone else touch him, like physically will not let another trainer near him during a game, everyone has noticed—"

"God forbid a man prefers one trainer over the other."

"—he was spotted with that same guy the summer he disappeared, years before he was ever brought on staff and you don't think that's a coincidence? And then there's the Cup celebration last year. You saw the Cup celebration."

"I saw the Cup celebration."

"So you saw what I saw."

"I saw two coworkers who were very excited—"

"The man skated straight past his entire team. Didn't stop for his teammates, didn't stop for his coach, didn't stop for the fucking Cup—went straight to the trainer. Someone got it on camera, it had like three million views—"

"Get off Twitter."

"Log off. Close the laptop. Touch grass."

"Moving on."

"The point is, we're watching history."

Chapter End Notes

as always, I wanna dedicate this to my baby and inspiration, pointerbrother, who always helps me through the creative process and edits my smut to make it spice-worthy. im so thankful for ur friendship and everything we've gained across a couple of fandoms together. ily malysh. <3

i am THE WORST at responding to comments, but I just need everyone to know, that I read each and every one, immediately. they mean SO much to me and are truly the wind beneath my wings as a fic writer. I need to be better at responding, but I probably will always fail at it, but please just know it means the fucking world to me. ily u all so much. I love this au so much. im not gunna say its over, but I don't know if I have plans to do more at this point in time. i'll see if the story keeps going in my mind. :)

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love u all xx