Rating:

Not Rated

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander, Yuna Hollander, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike's Children, Galina Molchalina, Svetlana Vetrova, Anya | Ilya Rozanov's Dog

Additional Tags:

Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Feels, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Getting Back Together, passively suicidal shane hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, POV Ilya Rozanov, Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Shane Hollander Calls Ilya Rozanov "Baby"

Language:

English

Series:

Part 3 of hollanov longfics

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-04 Completed: 2026-03-24 Words: 62,129 Chapters: 16/16

one day i'll watch as you're leaving (and life will lose all its meaning)

Summary

“You want to talk to people about me?” Shane asked quietly.

There was something small and confused in the question. But Ilya was still furious and raw.

“Well I would,” he sneered, “if there was anything about you that was fucking interesting to talk about! It would be nice to not be so fucking bored and miserable!”

The second the words left his mouth, he watched the pain roll across Shane's features like a thousand fractures shattering through glass.

Ilya had seen Shane nearly break ribs. He had seen him miss game-winning shots, take hits that left bruises blooming purple and black across his skin. He had never seen this.

Shane closed his eyes for a long moment. He shook his head slightly, a tiny movement, then nodded once as if agreeing with something only he could hear. His face twisted briefly with a fresh wave of pain before he forced it to still.

---------

What if Shane and Ilya don't make up so easily after the Boxing Day fight? The Centaur's plane never malfunctions, so Shane never proposes. Instead, Ilya gives him an ultimatum on coming out and going public. It backfires spectacularly.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

The fight on Boxing Day two weeks ago had been explosive and painful and messy.

It had ended with Shane standing in the middle of the kitchen, eyes bright with frustration, refusing to let the argument die the way Ilya wanted it to. Ilya had tried to walk away. Tried to end their disagreement by telling Shane to go home before either of them said anything worse.

Shane hadn’t moved. Instead, he’d thrown the question back at him.

Would you give up hockey for me?

Ilya’s temper had snapped for half a second. He’d shoved Shane back against the wall, the movement instinctive and ugly and over almost as soon as it happened. The second his hands left Shane’s shoulders the anger drained out of him, leaving something hollow and exhausted in its place.

“I already did, Hollander,” he’d said finally.

Shane had looked stricken. Ilya had told him to leave. And Shane had.

They hadn’t spoken for several days after that.

Ilya deliberately waited before reaching out. He wanted to talk to Galina first, to sort through the mess in his head before he tried to fix anything with Shane. By the time he finally spoke with him again, Shane was on the road for an away game and the conversation happened over the phone instead of face-to-face.

Shane apologized first, thoroughly and profusely. For pushing him that far, for not fully realizing or appreciating how much Ilya had already given up for them. Ilya apologized too for losing his temper and for turning the argument into something ugly.

By the end of the call, they’d reached a fragile truce. Next time they were together, they would make a new plan. One they could both live with.

Ilya had come prepared this time.

He’d talked it through with Galina earlier that week, pacing her office and trying to untangle the knot of resentment and longing that had been tightening in his chest for months. She’d listened the way she always did: calm, patient, relentless about the things that mattered. 

Compromise, she’d said. Not surrender. The original plan Shane wanted? Another five or six years of secrecy until retirement? It was no longer something Ilya could agree to. It hurt too much. It didn’t feel fair. But forcing Shane into a corner wasn’t fair either.

Find the middle ground, she’d told him. And whatever you do, don’t turn it into an ultimatum.

Ilya had meant to follow that advice. 

He could see Shane trying. Sitting there in a dining char, so careful and so earnest. Offering numbers and timelines like they were pieces on a chessboard he was desperate to arrange correctly.

But the more Shane tried to compromise, the more the pressure inside Ilya’s chest built instead of easing. All the years of quiet resentment, of hiding, of watching other players live openly, crowded in at once.

And before he could stop himself, before he could remember anything Galina had said, he did the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do.

He spat an ultimatum across the table. 

Six months. A year at the absolute most. Or they were done.

Shane had gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing several times like a fish.

“Six months? That’s insane.”

Suddenly the dining room had felt too small. Too bright.

Ilya had started pacing immediately, back and forth across the narrow strip of floor between the table and the kitchen doorway, his hands dragging through his hair before dropping uselessly to his sides and then clenching again. From the couch, Anya watched him with her chin resting on her front paws, her eyes following his restless movement.

Shane remained seated at the table, his posture perfect, his hands folded far too neatly in front of him. He looked like someone trying very hard to stay still, as though if he didn’t move the explosion might somehow miss him.

“Six months,” Ilya said sharply. “Six months is not insane.”

Shane swallowed.

“I don’t—” His voice caught slightly before he forced it steadier. “That’s not enough time.”

Ilya stopped pacing and stared at him.

Shane pressed his palms flat against the tabletop as if bracing himself.

“A year is… tough, but maybe,” he offered carefully. “Eighteen months?”

The number sounded enormous. Ilya made a scathing noise under his breath. Shane’s fingers curled faintly against the wood.

“Look,” Shane said, trying very hard to keep his voice even, “I know I’m asking a lot. I know I’ve already asked so much, but I -”

He was trembling. And Ilya hated that he was trembling, but he couldn’t seem to calm himself down enough to stop the momentum of the argument.

“I just need more time,” Shane finished quietly.

Ilya’s temper flared.

“I do not want to wait another eighteen fucking months!” The words echoed through the room. “I feel like if I have to keep this secret for one more second I will scream or throw up or die!”

Shane flinched from the shouting, wincing slightly as his shoulder curled inward automatically. 

“I want to be like Hunter!” Ilya continued, his voice fraying at the edges now. “Go on dates with my boyfriend. Talk about him to people. Not be some awful, terrible secret.”

The words were like a slap. Shane’s lips parted.

“You want to talk to people about me?” he asked quietly.

There was something small and fragile and confused in the question.

But Ilya was still furious and raw. 

“Well I would,” he sneered, “if there was anything about you that was fucking interesting to talk about! It would be nice to not be so fucking bored and miserable!”

The second the words left his mouth, he knew. He watched it happen in real time on Shane’s face.

First the blank shock. Then the realization. Then the pain.

It rolled across his features like a thousand fractures shattering through glass.

Ilya had seen Shane nearly break ribs. He had seen him miss game-winning shots, take hits that left bruises blooming purple and black across his skin. He had never seen this.

It frightened him so badly that the anger drained out of him almost instantly.

“Shane…”

Shane closed his eyes for a long moment. He shook his head with a tiny, slight movement and then nodded once as if agreeing with something only he could hear. His face twisted briefly with a fresh wave of pain before he forced it still.

When he opened his eyes again, it was like someone had unplugged him.

His expression had smoothed out with every trace of emotion wiped clean. His eyes went distant and empty as he spread his hands flat against the tabletop again.

“I can’t do six months,” he said slowly. His voice was a hollow, dead thing now. “I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

Ilya could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

“A year is… a lot,” Shane continued. His voice trembled for half a second before flattening again. “But doable. Maybe.” He swallowed hard. “But I can’t ask you to keep being bored and miserable. That’s not fair.”

Each word was careful and measured and precise. Ilya took a step toward him.

“Shane -”

“So if it’s… that,” Shane said quietly, gesturing vaguely between them, “or you’re done…” His throat worked as he swallowed. He closed his eyes again, his brow furrowing before he forced his face smooth once more. “I just want you to be happy.”

Even if it’s not with me.

He didn’t say the last part out loud. He didn’t need to.

“Moy lyubimyy,” Ilya tried again. The words came out terrified and pleading all at once.

Shane looked up at him. And he looked … empty. Like a ghost inside his own body.

His eyes slid away from Ilya’s. 

“I, um, I'm going to go to my parents’,” he said calmly. “I don’t think I can drive to Montreal right now.”

He stood slowly and stiffly, as though sudden movements were too much to manage. Then he walked past Ilya without touching him, without even looking at him. Ilya stayed where he was in the too-bright dining room, knowing he had gone too far and not knowing how to pull the words back out of the air and Shane's heart.

Shane made it all the way to the door with his back ramrod straight and his steps careful. His hand closed around the knob. He stopped there. He didn’t turn around. He kept his eyes on his own feet, as if looking up might cause him to fall apart completely.

“I do love you,” he said quietly. The words were steady, but they sounded like they were coming from very far away. “And it’s not that I’m… ashamed.”

Ilya stared at his profile as he frowned slightly, like he couldn’t quite find the language anymore.

“Of you. Or us.” He cleared his throat a little then tried again. “I’m sorry I was so bad at this.”

His voice almost wobbled there. Almost.

“I hope you find better,” he added softly. “You deserve it.”

It was worse than any insult. Worse than the fight.

Ilya opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He was too stunned and too scared. The empty look in Shane’s eyes and the hollowness in his voice was worse than any anger had been. Worse than the fears Ilya had dismissed as paranoia.

He didn’t recognize this version of him. And he had no idea how to reach past it.

Shane opened the door and cold air spilled into the room. For a split second, Ilya thought he might turn around.

He didn’t.

He stepped over the threshold and shut the door gently behind him. He didn’t slam it or make some sweeping dramatic exit.

Just… closed it politely behind him. And then he was gone. 

Ilya stood there in the sudden, suffocating quiet with his heart pounding, knowing something irreversible had just happened. And realizing he hadn’t moved fast enough to stop it.

------

A few weeks passed.

At first, Ilya told himself it was temporary. They both just needed time to cool off.

He talked through the ultimatum with Galina and forced himself to say the whole thing out loud. 

Six months or I’m done. 

Hearing it spoken so plainly made his stomach twist. He wasn’t even sure where the six months had come from. It was just the number he’d grabbed onto in the heat of his anger while he convinced himself Shane was rejecting him.

Galina helped him admit that Shane hadn’t been refusing him at all. He had been trying to compromise, even though he was obviously terrified. A year. Eighteen months. Ilya could still picture the way Shane’s entire frame had trembled while he offered it.

Galina didn’t let him off easy.

“You were afraid and and hurt and frustrated,” she told him gently. “So, you lashed out.”

Ilya hated how accurate that was.

Worse, he began to understand something he hadn’t wanted to see before. If Shane hadn’t been rejecting him, then he had just been scared. And in that moment, Ilya had confirmed some deep, unspoken fear Shane had clearly been carrying for a long time.

Galina advised him to give Shane time.

So he did.

He still texted him occasionally. He was careful not to overdo it, careful not to sound desperate, but trying to strike the impossible balance between not giving up and not pushing too hard. So, just small, casual check-ins.

How was practice?
Saw that assist. Nice pivot.
That game was fun to watch. Good work.

Shane never texted first and his replies were always short.

Fine.
Thanks.
👍

The emoji reactions made Ilya want to scream. He would have preferred anger. Or even coldness. But this was worse than that. It was just... numb.

And all the things that used to get a rise out of Shane, teasing him, flirting, pushing him just enough to make him roll his eyes and snap back, felt cruel now. Like prodding at a bruise just to see him wince.

The emptiness in Shane’s responses also scared the hell out of him.

So, he waited.

He still saw Yuna and David sometimes. They insisted their love for him wasn’t contingent on whether he and Shane were together.

“We loved you before,” Yuna said firmly one evening on the phone. “We love you now.”

If anything, that made it worse.

One night he was over for dinner. It felt normal and comfortable and familiar in the way their house always had. The smell of garlic and onions drifted out from the kitchen while David stirred something on the stove, and Yuna set the table.

Ilya wandered to the fridge to grab a beer and noticed two Ottawa tickets held up by a magnet. He frowned.

“I told you I’d take care of those,” he said.

“Shane bought them,” David said, glancing up from the stove. “He insisted.”

“Said he didn’t want us to miss it,” Yuna added, nodding as she fetched silverware from the drawer.

Ilya’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t say anything else about it, but the thought followed him all the way home. As soon as he walked into his house, he pulled out his phone.

Why did you buy your parents tickets to my game?

The reply came a minute later.

? You said you wanted them there

Ilya stared at the screen for a moment before typing back.

Yes but you didn’t have to do that. You know I could have gotten them?

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Oh. Sorry.

A second message followed right after.

My mom was being weird about it. She said she didn’t want to hurt my feelings if they went, or attract fan attention and make me uncomfortable.

Ilya read it once. Then again. Another message came through.

So I just bought them as she was talking to shut down the argument. I’m sorry. I should’ve checked with you first. But you deserve people there for you too.

Ilya sat down on the edge of his couch and stared at the screen in a daze. It was one of the things he’d said in frustration and longing. One of the things he’d always wanted. Shane at his games when he could be there. And Shane’s parents there, too. 

Back when they were together, Shane had always been a little shifty about it. Nervous about attention, about cameras, about people asking questions.

But now?

Now Shane was the one making sure his parents showed up, all but shoving them into the arena himself. Even if he wasn’t there himself. Even if he and Ilya were barely speaking. Even after Ilya had clearly hurt him so deeply. Ilya swallowed hard against the lump rising in his throat and typed back.

Thank you.

It was painfully insufficient, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. The reply came quickly.

Please don’t thank me. I know this doesn’t make up for it, but I am sorry I was such a dick about it before.

Ilya frowned. For a moment he tried to type something. Tried to catch hold of this brief flicker of something that wasn’t numbness. There was pain in Shane's words. Longing, too. And those he knew how to handle. Those he could work with.

What he didn’t know how to do was reach Shane when he simply… powered off. He was still staring at the blinking cursor when the last message appeared.

goodnight

Ilya stared at the screen for a long time after that. The numbness he’d been seeing in Shane’s texts didn’t feel like indifference anymore.

It felt like… surrender.

Like Shane had accepted that whatever they’d had was over, and that this was simply how things were now. That the best he could do was step out of the way and make sure Ilya was happy anyway.

The realization slid into Ilya’s heart like a blade.

The ultimatum, which had already felt harsh, suddenly looked even uglier in hindsight. Petty. Shortsighted. He had demanded things from someone who had clearly been scared out of his mind, and when Shane couldn’t give it the way Ilya wanted, he’d said the cruelest thing he could think of.

And now Shane was still trying to give him some of the things he’d asked for. Just… from a distance. Ilya set the phone down slowly and frowned at the floor.

He had wanted Shane to fight for them.

He hadn’t anticipated that Shane might decide the best way to love him was to let him go.

Chapter End Notes

my hand slipped

buckle up, buttercups. we're going for a ride on the angst train

also we're gonna flub the timeline a little. for example, ilya's had anya for a while already. shhhh don't worry, just vibe okay?

5/20 - don't mind me, just cleaning up some grammar etc

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

TW/CW: discussions of homophobia, racism, xenophobia. mentions of f-slur and asian slurs

The first time they played each other after the breakup, Ilya told himself it would be fine.

They had done this before. Fought, sniped, chirped across the ice like enemies while knowing exactly what they were to each other once the game ended. That had always been part of their language.

But this was different.

Shane stepped onto the ice the way he always did. His tape job was perfect, his strides clean and economical, his expression composed. When Ilya skated past during warmups, Shane glanced up and nodded in greeting. He even smiled the teeniest, tiniest smile.

But the smile came half a second too late, like someone had pressed play after a brief buffering pause.

At the first faceoff they lined up across from each other. Ilya leaned in slightly.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” Shane replied.

His tone was polite and neutral and empty and wrong. Nothing in it hinted at the years of familiarity between them.

He behaved the same way for the entire game. He answered teammates when they spoke to him, nodded when someone tapped his shin pads after a shift, and took his place on the bench the same way he always had.

Shane had never been loud with his teammates. Even as captain he wasn’t the kind of player who shouted or pounded on the boards the way Ilya did. His leadership had always been more subdued than that. A calm word here. A hand on someone’s shoulder. The quiet, steady confidence of someone who expected everyone, including himself, to do the job well.

But now even that warmth was gone.

When someone leaned over to say something, Shane listened and answered, but the response came a beat too late. It wasn’t stiff or cold or even arrogant. Just… absent. Limp and lifeless.

He played hockey the way he always did with his usual, other-wordly precision.

But there was no joy in it.

No flash of creativity when he carried the puck. No competitive spark when their sticks tangled. No quick grin when Ilya tried to bait him with a chirp.

Shane moved like an automaton. Precise. Efficient. Detached. Like he was watching and operating himself from somewhere just outside his own body.

Halfway through the second period, he was driven hard into the boards. The impact cracked loudly through the arena, the kind of hit that usually made Shane hiss or shove back in retaliation.

This time he just… absorbed it. He pushed himself upright, adjusted his grip on his stick, and skated away without a word. No wince. No flare of temper. No chirp called over his shoulder.

Ilya felt his stomach drop.

Across the ice, Hayden was watching. Their eyes met for a brief second, and Ilya tried to send the message silently.

Help me.

Hayden’s response was a glare so cold it almost felt physical. Protective. Furious. Blaming.

And Ilya knew he deserved it.

During a stoppage later in the period, Ilya drifted closer again, unable to stop himself.

“You good?” he asked under his breath.

Shane nodded.

“Sure.”

The answer came a beat too late, his eyes flat and unreadable.

Something cold sliced through Ilya’s chest.

He had thought they both just needed space. Or time. Some distance and perspective so they could come back to the conversation without tearing each other apart. That had been his plan, at least.

He had no idea what this was.

Because it wasn’t aloofness. It wasn’t the sharp iciness Shane sometimes used when he was pissed, or the dry little bite of sarcasm he saved for people who deserved it.

It was something worse.

It was like Shane had been hollowed out. Like whatever spark lived behind his eyes had already flickered out or flown somewhere else, and the rest of him just hadn’t caught up yet.

When the game ended, they tapped gloves like professionals.

Like strangers.

Shane skated toward the tunnel without lingering, his head tipped slightly downward, never once looking back.

Watching him disappear down the corridor, Ilya felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He didn’t know why.

In early May, the four of them sat around David and Yuna’s dining table with papers spread between plates and glasses. Foundation notes. Budget drafts. A calendar with dates in July circled in pen.

It should have felt routine. Instead, the air felt brittle and was crackling with tension, like something might explode if anyone moved too quickly.

They were working through the logistics for the youth hockey camp when Shane cleared his throat.

“I was thinking we could move it to Ottawa this year,” he said.

Ilya looked up immediately.

“Why?”

Shane gave a small shrug.

“Seems fair. It doesn’t have to be in Montreal every year.” He nudged one of the papers slightly forward across the table. “It’s half yours, too.”

Ilya studied him for a moment before nodding slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “We can make that work.”

They moved on to logistics. Rink availability. Sponsorship carryover. Housing for out-of-town kids. Shane was sharp there, organized and present in the way he always was when it came to planning.

Then, almost casually, he added, “I’m not going to coach this year.”

The room went still. Ilya blinked.

“What?”

“I’ll be there,” Shane said quickly. “Obviously. Just… more admin side.”

Ilya stared at him.

“Why?”

Shane pressed his lips together. His plate sat mostly untouched in front of him. He looked down at it as though the answer might be hidden somewhere in the pasta David had made.

“I don’t,” he said carefully, “have the... capacity to do that this time around.” Each word was placed deliberately, like tiles on a board. “It’s not fair to the kids if I just… fuck it up.”

Yuna frowned immediately. “You couldn’t mess it up if you tried.”

Shane let out a small, hollow laugh. His gaze stayed down on his plate.

“Mom,” he said lightly, “the kids want to come and have fun. Not be bored or get lectured to death.” He gave another small shrug. “I have a few ideas about who could replace me. But don’t worry, it'll be someone much more interesting.” 

Ilya felt his blood run cold. The word echoed in his head, reverberating and pinging from side to side. 

Interesting.

Yuna leaned forward slightly, her brow furrowing.

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “You’re an excellent leader. You think you bore your team to death as captain?”

Shane shrugged again, the movement small.

“Probably.” His gaze stayed fixed on the table. “Add it to their list of reasons for the mutiny.”

The word dropped into the room like a stone. Silence followed immediately, heavy and abrupt. Ilya’s fork tapped softly against his plate.

“Mutiny?” Yuna repeated sharply.

David looked up slowly from his seat at the end of the table, and something in the shift of his expression made Ilya’s stomach drop. 

Shane closed his eyes for a long moment, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, like the word had slipped past whatever thin filter he still had left. When he opened them again, David was watching him carefully. Shane’s gaze flicked toward him for just a second.

Help.

David let out a quiet breath.

“They were going to find out eventually, buddy.”

Shane nodded once, a small, defeated motion. Yuna’s eyes moved sharply between the two of them.

“Find out what?” she demanded. Then her gaze snapped back to Shane. “They removed you as captain?”

Shane nodded again, his eyes lowered. There was no embarrassment in the gesture, no defensiveness. Just exhaustion.

“When?” she asked.

“March.”

For a moment no one spoke. Then Ilya’s voice cut sharply through the silence.

“Why?”

Shane sighed softly. His fingers tightened briefly against the edge of the table before loosening again.

“I’m not performing well,” he said. “And they didn’t want to listen to…” He trailed off for a second, something flickering across his face. Then he finished in the same hollow, dead voice. “An awkward fag anymore.”

The silence that followed felt like the moment before a bomb went off.

Yuna’s face drained of color.

“They said that to you?” she demanded.

Shane shrugged again.

“Coach did. After.” He looked back down at his plate. “Trying to make me feel better, I guess. I don’t know.”

Yuna made a strangled sound of disbelief.

“That… this is discriminatory. This is… David…”

Shane finally looked up.

“Mom. It doesn’t matter.” His voice was resigned. “We both know those guys weren’t going to let me be captain forever.”

Yuna started again, words tumbling over each other as she talked about his leadership, his skill, his record. Shane shook his head gently.

“It’s a miracle they let me do it this long.” His mouth twisted faintly. “That they listened to some fucking chinaman for so long.”

Ilya frowned as the comment caught him off guard.

“You’re not Chinese.”

Shane let out a humorless laugh.

“No shit.” He gave another small shrug. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m not white. And I’m not straight.” He said it the way someone might list statistics. A neutral observation, stripped of emotion. “It was a matter of time.”

Silence pressed in around the table again. After a moment, Yuna turned toward David.

“You knew?”

David nodded once. Shane spoke again without looking up.

“I asked him not to tell you. I’m sorry.”

Ilya just stared at him, stunned. He had always known Montreal was full of assholes. He knew locker rooms could be brutal places, especially for someone like Shane.

But this?

“Was it always… like that?” he asked, terrified of the answer.

Shane shook his head slightly.

“No. Not always.” He stared down at his pasta for a moment before continuing. “The racism used to at least be subtle. Ignorant, but not like…” He trailed off and made a vague motion with one hand, like he didn’t feel like finishing the thought.

Ilya sat back in his chair, the answer slotting into place with sickening clarity.

“It got worse after you came out to them,” he said.

Shane frowned down at his plate again. For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he lifted one shoulder. Let it drop.

“It didn’t get better after that.”

Something inside Ilya felt like it plunged from a great height. His ears rang faintly.

“I didn’t know it was like that,” he said quietly.

Shane nodded.

“I didn’t want you to know.”

Ilya’s face twisted.

“Why?”

Shane was silent for a long moment, his gaze still lowered.

“I was afraid you’d think I was exaggerating,” he said finally. “Or that it was just another excuse to ask you to hide.”

The answer slammed into Ilya like a physical blow. For a moment he thought he might actually stand up and walk straight out of the house and into traffic. Or drop to his knees right there at the table and beg Shane to forgive him. Maybe both.

Because, God, no wonder Shane had been shaking so hard that night. Terrified out of his mind and still trying to find a compromise. Still trying to make something work.

Because Shane loved him.

And Ilya had looked him in the face and said he made him bored and miserable. That nothing about him was interesting.

Fuck. He was such an asshole.

“Shane,” he said softly.

But it was already happening. The shutters sliding back into place. What little life and warmth had come back was already draining out of Shane’s face. He straightened slightly in his chair and gave a small nod, like he was closing a file.

“Anyway,” he said evenly, “we should confirm rink availability before announcing the move.”

He reached for the paperwork again, dogged and administrative.

Unreachable.

Ilya didn’t make it ten minutes into the session before he broke. He sat forward on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, his hands knotted together so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

“I thought he was just scared,” he said, his voice already rough. “Overly cautious, like always.” 

Galina waited and let him find the words he wanted. 

“I thought,” he continued after a moment, swallowing hard, “that if we were out, his talent would speak for itself. That he’s so good it wouldn’t matter. That he’d be untouchable.”

His mouth twisted. A short, broken laugh slipped out of him.

“And then I find out they stripped him as captain. That they called him…” His voice cracked and he couldn’t finish the sentence. “And it wasn’t even about us.”

He pressed both hands to his eyes.

“And I wasn’t there for him when it happened.”

The room was quiet for a long moment. Then Galina spoke gently. 

“You couldn’t have known what you didn’t know.”

Ilya shook his head sharply.

“I should have known. I should have asked.” His voice rose despite himself. “I should have let him talk. But instead I gave him an ultimatum. And then I said the most painful thing I could think of.”

The memory bloomed so vividly in his mind it made him sick. 

If you were fucking interesting at all.

“I’m scared I broke him,” he whispered. He looked up at Galina, his eyes red and wild. “Because now it’s like… he’s half dead already. And I did that.”

Galina absorbed this for a moment before she answered.

“You said something cruel in anger,” she said steadily. “That is not the same thing as causing someone’s depression.”

Ilya gave a faint, bitter scoff.

“But,” she continued, “the things you said landed where he was already wounded.”

Ilya nodded helplessly.

“I thought if he saw how much I wanted him publicly, it would make him feel like none of the other bullshit mattered.”  He pressed both palms against his chest and pulled in a shaky breath. “But he was being harassed and demoted and called slurs.”

“You are grieving the version of the story you thought you were in,” Galina said calmly. “And you are carrying guilt for information you did not have.”

“I should have let him talk,” Ilya whispered again.

“Yes,” she said gently. “You should have listened longer. But that does not make you responsible for the culture of his team. Or for the prejudice he experienced.”

Ilya’s chin trembled.

“I just…. I can’t stop thinking about how I basically told him, here, make yourself a bigger target. Now. Today. And if you don’t, then I guess you don’t love me.”

It was an oversimplification and an exaggeration all at once, but the truth inside it still made him fold forward again, elbows on his knees, hands fisted in his hair.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said hoarsely.

Galina studied him.

“You cannot fix what you did not break alone,” she said softly. “But you can show up differently now.”

He wiped at his face.

“And if he won’t let me?”

“Then you respect that,” she replied. “And you keep being someone safe.”

Ilya nodded slowly, his breathing still uneven.

“I thought he was just scared,” he mumbled again.

In late summer, the week before they usually went to the cottage, Ilya stared at his phone for a long time before finally sending the text.

Are you going this year?

He watched the small “delivered” notification appear beneath the message and waited. The reply came faster than he expected.

No.

That was it. Just the one word. A minute later another message appeared.

But you can go. If you want. I know how much Anya loves swimming and chasing the ducks there.

Ilya frowned down at the screen. Anya. Logistics. Deflection. He typed a reply, deleted it, then started again.

That’s very nice of you to offer. But it’s not the same without you there.

He sent it before he could overthink it. The waiting felt longer this time. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. He found himself imagining Shane staring at the message the way he was now, phone in hand, expression unreadable. Twenty minutes had gone by before the reply finally appeared.

I know. That’s why I’m not going.

Ilya read it once. Then again. There was no anger in the words. No accusation. Just Shane's practical calculus of his pain. If it wouldn’t feel the same, then it was better not to feel it at all.

His chest tightened. He started typing.

We don’t have to do it the same way.

He deleted it. He tried again.

We could just go for one night.

Delete. His thumbs moved again before he could stop them.

Please. Let’s just go. I miss you so much.

He stared at the message for a long time. Eventually he deleted that, too. Then he set the phone down on the couch and pressed his hands to his face. The tears came quickly after that.

Anya padded over almost immediately, nudging at his arm before climbing half into his lap and licking at the tears on his cheeks.

He thought of how, if Shane were there, he’d have grimaced at that, complaining that it was gross even as he smiled a little anyway. It made Ilya’s chest burn. He wrapped his arms around his dog and cried harder.

Ilya had been rehearsing the speech for weeks. Months, really.

He practiced it in therapy. In the car while driving to practice. Standing under the hot spray of the shower with his eyes closed and his hands braced against the tile. Galina had helped him shape it carefully so it would not sound desperate or manipulative.

Not another ultimatum. An apology. Ownership.

I was wrong.
I’m so sorry.
I didn’t understand.
I still love you.

By the time Thanksgiving arrived in October, he had the words memorized. He drove to David and Yuna’s house with his heart pounding, certain that tonight would be the night he finally said them.

Yuna opened the door when he rang the bell. She smiled warmly and pulled him into a quick hug, but he noticed immediately that her eyes looked tired.

Inside, he hung up his coat and glanced around the familiar house.

Shane wasn’t there.

“Where’s Shane?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

David cleared his throat.

“He said he’s sick. Bad bout of the flu.”

Yuna’s mouth tightened slightly. They sat down to dinner together. The table was set the way it always was for holidays, dishes passed back and forth, easy conversation filling the spaces between bites.

But there was an empty chair.

The speech Ilya had been carrying for months sat heavy in his chest like a swallowed stone.

About halfway through the meal, Yuna slowly set her fork down.

“He’s… not okay,” she said quietly.

The words hung in the air, fragile. David didn’t contradict her.

“Obviously the flu is a lie,” she continued, her voice tightening. “He’s just… I don’t know how to reach him. He’s never been like this before.” 

Her voice broke slightly at the end. Ilya stared down at his plate. His hands felt strangely useless in his lap. David spoke after a moment, his voice careful.

“He goes through the motions,” he said. “Practice. Games. Meetings.”

“But there’s no… spark,” Yuna whispered. “He doesn’t even laugh the same anymore.”

She looked up at Ilya then, and his throat tightened at the sight of the tears gathering in her eyes.

“The… sadness hasn’t gone away,” she said softly. “It’s like he’s not really there, even when he is.” She wiped quickly at her face. “I’m really worried.”

The words settled heavily over the table.

Ilya felt the speech he had prepared dissolving inside him. Tonight wasn’t intended to be about begging or apologizing. It was supposed to have been brave. Reparative. A step toward something better.

Instead there was an empty chair where Shane should have been. Ilya swallowed hard.

“I’m worried, too,” he admitted quietly.

Chapter End Notes

sooo this chapter is a bit longer than i expected, but we had a lot of stuff to get through. dw, the next one is slightly angstier lol. but we turn a corner after that, i promise <3

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Early November was gray and damp in Ottawa, the kind of weather that turned the dog park into a patchwork of mud and dying grass. Ilya brought Anya anyway. She would riot if he didn’t.

His arm was halfway cocked to throw the tennis ball when he caught the double take out of the corner of his eye.

He was used to it by now.

It used to happen constantly, especially in Boston. More when he first moved to Ottawa, too. Less these days, but it still popped up in random places like this. Someone noticing, then trying to place his face. Then deciding whether to come over.

He threw the ball. Anya tore after it, trotted back, and spat the ball neatly at his feet. She looked up expectantly. He threw it again and waited.

She thundered after it again, ears flapping, and the woman hovering near the fence finally worked up the nerve to approach.

“Um… are you Ilya Rozanov?”

He glanced up at her and gave the polite little smile he had perfected over the years.

“Yes,” he said lightly. “Unfortunately.”

She laughed immediately, relief flooding her face.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry to bug you. It’s just… I’m such a fan.”

He nodded.

“No worries. Thank you.”

She hesitated, then winced apologetically. “I’m so sorry to ask this, but could I get a picture? My wife is never going to believe me otherwise.”

That made him laugh.

“Of course.”

She held up her phone and squeezed in beside him for a quick selfie while Anya galloped back and dropped the ball at his feet again. Ilya threw it once more while the woman checked the photo, grinning down at the screen.

“She’s going to lose her mind,” the woman said.

“Your wife?”

“Yeah, Ashley. She plays for the Oracles. The, uh… Ottawa women’s team.”

Ilya paused. He wasn’t as familiar with the PWHL as he probably should have been. Sveta followed the women’s league more closely than he did but he still searched his memory for the name among the players on the city’s other team.

“Oh, yes,” he said after a moment, snapping his fingers softly as the connection clicked into place. “Red hair? She’s the goalie, right?”

The woman’s head jerked up, her eyes going wide.

“Holy shit.”

He laughed.

“She is absolutely going to pass out when I tell her you know who she is.”

They ended up talking for a few minutes while the dogs orbited them in widening circles. Her name was Sarah. She worked as an athletic trainer for Oracles, which explained how easily she had recognized him and why she knew so much about the sport.

Hera, her yellow lab, seemed to suddenly remember that her owner existed. She galloped over for a quick scratch behind the ears and then immediately launched herself at Anya. The two of them took off across the park together like long-lost siblings.

Ilya watched them for a moment and shook his head fondly.

“Traitor,” he muttered when Anya ignored him completely, even when he waved the tennis ball in her direction.

Sarah grinned.

“Hera has that effect on everyone.”

They kept talking while the dogs tore around the park. Sarah had lived in Ottawa for years. She loved the city, loved her job, and loved her wife in the easy, open way that made something aching and complicated twist in Ilya’s chest.

Even so, the conversation stayed light and easy. There was no strange tension. No lingering glances or awkward flirtation the way he sometimes got from strangers who recognized him.

Hera and Anya were still wrestling in the mud like maniacs when they made plans to meet again a few days later.  When they finally started toward the gate, Sarah paused. 

“I should bring Ashley next time,” she said. “If that’s okay. She’ll never forgive me if I don’t introduce you.”

“Please do,” Ilya said.

Halfway home, it occurred to him that Sarah was the first new friend he had made in Ottawa who was not on the Centaurs. And not part of Shane’s orbit. And, blessedly, she was not trying to sleep with him either.

A few days later, Ilya brought Anya back to the dog park around the same time.

The clouds hung low and gray again and the air was damp enough that his breath fogged faintly when he exhaled. Anya dragged him toward the gate like an ox before a cart.

Sarah was easy to spot.

Mostly because the yellow lab from before launched herself at Anya like a missile the second they stepped inside the fence.

“Sorry!” Sarah called as Hera immediately barreled straight into Anya and tackled her into the grass.

Ilya laughed, winding Anya’s leash into his hand as she exploded into delighted zoomies with her new friend. The two dogs took off across the park in a blur of paws and mud.

“And this,” Sarah said, gesturing to the woman beside her, “is Ashley.”

Ashley lifted a hand in a small, slightly awkward wave.

She was tall and broad-shouldered in a way that immediately read as goalie to Ilya, even without any gear. There was a subtle forward lean to the way she stood, like she was always ready to react to something.

“Hi,” she said.

Then she immediately added, “Sorry. I’m trying to act normal.”

Ilya blinked, then laughed.

“Please don’t.”

Sarah beamed beside her.

“I told you she’d say something weird.”

Ashley rubbed the back of her neck, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, you’re like… a famous athlete.”

“And you are not?” Ilya asked mildly.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Well,” she admitted, “not like you.”

They ended up standing near the fence watching the dogs for a while. Ashley loosened up after a few minutes, though she still had a slightly distracted way of talking that reminded Ilya of plenty of goalies he had known over the years.

At one point, she drifted off mid-sentence while watching a dog chase a stick across the park.

“Sorry,” she said when she realized she had stopped talking. “Goalie brain.”

“That is a real thing,” Ilya agreed solemnly. “I am familiar.”

Sarah snorted. Then they all laughed. After that, the conversation flowed easily.

Ashley asked a few thoughtful questions about skating drills and goalie sightlines that made it clear she followed the game closely, not just because of work. Ilya asked about the women’s league schedule. Sarah filled in a few stories from the training room that made Ashley groan and hide her face.

By the time the dogs collapsed in the grass panting, the three of them were talking like they had known each other for months.

Over the next few weeks, the dog park became part of his routine.

Some afternoons it was just Sarah and Hera. Other days, Ashley finished practice early and showed up too, usually still in compression garb with her hair damp from the locker room.

Sometimes they talked hockey. Other times they didn’t.

Ashley was a little awkward in a way that felt familiar, like her thoughts simply moved on a slightly different track than everyone else’s. She reminded him of Shane in that way. Sarah balanced her out easily, quick and warm and endlessly amused by her wife.

The first time Ilya saw them greet each other at the gate after arriving separately, Sarah reached out and tugged lightly on the sleeve of Ashley’s hoodie. Ashley leaned down without hesitation and bumped her forehead gently against Sarah’s.

A sharp, jealous flash bloomed in his chest, so sudden it almost knocked the breath out of him. The longing for Shane surged up just as quickly, hot and nauseating. For a moment he thought he might actually throw up.

Still though, he liked them immediately and immensely.

Before long, they were sending him the occasional text about dog park timing. Sarah shared photos of Hera proudly parading around their apartment with stolen socks in her mouth. Ashley once sent a blurry selfie of herself in full goalie gear with the caption: Tell Anya I blocked twelve shots today.

Ilya replied with photos of Anya stomping through the snow in her ridiculous (precious) little booties.

The dog park, and Sarah and Ashley and Hera, became a small respite from the anxiety and longing.

Ilya still went to practice. He still played games. He still sat through film sessions and media days and everything else that made up the steady rhythm of a season. But a few afternoons each week he took Anya to the park and found Sarah or Ashley there, with Hera launching herself through the mud like a heat-seeking torpedo made of fur.

It helped. But it didn’t change the other part.

He still checked in with Shane every now and then.

Not constantly. Galina had been very clear about that. No pressure. No emotional traps. Just small, normal contact.

He watched Shane’s games when Montreal was on TV. Sometimes on the couch with Anya sprawled across his legs, sometimes half listening while he cooked dinner. Sometimes with David and Yuna at their house.

Shane still played well. Not spectacular but not terrible. Better than anyone else by a mile though. But still, just… steady and habitual. Detached.

Every time the camera cut to him on the bench, Ilya searched his face as if there might be some sign of life there he could read through a screen.

He still missed him. That part had not gotten easier.

Every few days he caught himself reaching for his phone, wanting to type something reckless and honest.

Please take me back.
Please just let me fix us.
Please come home.

He never sent those.

He still did not know how to bridge the distance between them without pushing Shane further away.

In late January, the All-Star rosters were announced. Ilya looked for Shane’s name first, not even bothering with his own. He found it quickly. And right beneath it, his.

Same team. Again. Thank fuck. He hesitated for a second before opening their text thread.

You’re going, right?

The reply came a few minutes later.

Of course.

Ilya smiled at the message. Then another bubble appeared.

Still have to embarrass you in the speed challenges.

A startled laugh bubbled from his throat. It was not quite the easy teasing Shane used to throw at him constantly. There was a carefulness to it now, as if Shane were testing whether that old language still worked between them.

But it was there. A small flicker of something familiar. Ilya felt his stomach swoop with a sudden burst of giddy relief.

Please, he typed back. You are getting old. I will skate circles around you.

Delusional.

We will see.

The exchange was short. Just a handful of messages. Nothing dramatic. But when the conversation ended, Ilya leaned back slowly on his couch and stared down at the phone in his hand.

All-Star weekend. Four days. Maybe five, if he was lucky. They would be in the same hotel. At the same events. On the same team.

There would be no rushing past each other after a single game. No separate locker rooms and flights out of the city an hour later.

Shane could not disappear this time.

The realization settled over him slowly, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. For the first time in months, Ilya felt something like determination and hope instead of helplessness and anguish.

A whole weekend. Enough time to say the things he should have said months ago. Enough time to try.

A few days after the All-Star rosters were announced, a small complication sprang up.

One of the Centaurs’ trainers who was supposed to travel with the team called out at the last minute. His wife went into labor five weeks early, and suddenly the organization was scrambling to figure out coverage for the trip.

Ilya heard about it after practice. He thought about it for maybe three seconds, then he started making calls.

Being captain had its perks. Mostly boring ones, but occasionally it meant people asked how high? when he said jump.

By that evening, the problem was solved.

“Are you serious?” Sarah said when he called her.

“I am completely serious,” Ilya replied. “Centaurs need a temporary trainer for All-Star weekend. I suggested someone very qualified.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

Ilya laughed.

“Bring Ashley for part of it if you want,” he said. “Guests are encouraged at some events, you know.”

“She has a game that weekend,” Sarah said quickly, still sounding a little stunned. “But she could come down for at least part of it.” 

“Perfect.”

Sarah was still muttering, half laughing, half panicking about travel logistics when they hung up.

Later that night, out in the cold and walking Anya along the river, Ilya found himself smiling.

He liked the idea of Shane meeting his friends. Really meeting them. Not as the guy who sometimes does charity work with Ilya. Not as his rival-turned-friend in the orbit of Ilya’s life. Not as his ex.

As his partner.

The thought sent a small pulse of nervous excitement through him.

For a moment he let himself imagine it. The four of them sitting somewhere casual after the All-Star events. Sarah asking too many questions. Ashley being quietly starstruck for five minutes before relaxing into her usual energy. Shane rolling his eyes and making some dry comment about dogs or hockey or the ridiculousness of the league.

Then the other, more pessimistic voice in his head spoke up.

It reminded him that this whole plan could still blow up in spectacular fashion. That Shane might not want him back. That the weekend might end with the two of them further apart than they’ve ever been.

Ilya exhaled slowly into the frigid air.

Well.

At least, he thought, he will have a friend there sit with him afterward if everything falls apart.

By the time All-Star weekend arrived in February, Ilya had made up his mind.

He was getting his man back.

The certainty settled into him somewhere over the Pacific as the team charter descended toward San Francisco, heavy and immovable. For weeks he had been rehearsing what he would say. Not the desperate version and not the frantic apology that sometimes spilled out in therapy. The real one. The careful one Galina had helped him build.

Ownership.
Understanding.
No pressure.
Just the truth.

I’m so sorry.
I was wrong.
I didn’t understand what you were dealing with.
I still love you.

He repeated the words to himself like a drill.

All-Star weekend might be the first real chance he had had since everything fell apart. A whole weekend in the same place. The same hotel. The same team events. No rushing through a handshake line or skating away to separate locker rooms after sixty minutes.

Then a thought almost made him laugh.

The situation felt like a strange reversal of the true beginning of their story. Years ago, it had been Shane on a mission, chasing him across cities and games after panicking the first time Ilya had said his name. Shane had dated Rose Landry. Realized Accepted he was gay. Broken up with her. Worked patiently and stubbornly to rebuild whatever fragile bridge had crumbled between him and Ilya.

Now it was Ilya’s turn.

Maybe it was penance. If it was, he suspected he deserved it and more. Either way, he arrived in California determined to fix everything.

Then he saw Shane and his confidence faltered almost immediately.

Shane was thinner than he remembered. It wasn't dramatic or even in a way that would draw attention from cameras or commentators, but enough that Ilya noticed the moment he stepped into the players’ lounge at the resort.

His suit hung a little looser at the shoulders. His face looked sharper. There was more silver threading through his temples than Ilya remembered.

And the energy that usually lived inside him, the sublime intensity that made people instinctively follow his lead on the ice, seemed to have evaporated.

Shane still smiled when people greeted him. He nodded, answered questions, shook hands. From across the room he looked almost normal.

But when their eyes met for the first time across the crowd, Ilya felt his stomach drop.

Because Shane just looked... tired, all the way down to his bones. 

The resort restaurant was all glass and warm light and curated coastal chic. White linen. Polished wood. Beyond the windows, the ocean was only a dark suggestion, the waves catching the last scraps of sunset.

A long table had been reserved for the All-Star roster. The room was already loud by the time Shane arrived. He was on time. Of course he was.

He wore a pale button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His hair was pushed back from his face, his expression composed into something pleasant and neutral.

Shane took the empty seat at the far end of the table. Not deliberately isolating himself. Just naturally gravitating toward the edge. He greeted the guys around him, nodding easily, offering a polite smile when someone clapped him on the shoulder.

The smile never quite reached his eyes.

Conversation moved easily around the table, loud and messy. Stories about skills competitions. Complaints about travel. Someone cracked a joke about the difference between February in New York and February in California.

Shane contributed when someone spoke directly to him, but just in short answers.

“Yeah.”
“Not bad.”
“We’ll see.”

He ate methodically, not really tasting anything. Across the table, Ilya pretended not to watch him. He failed.

He saw everything. The way Shane’s hand rested loosely around his water glass. The way he laughed half a second too late. The way his eyes occasionally went unfocused when he stared down at the table.

Dessert plates were being cleared when one of the younger guys leaned back in his chair.

“Okay, we’re not being old men tonight. There’s this ridiculous laser tag place down the boardwalk. Private mazes. Neon, drinks, the whole thing.”

Groans and cheers rolled around the table.

“Loser buys breakfast.”

Someone pointed down the table.

“Hollander, you in?”

There was a brief pause. Shane’s posture looked relaxed. He blinked once, as if the question had to travel a long way to reach him.

“I’m good,” he said lightly. “Early skate.”

Immediate protests erupted.

“Come on, man.”
“It’s All-Star weekend.”
“Live a little.”

Someone laughed.

“God, you’re so boring.”

The comment was meant to be harmless. Teasing and affectionate.

But Shane flinched, the movement small and almost invisible.

Ilya saw it.

A heartbeat later, Shane exhaled and forced a soft laugh.

“Yep,” he said easily. “Sorry, guys.”

Then his eyes flicked across the table to Ilya with a silent addendum in them. 

What’s new, right?

The acceptance in it landed like a punch. There was no eye roll and no dry comeback. Not even a familiar, fuck off grin.

Just agreement.

Yep.

The conversation moved on almost immediately. Someone was already arguing about laser tag teams. Shane pushed his chair back smoothly.

“Have fun,” he said.

He picked up his phone, nodded once to the group, and stepped away from the table. He did not rush nor did he linger. 

Ilya did not realize he had half stood from his chair until someone bumped his shoulder.

“You good?”

He sat back down automatically. But his eyes followed Shane through the glass doors.

Shane did not look back. He stepped out onto the terrace, the wind catching his shirt for a second before the door slid closed behind him. Gone.

The guys around the table were laughing, splitting into teams, grabbing jackets.

Ilya barely heard any of it. All he could see was that small flinch. All he could hear was the resignation in Shane’s voice.

And he understood, with a sinking certainty, that breaking through whatever walls Shane had built was going to be much harder than he had imagined.

Chapter End Notes

as a fellow 90s baby, do you know how many ashley and sarah's i knew/know lol

i promise we are getting closer to the light at the end of the tunnel

ilya at this all stars weekend has been activated like the winter soldier to retrieve his man <3

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

TW/CW: mentions of suicidal ideation, suicidal tendencies, warning signs of self-harm etc

The late morning sun was shining so blindingly bright that it felt almost aggressive.

Kids were everywhere, racing across the sand, weaving between patio tables, little All-Star jerseys hanging two sizes too big on their shoulders.

Ilya had not meant to hover, but Hayden’s twins, Jade and Ruby, had spotted him the moment he arrived and shrieked in delight at the sight of Uncle Ilya. Before he knew it he had a frisbee in his hand and two small bodies sprinting through the sand to catch it.

He threw it for them, laughing when Ruby dove for it dramatically and missed by a mile. He could feel Hayden’s glare burning into his back the entire time. Jackie at least had greeted him warmly, leaning in to kiss his cheek and ask how he was.

A few yards away, Hayden’s younger kids were building something elaborate and doomed out of driftwood and wet sand. Shane was kneeling beside them. He seemed to be feeling a little better. 

Not okay. But better.

He listened intently as Arthur explained the structural integrity of their sand fortress with deadly seriousness. Shane nodded along like he'd be quizzed on it later and helped reinforce a wall that immediately collapsed under its own weight. He laughed. And it was real.

But it was fleeting.

The second the kids turned back to their project, Shane’s face went still again. Not sad. Not sharp. Just blank.

Jackie watched him the way someone watched a person walking too close to the edge of a cliff: surreptitiously concerned and quietly calculating. She handed him a bottle of water.

“You sleeping okay?” she asked carefully, the way a good mother would.

“Sure,” Shane replied automatically, with a vague smile. 

The lie was automatic and practiced.  Jackie did not call him on it, but she didn't look convinced either.

A few yards away, Ilya saw all of it. He saw the tiny spark of life when Shane lifted Amber and spun her around in the air. He saw how quickly it faded. He saw Jackie’s gaze linger on Shane’s face, searching for… something.

His lungs suddenly felt too small. Like he couldn’t draw a full breath.  Yuna had not been exaggerating.

Then arms looped around his shoulders from behind.

“Found you!”

Ilya laughed automatically as someone jumped lightly onto his back. He knew who it was before he even turned.

Sarah squeezed him in a hug from where she draped herself over his upper body.

“You ditched me at breakfast.”

“I was ambushed,” he said dryly, nodding toward the twins.

She dropped back to her feet but stayed close, her hip brushing against his side in that easy, familiar way she had. He pulled her into a proper hug and she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. It was reflexive, almost thoughtless.

And then Ilya felt the subtle shift in the air, as if the temperature had suddenly dropped 20 degrees, despite the glaring sunshine and humid sea breeze. 

Ilya looked up and saw that Shane was standing now, watching. For a second their eyes met, and Ilya’s stomach dropped so fast it felt like falling.

Shane didn’t look jealous. Or hurt. Or even angry. 

He looked… empty. As if the last fragile thread holding something together had snapped and no one had noticed.

It was worse than if he had stormed off. Worse than if he had flinched. There was no claim in his gaze, no spark of anger, no fight at all.

Just a sort of confirmation.

Ah. Of course.

Sarah was still talking beside him, saying something about Hera and Anya having the time of their lives at her parents’ house while they were out of town. Ilya forced himself to glance back at her, to respond, because he did not know what else to do.

He said something automatic and managed a smile, but his pulse was hammering high in his throat.

When he looked back again, Shane had already moved. He was standing in front of Jackie now, his hands held out toward the baby in her lap.

Henry. The youngest, who wasn’t quite one yet. The surprise baby who had eeked his way past Hayden’s vasectomy right after Amber turned two. (Ilya had laughed himself hoarse when Pike first told him and Shane about the pregnancy.)

Jackie handed the baby over without comment, though she studied Shane’s face carefully as she did.

Shane carried Henry to a shaded chair a little farther away, putting as much distance as he reasonably could between himself and the place where Ilya stood with Sarah without making the movement obvious.

Sarah kept chatting while Ilya tossed the frisbee back and forth between Jade and Ruby. Across the sand, Shane settled the baby in his lap and smiled as tiny fingers groped at the collar of his T-shirt.

He looked a little more alive now. A little more present. He made exaggerated faces at the baby and let Henry grab at his nose. He smiled when the baby cooed back at him, his voice soft as he murmured something under his breath. But even that felt muted, like someone had turned the saturation down on the world.

Ilya found himself wanting to shout, to loudly ask Sarah about Ashley so that the Pikes and Shane would hear it. Something obvious and unmistakable.

Hey, when’s YOUR WIFE getting here? You know, YOUR WIFE, the WOMAN you’re MARRIED to? 

The words wouldn’t come. His mouth was dry and his tongue refused to cooperate.

A few moments later, Henry started to fuss. Shane rubbed his tiny arm gently.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

The baby’s face crumpled. Then he wailed. It was loud and immediate, the full-bodied cry of an over-tired infant.

Jackie stood right away, scooping up a diaper bag from beside the table.

“It’s past nap time,” she said, peeking at her phone. “Would you mind staying with Hayden and the big kids?”

Shane shifted Henry carefully against his shoulder.

“Or I could go put him down,” he offered lightly. “I don’t mind.”

Jackie considered him. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Ilya and Sarah, who was now tapping away on her phone, completely oblivious to the tension stretching across the little bubble.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. The sun’s giving me a headache anyway.” He glanced down at the baby and brushed his thumb gently over Henry’s plump cheek. “A nap sounds pretty good to me too, buddy.”

It was almost convincing. Almost. Jackie hesitated for another second before handing him the hotel key.

“His sleep sack is in the crib already,” she said. “And he likes the white noise on. Just tap the top of the speaker and it'll start.”

She gave him a few more instructions, leaned over and kissed the top of Henry's head and then stepped aside as Shane walked away.

Sarah finally glanced up from her phone just as he left and sighed.

“I have to go. I promised some trainer friends I’d meet them. I forgot.”  She gave Ilya another hug. “I’ll catch up with you tonight?”

He nodded, though his smile did not quite reach his eyes. She stretched up and kissed his cheek again before leaving. Ilya eyes were glued to Shane’s retreating form. The way Shane never even looked back hurt more than anything else.

After a moment, Ilya looked over and met Hayden’s eyes across the sand. Hayden’s expression was murderous. Protective and accusing all at once, like he was trying to blast a hole straight through Ilya’s chest with the force of his glare.

Ilya gave him the smallest nod.

Yeah, I deserve that.

Jackie glanced over, too. Her face was tight, her mouth pulled into a slight frown. Not angry, just… disappointed. She’d always liked him, much more than Hayden ever had. But now she looked at him like he had just kicked something that was already limping.

Ilya sighed, flung the frisbee back toward Jade, and thought grimly, yeah, I deserve that too.

The evening unfolded into a perfect golden hour, where the sky fades from rich, warm sunset light into the first glow of string lights. Long banquet tables stretch across the sand, dotted with lanterns. Kids ran wild with glow sticks as their laughter carried over the steady sound of the ocean rolling in behind it all.

Shane showed up, of course. He would never skip something where he was expected to make an appearance. He moved easily through the small crowd, greeting people politely. He hugged Jackie, exchanged a few quick hellos with wives he had known for years and answered a question from one of the staff.

Then he reached over and plucked Henry out of Hayden’s arms.

“Gimme that,” he said with a tiny smile.

The baby nestled against his chest immediately and, for good measure, plunged a tiny hand into the front pocket of Shane’s shirt.

But just like that, Shane had a pudgy, adorable human shield. Both hands occupied. Conversation naturally limited. Constant movement justified.

He stayed close to Hayden’s older kids too though, letting them pull him into their games. He judged a series of sand races with solemn seriousness, listened while they explained rules that did not make much sense, nodded like the outcome was Olympic medals.

From a chair near a driftwood fire pit, Ilya watched all of it. Several players and their spouses were gathered there around the fire. Sarah sat on his left, leaning forward with interest as she looked out over the beach.

Suddenly she nudged him in the ribs with a small gasp.

“Oh shit,” she murmured excitedly. “Is that Shane Hollander?”

Ilya’s stomach tightened immediately.

“Yes.”

She beamed.

“Oh my god. I have to meet him. I’ve been watching him since I was like fifteen. He’s so technically clean. It’s disgusting.” She turned toward him, eyes bright. “Would you introduce me?”

Ilya forced a small smile.

“He is… shy,” he said carefully.

“I won’t bite.”

She was already scanning the crowd for an opening. Ilya shifted slightly in his chair.

“Maybe later.”

But their conversation had already drawn attention. Boodram perked up from across the fire pit and leaned forward.

“Who? Hollander?” he asked. “Oh, I know him. I’ll introduce you.”

No.

The word rose in Ilya’s throat, but he was too late. Bood was already on his feet and weaving between the tables. Sarah followed eagerly. For half a second Ilya stayed rooted in place, as if not moving might somehow stop what was already happening.

Then he stood and trailed slowly after them.

It felt like watching a car slide across black ice.

Shane was standing near the edge of the patio now, the baby still tucked securely in his arms. He swayed gently without seeming to think about it, the movement rhythmic and instinctive. Henry’s head rested against his collarbone. From a distance Shane almost looked peaceful.

Then a hand tapped his shoulder and Shane startled. It was small and quick, but sharp enough that Ilya saw it clearly. His body reacted first, tightening for a split second before his face smoothed over again. Polite. Controlled. Distant.

“Oh. Hey.”

Boodram stood there grinning.

“Hollander, there’s a friend of Rozanov's that wants to meet you. Shane, this is Sarah. Sarah, Shane.”

Bood looked deeply pleased with himself.

At the word friend, Shane’s eyes tightened almost imperceptibly. Ilya could see the calculation there, how he was trying to decide if Bood was fucking with him.

Then Bood leaned closer and stage-whispered loudly, “She’s a huge fan.”

Sarah laughed, bright and open. Shane shifted the baby a little higher on his chest and gave her a textbook perfect smile.

“Nice to meet you.”

Sarah lit up immediately.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be weird, but your edge work is unreal. The way you cut inside on your left side…”

She spoke quickly, animated and excited, her enthusiasm completely sincere. Shane listened. He nodded politely.

“Thanks,” he said. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

But he did not lean into the conversation the way he usually would. He did not ask her anything about herself. He did not ask how she knew Ilya. He did not offer anything beyond the bare minimum to keep the exchange polite.

The baby squirmed slightly in his arms. Sarah stepped a little closer, still glowing with excitement.

“Can I get a picture?”

Indignation flickered in Shane’s eyes. It was there for only a second. He adjusted the baby again, settling Henry more securely against his shoulder.

“Maybe in a minute,” he said gently.

His gaze flitted to Ilya and then away. Ilya felt like he might actually be sick. Sarah kept talking, oblivious to the tension practically radiating off of Shane.

“I’ve watched like every playoff run you’ve had,” she said. “That series against Tampa was unreal.”

Shane nodded again.

“Yep, it was intense.”

His voice sounded thin. Henry started to fuss then. At first it was just a soft whimper, but it quickly sharpened into a louder cry. Shane looked down immediately. Relief flashed across his face so fast it almost hurt to watch.

“Okay,” he murmured softly. “Okay, buddy, I hear you.”

He shifted Henry against his shoulder and patted his back gently before looking up at Sarah again.

“Sorry,” he said. “I should get him back to his mom.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to corner you.”

“It’s fine.”

The words sounded automatic. Shane gave her and Bood a small nod and then turned away.

Ilya stood there a few feet away, watching him move across the sand. Watched Jackie intercept him halfway, her hand closing gently around his upper arm as she said something quiet and concerned.

Shane nodded once and murmured something back as he passed Henry back to her. Then he continued walking, disappearing into the darker edge of the patio lights.

Ilya felt like his insides were dissolving. Beside him Sarah blew out a slow breath.

“Wow,” she said softly. “He seems… intense.”

Ilya swallowed hard.

“He wasn’t always.”

Across the tables, Jackie looked up. Her eyes found Ilya immediately. And this time it was not just disappointed, it was incredulous and exasperated and pissed. 

Are you fucking kidding me, man?

The dinner stretched on. Dessert was served. Kids were sugared and glowing and loud. Someone dragged out speakers for (drunken) karaoke. The sky deepened into indigo. Shane stayed.

Of course he stayed. As miserable as he clearly was, he'd never shuck off the obligation of attending a dinner like this, casual as it was. 

He sat with Hayden’s twins while they showed him something on an iPad. He let Amber scramble into his lap to watch, too. He laughed once at something Hayden said. Then, around the time coffee was poured, he subtly checked his watch and made his escape.

“Early skate,” he said again, same script as last night. Hayden clapped his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. Responsible adult.”

Shane smiled up at him faintly as he handed Amber over to him. 

“Somebody has to be.”

He said his goodbyes. Hugged the kids. He leaned over Jackie's chair and pecked the top of her head. She squeezed his hand where it rested on her shoulder for a second longer than necessary.

“Text me,” she said quietly.

He nodded but didn’t look at her.

Ilya watched the path he took long after he disappeared from view. The music continued. Someone asked if he wanted another drink. Sarah was arguing about playoff formats with another player. He barely heard any of it. There was a pressure building around his heart, constricting and suffocating.

It was irrational. He knew it was. Shane was… just walking back to the hotel. Turning in early.

But… 

Ilya couldn’t see him. And with Shane out of his sight, the feeling got worse.

His stomach curdled into something cold and hollow. The edges of the party felt distant and blurred. His hands were suddenly clammy. It was ridiculous.

He hadn’t felt like this in years.

Not since…

He was twelve. His mother hadn’t come out of her room all day. The house was as quiet as a tomb. He kept checking the hallway. Kept listening for movement. For proof.

That she was still there. That she was still…

The weeks before it happened, he lived with this exact feeling. This gnawing, awful pit in his stomach. This crawling, insidious sense that something was wrong and he didn’t know how to fix it.

And then one day, he was right.

The music swelled as someone very badly belted Whitney Houston. Someone bumped into him, laughing. Ilya blinked hard, back in the present. This was not that. This cannot be that.

Shane was not his mother. Shane would not do something like that. Shane was overly-cautious. Controlled. Functional. 

This was Ilya’s guilt talking. This was projection. This was him dramatizing and catastrophizing because he didn’t like seeing Shane look… different and knowing it was his fault.

That’s all.

Right?

He swallowed. Tried to laugh at something Sarah said. It came out choked and wrong. He glanced toward the walking path again and the pit in his stomach deepened.

Ilya stood and followed after Shane without really consciously deciding to. 

It didn’t take long to find the lone figure standing at the edge of the surf, still and silent in the ankle-deep, dark water. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the wind.

Ilya knew it was him immediately. He would know him blind, he thought idly. 

Because even from behind, even from this distance and in the dark, he recognized the line of Shane’s spine and the way he stood with his weight tilted slightly forward, like he was always a half second away from skating.

Ilya slowed as he approached. He didn’t want to startle him. When he reached the sand near the waterline, he stopped a few feet behind him and toed off his shoes, holding them in one hand in an unconscious imitation of Shane.

The panic that had been bubbling in his chest and stomach eased just slightly.

Up close, though, he suddenly had no idea where to start. So, he tried a joke.

“Is a bit windy for skinny dipping,” Ilya called lightly. “But I am in, if you are.”

For a second, there was only the sound of the waves. Then Shane chuckled. It was small and soft, but it was real.

Shane glanced down at the sand and dragged the toe of his foot through it, drawing an absentminded line before kicking at the disturbed patch half-heartedly.

“Hard pass,” he murmured.

The wind lifted his hair and the moonlight caught his profile, turning it pale and sharp.

Ilya inched closer until they were side by side and studied him more carefully now that he could see him clearly. The sharper angle of his jaw. The faint shadows beneath his eyes.

“You are not okay,” Ilya said softly.

Shane glanced sideways at him. He shrugged and turned his gaze back out toward the water. The waves rushed forward and curled around their feet before retreating again into the dark.

“I’m fine.”

The lie was so automatic it barely qualified as one. Ilya swallowed and tried again.

“Talk to me,” he said softly. “Please.”

Shane closed his eyes for a moment. It lasted just long enough for the silence between them to stretch thin and fragile. Then he nodded once and opened them again. He kept his gaze on the blackened horizon. 

“Sarah is nice,” Shane said quietly. “I’m happy for you. Really.”

The sincerity in his voice made it worse. He swallowed hard before he went on.

“You deserve someone who’s…” His words trailed off as his jaw tightened. After a moment, he shook his head slightly. The wind tugged at the hem of his shirt, billowing the fabric around his torso.

Ilya felt like the ground beneath him was crumbling away.

“Shane-”

“I’m sorry,” Shane said quickly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do what you asked.”

Ilya’s throat closed. He said his name again, softly, like it might stop him from apologizing for more things that had never been his fault.

“Shane.”

This time, Shane turned fully toward him. The movement was slow and deliberate, and when his eyes landed on Ilya’s face it felt almost unbearable.

He looked at him carefully, like he was studying him, like he was trying to memorize every line and shape of him. His gaze moved across Ilya’s features with intense attention that felt like a physical caress.

There was hunger there. And grief. And something unbearably gentle. Shane’s brow furrowed slightly, as if even just looking hurt.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured.

It was not flirtation. It was factual and ardent and full of adoration all at once. It also sounded like a goodbye.

Ilya’s breath stopped.

Shane held his gaze for another second before looking away. Then he turned and began walking down the beach, putting a few yards of sand between them as the ocean filled the silence.

Ilya stood there for a moment, stunned, his heart hammering loudly in his ears.

Shane didn’t get far. Maybe ten paces along the shoreline before Ilya forced his legs to move and followed after him, his breath a little uneven when he caught up.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

Shane didn’t turn, he only shrugged as he kept walking. 

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

His voice still wasn’t sharp or jealous. It was worse than that. It sounded detached, like he’d already expected Ilya to move on a long time ago.

“I’m not,” Ilya insisted. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration creeping into the motion. “I’m not lying.”

Shane glanced at him sideways, something guarded flickering briefly in his expression.

“She’s married,” Ilya said, the words coming out faster now. “To a woman. They’re both very gay."

"Hm."

"Our dogs are friends,” Ilya blurted desperately.

That finally made Shane stop walking. He turned and frowned, his brows drawing together as if he were trying to solve a problem that did not quite make sense.

“I… what?”

“I met them at the dog park,” Ilya explained. “Her wife plays for the Oracles. Sarah’s a trainer. She’s lesbian. Very. We are just friends.”

Shane opened his mouth, then closed it again. After a moment he tried once more.

“Oh,” he said simply. A short pause followed. “Sorry.”

He looked faintly embarrassed now, almost sheepish. It was the first time all night he had looked remotely like himself instead of a shadow.

“But you…” he tried again, his voice careful and hesitant, “are seeing… people?”

Ilya winced. He knew exactly why Shane assumed that. Because he knew him. Knew the history. Knew the years of casual hookups before they had ever become exclusive. Knew how easily Ilya used to burn through distractions.

Shane was asking like he was preparing himself for an answer he already knew.

Ilya let out a slow breath.

“No.”

Shane blinked.

“There’s no one.”

The frown deepened as Shane shifted his weight and really looked at him. It was the most alert he had looked all weekend. Confused. Searching. Piercing.

“You’re not…?” Shane began, then stopped.

Ilya shook his head.

“No.”

Shane’s expression shifted slightly. It was still more baffled than hopeful, but the numbness retreated a bit. The tight line of his shoulders loosened by a few degrees. Ilya took in the change like the first breath after being underwater. He stepped closer without thought.

“Shane,” he began again, his voice already breaking. Tears sprang to his eyes before he could stop them. “Moy lyubimyy.”

Shane blinked as genuine shock flashed across his face at the endearment.

“I’m so sorry,” Ilya said, his voice thick as he fought to hold back the sobs threatening to spill over. He needed to say this first. Needed Shane to hear it. “For all of it. I was wrong. I -”

The words collapsed into a small, helpless gasp.

Shane pressed his lips together and looked down at the sand around their feet, shaking his head slightly. Ilya knew that gesture. Knew what was coming next. Shane was about to apologize, too. Again. Ready to take on blame that wasn’t his.

Ilya couldn’t let that happen. He shuffled a step closer, crowding him just slightly. Shane didn’t retreat. And the fact that he stayed where he was felt like a small, fragile victory.

Tears were falling freely down Ilya’s face now. He reached for Shane’s shoe-free hand but stopped just short of actually grabbing it, leaving a small bit of space between them.

“Come inside with me?” he asked. “Please.”

Shane hesitated for a fraction of a second. Ilya saw the old instinct flitting across his face, even as it was turned downward. That reflex to withdraw, to protect, to keep things from getting worse. The hesitation made fresh panic spike through Ilya’s chest.

“I miss you,” he blurted. 

The words made the sobs finally break loose. Shane’s head lifted immediately, surpriseb giving way to concern.

“Please,” Ilya said, pushing through the tears. His voice was thick and uneven. “I have so much to say, and I -” He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “Please.”

Shane’s eyes were more alert than Ilya had seen them since the night everything had fallen apart. He was focused and present and worried. 

Ilya was about half a second away from dropping to his knees in the surf and begging properly when Shane finally nodded. He stepped forward and his hands came up to grip Ilya’s biceps before one slid to tenderly cup his cheek. His thumb brushed along his jaw in a soothing motion. 

“Okay,” Shane said softly. “Okay. We’ll go inside. We’ll talk. It’s okay.”

His immediate, loving reassurance was almost unbearable. Ilya closed the remaining distance between them and pressed his forehead against Shane’s. He nodded, trying to get control of the tears that were still slipping down his face.

For a few moments, they just stood there in the shallow surf while the waves curled in and out around their ankles. Ilya sniffed and took a steadying breath, forcing himself to pull it together.

When he finally lifted his head, he brushed a soft kiss across Shane’s forehead. Then he reached down and threaded their fingers together. Together, they turned away from the sea and began walking toward the hotel.

Chapter End Notes

so when tortured poets came out, i remember seeing a tweet about this girl who kept getting overwhelmed by how sad and depressing every song was, so like, every two songs she went and listened to espresso for a serotonin boost and then dove back into ttpd

literally ME working on this fic, taking breaks to reread my other hollanov stuff, esp no one's ever had me. using the fluff like lines of coke to get through the pain lmao

before you come for Sarah, GIRLIE DOESN'T KNOW OKAY? Ilya hasn't said a word about his past with Shane. All she knows is that they're friendly enough and they have a charity together. She's not to blame for everyone's assumptions!!

side bar, i nested too visciously yesterday and had many braxton-hicks, so my husband basically put me on bed rest all day today. it helped AND i got to work on several chapters for this <3 it's also why this chapter is the longest so far lol

also, shane didn't leave dinner to go Do It right then. ilya just finally realized WHY shane's depression/vacancy etc feels so familiar and fucking awful and is like OH SHIT, you get me?

you should know, i very VERY nearly ended this chapter with ilya dying inside watching sarah and bood and shane and leaving ilya chasing after shane to the next chapter. but i decided to be merciful instead lmao

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

CW/TW: discussion of thoughts of suicide, suicidal ideation, passive suicidal thoughts, active suicidal thoughts

They walked back toward the hotel without speaking. The beach path gave way to the paved walkway that led toward the resort buildings, and when they reached the glow of the parking lot lights Ilya let go of Shane’s hand. The gesture was automatic, almost reflexive. Old habit. The assumption that Shane would not be comfortable with them being seen being affectionate.

For a split second Shane looked at Ilya like he’d cut his hand off at the wrist. The expression vanished almost immediately.

He didn’t reach for Ilya again. Instead he shifted closer as they kept walking, close enough that their shoulders brushed every other step.

They crossed the parking lot and slipped into the hotel through the side entrance. Inside, the hallway was hushed and softly lit with thick carpet swallowing the sound of their footsteps. 

Shane’s hand found the small of Ilya’s back as they walked. 

They reached the door to Shane’s room. Shane pulled the keycard from his pocket, unlocked it, and stepped inside first. Ilya followed.

The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly the air between them felt charged and thin.

Only the lamp beside the bed was on. The curtains were half drawn, moonlight cutting a pale line across the carpet and the edge of the bed.

Shane stopped near the mattress, standing there like he was not entirely sure where to put himself. His hands hung loosely at his sides.

“I just…” he started.

He stopped, frowning slightly as if he had lost the thread of what he meant to say.

“Are you okay?”

The question was so backwards, so completely opposite of what should have been happening, that Ilya almost laughed. He managed a small nod instead. 

They stepped toward each other at the same time. Shane’s hands came up first, cupping Ilya’s face and neck while Ilya’s gripped Shane’s waist. For a second they just stood there, close enough to feel each other breathing.

Ilya knew he should start talking. This was the moment. The speeches he had been rehearsing for months sat heavy on his tongue.

Instead, he heard himself say, “I’m sorry about Bood. And Sarah. And this morning.”

Shane looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head slightly. His gaze dropped to Ilya’s mouth.

“I mean it,” Ilya continued softly. “I wanted to say something on the beach this morning. About her wife, Ashley. But I couldn’t get the words out.”

Shane shrugged, his eyes flicking up briefly before drifting back to Ilya’s mouth again.

“I should have texted you to explain between then and dinner,” Ilya went on.  His mouth twisted ruefully. “It must have been… a not fun day for you.”

“No more than usual,” Shane said softly as he shrugged again.

Ilya started to speak again. The apologies he had been holding back rushed up at once, crowding behind his teeth, each one trying to force its way out first. But Shane frowned suddenly, his brow knitting together.

“Wait,” Shane said slowly. “If Sarah’s a trainer for the Oracles… why is she here?”

Ilya snorted before he could stop himself. Shane rolled his eyes immediately.

“Fuck off,” he muttered. “Not like that. Not… I’m not a dick about the women’s league. You know that.”

Ilya giggled, the sound escaping him before he could contain it. God. Shane sounded so much like himself. It felt like a miracle.

“I know,” he said gently. “I suggested Sarah come after Brady’s wife had their baby almost a month and a half early.”

“Oh.”

Shane’s gaze lifted back to his face, concern immediately replacing the irritation.

“Is… are they okay?” he asked. “His wife and the baby and… everything?”

Ilya nodded. His throat tightened unexpectedly as he did because God. This man. Even now, even standing here with his own heart in pieces, Shane’s first instinct was to worry about someone else.

So sweet. So gentle. So fucking kind and good and perfect. Ilya had missed him so much.

Shane’s attention drifted again, his eyes settling back on Ilya’s mouth. He bit his own lip unconsciously, a small nervous habit Ilya knew far too well.

He really needed to start talking. Instead, he leaned forward slowly, deliberately giving Shane plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to. He knew he wouldn’t.

After all, this had always been their first language.

As Ilya dipped closer, Shane’s face crumpled just slightly. His eyes slipped closed and a shuddering breath left his chest like he had been holding it for months. He leaned instinctively into the contact, almost without thinking, like his body recognized the safety of it before his mind could catch up. Ilya felt his chest cave inward.

“Shane,” he whispered, a hairsbreadth from his mouth.

And then he kissed him. It wasn’t at all aggressive or desperate. At least, not yet. Just… a press of lips. His mouth over Shane’s was familiar and careful and warm. 

Shane exhaled into the kiss like someone surfacing after being underwater too long. Like oxygen. Like this was the first full breath he had taken in over a year. The kiss deepened slowly, soft and searching.

For a moment it almost felt like before. Almost.

But Ilya could still feel the sadness wrapped around him. The hesitation in the way Shane responded but didn’t quite push forward. The faint distance in the way he held himself, like some part of him was still bracing for this moment to disappear.

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him. Shane’s eyes were glassy and overwhelmed. He let out the smallest, almost embarrassed laugh.

“I forgot,” he murmured.

“What?” Ilya breathed.

“What this felt like.”

The words nearly undid him.

Shane leaned forward and rested his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder, as if everything was almost too much. Ilya couldn’t bear it. He lifted a hand and gently caught Shane’s chin, guiding his face back up until their mouths met again.

The second kiss was different. Hungrier. Less like desire and more like something urgent and necessary.

It felt less like lust and more like CPR.

Ilya kissed him like he was trying to breathe life back into him, like he was memorizing the shape of him all over again. At first Shane responded slowly, cautiously, the same distance still hovering between them.

Then something shifted.

Under Ilya’s hands he began to warm. His breathing deepened. His fingers tightened against Ilya’s neck and jaw. Small, involuntary sounds slipped from his throat, sounds Ilya had not heard in months. Each one felt like a pulse returning to a long-stilled heart. 

Ilya guided him backward toward the bed without breaking the kiss.

Shane gave ground easily, his hands clutching at Ilya’s back and the fabric of his shirt as they moved. The backs of Shane’s knees hit the mattress first and he tipped backward with a huff of  breath, dragging Ilya down with him.

They both laughed against each other’s mouths as they landed on the bed in a tangle of limbs and pillows.

For a moment they stayed there, kissing luxuriously, the sound of their breathing beginning to roughen. Their hands moved quickly, impatient now, helping each other out of their clothes.

Ilya made himself keep his attention on Shane’s face. The way Shane’s eyes moved over him with a kind of hungry disbelief, like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. He willed himself not to look to focus on the sharper lines of Shane’s collarbones or the way his ribs seemed just slightly more visible than they used to be.

Shane was breathing hard now, his hands restless where they moved across Ilya’s shoulders and back.

“There’s… lube,” he managed between breaths, gesturing vaguely toward the side table. “In the drawer.”

Ilya paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow at him, a wicked smirk tugging at his mouth. Shane flushed bright red.

“Shut up,” he muttered, already half laughing despite himself. “It was for jerking off. Not… this. I didn’t think we’d -.”

The teasing faded from Ilya’s expression as he leaned down and kissed him again, slower this time. The kiss was dizzying in its tenderness, comforting and igniting at the same time.

“Well,” Ilya murmured against his mouth, brushing another kiss across his lips, “it’s lucky you are always so good at planning ahead, moy lyubimyy.”

After that he focused on Shane with careful attention, moving slowly and patiently, giving him time to relax and open beneath his hands.

Shane responded to every touch in a way that felt almost overwhelming. His breathing deepened, small sounds slipping from him that made everything inside Ilya tighten painfully with relief and desire. When Ilya finally lined himself up and slowly pressed inside, he tucked his face against Shane’s collarbone, panting hard. The contact drew a low, drawn out groan from his chest as he settled fully within him.

He lingered there for a moment, his mouth moving across Shane’s skin in warm, unhurried kisses. The line of his neck and the edge of his jaw, up and up until he reached his mouth again and kissed him deeply. Then he pulled back just enough to look at him.

Shane’s face was flushed, his eyes squeezed shut as he breathed hard and adjusted to the fullness.

“Sweetheart,” Ilya murmured softly, “look at me.”

Shane’s eyes opened immediately. They locked onto Ilya’s, dark and wide, his chest rising and falling quickly beneath his own.

Ilya reached for one of Shane’s hands and threaded their fingers together before guiding it to his own chest, pressing Shane’s palm firmly over the rapid thudding of his heart.

“I am yours,” he whispered as fresh tears sprang to his eyes.

Shane gasped softly at the words. The emotion that crossed his face was almost too much to look at. He tipped his head back into the pillow with a broken moan, exposing the long line of his throat.

Ilya leaned forward and pressed his face into the hollow beneath Shane’s Adam’s apple, breathing him in. He felt the faint hitch in Shane’s breath and heard the tiny tremor there that told him Shane was either crying or very close to it.

So he began to move slowly, gently, pressing himself impossibly close as he did.

Ilya had thought about this moment a thousand different ways since that awful fight.

He had imagined it during sleepless nights and long flights and lonely hotel rooms. Sometimes in his mind it had been angry, furious reconciliation. Rough and desperate, all the words they could not say burning out of them through touch. Other times he had pictured something tender and emotional. The two of them clinging to each other and sobbing deeply, making love like something fragile they were determined not to break again.

He had imagined so many versions of it. In the end, the reality was better than anything he could have anticipated.

They moved together with a breathless urgency that was neither angry nor careful, just full of the desperate relief of finally touching again. Shane held onto him like he was afraid he might vanish, his hands gripping Ilya’s shoulders and back, his breath hot and uneven against his throat. Ilya kept kissing him wherever he could reach, Shane’s mouth, his cheek, the line of his jaw, murmuring his name between each breath.

The tension that had built for months rushed through both of them at once. The rhythm between them quickened without either of them meaning, their breathing turning to ragged gasping, their bodies pressed close as if neither of them wanted even an inch of space between them.

Shane made a loud, desperate sound that seemed to surprise even him, his fingers tightening in Ilya’s curls. Ilya pressed his forehead briefly against Shane’s temple, whispering something soft and half incoherent in Russian as the pleasure crested through both of them nearly simultaneously. 

When it was over they collapsed into the rumpled sheets together, tangled and sweating and panting still. Shane’s skin was flushed and warm under the lamplight, color high across his cheeks and chest in a way Ilya had not seen in so many months.

For a few minutes it almost felt like before. Then Ilya rolled onto his back. Shane shifted beside him and threw one arm over his eyes, half hiding his face.

Ilya felt the change immediately. The animation that had briefly returned to him did not disappear completely, but it faded enough that Ilya noticed.

“I, um…” Shane began carefully. His voice was smaller now. “I need to shower.”

Ilya hummed automatically.

“Yes, I know.”

Because that part was normal. Shane had always showered after sex. Shane's throat rippled as he swallowed.

“I know it’s selfish to ask, but…” He paused. His arm stayed draped across his eyes. “Could you wait to leave? Until after I’m done? Please?”

Ilya shifted onto one elbow so he could look down at him.

“Why do you think I would leave?” he asked quietly.

Shane bit his lip and raised his arm to cover most of his forehead instead, revealing just enough of his eyes to peek at Ilya before looking away again.

“That’s… what we did before.”

It only took Ilya a second to understand. Before they were official. Back when Ilya would pull on his jeans and slip out the door like it meant nothing. Back when they had pretended it was casual.

Shane’s voice was careful again.

“So I just… didn’t know if it would be like that… now.”

Oh.

Ilya was pretty sure his heart was actually splintering apart inside his chest.  He reached out and brushed Shane’s cheek with the tip of one finger, gentle enough that Shane barely seemed to feel it at first.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked softly.

Shane inhaled sharply. His eyes closed again. 

“More than anyth-”

The word broke apart before he could finish it. He pressed his lips together and covered his eyes again, nodding once in a tight, jerking motion. Then he whispered it anyway.

“Please.”

Ilya rolled and folded over him immediately, nudging Shane’s arm down from his face and back to his side. His hands cradled Shane’s face as he began kissing him again, slowly and carefully. First his forehead, then the corner of one eye, then the other, then his cheek. The bow of his lips. His nose. Each kiss was soft and gentle.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ilya murmured against his skin. “Not unless you make me.”

His arms tightened slightly around Shane as he spoke.

“And even then,” he added, “I’ll just sleep in the hallway.”

Shane looked up at him then, searching his face carefully, his gaze flicking back and forth between Ilya’s eyes like he was looking for any sign that he might disappear. Ilya kissed him again.

“Go shower, moy solnyshko,” he coaxed gently. “It’s okay. When you’re done, we will talk. I will tell you all the things I have been practicing to say. I will grovel properly. I will beg you to take me back.”

Shane blinked up at him, faint confusion and hurt flickering across his expression.

“Please don’t say that,” he mumbled. His voice had gone small again. “Not if you’re just teasing me.”

Ilya’s face twisted at the thought. He leaned down and kissed him again, firmer this time.

“I’m not,” he said. “I swear it.”

Shane studied his face for another long moment before finally nodding, though he still didn’t move. It seemed like he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave the bed.

Ilya smiled sadly and brushed his lips along the side of Shane’s neck, letting them linger in the hollow beneath his ear.

“I have so much to say to you,” he murmured. “So many apologies. It will take a while, I think.”

He kissed his neck again, lighter this time.

“So, go shower. Make your skin feel like yours again. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable while I’m begging, okay?”

Shane huffed softly but nodded against the pillow. He leaned up long enough to kiss Ilya once more, brief and warm, before slipping out from under the blankets and padding toward the bathroom.

The sounds of the water pounding in a steady rush from the shower filled the room.

Ilya sat up slowly, the sheets slipping down around his waist. Then he reached for the mini fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and drank half of it in one long pull.

As he drank, his eyes drifted around the room without really intending to focus on anything. The dim lamp by the bed, the rumpled sheets, the discarded clothes on the floor.

That was when he saw the notebook sitting on the far nightstand. It was simple. Black cover. Worn around the edges like it had been handled often.

Ilya frowned.

Shane had never journaled. Not once in all the years Ilya had known him. Shane processed things internally. He locked them down, carried them silently, rarely letting anyone see what was happening inside his head.

The notebook did not belong to the version of Shane he knew.

He knew he shouldn’t touch it. He knew that Shane would rightfully kick his ass if he read it. 

But the uneasy feeling that had slunk into his stomach at dinner surged back the moment he saw the journal. The same sick drop he had felt watching Shane disappear down the path to the beach.

Before he could talk himself out of it, his hand reached for the notebook.

He opened it. The first page was dated months ago. The handwriting was neat and perfect and familiar.

I am so tired.
Not sleepy. Just tired.

Ilya’s stomach tightened. He turned the page.

I don’t think I’m sad enough for anyone to notice.
I just don’t feel anything.

Another page.

It would be easier if I could just go to sleep and not wake up.
Not because I want to die, really.  Just because I don’t want to keep doing this.

Ilya’s vision blurred. He flipped faster now, the pages whispering against his shaking fingers.

The entries cataloged everything with detached, methodical honesty. The numbness. The way practices felt mechanical. The way games felt distant. The way he lay in bed at night counting hours until morning.

The way the future felt like a blank wall.

I was hoping letting him go would make him happy.
I don’t think it made anything better for me. But I guess that’s not the point.

Ilya’s breath quickened. There was an entry from Thanksgiving.

They asked me to stay the night. Ilya is supposed to come, too. With Anya.
I miss them so much but I said I had the flu. I laid in my apartment and stared at the ceiling instead.

The air in the room suddenly felt thin. His chest tightened painfully as he turned another page. Some of the writing grew heavier, the pen pressed harder into the paper. Words were scratched out and rewritten.

Sometimes I think about accidents.
Not doing anything myself. Just not avoiding things. Or hoping someone hits me so hard on the ice I snap my neck.
But then, that’s pretty fucked up, I don’t want it on youtube or something forever. So I don’t know.

Ilya clamped a hand over his mouth as nausea rolled through him. His whole body felt cold.

I am so tired.
I don’t think this gets better.
I don’t know how to be interesting enough to get him to come back or keep him. I probably wasn’t ever anyway. 

He kept turning pages. The entries grew darker. More direct.

If I go after playoffs it won’t ruin the team’s run.
If I can figure out a way that looks like an accident Mom and Dad won’t have to know.

Ilya’s stomach lurched violently. He fought back the gag in his throat. Then he reached a page that was not a paragraph at all.

It was a list. Neatly divided down the middle.

Pros
- Everyone stops being miserable because of me
- I don’t have to pretend anymore
- Hockey legacy is salvageable vs alternatives
- I don't get forced out of the league for being myself
- This fucking pain goes away

Cons
- Mom
- Dad
- Hayd & Jacks & the kids
- Ilya (if he cares)

That line was scratched out. Below it, rewritten carefully:

- Ilya (he’s better off without me already)

Ilya’s vision went watery again. He flipped to the back of the notebook. There were letters there. Drafts.

One was addressed to Yuna. One to David. One to Hayden. Another to Jackie. Each was written with the same careful restraint, each trying to soften the blow. And then there were several pages addressed to him. Lines were crossed out. Whole paragraphs were slashed through.

I’m sorry I wasn’t enough.

Scratched out.

I hope you find someone so interesting that you

Scratched out.

This isn’t your fault.

That one was underlined again and again. The final letter trailed off halfway through a sentence. Like Shane was struggling to get it right. Like something had stopped him before he finished.

Ilya’s heart was slamming hard enough that it felt like it might bruise his ribs.

He stared down at the notebook in his hands. At the list. At the calm, clinical planning. The careful, structured way Shane was reasoning it all out. 

He felt sick. Truly sick. The bile stung the back of his throat. He knew he was going to vomit any moment. He dimly realized he was crying now as silent, shaking tears spilling down his face without notice. It felt like his body was trying to purge something poisonous.

Steam crept out from under the bathroom door as the water finally shut off. A moment later the door handle turned.

Chapter End Notes

I'M SORRYYYYYYYYYY

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

CW/TW: discussion of thoughts of suicide, suicidal ideation, passive suicidal thoughts, active suicidal thoughts

Shane stepped out of the bathroom with a towel slung low around his hips and his hair still damp. Steam drifted out behind him into the room. He took a couple steps and looked up to see the tears on Ilya's face, the anguish and confusion written so plainly there. Then his eyes dropped to the open notebook in Ilya's lap. 

Shane froze.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, nothing happened. There was no rush forward to grab the journal, no denial, no flash of anger. Instead Shane let out a long, tired breath and gave the smallest nod to himself. Then he walked past the bed without hurry, pulled on a clean pair of boxers from his bag, and sat down on the far corner of the mattress. One leg folded loosely beneath him so he could face Ilya while the other stayed planted on the floor. He lowered his head and clasped his hands loosely together in his lap.

He looked like someone waiting for a sentence to be handed down.

“I’m sorry you saw all of that,” he said after a moment. “You weren’t supposed to. No one was.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes still lowered. “I, uh… decided in the shower that if you were serious about getting back together, then I needed to tell you that I’m not doing… great.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief, his chin jutting down in a silent you think? Shane winced.

“I was going to spare you the gory details,” he said. “Obviously.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Ilya blurted out, “Do you want to die?”

Shane exhaled slowly and leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting around the room as if the answer might be hidden somewhere in the furniture or shadows.

“Not exactly,” he said finally. “I don’t know.”

His voice sounded worn down in a way that made him seem a hundred years old. Ilya struggled to keep his threadbare composure. 

“Shane… are you… do you have a plan?”

His voice broke halfway through. Shane shook his head and began fidgeting with his fingers in his lap.

“Not… anything specific,” he admitted after a moment. “Not logistics or anything like that. Just…” He nodded faintly toward the notebook. “Burning that, before. And… finding a way that didn’t look like I did it on purpose.”

Ilya could not speak at first. He just stared at him, reeling from the calm way Shane was describing, clashing violently with what he had read.

Who was this man? This person he loved more than anything? How was this happening? 

“H-how long have you felt like this?” he managed at last.

Shane pressed his lips together before answering.

“On and off for a long time,” he said softly. "Years, probably." 

A strangled sound escaped Ilya, half sob and half disbelief. Shane looked up then, guilt flickering across his face.

“It’s never been this bad before,” he added quickly. “And when we were together, it was hardly ever. Only when we had really bad fights, like the open relationship thing. Or if I played like shit for more than two games in a row. And even then, I just wanted to go to sleep for a long time. Not…” He trailed off, finishing the thought with a small motion of his hand.

Ilya sat there stunned. Shane had always seemed so steady, so calm, the one who held things together while Ilya was the one who spiraled.

Shane continued, still looking at his lap.

“Before we were together, it was more… vague, I guess. Like I never really expected to make it to twenty-five. Or thirty. I just figured something would probably happen to me before then.” He frowned slightly, trying to put the feeling into words. “And I wasn’t exactly upset about that. I don’t know how to explain it.”

The silence that followed felt unbearable. After a moment Shane spoke again.

“But lately, it’s just… different. Everything hurts. But it's also just... all grey and empty.” He gestured again toward the notebook. “That makes the most sense. Sometimes.”

Ilya felt like the world had tilted beneath him. A universe where Shane Hollander simply did not exist made no fucking sense at all.

“What the fuck?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why?”

Shane shrugged lightly.

“It’s just… better,” he said. He swallowed once. “I wouldn't be a burden anymore.”

Ilya stared at him in horror. “A burden?” he repeated.

“My parents would be sad,” Shane conceded. “But I’ve set things up. Trusts. Investments. They’d be taken care of. Forever. So, all the effort they poured into me and my career isn't wasted.” His voice stayed calm, almost analytical. “And if I did it right, they’d think it was an accident.”

The air left Ilya’s lungs.

“They wouldn’t have to know,” Shane finished.

There it was. The logic. The careful, surgical thinking. Ilya recoiled as if the words had struck him.

“It’s better for your parents?” he demanded.

Shane exhaled slowly through his nose.

“They’d adjust.”

Ilya’s voice rose, breaking.

“You are their only child.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, as his mouth curved faintly in a sad, resigned smile, “but they like you more than they like me.”

The absurdity of it all hit Ilya at once. The distortion of Shane’s logic, the certainty in his voice, the calm way he was describing his own disappearance from the world as if it were a reasonable contingency plan. It made Ilya feel like he’d actually, literally lost his mind. Maybe he’d misplaced his brain somewhere and this was… what the fuck was this? 

He dragged a shaking hand down his face and whispered hoarsely, “This is not real. This is not happening.”

Something inside him snapped. For a split second the grief twisted into fury. Sharp, hot, desperate. He wanted Shane to react. To flinch. To fight back or yell or push him away. Anything except this composed, resigned calm. The anger spilled out of him before he could stop it.

“Dying is preferable to what?” Ilya demanded, his voice rising and shaking. “To being out? To people knowing you’re gay? Seriously?  You’d rather be dead than uncomfortable?” 

Shane winced slightly. Ilya’s chest was heaving again. 

“I never knew how cowardly you were,” he spat, desperate to provoke a reaction.

But Shane didn’t even bristle. He didn’t argue or snap back. He simply nodded once, slowly and deliberately.

“Dying is preferable to… losing you,” he said sullenly.

Ilya balked at him, completely thrown.

“What?”

“I should have explained this a year ago,” he murmured. “I didn’t have the words.” He rubbed a hand over his face before continuing. “I said no to your plan because I knew I was going to lose you either way.”

Ilya stared at him, stunned. Shane kept talking, his voice steady in that same careful, terrifyingly rational tone.

“Either we stick to my plan. You hate it. You resent it. I make you miserable. You leave.” He gave a small shrug. “Which… is what happened.”

Ilya opened his mouth to protest, but Shane continued before he could speak.

“Or we do yours. I lose my career. Then I lose you.”

“That’s not- ”

“Or,” Shane pressed on calmly, “we do yours and I retire early. Leave on my own terms. And I still lose you.”

Ilya’s brain could not keep up with the shape of the logic.

“I don’t fucking care about hockey!” he burst out. “I just want you. Why the fuck does me staying hinge on you being in the fucking MHL?”

Shane looked at him like the question genuinely confused him.

“Because I’m boring,” he said simply. “Hockey is the only interesting thing about me. It’s the only thing I have to offer you.”

He gestured vaguely between them.

“If I don’t have that, then… we still end up here.”

Ilya felt like he was losing his mind. He scrabbled for any semblance of sense or logic.

“Your original plan included retirement?”

Shane nodded.

“I thought… if I stocked up on another ten years of playing together, if I waited until we were both old and tired...” He swallowed hard. “By then you’d want to be boring with me. For a little while at least.”

The vulnerability in the words was devastating.

“I’d get to keep you a bit longer. Before you got sick of me. Or maybe coaching, or commentating, or… something would be fine enough.”

Ilya wanted to scream. Instead Shane continued speaking, as if he were calmly explaining the most logical conclusion in the world.

“But if I did this,” he said softly, nodding toward the notebook again, “I already lost you. But I don’t tank my career. I don’t waste everything my parents worked for. I just…”

He lifted one hand and made a small absent motion in the air, like something drifting out of reach. He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Ilya moved before he realized he had decided to.

One moment he was sitting with his back against the headboard and the next he was shuffling on his knees across the mattress, tangled in the sheets as he moved toward Shane. He stopped directly in front of him and reached out, grabbing Shane’s face in both hands, forcing him to look at him.

“For someone who is so fucking smart, you are being so impossibly stupid right now,” Ilya said, his voice breaking under the strain of it.

Shane blinked at him.

“You think I fell in love with you because you skate fast?” Ilya demanded, the words spilling out before he could slow them down. “You think I stayed because all the cups you won? You think I lay awake at night counting how many points you scored?”

Something in Shane’s composure flickered.

“I love you because you make tea exactly the same way every night,” Ilya continued, the words tumbling over each other now. “Because you line up your shoes by the door. Because you hum under your breath when you’re concentrating.”

His voice cracked open in the middle of it.

“I love you because you are steady. Because you are kind. Because you hold babies like they’re tiny maharajas and you’re their personal butler.”

Shane’s jaw trembled.

“Nothing about you is boring,” Ilya pressed, his hands tightening around Shane’s face. “You are the least boring person I have ever met.”

Shane shook his head.

“You’ve told me you think I’m boring like every five minutes since 2009.”

Ilya felt something inside him collapse all at once.

Every joke. Every eye roll. Every God, you’re so boring, Hollander.

Every time he had leaned into it because it was funny. Because it was easy. Because it had become their thing.

Shane continued speaking, his voice almost gentle.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I didn’t mind. I know what I am.”

Ilya opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He could see it now through a completely different lens. All those years. Shane laughing along. Shane taking it. Shane absorbing it. Ilya had meant it affectionately. Teasing. Banter.

But depression did not filter irony. Depression collected evidence and then used it to confirm the worst.

“I didn’t-” Ilya started, hating how thin and fragile his voice sounded.

Shane shrugged again.

“It’s okay.”

There was no bitterness in it. That was what made it unbearable.

“I know I’m not… exciting,” Shane said quietly. “You are. You light up rooms. You talk to everyone. You make people feel things.” He gestured vaguely toward himself. “I play hockey. I go home. I go to bed.”

The silence that followed pressed in around them. Ilya felt physically sick again. He tightened his grip on Shane’s face.

“I was joking,” Ilya breathed.

Shane gave him a small, tired look. Because of course he knew it had been a joke. That did not mean it had not landed somewhere deeper. Ilya dragged a hand down his face.

“I thought it was harmless. I thought you knew I was... that I am obsessed with you.”

Shane’s brow creased faintly at that.

“I thought you knew that when I called you boring, what I meant was steady,” Ilya continued. “What I meant was safe. What I meant was the only place I ever felt cherished.”

His voice cracked slightly. Shane’s eyes were glistening now.

“I teased you because you are the opposite of me,” Ilya said. “Because you are disciplined where I am reckless. Because you're so careful and methodical about everything and I'm not."

Ilya's throat worked as he swallowed roughly around fresh sobs threatening to tear free.

“You built this whole narrative where I was going to outgrow you,” Ilya said softly. “And I didn’t even know I was feeding it.”

Shane’s shoulders trembled faintly.

“I could never, ever outgrow you,” Ilya whispered.

Shane looked at him then, really looked at him, like he was trying to recalibrate something he had believed for a very long time.

“I didn’t fuck up our plan because you were boring,” Ilya said firmly. “I fucked everything up because I thought you didn’t want to choose me. And because I’m a fucking idiot.”

Shane inhaled sharply.

“I was unhappy, yes,” Ilya continued haltingly. “But not because of you. You do not bore me or make me miserable. The things I said that night had everything to do with me and nothing to do with you. I hate myself for putting all these thoughts in your head, solnyshko. It has been agony not knowing how to fix it. ”

Shane’s breath broke and he made the smallest whimper. Ilya leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together.

“And I am furious,” he added quietly, “that you were alone. Because I pushed you away.”

That was the moment Shane finally collapsed. The steady, rational mask dissolved.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he choked out.

“I don’t care,” Ilya said instantly. “I want you alive. And you do not get to decide I would be better off without you.”

His voice softened to a whisper.

“You are my home, Shane. The only one that has ever, ever mattered.”

Shane broke at that. Not explosively, not dramatically. He grabbed onto Ilya’s arms like someone afraid of drifting away. At first it was only shaking. His hands fisted against Ilya’s skin, his breath hitching as he tried to swallow it down the way he always did.

And then he shattered.

The sound that came out of him was raw and unfamiliar, torn straight from his chest. A sob that sounded almost confused, like he had not known he was capable of making it.

His whole body folded forward and Ilya caught him immediately, wrapping both arms around him. Shane clung to him. He cried like someone who had been holding it in for months and had forgotten how to stop.

It took a long time.

He sobbed until he was gasping for breath, until his body shook so hard Ilya had to steady him, until he buried his face in Ilya’s shoulder and soaked the skin there with tears.

Ilya cried, too.

Because this was what the numbness had been covering. Because he had almost lost him.

“I’m sorry,” Shane choked out at one point. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Ilya whispered, stroking his damp hair.

“For not being enough,” Shane sobbed.

Ilya’s heart fractured.

“You were always enough,” he said immediately. “You are the only thing that matters.”

Shane shook his head weakly, still crying. “I couldn’t give you what you wanted.”

“I wasn’t being fair,” Ilya interrupted. "And I am so, so unbelievably sorry. More than I can put into words." 

Shane stilled slightly.

“I tried to force you into something you weren’t ready for,” Ilya continued. “I was frustrated and angry about other things. I took it out on you. I made everything feel like a deadline. Like a test.”

Shane’s breathing stuttered.

“I thought you were ashamed of me,” Ilya admitted quietly.

That was the root of it. Shane pulled back just enough to look at him through swollen, red eyes.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Never.”

“I know that now,” Ilya said. “But I couldn't see it then.”

He cupped Shane’s face gently with one hand.

“I had no idea that in your head, being public meant losing me either way. And I had no idea what I was asking would put you in danger. With the league, with your stupid fucking team.”

Shane’s expression twisted.

“I thought you were just choosing hockey over me,” Ilya continued. “And I panicked.”

He pulled him closer again.

“I didn’t realize you thought you were going to lose everything either way.”

Shane closed his eyes again, but this time it was not numbness. It was relief bleeding slowly through the cracks.

“I wasn’t ready,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

Shane’s shoulders trembled again, but the sobs had softened now, worn down by exhaustion.

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” he murmured.

“I could never hate you,” Ilya said fiercely. “And I don’t care if you retire tomorrow. Or in ten years. Or never.” He pulled back just enough to look at him clearly. “I care that you are alive. And mine.”

Shane’s breathing slowed gradually as the storm drained out of him inch by inch. He looked exhausted now, wrung dry, but not hollow.

“I don’t want to die,” he admitted after a long silence.

The honesty of it made Ilya cry again.

“Good,” he whispered. “That’s good, baby.”

“I just don’t want to keep feeling like… that.”

“I don't want you to either,” Ilya said gently. “And that part we can fix. That is treatable.” He brushed his thumb carefully beneath Shane’s eye. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like that.”

Shane let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“That was not my best solution.”

“No,” Ilya agreed softly. “It was not.” He rested his forehead lightly against Shane’s. “But you have been exhausted and ill and alone inside your head. But I’m here now. Okay?”

Shane nodded against his shoulder and sniffed quietly.

They sat there on the bed for a long time after the crying stopped.

Neither of them moved at first. Shane rested limp against him, drained, his eyes swollen and his breathing shallow but steady. Ilya kept one arm wrapped tightly around him and carded his other hand through Shane’s hair in a steady, soothing rhythm. 

Eventually, Ilya shifted slightly and murmured, gentle but firm, “Come on. Up.”

Shane didn't argue. He let Ilya pull him to his feet and guide him toward the bathroom like he trusted him more than his own balance. When they reached the tub, Ilya nudged him down onto the edge.

“Sit,” he said softly.

Shane obeyed. Ilya turned on the shower and tested the water with his hand, adjusting the temperature until the stream ran warm and steady. Behind him Shane spoke hesitantly.

“I already showered?”

Ilya glanced back over his shoulder and gave him a small, sheepish smile. 

“Too bad. Indulge me.”

Shane huffed the tiniest laugh through his nose. There was something fragile in the way he watched Ilya move around the small hotel bathroom, like he was still not entirely convinced he was allowed to be taken care of this way.

Ilya stepped into the shower first and adjusted the temperature one more time, then turned and held out his hand.

“Come here, moy malysh.”

Shane took it.

The water ran over both of them, warm and steady and loud enough to muffle the outside world. Ilya did everything. He washed Shane’s hair with slow, careful fingers against his scalp, rinsed the salt and dried tears from his skin, and kept one hand on him the entire time. 

Shane leaned into it with his eyes closed. Not numb now, only exhausted.

At one point he murmured quietly, “You don’t have to.”

Ilya did not even look up from rinsing the shampoo from his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said calmly. “But I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Shane gave a weak, almost embarrassed huff. 

“I guess I’ve earned that.”

Ilya stilled immediately and reached to tilt Shane’s chin toward him.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not punishment.”

Shane blinked at him.

“It’s selfish,” Ilya continued more quietly. “I’m not letting you out of my sight because if I can’t see you, I’m going to have a panic attack.”

Shane winced faintly with guilt.

“And,” Ilya added, his voice softening, “because I have missed you so much it has felt like I cannot breathe. Like you took my lungs with you and kept them.”

Shane’s expression twisted again. He stepped forward and buried his face against Ilya’s neck the way he used to, his arms tightening around Ilya’s waist as if blindly seeking the same place his body already remembered.

Ilya wrapped him up without hesitation.

He felt the familiar way Shane fit against him, the shape of him, the warmth of him, and the lingering terror of how close he had come to losing it all.

They stood like that under the water for a long time.

Afterward Ilya dried him off first, rubbing the towel gently through his hair before handing him a soft T shirt. He steered him back toward the bed and picked up the hotel phone without asking what Shane wanted.

Sandwiches. Fruit. Something bland and simple.

Shane tried to protest once.

“I’m not hungry.”

Ilya gave him a look.

“You’re eating.”

There was no room for debate, but his tone stayed gentle.

While they waited he turned on the television and left it playing something mindless, sports highlights cycling quietly in the background so the room did not feel so silent. When the food arrived he made sure Shane ate at least a little before clearing the tray aside.

Only then did he pull the blankets back and guide Shane into the bed.

Ilya climbed in behind him, wrapping one arm firmly around his middle and tucking the other beneath Shane’s head so it rested on his bicep. Shane shifted closer automatically, the movement instinctive, like muscle memory returning.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“I love you,” Ilya replied simply.

Shane turned his head slightly on the pillow.

“I love you, too.”

Ilya kept his hand splayed over Shane’s chest, feeling each breath rise and fall beneath his palm, counting them silently and making sure they kept coming. He didn’t really sleep.

But for the first time in over a year, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Chapter End Notes

listen, ilya's not off the hook just yet. my boy has a LOT of groveling and reaffirming and reassuring he still needs to do, but like, clear and present is the suicidal ideation. in real life, you can't just fix everything with one, flawless perfect conversation. we gotta make some baby steps.

but dw, he's gonna fix what he broke i promise lol. BUT we have turned a corner! more fluff and reconciliation inbound as well as like, slight angst re: healing not being linear etc but. Shane's not alone in his pain and suffering anymore <3

also, my first draft of this was MUCH darker. like, shane had already made up his mind and had a timeline and was much more resistant to ilya reconciling, etc. then i started writing this and it made more sense for him still be like, abstract about it, but starting to lay practical groundwork because he's... him. you get me? i like this version better tbh

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Ilya blinked awake slowly, the room still dim with early morning light leaking around the edges of the curtains. For a moment he didn’t move as his mind caught up to the shape of the world again, to the warmth curled against him under the blankets.

Shane was in his arms.

The realization settled over him in a rush of relief. Ilya made a warm and satisfied groan in the back of his throat, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of Shane’s shoulder where it rested beneath his chin.

Shane was already awake. Ilya knew it immediately from the way Shane lazily bumped one ankle against his where their feet were tangled together under the sheet. He hummed at the kiss, still half buried in sleep. 

“Morning,” he murmured over his shoulder.

Before Ilya could answer, Shane stretched luxuriously.

It was a slow and catlike movement that rolled through his body from shoulders to toes. He arched his back, pressing his ass very deliciously but very briefly back against Ilya’s crotch in a way that made Ilya’s breath hitch before he could stop it.

But Shane was already moving again before Ilya could do anything about it. He rolled over in his arms, burrowing until his face was tucked comfortably beneath Ilya’s jaw, his arms sliding around Ilya’s middle. Shane hummed again, a soft, pleased sound that vibrated faintly against Ilya’s chest.

Ilya tightened his arms around him instinctively, pulling him closer and nuzzling his nose gently into Shane’s hair, soaking everything in. The heat of his skin, the solid weight of him, the even rhythm of his breathing. For a moment he just basked in it, letting himself feel it fully.

Shane shifted slightly against him and murmured into his collarbone, his voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Missed this.”

Ilya kissed the top of his head.

“Me too, angel.” 

They stayed tangled together for a long time after that. Neither of them seemed in a hurry to move. The morning light crept a little further across the room while they lay wrapped around each other under the blankets, drifting in and out of that soft, hazy space between sleep and wakefulness.

Ilya’s hand moved lazily up and down Shane’s back, fingers tracing slow, absent circles over his skin. Shane responded in kind, his thumb brushing lightly over one of Ilya’s ribs where his arm was draped around him, the motion slow and rhythmic, like he was still half dreaming.

“Did you want to get breakfast downstairs?” Shane asked after a long stretch of silence.

Ilya shook his head, even though Shane couldn’t see it, his chin still resting lightly on Shane’s hair.

“I was going to order something again,” he said.

Shane nodded in approval and nuzzled closer. They lay there another moment before Ilya’s mouth curved against Shane’s hair.

“I was thinking,” Ilya began, his tone light and playful, “about feeding you strawberries and whipped cream in bed.”

Shane chuckled where his face was tucked against Ilya’s chest. Ilya waited, expecting the usual comment about sugar or conditioning or one of the thousand little diet rules Shane normally followed without fail. Instead, Shane cracked one eye open and tilted his head slightly.

“As in… you want me to lick the whipped cream off your fingers or…?” he asked.

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up in delighted surprise.

“As opposed to… off of something else, Shane?” 

Shane pulled back to look at him with a tiny, wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he gave a theatrically coy and suggestive shrug.

Ilya laughed and squeezed him tighter, leaning down to pepper the side of Shane’s face with a dozen quick kisses. Then he rocked them gently side to side under the blankets, warm and playful.

“You little pervert,” he murmured fondly. “But that is a much better idea.” He pressed one more kiss near Shane’s temple. “Yes, absolutely that. Please?”

A little while later they were back in bed, sprawled comfortably in the warm, lazy aftermath of breakfast and the quick shower they had taken together to rinse off the sticky remnants of strawberries and whipped cream. 

Ilya lay stretched across Shane’s chest, while Shane leaned back against the headboard with one leg bent under the blankets. One hand scrolled idly on his phone while the other moved slowly through Ilya’s still-damp hair, fingers combing and lifting the strands as they dried.

After a moment Shane murmured, “There’s that media thing at ten.”

Ilya’s arms tightened around him immediately.

“No.”

Shane blinked down at him.

“Ilya, we have to."

“No,” Ilya repeated more firmly, pushing himself up onto one elbow so he could look at him properly, his hair a complete mess now from Shane’s hands.

“You’re staying right here. With me.”

Shane gave him a small, tired look, the kind that suggested he was already halfway preparing an argument.

“I can’t just skip All-Star obligations.”

“Yes,” Ilya said calmly. “You can.”

“It’ll look-”

“I do not care how it looks.”

Shane exhaled softly like he was about to push back again. But before he could, Ilya reached for him and tugged him down gently until he was lying flat against the mattress. Then Ilya shifted over him, bracing himself with one knee on either side of Shane’s hips and his hands planted on the bed near Shane’s shoulders. The sudden closeness made Shane go still and pliant beneath him.

Ilya leaned down and kissed him, slow and deliberate and indulgent.  When he pulled back their foreheads rested together.

“We are not moving from this bed,” Ilya said, “until we have a plan that involves therapy, and maybe a doctor and medicine, and you not being alone in your own head anymore.”

Shane’s eyes flickered, and Ilya saw the emotions move within them in quick succession. Fear first, then vulnerability, and finally, underneath was relief. 

“I cannot lose you,” Ilya went on, his voice roughening. “And I cannot think about interviews or sponsors or hockey or anything else until we make a plan where I get to keep you.”

Shane searched his face for a long moment.

“Forever,” Ilya finished quietly.

Shane’s expression shifted as the defensive tension he had been holding onto loosened just a little, though he still tried one last faint protest.

“It can’t wait until we get home? Or at least until tonight?”

“No,” Ilya said immediately. “It can’t.”

He lifted one hand and cupped Shane’s chin gently.

“All-Star weekend will survive one morning without the two of us,” he added, his voice softening. “I will not survive you dying on me.”

That did it. Shane’s body relaxed completely under him. Not defeated so much as yielding, and after a second he gave a small nod.

“Okay. We’ll stay here and make a plan. Together.” 

Ilya lowered himself carefully and wrapped both arms around Shane again, pulling him close.

“Okay,” he echoed quietly.

They lay side by side on the bed, knees touching, the sunlight spilling too brightly across the sheets but neither of them making any move to close the curtains. 

Ilya was the one who said it first.

“You’re not finishing the season.”

Shane’s jaw tightened automatically. “I can’t just stop in the middle of the season. ”

“You can,” Ilya said evenly. “Medical leave.”

Shane went quiet, not defensive this time, just thinking it through, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling as the idea settled into place. Ilya watched the calculations move behind his eyes.

“I’m not saying retire,” Ilya added quickly, his voice softer now. “I’m saying you are sick and you need to heal.”

Shane opened his mouth like he was about to argue. Ilya beat him to it. 

“You would not play through a bad concussion. You would not skate on a broken leg. This is worse,” he said gently. 

Shane exhaled slowly. After a moment, he nodded, small and careful.

“Okay.”

Ilya did not let the pause linger long enough for doubt to creep back in.

“We go home to Ottawa,” he said. “We move in with your parents temporarily. Or they can move into my house for a while.”

Shane’s brows knit together immediately.

“You don’t have to -”

“I need to,” Ilya interrupted. “I need other people around or I will not sleep.”

Shane stilled.

“I will sit there and watch you breathe every second,” Ilya admitted quietly. “I already almost did last night.”

Guilt flickered across Shane’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For… that.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “That can’t have been easy for you… with everything with your mom. I’m sorry for any bad memories I brought up.”

There it was, the shadow they had both avoided naming outright until now.

“I didn’t mean to—”

Ilya leaned forward and kissed him before he could finish, not to silence him but to soothe him, their mouths brushing gently together.

“Just stay,” Ilya whispered against his lips. “That’s it. Just stay with me.”

Shane’s hand slid slowly up his chest, and after a moment, he nodded again. Then, a second later, his brow furrowed as another thought surfaced.

“You’re not taking leave because of me.”

Ilya did not hesitate.

“Yes, I am.”

“You don’t have to give up your season, too.”

“I am not giving up anything,” Ilya said firmly. “I am prioritizing.”

Shane shifted slightly beside him, discomfort flickering across his face, and Ilya studied him for a moment before speaking again.

“Shane. If you had cancer, we would be doing exactly this.”

Shane blinked at him, startled. 

“If you were starting chemo tomorrow,” Ilya continued calmly, “we would move in with your parents. We would take leave. We would build a schedule around your treatment.”

He brushed his knuckles lightly down Shane’s cheek.

“This is the same. More or less.”

Shane swallowed slowly as the logic settled.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he said quietly.

“You are not a burden,” Ilya replied. “You are the best part of my whole life, moy lyubimyy.”

He leaned forward until their foreheads rested together again.

“Today, we will email Farah and set up a call with her for a few days from now to talk about leave,” he continued. “We look for a doctor, if you would rather not see Montreal’s or Ottawa’s team ones. We look up therapists.”

Shane’s breathing picked up slightly at that.

“I don’t want to use the team ones,” he admitted in a rush. “Especially Montreal’s.”

“Then you will not,” Ilya said at once. “We will find someone else.”

Shane lay there thinking for a long moment before finally answering.

“Okay.”

He brushed a thumb lightly across Shane’s cheek.

“Then we spend the spring and summer focusing on you getting better,” he said. “And me too. And spoiling Anya. Maybe we can also try hobbies that aren’t hockey or hockey-related. Together.”

Shane smiled faintly, though Ilya could see the uncertainty flicker behind it. The idea of stepping away from hockey, even temporarily, still scared him.

So Ilya added gently, “For the record, I would watch paint dry with you.”

Shane snorted and laughed softly.

“Bullshit,” he said. “You’d be angling for a blowjob within ninety seconds.”

Ilya pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side, caught. They both laughed together, soft and low. 

Then they lay there quietly for a minute, just close together while the new plan settled slowly around them, fragile and uncertain but theirs. Together.

Ilya eventually reached up and cupped Shane’s face in both hands, holding it carefully like something impossibly valuable. He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Shane blinked up at him, confused.

“For what?”

“For letting me in,” Ilya said. “And letting me help.”

Shane nodded once, still looking a little dazed, still adjusting to the idea that he did not have to carry everything alone. Ilya leaned down again and kissed him, slow and warm.

“I know this is hard,” he whispered against his mouth. “I’m proud of you.”

Shane froze at that. Actually froze. His eyes widened slightly as he searched Ilya’s face like he was trying to figure out if he had misheard.

“Proud?” he murmured incredulously.

Ilya smiled gently.

“I am, my love. You are being very, very brave right now.”

Shane shook his head automatically. “I don’t feel brave. At all.”

“I know. But you are.” Ilya leaned forward until their foreheads touched again. “You decided you want to stay. You told me everything. And you agreed to everything I just suggested, even though you are scared and unsure. That is very brave, moy lev.”

Shane’s brow puckered as he searched for the English word. 

“Lion?” 

Ilya grinned at him and nodded.  Shane’s throat worked as the rest sank in. No one had ever framed it that way for him before.

Ilya’s composure wavered then, just slightly. He lowered his face into the curve of Shane’s neck and hid there for a moment, his breath warm against Shane’s skin. He pressed a small kiss to the side of his throat. Then another along his jaw.

“I love you,” he murmured quietly. Another kiss. “I love that you have not given up.” His voice caught on that one. “I love that you’re here with me.”

Shane’s hands slid automatically up his back, pulling him closer.

“You are not a burden,” Ilya whispered fiercely against his ear. Another kiss. “You are not boring.” Another. “And you are not allowed to disappear on me.”

Shane swallowed hard. 

“I won’t go anywhere,” he said, voice thick. “And I love you, too.” 

“Good,” Ilya murmured, before pressing one more kiss just below Shane’s ear.

After a long pause, Shane cleared his throat.

“What about the All-Star game tomorrow night?”

Ilya studied his face. The exhaustion was still there, and the vulnerability, but there was something else now, too. A flicker. A small, cautious spark.

He weighed it carefully. If they bowed out at the last minute, the questions and headlines and sudden vacuum of purpose might send Shane spiraling right back inward, into the retreat and the shame and the hiding. Ilya didn't want that. And he didn't want to infantilize him either. Ilya brushed his thumb lightly along Shane’s furrowed eyebrows.

“I think…” he said slowly, thinking it through even as he spoke, “it should be okay.”

Shane’s eyes sharpened at once.

“Do you want to play?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded immediately, eager and quick.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “With you, especially.”

Something warm and bright flared in Ilya’s chest. Shane bit his lip, looking almost shy.

“It’s… one thing I was actually looking forward to,” he admitted. “While everything was… empty.”

The honesty of that pulled Ilya down into a kiss like gravity. Deep. Slow. Savoring. Right before it would usually tip into something filthy, Ilya pulled back and rested their foreheads together again.

“Okay,” he said softly, a little breathless. “Then we’ll play.”

Shane exhaled as relief visibly washed through him.

“If…” Ilya added lightly.

Shane blinked. “If?”

Ilya’s mouth curved into the faintest smirk. “If you say you forgive me.”

Shane’s brows lifted.

“For forcing you to a cliff’s edge,” Ilya continued, serious now, “and then lashing out and pushing you away when you couldn’t jump.”

Shane opened his mouth to interrupt, but Ilya pressed on, his voice soft and steady.

“And you say you take me back.”

There was a brief beat of silence. Then Shane laughed. He leaned forward and kissed Ilya, warm and certain, and when he pulled back his eyes were brighter than they had been in weeks.

“I forgive you,” he said quietly. “And I never stopped wanting you.”

He brushed his nose lightly against Ilya’s.

“And yes,” he added more softly, “I’ll take you back.”

Ilya’s grin was wide and unguarded.

“Good,” he murmured. He smoothed a hand down Shane’s arm, casual and almost absentminded.

“What time is practice?” he asked.

He already knew the answer. But he also knew that the structure, the recitation, the specifics soothed Shane in a very particular way. 

Shane answered immediately.

“Three. More media at two-thirty. Charter bus leaves at two.”

His voice sounded steadier as he listed it. Ilya hummed thoughtfully, like he was doing the math.

“So we have… four-ish hours?”

Shane nodded.

“Four hours and twenty minutes,” he corrected automatically.

The precision of his answer made Ilya smile indulgently. 

“Good.”

He shifted closer, sliding a leg between Shane’s and bracing himself over him again, but this time there was warmth in it, something playful and intent.

“Then let me kiss you until I can’t breathe,” he murmured against his mouth. “And hold you. And do a great many other things to you.”

Shane giggled. The sound was light and boyish and so alive that Ilya felt a small ache in his chest. He kissed him slowly at first, one hand tangled gently in Shane’s hair while the other rested warm at his waist. The kisses deepened gradually, soft and unhurried, laughter slipping between them when their noses bumped.

Ilya’s mouth traced along Shane’s jaw, down the curve of his neck, while his hand moved over Shane’s ribs and up his chest again in a slow, familiar rhythm.

“Do you have any idea,” Ilya murmured against his mouth, voice low, “how much I love you?”

Shane nodded automatically, his breath already uneven, his eyes half-lidded in that soft, dazed way whenever Ilya began taking him apart.

“Mmm,” Ilya hummed quietly. “I have not done a good job showing you." 

He kissed Shane’s jaw again, then his throat, then the slope of his shoulder. Everywhere he could reach. Slow. Deliberate. Devoted.

“I love you,” he murmured against his collarbone. “I have always loved you.” Another kiss along the curve of his neck. “No one else ever came close.”

His hand slid into Shane’s hair again, tilting his head back gently so he could kiss him properly, slow and consuming.

“This past year was awful,” he confessed softly between kisses. “I missed you so much I couldn’t stand it.”

Shane made a small, helpless sound. Ilya kissed him again before he could speak.

“I didn’t know how to get you back,” he admitted. His mouth drifted lower again, warm and intent, lips brushing over skin like he was trying to erase every lingering doubt.

“But I never stopped wanting you.”

His hands moved over Shane’s body with certainty, reminding him what it felt like to be wanted without question.

“You are it for me,” he murmured. “You have always been."

Shane’s fingers tightened in his hair, his breath coming in quick pants now. Alive. Ilya shifted back up and kissed him deeply again, swallowing the small sounds Shane made.

“I should have fought for you better,” he murmured against his lips. “But I am here now.”

Another kiss. “And I am not letting you go.”

Shane pulled him down fully then, kissing him back with real heat. When they finally paused for air, faces inches apart, Ilya brushed his thumb gently along Shane’s cheek.

“I love you,” he said again, softer this time.

Shane was breathing hard when they stilled, undone in the best way. His hands slid up to frame Ilya’s face the same way Ilya had held his earlier.

“I love you too,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Ilya let out a slow breath and dropped his forehead against Shane’s shoulder in relief.

Shane felt different the moment he stepped onto the ice.

His blades bit in cleanly as he pushed off, the scrape and glide sending a familiar rush through his body. The arena hummed around him, the crowd already loud with anticipation, and the rhythm of warmups unfolded the way it always did: pucks snapping against boards, sticks tapping the ice, the easy choreography of players circling and stretching into the game.

For a second, a flicker of the night before passed through his mind. Then Ilya bumped his shoulder lightly as he skated by.

“Try and keep up with me,” he called, smirking. 

Shane scoffed and rolled his eyes, making Ilya laugh. 

The game itself was loose and theatrical in the way All-Star games always were, full of trick shots and showboating and exaggerated celebrations for the cameras. Players tried ridiculous things they would never risk in a real game, the crowd cheering louder for creativity than for structure.

Midway through the second period, Shane found himself near the boards with the puck. The arena buzzed in anticipation.

He paused for a fraction of a second, then he faked a pass, spun away from the defender, and flicked the puck behind the net with a quick backhand that banked off the boards and slipped in at an impossible angle.

For half a heartbeat the building fell silent. Then the place exploded.

Teammates swarmed him immediately, shouting and laughing, gloves smacking his helmet as they skated past. Shane barely had time to steady himself before Ilya came barreling toward him across the ice with that wild, feral grin.

He wrapped Shane up in a huge hug, lifting him briefly off his skates and spinning him once for the crowd. Then, loudly and theatrically, he planted an exaggerated smacking kiss on Shane’s cheek.

“Genius!” he whooped.

The entire rink erupted with howls of laughter.

“Get a room!” someone yelled.

Everyone assumed it was just Rozanov being Rozanov, the usual stupid theatrics he pulled whenever the cameras were on him.

Shane’s face went bright red. He shoved at Ilya’s chest, laughing helplessly. 

“Idiot,” he muttered, though the smile stretching across his face was so wide it almost hurt.

Ilya skated backward in front of him, still grinning. And Shane did not retreat. He did not shrink away from the attention or duck his head the way he might have a few weeks earlier.

He was glowing.

For the rest of the game he played loose and sharp and confident, chirping back at the other guys, laughing openly on the bench, tapping Hayden’s stick in passing without even thinking about it. The tension that had shadowed him for months seemed to have loosened its grip, leaving him present in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

When the final buzzer sounded and they ended up shoulder to shoulder again near center ice, Ilya leaned close enough that only Shane could hear him.

“There you are,” he murmured.

Shane bumped him lightly in response, the corner of his mouth lifting.

The locker room afterward was loud and chaotic in the best way, buzzing with celebration. Music blasted from someone’s speaker, guys shouted across stalls while half undressed, and phones were already out for selfies and videos.

Shane stood right in the middle of it. Not hovering at the edges the way he sometimes did, not smiling politely from the sidelines. Right in the middle.

Hayden was loudly recounting the trick shot to a group of players who had missed the angle, his hands flying through the air as he tried to diagram the geometry of it. Someone else exaggerated the story into something ridiculous, and Shane laughed along with them, shaking his head as the tale grew more impossible with each retelling.

Across the room Ilya paused for a moment and simply watched him.

The pride and relief that washed through him felt almost overwhelming, a warm, aching swell of affection that made his chest feel tight. Shane looked alive again, laughing with his teammates, moving easily through the noise and chaos of the room like he belonged there because he did.

Ilya felt so full of admiration and love that he thought, for a moment, he might actually burst.

When they made it to the family area afterward, Hayden was already barreling toward them again through the small crowd of relatives and staff. He didn’t even attempt to play it cool. He went straight for Shane, grabbing him in a hug that was half chokehold and half tackle.

“That’s my guy,” Hayden said loudly. “That’s the Hollander I know.”

Shane laughed and shoved at his shoulder.

“Relax.”

But when Hayden stepped back and actually looked at him, really looked, his grin shifted. His expression softened, the tension draining out of his shoulders in visible relief. Then he turned toward Ilya. There was a brief pause. Hayden had never been particularly fond of or demonstrative with him, and for a second Ilya expected the usual nod or grimace.

Instead Hayden stepped forward and pulled him into a quick, slightly awkward hug.

“I don’t know what you did,” he muttered into Ilya’s shoulder, his voice low enough that the others could not hear. “But thank you.” 

When he pulled back, he met Ilya’s eyes seriously.

“Please keep doing it.”

Ilya hugged him back without hesitation.

“That’s the plan,” he said simply. And he meant it.

Jackie said less, but the look on her face carried just as much meaning. As Shane passed her, she reached out and squeezed his hand gently, her grin wide and warm.

“I missed seeing that smile on your face,” she said softly.

Shane ducked his head a little, almost shy under the attention.

Before anyone could say anything else, the kids descended on him in a chaotic swarm. One latched onto his leg immediately while another demanded he recreate the shot in dramatic slow motion. Shane obliged without hesitation, dropping to one knee on the floor and acting it out with exaggerated flair that had them shrieking with laughter.

He was laughing too. Full-bodied. Unselfconscious.

At one point he reached for Henry and scooped him easily from Jackie’s arms, settling the baby against his chest for a moment. Then he glanced over at Ilya with a playful grin tugging at his mouth.

“Your turn.”

He passed the baby over. Ilya took Henry immediately and made an absurdly serious face at him, then another even sillier one. The baby blinked in confusion for half a second before bursting into delighted giggles. Shane watched the whole exchange and absolutely melted. 

Before Ilya could tease him for it, Sarah and Ashley suddenly appeared at his elbow.

“Hey you!” Sarah said brightly.

Ilya’s face lit up immediately. He hugged her one-armed, careful not to jostle Henry where he was perched on his hip, then leaned over to wrap Ashley in a quick squeeze as well.

“I thought you had to leave early,” he said.

“Game got pushed back,” Sarah replied. “So we’re staying one more night.”

Ilya shifted Henry higher against his side and turned to make the introductions.

“Shane, this is -” He stopped. 

Shane was already there, stepping up beside him with an easy smile.

Of course he was.

He looked relaxed in a way he had not the night before, loose and comfortable in the middle of the noise and movement around them. When Sarah and Ashley realized he was standing there, both of them straightened slightly, a flash of self-consciousness passing between them.

Shane smiled.

“Hi,” he said easily. “Sarah, right?”

She blinked. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I was rude last night,” Shane continued, wrinkling his nose. “I was a little stuck in my head.”

Sarah waved both hands immediately.

“Oh! No, it’s okay. I’m sorry I cornered you like a fan girl.”

Shane laughed. “I’ve had worse.”

Then his gaze shifted to the woman beside her.

“You must be Ashley.”

Ashley flushed instantly, color rushing up her neck as the reality of the situation hit her again. Because somehow both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had known who she was before she had even met them.

“Uh… yeah,” she managed.

Shane nodded politely. 

“Ilya says Anya and your puppy were soulmates in another life.”

That broke the tension immediately. Sarah barked out a laugh. Ashley covered her face with both hands, mortified and delighted at the same time, and Ilya snorted beside them while Henry kicked his feet happily against his ribs.

“They’re soulmates in this one too,” Sarah insisted.

Ashley shook her head, still chuckling. “Hera has never liked another dog that much in her life.”

“I’m telling you,” Ilya said, bouncing Henry slightly as the baby reached for his face. “They see each other and immediately lose their minds.”

Ashley brightened and launched into a story about the time Hera had stolen three tennis balls at once and refused to give any of them back. Sarah added another about the sock theft situation currently plaguing their laundry basket.

Shane stood there listening with a relaxed, genuine smile, occasionally asking a question about the dogs. Every now and then his eyes slid sideways toward Ilya in quick little glances he probably thought no one noticed. Each time someone laughed his gaze flicked back to him for half a second. And every time Ilya caught one of those private little looks, he felt his insides turn to goo.

Sarah brightened suddenly, like she had just remembered something.

“Oh my god, wait,” she said, already digging her phone out of her pocket. “You have to see this.”

She turned the screen toward Shane and began swiping through photos.

“They’re literally having a long-lost sister sleepover at my parents’ house right now.”

Shane leaned in slightly to see, one hand braced casually on deck railing behind Ilya’s back. On the phone screen, Hera and Anya tumbled across a carpet in a chaotic blur of paws and tails, wrestling over a stuffed toy that already looked like it had survived several wars.

Another video followed immediately: the two dogs curled together on the floor, Hera’s chin draped over Anya’s neck like they had known each other their whole lives.

Shane laughed, bright and unguarded.

“You guys really weren’t kidding.”

“They’re obsessed,” Sarah said. “My mom texted me earlier like, I think they’re plotting something.”

Ashley leaned over Sarah’s shoulder to look. “Hera dragged her favorite blanket over there.”

“That’s love,” Ilya said solemnly, bouncing Henry lightly when the baby made a grab for the phone.

Shane shook his head, smiling in that soft, amused way he got when something genuinely delighted him.

“Ilya was not exaggerating. For once.”

“Never,” Ilya said.

Shane flicked him a quick sideways glance at that, the corner of his mouth tugging upward before he looked back at the phone.

Sarah scrolled through a few more photos before finally lowering it.

“Honestly I’m just glad Hera’s burning off energy somewhere that isn’t my living room.”

“Your parents live outside the city?” Shane asked.

“Just a bit outside Ottawa,” she said. “My mom refuses to move anywhere that doesn’t have enough space for at least three dogs.”

Shane nodded thoughtfully. “Smart thinking.”

“You’re from Ottawa too, right?” Ashley asked, still sounding faintly amazed that this conversation was happening at all.

“Yeah,” Shane said easily. “Born there. Left after juniors. I’ll probably end up back there eventually.”

Ashley’s face brightened.

“Same.”

“Well, not the juniors part,” Sarah added quickly.

Shane laughed.

“How’s the Oracles season going?” he asked Ashley. “I caught a few highlights earlier this year.”

Ashley blinked again, still not entirely over the fact that two generational MHL All-Stars apparently followed the women’s league closely enough to recognize her.

“Uh… good,” she said, recovering quickly. “We’re fighting for playoff position right now.”

“She’s being modest,” Sarah cut in. “She had a twenty-three save game last week.”

Shane’s eyebrows lifted. “Twenty-three?”

Ashley shrugged, a little sheepish. “Defense had… a night.”

Shane chuckled softly. “Been there.”

They talked for a few minutes about the league, the travel schedule, and how different the arenas felt compared to the MHL circuit. Shane listened attentively, asking a few thoughtful questions about the pace of play and goalie sightlines, clearly engaged in a way that helped Ashley relax little by little.

The conversation drifted easily after that, circling back to Ottawa for a moment, to favorite restaurants that had survived the last few decades, and to how strange it was to run into people from home halfway across the continent.

Through all of it Shane stayed present, smiling easily, occasionally chiming in with a dry comment that made Sarah laugh or Ashley nod thoughtfully.

Ilya sat a little outside the circle of conversation, Henry balanced comfortably on his hip, and watched Shane.

It was strange how quickly the difference was visible once you knew where to look. Shane was still more reserved than most people in the room, still a little shy in the way he always had been, but the tightness that had wound through him all weekend had loosened. He was actually listening now, asking questions, smiling in a way that reached his eyes instead of stopping somewhere halfway there.

Ashley was explaining something about travel schedules in the women’s league, gesturing with her hands while she talked, and Shane nodded thoughtfully in a way that made her visibly relax. Sarah chimed in with a joke about trainers spending half their lives applying k-tape. Shane laughed, low and genuine, and the sound was so familiar that Ilya’s heart squeezed painfully.

This was what he was supposed to look like. Open. Present. Curious about the people around him.

Ilya had imagined this moment more than once over the past few months, introducing Shane to people who were his friends outside the bubble of their relationship and their teams. In those daydreams he usually had his arm slung casually around Shane’s waist while he said something ridiculous and unapologetic like this is my boyfriend or this is the love of my life or this is the angel in the flesh I keep telling you about.

Something proud. Something that would make Shane blush and playfully shove at his shoulder.

This was not quite that. Not yet. But it was close enough that the feeling in his chest was almost overwhelming.

Shane stood there talking to Sarah and Ashley like old friends, relaxed and easy, occasionally glancing over at Ilya like he was still orienting himself to the fact that he was standing right there beside him. Every time their eyes met, Shane’s expression softened slightly, fond and adoring.

This was good. More than good. Great, even. For a moment the swell of emotion caught Ilya so off guard he thought he might start crying again right there in the middle of everything.

Henry solved that problem by smacking him squarely on the cheek.

“Ah, yes, what can I do for you?” Ilya asked automatically, startled out of his spiral.

Henry babbled something that sounded vaguely like puppy and grabbed enthusiastically at Ilya’s face. Ilya glanced at Shane for help translating.

“Oh,” Shane said after a second, understanding dawning. “He wants more puppy pictures.”

Henry nodded with grave seriousness, twisting over his shoulder to look expectantly at Shane. Ilya laughed and turned back toward Sarah. 

“Shane is fluent in many languages,” he said. “Including Human Baby.”

“He just wants additional puppy content,” Shane added dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Oh! Wait,” Ilya said, shifting Henry on his hip as he fished his phone out one-handed. “I’ve shown you that video of Anya getting chased by geese, right?”

Sarah snorted. “What? No!”

“Yes,” Ilya said as he scrolled through his camera roll. “She thought they wanted to play with her. They did not.”

“I think that video’s on my phone actually,” Shane said, already pulling his out and finding it almost immediately.

Sarah darted a sudden glance sideways at Ilya, suspicious but delighted. There were a dozen silent but giddy interrogations in her eyes. He tried not to smile too widely back. Shane turned the screen to show her the video, laughing all over again while Ashley and Sarah leaned in to watch.

Ilya knew he and Shane had a very, very long road ahead of them with a lot of difficult conversations waiting to be had. Mostly with a lot of different people, but still several between themselves.

But right now he was watching the person he loved most in the world laugh and connect with the friends he had found. Later, he and Shane tumble into bed together. And then he would fall asleep with this miracle of a man safe and secure in his arms again. 

Chapter End Notes

90% fluff, 10% angst for this chapter lol, but we EARNED it okay???

also the only thing I did today was write this chapter and slowly eat my way through an entire box of samoas. and have my bladder stomped on by baby who is very eager to exit the womb. but i need her to chill because i need to finish this fic before i'm back in newborn land lmao

also i know fuck all re: hockey, my husband helped with the trick shot thing and said it would be impressive. he also knows fuck all re: hockey though so idk, if it seems off, just pretend it was cool and realistic lol

ETA: fixed some of the dialog bc I didn't realize how much I had Ilya just straight up talking over Shane at times lol. Oops

Also, Ilya getting a flash of cute aggression after Shane suggests whipped cream play is extremely important to me

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Shane changed his flight so he could go back to Ottawa with Ilya.

They had a call with Farah scheduled for the following morning to talk through the next steps, starting with using the next few days as personal leave before either of them spoke to their teams about not finishing the season.

At the airport, Ilya found himself slipping back into old habits without even thinking about it. He kept a careful distance in public, the way he always had before. The caution had once been necessary, back when Shane would jump out of his skin at the slightest touch, paranoid that someone might see and immediately guess their secret.

But to his surprise, Shane stayed close to his side.

Their arms brushed as they walked through the terminal. When they stood in line for coffee, Shane stood a little nearer than two “bros” usually would, their shoulders almost touching. At the gate, when Shane leaned over to murmur that he was going to the restroom, he gently squeezed the top of Ilya’s shoulder before letting his hand slide away slowly, almost reluctantly.

On the plane, he took the seat beside him and settled in close enough that their thighs pressed together.  Every time it happened, Ilya found himself smiling at him, a little stunned and a little lovesick.

Because he could see so clearly how Shane was trying. And he was not white-knuckling through it, not forcing himself into some performance just to please Ilya. The touches were relaxed and natural and small and affectionate in a way that made Ilya’s throat feel tight.

“I was thinking we could go to Montreal the day after tomorrow,” Ilya said later as they climbed into his car. “Get whatever you want. Clothes. Gear. Books. The stupid plant you refuse to throw out.”

Shane huffed softly. “It’s not stupid.”

“It’s half dead.”

“It’s resilient.”

Ilya’s mouth curved. “Ah,” he said lightly. “Just like you.”

Shane smiled a little bashfully at that and ducked his head. Ilya reached over the console, threaded their fingers together, and lifted Shane’s hand to press a kiss to the back of it.

They went straight to Ilya’s house. Anya was already there, Sarah’s parents having dropped her off not long before their plane landed. The moment the door opened she came skidding across the floor, nails clicking wildly on the hardwood.

Ilya didn’t even make it two steps inside before he dropped his suitcase by the door and crouched down with his arms wide.

“Anya!” he called.

She barreled straight into him, wiggling so hard her whole body seemed to vibrate. Happy little whines slipped out as she licked his face enthusiastically, her tail whipping back and forth like it might take flight. Ilya laughed and murmured to her in soft, babyish Russian, rubbing his hands over her back and behind her ears.

Then Anya froze mid-wiggle. Her head popped up over Ilya’s shoulder.

She spotted Shane standing a few steps behind him, closing the front door and setting Ilya’s suitcase upright against the wall.

And suddenly Ilya was nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle. Anya scrambled over him like he was an agility course ramp, clambering up his chest and down his back before launching herself at Shane.

Shane laughed, a little startled, and dropped into a crouch as she bounced around him in happy circles, trying to lick his face while simultaneously wagging every inch of her body. Within seconds she had managed to get dog hair all over his shirt.

He scrunched his nose as she landed a sloppy kiss on his cheek, but he was smiling too.

Ilya watched them, laughing, before finally reaching over to call her back.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “You are being too much.”

Eventually the chaos dimmed and they drifted deeper into the house. Ilya headed toward the kitchen, grabbing two glasses from the cabinet and filling them at the sink. He tossed a treat to Anya as well, crouching to scratch her head for a moment.

“I missed you too,” he murmured.

Then he straightened and opened the fridge and peered inside.

“I need groceries,” he said thoughtfully. “But… shrimp pasta for dinner?” He leaned down to look at a drawer. “Hmm. And maybe roasted broccoli?”

He frowned slightly, thinking it through, already about to turn around and offer to order something instead or run to the store so he could pick up whatever Shane needed for his careful, performance-season diet.

But Shane surprised him again.

He walked up behind Ilya, slipped his arms easily around his waist, and hooked his chin over Ilya’s shoulder.

“That sounds perfect,” Shane said quietly in his ear. Then he kissed Ilya’s cheek. “Thank you.”

A little while later, Shane leaned against the counter and watched Ilya cook. He had started there casually enough, one shoulder braced against the cabinets, but the longer he stood there the more obvious it became that he was not really doing anything except staring at Ilya with heart eyes.

Garlic sizzled in olive oil on the stove while tomatoes blistered slowly in the pan, their skins popping and curling. The house was filled with a warm, bright smell of basil and salt and butter.

Shane finally cleared his throat.

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Yes, actually,” Ilya said immediately, turning toward him. “I have the most important job for you. Is very serious.”

Shane hummed with mild suspicion, amused already, and stayed right where he was while Ilya stepped close and cupped his face in both hands. Before Shane could ask what the job was, Ilya leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth.

“I need you to go lay on the couch,” Ilya said solemnly, “and relax and look pretty. Do you think you can handle that?”

Shane snorted, then sucked in a thoughtful breath through his teeth and tilted his head as if considering the proposal very carefully.

“Maybe,” he said slowly. “It seems pretty intense. I might need Anya’s help.”

“Ah,” Ilya said gravely. “Yes. She is very qualified. Excellent at lounging around and being beautiful and perfect. Just like you.”

Shane laughed outright at that, shaking his head while Ilya grinned at him. He leaned in to kiss Ilya once more and then pushed away from the counter and wandered over toward the couch.

Anya lost her mind the second he sat down. Her ears perked up like someone had fired a starting pistol and she bounded across the room.

“Yes, yes, come here,” Shane laughed, bracing himself as she launched halfway into his lap.

Usually he tolerated her enthusiasm. He would pat her head, scratch behind her ears, and gently redirect her when she tried to lick his face. Tonight, though, he let her. He let her nose into his cheek. Let her paw clumsily at his chest. Let her press the full fifty pounds of herself directly on top of him.

Within seconds he had sunk back into the couch cushions, flattened beneath her weight, one hand buried deep in the thick fur of her neck. His face followed. He pressed his cheek into her coat and stayed there.

Anya melted immediately, her whole body dissolving into a loose, wiggly sprawl across him. Her eyes slid half closed, her mouth hanging open in that ridiculous dog grin she wore when she was completely blissed out.

From the kitchen, Ilya glanced over his shoulder. And stopped.

Shane was sprawled across the couch, his upper half almost entirely swallowed by fur, one hand still fisted in Anya’s coat while most of his face remained buried against her neck. There was no tension in his shoulders, no rigid set to his posture. Just boneless contentment.

He watched a second longer than he meant to. Anya made a low, contented rumble deep in her chest. Shane murmured something into her fur that Ilya couldn’t quite make out.

Then Shane shifted slightly and glanced toward the kitchen. Their eyes met. Shane didn’t move or sit up or pretend he wasn’t clinging to the dog like a weighted blanket. He just smiled softly.

“She’s heavy,” he said.

“Yes, you look very oppressed,” Ilya replied dryly.

Shane chuckled. Anya immediately licked his chin. He let her. And for once, he didn’t wipe it off right away. Ilya turned back to the stove before he could get emotional about it.

They ate dinner in the breakfast nook instead of the dining table. Ilya had no interest in sitting there again right away, not after the last disastrous conversation they had had in that house.

Forks clinked softly against plates while Anya paced hopefully between them, her paws shuffling back and forth as if persistence alone might convince a piece of pasta to fall from the sky and land directly in her mouth.

The food was simple. Garlic, olive oil, salt, the sweetness of blistered tomatoes all tangled together perfectly in a way that was deeply satisfying.

 Ilya tried very hard not to watch how much Shane ate.

He could still see the subtle changes from the past year if he looked closely enough. The way Shane had thinned out a little too much along his ribs and shoulders, and the last thing he wanted was to make eating feel like a performance or a test. So he kept his eyes mostly on his own plate, focusing on his own food instead.

About halfway through, Shane paused. He glanced down at his plate for a moment, noticing it was empty, then lifted his gaze toward the kitchen over Ilya’s shoulder.

“Is there more…” he started.

Ilya’s heart jumped straight into his throat.

“Yeah,” he said immediately, a little too fast. “Of course. Help yourself.”

Shane pushed back from the table and wandered into the kitchen without another word, scooping himself a second helping. It wasn’t a huge portion, just a little more, but Ilya still found himself staring very intently at his water glass while Shane returned to the table.

Shane sat down again and ate it all. When he finished, he leaned back slightly in his chair and sighed out a long, satisfied breath. 

“That was really good,” he said, glancing across the table. “Thank you, baby.”

Ilya snorted automatically, even as he felt heat creep into his cheeks at both the praise and the endearment.

“It was just pasta.”

“Well, it was really fucking good pasta,” Shane insisted.

He stood, stepped around the table, and leaned down to press a quick kiss to Ilya’s lips. Then, without being asked, he reached for Ilya’s empty plate.

“I’ll do the dishes.”

“You absolutely will not,” Ilya said immediately.

Shane arched one eyebrow at him. “You cooked,” he pointed out. “I’ll clean.”

Ilya hesitated. He didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to make Shane feel like he was being watched or babied every second. At the same time, if he was honest with himself, he was feeling a little clingy and not particularly interested in pretending otherwise.

“Okay,” he said finally. “But I’m supervising.”

Shane rolled his eyes, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

“Control freak.”

“Correct.”

Shane turned on the water and started rinsing the dishes. Soap bubbled under his hands while he worked, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, his hair falling slightly forward into his eyes.

It was such an ordinary sight, Shane standing at the sink and washing dishes.

Ilya drifted over and leaned against the counter behind him, settling into the same spot Shane had occupied earlier while watching him cook. For a moment, he just stood there and watched, hopelessly smitten. 

The realization that he had nearly lost this hit him suddenly. He had actually lost it for a while, even if only temporarily. And the pain of that empty year still felt like a bruise he could press on whenever he wanted to remember how much it had hurt.

Now here Shane was again, rinsing off the last of the soap, humming faintly under his breath in that unconscious way he did when he was concentrating. When Anya wandered over and started sniffing hopefully for scraps off the plates, Shane nudged her gently aside with his hip without even looking down.

Ilya swallowed hard.

“You’re staring,” Shane said without turning around.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t help it.”

Shane peeked over his shoulder at him, smiling. 

Ilya pushed off the counter and stepped forward, sliding his arms loosely around Shane’s waist from behind. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder and let his mouth linger there, resting against the fabric of Shane’s shirt.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Shane leaned back into him without hesitation.

“I love you, too.”

He rinsed the last plate, set it neatly into the dishwasher, and closed the door before starting the cycle.

They were halfway through a movie neither of them was really watching.

The lights were dimmed low, the television casting a soft glow across the living room. Anya was sprawled across both of their legs like a living blanket, and Shane had tucked himself comfortably into Ilya’s side with one arm draped across his ribs.

After a while Shane shifted slightly.

“I don’t…” he began, then stopped, clearing his throat before trying again.

Ilya hummed and glanced down at him.

“I don’t want you to worry that I’m over here thinking I’m magically cured now,” Shane said carefully. “Just because we’re back together and the last few days have been so perfect.”

There was no shame in it, no defensiveness either. Just simple clarity.

“I know I still need help. I know I need therapy. And meds. And… all of it.”

Ilya nodded immediately. He didn’t say that a small, anxious part of him had already been bracing himself to bring that conversation up if Shane didn’t. He had been prepared to gently push, if necessary, to make sure none of the pieces of their plan disappeared.

“But,” Shane added softly. He lifted his head then and looked up at Ilya, his eyes shining just enough to catch in the light. “I do feel better.”

Ilya felt his chest tighten. Shane held his gaze for a long moment before speaking again.

“I really missed you,” he said quietly, his voice dropping low enough that it was almost a whisper. “And all of this.”

His hand shifted slightly against Ilya’s chest as he spoke.

“You. Anya. Your house. Your cooking and… your hovering. Being close to you.”

Ilya let out a soft laugh at that. Shane swallowed.

“I’m sorry I threw it away once,” he said. “And then almost threw it away forever.”

Ilya didn’t let him finish the thought. He pulled him in immediately, wrapping both arms around him and holding him tight.

“You did not throw it away,” he said firmly. “At least not by yourself. I made you feel like you had to. I’m sorry.”

He pressed his face into Shane’s hair and kissed the crown of his head. Once. Twice. Then again and again again.

“I love you,” he murmured after the fifth or sixth kiss. 

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

The words slipped out half a dozen times, maybe more. Shane melted against him. He whispered the words back after each repetition. 

Later, they brushed their teeth side by side at the bathroom sink, shoulder to shoulder, trading small sleepy smiles in the mirror. Afterward, they changed into soft, worn t-shirts, the house dim and quiet around them except for the soft click of lights switching off and the sound of Anya pacing the hallway.

She had already sensed bedtime and had apparently taken it upon herself to herd them toward the bed. Shane pulled back the covers and slid in first. Then, without hesitation, he patted the space by his feet.

“Come on,” he murmured.

Anya didn’t need to be told twice. She launched herself onto the bed like she had been waiting her entire life for that exact invitation, flopping down dramatically across Shane’s legs with most of her weight draped over his shins.

Shane didn’t protest. He didn’t gently push her away or redirect her toward the absurdly plush dog bed waiting patiently in the corner. Instead, he shifted slightly so she could settle more comfortably and threaded one hand into her fur.

Ilya paused beside the bed for a moment, watching it unfold with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Shane didn’t usually love having her sleep between them. At best he tolerated it.

Still smiling faintly, Ilya climbed into bed beside him.

“You are getting soft,” he said lightly.

Shane cracked one eye open. “She’s warm.”

“Mmh. So are the blankets.”

Shane huffed out a sleepy little laugh. Between them, Anya let out a long, satisfied sigh that sounded like someone achieving enlightenment.

Just before Shane drifted off completely, Ilya spoke again, his tone casual and unhurried.

“I’m supposed to have dinner with your parents when they get back from Aruba, by the way.”

Shane snorted immediately, his eyes still closed.

“I told you you’re their favorite.”

Ilya grinned into the back of his neck.

“Only because I let your dad cook chicken parm for me every time.”

That pulled a soft, genuine laugh out of Shane.

“That’s probably true.”

For a moment the room settled back into quiet. Ilya traced slow circles along Shane’s arm, his thumb moving lazily over warm skin.

Then, more gently, he added, “We can go and tell them… everything. If you want.”

He didn’t push. He simply offered the possibility, leaving the decision up to Shane.

Shane stilled slightly, the easy warmth of the moment sobering just a little. After a second, he opened his eyes and stared at the wall as he thought it through.

Then he nodded.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I don’t want to hide this from them. If I’m going to drop out for the season, I don’t want to pretend it’s because of something else.”

Ilya leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“Okay, moy lyubimyy.”

At their feet, Anya shifted and wedged her head more firmly against Shane’s ankle with a small, contented grunt. Shane twisted slightly over his shoulder so he could face Ilya.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and emotion. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”

Ilya brushed his thumb lightly along Shane’s cheek and leaned in to kiss the spot where it had passed.

“Me too.”

Shane’s eyes closed again after that, his breathing gradually evening out. Between them Anya settled more deeply into the blankets, letting out soft, adorable snores.

Ilya lay there a little longer, listening to the steady rhythm of both of them breathing, his hand resting lightly over Shane’s chest as if to reassure himself it was real.

Eventually. sleep found him too.

And for the first time in a very long time, the house felt full again.

Chapter End Notes

a bit shorter than the other chapters but just... pure domestic fluff and bliss <3 my shaylassss

also grandma got here today to help with big kids and new baby when she arrives and WOOF ya girl needed some back up with this bowling ball in my pelvis and these adorable goblins running around

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Morning sunlight spilled softly through the kitchen windows while the coffee maker burbled on the counter. They had settled back into the breakfast nook again, mugs in hand and plates of toast and eggs mostly finished while steam curled lazily up from their coffees.

Shane had a notebook open beside his mug. He was leaning over it slightly, pen moving in careful, neat lines as he added another item to the list he had been working on since they sat down.

“I’m writing this down so I don’t forget anything,” he said at one point, not looking up.

Ilya hummed around a sip of coffee. He knew perfectly well Shane wasn’t going to forget anything. But the list wasn’t about memory. It was about order. Structure. Taking the swirl of thoughts in his head and pinning them down somewhere visible so they stopped rattling around so loudly.

Ilya watched his neat handwriting move across the page for a moment, then leaned his chin on his hand and started rattling off the list from memory.

“Discuss how to frame medical leave,” he said casually. “Timing of telling teams. Whether you or Farah should communicate with management first.”

Shane’s pen paused.

“Team doctor politics,” Ilya continued. “Optics of declining Montreal’s and Ottawa’s staff. Whether an independent psychiatrist is better or if Farah wants to coordinate through someone she knows.”

Shane finally looked up at him, eyebrow lifting slightly.

“You memorized my list?”

“I've memorized you,” Ilya corrected. That earned him a faint snort before Shane looked back down at the page.

They had already done some research while they were still in California, scrolling through lists of psychiatrists in Ottawa while tangled in bed together. They had deliberately stopped short of actually scheduling anything, though, deciding it would be smarter to talk to Farah first and get her advice on how to navigate the politics of declining team doctors.

The same logic applied to therapists.

They had found a handful that looked promising and narrowed it down to two that Shane seemed interested in trying. Now that section of the list was sitting in front of them.

Shane frowned slightly as he reread the names he had written. Ilya could practically see the gears turning.

“You can always just do the appointment,” he said gently. “If you don’t like them, we find someone else.”

Shane nodded immediately. “Yeah, I know.” He tapped the pen lightly against the notebook. “It’s just… it took me forever to decide on these two.”

Ilya hesitated. He watched Shane study the page for another moment, the tiny crease between his brows deepening just slightly.

Then he said, a little cautiously, “Or… I could ask my therapist for some recommendations.”

Shane’s pen stopped.

“You have a therapist?”

He sounded genuinely surprised. Ilya shrugged lightly.

“Yeah.”

“Since when?”

“A while.”

Shane’s brows knit together. “How long is a while?”

Ilya hesitated. “November.”

Shane nodded automatically, like he was filing the information away. Then Ilya added, a little more quietly, “Of last year.”

Shane went very still. “You were seeing a therapist before we broke up?”

“Yes.”

There was a beat of silence. Shane frowned slightly.

“Oh.”

The word wasn’t full of anger, but it was full of hurt. He looked down at the notepad again, turning the pen slowly between his fingers as he thought about it for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Ilya blinked at him. “For what?”

“For whatever I did that made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.” Shane winced and added, “and for how petulant and self-centered that sounded just now.”

Ilya shook his head immediately. “It wasn’t like that. I just… thought it would make you worry.”

Shane’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t look accusatory. If anything, he looked regretful.

“I was such an asshole to you,” Shane said softly. “Before we even had that fight about the timeline.”

“You were not.”

“I was,” Shane insisted quietly. “I’ve thought about it over and over.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya reached over immediately and cupped his face, turning him slightly so he had to look up.

“You were scared,” he said gently. “I was scared.”

Shane nodded slowly. He exhaled and leaned back in his chair again, though the tension in his shoulders lingered.

After a moment he swallowed again and asked, a little uncertainly, “Does it… Has it helped?”

Ilya nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It does help.”

He took a sip of coffee, then added, “it also helps that Galina speaks Russian. It’s easier to talk that way.”

Shane nodded at that, though a small flicker of guilt crossed his face. He had told Ilya more than once that he wished he could learn Russian faster, that he found it unfair that the brunt of the emotional work in their relationship relied on Ilya translating himself.

“At first it… fucking sucked,” Ilya added. “A lot. It didn’t feel like it helped at all.”

Shane’s mouth twisted dryly. “Well. That’s… comforting.”

Ilya snorted. “You know how bruises look fucking awful before they start fading?” he said. “Like they turn even darker first. And hurt more.”

Shane nodded slowly.

“It’s like that,” Ilya said. “But with feelings.”

Shane wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

That made Ilya chuckle again. “I know,” he said gently. “But it will help you too, okay? Even if it sucks at first.”

Shane didn’t answer right away.

Ilya watched him for a moment, then added quietly, “The medicine helps too.”

Shane looked up again, confusion flickering across his face. “The medicine?”

Ilya huffed a small laugh.

“I didn’t bring the pill bottle to California,” he explained. “Just the little organizer box thing. You saw it?”

Shane nodded slowly.

“Yeah, but I thought it was just… vitamins or something.” He hesitated. “You started a medication?”

Ilya nodded. “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at the table for a moment before continuing. “After our fight, I knew I needed… something else.”

He tapped the side of his head lightly with his knuckles and winced a little.

“I said awful things to you because I lost my temper,” he admitted. “And I lost my temper because sometimes I am not good with difficult emotions.”

Shane watched him closely. There was something sad in his expression, but also thoughtful, like he was trying to work through the pieces of a puzzle.

“How did you even pick one to try?” he asked after a moment. “I don’t… I can’t even imagine where to start.”

“I got lucky,” Ilya said. “Galina recommended a very common one. I went to the team doctor, he prescribed it, and I tried a half dose for two weeks first. When it didn’t make me feel sick or weird, I moved up to the full dose.” He shrugged lightly, lifting one shoulder. “I haven’t noticed any obvious side effects. But I know it’s not that simple for everyone.”

Shane nodded slowly, listening. Ilya took a deep breath and went on.

“I upped the dose a little in the summer, after you told me about your captaincy. And when we didn’t go to the cottage.” His mouth twisted faintly. “But it helped.”

He paused, frowning slightly as another thought surfaced. “And it also made me angry.”

Shane blinked.

“Angry?”

“Yes.” Ilya leaned back in his chair, thinking about how to explain it. “When my brain was finally quiet, it was like… ‘is this what it’s like for everyone else all the time? Are you fucking kidding me?’”

He let out a small breath.

“It felt like realizing I’d been drowning for years, and then suddenly I stood up and discovered the water had only ever been…” He gestured with both hands, holding them about a foot apart. “This deep.”

Shane chuckled softly at the image.

“It made me wish I had tried the medication a lot sooner,” Ilya finished.

Shane chewed on his lip for a moment, the smile fading quickly into something more thoughtful. Something else was clearly bothering him. He was fidgeting with the pen again, turning it slowly between his fingers, his eyes drifting across the page without really reading anything he had written.

Ilya watched him for a second.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice coaxing and warm. “It’s okay to be upset I didn’t tell you about my therapist.”

Shane shrugged faintly. He sniffed once, like there might be tears threatening even though none had actually fallen yet.

“It feels selfish to be hurt over it,” he said simply. “But it… does still hurt. A little.” 

Ilya hummed under his breath and reached over and brushed his thumb lightly along Shane’s wrist.

“One thing Galina taught me,” he said, “is that feelings are just… feelings. They’re not good or bad. They just are. What matters is what you do about them.”

Shane let out a tiny laugh at that.

“That sounds like something Jackie’s always telling the kids. When they’re fighting over toys or whatever. ‘You’re allowed to be mad, you’re not allowed to be mean.’”

Ilya chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “Pretty much exactly that.”

He leaned forward slightly and booped Shane's nose with his finger.

“You are allowed to be upset that I didn’t tell you I was seeing a therapist,” he said. “You are just not allowed to be mean to me about it. But I would understand if you were.”

Shane laughed, the tension easing a little. Ilya immediately leaned forward and kissed the spot where he had booped his nose.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he added. “And I’m sorry for all the times I was mean to you when I was upset about other things.”

Shane ducked his head and leaned forward into him, nuzzling instinctively into the curve of Ilya’s neck. He nodded there against his shoulder. Ilya rubbed his back slowly.

“I’ll ask Galina for recommendations,” he said. “I have an appointment on Friday anyway, so I can bring it up.”

Shane lifted his head again. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’d really appreciate that.”

They sat quietly for a moment after that, the morning light stretching across the table while the coffee cooled in their mugs. Then Shane spoke again, more carefully this time.

“Will you be mad at me,” he asked, “if I say I’m still a little scared?”

“Mad?” he repeated.

Shane shrugged faintly.

“That this is going to be too much,” he said. “That therapy won’t work. That you’ll get tired of… the process.”

Ilya pulled back a little so he could peer down at him. 

“Do you think I would leave you if chemo was kicking your ass?” he asked quietly. “Or if physical therapy for an ACL tear wasn’t progressing the way you hoped?”

Shane shook his head, his gaze flicking between Ilya’s eyes. Ilya tilted his head slightly.

“Would you be mad at me,” he asked, “if I was scared about starting a new antidepressant?”

Shane shook his head again. Ilya kissed his forehead.

“It’s the same thing, my love,” he said softly. He dipped his chin and kissed him properly, chaste but lingering.

“It will be okay,” he murmured. “And if it doesn’t feel like it’s okay for a while… I’ll still be right here.”

Shane nodded. Then he leaned forward again and rested his forehead against Ilya’s neck. 

The video call with Farah was scheduled for just before lunch.

They sat side by side at the breakfast table again, close enough that their knees touched beneath it. The laptop was propped open between them, the camera angled so Farah could see both of their faces.

For the first few minutes they made polite conversation. Work, travel, the weather in Ottawa versus Vancouver.  Eventually Farah tilted her head slightly, studying them both through the screen.

“You two okay?” she asked gently.

Shane glanced sideways at Ilya. Ilya gave him the smallest nod. Shane inhaled slowly and looked back at the camera. He didn’t look away again.

“We need your help with some planning,” he said, his voice steady even though his hands had tightened slightly together in his lap. “We’re both pulling out of the rest of our seasons.”

Farah didn’t interrupt. Shane swallowed once.

“I’ve been struggling with suicidal thoughts.”

The words hung in the air. They weren’t softened or disguised. Just said plainly, bluntly. Ilya felt something sharp and complicated twist in his chest. Pride. Grief. Terror. Relief. All tangled together. Shane kept going.

“Probably depression too, obviously,” he said. “But I’m planning to start therapy and medication. I’ll be staying with my parents for a while. Or they’ll stay here with us. We’re not sure yet.”

Farah nodded slowly.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said. “I’m really glad you did. And I’m very glad you’re getting help, Shane.”

Her tone didn’t change. There was no panic, no overreaction. Just calm, grounded support.

Ilya spoke then.

“That’s why I won’t be playing either,” he said, his eyes resting briefly on Shane’s face before returning to the screen. “I need to be here and support my partner.”

Farah’s mouth curved in the faintest smile at that, the implication not lost on her. Then she shifted smoothly into strategy.

“We’ll frame this as medical and personal leave,” she said. “You don’t owe anyone details you don’t want to give. If coaches or general managers push for more information, I’ll handle that.”

She glanced between them again.

“And if anyone gives you grief about mental health, we can absolutely leverage the Irina Foundation work. You’ve both done enough for youth hockey and mental health advocacy that no one can pretend this is weakness.”

Some of the tension eased out of Shane’s shoulders at that, though a small frown appeared between his brows.

“I don’t want it spun as some… inspirational comeback story,” he said quietly.

“It won’t be,” Farah assured him. “It’ll be factual. Private. Controlled.”

They talked through the logistics after that. Insurance questions. Timing. Whether separate statements made more sense at first. Whether they might eventually release a joint one, possibly tied to the Irina Foundation, if they decided they wanted to speak publicly about it later.

By the time the conversation wound down, Farah’s tone softened again.

“You focus on getting better,” she said. “That’s the most important thing right now.”

The screen went dark as the call ended.  For a moment, the house felt very quiet. Shane leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.

“That was weird,” he muttered.

“You did a good job,” Ilya said softly.

Shane shrugged, though this time there wasn’t the usual instinct to dismiss the compliment.

“I read that you’re supposed to name them,” he said after a moment. “The thoughts. Not dance around it.”

Ilya reached over and cupped the back of his neck, gently bumping his forehead against Shane’s temple.

“I’m proud of you.”

Shane glanced sideways at him. “Yeah?”

Ilya nodded before he leaned in and kissed him briefly.

“I’m scared,” Shane admitted in a whisper.

“I know,” Ilya said softly. “But I am here, solnyshko.” 

He pressed another kiss to Shane’s temple. Shane leaned back in his chair again and puffed out his cheeks before letting out another long breath.

“Fuck,” he said, dragging both hands slowly over his face. “Why was that so draining?”

Ilya’s expression softened immediately.

“Because it was serious,” he said gently. 

Shane hummed in response, still rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to work the tension out of it.

“We can take it easy for the rest of the day,” Ilya continued. “We did the hardest thing on our to-do list.”

Shane sat quietly for a moment, thinking about that. His eyes drifted toward the living room, where the couch sat in a square of warm light.

Then he said, almost tentatively, “I kinda just want to lay on the couch and watch you play video games for a bit.”

Ilya brightened instantly. He loved when they did that.

Sometimes Shane would read while Ilya played, occasionally glancing up to comment on something happening on screen. Sometimes he’d just watch and make running commentary, teasing him about missed stealth kills or cheering when something ridiculous worked. And sometimes he’d play with Ilya’s hair and lean over his shoulder to drop slow, distracting kisses along his neck until Ilya forgot what he was doing entirely.

“Okay,” Ilya said at once. “We can do that.”

They both stood up and stretched a little.

“I have that new Assassin’s Creed game I haven’t started yet,” Ilya added. “The Viking one.”

Shane perked up slightly at that, interest flickering across his face. Then his expression shifted. His eyes dropped to Ilya’s mouth. He bit his own lip, stepped closer, and leaned in to kiss Ilya.

The kiss started soft but deepened quickly, warm and lingering. Shane’s hand slid up to the back of Ilya’s neck as he pressed closer, parting his lips and pulling him in until Ilya let out a quiet groan into his mouth, a little dizzy by the time they finally broke apart.

When Shane pulled back, his eyes were darker, a little unfocused.

“Actually,” he murmured, “can we go back to bed for a bit first?”

Ilya tilted his head, amusement tugging at his mouth.

“Oh?” he said lightly. “For a nap?”

Shane chuckled under his breath. 

“No.”

He stepped closer again, resting his forehead briefly against Ilya’s and nudging their noses together. 

“I want to taste you,” he said, voice low and hungry. “And then I want you to take me out of my head for a little while.”

He kissed him once more, slower this time. 

“Then we can lay on the couch,” he murmured, “and I’ll watch you play Assassin’s Creed.”

Ilya let out a breathless laugh. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. “Okay.”

He crowded forward and scooped Shane up off his feet without warning. Shane yelped in surprise before dissolving into laughter, grabbing at Ilya’s shoulders to steady himself.

“You motherfucker,” he protested, half laughing, “put me down!” 

Ilya only grinned and leaned in to kiss him again, the sound of Shane’s laughter getting swallowed between their mouths as he carried him down the hallway.

They didn’t make it very far with any dignity.

By the time they reached the bedroom door they were stumbling, bumping into the frame while Shane tried to push Ilya’s shoulder and kiss him at the same time. 

Ilya finally dropped him onto the mattress, both of them laughing and breathless as they tumbled after each other into the sheets. 

Chapter End Notes

up next: telling yuna & david. get your tissues ready bc :[ but its good kind of pain, okay!

also i had a dr appt today with a pelvic exam and my OB said, and i quote "well, if it was your first baby, i'd say you'll definitely still be pregnant for your induction appointment next wednesday. but given it's your third, lol, 50/50 i'll see you this weekend"
girl i'm sorry W H A T say sike right now

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

A few nights later, they went over to Yuna and David’s for dinner with Anya in tow.

They didn’t warn them ahead of time. There was no dramatic text message, no preamble, no attempt to ease into it. They just showed up on the doorstep together with their hands clasped firmly between them.

Yuna opened the door first.

The moment it swung open, Anya immediately barreled past her legs and into the house like a small freight train, sprinting toward her favorite spot on their sofa. 

Yuna barely noticed.

For a brief second, she stood there looking at the two of them on the porch, Ilya practically glowing beside Shane, while Shane wore a warm, slightly sheepish grin he always got when he was both very happy and very self-conscious at the same time.

Then her entire face lit up.

“Oh,” she breathed softly.

She didn’t ask any questions.

Instead, she stepped forward immediately and pulled Shane into her arms, wrapping him up in a bone-crushing hug. She held him there, swaying slightly from side to side without realizing it, like she was reassuring herself he was really standing there in front of her.

Shane laughed softly and just let her hold him, rubbing her back with his free hand while the other remained tightly linked with Ilya’s. Ilya hadn’t let go since they stepped out of the car and didn’t seem to have any intention of starting now.

“Hi, Mom,” Shane murmured into her hair.

Behind her, David wandered into the entryway, curious about why everyone was still clustered in the doorway.

“What’s going on out here-”

He stopped when he saw them, his expression breaking into an immediate grin.

“Well, look at that,” he said, stepping forward before draping his arms around both Shane and Yuna at once, pulling them close.

“Hi, buddy,” David muttered warmly into Shane’s shoulder. “This is a very nice surprise.”

Shane laughed again, the sound muffled slightly against his father’s jacket.

After a moment, David stepped back, then turned and pulled Ilya into a hug, too, clapping him warmly on the back before releasing him again.

Ilya hugged him easily, but the moment he stepped back he felt the tension running under Shane’s skin like a current. 

Their hands were still wrapped tightly together, but Shane’s fingers were curled just a little too firmly now.

He was nervous.  Ilya knew exactly why. They would be telling his parents about the depression, the suicidal thoughts, the decision to leave the season early.

He squeezed Shane’s hand gently and shot him a quick look that said everything he didn’t want to say out loud.

I know. But everything is okay and will be okay.

Shane gave the smallest nod back, his smile softening as Yuna tugged lightly on his arm and ushered them inside, already talking about dinner as if she’d been expecting them both all along.

Inside, the house smelled warmly of garlic and tomato sauce, the familiar scent drifting out from the kitchen and wrapping around them the moment they stepped through the doorway.

David poked his head out from the kitchen almost immediately.

“Shane, bud,” he called, looking a little sheepish, “I didn’t make a diet-friendly version. I’m sorry. I can figure out -”

Shane shook his head right away, cutting him off before he could finish.

“It’s okay, Dad,” he said easily. “This is perfect.”

And it was; he ate two servings. Yuna noticed. She didn’t comment on it, didn’t say anything at all, but at one point her eyes met Ilya’s across the table and the two of them shared a small, conspiratorial glance that was almost giddy with relief.

The conversation drifted easily through dinner, moving from stories about Aruba and the water at the resort to the All-Star weekend, with David eventually pulling out his phone and replaying Shane’s ridiculous trick shot from the game like it was some kind of historic footage that needed to be studied.

Shane laughed and shook his head, clearly embarrassed but also secretly pleased by the attention. Yuna cheerfully ratted David out. 

“He showed that video to literally everyone he could on vacation,” she said.

David didn’t even try to deny it.

“Well yeah,” he said, holding the phone out again like proof. “Did you see that shot? That’s art.”

Shane ducked his head with a grin, looking relaxed and genuinely happy in a way that made Ilya’s chest feel warm just watching him.

After dinner they eventually drifted into the living room together, plates cleared and conversation still rolling easily as they settled onto the couches. Yuna tucked her feet under herself, settling comfortably beside Anya and absentmindedly scratching behind her ears while the dog leaned happily into the attention.

“So,” she said brightly, glancing between them, “how did you two get back together?”

Shane immediately looked over at Ilya. He was not ready to give the real answer, Ilya read that in an instant. He lifted a hand and stroked his fingers lightly along Shane’s temple in a casual, affectionate motion before answering.

“We talked,” he said lightly. “Like actual grown men.”

Yuna smiled at that.

“We realized we were not… on the same page,” Ilya continued, his tone still easy. “But at least still in the same book.”

David snorted approvingly from his armchair.

“I’m very lucky he still loves me,” Ilya added softly.

Shane’s mouth curved into a small smile at that and he shook his head faintly, the gesture practically saying the opposite. Obviously he was the lucky one. But then he cleared his throat and shifted forward slightly on the couch. His eyes flicked to Ilya again, searching for courage and comfort before he plunged in.

Ilya squeezed the back of his neck once, reassuring and steady, before threading their fingers together again.

“Actually,” Shane said. His voice sounded steady, but there was a thin edge to it now. “We… have a lot to talk to you guys about.”

Both of his parents noticed the shift immediately. Of course they did. Yuna straightened at once, the lightness falling out of her expression while David leaned forward slightly in his chair, his focus sharpening.

“I’m… not playing the rest of the season,” Shane said.

Yuna blinked.  “Oh.” A dozen thoughts clearly raced across her face all at once. “Is it your shoulder? Your knee? A concussion? Did something happen in the game? Why didn’t you say-”

David didn’t interrupt her. He just watched Shane carefully.

Shane’s words stalled while his mother rapidly listed practical explanations. Injuries. Contract negotiations. Rumors about a possible lockout. Every possible reason except the real one.

His throat worked. He didn’t think he could do it. He knew what the truth would do to them. He looked at Ilya again.

Help.

“Yuna,” Ilya said softly, “what we talked about at Thanksgiving… you were right.”

Her expression changed instantly.

“I think we all knew he was struggling,” Ilya continued carefully. “And it was… worse than we thought.”

He hesitated.

Shane saw the flicker in his face then, that shadow that always appeared when conversations drifted too close to suicide, the ghost of Ilya’s own mother woven into the shape of that word.

And suddenly Shane knew he couldn’t let him be the one to say it. Not this. Not when Ilya would say it anyway, only because he loved him and knew Shane was scared.

Shane inhaled.

“I was thinking about… hurting myself,” he said quietly, staring down at his knees. “And it… was bad.”

The room went very still. Yuna’s face drained of color while David’s jaw tightened slightly, but neither of them looked away.

“Hurting yourself?” Yuna asked, her voice small and frightened.

Shane nodded slowly and forced himself to look up at her. He made himself say it.

“Killing myself.”

Yuna’s hand flew to her mouth. 

“Oh,” she breathed. Then she moved.

She crossed the room in two quick steps and dropped down beside him on the couch, one hand clutching his arm while the other cupped his cheek with impossible gentleness as tears immediately spilled down her face.

“Baby,” was all she managed to say.

David stood and came over to sit on Ilya’s other side, sliding his arm around his back so that his hand rested firmly on Shane’s shoulder.

“Buddy,” he said, in the exact same choked voice as his wife. 

Shane felt his composure crack just slightly at that, but he made himself keep talking.

“I’m getting help,” he said quickly. “We… we made a plan. Therapy. Medication. We’re staying in Ottawa for a while, at Ilya’s house.”

Yuna nodded rapidly through her tears. 

“Okay. Okay, that’s good.” Her eyes darted to Ilya’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Ilya shook his head immediately. David’s gaze flicked between the two of them. There was fear there, but also pride and relief tangled together.

“We’ll figure this out,” David said.

Yuna couldn’t seem to help herself then. She pulled Shane fully into her side, wrapping him up in her arms the way she had when he was a child, his face pressed into the curve of her neck while one of her hands cradled the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.

Ilya swallowed hard.

“We spoke with Farah already,” he said. “We made a plan for the season… and statements.”

Yuna nodded sharply. “Tell us.”

“He’s taking medical leave for the rest of the season,” Ilya continued. “I’m taking personal leave.”

David’s hand tightened slightly on Shane’s shoulder, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He’s starting therapy. He found two therapists that look promising, but my therapist is going to give us some recommendations, too. We’re also setting up an appointment with a psychiatrist for medication, and Farah is helping coordinate the scheduling and privacy.”

Yuna’s arms tightened around Shane, protective but steady. She pressed a quick, tearstained kiss to his forehead. 

“And,” Ilya added carefully, “we thought it might be good if we stayed here with you guys for a while.” He hesitated before continuing. “Or you can come stay at my house if that’s easier. We just… we don’t want to be alone.”

Yuna pulled back slightly so she could look at Shane’s face. 

“Of course you stay here,” she said immediately.

David nodded without hesitation. “Of course,” he echoed.

“Or,” Yuna amended quickly, “we can move into Ilya’s place instead. Whichever feels safest. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

There was no trace of inconvenience in her voice. No hesitation.

Shane lifted his head slightly from her shoulder, his eyes red.

“But-” he began.

David shook his head gently. 

“There is no ‘but.’”

Yuna pressed her cheek against Shane’s temple and held him tighter. Shane’s throat worked as he tried to steady himself.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.

Yuna didn’t hesitate.

“You leaving us would hurt us,” she said firmly. “You staying and getting help does not.”

David’s hand shifted slightly where it rested on Shane’s shoulder, sliding up to the back of his neck to squeeze gently.

“You’re our whole world, Shane,” he said quietly.

Ilya felt his own eyes sting. David glanced over at him.

“You too,” he added pointedly.

Ilya nodded, swallowing once before answering.

“I need other people around,” he admitted softly. “If I can’t see him, my brain does... bad things.”

David didn’t ask any questions. He just nodded again, accepting the statement without needing it explained.

“Then you’re both here,” he said. “For however long you need.”

Yuna pressed her mouth to the top of Shane’s head and let out a shaky breath as fresh tears spilled down her face. Shane didn’t try to pull away from her. He just let her hold him, his head resting against her shoulder while she cried quietly into his hair.

After a moment Ilya shifted closer as well, sliding his arm around Shane’s waist from the other side so that Shane was tucked securely between them.

It didn’t take long for David to move closer too, his arm settling around the back of both of them while Yuna still held Shane tightly against her side.

Even Anya padded over from the other side of the room, circled once near the couch, and then flopped heavily across Shane and Ilya’s feet like a warm, furry paperweight.

For a second the absurdity of it broke the tension. They all laughed a little, the sound wet and shaky but real.

They stayed tangled together on the couch for a long time, occasionally sniffing or wiping their faces while bits of the plan surfaced in the conversation again. Therapy in-take appointments, medication, how long Shane might stay in Ottawa. Odds and ends of logistics and details. 

When everyone had calmed, Yuna and David didn’t even pretend there was a discussion to be had about what happened next.

“You’re staying,” Yuna said firmly, already getting to her feet and heading toward the hall closet.

“It’s late,” David added from behind her. “And I’m not letting you two drive anywhere tonight.”

Shane opened his mouth automatically to protest, more out of habit than conviction, but the look both of his parents gave him made the argument die before it could form.

“Okay,” he said softly. Ilya nodded in agreement from his side.

David disappeared down the hallway for a few minutes and then returned with his arms full of blankets while Yuna followed behind him, her entire upper half nearly hidden behind an impossible tower of pillows that wobbled precariously in her arms. David immediately set to work spreading quilts and comforters across the living room rug with the focused seriousness of a very important architectural project.

Shane watched the construction for a moment, blinking at the rapidly growing blanket nest.

“Dad,” he said faintly.

David didn’t even look up as he smoothed out one of the layers.

“This is what we did every single time you were sick when you were little.”

“And when you broke your collarbone when you were ten,” Yuna added, stepping in beside him and helping spread another blanket neatly across the floor.

“And when you failed your driver’s test the first time,” David continued.

Shane let out a small laugh at that while Ilya grinned openly at him, already filing the story away as excellent future teasing material.

“I was nervous,” Shane muttered.

“And devastated,” David replied without missing a beat.

Yuna smiled softly as she tucked one corner of the blankets into place.

“This helped.”

Shane swallowed, his throat tight, but the smile was still there.

“It did.”

Anya, apparently sensing that something important was happening, trotted over at that exact moment as if she had been summoned for the occasion. She circled the blanket nest once, then again, carefully inspecting the arrangement before finally flopping down squarely in the center of it like she owned the place.

“Well,” Ilya muttered, watching her claim the prime real estate, “it seems the queen has selected her spot.”

David stretched out across the couch with a throw pillow under his head and his lower back, grumbling mildly about being too old for the floor even with all the blankets, while Yuna settled cross-legged on one side of Shane and Ilya folded himself down on the other.

Before long Shane found himself horizontal again, his head resting comfortably in his mother’s lap while his legs stretched across Ilya’s thighs. Yuna absentmindedly stroked her fingers through his hair while Ilya kept one wide, steady palm resting against the middle of his back.

After a moment Anya lifted her head, looked at the arrangement as if reassessing it, then stood up, turned in three careful circles, and curled herself directly in front of Shane’s chest. Shane immediately tangled his fingers into the thick fur at her neck.

David eventually found an old movie on television, something familiar and harmless that hummed quietly in the background.

They watched. Or at least pretended to.

Shane found himself staring at the wall just above the television instead, slowly taking in the strange and overwhelming reality of it all. His mother’s hand was tracing slow, soothing circles at his temple, Ilya’s thumb was moving in steady patterns along his spine, Anya’s warm weight was pressed into him from the front, and every so often his dad would offer some dry commentary from the couch.

He swallowed.

“This is a lot,” he said quietly.

He didn’t really have the vocabulary for what he meant. It was safety and love and comfort and a hundred other feelings layered together at once.

He sniffed, trying unsuccessfully to hold back another wave of tears.

David shifted slightly on the couch.

“Your mother and I both cried for three days straight when we found out she was pregnant with you,” he said mildly. “You come by this honestly.”

Shane let out a wet laugh at that.  The tears slipped free anyway, sliding down his temples into his hair. But they were different this time. Not hopeless. Not suffocating.

Ilya leaned over and brushed one away gently with his thumb.

“Happy tears?” he murmured.

Shane nodded.

“Yeah.”

Ilya smiled softly.

“Good.”

Then he gave Shane’s cheek a gentle pat before settling back beside him again.

David was snoring lightly on the couch. Shane, meanwhile, was out cold on the blanket pallet on the floor, one arm flung loosely over Anya where she had stretched herself fully along his front, her body rising and falling slowly with his breathing. The house had settled into deep quiet now, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the faint murmur of the television still playing to itself in the background.

Across the pallet, Yuna met Ilya’s eyes. She nodded once toward the kitchen.

Ilya carefully disentangled himself from Shane’s side, easing his arm free and shifting Shane’s legs gently so he wouldn’t wake him, then stood and followed her. 

In the kitchen, Yuna opened the freezer without a word, reached for a bottle, and poured two small glasses of vodka. She didn’t ask if he wanted one; she simply slid a glass across the counter toward him before lifting her own.

Then she looked at him directly.

“Tell me,” she said.

Ilya exhaled slowly, his shoulders slinking down his back.

“He was empty,” he began quietly, his voice careful and low so it wouldn’t carry into the living room. “Not sad. Not dramatic. Just… gone. Like he was already dead inside and was only waiting for the rest of him to catch up.”

Yuna’s fingers tightened slightly around her glass.

He told her about the All-Star dinner, about the moment someone had called Shane boring and the way he’d flinched. About the hollow look that had passed through his eyes when he’d seen Sarah hanging off Ilya’s arm. He explained how Bood and Sarah had cornered Shane at dinner. How Sarah so bright and genuinely thrilled to meet him, and how Shane had flicked the most wounded, betrayed look at Ilya when she asked for a photo.

“He thought she was my girlfriend,” Ilya said sullenly. “He didn’t even ask. He just… accepted it.”

Her jaw tightened. Ilya swallowed.

“I found him on the beach a little while later,” he continued. “Just standing in the water.”

Yuna’s eyes closed briefly.

“We talked,” he said. “He told me Sarah was nice and that he was happy for me. I don’t even know how I convinced him to come back to the hotel with me.”

He stared down into the vodka glass in his hand. Yuna reached across the counter and briefly rested her hand over his wrist. He exhaled again.

“He went to shower,” he said. “And I… saw a journal on the bedside table.”

There was a small, tense pause.

“I read it.” He looked up immediately. “I know I shouldn’t have.”

Yuna didn’t hesitate.

“I think we can let that slide just this once,” she said.

The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across her face, and Ilya nodded, grateful for the mercy.

“I found… letters,” he continued quietly. “At the back. To you. To David. To Hayden. To Jackie.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “To me.”

Her face crumpled instantly. Without speaking, she turned her head slightly toward the living room where Shane slept, mouth slightly open against the blankets, his breath faintly stirring Anya’s fur. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

Ilya kept talking because if he stopped now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to start again.

“He had at least the beginnings of a plan,” he said, his voice rougher now. “He wrote that he had trusts set up. Investments. That you and David would be taken care of. Forever.”

Yuna made a small, broken sound.

“And he said…” Ilya’s throat tightened painfully. “He told me he wanted to find a way that would make it look like an accident. So you wouldn’t have to know.”

Yuna pressed her fist to her mouth. Her shoulders shook once. She didn’t scream. She didn’t wail. She just wept quietly.

Ilya realized he was crying too, silent tears sliding down his face as he stared into the vodka glass again.

After a moment Yuna closed her eyes, drew a slow breath, and opened them again.

“What happened next?” she asked.

“He came out of the shower,” Ilya said. “He saw me with the journal. He told me everything. He let me in. Let me help. And we made a plan.”

“You saved him,” she said.

Ilya shook his head immediately. “No.”

Yuna studied him, confusion creasing her brow.

“I didn’t save him,” he said. And then his voice broke clean down the middle.

“You don’t understand,” he choked out, and now the tears were coming openly, no longer silent or controlled. “It wasn’t about coming out. He wasn’t afraid to be gay,” Ilya said hoarsely. “He wasn’t ashamed of me.”

Yuna’s brows pulled together.

“He was afraid that when he lost hockey because he came out… I would get sick of him.”

The words sounded absurd spoken aloud. And devastating. Yuna’s hand tightened against the edge of the counter.

“He thought that if he retired early,” Ilya continued, his voice shaking harder now, “or if the league turned on him, or if he wasn’t - ” he gestured helplessly in the air, “- brilliant and shiny and perfect and impressive…”

His breath shuddered.

“He thought I would get bored.” Ilya dragged a hand down his face. “I have called him boring since the day I met him. Every five minutes. As a joke.”

The word tasted bitter now.

“He said it like it was a fact,” Ilya whispered. “Like evidence.”

He glanced toward the living room again, toward the soft shape of Shane beneath the blankets.

“I made him choose,” he said, his voice shaking harder. “I forced a timeline. I told him we needed to go public in six months. A year. And when he couldn’t do it, I lashed out. I told him he was boring me and making me miserable. And he left.”

The last two words splintered. His shoulders were shaking now.

“I put all these thoughts in his head,” he choked. “And then I asked him to prove he loved me by risking the only thing he thought made him worth keeping.”

He pressed his palms against his eyes like he could force the memories away.

“And when he couldn’t-”

The sentence dissolved into breathless sobs. Yuna stepped forward immediately and pulled him into her arms, firm and unhesitating, the exact same way she had held Shane earlier.

“You did not put suicidal thoughts into his head,” she said quietly but firmly.

Ilya shook his head against her shoulder. “Then I made them worse.”

“You are not that powerful,” she replied gently.

A broken laugh slipped out of him at that.

“He is ill,” she continued softly. “Depression twists things. It collects stray comments and builds castles out of them.”

She pulled back just enough to look at his face.

“Would you have stopped loving him if he retired?”

“No,” Ilya said immediately. “Never.”

“Would you have stopped loving him if he played in a beer league for the rest of his life?”

Ilya almost scoffed through his tears.

“No.”

“Then his fear was not about you,” Yuna said softly. “It was about what depression was telling him you would do.”

Ilya stared at her. “But I left,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said. She didn’t soften it. “You were hurt. He was hurt.”

She brushed her thumb gently under his eye the same way she did with Shane.

“You both misread each other.”

Ilya exhaled shakily.

“I should have seen it. My mother…”

Yuna shook her head immediately. “You are not his therapist or his doctor,” she said. “You are his partner.” 

Then she squeezed his shoulders. 

“And you came back.”

They moved back into the living room quietly.

David barely stirred when they crossed the room, shifting only slightly on the couch. The blanket pallet on the floor was still warm from where they had been sitting earlier, and Shane had hardly moved at all in their absence. 

Yuna knelt beside him first. She hesitated for the briefest moment, as if unsure if she would wake him, but the hesitation didn’t last long. Carefully, gently, she draped herself over the top half of him, lowering her weight just enough to rest her forehead against his shoulder. After a second she pressed a few soft kisses into his hair, light and lingering.

Shane stirred under the blankets. He made a small sound, half asleep, shifting slightly toward her.

“Mama?” he mumbled thickly, his voice blurred by sleep.

Yuna swallowed hard. “Right here, baby,” she whispered.

Even in sleep he turned toward her automatically, rolling over and instinctively curling closer until his arm slid around her and pulled her in against his chest. He nuzzled into the curve of her shoulder the way he had done since he was little, seeking the same comfort without even thinking about it.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her collarbone.

The apology was reflexive. Yuna immediately cupped the back of his head, her fingers threading into his hair.

“No,” she said firmly, though her voice trembled. “No, you don’t apologize for being in pain or being sick.”

He tightened his hold on her slightly anyway, his arm firm around her waist.

“I love you,” he said softly.

Yuna pressed another kiss into his hair.

“I love you more than anything,” she replied quietly. Then she leaned back just enough to see his face. “You are the best thing I have ever done.”

Shane’s brow furrowed faintly.

“Not because of hockey,” she continued gently. “Not because of trophies or interviews or people chanting your name.”

Her thumb brushed slowly across his cheek.

“Just you. The little boy who used to line up his toy cars in perfect rows. The teenager who cried when he lost a game because he thought he disappointed us. The man who holds babies like they’re little princes and princesses.”

Her voice softened even further.

“You are so perfect to me.”

Shane’s breathing wobbled slightly and new tears slipped free, sliding down his cheeks. They weren’t violent sobs, just silent, exhausted tears. He didn’t pull away or try to hide them. He simply let her hold him while she rubbed slow circles into his back the same way she had when he was small and feverish and needed comfort.

“I would burn the whole world down,” she whispered, her chin resting against his head, “before I lived one single day on this earth without you.”

Shane made a faint, broken sound at that. Beside them, Ilya bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep his own sobs from escaping.

“I’m sorry, mama,” Shane murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know, baby. It’s okay.”

She didn’t stop holding him. After a few minutes Shane’s eyelids began drooping while he stayed tucked against her side. His breathing gradually evened out, slow and steady as sleep pulled him under again. One of his hands drifted backward blindly after a moment, searching for something.

Ilya caught it immediately.

He threaded their fingers together without hesitation and shifted closer on the blanket pallet, settling himself half-curled near Shane’s legs so that his head rested lightly against Shane’s thigh while their hands remained loosely clasped together between them.

The room fell quiet again.

The television cast a soft glow across the walls while Anya shifted slightly and let out a contented sigh, pressing her body more firmly into the pile of bodies. Shane’s breathing deepened until a faint, soft snore escaped him every few breaths, blending with the slow rise and fall of David’s breathing from the couch.

Yuna’s hand continued its gentle movement in Shane’s hair.

Eventually, with Shane’s fingers still laced through his and the warmth of him so close, Ilya drifted off to sleep, too.

Chapter End Notes

listen. writing the bit with yuna crying and holding shane literally destroyed me. like.... days away from giving birth was NOT the time to work on that scene yall

also thank you so much for all the well wishes! baby is still content where she is and doesn't seem interested in coming into the outside for now, fingers crossed lol

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

CW/TW very blunt but very brief description of suicide

Coffee steamed between them at breakfast the next morning while Anya hovered hopefully nearby, convinced toast crusts might appear if she waited long enough. The conversation unfolded slowly and gently. In the end, they agreed that Yuna and David would stay at Ilya’s house for the next two to four weeks while Shane started medication and began therapy, and then they would reevaluate from there once things felt more stable.

The idea had been Shane’s.

He’d mentioned, almost offhandedly at first, how nice the in-law suite in Ilya’s basement was now that he had finished renovating it. It had come with the house originally, but Ilya had made a number of changes over the years, new flooring, better lighting, a proper kitchenette, and the result was a space that felt more like a small apartment than a guest room.

Later, when they were alone, Shane had admitted the real reason.

He’d bitten his lip, a little flustered, explaining that at Ilya’s house the main bedroom and the basement suite were separated by two full floors. While at his parents’ place, their room would have been just one door down the hallway from Yuna and David’s.

“I just… don’t want to worry about my parents hearing us,” he’d said awkwardly, cheeks pink. “And I really don’t want to go weeks without touching you.”

Which, of course, had immediately resulted in Ilya hauling him into bed the moment they got home, after tossing Anya a chew toy to keep her occupied in the living room.

It had taken a fair bit of convincing to get Yuna and David to let them return to Ilya’s place alone for one more night before everyone moved in together. Ilya had insisted they take their time gathering what they needed, emptying the fridge, packing clothes, whatever had to be done. The boys assured them they would be just fine for twenty-four more hours on their own.

The next morning, though, Ilya woke abruptly.  For half a second he simply blinked at the ceiling, still foggy with sleep. Then his hand slid automatically across the sheets where Shane should have been.

But the other side of the bed was empty and cold. .His chest tightened instantly. He forced himself to breathe.

He’s probably downstairs, he told himself. Making coffee. Making breakfast. Maybe he’s in the shower. That was normal. People woke up before their partners all the time. Still, he sat up quickly and swung his legs out of bed.

“Shane?” he called as he stepped onto the cold hardwood.

No answer. He checked the bathroom first. Empty.

The kitchen downstairs. Also empty.

His pulse started climbing.

“Shane?” he called again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

He moved through the house faster now, opening doors that he already knew would be empty. The guest room. The office. The half bathroom off the living room. The garage. The back porch. 

Nothing.

His breathing had shortened into gasps without him realizing it.

“Shane!” he called, his voice sharp now.

No reply. 

The panic was rising fast now, hot and dizzying, his brain already racing ahead to places he didn’t want it to go. The memory of the journal. The lists. The careful planning.

His hands were shaking. He turned toward the basement stairs almost without thinking.

“Shane!” he called again as he descended.

Still nothing. By the time he reached the bottom step, his chest felt tight enough that it hurt to breathe.

Then he saw him. 

Shane was sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat in the middle of the gym, back straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. His eyes were closed. His reflection in the mirror looked calm and peaceful as he sat completely still.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Hollander,” Ilya said breathlessly.

Still nothing. Now he was only a few feet away and the anger was bleeding into the panic now that frantic edge of fear had nowhere else to go.

“Shane!”

He was practically standing over him now. Shane’s eyes snapped open. He jerked slightly, startled, one hand flying instinctively up to pull a headphone out of his ear.

“Wha-” He blinked up at Ilya, disoriented and startled. “Oh,” he said quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“Why didn’t you answer me?” Ilya demanded between harsh gasps.

The words came out sharper than he meant them to. Shane frowned, confused.

“I had headphones in,” he said, gesturing toward his phone. “I woke up early and couldn’t fall back asleep so I came down here to meditate and -.”

He watched Ilya’s face as the anger in his expression flickered then faltered. His mouth opened like he was going to say something else, but instead his face crumpled completely.

Ilya dragged a hand down over his face. “I couldn’t find you,” he choked out. His voice cracked. “You weren’t answering and I thought-”

The words caught in his throat. He shook his head hard and scrubbed his face again, trying to pull himself together, but tears were already spilling out.

“Oh,” Shane breathed, already scrambling to his feet. “Oh, baby.” 

He stepped forward and pulled Ilya into his arms without hesitation. Ilya grabbed onto him immediately, clutching at his back and arms.

“I’m sorry,” Shane murmured, his voice thick with guilt. “I didn’t realize... I’m so sorry.”

Ilya’s breathing was still too fast, too shallow, the panic refusing to settle even with the proof that the danger his brain had conjured wasn’t real.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said again. But Ilya shook his head, pressing his face hard into Shane’s shoulder.

He couldn’t make the anxiety start to dim. Because it wasn't just the last few minutes. Everything from the past few days was crashing through him all at once: The journal. The careful lists. The cold, clinical way Shane had written and talked about his own death.

And underneath all of that, something deeper and older had surfaced, too. 

That terrible, frozen moment almost two decades ago when he had pushed open a door and found his mother.

The panic that had seized him then felt frighteningly similar to the one clawing through him now.

But Shane was here. Alive. Breathing. Seeking help. Ilya had just overreacted, that was all. 

But the terror his brain had felt when it thought he might not be was still ricocheting through his body. Ilya made a broken sound against Shane’s shoulder. His legs gave out before he even realized what was happening.

Shane tightened his grip immediately, lowering them both before he could fall. They ended up tangled together on the floor beside the yoga mat, Ilya half in his lap, his arms still wrapped around Shane’s torso like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He was crying now, rough and shaking, his whole body trembling with the release of it.

Shane just shifted slightly so Ilya was more comfortably against him and wrapped both arms around his back, holding him close.

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly into his curls. 

He rocked him without thinking about it with one hand sliding up and down Ilya’s back while the other cradled the back of his head.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

Ilya’s hands tightened in the fabric of his shirt.

“I thought-” he tried again, his voice breaking.

Shane pressed a kiss into his hair.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But it wasn’t that. It’s okay.” 

They stayed on the floor like that for a long time. Ilya’s breathing slowly evened out, the tremors gradually fading as Shane kept rocking him gently, murmuring soft reassurances into his hair and squeezing him every few seconds like he was reminding him that he was still there.

Eventually, footsteps padded softly down the basement stairs. Anya appeared in the doorway. She stopped when she saw them on the floor. Her head tilted slightly, ears flicking forward as she assessed the situation. After a moment she trotted over, nails clicking softly against the floor.

First things first.

She leaned in and licked the side of Ilya’s face where tears were still clinging to his cheek. 

Shane huffed out a small laugh and muttered under his breath, “Gross.”

Ilya chuckled, too. And then immediately started tearing up again. Because he had pictured that exact exchange months ago.

Last summer, when Shane had told him he wasn’t going to the cottage at all. Ilya had ended up sobbing on the couch with Anya while she licked his face in exactly the same determined way. He’d imagined the exact way Shane would wrinkle his nose and say gross if he were there.

And now he had, right on cue. 

Shane noticed the new tears immediately.

“Baby,” he murmured, tightening his arms around him again. “Where’d you go just now?”

Ilya shook his head, half laughing and half crying.

“Nowhere,” he said hoarsely. “Just… something stupid.”

Before Shane could press, Anya had already decided her brief emotional support duties were complete. She stepped back, sat down squarely in front of them, and stared with intense purpose and huffed out a long-suffering breath. 

“Ah,” Shane said, knowing what she wanted. “Right.”

Breakfast. Outside. All the important morning business. He scratched her behind the ears with one hand while still holding Ilya with the other.

“Thank you for being patient,” he told her. 

Anya wagged her tail once. Ilya wiped his face with the heel of his hand and leaned into Shane’s shoulder again for a second longer before finally exhaling. Anya darted forward and wetly jabbed his cheek with her nose before dancing away toward the stairs. 

“Okay,” Ilya muttered as she turned and looked expectantly over her shoulder. “Okay, we’re coming.” 

Shane kissed the side of his head. “Come on,” he said, gently helping Ilya to his feet. “Let’s go appease the mighty beast.”

Anya hopped impatiently from foot to foot by the back door and burst outside the second it opened. The sound of kibble hitting her bowl echoed loudly in the kitchen when she came back in.

While she crunched enthusiastically, Shane started making coffee. Every time he brushed past Ilya, he rested a hand briefly against his arm or back. Purposeful little touches to tell him he was still right there.

Ilya had stopped crying by then, but his eyes were still red and he sniffled every now and then. He looked absolutely wrung out. He leaned against the counter with his arms folded over his chest and watched Shane move around the kitchen.

Shane poured the coffee, added milk and sugar to Ilya’s without asking, and pressed the mug into his hands.

He opened his mouth like he was about to ask something about breakfast. Then he really looked at Ilya’s face and the question died immediately. He stepped forward and pulled Ilya into his chest again with one arm.

“You wanna go back to bed?” Shane murmured. He rested his cheek against the side of Ilya’s head and rubbed his back slowly. “Wake up and have a redo of this whole morning?”

Ilya sniffled and let out a small laugh against his shoulder.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “It’s like… my nervous system hasn’t caught up yet that you’re not dead. So it’s just…”

He gestured vaguely with one hand, wobbling it back and forth. Shane hummed softly as he kissed Ilya’s forehead.

“Okay,” he said. “Then, let’s take our coffee upstairs and get back in bed.”

He squeezed him once more. “We can just cuddle,” he added gently. “Or lay there for a bit.”

Shane carried both mugs upstairs while Ilya followed behind him, a little shaky and drained. The house was quiet again now that Anya had finished breakfast and settled into her usual morning patrol of the windows.

Shane set the coffee on the nightstand and pulled the blankets back.

“Come here,” he murmured softly.

Ilya climbed into bed without argument. Shane followed and immediately let himself be maneuvered however Ilya seemed to need him. Ilya pulled him closer, shifting him sideways and tucking his head under his chin until Shane was basically folded into him, one leg draped between Ilya’s thighs.

Shane didn’t resist or tease him about it. He just went pliant in Ilya’s arms, letting him arrange him exactly the way he wanted. If Ilya tightened his grip, Shane squeezed back just as firmly. If he shifted, Shane shifted with him. All he seemed to care about was making the pain in Ilya’s eyes ease a little.

After a minute, Ilya pressed his face into Shane’s hair and let out a long, shaky breath. Shane’s hand found its way to the nape of his neck, fingers moving slowly there, absent and soothing.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Ilya’s breathing gradually evened out as the tension slowly unwound from his shoulders and he fell back asleep. Shane stayed right where he was, warm and solid against him, patient and quiet as long as Ilya needed.

By the next afternoon, Yuna and David had officially, temporarily moved in.

It didn’t feel awkward, exactly, just new. Their suitcases and a couple of grocery bags sat near the stairs while Yuna organized things in the basement suite and David took stock of Ilya’s pantry and spice cabinets. 

After helping carry a few things down, Shane clipped Anya’s leash on and suggested to Ilya they take her for a walk so his parents could finish unpacking without an audience.

Outside, the air was cool and bright, Anya trotting happily ahead of them as they made their way down the sidewalk.

After a few minutes ,Shane glanced sideways at Ilya.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

Ilya looked over immediately. “For what?”

“For… all this,” Shane said, gesturing vaguely behind them toward the house. “I appreciate you putting up with all these changes and all the effort, just for me. I know it’s a lot.” 

Ilya huffed a small laugh.

“Do you remember how I panicked when I couldn’t find you?” he asked.

Shane nodded at once.

“Exactly,” Ilya said simply. “Them moving in is just as much for me as it is for you.”

Shane still looked a little uncertain. 

“Still,” he tried again, “having people in your space is… a whole thing.” 

Ilya nudged his shoulder as they walked.

“Are you kidding?” he went on. “I love this. I have been lonely in that giant house for years. This is a dream.”

Shane studied his face, skeptical but clearly pleased by the answer. Ilya shrugged lightly.

“I’ve never really had this before,” he added after a moment. “Maybe some version of it with my mama when I was little and before Alexei hated me. But even then, there was always a bad, angry man in the house. And my mama was so sad all the time.”

He glanced back toward the house again.

“This?” he said softly. “This is perfect.”

Shane stopped walking.

Before Ilya could react, Shane stepped forward and wrapped both arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug right there on the sidewalk. For a moment he just held him, briefly picturing he was holding both the man in front of him and the small boy Ilya had just conjured.

Then he stepped back again.

“Okay,” Shane said gently. “I’m glad, then.”

They started walking again, Anya pausing every few steps to investigate a new smell.

“I mean it,” Ilya added, nudging him again. “I love that the biggest issue I have with your family is when your dad asks me which ice cream I want after dinner.”

Shane snorted. “What do you mean? You always tell him ‘some of both.’”

Ilya nodded emphatically.

“That’s exactly my point,” he said. “It’s not even a real problem.”

The following Monday, they all drove to Montreal so Shane could meet with the Metros’ upper management and formally inform them of his leave. Farah had arranged to meet them at the arena. 

Ilya had dropped Anya off with Sarah and Ashley that morning so she could spend the day with Hera; he had no idea how long the meeting would take and he refused to leave her alone in the house all day.

At the arena, Ilya stayed outside in the parking lot with David while Shane went in.

Inside the office it was Shane, Farah, and Yuna seated on one side of the table, with the head coach, the general manager, the head of PR, and someone from HR across from them. The room fell into stunned silence when Farah calmly explained that Shane would be taking medical leave for the remainder of the season. For several seconds no one spoke at all, and then the conversation began circling itself in maddening, frustrated loops as the executives tried to process what they were hearing.

They went around and around for nearly twenty minutes. Eventually the head coach leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

“You understand how shit the timing is here, right?” he said flatly. “Playoffs are weeks away.”

“Yes, of course I do,” Shane replied evenly.

“We’re losing our star center right before the most important stretch of the season.”

Shane kept his voice level. “I understand that but -”

The coach exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I can’t believe you’d leave us stranded like this.”

Stranded. As if he’s abandoning ship. As if they hadn’t stripped the captaincy from him at the first opportunity last spring and left him to deal with the fallout on his own.

Shane felt his jaw tighten. He tried to stay calm through sheer force of will.

“This is medical leave,” he said, forcing his tone to remain steady. “It’s not like I’m fucking off to Fiji for six months.”

“We all deal with pressure,” the coach shot back, waving one hand dismissively. “You think you’re the only one who’s stressed?”

Farah shifted slightly beside him, already preparing to intervene if necessary. But something inside Shane snapped.

“Yeah, well,” Shane said, “if I go home and put a bullet in my brain, you'll still be screwed for playoffs.”

The silence that followed was a tangible thing.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother go a shade paler and swallow hard at the bluntness of his words, though she otherwise remained perfectly composed. Across the table, the coach’s face drained entirely of color while the general manager’s eyes widened almost comically as he glanced sideways at the head of PR. The HR representative closed their eyes briefly, the expression unmistakably reading oh shit.

Shane didn’t falter.

“Would you rather I do that,” he continued, his voice furious and unyielding, “or take leave and try and get better?”

The air in the room shifted instantly. The coach floundered, his mouth opening and closing uselessly while the GM swallowed hard, his expression now far more concerned than defensive.

Farah stepped in smoothly before anyone else could speak.

“This is not optional,” she said calmly. “It’s medically necessary. We are not asking for permission here.”

The HR rep cleared their throat. “Of course,” they said quickly. “I don’t think anyone realized it was -”

“Quite that serious?” Yuna finished icily.

The HR representative nodded sheepishly.

Shane could feel his pulse hammering hard against his ribs, but he didn’t regret a single word he’d said.

David and Ilya were leaning against the car. Ilya’s jacket hung open, his hands tucked into the pockets as he watched the arena doors, and the moment he spotted Shane coming toward them he pushed himself upright and spread his hands slightly in a silent well? gesture, the loose jacket flaring slightly around him like a pair of wings.

Shane didn’t answer.

Instead he walked straight into Ilya’s space and slid his arms around him under the open jacket and pressed his forehead hard into Ilya’s shoulder with his gaze fixed down toward the pavement. It wasn’t quite the way he usually curled into him when he needed comfort. Probably because his parents and Farah were standing right there, and they were still very much in public, but the intention was clear.

Ilya wrapped an arm around him as he tipped his chin lightly against Shane’s temple. He rolled his shoulder forward a little so Shane had something solid to lean into, knowing from experience that the counter-pressure helped when Shane was drained like this.

“That was fucking awful,” Shane muttered bitterly, his voice pitched low enough that only Ilya could hear it.

Behind them, Farah drifted closer to David and Ilya and offered a quick summary.

“That could have gone better,” she said coolly. “Coach tried to guilt him about timing and playoffs, but it’s handled. If the organization tries to pull any nonsense privately, I’ll deal with it.”

David nodded once, his jaw tight but calm, while Yuna joined them for a moment and asked a few quick questions. Their voices stayed low, contained.

Ilya barely listened. His attention had already shifted entirely back to Shane.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his hand moving slowly across Shane’s back. “I’m proud of you. Another hard part is done.”

Shane nodded against his neck without lifting his head.

After a minute, Ilya eased back slightly, enough to look down at him.

“Ready to go home?” he asked gently.

Shane hesitated.

“We can stay here tonight,” Ilya amended at once. “At your condo, if that’s easier. Anya won’t mind a sleepover with Hera.”

Shane shook his head. He swallowed.

“There’s just… this Italian place a block from my building,” he said shyly. “It has really good chicken parmesan. Dad’s is still better, but they also have a ton of different gelato.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly.

“I’ve always wanted to take you,” Shane added.

Ilya looked down at him, surprised. “You have?”

“Mmh. I was just too much of a pussy before.”

“You were not.”

Shane let out a soft huff. His fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.

“I already lost you once because I was so fucking paranoid we’d get outed,” he admitted quietly. “Now I just want… you. Us.” He swallowed. “Please.”

Ilya pulled him in tighter, pressing a tiny kiss to the crown of his head and leaving his mouth there for several long, steady breaths before he spoke.

“Just us,” he murmured in agreement. 

Shane nodded against his shoulder. Then, after a beat, he added dryly, “And mom and dad. And Farah. Because it would be rude not to invite them to dinner, too.” 

Ilya breathed out a soft laugh into his hair.

“Okay, sunshine.”

The restaurant was warm and loud and comforting, full of clinking dishes and overlapping conversation, the air thick with the smell of garlic, fresh bread, and red sauce simmering back in the kitchen.

Shane and Ilya sat side by side in the narrow booth, their legs pressed together under the table, Shane’s foot occasionally nudging Ilya’s absently. 

Dinner was simple and satisfying. Ilya enthusiastically praised the chicken parm as he promptly inhaled his entire plate. But he did make a point of telling David that his recipe remained undefeated. By the time the plates were cleared, the dark cloud that had seemed to follow Shane out of the arena had all but lifted.

When the gelato finally came, Shane didn’t even pretend to behave. He leaned over and stole a spoonful of Ilya’s scoop of chocolate from right under his nose.

Ilya balked immediately, drawing back with exaggerated offense.

“I cannot believe this,” he muttered dramatically. “Everyone thinks you are so polite and perfect, and yet here you are stealing my fancy Italian ice cream and leaving none left for me.”

He gestured indignantly toward Shane with the cone that was still very obviously overflowing.

Shane only grinned wider and stole another bite, the spoon leaving a faint smear of gelato across the tip of his nose.

Ilya noticed instantly. Without warning he leaned in between them and licked it off.

Shane froze for half a second. Then he burst out laughing.

Not the nervous little huff he sometimes defaulted to, but a real laugh that filled his chest and made his shoulders shake. He didn’t duck away or shove Ilya back or get angry the way he might have once. Instead, he just laughed and blushed bright red all the way to the tips of his ears.

Across the table, Yuna made a heroic effort to look completely neutral and failed spectacularly. David and Farah didn’t even try; they both laughed outright.

Ilya watched the color spread across Shane’s cheeks and briefly found himself thinking about all the other ways he might be able to make him blush like that. He filed the thought away for later.

Farah’s phone buzzed on the table. She glanced down at the screen, her expression sobering as she read.

“Okay,” she said slowly.

Everyone looked at her.

“Metros just put out a statement,” she clarified. “Medical leave. Standard language. Could stand to be a bit less detached and cold, but it's not bad.”

She hesitated for a moment.

“Oh.”

Yuna repeated it carefully. “Oh?”

Farah tilted the phone slightly.

“And… there are photos.”

Ilya felt his stomach drop.

“Photos?” David asked.

“On Twitter,” Farah said bracingly. “You two in the parking lot. Ilya embracing Shane when we came back outside.”

Yuna’s eyes flicked immediately to Shane. Ilya’s whole body went tense beside him as he braced himself, waiting for the flinch or panic or instinctive retreat.

Instead Shane simply shrugged and took another bite of gelato. His own this time. 

Ilya balked at him for a second time, studying his face for the slightest hint of terror or anger. 

“You can tell me,” he pressed gently. “if you’re upset. I understand.”

Shane didn’t answer right away. He glanced first at his parents and Farah across the table, and then he turned back toward Ilya.

“I’m not,” he said finally. His voice was calm and deliberate. “A few weeks ago, I thought I would rather die than let myself hope for any of this.”

The words hung heavily between them while the restaurant buzzed around them, oblivious.

“I don’t-” He stopped, swallowed, then started again. He looked at Ilya with something fierce and steady in his eyes. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

Ilya’s breath caught. Shane held his gaze.

“I just... kind of don’t care what anyone else has to say,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

Farah exhaled slowly across the table while Yuna pressed her lips together and David cleared his throat, clearly trying not to look too pleased or emotional. Ilya reached under the table and squeezed Shane’s hand.

“You’re sure?”

Shane nodded. “I’m sure.”

There was no recklessness in it, no defiance. Just the certainty of someone who was finished hiding. He lifted the spoon again and pointed it toward Ilya.

“But if we’re already trending,” he added dryly, “you might as well keep licking my face.”

Ilya laughed, the relief rushing through him so suddenly it almost made him dizzy.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You are very pretty when you blush.”

Shane rolled his eyes and promptly stole another bite of Ilya’s gelato.

Chapter End Notes

if the metros/voyageurs have 0 haters, i'm dead. i hope RR lets Ilya off leash like a rabid dog in unrivaled against montreal for all the bullshit they did to shane.

also, the angst to fluff ratio from here on out is VERY much in favor of fluff <3

also no baby news today! jury's out on if she cooperates tomorrow lol

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Only a few of Shane’s teammates reached out to him after Montreal announced his medical leave. Hayden, JJ, and a couple of the rookies.

That was it.

The silence from everyone else made something dark and furious coil in Ilya’s chest. If he thought about it too long it made him want to punch through drywall or break something expensive just to hear it shatter. But he didn’t say anything. He kept it contained, because this wasn’t about him.

Instead, he watched Shane carefully.

He paid attention to the small things; the way Shane checked his phone when it buzzed, the way his expression shifted when he read the messages, the way he set the device back down on the table afterward. Ilya kept waiting for the moment the realization would hit or the moment Shane would notice the absence of names that should have been there.

But Shane didn’t react the way Ilya expected.

He didn’t look hurt or betrayed or even particularly surprised. If anything, he seemed mildly surprised that the rookies had bothered to reach out at all.

At one point he frowned down at his phone and murmured something about hoping they wouldn’t get grief from the older guys for it, like their kindness to him might come with consequences.

That was the moment Ilya had bitten nearly through his tongue and looked away.

Because the acceptance in Shane’s voice, the assumption that being abandoned by most of his own team was simply how things worked, made the anger inside him spike so sharply he had to clench his jaw to keep from saying something reckless.

Fans, journalists, and even some of the people Shane worked with through his brand deals were far kinder.

The messages came in little waves. Sometimes a DM, sometimes a text from a reporter he knew, sometimes a tweet that Shane only happened to see when he checked social media out of idle curiosity. A few journalists posted respectful notes wishing him well. One of his sponsors sent a short email that simply said take the time you need. Every now and then Yuna would read one aloud if it seemed particularly thoughtful.

Shane always smiled when he heard them, but he squirmed, too.

The attention made him visibly uncomfortable. The kindness was almost harder for him to process than criticism would have been. He’d duck his head, mutter something self-deprecating, or try to change the subject after a moment like the praise didn’t quite fit anywhere in his brain.

Watching it made Ilya’s anger flare all over again.

Because strangers, people who barely knew Shane beyond interviews and highlight reels, seemed capable of basic compassion. While most of the men who had shared a locker room with him for close to a decade had apparently decided ghosting him was the thing to do.

Ilya didn’t say any of that out loud. But privately he accepted that whenever his next game against Montreal happened, he was absolutely going to spend a large portion of it in the penalty box.

Ilya had a meeting of his own the afternoon after Shane met with the Metros’ upper management. 

He drove to the Ottawa arena and went straight to Coach Wiebe’s office, having told Shane and Farah beforehand that he wanted to handle it one-on-one first. If things went sideways, which he didn’t really anticipate, they could always escalate it into something more formal like the meeting Shane had just endured. But his hope was that it wouldn’t come to that.

Wiebe waved him in with his usual casual demeanor and closed the office door behind him.

Ilya kept it simple. He didn’t overexplain, and he didn’t lie.

“My partner is having some mental health issues,” he said calmly, keeping his tone even and professional. “He needs additional support right now, so I’m taking personal leave for the rest of the season.”

He let the word partner sit there without elaborating further.

“My agent suggested we frame it as vague family reasons,” he added after a moment. “I’m not sure if my partner wants it known that I’m stepping away specifically for him.”

Wiebe nodded slowly and looked genuinely concerned. The reaction was far more relaxed than Ilya had prepared himself for.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the coach said simply. “Is he okay?”

“He’s getting help,” Ilya replied.

Wiebe leaned back in his chair, expression sympathetic rather than skeptical.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “you do what you need to do. We’ll all still be here when things settle down.”

Ilya hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been holding until it eased slightly in his chest.

“I’ll still be in town,” he added. “If the team needs anything, admin stuff, informal captain stuff, whatever, I’m happy to come by. Just not games or practice.”

Wiebe nodded again.

“I appreciate that.” He paused briefly and tilted his head slightly. “You’ll be here though? Not in Montreal?”

Ilya answered without thinking.

“Yes, well his parents also live here so it’s just-”

He stopped mid-sentence as the realization hit him half a second too late. Wiebe’s mouth curved into a small, almost sheepish smile. 

For a second Ilya’s heart stopped. He sat there, every muscle tight, his brain already racing through a hundred calculations at once. 

But then Wiebe just leaned back in his chair again and said mildly, “Hollander is lucky to have a partner like you supporting him.

Ilya’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“Thanks,” he managed after a second.

And then he waited. Because there was always a second part. Every single time someone found out (which wasn’t often, but still) there was always that look, that slightly baffled pause followed by the same question in different forms.

Shane Hollander is with you?

He braced for it out of habit but it never came. Instead, Wiebe chuckled under his breath and shook his head a little.

“Honestly,” he said, “I’m surprised… but I’m also not.”

Ilya’s brow furrowed.

“If you were going to date another player,” Wiebe continued, gesturing vaguely in the air, “I literally cannot imagine a more perfect match for you.”

For a moment Ilya thought he might actually cry. Instead, he just smiled wide enough that it hurt his face.

“Shane is… an amazing person,” he said softly. “Thank you.” 

Wiebe nodded like that was an obvious understatement, then the conversation moved on to practical things. He asked a few follow-up questions about how Montreal had handled the announcement, what sort of personal statement he or Shane planned to release, and whether there was anything Ottawa’s management needed to coordinate around it. When Ilya explained that Farah was managing most of the communication, Wiebe waved a hand.

“Good,” he said. “Then I’ll handle the rest of it on our end. You just focus on your partner and yourself for a while.”

Relief pushed Ilya’s shoulders down a foot away from his earlobes.

When the meeting wrapped up and he stood to leave, Wiebe surprised him again by stepping forward and pulling him into a quick, solid hug. Then he pulled back slightly, tilting his head like a thought had just occurred to him.

“You know,” he said, “any time Shane feels up to it, if you two ever want to come jump into a weight room session or conditioning day, I’m sure the guys would love that.”

“Oh?”

“Might do Hollander some good to stay around the ice in some way,” Wiebe added casually. “You know?”

Ilya nodded slowly. “Yeah. Thank you. I’ll tell him.”

Wiebe nodded, then frowned thoughtfully. 

“Might have to check with Montreal first though,” he said. “Just in case.”

Ilya couldn’t help it.

“Montreal can go fuck themselves.”

For half a second Wiebe stared at him. Then he burst out laughing and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Fair enough,” he said.

And with that, Ilya headed out.

That night, Ilya’s phone didn’t stop buzzing. One message after another poured into the team group chat, and for a moment he just sat there on the couch staring at the screen as they rolled in.

We’ll miss you, man.

Take the time you need.

Tell your partner we’re rooting for them.

If you need anything, seriously. Groceries, meals, rides, whatever.

Coach Wiebe had clearly kept Shane’s identity private when he spoke to the team because every message was vague about it, supportive and sympathetic without prying, the guys offering help in the same practical, easy way. 

Ilya felt something warm and complicated swell in his chest as he read them.

He was unbelievably happy. And also a little sad.

Because he had known these guys a fraction of the time Shane had known his own team and they were already showing more kindness and loyalty than the Metros locker room had maybe ever.

Beside him, Shane glanced over from where he was stretched along the couch with Anya half in his lap.

“How’s your team taking it?” he asked casually.

Ilya hesitated, suddenly weirdly reluctant to explain.

“They’re… being very chill about it,” he said vaguely.

Shane shifted closer and leaned over his shoulder to see the screen. He read a few messages in silence. Then he smiled, bright and genuine.

“Wow,” he said. “They’re really nice.”

Ilya nodded.

“They’re really good guys.”

He hesitated for a moment, his thumb hovering over the phone before he added, a little cautiously, “Wiebe… um, guessed who you are. I’m not sure how, exactly. But he didn’t tell the team.”

He braced instinctively, waiting for Shane to tense up or pull away or spiral into worry.

Instead, Shane just tilted his head.

“Really?” he said, sounding more curious than anything. Then his brow lifted slightly. “Was he weird about it?”

Ilya shook his head immediately.

“No. He actually said…” He paused, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He said he couldn’t imagine a more perfect match for me.”

Shane flushed instantly, the color spreading across his cheeks as he ducked his head, a delighted and slightly embarrassed smile creeping across his face. The sight of it hit Ilya square in the chest. For a second, he had the almost overwhelming urge to wrap Shane in his arms and squeeze him so tight he couldn’t possibly slip away.

After a moment, Shane rubbed the back of his neck and glanced up again.

“Do you think it’ll be that obvious to anyone else?” he asked.

Ilya considered it for a second.

“Some people might speculate,” he admitted. “Especially once Farah releases my statement in a few weeks. But Wiebe probably figured it out so fast because your team made their announcement yesterday. The timing lined up.”

Shane nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. That makes sense.”

He didn’t panic and he didn’t spiral. So, Ilya kept going.

“He also said if you ever felt up to it, we could come by the rink sometimes,” he added. “Weight room days or conditioning. Just to stay around the ice.”

Shane chewed thoughtfully on his lip.

“That actually does sound nice,” he said after a second. “Probably good to stay in shape a little. Plus… isn’t exercise supposed to help?”

Ilya nodded, though his eyes were still searching Shane’s face. He waited for the hesitation. For the worry about attention. For Shane to say it would be too much, or that he didn’t want the enitre team realizing who Ilya’s partner actually was. He even opened his mouth, ready to give him an easy out, but Shane spoke first.

“You’d be okay with that?” Shane asked quietly. “If they all know I’m… me?”

Ilya’s heart skipped.

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Of course. I mean, would you be okay with that?”

Shane nodded and tilted his chin toward the phone in Ilya’s hand.

“Look how nice they are,” he said simply. “And you trust them?”

Ilya nodded without hesitation.

“Yes. A few of them are queer, too, actually. So… it’s safe.”

Shane considered that for another second, then shrugged lightly.

“Then yeah,” he said. “If you trust them and you’re good with it, I’m good.”

Ilya looked back down at his phone and grinned so wide his face felt like it might split for the second time that day.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Shane asked suspiciously.

Ilya didn’t even try to hide it.

“What?” he said innocently, though the smile only widened.

Shane snorted. “You look like you just won the lottery.”

“Maybe I did.”

Before Shane could react, Ilya leaned forward and wrapped both arms around him, pushing him gently back against the cushions. Shane laughed as he went, Anya sliding off his lap with a disgruntled huff as Ilya crowded into his space.

Ilya kissed him, quick and warm, then once more before trailing a few kisses along the side of his neck.

“God,” he murmured against his skin, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, “do you have any idea how much I want to show you off?”

Shane laughed again, squirming slightly under him.

“Brag to my team that I bagged the hottest man in the MHL,” Ilya continued dramatically.

Shane rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You’re one to talk,” he said, reaching up to tug lightly at the collar of Ilya’s shirt.

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, still grinning.

“Ah, ah,” he said, lifting a finger in mock correction. “Cosmopolitan said it was you. Multiple years in a row.”

Shane barked out another laugh, shaking his head.

“That list is bullshit.”

“Absolutely not,” Ilya insisted. “Very reputable journalism.”

Shane pulled him back down by the front of his shirt before he could say anything else.

“Idiot,” he muttered, smiling.

Their mouths met again, this time slower and deeper, the laughter still lingering between them as the kiss stretched into something heady and lingering. Ilya settled more fully over him on the couch, one hand braced beside Shane’s shoulder while the other slid around his waist, drawing him closer as Shane’s fingers tangled lightly in the back of his hair.

They stayed like that for several minutes, kissing lazily and trading soft little smiles between them, the tension of the day dissolving in the warm living room light.

Shane scheduled three different intake appointments for therapy.

They had agreed from the start that he wouldn’t rush the decision. Everyone so far had insisted that therapy was as much about fit as it was about credentials. And if he was going to sit in a room with someone and unpack the ugliest and scariest parts of his brain, he wanted it to be with someone who didn’t make his skin crawl.

So they tried three.

The first therapist was Dr. Michael Harper, one of the names Shane and Ilya had found during a long late-night search back in California. He was a soft-spoken man in his late fifties with wire-rim glasses and an office that smelled faintly of peppermint tea and printer paper. He listened politely, took notes carefully, and asked all the right textbook questions in a voice so even and neutral that Shane occasionally wondered if he had accidentally walked into a prerecorded training video.

Nothing about him was bad. But nothing about him felt particularly alive either.

When Shane got back to the car afterward, Ilya looked at his face for two seconds and said, “You hated him.”

“I didn’t hate him,” Shane replied honestly, buckling his seatbelt. “I just… think if I talked to him every week I might fall asleep.”

Ilya laughed so hard he had to rest his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment before starting the engine.

The second therapist was Dr. Emily Hill, the one Shane had originally found himself gravitating toward.

She was younger, maybe mid-thirties and not much older than Shane, with a bright office full of plants and pastel throw pillows and motivational art on the walls. She smiled constantly, huge, encouraging smiles, and spoke in the upbeat, enthusiastic cadence of someone who would be equally qualified to teach kindergartners during the day.

“That’s a really brave thing to share, Shane!” she had said at one point, leaning forward with visible excitement.

By the time the appointment ended, Shane felt like he had just been gently applauded for forty-five minutes straight.

When he and Ilya debriefed that evening on the couch, he sat there for a moment before saying, very carefully, “I think if I ever tell her something really dark she might put a gold star on my chart. Or like, my forehead.” 

Ilya choked on the beer he was sipping.

“So that’s a no?”

“Probably a no.”

The third appointment was with the therapist Galina had recommended. Dr. Daniel Callahan.

Within the first half hour, the man’s background came out in an easy, conversational way.

Callahan was forty and originally from the States. A small town somewhere in the South where football wasn’t just a sport so much as the cornerstone of life. His father had coached high school football for nearly thirty years, which meant he and his twin brother had grown up on the sidelines and in locker rooms, running drills with varsity players before they were even teenagers.

By the time they hit high school it had been a given that they’d both play.

Callahan had gone the football route, playing through high school and into college as a linebacker before a shoulder injury eventually ended any serious athletic ambitions. His brother had gone in a different direction, gravitating toward baseball instead and eventually working his way into the minor leagues.

“Sports household,” Callahan had said with a faint smile. “Dinner conversations were mostly film breakdowns and protein intake.”

After college he’d drifted north to Canada, partly for graduate school and partly because his wife, who was from Toronto, had wanted to move closer to home. He’d stayed. Built a practice. Kept loosely connected to the sports world through old teammates and friends; one of his closest friends had actually retired from the NFL just the year before.

So, when Shane talked about locker rooms, pressure, contracts, the strange, suffocating expectations around masculinity and toughness in professional sports, Callahan didn’t even blink. He already spoke the language.

And when the conversation inevitably touched on sexuality and the unspoken rules around it in hyper-masculine spaces, he understood that, too.

“My twin brother is gay,” he had told Shane matter-of-factly. “Growing up where we did and when we did… that was not exactly celebrated.”

The Bible Belt. High school football culture. Church communities that expected boys to be tough, stoic, and straight.

“I saw how that played out,” he’d said calmly. “In locker rooms. In the stands. In our own house sometimes.”

The understanding wasn’t abstract. He had watched it happen in real time.

For Shane, that mattered more than he’d expected.

He reminded Shane of Hayden in a strange way. Same grounded vibe. Same easy steadiness. Like, if Hayden had had a brother that was ten years older. Or maybe if Shane had had a cool uncle who showed up at family barbecues with a cooler of beer.

When Shane got back to the car afterward, he sat there quietly for a few seconds. Ilya didn’t push right away.

“So?” he asked finally.

Shane looked over at him.

“I liked him.”

He didn’t elaborate, but still, the answer made Ilya’s chest explode with little fireworks.

At home that night, they talked through the pros and cons of all three therapists the same way they approached everything now, side by side at the kitchen table, or stretched out on the couch with Anya wedged between them, Shane listing observations while Ilya listened and occasionally asked gentle, probing questions.

Dr. Harper was competent but distant. Dr. Hill was kind but exhausting.

Dr. Callahan… Shane didn’t hesitate with that one.

“He gets it,” he said simply. And that was enough.

When Shane officially scheduled his first full session with Callahan, Ilya had to look away for a second because his eyes stung unexpectedly. It felt ridiculous and overwhelming at the same time.

Because a year and a half ago, he had forced himself into Galina’s office for the first time. Even though he was terrified and stubborn and convinced therapy meant failure.  And now, months later, that decision had rippled outward in ways he couldn’t have predicted. Galina recommended someone for Shane. Shane met him. Shane liked him. Shane was willing to try. Excited to try, even.

A tiny domino that had started falling back then had finally reached this moment.

For the first time in a long time, Ilya felt like he’d done at least one thing from the last awful year exactly right.

The afternoon Shane was at his intake appointment with Dr. Hill, Ilya took Anya to the dog park.

The air was still cool with the tail end of winter, the ground damp and a little muddy from melting snow, but the park was busy. Anya launched herself through the gate like a torpedo the moment Ilya unclipped her leash, already scanning the field for familiar dogs.

A few seconds later he heard someone call his name.

“Ilya!”

He turned. Sarah was jogging toward him from the far side of the park, Hera bounding happily at her side, ears flopping wildly with every step.

“Speak of the devil,” Ilya muttered under his breath.

A few days earlier, right after Shane’s meeting in Montreal, Sarah had texted him while they were still driving back to Ottawa.

It was a screenshot of Twitter. The image was a grainy photo of Shane pressed against him in the parking garage, his face buried in Ilya’s shoulder.

Below it, a thread of speculation.

The caption Sarah had sent with it had simply read:

bitch????? spill????????

Ilya had stared at it for a solid five seconds before replying.

👀
soon in person, promise

A few minutes later another message came through.

also is shane okay???
the medical leave thing sounded serious

And Ilya had answered honestly.

yeah he’s okay. but thank you for checking ❤️

Now, Sarah skidded to a stop in front of him, slightly out of breath and looking both thrilled and scandalized. Behind her, Hera and Anya collided in a joyful tangle of paws and barking.

Sarah folded her arms.

“So,” she said.

Ilya sighed dramatically.

“Hello to you, too.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You promised me in person.”

“And here you are, in person.” he replied, both hands raised.

“Do not play games with me right now.”

Ilya laughed. And then, because she really had been kind when it mattered and he had Shane's blessing, he told her.

They ended up leaning against the fence while Hera and Anya tore across the park together in ecstatic loops, crashing into each other and wrestling in the damp grass like usual. Sarah watched them for a moment, arms folded, then turned back to Ilya with an expectant look.

"This is the extremely condensed version," he warned.

“Condensed is acceptable,” she replied. “For now.”

He glanced out at the dogs for a second, gathering his thoughts, then started talking.

He didn’t give her every painful detail, but he told her enough. How he and Shane had met years ago, how what started as something casual had turned into something much bigger, and how they’d kept it secret the entire time because of… everything. The league culture. The rumors. The fact that Montreal had treated Shane like garbage once when questions about his sexuality started circulating.

“Imagine how awful they’ll be when they find out about me,” Ilya finished dryly.

Sarah didn’t even hesitate.

“That tracks,” she said flatly. “They seem like dicks.”

Ilya snorted.

“But,” she added quickly, brightening again, “I’m honestly thrilled for you.”

He blinked. “You are?”

“Yeah,” she said easily. “You two make total sense.”

Ilya tilted his head at her, genuinely surprised. “You really think so?”

“Oh yeah.”

He hesitated. “Most people are… incredulous,” he admitted. “They tell Shane he could do better.”

Sarah’s face darkened immediately.

“I mean,” she said, scowling, “if I only knew your public persona? Maybe I’d think you were kind of a menace.”

Ilya opened his mouth in mock offense.

“But even then,” she continued, pointing a finger at him, “I wouldn’t say that to your fucking face.”

He laughed.

“Underneath that though?” she added, her tone softening. “Yeah. I can see it.”

They watched the dogs again for a minute. Then she glanced back at him.

“So… the medical leave thing.” Her voice was careful this time, polite but sincere. “He okay?”

Ilya nodded slowly. “He’s… getting help,” he said. “His mental health hasn’t been great.”

He didn’t elaborate and Sarah didn’t push.

“I’m also taking leave,” he added after a second. “Personal leave. Hasn’t been announced publicly yet.”

“Oh. Wow.” 

Then she nodded, her expression shifting into something more practical.

“Well,” she said, “if you guys need anything, dinners, errands, someone to grab groceries, dog babysitting, literally whatever, just text.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said, genuinely touched.

“Seriously,” she continued. “We would happily steal Anya for a day if you need quiet time.”

Right on cue, Anya tackled Hera again and they rolled through a muddy patch like professional wrestlers. Ilya shook his head. Sarah laughed. Then she snapped her fingers suddenly.

“And you two have to come over for dinner soon,” she said firmly. “Both of you. And Anya.”

“We do?”

“Please,” she insisted. “Ashley will lose her mind if she finds out I know this whole story before she sees Shane again.”

“Blackmail,” Ilya said.

“Correct.”

He sighed theatrically, kicking loosely at the dirt and fighting a wide smile. 

“Fine.”

Sarah grinned at him triumphantly.

“Perfect.”

Chapter End Notes

louder for people in the back: *FUCK* montreal lol

also, not ilya, the king of clocking, getting *immediately* out-clocked by wiebe lmao

fun fact: this is the first time i've ever sketched out an OC, let alone multiple OC. but it's so fun??
double fun fact: dr hill is based on the very therapist i ever saw lol and callahan is based on one of my irl childhood besties <3

still no baby yet! but ya girl is TIREDT.

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

By the second week in Ottawa, Shane had settled into a rhythm with therapy.

He’d seen Dr. Callahan a handful of times already. They’d agreed on twice a week to start, given everything that had happened and how raw things still felt. Callahan had framed it matter-of-factly. We'll front-load support while the ground is shifting under you. And Shane had found himself nodding before he even realized he’d agreed.

It was going well. Not exactly easy. But so far it was good.

Ilya had warned him the first couple sessions might feel like getting run over by a truck emotionally, and Shane had quickly discovered that wasn’t an exaggeration. Every time he came home from an appointment he felt wrung out, like someone had reached into his chest and shaken loose every feeling he’d spent years carefully packing away.

Some days he just laid on the bed for a while, staring at the ceiling while his brain slowly decompressed. Other days he sought Ilya out immediately and simply folded himself into Ilya’s arms on the couch while Ilya rubbed slow circles over his back and didn’t ask too many questions.

Sometimes they talked about the sessions. Sometimes they didn’t. Both seemed to help.

He hadn’t met with the psychiatrist yet to talk about medication. That appointment wasn’t until the end of the month. Farah had offered to pull some strings and see if it could be moved up, but Shane had surprised everyone, including himself, by shaking his head.

“I think I’m okay waiting a couple weeks,” he’d said. “The therapy’s helping. And… everything else.”

“Everything else,” in practice, meant Ilya. And Yuna. And David. And Anya. And the little cocoon of support and safety that had formed around him over the past few weeks.

Ilya, for his part, had adjusted his own schedule and moved his appointments with Galina to twice a week too. At first he’d presented it casually, almost offhand.

“You go two times,” he’d said one evening as they were making tea in the kitchen. “So I go two times.”

Shane had frowned at him.

“You don’t have to do that just because I-”

“I know.” Ilya had shrugged. “But it makes you feel less self-conscious, yes?”

Shane had opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“…maybe.”

“Good.”

But as the days went on it became clear the extra sessions were helping Ilya too. There were things he hadn’t realized he was still hanging onto. Fear from California, the echoes of his mother, the lingering guilt that Galina was slowly and patiently helping him untangle.

Two weeks to the day after Montreal announced Shane’s medical leave, Ottawa announced Ilya’s personal leave. The statement was shorter and more vague; out for the remainder of the season, family reasons, appreciation for his leadership, all the usual language. But it still sent a ripple through the hockey world for about twenty-four hours.

There was speculation, of course.

Some people connected the timing. A few journalists hinted that it might be related to Shane stepping away. A handful of fans tried to turn it into something dramatic, some whispered about locker room tensions or secret injuries or even a clandestine romance. 

But the theories didn’t gain too much traction.

Ottawa had been out of playoff contention for weeks. Their season was already winding down, while Montreal was gearing up for a long postseason push, and before long the rumor mill moved on to more exciting storylines.

By the next day, most people had stopped talking about it.

The morning the announcement went live, they were sitting at the kitchen island with coffee, Shane still in soft sleep clothes, hair rumpled and falling into his eyes.

“Svetlana wants to Skype later,” Ilya said casually. “About my leave. Make sure I’m okay.”

Shane glanced up. “That’s nice of her.”

Ilya nodded, but his fingers tapped lightly against the mug in front of him. There was a small pause. Then he cleared his throat.

“I need to tell you something.”

Shane’s attention sharpened immediately.

“What?”

Ilya rubbed the back of his neck.

“I told Svetlana about us,” he admitted.

Shane blinked. “When?”

Ilya grimaced slightly. 

“While we were broken up. I was… not doing well,” he said, understatement heavy in the words. “She kept asking what was wrong. I eventually told her about you.”

He hesitated.

“I should have told you sooner,” he added quietly. “Or asked you first when I did it. I’m sorry.”

Shane shook his head almost immediately. “It’s okay.”

Ilya frowned. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Shane reached across the counter, brushing Ilya’s wrist with his fingers.

“I’m glad you had someone to talk to.”

Ilya still looked skeptical. “But it was not only my story to tell.”

Shane tilted his head. 

“You were miserable,” he said gently. “Of course you needed someone.”

Ilya didn’t answer right away.

Shane watched him for a moment, then added softly,

“Especially after what you said. About how I had Rose and Hayden and Jackie and you didn’t really have anyone who was just yours.”

That memory made Ilya wince faintly. Still. The guilt lingered in his expression.

Shane studied him for a second longer, then slid off his stool and stepped into Ilya’s space.

“Come here.”

Ilya barely had time to react before Shane’s hands were on his face and his mouth was on Ilya’s. The kiss was warm and unhurried, just enough pressure to make Ilya’s brain go pleasantly blank for a moment. When Shane pulled back, Ilya looked slightly dazed.

“That,” Shane said calmly, “was to distract you from feeling guilty about something you don’t need to feel guilty about.”

“…It worked.”

Shane smiled. “Good.”

Then he leaned in and kissed him again, just to be sure.

Shane had gone downstairs to the basement gym to do some cardio on the stationary bike. The house was quiet otherwise. David had already left for work, and Yuna had taken Anya out for a jog around the neighborhood. When Ilya opened his tablet at the kitchen island to call Svetlana, he knew perfectly well Shane had timed his workout to give him some privacy.

He made a mental note to thank him for it later. Very enthusiastically.

The call connected with the familiar chime, and Svetlana’s face appeared on the screen, her dark hair pulled back and one eyebrow already lifted in that way that meant she was about to interrogate him.

“Privet, Ilyusha," she said.

“Privet, sestrichka.”

For a few minutes she let him avoid the real subject entirely, which Ilya appreciated. They gossiped about small things first. Her latest project at work, a ridiculous story about one of her neighbors, a cousin’s wedding back home that apparently involved three separate vodka toasts and a minor fire.

Eventually, she circled back to him.

“How are you, really?” she asked.

Ilya opened his mouth to answer just as he heard footsteps on the basement stairs. He twisted in his chair instinctively.

Shane appeared in the doorway a second later, flushed from the workout, damp hair sticking to his forehead, T-shirt clinging to his shoulders. He paused when he saw Svetlana on the tablet.

Ilya smiled at him immediately. Shane smiled back, softer, but then made a subtle little motion like he was about to slip quietly back out of the room again, still trying to give him space.

Ilya pursed his lips and tilted his chin in an exaggerated request.

Gimme kiss.

Shane rolled his eyes but he walked over anyway. He bent down, pressed a quick kiss to Ilya’s mouth, then straightened and went to fetch a glass of water since he was already in the kitchen. 

Svetlana spoke again. But this time her voice came through in sharp and furious Russian.

“What the fuck? Why is he there?”

Ilya frowned immediately, glancing over at Shane, who had his back turned while he filled the glass at the sink.

“Because we’re together,” Ilya answered warily in Russian.

Svetlana scoffed.

“Oh, so he can just make you hide some more?” she snapped. “Make you feel like some hideous, awful secret all over again?”

Ilya’s stomach dropped. “Svet-”

“We talked about this. And now he has just wormed himself back into your life and-” More rapid, furious Russian followed.

Ilya reached for his headphones, plugging them in quickly and sliding them into his ears as his eyes flicked instinctively toward Shane.

He knew Shane understood some of what she’d said. Not everything. But enough.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ilya shot back. “Do not say things like that about him.”

At the sink, Shane froze for just a fraction of a second. His back was still to Ilya, the glass halfway to his mouth. He understood maybe half of it. Maybe a little more. The tone did the rest.

He took a slow drink of water and then carefully smoothed his expression before he turned around. Ilya was mid-argument now, leaning toward the tablet, gesturing sharply as he spoke.

Shane tilted his head toward the hallway and mimed a quick I’m going to shower motion.

Ilya glanced at him briefly and nodded almost absently, still focused on the screen as he fired another sharp sentence back at Svetlana.

Shane slipped down the hallway while the argument ramped up again behind him, the sharp rhythm of Ilya’s Russian filling the house.

He closed the bathroom door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, his breath a little shaky. Then turned the shower on and stepped under it, letting the water run hotter and hotter until steam fogged the mirror and the whole room filled with the dull roar of it. 

For a minute he just stood there with his eyes closed, letting the water pound against the back of his neck.  The phrases he’d caught downstairs replayed themselves whether he wanted them to or not, his brain grabbing onto them and sharpening the edges until they sounded worse and worse with each repetition. 

Make him hide some more
Hideous, awful secret
Wormed himself back into your life

By the time he shut the water off his hands were shaking slightly. He dried off too fast, dragged a pair of sweats on, and stood in front of the mirror for a moment staring at himself, trying to recalibrate his own expression before he opened the bathroom door.

The house was quiet now. 

He walked into the bedroom and found Ilya sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees like he’d been waiting for him.

Ilya looked up immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “She’s more upset that I hadn't told her yet than... about the rest.”

Shane nodded, though he didn’t quite meet his eyes as he crossed the room. Ilya opened his arms without hesitation, and Shane stepped closer, sliding automatically between Ilya’s knees the way he usually did. He fidgeted a little once he was there, his hands restless at his sides.

“I didn’t understand much,” he said after a moment, his tone deliberately mild, giving Ilya an easy exit if he wanted one.

Ilya snorted softly at that and tipped his head up to look into Shane’s face.

“You understood more than you’re letting on,” he said, trying to catch Shane’s eyes.

He was already starting to say something else. Probably about how Svetlana was wrong, how she was just - 

“I know,” Shane cut in carefully, “that my brain likes to lie to me about stuff like this, so I’m sorry I have to even ask you…”

Ilya’s brows knit together immediately.

“But,” Shane went on, voice thinning as the words came out, “is she right?”

Ilya blinked.

“What?”

Shane forced himself to look at him.

“Is she right?” he asked again, his throat tightening slightly. “About all of it. Especially about me just… worming my way back into your life.”

The word sounded ugly even to his own ears, and he almost wished he could pull it back the moment it left his mouth.

Ilya’s expression shifted instantly.

“Of course not,” he said. 

Ilya stood up fully then, closing the space between them properly, his hands settling at Shane’s waist as he drew him closer.

“You did not worm your way anywhere,” he said firmly. “I begged you to come back to me.”

Shane’s eyes flickered slightly at that, but Ilya didn’t let him retreat into the thought.

“I was wrecked without you,” he continued. “I was miserable. I was half a person.” 

His hands slid up, cupping Shane’s face tenderly as he coaxed him to meet his eyes. 

“You didn’t trap me. You didn’t force me. I chose you. And if anything, I should have worked harder to fix things between us so much sooner than I did. I never should have let so many months go by, moy lyubimyy.”

Shane searched his face for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction as he absorbed the certainty there.

“But I’m… a lot,” Shane whispered eventually.

“You are mine,” Ilya corrected gently.

Shane hesitated again, then murmured, “I don’t want you to feel like a secret anymore.”

“I don’t,” Ilya replied at once, shaking his head. “Solnyshko, do you think I haven’t noticed how hard you’ve been trying whenever we’re in public? The way you reach for me and touch me and don’t even look worried about it anymore?”

Shane shifted a little under his hands. 

“It’s not… I don’t want you to think I’m forcing myself or anything. That stuff isn’t hard - I just-”

Ilya cut him off with a brief kiss, soft and decisive.

“I know,” he said quietly when he pulled back, brushing his thumb along Shane’s cheek. “But I see it. And I love you for it.”

Shane exhaled slowly then, some of the tightness draining out of him as the spiral finally began to loosen its grip.

Ilya watched the change carefully, his thumb still resting beneath Shane’s eye, and then, almost mischievously, his face shifted.

“And for the record,” he added, voice lightening, “even if you were a worm…”

Shane blinked up at him, utterly baffled by the sudden turn.

“…I would still love you. And would gladly be a worm with you.”

Shane stared at him.

“In the dirt,” Ilya continued solemnly. “Crawling around.”

A helpless laugh slipped out of Shane.

“That’s disgusting.”

Ilya nodded gravely. “Yes. But romantic.”

Shane rolled his eyes, though the tension had already started to bleed away. Ilya leaned a little closer, clearly enjoying himself now. 

“Now your turn. You must tell me you would still love me if I was a worm.”

Shane let out a real laugh this time.

“You’re insane.”

“Tell me.”

Shane pretended to consider it with exaggerated seriousness before sighing.

“…Fine. I would still love you if you were a worm.”

Ilya beamed like he’d just won a prize.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

Shane rolled his eyes again but humored him. 

“And I would crawl around in the dirt with you.”

Ilya’s grin widened as he nodded eagerly.

“And eat… whatever worms eat,” Shane added with a faint grimace, “with you.”

Ilya tipped his head back dramatically.

“Yessssss,” he hissed in triumph.

Shane burst out laughing then, real and unguarded and breathless.  He stepped closer without thinking, pressing his forehead against Ilya’s as the laughter faded into a softer smile. Ilya nudged his nose lightly against Shane’s.

“That laugh,” he murmured, “is one of my favorite sounds you make.”

“Oh?”

Ilya nodded with complete seriousness. “Top five. For sure.”

Shane’s mouth curved. “Top five, huh?”

“Mmhmm.”

Ilya leaned in and kissed him then, slow and warm, lingering just long enough that Shane melted into it before Ilya murmured against his mouth again, half teasing, half sincere. 

“Want me to make you demonstrate the rest of my favorite sounds?”

Shane huffed a soft laugh, eyes bright now instead of troubled.

“Maybe.”

Ilya grinned and kissed him again, but this time he didn’t rush it. His mouth moved slowly against Shane’s, his hands steady at his waist. Gradually he drifted lower, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Shane’s neck just below his ear.

Shane tilted his head automatically, the motion completely muscle memory by now. A low sound slipped out of him before he could stop it, soft and involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His hand lifted at once to tangle in Ilya’s hair.

Ilya grinned against Shane’s skin.

“Mmm,” he murmured, lightly brushing his teeth back and forth over the spot. “There’s another favorite.”

Shane exhaled, half laughing and half breathless.

“I’m not sure this is fair.”

Ilya hummed in mild disagreement and pressed another kiss to the same place, slower this time. Shane’s fingers tightened in his hair, another soft noise escaping him before he could help it.

Ilya leaned back just enough to study his face, eyes bright with satisfaction.

“Top three, maybe,” he said thoughtfully.

Shane flushed.

“You’re ranking them?”

“Obviously.”

But when he kissed Shane again it was softer, the teasing and joking easing into something steadier and more reassuring as he lingered there, not pushing or rushing anything. Just basking in the warmth of him and the way Shane leaned into his arms instead of away.

Ilya’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

He glanced down from where he was half-reclined on the couch, Shane stretched out beside him with his head tipped against Ilya’s thigh, lazily scrolling through something on his tablet. Anya lay draped across his feet on the opposite end.

The message preview made Ilya sit up slightly.

Wiebe:
Hey. Some of the guys are planning on doing a pickup game after weights on Wednesday. You should come, if you and Shane feel up to it.

Ilya smiled as he set the phone down on Shane’s stomach. Shane blinked at it, then at him.

“What?”

“Coach,” Ilya said. “He says some of the guys are doing pickup after weights Wednesday. Asked if we want to come.”

Shane’s eyebrows lifted. 

“Really?”

Ilya nodded. 

Shane considered it for about half a second before his face brightened.

“That sounds really fun, actually.”

The smile that followed was small but excited, like the idea of being on the ice again had just lit a tiny spark somewhere inside him.

Ilya felt his chest warm, too.

“Would be a good babystep,” he said thoughtfully. “You don’t have to meet everyone all at once. I can check and see who is actually playing.”

Shane nodded easily. “Sure.”

Ilya picked up his phone again and opened the smaller group chat he had with a handful of the guys he was closest with on the team.

I hear there is pickup game Wednesday?

The responses came back almost immediately.

Bood:
Yeah!

Barrett:
After weights

Haas:
You in or are you officially retired now old man

Price:
Think Hayes is in too. Maybe Dykstra.

Ilya glanced down at Shane, who was watching him now with mild curiosity. Then he typed again.

I could bring my boyfriend and we could make it a 4-on-4?

The chat exploded.

Bood:
HELL yes

Barrett:
Your guy plays??

Price:
We need bodies bring him

Haas:
Wait you’ve been hiding a ringer from us??

Ilya’s mouth twitched.

Yeah he plays a little
Enough to keep up with us

Shane leaned up onto one elbow beside him.

“What did they say?”

Ilya turned the screen so he could see the messages piling in.

Barrett:
Tell him he’s automatically on my team

Bood:
Fuck you, he’s on mine

Price:
Bring him bring him bring him

Shane’s grin widened as he read. Ilya squeezed his knee lightly as he watched his entire face light up, as if for the first time in a long while, hockey felt a little bit like home again.

Wednesday afternoon, Ilya had practically buzzed the entire drive over, one hand tapping against the steering wheel while he talked, half excited and half bracing himself without meaning to.

Shane noticed, of course.

“You’re vibrating,” he said mildly.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Ilya huffed, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth as they pulled into the arena lot. He glanced over at Shane again, taking him in for a moment longer than necessary. Shane looked calm. Maybe a little shy, but not vacant or brittle in the way he had been over the past year.

Still.

“Remember,” Ilya said as they parked, “you do not have to stay if it feels weird. We can leave whenever you want.”

Shane snorted softly. “Baby.”

“What?”

“It’s a pickup game.”

“Yes.”

“With like… six of your friends.”

“Yes.”

“I think I’ll survive.”

Inside the building the air was cold and familiar, the smell of ice and rubber hanging faintly in the hallway. As they walked down toward the rink, Shane’s shoulder brushed Ilya’s once, twice, then his hand slid easily into Ilya’s, casual and natural.

But it still made Ilya’s heart skip.

When they stepped through the rink doors a few guys were already skating slow laps while the rest lounged along the benches tying skates or leaning against the boards talking.

Someone spotted Ilya first.

“Roz!”

Heads snapped up.

“Holy shit!”

“Look who finally decided to visit-”

A few sticks knocked against the boards in greeting as Ilya lifted a hand with a crooked grin.

Then they noticed Shane. The noise died almost instantly.

Barrett blinked. Bood squinted. Price skated a little closer to the boards like he needed a better look.

“…holy shit,” someone muttered.

Barrett leaned forward.

“Holy shit, you brought Shane Hollander.”

Shane flushed immediately, ducking his head slightly.

“Hi.”

Then Bood frowned at Ilya.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You said you were bringing your boyfriend.”

Ilya raised both eyebrows at them and just… waited.

There was a beat. Two. Then the realization detonated.

“OH SHIT.”

“WAIT.”

“YOU’RE DATING HOLLANDER??”

The bench exploded.

“Roz you fucking menace!”

“Since WHEN?!”

Barrett pointed wildly between them.

“You said your guy plays ‘a little hockey!”

Shane scratched the back of his neck, sheepish.

“Uh… yeah.”

“How long has this been happening?!” Haas demanded.

Shane tilted his head, thinking.

“2017-ish,” he said. “More or less.”

“Not counting all the years we were just fuck buddies,” Ilya said, very unhelpfully. 

The rink went silent again, save for Shane’s muttered Jesus Christ as he turned beet red. Then -

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME.”

Haas dragged both hands down his face.

“You’ve been secretly dating the most famous center in the league for years and you tell us your boyfriend plays ‘a little hockey.’”

Ilya slung an arm around Shane’s waist, looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“He is very humble,” he said.

Shane elbowed him lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

Bood grinned at Shane over the boards.

“Well, Hollander,” he said, jerking his stick toward the ice. “Good news.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“You just made this the most unfair, one-sided pickup game in the history of hockey.”

Shane laughed, bright and easy, and Ilya felt so ridiculously happy in that moment he was half convinced he might actually float away.

Chapter End Notes

sestrichka = little sister
did i use svetlana being protective *just* as a means to set up the "would you love me if i was a worm" bit? absolutely yes 100%

also g'bless the cens, i love them. shane's about to fall in love with them too

still no baby! i've run out of nesting to do so i've spent 90% of today in bed writing and soaking up cuddles from my 5 and 2.5 year old before their world gets turned upside down.

this might turn into 16 chapters? i'm not sure yet. either that or 14 and 15 might just be XXL

Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

A week and a half later, Shane came back from the psychiatrist with a thin stack of medication pamphlets tucked under his arm. SSRIs, SNRIs, side effects, onset timelines, contraindications. He dropped them on the kitchen table like they were scouting reports before a draft.

“I have options,” he said.

Ilya hummed from the couch. “That sounds promising.”

Shane didn’t sit right away. He spread the pamphlets out carefully, lining them up and immediately starting to read again even though he’d already gone through them in the waiting room, studying them like there was a right answer buried somewhere in the fine print.

Ilya didn’t hover, but after a minute he came over and sat beside him, dragging his chair close enough that their knees touched.

“What are the front-runners?” he asked casually.

Shane chewed his lip.

“This one has fewer sexual side effects,” he muttered, tapping one. “But more GI stuff.”

“And this one?” Ilya asked, pointing to another.

“Better for anxiety. But might mess with sleep.” He frowned slightly. “I don’t want to mess up my sleep.”

Ilya nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

They went through them one by one, Ilya asking simple, steady questions.

“What did the doctor recommend?”
“What feels less scary?”
“What side effect would bother you the most?”

Shane answered each like he was defending a thesis, methodical and precise, until eventually he narrowed it down to two. Then he just… stared at them, chewing his lip again.

Ilya watched the way his shoulders crept upward, the relentless perfectionism settling in.

“Hey,” he said softly. Shane didn’t look up.

“If you try one and you don’t like it,” Ilya continued, “you can stop.”

Shane’s eyes lifted.

“Then you try a different one. You don’t have to get it perfect on the first try.”

Shane’s gaze flicked between Ilya’s eyes, searching for the hidden clause, the consequence.

Ilya reached up and brushed his thumb gently along Shane’s temple, and Shane leaned into it automatically, unconscious and trusting.

“This is just like PT,” Ilya reminded him. “If you fuck up your knee and one rehab exercise hurts wrong, they don’t say, ‘Well, guess you’re doomed forever.’”

Shane huffed faintly.

“They adjust,” Ilya went on. “They try something else. You tweak the plan.”

His fingers slid back through Shane’s hair.

“You are not a failure if the first medication isn’t a miracle.”

Shane exhaled slowly.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Shane studied him for another second. Then he nodded.

“Okay.” He picked one, lifting the pamphlet and raking his eyes over it once more.  “Okay,” he repeated, quieter.

Ilya leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Proud of you,” he murmured.

Shane smiled shyly and nodded.

Bedtime that night was restless.

Shane brushed his teeth twice, checked that Anya was settled on the bed, then scrolled through his phone without really reading anything before sliding under the covers, only to sit back up again a second later.

Ilya watched him from the pillows.

“Tell me what’s rattling around in your pretty head,” he said gently.

Shane snorted softly at that, but eventually lay back down, staring up at the ceiling. There was a long pause before he admitted, “I’m nervous about the meds.”

Ilya nodded. “That’s understandable. Any particular part?”

Shane hesitated.

“Like… side effects.”

“What specifically?”

Another pause.

“…Libido stuff.”

There it was. Shane didn’t look at him when he said it.

“I like our sex life,” he added quickly. “I don’t want -I just-” The words stalled.

Ilya shifted closer, resting his hand lightly in the center of Shane’s chest, his thumb brushing slow circles just below his collarbone.

“You’re worried about things between us changing,” he said gently, “if the physical stuff changes, too?”

Shane nodded, his eyes faintly bright in the low light.

“I don’t want to lose that,” he said quietly. “I love it. I don’t think I’ll ever stop needing you like that.”

Ilya leaned over and kissed him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop needing you either,” he murmured, then kissed him again. Slow, lingering, long enough that Shane softened under his hands.

“But yes,” Ilya added when he pulled back, voice calm, “meds can mess with sex sometimes.”

He didn’t minimize it.

“But listen to me. I waited an entire year and more to have you back. A few weeks while you adjust, or even longer, that’s nothing. We’ll figure it out.”

He nudged his nose against Shane’s.

“And even if it takes a while to figure it out,” he added softly, “that’s okay too.”

Shane’s fingers tightened slightly against his skin.

“I would gladly become a eunuch tomorrow,” Ilya said solemnly, “if it meant you felt better. If the bad thoughts didn’t hurt you anymore.”

Shane blinked, then let out a startled laugh.

“Please don’t. Jesus Christ.” 

“I mean it,” Ilya said, smiling.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Well, I happen to be very fond of the parts they’d cut off, so don’t.”

Ilya laughed softly and kissed him again. “Yes, dear.”

Shane exhaled, some of the tension draining from his shoulders.

“We’d be okay?” he asked quietly. The question was stripped of any bravado.

Ilya cupped his face.

“You and me?” he said. “Always.”

He pressed their foreheads together.

“If we have to adjust, we adjust. If we have to be creative, we get creative.” A faint smirk flickered. “I am extremely resourceful.”

Shane huffed softly.

“But even if it’s different for a while,” Ilya continued, more serious again, tapping lightly over Shane’s heart, “that doesn’t change this.”

Shane searched his face. Ilya didn’t look away.

“We’re okay,” he said firmly. “Okay?”

Shane nodded slowly and shifted closer, tucking himself into Ilya’s chest as Ilya wrapped both arms around him.

They were almost asleep when Ilya spoke again.

The room was dark except for the faint glow from the hallway. Shane was breathing slower now, not fully under yet, just hovering at the edge. Ilya’s fingers traced lightly up and down his spine.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Shane hummed. “For what?”

“For all the years I made you feel like all you were to me was sex and hockey.”

Shane shifted slightly. Ilya swallowed.

“I was dumb,” he went on softly. “And terrified. And I’m sorry for everything I said when we fought. When we broke up. I didn’t mean any of it, solnyshko.”

“I know,” Shane murmured. “We’ve talked about it.”

“Still,” Ilya said. “It replays sometimes, and I feel guilty all over again. I had a whole plan with Galina. I was going to tell you the timeline felt too slow, that I just wanted to shorten it a little because I wanted to be with you all the time. And then I got frustrated. Lost my head. Gave you an ultimatum I didn’t even want. And I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

Shane looked up at him, eyes glistening.

“You remember how much of a dick I was to you in Sochi?” Ilya added quietly. “Which, sorry for that. Again.”

Shane nodded. “I remember.”

“It was like that,” Ilya said. “It wasn’t really about you. I lashed out.” He took a breath. “But you have never, not once, bored me. Not in almost fifteen years. You hear me? Never.”

Shane clung to the words, even as one eyebrow lifted sarcastically.

“I mean it,” Ilya said, huffing a small laugh. “I love teasing you, but you’ve never actually bored me.”

Shane let out a soft, wet chuckle and nodded.

“And you’ve never made me miserable,” Ilya continued, his hand sliding into Shane’s hair. “I was unhappy because I was depressed. And lonely. And scared. Sometimes my brain would lie and tell me you could see how alone I felt and didn’t care.”

Shane frowned. “I’m sorry. I should’ve-”

Ilya shook his head and kissed his hair.

“I should have told you,” he said gently. “Not hidden it until I exploded. But you have always made me happy. Not miserable.”

Shane nodded and curled closer into him.

“Except for when you dated Rose,” Ilya added flatly after a moment.

“Oh my fucking god.”

Ilya snorted softly, then sobered again, his voice breaking as he spoke.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you had no choice,” he said. Tears slid down silently down his face without permission. “Or that you were only valuable because of your career. I’m so sorry I made you feel like dying was easier than anything I could have said or done.”

Shane slid his hand up and rested it over Ilya’s heart.

“You didn’t make me feel like that alone,” he said softly. “My brain did some of that on its own.”

“I didn’t help,” Ilya said. “But I’ll do better. I’m trying so hard to do better for you. I’ll try forever if that’s what it takes.”

“You are,” Shane said. Then, after a small shift closer, “Me too. I’ll try forever, too.”

 Shane drew in a slow, exaggerated breath and blew it out again.

“I’ll tell you when I’m scared,” he added. “Instead of building whole futures in my head without you.”

Ilya’s thumb traced along his cheekbone.

“I don’t want to disappear into my head like that again,” Shane whispered.

“I don’t either,” Ilya said. “But if you start to drift, I’ll come find you.”

Shane hummed softly. “Deal.”

He pressed one last kiss to Ilya’s chest, and after a few moments his breathing evened out again.

Shane didn’t wake up cured.

The meds didn’t flip a switch, and therapy didn’t unlock some hidden door that made everything suddenly easy. Some mornings he still woke up hollow. Not catastrophically so, just gray and heavy-limbed and distant in a way that made everything feel slightly out of reach. Other days anxiety hummed under his skin like static, his thoughts racing for no clear reason, his chest tight with a pressure he couldn’t really explain.

He named it out loud now, though. Told Ilya when it was a gray day. Told him when it was a buzzing day.

And Ilya didn’t panic or retreat. He just listened.

Because he had those days, too. His came less often now. The sharp spikes and old spirals were dulled by a year and some change of therapy and medication, but they hadn’t disappeared entirely. The difference was that now they talked about them. They sat on the couch and said, simply, today’s hard, and let that be enough.

Healing wasn’t linear.

There were nights Shane couldn’t sleep, and afternoons when Ilya spiraled briefly if Shane was quiet for too long in another room, but they caught each other now before it got too far.

“Hey,” Shane would say, noticing the tension in Ilya’s jaw. “I’m right here.”

Or Ilya would knock gently on a doorframe and ask, “Gray day?”

And Shane would answer honestly.

Their relationship felt stronger than it ever had before. They still fought sometimes over small, ordinary things like dishes or who forgot to buy milk, but the fights didn’t feel like cliffs or ultimatums anymore.

One afternoon, walking through Ottawa, Shane laced their fingers together in broad daylight, right there on the sidewalk, and didn’t let go. He didn’t scan the street or hesitate, just squeezed Ilya’s hand once, easy and certain.

Ilya squeezed back.

Healing also opened up a great deal of space and at first they didn’t really know what to do with it.

For so long everything had been hockey or crisis or survival, and now there was just… time. Long, open mornings and afternoons and evenings that stretched out without urgency. 

So, they started trying things.

David taught Ilya how to cook. Properly. Not just follow a recipe and hope, but actually cook. 

He showed him how to balance flavors. How if something tasted like it was missing something, it was probably salt or butter. How to listen for the right moment to deglaze a pan. How to recognize when garlic was about to burn just by the smell. 

Ilya loved it immediately, almost obsessively. He would take notes, or argue about technique, ask why over and over until David would sigh theatrically around a wide grin and then spend another hour explaining emulsions in detail.

The first night it happened, Shane sat at the kitchen table with his chin in his hand, just watching them. He hadn’t realized how much he would like seeing Ilya excited about something that wasn’t him or Anya or hockey.

Soon, they started going to small date-night cooking classes in the city. Twelve people at most, a few hours long, where they cooked full meals from scratch. There were aprons and wine glasses and slightly awkward introductions at the start. 

The first time Shane was a little stiff and a little shy, but no one made it weird. They chopped shallots side by side, argued playfully about how much thyme was too much, laughed when Ilya flambéed something a little too enthusiastically and nearly set off the fire alarm. 

Shane relaxed, bumping hips with him while plating, feeding him a bite from his own fork without thinking. It felt normal in a new way, something softer, more domestic. When they sat down at the long table to eat with the others, Ilya looked lighter, like he was rediscovering himself outside the rink. Shane found himself smiling into his wine glass every time.

Shane found his own thing, too.

It started as a joke when Hayden sent him a Warhammer kit, but when Shane opened it, something clicked. The precision, the tiny brushes, the careful layering of paint all felt detailed in a way that soothed instead of overwhelmed. He started getting lost in it for hours, tongue pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth as he worked on absurdly small pieces.

Ilya didn’t make fun of him. Not once.

Instead, he sat with him sometimes, chopping vegetables or scrolling through recipe videos while Shane painted. He brought him snacks when he disappeared into it, setting down fruit and murmuring that he hadn’t blinked in twenty minutes, which made Shane startle and then smile sheepishly. 

Sometimes Ilya leaned over his shoulder and admired the work with complete sincerity, and Shane would light up like he’d just won something.

There were still gray days, still buzzing days, but now there were other things, too. Sauces that didn’t split. Miniatures lined up on a shelf. Flour-dusted aprons. Paint-stained fingers.

And one night, when Shane got lost in painting late, Ilya came up behind him, wrapped his arms loosely around his shoulders, and pressed a kiss into his hair.

“Hey,” he murmured.

Shane tilted his head back slightly. “Yeah?”

“You are really good at that,” Ilya said softly. “And so fascinating and interesting to me.”

Shane smiled, still focused on the tiny armored figure in his hand.

Because it was Shane, it didn’t stay a quiet little hobby for long. It became a system, then a project, then a challenge.

He started building full dioramas instead of just painting figures, creating tiny ruined cathedrals, snow-dusted battlefields, moss creeping up miniature stone walls. He sketched layouts first, measured scales, watched hours of terrain-building videos like he was studying game tape. One afternoon, Ilya found him hunched over a sheet of foam insulation, carefully carving brick lines into it with an X-acto knife.

“You are becoming a miniature architect,” Ilya said.

“Yes,” Shane replied without looking up. “It needs depth.”

Of course it did.

Soon the dining room table was covered in bits of plastic flora and fauna, tiny skulls, resin water effects, all of it spreading outward as Shane refined and expanded each piece. 

And because he couldn’t simply do something halfway, he made it competitive. He joined online forums, submitted photos to weekly painting challenges, won one, pretended not to care, and then refreshed the page ten times anyway.

Ilya helped, but he waited for direction.

“Two millimeters left,” Shane would say, squinting.

Ilya adjusted a tiny tree.

“Too far.”

He nudged it back.

“Perfect,” Shane murmured.

There was something deeply intimate about it. Shane trusting him not to mess it up, Ilya trusting Shane to tell him exactly what he needed. Sometimes Ilya leaned over and blew gently on fresh paint to help it dry faster.

Shane laughed. “You’re not helping.”

“I am absolutely helping.”

Ilya cleaned brushes like they were surgical instruments, held pieces steady while glue set, and before long it became another one of their things. Quiet evenings of focused work with music or  a movie playing low and Anya asleep under the table.

Ilya, competitive to his core, refused to be outdone.

Cooking evolved, then shifted, then became something else entirely.

Baking. Specifically, pies.

It started because David mentioned his grandmother’s crust recipe offhand, and Ilya became obsessed almost immediately. He practiced lattice work like it was a fine motor drill, tested different butter temperatures, argued about blind baking, turning the kitchen into a flour-dusted laboratory. One morning Shane walked in to find three identical blueberry pies lined up in a row.

“You made three?”

“I am testing sugar ratios.”

Of course he was.

By late spring, Ilya was entering local farmer's market competitions. He insisted it was casual.

It was not casual.

He researched judging criteria, practiced crimping edges until his fingers ached, tested egg washes until the crusts gleamed. Shane went to every one with him, standing just slightly back while the judges tasted, acting relaxed while vibrating internally. When Ilya won second place the first time, Shane scowled.

“Robbery,” he muttered.

The next weekend, Ilya won first.

They both tried to play it cool.

They failed.

Shane kissed him full on the mouth in front of the pie booth.

And none of it felt like a distraction. It felt like expansion. They were each building small worlds, one in miniature battlefields, one in flaky pastry and fruit filling. They cheered each other on, teased without cruelty, competed without cutting.

On nights when the gray crept back in, Ilya would nudge a half-finished diorama toward Shane and say, “Your armies require you, General.” 

Shane would roll his eyes. But he would pick up the brush.

And on the days when it was Ilya who felt hollowed out or a little adrift in his own head, Shane would notice just as quickly. 

He would wander into the kitchen, lean against the counter, and ask casually if they had any lemon bars left. Ilya would blink at him, then perk up almost instantly, already pushing himself upright and reaching for a bowl.

“No,” he’d say, energy returning like a switch flipping. “But I can make some.”

One night, they were tangled up in the dark, sheets half kicked down, one of Shane’s legs hooked loosely over Ilya’s hip, their skin warm and flushed against each other. Ilya traced slow, absent lines up and down Shane’s back.

“Is this what you pictured?” Ilya asked quietly.

Shane hummed against his chest, questioning.

“When we got to the end of your original plan,” Ilya said. “Retired. Old. Finally allowed to exist.”

Shane shifted slightly, thinking it through, then shook his head.

“No.”

Ilya waited.

“I thought maybe we’d coach. Or do commentary. Or something still hockey-related,” Shane said, voice calm but honest. “I thought it had to stay… adjacent.”

“Adjacent?” Ilya repeated.

“To keep you interested in me,” Shane said simply. “I figured I’d have to keep hockey in the picture somehow. So I’d still be desirable in some way beyond sex.”

Ilya’s arm tightened around him immediately, and he pressed a kiss to the top of Shane’s head.

“You are so much more than your athletic ability,” he said firmly. “I’m sorry for everything I said or did to make you ever feel that way.”

Shane nodded against his chest.

“I know. Thank you.” He tilted his head slightly and pressed a soft kiss to Ilya’s pec. “I like this.”

“Like what?”

“All of it. Cooking classes. You cussing at pie crusts in Russian. My dioramas. Walking the dog at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Even Mom and Dad being here all the time.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I like that I don’t have to be impressive.”

Ilya brushed his fingers through his hair, and Shane lifted his head slightly to meet his eyes.

“I love every single part of our life together,” Ilya said quietly. “Not just the highlight reels.”

He leaned down and kissed him, slow and warm.

“You and me,” he murmured against his mouth.

Shane smiled softly and echoed him. “You and me.”

It was a gray day.

Shane moved through it carefully, answering emails, helping Ilya taste-test blackberry fillings for hand pies, taking Anya out for a run even though the sky felt low and heavy. By evening they were on the couch, Shane curled into Ilya’s side with his chin tucked into his shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back to Montreal,” he said finally.

It wasn’t dramatic, just honest.

Ilya didn’t react right away, keeping his voice level. 

“Okay.” There was a brief pause before he added, “Is that just about playing hockey?”

Shane shrugged slightly. “Partly.”

“Mostly?”

“Mostly… long distance,” Shane admitted, and there it was. “I don’t want to do that again. I don’t want to go back to empty apartments or hotels and FaceTime and pretending it’s fine.”

Ilya nodded slowly. 

“Do you miss playing?” he asked gently.

Shane hesitated. “Not really.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow, thinking of the pickup games, the weight room, the easy way Shane laughed with his teammates here. Shane sighed.

“Okay. A little.”

“Skating?”

“…Yes.”

“Competing?”

Shane pressed his lips together. “Fine. Yes.”

Ilya hummed softly. “But not enough to go back?”

Shane shook his head. “Not to Montreal. Not enough to choose that over this.”

The couch, the dog, the paint-stained table, the pies cooling on the counter. Ilya traced his fingers slowly along Shane’s spine, feeling each notch as he thought it over.

“So don’t,” he said simply.

Shane blinked up at him. “What?”

“Don’t go back.”

Shane frowned faintly. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Shane opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Ilya kept his tone gentle. “You already took medical leave. Take the preseason off. Or longer.”

Shane stared at him.

“You can skate here,” Ilya went on. “Train here. See how you feel. No permanent decisions.”

Shane’s mind was already racing through contracts, optics, expectations, but Ilya reached up and cupped his face lightly.

“You’re allowed to keep prioritizing your health,” he murmured. “And us.”

Shane swallowed. “I don’t want to quit. I don’t think I’m ready to retire.”

“Then don’t,” Ilya said. “Just don’t go back yet.”

There was a long pause as Shane’s eyes flicked back and forth, searching for the catch.

“There’s no trick here,” Ilya added softly. “No ultimatum.”

Shane exhaled slowly.

“I barely miss them,” he admitted, almost guilty. “Other than Hayden and JJ. And I really do not want to be away from you.”

Ilya’s mouth curved into a small smile. 

“I do like having you all to myself every day.”

“Selfish,” Shane teased.

“Very.”

The next morning felt bright and ordinary, coffee brewing, Anya pacing for her walk, Shane sitting at the kitchen table in socks, staring vaguely at nothing while he woke up. Ilya leaned against the counter like he was about to say something completely unremarkable.

“What if you traded to Ottawa?”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“Ottawa,” Ilya repeated casually, stirring his coffee. “If you decide to play. What if you just didn’t go play for Montreal?”

Shane stared at him like he’d grown a second head. 

“…Would you like that?” he asked carefully.

Ilya snorted. 

“Yes. Of course.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “I love playing with you.”

Shane frowned. “I thought you loved beating me.”

“I do,” Ilya said, smirking as he stepped closer and set his mug down. “I also love beating you off.”

“Jesus.”

“But if we’re on the same team, we can find other ways to compete.”

Shane considered that, his mouth twitching like he liked the idea, but then the hesitation crept in and he chewed his lip.

“I don’t… it wouldn’t be too much?”

Ilya’s brow furrowed. “Too much what?”

Shane gestured vaguely between them. 

“You’d never get a break from me. Not at work. Not at home.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I don’t want to smother you.”

Ilya just stared at him for a second, then walked over and, without warning, climbed directly into Shane’s lap the way Shane usually did to him, slumping against his chest and going deliberately limp.

Shane let out a startled laugh. “What are you doing?”

“Demonstrating,” Ilya said calmly. “I want you to smother me. Just like this.”

He leaned back after a moment, threading his hands into Shane’s hair, thumbs brushing lightly at his temples.

“I never, ever, ever wanted a break from you,” he said more softly. “Not then. Not now. Please smother me.”

Something vulnerable flickered across Shane’s face, and Ilya’s expression softened.

“I would crawl inside your skin and live there if I could.”

Shane wrinkled his nose even as he smiled. 

“Gross.”

“I meant it,” Ilya insisted, grinning. “I dreamed about this. You and me on the same team. Living together. No distance.”

He rested his forehead against Shane’s as his voice got quieter.

“Pushing each other on the ice.” A beat. “But together. Not at each other.”

Shane’s hands settled at Ilya’s waist as he pictured it, morning skates, coming home together, no airports, no countdowns, his chest tightening not with fear but with possibility.

“You’d be okay with that?” he asked quietly.

Ilya smiled. “I would love that.”

Shane exhaled slowly, then nodded once. “…I think I would too.”

Ilya kissed him, slow and warm, not persuasive, just steady.

“You didn’t have to decide right now,” he murmured against Shane’s mouth. “It’s just an idea.”

Shane nodded, and he didn’t rush to answer, just carried it with him over the next few days as it surfaced while they walked Anya, while he painted, while they cooked.

Sometimes he brought it up directly.

“Would you still want top power play?” he asked one afternoon out of nowhere.

Ilya grinned. “Yes.”

“And if I wanted it, too?”

“I’ll flip you for it. Or the best blowjob wins. Healthy competition.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

Another time, Ilya added casually, “Also, our team movie nights are better.”

Shane snorted. “That’s not a real factor.”

“It absolutely is.”

Then later, “We have a funnier goalie.”

“Okay, now you’re just selling.”

“I am presenting facts.”

Shane pretended to be annoyed, but he was thinking.

A few days later, Shane brought it up again.

They were in the kitchen, Ilya chopping peppers while Shane leaned against the counter watching him.

“Your team wouldn’t care?” Shane asked carefully.

“About what?”

“That we’re together. Like, I know they don’t care when we hang out with them. But me actually being on the team might be different.”

Ilya snorted. “Shane. They love you.”

Shane blinked. “Really?”

Ilya nodded. “Really.” He tossed the peppers into a bowl. “Half of them already assume we are engaged.”

Shane stared at him. “What?”

Ilya shrugged. “They keep asking me when you are going to trade here, too.”

Shane’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“Because they like you,” Ilya said simply. “And together, we’ll be unstoppable.”

Shane swallowed. That hit differently than any contract pitch ever could.

“They wouldn’t make it weird?” he asked.

“They would absolutely make it weird,” Ilya said dryly. “But in a friendly way. And I told you, so many of them are queer too. If anything, they’ll be jealous of me.”

Shane chuckled even as his cheeks flushed.

“They’ve seen me miserable and anxious without you,” Ilya added more softly. “They understand what you mean to me.”

That settled something. Shane looked down at his hands, then back up.

“Okay,” he said slowly.

It wasn’t a decision yet, but closer. Ilya didn’t push, just bumped his shoulder lightly and kissed his temple.

The rest came out in a rush three days later while they were folding laundry in the bedroom.

“If a lot of your team is super queer,” Shane blurted, not looking at him, “have you hooked up with any of them?”

Ilya froze mid-fold. “What?”

Shane winced. 

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “We weren’t together. I don’t have any right to be jealous. I just… it would help to know what I’m walking into.”

He was talking too fast now. Ilya set the shirt down slowly and walked over, and when Shane still didn’t look at him, he tipped his chin up gently.

“No,” he said softly. “I have never hooked up with any of them. I didn’t hook up with anyone while we were apart.”

Shane blinked.

“I was…” Ilya exhaled. “I didn’t even see anyone else’s faces when we were broken up. I just wanted you. There was no one else.”

Shane searched his eyes, really searched, looking for any flicker or hesitation, and there wasn’t any.

“I was just… wrecked,” Ilya added quietly.

Shane’s throat worked. “You really didn’t?”

“No.” Ilya’s thumb brushed along his jaw. “I couldn’t.”

Silence stretched between them, then Shane nodded once, small. “Okay.”

The tension drained out of his shoulders.

Ilya studied him for a moment before asking, just as quietly, “Did you ever? When we weren’t together?”

Shane blinked. “With anyone else?”

Ilya nodded once. Shane shook his head immediately. 

“No. I could barely function. I was so empty I couldn’t even jerk off.”

There was no drama or shame in it, just truth.

“I wasn’t exactly thriving,” he added dryly, picking at the seam of a pair of shorts.

Ilya exhaled slowly, then stepped forward and pulled him in, strong and certain.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into his hair.

Shane shook his head lightly against his shoulder. “I’m not in that headspace anymore.”

“I know.”

They stood like that for a while until Shane finally spoke.

“Okay,” he said.

Ilya pulled back slightly. “Okay?”

Shane nodded. 

“Let’s call Farah tomorrow. Make a plan. Start angling for a trade.” He hesitated, then added, “And whatever we need to do to protect you, too. I don’t want you getting in trouble for colluding or anything.”

Ilya felt a bright and disbelieving smile breaking across his face. 

“You’re sure?”

Shane met his eyes. “Yeah. I’m absolutely sure.” A beat. “Are you?”

Ilya nodded, already a little breathless with it, then leaned in and kissed him, not holding back, hands sliding to his waist as he pulled him down onto the bed without a second thought, laundry forgotten beneath them.

Chapter End Notes

as promised, a XXXL chapter 14 lol. i probably could have added the last section re: ottawa trade to the first part of ch 15, but eh. too late lol

also "nearly 15 years" because they meet in 2008, boxing day fight happens dec 2020, in my fic, 2021 = break up year. so this is spring/summer of 2022

also, to clarify, ilya is the *only* one to know shane is feeling suicidal after he finds the journal. until they tell yuna and david and farah obviously. hayden jackie etc, they know something's up, but they just think shane is depressed because of the break up but shane has successfully hidden the worst of it from everyone, until ilya finds the journal. pretty much stays that way, shane keeps it vague to mental health recovery after all stars. so that. most people outside the family circle just think they had a bad break up, spent some time apart, got back together, so

 

also also still pregnant! will report back on that front when i finish up the last chapter tomorrow :)

Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

The morning after Shane’s trade deal was announced, a ludicrously large arrangement of flowers was delivered to Ilya’s house, but addressed to both of them. It took up nearly the entire entryway with an explosion of color and greenery and aggressively expensive taste. The kind of bouquet that looked less like a gift and more like the type of arrangement from inside a literal royal palace.

They both stood there staring at it for a long moment.

Shane had one hand wrapped around his coffee, still half asleep, squinting at it like it might rearrange itself into something more reasonable.

“…Did someone buy us the whole flower shop?” he murmured.

Ilya snorted, then crouched down next to it, poking at one of the oversized blooms like it might bite him.

“Anya,” he said solemnly, “I think someone has sent us a small forest.”

Anya sniffed it, unimpressed. Shane laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he took another sip of coffee.

Ilya stepped around the arrangement and hauled the card out, confirmed his suspicion, and snorted. Then pulled out his phone and hit FaceTime. Shane chuckled when he saw the name on the screen. 

“Tell her I said thank you.”

“Mhm.”

Shane reached down to scratch behind Anya’s ears, then allowed her to gently nudge him toward her food bowl.

“I know, I know,” he said. “Breakfast.”

She trotted off, nails clicking on the floor, and Shane followed her into the kitchen, still smiling to himself as he grabbed her food.

Svetlana answered on the second ring, perfectly composed, like she hadn’t just spent a small country’s entire GDP on flowers.

“Aren’t they stunning?” she asked in Russian.

“I cannot even lift them,” Ilya shot back. “This bouquet weighs more than my dog. What is wrong with you?”

She laughed brightly, tipping her head back, thoroughly pleased with herself.

“They are celebratory,” she said. “This is a big deal.”

“They are a logistical nightmare,” he muttered, shifting the vase slightly and nearly pulling a muscle. “Where am I supposed to put this?”

“Somewhere visible,” she said primly. “So everyone who comes over understands the magnitude of my approval.”

Ilya laughed at that, shaking his head as he straightened, propping the phone against the counter so she could still see him as he moved around to the kitchen.

Behind him, Shane filled Anya’s bowl and set it down, then moved to the breakfast nook with his coffee, listening to the rapid flow of Russian, catching maybe every third word, enough to get tone if not detail. He watched Ilya as he talked, easy and animated, still a little disbelieving under it all.

They spoke for a few minutes like that, Svetlana asking about the announcement, about management, about the media. He gave her the highlights, and she listened, sharp and attentive as always.

Then her expression shifted, earnest and nervous and apologetic all at once.

“Could I talk to Shane for a moment?” she asked, switching to English.

Ilya paused for half a second, then nodded.

“Of course.”

He turned slightly, lifting his voice just enough.

“Solnyshko?”

Shane looked up from where he was sitting at the table, halfway through his coffee, blinking like he’d just been pulled out of his own head.

“Svetlana wants to talk to you,” Ilya added, softer now.

Shane’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, surprise flickering across his face, but he set his mug down and stood, wiping his hands absently on his sweats as he crossed the kitchen.

“Hi,” he said, a little tentative as Ilya handed him the phone.

On the screen, Svetlana studied him for a beat, her expression unreadable, and then finally she smiled.

“Hello, Shane Hollander.”

Shane adjusted his grip on the phone, shoulders still a little tense but his expression open.

“Hi,” he said again, softer this time.

Svetlana assessed him for a moment, her gaze steady and sharp.

“I owe you an apology,” she said at last.

Shane blinked, caught off guard. “You don’t-”

“I do,” she cut in gently. “Ilya told me you’re learning Russian and you understood some of what I said. But even if you did not, it would not have mattered. What I said, and how I said it, was not fair.”

Shane glanced instinctively toward Ilya, who was hovering a few steps away, watching closely, then looked back at her.

“I mean, I didn’t understand everything,” he admitted. “But I got the gist.”

Svetlana’s mouth pressed into a thin line for a second, annoyed at herself more than anything.

“Yes,” she said. “I imagine you did.”

She exhaled slowly, gathering her thoughts.

“I was angry,” she continued. “Not at you, not really. At him.” Her eyes flicked briefly toward where Ilya lingered just out of frame. “And at the situation. I thought he was going backwards. Letting himself be hurt again.”

Shane nodded slightly, absorbing that without defensiveness.

“And I did not like feeling like I was the last to know,” she added bluntly.

Behind Shane, Ilya made a faint protesting noise. Svetlana ignored him.

“So I was protective, and I was hurt, and I was missing information,” she went on. “And I let my temper get the better of me.”

Shane’s mouth curved without permission. She noticed and smiled a little, too.

“Ilya and I have that in common at times,” she added dryly.

That drew a tiny laugh from him. “I’ve noticed,” he said.

She inclined her head.

“But the things I said about you were not fair,” she continued more quietly. “I assumed things about your intentions, about what you meant to him. I thought you were another person who might take advantage of how deeply he loves people. How willingly he gives parts of himself to those who do not deserve it.”

Shane didn’t interrupt, just listened.

“I was wrong,” she said simply.

“Thank you for telling me that,” he said.

Svetlana studied him again, a little more warmly now.

“And he is different now,” she added, glancing again toward Ilya. “Better. Lighter.”

“That’s mostly him,” Shane said.

She tilted her head. “Maybe,” she allowed. “But you are a big part of it.”

Shane flushed slightly and nodded a little, unsure of how to respond to that.

“But,” she said, her voice gentler now, “I am sorry.”

Shane smiled. “Apology accepted.”

Another small pause followed, and when she spoke again there was a hint of something more tentative beneath her composure.

“I would like to be friends,” she said. “If you would like that also.”

Shane blinked, a little surprised.

“But if not,” she added, lifting one shoulder faintly, “I understand. I have not made the best impression.”

Shane blew out a slow breath as the tension eased out of him.

“I would like that,” he said. “You’re really important to him. I’d love to get to know you better.” 

Then, after a beat, his mouth tugged into a sheepish smile. “Even if you kind of terrify me.”

Svetlana stared at him for half a second, then laughed, sharp and genuine.

“Good,” she said. “You should be a little afraid of me.”

Behind him, Ilya made an indignant sound and immediately closed the distance, wrapping his arms around Shane from behind and pulling him back against his chest, his chin hooking over Shane’s shoulder.

“Do not worry,” he said solemnly. “I will protect you from the crazy flower-mad lady.”

“Thank you, O Mighty Protector,” Shane said dryly, leaning back into his arms automatically. 

Svetlana watched the two of them for a moment and chuckled.

“I have some free time this summer,” she said. “I was thinking about coming to visit. If that is okay.”

Ilya lit up immediately, bright and unrestrained.

“Yes,” he said at once. “Obviously yes. Anya needs to meet Auntie Sveta properly.”

Svetlana’s mouth twitched. Shane smiled, softer now but just as genuine.

“And you have to let Ilya show off all of his baking,” he added. “He’s really, really good.”

Ilya flushed instantly, ducking his head a little.

“Do not oversell me,” he muttered.

“I’m underselling you,” Shane shot back at once.

Svetlana’s eyes flicked between them, taking it all in, then she leaned back slightly, amused.

“This is very interesting,” she said. “You go from terrifying hockey god, Russian menace-” she gestured vaguely at Ilya, “-to what is this? Practically a tame domestic house husband who bakes pies and cookies?”

Ilya made an offended noise.

“I am still terrifying,” he insisted petulantly.

Shane snorted as he leaned more fully into him.

“Oh no,” he said. “He’s definitely still a menace. He just also makes really good desserts now.”

Svetlana laughed again, shaking her head.

“Yes,” she said. “I believe that.”

That weekend, they had a cookout at Ilya’s house to celebrate Shane joining the Centaurs.

By midafternoon the place was full, the backyard loud with voices and music and the constant clatter of something being dropped or knocked over, the grill going nonstop while half the team rotated through in loose clusters with beers in hand, arguing and joking about nothing important. 

They were thrilled, openly and unapologetically so, clapping Shane on the back, pulling him into conversations, already folding him in like he’d always been there. Sarah and Ashley were there too, slipping easily into the rhythm of it, while Anya gleefully dragged Hera all around the yard and through the house like a tour guide with no off switch.

Since Yuna and David had already moved back to their own house weeks earlier, Hayden and Jackie had brought all five kids the day before to stay the entire weekend, taking over the in-law suite downstairs. The effect was immediate chaos. Sneakers littered the hallway, a half-built Lego situation spread across the living room rug, someone yelled for juice or a snack every ten minutes, and Anya wove happily through it all like she’d been waiting her entire life for this level of activity and attention.

At one point, Ilya stood in the middle of it all, his expression soft and a little dazed as he watched. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted this exact type of chaos.

Shane noticed, of course. He stepped up beside him and bumped their shoulders together lightly, and for a moment they just stood there watching the kids tear through the house like a small, sticky storm.

Their eyes met.

There was something speculative and wondering in it, something neither of them said out loud, but it hung there between them anyway.

One day.

One day this might be their kids.

Ilya’s mouth curved slightly, warm and almost disbelieving, and Shane’s answering smile was just as soft.

“Maybe not five, though,” Ilya said finally, a wry twist to his mouth.

Shane nodded at once. “Definitely at least two. Three might be my limit.”

“Agreed,” Ilya said.

JJ had come to stay too, taking the guest room, and he was a little stiff at first, a little unsure around Ilya in a way he didn’t bother to hide, but he watched. He watched how Ilya e checked in on Shane without hovering, how he touched him in passing, small and constant, how he lit up whenever Shane laughed.

It didn’t take long for something in him to shift.

By the time they were all outside, JJ was leaning against the railing with a drink, talking to Ilya like it was normal, not quite relaxed yet but no longer guarded, the edges smoothing as he saw how deep and genuine Ilya’s connection with Shane was.

The cookout stretched into the evening, the sky going gold and then soft blue, string lights flickering on overhead while someone dragged the speakers closer to the patio and the music got louder. People drifted in and out of conversations, the team loud and teasing and relentless in the best way, dragging Shane into jokes, chirping Ilya, arguing about line combinations like it actually mattered right now.

It was fun. Genuinely fun. More fun than Shane had ever had at any team event before, without the careful monitoring of himself, without that constant calculation of how he was being perceived.

Here, he just was.

At one point, Ilya came up behind him and slid an arm around his waist, tugging him back against his chest without thinking, and Shane leaned into it just as easily, laughing at something someone said across the yard. There was no hesitation, no second thought, and when Ilya pressed a quick kiss to his temple, Shane’s smile lingered as he melted further into Ilya’s arms.

In the days leading up to the party, Ilya had turned the kitchen into a full production line.

It started with one pie, then another, and then suddenly there were cooling racks lined with hand pies, tarts, layered desserts, and something with caramel he refused to name yet because it “needed one more test.” He kept notes, adjusted ratios, redid entire batches if something felt even slightly off, moving through it with the same focused intensity he brought to training, just redirected into butter and sugar instead of ice.

By the morning of the party, every available surface held something sweet.

Yuna walked in at one point, took one look around, and just said, “Oh my god,” under her breath.

Ilya only shrugged like it was nothing. 

“It is fine,” he said. “Maybe slightly excessive. But fine.”

It was not slightly excessive. But the moment people started eating, the praise came quickly.

“Oh my god, who made this?”

“Wait, this is insane.”

“Roz, did you cater this?”

Ilya immediately got weird about it, shrugging it off, waving a hand, pretending to be busy with something else, deflecting every compliment like it physically made him uncomfortable.

“It is nothing,” he said. “Just… something I tried.”

Which was very clearly a lie. Shane clocked it almost immediately, so he started correcting it.

The first time someone took a bite of a hand pie and made a startled noise, Shane leaned over casually and said, “Ilya made those.”

The guy blinked. “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” Shane said, like it was obvious. “He spent like three days on them.”

Ilya shot him a look from across the room, half warning, half embarrassed, but Shane only smiled sweetly back.

Then it kept happening. Someone else grabbed a slice of pie and swore under their breath, and Shane didn’t even look up from his drink when he said, “Ilya made that too.”

Another voice, louder now. “Roz, this is ridiculous.”

“He tested like four different sugar ratios for that one,” Shane added helpfully.

“I did not-” Ilya started.

“You absolutely did,” Shane cut in, grinning.

It became a pattern, Shane doggedly and persistently redirecting every compliment back to him.

“Ilya made that.”

“He worked really hard on that one.”

“Yeah, he’s been doing this all week.”

Ilya tried to dodge it, disappearing into conversations, retreating to the grill, pretending to be deeply invested in whether something needed flipping, but it didn’t matter. The attention kept finding him anyway, and every time it did, Shane was right there, steady and proud and completely shameless about it.

At one point, someone clapped Ilya on the shoulder and said, “Man, this is actually insane. You should open a bakery or something.”

Ilya made a face. “Do not encourage this.”

Shane laughed, warm and delighted, stepping in close enough that their shoulders brushed. Ilya glanced at him, a little helpless, a little flushed.

“You are making this worse,” he muttered.

Shane leaned in slightly, voice dropping softer, just for him. 

“You worked really hard,” he said. “You deserve to hear it.”

Ilya’s face softened slightly.

“Okay,” he conceded under his breath. Then, after a beat, he nudged Shane lightly with his shoulder, reclaiming a little ground. “You are on dish duty for a week.”

Shane grinned. “Worth it.”

A few minutes later, Jackie laughed and said, “Man, do you do kids birthday parties? I might need to hire you for the next one.”

Arthur overheard immediately and perked up, tugging on Ilya’s shirt.

Ilya dropped into a crouch at once, fully attentive. “Yes?”

“Will you make my birthday cake?” Arthur asked. “A big dinosaur one with rainbow flowers?”

Ilya didn’t hesitate. “Yes, of course.”

Arthur beamed, satisfied, and took off again.

Ilya stood back up, and Shane, who had been watching from a few feet away, saw it happen in real time, the confident yes followed by the tiny, immediate flicker behind Ilya’s eyes.

Panic. Subtle, but unmistakable. Shane’s mouth twitched. 

“You’ve never made a cake before,” he said casually.

Ilya kept his face neutral, but his eyes slid sideways toward him. 

“I have made many baked goods,” he said carefully.

“Not cakes,” Shane said, clearly enjoying this now.

Ilya didn’t answer, which was answer enough, and Shane bit the inside of his cheek, already picturing it, the kitchen turned into a war zone, multiple test batches, frosting experiments, Ilya aggressively researching piping techniques at three in the morning.

“Oh, this is going to be-”

Arthur came sprinting back before he could finish, skidding to a stop in front of them like he’d just had a revelation.

“WAIT,” he said.

Both of them looked down.

“Can it be a cookie cake? Like one giant cookie as big as the whole sheet?”

There was a beat.Shane exhaled in immediate relief. 

“Oh, thank god,” he muttered.

Ilya blinked once, recalibrating, and then nodded smoothly. 

“Yes,” he said, much more confidently. “That I can absolutely do.”

Arthur grinned like he’d just secured the best possible outcome and ran off again. Shane looked back at Ilya, eyebrows raised. 

“Saved.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes at him. 

“I could have made a cake,” he said.

Shane snorted. “Yeah. After like six test runs and a minor breakdown.”

Ilya huffed, but there was a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth now. 

“Is called dedication,” he muttered.

“I’m sure Arthur will be very impressed with whatever you come up with.”

Ilya straightened slightly, already shifting gears. 

“It will be an exceptional cookie cake,” he said.

Shane grinned. “I don’t doubt it.”

Because he was a menace, Ilya didn’t let the attention stay one-sided for long. He waved a handful of the guys toward the house.

“Come,” he said, grinning. “I have something to show you.”

Shane, halfway through a drink on the patio, saw it happening and immediately groaned.

“Ilya…”

Too late.

Ilya herded them down the hall and into the den, where Shane had his setup spread out along the table and shelves, dioramas in various stages of completion, paints neatly organized, tiny figures lined up in meticulous order. 

“Here,” Ilya said, gesturing like he was unveiling a masterpiece.

The reaction was immediate. A few of them slowed, then stopped entirely, taking it in.

“Also,” Ilya added sharply, pointing, “look with your eyes, not with your hands. I will kill you if you fuck up any of his thingies.”

There was a brief pause, then they all leaned in anyway, just more carefully this time.

Hayden’s mouth actually fell open.

“…I created a monster,” he murmured, eyes flicking across the tiny ruined village, taking in the impossible detail.

Shane hovered just behind them now, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“It’s fun, Hayd,” he said. “Thank you for that first kit.”

The reactions kept coming.

“Dude,” Haas said, squinting. “How do you even see to paint something that tiny?”

“Yeah, what the hell,” Barrett added, leaning closer. “That’s insane.”

Ilya, clearly delighted, reached over to a shelf and produced the little magnifying loupes Shane had bought, holding them up like proof.

“He uses these,” he said proudly.

Shane flushed. “Okay, you didn’t have to-”

“That’s actually genius,” Hayes cut in, already taking one and peering through it. “Damn. My eyes are already going to shit. Can I borrow these sometime? They’d be great for when I solder the little circuit boards in my synthesizers.”

Shane blinked, then laughed. “Yeah, sure.”

No one made fun of him. If anything, they leaned in harder, more impressed now, passing the loupe around, taking turns examining the tiny details.

“This is ridiculous,” Barrett said. “Like, actually ridiculous.”

Haas shook his head slowly. “I want to write an entire D&D campaign set in this little village.”

“Do it,” Ilya said immediately. “He will build you an even more elaborate one if you ask.”

Shane huffed a laugh. “Don’t volunteer me-”

“He already wins competitions with these,” Ilya added, unable to help himself, smug and glowing.

There was a collective pause. Then, almost in unison, 

“Well, yeah.”

“Of course he does.”

“It’s Hollander.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, cheeks still a little pink, something warm and pleased settling under the embarrassment as Ilya hovered just behind him, practically vibrating with pride.

“See?” Ilya murmured, leaning in just enough for only Shane to hear. “You are multi-talented.”

Shane bumped his shoulder lightly into him.

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t mean it.

A while later, Shane realized he’d drifted into a pocket of quiet with just Hayden and JJ.

They’d taken the trade news better than he’d expected, not thrilled, obviously, but not blindsided either. They’d been there, had seen how last season had gone, the way the team had turned on him and how it had worn him down, so there wasn’t much surprise left in it.

Hayden tipped his chin toward the house, where the dioramas were set up. 

“Seriously though,” he said, “those are sick.”

“Thanks.”

There was a brief pause, then Hayden shifted his weight, glancing out over the yard before looking back at him.

“Honestly,” he said, “if the kids weren’t settled in school… I’d follow you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah?” Shane asked.

Hayden shrugged. “Yeah. I mean it. Gonna miss you, bud.”

JJ cleared his throat beside him, less casual, and for a second didn’t quite meet Shane’s eyes.

“I’m sorry I was weird about Roz,” he said. “When you first told me.”

Shane shifted his weight slightly. JJ finally looked up.

“He’s good to you. And your new team… they’re good.” JJ paused, then added dryly, “A bit shit at hockey. But good people.”

Shane tipped his head back and laughed, full and bright.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “Try not to take it too hard when we destroy you guys in a few months.”

Hayden snorted, JJ rolled his eyes even as he smiled, and just like the changes didn’t feel like an ending so much as a shift. 

They went to the cottage because they always did, save for last year. Because now, this year, they could. Because it didn’t hurt to think of being there alone anymore.

The lake was still the same. The dock a little warped, the trees thick and whispering, the air carrying that familiar mix of pine and water and smoke.

On the second night, they built a small fire in the pit by the shore. They sat close together on the wooden patio furniture with a blanket draped over both of them, Shane tucked half into Ilya’s side, Anya curled at their feet, the crackle of wood and distant night sounds filling the air.

It was the night before their anniversary, when they’d first said I love you all those years ago.

After a long stretch of comfortable silence, Shane shifted slightly.

“Can you help me with something?” he asked quietly. “It’s kind of… heavy.”

Ilya didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

Shane stood and went inside the cottage, and Ilya watched the warm rectangle of light from the door, listening to the faint creak of floorboards as he moved around. When Shane came back, he was holding something, and Ilya recognized it immediately.

The old journal.

His chest tightened.

Shane sat again and set it on his lap, running his thumb over the worn edge as the fire popped softly between them.

“When I started this, I was so miserable,” Shane said. “I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again.”

He opened it, the pages somehow familiar and foreign all at once.

“I thought this was the only thing that made sense.”

He flipped to the back, to the letters, and Ilya stayed quiet, watching him. Shane looked over at him.

“I don’t want to keep these,” he said after a beat. “I don’t want to need them.”

Ilya nodded once. “Okay.”

Shane tore out the first page, the sound louder than it should have been in the dusk, and handed it to him. They held it together for a second, then fed it into the fire, watching as the edges curled, the ink darkened, and then disappeared.

They took turns after that, page by page, letter by letter.

Shane’s hands shook once, just once, but he didn’t stop.

When they reached the letters addressed to Ilya, he hesitated.

“These were the hardest,” he admitted quietly. “I couldn’t get them right.”

Ilya reached over and squeezed his knee. “You don’t ever have to get it right.”

Shane nodded, staring down at the paper.

“I wasn’t going to do it,” he said.

The words settled between them.

“I mean… I thought I was. I had a plan. I had a lot of stuff lined up.” His jaw flexed slightly. “But I told myself I wasn’t allowed to until I got yours right.”

Ilya’s breath stuttered. Shane let out a small, almost disbelieving huff and looked at the fire instead of at him.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “No matter how I wrote it, it didn’t feel finished. Or honest. Or… enough.”

His voice stayed steady, but softer now.

“In a weird way, I think I was protecting myself,” he went on. “The same way I left this on the nightstand instead of hiding it in my bag.”

Ilya turned toward him fully. “Protecting yourself?”

Shane nodded once.

“Because deep down… I wanted this.” He gestured vaguely between them, the cottage, the lake, the fire. “You and me. Alive. Together and happy.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I couldn’t get the letter right because I didn’t actually want it to be over.”

Ilya’s eyes burned. He reached up and cupped Shane’s face in both hands.

“I do not ever want to lose you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t care about hockey. I don’t care about reputation. I don’t care about timing.”

He pressed their foreheads together.

“I just want you.”

Shane nodded, eyes shining in the firelight.

“Me too,” he said quietly. “I don’t ever want to lose you either.”

They sat there for a moment, breathing each other in, and then Shane fed the last of the letter into the flames. They watched it curl, fade, and disappear, the smoke drifting upward into the dark sky as the past turned to ash.

A few nights after they burned the journal, the lake stretched golden and bright beyond the trees, the dock turning dark and opaque from the house as the sun went down.

Inside, Shane had gotten pulled into something small and precise. He sat at the table with a single lamp on, hunched slightly over a figurine Haas had asked him to paint, one elbow braced on the wood, the tiniest brush in his hand, his tongue pressed faintly to the corner of his mouth as he worked. The rest of the world had narrowed to the fine line of color he was laying along a piece of impossibly small armor, the kind of focus where hours slipped by without him noticing.

From the doorway, Ilya watched him for a moment, taking in the way Shane’s shoulders had relaxed, the steadiness of his breathing. He smiled to himself, stepped over to press a soft kiss to the top of his head, and murmured that he and Anya were going outside for a while. Shane hummed in acknowledgment without looking up, still focused, and Ilya slipped back out without interrupting.

The twilight air was cool. Ilya moved down toward the dock with a small box tucked under his arm, then another, and another, making a few trips until he had everything he needed. He worked methodically, placing them one by one along the edges of the dock, scattering them in loose clusters, lining the steps down toward the water, until dozens of small electric tea lights glowed softly against the dark lake, their reflections trembling below. He adjusted a few, stepped back, considered it, and when it felt right, he headed back inside.

Shane hadn’t moved much. Still bent over the table, still painting, a faint crease between his brows now. Ilya came up behind him and rested his hands lightly on his shoulders. 

“Hey,” he said softly.

Shane hummed. “Mhm?”

“You have been here too long.”

“Almost done,” Shane murmured.

“You said that four hours ago.”

Shane huffed a light laugh, and Ilya squeezed his shoulders once before leaning down to brush a quick kiss against his temple.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Take a break.”

Shane hesitated, then set the brush down carefully and leaned back, stretching slightly. 

“Okay.”

Ilya tugged him gently to his feet. 

“Go change. Out of your paint clothes.”

Shane blinked. “Why?”

“I have a surprise.”

That got his attention. One eyebrow lifted as a smile tugged at his mouth, and a few minutes later he came back in jeans and a soft t-shirt.

“Alright,” he said. “What’s the catch?”

Ilya didn’t answer. He just held out a blindfold.

Shane looked at it, then back at him, one eyebrow arching higher before he laughed and stepped closer anyway, tipping his chin up in silent permission. Ilya tied it into place with careful fingers brushing through his hair.

“Can’t see?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Good.”

There was a beat.

“…Is this a sex thing?” Shane asked.

Ilya snorted. “Pervert.”

He stepped in behind him, close enough that Shane could feel the line of his body pressed against his own as his mouth brushed lightly along the shell of his ear.

“But it can be,” he murmured. “Later. If you want.”

Shane let out a small, surprised laugh, shoulders hunching slightly. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed, hands settling at his hips as he guided him forward. 

“Step. There’s a doorframe.”

Shane moved easily with him, trusting even one hand drifting back to catch lightly at Ilya’s wrist as they made their way out the back door, the cool dusk air brushing his skin.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“You will see,” Ilya said.

He guided him down the path, across the grass, onto the dock, the wood creaking faintly beneath them. Then he stopped, reached up, and untied the blindfold.

Shane blinked as darkness shifted into soft gold.

The dock glowed, dozens of tiny lights flickering around them, reflected in the water so it felt like they were standing in something endless and warm. For a second, he just stared.

“…Ilya.”

Ilya watched his face more than the lights. 

“Hi,” he said softly.

Shane let out a small breath, something like a laugh caught in it as his gaze moved over everything and back to him. 

“You did all this?”

Ilya shrugged, suddenly a little shy. “

It was not so difficult.”

Shane shook his head, stepping closer. “It’s beautiful.”

Ilya smiled. 

“So are you.”

Shane reached for him, catching his shirt and pulling him in.

“C’mere.”

The dock creaked gently beneath them as they leaned into each other, surrounded by light and water. They stood there for a moment, the lake stretching dark and quiet, the lights flickering around them.

Then Ilya took a slow breath.

Shane felt the shift, the way his hands loosened slightly before he stepped back just enough to look at him properly. His face was serious.

“Ilya?”

Ilya exhaled once, then reached for his hands, holding them between them.

“I love you,” he said, soft and certain. “I have loved you for so long. Even when I was stupid. Even when I was scared. Even when I did not know how to feel it properly.”

Shane’s breath caught, his eyes already shining.

“You changed my life,” Ilya continued, softer now. “In ways I did not expect. In ways I did not think I deserved. And now I do not ever want a version of my life that does not have you in it. Not for one second.”

Shane swallowed hard, his grip tightening.

“I want all of it,” Ilya said. “The boring days. The loud days. The bad days. The good ones. I want… forever, with you.”

Shane’s breath broke slightly. And then Ilya dropped to one knee. The box appeared in his hand, and Shane’s brain caught up a second later.

“Oh-” he choked, then barked, “oh fuck off-”

He laughed, twisting slightly away, swiping at his eyes, and Ilya blinked up at him, startled.

“Shane…?”

“Wait, just, hang on,” Shane managed, already digging into his pocket, still laughing breathlessly.

He pulled out a box of his own. There was a beat. Then he dropped to his knees in front of Ilya, both of them eye level now, both half-laughing, half-crying.

“You asshole,” Shane said, holding it up. “I was literally about to-”

Ilya stared, then started laughing too, helpless and bright.

“You-”

“Yes,” Shane shot back. “Me.”

For a second they just knelt there, both holding rings, both a little wrecked.

“Okay,” Ilya said finally, breathless.

“Okay,” Shane echoed.

They both started at the same time.

“Will you-”

They broke off, laughing again.

“You go,” Shane said.

“No, you-”

“Rock paper scissors?”

“No.”

Another breath, both trying and failing to steady themselves. Then Ilya reached forward, catching Shane’s hand.

“Shane,” he said softly. “Will you marry me?”

Shane’s smile broke wide and breathless. “Yes. Obviously, yes.”

Relief and laughter spilled out of Ilya at once. “Yes?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Shane said again, firmer. “Yes, idiot.”

“Good.”

“My turn,” Shane said, flipping open his own box with slightly shaky fingers. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Ilya said immediately.

And then they were laughing again, leaning into each other, the dock glowing around them.

They fumbled the rings, of course, hands not quite steady, laughing when Ilya nearly dropped his and when Shane had to switch hands, both of them dissolving into breathless giggles.

“Hold still,” Ilya muttered.

“You’re the one shaking.”

“Because you are distracting me.”

“I’m literally just sitting here.”

“Exactly.”

Eventually they got them on. Two rings on two hands.

They both paused, just looking, at their hands, at each other, and then Shane let out a soft, disbelieving laugh and Ilya pulled him in without thinking, kissing him. It was a little clumsy, a little giddy, both of them smiling into it, laughing softly between breaths, Shane’s hands at his face, Ilya’s at his waist.

“Hi,” Shane murmured again.

“Hi,” Ilya echoed.

They kissed again, slower now, warmer, and when Ilya pulled back, something mischievous flickered back into his expression.

“Okay,” he said.

Shane blinked. “Okay?”

“Yes. Now we go back inside so I can blindfold you again.”

Shane huffed a laugh. “Oh, now it’s a sex thing?”

“Always was,” Ilya said lightly, then glanced around the dock, the lights flickering. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“…you let me tie it back on you out here.”

Shane stared at him, then laughed, shaking his head as he shuffled closer.

“You’re insatiable.”

“I just got engaged,” Ilya said very seriously. “I think I am allowed to be a little unhinged.”

Shane snorted. Ilya gestured around them. 

“Look at all this effort. You would waste it?”

Shane’s laughter softened, his gaze darkening slightly as he looked at him.

“No,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t.”

Ilya’s breath caught.

Shane closed the space between them, his hand sliding up to Ilya’s jaw as he kissed him again, deeper now, slower, more deliberate, and Ilya made a soft sound against his mouth, one hand coming up to the back of Shane’s neck, holding him there as the lights flickered and the lake and the woods stretched out quiet and endless beyond them.

Chapter End Notes

WE DID IT JOE <3

a XXXXL final chapter. huzzah!

it's past midnight where i am, i officially did not have a st patty's day baby. BUT i have to be at the hospital in ~7 hours for my induction appt so <3 everyone say thank you to Baby HollidayParty for letting her mom finish this hollanov fic before her birthday lmao

if you see another update in a few days, that'll just be me, confirming baby made it earthside safely <3 love yalllllllllllll

Chapter 16: Baby HollidayParty is Here!

Hello hello!

No chapter update, just a life one :)

Just a quick little note to say thank you for all of the outpouring of love and well wishes for me and baby! She arrived around 9 pm on 3/18 and is absolutely perfect and healthy. It was the easiest/fastest delivery I had out of my 3 kids and I am deeply relieved to no longer be pregnant/never be pregnant again lmao.

I have been blissed out soaking up newborn cuddles as well as all the praise and compliments on this work and my other hollanov stuff. Yall really know how to make a freshly post-partum hormonal lady feel special 😭 Love yall <3

ps baby tax

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