Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Troy Barrett, Wyatt Hayes, Luca Haas, Zane Boodram, Evan Dykstra, Nick Chouinard, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Autistic Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Anxiety Disorder, Shane Hollander Whump, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, POV Alternating, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Bashing (Game Changers), Homophobic Language, Homophobia, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Angst with a Happy Ending, Panic Attacks, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Everything is fine

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-17 Completed: 2026-05-10 Words: 33,129 Chapters: 4/4

Everything is fine

Summary

Lately, playing hockey wasn't even as much fun as it used to be. Games were always the highlight, but even that, it didn’t feel as good since his team had been falling apart.

And all that because he came out as gay.

He didn’t really fault them for taking some time to accept it, so Shane let them talk. If that helped them digest the news, so be it.
He let them distance themselves from him, let them gossip around to other teams, let them make him the butt of jokes he didn’t understand.

Shane didn’t mind, all things considered.

Everything was fine.

Notes

I don't even know where to start, I have so much to say.

First and foremost, this fanfic has been written WITHOUT AI. I have not been accused of it, but it is one of my biggest fears. I have learnt recently to use em-dashes and I have been using them deliberately since then. I've tried to return to the little dash so I wouldn't be confused with AI, but I don't like it aesthetically anymore, it looks too small.
Anyway, maybe you've been able to tell it isn't AI because my writing sucks, and you know what, I'll take it. Not my first language, and I've been told in my writing class that I have a very distinctive way of writing because of it, so maybe it's obvious.

Second of all, I am still not sure about posting this. It's a three-chapter fanfic, with maybe a bonus epilogue, but it doesn't seem to want to get written, so I might just not.
I both love the fanfic and feel kind of meh about it, maybe because I've been working and reworking it for a bit too long now, so I think I need to let it go. It can become yours now.
Some might find my Shane OOC in it, and maybe he is, but I thought what happens in there would cause him to react in a way we haven't seen in either the book or the show, so I'm taking a wild guess here.

And finally, this fanfic is finished (apart from maybe an epilogue, but it is not listed as one of the chapters anyway), so I'll update it every other day.

Also, in term of context in cannon, this story takes place after their fight on Boxing Day, but before the "plane crash".

I've talked enough- enjoy!

Chapter 1: Shane

Everything was fine.

It wasn’t that painful. He was surprised by his disappointment. That, he had not foreseen.

But it was fine.

Everything was fine.

He was on the road to Ottawa, had just passed the border between Quebec and Ontario, and he was about to see Ilya.

Morning practice had overrun, or rather Coach Theriault’s angry rant had. To his defence, the Metros were not doing well, and Shane was partly responsible for it.

So when they were sent off an hour later than expected, with an added next-day morning practice, everyone was pissed.

No one talked to each other really, or mostly no one talked to him. Hayden was quiet, but Shane didn’t blame him as his best friend was already texting his wife to let her know about the change in their plans.

Shane had not told Ilya yet and didn’t look forward to it.

Since the Boxing Day’s party debacle, he had promised himself he wouldn’t let Ilya down any more than he already had. He wouldn’t let him feel like he was an afterthought, like he wasn't a priority in Shane’s life like Shane was in his.

Because he was.

At the time, Shane didn’t realise it, not in such words, but last time he had thought about his priorities, when he was fifteen, Hockey was it, and he had had no reason to question it since then.

Sure, Ilya had come in not long after that, but in his defence, for a long time, it wasn't like Ilya had tried to be in Shane’s life other than in his body.

Anyway, Shane had to live with the guilt of what he had put Ilya through and that was hard enough.

Definitely harder than how he felt about his team.

Lately, playing hockey wasn't even as much fun as it used to be. Games were always the highlight, but even that, it didn’t feel as good since his team had been falling apart.

And all that because he came out as gay.

He didn’t really fault them for taking some time to accept it. After all, it took him almost nine years to come to terms with it himself. And hockey wasn't the most diverse sport out there, most of the guys had never encountered a queer person (that they were aware of, at least).

Shane let them talk. If that helped them digest the news, so be it.

He let them look at him with disgust and disdain, he let them snicker.

He let Theriault call them pansies while looking at Shane straight in the eye.

He let them distance themselves from him, let them gossip around to other teams, let them make him the butt of jokes he didn’t understand.

Shane didn’t mind, all things considered, because everything was fine.

He had an hour left on his drive, and then he would be with Ilya for the next few hours and that would be fine. Great, even.

The fact that his team kind of despised him now didn’t impact him as much as it was a bit disappointing, maybe. And he still had his best friends.

Well, at least he had Hayden.

Hayden easily ignored the snickering everytime the two of them stood under showerheads next to each other, like he ignored the comments after they shared a hotel room for away games, like they had since their rookie years and that no one had any problem with at the time.

The rest of the team knew they couldn’t call him slurs to his face in front of Hayden or he would tear into them, but that he also made a point not to react when they tried to imply he was also gay, because there was nothing to be ashamed of. They also knew it didn’t have much leg when the guy had four kids and a hot wife.

Shane knew how lucky he was to have him.

J.J. had a slightly harder time coming around. He had been quiet for days after Shane had come out, with his first question being if Shane had ever thought about any of them when he… you know.

Shane had replied as sincerely as he could without mentioning that he really ever thought about one guy, and none of them were it.

So, no, never. It doesn’t change anything to me.

Maybe it had changed something for J.J.

Because this morning, when everyone had gone to hit the showers after the long and painful practice, Shane had realized he had forgotten his facewash, so he had to go back into the locker room, only to come through and watch Drapeau knock his duffle bag on the floor, letting his jersey touch the dirty ground, and to then step on it.

The part of the team that had stayed behind, waiting their turn, probably for Shane to be out of the showers, either laughed or chuckled at Drapeau’s move.

J.J. was on his phone, his cubicle next to Shane’s, watched it happen from the corner of his eye, and let a smile grow on his lips, without a comment.

Until he caught Shane’s stare.

Then his expression fell, turning both frustrated and guilty, as he sighed.

“Quit it,” he then said to Drapeau, pushing him meekly at the shoulder.

Obviously, Drapeau and fucking everyone else had seen the silent exchange. The goalie smiled wildly at Shane, tongue scrapping his front teeth, as he sauntered back to his own cubby.

The rest of the team wasn't laughing so loudly anymore, but most still had smirks on, if they weren't fully snickering as Shane made his way to pick up his stuff.

So, to say it was Shane’s biggest nightmare would be a euphemism. That was exactly what he had feared before he had come out.

He had no one to talk about it to. Management wasn't going to do anything. After all, it had been his decision, he didn’t have to say anything. For representing such a liberal city, the Montreal’s Metros were really a don’t ask, don’t tell type of team. Most of the league was like that, but from the little he heard back about the Admirals, Scott Hunter wasn't receiving as much push back, and they had released a statement they would always stand behind their Captain. Sure, they could be lying, but they didn’t have to put a whole statement. They could have kept it quiet, pretend it didn’t happen.

Shane wouldn’t tell his agent because what could she do anyway, and obviously he wasn't going to tell his mom.

His anxiety supplied him with two of her potential reactions, one slightly worse than the other. Best-case scenario, she would be on his side, pissed at the for treating him like that. She would be sad (excruciating) because her favourite team of all time treated him badly.

But then, that fed into the worst-case scenario, and she would point out that he kind of did that to himself. Yeah, sure, she supported him, but she supported him at home. He didn’t have to go and scream it at the top of his lungs. He was kind of in a bed-of-his-own-making situation.

But… Ilya.

He had done it for Ilya.

It did suck to be in the closet and lying to people he had considered brothers for years, and yes, every day, he hated himself a little bit more.

But, Ilya.

The only thing in Shane’s entire life that didn’t make him feel shitty (not anymore, at least). Even hockey couldn’t make him feel as good as being in love and with Ilya did, since they had decided to be in a real relationship, and not the liminal space they had hovered in for years.

Having Ilya by his side made everything less daunting.

And Ilya could never know what was going on.

After all, it wasn't the first time in his life Shane encountered locker room… tormenting. Yes, that was better than bullying. He wasn't in middle school anymore.

Before he was gay, he was half-Asian, and god forbid white teenage boys let him forget about it.

In a way, it had been worse then, because his mom was involved. Not just because one time, they had thrown soy sauce at his jersey (yes, very original), and washing it off had not been possible, and she had found out, and it had been a whole thing–

But because their chirps were about her a lot. It was easy when they called him slurs, it was impossible when it was about her.

Usually, moms were forbidden in chirps, but it didn’t apply to him, apparently.

A lot of things seemed to not apply to him.

Shane couldn’t imagine a world where people knew he was gay and that he was in love with Ilya Rozanov. Because they could say whatever they wanted to him, they could knock his stuff off, they could refuse to pass him the puck, they could subtly run him into the boards, they could step on his jersey, spit on his C, push him around, call him a fag–

Shane wasn't sure what he would do if they said anything about Ilya.

But it was fine! And everything would carry on being fine, as long as Shane kept it going that way.

That meant in the next thirty minutes, he had to build a perfectly amiable expression before he joined his boyfriend at this house, in the city Shane grew up in, that Ilya left everything behind to move to for him, where he was holding a team party with the rest of the Centaurs, so that they could see Shane and Ilya be friends and friendly together, so that maybe one day, Ilya could also come out to his team, the same way Shane had, and where everything went perfectly well.

Because everything was fine!

Oh, and he also had to drop the news to said boyfriend that Shane would have to leave after the party to go back to Montreal instead of spending his originally-planned next two free days with him, because his team was doing so terribly in the run to the playoffs, more practice was added to try to fix something that couldn’t be fixed–

No. Shane wasn't a pessimist. Nothing was determined until it was done.

He arrived late, obviously.

He had told Ilya, sent him a message.

Lily [01:47pm]

You should tell them it’s stupid

And useless

Longer practice will not make your team better

Shane knew it was their usual bickering, but also, it made him anxious, how right Ilya was on this.

So he had not replied, just got behind the wheel, and here he was, parking on the street instead of Ilya’s driveway, already filled with cars that were probably from his team.

For the first time today, and maybe in weeks, Shane faltered as he turned off the engine. He had taken a deep breath, preparing himself to put on the carefully curated mask of Shane Hollander, friend of Ilya Rozanov and co-founder of the Irina Foundation.

Instead, the air got trapped in his lungs, stumbling and a sudden pressure slammed over his ears, making them ring like he had been caught in a fight.

He leaned his forehead against the wheel, willing his heartbeat to slow down, his nervous system unable to make the difference between going to a friendly party organized by his boyfriend and being held at gun point. His stomach hurt like he was hungry, but there was also an edge of nausea. He had to dismiss it.

Everything was fine.

Everything would be fine, because he was about to see Ilya for the first time in two weeks, maybe they could get a brief moment just the two of them, maybe they could kiss, before he would have to go back to Montreal and be fine there all over again. Maybe he could drive back here again tomorrow after practice. Ilya had a game in the evening, so they probably wouldn’t get to see each other, other than in passing–

Shane came out before he lost it.

Standing outside of his car, he realized he didn’t bring anything for the party. He was going to show up to his ex-rival-turned-friend team party to show his good will and he didn’t even bring anything.

Had Ilya asked him for something? Had he said I like this thing from Montreal, could you bring it for my team to try?

Had Shane asked Ilya if he needed him to bring something?

So Shane was even more a piece of shit of a boyfriend than he had thought about before. Great news, he really needed that.

For a fleeting moment, he looked around, hand still on the door handle, and he thought about driving away.

To go grab something for the party.

(Sure, he could convince himself of that.)

He let go and finally made his way up the driveway, Ilya’s house getting visible in between the trees.

Shane’s air got stolen straight out of his lungs.

What was he doing?

How did he have fuck up his life so bad that the two surest things he always had, hockey and his love for Ilya Rozanov, were both running straight into a wall?

He took a step back.

Panic gripped him at the throat and his eyes were burning, but he shook his head.

Everything was fine.

Everything would be fine as long as he held it together.

His team would come around, and he would keep on playing like he always did, proving he was still the same guy he had been since he had joined them.

He could be the best for Ilya, support him and be grateful for him, help him get better, and for Shane to be better too, be more present, make more efforts, less self-centred. Or hockey-centred, if those two things were different.

He had a key, but he rang the bell anyway.

Ilya was there moments later.

“Since when do you ring bell?” he said in lieu of hello, deep furrow between his brows.

“Trying to play the part,” Shane said as he stepped inside.

“What part?”

“Your friend,” he said, about to toe his shoes off, but Ilya took his arm to stop him.

“No, is fine, we’re outside,” Ilya said, his tone softer than the rest of their conversation. “My friends come into my house without ringing bell.”

“Do they?” Shane asked, puzzled, eyes shifting to where he could hear people but not see them. “So maybe we shouldn’t be naked around your house so often then.”

Ilya looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was eavesdropping, before pushing Shane back against the door, crowding into him, one hand on the side of his throat, the other tangling in his hair as he pressed a close-mouthed kiss against his lips.

Shane moaned, his mouth opening to let Ilya sneak his tongue against his.

Shane had been right, everything was really fine. His own hands grasped at the back of Ilya’s t-shirt, instinctively tilting his hips against his.

In the other room but not far away enough, resounding laughter boomed and echoed down the hallway to them, making Shane break the kiss.

“We shouldn’t–“

“You are friend,” Ilya said, letting go of his mouth to come pepper kisses along his cheeks and jawline. It took Shane a hot second to remember what they were talking about.

“They are also your friends,” he pointed, mostly to remind Ilya he wasn't alone, and to reassure himself he had not isolated the love of his life.

“Is different.”

“I would hope so,” Shane huffed as Ilya slid a thigh between his leg while pressing a kiss under his ear.

“Are you jealous, Hollander?” Ilya asked smugly. Shane ignored him.

“We really shouldn’t be doing that here.”

“I missed you,” Ilya said with his pouty voice, and Shane’s breath stuttered, the guilt washing over him once again, prickling at the back of his eyes.

“I missed you too,” he replied, even though he knew he shouldn’t be talking if he didn’t want to get caught.

And he had been right, because Ilya froze for only half a second, the playful heat between them suddenly turning serious as the Russian leaned back to take him in.

Shane could look everywhere and anywhere he wanted, there was no way he could hide from Ilya Rozanov’s perceptive eyes.

He still couldn’t hold his gaze.

Ilya grabbed him by the chin, orienting his face up to face him.

Shane let his eyes close briefly, slapped by some sort of exhaustion, probably the drive here, letting Ilya take on some of his weight.

The hold on his chin got insistent, forcing him to open his eyes back, and that shook him out of his torpor, batting his eyelids open, trying to reassemble the mask.

Upon meeting Ilya’s eyes, moving rapidly across his face, taking in details Shane couldn’t hide either fast enough or didn’t know he had to hide, he knew it was pointless.

“I love you,” he breathed out instead. “I missed you,” he repeated because it was true, and because for a moment there, when it was just the two of them, sharing mind, body and soul, everything else that wasn't fine didn’t matter.

Ilya still wasn't talking, still studying him intensely, and it was taking too long because another wave of guilt was already taking him at the knees.

He had promised he would be there for Ilya. Ilya, who was struggling, alone, far away from everyone and everything he had learned to love since he had left Russia, far away from Russia, from what was left of his family, no matter the state of their relationship, the only thing that had kept him afloat all this time, hockey, also being taken away from him by transferring to a minor team that had never won anything, all of that for Shane, because he loved him more than hockey and had sacrificed so much for him, and Shane was once again making it about himself, and not being there for him and relying on him for minor inconveniences because he was just so weak.

For a brief moment there, his life and vision tilted on its axis, and Shane wished he could maybe go down, in peace, preferably.

He heard Ilya gasp wow, so Shane fought his way back up.

“I’m so tired,” he said with half a scoff. He pushed back against the door to straighten himself, realising he had started sliding down, and refusing to look back at Ilya anymore. It hurt too much.

“You drove here like that,” Ilya said, and Shane waved him off. “They are exhausting you with stupid, useless practice. If you’re too tired to play, how are you supposed to win? At least, you have next few days here to rest.”

Shane sighed, letting his eyes closed.

“Yeah, about that,” he said, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes.

“What?”

“They scheduled another practice for tomorrow morning. To make up for the one this morning.”

Shane had prepared for Ilya to let go of him, step back and away to glare at him disapprovingly. Not that Shane would have been able to tell, because he still couldn’t look up. But Ilya didn’t, still holding onto Shane.

“Fuck this. You can’t, you’re too exhausted.”

“I have to. I’m the Captain, and…”

“And?” Ilya asked, annoyance clear in his voice.

It’s kind of my fault.

“I have to lead by example,” he lied instead, and he was such a bad liar. So he was surprised when Ilya didn’t point it out.

“Fine. Is fine, I’ll drive you back tomorrow morning,” he said instead, and Shane was both taken aback and plagued with intense self-hatred.

“You can’t, you play tomorrow night. It’s fine, I’ll drive back tonight, after the party. I’ll be fine, and you did it before too,” Shane replied.

That didn’t seem to be the right thing to say, because that was when Ilya finally let go of him, putting distance in between the two of them. Shane still couldn’t look at him, and it hurt.

“Rozy! Where did you say the ice was? I’m pretty sure we found three freezers already, and there’s no ice in any of them!”

“I think at least two where the same freezer, but I’m not sure!”

The voices were getting closer, so Shane adjusted the mask back on, making sure to angle the cracks in it away from prying eyes.

“You should–“ he nodded towards the hallway, addressing Ilya while keeping his eyes riveted to the ground. “I just need to use the bathroom.”

Ilya simply hummed.

“You know the way,” he added, before Shane watched his feet leave.

Shane did know the way, but he wasn't sure he ever used the bathroom by the entrance, the one for the guests.

Powder room, his mind supplied while refusing to meet his reflection in the mirror, even after he splashed some water over his face.

Hands on either side of the sink, Shane dropped his head forward between his shoulders, focusing on his breathing, slowing it down, forcing his heartbeat to match it.

Slowly but surely, he got back in control of his body, and by the time he came out of the bathroom, his mask was back on and the cracks filled in.

It would be fine, because everything was fine.

As he made his way down the corridor, leading to the living area split between the living room and the open kitchen, Shane managed to convince himself he could be normal.

“Oh wow, Rozy, you weren't joking!” someone said from the kitchen. Shane followed the voice, meeting Zayne Boodram’s eyes on him. “We started to think you were some sort of girlfriend in Canada, Hollander.”

Shane froze, knowing he was standing there awkwardly, unsure what to reply to that.

“Metros are trying to catch up and think more practice is going to help them,” Ilya said, as he made his way back to Shane, as if it was the first time they were seeing each other today.

“I don’t think any more practice can help with whatever is wrong with them,” Troy Barrett said from where he had been standing next to Ilya.

Shane still had no idea what to reply to that, and Ilya, his back to everyone else, must have known that, because his brows furrowed as he took Shane in, while Shane remembered what he was supposed to be doing here, which was being normal. He opened his mouth again, trying to look for anything to say, a chirp even, maybe, but he simply came short.

“Yeah, Hollander, what is wrong with the Metros?” Boodram said after a heartbeat, when he probably realized that Shane wasn’t going to say anything.

Me, he thought about replying.

“They have one good player,” Ilya said instead, so casual, so flippant, as he put a hand on Shane’s shoulder to pull him in further, “and he’s here, and they gave him more practice even if he doesn’t need it, so be nice,” he added, turning back to address the rest of his team.

“Oh please, no,” Wyatt Hayes, the Centaurs’ goalie whined as he came in through the bay window, “please Hollander, if you practice any more, I won’t make it. Spare me.”

That managed to relax Shane a little bit, as he let out a soft snort.

“Hazy, he doesn’t even need more practice for you to not make it,” Evan Dykstra elbowed him. “Hey, Hollander, the kid had a question earlier, and even Rozanov didn’t know.”

“Is not true,” Ilya replied instantly, “he asked when I was getting changed! I told him to ask again.”

“Yeah, and it had nothing to do with your bruised ribs,” Barrett snickered.

“You bruised your ribs?” Shane asked too fast, turning towards Ilya without thinking about it, but his simmering anxiety rose to an almost boil.

“Nah, is fine. Won’t help you win,” Ilya said, meeting Shane’s eyes pointedly.

Right. Right.

He shouldn’t care. He was just Ilya’s friend. They were still rivals. Rival-friends that didn’t care if the other was hurt.

Their supposed friendship was shit. If they were really just Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, reformed-rivals-turned-friends, who created a foundation together, well, it sucked.

“I don’t need help to win,” Shane replied back, the words empty as they came out. “Ask your goalie,” he added for good measure, and that got a reaction from the Centaurs, between laughter and booing.

Shane was glad he still said something, because Ilya’s face illuminated, eyes glinting with excitement as Shane joined in the friendly ribbing.

“Haas, come ask your question, and don’t let him manipulate you in giving away our strategy,” Ilya called then, guiding him further into the house, not without grabbing a ginger ale out of his fridge. As he watched him doing so, Shane also noticed the look Barrett and Boodram shared at that. “Bood is making chicken on the barbecue,” Ilya added as he opened the can before handing it to Shane.

Shane’s heart stuttered, breath caught in his lungs at the gesture. It did something, inside his stomach, spreading heat, warming him up when he hadn’t realized how cold he had been feeling. That was enough to remind him it was indeed fine. As long as he had Ilya, everything would be– was fine.

“You’re not some sort of vegetarian, aren’t you Hollander?” Boodram asked, eyeing him suspiciously, taking Shane out of the moment.

“No, no, I’m not…” he didn’t finish, because the less he talked about it, the easier it would be to avoid it. He couldn’t say he had already eaten before he arrived, knew Ilya would know he was lying. And Shane wasn't sure what he would do, but anything would probably ruin the moment for Ilya, and he deserved to have a good time with his boyfriend (even if no one knew) and his teammates. So Shane would slither around any mention or interaction with food and everything would be fine.

That was when he noticed Troy Barrett’s gaze fixed on the ginger ale in his hand. Then Barrett looked up, their eyes locking, and all the warmth Shane had felt moments ago when Ilya had given it to him vanished in cold gust of wind.

Shane turned away, even though he could still feel eyes following him.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. He took in the living room, Hayes and Dykstra now on the sofa, talking with a beer in hand, while Boodram and Barrett made their way back outside, returning to the grill. Ilya should go with them, Shane knew. He could smell it on him, the smoke of barbecue, so much nicer than the one of cigarettes.

Ilya had not smelled like cigarettes in a while, Shane realized. Weirdly enough, that fed into his guilt. One more thing I took away from him.

“I have food for you, if you prefer,” Ilya said low and softly by his side. They stood next to each other, taking in everything and not looking at each other.

“No, I’ll wait for…” he waved towards the barbecue with the hand holding the ginger ale.

He felt Ilya’s gaze on the side of his face.

“Did you eat after practice?” he asked, and– it was a test.

Shane didn’t even know why Ilya was doing that now, not only in public in front of his entire team, but also when something between them was so fragile.

They bickered, a lot. That was how they flirted, kind of their foreplay, Shane knew that. They didn’t ever really fight.

Except that one thing, that was the same thing they had been fighting about even before they started dating, and that still wasn’t resolved, even getting worse, and the more they learned about each other, the more they spend time together, the more it fed into it and it was growing, all the things they were not saying–

Well, Ilya was talking about it, and Shane was fixing it.

He didn’t know when this thing with food became part of The Fight. Ilya seemed to compare it to his own situation, which was way out.

Situation, uh?

Struggle. Ilya was struggling with depression, isolation, and being stuck in the closet with Shane.

Because it was his fault the situation wasn't fun. Shane wasn't a fun person, he was boring. So that definitely didn’t help.

If he was more fun, more sociable, more normal, maybe the hiding one-self wouldn’t be so dire.

Did Ilya wish he would have fallen in love with a woman, or a more interesting man, at least?

No, Shane couldn’t think like that. He had asked, asked Ilya if he wanted this to go away. He had given him an out, and he had said he didn’t.

Did his mind change now that he was actively living through it?

“You know where the bathroom is,” Ilya said suddenly, in a completely different tangent, cutting through Shane’s spiralling thoughts.

“What?”

“You said you–“, Ilya started to say, before nodding towards the corridor leading to the bedrooms, “you should go before–“

“Oh, I’ve already been,” Shane said, his body turning slightly back towards where he had come from.

“What?” Ilya said, a deep frown between his brows reappearing.

Shane wasn't sure what he did wrong this time. But before he could try to figure it out, someone popped next to them.

“Hello,” Luca Haas said with an awkward smile while showing teeth as he gave a small wave.

Shane had to look away from Ilya, not sure he could keep the pretence in front of everyone else if he was shown how he messed up again.

“Hi,” he replied to the young hockey player, new on Ilya’s team. “Uh, I’m Shane,” he said, extending his hand to him.

“Oh, I know,” Haas said, with a large smile. “I’m a big fan.”

“You said you’re my biggest fan,” Ilya pouted next to him, and the right winger’s smile fell, eyes widening.

“Oh no you are!”

“Yeah, he just said he’s a big fan, not the biggest,” Shane said, matter-of-factly. Ilya turned to look at him.

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant, Mister Hollander!”

“Mister,” both Shane and Ilya said at the same time, Shane wincing while Ilya appeared delighted.

“Please call me Shane. Or anything else, but Mister.”

“Mister Hollander,” Ilya repeated in a sing-song way, the same way he did when he teased Shane on some of his quirks.

That settled something in Shane, and at least, Ilya didn’t appear too upset with him. So Shane just shook his head, smiling anyway.

“I’m sorry… Shane,” Haas said, and that got a laugh out of Ilya as the kid visibly pulled his head between his shoulders.

Ilya was being called outside to the grill, where more Centaurs hung around, and Shane couldn’t go with him because they were just casual friends in this moment, nothing more and barely anything less, so he stayed. Haas wasn't bad, to be honest. Actually, he was definitely smart and Shane felt a kinship on his interest about hockey.

They talked, longer than Shane ever talked with someone from the Centaurs. Probably longer than he talked with someone from his own team who weren't Hayden or J.J. For sure he never talked that long about hockey with either of them, with Hayden’s eyes tending to glaze over while he nodded like those Japanese cats, and J.J. fully asking him to shut up.

It was with this thought in mind that Shane stopped in the middle of sentence, coming to the realisation that he had been talking for a really long time about hockey, and even if Haas looked interested, it was still a lot, and the kid was probably too nice to stop him.

At least, when he went on like that with his mom, she would direct him towards the end or find the conclusion for him. She had a nice way to do it, also more patient than most, mostly because she was the one feeding into it in the beginning.

With Ilya, his monologues rarely got this bad. Ilya never just listened to him, instead choosing to debate, egging him on, trying to make him say what Ilya wanted in a very obvious way, and it riled Shane up as much as he loved it. He never ended one of those conversations with Ilya with the sentiment he had been too much, because the conversations never really ended, Ilya generally eating the words right out of his mouth with mind-blowing kisses or Shane on his back on the nearest surface.

Or on his hands and knees. Or on Ilya’s lap. Or–

He left Luca Haas in the middle of the room, after clamping his mouth shut so hard, Shane wasn't sure he would manage to articulate any other words today.

But he couldn’t afford that. He had to be normal today, and not talking was even weirder than talking too much about hockey.

He had just left Luca Hass in the middle of the room.

Was Shane losing his mind? What was wrong with him? Haas would probably hate him now.

Well, they did say never meet your heroes.

Shane needed to be slammed into the boards, right now. Right this moment, he needed the equivalent of Cliff Marlow rocking his shit so he could hit his head hard enough to rearrange his brain so he could act like a normal person.

He made his way outside. Most of the Centaurs’ family members were there, with now Zayne Boodram sitting on the arm of one the chairs, a beautiful woman half sitting on his lap, while Ilya was mending the grill, Barrett on the other side of it.

Shane wanted to go wrap himself around Ilya, bury his face at the back of his neck, into his t-shirt, where his smell was stronger and he didn’t have to worry about anything.

He looked away.

Ilya’s house was on the river. Right down from where they were on the patio deck, there was a large expanse of grass, and then the bank. It was beautiful. Ilya had picked it.

“I know you like the water,” he had said, and Shane was still puzzled about that, because he didn’t think he did.

“Hollander, are you hungry?” Boodram suddenly called, and Shane felt like a deer caught in the headlights, as everyone’s attention turned to him, apart from Ilya, still facing the grill, whose shoulders seemed to be higher than normal.

“I’ll go get–“ with a shake of his head, Shane pointed back at the house with his thumb over his shoulder, didn’t finish his sentence, and did not run back inside. He was pretty sure his name was called again, but one couldn’t be sure, especially as he pushed the sliding door to an almost close behind him.

“You’re good here?” someone said behind him, and Shane was proud of himself for still being as normal as he could be, which was not very much, but it was still a lot considering how overwhelmed he was getting.

Wyatt Hayes raised his hands in a placating manner when Shane turned to look at him.

“Sorry, I really didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s– I’m not scared,” Shane replied, struggling to swallow the spit accumulating at the back of his throat.

Hayes simply gave him a nod and averted his gaze to turn to look at the outside.

“That’s a nice place Rozy got here,” he said instead, casually.

Shane wanted–needed to run. But he was trying to be normal, and normal people didn’t run away from small talk. And Hayes wasn't looking at him anymore, so at least, there was that.

“Yeah. I love the water,” Shane said. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“I know,” Hayes agreed enthusiastically, taking a sip of his beer. “You don’t have that in Toronto. I guess not in Montreal either.”

And it was– it was just a mindless comment. Shane was living in Montreal, after all. Nothing to tick about.

Shane couldn’t breathe.

“You’re from around here, aren’t you?”

“Uh?”

“Your family is from Ottawa, no?” Hayes repeated, looking at him now. Shane nodded as he forced his breathing to be even, while his heart was racing in his chest. “Do you often come back?”

The conversation was stupid.

No, not stupid. It was plain, it was normal territory. Why did it feel like he had stumbled into a torture chamber?

“Sometimes,” he forced himself to articulate, and Hayes hummed as he took another sip. “But I have a cottage a couple hours from here, and I usually go there more often.”

See? He could do normal.

Except– except Wyatt Hayes’ reaction was not normal, as he froze, bottle halfway raised to his lips.

It was brief, and he blinked, definitely schooling his face, as he said a small oh.

“I need–“ Shane said, doing the same motion of pointing over his shoulder, didn’t wait for Hayes to say something, anything else, before he turned around and went…

Honestly, anywhere else. Might even go back to the bathroom.

Maybe get some fresh air, at the front door.

Maybe walk back to his car.

Mayble climb behind the wheel.

Maybe turn the key in the ignition.

Maybe drive away.

To go where, anyway?

Back to Montreal?

The brutal recoiling at the thought surprised him.

Beyond that, it would definitely make Ilya sad, which was the last thing Shane wanted. He would be so sad, with the renewed example that Shane wasn't making any effort for him, pointing out everything Shane couldn’t do because he was weak, and he kind of sucked as a boyfriend.

Ilya mattered more than Shane’s inability to be normal for five minutes. Realistically, the Centaurs didn’t have to like him. He didn’t have to be perfect, he had to be there. They could find him weird, but they wouldn’t be the first. His team thought he was weird before they hated him and that was fine.

Everyone always thought he was weird. Even his parents did. Ilya probably too, but he must find it endearing, or else there really wouldn’t be any reason for him to like Shane, let alone love him.

Halfway to the powder room, Shane turned back around and came back into the kitchen, Hayes nowhere to be found, thank god.

Shane decide to take his phone out. That was normal behaviour, you didn’t have to be talking all the time at parties. Everyone was on their phone all the time.

He wished he didn’t this time, though.

The Metros’ group chat was active, like it had been the previous day about a party for a few of the guys’ birthdays. Maybe the added practice had changed their plans.

Mitty [03:17pm]

We can just go to Ziggy’s

On Thursday

Drapeau [03:18pm]

Thursday sucks

I fucking hate this

Gagnon [3:18pm]

Ouais, bah tu sais à qui te plaindre

Comeau [3:20pm]

D’ailleurs

Elle sera là l’autre folle ou pas ?

Mitty [3:20pm]

Comeau

Fuck you

Delete this

J.J. [3:21pm]

Putain Comeau

Supprime

Drapeau [3:22pm]

Mais t’es con

Tu vas te foutre dans la merde

J.J. [3:23pm]

Supprime

Hayden [3:24pm]

Fucking delete this you fucking piece of shit

His stomach hurt and Shane couldn’t catch his breath. In his chest, his heart was racing like it was trying to escape. The ringing in his ears bothered him enough he couldn’t refrain from tapping his knuckles against them.

Another message came through, on his and Hayden’s chat.

Hayden [3:28]

Don’t go on the team’s chat

Don’t open it

Shane closed his eyes, head tilted down and phone clenched between his hands, trying to will his breathing to calm down and heart to settle.

The ringing hurt, a headache starting to build behind his eyes and into his jaw.

“–Hollander?”

Shane looked up at Dykstra, who had just said his name, the defenceman eyeing him from behind the main fridge door.

“What?”

“Do you want a beer?”

“I can’t find the glasses,” Chouinard said, appearing from behind the kitchen island.

“What?” Shane repeated, completely lost.

“The beer glasses?” Chouinard said, looking at him like he just noticed Shane being involved in the conversation.

“Roz got Russian beers he says is better than German,” Dykstra explained. “I’ll believe it when I see it– or taste it. They’re not in this fridge,” he added, closing the door disappointedly.

“Next to the spice drawer,” Shane said before he could really think about it, because it caught the two defencemen by surprise, as they exchanged a look before looking down at the kitchen island, pulling open some doors and drawers, until they exclaimed.

“You wouldn’t know where the glasses are, would you?” Chouinard asked tentatively as Dykstra pulled two beer bottles out.

Third top cabinets from the left, Shane’s brain supplied. Same as at the cottage, because Ilya had liked his organisation and applied it to his new house.

He just shook his head though, because Dykstra then eyed him suspiciously.

“Sorry,” he said, as he shook his head a second time, and went back to the powder room. He should have gone in the first place, like he had planned, so he could have opened his messages there and have a mental breakdown in peace.

Instead, he was going to be sick, Comeau’s words inked at the back of his eyelids so he kept seeing them everytime he blinked.

Except someone was already using the toilets, apparently, and Shane almost sobbed. He could get out, go back to his car, not to leave, just to take a breather.

But he wanted to go back go find Ilya, hug him tight, ask to be held tight back, his thoracic cage squeezed and his heart squashed so that it would stop hurting so bad.

He couldn’t do that, though, because it was a party, and people were having fun, Ilya was happy with his friends and team, and Shane couldn’t ruin that.

He needed to pull himself back together. He needed to push everything back behind closed door, quiet down everything, even if it was just for right now.

He needed to pretend everything was fine. It didn’t have to be true, he didn’t have to stop the pain to do so, but for Ilya, for the harmless party he was hosting to introduce Shane to his team, even if it was just as friends, Shane had to stand up.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated, and Shane wondered when he had taken it off Do Not Disturb. What he didn’t need was to read either more messages from his teammates, or from Hayden to ask him to not look.

The rational side of him wanted to take control of the situation. Grab his phone, screenshot what Comeau had said, drive back to Montreal and show up to management and force them to confront the situation that, sure, maybe Shane had put himself in, but surely, it didn’t make it right. Surely, he didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

He was just gay after all, it wasn't a crime. Well, actually, it was, in several countries, his boyfriend’s included, but in Canada, in Montreal, it wasn't.

Technically, it didn’t concern anyone. Of course, he couldn’t really use that because that was kind of what Ilya didn’t agree with. Because gay was still the odd one out, and they couldn’t just be without making it a whole affair.

It didn’t even matter he was gay, it didn’t change how he played! For god’s sake, he had been gay all this time, and he had won Stanley Cups nonetheless.

Why did they have to hurt him for it?

Why did it have to hurt in the first place?

Shane was back standing awkwardly in the liminal space between the sofa and the kitchen stools, Dykstra and Chouinard finishing pouring their beers into a glass.

“What the hell is that?” Ilya exclaimed, making Shane jump as he didn’t notice him coming inside. The repugnance in his tone made Shane cower, but when he glanced up, Ilya was looking at his teammates.

“Man, we couldn’t find the glasses!” Chouinard said offendedly.

“So you decided to waste very good beer with worst glass you could find?”

He was being dramatic, because it was just the normal glasses they drank water out of. Also, Ilya stood closer to him now, and even if his head was turned towards his teammates, his body was angled towards Shane’s.

Against Shane’s leg, in the pocket of his trousers, his phone vibrated with a call.

“You could also have just asked,” Ilya added with disdain. Shane held his breath that he wouldn’t mention that he also knew where the glasses where.

“Hollzy already told us where the beers were– by the way, you have far too many fridges, man. What do you use that for?”

“Is to avoid cross-contamination,” Ilya replied pedantically, repeating the word Shane had used to explain to him his own reason for having different fridges at the cottage.

Shane wanted to kiss him, right where he was at eye level with, on his cheek, behind his jaw and under his ear, where the patch of skin made Ilya shiver when touched.

He averted his gaze, looking the opposite side to the kitchen, hoping no one had noticed.

Dykstra snorted.

“Okay, snob.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Ilya said matter-of-factly.

“It’s when someone has expensive taste,” Shane replied instantly, still not looking, “and thinks that are above everyone else because of it.”

“Oh, like Posh Spice!” Ilya exclaimed then, and of course he would gather that from the definition. At least, it made Shane smile and nod. “Yes, I am snob,” he added with the returning disdain tone. “Russian beer is best in the world and deserves to be treated as such.”

“You know what, I’m not even arguing with you anymore. Haas literally brought German beer the other day, I won’t hear any slander like that,” Dykstra replied, to which Ilya gasped dramatically while Chouinard cackled.

The two probably left, their voices fading as the sound of the window bay sliding was followed by relative quiet.

His phone vibrated again.

There were still people around, family of the Centaurs, chatting reasonably on the sofa. Shane would know, because his gaze had fallen to the wall slightly on the left of where they were sitting down.

“You were right,” Ilya said lowly, and Shane’s eyes briefly darted back to him, to a mole on his throat that Shane was familiar with, unable to look at his face, meet his eyes.

“Hm?” he said instead, trying to control his breathing so it didn’t show he was hyperventilating, also trying to rein in his rabid heartbeat.

“I hate this, I hate party.” That surprised Shane, and his stomach hurt because, had something happened? “I’m wasting time I could spend with you, having to pretend I don’t want to hold you and kiss you all the time–“

“Ilya,” Shane warned, gaze shifting to the people on the sofa, in their own conversation.

“Was stupid idea. We have so little time already and I’m at grill making chicken you won’t even eat.”

The reaction was instantaneous, a violent shiver running through Shane at the same time his phone vibrated again.

Ilya lifted a hand towards him, reaching for his face, but stopped himself short, letting it drop back down.

Shane still couldn’t look at him, not just that Ilya would read everything on his face, but because he was on the verge of the precipice.

“You can’t say that,” he managed to articulate, voice coming out tight. “It matters to you.”

“You matter to me,” Ilya replied, and he must have leaned forward, because he wasn't speaking louder but it felt like he was in Shane’s ear.

“I’m sorry,” Shane blurted out, looking down now, not taking the risk to be seen by anyone.

Nothing happened for a long moment and Shane needed that to gather himself a bit, try to swallow the emotions back in, to keep them under lock. But by the end of his first and only deep breath in, Ilya grabbed him by the arm and pulled to follow him.

“Come,” his gravelly accent didn’t leave room for argument, even if Shane worried someone would notice their closeness.

He was about to argue when he realized Ilya was dragging him to his bedroom, but he wasn't given time to do so as he was planted in the middle of the room, a step away from the end of the bed, as Ilya closed the door behind him.

“Why are you sorry?” Ilya’s hand was around his chin in an instant, lifting it up so Shane had nowhere to hide. He closed his eyes. “What are you sorry for?” Ilya insisted, gently shaking his head from side to side.

“I know this matter to you.”

“You matter to me,” Ilya repeated. “This was stupid. I don’t want party, I don’t want anything if is not you. I don’t want anything that makes you sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Shane sniffed, and he knew his bottom lip trembled as he said it. “It’s not that, okay? It’s not you, I’m just–“ he started to say, not knowing if it was time, if he was finally going to admit what was going on, when his phone started to vibrate again in his pocket.

A frustrated sob wrecked out of between his lips, before he pulled the phone out and threw it across the room, a loud thud as it hit the door leading to the ensuite bathroom, followed by a softer thud when it fell on the floor.

He was losing the battle against the tears threatening to escape. He tried to dislodge his chin from Ilya’s hold, but he didn’t waver.

“Shane–“

“I like your teammates,” Shane started, half heaving as he tried to swallow the tears back in. “They sound like they like you, like they want to be closer to you and I know it’s not fair that you can’t tell them everything about you. Do I think it would be different if they knew about you, about us, I–I… I don’t know, maybe?” Shane cried weakly, finally opening his eyes, meeting Ilya’s, whose mouth was slightly ajar and his brows drown together as he took Shane’s expression in.

“They are super nice, and they feel like your friends, maybe like brothers, but like… what if they change once they know? What if they don’t want to hang out with you anymore? What if they don’t want to talk, what if they can’t look at you, what if they stop working with you on the ice, what if they throw you against the boards, what if they call you fa–“ Shane clamped his mouth shut before the word could escape him. “You… that’s not fair, okay? I know it’s my fault, but I don’t want you to be alone here after you left everything behind for me. You deserve so much more than that.”

So much more than me.

At one point, Ilya had let go of his chin, instead both hands holding Shane’s face, while Shane was having an internal battle to hold his gaze, but his eyes kept shifting to the side. He had to bat his eyelids, recentre, focus, but they would always start to stray again.

“Breathe,” Ilya said softly. Shane tried to take in his expression, understand what he was talking about. “Breathe,” Ilya repeated more insistently, grabbing Shane by the jaw and squishing his cheeks.

Shane was losing the battle with his eyes, drifting to the left, not unlike his first car after he fucked up the suspensions.

“Shane,” Ilya’s voice cut through the memory, sharp and loud, “breathe.”

It was accompanied with a pat on his cheek.

That was enough to realign a few things in his brain, first his eyes, but also coming to the realisation he had stopped breathing at some point during his speech, maybe when he stopped himself from saying a slur.

He gasped into focus, Ilya’s eyes widening as he nodded in appreciation.

“Yes,” he whispered, one hand sliding to his throat, staying warm there. “Back with me?”

Shane nodded.

“Okay, you listen to me now,” Ilya said, leaning closer, their noses almost touching while Shane was pretty sure he was going cross-eyed, but Ilya didn’t let go of him. “Is not your fault. Nothing is your fault. I decided to come here. I decided to leave Boston, because I wanted to be closer to you. No one makes me do something, not even you, Shane Hollander. I do. I decide for myself, yes?” that seemed to warrant a response, so Shane gave a curt nod. “I did it for you, is true but because I love you. Is hard, yes. But was hard before too, in Boston. Was worse in Boston, because of different country and there wasn't seeing each other after practice. But you make it better. You make it worth it, Shane. When I’m with you, everything is perfect.”

“But you get sad,” Shane said through a small sob. “I’m not here enough and you’re alone and I–“

“Is my problem, not yours,” Ilya said firmly.

“Yes, it is,” Shane replied with the same tone. “Yes, it is. For better or for worse–“

“–in sickness and health, yes, wedding vows, Hollander, we haven’t signed those yet,” Ilya tried to deflect, tried to put figurative distance between them as he swallowed heavily and broke eye contact.

“Not yet,” Shane said, eyes following Ilya’s so he could bring his focus back onto him. “And if you don’t want, never. But it still applies. I want to make it better, even though I feel like I’m making it worse. This– today was supposed to be helping, and I still made it worse.”

“I want,” Ilya breathed out.

“What?”

“You said if I don’t want, but I want. I want that, wedding vows, for better or for worse, in sickness and health–“

Shane pulled him in to wrap his arms around his shoulders, but Ilya was already there, burrowing his face against Shane’s throat while his hands gripped the back of his shirt.

For a while, they simply held onto each other, faces buried against each other’s throat, breathing in their smell, let the warmth of comfort through them. Shane had almost forgotten everything that was not fine, when the kisses Ilya peppered along his skin got higher and higher, whispers of Russian pressed into him.

Against the corner of his lips, Shane recognized ya tebya lyublyu intertwined with I love you, making him feel like he could breathe again.

One hand now tangled in Ilya’s hair, the other holding onto his shirt for dear life, Shane wanted to forget everything else.

The world outside didn’t look bright.

In Ilya’s arms, his kisses and love pressed into him, it hurt to go back out there knowing they will have to hide, that they couldn’t be all of this in public. When he had come up with the plan to wait after their retirement, it sounded fine. They had spent almost a decade in a secret and in the closet, and if it had its challenges, Shane had thought they could do it again, that knowing they had each other for life would be enough.

He had not considered it would feel worse.

But the alternative of coming out was physically paining him, a sharp stab in the stomach and a twist of the guts, making heave at the thought of a world that looked like the Metros’ locker room.

“You don’t do anything wrong,” Ilya said against his lips, and Shane nodded even if he didn’t believe him. “I am asking a lot from you. I know is hard and you’re scared. I don’t want to make you scared.”

This time, Shane shake his head negatively.

“It’s not–“ but it was.

“I want to tell everyone about you, how much I love you, and is what hurts, because I have to keep all inside me, even when my body is too full of you. I promise is not dirty.” Shane let out a wet chuckle, as Ilya pressed another kiss under his eye. “But pain is fine in comparison to the pain I feel when I see you like today.”

Shane tried to hide the crumbling of his face by returning to Ilya’s throat, but he didn’t let him, also having intertwined his fingers into Shane’s hair at the back of his head.

“Who is throwing you against the boards?” the question, seemingly coming out of nowhere, was asked so lightly, like Ilya was asking about the weather, and his face was completely blank, if not for the slight pursing of his lips.

As if on cue, his phone started to vibrate again. Ilya’s gaze didn’t drift throughout the call, as Shane was gasping for air, mind coming short of something to say.

“I–“ Shane started, unsure what he was about to say, and Ilya arched an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

“Are you gonna lie to me, Shane Hollander?”

“It’s fine,” Shane said, not even recognizing his own voice. Ilya sniffed and rubbed his nose, eyes roaming over his face.

“So if I ask Pike, he will also say is fine?”

How Ilya was always so fucking perceptive sometimes drove Shane mad. Not in anger, but in bafflement that he himself seemed to miss signs and cues all the time.

“My team, yes, friends,” Ilya then carried on as if everything was normal. “Like brothers… sure. That they change after they know about me, or me and you, maybe. I don’t think so, but people can always surprise you. Or what is word, deceive? Dispoint?”

“Disappoint,” Shane filled in, and Ilya hummed.

“Yes, people can always disappoint you. They can do that, they are allowed. They are not allowed to hurt you, though. They are not allowed to throw you into boards. Or call you slurs.”

Shane nodded as he pinched his lips together.

“Who calls you slurs, Shane?” Ilya asked, danger in his voice now.

“It’s fine, I got it handled,” Shane replied, and he wished he would be more convincing if he wasn't heaving between words.

He watched Ilya rolled his jaw, clenched his teeth and the muscle ripple under his skin. A long breath out through his nose.

“Does Yuna know?” he asked then.

Of course she was first on his mind. Especially lately, a lot.

Beyond Montreal being her team, she had loved forever now, Shane remembered. He remembered when the worst thing about him was that he looked Asian. He remembered her expression when she thought he couldn’t see her, after the soy sauce incident, and how hurt she had been. He remembered the affirmations she had insisted he learnt, and the grief as she was held in his dad’s arms, for her little boy who did nothing wrong.

Did it cross his mind she would side with Montreal? Sure, the dark thoughts murmured into his ears.

Realistically, she would probably be heartbroken. Disappointed by her team at best, betrayed at worst.

He muffled his sobs into the shoulder of Ilya’s shirt, as he was held so tight he didn’t know how there was any room left for air. But he needed that.

“Does anyone know?” Ilya’s voice was so kind, so gentle, like a balm to the pain in his throat, where the words were stuck.

Shane simply shook his head negatively, and Ilya pressed a kiss against his temple.

“Pike?”

Shane’s breath stuttered there, and he knew he needed to pull himself together, to defend his best friend, who was doing his best, even if Shane didn’t let him much.

“He’s the only one,” Shane said hoarsely, resting his chin on Ilya’s shoulder.

“The only one,” Ilya repeated softly as his nose rubbed into Shane’s hair. “Is him, trying to call you?” Shane shrugged. “What happened?”

Shane leaned back, still in Ilya’s arms, leaving a wet spot on his shoulder. He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“It’s not too bad. I’m tired, I’m overreacting,” and his body, the traitor, gave a heaving breath again as he said that.

Ilya looked at him with sadness.

“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”

“No,” Shane replied, shaking his head. “I’m still faster than them, most of the times,” he chuckled humourlessly. Ilya didn’t seem to find it funny.

“So they are trying to hurt you.”

Shane didn’t react.

Ilya let out a controlled breath.

“Why is Pike trying to call you? Is it because of slur?”

“Kind of,” Shane admitted, not seeing any point pretending anymore. He had feared an angry reaction from Ilya, something explosive that Shane couldn’t–didn’t want to argue with.

But he was calm, speaking slowly and articulating each word like he was weighing them down before releasing them. He was holding onto Shane tightly, but he wasn't complaining about that. Shane probably needed it more than Ilya.

“Okay, and?” Ilya insisted with a little shake of the head.

“It’s not like, the f-one–“

“Faggot,” Ilya spat out, making Shane wince. “I got called that before, I feel like I’m allowed to say,” he said as a matter of fact.

“Yeah, me too,” Shane replied without thinking.

“You too?” that was the first time Ilya’s voice rose, as he tilted his head in search of Shane’s eyes. “By your team?” Shane didn’t confirm, but the absence of an answer was enough.

Ilya took a deep inhale and held it in for a while, until he released it slow and measured.

“So, this time wasn't f-slur, but was something else,” he said, tone back to casual.

“It’s a French one, and it’s not really a slur.”

“Oh, now they are polyglot,” Ilya muttered through clenched teeth.

The phone vibrated again. Ilya took a deep breath.

“Can I get your phone?”

Shane shrugged. Ilya detangled them, and Shane wasn't proud to say he almost whimpered, but as he bent down, Ilya still didn’t let go of his hand.

“Yuna is asking if everything is alright,” was the first thing Ilya said upon unlocking Shane’s phone, typing his password mindlessly. Shane gasped.

“Did she say anything? Did she call?”

“No calls. Just asking if everything is alright.” Shane rubbed his eyes. “Pike called ten times,” Ilya carried on while pressing himself back into Shane’s personal space, “Boiziau called once, And only one text from him.” Shane had to turn his head to the side, the tingling in his nose as he bit his bottom lip while trying to quench the pain. “Don’t go to management, he didn’t mean it like that. Hm. Pike says–“

“I don’t want to know,” Shane whimpered.

“Is good one,” Ilya said casually, but he let his arm holding the phone drop by his side. Shane just shook his head. Ilya came to press his mouth against his temple, staying there as Shane shook, trying to contain the cries. “Shane,” his name was said with so much reverence and he knew what that meant, so he shook his head again. “Sólnyshko,” followed and Shane sobbed. “Moya Lyubov. Sweetheart–”

“I don’t know what to do,” Shane admitted as he pressed both hands against his eyes. Ilya’s hands wrapped around his wrists, anchoring him.

“What are you thinking? Tell me, Lyubimiy. Anything you want, I do.”

“I think,” Shane heaved, terrified to say out loud something that had been haunting his mind for a while now, “I think I don’t like playing hockey with them anymore.”

The words were said in the whisper of a breath.

Nothing never got to Shane. Even during his teen years, even with the soy sauce incident, he loved hockey more than he cared about what people thought. Also, after the soy sauce situation, it had kind of stopped. Teen boys had the attention span of a fly, and even if he would still get comments sometimes, once on the ice, no one cared who was under the padding and helmet.

Shane started regretting what he had just said because maybe he just needed more time. Six months wasn't that long. Maybe six more would help.

“Then you don’t play hockey with them anymore,” Ilya said with a gentleness that Shane wasn't used to. Not that his boyfriend wasn't gentle, because he was, more than anything else, but they rarely sugar-coated what they said to each other. Their relationship was built on bluntness, and once they had opened up about their emotions and feelings, it applied to that too.

Shane also didn’t like to be coddled, and yet, Ilya’s words burned more than anything else he could have said. He had not expected Ilya to try to change his mind. No, what he had aimed for was for his boyfriend to push back and tell him firmly that he needed to drop his team, so that Shane could say that he was the Captain, it was the team that drafted him, and the one he had planned to finish his career with, his jersey in the rafters forever.

But Ilya knew all of that. He said it in a way that implied all of that.

Shane was going to be sick.

He pushed against Ilya’s hold, tried to turn to the bathroom, but his movements were sluggish and Ilya refused to let go of him.

“I need– I think I’m gonna throw up,” he managed to articulate childishly, but then, he was pulled after Ilya into the bathroom, and yes– yep, there it was.

He didn’t have much to vomit apart his ginger ale and some bile, which burned a bit.

He remained on his knees for he didn’t know how long, forehead resting on his arm on the toilet seat, which he did find gross, even though he knew Ilya was extremely peculiar about cleaning up before Shane came over.

But he felt lightheaded, the room spinning around him, the only anchor Ilya’s hand rubbing up and down along his back, until he gave him some water to sip on.

Shane was sure then he wasn't going to be sick again, so he let his boyfriend sit him down on the floor, back resting against the bathtub.

“I’m sincerely sorry I ruined your party,” he articulated when he stopped feeling dizzy.

“Hollander, don’t say stupid shit,” Ilya grunted as he typed furiously on his phone.

“Maybe if I stay here until it finishes, you can tell them I had to go because of practice–“

“You’re not going to practice,” Ilya replied instantly, tone softening.

“No, I know,” and did he? Apparently he did, because when considering the idea, it was obvious to him that, no, he wasn't going to practice tomorrow. “But I don’t know if I can pretend anymore tonight.”

Ilya took his eyes off his phone, turning his attention back onto Shane. He didn’t know what he saw, but the next moment Ilya was leaning his forehead against his, a hand at the back of his neck, squeezing it succinctly.

“I’m sorry I made you pretend,” Ilya said hoarsely, which confused Shane.

“You didn’t–“

“I made you parade around while you had to go through that,” he said, lifting his phone up.

“You didn’t– I wanted to. And it’s fine, you can tell your teammates. About us. We can tell everyone. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

The look of devastation on Ilya’s face would have been the nail in the coffin if his boyfriend didn’t hurry to ask, “what do you mean, it doesn’t matter anymore?”

Shane shrugged.

“I can’t do this again. Montreal is either looking into trading me or not renewing my contract by the end of the season. Maybe I should just come out publicly now, so that I can see how teams react before I pick one, you know. If any even will even want me.” Shane didn’t really believe into what he was saying, but if his world was ending, might as well go all the way.

“I obviously would want to come out about us, but you have more on the line than me, between Russia and your visa. You care about hockey too, you’ve already sacrificed so much– not just because of me, but by leaving your country in the first place. I don’t mind if you want to be out to your team, is what I’m trying to say. They seem like good people and look like they sincerely like you for you. If you want to wait to secure a citizenship, or after retirement, you know I would obviously support you and be by your side in any way possible. Because I love you. So much. And so much more than hockey.”

Ilya held his gaze for a moment there. Not searching the truth on Shane’s face, just taking him in.

“I know that,” he eventually said, and Shane shook his head.

“No, you don’t, and that’s alright. It’s my fault, I’ll just have to prove it.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Is not your fault. Nothing is your fault,” Ilya insisted, and Shane sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “And I don’t care about Russia.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, I do. You have your niece, and… you wouldn’t be able to go back.”

“I know,” Ilya said with a flippant shrug.

“What about your mom?” Shane didn’t want to mention her, but it was always at the forefront of his mind everytime they mentioned coming out publicly.

“It’s not something for you to worry about.”

“The hell it is! Didn’t we just exchange vows about that?” he tried to aim for a lighter tone of voice, especially after the sombre tone Ilya had just used, but god forbid Shane knew how to do something about his voice. He couldn’t have gone flatter if he had wanted to.

“Not right now. About the worrying. Marriage will be soon–“ Ilya’s face was so expressive that Shane caught his own attempt at lighting up the mood, and at least, his version worked as Shane chuckled.

“How do you want to do one without dealing with the other?”

“I don’t know, how do you play hockey without facing rampant homophobia surrounding you?”

“Fuck you,” Shane replied with a measly push, no heat in his voice. “I’m so tired,” he added, dropping his head on Ilya’s shoulder, his boyfriend immediately bringing his hand to tangle into his hair while also making sure to keep him there.

Ilya hummed. Shane felt when he took a deep breath and braced himself to be told something he probably didn’t want to hear.

“You need to tell Yuna. Not just because she’s your mother, but she’s also your manager.”

“I know,” Shane whined into Ilya’s shirt. “But…”

“But what, Lyubimiy?”

“What if she thinks it’s my fault, and I ruined the Metros’ chances for another cup?”

“Sweetheart,” Ilya said against his forehead as he pressed a kiss there, “you know she would never think that.”

“It’s just… it’s my fault for telling my team. No one comes out in hockey except if they’re Scott Hunter. Ilya scoffed at that. “Like I put myself in this situation.”

“No one would think that, even less your mother.”

“I don’t know,” Shane said as he leaned back all while Ilya kept his hand at the back of his head, not letting him avoid his eyes, and that made the tears spilled again. “I don’t want to make her sad either. It’s her favourite team, even before I was born.”

“I think,” Ilya started slowly, “that you both love hockey really much, so much that sometimes, you forget there are other things you love more. And maybe sometimes, the people around you also forget you love them more than hockey.”

Inside his chest felt tight, like there was a fire growing that was swallowing all the air out of him. Shane blinked.

“I love you more than hockey,” he said while holding Ilya’s gaze.

“I know, Moya Lyubov,” Ilya replied softly.

Ilya went to kiss him, but Shane remembered he had just been sick, turning his face just in time. Ilya whined.

“I really ruined your party,” Shane said before he could be coaxed into kissing him nonetheless.

“Party doesn’t matter. Centaurs can entertain themselves.”

“I’m surprised no one has been looking for you.”

“I told them I had emergency.”

Shane frowned.

“When?”

“By text,” Ilya said, eyes roaming over Shane’s face, before he grimaced, “when I asked Barrett for translation.”

“Translation of what?” Shane asked, confused why Ilya would ask Troy Barrett of all people.

“He’s familiar with homophobia by doing it for long time, and he speaks French.”

Shane couldn’t help the snort that came out of him.

“Wow. Brutal.”

“Is good he doesn’t forget where he comes from, you know.”

“He was a closeted gay man,” Shane said, as if it was enough of an explanation.

“So were you, Dusha moya. Still is, mostly.”

Shane took a deep breath in.

“What did you ask him to translate?” Shane asked, even though he kind of knew already, and Ilya’s face confirmed it.

“That word, I cannot pronounce it. Not just because is gross but also is French. Double gross.”

“It’s not the worst.”

“Yes, French is really creative, has more ways to call people slurs. We shouldn’t reward.”

They sat in silence for a while, until Ilya leaned in to kiss him again, aiming for the cheek this time.

“I might have to tell my team, about us. Because next time we play Montreal, I will be suspended for many games.”

“Ilya!”

“I will have to let Yuna deal with them, but I cannot pretend is fine, Shane.”

“No, I… we’ll see, okay? Maybe there won’t be anything to be done. When I… the first time they chirped me with a slur, Theriault was close enough to hear it but pretended he didn’t. I mentioned to management my team was struggling with teamwork, and they said it was my responsibility as the captain to keep the cohesion.”

It was Ilya’s turn to take a tense inhale.

“Shane,” he started to say, and Shane came to the same realisation.

“I can’t keep playing with them,” he dropped his forehead back on Ilya’s shoulder.

“I’m so worried about you, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think it can get worse.”

“Comeau feels brave enough he writes things like that for you to have proof. He knows he has nothing to worry about. I don’t want to imagine you in locker room alone with them.”

“Hayden’s there.”

“Yes, teeny-tiny Pike is going to fight twenty hockey players.”

“He’s my height. And I can also fight, by the way.”

“Yes, Moy svirepyy malen'kiy kotenok,” Ilya pressed another kiss onto his hair.

“I don’t know what veerip is,” Shane admitted with a horrendous accent, turning to look at Ilya. His boyfriend cooed.

“My,” a kiss on his nose, “ferocious”, another on his left cheek, “little,” one on the right cheek, “kitten,” and Ilya finished with the last kiss on his lips. Shane recoiled with a noise, while Ilya was cackling. At least, his mouth had been closed.

“Gross, Ilya.”

“Why, is you.”

“Yes, gross for you. I knew I should have brushed my teeth,” Shane mumbled as he stood up, detangling himself from being half sprawled across Ilya’s lap, and picking his toothbrush standing next to Ilya’s.

Ilya stood next to him, leaning against the counter, as he watched Shane brushed his teeth like you studied a wild animal in its natural habitat.

Through the second buzz of the electric toothbrush, Shane frowned at him, slightly angling himself away from the prying eyes. But Ilya simply smirked, turning to face Shane’s body completely, his eyes on the mirror now, where he seemed to have an ever-better view.

Shane grunted.

“Wha’?” he asked with a mouthful of toothpaste.

“I love you,” Ilya said, still smirking. Shane rolled his eyes, but it also was hard to not dribble while smiling around the toothbrush.

After rinsing his mouth and splashing some water over his face, Ilya handed him a soft towel to dry himself with.

“Is that new?”

“Yes. Special one.”

“Didn’t you buy new ones when you moved?”

“Yes, but you said they were bad for your skin,” Ilya explained matter-of-factly. Shane’s mouth dropped open.

“Not bad–“

“No, I know,” Ilya waved him off and rolled his eyes without any heat, “your perfect freckles are sensitive and if is not millions cotton layers, your perfect skin hurts,” Ilya stepped into his space as his hands found Shane’s waist, bringing their bodies together. Shane wrapped his arms around his boyfriend’s shoulders, unable to hide his smile, matched on Ilya’s face as he leaned closer.

The kiss was soft, gentle. It remained close-mouthed, innocent at first, and Shane was surprised, and a bit disappointed that Ilya wasn’t trying to get his way until he felt the smile turned smug under his lips, which made him grunt frustratingly again.

But if Shane was easy, Ilya was easier because the moment Shane intensified the kiss, Ilya was right there with him.

Then it turned dirty, with tongue, spit and moans as hands grabbed and pulled at hair.

Okay, maybe Shane was the easiest, because he didn’t even feel himself being moved around until the counter was digging into his lower back and hands slid down to the back of his thighs, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the edge, Ilya’s bullying his way between his legs, pressing close.

Ilya was devouring him, kissing frantically along his jaw, down his throat, all while insistently pressing their crotches together.

Shane was already half-way through to being hard when he remembered where they were and what was happening.

“You can’t fuck me when you are hosting a party,” he whined.

“They know I have emergency,” Ilya replied, voice muffled into Shane’s collar as he worried the fragile skin there in between his teeth. That was going to leave a mark, but it was low enough Shane could probably hide it.

“If they think we’ve been fucking all this time–“

“You’re right, is slander to believe Shane Hollander would last that long.”

“Asshole.” The insult would probably have been more effective if Shane didn’t moan at the same time. “Wait–“

Ilya immediately let go of his skin, bringing himself back up so they could be at eye-level.

“If you really don’t want is fine, but if you are worried about them finding out we are fucking, they won’t. For that, they would need to be perceptive and is not what hockey players are good at. Look at you, you figured out you were gay seven years after we started fucking. And a woman had to tell you.”

Shane pushed him away, slapping him on the bicep.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Yes, we’ve already established that, and yet, everytime you seem to forget,” Ilya sighed dramatically, before peppering more kisses along Shane’s skin. He really should make a statement here, but instead, he chuckled and sighed tiredly.

That made Ilya leaned back once more, this time bringing a hand on the side of Shane’s face.

“You’re right,” he said softly, once again his eyes jumping all over Shane. “I’ll kick them out,” he added, leaning back and started to step away.

“Wait, what?” Shane grabbed him. “No, don’t do that.”

“We have a tight schedule,” Ilya said, looking at his bare wrist which confused Shane even more.

“What?”

“I need to kick them out, get you smoothie and granola barre, then fuck you out into nap, tidy house while you rest, then bribe a few people to get Ottawa’s budget for you. Then when you wake up after nap, another smoothie before I blow you in the shower, because you need to be presentable when your mother comes over–“

“Ilya, slow down–“

“We can fuck before the shower in bed, and then in shower afterward, I don’t mind. Will be quick no matter what, oof–“

“You’re unsufferable,” Shane sighed after elbowing him, “but you’re going too fast. What are you talking about Ottawa’s budget for me, I’m not–“

“Where else you want to go? I thought you would want Canadian team. Vancouver is okay. Please, don’t tell me you were thinking Toronto, I don’t know if I can fuck a Guardian. I mean, I would for you, but it would be hard, I think. Also, they are maybe as homophobic as Montreal, if not more.”

“Ilya, I’m not–“

Shane was suddenly gasping for air, realising then that since he had revealed everything to Ilya, his level of anxiety had plummeted, only to be resurging right now.

Ilya grabbed his face, forcing Shane to focus on him.

“Hey, is alright,” he shushed softly as Shane was trying really hard not to start unravelling again.

“You’re going too fast,” Shane hiccupped, out of breath.

“Okay, then I slow down. You focus on focusing on one thing at the time.”

“What?”

“Food,” Ilya said, and Shane was opening his mouth before he even knew what he was going to say, but Ilya grabbed him by chin, shaking his head firmly. “No. You threw up ginger ale and nothing else. I honestly don’t even want to know when you had last real food, but you need something in you. And yes, I mean something that is not me,” Shane allowed himself a chuckle, exhausted beyond words. “I will make you nastiest smoothie you ever had, Hollander, and you will beg me to do it for you again after that.”

“Okay,” Shane said with a tired smile.

“Yes?” Ilya said, surprised.

“Yeah. But don’t kick your team out, okay? I’ll stay here, I don’t think I’m good company anyway. I’ll have some food, maybe take you up on that nap, and then we’ll see after.”

Ilya held his gaze, as if he tried to figure out if Shane was telling the truth or just placating him.

“See about getting you out of kingdom of homophobia, the Montreal’s Metros, okay?”

Shane sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“We’ll see what my mom thinks.”

Ilya made a face, like he didn’t know if he should be relieved that Shane had agreed to tell his mother, or if he should worry about her position.

“That won’t change anything,” he then said coolly. Shane sighed again, until he realized he was actually trying to yawn. He stopped fighting against his body and let his eyes close even temporarily.

“I know,” he replied through a stifled yawn. “Ilya, I just–“

“I know,” Ilya said lowly. “I’ll take you to bed, you are going to fall asleep and I will wake you up to feed you gross smoothie. You are going to drink it while complaining and then go back to sleep. Let me deal with the rest.”

“Don’t kick your team,” Shane said through another yawn as Ilya helped him down from the counter, leading him back into the bedroom.

Ilya made him seat on the edge of the bed before grabbing the remote on the bedside table, bringing the blinds down.

The moment the room was engulfed in darkness, Shane had no recollection and assumed he must have fallen asleep instantly, his brain apparently taking the cue literally.

Chapter 2: Ilya

Chapter Notes

I just love Heated Rivalry so much. Between the fanfics, the edits, the clips, rewatching the show, I just love it.

Ilya closed the door quietly behind himself, even though it wouldn’t make a difference.

Shane was out-out, passed out even before Ilya was done undressing him completely. He had left his boxers and socks on but replaced his shirt by one of Ilya’s. No pants. Shane didn’t like the feel of pants on his legs, but he had to wear crew socks, which had caused many conversations on where a leg ended. To this day, Ilya wasn't sure even Shane understood his own clothing preferences.

He finally let out the heavy breath he had been holding onto for the last ten minutes after his blood pressure had reached highs never known to man before.

Rage was too light of an emotion to describe what he felt. Mad didn’t even touch it. The feeling was boiling under the surface of his skin, bubbling like lava and started to threaten to escape through his mouth if he spoke like a fire-breathing dragon.

With another deep breath, he raised then slammed his arms down, rolling his shoulders and his neck, trying to release some of the tension.

Didn’t feel like it worked much, the need to burn Montreal to the ground still very clearly present.

But he had to get back in control. Right now, he could even feel the initial frustration he had felt for Troy Barrett, the judgement and resentment of what he had known about the man upon hearing he was joining the Centaurs.

Troy had become a friend of Ilya, a good friend even. They had learned from each other and even if it didn’t excuse anything, Ilya could empathise with Troy.

He shook his arms again and instinctively returning to the door handle leading to his bedroom, as if a part of him couldn’t grasp the idea of not lying with Shane right now.

He hesitated.

“Eh, uh–“

Ilya didn’t jump, but he did tense up when the voice caught him off-guard. Well, speaking of the devil.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry. It’s just, I’ve been thinking of the screenshot you sent me,” Troy started to say, standing at the end of the corridor, leading back towards the living space.

“Yes?”

“It’s just… it’s really nasty. Like it’s not a slur-slur, but no one is chill hearing it. Even between gay people, you wouldn’t call someone else like that, as a joke, if you aren’t super-duper close and if you didn’t kind of agree before.”

One

Two

Three

Four

Fi–

Ilya hummed.

“Okay.”

“Yeah, I don’t know where you got that. Do you…” Barrett hesitated there. Ilya arched a questioning eyebrow. “Do you know who it was said to?” The question was asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Ilya replied, letting his gaze fall, hand still on the door handle, his chest tightening painfully.

“Is that–“ Ilya’s eyes flicked back up. “Was that the Metros’ chat?”

His hand finally let go of the handle, starting to walk back towards Barrett.

“It’s really bad,” Troy continued. “Even the NHL wouldn’t be able to deny it. Hol–“

Ilya whipped around to face him.

“Careful, Barrett,” he said, the threat hiding in the corners of his accent.

Troy looked like a dear caught in the headlights, raising his hands up.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply–“

“Then don’t,” and with that, he passed him without a look back.

The kitchen was empty, everyone was mostly outside by now, eating the food Bood had prepared, as well as the dry-ass chicken Ilya had insisted on making himself.

Shane didn’t even like chicken that much, or even at all really.

Between what Shane said and what was true regarding food was a whole different world. If he was honest, Ilya knew Shane didn’t actually like meats of any kind. He wasn't sure if it was a taste thing or a texture thing, but he had seen his boyfriend dissociate more than once in front of a large piece of steak.

Let’s not even mention meat in sauces.

Ilya had made a bastardized version of Solyanka, a sweet and sour beef stew, while knowing Shane might not like it, and it was fine, really. He would have leftovers and he could freeze it instead of the usual nasty meal-prep.

But Shane, out of love for him, Ilya couldn’t see any other reason otherwise, had tried it.

He had gone pale when Ilya served him a (small) portion, and from the moment he had dug through it with his fork, he had started sweating around his hairline.

Ilya had tried his best not to look at him, because Shane wasn't a zoo animal and didn’t do well being under scrutiny in any situation in general, but especially while eating. 

Ilya had also tried his best not to take it personally when Shane had gagged after trying some of the beef. He couldn’t take it personally, because Shane had tried so hard to keep it quiet, to not make it obvious, and even swallowed, which Ilya wasn't sure how he had managed.

Ilya wasn't offended when Shane stuck to the potatoes, which was already out of the ordinary for him.

“I like the sauce,” Shane had commented, looking like a clay version of himself, stiff in his movements and a frozen grima– smile on his face.

“I’m sorry, Roz,” Barrett cut through the memory as Ilya did the inventory of what he had in his fridge to put in the smoothie.

“Is fine,” Ilya waved him off with a lighter tone. Thinking of his boyfriend always tended to relax him.

Until he remembered where said boyfriend was and why Ilya had to make him a smoothie. “Is going to be fine,” he added for good measure.

Troy was silent for a while.

“That sounded like a threat. Listen… I obviously don’t know what’s going on, but I have an idea.”

“Oh, do you, now?” Ilya asked sarcastically while pulling out spinach, kiwis that Shane ate but hated (the skin freaked him out), a banana, a celery stick and a carrot. He brought all of the ingredients to the counter, before hesitating. Was it too many fruits and vegetables? What else could he put to bulk it up in calories that wasn't just protein powder?

“Are you making a smoothie? After I marinated ribs overnight?” Bood came in at that moment, as Barrett was about to say something. “And where were you? I’m pretty sure your chicken is dehydrated by now, by the way.”

“Ah,” Ilya waved him off too, “is good to throw away,” he said, before pulling oats from the cupboard in front of him.

Shane only liked oats when they were cold, but they had to be cooked beforehand, which always puzzled Ilya, because who would want to eat cold oatmeal, but also, Shane didn’t cook them like oatmeal, but on a sheet pan in the oven, like he was trying to dry them out even more.

Ilya turned on his oven.

“Are you gonna roast celery?” Bood asked, disgust in his face. Sure enough, when Ilya turned to look at him, it was also all over his face.

“What do you think, Boodram?” Ilya asked him, frustration on the edge of his voice. His attention flickered to Barrett, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange. “What about you Barrett, any comments? What do you think I’m doing?”

Troy’s eyes fell on the counter, taking it all in.

“You’re feeding someone.”

The frustration faded like a blown-out candle, just leaving heartbreak and grief behind in the dancing smoke.

He wished he didn’t have to listen to Shane so he could kick his team out and he could have a mental breakdown by himself. He was good at keeping it quiet. Not that Shane could get woken up.

“Wait, what? Who?” Bood enquired as Ilya rubbed his eyes. “Wait, hold on, where’s– hey, I was joking earlier, when I said I hope Hollander wasn't a vegetarian. It’s fine if he is, I was just kidding.”

“I know, Bood, is fine,” Ilya sighed, hating to hear himself say the same thing Shane had said to him when it had obviously not been fine.

“Is he going to do something about it?” Barrett asked suddenly, getting closer.

“Leave it, Barrett.”

“Because even the NHL won’t be able to turn a blind eye away with that, especially if he has the screenshot–“

“Leave it, Barrett,” Ilya growled this time, dropping his hand away from his face.

Troy looked at him with an intensity that unsettled Ilya.

“He shouldn’t have to face it alone.”

“He’s not alone,” Ilya replied.

“That’s messed up,” Troy insisted and Ilya grinded his teeth.

“Don’t I know it.”

“He could sue them–“

“Barrett.”

“You guys are being really intense. I don’t know if it’s the smoothie or not,” Bood chirped in then. Ilya sighed, as a phone vibrated in his pocket. Without thinking about it, he pulled Shane’s phone where he had pocketed it in, checking the new messages.

From how he was holding it, both Bood and Troy had a perfect view of the screen after Ilya unlocked the screen.

J.J. [4:47pm]

Please don’t make a big deal out of it

I’ll talk to Comeau tomorrow before practice

And the rest of the team

Think of the playoffs

You know we have a good shot

Ilya took a deep breath in, his fingers tightening around the phone.

“Roz, who’s phone is that?” Bood asked hesitantly.

“What do you think?” Ilya asked rhetorically, because it seemed quite obvious.

“Roz–“

“Is secret. No one else know. No one,” he didn’t mention Yuna and David because it didn’t make a difference and he needed to make his point. “And no one else can know. For now, at least,” he concluded in a lower voice, before putting the phone down on the counter, because he needed to think carefully before he did something stupid like reply to Boiziau and ask him his address so he could beat him up.

“Of course, we won’t say anything at all, to anyone,” Barrett said while Bood was already nodding.

“No one, Roz, you can trust us,” he confirmed. “You know the team would be okay with that though, right?”

“Do I?” he replied before he could think, because he knew that it wasn't fair, like he instinctively knew that yes, his team would be okay with this. “Sorry. Is just some people can really disappoint you,” he said with his eyes on the phone.

“Did something happen?” Bood asked hesitantly.

“Metros are pieces of shit,” Barrett replied, and Ilya started counting to ten again.

“Barrett,” he sighed.

“If the rumours are true and he came out to them and they call him that on a chat with all their teammates–“

“Barrett, I am really trying to find in myself to not strangle you. You need to help me out here,” Ilya pointed out.

“Why, though? Why can’t we talk about it? We should talk about it, go to their management–“

“Management doesn’t do anything,” Ilya waved, flipping the phone screen down so he wasn't tempted to open it back again. He turned back towards his smoothie station before he got a sheet pan out and sprinkled oats all over it now that his oven was hot. He didn’t even know what was the right temperature, he had never asked Shane, nor how long it was supposed to cook in there. He’d have to stand in front of it just in case it burst into flames.

“His management knows?” Barrett asked in a smaller voice. Ilya didn’t reply. “So it’s all of Montreal that’s rotten. He could really sue them, then, for discrimination.”

“I want to support you and like I understand there’s something bigger than you coming out,” Bood interjected, “but I’m confused, does anyone else know then? Or is it something else?”

Ilya sighed again, grabbing Shane’s phone and unlocking it, clicking onto the Metros’ chat for Bood and Barrett to scroll through. “Don’t spy. Just this.”

The two nodded as Troy grabbed the phone to hold it, while Ilya started chopping and peeling some of the fruits and vegetables.

There had been new messages, replies to Comeau’s text, either asking him to delete it, or chastising him for putting it in writing. Literally, one of the other guys had written not here, you dipshit.

Shane had said Hayden was the only one on his side, and that text had been proof enough, not that he needed one to believe him without a doubt. But it was just put in writing now, that they shared the same thoughts as Comeau but weren't stupid enough to be obvious about it. Except not here was also stupid to say. They were all so fucking stupid.

“Fuck,” Bood said.

“They have another chat,” Barrett added. Ilya turned to look at him.

“What?”

“I can guarantee you they have another chat without Hollander and Pike. Did you take screenshot of the entire conversation?”

“Not the last messages, no.”

“Ok. Well, you should. Because that’s harassment, he could at least get Comeau banned from the league for that.”

“He doesn’t want that,” Ilya said as he checked on the oats. There was a nice toasty smell coming from them, and Ilya decided it would do. He didn’t think Shane did it for flavour, but he didn’t know why he did it anyway. Taking them out, he poured them into the blender with the celery, spinach, banana and carrot. The only thing left were the kiwis, unsure how to handle them. Shane liked to peal them with a peeler, but those were quite soft and already squishing in his hand, so he instead cut them in half and carved them out with a spoon.

“What does he want to do?” Bood asked then, while Barrett was boring a hole with his eyes on the side of Ilya’s face.

Ilya shrugged before he pulled out the large container of protein powder to pour some in there for good measure. Once he added the water on top, the thing was almost full.

“You’ve been with the Centaurs for long time, yes?” he asked Bood as he placed the lid on top of the blender.

“Yes…?”

“Do you know who handles budget for players?”

He left the question hanging in the air as he turned the blender on.

The noise was unpleasant in a way that was nerve-grating, which he had never been aware of before he started dating Shane Hollander and semi-living with him. Shane put headphones before making a smoothie, even if Ilya was the one doing it. Or he couldn’t stay in the room, had to leave and hide far away until it was over.

Ilya wondered how in this day and age, no one had invented a quiet blender. He was ready to pay millions for it. This one was the top of the line, and yet, it was probably the loudest he had ever heard.

Usually, he would never use it when Shane was asleep, even if there was the ensuite bathroom and the walk-in wardrobe in between. He hoped he had assumed right earlier when he had guessed Shane would probably sleep until tomorrow morning.

Ilya had seen it straight away when he had arrived, his eyes slightly hazy with exhaustion and something else, so tired he almost looked in pain. He had almost fallen to the ground right then and there, in Ilya’s arms before he pulled himself back up.

He should have known better. Fatigue and weariness in Shane wasn't always literal, not just about counting the hours slept. Sometimes it was more than that, or something else entirely.

How did he not recognize the same signs in his boyfriend that Ilya had to battle on the regular? How did he not see that Shane was falling apart at the seam in a way only emotional strain could do?

The blender stopped. The smoothie looked like a chunky thick soup at this point. He got a mixing bowl and a sift out, pouring the mix through to remove all the bits. Shane hated the bits. He always forced himself the eat them, because apparently, it was the most important part.

Ilya thought that today, Shane deserved not to do something he hated.

“You want him to transfer to the Centaurs,” Bood said, not a question. Ilya had almost forgotten what they had been talking about.

Barrett still had that intense expression on, and all Ilya could do was arched a challenging eyebrow. And what about it?

He returned the smoothie to the blender after rinsing it, adding more water to thin it out.

Ilya wasn't deluding himself.

Shane might have said he didn’t want to play with the Metros, but that didn’t mean he would actually do it. Shane was a champion at doing things against his own will. He was so good at giving everyone else what they wanted, sometimes even before they asked, even if it was to his own detriment.

There had been a time it had scared Ilya. Especially at the beginning, when they weren’t anything, and yet everything to each other already.

The first few years, everytime they had met, Ilya had to gauge if that was what Shane wanted or if he was doing it because he thought that was what Ilya wanted.

Perfect, beautiful Shane Hollander was so eager to follow Ilya’s commands, sometimes even before they were done being said, that in between the check-ins, Ilya had to force boundaries upon Hollander, taught him to say no to Ilya.

It had worked, kind of. Ilya had teased meeting for sex for almost two years, staying vague enough at first he could plead plausible deniability, becoming more and more insistent as Shane didn’t take the bait on any of it.

By the time Shane finally said yes, Ilya had made three official requests for sex, all denied.

It meant that when they met in Shane’s Montreal condo, Ilya had no doubt that they both wanted it with an equal intensity. He still had made sure throughout that it was still something Shane was okay with.

But if Ilya had made the effort to go to that length to insure they were equal in their relationship, not everyone did. Many even weren't aware that most of Shane’s actions were going against what he was comfortable with.

It wasn't necessarily done to cause him harm.

On some occasion actually for his own benefit.

Yuna had nothing but the best of intentions for her son, led by the worry only a mother can have for her child, to protect and make sure he will never have to be dependent on a system that was unfair and biased to him.

Ilya had no idea what was going to happen if she went against Shane’s want and need to leave Montreal. One hint at it, and Shane would swallow back everything that had occurred in Ilya’s room moments prior, put back on a mask so elaborate he might manage to fool even the people that were the closest to him.

Ilya wasn't sure either of them would survive it.

He hoped it wouldn’t get to that.

“Does he want that?” Bood asked hesitantly. Ilya shrugged.

“Need to talk to his mom first.”

“His– oh, she’s his manager, isn’t she. Wait, does she know about… you know.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said no one else knew,” Barrett asked curiously, but not accusatory.

“Yes, well, is family.”

“Does your family know?”

Ilya turned to arch an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

“Who?”

“Roz… that whole thing is a mess.”

“You think I don’t know? You think I’m telling you now because is easy? Because is not. Is fucked up,” Ilya mumbled, before pulsing the blender a few times just to make sure it was mixed properly.

He poured it into one of his protein shake bottle so he could put a lid on it that would make it easier for Shane to drink.

“Wait… is he the reason you moved–“ Bood started, but Ilya walked past them.

“Figure it out,” he spat out.

Ilya was relieved to see Shane still fast asleep when he returned to his bedroom. The relief was short-lived, because as he came to sit on the edge of the mattress on Shane’s side (something akin to adoration at the thought of Shane having a side in his bed in the house Ilya had bought for them), he noticed the tight expression on the love of his life’s face, like he was in some sort of pain.

Lifting a hand to his face after putting the smoothie on the bedside table, Ilya caressed the furrow in between Shane’s brow, smoothing it out gently. His face relaxed a bit as Ilya let the back of his fingers slide softly along his temple down to his cheekbone, then by his jaw, where he could feel the tension of tightly clenched teeth. Between that and not eating, Shane would wake up with a headache so Ilya coaxed him awake gently.

“Zhizn moya,” he whispered, his hand sliding to Shane’s throat, his thumb grazing along his chin.

“Ilya,” Shane replied almost instantly, frowning, before he opened his eyes and immediately looked around for something. Someone. “Ilya,” he repeated breathlessly when he noticed him, and Ilya couldn’t help but lean down and kiss him tenderly.

God, it hurt how much he loved this man. It hurt so good it made him want to cry, cut his chest open, reach for his heart and make Shane eat it so it could always be inside him forever, the two of them never apart.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya said instead.

Shane wrapped his arms around his shoulders and started to pull him down. Ilya went willingly, let himself being dragged, climbing onto the bed, over Shane while also trying to not crush him, a worry that Shane dismissed as he wrapped one of his legs that escaped from the duvet around one of Ilya’s and pull him in properly.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane repeated as he kissed him all over his face, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Ilya froze, before he tried to push away so he could read Shane’s expression but he simply wouldn’t let him go. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Shane repeated, the words this time tangled with tears to Ilya’s horror.

“No,” he said, putting all of his strength to look at Shane. When he managed to do so, Shane wouldn’t look at him, throwing one of his arms over his face as he was wrecked with silent sobs. “No,” Ilya repeated, gathering him into his arms. “No sorry, nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m so scared,” Shane admitted in the smallest voice Ilya ever heard from him.

“We fix it, I’m gonna fix it. Is going to be fine,” Ilya said firmly.

“I’m scared to lose you,” Shane said, lifting his arm high enough to cover his eyes with it.

Ilya was left speechless.

“You don’t lose me, ever. I’m not going anywhere, Shane.”

“I made such a mess and it’s hurting you.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Ilya knew he started to sound frantic. “Is not your fault. And you are not hurting me. You heal me, you save. You love me and that’s all that matters.”

“I love you,” Shane agreed, nodding.

“Then is all I need. The rest we can deal together. You love me, you stay, and we are fine.”

“We are fine,” Shane nodded again.

“Yes,” Ilya gasped, dropping his forehead to Shane’s.

“I didn’t want you to know,” Shane said after a while, in a whisper like a secret.

“I know. And we’ll talk about it later, yes?”

“I’m sorry I’m making it about myself,” Shane replied instead, and Ilya couldn’t stop the wounded noise that escaped him.

“Everything is about you, Hollander,” he said, which managed to get a tilt to Shane’s lips. “My life is about you,” Ilya added for good measure.

“Even if I didn’t see how much you were struggling, I knew you weren’t having it easy. You were settling in a new team that had never even gone to the playoffs. That my team didn’t like me felt irrelevant, since we won the cup last year.”

Ilya groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Is stupidest thing you ever said, Hollander–“

“Shane,” his boyfriend stopped him, and Ilya’s dismissiveness vanished.

“Shane,” Ilya breathed out, “is stupidest thing you ever said. What do you think is the point of everything if is not you?”

“To me, you. It’s easy to shut everything else out when I’m with you. Nothing else matters when I’m with you. Not even hockey. I want to be with you. I want to be a support for you and know that I’ll do anything to help you in any way I can. So I want you to tell me when you are sad. I want you to call me and ask me to come. Tell me if you need me to make it go away. You said you didn’t feel as sad when I was there. So let me take it away,” Shane said hoarsely, and all Ilya could do was nod.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. I’ll go back with you,” Ilya said, his mind made up.

“What?”

“I’ll go with you to Montreal. I stay with you there now,” Ilya said as he pushed on his forearms so they could look at each other properly.

“What? Ilya– what?”

“You said to call you when I’m sad and you’ll come? Well I’m sad all the time when I’m not with you, because the only thing I want all the time is to be with you.”

“Ilya–“

“I know you love hockey, is one of the many things I love about you. I like hockey too, but I love you more than life, so I will stop hockey and follow you.”

“Ilya, that’s… that’s crazy. I’m not even staying in Montreal,” Shane said.

“No?”

“No. And you can’t retire, one of us should still have a job, until I figure out what I’m going to do. Unless you really want to retire because you hate hockey, of course. You can do whatever you want. No one makes you do anything, right?”

There was a hint of playfulness in Shane’s tone, and Ilya could have melted in a puddle right then and there. Instead, he leaned down and kissed him hard.

“You know you can make me do whatever you want, Hollander,” Ilya said against Shane’s lips, which got him the reward of a smile.

“I just want you to be happy. I need you to be happy, and I will do anything for that to happen. Have you told your team yet?”

Ilya winced.

“Had to tell Bood and Barrett.”

“Okay,” Shane said breathlessly, and Ilya could have laughed about his pretend casual attitude.

“They know is secret for now and I trust they won’t tell anyone,” Ilya tried to reassure him, caressing his cheek and pushing his hair away from his forehead. “I had to tell them because Barrett figured out the screenshot.”

“Oh.”

If Ilya had managed to reassure and comfort him a bit, Shane’s expression turned devastated at the news.

“Is fine. He is mad, wants you to sue Montreal. I think is alright idea. I have other plans.”

“I’m not sure I want to know–“

“No,” Ilya shook his head, pressing a kiss at the corner of his mouth, which made Shane hummed.

“Were they okay with it when you told them? What did they do?”

“Do? Were they supposed to do something? A dance routine? Is that what gay people do when they find out about another queer person? You tell me, Hollander. I’m only bisexual.”

Shane let out a breathy laugh.

“Asshole. No, I mean, did they look normal? Did they look at you weird? Or…”

“Or? Or what? What did you expect them to do?”

“Nothing,” Shane said, falsely casual.

“What did your team do when you told them?” Ilya asked innocently.

“J.J. asked me if I ever–“ he lifted a hand in a loosely closed fist and made a back-and-forth movement with it that left Ilya batting his eyelids frantically, “while thinking of someone from the team.”

“Boiziau asked you that? And you didn’t tell me?” the underlying rage that had been simmering away since he had found out about the Metros’ behaviour suddenly started to boil over again.

“Well, the only thing I could think of was that the only man I ever–“ he made the movement again, like he couldn’t said masturbate out loud in front of Ilya, as if they didn’t taste each other entire body fluids collection and more on the regular, “was you. I know you’re gonna say I could have lied, but you know I’m not good at that. And it was awkward enough.”

“You think that what I would say?”

“No. I don’t know,” Shane looked confused and uncomfortable, squirming under Ilya’s weight. Maybe he really needed to move, because even if Shane had put him there, it had been a while now and Ilya must be really heavy on him. But before he needed to move, he had to make a point.

“If Bood had asked me that when I told him about us, I would have punched him in the face,” Ilya said simply because it was true. “I’m sure Boiziau doesn’t go around ask straight teammates if they masturbate thinking of his mother or his girlfriend.”

Shane blushed furiously, a deep frown forming as he started to sputter.

“I don’t know if it’s the same.”

“Maybe not, but both are inappropriate, yes?” Shane considered it for a moment, and Ilya didn’t rush him. He had been right to be patient, because he eventually nodded. “Friends don’t ask that. Pike didn’t ask you that. Pike said he loved you no matter what. Except if you were with Ilya Rozanov,” Ilya added with a smirk, and he succeeded in getting a snort out of Shane. “And even with that, he still loves you. Hurts me to say, but he is real friend.”

“He is,” Shane admitted softly.

“How did other react?” Ilya asked, and his poor love, he really was bad at controlling his face, because he tried to conceal his wince, but even after he schooled his expression, his mouth was still in a grimace.

But the universe might have a soft spot for Shane Hollander, because before he could either summon a lie and execute it poorly, or try to diminish the actions of his teammates, there was a knock at the door.

Their bedroom’s door.

“Hey, Roz, we’re so sorry, but Mom has been calling and keeps calling,” Barrett’s voice came through.

Shane looked at Ilya, mouthing mom in confused horror. Ilya pushed himself up to climb out of the bed, before pointing at the smoothie on the bedside table.

“Shake first, then drink.”

He didn’t wait to make sure if Shane was listening to him, readying himself for a situation he wished he didn’t find himself in.

“Wait–“ Shane tried to stop him.

“Is Yuna. If she is calling, maybe is important, yes?” Ilya offered as he turned and could see the panic on Shane’s face, his eyes flickering back and forth between him and the door.

“But…”

“Don’t worry, okay? Drink smoothie.”

And with that, Ilya opened the door, barely enough to slide through without revealing anything of the inside.

Bood was there too, both he and Barrett having stepped away from the door and looking everywhere but at it.

Ilya couldn’t help but feel a pang of affection for these guys he didn’t know that much, but who yet showed more respect and kindness to him than anyone else ever did.

“Sorry,” Bood said with a wince, as Barrett immediately handed the phone over to him at the exact same time Yuna tried to call again.

He answered as he took a look around, noticing Hayes standing at the end of the corridor, looking at the three of them intently.

“Is fine. Did you tell Hazy?”

“No, of course not,” Troy said with a frown.

“We wouldn’t,” Bood confirmed.

“You can. You should tell everyone so that I don’t have to,” Ilya concluded, before turning away from them in a pretence for privacy. “Hi, Yuna.”

“Ilya,” Yuna gasped like she was out of breath. “Did I call–“ he heard her move the phone away from her ear so she could check the name, “is he with you then?”

“Yes, sorry. He didn’t have his phone with him, but–“

“Did you know?” Ilya stopped with a hand on the door handle. “Did you know about his team?”

His entire body tensed up, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes to keep the burning rage quiet.

He let out a control breath out, not without glancing at his teammates that obviously didn’t miss any of it.

“I found out today,” he replied with an even tone.

“Fuck!” If he wasn't sure Bood and Barrett could hear her before, he was certain no one had missed that. “How does this keep happening! How to I keep missing those things! Fuck!”

Ilya couldn’t help the snort that came out.

“He’s not very good at lying, but he’s very good at hiding,” he stated unhelpfully.

“How did you find out? Did Hayden call you too?”

“No. Shane had mental breakdown after they called him slur on group chat.”

Could he have been nicer to Yuna? Probably. But she wasn’t one to like being coddled.

Or maybe she did, because her answer came in the form of a quiet sob.

“He is okay,” Ilya provided. “He had short nap and is now drinking nasty smoothie. He is going to be fine.”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she had heard him, until another voice replied.

“Ilya? Are you in Montreal, my boy?” David asked.

“No, we’re at my house in Ottawa. There was–is party, with my team.”

“Shit. Fuck. It was today. Oh, he must be devastated,” David whimpered softly, and Ilya’s heart and lungs did something painful in his chest. “He wanted it to go so well,” David sighed heavily. “Anyway, can we come? We can come through the garage, be discreet, no one will see us. Just so we can check on him.”

“You can come through the front door. My team knows,” he said, turning to assess Bood and Barrett, also noticing Hayes had come closer. “Kind of.”

“Fuck. Ok, well. Shit,” David offered, and Ilya couldn’t help chuckling.

“But you should come. I think he needs more sleep but I don’t know if he is going to. And he needs you. And we need to fix situation with Montreal. I’m trying to get Ottawa’s budget.”

There was more movement at the other end of the line, and Yuna was back on, steel voice.

“I can get that by tonight,” she said as if nothing had happened, “but we need to keep it absolutely silent. No one can know.”

Ilya turned back to face at the three other members of his team, all looking like they got caught red-handed.

“Is secret,” Ilya said to her, and Bood, Barrett and Hayes nodded vehemently.

“Because we’re also gonna sue the hell out of Montreal. The league, if necessary. I’ll bankrupt the NHL, if I have to.”

A wave of relief washed over Ilya.

“Good. Shane was already planning for life when he is unemployed. I’m trophy husband, Yuna. I cannot be– what is word for kormilets… family feeder…?”

“Breadwinner,” Hayes provided.

“Breadwinner! I cannot be breadwinner, Yuna. I am supposed to be home-husband. And WAG.”

“Househusband,” Hayes whispered.

“You’re not going to be a stay-at-home husband, Ilya Rozanov,” Yuna chastised over the phone. “But neither is my son, and I won’t let the Metros take everything away from him.”

“Management is bad too,” Ilya said.

“I know. Hayden called me after he tried to sort it out with management. He didn’t tell me exactly what was said, but I know it wasn't good. But it’s fine, Montreal’s management doesn’t scare me.”

“Ilya?”

Ilya knew he was really exposed right now, with three members of his team standing in front of his bedroom, his kind of, almost mother-in-law on the other side of the line. But when he heard the soft calling of his name in Shane’s anxious voice coming through the door, nothing else mattered.

So he didn’t even think about it before he turned the handle and went back inside, his eyes going straight for the bed, which was now empty.

Frantically looking around, he found Shane leaning against the decorative chair Ilya used as a dumping ground of his clothes, his boyfriend trying to pull a pair of sweatpants that had been left there.

Thank god he had the instinct of closing the door immediately after himself because Shane hopping on one leg with the pants stuck around his knees, with his hair spiking in different directions, t-shirt rucked up letting his stomach peaked through and in just his boxers, he was a sight to behold.

Ilya had seen him in suits, hockey gear and padding, naked, and yet everytime he was the most magnificent thing Ilya’s eyes had ever landed on.

“Is Shane here? Has he said anything?” Yuna asked over the phone.

Ilya was brought back abruptly to the reality they were in, feeling insane for forgetting how bad today had been, was still.

Shane heard his mother’s voice, and his eyes widened in panic before he gave a short negative shake of his head.

“He is resting, he was really tired,” Ilya replied while holding Shane’s gaze.

He wondered if it was a Yuna thing or a mother’s instinct, but the silence that followed let him know she knew he was lying, and he didn’t know how, because Ilya was admittedly a pretty good liar. Even better if he was lying for Shane.

“Is he mad?” she then asked, and the both of them panicked at once.

Suddenly, Ilya didn’t know if he could still lie, and with the look on Shane’s face, he probably felt the same way.

“No, he was just really sad.”

“Sometimes it feels like I just keep letting him down,” Yuna said, not really for him. Shane shuffled closer, pants forgotten and dropped back to his ankles, reaching a hand towards the phone.

But Ilya couldn’t.

The entire reason why they were in this situation in the first place was because Shane always tried to protect other people’s feelings to his own detriment.

He couldn’t let Shane apologize like he knew he was planning to.

“He just really loves you, and he doesn’t want to disappoint you, even if he knows you love him too. He knows that whatever Montreal is doing to him is going to be hard for you too.”

Ilya might end up in Hell for that, as he watched, and heard, how his words hit right into the Hollanders.

Shane’s face crumbled, his bottom lip jutting out as his eyes filled with tears.

The silence on the line was loud enough to tell Ilya everything he needed to know, as shuffling followed.

“Ilya,” David said, softer than before, “we should be there in twenty minutes? Is that alright?”

“Yes. Through the front door. No need to knock, everyone is dressed.”

David chuckled softly.

“See you then, son. Hug Shane for us in the meantime, yes?”

Ilya nodded, and even if David couldn’t see him, he seemed to know anyway, as the line went dead.

Ilya chucked the phone on the bed, as Shane was pressing his hands into his eyes. He crossed the short distance between them and went straight to his knees. Shane made a confused noise and gripped Ilya’s shoulder to balance himself, as his foot was guided into the hole of the pant leg, before Ilya pulled it up to his thighs, past his ass and around his hips.

Back on his two feet and standing in front of his boyfriend, Ilya’s hands settled on said hips, squeezing it as Shane pressed his lips in a thin line, heartbreak still all over his face, eyes fixated on the cross around Ilya’s throat.

“Is going to be okay,” he said. Shane sniffed, then nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “I know you don’t believe me but is fine. You have more people in your corner than you think. I know is scary, I know it hurts, but you are not alone. I am here, your parents will be there soon, Pike is also on your side. My team is out there and they support you too, even if you never join Centaurs. Because is not just about hockey. Is bigger than hockey. You are bigger than hockey, and you deserve to be treated with respect outside of being best player.”

A small uptick flashed at the corner of Shane’s mouth, but he nodded. Still not looking at Ilya.

“I’m just really tired,” he admitted in a whisper, and that probably hurt the most. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion from the overtraining, over-practicing, the drive here, the anxiety and worry eating at him, the lack of food or sleep. It had been said with the pain of a deeply anchored exhaustion that Ilya was all too familiar with. So he pressed closer, bringing their bodies together as he rested their foreheads against one another.

“I know, but you don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Shane let his head fall to Ilya’s throat, breathing in deeply.

“It feels like it doesn’t change anything.” Ilya hummed, tangling a hand in the silky, black strands. “Even if my parents aren’t disappointed in me…” Shane’s voice trailed off there as he held his breath for a second, which always tended to worry Ilya, until it was followed by a gasping inhale as he pushed away from his hiding place. “But it’s fine. It’s gonna be fine. I need to… I just need to accept that my life won’t be what I had planned it to be.”

The words would have had a different impact if Shane’s face didn’t fall as he said them, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Ilya pulled him in so he could press his face against his cheek.

“It’s fine,” Shane repeated, voice stuffy. “It’s going to be better, because there’s you. For so long, I didn’t think I would have that, have you. And I want that more,” he said, earnestly, “it’s just… you know. The change. The not-knowing what is going to happen to me. And you were right, it’s figuring out who and what I am when there’s not hockey.”

“No,” Ilya said immediately, shaking his head as horror gripped him at the throat, while pulling away from Shane’s face so they could look at each other. “Is not what I meant, and not what I wanted.”

“No, I know,” Shane nodded, but Ilya shook his head once more.

“No, you don’t, because I never wanted you to choose between me and hockey. Is never what I wanted.”

“I know, Ilya,” Shane repeated softly with a sad smile.

“No,” it was Ilya’s turn to fall apart, as the pieces came together. “I’m sorry, no,” he repeated, and this time it was Shane who dragged him into a tight embrace.

“I know, I know.”

Ilya was shaking as he was holding onto Shane for dear life, trying to gather himself, looking for the right words, coming short in this language that wasn't his own.

“When I asked you what would you chose between me and hockey, I did not want this to happen,” Ilya said, pulling back while holding Shane’s face in his hands.

“I know,” Shane repeated insistently. “But also, you weren't wrong–“

“No,” Ilya cried, and he would have fallen to his knees if it wasn't Shane holding him strongly.

“Yes. I would probably not be in this situation if I knew how to balance my life better, if I was less… less about hockey–“

“I love when you are more with hockey. I love you like that, Shane! Please, stop, moya Lyubov, don’t do this to me. I didn’t want that! I didn’t want that.”

Ilya’s sobs filled the room as he hang onto Shane for dear life.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but Ilya didn’t know if he could ever come back from this day from Hell.

Shane’s voice was shaky but determined when he continued.

“It’s you, okay? It’s always you. It hurt more when I was living my life like I couldn’t have this, with you. It was agonizing all the time, even when I was playing hockey. Every minute of every hour of every day, every breath, it was torture to think that we would never have that, us.

It’s hard right now with what’s going on, but what hurts is the outside. Other people that get caught in this. When it was you, it was my entire being, my whole identity. There wasn't a bright light at the end of the tunnel. Imagining what my life would have looked like after retirement was impossible, because there wasn't any if there wasn't you, because what was the point? What is the point if it isn’t you?”

Ilya had started peppering kisses everywhere he could reach, letting his tears fall freely as he pressed love spells into the love of his life’s skin and flesh. Into his breath and his spit, holding him upright so he could be Ilya’s own pillar.

“YA proshu proshcheniya,” Ilya mouthed into Shane, “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“It was already happening when I said that to you.”

“Ilya,” Shane sighed.

“I didn’t see because I was just focusing on me–“

“That’s not fair, Ilya. It’s not fair,” Shane forced him to look at him, and if his boyfriend was brave enough to meet his eyes, Ilya had to be strong too.

The dark eyes were bright and intense, still shiny with emotions that Shane kept bottled in.

“You can’t compare what you’ve been going through to what… it’s not fair. I tried… I tried to fix it. I tried to find solutions, I tried to change and adapt to fit in, but I can’t. I cannot change who I am, even if it means people won’t like me for it. Even if those people used to be my friends. I can’t make them like me again. Or ever, maybe. Maybe they didn’t like me all along but they didn’t have a reason for it, so they could pretend. Now they know why, and it is enough–it’s not the point. The point is… I tried really hard for them. I try really hard all the time for everyone.

“Except for you. I don’t need to try really hard for you, because you love me anyway. You love me even when I fuck up, even when I suck, even when I’m not good enough.” Ilya made a wounded noise, but Shane’s hands on his cheeks kept him from fighting back. “And it made me complacent, neglect you. Because you’re really the only person I want to try hard for. You’re perfect, I love you exactly as you are, even the things you try to hide from me. I love you even more when I get a glimpse of them. But I want to be better at supporting you, whatever that means. It might mean that you have to spell it for me, though. I’m getting better, I think, but I still miss the clues, sometimes.”

Ilya leaned forward, pushing against Shane’s hold to press a kiss against his lips. Shane immediately opened his mouth, which gave Ilya the opportunity to slide his tongue in his mouth, the two meeting hungrily.

They had to break apart to take a breath but ended up rubbing their faces against each other. The tight lock in Ilya’s chest loosened up a tiny bit, which was just enough for him to take an inhale that had been stuck in his lungs for months. He gasped like he had just breached the clean surface of the water, like he wasn’t drowning there for a second.

“I’ll go wherever you go,” he articulated, the words still coming out tangled together, his face numb.

“I go wherever you are happy,” Shane stated, and Ilya sobbed. “And not just because Montreal doesn’t want me anymore, but it might have been what I needed to realise my priorities. If I can’t be a hockey player and be in love with you at the same time, then maybe I can’t be a hockey player at all.”

The words echoed like the final sentence given in a court room, but Ilya had no respect for court.

“You will be hockey player and be mine at same time. Montreal is not everything, there are other teams that will want you more than the fact you are gay. My team will, I know this, but if you don’t, we’ll move to New York so you can join the fossil Hunter’s team. I know he will be nice to you.”

“We’re not moving to New York, and we’re not joining the Admirals. We’re staying here, in Ottawa, where our family and your team, your friends are. I’ll figure out something. Money won’t be a problem once I sell all my apartments in Montreal. And if push comes to shove, I can also sell the Cottage–“

“Shut up, Hollander. That is stupidest thing you ever said, and you came out to me as gay,” Ilya growled and Shane elbowed him.

“Asshole,” he replied with an eye roll, but a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“If pull comes to push–“

“Push comes to shove,” Shane corrected.

“I don’t know what that means. But if it comes to it, I will be Sugar Daddy and you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

That got him another eye roll and a snort from Shane.

“You’re not my sugar daddy.”

“You don’t want to be my sugar baby? You don’t want to be my sweetheart, my baby, moya kukolka, moya malyshka?” Ilya peppered kisses all over Shane’s face, along his jaw and down his throat, where he knew the skin was most sensitive and ticklish, which elicited soft giggles from the love of his life.

“I’m not calling you daddy,” Shane said as he tilted his head to keep Ilya from sucking hickeys under his ear.

Ilya felt himself becoming feral at the thought, and something must have played on his face, because Shane had a proper laugh.

“No?”

“You are insufferable,” Shane sighed, but it was said with so much tenderness that all Ilya could do was settle his head on Shane’s shoulder with his face turned towards his throat and hold onto him for dear life.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he breathed into Shane’s pulse point.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane repeated in a shy whisper, and Ilya needed to eat him. “I love you,” was added, as if the translation was needed, as if Ilya didn’t understand what Shane had said under his atrociously endearing accent.

They stayed in each other’s arms for what felt an eternity but still wasn't enough, until Shane finally let go.  

“I’m probably gonna freak out again,” he admitted sheepishly. Ilya hummed while carding a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t mean I changed my mind. Just the thought of being perceived in that way makes me sick to my stomach. But you are still the most important thing to me.”

Ilya kissed him.

“I know, is normal,” he shrugged.

Shane took another deep breath.

“I have to face my parents. And your team knows?”

“Barrett and Bood, yes. I think Hazy put the pieces together.”

“Yeah, I think so too,” Shane agreed, half lost in thoughts. Ilya made a questioning noise. “I don’t know, earlier. I was a mess, but he was being nice by making small talk, asking me if I was from around here, and if I came back often. I couldn’t admit that I came back to see you whenever I could, so I said I usually go to my cottage not far from here, and he froze. I realized we probably mentioned the Cottage regarding the foundation or something–“

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“After summer holidays, we were talking what everyone did. I couldn’t say we had sex marathon,” Shane rolled his eyes, “so I said I went to Cottage. Well, a cottage. The team has been asking how I know about cottage, and I’m pretty sure there’s betting pool or something.”

“I know you’ve probably been really annoying about it too,” Shane said with a soft smile while glancing between Ilya’s eyes and his mouth.

“What do you mean, I’m angel always! But yeah, really annoying because thanks to you and David being boring, I know a lot about the region. I know more than Bood who has been living here for centuries!”

“Are you gonna start calling Zane Boodram a fossil too?”

“No, that is Hunter’s title, cannot take his only thing away from him. And Bood makes too good food to have any other title than barbecue Master. Hunter only has a bar, and he doesn’t even do anything there.”

Shane huffed a laugh.

“I love you,” he said again, his eyes on Ilya’s lips.

“Ya lyublyu tebya bol'she vsevo na svete,” Ilya said as they met halfway through a kiss.

“Bol’shuh,” Shane said softly in a surprisingly good attempt at Russian, “I remember that one. What does it mean?”

“More.”

Ilya returned for another kiss, letting it turn languid as Shane brought a hand into his curls, while Ilya’s wrapped at the back of his neck, keeping him from going anywhere.

They stayed in each other spaces, and if Ilya was surprised that Shane wasn't rushing them out, he didn’t point it out. His boyfriend was stalling, knowing what was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

If it was up to Ilya, he would let Shane stay in their bedroom forever, bringing infinite food for him to devour in bed, let him leisure in between the sheets, naked if possible, ready to be ravished anytime it pleased Shane.

One could dream. If he could get a lie-in twice a year, Ilya already considered it a great success.

“Okay,” Shane eventually said, pulling his t-shirt down after Ilya’s hands had ventured underneath it.

“Okay?” Ilya repeated, transfixed by the string of spit still connecting them.

David had said twenty minutes, no? How much of those were gone already, and could they manage a quick fuck before?

If he got on his knees, Shane would be done for in minutes. He could take care of himself at the same time. Optimization, Shane had called it. See? Learning from the best.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Shane said then with a fond expression and a smirk.

“You want too, I know,” Ilya said, letting the hand that had been on Shane’s waist come to rest on the small of his back, rubbing lightly up and down to the beginning of his ass, over his back dimples. And he did know Shane wanted, because he could feel the shape of his dick against his, and he wasn’t pushing away from Ilya.

But Shane sighed, and Ilya knew what it meant too.

“My parents are going to be there soon.”

“They know better than come looking for you in bedroom.”

“Your teammates are probably still standing outside the door.”

“They know about us.”

“I’m sure they don’t need to hear us,” Shane said with the same smile, his fingers playing with the hair at the base of Ilya’s neck.

“Is good for team moral if they know captain is strong and virile,” Ilya said, and it got a delightfully loud laugh out of Shane.

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“I really do.”

“Shane?”

In Ilya’s arms, Shane tensed up at the sound of his mother’s voice.

“Later,” Ilya said as he dropped a quick kiss on his boyfriend’s lips.

“Forever.”

“Navechno.”

Chapter End Notes

This chapter is where I thought maybe my Shane was too OOC, especially with the crying, but like, if you get hate-crimed by people you thought were your friends, I feel like you would get a bit teary at least.
Also, I think by the Long Game, if Shane was confronted chosing between Ilya and hockey, I feel like he would clearly chose Ilya, especially in the context of the fanfic and after their big fight that shall not be named (I already chose you, Hollander)? And some of his reactions might feel extreme, but my boy is panicking (more in the next chapter).

Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

Chapter 3: Shane

Chapter Summary

This chapter is the reason why this fic is rated Mature, a teeny-tiny bit of sex at the end, but nothing explicit.

Chapter Notes

And here it is, the last chapter of this fanfic. As mentioned when I started posting it, I had a plan for an epilogue but it had been refusing to be written, so I'm giving it some space. I really hope to post it eventually, but I am not keeping you hanging, and I think the fanfic is done and can stand on its own as is.

Hope you enjoy!

L’enfer, c’est les autres.

Shane had hated learning French. Not that he had any problem with the language itself, but how they were made to learn, forced on them with a truncheon, it had been torture in the middle of everything else he had to do.

But if at the time, he was bored to death by Jean-Paul Sartre, with absolutely no understanding to what he meant, he finally got it.

Hell was others.

Because if he had been feeling fine in Ilya’s arms, safe and cared for, protected in the cradle of his body, the moment Shane had to face the rest of the world brought him back to reality with the force of a puck taken to the face. And that hurt. Really bad, if you wanted to know (it had only happened once to him, when he was still in the Junior Team, and to this day, the pain was still only matched by the concussion he took from Marleau. Yep, even the broken collarbone wasn't as bad).

The present pain was like a monstruous helmet over his head, claws dug deep inside his skull, piercing through his eye socket, in the little room between the eyeball and the browbone. Another point was at the temple, on the same side, as if the soft brain matter there was squished like a ketchup packet. Half his face was numb with it, into his jaws, down to his teeth, twisted gravity pulling them down from his gums.

Shane was glad he had warned Ilya he wasn't done freaking out. Especially now, as he came to a stop in front of three Centaurs and his parents.

He really wanted to appear casual. Relaxed. He didn’t know how to do that. Shane didn’t know if he had been relaxed even once in his life. Maybe in the minutes that followed an orgasm, in Ilya’s arms. And even then, the anxiety would return almost immediately.

The pain in his head started to get unbearable, and he had half a mind hitting the doorframe. Maybe if he did at the right angle, he could get a lobotomy out of it. Maybe he’d get to not feel anything at all.

All of these people knew he was gay. They also knew about Ilya and him.

His first instinct was to deny. Ilya’s hand was still on his back, warm and anchoring, and his brain was screaming at him to step away, break the contact. It hurt everytime, like reaping a limb out, when they had to put distance between them in public. His body naturally seeking Ilya’s presence, like a sunflower following the curvature of the Sun across the sky throughout the day.

Shane was nothing more than a big flower head. He felt like it, at least, as he stood there awkwardly under the scrutiny.

“They…” his mom started, as her gaze glanced back between them and Troy Barrett, Zane Boodram and Wyatt Hayes.

“Yes,” Ilya confirmed as the three Centaurs nodded in sync.

Yuna’s eyes narrowed, as she took the three men in.

“And you’re gonna behave appropriately,” she said, not asking.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Barrett was the first to reply.

“Of course!” Boodram and Hayes said at once.

But his mother’s gaze remained on Barrett, who was definitely very aware of the attention he was under.

“Mom,” Shane breathed out.

“I am gay, Ma’am,” Barrett added then, and Shane had to rub his temples in the vain attempt to soothe the pain behind his eyes and in his teeth. Behind him, Ilya snickered.

“Only gay person no one believes,” he then said, which got chuckles from both Hayes and Boodram, while Barrett smiled. “You need to be like Old Man Hunter and kiss Harris on the ice.”

“I know you are gay,” Yuna said then, interrupting the light-hearted banter, making Shane wince. “But you also had a reputation before that.”

“Mom,” Shane whined.

“It’s alright, Hollander,” Barrett said, “I understand.”

“I just want to make sure, Shane. One team is enough, I need to know if I have to deal with another one.”

“Mom,” Shane dragged the word this time, squeezing his eyes shut to not start crying and stomping like either a frustrated toddler or an overwhelmed teenager.

“Yuna, I think we can trust Ilya’s judgement,” Shane’s dad said as he came closer and put a comforting hand over his shoulder. Behind him, Ilya was crowding too.

His mom took a heavy breathe while still glaring at Barrett, and Shane was going to burst into flames if he didn’t get some space right now.

“Maybe we don’t do this in front of bedroom, yes?” Ilya said firmly, coming around and forcing everyone to take a step back while also hiding Shane behind his frame.

“Yes, of course, sorry, yes,” the three Centaurs said, jumping back before starting to move, but Yuna was in the way, so they had to give her a wide berth around.

Ilya watched them go, making sure they were back into the living area and out of earshot. He then turned his attention back towards Shane, only Shane, catching his eyes. Shane gave him a nod, that Ilya returned as he gave him a quick kiss before following his teammates, leaving him alone with his parents.

Shane had half a mind to hold him back, grab his hand, beg him to stay and not leave him alone, even if he wasn't. But Shane was a big boy, and he could be brave. He had to be brave.

His eyes started to prickle again as his throat tightened.

“Hey,” his dad called softly, carding a hand through his hair, and Shane wasn't brave, because in the next moment, he was being pulled against David’s shoulder where he could hide.

The set up wasn't unlike the moment they shared after the soy sauce incident, after Shane had caught his mom being sad about him which had, in return, broken his heart. She didn’t know he had heard them talk. His dad did, even if they never really talked about it. He had just held Shane through the heartbreak.

“My baby,” his mom whispered through her own tears as she wrapped him in a hug from behind. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry it’s happening.” 

“It’s going to be okay, my boy. Everything is going to be fine,” his father said in his hair as Shane bit the inside of his cheek so hard that blood flooded his mouth.

His mother behind him didn’t say anything, but her hands along his arms kept rubbing energetically, the only anchor left to his body.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

“What did you say, baby?” his mother asked softly, getting on her tippy toes to hear him better.

“I don’t know what to do,” he repeated, a bit louder as he pulled his face away from his dad’s now drenched sweater. “I tried–I thought I just had to wait. I didn’t know it could get worse.”

His father pressed a firm kiss against his temple as his mother’s mouth twisted. He couldn’t meet her eyes, not ready to see the pain and disappointment there.

“It’s not you, baby,” she said, holding his face in between her hands. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Maybe you were right. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

A silence followed.

“Shane, honey. I never said that,” she said gently. Shane sniffed and closed his eyes.

“I don’t know what else I was supposed to do, Mom.”

“I know, and you did everything right. Your team not accepting you for who you are after everything you did for them, that’s not on you.”

“And even if you didn’t win cups for them, you still don’t deserve to be treated this way,” his father added.

“Yes, of course! Obviously, Shane.”

“Ilya… Ilya isn’t happy, the plan isn’t working, it’s taking too long, I didn’t know what else to do if I didn’t tell them, it was him I was going to lose and I didn’t want–I can’t lose him,” Shane cried weakly.

“You’re not gonna lose him,” his father said. “And you did the right thing. It was your team you were protecting,” he added, “but it’s different for them. It’s not their life, Shane. For them, it’s just playing hockey. For you, it’s your identity. You deserve to live your life in the open, and not just because you’re the best player that’s ever been on the Metros.”

“Yes, Dad’s right,” his mom said, caressing his face. “And we’re gonna fix it, okay? You did the right thing, but what they are doing is wrong. I won’t let them treat out like that in complete impunity.”

“I don’t want–“ Shane started, still plunged in the dark, the words getting stuck in his throat, “I don’t want to fix it,” he said instead. “I don’t want to play with them anymore. Please, Mom. Don’t make me go back.”

“I won’t, baby. Never. But I refuse to let you go without making them pay for what they’ve done to you.”

“Mom–“

“It’s not just for you, Shane. This is discriminatory, this is illegal. We have to make an example out of it, or they will make an example out of you.”

Shane was tired of being the poster boy and punching ball in the name of diversity.

He had just wanted to play hockey. And now, he just wanted to date his boyfriend in peace.

But his boyfriend was also a hockey player, and if that protected him too, then Shane would endure it as long as necessary.

“Okay, Mom,” he said, tears now running down his face, more in exhaustion than anything else. Shane opened his eyes, but the pain had gotten so intense, worsening through the conversation with his parents that he wasn't sure he could carry on acting normal.

It felt more like a knife to the brain than claws, the pain more spread and equal in intensity everywhere. The pressure in his skull had blocked his ears, clicking when he spoke, and even yawning or swallowing didn’t help.

“Shane, you’re okay?” his dad asked, and only then Shane realized he had been pressing the pulp of his thumbs into his eyes, like they were threatening to pop out under the pressure.

“Shane?” his mom called then, voice soft as she brushed her fingers through his hair.

He sniffed, breath coming out shaky.

“Did you eat?” his dad enquired. “Ilya mentioned a smoothie.”

Shane shook his head, keeping the pressure against his eyes, his knees turning weak like he had an on and off button right at by his optical nerve.

“Shane, honey, maybe you need to sit down,” his mom said a bit more firmly with a hand wrapped around his arm, starting to guide him towards the kitchen where Ilya’s team was, where everybody knew about him, about the things that were said and done to him, and his stomach soured.

“I think I want to go back to bed,” he said under his breath.

He realized how he was being held up mostly by his dad that he had tensed up so much, the pain was radiating down his neck, into his traps and his shoulders, raised up high to almost reach his ears.

It was that pain that turned his stomach and made him want to throw up. He already felt the bile filling his mouth when he was being let down back on his two feet, knowing he wasn't going to be able to keep himself upwards. He was also convinced that some time on the ground, cheek pressed against the floor, might actually help.

But instead of going down, familiar and beloved arms wrapped around him. Instinctively, Shane managed to lift his own and put them over Ilya’s shoulders, having to hold his own hands together so he wouldn’t let go. He didn’t think that would be good for Ilya to see that.

A hand found his face, pushing it away from its place against his boyfriend’s throat, carding into his hair.

“Moya Lyubov,” Ilya sounded in pain, and maybe Shane was resting too much of his weight on him, so he tried to gather his legs under him, lock his knees. But before he could find his footing back, one of Ilya’s arms left his back, and after a short bend followed, it came to slide behind Shane’s knees and he was lifted up.

That felt good. That felt really good, to be weightless, let his head loll on Ilya’s shoulder, and Shane hummed.

“I think I need to sleep,” he sighed, relieved as some of the pain was taken away. His head was still pulsing, his stomach still churning, but at least, he was in Ilya’s arms.

The light behind his eyes changed, darkening as Shane recognized the smell and the temperature of Ilya’s room. The door was closed behind them, and the noise vanished. He hadn’t even been aware there was any noise and how it had been upsetting him, even over the persistent ringing in his ears. He tried to yawn, see if they would unblock, to no avail. The silence was louder in the quietness.

The mattress came to meet him, cradling him in a cocoon as the sheets, full of Ilya’s presence, filled his nose and mind.

He chanced a look, opening half an eye, but the simple action of moving his eyelid sent a sharp stab of pain right through his skull, so he kept them close.

There was a deep in mattress next to him, and he wanted to do the same thing as he had earlier, pull Ilya over him, keep him there, weighing him down so Shane didn’t have to feel anything else.

He literally didn’t have the strength for it anymore, which should have worried him, but Shane was so, so tired, and his body relaxing in the semi-soft mattress was hurting him too.

“Stay?” he asked, voice sounding rougher than necessary, like he had been screaming for hours. Fingers caressed over his face, touch light and gentle. It still sent electric shocks through Shane, and not in a pleasant way. But he knew that touch, loved it so much, he’d take the pain any day as long as it meant Ilya would be here.

“You are going to sleep,” Ilya said, voice deep and low, and Shane couldn’t deny him anything, so he hummed in agreement. “I’ll be there when you wake up.” His lips tilted in a smile immediately. “But I need to deal with things, okay?”

“Party,” Shane mumbled, and Ilya huffed quietly.

“And other things,” Ilya replied.

“’am sorry,” he added.

“No sorry.”

“I really wanted the party to go well.”

“We’ll have thousands better parties, Hollander.”

“Shane.”

“Shane.”

If the lips that kissed him were damp and salty, Shane was too gone to point it out.

The first time he woke up, he was suffocating. He didn’t fully come to, but his heart was racing, his limbs jerking nervously and he was hot, far too hot he might pass out. Which was an overkill, because he could have just slept through it.

The nausea was still rolling in his chest and his gasping breaths were loud inside his body, his ears still clogged.

He wasn't sure if he sobbed or if he had imagined it, but he was kicking against the covers when he realized he still had pants on.

“Lyubimiy,” Ilya’s voice called at the same time the arms around Shane tensed up.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Shane tried to articulate, unsure how much was comprehensible.

Except it must have been enough, because the rest of the covers were pulled away from him as Ilya helped him sit up, a firm, warm hand on the middle of his back.

Out of nowhere, a plastic bucket was put on his lap, and that weirdly settled something in his chest. He was still gasping for air and the nausea was still on the tip of his tongue, don’t get him wrong, but the panic over vomiting all over himself in bed vanished.

The hand on his back was rubbing lightly while the only sound that could be heard in the room were laboured breaths. His.

He took a loud and deep breath in, held it for a moment, but it made the feeling of rolling sea sickness worse, for some reason. So he let out a shaky exhale matched by the shivers running through his body.

“Okay?” Ilya whispered. Shane started to nod but that made him feel worse so he stopped to shake his head negatively instead. “Can I come closer?”

“Yes,” Shane mouthed loud enough to be heard in the otherwise quiet room. There was a shuffle next to him that Shane couldn’t see in the darkness, but soon after, a light kiss was pressed at the junction between his shoulder and neck as Ilya plastered himself along his side, thighs to hips and torso to shoulder. The touch released some tension, and the nausea lifted for a second there, long enough to reveal everything hidden behind.

The overwhelming anxiety that had haunted Shane his entire life washed over him, not giving him the time to prevent a sob from escaping him.

Ilya shushed him softly, not to quiet but to soothe. Love spells were pressed into his skin, even if Shane couldn’t hear or understand them, soft touches and kisses anchoring him.

He managed to slow his breathing, calm his racing heart down. It didn’t fix shit, instead pulling the wall of nausea back up, letting the sickening stress fade back into the darkness, ever so present.

But he calmed down enough that Ilya felt he could probably answer some questions.

“Do you still feel you are going to throw up?” Shane shook his head once, not needing to say that the nausea was still there, but less immediate. “You didn’t finish smoothie, do you need–“

“No,” Shane replied hoarsely, the sole thought of eating something right now making him want to die. 

“Okay. Would a shower help?” Shane shook his head once more. “Anything you need right now?”

“Can you help me get my pants off? And my t-shirt too.”

Ilya didn’t even reply, hands already on the clothes to remove them quickly. Shane’s movements were sluggish because everytime he scouted around made him feel like he was in a rocking boat, but Ilya’s movements were sure and confident, stabilizing him even in the most powerful storm.

Now in a relative state of undress, Shane felt like he could breathe better, his chest opening. But he rushed too fast into it because he was gasping, the veil between nausea and anxiety lifting once more.

Ilya was there, shushing him with a hand on his stomach, rubbing it gently.

As the bucket was put on his bedside table, Shane was guided to lie back down, and he happily let himself in the hands of the only person he trusted to fully have his best interests at heart.

Ilya’s hands remained on him, but he didn’t get closer.

“Can you hold me?” he whispered, and Ilya didn’t need more than that to throw a leg over Shane’s while keeping his lips on his shoulder. Shane remained on his back, unsure if turning onto his side was a good idea. Obviously, Ilya didn’t try to move him, just stayed there, an unwavering support.

Shane wasn't sure if he fell back asleep, lying half-conscious there for hours.

He must have, because eventually, he woke up a second time.

If the room had been completely dark the first time around, now light was coming from around the blinds like a halo.

He was only in his boxers, unaware when his socks came off. He didn’t really like the feeling of his bare feet, but the memory of the sweltering heat he had woken up to and what it had triggered gave him some relative perspective.

The other side of the bed was empty and cold, but disturbed, confirming that it wasn't a nightmare he had in the middle of the night. That made the overall feeling worse.

The tears sprung up immediately, and Shane grunted in frustration.

What was wrong with him? He had never been so sensitive before. He had felt bad in his body, but it had never expressed itself with so much intensity on the outside.

Of course, Shane Hollander was familiar with panic attacks. They were old friends, and any time he thought they were gone, they liked to remind him he was never truly alone.

He never had one quite this bad, though. He wondered if it was because they knew they had an audience, with Ilya being so close by nowadays.

It had been easy to keep them at a distance, to pretend it wasn't that bad when they saw each other every few months.

Now that they spent more time together, saw each other more often, it was harder.

His parents were aware he had them without realising the magnitude of their existence. And of course, they were his parents so he could dismiss them with the same irritation he had voiced since he had been a teenager.

Shane feared if he did that with Ilya, their relationship would implode. Or Shane would, at least. He couldn’t do it.

Last night, he hadn’t known what he was supposed to ask Ilya help for but having him there had been a lifebuoy in the middle of an angry sea.

And now, he wasn't in bed with him. Shane gasped through quiet sobs.

At one point, he had to carry on with his life, didn’t he?

On still shaky legs and quiet heaving, he made his way to the bathroom to relieve himself and drink some water directly from the tap.

Oh.

He was thirsty. Like thirsty-thirsty. Gulping down as if he had been in the desert for months. The nausea had disappeared some time during the night, but his stomach started to hurt a bit as he didn’t slow down.

Stepping away, he had to put a stop to it before he drowned himself. Out of breath, at least he wasn't crying anymore. His face in the mirror was still swollen while his eyes were sunken and his lips dry and crusty. He washed his face with the skincare he left at Ilya and it was like shedding a moult.

He didn’t even dry it before he turned on the shower and climbed into it the moment it was warm enough, letting the temperature keep on rising to a scalding heat that did wonder to his tense muscles.

Shane was coming back alive. His stomach hurt from the too fast drinking, but apart from that, he felt better.

The panic attack was still licking at the edges of his mind, reminding him it was still around and he would have to face it fully eventually, but that was a problem for Future Shane.

Shane rarely pushed his problems back to later, but he allowed himself this time around, because he had a few things to face and deal with before he could have a proper breakdown.

He dressed himself slowly, unsure of his balance, sitting on the chair in Ilya’s room. He took his time putting on his socks, then some sweatpants that weren't the ones he wore yesterday. Actually, those might be his instead of Ilya’s.

The nervous shakes of his body unsettled him when he stood up, like he was just a guest in his own flesh. He didn’t have much control of his movements, weaker than he had been even just yesterday morning.

Fuck. Fuck.

The practice.

He looked around the room, trying to find his phone but it was nowhere in sight. His chest tightened so violently, he thought he was having a heart attack for a brief moment. He had to sit down at the end of the bed, a hand over his chest as he panted like an over-heated dog. His breaths stumbled over one another, and there was nothing he could do. He was spiralling.

Somewhere nearby, a door was being open and his vision was suddenly filled by his topless boyfriend, hands hovering but not touching him.

He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t regain control of his body and it hurt, his throat and chest hurt like scorched earth. His skin was stretched so tight it was burning, the flesh underneath numb and prickly while the tips of his fingers and his toes were so, so cold.

Ilya’s lips were moving, but Shane couldn’t hear it over the sickening ringing in his ears, and he was scared because he didn’t know what to do.

Fingers sneaked under his tightly closed fists, forcing the nails digging into his palms out. Ilya intertwined their hands, looking worriedly at Shane, searching his face but still not coming closer and that made his breathing even harder. He was scaring Ilya like he was scaring himself, because he was stuck, he couldn’t get out, please, get me out, please, help m–

Shane let himself tip forward, half falling off the bed, shock the last thing he saw on Ilya’s face, but thankfully he didn’t move, so that Shane found himself leaning and resting fully against Ilya’s body.

Except Ilya let go of his hands, and Shane would rather be executed on the spot than have Ilya let him down gently and walk away. Maybe he said something of the liking, maybe it was the wretched sob that echoed in his body, but the next moment, Ilya’s arms came around him, one hand settling at the back of his neck holding him tightly, squeezing into the flesh as he was pulled further down, away from the bed, fully into Ilya’s lap who was now sitting on the floor.

Okay, so maybe his later plan for the panic attack had been naïve.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, Shane’s face buried against Ilya’s throat and gulping his scent in. He was still cold apart from the contact points with Ilya’s body. Where his hands were covered by his boyfriend, they were warm, almost sweaty, but his fingertips were freezing, Shane almost expecting them to get frostbite.

His back was also cold, but for a whole other reason. He had somehow sweated through his t-shirt, and now it was cooling down. The bedroom door was ajar, letting in a chilly drift in, sending a shiver when it caressed the dampened fabric.

Ilya tightened his hold around him, and Shane started to feel less like a hostage in his own body. At the same time, sounds became clearer as he realized Ilya had been talking all along. The words were muffled, a distant thing, but the low rumbling of the man he loved more than life helped him settle further down.

More time passed, reality coming back in focus and Shane was ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“No sorry, never sorry ever again. I don’t want to hear it,” Ilya said, his voice so much sharper. His ears had unblocked at one point. They still clicked when he swallowed, but it sounded less like he was under water.

Ilya had pulled him back a bit so he could take in his face, but Shane was too tired to hold himself up so let their foreheads rest against each other.

“Okay. Thank you for being here. I needed you.”

Shane had not meant it as anything else than Ilya was his lifeline and always needed him. But from the pained twist Ilya’s face made, that wasn't what Ilya heard.

“I know. I am sorry I wasn't there.”

“Now. I needed you now and you were there. Thank god you were there. It was scary.”

“It was,” Ilya admitted, brows drown together like he was suffering.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said before he could stop himself, making him wince. At least, it made Ilya give him an unimpressed look instead of whatever torment he had been going through. “I told you I wasn't done freaking out,” he whispered, not sure he should bring it up. Ilya gave a small chuckle.

“Yes. I didn’t realize it was bad like that.”

“It isn’t, usually. That’s why it was scary. It never got to that point before.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” Ilya admitted pitifully.

“I just needed you.”

“So, not counting what you see and say what you hear, then?” Ilya asked, making Shane snort.

“No. It’s like following someone’s breathing. It’s making it worse, if I focus on how I breathe.”

Ilya hummed, but he was listening intently.

“What helps the most, when that happens?”

“The squeezing, that’s nice. It’s also easier to get out of it when it happens where I shouldn’t be having them. Locker rooms, public bathrooms. The fear of getting caught overrides the panic attack.”

If Shane had stabbed Ilya in the heart, he imagined he would have made the same face.

“Okay,” Ilya replied instead. “So if it happens in public, can I touch you then? Squeeze you?”

“The best thing you can do is literally do something crazy. Do you remember, in the bathroom in Vegas? You told me to suck your cock. That was the quickest way a panic attack went down.”

“Because you were horny?” Ilya asked, looking even more unimpressed, downright judgemental, and Shane couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. Adrenaline was coursing in his veins now, and his head was floaty.

“No. Maybe. But mostly because it was so out of left field, and you were being so annoying.”

Ilya nodded slowly, his eyes roaming over Shane’s face.

“You were having panic attack then, in Vegas,” he said, not a question.

Shane didn’t reply, eyes focused on Ilya’s lips, the intoxicating curve making his teeth ache with the need to bite.

“I was so in love with you,” he breathed out instead. “I didn’t know what it was. I just knew I wanted your attention on me in a way I’d never felt before.”

“I loved you then too,” Ilya said, coming closer, their lips a breath away from each other. “It physically hurt so bad to not have you. Being around you was unbearable because I had to fight so hard not to have you right there.”

Shane smiled as their lips grazed against each other, a light kiss was pressed against his closed mouth. Then another one, longer. Opening under the pressure, shared air mingling, Shane sighed, melting further down into Ilya’s embrace.

“When else did you have panic attack around me?” Ilya broke the kiss.

“I don’t have them around you. Today and yesterday don’t count. It had been building up for a while, I think.”

“I want to be there when you have them.”

“I don’t want to have them.”

“No, me neither,” Ilya conceded. “But if you have them, I want you to tell me so I can come. Wherever you are, even if we are not on the same team. I don’t want you to go through that alone ever again.”

Shane didn’t argue, detangling his hands from Ilya’s so he could wrap his arms around his shoulders, propping his chin on one of them.

“It’s because I missed practice.” He couldn’t look at Ilya while admitting out loud what had been the trigger. If he had been terrified that it would send him spinning again, weirdly enough, it didn’t have the same impact saying it. Actually, he felt stupid. “And I didn’t tell my coach.” Ilya took a deep, long breath in, before sighing it out as long and nerve-wrecking. “Sorry,” Shane couldn’t help adding with a kiss under Ilya’s ear.

“No more sorry, remember? Come. You need to eat. If you are going be sick again, is better if you have something in belly when you throw up,” Ilya said as he stood up while still holding Shane in his arms. Shane let out a loud snort at that but wrapped his legs around Ilya’s hips once he was standing up.

“Thank you,” he said into the square of skin as they made their way to the kitchen.

The view on the river settled something even further inside of Shane’s chest, the current passing like a lull as his eyes remained on the windows until Ilya sat him up on the kitchen counter island.

The sound of the fridge opening brought him back in the moment, as he turned in time to watch Ilya pull out an already-made protein shake bottle, a jar of a whitish gloop and a large bowl filled with cut-up fruits.

“Is that melon?” Shane said when he noticed the little scooped ball of orange flesh. “I didn’t know it was in season. I haven’t had some in so long. They have some farms in Vancouver, and we used to go when I was a kid.” Then, “they are some of the fruits with the most sugars, I read that people with diabetes cannot have them.”

“Do you have diabetes, Hollander?” Ilya asked with a big eye roll.

“No–“

“Then have melon,” Ilya said, his accent making Shane’s stomach flutter, and not in a sickly way. The bowl was pushed closer to him, but before Ilya could move out of his reach, Shane pulled him towards him, in between his hips, at a slight height advantage from this angle with a hand on his jaw to angle him up so Shane could devour him.

“Say it again,” Shane said against Ilya’s mouth, lips numb and wet with spit.

“Melon? Is that what does it for you, Hollander? Is fruit dirty talk now? Banana? Apple?”

Shane chuckled, sucking on Ilya’s bottom lip languidly.

“Asshole,” he said lovingly, and it was Ilya’s turn to lick into his mouth.

“Papayya,” Ilya said, Shane somehow aware he was speaking Russian there. “Ananas.”

He laughed some more.

“I know that one. Pineapple.”

“Oh, you speak Russian fluently now?”

“It’s the same in French. Ananas,” Shane repeated in the way he knew, in French.

“Ananas,” Ilya said again, softer, almost dreamily. “Look at us bonding over fruits. If I had known it made you all hot, Hollander, I would have had them before.”

“I don’t really eat a lot of it. They have quite a bit of sugar. And my macrobiotic diet doesn’t really allow tropical fruits–“

“Is the craziest thing I ever heard. Is fruits, they grow on trees. And I’ve made my own research,” Ilya said pushing further in between Shane’s hips, their fronts plastered against one another without any air left between them.

“Oh?”

“Hm,” Ilya said against his lips, “everything is kind of a fruit.”

Shane broke the kiss to lean back and sigh.

“Oh my god, not this again.”

“Is true!”

“I know, I know botanically speaking, everything is a fruit–“

“Vegetable is social construct!”

Shane snorted.

“Did my dad put you up to this? We have that debate every six months,” Shane sighed.

“He showed me articles. Was very interesting,” Ilya said, his mouth running along Shane’s jaw and up his ear, nibbling at the lobe.

Shane let his eyes droop, breathe stuttering as Ilya sucked at the sensitive skin between his ear and throat.

His hands tangled in Ilya’s hair, pressing his face and mouth further against him, not that Ilya showed any interest of letting up.

“If you eat melon,” he rolled the word around his mouth, tongue curling around it, “I’ll fuck you on counter after.”

“It’s gross, Ilya,” Shane moaned, breathing accelerating.

“Easiest place to clean. I’ve got your disinfecting spray.”

Shane’s cock should definitely not jerk at those words, but alas. With the rumble in Ilya’s chest as he chuckled darkly against Shane’s skin, he didn’t have problem to admit that was hot.

“Fine. I need a fork,” Shane said, and Ilya pulled back, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Demanding,” he said, darting to press a quick, dirty kiss against Shane’s lips.

“Please.”

“Moy khoroshiy mal'chik. So sweet.”

Ilya had to step away, leaving Shane cold, to get him a fork. After handing it to Shane, he still didn’t come back, instead going to some of the other things he had gotten out.

“Yuna told me what is cold oatmeal you eat,” he explained, pulling the jar of the white gloop towards him. “Overnight oats sounds gross. I made it for you last night. I cooked oats.” It had the effect of a cold shower, and to his frustration, felt himself tearing up a bit. Ilya crowded back to him, his hands coming to on the counter by Shane’s hips. “I know, is very sad. I tried it last night, I would also cry if I had to eat wet cardboard every morning.”

Shane laughed wetly.

“Thank you,” he whispered because he didn’t trust himself to speak any louder without bursting into tears, which was the hell was up with that again?

He had assumed because of the panic attack, the worst of his sensitivity would be gone, he would be back to his normal self. But he still felt on the edge and raw inside.

The last thought made him chuckle, which got him a questioning look from Ilya.

“Sorry. I feel all over the place, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Ilya studied his face for a moment, his beautiful, golden eyes jumping all over to figure him out.

“Is normal, I think,” he replied then, more serious than before and Shane knew he was running out of time to avoid talking about the elephant in the room. But the moment passed, and Ilya pulled the fruit bowl closer. “Eat.”

Shane knew it wasn't normal, the absolute euphoria, mixed with the physical pain in his chest when the sweetness of the melon exploded on his tongue. He knew the tears that had been hanging around and now running down his cheeks weren't normal either.

He knew something was wrong with him, and he knew he had to add to the pile to deal with it later.

He ate slowly, chewed consciously every bite. He was pretty sure there was some sort of other melon in there, probably Honeydew, and he hadn’t eaten any since he had been a kid. He picked through what he assumed was kiwi, as well as apples. But he had to try them anyway, because he was pretty sure there was some pear too, and he loved the flavour of pears. He was hesitant sometimes of actually eating them, because they could get gritty and that irked him up, but those ones were soft, almost melting in his mouth. He thought he could endure some pieces of apple in the midst of it.

He didn’t have any issues with apple, one of the fruits he could eat without restriction, which kind of made him hate them a little bit.

Ilya had removed the lid of the overnight oats, and Shane picked up his courage to try it. One of his many food quirks was viscous, gloopy things making him nauseous. Yogurt, eggs, you named it. It was fine as long as he put it together, but if it was already made and handed to him, it made him feel sick to his stomach. On days he didn’t have time to make his own protein shake and had to drink an already made one from a sealed bottle, he couldn’t eat until dinner as it sat heavily in his stomach.

Sometimes he was so irritated with himself when it concerned food.

Growing up, his parents adjusted pretty well to his preferences, and overall it went unnoticed. It was when hockey became serious, and he had to follow a strict diet he realized his own restrictions added on top of it made things really complicated, reducing drastically what he could or could not eat. He had to make adjustments, forcing himself to eat things he didn’t like.

It wasn't like he was missing much (he did).

Honestly, Shane didn’t even know what he could consider food that he liked.

He’d rather fall dead than eat chicken, but still ate it, and his body was so not used to unhealthy food that the rare times he got close to junk food, it got stuck in his throat and he could be convinced to throw up at any moment. On top of that, his stomach hurt and it made him feel heavy and gross.

The rare things he craved didn’t make much sense. Fries, mostly. He thought about them often. Intensely sweet things. Not cakes, he didn’t really like cakes, and cookies were dry.

Soda, that–yes. Liquid sugar, fake flavouring, unruly dyes. He still remembered the raspberry lemonade Ilya had gotten a few months back, that he got to taste straight from his lips. Shane wondered if it had made it taste better. He wished he could compare (he would never try it for himself).

Food had become a problem, an enemy to fight back every fucking day.

He had stopped enjoying mealtime long before Ilya came into the picture in a more serious note. Until the tuna melt, they had never eaten together. Ilya had offered on several occasions to get room service after their encounters, but it was easy for Shane to dismiss then: Ilya was being polite but he probably would rather Shane leave so he could eat because sex made him hungry.

He never asked when they were in Shane’s hotel rooms.

Shane had never seen it coming, and yet he should have predicted that food would become of point of contention between them once they got serious. Food was always a problem, a source of anxiety, and the more stressed he got, the less appetite he had. Sometimes, it just felt better to be hungry than worried about what he could eat.

He had convinced himself a long time ago that it wouldn’t matter as long as he was the one in charge of feeding himself, that no one would have to endure it, but then Ilya had been there, and stayed there, sneaking his way through and in, and he wouldn’t go, wouldn’t leave Shane to his own device.

But food was a proof of love, Shane knew that from his dad. Making food and feeding others were a love language he was aware of, and he knew if it wasn't because of him, it would be one of Ilya’s way to show how much he loved him. Too bad Shane was the way he was.

The overnight oats’ consistency was perfect, on the more liquid side. It didn’t taste like much, not an ounce of sweetener of any kind in there, no grittiness either.

“I didn’t put protein powder because I thought it was already bad enough,” Ilya explained, working on drying a few dishes like his blender, not looking at Shane.

“It’s perfect,” Shane said, voice tight and nose stuffy, overcome with intense emotion.

“Really?” Ilya finally turned to look at him with a disgusted look. “You like it?”

“No. But it is the only way I can eat it.” Shane didn’t see a point to lie. At least, it made Ilya laugh.

“I love you,” he came to press into Shane’s cheek. Shane sniffed.

“I love you too. Thank you.” Then, with his belly full, and his heart overflowing, Shane decided he could carry on being brave some more. “Okay. Okay.”

“Okay?” Ilya repeated, confused.

Deep inhale.

“I should probably call my coach, let him know I’m not coming to practice, but I should wait for my agent or my mom to be on the call, I think. Did… did my parents say anything? Are they coming back or am I supposed to go to their house? Did my mom say something?”

Ilya, with a step back, looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable.

“Your coach already knows. Yuna spoke to Montreal’s management already, with your agent.”

“Oh?” Shane gasped, heart floating up in his chest as liquid panic flooded every cavity in his body. “And… how bad is it?” Did I get dropped? Did they change her mind and reminded her why she was their biggest fan and that my feelings weren't as important as another cup?

Ilya sniffed, rubbed his nose and then shrugged, gaze to the side, unaffected.

“Well, because Montreal is really stupid, is really bad for them.”

Shane let out a shaky laugh.

“How could it be bad for them? It’s my fault.”

Ilya frowned at that.

“Is not your fault,” he growled, crowding back into Shane’s space. “Stop saying that. Stop it, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane breathed out. Ilya’s frown remained, but he gave another sniff.

“There’s been leak,” Ilya said after a while, meeting Shane’s eyes. “Last night. Screenshots of messages you already saw. Screenshots of other messages, on another group chat you aren’t on. Pike said is maybe rookies.”

“What.”

“Was after you fell asleep. You are right, Yuna has plan. Plans, actually. They had to change after leak.”

“Where’s–“ Shane started looking around, twisting so he could have a look around the room, “where’s my phone, I couldn’t find it–“

“Yuna took it.”

“What?” Shane gasped as he brought his fists against his chest, Ilya’s hands already on him, one on his waist, the other around his forearm, squeezing periodically.

“Her and your agent, they were talking with Metros’ management when it came out–“

“Ilya–“

“Is not as bad. The messages are… they are not nice but sounds more like locker room talk. They call you slurs, but they don’t say you came out to them. Your mom and your agent, they already drafted good message to deny. Not explicitly like I’m virile hockey player who dated Rose Landry and I would never take it up the ass,” a nervous giggle escaped Shane, “but something classy. Elegant David called it,” and from what Shane knew about Ilya and his relationship with his dad, that was all he needed to approve of the statement.

“What?” Shane repeated.

“Is going to be alright. Is big on social media right now because is nasty. But that didn’t out you. People think Metros are racists and homophobic piece of shit, not that you are gay.”

The background noise of anxiety in his mind had quieted down, almost to a full silence. He was pretty sure Ilya was still talking, probably trying to lighten up the mood, put perspective his Shane’s eyes, but to Shane, a full other debate was going on.

His options had never been simpler.

Two paths in front of him: deny and reinforce the closet door he was hiding behind, soundproof everything, keep their love out of the public eye, protect them, protect himself, until it would probably explode in his face again.

Or, publicly come out. With a foot already in the door, shoulder his way past his sleep terrors and face a reality he didn’t like. But at least, he wouldn’t have to lie anymore. His relationship with Ilya would have to remain hidden until they could make sure he was safe in Canada (and not at risk of losing his visa and being deported to Russia, where Shane didn’t want to even start imagining of what could happen to him). But that was different. It was to protect Ilya. It would be so much easier to protect Ilya if Shane didn’t have to worry about himself.

Of course, he hated the thought of coming out. Beyond the backlash and homophobia he was certain to encounter, Shane never thought he had to share his sexual orientation. It was about him, for him. He didn’t see how it concerned anyone else but him. Hell, Ilya had not even cared during all those years, and he was probably the only other person entitled to that information.

And he didn’t care about being representation and to always try to make others feel better about themselves. Sure, they were his peers, in some ways. But Shane had already been the token Asian guy, wasn't that enough? Now, he would have to be representation for non-white gay athletes. More look, more judgement, less room for mistakes. Not that he ever made a mistake.

But, the anxiety.

It made him so tired. He was weary, ran down, the threads of his mind thinning out every day that passed, the pain in his chest a constant, a friend at this point. Fuck, he even had emotional support panic attacks.

He probably hadn’t taken a proper breath in years, always panting and on the verge of breaking down.

It was always worse when he stepped out of the ice, maybe after reaching a high in the rink, the drop ever so brutal, the weight sometimes so unbearable he didn’t want to do it anymore.

Sometimes, the do it was going back on the ice, because if he didn’t experience the best, the worst wouldn’t feel as bad.

Other times, it was wishing everything could just stop, right there, after a beautiful goal into the opposite team’s nets, in a cease to exist or a never existed outside of hockey way.

He obviously never regretted Ilya, could never, his only reason to breathe in those moments.

But it was tiring, you see. Shane was so exhausted.

“Solnyshko?” Ilya’s voice pierced through the veil.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he admitted. He sniffed before wiping his nose and noticing he had snot all over himself. In a flash, Ilya snapped around and grabbed paper towel to dab it oh so gently on Shane’s face. “Ilya, I– I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Shane repeated and Ilya was already nodding. Once he made sure Shane was mostly dry, he enveloped him in a light embrace, his own breath heavy and shaky.

“Okay,” Ilya said, accent thicker than usual.

It wasn't a panic attack, Shane realized. There was so much less urgency to the shakes running through his body, his breathing matching his heartbeat, slow and calm in his chest.

“I don’t want to come out,” Shane said, leaning back so Ilya could understand what he meant with his body and not just his words, “but I don’t want to have to lie and hide either. I wish no one cared and that it wouldn’t change anything, but that’s not how it is. I have to come out. I have to, for my own sanity.”

Ilya didn’t say much after that, instead grabbing his phone and calling someone. Probably Yuna, Shane realized.

“Do you want to review statement before is posted?” Ilya asked, and Shane shook his head.

“Just make sure it is as clear as possible, to not leave any room to question it. I’m not coming out more than once.”

Ilya nodded, and started repeating the words, but his voice probably carried over the line, because he stopped, and agreed with the person on the other end of the phone.

Shane picked some more melon from the bowl, the orange starting to dimmish significantly, so he also ate the kiwi. But in the midst of his phone conversation, Ilya opened the fridge and pulled out another full melon.

Shane didn’t try to listen in, just watched the love of his life get the chopping board and knife out of the drying rack.

That made him smile. Ilya had that weird thing where he washed dishes more than he used the dishwasher. Maybe it was Shane’s weird thing after all, since he was very picky with what could go in it or not, depending if it could take on dishwasher flavour.

He didn’t have a lot of plastic things, but sometimes it was inevitable, but then it tasted like the dishwasher pod and it was ruined. Knifes couldn’t go in there either because it would dull the blade, and if Shane hated one thing more than dishwasher flavour, it was sharpening a knife. So if he could avoid it as much as possible, he would.

But he never said anything to Ilya about that. Some of his quirks were for him and him alone. It was Ilya’s home after all. Shane would never impose his own ways, especially when some were explicitly neurotic. He still had self-awareness, thank you very much.

At some point, Ilya must have hung up, because he was now cutting the melon in half, before he ruffled through his drawers and proudly pulled out a mini ball scoop.

“Is fancy melon, the store said,” Ilya pointed out.

“Oh?”

“Sh– ka? Rent-hay?”

Shane smiled, madly in love.

“Charentais,” he repeated, in French.

“Sha-rant-tay? Meh, worst language ever.”

Shane laughed.

“It’s a region of France. They have what’s basically a bigger cantaloupe. They grew them in Canada, in Vancouver.”

“It’s not even the French side,” Ilya mumbled disapprovingly.

“That’s what I said, too. It’s a climate thing.”

“Of course it is,” Ilya replied, way too fondly.

He started to scoop the little orange balls one by one, leaving them on the chopping board while Shane waited patiently. Sometimes, Ilya would grab a couple and drop them directly into Shane’s mouth, some of the juice falling at the corner of his mouth or directly on his lips, making him lick them.

The fruit was so sweet, even sweeter than the other one. That partly made Shane more anxious, but the craving for more made his head spin dizzily.

Or maybe it wasn't just the sugary liquid, but the love that was poured into it at the same time, because at one of those moments, where Ilya leaned towards him to feed him some of the flesh, Shane wrapped his lips and tongue around his fingers as well.

The knife clattered on the chopping board as Ilya dropped it and pressed in between Shane’s open legs.

“You did so well, sweetheart,” Ilya gasped against his cheek, sliding his fingers further down in Shane’s mouth, pressing them down slightly into his tongue, making Shane choke and whine, “you ate your food like I asked you, so prettily, so good.” Shane moaned, eyelids dropping close and his head would have followed as well if it wasn't for Ilya’s free hand tangling at the back of his skull to hold him up. “Now you can have anything you want.” Shane moaned again, suckling on the fingers, his tongue laving the sweetness on them, with nowhere to go. Not that there was anywhere he’d rather be. “Tell me, Lyubimiy. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

Ilya slid his fingers out, Shane’s teeth grazing along them in a vain attempt at keeping them there.

“Ilya,” he whined, squirming on the counter.

“Tell me,” Ilya breathed out, his pupils blown out as he watched Shane.

“You said you were gonna fuck me on the counter,” Shane pointed out petulantly, making Ilya chuckle.

“You also said was gross.”

“Ilya–“

Ilya used the hand at the back of his head to pull him close so they could kiss. He went in straight with his tongue, and that was Shane’s favourite type of kiss. Ilya was pressing close, closer, rutting his hips into Shane’s groin, the pressure on his erection sinful. Not enough to bring him to orgasm, but so delicious.

Shane’s own fingers found their way to the curls, grasping onto them and pulling, getting moans and grunts out of Ilya, all swallowed by Shane.

The buzz of lust was rising way faster than Shane was used to, feeling weirdly free as he didn’t have to lie anymore, his inhibition dropping and making his climax rush through him so much faster.

Ilya’s hand that had been in his mouth found its way to his throat, dragging wet spots on Shane’s skin, but he didn’t care when Ilya then dropped it to the small of his back, pulling Shane to the edge of the counter, making the contact so much more intense.

“Ilya,” he gasped again, feeling so close to finishing.

“Yeah, come on,” Ilya groaned, his fully erect cock rutting frantically against Shane’s through their sweatpants.

The pit at the bottom of his stomach filled with electricity, and with a lightning bolt, zipped through his spine and cock, through his balls, and Shane was coming in his pants like a first-time goer.

At some point, one of his arms had come to wrap around Ilya’s bare shoulders, legs wrapped tightly around his hips, and they were brought ever closer as he tensed and moaned through his orgasm.

The grunts coming through Ilya turned to soft high-pitched and breathy moans, and the next moment Shane knew he wasn't the only one reaching his peak.

Neither of them moved, faces pressed against each other’s foreheads, rabid hearts beating against one another.

Ilya pressed another kiss against Shane’s skin.

“Good, yeah?”

“You said you were gonna fuck me,” Shane said shakily, still trying to catch his breath. A surprised laugh tore through Ilya, before he leaned out, removing himself from Shane’s embrace, to Shane’s dismay. Ilya looked at him with a wild look and a large grin.

“I just made you come in your pants and is still not enough. So greedy, moy lyubimiy mal'chik. Also, means counter stays clean,” Ilya added, proud of himself.

“Counter is definitely not clean,” Shane huffed, arm tightening around Ilya’s shoulder, moving his hips in a figure eight against Ilya. They were both somewhat soft, but the zaps of pleasure felt so, so good.

“What was word again? Un-sat-able? Is you. You just came and refractory period is thirty minutes and you still want more.”

“Eh! Thirty minutes was once, and I had already come twice, you asshole! I can be ready in five minutes max. And it’s unsatiable. And I was promised yesterday to be fucked at least three times and I didn’t even get it once.”

“Unsatiable,” Ilya repeated with a wide, dopey smile. “My poor sweetheart, are you being neglected? Am I neglecting you? Do you need more from me, moy Lyubov? Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

Shane grumbled as his brows furrowed and his face got warmer, making Ilya coo at him affectionately.

“Have to do everything myself,” Shane muttered loud enough to be heard, as he pushed against Ilya’s chest so he could get down from the counter. That got a loud, offended gasp from Ilya, which gave Shane enough time to start making his way back to the bedroom.

Everything was great, actually.

Chapter End Notes

I obviously could have carried on, people have mentioned about seeing more angles, more interactions with the Centaurs, Shane getting some revenge from Montreal, everyone with really good ideas, but that wasn't the purpose of this fic, really focusing on the internal worlds of Shane and Ilya in a narrow window of time.

Also, I feel a lot has been done and written with a similar premisce, and done very well at that, so for now, I don't really have something better or even as good to propose. (When I say that, I am not talking to you, other fanfic writers. You can write the same story over and over again, I will eat it up everytime!)

So instead of rushing to do something with it, I'm leaving it at that for the time being.

I have thought of making it a small series, and maybe I will, but my writing has been prickly with me lately, and I don't want to put it under pressure to perform lol

But, I will be back (maybe) (eventually) (probably)!

Thank you so much for reading and engaging with this fanfic, it's a really great source of comfort and motivation.

Chapter 4: Update

First of, thank you to all of you who have commented and left kudos, it means the world to me, and I am very grateful for it.

Because this fanfic wasn't originally part of a series to be subscribed to, in case anyone is interested, there is now a sequel.

Sorry for making you hope for a new chapter, but in a way, if you had wished for an epilogue, a whole new fic is better, maybe?