Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Cliff Marlow & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Amnesia, this is very much a hollywood amnesia story i'm afraid, in that this is less about exploring realistic memory loss than it is about breaking hollanov to look at their shiny insides, Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, even when he doesn't remember him, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, enough to let him go, News Media, Coming Out, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Memory Loss, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, Power Bottom Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, I FINALLY CONTRIBUTE TO THE TAG I BIRTHED YAY, Devotion, Getting Together, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Screen Reader Friendly, Multimedia

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-04 Completed: 2026-02-27 Words: 28,332 Chapters: 8/8

Signs of Life

Summary

There is a strong scent of antiseptic in the air, the kind that always haunts hospitals and morgues. Ilya thinks it is fitting. He thinks, perhaps, that some vital organ of his is failing irreparably, and he is only waiting for a doctor to call out his time of death.

“You have lost your memories.” It’s not a question. Ilya’s burning hand drops from Shane’s cheek.

“Yeah,” Shane says easily. “Wait, shit, did no one tell you?”

“Is it temporary.” Ilya’s voice is hoarse, pleading. “This memory loss, is it… tell me that it is temporary.” Please, please, God. I know I promised to give anything up, but-

Shane looks at Ilya with wide eyes. “They don’t know,” he says gently. He seems to be catching onto Ilya’s distress despite the drugs in his system.

Ilya feels cold all over. Yes, any moment now, they will cover him with a white sheet and take him away.

Shane's concussion in S01E05 leaves him missing his memories from the last decade. Ilya is now the only person in the world who knows the truth about him and Shane, and is forced to question whether to burden Shane with their complicated relationship or to walk away.

Notes

To Anna, who was both alpha & beta to this fic, and who inspires me every day. Ily.
And to the cottage gc, who are all lovely, intelligent, and so full of fantastic suggestions.

Chapter titles are taken from Margaret Atwood's 'A Visit'.

Base code for the WhatsApp texts and tutorial here. Please turn work skins on! If you use a screen reader, the coded texts should still work for you. if they don't, please let me know. if anyone has any other issues with accessibility, also let me know.

Base newspaper template here. If you hover or click on 'The Montreal Minute', you'll get a navigation bar with links that take you to different fics :D

Chapter 1: A forest made of shadows...

April 13, 2017 — Montreal General Hospital, Montreal

Ilya shouldn’t be here. 

He has enough reason to be here, of course. He is the captain of the team that put Shane in the hospital. Had this been anyone else, or had he not known Shane Hollander the way he does, this is exactly what he would do — visit to offer condolences on behalf of the team, on behalf of the offending player. He would tell Marleau to wait on apologizing in person, to save it for when the media has calmed down and Hollander has recovered a little. Ilya would make sure Shane was okay, apologize to him, and wish him well on his recovery. Then he would leave. 

These hypotheticals mean nothing, because Shane Hollander isn’t just some fucking coworker or rival that Ilya feels nothing beyond professional respect towards. Shane Hollander is everything to Ilya. He worries that he cannot pretend otherwise, that everyone in the hospital will know the second they see him. They will all know just how fucking weak and scared Ilya Rozanov is. He worries that if they let him into Shane’s room, he will never find the strength to leave. 

Still, what’s the alternative? Wait to find out how Shane’s doing from the news? Fuck no. There is no other option. He has to see Shane now.

He got the room number from his coach — 1410, because Ilya’s life was a fucking joke. He checked at the nurse’s station that there weren’t any other visitors at the moment under the pretense of having great respect for the hospital’s limited visitors policy. He has been waiting long enough. He should go in now instead of stalling. 

He takes a second to peer into the room through the small pane of glass in the door. Shane looks so small and vulnerable in a hospital bed. He can’t bear the sight of Shane so still; he pushes the door open.

Shane’s head raises immediately at the creaking of the door. His brows draw together, but his lips pull into an immediate smile. “Ilyaaaaa!” Shane drags the word out like a song, sounding both delighted and as high as a kite. 

Ilya shushes Shane, making sure the door behind him is shut. Ilya had to fight so hard to keep their secret hidden when Shane was first hit, and he had only managed to do so because he knew it was what Shane would want. It would be stupid to trip at the finish line. 

“I, uh… I just wanted to…” Ilya starts. It feels so inadequate. He can’t draw the right words out past the fear lodged in his throat. Better to just cut to the chase. “Are you okay?”

Shane laughs lightly in response. So unaffected by his injury. Doesn't he know what it did to Ilya to see him like that? To see Shane hurting, and know he couldn’t help? He couldn’t ride with Shane in the ambulance. Fuck, he couldn’t even hold Shane’s hand as they waited for the medics. All he could do was stand there and watch Shane's deathly still body being taken away. Helpless, just like he has been over and over again in the face of people he loves.

It doesn't matter, Ilya tells himself. Shane's here, and he's okay. That's all that matters. 

“You know, Ilya Rozanov, everyone told me we haaaated each other,” Shane mumbles out. He's still smiling, loose and easy. “But here you are anyway!”

Ilya's heart stops. 

The chill of the fear rushing through his veins is a familiar one. The first time he felt it had been a couple of years ago. Ilya was in New York, and it was early enough in the season that the Admirals were putting up a fight. He had maybe ten minutes for the third period when his father called and asked him to pick some bread up on the way home. A part of Ilya had known then — something in the way his father had sounded far too kind and old — but he'd suppressed the idea. Maybe Papa was drunk, maybe Ilya had misheard. But then it happened again, twice, thrice, and Ilya knew that his father-

But no. That was not the case here. This was- he was being irrational. His father had been miserable and old and doddering. It had been his time. Nothing was wrong with Shane. How many hockey players get concussed a year? How many times had Ilya been concussed himself? And yet everyone was fine, Ilya was fine, Shane was fine.

Shane was just playing into this game that they weren't anything more than rivals, in the same way Ilya was. That was all. 

Ilya walks further into the room, coming to a stop by Shane’s bedside. Shane smiles up at him. Ilya swallows. His hands are limp at his side, and he feels their helpless wait drag him down. Hesitantly, he raises his right hand to run a thumb over Shane’s cheekbone. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when Shane leans into it. This is still Shane; Ilya hasn’t lost him. He brushes his knuckles over Shane’s freckles and resists the urge to kiss the man he loves so dearly. 

“Thank fuck you are okay,” Ilya murmurs. “They said you were unresponsive in the ambulance. Was very fucking scary.”

“I’m okay.” Shane’s eyes slip shut as he melts into Ilya’s touch. 

Today, for the first time in years, Ilya prayed. When Coach Desjourneys said “I’m sorry, Roz, last I heard Hollander was still out of it,” Ilya turned heavenwards and made a promise: I will give up anything for him to be okay. His prayer, out of thousands, is unlikely to have helped. He has no reason to think praying helped at all when there were very likely doctors and nurses and machines working far harder to keep Hollander alive. Whatever it was, though, he takes a moment now to think earnestly — thank you. Mama, thank you. 

“You’re nicer to me than I expected,” Shane mumbles, shifting so his nose brushes Ilya’s wrist.

“What?” That feeling is back, that quiet fear lurking in the shadows. Ilya turns away from it. “I’m always nice to you,” he says with a breathless laugh. “I think your dick would agree.” 

Shane blinks up at him, guileless and confused. 

“Shane,” Ilya says hoarsely. The fear slips under his skin and grips his heart now, and it squeezes tight. Forces him to acknowledge it. “Stop. It is only us in the room, you don’t need to pretend.” 

“Pretend? I’m not pretending to be polite, I don’t hate you,” Shane says earnestly. “I feel like the emotions stick around even if, like, the memories behind them are gone? Like, I knew I liked Hayden Pike even before I knew who he was. And I knew I liked you, too. I can’t imagine hating you.”

There is a strong scent of antiseptic in the air, the kind that always haunts hospitals and morgues. Ilya thinks it is fitting. He thinks, perhaps, that some vital organ of his is failing irreparably, and he is only waiting for a doctor to call out his time of death.

“You have lost your memories.” It’s not a question. Ilya’s burning hand drops from Shane’s cheek. 

“Yeah,” Shane says easily. “Wait, shit, did no one tell you?”

“Is it temporary.” Ilya’s voice is hoarse, pleading. “This memory loss, is it… tell me that it is temporary.” Please, please, God. I know I promised to give anything up, but-

Shane looks at Ilya with wide eyes. “They don’t know,” he says gently. He seems to be catching onto Ilya’s distress despite the drugs in his system. 

Ilya feels cold all over. Yes, any moment now, they will cover him with a white sheet and take him away. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says gently, reaching out. “I didn’t think to tell you, I didn’t know you would… were we-” 

“We were nothing,” Ilya says quickly. He needs to leave. Now. Immediately. He cannot wait to be dragged away. He cannot bear to curse Shane with his rotting heart and infect him with the same sickness. “It was my team member that hurt you. I am just… doing my duty as captain. I am glad that you- I am sorry that-” Ilya swallows. He cannot cry here. Shane will not hold him this time. “I am so sorry that you are hurt, Sh- Hollander. I will leave you to rest.” 

“Rozanov,” Shane says, and Ilya backs away. He bumps into something, knocks something over. He doesn’t bother to check what. 

“I have to go,” Ilya says quickly, turning away. 

“Ilya,” Shane begs. It hurts enough to halt Ilya’s escape momentarily. His breathing hitches imperceptibly.

He knows with sudden and stunning clarity that this is the end of them. No one but Ilya knows the truth, and Ilya had already been looking to find a way to end things. If he says nothing, he can free Shane from the pain of it all — from a hidden relationship stretched and strained across country and language. Now, their love may as well be an agonising fantasy that Ilya concocted in his own head. This is a good thing. Ilya should find some solace in it. He can spare Shane from it all. 

The cemetery where his mother lays is grounds to a host of strong, tall trees that hold evergreen throughout the year. He remembers someone — a groundskeeper, perhaps — sitting with him when he was young and explaining how the trees grew so strong because they had so much to feed off of. The circle of life and death. Ilya ought to be glad to take his place in the ground so that Shane can flourish. 

“I wish you well, Hollander,” Ilya says genuinely, voice wet and torn. He bumps into a nurse on his way out, and he doesn’t look back. 

April 23 — Shane Hollander’s Residence, Montreal

The sound of three knocks rapping on Shane’s bedroom door pulls him from his haze of pain and nausea. 

“Shane?” Yuna asks, before stepping in. 

Shane appreciates that she knocks, but he wishes she would wait for him to ask her to come in. He’s not doing anything he wants to hide from her — he’s not doing anything, really — but he would appreciate being treated like an adult. 

Yuna is holding a vase with a large bouquet of overly colourful flowers in it. “This came in from J.J.,” she says, setting the vase on his desk. “Oh, that’s- he’s with the Metros. One of your closest friends.” 

“I thought we were keeping the gifts in the other spare room,” Shane says. 

“Well. This one’s nice, isn’t it? I thought it might brighten the room up.” 

What she’s really saying is that she’s hoping the flowers will help lift Shane’s mood, probably. They don’t. It’s too large and ostentatious a bouquet, and Shane doesn’t really remember J.J., so they mean nothing to him. 

He says nothing, curling into his blanket further. 

“Right,” Yuna says. “Well, okay. I’ll be back in an hour with your meds.” 

“Sure,” Shane mumbles. He watches her adjust a couple of flowers before shooting him a wan smile and turning to leave. “Wait.” 

Yuna turns back with surprising quickness. 

“Can you take the flowers with you? They’re just…” Shane trails off. “I don’t know.” 

Yuna sighs. “Okay, honey,” she murmurs softly. She presses a kiss to his head and takes the flowers when she leaves.

Shane knows he’s being miserable. All things considered, he supposes he should count himself lucky. His recovery has gone incredibly well, and he’s out of the hospital in no time. His collarbone is likely to heal up well. Sure, he’s lost his memory and potentially his whole career, but at least he’s alive, right? Could have been worse. That’s what people keep saying: that it could have been worse. 

He’s lost his whole life, his memories. There are gaping chunks ripped out of his soul and he has no idea what they used to be. But sure. Could have been worse.

It takes him a while that this isn’t cruelty, that this is an attempt at cheering him up. There’s been a lot of people trying to cheer him up lately. Most of them unrecognisable. Some recognisable but still unknown — apparently, he’s dating Rose Landry, whose fame has only grown since her teen sitcom days. 

Shane tries to grin and bear all the ‘look on the bright side’ talk, and all the ‘how are you feeling?’s and ‘I’m here if you need to talk’. The gap between all he feels and all the things he can actually put into words is too large. So is the gap between what they say and what they mean. Shane’s never been good at realising when people say things and don’t mean them, and he doesn’t know these people anymore, and he doesn’t want to bare himself to someone that’s just offering him a platitude. So he doesn’t talk, to anyone, and it doesn’t help. 

Neither is being stuck in bed with his parents fussing over him. He remembers them, of course, and he’s so thankful they’re here. Having to survive through all of this without them would have been impossible. Still, there are times when their presence feels… suffocating. Emasculating, maybe. He needs them, and it hurts to remember how helpless he is. 

Three knocks again, and Yuna peeks her head in. Shane didn’t notice the time pass. He doesn’t know if it’s the meds or the bedrest, but lately estimating the passage of time feels impossible. The hands of the clock across his bed plod along with excruciating slowness sometimes, and seem to rush by in the blink of an eye at other times. 

His mother hands him his medicine and a bottle of water, and he feels every bit the kid he was in the last of his memories. 

“Anything else you need, sweetheart?” Yuna asks, pushing a hand through Shane’s hair.

“I’m fine,” Shane mumbles out. He grimaces, trying to swallow down the wave of nausea that rises up like a tide to meet the circular white pills, and hands the water bottle back to her. The pain and nausea are regular visitors, and Shane is thankful that they are louder than his thoughts. 

“You’ve been dull,” Yuna says gently. “I know that this has been a lot-” 

“Do you?” Shane snaps, surprising himself. Yuna recoils, and Shane feels terrible immediately. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. His parents are trying their best, and he’s being such an ass about it. They’ve quite literally moved to his house in Montreal so he can recover in a place that’s more likely to jolt his recent memories. And he’s being a dick to them. “I’m sorry, it’s just- there’s been a lot of faces, and I don’t know anyone, and I just… it’s been a lot. Overwhelming. I just- I just think I need some time alone.” 

“Okay,” Yuna says gently. She’s so understanding, and it’s more than Shane deserves. She presses a kiss to his forehead. “Okay, sweetheart. Call me if you need anything?” 

Shane nods. When she leaves and shuts the door behind him, he breathes a sigh of relief. 

Someone, one of Shane’s teammates, had joked that losing your memories must feel like time travelling. Shane wishes that was the case. As far as he can tell, 2007 is when things start getting hazy. Going to sleep a 17-year-old MHL hopeful and waking up captain of the Montreal Metros and a two-time Stanley Cup winner would have been amazing. 

That’s not what it feels like at all. He doesn’t feel like he’s 17, he feels like he’s 27 and just lost a decade of his memories. Including winning the fucking Stanley Cup, twice. There’s a part of him that knows it happened, which the doctor says is a good sign. When his parents caught him up to speed on his life, he’d felt a lot of ‘yeah, that seems right’. But he doesn’t have the memories to back up any of those feelings. 

He can't help but fear that maybe there's something vital he's missing. His parents tell him he doesn't have any secrets, but if it was a secret, they wouldn't fucking know, would they? He worries that it could be years and there would be this big thing that he'd forgotten about and only remember when it was too late. Or worse, that he'd never remember it at all.

He just feels so out of control. He just wants… 

Fuck, he doesn't even know what he wants. A person, he thinks. He remembers this feeling — longing, desire. He thinks there was someone that calmed him, got him out of his head. Worse, he doesn’t think it’s Rose Landry.

Rose is lovely. Honestly. She sent him a video of her wishing him well, and she seems very genuine about his affection for her. She’s super understanding that he isn’t up to the company at the moment, and has promised to visit the second Shane gives her the okay. 

He feels horrible about it, all of it. About forgetting her. About the idea of potentially having to go back to being her boyfriend. About feeling horrible about being her boyfriend, because she’s Rose Landry and she’s also really fucking sweet, and all he wants is… someone else. 

April 24 — the Raiders chartered jet en-route to Boston

“Good, uh, good movie, Roz?” 

Ilya pushes the left speaker of his over-ear headphones back, raising an eyebrow at Marleau. This is the fifth time Marleau is trying to make this conversation, and they were less than an hour into their flight. Had Ilya known Marleau would be this determined to be a nuisance, he would have sat with someone else. 

“I would know if you let me watch it,” Ilya mutters. 

Marleau shoots him a grimacing smile. Apologetic, and awkward, maybe, but not regretful.

“Look, uh…” Marleau hesitates. “I've been meaning to talk to you about something, but I haven't been able to catch you alone.”

“Yes, I know. Is why you haven't been able to catch me alone.” It's not that Ilya doesn't appreciate Marleau's cack-handed attempt at sincerity. But maybe it would be better for both of them if he stopped. 

“Roz,” Marleau says firmly, lips pulling down. 

“Marly,” Ilya mimics exaggeratedly. 

Instinctively, they both grin at each other. Ilya rolls his eyes and rights his headphones, turning back to the little screen where he'd been attempting to watch The Lego Batman Movie. 

Marleau pushes Ilya's headphones down to his neck before he can even think about hitting play. 

“Fuck,” Ilya hisses. “What is your fucking problem, Marly?” He was joking around earlier, mostly, but now Marleau is actually getting on his fucking nerves. 

“Shit, don't give me that, Roz. You know.” Marleau gestures incomprehensibly. 

“What? No, I do not know. What is,” Ilya copies Marleau's vague waving around, “what is that?” 

“Hollander,” Marleau bites out. “Ever since Hollander's hit, you've been off.” 

Ever since you hit Hollander, Ilya corrects in his head. Outwardly, he shows no response to Marleau's words. 

“You've been all distant, and pissy-” Marleau hisses.

“Yes, I was fucking princess of sunshine before-”

“I don't know if you remember, but you used to show up to shit that wasn't practice or a game! We're worried, dude. All of us are.”

Ilya slowly looks around the plane. Most of the rest of the team are passed out with earplugs in. “Yes, everyone is looking very worried,” Ilya agrees in a deadpan tone.

Marleau shoots him a pointed look.

Okay, maybe this one wasn't the team's fault. Their flight had been delayed by five hours, one hour at a time. Ilya doesn't actually blame them for being exhausted. In fact he is thankful for it, because he doesn't need the whole team to witness him fighting against the urge to choke his best friend out. 

“What is it you want me to say, Marly? It is shit. Not your fault, but it is fucking shit luck. Shane Hollander was… yes, my rival, but also a good player. You want me to pretend to be happy? I cannot.” 

“C’mon, dude. Give us some credit. You know…” Marleau swallows thickly. “None of us want to see someone hurt like that. Especially not Hollander, he seems like a decent dude.” 

Ilya knows. He's seen the way Marleau's been beating himself up over this. It's not Marleau's fault Shane decided to be an idiot and look back at Ilya instead of keeping his eyes forward. “You’re right. Giving other players permanent injuries is okay if you don't like them. Maybe next time you aim for Dallas Kent, hm?” he teases. A concession. 

Marleau laughs wetly. “Fuck you, Roz.”

Ilya’s lips pull thin, a pale imitation of a smile. He lets his heavy head thump back against the seat, trying to breathe through the worsening pounding at his temples. Maybe the rest of the team has the right idea. He can't sleep because he keeps seeing Shane when he closes his eyes, but they've got vodka on board. Perhaps a shot or two will mean a dreamless sleep. 

“You can talk to us,” Marleau murmurs. “You can talk to me, dude. C'mon. I mean, what are you even doing this summer? You're not going back to Russia, are you?”

“Fuck, no.”

Marleau breathes out. “Thank fuck. So what are you planning to do?” 

Ilya shrugs. Probably just… what did Marleau call it? Veg out. Eat like crap, smoke, whatever it would take to hear Shane's nagging voice in his head. 

“You, uh… You could join Maxine and me, if you want?” Marleau offers. 

“Your girlfriend is very pretty but I am worried if we have a threesome she will forget all about your flat ass, Marly.” Ilya's words may be teasing, but his tone is mostly just tired. 

Marleau rolls his eyes. “Seriously man, our place is big enough. Come hang for the summer. I… look, I'm gonna be real, I don't love the idea of you just doing your usual no-contact summer this time around.”

“Marly,” Ilya warns. 

If Marleau had been the type of man to actually listen to warnings, though, he'd have never befriended Ilya. He pushes on. 

“At the very least-”

“I will be staying with Svetlana, okay?” Ilya lies. “Maybe you remember her. Friend from Russia.” Marleau was a stubborn motherfucker. He would keep pushing, and Ilya would snap. Best to cut this shit in the bud. 

“Okay.” Marleau hesitates. “You'll talk to her?”

“Yes, yes, we will wear face masks and have therapy session,” Ilya waves off. He pulls his headphones off, popping them in the seat pocket in front of him, the. hits the button on the screen that flags down the flight attendant. 

He catches Marleau watching him, the corners of his lips downturned. 

“You want a pinky promise?” Ilya asks, holding his hand up and wiggling his pinky. 

Marleau snorts and finally — fucking finally — settles back in his seat. 

Ilya is touched that Marleau is worrying about him. Honestly. He just can't handle that shit right now, especially not from Marleau. He knows, rationally, that it's not Marleau's fault. It was a clean hit. An unfortunate mistake. 

No matter how many times he tells himself this, there's a part of him that holds it against Marleau. So yeah, he's keeping his distance, at least until he gets his head on straight. He doesn't want to risk saying shit he'll regret.

The flight attendant walks up to their seat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rozanov?” 

“Uh, vodka. Please. You have those little bottles, yes?” Ilya holds his hand up, thumb and index about ten centimetres apart. “Two of those.”

The flight attendant bites back a smile. “Of course,” she says politely. “Anything else?”

Ilya notices she has freckles. 

“Maybe make that three little bottles.” Unlike Ilya, Shane Hollander is not an easy man to forget.

Chapter 2: …can only tell you what you no longer have.

Chapter Notes

Hover over or click the newspaper title for a nav bar :D and if you click the links, you get taken to hollanov fics!

April 25 — Shane Hollander’s Residence, Montreal

Shane spends his limited screen time catching up on the hockey world, because of course he does. There’s a good chance his hockey skills have remained intact, and his physical recovery has been good so far.

Shane snorts. He’s been doing a lot of reading up about himself, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been called a genius nearly as much as he is now that his brain has been impacted. The news loves embellishing the drama of it all, he supposes. He scrolls down to find a grainy video of Rozanov and Marleau at an airport — Boston, presumably — arguing by baggage claim. Rozanov is shouting, his words thick and accented and barely audible even at maximum volume. Thankfully, the video is subtitled.

“No, I know it is not your fucking fault Marly!” Rozanov shouts, shoving at Marleau’s chest. “That doesn't change what happened! You think you can, what, say sorry, make few jokes, and things will go back to normal? Shane fucking Hollander might never play again! Get a fucking grip!”

Someone else approaches the person holding the camera — Raiders staff? Another player? — and the video cuts out. 

Wow. That's a… spirited defense. Rozanov is spitting mad, and he looked about three seconds away from throwing a punch. It’s surprising. Shane doesn't blame Marleau, not really. It wasn't an illegal hit, just an unfortunate one. And despite what Rozanov said, Shane knows he's getting back on the ice next season at the latest. Memories or no memories. There’s simply no alternative for him. 

He wonders what Rozanov is the most upset about. It can’t be the bad public image it casts on the Raiders, because having an argument in public isn’t exactly the solution to that. Besides, Rozanov doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to care about image all that much. 

He thinks back to Rozanov visiting at the hospital the day after Shane was hit. Shane was concussed, in pain, and high as a kite, so the memory’s more than a little distorted. Still, he distinctly remembers Rozanov’s defined lips pull into a trembling moue. His clearest memory of that whole interaction is when he’d noticed the expression and thought, horrified, that Rozanov was about to cry. 

Shane scrolls back up the article and looks at the little headshot of Rozanov they attached to it. He squints at the picture. Ilya Rozanov, huh. 

There’s something there. There has to be. Something that explains the fond feeling in his chest that he gets when he thinks of Ilya. Something that explains why he keeps thinking of him as ‘Ilya’ at all. ‘Rozanov’. It’s supposed to just be ‘Rozanov’. It isn’t. 

He decides to ask Hayden Pike when he next visits. The man is supposed to be his best friend. He’d probably have a more accurate understanding of his and Rozanov’s relationship than the news does.

April 29 — Lily Health Bar, Montreal

“Ilya Rozanov? Yeah, no, you hate the guy.” Hayden’s face pulls into an expression of complete and utter disgust at the mere mention of Rozanov. 

Shane hums. They’re having lunch at a little bistro near his place. Hayden says it’s one of Shane's favourites, and Shane can see why. It’s quiet, with booths that give you privacy, and the salad’s great. “And he hates me back?” Shane asks. 

“Pretty sure, yeah. Dude, the rivalry between you two is a whole… thing.” Hayden gestures vaguely. 

Sure. That’s what Shane has seen online, too. Epic rivalry, even before they were drafted, blah blah blah. Shane doesn’t really feel that way, though. And he doesn’t think Rozanov does either. 

Hayden sighs. “Look, man, if you play against him again, you'd get it.”

“‘If’? Is Rozanov planning to quit?” Shane asks innocently. 

Hayden stares at Shane. “Um. Well. I just… considering you lost most of your memories…”

“Only my episodic memories,” Shane sniffs. “Motor skills are stored in your implicit memory, and your knowledge about basic rules about the world, and facts and stuff, are stored in your semantic memory. Both of which are still completely intact. My memory loss isn't going to stop me from playing hockey. I'm really only waiting on my collarbone to heal, I'll be back on the ice next season.” 

Hayden rubs at his forehead. “Right. And… is this… are the doctors as confident that you can play next season, or…”

“It doesn't matter what they think,” Shane says firmly. “They don't know me, and they don't know how important this is to me. This game, my team, I…” Shane swallows roughly. “I can't give it up.”

The doctors had suggested that continuing to play hockey may be ‘inadvisable’, even if there wasn't any obvious risk they could spot. It would be different if they were sure another concussion would cost Shane his life. He'd consider retirement then. Really, though, they were just covering their asses. “Logic dictates that risking another concussion wouldn't be a smart idea, Mr. Hollander.” Whatever. Logic dictates that the whole concept of men on ice whacking each other for entertainment was a stupid fucking idea, and that had never stopped Shane from playing either.

Hayden is silent, carefully studying Shane's face. Then he nods. “Okay. You've got my back. If anyone could do it, it's you.” 

Shane shoots Hayden a grateful smile. He didn't realise how nervous he was about this until just now. It didn't matter what the doctors thought; unless there was a clear risk, they couldn't stop him from playing. If he lost the trust of his team, though, he'd be forced to step down. He couldn't fuck their chances up like that. 

“Thanks,” Shane says hoarsely. 

“Hey, you said you were upset about not remembering what it was like to win the cup, right? Solution is to just win another one.” Hayden shrugs. “I don't think any of the team's complaining about that anytime soon.”

Shane grins widely. “Yeah.” He could do that. He'd win the Metros another cup, and another. Build a fucking empire up from the ground. As long as they let him keep playing. 

Hayden holds his gaze, and it's a bit uncomfortable to maintain eye contact for long, but Shane's too competitive to look away first. Eventually he notices Hayden's cheeks redden. 

“Right,” Hayden coughs, looking away. Shane tries not to look too smug about winning. “We, uh, we were talking about your enemy, Rozanov,” Hayden says.

“My rival, Rozanov,” Shane corrects. “Being rivals doesn't have to mean being enemies.” 

Hayden shoots him a look. 

“What? I'm just saying. Historically, rivalries have pushed people to- to improve, and stuff, right? They can be founded on a- a sense of mutual respect.” Or something like that. Fuck if Shane knows. Mostly, he finds the idea of facing Rozanov on the ice again fun. 

“Okay, well historically, the only mutual anything between you and Rozanov has been hatred.” Hayden’s brows are furrowed. “You okay, man? Is there a reason you’re so interested in Rozanov all of a sudden?”

“It's just. Did you see that, um, Rozanov and Marleau fight?” Shane asks. 

“Sure,” Hayden says easily. “What about it.”

“I mean. Doesn't it seem like he… cares?” The word sounds stupid on his tongue. “Or just, I mean. It really wasn't Marleau’s fault. And Rozanov’s just… shouldn't he be happier? Shouldn't he be shielding Marleau from blame, as his captain? Instead he's adding fuel to the fire.”

Hayden shrugs. “So? I'd be worked up if my team member took out the best player in the league too. I don't think he wants you dead, but I also don't think that makes him a fucking saint. That's just basic human decency.”

“That's not it,” Shane says, sure of himself. “I mean, I'm sure he's a decent guy-”

“I'm not.”

Shane shoots Hayden a dirty look before continuing. “But there's… I just can't shake the feeling that… that I'm missing something. You know? Maybe he and I were… I don’t know.” Shane shrugs, waiting Hayden's disapproving gaze out. 

Hayden sighs. “Okay, I’m entertaining this idea because you are my friend and I love you. Not because I think there’s any merit to the idea. So, what, you think you and Rozanov are secretly friends? And the rivalry was, what, a PR stunt? Doesn’t sound like something you’d do.” 

“Well, yeah, I wouldn’t- I mean I don’t care about money or optics or whatever,” Shane agrees. “But- okay, so maybe the rivalry was real, but somewhere down the line we became friends? Or at least friendly? I mean, think about it. It’s been a decade, right? We’ve grown as people. And the only other person who probably gets exactly what I’m going through with the media and the rivalry and everything is Rozanov, right?” 

Hayden frowns at that. “I mean, I am also quite literally a hockey player. I’m not as famous as you, but there’s no need for you to go to Rozanov to, like, confide in and shit. Buddy, you know I’m always here for you, right? Or, well, I guess you don’t know that anymore, but I am. Always here for you, I mean.” 

“Hayd,” Shane sighs, amused. “I know. I mean, I get the sense that I knew then too. You’re my best friend, and even if I don’t remember it, I know it,” he assures. 

Hayden flushes and ducks his head a little. 

“Look, maybe Rozanov approached me,” Shane suggests. “Or something. I don’t think I’d have ignored him, even if I hated his guts.” 

“You’re too nice to do that,” Hayden agrees. “Okay, so you’re secret friends. Have you checked your contacts, emails? Seen if you guys talked?” 

“Well…” Shane bites his lip. “Yes, and there’s nothing there.”

Hayden gives him a look. One that says ‘case fucking solved, then.’

“I could have deleted it!” Shane argues. “I’m a paranoid person. I overthink, you know this.” 

“Trust me, I know it well,” Hayden says with a long suffering sigh. “Look, honestly? I don’t get why you think there’s something there.” 

“It just feels like it is,” Shane says, a little miserably. “I know it sounds insane, I feel like I’ve been acting crazy-”

“Woah, hey.” Hayden reaches across his burger and Shane’s salad to grip the forearm of Shane’s uninjured hand. “That’s not what I said, okay? You don’t sound insane. If you feel like something’s there, you’re probably right. You usually are when it comes to your hunches.” 

“Thanks, Hayd,” Shane says, shooting him a small smile. Hayden rubs at Shane’s arm a little, messing up the arm hair, before pulling his arm back. 

“How about this? I can ask around and get you Rozanov’s number. Does that sound like it would help?” Hayden really is so nice. So… steady. Reliable. Very expressive, and he seems to say what he means and mean what he says. Shane gets why they’re best friends. 

Shane smiles warmly. “Yeah,” he says. “It really would. You’re the best.” 

April 30 — Shane Hollander’s Residence, Montreal

The first thing Shane did when he was allowed to look at screens again was to read through his message history with every contact in his phone. That, combined with what he's been told about the people in his life, has allowed him to construct a pretty solid understanding of the relationships he has. 

Hayden is his best friend, and they text all the time. They tease, they joke around, they chat about inconsequential shit. They message each other a lot, and when they don't, Shane assumes they're together in person. 

Jacki is Hayden's wife, and Shane seems to have a pretty solid relationship with her too. They text each other if they're worried about Hayden. He snitches on Hayden's swearing to her, wishes her on birthdays and holidays, and tells Hayden off when he isn't appreciating her right.

Shane seems pretty damn close to Rose Landry, which is still pretty insane to him. They chat a lot when they do chat, and have long calls logged together. There’s long lulls between when they speak, which Shane assumes is due to both of them having busy, conflicting work schedules. 

He's friends with Carter Vaughn, and they make plans to meet when they're in the same city. J.J. drags Shane out when he's self-isolating, and gives Shane pep talks when he's being down on himself. Drapeau and Shane talk books, and Comeau and Shane talk movies. The Metros as a whole do the daily Wordle on the group chat and have team nights fairly often. 

With all the back-reading Shane has done, he's got a solid primer on almost everyone in his life. The one piece he's missing is Lily. 

The thing is, no one has mentioned Lily to him. He knows she lives in America based on the area code of her phone number. They message on WhatsApp semi-frequently, but most of their messages are deleted. A good chunk of the surviving messages are four digit codes, and he has no idea what they're supposed to mean. Some sort of… password, to some chat room? Or something? 

Lily chirps at him, and flirts with him. Shane chirps back. Flirts back.

Isn't he supposed to be dating Rose fucking Landry? Is he cheating on her? Is Lily his mistress?

No. Shane knows he could never do that. It doesn't matter that the idea of dating Rose makes something inside him squirm. He knows he feels genuine affection for her, and even if he didn't, he knows he could never cheat on anyone. It's just not who he is. 

So who the fuck is Lily? He reads through their messages more than he should, trying to puzzle it out. Why delete so many messages? Why the secrecy? Why does his heart thump and blood rush when he reads the brazen pickup lines Lily sends him? 

Shane feels like an astronaut surveying a newly-discovered barren planet, digging for soil samples, only to uncover an intricately carved chapiter of a column. No plants, no water, nothing to suggest life at all, and yet here lies the suggestion of a whole civilization. Baffling signs of life, carved into stone, no author in sight. 

He tries to picture Lily. A lithe woman with long, fair hair. No. A redhead, with bouncy curls? No. Sharp features, no, soft features, no. He just cannot seem to picture a woman he's in love with.

He knows he should just text her. He's so fucking curious about this mystery woman. He can't bring himself to do it, too scared of the answers he'll get. What if he was cheating on Rose with her, and his faith in his own morals is misplaced? What if he and Rose had broken up, and Lily is his girlfriend now, and he has to start dating her again? Any possibility his mind presents is terrifying.

He swipes out off Lily’s contact and turns his phone off. He has enough to worry about without this. 

May 3 — The Ritz-Carlton, Montreal

Ilya has read every piece of news on Shane’s injury in English, Russian, and with the help of Google Translate, French. They all say the same thing — that Shane might never get his memory back. That the doctors have no information to provide. 

Briefly, he entertains the idea that Shane’s prospects are better than they seem, and that the Metros have hidden the news from the public. It would be good for PR. People are talking about Shane Hollander more than they ever have, and public sentiment towards the Boston Raiders is definitely on a downtrend. Then he sees the Metros on ice and his hopes are quickly dashed. They don’t play so much as they show up and wait for the timer to hit zero. Hayden Pike, especially, keeps making passes to a player that isn’t there. 

Ilya hates to admit it, but Pike isn’t the worst player. He’s passionate about hockey if nothing else. You would have to be, to be Shane Hollander’s alternate captain. Now Pike plays like he hates the game for robbing him of his best friend. It’s no surprise when the Metros pack up and go home. 

He can’t criticize them for it. The Raiders don’t last much longer. Ilya knows it’s his fault. He has been a shitty player and a shittier captain. Hell, he was off his game enough that Scott fucking Hunter walked up to him after and asked him if he was okay. 

No, Scott Hunter, Ilya had considered saying. The love of my life doesn’t remember me. I have to learn about his recovery through the fucking newspaper like every other fan of his. I have not seen him in so long, and yet I fear meeting him because I cannot bear the same lack of recognition on his face that I have seen on my own father’s. So, no, I am not okay. Fuck you. 

In the end, Ilya had just walked away without a word. Probably for the best.

He doesn’t go back to Russia for the summer. There's nothing left for him there; his father is dead, and he doesn't have a brother anymore. There's nothing for him in America, either. He decides to spend his days in a hotel room in the city where his heart resides — Montreal. 

He doesn't explore the city. He doesn't do much of anything, really, but wait for news to come. Every day looks the same. Hotel breakfasts, with an endless buffet of bland food. Workouts in the windowless, bright hotel gym. Checking his phone for news, and checking it again. Staring at his messages with ‘Jane’. Messaging Svetlana that he's alive and ignoring her pleas to talk. 

It's night now, and he has read the latest update on Shane's health five times since it was posted at noon. “No clear timeline for recovery.” Meaning, what, they know nothing? The mind of the greatest hockey player of a generation is at risk and yet this is all they've managed to identify? Do they not know how fucking special Shane Hollander is?

Ilya resists the urge to throw his phone at the wall. It's his only connection to Shane. Instead, he goes back to his text thread with Jane, and stares at the words he's long since memorised until his eyes blur. 

Between one moment and the next, his body is overtaken with wracking sobs. He wants to talk to Shane, to go to him. Who cares if Shane doesn't remember him? He could remind him, or- or build something new, pretend that he wishes to be friends. He could find a way to make it happen.

He can't, though. He can't. A clean break is what is best for Shane. Shane needs to focus on his recovery. This is an opportunity for Shane to move on. To find someone that actually deserves him. Someone that doesn't bring catastrophe to every person he's had the misfortune of loving.

He's doing the right thing. He is. So why can't he stop crying? He clutches at the crucifix hanging off his neck. 

“Mama… I'm sorry. I don't know why everyone… I'm sorry. Please keep him safe. Let him be okay. Please, I just want him to be okay.” 

Chapter 3: Only one day remains,

Chapter Notes

Scroll through the texts! Click on the newspaper headlines for a nav bar! If you're having any issues with the code on your end, or with accessibility, please let me know.

May 4 — Shane Hollander’s Residence, Montreal

Shane finally comes to the difficult decision that he needs to call Rose Landry. 

More specifically, he needs to break up with Rose Landry. But he isn't enough of a dick to do it over text, and meeting in person is out of the question since she's in the U.S. for a shoot, so… phone call it is. 

He texts her, asking her if and when she's free to call. She suggests a time and that they video call. It's kind of terrifying to know he has to break up with her while seeing her face, but he accepts. She deserves that much, at least. He hopes she understands it has nothing to do with her, what with his whole… memory thing, and moves on easily. He hopes she's been expecting it, hoping for it, even. Maybe then they could stay friends.

It takes a second for the call to connect. When it does, he's taken aback by how pretty she looks, even dressed in just a loose, worn shirt with her hair up. She appears to be in a hotel room, judging by the bland decor. 

“Shane,” Rose says warmly, and she looks so fucking pleased to see him. God. He's the worst. 

“R- um, Rose! It's, it's great to see you,” Shane stammers out. “You look lovely.”

She snorts, looking down at her worn Metros tee. “Like seeing me in your clothes, do you?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows. 

“Oh. Is that- um, is that…?”

Rose’s face falls a little. “Right. Of course you wouldn't remember. Uh, yeah, this shirt’s yours. You gave it to me when I got a bit drunk at yours and decided to stay the night.” 

Right. That makes sense. That's... a normal thing for a couple to do. Shane twists his fingers together awkwardly. 

“How have you been?” Rose asks gently. 

“Um. You know. Not, uh, not great. But I’m dealing.” Shane keeps his eyes lowered, focused on his own lap.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Have you been getting any of your memories back?”

“Not… really,” Shane says. “Well, I get… memories of feelings now? Or sensations? But they’re vague, and I can’t really place what they’re about, and it’s, um, y’know. It’s confusing.”

“That sounds difficult,” Rose says. 

“Yeah. I, uh. I do remember when things are familiar, or- or how I feel about people. I remember I like you,” he assures. It strikes him that this may be a stupid thing to say to someone he plans on breaking up with, but it’s true. He likes Rose. Loves her, maybe. He wishes the idea of dating her didn’t make him feel anxious and nauseous. Maybe that feeling is just the concussion. Maybe he should just stay with her. Fuck the vague sense that there’s someone else that sets him alight. Which woman could compare to Rose Landry, right? 

“Oh, Shane,” Rose says, voice wet. 

Shane looks up to see her on the screen. He’s shocked to see tears in her eyes. “Are you okay?” He asks, worried. 

She sniffles, nodding. “I’m sorry,” she says, wiping at her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to- I just… god, I was so fucking worried about you.” 

“I’m sorry about worrying you,” Shane says. He hates that these people he loves so much are suffering because of him. “And I’m sorry I forgot… you know, us.” 

“Fuck, Shane, you don’t need to apologise. It’s not your fault. You know that, right?” Rose pushes her face closer to the camera, looking incredibly earnest. 

“I know,” Shane confirms. “It just sucks. I feel like I’ve lost all these precious memories. Like winning the Stanley Cup, twice.” He sighs. “O- or, um, our first kiss,” he adds belatedly. “I mean, I feel like a shit boyfriend.” 

Rose opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens her mouth again, before hiding her face in her hands and groaning.

“What?” Shane asks, feeling like he’s missing something. Story of his fucking life, lately. 

“Your parents told you we were dating,” Rose says, pain in her voice evident even though her words are muffled by her hands. 

“Um. Yes?” Shane says. “Were they… not supposed to?” 

She pulls her hands away from her face. “Shane,” she says seriously. “We broke up.” 

“Oh, thank god,” Shane breathes out. Then he flushes with embarrassment. He was definitely not supposed to sound this relieved by the idea. “I mean- it’s not that I’m happy about-” 

“It’s okay,” Rose says, biting back laughter. “Seriously, it’s okay. You’re, um… wow, it feels weird coming out to you for you, but you’re gay.” 

“Oh.” Shane thinks about it. Hm. Is he gay? Has he ever… noticed men?

He thinks about the men’s changing rooms, and how he’s always tried really, really hard not to look at any of the other guys. That doesn’t seem like a gay thing to do. Kind of the opposite. But then he thinks about watching others play on the computer — Rozanov, in particular, was really fucking good. Shane remembers reasoning with himself that rewatching Rozanov’s plays over and over was a totally normal thing to do because it was likely they’d run into each other on the ice, but… he also remembers thinking about those same plays at night, when he had a hand down his pants. 

That was probably a less-than-heterosexual thing to do, thinking back. 

“That… makes sense,” Shane mumbles out. 

Rose’s laughter is clear and light. “Oh my god. You are so cute. Yeah, you are 100% gay, and you- uh, you prefer being the hole rather than the peg, if you catch my drift. Oh my god, I have no idea how you admitted that to me with a straight face.” 

“I told you that?” Shane hisses, scandalised. 

“When we were breaking up,” Rose adds, laughing louder. “Oh god. Oh my god. Shane, I missed you so much. You have no idea.” 

Shane grumbles, but he’s pleased by how comfortable Rose seems to be with him. How much she genuinely cares. 

“Is this why you didn’t want me to come over?” Rose asks, amused. “You were scared you’d need to kiss me?” 

“I wasn’t scared, I was-” Shane sputters as Rose laughs. “I wasn’t! I mean, you said you were on a shoot, and- and- you know. Your work is important.” 

Her laughter trails off until she’s looking at him fondly. “Oh, Shane. Honestly, trust me when I say this — I want to be there for you. I can delay shooting, okay? It’s not a big deal. It’s not going to cost me the job, and even if it did, I wouldn’t care. You matter to me.” 

“You matter to me too.” Shane can’t help but be touched and overwhelmed by the intensity of her emotions. “I mean, even if I don’t remember it.” 

“Sensations and feelings without the memories,” Rose recalls. 

Shane nods. “It’s shit,” he admits. “I mean, it’s really… It’s really fucking confusing. There’s a lot of things I just- I have these feelings, and I don’t know why and- like with you. I remembered I like you, but not that we’d broken up, and I knew I didn’t want to be dating you, but not that I felt that way because I’m…” Shane vaguely gestures.

“So reach out when you need to,” Rose suggests. “It worked with me, right? No one’s expecting you to pretend like you remember everything, Shane. No one’s going to be offended if you ask. And if they are, you deserve better.” 

Shane considers that. It sounds so simple when Rose lays it all out. He’d been so trapped in that mindset of ‘pretend you get it even when you don’t’ that he’s carried around his whole life, but this was probably the only time he could get away with asking stupid questions without being looked at weird. 

“That… makes sense,” Shane says. “Thank you. You’re… wow, I should have talked to you sooner.”

Rose grins. “You really should have. Let me visit, okay? Even just a couple of days. I can catch you up on us, and help you, and just… convince myself you’re okay. Because I need that.” 

“Okay,” Shane agrees softly. “That’s really sweet. My parents are leaving on the 13th, so maybe you could tag in after them?” 

“Sure,” she says easily. “That sounds great. Whenever, honestly, just tell me the date and I’m there.” 

The accident still sucks, but Shane’s starting to think that maybe recovery won’t be so hard anymore. Not when he’s clearly got some amazing people around him. 

May 5 — The Ritz-Carlton, Montreal

Ilya stares at the text. When the phone had pinged with a text from ‘Jane’, he opened it immediately. Instinct. It didn’t help that he was still half asleep.

He’s not sure what Shane could be texting him about this early. Against all rationality, his heart speeds up; perhaps Shane has remembered everything. Ilya can't stop thinking about what Shane had said when still drugged up, how he'd admitted that he couldn't imagine hating Ilya despite having lost all his memories. Is it that far out of the realm of possibility that Shane's memory loss was temporary?

His hope is quickly dashed. Disappointed, but not surprised; life would never be so kind. Ilya’s mouth twists into a smile despite himself. Whatever reason Shane has for texting him, he’ll take it. He’s missed Shane’s awkwardness, his dry humour. He’s missed Shane so fucking much.

Honestly, Ilya had forgotten that Shane would have access to his texts with ‘Lily’. Now that he thinks about it, though, he’s surprised it took Shane this long to investigate. No profile picture, no last name, and the two of them have got a text history a mile long composed mostly of chirps and deleted messages.

Ilya shouldn’t respond. He should block Shane’s number and leave the mystery of Lily to be forever unsolved. He really should.

But Ilya has never been able to resist Shane, and that’s certainly not changing now.

Maybe this could be a happy medium. He can befriend Shane as ‘Lily’, just until Shane’s relatively okay again. He never has to reveal their relationship. He still gets to text Shane. This way, maybe he’ll stop seeing Shane’s crumpled over form every time he closes his eyes.

Ilya covers his smile with his fist. He can imagine the look on Shane’s face, the one that makes him look like an angry kitten. God, he fucking missed Shane. He missed him so incredibly much. He shouldn’t be doing, this, but…

What’s a few white lies to soothe his own heart? To soothe Shane's anxiety? As far as Ilya can tell, Shane's social circle starts and ends with hockey. With the memory loss, Shane's probably too worried about accidentally offending his teammates — and inadvertently messing up the chemistry on-ice — to really let loose around them. 'Lily' could be Shane's confidante, someone who gets it; someone Shane can be a dick around, without worrying about the complications that come with 'Rozanov'. 

It's harmless. 

It’s so much like Shane to be so cautious. Briefly, Ilya thinks of the hit. Of Shane looking back to see him, careless in a way he never usually was on the ice. Logically, he knows that the accident wasn’t his fault. That doesn’t change the fact that if Ilya hadn’t be there, Shane would still be… 

Ilya swallows the thought down. He’s spent enough time as is driving himself mad over the what-ifs.

Ilya’s not sure what possesses him to tell Shane. Perhaps a part of him hopes that Shane will see that he’s shared his biggest secret with ‘Lily’, and trust ‘her’ enough to confide in Ilya. Mostly, he doesn’t want to see Shane have to suffer through figuring it all out again. It feels unfair that Shane has put this work into himself only to lose it. 

Besides, this way when Ilya flirts with Shane — which is not so much a possibility as it is an inevitability — Shane will brush it off as harmless flirting between a gay man and a married woman.

Ilya can’t stop smiling as he puts his phone aside. 

The sun is peering in through the hotel’s sheer curtain. It looks like it’s shaping up to be a nice day. Maybe Ilya will go for a run, grab breakfast outside. He thinks he’s had enough of hotel breakfasts for a while.

May 6 — Hayden Pike’s Residence, Montreal

“Wow,” Hayden says, putting his phone down now he's done reading the article allowed. “Has anyone told you you're way too nice? Jacki, isn't this guy way too fucking nice?” he asks, turning around in his dinner chair to look at Jacki. 

“Hayden, language,” Jacki chides. She turns to look at Shane. “Though he is right. You're far too nice for your own good. Trust me, that kind of thing gets you in trouble.”

Shane sighs. He slumps back in the seat, tipping his head back. “Or maybe we could focus on the nice things I said? Like how I'm excited to see Hayden play center?” 

He's glad Hayden and Jacki have invited him over, really, he is. It's just… a little overstimulating. Better now that the kids are down for naps, though. 

He does feel a sense of extreme familiarity with the whole situation, which is probably good. Shane doesn't like dwelling on the progress he's making because he doesn't want to set himself up for disappointment but he has been feeling a little less discombobulated as of late. 

“Very nice, buddy, but can we talk about you defending Marleau?” Hayden presses. Shane kicks him in the shin. 

“He's been getting a lot of hate! And the guy feels guilty, trust me, he practically sobbed into my arms at the hospital.” 

“Well, he should feel guilty,” Jacki huffs.

“Jacki,” Shane chides, though it's through a laugh. He doesn't remember ever seeing Jacki this mad. Shane’s always seen her as almost overly positive. “Also, will you please sit down?” he begs her. “You don't need to make us a snack.” 

“I like keeping my hands busy! I'm just chopping fruit, it's mostly for the kids.”

“Well, can I help?” Shane asks, sitting up a little.

Jacki points the knife at Shane. “Don’t be ridiculous. You aren’t even out of your sling. No.”

Shane grumbles and slumps back in his seat. “Whatever. Okay, so, changing the topic-”

“Hey, no, we're still on topic-” Hayden tries. 

“Do either of you know a Lily that works high up the chain at the MHL?” Shane rushes to finish. 

Hayden pauses. He and Jacki share a look.

“You remember Lily?” Hayden asks, voice odd. 

“Uh. Well. Not exactly.” Shane sits upright, suddenly feeling wary. Maybe this is a bad idea. “It's just- I had her number in my phone, and I texted her, and… um.”

“Wow,” Hayden says. “You know, I'm surprised she didn't text you first.”

“She said she didn't want to overwhelm me. But, wait, so you know Lily?” Shane asks, leaning forward.

“You know what? I think I, um, I’m gonna go wake the kids up from their afternoon nap, give em their snacks,” Jacki says, moving the chopped fruit into three bowls and setting them on a tray. She washes and dries her hands quickly, before kissing Hayden and Shane on their cheeks and rushing out the room. 

Shane looks between the door and Hayden. 

“Technically she isn't supposed to know about Lily,” Hayden says in explanation. “Not that there's much to know. She's this girl that you say you're just friends with.” 

“Uh, I am just friends with her,” Shane says. 

Hayden snorts. “Sure, and the Pope’s Protestant. Buddy, you haven't seen yourself when you text her. Besides, you tend to meet her at night and sneak back in past curfew, so…” 

Shane swallows. He can feel himself flushing. “No, I'm- look, I'm really pretty sure that we're just friends. A- anyway, that's not the point. I just wanted to know if you know anything about her,” he says.

“Uh, she lives in Boston, and… that's about it. Yup, that's all I know,” Hayden says. 

“Wow.” Very helpful. 

“I know! You're so secretive about her!”

“Clearly,” Shane says. He's starting to judge how paranoid past him was. 

“So, what did you two text about? Is she worried? Is she flying over to kiss you better?” Hayden wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe true love’s kiss is the cure you need.”

“Oh my god. I'm telling you, we're not like that!” Shane insists. 

“Uh huh. And you know this how? Because you remember it?”

“Well for one thing, she's married,” Shane hisses out. 

Hayden whistles. “Damn. Jacki called it. I would not have expected you to have a thing with a married woman, but.”

“We don't- there is no thing!” Shane insists. “I'm also-”

He cuts himself off. Is he really about to do this? If he hasn't come out to Hayden before, there has to be a reason, right? Even if he can’t remember it right now.

But… Hayden's been there for him through all of this. Both him and Jacki had been so helpful, and patient, and loving. Besides, he'd apparently told Rose and Lily. Wasn't Hayden supposed to be his best friend? 

“You're also?” Hayden asks. 

“Gay,” Shane mumbles out. Hayden looks confused, Shane clearly having been too soft to hear. Shane clears his throat. 

“Uh, I'm- Hayden, I'm gay,” Shane manages to stammer out a little louder.

“Oh.” Hayden pauses. Then, “are you sure?” 

Shane gapes.

“Shit. Sorry! Sorry! I just- no, man, I'm so proud of you for, uh, for coming out and obviously, you know, I fully support you,” Hayden rushes to add. “I just- sorry, I really shouldn't have fucking said that. I was just so sure you were in love with Lily!”

Shane groans, running his hand over his face. 

“Shane, I'm really-” 

“No, no, I know,” Shane waves Hayden off. “It's not- it's just. I… I think… Lily might be my, uh, my exception?” 

“Your what?”

“Like- okay, so I know you're straight, right? But maybe there's some guy you'd, like, go gay for or whatever.” 

Hayden flushes. “Uh-” his voice cracks. “Uh, sure. That's, you know, normal.”

“Right,” Shane agrees. It was normal. “And I think Lily's, you know.”

“The one girl you'd go straight for?” Hayden finishes. 

Shane shrugs. Kind of, but also… not really. He can’t see himself going to sleep next to a woman every night. Falling in love with her, marrying her. And yet… There’s something about Lily he just can’t shake. It’s like an itch behind his ribs, irritating and persistent, nudging at him as if there’s something more there. Something he doesn’t associate with women at all; his heart beating too fast, strong hands on his hips, the scent of smoke and cologne. Thinking about Lily feels like finally slotting a missing puzzle piece into place, only to realise the picture is all wrong. 

“It couldn't have been Rose fucking Landry?” Hayden teases. 

“Come on,” Shane laughs, shoving at Hayden. “This is serious!” 

Hayden clasps a gentle hand on Shane's left shoulder and bumps their heads together. “Dude. Look. You're Shane Hollander, okay? You're Shane fucking Hollander. You could get anyone you wanted. I wouldn't worry so much about it.”

Shane's sure his ears are bright red. “Thanks,” he mumbles out, smiling a little as Hayden pats him before letting go. 

Chapter End Notes

Ilya chose his WhatsApp wallpaper because it's also a niche GCU in-joke that Shane is snoopy, and because the stars remind him of Shane's freckles. He thinks he's being subtle.

Please appreciate how extra I was with coding their texts into little scrollable WhatsApp screens. When I drafted the fic, I was just going to use italics, but... it just looked so annoying to read when there were so many. Then I thought simple texts would be boring and a scroll bar would be nice... and then I thought of how adorable it would be if Ilya had a cute background... and oh, now the shit i pulled for the news articles looks so bad... and before I knew it I was going insane. But I managed it, so. Enjoy!

Base code for the WhatsApp texts and tutorial to use it are here. Thank you, user etc e tal.

EDIT 13/02/2026: Screenreader text fixed to indicate Jane/Lily instead of Sent Message/Received Message for clarity. This will likely also affect you if you're downloading fics or reading without creator's style. Don't... do the latter unless you need to, though. It'll still look weird.

Chapter 4: the one you're in.

Chapter Notes

In this chapter, you'll see a WhatsApp contact card being shared.

...Hit 'Message'.

I will beat you over the head narratively with a reminder to do this, just in case you forget.

May 17 — The Ritz-Carlton, Montreal

‘Lily’ and Shane text at least once a day. Sometimes multiple times a day. 

Ilya knows he shouldn't be encouraging this. He should go back to what he used to do, leave Shane on read and message him infrequently at best. Back then, though, he tided himself over by picturing the next time they'd be alone together. 

There’s no next time now. 

Shane's clearly going stir crazy at home, and Ilya is going crazy with worry about Shane. Ilya promises himself that he'll stop soon. He even came close a few times. Once, he left Shane on read for a whole seven hours. 

Shane messaged Ilya asking if he did something wrong. Ilya folded like a deck of cards. 

So now he’s here, waiting for Shane Hollander to respond to his photo of his lunch. Like a pathetic dog. It's been two hours, and Shane still hasn't read his message, so he figures Shane must be busy. Ilya hopes he's doing something fun. There's only so much stillness a professional athlete can take before going stir crazy. 

His phone pings with a notification: ‘shanehollanderhockeyplayer has posted a story on Instagram’. Ilya clicks on it immediately. 

It's Shane and Hayden, slumped on an unfamiliar couch together. Hayden has an arm around Shane's shoulders, tugging him close. Their heads are tipped towards each other, hair interweaving. They're both grinning wide. 

Shane has written a message on the bottom corner of the story. ‘To my fans, my friends, and my family. Thank you for all the love. Feeling #hopeful about the future. Special mention to the Pikes, who make sure both my heart and stomach are always full.’

Ilya wishes his first thought was one of joy. He's glad that Shane is doing better, he truly is. But it's not his first thought. 

His first thought is that Shane doesn't even know he's missing Ilya. It’s selfish, but he can’t help it. Every day, he feels as though he has had his heart ripped away from him with how much he misses Shane, while to Shane he is nothing. 

He can’t do this anymore. Not alone. He’ll sink, and eventually drown, and… it scares him. He knows how bad it can get, and he knows if he lets it, he’ll get there too. 

He calls Svetlana before he can think better of it. She picks up on the third ring. 

“Ilya?” Svetlana sounds winded. Perhaps she rushed to the phone to answer. “You asshole, you cannot keep missing my calls like this. Do you know how worried I have been?” Her words are so fast and sharp Ilya almost struggles to understand them despite her speaking in Russian.

“Sveta,” Ilya whimpers, pained. Her voice is a balm, but it can do little to heal the hurt in him. He sounds like a child, and he knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. 

“Fuck,” Svetlana swears. “Ilya. You’re worrying me. I- just give me two seconds, okay? I will leave now, are you at home? Shall I-” 

“No, no, do not bother. Don’t bother. I’m not at home.” Ilya wipes a hand over his face. He forces himself to take a deep breath. It’s unfair of him to worry her like this. 

“Where are you, then? I came by two days ago and you were not there then, either.” 

“Montreal,” Ilya admits. 

“Montreal. Canada?” 

“Yes.” 

Ilya can hear her take a measured breath over the phone. He knows she’s biting back the urge to rip him apart to shreds, or maybe to demand he comes home immediately. He’s very lucky to have her. 

“Okay. Montreal. Fine. Can you explain to me what the fuck is happening, Ilyusha?”

Ilya lets himself fall onto his back onto the hotel bed. He laughs without meaning to — how the fuck does he explain any of this? 

“I’m glad you’re finding this funny, because I’m not,” Svetlana bites out. Ilya wishes she was here, because he could really fucking use a hug from his best friend right now. 

“No, no, it’s not funny,” Ilya apologises. “Sorry. It’s just… It is a ridiculous story, Sveta. You won’t believe me.” 

“At this point, even if you told me you were Ded Moroz, I would hear you out. Just fucking talk to me.” 

Ilya knows he shouldn’t. It’s Shane’s secret too, and he made a promise to keep it. But, fuck, it’s not like Shane knows it ever happened, right? Ilya trusts Svetlana, he knows she would never spread this. If he doesn’t speak to someone he’s worried he may genuinely lose his mind. 

“You know about Jane,” Ilya confirms. 

“Yes.”

“You know that Jane is…” 

“A man,” Svetlana says easily. “You wouldn’t keep him a secret otherwise. Besides, I saw you receive a dick pick from Jane, once.” 

“You-” 

“Only a glimpse! It’s your fault, opening a dick pic with a mirror behind you! Be more careful!” 

“I was at home with only you, and I didn’t know you were such a filthy perverted peeping tom!”

Fuck. Perhaps Ilya will not have to suffer much longer, because Hollander will kill him. Even without his memories, he’s sure the man’s paranoia will sense something. 

Svetlana laughs lightly. “Please, you always knew I was a pervert. Is there a reason we’re talking about your boyfriend’s dick? It was nice, I agree, but I don’t think he wants you to discuss it with me.” 

“Svetlana,” Ilya groans. He finds himself smiling despite himself. “Fuck. Shut up. Just listen.” 

He tells her everything. The gym. The CCM photoshoot. The years of fucking, and pretending like that’s all it was. Making a fucking tuna melt for Shane, begging him to stay. And then — the All Stars game. Finally going from ‘Hollander’ and ‘Rozanov’ to ‘Shane’ and ‘Ilya’. The tentative hope he’d felt despite knowing it could never work out.

He’d always known this would have to end. He’d just… never thought it would be this way. He'd expected perhaps they'd part on good terms, with a mutual understanding that it was only this way because it had to be.

He expects her to make a joke. ‘Shane Hollander? You are fucking Shane Hollander? That was Shane Hollander’s dick I saw? You are a lucky asshole, Rozanov.’ They’ve never been good at talking honestly about their feelings. This is how they communicate; concern hidden under humour and friendly anger. He would welcome the levity right now. 

“I’m sorry, Ilyusha,” she says instead. He curses her for leaving him to sit with the weight of his emotions. 

“I do not know what to do,” he admits to her. English is easier than Russian right now. He can’t bear admitting to his vulnerability in his mother tongue anymore. 

“You won’t tell him?” 

“No,” Ilya says firmly. “It’s better this way. He’ll find someone else, he can be happy… he deserves that.” 

“And you? You think because you are used to losing people it’ll get easier? When will you give yourself a break, hm?”

Ilya shakes his head, wipes the tears off of his face. “Shane deserves-” 

“And what about what you fucking deserve? I’m tired of seeing my best friend kill himself over nothing.” 

“Svetlana,” Ilya hisses out. 

“Please.” Her voice is gentle and weak, wholly unlike her. “Ilyusha, you don’t even know what he feels. Maybe he misses you. Maybe he doesn’t remember you but would want to. You think forgetting you is some- some gift to him? I would not want to forget you, and I don’t know Hollander but I’m sure he would say the same. If he has risked all these years with you, I’m sure he did it because he knew you were worth the risk.”

“Sveta.” His pleas don’t sway her. 

“Do not rob yourself or him of this. Hm? All I want is to see you happy. I hope one day you will give that to me.” 

Ilya shrugs, even though she can’t see it. Maybe. Maybe one day. He wouldn’t hold his breath; he is, after all, his mother’s son. 

May 20 — Café Lavande, Montreal

Rose hums, handing Shane his phone back. “I’m sorry. It sounds like you were close. But you’ve really never mentioned her.”

Shane swallows back a sound of despair. He should be enjoying himself. It’s a nice day, Rose is visiting, and she’s taken him to a little cafe with a private balcony seating and a gorgeous view. Instead, all he can think about is the text Lily sent to him just before he met up with Rose — Lily’s last texts to him, if she was to be believed.

“I feel like…” Shane hesitates. “There’s something there, you know?” It's a hell of a confusing mess in his head, though Shane doesn't remember his head ever being any different. Hah. How would he know? 

Perhaps that's what's making it harder to place. The amnesia. He can't really remember his adult experiences, doesn't have much to compare and contrast against. As a kid, attraction had only ever taken him by surprise, and even then, it had always been to the idea of a relationship than the reality. 

Now, Shane thinks it's the opposite. The idea of it is wholly unappealing. This faceless married woman who he can't understand, can't seem to really connect with. And yet, Shane finds himself craving her. In what way, he doesn't know. He just… wants. 

“There's something there,” Rose repeats, and her eyebrows climb up her forehead. “With Lily?” 

“Mm, well.” Shane shrugs one shoulder. “I can’t, uh, I can’t really explain it. I mean it’s not like I could see myself, uh… being with a woman. Obviously. I mean you’re…” he gestures towards her. “Objectively gorgeous, but that still didn’t work out.” 

Rose shoots him a small smile, tapping a kitten heel against his sneakers. “Such a flirt. I can see why I keep you around.” 

He rolls his eyes, flushing. “Stop.” Before he can say more, the doors to the private balcony open, a waitress coming over.

“Are you ready to order?” she asks. “Or would you like some more time?” 

“We’re ready,” Rose says easily. “I’ll have a niçoise salad, dressing on the side please, with a diet coke. Shane?” 

Both women turn to look at Shane. Right. He’d held the menu in his hand while Rose had read through Lily’s texts, but he’d really been looking at Rose out of the corner of his eye the whole time, trying uselessly to gauge her reaction. He quickly scans over the menu now. 

He’s considering just choosing the first salad he sees, when his eyes catch on one item in the sandwiches section. A tuna melt. Instinctively, he feels… yearning? There’s a flash of a memory too hazy to define. Hands, his own, holding a sandwich. The scent of tuna in the air, pricked with the sharpness of vinegar. A warm body next to his; he’s sharing the meal with someone, though he’s not sure who. Lily, maybe? His chest is an endless well of confusing want, the kind she makes him feel. He tries to see if he can remember more, but it’s just out of reach. 

The waitress shifts from foot to foot. Shane clears his throat, dragging himself back to the present. “A, uh, a tuna melt. Please. And a ginger ale.” 

“Of course.” The waitress smiles, clears their menus off the table. Rose raises an eyebrow at him from across the table. 

“Have we ever had a tuna melt together?” Shane asks urgently once the waitress leaves. 

“Uh, no,” Rose says, bewildered. “You usually stay away from white bread.” 

“I think I remembered something.” Shane is breathless with hope. “Like, visually. So far I’ve only had feelings and emotions, but I think I remembered an actual memory.”

“Of you eating a tuna melt?” Rose seems just as excited as him. She knows what any visual memory, despite how silly it may sound, means for him. This indicates there’s a good chance his memories aren’t lost forever. 

Shane nods. “I was with someone. Lily, I think. I mean I didn’t really see his face or anything but he was sitting next to me. I could see the sandwich in my hand. I think… I think I was having a ginger ale, too? Yeah. A, uh, a Canada Dry. I can see it now,” he says, exhilarated. If he closes his eyes, he can almost picture being there - the table, the napkins. It's still hazy around the edges but it's something concrete, and that means everything.

He looks back up to grin at Rose and notices she has an odd twist to her lips. “What?” Shane asks. 

“He?” She prompts. 

“Hm?” Shane blinks, confused. Who?

“Lily. You said Lily was a ‘he’.” 

“I didn’t…” Shane trails off. Did he? “Oh.” 

Rose nods. She leans forward in her seat. “You definitely did. Is Lily… a guy? Does that feel right?” 

Shane thinks about it. Lily, being a man. It wouldn’t make sense. Why would Lily lie to him? What else was he hiding, and why? It doesn’t make sense, but… 

“It feels right,” Shane says hoarsely. Another puzzle piece clicking into place. “I… yeah. I think- I think Lily might be a man.” 

Shane is zoned out the rest of the meal, despite trying really hard to focus on Rose. He hoped the taste of the meal would help him remember more, but it doesn’t really bring up anything of consequence. Just that the tuna melt from his memories had dill pickles, while this one doesn’t.

Rose hugs him tight before they part. “This is a good thing,” she reminds him. “You remembering something. I know it’s probably really frustrating to only gain a glimpse, but this means you could remember more, right?” 

“Right,” Shane agrees. He presses a kiss to the side of her head before stepping back. 

“So keep your head up.” She pats his cheek. “We still on for tomorrow?” 

“Mmhm. Bye, Rose.” 

“Bye, Shane.” 

May 21 — Shane Hollander’s Residence, Montreal

Shane had kind of forgotten all about it too, with the whole mess around Rose and Lily and, just… everything. Having a concussion and being in pain all the time probably didn’t help. Weirdly, he feels guilty about having forgotten Ilya- Rozanov for a bit. Which really only gives credence to his theory that he and Rozanov were secretly friends or something. 

Impulsively, he decides to message Rozanov. Less impulsively, he pulls out his notes app to draft a first message. A few tries and one burgeoning headache later he determines his message would be both appropriately polite and hopefully prompt some information from Rozanov. 

‘Hi Rozanov, this is Shane Hollander. Thanks for coming to visit when I was in the hospital, that was really nice of you to do. Unfortunately, I don’t remember much of your visit, I was pretty high haha. Actually, I don’t remember much at all, which you know. I was hoping that maybe we could talk? We may be ‘rivals’, but we’ve known each other for a while now, and I’m just trying to piece back my memories, you know? Would love to have a chat. Totally fine if it’s a no to that, though. Thanks anyway. Warm regards.’ 

…Okay, it’s a shit fucking message. Whatever. It should do the job either way, and Shane can’t bear looking at screens for too long. His head is already throbbing. 

He copies the message from his notes. He clicks on the little message icon on the contact card for Rozanov that Hayden had sent over. He pastes his message into the bar at the bottom. He hits send. It all takes under a second. 

The message doesn’t go through. More importantly, now that Shane’s actually paying attention, he sees that he already has a message history with Rozanov’s number. 

What? 

Maybe Hayden had sent him the wrong number. Shane goes back to his chat with Hayden, hits ‘message’ on the contact card for Rozanov again.

Lily. Ilya. Fuck. Shane knows — he knows that they’re the same person. It's the same… all of it. The way they make him feel like he doesn't know which way’s up or down or left or right. Doesn't know which way he wants to go, like he's aching for a home that's no longer there. Maybe one that doesn't exist.

Ilya Rozanov has been leading him around the nose like he was a fucking fool. Shane trusted Lily. He had so few real connections after the accident, after losing everything. He was so scared, and still he had let her in, let him in. 

Who the hell does he think he is, pretending like he’s some socialite that cares about him? Pretending like they’re friends? Was Rozanov just laughing at the other end, passing his phone around to the other Raiders so they could all just revel in how pathetic a man Shane had been reduced to?

Shane couldn't bring himself to truly believe Lily- Ilya- either of them could be so cruel. But what the hell did Shane know? Really, he couldn't even trust his memories. How could he blindly trust someone else like this? What has he been fucking thinking, walking around with the same ease that the Shane of a few months ago presumably did? 

He feels sick to his stomach. Everything else has been out of control, and he can’t keep pretending like he has it all together anymore just so that people stop treating him like he’s made of glass. If he has to resort to forcing the truth out of people, so be it. 

Starting with Ilya. He has to have had a reason for this. Shane doesn’t buy that they’re just friends who care about each other, nor does he think this is something born of pure cruelty. Ilya is hiding something, and Shane deserves to know. He’ll call Rozanov on a new number first; if that doesn’t work, fuck it. Shane will fly to Boston or Russia or- or wherever he needs to. 

A sudden awareness of his own heaving breaths breaks through Shane’s tumultuous emotions. His face feels flushed and overheated; when he places his hands on his cheeks, he finds them wet with tears. He doesn’t even know where his phone is. Tangled in his duvet, probably. 

Shane takes a few measured, shaky breaths, wiping his face dry with the sleeve of his hoodie. He can’t seem to think over the noise in his head. He slides down in bed, drawing the duvet over his suddenly trembling body and burying his face in his pillow.

Tomorrow, he promises himself, he’ll hunt Rozanov down. No matter what it takes.

Chapter End Notes

Credit for the AMAZING FUNCTIONING CONTACT CARD (DID YOU GUYS SEE THAT SCROLL UP AND HIT MESSAGE, IF YOU ALREADY SAW IT REFRESH THE PAGE TO DO IT AGAIN) goes to nanasphemy on ao3. I had no idea that was something you could do, I'm so blown away. Thank you so much, oomf!!

Also, yes, I'm aware that this isn't how blocking contacts on WhatsApp works. We will just pretend it's different in the HR universe because narratively it's a lot more fun than just swapping double ticks to a single tick.

Chapter 5: The one hand that still works —

Chapter Notes

Ilya swears. This is what it gets him, forcing himself to actually step outside. Perhaps he’d been better off in his depressive slump. Fuck this shitty tabloid page. Ilya has never been fond of them. And fuck the Ritz-Carlton staff for their leak, too. Ilya’s glad this will be his last week staying here.

He’s interrupted by the ring of a phone — the hotel phone. Odd. Mm, but maybe this was the hotel trying to ply him with more free services as an apology. They’d already refunded his stay and sent him extravagant gift baskets, neither of which Ilya had refused. 

“Yes?” Ilya says gruffly into his phone. A moment of silence on the other side, followed by the awkward clearing of a nervous throat. 

“Good morning, Mr. Rozanov. This is Mr. Jean from the, um, the reception at the Ritz-Carlton-”

“Yes, yes, what is it?” Ilya cuts off. Jean. Ilya remembers him. That was the receptionist whose eyes had widened in recognition at Ilya’s name. Never a good thing in Montreal if you were a Raider, and a particularly bad thing if you were famously the rival to the Metros’ beloved sweetheart. Jean was no exception to the rule; he’d been both curt and overly invasive, clearly fishing for information.

“You have a visitor, and we, euh, just wanted-” 

And now the receptionist, whose job it was to talk to people, was stammering. Ilya’s mouth twists. If Jean planned to keep leaking information on the Ritz’ clientele, the man would have to learn to be less obvious about it. 

“What, is it not enough that you have all made sure I am on the cover of all the tabloids? You want me to invite the paparazzi up to my room, too? I think it should be common sense that I don’t want to see any of them.”

“Yes, of course,” Jean says placatingly. “We’ve turned any and all paparazzi away, of course.” Ilya rolls his eyes. ‘Of course’, he mouths to himself. He’s expected to assume they understand privacy when they’ve announced his current location to the world? “But Mr. Rozanov,” Jean continues, “this is your, uh… coworker.” 

Ilya frowns. “Who?” Marly would have given him a heads up, and Ilya doesn’t think anyone else on the team likes him enough to chase him across state borders, let alone countries. Especially not after the grief Ilya has been giving them lately. 

“Shane Hollander?” Jean says, voice cracking. He clears his throat again. “Uh, Mr. Shane Hollander is here to visit you.” 

Shane Hollander. 

Ilya’s heart kicks up a gear. Why would Shane be here to see him? Could he have remembered? Could he have-

No. This was too good to be true. All of Montreal just found out that the guy they love to hate has been hanging about in their city for a month. “Are you sure? It’s not… a journalist, maybe, or a reporter, pretending-”

“It’s Shane Hollander.” Jean sounds certain. Ilya is not one to trust idiots, usually, but he thinks anyone who knows anything about hockey ought to be able to recognise Shane Hollander. If this man cares about Ilya enough to hate him, he must fucking love Shane. 

“...Okay.” Ilya takes a shaky breath. A chance to see Shane again. Ilya imagines that in a few minutes, he might wake up to the nightmare of reality. “Okay. Send Sh- send him up.” 

“Yes, sir.”

On the off chance that this wasn’t a dream, however… 

“And Mr., uh, Jean, was it? If you go to that shitty fucking website about this, if anyone at all ever finds out that Shane Hollander visited me, trust me when I tell you I will make sure you never work again.”

“...yes, sir.”

Ilya smacks the receiver down, and the sound echoes. When he lifts his hand off of the receiver, he notes that his hand has left a thin sheen of sweat behind. 

Fuck. Shane is going to be here. Maybe he remembers Ilya, maybe he remembers everything. Maybe he remembers how Ilya has abandoned him; he wouldn’t understand how Ilya had been trying to do this for Shane. He wouldn’t understand that he was better off without Ilya around. Shane had always given Ilya more credit than he deserved. 

Perhaps Shane hadn’t remembered anything. Were they, to Shane, meeting for the first time again? Would Ilya be able to sell his lies when face-to-face with him? Shane had always inspired a pathetic earnestness from Ilya. He would lay it all at Shane’s feet, like a mangy dog with a dead bird, and then still have the audacity to feel hurt if Shane’s lips curl up in disgust. 

Ilya gets out of bed and straightens the duvet. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he messes it up again — perhaps Shane would chide him over the mess. Ilya walks to the floor-length mirror in the corner of the room. His eyes are wide, eyebrows furrowed. Fear and hope inked boldly into his features.

“What are you doing?” Ilya mutters, forcing himself to adopt a more neutral expression. “Get it together, Rozanov.” He fixes his hair, scrunching his curls. Studies his expression again. Not as confident as he would like, but certainly better at obscuring what he’s really feeling. He looks presentable. He looks like Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov, MHL’s best player, instead of Ilya, fool in love. 

The knock that sounds on Ilya’s door five minutes is so sharp and familiar it almost inspires a smile. Ilya opens the door to reveal Shane’s scowl, the one that makes him look like an angry kitten. He lets Shane push his way in, and for a second, it feels like nothing has changed. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shane hisses as he shuts the door before whirling around to face Ilya. 

“In my hotel room?” Ilya asks. He manages to keep his tone light and amused despite the disappointment sinking down to his stomach. If Shane doesn’t know why Ilya is here, he must not have remembered much. It was a stretch to hope otherwise. 

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Shane growls. “What are you doing in Montreal?”

“Is it your city now? No one else allowed?” Ilya raises an eyebrow. Shane is nearly trembling with rage, and it’s so fucking endearing. Ilya wants Shane to use his little kitten teeth and carve his anger into Ilya’s skin.

“Fuck. You.” Shane shoves at Ilya. Actually shoves him, hands rough against Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya stumbles back, surprised. For all Shane’s bluster, he’s never gotten physical with Ilya off of the ice. Shane is far too much of an overthinker to let his impulses rule him the way they seem to do with most other players. 

“Shane-” 

“Don’t call me that.” Shane is flushed with emotion, teary-eyed with it. His shoulders shake with each heaving breath. Ilya has never seen him like this. This isn’t anger, even if it looks like it. Desperation, perhaps. A cornered animal biting back. 

Did Ilya do this? Did he push Shane into this? If Shane doesn’t even remember Ilya, why the fuck is he acting like this? 

“Hollander,” Ilya corrects, softer now. Shane shakes his head and sniffles, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Shane says wetly. His voice wells with his tears. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, huh? Fuck you!” 

“Playing? Hollander, no one is- what is wrong?” Ilya takes a hesitant step forward, hand cautiously outstretched. Why is Shane here, alone and upset? Someone should be taking better care of him. Ilya did not give Shane up only to see him die of an aneurysm.

Shane smacks Ilya’s hand away. “You thought I wouldn’t figure it out?” 

“Figure what out? Hollander, you are not making any sense. Maybe sit down, hm? Some water?” 

“That you’re Lily.” Shane spits the last word out. 

Oh.

Ilya knew he was testing his luck with that. He thought he got away with it when Shane never caught on. He congratulated himself on cutting things off before it got too far when he managed to bring himself to block Shane.

He should have known better. Growing up, his father had done his best to teach Ilya how every failure would cost him dearly. Russia had done the same. He’s gotten soft with all this time away from his roots. 

“Why would you do that? Why would you- pretend to care? I- do you even know how fucking hard all of this has been without you adding to the mess?” Shane’s voice cracks and breaks. He wipes at his face aggressively, as if Ilya will forget the sight of seeing his tears fall. 

‘I know,’ Ilya wants to confess. ‘I knew I would not help, and that’s why I tried to stay away. I’m sorry I failed, I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.’ But no. That’s not what Shane needs right now. 

“I’ll explain everything,” Ilya says softly. “I promise you, Hollander, it was not because I don’t care about you. But will you please sit down for me? Hm?” This time, when Ilya reaches for Shane, he isn’t pushed away. Ilya gently guides him to sit on the bed. He reaches for a water bottle, but Shane stops him with a hand to his wrist. 

“Explain,” Shane demands. “Explain, or I leave.” 

Straight to the point, then. Ilya nods, taking a seat next to Shane. “When I knew you did not remember me, I was not going to message you, I promise. But I was worried about you. And when you messaged me, I could not… I could not ignore you. Could not ignore my worry. I promise, it was not pretend.” 

Some tightness leaves Shane’s face, and Ilya is glad for it. He wants to smooth the rest of it away with his thumbs and his lips. To push his hair back and ease the furrow of his brow. He wants it so much it aches. He keeps his hands fisted in his lap. 

“So we’re… what, we became friends at some point?” Hollander asks. He doesn’t pose the question as if the idea is beyond belief, which is good. 

“Er, yes.” Not exactly, but Ilya isn’t sure Shane’s ready for the rest of it. 

“But why… I mean, ‘Lily’?” Shane asks. 

“We’re rivals. You know this, yes?”

Shane nods in confirmation. 

“Yes, there you go. Would be a big scandal if people knew. You are always worried about your phone being hacked.” 

“So, Lily,” Shane breathes out softly. “And I’m what, Shannon?”

Ilya’s lips pull with a softness that hints at fond memories. “No, Jane.” 

Shane nods. Swallows. Ilya gives him the time he needs to let it sink in. Fuck, he needs the time himself. How did they get here? How did he let this happen? 

“Why did we even start talking?” Shane asks. “We weren’t, like, colluding, or something, right?” 

“Colluding?” Ilya asks. 

“Like, uh, cheating. In sports, specifically.” 

Ilya snorts. “You think you would cheat? Really?” Occasionally, some stupid tabloid or podcaster suggests that Shane Hollander’s success is borne from something other than talent and dedication. On rare occasions, people are even bold enough to relay those accusations to Ilya. Ilya is never sure what people are expecting — for him to echo the sentiment? To join in, to provide ‘proof’? Usually, all he can manage is laughter, because the idea is so ridiculous, the disrespect so unfounded, that he can never take it seriously. 

“I- okay, that’s fair.” Shane’s face pulls into a reluctant smile. His skin is puffy and red. Dried tears outline the shape of his face. It’s the most beautiful face Ilya has ever seen

“So we were just friends. No ulterior motives, no agenda. How- I mean, how does something like that even happen?” Shane presses. 

Ilya hesitates, wracking his brain for a plausible reason for their ‘friendship’. He finds nothing, and he shrugs. 

“I mean, I told you I was… that I’m…gay.” Shane whispers the last word. “I didn’t tell my own parents, but I told my ‘rival’?” 

Ah. That, maybe Ilya could explain. “Er- easier with me because we share the same secret. Sort of. Bisexual, remember?” 

“Oh! So that was- that bit was true?” This time, Shane’s words are not whispered. The opposite, actually.

“Yes, Hollander. More than one MHL player is allowed to be queer, I think. Or did you call dibs?” Ilya teases. He snorts at Shane’s flustered expression, the way his cheeks colour deeper with the word ‘queer’. Shane scowls in response, which only tickles Ilya further. 

“Okay, so- so how did we even become friends?” Shane presses. 

“Uh, we did a commercial. With CCM, I think. We talked after, and it just happened.” The best lies are founded in truth. Had they truly just been friends, would things have been simpler? Maybe. Probably not. They’re both too intense and too different. They would have found a way to complicate things. 

“That was like a decade ago,” Shane says. 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You remember?” 

“Oh. Uh, no, I looked you up after… um.” Shane shrugs awkwardly. 

“You looked me up?” Ilya feels something like pride uncurl and stretch in his chest, like a lazy dog in the sun. Even now, a decade later, with all Shane’s memories gone, Ilya still managed to make him curious. 

“I- it doesn’t matter. Look, the point is… if we were friends for so long, why wouldn’t I tell Hayden? Or my parents? I- I mean, why let that whole public ‘rivalry’ thing build anyway, if we were friends right from the start? It doesn’t add up.”

Ilya finds himself flailing for a response. That was a fair question. He forgets, sometimes, that other people had families they shared their lives with. That they owed answers to, that they shared secrets with. The idea is almost absurd. The closest he has is Sveta, and they have both always been good at keeping their boundaries. 

“I mean, we clearly hang out,” Shane continues. “Right? We had lunch together at least once, I think… tuna melts, um, that was with you?” 

Ilya blinks. He feels like an idiot, getting his hopes up again, but… “You remembered this?” It’s not like Shane took a photo of their meal. It’s not like they had ever texted about that day. They hadn’t even talked about it in person. How could Shane possibly know about it by any other means than memory? 

“Vaguely, yes. I remember I was with someone, and that…” Shane trails off, head tipped down and brows furrowed.

This was good. If Shane was remembering small little details like this… it could lead to more. Maybe Shane would remember everything. Maybe…

And then what? They get back together, live happily ever after? Ilya sighs. He needs to get a handle on his blind optimism. 

“This is good, though, yes?” Ilya asks. “For you. That your memories are coming back slowly.”

“Um, yeah, the doctors said that, um… it was a good sign…” Shane trails off, clearly distracted. His brows are furrowed in thought. Ilya has seen this expression before, across the ice. He’s seen Shane on the bench, brows furrowed just like this, before-

“You said we had the same secret,” Shane says suddenly. His face clears and sharpens. Fuck. Ilya knows this expression. When he sees this expression, he knows that he’s in for a fight that’s nigh impossible to win. 

“Hollander-” 

“And that… and our texts, they were…”

“Hollander,” Ilya repeats, a little desperately. As if by begging, he could stop Shane from piecing it all together. 

“You… we…” Shane trails off. His eyes briefly flick to Ilya’s lips, and he wets his own as if remembering the taste of them. “We were in a relationship?” 

Ilya winces.

“Not… exactly. More like… erm, fuck buddies? Maybe?” 

“Oh.” Shane pulls back a little, drawing into himself. He rubs at his shoulder, the one he’d injured. A new habit that he has picked up since, perhaps. “Right. Of course. Right. Sorry for, uh, assuming.” 

“No, uh, no worries,” Ilya says awkwardly. The sight of Shane, with his wet, sad eyes, the knowledge that it’s Ilya’s fault… it makes him sick. More cruelly, it makes him proud. He still has an effect on Shane. Somehow, he has managed to leave an indelible mark on this beautiful boy. 

Shane sits up, taking a deep breath. “I, uh, I should go. I have… I should go.” He stands, wiping at his face. “Thank you for, uh, for explaining everything.” 

“You don’t have to go,” Ilya says desperately. He can’t tell Shane everything, but that doesn’t mean they have to be nothing, right? They could be friends. Ilya could manage that, somehow. This desperation for connection and company is one Ilya has felt all his life, but he has never felt more ashamed of it than right now. 

“No, no, I do.” Shane is already at the door. Fuck these tiny hotel rooms; at least Ilya’s house had afforded him a few seconds of hope that Shane would turn back. Shane hesitates, hand on the doorknob, back to Ilya. “Were you ever going to tell me?” He asks softly. He sounds so tired, and so, so small. The mark Ilya has left behind is a scar that never stops aching. 

“Hollander…” Ilya trails off. His silence is damning enough without needing to commit his sins to sound. 

Shane swallows, then nods. “Right. Well… goodbye, I guess.” He pulls the door open. 

Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck was Ilya doing? Why the fuck was he doing this? To ‘protect Shane’? What a fucking joke. Shane is clearly miserable. To protect himself, maybe, but he doesn’t feel very protected either. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, reaching out and grabbing Shane’s arm. Shane turns at the sound of his name. How beautiful it was, to be able to call him by his first name. How could Ilya give it up?

“It wasn’t just sex,” Ilya says, cupping Shane’s cheek. Ilya half expects Shane to shove him away, to push him back. There’s a moment of resistance, barely that, before Shane melts beautifully into Ilya’s touch. “Not for me. Maybe not for you, too. A lie we told ourselves, but… no, I cannot let you leave thinking you mean nothing to me.” 

Shane blinks. His eyes well, tears clinging to his waterline, but they don’t tip over. He wraps his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, pulling him close and burying his face into Ilya’s neck. Ilya thinks about… was it early 2014? Then, in the bathroom, as now, Shane offered forgiveness that Ilya didn’t deserve. Now, just as before, Ilya is too selfish to pull away. 

“You asshole,” Shane says into Ilya’s neck. “Why would you… I feel like I’ve been going crazy.” 

“I’m sorry.” Ilya cups the back of Shane’s neck with his right hand, strokes his back with his left. “I’m sorry, malysh. I thought it would be better for you. This would be very difficult. The secrets.” 

“Don’t make me give it up,” Shane says wetly. “Don’t, I can’t… I have so little now. I can’t give anything else up, please.” 

“I will not,” Ilya promises hoarsely, his own eyes tearing up. He has been so selfish to leave Shane to bear all of this alone. To stray from his own heart. “This is yours, I am yours. As long as you want. I am so sorry.” He presses a kiss to Shane’s hair, then another, and another. He kisses Shane’s ear, his shoulder. 

Shane tips his head up, eyes half lidded. He noses at Ilya’s cheek, parts his lips, and waits. 

Ilya can’t resist melting into it. He brushes his lips against Shane’s, and it feels like coming home. “Prosti menya,”  he whispers onto Shane’s lips. Forgive me. “Prosti menya. Prosti menya, malysh, prosti menya.” He kisses each supplication onto Shane’s lips, devoutly begging his god for clemency. His god, ever merciful, rewards him by parting his lips further and letting Ilya’s tongue in despite its transgressions. 

Chapter End Notes

Happy early update! The next update is like... 5k words of porn lol. Yes sixmoi is fake deuxmoi + page six.

Edit: SIXMOI ADS LEAD TO OTHER FANFICS!!! CLICK CLICK CLICK!

Chapter 6: grips, won't let go.

Chapter Notes

May 22 — The Ritz-Carlton, Montreal, cont. 

Shane finds himself on his back in Ilya’s bed, Ilya laying by his side. Their legs are tangled together, Ilya’s nose tucked into the curve of Shane’s shoulder. They’re both still clothed; Shane gets the sense that there’s novelty to this, that this is a position they’re used to when mostly naked.

It feels overwhelming to be faced with Ilya’s adoration. There’s a part of him that wants to run. The much larger hollow that has lived in his chest the past month denies the possibility, greedy to claw the memories of Ilya that were stolen from him back into place. 

“It’s weird,” Shane murmurs, running a hand through Ilya’s hair. “You’re a stranger to me, kind of, but here I am in your bed.”

Ilya makes a wounded sound. “Don’t say that, please. You remember me in your heart, even if you don’t in your brain, yes?” 

Well, that’s a good way of putting it. Shane doesn’t remember his time with Ilya, but he can’t deny how right this all feels. “Yeah,” he agrees softly. “Ever since the hit, I’ve felt like I’ve been missing you, even if I didn’t remember us.”

Silence. Then, wetness against the side of his face as Ilya nuzzles into the curve of Shane’s neck. “I’m sorry,” Ilya repeats, and Shane shakes his head lightly. He runs a soothing hand down Ilya’s back. 

“I’m not- I’m not blaming you. Not right now. I might be angry later, but I don’t want to get into that now, I just…” Shane is mad at Ilya for hiding from him, of course he is. He hates that Ilya treated him like a kid, like Ilya knew what was best for him. He just… doesn’t want to face that now. Doesn’t want to muster the strength to fight. He wants Ilya to hold him, and he wants to believe that it’s possible for him to feel normal and whole again one day. 

“Okay. Not now,” Ilya agrees. He wipes his tears against Shane’s shirt, nuzzling against his uninjured shoulder like a dog. A pampered little goldendoodle. Shane can’t help but huff a laugh at the thought.

Ilya brings a hand to lightly trace over Shane’s once-broken collarbone. Shane tenses, then forces himself to relax as Ilya keeps up the light touch. 

“Still hurts?” Ilya asks softly. 

“A little,” Shane admits. “This, like, deep, throbbing ache. And the muscles around it get pretty tense quite easily. But it’s healing well.”

Ilya nods, and they lapse into silence. It’s… comfortable. Softly touching each other, feeling for themselves that the other is real and here. Ilya strokes over Shane’s chest, his shoulder, down his sides. It’s through Shane’s clothes, but it still leaves him feeling dazed and drunk. This is what he has been aching for, and it’s been right here, less than a half-hour drive from his house. 

“You stayed in Montreal,” Shane whispers. Ilya doesn’t know anyone else here as far as he knows. But it just… it doesn’t make sense for Ilya to shell out on staying close when they weren’t even talking. What difference would it be of he was here or in Boston? He had no way of expecting that Shane would figure all of it out and show up at his door. 

“I couldn’t leave you.” Ilya traces Shane’s jaw with his lips. “Maybe does not make sense. But I didn’t want to see anyone but you. Even if I couldn’t see you, I wanted to be close.” 

It still seems so irrational to Shane. He can’t understand it, but he’s glad for it anyway. 

He slides his hands under Ilya’s shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. So alive under him, so whole. So unlike Shane. 

“I keep thinking…” Does Shane really get all of this, when he can’t even remember it? He’s been doing a lot of reading about how huge a part of personality memory makes. How it affects the decisions you make, the things you like and dislike. Who is he now, compared to the person he was before? 

“What?” Ilya prompts. He looks at Shane with blown pupils and lowered lashes, still, the way he used to before. 

“Am I… who you remember?” Shane asks. 

Ilya pulls back, brows furrowed. When Shane doesn’t elaborate, he sighs softly. “I’m confused,” Ilya says. “What do you mean?”

“I just… I’m worried that… um.” Shane rattles his brain for an explanation. “Lets say you’ve been practicing for a game. And you’re playing against… uh, me, maybe. And you’ve studied me, and you know how I work, so the coach is planning to give you a ton of ice time.” 

Ilya laughs softly, but Shane barrels on. “On the day of the game, I’ve changed up my style entirely since last time. I don’t play like the same person anymore. And you have no idea how to deal with it, right? Like you have no idea what works, what doesn’t. Would you still deserve the ice time? Like if- if someone else on the team is better suited for the, um… the…” Shane trails off, distracted by the wet kisses Ilya is pressing to his neck. He melts into them against his will. 

“The hockey metaphor is not necessary, I think,” Ilya murmurs. “Maybe just tell me how you’re feeling?” 

Shane sighs. “I’m… worried that maybe the person I am now isn’t the same person you fell for.” 

“Well, the two of you look very similar. Could be twins, I think.” Ilya pulls back to look at Shane, and he’s wearing a cheeky little grin. He looks so boyish, and Shane is so very endeared by him. 

Shane pinches Ilya’s side. “I’m serious. This was… a lot. All of this. And your memories make you who you are, and I don’t have those anymore. I might not get them all back. I mean, I might even develop false memories based on what everyone else is telling me, and, like, then what? What if my memories become a Ship of Theseus situation?” 

“A what?” 

“It’s this idea where you slowly replace parts of a ship over a few years until all of the parts are new ones,” Shane explains. He thumbs at Ilya’s furrowed brows. “Is it still the same ship? Am I still the same me?” 

Ilya shifts to press a kiss to Shane’s thumb. “Do you think you’re the same person?” 

“No,” Shane answers honestly. “I’m so… lost, now. I don’t think I was that way before.” People always talk about Shane like he was the kind of guy that always had his shit together. If it was a facade, it was a damn good one. Now…

“Then we will be lost together,” Ilya says easily. “I am very excited to learn about this new you.” 

“Don’t say that like it’s so simple,” Shane protests. “It isn’t.” He doesn’t want empty assurances and platitudes and ‘it’ll-get-betters’, he’s sick of those. He’s sick of trusting when people offer them only to find out they never meant it. 

“No, but it is not as complicated as you make it either. People change all the time. It’s normal. Before the hit, you were not the same Shane as the Shane I first met in Regina either. I am not the same Ilya either. Many things have happened since then. I have lost my father and my brother. I have learned that it is okay to love you.” 

“You love me?” Shane asks softly. 

“Yes.” Ilya kisses Shane’s cheekbones. Shane wants to say the same, but he can’t, not yet. He thinks he loves Ilya. He thinks the feeling in his chest right now is love. But how can he know? How can he know anything when he remembers nothing?

Ilya doesn’t press him for a response, and Shane feels his heart swell at the understanding he offers. He thinks he would spend forever if that’s what it took to relearn Ilya. 

“And… it will be fun, no?” Ilya grins lasciviously. “I know what you like, and you don’t remember. It’ll be great for my ego when you believe I am a sex god.” 

Shane snorts, Ilya’s stupid joke successfully cutting his overthinking short. “I really don’t think your ego needs any help.”

“You wound me, my love.” Ilya kisses Shane, a gentle press of dry lips. Shane leans into it, and he whines when Ilya pulls away. 

“So what does this Shane Hollander think of the previous one?” Ilya asks.

“I don't know. I seem… boring, I guess.” No one says it to his face, but Shane gets the sense that that’s the vibe he gave off earlier based on what he’s heard and read. Disciplined. Rigid. Knew what to do, and then did it. He doesn’t feel like he’s anywhere close to as put together as he used to be, but he can’t say the idea of being seen as boring and predictable is appealing either. 

“Mmm...” Ilya’s mouth twists. 

“You don't think so?” Shane’s teammates had joked about him being a robot and needing a mechanic more than he needed a doctor when he was still laid up at the hospital, so he thinks that maybe Ilya is biased here. 

“Not really. Being boring is someone who is… not surprising, to me. I think… you can like drugs, parties, whatever, but if it's all you do, that's boring too.”

“I guess,” Shane concedes. “So you think I'm not…”

“Mm, no. Not at all. I don't think I will ever stop being surprised by you, Shane Hollander. Whichever version of you.” Shane smiles a little fondly, a little indulgently. Okay, maybe Ilya’s sweet nothings are winning him over a little. He gives Ilya’s mole a quick peck.

Ilya props himself up on one elbow. “You think I'm just trying to flatter you? Make you feel good?”

Shane shrugs, resting back against the pillow. His dark hair splays out on white cotton, and he sighs contentedly when Ilya runs his fingers through it. Ilya’s short nails scratch against his scalp, and it sends tingles down Shane’s spine. 

“I am not,” Ilya assures. “Can I tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Shane asks. 

Ilya pushes Shane's bangs off of his forehead and kisses his sweaty forehead. “How you surprise me.”

Shane's eyelids slip shut as Ilya presses kisses to his cheek, his jaw. “Okay,” he murmurs. 

“The first time I felt… something between us. 2009. We were in this hotel gym-”

“Wait, that long?” Shane asks. It can’t have been that long, that would have been before he even signed at the Metros. He tries to sit up, but Ilya pushes him back down. Even as Shane protests the idea, though— he thinks he remembers, maybe, feeling nervous and out of place as he met his new teammates, and he thinks, maybe, he wondered back then whether Rozanov was having an easier time with the Raiders. But still- that's a long fucking time.

“Yes, that long. Listen.” Ilya takes a moment to appreciate the look of awe on Shane's face before he continues. “It must have been midnight, and I was surprised to see someone else in the gym. You were already working away on the bike. Your butt looked very cute. I would have left had it been anyone else, I think, but it was you, so…” 

“You took the cycle next to mine,” Shane murmurs. If he focuses, he can hear their heavy breaths, and the sounds of wheels turning. 

Ilya's heart stutters in his chest. “You remember?”

“Yes. No. Vaguely. It's not a whole memory, just like… a snapshot.”

“I will tell you the rest, then. Yes, I took the bike next to yours. You went faster, so I went faster too.” 

“And then I went even faster.” 

“Another memory?” 

“An assumption, based on what I know about myself. And I’m guessing you took the challenge for what it was.”

“Yes. See, you know both of us better than you think you do.” 

“Or maybe we’re just boring.” 

“Maybe. Me, maybe. You…” Ilya huffs a laugh. Quick as whip, he pins Shane’s wrists by his head. Shane pants, and he should struggle, but he finds himself melting under the touch. Waiting for what Ilya has to say. Ilya smiles like his point has been proven. “Where is that fight, hm? The one you showed me on the bikes. The one you show me on the ice.” 

“I…” Shane trails off. 

“So competitive. So spirited. And yet… after our little competition on the bikes, tired as all hell. I had the… uh, what do you call it? I thought ahead.” 

“Foresight.” 

“I had the foresight to bring a bottle of water. Offered it to you, and you said no. I insisted, and you bent so beautifully to me. I asked you to drink more, you did.” 

“I think that just means I had a crush on you,” Shane murmurs. 

“No. No, it was…” Ilya noses at Shane’s jaw and breathes the scent of him in. “Something beautiful. I had never seen anything like it. I have never,” Ilya pushes Shane’s wrists further into the pillow for emphasis, “I have never seen anything as beautiful as you. Ever. You are not boring, Shane Hollander.” 

Shane sighs, his breath thin and thready. “Kiss me. Please.” 

Ilya licks at Shane's lips, and Shane groans and parts them. He sighs and arches as Ilya slips his tongue in, warming him inside out. 

He wants more. Ilya releases Shane's wrists, and Shane immediately slides them under Ilya's shirt. 

“Shane,” Ilya chides, and Shane groans. 

“C’mon. I want you.” Shane drags his lips down Ilya's jaw.

“I know you do, but you are injured still.”

“Barely,” Shane grumbles, and it's true. He wouldn't risk anything that would keep him from playing hockey longer than he already has to. 

“Yes, but also… mm, maybe we will wait, yes? Will be romantic.”

What? No. No, it wouldn't be romantic, it would be fucking stupid. “We've literally already slept together,” Shane argues. “I don't think it works like that.”

“Yes, but you don't… uh…” Ilya trails off. 

Oh. 

Okay. More of the ‘Shane lost his memories so now we must all treat him like a child’ bullshit. That's just great. 

Shane shoves Ilya off of him and pushes him onto his back before climbing on top of him. “I'm an adult,” he informs Ilya. “And I'm of sound mind. I'm capable of consent, fuck you.”

Ilya breathes shakily, eyes sliding down Shane's body and back up. His pupils are blown, his cheeks ruddy. 

“If you want to wait, that's fine,” Shane tells Ilya. “But if you're trying to- to do ‘what's best for me’ or whatever, I swear to god I will strangle you.”

Shane expects Ilya to laugh, maybe, and then to push him away or perhaps pull him closer. Instead, Ilya whimpers, hips jerking up. He's half hard and steadily getting harder. 

Oh, fuck, Ilya is into this. He's into Shane pushing him around.  “Well?” Shane asks breathlessly. 

“Well what?” Ilya slurs out, eyes trained on where Shane is straddling him. His hands find Shane's waist and he grinds up a little before groaning, tipping his head back. “Fuck, Shane.”

“Well, do you wanna fuck? Because I do. And you can say you don't want to, but you don't get to say I don't want to.”

“I want,” Ilya pants out desperately. “I want, I want, Shane.”

Shane breathes out, leaning down to kiss Ilya desperately. Immediately, Ilya's hands are curling around Shane's neck and shoulders to hold him in place as Ilya fucks his tongue into his mouth. Like this, Shane can't do much but brace his weight on his left forearm and let Ilya kiss the sense out of him, and he fucking loves it. 

“Fuck,” Shane gasps out when Ilya rolls his hips up. He's so achingly hard, they both are. Pleasure thrills up his spine, up every nerve, leaving his face tingling and vision blurred. “Please,” he gasps wetly. 

“Anything, anything for you. Let me take care of you,” Ilya begs, his hands pushing Shane's t-shirt up and palming roughly at one pec. “Let me make you feel good.” 

Shane shoves his shirt the rest of the way out. He goes to toss it, except it feels a little rude to just… throw it aside. He pulls away and sits up so he can fold it and set it near the foot of the bed. When he looks back, Ilya is looking at him with dark, hungry eyes. 

“What?” Shane asks.

“If I don't suck your dick, I will die,” Ilya informs him. Shane laughs, but apparently Ilya is serious, because he — very gently — pushes Shane onto his back. 

“Shoulder okay?” Ilya asks, kissing and licking at the shoulder in question. 

Shane nods. “It’s great. Get naked, please.” It feels silly to order Ilya around. It feels a lot less silly when Ilya rushes to obey, clearly very happy to do so.

Shane watches with a dry mouth as miles of beautiful skin and toned muscle are revealed to him. Ilya doesn't have the abs he remembered, torso covered in a thin layer of fat, and that's really fucking hot. A reminder they're having sex in the off-season, that this isn't just something they do for convenience anymore. 

He reaches out to stroke down Ilya's happy trail as Ilya climbs back to brace over him. He scratches down Ilya's pubic hair, though he avoids taking a hold of Ilya's thick, long, cock. He wants to feel Ilya in his hand, but he aches to have Ilya desperate and wanting.

Ilya groans, licking and kissing at Shane's jaw wetly. He moves to pull Shane's basketball shorts down, but Shane grabs his wrists and stops him.

“You left me waiting for you,” Shane pants out. “And I didn't even know it.”

“I'm sorry,” Ilya whimpers out. “Let me make it up to you, hm? Let me make you feel good.” 

“I feel like that's what you want,” Shane says, though he can't deny it's what he wants, too. He cups Ilya's cheek and thumbs his lips. Fuck, those would look so good around his cock. 

“I will not even come,” Ilya tries. “Hm? I will make you come once, twice, thrice, and I will not come. Please.” He nips at Shane's thumb. “Please. Let me make you feel good.”

“Fuck. Okay. Okay.” Shane lets Ilya help him out of his shorts and boxers. Immediately, Ilya is nosing along his hip and licking at his cock. 

“Wait, fuck, condoms,” Shane pants out. Shit. Did he have an STD? Probably not, right? But, like, what if he did and he didn't know about it?

Ilya pulls back. “Don't have any,” he admits miserably. “You… had sex with someone else?”

“Not since the concussion, but, I mean, I don't know about before that. Obviously.”

“You didn't sleep with anyone else before,” Ilya says confidently. 

“Oh.” Shane breathes a sigh of relief. Thank god pre-concussion him apparently kept Ilya apprised on this stuff.

“And if you did, we will just share any disease, yes?” Ilya dives back down for Shane's cock. Shane has to grab Ilya's hair with both hands to stop him, dragging him up. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Shane splutters out. 

“Shaneeee,” Ilya whines. “I want to suck your cock. Please, Hollander, I am dying here.”

“I'm not getting you sick-”

“You will not, you are too obsessed with me to fuck anyone else, and if you did you will always wear condoms. Even with me, mostly always we used condoms.”

Shane thinks about it. Ilya's right, probably. He doesn't think he'd ever skip protection with anyone else. He’s not the kind of person that turns into an idiot when his dick is hard, right? Slowly, he loosens his hold on Ilya's hair. It's not a sensible decision. But it's a decision he makes. 

And it's definitely not a decision he regrets when Ilya swallows his cock whole. 

“Oh, fuck-” Shane’s hips buck up, and Ilya gags on his cock. He tries to pull away a little, but Ilya just holds his hips in place and swallows him down. The clutch of Ilya's throat is hot, and slick, and so fucking tight. Shane is burning from the inside out. 

Shane sobs as Ilya bobs his head, taking him nearly to the root each time. Shane can't think, he can't breathe, he can't feel anything but pleasure. It rushes through his head and muffles his hearing. His toes curl. 

After what feels like an excruciating flood of pleasure, Shane is offered a reprieve when Ilya pulls off to breathe. Ilya's face is red and sweaty, and Shane can see a nerve popping out at his temple.

“Oh my god,” Shane gasps. Ilya smiles up dopily at him, curling his tongue against the frenulum of Shane's cock. Shane whimpers and twitches. He thinks he hears distant ringing. “Make me come,” Shane pants out. “I need- I need you to make me come.”

“Whatever my darling wants.” Ilya licks a stripe from Shane's balls up to his tip before taking the whole of him back down his throat. Shane cries out, covering his face with his hand. He tries to muffle his moans with the back of his hand, but Ilya is palming at Shane's pecs and pinching Shane's nipples and sucking Shane's cock like he needs it to live and it's really fucking hard to focus on being quiet under those circumstances. Ilya shoulders his way under Shane's legs and presses a thumb to his taint; it has Shane tossing his head back, eyes leaking hot tears.

“I'm gonna come,” Shane warns, a little too late. He tries to pull Ilya off his cock, because he thinks coming down someone's throat just feels rude, but Ilya doesn't budge and Shane can't stop himself. He keens and sobs, eyes squeezing shut, hips jerking. 

It takes a minute for Shane to recover enough that he's actually aware of his body again. Ilya is pressing soft kisses against his abdomen and chest. 

“You swallowed,” Shane murmurs drowsily. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I like to taste you.” Ilya climbs up and kisses Shane's cheek. “Do you also want to taste?” 

Shane, flushed and panting, nods. Ilya kisses him, and Shane licks the taste of his own come from his mouth. 

“Good?” Ilya murmurs, barely pulling away. 

“Not really.” It's hot, sure, but it's not like it tastes nice. 

Ilya snorts, kissing Shane's cheek. “You are never ever boring, Hollander. Can I make you come again?”

Shane blinks. “Now?” He looks down between them, at his soft, wet cock. “I think you might kill me if you do that.”

Ilya pouts. Shane pulls back a little to admire the perfect bow of his lips. “You're so beautiful,” he breathes out, and he's delighted when the words bring heat back to Ilya's barely cooled cheeks. 

“Maybe you will let me come, then?” Ilya asks. He rubs his cock slowly against Shane's thigh, and Shane automatically props his leg up a little to give Ilya a better angle. 

“What happened to you not needing to come?” Shane tugs a curl hanging between Ilya's brows. When he lets it go, it bounces back into place. 

“Not needing is different from not wanting. I have the prettiest man in my arms, of course I want to come all over him.” Ilya kisses Shane's ear and nips at his earlobe. He licks into the shell of Shane's ear, which has Shane squirming away and tucking his ear against his shoulder. 

“You're a fucking menace,” Shane laughs, dragging Ilya's mouth off of him with a hand clenched in the hair at the back of his head. Ilya grins, unrepentant, and Shane kisses his pretty mouth.

They kiss until their mouths are sore. When Shane pulls back, Ilya whines pathetically and chases lips.

“I don’t remember you being this needy,” Shane murmurs, running his hands down Ilya’s back. 

“You don’t remember anything,” Ilya chirps predictably, and Shane drags his hands further down to pinch his ass in admonishment. 

“I know that. But it feels… different.” 

Ilya hums. His cheery front melts away into something tinted with melancholy. “I…” Ilya sighs. “I don’t know. I missed you.” 

Shane swallows and brings Ilya’s head to rest against where his chest aches. “I missed you too.”

“Hm.” Ilya kisses Shane’s skin, noses against the fine hairs that cover it. “You never answered my question.” 

“Hm?” Shane runs his hands through Ilya’s curls again, loving the feel of them against the sensitive skin of his palms, and loving the way Ilya’s eyes glaze over each time. Ilya’s cock is hard and wet against Shane’s thigh, still, and Ilya begins rocking against it with little stuttered thrusts. 

“Whether you will let me come.” Ilya wraps his lips around one of Shane’s nipples, looking up pleadingly. Shane groans, his hands tightening in Ilya’s hair. 

“Maybe,” Shane pants. “Maybe if, um… if you beg?” The request sounds awkward, lacking the confidence Ilya’s voice always holds when he’s the one issuing out orders. He half expects Ilya to laugh at him. Instead, Ilya’s hips jerk desperately. 

“Please?” Ilya pants out. “Please, Shane. I need it.” 

“I thought you didn’t?” 

“I was wrong. I need you, always. I trick myself into thinking I don’t, but always, I always- I always need you.” 

Shane groans. Ilya kisses a path up to his neck, and the feeling of his mouth is so warm, and loving. Shane wants it tattooed against him forever. “Bite me,” he pleads. 

Ilya pauses. He smears his lips against Shane’s skin before pulling back to study Shane’s face. “Are you sure…?” 

“It’s fine. It’s not like I’m playing anytime soon, so marks are fine. Unless you don’t want to-” 

Ilya’s teeth dig into the crook of Shane’s neck. Shane moans and, impossibly, he feels his own cock start to fatten up again. “Shane,” Ilya moans wetly, his face smeared with his own spit. 

“Mark me up,” Shane begs. He wants to know he's Ilya's, even like this. He wants his body to hold the memory of Ilya’s effect on him. “Please.” 

They slot against each other perfectly, Ilya's cock grinding against his. Ilya grips Shane's chin and forces it to the side, making space for himself to suck and bruise. “Fuck, Shane. You are like a fucking drug.” 

Shane can't stop panting long enough to curl his tongue around coherent words. He licks at Ilya's fingertips where they brush against his lips. Ilya offers him more, and Shane sucks on Ilya's index and middle fingers gratefully. 

With Ilya braced over him like this, Shane ought to feel caged. There's a freedom to being held down like this, though, at least when it’s Ilya doing the caging. Ilya has him. Shane can let go. His skin pulses at every point of contact between them, and Shane's mind is lost to the tide it creates. Water in his ears, his lungs, but he only needs Ilya close to breathe. 

Ilya, who looks at Shane like he's an isle to a man lost at sea. He pulls his fingers out of Shane's mouth and cups it under Shane's chin. “Spit in my hand.”

Shane spits. 

Ilya’s hand is larger than Shane's, and just as calloused. Shane groans in relief as it wraps around his cock. 

“Yours, too,” Shane pants. 

Ilya shakes his head. “I'll come.” 

“Isn't that the point?”

“You still haven't said…” Ilya trails off.

Oh. Shane smiles. “You're sweet when you want to be, huh?” He kisses Ilya softly. This beautiful, beautiful man is his. Shane doesn't deserve the depth of his love. “Do you think we could come together?”

“I can make that happen.” Ilya's hand speeds up, wringing a whimper out of Shane. “As long as you make those pretty noises for me, hm?”

Shane chokes out another moan. If he presses his lips to Ilya's skin, he can taste the salt of his sweat as he gasps. 

“Good?” Ilya asks. He twists his hand on the upstroke, and thumbs at the leaking heads of their cock, and it has Shane digging his teeth into Ilya's trapezius. 

“Sorry,” Shane pants out when he convinces his jaw to unclench. 

“Fuck, Shane. Again, please. I'm yours, make me yours.” 

Shane sobs and obeys, sucks mark after mark into Ilya's skin. Ilya is groaning hot and heavy, his hand shifting from their cocks to loop under Shane's waist and force him to arch up. They grow desperate with it, rutting against each other, cocks trapped between their torsos. All his senses are filled with this, them, with Ilya so close and perfect. Shane wraps his legs around Ilya's hips and thinks- “I really want you to fuck me. I really- I want to remember what it’s like when you’re in me.”

Ilya makes a hurt sound in Shane's ear, and then he's coming all over both of them. Before Shane can complain, Ilya manhandles him so he's seated in Ilya's lap, his back against Ilya's sweaty front. Ilya strips Shane's cock furiously, and all Shane can manage are a few breathless whines before he's arching and coming too. 

“Fuck,” Shane pants, slumping. Ilya slowly lowers them both to the bed, shifting and squirming until Shane is comfortably flat on his back with his right side draped in Ilya.

“You will really kill me,” Ilya says breathlessly, resting his head on Shane's pec. “You can't make me come this hard every time, Hollander, I will pass away.”

Shane lets out a wheezing laugh he doesn't think he's ever heard himself make. “Are you complaining?”

“Fuck no. What a way to go, huh?” Ilya smiles and kisses Shane's jaw. “Thank you.”

“For what?” 

“For letting me see this pretty face like this again.” Ilya thumbs at Shane's freckles. “I know I was stupid to stay away.”

“I've still not forgiven you for that,” Shane grumbles out. He’ll chew Ilya out for that. Eventually. “I'm just catching my breath first.”

Ilya's dopey smile doesn't drop with the threat. “I can't wait, lyubimiy.”

Chapter End Notes

Just one chapter left!!

Chapter 7: Better to watch the stream made of sunlight.

Chapter Notes

June 1 — Shane Hollander’s Residence, Montreal

It had taken Shane a bit to convince Ilya to head back to Boston when he’d planned to. It had taken Shane a bit to convince himself to convince Ilya, in all honesty. He liked the idea of Ilya so close, of being able to sneakily meet up in the dead of the night. It was a waste of money, though, and the practicalities of being in Montreal meant Shane wouldn’t be able to steal away in secret often enough for it to be worth Ilya’s while. 

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Shane says into the phone. On the other end of the line, he hears occasional grunts from Ilya as he works out in his home gym. They’ve been calling a lot more frequently, keeping each other company as they go about their day. It’s been nice. 

“Mm, dangerous,” Ilya teases. Shane bites back a smile.

“Shut up. Listen. I’ve been… I think, maybe I- I don’t let people in as much as I think I do,” Shane admits. “I mean, this whole… losing-my-memory thing has taught me that maybe I, uh, I keep people at an arms length.” 

Ilya snorts. “You? No. Really?” he gasps dramatically. 

“Shut up.” Why did Shane think it was a good idea to fall in love with a bastard that loves to piss him off? 

“I told you about how you ran away when I called you ‘Shane’, yes?” 

“Okay, one, you don’t get to say that when you ran away when I lost my memories!” Sure, Shane ripped into Ilya for that, and forgave him since, but he’s probably going to hold that against Ilya forever. “And two, I’m literally acknowledging it’s a problem, so you don’t get to make fun of me for it.” 

“Okay, okay. Don’t pout, Shane. I’m listening, hm? Tell me.” Ilya sounds teasing and comforting in equal measure. Shane hates to admit it, but it helps. Ilya is one of the few people that can get Shane out of a spiral when he starts thinking too hard about his lost memories. 

“I’m not pouting,” Shane pouts. “Anyway. I was thinking, um… I was thinking of coming out to my parents.” It's been something he's been thinking about for a while. Rose knows, and Hayden does too. The idea of coming out to his parents is a lot scarier, but it's also something he really wants to do. He's always been so close to them, and a part of him worries that lying to them about who he is will end up driving a wedge in his relationship with them. But they've also been through so much as a family. His parents have been by his side for every step of his recovery. When it had briefly looked like Shane getting back on the ice may not be a possibility, Shane had been worried that his parents would be disappointed, but they'd only ever been upset for him. 

“They still do not know?” Ilya asks, surprised. Shane hears the sound of weights being set down. 

“No,” Shane admits shamefully. “I, uh… I just… I could never bring myself to admit it.” 

“Do they… do they have a problem with…”

“No! At least- I mean, not with anyone else so far. But, uh…” Shane scratches at his eyebrow with his knuckle. “It’s different, right? When it’s your own kid. And I know this kind of thing is a little more accepted now, but it’s… I mean, my mom’s also my manager, and it’s not- I mean hockey’s a long way away from even catching up to…” Shane sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “It’s difficult.” 

“...Yes,” Ilya agrees. “But I think it will be okay, probably. They love you, you love them. And they almost lost you, so… I think it will be easy for them to remember what is important here.” 

“What if they don’t believe me? I mean, I’ve just had a major head injury, and my memories are only just coming back, and- and so what if they think I’ve just, like…” Shane trails off.

“What, tricked yourself into believing you’re gay?” 

“Maybe! I mean, last thing they knew was that I was dating Rose Landry, so!” What if they did think this was some weird side effect of being knocked upside the head? Sometimes people woke up speaking languages they didn’t know, surely changing your sexuality wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. It would be worth questioning, at least, and then Shane would have to explain his… very lengthy and complicated history with Ilya to them, at which point he may just find Marleau and ask him to finish the job. 

Ilya laughs. “Shane, you… ah, you overthink too much.” 

“Ilya,” Shane whines.

“Okay, okay, if they think that, then you tell them you have a secret boyfriend and you have sucked his dick before and after the accident and liked it both times, yes?” 

Shane’s about to protest how that’s the exact scenario he’s looking to avoid when his brain catches on to the specific vocabulary Ilya used to describe himself. “...Boyfriend?” 

“I think so, probably. Yes?” If Shane didn’t know better, he’d say that Ilya sounded nervous. 

Shane smiles slowly. “Yeah,” he agrees, flushing pink. He feels a little like swooning, which is ridiculous, because he’s a grown man. “I think, um… yeah. That sounds… nice.” 

“You are blushing,” Ilya notes gleefully. 

“No,” Shane huffs. “I’m not.” 

“I want to see. Switch to video, come on.” 

“No!” Shane insists, even as he swipes to accept Ilya’s request to switch to video. He’s met with Ilya grinning wide, hair sweaty and a little frizzed out. “Hi. Done working out?” 

“Mm, yes. I will make dinner now, I think. Will my beautiful boyfriend keep me company?” Ilya blows a kiss at the camera.

“Always.” 

June 3 — Ilya Rozanov’s Residence, Boston

Ilya plays with his phone nervously, occasionally switching it on to check that he hasn’t somehow magically missed a text or call from Shane despite the phone being in his hand with the volume set to high. He has been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes now; Shane had promised he’d be home by three p.m., and that he’d call and update Ilya on how coming out to his parents went. Why is Shane late? Maybe Shane was trying to compose himself, trying to hide his tears and upset from Ilya. Or perhaps it’s a good thing. Perhaps the Hollanders had been overtaken with a wave of love and pride — rightfully so — and had convinced Shane that he must extend his visit. 

Ilya’s phone rings. He practically dives to accept the video call request. “Hey! Shane! How did it go?” Shane looks… good. His face isn’t puffy or red, and Ilya can’t spy any errant tear tracks. Both his hands are visible, which means he’s taken the time to set the phone up on his table. He’s smiling. Probably good news, yes?

“Oh, wow, you look nervous,” Shane laughs. “Sorry I’m late. Held up in traffic. Were you worried?” 

“What? No,” Ilya denies instinctively. “Well. Yes, of course. How did it go?” 

“It went well!” 

Ilya sighs in relief. “Yes?” 

“Yeah! They, um, they kind of suggested that they… suspected it already?” Shane laughs awkwardly. “Which… you know, I should have seen it coming. My mother did lay off on trying to set me up with women out of nowhere. And now that I think about it, they were really surprised about me dating Rose.” 

Ilya shrugs. “Well, she is Rose Landry. I think anyone would be surprised you landed a superstar, considering you were still dressing like you were always on the way to the gym back then.” 

“Wow.” Shane tries, and fails, to bite back a smile. “So that’s how it is, huh.”

Ilya shrugs, eyebrows raised in a ‘what can you do’ gesture, though he can’t hide his smile either. 

“Well in that case, maybe I won’t tell you the other thing I planned to, huh?” 

“Other thing, what other thing?” Ilya frowns. Shane raises an eyebrow, and Ilya feels heat rise in his veins. “Sex thing?” Ilya wiggles his eyebrows hopefully. Maybe Shane will strip for him, and put on a show. Maybe Shane will bend over and shake that pretty butt for Ilya.

“No!” Shane says with that adorable angry kitten expression. “God, is it always a sex thing with you?” He huffs. 

“With you? Yes.” Ilya shrugs. “Not only a sex thing. Sometimes I’m thinking about how lovely you are, or sweet, or funny. But the sex thing is always there in the background.” 

“I’m hanging up.” 

Ilya laughs. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry lyubimiy. Please, tell me this not-sexy secret, I am dying to know.” 

“You’re such a dick. Okay, so… uh… wow.” Shane wrings his hands together. “This is more nerve-wracking than I thought it would be. Um.” 

Ilya raises an eyebrow. Oddly enough, his own heart picks up the pace, which is ridiculous. Shane has probably worked himself up over something really silly. 

“Um… will you… will you come to my cottage this summer?” 

Ilya blinks. What? 

“Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house, we’ll have so much fun. It’s so private, no one will know. We could have a week, or even two… we’d be completely alone. Together.” 

It takes a second for Ilya to actually piece together Shane’s words. Not because Shane isn’t intelligible — on the contrary, Shane’s words sound so clear and structured, Ilya has to assume this is something he’s rehearsed saying. It’s just that Ilya’s head is overtaken by this persistent, pulsing buzz.

“Well?” Shane asks hopefully. “I- you don’t have to say yes, obviously. Um. This is something I was planning on asking you before… before I got hit, even.” 

“You… this is something you remembered?” Ilya asks breathlessly. Every time Shane remembers something, Ilya feels intensely. Shane wanted him when he didn't remember all their complications, and he wants him now, even as he recalls them. Now, Shane is telling him that even the more hesitant, cautious Shane from before the hit wanted him too. 

It seems like every version of Shane loves Ilya. A difficult truth to reckon with. 

“Huh? Oh, yep. Another memory win, haha. I was thinking about inviting you, and then I remembered this had been the plan all along, and… sorry, I'm rambling. But I would, um, I'd really like to spend summer together.” 

“And… your parents? They would want to check on you, no?”

“Well… I… I kind of told them that I have someone. Um. And- they, they don’t know who, obviously, but they would know I’ve got someone taking care of me, and I promised to visit for dinner a couple of times. They're excited to meet you whenever we're ready for that.” 

Ilya takes a shaky breath. He doesn’t know what to do with all of this, where to put it. Does he deserve this? No. Probably not. But Shane is looking at Ilya like his heart might break if Ilya says no, even if he’ll try really, really hard to hide it. And Shane definitely doesn’t deserve to have his heart broken. 

“Yes,” Ilya breathes out before he’s even made a conscious decision. 

“I, uh, I didn’t catch that,” Shane says apologetically. 

Ilya clears his throat. “Yes. I will- I’ll come to your cottage.” 

“Yeah?” Shane’s grin blooms like a flower in spring, and he flushes petal pink. “You’re sure? You don’t have to-” 

“I want to,” Ilya promises giddily. “Shane, I… I really, really want to. More than anything.” 

“Okay.” Then, as if on impulse, Shane blows a kiss at the screen. Immediately after, he buries his face in his hands. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I just did that.” 

Fuck. Ilya is so in love, and happier than he has ever been. He’s in love with a beautiful boy that loves him back; the future stretches out like an endless summer day.

Chapter End Notes

As you may note, the total number of chapters went up... ahaha... um, epilogue soon!!

Chapter 8: Epilogue

October 2018 — Ilya Rozanov’s Residence, Ottawa

“Well?” Shane asks, shifting from foot to foot and trying to study his boyfriend’s face. Ilya looks up from the laptop with an inscrutable expression. Oh, fuck, did Shane mess something up? He didn’t reveal anything he wasn’t meant to, did he? No, his agent Farah had checked it over and given him the all clear.

Ilya sets the laptop aside and pats his lap. Shane kind of wants to shake Ilya and demand he speaks, but he is a kind and magnanimous person, so he obediently climbs into Ilya's lap instead. 

“What you said at the end,” Ilya murmurs, gripping Shane's chin. “That you're happy. Despite everything. It's true?”

“Yeah,” Shane breathes. “Yeah, of course.” Ilya keeps looking at him with those piercing eyes. “I… I mean. I've gotten most of my memories back, I think, you know this. I'm out to my parents, to Hayden. I have you now, and I know how fucking lucky I am for it. I'm pretty happy with how everything's turning out. I'm pretty fucking happy in general-” 

Shane is cut off by Ilya tugging his face down for a deep, filthy kiss. They keep having to pause because one or both of them keep breaking into silly smiles, and still they kiss until they're breathless with it. 

“I make you happy, Hollander?” Ilya asks, eyes bright and grinning wide. 

“So fucking happy.” Shane can't even bring himself to chirp at him. “Do I make you happy?”

“Obviously,” Ilya says, pinching Shane's waist. “You'll make me even more happy if you-”

Shane slaps a hand over Ilya's mouth. He can feel Ilya’s grin against his palm. “Can we pretend to be romantic. For once.”

Ilya licks Shane's palm.

“Gross!” Shane wipes his hand down the front of Ilya's t-shirt. Sure, he's had Ilya's spit in weirder places, but that was a different situation. A situation where the involvement of spit was expected. 

Ilya looks at Shane with fond, gooey eyes. “I love you so much,” he murmurs. 

Shane feels affection fizz through him from the tip of his toes to the roots of his hair. “I love you too, you disgusting man,” he says softly. He cups Ilya’s jaw gently, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. “There’s, um… there’s something else I wanted to, uh…” he trails off, running his hands through Ilya’s curls. He can’t deny he’s extremely, extremely, nervous to bring up what he’s about to, but he also knows this is what he wants. For him, and for Ilya. 

“What?” Ilya asks, pinching Shane’s hips. “Is this-” 

“It’s not a sex surprise, you’ve exhausted your sex surprises after I did that thing yesterday and you laughed,” Shane nips Ilya’s lips. 

“I liked it! It was cute!” 

“It was meant to be sexy,” Shane laughs. “Whatever. Look, um… you’ve met my parents.” Shane had spun his parents the same tale he’s spinning for the public now — that Ilya had reached out after Shane’s accident, that he’d offered some support and help. How they had decided to start a charity together, something for mental health and neuroscience. They’d had four shared dinners so far, but it had gone… well. They’d gotten on fine, been absolutely professional, and their meetings had all gone on very smoothly. 

“Yes,” Ilya says. “Very nice people.” 

“They are. But, um… I- I want you to know them as more than just… nice people, you know?” Shane murmurs. 

“You want us to spend time together?” Ilya hums, running his thumbs over Shane’s hips. He hooks his chin on Shane’s shoulder, kissing behind Shane’s ear. “We could do that. I could win them over. Yuna, I think I have won over already. Or at least she has won me over, with her knowledge of hockey. But if you want I could read the New Yorker for David.” 

Shane smiles, melting further into Ilya’s arms. “No, I mean- I mean, yes, I want you all to get along. I don’t think you need to try, though, I think they’d love you if they just got to know.”

Ilya snorts. 

“No, I’m serious!” Shane insists. “You’re very likeable!” 

“Shane.” Ilya pulled back to meet Shane’s eyes, lips pulled into a wry smile. 

“Ilya,” Shane mimics. “I’m serious. Hockey is one thing, you’re a dick on the ice. But as a person, you’re more than likeable. I love you. And I think my parents would, too.” 

“Shane,” Ilya sighs out through a smile. Okay. Okay, we’ll arrange-” 

“No, I- I want them to know.” Shane’s tired of this- this separation between all these little parts of himself. He wants Ilya to know his parents, he wants his parents to know Ilya. He wants all of them to know Shane, all of him. What’s the worst that could happen? Half a year ago, maybe Shane would have thought it would be people finding about him and Ilya. But now, after what he’s gone through? He’s alive, he gets to keep playing, he has people that would love him through anything. He doesn’t have it too bad. 

“Know? Like…” Ilya trails off, biting the edge of his lower lip. 

“Like, know,” Shane confirms. “About us. That we’re in a relationship, that it’s serious.” 

Ilya takes a shaky breath. He looks like he’s about to ask Shane if he’s sure or something equally stupid like that. Of course Shane is sure, he’s been agonising over bringing this up for ages. “I mean, we survived me losing my memory,” he says quickly. “My parents and I. And they know I’m gay. And they don’t hate you. So it would be… it would be fine, I think. Probably.” 

“Probably,” Ilya agrees, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile. 

“And you’re moving to Ottawa, and- I mean, I know you said it would be easier than moving from Russia to Boston, but I… I’d feel better if I know- if you knew you could rely on them. I don’t want you to feel lonely. And- and I just-” 

Ilya cuts Shane off with a kiss. “You’re giving me your family.” 

“You are my family,” Shane says breathlessly. 

Ilya’s arms wrap around his waist. “Yes,” he says, voice thick. “Always. I love you.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane murmurs into Ilya’s lips. Warmth spreads through every cell in his body, a sense of safety that overrides any nervousness he still feels. He hopes he never forgets this feeling. If he does, though, it'll be okay. Ilya will remind him.