Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Major Character Death

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, past ilya rozanov/svetlana vetrova - Relationship

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Original Child, Svetlana Vetrova, Cliff Marlow, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Old man yaoi, they are pushing fifty here, Ilya rozanov is a bear, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Control Freak Shane Hollander, Parent Ilya Rozanov, Single Parent Ilya Rozanov, Second Chances, Falling In Love, Politics, original character son, Blow Jobs, Autistic Shane Hollander, Anal Sex, Good Parent Ilya Rozanov, Alzheimer's Disease, in a parent, Slurs, the difficult morass of adulthood, Complete, Humor, Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Getting Back Together, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Rimming, Coming Out, True Love, Character Death happens BEFORE the story, Not Shane or Ilya

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of old man hollanov yaoi

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-01 Completed: 2026-02-19 Words: 68,018 Chapters: 12/12

death and taxes (and shane hollander)

Summary

There was a time when Ilya believed Scott Hunter's coming out would revolutionize hockey forever— but for every step forward came two steps back.

When Shane and Ilya meet again late in life, can they make their second chance work?

OR: Old Man Hollanov Yaoi.

Notes

cottage never happened. goes canon divergent in 2017 or so.

Chapter 1

In an MLH office hallway, Ilya straightens his son, Nikolaj’s, tie for the sixth time, only for Nikolaj to loosen it the moment Ilya’s hand drifts away.

“Will you leave it?” Ilya grouses.

“Why are we even here? This should be a zoom meeting,” Nikolaj complains. He’s all impatience, his strong, seventeen-year-old body unrepentant in every slack line of his posture.

Ilya feels his back go up, even as he fights for a casual tone.

“Because, my precious idiot son, when you were three, your mama and I taught you that there are bad words in life. Words you don't ever say in front of other people,” Ilya reminds him, straightening the tie for a seventh time. He swallows. “Words you definitely don't say while mic’d up on live television. The f-slur is one of them, no?”

Nikolaj is quiet for a moment.

Ilya clears his throat. “So. We are going to meet with the MLH commissioner. And we’re going to apologize, say it won’t happen again, and thank this man for letting you continue playing hockey in his league after you opened your foolish mouth.”

Nikolaj’s mouth twists again. He has all the Rozanov pride and unfortunately a lot of the charm too. He’s not used to humiliation like this.

“Still coulda done that on a zoom,” he grouses, but quieter. “I’m missing ice time.”

Ilya pats his shoulder even if he doesn’t quite look his son in the eye for the sea-motion feeling in his stomach. He loves his boy, but also this is probably one of the most embarrassing and terrible things to happen to Ilya in his long and varied life, which is saying something.

Everyone says parenting is not easy but this cannot be what the trite phrase means, because Ilya thinks it is ludicrous for parenting to be this hard.

An assistant comes and escorts them to the commissioner’s office, handing them useless mini water bottles with two gulps of liquid inside.

“Commissioner Langstrom is out with a flu, unfortunately,” the assistant says. Nikolaj’s almost full body reaction of oh great, what a waste of time, is thankfully ignored. “We have the deputy commissioner taking his meeting today.”

Ilya blinks as she turns the knob, because he could have sworn that she said deputy commissioner but that would mean—

“Hollander.”

The word leaves his throat a little hoarse. A softer h than he’s trained himself to use. Like he’s just come to north America all over again.

Shane Hollander is there inside the office, blinking back at them. He looks at home behind the wide mahogany desk with hockey memorabilia surrounding him, at ease at the control center. His blazer is off and Ilya can see his lean body shift in familiar yet unfamiliar ways as he stands and walks across the desk to greet them with a handshake.

“Mr. Rozanov,” he greets Ilya first, formally, and Ilya has never in his life blushed, but he might start at the tender age of 47.

“Mr. Hollander,” he corrects himself. Yes, they aren’t rivals on the ice, not anything but two old men meeting for unpleasant and embarrassing business. There can only be the Mr.’s and manners here.

When was the last time he even saw Hollander? Nine years ago at least... He looks good.

Ilya clears his throat, pats Nikolaj’s shoulder to move him forward.

“My son, Nikolaj.”

“Niko Rozanov,” his son corrects, using his too Canadian nickname, shaking Hollander’s hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Of course,” Hollander says smoothly, moving back to the desk and sitting down. He gestures to the chairs in front and Ilya sits.

After so many years apart, it’s hard not to look closely at Hollander. Time has been kind to him in a way it hasn’t to Ilya. Maybe all those macronutrients and multi-step skin care routines did mean something, for how trim his waist is, the strength in his arms his button up shirt cannot hide. Lines cradle his eyes affectionately, emphasizing his freckles, the quick alertness of his dark eyes. His age shows in his glances, the way his lips purse.

He looks like Yuna Hollander, Ilya realizes, down to his new firm, no-nonsense look. Ilya bites his lip not to say anything on the subject. Not his observation to make. Too familiar. He wonders though, do all adults look like their parents? Is Ilya the spitting image of Grigory Rozanov?

He doesn’t feel like his imposing father, sitting across from this beautiful man he used to fuck and waiting for his son to apologize for using the f-slur on a sports broadcast. Mostly he feels like he’s breached a whole new level of embarrassment yet undiscovered by man.

Nikolaj launches into an apology that is dreadfully stiff. For all he has inherited Ilya gregariousness, he has never learned the sensitivity required to really persuade someone. Then again, maybe Ilya is misremembering his own youth—god knows the number of times he was sat across from some official or reporter and mouthing his apologies, insouciant smirk lurking on his lips. Never for using a slur, of course. Even the mouthy, truculent Ilya of back then just wouldn’t…

Still, at least Nikolaj gets it all out. He hands over a printed copy of his social media apology and Hollander puts a pair of silver reading glasses on. Ilya has to look at the bobblehead on the wall— he isn’t strong enough to weather this mix of humiliation and the immutable desire that is Hollander in reading glasses. They only look better on him now, actually, which feels unfair. Is not how aging is supposed to work.

“He will never use this language again,” Ilya says, mostly to fill the gap of the silence.

Hollander’s eyes flicker from Ilya to Nikolaj and he dips his head. He takes off his glasses and smiles.

“I speak for the league when I say we appreciate that. Thank you for taking the time to see me, it shows how seriously you're taking this."

Nikolaj is quick to stand, already over the whole thing, thinking about getting out the door on the ice before his team plays New York.

“Yeah, of course. Thanks,” Nikolaj says, rushed and almost rude. Ilya mangles an apologetic smile that he hopes doubles as an excuse for his brusque kid. Mostly he feels like melting into a puddle in the carpet. He has never been so embarrassed, not even the time Scott Hunter landed a punch in Ilya's second season.

Hollander kindly lets it slide (always so considerate) and shakes Nikolaj’s hand, then Ilya’s. Then father and son are standing outside in the hallway. Ilya feels a little in shock and turns back to the door, but it’s shut, over and done with. Ilya’s window to Hollander has closed soundly behind him. He stares for a moment, unsure how to feel.

Nikolaj is texting a storm, probably to his teammates. Telling them he’s on his way or complaining about how stupid this non-zoom meeting apology was.

“You won’t right? Nika?” Ilya says. Something in his tone pricks Nikolaj’s concentration because he looks up. “You won’t ever use that language again.”

Nikolaj rolls his shoulders. “Everyone says that shit. It’s not my fault I was mic’d up.”

“You think I don’t know what a locker room sounds like? It’s not about that,” Ilya says. His mouth works for a second, but he can’t quite resolve what it is about in this moment.

Nikolaj huffs, impatient. “Don’t worry, I won’t damage your legacy.” Which is about the most insulting thing he could say. As if sensing he drew blood, Nikolaj turns away. “I’m taking an uber. I’ll see you later, old man.”

Ilya stands, hands clenched in the hallway. He sucks a deep breath in and out like his therapist taught him.

He does know what Nikolaj is talking about, how the minute the slur dropped, reporters were drafting articles comparing Nikolaj’s chaos to Ilya’s rookie year, smearing them both in the process. Alluding that maybe dominating, party-boy Ilya used the same language without ever having to say so. And it doesn’t matter that Ilya never did (yes, for the simple reason obvious reason, but also because he did not need to stoop to slurs to chirp his opponents), because the world won’t see that. The vapid, drama hungry audience just sees a lineage of careless, feral Russian men, something that Ilya has never managed to curtail even now that he’s retired.

He wishes that Nikolaj’s every move was not compared to him too, but not because of his legacy, but because he wants him to have his own life—

“Rozanov?”

Ilya almost jumps out of his skin. He turns, feeling his face pale as he sees Hollander standing in the hallway, Ilya’s phone in his hand. Ilya pats his back pocket, blanches to find it empty.

“You forgot this.”

Ilya takes the phone, sure his fat ass squeezed it out when he sat. Why Hollander did not send his scurrying little assistant, Ilya does not know, but he suspects from the increased tightness of Hollander’s face, the painfully polite Canadian sympathy, that he heard some, if not all, of that shitty exchange.

“Thanks,” Ilya says, trying not to think too obviously about his desire to walk into traffic.

Hollander doesn’t leave, and Ilya tries to figure out what he’s supposed to say here. Apologize again? Make excuses for Nikolaj with the dead mother card? (A card Ilya never played for himself as a kid but finds himself using with strange regularity for his own son.)

Before Ilya can embarrass himself further, Hollander speaks.

“I was about to take my lunch. Do you want to get a coffee? Or something.”

It is the last thing Ilya is expecting, which is why his lips part and he must look like an idiot for a moment.

Meeting again is supposed to be awkward, Ilya thinks. With all the shared history, the way Hollander monopolized his mind and body in his twenties, the horrible way they split apart and all the pain and heartache… but maybe time does make all things easier. Because Ilya cannot feel that thick miasma of confusion he was consumed by in his twenties. Looking at Hollander now he just feels curious. Drawn in.

“Or not. I’m sure you have places to be,” Hollander murmurs, and in the sweet hesitation that averts his eyes awkwardly, Ilya sees that boy he spent ten years chasing across the ice. So strong, so soft.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Ilya says, not even sure what he’s after. He justifies it to himself that even old men have to catch up now and then.

The café Hollander leads them to is located underneath one of the many office buildings in the Manhattan area. Without discussing it, both of them take a table at the back, away from the busy front where businesspeople walk in and out in a dizzy revolving door of caffeine demand.

When asked, Hollander said ‘for here,’ and the ceramic cup tinks as it settles against the table. He doesn’t mean to leave quickly, Ilya thinks satisfied, blowing on his own unsweetened black tea. They watch each other for a moment that is quiet, rising listless and easy like the steam from their drinks. He wonders what Hollander sees, looking at him. It must be nine years since they last met at an event…

“You… Um, you’re working with Mcgill?” Hollander asks and Ilya blinks. How did he…? Hollander gestures to Ilya’s felt jacket with the small, emroidered martlet mascot head, and Ilya feels like an idiot.

“Oh, yes. For some time. It’s good. The college circuit has promise but not the uh, the ego.”

Hollander smiles at that. “You know, my dad went there. It’s how he met my mom actually, she was a student manager.”

Ilya wonders if there isn’t a single thing in his world not touched by Hollander, because he did not know.

Hollander continues, “I always thought you might coach pro.”

“Bah. No. Too much politics. Not enough fun. More pleasure to play at that level than coach,” Ilya says. “College is better. More control of the team…  You never wanted to be Coach Hollander?”

Hollander hesitates, shakes his head. “Everyone expected me to—”

“Four Stanley Cups,” Ilya murmurs, grinning from behind his tea cup.

“Shut up,” Hollander laughs, and it is a honeyed sound, makes Ilya's tea taste sweeter than it is.

Ilya feels a little zingy, snaps his fingers. “Maybe you’re like the great one. Gretzky. He could play for hell but couldn’t coach for shit.”

“The Coyotes needed more than Gretzky to save them from the axe,” Hollander shoots back. “Besides, maybe I just wanted to make change in the sport on a wider scale.”

Everyone knows Hollander is gunning for the commissioner seat and Ilya cannot help but grin like a wolf.

“Mr. Politician,” Ilya murmurs, but maybe the callback is a little too much for how Hollander fidgets in his seat. Ah, is he uncomfortable? A little red in the face. Perhaps fighting a go fuck yourself, Rozanov. Maybe it’s too close to those private nights against tall windows, how they chased each other around the kitchen island and into Hollander’s bed.

“I’m sorry for my idiot son,” Ilya says, because it bears repeating. This is likely the kind of change Hollander would like to see made in the hockey world.

Hollander’s expression is hard to read. “It’s not all on him,” he says, too generously. “We both know how it is inside locker rooms.”

Ilya dips his head, but it feels like a weak excuse. The easy excuse. He remembers a time when he thought Scott Hunter was going to revolutionize the sport, but there has always been a push and pull with progress, and as much as Scott did to tell people there were gay sports players, there was an additional push to make it clear how little that would be accepted in the locker room. How ‘distractions’ were excised and left to warm the bench.

The cruel handling of queerness was sobering to watch at the time. Made Ilya bitter in ways he tried to bury with drink and clubs.

Though there was a time, right after the announcement, when he even thought that he and Hollander might have a chance at… something. He’s never been sure what, exactly. It’s not like hockey homophobia was the only barrier for them. Still, under the blinding light of Hunter’s admittance, Ilya’d really felt the certainty that the two of them could… could. Even now the meaning of the possibility slips away from him, like gripping smoke with his hands.

Hollander’s dark eyes glance up from his coffee and Ilya remembers where they are. Funny, even his tricky knee is quiet despite the cramped seating, as if Hollander has lulled it into thinking they are in the past. Just the two of them in their private world.

“Does Niko… Or is it Nika, you said?”

“Name for parents to use, Nika. Niko is something he makes up for his friends to call. It is stupid when Nikolaj means victory, no?”

“You would name your son that.”

Ilya grins, full teeth. “What else would do? You're asking about him why?”

Hollander looks down, taps his short, clean fingernails against the ceramic cup.

“He doesn’t know then? About you being…?”

Ilya almost chokes on nothing. “No! No. I would never— I know how badly you wanted to keep it quiet— What? Did he say something or…?”

Hollander flushes, freckles stark against his skin. “I didn’t mean about us,” he says quietly, intently. “I meant about you.”

Oh. That Ilya is bisexual. Hm, Ilya thought he’d found the deepest level of embarrassment before, but maybe not.

He scrubs his hand over his hair, feeling his longish curls drag over his face as he looks at Hollander. He used to be better at this. Used to have walls the height of Everest. Could posture like the best of them. Instead, Ilya comes across all earnest, babbling, revealing too much. Age has made him silly.

Hollander smiles, bemused at Ilya’s behavior and the pretty tilt of his mouth is not making it easy to keep forgetting how much he once adored this man.

“No, Nikolaj does not know that either,” Ilya says. It sounds terrible, said like that. He explains, “I don’t know, it never came up,” which only sounds worse. This is perhaps the weakest of excuses in a day full of weak excuses. He doesn’t know why he has never told Nikolaj, only that the idea of explaining to his child about his dad being a bisexual man was never quite comfortable. He made it clear growing up that he didn’t give a shit who Nikolaj liked, but it’s not the same thing as being open or encouraging tolerance, he’s realizing.

It never seemed relevant, might be a better excuse. In truth, Ilya has not slept with a man besides Hollander and Sasha— He was married for sixteen years, which was preoccupying, and while he wasn’t a perfect husband, he never cheated. Then, after retirement and his wife’s death, it was always the same issue he had as a sportstar. He is no longer the Bears’ or the Royals’ Ilya Rozanov, star center, but he is still high profile enough with a budding professional son which means he doesn’t want his sexuality public. That means only fucking men with the same secret, a mutual self-destruction that he can trust. It’s harder, finding men (who aren’t married) with the same investment for secrecy when casual sex with women in bars is so much easier.

If he isn’t actively fucking a man, won’t it just be confusing? His head can make sense of it logically, but in his heart, it still feels like a lot of pitiful excuses.

(and some part of him fidgets at the thought of confronting Nikolaj now. The moment he saw his son after the broadcast, he’d been desperate to ask did you mean it, is that what you really think but in the same breath, Ilya was desperate to never know.)

He doesn’t say any of this.

Hollander exhales and sounds relieved of all things. “I’m glad, I guess, that he didn’t know.”

Ilya blinks at Hollander, who almost glitches in his effort to over explain.

“Not because I don’t think you deserve to be out and known, just that… well, if he said that knowing that you…”

Ilya fidgets, that same fear that he might have swelling in his stomach.

“Yeah, I know.” Ilya groans and leans over, thuds his forehead on the table a few times. “Fucking kids, Hollander.”

“Pretty sure you can’t do that in North America.”

Ilya turns his head, grins toothy. Hollander’s humor always manages to surprise him.

“You never had any? Adopted or…?”

It’s strange— Ilya knows Hollander’s stats, can recite his last season by memory. Knows that he’s been steadily and determinedly clearing a path careerwise to the upper rungs of the commissioner’s office, has even been trying to remove fighting from hockey, but for all that he’s followed Hollander’s career, he really does not know anything about his personal life.

Hollander shakes his head. “No. None. Not sure if I’m cut out for it.”

Ilya bites his tongue against asking if there was anyone… Not his business. Old sportsmen catching up is what they are.

“Based on Nikolaj’s behavior, I don’t think I am either.”

“He’s a good kid,” Hollander says. “A good player.”

Ilya sighs, lifts his head. Feels his back protest as he straightens it.

“He has all my attitude and talent, his mother’s hockey sense. But I don’t think I taught him the important things. How to be good person.” Like Hollander is, he can’t help but think. Maybe some of that plays on his face, because Hollander stares steadily at him, unblinking and supportive, somehow.

“He’s seventeen. I don’t think any of us were fully done cooking.”

Ilya smiles, feels the hidden meaning in the words. Yes, they did make some crazy choices at that age, some that they even made together... He sees a similar thread on Hollander’s face, like grinning at like, and for a few moments they stare at each other, drinks forgotten, sharing an unspoken secret.

A BEEP from Hollander’s smart watch startles Ilya back to his senses.

Hollander taps it and rises, apology on his face. “Sorry, my break is almost over.”

“Office time, huh?” Ilya stands too, stepping close and crowding Hollander without quite realizing the instinct. Hollander looks up at him, eyes flicking over Ilya quickly as he swallows. Probably seeing all the places time has deposited fat on his body. Not everyone can be ultra fit like Hollander and he almost juts out his chin in rebelliousness, begging him to look his fill if he wants. Hollander swallows, and Ilya finds a crooked smile growing on his lips. He has confidence, always, and it is nice to see it still shakes Hollander’s steadiness.

Ah, there is not enough time in the world to heckle Hollander.

Ilya sticks out his hand.

“Nice to catch up, even if you found more ways to be boring, office man.”

Hollander rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his lips. “Almost made it without chirping.”

“Almost,” Ilya agrees.

The handshake lingers a little long. Ilya removes his hand when he notices. He turns for the door, ready for his embarrassment to be over.

“Rozanov?”

He turns back to see a different, more sympathetic sort of awkwardness. Hollander’s deeply intense eyes go to the floor before flicking to Ilya and away.

“I’m sorry about Svetlana,” Hollander eventually says.

Ilya sighs over the familiar wash of grief that swells when she comes up, manages to smile. “Thank you, Hollander. Was a long time ago.”

He waves his hand a little, getting a tiny, awkward wave in response and heads out onto the street.

Ilya walks to Central Park, focusing on not being hit by a car along the way to avoid lingering on his buzzing thoughts until he’s around the trees. It’s quiet here, too cold for people to linger on the benches. Runners pass and Ilya tries to remember the last time he did cardio instead of just weights.

Why did Hollander ask him to talk? Was it politeness? To give his regards about Svetlana’s death? To comfort a closeted bisexual man over the likely homophobia of his child?

Ilya used to be able to see the clicking of Hollander’s thought process like the exposed gears of a clock. Reliable, clear.

He knew why Hollander turned him away all those years ago, even if he was pissed about it. He understood. Read the reasons like clean lines cut in the ice. Now he can’t parse him.

Meeting up with Ilya now after all the difficulty of their parting… why…?

Bah, what does he know about Canadian politeness, Ilya thinks, waving the heavy thoughts away. It is still good to see he is doing well. Healthy. Probably in a long-term relationship with a sweet man, dog and all. No kids giving him headaches or crises about parenting.

(Hollander's probably found someone to love him right, the way he so badly needed when he was a stiff, tightly wound twenty year old. Yes, Ilya wants that for him. Definitely. Well... at least he believes it is what Hollander deserves. Hollander is living well in New York, far away from the chaos of Ilya which is as it should be.)

They both chose these lives for themselves.

All there is left is to live it.

...And for Ilya to try and not kill his kid in the process.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

yeah i definitely accidentally deleted this chapter and all the comments. such is life.

Ilya does not expect to see Hollander again except for photos in articles when he takes over the commissioner’s position and rules the whole hockey world with a gentle, but iron fist.

He’s deeply unprepared to see Hollander on the arena jumbotron while Ilya is knee deep in monitoring his players’ warm-ups.

“Shane Hollander is in the audience with us! Supporting McGill, of course,” a stadium interviewer says, all glittered cheeks and sparling jersey. “Say hi to everyone!”

Ilya’s head cranks to the jumbotron so fast he thinks he hears something crack in his neck.

Hollander smiles, that same smile that got him the Colgate sponsorship despite playing a sport known for knocking teeth loose.

“Happy to be here. My dad actually played for McGill.”

The camera switches to show David and Yuna Hollander seated beside him. Certainly getting up in age, but a spry happy light in their eyes that Ilya has always associated with their idyllic marriage. Hollander being the perfect product of a perfect union has always made so much sense that Ilya could never bring himself to be bitter about it.

“How do you feel about your former rival being the head coach of such a legacy team?”

One of Ilya’s more insouciant assistant coaches nudges his shoulder. Ilya can’t tear himself away from Hollander’s face, blown superlarge above his head.

“I don’t think they could be in better hands. Rozanov’s always been a great leader,”

It’s canned, stupidly nice, and Ilya shakes his head, laughing. “Fuck,” he can’t help but say, then startles to see his own silly grinning face on the jumbotron. He only just resists the urge to flip off Hollander through the cameras. He’s a damn professional, he reminds himself.

He waves the cameras off; he has coaching to do.

“Your rival is very sweet,” his assistant coach chirps.

“Shut up and get me my whiteboard. I spoke to god and he ordered bloodbath on earth,” Ilya quips. “And we will deliver.” He’ll be absolutely damned if his boys don’t win this one with Hollander watching.

3-1 is a very respectable way to end the game by Ilya’s estimate. He’s buzzing, high on the victory and the thrill of seeing his pernicious, vulgar boys manage to kill the competition. They drive Ilya to the edge of despair most of the time, so the least they can do is win for him when Hollander is in the stands.

He somehow isn’t surprised to see Hollander loitering in the hallway after the game. Ilya grins, ploughs right up to him.

“What the fuck do you know about my great leadership, Hollander?”

Hollander laughs, hand already extended and Ilya grips it up his forearm,

“Seemed like the right thing to say. Better than chirping your shitty pre-game speeches.”

“This is heresy,” Ilya says. “My speeches were the best! ‘Make them cry or pay me money,’ there’s nothing more encouraging!”

“Oh, still using that bull—"

A flash of a camera startles the two of them and they jolt apart.

The team’s PR intern smiles and waves. “This will be great for the team page. Sorry if I startled you,” she says, so Canadian just like everyone else. You’d think Ilya would be used to the constant apologizing, but he doesn’t think he will ever stop rolling his eyes.

Hollander smiles over his discomfort, arms crossing over his tidy shirt, muscles stressing the buttons of his chest. Ilya swallows.

“Come, you want to talk shit, we get a drink and do it right,” Ilya says, steering Hollander away from the intern and the eyes of other. Anyone within earshot laughs at the words and Hollander’s shoulder eases under his grip.

“Yeah, okay,” Hollander murmurs, glancing up at him and Ilya has to swallow around a dry spot in his throat. He’s always liked when Hollander is like this, pliant and easily led. Of course, this isn’t that kind of situation he reminds himself. Just old men reminiscing. Just Hollander needing a guide through the halls.

Ilya only releases his shoulder outside the locker room.

“Just need to grab my things and parting remarks,” Ilya says. “Wait out here or they mob you.”

Hollander laughs. “I’m not that famous anymore.”

Ilya makes a pffft sound of disbelief and holds up four fingers, one for each Stanley cup. Hollander’s eyes glance around before he holds up a finger in return, the middle one.

Ilya laughs as he swings into the locker room where his team is changing and bitching—they bitch when they lose, they bitch when they win, the bitching is more consistent than their playing. Nikolaj jokes that’s his proof that Ilya’s coaching has affected them. Ilya bitches at his son for that and realizes he may have a slight, tiny point.

“Good, good, no fucking up on home ice. Did you like the feeling? Was it a good feeling?”

Tired but ebullient ‘yes’s’ ring from the room of 27 stretching, changing, and complaining hockey players. There are a few delayed ouis when his remarks are translated by his first assistant into Quebecois. Ilya knew he’d found the right assistant when he’d finally gotten one who never elided his colorful language and swearing. A man who translates loyally is a man he can trust.

“Good, we don’t want anyone else to feel this in two days when we go to Minnesota. We hoard the good feeling, none for anyone else, yes?”

“You make us sound like monsters,” Ilya’s first line center, Hewes, says from where he strips off his jersey. Ilya grins.

“You are. The worst I ever met. If only you were that selfish with the puck.”

Groans of disbelief, arguments about Ilya being the king of monsters come out, but Ilya is swinging out past them all to get his bag. Normally he would be the last to leave, but today he hands the reins off to his assistant coach.

“Meet tomorrow at nine for tape review,” he reminds them all.

“Hey, is Shane Hollander still around outside?” Ilya’s goalie asks.

Ilya should ignore it, bluster past. He doesn’t. “Why you want to know about such a bad hockey player?”

Ilya is almost booed out by his boys. “His record is better than yours!”

“Lies,” Ilya hisses. “Pick a category and I prove you wrong.”

“Stanley cups.”

“Pick a different category.”

Everyone is laughing, cheering, lifted from their weary moods and Ilya grins toothily.

“Bother assistant coach or text. I’m out early tonight.”

He opens the door to see Hollander glancing down at his phone. Hollander smiles when he sees Ilya, and Ilya cannot help but feel a jolt of pleasure blending with the high of a good win, like good vodka swirled in a fine glass.

He wedges the door open instead of letting it swing shut, showing Hollander’s profile to his suddenly quiet, star-struck room.

“Hollander, who has better career long assists, you or me?”

Hollander is quiet for a moment, eyebrow hitched up. He glances at the room, amusement and irritation fighting on his face.

“You.”

Ilya shouts back into the room. “I rest my case.”

“But in terms of career goals—”

“No more questions, thank you!”

One of his players calls, “Wait, Mr. Hollander—"

Ilya shuts the door firmly. He hears a scramble of bodies towards the door, to the old idol of Hollander, but Ilya yanks Hollander’s sleeve.

“Let’s go!”

“Rozanov! …Wait!”

Ilya books it down the hallway, Hollander on his heels. Some of Ilya’s kids shout hell at him, but Ilya ignores it, very certain he is not sharing Hollander with anyone if he doesn’t have to. Hollander quickly outpaces him and Ilya adds a boost of speed he didn’t know he had to pull ahead. Suddenly, they are competing again, and Ilya laughs, almost losing the race and spinning into a wall because of his giddiness. Hollander snatches the moment to scoot past, but Ilya digs deep. They sprint all the way to the shuttle stop for the campus bus.

Ilya wins mostly from knowing where they are going, but not without cost. His breath is heaving out of his lungs and he knows he really needs to get back into cardio. Hollander looks a little flush but is barely winded.

“Bet you’re feeling all those cigarettes now.”

Ilya has not got the breath to tell Hollander to fuck off. He waves at him in mute ire.

“Cruel to tease… a man while he’s down… give me your Lady Byng trophy. No sportsmanship in you.”

Hollander grins like a loon as the bus pulls up.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Bar off campus. It’s for adults too, I promise. Not too many kids.” He hesitates, coming up short suddenly awkward. Hollander agreed to a drink but… “Unless you need to wait for your parents.”

Hollander shakes his head and gets on board first. “No, they’re home. Do I have to pay or—”

“College shuttle! Not city, move Hollander.”

Hollander moves and takes a seat on the long sideways bench. Ilya sits next to him. Their legs touch and Ilya looks at Hollander’s khakis nestling against his own black coaching sweats. Ilya stopped dressing up for games a long time ago, but he does wish he’d brought a pair of jeans, maybe. A leather jacket to pull over his black, oversized McGill hoodie.

Still, the only thing for it is more confidence. He lets his legs loll open, pushing into Hollander who rolls his eyes and crosses his legs to make space for Ilya.

“No fun,” Ilya sniffs.

“It’s a bus. I’m not going to play games.”

“Shuttle. Not bus. Use your English,” Ilya teases.

“You’re the expert now, huh?”

“I work at a college. I am practically Professor Rozanov,” Ilya says and Hollander laughs.

The shuttle arrives a couple blocks down from McKibbins pub and Ilya staggers out, already feeling his joints complaining at the sudden mad sprint.

Neither of them are ID’d as they walk past the bouncer. It’s quite full of students and young adults, a fewer older people monopolize the billiards. Everyone is having too good a time to notice, which Ilya appreciates. No one to care about two rivals meeting even if Montreal is hockey mad. He guides Hollander to a table against the wall with space enough for no one to overhear much.

“Ginger ale?” Ilya asks and then feels like an idiot. There’s no way Hollander is still off alcohol—

"That sounds nice," Hollander says, and Ilya nods, relieved that Hollander is still so predictable, and goes to the bar. He gets a pint of 0.0 Guiness for himself and a Fevertree for Hollander who holds out the bottle in thanks.

“Cheers,” Hollander says as they clink.

To our health, Ilya says in Russian, because ‘cheers’ is such a weak thing to say to good beer.

For a moment he just watches Hollander in the dim bar light, remembering that he agreed to come out to drinks with Ilya with nary a protest. He tries to bury his smile.

“How are the elder Hollanders?”

“Don’t let my mom hear that,” Hollander says. “It’s her goal to be mistaken as my sister, I swear.”

“You look too young for that. It’s no offense to her; she gave you the good genes,” Ilya clarifies.

Hollander smiles a little sideways in his mouth at the compliment, as if he likely doesn’t hear it every day of his life. He could still be modeling, if he really wanted to, Ilya is sure.

“Where’s Niko? Traveling.”

“Yes, Metros have away game. An away game,” he corrects himself. He stumbles, feeling his English waver in a way it hasn’t for years. Doesn’t want to look so foolish in front of Hollander, even though he was speaking with Ilya when he was at his worst, wrestling English like some oversized snake. He’s not the same as he was back then.

Ilya takes a sip of his beer. “Is it strange to see such a wildcard like Nikolaj as the Metro’s center?”

While Ilya was traded around, Hollander spent almost twelve years with Metros before being traded for his final four seasons to Ottawa. Montreal will always be his team.

Hollander shrugs his shoulders, fingers tracing the wet label on his bottle.

“No. I think the first few years it was stranger to see the new centers, but this far out…”

Ilya knows. “It might as well be a different sport. The field is so different.”

 “You must see the change, with you coaching.”

Ilya rolls his shoulders. “Not really. College will always be worlds different that pro.”

“You never thought of doing the college route with Niko?”

Ilya scoffs. “You think I could keep him on a chain for longer? No, he needs to burn his energy out in MLH. Besides, they’re the ones stupid enough to take him.”

“He’s a good player,” Hollander says, polite again.

“He is the best of the year, first draft pick,” Ilya corrects. “It’s a parenting joke. Extreme pride and also making sure arrogant teenagers do not think god shines from their little assholes.”

“Not sure that was the kind of advice you were giving yourself at that age,” Hollander says, lips quirked in a smile.

“No, but my father…” Ilya hesitates, tries not to kill the mood while being honest. “I am not so bad as that. My kid knows I love him. Jokes are how I show affection.”

“I remember,” Hollander says so quiet that Ilya isn’t sure he hears him right. Ilya clears his throat.

“What about you? What is life for you aside from world domination?”

Hollander’s brow furrows in that charming way when he thinks Ilya is being an idiot. “You mean being deputy commissioner?”

“Gunning for head, one day.” Ilya holds up a finger. “Was the commissioner really sick with the flu? We’ll never know for sure, will we?”

Hollander huffs, shakes his head. “He’s already back at the office, so if I did poison him, I didn’t do a very good job.”

“Ah, that’s not like you, you are usually very thorough. Attention to detail, they used to say. Hockey IQ of seventy billion.” Ilya folds his hands, pleased with the amusement dancing in Hollander’s dark eyes, lively in the bar environment. “Okay, you say not world domination. We compromise—hockey domination.”

“My full-time office job,” Hollander corrects. “I like it, yes. If that was the question.”

“Surprised you can sit still for long enough.”

“I have a treadmill and a standing desk,” Hollander admits and Ilya guffaws.

“You are a hamster. Should just put you in a wheel.”

“I’d go insane otherwise,” Hollander admits. “The job is pretty consuming to be honest. Long hours, meetings that could be zooms, zooms that could be emails. Emails that should never even be sent… I still try to skate where I can. You get any ice time?”

“Chasing after slow first years,” Ilya says. He can’t remember the last time he went on the ice for the hell of it. Skating without the goal of the puck has always been a strange feeling, like he doesn’t know why he even bothered stepping out on the ice…

It was easier when Niko was younger, because then his purpose was getting his son the ice time he needed to be the second greatest Rozanov yet.

“I think you must be good at it. Your job,” Ilya says.

Hollander quirks a smile as if unsure whether Ilya is teasing him.

“What?”

“That’s not what people usually say. Even my friends don’t…” Hollander looks down at the table. He folds his bar napkin into a perfect square, making the dingy material look tidy from only his touch.

Ilya leans back, looks hard at Hollander and his sudden, though familiar, resistance to eye-contact. Yes, it is true that Hollander is awkward, does not know how to let loose and he must be the world’s worst shmoozer. Yet Ilya thinks that Hollander must have amassed a following of coworkers who would readily fall on the sword for him in the same way he always rallied his team as captain— Hollander is simply and beautifully sincere. In everything he says, in every one of his strong, unrelenting beliefs. The right people, they cannot resist such an incredible quality in a human being. And whereas before he managed teammates, their weaknesses and strengths to put pucks in the net, now Hollander manipulates his coworkers, finding new ways to meet his political goals and table his issues for the franchise.

“I think,” Ilya says simply. “You will be the best commissioner the MLH will ever have.”

That makes Hollander laugh, though Ilya is not joking at all.

“I doubt that. I’m just trying to make it a better game, if only a little” Hollander says. “Even when some of the people I work with don’t make me feel very inspired—I’m not talking about Niko,” he clarifies when Ilya shakes his head.

“You’re not not talking about him either.” Ilya doesn’t want to talk about his troublemaking son, the familiar, uneasy pit in his stomach that it brings up. Worse to have Hollander’s eyes on him—the only man left in the world who knows the full depth of Ilya’s shame and failure to parent.

He diverts the topic. “You will never get fighting outlawed Hollander, so you can quit it right now.”

“They said that about chicken wire in boxing,” Hollander retorts.

“And look at the sport! It’s boring now!”

Hollander gestures to the back where, sure enough, some bastardized fighting event is on the TV. Ilya waves it off.

“Fine, tell me about terrible coworkers instead.”

Hollander smiles tightly. “Where do I even start? It’s a lot of greedy people at the top.”

“That’s no good. You may have to take over, poison the director.”

“You should stop saying that in public. If he ends up dead tonight—"

“Then you will go and win the day! Easy victory for Commissioner Hollander.”

Hollander shakes his head, and he looks so bright, so alert sitting across from Ilya that it’s like the years just drip off his shoulders.

“You married?” Ilya asks, before he can stop himself. Why does he ask? It’s not his business.

Hollander ducks his eyes and Ilya takes a big drink from his glass.

“No. Never quite… I’m not… No one really knows about me either.”

Right. Ilya feels like an idiot. “I guess I would have heard.”

“No real contenders I’m afraid” Hollander says, wry smile on his face. Ilya tries very hard not to feel any kind of way about information that has nothing to do with him. Hollander hesitates, says, “A few long relationships, but no one really ever got my dedication to work, you know?”

“Because you’re trying to get fighting outlawed,” Ilya says, so he doesn’t have to think very hard about Hollander’s words. Yes, Hollander is an absolute psychopath about his work ethic, but the people he dated were fools not to see that as a positive quality. A man who can execute on his life is few and far between. A man with limitless drive is a thing to be adored. Paired with intensity, focus, and an ass as peachy sweet as sugar… It amazes Ilya to know no one has scooped him up.

“Maybe,” Hollander says, glibly. “Was… You have to tell me if you don’t want to talk about her…”

“Svetlana?” Ilya fidgets, fingering his wedding ring on his middle finger habitually. “No, like I said, it was a long time ago. You can ask.”

“Was she it for you?” Hollander asks, and his eyes are bright, empathetic in such an earnest way—

“No,” Ilya snaps, decisive. And then immediately feels like a hamfisted fool, a disgrace to his dead wife. “I mean, yes but…no. I… Is just too complicated to have anything long term after she dies,” he babbles, then realizes what he’s said to Hollander, and wants to walk it back. But why? Why walk it back when it has been true for three years?

“I’m not looking for long term either,” Hollander says firmly, and Ilya’s mouth falls open staring at him. “Complicated, like you said.” He acts so nonchalant, as if his cheeks were not bright red.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, not even registering his mouth moving.

For a moment they are both silent. Ilya cannot be picking up the signals he’s reading from the extremely attractive, temperamental man who walked away from him almost nineteen years ago. He must be mistaken. Roofied or unconscious in a coma ward somewhere. Poisoned by his assistant coach in a power grab.

But when Hollander looks at him again after an intense staring contest with the table, Ilya is left without another option but to open his goddamn mouth.

“How long are you in town for?”

Hollander licks his lips, does that thing where he doesn’t blink for anything. “I’m leaving tomorrow for New York, red-eye flight.”

Ilya swallows around disappointment. He must have misread—

“But I’ll be back in two weeks. I’m helping my parents with some things with their house.” Hollander looks like he’s almost holding his breath. “I might come by?”

“I might be around,” Ilya says, as if he wouldn’t move heaven and earth on his schedule for this. One last chance at Hollander, to see him, to have him, to hold him, to fuck him—

“You’re still such a dick, Rozanov,” Hollander says, and Ilya winks, his heart beating double time.

He and Hollander walk back to the late-night shuttle stop and ride it in silence to the stadium. Hollander doesn’t cross his legs, letting his knee knock warmly into Ilya’s as the shuttle jolts around the corners of a sleepy campus.

Their cars are the last in the parking lot, an awkward distance from each other yet still in sight.

“I’ll text you when I’m back in town,” Hollander says, and his whole body is awkward. He is always so bad at goodbyes. Ilya doesn’t feel much better, shocked and elated as he is. He nods his head.

“Yeah. See you in two weeks.”

He turns around so he doesn’t do whatever awkward hovering thing that Hollander is doing. There’s a pause before he hears footfalls in the other direction. Ilya doesn’t feel better for avoiding the self-consciousness, the vulnerability of standing across from Shane Hollander. What is he, twenty again? He finds himself turning on his heel.

“Hollander. Stupid. You are one who forgot something now.”

Hollander stops, hands going to his pockets to check he has his phone, keys, wallet, neuroticism in hand— Ilya bridges the gap between them and Hollander looks up when he finds nothing missing.

Ilya doesn’t have to do much work to touch his face, cluing him into the moment. Like picking up a play, Hollander reads the vibe instantly, his eyes coming up, glancing around to check they are along before zoning in on Ilya. The glow from the light posts is orange and fiery in his eyes. Hollander is moving in before Ilya has time to wonder if this is okay.

Kissing Hollander is a new experience. It’s nothing like kissing that younger version of him even if the taste is the same. But the way this new Hollander kisses is better, is more confident in taking, hands coming up, clutching at Ilya’s face, running through his hair. Ilya gives as good as he gets, rolling with the wave of his intensity, feeling Hollander’s breath coming out hard against his upper lip as they screetch towards desire. They fight for a moment, until Ilya groans, puts his hand on Hollander’s back as if saying, let me… and then Hollander is nothing but sweet surrender. Ilya eases the pace like lowering the throttle on his motorcycle, takes Hollander’s lower lip into his mouth to nibble and relishes the breathy sound he makes when Ilya finally pulls off.

Soft strength, that wonderful Hollander mix again.

Ilya forces himself to step away because he is old enough to know how a red eye flight on too little sleep will wreck Hollander’s body at this age. It’s worth it to see the cross look on Hollander’s face, the blatant hunger for more.

“See you in two weeks!” Ilya all but skips away back to his car.

He knows he is grinning like an idiot the whole time he drives home. Who could help himself? Even if it isn’t anything but the promise of a hookup, it’s a hookup with Hollander.

It’s more than he thought to expect from the rest of his life.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

waymos are automated, driverless cars-- my only concession to this being the future is that they are way more prolific.

cultural note-- in the soviet era, it was very common for russian men to kiss each other platonically and familialy-- this is something that ilya's father SHOULD have been doing to show affection to him as soviet era man. i understand the practice has declined, so ilya's fixation on it has to do with his father not with the mores of the time. <3

+

Ilya is not one to deny his good moods. When he’s feeling happy, he wants everyone around him to feel that way too. His team is taking to it in spades, ragging on him to the point he has to put on skates to chase them around the oval... until he gets tired and makes them do agility drills with the cones.

Nikolaj is more skeptical when he comes down in his running clothes and finds Ilya waiting to join him by the door.

Nikolaj raises an eyebrow, removes his earbuds. “You’re doing cardio? You?”

“What? I run sometimes.” Ilya grunts as he bends and does up his running laces.

Nikolaj looks dubious, shakes his head. “Not that I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t know everything about my life,” Ilya protests, “Now I leave you in the dust or no?”

Nikolaj laughs, pulls out his phone.

After a couple miles at a sedate pace, Ilya is shouting for his son to turn off the damn camera.

Nikolaj giggles, literally running in circles around Ilya’s bent over form.

“Do you smoke?” Ilya huffs out.

“No, of course not—”

Ilya waves it off. “Not bullshit answer for parent. Real answer please.” Nikolaj shakes his head, keeping his lips shut. Ilya goes on, “Very few told me not to smoke as child, but if they did, I don’t think I would have listened.”

“…And you’re telling me to listen?”

“You want to hear my lungs?” He reaches out, yanks Nikolaj and drags his flailing son close to his chest. Nikolaj splutters and laughs, then groans.

“Mind the neck, old man.”

Ilya releases his son, but doesn’t take his hands off of him, tilting his head to look carefully at his neck where a bruise blossoms at the base.

Ilya clicks his teeth. He saw the game last night, knows the cause. “Martine got you bad. You been getting into more fights?”

Nikolaj finally wiggles his way out from Ilya’s hands, his giddy boyishness moving to frowning mulishness.

“Assholes just trying to look good. Smearing the homophobe,” he says.

Ah. Bullying Nikolaj because he called the goaltender a faggot. Whether actual outrage or virtue signaling for the audience, Martine was bullying the bully and using hockey fighting to hide it. Honestly, it’s the kind of move Ilya would pull in the past, blood in his smile. He had a nice sense of justice, felt that he was a force for karma on the ice. But this isn’t the sort of thing he should mention to his son. He doesn’t like seeing Nikolaj hurt, even if it is earned in the sport— and that is how Ilya knows parenting has made him soft.

“Get some ice on it,” Ilya says. “I’ll buy some peas.”

“We literally have a million ice packs at home. You act like I don’t have a team physician."

“Nothing beats frozen peas, trust me.”

They walk home. Nikolaj gets stopped by fans now and then, but it’s cold outside and no one lingers or makes a nuisance of themselves. Ilya is fortunate to never have been a staple in Montreal aside from his name being cursed during his impish heyday. Now, he can do his business almost entirely anonymously in a way he still cannot in Boston or LA even all these years later.

Ilya goes to the store to buy frozen peas and butchers his French, as usual. Astonishing that over half of Europe can speak English but Montreal categorically refuses. It’s a stubbornness Ilya can appreciate about his adoptive home.

Nikoaj is, of course, fluent. The little bastard.

“These aren’t even cold,” Nikolaj protests, when Ilya throws the bag at him. “The outside is colder than these are.”

Ilya tries to stuff them under his shirt and gets a proper rise out of his son at the idea of walking around the trendy streets of Montreal with a bag of peas poking out of his collar.

It’s hard to get a real rise, so Ilya always relishes it when he succeeds.

“You trying to lose weight?” Nikolaj asks, just outside of the house, perhaps trying to even the playing field. “Is that why the cardio?”

“I am a healthy Russian man,” Ilya protests. “I don’t need to lose weight.” Besides, there’s no way that starting cardio two weeks before seeing Hollander would make any impact. He just… He doesn’t know.

“Whatever you say, old man. Stopping carbs will do better than anything else.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. Fuck that. Pasta is his.

All Ilya gets for his cardio is shin splints and aching lungs, but at least it gives him something to focus on for the two weeks. He keeps playing over that first meeting in the office. Hollander looked so good at the desk, the seat of power. So smooth, so in control. That tight control has always made Ilya want to ruin him in delicious ways, fold that control (and Hollander) in half beneath his hands. Who knows what Hollander is into these days though, if he still likes letting Ilya have the run of him. Hollander has had a whole sexual history that doesn’t include Ilya. No contenders, he had said about marriage, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t plenty of greedy, unworthy applicants in the mix.

Two days before Hollander arrives Ilya trims his bush, trying not to squint overly long at the grey hairs mixed with the dark blond.

He glances at himself in the bathroom mirror where he stands on a towel. Ilya tenses his muscles a little. He’s kept most of his muscle mass from athletics through weight training. It’s just that without the insane exercise and youthful metabolism, the pasta and lovely carbs have stuck and accumulated to his body over the years. Whereas before his muscles were cut, deep divots along his body, now there is almost no interruption, just the soft swell from his solid, sturdy trunk to his chest. Some belly for sure, a fat ass.

He shouldn’t feel self-conscious, he looks great for pushing fifty. Just annoying that Hollander is looking so delicious, still so in control of his weight where every other earthly man flags.

Ilya sighs, annoyed with himself. “Fuck it,” he murmurs. Hollander saw him in his sloppy coaching sweats and still emanated a kind of ‘fuck me’ vibe that made Ilya’s mouth fill with drool. Hollander has always been a freak and Ilya firmly believes more confidence, not less, is pretty much the solution to anything.

He cuts a few more hairs around his cock so he doesn’t look too wild—

Then Ilya realizes that he never gave Hollander his new number, and he stops, mid snip, staring at his dick. His poor, lonely dick which will now be Hollander-less.

Fuck. How the hell are they going to coordinate this?

Ilya cleans up, throws his cut hair in the trash and the towel in the wash. He showers, trying to think of solutions. He toys with texting old teammates to see if anyone has Hollander’s number before he feels entirely too stupid to even try.

Thankfully, when he wakes up the next day, there is a message on the top alert. From “Jane.”

Jane: Hi. This is Shane Hollander.

Ilya grins, rolls over in his too large bed, phone pulled up to his face.

Me: You never changed your number, Jane? Never even lose your sim card once?

Jane: Oh my god. Please change my contact name.

Me: No. 😉

Jane: That’s childish.

Me: 😘

Hollander doesn’t answer, so Ilya pokes him again.

Me: How did you get my number?

Because while Ilya’s contacts (Hollander included) are forever saved in the cloud, he’s changed his number at least five times since he first got his phone number. Dropped his phone in a river once running from an agressive swan, crushed in a fight gone wrong, a memorable looping amusement park ride. So how did Hollander…

Jane: You’re in the MLH directory. As a parent.

The thought of Hollander lightly abusing his position for Ilya is entrancingly hot. Ilya grins.

Me: You sneak into data base?

Me: Misuse of power for a good fuck. I am proud of you, Hollander.

Jane: Fuck off.

Ilya chortles.

Me: Sorry. I meant a VERY good fuck. The best fuck.

No answer, which Ilya expected.

Me: What time are we meeting?

Jane: 8pm Friday maybe. I have dinner with my parents before.

Responsible son, as always.

Ilya looks at his shared calendar with Nikolaj and grins to see that his son will be flying out to Minnesota that night. He has time to drop his son off at the airport with a good heckling and be back in time to meet Hollander.

Ilya shoots him his address, pleased by the boring thumbs up he gets. So predictable.

Ilya presses and holds on Hollander’s text saying that’s childish, and swiping through the emojis until he reaches a wide, disembodied tongue and sends it as a reaction.

He gets a few dancing bubbles before they disappear, and Ilya feels a grin split his face. No one is easier to get a rise out of than Hollander and Ilya thrives off the attention.

The next day, he drops Nikolaj off at the airport.

“You seriously need to stop doing this,” Nikolaj says, a familiar argument.

“When you’re eighteen, you can Uber or Waymo to your hearts’ content. Throw all your money away on fat tips and Black XL. Until then, it is rides from your papa, Nika.”

Nikolaj sighs like this is pure suffering. Ilya sees a few of his Metro teammates loitering outside the entrance, vaping.

Ilya tried to raise his son differently than his own father raised him, lots of physical affection, the familial loving kissing, three times for blessing. He still remembers the first time Nikolaj wriggled away from him at twelve, pushed back when Ilya tried to kiss him before his junior hockey game when they were living in LA. Illya collapsed in the stands next to Svetlana and groaned in Russian, Our child is too American to bless his father anymore.

He scoffed like his eyes weren’t wet and a parental heartbreak stewing in his chest. Svetlana tucked his face against her shoulder without looking up from her phone and petted his hair while multitasking running her business empire.

We knew this would happen. American Russian child. He doesn’t want to stand out.

Ilya pouted. She kissed his cheeks instead, three times, and then on the lips. It helped. Maybe foolish of him to chase after that perfect Russian childhood in his Americanized (now Canadianized) son. Westernism is in Nikolaj’s blood. Hell, he refuses to speak to Ilya in Russian in the house anymore since Svetlana died, as if the haven of Russian language died with her.

Ilya is old enough to know to pick his battles sparingly. He lets go of the kisses and the Russian, seeking his home language in books and the odd Russian bodega deep in the city. These airport rides Nikolaj will have to put up with for a while longer, as well as the warm hand on his shoulder, rubbing and trying to communicate the same love as a kiss. Less than a year left of this before Nikolaj will turn eighteen and move out, will decide how much to see his dear papa…

“Make them cry,” Ilya says.

“Duh.” Nikolaj pops the door open.

"Hey," Ilya says, making his son pause. Glance back. Ilya swallows. “Be careful.”

Nikolaj looks at him sideways, whole body posture communicating in hockey? You idiot, you want me to be careful in hockey?

Ilya shakes his head. “Watch out. If assholes come after you, keep your head on your shoulders, don't go off at the mouth or—”

Nikolaj scoffs, and gets out of the car without another word, the door slamming on Ilya’s face. His own anger flairs. Ilya knows how it sounded, he didn’t just mean for Nikolaj to stay calm, though that's obviously part of it, he just meant to watch himself around those aggressive players looking for vengeance or to showboat because of his slur. It's fucking exhausting to always be taken at the worst meaning by his son.

Nikolaj bangs on the back of the car for Ilya to open the trunk and Ilya thinks pettily of keeping it closed. In the end he waits out a few hits and kicks, long enough for Nikolaj’s vaping Metro teammates to crank their heads at their crazy rook before Ilya clicks to open the hatch.

Nikolaj grabs his bag and stalks away like a little storm cloud of black athletic wear, his dark curls bouncing.

Ilya gives a little wave to his son’s teammates who look amused by the whole affair. The Metros are not a bad team for his son, even if they are too entertained by his behavior. It’s the Rozanov effect to be so charming, so Ilya knows it cannot be helped.

Ilya signals and scoots his way out of the Montreal-Trudeau airport at a snail’s pace. He plays over the conversation again, trying to work through it the way his therapist is always encouraging. It’s hard not to see his son as something of a pissant, but he knows also it is just a teenager’s sensitive reaction to his first public humiliation.

For Nikolaj, talking about it is not going to be easy for at least a few years, Ilya comforts himself. He remembers the first time the press went after him for his partying ways, the idea they would stick their noses in his business set off a powder keg in Ilya’s chest. He wrote up a clap-back post that was all piss and bad grammar before handing it to Glenco, a veteran, looking for vindication. He was laughed out and then handed over to the team’s agent for more PR training for his trouble. It took a good long time for Ilya to think coolly about it.

What was it Hollander said, about not being done cooking at seventeen? Ilya hopes that’s the case because Ilya and Nikolaj can’t both be assholes.

Ilya drives home, stopping to buy a couple bottles of wine—one overpriced non-alcoholic for himself— and a four pack of Fevertree ginger ale as an option. It’s only one night, he reminds himself in order to stop him from buying a second pack. Maybe he’ll drink the leftover bottles afterward, sweet gingery spice to savor the memory of his hookup with Hollander.

Once home, Ilya showers, goes to his closet naked and pulls the first shirt that calls to him. The black tee shows his arms well, and makes his chest look strong. He adjusts his slantwise cross, dragging the clip back and petting the pedant down for a long moment. He wears sweatpants because he looks good in them and Hollander clearly didn’t mind before. Besides, he doesn’t expect to be wearing them for long.

He just has time to settle onto his couch before the doorbell rings. He shoves himself off and toward the door.

Ilya doesn’t fight his grin at seeing Hollander through the glass panes.

It’s nice that they don’t meet in alleyways these days. While they are still recognizable figures, their time has passed and no paparazzi gives a damn about two old hockey players meeting up on their own time.

Ilya opens the door and Hollander’s hand half hides a bottle of wine behind his leg, as if unsure about bringing it, before shoving it out into Ilya’s hand.

“Hey.”

Ilya takes the bottle of wine, laughing as he gestures Hollander inside.

Hollander looks good. Buttoned up, but that is usual. His grey slacks cup his thighs well, leading to a supple leather belt. He looks a little on edge, his face scrunching up in charming confusion at Ilya’s chuckles.

Ilya holds the bottle up. “We are truly adults now. I bought wine too.”

That makes Hollander ease to a small laugh. Even for a hookup, it just seemed like the right thing. More mature than their usual tripping over each other up stairs or onto the bed. He likes that they are on the same page.

Ilya sets the bottle down, letting Hollander glance around his Montreal home. It’s worth living a bit away from the city to own an actual house in the Roxboro area.

“How does my home measure?” Ilya presses.

“I like the molding,” Hollander says, and Ilya shakes his head, trying to force back his grin at such a boring answer.

“How many properties do you own now?”

Hollander thinks, giving an awkward shrug. “Eight. Maybe nine if you count my parent’s house.”

Ah, the business that brought him here. He looks a little worn in the eyes.

“They are moving?”

“Yeah,” Hollander says, but he doesn’t say anything more about it.

“Wine?” Ilya asks, turns to pull down some glasses from the cupboard to avoid seeing Hollander’s face when he adds, “Or I have that Fevertree ginger ale.”

When he turns back, he’s treated to a smile. “Ginger ale, since you have some.”

“It’s good for the stomach, you know,” Ilya says, hoping he is not too too transparent.

Ilya pops the ginger ale cap against his fancy marble counter top and pours into the glass. He feels Hollander’s eyes on him as he fights to peel the foil on his non-alcoholic wine.

“You don’t drink?”

Ilya deliberates for a moment but shakes his head.

“No. I finally take the advice of everyone around me and get medicated.” He crinkles his eyes. “Now they can only blame my charming personality for why I am so popular.”

Hollander soaks that in, and Ilya is pleased that he only looks more intrigued, not less. Of course, Hollander knew and fucked him when Ilya was at his craziest even without a diagnosis. Ilya suspects that Hollander’s always liked a little edge, a little mess with his sex. Even from that first night in the showers, a moment when Hollander was stripped of his control, his ability to hide his desire, he’d let his eyes wander… Yes, Ilya has plenty of mess to share, medicated or otherwise.

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have brought wine if I knew.” Hollander looks crossly at his offered bottle, as if chastising himself for not psychically knowing.

“Don’t worry, I know this information is not in MLH database." Hollander's flush deepens and Ilya's grin crooks. "Besides, Nikolaj will drink it. It’s a nice bottle. Hopefully it will improve his taste. The boy likes Molson. It is just embarrassing.”

“Isn’t he seventeen?”

“Oh, you never had a drink before eighteen?” Ilya is pleased to see Hollander’s conceding smile.

Ilya pulls the cork, pours himself a glass of de-alcoholized wine.

Hollander sticks out his ginger ale and they clink. Ilya takes a sip of his drink. It’s not as good as the real thing, but it’s not complete shit. A drop escapes the corner of Ilya’s mouth.

Hollander watches Ilya wipe his lip with his thumb with unblinking interest. They observe each other openly. The plain wanting is gently hot. Swelling embers. A slowness to the burn that Ilya relishes.

“You know, I haven’t had ginger ale in years, actually,” Hollander says suddenly. “Before the last time I saw you, I mean.”

“Ah,” Ilya says, feeling like a fool, but curious why Hollander went along with it.

“Too much sugar,” Hollander explains. “But drinking it again, I don’t know. It’s nice. Nostalgic.”

“What do you drink now?” Ilya asks, not sure how he feels about the word nostalgic applied to him.

Hollander frowns. “Don’t get on me for it.”

“Never.”

“Perrier.”

Ilya feels a shit eating grin spreading over his face. Hollander shakes his head, smiles back.

“Wow. It is too bad you don’t do sponsorship anymore.”

“Rozanov—”

“You could be face of world’s most boring drink.”

“Pretty sure that’s Aqua Panna,” Hollander argues, somehow an even more boring retort.

Ilya’s arousal is slower to stir than it used to be, but he’s been on a long, low cook for almost two weeks. Plenty of time to stoke the flame. He’s not the same overheated brat that would fuck someone the moment the door opened, but he isn’t a patient saint either. More than that, he doesn’t want to waste any more of their limited time. Hollander’s only here for one night, after all.

“What happened to Mr. Rozanov. I kind of liked that,” Ilya says, kicking off his counter to get into Hollander’s space.

“Go fuck yourself with that,” Hollander says.

“Mr. Hollander. Deputy Commissioner,” Ilya purrs. “Such a mouth on you.”

He sets his wine down, pleased when Hollander does the same with his drink. They’re almost equal height, perfect for kissing.

He dips in, lips catching the side of Hollander’s dirty mouth, which falls open for him, inviting him inside. Ilya’s hand wanders over Hollander’s waist, feeling the pleasing, taut curve of it, following the bow of his back to the crest of his ass. He dips his fingers into the trouser band, just curling there. Kneading, pinching the flesh.

Hollander gasps into his mouth, his own hand rucking at Ilya’s shirt, tracing the side of his ribs, up to his chest. Fiddling a nipple between his blunt fingers. Just like before, Hollander rebels against Ilya’s drive to control the pace, but as Ilya grips him, fights back, says let me in not so many words, Hollander subsides into almost blissful surrender. Hollander moans, loose and hot, a sound Ilya hungrily swallows up.

Ilya presses, forcing Hollander’s hips against his own, feels a growing hardness meet his own. He pulls back, his large, greedy hand crawling over Hollander’s face, the redness in his cheeks, the near-wet desire in his eyes. Muggy and overheated. Ilya feels a kick in his stomach, a sweet aching pleasure that Hollander still loses himself—Hollander is still so generous to give Ilya this fucked out look, the vulnerable rawness of a man releasing himself so completely. He’s so fucking glad he hasn’t lost it in the sheets with other men for fucking posturing sex bullshit.

Ilya groans, kisses Hollander hard. He opens like a flower, tongue moving with Ilya’s every push and demand.

“Fuck. Hollander.”

“Rozanov.”

“Don’t move,” Ilya orders, stepping away. “Not a fucking. Centimeter.”

“Where are you going?” Hollander asks, bemused. Sprinting to the shuttle stop doesn’t faze Hollander, but his cardio isn’t up for a good make out session with Ilya Rozanov, turns out. His chest moves up and down, his hand reaching down to fumblingly cup his hardening cock.

“I get cushion. Maybe two. I must blow you but also need my knees tomorrow.”

“Oh fuck,” Hollander says, when Ilya comes back with two dense pillows from the couch, using the counter to leverage himself down to the floor.

It takes an embarrassingly long time to get down and still fucking hurts, but it’s worth it to see Hollander’s overwhelmed expression, to see his hands flexing on the counter. The last shreds of restraint— Ilya can fix that. Pull the remaining threads so tight they snap and his controlled hands will be pulling Ilya to choke on his dick.

Ilya kisses his clothed thigh as he works on his belt.

“Looked so fucking good at the commissioner’s desk,” Ilya says, nudging his face into the silver v of Hollander’s open zipper, inhaling the salty musk of his cock through his black underwear.

“Rozanov.”

Ilya sucks against the cloth, leans back and gazes up at Hollander’s dark, needy eyes.

“Powerful. So much control. Be your fucking desk soon. Bet you already have plans to destroy walls, renovate, own whole fucking space. Wanted to get on my knees under your desk for your next meeting. You’d try so hard to be so good, so expressionless for work meeting and world domination. But you’d let me fucking wreck you for everyone.” The thought of Hollander gripping the edge of the wood, eyes shut and furrowed just like now, losing his mind in the public office. Trying so hard to be so good, so in control—

Letting Ilya make him not be.

Hollander’s hands leave the counter, find Ilya’s head. Pull through his longish curls, squeeze and yank in time with the twitching of his hips.

“Stop teasing.”

“Say please.”

Hollander shudders. He’s fully hard now. Ilya sucks a wet hot spot into the fabric, feeling the base of the cock beneath his lips twitch. There’s an oozing of wetness growing against Ilya's forehead where Hollander's erect tip presses. Pooling pre-cum. Perfect.

“Please,” Hollander whispers.

Ilya grins against his cloth covered dick and readjusts his throbbing knees. He pulls Hollander’s pants down, dropping them to the floor with his underwear.

His pubic hair is salt and pepper, a neatly trimmed crown around his heavy, darkly colored cock.

Ilya lets his cheek catch the side of Hollander’s cock first, tongue reaching out just to lick the trunk.

“You’re so… fucking filthy.”

It’s been a while since he’s been such a slut for anyone. Ilya will try to do justice to the praise.

Ilya leans back, sticks his fat tongue out gathering spit in the well of his curving muscle. Loving the way Hollander’s head rolls back, forward, like he cannot stand to look. Must. So overwhelmed that even his perfect posture fails him and he’s hunched over Ilya like an attractive coma.

“Please, please,” he begs. “Please. Rozanov.”

Ilya waits until Hollander’s dark eyes are on him before taking him into his mouth, rolling the cockhead around his tongue before diving in.

Hollander curses, once in French, then in English. His voice is low and scratchy. His hands tug on Ilya’s hair but never push him. Hollander is always so well-behaved and good, even in this. Canada’s politest man getting the vulgarest blowjob Ilya can handle, drool dribbling into his pubic hair, onto the floor.

Hollander sounds like he’s sobbing with every inhale, his hands shaking. Looks so good, out of control, above Ilya.

Ilya’s fingers dig into his peachy ass, thumbs splitting the seam of his sweaty crack and finding the hole. He swirls there, wriggles a thumb inside. Just up to the first joint.

“Oh fuck, fucking fucking fuck,” Hollander groans.

Ilya jerks his thumb against Hollander’s rim, feeling the flesh pull and pulse around him. Hollander’s legs widen, his grip tighter more desperate in Ilya’s hair. He’s lasting so long, such good stamina. Ilya gurgles his approval. Keeps twitching his thumb and sucking and dropping down and up to the head just to swirl, anything to keep the taste of him on his tongue—

Hollander groans, “I’m—”

Ilya gags, relaxes his out-of-practice throat and chokes himself on Hollander’s cum.

Ilya pulls away, swallowing hard and coughing a little.

“Fuck. Fuck. Rozanov.” Hollander collapses against the counter, hands gripping the sides weakly.

Ilya goes to stand, feels a painful locking sensation. He fails.

“Oh shit,” he utters hoarsely, throat fucked out. He tries to leverage himself— He can’t get himself up in any graceful way. His legs are numb, throbbing.

Hollander laughs, airy, sweet. “Come here, give me your hand.”

“No, no,” Ilya says, even as his knees are screaming at him. “I can do.”

Hollander does not listen, grabs Ilya’s hands in a heaving that takes enough of Ilya’s weight off that he can get his feet up under him.

Ilya stumbles stiffly up, tottering into a laughing Hollander whose arms come around Ilya. Hollander kisses into Ilya’s mouth and the wet mess of himself there. Strong arms flex around Ilya, hugging him close, and the low sound of amusement is a warm rumble against Ilya’s chest. It’s impossible to be humiliated with such a sexy man squeezing him, wet cock against Ilya’s sweatpants, freckles crinkling beneath Ilya’s kitchen lights.

"Hi there," Hollander murmurs.

"Hi," Ilya echoes.

Hollander’s posture is loosely flexible like unspooled thread. He looks blissed out, happy, and so fucking satisfied that Ilya feels his own cock twitch. He grips Hollander’s hand, guides it to the front of his bulging sweatpants.

Hollander rips his hand away, and Ilya groans, feeling cross at the rejection—

But Hollander’s hands dip down into his discarded slacks. The crinkle of plastic. He pulls out a pack of lube.

“Fuck. Fuck,” Ilya kisses him hard. “Fucking Hollander. So prepared. Fucking incredible. Biggest damn IQ in world.”

Hollander laughs, breathless and beautiful. His button-up shirt kisses his hairy thighs and spent, wet cock. Adoration is probably the closest word to how Ilya feels, but he wants to blame it on nostalgia, on not having had a man in so long. It’s hard to convince himself that’s all it is with Hollander being so fucking perfect for him in new and startling ways.

Ilya takes the lube, puts the corner in his mouth to tear—

The front door opens and shuts with a bang—

Ilya yanks the lube down from his mouth so fast he almost drops it.

The loose, fucked out expression on Hollander’s face falls into pale shock so fast it’s almost funny.

Nikolaj—

Hollander darts down, grabbing his underwear and slacks, hopping into them at the same time that Ilya desperately tucks his rock hard cock into his sweatpants band. He sees the cushions on the floor, picks them up and flings towards the living room, almost hitting the wine bottle in the process.

The cushions land with twin thwumps just as Nikolaj opens the kitchen door. His son’s green eyes glance inside, then blink hard at seeing Ilya standing there, gripping the counter. Hollander is behind him, facing the other way, a death grip around his glass of ginger ale.

Ilya rubs at his forehead, feels the sheer, sticky feeling of Hollander’s pre-cum on his skin and tries to keep his expression calm.

“Papa? Uh, Mr. Hollander… what are you—”

“What happened to Minnesota, Nika?”

“Snowed out. I texted you.”

“Oh. I didn’t see. Sorry I didn’t get you at the airport,” Ilya says, feeling sweat trickling down the side of his face.

“It’s fine, I Ubered.” Nikolaj looks to Hollander who has finally composed himself enough to turn around.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Nikolaj says.

“We were just catching up,” Ilya supplies, dearly hoping his son doesn’t come any closer and smells Hollander’s cum on his breath. The sweat stench of sex and fluids.

“I should get going, it’s getting late,” Hollander says. “I’m sorry for intruding—”

“You don’t need to…” Ilya starts to disagree, but frustration twists and churns in his stomach with the fear he sees reflected on Hollander’s face. Hollander does need to leave before panic melts him like snow. “…To be so Canadian,” he finishes. “No need to apologize so much.”

Hollander fidgets, not meeting anyone’s eyes, and maybe sooner is better.

“Come. I’ll walk you out.”

“It was nice catching up, Rozanov,” Hollander says, so performatively it is a wonder that Nikolaj doesn’t raise an eyebrow, but Ilya’s son is too busy glancing at his phone, walking around the island to dig around their fridge to point out their bad acting.

Ilya walks Hollander to the door, watching him toe into his shoes, bending over to pull at the backs so he doesn’t damage them. Careful in all things.

Hollander is leaving. This one night is over, Ilya is realizing. The feeling sits like a stone in his stomach, a lot like grief. He ignores it, goes for casual.

“Tomorrow? They can’t ground his plane forever.” Ilya will go shovel the goddamn runway if he has to.

“I’m seeing my parents in the morning and supposed to fly out after for a work meeting, if the weather lets me,” Hollander says, voice so low that Ilya has to crane to hear him. He isn’t meeting Ilya’s eyes— that aching terrible fear of discovery brings the lines to his face, the stress to his brow. Ilya mourns the loose unspool of him that’s been so quickly lost. It makes Ilya feel so heavy and unhappy to be back in this place of anxiety and fear. He’s not aroused at all anymore.

“Let me know if you get grounded too,” he says, halfheartedly. He knows Hollander won’t.

Hollander is polite, so he nods like he might.

“I’m sorry you didn’t—” Hollander says awkwardly. Ilya waves it away. He doesn’t want an apology about not getting off—he doesn’t want the transaction of it all under the light when the wet satisfaction of blowing Hollander was never about getting something back.

“Safe trip,” Ilya says.

Hollander extends his hand for a shake, then looks mortified— his humiliation is the only thing that lets Ilya reach out to complete the gesture to save them both from this hell. Hollander's fingers cold as the outside, a stranger again.

First time Ilya’s shaken hands after blowing a man. It isn’t a good feeling.

Hollander hesitates a moment before awkwardly fleeing, the weighted door shutting quietly behind him.

Ilya groans quietly to himself. He sits in this moment, this same-old feeling that they are somehow always missing each other—

He shakes his head, walks back to the kitchen to see his son looking at Hollander’s wine bottle with one hand and eating from an open bag of deli meat with the other.

“He brought this? Doesn’t he know you don’t drink?”

Ilya takes the bottle. “No. We haven’t seen each other in a long time. It’s why we were catching up.” He puts the bottle away on the shelf. “We’ll save it for a good game for you and teammates to celebrate.”

“All my games are good,” Nikolaj scoffs, distracted.

Ilya turns, hands going into his pockets and freezing at the crinkling sound. Somehow, in the chaos, the lube packet ended up in his pocket. Fuck.

He takes his hand out, crosses his arms. Tries not to feel so fucking bad for himself for missing perhaps his last and only chance to fuck Shane Hollander. It’s not an easy task.

Nikolaj doesn’t seem to notice anything, either because they are good at covering their tracks, or his son is simply that self-centered, Ilya couldn’t care less. He asks his son for the new call time, ignores his protests about getting an Uber, and sets his alarm to drive Nikolaj to the airport tomorrow.

Ilya climbs the stairs and feels his sore knees creak as he lowers himself on the edge of his large, Hollander-less bed.

He’s going to be feeling it tomorrow. No way he’s getting into skates for practice with his team. Supervising only.

He looks at the picture of him and Svetlana hung on the wall. They got married in Vegas. A big, beautiful, gaudy affair. She always made tacky things exquisite. Her curly head is tossed back, mouth open in laughter, eyes shut. Ilya so much younger, gremlinish and mugging the camera. Her mini-dress, his open silk shirt. She makes him miss Russia, the simplicity of that youthful, effortless energy. Of not giving a single fuck.

He still remembers when he told her about Hollander, how she listened with a thoughtful expression and said I like him for you. How she said, it explains so much, and she was appreciative of knowing it, thought it good so she could understand Ilya more.

He doesn’t know how things got so turned around, how he ended up here with her gone, no one to commiserate. He thinks that if she was alive, she would love to hear the details of his blowjob with Hollander, would have teased him for his hallpass. She’d fucked another man once, a pudgy, moonfaced man who only wore open shirts and tight shorts that pinched his heavy thighs and languid cock; lush in every sense of the word. Ilya hadn’t minded back then, not really— well, he had consented at least. They had a fight about it both before and after, but that was mostly Ilya’s ego talking, something Ilya felt he had to do to make space for himself, prove to her and himself that he cared.

Truth is, he loved hearing about her sex with a stranger, hearing Svetlana’s critique and praise. She fucked someone so different than Ilya and he felt through her comparison, each ‘he was so…’ that Ilya was given a glimpse into how she saw him too, how she loved him. Ilya adores sex in all it’s odd pieces, and Svetlana had been his lifelong companion in that appreciation, sharing every erotic experience going back to them being children. Sticky words, strange thoughts, malformed and dripping.

He lost someone he could tell everything to, who told him everything. He misses being filled up with her words, her experiences.

Misses her smirking commentary about his poor choices.

Misses that he can’t share tonight’s story with her.

Misses that he missed Hollander again…

Ilya lays back, throws an arm over his head to blot out the light and the yawning emptiness of his bed.

Ilya drives his son to the airport at dawn, doesn’t bother with a pep-talk or a request to watch himself, just cups his neck and tells him that he loves him.

Nikolaj sighs, says “You too,” even as he looks put upon about it.

Ilya goes home, puts on his coaching clothes over bruised knees and has a second cup of coffee. He takes a picture of the lube, thinking about sending it to Hollander, but senses Hollander would only feel guilty. He probably would have sent it anyway if he was younger, would have loved to make Hollander feel anything, even if it was bad.

Now it would just feel cruel.

Hollander has always been so jumpy, so fearful. Ilya’s sure last night only reminded him of every reason why they are a terrible idea.

Funny, but last night, on his knees, Ilya had forgotten every last reason they didn’t work out. The marvels of sex, he supposes.

Pity the high never lasts.

Chapter End Notes

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thank you for all the support! crazy that there are more than three people reading this! <3

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

basically i decided that i want this story expelled from monopolizing my every thought sooner than later. may update daily until the old man hollanov yaoi demon is exorcised.

TAGS UPDATED

Ilya should stop being so surprised by Hollander. Like a bad penny, as the English phrase, he seems to keep turning up in Ilya’s life.

Jane: Hey.

Ilya squints at the text for a long time after a game. The lights are dim, the arena shifting into night mode, so his eyes might just be straining, but it looks like Hollander is texting him.

He did not think that would happen, after how pale Hollander turned, how frightened and small he seemed at the thought of discovery. A reminder of all the why nots.

But that does not change the notifications blinking on his screen.

Ilya opens his phone, reads the three messages sent one after another.

Jane: Hey.

Jane: Congrats on the win. Your team has a good seed for the round robin.

Jane: I saw that the Metros are playing the Admirals again in New York City for the Stadium Series. Will you be coming into town to watch Niko?

Ilya feels his heart beat in double time.

Oh fuck, sweet fuck yes.

He wonders if Hollander knows because he is following his old team, or maybe just keeping on eye on Ilya’s son for more bad behaviour— Ilya doesn’t care which it is.

Ilya checks his schedule before he gets ahead of himself— McGill has a bye that weekend in the round robin. It will still be a tight trip for Ilya with games on either side, but life seems to be handing him a win and Ilya is nothing but grateful.

He opens the message and shoots a photo of the lube over, pleased that he took the picture after all.

Me: I did need to return this.

Three bubbles dance, then stop, then dance again.

Finally,

Jane: After the game?

Ilya reacts with a water droplets emoji and a sweating emoji like he’s all of seventeen again.

Jane: You are such a child still.

Me: Sorry you spend all your time with annoying old men and I am surrounded by youth.

Jane: Pretty sure everyone on the team is more mature than you.

He’s more right than he knows, it makes something warm swell in Ilya’s chest, smothering that malignant grief-like hole that developed when Hollander left.

Me: Not what you said at the arena. Legendary leadership and capable sexy hands, you said.

Jane: I did not.

Me: Sexy, fuckable hands that you wanted in your mouth. Am pretty sure I remember. I was there.

Hollander doesn’t respond, and Ilya resists the urge to palm his cock. The locker room might be empty, but there’s always someone around this big dusty stadium.

Hollander is just too… So…

Jane: Go fuck yourself.

The pause is everything, the gap where Ilya can picture him stewing, red, debating, fighting himself. Grappling for control over Ilya’s wildness. Yes. Yes.

Me: Other way around please

Jane: See you in a week.

Ilya sends a kissy react and pockets his phone, eyes feeling bright and exhaustion a forgotten thing.

He thinks fleetingly about trying to find a woman, a one night stand to exercise this prickly, embery urge— but he knows it won’t do the trick. Sex is not the issue; Ilya has always been able to get sex. It’s just sex with Hollander… is different somehow. In a category so its own that Ilya is staggered by the realization. Time dimmed it but the reality is so vivid, pulsating. No one else would do now. He almost can’t stand to wait, wants to hop a plane this very moment—

Ilya is an adult. So he doesn’t do anything more than fantasize richly about it on his drive home and almost run a red light in the process.

Nikolaj typically wrinkles his nose when Ilya tells him he’s coming to New York to watch his game.

“Why?” he complains.

“Because I am your Papa. I support my son if I want to.”

“Embarrass more like. Please, please don’t wear the jersey.”

Ilya wears the jersey. When the jumbotron finds him he makes a point of twisting in his seat to show his son’s number beneath their shared name in Metros colours. 

His son plays well, lets his enforcer take on a fight for him and manages to stay on the ice with no penalties (an absolute miracle lately). Ilya wonders if he’s on his best behaviour because he knows Ilya is watching and Nikolaj so hates his lectures. Either way, a win for Ilya.

It shouldn’t surprise Ilya that the reporters find him after the game when he’s waiting in the hallway outside the locker room for his son. They are like dogs; Ilya usually likes dogs, but not these kinds. Mannerless mutts trotting around with noses only good for finding trouble.

“Mr. Ilya Rozanov, what do you have to say about your son’s latest use of inappropriate language on international television?”

Ilya feels his gut tighten, that same uneasy, nausea swirling around. He doesn’t want to show it.

“No comment,” he says, jaw tight.

“Some people think getting off with a fine is too light, Scott Hunter has actually tweeted something to that effect. What is your opinion?”

“No comment.” He doesn’t want to weigh in on this, and double damn Scott Hunter anyway.

“You’re coaching for McGill these days. Does this reflect the way you handle your own locker room?”

Ilya feels a vein throb in his forehead at the implication. This absolute fucker. Ilya would never—anyone who would ever be asked would answer that Ilya has a zero tolerance policy, always pushed down anyone ‘stupid and uncreative enough’ to use bullshit slurs in their chirps.

But since he raised his son, they assume he must have learned it from someone. Well, it wasn’t Ilya, wasn’t Svetlana. Has more to say about this stupid fucking society and bullshit machismo hockey culture than anything else.

He can’t say any of this without throwing his own flesh and blood out for the senseless cruel pleasure of the dogs who just wanna sniff at the blood, yapping, yapping, yapping.

“My team treats everyone with respect. I hold them to a high standard. That’s all I will say about this.”

“But don’t you think—”

“No. Comment,” Ilya says sharply, and part of the pleasure of growing older is the way his whole body has become so firm, so intensely authoritative that even the pathetic, sniveling press shuts up sometime.

The door to the locker room finally opens and Ilya shoves past, perhaps with too much force, not giving a damn about the players turning towards him.

Ilya b-lines for their head coach, Marleau. In a show of irony considering the age-old Bear/Metro rivalry, Marleau has taken to leading his new team to squash the Bears twice already this year. Marleau catches Ilya’s stormy look and pulls him aside while his team changes and stretches.

“Fucking cocksucking motherfucking reporters,” Ilya hisses. Marleau pats his shoulder sympathetically, even if he’s also sending distracted orders to his assistant coaches, the captains, and the PT’s who scurry up to give their reports.

The rush of too many bodies reminds Ilya of why he never wanted to coach on a professional level.

“They’re just kicking up old shit,” Marleau reminds him. “Most people have forgotten what Niko said already.”

Ilya feels his own back go up, that doesn’t feel especially good either for some reason, even though he knows intellectually that the sooner this vanishes into the rearview, the better for his son.

Marleau continues, “Niko got fined 25,000 and put out his apology—that’s enough, right?”

“Are you fucking watching what your team says?” Ilya snaps, before he can help himself, and an icy look crawls over Marleau’s face. Ilya is abruptly reminded of how much time has passed between them being teammates on their first team together. The decades since in different towns, becoming different men.

“Don’t take this out on me, Ilya.”

Ilya rubs his face, forces out a “Sorry,” he mostly means.

Nikolaj finally comes over, showered and changed. His dark curls are still wet, springy and damp, but does nothing to soften the signature, I can’t believe you’d embarrass me by showing up, look on his face. Ilya can barely stand to look at him, the anger is so hot and kicking in his chest.

He’d usually smother his son in a bear hug, humiliate him by cradling him under his arm with his height advantage.

Today Ilya stays away, mostly looking at the space above his head as he waves his hand.

“Just wanted to say it was a good match. I’m heading out.”

“Oh. That’s… fast.”

Hah. Only wanted when he doesn’t want to be around. Sounds about right.

“Have a good night,” Ilya says. “I’ll see you at home in a couple days.”

“What the fuck ever,” Nikolaj mutters. “Old man.”

Ilya grits his jaw and turns, avoiding looking at his son as he darts back into the hallway and away from the reporters.

Ilya’s blood rushes too hot under his skin. He’s not his father, will never be his father, but he fucking wishes he could unload on his son, say all the fucking shouting, awful things in his throat that his father used to say to him, just to have them out, just to see that cockiness made small for once. People would probably thank him, the damn rainbow community with Scott Hunter certainly would—

Ilya is still fuming as he waits in a long queue of Waymos to go to Hollander’s apartment. He slams the door on the poor white car shut.

He tries to take deep breaths, like his therapist taught him, but only succeeds in furious panting like a mad bull. Thank god the car is automated so no one can hear his heaving and freak out. He’d be kicked to the curb if there was a cabbie.

Ilya makes a concerted effort to get his evening back on track for Hollander. He adjusts his clothes, peeling off his son’s jersey and putting on a leather jacket from his bag.

Despite all his efforts to self-soothe, he’s still fucking irate by the time he’s ringing the doorbell at Hollander’s apartment.

They haven’t texted since the morning, and Ilya was too pissed to do the courtesy of telling Hollander he was on his way. So help him god, if Hollander isn’t here—

The door swings open on Hollander in his usual buttoned up geddup.

“Sorry, I don’t bring wine,” Ilya says, brushing past Hollander brusquely.

Hollander shuts the front door. Ilya doesn’t know where he’s going, but he opens the door to the bathroom confidently and shuts it just as confidently before fumbling another door, the correct one this time, to the living room and kitchen.

“Rozanov...”

“Where do you keep your glasses?”

Ilya batters around the cupboards until he finds some, yanking the handle on a fancy, hyper modern faucet to fill the cup.

Jesus, but he isn’t even in the mood for a fuck.

He reminds himself, this is his only chance. His final last chance at some stupid memory to hold onto for the rest of his pathetic fucking life. It just makes him fucking madder.

He makes himself turn around, confidence on like a cloak, prepared to mash his way through this until the goodness of the fucking can erase his piss poor mood—

He finds himself pulled up short when he sees Hollander in the light, properly sees him. Hollander’s eyes are red, his face worn. He looks puffy, swollen and ill-used.

“Fuck. What happened?” Ilya asks, rage cooling a bit.

“Nothing happened. Why the hell are you banging around like this? Is this how you enter an apartment?”

“Was fucking thirsty,” Ilya says. “Were you crying?”

Hollander is quiet.

“Miss my dick that much?” Ilya says, it tastes cruel coming out and he should expect the way Hollander’s lovely face cracks ugly with anger. He pushes Ilya against the countertop.

“Shut the fuck up. You haven’t changed at all, just the same fucking asshole you always were.” Real heat, real bite to the words that makes Ilya want to flinch away. Hollander won’t let him, kissing hard, too much teeth, and yet so lacking warmth that it makes Ilya sick. Like Hollander is rushing through the movements, banging the two pieces of them together to try and make them fit. It’s such a corruption of their every previously effortless moment together that Ilya feels like he might be sick.

Ilya shoves Hollander away, wipes at his bruised mouth.

He braces himself for more anger at the rejection, fists tensing for some physical grappling. Instead, Hollander looks a moment from crumpling and Ilya’s anger completely abandons him for panic.

Ilya angles his face down to meet Hollander’s gaze which bores furiously into the kitchen tiles.

“Hey, hey. What’s going on?”

“Just. Can’t we just?” Hollander grapples for control, his face moving too quickly for Ilya to track. “Can I just give you what you came for? Can’t we just do that?”

That fucking hurts. What Ilya came for. He bites back a quip about Hollander putting out like a restaurant. If Hollander wasn’t freaking him out so much with his glassy eyes, Ilya thinks he’d let him be the target for that beautiful fire in his chest. As it is he finally counts down from ten and focuses on the weight in his feet, grounded to the earth. Fuck his fucking therapist.

He’s almost steady when he says, “I’m not in the mood anymore.”

Hollander scoffs. “Well I’m fucking sorry if I’m not doing it for you—”

“No, it was…” God Ilya can’t even defuse the situation right. “These fucking reporters. Asking me about Nikolaj. What he said. I just fucking lost it. It’s not all about you, Hollander. Just bad fucking timing.”

Hollander blinks a little. Wet eyes startled. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Ilya needs to unclench the arch of his back, the way he feels looming over Hollander even when they are the same height.

Ilya looks around, finds a couch and collapses into it like a sack of rocks, glass in hand. It’s Hollander’s so not only is it ergonomically and oddly shaped, but it’s also the most comfortable fucking couch of Ilya’s life. He groans, wants to build a summer home in the creases.

“What did you say? To the reporters?” Hollander asks.

Ilya pats the cushion. “Come sit on comfy fucking couch. The comfy fucking couch,” he corrects himself, unsure why he always sounds so stupid around Hollander.

Hollander does so, sitting a bit away, leg folding up under him. The wary space between them stings, but mostly Ilya’s too fucking exhausted to chirp at Hollander’s demureness for what was meant to be a hookup.

“I tell you what I said to reporters if you tell me why you look like crying.”

Hollander makes a face at that.

“I’m not crying. It’s just boring, personal bullshit,” Hollander tries.

“I don’t care. You will tell me anyway, so I don’t feel so fucking humiliated for talking about my stupid, beautiful, probably homophobic son.”

Despite his bravado, Ilya doesn’t know what he’ll do if Hollander doesn’t agree. Storm out maybe. Hide in the bathroom and jerk-off until he can get a boner going so they can pretend they never tried to make this moronic talking thing happen.

Thankfully, Hollander spares him the embarrassment.

“It’s my parents.” Hollander swallows, a dry sound. Ilya holds out the half-drunk glass of water. Hollander takes it, doesn’t drink, just looks intently at it.

“Are they well?” Ilya’s sixth sense tells him he’s about to feel like a huge fucking asshole for storming in and making a mess, he just knows it.

“It’s… my mom. She’s having memory issues. They think it might be… Alzheimer’s.”

Ilya is such a huge fucking asshole. He scoots over, hand on Hollander’s knee, just wanting to be closer.

“Fuck, Hollander. I’m sorry.” It’s pathetic, so paltry. Yuna Hollander has been a force to be reckoned with for so long—a frightening mind, so keen and exacting in all of her care for Hollander.

“Stupid. It’s not even bad yet. I know you already had to deal with this,” Hollander waves his hand, as if angry at himself for bringing it up. “I don’t want to complain to you with all you had to… the stuff with for your dad.”

Ilya is startled by the comparison. “My father is my father, but Yuna Hollander…” Ilya gropes for something to explain the difference. “No one in the world is like Yuna Hollander.”

Hollander cries. It’s the freakiest shit Ilya has ever seen because Hollander’s face does not curl or crumple, it stays precisely still, flat. Tears moving down smooth planes, eyes glassy and distant. Like he’s trying to be in a different room than his crying body.

Hollander doesn’t chase the tears with his hands, or turn away, just glances up and away, and down in a cycle.

Ilya aches for him, this strange man. He gently pries the water glass from Hollander’s hand, sets it on the floor. Ilya cups Hollander’s neck, pulling his head towards Ilya’s chest.

“Hey, hey come on.” He murmurs in Russian, soothing things his mother used to say, It’s rain sometimes, it’s okay. That’s fine. You’re okay. Sweet sunshine.

Hollander breathes heavy, deeply. Painfully.

“Is this why they leave their house?”

Hollander nods. He tells Ilya about getting the diagnosis a month ago. They caught it early, because David knows his wife so well, so loves her sharp mind that he made her go see a doctor after only two moments of forgetting things she might otherwise have known. And Yuna loves David so much that she didn’t fight him.

“She’s been doing so well, but then she went out to get me from school— My fucking highschool. She took the bus and walked to the school without her phone and my dad couldn’t find her,” Hollander hiccoughs. “If something happened to her—”

“She’s safe, right?”

Hollander nods. “They found her, but it’s too much for my dad to handle alone, he can’t watch her every minute. They want to move into a home with other couples with the same issue— they do that sort of thing now. It makes it less lonely for the spouses, I think. We explained it to my mom, and she wants to move for him, but it means they have to leave their house.”

“She is a good woman, she loves David,” Ilya says. He tries to imagine how his father’s wife would have benefitted from that and pities Polina, not for the first time. Her poor lot of listening to Grigory calling for Irina, Irina, every day…

“I just can’t help but think that if I was still living in Montreal, I could help more, they wouldn’t have to move like this,” Hollander says, and there is fury underneath all that sadness—fury at himself.

“That would mean giving up your career, right?” Ilya asks. “She would not want you to do that.” Ilya’s thumb strokes the fine hairs at Hollander’s nape, petting with the grain. “I think she must love your plan for hockey world domination.”

Hollander burbles a sound that might be a sad laugh. Ilya keeps at it.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave you the idea.”

Hollander is definitely laughing now, wet and miserable, but laughing nonetheless.

“Every time something happened in my last few seasons, she kept saying ‘well, if you were in charge it wouldn’t be like this.’ Like, so completely pointed.”

“Not subtle.”

“No,” Hollander agrees. “Not at all.”

“And you said she wants to move into this home with your dad. You trust her enough to know that she wants that?”

“Yes, but…” Hollander exhales against his chest. “I keep waking up in the morning and the first thing I think about is that she… She’s going to be afraid, when she wakes up and doesn’t know where she is. They had that house for forty years.”

“Maybe, but she won’t wake up with it by herself. No, with David there your mom will never wake up alone.”

Hollander’s head lifts then, boring into Ilya with an aching look. Ilya pets his hair, guiding him back to his chest. Hollander leans his ear on Ilya’s ribcage. Listening to his heart, maybe. It’s strong, steady for just this purpose. Ilya rocks his torso a little, too much practice at being a father to think a little rocking won’t make any emotional hardship a little easier to bear.

When his arms tire of rocking, he just holds Hollander, a curled mass of warmth to his body.

“What happened with Niko?” Hollander eventually mouths against his shirt. Ilya almost thought he fell asleep.

“I cannot go after that,” Ilya says, voice quiet. “It’s not even the same thing. Just me, blowing things too big. Out of proportion. Really stupid.”

Hollander turns his head, chin digging into Ilya’s chest. He has that dogged look in his eye, the same one that narrowed his features as he took a turn, chasing after the puck.

Don’t be a fucking asshole, it also says.

Ilya tries to find the simplest, shortest way to explain.

“The reporters found me after Nikolaj’s game. They asked me whether that kind of language is used in my locker room at McGill.”

Hollander hisses through his teeth. “Jesus. That—”

“It was dirty question. Upset me, that’s all,” Ilya says, even now he feels that thread of anger, but it’s so much quieter here with ire in Hollander’s eyes. Not directed at Ilya, but at the reporters. “My locker room doesn’t,” Ilya is quick to reassure. “I tell them I have no tolerance for lazy chirping with slurs.”

Hollander huffs a small laugh. He’s still looking at Ilya, eyes open and encouraging. Ilya finds himself speaking more than he means to.

“I thought I taught Nikolaj that too, but I am thinking, calling slurs lazy, it is not the same thing as… as teaching why they are bad.” Ilya struggles to find the words.

“They still can’t blame you for this. Niko is his own player.”

“I am his father.” It devastates him most days, how much he loves his son, wants the world for him, yet is so wounded by his behaviour.

“That doesn’t mean… Look, if I kicked a dog, it wouldn’t mean anything about my own parents, it would be me that did it.”

“You would never do that,” Ilya says, tickled by the very thought of proper Shane Hollander in his pleated slacks and tidy leather shoes kicking a poor doggie. “And you are not seventeen. Not a child.”

“Then he’s still learning. They should give you leeway.”

“I don’t want to give him leeway,” Ilya finally admits. “My father… he used to. He used to yell so much. Everything. All the time. That I am lazy, that I disappoint my country, that I am cocksucking…” even now the slur won’t come out of his mouth. Stupid. It was not even in English, the real word.

Hollander’s hand strokes his chest, over his heart. It grounds Ilya.

“I promise myself I won’t be like him, but today… I really wanted to. So badly. And I thought about how hurt, how betrayed, how pathetically sad Nika would look, and I was excited.” Ilya cups his eyes for a moment, the terror at his own feelings.

Hollander makes a soft sound. “You didn’t though, did you?”

“I can’t bear to hurt my son.”

“Because you aren’t like that.”

“But then, I am so afraid of being my father, that I cannot say anything at all. I stay quiet. Passive. I don’t even know what my son thinks of gay people. He may be a piece of shit and I am too afraid to know. That is a failure to parent.”

Hollander pulls Ilya’s hand from his eyes. Ilya is scared to see judgement, but Hollander’s eyes are strong and warm. He drags Ilya’s hand to his mouth, kisses the palm.

He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his mouth warm on the dry skin, wetting it a little. Ilya feels choked up suddenly. He hates to cry, but he feels it dripping down his face.

“Jesus Christ,” Ilya mutters, pulling Hollander as close as he can. “Being parent. Being adult. It is so hard.”

Ilya wakes with a vibrating from his pocket—a phone alarm. He lifts his head up and holy fucking shit his neck hurts from sleeping with it craned back over the cushion. He winces, groping around in his pocket to turn the vibration off.

He doesn’t know where he is for a moment— his fatigued brain throws the word dementia at him in some sick association and he feels unwell, a swooping of his stomach that magnifies the disorientation. But then he looks down, feels the warm heat of a body on his and see’s Hollander’s face leant up against his chest. Curled up around Ilya, seeking his heat.

The sick feeling drops for a warm spreading pleasure at waking up together.

Ilya turns off the alarm, regretfully noticing the time. Getting to La Guardia is always such a fucking pain.

He pets Hollander’s hair for a moment, thinking about last night. He doesn’t want to leave. Wants to sit and melt into this moment, this feeling of having Hollander that he never let himself even picture— He knows the precise shape of it now, could estimate the weight in kilograms and warmth in celcius, and it just makes pulling away even harder.

Ilya extracts himself regretfully, uses his phone’s flashlight to help find a blanket to replace his warmth.

The light must stir Hollander because his eyes blink open.

“Ilya…?” His voice is sleepy, not all the way there. The only reason he calls Ilya by his first name, he is sure.

Ilya’s heart thuds. “Shane. I have to go.”

“No,” he drones. “Stay.”

“Wish I could. I have to catch my flight, okay? Go to sleep.”

He pets Hollander’s head until his breathing evens out and he drifts off. Ilya wonders how long Hollander has been worried about his parents, carrying all this quiet panic around even as he throws himself into work. He’s not good at stress, that much Ilya remembers. He wishes he could take some of it with him, but he couldn’t even offer his body as a receptacle, the way he usually can. Sex, release.

Right, that’s the only reason he’s disappointed.

Ilya shakes himself, smiles dryly. More proof that they are old as fucking dirt— only boring old men could plan a hookup and spend the whole night talking about family and illness and crying on shoulders.

Worst of all, Ilya doesn’t regret it, not a bit.

It just sucks that it was their only night together. With the round robin coming up and Hollander’s job—he doesn’t know the next time they will be able to meet. This plan for an oh so easy, casual, one night stand is not as easy or casual to follow up. Some part of him is so sure that if he lets the time stretch between them again it will be another decade before they see each other again.

But his team is waiting for him, Nikolaj will be home today, so Ilya turns the doorknob lock and slips out of Hollander’s house and his life once again.

Chapter End Notes

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thank you for all the kind encouragement, makes it a lot easier to go feral and let these chapters loose.

did i mention the difficult morass of adulthood in the tags? methinks i did!

Chapter 5

Ilya pores over bullshit office paperwork at the kitchen table. He has a home office, but the lights in the kitchen are the brightest. He doesn’t need glasses yet, but he feels the need encroaching with every year and Ilya regrets that they will never look as attractive on him as they do on Shane Hollander.

Just thinking about Hollander makes Ilya’s hand twitch to flip his phone over. No messages, still. In fairness, Ilya has not sent any himself, it felt awkward; You wanna try and go again? I can fuck you dirty… No, I promise not to cry all over your chest this time. Yeah, right.

It’s hard to imagine provoking a good fuck with sexting and filth when that was his last showing. Ilya flips the phone over again, promising himself he won’t look at it and will finish up this fucking paperwork—

Ilya jumps when he hears the door slam, a vestige from the other night, even though he knows it is only Nikolaj coming home. Even after three years, Ilya still swallows back the Russian greeting that was part and parcel of their lives for fourteen years before.

“Welcome back,” he calls stupid English greeting, picking up his papers again. He does not hear a response, but perhaps his son has not heard. Ilya hears feet jogging up the stairs, then down a few minutes later.

Nikolaj breezes into the kitchen, bag in hand.

“I could have picked you up from the airport, you know?” Ilya says dryly, glancing through the health results for two of his team members.

When Nikolaj is silent again, Ilya finally twinges to the unnatural tension in the air. He looks up to see his son open the laundry cupboard, shoving every smelly piece of clothing into the wash and slamming the lid hard.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You want to pay for a new laundry machine? I know your deal is good but…”

He trails off when Nikolaj turns around, fury on his shaking shoulders.

“Oh, are you talking to me again?”

Right. Two nights ago at the game. Ilya was less than his usual warm self. Ilya should have texted, he thinks. He was wrapped up in Hollander and thinking about Yuna Hollander and the well of empathetic sadness in his chest… but maybe that is simply an excuse. He did not text Nikolaj because Ilya still does not know what to say to his son. So he said nothing.

He cannot say nothing now, so he takes a deep breath.

“Sorry, I was just… the reporters were fucking dogs.”

Nikolaj smacks the on button, sending the washing machine rocking with a steady groaning through the kitchen. He turns on Ilya, his lips tight, pulled back over his teeth.

“Yeah, I saw that too. Way to try and make some space between us— how you would never say it or let your team, just your shitty son.”

That’s not fair. “I don’t tolerate it in my locker room.”

“Can you do it without throwing me under the bus when you know it’s how everyone talks, even if they do it behind your over oversensitive back—”

“Maybe some people are not assholes, did you think of that?”

“Is that what I am? A fucking asshole?”

“No, you are seventeen, which is same thing!”

Nikolaj scoffs, angry wetness gathering in his eyes.  “It’s nice to know what you really think when I’m not playing hockey and making you look good.”

His son still thinks it’s about Ilya’s legacy. He’s so, so wrong.

“What you said, I am more disappointed in you for than I have ever been in my entire life,” Ilya says, so calmly, so evenly. He realizes now that his father did so much wrong by yelling, because Nikolaj looks like he’s been struck and Ilya is close to whispering. “You used hate slur against people. I still love you, but it’s how I feel.”

Nikolaj blinks hard, wounded like an animal. Ilya is not surprised to find the lash coming.

“That’s not fucking fair, that’s not fucking fair! Everyone— I’m not the only one who—” Nikolaj throws his bag down, he swipes at his tears. Yes, Ilya has never used disappointment like this on his son before, and it is potent. Sharp.

“Fuck you. Faggot, faggot, faggot, faggot! Are you disappointed now?”

Ilya is wordless, mouth trembling. He is disappointed. It bleeds silent down his face. Nikolaj curses and rubs his eyes.

“Guess you’re lucky. ‘Cause when I turn eighteen, you’re never going to have to put up with me again because I’m leaving.” Nikolaj slams the door to the kitchen, followed by the thundering of his footfalls up the stairs.

Ilya sits for a moment. He sets the paper down, his hands numb and shaky like he’s been touching the ice in the rink too long.

He sighs and looks at the ceiling, the words echoing back at him. They don’t hurt that much, because he knows Nikolaj is just saying them to be upsetting, to shock, to throw it in Ilya’s face. They don’t not hurt either.

He steps outside to his backyard, his phone in his hand before he quite realizes it. He dials, even though he’s almost positive that he won’t pick up—

“Rozanov? Give me— guys, I need to step outside for a moment,” Hollander says, and Ilya feels a curl of unhappiness in his stomach.

“You’re at work—of course you’re at work. I should not have called—”

“No, no, no,” Hollander says, which—

“Three nos, really?” he murmurs, distantly.

Hollander huffs. “I need a break anyways. I’m in my office now. What’s up?”

“Is just… More complaining.” He’s such a fucking numpty. “Not important.”

“Yeah?” Hollander doesn’t ask anymore, just holds the space with that gentle inquisitive sound and Ilya finds himself cradling the phone closer to his face.

“I think I am worst parent in the world.”

Hollander exhales, patient and listening.

“You’re not.”

Ilya finds himself explaining the whole messy fit. His son’s tears, his words, the failure and hurt spinning in his chest like a knot, the certainty that Svetlana would know how to handle it better.

“She was always the serious parent. The bad guy,” Ilya says. “She didn’t mind— said she never wanted to marry coach-parent. A coach-parent,” he corrects himself. “Sorry, I don’t know why I make so many mistakes when I talk to you.”

“Mistakes— oh, you mean grammar?”

“You probably don’t notice, used to worse, hm?” Ilya says, trying to shift the topic, even if it highlights the way he looks like an idiot around Hollander.

“No, I don’t notice. I pretty much always understand what you mean,” Hollander says.

Ilya stays quiet, can’t help but think he is one of the few. It makes him feel even stupider and more seen when Ilya was only trying to deflect.

“At least Niko knows how you feel now. That it matters,” Hollander says.

“Yes, it will be real comfort when he moves out and never speaks to me again,” Ilya says, then feels like a prick. “Sorry, I know you’re trying to help.”

“I’m not great at it.” Hollander says, and there’s a hint of self-deprecation over the line that makes Ilya smile. “You’re better I think.”

“I have been parent for a long time. But you are good too. You… listen.”

Hollander laughs lightly, as if Ilya is saying a joke. Using false praise. He is not. Hollander does not know how precious, how patient his attention is. How Ilya is like a young sunflower, head turned to chase his warmth, sustained by it.

“I haven’t parented, so I may be wrong, but I do think Niko has got to get over it.”

“You know you sound like your mother now?” Ilya cannot help but say. Hollander makes a sound, almost hurt yet curious. Smooth, bringing that up, even if it is true. “Sorry, I just mean… You are so clear now. Good expectations for people. Not taking shit, I guess.”

“I never took shit.”

“You took shit from me all the time, said thank you and asked for seconds.”

“You asshole.” Hollander laughs.

Ilya’s lips twitch. “It’s nice now, you defend yourself. Don’t let anyone in your work get the better of you.”

“I always wanted to be as confident as her,” Hollander admits.

It looks good on you, is something Ilya categorically cannot say, but he’s emitting it with every pore of his body. He licks his lips, desperately thinking of ways to extend the call, to parlay another night from their brutal schedules. He doesn’t care if it does not look casual, if he comes off as desperate. He wants Hollander so much that it hurts.

“Mr. Hollander?” drifts from the phone, distant.

“I’ll be right there,” Hollander says, away from the speaker.

Ilya grips the phone tighter, eases up. Right.

“World domination comes knocking,” Ilya quips.

“Fuck off with that. It’s an equity in sports meeting.”

“Oh, very sexy. First thing to fall before you. Put it on its knees.”

“That’s not…” Hollander makes a sound, irritation or something else maddened. Ilya grins fully. “Look, I have to go,” Hollander doesn’t sound like he wants to.

“Bye,” Ilya says, before he says something stupid like Don’t go or thank you for letting me bitch about my son and bring up your Alzheimer mom.

Ilya is an idiot, but Hollander hadn’t made him feel that way. He doesn’t know what it means, or why there’s a brightness trying to break out of his chest, as if trying to leave him and chase the distance between them.

Jesus fucking Christ.

There’s usually some fucked up balance in the universe. Ilya doesn’t believe in karma, but he has noticed that when some things go to shit, other things work out. Like losing the Olympics in his home fucking country, only to win the cup in his adoptive North America in the same year. Losing Hollander but gaining Svetlana, gaining a life with her and their son.

Things with Nikolaj have settled into a cold status quo. Living around each other, rather than with each other. Ilya still dutifully tells him he loves him (he does) and tries to drive him to the airport, but Nikolaj has stopped telling him the correct times and the first time Ilya wakes up to find a note on the counter explaining that Nikolaj has already Ubered, Ilya knows that he will never get to bade his son farewell for a flight again.

He has a good cry about it upstairs and complains to a picture of Svetlana about her son. It’s silly but makes him feel better to imagine her kicking a fit back at him, correctly pointing out that all his worst qualities are Ilya’s.

The counterpoint to his shitty homelife is that his team is on an incredible hot streak and manages to cinch the round-robin, taking the cup home. Ilya lets them pour champagne inside and pretends not to see them approach him with the half-full cup, dumping the foamy mess over his head and posting the video online. He walks around the rest of the night smelling like an alcoholic even if he hasn’t touched the stuff since the time he wanted to know whether the side effects with his anti-depressants were legit. (They were).

His team has a couple more display games left in the year, fun “fuck around” time, as his assistant coach likes to say, and Ilya has to attend stupid banquets to fulfill academia bullshit posturing, but his work year is coming to an end. All that is left after those is to set up spring and summer training schedule.

Ilya honestly does not want the season to be over. Nikolaj turns eighteen this June. Svetlana did the math once and checked that they must have conceived in October, and Ilya said yes, my horniest month. Right when the season was getting underway and he was competitively fired up, but before his body was worn down and shedding weight faster than he could put it on.

These are his last few months with his son... Even if they aren’t getting along, Ilya doesn’t want them to end. He feels a yawning, terrible gap as he walks through his house. All the nooks and crannies that used to be full will soon be haunted by Ilya alone as the last remaining denizen.

And if Ilya’s time with a family does have to end, he doesn’t want it to be during his slow season, when Ilya has nothing to throw himself into…

Which is why it is a goddamn blessing when a representative from the MHL reaches out.

They want to film a retrospective of his and Hollander’s rivalry to display at the awards show this year, some feel good wank piece. Nostalgic bullshit of the glory days of hockey.

Ilya usually doesn’t go for these things—he’s never wanted to be the kind of player who has all his trophies in the entryway, clinging desperately to former glory. Ilya has a life he’s living now, thanks. No time to think about games almost twenty years ago and all his awards (three cups, one less than Hollander, innumerable MVPs and not a single Lady Byng sportsmanship trophy, he’s proud to share).

Ilya doesn’t cling to that past, but this promo isn’t about the hockey, it’s about Hollander. And Ilya has never been over that.

Still, he will look like an idiot if he is the only one who agrees. He texts Hollander a screenshot of the email and asks if he’s seen it.

Jane: Of course I’ve seen it. What are you thinking?

Asshole. Always putting things in Ilya’s corner.

Me: Am thinking it might be worth revisiting my many victories over you. For the league.

Jane: 🏆 🏆 🏆 🏆 vs 🏆 🏆 🏆

Jane: 🤔 🤷🏻‍♂️ 🤷🏻‍♂️ 🤷🏻‍♂️

Ilya is so startled he laughs.

Me: Who teaches you to text? You lie about being around boring old men all day.

Jane: I’m still online. It’s not like emojis are a new invention.

Ilya grins, typing out a response, but Hollander beats him.

Jane: You’re not afraid of them examining us?

Ah. That is a consideration. Is Hollander that worried? Ilya is quick to reassure him so as not to let this fine fish off his hook.

Me: I don’t think anyone ever had a clue about us. And if they did, they would hide it anyway. The league is like that. And we are past our time. No one cares about old men.

Jane: Speak for yourself. I’m not old.

Me: older than me and I am very old man.

Jane: You’re not old either. It’s just the cigarettes catching up with you.

Ilya guffaws, smiles dopily at his phone. He doesn’t feel old, really, not around Hollander at all. A man truly past his prime would not drop to his knees for Hollander’s great cock, Ilya can’t help but think.

Me: so you’re in?

Jane: What?

Three dots dance, dance again. The message saying what? is deleted and Ilya stares at it, tries to guess what was so incriminating in it that Hollander felt like he had to remove it. Ilya toys with the edges of his phone case and considers what he might have to do to persuade Hollander. He doesn’t like this “old glory days” attention almost as much as Ilya, but if they can spend three days in a hotel together…

Jane: If you are.

Ah, he was playing it cool then— as if he can, because Hollander is always so easy for Ilya. Ilya sends a thumbs up. And then a string of trophy emojis.

Me: 🏆 🏆 🏆 🏆 🏆 🏆 🏆

Jane: What are those?

Me: MVP awards.

Hollander thumbs down his message and Ilya grins.

The shoot is scheduled for three days in Montreal, which is deliciously long. It is like Easter and New Year’s all wrapped up in one weeking, and Ilya feels like a giddy child. There is no way he and Hollander, even old and useless as they are, will manage to fumble a good fuck this time.

In the lead up, the shooting team are getting a little b-roll of Hollander working in his office, something he calls Ilya to kvetch about.

“Why are they even interested in that?” Hollander complains.

Ilya shrugs. “It will look terrible compared to b-roll of me running my award-winning team. I guess they want to make the contrast between us very clear.”

“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”

Apparently, the segment they are filming is for a ‘friendly rivals’ sort of things. The Lady Byng sportsmanship trophy is being renamed to the Scott Hunter trophy, something so baffling that Ilya has to call Hollander to make sure.

“He is gay,” Ilya says. “Does not mean he is good sport because he literally loves fellow man.”

“It’s more of a diversity and visibility thing,” Hollander admits. “There was a call for it at the board meeting and Lady Byng was the compromise.”

“He’s so bad at sportsmanship he gets in fight with you! You with the cleanest fight record! He must have said something terrible to earn that.”

“Yeah, he’s an asshole,” Hollander agrees, demurring the more that Ilya pushes on the real reason he and Hunter fought all those years ago.

A few weeks later, Hollander arrives in Montreal, meeting Ilya outside the arena of his college, the same parking lot they kissed in. The anticipation makes Ilya bounce on his feet when Hollander’s rental car finally drives up. The film crew is already set up to film every bit of their meeting in case it’s usable. Ilya can see how tense Hollander is to have all this attention focused on them as he walks over to them, but Ilya doesn’t care. He knows they are almost beyond suspicion at this point.

“Hollander!” Ilya says and clasps him in a big bear hug before Hollander can overthink it. The smell of his cologne, spiced but controlled, almost cool, is a pleasant balm on Ilya’s nose. He feels Hollander’s hands curling at his hip as Ilya slaps his back once, twice for good measure, and then pulls off.

“Good to see you.”

“Yeah. You too.”

Hollander peeks around Ilya’s bulk to see the camera team, as if expecting them to jump down his throat, but no one does anything of the sort.

“That’s great. That’s the kind of sportsmanship we’re trying to show,” the director says, paying more attention to the monitor than to them. It takes her four minutes of talking with the gaffer before she shakes Hollander’s hand properly.

Not a hockey fan, Ilya can surmise, but maybe some sports filming experience for how she sets them up on the ice, telling each of them to enter from opposite doors. She at least has a sense for the drama.

They aren’t geared up, just in skates. Hollander wears a taupe puffer jacket and Ilya an oversized sweater he can get hot in. Gloves and sticks. Ilya knows that this kind of publicity is normal for Hollander, sponsorship hog in his youth, but the idea of Ilya and Hollander being the focus must be nerve wracking. Ilya does what he can to showboat and take the eyes off Hollander. If he earns Hollander’s incredulous laughter and chirps, then mores the better.

After filming their separate entries, the director asks them to skate to meet each other at center ice, and Ilya does so without thinking, and is slammed with the memory of that CCM trailer so hard that he laughs the moment Hollander starts to approach him.

“Fuck, do you remember? That commercial?”

“They made us do it twenty times. You were laughing so much—”

“Me? You! Smiling like maniac.”

“Not my fault your serious face is so insane.” Hollander howls with laughter. “Like a psycho clown.”

Whether it’s overhearing the story or the tightness of time, they only do two more laughing takes before they are told by the director to free skate, passing the puck.

Ilya slaps his stick down on the ground, grinning at Hollander.

“Try not to trip on your skates, old man.” Ilya swipes the puck off Center. Teases it between his stick.

“Funny. At least I won’t be out of breath in two minutes.”

Ilya shoots to Hollander who collects it and moves down the ice before kicking it back.

Hollander still looks incredible in the arena. Red-cheeked and brimming grin. The ice must bounce a specific light into his eyes to make them so bright, so crisp and lovely. Hollander’s muscles shift as he cycles around the rink, strong thighs tensing. It’s new, beautiful ice for them and Ilya feels fresh cutting into it.

They pass, but quickly get bored. They start doing increasingly more convoluted maneuvers before they pass, only for Ilya to get tired of Hollander’s dekeing showboating and fight him for puck possession. Ilya cackles as he feels Hollander’s elbows meeting his stomach, the gentle yet furious scrapping of his stick against Ilya’s like a determined dog.

Neither are wearing pads, so they are careful… at least at first.

Eventually, the director reins them back.

“We can’t see anything with the two of you huddled over in the corner trying to poke each other’s eyes out,” she complains.

Ilya uses Hollander’s distraction to kick the puck up and along the curve behind the goal, skating after it— pleased to hear the scrape of Hollander’s skates just seconds behind him.

Keep away seems to be the game, and it’s a beautiful, flush feeling to pursue, to be pursued— tripping over the ice again with Hollander. Ilya has the edge in sprints from his interval training, but Hollander is a marathoner, and his endurance wears on Ilya. Despite the aching of his joints, the burn from his lungs, Ilya thinks he could spend all day like this, sharing the ice with Hollander again. Like birds returning to their natural habitat after migrating for the season, maybe.

A break is called for lunch, and they scurry off the ice. He and Hollander put on blankets so their body temp doesn’t drop too much and eat with the film crew who has had it catered.

Ilya takes one look at Hollander’s chicken lettuce wrap and groans.

“Carbs will not kill you, Hollander. They are your friend.”

“I eat carbs at breakfast,” Hollander says, like that isn’t insane to have only one place in his day for carbs. Ilya has three, sometimes five spots a day. He tells Hollander who wrinkles his nose like it is unfathomable, and Ilya throws a fry at him.

“It’s shocking you didn’t melt like witch,” Ilya says seriously, scooping the lost fry up and folding it between his teeth.

“You know, we’re getting good footage,” the director says, eyes flicking between them. “I thought you might need more coaching, or more… I don’t know. A lot of sports people are stiff, especially if they are rivals.”

“We are charismatic, lucky for you. Too bad award is not for that. Would not be named for Hunter, if so,” Ilya quips, not at all minding how Hollander elbows him, even if the jostling has some of Ilya’s burger spilling onto his paper plate. It's worth it to lick his ketchup smeared thumb and watch Hollander force himself to look away for wanting.

They go back onto the ice to film a little b-roll, nothing as much involved as before. They are not young men, even if Hollander won’t call them old, but three hours on the ice is a lot for them now.

They stagger off, taking the obligatory thanks from the distracted, monitor-hungry director as they head into the locker rooms to change their top layers for something dry. Ilya rubs the sweater over his face, swapping it for a hoodie. He senses Hollander watching him, intense prickling against his neck that Ilya so loves.

He turns, sees Hollander twisting his puffer jacket in his hands as if to wring water from it. Sweat coats his under shirt and Ilya feels his mouth moisten with hunger.

“What hotel are you at?”

Hollander swallows. “Le Westin.”

“Okay, I come over after I shower at home.”

Hollander is quiet and Ilya wonders if he misread that.

“Unless you are too tired,” he says, then realizes, “If you have family stuff—"

“No.” Hollander fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a key card. “I’ll text you the room number. Let me know when you’re on your way.”

Ilya grips the plastic, their fingers brushing like a pinky promise as they exchange it.

Ilya gets home, noting Nikolaj’s car in the driveway. Well. It’s not like Ilya will be missed tonight, the way things have been between them.

“Hey,” he says when he enters. He sees Nikolaj on the couch on his laptop, headphones in. He’s not surprised by the lack of reaction. Ilya scales the stairs to his and Svetlana’s room. Funny, how it’s still theirs, has never just been Ilya’s.

They decorated it together, made love here, fought and made up.

Now he showers, letting the sweat slick salty down his back and into the drain. He is washing his cock and ass carefully, intentionally for another person. He thinks she would approve. Hopes so. He looks at himself in the mirror, seeing all the cracks and sags and decides consciously not to give a damn. Hollander would not give him a keycard if he did not still want Ilya badly. That matters.

Ilya changes into a dark pair of jeans, an easy silk shirt he hasn’t worn since his last one-night stand, and a leather jacket.

He comes downstairs, passing Nikolaj as he digs around the fridge. He grabs a plastic container and throws together a marinade by sight and instinct, leaving a couple chicken breasts to soak the flavor.

He cuts himself a piece of black rye bread he buys from the Russian bodega in town and chews it quickly. God knows Hollander won’t be feeding them anything at the hotel. Ilya pats Nikolaj’s shoulder to get his attention. His son glares as he takes off the headphones at this great inconvenience.

“Chicken is marinading, just put it in the oven on 190 for like 25 minutes. Don’t forget to turn off oven. And steam some vegetable bag in the freezer, okay?”

Nikolaj’s looks Ilya up and down, sniffs a little, smelling the cologne and Ilya resists the urge to fidget. Maybe his looking to get laid look is getting a little too predictable.

However, instead of chirping him, Nikolaj only raises a brow and says, “Whatever.”

Ilya squeezes his shoulder, unsurprised when Nikolaj pulls away. He still had to do it, still has to try.

Ilya drives over to Le Westin, pleased by Hollander’s foresight because the keycard means Ilya can breeze past the front desk directly to the elevator, tapping his way to the twentieth floor.

He hovers outside room 2216 for a moment.

There are no distractions now, no chance of Nikolaj walking in and Ilya has got his issues with his son in-hand enough to focus his whole attention on why he’s here instead of having a breakdown. Third time is the charm, and tonight is their night. A beautiful feeling.

The feeling swells when Hollander opens the door, peering through the crack with that sweet anticipation on his face— Ilya walks in slowly, brushing past Hollander as he does. The door shuts behind him.

“Hi,” Hollander says, shy, awkward, and so wanting. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No.” Ilya is tired of waiting, tired of being a boring adult.

So Ilya doesn’t wait, he leans in and kisses Hollander, tasting the faint mint on his teeth—careful, conscientious Hollander. And underneath that the sour taste of Hollander’s mouth which Ilya likes more.

Hollander moans, hands rising to Ilya’s back and waist to knead as Ilya presses him gently against the wall. He’s so good at handing himself over to Ilya, letting himself be consumed by Ilya’s licking hunger. Generous, is the word that keeps popping up, or maybe selfish. Ilya can’t really tell, with Hollander the line feels thin. Whatever it is, it’s a perfect complement for Ilya.

Hollander pulls at Ilya, guiding him back and towards the bed. Ilya sits, looking at Hollander above him. He has a focused, hungry look on his face that makes his cock stir with interest.

“Oh, finally you suck me. Only took eleven hundred years.”

“I was gonna say you’ve been patient, but…” Hollander says, tugging on the jeans. Ilya is happy to undo the button, letting Hollander tug them off. His boxers follow after.

Ilya scoots up, wanting to save Hollander’s knees. Hollander lies on the bed, over Ilya’s legs, nipping up his thighs, mouth kissing marks into his hairy flesh until he gets to Ilya’s half hard cock.

It’s slow to stir, but Hollander doesn’t seem bothered, licking the outside once before swallowing the limp length in a devastatingly hot move that draws a groan from Ilya. His cock slowly starts to harden as Hollander works himself up and down rhythmically.  

Hollander draws back for a moment, hand reaching out. “Pillow.”

Ilya hands it to him, letting Hollander prop himself up and the new angle is crushing as Ilya’s cock brushes down his throat, twitching with every swallow.

Fuck, but Hollander has gotten expert at sucking cock. It makes Ilya so unjustly furious at everyone who has ever had Hollander’s sweet mouth on them. There was a time when he only knew Ilya…

His hands find Hollander’s hair, his face. Thumb digging as if to get past his lips instead, trying to feed everything of his to Hollander.

Hollander stops, lips widens enough, drool dropping down into Ilya’s bush as he makes space for Ilya’s thumb alongside his dick. He sits there, panting around the twin intrusion, unable to move, and Ilya is thinking again about selfishness and generosity, what it takes to accept all of this from Ilya.

His dark brown eyes are hazy, fucked out as Ilya holds him there, more drool slipping down.

“I’m going to fuck you, Hollander.”

Hollander whines, his hips writhing against the bed.

“Take off clothes. Let me see you.”

Hollander staggers back off Ilya’s cock, legs a little shaky on him.

“You too,” Hollander says.

“You first,” Ilya counters, hand on his cock.

Hollander hesitates, and it’s a shame to see that blissful, fucked out expression draining, replaced by that uncertainty as he plucks at his buttons.

“What?” Ilya asks.

“I don’t… I don’t look like I used to.”

Hearing that from Hollander, with the snatched waist and clear dietary control, is almost enough to make Ilya go mad, point to every wrong thing on his own body, because between the two of them, Ilya definitely changed more. But that isn’t appealing nor the point.

“Are you joking? You think I want to fuck twenty-year-old—”

“God, I hope not—”

“Want to fuck someone my son’s age? Stupid kids on my team??”

Hollander’s mouth drops, plain horror on his expression.

“Rozanov—"

“No, I want to fuck old man!!”

“I’m not old,” Hollander snaps back. “Fuck you. I’m just trying to tell you I lost a lot of muscle mass—”

“Blah, blah, too much cardio. I fuck you anyway,” Ilya says. “I enjoy it the maximum amount.”

Hollander unbuttons his shirt, mostly to throw it at Ilya. Ilya makes a show of taking it and smelling in, his hand working lazily but powerfully over his cock as he takes Hollander in. Hollander did not lie, he’s lost a lot of muscle tone from when he was twenty, but none of his impressive stature. Without the year-round training, he’s turned almost lithe, a wiry hard strength to his thinner body, accenting with beautiful ridges and curves from healed scars. The tiniest, tempting bit of old man belly. His chest is puffier, less toned. Dark, sweet nipples almost pouting.

Hollander’s eyes are on Ilya’s face, on his dick which is working up a little pre-come. Ilya spits into his hand, renews his slow stroking. Hollander’s face goes flushed, so clearly pleased.

“Now pants.”

More easy now, Hollander drops his slacks, clean white briefs. He bends over to pull them off his ankle and Ilya has to take a deep soothing breath to calm the jerking of his cock.

Fuck.

Hollander’s lost a lot of muscle, but his ass is still incredible. Yes, not as tight, not as pert, looser and dropping in a way that looks like it might just fill and ooze from Ilya’s gripping hands. He wants to put his face in there, both hands cupping it. Let it smother him.

Hollander’s ass bobs as he picks up all the clothes, folds them neatly to the side and it makes a warm prickle grow in his heart. This silly, too hot man. Hollander collects lube and a condom, throwing them on the bed by Ilya.

“Now you,” Hollander says, arms crossed, acting so much like the boss in here. Ilya raises a brow to show his amusement.

He sits up, peeling off his jacket and tossing it to the floor, uncaring. His shirt is next.

Ilya resists the urge to flex—to pretend that he doesn’t have a belly and fat clinging to the thick muscle of his arms. Instead he leans back, runs a confident hand over his meaty chest, pulling at a nipple. He owes this confidence to Hollander, after all he just said, and he’s rewarded by the heavy bob of Hollander’s cock as he staggers back onto the bed, as if hypnotized. He follows Ilya’s hand with his mouth, tracing up the swell of Ilya’s midsection, teeth biting into his thighs, the swell of his stomach, up to his chest. He kisses, and sucks at the flesh as if to consume him.

“You’re so fucking huge,” Hollander pants. It’s impossible to take offense with Hollander squirming, as if trying to get Ilya’s big body wrapped around him, his cock poking persistently into Ilya’s thigh.

It’s easy for Ilya to turn Hollander on his side, to press his cock against the seam of his ass.

He drags the condom down his cock and reaches over for the lube, fumbles the bottle for a moment. A rush of slick oil coats his fingers, dripping down his wrist.

Ilya reaches behind Hollander’s balls and pokes a finger inside. Just one. Hollander squirms for it. He’s not as tight as he was, but that is good, makes it easier to justify how he thrusts another one in so fast, anything to make Hollander squirm. Hollander’s head thrashes against his chest at the third one.

“Fuck. Fuck you.”

“I will,” Ilya reassures, “Fuck you.”

He doesn’t have to stretch Hollander out, to be real. He just wanted to investigate this old familiar space. He finds it warm, welcoming, and hot, so he slips his cock in a couple inches at a time until he bottoms out with a long groan.

The metaphor about coming home when fucking someone feels disrespectful, because Hollander is a person, not his entryway where Ilya shrugs off his coat and the weight of the day. But he cannot help but feel his stress leaving his body, a warmth taking his blood as he rushes in and kisses Hollander’s cheek, his hungry lips.

“So fucking perfect,” Ilya says. “So fucking greedy.”

“Keep going, Il— Rozanov—"

“Sh— Hollander.”

The best thing about being old is his endurance. He fucks and fucks and fucks Hollander until Hollander is hoarse, begging, pleading. He has Hollander on his stomach, then his back. Maneuvering Hollander one-handed in a way that makes him moan every time. Hollander’s cock is hard and weeping against his curled stomach. Ilya palms his ass, feeling it give in his hand. The just-sagging flesh squeezes out from between his fingers. He smacks it gently and it tightens the clench of muscle around his cock. His stretch marks have deepened with age and Ilya runs his fingers over them like braille.

Ilya is finally close, so close. He reaches around and grabs Hollander’s red, crying cock and starts jerking it.

He kisses Hollander’s face— feels the tears there. Oh fuck. Hollander’s crying, why is he crying?—

Ilya’s too close to stop, comes with Hollander’s salt on his lips, Hollander only a few moments behind him.

Ilya withdraws, turning Hollander into his body, to face him. Hollander’s hands have risen, trying to wipe away the tears.

“Fuck. I am so bad?” Ilya asks, distraught.

“No, no, no.”

“Three nos, really?”

Hollander burbles a laugh, his breathing hitching.

“It was just…” He hiccups. “It was better than I remembered.”

Ilya is utterly perplexed by this Hollander logic, so he strokes his back, kisses his cheeks for a long few minutes until Hollander’s soft crying subsides to slow, emotional breathing.

They lay against each other, sweaty and content. Ilya relishes this, the having of Hollander.

“Do you need to go back home to Niko?” Hollander asks, and Ilya is not sure if this is his way of asking Ilya to go. Ilya doesn’t plan to make it easy if so.

“No,” he says.

“Okay,” Hollander says, taking a deep, wet breath. Ilya hovers in anticipation, unsure what Hollander will do next. They only slept over once and… it did not end well.

In the end, all Hollander says is, “Can you get a rag?”

That cracks a smile from Ilya. A familiar request after all their hookups. He stands without complaint, knees cracking, and goes to the bathroom, wets two of the tiny hand towels.

He uses one to stroke down Hollander’s release, shiny and pretty all over his chest. Ilya feels like an indulgent magpie for how he feels painting it around, slick and glinty.

“Pretty man,” he mutters.

Hollander shakes his head, mute, but lets Ilya continue his ministrations.

Ilya uses the second rag for Hollander’s face.

“You always cry during sex? Is this new development?”

“Fuck off.”

“Maybe I fucked you so hard you cry. Maybe if I do it again tomorrow, I find out if this is normal,” Ilya suggests.

“Maybe,” Hollander says, maddeningly, but he smiles.

Hollander likes to be babied by making Ilya get the rag, but he never falls asleep without doing his teeth and skin routine. Ilya has left many a hookup with him tidying up in the bathroom, his last view Hollander’s bare ass and the flash of his eyes as they met gazes in the mirror on Ilya’s way out.

This is not that, glancing looks in passing, as if afraid to look each other head on. This is lazy, pleasant, borderline domestic.

Ilya goes to the bathroom with Hollander, ready to steal some toothpaste for his finger, but Hollander holds out a new white toothbrush without saying anything.

“I asked the front desk,” he murmurs when Ilya keeps staring. Ilya grins, takes it and puts toothpaste on it, moving from the sink to the toilet to brush with one hand and piss with the other.

“You’re disgusting,” Hollander says, patting his face with some kind of oil.

Ilya blows a kiss around the suds of Hollander’s toothpaste.

Ilya hip bumps Hollander out of the way so he can spit in the sink and wash his hands. Hollander is still rubbing circles in his face, products with Japanese labels blinking up at Ilya around the sink.

He doesn’t want to go back to bed alone, so he doesn’t, putting his hands on Hollander’s hips and holding him as he pivots and rubs and cleanses his face. Bending over the sink makes a long sigh go out of Ilya and he cups Hollander’s ass just to hold it, thumbs rubbing the worn ridges of his silvery stretch marks. He wishes that he could come more than once these days.

He says so, then sighs. “Twice would not be enough either,” he complains.

“No, it wouldn’t,” Hollander agrees, quietly. It twinges Ilya—they only have one more night together and the not-enough-ness of it twinges. Ilya leans away from the feeling and into Hollander’s neck.

Ilya keeps him in his arms until Hollander’s face is pink and clean, freckles stark and lovely. Ilya leans as if to kiss him, but Hollander ducks his head.

“I just washed my face.”

“I just washed my teeth,” Ilya mimics, showing his pearly fake whites.

He compromises by kissing up Hollander’s neck, feeling the start of facial hair, coarser than when they were both kids. Of course, Ilya’s is worse—becomes half a beard if he skips more than two days without shaving.

Maybe Hollander will let him borrow the razor, maybe they will shave each other. It’s a silly thought, but he’d like to be under the careful attention of Hollander, would welcome the sharp edge of a blade if Hollander was holding it.

“We should sleep, I get loopy,” Ilya murmurs, kissing Hollander’s neck, such that he arcs and moves it. Lush, lush, lush.

Hollander has the self-control for both of them and leads Ilya back to his bed. Hollander is fussy about his sleep, and so is Ilya—they argue for ten minutes about the pillows and have to go to the closet to dig out an extra two so they both have enough for their heavily modified sleeping positions.

“Shoulder,” Hollander says, from his mile-high tower of arranged pillows. “Never healed quite right.”

“Knee,” Ilya murmurs, thinking inanely of all the ways he can lave attention on those shoulders, kiss them better, knead them well.

They are not at all wrapped up, but they are comfortable, and the sound of Hollander’s deep breathing is so soothing and affirming. So contenting that Ilya forgets to worry more before falling asleep.

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

apologies for the delay, this chapter needed an extra day to marinate-- truly kicked my ass for no reason.

Ilya wakes up to movement on a mattress, rustling. It’s familiar, he turns over, body too sleep slack to protest any stiffness as he gravitates to the body in the bed. His hand curls around a broad chest, no fat pretty nipples and he realizes distantly that it is not Svetlana. Only one man it could be, so Hollander, and that is good too. Ilya kisses a shoulder, dozes determinedly.

When he wakes properly, it is to a feeling of being watched. He blinks around the white (white, white, why always white? Such a boring color) hotel room and finds Hollander’s dark eyes studying his face.

Ilya kisses the shoulder again, bites it a little so it knows it’s naughty for not being good to Hollander.

“I like waking up with you,” Hollander says.

Ilya groans.

“What?” Hollander protests.

“If I say it back and make you a tuna melt, will you run away?”

He’s too sleepy to filter his words, too slack and bare. Hollander is quiet for a moment.

“Do you want me to?”

Ilya shakes his head against Hollander’s skin. “I never want you to run away.”

He didn’t before, either. Back when Hollander spooked over something that was nothing and ran headfirst into Rose Landry. That’s ancient history though, not here in the room with them. She is not sharing a bed with Shane Hollander. That matters.

Hollander’s arm comes around Ilya, rubbing up his spine, pulling him closer.

Eventually Hollander’s brain ejects them from bed as he schemes up a morning woefully lacking in sex. They have a couple hours before their call time at the studio for the interview segment and Hollander has an idea or ten.

“I have to go home and change,” Ilya says, interrupting his pitch. He can practically see Hollander deflate, his perfect plans for breakfast in the hotel and a walk around the park gone to shreds.

“Can’t you wear something of mine?”

“We are not same size anymore,” Ilya says, hating that he even has to point it out. “I wear your shirt, I rip it.”

Hollander’s eyes flash with something excited and Ilya hates that they don’t have time to explore it. He changes back into his silk shirt and jeans, like a proper walk of shame should. Being slutty again… it is a good feeling after so long.

Hollander watches him change from his seat on the bed, wearing perfectly ironed slacks, blue button up, and grey cardigan. He's like a doll sometimes, so crisp, clean edges, a blank expression on his face. Ilya comes over, tugs Hollander by the trouser loops until he is on the edge of the bed and kisses him until he is red, shirt mussed at the edges.

“Come to my house. I change, we eat breakfast, walk around the backyard and drive to the studio.”

“They’ll notice that we arrived together—”

“Show is about a friendly rivalry. We are friends,” Ilya counters.

“What about Nikolaj?”

“He should know we are friends too,” Ilya says firmly, and kisses the crease in Hollander’s brow, either side of his cheek. His mind, now awake spins. Hollander had a keycard prepared. Hollander asked Ilya to stay the night. Hollander got Ilya a toothbrush. Hollander had plans for their morning together. The exact picture is one Ilya is afraid to assemble, but it is shaping up pleasantly in his periphery. At the very least, it means that Hollander wants to make the most of what time they do have. No more wasted moments.

Because if they only have tonight…

“Come on,” he says, taking the matter out of Hollander’s hands. “I want to beat traffic. Montreal is full of terrible drivers.”

“You’re one of them,” Hollander chirps back, letting Ilya pull him up off the bed by the hand.

Perhaps Ilya should have thought through his decision to arrive back home with Hollander a little more. In his defense, he forgot how well Nikolaj knows him, how his eyes flicker over Ilya’s one-night stand clothes and then to Hollander with plain confusion.

“I picked Hollander up. We’re shooting a promotional,” Ilya rushes to explain. “Thought we’d have breakfast… I just need to change.”

Thankfully, Nikolaj does not care or does not want to know. He just shrugs, confusion flattening out to his familiar disregard.

Ilya has no issue dumping his sensitive teenager on Hollander while he beats a retreat up the stairs. Ilya takes a deep breath in his and Svetlana’s bedroom. He still smells her here, he thinks. Maybe his imagination, maybe the way they always swapped colognes and perfumes as kids just to provoke.

He shakes the thought and showers in rapid time, changing into a nice slate-coloured suit, top three shirt buttons popped so no one thinks he’s as boring as Hollander. He shakes his long-ish curls out, content to let them air dry, and trundles downstairs.

Hollander is seated at the island, foot tapping. At least Ilya taught his kid something because he is pleased to see a pan with a huge helping of eggs getting scrambled, enough for three.

Hollander jumps to stand, hands tight at his side and looking entirely out of sorts in Ilya’s home. That can’t be allowed to continue.

“Nikolaj is a fan of yours, actually,” Ilya says, breezing in and getting plates from the cupboard.

“Can you shut up? Like, for real?” Nikolaj groans, but his words are only rude, not venomous.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Hollander says, stilted as ever when it comes to praise.

“Even if you in no way compare to me—”

“No one does,” Nikolaj snips.

Ilya’s going to ignore that. “It was nice for him to have other idols. He even had your poster in his room.”

“I was seven,” Nikolaj hisses, but the way he avoids Hollander’s eyes suggests that some of that idol worship lingers. Now that he’s not meeting him in an official (and humiliating capacity) Nikolaj is more receptive to the impressive effect that Hollander’s hockey career has on people.

“I’m surprised you let him have it.” Hollander is red in the face. It finally strikes Ilya that it is a strange thing—for Ilya’s son to have a poster in his room of a man Ilya once… had something with. But Ilya knew, Svetlana knew, and it was just what it was. Having fucked Hollander didn’t mean that he wasn’t also a player of a generation.

“I didn’t, at first. But the more I told him not to, to put actual good player up there, the more determined he was to have you.” Ilya wets his lips. Truth is, he actually enjoyed having the picture, sometimes, after the burn from their parting cooled. Not sure why, but meeting Hollander’s eyes after putting Nikolaj to sleep; it felt ritualistic. Comforting… Fuck knows.

“The Rozanov stubbornness,” Hollander says, quirking a small smile.

“I didn’t get anything from this old fuck,” Nikolaj says, edging into confrontational.

“Nikolaj,” Ilya says, firm if tired. He gives his son a really, come on. We have company look and Nikolaj at least does the service of turning back to the breakfast.

“What’s the promo for,” Nikolaj asks Hollander after a pause, civil enough.

Hollander explains in practiced language about the segment and the launch of the renaming campaign for Scott Hunter. Ilya can practically imagine him in front of a board of people, he is so clear and persuasive. He should not be this tempting so early in the morning, talking of such boring topics, but such is life.

“But we haven’t officially announced it, so keep the renaming quiet,” Hollander adds.

Nikolaj, plating up three mash scrambles of everything in their fridge, blinks at Ilya.

“What, is this image rehabilitation? Something gay for you to support?”

The meaning takes a moment to click and when it does, Ilya snaps his head to Hollander who takes a deep drink of his black coffee and avoids his eyes.

“No,” Ilya says, thinking there is no way. “No, just hype about an old rivalry.”

“Lucky timing for your legacy,” Nikolaj grumbles, and the hurt is so prickly around his young neck, like a millstone.

Hollander protests before Ilya can rear up. “They used to make us do this every year when we were playing. Show-chirping for the audience. It’s always been pretty embarrassing.”

Ilya appreciates the moment to breathe, to avoid the deep, too intense way of arguing that only family members can have. Nikolaj cools off too at the reminder of Shane Hollander in their kitchen.

“Hollander is just jealous— unofficial award for best chirper is given out among players at Las Vegas awards. I won three times.”

“It’s like the anti-Lady Byng. Why would I be jealous?”

“But you are actually friends?” Nikolaj prods, eyes flicking between them.

“We are friends now,” Ilya says for Hollander’s benefit, and digs into the plate set in front of him.

“What is this?” Hollander asks, picking up something dark red from his scramble.

“Red pepper or tomato. Maybe spicy ham. I don’t know,” Ilya says. “Fridge scramble, so it has everything but the fridge.” He sees Hollander’s petrified face at imagining what might even be in Ilya’s fridge (which is partially fair) and gestures to the dry goods on the counter. “There is plain toast.”

“White?” Hollander asks, all but withering at the idea. His eye seems to catch on something Ilya misses, because he takes a deep breath and a bite of the scramble.

“Wow, it’s good, thank you, Niko.”

Ah. Ilya turns in time to see a small smile on his son’s face, even with his dark curls flopping to cover most of his expression.

Nice of Hollander to indulge, considering the fats and dairy (maybe even a carb, gasp!) in the mix. Probably to avoid eating, and also because he is polite, Hollander asks Nikolaj about his season. Somehow, Hollander knows all the right questions that get his son showboating and boasting, grinning like the teenager he is. Ilya chirps lightly now and then, just to ground his kid and provoke Hollander, but mostly he enjoys delicious breakfast and the view of two people he cares about being in the same room under his roof.

Ilya tells his son that they will clean up, as he knows Nikolaj has to get to the rink to do some pre-game meeting with the captain and coach.

Ilya rubs Nikolaj’s back and says, “I love you,” when he leaves and whether it is because Hollander is there or because of their pleasant morning, but for the first time in weeks Nikolaj doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t say it back, of course. But at least he bears it.

Now alone together, Ilya finishes his breakfast in a happy mood before scooping up Hollander’s quarter-eaten plate.

“We can stop for a smoothie,” Ilya says, grinning at Hollander’s grateful nod.

“That would be nice.”

Ilya stuff the leftovers in a plastic tub, scrapes at the plates, rinsing them off and putting them and the pan in the wash. He can feel Hollander’s eyes on him, but unlike this morning, the gaze isn’t intense, but a warm heavy weight. Ilya turns and leans against the counter, arms folded.

“He’s a good kid,” Hollander says.

“You keep telling me. Good to know I did such a phenomenal job,” Ilya quips.

“Do you… do you think he’s a lot like Svetlana?”

Ilya uncrosses his arms. “Hollander.”

Hollander sits up straighter somehow. Ilya can see a long brick text apology already forming in his Canadian head.

“Please, do not look like you are going to jump out of your skin every time you mention Svetlana.”

“Sorry,” Hollander still says. “I can’t help it. I’m curious, but it feels so rude—”

“Is not rude— It’s not,” he corrects himself. “If you were more rude, she would be more delighted. If you said ‘dead wife of man you’re fucking’ she would absolutely cackle.”

Hollander crinkles his nose dubious and horrified at the idea. It pains Ilya suddenly that they never really met each other, not really. That he will never know Svetlana well enough to understand how truthful Ilya is being. Hollander and Svetlana were mere passing faces at parties, an introduction made once or twice, but nothing substantial. Ilya has always understood why, for the way things ended between them, Svetlana’s unwitting role, but still…

She was so much more than the woman between them.

Ilya feels a burning need to at least share some of it now, even if it all feels too little, too late.

“I think Nikolaj is most like her. He is dry funny. She never laughed at her own jokes, only at other people. He has her coloring mostly, which is lucky.”

“Why?” Hollander asks. Ilya reaches across the counter to cup his face.

“I like dark hair, is the prettiest.”

Hollander moves his face, glancing at the door as if worried Nikolaj will step in again, forgetting his bag or his head from his shoulders, maybe. Ilya pulls his hand back, leans against the counter and smiles to show it is fine.

“He has my nose and my arrogance, I think they go together. It is a good nose.”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s been broken so many times.”

“His is what mine used to look like,” Ilya says without missing a beat. “In Russian he speaks like she does, all her little verbal quirks.” I miss hearing them, Ilya thinks, but swallows down. “He does not speak Russian since she passed.”

“Is that lonely?” Hollander asks.

“My wife died, it’s a lot that is lonely.”

He expects Hollander to curl away, to apologize, to fumble at the face of Ilya’s raw sentence. Ilya doesn’t expect him to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe hard. Nodding, like he’s absorbing the pain, holding it. So strong, so soft.

Ilya remembers Hollander yesterday saying how much muscle he lost, not as strong as before. When Ilya was young, he put much stock in how much he could press or lift as a sign of power, and his ability to perform and do well and be good. It is the foolish young who measure strength so. Looking at Hollander standing there in his soft cardigan, narrower chest, thinner arms Ilya thinks he’s never looked stronger, more steady. His ability to maneuver the impossible difficulty of a life that takes so much more than it gives. To still care. To hold this pain for Ilya and share in it—

Ilya abruptly feels like he might shatter for wanting this man.

“It is not so bad with you,” Ilya says, quietly, before he turns away to rinse his hands in the sink, just something to do. That was definitely too much, with everything between them. With this fragile thing. Nothing long-term, they both said in the bar.

“Rozanov—"

Ilya pulls out his phone, checks the time.

“We need to go now if we get your smoothie.”

Hollander bites his lip, hedging over saying more.

“Please,” Ilya says, not sure why he sounds so close to begging. He suddenly understands why Hollander cried yesterday, said It was better than I remembered. Is a lot about them that is better than he remembered and that makes it so much worse. That they missed it, that there is a time limit…

“Okay,” Hollander says. Ilya leans back, grabs his keys. Isn’t ready for the way Hollander kisses him, quick and affirming, before turning to the door.

Ilya gains his good humor back when he hears Hollander’s long, overly involved smoothie order.

“Why are you laughing?” Hollander asks, not glancing away from the poor worker checking and double-checking their lengthy notes.

“Because I think you’d sooner jump the barricade and make it yourself.”

“You think they’d let me?”

Ilya laughs, doubly so at Hollander’s scowl when he realizes he’s been had.

In the car, Hollander sucks diligently and at his smoothie, a satisfied look in his eyes.

“Too much banana,” he says. “But it’s not the worst I’ve had.”

Hollander finishes his breakfast by the time they arrive at the studio. The only people milling outside are the crew smokers and it makes Ilya’s brain itch to pass by even as his lungs ache.

No one on the film team says anything about them arriving together (why would they? It’s not their business) and they are soon whisked into makeup chairs.

Ilya rolls his eyes but submits to the pancaking—only he protests when he sees what a mess they are making of Hollander.

“You can’t cover those,” he argues. “Without his freckles, he is not identifiable.”

“Rozanov,” Hollander says, a reddish flush fighting to peek from beneath the powder. “Shut the fuck up.”

“No, it is true. When he dies, Hollander will not be identified by his dental records, only by his freckles.”

Hollander’s nose crinkles. “How exactly do you see me dying where identification would be necessary?”

“A power coup,” Ilya decides. “Greedy deputy commissioner after your commissioner hockey throne.”

“Oh, fuck off with that,” Hollander says. “You’re definitely getting killed first.”

“Why?”

“Makeup artist stabbing your rude ass with a, a—” Hollander gestures to the tool.

“Stylus?” the artist supplies.

Ilya angles his neck to give the artist a clean shot and relishes the laughter from the two of them.

It’s fun, though odd, getting to joke with Hollander in public. Part of Ilya feels covetous like an animal over Hollander’s humor, so rarely appreciated. Another part of him feels giddy at the illusion. This is what it would be like if they were a couple. Riffing off each other, amusing onlookers, seeing Hollander’s eyes roll even as he smiles at Ilya. Unable to hide his pleasure at Ilya’s rowdy attention.

Only the circle cannot complete itself, because Ilya would touch him, bend his head for a kiss, but they cannot—

“Is this better?” the amused makeup assistant asks.

Ilya rises, takes a good close look at Hollander’s face. The makeup is thinner around the freckles. She did a good job all said. When he sees Hollander swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the thin skin of his neck, Ilya has to take a deep breath. Thinks again about wanting to shave him, long and thoroughly, just to caress his throat. Ilya gives a tilt of his head, playing out the moment, before he nods in firm approval.

“Great,” Hollander drawls.

They do a joint interview first, sat beside each other while the interviewer plays some of their memorable moments on a tablet. Honestly, Ilya appreciates it— there is a lot he doesn’t remember.

Mostly the questions are softball, meant to illicit chirps or compliments. Ilya plays up the former—it would do no good for them to think he is soft.

“Ah, the draft. It set the stage, I think. Clear to see who is one and two because we hold up fingers, see?”

“Didn’t last long, did it?” Hollander chirps.

“Uh, who touched cup first? It was me, I think?”

“You were just keeping it warm for me. I definitely held it longer.”

“That is not true; I slept with it every night I had it.”

The face Hollander makes will sure be memed for years to come. Ilya can’t help but snicker.

They work through a few moments, face offs, a brutal game where they both got hat tricks. Ilya mostly remembers the nights after these moments (and isn’t it funny what he recalls most about his legendary hockey career is not the games?). Because of that, Ilya works hard to keep his chirping to what he can see.

Each memory only stokes an age-old heat in his belly, like playing old sex tapes, the way hot reminiscences flicker through his mind, and he cannot wait to drag Hollander back to the hotel and see if he can make him cry again (definitely from a good fucking this time).

They finally show the moment during All-Stars where Hollander’s bell was rung, and Ilya hisses with sympathy.

“This is one of those moments people point to when they discuss your mutual respect for each other,” the director says.

“No one wants to see anyone get hit like that,” Hollander agrees, mimicking a commentator Ilya remembers hearing at the time.

“Especially not best competition in the league,” Ilya says, sensing the warm heat of Hollander’s eyes on his face.

“You were on the same team though, weren’t you?”

“Even on team, there is competition. It is necessary to make self better. I wanted to win All-Stars with Hollander… but also have most goals, of course.”

“Of course,” Hollander scoffs, but he is smiling. “If you don’t have competition, you don’t have the sport. Not really.”

Ilya grins at Hollander, looks back to the tablet paused on the All-Star still image of him hovering on the ice. That fear frozen on his face as he looked at Hollander collapsed off-screen and feels his heart ache for more than just remembered worry.

It’s one of the last moments where they played when they were still something to each other. And it’s strange but he thinks he can almost see it in the next clip, that gap between where they split, the sharp divide on the ice of the playful heat, Ilya’s blatant care, to the stiff, almost automated competition. The games they show after he and Hollander parted are almost hard to watch. Ilya looks at his own eyes and doesn’t see the same light, the same pleasure in the game. It spooks him that it is so noticeable—he thought he was so good at keeping all of it inside. Glancing to the side, he sees Hollander’s hands are tight on his knees, his own eyes a little achy.

They really were fools, Ilya thinks. But even now, he does not know what other choice they could have made…

This more than anything is why this thing between them has always been a bad idea, can only survive these few nights… But fuck if the reminder doesn’t hurt.

Eventually they get all the footage they need and Hollander is sent to go wait in the hallway while Ilya does his solo interview. The 1AD leads these questions, freeing up the director to babysit the monitor with entirely too much intensity for a Q&A retrospective.

“What was it like playing against Hollander?”

Ilya tilts his head back, then forward. He’s trying to think of any other way of saying like sex, like really good, incredible sex with sexy fucking man.

“You know moving furniture?”

“Yes,” the 1AD says, polite about her confusion.

“It is like that but you are in skates. You can’t get a grip, momentum, and the moment you think you have your grip on the edge of the box, the weight shifts and it is vanished.” He snaps. “Gone from your hands. It is like that.”

“Sounds like a hassle?” the 1AD looks over her shoulder at the director, practically asking is any of this usable?

“Not if you love moving furniture,” Ilya says, liking his own metaphor even if no one else does. “It is the best feeling to find something to make it harder. Always a pleasure to have something to chase.”

“He was a goal to chase?”

“No. He was always chasing me. Since the draft. I was the goal.”

“Sure,” the 1AD says, and if she is a little amused, Ilya will forgive her.

“There is no one else better than Shane Hollander on the ice. This is what makes the game so exciting for me. If you like hockey, there is nothing better in the world to have someone with you, pushing you your whole career…” A guiding light, comes to Ilya’s mind, but that is too soppy. He clears his throat. “Is good thing you are interviewing him, I think he holds record for most Lady Byng trophies.

“Second place, actually,” The 1AD says. “And you have none, is that right?”

“I do my job well,” Ilya grins. “And we both do a better job than Scott Hunter.”

He trusts the director to cut around his words, so in his next answers he sprinkles in a few more digs at Hunter until the director gives him the stink eye. He grins beatifically.

“Stay on track, please.”

“Okay, Boss,” he says, just to see the twenty-five-year-old fidget and fight her anger.

“Are you and Shane Hollander still rivals?”

Oh. This Ilya did not think of. He doesn’t know for sure. Isn’t sure what Hollander would want them to say… he knows what he wants to say.

“Maybe about some things. He is always good competition. But in general, I think no.”

“When did the rivalry end for you?”

“2017,” Ilya says, without thinking. Then he stops. “Sorry, can I do that again? That isn’t— it’s not—”

That’s the year they fell apart, the something they sort of were, it’s not at all when they stopped being professional rivals.

“You can’t use that,” Ilya says, watching the director’s eyebrow raise. Her lips go flat, but between the two of them, Ilya has the power and legacy to pull this whole promo off the air if he wants. He gives her a serious, overbearing look, and she nods unhappily.

“Go again,” the director says.

The 1AD goes. “When did the rivalry end for you?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya lies. “Somewhere along the years. We know each other for a long time and respect each other.” It’s canned, missing teeth, but worlds better than the other answer.

Ilya is excused soon after, too shaken to give anything else quippy. He barely unclips the microphone before he is out, brushing by Hollander in the hallway without pausing. He needs air.

He goes to the parking lot and sulks around the smokers, breathing in their plumes and checking his phone. Nikolaj’s game is soon and he buzzes around on the pre-game page, watching stupid presenters talk about their position in the tournament as if Ilya doesn’t know already.

Eventually Hollander trundles out. “Hey, lunch is soon—”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” Ilya says. He doesn’t want to be around the prying crew. Wants to talk to Hollander on his own.

“Okay,” Hollander says, and is quickly talked around to a Freshii where Ilya watches him argue for every and all sauce to be served on the side.

When Hollander has his bowl, it looks deconstructed. He has the sauces lined up on the side in brightly colored little ovals, like a watercolor palette. Hollander tastes every one with the prongs of his fork, tiny kittenish licks, his brow furrowed.

“Why does everything have so much sodium,” he murmurs.

“Did they ask you about still being rivals?” Ilya asks. His own chipotle steak pocket sits untouched on a tray. His stomach feels tense, anxious.

“Yeah,” Hollander says, cutting up bland chicken. “What did you say?”

“No,” Ilya says, bracing for Hollander’s blow up, but he only nods.

“That’s what I said too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I didn’t see the point in saying we are. I mean, when they watch the video, they’re going to see we can get along with each other.”

It’s very level-headed for a worrier like Hollander. Ilya wonders when they switched places.

“I told them we stopped being rivals along the way,” Ilya says, and realizes that he is overcompensating by volunteering that information to hide his mistake mentioning 2017. Ilya still hates that fucking year. “Over time,” Ilya finishes lamely, arms drawn to his chest.

“Yeah, I gave that kind of nonanswer,” Hollander agrees, not minding. He picks at a pink sauce, nose wrinkling at whatever deliciousness he tastes, deciding it’s not for him.

Ilya picks up his steak pocket, then puts it down. Hollander is bent over his bowl, a perfectly controlled world of his own making. Not a sauce or sesame seed there without his permission. It is symbol for the larger way that Hollander runs his (and by extension, the hockey) world. He has so much control…

Ilya tries to shake it off, but he feels the niggling thing that Nikolaj brought up this morning.

“Whose idea was it to do this?”

“Hm?” Hollander asks.

“This rivalry bit, for us to film this. I would have thought Ovie and Cros or someone modern. Rooks are always fighting.”

Hollander shrugs his shoulders, takes a huge bite of avocado and it’s such an incriminating gesture. He never fills his mouth before answering something because it is bad manners.

It’s answer enough.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters. He takes a bite of his steak, just for something to occupy his mouth.

“Why shouldn’t it be us?” Hollander asks after he swallows, redness on his cheeks that the makeup cannot cover.

“Fuck,” Ilya says again. Hollander stiffens.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize it would be such an inconvenience—”

“You suggested this? It was your idea?”

“I… a lot of people were in the meeting. It wasn’t only me.”

“You do this for me? For good press, like Nikolaj said?”

Ilya can see the optics of it now—Ilya seen supporting the gay trophy, the Scott Hunter trophy. He remembers thinking how ironic to have the two of them (secretly bi and gay) doing this bit, how luckily no one ‘up top’ knew anything, but now he sees the full ironic shape. He has been an idiot; who else would be up top but Hollander himself?

“No, or, not only for that,” Hollander corrects, and the flush is spreading to his neck.

Ilya’s mouth falls open.

Hollander did this for a fuck. He did it to fuck Ilya and improve Ilya’s public relations, and Hollander did it all without asking Ilya a single thing. That strange deleted message, the surprise that Ilya was even asking if he was participating—of course Hollander would be, it was his idea.

Ilya doesn’t know if he’s angry or so desperately turned on. The idea of Hollander using his considerable political power, persuading people, just to do this for Ilya is flabbergasting. Makes him feel almost tiny in comparison to Hollander’s powerful movements. Like a puppet on a string, one of his play things. Just a favoured, yet beloved cock to use. It’s disrespectful and incredible all at once.

“I’m sorry,” Hollander tries.

Ilya shakes his head.

“Are you mad?” Hollander asks, after prolonged silence. Ilya shakes his head again.

He doesn’t know. “Just let me… I need to think about this.”

Hollander goes quiet, emanating devastated hurt. Ilya cannot pay much mind to it, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Ilya drives them back, quiet, without even having finished his food.

At the studio, they do some still and moving shots of them holding up the gay Scott Hunter trophy together, presenting it to the screen.

Ilya should be working on how he feels about Hollander’s insane show of power. Getting his phone number from private list was one thing, but pitching the idea, persuading his coworkers to agree, moving around money, hiring a film crew, all just to get what he wants from Ilya—

Ilya still can’t focus on it; it’s too big.

Instead, he finds himself looking at Hollander and feeling regret that they never hefted a trophy together until now. Maybe that is his answer.

“You can drop me off at the hotel,” Hollander says quietly, when they get in Ilya’s car, makeup cleaned off. He looks worn without the coloring, washed out.

Ilya drives to the hotel, seeing Hollander wither when he realizes that Ilya followed through on his words. Before he can leave the car, Ilya is popping his own door open.

Hollander stares at him, mouth ajar.

“Well? You coming up? Or I go do all the work on my own?”

Hollander scrambles to get his seatbelt off. This small game is the least he deserves for yanking Ilya around.

When they get to the room, Ilya calmly takes off his blazer, tosses it on a chair, starts on his buttons, chest hair springing up in the gaps. Hollander cannot calm down, looking two seconds from pacing or throwing himself off the balcony.

“Rozanov, I’m sorry I didn’t ask you before.”

“It’s okay,” Ilya says, calm.

“It’s not—”

“You are mad with power. Man set on conquest,” Ilya says, shrugging out of his shirt, watching how Hollander’s eyes trace down his barrel chest, following the line of his thick hair vanishing to his trouser band.

“I—”

“You don’t even think to ask me to come. No, you just move me around like toy. You are this powerful in your job. World domination.”

“Ilya, please—”

“And you use this power for a chance to get fucked.”

Hollander moans, embarrassed, horrified—turned on. Ilya can see arousal rising in his slacks.

“You want me this badly?”

“Yes,” Hollander pants.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want you this badly.”

“To put yourself up for a position, to have people film you and watch you, analyze our relationship. You hate this. You do this just to get three days where our schedule lines up so I fuck you.”

His voice breaks. “Yes.”

“So, bend over, Sweetheart,” Ilya says, and Hollander moans, shedding his clothes like snakeskin, hands shaking as he folds them.

“Sloppy” Ilya croons. Hollander bites his lip, tries to straighten the seams of his slacks, but Ilya presses against him, crowds him until the trousers fall in a limp pile on a chair. Hollander pants open-mouthed as Ilya’s hands cup his ass cheeks, thumbs digging into giving flesh.

“Get on the bed.”

Hollander staggers back, twists and lays his top half flat on the bed, sweet ass out in offering.

Ilya swallows, approaches and picks Hollander lower body up by the hairy thighs, pressing his face up against the puckering hole ringed with hair.

Hollander gasps when Ilya’s tongue plunges inside, tastes the salt of the day because Hollander has not showered the day off. It’s rank, it’s glorious.

Ilya’s name is falling from Hollander’s lips, but it is the wrong one.

“Rozanov, Rozanov, Rozanov.”

Ilya pulls back and Hollander whines, but it is too ludicrous to let slide.

“No. No, you do all this, you manipulate world so I fuck you, you do not get to pretend distance. Pretending it is casual. Call me Ilya, or I stop.”

Hollander whines, hips jerking against the covers, seeking a friction that Ilya won’t allow. He keeps his bottom half lifted until Hollander curses and surrenders into stillness.

“Ilya,” he moans after a long moment.

“Good” Ilya says, letting his lips kiss against the saliva-slick pucker. “Good. Shane.”

“Oh god. Ilya.”

Shane’s hands twist, gripping the bedsheet as Ilya bends intently to his task. He lifts the hips higher, dragging Shane’s face over the sheets, his spine bent deliciously as he can only pant and take it. Ilya’s tongue reaches so far inside his lips and teeth are pressed around the pucker. Thick muscle working hard to draw Shane’s groans and whines. Just when Shane is close to heaven, Ilya pulls his tongue back, kissing his hole, making Shane slam his hands on the bedspread. He’s practically hiccoughing in frustration, only then does Ilya start again, always pulling back when Shane gets close to the edge.

When Ilya has had his fill and Shane is drooling and moaning, cock slobbering, only then does Ilya dribble lube in and ram himself home. This is the fucking that Shane deserves, that he has moved heaven and earth for. The least Ilya can do is move his world back.

This is better than the coming home feeling of yesterday. This is new and bright on the palette. Need and clarity and the sweet pressure around his dick. The greedy, selfless man sucking Ilya back in the moment he pulls to far out. It’s the silvery stripes on his just-drooping ass that call Ilya’s thumbs to stroke and dig in. Wanting badly to leave marks of his own on this beautiful deft body.

It is like all those years fucking were for a simple purpose of making each other skilled for the other, to make Ilya the best at this for Shane here and now.

He fucks and fucks and fucks until Shane comes and then keeps going until Shane is writhing, speaking in tongues, until Ilya pulls out and spills down his back in long ropes.

Shane pants, limbs splayed, his turned head red, freckles stark. Ilya doesn’t know what to do with him.

He goes to the bathroom and gets two rags, washes Shane’s back with slow, worshipful motions until he shivers. Sneaks his hand beneath the press of his body until Shane lifts his boneless hips and lets Ilya wash his cum-splattered front, feel his just-there belly swelling against Ilya's hand with his breath. Then Ilya goes to his face, pets the hot skin with the second cool cloth.

Shane’s not crying, but it’s close, his eyes wet and red.

He watches Ilya petting him, turns into Ilya’s hand, pliant and gorgeous.

“Pretty man. You almost cried again.”

Shane mumbles something Ilya cannot catch.

“Come. Up. Your shoulder will not thank you.”

He arranges Shane against his chest, arms rubbing down his arms and kneading the muscle.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says eventually, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I am like this.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Shane seems to have finally remembered his humiliation. Without the sweet burn of arousal, he looks fairly horrified. “This is why the others left, the guys I was seeing. I just… I don’t know. I get ideas in my head. Things I think I can fix. I can’t help but just… move things around to make them better. But I don’t ask. I’m worried they will say no, or that they’ll call me a control freak.”

“You are,” Ilya has no issues saying. Shane groans. “But you use this power for good fucking. Who can complain?”

“You can. You will, eventually.” Shane says, intense like an animal. “I can’t help myself—”

“Stop, or I will get hard again.”

“You’re messed up… You’re actually getting off on this.” Shane looks appalled, Ilya shrugs. Has anyone wanted him as much as Hollander? No, he suspects. Could not be possible.

He cannot help but feel a very badly for Shane. He has always been this way, really. Control monger. Wanting to handle things. Too capable for his own good. He needs someone gentle and mocking to tease the uprightness from his posture, to lull him away from the absolute need for control. Ilya suspects that none of these other men did that. That they let him spin out, met him with anger as Shane was increasingly desperate, quietly panicking. Thus trying even harder to control things until he gripped the relationship so tight it snapped. It’s lonely. Such a lonely thought.

Ilya knows something about loneliness. He sighs, almost feeling tired.

Maybe from seeing him in the office, certainly from kissing him in the parking lot, Ilya always knew deep down that this would never be casual, could not be a one-time thing. Only Shane had the gall to actually make it clear. This lovely, weird, controlling man.

Fuck it, Ilya thinks.

“I think you should come see me in Montreal, on the weekends,” Ilya says.

Shane looks up at him, cheek pressed flat against Ilya’s heart.

“What…?”

“And I will visit you in New York.”

“You want that?” Shane asks, voice low against his chest.

Ilya shrugs. “What is other choice? You will move the world around until we are fucking again otherwise. It is better to make schedule like we had before; I know you like schedule.”

“I won’t. I promise I won’t do it again,” Shane says, his voice shaky. “If you asked me to leave you alone, I would.”

“I will never ask that,” Ilya says, and Shane’s breathing is low on his inhale, his hands curling greedy around Ilya’s pec, kneading the fatty, excess flesh there.

“You do not have to work so hard,” Ilya murmurs into his hair. “I will come to you.”

Shane hides his face, in Ilya’s armpit, and Ilya grips his head, makes him face Ilya. Hot eyes and humiliation and gratitude—all that power unraveled into nothing but base, animal longing. Yes, this is what all those other men needed to give Shane— the least he deserved. A safe place to put all that hideous intense feeling. Ilya is selfish for it, thinks his body is big and strong enough to hold it all.

Ilya continues, filling in the gaps. “So you say that you are visiting family. You can do that too. They will be happy to see you. No one will care where you spend the night.”

“And you? What will you tell Niko? Your team.”

“We are almost to off season,” Ilya says, “But if anyone asks, I will say that I am seeing someone in New York.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

Ilya shrugs. “Like I said, it is this or I find you have rearranged my schedule. Hacked my account, moved around all my meetings.”

“Oh my god,” Shane is exasperated now. “Ilya, you could have said no to the promo.”

“No, I respect and love Scott Hunter too much. You had me by my balls.”

Shane shakes his head, lingers in the silence.

“Are we really doing this again?” Shane asks, and if there is a tremble to his body, Ilya can only pet along his skin. Ilya has been such a coward, making Shane do all this running, all this chasing because of his own insecurity and doubt. The least he can do is make the last few centimeters over the finish line easy.

“What is the phrase? Worth doing once, worth doing again.” It was always worth it to Ilya, even in the hardest moments.

“Yeah,” Shane says, his mouth opening, wet on Ilya’s skin and pressing there as if asking to be let in.

Ilya holds him tighter until Shane goes still and quiet, even his mind no longer buzzing between them.

The next day, Ilya brings Shane to his house and makes him a smoothie before his flight. He lets Shane narrate exactly how he wants it, even if he won’t let him do it himself.

“Just watch me do it,” Ilya says. “Be good guest.”

“You’re a sick man, getting off on being withholding,” Shane says, but his cheeks are red and smiling.

Thankfully, Nikolaj is still asleep from his game the previous night. Ilya checked the outcome in the morning and smiled to see that his son had scored, even if they lost to Buffalo. Strange how things change, but Buffalo are not such a bad team these days.

He commiserates to Shane about this as the other man drinks his smoothie from the rim. It’s decadent, somehow, the way that the creamy white sludge sloughs off the side of the cup, drips down the side of Shane’s mouth as he drinks from the wide lip of the nutribullet.

Ilya’s hand reaches out to smear it on his lips a little before wiping it away.

Shane watches Ilya put his shiny thumb into his mouth for a taste. This thing is bright between them, fresh like new ice.

“You don’t think we’re too old not to call this anything?” Shane asks lowly.

“Lovers?” Ilya suggests.

“Oh fuck no,” Shane groans. “That’s a terrible word.”

Ilya shrugs. “Fine. Seeing each other? Dating? Is that better?”

Shane’s eyes are sharp on him. “You’d be exclusive?”

Doesn’t Shane know that no one since Svetlana has ever tempted him beyond a simple fuck? And before Svetlana, his twenties were cannibalized by a stupid, beautiful hockey player with a weak backhand. Past and Future have aligned, become consistent and sure again. What is American phrase? Nothing certain but death and taxes and now Shane Hollander.

No, that is certainly too much to say, even if it is true. 

“We can see if we like. Maybe we find others we mesh with more…” Ilya says, meaning it as a way of offering Shane more control, a way out, but is pleased and amused when Shane only looks cross like a child at the thought. Already scheming, maybe, ways to lure Ilya into his bed with a hamburger next or entrap him in a sex dungeon with a contractual MLH loophole from when Ilya first signed. He feels his dick twitch and shifts his pants on his hips to hide it.

“Sure,” Shane says, looking disgusted at the thought of meshing with others and not hiding it nearly well enough. He never can hide any of his thoughts as well as he thinks. Ilya brushes his thumb over Shane’s freckles, feels a grin crinkling his eyes. Yes, he is foolish and greedy enough to think no one can appreciate Shane Hollander the way Ilya can. But that is a dangerous thought.

“I know… We cannot have anything but this,” Ilya acknowledges. The same nothing sort of something they had before. It was a good nothing-something Ilya thinks. It’s only when they tried to make it everything, that bright moment Scott Hunter made them believe it could be everything, that things fell apart. He shifts away from these painful truths. He is old enough, at least, to know better.

Ilya continues, “We keep it quiet. I know you have to take over the world—”

“There are lots of out people at the office,” Shane says, surprising Ilya. “It’s different than playing. It’s just an office, you know. Plenty of people don’t even play.”

“You want to come out?” Ilya asks, trying to keep his tone flat instead of incredulous. He can see the contingencies and mental math spinning in Shane’s head as he tries to grapple with how out of control that would make him feel. Looks uncomfortable

“No. I just… I don’t know. Is it funny, I always thought I’d be able to come out when I retired?” It isn’t funny, the way pain twists Shane’s smile into something sad. “I thought, ‘when I’m no longer a player, no one will care what I am.’ But the truth is, I care. And people will always care— they care more about my legacy than I do sometimes. And my career… I don’t know. I just… I think I imagined the future a different way than it is.”

Ilya knows a thing or two about that. He hums, takes Shane into his arms to put the thought away.

“Then we go back to the past. To this. I like this idea. And it’s good thing flight is only an hour and twenty minutes. Will make this very simple.”

Shane raises an eyebrow, it’s never simple, his eyes say, but he kisses Ilya too. Thank god, he doesn’t care either.

Shane has to drop off his rental car off at the airport, so they say goodbye at the hotel. Ilya walks him to his room. Kisses him so hard and fondles his cock lovingly through pleated slacks, unhurried, so Shane will have something to think about in the week between.

Ilya comes home and sees Nikolaj collapsed over the counter. Ilya pats his back and starts making a hearty breakfast, rinsing the nutribullet to make another shake and help his son meet calorie goals.

As he watches the blender spin, he wonders faintly about whether is making a mistake. But then, it was Shane who walked away, and now it is Shane who walks back. Ilya is at his beck and call (again), so really, nothing is new under the sun. Making mistakes is part of what they are together. 

Chapter End Notes

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pray for them!!! thanks for reading, all.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Ilya comes to New York next weekend. He has preboarding and manages the whole flight and airport turn around in three hours. Very simple cost to see his lover. Whether Shane likes the word ‘lover’ or not, Ilya does not care. Is what Shane is. Lovely, lover, loved.

Nikolaj has away games, so Ilya is only missing Friday with him, and Nikolaj told him in so many words that he will not be missed. Ilya still left money for delivery food and Nikolaj only groaned more, “I’m employed!” He then begged for Ilya to leave already, shutting his door before Ilya could even try cupping his shoulder. 

Shane is a very big help forgetting Ilya's ungrateful son and the real hurt living unspoken between them. His New York apartment is large, soundproofed, and the shelter of his body is a lovely place to bury Ilya’s problems. Ilya tells him he appreciates the sound-proofing and Shane admits shyly that he has no neighbours again because he has bought out the surrounding units. 

Ilya wants to joke you hate neighbours so much? Only he knows better from those dozens of hotel meetups how paranoia preys on Shane’s mind. Shane is not a famous hockey star anymore, and yet, contrarily he will always be the famous hockey star; the talent of a generation with a lifetime public burden that came with so much glinting success and weighty Stanley-gold.

While Ilya had used his fame to claw people closer to him, get into the best parties, meet the coolest people in Ibiza, Shane used it to keep himself apart, away, sequestered and safe. Floating in his apartment above the chaos of being seen outside of his control.

It is a waste, because neighbours are such a good and terrible part of life. Ilya thinks that Shane would love to have an old man or woman who needs help taking out the trash like Ilya’s neighbours do. Who bakes very sweet, dry cookies that Shane would eat in a mortified, reluctant way because he is a good Canadian boy. Ilya wants to introduce Shane to his neighbours just for the schadenfreude of seeing him determinedly tackle their yardwork while dodging payment attempts like poison darts.

Ilya knows Shane, and knows that he does not avoid having neighbours for lack of liking people— it is only that he has excised them for so long that Shane does not know how to start such casual nearness again.

Somehow, someway, Ilya needs to trick Shane into putting out his neighbours trash. Perhaps then he can acquire a taste for living closely with others again. 

Ilya does ask about the other properties and, as Shane runs down the list, he grows more impressed. Sure, Ilya has a very expensive car collection, but Shane has made him money work for him. He can't pretend he does not find Shane's boring real-estate portfolio extremely hot.

“So you will fuck me in four provinces and three states?” Ilya says, at the end.

“You really have time to go to Hawaii?” Shane asks, skeptical.

“Why do we fuck around the cold when we could get sand in terrible places?” Ilya strokes down his spine. “I promise to help you get all the little pieces out at the end. I am very thorough.”

Shane shakes his head, smiles.

Ilya doesn’t know what prompts him to ask aside from macabre curiosity or maybe self-flaggellation, but he finds himself saying,

“Do you still have the cottage?”

Shane nods, looking away. “I don’t go back much these days. Too busy.”

Ilya looks away too, feeling the heaviness of that untaken trip swell until the silence cedes to another, lighter subject.

"If I make you come twice in one hour, we go to Hawaii," Ilya challenges. 

"In your dreams," Shane laughs. "You'll be lucky if I can even get it up for you."

Now that is an invitation if Ilya has ever heard one. He presses Shane against the counter and squats until he can lift him up and spread him across the beautiful marble surface. 

They cannot have fuck marathon, despite how much Ilya wishes his dick could, so there is a lot of down time in New York. Shane has plans for it, of course he has plans, movies, hockey games, exercise— but there is a uprightness to his shoulders that Ilya dislikes, a search to control this moment between them in a very Shane way, only Shane’s phone keeps flashing and his eyes anxiously dart away each time— So, Ilya pulls out a stack of boring papers he planned to read on the plane and faux-sheepishly asks if they can work for a couple hours.

Shane is relieved in a way Ilya can only find predictable. Any disappointment at Shane’s eagerness to work settles when Shane sits across from him at the table, those sexy, silver eyeglasses perched on his nose as he meticulously reads through emails and sorts his workflow for the next week. The blue glow of his screen casts over his freckles. He hasn’t done his hair and it’s unflatteringly flat like a helmet. He is so artlessly appealing.

Their feet shuffle against each other, on purpose and not, a warmth over the shared table.

After an hour, Ilya puts his socked foot in Shane’s lap and lightly strokes his limp cock. Shane’s eyes cut up to him after the first soft roll of the ball of his foot. Iyla pets again and Shane watches for a moment, doesn’t push Ilya away or move his chair. He goes back to his reading.

Ilya grins. He takes his inch for a mile as he rubs, toes curling, until Shane’s hard, pushing his laptop away and sweating hard in the cool indoors.

He likes Shane like this; so unplanned, wonderfully unprepared for Ilya’s impromptu affection.

Their afternoon dissolves again into pleasure.

Ilya persuades Shane out of the apartment on Sunday for a run. He claims that in New York, no one cares who they are. All the same, Shane runs with a cap on, eyes glancing around grand central park as if expecting the worst.

He is probably more right than Ilya; Ilya has not been on social media actively in almost twenty years. He loved it growing up, adored the attention, the ability to chirp whoever (and do it publicly!) across the world. Not to mention the positive response of all his shirtless pics… but after everything and the business of life, he logged off a long time ago.

His agent handled his account when he was a player, and now it mostly sits unused but still claimed because he does not want anyone else to have his user handle, which Ilya can admit is as petty as it sounds.

But still, he catches Nikolaj on his own social media, and sees clips of himself playing over the small screen, flashes of the man and player he was below headings of best hat tricks and most messed up chirps OF ALL TIME.

“You don’t know how much people still talk about you,” is the most Nikolaj has said about it, shaking his head when Ilya tried to tell his son no one cared if he showed up for some speaking event for a college graduation. “You just don’t know,” Nikolaj said, scoffing.

Still, whether Ilya is still famous or not, New York is a place for celebrities to go eat pizza and deli sandwiches in sweats, unharassed. The least he and Shane can do is run a few paces apart.

Ilya is not as good at cardio, but he enjoys lagging behind Shane just to watch the shape of his ass, the strength of his stride as he works a steady pace ahead of Ilya. Powerful, determined, moulded.

Ilya does not let Shane shower when they get home, instead fucking him against is standing desk as something to think about the next time he logs late hours working from home. Then Ilya hops another plane and is back in time for a 9pm bedtime and meeting with his assistant coach in the morning.

Sitting back in his office Montreal, the whole secret of the weekend buzzes under his skin like the half-life of a good high. He feels almost displaced in time. His assistant coach sits across the desk and does not know where Ilya has been and who he has seen, how Shane cut up his toast into triangles instead of biting into it whole. That Ilya fucked Shane remorselessly until he came on his worktop.

And now, Ilya is back to his suburbanite world in Montreal without skipping a stride. A strange, strange feeling. Reminds him of hockey years, the parties and nights with Shane in the cracks and creases of spare moments, but that was always connective tissue to the larger season. This feels out of time, outside from real life. Ilya cannot decide if he likes it or not.

He decides to get used to it anyway.

“You’re in a good mood,” his assistant coach observes.

Yes, I am seeing someone in New York, Ilya thinks of saying. He told himself and Shane he could say that much, but he finds himself shrugging, chirping instead.

“Think of what a good mood I have if we win every year, not just once? You might even see your wife enough to have another kid.”

The assistant coach laughs, and Ilya does too. He doesn’t quite know why the words still don’t come.

Ilya is looking forward to the next weekend, counting down the days to when he can have Shane again in Montreal. He is sure that he cannot lure Shane outside in this hockey mad town, but Ilya’s backyard is very large and Nikolaj will be vying for the wildcard spot in Pittsburgh and thus very busy.

Ilya will track his son’s phone and demand photographic proof of life in shitty Pittsburgh to make sure he does not make any unexpected returns.

Then the dreaded text comes that Shane is too busy with work to visit, grappling with the administrative side of the playoffs. Ilya is an adult. He knows life happens. Still, just because he is used to disappointment it does not mean he likes it. he tries not to read anything into it, but the recency of their new thing makes it a little difficult.

He turns his phone over, replaying their last weekend over again, when the screen flashes again.

Jane: Can I call? After work?

Ilya wrestles with himself, but it is Shane looking foolish by reaching out so he says.

Me: Okay.

Shane does not call at 5pm, nor 6. Nor seven.

Shane calls at 9:30pm that night, which is so typical of a workaholic like him—

But it’s on video. Ilya glances down to his torn, old Bear’s shirt that is too comfortable to ever dream of throwing away. He's been sitting on the couch and grazing on black bread. Ilya brushes off the crumbs and hops to his bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time and not listening to the squeaking of his knee.

He is not taking this in the fucking living room. Nikolaj is out, but Ilya isn’t risking any surprise visits, neighbourly or no.

He sequesters himself in the bathroom in his bedroom and sits on the toilet lid.

He hits answer and Hollander’s pretty face fills his screen. He looks tired, cheeks a touch puffy, and expression hilariously cross. Ilya laughs.

“You look like you have been wrestling a bear,” Ilya hums.

“I feel like it. Grown men are fucking children… Are you in the bathroom?”

“Just getting clean for you.”

“I doubt that. You’re always pretty filthy,” Shane says, but his eyes scan the screen, taking Ilya in. Ilya knows he only looks cozy, like the night in he was having. Still, he can make it seductive.

“What now? You bitch about your shitty coworkers or we unwind other ways?”

Shane licks his lips, shrugs. He pulls the screen closer to his face, as if needing to get Ilya’s smirk bigger in his sight and that answers the question, doesn’t it?

“You don’t think it’s weird on the phone?” Shane asks. Always deflecting desire, making Ilya corner him like it is sport. As if he did not call on video for a reason… Luckily, Ilya does not mind doing the chasing.

“Not if you give me a good angle.”

“What about my good angle?” Shane counters.

Ilya rises to the challenge, setting the phone between his thighs on the seat, grinning down at the camera as he whisks the shirt up and over his head. He’s rewarded by the screen being taken up by Shane’s eyes and freckles. Ilya bursts out laughing.

“Put your glasses on, you are too close to the screen.” Screen-maxing, as his son would say. “I need to see you too.”

Shane takes some time puttering around his apartment scoping out a good place to prop the phone. He’s meticulous, so tedious, it makes Ilya burn hotter. So careful and patient to balance Ilya’s careless rush.

Shane finally goes to his bedroom and sets Ilya against some boring hockey books. After a lifetime, he goes for his shirt buttons. His eyes keep sneaking back to Ilya to try and gauge him. Ilya strokes over his chest, petting a nipple to keep his lovely fish on the hook.

Shane chews his cheek, stripping without noticing, his eyes glued to Ilya’s hand on his strong, supple chest. He folds his shirt, then hops out of his pants. Getting impatient as he briskly folds his clothes.

“What do you use?” Ilya asks.

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, down to his sensible navy socks and black underwear. He must have set Ilya on a dresser because he has a very good view of Shane perched on his bed edge. His cock is a tempting, soft lump beneath the cloth. God, but Ilya wishes he could put this on the jumbotron, see it blown up huge. It is too bad he never got the home theatre installed.

“You cannot tell me you do not have anything to go inside of you when my cock is too busy,” Ilya purrs, shimmying his own pants down, feeling the cool air over his warming cock. “I think I remember you saying you have dildo—”

“You remember that?” Shane groans, embarrassed.

“Collection has only grown, I am sure. Show me.”

“I’m not showing you my dildo collection,” Shane says.

The confirmation of Ilya's suspicion makes his heart thud. Shane Hollander’s Dildo Collection. God. He wants to pay someone to make a hand painted sign with a large arrow to point.

“Too bad. I guess I keep my cock to myself too. You only watch nipples and face.”

Ilya rubs his nipple, then sneaks a hand down—takes a grip of his just-hardening cock and gives is a long enough rub that Shane must get the picture even if he cannot see it. Shane’s eyes flash down to the bottom of the screen, but Ilya is not so easy to show even a hint.

“Let me select one,” Ilya argues. “I pick a very good one to be inside you. Only the best.”

Shane scowls, knows he is being manipulated— lets Ilya do it anyways.

“Just don’t give me shit—”

“I give you orgasm! Shit can come later.” Ilya is absolutely certain he can multitask both if the need arises.

Shane picks up the phone and flips the camera around. Ilya gets a glimpse of Shane in his mirror before the image slants down as Shane opens up his bottom-most drawer to reveal a neat line of sex toys.

Ilya bites his lip to stop from laughing.

“Are they organized by size?”

“And function. The ones on the right don’t vibrate— oh fuck off.”

Ilya wrangles his chortles. “You have index? Special Dewey Decimal for dildos?”

The camera flashes away, up to Shane’s unimpressed face in the mirror.

“No, no, no please, let me pick. Bring me back so I can pick a good one. Yes, there we go. Come on.” He murmurs a little in Russian, gratitude, encouragement, as Shane brings the camera back.

The dildos, about twelve in total, are in pristine, tidy condition, little lube bottles lined in a row. Ilya is impressed by the organization, but not surprised by the amount— when he met Shane, Shane did not know or understand his desire, but he has had a lifetime to grow into himself. To embrace his sexuality. To even try anal beads. Yes, it is good and right even if Ilya aches a little to not have had a whole part in witnessing it. Twenty years without…

He shakes himself from the unhelpful thought, drags his eyes down the line. Shane moves back and forth patiently. There is a good variety. A slim one with bulging knots up it, a thick, huge one that looks like it could light up and emcee birthday parties—

The monster cock would be easy choice, the joke choice— only, Ilya does not want to give Shane shit about this. Shit about being tidy yes, but seeing all Shane’s dildos, large and small, makes Ilya more curious than anything. Makes him desperate to be entrusted with each and every story, hear secondhand the sounds of pleasure they elicit from Shane.

“Ilya,” Shane says, impatience in his voice.

“Sorry, sorry. I did not realize we were on a timeline.”

“The timeline is now,” Shane says dryly. “Sometime tonight, even.”

Ilya grins to himself, eyes strolling over the cocks until they zoom in on a purple one. Dark colored, a little veiny. It is one of the simpler ones, no bells or whistles. While not Ilya’s size exactly, it looks close, quite like the thickness.

“That purple one.”

“Oh.”

The camera drops to Shane’s feet, and Ilya makes a noise.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Shane takes the purple dildo in one hand, juggling the phone a little. “Do you have a preference for the lube too or can I get on with this?”

Ilya does have a preference, actually. He selects a watermelon lube he has used before.

“I like that brand, Good smell, sweet like your ass.”

“My ass does not smell like watermelon,” Shane says, delightfully literal.

“It will tonight. Get on the bed.”

Shane props Ilya up on the books and goes to the bed. Ilya gears up to watch Shane open himself, but is treated to Shane wriggling around on the covers, glancing up and squinting at the distant screen with an annoyed look.

“You look great,” Ilya encourages.

“I can’t see you though. This is bullshit.”

“So go get your fancy tablet, we make this a three-way call. You me and you again. My favourite.”

Shane leaves quickly, said ass juddering as he leaves the room and comes into the call on his tablet too. He sets the tablet on the bed and adjusts the phone angle one last time.

Shane finally strips his underwear and settles on a pillow, stomach down and arm reaching back. The tablet sits on the sheets above the pillow, and Shane’s face is unattractively close to the camera again—it does something maddening to Ilya. Seeing bits of his chin, his eyes moving in and out of frame. Little hints and never enough. Like a peepshow. Amateur porn.

Ilya likes having two views, flicks greedily between Shane’s face and the exquisite competence of his body. The shimmying of his navy, socked feet. He wishes he could pay the promo film crew to come in, get coverage from all angles, because Shane is beautiful on all sides.

He glances at the other view and sees Shane’s lubed fingers dipping back over his curved spine and into the deep pinkness of his spread ass. Ilya groans as Shane spreads the lube around. He knows how that lube smells— it’s like he can scent it now, even in his bathroom all these kilometers away. Brightly artificial. Fresh.

“Good. Make sure you get enough in there.”

Shane’s fingers dig in deeper at the instruction. Ilya’s cock twitches at the slow movements.

“So careful,” he croons.

Shane rocks into his fingers hard at that and Ilya makes a clicking sound.

“No, save it for the real thing, sweetheart.”

Shane’s hand drops and he pants for a moment. Ilya watches his red face, the glint of concentration. It is lovely to see all that focus honed in on his own release. What a worthy use of its incomparable power. He usually uses it for domination, to topple enemies, but today, no, only for getting himself off.

Shane sits up to rub a thin layer of lube on the dildo, the gesture mechanical, precise, but it makes Ilya grin.

“Great stick work.”

“You fuck,” Shane laughs.

“No, you fuck,” Ilya corrects. “I supervise.”

“Oh, is that what you’re doing?”

“Yes, I will be dick commissioner for today.”

Shane laughs again.

“Come on deputy Hollander, nice and slow for me.”

Shane shakes his head, but his cheeks are nicely red, a flush spreading down his neck. His face is shadowed from the overhead lights but that is better, makes each expression pleasantly blurred like old photographs on real film.

He pokes the dildo in, his hole spreading in a beautiful, practiced way at the intrusion. Shane Hollander was built for many things, to take over the world, to be loved, Ilya thinks, but he is also built for fucking in a way almost too good to be true.

“So fucking talented at it, aren’t you?” Ilya says when Shane’s dildo is all the way in. Ilya’s own cock is rising to fullness now, he stretches over the counter to grab some lotion from the sink countertop.

“Let me see you,” Shane pants, and Ilya angles the camera down so Shane can see him spreading the white lotion over his cock, the excess squeezing out between his fingers.

“Holy fuck,” Shane pants, and his hips kick, pushing the dildo in and out in a jackrabbit move that has him groaning, his head dropping.

“Pull it out,” Ilya instructs. “Yes, stop there, push it in, nice and hard. Twist— God, yes.”

“Yes,” Shane agrees, breathing hard. But if he can still talk, Ilya is not doing enough. He feeds Shane instructions, watching him meet and surpass each request with single-minded efficiency until he is collapsing over the camera, face a blur of too much sensation. What a fucking guy.

Ilya feels like he understands that mercurial director now, the pleasure and the power of the monitor. He isn’t even blinking anymore and his eyes sting with the pulsing of his cock in his hand.

“You are so skilled at this. You know this cock so well,” Ilya croons. “How long you have it? Ten years?”

That makes Shane groan for some reason, squirm. His lean runner thighs squeeze together for a moment. His balls draw up a little, before drooping back low. Did he almost just come?

“Longer.”

“How long?” Ilya asks.

“Th— thirty years.”

Thirty? But that’s—

“Seventeen?” Ilya groans.

“After the first time, when you asked me if I wanted to try—”

To try this, anal, Ilya fills in.

“You bought it? You were thinking of me?” It’s a shot in the dark, a tease, because surely not—but Shane groans.

“Yes,” he whispers.

And yes, he must have, who else’s cock— back then there was only Ilya. It’s still Ilya now, same thickness even far away—

The orgasm crests over Ilya faster and more sudden than it has in years. Ilya’s hand squeezes hard on the head that weeps and spurts with his long, gravely groan. Cum pulses over his belly, nipping up to his pecs and drips down to pool at his hips.

Shane cusses, hips grinding into the pillow as his ass squeezes around the purple dildo— Ilya’s cock in all sense of the word.

Shane kept it all these years.

Used it.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Ilya mutters. His overwhelmed cock twitches and oozes more cum in pathetic spurts as he watches Shane rock through his orgasm.

Shane lowers his head, hiding everything but his hairline from Ilya’s sight as he pants through the aftermath. He pulls the dildo out, placing it on a towel beside him, but his head doesn’t come up.

“Shane?”

Shane curls his body up on the wide view.

Ilya reads his physical language like a book. Shane’s classic move of pure desire collapsing into shame and unsightliness.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” Ilya says. He likes the word for Shane as much as lover. “Look at me.”

And because Shane is the best at listening, his face peeks up, just an eye. Overwhelmed, embrassed. Maybe self-loathing. The last is the only thing Ilya thinks looks bad on him.

“There you are. My good man, my great fuck. You take care of yourself so well, and me.”

Shane’s eyes flick over Ilya’s chest, the glinting lines of his release, his soft dick still cradled in his hand oversensitive.

Ilya’s heart still thuds. Sentimental Shane. He’s known this, but seeing it in the dildo is another thing. He doesn’t know how to mention it, the gratitude. Can’t utter it for fear of saying the wrong thing.

“I want to shave you,” Ilya says instead. Like a fucking idiot.

“What?” Shane says, baffled.

“The next time we are together, I want to shave you face.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to—why do I do anything?”

“I wish I knew,” Shane says, sounding so honest that Ilya laughs.

Shane smiles, fidgeting in his own messiness. Despite his lip service, Shane's eyes are still that bit distant, closed off. Ilya doesn't know how he does it, trips into this vulnerability so beautiful, then shivers with it afterwards like a bad cold he'd give anything to be rid of. 

If Ilya were there, he would reach out, pull Shane’s head into his armpit until he was cursing and shoving Ilya away. He'd erase the distance between them with hundreds of kisses up and down his skin until Shane came back to himself with a writhing vengeance. But Ilya cannot help Shane be in his body when Ilya is not even in the same room. It is stupidly unfair.

...But maybe Ilya can help him by being in his own body. A place that Shane is always welcome to anyway. 

“I shower,” Ilya says, standing. Shane's head duck's completely for a moment; it is almost evil, the way he can withdraw without making a sound.

“Yeah, I should probably also go," Shane hurries to say, feigning casual. Ilya stays quiet until Shane glances up again. "… What are you doing?”

Ilya sets the camera against the soap dispenser, giving a view over the toilet and into the shower. He pulls the curtain back and starts the tap.

“You do not have to stay,” Ilya says. “But I am like a Pollack painting.”

“Gross.”

Shane doesn’t say anything further, but he doesn’t turn off the call either.

“You’re going to get water everywhere if you leave the curtains open like that,” Shane points out eventually. He’s taken a moment to wipe himself off, but seems okay with sitting in his own mess for a little longer just to stay on the line.

Ilya adjusts the showerhead to point more to the tiled wall, but otherwise shrugs as he enters the spray. He lets the hot water run over his head, wetting his curls to long strips that hang down his face. He pumps out his shea butter shampoo, lathers. He glances under his lashes but sees that Shane is still there, just watching him intently, as if studying a hockey play.

Ilya rinses his hair and scoops up the soap bar—he still washes like a jock, something Svetlana teased him about regularly. Long, efficient strokes over all the sweatiest areas. Shane chews on his thumbnail. Ilya wonders if he is thinking about that first shower, the way they were back then.

They knew so little. They wanted so much— well, some of that simply hasn’t changed, even if their bodies have.

Ilya rinses languidly. He takes the towel off the rack and steps onto the bathmat. Shane was not wrong—there is a sizable puddle on the tile, but Ilya will not be admitting that. Ilya scrunches his curls then wraps the towel around his body, drying each part. Bending to get his legs.

It makes his stomach look huge when he reaches over. The sensation of his belly dropping into the air is still so alien to how he sees himself that it strikes him anew every time. When he glances up, Shane is still soaking him in. His brown eyes are back to being too close to the camera, taking up the whole screen. There is nothing judgemental there, only absorption; it makes Ilya remember all over again how much he loves attention.

Ilya grins, gives the towel a long, sensual drag over his shoulders that elicits a smile. Yes, Ilya would spend all night bringing Shane back to himself, away from the shattering edge of admitting his own desires. And he'd enjoy every minute of being allowed to do so.

“I can’t believe you came on the toilet.” Shane shakes his head, chuckling.

“Mmm, was fun. I love dirty bathroom sex. We will do it in your bathroom next time.”

“My bathroom isn’t filthy.”

“We can fix that.”

Shane scoffs, but he meets Ilya's eyes so steadily. “I need to shower now.”

“Bring me with you, maybe I get off again.” Ilya doesn’t think he could, but it is a nice thought. Shane shakes his head.

“Maybe next time. I need to get to bed.”

“Yes, must rest up to kill commissioner tomorrow.”

“You’re not funny.” Shane’s pulls back from the camera enough. The twitch of his lips is undeniable, like stubborn sunlight peeking through clouds. “See you next weekend?”

The weekend after, Shane is back in Montreal. He spends the day with his parents finalizing their move. He comes to Ilya’s house with tight lips.

Ilya kisses in the entryway, but Shane turns away, eyes glancing out the windowpane at the sleepy suburban neighborhood.

“I bought you this,” Shane says, before Ilya can ask how the moving went.

Ilya takes the proffered box, squints at the phone tripod, then grins. “More phone sex? You will see everything next time.”

Shane smiles, but he still glances inside the rest of Ilya’s house, as though expecting Nikolaj to pop out with streamers and banner yelling ‘Surprise!’ Ilya is realizing that 'tired' is a normal state for Shane and it is a pity to see on such a good man. 

“Can we go somewhere?” Shane asks.

“Where?”

Shane takes Ilya’s phone and types in an address. He lets Ilya drive him to a tall, familiar apartment complex. Inside, Ilya goggles at the familiar, ceiling-high windows.

“You still have this apartment?” It looks different. Shane has changed the flooring, redone the kitchen. The window fixtures are slatted and dark. Little natural light comes in even this high up.

“I usually lease it for additional income, but I had them clear out.”

Ilya peers at him. “When? You did not clear them out in one week just for us to fuck.”

“Three weeks ago,” Shane says, face red. So exactly when they agreed on this stupid deal. Ilya finds himself grinning.

“You did not give them one month? Must have had to give them money for breaking contract. Not very smart.”

“We needed a place. I’m tired of seeing you in hotel rooms, and no offense, but you still have a teenager living with you.”

“So you have me in one of your apartments or another. But no Hawaii?”

“Not yet,” Shane teases.

“You keep moving the world. Careful, you are very powerful man, Mr. Hollander. One day you will change weekend to be seven days long and we fuck ‘til my dick breaks.”

“Shut up, you couldn’t last that long.” Shane gives himself over to Ilya fully. As if begging for consumption, to be dragged out of his head, away from his painful morning, and painted in broad strokes onto the bed.

The apartment is familiar, but reality is better than the nostalgia. Ilya does not have to come up the back and worry for his life in creepy alleyway. There is no urgency to leave at 3am and now the amount of decorative pillows is the correct excess to lay their bodies out in the perfect pose after they have sex. Ilya groans, soft and fucked out, totally supported and painless.

They sleep together, wake up together, roll into and onto each other.

The old apartment means that the weights room is the same as when they were both playing hockey. Ilya persuades Shane to let him spot him, and then when he’s halfway through his bicep reps, Ilya drops to a folded mat to warm Shane’s sweaty cock. He refuses to suck until Shane moaningly finishes his last rep.

The Monday after that, Shane calls after work. Not for sex either, though Ilya answered the phone with the hem of his shirt already teased between his fingers. Shane just called to bitch about work. 

"You don't get it," Shane kvetches. "These people are worse than hockey players. They're actually fucking psychos."

"I'm sure," Ilya drawls, certain that Shane has been living in office-land too long to remember what a locker room is like. "So they are also living on top of each other twenty-four/eight without a break and just waiting for smallest chirp about momma to drop gloves and fight."

"Ilya. They legally can't throw any fists."

"Oh," Ilya utters, realizing for the first time what a mess of utterly petty bullshit must ferment between these bottled up people. It's terrible to even think about. "So you are saying your official stance is that we don't need to outlaw fighting in hockey, we need to in-law it in your office, yes?"

Shane laughs, tells him to fuck off with so much fondness that Ilya feels it in his fingertips.

Before Ilya knows it, they are calling after almost every day after work, talking on phone as Ilya tromps through his backyard garden, fucking sometimes when Nikolaj is out of the house, kvetching. Ilya's favourite part is when Hollander’s eyes will go sharp as he discusses his maneuvering, finagling political capital, the subtle yet merciless ways he puts down his rivals to edge him and his loyal progressive retinue further and further into the belly of the beast that is the MLH. Nothing is as erotic as a focused Shane Hollander destroying every man between him and the goal post.

Ilya likes the talking, even if he is a little surprised by how regular it is. He thought that Shane would be sick of him, might need his space— not because Ilya is unlikable (such is impossible; he is the most charming person anyone knows) but because Shane is so unused to living with people that his closest neighbours are in separate buildings. Still, introverted as he is, Shane seems to embrace Ilya’s space filling with verve, curling up next to him, putting his feet on Ilya’s lap, moving the phone so close that only his eyes can be seen on camera. It is dizzying, almost terrible how good they are at being together.

Ilya hadn’t thought...

He did not know that they would be so good together.

They never had a chance to know before now.

He tries to reassure himself that maybe they wouldn’t have been, back then. That maybe Shane’s distant watchfulness and contrasting, lovely neediness might have grated on the Ilya in his twenties. That Ilya’s cocksureness would drive a younger, tidier Shane spare. He tells himself that they needed to grow to actually be ready for one another.

But part of him worries deeply and terribly that they might just have done that growing together, developed into something incredible, so much less fractured than this fleeting, wordless thing they grasp at now. 

He tries very hard not to think long (or at all) about such things.

Ilya's assistant asks him about weekend plans in a casual, throwaway question.

Ilya opens his mouth. Closes it. Chirps about his assistant getting his own life fixed up before asking about Ilya's.

Next time, Ilya thinks to himself, his mouth dry. Maybe next time I will say something.

Chapter End Notes

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IF YOU ARE READING THIS AT NIGHT, THIS IS YOUR LOVING REMINDER TO GO TO BED NOW. THE STORY WILL BE HERE TOMORROW. GET SOME SLEEP MY LOVE!!!

(I'm getting too many 3:00 a.m. reading comments and I'm worried for y'all. )

The shane hollander dildo collection was supposed to be a one paragraph summary of events, but i thought you all could enjoy a little treat and lo-and-behold one's dildos revealeth much about Shane Hollander's raging sentimentality and ilya's regrets.

drama starts next chapter so buckle in my sweets.

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

Shane and Ilya are careful with each other, more careful than they ever were as shithead kids. Life is hard enough as an adult. It is nice to have someone to do it with again, someone like Shane who is stubborn, kind, and beautiful, who does not take any shit from Ilya or anyone else.

Still, having someone to call is not always enough, and Ilya can feel the days when Shane comes back from visiting with his parents tight and anxious, a pain that emanates from his eyes, even as he fights to keep his face smooth like a pond. Ilya is extra careful those days, to not tear Shane apart, but pull his layers off delicately, as if he is folding away his barriers like clothes. A careful touch Ilya did not know he had until he needed it.

Making love, not fucking. Ilya is old enough to know and cherish each for what they are.  

A month and a half into their new thing, Shane is in Montreal. He asks Ilya to collect him from the airport. Ilya is surprised, but agrees easily. Usually, Shane has a car-share program that he uses to drive to his parents’ assisted living home before he meets Ilya at his apartment complex.

Still, Ilya picks Shane up at the airport in the afternoon. He is not hurt by the way Shane enters the car without looking at Ilya. It takes Shane a little to warm up, he knows. To unclench his carefully-managed persona into that languid, grasping lover of Ilya’s. There is no kiss, not in a public place, but when Ilya puts his hand on Shane’s knee, he eases, Shane’s hand dropping to link their fingers— he squeezes hard.

“Will you… will you come with me today?”

Ilya glances over, then back to the road. Oh.  

“To visit your parents?”

“I want them to meet you. It’s weird to me that they know all the other important people in my life, but they don’t really know you. You know?”

Ilya does not know. It makes perfect sense to him that they only know Ilya in the professional, unemotional sphere, but he is very intrigued by the idea that Shane thinks it is weird.

Maybe it's like that morning where it felt important for Nikolaj to see Shane, to know he and Ilya were… something. Friends, at least. Not unconnected. Having them together, eating a meal wasn’t exactly right, wasn’t totally true, but it was a bright moment to Ilya. So he thinks he maybe he does understand after all.

“Am I being selfish, asking you to come? If it’s too much you can tell me,” Shane asks, and he worries more than anyone Ilya knows. About Ilya’s blessedly dead father, about Ilya’s worries before they even become worries. He has all of the worrying covered, and it is always charming.

“I wish you were more selfish,” Ilya says honestly.

Shane gives him a curious look. Ilya doesn’t know, really. Can’t find the words to say so he shrugs his shoulder, squeezes Shane’s hand back.

“I want to meet them too,” he says instead.

He lets Shane plug in the address. Hawkesbury, only an hour outside of Montreal. Plenty of time for Ilya to start sweating. He feels dizzy, that familiar feeling that neither he nor Shane know what they are doing, but also an equal determination to follow this man anyways.

“What exactly… How exactly am I introducing myself?” He does not want to assume.

Shane shrugs stiff shoulders. “Someone important to me.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, not any clearer. “Do they know that you are…”

“Gay?”

Ilya nods. Honestly, he thinks they should be able to guess. Aside from Rose Landry, there has not been much hint of Shane being straight. (Even back then, Ilya could never imagine Shane fucking her. Now, Rose Landry pegging Shane was a rage fantasy that Ilya mused on a lot as a disturbed twenty-something-year-old. He keeps this fact to himself.)

“I never told them explicitly,” Shane admits. “But I think my parents suspect.”

“They never said anything?”

Shane shakes his head.

Well, if it is out of politeness for his boundaries, or disinterest, Ilya does not know. He somehow suspects that no matter what, they will love Shane. Cannot understand not doing it himself.

“You know my mom thinks I still play hockey?” Shane says, glancing out the window. “She has no idea that I’m deputy commissioner anymore.” Ilya glances to see his neck working, the only sign that he’s in any way affected by the fact that his mother cannot see all the ways he tries to improve the sport they have loved so intensely together. A shared life’s passion. “I guess even if I tried to tell them that we are… that we’re seeing each other. It wouldn’t matter would it?” Tired bitterness coats his voice. “She won’t remember.”

Ilya has no response to that. The full pain of the situation sinking in. But it does mean something that Shane wants them to meet anyway. That Ilya can still give him his effort and his presence so Shane can see them in a room together and get some minuscule closure in a closureless situation of memory loss.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Ilya says. Shane gives him a deeply dubious look, but his eyes look less red, less far away.

Hamilton House is a tidy building a few streets from the river. Quiet, sleepy town. Pleasant, if Ilya has to call it anything.

Shane enters, his posture tight and rigid like a spring. Ilya follows after like a dog, feeling nerves of his own but unwilling to name them. He does not know. Things with him and Shane have been going almost freakishly well. He does not want to mess this up; he knows how important Shane’s parents are to him.

So he keeps his hands politely folded in front of him, and feels all of eight, pretending to be the polite Russian school boy he never was.

Shane is clearly a regular visitor. He calls the attendant at the desk by her first name. He is good with names. Ilya lets them slip past him if they aren’t important enough, but Shane likes to know everyone’s name and birthstone, their favorite coffee order.

He hands Ilya a tag with his name written in Shane’s spiky handwriting. He clips it to his collar and follows Shane into the elevator. Shane has his own printed nametag on a lanyard, something he pulled from his luggage. Clearly, it is not about security. More likely a reminder for people with memory issues. Something to look at when they forget who they are talking to. Ilya swallows a grimace. It does bring back memories from his father. The times he would talk to Ilya about Ilya, his stupid lazy son, as if Ilya was a friendly neighbor or uncle. The words could not even sting, the sick feelings of stress and grim pity were too strong.

They ride the elevator to the fifth floor and Ilya looks at the posters of the events, high school string performances, non-denominational church services. Bingo. Alzheimer support groups both for people dealing with it and for their spouses…

It looks like a nice building. Boring. Carefully curated. Shane probably played a big role in selecting it. Ilya would not be surprised if he tracks their business practices and google review page with a keen eye. It must be interesting to have the trade from Yuna’s controlling, smothering love be transferred over to Shane. To swap places, almost, as overbearing parent and child.

Shane knocks on the door of apartment 5C, his shoulders tense which must aggravate the old pains. Ilya wishes he could reach out, dig his thumb in and draw the pain out, but knows his touch would only make Shane more anxious and that too is another bitter pill in a sea of them.

The door opens to a smiling David. He looks much the same as Ilya saw on the jumbotron some months ago. His blue eyes widen as he takes in Ilya for the first time, plain confusion on his face, even as he moves out of the way for them to come in.

David hugs Shane, easy and warm, then reaches out his hand to Ilya. Polite, even in his perplexment.

“Ilya Rozanov. Nice of you to stop by.”

Ilya shakes it.

“Thank you for having me,” Ilya says. His throat feels dry, his voice not his own.

“Honey, Shane’s here,” David calls into the living room. “He brought Ilya Rozanov.”

“Rozanov?!”

Ilya jumps at Yuna’s voice. Shane looks exasperated as they make their way to the living room. Yuna Hollander sits on a couch, closed book in her hand with her finger stuck inside to keep her page. She looks like a tulip, almost. Her body has gotten smaller and frailer, leading to her large, silver coated head.

For all she is supposed to be mentally absent, her eyes narrow the moment they set upon Ilya. She does not like what she sees. Ilya tries for a sincere look, anything but his usual smirk. He does not think it works.

“Why did you bring him, Shane. He plays for the Bears!”

Shane coughs. “No, he doesn’t. He coaches for McGill now. We saw one of his games.”

Her shrewd look goes a little foggy, a little betrayed by her own memory. Ilya feels his heart throbbing sickly, the old ache of his own father’s memory issues bubbling to the top.

Whereas his own father could only react to his memory lapses with yelling, cruel words, Yuna scowls and waves her hand as if to say, once a Bear, always a Bear.

Which, holy shit. “I played for LA Royals too. And Tampa Thunder,” Ilya says, as if that might help.

She looks more judgmental if possible. “You don’t even have loyalty to your first franchise?”

Ilya’s mouth falls open. “I was traded!”

“I suppose it’s not your fault. Not everyone is as talented as Shane,” she sniffs. Ilya has to laugh, he is so galled.

“I don’t play hockey anymore,” Shane says, the tone of voice seeming to communicate that this is a sentence often said. He doesn’t look heavy or close to tears. Something about being with his mother has made him cool stone. Ilya wonders if this is what he is like at work. 

“I know that,” Yuna scoffs. Does she really? Or is she still playing confident? It’s a little stunning to watch if so. She goes on, “Still, your stats speak for themselves, honey.”

David comes bustling in, a tray of brown colored tea. Ilya does not recognize the taste of it when he smells his cup. Something earthy, like barley.

Yuna has stopped glaring at Ilya, her eyes tight on Shane. She is still piercing, frightening, even with her memory issues.

“Why is Rozanov here?” Yuna presses, once David is sitting beside her, holding her hand in his. “Did I miss something?” she murmurs sotto voce to her husband. David only shrugs, clearly as at a loss as she is.

“Ilya is my friend,” Shane says. “We’ve been spending more time together. I just wanted you to meet him.”

“I see, like Hayden,” David says, petting her hand. “That makes sense.”

“Except Hayden isn’t a damn Bear,” Yuna mutters.

Shane corrects patiently, “Ilya doesn’t play for Boston anymore.”

Yuna looks at Ilya, as if double checking he isn’t wearing the black and gold jersey.

“I am an old man now,” Ilya says. “I can’t play for anyone.”

“If you’re old, what does that make us?” David quips, smiling. “Will you stay for dinner?”

Ilya looks to Shane to gauge his mood, but he is still staring at his mother, a downward tilt to his mouth. Ilya aches to take his hand, lace fingers, squeeze to pump the tension out of his body and into Ilya— he can do nothing. Does nothing. Feels impotent.

It is not a feeling he likes.

“Yeah, we’re staying,” Shane says, unblinking.

“Good, you can tell us about this promo you were shooting. The behind the scenes pictures you sent us were nice.” David heads to the kitchen. Ilya, for lack of anything to do and to escape Yuna’s pointed glares, leaps to follow him out. Ilya glances back. Mother and son stare intently at each other, lips pursed in a perfect mirror.

The kitchen is not much better than an apartment one; galley style, limited space, and Ilya struggles to find somewhere to stand before he jams himself against a cupboard away from the stove where David works on boiling to pots of water for pasta.

“Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

“I must eat carbs,” Ilya says, earning a twinkling smile from David as he weights out wheat pasta on the kitchen scale, then another round of chickpea pasta on the other.

“I thought Shane would quit this diet stuff once he stopped playing hockey,” David admits.

Shane will probably always like control— the habit is so ingrained. The comment feels a little too personal, too knowing for this ‘friendship’ so Ilya shrugs. Says instead, “His body is temple. He’s aging better than I am. Too many cigarettes and late nights when I was young.”

“Yuna’s genes, not mine” David says, then seems to fall short. Yuna’s genes must be on his mind a lot. Ilya can relate—he too has wondered, late at night, what else he has taken from his father beside his temper and blue eyes.

David restarts, smiling. Such a pleasant man. “It was nice of you to come visit us, Rozanov,” he says, clearly meaning it even if he clearly does not understand it.

“Ilya, please.”

“Okay, Ilya,”

“I think it is because my dad had dementia,” Ilya says, to justify himself. “It is easier for Shane to talk with someone who has been through a similar thing.”

“Oh.” Ilya finally knows where Shane learned that wet, I’m-not-crying look from, but it does not mean it is not startling to see on a seventy-year-old man. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

David’s hand goes to Ilya, and Ilya almost backs out in startlement, but there is nowhere to go. The touch lands softly and he rubs Ilya’s bicep.

“I’m so glad he has someone to talk to about it. He isn’t always… You know Shane, he likes to handle things himself.”

“I know. I try to help if I can.”

David grins, the moisture in his eyes only a compliment to the smile.

“It is not the same thing,” Ilya explains. “I was not close to my father. I tried to help, but he was not…” Ilya has never known how to explain. It was not that his father did not care. He cared about Ilya’s every mistake, watched his every step. For a long time, Ilya confused attention with love and pursued hockey with dogged intensity to keep his father’s eyes on him, even if losing carved something out of him with each cruel word, careless touch.

“I can imagine that might only make it more complicated,” David says sympathetically when Ilya never finds the end of his sentence. Ilya must try again. Does not want to come off as a pity case, especially with the current hardship in David’s life.

“No, I didn’t mean.” Ilya groans. English fails him so constantly. “I only meant that I know Shane loves Yuna. And you. That it is harder. She is an incredible woman. I don’t know her well personally, but when I was a player I was always impressed. She owned every room she was in. Took all the air.” Ilya swallows. He’s rambling. “I think Shane is very like her.”

David tilts his head at Ilya’s words, but he wipes at his face and turns to the pasta. “I’m very glad then, that you and Shane are friends.”

Ilya tries not to second guess himself if David would be as glad if he knew that they were something else too.

“Can you get the parmesan? I think it’s behind the milk in the fridge.”

Ilya does, happy to have a task.

“So, McGill had a great season,” David says, “Did they finally move the locker rooms from that terrible Makeham building?” Ilya embraces this new topic of McGill’s locker room location with fervor.

He thinks he has won over at least one parent or at least proven himself as Shane’s friend. It is more valuable than he realized, David’s approval. Makes him feel more settled about his ongoing place in Shane’s life, even if the rest must remain unspoken.

He goes to the living room to tell Shane and Yuna that dinner is ready, only to find them wrapped up together on the couch, both of them crying. Ilya’s stomach drops to the floor. Oh fuck.

Shane sees him, guilt in his face. He holds his hand out, and even if it feels exposing, Ilya can’t do anything but reach back, lace digits and let Shane pull him to his other side as he draws away from his mom.

Ilya swallows as Yuna looks at them curling together, her mind clearly trying to make sense of what she sees. She eventually shakes her head bewildered.

“Why you?”

Ilya’s mouth opens, not entirely sure himself, and yet indignant. Because only Ilya can love Shane right, he feels it in his bones. Ilya surprises himself by glaring back at her.

She startles, expression tilting thoughtful.

“Mom,” Shane says, short and clipped.

Ilya lets her stare, arms stiff around Shane and desperate to know what happened, whether Shane was found out, if Ilya accidentally gave them away.

Glancing sideways, he sees that Shane looks worn, but content. The thick miasma of his anxiety cut and he all but sags against the couch and Ilya. He rests his head in Ilya's neck and his lips part there in an open-mouthed kiss.

Oh. A curl of warmth spools in his chest.

David comes into the room.

“Come on slow-pokes, dinner’s up… Holy… What did I miss?”

“They’re together,” Yuna says. Ilya’s eyes dart to Shane, waiting for the correction. Shane is looking down, doesn’t say anything and Ilya swallows. His heart beats hard and he hopes Shane cannot feel it through his chest.

“We’re seeing each other,” Shane eventually says, and there it is. The phrase which communicates everything and nothing. Gives them leeway while being woefully deficient.

But that is what they are, Ilya supposes.  

“Would you look at that,” David says, faintly.

Ilya and Shane leave with plenty of leftovers. They try to turn it down twice, but Yuna threatens to send them off with a ham in her freezer as well, and they take the lower offer of two Tupperware containers bursting with pasta.

The conversation at dinner was not smooth by any metric. David left to get a reinforcing drink halfway through as Ilya and Shane stumbled through their answers, navigating Yuna's inconsistent memory as she brought up league concerns and contracts that have not matter for a long time. She seemed to retain that they were something, at least, but that may have had to do with the way Ilya did not release Shane’s hand the entire night. Despite the difficulty, it was thrilling to sit at the dinner table, to take Shane’s tight knuckled hand and smooth out the tension with his thumb. To be seen by Shane’s parents more accurately.

Shane was more honest than Ilya expected.

David offered them the perfect out, asking if it was shooting this promo that made them realize, but Shane shook his head, and admitted that they have been close since playing pro, that the rivalry was mostly press hype.

“But you hated him,” Yuna said, and Ilya swallowed.

“No,” Shane answered. There was a pause, a gap where twenty years sat. Shane closed his mouth stubbornly around it. “It’s not that simple,” was all he could say.

Thankfully they didn’t ask Shane how they fell apart, spun away only to fall into each other again so many years later… Shane and Ilya haven’t talked about it yet, not really. Ilya resists the idea, part of him sure that revisiting the past will only cause pain, cannot improve their present. They made their choices, and now they make different choices; that’s all there is.

But another part of him worries that he still does not know what Shane thinks about it. But does he really want to? Did Shane hate him once?

He looks at Shane as he hugs his mother, long and hard, her hands pressing into his back and burying him into her shoulder.

“I’ll be watching your game tonight. Don’t worry, you’ll do great,” she tells him, and Ilya sees Shane’s eyes shut hard even as he squeezes her more.

Ilya shakes David’s hand again, unprepared for him to slowly, as if afraid of spooking an animal, swing an arm around and give him a side-hug.

“I’m glad you came by, Ilya.”

David moves on to Shane, pulling him close and murmuring to him. Yuna gives Ilya a hug that is mostly shoulders.

“Thank you for being there for my son,” she says stiffly. “Even if you are on that shitty Boston team.”

Ilya tries not to smile, isn’t sure he succeeds. He cannot correct her, it is not his place. He only nods and pats her back once, very politely.

In the car, Shane lets out a long exhausted sigh. “Jesus Christ.”

“For having Alzheimer’s she is still smarter than most people we know,” Ilya says. Shane nods his head, dazed.

“She had us pinned from the start.”

“She knows you on the inside,” Ilya says. “She does not forget that.”

Shane mangles a smile. “I guess so. What did she say to you on the way out?”

Ilya tells him and Shane starts to laugh wetly. “She remembers what team you were on. But she’s never going to remember that I came out. That we’re something. But god save the Boston Bears from her steel fucking trap!” He sounds a little hysterical at the end.

“She might remember,” Ilya says. No one really knows how Alzheimer works. “David will tell her. If not, I will put up with being the nasty Bear friend. I do not mind if she says so every time.”

Shane sniffles, cranes awkwardly over the console between them to kiss Ilya’s cheek and Ilya roughly cups his face, eyes still on the road.

They don’t fuck that night, too emotionally exhausted. They just curl up together. Ilya on Shane’s chest, letting him kiss into Ilya’s hair and hold him like he’s worried of losing something.

“Some part of me thinks she’d rather remember me that way, as her successful hockey player son. I know that’s unfair to her, but it’s just… How I feel sometimes.” The words land like a secret on Ilya’s crown. “She’s just so happy thinking I’m playing. So proud of me.”

“She was happy when you started working MLH right? You said it was her idea?”

Shane nods, shoulders coming up in a pained shrug. “Yes, but I don't think she was ever happier than the day I got signed to Montreal... Like I said, I know it’s not fair to say.”

“It’s a lot that is unfair,” Ilya echoes himself. He kisses Shane’s pec, his collarbone. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Shane finally cries, his eyes shutting over the tears and his arms squeezing tight around Ilya.

When Shane wakes up the next morning, he looks at Ilya, studying him. Ilya, in his haze, can only think how nice it is to have someone in his bed.

“When you wake up…” Shane starts.

“Hm?” Ilya asks.

“Do you ever think I’m Svetlana?”

Ilya reaches out, folding his large body over the pile of pillows between them, laying half on Shane. For all he complains about muscle loss, Shane is still such a big strong man, can ferry Ilya’s weight. His ribcage swells and deflates, strong under duress. His shoulder's beautifully broad, his limp cock a sweet swell between them. Ilya buries his face in Shane’s neck, lets Shane pet his hair, fingers pulling apart his curls.

“The first morning we slept together. I thought for a moment, but then I roll over, I feel this and I think, ah, it is Shane.” Ilya hums, groping Shane’s nice chest. Thumbing his dark nipple. “I have not slept with other men since you.”

“Really?”

Ilya shrugs. “Hard to find man with the same secret. And I think, maybe they do not compare to this silly man with pretty freckles.”

Shane says nothing, strokes Ilya’s hand over his chest.

Last night was the first time he met someone’s parents. He does not tell Shane this. He has known Svetlana’s parents almost as long as his own. They were family, and when they married and went home to visit, they met Ilya with the same dry smiles and accusations of cheeky laziness that he kissed away.

This meeting the parents thing… Shane is his first. Ilya suspects his last. It swells warm in his chest, like an honor. Like a prize. He is worth the headache of introducing.

They engage in pointless, indulgent touching until the two of them rouse and rut against each other.

They fool around, eventually fumbling into a sixty-nine, using their pile of pillows to help Shane’s shoulder. Afterwards, Ilya staggers out of the shower to see Shane hovering over his closet. Ilya reaches past him to a hanger and plucks a shirt out.

Shane raises his eyebrow as Ilya holds the tee against his barrel torso. Fucking tiny waisted man.

“I can borrow?” It’s not a question, the way Ilya says it, winking as he drags the white shirt over his head and wiggles into the shoulders.

It pulls against the thick muscles of his back, his arms swell in the holes. His chest hair is so tightly pressed down that the outline is still visible. Nipples poke out and just that hint of his underbelly. Shane looks at him like a lost masterpiece.

“You’re really going out like that?”

“How hard are you?”

Shane looks away, stubbornness on his face. Ilya kisses him, hums into his mouth.

“I wear a jacket over. Little secret for only you and me,” he grins. “Let’s go for a walk in the park.”

Ilya does zip up his coaching jacket over. As they stroll around the park, Shane’s eyes cut to the too tight ring of the shirt collar on Ilya’s neck like an illicit prize.

“It’s too bad I have to leave earlier today,” Shane says, eyes hot despite the morning chill. “Early meeting tomorrow.”

“I know,” Ilya says. “Asshole in union wants to talk.”

“Ilya, you were a player, you can’t be against the union.”

“They give you a headache, then I am against them.”

Shane laughs. They are in public, so he is allowed to look as pretty and kissable as he wants but Ilya is not allowed to touch him. It’s maddening.

“I don’t want to go,” Shane admits.

“I know,” Ilya says. He doesn’t know what to do about it either.

“Would you ever… Think of coaching for New York?”

Ilya turns to look at him and feels his mind go blank.

At first, there is a rush of euphoria, a vision of life as it could be— them with apartments in nearby neighborhoods, late night meals, waking up together. Near at last, not apart, not reaching desperately through the phone.

Shane asking that feels like elation, affirmation,

But most of all, it feels too good to be true. It’s too bright, like Scott Hunter coming out—and just like that moment, Ilya knows it needs to be tempered, brought down to earth.

He looks at Shane and feels a faint itch trail up his spine. Shane’s fervent, hazy eyes. His decisiveness, as if by using logic he can resolve the confusion of the world. Moving pieces around above Ilya’s head.

But Ilya knows how this goes. That reality is not so kind.

This is not a game that Shane can win at.

The truth is, the closer they live and the deeper the illusion of having a relationship, the more Ilya would resent the gap between what they are and are not. They still wouldn’t be together. Could tell no one. Only fly-bys. At least now, their distant workplaces gave them the cover to excuse what simply could not be.

Ilya does not think he could stand to wake up in the same city as Shane and know that he still cannot have him in all the ways that matter.

Ilya clears his throat, knows he must play the bad guy. Hates he is so good at it.

“Nikolaj plays here.”

“I know, but you said he’s moving out next year.”

It’s completely the wrong thing to say, makes the irritation grow.

“Moving country will really make it easy for him to ignore me, I guess,” Ilya says, bitterness in his throat. In what world does Nikolaj moving out make Ilya want to leave the province, away from his only blood?

“Okay, I’m sorry I brought it up,” Shane says, clearly trying to get his defensive tone under control, but he fails.

“This is the best that we can do. I know you understand that,” Ilya says. “I know it is not everything, but—”

“I know. I know.”

“We picked our lives,” Ilya says, not done. “I am not only one. You pick difficult career again. One that means we can never be honest. Living closer will only make it harder.”

The dark look Shane tells him that perhaps he has said too much. Ilya wants to reach out, to smooth the look on his face with his thumb, to cradle his face. He can’t because they are in public and that impotence sits sour in his throat. It’s not fucking fair; Shane is the one who made it clear that there would be no coming out, not ever. Not with their legacies.

He looks away, widening the distance between them lest anyone think their coats might brush.

Shane is stubborn, so they still continue with the rest of their day plans, but at the bookstore they end up at different sections, and they check out with the clerk at different times. Once outside the shop, Shane shows Ilya his boring hockey books and looks just as blandly at Ilya’s novel, The Slynx, written in Cyrillic.

Shane drops Ilya off an hour earlier at the airport so he can get a little work done before his union meeting. Ilya doesn't fight like he usually might, to sit across from him and swing a leg in his lap. What is the point? They kiss discreetly as they part, but it’s an acidic taste in Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya drives home from the long-term airport parking stewing. Asking himself why it is always him that must change his life? He may not be knocking down the commissioner’s door, but Ilya’s work, his team matters. It is good, fulfilling. He likes Montreal for all that he cannot understand the people here. He, Nikolaj, and Svetlana built a life here—

Ilya clenches his hands around the steering wheel, his wedding ring hot on his finger. He’s seen Shane looking at it, quick flicks of his eyes before looking away. Never judgmental, just watching, waiting for what? Something Ilya does not know. Ilya does not care.

He drives home in a poor mood, and arrives to find Nikolaj on the couch, headphones in—business as usual. The Metros lost during the playoffs. It was not especially close, but it was a good first season for his son, showed off his promise. With the season ending, he has camped on his laptop any spare minute he is not working out or meeting with his friends.

Ilya goes to the fridge, realizes he needs to go shopping as he digs around. Too late to pull out any of the pork in the freezer to cook. Another fucking disappointment to have a poor dinner.

“You’re back early,” Nikolaj says.

“Yup.” Ilya goes to the cupboards, maybe they have something tinned.

“Did you take that shirt from my room?”

Ilya glances down, sees that he unzipped his jacket over Shane’s stupidly small shirt and zips it back up. “Must have.”

Nikolaj scoffs. “So when exactly should I expect to have a new mom.”

Ilya whips his head around, face going pale.

Nikolaj watches him, a flatness to his mouth. “You think you’re so sneaky, wearing tight clothes and flying all over for some booty call.”

“You told me you did not want me home,” Ilya says, trying to shift the conversation, Nikolaj does not bite. But the flicker of hurt on his face reveals that maybe Ilya should not have taken a seventeen-year-old at his word. Which. Obvious in hindsight.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” Ilya says, instead.

“I don’t care.” Nikolaj’s defensive shoulders are practically to his ears. “I’m moving out soon anyways.”

“I know,” Ilya says, coming around the couch, letting his arm drape over his son and pulling him into a side hug. It soothes the discontent of Ilya’s day. “I will make the most of the time I have left with you before you start avoiding my calls.”

Nikolaj sighs but does not pull away.

“You will never have another mother,” Ilya promises, voice low by his son’s ear. “You know that.”

“But you’re seeing someone.”

Ilya hesitates, nods. “I am,” he admits for the first time. Today it doesn’t feel as good as it might. Ilya’s fault for picking such a stubborn, willful man.

“And it’s serious? More serious than the rest of the—” Nikolaj trails off, the string of Ilya’s one-night-stands clear in his tone. Ilya winces, even if he is not ashamed, he does not love discussing it with his son.

“We do not live in the same state, so we cannot let it be too serious,” Ilya says, trying not to let his mood drag down to the irritation from before. He wonders if maybe he and Shane need a break, but knows that Shane would have to be the one to ask. Ilya is too invested.

He squeezes his son’s shoulder and goes to the cupboards to look again. Maybe he can make a chicken salad?

“You wouldn’t move?”

“This is where we live, Nika.”

Nikolaj takes both earbuds out, turning fully to face Ilya over the back of the couch. “Yeah, but I won’t stay in Montreal forever. What about when I get traded to a different team?”

“Metros would be stupid not to renew your rookie contract, you got 39 goals this season.”

“I don’t know if I want to stay with the Metros. The team is… I don’t know,” Nikolaj says, and Ilya feels his mouth drop open. This is the first he’s heard of it. “I should at least see what other offers there are.” Nikolaj peers at Ilya, leaning forward over the couch. “You wouldn’t, like, move to follow me, would you?” The horror in his tone is so absurd, Ilya finds himself laughing, incredulously.

“What is this?” Ilya shakes his head, bamboozled. “You don’t want me to find you new mama.” This Ilya knows for certain. He thought his son would be relieved that his dating is not so serious.

“Like you said, I will never have another mother,” Nikolaj swears, and Ilya sees a younger version of himself in the words, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t…”

“What?” Ilya asks, verklempt.

“I don’t want to see you alone. You’re shit at it.” The cheek of this boy!

“I am not.”

“You are. You already harass your team so much. Without me, you would get into all their business. You’re like the babushka’s at the bodega, nosy.”

Ilya is horrified by this summary of him, and especially the notes that ring true. “They need my advice, I am coach! Besides, it would not work, moving to be with this person—”

“Why?” Nikolaj asks, liquid fast. “Is she married?”

Ilya is even more horrified. “This is what you think of me?”

“Then what?!”

“Is complicated—”

“So she is married—"

“No, no one is married!”

“Then why are you being so weird? There must be something or you would talk about it.”

“Or I am sensitive father to sensitive, extremely moody son—”

“Sensitive? Only when your fucking legacy isn’t on the line,” Nikolaj spits.

“You’re stupid!” Ilya snaps. “Legacy, legacy— you are the only one who cares about this stupid thing.”

“You were the fucking player of a generation! What the fuck do you mean I’m the only one who cares? You care, every time I do anything, it’s all about how it reflects on you—"

And maybe he is right, because Ilya does feel weighed down by something.

“Well I don’t want it anymore! I would give up all my legacy if it meant that I could just fucking be with him!”

He breathes hard.

Oh.

Ilya can’t take the words back. He tries to, mentally for a moment, but the words do not move backwards in space, into his mouth again. Maybe more speech will cure it, “Legacy is price of lying to myself.”

It doesn’t seem to register to Nikolaj. Pure, blank shock. Then a swelling sort of nausea on his face. He stumbles to his feet, laptop falling to the carpeted floor.

“Nikolaj!”

Nikolaj stands, darting to the door. Ilya chases after but bangs his trick knee on the barstool and is almost felled from the pain. He hears the jingle of keys, and by the time that Ilya reaches the door, Nikolaj’s car is peeling out.

Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck.

Chapter End Notes

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next chapter soon my sweets.

might up the chapter count but it will only be by one. do hope to have this old man hollonov yaoi demon exorcised by next week. appreciate you all sharing the madness for a while. your support has changed this story for the better! <3

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Nikolaj will come back. Ilya is sure of that. Like a dog comes home to food, so will Nikolaj return. Therefore, logically, Ilya must make sure there is something here for him to eat. He makes the chicken salad almost on instinct. He tosses all the ingredients together, realizes he scooped and scooped until he added the whole container of mayo, but keeps seasoning anyways. He is certain he can balance out the rich, fatty flavor. There has to be food, when Nikolaj comes back. Something for them to sit around so they can talk, so Ilya can explain.

By hour three, Ilya is looking up when he can report his son missing—the thought of describing how his son ran because he was scared of his queer father is too horrible to even think about. He freaks himself out, putting the phone down and then feels like a worse father—too afraid of coming out to even report his son missing.

Only his son is not missing, he ran away.

Ilya does not pray, as a rule, but he goes to his bed to look at Svetlana, touches his mother’s cross and says every prayer half remembered in Russian.

No miracle happens.

He enters Nikolaj’s room. Messy. Never on top of cleaning. He sits on his bed. It is too small for his big son. Nikolaj needs a king size in his new place. Ilya will buy it for him, will purchase the most expensive mattress in the world if only his son will come back—

By hour five, Ilya remembers to drink some water.

His phone rings and Ilya lurches for it, snapping it up—

Jane calling.

He hits the answer button in a bit of a blur.

“Shane.”

“Ilya. Look, I’m sorry about today. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I know we agreed about what we have…” Ilya listens to the rest of his apology, distantly wondering whether Shane takes notes about his apologies, talking points that he wants to hit.

“Nikolaj left,” Ilya says, cutting him short.

“What? Moved out?”

“No. I told him that I was seeing a man. He just… He ran out the door.”

“Oh. Fuck. Ilya—”

“He looked sick. He looked sick, looking at me.”

“Ilya, he was probably just panicked. With all the pressure he had this year about LGBT issues—”

“I told him I see a man and my son ran away from home.”

Russian falls from his lips. He can’t translate himself, can’t force his meaning through the filter of English. He calls his son every terrible name he knows and begs for him back in the same breath, his beautiful, terrible son. His piece of Svetlana. He’s betrayed her in this. Failed her so completely.

Ilya falls quiet, his hoarse voice failing him.

“Keep going, I’m listening.”

“You don’t even speak Russian.”

“No. But I hear you.”

God. Ilya’s hands shake. The terrible, frightening knowledge of how badly he needs Shane, and in the same stroke how mutually exclusive that is from Nikolaj. He’s breathing too hard, his chest isn’t big enough for the air he needs.

Shane makes shushing noises. “Ilya, Ilya calm down. Breathe. Breathe. He’ll come back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“His stuff, his hockey gear is there. He has to come back.”

Shane’s logic is cool, the only solid thing in the world. Ilya grasps at it with both hands, staggers to his feet, breath evening.

“Right. Right.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting his stuff from the garage. I’m going to put it in the living room.”

Ilya goes to the garage, hefting the bags of sticks and pads over one shoulder, skates going over his other all while juggling his phone. Afraid to let Shane go.

Stupid as it is, this gear feels like the only collateral he has to ensure that Nikolaj talks to him again. If he has this, Nikolaj can’t leave him.

When Ilya has it spread around the living room, he feels more calm, inexplicably. For having done something aside from murdering a chicken salad.

“Sorry,” he finally says. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine. It’s going to be okay,” Shane says.

Now that the panic is dimming, the stark humiliation of the moment is sinking in. Shane overhearing him babbling, not even able to speak English, hoarding his son’s skate gear after frightening his own son away—

“You must have work or something,” Ilya says, scraping at his face, feeling the burn of his rough facial hair against his hand. "Prep for your meeting tomorrow."

“No, it’s okay.”

“It’s late. You need to sleep. Your job is important.”

“I can come in late for once.”

“No, you have to take over the world, Shane,” Ilya presses.

“I will, I promise,” Shane has the gall to sound both serious and almost indulgent.

Ilya has to make him understand.

“Because otherwise, there will be more skaters who get called slurs, and have to deal with old men in charge who bench them for coming out. You have to become commissioner, Shane.”

It is so important.

Ilya realizes soberly that they have to break up. There is no other way for Shane to get the position otherwise.

He tells Shane so.

Shane doesn’t even do him the courtesy of believing him.

“Look, you’re stressed out, and I think maybe you are overthinking my career at the moment.”

“They won’t let a gay man be commissioner.”

“It really hurts me that you would even talk about breaking up with me,” Shane retorts.

Ilya immediately apologizes, because he does not want to hurt Shane, never wants to hurt Shane.

“I know,” Shane says, when Ilya trips over his apologies.

“Back then, I didn’t want to hurt you either,” Ilya babbles. “I was so afraid.”

“I know,” Shane says again, softer. “I was too.”

“But I was more afraid,” Ilya hates himself, and knows this is why he was avoiding bringing their dreaded past up. “I was a coward. I ruined everything—”

“Ilya, you—”

The door opens, and Ilya drops the phone instantly.

“Nikolaj?”

The door slams, and there is the thudding of footsteps up the stairs.

“Go, Ilya,” Shane says.

Ilya hangs up the phone and darts out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He sees his son in his room, packing a bag.

“Nikolaj, what—”

“I’m going to stay with Marco for a while.”

Ilya’s heart shrivels. “No. Darling.” Russian drips from his lips. Darling. My boy. You cannot leave.

“Stop. Stop talking to me in Russian!”

Ilya shuts up. He hovers, wordless. ‘I’m sorry,’ seems to be what he should say. There is a hurt, and ‘I’m sorry’ is what people say to fix that. Only, Ilya is not sorry for being bisexual, for loving Shane. He is not sorry.

So he cannot say anything, just follows behind his son like a ghost. He dogs Nikolaj down the stairs, to the garage where Nikolaj blinks at the space where his sports gear should be. He glares at Ilya, goes to the living room and finds his laptop and his sports bags.

“Why did you— whatever.”

Nikolaj collects the fallen laptop, shoving it loosely into his backpack. So careless, always so careless with his things. Svetlana would have made him more careful. That is Ilya’s side, who cannot appreciate the valuable things in his life enough, treat them like he should. Not his lover, not his son.

Please don’t leave, Ilya says in Russian, digging deep. Your mother would not want us apart.

It’s a dirty, desperate trick, but Nikolaj drops his bag, turns to look at Ilya with such fury. How dare you even speak about her? Did you even love her? You fucking closet case, you fucking, you—

He’s groping for the slur, clearly does not know it in Russian.

Oh. Oh fuck. Ilya finally sees Nikolaj’s misunderstanding. He steps closer, arms out. Nikolaj moves back, tripping over his bag. Ilya takes him in his arms and gives him a rough bear hug.

No, no, my boy. No. I loved your mother. I loved your mother so much. She is most important woman in my life. I am not closeted gay man. I am bisexual. “Bisexual,” he says in English, because he cannot risk Nikolaj not knowing the word. “You papa is bisexual man. And he loved your mother and now he… now I love a man. I promise I never—I promise she knew. We loved each other, you know that.”

Nikolaj stops his fighting, growing perilously still. He shakes a little and gasps a bit.

“You know that,” Ilya tells him. “You know that I loved her.”

Who else saw Ilya in shambles after. After finding Svetlana on the floor. Still and dead, body twisted wrong from the fall. How a doctor had to teach Ilya the English word for how she died, Ilya’s struggle spelling aneurysm on forms and paperwork, how he cursed god every time the u ended up in the wrong place.

Who else had seen Ilya at the funeral, in the weeks after, the rough year of doubtful survival? Ilya was not a good enough parent to protect his son from all of it— he does not know if any parent is good enough for that. He kept his lips pressed together, desperately clawed to keep every pain inside of himself, even as he could barely stand to look at the son for fear of any of it escaping in shouts or violence, just like his own father.

When Ilya went to a therapist after looking too deeply into an old oxy pill bottle and scaring himself, she told him that grief compounds.

You are not feeling grief just about Svetlana, this is about your mother too, she explained.

Ilya raged. Had actually thrown a chair at the wall and almost lost her as a health care provider. Because it felt so cruel to say that even Ilya’s grief did not belong only to Svetlana the same way his love for her was always tinged by the love for Shane—

After some medication and sincere, repeated apologies, he was allowed back into her office.

It does not mean you grieve her any less. No one who sees you could think that. Then she asks How did your father grieve when your mother died?

And Ilya’s mouth went dry, because the shame of his mother’s death meant his father did not.

He tells her such and she nods, hard and quick.

How did you grieve your mother? she asks.

Alone and aching and sobbing in strange places in the day only to be punished by his father or punished by himself for not being able to keep it together. The terrifying way that his father remarried in three months and buried every memory of his mother like she was never the center of their house, their world.

And the thought of how his beautiful son must be feeling the same with Ilya’s silences, his quiet, internalized, wretched grief, makes a wave of helpless sorrow crash over him. He does not know what to do. What can he do? He does not know how to grieve.

My wife was the only one who knew me, he confessed, throat raw, because it is unfair to ask of him to do this when he has lost everything.

Your son can know you, but you must let him know you grieve. How you grieve your wife can be different than how you grieved your mother.

Ilya hated his therapist more than anyone else he’d ever known. He hated her because she was right.

And so Ilya tried. Mentioned Svetlana often, even when Nikolaj begged him not to. Celebrated her birthday and death day in grand style, with beautiful gaudiness that she would adore, instead of curled up over a vodka bottle alone like he wished. I loved her, each action said. Louder and louder until he dragged his son kicking and screaming through grief and into life on the other side.

So in their home, Ilya can say and mean his words.

“You know that,” he says, gasping. “You loved her too. You know I loved her.”

“You said you lied. You were lying,” Nikolaj babbles.

“About being bi. About loving a man. Not your mama, never that. I’m sorry for confusing you,” Ilya says. “I see that you were scared that your whole life was lie. It wasn’t. I promise, I loved her. We love you. She loved you. That will never change.”

Nikolaj’s hands finally fist in Ilya’s shirt and he returns the hug.

Nikolaj grips him like a child, and Ilya feels his heart swelling, hand stroking over his curls, petting the frazzle into place, telling him again, and again, I love you, I love you. We loved you. I love you, until his son settles in his arms. It’s a few more moments until Nikolaj pushes away, hands going to his eyes. He still looks shocked, still upset.

“You didn’t tell me. You never said. How was I supposed to know?” Nikolaj asks, still in shock.

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t plan to… I wasn’t supposed to fall I love with him.”

“I said faggot.”

“You called me faggot,” Ilya corrects, but Nikolaj only blinks.

“I didn’t know!” he snaps.

“You did not know,” Ilya agrees.

“Fuck. Fucking hell.”

Ilya rubs Nikolaj’s arms, as if needing to touch him to make sure he is okay.

“Are you hungry? You must be hungry. You have not eaten, right?” Ilya looks at the over-mayoed chicken salad, rotting away on the kitchen counter and thinks better of it. “I will call in for food. Chinese.”

“I’m not hungry,” Nikolaj protests.

“You should eat something, please. You need the energy. You are so upset.”

“Okay, fine. Fine.”

Ilya goes to his phone, and the screen is still on Jane’s contact, blinking up at him. Fingers numb, Ilya changes the name so it reads Shane. Then he goes to their favorite Chinese place and starts filling out the delivery order on the app.

He wants to ask Nikolaj wants his usual, but instead says, “You won’t leave tonight?”

“No. I guess not. I’ll text Marco” Nikolaj looks exhausted. Even he has a little stubble coming in and his boy is so young for his skin. “I’m sorry I ran.”

It’s okay, darling. I understand, Ilya says, realizes he has fallen into Russian, and says, “Sorry. The stress.”

Nikolaj doesn’t say anything, just retreats to the bathroom. Ilya leans his head out the hallway, keeping an eye on the door. Listening to his son rattling around. He’s here. He’s here.

When the food comes, they eat. Ilya suspects he was hungry too, for how his blood pressure seems to finally settle from the thready state of panic.

It is late, and he packs his son off to bed with a wan but sincere smile. Nikolaj curls into Ilya’s side when he hugs him awkwardly before going to bed. Little is settled, but the thought of talking more makes Ilya want to lie in a shallow grave somewhere. The important topic has been hit; Ilya loves his son, his son is staying.

Ilya hovers outside of the bedroom then makes himself go to his room. He looks long and hard at the portrait of Svetlana and murmurs a thanks to her. For being such a good mother. For reminding their son of what he knew. He unzips his jacket and peels off Shane's too small shirt, running it through his hands a few times. He smells it, and it smells like this morning, of Shane. 

Ilya gets into bed in his boxers. His phone buzzes. Shane, it reads. No longer Jane. Never again Jane.

Shane: Are you two okay?

Ilya’s fingers feel clumsy, but he doesn’t think his voice will cooperate with talking.

Me: Yes he will stay the night.

Shane: Oh good.

Me: Yes.

Shane’s bubbles dance but go still three, four times. Ilya picks up the thread for him.

Me: He thought I was gay. Using his mama like a beard.

Shane: Oh, fuck. Ilya. I’m so sorry.

Me: Is not true. I loved her.

Shane: I know.

Me: I love you too.

Shane’s bubbles dance, dance again. In the end there is no response for a moment but then he hearts a message. It’s lame, but Ilya is too exhausted to overthink anything anymore. He drifts to sleep looking at his phone.

Ilya wakes up at three am, like he is new father tending to a baby all over again, and goes to Nikolaj’s bedroom, creaking open the door just enough to see his son’s steady breathing in the dark.

He stands there for a while, promising himself one minute, just one more, until exhaustion chases him back to his own bed.

He sleeps hard, only wakes with the faint blinking of his phone light. He squints, disoriented at the screen with only 3% left.

Shane: I’m heading into my meeting, but let me know if you need to talk, I can step out.

Oh this man.

Another message pops up while Ilya is just staring at the screen, numb but wanting.

Shane: I know this isn’t my place because I’m not a parent, but don’t be too easy on him.

Ilya huffs. In this, Shane really doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Does not realize how many ways Ilya scared his son…

Ilya realizes that he does not know if his son left when he woke up.

Ilya stumbles out of bed and down the stairs in a panic, but Nikolaj is sitting at the counter, chewing on toast. He swallows hard when Ilya comes downstairs, chokes a little and Ilya rushes over to pat his back while he hocks a lung.

Are you okay? Ilya asks.

Nikolaj waves him off, so Ilya goes to the sink to get a glass of water. Nikolaj drinks it down. He settles and Ilya has to force himself around the kitchen island so he doesn’t smother his son. Right, his son has just come back. No good to scare him off now.

Ilya is not really hungry, not even for carbs, but he makes himself eat something anyways. Sliced ham from the deli is not a bad choice. Heavy and honeyed.

Leaning against the counter, he can sense Nikolaj watching him fish out pieces and eat them from the bag, the same bad habit he passed onto his son.

“You…”

Ilya perks up. “Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“You have questions for me. You can ask,” Ilya says, folding a big piece into fours, shoving it all into his mouth. He hopes the nerves do not show in his fingers, his unsteady expressions. He winks at his son, tries to show a comfort he does not altogether feel.

“You’re bisexual.”

“Yes." Ilya swallows. "Does that bother you?”

Nikolaj shifts. “No… Not really. It’s just strange that it’s you.”

Ilya feels a little thread of warmth. Yes, not a bigot like Ilya worried in his darkest moments, when his son felt like a stranger. Deep inside, maybe he knew better, but hearing it aloud is deeply reassuring.

“That I am your papa and bisexual man. I know. Is maybe why it was hard for me to explain.” Ilya pauses, his fingers twitching together. “It is weird, no? For parent to come out to child. It is the other way around, usually.”

“I guess. I won’t be coming out to you.”

“That’s fine. You can though.”

“Ugh,” Nikolaj looks put off, but it is a familiar mulishness that makes Ilya quirk a smile. Nikolaj continues reluctantly. “So, you like, have been with men before.”

Ilya is mystified. “You want me to tell you about that? How it works?”

“No, no, I don’t want… Fuck. Please do not tell me anything sexual ever. I was asking if you knew before you met this guy you’re seeing. Like how long have you been bi?”

Oh. “You think I am repressed, did not know I like men?” Ilya knows it happens but it is a terrible thought to him. Like Shane Hollander used to be, steeped with denial only more tightly sprung, self-deluded. To find out at fifty must be horrible. “No, I know for a long time. As long as I know I like women, I know I like men. I always am this way.”

“I see.”

Ilya sees his son absorb this. That before Ilya Rozanov was The Ilya Rozanov, he was bisexual. He did it all while fucking men and woman, every record, every award. He is always the same bisexual man who eats deli meats straight from the bag.

Nikolaj seems younger than usual, his adult posturing stripped back. He gets a sense of investigation from Nikolaj, grappling with the idea of his father as a person. Ilya must be shattering a lot of concepts about himself, about how his son had understood masculinity from his father.

Maybe it is a good thing, but it is not an easy one. Ilya hates the strange way he's being watched, like a newly discovered organism. He is the same papa, he thinks. But maybe, if he is honest, he is not. He swallows hard, tastes the acidity of the ham. Why are things like this so difficult? 

“Did you know about Scott Hunter before he announced it?”

Scott Hunter? Ilya makes a face, distracted from his own discomfort. “I had feeling but… No, we did not talk about it. He is obnoxious, old as dirt man.”

Nikolaj splutters a laugh. “Isn’t he like, your guys’ icon?”

“I will die before Scott Hunter is anything to me,” Ilya says, even if in his heart, he remembers the thrill of hope he felt, watching Scott Hunter come out… for a blissful moment, he really thought Hunter had changed the world. “He was very brave man,” Ilya eventually concedes. “But he did it at the end of his career. The rest of us, we still had to worry about contracts and playing.”

“Is that why you never came out?”

Ilya shrugs. Near enough. He had lost his reason for wanting to come out twenty years ago. There was no reason to lose his career over something that was never anything… Now it is too late to come out, right? Too little, too late, just like so much of what he and Shane are. His stomach feels tight, a little twisty.

"I was not seeing a man for a long time, felt unnecessary." 

“But now you’re with this guy.” Nikolaj still says it a little flatly, a little dubiously, like he can barely believe it. “When you come out—”

“Come out?” Ilya squints at his son. “Why do you ask about this?”

“I don’t know, maybe we can coordinate a statement with PR,” Nikolaj mumbles. Oh, his boy is not ignorant of how it looks for him. Ilya feels a dry amusement. Well, Ilya can put his nerves at rest here and spare them both a lot of public embarrassment. 

“I’m not coming out.” Ilya’s dry words earn a raised eyebrow. “Come on. You don’t want me to come out. It would be terrible for you. The media attention.”

Nikolaj shifts, uneasy, which is not fair when Ilya is handing him something easy on a plate.

“I don’t know. Isn’t coming out something queer people want to do?”

Ilya scoffs. “For every person who is out, there is another who never will.” He doesn’t realize how harsh he sounds until Nikolaj is blinking incredulously at him. Does he not realize that if Ilya does, there will be a whole section of the world who has the same cruel reaction as his son. Ah, then you did not love your wife, she was just a beard, as if one could only have one important relationship in life. As if each relationship is not constantly bleeding into each other, informing and informed by the other?

To say nothing of being read for filth for his entire hockey career. No more top hat trick videos only videos about was he looking at their ass? It’s dehumanizing, belittling. Why anyone would submit themselves to it, he does not know. He feels dizzy, unwell, even as he is more certain and steady than ever about the importance of these choices. Shane is always right, he thinks. 

Ilya waves his hand dismissively. “It just happens that way. Besides, man I am dating, he has a big important job and does not want to come out either.”

Nikolaj frowns hard there.

“I don’t have to tell you not to tell anyone, not even your friends.”

Nikolaj groans. “I know enough about LGBT stuff to know not to out people.”

Ilya shrugs, as if to say, I do not know what you know. Nikolaj looks down, his back going up and Ilya sighs.

“You will not say that word again,” Ilya says, feeling more tired than anything else.

“Obviously. It’s not my fault I didn’t know you were bi,” Nikolaj snips. “You should have told me. None of this— we could have avoided all of this.”

“I think so.” Ilya swallows. His son looks defensive, upset— and in a sense, Ilya did let his son let him down. He wants to apologize for that, cup his shoulder, let this conversation die in the kitchen. Ilya is old enough to deal with his own hurt, he thinks. But Shane’s words echo in his ears, and it’s maddening that he is so wise without having to struggle through parenting.

“I should have told you, yes,” Ilya says slowly. “But you should still not have said the word.”

Nikolaj looks betrayed at being pressed. Harassed. 

“I already apologized—”

“You mean fake apology to MLH.”

Nikolaj looks at Ilya, tilts his head, chin jutting. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Everyone uses it— It doesn’t mean anything, like the way 'fuck' doesn’t mean anything, or 'fuck your mom.'” He breathes hard over this one. “It’s just shit everyone says on the ice. And I’m sorry if other players said it to you because they didn't know—”

Ilya feels his own anger rising, the same, deep seated buried anger he felt at his father turning Ilya's bisexuality against him, making it a problem because of his own discomfort and inconvenience. Making it bad. Ilya's words are quick, unrelenting.

“Other players did not really say. I was too promiscuous to be called faggot.”

Nikolaj stalls here, his argumentative nature failing, his dark brows coming together. "Then why—"

“Family says. Is only people who knew.”

Nikolaj goes pale, as if he feels faint from the idea of Ilya’s father and brother saying that, but Ilya thinks this is not fair; he told Nikolaj that his father was not nice man— only he is realizing, that while he thought ‘not nice’ implied politely all the things of physical handling and slur yelling, that maybe like the bisexual thing, it is better to explain. He files that away for another time.

Faggot, Ilya says in Russian, sees his son startle. "Is the word, I don't think you know."

Nikolaj is still struck mute, mouth open and eyes wet at being handed this.

“Why would they…”

“Why would you?” Ilya asks.

“I’m not like that, I don’t hate gay people—”

“Then it’s easy. You stop saying word, no?”

“Everyone says it—”

“Was not everyone saying it to me in this house! Was you! You said to me!”

That punches a tear out of Nikolaj who looks away. His dark, sun-loved face turning red and upset. All his childish pride shattered into hurt and humiliation and regret. 

Ilya sighs, holds out his hands. "Come here. Come here."

His son fights him for a moment, tries to pull away, but Ilya is stronger still. Grips his arms, hugs him. Nikolaj is not so small in them anymore, he is getting too big to be easily held. His back is strong from the season of play, his arms wicked of fat to sinew and strength. But his voice is so young.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know—” Nikolaj hiccoughs. Shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry I said it.”

“Okay,” Ilya says, rubbing his son’s arms. “Okay. We’re okay.”

That makes Nikolaj cry hard properly. Forgiveness has always been the hardest for Ilya to take too. Much easier to fight and fight and defend than to grope for compassion.

“I'm the worst son in the world.”

Ilya laughs at his melodrama, feels wet in his own eyes. Cradles his son even closer. All the times Shane commented about Nikolaj being a good boy, he saw clearly what Ilya was too afraid to. His son is not cruel, just a little foolish. Just young.

“No, no. You are not. You are my good son. A little young, but you have a good heart, I think.” 

Nikolaj peers suspiciously through his tears, as if he cannot trust his oversentimental papa, but even that return to form is reassuring. Ilya pets his dark curls back. He feels like hell, never wants to talk again. But maybe it is worth it for this, his son in his arms and a feeling like poison finally leaving old wounds. 

Chapter End Notes

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i've been having some feelings lately so thank you for all the support!

ilya is judgemental about coming out late in life (or coming to terms with sexuality) but also has also clearly not really come to terms. it is never too late <3

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

the best thanks for all the comments is a new chapter me thinks.
also me: GET THIS STORY OUT OF ME

Ilya makes it a point to stick close to home for the next couple of weeks for Nikolaj, even if that means he cannot see Shane. They talk constantly by phone. Even if Shane does not bring up their discussions on moving, or the fact that Ilya said he loves him—well, it is always better to have Shane than to not. (Shane also does not bring up Ilya’s attempt to break up with him, so it really is for the best for some things to be unmentioned.)

Ilya is in the backyard burning a cigarette. He does not smoke anymore, but sometimes he will light one for the pleasure of second-hand. Shane is on the phone, unawares of Ilya’s little treat, instead sharing with a shaky pleasure that he facetimed with his parents and his mom remembered about him and Ilya.

“It was not David telling her?” Ilya asks, shocked. Shane says no.

“He told me he was surprised too. He didn’t expect she would.”

How long she will retain it is a different matter, but Ilya is all for celebrating while they can.

“That’s good news, means I am more memorable than I realized.”

Shane huffs an amused sound, Ilya hears the flick of papers. He’s working even when calling. Shane really cannot be stopped.

“What she didn’t remember…” Shane starts.

“Let me guess? I am still bad news Boston Bear to her.”

Shane laughs and Ilya joins him.

“Fuck, we cannot laugh at my mom’s Alzheimers,” Shane says, horrified even as he fights chuckles

“I think it is okay to have one joke. Ninety-nine percent of the time, we cry about it. So one percent we must laugh.”

“Maybe,” Shane concedes, which is more than Ilya hoped for.

“I may bring my old jersey next time as a gift. I could sign it for her,” Ilya says, and Shane bursts out a honking laugh that he seems to muffle with his hands. Ilya aches to see him, to devour the warm look of his face.

“She hates the Bears so much. I’m honestly not even surprised that it is a defining character trait. Her adulthood she forgets, but the Boston Bears,” Shane complains.

“Turn on your camera,” Ilya says. “I can hear you reading papers. I want to see your glasses.”

Ilya moves the cigarette to the side, so the smoke won’t be seen on the screen.

Shane mumbles something, but the facetime comes across clearly. A few moments of pixels before Shane snaps into view, crystal clear and beautiful. With the lines on his face, his glasses only suit him more. Making him look smooth, distinguished. Easy to ravish.

“Sexy man,” Ilya murmurs. “Next time we fuck, we wear glasses. You need to see me in HD.”

“They’re only for reading,” Shane protests.

“Then I write something on my body for you. A secret message for you to find.”

Shane’s smile is crooked, amused.

“You can’t, you’re too hairy. Like a bear.”

Ilya feels his chest puff up. “Oh, that’s a gay thing right? You think I don’t know what you call me, but I do. I know the words.”

Shane’s flush looks even better with his glasses on. Ilya feels a smirk crawl over his lips at the confirmation that Shane does not just like fucking Ilya because he is Ilya, he loves this big old body too.

The screen door opens and shuts, and Ilya sees Nikolaj stepping out into the yard, squinting across to him before heading over.

“Nikolaj is home. He needs feeding or watering.” 

Nikolaj has been overtly good these past weeks. Ilya almost wonders if he has hit the nail a little too hard on his son for how he looks almost skittish, guilty at times. Ilya said they were okay, has said it several times after, in a loud, complaining voice. Nikolaj snapped back about him being annoying but has actually been clearing the couch of his teenage detritus after camping there and doing the dishes. He might be sick. Could be terminal, even.

“Okay, I’ll let you go,” Shane says.

Ilya cannot say I love you, not with Shane saying nothing to the last one, the weird heart react, but he does blow a kiss at the phone before hanging up. He reaches over and stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray he and Svetlana once made in a couples’ pottery class.

“How was PR event?” Ilya asks when Nikolaj is close enough.

“Boring as fuck.” His eyes flick down to Ilya’s phone. Ilya shifts away. He knows his son is sorry about the misunderstanding, but it is still a very different thing to see his father flirting with a man over the phone.

“Was that him?”

Ilya nods, can practically see his son girding himself.

“What’s he like?”

Ilya blinks at him, then frowns. “You don’t want to know,” he says mystified, maybe more condescending than he means.

“I want to know a little. Especially if he’s sticking around.”

“We don’t really know if that is so,” Ilya mumbles, rather misleadingly. He knows they are something, but what it means… Jesus fuck. He’s not getting into this. He’d rather address the first question.

“Fine, you want to know so I tell you. He has big important job.”

“You mentioned that.”

“He is a workaholic, so it is why I mention that.”

Nikolaj rolls his hand, like continue.

“He is gorgeous, obviously.”

“Okay,” Nikolaj says, nose crinkling. Ilya shrugs, it is true. Important point.

“He is very serious. No fun at all. Most boring man I have ever met.”

Nikolaj looks perfectly perplexed. Ilya can only laugh in his face.

“I can see you are confused that I date boring, unfunny man. It is my favorite that he is boring, it is very charming. He folds and cleans everything, so it is very easy to bother him. No one thinks he is funny, so it is like a secret for me. I think he is very funny.”

“I heard you out here laughing,” Nikolaj admits. The sound must have drawn him out to see what his cuckoo papa was cackling about in the yard. Ilya will not be explaining about Shane’s mom’s Alzheimer’s and hatred of the Bears. It is the kind of joke that only is funny between him and Shane, which is a perfect example of the secret humor of Shane.

“Yes, we make each other laugh a lot.” Ilya grins, cannot help himself. “He used to be very passive, but now he does not take shit from anyone. Not even me.”

“Used to be?” Nikolaj asks. “When did you meet?”

Ah this is the thing that is more complicated. He debates leading with the truth or misleading, but reckons that being dishonest has done no good.

“We met when we were seventeen, your age.”

Nikolaj blinks, startled. “He’s… when you came over to North America?”

Ilya nods.

“How?”

Ilya hesitates too long, dithering over whether to lie.

“Oh fuck. Did he play hockey?” Good to know Nikolaj has his mother’s brain. The next step must be simple, all too logical.

Ilya swallows, stares at his son as he waits for the final blow.

“Is it…” Nikolaj girds himself. “Is it Coach Marleau?”

Ilya cannot help the bulging of his eyes. “Cliff Marleau? Cliff fucking Marleau? You are joking?!”

“What?” Nikolaj’s hands go up. “You act fucking weird about this! His jokes suck. You say he has a big job and he isn’t married and doesn’t want to come out—”

“Cliff isn’t married because he can’t keep a woman, not because he is secretly repressed gay,” Ilya has to turn and walk around the small overrun garden plot in the back. “Cliff- fucking- Marleau!”

“You said seventeen and hockey!”

“He’s older than me!”

“You old men all look the same age!”

Ilya cannot help but laugh. He aches to tell Shane about this whole thing, wishes he was here to see it.

“Stop laughing! Who is he?”

Ilya bites his lip. Aww, hell. But the reality isn’t any easier of an answer than if he were fucking his son’s coach. He doesn’t exactly want Nikolaj spitting names at him all night either. God knows when he might get to Scott Hunter and Ilya would have to use brain bleach. He whips out his phone and shoots a text to Shane.

Me: Nikolaj wants to know who you are. Can I tell?

It only takes a few seconds for the bubbles to appear and then disappear. Appear again. Disappear. Ilya makes a humming gesture, looks to his son.

“He always does this. Very slow texter. Types and deletes everything twice.”

Nikolaj looks a touch cross. “You’re asking if you can tell me? I’m your son.”

“It’s not my secret. I tell you he is in the closet,” Ilya says.

Shane: If you want to.

Me: I want to.

Shane likes his message and Ilya puts his phone away.

“You cannot tell anyone. You will want to, but you must promise.”

Nikolaj nods, and Ilya is pleased to see he looks serious.

“It’s Shane Hollander.”

Nikolaj laughs, which is still a better reaction than he had when Ilya came out, but is not exactly what he was hoping for either.

“No,” Nikolaj says next, still smiling. Ilya looks calmly if sadly back. Poor boy.

“No,” Nikolaj says again, more desperate.

Ilya nods his head.

“You’re joking.”

“No, he really is world’s most boring man.”

“But you… Your rivalry…”

Ilya shrugs.

“I had his poster on my wall!”

Ilya winces. “Yes, I tried to stop you.”

“Oh my god, he’s going to be commissioner next year, everyone says it.”

“Yes, it is why we are careful.”

“The commissioner is going to be a… a bisexual man!”

“No, Shane is just gay.”

Nikolaj’s eyes bulge. Shane Hollander. Gay.

It always unnerves Ilya a little to see the hero worship someone like Shane gets. Not that it isn’t deserved, just that Shane is such a numpty about it, a neurotic little flower. It is strange to watch his son stalk around the garden bed trying to come to terms with it.

“That’s why you two have been together so much. Why you were in your date-night clothes.”

It’s a better title than one-night-stand outfit. “Yes. We, uh, we actually got into contact again because of your little…” Ilya waves his hand to allude to the slur.

Nikolaj blanches even more as he realizes that he gave lip service on his slur to a gay Shane Hollander. “Fuck my fucking life. I’m going to kill myself.”

“Nika, please. Does that mean you don’t want to meet him?”

Nikolaj gapes like a fish.

When Ilya tells Shane that Nikolaj wants to meet him, Shane quickly proves that he can out-panic Ilya in every metric.

“Le Petit Boug is nice, they have good food, but there was a complaint three years ago about there being a mite in the soup and apparently the chairs are stiff.” This last word he says like it is a death knell.

“Please calm down, sweetheart,” Ilya says after Shane pitches his eleventh restaurant, digging into every google review with fervent intensity. “We can just host at our house.”

“But what if he gets uncomfortable and wants to get space? He can’t leave his own house if I’m there!”

“Yes, but what is the point if we have to act like friends in public? Point is that we are not! Can only do that at home.”

“But it’s his space. I can’t take over. And if he does want to leave—”

“You think my son will run away again?” Ilya says, deadly calm. Shane babbles to explain himself and reassure Ilya that it won’t happen. Ilya picks at the dirt under his nailbeds, wriggling stubborn grains out (where do they come from? Ilya is not playing in the dirt,) waiting for Shane to spin himself out and agree to do Ilya’s home, which he does.

After promising (impossibly) that Nikolaj is not going to stage a walkout, Shane starts stressing over what to wear and bring. Ilya leans on his head on the bed, not exactly minding the little fashion show on his phone.

“I think I need to see it with fewer buttons done up. Yes, good. Two more.”

Shane obeys and then cusses as he has a shirt almost fully open on display.

“Ilya, can you take this seriously or not?”

Truthfully, there is nothing more silly than panicking Shane. He hogs all the anxiety in the room so completely that there is none from Ilya who feels cooler than a cucumber now. He loves Shane for it so much right now he could kiss every inch of his body and between his toes.

“You already meet him. You know he is little monster.”

“But I didn’t meet him as someone his father is seeing,” Shane says, digging through his closet again.

“Yes, but worry less. Think, you only have to meet silly rookie. He must meet Shane Hollander, four time Stanley Cup champion and now his papa’s fuck friend.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ilya.”

“You feel better now.”

“No, I feel worse. Mostly for Nikolaj.”

“Yes, is hard having such a good papa,” Ilya muses. “Now, take all the clothes off. Ah, yes. I think we are getting somewhere now.”

For Shane’s anxiety, as well as out of respect for Nikolaj, Ilya arranges a nice, two-hour dinner at his house. If things go well, they can watch a movie or start a bonfire in pit in the backyard (Shane’s contingency plans B and C). If not, then Shane will drive back to the hotel alone (worst case scenario). Ilya fights with Shane for a long time about driving Shane back and staying the night, but Shane won’t move—

“It’s important that Niko sees that he is still the most important to you between us,” Shane argues.

Ilya’s mouth flaps, useless. How could he possibly knows something so insightful and very clearly correct?

“Did you read book?”

Shane sends him a picture of a cover reading ‘Dating Late in Life’ with a whole chapter dedicated to dating when there are adult children. It makes Ilya groan and bury his head in his hands, wondering what he is doing with such a considerate but insanely boring man. Stupid luck, really.

The night of, Ilya puts lean pork cutlets in the oven beside lightly seasoned chicken, works a gleaming red sauce in a pan and smiles at the taste.

Nikolaj bumps down the stairs and Ilya’s lips quirk up as he sees his son has dressed up for the night, in his khakis and a polo that he usually never wears.

“What?” Nikolaj asks when Ilya grins.

“Nothing, nothing.” Maybe Nikolaj Rozanov and Shane Hollander are more alike than they know.

Nikolaj sets the table, then goes to the cupboard, easily reaching his gangly arms to the top shelf for the wine. It’s the expensive bottle that Shane brought for his first house visit all those months ago.

“Can I have some of this tonight?”

Ilya squints at him. “Because you need alcohol to cope or because it is celebration?”

“…Celebration?” Nikolaj tries.

Ilya snorts but holds his hand out for the bottle so he can open it. Would be a shame for the cork to break off in this nice wine.

He just has it popped to breathe when the doorbell rings.

Nikolaj fidgets so Ilya cups his neck warmly before he heads to the door.

Shane looks delicious standing on Ilya’s porch, here to meet Ilya’s son as Ilya’s special someone. Shane is also tidier than usual, which is saying something. His neuroses have neuroses and Ilya doesn’t think his hair has ever been more streamlined. Ilya shuts the door for privacy, stepping out on the steps with Hollander.

“Ilya—”

Ilya runs his hand through Shane’s hair, mouth pressing against his and pushing in until Shane gasps against him. They bump into the wall of the house and Ilya holds him captive there until Shane’s chest stops heaving.

When Ilya releases him, Shane pushes him back, hand scraping through his hair with a pretty flush on his cheeks.

“You are such an asshole.”

“Yes. Hello, sweetheart.”

Shane scoffs, but he leans into Ilya’s touch on his lower back as he opens the door and guides Shane inside his home.

Nikolaj jumps up when they enter.

“Hi,” he says, hand outstretched.

Shane shakes it seriously, as if this is an important meeting, and Ilya has to bite his lip from laughing. It’s such a strange parallel to their first meeting, except Nikolaj was all insouciance. To see him sweet and nervous is a nice change for his son.

“Thank you for having me over,” Shane says. His eyes move from the floor to the ceiling before they finally settle on Nikolaj’s haplessly.

“God. Both so awkward,” Ilya complains, going to the wine. Maybe alcohol is a good idea.

“Papa!”

“Can you not be even a little sensitive?” Shane complains.

Ilya winks, pouring a glass of wine for his son. He takes a second glass.

“You should have some, Shane. It’s very good, very expensive bottle.”

Shane protests, but the stress of the night seems to press him and he agrees.

Ilya grins, gives Shane a healthy pour. He goes to the cupboard, takes down a small crystal sherry glass that belonged to Svetlana’s grandmother and pours out a small drink for himself. Not enough to mess with his meds, just enough to celebrate. He sips it, shakes his head.

“You couldn’t spring for a shiraz?”

“Oh, shut up,” Shane says, grinning. Ilya has already looked up how expensive the bottle was (over 200 CAD) and teased him about it on one of their calls.

Nikolaj’s eyes flicker between the two of them, as if following the puck. What is he looking for, Ilya wonders? Hints that love each other? Signs of the gayness? Whatever it is, it makes Shane’s back go up when he notices. He draws himself in, looks down intensely, then seems to make a decision.

Shane turns seriously to Nikolaj. “I appreciate you having me over. I can appreciate this must be a little odd for you, even if Ilya can’t.” So formal, such talking point phrasing.

“No, not really,” Nikolaj bluffs. “It’s like, whatever.”

“Okay,” Shane says. “Well, I saw the end of your season, you had a really strong finish.”

Ilya sees what Shane is doing, cornering the conversation on the familiar topic of hockey, and between that and the wine, it sets both Shane and Nikolaj at perfect ease.

There is enough meat in the dialogue to last them through the entirety of Ilya’s delicious dinner. When Nikolaj offers Shane bread, Shane uses the opportunity to espouse on his macronutrients, and there is a dreaded spark of interest in his son’s eyes.

“No, no, please, no. Do not sway my son to the way of carb hate. He is Russian man, he needs carbs to live.”

“Macronutrients have carbs, they just aren’t measured by the shovelful,” Shane argues. “A specialized diet helps maximize performance.”

“Shane did have three more seasons than you,” Nikolaj offers, with a shrug.

Ilya is flabbergasted to be so betrayed by both sides. “It was trick knee! Not carbs!”

Shane grins. “We’ll never really know, will we?”

Nikolaj laughs a little, and Ilya grumbles but lets this absolute slander slide as a sacrifice for the people he loves.

“Lucky I know better than to make dessert,” Ilya complains.

“Oh. I almost forgot. You dad… distracted me at the door.” Shane goes to the door and reaches into his coat pocket. He pulls out a small rectangular box barely bigger than his hand and brings it to the table.

“What is this? Dessert? You brought dessert? Is it dessert for ants?”

Shane scowls.

“That movie is so old,” Nikolaj complains.

“It is classic for a reason,” Ilya argues.

“Just because it’s not a bear claw the size of your face…” Shane unfolds the box and within are three small pink balls, powdered in white dust and wrapped in a pickly smelling leaf.

“Is it… mochi?” Nikolaj asks.

“Wagashi,” Shane says. “Sakura mochi with red bean paste. There’s a shop nearby that I used to visit when I was a kid. I don’t know, I thought it would be nice. It’s fine if you don’t like it.”

Ilya takes his before Shane has any more time to over-explain. He thinks of a little Shane trekking around Montreal, mittened-hand-in-hand with Yuna Hollander, finding the tucked-away bodegas of the familiar, just like Ilya and a younger Nikolaj. And Shane thinks to share this sweetness of his childhood with them. Ilya treats it perfectly seriously.

He pops the whole thing in his mouth and chews— it sticks to his teeth, breaks oddly when he bites it, but the saltyness of the leaf and the odd, sweet savory of the inside filling is a good combination. He chews for a long time, wanting to be familiar with it.

“It’s sweet but not… not sugary?” Nikolaj points out, having bit his in half, studying the inside.

“Sweet bean paste.”

Shane then does the unfathomable. He picks up his own dessert and presses it to his mouth. Ilya’s mouth parts as he watches Shane take a bite and chew, lashes on his cheeks as he sighs and nods at the taste.

It’s the first time he has ever seen Shane eat something sweet before. Indulge. It makes him excited, so thrilled. There is sugar on his lips. Ilya doesn’t think.

His thumb reaches out, cups his chin and brushes the crystals away, thumb lingering over the grit of stubble. Shane looks at him, eyes dark, swallows.

Nikolaj’s chair kicks back and Ilya rips his hand away. Holy shit. What is he doing?

Shane fumbles as he pulls away at the same time, dropping the rest of his wagashi in his lap.

Shane picks it off, but the powder has run down his black shirt. He’s embarrassed. “Sorry—”

“What, no,” Ilya starts, because apologizing is not it.

“No, I didn’t…” Nikolaj starts. He looks panicked. Ilya desperately wishes he could have more than two ounces of wine. Maybe Shane had a point about Nikolaj being trapped at home, because his son looks like a rabbit, desperate to dart for cover.

“I just…” Nikolaj runs a hand through his head. Forces a tight smile. “I was thinking we should do a bonfire. We have a pit outside. It’s warm enough to light.”

“I don’t know. I should leave. I need to change my shirt,” Shane says, nervy, and Ilya wonders if it was really Nikolaj who he had to worry about running.

“Just borrow one of his,” Nikolaj says, jerking his head to Ilya. “I’ll start the fire. You’ll stay, right?”

Shane desperately looks between the two of them before nodding.

Nikolaj stands and crosses to go outside but his eyes are down, avoiding their gaze and Ilya feels like a chump. Ilya looks at his thumb, the powder on the large pad. Such a big cost for a little sweetness. He honestly just didn’t think. Yes, knowing his papa was in love with a man is one thing, but seeing it…

“I can go,” Shane says, when they are alone. He is peering at Nikolaj in the backyard through the window. Ilya’s son pulls away the tarp from their collection of kindling and wood.

“No, he is right. My room is upstairs, two doors to the left. Take any shirt you want.” Ilya glances outside to be sure his son is busy before reaching for Shane’s hand beneath the table. He worries he squeezes it too hard. “Please. Stay.”

“Okay,” Shane says.

“I need to…” Ilya gestures outside. Shane nods, squeezes Ilya’s hand before he goes.

Ilya strikes outside. It is warmer than it has been in a while, but there is a lingering stubborn chill that only strikes in winter. He takes a coat out to his son who shivers into it without a word.

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” Nikolaj says, before Ilya can ask.

Ilya flounders. “If you are—”

“I wasn’t I just… I never saw you do that with anyone else but Mom before.”

“Nika.” Ilya aches for his son. Grips him around the shoulders.

Nikolaj babbles. “I know that you have before. I’m not stupid. I know you’ve been… seeing people since then, even if you never brought anyone around. I just. I was surprised. I don’t know.”

“I did not want you to think I did not care about your mama,” Ilya says. Nikolaj fidgets, and Ilya can sense that he is still mad at himself. “When my mother died, my father remarried in three months. I was furious. Three months and there is new furniture and new food and it is like my mother was replaced. And to see them together— I really hated his wife for that. I told myself that when Lanka… when she… I didn’t plan for there to be anyone. But then, I did not think how long life is. And I tell myself she would not want me to be alone. There was no one until Hollander really… But I guess this is why you are so surprised. I never showed you it was possible. That is on me, maybe.”

“You’re really suck at talking about this stuff,” Nikolaj says eventually. “Total word vomit.”

Ilya laughs, taking it for what it is. “Yes, and you suck at building a fire. Whole thing collapses if you stack it like this. You will scare Shane to pieces. He is a little worrier.”

“Leave my fire alone, old man. Get the lighter.”

Ilya roughly scrapes his son’s curls and then leaves him, treading softly into his house. Maybe his son is genuinely okay to see his papa with a man, maybe not, but he can only trust him and give him a little space to work through the feelings himself.

Ilya digs in the drawer and finds the lighter…

Nikolaj does not need to know that he has found it so quickly, of course.

Ilya prowls up the stairs, already thinking of a Shane with Ilya’s shirt on. He hopes he picked one with shiny buttons, ones that Ilya might pluck at like a greedy crow until the whole thing is undone—

The door to his bedroom is ajar. Shane is sitting on Ilya’s bed, a tee shirt in hand, just staring at the wall. No, not the wall. At his and Svetlana’s wedding picture. Vegas lights, glowing grins. Ilya should have thought—

“Is this one okay?” Shane asks, standing quickly and shimmying out of his shirt. He turns away so only the curved line of his back is showing and Ilya frowns.

“Shane…”

“Do you have a plastic bag for me to bring my shirt back in? I don’t want to get powder onto the car.”

Ilya shuffles for a moment but nods. Shane seems relieved, comes over and pecks him, but it is on the chin and lacking any real heat of attention. He drags the shirt over his head and walks down the stairs, leaving Ilya to follow him. Slow and out of step.

It is not perfect, this mix of Ilya, Shane and Nikolaj. Adding a new person to the mix of Ilya and his son’s life is not flawless, and comes with a lot of embarrassing moments, including Shane bringing a signed hockey puck one day and Nikolaj torn between anger and excitement at taking it, admitting to Ilya later that it makes him feel all of seven.

Ilya still isn’t flying out to see Shane and Nikolaj clocks it.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks on the weekend.

“Just with you.”

Nikolaj looks pitying. “Things aren’t working out?”

Insulting.

“No, just. He’s busy with work.” It’s never really a lie with Shane. “I will spend time with my precious son," Ilya coos.

“Well, I’m going spelunking with my friends this weekend so you probably should hop a plane.”

Which, it is good to know his son is still a little asshole and being traumatized by his papa’s sexuality did nothing to dampen that fact of character.

He calls Shane and asks to visit, but Shane really is busy working. He takes the call on his treadmill between flicking through excel files.

“Yes, Nikolaj is a terrible teenager,” Shane commiserates, distractedly. His glasses are smooth, appealing bits of plastic on his face. Does he know what this does to Ilya? Does he do it on purpose?

“He isn’t sticking around Montreal, probably,” Ilya says. He sees Shane’s eyes flick to him, but he doesn’t say any more. Doesn’t invite Ilya to try moving out again, which is perhaps fair. Ilya does not know what he would say if he was asked. He’s more embarrassed by his reaction than anything, does not want to revisit the feeling.

“I see.”

“He tells me he doesn’t want to stay with the Metros. Can you believe that? This is original franchise team!”

“They’re a good team, but they’re kind of… you know.”

“What do I know?”

Shane frowns, tilting his laptop screen down to look more fully at his phone tripod. “You really never heard about that locker room?”

“Oh, shit. What is it?” Is it touching? Fucked up coach? Does Ilya have to kill many people?

“It’s nothing awful, just… the locker room culture is fucking medieval.”

Ilya blinks. “It is locker room…?” Self-explanatory, isn’t it? Hazing, terrible, fucked up jokes. Making the rooks run never-ending errands. Part of the culture, no?

“I know that,” Shane scoffs. “I guess I didn’t realize it either until I moved to Ottawa, but all the slur saying and fuck your mama shit, the racism… it’s really the problem of a few select, high profile teams. It’s not just hockey culture. It’s the people in power who reinforce the norms.”

“Ah, like Boston.”

“Like Montreal.”

Ilya feels a strange feeling in his chest. Like maybe he is a bad father for letting his son submit himself to those wolves. Maybe he was too harsh in interrogating him about saying the word when apparently Ilya had pushed him into a sport, onto a team with the most toxic people in the game.

But he is heartened slightly— his son knew before Ilya said anything about being bi that he did not want to stay in Montreal. Maybe that says more about the core of his son’s sensitive though moody spirit more than anything else. Nikolaj knows this is not who he is.

“You need to take over the world,” Ilya says, as if this is the first time he is realizing it. Because the thought of his young Nikolaj and a young Shane Hollander feeling this way all the time is overwhelming. 

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Shane drawls, feet a steady pace on his treadmill.

Ilya is beginning to think that he needs to get the book about dating late in life because he has no idea how to make his thing with Shane work with his kid. They try a couple more dinners, but Ilya and Shane are both so stiff in their seats that they might as well have gone to the fucking Pret for public coffee. Ilya says goodbye to Shane instead of following him to the apartment for a fuck, and Nikolaj gives him side-eye the entire time like Ilya is an idiot. Worse still, Ilya does not know how much progress they are making in really knowing each other outside of their combined anxiety and hockey. Ilya despairs the difficulty of getting this family together.

Turns out he just needs to leave it to them.

One day, Nikolaj holds out his hand and says “Phone,” like he is a six-year-old asking for screen time again.

“What do you need my phone for?” Ilya asks. “Prank texts to Coach Marleau are beneath you.”

“I want Shane’s number.”

“Why?”

Nikolaj glares. Looks ready to spit on him. But starts to pull his hand back and that's when it catches up to Ilya what a big deal this is.

Ilya flicks through his contacts and sends the contact card to his son, thanking himself again for changing the name from Jane to Shane.

At their next hookup, after Shane carefully pets Ilya’s swollen, red ass with the rag after eating him out, Ilya finally asks if his son is texting him.

“Yeah,” Shane admits.

“What about?”

“Just stuff.”

Ilya groans.

“Now I know you two are texting. You talk like him now.”

Shane laughs. “I can’t tell you, it’s between me and him. But it’s mostly about hockey. A few things about being, well, being one of the few mixed race people in a locker room.”

Ilya blinks at that. He supposes that maybe his son did have good cause to put Shane’s poster on the wall for more reasons than just pissing Ilya off. He knows that there are issues in the locker rooms, ignorance and cruelty about race. Shane mentioned the racism specifically about Montreal… Ilya’s always taught his son to tackle issues head on, but he knows it isn’t the same as having someone to talk about it. He always let Svetlana handle those talks because she told him plainly he had nothing to add to the conversation. Now…

He wonders if this devastating collapse of nerves into relief is how David felt when Ilya explained that Shane could talk to him about the Alzheimer’s. As if knowing that his son was not alone was almost as good as being there for him himself.

Shane has already come, but Ilya puts that lovely cock in his mouth and holds it, drooling all over his hips and into his bush until his dick grows stiff and sticky, and Shane is crying and thrashing and begging Ilya to move something, anything. He comes with the lightest of stimulation to his ass and the weak helpless stream is sweet to Ilya’s grateful tongue.

Shane is in Montreal to watch the MLH hockey awards. They curl up on his apartment couch and Ilya brings piles of baked goods and salty popcorn as he settles in for a good bitching session about the nominees and all the ex-player, old men presenters they used to trip with their sticks.

Really, they are just passing the time until they get to see their little promo play before the dreaded announcement that the Lady Byng is being renamed to the Scott Hunter award. Fuck Ilya’s life.

Nikolaj is in Vegas for the ceremony, but Ilya doubts that his son will be getting rookie of the year—he played very well, but even though he was second draft pick, his playing in the long game showed a lack of depth. The nomination must be nice, mostly just as an excuse to be young and do shots with the veterans, the first real chance to mix and mingle in a party setting. It will get old fast, Ilya knows, so Nikolaj must enjoy it thoroughly while it is new.

Halfway through the show, after a rampage of commercials that Ilya talks through, the lights in the auditorium go dim and the screen behind the stage lights up.

“It was always going to be Hollander vs. Rozanov.”

The sports announcer’s voice thunders from the speakers. Footage of Ilya and Shane’s first face off plays, pictures of their stats, back to back flashes of them both hefting the Stanley cup.

“There is no other competitor,” it is strange hearing his own voice, even stranger to see himself on the screen, so much older than the player in the pictures.

“Ilya was the most competitive person on the planet,” Shane’s voice says, and shots of them slamming each other against the boards, brutal scraps for the puck flash one after another.

And then Shane’s hit on the ice, a verbal oof from the audience, and Ilya’s hovering, worried face. Scenes of them helping each other up, overlaid with dialogue about the importance of competition, of being there for each other.

Shots of playing together on an all-star team. Passing to each other, and scoring, the triumphant way they ran into each other after. A cheeky kiss on helmets and hugs.

Shane, so magnetic in the interviewer chair. Expression clear and focus. “There was never any bad blood. Just respect for each other, for the game.”

“If you like hockey, there is nothing better in the world to have someone with you, pushing you your whole career,” Ilya’s own voice says.

“I’m a better player because of him,” Shane says, earnest.

“I’m a better player— he makes me the best.”

Ilya has to laugh, Shane chuckles in his side. They are too much the same. He kisses Shane’s stubbled cheek.

Snaps of them playing hockey like old men, but with quick stick skills. They look silly on the ice— they look happy. Ilya is already thinking he wants to download this video. Hell, maybe he can reach out to that director, buy the footage from her. Anything to keep that grinning Shane, circling the ice, so much older and smoother. Powerful lines beneath his puffer jacket but a lightness of play. He is so beautiful, Ilya’ man.

And the final shot of the bear hug in the parking lot, the two of them hefting the Scott Hunter trophy and they look like winners together. Look so complementary.  

Ilya blinks a little. Stunned at how much he feels seen in his appreciation for Shane. He has never really been able to show the well of feelings he has for Shane in the limits of their 'heated rivaly.' It feels nice, affirming.

“I complained about the director—”

“Constantly,” Shane says.

“But she knows what she does.”

Shane kisses Ilya’s lips, sweet and lingering. Ilya kisses him back, trying to deepen the moment. Shane pulls away, smiling.

“Shh, let’s watch.”

Ilya turns back to the screen frowning, because who cares who wins or the nominees—

Nikolaj walk onto the stage with an envelope and the Lady Byng— now Scott Hunter trophy in hand.

There is an audible murmur from the audience. Ilya stares at the screen, rapt.

His son looks young on the tv, his hair so carefully styled. Too small for his adult suit, whether it is the TV lights or the makeup Ilya does not know, but Ilya sits up, as if he can support his son by being more attentive. It takes Nikolaj a swallow in the sudden, tense silence of the audience to put on a little Rozanov charisma and a smile.

“I know some of you might be surprised to see me presenting the award for sportsmanship considering the year I’ve had.”

Laughter breaks through the audience, some of it nervous, some of it incredulous. A few stony reactions are greedily sucked up by the camera lens and Ilya feels Shane taking his hand. The audience is cold, withholding.

Nikolaj is sweating hard. It’s not just the lights, and the weight of the wetness glistens in his curls, weighs them down. He looks so small up there on the big stage.

“What is he doing?” Ilya murmurs, heart in his throat. “He is idiot for doing this—”

“Shhh,” Shane says.

“I recently had someone close to me come out as bisexual,” his son says, the words cut across the silence, and Ilya’s hands shake. “And I realized how hard it is to do, and how brave they were. It helped me realize why renaming this trophy is more important than ever to making hockey a sport for everyone to play and succeed in.” Can everyone else see his hands shaking, or just Ilya? Nikolaj takes another deep breath, forces himself to smile.

“So I wanted to present this award to the players who are a lot more worthy of me to get it, with the hope that by following their example, we can all be the kind of players with the bravery to earn a Scott Hunter trophy.”

His words are polished, smile shaky, afraid but sincere and he nods his head deferentially to the crowd. The camera cuts—Scott fucking Hunter is there with Kip at his side, a million years old, but his face cracks into a smile and he’s clapping, leading the applause that sweeps through the auditorium with cheers and hoots.

The music is playing, but Nikolaj leans into the microphone, speaks over it, barely audible.

I love you, I’m proud of you! his son says in Russian, and that could only be for one person in the world. He says it the way Svetlana said it, so far back in the throat, all cozy vowels. Ilya is in shambles.

“The nominees are…”

Ilya has to rub at his eyes. He is like a fountain. Shane coos at him.

Ilya shakes his head. “He’s going to be chirped to shit for this. He’s never going to live this down.”

He looks to Shane, but he doesn’t seem surprised, just watching Ilya with quiet pleasure.

“Shane, did you…?”

Shane shrugs his shoulders. “He spoke to me about it. I pulled a few strings.”

“You abused your power—”

“It looks good for the MLH to have him present,” Shane says, almost annoyed. “He shows a real growth of character which is what we, as a franchise, want to encourage.”

“Shut up. You give my son chance to apologize. To not be bigot in public view. And also let him be chirped for the next ten years.” He burbles the last words out, tears falling down his face. He doesn’t know why he’s falling apart so much. “He has to go to soft team like Ottawa now. To a very nice team or else they will never respect him in a locker room. They know he is soft now." It's too much.

“Ilya,” Shane croons, and he’s petting Ilya’s tears away.

“I love you.” I love you. He says it in every language he knows.

“I know… I love you too.”

Ilya kisses Shane hard.

At night, in their bed, Ilya’s head lays on Shane’s chest and he pets through Ilya’s curls. His mother’s cross has fallen onto Shane’s chest, as if preferring him to Ilya, which Ilya agrees with. He said he loves me, Ilya thinks, pulling himself closer into Shane.

Nikolaj’s stupid, charming choice has had time to sit with Ilya. Mostly, it makes him feel like the world’s proudest, most beloved papa. It also makes him feel like the biggest fucking coward in the whole goddamn world.

He feels so good and bad that it is dizzying.

“What are you thinking about?” Shane asks.

“Am thinking about how I have not been to Russia in twelve years.”

Shane makes a soft hum at that.

“You want to visit?”

“No. I want to never visit again.” He remembers how afraid he was of never being able to come back. Yet, he can go whenever he wants and he has not been back for twelve years. Why? He did not care for that place like he thought he did. Has been more like a child clinging to it like a teddy bear, more afraid of losing than wanting to have, he realizes.

“I am thinking that I want to come out,” Ilya says, offering his revelation which glows fresh like new snow.

The hand on his hair stills.

“Why?”

Ilya shifts, tries not to read into the words, into the stillness of Shane’s hand.

“My son, my stupid, beautiful son, is more brave than I am.” Ilya swallows. “He did not learn it from me. So I will learn it from him.”

Ilya did not come out to his son on purpose. Ilya is not out to anyone on purpose. He is accidentally truthful, but never brave enough to do it himself. He hates himself for it right now— all the pragmatic explanations, the reasonable concerns feel so stupid in the light of day. In the light of the glow I am proud of you, his son had said, I love you.

Ilya wants to be worthy of that. He can be, he is realizing, if he can just try.

Shane’s hand slowly restarts. “Okay.” He does Ilya the kindness of not asking if he is sure. Ilya is more sure of anything while being a single blow from collapsing into uncertainty. “How… do you want to make a post? Do you want me to help you make a post?”

Right. The how of it all…

“Bah.” Ilya waves the hand away, swallowing hard. “No. Fuck the post. Bullshit posts. Impersonal. Long, very hard to read.”

“So a video?”

“I don’t need people to clip and post reaction to reaction videos.”

“…So how?”

Ilya shrugs. “I don’t know. I figure it out.”

“Okay,” Shane says again. Leans down to kiss Ilya’s neck.

“I promise I will not take you down with me,” Ilya says against Shane’s hair, clean and tea tree minty from the shower. “I will be careful.” He knows this is not what they agreed when they started dating. The idea was secrecy through mutual self-destruction, but Ilya is pulling his own pin. This makes it more dangerous for Shane to be around him, but what can Ilya do? The choice has nothing to do with Shane, oddly, incredibly.

Or it does, but not in a way he can say anything about. Point is, it isn’t what they promised when they agreed that this is all they would have. 

Shane is quiet. Ilya wishes he could see his eyes, but when Shane rolls onto his back, Ilya’s attention is quickly absorbed into pressing himself along Shane’s spine and deep into his core.

Chapter 11

Chapter Summary

2017.

Chapter Notes

yes, one more chapter. ignosce me, miserere etc.

timeline: cottage does not happen and Ilya has another year at boston in my version.

Nikolaj does not move out when he turns eighteen. He waits a couple months because he is accepting a trade to Buffalo. When summer training begins in earnest, Ilya will help him move his life across countries. He’s billeting with players there, and Ilya hopes they whip his sloppy son into someone worth cohabitating with.

“It’s good,” Ilya says, in a way he thinks is very circumspect. “Things change. Buffalo, they are not such a bad team these days.”

“Great, thanks for that.”

“I visit you often because I visit Shane. You did this on purpose.”

“I promise it was the last thing on my mind when I accepted,” Nikolaj grouses.

“Maybe you will finally drive your papa to the airport for a change!”

“That’s what waymo are for, you technophobe.”

Ilya only squeezes his shoulder.

I think… I will come out, he says, because some things are easier to say in his first language.

Nikolaj grins, bright and pleased and so unassuming that he looks like a happy boy again. Ilya’s happy boy. No doubt, no hesitation for what it means for Niko’s career. No questioning whether he loved his mother. Just happiness for Ilya. Maybe Ilya does get the hype about coming out, at least a little.

“Finally getting off your ass about Shane, huh? Slow play, old man.”

"Shane is not coming out yet, just me. I clear the way for him, yeah?" His hand roughly tousles his son’s dark curls. “You will be ready for all the chirping?” Ilya says.

“They already chirped me because you were my dad, so it’s just more of the same. You’re just embarrassing to be related to."

“Lazy players these days,” Ilya groans. “You have so many terrible qualities to chirp. Like edges. Fix your edges, my son.”

“You’re jealous that I’m the best Rozanov.”

“Oh, you will be. One day.” Ilya grins. “When you fix your edges.”

Ilya is not the type to announce things in life… except for winning, his goal count, his expected successes, his limitless humility... No, scratch that. Ilya is not much for announcing personal things in life. Luckily for him, coming out is not very hard if you are willing to be careless about your happiness.

Ilya’s whole college team can tell that he is in a good mood when they meet for their mid-summer check in. He greets the new players with big grins and does not even chirp them (too much) for their shiny eagerness to please. He only lets the veterans send the rooks to the vending machine for sodas five times before giving them the hint that they should shake the cans.

Ilya cackles at the resulting spray of sugar water and his assistant coach looks at him sideways, asking him if he finally upped his medication. Ilya puts up with their good ribbing for some time.

After one too many comments from his assistant about finally getting over being an incurable fucking grouch, Ilya just shrugs and says it.

“I meet a man. I don’t know, he is very good to me. Better than I deserve.” He looks down, smiles. “It just happened. I get very lucky.”

The locker room is quiet for a moment before Hewes, his captain, says, “That’s awesome.”

Ilya rolls his neck a little and shrugs, chagrined. “Yes, but is difficult to manage free time when I have terrible team making me look bad. He only likes winners. If you don’t win again next year, he will leave me and I will have to go back to busting chops and being miserable cruel bastard coach.”

Groans of protest, accusations, and slander meet Ilya’s ears and he is happier than a clam.

He sees them whispering, he sees a few hints of uncertainty—he is not so old that his legend is nothing to these young men, and he can see them trying to integrate this new information, but that is on them to do.

A few boys tighten their towels around their waist and Ilya resist the urge to laugh at them. Only the young are so foolish to think everyone wants to fuck them— they do not know that Ilya has Shane Hollander with all his silvery hairs and smile lines in his bed, and it is not their fault. So, Ilya lets it go and claps his hands. His job is to rally them to victory in the coming year and he means to be baptised in champagne twice.

Next week, Marleau texts him about getting a coffee. Ilya has never gotten coffee with Marleau. Maybe Irish coffee after a terrible night drinking, or after a couple one-night stands gone wrong after wing-manning for each other, but never adult-conversation-Coffee.

Ilya slinks to the meeting half certain that the man has invited the press for something nefarious. Instead, he finds his old friend curled over a cappuccino, defenses up like he expects the Vikings to attack.

“What’s up? What is this? Intervention?”

“Someone on your team is spreading rumors,” Marleau says, jaw tight.

“What, they say I am nightmare?”

“No, that you’re sleeping with men.”

“Is untrue,” Ilya snaps.

Marleau relaxes.

“I only sleep with one man right now.”

Marleau blinks. Leans back, staring at Ilya with intent focus, checking that he is really for real. Ilya raises a brow and sips from his coffee, unbothered. Oh, it’s real alright.

“So. What’s that like?”

And Ilya tells him about getting to jack off together after not seeing each other for a while and the relief of coming early together. The competition over everything. The open, naked desire. Spotting for each other at the home gym and sucking each other’s sweaty cocks afterwards.

“Yeah, that was way more than I needed to know. When can I meet this guy?”

“Maybe never,” Ilya says. “I am coming out of the closet as a soft launch. I show him it is not too scary out here. We will see.”

Marleau whistles. “You’ve got it bad.”

“I’m in deep,” Ilya agrees, solemnly.

“People aren’t going to like this,” Marleau warns.

“Yeah. What else is new? Speaking of, how is your locker room these days?”

Ilya sees the same fight on Marleau’s face as the first time he confronted him. The person Ilya knew battling the coach of the legacy team he has become. He shrugs eventually, the fight draining out of him.

“I don’t know. There’s a lot of pressure. A lot of people before me who ran things a certain way. Players who do things that I can’t always control…" He has the good grace not to mention Nikolaj here, hurries on, "Not to mention the GM. And Langstrom is a fucking nightmare of a commissioner.” He looks sorry, he looks uncomfortable. He looks like he’s telling himself all the reasons why one man cannot do anything. Ilya says nothing just stares until Marleau takes an uncomfortable sip of his coffee.

“You know I once fucked my teammate's brother,” Marleau adds, which is not a story Ilya expects to hear, but he does listen to the whole sordid tale through the looking glass and what Marleau found there.

He awkwardly asks if this is Marleau trying to come out to him and gets waved off, and pffted for even asking. Which, okay.

The next day, Ilya’s college goalie corners him to shyly relate a gay experience he had at hockey camp shower. Again, Ilya delicately asks if he is trying to come out, but the boy shakes his head six times and thanks Ilya earnestly for saying what he said. Which, okay.

When his assistant coach mentions necking with a referee during a late night over Chinese, Ilya begins to sense a woeful pattern. (He doesn’t bother asking if the coach is trying to come out, Ilya does not care now.)

Because Ilya is a good bisexual man, he knows he cannot tell Shane other people’s queer experiences. He still really wants to.

He tries circling the topic obliquely, but it only makes Shane blink his eyes in a baffled way the more Ilya talks about hypothetical people in his life fucking brothers and campmates and necking refs.

“Are you trying to tell me you want to roleplay?” Shane asks, and there is an anxious sweat on the side of his face.

“No, no, no—”

“Really? Three nos?”

“I’m telling you I have become a priest. People tell me their gay secrets!”

Shane looks dubious.

“Priest is not request for roleplaying either— Look, I stop talking about this,” Ilya decides, and Shane nods his head seriously before dropping to his knees on the bed so Ilya can continue edging him with a plug.

Still, it gives him food for thought. Makes him wonder how many experiences are left unspoken, how much a little spotlight can do to make people feel more comfortable about their unlabeled experiences…

With Nikolaj’s stuff all packed up and in the truck, the house is a silly looking structure. All plain walls that need new paint and gaping corners in rooms. Funny, but it doesn’t resemble at all the house Ilya remembers buying with Svetlana, nine-year-old Nikolaj hanging off his arm. It was empty like this when they bought it, but time has made it different altogether. It’s like being in someone else’s house, weirdly.

Ilya is trying not to think too much about it as he lays in his too-large bed willing himself to sleep instead of thinking about the truck driver and whether he will be there when Nikolaj arrives in New York tomorrow.  Nikolaj is leaving. Flying out of Montreal into his new life. Ilya will see him often, probably too often for his son’s good. But there is so much he will never do for anyone again—

Nikolaj knocks on the door, and Ilya sits up. Nikolaj pokes his head in, eyes looking tired yet all too alert.

“Can you make me something?”

Ilya pulls on an old soft shirt and trundles after his son into the kitchen. Because Nikolaj is difficult he asks for mors. Because Ilya loves that his child is difficult he takes out the lingonberries and starts smashing them.

“I saw you bought some berries. It made me crave it.”

Ilya nods, losing himself in the process. Truth is, he was going to make himself mors to soothe the ache of his son leaving him. Better to make it for his son the night before he leaves.

How was it when you left Russia? Nikolaj asks. Ilya tries not to react to hearing Russian again from his son after so much recalcitrance. It must be the drink stirring it up. Ilya stirs the juiced berries with the honey and lemon.

I wanted to leave. Ilya sees his son nod and duck his head, studying their marble countertops. Ilya tilts his head and tries again. I was still scared. Could barely speak the language. Everyone kept telling me the food in America was terrible. I ate so many pelmeni I almost threw up.

Nikolaj laughs. Ilya peels an orange and drops the rind into the boiling pot, eating two wedges of the inside and offering the rest to his grinning son.

Your mama bullied me. Dragged me all over town to say goodbye to Moscow. He wonders if that was the last real goodbye. It hadn’t felt like goodbye the last time he visited when Svetlana’s parents died. It felt like business, felt like a new country. Too changed. That night, eighteen and free, on the precipice of so much unknown and so much possibility, it felt like the bombastic goodbye he wanted to give everything in his life.

She took me all over our neighborhood and we tried to skate over a pond to celebrate, but the ice was too thin and we both fell in.

Did you get hypothermia?” Nikolaj says the last word in English.

I was still shivering on the plane to America! Your mama thought her hair would never unthaw, it was so frozen stiff. And so thick like your hair. Ilya winks at his son who pulls on a piece of his own dense hair. Thank god we drank vodka before— it helped keep our blood from freezing, I think.

Nikolaj huffs, shakes his head as if disapproving of his wild parents. Ilya grins, knowing well his son has had his share of misadventures and is due for even more in New York.

I only had two suitcases, Ilya muses, thinking about his big old house of now.

Why? You were rich, weren’t you?

Nikolaj’s version of rich was very different from Ilya’s well-off Russian upbringing, but he doesn’t address this, pouring his simmering concoction over the colander and into a glass mug.

I wanted to start over, maybe. Didn’t want to bring all of Russia with me. It would be too much, you know.

Nikolaj takes the mug, the deeply red liquid inside, and blows over the top.

I forgot the cardamom, Ilya says, holding his hand out. Nikolaj takes a sip, pulls away.

No. It’s perfect.

Ilya holds his hand in surrender. He can’t help his foolish, stubborn son can he? He wonders who Nikolaj will be next year. A different person, surely. In New York with his New York Job and New York Life. Maybe a New York Girlfriend or (even more hopefully) a New York Dog. But maybe when he is in his New York Apartment, he will make mors for himself and he will think about his silly papa making it for him the night before, forgetting the cardamom.

He’s sure the soppiness is clear on his face, but Nikolaj bears it maturely tonight.

Sure you’ll be okay on your own? Nikolaj asks, dryly.

Not alone, I have Shane.

Yes, but he’s not out yet. You don’t live together.

There are a lot of ways to be together. Ilya is learning them in painful detail. Focus more on your own happiness or else you’ll be asking me to move out with you and make you mors in the night. Your papa needs sleep, you know? I can’t be live-in-mors-maker forever.

Nikolaj rolls his eyes. Drinks the last quarter in one smooth gesture.

My flight leaves at 11AM, if you think you can manage an early drive time, old man.

I’ll set my alarm, Ilya says, fighting tears.

He kisses his son’s cheek and Nikolaj wiggles, complains in Russian, but somehow doesn’t move far enough away for the second and third kiss to land.

Nikolaj sends him a picture of his new home state when he lands. Buffalo is not terrible at all. Maybe it never was. He thinks Svetlana would have loved it for their precious Nika.

Ilya is looking forward to visiting. 

“I think people online are catching on,” Shane murmurs. Ilya does not stir from his place face down in a pillow. Shane is a picky, light eater, but not about Ilya’s ass. He has seconds, thirds. Forths sent Ilya into a quivering, boneless mess.

“Did you hear me?” Shane asks, shoving Ilya’s phone in Ilya’s face. Ilya turns his head to blearily look at some text. He can’t read any of it, but he hums so Shane knows he is listening.

He has not actively checked his social media in over 20 years. He recently gave Shane the password and has let him make posts on his behalf. Shane enjoys it in the way he likes to control things. Shane seems sure that he can somehow manipulate the world into loving Ilya by posting the right combo of team pictures and Ilya at breakfast time. It’s stupidly charming to watch him try and present a different, less feral Ilya Rozanov to the world. Truthfully, it only reveals how totally gone Shane is on him, but Ilya won’t point out this humiliating fact just yet.

“Do you want to confirm it to them?” Shane asks, and his expression is so closed, so stony. Mr. Businessman about Ilya’s whole coming out process.

Ilya shrugs. “You can post bisexual flag emoji if you want. I don’t care.”

“You should care,” Shane tells him, that hint of irritation cooking in the back of his voice. Now Shane REALLY sounds like his mother, but Ilya refuses to point it out. “You can’t take it back once you send it.”

“I couldn’t take back telling everyone else too. Who cares?”

Based on Shane’s silence, it is brutally clear that Shane very much cares.

Ilya thinks again about Marleau and his excuses, so many excuses about why not and why things can not be better. And Ilya believes them all, each and every very good reason, but he thinks he has been letting them win a long battle before he even tries to fight. The thought is tiring and makes him truculent.

Ilya takes the phone out of Shane’s hand and squintingly navigates to the posting page. It takes him a moment; they change the layout so damn much. He fills it in with a single bisexual flag emoji and launches it into space.

“There, now the world has cliché coming out post. Happy?” Ilya rests his head on the pillow.

“Why can’t you take this seriously?”

Ilya turns his head away.

Shane stands from the bed and leaves the room.

Ilya thinks he will come back, like a dog for his food, he must come back.

It is the first night in a while that Ilya spends alone.

Ilya knows, of course he knows, that with him coming out, Shane is feeling hyper aware of the time they spend together, how it reflects on him and his life and his goal to conquer the hockey world.

It starts small, with Shane wanting Ilya to meet him at the apartment, instead of meeting at the airport. Rideshare is more convenient, he says. No reason to waste gas, Shane lies.

Then the invitations to visit his parents dry up. And look, Ilya does not enjoy being accused of being a baby-eating Boston Bear every other week, but he likes Shane’s parents as people. Likes spending time with them and also the boring way they reveal new facets and gems of Shane’s past and personality.

But it is Shane’s choice and Yuna has been struggling with her memory so Ilya only said “Okay,” when Shane told him he was going to see them alone.

Ilya tries to be more gentle with Shane, brings him to bed after he comes back with a locked spine from visiting the assisted living home. Kisses his mouth and promises, “Nothing will happen. You’re safe. I won’t bring you down with me.”

Shane tightens in his hands, if anything. He pulls away, faces the wall and asks to be fucked hard.

Ilya is old enough to know the difference between making love and fucking. He’s lost the right to one along the way and bitterly rues ever knowing how to tell them apart.

Still, Shane cannot outlast Ilya’s love, he thinks. They will weather it. Shane just has to become commissioner. Or maybe retirement— there’s always got to be another retirement somewhere for them. Even in Shane never said, Ilya looks up the retirement age in America and adds ten years for Shane. The result makes him queasy, a desperation that wonders if he can last this long—

But Ilya was the one who said he wouldn’t force Shane out. Ilya will stand by his words. Even when it grows into Shane wanting Ilya to wear a facemask on the airplane to New York, in JFK airport. To avoid mentioning Shane in public, not even under guise of their friendship. Shane has been cornered by reporters on the “bisexual Rozanov issue,” and Ilya has felt sick watching the stern tightness of his mouth as he “No comments” even the most benign questions about his friendship with Ilya. As if the whole hockey world did not see them hugging and trading playful words during the award video, as if the world will buy that their camaraderie was the bid for attention, not their rivalry.

Ilya begins to feel flummoxed and cramped as Shane somehow tries to reset everything to year zero.

He does not ask if Ilya wants to do any of these things, just does them or insists without a conversation. Control freak, you will get tired of it eventually, Shane warned, all those months ago. Ilya blew it off. Hadn’t he enjoyed Shane using his power for a fuck? To help Nikolaj’s public image and his own? He realizes now that the knife of Shane’s control cuts both ways and it hurts a lot being wrong.

“Is this your way of telling me you did not want me to come out?” Ilya asks, sarcastically, after he has long grown sick over not talking about it.

Shane stills. “No. I think that was always your choice. It’s fine. I love you.”

Ilya stares at him.

Shane glares, hands tight. “It just always was going to matter. You know that. Don’t pretend you didn’t know that.”

Ilya sleeps alone by choice.

That night, Ilya dreams of 2017.

In 2017, Shane and Ilya had a moment of crystal-clear communication. They loved each other. They agreed that it killed them both. There was nothing either of them could do but enjoy what few moments of paradise they could scrape together.

In 2017, Scott Hunter came out to the world in a dramatic on-ice kiss that shook the foundations of the MLH world.

In 2017, Ilya agreed to go to the cottage. Ilya believed in anything and everything.

In 2017, the world should have changed for hockey players everywhere.

In 2017, the US president sent a tweet.

In 2017, Ilya was at his hotel in Las Vegas for the MLH awards. He rubbed his head, squinting at the stream of hate mail on his twitter account. Hate was nothing new for Ilya Rozanov. He had been getting hate, real and fake, since he’d become talented enough to squash his competition with enough breath to laugh afterwards. Ilya enticed anger with pleasure, courted even the worst attention and loved every minute.

He did not love this attention.

Ilyukha, stop reading those messages, Svetlana said. She stroked over his collarbone, tried to take the phone away. Ilya jerked back, cradling it to his chest.

He'd been directly @’d by the president along with Scott Hunter and a whole string of “undesirables" who the president pointed at for ruining the great ‘American’ sport of hockey.

‘Deportation’ was a word used in the tweet, and it is a word that Ilya sees dance up and down the page of the vitriolic hate spewing from the internet.

Ilya loved Russia and hated it in the same breath.  Loved the food, the people, the sweet memory of summer chasing cold, ice-filled winters. Hated the controlling, small-minded government.

America did not have any of his favorite foods, did not have the same careless pleasure as a night in Moscow, but it was supposed to be different here. Less small-minded. He was shaken and betrayed like a child to realize that it was not.

Hate messages were not the only ones he got online. Of course there was support, outrage on his behalf. On Scott Hunter’s behalf. Scott, who admitted he had floated the idea of another season to Marleau. Scott who had confessed bitterly later that he’d been told in no uncertain terms that if he did, he would ride the bench.

The support was nice, but it was not enough.

Not enough to change the game.

Ilya could feel the force of all this online attention, the questions about his address, about sending ICE after him, threats to smear him on the street—

For once, he did not want any of these eyes, felt asphyxiated on the anxiety that if anyone knew that he was both foreign and queer—

Lanka, Lanka, he gripped her desperately. They were sat on the bed, ostensibly watching a movie that only played on their faces, colors dripping off Ilya’s panicked skin.

What?

We have to go out. Right now.

She tilted her beautiful head at him like he was insane. Ilya might be. He felt insane.

What, you need to unwind in Vegas? The awards ceremony is soon.

No, fuck that. I need to marry you. Green card marriage. Ilya’s thumbs darted across his keyboard, finding chapels.

What are you saying? ...Ilya, this will blow over.

No, no it won’t. We have another three years of this shit—my contract is not over for one more and if I get injured— I can’t spend another fucking night not knowing what the hell is going to happen to me if that fucking fuck of a president has a say.

He appreciated that she did not lie and say anything falsely soothing. His agent had scoffed, reassured Ilya, said, He won’t deport you, he doesn’t have that power. But in the same breath, had told him to watch his step and be on his best behaviour. Because if not…

If Not.

Ilya did not have best behaviour. He had behaviour that he could not curtail even if he wanted to. One of those behaviours was loving Shane Hollander.

He begs like a street dog.

You promised you would. That you would marry me if I ever needed it. His eyes felt bright, feverish. She petted his face.

What about your Jane?

Instead of calming Ilya, it only made the panic grow. Yes, yes, what about Shane? A Shane he could not see if he was kicked back to Russia. And if anyone found out about them, about him loving Shane, who had always been so unabashedly masculine, part and wretched parcel of the whole glorious attraction, then it was all over for them too. If there was no safe country for Ilya to go between America and Russia then safety could only be achieved if his and Shane’s relationship was beyond suspicion. If Ilya was married to a woman…

Jane is Shane Hollander, he told her.

Oh. Her eyes were large, like she had just received divine revelation. I like him for you. It explains so much, and she stroked his hair like he was precious to her, like she understood something about him for the first time.

Ilya pulled away, greedily took her hand so she did not move too far.

Then you know that it is impossible. He did not like how dark his voice was saying it, even if it was true. He sounded like a commanding stranger to himself. Like his father.

Ilyukha, you should talk to him, she said (because she was always the wise one between them, the sage.) He could marry you in Canada—

He will never marry me because he will never come out. Hockey is too important. If he has to ride the bench, he’ll kill himself. I’ll kill myself. Ilya babbled, speaking in tongues, and Svetlana pulled him into his chest with shushing noises that bordered on fearful.

Of course I will marry you. If you need me to, I will do anything. It can just be for show, you can still have Jane— Shane, and we can divorce in three years when this president is over.

Ilya pulled on her neck, as if trying to drag her reassurance into him.

The wedding was that night, quick, giddy. The chapel office told them they could be married by Marilyn Monroe or Elvis. Ilya laughed so hard his ribs almost cracked. What a fucking country.

“Why not both?” he said, and they had a two hander.

Their wedding night in Vegas was like a kid’s carnival, flashing lights and terrible food. Freedom and fearlessness swirling around in Ilya’s chest because he had beaten a broken system, would never have to fear a thing for the next three years.

(He did not tell Shane before. He did not tell Shane that night. He did not tell Shane at all—

The news cycle did, breaking word of Ilya Rozanov’s whirlwind marriage to American Businesswoman Svetlana Vetrova.)

The phone rang.

(It’s strange now, to Ilya’s memory, that they were not in the same room together. It felt like they were. It felt like he was on his knees on the carpet at Shane’s apartment. That Shane was above him, cradling his broken collarbone and showing that stony exterior over the heartbreak inside. Crying without moving so no one would hear the tears.)

“It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a green card marriage—”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Do you think it felt good to hear about this from a fucking news article?”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“You did have a choice! You chose to marry her! You chose not to tell me! Please don't do this, Ilya. Please.”

Yes, he never told. Because Ilya knew that all Shane would have to say just what he did now. To say, Don’t. Don’t marry her. And Ilya would be up the American creek without a paddle, and only the word of a deeply closeted man to keep him safe.

“It doesn’t mean that we can’t be—”

“Have you fucked her before?”

Ilya ranted hate to Shane for that, because she was his best friend and he fucking loved Shane— But all Shane could see is the ways that Ilya could love someone else. Married someone else.

“I married her for you! For us!” Ilya finally shouted.

“No, you married her for you!” Shane’s crying was loud, terrible to hear. “I can’t do this. I can’t see you again.”

“Shane, Shane, no. Let me come to the cottage, we can talk about this—"

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry Ilya.”

So Canadian, Shane even apologized for breaking Ilya’s heart.

Ilya drove to the cottage, because he had the address and he knew Shane would be there and he knew he could fix all of this if Shane would just let him—

When he arrived the windows were dark, the insides cold and uninhabited. Sunless lake on a grey day.  

He drove back alone.

Ilya still did not believe him. He told Shane his room number at their next game.

He waited alone in the dark until four am when he finally slipped off to a terrified sleep.

Patience was a virtue. Ilya told him his room number at the next three games.

Ilya spent a lot of sleepless nights.

Anger was the only thing to break through the walls and he slammed Hollander into the boards at every chance to fight for puck possession, even fabricated opportunities to ram into him, eating ice in the sin bin for his trouble.

His bed remained empty. Only Svetlana would visit him, pet his hair and let him cry, drunk or high or both, until he could fall asleep and forget about his ruined life for a little while.

After three years, the president changed, but the world was not a different place. Scott Hunter was retired, no out current players. Worse still, lock down was in force, and Ilya and Svetlana moved in together. His only weapon against the uncertainty of this socially-distanced future and whether anyone would play hockey again was that no one could send him packing to mother (fucking) Russia as a naturalized US citizen now.

After the election of a new president, Ilya went on the roof of his apartment. He toyed with his phone, the old, saved contact Jane. Wondered if the number was the same or if Shane lost his phone like Ilya had.

He could open the call, say, Svetlana and I will divorce. We can finally be together.

But Ilya could only think of the long dark nights, the privacy, the fear. A man who never answered any invitation.

Ilya went down to his apartment and crawled into Svetlana’s bed.

Will you fuck me, he asked, pressing against her neck to hide the wetness lurking in his eyes.

What about Jane?

Ilya shook his head. Shane isn’t here. He will never be here. I just need someone… No that wasn't true. I need you, and it sounded right, honest on his tongue. 

Svetlana looked at him, measuring him from toe to curly tip. He always knew that she could love him. One of the few. He knew he could love her too, if he let himself. She did not need love, had her business, her life. She would be lowering herself almost to this. For him. Her last great favor.

She said, I won’t be compared.

Ilya took her hand, kissed the ring on her right hand, and promised. Never. Never. I promise.

Within a year, their son Nikolaj was born, and Ilya stopped speaking to Hollander outside of events altogether, letting the whole of what might have been be swallowed up in the debility of memory.

Chapter End Notes

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thoughts? <3

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Ilya dreams of 2017. 

He awakens in Shane’s Montreal apartment alone. He glances at the bed to a pair of sleep pants folded with crisp edges on Shane’s pillow.

Ilya finds Shane in the kitchen standing at the slatted window, drinking a shake and looking out the gaps at the grey, misty morning. Winter clings late this year.

Shane is wearing Ilya’s shirt, swallowed up in the excess fabric. He looks old in it, rather than young. Frail like an old man he’s becoming for the first time.

Ilya thinks he might die soon, or Shane. Or maybe lose their minds. And he will never know the truth that he needs to if they keep on like this. He’s been waiting for something tragic like that to happen, maybe, so they never have to talk about this. But it feels like it may strangle them if Ilya let it draw any tighter around them.

“Do you hate me for marrying Svetlana?” Ilya asks, and it breaks across the calm morning.

Shane turns around, horror growing in his eyes.

“What?”

“Do you hate me for marrying Svetlana?”

“No.” Shane fidgets, moves his drink from one hand to another. “Did you want one? I can make another.”

“Shane.” Ilya catches his wrist gently. His heart sighs when he sees Shane looking at him with such frustrated fondness.

“Ilya,” Shane mimics. “Are you going to keep asking until I say yes?”

“Is it a yes?” Ilya feels his heart sink.

Shane shakes his head, tries to pull back but Ilya follows him. Presses Shane gently against the half-shuttered window. The glass is cold, freezing against Ilya’s hands. Shane shakes at the first startling touch of chill along his back, then stills.

“She was your wife. I can’t hate her. She loved you and she gave you Nikolaj.”

“I didn’t ask if you hated Svetlana,” Ilya says, his heart sinking even more.

Shane blinks at him, eyes desperate for him to stop. Ilya can’t; when Ilya saw Shane in the commissioner’s office, he thought that through time, he forgave Shane for all the hurt of not answering Ilya’s myriad calls. As an older man, he could understand it, make sense of the riotous emotions of the youthful past, that Shane made the best choice he could for himself. It was so much easier to forgive and forget when they were distant. Now, Ilya realizes that he has not forgiven or forgotten anything, only buried it to once again pursue this baffling, complicated man with single minded intensity.

Now, Ilya has him, has closed the gap, and he is so deeply afraid and angry in the same stroke.

“You would never marry me yourself,” Ilya says, and if it sounds accusatory, then it is because it is. “I needed to be safe. I married her because you wouldn’t.”

Shane’s hands shake because his fists are so tight, so controlled, so intense—

“You could love someone else and I never could. This proved it! How is that safe for me?” Shane demands, scoffs. “And looks like you made the right choice, had a child, happy fucking life.”

That’s not fair.

“I would not have married her if I thought you would ever risk hockey—"

“You never even asked me! You never asked me to marry you—”

“You wouldn’t have! We had not even said I love you and you think I can ask for marriage without sounding like parasite?” What Ilya needed and what Shane could possibly give him back then—the timing was so cruelly off.

“You still don’t get it.” Shane shakes his head heard once, viciously. “You don’t care. Even now you didn’t ask if I wanted to come out with you. You never even asked me to come out. You never asked!”

Ilya feels his mouth go dry. Shane’s visceral pain is like a knife to the heart, the way he’s pulled away from Ilya these past months. But it’s laughable, so wrong.

“But you wouldn’t. You’d lose everything. Without hockey, without work, you’d be miserable,” he tries. “It’s everything to you. How could I ask you to give that up?”

“Ask me!” Shane’s jaw shakes, his dark eyes bleeding pain. “Ask me to give it all up!” Ilya feels woozy, but Shane isn’t done. “My whole life has been about what I can do. About being the best at fucking everything like a fucking machine, but you made me… you made me wonder who I might be without that. Made me think that I could be someone without hockey. Made me want to be—”

Shane cuts off, chest heaving and furious. Hiccoughing and enraged. “You keep saying you ‘won’t bring me down with you’ when all I want is to be with you!”

Ilya staggers back from the window, hovering in Shane’s space and looking at him like it’s the first time again. Does he see how bright he is, how thriving? How overflowing he is in a way that has nothing to do with hockey and world domination. And Ilya has always known this, has known Shane has a tender, artless core he can’t bear showing the world. Shane’s needed someone to pull him apart to ever risk being real. Cannot dissemble it himself. Ilya has done that physically, but emotionally he’s realizing how much his fear has stymied him again and again. Over and over.

Ilya did not ask Shane to come out with him… Because he did not think he would say yes. He did not ask Shane to marry him for the same reason. That same old fear curdles inside of him. So afraid of rejection that he does not ask. But he was trying to be the good partner, the one who did not ask too much— in the end, all he did was ensure they could not be together.

“You think that you’re saving me pain by not asking me to make the hard decisions, but, Ilya, it’s always a hard choice. The least you could do is let me make it with you.” Shane cries now, tears that run down a placid face. Quiet, so no one will notice.

Ilya opens his mouth, wordless. Shane pushes Ilya away, a move so smooth, so forceful that he staggers back despite having more bulk.

“Now, I’m making you a fucking shake,” Shane spits, rubbing his eyes and steps around Ilya’s wreck on his way to the kitchen. “Stop bringing up old shit that doesn’t matter. It’s not fucking helpful.”

Ilya watches Shane dump powder into a blender, popping half of a banana in. Spoonfuls of peanut butter, a substance Shane hates for its textural peculiarities and distinct scent but that Ilya loves. Shane hits the spoon on the side so hard Ilya is surprised that the blender does not break. He drops the spoon inside and cusses, fingers digging into the gross unblended mess.

Shane’s wrong. Because it’s not old shit, it’s also now shit. The same shit, smothering, insane fear. Ilya is so tired of being afraid.

“Will you marry me?”

Shane’s fingers twitch where he is wrist deep in the blender.

He looks so shaken, betrayed, and worst of all hopeful.

“What?”

“I’m asking now,” Ilya says. “I am so late, but I ask you now.”

Shane opens his mouth and shuts it.

“Ilya, my hand is covered in sludge—”

“I will marry that hand anyway.”

Shane huffs a laugh, incredulous. He’s still silent, eyes so wide like an owl. Ilya comes over and pulls the water and powder and peanut butter coated hand into his and clutches it.

“I know you want to be commissioner. I know you need to rule the world for the better. Marry me anyway. Even if it means none of that ever happens.”

“What the fuck.”

Shane is shaking his head, but he looks clear-headed. He looks incredible. Ilya lifts the hand above his head, pulls it closer so he can kiss Shane.

When they pull away, he sees Shane’s dark eyes. Fear glows inside the nearer Ilya gets. And Ilya sighs.

Oh. It’s too late. He did not make first chance, and he blew second chance without even knowing it.

He draws away, goes to the sink, and rinses his shaking hand. Then he returns to bed—it’s a general truth that the world makes more sense the more horizontal that Ilya is.

Ilya asked— he did what he was always too afraid to. Just because he is brave, does not mean everything works out. Scott Hunter did not get it all either. This is not perfect rom-com, this is real life. And he and Shane are always a series of almosts and missing each other, even when they share a bed. When they don’t…

He wonders if this night will also be spent alone. And he wonders about every night after in a way that makes him small and sick. About waking up alone, disoriented and afraid—

A few hours later, Shane crawls into his bed like a wary cat. He sits on the side, looking at the wall. He’s still such a big man, broad shouldered and lovely.

“Do we have to get married or do you just want me to come out so we can date publicly?”

Ilya talks to his turned head, the tidy nape of his neck.

“I want to get married.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to have half of everything I have. I want you to have all my passwords and control of all my bank accounts. You can run my life for me. I think you might like that.”

Shane turns, looks at him. From the bright, burning in Shane’s eyes, Ilya thinks he might be righter than he knew about that. Ilya is old enough to know that Shane cannot cope if he does not think he has power. There is no greater power than vulnerability that is shared, and Ilya will make himself vulnerable, will hand over his leash to this man willingly so he never has to chase Ilya anywhere again. He would love only the attention of him for the rest of his life. Could better cope with Shane’s crippling control than anyone else could, can tease him down from his megalomaniacal heights back to his soft, and tender core. Remind him who he is when he doesn’t have to be so afraid to be seen. In this devil's exchange, Shane will be so vulnerable for him that he might shatter. Ilya will spend a lifetime loving and being loved by Shane Hollander.

“So it’s for laziness reasons and for legal reasons.”

Ilya reaches out and Shane slowly lowers himself into Ilya’s arms, head on his chest, onto Ilya's swollen heart which thumps with stubborn hope. Shane came back. He cannot blow this third chance.

“It’s because I want it to be hard for you to leave me again. Embarrassing to explain. Legally difficult. Expensive with lawyers. I want you to have to file your taxes with divorced status, to remember that we were married once a year if you ever try to leave. Very humiliated every tax season.”

I want to become like death and taxes to you, Ilya says in Russian, because he cannot make sense of it in English.

Shane groans like he heard and understood and presses his head into Ilya’s neck, burying himself there.

“You’re crazy,” which is as good as an I love you from Shane.

“Very,” Ilya agrees. “You can think about it—”

“I will marry you. Ilya Rozanov.”

“You’re even crazier,” Ilya barks, and rolls around into Shane who is so clear, so decided and so settled. Firm and beautiful like ice.

Come down with me. I love you, I love you, Ilya whispers in Russian, each word brave and bright, each kiss a benediction. Shane, the greedy, selfless man he is, takes it all.

It takes Shane all of ten minutes after their great yes-I-will-marry-you-freak sex to change his wallpaper on the back of his phone. His same wallpaper for years (an bird’s-eye-view of a hockey rink) is papered over of a grinning picture of Ilya in his Montreal backyard.

Ilya tries not to be too smug, even as he updates his own to show Shane in his glasses, reading documents. Shane protests, but Ilya kisses his cheeks too much.

“Aww, this cannot be news to you, that you are boring. I cannot be the first person to tell you.” Shane shoves Ilya’s phone away.

By minute twelve of their afterglow, Shane gets a look in his eye, a crazed feverish light. Ilya pets his arm, as if this might soothe the beast, but Shane only looks more intense.

“Ilya. Ilya. Tell me now if you don’t want me to…” he trails off. Shakes himself. “If you want to do this together—”

“Shane. Sweetheart. My love. I have been doing this alone for three months and you let me do it my way. Coming out with one emoji. Now it is time for the Hollander way.”

Shane kisses both of Ilya’s hands, soft, desperately. Then he flies from the bed and into the living room.

Ilya’s knees crack as he wanders out after him, pulling out his phone to see if Nikolaj has sent him more pictures of the lake nearby where he is staying in Buffalo. In the three minutes it takes for Ilya to piss and wash his hands, Shane has set up a whiteboard with parallel timelines drawn in his sharp penmanship.

INNER CIRCLE: has Mom and Dad written and checked off. Then there is Hayden (dinner at New York Apartment), a string of names Ilya recognizes from the office as being Shane’s closest compatriots in the cause (one-on-one talk). OUTER CIRCLE: Former Teammates (get sound clips from supportive ones, help draft supportive social media posts), former coaches (meet/email, if living), Commissioner Langstrom (meeting), MLH (email), Fans (social media post— what pictures? Need more pictures. Pictures key!!!)

Then there is the next timeline:

WEDDING: Rings (measure size, left or right hand?), Suits (Ilya in black!), Venues (parent’s house, possibly hockey rink, McGill’s— Too cliché?), Color scheme (Stanley gold, no former team colors) Menu (catered Russian and food for me—compromise on a cake— do not let Ilya shove it in my face) and so on and on.

Ilya squints, seeing that for each person of the inner and outer circle told, Shane would like to have one or two of his wedding goals accomplished as well. Ilya does not bother to point out that none of this has to be concurrent, there is no hurry; he suspects Shane is enjoying racing himself too much.

“Left,” Ilya says.

Shane, writing a sixth prospective song for their wedding dance, pauses.

“What?”

“Left hand.” Ilya waggles his second littlest left finger.

“You sure? I know in Russia—”

“I had Russian bride. Let me have North American husband.”

Shane tries to scowl, but a bright smile breaks through.

“Oh you like that, husband?”

“Don’t distract me.”

“I would never,” Ilya says, sneaking behind Shane and butting his chin against the back of his hair, head tilting to taste the salt along Shane’s hair line as his hands wander down to Shane’s ass.

“We just fucked.”

“Yes, but you are so hot when you are plotting. Can’t you multitask?”

He puts Shane to the test as he stands behind and ruts uselessly against him until his fiancé is sighing and leaning his ass back into Ilya’s grateful, worthy hands.

“I have an idea for the wedding,” Ilya says.

“Shoot,” Shane says, magnanimous as if he might even entertain it.

“We marry at your cottage.”

“Why? You never even saw it.”

“I did. I drove out there but you weren’t home. The windows were empty.”

Shane is quiet for a moment, his uncapped pen still on the board.

“We never made it there together,” Ilya says. “But maybe we make it now. I saw there is a lake. I like to swim. But I don’t know if the invitation is still good.”

“I think it’s still good. I’m not some asshole without manners,” Shane says, leaning back into Ilya’s arms. “If it’s not, I’ll ask again; Ilya, do you want to come to my cottage?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Shane scrawls the word on the board. His pen stalls and Ilya kisses his neck, kisses his face. He is stubbly and Ilya itches.

“I’m not backtracking anything… but you don’t want to wait until you are commissioner to get married?” Ilya asks.

“No.” Shane turns on him. He looks intent, as if seeing a new opening on the ice. “I want to get commissioner this way— being gay.”

“They will hate it,” Ilya says, rutting lightly against Shane’s strong runner’s thighs.

“Good. Maybe someone can finally make some fucking changes around here,” he spits. "I'm tired of being nice about this."

“You are very, very hot plotting. Putting MLH on it's knees, very powerful, very sexy. Can we make love again?”

Shane looks critically at Ilya’s cock rising against all odds, sees that Ilya CAN go again.

“After I call the florist—they book so far in advance, you know.”

After second round of yes-I-will-marry-you-freak sex, Shane rests his head on Ilya’s chest, his shoulder at a bad angle and squints up at him through his now-smudged glasses.

“We should talk about what happens if one of us gets Alzheimer’s,” Shane says, which is the most incredibly bad pillow talk of Ilya’s life.

“What if we both get Alzheimer’s?” Ilya pitches back.

“Shut up, I’m serious.”

Ilya does not care. He is embracing the bright, ethereal lightness. Life is too good to be true and he doesn’t give a damn to ground it for anyone.

“Shane, we have known each other for thirty years. The chances we forget each other are minimal. I am your version of Boston Bears. You can forget your whole personality, but you will not forget me.”

“I guess so.” Shane laughs miserably. He says, quieter, “I already tried for twenty years. It didn’t work.”

Me too, Ilya thinks, but does not say.

Ilya cradles him closer, rocks, says instead, “When we get married, I will shave you every day for the rest of your life,” he promises, and it makes Shane laugh in such a befuddled way.

“Why do you keep saying that? What is your obsession?”

Ilya thinks he finally knows, can explain. “These. I want to touch these.”

“My freckles? Again?” Shane sounds indulgent. "Who's boring and predictable now?"

“No these.” Ilya pets the fine wrinkles in the corner of his jaw. “I will pull each crease like this, be very careful.” Ilya does, tugging on Shane’s crinkled skin until it is flat and smooth, tracing the plane he made.

“I don’t have that many creases— wrinkles,” Shane protests.

“But I love them. We have lots of time and I will make you smile so much you make many, many more.” Ilya will be there for each line, each drop of firm flesh. “And I will shave you and make sure you look so perfect. My perfect man.”

Three years later:

Ilya wants to buy a new car. They have so much space in their part-time New York Suburban house that Ilya is itching to fill it with another garage. This is not different behavior, nor worth noting, only, he realizes, for the car of choice (vintage, classic), he may need to withdraw from an account, move some money around.

He logs into his stock profile for the first time in years, mind reaching for the password, and feels his eyebrows climbing. His profile has tripled, no quadrupled. He does not know what the English word is for this much money. Has it even been invented?

When Shane comes home, brusque, buttoned up, Ilya undoes his husband’s tie, kisses into his mouth, and shows him the stock webpage with faint alarm.

“You are a mafia boss? What is it, Yakuza?”

“Ilya. Please, I just invested in some properties.” Shane’s eyes greedily flicker over the portfolio. Each asset of Ilya’s that he’d neurotically grown.

“What do we do with this? Nika will drown trying to swim in money pool like cartoon duck if he inherits this.”

“What do you want to do with it instead?”

Ilya looks at his phone, the fake number and apparently non-illegal liquid assets.

“I want to make hockey camp for poor kids.”

“That’s great,” Shane says, as if that is resolved. He kisses into Ilya harder, wriggling his ass into Ilya’s grip when it takes him too long to get the clue.

“You are in good mood.”

“Good news.”

Ilya looks at him carefully, wishes he had reading glasses because there is no way he is correct.

"No… You got it?"

"It's not official," Shane says, smile so large it is eating his face and all his freckles. “But it’s pretty much official.”

“You are king of the hockey world!” Ilya says, spinning Shane around, relishing his breathless squeaking and laughter.

“Put me down, I’m going to hurl.”

“No. You are incredible fucking man. How did you do it? You said they never let a gay man be in charge.”

Shane’s expression goes a little flat, a little intense. “Honestly, it took a little maneuvering, even if I was next in line.” Ilya desperately wonders who was killed in the ensuing cloak and dagger affair.

“What did you have to do? Promise first baby? Secret sex pact?”

“I had to fold on some of my stronger stances.”

“Which ones?”

Shane’s lips go tight. “Fighting in hockey.”

Ilya laughs so hard he cries. He has never felt so foolishly loved. Damn fucking right! Shane crosses his arms.

“No, no, I am sorry. Is not laughing matter. Sweetheart, my love. I am sorry you had to give up your beliefs. I am just so happy that you did.” He kisses Shane all over his beautiful face. He’s really, so, so gone on Ilya. Has let Ilya drag him so low. It’s incredible.

“Maybe I can circle around to it in the back half of my career,” Shane says, such a sexy schemer. “And I can finally move the headquarters to Montreal, or at least make a secondary head branch—"

“Yes, yes, you have power to change whole world so we can fuck constantly. But for now, since we are together. Let me fuck the new commissioner, yes?”

“Oh… yes.”

And even as he buries his smile in Shane’s neck, Ilya cannot help but grin.

“Let the fighting go on!” Ilya crows.

Chapter End Notes

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thank you for reading and the support! your comments have sincerely shaped this story and blown me away. i did not think anyone would read this odd fic, and i am still so overwhelmed.

i have made a series in the off (OFF) chance i make shane's version of this story. follow that if you want to! EDIT: sequel is posted!! Leave a comment before jumping ship if you like.

I have a TUMBLR in case anyone wants to follow. it's mixed fandom fyi ymmv

author's experience writing, click to read

i shit you not, i wrote the first 50k in a week and a half thinking none of it was very good but needing it for catharsis and something to DO. i loved the premise and i did not cry while writing it though i felt a lot. then i started posting it, and then i started crying a lot. do you know how crazy insane it is to learn about yourself by writing HR fanfiction? like important things were revealed to me via writing this fic and ilya and shane's journey through the difficult morass of adulthood. i'm so annoyed but mostly so grateful. this project and all of the feedback i received will have a special place in my heart for a long, long time and i work through the tears to something better. it is never too late!!!!

thank you all for your limitless kindness!

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thank you, thank you, thank you!