Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Irina Rozanova, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander, Grigori Rozanov/Irina Rozanova

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Irina Rozanova, Grigori Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Young Love, Young Ilya, Mentioned Irina Rozanova, Irina Rozanova Lives, Autistic Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Tenderness, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Ilya is a mama's boy, Ottawa Centaurs (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Puppy Love, Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of There is no Shane without Ilya.

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-10 Words: 31,215 Chapters: 7/7

Shane, As Defined by Ilya.

Summary

Finally have time and inspiration to write a AU where Irina escapes her husband, and is able to take Ilya with her and raise him on her own with the support of the women of the neighbourhood like Yuna Hollander.

'There has never been a version of Shane that never loved Ilya.'

Chapter 1: when a canadian meets a russian.

Shane's POV. Age; 9 years old. 

Ottawa. 2001.

The planets were wrong.

That was the first thing Shane knew with absolute certainty.

He crouched in the dry, pale playground sand, knees pressed into the grit, fingers moving with a seriousness that did not belong to a nine-year-old.

The late afternoon sun stretched long, thin shadows behind him, pulling his small shape into something taller, older, lonelier.

With the edge of a stick, he etched a careful circle into the sand—the sun.

Around it, he traced smaller rings: Mercury, Venus, Earth.

He whispered their names under his breath, barely sound, just air moving past his lips like a private incantation.

Mercury too close.

Mars too far.

Jupiter should be bigger.

He erased, redrew, erased again.

The other kids were loud. Painfully loud.

They screamed and chased each other across the playground, their laughter ricocheting off the metal slides.

A group of boys kicked a ball near the fence, shouting in a language Shane understood in pieces but never well enough to join.

A girl swung too high on the swings, her hair flying like a flag.

Shane pretended not to hear them. He pretended the world was only sand, stick, and orbit.

But he felt them watching.

A snicker. A whisper. A pointed finger.

“Why does he always play alone?”

“He’s soooo weird.”

“Say something, kid.”

Shane’s hand stilled.

His chest tightened the way it always did — too big, too full, too crowded with feelings he had no words for. He pressed his palm flat into the sand as if he could anchor himself to the ground.

His solar system wavered.

He was searching for something worthy of being Jupiter when the shadow fell across his work.

It wasn’t a cloud; it was Liam and Ben, his classmates and neighbourhood bullies, their laughter sharp as splinters.

“What even is that, space-shit?” Liam’s shadow fell over the delicate rings of Saturn, etched with a stick. “A dirt pancake?”

“Maybe it’s a map of his weird brain,” Ben chimed in, nudging Jupiter’s stone with his toe.

Shane said nothing.

The words were a tangled knot in his throat.

Orbital eccentricity. Planetary mass. They were the wrong words, for the wrong people. He focused on the feeling of the cool, damp sand under his palms, on the order he was trying to create. Here, in his gritty cosmos, a planet’s path was predictable. It was never cruel.

“Freak,” Liam said, not with real anger, but with a casual, devastating clarity. They ran off, their game resumed, leaving Shane’s universe in ruins.

He was trying to decide if he could salvage Mercury’s crater (a thumbprint) when his mother’s voice called from the edge of the park. “Shane! Ikou, (let's go) time to come.”

Yuna Hollander brushed the sand from his shorts with firm, loving swipes, then smoothed his silky black hair, which always fell back into his eyes. “We have a new neighbor moving in across the street. We’re going to say welcome.”

Shane’s stomach tightened. New people meant new eyes, new patterns to fail to understand.

“Don't worry,” she said, her voice bright in a way he knew was just for him. “They have a son. He looks closer to your age!”

Age wasn’t the bridge. Shane knew that. But his hand went automatically to his pocket, closing around the obsidian comfort stone, its polished surface cool and certain.

As they crossed the street, weaving between moving trucks, Shane asked confused, “Why isn’t Daddy coming?”

Yuna’s smile stayed, but it changed at the edges. “Oh, I think it’s better just the two of us go first. Less…crowded for them.”

It was a weird answer.

Daddy was never a problem; he was quiet space.

But okay.

His mom has never been wrong so he instinctively trusted her.

Shane accepted it, his anxiety already spiraling around the approaching front door. When it opened, he didn’t stand beside his mother. Old habits anchored him half behind her, peeking out from the shelter of her elbow.

The woman who answered was pretty, with a cloud of honey-blond curls that went down her back, and eyes as blue as the Earth's ocean in his illustrations in his science books. But she looked worn, the skin around those eyes tight. Her smile, when it came, was like a sudden sunbeam, brilliant and relieving.

Shane watched, fascinated, as her eyes instantly glistened with unshed tears.

“Hello! Oh, thank you for coming,” she said, her voice musical with an accent Shane couldn’t place.

“I’m Yuna, and this is my son, Shane,” his mother said, her own warmth effortlessly expanding to fill the space. “We live right there. We brought you some banana bread with chocolate chip. Hope that's okay and no one is allergic. Made it without nuts so mostly allergy friendly!"

“You are an angel, truly,” the woman breathed wetly, accepting the loaf like it was a lifeline with shaky hands. “I am Irina. Please, forgive the chaos, it is everywhere…”

But Shane had stopped listening to the adults.

He felt a prickling on his skin, the feeling of being examined.

From the dim hallway behind Irina, a boy was watching him. He had his mother’s curls, but paler like wheat, and he was thin. One of his eyes was a startling, vivid blue, fixed on Shane.

The other eye was a mess of violent, ugly colors—a deep, purpling black that seeped down his cheekbone and closed slightly from the swelling, the white of the eye that can be seen swimming in a bloody red.

It was a shocking, painful mark on the boy’s pale face.

Shane immediately wondered what happened.

The silent boy stepped forward silently. He didn’t look at the adults or the bread. His gaze, from his one clear open eye, went straight to Shane’s hand, which was clenched white-knuckled around the stone in his pocket.

“What is that?” he asked, accent thick, unfamiliar, the words shaped differently in his mouth.

The directness was a shock.

Shane flinched, his eyes darting to the scuffed floorboards. Defensively, he pulled the stone out and clutched it to his chest with both hands. “it's my rock…it helps me,” he stammered to his own shoes. “When things are too big. It makes me feel...normal.”

The boy—whose name he still did not know—didn’t react to the word normal.

"Hm." He just tilted his head, a movement that made the brutal colors of his injured eye seem even more pronounced. His good eye studied Shane’s face, then the rock, with an unnerving intensity. Shane squirmed, the scrutiny and the silent story of that black eye making him want to vanish as he continued to avoid eye contact.

He unconsciously tugged on his mother’s skirt.

Irina swooped down gracefully when she noticed him attempting to hide, bringing herself to Shane’s level. He immediately focused on the pattern of her blouse. Looking into people's eyes was hard.

“This is my Ilya,” she said, her voice softening. “He is nine also.” She glanced back at her son, her expression a complex mix of love and worry. “I have another son, Andrei, he is thirteen. He is with his father in another city. But he will visit. It will be good for Ilya to have a friend here, yes?”

Shane offered a shy, fleeting smile at her collar.

He couldn’t look at Ilya directly; the wrongness of that eye was too loud, too confusing.

What kind of “bad thing” made an eye look like that?

Ilya took another step closer. He spoke slowly, wrestling the English into shape. “You make the…the picture. In sand.”

Shane nodded, mute.

“Why?” Ilya asked.

It was the same question the bullies had asked, but there was no mockery in it. Even Shane could hear the difference.

Only a genuine, broken curiosity.

Shane hugged his rock tighter. “Because…in space, things aren’t…they aren’t mean. They just are. It’s…nice.”

Ilya was silent for a long moment.

He glanced toward the playground, then back at Shane. He touched his own cheekbone, near the shocking bruise, wincing almost imperceptibly. “Oh. Quiet rules. Yes.” He struggled, frustrated, then said a harsh, foreign word. “Громко. My head feels quiet sometimes. Sometimes loud. After bad thing.”

Bad thing.

The words hung in the air, heavy and dark. Shane didn’t understand, but he felt the gravity of them, the way they bent the space in the hallway. He looked from the brutalized eye to Ilya’s intense, lonely gaze, and a connection sparked—not of sameness, but of a different, equal loneliness.

“Show me?” Ilya asked, the words awkward but intent. “I want to see this.”

Shane looked up at his mother.

She gave a slight, encouraging nod with a neutral face expression. “Not long, bōya.”

Shane nodded then led Ilya back across the street, not to the ruined one by the swings, but to a fresh patch.

Ilya knelt stiffly, as if other parts of him hurt too.

Shane began again, his movements slower, more conscious. As he placed the sun-stone, Ilya’s hand entered his vision.

On his palm was a twisted, clean nail.

“For this one,” Ilya said, pointing to a spot between Mars and Jupiter. “Is…dirt. Broken thing.” He pressed the nail into the sand. “It also belongs. Has place. This is good, yes?”

Shane stared at the nail, then at Ilya’s battered face.

He understood, in a deep, wordless way.

The asteroid belt wasn’t just rubble; it was a record of what happened, of collisions and things that didn’t form whole. It was part of the map.

“Yeah,” Shane whispered. “It belongs. Thank you."

From across the street, Yuna called. As they stood, Ilya looked at the nearly finished system. “Is good,” he said, his accent weighting the simple words with meaning. He looked at Shane’s rock. “Your stone…is small planet. Has own gravity. Yes?”

Shane, clutching the obsidian, nodded.

It had never occurred to him. A small, private world to hold onto.

“Tomorrow,” Ilya said, his good eye holding Shane’s. “We make…the moons.”

Shane stood with his mother on the neighbor’s porch, the echo of Ilya’s words—bad thing, loud, debris—still humming in the air between them.

The brutal colors of Ilya’s black eye seemed less like a frightening mark now and more like a terrible, silent sentence Shane could almost read.

“We will see you soon, yes?” Irina was saying to Yuna, her hand resting lightly on Ilya’s shoulder. “Thank you for the visit to myself and my son.”

Yuna smiled, squeezing Irina's other hand in a gesture that spoke more than words. “Any time. Truly.”

Shane felt Ilya’s single, clear eye on him again. He didn’t look away this time. He held the gaze, and in it, he saw not a challenge, but a question.

The same question Shane carried every day: Are you safe?

“Bye, Ilya,” Shane said, the name feeling new and solid on his tongue, like his comfort stone.

Ilya nodded solemnly. “Bye, Shane.”

They walked back across the street, the late afternoon sun stretching their shadows long behind them. Shane didn’t look back at the playground, at his ruined solar system. It didn’t feel ruined anymore. It felt like a first draft now.

The air inside their own home felt different after crossing back from the chaos of the moving trucks and the intensity of Ilya’s gaze.

It was quieter, but the silence now hummed with unspoken words. Shane watched his mother move around the kitchen, putting away the tea things that hadn’t been used, her motions a little too precise.

The image of Ilya’s face—the startling blue of one eye against the storm-cloud purple and blood-red of the other—was burned onto the back of Shane’s eyelids.

It was a wrong picture.

A broken rule.

His own social failures were about soft things: tone of voice, misplaced smiles, silence. Ilya’s injury was about something hard. Something that cracked.

“Mom?” Shane’s voice was small in the cool, still air.

Yuna turned, a gentle question on her face.

“What happened to his eye?”

The air in the kitchen seemed to freeze. Yuna’s flinch was tiny, a quick intake of breath, a hardening around her own eyes. She set down the cup she was holding very carefully, as if it were made of the same material as the moment—fragile and liable to shatter.

She came to the table and sat across from him, her hands folding together.

She chose her words like she was walking on a bridge made of glass.

“Shane,” she began, her voice low and calm. “Some people…some people carry a lot of hurt inside them. And sometimes, instead of holding that hurt, they…they put it on other people. In ways they shouldn’t. Ever.”

Shane listened, his obsidian stone a cold weight in his lap.

“Ilya’s father,” Yuna continued, the word ‘father’ sounding strange and sharp, “is not a good person. He is a person who puts his hurt on Ilya and on Irina. Do you understand?”

Shane thought of a planet crashing into another, knocking it violently out of orbit. “He hits them.”

Yuna closed her eyes for a second, a pained nod. “Yes. He has hit them. That is what a black eye is from. Someone hitting.”

“But…why?” Shane whispered, the injustice a hot, confusing coil in his chest.

Shane had no idea there were parents who were not good people because his parents were the best. 

“There is no good ‘why,’ baby boy,” Yuna said, her own voice thickening. “Only a bad ‘is.’ Sometimes bad people do bad things and there's no real reason why. Irina is very brave. She brought Ilya and left. She came here, to this new house, to be far away from him. To protect them. This is a house for protection now.”

The new, two-story house across the street transformed in Shane’s mind.

It was no longer just a house with moving trucks.

It was a fortress. A sanctuary.

The bandage on Ilya’s head that wasn’t there…he understood now it was on the inside.

“Is the bad man going to come here too?” Shane asked, his eyes wide.

“No,” Yuna said, firm and sure. “No, he is not. This is our street. Our neighborhood. Here we protect each other. It is safe.”

That night, the air in Shane’s room felt charged, as if before a thunderstorm.

He couldn’t stop thinking about hurt that got put on you, about sanctuaries, about black eyes that were maps of escape.

He went to his window to close his curtains to sleep.

The light in Ilya’s room was on.

Ilya was there, but he wasn’t looking out.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, facing a large, blank wall.

In his hands, he held a small, blinking LED light—the kind from a toy or a keychain.

Shane watched, mesmerized, as Ilya, in the dark of his room, began to press the light against the wall, holding it for a moment before moving it.

He wasn’t making random dots. He was connecting them. Slowly, a constellation took shape on the pale paint. A lopsided square, a tail of dots…it was Ursa Major. The Big Dipper. Ilya was building a universe on his wall, one tiny, temporary point of light at a time.

A quiet rule.

A map to follow.

Shane’s heart hammered against his ribs. He didn’t have a blinking light.

But he had his planets.

He scrambled. He arranged his obsidian sun, his marble Jupiter, his chipped-quartz asteroid on the windowsill. Then, using the sticky-tack from his school posters, he carefully pressed them to the glass itself, facing out.

A small, stable solar system against the pane.

He tapped his own light switch off, plunging his room into darkness, letting his silhouette vanish. Then he waved his arms, slowly, big enough to be seen in the dim glow from the streetlights.

In the window across the way, Ilya stopped. The blinking light hovered. Then, Shane saw him shift, crawling closer to his own window. His face, with its terrible, beautiful injury, was a pale moon in the dark. He saw the planets on Shane’s glass. He looked at Shane, then up at his own constellation, then back at Shane.

Slowly, Ilya raised his hand. Not a wave, but a gesture toward his own wall, then a pointing finger toward Shane’s planets. I see yours.

Shane pointed back. I see yours, too.

They held the space between them, the air no longer empty, but bridged by these silent, handmade cosmologies—one in light, one in stone.

Both were attempts to carve order from chaos, to find fixed points in a terrifyingly wobbly universe.

One boy’s father taught him about orbital mechanics.

The other boy’s father taught him about escape velocity.

Shane finally climbed into bed, leaving his planets stuck to the glass.

Across the street, the tiny, blinking star-light continued its patient, repetitive journey across the wall, drawing and re-drawing its patterns long into the night.

Two astronomers, two survivors, each with their own debris, their own gravity, had found a new constant: the fixed, sure knowledge that across the dark air, someone else was also building a map to somewhere safe.

 

Chapter 2: a hug given is a hug gifted.

Chapter Notes

I thought long and hard about why I decided to let Irina live but still continued to make her a survivor and as a survivor myself, I wanted to craft a story where Ilya witnesses the phoenix rise of his mother so he understands life is not just pain. That pain doesn't have to be permanent. I'm a writer who adores writing about emotions and realistic scenarios. I want to keep Ilya canon but also take a detour where his mother will be present in his life and she will also heal beautifully so that by the time he goes pro, his mother will no longer be a shell but a fully blossomed beautiful being of a human. That's why I decided to change her story to be more of hope rather than one of despair.

I want Irina to heal and be the best version of herself through her courage.

Ilya's POV. Age; 9 years old. 

Ottawa. 2001.

The air in the new house was supposed to be different.

Lighter.

Cleaner.

Safe in a way that felt like sunlight through a window.

But from where Ilya sat on the top stair, spine pressed to the cool wall, the house felt thick with the same old weight.

It pressed against his skin, sat heavy on his chest, filled his ears with the ragged, muffled sounds leaking from the kitchen below.

Mama is crying again.

Ilya didn’t need to see her to know exactly how it looked. He could picture it with painful clarity: his mother, Irina, alone at the too-new table, shoulders caving inward as if the air itself were pushing her down.

Her hands would be covering her face, fingers trembling, breath catching in uneven, choking pulls that she tried—always tried—to swallow. She would be attempting to hide her tears from him but failing spectacularly.

Every time she lifted her head, every time her eyes landed on him, on the fading, bruised proof of his dad's violence around his eye, something inside her broke all over again. Her breath would hitch, a sharp, wounded sound tearing free before she could stop it, and she would turn away, palm pressed hard to her mouth like she could hold her grief inside by force.

It felt, to Ilya, like his face was a switch she couldn’t control—one glance, and the room went dark with her sadness.

He had tried everything his small, desperate heart could think of.

“Mama, it’s okay. It doesn’t even hurt,” he had told her, sitting carefully beside her, careful not to jostle her or himself. A lie—but a gentle one. It only throbbed when he touched it, and his vision was clearing, the world less warped by streaks of yellow and red.

“I’m not mad at you. I promise,” he had said, and that part had been completely true—the truest thing he carried in his body.

He had even squared his shoulders, standing taller than he felt, and whispered, “If I had to do it again—stand between you and papa—I would. For you. Always.”

And he had meant it.

But his words had been small things, helpless things, like pebbles tossed into a deep, black lake.

They sank without a sound.

No ripples.

No proof they had ever existed at all.

His love wasn’t enough.

His bravery wasn’t enough.

His nine-year-old body, thin and fragile, simply didn’t have the power to mend what his father’s fists had shattered inside her.

When they moved, he had believed, with the fierce logic of a child, that distance would be a kind of magic.

New house, new street, new air: the hurt would stay behind like an unwanted piece of furniture.

Instead, it felt as if the pain had neatly folded itself into a box, been labeled “FRAGILE,” and placed carefully in the moving truck with everything else.

Maybe, he thought miserably, he would have to wait until his eye was completely healed, until his face was just a face again before she could ever smile without flinching.

The waiting stretched before him like an endless mountain, steep and impossible.

What can I do?

The question buzzed behind his temples, louder than the dull ache in his eye, louder than the distant sounds of his mother trying to breathe.

He was only a child.

He couldn’t stitch a grown woman’s broken heart back together.

Then, like a quiet light switching on, he remembered.

The nice lady across the street.

The one who had looked at him without recoiling like his mother. The one whose voice had been warm, steady, and kind in a way that felt solid. The one who had brought bread that tasted delicious and what he thinks home tasted like.

Yuna.

The thought arrived not like a wish, but like something certain—clear, solid shape forming in his mind.

If he couldn’t help his mother, he could ask someone who could. A good grown-up. A safe grown-up. He clung to that idea like a lifeline.

Ilya didn’t say a word.

He slid silently down the stairs, careful not to creak the wood. He passed the kitchen door where his mother’s stifled sobs slipped through the crack of light like smoke, and he didn’t look back.

Outside, the twilight had softened the world into shades of blue and lavender. He crossed the street slowly, deliberately, turning his head both ways like he had been taught, heart hammering with a fierce, trembling determination.

He knocked. Three solid taps very carefully.

The door opened.

And there was that boy from the other day.

Shane.

He wasn’t looking at Ilya’s eye—which was both a relief and something strange.

Instead, Shane’s gaze was fixed with intense, curious focus on Ilya’s nose, as if it were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

Ilya’s hand shot up instinctively, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose. Dirt? Blood? A smudge he couldn’t see?

Shane’s eyes flicked up, caught Ilya’s for a fleeting second, then darted away—then returned, careful but unmistakable.

Ilya found his eyes mapping out the freckles on Shane's face again like he did the day Shane and his mom came to visit.

“Hi, Ilya.” Shane said, voice soft and shy, like it wasn’t used to being utilized in front of others often.

“Hi Shane” Ilya answered, steadier than he felt, because the mission was bigger than his fear. “Is your mama home?” He tried not to feel embarrassed by how thick his Russian accent was. 

Shane blinked, then nodded, stepping back and opening the door wider.

Ilya crossed the threshold, and the air changed instantly—warm, sweet, full of sugar and comfort in a way that felt almost dizzying.

It was like stepping out of a storm into a well-lit room.

Shane led him toward the kitchen without another word.

Yuna stood at the counter, pulling a tray of perfect, golden cookies from the oven. The smell hit Ilya all at once—rich chocolate, butter, warmth—and his mouth watered before he could stop it, his body betraying him with a simple, human need.

She turned, smile already forming, and then it faded—not in alarm, but in immediate, deep understanding—as she took him in: alone, at her door, at sunset, his face marked by chaos he had not chosen.

“Ilya?” she said softly. “Hey sweetheart, are you okay?”

The tenderness in her voice cracked something inside him.

He straightened, chin lifting, pride wrapping around him like thin armor. “Mama,” he said carefully, choosing each English word like stepping stones. “She is…very sad. Crying.” His throat tightened. “I think…maybe she needs friend.Yes.'

He looked directly at Yuna then, letting everything he didn’t have words for show in his one clear eye—the hope, the fear, the helpless love.

“Can you visit her? Please?”

Yuna’s face softened into something so deep and knowing that Ilya felt tears burn at the back of his own eyes. She set the oven mitt down slowly, deliberately, like nothing mattered more in that moment than him.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered.

She knelt in front of him, not touching yet, her presence gentle but steady. “May I give you a hug?”

He nodded, quick and almost desperate to be held.

Her arms came around him—firm, safe, unshakeable. She smelled like vanilla, clean laundry, and something that felt like home. Ilya buried his face in her shoulder, eyes squeezing shut against the sudden surge of tears he refused to let fall.

He knew Shane was watching from the doorway—awkward, unsure, silent—but in that moment, it didn’t matter.

Ilya let himself be held.

Just for a few seconds.

Yuna pulled back, hands warm and grounding on his shoulders. “You are a very good son,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “So brave and so strong.”

She stood, purpose settling over her like a cloak.

“Shane,” she said, already moving, “give Ilya as many cookies as he wants. Put them on a plate.” She wrapped several cookies in a clean towel, shrugged into a sweater, and headed for the door. “I am going to take some to visit Ilya's mom now. I will be back soon boys so behave.”

At the threshold, she paused and looked at Ilya once more, really looked, and in that look was everything: I see you. I believe you. You did the right thing.

Then she was gone, disappearing into the darkening street.

In the quiet kitchen, Shane carefully placed two freshly baked cookies on a small plate and slid it toward Ilya. His hands were precise and careful.

Ilya picked one up and bit into it immediately.

The chocolate melted immediately on his tongue—warm, sweet, almost unbearably good—and for the first time since they had arrived on this street, something inside his chest unclenched.

He didn’t know if Yuna could truly fix his mother’s sadness.

But he had acted.

He had asked for help.

He had sent her friend.

And that, somehow, felt like moving a single stone from the mountain.

He wasn’t alone with it anymore, Ilya thought as his gaze skirted to Shane before looking away,

In the hollow, anxious cavern his stomach had become, the sudden rush of sugar, butter, and melting chocolate was almost shocking—like light breaking through a long, suffocating darkness.

Ilya didn’t taste it so much as fall into it. He didn’t savor; he devoured. Half the cookie disappeared in one large desperate bite, crumbs scattering across his shirt like tiny constellations.

He was a starving thing, not just in body but in spirit, and this felt like the first truly good thing he had tasted in weeks—maybe months. The sweetness was startling.

The kindness behind it felt even rarer. At least in his world.

Across the table, Shane didn’t eat.

He picked his cookie apart with careful, surgical precision, breaking it into dozens of identical, tiny pieces and arranging them into a small, orderly mound. His hands moved deliberately, almost reverently, as if chaos were something he could defeat if he simply sorted it into neat enough rows.

He was quiet—but it wasn’t the kind of silence Ilya knew, the kind that crackled with unshed tears or hummed with unspoken rage.

This silence was steady, watchful, almost comforting. After a lifetime of suffocating silences, Ilya found this one strangely peaceful, like a room where you could finally breathe.

He reached for a third cookie, heat creeping up his neck in an embarrassed flush—he knew he looked greedy, desperate—but his hand kept moving anyway.

Then Shane spoke.

“Do you…want ice? For your eye?”

The simplicity of the question cut clean through Ilya’s hunger and shame.

Shane wasn’t gawking at the ugly bruise that marred half his face. He wasn’t shrinking from it or staring in horrified fascination. His eyes were fixed just beside it, on Ilya’s nose, as if the injury were a practical problem that simply needed the right tool.

Thing is swollen. Ice reduces swelling.

The clarity of it hit Ilya like a breath of cold air. There was no pity here, no trembling worry, no dramatic concern, just logic, clean and merciful.

He looked down, his messy curls falling forward like a curtain to hide his face.

A weak, awkward laugh slipped out of him, dry and cracked.

He was so tired, bone-deep tired. Tired of being brave, tired of saying the right things, tired of holding his mother together with his small hands while his own face throbbed with the reason she had broken in the first place.

“Yes,” he murmured to his plate, voice rough. “Thank you.”

He listened to Shane move through the kitchen, the quiet slide of a drawer, the dull clunk of the freezer, the rattle of ice cubes against plastic. No fuss.

No hovering. No drama. Just competence.

When the small, cold bag was placed in front of him, Ilya lifted it with almost trembling gratitude and pressed it to his eye. The blunt chill hit instantly, numbing the ache, slowing the throb. His shoulders sagged before he even realized it.

For a moment, he didn’t have to be strong. He could simply hurt and someone had given him a way to make it hurt less.

He hid behind the ice pack, letting the cold dull both his skin and the frantic swirl of his thoughts.

Shane’s voice came again, still focused with unsettling intensity on Ilya’s nose.

“I’m sorry your dad did that.” A small pause, as if Shane were carefully constructing the world in his mind. “Dads should be protecting kids. Not hurting them.”

A laugh burst out of Ilya before he could stop it—sharp, bitter, tasting like old coffee. Shane’s rule was so clean, so pure, so heartbreakingly correct.

And yet, in Ilya’s life, it was violently, impossibly wrong.

The contradiction made him suddenly, unbearably weary. He let the ice pack slip into his lap and lifted his gaze just long enough to meet Shane’s eyes.

“Then maybe,” he said quietly, the words like ash in his mouth, “he is not my dad.”

He braced himself.

For confusion. For argument. For the comforting lies adults always offered, he loves you in his own way. He’s still your father. Families are complicated. Words that felt like being smothered with a filthy blanket.

Shane didn’t reach for any of them.

He simply nodded, quick, certain, unhesitating. As if Ilya had just stated an obvious scientific fact.

“Yeah,” Shane said plainly. “Probably not.”

The sound that tore out of Ilya was half laugh, half sob, entirely shocked.

It was the most freeing thing anyone had ever said to him.

Not forgiveness. Not pity.

Just yup. No way that could be your dad.

In Shane’s quiet, factual universe, a man who did that simply did not qualify to be an father. End of equation. No moral gymnastics required.

The simplicity of it soothed him more than the ice ever could.

Ilya really looked at him then—this serious, awkward boy who built entire solar systems in sand to understand the sky, who catalogued pieces of cookies like planets in orbit, who spoke in clear, unembellished truths.

Shane wasn’t afraid of wreckage. He simply mapped it.

The loneliness that had lived like a frozen weight in Ilya’s chest loosened, not much, but enough. Not gone, but mirrored across the table by another quiet that felt like a bridge instead of a wall.

Shane, apparently finished with the philosophical question of fatherhood, pushed his own untouched, perfect cookie across the table without a word.

Ilya took it.

This time, he didn’t devour it.

He broke off a small piece and let it rest on his tongue, letting the sweetness melt slowly. The flavor was the same—warm, buttery, chocolate—but now it carried something else beneath it: the fragile, unfamiliar taste of being seen.

Just as another kid trying to understand a chaotic universe.

He held the ice to his eye, took another careful bite, and felt, for the first time since the “bad thing”, something like relief settle into his bones.

He barely had time to luxuriate in enjoying the feeling when Shane spoke, distracting Ilya, without looking directly at him, his eyes fixed somewhere near the rim of the table, as if the question were safer if it didn’t quite land on a person. “Do you…like hugs?” His voice was careful, not soft exactly, but rounded at the edges, like he’d been turning the words over for a while before letting them out.

Ilya blinked, surprised by how serious the question felt. “Sometimes,” he said after a beat, honestly.

Shane went very still. Too still.

Then, in a rush that sounded almost painful to say, “Why do you like hugging?” His gaze flicked up just long enough for Ilya to see it, the tense, waiting look, the way his shoulders had braced like he expected a laugh, a tease, proof that this was something stupid to ask.

Ilya didn’t laugh.

He stared past Shane for a moment, thinking of Yuna’s arms, of the way his chest had unclenched in them. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, choosing each word, “hugging feels like...everything is okay, even if not okay.”

Shane watched him closely, as if weighing the answer. “Like medicine?” he asked.

Ilya gave a small shrug, then nodded. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Shane worried his bottom lip between his teeth, considering this like a math problem with a surprising answer.

After a long pause, he whispered, “Do you…want one now?”

The question startled Ilya so badly he almost choked in the cookie he had started biting into but then he saw Shane’s face, earnest and vulnerable, and he swallowed. “yes. Probably,” he said quietly.

Shane stepped forward, stiff at first, then gentle, wrapping his arms around Ilya in a careful, slightly awkward hug that somehow felt exactly right.

“It’s okay, Ilya. I promise to take care of you because my mom said you need a lot of help. Your dad can’t hurt you anymore.” Shane’s voice was very serious, very sure, like he was making a vow instead of a promise.

Then, as if offering evidence, quieter but no less certain: “My mom even scares my dad sometimes so she will scare him off.”

For a split second, something wild and light tried to bubble up in Ilya’s chest, the strangest urge to laugh, a helpless, almost hysterical little burst of giggles that felt too big for his body.

He swallowed it down, biting the inside of his cheek, breathing in Shane’s clean, faintly sweet smell as he carefully, deliberately returned the hug.

This was nice.

Strange, unfamiliar, a little frightening but nice in a way that settled into his bones.

He could get used to this new life.

Chapter 3: summer time breeze.

Chapter Summary

A blossoming friendship.

Shane's POV. Age; 10 years old. 

Ottawa. 2001.

The school year ended like a held breath finally released.

Shane didn't realize how tightly he'd been gripping his desk until the final bell rang and his fingers actually ached. June in Ottawa meant humidity and the smell of cut grass and the strange, weightless feeling of nine months of survival suddenly behind him.

He had survived fourth grade.

This was not a small thing.

Fourth grade had started with Liam and Ben and the word freak echoing across the playground at the elementary.

Fourth grade had started with his sand solar systems being kicked apart and his silence being mistaken for stupidity and his desperate, failed attempts to decode the invisible rulebook that every other child seemed to have been born with.

Then Ilya had moved in across the street.

Then things had changed.

Shane stood at the edge of the schoolyard, waiting for his mother. The June sun was hot on his neck.

Other children streamed past him—laughing, shouting, making plans for summer.

He watched them the way he watched planets: from a great distance, tracking their orbits without expecting to join them.

A familiar silhouette appeared beside him during his walk home.

"Hey," Ilya said.

"Hey."

They stood together in comfortable silence. Ilya went to another school that accepted late students while Shane went to a local one to their home. Ilya would switch to his home school come this fall.

They always walked home together.

Ilya's face was upturned toward the sun, his eyes closed. His skin had freckled over the past few months, a constellation of pale dots across his face and body. His eye—both eyes, healed and clear—were hidden behind squinted lids.

"Summer," Ilya said. His accent was light today, careful. He was still learning when to guard his words and when to let them fall. "Ten weeks. No school."

"Yes."

"What you do?"

Shane considered the question.

Before Ilya, the answer would have been simple: Nothing. Stay in my room. Read about space. Wait for September. But now the answer felt more complicated.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Hmmm..." Ilya opened his eyes. He tilted his head—that old habit, the ghost of the blind spot—and looked at Shane with his steady, assessing gaze.

"We do something," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Okay."

"What you like?"

Shane thought about this. No one had ever asked him that before. What he liked. Not what he was good at, not what was expected, not what other children his age were supposed to enjoy.

Just...what he liked.

"Planetariums," he said. "Museums. Places with...information, you know?" He paused. "I've never been to an amusement park."

Ilya's eyebrows rose slightly. "Never?"

"My mom says I wouldn't like it. Too loud. Too many people." He paused again then shrugged. "She's probably right."

"Shane, do you want to go?"

Shane considered.

Did he want to go?

The idea of an amusement park was overwhelming—the crowds, the noise, the unpredictable chaos of other children's joy.

But the idea of Ilya beside him, a fixed point in all that chaos.

"Maybe," he said. "If you go."

Ilya nodded slowly. "Okay. We go. Summer. You, me, Mama, your mom." A pause. "Your dad too, if he wants."

"You'd like that?"

"Da." The word slipped out, unguarded. Ilya's ears pinked slightly. "Yes. I would like."

Shane filed this away carefully. Ilya wanted to go to an amusement park. With him. With their mothers. With his father. 

Ilya wants to spend summer with me.

The thought was so large it barely fit in his chest.

 

---

******

Summer unfolded like the pages of a book Shane hadn't known was waiting to be read.

The first week, Ilya appeared at his door every morning. Not knocking—just waiting on the porch, patient as a planet in its orbit, until Shane emerged. They would walk to the playground, or the library, or simply sit in Shane's room while Shane read aloud about Jupiter's moons and Ilya listened with his serious, assessing gaze.

The second week, his mom suggested the museum of nature.

"Shane, you love the fossil exhibit. And Ilya, have you seen the whale skeletons?"

Ilya had not seen massive whale skeletons before.

Ilya stood in the dim, cavernous hall, craning his neck upward at the enormous bones suspended from the ceiling, and his face did something Shane had never seen before. His mouth fell open. His eyes went wide. He forgot, entirely, to guard his expression.

"Bozhe moi," he whispered. My God.

Shane watched him. He watched Ilya circle the exhibit slowly, reverently, his gaze tracing the curve of each massive rib. He watched Ilya read every placard, his lips moving silently as he sounded out the English words. He watched Ilya press his palm to the glass case containing a fossilized shark tooth and leave a small, perfect handprint.

"This is best thing," Ilya said. His accent was very thick. His eyes were very bright. "Best thing I ever see."

Shane filed this away.

Ilya likes whales.

Ilya likes skeletons.

Ilya presses his hand to glass when something matters.

That night, Shane opened his notebook and added three new entries.

---

******

The third week, Irina knocked on the Hollander's door.

Shane answered. He was not used to answering the door—his mother usually beat him to it—but his mom was on the phone with his aunt in Vancouver, and his father was at work, and the knock came again, insistent and hopeful.

Irina stood on the porch.

She was holding a casserole dish wrapped in tea towels, her honey-blond curls escaping from a messy bun, her blue eyes wide and anxious.

"Oh, Shane," she said. "Hello. Is your mother home?"

Shane stared at her nose. "She's on the phone."

"Oh." Irina's smile faltered. "Okay. I come back later. No problem. I just—I make too much food. Always too much food. Ilya, he eat a lot but not enough for this food, and I—" She stopped abruptly, pressing her lips together. "Sorry. I talk too much. English is hard."

Shane looked at her. Really looked. He saw the nervous way her fingers gripped the casserole dish. He saw the dark circles under her eyes that never quite faded, even after months of safety. He saw the hope and fear and desperate need to connect, all tangled together in the lines of her face. He should be over to Ilya's mom. 

"My mom will be off the phone soon," he said. "You can wait inside if you like."

Irina's face transformed. That sudden, radiant smile—the same one she'd worn on the day they moved in, when Yuna had handed her banana bread and she'd looked at it like it was a lifeline.

She looked like Ilya in that moment. 

"Thank you, Shane," she said. "Thank you."

She sat on the edge of the couch, her casserole dish balanced on her knees, her gaze sweeping the room with the quick, assessing scan of someone who had learned to catalog exits. Shane sat across from her, not sure what else to do.

"Your home is very nice," Irina said. "Very clean. Yuna, she is—" She struggled for the word. "How do you say...smart! Smart woman. Kind woman."

Shane nodded. "My mom is the best."

"I am not good at...at making friends." Irina laughed, a small, self-conscious sound. "In Moscow, I had friends. But then we leave, and I forget how to... how to talk to people. Without..." She trailed off.

Shane waited. He was good at waiting.

"Ilya, he is better than me," Irina said softly. "He makes friend with you. He is happy now. Happier than before." Her eyes glistened. "I see him smile. Real smile. Not the—" She mimed putting something on her face. "Not the pretend."

Shane thought about Ilya's smile.

Rare. Quick. Quickly hidden. But real.

"He's a good friend," Shane said.

"Yes." Irina's voice was very quiet. "He is good boy. Best boy." She paused, then added, almost shyly: "You are good boy too, Shane. I see you. How you watch him. How you wait for him to find words." Her smile trembled. "Thank you."

Shane didn't know what to say to that. He stared at the casserole dish and felt something warm and uncomfortable spread through his chest.

When Yuna came downstairs ten minutes later, she found Irina crying softly into her tea and Shane sitting rigidly beside her, patting her shoulder with the careful, uncertain rhythm of someone who had never comforted a crying adult before.

"Oh, Irina," Yuna said, and crossed the room in three quick strides. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Irina sobbed. "Everything. You are so kind. Your son is so kind. I made too much food."

Yuna laughed—a warm, liquid sound—and wrapped her arms around Irina.

Shane watched his mother hold their neighbor, rocking her gently, murmuring soft words in a mix of English and the few Russian phrases she'd been learning from Ilya.

He slipped out of the room.

Some moments, he understood, were not for watching.

But that night, he opened his notebook.

Irina: cries when happy. Cries when sad. Cries when too much lasagna. English gets worse when emotional, like Ilya. Likes tea with honey. Calls me dorogoy. Means dear.

Her smile is like Ilya's: rare, real, quickly hidden.

She is trying very hard.

 

---

******

The fourth week, they went to the amusement park.

Shane had not expected to enjoy it. He had prepared himself for crowds and noise and the overwhelming sensory assault of other people's joy. He had packed his comfort stone in his pocket and mapped the exits and mentally rehearsed his escape route.

But Ilya was beside him.

Ilya, who had never been to an amusement park either.

Ilya, whose face went through seventeen different emotions in the first five minutes—awe, confusion, delight, overwhelm, delight again—before settling into something Shane could only describe as wonder.

"Look," Ilya breathed, pointing at the Ferris wheel. "Is big. Very big. Like—" He searched for words. "Like giant. Like—" He gave up and simply stared, his mouth open, his eyes reflecting the spinning lights.

Shane looked at the Ferris wheel.

Then he looked at Ilya.

"I think," he said carefully, "that I want to go on that first."

Ilya turned to him.

His expression was so hopeful, so transparently eager, that Shane felt something crack open in his chest.

"Yes?" Ilya said. "You want?"

"Yes."

They rode the Ferris wheel together, their mothers waving from below. The carriage swayed gently as they rose, the park shrinking beneath them, the sky opening above. Ilya pressed his face to the glass, his breath fogging the pane.

"Moscow," he said quietly. "There is wheel like this. In Gorky Park. I never ride." A pause. "Uncle said maybe next time."

Shane looked at Ilya's reflection in the glass.

His face was calm, but his voice had gone soft, almost wistful.

"We're riding it now," Shane said.

Ilya met his eyes in the glass. "Da," he said. "Now."

They sat in silence as the wheel completed its rotation. At the very top, suspended between earth and sky, Shane felt something settle into place inside him.

A certainty.

A fact.

I want Ilya to have all the next times he missed.

He didn't know how to say this. So he just sat beside Ilya, close enough to share warmth, and watched the park spin beneath them.

 

---

******

The fifth week, Irina came to dinner.

Then she came to breakfast.

Then she started appearing on the porch with coffee and a book, and his mom, along with other neighbourhood women, would join her with tea and a stack of magazines, and they would sit together in the afternoon sun, talking in low, easy voices about things Shane didn't try to overhear.

Ilya came with her.

Always.

He would knock on Shane's door—three quick raps, a pause, one more—and wait to be let in. Sometimes they played chess. Sometimes Shane read aloud. Sometimes they simply sat in comfortable silence, two planets in close orbit, not needing to fill the space between them.

Shane, who had spent nine years craving solitude, found himself craving Ilya instead.

It was disorienting. He had built his life around being alone and accepting it—not because he wanted it, but because it was easier. Safer. Other people were unpredictable. Other people laughed at the wrong times and asked the wrong questions and made his brain seize up with the effort of decoding their expectations.

But Ilya was not like other people.

Ilya did not expect Shane to be anyone other than himself.

Ilya did not fill silences with unnecessary words.

Ilya listened when Shane talked about orbital mechanics and never once said why do you care about that stuff.

Ilya simply...stayed.

And Shane found, to his profound surprise, that he wanted Ilya to stay.

Always.

In his room, on the playground, at the museum, on the Ferris wheel.

He wanted Ilya beside him, a fixed point in the chaos, a steady gravity.

He did not know how to say this. So he said other things instead.

"Do you want to go to the science museum on Thursday?"

"Do you like pizza? My dad makes homemade pizza."

"My mom said we could have a sleepover. If you want."

Each invitation was a small, tentative offering. Each time Ilya said yes—da, yes, okay, I want—Shane felt something warm expand in his chest.

---

******

The sixth week, Liam and Ben rode past Shane's house on their bikes.

Shane was sitting on the porch, reading about Saturn's rings. Ilya was beside him, not reading, just sitting. His gaze was fixed on the street, his posture relaxed but alert. He had gotten better at relaxing over the summer. His shoulders didn't carry quite so much tension. His jaw didn't clench quite so often.

The bikes slowed. Liam squinted at the porch.

"Hey," he called. "Space-reject."

Shane's grip tightened on his book.

He didn't look up.

Liam's gaze shifted to Ilya.

Something flickered across his face—recognition, maybe, or memory. The playground. The steady gaze. The way Ilya had stood beside Shane, solid as a planet, and changed the gravity.

Liam pedaled on. Ben followed.

Neither of them said anything else.

Shane stared at his book. The words had blurred. He blinked rapidly, willing them back into focus.

Beside him, Ilya was very still.

"They don't bother you anymore," Ilya said. Not a question.

"No."

"Good."

Shane looked at him.

Ilya's face was calm, his gaze steady on the retreating bikes. He didn't seem to think he had done anything remarkable. He had simply... stood there. And the bullies had stopped.

"Why?" Shane asked. The word came out smaller than he intended.

Ilya turned to him. His brow furrowed slightly. "Why what?"

"Why do you stay?"

The question hung in the summer air.

Cicadas sang.

A lawnmower hummed somewhere distant.

Ilya was quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching Shane's face for something.

"Because you are my friend," he said finally, confused by the question.

Simple. Certain. A fact.

Shane's chest did that thing again—the expansion, the warmth, the uncomfortable pressure behind his ribs.

"But I'm weird," he said. "I don't talk right. I don't—I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "You could have other friends. Cooler friends. Kids who know how to... who are normal."

Ilya tilted his head. That old habit. The ghost of the blind spot.

"I do not want other friends," he said. "I want you."

Shane stared at him.

"So what you are weird," Ilya continued. His accent was thickening, his words coming faster, less guarded. "You are different. Different is cool." A pause. "In Russia, we have word: svoy. Mean...yours. One of us. Belonging." Another pause. "You are svoy, Shane. My svoy."

Shane didn't know what to say. His throat was very tight. His eyes were doing something strange—burning, prickling, refusing to focus.

"Oh," he said.

"Da." Ilya nodded. "You are weird and cool."

They sat in silence. The cicadas continued their endless song. The summer sun continued its slow arc across the sky. Shane's book lay forgotten in his lap, Saturn's rings blurring into gold.

You are svoy, Ilya had said. Mine. One of us. Belonging.

Shane had never belonged anywhere. He had always been the odd planet, the eccentric orbit, the celestial body that didn't quite fit the model. He had made peace with this, or tried to. He had built his own solar systems in sand and stone, because it was easier than trying to find his place in other people's universes.

But Ilya had built a constellation on his wall, and named it Ursa Major, and pointed at Shane's planets on the windowsill.

Ilya had counted his falls and held his hand and said I catch you.

Ilya had stood beside him on the playground and changed the gravity.

Ilya had called him svoy.

Shane did not cry. He was not a crier. But something in him shifted, rearranged itself into a new configuration. The lonely planet, it turned out, was not alone after all. It had been pulled into a new orbit, drawn by the gravity of another small, searching world.

---

******

The seventh week, they went to the museum of science and technology.

The eighth week, they built a model rocket and launched it in the park.

The ninth week, Irina and Yuna took them to the beach, and Shane discovered that Ilya was afraid of waves. Not the water itself—he swam well enough—but the unpredictable rush and retreat, the way the waves came without warning. Too unpredictable.

"I do not like," Ilya said, standing rigid at the shoreline. "Cannot see what comes next."

Shane considered this. Then he waded into the water and stood facing the horizon, his back to Ilya.

"I'll watch," he said. "I'll tell you when they come and if you're too scared I'll hug you so the waves don't kidnap you."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he waded in beside Shane.

They stood together, facing the endless lake, and Shane narrated each approaching wave.

Small one.

Medium.

This one might be big.

Okay, it was medium.

Ilya listened, his shoulders gradually relaxing, his breathing steadying.

"This is stupid," Ilya said finally. "I am ten. I should not be afraid of water."

"I'm afraid of the dark," Shane said.

Ilya looked at him.

"I sleep with the night light on," Shane continued. "I know there's nothing in my room. But I still need the light."

Ilya was quiet. Then: "We are both stupid then."

"Yes."

"Good."

They stood in the water until their toes pruned and the sun began to set.

On the shore, Irina and Yuna watched from their blanket, their heads bent together, their laughter carrying across the sand.

 

---

******

The tenth week, school loomed.

Shane did not sleep the night before.

He lay in the dark, his night light glowing softly beside him, his obsidian stone clutched in his hand. His mind cycled through every possible scenario, every social landmine, every moment when his words would fail and his silence would be misinterpreted and the careful equilibrium of the past months would shatter.

Ilya would find other friends.

It was inevitable.

The first day of school, he would sit with the cool kids, the normal kids, the kids who knew how to laugh at the right times and speak in complete sentences and decode the invisible rulebook. He would realize that Shane was not worth the effort. He would drift away, gently at first, then completely.

Shane had prepared for this. He had spent ten years preparing for this. He had his room, his books, his solitary universe of sand and stone. He did not need anyone else.

But the thought of Ilya drifting away made his chest hurt in a way he didn't have words for.

 

---

******

The first day of school, Shane stood at the edge of the playground and watched the orbits.

Fifth grade. New teacher, new classroom, new chances to fail. The same faces, mostly. Liam and Ben were there, kicking a soccer ball, their laughter sharp as ever.

Other children clustered in their familiar constellations—the popular girls, the athletic boys, the quiet kids who read in corners.

Shane had always been a quiet kid who read in corners.

He had accepted this.

Ilya arrived ten minutes before the bell. 

They were suppose to walk together but Ilya told him his mom wanted to take him to his first day at the new school. 

His mother walked him to the gate, her hand on his shoulder, her anxious gaze sweeping the crowd. She knelt and said something in rapid Russian. Ilya nodded. She kissed his forehead and left.

Ilya scanned the playground.

His gaze passed over the soccer players, the cluster of popular girls, the teachers sipping coffee by the door.

Then it found Shane.

He walked over. Direct. Unhesitating.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

They stood together in comfortable silence. Shane's heart was very loud in his ears.

"New year," Ilya said.

"Yes."

"We have same teachers."

"Yes."

Ilya tilted his head. "You okay? Are you nervous?"

Shane considered lying. Then: "Yes. Kinda."

"Me too." A pause. "But we have each other. So is okay."

Shane looked at him. Ilya's face was calm, his gaze steady. He did not seem to be searching for better options. He did not seem to be calculating escape routes. He simply stood beside Shane, solid and certain, and waited for the bell.

We have each other, he had said. So is okay.

Shane's chest expanded. The tight knot of anxiety that had been coiled there all night loosened, just slightly.

"Okay," he said. "Great."

 

---

******

The first week of school, Shane discovered that Ilya was a buffer.

Not intentionally.

Ilya did not run interference or smooth social interactions or translate the invisible rulebook. He simply existed, beside Shane, and his existence changed everything.

At lunch, when Shane sat alone at the end of a table, Ilya sat with him. Not speaking, not demanding conversation—just sitting. Other children glanced at them, then away. No one approached. No one mocked.

In class, when the teacher asked a question and Shane knew the answer but couldn't force the words past his teeth, Ilya would wait.

Patient.

Silent.

The teacher would move on, and Shane's silence would go unremarked, because Ilya's presence made it seem like a choice rather than a failure.

On the playground, when Liam's gaze drifted toward Shane with that old, familiar calculation, Ilya would shift his weight slightly. Not threatening. Just present. Just watchful. Liam's gaze would always slide away.

Shane had spent nine years invisible in plain sight.

Now, with Ilya beside him, he was visible—but differently. Not as a target. As part of a pair. A constellation of two.

We have each other, Ilya had said.

Shane was beginning to understand what that meant.

 

---

******

The second week, a boy named Marcus approached them at recess.

"Hey," Marcus said. "You're the new kid, right? From Russia?"

Ilya looked at him. "Da."

"That's cool. I'm Marcus. I like your accent."

Ilya's ears pinked slightly. "Spasibo—I mean, thank you."

Marcus grinned. "You wanna play soccer? We need one more."

Ilya glanced at Shane. His gaze was questioning, uncertain. Do you want to? Should I go?

Shane's stomach clenched. This was it. The moment he had been dreading. Ilya would go play soccer with Marcus, and he would be good at it, and they would laugh together, and Ilya would realize that Shane was not worth the effort.

"Go," Shane said. His voice was steady. "I'll wait here."

Ilya's brow furrowed. "You not come?"

"I don't play soccer."

"So we not go." Ilya turned to Marcus. "No thank you. Maybe another time."

Marcus shrugged. "Sure, whatever." He jogged back to the field.

Shane stared at Ilya. "You didn't have to stay."

Ilya tilted his head. "You think I want to play soccer?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I do not know how to play soccer." A pause. "Canada is weird. It's football. Not soccer. Also, I want to stay with you. Besides hockey is better anyways."

Shane's chest did that thing again. The expansion. The warmth. The pressure.

"Oh," he said.

"Da." Ilya nodded. "Oh."

 

---

******

The third week, Shane realized that he no longer dreaded recess.

This was unprecedented.

For as long as he could remember, recess had been the hardest part of the day—the unstructured chaos, the unpredictable social dynamics, the constant vigilance required to avoid attracting negative attention. He had survived recess by becoming invisible.

Now he was visible.

But it didn't feel like a threat. It felt like...companionship.

He and Ilya had developed a routine.

They would claim a bench near the fence, away from the soccer field and the gossip clusters and the teachers drinking coffee. Shane would read or draw star charts. Ilya would watch the other children with his steady, assessing gaze, cataloging their movements the way Shane cataloged celestial bodies.

Sometimes they talked.

Ilya would ask questions about astronomy, and Shane would explain orbital mechanics in painstaking detail, and Ilya would listen with the same gravity he applied to everything.

Sometimes they didn't talk.

The silences were comfortable, filled with shared presence rather than empty space.

Shane had never had this before.

A friend who didn't require constant performance.

A companion who understood that silence was not emptiness.

He did not know how to express his gratitude. The words felt too large, too unwieldy, too likely to shatter if he tried to carry them.

So he did what he always did: he observed, he cataloged, he remembered.

Ilya's laugh: rare, quick, quickly hidden.

He laughed today when Marcus tripped over his own feet. Not mean—surprised. Then he looked guilty.

Ilya's accent: thickest when he's tired or comfortable or talking about Moscow.

Today he talked about his grandmother's cat, Pickle, and Shane could barely understand him. He didn't seem to notice, just happy to share.

Ilya's gaze: steady.

Always steady. When he looks at Shane, he felt...seen.

Not examined.

Seen.

Shane think this is what friendship is supposed to feel like.

 

---

******

The fourth week, Irina came to dinner.

Then she came to breakfast.

This was not new. Irina had been a constant presence all summer. But now, with school in session, her visits had taken on a new rhythm. She would arrive after the final bell, her face tired but expectant, and she and Yuna would sit in the kitchen while Shane and Ilya did homework at the table.

Shane had expected to find this annoying.

He was a child of solitude, accustomed to long stretches of uninterrupted quiet. The presence of another person in his home—especially a person who talked with her hands and laughed too loudly and sometimes cried without warning—should have grated on him.

Instead, he found himself listening for her knock.

He found himself noticing when she hadn't visited in a day or two.

He found himself cataloging her moods the way he cataloged Ilya's: tired, happy, anxious, hopeful.

He found himself saving facts to share with her—a whale skeleton at the museum, a new exhibit at the science center, a book about Russian space exploration his father had found at the library.

He found himself, to his profound surprise, caring about Irina just as much as he cared for her son. 

It happened gradually.

A collection of small moments, each insignificant alone, accumulating into something substantial.

The evening she taught him to fold pelmeni, her flour-dusted hands guiding his, her accent thickening as she explained the importance of a proper seal. "Is not just food," she said. "Is love. You put love in each one, yes?"

The afternoon she cried on their couch, overwhelmed by a phone call from her mother in Moscow, and his mom held her and Shane silently brought her tea with honey, and she looked at him with such gratitude that he had to look away.

The morning she arrived with fresh pirozhki and a shy smile, and she said, "I make for you, Shane. Cabbage and egg. Ilya says you like cabbage," and Shane realized that she had been paying attention, cataloging his preferences the way he cataloged hers. 

Irina, he wrote in his notebook that night. Her favorite tea is chamomile. She hums when she cooks. She calls me dorogoy. She is learning English from cooking shows. She is trying very hard.

She is my mother's friend. She is Ilya's mother. 

She is a good mother. 

 

---

******

The fifth week, Shane realized that he no longer thought of his house as quiet.

It had always been quiet.

His parents were quiet people. His father read engineering manuals in his armchair. His mother hummed softly while she gardened.

Shane himself moved through the rooms like a ghost, leaving no trace of his passage.

Now the house was filled with other sounds.

Irina's laughter, bright and surprised.

Ilya's careful English, his accent swelling and receding like tides.

The clatter of chess pieces, the rustle of book pages, the soft murmur of two women sharing tea on the porch.

Shane had expected to miss the silence. Instead, he found himself listening for the sounds that meant Ilya was coming up the walk, Irina was knocking on the door, the house was filling with the people he had somehow, inexplicably, come to need.

This is what it feels like, he thought. To belong somewhere.

 

---

 ******

The sixth week, Liam approached them at recess.

 Shane tensed.

Ilya shifted his weight slightly, his gaze steady, his posture relaxed but ready.

The old choreography, rehearsed through months of playground survival.

But Liam didn't sneer. Didn't call Shane space-case. Didn't kick sand or knock books or any of the other small cruelties that had defined their interactions for years.

 "Hey," Liam said. "You guys wanna play soccer? We're short two."

Shane stared at him.

Ilya glanced at Shane, then back at Liam. "We do not know how to play."

"That's okay. I can teach you." Liam shuffled his feet. "It's just—Marcus broke his ankle, and we need enough for a full game." 

Shane waited for the punchline.

The laughter.

The inevitable just kidding, we don't want freaks like you. But Liam just stood there, awkward and expectant, not meeting either of their eyes.

Ilya looked at Shane. His expression was questioning. Your choice.

Shane thought about it.

Soccer meant running, shouting, the chaotic press of bodies. It meant being watched, evaluated, judged. It meant risk.

But it also meant Ilya beside him.

Ilya, who didn't know how to play soccer, who would learn alongside him. Ilya, who had stayed on the beach and faced his fear of waves because Shane had offered to watch for him.

"Okay," Shane said. 

Liam blinked. "Really?"

"We will try," Ilya said. "But we are not good."

"That's fine. We're not that good either." Liam paused. "Well, I'm good. But the rest of them are terrible."

Something shifted in the air. Not quite trust, not quite friendship. But the absence of hostility, which was, Shane was learning, sometimes its own kind of grace.

They played soccer.

Shane was, as expected, terrible.

Ilya was slightly less terrible, having the advantage of natural athleticism and the willingness to throw himself bodily at the ball. Liam shouted instructions and complained about their footwork but didn't mock them.

At the end of recess, Liam said, "Same time tomorrow?" like it was nothing.

Like they had always been the kind of kids who got invited to play soccer.

"I don't know," Shane said later, walking home with Ilya. "Why now?"

Ilya considered the question. "Maybe he changed and decided not to pick on you anymore." He paused then shrugged. "Not target." 

"But we're the same as before." 

"No." Ilya shook his head. "Before, you alone. Now you not alone." A pause. "People do not bother people who have friends."

Shane absorbed this.

It was such a simple equation. Such a basic rule of social physics. And yet he had never been able to solve it, because he had never had the variable of friend to plug into the formula.

"Thank you," he said.

Ilya tilted his head. "For what?"

"For staying."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Then: "of course."

 

---

****** 

The last week of September, Shane stood at his window and watched the leaves turn.

Summer was over.

Fall had arrived with its crisp air and shorter days and the distant promise of winter. The playground across the street was carpeted with gold and red, his sand solar system buried deep beneath layers of decaying foliage.

He didn't miss it. The sand, the solitude, the careful construction of universes no one else would see. He had new universes now—the museum, the canal, the neighborhood rink Ilya had circled on a printed map. He had new constellations—Ilya's freckles, Irina's smile, the small galaxy of people who had somehow become his.

Across the street, the light in Ilya's room flicked on. His silhouette appeared at the window, familiar now in a way that made Shane's chest feel warm.

Ilya raised his hand.

Shane raised his.

Two planets, in constant orbit. Two boys, each other's fixed point.

Shane thought about the summer behind them—the Ferris wheel and the whale skeletons, the beach and the museum, the small, cumulative moments that had reshaped his universe.

He thought about the school year ahead—the soccer games and the shared lunches, the steady presence of Ilya beside him, the surprising discovery that he was not, after all, a child of solitude.

He was a child of svoy. A child of belonging. A child who had found his orbit and his gravity and the small, steady light of another world, keeping watch across the street.

Shane smiled, small and private, and went to bed.

Tomorrow there would be more school, more soccer, more of the ordinary chaos of fourth grade.

Tomorrow Ilya would knock on his door, three quick raps and a pause, and they would walk together through the carpet of fallen leaves.

But tonight, there was this: a constellation of two, still forming, still learning, still finding their way through the vast, cold dark of the universe.

Together.

Chapter 4: seventeen falls in winter.

Chapter Summary

Ilya teaches Shane how to skate and realizes how safe he feels.

Ilya's POV. Age; 10 years old. 

Ottawa. 2001.

The first real snow of the Ottawa winter came quietly, overnight. Ilya woke to a world turned white and silent, the kind of silence that used to settle over Moscow when the snow was fresh and the city hadn't yet woken to shovel it away.

He lay very still in his bed, in his room, in his house across the street from the Hollander's, and listened.

No shouting. No heavy footsteps. No sounds of things breaking.

Just quiet.

And beneath the quiet, the soft hum of his mother's voice from the kitchen.

She was singing.

Not humming—singing.

An old Russian lullaby, the one his grandmother used to sing about little gray rabbits and sleeping bears.

Her voice was light, untroubled, rising and falling with the melody.

Ilya closed his eyes. He let the song wash over him.

She is better, he thought. We are better.

But sometimes, late at night, he still heard her crying. Not the desperate, choking sobs of Before—those had faded weeks ago, replaced by something quieter, more private.

Tears shed into pillows, quickly stifled.

Grief that had nowhere else to go.

He understood. He had his own grief, locked away in the same locked box where he kept his uncle's face and the fat orange cat and the black ice of the Moscow canal. Sometimes, late at night, the box opened, and he cried too.

But not this morning.

This morning, his mother was singing.

This morning, the snow was fresh and clean and the world was quiet.

This morning, he was going to Shane's house so they could walk together to school.

 

---

******

He dressed quickly, pulling on the sweater Yuna had knit him for his birthday.

It was blue—Shane's favorite color, though Shane had never said so directly.

Ilya had just noticed that Shane's room contained many blue things: his bedspread, his notebooks, the marble he kept on his windowsill.

So Ilya had mentioned, casually, that blue was his favorite color too, and Yuna had knit him a sweater the exact shade of a clear winter sky.

He caught his reflection in the window and paused.

His face was just a face now.

The bruise had faded long ago now, the swelling gone, the tenderness a distant memory.

Sometimes he forgot which eye had been injured. Sometimes he had to touch his cheek to remember.

He touched it now. Smooth skin. No pain.

Okay, he thought. I am okay.

But he still turned his head to compensate for a blind spot that no longer existed. He still flinched when someone moved too fast in his peripheral vision. He still, sometimes, woke with his hand pressed to his face, reaching for a bandage that wasn't there.

His mother said this was normal. His mother said healing took time. His mother said a lot of things, most of which Ilya had stopped listening to after you are safe now.

He wasn't sure he believed her. But he was starting to.

 

---

******

His mother met him at the kitchen door, a thermos of hot chocolate in one hand and a scarf in the other.

"You will freeze," she said, wrapping the scarf around his neck with quick, efficient movements. "Canada cold is different. More wet. You think you know cold because you are from Moscow, but Moscow cold is dry. This is—" She struggled for the word. "—what is that word. Penetrating."

"Mama." Ilya submitted to the scarf-wrapping with patient resignation. "I am fine."

"You are always fine. This is your problem." She stepped back, surveying her work. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the stove.

She looked, Ilya thought, younger than she had in months.

Years, maybe.

"Tell Yuna thank you for the bread recipe," Irina continued. "Ask if she needs help with the garden. The snow will kill everything if she does not cover the—" Another struggle for words. "—the plants. The little plants. The—"

"Perennials," Ilya supplied.

"Da. Perennials." She smiled at him—that sudden, radiant smile that still made his chest ache. "You are learning so much English. I am proud."

Ilya ducked his head. His ears were warm.

"I am also proud of me," Irina said, her smile widening. "I made new friend. I have house. I have son who is good boy." She paused. "I am learning to be happy."

Ilya looked at her. Really looked. He saw the laugh lines around her eyes, the softness in her jaw, the way her shoulders no longer hunched forward like she was expecting a blow.

"You are happy," he said. Not a question.

"I am learning," she repeated. "It is a skill. Like skating. You practice, you fall, you try again." She kissed his forehead. "Now go. Your Shane is waiting."

Your Shane.

Not the boy across the street or your friend from school.

Your Shane.

Ilya's chest did that thing—the expansion, the warmth, the pressure behind his ribs. He had been feeling it a lot lately.

"Da," he said. "I go."

 

---

******

He was about to knock on the Hollander's front door when he heard Shane's voice through the open kitchen window.

"I want to learn how to skate."

Ilya stopped. Snow collected on his curls, on his shoulders, on the thermos clutched in his mittened hands.

"I want to learn because Ilya skates. He used to, in Moscow. He found a rink near us. So I want to know how. So we can go together."

The words landed like stones in still water. Ilya stood very still, watching the ripples spread.

He thought about this past summer.

The museum, the whale skeletons, the way Shane had watched his face as he circled the exhibit.

The Ferris wheel, suspended between earth and sky, Shane's quiet presence beside him.

The beach, Shane standing in the water with his back to the waves, narrating each approaching swell.

Small one.

Medium.

This one might be big.

He thought about fall.

The first day of school, Shane's barely concealed terror, the way his shoulders had relaxed when Ilya said we have each other, so is okay.

The soccer game, Shane's awkward, earnest attempts to kick the ball, his complete lack of athletic ability for that sport, his refusal to give up.

The afternoons in Shane's room, silence and starlight and the soft rustle of pages turning.

He thought about all the ways Shane had said I want to hang with you without ever saying the words directly.

The invitations.

The shared Beavertails.

The careful, patient way he waited for Ilya's English to catch up with his thoughts.

And now this. He waned to skate with him.

Ilya's heart was very loud in his ears.

 

---

*****

Yuna opened the door before he could knock, lost in thought.

"Ilya, good morning." Her smile was warm, her eyes knowing. "Come in. You'll freeze."

He went in.

He sat in the hallway, the thermos his mama gave him resting in his lap, snow melting on his curls.

His heart was still loud.

When a rosy freckled cheek Shane emerged, coat zipped, backpack secured, Ilya stood up very carefully.

He tried to make his face normal.

He tried to make his voice normal.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey!" Shane greeted back.

They walked to school. The snow fell. Ilya's heart was a steady drum.

"I heard you," he said finally. "Asking about skating lessons."

Shane's face did something complicated. His gaze dropped to the sidewalk.

"Oh," Shane said.

Ilya looked at him—this strange, quiet boy who had spent the summer showing him whale skeletons and the fall standing beside him on playgrounds and the winter, apparently, learning to skate.

"I can teach you," Ilya said.

Shane looked up.

The words came out before Ilya could stop them, tumbling over each other, his accent thickening with every syllable. "I am not coach. But I know how. My uncle taught me. Before." A pause. "I fell. Many times. But I learned. You will learn too."

Shane was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I used to skate. Figure skating actually. When I was five. My dad took me."

Ilya tilted his head.

"I wasn't good. I didn't like falling." Another pause. "So I stopped."

Ilya considered this.

A boy who tried, failed, stopped.

A boy who was now asking to try again.

A boy who had listened to Ilya share he was scared of waves and offered to watch the waves for him.

"Okay," Ilya said. "So you learn again. This time, better."

"You think I can?"

"Yes." Simple. True. "You learn things. You practice. You do not give up."

He paused. Then: "Also. I am better teacher than your dad. No offense."

A sound escaped Shane.

Something between a huff and a laugh.

Ilya felt his own mouth twitch.

"Okay," Shane said. "Saturday?"

"Saturday. I show you rink. Twenty minutes walk."

He thought about his mother, her tired eyes and her sudden, radiant smile. He thought about how she had been looking for rinks online, circling addresses, marking distances.

He thought about how she had said, shyly, Maybe I could come too? I am not good skater. But I would like to see.

"Mama says she come too," Ilya said.

"Okay," Shane said. "Saturday."

They continued their walk to school.

The snow continued its patient fall, blanketing the sidewalk, the street, the familiar route to school. Ilya's heart was still loud, but it was a good loud now.

A rhythm.

 

---

******

The first Saturday, Shane fell seventeen times.

Ilya counted each one. Not because he was keeping score—he wasn't—but because each fall was followed by a rise. Each time Shane hit the ice, he got back up. Each time he took Ilya's hand and let himself be pulled to standing.

Seventeen falls. Seventeen rises.

"Seventeen," Shane gasped, flat on his back.

"Da. I count." Ilya extended his hand. "Good number."

"It's not good. It's a lot."

"Seventeen less than forty-seven." He paused. "You beat me."

"That's not how it works."

"Works for me."

Shane took his hand. Ilya pulled him up.

"Now again," Ilya said. "No falling this time."

"That's not how it works either."

"Today we make new rules."

Shane wiped ice from his coat. His knees were wet, his face red with cold and effort, his freckles standing out even more beneath the redness. But he was looking at Ilya—really looking, not at his nose or his ear or the space beside his head, but at his eyes.

"Okay," Shane said. "New rules."

He didn't fall again that day.

Ilya felt something warm spread through his chest. It was the same feeling he got when Shane said we have each other or I think you are safe now or you taught me that. It was the feeling of being seen. Of being needed. Of being, for the first time in a very long time, good at something that mattered.

 

---

******

The second Saturday, Shane fell eight times.

The third Saturday, four.

The fourth Saturday, Shane learned to stop without grabbing the boards, and Ilya felt his face split into a grin so wide it hurt his cheeks.

"Good," he said. "Very good. You see? You learn."

Shane was breathing hard, his chest heaving, but he was smiling. Actually smiling. "I stopped."

"Da. You stopped. Good job!"

"I didn't grab the boards."

"Da."

"I did it."

"Da." Ilya's voice was thick, his accent heavy, his heart full of pride for his precious friend. "You did it."

 

---

******

The fifth Saturday, Shane completed his first full lap without Ilya's support.

Ilya skated beside him, close enough to catch, but Shane didn't need catching.

His blades cut steady, careful arcs.

His knees were bent.

His determined gaze was fixed ahead.

When he reached the boards, he turned to Ilya. His face was flushed, his breath coming fast, but his eyes were bright.

"I did it," Shane said.

Ilya nodded. He couldn't speak. His throat was too tight.

Shane looked at him for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Thank you for teaching me."

Ilya swallowed.

He tried to find words. His English was very far away, buried somewhere deep, replaced by something older and simpler.

"Vsegda," he said. Always.

 

---

******

The sixth Saturday, the canal opened.

Ilya's mother had been watching the ice reports for weeks. She checked the website every morning, her lips moving as she sounded out the English words. She marked the calendar. She talked about it at dinner, at breakfast, in the quiet moments before bed when she thought Ilya was asleep.

When the canal opens, she said.

When the canal opens, we will go. All of us.

She said it like a promise. Like a prayer.

When the notification finally came—The Rideau Canal Skateway is OPEN—she cried. Not the choked, hidden sobs Ilya remembered from Before. Different tears. Lighter. Tears rooted in joy.

Ilya stood beside her, watching the screen.

He thought about summer, about the whale skeletons and the Ferris wheel and the beach.

He thought about fall, about soccer games and shared lunches and the slow, steady accumulation of ordinary days.

He thought about Shane, who had learned to skate so they could go together.

His own eyes burned. But he didn't cry.

"We go," he said to Shane at school. "Saturday. We go canal."

"Okay," Shane said. "Yes."

"Seven kilometer. You think you skate seven kilometer?"

Shane considered this with the same gravity he applied to planetary orbits. "No," he admitted. "Probably not."

"Me neither." Ilya nodded. "So we skate one kilometer. Maybe two. Then hot chocolate."

"That's a good plan."

"Da. I make good plans."

He did make good plans. He had learned, over the past months, that planning was not just about survival. It was also about hope. You planned for things you wanted to happen. You planned for joy.

 

---

******

Saturday morning was clear and bitter cold.

Ilya stood at the edge of the canal, Shane beside him. Behind them, their mothers were lacing their skates on a bench, Irina's nervous laughter carrying across the ice. Yuna was saying something reassuring, her hand steady on Irina's arm.

The ice stretched before them, black and smooth and endless.

It looked like Moscow.

Ilya had expected this to hurt.

He had braced himself for the ache of memory, the grief of Before crashing into the joy of Now. But standing here, with Shane's quiet presence beside him and his mother's laughter behind him, the pain was...different.

Not gone. But softer. More distant.

Like a scar, instead of an open wound.

Ilya stepped onto the ice.

His blades found the familiar rhythm for long range skating, the forward glide, the slight careful lean.

He had not forgotten.

His body remembered what his mind had tried to bury.

He turned. He extended his hand.

"Come," he said. "We go."

Shane took his hand. They went.

 

---

******

They skated.

Ilya had not skated outside of an ice rink since Moscow. His uncle had taken him every weekend, even in the worst cold, even when the ice was rough and the wind was sharp. In Russia, ice rinks were everywhere. They would skate until their faces were numb, then buy bread with sugar from a vendor and eat it on a bench, watching the stars appear over the city.

His uncle had taught him everything.

How to fall.

How to get up.

How to turn, how to stop, how to glide on one foot with your arms out like wings.

You have good balance, his uncle had said. You are natural.

For years, Ilya had believed that skating was something he had lost after his father banned his uncle from teaching him anymore. Another piece of his old life, locked away in the same box as his uncle's face and his grandmother's cat and the black ice of the Moscow canal.

But skating was not lost to him.

It was here, beneath his blades, beneath his feet, beneath the careful rhythm of his body remembering what his mind had tried to forget.

He was skating outside again.

He was teaching someone else to skate.

He was, in some small way, becoming his favourite uncle.

And his uncle was not lost either. He was eight time zones away, probably asleep, probably wondering about the boy on black ice. But he was not lost. He was just...far.

Tomorrow, Ilya thought. Tomorrow I will ask Shane for help with the video call.

The thought was terrifying. It was also, somehow, freeing.

 

---

******

After a kilometer, they found a bench near a warming hut. Shane's legs were trembling with exhaustion.

Ilya's own legs ached, but it was a good ache.

A familiar welcomed ache.

Shane unwrapped a Beavertail—cinnamon sugar, still warm—and broke it in half. He handed a piece to Ilya without looking at him.

Ilya took it. "Spasibo."

"You're welcome."

They ate in silence. The canal continued its frozen rush. Ilya watched the skaters pass—families, couples, old men with their hands clasped behind their backs.

He watched his mother clinging to the rail, laughing at herself, Yuna beside her with a steadying hand.

She is happy, he thought. Really happy. Not pretend.

"Shane," Ilya said.

Shane looked at him.

Ilya stared at the ice. His English was very far away again, buried beneath memories and grief and the strange, aching pressure in his chest.

"In Moscow," he said. "My uncle. He take me to canal. Not this canal. Different. But same." He paused. "We skate. We eat bread with sugar. We watch stars."

Shane waited. Patient. Quiet.

"He is... was. Is." Ilya struggled. His jaw tightened. "He live still. In Moscow. I not see him since we leave."

The words hung in the cold air. Ilya had never said them out loud before—not to his mother, not to the social workers, not to anyone. His uncle was a secret treasure, locked away in the same box where he kept his grief. To speak of him was to open the box.

But Shane was waiting. Shane was patient. Shane noticed everything and never demanded explanations.

"Mama say maybe one day," Ilya whispered. "When things are...when we are..."

"Safe," Shane supplied.

"Da." Ilya's voice was very quiet. "When we are safe."

Shane was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I think you are safe now."

Ilya's breath caught.

"Here," Shane continued. "In Ottawa. On our street. At school." A pause. "With me."

The words landed like stones in still water. Ripples spread outward, touching everything.

Ilya did not respond. He could not. His throat was closed, his chest was full, his eyes were burning. He bowed his head and let his curls hide his face and tried very hard to breathe.

Safe, he thought. He thinks I am safe.

He thinks I am safe with him.

He thought about all the ways Shane had shown him, without words, that he was welcome here. The shared Beavertails. The patiently waiting. The hand extended across the ice, steady and sure.

He thought about the beach again, Shane standing in the water with his back to the waves.

I'll watch. I'll tell you when they come.

He thought about the playground, Shane's quiet presence beside him, the bullies fading into the background. People do not bother people who have friends.

He thought about the windowsill, Shane's planets arranged against the glass, a silent message across the frozen air.

I see you. I am here.

He sat beside me, Ilya thought. On the ice. In the water. On the playground. Always.

He always sits beside me.

Something in him—something tight and clenched and held for a very long time—began, very slowly, to loosen.

 

---

******

The seventh Saturday, Ilya fell.

It was not a dramatic fall. Just a rut, a caught edge, the sudden shock of ice against his back. He lay there, staring up at the gray sky, and thought: I forgot. I forgot how to fall properly.

Shane was beside him instantly. "Are you okay?"

"Da." Ilya blinked. "Just fall. Is nothing."

But he didn't get up.

The sky was very gray.

The ice was very cold beneath him.

And suddenly he was not on the Ottawa canal anymore—he was in Moscow, seven years old, his uncle's hand steady on his elbow, the black ice gleaming beneath the city lights.

You fall, his uncle said. You get up. Is only rule.

Ilya's chest cracked open.

"My uncle," he said. His voice was barely audible. "He teach me to fall. He say—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He say you fall, you get up. Is only rule."

Shane nodded. "You taught me that."

"Da." Ilya's voice was strange. Broken. "I teach you. But I forget."

"Forget what?"

The words came slowly, dragged from somewhere deep and long-buried.

"I forget," Ilya whispered, "that falling not mean you fail."

The crack in his chest widened. Something hot spilled out—grief, guilt, the weight of months spent trying to be strong for his mother, trying to be okay, trying to pretend that the bad things hadn't left marks that went far deeper than his healing eye.

He had failed. He had failed to protect his mother from the first blow, the second, the third. He had failed to make his father stop. He had failed to keep his family together, failed to stay in Moscow with his uncle and his grandmother and the fat orange cat named Pickle.

He had failed at so many things.

And he had been so busy not falling that he had forgotten: falling was not the same as failing.

A tear escaped. Then another. Then his face crumpled and he pressed his mitten to his eyes and made a sound that was barely human—a small, quiet breaking, the kind that had been waiting a very long time for permission.

I am crying, he thought. I am crying on the ice in front of everyone.

But he couldn't stop. The tears kept coming, hot and relentless, freezing on his cheeks. His shoulders shook. His breath came in ragged gasps.

And then, beside him, Shane sat down.

Not close enough to touch. Just close. Close enough to share warmth. Close enough to be present.

Just like the beach. Just like the playground. Just like every other time Ilya had fallen and Shane had sat beside him, waiting.

He always sits beside me.

Ilya cried. Shane waited.

The canal flowed around them, indifferent and endless. Skaters passed, their blades whispering against the ice. A child laughed somewhere. The Beavertail stand chimed with each sale.

And on the bench nearby, two women sat in silence, watching their boys on the ice. Irina's hand was pressed to her mouth. Yuna's arm was around her shoulders.

Neither of them moved to intervene.

Some falls, they understood, needed to happen.

Some tears needed to fall.

Ilya cried until he had no tears left. Then he sat very still, his breathing slowly steadying, his face wet and cold and strangely clean.

"Khorosho," he whispered. Good.

He did not know if he meant the crying, or the sitting, or the boy beside him who had not run away. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. Just khorosho.

Ilya took a breath.

He pushed himself up, slowly, carefully, until he was standing again on his skates.

He wobbled once, twice, then steadied.

He extended his hand to Shane.

"Come," he said. His voice was rough, but his accent was thick—comfortable, unguarded, safe. "We skate."

Shane took his hand. He let Ilya pull him up.

They skated.

 

---

******

That night, Ilya sat at his window, looking out at the snow-covered street.

His room was dark.

His mother was asleep—really asleep, her breathing soft and even, no tears hidden in her pillow. The house was quiet, but it was the good kind of quiet. The kind that meant peace, not absence.

Across the street, Shane's light was on.

Ilya watched his silhouette move through the room—desk, bookshelf, window. He watched Shane sit down at his windowsill, his hands busy with something Ilya couldn't see. The planets, probably. The obsidian sun, the marble Jupiter, the chipped-quartz asteroid.

Then Shane looked up. He raised his hand. 

Ilya raised his.

They sat there, two silhouettes in two windows, separated by a street and a language and an ocean of experience.

But the space between them did not feel empty.

It felt, Ilya thought, like the black ice of the canal—dark and smooth and reflective, waiting for stars.

He thought about his uncle. He thought about the canal in Moscow, the bread with sugar, the fat orange cat who was probably sleeping on his grandmother's lap right now, eight time zones away. He thought about the weight he had been carrying since they left—the guilt, the grief, the desperate need to be strong enough for his mother.

Ilya thought about his mother, who had learned to be happy again. Who sang in the kitchen and laughed at herself on the ice and made too much lasagna because she didn't know how else to say I love you.

He thought about Shane, who noticed everything and spoke in truths and sat beside him on the ice without asking questions.

He thinks I am safe, Ilya remembered. He thinks I am safe with him.

He is wrong, a small, cruel voice whispered. You are not safe. You will never be safe. The bad things follow you. They are inside you now.

But another voice—quieter, steadier—said: He sat beside you anyway. On the ice. In the water. On the playground. Every time you fell, he sat beside you.

He always sits beside you.

Maybe that is what safety is.

Ilya pressed his palm to the cold glass.

Across the street, Shane pressed his palm to his own window.

Two hands.

Two boys.

One constellation, still forming.

Ilya did not know if he was safe. He did not know if the bad things were truly behind him, or if they were merely waiting, patient as wolves, for the right moment to strike again.

But he knew that across the street, a boy with silky black hair and a pocket full of rocks was sitting at his window, keeping watch. He knew that on Saturdays, they would skate together on the black ice of the canal. He knew that when his English broke and his accent swelled and the words came out wrong, Shane would wait.

He knew that he was not alone.

And maybe, Ilya thought, that was enough. Maybe that was what safety felt like—not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who would sit beside you anyway.

Tomorrow, he would ask Shane for help with the video call.

Tomorrow, he would try to find the words to tell his uncle that he was okay, that his eye had healed, that he had taught someone else to skate, that his mother was learning to be happy.

Tomorrow, he would begin the slow, terrifying work of reaching across oceans and time zones and grief.

But tonight, he would sleep. And across the street, a small, steady light would burn in the window, keeping watch over the frozen space between them.

It was enough.

It was everything.

Ilya lowered his hand. Shane lowered his.

The snow continued its patient fall, blanketing the street, the houses, the frozen canal. Somewhere, in a city eight time zones away, Ilya's uncle was probably asleep, dreaming of a small boy on black ice.

But here, in Ottawa, the small boy was awake.

He was warm. He was safe—or at least, safe enough.

He had a mother who sang in the kitchen and laughed at herself on the ice. He had a friend who sat beside him when he fell and waited for him to find his words. He had a window, and a light, and a hand raised in greeting across the frozen air.

He had, for the first time in his life, everything he needed.

Ilya closed his eyes.

He slept soundly. 

Chapter 5: for Ilya, we play hockey.

Chapter Summary

Shane has decided he wants to learn hockey so Ilya can play hockey again.

Chapter Notes

Hello! Thank you all for the love. I'm not exactly sure where I am going with this story but as someone who has exclusively ever written stories featuring adults and from their perspective, this was really neat of a challenge lol. I'm sincerely just freestyling as I go but having so much fun!

Shane's POV. Age; 10 years old. 

Ottawa. 2001.

The chopstick problem announced itself on a Tuesday evening in late October, and it announced itself loudly.

Shane's mother had made sushi—a rare treat, reserved for special occasions or, in this case, the discovery of a new Japanese market that carried fresh uni. The table was arrayed with rolls and nigiri and little dishes of soy sauce and wasabi.

It was, by any reasonable measure, a feast.

Ilya looked at the chopsticks beside his plate.

He looked at the fork beside his plate.

He picked up the fork.

Shane stared.

"Ilya. You don't know how to use chopsticks?" The words came out before Shane could stop them.

They weren't accusatory—he didn't mean them to be—but they were loud.

Louder than he usually spoke because of his shock.

Ilya's ears pinked. "No," he said. "In Moscow, we use fork." A pause. "Also knife. Also spoon. Chopsticks is not Russian."

Shane's parents exchanged a glance.

That glance—the one they thought he didn't notice, the one that said our son is doing something unexpected and we are trying to decide whether to intervene.

Normally, Shane would have noticed the glance and retreated back into silence.

Normally, he would have let the conversation flow around him, a quiet observer in his own home because of how much he hated being perceived.

But Ilya was sitting across from him, chopstick-ignorant and fork-wielding, and Shane could not seem to stop talking.

"I can teach you Ilya," he said. "It's not hard. You just need to practice. Practise makes everything perfect. The important thing is the grip...you hold one here, like an anchor, and the other moves like a pencil. My grandma taught me when I was four. She said it takes a thousand meals to master chopsticks, but that's just a saying adults like to say. You can learn the basics in an hour if you practice."

He was aware, dimly, that his parents were staring at him in shock. His father had paused mid-bite.

His mother's eyebrows had risen toward her hairline.

Shane, who usually struggled to produce single sentences in social situations, had just delivered a monologue.

He did not stop there.

"Here," he said, sliding the spare chopsticks across the table. "Try holding this one first, Ilya. Lower. Yes. More in the web. Good. Now the second one goes here...no, like a pencil. Yes. Now try to open and close."

Ilya's chopsticks opened.

They closed.

They wobbled precariously.

"Good," Shane said. "Now try the rice."

Ilya leaned forward. His chopsticks hovered over the bowl. He pinched. A single grain of rice escaped. The rest scattered.

"Sorry," Ilya muttered. His ears were very pink.

"That was better than my first try," Shane said. "I dropped the rice all over the table for my first try. My grandmother had to wipe it up. I felt so bad but she said it was good luck."

Ilya glanced at him. "Good luck?"

"Yeah! Japanese superstition. Dropping rice means good fortune." Shane paused. "I think she just didn't want me to feel bad so I'll tell you it's too..."

Ilya's mouth twitched. "Your grandmother is smart."

"Yes." Shane paused again. "She would like you."

The words hung in the air.

Shane realized, belatedly, that he had said something personal. Something vulnerable. Something that, under normal circumstances, he would have kept locked in his chest alongside all the other things he couldn't articulate.

But Ilya was looking at him with that steady, patient gaze, and the words had simply...come out.

He trusted Ilya.

"She sounds really great," Ilya said quietly. "Your grandmother."

Shane nodded. He couldn't speak. His throat was doing something strange.

Across the table, his parents exchanged another glance. This one was different—softer, somehow. His mother smiled, small and private. His father returned to his sushi.

The conversation flowed on.

Shane kept talking.

 

---

******

The hockey revelation happened three weeks later.

Shane had gone to Ilya's house to return a book.

Irina let him in, her face bright with welcome, her hands flour-dusted from whatever she was baking.

She directed him upstairs—"Ilya in room, is homework or is reading, I not sure..."—and Shane climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor.

Ilya's door was open.

He was sitting by his desk, the glow of his pc screen illuminating his deeply focused face.

His expression was intense, focused—the same expression he wore when studying chess positions or practicing his chopstick grip.

Shane knocked softly on the doorframe.

Ilya looked up. "Hey. Come."

Shane came in with a smile. He sat on the edge of Ilya's bed, close enough to see the laptop screen.

It was hockey.

A game, mid-play, players in red and white racing across the ice.

The camera followed the puck—small, fast, nearly invisible. The crowd roared.

"What team is this?" Shane asked.

"CSKA Moscow," Ilya said. His voice was different. Softer, almost reverent. "My favourite team." He paused. "I watch games online sometimes. They are not on TV here, but I find streams through my old classmates."

Shane watched the screen.

The players moved with fluid, explosive grace—skating, passing, shooting. The goalie made a save, sprawling across the crease. The crowd erupted.

"Do you play?" Shane asked.

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Yes. Before." Another pause. "In Moscow, I play since I am five. My uncle coach me. I am—" He struggled. "I was—forward. Left wing."

"Do you still play now? I never see you."

Another silence. Longer.

"I do not play now," Ilya said. "Here. There is team. But I—" He stopped. Started again. "Mama say maybe next year. When we are more settled. When she is—" He couldn't find the word.

"Ready," Shane supplied.

"Da." Ilya's voice was very quiet. "When she is ready."

Shane looked back at the screen.

At the players, racing across the ice.

At Ilya's face, lit by the glow of the laptop, his expression caught between longing and loss.

"You miss it?" Shane said.

"Yes." No hesitation. No guarding. Just truth. "I was great player. I played since my uncle taught me skating."

Shane filed this away.

Ilya misses hockey.

Ilya played for years.

Ilya was good—forward, left wing.

Ilya wants to play again but his mother isn't ready.

I can fix this.

 

---

******

Shane did not know how to fix Irina's readiness.

That was a different problem, a bigger problem, one that involved time and healing and the slow accumulation of safety probably.

That was a job for adults.

But Shane knew how to fix his own readiness.

"Hey dad," he said that night, finding his father in the garage surrounded by hie tools. "I want to learn hockey."

Mr. Hollander looked up from whatever he was repairing—a lamp, maybe, or the lawnmower. His face, usually neutral and approachable, shifted into something like surprise.

"Hockey?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"Shane, you've never expressed any interest in hockey."

"I'm expressing interest now. I would like to learn."

His father set down his tools. He studied Shane with the same patient attention he brought to his engineering diagrams. "Can I ask what changed?"

Shane considered lying.

It would be easier, maybe.

But his father had never required him to perform normalcy, and Shane repaid this grace with honesty.

"Ilya plays," he said. "Or he used to. In Moscow. He misses it. His mom isn't ready to sign him up yet, but I could learn now and then when she's ready, we could play together." He paused before straightening his little shoulders and puffing out his chest. "I want to be good enough to play with him."

His father was quiet for a long moment.

Then he smiled—a small, warm thing.

"That's very considerate, kiddo."

"It's not considerate," Shane said. "I wanted to play hockey. I just didn't know I wanted to until now."

"Ah." His father nodded slowly. "And what made you realize you wanted to?"

Shane thought about Ilya's face in the glow of the laptop.

The longing.

The loss.

The quiet, aching yes when Shane asked if he missed it.

"I saw him watching a game," Shane said. "He looked...happy. And sad. Both at once." He paused. "I want to be part of the thing that makes him happy. Ilya deserves that."

His father was quiet again.

Then he stood, wiping his hands on a rag.

"I don't know much about playing hockey other than watching it," he admitted. "But I know someone who does. Give me a few days to make some calls."

Shane nodded. "Okay."

"And Shane?" His father's voice was gentle. "You know you don't have to be good at something to enjoy it, right? You can just...play. For fun."

Shane considered this.

It was, objectively, a reasonable position.

Many people engaged in activities purely for enjoyment, without any particular concern for skill level or improvement.

He just so happened to not be one of those people.

"I want to be good," he said. "I want to be good enough to play with Ilya. On a team. Eventually."

His father sighed—not frustrated, just resigned. "Of course you do."

"I don't see the problem."

"There's no problem. I just—" His father paused, searching for words. "You put so much pressure on yourself, Shane. You're too young to be serious all the time. It's okay to just...learn. To be a beginner. To not be the best and just enjoy."

Shane absorbed this.

He understood, intellectually, that his father was trying to be kind. That the message was you are enough, even without achievement. He understood that this was what parents were supposed to say.

But he also understood that Ilya was good at hockey. Ilya had played since he was very young.

He knew Ilya had been coached by his uncle, had played forward, left wing, had been good enough to miss it with the particular ache of something taken too soon.

Shane was not good at hockey.

Shane had never played hockey.

Shane was starting from zero, with no experience, no skills, no understanding of the game beyond what he'd glimpsed on Ilya's laptop screen.

But he could learn.

He could practice.

He could fail and try again and fail better.

"I know I don't have to be the best," Shane said. "But I want to be good enough. For him and we can join a team together."

His father looked at him for a long, searching moment.

Then he nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Then we'll make you good enough."

---

******

The first hockey lesson was a disaster and that's being immensely kind.

Shane's father had found a learn-to-play program at the local community center—eight weeks, basic skills, equipment provided.

Shane arrived with new skates and a determination that bordered on obsessive.

The ice was different from the canal and even the small rink Ilya and he would frequent.

Large yet more enclosed, loud with the scrape of blades and the crack of pucks against boards. Children his age skated past him, confident and fast, their sticks handling pucks with casual ease.

Shane could barely stand.

Skating forward was one thing.

Skating backward, turning, stopping—he had learned these on the canal, had practiced until his ankles ached and his mother made him take breaks.

But skating with a stick was entirely new.

His hands didn't know where to go. His eyes couldn't track the puck and the ice and the other players simultaneously. His brain, usually so good at processing rules and systems, was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of sensory input.

He fell. He got up. He fell again.

He was, objectively, terrible.

But he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

Shane refused.

Because across the rink, watching from the bleachers with his mother, Ilya was sitting very still, his gaze fixed on Shane's awkward, stumbling progress.

Shane had not asked Ilya to come.

He had not told anyone about the hockey lessons, had simply announced one Saturday that he was going to the community center and would be back by noon.

But Ilya had found out—Yuna had mentioned it to Irina, probably—and now he was here, watching Shane fall and rise and fall again.

Shane's cheeks burned.

His knees ached.

His lungs were on fire.

He did not want Ilya to see him like this. Incompetent. Awkward. A beginner, flailing on ice that other children navigated with ease.

But Ilya was watching.

Ilya was always watching, his gaze steady and patient.

And Ilya was not laughing.

So Shane got up again. He gripped his stick. He pushed forward, wobbling, nearly falling, somehow staying upright.

 

---

******

After the lesson, Ilya met him at the boards.

"You did good," Ilya said.

"I fell a million times."

"A million is less than how many times I fell when I first started." Ilya's mouth twitched. "You beat me."

Shane stared at him. "Are you—are you trying to make me feel better?"

"Of course. I don't want my friend to feel bad. Falling is falling. Getting up is getting up." Ilya shrugged. "You always get up."

Shane felt something crack open in his chest. Not painfully—more like a window, letting in light.

"I want to be good," he said. "Good enough to play on a team. With you."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment.

His face did that complicated thing—surprise, then something deeper, something that made his eyes brighten before he looked away.

"You are learning hockey," he said slowly. "For me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The question was simple.

The answer was not.

Shane thought about all the reasons.

The Ferris wheel and the whale skeletons.

The beach and the canal.

The patient, steady presence beside him on the playground, changing the gravity with nothing more than proximity.

He thought about Ilya's face in the glow of the laptop, lit by longing and loss. He thought about the quiet, aching yes when Shane asked if he missed it.

"Because you're my friend. The first friend I ever had," Shane said. "And I want to be part of the things you love. I'm going to learn hockey so we can play together."

Ilya was very still.

His mask was cracking, that raw vulnerability showing through.

"Hockey is not—" He stopped. Started again. "You do not have to play hockey. To be my friend."

"I know." Shane paused. "But I want to because I know how much it matters to you."

Another silence. Longer. Heavier.

Then Ilya nodded. "Okay," he said. "Then I help you."

"You don't have to—"

"I know." Ilya's voice was firm. "But I also want to."

Shane looked at him. Ilya's face was serious, his gaze steady. He was not offering pity or obligation. He was offering exactly what Shane had offered him, months ago, across a plate of scattered rice.

I can teach you.

I want to.

"Okay," Shane said. "Together."

"Da." Ilya nodded. "Together."

 

---

******

The hockey lessons became a second ritual.

Tuesdays and Thursdays were for dinner and chopsticks.

Saturdays and Sundays were for skating and hockey.

Ilya taught Shane how to hold his stick, how to cradle the puck, how to turn and stop and accelerate.

"Grip is important," Ilya said, adjusting Shane's hands on the shaft. "Top hand control important. Bottom hand power important. You hold too tight—like chopsticks at beginning. Stop."

Shane looked at his hands and smiled small.

He was, indeed, gripping the stick like he was trying to strangle it.

"Relax," Ilya said. "You trust the stick. Stick is friend, not enemy."

"Like chopsticks."

"Da." Ilya nodded. "Same rule. You boss, not stick boss."

Shane loosened his grip. The stick felt different—lighter, more responsive. He pushed a puck forward. It wobbled, but it moved.

"Good," Ilya said. "Now again."

Shane tried again. The puck moved straighter.

"Again."

Again. Again. Again.

Shane practiced until his arms ached and his mother called him home for dinner. Ilya practiced with him, patient and steady, offering quiet corrections and occasional encouragement.

"You are like...gubka," Ilya said one Saturday. "Sponge. You soak everything."

"Is that bad?"

"No." Ilya paused. "Is good. Is how you get better."

Shane filed this away.

Ilya thinks I am like a sponge.

Ilya thinks this is good.

He practiced harder.

 

---

******

 

By December, Shane could skate backward.

By January, he could receive a pass without losing control of the puck.

By February, he could keep up with the other children in the learn-to-play program—not leading, not excelling, but no longer falling seventeen times per session.

He was not good.

Not yet.

But he was getting better.

And every Saturday, Ilya was there.

Watching from the bleachers, calling encouragement, offering quiet corrections. His face, when Shane glanced up, was always the same: patient, steady, utterly convinced of Shane's capability.

He believes I can do this, Shane thought. He believes I can be good enough.

I will not let him down.

 

---

******

The chopstick lessons continued alongside the hockey lessons.

By January, Ilya could eat an entire bowl of ramen without dropping a single noodle. By February, he could pick up individual grains of rice. His grip had loosened, his control improved, his confidence grown.

"Chopsticks are like hockey stick," Ilya said one Tuesday, demonstrating with his chopsticks. "Top finger guide. Bottom finger support. You hold too tight, you lose control."

Shane looked at his own chopsticks.

He was, he realized, holding them with the same death grip he'd initially used on his hockey stick.

"Relax," Ilya said. "Trust the stick. Stick not enemy!"

Shane loosened his grip, realizing by mastering one tool, he was being clumsy in another.

His chopsticks felt different—lighter, more responsive. He picked up a piece of salmon without incident.

"Good," Ilya said. "Now again."

Shane tried again. Success. Laughing at the tables turning on him where Ilya was teaching him about chopsticks.

"Again."

Again. Again. Again.

Shane filed this away.

Ilya teaches hockey like he teaches chopsticks.

Patient. Steady. Same rules.

Control, not force.

Trust the tool.

 

---

****** 

The hockey revelation happened in early November, but the chopstick lessons continued through it and beyond.

The hockey practices started in January, but the Tuesday and Thursday dinners never stopped.

And through it all, Shane watched Ilya.

He watched Ilya on the ice, his blades cutting smooth, confident arcs.

He watched Ilya handle the puck, his stick an extension of his body, his movements fluid and instinctive.

He watched Ilya's face when he talked about hockey—the way it softened, the way his guard came down, the way his accent thickened with comfort and joy.

He loves this, Shane thought. This is where he belongs.

I want to belong there too.

With him there too.

 

---

******

The tryouts were in February.

Shane had not planned to try out. He had only been playing for four months. Barley. He was still clumsy, still inconsistent, still a beginner in almost every meaningful sense.

But Ilya was trying out.

And Irina, after months of quiet healing, had finally said yes.

"She is ready," Ilya said. His voice was carefully controlled, but his eyes were bright. "Mama say I can play. She say she is ready."

Shane looked at him.

At the joy barely contained beneath that careful surface.

At the longing, finally given permission.

"Then you should try out," Shane said.

"You also try out."

"I'm not—" Shane stopped. Started again. "I've only been playing for four months. I'm not good enough."

Ilya tilted his head. "You think I care if you are good enough?"

Shane blinked.

"You are my friend," Ilya said. "I want to play hockey with my friend. I do not care if you are best. I care if you are there."

The words landed like stones in still water.

Ripples spread outward, touching everything.

Shane thought about all the reasons he had started hockey.

The longing on Ilya's face.

The quiet ache in his voice when he said I miss it.

The desire to be part of something Ilya loved.

He had never considered that Ilya might simply want him there. Not as a skilled player, not as an equal, not as someone who had earned the right to share the ice.

Just as Shane. His friend. Present.

"Okay," Shane said. "I'll try out."

Ilya nodded. "Good."

"I'm probably going to fail."

"Probably." Ilya's mouth twitched. "Then you try again. This is how it works."

Shane felt a smile tug at his own lips. "Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

 

---

******

Shane did not make the team.

This was not a surprise.

He had only been playing for five months.

The other children trying out had years of experience, years of practice, years of muscle memory that Shane was still desperately trying to build.

He was slow, inconsistent, and his shot had approximately the velocity of a dying balloon.

He did not make the team.

But Ilya did!!

Shane watched from the bleachers as the list went up.

Ilya's name was there, third from the top, printed in neat block letters.

Ilya stood very still, staring at the paper, his face carefully controlled.

Then he turned. His gaze found Shane in the bleachers. His mask cracked, just slightly.

He had made the team.

Shane felt something swell in his chest.

It was not jealousy—he had no room for jealousy, had never wanted to take anything from Ilya.

It was something else.

Something warmer.

He made it, Shane thought. He's going to play again. He's going to be happy.

That night, Shane opened his notebook and added a new entry.

Ilya: made the team. Forward, left wing, just like before. His smile when he saw his name, small, quick, quickly hidden. But I saw it.

I want to be good enough to play with him next year.

I will be good enough next year.

 

---

*******

Shane practiced all summer.

Not the learn-to-play program—that had ended with spring. But the indoor ice rinks stayed open, and Shane went every day, sometimes with Ilya, sometimes alone.

He drilled his skating, his stickhandling, his shot.

He watched games and analyzed plays and memorized strategies.

His parents watched him with a mixture of pride and concern.

"Shane," his mother said one evening, "you don't have to practice so much. You can take a break."

"I don't want a break."

"But it's summer. You should be having fun."

"This is fun." Shane paused, sincerely looking confused. "Getting better is fun."

Yuna looked at him for a long, searching moment.

Then she sighed—not frustrated, just resigned.

"Of course you think that," she said. "Of course it is."

Shane did not understand why this was a problem. Getting better was fun. Watching his shot improve, his speed increase, his confidence grow—these were measurable, quantifiable achievements.

They were facts.

And facts were always, always fun.

But he also understood, distantly, that this was not how most people experienced sports. Most people played for joy, for camaraderie, for the simple pleasure of movement. They did not obsessively drill the same skills for hours, tracking their progress in detailed notebooks.

But most people were not Shane.

But Ilya did not seem to mind and actually thrived with him learning.

Ilya practiced with him, patient and steady, offering quiet corrections and occasional encouragement.

He did not comment on Shane's intensity or his obsessive cataloging of improvement metrics.

He simply...stayed.

He always stays, Shane thought. He always sits beside me.

I want to be good enough to sit beside him.

 

---

******

The second tryouts were in November.

Shane had been playing for over a year now. He had practiced nearly every day. He had improved—measurably, quantifiably, demonstrably.

His skating was smooth, his stickhandling competent, his shot no longer embarrassing.

He was not the best.

He knew this.

There were children his age who had been playing since they could walk, whose skills were honed by years of practice and natural talent.

Shane would never catch up to them, not completely.

But he didn't need to be the best.

He just needed to be good enough.

Ilya's name was already on the list.

He had played forward all season, had scored goals and made assists and become an integral part of the team. His face, when he talked about hockey, no longer held that quiet ache of longing.

It held something else—joy, maybe.

Or simply peace.

"You will make it," Ilya said. "This year."

"You don't know that."

"I know." Ilya's voice was firm, his Russian accent still heavy but less pronounced. "You practice. You improve. You do not give up." A pause. "You are ready."

Shane wanted to believe him. He wanted it so much it pressed against his ribs like a second heart.

"I hope so," he said.

Ilya tilted his head. "Not hope. Know."

Shane looked at him. At his steady gaze, his patient certainty. At the boy who had taught him to skate and use chopsticks and hold a hockey stick with control, not force.

"Okay," Shane said. "I know."

---

******

Shane made the team.

His name was on the list, eighteenth of twenty, printed in the same neat block letters as all the others.

He stood very still, staring at the paper, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Shane had made the team.

He turned.

Ilya was standing behind him, his face carefully controlled but his eyes bright.

"Told you," Ilya said.

Shane couldn't speak. His throat was too tight, his chest too full. He nodded, once, twice.

Ilya nodded back. Then, slowly, he smiled—that rare, real smile, unguarded and bright.

"We play together," he said. "On team. Like you wanted."

Shane found his voice. "Yes."

"Good." Ilya's smile widened. "Is good plan."

Shane felt his own face crack into something that might have been a smile. "You made the plan."

"Da. I make good plans."

"Yes," Shane said. "You do."

 

---

******

The first game was in March.

Shane was nervous.

Not the quiet, controlled anxiety he usually carried—this was something else, something louder. His stomach churned. His palms sweated. His mind cycled through every possible failure scenario.

But then he stepped onto the ice, and Ilya was beside him.

Not close enough to touch.

Just close.

Close enough to share the ice, to share the game, to share the quiet, steady rhythm of their blades cutting parallel arcs.

The puck dropped. The game began.

Shane was not the best player on the team line.

He was not even the best player on his entire team.

He was still slower than the children who had been playing since they could walk, still less skilled than the natural athletes who seemed to glide without effort.

But he was there. On the ice. On a team.

Beside Ilya.

And when Ilya scored his first goal of the season—a wrist shot from the slot, clean and precise—Shane was the first one to reach him.

The first one to grab his arm, to shout something incoherent, to share in the sudden, explosive joy of achievement.

Ilya's face was flushed, his breath coming fast, his eyes bright.

He was grinning—actually grinning, not hiding it, not controlling it.

"Did you see?" he said. "Did you see?"

"Yes," Shane said. "I saw."

"Good pass from Marcus. I just—I shoot, and—" Ilya couldn't find the words. His accent was very thick, his sentences collapsing, his guard completely down.

Shane didn't need words. He understood.

"Good goal," he said. "Really good."

Ilya nodded, still grinning. "Da. Good goal."

They skated back to their positions. The game continued. The season continued.

But Shane would remember that moment—Ilya's face, his joy, his unguarded delight—for a very long time.

 

---

******

That night, Shane sat at his window, looking out at the street.

Summer was coming.

The snow had melted, the canal had closed, the outdoor rinks had emptied. But hockey season would return in the fall, and Shane would be ready.

He would practice all summer, drill his skills, improve his weaknesses.

He would be better next year.

He would be good enough.

Across the street, Ilya's light was on.

His silhouette appeared at the window, familiar now in a way that made Shane's chest feel warm.

Ilya raised his hand.

Shane raised his.

Two boys.

Two windows.

One constellation, still forming.

Shane thought about chopsticks and hockey sticks, about grip and control and trust.

He thought about Ilya's patient hands, guiding his fingers into the correct position, saying same rule, different tool.

He thought about Ilya's face in the glow of the laptop, lit by longing and loss—and his face on the ice tonight, lit by joy and triumph.

I want to be like him, Shane thought. I want to be patient and steady and brave. I want to teach people the way he teaches me. I want to believe in people the way he believes in me.

I want to be worthy of his friendship.

He didn't know if he was.

Not yet.

But he was trying.

Every day, every practice, every shared meal and quiet moment.

He was learning and improving and becoming someone who could stand beside Ilya and call himself worthy.

It would take time. It would take effort. It would take a thousand more falls and a thousand more rises.

But Shane was patient.

Shane was determined. Shane did not give up.

And across the street, a steady light burned in the window, keeping watch over the space between them.

It was enough.

It was everything.

Chapter 6: let's get married, Ilya.

Chapter Summary

Shane has a master plan. It includes a white picket fence with a dog and a pond and marrying his best friend.

Chapter Notes

Genuinely think I'm going to break up this story in part one and part two. I also never knew where I was going with it but really enjoyed the delightful change of writing yearning primarily from young people's pov. It's been great. Hope you enjoying this story 💗💗💗

Shane's POV. Age; 12 years old. 

Ottawa. 2003.

The years folded into each other like the pages of a well-loved book.

Shane noticed the changes in increments so small he barely registered them until suddenly, one day, he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the face staring back.

He was taller. His limbs had stretched in that awkward pre-adolescent way, all elbows and knees and joints that didn't quite know where they belonged. His black hair was still silky straight with a bit of a curl at the ends, still fell into his eyes, but his jaw had sharpened, his shoulders had broadened a bit, and when he smiled—which happened more often now—he caught glimpses of the person he was becoming.

The person Ilya had helped him become.

Hockey had become the rhythm of their lives.

Fall and winter were for the team, practices twice a week, games on weekends, the steady grind of improvement that Shane tracked in obsessive detail.

Spring and summer were for outdoor rinks and pickup games and the long, lazy afternoons when they'd bike to the canal just to sit on the benches and watch the water move.

Shane was good now. Really good.

It had happened gradually, the way competence always happened—through repetition, through failure, through the stubborn refusal to accept anything less than improvement.

He had started as the worst player on his novice team, the one who fell seventeen times per practice, the one whose shot was a embarrassment.

But he had practiced.

He had drilled.

He had listened to every piece of advice Ilya offered and translated it into action, as well as doing extra training with their coaches.

By twelve, he was middle of the pack.

By thirteen, he was top six.

Now, at almost at fourteen, he was one of the best forwards on his bantam team.

But Ilya was better.

Ilya had always been better.

Ilya had the kind of natural talent that couldn't be taught—the fluid stride, the soft hands, the almost psychic ability to know where the puck would be before it arrived.

He had been scouted already, twice, by private schools in Toronto and Montreal that wanted him for their hockey programs.

He had said no both times, his face carefully controlled, his voice quiet.

"I stay here," he'd said. "With Mama. With you."

Shane had not known what to do with the feeling that bloomed in his chest.

It was too large, too warm, too something he didn't have words for. He had simply nodded and said, "Okay," and filed the moment away in the notebook where he kept everything about Ilya.

 

---

******

The realization came on a Tuesday in March.

They were at practice, running a drill that required quick passes and faster decisions. Shane received the puck at the half-wall, saw Ilya cutting to the net, and fired a pass that landed perfectly on his tape. Ilya one-timed it top corner, smooth as breathing, and turned to flash Shane a grin.

The grin did something to Shane's insides.

He had seen Ilya smile a thousand times.

He had cataloged every variation—the small, private smile when something amused him; the rare, real smile that transformed his whole face; the quick, hidden smile he tried to suppress when he was embarrassed.

Shane knew Ilya's smiles the way he knew the phases of the moon.

But this one was different.

Or maybe Shane was different.

Because when Ilya's eyes met his across the ice, bright with triumph and shared joy, Shane felt something shift in his chest.

A rearrangement.

A new configuration.

Wow, he thought. Ilya is—

He didn't finish the thought.

Couldn't.

The word that wanted to attach itself—cute, handsome, beautiful—felt too large, too dangerous, too likely to shatter something fragile.

Shane looked away.

He skated to the back of the line.

He did not think about it.

But the thought lingered, persistent as a splinter, working its way deeper with every passing day.

 

---

******

The official confirmation came two weeks later.

They were at Shane's house, homework spread across the kitchen table, the remains of dinner pushed to one side.

Ilya was working on a history essay, his brow furrowed, his pen moving slowly as he composed sentences in his careful, accented English.

His hair was longer now, the honeyed-gold curls falling past his ears, and he had a habit of tucking one side behind his ear when he was thinking.

He tucked it now.

The movement was unconscious, unselfconscious, utterly Ilya.

Shane stared at his math worksheet.

The numbers blurred before he lifted them again to look at Ilya.

"Shane." Ilya's voice cut through the dreamy fog. "You are staring."

Shane blinked. "What?"

"You are staring at me. For five minutes." Ilya's mouth twitched. "Is something on my face?"

Shane's cheeks burned. He had not realized he had been staring. 

He looked back down at his worksheet, at the meaningless numbers swimming on the page. "Sorry. I was thinking."

"About what?"

About how cute you are. About how I can't stop noticing. About how everything feels different now and I don't know what to do with it.

"Math," Shane said awkwardly.

Ilya raised an eyebrow.

He didn't believe Shane—Shane could see it in his face, the slight tilt of his head, the knowing glint in his eyes.

But he didn't push.

He never pushed.

"Okay," Ilya said. "Sure. Math." He returned to his essay.

Shane stared at his worksheet.

His heart was very loud in his ears.

---

******

The question formed on a Tuesday in late April, two weeks before Shane's fourteenth birthday.

He had been thinking about it for days. Weeks, maybe. The thought had crept up on him slowly, like dawn creeping over the horizon, until suddenly the light was everywhere and he couldn't remember what darkness looked like.

I want to be with Ilya.

Always.

Not just as friends.

Something else.

Is that allowed?

Shane didn't know.

He had never thought about it before.

His parents were a man and a woman.

His friends' parents were men and women.

The world, as far as he could tell, was organized around the assumption that love happened between opposite genders.

Books, movies, conversations overheard at school—they all pointed in the same direction.

Boy meets girl.

Boy loves girl.

Boy marries girl.

But Shane had never cared much about assumptions.

He cared about facts.

And the fact was, he loved Ilya.

Loved him in a way that felt different from friendship, larger than friendship, more fundamental.

More vital to his existence.

It was like the difference between a planet and a sun—same category of object, but entirely different orders of magnitude.

He needed to know if that was possible.

 

---

******

Shane found his mother in the garden.

It was a Saturday afternoon in late April, warm enough for planting, and Yuna was on her knees in the dirt, transferring seedlings from trays to the freshly turned soil. She looked up when Shane approached, her face softening into the smile she reserved just for him.

"My musuko," she said. "Come to help?"

Shane sat on the grass beside her. He did not help. He sat very still, his hands wrapped around his knees, and tried to find the words.

So, his mother waited. She was good at waiting. She had learned, over the years, that Shane would speak when he was ready. She never pushed, never prodded, never filled his silences with unnecessary noise.

She simply...waited.

The garden was coming alive around them. Tulips were pushing through the soil, their green shoots reaching for the sun. The lilac bush near the fence was heavy with buds, soon to bloom. A robin hopped across the lawn, cocking its head as if listening for worms.

"Mom," Shane said finally. "Can boys get married?"

Her hands stilled.

She sat back on her heels, her gaze meeting his with that steady, patient attention she brought to everything important. A smudge of dirt crossed her cheek, and a strand of hair had escaped her ponytail, but her eyes were completely focused on him.

"Well...Boys can marry boys, yes," she said. "In Canada, it's legal. Has been for a long time." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Some places in the world, it's still not allowed. But here, yes. Two people who love each other can get married, no matter their gender."

Shane absorbed this. A fact. A simple, factual answer.

He felt something loosen in his chest—a tension he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying.

"Can they have children if they wanted?" he asked.

His mother was quiet for a moment.

She set down her trowel and turned to face him fully, giving him her complete attention.

"Yes and no. They can't have biological children together, no," she said. "Not the way a man and woman can. But they can adopt. There are many children in the world who need loving homes and loving parents." She paused. "Or they can use a surrogate."

Shane frowned. "What's a surrogate?"

"A surrogate is a someone who carries a baby for someone else." Yuna chose her words carefully, the way she always did when explaining something important. "Sometimes couples who can't have babies on their own will ask a surrogate to help. The baby grows inside her, but it's still their baby. Their family. The surrogate is like...a helper. A very special helper who gives the gift of carrying a child."

Shane considered this.

It was more complicated than adoption, but it made sense.

Another path to the same destination.

"Does the baby have her DNA?" he asked.

"Sometimes. It depends on the situation. Sometimes the couple provides the egg and sperm, and the surrogate just carries the baby. Sometimes one parent provides the sperm and an egg donor provides the egg, and the surrogate carries it. There are many ways to build a family, sweetheart."

Shane nodded slowly.

He filed this away.

Adoption. Surrogate. Options.

Many ways to build a family.

"Okay," he said. "So there are options."

"Yes. There are options."

Shane nodded again.

He was quiet for a moment, processing. The robin had found its worm and was flying away, a brown wriggle dangling from its beak. The lilac buds seemed closer to blooming than they had been minutes ago. Or maybe that was just his imagination.

His mother watched him for a moment. Then, gently: "Why do you ask, hm?"

Shane looked at his hands.

At the stubborn dirt under his fingernails from helping his father in the garage this morning.

At the calluses from hours of hockey practice, ridges of hardened skin that had formed over months and years of gripping his stick.

At the small scar on his thumb from a knife accident when he was seven, helping his grandmother cut vegetables in her Vancouver kitchen.

He thought about Ilya's hands.

The way they held a hockey stick—top hand loose, bottom hand firm, control not force. The way they tucked wheat-gold curls behind his ear when he was thinking. The way they felt when they accidentally brushed against Shane's in the car, on the bench, in the hallway at school.

Warm. Steady. Familiar.

"I'm going to marry Ilya," Shane said. "When we grow up, of course."

Yuna's eyebrows rose.

Not in shock—she was rarely shocked by anything Shane said—but in genuine surprise.

"Oh?" she said.

"I didn't know if it was possible before," Shane explained. "I've been thinking about it for a while, but I wasn't sure if it was something that could actually happen. I didn't want to tell him something that wasn't true because that is not nice." He paused. "But now I know it is possible. So I'm going to marry him."

She was quiet for a long moment.

Her face was doing something complicated—surprise, yes, but also warmth, and something that looked suspiciously like tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"Shane," she said softly. "That's—" She stopped. Pressed her hand to her mouth.

"Are you crying?"

"Yes." She laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "Yes, I'm crying. Happy crying. You want to marry Ilya."

"Yes."

"And you've decided this?"

Shane considered the question.

It wasn't really a question—he had decided months ago, maybe years ago, maybe from the very first moment Ilya had extended his hand across the ice and said I'll catch you.

The realization had just taken time to catch up with the decision.

Feelings, he had learned, often worked that way.

They existed long before you had words for them.

"Yes," he said. "I've decided."

Yuna nodded.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

It made her look younger somehow, softer.

"Have you talked to Ilya about this?" she asked.

Shane blinked. "No. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I didn't know if it was possible." Shane paused. "I don't like telling people things that might not be true. It feels...very wrong."

Her smile was soft, almost wondering. "That's very thoughtful of you, Shane."

"I don't think it's thoughtful. It's just logical."

"Many people wouldn't see it that way." She paused. "So now that you know it's possible, you're going to tell him?"

"Yes. Today, probably. Or tomorrow. Whenever I see him next."

"And you think he'll say yes?"

Shane looked at her, brows furrowed. 

The question confused him. It had never occurred to him that Ilya might say no. The possibility simply didn't exist in his mental framework.

Ilya was his best friend.

They did everything together.

They finished each other's sentences and sat in comfortable silence and understood each other in ways no one else did.

They had built something together over several years—a friendship, a partnership, a bond that went deeper than words.

Of course they would get married.

It made perfect sense.

It was the logical next step.

"He'll say yes," Shane said. It wasn't a hope. It wasn't a wish. It was a statement of fact, as incontrovertible as the laws of physics, as certain as the orbit of planets around the sun.

His mother's eyebrows rose higher. "You sound very sure."

"He's my best friend." Shane ticked off points on his fingers, the way he always did when explaining something important. "We're going to go pro and play in the NHL together. We've already planned it. We'll be on the same line, the best line in the league. If Ilya wants to be on the same team, of course. Then we'll get a house with a pond in the backyard so we can practice at home. We'll adopt kids—two, maybe three—and teach them hockey and chopsticks and how to fall and get up." He paused. "It makes sense. It all fits together."

Yuna stared at him for a long moment. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were very bright.

"Shane," she said slowly. "Has it occurred to you that Ilya might have his own opinion about this?"

Shane considered this.

It was a reasonable point. People did have their own opinions. He knew this. He respected this. He spent a significant portion of his mental energy trying to understand other people's opinions, their perspectives, their ways of seeing the world.

But this was Ilya. His Ilya.

Ilya, who had stood beside him on playgrounds when bullies circled.

Ilya, who had sat with him on frozen canals and counted his falls then treated him to his favourite hot chocolate.

Ilya, who had taught him to skate and use chopsticks and hold a hockey stick with control, not force.

Ilya, who had never once said no to anything Shane had asked.

Not that Shane asked for much. He was careful about that.

He knew the weight of requests, the burden of expectation.

He had learned, early in life, that asking things of people often led to disappointment—either they said no, or they said yes and resented it later.

So he asked for very little.

He made himself small, undemanding, easy to be around.

But when he did ask—can you teach me to skate? can you help me with hockey? can you stay?—Ilya always said yes. Always.

Without hesitation.

Without resentment.

Without ever once making Shane feel like a burden.

"He'll say yes," Shane repeated. "He's never said no to me."

Yuna's expression shifted.

Something flickered in her eyes—amusement, maybe, or recognition. Shane wasn't sure.

A small smile played at the corners of her mouth.

"Shane," she said slowly, "are you saying you have Ilya wrapped around your pinkie?"

Shane frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means—" Yuna paused, searching for words. She picked up her trowel and turned it over in her hands, considering. "It means he would do anything for you. That you have influence over him. That he cares about what you want, maybe more than he cares about what anyone else wants."

"Oh." Shane considered this.

He thought about Ilya's face when he asked for things—the way Ilya's attention sharpened, the way he leaned in slightly, the way he always said da or yes or okay with that quiet certainty.

He thought about the times Ilya had done things without being asked—brought him hot chocolate, saved him a seat, stood between him and danger.

"I don't ask him for much," Shane said.

"I know, I know." Yuna's voice was soft. "That's probably why he'd do anything you asked."

Shane absorbed this.

It was a new piece of information, a new data point in his ever-growing file about Ilya.

He filed it away carefully.

"Oh," he said again.

Yuna shook her head, still smiling. "Go on. Go find your Ilya. Tell him your plan."

Shane stood. He brushed grass from his knees. "You're not going to explain what 'wrapped around your pinkie means?"

"Later." Yuna waved him off, returning to her seedlings. "Shoo. Go!"

Shane went.

---

******

He didn't tell Ilya that day.

Or the next day. Or the day after that.

It wasn't that he was nervous—Shane didn't experience nervousness the way other people did.

He experienced a kind of careful calculation, a weighing of variables, a determination of the optimal moment. And the optimal moment, he decided, was not now.

There were tournaments coming.

Very important ones.

The local qualifiers for the provincial championships were in two weeks.

Then, if they won—and they would win, Shane was certain of this—the provincials themselves were in May.

And if they won those, which they might not, but they could, then nationals were in June.

The schedule was brutal.

Games every weekend.

Practices twice during the week, sometimes three times.

Travel to cities Shane had only seen on maps—Sudbury, London, Windsor.

Bus rides that lasted hours, hotel rooms shared with teammates, the strange, electric tension of competition that seemed to hang in the air like static electricity.

Ilya was focused. Intense.

His gaze had sharpened over the past weeks, his movements more deliberate, his silences deeper. He was preparing, the way he always prepared for something important. His body was coiled, ready, waiting for the moment when he could unleash all that stored energy on the ice.

Shane understood.

Hockey was Ilya's joy, his release, the thing that made him most fully himself.

When Ilya was on the ice, his guard came down completely.

His face relaxed.

His movements became fluid, instinctive, beautiful.

He was, Shane thought, the most alive version of himself when he had a stick in his hands and a puck on his blade.

Shane would not disrupt that with a conversation that could wait.

So he waited because he was a good future husband who had patience.

 

---

******

The attack happened at nationals.

It was the quarterfinal game against a team from Quebec.

They were good—really good, the kind of team that had been playing together for years, that had systems and structures and discipline. The game was physical, chippy, the kind where refs swallowed their whistles and let the dirty players off the hook.

Shane was used to this.

He had learned, over years of hockey, to keep his head up, to avoid the dangerous areas, to protect himself without losing focus. He knew which players were dirty, which ones would take runs at him, which ones to avoid along the boards.

He didn't see the hit coming.

A defenceman—bigger than Shane in size, older, meaner—caught him along the boards.

It was a clean hit, technically, shoulder to chest, the kind that happens a hundred times a game. But the player's stick came up afterward, catching Shane in the face.

Not hard enough to injure, but hard enough to sting.

Hard enough to make a point.

Shane shook it off. He skated to the bench for a break when the coach pulled him off the ice.

He didn't complain.

Complaining never helped.

The next shift, the same player lined him up again.

This time the hit was late, after Shane had released the puck.

This time the stick came up higher, catching Shane across the mouth.

He tasted blood.

The ref saw it. Whistle. Penalty. Two minutes for high-sticking.

Shane skated back to the bench, wiping his lip with the back of his glove. It wasn't serious. Just a cut. A split in the soft tissue of his lower lip, the kind that bled a lot but healed fast. He'd had worse in practice, catching an errant stick during drills.

But as he sat on the bench, taking a break, waiting for the opportunity to join the game again, he heard the player skate past on his way to the penalty box.

Heard the muttered words, intended for him alone.

"Trop jolie pour jouer au hockey."

Shane understood French. It was his third language.

Too pretty to play hockey.

He didn't react.

He was used to taunts.

He had spent his childhood being called freak and space-case and worse. Words were just words. They couldn't hurt him.

The player lingered. Skated past again, slower this time. Leaned in close to the end of the bench Shane was positioned, his voice low and vicious.

"Tu serais plus joli à genoux."

The words landed like ice water down Shane's spine.

You'd look prettier on your knees.

Shane's hands curled into fists in his lap. His face, carefully controlled, did not change. He had learned long ago not to react, not to give them the satisfaction.

But something cold and sharp lodged itself in his chest, right where his heart was supposed to be.

He said nothing.

He stared straight ahead at the ice, at the power play, at the game continuing without him.

But someone else heard. 

Ilya.

Shane didn't see what happened next.

He was facing the ice, watching the play, calculating angles and probabilities. His team was up a man. This was an opportunity. He needed to be ready when his penalty ended.

But he heard the crowd react.

A collective gasp.

Then shouts.

Then the piercing blast of a referee's whistle—not the normal penalty whistle, but something sharper, more urgent.

Then more whistles.

Then the thud of bodies hitting the ice.

Shane turned.

Ilya was on top of the player. The bigger player. The one who had hit Shane. The one who had spat those disgusting words at him.

And Ilya was hitting him.

Not hockey hitting.

Not fighting-with-your-gloves-on, wrestling-for-position hitting.

This was something else.

Something primal. Something terrifying.

Ilya's fists moved in quick, efficient strokes. His face was blank. Not angry. Not emotional. Just...empty. Like someone had flipped a switch and turned off everything that made him human.

The player beneath him was bigger, older, stronger. It didn't matter. Ilya kept hitting. Kept swinging. Kept going long after the player had stopped defending himself, long after the blood started flowing, long after the refs and coaches descended.

It took three coaches and both refs to pull him off. Even then, he struggled. Even then, his gaze stayed fixed on the player beneath him, his body straining toward its target.

Shane watched from where he sat, frozen. The distance between them seemed to separate him from reality, turning everything into a distant, unreal tableau. He had never seen Ilya like this. He had seen Ilya sad, Ilya guarded, Ilya quietly furious at injustice. He had seen Ilya cry on the canal, had sat beside him while he fell apart and put himself back together.

But he had never seen this.

The complete dissolution of control.

The raw, protective violence that had erupted without warning, without hesitation, without any apparent thought for the consequences.

Ilya was ejected. Game misconduct. He would miss the rest of the game.

As they escorted him off the ice, coaches on either side, his head bowed, his body still trembling with leftover adrenaline, his gaze found Shane.

The blankness cleared, just for a moment.

His eyes were bright, his jaw tight, but beneath it all was something else.

Something that looked almost like apology.

Like regret.

Like I'm sorry, I couldn't help it, I couldn't let him say that—

Shane shook his head. Small movement. Don't apologize. Don't you dare apologize.

Ilya nodded. He was gone.

 

---

******

They barely won the quarterfinal.

Without Ilya, the team was unbalanced. He was their engine, their heartbeat, the player who made everything possible. Without him, the lines didn't work, the systems broke down, the confidence wavered.

So Shane had to step up on behalf of his best friend and their team.

He played the best game of his life.

Two goals, one assist on his own.

He was everywhere—forechecking, backchecking, winning battles along the boards, creating chances out of nothing. His body screamed with exhaustion, but he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

But every time he closed his eyes, he heard the words.

Tu serais plus joli à genoux.

You'd look prettier on your knees.

The cold thing in his chest grew larger. Harder. He pushed it down. He kept playing.

It was enough fuel to keep him going. Shane dominated out of sheer spite.

5-4. 

In the locker room, no one knew what to say to Shane. The coaches had words—proud of you, great season, learn from this—but they were hollow, ritual.

The only thing anyone was thinking about was Ilya and failing their teammate Shane by not supporting him through the game.

Shane didn't shower. Didn't change entirely, just shed the bulky outerwear. He pulled on his jacket over his sweaty practice jersey and walked out of the arena. He grabbed Ilya's bags too.

He found him outside, sitting on a bench near the parking lot.

His head was bowed, his curls hiding his face.

His hands hung between his knees, still taped, still ready. The knuckles were swollen, bruised, split open in places. He was so still he might have been a statue, carved from stone and left to weather in the cold.

Shane sat beside him.

They were quiet for a long time. The parking lot was mostly empty now, just a few cars and the team bus waiting to take them back to the hotel. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It should have been beautiful. It felt like an insult.

"I'm sorry," Ilya finally said. "You had to play by yourself." His emotions causing his Russian accent to make his words unintelligible.

His voice was rough, scraped raw.

Not crying, Ilya rarely cried anymore, but close.

The kind of voice that came from a throat tight with unshed tears.

"I almost cost us the game," he said. "I lost control. I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know what he said. About you. But I did not like that look at your face. I could not—" Another stop. "I could not let it go." He paused. "And honestly, I would do it again because fuck him."

Shane thought about the player's words. Too pretty to play hockey. He hadn't cared. It was just noise, just the random cruelty of strangers.

But the other words. The ones on his knees.

Those had landed differently. Those had lodged themselves somewhere deep.

"He said I was too pretty to play hockey and I'd look prettier on my knees," Shane said quietly.

Ilya went very still.

The air around them seemed to freeze. Ilya's head lifted slowly, his gaze finding Shane's. His eyes were no longer apologetic.

They were something else entirely.

"What?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"He said—" Shane started.

"I heard you." Ilya's voice was still quiet, but there was something underneath it. Something dangerous. "He said that. To you."

"Yes."

Ilya was quiet for a long, terrible moment. His hands, resting on his knees, curled into fists. The swollen, still bloodied knuckles went white.

"If I had heard that and understood French like you," Ilya said slowly, "I would have killed him. Maybe I'll even kill him right now."

Shane believed him.

"I know," Shane said. "That's why you didn't hear it. You were already outta the game."

Ilya closed his eyes.

His jaw worked.

When he opened them again, they were bright with something that might have been tears, might have been rage, might have been both.

"I should have—" He stopped. Started again. "I should have done more. Should have—"

"No." Shane's voice was firm. "You did enough. You did too much. You got kicked out of nationals. Thank you for protecting me but don't worry. It's okay. I'm okay. You're okay.."

"Shane, I do not care about nationals."

"You should."

"I do not." Ilya turned to face him fully. His gaze was intense, burning. "I care about you. I care that someone said that to you. I care that I was not there to—"

"You were there." Shane cut him off. "You were there. You saw my reaction to him. You reacted. You protected me." He paused. "That's enough."

Ilya stared at him.

His expression was caught somewhere between anguish and gratitude.

"Shane," he said. "My Shane."

"I'm okay."

"You are not." Ilya's voice cracked. "You are sitting here, telling me what he said, and you are not okay. You are just—" He struggled for words. "You are just stating facts. Like always. But inside—" He pressed his hand to Shane's chest, over his heart. "Inside, you are hurt. I can feel it."

Shane blinked.

He hadn't realized that was true.

But as soon as Ilya said it, he knew it was.

The cold thing in his chest—the thing that had lodged there when those words were spoken—it was still there.

Hard. Sharp. Painful.

"Oh," Shane said.

Ilya moved closer.

His hand stayed on Shane's chest, warm and steady.

"I have you," he said. "I am here."

Shane nodded. He couldn't speak. His throat was too tight.

They sat like that for a long time—Ilya's hand on his heart, the silence between them filled with everything they couldn't say.

Finally, Shane took a breath. The cold thing hadn't melted, but it had shifted. Loosened, slightly.

"Ilya," he said. "I need to tell you something, before my parents pick us up."

Ilya waited.

Patient, even now.

Even after everything.

Shane took another breath.

"We are going to get married," he said. "When we are adults."

Ilya blinked.

His face did something complicated—confusion first, then surprise, then something that looked almost like disbelief.

"You are going to marry me?" He repeated.

"Yes."

"Did you ask me?"

"No. I'm telling you." Shane paused. "I asked my mom first. To make sure it was possible. Boys can marry boys in Canada. And we can have kids—adoption or surrogacy. A surrogate is a woman who carries the baby for you. My mom explained it. So it's possible. So I'm telling you."

Ilya stared at him.

His expression was caught somewhere between bewilderment and something else—something warm, something tender, something that made Shane's chest ache.

"You asked your mother," he said slowly. "About marrying me."

"Yes."

"Before telling me."

"I didn't want to tell you something that might not be true." Shane frowned slightly. "That would be irresponsible."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment.

His mouth twitched.

Then twitched again.

Then he laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm and utterly unguarded. It seemed to startle even him, this laugh, as if it had escaped without permission.

"Shane," he said, still laughing. "oh my Shane."

"What?"

"You are—" Ilya shook his head, gasping. "You are the most—" He couldn't find the words. His accent was very thick, his sentences collapsing, his guard completely down. "You just—you tell me. Like fact. Like 'the sun rises, I marry Ilya.' Like 'water is wet, I marry Ilya.'"

Shane frowned. "It is a fact. Why are you laughing?"

Ilya sobered slightly, but his eyes were still bright with amusement. "Because—Shane—we are thirteen. We have not even—" He stopped, laughing again. "How am I getting married before I even had my first kiss?"

Shane blinked.

The words landed like a physical blow.

First kiss.

He hadn't considered that.

He had mapped out the future in meticulous detail—the NHL, the house with the pond or even well, the children, the wedding before all of it. He had calculated timelines and trajectories and probabilities. He had accounted for every variable he could think of.

He had not accounted for kissing.

Couples like to kiss.

"Oh," Shane said.

Ilya's laughter softened into something gentler.

He was watching Shane with that familiar, patient gaze, but there was something new in it now. Something warmer.

"You did not think of that, did you," Ilya said. It wasn't a question.

"No," Shane admitted sheepishly, blushing beet red. "I didn't."

"But you planned everything else."

"Yes."

"But not kissing."

"No." Shane paused. "I don't know much about kissing. I've read about it. But I don't have the data."

Ilya's mouth twitched again. "Data."

"Personal data. Experiential data." Shane frowned. "It's a gap in my knowledge."

Ilya was quiet for a moment. Then he reached out and took Shane's hand. His grip was warm, familiar, the same grip that had pulled Shane up from the ice a hundred times. The swollen knuckles were rough against Shane's palm.

"We have time," Ilya said. "Years. We are only thirteen."

"Almost fourteen," Shane corrected.

"Almost fourteen." Ilya's thumb traced small circles on Shane's palm. "We can learn about kissing. Together. When we are ready."

Shane considered this.

It was a reasonable plan.

A logical approach.

Shane liked logical approaches the best.

"Okay," he said. "We'll learn together."

Ilya smiled—small, private, just for Shane. "Good."

They sat in silence, hands linked, watching the sun finish its descent in the wall size window by them. The parking lot was empty now, the team bus gone.

Someone had left without them, or maybe they'd been forgotten in the chaos.

It didn't matter.

"Ilya," Shane said after a long moment.

"Mm?"

"My answer is yes. I'll still marry you."

Ilya laughed again—that warm, surprised sound. "I know."

"And we'll still have the house with the pond. And the kids. And the NHL."

"I know."

"And we'll figure out the kissing part. Before then."

"I know." Ilya squeezed his hand. "We will figure it out together."

Shane nodded.

The plan was intact.

The timeline had simply been adjusted to accommodate new variables.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

 

---

******

Three days later, Shane woke up with a mission.

He had been thinking about it constantly—the kissing problem.

The gap in his knowledge.

The variable he had failed to account for.

Ilya deserved a first kiss.

They both did.

And Shane wanted to be the one to give it to him.

Not because of obligation.

Not because of the plan.

But because when he thought about kissing Ilya, his chest did that warm, expanding thing that meant something important.

Also, he wanted to replace the memory of those other words.

The ones about being on his knees.

He wanted something new in his head, something good, something that belonged to him and Ilya and no one else from that day.

Shane got dressed.

He brushed his teeth twice. A third time just because.

He walked across the street to Ilya's house.

It was early—too early for training, too early for anything really.

The sun was just coming up, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.

Shane knocked on the door.

Irina answered, her long curly hair mussed from sleep, a robe wrapped around her. Her face shifted from surprise to warmth when she saw him.

"Shane," she said. "So early. Is everything okay?"

"Yes. I am okay. Everything is okay. Is Ilya awake?"

"You know Ilya is always awake." She stepped aside, gesturing toward the stairs. "Go. He is in room."

Shane climbed the stairs.

He had been in Ilya's room a thousand times, but this felt different.

His heart was loud in his ears.

He knocked.

"Come in, Shane," came Ilya's voice.

Shane opened the door.

Ilya was sitting on his bed, dressed for training, his skates already packed by the door, reading a book. His hair was still damp from the shower, the wheat-gold curls darker than usual. He looked up when Shane entered, surprise flickering across his face.

"Shane? It is early. Did I miss—"

Shane crossed the room in three steps.

He stopped in front of Ilya, close enough to touch.

"I've been thinking," Shane said. "About the kissing problem."

Ilya's eyebrows rose. "there's a kissing problem?"

"Yes. You said we should learn together. When we're ready." Shane paused. "I'm ready."

Ilya stared at him. His expression was caught somewhere between surprise and amusement.

"You are ready." Ilya repeated.

"Yes." Shane paused. "Are you?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment.

Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—that rare, real smile, the one that transformed everything. He placed his book down.

"Yes," he said. "I am ready."

Shane leaned forward.

He had researched this.

He knew the mechanics.

He knew to tilt his head, to close his eyes so he doesn't look weird, to keep it soft and brief.

The kiss lasted maybe two seconds.

Maybe less.

It was awkward—their noses bumped, and Shane's timing was slightly off, and he wasn't entirely sure where to put his hands.

But Ilya's lips were warm. And soft. And when Shane pulled back, Ilya was smiling.

"That was—" Ilya started.

"I know," Shane said. "It wasn't perfect. I need more practice."

Ilya laughed—that warm, surprised sound. "Practice?"

"Yes. We should practice regularly. To improve." Shane paused. "For the wedding. They kiss at the alter."

"The wedding?"

"When we're adults, of course." Shane straightened, looking Ilya directly in the eyes. "Now we've had our first kiss. So now we can get married when we grow up."

Ilya stared at him for a long moment.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were very bright.

Then he laughed again—harder this time, doubling over, his shoulders shaking.

"Shane," he gasped. "Only you. Only you would—" He couldn't finish.

He was laughing too hard.

Shane waited. He was also used to waiting.

When Ilya finally straightened, his eyes were wet with laughter, his face flushed. He looked at Shane with something that might have been wonder.

"You are the strangest person I have ever met," he said in awe.

"I know."

"It is not insult."

"I know."

Ilya reached out and took Shane's hand. He pulled him down onto the bed, until they were sitting side by side, shoulders touching.

"Okay. We will practice," Ilya said. "Regularly. For the wedding."

"Yes."

"And we will still have the house with the pond. And the kids. And the NHL."

"Yes."

"And we will figure it out. Together."

Shane nodded. "Together."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Ilya leaned over and kissed him again—quick, soft, slightly less awkward than the first.

"Practice," Ilya said.

Shane felt that warm, expanding thing in his chest.

The cold thing from the arena—the one that had lodged itself there when those words were spoken—it was still there, maybe. But it was smaller now. Quieter.

"Practice," he agreed with a small smile, before leaning in to also drop a light kiss to Ilya's lips.

 

---

******

That night, Shane sat at his window, looking out at the street.

He was almost fourteen now.

His birthday was next week.

Ilya would turn fourteen in June, just a few weeks after. They had years ahead of them—years of hockey and school and growing into the people they would become. Years of practice and planning and the slow, steady work of building a future together.

The words from the arena still echoed sometimes. In quiet moments, when his mind wandered. But they were getting fainter.

Being replaced by other words—Ilya's laughter, Ilya's yes, Ilya's we will figure it out together.

Across the street, Ilya's light was on. His silhouette appeared at the window—taller now, broader, but still unmistakably Ilya.

Still the boy who had extended his hand across the ice and said I catch you.

Ilya raised his hand.

Shane raised his.

Two hands.

Two windows.

One constellation, fully formed and still growing.

Shane thought about the day—the kiss, the laughter, the quiet certainty of Ilya's hand in his.

He thought about the plan, adjusted now to include this new variable. He thought about all the practice sessions ahead, all the moments of awkwardness and discovery and joy.

He pressed his palm to the cold glass.

Across the street, Ilya pressed his palm to his own window.

Two hands. Two boys. One future, waiting to be lived.

Shane smiled, small and private, and finally went to bed.

The cold thing in his chest was almost gone now.

Replaced by something warmer. Something that felt like home.

It was enough.

It was everything.

Chapter 7: there is nothing like young love.

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane finally exchange rings.

Chapter Notes

Honestly! I'm gonna make this part one so consider it done. I want to speed up to when they are on their teams and aged 19 or even later. I shall see! Need to map out this AU lol

Ilya's POV. Age; 16 years old. 

Ottawa. 2007.

 

Ilya couldn't believe his luck.

That was the only thought running through his head as he pressed Shane against the front door of his house, their mouths slotting together in a kiss that had started gentle and quickly turned into something else.

Something hungrier.

Something that made his stomach flip and his hands tighten on Shane's waist.

Shane's fingers were tangled in Ilya's hair, pulling him closer, and Ilya went willingly, eagerly, because this was his Shane and he would follow Shane anywhere.

They had spent the past year and a half learning how to do this.

How to kiss.

The first time, at almost fourteen, had been awkward—noses bumping, timing off, neither of them quite sure where to put their hands.

But they had practiced, because that's what his Shane did with everything.

He treated kissing like a skill to be mastered, and Ilya had been a more than willing participant in the research.

Now, at freshly turned sixteen, they were perfect at kissing for each other.

Ilya knew exactly how Shane liked to be kissed—slow at first, building gradually, with a hand cupping the back of his neck.

Shane knew exactly how Ilya liked to be kissed—firm and sure, with occasional teasing bites to his lower lip that made him shiver.

They had studied each other the way Shane studied hockey opponents, cataloging every response, every preference, every tiny sound.

The result was moments like this: pressed together against a door, the world reduced to the warmth of Shane's mouth and the solid strength of his body and the quiet, desperate sounds he made when Ilya did something right.

The engraved ring were in Ilya's pocket from when he had picked them up earlier.

Small silver band, simple and perfect, bought with almost two years of their shared saved allowance between them and Shane's birthday money form extended family and the occasional cash gift from Ilya's relatives who didn't quite understand what the money was for.

They had spent the whole afternoon at a local jewelry store downtown Ottawa a few weeks ago, Shane methodically comparing every option, asking questions about metal durability and resizing policies and whether the bands would hold up to years of hockey as well as different typography for engraving the rings. 

Something within their limited budget as they were buying for the other.

The saleswoman had been charmed.

Ilya had been charmed.

He was always charmed by Shane, by the way his brain worked, by the absolute certainty with which he approached everything.

These are for our engagement rings fund, Shane had said when they first started saving.

Not promise rings like their parents suggested, much to Shane's annoyance and Ilya's amusement.

Engagement rings.

Because they were engaged, had been engaged since Shane announced it at thirteen, and Ilya had laughed then but he wasn't laughing now.

Now he was kissing his hysterically underaged fiancé against his mother's front door, and the rings were in his back pocket, and everything felt absolutely perfect.

Shane made a small sound against his mouth—breathless, wanting and Ilya felt it everywhere.

Shane was always too shy to initiate, always a little awkward about asking for what he wanted.

But once they started, once Ilya gave him permission, Shane kissed like he did everything else: with complete focus, with hunger, with the desperate need to be the best.

It was intoxicating.

Being wanted like that.

Being claimed like that.

Ilya had never doubted his place in Shane's life.

There was no room for insecurity with Shane—not when Shane announced their engagement to anyone who would listen, not when he kissed Ilya's cheek between classes in front of the whole school, not when he explained to their teammates with absolute seriousness that yes, they were getting married when they were grown adults, yes, it was already planned, yes, Ilya was the perfect husband for him, yes, this was not a joke.

Shane was awkward about a lot of things.

Social cues. Small talk. Not understand some jokes.

The million tiny courtesies that made up everyday interaction.

But he was never awkward about loving Ilya.

He was vocal, certain, absolutely unwavering with affirming Ilya's place in his life.

Not that it mattered because Ilya had enough personality for them both and his chirping skills growing better the more his English improved.

He was the loud one, the emotional one, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve.

But Shane's quiet, ferocious certainty was its own kind of declaration.

It said: You are mine. I chose you. I will always choose you.

And Ilya? Ilya loved it. Loved him.

Shane's teeth grazed his lower lip, and Ilya's knees actually went weak.

He grabbed Shane's hips harder, pulling him closer, pressing him into the door—

The door opened suddenly.

Ilya stumbled forward, catching himself against Shane before tightening himself and holding him snugly in his warm embrace.

They both turned to find Irina standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

His mother looked amused.

Deeply, thoroughly amused.

"Well," she said. "This is a great welcome home."

Ilya's face went red.

Shane's did not—Shane's face rarely did anything—but his ears were definitely pink.

"Mama," Ilya started. "We were just—"

"I know what you were just..." Irina's smile widened. "Da? I have eyes. I also have door. Come inside. Both of you."

The amused woman stepped back, holding the door open, and Ilya and Shane exchanged a glance before shuffling inside like guilty puppies.

 

---

******

The living room looked different now than it had seven years ago.

When they first moved in, it had been bare walls and unpacked boxes and the hollow echo of a space that wasn't yet a home.

Now it was warm, lived-in, full of Irina's touches—the embroidered pillows from her mother, the family photos on the walls, the collection of hockey trophies on the shelf that Ilya pretended to be embarrassed about but secretly loved.

Plants lined the windowsills, thriving under Irina's careful attention.

The couch had been replaced twice, upgraded as their finances improved.

A small altar in the corner held photos of relatives still in Moscow, candles burning softly beneath them.

It was a home. Their home.

Irina gestured to the couch. "Sit."

They sat.

Ilya's heart was pounding.

Not because he thought he was in trouble—his mother had never been anything but supportive of them—but because the look on her face was the same one she got when she was about to have A Conversation.

The same look she'd worn when she explained why they had to leave Moscow.

The same look she'd worn when she told him it was safe to be who he was.

Irina sat in the armchair across from them. She smoothed her skirt, crossed her legs, placed her hands on her knees. She looked, Ilya thought, like a teacher about to deliver an important lesson.

"Ilya," she said. "Shane. I have question."

Ilya swallowed. "Yes, Mama?"

Irina looked at Shane just then. "Yuna. Your mother. Has she given you sex education?"

The question landed like a bomb in the middle of the living room.

Ilya's brain short-circuited.

His face went from pink to red to something approaching purple.

He opened his mouth to say something—he wasn't sure what, maybe Mama please stop—but Shane was already nodding.

"Yes," Shane said calmly. "Absolutely. She gave me books when I was twelve. And again when I was fourteen. She said knowledge is power and power is control and I should have as much information as possible."

Irina blinked.

Clearly this was not the response she had expected.

"Books...?" she repeated.

"Yes. Multiple. With diagrams." Shane paused. "Also websites. She made me a list. We reviewed them together and discussed any questions I had."

Irina's mouth twitched. "Good. Good mother." She turned to Ilya. "And you? Did I give you sex education?"

Ilya's voice came out strangled. "Mama, we are not—we only—we just kiss—"

"Yes, yes." Irina waved a hand dismissively. "Now. But you are boys. Boys in puberty. Soon you will want more than kissing. This is normal. This is healthy."

"Mama—"

"I am not judging, Ilyusha." Irina's voice was firm. "I am preparing. You are my son. Shane is like son to me. I want you safe." She reached behind the chair and produced a stack of papers, neatly printed, stapled in the corner. She held them out to Ilya.

Ilya stared at them.

The cover page read: Sex Education for Gay Partners: A Guide to Health and Safety.

His brain officially stopped working.

"I printed from internet," Irina explained. "I read it. Very informative. Talks about—" She paused, searching for words. "—protection. Consent. Communication. All important. Also talks about—" She glanced at the ceiling, clearly searching for the right English term. "—things that are different for boys. Anatomically. You understand."

"Mama." Ilya's voice was barely a whisper. "Please."

Irina looked at him.

Her expression softened into something gentler.

"Ilya, malyish." She reached out and touched his knee. "I know this is embarrassing. I know you want to hide under couch. But I am your mother. My job is to keep you safe. Even from—" She smiled. "—even from yourselves."

Shane, who had been watching the exchange with his usual quiet focus, reached out and took the pamphlet from Ilya's frozen hands.

He flipped through it methodically, scanning pages, his expression unchanged.

"This is very comprehensive," he said. "Good information on STI prevention. And the consent section is well-written. I appreciate that it emphasizes ongoing consent rather than assuming one conversation is enough." He looked up at Irina. "Thank you. We'll read it together. When we're ready for that step."

Irina's face lit up. "Good boy. Smart boy." She beamed at him. "This is why I like you."

Shane nodded seriously. "I like you too. You're a good mother. You take great care of Ilya."

Irina's eyes went suspiciously bright.

She blinked rapidly, waving a hand in front of her face.

"Okay," she said, voice thick. "Okay. Enough. I go make tea." She stood quickly and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ilya buried his face in his hands.

 

---

******

The pamphlet sat on the coffee table between them, a silent monument to maternal concern.

Ilya couldn't bring himself to look at it. His face was still burning.

"She means well," Shane said.

"I know." Ilya groaned. "Does not make it less—" He couldn't find the word.

"Mortifying?"

"Yes. That."

Shane was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and took Ilya's hand. His fingers were warm, familiar, tracing small circles on Ilya's palm.

"I'm not ready," Shane said quietly. "For more than kissing. I want you to know that. I'm not—" He paused, searching for words. "I'm not there yet."

Ilya looked at him.

At this boy—this strange, wonderful, impossible boy who had decided at thirteen that they would get married and had never once wavered.

"Okay," Ilya said simply.

Shane blinked. "Okay?"

"Yes. Okay." Ilya squeezed his hand. "We go at your pace. Always. I told you this, yes?"

"I know. But I wanted to say it again. In case—" Shane paused. "In case you thought the pamphlet meant I was ready."

Ilya shook his head. "I do not think that. I know you. You will tell me when you are ready. Until then—" He lifted Shane's hand and kissed his knuckles. "We kiss. We practice. We wait."

Shane's ears went pink. It was adorable.

"Okay," Shane said. "Good. That's—that's good."

Ilya smiled. "You are cute when you are flustered."

"I'm not flustered. I'm—" Shane stopped. "Okay, I'm a little flustered."

"A little?"

"Okay. More than a little."

Ilya laughed—that warm, surprised sound that Shane had told him once was his favorite thing in the world.

He leaned in and kissed Shane softly, sweetly, the kind of kiss that said I love you without needing words.

When they pulled apart, Shane was smiling. That small, private smile that was just for Ilya.

"I have something," Shane said. "In my pocket. For you."

Ilya's heart skipped. "I also have something. In my pocket. For you."

Shane's eyebrows rose. "Simultaneous gift acquisition. That's efficient."

Ilya snorted. "Only you would call romance efficient."

"Romance can be efficient. Efficiency doesn't preclude emotion."

"Shane."

"Yes?"

"Just—" Ilya pulled out the small box. "Here. You first."

Shane reached into his own pocket and produced an identical box.

They looked at each other, then at the boxes, then back at each other.

"Same plan," Shane said. "We think alike."

"Always have."

They opened the boxes together.

Inside each was a ring.

Simple silver bands, identical in design, sized perfectly for the other's finger. They had spent their sweet time that day at the jewelry store, but neither had known the other was picking it up so soon. For him, Ilya was too impatience and picked up his ring for Shane as soon as he could and assumed Shane shared the same sentiment.

Ilya stared at the ring in his box.

Then at the ring in Shane's box.
Then at Shane.

"You—" he started.

"I wanted us to have them before the International Prospect Cup," Shane said. "It's in ten months. We should go as an engaged couple. Officially." He paused. "I've been planning it for a while."

Ilya thought about the past few months.

Shane's increased interest in their savings account.

The way he'd been researching jewelry stores.

The careful, casual questions about what kind of metal Ilya liked.

"I also planned," Ilya said. "For weeks."

"Weeks?" Shane looked pleased. "Ilya! I've been planning for six months."

"Six months?"

"I wanted it to be perfect. The timing had to be right." Shane paused. "The Prospect Cup is our first international exposure. Scouts from everywhere will be there. I want them to know—" He touched the ring in his box. "I want them to know we're together. That we're a package deal."

Ilya stared at him.

This boy.

This impossible boy who had decided at thirteen that they would get married and had never once questioned it. Who had mapped out their future like a chess game, moving pieces into position years ahead of time.

"You never—" Ilya stopped. Started again. "You never think we are too young to announce this to the world?"

Shane tilted his head. "For what?"

"For this. Engagement. Marriage later. All of it."

Shane considered the question with the same gravity he applied to everything. "No," he said finally. "We've known each other forever many years. We've been together for two of those years. We've planned our future together since. The timeline makes sense." He paused. "Age is just a number. Compatibility is what matters. We can even get married and have that wedding our parents want later in our twenties. Being engaged is enough for me Ilya."

Ilya thought about all the ways Shane could be intense.

The obsessive practice.

The relentless pursuit of improvement.

The way he treated their relationship like another skill to master, another goal to achieve.

Some people might have found it overwhelming. Ilya found it intoxicating.

"Nyet," Ilya said softly. "You are right. Timeline makes sense."

Shane smiled—that rare, real smile. "Good. Now put the ring on me. I want to see how it looks."

Ilya laughed.

He pulled the ring from its box and gently took Shane's hand in his own.

The band slid onto his finger perfectly, a warm weight that belonged there.

Shane did the same for him. His hands were steady, careful, reverent.

They looked at each other.

Two rings. Two hands. One future.

"We're engaged," Shane said. "Officially."

Ilya nodded. His throat was tight. "Officially."

"I love you, Ilya."

"I love you too." Ilya paused. "Vsegda." Always.

Shane leaned in and kissed him.

Soft, sweet, full of young love and certainty and the absolute knowledge that they had done something right.

 

---

******

Irina found them like that when she returned with tea. Kissing on the couch, rings gleaming on their fingers.

She stopped in the doorway.

Her face did something complicated—surprise, then joy, then tears.

"Oh," she said softly. "Oh, my boys."

They pulled apart, slightly flushed.

Ilya held up his hand, showing off the ring.

"Mama," he said. "We are engaged. Officially."

Irina set down the tea tray with snacks.

She crossed the room in three steps and pulled them both into a hug, squeezing tight.

"My boys," she repeated, her voice thick. "My good boys. You take care of each other. Yes?"

"Yes," Shane said into her shoulder.

"Yes, Mama," Ilya agreed.

She held them for a long moment.

When she finally pulled back, her green-blue eyes were wet, but she was smiling, that radiant, transforming smile that had become more and more frequent over the years.

"Okay," she said, wiping her eyes. "Okay. Now we celebrate. I make dinner. Special dinner. Shane, you call your mother. She comes too. We celebrate together."

Shane nodded. "I'll call her."

Irina bustled off to the kitchen, already planning, already cooking too much food. The sound of her humming filled the house.

Ilya looked at Shane. Shane looked at him.

"We did it," Ilya said.

"We did." Shane paused. "Step one of the plan is complete."

"Step one?"

"Technically step two since the first was proposing I guess. Engagement. Step three is winning gold. Step four is NHL draft. Step five is house with pond." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Step six is wedding. Step seven is kids."

Ilya laughed. "You have steps."

"I always have steps."

"And what step is—" Ilya gestured vaguely between them. "This. Us. Right now."

Shane considered. "Ongoing maintenance. Relationship health. Quality time."

"Quality time."

"Yes." Shane leaned over and kissed him again—quick, sweet, perfect. "This is quality time."

Ilya smiled against his mouth. "Good. I like quality time."

They kissed until Irina called them for dinner, rings warm on their fingers, futures bright ahead of them.

It was enough.

It was everything.