Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Irina Rozanova, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Good Parents David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Non-Human Ilya Rozanov, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Meeting the Parents, One Shot, Boys In Love, Puppy Love, I wrote this instead of replying to comments and am SO sorry

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-08 Words: 10,713 Chapters: 5/5

Under Your Skin

Summary

“He wants doll brushes because he’s seen the girls at the park brushing their plushies with them. Their dolls too, obviously. But he wants to brush that pelt you brought him-”

David sets his crossword book down, giving Yuna his full attention.

“What?”

“The pelt of fur? Looks like a wolf, or maybe one of those big cats?” Yuna says, waving her hand dismissively. “Either way, I don’t think doll brushes are the right choice. We can look into getting him a set of actual grooming tools, he needs to learn that the right tools for the right job are an important-”

“Yuna. Sweetheart.” David interrupts. “I did not buy our son a piece of dead animal as a souvenir from Russia.”

OR

Ilya loses something important at the airport; years later, Shane gives it back to him.

Notes

My goal for this weekend was to tackle the backlog of wonderful, AMAZING comments I've received over the course of the May writing challenge.

BUT!

This idea grabbed me by the throat and would NOT let me sleep until it was written, so please accept my apologies and also this cute little thang. <3

Dialogue in full italics are meant to be in Russian, but I will save us both the ordeal of tabbing over to Google translate for the sake of expediency 😘

Chapter 1

Ilya doesn’t understand why they’re at the airport, but he loves the big airplanes. 

Mama had told him why they were going to be flying when they left the house, but he can’t remember why; only that he had to be very very careful with his bag. That made sense; his pelt was in there, and Mama was always telling him to be careful with his pelt.

But the planes were so big, and Andrei was sitting with the bags and playing his Nintendo, so it was safe; Andrei didn’t have a pelt of his own to look after, because Ilya was special, Mama said so. With Mama and Papa doing something at the desk, surely it wouldn’t be bad for Ilya to just have a look?

“If you get kidnapped, I’m telling Mama you ran away.” Andrei warns, not even looking up from his gameboy. Ilya was too little for a gameboy of his own, but the airplanes-

Ignoring Andrei and darting for the massive sheets of glass that overlooked the wide field where the airplanes landed and took off, Ilya pressed his face to the window. There were so many flickering lights, and the people on the field looked like little ants running around under the bellies of the airplanes.

He was going to ride one of those!

The idea of flying was a lot less scary now, seeing how big the airplanes were. It wasn’t like when he put on his pelt and had to figure out all over again how to walk on four legs instead of two; he would just sit in his seat, and maybe even get to look out the window as they flew over the clouds like birds. 

“Andrei! Ilya!” Papa’s voice barked out over the crowded seating area, and Ilya flinched away from the glass. Even at four years old, he knew better than to press his father’s patience.

Running back towards his parents by dodging over legs and other people's travel bags, Ilya watches Mama’s face as he gets closer. She’s frowning, but why?

Andrei’s Nintendo is sitting on the seat, but his brother is nowhere to be seen.

“Where is your brother?” Mama asks, but Andrei appears from the aisle a moment later, looking incredibly smug with himself. Ilya doesn’t trust it.

“Had to pee.” his brother shrugs, but Ilya knows they just went potty right before Papa went to go get the tickets-

“Smart boy.” Papa ruffles Andrei’s hair and Ilya leans into Mama’s legs, shuffling in close. Andrei might be Papa’s favorite, but Ilya was Mama’s and she was nicer than Papa anyway.

Something garbled and English came over the loudspeaker, some hidden meaning in it stoking his parents into motion.

“Grab your bags boys- Ilya, your zipper is undone, close it up.” Mama instructs, pulling on the handle release for her travel bag so that she can wheel it along without stooping.

Ilya zips his bag up, excited to be getting on the plane. He feels as light as a feather already; even his bag doesn’t weigh him down as much as it had on the walk from the parking garage. They’re going to ride on an airplane!

This is the best day ever.

🎒

Keys rattling in the front door had Shane jumping off the couch and running before Mom could even announce “Dad’s home!”

Taking a running leap, Shane launches himself and is easily snatched up by Dad’s strong arms. He gets the life squeezed out of him for his efforts, but it’s worth it because Dad’s been gone for a week doing something for work. But he went to Russia, and they play hockey there too, so-

“Don’t worry, bud. I remembered your souvenir.” Dad assures him, and Shane grins. 

“Shane, why don’t you go put Dad’s bag away and get washed up for dinner?” Mom says, but Shane knows what she’s about; she just wants to get her hug too. 

The thought of getting to put away Dad’s stuff is exciting though, so Shane wiggles free and starts rolling the suitcase down the hall. 

“Your souvenir is in the big pocket!” Dad calls, followed by an oof! sound. 

This was the second best part about Dad coming home from his work trips, besides, well, Dad. Because putting away the suitcase was Shane's job, and it was good work. He already knew that dirty clothes went in the hamper, and anything still folded got put back where it belonged. Socks and undies in the top drawer, pants in the bottom drawer, shirts-

Something unexpectedly soft and warm was hiding under a pair of Dad’s khaki colored dress slacks. 

It drew a shocked gasp from Shane’s mouth, because whatever it was, it was beautiful.

Gold and white, Shane thinks it looks like nothing so much as a lightly toasted marshmallow. It’s not sticky though, and unlike a lot of fabrics, it doesn’t make his fingers feel icky to touch it. Pulling the whole thing out, it’s not very big, just about the size of one of his t-shirts. But it’s soft, super soft, and Shane can’t help but bury his fingers into it just to feel the way the fur tickles at his fingertips.

“So cool.” he mutters, before inspiration strikes, and he buries his face in the fur. It feels almost warm, and Shane is certain this is his number one favorite souvenir from Dad’s travels ever.

Setting the fur aside, Shane happily sorts through the rest of the laundry, setting the box that must have the rest of the souvenirs Dad liked to bring back on the bed, so he could see it when he came upstairs.

“Shane! Dinner!” Mom calls, and Shane hurries to stash the fur on his own bed before going to wash up.

🎒

“Do you know what your son just asked me for?” Yuna asks when she plops onto the bed, already changed into her pajamas and having just put Shane down for the night. 

“Hockey gear?” David teases. Shane’s already got more gear than he can carry on his own, but the boy was growing like a weed and would probably need new skates before the month was out.

“No. He asked me for a set of doll brushes.”

That’s… a little strange.

“But he doesn’t have any dolls.”

“No.” Yuna confirms. “I don’t know where he’d put them anyway, with all the blocks in his toybox.”

David waited; patience was more his suit than Yuna’s, and sure enough, she continued on after only a moment.

“He wants doll brushes because he’s seen the girls at the park brushing their plushies with them. Their dolls too, obviously. But he wants to brush that pelt you brought him-”

David sets his crossword book down, giving Yuna his full attention.

“What?”

“The pelt of fur? Looks like a wolf, or maybe one of those big cats?” Yuna says, waving her hand dismissively. “Either way, I don’t think doll brushes are the right choice. We can look into getting him a set of actual grooming tools, he needs to learn that the right tools for the right job are an important-”

“Yuna. Sweetheart.” David interrupts. “I did not buy our son a piece of dead animal as a souvenir from Russia.”

It’s Yuna’s turn to frown.

“He got it out of your bag. What was it doing in there if you didn’t buy it?”

David shrugs. “Maybe customs got it mixed up somehow?”

“Well, either way, he’s already obsessed with it. Wouldn’t even let me touch it for more than a moment before he got that look in his eye, you know the one-”

“Like when you load his dresser wrong, or try to convince him that the off brand stick tape is just as good.” David nods, smiling. Shane sure is particular, but he comes by it naturally. Yuna’s been the same way since they met at college; she came with a whole set of rules for things he didn’t even know there could be rules for, and he’d delighted in learning all of them as the years went on.

“So we buy him the brushes.” David continues. “Might need to find out if it’s any good for a fur pelt to be brushed, if he’s already attached. He’ll be upset if he pulls out all of the hair by mistake.”

Yuna is giving him an odd look; sleepy, but fond.

“Nothing phases you, does it?” she asks, pulling up the covers and getting herself into bed.

“What’s there to be phased about?” David protests, but then Yuna’s giving him ‘you’ve been gone for a week and I missed you’ kisses, and he promptly forgets everything else in the room even exists.

🎒

Mama has been crying for a week.

Papa had yelled and Andrei had cried, and Ilya had gotten the spanking of his life, which had only made Mama cry harder and Papa yell some more.

His pelt is gone.

Andrei hid it in a stranger's bag at the airport, and there was no way to know where in the world it had ended up.

Mama’s pelt is kept locked up safe, so she doesn’t lose it; that’s what Papa says, anyway. They should have locked up Ilya’s too, but Mama had bared her teeth and looked more like an animal than his Mama whenever Papa even mentioned doing so.

Maybe they should have let Papa lock it away; maybe then, Ilya wouldn’t be stuck wearing two legs forever, when he was always meant to spend at least part of his life running on four. 

“It will come back to you.” Mama insists, when two weeks have gone by. “It may be years from now, but it will come back.”

Ilya can’t tell her the truth, because he thinks she’ll start to cry again if he does. Maybe with his pelt gone, Papa and Andrei won’t treat him like he’s so different anymore. This could be his chance to be normal-

But as the weeks continue to go by, it very quickly becomes obvious that whatever mischief Andrei had tried to work over on his little brother had backfired spectacularly.

Because Ilya? Feels great.

His hair has never been shinier, his feet have never been faster, and he grows like a weed. Mama is so relieved that she laughs in delight when she’s clipping his nails for the second time in a week because he’s growing so fast. 

“Someone is taking care of your pelt.” She tells him in a soft voice, one she saves for secrets. “When we’re truly loved and someone cares for us, that’s magic too, Ilya.”

Andrei does not think this is such a great thing. If anything, Mama loves on Ilya even harder now, smug that Ilya has something that Andrei never will. She loves both of her boys, Mama says. Loves them equally, of course.

But Andrei has never run through the house on four legs because he slipped into his pelt while Papa was at work; Andrei has never stared at the forest when they go camping with the kind of longing that Ilya knows in his bones is only for him and Mama.

Andrei will never know.

But Ilya does.

Chapter 2

Sometimes the pelt feels different.

Shane has been dutifully brushing the fur on it every night before bed for years now, because despite what the taxidermist had told his parents, this fur was just special. Shane could brush it as much as he liked, could even get it wet and wash it like a living animal if he needed to. 

But sometimes, it really feels like it’s a living animal. 

Not in that it moves; but because it’s warm, like there’s a real body attached. Sometimes Shane swears he can hear a heartbeat if he listens hard enough. It’s grown too, getting bigger and bigger, just like Shane with his growth spurts; at twelve years old, he’s already had a couple of those. And then sometimes, like today, he can feel… something. Emotions, he thinks.

And the pelt is very sad today.

He does not tell his parents about this. 

Shane knows it bothers his Mom more than it does his Dad, that Shane’s never really outgrown his need to have the pelt close by. It had made summer camps a little weird, because Shane refused to leave it unattended in the cabins; there were too many boys around that liked to do pranks, and Shane had been subjected to enough of those at school already, thanks.

He didn’t want anyone even looking at his pelt wrong.

It’s his.

And today, the pelt is sad, and Shane isn’t crazy about the idea of leaving it home alone. He has to get to school, is already risking missing his bus when he runs his fingers through the fur one last time. The sadness engulfs him, and Shane’s back on his bed, clutching the pelt in close to his chest and rocking it back and forth in a heartbeat.

“Honey, you’re going to be la- Shane!”

Mom is suddenly right there, brushing his hair back from his face but knowing better than to try and touch the pelt in his arms.

“Shane, baby, why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

And oh, he is crying. He’s getting tears and snot on his pelt, but tomorrow is Wednesday, so that’s probably fine. Every Wednesday, without fail, Shane always gives the pelt a good deep clean, loves to see the way the pelt shines like gold in places when he’s done.

“I don’t know.” he sniffs. “I’m just… sad.”

And Shane isn’t sad, but the pelt is, and it’s making Shane sad by association. Blinking slowly up at his mother’s worried face, Shane hopes, not for the first time, that she can’t read his mind. He doesn’t need his Mom to think he’s crazy.

“Do you need to stay home from school today?” Mom asks, and Shane nods, burying his face back in the fur. “Okay honey. You stay home. I’ll go call the school-”

She’s making a plan, something about getting his homework from one of the neighbor kids that wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with Shane in the school yard. But Shane doesn’t care. 

With both arms crossed over the pelt, hugging it tight to his chest, Shane tries to squeeze the sadness right out of it.

🎒

Ilya had found the mess that the burglars had left behind first.

Papa’s study was a wreck when he and Mama had come home from school. At twelve years old, Ilya was more than capable of bringing himself home just fine, but Mama liked to go for walks out of the house, and it was a decent stroll to the school and back.

The desk wasn’t turned over, only because the old thing was made of such heavy wood that it probably couldn’t be rolled without a forklift. The drawers were strewn about though, and the old portrait that normally hid the safe from view was torn off the wall and laying amongst the mess on the floor.

Pens, papers, all sorts of things Papa kept in his study, all laid about on the floor and clearly rifled through.

“Mama!” he called behind him from the open doorway. “Mama, we’ve been robbed!”

Hurried steps in the hall behind him announced his mother before her warm hands alighted on his shoulders; he is nearly as tall as her now, but her hands still perched there like they belonged.

“Oh my.” Mama murmurs, and Ilya’s about to ask if they should call the police, call Papa, when he feels Mama’s whole body freeze with sudden tension.

His lips are peeling back from his teeth in a defensive snarl before he realizes that she’s not reacting to a threat still in the house; his pelt might be gone, but Ilya’s teeth haven’t forgotten how sharp they can be.

Mama begins to pick her way through the debris with care, and Ilya keeps watch at the door, uncertain what’s grabbed her attention so suddenly.

“Oh, Ilya- look.” she breathes, tugging something yellow and lumpy from beneath Papa’s overturned chair. She holds it out at arms length and lets the thing unravel.

At first, Ilya is confused; his pelt has been missing for years, but he still thinks he’d recognize it if he saw it. This pelt is much too large to be his own though, and the fur is coarse and matted in places, ill kept. Ilya’s own pelt, wherever it is in the world, is still being cared for.

“Is that… is that your pelt, Mama?” Ilya asks. He’s never seen it before; Papa doesn’t think it’s safe to take it out of the family vault.

Come to think of it, Ilya’s never seen Mama in her fur before.

“It is, baby.” Mama whispers. “I never thought-”

There’s the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the house, and they both jump.

Papa is home.

Ilya startles again when something skin-warm and metal touches his neck.

“Take care of this, Ilya.” Mama says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you.”

Ilya frowns down at his shirt, because that’s Mama’s necklace, and she never takes it off-

A strange snapping sound comes from behind him, and when Ilya turns to look, Mama is nowhere to be found. Where she’d stood only a moment before, there’s now a wolf. 

Svelte but rough looking, and far too thin to be healthy, Mama is still the most beautiful wolf Ilya has ever seen. 

“Oh wow, Mama.” he says, reaching out for her. She comes to him, carefully picking her way through the mess once more, paws stepping lightly through the room. He rewards her care with scritches to the soft tufts of her ears, and she blesses him in turn by pressing the cold pad of her black nose to his cheek.

Papa is making his way closer, and Mama’s ears flick forward. Her eyes go wild for a moment, and she headbutts Ilya to the side. 

“Mama?” Ilya calls, but she’s already moving again.

Out the door and down the hall, opposite the direction of Papa’s stomping feet.

There’s a flash of pale fur against dark draperies, and then Mama is through the open window at the end of the hall that the burglars must have used to enter the house.

He does not realize, in that moment, that it is the last time he will ever see her.

Chapter 3

“He doesn’t move like any other player I’ve seen.” Mom admits, and Shane absently nods in agreement. The way that Ilya Rozanov glides across the ice is fierce, almost predatory, and Shane gets goosebumps on his skin just thinking about having that coming towards him on the ice. 

“Forward lean?” he offers, because if they’re going to be sitting awkwardly alone in the empty stands just to get an idea of what kind of competition the other players are bringing to the ice, he should probably contribute to the conversation.

“It’s something more than that.”

Definitely more, though Shane’s distracted enough by the beautiful and somehow familiar sheen of gold to Rozanov’s hair to contribute anything further than that.

🎒

Ilya has not worn his pelt since he was four years old, but sometimes he can still feel the ghost of it; when the Canadian player approaches him in the alleyway and calls him out for smoking, Ilya swears his hackles go up. 

It is very good that he does not have his fur on though, minutes later. By the time the soft spoken player is wandering away and lightly chirping Ilya over his shoulder, Ilya’s fairly certain that having a wagging tail right now would have given him away for sure.

🎒

Hollander shoves him back on the bed and Ilya is so secretly delighted at being pushed around by the other boy that he nearly misses the thump of a black carry on bag falling from the bed. Something panicked flits across Hollander’s face, and he clambers over Ilya’s naked body, timidness disappearing in his haste to pick up the bag.

“Hollander, what-”

Relief slumps Hollander’s shoulders as he checks that the bag is still zipped shut, a strange little security lock on the zipper that Ilya finds silly; if someone wanted into the bag that badly, they could just cut it open afterall. But Hollander carefully sets the bag down on the floor beside the bed like it’s precious, and Ilya can’t help but be charmed by his strange quirks.

First folding his clothes, and now this?

Ilya wants to eat him.

Hollander’s surprise when he leans back and finds himself sprawled across Ilya’s lap is just as cute, and Ilya rolls him over onto his back so he can vent some of the need to sink his teeth into Hollander with biting kisses instead.

The bag is forgotten, but the noises Hollander makes and the way his body writhes beneath Ilya’s own will linger in his memory eternally.

🎒

“You’re really gonna bring that thing everywhere, huh?” Hayden asks, when Shane tucks the black carry-on bag with his pelt into the stack of pillows at the head of his hotel bed. 

“It’s my good luck charm.” Shane says, deadpan and only half joking.

His parents have mostly accepted that it’s just another one of the things that makes Shane who he is. The rest of the team have noticed he always carries the bag with him too, but Hayden’s the only one to chirp him about it.

Shane keeps the pelt rolled up in the bag unless he has the room to himself; takes it into the bathroom when he gets ready for bed each night to roll it out and brush it down, silently apologizing for keeping it stuffed in a bag all day. He still washes it out every Wednesday, and falls asleep each night with his hand snaked through the half zipped bag, soft fur ticking at his palm and fingertips.

“I get it man, the twins get weird about their loveys too. No judgement here.” Hayden says airily.

“Sounds kind of judgemental when you put it like that.” Shane mutters, pulling the luggage rack from the closet to start unpacking.

“No, I get it! The girls can’t sleep without theirs. Jade’s got Mr. Bear, and Ruby-”

“-has her Frozen blanket. I know.” 

Shane has been on the receiving end of the kinds of meltdowns his best friend’s kids get up to when they misplace their loveys. His pelt is totally different though. 

“Have you ever lost it?” Hayden asks. “How long have you had that thing, anyway?”

And Shane is so not having this conversation because if Hayden finds out that Shane’s been carrying around a wolf pelt since he was four years old and hasn’t slept a single night without it, he will never hear the end of it.

“Shouldn’t you call your wife? We made it to the hotel.” Shane points out, and Hayden curses, scrambling for his phone to do just that.

🎒

“What the fuck is up with Hollander?” Marly asks, and Ilya has to grit his teeth to keep from growling at his friend when he plops onto the bench beside him. Because something is very wrong with Hollander, and Ilya both doesn’t know what and is in no position to satisfy the bone deep need he has to fix it.

“Other than how he is skating like today is first day with blades on his feet, and head in clouds?” Ilya snaps. “No fucking clue.”

If Cliff seems taken aback by the bite to Ilya’s words, he shrugs it off. 

And then, because Cliff Marleau is both the biggest asshole Ilya’s ever met while simultaneously being the most friendly, he calls out to the closest Montreal player. The refs have the game paused for a call breakdown on the other end of the ice, and Pike seems just as surprised that Marly’s talking to him as Ilya is.

“The fuck is up with your boy?” Marly booms, and Pike scowls at them.

“None of your fucking business, Marleau.” Piks scoffs. “Leave him alone.”

“Aw, did somebody steal mister big shots lucky socks?” Marly coos, because, well… asshole.

The brief flash of surprise on Pike’s face is very, very interesting though.

“How’d you-” Pike begins, before shaking his head. “If it was one of you Boston assholes, you better give it back. This isn’t fucking funny.”

Pike takes off when the whistle blows, effectively putting an end to the conversation. But Ilya’s hackles are up, and now that he has an idea of just what’s wrong with Hollander, he can finally fucking do something about it.

As soon as they beat Montreal. It’s a home game for Boston after all.

🎒

Cliff owes a huge favor to whoever pissed in Rozanov’s Cheerios that morning, because the game against Montreal had been a fucking cake walk. The aggression was coming off Roz in waves, riling up the whole team and the crowd too, Boston practically foaming at the mouth for a win.

A shutout game against Montreal, 4-0. Fuckin’ beaut.

He’s still riding the high of that victory when he hears the distinct sound of panicking rookies from one of the rink's conference rooms. Since the Boston rookies are still scrambling to put away their gear, not used to the quick clean up that means more time to party afterwards, it’s kind of fucking weird.

“-can’t believe you fucking had it the whole time, Coach is going to kill you.”

“It wasn’t my idea! Drapeau dared me to snag it from his hotel room-”

“You fucking know that goalies are crazy! What is wrong with-”

The sharp inhale of guilty children is a satisfying sound to wring from a couple of grown ass men, and Cliff delights in having been the one to make these little fuckers shit themselves when he slams the conference door open so hard that the walls rattle.

“The fuck are you kids doin’ in here?” he booms, loud and Boston as they come.

“Nothi-”

The two pricks are in Montreal colors, but the wannabe defense-man scrambles his brain cells together the fastest; he must not have enough concussions under his belt just yet.

“We uh- found Hollander’s bag.” D-man says, and Cliff has seen the guilty look on this kid's face a hundred times before with his own rooks.

The black bag he’s holding up is pretty boring looking, but shit, if that’s what Hollander has his panties all in a twist about-

“Good work, Scooby Doo.” Cliff snorts. “You gonna give it back to him, or you gonna spend the night circle jerkin’ in here with your boy?”

The affronted look fades quickly, probably because Cliff has more than just the muscle mass to back up his intimidation game; he’s one sharp whistle away from bringing the wrath of the entire Boston roster down on these little pricks if they so much as breath at him funny.

“We’re not going back to the hotel for a while, so it’s probably safer just to turn this into the rinks lost and found.” Shit-for-brains offers, and Cliff rolls his eyes.

“You pussies stole your Cap’s bag and now you’re too chicken shit to give it back to him.” Cliff snorts, snatching the black bag out of the cowering rookie’s hands and slinging it over his shoulder. “Your mothers should’ve swallowed. Get the fuck outta my rink.”

The boys shuffle awkwardly past Cliff, still standing in the doorway and not making it easier on them.

“Fuckers.” he mutters, hitting the lights and making his way back to the locker room. This shit is cutting into his drinking time.

“Roz!” he bellows, knowing his Captain is still probably fussing with his hair in the steamed up mirrors of the locker room. He’s got a hot date after the game tonight, and Cliff hopes like hell she likes it rough, because Roz is still fucking bloodthirsty even after wiping the floor with the hamstringed Montreal team.

“Fucking what.” Rozanov spits, and yeah, Cliff would not want to be under this man tonight.

Or any night. Cause that’s gay. Obviously.

“You stayin’ at the league hotel?” Cliff asks, already knowing the answer. Having a house with a view and enough square footage to host a full roster of hockey players plus their WAG’s meant Cap had a commute out of the city. A hotel on game nights was a no brainer.

Swinging Hollander’s bag off his shoulder and holding it out, Cliff nearly takes a step back when Roz’s eyes latch onto it.

“Where the fuck did you get this?”

And fuck the steam in the room, Roz’s voice is like ice; Cliff’s balls curl up and do their damndest to shrivel under the baleful look his bestie's got leveled at him.

“Found it in the hall.” Cliff lies, because he’s not a fucking snitch. “If you’re headed to the hotel, you wanna drop it with the front-”

The bag disappears from his hand so fast that the nylon leaves a friction burn across his palm as it goes.

“Fucking ow, Roz!” Cliff roars, clutching his hand and glaring at his friend.

Rozanov folds the bag into his chest and takes three deep breaths before he talks, and Cliff hasn’t seen him this out of whack since the last time he came back from Russia.

“Sorry.” Roz huffs. “Sorry. Yes. I will take back.”

“Good. Jesus fuck, you weirdo.” Cliff bitches, ignoring his survival instincts and stepping into Rozanov’s personal space to clap in on the back with a hug. “Have fun tonight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Rozanov’s answering grin is all teeth.

🎒

With Hayden and JJ out of his hair to go drown their sorrows at a local barcade, Shane has all the lee-way in the world to have himself a nice little breakdown.

Hayden’s just left and Shane is dazedly trying to decide if it would feel better to curl up in the dry bathtub or scream himself hoarse in a shitty hotel pillow when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Rozanov’s particular knock, a five-two pattern, and it cuts through the maudlin haze of panic Shane’s been existing in since he’d realized his pelt had gone missing.

The knock comes again, harder, and Shane stumbles for the door.

“I’m not-” Shane tries, but the air whooshes out of his chest a moment later, as something is slammed into his arms the moment the door opens.

Rozanov slides in with the same predatory grace he always carries about him, backing Shane down the hall and absently flipping the security latch on the door behind him.

The stress of the day and having spent the second half of it in a panicked fugue state culminate in it taking Shane’s brain far too long to recognize what’s in his arms. The back of his knees have hit the mattress and he’s dropped into a sit before his eyes finally convey the importance of what he's seeing. 

It’s his bag, and now Shane’s hands are flying for the zipper lock in a flash, body curled protectively over the bag to keep its contents out of Rozanov’s sight. 

He can feel Rozanov’s heavy stare, a sort of hind brain reaction he gets sometimes around the Boston player; if he were sane, he would feel that gaze like prey caught out by a predator about to strike. But since Shane is the kind of guy that carries a wolf pelt around in his bag, Rozanov’s strange looks have only ever brought Shane a sense of comfort.

Peeling the zipper back just far enough to shove his hand inside, Shane’s whole body deflates with relief when he feels the familiar softness of the fur rolled up inside.

It’s fine.

It’s safe.

And Rozanov brought it back to him.

“How- Where was it?” Shane asks, blindly zipping the bag back up and setting it carefully beside the bed before turning to face Rozanov. 

Rozanov shrugs.

“Am staying at same hotel as you, rink staff passed it to me for delivery.” 

There has to be some falsehood to that, because Shane hadn’t even gone to the rink until after he’d discovered the bag missing; but the serious look that Rozanov is leveling at him has Shane brushing it aside. The details don’t really matter. He’s never letting that bag out of his sight again, and the rush of relief coursing through him at having it back is making him kind of giddy.

Shane springs to his feet; he has a lot of things to think about tonight, not the least of which being how shit he played on the ice. But right now, the only thing that really matters is properly thanking the man that brought his pelt back to him.

He’s in Rozanov’s space a moment later, gripping his hips and swinging him around to shove him roughly down onto Shane’s pick of the two hotel beds. Pinning Rozanov’s muscular arms above his head with an ease that speaks more to Rozanov’s desire to having them there than to Shane’s own vigorous workout routine, Shane leans in close.

“You found it.” he mutters against Rozanov’s lips.

“Da.”

He sounds almost as breathless as Shane; forcing his stare away from Rozanov’s lips to look him in the eye, Shane’s unsurprised to see that Rozanov’s pupils are blown wide with desire.

“And you brought it back to me.”

A sharp nod.

“Thank you, Ilya.” Shane murmurs, watching Roz- Ilya’s face for his reaction to hearing his first name slip from Shane’s lips.

“You are welcome. Shane.” Ilya replies, playfully solemn in a way that makes Shane’s pulse kick into high gear.

Raking his fingertips down the smooth span of skin covering the thick muscles of Ilya’s arms, Shane rocks his hips into Ilya’s lap with intent; closing the distance between their lips, he sets about giving Ilya a proper thank you.

Chapter 4

“Drinks after practice tonight for my birthday, first round’s on me boys!” Hammersmith crows, to a resounding round of cheers from the other Boston players stripping down after practice.

“Count me out.” Connors says, shaking his head. “I’m too old for drinks on a fuckin’ Wednesday.”

Another round of noise, this time booing, and one of the rookies sidles over to Ilya to elbow him. “Cap, come on, make Connors come out with us.”

Before Ilya can even reply, there’s a wave of laughter breaking through the locker room, Marly’s the loudest, as usual.

“Rookie mistake kid. Cap doesn’t drink on Wednesday’s either.” Marleau explains, peeling off his sweat soaked shirt and chucking it at the kid. “Man doesn’t do shit on Wednesdays.”

Ilya smirks, because they’re not wrong, but he’s not about to tell them what he really gets up to. Speaking of which-

“Is getting late. You chucklefucks better have fun tonight, because I am going to work you like fucking dogs tomorrow.” he shouts over the muffled din of discussion on where to go to get Hammersmith’s free round.

A chorus of replies, mostly affirmative, some groaning in despair, echoed back to him. Turning back to his locker, Ilya ignores both and hurries to wrap up his own post practice routine so he can get home.

Wednesday nights are Ilya’s favorite, because every week, without fail, something fucking magical happens to him.

Sprawled on his couch at home later that night, killing time by watching recaps of Montreal’s latest game, Ilya gleefully watches Shane sink another goal past Toronto's defenses with the kind of ease that makes it look insulting. Hollander’s adorable little fist pump of excitement when he scores is too fucking cute, and Ilya’s shaking his head with the stupidest smile on his face when he first begins to feel it.

Hurriedly clicking the TV dark before tossing the remote out of the way, Ilya closes his eyes and rolls onto his front. He’s just in track pants for the night, the bare skin of his back and the pads of his feet turned up towards the vaulted ceilings. Pressure, like a firm hand down his spine, presses against him.

It always starts like this; three deep strokes down the center of his back, then three strokes overlapping that to the left. It repeats, every drawn out press from his shoulders to hips working him over like the best kind of massage. 

Because every Wednesday, without fail, somewhere out there in the world… his pelt is being taken care of.

There’s a lesser version of this, every night, usually at the same hour. But Wednesday’s, it’s an entire ritual. A full brush down. A hot soak, which had felt so strange as a child; like being fully immersed in a warm bath, only to be plucked free and roughed dry. Always followed up with another brushing, and it left Ilya feeling like a human puddle of happiness and relaxation when it was done. 

If he ever finds out who has his pelt, he’s going to fall on his knees and thank them, and then probably kiss them and spoil them rotten for the rest of their life.

Groaning into the couch cushions as the strokes along his back start down the other side, Ilya’s toes curl with pleasure, and he melts into the sensation.

🎒

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Shane shoves his thumbs into the belt loops of the dark pants he’s wearing; sidles out of the kitchen to where Ilya is sprawled over his living room couch and letting the pleasant shock of seeing him here, in Shane’s own home, wash over him. It’s almost enough to banish his anxiety over the coming ordeal.

Because yes, inviting Ilya to come and stay for a few days over the holiday break had seemed like a fantastic idea. There was a softness to the way they touched each other now, something critical having shifted after Ilya had found and returned Shane’s precious pelt to him. Each touch held a weight of something ‘more’, though Shane didn’t dare put words to it just yet.

But in his excitement over Ilya actually accepting the invitation, Shane had forgotten to take into account that one of the days they would share together was a Wednesday.

And Wednesday’s were important.

“So. Hey.” Shane says, thumbs still looped through his belt loops to project just how cool and calm he totally was.

“Hm?”

Ilya hasn’t looked up from his phone. He’s in a muscle tank that’s frankly erotic with the way it shows off his sculpted form, and his track pants do very little to hide the fact that Ilya has chosen to go commando for the second day in a row.

Not that Shane minds.

“Just. Uh. Probably going to go to bed early tonight.” 

That gets Ilya’s attention, a slow grin spreading across his face as he lets his phone fall to his chest. 

“Oh yes? You will be needing company for this?”

Shane can feel his cheeks getting hot, because yes, vehemently yes, he would like to have Ilya in his bed again tonight. But-

“Not- not right away?” Shane tries. “I uh. It’ll take me a little longer to get ready for bed, that’s all. So, not really going to bed early, but-”

“Hollander. Shane. I can entertain myself, you know.” Ilya teases, posture still relaxed in a way that’s leaching some of Shaen’s own tension away.

There’s nothing to really be stressing about here, but damned if his mind doesn’t think he should do it anyway, just in case.

“Right. Yeah, of course.” Shane nods sharply. “I just. I’ll be a bit. So.”

Ilya’s already picking up his phone again, one hand waving lazily over his head. “Is fine, I will be up later.”

Shane flees before he makes this any weirder than it is, even if Ilya looks perfectly content to laze away on the couch while Shane performs his weekly ritual.

🎒

Blissed out on Shane Hollander’s couch on a Wednesday evening, Ilya cannot think of anywhere else he would rather be. The firm strokes down his spine are mind meltingly good, and he’s barely managing to muffle his happy sounds into the crook of his elbow.

Thank god Shane had something of his own to take care of, because Ilya doesn’t know that he would be able to focus on being good company right now, not with-

An epiphany sparks across Ilya’s mind so sharply that he bites his own tongue on a curse for his own stupidity.

Of fucking course there’s somewhere else he would rather be right now.

Rolling himself off of the couch and hurriedly making his way up the stairs, Ilya is practically giddy with the thought that his big, beautiful brain has just come up with.

Because the second hand pleasure he derives from having his pelt groomed every Wednesday would pair absolutely perfectly with the way that Shane sometimes lets him sprawl across his lap, Shane’s fingers stroking his hair and rubbing against Ilya’s skull. 

He pads on silent feet down the short hall to Shane’s bedroom, but something entirely unexpected happens when he opens the door.

The strokes along his back, strong powerful pulls against the fur that he hasn’t worn since he was four years old, stop immediately.

And on the neatly made king sized bed, wearing his glasses and looking appalled at Ilya’s sudden entry, sits Shane… with the pelt of a grown wolf sprawled across his lap, and a fancy looking brush in his hand. A familiar black bag lies empty on the bed behind him.

Ilya freezes, can feel his eyes getting wild as he takes in the scene.

“Ilya!” Shane yelps, hurriedly stashing the pelt behind his back like it's some kind of sinful skin magazine and not the missing piece of Ilya’s existence. “You should knock-”

Ilya is still frozen in the doorway. Part of his brain wants him to run forward and steal the pelt back; a bigger, much louder part of him is howling with delight.

“-are you okay?”

It’s Shane’s care as he sets the pelt gently aside, brush to the left of it, before rising from the bed to come and check on Ilya that finally breaks the hold of immobility.

He’s in Shane’s space a moment later, scooping him up into his arms and spinning Shane around with delight while Shane squawks indignantly and demands to be put down.

“What’s gotten into you? What happened?” Shane demands, but he’s smiling, and he’s gripping at Ilya’s arms like he’s afraid he’ll get spun around again.

And he fucking might.

“That’s mine.” Ilya breathes, gripping Shane’s perfect face in his hands and leaning in to steal a long kiss, just pressing his lips to Shane’s own and holding him there as he takes a deep breath in.

“What’s yours?” Shane asks when Ilya’s forced to pull away to breathe. Stupid air.

“The pelt, that’s my fucking pelt.” Ilya points, grinning so wide his face hurts. “Has been missing for long, long time.”

Shane’s happiness evaporates in a heartbeat, and he takes a step away, placing himself defensively between Ilya and the pelt of fur he hasn’t seen in almost two decades.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shane says firmly. “This is mine. It’s been mine my whole life, Ilya.”

Shane is practically spitting like an angry cat now, and Ilya’s heart melts a little further into goo. It’s disgusting, how cute this is. Shane is protecting Ilya… from Ilya.

“Hm, I think this is lie.” Ilya teases. “Whole life? I think no. You have this since you were four years old.”

Shane blinks in confusion.

“Wait-” Shane reaches blindly behind him, hands unerringly plucking the pelt up from where it’s been carefully draped across the bed. “How do you know that?”

“Because I was four years old when my idiot fucking brother hid it in stranger’s luggage at international airport.” Ilya drawls, stepping closer to Shane and, subsequently, his pelt.

Shane frowns down at the pelt, obviously torn; his possessive need to keep Ilya’s pelt warring with polite Canadian manners to return it to its rightful owner, no doubt.

“I will not take it from you.” Ilya assures him quietly, not wanting to spook Shane any further than he is already. “Can I show you?”

“Show me what?” Shane asks, fingers burying themselves in the plush fur that Ilya’s never seen looks so loved.

“How it is mine.” Ilya shrugs.

Shane looks down at the fur, and with a kind of trust that Ilya swears then and there to never betray, he slowly hands over the pelt.

🎒

Shane is not panicking.

Honestly, if their relationship was going to get any further, Ilya would have to have found out about the wolf pelt eventually. But handing it over, he half expects Ilya to cackle with malicious glee and flee from the building taking the pelt and himself with it, never to return.

He’s not surprised to see his hand shaking as he holds out the pelt anyway.

Because at the end of the day he trusts Ilya, more than anyone, to understand him.

Ilya takes the pelt with exactly as much reverence as Shane thinks it’s due, and he folds it over one arm while petting along the fur with his free hand.

“It’s bigger than I remember.” he mutters, clearly awed.

“It stopped growing a couple years ago.” Shane says, “I uh. I measured.”

“You measured.” Ilya says fondly, with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle attractively at the corners. “Of course you did.”

Shane stands there, watching Ilya looking over the pelt, and realizes that the tension in his chest that had risen up when Ilya claimed that the pelt belonged to him has faded. Ilya’s being very careful with it. He probably won’t take it away from Shane. And if he does, well. Maybe, of anyone, Ilya could be safe to share it with.

“Have not done this in a long time, so. Do not judge.” Ilya says suddenly, and Shane doesn’t even have time to ask for clarification before Ilya’s turning the pelt in his hands, flinging it across his shoulders like one of the Pike kids with a bath towel superhero cape.

Ilya’s spine makes a horrible crack, and he falls forward; Shane’s own startled cry follows him down as he tries to catch Ilya-

-only to end up with his arms snaked around the neck of a wolf.

One that is very soft, very much alive, and very happy to see him, apparently. 

A short, joyful yip pierces the air, and then the wolf-that-was-Ilya starts to spin in place, trying to chase after his tail before collapsing in a tangle of awkward limbs. 

“Holy shit.” Shane says faintly.

The wolf, Ilya, clambers to his feet and shakes his whole body, like a dog shaking off water after a swim.

Wet puppy kisses litter Shane’s face a moment later, and he’s protesting and shoving the wolf back, only to be bowled over a moment later as Ilya sprawls across his lap.

Pale furred chin resting on Shane’s sternum, Ilya huffs a long breath and stares Shane in the face. His familiar gray-green eyes are lined with black, a striking contrast against his golden white fur. Ilya doesn’t speak, but Shane understands what he’s asking anyway.

“Yes. You are a very pretty wolf.” Shane murmurs, thunking his head against the soft rug next to his bed and burying his hands in the ruff of fur around Ilya’s neck. 

His attempt to sit up is immediately thwarted, but Shane has to ask-

“What the actual fuck though? How are you a wolf?”

Chapter 5

If there is anyone on this earth that Mama would forgive him for telling, Ilya is absolutely certain that it would be Shane. Shane fucking Hollander, who’d taken such wonderful care of his pelt for years, right under Ilya’s stupid nose.

But before Ilya can start to work out just how to shift back, since he barely remembered how to put his fur back on in the first place, there’s a sound from downstairs. It’s unfamiliar, the tones loud and biting against his ears; much more sensitive in this shape than on two legs. 

When his ears flick back, Shane’s hands come up to cover them, muffling the echo of the sound still reverberating throughout Shane’s wooden floored home.

“Doorbell.” Shane mutters. “Probably my parents.”

Shane’s body goes stiff underneath Ilya’s own. 

“Shit- My parents.”

Ilya finds himself dumped off to the side as Shane scrambles to his feet, already trotting his way down the hall. Ilya snorts and pads after him, black nails clicking against the wood floors in a fun little click click click.

“Shane! Honey, it’s freezing outside, we just let ourselves in-”

Smells are different, Ilya realizes. He can smell all kinds of things, which is very curious. But right now, Ilya is learning what Shane Hollander smells like when he is panicking, and it rubs his fur the wrong way immediately. Shane has stopped in the hallway, arms spread wide and touching either wall, head hanging low between his shoulders as he mutters a string of curses that would make Marly beam with pride.

“You have to hide.” Shane hisses, turning fast and pointing at Ilya. “My parent’s can not know-”

Shane pauses, his other arm slipping off the wall as he faces Ilya.

“Shit.”

Ilya sits and wags his tail, knows his face must be doing something dopey because Shane almost smiles too. “I guess they probably won’t recognize you like this.”

Ilya snorts, headbutts Shane’s hip, and saunters out into the living room.

Shane’s parents have made themselves at home, his mom unloading a few re-usable grocery bags worth of food into the fridge while his dad helps by standing out of the way.

“Hey, uh. Wasn’t expecting you.” Shane says, and Ilya would laugh if his wolf body knew how. Because Shane is so fucking awkward, it’s adorable. It’s so blatantly fucking obvious that he’s hiding something that Ilya can’t believe he’s managed to hide this thing between them for so long.

“Your meal prep service dropped the order off at the wrong address again. I’m thinking you may need to change providers, I swear you’ve- Who’s that?”

Shane’s scent turns panicked again and he whirls around like Ilya would have taken the time he wasn’t looking to peel off his pelt.

Dipping easily past Shane’s attempts to grab at him, Ilya slinks past him and walks into the kitchen with the same kind of confidence he wears in the locker room. Lesser beings might take issue with walking up to strangers wearing their pelts as a wolf for the first time in too long, but not Ilya fucking Rozanov.

“Oh wow, you’re a big boy aren’t you?” Shane’s dad says, kneeling with a creak and giving Ilya’s ears a thorough scratching; David, that’s his name.

“You’re going to get fur all over your clothes.” the woman says, and this can only be Yuna Hollander; the butt of too many jokes in every locker room but Boston’s and Montreal’s. Despite her protests, she’s closing up the fridge and coming over to pat Ilya on the head too.

His tail is wagging so hard that his back is starting to ache from the use of unfamiliar muscles, but Ilya can’t help tipping his head back to let his mouth hang open, tongue lolling to the side as he stares back at Shane. ‘See? They love me.’ he wants to tell him, and the narrowing of Shane’s eyes in suspicion delights Ilya.

“That’s uh. Roz.”

Yuna’s head immediately snaps up. “Like Rozanov? Shane, that’s terrible PR. You can’t get a dog and-”

“No no, he’s not mine.”

Ilya whines.

David pats his head consolingly, and Ilya immediately decides David is his new favorite Hollander.

“When did you get a dog?” Yuna presses. “It’s not ideal, given how much you travel, you know.”

“I know.” Shane agrees, before shaking his head. “I mean, yeah, that would make sense. If he were my dog. Which he isn’t. He’s just- uh. Staying here. For a couple days.”

“Well. That’s fine then.” Yuna says decisively, like the subject is closed. Shane smells… conflicted. Relieved and unhappy at the same time.

Reluctantly pulling himself away from the fantastic pets David is giving him, Ilya makes his way over to Shane. Sits at his feet and leans into his side. If he had human arms right now, he’d wrap them around Shane’s middle and kiss the side of his face and tell him he’s going to be okay. 

Some of this must come through to Shane, because he slumps a little more; Ilya takes the opportunity to nudge him over to the couch, where Shane collapses. Ilya can hardly believe that he’d been in that exact same spot, just minutes ago, human and blissed out and entirely unaware that everything in his life was about to change.

Crawling up onto the couch and ignoring Yuna’s tsk of disapproval, Ilya sprawls himself out over Shane’s lap and makes himself at home.

🎒

“Thanks for bringing the food by.” Shane says, when Mom’s made them all cups of tea and her and Dad have joined him in the living room. He’s fairly certain Ilya has passed out in his lap, but the soft ruff of fur around his neck is warm and gives Shane something to do with his hands while he talks.

“Of course. Sorry to interrupt your evening.” Dad offers, and Shane smiles; if he were awake, Ilya would surely have something witty to say about polite Canadians and genetics.

“It’s uh. It’s actually good that you’re here.” Shane begins, taking a sip of his tea and wincing at how hot it is. He sets it aside, mindful not to spill any on Ilya’s fur.

He’s been thinking about doing this for a while now. And with Ilya here, even disguised as a wolf, Shane felt a sort of giddy resignation that the evening couldn’t really get any weirder. 

He would allocate time later to freak out about Ilya being able to shift into a wolf, using the pelt that Shane had been cuddling nightly since he was a child.

“Why’s that?” Mom asks, pulling his head from the clouds and grounding him back in reality.

“I want to tell you something?” Shane says, twiddling strands of Ilya’s fur between his fingers and staring at the myriad of colors that make up Ilya’s beautiful pelt. He’s spent hours upon hours staring at it, but it’s alive now, and it’s Ilya.

“I was going to tell you sooner, but there wasn’t really- I don’t know, a good time?” Shane blows out a long breath and one of Ilya’s ears flicks back towards him. A low rumble emanates from Ilya’s chest, and Shane realizes Ilya’s probably not as asleep as Shane thought he was.

“You can talk to us bud. Anytime.” Dad says, and he’s leaning back in the recliner that Shane had bought at Hayden’s insistence.

“That’s true, and it’s actually a good point, I have a couple of emails I’d like to go over with you too if-”

“Yuna.”

His parents exchange a look, and this time Ilya lifts his head up to look too. When he catches Shane staring at him instead of watching the silent communication his parents have been sharing his whole life, Ilya sits up and gives him an encouraging headbutt to the chin.

“Stop it.” Shane grumbles, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s furred chest and burying his face in his neck ruff.

“You were saying, Shane?” Dad says, his voice muffled from how Shane’s hiding in Ilya’s thick coat. 

With a deep breath in, and an even longer exhale, Shane says firmly, “I’m gay.”

Ilya leans into him, head twisting around to lick a wet stripe up Shane’s cheek and he’s so busy recoiling from the hot wet heat of Ilya’s toothy grin to initially clock his parent's reaction.

Or really, the lack thereof.

“Oh, that’s fine dear. Thank you for telling us. I’m thinking we can use that for a couple of brand deals, when you’re ready to talk about it more openly.” Mom offers, and Dad rolls his eyes fondly before addressing him.

“Shane, buddy, that’s great. I’m glad you told us. Are you seeing anyone?”

And Shane had anticipated this question, because of-fucking-course his parents would immediately want to know who he was ‘being gay with’, but he’s still not sure what the answer is. He can’t just tell them about Ilya, because he’s right fucking here, and even if he could, they haven’t put a label on whatever they are.

He’s not even sure Ilya likes him like that.

“Uhm. Kind of?” he answers, and is already kicking himself for the answer when his mother’s gaze turns sharp.

“What’s ‘kind of’?” she asks. “Are you dating someone? Or just-”

The little handwave she gives is going to send Shane into cardiac arrest.

“Just what?” Dad asks, and actually, that’s how Shane is going to die.

In his lap, Ilya is shaking. Shane’s fairly certain that if he could, Ilya would be laughing at him right now.

Ilya’s only saved from being unceremoniously dumped on the floor by the grace that he’s a pleasant physical barrier to keep between Shane and his parents. Like he’s hiding behind a giant pillow; one that’s snugly and trying to lick his face again.

“If I had a boyfriend, I would bring him over to meet you.” Shane assures them.

Ilya’s tail starts to happily thump against the couch.

“That would be nice.” Dad finally says, Mom having given him the subtle ‘I’ll tell you later’ look that Shane’s been politely ignoring since he was seven years old.

“Maybe your boyfriend will be better about wearing your brand deals than you are.” Mom teases as Shane picks up his cup of tea to test the warmth.

“What?” he asks, blowing on it before taking a tentative sip.

“Well, I saw those Adidas in the hall, Shane. They aren’t exactly Reeboks.”

Ilya’s nervous twitch and Shane’s panicked inhale have them both covered in tea in short order, and Dad has to run for the kitchen to get him a towel.

🎒

Shane’s parents don’t stay for long thankfully, because Ilya really needs them to leave. He’s seen exhaustion on Shane before, but now that he can smell it too, it rubs his instincts like a cheese grater on parmesan to have them lingering in Shane’s space. 

Plus, he really, really needs to kiss Shane.

The universe has one last knuckle-puck to throw at Ilya for the evening though, as David Hollander steps into the hallway to pull on his coat. Shane and Yuna are in the kitchen reviewing ‘just one more email’ before they leave for the night. Ilya has chosen to see their guests out, hoping they’ll get the message if he lingers by the doorway long enough.

Crouching down to tie his shoes, David Hollander mutters something out of the corner of his mouth that Ilya’s ears might’ve missed entirely had he been wearing two legs instead of four.

“You know, I had a roommate at McGill that was a Selkie.” he says softly, and the blue eyes that Ilya has felt watching him all night suddenly seem far more alert than David’s soft demeanor would allude to.

Ilya freezes, tail folding down mid wag.

Mama didn’t have a word for what they were, but she’d read him stories about Selkies when he was a boy; about how the mythical seal creatures shed their pelts to come on land, just like how he and Mama could take their fur off and put it on again.

“I won’t say anything, if-”

Ilya has never feared an ‘if’ more in his life.

“-you answer me truthfully on these two things.”

Ilya bows his head, just a low dip to convey that he’s listening.

“Does Shane know?”

Ilya nods sharply.

David’s shoulders lose some of their tension.

“Good. Does he know you’re in love with him too?”

And Ilya… doesn’t know. But he should probably tell Shane soon.

To answer David’s question, Ilya flops dramatically to the ground, like he’s been shot, and lets out a long, low whine.

David smiles, shaking his head in commiseration.

“Roz? Are you okay?”

Shane appears in the entry hall and frowns when he sees Ilya sprawled on the floor.

“Oh, you’re just being dramatic. Mom, let me get your coat-”

Stepping carefully around Ilya’s prone furry body, Shane doesn’t spare Ilya a second glance before snagging his mother’s coat off the hook and holding it out for her. 

“Thanks for dropping by. Sorry if it was weird.” Shane apologizes. Ilya isn’t sure Shane has had a single normal human interaction in his life.

“You’re okay bud.”

There’s a round of hugging, a brief pat on the head for Ilya from Yuna, and then they’re finally, blessedly gone.

Shane and Ilya both heave long sighs in tandem, and then Shane is on the move, turning off lights and preparing to head upstairs.

Ilya darts upstairs immediately, hoping for a few seconds of time to try and figure out how to get out of his pelt before Shane makes it back to his room.

It’s a very peculiar feeling, willing himself back onto two legs and having to catch his pelt before it falls to the floor. His clothes are still on, which is fucking weird actually, but he tries not to think about it too hard.

Shane seems almost startled when he steps into the room and funds Ilya as a human again. He pauses for half a heartbeat, and then he’s crowding into Ilya’s arms, and Ilya wraps him in a tight hug.

“Thank you.”

Ilya snorts.

“No, I mean it.” Shane draws back enough to look Ilya in the eyes. The pretty dark brown of Shane’s eyes seem to sparkle in the low light he keeps his bedroom lit in, and Ilya finds himself smiling in appreciation.

“You helped me keep my cool, and you didn’t… make it weird.”

“Your parents pet me on the head and your mother asked why I still had my balls, Shane. It was a little weird.” Ilya reminds him. 

Shane’s laughter gets buried in Ilya’s chest when he thumps his head forward again.

“God, don’t remind me. That was so fucking awkward.”

“Hm, yes. But you were brave.”

“This has been the weirdest day of my life.” Shane admits, and Ilya squeezes him tighter.

“Has been best day, for me.” he admits, pressing the words and a brief kiss against the side of Shane’s head.

“Really?”

“Sure. Wake up blowjob-”

Shane pinches his side for that one, but it’s fucking true, so…

“-spent the day with league’s second best hockey player.”

Shane grumbles, but doesn’t pinch him again.

“Found a piece of me that I never thought I’d see again-”

The arms around his waist tighten. Later, he’ll have to explain exactly what it means that Ilya gave him his pelt, back in Boston; willingly, if unknowing.

“-and I met my boyfriend's parents.”

Shane goes still against his chest.

“So. Pretty good day.”

Ilya has to fight to keep his tone casual, because they’ve never tried to put a label on what they are, but he can’t leave it the way it’s been. Not anymore.

“Boyfriend?”

Ilya leans back this time, bringing one hand up to Shane’s chin so he can look him in the eye when he says it.

Shane told his parents he was gay. This isn’t a competition, but Ilya’s not going to wuss out on his rival now.

“I love you. You like me. Perfect relationship start, yes?”

Shane looks awestruck for about two seconds before he begins to frown, but it’s still a personal best for Ilya.

“You know I love you too.” Shane argues.

Ily sniffs, swiping at his nose and rolling his shoulders.

“Whatever, is not competition Shane.” he drawls, hoping he doesn’t look as fucking ecstatic as he feels.

Shane’s glare breaks into a blinding grin, and then Ilya’s being kissed within an inch of his life.